STAR TREK - TNG - 53 - Double Helix - Red Sector

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Star Trek: The Next Generation #53 Double Helix: Red Sector Book three of six
Chapter One
"ATTENTION! THIS IS A STARFLEET SPECIAL SECURI- TY FORCES EVACUATION
SQUAD! WE ARE ABOUT TO LAND A DIPLOMATIC COACH AND FIVE FIGHTER
ESCORTS. ALL CIVILIANS MUST CLEAR THE COURT- YARD IMMEDIATELY! ANYONE
REMAINING WILL BE STUNNED AND REMOVED TO A SECURITY BRIG! ALL
PERSONS... ATFENTION!... THEY'RE NOT CLEAR- ING OUT. CAN THEY EVEN HEAR
ME? PERRATON, IS THE TRANSLATOR ON? PECAN, GET YOUR WING BACK INTO
FORMATION! WHERE'S THE BROADCAST GREENLIGHT? WHAT KIND OF DUNSELS
INSTALLED THIS SYSTEM?" "AH, PERRATON HERE... STILES, BE AWARE THE
BROADCAST SYSTEM IS GREEN AND TRANSLATING.
YOU JUST CALLED THE WHOLE PLANET A BUNCH OF DUNSELS." "SHUT IT DOWN!"
"OAK ONE, THIS IS BRAZIL. FORMATION'S SHIFT- ING STARBOARD. THE EMBASSY'S
GOT A BIG GAR- GOYLE ON IT AND I'M ABOUT TO CLEAN ITS TEETH." "LATERAL
THRUST. ABORT LANDING PATTERN--
PERRATON, WOULD YOU RED THE P.A. BEFORE I COUGH UP A LUNG?"
"Copy that. Public address speakers are shut down. Fighter formarion's still too cramped for diamond
grid, Stiles. Acorn just bumped a water tower." "All wings, pull up! We'll modify formation and try our
approach again. Did the whole city hear us arguing?" "They heard you arguing." "Ahhh, I should've
become a medic... Nuts, Oak One. Go to Ruby formation. Pecan, move two degrees port. Brazil, get off
his tail. Acorn, keep your wings trim. Why can't you peo- ple hold a hover grid?" "Oak One, Acorn. It's
not us. Stiles, it's you. You have to put the coach down and vertical your stabilizers to give us enough
room to land in that courtyard." "Stabilizers... I hate stabilizers... I was supposed to go in for
multi-vehicular flight school this week, but nooo, I had to grab a mission. Listen up! I'll land the coach
first, then all wings settle around me five seconds later. Keep it sharp!" "What's the matter with you,
Stiles?" Pilot Andrea Hipp's Geman accent seemed crisp over the comm. "This isn't syn- chronized
swimming, you know." "I said no chatter! The ambassador's watching!" A prattle of aye-ayes settled the
issue for the moment, but did nothing for Eric Stiles's stomach, or his icy fingers, or his tingling feet. This
command stuff left a lot to be wished for.
And his hair was in his eyes... he was looking through a blond curtain. Didn't help.
On the screens of his fully carpeted cockpit, Stiles saw the platinum glitter of the Federation Embassy at
PojjanPiraKot seem to rise up to meet him. Actually, he and the coach he piloted were descending into
the brick city courtyard, but the illusion of a floating building disoriented him briefly. On the secondary
side monitors, the five fighter escorts regrouped into Ruby formation and found the space to wiggle into
the brick court, seffiing around the main coach vessel like baby ducks crowding a drake.
"Doesn't look like I expected ~t to," he commented. "What are those metal bands on all the buildings?"
"The city's all reinforced." Ensign Travis Perraton's blue eyes peered with fresh curiosity at a smaller
monitor as he adjusted the coach's shields to let them land, irritating Stiles with his eternal good mood.
"They've got some kind of gravi- tational problem on this planet. All the buildings have had to be
structurally rebuilt over the past few years since it started." "What kind of gravitational trouble?"
