Star Trek - TOS 38 Idic Epidemic

by Jean Lorrah

  It felt good to take action, even if only to offer himself in a passive role. In his frustration over the inability to act, Korsal was pure Klingon.

  Warner Jurgens, the council chair, sent the request for help to be transmitted, and the council settled down to the logistics of the new strategy. “We’ll take specimens from all victims entering the hospital,” said Rita Esposito. “Then, when we see which course the disease takes, we’ll use those from people who develop the least violent strain to expose volunteers who have never been ill. If it gives them the lesser illness, then their specimens will be used on others, and while it will be an unpleasant experience—”

  “No! Damn you to Zarth’s lowest hell, Human! You want to kill us all!”

  Keski, the Lemnorian, lunged at Esposito, grasping the startled woman by the throat with one hand while he reached for her tricorder with the other.

  There were no weapons in the council chamber, but the tricorder was a blunt instrument, and Keski had more than enough strength to smash Esposito’s skull with it.

  Everyone at the table moved, but Korsal reached Keski first, grabbing his arm before he could connect.

  Keski shook Korsal off, but his swing was broken.

  Two Human men were trying to pry the Lemnorian’s fingers free from the choking woman’s neck as T’Sael came up behind Korsal and tried to reach Keski’s shoulder for the neck pinch. He was too tall, so she climbed onto his chair, which had returned to its cubic shape.

  The Lemnorian lurched and struggled, and the Vulcan woman missed her grip.

  With a mindless roar, Keski dropped Esposito and swung a punch at Korsal, taking both of them out of T’Saen’s reach.

  The Klingon ducked, saw the tricorder coming at his head, and shifted in the opposite direction.

  Keski brought the instrument down on the table-top. It smashed into shards, one piercing Keski’s own arm. He screamed, and turned just as T’Saen was in position to nerve-pinch him. He backhanded her, but she managed to land on her feet as she fell off the chair.

  Stolos tackled Keski around the ankles and was kicked off like an offending dog.

  Keski brought both hands together, readying for a blow that would smash T’Saen’s head.

  Korsal kicked at the back of his knees, and Keski toppled, falling on top of the Klingon and transferring his fury once more.

  Korsal bounced to his feet and blocked the Lemnorian’s first clumsy blow with his arm, feeling the jolt numb it. With a speed unnatural to his giant race, Keski swung at Korsal with his left fist.

  His back to the table, Korsal couldn’t duck. Instinctively, he tried to roll back onto the table to kick at Keski, but the Lemnorian anticipated him, falling forward against his legs, pinning him as he pulled the punch and instead tried to choke Korsal.

  Korsal grasped Keski’s wrists, managing to hold him long enough that, at last, T’Saen connected, and the unconscious Lemnorian slumped forward on top of the Klingon.

  The others pulled him off. Treadwell, the only physician on the council, already had his medscanner out. He ran it over Esposito, saying, “No serious damage, but I want you in the hospital for observation. Someone call for an ambulance—let’s get Keski into the hospital before he comes to. Korsal—” He turned, recalibrating his instrument, and ran it over the Klingon’s body.

  “No injury except for that hand,” he said, “but…”

  The “but” rang in the council chamber as everyone stopped breathing to realize the implications.

  Korsal raised his hand and stared at the palm. In the struggle, the blister caused by the hot coffee had burst, and he was bleeding. His hand was also smeared with Keski’s orangeish blood. There was no scrubbing down and hoping for the best: he was well and thoroughly exposed to the same strain of the plague that had turned the usually gentle Lemnorian into a raging beast.

  But the held breaths were not for Korsal.

  “Keski had the disease once!” said Stolos. “This means—”

  “—the mutation has developed so far from its original form that immunity to previous strains has no force,” concluded Dr. Treadwell, his face now a pasty white. “We must all go to the hospital immediately, to the isolation unit, and wait out the incubation period.”

  “I will call for more ambulances,” said Therian.

  Korsal got up, thinking of his family, knowing everyone in the room was doing the same.

  Almost everyone.

