Miracle Workers

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Dolahn may be an expert on silicon-based life, but he needs some work on the carbon-based variety. The hospital—which is a solid, if crudely built structure—is full of people with either minor viral ailments (inevitable in a cross-species environment like this, especially since the Nalori aren’t up to Federation medical standards) or work-related injuries.

  Annoyingly, half the injuries were sustained thanks to the faulty antigrav units, which wouldn’t have happened if any of these idiots had the brains to notice that the diagnostics were in the wrong mode.

  The first time I met a Gallamite was on the Sentinel. I knew that they were basically humanoid, but with much larger brains. What I had not known until that day on the Sentinel was that you could see that brain—their craniums are transparent.

  Dolahn was shorter than the other Gallamite I’d met, and he wore a hat—Razka told me later that it was at the request of Kejahna. “He gave the doctor two choices,” Razka told me, “wear a hat to hide the brain or have the brain removed by hand. Dr. Dolahn wisely chose the former option.”

  “So,” the doctor said when Razka introduced us, “you’re the new boss. Welcome to hell, Commander Gomez.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Yes, finest medical facility on the planet—primarily by dint of being the only medical facility on the planet. My best advice to you, Commander, is not to ever, under any circumstances, get sick.”

  What comforting words from the local physician.

  Zilder was also in the hospital, putting pressure on a small wound he’d gotten when realigning one of the sensor towers. He pulled me aside and said, “You know why Dr. See-Through Skull is here? Because no decent hospital in the Federation or anywhere else would take him. I only came here today because—while my faith in the great god Ho’nig keeps me strong—this is the only place with bandages.” With that he smiled.

  I smiled back, but it was difficult. The hospital is at about the level of a twenty-second-century colony hospital. They even have, believe it or not, an X-ray machine. I was half expecting to see a suture kit, but Dolahn at least has a dermal regenerator.

  By the time I left the hospital, the suns had set and the day’s work was done. Sarindar looks a lot different at night. During the day, it’s one of the most beautiful sights in the galaxy. The crystalline trees and bushes stretch into the sky and shine in the sunlight. The prismatic effects are glorious. At the right angle, you can see a tremendous spectrum burst—rainbows without rain. It’s a streak of colors from red to violet flying off into the sky. I have to admit that I spent a lot of time this first day letting myself get distracted by the colors and the bright beauty of it all.

  At night, though, it doesn’t look like much of anything. Sarindar doesn’t have a moon, so the only illumination is provided by the stars and by the dull lanterns that had been issued to the work camps. I wish I’d thought to bring some Starfleet lamps, which would have illuminated the whole place, and perhaps glinted off the plants and ground, but the only one I have is attached to my sonic rifle. The Nalori lanterns cast the dullest of yellow glows—they seem to wash all the life out of the planet.

  Or maybe it’s the workers themselves. They sit outside their tents—tents —and eat, drink, play cards, tell stories, but there’s no enthusiasm. Nobody is ever smiling. The stories I catch snatches of all sound depressing. The drunk ones are all melancholy, and the hungry ones only seem to be eating to sustain themselves (though, given the quality of the food, that’s probably all you can expect).

  And they all look at me with contempt as I walk by. I wonder how much of it is because I’m Starfleet and how much is because I’m a woman.

  Not that it matters. I’m going to do this job, dammit. I’ve never failed an assignment yet, I’m not about to start now.

  Personal log, Commander Sonya Gomez, planet Sarindar, Stardate 53274.9

  It’s amazing what you can accomplish by fixing an antigrav unit.

  J’Roh skittered to my tent about ten minutes ago and said, “It works.”

  “What works?” I asked him.

  “The load-lifter. I fixed everything the diagnostic-program said was wrong with it. And it works.”

  “That’s kind of how it goes, J’Roh—that’s what diagnostic programs are for.”

  “Maybe for you, but that’s never happened here.”

  “Did you fix the other units?”

  J’Roh chirped. “No. I only just finished repairing the one you told me to fix.”

  “It took all day?”

  “There were a great many things wrong with it—and, to be honest, I’d never fixed one before. Usually we would just smack it on the side.”

  I put my head in my hands. “What about the rest of them?”

  “I fixed all the diagnostic routines on them—that was pretty easy, actually—and I assigned a detail to fix them first thing in the morning.”

  Probably the same detail I wanted to fix the antigravs in the first place. The point is, they all should be functioning within the next twenty-eight hours.

  I needed that boost after the day I had had, though. I went with Razka to check up on the detail I had reassigned from tubing construction to digging—turns out nine of them called in sick.

  I went to Kejahna to ask him about this. He stands almost two meters tall, and has arms roughly the size of warp nacelles. He has more scars on his face and arms than any of the other Nalori in the workforce. Part of me is curious as to what led to that, but most of me thinks I’m better off not knowing.

  In any case, when I asked him about all the sick people, he said, “Oh yes, they’ve all come down with Dakota’s disease. It’s been going around. They’ll be out for at least a day or two.”

