by Jean Lorrah
“Take them to sickbay,” came the order. “If they’recarrying the disease, you’ve all been exposed anyway. Stay there, in isolation, until we’re certain Dr. Smythe is right.”
Korsal realized that he and Kevin had been beamed aboard a starship. “This is …Enterprise?” he whispered as he was lifted onto a gurney. He was still numb; he felt no pain.
“Yes,” said the woman. “I’m Dr. Gardens, temporary CMO. You’ll be all right if we get you into treatment before there’s any tissue loss. Mr. Scott, please clear the halls between here and sickbay—just in case the captain’s information was wrong.”
“Aye, lass,” Scott replied. Korsal could hear the announcement echoing from speakers in the halls ahead.
The passage was swift. In sickbay Korsal and Kevin were placed on diagnostic beds, which promptly began to sound alarms. “Arthur!” shouted Dr. Gardens. “I told you to recalibrate these units for Klingons!”
“I’m lookin’ it up, ma’am,” came a voice from the next room. Then a thin young man with curly auburn hair came in with a computer printout sheet. “Sorry, Doctor—never set them for Klingons before, have I?”
Reading from the printout, he quickly made adjustments to the controls, and Korsal’s unit stopped bleeping. Dr. Gardens turned to Kevin with a frown. “My son,” Korsal told her. “He’s half Human. Higher iron and hemoglobin; heart rate normal at eighty per minute, body temperature—” He told them all he knew of his son’s normal vital signs, while the technician made the adjustments. Finally the alarm stopped.
“So far as I can tell,” said Dr. Gardens, “your son is suffering from exhaustion more than anything else. Both of you have severe frostbite, but his hands are worse than yours. Arthur, regeneration units, stat.”
Then she turned to Korsal. “The nurses are going to help you undress, and then we’ll repair those broken ribs. The scanners show that you had some internal bleeding, but it stopped of its own accord. That’s why you’re still alive.”
“Kevin did all the work,” Korsal replied. “That’s why he’s exhausted—he wouldn’t let me move.”
“Good thing,” said the doctor as one male and one female nurse efficiently stripped him. “Otherwise you probably would have bled to death.”
Korsal gave an involuntary moan as the nurses slid his shirt out from under him.
“Pain?” Dr. Gardens asked quickly.
“Good pain,” Korsal replied. “It means I’m still alive.”
She smiled. “Well, let’s see if we can keep you alive but take the pain away.”
Korsal was accustomed to Federation medical techniques, and so was not surprised when Gardens and Arthur positioned a surgical unit over his right side and the dull ache disappeared. He could not see what they were doing, or feel that area of his body, but when Gardens picked up a bone-knitter, he grinned. “Did you know that’s a Klingon design?” he asked.
She held it up. “This? The principle goes back to twentieth-century Earth.”
“Perhaps, but that design, miniaturized and concentrated, was one of the first trade-offs when the Klingon scientific mission came to Nisus. Believe me, we got plenty in return.”
“Good horse traders, eh?” asked Arthur.
“You know what they say,” Korsal replied, “sharper traders than Vulcans bargaining over the price of kevas and trillium!”
In the midst of Korsal’s surgery, Kevin woke up. “Father?” he cried out, sitting up and looking around blindly.
Korsal could not move, but he said, “It’s all right, Kevin. We’re both safe. Lie still.”
“Where are we?”
Two nurses were already at Kevin’s side. “Aboard the Enterprise,” one of them told him. “You need immediate attention, but you’re going to be fine, and so is your father.”
When the surgery was finished, Korsal’s hands and feet were encased in regeneration units, as were Kevin’s. By that time, they were both recovered enough to be hungry, and the nurses fed them juice and soup and then left them to sleep. Both were still weak; sleep came quickly.
They were wakened at times, to be poked and prodded, examined, fed, and otherwise cared for, but most of the time they slept. Korsal could not have said how long this procedure went on, except that he sensed that it was more than a day, ship’s time —possibly two or three. In his drug-numbed state, he could not calculate how long that was in Nisus time.