  They drew apart, each deep in his own thoughts. Korsal went to the window again.

  Borth followed him.

  “Go away,” said Korsal. “You also have a wife and children to think about.”

  The Orion nodded. “Yes—and they will be well cared for for life if what I suspect is true. Every member of this council has caught the plague but you, Korsal—for we are all public servants who could not quarantine ourselves in our homes. Your wife had the disease in its earliest form, but you did not contract it, and—living in the same house—neither of your sons has been ill. Now,” he said, touching Korsal’s injured hand with one blunt finger, “we will know without question whether Klingons are immune.”

  “That won’t do you much good, since Orions are not.”

  “It will as long as I survive—and I am a survivor, Korsal. I don’t know what you are. A traitor, perhaps?”

  “What do you mean?” Korsal stared at the offending Orion, lips pulled back to expose the points of his teeth.

  Borth did not cringe. “If Klingons are immune, you will not inform the empire of thisdisease.”

  “Killing off a planet’s population with disease is not the way Klingons gain territory. We fight, let them defend their homes.”

  “Against immensely superior numbers and weaponry,” Borth said with an oily smile. “And you, Korsal, do not approve—I can see it in your eyes. You’re no Klingon—you’re a weakling like the Humans. But I am Orion, and it behooves me to think what certain factions within the Klingon Empire will pay for this virus—if Klingons are immune.”

  “For the sake of argument, say we prove immune now,” said Korsal. “The way this disease mutates, what is to prevent it from developing a strain fatal to my people?”

  Borth shrugged. “So long as I am well paid, I will take that risk. I am willing to gamble that this bug would take a long time to figure out how to bite Klingons. By that time, I will be far from the Klingon Empire.”

  Korsal glared at him. “You make me illwithout any virus, Borth. You are no scientist, to base your theory on a single case. But if I do become ill, I won’t die. Someone has to be around who knows you for what you really are!”

  Chapter Two

  Captain James T Kirk sat in the command chair on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, feeling rested and alert at a single Earth-normal gravity. During the past month on Vulcan, he had become accustomed to a constant nagging fatigue. By his last days there he no longer took notice of it. Now, though, it was a relief to have it gone.

  On the other hand, he had acclimated somewhat to Vulcan’s summer heat and now felt slightly chilly at the starship’s temperature intended for Human comfort. Perhaps he should wear an undershirt, as Spock did, for a few days.

  Sitting still didn’t help. He decided to tour his ship, glad for an excuse to wander the corridors he had missed while he was away from her. If the activity didn’t warm him up, he’d—

  “Captain!” the intercom blurted, a female voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Kirk here.”

  “Walenski here, sir. Our Vulcan ‘guests’ are making trouble. There’s two of ‘em squaring off for a fight, with deadly weapons!” He heard the tension in her voice, and remembered that part of her duty included assigning the use of the ship’s physical facilities. She was clerical personnel, not security or combat.

  “Where are they?”

  “Deck five, gymnasium A.”

  “On my way!” Kirk told Walenski. “Mr. Spock, you have the con. Call security to the gym.”

  Damn Se
ndet and his crowd, anyway! They were not truly guests aboard the Enterprise, but political prisoners being transported to an uninhabited Vulcan colony planet, where they would be left to work out their own way of life as they saw fit.

  With the exception of Sendet, however, the Followers of T’Vet, as they called themselves, had committed no crimes—because they had been caught before they could put into effect their plans to overthrow the government of Vulcan. The Vulcan High Council had given them a choice of mental reprogramming or transportation off-planet. Under such circumstances, Kirk certainly knew which he would choose!

  When Starfleet ordered the Enterprise to transport the rebels, Kirk had decided there was no reason they should not travel comfortably in guest quarters, as that meant less work for his crew.

  As he understood it, while the Followers of T’Vet espoused a belief in racial purity that Kirk found hard to stomach, their philosophy was otherwise a kind of commonsense belief in survival of the fittest, complementary with many of his own beliefs. He hadn’t expected trouble—certainly not less than two days out from Vulcan!

