by Peter David
“What!” He stared at her, to all appearances shocked. “What’s the message?”
“Smile, you are dead.” She gave him the NXA strand number. “Sequence it yourself. When you pull back the view, watch the bottom of the tendril. The modified texture spells it out clearly.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Doctor—I can’t believe it! The Purity League claimed responsibility for the plague, but I never thought…I never dreamed…they actually had the resources to do it!”
If he was acting, he deserved a commendation for it. She hadn’t seen a better job since the time she saw Sir Edmund Deere in Hamlet on Earth.
I should have asked Deanna to join me for this conference, she realized with a pang of disappointment. Deanna would have sensed if he told us the truth. She felt foolish for wasting the call. I’ll do it next time, she vowed. Until I know differently, you are still my prime suspect, Doctor!
“Our captain wants this information kept strictly confidential,” she said.
“Of course—I do understand.”
He appeared humbled by the revelation, she thought. But then, if as he claimed he really had been working on the virus for weeks, he hadn’t found that hidden message…and she turned it up within the hour. Don’t get too cocky, she told herself. It was luck. But luck is what you sometimes need.
Tang went on, “I must tell the governor, though…but of course he won’t dare release the information to anyone else. The repercussions would be disastrous. As your captain must already realize.”
She nodded. Riots. Open warfare. And the pure-blooded Peladians would almost certainly get involved; how could they not? The next custom-made virus might well target them.
She said, “Getting back to our real problem—curing the plague—I’m ready to bring an infected test subject aboard.”
“You have a vaccine already?” He leaned forward eagerly. “How does it work—can I get a sample—”
“No, we don’t have a vaccine yet,” she said quickly. She was finding it increasingly difficult to believe he was guilty. His every response seemed genuine and correct. “We have some other tests to run first. The virus appears to be a simple variant of Rhulian flu. We have some antiviral treatments specifically designed for that disease which might prove effective.”
He sighed and shook his head. “The virus does appear simple at first glance, Doctor.”Back to stonewalling and doomsaying, she thought. How true to form.“However, it cannot be cured by any traditional means—we tried all the Rhulian flu vaccines as well as every other antiviral agent known to the Federation. The virus resisted every treatment—it’s all in the research notes I sent you. Every time we thought we had it licked, it flared up again.”
“Yes, I read your report. But I have a clean environment here, and I have a crew working on modifying the biofilters in the transporters.”At least, I will as soon as this call is done.“An aggressive program using several different treatments should prove successful.”
“I hope so—for your sake.” Tang shook his head. “We had no luck there, either, Doctor. But perhaps the Enterprise’s biofilters are more advanced than our own.”
“Undoubtedly.” Crusher hoped O’Brien knew what he was doing. “We have some…creative engineers aboard. If they can see the virus, they can eliminate it. It’s that simple.”
Tang shrugged helplessly. “I hope so, Doctor,” he said. “I will have that test patient standing by. Please—for your own sake, maintain a quarantine field at all times. This virus really does jump the strongest force-fields.”
“Of course,” she said. “I intend to use every security measure at my disposal.”
“Then I will await news of your ultimate success.” He hesitated. “And Doctor…”
“Yes?” she said.
“I know how I must seem to you. You must think I’m a crackpot a…a medical alarmist, since I keep trying to poke holes in every theory and plan you come up with. Believe me when I say I do want a cure—I want it more desperately than you can possibly imagine! But I don’t want to risk the lives of anyone healthy to get it, and that includes your crew.”
“Thank you for your concern,” she said. I bet it gets even more heartfelt every time he tells that story.“I do appreciate your advice. I have no intention of placing this crew at risk. Now, please get that patient ready. I’ll want to beam him up within the hour.”
“You will have him,” he said, almost humbly.
“Crusher out.”
Now to make sure we live up to our reputation, she thought. She tapped her combadge.
“Crusher to Transporter Chief O’Brien.”
“O’Brien here, ma’am,” came his answer.
“About those biofilters you mentioned this morning. How long will it take you to chain them together?”
She heard a distinct gulp on the other end of the comm channel. Good, she thought with satisfaction.
“No problem, ma’am!” O’Brien said.
“That’s the kind of answer I like, O’Brien. Crusher out!”
On the bridge, Captain Picard faced the forward viewscreen and watched the Constitution enter the solar system with a measure of relief. Captain van Osterlich’s ship had arrived not an hour too soon, he thought. With a second Galaxy-class starship to help keep order, he felt a little more relaxed. We can go chasing after rogue ships now, if we have to, he thought. There was no longer any need to worry about leaving the planet unguarded.
“Hail the Constitution,” he said.
“Captain van Osterlich is standing by,” La Forge said.
“On screen.”
The view of Archaria III disappeared, replaced by the smiling face of Jules van Osterlich, its captain. Van Osterlich had broad cheekbones and thin hair so pale it looked almost white.
Picard grinned back. They had known each other the better part of twenty years. Though their careers kept them half a galaxy apart most of the time, they never passed up an opportunity to get together and talk about the good old days.
