by Peter David
That wasn’t entirely true. There had been down periods where she had had some free time—once she had even helped Data in his Sherlock Holmes holodeck program—but she had generally used those times for resting. Making big changes like rearranging sickbay would have required a lot of effort, not just in moving of furniture but in retraining the staff. Effort she was now relieved she hadn’t expended.
She tugged at her blue shirt and glanced at her travel bags. She had already removed personal items from her quarters, and all of her experiments and notes were already on the shuttle that would take her to Deep Space Five. She wasn’t sure what her new assignment would be—Starfleet was being cagey about it, as always, which usually meant they were considering her for several missions and that she would get the one that rose to the top.
Still, she would miss the Enterprise. She loved starships and the challenges they presented. On starships she saw diseases no one else had seen; injuries whose treatment required a knowledge of the most current techniques or the most primitive, depending on whether she was aboard ship or on a hostile planet; aliens whose physiology was so strange that she didn’t know what they looked like well, let alone if anything was wrong with them.
She hoped she would get reassigned to a starship, but she doubted that she would. If Starfleet Medical had its way, she would be heading to some starbase where she would squire newly minted doctors through their residencies.
If the truth be told, she’d rather stay on Deep Space Five than do that.
Her combadge chirruped.
She sighed. She would have to leave now. She wasn’t ready. But she pressed the badge anyway.
“Pulaski.”
“Doctor, sorry to bother you before you leave, but we have an emergency.” Geordi La Forge sounded all business. “One of the crewmen got caught in an explosion in Jefferies Tube Three. There was a localized fire. We put it out, but he’s severely burned.”
Burns. She hated them. The trauma to the skin could continue long after the fire was actually put out.
“Beam him directly to sickbay,” she said. She hated the transporter, thought it an infernal device, but it had its uses. Right now, she needed speed more than she needed caution.
The crewman shimmered into place on one of the biobeds. His blue shirt was in charred ruins around his badly burned skin. He was human, which made her task just a bit harder. Vulcans and Klingons handled burns—indeed all pain—better than humans.
He wasn’t conscious, for which she was grateful, but he was moaning. Burn pain was excruciating. She hurried to the biobed, with the fleeting thought that the sickbay wouldn’t be in order for Dr. Crusher. Ah, well. Reorganization simply wasn’t Pulaski’s strong suit. Dr. Crusher would understand.
The smell of burned skin filled the sickbay. The biobed was giving his vitals, but she wanted more information. She picked up her medical tricorder and ran it over him, watching the readouts confirm the information she was already receiving.
No deep trauma, no internal injuries. Just burns. The crewman would live. But she didn’t slow down. First she eased his pain and put him into a deep, restful sleep. Then, for the next five minutes she carefully repaired the burned skin, one area at a time.
Skin repair was delicate work, but something she had done all of her career. She was quicker at it than most, but that was partly because she disliked it so much. Burns, she often thought, were the worst injury of all.
After she had finished, she stood, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and checked his readings again. Still resting comfortably. She’d keep him that way for a few hours to give that new skin time to heal. And to give his mind time to deal with the memory of the pain. Sometimes in cases like this, the memories were the hardest to heal. Much harder than the skin. She’d have to let Counselor Troi know before she left.
“Nice work, Doctor.”
Pulaski started. No one was supposed to be here, and she didn’t recognize the voice. Had someone beamed in with the crewman? She had been too preoccupied to notice.
She turned.
Beverly Crusher stood in the center of the bay, where Pulaski had been just minutes earlier. Her long red hair cascaded around her face. She looked thinner than Pulaski remembered.
“Very nice work,” Dr. Crusher repeated.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Pulaski smiled. The compliment meant a lot. Dr. Crusher was one of the best doctors in the fleet. Picard had told her she would always have a berth on the Enterprise, so when she decided that heading Starfleet Medical wasn’t for her, she requested her old job back. Picard gave it to her without hesitation, even though—as he had solemnly told Pulaski—their current chief medical officer was one of the most talented physicians he had worked with. Picard was a diplomat, so Pulaski knew he might be exaggerating slightly, but he was also the captain of a starship, and he didn’t give out idle praise.
Dr. Crusher looked around the main area of the sickbay as if she were a blind woman just recovering her sight. “You know, there were days at Starfleet Medical when I never thought I would ever see the inside of one of these again.”
Pulaski smoothed her hair with one hand.
“I missed it a great deal.”
“I imagine you did,” Pulaski said. She felt her shoulders stiffen. She would miss it too.
“I’m sorry, Katherine,” Dr. Crusher said. “You were doing an exceptional job here. I wouldn’t have asked to come back to the Enterprise if it weren’t for Wesley.”
Pulaski nodded. “I had a feeling from the first that I was merely keeping this place warm for you.”
“It looks like you did more than that.” Dr. Crusher nodded at the crewman. His vitals were closer to normal than they had been just a few moments before. “I’ve never seen such quick work on a burn patient. I doubt I could have done as well.”
