The Brave And The Bold Book One

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Grunting, Decker turned to the navigation console. “ETA to Proxima?”

  The helm officer, another fresh-faced young officer Decker didn’t recognize, said, “Twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Something wrong, Ensign?” Takeshewada said.

  Decker turned to see that the comm officer looked vexed, which had prompted the first officer’s question.

  The communications officer touched the receiver in his ear. “I’m not sure. The comm traffic on Proxima is tremendous, but none of it is on the official frequencies. In fact, the official government channel is dead.”

  As he spoke, the turbolift doors opened to reveal the smooth, unlined face of Dr. Lewis Rosenhaus. Only a few years removed from his graduation with honors from Starfleet Medical, Rosenhaus had been something of a prodigy. After Decker’s previous chief medical officer retired a month ago, Admiral Fitzgerald had all but forced Rosenhaus upon the Constellation, claiming he was one of the best. Decker’s sole impression of the young man so far was that he was a bit too eager. He also hadn’t had to do much beyond routine physicals to acquaint himself with his four hundred new patients. I suspect, Decker thought with some trepidation, that this will be a test for him. Let’s hope to hell he passes it. Idly, he wondered who the Enterprise CMO was, and hoped it was a more experienced hand.

  His presence led to some chuckling around the bridge, as the doctor hadn’t bothered to change into uniform, and his wavy red hair was sticking up in all directions. He was still wearing his pajamas—silk, Decker noticed, or something similar.

  “What’s happening?” the young man asked. “Lieutenant Masada said it was some kind of medical crisis.”

  “We don’t have any details yet, Doctor,” Takeshewada said. “So far, all we know is that Alpha Proxima II has been hit with a medical emergency of some kind.”

  “That could be anything,” Rosenhaus said prissily.

  “The word ‘plague’ was used, Doctor,” Decker said. “Does that help?”

  “Not especially, no. Hard to prepare sickbay when I don’t know what to prepare it for.”

  Takeshewada turned to Masada. “Talk to me about Proxima, Guillermo.”

  Masada reached behind his head and yanked on his ponytail, which he always did right before giving a report. “Your basic Class-M planet—part of the big colonization push after warp drive was discovered, made part of the Federation, gobby gobby gobby. Nothing particularly notable.”

  Decker could hear the undercurrent in Masada’s voice, and knew he was dying to add, Unlike, say, a neutron star. “Guillermo, knock it off.”

  Sounding nonplussed, Masada said, “Sir?”

  “We know you’re angry about cutting the neutron star survey short. Get over it and give a proper report.”

  Straightening in his chair, Masada pulled on his ponytail again. “Yes, sir,” he said quickly, and peered into his sensor hood. Blue light shone on his features as he read off the data contained therein. “Alpha Proxima II was colonized in 2189 by the S.S. Esperanza. They set up two cities, both on the northern continent. In fact, the northern polar region’s the only place that’s really comfortable for humans—rest of the planet’s either too hot or covered in water. Current population is about one million four hundred thousand. The government consists of a planetary council run by a chief speaker, and they also have representation on the Federation Council.” He looked up. “You want their chief exports?”

  Chuckling, Decker said, “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  Then Masada’s console beeped. “What the—?”

  “Report,” Takeshewada said.

  Masada peered back into the sensor hood. “That’s weird.” He looked up at Takeshewada, who was now standing behind him. “We’re picking up an energy signature from Proxima, one that triggered a flag in the computer relating to Starfleet General Order 16.”

  Decker frowned. “I don’t remember that one.”

  “Neither do I,” Takeshewada said, sounding ashamed at the lapse.

  Masada snorted. “Honestly, if the computer hadn’t just shoved it in my face, I wouldn’t have remembered it, either. But if this sensor reading is accurate, we may have stumbled across a deadly weapon.”

  “What kind?” Takeshewada asked.

  “Not sure,” Masada said, shaking his head and starting to work his console, “but I’ll have something by the time we get there.”