"Something like high tides or earthquakes, I guess. That's what I've heard, anyway" Stiles wanted to
comment, but was busy settling the coach onto its extender pads. The fantasy of brilliant artisanship in
moving spaceborne vessels into an atmosphere and landing them in a surefooted, graceful manner had
shriveled in his hands. At least that part was over. He trembled with irritation as the system's check
barberpoled. Perraton had managed to clear the belly shields. Otherwise, the coach would've sat in the
air like a beachball on the water--and probably rolled over.
"You're down" Perraton confirmed. "You can unclench now." "I'm fine!" "Yeah, sure you are. You
worried about coming in shielded for the whole twenty hours it took us to get here from the starbase"
Stiles bristled at the suggestion that he wasn't in control.
"Emergency diplomatic evacuations have certain regulations attached. Not getting a second chance is just
one of the assumptions. Evac regs assume the situation is hostile and pre- cautions have to be--" "Don't
quote the book." "Give me a view of the whole courtyard." Screens around the cockpit flashed views of
all six lander pads with irritated civilians scooping dirt out of huge potted plants and dumping it on the
ship's pads. So much for respect.
"Are they throwing rocks?" Stiles asked.
"It's garbage." Eying the same screen, Perraton stood up and pulled on his torso armor, buckling the
padded vest over his chest. "Some of 'era are throwing balls of mud from those pots.
Stiles straightened. "Secure the coach and scramble the evac squad. Nuts, Oak One. Remain in your
cockpits. Do not get out, understood? Sit tight and let Oak Squad flush the digni- taries. I'll escort
Ambassador Spock personally." "They're pushing on my struts. Our light-stun phasers can--" "Negative!"
Stiles broiled. "Let 'em crowd you. Keep finger shields activated in case they touch the wings. And all of
you shut up! I don't want the ambassador to hear the slightest dis- respect." "Oh, we respect you. Don't
you respect him, Cashew?" "1 drip respect." "As you were!" "As I was? Did I change? I like me this
way. Did you change, Acorn ?" "Animals;' Stiles grumbled. "I'd like to get you disrespectful slugs on
starship duty for five minutes, just five minutes...." He buffed himself in padded insulation as he pulled his
flak vest over his head, then slipped into his gauntlets, adjusted his sidearm, and led Perraton out into the
coach's main seating area.
Here, six other members of Oak Squad were already suited up and looking at him from inside their
red-tinted helmet shields. Travis Perraton, Jeremy White, Bill Foster, Dan Moose, Brad Carter, Matt
Girvan---the'Lr names and faces swam before his eyes like a manifest, and for a moment he thought the
blood was rushing out of his head. Midshipmen and ensigns, all in training for what would eventually
become specialties, for now they were assigned to Starbase 10 in the Security Division, under their
senior ensign---Stiles. At twenty-one, Eric Stiles was the old man of the outfit. Perraton was next, at
twenty years old and forty-two days junior to Stiles' ensign stripes.
Knowing that they had heard the ribbing he took from the wings, Stiles felt his face flush. He had to lead
the mission.
He'd gotten himself into this on purpose. He had to address them as a commander. Nobody to hide
behind. They'd seen the landing. His dream of a crisp textbook military approach and regulation landing
had gone up in an ugly puff. Now the squad members were blushing and snickering, burying grins, trying
not to look right at him--that was hard to take!
"Heads up." His voice cracked. "There's a riot going on out- side. Some kind of local political trouble.
The embassy is beam-shielded, so we have to go in the security door. As we approach, the guard will
drop the door shields. We'll have to go in and come out in single file. We're going to put the digni- taries
between us, at two or three in a row. llqere are about twenty of these people, so the seven of us'11 be
just about right.
I'll go last, with the ambassador right in front of me. He's the primary person to guard, and if he gets so
much as a hangnail, somebody's gonna answer to me in a dark alley. After we get--shut up, Foster!" "I
didn't say anything!" Bill Foster protested.
"Quit snickering! This is... this is-- "Serious," Perraton supplied.
"I know, Eric;' Foster muttered.
"You call me 'Ensign,' mister!" "Aye aye, Ensign Mister." "I want this mission to go like clockwork! I
don't want a single twitch that isn't in the rule book! Don't snicker, don't slip, don't do anything that isn't
regulation!" A hand was pressed to his shoulder and drew him backward a step on the plush carpet.
