Star Trek: Enterprise - Surak's Soul

by J. M. Dillard

  Once the doctor had left, she turned to the entity beside her. The dimmer lighting brought out Wanderer’s internal radiance, so that its blue-green glow assisted in illuminating their surroundings. Aesthetically, it was quite pleasing, and reminded T’Pol of the natural phosphorescence of certain of Earth’s sea creatures.

  “Wanderer,” she asked, aware that she was speaking aloud to a creature that could sense her thoughts, and yet finding it quite natural to do so, [84] “would you be interested in taking a tour of the ship, and perhaps examining some of our databases?”

  Yes ...

  She moved to the companel. “T’Pol to bridge.”

  “Archer here. You’re lucky you caught me, Sub-Commander. I’m headed off duty.”

  “Sir, I would like to take Wanderer on a tour of ship, with your permission.”

  “Of course.” Archer himself sounded both tired and frustrated, and was doing little to mask either. “So long as you promise to leave the captain’s quarters for another time.”

  “So noted. T’Pol out.”

  T’Pol began the tour in sickbay, of course, showing off Phlox’s exotic collection of biological creatures used for different diagnostic and medical procedures. Wanderer absorbed most of this in silence; the Vulcan could not tell whether it was bored or fascinated by her explanations. Next, they passed by the research lab where Hoshi—now off duty—had been working.

  “This is where we’re analyzing the medical logs and data that we recovered from the Oani,” T’Pol explained.

  Wanderer had but one question: Are you making progress?

  “So far, no. Apparently, they were quite unaware that they were killed by a form of [85] radiation. Of course, Ensign Sato has not yet finished examining all of the logs.”

  The tour also included an examination of the main dining room, along with the food replicators; curious, T’Pol asked Wanderer whether it was self-sustaining.

  A long pause followed. Negative, it replied at last. We feed on more primitive forms of energy, as you do.

  “You seem to know quite a bit about humanoids.”

  We have encountered many in our travels.

  T’Pol hesitated, then finally asked the question that had persisted in her thoughts throughout the conversation. “If you are somewhat familiar with humanoids, then why can you not use your superior intellect to learn their morphology and physiology? I submit that it might be far easier for you to come up with a cure for the radiation sickness than it would be for us.”

  You are assuming such a cure exists. Unfortunately, it does not. At least, I am unaware of a method by which humanoids can be completely regenerated, unless you wish to resort to cloning an entirely new body. But that will not save the original. ...

  “Cloning is purposeless in this instance,” T’Pol said. “I regret that nothing can be done.”

  Wanderer made no reply.

  At the entry to engineering, Wanderer stopped [86] and would go no farther. I cannot enter—to do so would disrupt my field.

  “Very well,” T’Pol replied. “Would you like to examine our computer databases? They can give you excellent information on Earth and human culture.”

  Do the computer databases give information on you?

  T’Pol found the question perplexing. “Yes. And I can answer any questions you might have.”

  You are different from the others on this ship.

  “Most of them, with the exception of Doctor Phlox, are human. He is Denobulan. I am a Vulcan.”

  Why are you with the others? You have a superior intellect, and more ordered thoughts. The others have no mental discipline.

  T’Pol reflected that Captain Archer’s absence was fortunate; he would find Wanderer’s opinions about human beings most irritating.

  “Control of the mind and the emotions are prized on my home planet, Vulcan. We practice such control because we were originally a very violent, ill-tempered species.”

  What made your species change so dramatically?

  The memory of the white-haired teacher Sklar surfaced in T’Pol’s thoughts, and the day he had posed a question she had not been ready to answer. “We were profoundly influenced by one of [87] our own, a philosopher named Surak. He taught nonviolence toward all beings. For that reason, I do not, as some of the humans do, eat animals. In fact, I recently chose not to wear a weapon to protect myself against more violent species.”

  Wanderers form turned a paler shade of blue and enlarged as its energy pattern began to swirl more rapidly; T’Pol wondered whether this was some sort of emotional reaction.