  Decker turned away from Masada and smiled. Now that he had a problem to solve, Masada was sounding less petulant. Good, he thought. Last thing I need is Guillermo feeling sorry for himself when we’ve got a medical crisis and some unknown weapon….

  The Constellation’s Sensor Control Center—or “sensor room,” as it was more commonly known—was not normally a hotbed of activity. Someone was always on duty to make sure everything was working. However, that person was often alone. Located on deck twelve, all the sensor information from the ship came through this room. Unlike the bridge sciences station—where the duty officer could pick and choose what to focus on—the consoles in this room took in and recorded everything. Its functions were generally automatic.

  Since the Constellation had arrived at Beta Proxima eleven days ago, though, there had never been fewer than four people in the sensor room at any given time, and sometimes up to ten. Lieutenant (j.g.) Chaoyang Soo had joked that the science staff had spent more time in the room in those eleven days than they had during their entire collective tours on the Constellation.

  Right now, Soo was frowning at a new reading that had come in. With the sudden departure to respond to a medical emergency, Soo had taken it upon himself to dismiss the staff—mostly noncommissioned scientists who had spent the last eleven days being harangued by Lieutenant Masada—leaving only himself and Ensign Sontor. Were Sontor not a Vulcan, Soo would have dismissed him, too. However, he had apparently altered his metabolism so he would not need to sleep at all for the two-week period of the mission. It was a move that some viewed as showing off, but it also made dismissing him so he could get some sleep more or less pointless.

  “Curious.”

  Soo, who had been gazing at the lateral sensor array, walked over to stand behind Sontor, who was staring at the same anomalous reading. “What do you make of it?”

  “We have detected the energy signature of one of the Malkus Artifacts.”

  “You say that like I have the first clue what that is.” Soo realized after he said it that he sounded more irritated than he should have. Ah, hell, it’s not like Sontor’ll care.

  “My apologies. I had, of course, assumed that you would be familiar with the major archeological find on Beta Aurigae VII one hundred and fifteen years ago, since it relates to the sixteenth of Starfleet’s General Orders.” Sontor’s right eyebrow shot up. “Obviously, my assumption was in error.”

  Soo closed his eyes and counted to ten in English, French, and Mandarin. Then he opened them again. “Ensign Sontor, would you be so kind as to enlighten me as to what a ‘Malkus Artifact’ is?”

  “Masada to sensor room.”

  “Our master speaks,” Soo muttered, then thumbed the intercom. “Sensor room, this is Soo.”

  “I need everything on Starfleet General Order 16 and what it has to do with emissions we’re getting from Alpha Proxima II, and I need it yesterday.”

  With a look at Sontor, Soo said, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir.”

  “So you’re saying that this plague may be caused by this—this artifact?”

  Decker felt dubious about the story that Ensign Sontor was relaying to him on the bridge now. On the other hand, Starfleet didn’t issue general orders without a reason. Obviously whoever issued the order—and, according to Sontor, it dated back to when Starfleet was Earth’s space exploration arm before the forming of the Federation—thought the threat of these four artifacts was real enough. Even if the distress call turned out to be a false alarm, just detecting those emissions meant that the Constellation and the Enterprise were now obligated to find an
d confiscate the artifact or artifacts. “Do we know what type of disease the artifact can cause?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Only that the disease in question is fatal.” Sontor hesitated. “If I may say so, sir, this is a fascinating discovery, of great scientific importance.”

  “You may say that, Mr. Sontor, but I’m a bit more concerned about the loss of life on Proxima.”

  “Of course, sir,” Sontor said quickly, though he didn’t sound nearly contrite enough to suit Decker.

  Oh lay off the kid, he admonished himself. He’s just being Vulcan. He wouldn’t know contrite if it bit him on the rear.

  The ensign at helm said, “Entering Alpha Proxima system, sir.”

  “Come out of warp and bring us into standard orbit of the second planet.” He turned to Masada. “Guillermo?”

  Peering into the sensor hood, Masada said, “Several artificial satellites and small vessels in orbit, all matching what should be there. Also reading a Constitution-class starship in a standard orbit, registry NCC-1701—that’d be the Enterprise. I can also now verify the presence of the energy signature from General Order 16 on-planet—but I can’t localize it. At least, not yet.”