"Everything'11 go fine, Eric," Perraton mildly interrupted.
"We're ready when you are." His short dark hair was buffed under a white helmet with Starfleet's Delta
Shield printed on the forehead, now obscured by the raised red visor. The shield glowed and sang at
Stiles. Starfleet's symbol.
And Stiles had to make it look good. In the wake of Perra- ton's mental leashing, the symbol now lay
heavily upon him. If he couldn't yell at his men, how would he keep them in shape?
He huffed a couple of steadying breaths, but didn't lower his voice. Now that he'd gotten up to a certain
level of volume, it was hard to reel in from that. He took a moment to survey the squad--bright white
helmets, black leggings, white boots, red chest pads against the black Starfleet jumpsuits, and the bright
flicker of a combadge on every vest. Elbow pads, chin guards, red visors... looked fair. Good enough.
Time to go.
"There are riots going on," he repeated, "but so far nobody's tried to breach the embassy itself. Our job is
to clear a path between the coach and the embassy and get all Federation nationals out. These people
don't have a space fleet, but their atmospheric capabilities are strong enough to cause a few problems. I
won't consider the mission accomplished until we're clear of the stratosphere. When we get out of the
coach, completely ignore the people swarming around unless they come within two meters or show a
weapon. Clear?" "Clear, sir!" Carter, Girvan, Moose, and Foster shouted. Per- raton nodded, and White
raised his nile. Had they accented the "sir" just a little too much?
Stiles stepped between them and the hatch. "Mobilize!" Perraton took that as a cue, and punched the
autorelease on the big hatch. The coach's loading ramp peeled back and lay neatly across the brick
before them. Instantly, the stench of burning fuel flooded the controlled atmosphere inside the coach. At
Stiles's side, Perraton coughed a couple of times.
Other than that, nobody's big mouth cracked open. Stiles led the way down, his heavy boots thunking on
the nonskid ramp.
They broke out onto a courtyard of grand proportions with colonnades flanking it on three sides and the
diplomatic build- ings on the fourth side--a battery of fifteen embassies, halls, and consulates. Most of
them were empty now. The Federation was the last to evacuate. Two of the colonnades were in ruins;
part of one was shrouded in scaffolding while being rebuilt.
Most of the buildings showed signs of structural damage, but generally the Diplomatic Court of
PojjanPirakot was a stately and bright place, providing a sad backdrop for the ugliness of these protests.
A quick glance behind showed him the positions of the five fighters landed around the coach. Their
glistening bodies, streamlined for both aerodynamics and space travel, shined in the golden sunlight.
There was Air Wing Leader Bernt Folmer, their best pilot, code "Brazil," parked like a big car in front of
Greg "Pecan" Blake. Behind the coach the tail fin of Andrea Hipp's "Cashew" fighter caught a glint of sun.
On the other side, hopefully parked nose to tail, were Acorn and Chestnut, brothers Jason and Zack
Bolt--but Stiles didn't bother to check their position. He only hoped they were in sharp order.
All around were angry people waving signs, some in alan- gnage he didn't understand, others scrawled in
English, Vul- can, Spanish, Orion Yrevish, and a few other languages famil- iar from courtesy placards all
over Starfleet Command where multitudes wandered.
The ones in English jumped out instantly before Stiles's rac- ing mind. OUT ALIENS... LEAVE OUR
PLANET... GET OUT STRANGERS... ALIENS UNWELCOME... CURSE ALIENS ALL.
Some of the people were calling out in English, too, though clumsily and without really understanding the
arrangement of nouns and verbs. The anti-alien message, though, afrowed directly through to the team.
To the music of enraged shouts from the people raffling gates and creating a din by banging small silver
knives on the iron posts, Oak Squad broke into a jog and flooded into a broad shield of sunlight glaring
between the embassy and the consulate next door. The doorways and lintels were heavily reinforced with
titanium T-girders, and titanium bands swept around every building, two on each story, like shiny
ribcages.