“Jean-Luc!” van Osterlich said. “The new ship suits you. I always knew you’d end up with one of the big ones. But the Enterprise! Quite a plum.”
“Thank you, Jules. The Constitution’s looking pretty good, too. A fine ship.”
“That she is.”
“How long has it been…three years? Four? How are you?”
“I can’t complain. So, I hear we have quite a situation developing below. Why don’t you fill me in. My transporter crews are ready to beam medical supplies down, but we have a few minutes before we enter orbit.”
“Dinner tonight? Bring your senior staff.”
“Delighted.”
“Good.” Picard frowned. “We’ll talk more then,” he said. “In the meantime, you should know that things below are not quite what they appear. Governor Sekk has, ah, held out on us. And we suspect some of the hospital staff may be hindering the development of a cure for the plague in support of the Purity League. My chief medical officer is spearheading the research aboard the Enterprise.”
“And what is happening with the plague?”
“Latest reports indicate forty thousand victims. Three quarters of them are already dead. It isn’t a pretty situation.”
Van Osterlich whistled. “It’s a disaster!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Governor Sekk is hailing me,” he said. “We’ll talk more tonight.”
Picard nodded. “I’ll break out the Saurian brandy.”
Chapter Nine
“SECURE THE AREA!” Worf barked.
After kicking open the hatch to the next dome—it housed a research station complete with humming, beeping, chirping weather-monitoring equipment—he led the charge inside. Detek’s tricorder showed two humans lying in the center of a cluster of three rooms. Asleep? Unconscious? Lying in ambush? He intended to find out.
He pointed: Schultz left, Clarke right. He went straight up the middle, treading as softly as a Klingon could.
He reached the door to the next room, pressed up
beside it, and reached out to the handpad, which was unlocked. He pressed lightly, and it zipped to one side.
Taking a glance in, he spotted two figures lying in semi darkness…both women. He switched on the lights, but neither one moved.
Plague. White blisters covered their faces. That’s one of the first signs.
“Sir, is it—?” Clarke asked over the comm.
“Yes.” His voice came as a growl. “They have the plague. That means the whole base is contaminated.”
For the first time since beaming down, he was thankful they were inside containment suits. Like Wrenn, they would have to be beamed out of them when they were evacuated.
He clicked the comm bar.
“Worf to Dr. Crusher….”
“Crusher here,” she replied an instant later. “What is your situation?”
“The plague is loose in here. We have found two victims so far. Both women.”
“What are their symptoms?”
“White blisters on their faces. Low life signs. They are both unconscious.”
He heard a slight hesitation in her voice. “Mark their coordinates. We are almost ready to try beaming a patient through the ship’s biofilters. We’ll try your women if it works on our first subject.”
“Good.” He felt a brief surge of pride. By coming here, they had already made a difference—these two women would have a chance for survival now.
“Are there any other plague victims?”
“Not yet,” he said. “We will continue to investigate the base.”
“Keep me up to date. Crusher out.”
Worf turned to Ensign Detek. “Send the coordinates for these two to sickbay,” he said. “And scan for more survivors.”
“Yes, sir.”
Detek raised his tricorder and turned slowly, scanning. “Five more humans are in the dome immediately to our left,” he said. “The Klingons are still forty meters to the right.”
Worf hesitated. Which group to contact first? The humans, he thought. They are the most threatened by the plague.
“We will investigate the humans first,” he announced. “Let us go!”
He led the way to the back of the dome, opened the hatch into the ten-meter-long connective walkway, and advanced cautiously to the next hatch.
He pressed the handpad, but although it beeped, it stubbornly refused to open…locked from the inside, he decided.
“What is the status of the humans inside?” he asked.
“They are…alive and moving, sir. I believe they have detected us. They are taking up positions around the door.”
Around the door? Ambush!
“Get down!” he ordered. “Rifles up!”
He clicked the comm bar and called the Enterprise.“I need an emergency site-to-site transport!” he yelled. “Put us inside the dome we’re facing! On the farthest side!”
“Ready, sir,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say.
The hatch started to open.
“Energize!”
As the transporter beam picked them up, he saw the flash of energy weapons being fired—
—and suddenly he and his men were materializing inside the dome, facing a curving white wall. He whirled. They hadn’t gone far—twenty meters at the most—but they were in a different room now.
He charged the half-shut door. Bursting through, he launched himself into the main chamber.
Five people stood with their backs to him, and two of them had disruptors pointed out toward the open hatch. He recognized the corridor where he and his men had been standing seconds before.
The men with the disruptors started to turn. Too late! Worf thought with the glee of a predator closing in for the kill. He felt the roar of his blood. He voiced a wordless battle cry, “A-a-a-a-r-h—”
Before they could shoot him, he fired from his hip. Heavy stun—first the two men with the weapons, the one on the left, then the one on the right.
Even as they began to crumple, he closed the distance between in a heartbeat, still yelling, “—a-a-a-a-h—”
The other three—two men, a woman—were not armed. His Starfleet training took over and Worf dragged himself back from the berserker’s abyss. It would have been easy to let himself go in the fury and passion of the moment, to kill and kill again while his blood sang the music of violence in his ears.
