A Time to Hate

by Robert Greenberger

  “You’re awake,” a woman’s voice said. Looking up, he was greeted with a smile from one of the nurses, one he had not seen before. “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.”

  “We can fix that,” she said, still smiling, and handed him a sealed cup with a straw. He took several swallows, enjoying the coolness as it entered his body.

  The nurse checked the bio-bed’s readouts and made notes on a padd. Her expression remained neutral, so he couldn’t tell if his wounds were serious or not. He sipped some more and watched her saunter off.

  Moments later, Dr. Crusher was in his sight, also wearing a smile.

  “How do you feel, Ambassador?”

  “Colt, please,” he said. “Pretty sore, to be honest.”

  “No surprise. You got banged up pretty badly,” she said, reaching for a small stool and wheeling it over. Sitting, she looked at the padd and then at him. “What do you remember?”

  “The mob. Things being thrown. Falling.”

  “Right. You cracked three ribs, one in the fall. Your right kidney is badly bruised but will heal. You have some lacerations on your right shoulder as well. And I hate to say this, but that suit you wore is now good for rags.”

  He chuckled at that, wincing at the pain. “When can I get back to work?”

  “I’ve done all I can, and your body has to heal. It will be a few days before I can certify you fit.”

  “Do we have a few days? What’s going on?”

  She briefly filled him in on the current situation, and he nodded once. It was getting worse, and a few days might be too long. He also knew doctors, especially those in the field, and knew he was going to be confined to the ship. So he took a different tack.

  “Can I be transferred to my quarters and then be provided with an uplink to the captain? Maybe I can still help.”

  Crusher looked surprised and then thoughtful at the notion. She looked once more at the padd, glanced at the current readouts above his body, and then smiled. “I suppose something can be worked out. I’ll be in touch with Data and see what can be done.”

  Well, if that was the best he could hope for, he just hoped it was going to be good enough. He didn’t necessarily feel guilty about the problems besetting the planet’s inhabitants; after all, he had known nothing of the disease before it spread. He had had no knowledge of Kyle Riker’s involvement or the escalating problem. He did feel angry at not knowing the tactician’s deep involvement from the outset and regretted ignoring Picard’s direct order. Now he just wanted to make amends and do something positive to help.

  Morrow just prayed there was still time for Crusher to find a cure and for Picard to get the people to listen to reason.

  As Picard struggled with Cholan, Deanna Troi was in the other building, talking to an older woman, a Dorset named An Revell An. The two were in a corner of the bustling room and were trying to stay away from the din. And, Troi had to admit, avoid being seen.

  “What have you learned?”

  “Cainam has managed to hook their systems up with ours for real-time feeds from the world link,” she replied. Her voice was rough with age, cracking at times. Troi estimated her to be fifty, which meant old age for this short-lived race. She admired the woman’s dedication to duty and her refusal to hide in the safety of her home.

  “He also says the power grid has shorted out on Eowand, and the world link lines were shattered on the coast of Huni. Five of the larger islands are also offline. That’s only helping to spread the panic.”

  “I understand. What can be done?”

  “Cainam didn’t wait for directions; he’s already summoned help for Huni from the nearest island. They can use microwave relays until things are repaired.”

  “Well, then,” Troi said, “that doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “It’s not, really. But things are only going to get worse, aren’t they? And it’s coming here, too. I heard the fighting outside.”

  Deanna put a comforting hand on the smaller woman’s arm. “We’re doing what we can. Our doctor is very good, and so is your Dr. Wasdin and the others working on the problem. I expect this to be solved.”

  “But when?”

  “Now that’s a question I can’t answer. I can be here, and I can help if you need me.”

  Revell took some comfort in that, Deanna sensed. But it wasn’t nearly enough, and she was feeling time slip by. Things were getting worse. Cainam had told her earlier that the death toll was now in the thousands, and the number of injured at least four times that.

  Troi looked around the room and saw that each councillor was being attended to by assistants, a mix of Dorset and Bader, belying the notion that they would work better if the races were separated. The government never seemed to notice those that did the legwork and actually kept the government running. Off on the opposite side of the room, she watched as two aides entered and immediately began sharing information with their peers. And only afterward were the councillors informed. If she had to guess, she would suspect Revell was the longest tenured member of the government and therefore the best informed person on the planet.

  And somewhere out there, amid the growing chaos, Will was still alone. Or rather with his father, which might even be worse. Kyle Riker had made a strong impression on her the one time they spoke. He was a dominating, if not domineering, personality, and she could tell he was strong. She also detected the pain he still carried over his wife’s death from illness when Will was but two.

