A Time for War, A Time for Peace, page 15
Sitting now in her office, reading over the latest progress reports from Dr. Wasdin on Delta Sigma IV—which were very encouraging—Crusher tried to ignore Russell when she entered. Sadly, that would not make her go away.
Russell had let her blond hair grow to neck length, and there were several more lines in her face, but otherwise she looked exactly the same. She even still favored the Atrean suits with the flared “wings” on the bottom of the shirt over a Starfleet uniform, just as she had a decade earlier. Her long-fingered hands were holding a padd tightly to her chest, almost as if it would protect her.
Just at that moment, it occurred to Crusher that, should she accept Fandau’s offer to head up Starfleet Medical, she would be in a position to start proceedings against Russell that would possibly lead to her license being revoked.
Cheered by this thought, Crusher, in as pleasant a voice as she could muster—which wasn’t especially pleasant, really—asked, “What can I do for you, Doctor?”
Russell pursed her lips. “Well, whatever you do next for me will be the first thing you’ve done for me since I arrived.”
“Hasn’t Dr. Tropp given you everything you’ve asked for?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Good. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to speak with you,” she lied, “but I’ve been very busy with other duties.”
Taking a seat in one of the guest chairs, Russell said, “Be that as it may, there are some questions I need to ask you.”
“I really don’t have time to talk to you right now, Doctor.”
“Come on, Beverly, you can call me Toby.”
I don’t believe it—she’s still trying to be friends with me. When Russell first set foot on the Enterprise, she complimented Crusher on an obscure paper she’d written, something Crusher recognized instantly as a feeble attempt at sucking up, which she found distasteful. Russell did nothing in the days that followed to wash away that distaste. “Very well, Toby—it certainly is better than actually referring to you as a doctor, which frankly, I’d prefer wasn’t the case.”
“It’s been eleven years, Beverly. I would think you’d be over your resentment.”
Crusher felt her jaw drop. “Resentment? I don’t resent you, Toby. That would require my thinking highly of your abilities. You’re right, it has been eleven years, and you haven’t changed a bit—you still take shortcuts in an attempt to get instant gratification that saves you the trouble of doing the real work required in research, and never mind who might die.”
Russell regarded Crusher coldly. “That’s a lovely speech, Beverly, but you’re ignoring the fact that my procedure worked.”
“On Worf, yes, it did work—barely, and only because of the unique nature of Klingon physiology.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that it was a tremendous medical breakthrough.”
Crusher nodded emphatically. “Yes, Toby, it was. Tell me, what kind of progress have you made since then? I haven’t seen a single thing about genitronics since the initial wave of articles after Worf’s operation. Why is that, I wonder?”
In a tight voice, Russell said, “We’re not here to discuss my medical practice, Beverly—we’re here to discuss yours.”
Picking up her padd, Crusher looked down at its display. “As I said, I don’t have time to talk with you right now.”
Gazing at the top of the desk, Russell looked at the padd. “Reading the latest from Delta Sigma IV, I see. We’re in luck—that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Dr. Tropp can surely answer—”
“No, Beverly, he surely can’t. The primary work done to cure the Bader and the Dorset from the effects of the liscom gas was done by you, not by Dr. Tropp, and in order to complete my report to Captain Go I need to know what you, as chief medical officer, did during that mission.”
Trying very hard not to clench her teeth, Crusher said, “All the information you need is in my log reports.”
“Yes, but I’d like your verbal account.”
“It won’t sound any different from the logs.” Crusher knew she was just being stubborn at this point.
“Indulge me.”
She smiled sweetly. “Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. You can talk to me now, or you can refuse, and I’ll go to Captain Go, who’ll order you to comply—probably with Captain Picard standing next to her.” Russell leaned back in her chair. “Come on, Beverly, it’s not like it matters that much. Yerbi’s position is yours if you want it, so it’s not like a report on one starship will have any effect on your future. Just tell me about what happened on Delta Sigma and that’ll be that.”
I suppose it was too much to hope that she wouldn’t know about the job offer. Not that there was any realistic chance of the medical grapevine not knowing about it by now, truth be told.
Letting out a long breath, Crusher set down the padd. “Fine. After settling on Delta Sigma IV, the Bader and the Dorset found that they were able to live in peace, even though the two species were at war everywhere else in the galaxy that they met. They also started suffering from significantly shorter life spans. Starfleet Medical determined that a gas native to the planet was affecting their cells’ ability to regenerate, and that they’d die within a few generations if a cure wasn’t found. Unfortunately, the liscom didn’t just lower their life expectancies—it also worked as a pacifying drug. With the drug removed, both species’ natural aggressiveness started to reassert itself. It didn’t take long for the planet to devolve into chaos.”
Russell nodded. “So you and your staff devised a treatment that would negate the liscom’s effects on their life span, but also put them back in the pacified state?”
“Yes. We—”
“You chose a shortcut in an attempt to get instant gratification. I’m sure it saved you the trouble of doing any real work necessary for research.” She stood up. “Thank you, Beverly, this has been most enlightening.”
