“I’ve got more help coming, some big rigs that will drop a chemical retardant,” the Dorset woman said. Van Zandt nodded in understanding. “But I need that building emptied before I can authorize the dump. The retardant is very toxic.”
“McEwing, Liryn, get back to my position, on the double,” he shouted at his combadge. Looking at the fire chief, he asked for handheld equipment, portable oxygen masks, and someone trained in medicine.
“What do you plan?”
“Cleaning out the building, like you said. What did you think I was going to do with extinguishers?” His flippancy earned him an angry look, but the woman directed the materials to be brought. There were no trained medical personnel available—or willing—to go back inside.
Van Zandt slipped into a backpack that housed extinguishing chemicals, then tossed a similar rig to McEwing, who skidded to a stop in order to catch it. Liryn returned from the rooftops moments later and hefted the oxygen re-breathers. By the time the trio was ready to work, the chief had returned with smaller masks to help them breathe.
“All right, we work from the bottom up. Chief, have people ready to take the patients we bring out. We’re fighting the fire’s progress, and that roof won’t hold much longer. It’s already started coming apart. I think the design means this will pancake down, so we need to get out before we’re the hidden surprise underneath the stack.”
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he shouted for Rasmussen to secure the area and then jogged ahead, straight into the building, past a burning window.
Inside the hospital there were four corridors that snaked back in different directions. He wished he had more people—volunteers from the populace would have been nice—but he’d have to make do. He steeled himself for the possibility that some people would die before this was over, and he was powerless to do more to help.
As they worked their way down the far left corridor, Liryn, a Bajoran woman in her mid-thirties who had transferred aboard immediately before their previous mission, asked about using the transporters.
“Can’t do that safely for those hooked up to medical equipment,” Van Zandt replied, his voice muffled by his mask. The stench of smoke was already getting to him, and there was purplish haze ahead. Not enough to indicate fire, but it meant the flames were generating enough heat to send smoke not just up but everywhere.
The first five rooms they checked were already empty. Liryn kicked open doors to closets and supply rooms, stuck her head in, and then moved down the hall, taking up the rear position each time.
McEwing, shorter and older than Liryn, was a perfect complement to Van Zandt, and the leader appreciated having him at his back. They pushed aside curtains in a large examination area, McEwing dropping low to check for huddled patients, and then moved on. As they completed one corridor, they worked their way through a curtain of smoke and began the second corridor. Here, they heard faint squeals.
“Oh no,” Van Zandt muttered and broke into a run, ignoring several doorways. He skidded to a stop, his hand reaching out to steady himself.
“What is it?” McEwing asked, only a step behind him. The leader shouldered the door open, and the source of the sounds became painfully obvious.
It was the nursery, and no one had bothered to remove the dozen or so infants still in warming containers. At a glance, all appeared healthy, wrapped in identical dull green blankets, but none too happy with the stench from the flames above.
“Liryn, get in here and let’s grab ’em up,” Van Zandt yelled.
Liryn arrived quickly and didn’t hesitate before grabbing babies. With one arm holding two, she reached for another and noticed a bright white light blinking on the baby’s container.
“Hey, Loo,” she called. Van Zandt, already holding four screaming babies in his arms, gave her a look. All Liryn could do was shrug, but the expression on her face communicated enough to the squad leader.
Van Zandt moved toward the container and saw the light. Clearly there was a problem, and he muttered a curse at people who couldn’t label things in easy to comprehend terms.
“Call up to the ship, get us a nurse with a kit,” he ordered.
Seconds later, Nurse Susan Weinstein materialized in their midst, tricorder at the ready, medical kit strapped to her hip. Van Zandt nodded toward the container with blinking light and then headed out with the babies in his arms.
