Yet their problems had only just begun. Fifteen more ships to find…and a moon base to uncover, he thought. This job was not getting any easier.
“Mister Worf,” he said, taking his command seat.
“Sir?” came the low Klingon growl.
“Please initiate surface scans of the planet’s smaller moon, Delos. According to the governor, there is a small research base there. I want it found. There should be a starship and hopefully five life forms.”
“Scanning…I have it, sir.”
That was fast.“On screen.”
The pock-marked face of the little moon appeared. Nestled within a large crater lay a complex of perhaps a dozen white-domed buildings, all interconnected by silver tubes—walkways of some sort, Picard assumed. Lights gleamed from all the windows. At least they still have power.
His gaze drifted to the base’s landing pad—located on the far side of the crater and presently half masked in shadow. It contained not one, but three ships. It seemed the governor’s family was entertaining at their private hideout, he thought. He narrowed his eyes. One ship had almost Klingon lines. Could it be one of the two missing Klingon freighters?
Klingons might well explain the silence, he thought. If they decided to move in and take over, I can see them smashing all the communications equipment.
Unfortunately, he could also see them killing everyone in sight if sufficiently provoked.
But we mustn’t jump to conclusions, he thought. Nothing is wrong until we prove it wrong.
“Can you identify those ships?” he asked Worf.
“Not yet, sir. They do not respond to hails.”
“How many life forms are on the base?”
“Sensors pick up thirty-six,” Worf reported. He looked up. “Ten are Klingon!”
Picard nodded with satisfaction: it had to be the missing freighter. That meant one less ship to worry about. Possibly two, if the third ship proved to be one of the missing vessels.
“Hail the base. And hail those ships again.”
“…Still no response, sir.”
Blast. Why did everyone on this wretched planet have to make things more difficult? Picard stood and began to pace, arms behind his back, thinking. One starship isn’t enough to police a whole planet. If only the Constitution were here, we could split up duties.
“Sir,” said La Forge. He had been adjusting the controls for the viewscreen. “I believe you should take a look at this.”
Picard turned. Under extreme magnification, one of the windows of the research station looked into a room…and on the floor of that room lay a human body…a man. His face was turned away from the window, but Picard could just make out the edge of his beard. Could that be Derek Sekk? Or is it someone else? A dark liquid—it looked like blood—had pooled around the man.
That settled things. If violence had broken out on the research station, he had no choice but to investigate. More lives might be at stake.
“Mr. Worf, coordinate with Lieutenant Yar before she leaves for her away mission. I want a team assembled from available security officers.”Klingons are down there.“You will lead them, Mr. Worf. Heavy weapons, full contamination suits, and all due caution. Please bear in mind that this is a fact-finding mission, not a military assault.”
“Yes, sir!”
Picard thought he detected a note of near glee in Worf’s voice.
“Remember,” he went on, “we do not know the situation on that base. I don’t want to start a firefight if we can avoid it. But if anyone there needs medical or other care, we must be prepared to provide it.”
Two cups of tea would not be enough, Dr. Crusher thought. She drank; she paced; she fretted; she stared at the unfolding computer model of the virus, still being mapped out in all its minuscule glory.
The rest of the medical team began to gather around the workbench. They, too, stared at the display, mesmerized: the nurses, the doctors, and even the biologists currently aboard the Enterprise all came in to watch. She had alerted anyone who might have an insight into the origin, treatment, or cure for the virus.
The talk around her grew hushed and subdued. They feel it, too, she thought. We have barely begun work on the virus, and already the strain shows. No wonder Dr. Tang is at the end of his mental rope.
Still, it was hard to feel sorry for Tang. Under the worst circumstances, that’s when a person’s true spirit showed. And here I am, calmly sipping my tea, waiting for the computer to beep and say my cake is ready for frosting. Reminded of her drink, Dr. Crusher took another sip—feh, getting cold.