For two seconds, Crusher stared at Russell in open-mouthed stupefaction.
Then she closed her mouth and shook her head. “Not bad.”
“I beg your pardon?” Russell was moving toward the exit, but stopped to find out what Crusher meant.
Crusher stood up, not wanting to be in a position where she looked up at Russell. “Not bad at all. If you ever give up medicine—well, I’ll dance a jig, for one thing, but you’ll also have a career in rhetoric available to you. That was a very nice job of turning my argument against me. I’m sure you intended it to sting, and for a moment there, it did. You wanted the high and mighty Beverly Crusher to see that she’s no better than the mean and nasty Toby Russell whom she so unfairly condemns. There’s only one problem.” Crusher placed her hands flat against her desk, mainly to keep her from balling them into fists. “I argued against the procedure, but Captain Picard ordered me to implement it anyhow. And do you know why?”
“It was expedient?” Russell asked, a bit snidely.
“No—because it saved lives. People were being killed on the surface—an entire population with no conception of how to cope with violent emotions suddenly found itself feeling passions it had no capacity to process. We needed a quick and dirty solution to keep Delta Sigma IV from going up in flames. And that, Toby, is the difference between you and me. I know that my solution wasn’t the best, but that it was the only one possible under the circumstances, and I will go to my deathbed wondering if I could have done something that might have helped the Bader and the Dorset more. Now then,” she said, sitting back down at her desk and retrieving the padd with Wasdin’s report, “is there anything else, or can I get back to running my sickbay?”
Russell’s lips formed a very small line perpendicular to her nose. Crusher hadn’t seen her this nonplussed since relieving her of duty after the Denver civilian died. “That’s all for now, Beverly—but I do have more questions that only the chief medical officer can answer.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
Without another word, Russell turned and left sickbay.
Whistling a happy tune, Crusher went back to reading the report.
Sabin Genestra looked up at the door two seconds before it parted to allow Christine Vale to enter the observation lounge.
The middle-aged Betazoid had been using the room as his base of operations during the inspection tour. Unlike Captain Scott and Dr. Russell, whose concerns were with a particular physical part of the ship, Genestra’s focus related to personnel and security, which could just as easily be conducted from the relative comfort of this room. It was a space in which his interview subjects felt relaxed yet alert—familiar due to its typical use as a meeting place, but also associated with one’s duties aboard ship.
Genestra would have decorated the room differently, had he any say in the matter. He had no use for the model ships that bracketed the viewscreen on one wall—but then, Genestra had never understood the almost fetishistic affection some had for spacefaring vessels. They were tools, nothing more, and the specifics of their look or design was of very little importance, as far as Genestra was concerned. It was for that reason that he sat on the side of the table facing the viewport to the stars. At present, that view included the sixth planet of the Xarantine system, a gas giant, which Genestra found preferable to the toy ships behind him.
Of course, he could have chosen to sit at the head of the table, but that would imply that he held a position equal to that of Captain Picard, which would put his interview subjects on the defensive. No, better to make them feel they were on an equal footing with him.
He telepathically felt Vale’s approach, and so called up her service record on his padd and greeted her as she walked in.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Lieutenant—or should I say, Commander.” Genestra, of course, had not forgotten her promotion, but he wanted to gauge her reaction to his self-correction.
Predictably she beamed with a certain pride. It was the nature of that pride that concerned Genestra.
“It’s not like I had a choice,” she said. “Captain told us to be at your disposal while you were here.”
“And you always follow orders, don’t you, Commander?”
Vale pulled out the chair opposite Genestra’s and sat in it. The gas giant framed her head like a halo. “Yes, I do, Mr. Genestra. I also recognize transparent interrogation techniques designed to get a rise out of me.”
The self-satisfaction at the mention of her promotion faded, replaced with a general resentment that Genestra recognized from his previous interviews with Vale—indeed, with most of the crew, but it was more intense in the security chief for some reason.
“I wish to speak with you about your promotion, actually.”
Suspicion. Confusion. “What does my promotion have to do with your inspection?”
“It’s a security concern, Commander. You see, ever since your promotion, I’ve been detecting a sense of pride—and, more to the point, a sense of self-justification and vindication.”
Anger. Vale leaned forward in her chair. “Okay, now you’re getting a rise out of me. What the hell are you doing poking around in my head?”
“I’m not poking, Commander.” Genestra was appalled at the suggestion. He gave her a small smile. “Believe me, I would not have been able to work for the admiralty all these years if I had shown any proclivity for such things.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve met some admirals in my time who’d love having someone around who could do that.”
Genestra frowned. “Such as who?”
“Nobody who’s still in Starfleet,” Vale said, but Genestra saw a very clear image of Admiral Nakamura in her thoughts.
He sighed. For all his life, Genestra had worked not to pry into people’s minds beyond the simplest surface thoughts—nothing that couldn’t be inferred from speech or body language by someone who was well enough trained. He saw himself as a supplement, nothing more. To even read as much as the impression of Nakamura in Vale’s mind meant that the thought was so prominent as to be impossible to screen out.