  Decker turned to communications. “Any luck raising anyone in authority, Ensign?”

  The ensign shook his head. “No, sir, but I’m getting a signal from the Enterprise.”

  “Good.” He turned to Takeshewada. “What’s the captain’s name again?”

  She rolled her eyes in the long-suffering manner that Decker had long since learned to ignore. “Kirk.”

  “Right. Ensign, open a channel.”

  When they came out of warp, the viewscreen had provided an image of Alpha Proxima II—a gold-and- yellow-tinged planet—and a ship of the same class as the Constellation in orbit around it. Within moments, that image was replaced by a bridge that was also of the same design as the Constellation.

  In the center seat sat a man who was barely in his thirties. My God, they’re letting children captain starships. “I’m Commodore Matt Decker of the Constellation.”

  “James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. It’s a pleasure, Commodore—I’m just sorry we can’t meet under better circumstances.”

  “Likewise,” Decker said quickly. “Have you been able to get anything from the planet?”

  Kirk nodded. “Not from the government, but my chief medical officer has been in touch with the chief of staff of one of the hospitals. I’m afraid the news isn’t good, Commodore. Right now, over thirty percent of the population is either incapacitated or dead from this virus.”

  “My God.” That was Rosenhaus, who still stood by the turbolift, still in his nightclothes.

  “Unfortunately, most of the planet’s public officials are among that thirty percent.”

  Decker blinked. “How is that possible?”

  “My first officer is working on that right now, though he has a theory based on some emissions we’ve received.”

  Nodding, Decker said, “The Malkus Artifacts? General Order 16?”

  Again, Kirk nodded.

  “All right, I want you, your first officer, and your CMO to beam over here in fifteen minutes. Bring everything you know about the situation, both on Proxima and regarding these artifacts. We’ll do likewise.”

  “Of course, Commodore.” Kirk sounded as nonplussed as Masada had when Decker dressed him down earlier. “We’ll see you in fifteen minutes. Enterprise out.”

  Without turning to look at Rosenhaus, Decker said, “Doctor, that gives you fifteen minutes to put a uniform on and get to the briefing room.”

  “Hm? Oh, right. Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and went into the turbolift.

  Takeshewada stepped down to the lower portion of the bridge and stood next to Decker. “A little rough on the kid, weren’t you?”

  “He showed up on the bridge in his jammies, Number One, that—”

  She smiled. “I don’t mean Rosenhaus, I mean Kirk.”

  Decker snorted. “I’m the ranking officer here. Besides, Kirk doesn’t look old enough to shave.”

  “You do know that he’s got a list of commendations about a kilometer long, not to mention the Medal of Honor, the Silver Palm, a Kragite, and probably some others I’m forgetting, don’t you?”

  Decker grinned. “Yeah, but I bet I’ve got more reprimands.” He hauled himself up from his chair and drained his coffee cup. Handing it to Guthrie, he said, “Yeoman, make sure there’s a full pot in the briefing room. We’re gonna need it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the yeoman said, taking the now-empty cup.

  “Masada, Sontor, let’s go.” He turned—and realized that he didn’t have a clue what the names of any of the officers left on the bridge were. He had enough trouble keeping track of alpha shift, much less the nearstrangers from gamma shift presently staffing the duty stations.

  Takeshewada, bless her, whispered the word “Alamanzar” in his ear.

  “Alamanzar,” he said without missing a beat, and wondering which face that name belonged to, “you have the conn.”

  Decker spent the time waiting for the Enterprise contingent and Rosenhaus to show up taking a quick glance at Kirk’s service record. Although the commodore was appalled to see that Kirk was only a few years older than Decker’s son, he was also impressed with the young man’s service record. Kirk had several citations besides the ones Takeshewada mentioned.

  Still think he’s too damn young to be a ship captain…

  The man himself came in a moment later, followed by two men in blue uniforms, one Vulcan, one human; they were led in by a security guard, whom Decker dismissed with a nod.

