Star Trek - TOS 021 - Uhura's Song

by Uhura's Song

  Using Captain Kirk for example, she talked long into the darkness, carefully explaining the possible variations of his name and the social occasions in which they occurred. She followed up with an explanation of rank structure. At last she finished, "I'd be pleased, Brightspot, if you'd call me Evan."

  "You mean, to be your friend?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you." There was a small hesitation. "I don't have a name to give you in return, but I'll try to help you. That's our friendship, Evan." She pronounced the name with extreme care.

  "Ours too," said Evan Wilson.

  "Then we'll sleep like friends and be warmed by it." By this, Evan learned, she meant spoon-fashion. Brightspot took the inner spoon for fear she might stir in her sleep and accidentally claw. With much shifting and, on Wilson's part, giggling, they nestled in for the night.

  But for the sounds of their breathing and the stirrings of night creatures in the forest, the dark was silent. Then Brightspot said softly, "Evan? What's so funny about a lullabye?"

  Evan Wilson, wrapped in usefuls and pressed against the soft warmth of Brightspot's body, chuckled once more and quietly began to sing, "Rockabye baby, on the treetop..." When she finished, Brightspot's tail curled happily around her ankle. She took a deep, contented breath, smelling the sweet scent of Brightspot's fur, and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Kirk woke, sweating, from a nightmare of the Eeiauoan hospital. He sat up, trusting the movement to shake away the horror. It did not- unfamiliar shapes and shadows assaulted his senses. He fixed on an image beside the fire and found the reassuring form of Spock.

  Spock stared into the fire as if into his attunement flame. Perhaps any fire could serve the purpose, thought Kirk; he did not wish to disturb the Vulcan.

  "Captain," said Spock softly. Taking the acknowledgment as an invitation, Kirk threw off the light, warm usefuls and moved quietly to the fireside. "Standing guard, Mr. Spock?" he said, low enough not to wake Chekov. "These people seem friendly enough." He had not ordered a guard, for fear of insulting their hosts, though he had set a sensor to wake them if anyone entered.

  "Thinking, Captain." Spock's voice was as quiet as his own.

  "Any conclusions, Mr. Spock?"

  "I regret to say I have only theories. It is my hope that Lieutenant Uhura and Dr. Wilson will be able to supply further data."

  "Mine too, though I admit I'm not happy about leaving either of them- unprotected- in an alien environment about which we know so little."

  "I do not believe you would have been able to keep either of them from undertaking the risk, short of a direct order to return to the Enterprise."

  "You're probably right, Spock. And I'm not sure a direct order would have done it either. Certainly not in Wilson's case: she's just wild enough to pull medical rank on me."

  "Indeed," said Spock, "that is my impression also. And there is a high probability that the lieutenant would have disobeyed such an order as well."

  "Mutiny? Uhura? You must be joking, Spock."

  "No, Captain. My conclusion was based upon considerable observation of your species. You yourself have disobeyed Starfleet Command- for a friend." It was something they seldom mentioned but that was a part of their own long friendship. "Lieutenant Uhura has not one friend, but several, at risk of their lives. To spend the night in a dangerous situation to gain the information we seek is a logical risk. Had you ordered her to return to the Enterprise, her logical response would have been to disobey that order."

  "In other words, I would have been illogical to order her back to the Enterprise."

  "Precisely, Captain."

  "Thanks, Spock, you make me feel better about it- I think." He smiled.

  They sat side by side, human and Vulcan, staring into the fire. The night was filled with unfamiliar sounds. At last, Kirk said, "Find us a way, Spock. You found this world, and the odds against that..."

  "With the information Lieutenant Uhura provided," Spock said.

  "Correction noted, Mr. Spock. We need all the help we can get." A vivid image of the Eeiauoan hospital flashed in his mind once more. "Bones and Christine need all the help we can get." As he stared into the fire once more, he thought of the last image he'd seen of Leonard McCoy, haggard and beaten. Hold on! he thought. Hold on, Bones! We're working as fast as we can!

  Leonard McCoy found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on his research. He was more and more conscious of the overpowering smell of the Eeiauoan hospital wards- the sweetish alien smell of lingering death. Try as he might to avoid it, his mind kept returning to Christine, to Micky, miles above his head; to Sunfall, whom he had never met, half a continent away. He tended Quickfoot daily and saw the progress of their disease in the body of his new friend- and knew that for Christine and Micky, he was being optimistic.

  He focused his eyes with difficulty. He hated what he saw, and he knew that the hardest thing to deal with was the magnitude of the disaster. The sheer volume of cases made him helpless with rage.

  This morning one of his Eeiauoan staff, discovering in himself the first symptoms of ADF syndrome, had attempted to commit suicide. McCoy had managed to talk him out of it, but even Spock might have found Patterner of Vensre's reasoning logical. His entire family was in second-stage coma- when Patterner reached that stage he would no longer be of help- he would be an additional burden that might prevent his family from receiving full care. McCoy had only gotten through to him by pointing out that they needed his help as long as he could give it.

  How long that would be, neither of them knew.

