As beads of sweat began to appear on her brow, Klass momentarily regretted having sent her two nurses out of sickbay, or at least not having donned a surgical cap. She willed herself to ignore the creeping droplets, steeling her concentration to remain focused on the task before her. The stopper successfully extracted, she moved the vial over to the left side of the chamber, where a sample slide was already prepped and waiting. With infinite patience, she tilted the vial, allowing a few grains of the white powder to spill onto the slide.
From what she understood, those white grains had been part of a woman of undetermined alien origin not so very long ago. Sulu had said that she’d turned into the crystalline powder right before his eyes. Klass hoped, for his sake—and for the sake of the rest of the crew whom Styles had quarantined on Galdonterre—that the cause was not the Omega IV virus, as was feared.
She liked Sulu, and had found him charming and gentlemanly from the time they had first met, when he had come in for his initial routine physical. She had read in his file that he had originally been a physicist; as she was examining him, she asked why he had transferred from the sciences to helm duty aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise.
“There’s more action in the driver’s seat,” he had responded jokingly. “I’ve never been happy cooped up in an office or a laboratory. I’d rather apply sciences directly, or test theoretical physics. Besides, if you knew Mister Spock and Doctor McCoy, you’d know that there wasn’t room on that ship for a third scientific opinion.”
“Oh, I know Leonard,” Klass had said. “Smartest Georgia farm boy ever to make it offworld. I studied at St. George’s University in London; when he came over for a semester as an exchange student from the University of Mississippi, he made himself known to every unattached girl on campus…and several attached ones as well.”
Seeing Sulu’s incredulous look, Klass had laughed. “You probably don’t think of Lenny as being a lothario, do you? Well, I don’t know how successful he was with others, but he wasn’t exactly my type.”
“Are you still on good terms with him?” Sulu had asked.
“Well, I haven’t talked to him in ages, but I’d be happy to throw back a pint or two with him if the opportunity ever came up. I remember his tastes ran to Tennessee whiskey and mint juleps.”
She had studied him for a moment, a realization suddenly dawning on her. “In answer to your unspoken question, yes, I would associate with Lenny, despite what certain others in the command hierarchy of this ship might feel,” she said, pointing to the ceiling, several decks above which was the bridge.
Klass had leaned in closer, confiding in Sulu. “I’ve served on a host of different ships, Commander, and one thing I’ve learned in all that time is that those in command break down into a few camps. There are: number one, the ones who want to be friends with their crews and have adventures; number two, the ones who want to command their people and don’t much care about interpersonal stuff nor much of anything else that’s fun; and number three, those who are an awkward combination of both styles. Currently, Excelsior has a number two,” she said, smiling. “But if you do a good job, and stay away from your previous CO’s cowboy tendencies, you should be okay.”
In the three weeks or so since that day, Sulu had dropped in to see Klass numerous times, not for medical reasons, but just to chat. They were fast on their way to becoming good friends; this burgeoning camaraderie now helped guide Klass’s hand as she began her examination of the dead woman’s remains for pathogens.
The slide clicked into place under her isolated scanner, and Klass gently restoppered the vial. She wanted to clear Sulu and the others to return to the ship as quickly as possible, but she also knew that any error in her findings could cause potentially irrevocable damage and bring death to everyone aboard Excelsior.
Not much pressure at all, she thought with a grim smile. Still, in her forty-three years as a physician—thirty-seven of which she had spent on various starships—she’d faced pressure before. And she had always come through somehow.
Of course, there’s always a first time for everything….
Styles frowned and leaned forward in his chair, moving marginally closer to the small comm terminal that was mounted in the center of the conference room table. Because the incoming message was on one of the audio channels, the terminal’s screen was now dark. “Would you mind repeating that, Commander? I’m not certain I heard you correctly.”
“We can’t leave here without knowing exactly what killed that woman,” Sulu said, his voice slightly muffled but more directed, as if he had brought the communicator directly up to his lips. “And I’d prefer not to shout about subjects that might be classified.”
“Whatever you’ve just done seems to have helped the situation,” said Cutler, who was seated to the left of Styles. “So, please repeat what you just said, as the captain asked.”
There was a pause before Sulu spoke again, and Styles imagined he could hear his first officer’s teeth grinding. “The woman told me that the person who…owned her was planning an attack on the Korvat peace conference.”
“Did she provide you with any proof?” Cutler asked.
“You mean other than the fact that she knew exactly where the Federation and the Klingon Empire would be holding their top-secret talks? No. She didn’t have time before she died. She did say that this was only part of this person’s plans. Hinted that he was planning other attacks aimed at disrupting any peace between us and the Klingons.”
Styles rubbed one hand over the end of the swagger stick he habitually kept tucked under his arm. “Any thoughts on who this theoretical adversary is?”
“No clue. Other than that he is an albino and that he has a crew of pirates and slaves working with him. And that he seems to be very well versed in viral weapons.” Sulu hesitated for a moment before adding, “She did mention that he wanted to disrupt any peace that might develop between our people and his. That may imply that he’s a Klingon.”
Cutler gave Styles a surprised look. “An albino Klingon?” she whispered. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“It’s a big universe,” Styles murmured.