Her thoughts turned back to her conversation with Dr. Tang. What if he’s right and we can’t find a cure? What about all those people dying down there?
An old saying came to her: Time resolves all problems. Not this problem, she thought.
She drained her tea, rose, and got another cup. Five more minutes. A three–cup solution.
It seemed an eternity, but finally the microscanner finished and beeped. She jumped, startled, and spilled a few drops onto her knees. I should have seen that coming, she thought. A hush fell over the room.
“Analysis completed,” the computer proclaimed.
“Display the report.” She leaned forward. Everyone around her did, too. She felt them holding their collective breath, just as she held her own.
“Virus appears to be a previously unknown variation of Rhulian influenza.” A model of the triangular virus appeared, turning slowly before them. The computer began its breakdown: “This virus consists of a single molecule of RNA surrounded by a 27-mm-diameter protein capsid and a buoyant density in CsCl of 1.39 g/ml. This molecular breakdown shows 36 percent carbon atoms, 21 percent oxygen atoms, 20 percent hydrogen atoms, 17 percent—”
“We already know that,” Dr. Crusher muttered to herself. “We all know what Rhulian flu is made of!” More loudly, she added: “Show the protein and NXA strands. Compare and contrast to Rhulian flu, type one.”
Twisted lines of interlocking RNA strands appeared before her, rotating slightly. The NXA sequences were almost identical…though she immediately spotted several differences in key strands, especially the T-cell inhibitors. And some of the strands just didn’t seem to belong…as though they had mutated…or been grafted on from some other virus, she thought uneasily.
Assuming it’s engineered, she thought, whoever made it did a good job.
She glanced at Ian McCloud, the ship’s microbiologist. “What do you think?” she asked him.
He frowned. “I am a little disappointed,” he said in his slightly lilting accent. “It would appear to be a fairly simple virus. The Rhulian flu NXA strands were catalogued thirty years ago—I see only a few minor differences.” He pointed. “Here, here, and here. And—hello! What’s this?”
“What?” Dr. Crusher demanded.
McCloud said, “Computer—stop the projection. Turn it back three seconds. There, Doctor!” His finger jabbed at one NXA sequence. “Do you see it?”
Dr. Crusher leaned forward. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. And then it all but leaped out at her…the virus had a strange little hook on the very end of one NXA protein strand…an extra NXA code. She felt a surge of excitement. She had never seen anything like it before on a virus. This could be it! The key to the mystery!
“Yes!” she breathed. “What is that?”
“If I recall the Rhulian flu correctly, it’s attached to the NXA strand that controls the shape of the virus.” McCloud frowned. “I would need to look it up to make certain.”
“You’re right,” Dr. Crusher said, disappointed. I should know not to get my hopes up. It’s too soon in our research.“I remember it, too.”
“Oddly enough, despite that change, the virus looks the same…exactly like type-one Rhulian flu. I find that odd. Very odd. A mutation large enough to show up in the NXA strands should be visible.”
“That’s right.” Dr. Crusher sighed. It was puzzling. A dead end? Still, anything unusual gave them a starting
point.
To the computer, she said: “Run a full development sequence on NXA protein strand—what’s its designation?”
“445-J3,” McCloud said.
“445-J3. Build it!”
“Working,” the computer said. The display went blank, and then, in extreme closeup, it began to assemble one of the tendrils. The hook appeared to add a slight texture to the underside, as far as Dr. Crusher could tell. A new genetic sensor of some kind? Something to detect a flaw in the cells of a person with mixed human-alien heritage?
The computer finished rendering segment 445-J3. The texture curved down, then up in a winding, almost snakelike pattern. She had never seen anything quite like it before.
A shudder went through her as a horrible inspiration struck. It’s not a random pattern.
“Freeze image,” she said. The computer diagram paused. The textured curves rolled gently down then up, a valley and a hill…or a letter lying on its side?
She said, “Rotate ninety degrees counterclockwise.”
