DOOMSDAY WORLD Page 16

  The border guard indicated the mob with a tilt of his head. Ilugh could barely hear him over all the shouting.

  “It was that bit of business on the Federation side. The crowd expects some sort of retaliation.” The guard frowned, pushing his tusks out in the process. “So they’re thinking that they’ll strike first. If Stephaleh wants to spur them into overrunning her sector, they’ll be only too happy to oblige.”

  Ilugh grunted, eyeing the rioters as they coalesced again into a solid mass. He raised his blaster, making it obvious that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. It seemed to have no effect, however; the mob continued to advance slowly.

  “There should be others here by now,” said the border guard. “Shouldn’t there?”

  “Don’t count on too many others,” advised Ilugh, though he would have welcomed some additional reinforcements himself. “This isn’t the only trouble spot, though it seems to be the—”

  He never finished his sentence. With a roar, incited by something or someone in their midst, the rioters surged forward all at once.

  Ilugh fired. Again. And again.

  Rioters fell and were trampled by other rioters. Nor could the blaster beams keep them at bay. There were too many of them, and they were too caught up in their fear and hatred to stop.

  Slowly, and then less slowly, the guards found themselves yielding ground. Before they knew it, they were in the middle of the Strip, and then beyond it, on what was officially the Federation side.

  Ilugh tried to keep his head, to shout orders to the guards who were close enough to hear him. But it was no use. Their retreat became a rout.

  He managed to squeeze off one last volley before the blaster was ripped from his hand. There was an impact to the side of his head; he felt himself falling. . . .

  The next thing he knew, he was propped up against the ground car, the taste of metal in his mouth, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. A couple of guards were kneeling beside him; one of them was his driver. Their blasters were in the ready position—for all the good it did. The mob, unstoppable now, was flooding past them on both sides, as a river flows around a great boulder in its path.

  Ilugh got his legs underneath him, raised himself so he could see a little better, as the rioters poured across the Strip and into the Federation sector. He grunted, spat blood.

  And found himself pitying the poor Federation-siders who got in the mob’s way.

  “You’re a fool, Trimble! Almost as big a fool as that Andorian in the embassy tower!”

  Lars Trimble faced the small clot of merchants who stood just outside the half-open door of his residence. Their expressions were twisted, angry, all their merchants’ subtlety gone, replaced by a burning need to escape.

  “We’ve got to force her hand—make her issue the evacuation order.”

  Trimble spoke as calmly as he could. “According to what I’ve heard, the order has already been issued. Evacuation vessels are on the way.”

  Mand’liiki shook his narrow Rhadamanthan fist. “Lies,” he hissed. “All lies. Stephaleh has been behind this from the beginning. She’s not about to let it end so easily. Not by her own choice, anyway.” He turned to the others. “I’ll believe she’s given the order when I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

  That got a rise out of the assembled merchants. They pummeled the empty air and bellowed in agreement.

  “Lars,” came a voice from behind him. Trimble glanced over his shoulder and saw his wife’s face, racked with fear. As gently as he could, he urged her back into the residence.

  “She charmed you, Trimble! She enslaved you with that act of hers—or you’d be out here with us now?

  He confronted the merchants again. “No,” he said. “She has no hold on me.”

  “Then join us!” cried the Rhadamanthan. “Prove to her that you can still think for yourself!”

  The human shook his head. “This is wrong—useless, and worse than useless. The Federation doesn’t start wars; you know that as well as I do. And Stephaleh doesn’t start wars either. At first I might have doubted that, but I’ve had some time to think about it. To reason.” He licked his lips. Words didn’t come easily to him; he had to search for them. “It has to be the K’Vin. They’re trying to turn us against one another, put us at each other’s throats. And it’s working. We’re doing their dirty work for them, so they can march in here when it’s over and claim what’s ours. So they can have Kirlos and her trade routes all to themselves, without spilling a drop of K’Vin blood.”

  “The K’Vin have bled, too!” shrilled one of the merchants. Inside, one of Trimble’s children cried out at the sound, and something went taut within him.

  “That’s right,” added another. “They’ve spilled more than a drop, Trimble. They’ve lost more people than we have!”

  “And you believe their reports,” said the human, “before you’ll believe those of your own embassy?” He shook his head. “How do you know that K’Vin have been killed? Did you see them? And even if they have been, are you saying that their government wouldn’t have sacrificed them? Just as—according to you—the Federation is sacrificing us?”

  That surprised them—almost as much as it surprised him. For he had never taken his reasoning quite so far—and certainly had never thought about how to express it to a group of angry merchants. And yet his arguments had the ring of truth.

  For a moment they were quiet. Then Mand’liiki spoke up again.

  “Pretty words,” he spat. “Just like Stephaleh’s. But we know the truth. We saw the Starfleet officers arrive, and soon after that the troubles started. Are you going to tell us it was a coincidence, as she did?”

  Trimble sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe there was a reason for their coming here—something we’re not privy to. But it wasn’t to bring on these disasters. It wasn’t to start a war with the K’Vin.”

  “Of course not,” agreed the Rhadamanthan. “And Kirlos doesn’t revolve around a sun.”