“Will you be notifying Starfleet, sir?” Sulu asked.
“I’m certainly considering it, Commander,” Styles said. “I’ll have some of the crew search for any records of an albino Klingon, and Cutler and I will do a risk assessment based on whatever data we’re able to compile.”
“It’s unfortunate you weren’t able to get more information from the woman before she died,” Cutler said.
There was another pause, longer than the last, before Sulu came back on the comm. “Yeah, shame that she had to die on me so suddenly while warning us of a potential threat. What poor manners.”
That’s the kind of smart-ass attitude that proves you’re not a team player, Styles thought, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. He held up his hand, signaling the equally irritated Cutler not to respond to the sarcasm.
Then a beep from the tabletop comm unit spared them from any further unpleasantness.
“Klass to Captain Styles,” intoned another voice.
“Commander Sulu, I have to break this off,” Styles said. “Apparently Doctor Klass has found something. Let’s hope it doesn’t ruin the rest of everyone’s day. Styles out. Go ahead, Doctor.”
“Good news,” Klass said. “I’ve managed to isolate the virus that killed the woman in the bar. While it does appear to be a strain of the Omega IV contagion, the organism has been genetically tailored in a very specific manner. It’s difficult to tell whether it was altered to affect this woman specifically, or to target her specific familial genetic code, or even her entire species.”
“So what does that mean for our people, Doctor?” Cutler asked. Styles knew that she would never acknowledge it, but she was rather fond of Darnell Renyck, the ship’s transporter chief. Were shipboard romances allowed on Excelsior, Cutler and Renyck might have pursued one, but Styles felt that such romances were counterprodu
ctive, and had banned them in no uncertain terms.
“It means that the odds are astronomically against this virus having any affect on any member of Excelsior’s crew, or even anyone else on Galdonterre. From what I can tell of the woman’s DNA, she belonged to no species we’ve encountered to date. Certain genetic markers show superficial similarities to some Alpha Quadrant species, but there are no direct links. If anyone else were at risk, it would have to be someone who belongs to her species…and even that wouldn’t guarantee an infection.”
“So, to be clear, Doctor, Mister Sulu’s team can return to the ship?” Styles asked.
“In my medical opinion, yes.”
“Very good, Doctor. I still want you to inform the ruling factions of Galdonterre of the possible contamination. If there’s any chance, however remote, that this single bizarre death might presage a spread into other border worlds and into Federation space generally, we would have a true calamity on our hands.” Since Galdonterre was essentially a lawless outpost world, there were multiple ruling factions, each in charge of its own embattled frontier fiefdom; Styles didn’t relish the idea of speaking to each of them individually, but he knew it had to be done.
“Already handled, Captain, even though it probably wasn’t really necessary. Before I buzzed you, I asked Lieutenant Spiro to run a scan on the planet to see if there were any genetic matches with the dead woman present anywhere on the globe. She found nothing.”
Cutler frowned. “The Omega IV virus is nothing to fool with, Doctor. I’m still a bit uncomfortable with the odds. It puts us all at risk if we beam aboard personnel infected with this virus. Captain, I recommend we place the shore party in isolation for the next day or so, at least until the medical department has had a chance to study this a little further.”
“That seems a reasonable precaution. Doctor?”
“I’ll make the arrangements, Captain. Klass out.”
Cutler folded her arms. “What are we going to do about these rumors about the Korvat conference?”
Styles sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Put it in the logs for now. I’m sure Mister Sulu will feel more than justified taking it further once he returns to the ship.”
“Not without your permission, he won’t.” There was a flicker of fire in her eyes.
Styles cocked his head and studied his second officer for a moment. “Meredith, don’t mistake my annoyance with Sulu’s past for a disregard of his abilities. I don’t have to like the man to know that he’s a good officer. More than that, he is an Excelsior officer. If I cannot trust my own people to be efficient, then I’ve picked a poor crew to captain.” Styles saw no point in mentioning that Sulu’s posting as Excelsior’s exec was at least as much Starfleet’s decision as it was his own. Regardless, the last thing Styles needed right now was for his difficulties with Sulu to create problems for anyone else in the crew.
Chastened, Cutler nodded. “Understood, sir.”
“I’ll leave it to you to get everyone back on board then,” Styles said, standing and adjusting the swagger stick that was tucked under his arm. “I’ll be up on the bridge.”
Word that the shore party was cleared for return to Excelsior came just as the dead woman’s remains were being discreetly transferred to a crystal vase. Schulman had purchased the vase at a local market as a souvenir; it was now the dead woman’s urn.
Back aboard Excelsior, Sulu had briefed Styles again, through the force field that kept his group in the sickbay isolation ward. He had spoken with Dr. Klass only briefly so far, but what he had heard about the virus concerned him greatly.
“What if this group is planning to direct a customized biological attack against Korvat?” Sulu had asked Styles. “They could direct it against the Federation delegates, or the Klingons, or any others who are present. That kind of disruption could cause chaos in the peace efforts.”