  Dakota’s disease is a minor respiratory problem—not even a disease, really, more of a viral infection, but the doctor who discovered it was named Dakota, and the name stuck. It shouldn’t even be enough to keep people off work. It is very easy, however, to fake the symptoms, especially with the substandard medical equipment in Dolahn’s hospital.

  In other words, the perfect thing for a “ sick-out.” The erstwhile tubing detail didn’t want to dig, so they decided to pretend to be sick to get out of working at something they didn’t like. It’s a particularly immature form of protest, and it wasn’t something I was going to stand for.

  “Dakota’s disease?” I said with as much shock as I could muster. “I’ll need their names right away.” I started inputting commands into my padd. “They’ll each need to be isolated in separate tents for fifty-six hours.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Standard quarantine procedure,” I said offhandedly. “We’ll have to set aside nine tents for them each to stay in. Someone will have to be assigned to take them meals. Oh, and, of course, the tent assignments will have to be rearranged, but it should only discommode a few dozen people, and I’m sure they won’t mind for the good of the project. I mean, we wouldn’t want them all to come down with this, would we? Besides, those tents can easily accommodate seven or eight people each instead of the four they have now.”

  In fact, the tents can barely fit four, and Kejahna knew it.

  “Oh,” I added, “and they won’t be able to take their personal items with them when they switch tents. Too much risk of spreading the infection.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kejahna said. “This happens all the time.”

  “So did inefficient work, bad design, and poor scheduling. That’s all changing, and so’s this. Now I want each of those nine to report to the hospital, and once Dr. Dolahn has verified that they have Dakota’s, I want them each isolated in separate tents for fifty-six hours, as per Starfleet Quarantine Regulation #471946A, Paragraph 9, Subsection C. If they don’t have Dakota’s, I want them back at work immediately. Are we clear, Kejahna?”

  An interesting thing I’ve observed about a race with no discernible pupils is that they’re not nearly as good at menacing stares as race
s with them. Nevertheless, Kejahna’s expression was not a particularly pleasant one.

  He finally said, “Very clear, Commander. I will let you know what the doctor tells me about their medical status.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Kejahna walked off. Razka looked at me with a smile on his face. “You remembered that regulation number from memory. I’m impressed.”

  I smiled. “Don’t be. I made it up.”

  Completely deadpan, Razka said, “I’m shocked that you would do such a thing, Commander. Simply shocked.”

  I laughed at that, and then went on with the inspection.

  Not surprisingly, by the end of the day all of the digging detail had reported to work. Of course, they were even more behind, but one takes what one can get.

  Personal log, Commander Sonya Gomez, planet Sarindar, Stardate 53277.1

  J’Roh now thinks I’m the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, and has been telling anyone who’ll listen—and many who won’t—about how I lifted the curse on this planet. He started calling me “Sañuul,” which sounds similar to my given name and is Nalori for “curse-lifter.”

  It took his detail until noon yesterday to get all the antigravs fixed, but they did it. The units continued to work flawlessly all afternoon and all day today—which, as far as I can tell, is the longest they’ve gone so far without any one of them breaking down since the project started. I’m fairly confident that we’ll be back on schedule within a day or two.

  This has impressed some of the workers. Not all of them, mind you. The ones who tried the “ sick-out” still glare at me dolefully (though, at least they’re almost done with the digging—it should be complete in time for tomorrow’s test of the antimatter reactor). Kejahna also keeps glowering at me. Many others, though, have joined J’Roh in calling me “Sañuul,” and even smiling at me occasionally.

  Of course, I didn’t lift any curses, really, I just applied myself to the task. But the Nalori seem to believe in curses—and who knows? Maybe in some bizarre sort of way, I did actually lift a curse. Zilder keeps smiling and saying, “Ho’nig works in very bizarre ways,” and who am I to argue?

  But then, maybe I’m feeling whimsical after the story Razka told me tonight. We were sitting outside my tent (and no, I still can’t get over the fact that I’m sleeping in a tent), sharing a particularly tepid supper of mashed vixpril—a root from the Nalori homeworld that’s probably a delicacy when prepared right.

  “There are legends of a monster, you see. There are animals here called the shii.”

  I told him I remembered reading about them in the mission briefing—and seeing them on the way down, for that matter. Four-legged creatures of solid crystal, they’re predators, but not particularly harmful to carbon-based life, since they can only digest other silicon-based life. Kind of the local equivalent of lions or sharks.

  “Ah, yes, but you see,” Razka explained, “there is the monster shii.”

  “Monster,” I said dubiously.

  Razka’s voice started taking on a singsong quality, and he set aside his own bowl of vixpril. “The monster comes after those who would dare to try to tame Sarindar. All those who have come have been slain by the great beast, who claims the heads of the invaders as its prize.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said as I washed down the vixpril with some mineral water.

  Shrugging, Razka said, “That is the story, anyhow. It is why there have been so few expeditions to this world.”

  “I thought it was because of the chimerium and the suns.”

  Again Razka shrugged. “Well, they complicated things—it makes the world hard to function in. The natural beauty attracted many, but they stayed away because of the stories of the monster shii.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Razka grinned. “Of course it’s crazy. If it wasn’t, you would not be here, Sañuul.”