Stiles glanced around at his squad, making sure nobody pulled ahead of the formation. This had to be
crisp. The ambassador was watching from some window inside that embassy. Every- body was
watching. Fifty meters.
Oak Squad thundered forward relentlessly, their phaser rifles tight against their chests. As Stiles led his
men across the patterned brick, he saw that just the raw heat from the coach's VTOL thrusters had
scorched some of the bricks nearly black and pitted them beyond repair, destroying the geometric design
in the historic courtyard.
His boots felt secure and thick as he crunched over the litter of broken glass, smashed fruit, and rocks
that had been thrown by the doters, who were now milling around the fighters and the coach. These
Pojjan people were stocky and thick, with strong round cheekbones and bronze complexions tinged with
an olive patina, reminding Stiles of Aztec paintings seen under a green filter. They wore various clothing,
from the men's ordinary shirts and pants or the women's shiftlike dresses to the brightly beaded tribal
tunics and leggings he'd seen on travel posters.
The travel agencies might as well rip those posters up.
Nobody was going to want to come to this dump anymore.
He cast the rioters a threatening glance or two, but although some were touching the ships' landing struts
they weren't doing anything destructive. Not yet anyway. If anything hap- pened, the escort pilots would
zap them. So he kept moving forward at a pace, letting the natives swerve out of his way. He led the
squad manfully through a large puddle of fuel, some of which was still gulping out of a discarded and
dented contain- er. Their boots splattered it and freshened the stench. Thirty meters.
Cries of anger, protest, and insult at Starfleet's intrusion into their courtyard grew louder, as the squad
jogged across the brick plateau. Stiles didn't understand the Pojjan language, but some of these people
were shouting in English or Vulcan and waving get-out-of-town banners in English, apparently smart
enough to know how to get to the Federation personnel.
It's getting to me. I'm allowing it to shake me. Just do the job, get the people out of the embassy, into the
coach, and lift off Ignore the crowd. Just ignore them.
At his right elbow, Travis Perraton was watching a gang of Po'ljan teenagers on the other side of the
embassy fence. A flash of flame--the teenagers were lighting up a fuel-soaked towel.
"They can't throw that this far, can they?" Blake asked from behind Stiles.
"They don't have to," Perraton said. "We're jogging toward puddles of kerosene." "Gasoline;'
Midshipman Jeremy White corrected from the flank.
"Stinks" Dan Moose added, then cast to the man on his left, "Make room, Foster" "Sorry." "Bag the
noise;' Stiles snapped, turning his head briefly to the right. "Don't splash through the gas. If we get it on
our uniforms, we're in big trouble." And that was his error--that one glance over his shoulder.
A stunning force struck his left shin just below the kneepad, driving his entire leg out behind him. Blown
forward by the force of his own movement, Stiles let out a single strangled yell, leaped forward over a
slick of gasoline, and crashed to the bricks just beyond the slick. Though he evaded the gas, he slid
sidelong into a pile of garbage dumped on the courtyard.
Managing to thrust his arms out, he somehow kept from land- ing on his phaser rifle, which instead
clattered to the brick and butted him in the face shield, then scratched across his bared jaw. If his visor
had been up, the rifle would've taken out his teeth.
A blunt force rammed into his lower back--a boot--as Carter tumbled over Stiles, crumpling to the
bricks on top of the garbage. Carter rolled and ended up on one knee.
With his jaw and knee throbbing, Stiles tightened his body, twisted onto his side, and brandished his
weapon at the laugh- ing crowd as his face flushed with humiliation. They were laughing at him. His
fantasy of a clockwork mission had just cracked and blown up before his eyes.
Bile rose in his throat, a rashy heat down his legs. His lungs tightened as he felt slimy garbage soak into
his uniform and the stench of petroleum knot his innards. The sky wheeled above him, cluttered with
white helmets and flashing red visors reflecting the afternoon sun.
Smiling, Perraton reached to pull him to his feet. "Nice going, lightfoot." "Don't help me!" Stiles blurted.
As if bitten, Perraton retracted his hand. Stiles rolled to his feet, now smudged with the gummy remains
of garbage and mudballs.
