by Greg Cox
McCoy smirked. “Thinking of trying it yourself, Spock?”
“Negative, Doctor. I am Vulcan. Thin air does not trouble me. I merely seek a sample of the contraband product for forensic purposes. It may aid me in my investigation on Yurnos.”
“A perfectly logical request, Mister Spock, as one might expect.” Kirk looked to Poho. “Well, Mayor. Do you think this can be arranged?”
“I suppose so,” she said. “Cracking down on nabbia use is hardly a priority, but we do occasionally confiscate some bootleg tea in the course of maintaining law and order. It’s an additional charge we can throw at some rowdy who was raising hell anyway.” She shrugged. “I’ll have a small quantity beamed up to you.”
“Thank you, Mayor,” Spock said. “That would be most helpful.”
“Least I can do.”
He rose from the table and exited the conference room, leaving Kirk and McCoy alone with the mayor. Her body language unclenched somewhat.
“Well, I guess two crewmen and a shuttle won’t make that much difference in terms of the big picture,” she conceded. “But I hope this business on Yurnos won’t end up being too much of a distraction from your actual mission here.”
Her blasé attitude toward trade with the Yurnians still troubled Kirk, but he reminded himself that she was simply prioritizing the needs of her people, which was her job, after all. She was responsible for the safety and welfare of Jackpot City, so perhaps she could be forgiven for having tunnel vision in that regard. He knew what it was like to have large numbers of people depending on you.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “The Enterprise is not going anywhere as long as we can make a difference here.”
“Don’t let Boyd Cahill hear you say that,” she joked. “He’ll have a fit.”
Kirk chuckled, but the laugh hid deeper concerns. Despite his confident words just now, he was concerned about spreading his crew too thin. Spock and Chekov were setting off for Yurnos, Sulu was still back at S-8, and he’d barely begun to tackle the problems down on Baldur III.
Was he juggling too many balls with too few hands?
Seven
Baldur III
“Get me some more plasma substitute!” McCoy barked. “On the double!”
A local nurse threw up his hands. “We’re all out of the right type, Doctor.”
“Damn it.” McCoy stepped away from the operating table where he had just finished reattaching an arm that had been all but severed during some sort of grisly mining accident. The surgical support frame mounted over the bed hummed as it generated a sterile field; it was an older model that McCoy hadn’t seen in years, but seemed to be holding up for the time being, thank goodness. The operation was a success in that the victim—an underage Bolian—was likely to keep her arm, but she had lost a lot of blood while being rushed to Jackpot City from a mining camp in the mountains. McCoy put a protoplaser down on a cluttered counter and flipped open his communicator. A dedicated channel, previously set up by Uhura, immediately connected him to sickbay and Nurse Christine Chapel.
“That’s right,” he told her. “I need you to beam down more artificial plasma, type H-slash-three. Get me at least forty liters, even if you have to break into our emergency reserves . . . again.”
“Message received, Doctor,” Chapel replied. “I’ll see to it immediately.”
“Good. At this rate, I may need you to set up an old-fashioned blood drive on the Enterprise to replenish our stores.”
“Whatever you need, Doctor. Are you sure you can’t use me down on the planet?”
“Could I ever,” McCoy replied, “but with M’Benga off with Sulu and his troops, I need you minding the store in sickbay.”
“You can count on me, Doctor.”
“Never doubted it for a moment. McCoy out.”
He put away the communicator and turned to the waiting nurse, whose name was Sinclair.
“More plasma should be arriving at the beam-down site shortly. Make sure this woman gets at least a pint as soon as possible.” The surgical frame monitored the patient’s blood pressure and circulation, but McCoy checked her pulse the old-fashioned way just because. It was weaker than he would have liked, but steady enough that he judged that she could go a little while longer without a fresh infusion of sera. He took out a hypospray and administered nine cc’s of benjisidrine to stabilize her in the meantime, noting with concern that even his personal medkit was running low and needed to be restocked.
