by J. Boyett
Carlson did tentatively mention the hopes she held out for the Weed of Wonder. She hesitated to do so, since they had none. When the Weed of Wonder had been confiscated from Dobbler, its properties had been uploaded into Sickbay's databanks, a process which had unfortunately necessitated destroying their only sample. (Carlson's pharmaco-medical tests had degraded it some, what with the chemicals and radiation she'd had to use; and Walsh's examination of its magical essence had required the sample to “burst itself open,” for lack of a better metaphor, and reveal its secrets. All they had left were some ashes and bits of twig, which was too bad because their tests couldn't be considered exhaustive and there were still lots of properties of the Weed they couldn't predict. It would have been nice to have had a bigger sample, but Dobbler had gone slightly hog-wild in terms of sharing and ingesting the little bit he'd smuggled aboard.)
“The Weed, huh?” said Farraday to himself, rubbing his jaw. “Maybe we'll wind up having to thank that Dobbler kid for something, after all.”
“But that's all speculation, Captain,” Carlson hastened to add. “It's only a hope, more than anything else. And Walsh and I would have to put our heads together just to figure out some way to even test the drug on the werewolf, without killing it.”
“'Her,'” corrected the captain. “Not 'it.' Please continue to refer to Lieutenant Summers by her proper name, rank, and gender, thank you.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Carlson and Walsh, in subdued tones, and fighting the urge to exchange a worried glance. Referring to a werewolf in its transformed state by the name of its host was probably not a good way to reconcile oneself to the truth of what it meant to be a werewolf. But from the cold anger that hearing Summers referred to as “the werewolf” had provoked in Farraday's voice, Carlson and Walsh knew that this was not the moment to dispute him.
There was an awkward silence. Captain Farraday clearly wanted to say something more. After a moment's wait, Witch Walsh cautiously prompted him: “Other than trying to come up with a safe tranquilizer, is there anything in particular we can do, Captain?”
Farraday cleared his throat. “Well, yes, actually. I know it's a tall order, and no one's on record as having ever done it before. But I'd like both of you to come up with some way to communicate with Jennifer Summers—with the human being who's trapped inside the werewolf. Even rudimentary psychic contact might be enough to affect her behavior, maybe in a decisive way. Witch Walsh, I imagine that'll be a job for you more than for Dr. Carlson, but I'd like you to both work on it.”
For a moment there was another silence. Then Walsh said, “Well, sure, Captain, we'll do our best. But, well....”
Carlson cut in: “Captain, that's not possible. The were-phenomenon is one we still don't understand well, but it does seem true that the host completely disappears during the transformation. As you know, the werewolf-manifestation shares no trace of genetic material with the host-manifestation.”
“Yeah, well, that's impossible,” snapped Farraday. “They share the same body.”
“Lots of things are impossible.” Dr. Carlson's tone was gentle and firm. “That's what we have magic for.”
“Betty's right, Captain,” said Witch Walsh, grimly and kindly. “No wizard, witch, or mage has ever been able to detect a soul within the were-body.”
Farraday was losing patience. He clasped his hands behind his back so no one would see them clenching and unclenching. “You've misunderstood me. I'm not asking your opinion on the nature of werewolves. I'm giving you an order—find a way to bring some of Jennifer's essence or mind or soul or whatever it is closer to the surface.”
Carlson and Walsh eyed the captain. Strictly speaking, their special status meant they could dispute orders. But in the end they only nodded, as if they'd made up their minds at the same moment, and Dr. Carlson said, “All right, Captain. We'll do what we can.”
Farraday switched tactics, from authoritarian to persuasive—he tried to, anyway. With a kind of exasperated pleading, he said, “If there was no trace of Jennifer left in the werewolf, then how did she knew how to work the elevator? How did she know that the Tubes would be the safest place to hide?”
“When she ducked into the elevator, the transformation wasn't yet complete,” Carlson pointed out. “It might not have been by the time she reached the Tubes, either. It'll be complete now, though.”