When he got to his feet, Stiles staggered a few steps in the wrong direction and was forced to endure the
foolish chicken- scratch of turning around and struggling back to the front of his squad, and the further
embarrassment of realizing his men were deliberately slowing down so he could get in front. He slammed
his way between them, elbowing Perraton and White cruelly out of his path. He didn't need their charity!
At the gates, two Pojjan guards immediately opened the iron grid and let them in without a word. The
embassy's medieval- looking carved wooden door, three guys wide and set between two gargoyles, also
opened automatically.
No, not antomatically--this door was manual. Another guard or servant of some nationality Stiles didn't
recognize was now peeking around the door's iron rim like a shy cow peeking out of a barn. He was an
elderly man, with bent shoul- ders and bright green eyes set in a jowly dark face with stripes painted on
it. More tribal weirdness.
Moving further into the heavily tiled foyer, Stiles suddenly felt ridiculously out of place. The foyer was
splendid, its mosaics of gold-and-black chipped stone and glossy ceramics portraying some kind of
historic battle scene and the corona- tion of somebody. Must be from way back, because this wasn't a
monarchical culture anymore. Was it?
The guard pushed the big door shut and swung a huge titani- um bolt into place to lock them safely
inside, then turned to the clutch of evac troopers and gasped, "One minute! I'll get the ambassador's
assistant!" And he disappeared into a wide archway that was two sto- ries tall.
Oak Squad stood in the middle of the gorgeous tile floor, their uniforms scuffed and stinking, and looked
around.
"I'd hate to be the guy who cleans the grout" Perraton com- mented.
White grunted as he scanned the mosaic on the ceiling.
"How long you think we'll have to wait?" "Not long," Stiles filled in. "They called for us to come get them,
so they're probably ready to leave. And they're Vulcans, so you know they're efficient." "How do you
know they'll be stiffs?" Moose asked.
"Because Ambassador Spock's a st--a Vulcan. They like to have their own kind around. They
understand each other better than we do" "Oh, fight;' White drawled. "They do everything better than we
do" Stiles scoured him with a glare. "Don't start on me, Jeremy" He turned away, but in his periphery he
noted Perraton's quick motion to White, erasing any further mmoying com- ments.
Though they stood in this wide foyer feeling dirty and small, they were not alone. Sounds of footsteps and
voices leaked from the depths of the embassy halls, and twice Stiles saw ethereal forms slip from one
office to another. Did they trust him to get them out safely? Had they seen the botched choreography of
the landing? Did they wonder whether the ensign in command was competent enough to handle this?
He gripped his phaser rifle until his hands hurt and shifted from foot to foot, halting only when a young
woman--a human--skittered through the grand main door and into the huge foyer. Stiles didn't pay
attention.... The small-boned woman, with tightly wrapped brown hair, tiny pearl earrings, and a twitch in
her left eye, went directly to the tallest of them--Jeremy White--and breathfly said, "I'm Miss Karen
Theonella, Ambassador Spock's deputy attach6. Are you Ensign Stiles?" She had a tight foreign accent
that sounded Earth-based, but Stiles couldn't pinpoint the country.
"He's over there, ma'am;' White told her, and gestured.
Stiles stepped through the cluster of Starteeters and took his helmet off, revealing his sweat-plastered
blond hair. "Eric Stiles, ma'am. I'm here to evacuate the entire embassy.
Nobody should be left behind." "We understand." Miss Theonella rubbed her tiny pink palms as if
kneading bread dough between them. "All embassy envoys, functionaries, ministers, delegates, and clerks
will be going, as well as four Pojjana defectors who lost their homes in the last Constrictor. They're being
given asylum here and we have clearance for them to be evacuated with us. In all there are thirty-five of
us." 'Whirty-five!" Perraton blurted. Then he insrandy clammed up, but the number twenty kept flashing in
his eyes like bea- cons.
How could seven of them safely escort thirty-five dignitaries through fifty meters of rioting?
