Chapter Two

DEANNA TROI dashed from the turbolift into sickbay, where she saw a somber clutch of people gathered around an examination table. Dr. Beverly Crusher was probing the frail body on the table, but without much urgency. A glance at the vivid readouts on the wall told Deanna why—all vital signs were at zero.

Among the onlookers was a gigantic humanoid male who stood close to two-and-a-half meters tall, but Deanna’s eyes were drawn to a smaller man, Captain Jean-Luc Picard. His sleek head angled back, and his noble chin jutted angrily in helplessness at the sight of the dead woman. At the sides of his trim body, his hands curled into fists.

“How did it happen?” he demanded.

Beverly Crusher nodded toward the hulking humanoid. “I suggest you ask Dr. Grastow,” she replied. “He discovered the body.”

Grastow was huge but baby-faced, with smooth pink cheeks and tufts of blond beard on his double chins. His sandy-colored hair was short and stubbly like Emil Costa’s, and he also wore the same blue lab coat but many sizes larger. He stared in shock at the body on the table, and Deanna could see moistness welling in his puffy pink eyes.

When the big man seemed incapable of speaking, Beverly continued, “We beamed Dr. Costa directly here, but it was too late. She was wearing an environment suit, but it didn’t help her against what was apparently a lethal gas.”

It was then that Deanna saw the crumpled white suit on the floor—exactly like the one in her dream, down to the helmet with the air hoses.

Dr. Grastow, who appeared to be light years away with his grief, suddenly blinked at Dr. Crusher. “The suit filters air flowing out, not entering,” he said softly in a high-pitched voice. “It’s a cleanroom suit.”

“Is there any danger to anyone else?” Picard asked.

“No,” murmured the scientist, “the room’s been sealed off, and it’s negative-pressurized anyway.” He pounded a beefy hand onto his forehead. “Oh, this is terrible! I can’t believe it!”

As the others waited for the sorrowful giant to compose himself, the doors to sickbay slid open, and Commander Riker, Lieutenant Worf, and Lieutenant Commander Data rushed in. They slowed their urgent pace as they approached the examination table. Worf and Data peered at the slight red-haired body, Data with curiosity and Worf with a tightening of the muscles around his thick jaw.

“Bridge is secure,” declared Riker, glancing at the lifeless form. “What happened?”

“First of all,” Jean-Luc reiterated, “is that cleanroom completely sealed off?”

“All rooms on deck 31 are self-sealing, Captain,” answered the Klingon. “Ship’s monitors indicate full containment.”

Recovering a measure of authority to his soft voice, Dr. Grastow added, “The filtration system should have that room cleaned up in about two hours. You can go in then.”

“It’s important we know what happened,” said Worf in his no-nonsense bass voice.

“Of course, Mr. Worf,” answered Grastow, now sounding eager to please. “I haven’t gone into the room yet, and I can only tell you what I think happened. Lynn was working on reactive purification—it was a pet project of hers. She often worked on it after hours. The concept is simple, but the execution is elusive.”

“Reactive purification,” remarked Data, “the conversion of solid contaminants to a gaseous state for easier removal. A theoretical process.”

“I’m afraid so,” nodded the massive figure. “If perfected, it could save millions of batches of microchips and tissue replacements that are otherwise discarded for minor contamination. Lynn expected the gas to be dangerous, so she was conducting the experiment in a class zero pod. The way the gas was streaming out, I would have to guess there was a rupture in a valve or seal.”

He shook his head, his childlike face pouting to hold back tears. “I was working in an adjacent lab and heard the alarm—the room is monitored by a gas analyzer and a particle counter. When I got to the window, I saw Lynn just lying there . . . and I saw the gas. I knew the negative pressure would contain it, so I called sickbay first. Did I do wrong?”

“Not at all,” answered Picard, injecting a note of sympathy into his cultured voice. “No one else was endangered, I take it?”

“No one,” muttered the scientist. “I’ll be happy to answer more questions later, but just now . . . I would like to go to my cabin.”

“Thank you,” said Picard. Dr. Grastow nodded to the others and slouched out of the room, ducking through the doorway.

Will Riker glanced after the departing scientist, observing, “They grow them big on Antares IV.”

“He would be considered small-to-average for an Antarean,” corrected Data.

Captain Picard stepped closer to the examination table and stared down at a face that might once have been beautiful, but was now worn and cold and oddly serene. Death has a way of erasing the care lines, he thought. “Has anyone contacted her husband?” he asked softly.

“No,” answered Beverly Crusher, looking down.

Jean-Luc frowned, as if this was a part of the captain’s job he hardly relished. “I won’t announce her death to the ship’s populace until I’ve talked with Emil Costa first. Beverly, as soon as you’re done with the autopsy, notify Commander Riker, so that he can schedule the funeral.”

“I will,” she answered.

“Mr. Worf,” ordered Picard, “I’m counting on you to inspect the cleanroom and the pod thoroughly, as soon as it’s safe.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped the big Klingon.