“We’re getting off topic.”
“No we’re not,” Vale said, “we’re talking about you reading my mind.”
“I’m not reading your mind,” Genestra said firmly. “As I said, I am basing this on impressions I’ve received. If I was simply reading your mind, as you accuse, I would not have any need to interview you, I’d simply report my findings to Captain Go. But I do not have findings, Commander, I have impressions. Now I can confirm my suspicions based on these impressions one of two ways. One is to in fact read your mind, which I most emphatically will not do. The other is to question you. So here we are.”
Resignation. Vale leaned back, setting her hands in her lap. “Fine. Question me. What about feeling proud and justified and vindicated raises red flags?”
“It’s the vindication more than anything, Commander—it’s almost as if you feel you’ve gotten away with doing something wrong.”
More anger. “I haven’t ‘gotten away’ with anything.”
“But you do feel that you’ve done something wrong.” Genestra deliberately did not phrase it as a question.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I should think that would be obvious, especially considering the losses your security division has taken over the past year.” He consulted his padd. “At the Dokaalan colony you lost a few guards in rescue operations, then a few more at Delta Sigma IV, and the figure skyrocketed at Tezwa.”
Her rage seethed and festered. “Mr. Genestra, we’ve covered all this.”
“We’ve covered the facts, but what interests me now is what’s behind those facts.” He set the padd down. “Commander, do you feel that you could have done something different to prevent the deaths of Aiken, Razka, Melorr, Jeloq, Nikros, Fillion, Maxson, Carmo—”
Now the anger grew white-hot. Vale stood. “What the hell kind of a question is that? And I do not need you to list their names, thank you, I’m fully aware of who and how many people died on my watch.”
“Sit down, Commander.”
“No, sir, I think I’ll stand, because right now I’d rather look down on you.” She all but kicked the chair back and started pacing on her side of the table. “You want to know if I could’ve done something different to save all of them. And I asked you what the hell kind of a question that was, which, I admit, was dumb, because I know exactly what kind of a question it was.”
Genestra folded his hands together. Now, he thought, we’re getting somewhere. “What kind would that be, Commander?”
“The one I ask myself every single damn day. And you know what the answer is?”
“What?”
“I have no clue. But I also know something else: Each one of them died doing their duty. Aiken was so fresh out of the Academy he was practically still putting his cadet uniform on in the morning. Razka’d been in Starfleet for well over a hundred years. I will bet you anything you care to name that if you told either one of them ahead of time that they’d die defending the ship and the Federation, neither the rookie nor the veteran would have changed a thing, because that’s what they signed up for.” She stopped pacing and put her hands on the back of the chair, her body now blocking the view of the gas giant. “I’m sorry they’re gone, and I wish there was some way to bring them back, but they died because they were good at their jobs. They died saving lives or attempting to save lives. I’m proud to have had each and every one of them on my team, and I will not let you use their deaths as an interrogation tool.”
The anger had, over the course of Vale’s diatribe, slowly transformed to righteous indignation. “A bit late for that, Commander.”
She frowned. “What?”
“That will be all,” Genestra said, wiping the display on the padd. “Thank you for your time.”
Confusion. “Hang on a second—”
Genestra smiled at her. “Commander, my concern wasn’t over the guilt you felt about the deaths on your staff over the past year. The guilt is to be expected—in fact, if you hadn’t felt it, I’d be a lot more concerned. But what did worry me was whether or not that guilt was in any danger of overwhelming your ability to do the job, particularly in light of your promotion. Some who receive a reward after so many people under their command didn’t make it find themselves crippled by the guilt. I think, however, that we’ve proven that not to be the case.”
Embarrassment. “Which you accomplished by using a transparent interrogation technique to get a rise out of me.”
“Something like that, yes.”
Vale shook her head. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told, Commander.” He gazed at the time stamp on his padd. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my next appointment will be here any moment.”
As it happened, that next appointment was five minutes late, to Genestra’s annoyance. But then, Genestra had come to expect that sort of thing from Captain Scott. History was not Genestra’s strong suit, so he had no idea if punctuality was something that Starfleet simply did not encourage in the twenty-third century, but it was certainly a concept alien to Montgomery Scott.
When he finally did arrive, Genestra said without preamble, “You’re late.”
Resentment. “Do not take such a tone with me, Mr. Genestra. We’re colleagues on this endeavor. You’re not my superior—in any sense, truth be known.”
Genestra ignored the rebuke, as he’d been ignoring Scott’s general disdain for the rest of the inspection staff for the past week, and called up Scott’s most recent report on the display. “I’ve been reading over your report, and I’m appalled that you haven’t mentioned Commander La Forge’s gross violations of procedure.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
Scott remained standing, so Genestra rose and held the display for Scott to see. “Hiring a Ferengi to ferry parts around the sector? Bypassing the quartermaster entirely for—”
“I’m aware of Mr. La Forge’s solution to the Enterprise’s supply issues.”
Genestra was amazed at Scott’s lack of concern. “And you didn’t feel this warranted a reprimand?”