“Even if she was a hundred-percent werewolf,” said Walsh, “she may have somehow psychically sensed that the Tubes would be relatively safe. Animals tend to have more psychically intimate ties with their environments; we're still studying the way they work.”
Farraday blew out a burst of air, in disgust. “You know, magic's done a lot of wonderful things for us, but the problem with it is that people get used to things not making any sense.” He turned to walk out of Sickbay; but paused, something holding him back.
Without turning his body, he twisted his head to look at them over his shoulders. “Another thing,” he said. “If anyone should ask your opinion, you are not to tell them that you believe there to be no trace of Jennifer Summers in the werewolf. It'll only make it harder to convince people not to....” He trailed off.
“Aye, sir,” said Walsh. But Carlson said, “Sir, are you asking us to lie?,” ignoring the light kick Walsh aimed at her calf under the table to get her to shut up.
Farraday only shrugged. “I'm asking you to help me keep Lieutenant Summers alive,” he said simply. He took a step forward, prompting the doors to slide open; they closed behind him as he exited Sickbay.
There were no personnel in the corridor just then, so after briskly striding a few meters he stopped and stood there. He told himself that he was trying to think of his next move; but then the seconds ticked by, and he realized he was just standing there, with no ideas at all.
Behind him Farraday heard running steps, and a female voice calling “Captain!” As he turned around, Tracy Fiquet reached him. She stood there, looking up at him.
“Is something wrong, Ensign?” he asked. She was gasping for air, as if she'd run twice the length of the ship; her eyes darted back and forth as if making sure they were alone. “Did something happen in Sickbay?”
“No, sir, I just told Dr. Carlson and Witch Walsh that I had an errand to run.... Sir, can I talk to you sort of off the record?”
“Sure, Ensign. Go ahead.”
He waited. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, but then she chickened out and closed it again.
Farraday rolled his eyes. “There's a lot going on right now, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She gathered up her courage. “I kind of have something to confess, sir. About the, er, the lack of any remaining Weed of Wonder, sir....”
SIX
Blaine had tried to play it by the book. She'd tried sending in her top people to deal with the problem, while she waited somewhere safer, as befitted her station and importance to the ship. That lasted almost ten minutes, and then she contacted the captain to ask permission to go in herself.
He hadn't been particularly resistant; he understood it wasn't as if she could get updates and give instructions in real time, what with the hyperspace pockets and thaumaturgic fluctuations gumming up communications inside the Tubes. “Be safe,” he told her.
She refrained from once again pointing out that the only safe thing for them to do would be to flush the werewolf out by exposing the Tubes to vacuum. Saying so wouldn't have done any good, and besides, it wasn't as if she particularly relished the idea, either. Jennifer Summers was a fine officer, and the idea of sacrificing a member of the crew made Blaine nauseous.
But she certainly would have done it anyway, in the captain's place. Without hesitation.
She felt awfully exposed in the Tubes. Miller had brought in a huge chunk of his force, about thirty men and women—pretty much everyone he had. But they were fanned out through the Tubes, hunting the werewolf, leaving only five, plus Miller, to escort Blaine and her ten engineers as they tried to t
rack down the trail of destruction wrought by the overload the laser blast had triggered.
There were another ten good engineers she could have brought. But she'd left them behind, in case the werewolf killed everyone in the Tubes. That way there would still be people left to take care of the ship. And to repair the damage that Beach and the captain had managed to inflict.
Plastic wires criss-crossed around the Tubes now—she and Miller stepped over one as they progressed to a circuitry panel Blaine wanted to check out. If the werewolf tripped one of those wires they would know. But they still wouldn't know exactly where it was—and the Tubes were such a convoluted maze, laid out according to pre-rational, nigh-psychedelic patterns, that the werewolf could easily be roaming someplace where there were no wires yet.
Miller and Blaine were creeping along; everyone moved quietly, as they stalked the creature and the damage. Never mind that the werewolf's senses were so preternaturally sharp that it would hear the tiptoes on the bulkhead from meters away.