  There were shouts of encouragement, laughter, and solidarity. And suddenly the merchants were stirred up again.

  They didn’t want to believe the truth, Trimble realized. They wanted to believe whatever was easier for them—and it would be easier to storm the embassy than to confront the K’Vin.

  “Last chance,” said the Rhadamanthan, pointing at Trimble with a long, slender finger. “Are you with us or not?”

  The human didn’t hesitate. “Not,” he said.

  Mand’liiki expressed his disdain with a broad, sweeping gesture. “Come on,” he said, whirling to face the others. “We don’t need him. There are others who will jump at the chance to join us!”

  And with that, they started off down the narrow, twisting street. Trimble watched them go.

  “Lars, are they gone?”

  He looked back at his wife, his sons. “Yes,” he said. “They’re gone, but—”

  He was interrupted by the strangest of sounds. A ponderous rumbling that seemed gradually to surround them, though it also seemed to remain very far away.

  Then it began to grow louder and closer, and Trimble could hear other sounds bristling on its surface—cries and shouts, frantic screams charged with a terrible energy.

  Could Mand’liiki have gathered a mob so quickly? Or had one been gathering even as they spoke? No, for as the noise expanded, grew louder, it became plainer and plainer that it was not made by Federation-siders.

  Without thinking, Trimble ran out the door and into the street. But he didn’t have to go far before he got the answer he sought.

  The cross street, straighter and wider than this one, was flooded with K’Vin. They charged from right to left—bellowing, rending, destroying. As he watched, they smashed the windows of a tavern, beat down its door, and tore away the supports of its overhanging roof.

  Meanwhile, Mand’liiki and his followers—what was left of them—were beating a desperate retreat in the humans’ direction. And there were K’Vin in close pursuit, many more of
them than the Rhadamanthan and his companions could possibly have handled.

  Trimble just stood there, paralyzed by dread and fascination. It was a bizarre scene, one that couldn’t be real. He had lived on this street nearly all his life, and never had he seen a single K’Vin set foot on it. Not one.

  “Lars!”

  His wife’s cry roused him. Forcing his knees to unlock, his feet to carry him, he started back to his residence.

  A thought: maybe he could help Mand’liiki and the others. Then another: there was no time. Even as he watched, two more merchants were taken down from behind.

  He climbed the steps, felt his wife’s grasp on his forearm. She half pulled, half dragged him inside and slammed the door after him.

  The children were crying, but Trimble couldn’t help it—he had to press his face against the window, to watch in horror as the Rhadamanthan raced past, the only one still on his feet. There was horror scrawled on his face, fear for his very life.

  It was sickening and riveting all at once. And of course Lars knew that the K’Vin had seen him, that they might at any time turn and leap up his steps and throw their massive bodies against his door.

  But for the time being, he and his family were safe. The intruders seemed content to wreak havoc on the shops alone.

  On their way to . . . where? The embassy?

  Yes. That was the direction in which they were headed. Evidently they believed, as the Federation-siders did, that Stephaleh and the Starfleet officers were somehow behind the spate of disasters.

  He thought of the ambassador and what they might do to her. It sent shivers up his spine.

  “My gods,” breathed his wife as the K’Vin barreled past. “My dear gods.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  BEVERLY CRUSHER SANK DOWN into the soft cushions of the sofa, one leg curled beneath her, and waited for Troi to order refreshments. They were in the doctor’s cabin, but she was too tired to play hostess. She was almost too tired for company, but lately there had been so little time to spend with friends that she craved companionship as much as sleep.

  Deanna lifted two long-stemmed goblets off the food dispenser shelf. They were filled with a golden liquid that threatened to spill over the brims as she walked across the room. Handing one of the glasses to Beverly, the counselor continued their earlier conversation.

  “Actually, most of the colonists seem relieved to be away from Tehuán. The evacuation has enabled them to remain with the injured, and shipboard accommodations are quite luxurious compared to living conditions in the settlement. Since it’s only for a short time, they don’t feel as if they are abandoning their commitments.”

  Beverly sipped at her drink, savoring the cool, sweet juice. Troi was still standing, so it was easy to avoid eye contact.

  After an awkward silence, Deanna added, “Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the crew.”

  “Is it that obvious?” asked Beverly, knowing that it was all too obvious to the empath.

  “I wasn’t speaking specifically about you, Beverly. A number of officers seem to harbor . . . reservations about our change of plans.”

  So Will and Deanna had discussed this as well. Beverly wondered if Deanna was acting as the ship’s psychologist in bringing up the subject or if she was off duty now. “And you don’t have any reservations about our return to Kirlos?”

  This time Deanna looked away. “I’m not entirely comfortable with the captain’s actions. Fortunately, command decisions aren’t my responsibility.”

  Before Beverly could reply, the counselor had turned toward the door of the cabin. A chime sounded. And immediately following the chime, Wesley Crusher stepped through the portal.

  The cabin controls were set to admit her son automatically, but since Wesley no longer lived with her, a certain awkwardness had arisen about the protocol for these visits. His token warning was part of an unspoken compromise between a sense of family and the growing recognition that both of their lives were becoming more private.