Then, suddenly, Korsal was brought wide awake and fully alert by an alarm. It didn’t sound in the patient-care areas of sickbay, of course, but it was still loud enough to waken anyone asleep rather than unconscious.
The siren sounded alone for a few seconds, and then a voice joined in the clamor.
“Red alert! Red alert! Security to engineering! All hands, red alert! Intruders in engineering! Red alert!”
Korsal sat up, realizing that during his most recent sleep he had been freed of restraints. He flexed his hands, finding that they looked and felt normal. When he stretched, there was no more pain in his side.
In the next bed, Kevin was also awake, but his hands were still encased in the regeneration units. “What’s going on?” he asked, and Korsal could hear from the slur in his voice that he was still on medication.
“Nothing that concerns us,” Korsal told him. “Just lie still—you’re still healing.”
From the outer room he heard cursing, in a voice he recognized as that of Mr. Scott—the man who had operated the transporter. Then, obviously shouting into the intercom, “What’s goin’ on doon there? Who’s muckin’ about with my engines?”
Chapter Nineteen
On the day their unexpected Klingon guests were beamed aboard and isolated in sickbay, Spock left the bridge at the end of his watch in search of his parents. As usual, they were not in their quarters. He found them in one of the recreation rooms, where some off-duty crewmembers were putting on an impromptu performance. “Get your harp and join us, Mr. Spock,” said Lieutenant Uhura when she saw him in the doorway.
“Yes, Spock,” said Amanda, “please do.”
It would have created more of a scene to refuse than to agree, so Spock went to his quarters for the instrument and returned to the rec room.
Uhura was singing, accompanied by Ensign Paschall on the violin. It was a sad love ballad, leaving all the Humans in the room teary-eyed.
When it was over, Paschall began to play his instrument like a “fiddle,” breaking into a lively dance tune. Several people jumped up to dance, while everyone else clapped hands in time to the music—except, of course, Spock and Sarek.
Spock caught his father watching him and knew Sarek was wondering why they were still in orbit around Nisus. Fortunately, the music and laughter drowned conversation.
When it ended the dancers sat down, flushed and panting. Uhura urged, “Play something Vulcan, Mr. Spock.”
“I bow to my father’s talent,” Spock replied quickly, and handed the lytherette to Sarek.
But the ploy did not gain him more than half an hour. Sarek graciously played several selections suited to Human aesthetics and auditory range. But then, despite the protests of a genuinely appreciative audience, Sarek said, “I’m afraid there is something I must discuss with my son. Amanda, please stay and enjoy the performance.”
Spock saw his mother’s blue eyes flash—she seldom responded positively when Sarek took an authoritarian tone—but then she put on her most gracious air and replied, “Certainly, my husband. I will meet you in our quarters, later.”
And Spock knew that ten minutes thereafter she would have out of Sarek everything Spock was about to tell him. It was useless to try to shield Amanda anyway, although both her husband and her son instinctively desired to do so.
However, as they walked down the corridor toward Spock’s cabin, Sarek opened the conversation by asking, “Why was the corridor outside the transporter sealed off this afternoon?”
“What were you doing there?” Spock asked.
“We had research from the Ac
ademy to beam down, and your mother wanted to bid farewell to our friends. Everyone who beamed down today is risking death.”
“I know,” Spock replied. “However, it was thirty-one-point-three-seven minutes after the last beam-down that the corridor was sealed.”
They had reached Spock’s cabin. As they entered, Sarek said, “How can you live among Humans and not know their idiosyncrasies? After the beamdown, people remaining aboard lingered outside the transporter room, talking, expressing concern for those who had left. There is a conference room nearby, and everyone without pressing duties went in—except Sendet, who undoubtedly perceived that he was not welcome.”
“Sendet? What was he doing there?” asked Spock.