"We're prepared, ma'am;' Stiles shoved in, more loudly than necessary, before anyone else could speak
up. "About the landing... the ambassador is probably wondering why we were so... out of formation.... "
"What?" Miss Theonella's white temples puckered and her brows came together like pencil points. "We
can't see the courtyard from here. There are only reception rooms on the court side of the building. Was
there some reason you wanted us to be watching you? Was there a signal?" He stared at her, caught
between relief and disappointment that nobody had been watching. "Uh... no, no signal" Preoccupied, the
thin young woman simply said, "Continue to wait here, please, Ensign. I'll get the ambassador." Again the
evac squad stood alone, holding their rifles, standing in the middle of the gleaming tile floor, listening to
the drumming chants of angry people outside in the square and trying to imagine how they were going to
hustle thirty- five dignitaries through that. The unpleasant possibility of rushing half of them out to the
coach, then coming back for the second grouIv--Stiles winced. Two trips through that courtyard full of
alien-haters? Was that safer than one big rush? If he ordered two separate groups, would the angry
people see that as their last chance to get them and attack the second group?
"Wonder why they hate aliens" Dan Moose voiced.
Stiles noted that his men were looking at the windows and doors, but his own eyes were focused on the
long hall of offices into which Miss Theonella had disappeared. The ambassador was in there
somewhere.
All the men turned to face the hall to their left as a crowd of elegant dignitaries bobbed toward them. In
the midst of them was the tall, instantly recognizable figure of the famous Ambassador Spock.
Bow? Kneel? Handshake?
"Don't faint! Eric, stand at attention!" Perraton's anxious whisper boomed in Stiles's ear like a foghorn.
"Stand at attention!" "Attention...." Stiles planted his boots on the tile, but wasn't able to get them
together. He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, held his breath, clutched his rifle, and forced an
appearance of adept steadiness and control. Cool. Calm.
Military. Crisp. In control. In charge. Confident. Smelly.
The ambassador and his party approached them, but Spock wasn't looking at them. Instead his dark
head was bowed as he spoke to Miss Theonella, who was clipping along at his side.
The ambassador listened, nodded, then spoke again while a male attendant slipped a glossy blue
Federation Diplomatic Corps jacket onto the boss's shoulders.
The sight was a shock--Stiles had expected the flowing cer- emonial robes that Vulcan seniors were
usually seen wearing, but now that he saw Spock in the trim gray slacks and dark blue jacket with the
UFP symbol on the left side, that outfit seemed to make more sense for a spaceborne evacuation.
Robes might be harder to handle on boarding ramps and in tight quarters.
Why hadn't he thought of that?
Though Spock--tall, narrow, controlled--possessed all the regal formality common to his race, his
famous form was somehow less imperious in person than Stiles had anticipated, his angular Vulcan
features more animated, and framed by the fact that he was the only Vulcan in the bunch. Of course,
Stiles had only seen still photos or staged lecture tapes. Seeing Spock in real life was very different--he
wasn't stiff at all.
As they approached, he could hear Miss Theonella's thready voice.
"... and the provincial vice-warden will be sending his pro- 1ocutrix as proxy to speak for the entire
hemisphere at Federa- tion central. Also, sir, the consul general's wife and children are waiting in the Blue
Room, and Chancellor De Gaeta's wife is in his office" Miss Theonella finished her sentence just as she
and the ambassador and their party came into the foyer.
"Thank you, Karen, very good work," Ambassador Spock said gently, countering her quivering report
with his silky bari- tone voice. "Suggest to the Sagittarian military attach~ that he post a Pojjana
communications sentry, and that person must speak both Bal Quonnot and Ronmlan." That voice! That
famous voice! Stiles had been heating it all his life! Historical documentaries, training tapes, mission
interactives, holoprograms--now he was here, in person, right in the same room with that voice!
"This is Ensign Stiles," Miss Theonella added with a ges- ture. "And the evacuation escort men, sir"
The ambassador scanned the team, then fixed his gaze at Stiles. Directly at him. Right in the eyes! He
was looking right at himl Those eyes like blades! Black blades!
Stiles tried to take a breath, but all he got was a gulp of garbage fumes from his soaked trouser leg. As
his lungs seized up, he felt the boink-boink of Perraton's finger poking him in the back.
