Star Trek (3 page)

TRANSCRIPT ENDS

For what it's worth, I think I see a trend—there's a certain theme of guilt over unearned rewards. She feels she didn't deserve to be valedictorian, and she feels she didn't deserve to live when so many others on her ship didn't.

Of course, this doesn't give me any idea what to
do
about it.

I'm not sure how much more I can do here, other than just listen to her vent. She either has to make changes on her own, or with the help of people much more qualified than myself. And doing that may only make things worse.

“J
ubilee, you are a bad influence.”

“Coming from you, Doctor, that is a compliment. Don't tell me you've never slipped a patient sweets before.”

“Yes, but I keep it to one a patient. You spoil them. Just because ‘Candy Striper' is a term for volunteers doesn't mean you have to go overboard.”

“Well, the kids look so cute when they sniffle. I can't help myself.”

“At this rate, we're going to run out of candy.”

“Dr. Tyler, that's not because I'm handing out too much candy per child.”

“I know. Have we gotten any of the lab results back?”

“They should be done by now. Let me finish my tea and I'll check.”

“Never mind, Jube. I'll get it. How's your throat?”

“Getting sorer. I don't know what I caught from those kids, but it's a dilly.”

“You could take an extra hour off and get a nap, you know.”

“No, you're shorthanded enough as it is. This bug has already laid up half the medical staff, and you're getting more people checking in. This is a bad one, whatever it is.”

“I hear you. Well, we do what we—”

“Attention. All available staff personnel please report to the operating amphitheater at once.”

“Any ideas, Doctor?”

“Not a one.”

* * *

Dr. Ambrose stood in the operating theater, looking up at the half-full gallery. He noted ruefully that the number of people in the room wasn't going to get any larger—
it's only going to get smaller from here,
he thought to himself.

He addressed the room. “Thank you all for coming. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a dire emergency on our hands.”

A picture flashed on the screen. “This was Abraham Auerbach. He came to Sherman's about two months ago from Earth, according to Customs. He was brought into the hospital three days ago, complaining of severe chest pains, stomach cramping, coughing, and vomiting blood. He'd been suffering from what he thought was a very bad cold for the last three weeks. He died twenty-three hours ago of severe sepsis with multiorgan failure, primarily in the lungs. Our autopsy revealed many of the organs were necrotic.” Dr. Ambrose flicked to images of the organs. A quiet rumble could be heard from the upper decks.

“There is no immediately apparent explanation for this. He had a clean bill of health when he came to the planet. There have been twenty-seven additional cases from all over the world admitted with similar symptoms two days ago. We have had an additional one hundred and fifty-seven cases admitted today. We—” and he started to cough a dry, hacking cough that exhausted him. The audience looked on, ashen-faced. “We have no idea precisely what this is. It doesn't match anything on file. None of the patients are developing any antibodies.

“Auerbach is currently being designated as the Index Case, our Patient Zero, although that may change as other reports come in. But the real problem is—it's already spread. The new reported cases aren't centered geographically around Auerbach. We have no hard data on how it's spreading nor on its ability to spread—although, to be fair, there's enough transporter traffic that if it got into a transporter and the biofilters don't catch it, it could be all over Sherman's.”

Dr. Tyler called out from the gallery. “There's another ‘but' there, John. I can hear it in your voice.”

Ambrose looked up at the gallery. “Yes. Look around you, all of you. How many of your colleagues called in sick today? How many of you know people outside the hospital who are under the weather? How many of
you
are feeling it, too?”

A murmur went around the gallery.

“Yes. It's not just here. There's a twenty percent absenteeism from schools today. I assume there are similar numbers in the workplace. Ladies and gentlemen, it is quite possible that we are all infected. Every last man, woman, and child on the planet.”

Captain's Log, Stardate 53663.8.

I have invoked a planetary quarantine. No ship—nothing is getting on or off Sherman's Planet.

The planet's population has been overcome by a malady that Dr. Lense has taken to calling “Sherman's Plague.” It is wildly contagious, and right now it appears that at least seventy percent of the planet is showing early symptoms of exposure. Five hundred and thirty-two people have shown advanced signs. We have reason to believe that it's quite possible that every human on the planet has been infected by it. It's not impossible that it's spread to every mammal. We honestly don't know yet.