  Will rarely spoke to her of his mother, keeping much of his childhood to himself. She understood that, after all; Lwaxana had suppressed her memories of Deanna’s sister Kestra until Deanna was an adult. A sibling who died at age seven was a tragedy, but one she never knew about. It explained so much about the way her flamboyant mother acted as Deanna grew. It was a shame death had to overshadow the lives of the young, but there was no changing what had happened or who they were. For a moment, she flashed on her half brother, Barin, who was seven years old already. She hadn’t seen him in ages, since the last time she’d been to her homeworld, which was still recovering from Dominion control. Family certainly meant more to her than it did to Will, despite his deep pride in the Riker lineage. While she had never met Barin’s father, Jeyal, and had only met Odo—who had married Lwaxana so she could gain custody of the boy—a few times, Deanna was still close to her mother. Exasperating as she could be, there was never any doubt that Lwaxana loved her daughter fiercely and truly wanted what was best for her.

  Would she and Will ever marry? Would they have children? Their romance had started again three years ago, and she was beginning to wonder where they were heading. Just days ago, Will had said he hated unfinished business, and she gathered he meant more than his father. And if they married, then what? They never seemed to talk about the future, taking things a day and a mission at a time.

  Thinking about Will must have focused her senses. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her chest. She steadied herself against the wall with one hand and ignored concerned queries from Revell.

  Will had been hurt. She didn’t know where or how, but she sensed his pain. A part of her grew very cold and very tight.

  Chapter Four

  “SO, IF YOU CHECK the rate of cellular degradation, you can begin to see the effectiveness of the antibody,” Dr. Tropp said. Nurse Weinstein nodded as he continued to explain the particular treatment he was performing on Chief Tognetti, a Bandi.

  Crusher was working at a nearby station, looking over the results of an experiment. The computer analysis blinked to indicate it was complete and she awaited the results, too tired to build up much enthusiasm for the process. She needed to keep moving or she would give in to weariness. She also did not want Tropp to recognize her stress and nag her to rest.

  His voice droned on, so she knew he wasn’t paying much attention to her work. That was fine with her, because she was beginning to think this particular treatment was going to be failure number eleven. Sure enough, a red li
ght presaged the computer’s voice. “Test number eleven has failed.”

  “Something I can help with?” Tropp asked. He had completed his work on the crewman, and Weinstein was finishing up, singing to the Bandi as she worked.

  “Just another failure,” Crusher said irritably. He meant well, she knew, but there were times his attitude was grating, and now was one of them.

  “Let’s work through it,” he said encouragingly. “Maybe there’s something you missed.”

  “We know the liscom gas affected not only their blood and chromosomes, but also the brain chemistry…” she began.

  “How has it affected the serotonin levels?”

  “Good question. They have elevated levels of serotonin compared with baseline readings for both races.”

  Tropp studied the large screen’s readout over his colleague’s head and nodded. “Three times higher, at least, from this study.”

  “The elevated levels also seem to have worked with the liscom to alter the pineal hormones. Their version of melatonin has changed, and that accelerated not only their body clocks but their entire life cycle.”

  “Fascinating,” he said, studying a new readout. She had previously dispatched him to deal with the wounded, letting her concentrate on the liscom gas problem, so he was just now coming up to speed on her research. “So, these people have normally very low levels of serotonin and the liscom forced their bodies to produce higher amounts, effectively drugging them.”

  “Right. And I’ve been trying to find something to regulate the levels without harming the rest of their brain chemistry. It’s all very complex and still not entirely understood.”

  “Where would our quest for knowledge be if we had mastered everything, hmm?”

  She ignored that and reviewed the results of tests ten and eleven, looking to see what changes to make for the next round.

  “The uptake inhibitors seem to be withered,” he noted, pointing to a close-up of the Bader neurons.

  “I saw that, too,” she said. “That helps explain why the serotonin levels grew over time.”

  “May I see an image of the baseline Bader brain as well as the test subjects’?”

  Crusher hit several tabs on the panel, and the two requested images flashed side by side on-screen. Tropp murmured to himself as she studied the fluoxetines of the Bader brain. If she could decrease their production, she mused, it might lower the serotonin. It was all such delicate work, given the balances required for a healthy mind and body.

  Once more Crusher thought about performing such research back on Earth, with state-of-the-art equipment at her disposal and the cream of the crop of medical students to draw upon for support. And then, she thought about her morning breakfasts in Picard’s quarters.

  A shake of her head refocused her thoughts, and she was once again looking at receptors, inhibitors, and levels of neuropeptides.

  “The Dorset test subjects show below-normal amounts of serotonin,” Tropp offered.

  “I saw that once I knew where to look,” Crusher said. “In humans, it’s as likely to cause depression and suicidal thoughts, but for them, it seems to amplify their aggressive tendencies.”

  “So the liscom increased serotonin output, dampened the aggression, and also threw the melatonin levels off the charts, and now you’re trying to rebalance the brain,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  Crusher just nodded and began looking at ways to filter the liscom gas from the brain by using fluoxetines, a naturally produced chemical. She had abandoned that line of research after the fifth try but thought it might be worth another look.

  “Sulfur,” Tropp said out loud.

  Crusher looked at him in mild confusion. “What about it?”

  “The Bader and Dorset barely produce any,” he said. “If we can naturally stimulate its production, it would clog the receptors.”

  “And the serotonin levels wouldn’t spike, which in turn would leave the melatonin unaffected,” said Crusher in a rush.