“Number One, Data, return to your posts,” added the captain. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”

“May I accompany you to see Emil Costa?” asked Deanna.

Jean-Luc managed a weak smile. “I would be most appreciative, Counselor.”

“Deck 32,” Captain Picard told the computer as the doors of the turbolift hushed shut on himself and Deanna Troi. He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “We take so many precautions aboard this ship—it’s incredible an accident like this could happen. What am I going to tell her husband?”

Deanna looked fondly at her superior and remembered how proud Jean-Luc had been the day he had welcomed the Costas aboard. He had been a great admirer of their work and had lobbied hard to have the admiralty approve their assignment to the Enterprise. He knew, as they did, that serving on a starship entailed risks that serving at a scientific outpost never would, but the Costas, with grown children and already illustrious careers, were exactly the sort of shipmates he wanted.

Often, Deanna had seen her captain anguish over the fate of all the civilians on board, but children and young families—with their lives ahead of them—were his special agony. They just blithely rode along where he led them, oblivious to the dangers. He preferred adults, like the Costas, who recognized the challenges of space and came of their own free wills.

The Costas were also a venerable married couple, and Deanna knew the esteem in which Jean-Luc held marriage, although he had never sampled the institution himself. Sometimes, she thought, his denial of his natural attraction to Beverly Crusher was in deference to his friendship with her late husband. To Jean-Luc, she would always be Jack Crusher’s wife.

Therefore, it was with some reluctance that Deanna reported, “Captain, the Costas’ marriage was going very badly. In fact, they were just about to leave the Enterprise because of it.”

“Really?” he replied with curiosity. “And why wasn’t I told about this?”

“I only found out a few hours ago,” answered Deanna, “and there was some question as to whether they could leave the ship at Kayran Rock.”

“We would have been sorry to see them go,” muttered Picard, “but that would have been preferable to this.”

The door of the turbolift opened, and they found themselves in a central corridor opening onto the game room on deck 32. This wing of the lower secondary hull was devoted to living quarters for a mainly adult community of scientists, most of whom worked on deck 31. The recreation room had more card tables than hologram games, and an old-fashioned pool table that looked well used. At the moment, a three-dimensional chess game was in progress between two women, but otherwise the facility was empty. The women were so engrossed in their game that they didn’t notice the rare appearance of the captain on their deck.

It was sleep period for most of the researchers, Deanna reminded herself. By all rights, she should still be asleep. Then she remembered her horrendous dream and was glad to be awake. How much, she wondered, should she tell the captain? Not that it wasn’t his concern, but she couldn’t bother him with every dream she had. And death had somewhat negated the importance of Lynn Costa’s mental health. Nevertheless, Deanna had a terrible nagging thought she wished would go away.

“Through here,” the captain said softly, leading the counselor away from the recreation room and down a deserted corridor. Doors were plentiful, as were letter/ number combinations and hologram portraits of some of the residents. There was an eclectic mixture to the decorations in the hallway, with holographic bulletin boards sharing space with art reproductions and hand-drawn children’s murals.

The captain stopped, clearly perplexed. “I hope I haven’t made a wrong turn.” He tapped a comm panel. “Computer,” the captain ordered, “am I close to Emil Costa’s cabin?”

“You are near, sir,” answered the android within seconds. “His cabin is B-81, the first on the left after the next bulkhead, and he is present.”

“Thank you,” said Picard. “Out.”

Jean-Luc strode down the hall, and Deanna had to hurry to keep up. True to Data’s word, they found a door with a name plaque reading, “The Costas.” Chin jutting, Captain Picard put his grief aside and braced himself for his unpleasant duty.

He sounded the entrance chime, but nothing happened. He pressed the button again, but still nothing happened. Determinedly, the captain tapped his communicator badge and announced, “Captain Jean-Luc Picard to Emil Costa. I am standing outside your door, and I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, Captain,” came a slurry mumble, accompanied by a few grunts and groans. There was a loud belch. “I’m not in any condition to see you, Captain.”

“This can’t wait,” Picard snapped. “It’s about your wife.”

The door slid open immediately, and a bleary-eyed little gray-haired man stared at them. He looked sick, and there was a smell about his breath which Deanna couldn’t immediately place.

When no invitation to enter was forthcoming, Captain Picard took a deep breath and spit out his unfortunate news, “Your wife has suffered a tragic accident. She is dead.”

Emil Costa blinked at them, the film slowly eroding from his eyes. Then came the denial, as he insisted, “She’s working upstairs in the lab . . . her silly reactive thing.”

“That’s where the accident happened,” said Deanna. “Dr. Costa was already dead by the time her body was transported to sickbay.”

“Wha . . .” muttered Emil Costa. “No!” he shrieked a moment later. He slammed the door on them.

Captain Picard glanced at the counselor puzzledly, but Deanna was busy sorting out the emotions she had felt before the slamming of the door. Not surprise—almost acceptance. Fright. Guilt. Extreme sorrow.