“That’s that . . . for now.”
He turned off the surgical frame to save power, as well as to extend the outmoded mechanism’s life-span, then wiped his brow with a swab. He had been on his feet for longer than he wanted to think about, volunteering at the town’s only medical facility, and he was starting to feel short of breath to boot. He was overdue for a tri-ox injection, but felt obliged to try to ration the valuable compound, especially after hearing about how relatively difficult it was to come by on Baldur III. Leaning against the nearest convenient wall, he wearily contemplated his surroundings.
Jackpot City’s “hospital” scarcely warranted the name, being more of a clinic, in reality. It was only slightly larger than McCoy’s sickbay back on the Enterprise and nowhere near as well equipped or supplied. In some wards, cots and even mattresses on the floor supplemented a newly inadequate supply of beds. Temporary structures erected behind the modest brick building served as both a triage center and spillover areas. McCoy had barely begun his inspection of the facilities, hours ago, when a collapsed mine had flooded the hospital with a slew of new patients, urgently requiring varying degrees of care. McCoy had rolled up his sleeves to help deal with the crisis and hadn’t stopped working since.
“Who’s next?” he asked Sinclair.
“I think we’re caught up for the moment, Doctor.”
“Thank heavens for that. And Doctor Burstein?” McCoy asked, referring to the town’s regular physician.
“Doing his rounds, I believe. Shall I page him?”
“No bother. I can find him on my own. Just keep an eye out for those fresh supplies from the Enterprise.”
Sinclair nodded. “Will do.”
McCoy departed the surgical ward, hoping to finally get a chance to discuss the colony’s medical situation with Burstein before another emergency demanded his services. Given the modest size of the clinic, McCoy quickly located Burstein in the main recovery ward, which was filled beyond capacity. Wayne Burstein was making his way from bed to bed, checking on his patients. He looked up at McCoy’s approach.
“Doctor McCoy,” Burstein greeted him. The boyish young physician looked as though he was fresh out of med school, making McCoy feel even older than he actually was. A mop of unruly black hair and a bad case of five-o’clock shadow hinted at a long shift, with little time for personal grooming. Burstein’s smooth, youthful features betrayed signs of fatigue as he paused in his rounds. “How did that last surgery go?”
“Well enough,” McCoy said. “We saved the arm, barring any unexpected complications.” He held out an open hand. “Barely had a chance to introduce myself before they started carting in the broken bodies.”
“Good thing you were on hand.” Burstein tucked a data slate under his arm before shaking McCoy’s hand. “I really appreciate you pitching in. That was a zoo even by recent standards, although I wish I could say it was all that unusual.”
“You get a lot of accidents these days?”
“More than I’d like,” Burstein said. “Problem is, pergium mining is new to these parts, so you’ve got a lot of eager would-be miners who don’t really know what they’re doing, and the same applies to many of the newcomers flocking to Baldur III in hopes of striking it rich. They’re learning on the job, taking shortcuts, rushing things, which is a perfect recipe for accidents and injuries. Throw in overwork, dehydration, poor living conditions, and new and exotic germs from all over the quadrant, and the recipe just gets more toxic. You’ve got to understand, this wasn’t a mining
planet before a few months ago. When I was growing up here, the major industries were logging and homesteading.” He cocked his head toward a bandaged patient lying in a bed. “Cecil here was the town barber before he took it into his head to go digging for pergium.”
“So?” the patient replied. “I’m supposed to keep sweeping up hair clippings while other folks are out there making a fortune?” He shook his head, then winced at the motion. “Not a chance, sonny. Soon as I’m back on my feet, I’m heading back out to my claim.”
“How about you just take it easy for now?” Burstein said. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Says the kid I gave his first haircut,” Cecil said. “And who could use a trim and a shave, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Whose fault is that?” Burstein turned to McCoy. “See what I mean?”
McCoy nodded. He knew all about stubborn patients. He’d treated James T. Kirk.
