by Peter David
“But you would sacrifice your citizens on the other continents?” observed Tuvok.
“They have the same technical capablities we have,” countered Klain. “If they can’t cure it, neither can we! And you forget—the Cardassians destroyed all of our long-range vessels. The only way to get across the ocean now is by sea-glider, and that’s not the way to move supplies and sick people. We have no way to get off the planet, no way to get help—”
“Until we came,” said B’Elanna.
“All right,” he conceded, “you came. And how long will you stay here? My guess is that you’ll leave the moment more Cardassian ships show up, which could be any minute.”
“Then we’d better hurry,” said Torres, striding past Klain toward an archway in the green wall. Tuvok walked after her, leaving the Helenites to gape at the audacity of their guests.
Leaving his three comrades with the remaining hovercraft, Klain followed them to the gate. In the archway was a heavy metal door which didn’t suit the exquisite green stone of the wall. Beside the door, Torres noticed what looked like a card slot, but their host paid no attention to it.
“Just stand here,” he explained. “We’ll be recognized.”
Sure enough, the door opened, and Klain led the way inside. The walkway sloped downward, with handrails on either side. Torres realized they were headed underground, into a network of tunnels. The lighting came from luminescent strips embedded in the walls, ceiling, and floor of the jade corridor. Their footsteps echoed plain against the dull stone as they descended.
In due time, they came to a shiny metal turbolift, which opened invitingly at their approach. They stepped inside the well-appointed chamber and, following Klain’s lead, stood quietly. After a jarring ride that made Torres dizzy, the doors opened, and they found themselves in a sumptuous office, furnished with mementos, plaques, and awards. There were so many chairs arrayed against the walls that Torres decided this was a waiting room, with no one waiting.
A chime sounded, and a small bookcase in the corner spun around. A little man wearing a white laboratory coat stepped off the platform and gave them a crinkled smile. From the riot of spots and bumps on his face, it was impossible to tell what species his ancestors might have been, but it was certain that he was old. White hair sprouted in unruly tufts from his head, eyebrows, and chin, only adding to his gnomelike appearance.
“Hello! Hello!” he said, striding forward. “I am Dr. Gammet. Welcome to IGI.” Although he tried to include all of them in his conversation, his pink eyes drifted toward B’Elanna Torres. “Yes, yes…remarkable.”
“Dr. Gammet,” said Klain warmly. “I’m so glad you could see us personally. This is B’Elanna Torres and Tuvok from the Maquis vessel.”
“Has their ship left the ground?” asked Gammet.
“Yes, it’s back in orbit.”
“Good, good,” said the little man with extreme relief. He turned apologetically to B’Elanna. “We still worry about the Cardassians more than anything else, and we don’t want to give them any excuse to punish us. Although it may not seem like it, I’m glad you’re here.”
“You people are in denial about this plague,” said Torres. “You can’t hide from it and hope it goes away.”
“I told them we didn’t have any cases,” insisted Klain.
Gammet scratched his wiry goatee. “I’m not sure of that anymore. It’s possible that we could have had some plague cases and not recognized them. People could have died in the countryside without our knowing it. We need to cooperate with these people to find out.”
Torres took a isolinear chip from her breast pocket. “I’ve got all the Starfleet data on the previous outbreaks.”
He took the chip and shrugged. “I’ve seen the data, including some Cardassian files you could never obtain. I didn’t tell Klain, but we have samples of the prions, smuggled out of Padulla before the quarantine. We were studying the disease, but it moved too quickly for us to save Padulla.”
“Then you know this is serious,” said Torres.
The doctor nodded somberly as he paced the quiet library. His shuffling footsteps were the only sound, except for the far-off drip of a faucet.
“It’s more serious than you think,” he began. “Much more serious. This strain is just as virulent as previous strains—but even more contagious. My theory is that it’s a chimera, a genetically engineered combination of two different organisms. In this case, it would be the original virus combined with a less deadly disease that is easy to contract. So we have a disease that was already deadly, only now it’s more contagious than ever.”