“Did you smell alcohol on his breath?” asked Picard, moving away from the door.

“Yes,” sighed Deanna. So that was the smell?

Jean-Luc held out a hand to stop her from leaving, then peered into his counselor’s eyes. “Enlighten me,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

Deanna shook her head. “I don’t know all of it,” she admitted. “Emil Costa is hiding something, and Lynn Costa was terribly troubled and frightened when I saw her just a few hours ago. I don’t think we can rule out the possibility of suicide.”

“Suicide?” repeated Picard, aghast. “Is this suspicion based on something specific you sensed about her, like a death wish?”

“No, not really,” conceded the Betazoid. “I hope I’m wrong—I merely bring it up as a possibility. Historically, humans have a tendency toward suicide when they become extremely depressed. They can even subconsciously fabricate a fatal accident.”

“You said she was frightened?” asked Picard. “Of what?”

“I don’t know why,” Deanna answered, shaking her head glumly. “I tried to determine that, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“Very well,” Jean-Luc said decisively, “you will accompany Worf to the site of the accident, and the two of you will ferret out exactly what happened.”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Deanna without much enthusiasm. Not only was she feeling guilty about not having done more to prevent Lynn Costa’s death, she didn’t relish the prospect of working with Worf. But she would never let personal feelings interfere with her duty, nor let the captain know about her discomfort. So Deanna manufactured a smile and started down the corridor.

“Counselor,” Picard called after her in a voice that was gentle and sympathetic. “I know you and Worf haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but he’s the security chief and must conduct this investigation. You’ve had recent contact with the dead woman and have some insight into her frame of mind. I want a report from each of you.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed. In matters pertaining to his crew, she sometimes wondered if Captain Picard’s ESP wasn’t the equal of hers.

Again, he tapped his insignia badge. “Picard to Worf.”

“Yes, Captain,” barked the familiar voice with its total respect for authority. “Worf here.”

“Meet me in my ready room,” ordered the captain. “I’m assigning Counselor Troi to help you in your investigation of Dr. Costa’s death.”

“Yes, sir,” came Worf’s reply, and the Klingon was unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

As she and the captain shot upward in the central turbolift to the bridge, Deanna couldn’t help but relive the moment when her antipathy toward Worf had developed. She was pregnant with a child of unknown origin, and he had suggested—in his official capacity of security chief—that the child be aborted. Cooler heads prevailed, and the pregnancy was allowed to come to full, if highly accelerated, term. True, the child had posed a danger to the ship, but it was really just the means for an extraordinary entity to experience being human. Ultimately, the experience had enriched all their lives.

But Worf had wanted to abort it.

Rationally, she excused him without question. Had she been in his position, she might have made the very same recommendation. But that didn’t change her emotional response, which would need more than a year or two to soften. It was her body, and she felt she should have the final say. The decision to give birth—or not—had rightfully been hers to make.

She was certain that the incident had not impacted Worf’s psyche as much as it had hers. He had always addressed her civilly and heeded her advice, but they had never really had to work closely on a project together . . . until today.

Picard and Deanna emerged onto a bridge that had been fully expecting to see the captain in a matter of moments. Everything was ship-shape, with Data at the operations console, Ensign Wesley Crusher manning the conn, and Commander Riker standing over the young helmsman’s shoulder.

“Worf is in the ready room,” said Riker with a nod to his left.

“Thank you, Number One,” Picard answered. He stopped for a second. “Status, Ensign Crusher?”

“Course set to rendezvous with Kayran Rock in the Kreel solar system,” answered the teenager matter-of-factly. “Warp three.”

“Maintain course and speed,” nodded the captain. He turned to Riker and lowered his voice. “Any word yet on the autopsy?”

“None, sir,” replied Riker, matching the captain’s solemn tone.

Picard nodded and strode toward his ready room. Lieutenant Worf leapt to his feet as soon as they entered the private office. The computer screen on Picard’s desk was filled with high resolution vector diagrams and accompanying text.

Worf nodded to the captain and counselor and moved away from the captain’s desk. “I’ve been studying the maintenance reports of deck 31,” he muttered, pointing to the screen, “and I can’t understand how a seal or a valve could have malfunctioned so badly.”

The captain sighed, “Perhaps it was tampered with.”

“What?” growled Worf, his several brows knitting angrily.

Deanna stepped between the two males and delivered a summary of her conversation with Lynn Costa, concluding with the statement, “All I’m suggesting is that the possibility of suicide cannot be ruled out.”

“Also, Emil Costa may have been intoxicated on alcohol,” the captain added distastefully. “I don’t know what any of this means, but I want both of you to investigate and report to me. How soon can you get into that cleanroom?”

Worf stiffened his shoulders and reported, “Dr. Karn Milu is waiting for me . . . us . . . in his office, and he will arrange entry as soon as possible.”

“Then,” declared Picard, “the two of you are dismissed from all other duty until this investigation is completed. That is all.”

The Klingon and the Betazoid glanced briefly at one another, then marched out. Together.