Turn The Page

by Dayton Ward

  “What amazes me about these Morhenza,” Sarjenka said after a moment, “is how well they appear to be carrying out these demanding tasks, despite what would in many cases have to be advanced age.” The war that had seen the conscription of thousands of reformants into the Lisqual military had been over for more than a generation. It was a testament to Betrisian physiology that even the few hundred surviving legionnaires continued to operate with such stamina. “Still, without any significant resources, or some means of receiving new instructions as the situation continues to evolve, they won’t stand a chance against your military.”

  “Then we do not have much time,” Luluma replied. “My government’s leaders will not allow this to continue for much longer, not if the level of violence associated with the disturbances continues to increase. The risk to the civilian populace is too great. We must find a solution, and soon.”

  “Agreed,” Sarjenka said as she turned her attention to the prone form of the Betrisian male laying atop the examination table at the center of the lab. “The next test is ready. I’ve recalibrated the signal based on new information supplied by Soloman.” After conducting a level-four neurographic scan of the patient’s brainwave patterns, the doctor was buoyed by the first round of computer simulation results. Now, it was time to put her and Luluma’s latest research findings to the test.

  Reaching for the padd resting on the table next to her workstation, Sarjenka keyed a series of commands into the device’s control interface. “Activating the link.”

  On the table, the Betrisian remained motionless, though now his eyes began to move beneath his closed lids, and his chest heaved in response to increased respiration. Turning back to her workstation, Sarjenka entered a new command string, and a fresh collection of test results appeared on the display monitor.

  “The implant’s reacting to the communication stream,” she said after a moment. “It’s responding as it normally would when receiving legitimate instructions from the Reformation Ministry computer network.” Tapping further instructions to the padd she still held, she added, “I’m now entering the test protocol.” After a moment, she asked, “Is there any change in patient receptivity?”

  “No,” Luluma replied, studying the medical tricorder in her left hand.

  “Computer, adjust modulation point three two seven percent,” Sarjenka said, basing her instructions on the information Soloman had provided about the extremely delicate and precise nature of the communication network linking the reformants’ individual neural mediators.

  Within seconds of the computer implementing the new instructions, the Betrisian on the examination table began to convulse. Sarjenka flinched at the sound of alarms sounding from the table’s adjacent diagnostic monitor just as the man’s eyes snapped open, and he released a blood-curdling shout of shock and pain. She all but jumped backward when his teeth clamped down on his tongue before vomiting dark blood that spewed across his chest.

  “He’s seizing,” Luluma said, her voice panicked. “Reduce the level again.”

  Though Sarjenka issued the proper commands, they did nothing to alleviate the patient’s violent spasms. Before she could attempt another modulation of the carrier wave signal being transmitted to the Betrisian’s neural implant, the man’s body jerked one final time and collapsed in a lifeless heap down upon the examination table. His eyes were open and fixed, staring without seeing up at the lab’s ceiling. The diagnostic monitor emitted an unwavering electronic tone that echoed across the lab.

  “Another overload,” Luluma said, her voice quiet.

  Releasing a frustrated sigh, Sarjenka shook her head. “Computer, reset holographic simulation: Sarjenka One.” In response to her command, the now-dead Betrisian patient shifted in appearance; his pained twisted features melted into an expression of calm, his sprawled limbs returned to their original positions, and the dark blood stain on his chest disappeared. The diagnostic monitor also reset, now producing a quiet steady beep as it resumed tracking a representation of normal Betrisian vital signs.

  “This holographic technology of yours is a gift,” Luluma said, nodding in satisfaction. “I may never cease to be amazed by it. To be able to conduct tests without endangering living patients is truly wondrous.”

  Exhaling a deep breath in growing irritation, Sarjenka said, “It is only wondrous if it helps us find a solution.”

  She registered movement in the corner of her eye and turned to see Dr. Lense emerging from the sickbay’s surgical area. Her stomach bulging beneath her red surgical gown, the doctor looked pale and weary, a consequence of her extended efforts during the past several hours.

  “Doctor?” Sarjenka asked. “Are you all right?”

  Reaching up to wipe her face, Lense nodded. “I’m fine. I wish I could say the same for Banks.”

  Sarjenka frowned. “Her condition hasn’t improved?”

  “It’s better than it was before the four hours of artificial brain tissue engrafts and accelerated critical neural pathway formation she underwent,” Lense snapped, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Did you expect she’d be walking out of here today, Lieutenant?”

  Disturbed by the evident sarcasm in the doctor’s voice and glancing meekly toward Dr. Luluma, Sarjenka noted that Lense had once again addressed her by her Starfleet rank rather than her medical officer’s title—as she had from their first meeting. “No, of course not,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Of course not,” Lense repeated. Sighing in apparent dissatisfaction, she indicated the examination table with a nod of her head. “Have you made any progress?”

  “No,” Sarjenka replied. “We’re still attempting to isolate a means of—”

  “All this time you have nothing?” Lense’s voice echoed across the lab, its volume high enough that Sarjenka nearly flinched in response to the force behind the question. “Are you my assistant, or not? If you can’t—”

  A piercing alarm echoed through the doorway leading to the operating room, and the three doctors turned to see Nurse Sandy Wetzel appear in the entrance. “Dr. Lense!” To Sarjenka, what remained unspoken was obvious: It was Banks.