“I’ve studied your logs,” Pulaski said. “You’ve done as well or better.”
Their gazes met, and an awkwardness that had been reflected in their words seemed to grow. Finally Dr. Crusher tossed her long hair back—such a girlish move from such an accomplished woman—and laughed.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I didn’t realize it would be so uncomfortable.”
Pulaski frowned just slightly. If Dr. Crusher was referring to their meeting, she should have known. It was an unwritten rule among chief medical officers that they never share a sickbay—at least not on a starship. The new officer replacing the old officer would wait until his or her predecessor was off the ship before entering sickbay.
But Pulaski said nothing. An unwritten rule was a tradition, yes, but it wasn’t as if Dr. Crusher had done much more than been slightly impolite. It was something easily overlooked.
Apparently Pulaski’s silence went on too long. Dr. Crusher’s smile faded.
“There is a reason that I’m here early,” she said.
Pulaski felt some of the tension leave her. The breach of etiquette had bothered her, even though she had just been trying to convince herself that it hadn’t. She felt Dr. Crusher’s returning as a slight rebuke, almost as if she weren’t important enough to remain on the ship. She had known that the feeling was irrational and, in her better moments, had forgotten all about it. But it had been a thread, an undercurrent, during the whole last month, since she’d finally learned that she would be leaving.
“I hope it’s not too serious,” Pulaski said.
Dr. Crusher’s mouth formed a thin line. “Starfleet Medical wanted me to tell you there’s a problem on Bajor.”
Whatever Pulaski had expected, it wasn’t that. She fought to keep her face impassive, not to let her emotions show. Dr. Kellec Ton, after all, was her ex-husband, and as much as she cared about him, she had known that this moment could come. She had urged him to leave Bajor, knowing that with his temperament, he couldn’t be safe under the Cardassian occupation. But he had refused, just as he had always refused to do the sensible thing during their marriage, citing his loyalty to his homeland and its
great need for him in time of crisis.
“Why did Starfleet Medical believe they needed to inform me of this?”
Dr. Crusher’s gaze held hers. “There are rumors that a plague on Bajor is killing both Cardassians and Bajorans.”
Pulaski threaded her fingers together and held her hands over her stomach, as if the pressure would keep her nerves from getting worse.
“That’s not possible,” Pulaski said. “Their systems are too different. Viruses cannot be spread from Bajoran to Cardassian and back again.”
“I thought the same thing,” Dr. Crusher said softly. “But Starfleet Medical is taking the rumors seriously.”
Rumors. If they only had rumors, they wouldn’t know who died. For all they knew, Kellec was just fine.
Suddenly Pulaski knew why Dr. Crusher was telling her this. “They want me to contact Kellec for them, don’t they?”
Dr. Crusher nodded. “A message from Starfleet might put him in jeopardy. A message from you—”
“Would seem normal. Or somewhat normal.” Pulaski let her hands drop to her sides. She was on good terms with Kellec, as she was with her other two ex-husbands. But she didn’t like talking with him. She had loved him a great deal, but his stubbornness had frustrated her—and it continued to frustrate her, even now.
“Starfleet Medical believes that Dr. Kellec Ton can confirm or deny the rumors.”
Pulaski nodded. “As long as I present my questions in a way that won’t put him in any danger.”
“From what I understand of Kellec Ton,” Dr. Crusher said, “he’s probably already in danger, at least the political kind.”
“He never could remain quiet about things that bothered him,” Pulaski said.
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“A month ago.” They had fought, as they often did. Kellec had agreed to go to a Cardassian space station to take care of their Bajoran workers. He hadn’t explained his motives—he didn’t dare on the unscrambled channels he could get out of Bajor—but he didn’t have to. He would take care of the workers’ill health, document the atrocities he saw, and do what he could to promote the resistance movement from the inside—maybe even destroy the station, if it were within his power.
She had argued against the assignment, attempting to use medical arguments that couched her larger objections. But they had both known what she was talking about. And the argument had ended, as they all had, with Kellec shaking his head.
Katherine, my love, he had said. Our fundamental problem is, and has always been, your unwillingness to let me make my own mistakes.
She was letting him make his own mistakes. But she’d had to divorce him to do so.
“Can you contact him again?” Dr. Crusher asked.
Pulaski nodded. “I believe I know where to find him.”
“Good,” Dr. Crusher said. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, especially now. But it is the best way for us to handle this potential crisis.”
There was something that Dr. Crusher wasn’t telling her, something that Starfleet Medical was very interested in, something that they were willing to risk a high-profile contact with Bajor over. But Pulaski had been military for a long time. She knew better than to ask for information that she had not been given. If it had been something she needed to know, Dr. Crusher would have told her.
“Well,” Pulaski said, “I guess it’s time.”
She glanced at her last patient on the Enterprise. The crewman’s readings were mostly normal, his new skin looking pink and healthy. She went over to him and drew a blanket across him. He was sleeping peacefully. He wouldn’t even remember his treatment. He would think Dr. Crusher had taken care of him, and even though she would probably correct him, he would never really know what had happened here.
