STARTREK Double Helix Book III

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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.

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摘要：

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

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