  Two others had been admitted to the hospital not for ADF syndrome but for- hopelessness. One, a mother who had lost three of her children to ADF syndrome, had simply stopped nursing the fourth. The other was in physical shock, brought on by severe depression.

  How many have to die, McCoy wondered, before the rest of the living begin to envy the dead?

  "Dr. McCoy!" Patterner's voice cut through his grim thoughts.

  "Yes, Patterner?" He started to rise. He'd been sitting too long in one position - his knee had stiffened. He flexed and rubbed it to restore circulation.

  "On the communications screen. It's Chief Medical Officer Mickiewicz."

  "Micky!" Forgetting his knee, McCoy hurried in and leaned on the lab table to look at her image. There were half a dozen doctors and nurses crowded in behind her.

  "Hello, Leonard," she said happily. "My staff and I would like to bring you a heartfelt message." She turned and raised her hands to the group. "Ready?" With this, she dropped her hands and the group burst into applause, whistles and cheers.

  "It works!" said McCoy.

  Micky nodded. She shooed the rest of the group back to work and said, "It works. You've bought us time, Leonard- and God knows, we need it."

  Her face turned solemn. "Now here's the drill. You're right- it's only a palliative. There's no remission- no reversal of symptoms. But it either slows the progress of ADF or maybe, just maybe, stops it- we won't know that for days, possibly weeks.

  "We're synthesizing buckets of the stuff. All terminal cases are receiving massive doses every day. Now, and this is the important part, we're also using it on everyone with a diagnosed case of ADF. The longer we can hold off the final stages of the disease, the longer we have to work."

  McCoy shook his head. "So what it all boils down to is condemning thousands to excruciating pain. I've seen the way these people move even in the early stages. That's not good enough, dammit."

  "Agreed, agreed," she said. The lines of weariness reappeared on her face. "But that's what we have. I'll transmit all our results- maybe you can find something in them we've missed." She made ready to send and he to receive. "We'll also need coordinates. You get the first batch of McCoy serum- where do you want it beamed to?"

  He gave her the coordinates, then he said, "Micky, for the record, it's Wilson-Chapel serum. I only followed their lead...." He let his voice trail off.

  Despite
the seeming good news, he found himself afraid to ask about Christine. Micky had not forgotten, however. "Nurse Chapel seems to be responding well to treatment," she said. "You'll find the details in the reports. In brief, she's not getting any better, but she's not getting any worse, thanks to you."

  He and Patterner were very busy for the next few hours. They managed to find enough people who could handle a hypo (or learn in a few minutes) to see that all the patients in the hospital were injected with the new serum. McCoy himself gave Patterner his shot.

  Patterner rubbed his shoulder, then wiped the loose fur from his palm. "Dr. McCoy," he said, "thank you. I'm sorry about this morning. I promise you I won't try again."

  McCoy found himself both angry and saddened by Patterner's gratitude. With an effort at control, he said, "Is the pain very bad, Patterner? I could-"

  Patterner interrupted, shaking his head stiffly. "The pain is sometimes bad, Dr. McCoy, but I prefer the pain to the relief of pain that my family feels. I thank you for the pain I feel."

  He left McCoy to return to his family's ward where he had a great deal of work to perform. McCoy watched him go. After a long moment, McCoy wiped his eyes- and began to read through Micky's reports.

  It took him longer than it might have. The lack of sleep was making him bleary-eyed and he almost asked the computers for hard copy rather than continue to read from the screen. In the end, he didn't.

  The final report was a communique from Starfleet on the spread of ADF syndrome through the galaxy. The incubation period is killing us, he thought. People can spread ADF without ever showing a symptom, until it's too late to track down all the people they've been in contact with. Hera Four had been quarantined, he saw. Fifteen deaths- all humanoid- and five thousand diagnosed cases. A second Starfleet team had been dispatched to handle it. Handle it, he thought, with an angry snort.

  He recalled the data on Wilson-Chapel serum. It was working much as he'd hoped. A small hope, that was what he'd had.

  He poured himself a shot of ethanol (the scotch was gone) and downed it, wishing he could afford to relax for a day. Shore leave with Scotty would be nice right about now, he thought. An alphabetic drunk- been a long time since we've done that: absinthe, Bacardi, Cold Duck, Devil's Downfall- he indulged himself with the thought. It was the closest he could come to a break in the overwhelming routine of the hospital. Ethanol, he added, disgusted that he could think of nothing else for "e." Gin and tonic. That was better- it was an old Earth drink much favored by med students in his day because the tonic was historically a medicine used to prevent and alleviate the symptoms of malaria. Or did it actually cure it? He'd forgotten.

  He put down the glass so suddenly that he missed the edge of the table and had to snatch for it. Tonic! He skimmed rapidly through Micky's reports once again.

  Why not? he said to himself. If the serum can keep the symptoms from progressing, a regular dose might just prevent infection!

  He laid out his plans hastily. He'd have to take the serum himself for several days, then he'd have to deliberately infect himself with ADF. Since they still couldn't isolate the cause, he'd have to inject himself with blood from one of the victims. Good thing Jim's off chasing rainbows. He'd have a conniption fit, he thought wryly.

