Spock’s tone was one of exaggerated patience. “Admiral Mendez,” he replied, “is head of weapons research.”
“Here.” McCoy handed Kirk an infrared visor and put his own on. They were seated at a terminal temporarily moved in front of quarantine and were peering into the dark chamber where Adams lay, wired up for questioning. The doctor had trusted the job to no one else, insisting on suiting up and doing the job himself. It was difficult to do detailed work in infrared, but Adams’ illness made ultraviolet light impossible; McCoy completed the job with much swearing, and was in a very sour mood by the time he took his seat next to Kirk at the terminal.
“Why the visors?” Kirk asked. “Do we really need to watch him?”
McCoy scowled beneath his visor. “How the hell am I supposed to make a judgment on whether a man is telling the truth if I can’t even see his face?”
“I thought the computer made that decision.” Kirk had the feeling he was wading into dangerous waters.
McCoy rose from his chair and snarled. “The computer can make its decision if it wants, but I’m the one who interprets the results. And I might choose not to agree with it; interpreting a person’s physiological response to questioning is still an art form, regardless of what the programmers would love us to believe. Of course, if you’d rather believe that pile of circuits than me”
“Sit down, Bones,” Kirk said, in a good-natured tone calculated to mollify. He was as anxious about starting the questioning as McCoy.
The doctor sat grumpily.
“Can he see us?”
“No. Even though I’ve dimmed the light out here for him, Too, it dazzles him. He’s pretty much blinded as to what’s going on out here. And I doubt he suspects we can see him.”
Kirk nodded, grateful for the advantage, and put his visor on. Adams lay, threaded to the diagnostic bed by a hundred tiny filaments. His face was still starkly gaunt, but the shock of seeing it a second time was less. In time, Kirk supposed, he could even get used to it.
McCoy held down a control and spoke into the terminal. “Dr. Adams, the computer will begin to ask you questions now.” He released the button and turned to the captain. “We can’t be heard unless we want to be.”
“Please state your full name,” the computer droned in its slightly bored, feminine voice.
“Jeffrey Ryan Adams,” Adams answered. He appeared perfectly relaxed.
McCoy’s eyes remained fixed on the terminal screen in front of him; Kirk’s were fixed on Adams.
“Please state your correct age in standard sols.”
“Forty-one.”
“Please state your place of birth.”
“New Orleans, North America, Terra.”
“Thank you,” the computer answered in flat tones incapable of expressing gratitude. “Please give incorrect answers to the following questions. What is your full name?”
“Vlad the Impaler.” Adams smiled faintly, amused by his choice.
McCoy raised an eyebrow at that; his eyes darted from Adams to the readout.
“Age?”
“A thousand years.”
“Place of birth?”
“Old Earth, Transylvania, outside the town of Bistritz.”
“Thank you.” The computer paused. “Please answer all the following questions correctly, to the extent that you are aware of the information. What is your occupation?”
Adams answered easily, without reflection. “Research microbiologist.”
“What are the names of the other researchers who worked with you on Tanis?”
“Lara Krovozhadny and Yoshi. Yoshi Takhumara, I think it was.”
“Why is Tanis listed in Starfleet’s charts as uninhabited?”
“For security purposes,” Adams said shortly.
McCoy and Kirk looked at each other; McCoy pressed for the intercom. “Dr. Adams, please elaborate.”
“We didn’t want the Klingons or the Romulans to get wind of what we were doing.”
Kirk could not restrain himself. “What were you doing on Tanis, Dr. Adams?”
“Agricultural research,” Adams said agreeably, still perfectly composed, with out a trace of defensiveness. “We’re working on a new plant to be used as food. You’ll remember, Captain, what happened on Sherman’s Planet”
“That’s the second time I’ve been reminded,” Kirk muttered, but McCoy had already switched off the intercom.
The computer stuck to its line of interrogation, unaware of the content of the interruption. “Did you do agricultural research on Tanis?”