But Pulaski would.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess. I had planned to leave it tidy for you.”
Dr. Crusher smiled. “Medicine is rarely tidy.”
Pulaski nodded. That was a fact she knew all too well.
Chapter Five
A MIST HAD FORMED at the base of the mountains. Gel Kynled felt the chill, even though he stood in the shadow of what had once been an excellent restaurant. It was Cardassian now, with the former restaurant owner working as a waiter and forced to suffer daily humiliation from the occupying army. Gel hated watching that. He hated so many things about Bajor these days. So many Bajorans simply took the Occupation as their lot in life. They looked away when their friends disappeared, mourned when their families died, but did nothing.
He couldn’t stand doing nothing.
He had his arm wrapped around the waist of Cadema Hyle. She was too thin for him. Her clothing was baggy and barely hid the signs of starvation that had been so prominent a few months ago. Cadema had managed to escape from one of the camps—probably because the Cardassian guards had left her for dead. She had climbed out of the mountains, surviving on roots and berries before she made it back to their resistance cell. She never spoke of the experience, not after that first day, but it had changed her.
Like him, she was willing to do anything to get rid of the Cardassians. Anything at all.
It was nearly curfew. Most of the Bajorans who were on the streets were hurrying toward their homes. The people left in this area had nominal freedom, all of them knowing they could lose it with a single error. Staying out past curfew could be that error.
The Cardassians passing him were no longer on duty, but they weren’t in a hurry either. Gel resisted the urge to check the time. He and Cadema were standing casually, looking younger than they were—because they had always looked younger than they were—and pretending to be in love. Idle youth, not caring about deadlines or curfews or Cardassian soldiers. But it was getting late, and Gel didn’t dare call attention to himself. He needed his freedom, and so did Cadema. In fact, Cadema said she would do anything she could, anything, to prevent being captured by the Cardassians again.
He felt her shift ever so slightly. Her movement wasn’t noticeable to anyone watching, but it was a sign that she was getting nervous too.
“A few more moments,” he said softly.
She smiled at him, tilting her head upward, a lovesick look that didn’t make it to her eyes. He smiled back, so fond. Lovers, taking the last few minutes of precious daylight to be together.
Someone coughed a few meters away, a loud, honking cough. It was their signal. Cadema tensed. Gel slid his left hand behind his back. His fingers rested lightly on a stolen Cardassian phaser tucked into a belt, holding it against his spine. He could draw and fire the pistol faster than a Cardassian could raise his arm. Gel had killed at least ten Cardassian guards with that pistol over the last few months. He planned on killing a lot more.
A Jibetian trader walked past, still coughing. He was long and lean, like most of his people, and his ridged cheeks were very pronounced. Gel had never seen him before.
“You need to do something for that cough,” Cadema said, her voice gentle, as if giving advice to a friend.
The trader stopped, his cloak flowing around him. The movement was fluid and powerful. It also revealed the weapons at his waist. A pistol like Gel’s and something Gel didn’t recognize.
The trader’s pale green eyes took both of them in. Nothing in his expression changed, but he seemed to recognize them as a team.
He stepped closer, so close that his words were audible only to Gel and Cadema. “My boss does not like being summoned.”
Gel didn’t move. He kept one hand on his weapon, the other casually draped over Cadema. As he spoke, he smiled, so that anyone watching would think they were still discussing cold remedies.
“Bajorans are dying,” he said.
The trader shrugged. “You were warned there might be some casualties.”
“Some,” Cadema said. “We thought that meant only those initially involved. Your boss misled us.”
The trader’s gaze flickered toward the street and then back to them. They were t
he last Bajorans out, and there were no more Cardassians. Curfew had started. In a few moments, they all would be in trouble.
“People in your business,” the trader said, “should not be soft.”
Gel’s grip on the pistol tightened. He knew he was being goaded, and he would not let the trader get to him. All of the people he had dealt with, everyone who worked for the person—or persons—who had theoretically developed this perfect biological weapon to fight the Cardassians had been as cold and unfeeling and cruel as this trader. All of them. They were only in it for the money. Gel’s resistance cell had spent the last of its reserves getting this weapon, and now it was backfiring on them.
“Soft, weak,” Gel said, “those are all subjective terms. We’re not talking about our ability to fight, or our own willingness to die for our beliefs. But this disease has spread beyond our cell, to the innocents. Our children have been dying. It’s not a pretty death.”
“You didn’t buy a pretty death,” the trader said. “You bought something a bit more destructive than that.”
“My people are getting sicker faster than the Cardassians.” Gel had to struggle to keep his voice down. Cadema was looking to make sure they were still alone on the street. They were.
So far.
“The disease incubates longer in Cardassians.”
“Not good enough,” Gel said. “You owe us more than that.”
“We owe you nothing.”
“You lied.”
“What are you going to do? Turn us in? Which government will prosecute us for violating the local commerce laws? What remains of the Bajoran government? Or the Cardassian warlords?”