Star Trek - Double Helix, page 11
“You’re mad!” he said, staring at her with a horrified expression. “How—how can you even think that of me?”
“Then you deny it?”
“Yes—yes, absolutely!” He was almost speechless.
Dr. Crusher glanced up at Deanna Troi, who hesitated. She’s not sure. I have to push him further.
“Knock it off, Tang,” she said coldly. “Do yourself a favor and confess. If you turn over your research notes and the cure, maybe the courts will go easier on you.”
“Doctor,” he said urgently. “You are wrong. Everything in my notes is the truth. I would kill myself before taking another human life!”
“He’s telling the truth,” Deanna said suddenly.
“What?” Dr. Crusher took a deep breath. She felt as if her legs had just been kicked out from under her. She would have staked her job on Tang’s guilt.
The sounds of a muffled explosion carried over the connection, and the room behind Dr. Tang seemed to shake. Dust sifted down from the ceiling and Tang steadied himself against the comm unit.
“What’s going on down there, Doctor?” Deanna demanded. “Are you under attack? Do you need assistance?”
“The hospital has been under periodic attack for almost two weeks now. Every few hours someone lobs a grenade at our front door. We have force-fields up. Nobody can get inside if we don’t want them to.”
“That’s horrible!”
“The Purity League wants my hospital burned, to ‘purify’ the diseased mixers inside. I get dozens of death threats every day—I don’t dare leave the hospital anymore. Does that sound like the life of someone working for the Purity League?”
“No,” Dr. Crusher said. She looked at Deanna Troi again.
“Yes, I really am sure,” Deanna said in answer to her unasked question. “He is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is under incredible stress. And he is innocent of everything you accused him of.”
Tang was staring at her. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am the ship’s counselor,” she said. “Deanna Troi. I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
“You’re Betazoid—”
“Half Betazoid.”
He swallowed. “Then you’re going to be susceptible to the virus.”
“I am…prepared to face that possibility.”
“Ah.” He blinked at them. “Ah, yes, I think I understand now. You two confronted me deliberately—you had to raise the possibility of my involvement with the Purity League to gauge my reaction, just in case I was involved.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Crusher said. I really put my foot in my mouth this time, she thought with embarrassment. At least I’ve got an out he can accept.“Please—allow me to extend my apologies—”
“It is not necessary, I assure you. If I had been guilty, I’m sure I would have confessed!”
Dr. Crusher relaxed. At least he isn’t going to hold it against me, she thought. She said, “About those attacks—are your patients safe?”
“Fortunately our security measures are more than capable, and the governor has troops posted at all entrances, so the truly needy can always get inside.” He said it so matter-of-factly Dr. Crusher could scarcely believe it—Tang accepted a state of siege as the status quo.
“Do you need any assistance at all?” Deanna said. “I’m sure Captain Picard would beam down security forces to protect a hospital—”
“Not necessary. Our peace officers will suffice. And I do not wish to expose any of your crew to the dangers of infection. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Doctor and Counselor, I have to work on finding a real cure.”
How swiftly he took control of the conversation again and put her work down, Dr. Crusher thought. She found her teeth grinding in frustration, as Dr. Tang severed the link.
Incompetent, arrogant fool! she thought. I have a patient cured here, and he won’t even admit it!
Deanna patted her shoulder. “If it helps, he really does think he’s right. You might want to follow his advice about that woman—just in case.”
Chapter Thirteen
JEAN-LUC PICARD ARRIVED at the transporter room just in time to see Captain Jules van Osterlich and two of his senior staff beam aboard. Jules had changed little in the three years since they had last seen each other…hair a little thinner, paunch a little bigger, but otherwise the same old friend from their days together at the Academy.
“Jules!” Picard said, stepping forward with a grin.
“Jean-Luc! You old spacedog!” Van Osterlich had been calling him that for the last thirty years.
They clasped arms and pounded each other on the back. It felt good to see Jules again, Picard thought. Command was often a lonely position, and he had learned to cherish his old friends all the more because of it.
“I’d like you to meet my senior officers,” van Osterlich said. “This is Solack, my first officer—” Solack was a reed-thin Vulcan of perhaps eighty years…for a Vulcan, still in the prime of life. Solack inclined his head slightly in greeting. “—and Dr. Benjamin Spencer. Benny is my chief medical officer.”
“Solack, Doctor.” Picard gave them both polite nods. “I would like to give you a quick tour of our sickbay first, so Dr. Crusher can bring you up to date on her research.”
“I would appreciate that, Captain,” Dr. Spencer said.
Picard led the way out to the turbolift, trying to make polite small talk along the way. And yet he sensed something bothering his old friend. Jules seemed…distracted somehow. Not his usual self.
As they reached sickbay and the door whooshed open, Solack and Dr. Spencer went in first. Picard hooked his old friend’s arm and held him back.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked.