“Yes,” Adams said, with the barest hint of smugness. “Yes, I did. High security agricultural research.”
“Did you do any other type of research on Tanis?”
“No.” The answer came quickly. “I did not.”
“Did you know Lara Krovozhadny?”
“I did.”
“How did Lara Krovozhadny die?”
“She was killed.” There was a hint of painful hesitation in the voice, but Adams’ expressio did not alter; it remained relaxed and agreeable, as if he were discussing something pleasant. “Her throat was slit, I think.”
“Did you kill Lara Krovozhadny?”
“No,” Adams said softly.
“The reading,” Kirk hissed at McCoy. “Is he telling the truth?”
“Looks like it.” But McCoy’s expression seemed troubled.
“Did you know Yoshi Takhumara?” the computer asked Adams.
“Yes.”
“How did Yoshi Takhumara die?”
“The same way as Lara. His throat was cut.”
“By whom?” Kirk asked, but Adams could not hear.
“Did you kill Yoshi Takhumara?” the computer queried.
“No,” said Adams. There was a pause, as if Adams found it too painful to answer. “Yoshi killed himself.” And, clearly thinking himself to be invisible, he gave a wide, beatific smile.
“Good Lord.” McCoy glanced down at the terminal screen.
“What does it say?” Kirk demanded, and, when the doctor did not answer immediately, asked again. “What does it say?”
“It says,” McCoy said, his eyes now fixed on the still smiling Adams, “that he’s telling the truth.”
The questioning went on for what seemed to Kirk an interminable period of time, with the computer asking the same questions over and over in a thousand different ways; through it all, Adams remained unrattled. At last, Kirk pulled off his visor and turned to McCoy.
“How did he do?”
“You want the official report?”
“Let’s start with that.”
McCoy set his visor down on the terminal console and rubbed one hand over his eyes and face. “There were some hints of deviation around certain questions, especially the difficult ones, about the deaths and the nature of the research.”
Kirk was irritated. “So you mean he actually failed, then. He’s guilty.”
The doctor shook his head. “Would that it were as simple as all that, Jim. Everyone assumes that the computer can tell who’s lying and who isn’t, without a shadow of doubt. But the problem is, not everyone reacts to lying in the same physiological manner. Some people are better at it than others. Now, the computer can pick out ninety-nine percent of the liars, as long as you feed it accurate data about the person’s cultural background. That’s because most people can’t completely master their anxiety about lying, and the computer picks up on the physiological changes that go with that anxiety.”
“Most people. What kind of people can outsmart the computer?”
“A Vulcan could probably get away with it, if he wanted to. Or a truly insane individual who didn’t know the difference between reality and fantasy.”
“I thought you said Adams wasn’t insane.”
“He’s not. But he could be sociopathic without any conscience or sense of morality. True sociopaths are pretty rare, these days. Of course” McCoy frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe the disease could have something to do wit
h it.”
“Well, I don’t understand,” Kirk said, quite truthfully. “If there were deviations in the readout, why did the computer say he passed?”
McCoy looked down at his readout and sighed. “The computer will tell you that Adams’ reaction was ‘within the bounds of normal physiological response.’ In other words, that he was just nervous about those few questions.”
“Something in your voice tells me you don’t agree with that.”
“I don’t though if I can’t come up with more conclusive results than a gut instinct, everyone will look at the computer readout and they won’t give a damn about my opinion.” McCoy shook his head at the dark chamber in disbelief. “But you saw that smile, Jim. He’s lying. And he’s not insane—just the coldest, sickest devil I’ve ever met.”
Jonathon Stanger stood, hands clasped behind his back like an attentive student, and attempted to keep the humiliation he felt from showing while Security Chief Tomson paced in front of him. A rush of blood warmed his face and pounded in his temples.
He had been three minutes late reporting for duty, the result of another near-sleepless night. When he did manage to drift off, his dreams were of the Columbia and Rosa, and so full of venom that he wakened, furious, his stomach in knots. Further rest was impossible. It had gone on, night after night for nearly a week now.