“Who engineered it?” asked Klain, shock spreading across his handsome face.
Dr. Gammet shook his shaggy white mane. “That’s unknown. We don’t even know what the second organism is, and I’ve got people in this building who disagree with me—they think it evolved naturally. We’ve just started looking at this thing, and it could take months, or years, to crack it. And we may not have that much time—either from the disease or the Cardassians.”
The little gnome looked into B’Elanna’s eyes. “And no one is going to allow us to leave the planet, are they?”
She cleared her throat and returned his frank gaze. “No, we have to fight this battle right here, right now. Win or lose.”
“Aren’t there drugs that can delay the onset?” asked Klain hopefully.
“Yes, but there is no cure,” stressed Dr. Gammet, his pace turning into a nervous jog. “Only by tracking it back to its origins can we hope to snuff it out. Now that we’ve got a couple of Maquis ships and the means to move quickly around the planet, let’s use them.”
“I’ll get you together with our doctors.” B’Elanna tapped her combadge, but nothing happened.
Gammet smiled slyly. “That won’t work in here, my dear. No, no. I would suggest that we have as little contact with your ship as possible, in case the Cardassians show up again. In fact, there’s a garrison stationed west of here in Tipoli, and they keep a close eye on us.
“So we’ll exchange records and personnel as needed, while you two stay with us to coordinate the research. Your ships will do the fieldwork—as they’re already doing on Padulla. But direct contact with your ship should be kept to a minimum. Also, it might help if you two didn’t go around openly proclaiming your identity as Maquis. Just say you’re Helenites.”
“With these clothes?” asked B’Elanna, pointing to her drab uniform.
“Yes, yes, we’ll do something about that.” Gammet gave Tuvok a crinkly smile. “You, dear boy, could make a fortune while you’re here—in donor fees. Wouldn’t require much work on your part—we can induce Pon farr.”
While it was not possible to embarrass a Vulcan, Tuvok did manage to look offended. “That is the most unappealing job offer I have ever received.”
The little man shrugged. “Not to fear, it is entirely your decision. Romulans are so similar to Vulcans that we’ve learned to use them almost exclusively. But never mind about that. Are we agreed on how to proceed?”
B’Elanna could feel the leadership of this mission slipping away from her, flowing toward the charismatic little doctor. Then again, they needed help desperately. And he was right, if the Cardassians showed up in force, all bets were off. It was a good idea to make the Helenites self-sufficient, as eliminating this disease was going to be a long, hard job, even if they were successful in containing the outbreak.
She looked at Tuvok, and the Vulcan raised an eyebrow, awaiting her decision.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll stay with you and coordinate.”
Dr. Gammet clapped his gnarled hands. “Excellent! Excellent! I feel very confident that we can fight this chimera. Our people have a lot of natural resistance built into their genetic makeup.”
“Do you have biological warfare?” asked Torres.
“No!” squeaked the little man, looking horrified at the idea. “We’ve never had war of any kind, biological or otherwise. The Cardassians
could have wiped us out anytime they felt like it, with conventional weapons. There’s no reason they should introduce a disease—or that anyone else should.”
Torres nodded, more troubled than relieved by that thought. As she had asked Riker days ago: Why here? Why now?
Chapter Eight
A LOUD, WRACKING COUGH sundered the silence of the examination tent, and a thin, naked man shook uncontrollably on the metal table. He looked old and used-up, although that may have been a result of the disease. For all Riker knew, he could have been a young man in the prime of life. This disease attacked every organ at once, bringing on instant aging.
Two medical workers in white gowns and hoods leaned over the old man, conversing silently inside their headgear. Riker stood nearby, waiting to see if the patient had to be transported to the shuttlecraft. Finally one of the doctors turned to him and shook his encased head.
“He’s too far gone,” said a disembodied voice in Riker’s hood.