What we do know is that things are chaotic on the planet surface. Many essential services were becoming short-staffed due to the illness, and now panic is setting in. Doctors and nurses are leaving hospitals. Local militias have been called up from reserves, a state of martial law has been declared by Planetary Administrator Orosz. All schools and businesses have been closed, transporter usage has been forbidden, people have been told to stay in their homes and rely on replicators. Most of our crew down on the planet has taken over running power stations, communications, computer systems, and security logistics, because so far they haven't been afflicted with symptoms. They're rising to the challenge, but I don't know how long thirty-five people can keep a colony of three and a half million people running.

Particularly hard hit has been the medical infrastructure of the planet. Due to the nature of the disease, the doctors and hospitals were at the front line treating the early cases, and so became very quickly infected themselves. People went to hospitals with the early symptoms, and the disease spread by proximity at an exponential rate. Nobody was expecting this, and according to Dr. Lense the incubation period must have been long enough so that by the time people noticed they were sick, everybody had it. There's almost nobody on the planet who can do anything. The front line of defense has been knocked out. And in any event, nobody is ever prepared for the entire population getting sick at the same time.

A few people have tried leaving the planet and running for help. Luckily, all of the folks who have tried have been in unarmed ships, and we've been able to keep them corralled. It's kept Wong on his toes, flying after the strays and bringing them home. In some cases Hawkins has had to disable the ships first—with tractor beams mostly. In one case we actually had to open fire.

In a way, I've been lucky. Since Dr. Lense is still up here with me, she can still do work on the contagion. She's been getting as much information sent up to her as possible, and she's conducting all of the research on the problem via remote telemetry. She's somewhat limited as to what can be done, but she's doing the best she can. Her biggest problem is that sooner or later anybody on the planet who's acting on her behalf will themselves be too ill to help her. I've got some of the crew trying to set up EMHs in the hospitals, and Nurse Wetzel and Medtech Copper are helping where they can as well.

Which leads to the personal aspect of the problem: every member of my crew down there is also probably infected—certainly all the humans. They've got about a two-week lag behind everybody else on the planet, but they too will succumb to the disease if we can't find a solution to the problem. Even if they survive, if we can't find a way to disinfect them, I may be forced to keep them down there for the rest of their lives. Surrounded by corpses. And we have no idea what effect, if any, the disease will have on a Nasat or a Bynar or a Bolian or a Bajoran or on any of the other alien species represented on the
da Vinci.

I'm off to sickbay to check in with Dr. Lense. She's said that she should have some results by now, so that we'll have some idea what we're up against here.

“O
kay, what do we know so far?” Gold asked. He was seated in one of the two guest chairs in Lense's tiny office in sickbay. Fabian Stevens sat in the chair next to her.

“It's a viral hemorrhagic fever, Captain,” the doctor said. “It's a severe multisystem syndrome, like yellow fever, ebola, or Vulcan bebonea, but this is one we've never seen before.”

Lense tapped on her padd, and a picture popped up on the screen behind her of an enlarged virus, along with chemical formulations.

“As near as I can determine, this is the pathogen.”

Gold couldn't make heads or tails of the image, but commanding engineers for so long, he had grown accustomed to technobabble and the need to prompt specialists into using lay language. “Tell us how it works, what it does.”

“Okay. It's spread as an aerosol. It's incredibly small, anything small enough to filter it out would make it impossible to breathe through. It appears to be robust enough to survive outside a human body for hours. It's prolific—apparently it's sticking very well to pollen and dust in the air and using that as a distribution aid. Contaminated clothing or bed linens could also spread the virus. The damn thing is more virulent than smallpox was. It attacks every cell in the body, except for brain tissue—and only because it kills the host before it can get that far. It appears to be causing a hemorrhaging in the lungs, making people drown in their own bodily fluids. Since it's also respired, it's exhaled into the open and spreads quickly from there. The virus appears first to target rapidly reproducing cells, like the lining of the trachea.”

“Why the trachea?” asked Stevens.

“Because it's constantly irritated by breathing, coughing, what have you. In fact, that makes it worse, because the coughing helps make it airborne and contributes to the speed of spread. It also does a wonder on the stomach lining.” She pulled up an image of an outline of a body, and pointed at the throat. “Gravity and eating just pull it along. It can incorporate into the DNA of those cells and live there, becoming part of every cell that forms when that cell and its progeny divide—”

“Exponential growth.”

“Yes, Captain. Once there's enough of a viral load, it spreads to the rest of the body.”

“How long does it take to work?” Gold asked.