“So you’re from around here, I take it?”
“Born and raised,” Burstein said. “Left to study medicine on Earth, with a residency on Mars, before coming home just in time for the ‘gold rush’ to turn everything upside down. So much for my plans to become a simple colony doctor.” He shook his head. “There was a brief time when I knew all my patients’ names by heart, but with new people arriving every day, it’s a struggle just to keep track of what planets they’re all from.”
“How are you coping?” McCoy asked.
“Not going to lie.” Burstein continued on his rounds while McCoy tagged along. “It hasn’t been easy. Besides the increased workload, a more diverse population means we need a wider variety of resources when it comes to treating everyone from Aurelians to Zellorites.”
An injured Hydrathi recovering on the next bed, receiving a transfusion of eggplant-colored fluids, demonstrated his point. As McCoy well knew, the Hydratha were severely allergic to several standard medications and so required versions specifically tailored to their body chemistries. He couldn’t imagine that Baldur III had required much in the way of species-specific pharmaceuticals prior to recently.
“Any chance of expanding your facilities,” McCoy asked, “what with the booming economy and all?”
“Eventually.” Burstein paused to compare the Hydrathi’s vitals to the data recorded on his slate. “I’ve put out feelers to various medical associations and academies in hopes of attracting qualified professionals to Baldur III, which may pay off in time, but at the moment we’re in an awkward, if not positively dangerous, period of transition. The population is burgeoning, but the infrastructure to support it isn’t there yet, since the vast majority of the new arrivals are prospectors, not doctors or nurses. Heck, I’ve even lost a couple of my own orderlies to the mines.”
They moved on to another patient, who occupied a cot squeezed in between two genuine biobeds. Pillows propped her up into a seated position as she sipped on a mug of some steaming beverage. Burstein consulted his slate as he briefed McCoy on the particulars of her case.
“Did I mention that our thin atmosphere doesn’t help when it comes to treating our newest residents? Take Yelsa here. She fainted while working her claim the other day, nearly fell off a ravine up in the hills outside the city. I’m holding her overnight for observation until I’m confident that she won’t collapse again.” Since her cot lacked a proper diagnostic monitor, Burstein scanned her with a medical tricorder instead and downloaded the results to his slate. “How you feeling, Yelsa?”
“Much better, Doctor,” she wheezed. A pronounced Meraki accent indicated that she was indeed new to the planet. She gripped the mug with both hands. “This tea you prescribed is really helping. I’m not feeling nearly so light-headed anymore.”
Tea? McCoy arched an eyebrow.
“Glad to hear it,” Burstein said. “You drink every drop, and I’ll be back to check on you later if I can.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
McCoy held his tongue until they were safely out of earshot of Yelsa and the other patients. He kept his voice low. “About that tea . . .”
“Yes, McCoy, it’s nabbia.” Burstein lifted his gaze from his slate. “I know what you’re thinking, but before you judge me, consider the circumstances. This isn’t Earth or Alpha Centauri. Tri-ox compounds and other such palliatives are in short supply and need to be shipped in from the other side of the Maelstrom. In the meantime, I’ve got more and more patients like Yelsa in need of relief, which the tea provides.” He looked McCoy in the eyes. “I ask you, Doctor, what would you do?”
McCoy didn’t have a good answer for that.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But you do know where the nabbia comes from, right, and what’s at stake there?”
“Of course, and I choose to look the other way for the sake of my patients.” Burstein faced McCoy unapologetically. “The question is, McCoy, are you willing to do the same, now that you’ve had a chance to see what I’m dealing with?”
McCoy had to think about that. In the long term, of course, the Yurnians needed to be allowed to make their own future, without risk of outside influences or contamination, which meant shutting down the black-market trade in nabbia, but he could hardly blame Burstein for treating his patients to the best of his abilities, using whatever limited resources were available to him. McCoy had heard Yelsa’s lungs whistle when she spoke; if the bootleg tea made it easier for her to breathe, and there were no better options available, why let her suffer as a matter of principle?