The tendril turned slowly. The curves suddenly became the letter “S.” No one could have mistaken it. The texture extended to the right after a slight separation…another letter? The initials of its designer, perhaps?
A hush fell over the room. They see it, too, she realized. I’m not crazy.
She brushed back her red hair with one hand. One letter could easily be a fluke of nature, she told herself. It proved nothing. Unless…
She didn’t want to give the command. Its potential repercussions were too great. But it had to be given: “Pull back slowly.”
More of the tendril began to appear. S—M—I—
People around her gasped. She felt her heart skip a beat. A message. It’s a message.
Letters continued to appear: L—E—Y—O—
Dr. Crusher found herself mouthing the syllables.
U—A—R—E—D—E—A—D
Smile. You are dead.
It felt like a knife puncturing her stomach.
That’s why it looked so much like Rhulian flu. It was Rhulian flu, but modified to carry out a very specific and a very deadly attack.
She exchanged a glance with Ian McCloud and found an expression of horror equal to her own on his face…and on the faces of everyone around them.
“The bastards…” Nurse Icolah breathed. “Those bastards!”
“Now we know what we’re up against,” Dr. Crusher said flatly. “This is actually good news. If someone made this virus, we can unmake it.”
Deep inside, she knew it was the merest accident that she had stumbled onto the message, one chance in a million. If Ian McCloud hadn’t spotted the odd hook, if she hadn’t sequenced it, if the shape hadn’t struck her as odd—if any of a thousand variables hadn’t happened to come together just right—the twisted conceit of whatever bioengineer was responsible for the plague never would have been uncovered.
She regarded the computer model thoughtfully. The letters had been programmed into the virus on a protein level. That took some doing. And she wasn’t quite sure how it had been done.
At least I’ll have something new to tell Dr. Tang now, she thought with a morbid mental grin. And it’s something sure to wipe that smug look off his face.
The truth hadn’t quite sunk in yet. They left a message on the protein level. Who would want to sign a genetically designed virus? Someone vain. Someone smart. Someone crazy.
As for who…Starfleet’s research centers could do it. But they wouldn’t. She racked her brain for other possibilities. Vulcans, of course…and certainly the Romulans and the Cardassians. But not the Klingons…they wouldn’t bother, even if they understood the underlying technology. Klingon medicine had barely advanced beyond leeches, in her opinion. And an attack on innocent half-breed humans would be incredibly dishonorable, she reminded herself. No, it couldn’t be the Klingons.
Who else? Perhaps half-a-dozen other races had the technology, from the Tholians to the Praxx.
But why bother? Why would anyone bother to create a virus that only attacked this specific genetic weakness, then let it loose on Archaria III?
The Purity League had a motive. After all, they had embraced the plague as an easy way to rid their planet of the “mixer influence.” Why not push it a little farther? Why not create the plague to do the dirty work?
Smile. You are dead.
Much as she tried to deny it, those four words spoke volumes. They were written in standard English. That means humans did it. Or at least one human.
Dr. Tang? She didn’t know. How many other brilliant virologists could there be on Archaria III? And yet without proof, she wouldn’t dare accuse him. So how do I get proof? Confront him? Beam down and ransack his office? Send in my spies?
She stared at the virus. Smile. You are dead. The message had to be a private joke, since no one else could have been expected to find it. A mocking little tag line, petty as a schoolyard bully’s taunting.
So much for the transcendent nature of man, she thought bitterly. Those four little words kicked the legs out from under her belief system. We think we’ve come so far. And yet we are still capable of this.
She stood. Her doctors and nurses all looked stunned. The biologists looked stricken. McCloud had gotten over his terror and now looked intrigued. Grudgingly, she admitted the person responsible for the virus showed some real creativity. McCloud wants to know how they did it.
And, she realized, so do I.
And, she realized, the signature gave her more hope. Anything one human could do another human could undo.
First things first, though. Rumors about the virus would sweep the ship if she didn’t put a stop to them now.
