by Rick Barba
“So I’m just sick?” said Kirk.
“Maybe,” said McCoy. “We’ll know more when we get the blood results.”
Uhura said, “Well, Kirk, gotta go. I’m glad you’re alive.”
Kirk pointed at her. “If I did anything to you that I can’t remember, I’m sorry.”
With a barely perceptible smile, Uhura said, “You were actually quite a gentleman before you vanished. Frankly, I was shocked.”
“And, admit it … you were a little disappointed,” said Kirk.
Uhura rolled her eyes, then turned to go.
“God only knows what happened after you vanished,” she said. “I’m sure you left a trail of mayhem.”
As the women turned to leave, Kirk called after them. “Why didn’t I meet you before today?” he asked T’Laya.
T’Laya and Uhura exchanged an amused glance.
“Wait, there’s no way I met you before today. … This is definitely the first time I’ve ever had memory loss,” Kirk said.
“No, it’s not that,” T’Laya assured him with a grin. “It’s just that you’re consistent. … You said the same thing to me when we met for the first time a few hours ago.”
And with that, the beautiful Vulcan gave him a quick wink, and then turned to leave with Uhura.
“That girl is amazing,” Kirk said as he watched T’Laya leave.
But McCoy wasn’t listening. He opened the valve on a drip chamber attached to Kirk’s IV tube. “Jim, I’m giving you something to sleep,” he said.
Kirk stared up at the ceiling. “How long was I gone, Bones?” he asked.
“About six hours,” replied McCoy.
“Wow,” said Kirk. “What did I do for six hours?”
“We’ll probably read about it in the morning papers,” said McCoy, amused.
Kirk closed his eyes. The medicine was fast acting. He saw Iowa again. Swimming in the quarry with his brother, Sam.
And then Kirk was in deep, dark waters.
Midnight, three hours later:
McCoy sat at a desk near Kirk’s bed in the ICU, angrily scrolling through lab reports on his medi-pad. Things weren’t making sense. When things didn’t make sense, McCoy got surly.
Then he glanced over at Kirk … and nearly slipped off his stool.
A gorgeous woman in a jet-black Starfleet uniform was leaning directly over his patient.
“Ah, excuse me, miss?” called McCoy. “This is a secure area. Are you authorized?”
She stepped toward him, flashing a holo-badge.
McCoy raised his eyebrows. “Wow, Level Six clearance,” he said. “You must be a spook.”
“I’m Lieutenant Caan,” she said.
McCoy nodded. “How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Caan pointed at Kirk.
“How is he, Doctor?” she asked.
McCoy held up the medi-pad lab reports. “Tough to say,” he said. “He seems fine now, physically. But his blood work is odd.”
“How so?”
The woman’s eyes were bright aqua blue and unblinking, and McCoy found it hard to look into them without losing concentration.
“Pardon me for asking, Lieutenant,” he said, “but why would Starfleet Intelligence be interested in this matter?”
“You’re the attending physician?” she asked.
“Yes.”
McCoy was amazed: still no blink. Eyes wide and watchful. And mesmerizing.
“And you are Leonard McCoy?”
“Yes.”
Lieutenant Caan nodded, then turned to look at Kirk, who slept peacefully.
“You were in the patient’s company earlier today, is that right?”
A small vein in McCoy’s neck began to pulse. “Yes, that’s right,” he said.
“And you’re good friends with Cadet Kirk?”
“Is this some kind of inquisition?” blurted McCoy. “Should I ring up my lawyer on speed-dial?”
Lieutenant Caan gave McCoy a bemused look.
“Dr. McCoy, I’m not a police officer,” she said. “A lawyer would be of no use or consequence.”
Few things irritated Dr. Leonard McCoy worse than breaches of medical ethics. One of those things was when Starfleet functionaries tried to pull rank on him. So this was a double offense in his book.
“Look, you’re in the intensive care unit at Starfleet Medical College,” he growled. “This is holy ground. You’re on my turf here.”