Weinstein waved Liryn away and within a brief time, all the babies were collected except for the one she needed to work on. Leading the way out, Van Zandt continued to mutter curses, which were ignored by his subordinates. They broke into a cautious but steady jog. The group went straight down the second corridor until they saw the doorway. Once Van Zandt spotted Rasmussen, her back to the team, he screamed her name. It took a moment for her to register what was needed, and then she came at a run to help with the babies. Several hospital staff, identifiable by their uniforms, were among the bystanders. Van Zandt didn’t pause to ask for volunteers. He simply handed over the babies and hoped that they had some sort of equivalent of the Hippocratic oath.
“You check the rest of the floor,” Van Zandt ordered his people. “I’ll be with the nurse.”
“Lucky you,” McEwing cracked with a smoke-smudged smile. “Hear she’s got a great bedside manner.”
“You know,” Van Zandt said, “she’s probably been hearing that since school. Say it to her and you’re likely to wind up in traction. Now go on, get outta here.”
The trio ran back into the building, where they split up, with Van Zandt making a direct line for the nursery. There, Weinstein was leaning over the infant, his chubby little fingers wrapped around her left index finger while her free right hand waved a medical scanner over him. Van Zandt kept his distance, letting the nurse work, biting his tongue to keep from rushing her.
“We’ve got kind of a situation,” he finally said.
“Worse than the building being on fire?” She finally pocketed the handheld scanner and withdrew a small device he didn’t recognize. Deftly, she placed it up against one of the boy’s nostrils and gave a squeeze.
“Much worse,” Van Zandt admitted. He explained about the roof and the lack of time.
“The baby’ll be fine. He’s just congested from the smoke. If the corridor is clear, I can get him out. Don’t worry about us.”
Without hesitation, Van Zandt turned and ran, hoping he’d see the nurse and baby soon. Knowing the others were almost done with the first floor, he hurried up a winding staircase to the second floor. As he ran, he could hear the roar of the flames and feel vibrations in the floor. He didn’t know if the vibrations were caused by the pounding of his own feet, or if the building was giving warning that it was going to crumble.
On the second floor he broke right and ran flat out, calling out for anyone to respond. At the end of the corridor he doubled back, slowing down just enough to kick open doors and check the floors. Nothing.
The vibrations under his feet grew worse, and he now knew for certain that it was the building trembling. He hoped, as he began checking the other side, there was enough time to complete a sweep of the floor and get out. The first room was empty, so was the first closet. A supply room looked ransacked but devoid of life, so he kept moving.
As he pushed against the next door, he felt resistance. He called out but didn’t receive an answer, so he pushed again with more force. As he slowly pried the door open, he saw a slumped figure. Given its height, he knew it was a Bader man, who must have collapsed as he tried to escape.
Finally inside the room, Van Zandt leaned close to the man’s face and felt a faint exhalation. A quick check indicated he was free from any medical devices and that nothing external seemed to be wrong. From the wrinkles around the man’s eyes and ears, the security officer figured he’d been hospitalized for geriatric problems. He then reminded himself there were nurses just outside who were more qualified than he to help. He managed to heft the man into the traditional firefighter’s carry and had taken a
step toward the door when a shuddering roar erupted. He lost his footing and fell to the ground, dropping the Bader patient. The sounds of utter destruction grew in volume as concrete and metal collapsed. Quickly he shoved the man under the bed and crawled in after him, getting most of his body under the bed just before the ceiling gave way and tons of equipment, medicines, beams, lighting fixtures, and other debris rained down in torrents.
Before the billowing dust obscured his vision, Van Zandt saw an arm swing by, and then he felt rubble strike the bed and the floor. For no reason at all he flashed on Weinstein and wondered if she would have fallen for McEwing’s sad joke. Then total darkness gripped him and he lost all feeling.
Picard threw himself over a metallic planter, landing behind it and waiting for the next volley. Sure enough, a hail of stones rained down around him, but none came close to hitting him. He risked looking over the top of the planter and saw that Carmona was standing up, hiding behind a tall, thick tree. They made eye contact, reassuring each other they were fine.