“The incubation period appears to be about three weeks, then non-pulmonary symptoms start to show up. Before that, all you'll see is a cough and a sore throat. Our people showed up at the tail end of the incubation period—pure bad timing.”

“Could've been worse,” Stevens interjected. “A few days earlier, and we could've been out of here carrying the infection to the entire galaxy. A week later, and we might not have been able to help at all.”

Gold shrugged. “How does the timing affect our people on the ground?”

“At this point, they've had the disease incubating for about three days. It'll be two weeks before symptoms become evident. I can try vaccinating our crew and that might lessen the effect, but that's making the assumption that I can come up with a vaccine that will work. They're probably a week to ten days after the initial spread. In a few days, they might be the only people on the planet who can stand. And, of course, that's only the humans—I can't even begin to guess how to treat the nonhumans.”

“How did it spread?”

“Not a clue. Because of the speed of spread, I think we just got a random mutation that developed. I honestly don't know. There are probably other non-sentient species that may be carrying it as well, though I don't have the resources to tell which yet. At least it doesn't seem to jump to plants.”

“Where did it come from?” Stevens asked.

“I don't know, and I don't really have the time to find out. It might have been something old, though, or it could've been brought on a cargo ship by accident or it could be a combination.”

Gold nodded. “We're already checking on all ships that have been to Sherman's Planet in the last month—luckily, it's not that many. They're being kept in quarantine, and some of them are heading back here. So far, no one on them has shown symptoms.”

“Fine. My first priorities are managing patients infected or suspected of being infected, and developing diagnostic tools.”

“Agreed. So what can we do about it?”

“Right now, we're limited to supportive therapies—balancing the patient's fluids and electrolytes, maintaining their oxygen status and blood pressure, treating them for any complicating infections. You've already declared a quarantine, so that stops any interplanetary spread.”

Gold exhaled long and hard and asked the question he didn't want to ask but needed some kind of answer for. “What's the mortality rate?”

“No way to tell, sir. So far, we've had a large number of people die from this thing … but I have no way to be absolutely sure until I see how many people actually can recover from it.”

“How many do you expect?”

“Based on what I've seen so far, and the computer models I've run—I don't know if anybody is going to be able to survive at all.”

The room was silent except for the usual background hum of the
da Vinci
's impulse engines. Gold recovered first. “All right, Doctor, what can we do to help?”

“Do you know anything about molecular biology?”

“Um … no.”

“Diagnostics? Clinical medicine, epidemiology, proteomics, immunology, pathogenesis, comparative biology, ecology, public health practices? Either of you?”

Stevens looked at Gold, then back at Lense sheepishly. “I can fake … some of it. Maybe.”

“Then there's damn little you can do. You don't fake this. I get to do it all.”

“No, you don't. Doctor, you've been running at warp eleven on all this. Go back to your quarters for six hours and take a break.”

“There's no time, Captain. Forget it.”

“Four hours.”

“One hour.”

“Two. That's an order.”

She glared and took a deep breath. “All right. Two hours. Let me get Fabian up to speed and then I'll go. In the meantime, you keep on the horn and see what you can do about getting any other help here. I'm already transmitting what data I can to Starfleet Medical, but the lag time is way too long; they're useless.”

“Fine. In the meantime, I'll see what I can do about keeping the ship running with a single op—”

“Don't try and one-up me, Captain, I'm not in the mood.”

Gold shot Lense a look. “I'm not, Doctor—and I don't appreciate your tone or your assumption. Clear?”

Not waiting for an answer, Gold left the sickbay. Lense leaned back in her chair.

Stevens turned and looked at Lense. “Okaaay … now what can I do?”

Lense called out. “Emmett!”

The EMH materialized five feet in front of her. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“We've got us a doozy, Emmett. Synch with my files and notes from the last forty-eight hours.”

“Synching—oh.”

“It's an epidemic. No, scratch that, it's a pandemic. We've just identified the pathogen, we're running tests to see what we can do to kill it. Keep an eye on the tests that are still running. He”—she pointed at Stevens—“is your extra set of hands. I'm going to get some rest, I've been told I need it.”

* * *

The door opened to the cabin Lense shared with Domenica Corsi. Like the rest of the ship, it was quiet and empty. No noise in the hall, no chatter, just the constant background hum of the engines.

“Lights, one quarter.” The room dimmed to a point that Lense could tolerate. The silence, however, would get to her. “Computer, play Vivaldi's
Four Seasons.”

