The Genesis Wave, Book Three (Star Trek: The Next Generation) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John Vornholt is the author of several Star Trek novels including two of the bestselling four-volume Next Generation/Deep Space Nine DOMINION WAR sequence.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

She was the only one left of her species, and now they were trying to kill her. They wanted what she carried, and she knew she could save herself if she left it behind. Like her, it was the only one of its kind left.

The disruptor beam streaked past her crouching body, charring the corrugated tin wall and burning a hole in the vacant building. For an instant, the dusty alley was illuminated by blazing beams and molten metal. She clutched the bulky chrome box to her torso, knowing she could not disguise it from them. Her pursuers knew her true identity, and they were wearing environmental suits to protect themselves from her spores. No doubt, they were only firing to keep her pinned down. She counted three of them, and she assumed them to be Romulans, judging by their weapons and their knowledge.

A red fog drifted across the two slivered moons of Torga IV, giving the dingy alley a patina of exotic mystery. They could have rushed her, but they feared her. Feared what she could do with the box.

It was so strange being known, being exposed, when she had

operated for years undercover. She and the other Seedlings had infiltrated every nook of the Federation, but it was never to cause disruption. It was always to gather information - to find out how the meat creatures could help them escape their dying world. Their roots had found nourishment in the garden of Starfleet. With the Genesis technology, they had discovered a way to prepare new homes and propagate their species at the same time.

All of that had ended three days ago, when their world was invaded and their base destroyed. After living among the meat creatures - impersonating them - the Seedling could appreciate the irony. The repository of all data on Genesis had once been a lone human being, and now it was the awkward silver box in her appendages.

If the Romulans had tracked her down, it meant they had ransacked the home base, deciphering the records. There was no other way for them to know about her - that she had been entrusted with a portable device for a new experiment. No matter what, she had to resist giving the emitter to the Romulans, who were ruthless and unscrupulous. She either had to destroy it or give it to someone who would do no harm. Genesis could no longer benefit her species, but perhaps it could benefit someone.

The Seedling gazed up into the sky of Torga IV, where the blood-red night clouds had parted to reveal a sliver of stars. Somewhere up there were worlds full of her kind, but she was sworn never to go to them. They were new worlds, unsullied by past corruptions. If the meat creatures would allow, her species could have a fresh start - without the temptation of humanoid hosts.

However, a rebirth was not to be for the Seedling, who knew too much and would corrupt them with her knowledge. She was doomed to perish no matter what else should happen.

A figure in a black environmental suit darted from an abandoned hovercraft to a dumpster, coming a few meters closer to her position in the alley. They were careful with their disruptor fire, because they didn't want to hit the box; but they wouldn't hesitate to kill her if they had a clear shot. That's why they were getting into position.

If she could draw their fire, decided the fugitive, she had to make them hit her precious box. If she couldn't save it from them, she had to destroy it. The alley was open behind her, but it was a long run to the walkway. The Seedling did not move swiftly, especially carrying the bulky device, which was nearly a meter tall and half a meter wide on each side.

At that moment, her salvation arrived in the form of a loud and rowdy crew of Bajoran miners and their consorts. They came weaving down the dusty walkway, toasting, drinking, and singing. The Seedling instantly called out in her most helpless voice. When they didn't stop, she screamed again and again until the unruly party halted on the sidewalk and peered into the dark alley.

There was a chance the miners were all about to be slaughtered, but the Romulans were like her species, she reasoned. They preferred stealth and guile to brute force and messy scenes.

The Bajorans came stumbling down the alley, and it took them a while to locate her and focus their eyes upon the pleasing Bajoran shape she had become - at least to those within range of her spores. This subterfuge was second nature to the Seedling by now, and she instantly roused their concern and helpfulness.

"What's wrong with you?" asked one brawny male. His nose ridges rippled, and she sensed that he was attracted to her.

"Are you injured?" said another, kneeling beside her. I remind him of an instructor he had in the orphanage. Such a broken, pathetic life he has endured.

The miner took her arm and gingerly helped her sit up. The Seedling feigned dizziness for a moment as she absorbed more of their thoughts.

"Where did she come from?" sniffed one of the females to her

female friend. Their antagonism was a side effect she could do nothing about, so she ignored them and concentrated on the males.

"They tried to rob me," she rasped.

"Who?" snapped several Bajorans at once.

She pointed behind her at the narrow alley, where dim light faded into mist, shadow, and abandoned machines. The brawny one instantly ran down the thoroughfare, stomping and making his presence known. Her pursuers had been lurking there, but they were certainly gone now.

"Don't see them!" he called.

"It's okay," said the gentle one. "Let us get you some brestanti ale - that will fix you up."

"Thank you," she replied with a smile. "Don't let me forget my luggage." She touched the shiny metal box, and he gallantly picked it up.

As they strode from the alley, the Seedling glanced over her shoulder at the dark passage between the corrugated buildings. She hadn't brought herself more than a few minutes of respite, and her pursuers were probably already on the roofs, planning their next move.

"What's the matter?" asked the gentle one. "You afraid they're still out there?"

"Yes." With a pleasant smile, she enhanced her similarity to the teacher he had loved at the age of ten.

"My name is Wislow. And yours?"

"Arden," she answered, choosing the identity she had used the most here.

"Pretty name," said the Bajoran male with a simpering smile.

When they reached the sidewalk, Arden gripped his arm and another male's, trying to keep herself surrounded by their flesh. She looked around and saw cheap industrial buildings lit by garish neon and halogen - an instant city built on a dead planet. At least Torga IV had been dead until the discovery of cormaline deposits and the importation of thousands of impoverished Bajoran workers.

A string of small two-seater hovercraft swerved down the street, and pedestrians had to scatter. The majority of residents were Bajoran, but other races loitered on the dusty sidewalks. Down one alley, a contingent of Klingon miners were fighting targs, in contradiction to the law. From a low-slung balcony, females were soliciting males to enter a casino. Torga IV was a brutal, corrupt place, inhabited by the dregs of the quadrant. It had been a perfect place for Arden's canceled experiment, and now it would be a fitting place for her death.

"We're here!" said the gruff miner, grabbing her by the shoulders and trying to push her into a dimly lit tavern. She willed him to remember a lecture his grandmother had given him about the treatment of females, and he instantly released her.

"No. Please, not here." She appealed to Wislow. "What I want is someplace spiritual - like a temple or a chapel."

"We've got them," answered the miner, "but you don't want to go there. They've been slammed with refugees from the Genesis Wave. Every morning they come to the commissary,...