“This message is hereby classified top secret,” she said, looking from face to face. Her people began to nod; they understood. Loose lips sink ships.“I don’t want a whisper of what we’ve found getting out to anyone,” she said firmly. “We don’t want to create a panic…or a war.” The Peladians might well adopt a hard stance if they knew humans had created this plague.
Of course, they would find out eventually, but right now didn’t seem like a particularly good time. Their children are dying, too, she thought. It’s easy to lose control when it’s your loved ones whose lives hang in the balance. She didn’t know what she’d do if Wesley came down with a disease like this plague virus.
One person had to be informed immediately, however. Tapping her combadge, she said, “Crusher to Captain Picard.”
“Picard here, Doctor,” he answered.
“I…think you’d better come to sickbay. I have something for you to see.”
“Doctor, I’m rather occupied right now—”
“Captain, it’s important. I need you here now.” She had never used that tone with him before, her Voice of Authority—usually reserved for Wesley on his bad days. Not that he has many of them anymore.
Captain Picard seemed to pick up on the importance of her request. He sighed, but said, “On my way, Doctor.”
Chapter Six
THE DOOR TO TASHA YAR’S CABIN whisked open at her command, and Worf poked his head inside. “Lieutenant?” he called.
“I said come in!” She was in the next room. “I’ll be right there.”
He stepped inside, already ill at ease. Though he had been raised among humans, he felt his Klingon heritage most keenly in one-on-one meetings and social situations. It happened more and more as he ran up against what he considered the “human mysteries”…the little social nuances he never quite seemed to pick up on. It should not matter to a warrior, he thought. But somehow it always did.
What do you do when you are inside a human female’s cabin and she isn’t dressed yet? Should he try to make light conversation? Should he wait in silence? It’s business, he told himself. I’m supposed to be here to discuss a mission. The captain sent me. If I stick to business, nothing will go wrong.
“Make yourself at home,” Tasha called. “I’ll be right out.”
At home.
He gave a mental snort. His every nerve was on edge. If only I knew her better. I…could use a friend here.
Perhaps it was his prickly Klingon nature, but it took him a long time to warm up to strangers. He could tell the rest of the ship’s officers were trying their best to get to know each other, to form a real team, and eventually he knew they would all come together. But for now he still felt like an outsider among them, even when they went out of their way to include him in their social banter.
Water splashed. Is she bathing? He narrowed his eyes and almost left. What is she doing in there?
“If this is a bad time,” he began, “I can come back later—”
“No, wait. I’ll be right out. Really.”
He glanced around her cabin to take his mind off the awkward position he was in. Tasha Yar had brought very few personal effects with her: a scattering of small holographic pictures—planets he didn’t recognize, some with Tasha posing next to people he didn’t know. In the far corner sat a small Vulcan kinetic sculpture, its thin wire strands dipping faintly in the breeze from the air vents. There was nothing here, nothing special and unique, that proclaimed, “I am Tasha Yar.”
Perhaps she feels as alone as I do, he thought suddenly. Perhaps—
“Sorry about that,” Tasha said, emerging from her bedroom and interrupting his thoughts. She wore a slate-gray robe and had a gray towel wrapped around her head. “I was getting ready for my away mission…I’m having trouble with my hair. What brings you here?”
“I—” Worf began. He stared as she pulled the towel off her head. Long, straight blond hair spilled out. Hair that didn’t belong on her head. “What happened to you—” he burst out.
Instantly he regretted it. It was not an appropriate comment.
“Like it?” She made a face. “It’s silly and impractical, if you ask me. I prefer it short.”
“But—how—?”
“I borrowed a follicle stimulator from Dr. Crusher.” She swept her hair back and out of her eyes with one hand. “Archarian women wear their hair long, unfortunately. Since we’re supposed to be going in disguised as natives, I needed to grow it longer to fit in. What do you really think?” She turned a quick pirouette and gave an impish grin. “Stylish?”