Last night, he could have sworn he’d given the computer the correct wake-up time, but it never signaled him. He’d wakened in a panic, some subconscious part of his brain alerting him to the fact he’d overslept. He had stumbled into the closet, synthesized a uniform, and slathered on some beard repressor so carelessly that now he feared he might have lost part of his mustache—from time to time, he touched it to make sure it was still all there. Then he’d staggered down to Security without breakfast. He could have tried to blame it on the fact that the Columbia’s circadian cycle was almost exactly opposite the one on the Enterprise but after a week on board, he knew his insomnia had another, deeper cause. And he also knew that Tomson was not the type of commanding officer to listen to any excuses. He offered none.
Stanger’s shame was doubled by the presence of a third party: Ensign Lamia, an Andorian female who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
Tomson came to the end of the invisible line she was walking and turned on her heel to start in the other direction. Stanger took advantage of the break in eye contact to steal another glimpse of the Andorian. Like the other Andorians he had worked with, Lamia was narrower and longer in the torso than a human, and thus taller than most. Unlike the other Andorians he had worked with, Lamia was female.
Her coloring was quite striking: light blue skin against a silky cap of straight, silver-white hair. Not to mention those incredible celery-green eyes. All spring pastels, the colors of an Easter egg basket.
But the red security uniform clashed garishly with the delicate hues. Should have gone into Science, Stanger decided distractedly, in the midst of his suffering. She’d look better in blue. Or maybe the gold of Command He pulled his tired mind away from the ridiculous train of thought—it was beginning to wander from lack of sleep—and directed his full attention to his wounded pride.
Besides, isn’t this how you got into trouble the last time? Rosa’s eyes had been the darkest shade of blue he’d ever seen. In a weak moment, he had lyrically compared them to sapphires. He looked away from the Andorian and forced himself to feel bitter distrust. Competition, and nothing more.
“won’t give you a demerit this time, because you’re new,” Tomson was saying, towering over him icily. The first time he’d seen her, he’d mistaken her for an albino because of her milky complexion and white hair, which she pulled back in a tight bun. Then he’d noticed the pale, pale blue eyes and realized she must have been from one of the winter worlds. Certainly she had a personality to match. She was as light as Stanger was dark, and if the situation had not been so acutely painful for him, he would have perhaps found some humor in the trio’s colorful contrast. He had had a good sense of humor, once. “But this is the first and only time I’ll let you get away with it,” Tomson continued. “By tomorrow, you’d better be completely adjusted to the new schedule. No excuses.”
Stanger narrowed his lips and tried to repress the bitterness welling up in him. It wasn’t a personal sort of hatred. To the contrary, he respected Tomson. She had a reputation as a good security chief, even if she exuded all the personal charm of an iceberg.
It was just that he should have been standing in her place, chewing someone else out instead of being chewed out himself. What Stanger needed, craved, more than anything was a promotion back to his former rank, and now here he was, late his first week of duty. And Tomson had no doubt heard every rumor about him. Stanger’s tardiness had been all that was needed to convince her he was a screw-up. And she was letting him know it, in front of a third party, no less. Stanger felt his lips curl even more tightly.
“Yes, sir,” he answered stiffly, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead so that they would not meet Tomson’s.
“Now, I suggest you and Ensign Lamia report to the transporter on the double, before you’re any later.”
“Yes, sir.” Stanger paused. “About the ensign, sir” He nodded in Lamia’s direction without looking at her. He wanted to make it clear to Tomson right away that he would not only make amends, he would go the extra mile. “I’m capable of handling this without any”
“I said you’re late, Ensign.” Tomson’s sudden sharpness made him close his mouth swiftly. “I can appreciate your desire to make points, but Lamia is going with you. Dismissed.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught the Andorian looking at him and glowered at her without Tomson catching it. He was not aboard the Enterprise to make friends; and if he was going to admire her appearance, he would do so without her knowing about it. The Andorian looked away quickly.