  Decker stood up and offered his hand. “Captain Kirk.”

  “Commodore. May I present my first officer, Mr. Spock, and my chief surgeon, Dr. Leonard McCoy.”

  The first officer’s wearing blue? What the hell kind of ship is this kid running? The ship’s second-in-command should have been in command gold, not the blue of the sciences. Aloud, he said, “This is Commander Hiromi Takeshewada, my XO; Lieutenant Guillermo Masada, my second officer; and Ensign Sontor, one of my science officers. We’re still waiting on—”

  The door opened and Rosenhaus ran in, tugging on a blue uniform shirt that looked like it had been hastily thrown on. He was also trying to smooth his red hair down, and only partially succeeding.

  “—my CMO,” Decker finished with a smile. “Dr. Lewis Rosenhaus.”

  “A pleasure, sirs,” Rosenhaus said breathlessly.

  Within moments, they were all seated around the table. “Dr.—McCoy?” Decker said. When the doctor nodded affirmation, he continued. “Since you’ve been in touch with the surface…”

  McCoy nodded. “According to Dr. Baptiste, the head of the Sierra City Medical Center—and, for all intents and purposes, the surgeon general down there, since the S.G.’s one of the ones who’s down for the count—what we’re dealing with here appears to be a virus that stimulates the adrenal gland. The body can only handle so much of that, naturally, and eventually the organs become overworked. The most common actual cause of death is heart failure—the heart almost literally explodes from the intensity of the blood being pumped through it.” The doctor made a snorting noise. “In fact, most of the people who have died from this did so before anyone realized something was wrong. Damn difficult to diagnose a disease whose symptoms include feeling energetic, unusual vigor, and general excitement.”

  Rosenhaus asked, “What finally led them to realize it then?”

  “Over a dozen seemingly unrelated deaths with the same cause within a close time frame. Law-enforcement types tend to notice that kinda thing,” McCoy said dryly. “The autopsies revealed the presence of the virus, and they started treating it and asking anyone with the symptoms to report to the nearest hospital immediately.”

  Decker leaned back in his chair. “Which meant the hospitals were flooded with healthy people who felt good and thought their hearts would blow up.”

  McCoy half-smiled. “Exac
tly. But the virus is fairly easy to identify.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Rosenhaus asked.

  “No one’s been able to find a cure is the damn problem,” McCoy snapped at the younger doctor. Decker had to hide a smile. McCoy went on: “Dr. Baptiste is sending us all his lab work. They’re treating with sedation and anti-adrenal medications, but that’s only temporary. The virus works past that eventually. It also inhibits any attempt to put the body into stasis. Even under sedation, it won’t allow body functions to slow down enough for that.”

  “Impressive disease,” Rosenhaus said. “It knocks out the best method of staving it off, and badly cripples the second-best. Have they tried using brolamine?”

  McCoy frowned. “You can’t use brolamine in these cases.”

  “Of course you can—according to—”

  Both Kirk and Decker said, “Gentlemen,” simultaneously. Decker smirked and added, “You two’ll have plenty of time to kibbitz later. Doctor, if you could please have that lab work sent over to us as well, so Dr. Rosenhaus can argue with authority.”

  “Of course,” McCoy said. “The other problem,” he said before Decker could then turn to Kirk and ask him for a report—Decker had thought McCoy to be finished, “is that there’s no pattern to the distribution of the virus.”

  “It’s not airborne?” Rosenhaus asked.

  “No, and it’s not being transmitted by contact, either. In fact, as far as Baptiste has been able to tell, it’s not in the least bit contagious. But suddenly, without any kind of warning, a group of people in a certain geographic area all contract it.”

  “Dr. McCoy is correct,” the Vulcan first officer—what the hell is his name? Decker thought in a mild panic—said. “The size of the area targeted varies from incident to incident. One of those targets was Sierra City, the colony’s capital, during a full council session. Most of the representatives of the government are now ill—and several of them are dead, including the Chief Representative, who was the head of the government.”

  Turning to Kirk, Decker said, “So what’s the situation planetside?”