He licked his lips. “Jean-Luc…this whole setup stinks. I know the plague is man-made. Benny and your Dr. Crusher have been comparing notes since we reached orbit, and I’ve seen the message written on it. I have a theory.”
Picard folded his arms. “Let’s hear it.” Jules had an almost uncanny knack for putting his finger on the heart of any problem.
“I don’t know who created the plague, but I’ll wager it wasn’t done here or to the Purity League’s order.”
“Why not? Dr. Crusher suspects one of the staff at Archo City Hospital, a virologist named Tang. She’s quite adamant about his guilt. He has been trying to hinder her research.”
“I know. And she’s wrong.”
A pair of crewmen passed them, and Picard gave them a nod. Only when they were out of earshot did he turn back to his friend.
“Explain.”
“I’ve known Ian Tang almost as long as I’ve known you. He’s a good man, and he’s 100 percent dedicated to his work…to healing. He would never be a party to mass murder!”
Picard frowned. “If so…then who is responsible?”
“I don’t know yet. But I have a feeling sooner or later he’ll tip his hand. You don’t play games on a planetary scale unless something larger is at stake.”
Picard nodded. “I agree. But until our culprit does reveal himself, we must proceed as though the virus is our sole concern. Let’s see what progress Dr. Crusher has made.”
They are still drinking, Worf thought with growing apprehension. From ahead came a new bout of boisterous Klingon song—a popular old drinking tune with a rousing chorus:
Comrades in death, in death we live!
Drink up, my brothers, tomorrow we give!
Death to the humans! Death to our foe!
Death to the Romulans! Strike a deadly blow!
He knew it well. Legions of Klingon warriors had sung that song for more than a hundred years, drinking to victory in their wars with Earth and Romulus. On “blow” they would drain their tankards of blood wine, then slam them down.
From the way they slurred their words, Worf knew the celebration had been going on a long time…a very long time indeed. And there was nothing more dangerous than a drunken Klingon.
He paused and looked back at his three young ensigns. Knowing the dangers, he couldn’t let them face these Klingons. They were too inexperienced. Look at how Wrenn had handled a few corpses.
“Stay back,” he said. “I must face these Klingons alone.”
“Alone, sir? But, Sir…” Clarke began.
Worf glared. “These are Klingons!” he said. “They are singing songs about killing humans and Romulans. Do not question my orders again.”
“Yes sir. I mean, no sir.” Clarke blushed.
Worf stopped listening.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and strode up to the open hatch, stuck his head inside, and saw all ten Klingons in various stages of drunkenness. They were lounging on chairs, benches, and the floor holding tankards aloft, singing at the top of their lungs. A large keg of blood wine sat before them…and it was more than half gone.
The singing trailed off as they began to notice him. Several fumbled for mek’leths. One—their leader?—staggered to his feet.
“Put down your weapons,” Worf said in Klingon.
“You—you are Klingon!” their leader said, his words slurring.
Worf glared. “And you are a disgrace to our people!”
“I am Krot of the House of Mok! No one insults me!”
Worf took three quick steps forward and backhanded Krot across the face. The Klingon crashed back into a weather-monitoring station. The equipment sparked and died.
“I am Worf, son of Mogh!” he roared through his helmet, “and I serve aboard the Starfleet vessel Enterprise! You have violated Federation law. You have killed humans here. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Krot staggered to his feet, grinning. “Worf? I have never heard of you…and a Klingon serving aboard a Federation ship? I spit on you and your house, you simpering would-be human!”
Worf backhanded him again, but this time Krot was ready. Shrugging off the blow, he punched Worf in the head with the full strength of a Klingon warrior.
Worf staggered. His faceplate had cracked a dozen ways, he saw. As he shook off the blow, Krot reached forward, snagged his helmet, and pulled.
The helmet came off with a tearing sound. The seals hadn’t held—not that it really mattered after the faceplate had shattered.
Roaring in rage, Worf tried a head-butt. He caught Krot by surprise, and the Klingon leader reeled back, this time laughing like a demon. A thin line of blood ran from a cut over his left eye. Worf glared his rage.
“Join us, Worf!” Krot shouted. “Maybe you are a real Klingon!” He picked up a tankard, dipped it into the keg of blood wine, and held it out. “Drink up! Sing the old songs! Let us know what kind of warrior you are!”
What have I done? Worf thought. He had exposed himself to the plague virus. I cannot return to the Enterprise.
He swallowed. Somehow, the thought did not alarm him. Perhaps that is what I wanted, he thought. To see my own kind. At least for a day or two, until Dr. Crusher finds her cure.
He accepted the tankard from Krot and raised it high in the air. “To the Emperor!” he cried.