“Did you not observe the interest he took during the voyage in the woman T’Pina? And have you not noticed the imbalance between men and women among the Followers of T’Vet? In Sendet’s generation there are three males for every two females … and Sendet is unbonded.”
Spock swallowed convulsively. The unbonded males among the Followers of T’Vet were also risking death; in fact, given the imbalance Sarek had just mentioned, one in three was under sentence of death. At this point, they simply did not know which ones.
As the males reached pan fan, they would have to mate …or die. All the available women would soon be bonded, leaving a third of the men without mates, battling for their lives. There were no other communities on Vulcan Colony Nine from which women could be enticed or stolen; the Challenge would become a way of life from the first day an unbonded male entered pan fan.
“So,” Spock said, “Sendet tried to the very last moment to persuade T’Pina to bond with him and join him in exile.”
“That is correct,” said Sarek.
“But she refused.”
“Also correct. She is an intelligent young woman. It is unfortunate that you did not have the opportunity to gain closer acquaintance with her, Spock.”
Deliberately, Spock refused to feel annoyance. He knew Sarek was expressing only concern. “I have time, Father.”
“And I will never again try to force a choice upon you, Spock. But you still have not told me why the corridor was cleared.”
“Most of the crew do not know, Father. By the time it is necessary to tell them, we will be certain that there is truly no danger.”
“Then you did beam something aboard.”
Sarek’s mind was too quick to fool. When Spock hesitated, he added, “Amanda and I were among the last to leave the conference room. We had to share the turbolift with Sendet after the others had gone ahead. While we were waiting for a car to arrive, we heard the order to clear the corridor. Since we were leaving the area, it was no inconvenience.”
“Yes,” Spock told him. “In fact, we beamed two people aboard—but according to the best information Nisus can supply, they are not carriers of the Nisus plague.” He explained the nature of their unexpected hospitality.
“Klingon scientists,” said Sarek. “Intriguing. I should like to meet them.”
“We know that the incubation period of the plague is between sixteen and forty-eight hours; we cannot leave orbit now for two days. Everyone who came in contact with the Klingons is isolated in sickbay. If no one becomes ill in that time, it is correct that Klingons neither contract nor carry the plague, and it will be safe for you to visit them.” Spock frowned.
“You said Sendet did not go into the conference room with you.”
“He did not. He must have remained in the transporter room or the corridor, for he was there when we left.”
“Then,” said Spock, “Sendet is our most likely suspect.”
“Suspect?” asked Sarek.
“Mr. Scott discovered that something was beamed up from Nisus—before he beamed up the Klingons. I wonder … what could be so important for Sendet to get from Nisus that he would risk illegal use of the transporter?”
“And exposure to the plague,” added Sarek.
“Unlikely. The epidemiologists have ascertained that, although deadly, the virus is short-lived outside its host. That was in the last report we received, less than two hours before entering orbit.
“The plague does not appear to be transmitted on objects or clothing, unless they are touched within minutes of contact with a contagious person. Airborne, it dies in the same time unless it finds a suitable host. Contagion, unfortunately, occurs well before the carrier exhibits symptoms. So there is a slight chance that if whoever handled what was beamed to Sendet was unknowingly contagious, and he touched it immediately before it was beamed … it could have been contaminated.”
Spock reported what his father had told him to Captain Kirk, who immediately called Sendet to the briefing room.
“What did you beam up from Nisus?” Kirk demanded.
“Nothing,” Sendet replied. “What would I want from there?”
“That’s what we want to know,” Kirk told him. “You endangered this whole ship—”
“If I had, which I deny, would it be any more than you have done by beaming Nisus residents aboard?”
“Spock—I thought you had corrected that security leak!”
“Affirmative, Captain. However, I might point out that sickbay is crowded with people who are not ill, and are annoyed at being confined. They are not under arrest, and so are not denied access to the intercom system—”
Kirk glared at the ceiling for a moment. The news was undoubtedly all over the ship by now.