Styles, surprisingly, had been receptive to Sulu’s ideas, though skepticism had seeped in around the edges. Sulu didn’t blame the captain for that. The evidence was admittedly scanty and speculative; there was little to go on other than a brief conversation with a now-dead woman and the viral traces that Dr. Klass had found within her remains.
“Until we obtain further information,” Styles had said, “I don’t want to raise the alarms. Few enough people know of these peace talks anyhow. If we stir up a lot of general paranoia within Starfleet or the Federation Diplomatic Corps, or among the Klingons, we risk turning a vague warning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Before Sulu could reply, Styles had held up one hand. “That said, I will send an advisory message to the U.S.S. Saratoga and Captain Margaret Sinclair-Alexander. They are transporting Ambassador Sarek and his diplomatic staff to Korvat for the conference. Perhaps they will be able to consult further on this matter. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.”
An hour later, Sulu lay on a foldaway bunk, tossing and turning. Too much had happened today to let him get to sleep easily, his exhaustion notwithstanding. And yet he knew he would need his rest.
If today was the warning shot, then the skirmish will be just around the corner, he thought. It had occurred to him that the woman could have been allowed to escape, and might even have been sent to her death, deliberately.
Finally, unable to quiet his thoughts, Sulu padded over to a table and retrieved a hypo that had been left there by one of Dr. Klass’s hazmat-suited nurses. He pressed the cool metal device to his neck and injected the sleeping agent it contained with a slight hiss. By the time he reached his bunk, he was already feeling his limbs and mind becoming heavy with impending slumber.
But even as Sulu drifted into dreams, he felt something wicked and strange yet familiar bubbling its way up inexorably from somewhere below the level of consciousness. Against the onrushing darkness, he saw a chalk-white form moving toward him, pitiless and implacable.
And then, for the first time in decades, the white thing invaded his dreams.
FIVE
2248
Ganjitsu
Hikaru Sulu had heard and read stories about Klingons all his young life. He’d seen photographs and holos of them as well, and often dreamed about meeting one face-to-face someday.
He just hadn’t expected such a thing to happen with so little warning, and before he’d even reached his twelfth birthday.
What would Captain Hunter do in this situation? he asked himself, then immediately decided it was a silly question. If Hunter were here, she would leap out of hiding with hand lasers blazing, and all the guns and resources of the border ship Aerfen at her back. He assumed that Aerfen must be busy patrolling some other trouble spot along the Klingon border right now—otherwise, Hunter surely would have stopped the Klingons before their landing craft had gotten within twenty klicks of Ganjitsu’s surface.
Crouching silently behind a bent air-conduit screen from which he could watch the intruders unobserved, young Hikaru had an unobstructed view of the entryway to his mother’s lab. He noted that some of the raiders who had forced their way into the family compound didn’t much resemble any Klingon image he’d ever seen or imagined. The facial hair and the bushy, upswept eyebrows looked right, but their foreheads were very different, almost as though they were merely humans who were made up to resemble Klingons for a Halloween party.
The apparent leader of the small raiding party looked odd as well, but in a way entirely different from the other four rough men who seemed to be doing his bidding. While the leader’s forehead had the strange rippled texture that Hikaru had always associated with Klingons, the man’s chalky skin was nearly as pale as the first snow of Ganjitsu’s northern winter. He was also built far more slightly than the burly men who surrounded him; only the deference these brutes seemed to display toward the albino—or was it fear?—identified him as the one in charge.
“The woman said we’d find the lab in here, Qagh,” said one of the albino’s bushy-browed men, who held a wicked-looking pistol before him.
Woman? Hikaru
thought, panic swiftly rising in his chest, though he somehow managed to remain quiet and still in his small hiding place. Mom!
When his mother and father had burst into his room and told him of the coming raid—Dad had said that Ishikawa Village’s sensor station had identified them as Klingon raiders, whose predations were not uncommon on border worlds like Ganjitsu—they had told him to hide, and quickly. The notion that his parents either had not managed to hide themselves in time, or had been found by the raiders, terrified him.
As did the realization that the Sulu family’s very survival might now be entirely up to him.
“This is an agronomy lab?” said the white-skinned raider, his voice tinged with disgust as he craned his narrow neck in an evident attempt to survey everything in the room before walking out of Hikaru’s narrow line of sight. The pirate leader’s guttural language—Border Klingonese?—was evidently being rendered into intelligible Federation Standard by the universal translator built into the lab’s security system.
Even without the benefit of the automated translation matrix, Hikaru had a pretty good notion of why the pirate leader sounded so disappointed; if the raiders had expected to find a greenhouse full of live, growing things, then they were clearly looking in the wrong place. Shimizu Hana Sulu, Hikaru’s mother, did mostly theoretical bioengineering work, guiding the creation of new strains of Earth crops capable of thriving on this heavily forested colony world, while at the same time not threatening the existing biosphere by becoming invasive. Therefore, her primary workspace bore a closer resemblance to the Spartan study where Dad wrote poetry and worked out abstruse equations in subspace astrophysics than it did to any of the fifty-odd living, working greenhouses that dotted the verdant wilderness of Ganjitsu’s northern hemisphere.
Star Trek®: Excelsior: Forged in Fire Page 6