Lieutenant Caan’s aqua stare grew icy. She said, “Dr. McCoy, you are familiar with Starfleet Charter, Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-One?”
“Yes,” said McCoy. “It’s the Federation statute that supposedly lets you do whatever the hell you want in times of extreme threat.” He pointed at Kirk. “Are you really pulling a Section Thirty-One on me here, Lieutenant Caan? Is this man an extreme threat?”
Lieutenant Caan slipped her security badge into a zip pouch on her uniform arm. “We don’t know yet,” she said. “But we have reasons to investigate. That’s all you need to know at this point.”
McCoy laughed loudly. “You’ll have to give me more than that, Lieutenant, unless you plan an extraordinary rendition to torture me. Because last I checked, the Federation still honors doctor-patient confidentiality privileges.”
Lieutenant Caan took a deep breath. Then she softened her tone.
“This is not a good start,” she said.
McCoy said, “You can say that again. Look, Lieutenant, Jim Kirk is my friend. I’m sure you people know everything about our backgrounds: our records, politics, exploits, associations, conquests, nights on the town. You probably have all our damn conversations recorded. But if you want medical information on my patient, you have to give me a bloody good reason for it. I’m not going to disregard doctor-patient confidentiality because you’re feeling curious.”
Lieutenant Caan nodded. “You’re right,” she said.
McCoy looked warily at her. She sounded sincere. But then again, she was a spook.
“Doctor, I found him,” she continued. “He was in bad shape. I rode with the medical team.”
McCoy sat back down on his stool.
“Ah, so you’re the angel,” he mused aloud before he could stop himself.
Lieutenant Caan narrowed her eyes.
“Pardon me?” she asked.
“Jim woke briefly about an hour ago,” McCoy began to explain.
“Did he make a report?” she asked.
“I’m afraid he did,” said McCoy. “In his drugged stupor he told me some insane story about a beautiful angel who rescued him from a flower bed.” He looked her up and down and then met her eyes. Was it his imagination, or did she blush at the implied compliment?
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, you seem awfully young for an Intelligence officer. And since you’re working alone, I have to assume this isn’t a Section Thirty-One situation. More like, Hey, let’s send in the new kid. Let her get some experience.”
McCoy could see he’d hit a nerve. Lieutenant Caan seemed to draw herself up taller. Her aqua eyes didn’t give away much, but now they flashed a bit. She looked McCoy directly in the eyes.
“This is my first solo assignment,” she said.
McCoy almost hooted out a laugh but managed to restrain himself.
“How old are you?” he asked Lieutenant Caan.
“Twenty-five,” she said.
“My god, you’re younger than me,” he said.
“By exactly eight months,” she said.
McCoy was enjoying himself now. “You’ve done your homework,” he said.
Lieutenant Caan tilted her head a bit. “I always do my homework,” she said.
“Yes, you strike me as that type,” said McCoy. “So let’s say we negotiate. Tell me why you people are interested in my friend, and I’ll bring you up-to-date on the blood work.”
Lieutenant Caan frowned. “Has Mr. Kirk had other episodes like this recently?”
McCoy folded his arms and said, “Sorry, L
ieutenant. You first.”
Lieutenant Caan sighed. Then she said, “Okay. Our Internal Affairs division recently received notice from your Academy’s IT department of irregular activity on the internal network … activity that traces to the account of James T. Kirk.”
She stopped. McCoy just waited. After a few seconds of silence, Lieutenant Caan finally blinked. McCoy took it as a small triumph.
“What kind of activity?” he asked.
“Search engine,” said Lieutenant Caan.
McCoy laughed. “Surely you realize that term-end examinations are next week,” he said.
“Of course we do.”
“So what’s unusual about a guy doing research as final exams approach?”
Lieutenant Caan smiled and then said, “If Cadet Kirk was conducting searches on Fleet Dynamics or Tactical Analysis or other Command College course material, I would agree with you.”
“He wasn’t surfing for, um, porn, was he?” McCoy asked, afraid of what the answer might be.