Report, you idiot.t "Ev... Evacuation Squad reporting as you requested, sir!
Ensign Eric J. Stiles, Starfleet Special Services reporting, sir!
One G-rate transport coach, evacuation team, and five fighter escorts, sir?
The ambassador's black-slash brows went up like bird's wings. The chamber fell to silence. Stiles' fervid
report echoed absurdly.
Calmly Spock said, "At ease, Ensign:' His deep mellow voice took Stiles utterly by surprise.
"Aye aye, sir!" Stiles choked.
"We'll be ready within five minutes," the ambassador told him fluidly, then turned to the attendant who'd
put the jack- et on him. "Edwin, please bring out the consul general's family and Mrs. De Gaeta and turn
them over to Ensign Stiles." "Right away, Ambassador." As the man left, Spock turned again to Miss
Theonella.
"You have our records and diplomatic pouches? The legal briefs and service files? Personnel manifests?"
She held up a stem black pilot's case with a magnetic lock, hanging from a strap on her shoulder. "All
here, sir" "Very well. We should also bring the jurisdictional warrants.
They could be confiscated and used to gain passage into restricted areas." "I'll get them, sir." "No, I'll get
them." The ambassador turned to leave, then paused and gazed briefly at the tiled floor, thinking.
"Stiles..." "Here, sir!" Spock looked up at the inflamed response. Coolly he repeat- ed, "At ease, Ensign"
Stiles shivered, glanced at Travis Perraton, and again met the ambassador's eyes. "Yes, sir...." "Are you
by chance related to---" "Yes, sir, I am, sir! Starfleet Security Commander John Stiles, Retired, is my
grandfather, sir! He served with you under Captain James T. Kirk, Stardates 1709 to 1788 point 6 as
Alpha-Watch navigator aboard the U.S.& Enterprise, NCC 1701, commissioned stardate--" "I recall the
ship, Ensign." "Oh... oh... aye, sir...." "You have a long line of Starfleet service officers in your family
heritage, I also recall." "Yes, sir! Several active-duty servicemen lost in the Romu- lan Wars, sir! A
captain, two lieutenants, two---" "Commendable, Mr. Stiles. Carry on:' Spock turned to the little gaggle
of people behind him and said, "All of you please stand by until everyone else arrives. Then you'll take
your instructions from Ensign Stiles as to how you will arrange yourselves during the actual evacuation.
As you know, the building is beam-shielded, and therefore we must go out the door and board the
transport coach on foot. Unfortunately, our general safety compromises our safety during emergency
evac- uation. Karen, keep them in order. I will return momentarily." With that he disappeared down a
different hallway and into an office, leaving a confused clutch of embassy persons stand- ing here in the
foyer, wide-eyed and obviously frightened. By nature, the two groups divided to opposite sides of the
foyer, embassy folks over there, Oak Squad over here.
Stiles let himself be tugged aside, and barely registered the low mutters of his men around him through the
afterglow of his meeting with Spook.
"Beam-shielding" Matt Girvan grumbled. 'øIlaere's plan- ning. What if they had to get out under more
dangerous condi- tions than mudballs and molotovs?" "It's beam-shielded so assassins or terrorists can't
beam in." "Why couldn't they make it one-way?" "Too unstable. Sucks too much energy to maintain over
time." "Doesn't matter. We'll get 'era out. Eric'll carry them all on his back if he has to." "If he doesn't
choke up a lung first." "We'll be lucky if he doesn't make us bow backward out of the room." The team
laughed. A cluttered sound, muffled... like a storm coming.
Beside Stiles, Perraton raised his helmet visor and smiled with genuine sympathy.
"You okay, Eric?" he asked.
Stiles felt his lips chapping as he breathed in and out, in and out, like a landed fish. He'd just met his hero
and he didn't know if he'd liked it.
And it wasn't over. In fact, it was just beginning. He'd have to do everything perfectly from now on. No
more botched for- mations. No more stammering. He had to be perfect. Smooth.
"Ease up, lightfoot," Perraton suggested privately. "He's just a guy." "Just a guy" Stiles rasped. "He's a
hero, Travis... a Starfleet icon... the first Vulcan in Star fleet...Captain James Kirk's executive officer...