The lieutenant didn’t need any further explanation. He had seen plenty of patients like this one in the last few hours. Although the multiprions that caused the disease could be removed from their bodies by the transporter biofilter, their weakened bodies could not be repaired. Too many other opportunistic diseases had taken over; too many organs were failing; too many healthier people needed attention.
Unable to watch any longer, Riker waved to the doctors. “I have to check something.” They waved back and grabbed hypos that would alleviate the man’s suffering but not prolong his life.
Feeling constricted inside his hood, Riker stepped out of the examination room into a primordial night. The sky above was sugared with stars, and the dead city cast a boxy silhouette in the distance. The clinic’s lights were the only lights between their encampment and the stars.
A clutch of Helenites waited nearby, staring at him. After a moment, he recognized them as the people who had carried the old man in. Their gaily striped and billowy clothes were soiled and tattered, making them look like an impoverished theater company. From their concerned yet hopeful faces, he knew they wanted some reassurance, but he couldn’t give them any. It wasn’t even his place to talk to them, but Riker knew that if he didn’t, no one else would. He removed his headgear and walked toward the people.
“Will the prefect be all right?” asked a female who might have been attractive before worry and tragedy carved themselves into her mahogany face.
Riker looked frankly into eyes that were perfectly round. “I’m sorry, but the doctors say he won’t recover.”
A man with puckered magenta skin pushed his way through the group to confront the lieutenant. “But the transporter—we saw others being cured!”
“Others who were infected but not that sick,” explained Riker. “We have to catch it within forty-eight hours. I’m sorry.”
He started to walk away, but the man, who was good-sized, grabbed Riker’s shoulder and whirled him around. “That’s our prefect you’re talking about—the chief of the Star Cluster! You have to save him!”
Riker tried to remain calm as he pried the Helenite’s fingers off his shoulder. He also tried to ignore the way the man had spit into his face. “We’re medical workers, not miracle workers. We’re trying to save as many as we can, while we make the others comfortable.”
“You’ll save him!” shouted the man. “Or I’ll tell the Cardassians you’re here!”
Riker glanced worriedly into the night sky. “I’m pretty sure they already know we’re here. I met a few of them in town, around the IGI building. What are they doing there?”
“You’re evading my question!” sputtered the man.
“No, I’m trying to help people in this place…and getting shot at, threatened, and exposed to plague for my trouble!”
When the man wouldn’t calm down, two of his friends grabbed him in an emotional hug. “Don’t make it worse, Jakon,” begged a woman. “We knew he was very sick. Let him go.”
“They are only trying to help,” insisted another friend. “Let’s get in line for inoculations.”
With lingering anger and denial, the magenta man glared at Riker. The lieutenant knew he should show more sympathy, but death was all around, breathing down their necks, and he wanted to survive. “What are the Cardassians doing around the IGI complex?” he asked again.
The man looked past him, grief finally taking the place of anger, but a pointy-eared lad stepped forward. “They’re shooting down any ships that can leave the planet. Those have been their orders for a while.”
“And what about IGI? A weapon in that pyramid tried to shoot us down.”
“That’s their regular security,” said the boy, sounding proud. “It’s to protect trade secrets from their smaller competitors.”
“Some secrets,” muttered Riker. “Thank you. Once again, I’m sorry.”
He hurried off before he could get involved in more grief, sickness, and death. With the Spartacus and Singha in orbit, Riker wasn’t that concerned about an attack from space, but he didn’t like squads of Cardassians popping up here and there. If that crack patrol ever decided to attack the clinic, they could wipe them out in less than a minute. It was doubtful the ships in orbit could respond quickly enough to help.
He crossed the flower garden to the shuttlecraft, which was parked on a grassy hillside overlooking the ocean. The hatch was open, and a feeble yellow light spilled into the darkness. In the gloom, the shuttle looked like a panel wagon belonging to a couple of traveling peddlers. It was too dark to see the ocean, but the waves crashed soothingly to the shore; the monotonous sound gave a false impression that all was well.