Since Picard had begun shuttling back and forth between the Council rooms, he had heard angry chants and shouts from people in the streets. They were blaming the Federation, Starfleet, the Council, and someone called Mordran for their lot in life. There were scuffles and occasionally rocks were tossed.
By this time, though, they had figured out Picard was making regular trips between portions of the building, and they were ready. No sooner had he exposed himself in the courtyard than rocks began flying over the low iron fence. The first struck his shoulder, and the captain dove for cover.
And now he felt stupid and angry, hiding from a rock-throwing crowd.
Carmona gestured to catch the captain’s attention and then made a show of using his phaser to cut down the mob. Picard gave the idea serious consideration, hoping it might scare them off. He was afraid it could just as easily incite them to further violence. Before he could make a decision, a phaser beam rang out, cutting down the first row of people. As expected, some scattered, but a few threw more rocks. A second beam cut down more people and created a gap in the center of the mob.
“Go home!”
Picard glanced over his shoulder and saw Christine Vale standing in the doorway. Her phaser remained aimed at the crowd, and her fearless stance made them hesitate. Carmona emerged from his hiding spot and took up a position at her right, his own weapon raised. Finally, Williams emerged and completed the triangle. People finally began to back away, drifting off in small clusters.
Now the captain was feeling a bit foolish, crouching on the grass. As he rose, Vale lost her composure for a second, and he was certain he saw a smirk.
“Excellent timing, Lieutenant,” he admitted.
The smirk vanished, replaced by her professional expression. “Came looking for you and then heard the ruckus. Didn’t hear an SOS, but figured you could use some help.”
“Yes, thank you,” Picard said, dusting off his pants. He tugged his jacket into place and walked over, an expectant look on his face.
“Came to check up on the situation,” Vale continued. “Make sure George here was right and he and Williams were all the help you needed.”
“I appreciate it. You left me in very good hands, but clearly getting from here to the next setup is becoming a problem. I would hate to waste more personnel just standing guard.”
“Might I suggest having yourself beamed from point to point? It’s the only way I can make sure my teams are in good shape.”
“It’s the most efficient way to traverse the globe,” Picard admitted. “But it seems a waste of energy to go from one end of the building to another.”
“What about a barricade, something to keep them out?”
Picard nodded in agreement. He looked at Carmona, who was a step behind his superior, keeping a watchful eye on the area. “Have the ship send down portable shielding and we’ll use that. This way we don’t waste more people.”
“Aye, sir,” Carmona responded. He stepped away, his hand already reaching for his badge.
“Now then, what is happening around the planet? I dislike feeling so isolated from my crew.”
“They’re tired, to be honest. Every team has seen some sort of action. We’re seeing damage to the infrastructure so Geordi’s people have been helping out.”
“Very good.” Picard paused. “Any more injuries?”
“Just before I arrived, I got word from Dr. Crusher that a hospital caught fire and caved in. We lost Van Zandt.” She stopped a moment. Picard’s brows knit with concern, both for the fallen officer and for the toll it was taking on Vale. “He was inside rescuing patients. Just finished…there were babies and they got them out…I’m sorry, Captain.” Vale paused and took several deep breaths.
Picard grimaced at the images Vale had evoked, but he gave her time to compose herself. After a few moments, she shook her head, letting her brown hair fall into place, and then met his gaze. “Thank you, sir,” was all she said.
He nodded in appreciation.
“Sir, any further sign of Commander Riker?”
“Not since his initial check-in,” the captain said.
She nodded. “I’m getting back to it, if you don’t need me.”
“I’d say I’m in very good hands, Lieutenant. You have a good man there.”
They both watched as Carmona silently set up the portable field generator, which neither had heard materialize.
“That he is, sir. So was Van Zandt. I’ll be in touch.”