“I’m not judging you,” McCoy said. “Hell, if I was in your place, I might quietly prescribe a little tea myself. I’m not going to report you, if that’s what you’re worried about, or insist you turn over whatever secret store of nabbia you’ve got stashed away. That tea’s already been smuggled over from Yurnos, so you might as well put it to good use. But you should know that the tea trade’s days are numbered, at least if my captain has anything to say about it, so you probably shouldn’t plan on—”
The lights dimmed overhead, distracting McCoy. Patients and orderlies blurted out exclamations. Diagnostic monitors reset themselves. Burstein swore under his breath before muttering in annoyance.
“Not again.” He glared at the lights as though trying to power them up through sheer force of will. “As if we don’t already have enough tsuris to cope with . . .”
McCoy was disturbed to see that the periodic brownouts extended to the hospital as well. Suppose the clinic had lost power entirely while he was reattaching that one patient’s arm? In theory, the surgical support frame could run on battery power as a backup, but considering how old and outdated that particular unit was, McCoy had to wonder just how well its batteries were holding up. He guessed that the hospital’s backup generators, if they had any, were also probably insufficient to the increasing demands on them.
Everything on this planet seems to be running on fumes, he thought. Including its healers.
The lights returned to full strength, but some worrisome flickers mitigated McCoy’s relief. He regarded the lights with a certain lack of confidence. For all he knew, the next brownout could be only minutes away.
“That’s better,” Burstein said, “until the next outage. A planet full of pergium, and we can’t even keep the lights on with any reliability.” He looked at McCoy. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare power plant tucked away in your medkit?”
“No,” McCoy said. “But for what it’s worth, I’ve got an associate looking into the problem . . . and he’s something of a miracle worker.”
* * *
“I’m telling ye, Captain, we need to shut this down.”
Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott was not happy, as evidenced by the way his Aberdeen accent grew more pronounced as he addressed Kirk and Mayor Poho at Jackpot City’s new power plant, which just happened to be a mothballed starship that had been repurposed to provide energy to the rapidly expanding boomtown. Scott had urgently requested the meeting in the grounded ship’s old engine room, where a bare-bones matter-antimatter as
sembly was now yoked to the city’s laboring EPS relays. A crew of local technicians operated the control consoles while the reactor itself could be seen through a clear EM shield grating. The assembly chugged in the background, a bit more roughly than the comforting hum of the Enterprise’s own engineering room. It was less of a purr than a gargle.
“Shut it down?” Kirk didn’t like the sound of that and, judging from her expression, neither did the mayor. He felt another headache coming on, both figuratively and literally, despite the fact that the ship’s old life-support system provided more Earthlike air quality than was found elsewhere on Baldur III. “Explain yourself, Mister Scott.”
“Honestly, Captain, I hardly know where to begin. This entire jury-rigged setup breaks practically every reasonable safety precaution I know of, not to mention most principles of sound engineering.” He looked regretfully at Poho, acknowledging her presence. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Mayor.”
“Go ahead, Mister Scott.” Poho crossed her arms atop her chest. “Speak your mind.”
She and Kirk had beamed down directly from the Enterprise, where they had been coordinating their joint efforts to manage the unprecedented rush on the planet, but Kirk was aware that the converted vessel occupied a park near the center of the city, not far from Town Hall, actually. He remembered noticing it on maps and schematics of the evolving community. According to Poho, it commemorated the colonists’ original landing site and was therefore off-limits to the new construction rising up all around the park.
“Well, for one thing,” Scott said, “this ship’s . . . power plant . . . whatever you want to call it . . . is practically a museum piece.”
“No surprise there, Mister Scott,” Poho said. “Up until a few months ago, it was a museum. Thunderbird is the ship that carried the first party of settlers to this world generations ago. In those rough early years, when the colony was just getting off the ground, it provided both shelter and energy to the original pioneers.”