  Gymnasium A was the large one, with bleachers for an audience to watch the many athletic contests that came up among a young and fit starship crew. It was not intended as an arena for blood games.

  When Kirk arrived, two muscular young Vulcan males were circling one another on the mat. Had they been unarmed, Kirk would have simply joined the spectators, but the two held lirpas, a Vulcan weapon with one end weighted stone, for bashing, and the other end a razor-sharp curved blade, for slashing. Either end could kill.

  “Captain!”

  That must be Walenski—a small woman in red services uniform, seated on the bleachers, surrounded by Vulcan women. “Quiet, Human!” one of them said to her. “The combat is not to be interrupted.”

  “It most certainly is!” Kirk exclaimed, striding between the fighters. “Kroykah!” he shouted, hoping that even to the Followers of T’Vet that word used in ceremonies dating back to Vulcan’s “Time of the Beginning” would mean “Stop!”

  It did. Without protest, the two fighters stopped their circling, backed a few paces from one another, and rested their weapons with the weighted ends on the floor.

  “How dare you profane Vulcan custom!”

  A man rose from among the assembled Vulcans—a man as tall and imposing as Spock’s father Sarek, of the same generation, and with the same air of being accustomed to obedience. Unlike the other Vulcans, who were dressed in what Kirk recognized from his recent stay on their planet as everyday clothing, this man wore robes of a heavy brown material with panels of green fabric running down the front, bearing designs in gold and jewels.

  As the Vulcan spokesman stepped forward, Kirk saw Sendet among the other young men, watching him with the slightest hint of a superior smile. But Kirk kept his attention on the man approaching him.

  The Vulcan was nearly a head taller than Kirk and moved close to him to force the Human to look up. But Kirk had never let that trick intimidate him, from Vulcans, Humans, or anybody else. He stood his ground and replied, “You are not on Vulcan now. You are on my ship, and here my word is law. There will be no combat with deadly weapons aboard ship. You are welcome to use our facilities for unarmed combat, to practice marksmanship in the—”

  “Enough!” the Vulcan said with an imperious wave of dismissal. “Continue the combat.” He turned and strode back to his front-row seat in the bleachers.

  Even though Kirk still stood in the center of the mat, the two fighters hefted their weapons again—it appeared that if he did not get out of their way, they might go right through him.

  But he would not ignominiously scuttle out of their reach!

  Where was security?

  Kirk stood between the fighters, watching their faces. These Vulcans did not believe in Surak’s philosophy. They wanted to live like the ancient Vulcan warrior clans had before they were converted to peace and emotional control. Their eyes showed anger—but also uncertainty. The two fighters were young. It was hard to judge a Vulcan’s age accurately, but both faces had the unmarked quality of youth on the brink of maturity. The look typical of Academy cadets, physically mature, but still growing mentally and emotionally.

  Deliberately, Kirk stepped directly between them, closer to the smaller one, who was wearing a blue loincloth and an amulet of green stones. As he expected, the boy made a lunge toward him, obviously expecting to sweep Kirk aside with the stem of the lirpa and continue his charge against his opponent.

  Instead, Kirk grabbed the lirpa, swung under it, and fell onto his back on the mat. He tossed the boy backward over his head in one smooth motion, dealing a strong kick to his midsection.

  The Vulcan landed hard, the breath knocked out of him.

  Kirk sprang to his feet and faced the other fighter. The second boy, who wore a black loincloth and a headband with a pattern of silver embroidery, did not make his opponent’s mistake. He charged, swinging the blade end of the lirpa toward Kirk—

  “Hold it!”

  When the commanding tones did not stop the lethal charge, the air sizzled with a phaser bolt, and the boy flopped to the mat at Kirk’s feet, stunned.

  Lieutenant Nelson and six other security personnel entered the gymnasium, phasers drawn.

  “Well, you certainly took your time!” Kirk commented.

  “You seemed to have everything under control, Captain,” Nelson replied in his usual laconic style. “What do you want us to do with our misbehaving guests?”

  “That,” Kirk replied, “is up to them. Walenski, come down from there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young woman picked her way down to the mat in obvious relief.