He stepped into the shuttlecraft, about to blurt orders, when he saw Shelzane sprawled like a limp starfish in the pilot’s seat, fast asleep. She looked so peaceful, he didn’t want to wake her up, but they were endangering the clinic by being here.
“Ensign!” he snapped, dropping into the seat beside her. “Prepare for takeoff.”
Shelzane bolted upright, blinking her blue, hairless eyelids. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what happened—”
“I know what happened—you got tired. But don’t worry about that. We’ve got to get out of here. Can you take over the checklist?”
“Yes, sir.” The Benzite’s hands dropped onto the board, and she was instantly at work.
Riker tapped the comm panel. “Shuttle to Spartacus.”
“We hear you,” replied Chakotay.
“We’re assuming orbit, because I’m worried that the shuttlecraft is endangering the clinic. The Cardassians on the ground are out to get every ship that can leave the planet.”
“Understood,” said the captain. “But the situation may change quickly, because we’re out of contact with Torres and Tuvok on the other continent. We’ve got no reason to believe they’re in danger, but they’re not responding to hails.”
Riker frowned. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” muttered Chakotay. “They went into a building where there may be shielding. And sometimes those surplus combadges can fail without warning. Let’s give them a little longer.”
“Okay. After we get in orbit, I’d like permission to beam down to the planet to scout Cardassians and a medical facility.”
“Is this important?”
“I think it is. We’ve got to get records and find out how this thing started. The problem is, Padulla is a ghost town—everything is boarded up. The only ones out and about are Cardassians. How have they avoided the plague? I’d like to know.”
“Okay, but keep in touch.”
“You’ve got to take over the transport duties for the clinic,” said Riker.
“We just entered synchronous orbit, and the transporter is going full time, no waiting.”
“Okay, see you up there. Shuttle out.”
Riker punched up the launch sequence, as Shelzane gazed at him with concern. “We’re going back to that place?”
“Yes, but we’re not going to march right
up and knock. Let’s launch, and we’ll discuss it on our way.”
Lieutenant Riker and Ensign Shelzane beamed into what they thought was an empty administration building near the IGI complex. When they shined their lanterns around the dark workroom, Riker was glad he had insisted they wear environmental suits. They were surrounded by hundreds of shrill rodents, interrupted in the middle of dining on two dismembered corpses.
When the rodents advanced, teeth bared, Riker raked the front row with phaser fire; they fell back, squealing. The line of charred rodents pointed the way to a second door, and Riker jogged in that direction, keeping the light in front of him and Shelzane.
The door was automatic and should have opened at their approach, but the power was off. He trained his lantern back on the rats, several of whom were bravely sniffing their footprints, trying to decide if these intruders were a danger or more food. “If they get close, shoot at them,” he ordered Shelzane.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Benzite with a tremble in her voice.
Riker stepped back and surveyed the area around the door, finding an access panel that might control the mechanism. Since Helenite technology was based on Federation technology, Riker had no trouble opening the panel and determining which circuits he needed to disable to allow it to open manually. He didn’t have much hope of restoring electrical power to the building, but he wanted to be able to open a door without blasting through it.
A flash of light caught his attention, and he whirled around to see Shelzane firing at a wave of scurrying rats. “Keep them at bay!” he ordered her.
Riker wormed his gloved fingers into the crack between the two halves of the door. Using every muscle in his upper body, he pried the door open, as Shelzane backed into him. She fired continuously at the rodents, but a sea of fur undulated across the floor, caught in the wavering light of their lanterns.
“Get out!” Riker straightened his arm, forming an archway and holding the door open for the Benzite. When she didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed her and shoved her through the door. With a final glance at the frenzied rats, Riker turned the light away and plunged the room back into darkness. With his hold on the door weakening, he squeezed through and let it snap shut behind him.