“Do that.” And he meant it. He had been reminded all over again how much he valued his command staff—indeed, his entire crew—after all they’d endured together the last few months. Even when he had been relieved of duty and spent weeks away from them as Riker sought the truth from the demon ship, they had remained loyal and had proven once more how lucky he was to be their commander. Sometimes lessons needed to be relearned, but he was determined not to forget this one anytime soon.
As Vale vanished in a flicker of light, Picard removed the last bit of grass from his sleeve and headed once more for his initial destination, the Bader’s base of operations. As he opened the door, he could hear Carmona’s footsteps approaching. Feeling well protected, he entered the building.
Inside the Bader base Picard watched as Cholan of Huni, the man speaking for this delegation, gave out some instructions and waved away an aide carrying a steaming pot.
“Ah, Picard,” he said in a mild voice. Whatever strain he felt certainly did not show on his features. If anything, he seemed particularly pleased.
“Cholan, how go things here?”
“Well enough, I suppose. Got everything wired up, getting identical reports from the field offices. I’d say we’re ready to start handling the problem.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“First, we must protect the general populace. Your people have been most kind in helping us repair vital systems. They almost have the water on again in Testani.”
“That’s something. But how can you keep people from fighting?”
“Well, that’s a very good question. We don’t have an immediate answer.”
Picard saw that behind the confidence was uncertainty. It was all there in the man’s eyes. And he was too proud to ask for help. At least Renks had the sense to admit he was in over his head.
As Picard bit back a comment, Cholan said, “One thing we can do is lodge the appropriate diplomatic complaints with the Federation. Clearly, they were at fault for what has befallen this planet. They will need to send in more support until the problem is resolved.”
“You do realize that what you’re asking for is most likely weeks away from arriving. The postwar rebuilding efforts have taxed resources throughout the Federation. Humanitarian aid is possible, but be realistic. What will happen in the weeks between now and then?”
“Won’t you help keep the peace?”
“We can’t stay here indefinitely,” Picard said flatly.
“Your governm
ent is at fault, Picard—” Cholan began.
“It’s your government, too. Delta Sigma IV is a member of the Federation. I am tired of the Council’s pointing a finger at the very body it asked to join and is now trying to repudiate.”
“Trust me; our ambassador to the Federation Council is filing formal complaints concerning the medical malfeasance that has taken place.” Picard saw that Cholan was using bluster to hide his fear, and wanted to rid himself of the man’s company. Duty, however, demanded he stay.
“Accidents happen, Cholan. You’re starting to sound like one of the protesters, not a leader of this world.”
“Does that mean I cannot protest actions taken against this world? I don’t recall my office being denied that privilege.”
Picard grew concerned, wondering if the disease had finally found its way to the Council. Morrow had been here longer and would be able to tell if this was a natural tendency or a part of the problem. The last time he checked, Morrow had been upgraded to stable, but he was certainly not in any shape to come back to the surface.
“Of course you can protest. It’s a basic right. But, Cholan, as a leader of the people you need to set priorities. What is the Council doing now to help?”
The councillor fell silent at the question.
Colton Morrow finally opened his eyes, then immediately shut them. The pain was dull now, but it affected his entire torso. Then his mind began to spit out questions, and the only way to find answers to them was to open his eyes once more and face the situation head-on. During his time in the Diplomatic Corps, he had been spit on, slapped, and insulted any number of times. But this was the first time he had ever been physically assaulted, and he didn’t like it.
He reopened his eyes and slowly swiveled his head, taking in his surroundings. Sickbay, as he expected. The steady beep of the monitor over his head gave him reason to believe he wasn’t a critical case. He flexed his feet and felt no pain there. He tried to bend his knees and was rewarded with free movement. All right, then, it was his torso that had taken the brunt of the attack. Morrow recalled the mob in front of the Council building and Picard trying to shout them down. Morrow had made the mistake of ignoring Picard’s admonishment to stay inside and opened the door. Within moments he became the target, and now he was paying for it.
A Time to Hate Page 7