  Excellent! Perhaps this is why we found it possible to converse with you. Our culture is much the same: we prize peace above all, and feed only off nonsentient energy sources. We judge violence to be the mark of lower beings. The sudden flow of words stopped abruptly as the entity paused in its communication; then it asked pointedly: May we use the ship’s database to study Vulcan culture?

  “To some extent,” T’Pol said. “This is a human, not a Vulcan vessel, and as such, it does not have access to the same amount of information about Vulcan culture.”

  Had Wanderer been human, she would have judged it to be disappointed. Its sudden surge of brightness dimmed a bit before it replied, Very well. Then we shall study what information about your culture this ship does have. It paused. However, you have not answered my original question: Why have you chosen to be amongst such inferior beings?

  [88] With something very like ruefulness, T’Pol once again reflected that Captain Archers absence from the tour was fortunate. She answered in the only manner she felt Wanderer would understand.

  “I wish—as you do—to observe them.”

  While T’Pol was leaving Wanderer to its own devices in front of a computer terminal, Archer sat on his bed, legs stretched out, with Porthos in his lap. He had arrived in his quarters to find the beagle completely unsettled about something and insistent on human contact to the point of ignoring his dinner. Now the dog lay sprawled on his back, haunches against Archers stomach, belly exposed, pink ear flaps spread open, reminding Archer of a bat. As usual, Porthos was overdue for a bath, a situation that usually made the captain (and others) complain about the smell; but today, at least, Archer secretly found eau de dog comforting. It smelled like Earth, and home.

  What he did not permit himself to think overtly was that, being the small creature that he was, Porthos would probably be first to react to any major dose of radiation.

  “What is it, huh, boy?” Archer murmured, scratching Porthos’s stomach. One of the dog’s lower legs thumped in ecstatic reply against Archer’s midsection; he leaned his head back, [89] causing his jowls to fall away from the gums, exposing sharp teeth. “What’s the matter?”

  “He just knows you’re upset, that’s what’s wrong,” Trip Tucker said. He sat in the chair next to the cot, sipping from a shot glass of bourbon, neat.

  “Maybe now,” Archer said. “He was jittery when I came in. And this dog takes after me. It takes a lot for him to turn his nose up at dinner.”

  “You weren’t exactly a member of the clean-plate club yourself. Sure you don’t want a drink?” Trip said, proffering his glass.

  “Nah.” Archer leaned forward to scratch the pits at the top of Porthos’s front legs; the beagle stretched his legs straight upward in appreciation. What Archer wanted, and left unsaid, was to remain alert in case any of his people fell ill.

  Trip, as usual, read his mind. “You know, if anybody starts getting sick, there’s not a damned thing you or I can do about it, Cap’n.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.” Archer graced him with a small, bitter smile.

  Trip shrugged; his tone held no sympathy. “What could any of us do about it? Those people down on that planet couldn’t save themselves, and it sounds to me like they were using some pretty whiz-bang technology.”

  “Yeah, but what about our resident radiation-expert guest? It seems that Wanderer ought to be [90] able to help somehow. That ‘he
’—it—whatever—knows something it’s not telling.”

  “It was able to warn us,” Trip countered. “For all we know, it saved us in time. If it hadn’t told us—”

  “You’re right,” Archer admitted. “I just wish—”

  “You just wish you could be the perfect captain. Not only protect your crew from harm, but restore those poor dead people to life.”

  “Exactly,” Archer admitted, with a wry grimace that was not quite a grin.

  Trip gave a knowing nod. “And I wish I could tell you it was gonna be okay—but we just aren’t gonna know that for a while.”

  Archer sighed and opened his mouth to retort, Could you tell me something just a little less obvious, when his door buzzed. He scowled faintly. “Now, who would be up at this hour?”

  Trip looked at him, and they both said simultaneously, “T’Pol.”

  “Come,” Archer said.

  The door slid open. To his surprise, Phlox appeared, his normally ruddy flesh pale, all animation fled from his expression. For an instant, he lingered in the doorway, leaning heavily to one side before he sank to his knees.