They had all six of the Galaxy's tech mages in the Tubes with them. Miller turned to the one he was escorting, Lieutenant Jan Horowitz, a pudgy pale blonde with nervous light-blue eyes. “Are you getting anything at all?” he demanded.
Horowitz hemmed and hawed a moment before saying, “Um, no, not really—between the hyperspace pockets and the thaumaturgical waves and I think a couple of spirit beings playing Chinese Whispers, it's hard to get a bead on anything....”
Miller turned away with a big sigh, heedless of whether he hurt her feelings. Tech mages got a lot of crap. The two disciplines they were supposed to bridge were in many ways mutually exclusive, which made their tasks almost impossible and meant they practically never accomplished anything. They walked around under the burdens of their quasi-schizophrenic worldview and the weight of a nearly unbroken chain of failure. Still, they were worth keeping around for the once-in-a-blue-moon occasions when they got something right.
Horowitz went to consult with one of her tech-mage colleagues, who had his own security escort. Miller and Blaine proceeded to a section of paneling Blaine wanted to check out—she had an idea that that might be where they'd find the burned-out circuitry.
Miller glanced over to make sure their subordinates were out of earshot, then murmured, “I wish you weren't here, Val. If we both get killed and something happens to the captain, who's going to be in charge of the other eighty-four people on this ship? Beach?”
Technically, Summers was still fourth in command. Obviously, she wasn't going to be taking over any duties while she was a werewolf, though; and if she changed back after having already killed her superiors, it would make it awkward for the crew to serve under her.
She murmured back, “You're one to talk. If anyone should go back, it's you.”
Miller only grunted, and dropped the issue. She knew he was afraid she really might order him out of immediate danger. Anyway, she should—he was right—if anything did happen to.... Wait a minute....
“Why should anything happen to Captain Farraday?” she demanded, her tone sharp but her volume just as low as before.
Miller shrugged. “The ship's helm is crippled and there's a werewolf loose. Anything could happen.”
Blaine relaxed again—as much as she could under the circumstances. “True,” she conceded. Still, something about the way he'd said it niggled at her.
She was applying her omnitool to the screws holding up the panel she was interested in, when they heard footsteps coming from the direction of the Deck Three entrance. Blaine turned and saw the young Ensign who'd been assigned courier duty approach, toting his net-gun—all the weaponry they could be allowed around this sensitive equipment. Something about the kid's expression made Blaine leave her eyes on him, instead of returning to the panel right away.
Whatever it was, Miller noticed it too. “What is it, Cooper?” he asked apprehensively.
“Sir,” said Cooper. “Chief DeMatteo sent me. She thought you might want to know that Captain Farraday's having Ensign Dobbler released from the brig. He's about to go meet him in Conference Room Five.”
All eyes were on Miller and Blaine, waiting to see how they would react. Blaine realized that she and Miller had not been very discreet about their worry that the captain was going to be too lenient with Dobbler.
“Why the hell is the captain seeing Dobbler now?” said Miller, to himself. “Is it about the Weed of Wonder?”
So great was Blaine's antipathy towards that little snot Dobbler, she was almost tempted to march down to Conference Room Five and make sure he wasn't getting away with everything scot-free. That would be insane, though. The priority was to get the damn helm back up and running. She turned back to the circuitry panel and went back to unscrewing it.
Apparently Miller agreed with her; “Well, I'm sure the captain knows what he's doing.” Blaine didn't hear even a hint of the sarcasm she was sure Miller would have liked to infuse the assurance with. Good—he'd better keep it that way.
But as she was setting the detached panel on the floor and getting ready to examine the circuitry, they heard the approach of another courier. Again, she paused in her work to see who it was and to hear the message. This new kid directed his attention to Blaine, and said, “Commander, Captain Farraday asks you to return to the bridge and assume command.”