“To the Emperor!” the others roared. They chanted as he raised the tankard to his lips. He drained it in a few deep gulps, and when he slammed it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, they cheered.
Chapter Fourteen
AS CAPTAIN PICARD ENTERED SICKBAY, he paused in surprise. He had never seen it this busy before. Strange new equipment beeped or hummed on every workbench. Doctors, nurses, and scientists hustled around one another, carrying data padds, tricorders, and other devices. The bustle reminded him more of the training hospital at Starfleet Academy, with its dozen-interns-to-one-patient ratio. Dr. Crusher clearly had everyone working double or triple shifts. Every doctor, every nurse, and as far as he could tell every biologist aboard had been co-opted into the research.
And their case at hand…he took a moment to study the woman lying on the biobed in the middle of the room, the eye of the storm. A forcefield shimmered faintly around her. She had curiously smooth features and a slightly elongated skull, with wide dark eyes and pale skin. A flood of black hair spilled around her head. Despite being deathly ill, she had the sort of ethereal beauty of which poets speak.
“Doctor Crusher!” he called when he spotted Beverly on the far side of sickbay, examining microcellular readouts on the wall scanner. The machine bleeped as she entered new data. “May we see you for a minute.”
She turned and noticed him. “Captain! And this must be Captain van Osterlich.”
“That’s right. I believe you already know Dr. Spencer, and this is Mr. Solack, the Constitution’s first officer. Gentlemen, may I present my chief medical officer, Dr. Beverly Crusher.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” She turned toward the unconscious woman on the biobed. “We were just about to wake our test subject. She went through our transporter and a series of modified biofilters about five hours ago. We have been monitoring her condition, and I’m glad to report things look promising. The virus appears to be gone from her system.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’?” Picard asked.
“I’m afraid so. On Dr. Tang’s advice, I am going to keep the containment field up and monitor her condition for another day or two to make absolutely sure.”
Deanna Troi joined them, and once more Picard made the round of introductions.
“Have you told them yet?” Deanna asked Dr. Crusher.
“Told us what?” Picard demanded.
“Dr. Tang is innocent,” Dr. Crusher said with a sigh. “I confronted him with Deanna present to monitor his reactions, and I’m afraid he passed. He isn’t responsible for the disease.”
Picard shot a glance at van Osterlich, who returned an I-told-you-so shrug.
“Go on,” Picard told her. “You still don’t look happy. Now that you know you can trust his data, I would think you would find him a valuable resource.”
“That’s the problem—his data are crazy! He insists the virus leaps level-one containment fields. And we all know that’s impossible.”
“Is it?” van Osterlich said. He glanced at his own chief medical officer. “Benny?”
“I’m afraid it sounds crazy to me, too. The containment field keeps out particulate matter. Its field’s screen is set so fine that oxygen gets through but nothing else—no dust, no bacteria, no viri. Dr. Crusher has isolated the plague virus, and it’s clearly a simple variation of Rhulian flu. It’s simply too large to get through any containment field—you can’t alter the laws of physics just because they’re inconvenient!”
Dr. Crusher said, “Let me show you our patient.” She led the way toward the biobed. “This is Jenni Dricks. She is one-quarter Peladian. We beamed her through that modified transporter field I mentioned—using two sets of biofilters—and to all appearances it worked perfectly. Not a trace of the plague virus remains in her body. But that’s only half the problem.”
“Why?” Picard asked.
“We eliminated the virus from her body, but she’s still going to be susceptible to it once she beams back down to the planet.”
Solack raised one eyebrow. “She cannot go home.”
“Not until a real cure is found. Nor can anyone leave the planet who might be carrying the virus. We haven’t found a cure so much as…a delaying tactic. Of course, we can beam people up and pass them through biofilters, such as our away team, but with a planet as large as this one with a population in the millions, it’s a task that will take years. And we still won’t have eliminated the virus in the wild.”
“But surely it’s a good start,” Picard said. As long as they could contain the disease, that would buy its victims time until a real cure could be found and they could return to their old lives.
Dr. Crusher shook her head. “Unfortunately, it’s going to be a drop in the bucket, so to speak. There isn’t room on the Enterprise to rescue more than a fraction of the plague victims. The latest estimates—and that’s all Dr. Tang can give me at this point—indicate roughly thirty-five thousand people have died of the disease. Another twenty thousand are infected. It would take weeks to beam them all through our biofilters using both ships and working around the clock. And we don’t have enough room here to house a tenth of that number, even if we use the shuttlebays and cargo holds.”
“I see your point,” Picard said. The situation truly was disastrous, he thought. “But at least we have some good news—with the biofilters working, we can come and go as necessary.”
“But everyone who leaves the planet will still have to go through a quarantine period,” Dr. Crusher said. “Just to make sure. Dr. Tang’s data may be crazy, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