  “Now.” Kirk faced the assembled Vulcans, hands on hips. “Who among you can give a promise that all will adhere to?”

  The older man in ceremonial robes rose again. “I can. I am Satat, war chief of the Clan T’Vin. All other clans represented here have sworn allegiance to mine.”

  “Very well, Satat,” said Kirk, “I will give you one more chance—and if you break your word this time, you will spend the rest of the journey in the brig.”

  “We have not broken our word,” Satat replied with unruffled dignity. “We made no interference with your ship or your personnel. Your personnel interfered with us.”

  Damn. Satat was right. That was the agreement, according to Kirk’s orders from Starfleet: at the captain’s discretion, the Followers of T’Vet could travel as guests so long as they did not interfere with the ship or its personnel. Commodore Bright, who had made the agreement, was a desk jockey who had never commanded a starship. Otherwise he would have added what Kirk had to add now.

  “Your breaking the rules of Starfleet or this particular ship interferes with our personnel.”

  “This combat was scheduled when none of your ship’s crew had booked this arena,” Satat replied. “All your crewperson had to do,” he added with a nod at Walenski, “was to stay out of our way.”

  “Not when she saw you bringing in deadly weapons,” Kirk explained. “The use of such weapons is forbidden in the gymnasium. By restraining Miss Walenski when she tried to stop you, you interfered with her performance of her duty. Now, if you will give me your word that you will abide by all Starfleet and Enterprise regulations, you may continue your journey as our guests.”

  Annoyingly refusing to lose his dignity, Satat replied, “We agree.”

  The intercom beeped.

  Kirk went to the wall unit. “Kirk here.”

  “Spock here, Captain. Can you come to the bridge to accept new orders from Starfleet Command, or shall I record them?”

  “I’ll be right there,” Kirk replied, and left the gym with a word to Nelson to finish up. If it was Commodore Bright with these new orders, this time he wanted to talk to the man!

  Chapter Three

  Commander Spock turned to Lieutenant Uhura, relaying the captain’s message. She spoke quietly into her microphone as the bridge crew waited expectant
ly.

  The Enterprise was under Starfleet orders to transport the Followers of T’Vet to Vulcan Colony Nine, making two stops along the way. At Coriolanus Spock’s parents, Sarek and Amanda, would leave the ship for a diplomatic conference. They would be replaced by the Serbanian ambassador and her party, who were returning home, and at Serbania they would pick up Nurse Christine Chapel, who had spent the time the Enterprise had been under repair in a seminar on the latest advances in emergency nursing. Vulcan Colony Nine was only six days at normal warp speed from Serbania.

  It was unusual for a starship to know such a detailed itinerary in advance. It was not unusual to have plans change at a moment’s notice.

  Captain Kirk swept out of the turbolift, took the command chair from Spock, and said to Uhura, “Lieutenant, open channel to Starfleet Command.”

  Captain Henson of Starbase MI-17, a strictly military installation, appeared on the screen. She was a woman of perhaps fifty, with graying hair in a short no-nonsense style. “Captain Kirk,” she said, “I have new orders for you from Commodore Bright. An epidemic has struck the scientific colony of Nisus. The Enterprise is to return to Vulcan, emergency priority. There you will take on board the healer Sorel, Dr. Daniel Corrigan, Dr. Geoffrey M’Benga, and the xenobiologist T’Mir, along with several assistants and two residents of Nisus.

  “From Vulcan you will transport the experts in interspecies medicine directly to the science colony Nisus. You will leave them, along with Dr. Leonard McCoy from your own staff, at Nisus, and then proceed with the rest of your orders. This is an emergency-priority mission. I have transmitted details directly to your chief medical officer.”

  She attempted a smile, but Spock recognized worry and fatigue behind her brusque facade. “I have other ships to contact, Captain. The Enterprise is the closest starship in the fleet to Nisus, and is fortunately also close to Vulcan, where so many medical experts can be found. Your chief medical officer will brief you on the nature of the emergency. Time is of the essence —there are many lives at stake. Henson out.”