  He prepared a hypo with a dose of the serum. Dammit, he thought, Micky'll have my head if I don't do this right. He laid the hypo aside and, instead, took a blood sample from his own arm and placed it in the analyzer. Proper procedure all the way- first prove that the subject is not already infected with ADF- for the record.

  He waited for the results of the analysis, drumming his fingers on the lab table. In his impatience, his fingers felt stiff and out of rhythm. It made him so irritable he stopped.

  He read the results, blinked to clear his eyes, and read the results again. They did not change- he too had contracted ADF syndrome. The stiffness, the blurring of vision, the heightened sense of smell- all were symptoms of the disease in humans- he'd been fooled by the fact that he'd seen no loss of body hair. Or he'd been fooling himself.

  "Well," he said aloud, "you knew it could happen, you old fraud. Might as well tell Micky. Maybe she can find a volunteer who hasn't got it yet." Picking up the prepared hypo, he injected himself with the serum. "I told you I'd hold the fort, Jim, but I'd like it a damn sight better if I believed you were goin' for the cavalry."

  Evan Wilson woke with a start. The shelter rocked violently and the sound of shrieks and squawks were everywhere around her. Brightspot stirred and stretched luxuriously. Wilson relaxed: if Brightspot took no alarm, she need not either.

  "Good morning, Evan," said Brightspot. She preened her fur. "Did they startle you? They're just announcing new arrivals. These are the people we expected yesterday - we were surprised when you came instead."

  "Oh, perimeter guards?" She took her cue from Brightspot and ran a comb through her tangled hair.

  "Yes," said Brightspot, thoughtfully. "I guess they would warn us if anything dangerous was coming. It doesn't happen often though. Even slashbacks avoid the camps."

  She stretched a second time, combining it with a yawn that displayed fearsome teeth. Evan Wilson watched her with delight- one seldom saw anyone take such full pleasure in such a simple action. It was contagious; Wilson too stretched and yawned.

  Brightspot looked at her curiously. "Are you herbivorous?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "Omnivorous. Mr. Spock, however, is vegetarian by choice, by philosophy; that's another Vulcan trait for your collection, Brightspot."

  "You are very different from a Vulcan?"

  "That's hard to answer, Brightspot. Physiologically, yes, and often psychologically. But the range of variation within the human species is so wide that Spock is often not as alien to me as some members of my own species."

  "Good," she said.

  "Good?"

  "I think this is a baby reaction. I was afraid you would all be exactly alike because you're not Sivaoan. I'm beginning to see you as different people with different reactions."

  "Brightspot, I'm proud to have you as a friend. Some people never learn that...or are too lazy to learn it. And those people cause no end of trouble in the universe."

  Brightspot looped her tail. Something bounced along the upper part of the shelter, screeching. Brightspot yelled "Fuzz-brain!" and thumped the underside, tumbling it off.

  "Is that what they're called?"

  "When they annoy you, it is. If you're being polite, they're welcome-homes. Are you hungry?"

  Wilson nodded. Brightspot did something and the two halves of the shelter popped open. She crawled toward the access branch. Then she stopped. "You are all different.... I will ask you what I asked Captain Kirk last night." This time, Wilson could hear her using the captain as a title, rather than as a name. "What is your urgent question?"

  "I am under the same restrictions as Captain Kirk, Brightspot. I want to do nothing that will cause trouble between you and your close kin, and nothing that might get us expelled from camp."

  Brightspot's shoulder fur rippled. It might have been a shrug. "We could always go to another camp," she said.

  Wilson, sitting cross-legged, folded her hands and breathed on them. "You make this difficult for me, Brightspot- oh, no, not deliberately! But I know so little of your world, I must walk softly. As much as possible, I must obey your rules of behavior. I will try all the legitimate ways of gaining the information I seek first, before I risk your friendship.... What I do here may affect relations between my people and yours for all time."

  Brightspot nodded. "That makes sense. But I think, Evan, that you would disobey your captain to save a life...."

  Giving Wilson no chance to reply to this, Brightspot sprang from the shelter to the branch, scrambled a few feet up the tree and held out her hand. Wilson leapt, caught the hand, and found herself supported by Brightspot's tail as well. "Thanks," she said, "I was wondering how I would manage that."

  "Let me go down first," said Bri
ghtspot, "I want to see how you climb."

  She scrambled down and Wilson followed. "I wish I could do that," said Brightspot.

  Wilson grinned. "I wish I had a tail." Each regarded the other with sympathy.

  "Let's go eat," said Brightspot.

  "Let's," Wilson agreed. "Waiting for magic makes me hungry."

  Carefully skirting a large stand of sweetstripes, Brightspot led her into the forest. After a few hundred yards, they came to a small stream where they drank. Evan took the opportunity to wash her face, much to Brightspot's surprise. "Can you swim, Brightspot?" The universal translator seemed to manage that, so it was at least a possibility.

  "Rushlight can swim. He likes water. Most of us hate it so we don't." Brightspot shivered with evident distaste.