“If you know that,” Kirk said to Sendet, “then you know that the people we beamed aboard are not carriers. That does not change the fact that you beamed something up.”
“I did not,” Sendet said flatly.
Kirk glanced at Spock with a frown. Spock had to agree: the man did not appear to be lying.
“Would you care to search my cabin?” Sendet offered. “Perhaps you can locate this mysterious object you think I beamed aboard.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Kirk. “Whatever it was, it’s obviously not in your cabin. You may go.”
When Sendet had left, though, he looked at Spock. “I am very tired,” he said. “I got the feeling that I just couldn’t think of the right question to ask. Something happened in the transporter room; Scotty doesn’t misremember how he left the controls, and Sarek wouldn’t be wrong about finding Sendet skulking about the corridor after everyone had beamed down. Damn! If I stick him in sickbay now, I have to put myself in, too, and you, your parents, anyone who’s been near Sendet since the mysterious beam-up.”
Spock shook his head slowly. “It is not feasible, Captain, and it is too late even if it were. We have nowhere to confine so many—and we cannot filter and decontaminate the air for the entire ship as we do for sickbay. If Sendet brought the virus aboard, and it found a host, it is in the ventilation system by now. We seem to have no choice except to wait out the next forty-eight hours.”
Chapter Twenty
It was only twenty hours later that the first case of the Nisus plague appeared aboard the Enterprise.
Spock had the con, maintaining synchronous orbit over the science colony on Nisus, when the turbolift doors opened to admit Amanda.
“Mother? What can I do for you?” he asked in surprise. Passengers were allowed on the bridge by invitation only.
She stared as if she were confused to see him there. “Spock? What are you doing in that uniform? Oh, Spock, what have you done? Your father—”
Spock pulled his lips between his teeth with the effort not to show emotion. Amanda’s eyes were glazed, her words an echo of that long-ago day when he had told his parents of his decision to make a career in Starfleet … after which Sarek had refused to talk to him for eighteen years.
“It’s all right, Mother,” he said calmly. “Nothing is wrong.” He had to get her to sickbay, for either this was the first symptom of the plague, or his mother was suffering a stroke. In either case, he had to keep her calm.
“What do you mean, nothing’s wrong?” she demanded. “Sarek
wants you to follow in his footsteps at the Vulcan Academy!”
Everyone on the bridge turned to look at mother and son, and Spock could feel their sympathy, a palpable wave encompassing him. They didn’t know Amanda’s babbling could be a plague symptom, didn’t understand the danger to themselves.
“Please, Mother,” said Spock, “let’s go some place where we can discuss it. Mr. Sulu, you have the con.”
Spock got up, trying gently to guide Amanda toward the turbolift—just as the doors opened and Sarek stepped out. “Amanda!” he exclaimed. “Why did you—?”
Suddenly Spock’s normally gentle, restrained mother became a fury, leaping at her husband with a shriek, raking her nails down his cheek.
Caught completely off guard, Sarek gasped “Amanda!”—his face showing every nuance of horrified realization.
But Amanda was shouting, “How can you do that to him? He’s your son! You can’t disown your own flesh and blood!”
This time Sarek caught the flailing fists as his wife sought to strike him. Spock came out of his momentary shock and grasped Amanda’s shoulder for the nerve pinch.
Sarek swept her into his arms as she collapsed, and strode into the turbolift, Spock following. “Sickbay,” Spock instructed, and then punched the intercom. “Dr. Gardens, the plague is aboard. Segregate everyone already there. We’ll come in through Entrance C—straight into the isolation unit.”
When the doors opened, Sarek carried Amanda out. Spock lingered in the turbolift only long enough to instruct the computerized system to take that carriage off-line until it had been sterilized.
A futile effort, he thought, seeing people in the halls, the warning to clear them blaring now, too late. And everyone on the bridge had been exposed. He had to call the captain, have the bridge crew isolated, send in a decontamination crew before another shift could take over—