  Her face tightening with new resolve that was doing its best to cover the fatigue weighing on her features, Lense glared once more at Sarjenka. “I can’t hold your hand now, Lieutenant,” she said as she turned and ran toward the door. “Do something.”

  Watching the doctor vanish into the operating room, Sarjenka felt her mind cloud with the hesitation and self-doubt stirred by Lense’s cutting words. It was an effort to rein in her own emotional response to the abrupt verbal reprimand, even though she knew that much of the anger the chief medical officer had displayed was due to fatigue and the stresses of caring for Banks for nearly a full day. That did little to lessen the sting of what Lense had said to her, and in front of Dr. Luluma to boot. Thankfully, the Lisqual physician elected to remain silent, providing Sarjenka with a few moments to regain her composure.

  She was about to return her attention to her own tasks, when she caught sight of Lense reappearing in the doorway to the surgical theater, followed by Wetzel. Lense cast a weary defeated look in Sarjenka’s direction, but offered no words as she instead turned and walked seemingly without purpose toward her office. Waiting until the doctor was gone, Wetzel made her way across the lab.

  “We lost Banks,” she said, her voice low and soft. “There was too much damage.”

  Despite the limited amount of time she had spent with Banks, Sarjenka still felt a pang of sadness grip her that was stronger than she might have expected. “Is there anything I can do?”

  The blonde nurse shook her head. “No, Doctor, thank you.” Indicating the patient recovery area with her thumb, she said, “I’m going to deactivate the EMH and check on Hawkins.” Without another word, Wetzel left the lab, leaving Sarjenka once more with Dr. Luluma and their holographic patient.

  “Soloman to Dr. Sarjenka,” said the voice of the Bynar engineer as filtered through the ship’s intercom system
.

  Sarjenka’s eyebrows arched as she realized he was contacting her ahead of his next scheduled update. She felt her pulse quicken in anticipation as she tapped her combadge. Had he found something? “Sarjenka here.”

  “Doctor, I’ve succeeded in gaining entry to the global network and tracking down some of Jannim’s final protocols. I’ve also completed a re-creation of the Reformation Ministry’s master database of neural mediator access codes, including those of the Morhenza troops.”

  Sharing a surprised expression with Luluma, Sarjenka replied, “That’s amazing work, Soloman. Are you saying you can pinpoint their location?”

  “Yes,” the Bynar replied. “Several dozen no longer appear to be active, and a cross-reference shows that a comparable number of Morhenza were killed or wounded during engagements with Betrisian military or law-enforcement entities.”

  Her brow furrowing in confusion, Sarjenka said, “Wait. Do you mean to say that even those Morhenza who were wounded suffered damage to their implants?”

  “In a manner of speaking. According to my scans, wounded Morhenza appeared to suffer in a manner similar to what we observed with Jannim, though in these cases the malfunctions weren’t lethal. Instead, their neural mediators seemed to overload, causing their owners to fall into a near coma.”

  “Oh, my,” Luluma said, eyebrows arching as she listened to the report. “That’s interesting.”

  Caught off guard by the comment, Sarjenka turned to regard her companion. “What do you mean by that, Doctor?”

  Shaking her head, the Lisqual physician said, “It is just that I am reminded of something from the war, a problem we encountered with many Morhenza.” At Sarjenka’s prompting, Luluma continued, “You will recall that I told you about how the reformants were conscripted into the war effort. Essentially, their neural mediators were reprogrammed to operate on the same communications network used by the military to transmit information to the implants our soldiers carried.”

  “Yes,” Sarjenka confirmed, remembering Commander Gomez’s reaction and her subtle allusion of Lisqual military forces to the Borg.

  Luluma began to pace the perimeter of the research lab, her hands gesturing to emphasize her points. “The neural mediators used by the military were far more advanced than those employed by the Reformation Ministry. In addition to the training information relayed to the soldiers and instructions they received during combat situations, their mediators also featured a more robust series of behavioral inhibitors that allowed for the suppression of the types of heightened emotions typically encountered on the battlefield. Fear of death, the pain of grotesque wounds, the confusion that would be normal when tactics encounter resistance and have to be modified as the battle evolves, to say nothing of those emotional barriers that might prevent a soldier from performing a duty that runs counter to personal moral codes, all of this was controlled and channeled via the individual soldier’s mediator.

  “What we discovered—far too late for far too many poor souls—was that the mediators implanted into typical reformants proved incapable of dealing with such prolonged emotional stress. While such reactions were rare in military-issue mediators, the overreliance on the behavioral modification qualities of the reformants’ mediators resulted in conscripts being placed in situations for which they lacked the proper emotional preparation.”

  “Of course,” Sarjenka said, nodding in understanding. “Soldiers are trained to survive in battle, to face the prospect of death or injury, and to devalue the lives of their enemy in order to facilitate killing them, rather than hesitating and being killed themselves. The reformants were not.”

