by Peter David
“Will Riker.” They shook briefly. Riker turned to Yar and Data. “These are a couple of my friends—Bret and Tasha.”
Jordan gave them both nods. “Going to the rally?” he asked.
“Yes. We got a little held up.”
“They’ve already started.” Jordan seemed to be accepting their story at face value, Riker thought. The peace officer went on, “You’re a bit turned about. Archo City Hospital’s that way.” He pointed to the right.
“Really?” Pointedly Riker glanced the way they had been headed and feigned surprise. “But I thought—”
“Nope.” Jordan turned and pointed to the corner. “Turn right and then head straight. You can’t miss it. And if you do get lost, just ask one of us. Peace officers are here to help, after all!”
Riker forced a grin. “Thanks!” he said. No wonder the planetary government can’t get a handle on their Purity League problem, he thought. The peace officers are part of it.
Jordan grinned back. “Have fun. I only wish I could join you, but I pulled crowd control tonight.”
“That’s a shame,” Tasha said. “I heard Father Veritas might actually speak tonight.”
“Don’t count on it. That’s what the rumors always say before a big rally, but nobody I know has ever laid eyes on the Father.” With a quick wave, he jogged back to his post. “Have fun!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Death to mixers! Humans first and always!”
“Humans first!” Riker echoed. If this was the sort of reception the Purity League gave newcomers, it looked more and more like they would have no trouble fitting in. He turned back to Yar and Data. “Let’s go!”
Chapter Twelve
THIS TIME, IT WAS Dr. Tang who called her.
He must be starting to panic, Dr. Crusher thought. I’m getting close to a cure, and now he’s running scared. He knows he’s going to be exposed.
This time, though, she kept him waiting on the comm channel long enough to call Deanna Troi into the room, too. When she slid behind her desk and faced Tang, Deanna stood beside her, watching and evaluating.
“What can I do for you, Doctor?” she asked, using her best poker face. One hundred percent virus-free! she thought. Every test on her patient checked out perfectly. We have a cure. And now we’re going to catch you in your lies.
“I had hoped to get a status update on the patient you sent through the biofilters.”
“Well, I have good news. Our patient is cured.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Completely? Are you sure?”
“It’s been four hours since we beamed her through our modified biofilters, and we have run every test ever devised on her. She passed them all with flying colors. The virus is gone. She’s well.”
Tang nodded. “That is what I feared. I knew it would appear successful. However, it’s too soon to judge.”
“Doctor,” she said, “this is getting silly. The virus is gone. The symptoms have disappeared. If she weren’t still sedated, our patient would be up and dancing a jig. I don’t know how much healthier she needs to be to prove she’s cured.”
Tang folded his arms stubbornly. “We had the same initial success with our own experiments with biofilters. Unfortunately, the disease always returned within twenty-four hours…it returned—and it was nastier than ever.”
“It must have been reinfection.”
“We thought so at first…but it happened even in clean rooms set up with level-1 containment fields. The same containment fields you are using.”
“That’s not possible. There is no way for anything as big as that virus to get through a containment field.”
“Nevertheless,” Tang insisted, “you must monitor the patient for at least two days before making any such rash claims of a cure. We don’t want to raise false hopes. Check my reports. I documented everything that happened in my biofilter experiments in excruciating detail. No, Doctor.” Tang shook his head firmly. “As much as I want to believe in your cure, based on my significantly greater experience with the disease you must maintain that quarantine for at least forty-eight more hours. If the disease does not return within that period, I will be the first one to celebrate.”
That did it. Dr. Crusher felt her professional resolve melt in a white hot fury.
“Listen to me!” she snapped. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to pull, Tang, but I’m sick of it!”
He blinked in surprise. “What the—”
“I know you’re behind the virus,” she said. “You designed it for your Purity League friends, didn’t you? That’s why you’re trying to block everyone else’s research. Well, it’s not going to work! It’s just Rhulian flu with a few extra kinks—and not only have we cured our patient, we’re going to have a vaccine within the day!”
“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 st
ate 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.”