The sounds of an orchestra filled the room and Lense collapsed into a chair. She massaged her temples, trying to relieve some of the eyestrain.

The computer beeped.
“You have a message from Lt. Commander Corsi.”

A message? That's not like her,
Lense thought. She opened her eyes—there was no music. She must have fallen asleep in her chair and slept through the entire piece. “Computer, time?”

“The time is now fourteen hundred hours, twelve minutes.”

She did some quick math in her head—she'd been asleep a little over two hours. “Tea, semihot, extra sugar, lemon, and caffeine.” The replicator hummed and she took the suddenly appearing mug in her hands and sipped. “Play the message.” She turned to the viewscreen on the wall, but there was no picture, just audio.

“Hey, roomie. I know we're both incredibly busy, with me trying to keep things running smoothly down here and you playing with your test tubes. I'm down at the spaceport—we're keeping the lid on. There are a lot of people who are trying to find a way off the planet, and I have my hands full keeping the ships grounded. I don't want to distract you, so you'll get this message when you get it. No rush—if you get it and it's necessary, there'll be plenty of time.

“From what I understand, there's a chance that I may be stuck on this planet for a very long time, either living out the rest of my days here or just taking up a good two meters of it. I'm not worried about it. I know you're doing your damnedest up there, but we've all gotta go sometime. But there is one important thing you've gotta do for me.

“If I don't make it off this planet, I want to make sure
that my little brother gets the axe. It's a family heirloom, been in the family for years and years and years. He always complained that I got it. It's under my bed—I never found a good way to hang it on the wall. He's on Cestus III, living in Pike City, his name's Roberto. You'll find—Get back here, you!”
Lense heard a sudden scuffle of background noise and wondered just what was going on down there.

“Got to get back to the situation at hand. You have to get the axe to Bobby, or I'll haunt you from one end of the galaxy to the other. And don't worry about me. If I had to, I'd have commandeered a shuttlecraft to get down here and do my job. This is what I'm supposed to be doing, just like you're doing what
you
have to do. Corsi out.”

Terrific,
thought Lense.
Somebody else haunting me. Just what I needed.

She thought about Domenica Corsi, a woman who she'd shared a cabin with for a year and knew almost nothing about.
Yes, but nobody knows anything about her. Except maybe Fabian.

Her eyes drifted to the drawers under Corsi's bed.
The axe? What was that all about? Knowing Core Breach, it's probably some old Klingon cleaver, designed to slay seven
targs
with one blow.

She got down and knelt in front of Corsi's bed, then opened the drawers.

She didn't see it at first—then she saw a wooden case about a meter long, in the back under some civilian clothes. She emptied the drawer so she could get at it, and took it out.

It was wood, but it had been sealed with a fixative; she couldn't feel the wood grain. It had a clear top, and through it she could see the axe.

It wasn't a Klingon axe at all. It looked like it was human made, and apparently very old—the handle was made of wood and it was beginning to show signs of age. The axe head rested on what looked like a triangular pillow, a deep blue with white stars on it, and showed wear on the red paint. This was no ceremonial weapon; it had been used.

And down at the bottom of the case on the glass, there was a brass plaque. The inscription read:

A firefighter performs
only one act of bravery in his life,
and that's when he takes the oath.
Everything he does after that
is merely in the line of duty.
In Memoriam—September 11, 2001

Lense knew the date, and realized what she had to be holding.

She reverently placed the box down on Corsi's unmade bed, then turned and left to go back to sickbay.

Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 53665.1.

Things are not going well here. The number of advanced cases on the planet has cracked two thousand. The death toll is a hundred and thirteen. Dr. Lense is getting more and more frustrated and tense. I went to visit her in sickbay, and I saw her sitting at her desk working, while Emmett was running around from table to table, with numerous test tubes in his hands.

She's getting heavily stressed.

I realize this is a crucible issue for Dr. Lense—she's being placed in yet another life-or-death situation, where she is the last, best hope to save the lives of thousands upon thousands of people. Again. She had to do it during the war and failed—or rather, she didn't live up to her and everybody else's superhuman expectations—and now she's in a situation where the number of potential corpses could increase by three orders of magnitude from the last time.

And I don't have any way to take the burden off her. Deep Space Station K-7 is the closest help, and it's a week away. She's on her own.

I wonder what I'm actually going to put in the official log about all this.