  Groaning, I said, “Please don’t call me that.”

  “But it’s true. There may not be any monster shii, but this place was cursed until you arrived.”

  “It’s nothing any competent engineer couldn’t have done. I’m much more interested in getting the antimatter reactor on-line.”

  “A task for tomorrow, to be sure. Unless,” he said with a mischievous smile, “the monster shii attacks us in our sleep.”

  “Ri-ight.”

  “Oh, come now, don’t humans tell fanciful stories before going to sleep?”

  “Actually, we do. Particularly around campfires. Or the equivalent,” I added, pointing at the stove.

  “My father often told me stories like that. I sometimes tell them to my children—including ones about the monster shii.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Seventeen.”

  I almost dropped my spoon. He didn’t seem to be old enough to have sired that many kids, and I said so.

  “Well, it’s much easier when you have five wives.”

  “Five.”

  “Yes.”

  “O-o-o-okay.”

  For some reason, the Nalori tradition of polygamy didn’t come up in the cultural database I was given.

  “It must be terrible for you to be so far away from them for so long,” I said.

  “Not really. In fact, it’s something of a relief. I never really considered myself the marrying type.”

  “Then why’d you do it five times?”

  “Oh, it has to do with one’s status. The more important you are, the more wives you have—except, of course, it doesn’t really work like that. You just accumulate wives to make yourself look more important. And besides, we have to propagate the species. Much easier to do that this way.”

  I put down my vixpril unfinished. “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  Zilder came over and joined us. “Commander, don’t you like your vixpril?”

  “I’m just not that hungry.”

  He smiled. “That’s because your spirit is empty. You need to fill it with the love of Ho’nig.”

  Razka good-naturedly let loose with a couple of epithets in the Nalori language. Zilder just laughed it off. “You are impure, my friend, and that is a shame.” He held up a small book with a cracked leather binding. The pages were dog-eared. “This is a copy of the Se’rbeg. There’s a passage in particular I’d like to read to you, if I may.” He opened up the book and flipped to a particular page.

  I yawned and said, “Zilder, my religious beliefs are just that—mine, and none of your business. And while I’m sure the Se’rbeg is a fascinating read, I’m about ready for bed.”

  Undaunted, Zilder turned to Razka. “And what of you, my good friend?”

  He yawned. “I also say that it is time for sleep. Good night, Sañuul.”

  I wished him a good night, and he went off to the tent he shared with several other workers.

  Zilder put his book away and scratched the ridge that bisected his face. “You wait, Commander. I’ll save your soul before this project is done, and Razka’s as well, I promise you that.”

  “Good luck,” I said with a laugh, wondering what Ho’nig’s views on polygamy were. Given that the Damiani have three genders and tend toward trios rather than couples, I suspect that they might be lenient. Pity—it’d be an easy out for Razka.

  In any case, after wishing Zilder good night, I climbed into my tent and started this personal log. Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the antimatter reactor. I’m looking forward to it.

  First officer’s log, Commander Sonya Gomez, planet Sarindar, Stardate 53276.9

  The test of the antimatter reactor was a qualified success. (Results appended.) The injectors are not at one hundred percent, and they need to be. If there’s even the slightest imbalance, the warp pulse will be uneven and the chimerium will get shot sideways or back down into the planet’s surface, which could cause incalculable damage.

  I was hoping to do a test of the SA within the next two days, but until the reactor is at peak, we can’t risk it.
/>   The good news is that the dish should be completed within those two days, even if we aren’t ready for the first test yet. Morale has been steadily improving—the fact that the antigravs function is the primary reason, I would say—although the crew that has been transferred to digging details has been slow and malingering. Despite these problems, I believe we can complete our mission in a timely fashion.

  Personal log, Commander Sonya Gomez, planet Sarindar, Stardate 53276.9

  Zilder came to me first thing this morning and didn’t have a word to say about Ho’nig. He did, however, have a lot to say on the subject of the ability of the antigravs to move the materials for the reactor.

  “They can’t do it?” I asked, incredulous.

  “They can’t do it on time,” he said. “At least not just two of them. There’s no way we’ll be able to have the thing completely assembled in time for the window.”

  All the testing is being done during the window when the suns calm down enough to allow outside contact. Sarindar has a twenty-eight-hour day—the windows are at high noon and midnight, and they only last from thirteen to twenty-two minutes.

  I took out a padd and tried to see if there was some way to juggle the antigravs so that I could reassign one of them to Zilder, but they were all needed for other tasks—now that they were all actually working, every subsection had great use for them, and I didn’t want anyone to lose their sudden enthusiasm for working. It was the only way to get anything significant accomplished.

  Kejahna walked over then. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Zilder seems to think that you can’t get the antimatter reactor on-line in time for the window to open at noon.”

  Kejahna looked down at Zilder. “Really?”

  Zilder swallowed. “Not with only the two antigravs. See, we—”

  “It’ll get done,” Kejahna interrupted. “If the load-lifters can’t handle it, we’ll use our hands. Don’t worry, Commander.” And, for the first time since I landed, Kejahna smiled.