“No,” said Lieutenant Caan.
“So what were his search topics?”
“Himself,” she said.
“Himself?”
“Yes. Requests to hundreds of databases on the search topic of ‘James Tiberius Kirk.’ Then thousands more requests on various branch-off topics.”
McCoy tapped on his medi-pad to bring up the lab reports.
“So is researching yourself illegal?” he asked. He shrugged. “Is it even suspicious? I mean, haven’t we all done something like that at least once in our cyber-lives?”
Lieutenant Caan had to admit that it was neither. But the sheer volume of requests put Kirk on a watch list.
“Standard procedure,” she said. “And then today …”
“Ah, I get it.” McCoy nodded. “Cadet Uhura filed the missing person report with Campus Security, and it probably got cross-referenced with your watch list.”
“Exactly,” said Lieutenant Caan.
McCoy flipped his medi-pad so she could view the display.
“Here’s the lab work,” he said.
Lieutenant Caan frowned at it. “What does it mean?”
McCoy moved next to her and pointed to the screen. “Jim’s blood shows signs of fighting off a significant viral-type infection. These antigen readings suggest that it was a very robust presence. It really pushed his immune system hard.” He shook his head. “To be honest, with these kinds of results, it doesn’t surprise me that you found him blacked out in a flower bed. In fact, I would have expected much worse.”
She looked over at Kirk. “Is it contagious, this virus?”
“Well, that’s the odd thing, Lieutenant. There was no virus.” McCoy scrolled down to another report. “This blood scan shows absolutely nothing resembling an infectious agent. In fact, the medical tricorder and lab scans revealed nothing unusual or foreign in his bloodstream or lymphatic system.” He tapped the window closed. “Nothing! Whatever caused the acute systemic response left without a trace. Or was never there in the first place.”
Lieutenant Caan pulled out a small digital pad and jotted some notes. As she did, she said, “So to summarize: You’re saying Cadet Kirk’s body responded as if in reaction to a virus, but no sign of any actual virus can be found?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Lieutenant Caan.
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”
She flipped her notepad shut. “I don’t see much connection between Cadet Kirk’s medical situation and his irregular online activities, do you?”
McCoy thought for a moment, then said, “None at all.”
“To be perfectly honest … I don’t expect much more to come of this,” said the lieutenant. “But I have a report to file, so I’d appreciate any help or input.”
McCoy walked over to Kirk’s hospital bed.
“I’ll send you my diagnostic notes after I finish updating the patient chart,” he said.
“I appreciate that, Dr. McCoy. I’ll be going now.”
McCoy looked down at Kirk.
“Sleeping Beauty will be sad he missed your visit,” he said.
The lieutenant cracked a smile.
“I expect he’ll see me again,” she said.
McCoy nodded.
“That should be a fun interview,” he said.
Kirk rode down a dusty rural highway.
It looked very familiar.
He glanced down. His legs were pumping the pedals of his old red Photonic two-speed, the bicycle on which he spent most of his boyhood. It was the best feeling in the world.
Up ahead: a boy on another bike. A blue Photonic.
Kirk pedaled hard and caught up. It was Sam.
“Hey, Jimmy,” said Sam.
The brothers rode side-by-side. Then Sam veered off the highway. A side road. Not a road, actually, but a makeshift lane created by vehicle tires. Kirk stomped on the brakes. The red Photonic shimmied and kicked up dust as it skidded to a halt.
“Come on, chicken!” called Sam, pulling away.
Kirk watched. Then he jumped hard on the pedals and followed.
He pulled even. The brothers rode side-by-side, again.
Picking up speed.
“Chicken!” yelled Sam, grinning wildly.
Kirk grinned back. It was a race.
Up ahead, the vast quarry canyon opened up. Kirk pulled ahead. Then Sam pulled ahead. Both boys were flying toward the great precipice, a hundred yards ahead.
At the last possible second, as always, the Kirk boys hammered their brakes. Both bikes, red and blue, went into side skids, dust flying. Both stopped mere feet from the death drop.