I've heard every story a hundred times all my life---do you know how many times he participated in
saving the whole Federation? And even the Klingon Empire?" "Doesn't matter now. Anyway, the hard
part's over. You met him, you survived, and the experience didn't suck out your brains. He was a
Starfleet man for half a century. He knows the drill. So get a perspective. Here he comes." Do the job.
Do the job.
The ambassador flowed back into the foyer, now carrying a slim red folder and followed by more than a
dozen people and his attendant Edwin. Suddenly the foyer was swarming with civilians. At least they
were mostly adults, a few teenagers-- Stiles didn't relish the prospect of herding toddlers through that
mess out there. He stiflened as the ambassador came directly to him.
"We're ready, Mr. Stiles." "Yes, sir... how would you like to do this?" Spock handed the folder to Miss
Theonella. "Pardon me.9" "I... I figured you'd have some preference about... what order you want them
in and... how to do it."
The ambassador thought about that briefly, his dark eyes working, as if he hadn't considered such an
option. After a moment he vocally shrugged. "Your mission, Ensign." Over Spock's shoulder, Perraton
smiled and gave Stiles a thumbs-up.
Sustained by that, Stiles forced himself to rise to the demand. "Uh... if you people would form a line, two
by two, and Oak Squad situate yourselves between them, uh, one every... uh--" He paused, *died to do
the math, but couldn't remember how. His brain had been sucked out!
Maybe he wouldn't have to count and add and divide--his men were already arranging themselves into
position. Perraton was taking the lead, and motioning the others into the queue at intervals.
'Tll take the rear guard" Stiles said. "Ambassador, would you mind coming back here with me, sir?" "
Thank you, Ensign, I will." "All right, let's--no, no, you can't do the door" Stiles motioned to the
funny-looking butler who was still standing his post at the door, waiting to open it for everybody. '~rravis,
put that man in line behind Girvan and you do the door. Then fall in." "Copy that." "Okay, phaser rifles
ready." "Ready!" his men shouted.
"Rifles up!" "Up!" "Very well!" Stiles took one more look at Ambassador Spock's steady form in line
before him, at the large UFP shield printed on the back of the blue jacket. The stars of the United
Federation of Planets swam before his eyes.
He drew a breath. His voice echoed under the high tiled ceiling.
"Mobilize !"
Chapter Two
BRASH SUNLIGHT BLARED into Stiles's eyes, smashing his dream of frictionless success. The sun
courted the horizon now, directly ahead of them, as they charged the protesters crowding the courtyard.
Curtains of fire roiled around them where the gasoline puddles had been ignited by molotovs. On the
other side of the licking flames stood the coach and fight- els and a half-dozen unconscious rioters.
Apparently Brazil had needed to enable his stun phasers to back them off.
Now the rest of the protesters were giving the fighters a wider berth, and turned instead on the jogging
queue of embassy personnel and their six Starfleet guards trying to wend through the pockets of stenchy
flame.
A fist shook in his face--and Stiles rammed his rifle butt into somebody's chest. Mudballs slogged
through the line, striking the civilians. One caught Moose in the helmet. He staggered, but got back in line
before Stiles could react.
Crack.t----a molotov bottle smashed in front of the ambassa- dor. New flames broke out, flooding the
bricks, dividing Spock, Stiles, and one woman from the rest of the line. Spock instantly veered sideways,
caught the woman in front of him, and steered her around the flames and back behind Moose's protective
摘要：

StarTrek:TheNextGeneration#53DoubleHelix:RedSectorBookthreeofsixChapterOne"ATTENTION!THISISASTARFLEETSPECIALSECURI-TYFORCESEVACUATIONSQUAD!WEAREABOUTTOLANDADIPLOMATICCOACHANDFIVEFIGHTERESCORTS.ALLCIVILIANSMUSTCLEARTHECOURT-YARDIMMEDIATELY!ANYONEREMAININGWILLBESTUNNEDANDREMOVEDTOASECURITYBRIG!ALLPERS...

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