  Archer leaped off the bed without consideration for the dog, who had to scramble out of his way. In an instant, the captain was at Phlox’s side, with Trip close behind.

  [91] “Captain,” Phlox whispered, though the desperation behind the sound made it seem as though he had screamed. As he uttered the word, he shuddered, eyes rolling back in their sockets. “Captain ...”

  Archer barely caught him in time as he pitched face-first toward the deck.

  Five

  Captain’s Starlog, supplemental. Doctor Phlox has fallen ill, apparently with the same illness that afflicted the inhabitants of Oan. Now Enterprise faces a possible plague without the help of her chief medical officer.

  IN THE NIGHT-DIMMED lights of sickbay, Archer stood across from Ensign Cutler while the two of them looked down at the unconscious form of Dr. Phlox. The Denobulan’s skin was sunken and sallow; Archer glanced up at the diagnostic readout displayed over Phlox’s head and tried to make sense of it.

  Nearby, both T’Pol and Wanderer lingered—not, Archer thought grimly, that either of them [93] would be able to help. But just in case, he had summoned them both to sickbay.

  “Are you sure that he’s suffering from the same disorder that afflicted the Oanis?” Archer asked Cutler.

  She let go a sigh. Cutler was young, a bit wide-eyed, with hair that swung easily about her face in a golden-brown arc. She was still unsure of her space legs and most definitely not a doctor. Even as a medic, her experience was limited; but at the time Enterprise was launched, it had never occurred to Archer that he might need more than one doctor to tend to the needs of a sixty-person crew. Nor had it occurred to any of the brass who approved Enterprise’s launch.

  Now the captain could only wonder how they had made such a glaring oversight.

  While Cutler struggled valiantly to maintain a professional exterior, Archer knew that the situation was particularly difficult for her: she was closer to Phlox than anyone else on board. A trace of emotion flickered in her brown eyes, but was gone by the time she gazed up at Archer. “It appears so, sir—if only because of the fact that he shows no symptoms other than a gradual ebbing of life functions.”

  “What can you do for him?” Archer asked.

  For an instant, she looked away and down; she did not want to let the captain down by saying [94] Nothing, Archer understood. Instead, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze again, squarely. “We can help most of his vital organs to keep functioning, sir. So long as there’s brain activity ...”

  Total life-support, in other words. “Have you tried standard radiation treatment for Denobulans?”

  “No, sir.” Cutler brightened a bit. “I’ll give that a try.”

  Archer nodded, knowing full well it would probably do no good; but at least it would allow them some temporary hope. “And go ahead and administer the standard treatment to the rest of the crew. It might help and it certainly can’t hurt.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cutler said.

  “It’ll be quite a task,” Archer said. “I’ll reassign some crew members to help you.”

  “Thank you.” Cutler paused. “Then let’s start right away with you, sir.”

  Archer waved a hand dismissively, and moved his shoulders slightly in the direction of the doorway. “I’m a little busy right now, Ensign. I think it’s important that the rest of the crew—”

  “Sir.” Cutler drew herself up, and assumed a more commanding air. “This puts me in the position of chief medical officer. And as such, I must point out to you that, unfortunately, the landing party is at highest risk of coming down with [95] radiation sickness. The construction of the ship offers us some protection, sir—but you were down on the planets surface.”

  “She’s quite right,” T’Pol offered; Archer shot her an irritated glance. She lifted her eyebrows in mild surprise and added, “We were exposed more than the others, Captain. Therefore, assuming we were exposed sufficiently, we will come down with the malady before the others.” She paused a beat. “Denobulans are more susceptible to radiation sickness than humans. It’s logical that Doctor Phlox would succumb first.”

  “Fine.” Archer gestured the Vulcan toward Cutler and the diagnostic equipment. “Then I’ll order you to go first.”

  “Vulcans are more resistant to radiation poisoning than humans,” T’Pol countered.