Kirk, laughing, let out a howl.
Then Sam looked at him. His face was dark.
Kirk frowned. He suddenly felt afraid. “What is it?” he asked.
Sam said, “They’re coming for you.”
CH.6.13
Second Infection
The next day, Wednesday—“Zeta Minus Two”—Cadet Chekov sat at the workdesk in his spare, windowless closet in Nimitz Hall. He hummed a Prokofiev strain as he plotted warp coordinates on a 3-D galactic-map screen: a review exercise for next week’s final exam. When he finished, he smiled widely.
“Course laid in, Captain,” he said to himself.
He tapped an on-screen icon.
“Helmsman,” he said, “you are cleared for warp factor six … no, wait.” He slapped his forehead. “That’s the captain’s order, not mine.”
For Zeta, Chekov expected to be at the navigator’s station on a substantial ship, probably one of the heavy cruisers. He was the top student in his advanced stellar cartography class: The next cadet wasn’t even close. But unlike most of the rest of the freshman class, Chekov would be perfectly happy to navigate for a Class F shuttle or a lowly supply transport. Starfleet status and the ship pecking order didn’t matter to him. He loved the stars. Navigating them was his dream job. He didn’t care for which ship.
He leaned back in his chair. It rested on the floor now, where it belonged.
All of Chekov’s furniture was back in place, thanks to a few roommates (all female) plus a Campus Security officer with a hand phaser. Chekov’s “redecorators” had thoughtfully used a nadion-sensitive polymeric bonding glue to stick stuff to the ceiling. Thus a simple cold phaser pulse (at weakest sub-one setting) dissolved the glue. Chekov and the girls then lowered everything back to the floor.
Situation normal again.
Then he heard a buzz. He looked down. His workdesk screen flickered.
Over on the wall, a hatch opened.
“Who is it?” called Chekov, standing up. “Who’s there?”
He heard a loud suctioning sound as the room’s robotic housekeeping unit emerged.
Chekov relaxed.
Ay, cleaning day, he thought.
The Academy dorms featured smart rooms. All room environmental functions were linked to the room’s workdesk, so cadets could contr
ol lights, heating/cooling, sound, media … and even schedule the Robo-Maid unit to keep the floor clean.
“I thought I set you for Sundays,” said Chekov as he examined his flickering workdesk screen. “Well, friend, I need to study today.”
But when he tried to bring up the Room Environment Menu, the screen simply went blank. Chekov kept tapping. Nothing happened. As he leaned closer, he felt something jab his left ankle.
Chekov looked down.
The Robo-Maid was stabbing at him with its room corner attachment, trying to vacuum his legs.
“What are you doing?” he yelled. “Ow!”
The unit kept following him as he dodged around the room, so he went to the door and tapped the exit button. Nothing happened. He punched it a few more times. The door didn’t budge.
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Chekov.
The Robo-Maid latched onto his pants leg and wouldn’t let go, so he pushed it away and then jumped up on the bed. Then he pulled out his communicator, hitting a speed-dial number.
“Residential Services,” answered a voice. “Can I help you?”
“It’s trying to suck me into the maintenance grid,” said Chekov.
“Say that again, Cadet?”
“The cleaning robot is—”
Suddenly the tiny room’s sound system burst alive, blasting music so loud that two speaker pods literally exploded. His other electronics went haywire too, beeping and ringing and buzzing and, in the case of the smoke detector, shrieking at ear-shattering decibel levels.
“My room has lost its mind!” yelled Chekov into the phone.
“Try a reboot,” said the voice, sounding bored.
Chekov could barely hear the advice. He couldn’t tell if the speaker was male or female or, as in the case of certain aliens, neither. The room noise was too loud to pick out subtleties.
“I tried that already!” he shouted. “The system is frozen. The door, too. I’m trapped in my crazy room!”
Now people were pounding on his door. Voices outside were drowned out by the room’s cacophony.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said the voice. “Maybe try turning everything off, then turning it all back on again?”