  “Not to the extent of our regular military forces, no,” Luluma replied. “We discovered this shortcoming well after the conscription process had begun, and thousands of Morhenza were sent into combat. Hundreds of cases of mediator failure began to emerge. In many of those instances, the resulting neurological damage was massive, even fatal.” Casting a glance downward, the doctor shook her head. “Many of us in the Reformation Ministry argued—begged—for the reformants to be fitted with the military-grade mediators. We were told that it would be too time-consuming and expensive, and that it did not matter. Only reformed criminals were being sent into battle, you see.”

  Disgusted at the notion of the cold heinous treatment by leaders toward those who had been conscripted to defend them, Sarjenka said, “I take it this was something your government was not going to reveal to the Federation?”

  Luluma shook her head. “The information was classified.”

  “Not that it matters now,” Sarjenka countered. “The longer the uprisings continue down there, the greater the chance for escalated violence. With that comes the increased likelihood that those surviving Morhenza will fall victim to neural overload. We have to find a way to get control of this situation now.”

  And then, suddenly, the solution coalesced in her imagination.

  “I think I have an idea,” she said, feeling her heart beginning to race in anticipation. Of course! It’s so simple!

  Assuming Sarjenka could find a way to make it work, of course.

  Chapter

  8

  “Da Vinci,” said Gomez as she tapped her combadge. “We’re in position. Soloman, are you reading us?”

  “Yes, Commander,” replied the Bynar, his voice filtering through the communications channel. “We’re ready to transmit the signal on your order.”

  Nodding at the report, Sarjenka turned to once more study her surroundings. The away team had transported down at one end of a normally well-maintained courtyard at the center of the Gisela city core, using the natural foliage for concealment. The small park was littered with all manner of refuse and debris, evidence of the riots that had ensued earlier in the day. Beyond the courtyard’s boundaries, reformants stood in the streets and on the walkways, unmoving and apparently oblivious to their environs. Only a few Lisqual civilians were visible, most having returned to their homes or places of employment rather than risk inciting further violence.

  The away team’s current vantage point also afforded them an unobstructed view of the target building Sarjenka had chosen for this, the first practical test of the theory she and Dr. Luluma had devised as a means of neutralizing the renegade Morhenza. According to the Lisqual physician, the structure housed the headquarters of the city’s municipal law-enforcement agency. From where she sat, looking over the roof’s parapet, Sarjenka could see dozens of reformants ringing the perimeter of the building. Two additional insurgents, obviously older and both carrying what she recognized as military grade shoulder-fired projectile weapons, stood near the building’s main entrance. According to Soloman, these two were Morhenza, and as things stood now, the scene below her provided the optimum conditions for her test.

  “How sure are you that this is going to work?” Gomez asked.

  The notion she had devised for combating the Morhenza had seemed straightforward at first. Following the information provided by Dr. Luluma about the inferior nature of the reformants’ neural mediators, Sarjenka had hit upon the notion of simulating the effects of prolonged stress and fear that not only had compromised the implants of the Morhenza during the war, but that also had affected those former soldiers now being manipulated by Dolanara’s final set of insurgency protocols. The problem, Sarjenka had discovered, was in triggering such a response without the accompanying neurological damage that had resulted in those instances.

  Studying her tricorder, Sarjenka could only shake her head. “While the computer simulations were most promising, there is always a risk when administering a new regimen to a living test subject, Commander.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t use that sales pitch on the captain,” Commander Corsi said as she and the other member of the away team’s security detail, Makk Vinx, moved across the room to join them. “Otherwise, there’s no way he would’ve approved this test.”

  Sarjenka could only nod in agreement. While she felt it necessary to v
iew the results of the forthcoming test firsthand, it was not a sentiment that Captain Gold or Commander Gomez originally had shared, particularly given what had happened to Leslie Banks and Chief Hawkins. It was only with a great deal of passion and verve as she explained her reasons—her responsibility as a physician to be on hand when the theory she devised was put into play against the Morhenza, as well as her need to be close by if the procedure ended up inflicting further damage—that Gold finally had relented and approved her request.

  There were conditions to that approval, of course. Gomez was in charge of the away team, and Gold also had ordered Corsi and a security detail to accompany them to the surface. The captain had drawn the line at allowing Dr. Luluma to participate in the excursion, unwilling to place a civilian life in potential danger. Also underscoring that recognition of risk was the phaser Sarjenka wore on her hip, the first such time during her brief Starfleet career that she had been issued a weapon for an away mission.

  I won’t need it, she thought, struggling to ignore the hint of doubt she felt. Soloman had succeeded in creating a means of isolating the locations of Morhenza in relation to the rest of the reformants, and Captain Gold had relayed that information to Lisqual governmental leaders. At this moment, military and law enforcement units were moving to the locations Soloman had specified. If Sarjenka’s test worked and the Morhenza’s implants were neutralized, the immediate danger of violence they posed would be contained, and efforts could then be increased to regain control of the remaining reformant community.

  “Why all the fuss, Sawbones?” asked Vinx. “Why not just zap all those boys and put ‘em all on ice?”