Panting, he halted before them. “Arms up!” he bellowed. He knew his voice carried through his faceplate when he shouted—it would be a little muffled, but clearly audible.
The three standing humans gaped at him, too shocked to move. They did not seem to be armed.
“Arms up, I said! I will shoot!”
This time they raised their arms.
Bending at the knees, he scooped up the disruptors dropped by the two men. Set to kill, he noticed. His ensigns took guard positions.
“Identify yourselves!” he snapped.
“My name is Newkirk,” one of the men snarled. He was an older human with short gray hair. No beard. Not from Archaria III.“I am first officer of the Middlemarch. You just killed the captain, you Klingon bastard!”
Worf glared. “I am Lieutenant Worf of the Federation starship Enterprise,” he snapped back. “Your captain is stunned.”
“You’re a Klingon!” the other man said suspiciously. “What kind of trick is this?”
“I am a Starfleet officer. Identify yourself!”
“Macus Onetree,” he said flatly, “second officer of the Middlemarch. About time you got here, Starfleet. We’ve needed rescue for three days. Those Klingons have attacked us twice.”
“Explain.”
Onetree hesitated. “Plague broke out on the planet, so we bugged it up to orbit. Captain Gorman”—he indicated one of the men Worf had shot—“thought we should ride out the problems here. He remembered this deserted base, so…” He snorted. “Between Klingons sniping at us, half our crew dropping dead from the plague, and our warp drive breaking down—what else can possibly go wrong?”
Worf gave a nod and lowered his phaser rifle. “How many dead from plague?” he asked.
“All but us five now. The others are in the next dome.”
He nudged the comm bar with his chin. That is easy enough to check, he thought.
“Worf to La Forge.”
“La Forge here,” came the answer.
“How many life signs are now on this base?”
“Hold on…twenty-two.”
Ten Klingons, five humans here, two in the other dome—that’s only seventeen. The other five must be the governor’s family. He gave a nod. That accounted for everyone.
“Have you met anyone else here besides the Klingons?” he asked.
“There are more humans holed up in one of the domes…they sealed the doors and they won’t come out. They threatened to shoot anyone who came near, so we haven’t bothered them. Since the Klingons smashed the base’s comm equipment, we haven’t been able to reach them.”
They are better off locked in their dome, Worf thought. These people may be immune because they are full humans, but they are carrying the virus.
“You will stay here,” he told them. “When your captain wakes up, inform him that he is under house arrest pending an investigation. Attacking Federation officers is still a crime.”
“You’re not going to leave us here!” Onetree cried.
Now he wants to be rescued. Worf snorted.
“You are welcome to come with me,” he said. “I am going to see the Klingons next.”
Chapter Ten
ONLY THE TRANSPORTER CHIEF’S LEGS remained visible as he crawled into the transporter’s console. Does he know what he’s doing? Dr. Crusher wondered, and not for the first time. This seemed a highly irregular way to adjust the biofilters. As she watched, his knees bent. His feet pointed, twitched, pointed again. And he crawled another twenty centimeters into the console.
“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Dr. Crusher asked. She had always been told to bring power off-line before adj
usting relays. It’s got to be dangerous.
“I’ve done it a thousand times before, ma’am,” O’Brien said, sounding put-upon. “There are so many safety features and redundancies built in, it’s physically impossible for me to get hurt—Ow!”
“Are you all right?”
“YES!” he bellowed. Then she heard him swear under his breath as something thumped loudly inside the console. “Get in there!”
Dr. Crusher wavered between calling for help and crawling in after him.
She jumped when an electric sizzle sounded and a curl of acrid black smoke rose from the control pads. She took a step back in alarm. He doesn’t know what he’s doing! she thought. He’s crazy!
Another thump came, even louder than the first. The transporter chief gave another yelp and jerked back, feet spasming, and then he crawled out, alternately waving his fingers in the air and sucking on them.
“Are you all right?” she asked, one hand reaching instinctively for her medical tricorder. “Maybe I should take a look at that—”
“No need, Doc.” He grinned up at her. “My own bloody stupidity. I touched the wrong relay.”
Muttering to himself, he stuck his head under the console again. The sizzle came again, then disappeared as he undid whatever he had done before. A second plume of black smoke rose. She caught a whiff of something burning. I really ought to call for backup—
“Just an overloaded circuit,” he said, as if that explained everything. “No need to worry.”
“Oh.” Dr. Crusher leaned over, trying to see what he was doing under there. How can he see in there? It’s pitch black. If he electrocuted himself—
“Almost got it.” One hand suddenly stuck out toward her. “Pass me that magnetic lock, will you, ma’am?”
“Coming.” It sat on top of the control panel with half a dozen other tools. She grabbed it and smacked it into his palm like a nurse handing a doctor a medical instrument. Ten years since I’ve done that! She raised her tricorder and tried to scan those burned fingers, but he pulled his hand back under the console again before she caught more than a glimpse. Probably a minor flash burn. He may have brushed a live EM conduit, she thought, trying to dredge up old equipment-maintenance lessons from memory. It’s painful, but not serious. I’ll send him some ointment later.