  Cutler was nodding. “No more arguments, Captain. I’ll need you for no more than a minute—”

  She reached for a medical scanner, waved it over Archer, then went to a different corner and began preparing an injection.

  The captain sighed and rolled up his sleeve, but turned to T’Pol. “You next,” he said. “While you’re waiting, contact Hoshi and Reed, and get them in here ASAP.”

  Blessedly, T’Pol did not ask for a translation of the acronym, but instead went directly to the companel to comply.

  And as Archer felt the cold metal of the hypo [96] Cutler pressed against his skin, he thought, For all the good it will do any of us. ...

  Hoshi was dreaming in Oani.

  She often dreamed in other languages; and this night, as on many others, she spoke with perfect fluency, and understood with ease.

  She was sitting in the hospital waiting room, where the landing party had witnessed dozens of Oanis sitting patiently in death; but in the dream, the room was entirely empty, save for herself, and Uroqa, and Kano.

  They sat beside her in the nacreous mother-of-pearl waiting room, all of them seated cross-legged on the cushioned floor. Both Uroqa and Kano were well, and smiling benevolently at her; as she spoke to them, she gazed from time to time at the wall directly across from them—entirely transparent, revealing a sparkling shore and the ocean, blue-green, with gently rolling waves.

  You must not worry about us any more, Uroqa said in his distinctive baritone. We are safe now. We are happy.

  Kano leaned forward to take his hand—twelve fingers intertwined—and nodded. Her voice was soft, but huskier than Hoshi imagined it might be.

  Yes. We are happy. But we are very worried about you.

  About me? Hoshi shook her head in surprise. But I’m not the one who’s dead.

  [97] Do you see that? Uroqa asked suddenly, and inclined his broad bronze head toward the transparent wall.

  Hoshi followed his gaze. Outside, the glistening white sand had disappeared; the tide had come in, and the water was now beating against the glass at ankle length.

  It’s only going to keep growing, Kano said calmly, until it swallows us all.

  The words filled Hoshi with inexplicable dread. She stared at the slowly rising water a time, then back at Kano, delicate and small-framed beside her broad, muscular mate.

  What do you mean? Hoshi demanded.

  But Kano would not speak again; and Uroqa merely inclined his head again at the glass.

  The water rose, and the waves grew, la
rger and larger, pulling away from the wall with greater and greater force, and then smashing against the glass until Hoshi could see nothing else ... until at last, they broke through, crashing, sweeping Hoshi and the Oanis up in a tide that pulled incessantly, smothering her, stealing her breath. She screamed, but no sound came. ...

  Except for the beep of the companel next to her bunk. She sat bolt upright, struggling to orient herself again to reality and the darkness. She found the blinking light, hit the control, and said—doing her best to keep from gasping—“Sato here.”

  [98] “Ensign.” T’Pol’s cool, measured tone was a tonic, making Hoshi instantly alert. “Report to sickbay immediately. T’Pol out.”

  Hoshi turned on the light and struggled into her uniform, her mind focused on the image of rising waters.

  Archer stood waiting in sickbay, keenly aware of the backdrop behind him: that of Ensign Cutler tending Dr. Phlox, unconscious on the diagnostic bed. He also realized how grim his own expression had to have looked—and when Malcolm Reed, and then Hoshi, stepped through the entrance to sickbay within seconds of each other, Archer watched them react.

  Reed immediately did a double take at the sight of Phlox down, then grew stone-faced, and stood stiffly at attention; Hoshi simply let her concern show.

  For a moment, no one spoke; no one really needed to, Archer realized, but he said what his crewmates already knew.

  “Doctor Phlox is in a coma,” Archer said. “He’s showing the same signs as the Oanis did—slowed pulse and respiration, gradual failure of internal organs. We have to assume it’s the radiation Wanderer warned us about.” He found himself in the awkward position of suddenly having to clear his throat. “I’ve ordered standard radiation treatment for everyone in the crew. The landing party first; [99] because we went down to the planet’s surface, we were the most exposed.”