  “The people would stop aging prematurely, but they would regain their normal levels of serotonin.”

  Crusher nodded in agreement. “But that would return them to their natural behavior, right?”

  She looked at Tropp, thankful for his insight. She now had new avenues to explore, but new problems to consider. “Don’t you see, if we leave them aggressive, the fighting below won’t stop. They’ll just live longer, with more opportunities to hurt their neighbors.”

  Tropp nodded slowly, the implications now settling in his mind. His posture changed, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

  “Let me work on this some more, and if we’re right, I’ll tell the captain we have something. Thank you, Tropp.”

  “I’ll be checking on the patients if you need me further,” he said, and left her alone. She was grateful, because she really didn’t like the direction her research was taking her.

  “The injector is cracked, sure enough,” La Forge said, looking at the scans Hoang had taken.

  She and the chief engineer were standing in a small workroom where repairs were made or new equipment fabricated. The scans were on a large screen with readouts on both sides giving almost microscopic details about the injector, which lay atop the table, and the damage.

  “I can try to patch it,” she offered.

  “If this is off kilter by so much as three microns, it won’t fire in sequence at the higher frequencies. We’d lose warp integrity around five-point-five,” he said.

  “Actually, I think it’s closer to five-point-nine,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Well, you’re the expert, so five-point-nine it is,” La Forge said. “Still, we need a replacement, and of course we have none. Starships don’t usually need to replace their injectors.”

  “Have you checked the inventories on your trading list?”

  La Forge shook his head and grabbed a padd from the tabletop. Quickly he thumbed it active and then scrolled through lists indexed by ship. He shook his head slowly as the lists floated by and Anh craned her neck to watch.

  “Sir, we just need pieces, not an entire injector. If we have even a spare bottom half, I can do the weld to within one micron.”

  “Have you done this kind of thing much?” he asked, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. He was feeling the stress of keeping the starship functioning while playing quartermaster to ships in the nearby sectors. It was heady work and he was taking pride in the wheeling and dealing, but now that his own ship was endangered, he grew angry at the situation. There was no one person at fault, unless he wanted to blame the Founders for starting the war that left the Federation still in rebuilding mode years after the war’s end.

  “I’m not even sure if we can find components. Let me think about this,” La Forge said, his voice drifting off.

  He walked out of the workshop, leaving Hoang to fuss with the damaged piece. He’d already informed Data of the problem and said he’d have a solution soon. Now he had to make good on that promise.

  He went to an alcove, pulled out the seat, and called up a companel. Seconds later, he was talking with his old friend, Whis, chief engineer on the Nautilus. Quickly, he sketched the problem and asked for suggestions.

  “That’s a tough one,” the Andorian said. “None of us have needed spare injectors before. What about replicating one until you get to a starbase?”

  “I’ve already run simulations, and a replicated injector couldn’t withstand the tolerances required at high warp. We’d be vulnerable if anything came up.”

  “And something always comes up with your ship, doesn’t it? Sounds like quite a mess beneath you.”

  “Haven’t been down there myself, but yeah, it’s gotten pretty complicated.”

  The other engineer seemed lost in thought and then looked up, his eyes intent. “The Bartlet just collected a lot of debris from where we lost the Lakota during the war. They wouldn’t have inventoried the materials the same way. If I remember it right, the secondary hull and at
least one nacelle were left intact.”

  “All I need is one,” Geordi said with a slow grin.

  “Give them a call. The engineer there is named Ranzz.”

  “I owe you one,” La Forge said.

  Minutes later, Ranzz, a blunt-featured Rigelian, was on-screen. La Forge briefly filled him in on the problem and his needs.

  “Heard about your project. Do you really trust a Ferengi to play courier with that much valuable property?”

  “He’s my best option, and I really think his desire for profit will keep him honest. For now, at least.”

  “I don’t trust them at all. Even with the new reforms. Just don’t see them changing fast at all.”

  “So far it’s working out, and I’ll trust him for the moment. Besides, if you have what I need, then he’s my only option.”

  “Turns out, we do have what you need. In sight, anyway. We left the nacelle alone, scavenged for other stuff we needed. Never thought we’d have to recover supplies from salvage like…”

  “Like a Ferengi, huh?”

  “Guess so. Anyway, I figure we’re about three hours away from the site. I can ask our captain if we can return and pick up what you need. Hell, I’ll grab up all seven from the nacelle, send you one and keep the rest since, well, you never know.”

  “That’s great! I’ll contact Dex and reroute him, making this a priority.”

  “Okay, so now that I’m helping save the mighty Enterprise, tell me, what really happened with Picard at Rashanar?”

  With a deep sigh, La Forge launched into another retelling of Picard’s confrontation with Starfleet Command, recognizing the need to get the word out.

  She had waited long enough.

  Troi approached Picard, who was once more speaking with Cholan. They were figuring out the best way to help put out a fire in a remote village. He seemed tense and agitated, clearly in need of rest but refusing to allow himself the luxury.