  “Am I interrupting?” Wesley asked. Although he liked Troi, a frown had creased his face when he saw someone else here with his mother. He quickly masked the reaction but his mother knew him too well to miss the signs of tension in his lanky frame. And he would be unable to hide his true feeling from the empath.

  Setting her drink down on a table, Deanna said, “I was taking a short break from work, but I should be getting back to my office.”

  The counselor made a tactful exit from the cabin, leaving Beverly alone to deal with her son. He was obviously troubled, but to Beverly’s dismay she felt a stab of irritation that he should choose to seek her out now. Then she remembered how long it had been since they had talked, really talked, and concern overrode her weariness.

  “What’s up?” She could usually muster more subtlety, but fortunately her direct approach seemed to be just what Wesley needed.

  “It’s about Captain Picard.”

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of the goblet.

  “He’s wrong,” cried Wesley. “Everyone knows it: you, Commander Riker, Counselor Troi. Why is he taking the Enterprise to Kirlos anyway?”

  Why indeed? “Because he’s the captain. And even if we can’t understand his reasons, we have to trust that he knows best.”

  Beverly watched her son struggle to make this leap of faith, one that she herself had been unable to make this time.

  “That’s what I’ve always believed,” he said. “I mean, Captain Picard always knows so much more than anyone else that I figured he couldn’t make a wrong decision.”

  “Until now?”

  Wesley nodded.

  “No one is perfect,” she said, echoing the arguments that had run through her own mind over the past days. “Not even Captain Picard. But he’s one of the finest captains in the fleet. And because his judgment is right more often than it’s wrong, it’s our duty to follow his orders at all times.”

  “Even if it means that the people on Devlin Four are killed?”

  “Yes.” No matter what her doubts, that had to be the answer. If it wasn’t, Beverly knew she would have to rethink her entire career in Starfleet. And she was definitely too tired for that right now.

  Wesley dropped down to sit beside her on the sofa. She resisted the urge to hug him. He would see it as a maternal gesture and not realize she was in need of reassurance herself.

  “I’m glad I’m off duty,” he said at last. “I don’t want to be on the bridge right now.”

  Picard had listened to the message twice. It was short and to the point. There was no need to stay in the ready room any longer. Nevertheless, he had not moved from behind his desk and he felt no desire to do so. He tried to dismiss this inertia as fatigue but finally admitted it was self-indulgent brooding. This self-knowledge only darkened his mood. He had made his decision and acted on it, so agonizing after the fact was futile; he should return to the bridge.

  And still he did not move.

  A moment’s respite alone in this room had left him unguarded for the first time since starting this train of events. With his defenses dropped, memories of the scene in the conference room teased at his mind. He heard the voices of his senior officers, listened once more to their arguments, and countered them all again.

  Instinct had whispered that the key to recent events was on Kirlos and had urged a return to that planet. Against the advice of his crew, he had trusted to that instinct. But what if he was wrong? What if the self-confidence that was essential to command had been distorted into arrogance? He wouldn’t be the first starship captain to slide over that fine line without feeling the shift within himself.

  Having finally admitted those doubts, Picard thrust them aside. They were not sufficiently strong to make him change his present course, so any further examination would be not only self-indulgent but dangerous. For now he believed, he must believe, that the final outcome would prove him correct.

  But the waiting was hard.

  The door chimed. “C
ome,” said the captain.

  The doors to the ready room whisked open. Looking up, Picard saw his first officer cross the threshold. The doors snapped shut; Riker froze in mid-stride.

  “Captain?”

  Only then did Picard realize he had been sitting in the dark. He tapped the room controls, then blinked at the sudden flood of light. Riker stepped forward and snapped to attention.

  “We’re approaching the Sydon solar system, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Number One.”

  That announcement hardly justified a detour to the ready room, but they both knew it was only a convenient excuse for Riker’s presence. Under ordinary circumstances, the first officer would not have bothered to cover his curiosity about the contents of the Starfleet transmission. His tact was a symptom of the strain that had arisen between him and the captain since the conference. Picard offered the information first, before Riker had to ask. Or worse, before he left the room without asking.

  “The message contained Starfleet’s official reaction to the Enterprise’s unauthorized return to Kirlos.” And the admiral’s chilly delivery had made the unofficial position just as clear. “Given the recent outbreaks of violence, and Ambassador Stephaleh’s decision to impose martial law in the Federation sector of the planet, my decision falls within the murky area of captain’s discretion.”

  “Then they approve,” said Riker in a voice stripped of inflection.

  “They approve if I’m right,” replied Picard. “But if I’m wrong, my actions will be difficult to justify.”

  In all likelihood, it would mean the loss of his command. He would be transferred to a desk job at a starbase, where captain’s discretion was limited to deciding which stack of printouts to read next. And he would stay a captain for the rest of his career.

  The sudden flash of a yellow alert saved him from further contemplation of that fate.

  “Captain to the bridge. First officer to the bridge.”

  They both raced from the room, but Riker had a head start and reached the bridge first. He called for an explanation as Picard settled in the captain’s chair. If the missing fleet of raiders was in this region, then he had made the right decision.