It was not an auspicious start to his tour of duty aboard the Enterprise.
In the transporter room, Kyle stood ready at the controls. Kirk leaned against the console and drummed his fingers lightly as he frowned at the door. The landing party, with the exception of the doctor, had yet to arrive. And in the captain’s mind, the sooner he was finished with Tanis Base, the better.
McCoy knew him well enough to interpret his stance. “It’s okay with me, Jim,” he volunteered. He wore a field-suit unit on his belt, but was waiting to turn it on. “I’m in no hurry.”
Kirk turned his face toward him. “You’d do anything to get out of going down there again, wouldn’t you?” He almost smiled, then frowned at the door again. “Maybe I ought to give Tomson a call”
Stanger rushed through the door, which barely opened in time to avoid a collision. He was flanked by an Andorian whose name Jim tried to remember.
“Sorry, Captain.” Gasping, Stanger came to an abrupt halt in front of Kirk. “I know I’m a minute or two late—and I have no excuse. I can only promise it won’t happen again, sir.”
Kirk eyed him narrowly. By the looks of him, Tomson had already probably already taken care of chewing him out, so there was no point in wasting any more time. “Ensign Stanger, isn’t it?”
It was pure ruse for Stanger’s benefit. Kirk remembered the man all too well. Who could forget, with all the rumors that had followed him on board? A month ago, ex-Lieutenant Stanger had been chief of security on board the Columbia, but had subsequently been demoted to ensign. Kirk himself had read the charge: possession of an illegal firearm. A burning phaser, a particularly cruel weapon that was looked upon with such horror by the Federation that Stanger was swiftly and severely disciplined. Stanger did not contest his demotion. He applied for an immediate transfer, but it was almost three weeks before Command could find another starship willing to take him.
When Stanger’s file came to him, Kirk had noted that other than the one incident, the man’s record was unblemished. “Outstanding” was more like the word for it. Stanger was liked by his fellow officers, respected by hi
s subordinates, given high ratings by his superiors. His psych profile indicated command material. But it was the interview that convinced Kirk that the man deserved a second chance. Stanger politely declined to discuss the incident and convinced Kirk that the whole story had yet to come out. Something was eating away at Stanger.
Besides, there was something about the man Kirk liked—but at this particular moment, the captain wasn’t about to let on. It was still up to Stanger to prove Kirk’s instincts right.
“Yes, sir. Ensign Jon Stanger.” He winced visibly at the word “ensign.”
“Ensign Lamia,” the Andorian said boldly, thrusting a delicate blue hand at him. Her voice was whispery, the sound of the wind rustling through leaves, but she made an effort to project it so that humans could hear. She lowered her head and tilted her antennae toward the captain in a gesture of respect.
“I thought we were keeping exposure to a minimum.” Kirk looked around to catch McCoy’s eye.
“Yes, sir.” Stanger straightened suddenly. “I’d be willing to go alone, Captain. After all, I’ve been down there before. There’s no real need to risk the ensign, too.”
“That’s very noble of you, Stanger.” There was a trace of irony in Kirk’s voice. Stanger was trying much too hard to make points, though you could hardly blame the man for it. “But if only one of you were to go down, why wouldn’t Ensign Lamia be the better choice?”
Judging from the ill-concealed irritation at Stanger in her eyes, the Andorian was more than pleased to agree with Kirk’s line of reasoning. “I probably wouldn’t be affected by anything down there, sir,” she responded without an instant’s hesitation. Stanger gave her a sharp glance, but she kept her eyes innocently fastened on the captain.
“It’s true,” McCoy piped up. He’d been standing silently, watching the exchange. “Her blood’s based on cobalt. It’d be a rare bug that’d be dangerous to us and an Andorian.” He paused. “But Captain, both of them ought to go. Stanger’s already been down there once and knows where everything is, and chances are Lamia’s immune. The faster we get this done, the better. The longer we’re down there, the greater the chance of contamination.”
Bloodthirst Page 4