She bit her tongue to keep from protesting in front of the kids. She had to hold herself still a moment to contain the frustration exploding inside, like a grenade going off inside an indestructible safe. Tracking this sort of damage through the Tubes was difficult, brain-busting work, even without the distraction of a werewolf prowling around, and it was vital that it be accomplished if the crew was ever going to leave this planetary system. Maybe the captain really did have something so urgent going on that it was worth calling her away, but she couldn't imagine what it might be.
She especially couldn't imagine what it might be if it involved that little punk Dobbler.
Orders were orders, though. She called Blackmon over and had her take over. She knew the ship very well, and was a good engineer.
Just not as good as her.
The courier accompanied her back out of the Tubes—once he tripped over one of the wires, and he and Blaine had to shout to the alarmed Security people around the bend, on both ends of the wire, that they weren't the werewolf.
Back out in the open on Deck Three, Blaine walked through the thick cordon of Miller's people, stationed there to contain the werewolf should it come out. Here away from the sensitive innards of the Tubes, the Security people were armed with much fiercer weapons. In fact, Blaine wondered if Miller had gotten clearance from Farraday for this kind of firepower. Maybe not, but Blaine decided not to bring it to Farraday's attention, and felt an immediate flush of angry shame for the decision.
Now that she was out of the Tubes, with its weird communications-stifling fields, she held her wrist communicator to her mouth and said, “Bridge.” The connection opened immediately, and a tinny voice said, “Bridge, Beach here.”
“This is Blaine. You in charge up there, Beach?”
“Yes, ma'am.” He sounded like he didn't much mind the fact, either.
“Well, keep it that way a while. I'm....” She stopped herself before she could say, going to see the captain. Maybe it would be better if she were a little vaguer about where she was going. So she said, “I'll be up there soon.”
“Aye-aye, ma'am.”
Blaine signed off and headed at a brisk pace to the lift, on her way to Conference Room Five.
SEVEN
Farraday had called ahead to have Ensign Dobbler transferred from the brig to Conference Room Five while he finished going over damage reports—after all, there was only so much that should be left to an officer as low on the totem pole as Lieutenant Beach.
The reason Farraday didn't just have Dobbler yanked when he was ready to see him was that he had an idea it would be good to let the kid stew a bit, let him sit in the conference room wonderi
ng what was in store for him. But he didn't have the patience to actually delay seeing him any longer than necessary. Moreover, Jennifer couldn't afford for him to waste time ... and neither could the ship.
Conference Room Five had a guard at the door, but Dobbler had been left alone inside, as Farraday had instructed. Before going in, Farraday did tap his clearance into the monitor beside the door, and spend a few seconds watching Dobbler. The kid was fidgeting, but not sweating—he looked relatively calm. Farraday remembered how Blaine had disliked Dobbler, how she'd seemed to think he was such a smart-ass. Rather than being a smart-ass, Farraday wondered if maybe he was just a person who wasn't automatically cowed by his superior officers.
Fine. Farraday didn't need to cow anybody. He held all the power here—the kid knew that, and if he could give what Farraday needed, he would.
Farraday clicked the control pad to slide the doors open, and walked into the room. The walls were dark gray, the table a shining black, and the space had an imposing air. Dobbler tried to hide his nervousness behind a poker face as he stood to attention. The security ensign started to step in after Farraday, but at the captain's gesture he reluctantly stepped back again and let the doors close on him.
Farraday waved the kid to sit down, and sat across the table from him—not next to him; he didn't want to seem too friendly, nor too intimidating. With someone like Dobbler, bullying might backfire. He flashed the kid that grin he'd used his whole life, the one that always inspired liking and affection, if not necessarily die-hard loyalty. Dobbler smiled back, genuinely, albeit uncertainly.
“Well, Ensign,” began Farraday. It was a struggle to find the right tone; he wanted to put the kid at his ease, but without giving the impression he was entirely off the hook. Drug-dealing aboard the ship was a big deal, after all. “How are you holding up in the brig?” he asked, as if Dobbler's status were something he sympathized with but could do nothing to change, like the death of a family member.