Chapter Three

THE ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES of the science branch were located in the saucer section, on deck 5. That was some distance from the labs on deck 31, but it was convenient to transporter rooms, the bridge, and the majority of science labs. Therefore, it was a short ride in the turbolift for Lieutenant Worf and Counselor Troi, and Worf wished they had more time to discuss the Costa matter before meeting with the ship’s ranking scientist, Karn Milu.

He glanced at the Betazoid, but she was staring dead ahead, lost in her own contemplation. He would have preferred to conduct the investigation himself, but he certainly recognized the unique talents of Deanna Troi. And her recent conversation with the dead woman was disturbing, to say the least. Worf had never dreamt that Lynn Costa—or anyone aboard the Enterprise—could contemplate suicide. To a Klingon, the only possible reason for HoH’egh was extreme cowardice or humiliating defeat in battle. A failed marriage struck him as a ludicrous reason to end one’s life.

“Counselor,” he said finally, unable to conceal his disgust any longer, “are humans really so susceptible to depression that they would take their own lives, with such little reason?”

Deanna blinked at him startledly, as if he had summoned her from a faraway place. “I’m afraid so,” she admitted. “They have a long history of obsession with death. I believe it stems from their early religions, in which the afterlife was portrayed as being preferable to real life.”

“I see,” muttered the Klingon. He could comprehend the concept, but he would never understand it. How could someone prefer dying to living?

The turbolift deposited them on deck 5, and they strode out to find a thin Vulcan male waiting for them.

“I am Saduk,” he said simply, with a cordial bow—there were no handshakes with a Vulcan. “I work on the Microcontamination Project, and I will show you where Dr. Costa’s body was found. But first, Dr. Milu would like to speak briefly with you.”

“Proceed,” said Worf. He liked dealing with Vulcans—you could speak frankly to them and not have to waste time being tactful, as you had to with humans.

They followed the pointy-eared humanoid into an office that was rather sumptuous, by Enterprise standards. The captain’s ready room paled by comparison. The walls were festooned with sculpted glass cases containing mounted insects from all over the galaxy. Each case was a handcrafted work of art in its own right, and the various preserved creatures ranged from Earth scorpions, curled to strike, to Centaurian water beetles with multiple webbed heads. Flying insects in one case, segmented worms in another, each lovingly and painstakingly mounted and labeled. Spotting a Klingon cockroach with enormous pincers, Worf was forced to suppress a shudder.

Dominating the cabin was a massive amber desk, a hunk of petrified resin in which thousands of Betazoidan grubs were forever frozen. Four computer screens covered the desk and burned brightly, and a large viewscreen blanketed the back wall.

In comparison, the noted entomologist and administrator was an unprepossessing figure: short, squat, and possessed of dense eyebrows which curled back into a kinky mass of gray hair. “Welcome,” he said with a sad smile. “I wish your visit here could be under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Nice office,” Worf said noncommittally.

Karn Milu nodded, then the venerable Betazoid looked pointedly at Deanna. Imperceptibly, the tiny veins in his temples throbbed, and Worf could see Deanna recoil slightly.

With some annoyance, she cautioned him, “Dr. Milu, I receive your thoughts, but I am unable to respond telepathically. In fairness to Lieutenant Worf, I think we should communicate out loud.”

“Of course,” replied Karn Milu. “I only wanted to see whether you have been practicing since our last conversation. I see that you have not.”

“I’ve had other things on my mind,” she retorted.

“Ah, yes,” nodded the administrator, “such a tragic accident. I welcome your full investigation.”

“On that matter,” said Worf, “what can you tell us about the accident?”

“Nothing,” shrugged the scientist. “I was as surprised as anyone. I have always given the Costas complete autonomy on their projects, and they certainly don’t need my guidance. I have no idea what happened down there.”

Deanna looked puzzled. “But, Dr. Milu, you were the one who alerted me about Lynn Costa’s mental condition.”

“I was following Starfleet regulations, nothing more,” shrugged the Betazoid. “Willful destruction of official records is a serious breech of security. These weren’t her private files she succeeded in erasing—but files that were destined for publication throughout the Federation. Thus far, nobody has gotten a good explanation out of her.”

“Now no one will,” said Worf sagely. “Dr. Milu, you are a Betazoid. Did you not sense something within Dr. Costa that might explain her actions?”

“In contrast with Deanna,” replied the administrator, “I tune out the emotions of crew members. In addition to heading the entomology section, I possess the rank of commander in Starfleet. I have four hundred and ninety-three other scientists under my command. I have daily duties, such as scheduling and requisitions, and I don’t want to be bothered every time a husband and wife have a spat. Oh, I get involved when it’s serious—as it was with Lynn Costa—but I don’t meddle in emotional affairs unless I have to. That’s why we have a ship’s counselor.”

Milu smiled at her, and Deanna Troi almost blushed. Why did she feel so damn inferior to him? Was it because he was a full-blooded Betazoid, with powers he didn’t even care to use? No, she didn’t feel envy, just extreme respect. Deanna decided she was suffering from a mild case of hero-worship, nothing more. She admired Karn Milu so much, without really knowing him very well.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” the scientist shrugged, appealing directly to Worf. “But my office and I will assist you in any way we can.”

“Who might know something?” Worf asked bluntly.

Karn Milu motioned to the quiet Vulcan. “Saduk has been with the Microcontamination Project longer than anyone, except the Costas. He’ll show you around the laboratory and answer any questions you might have. You should also talk to the two junior assistants, Grastow, the Antarean, and the Earth girl . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to recall her name.

The Vulcan and the Betazoid answered at once, “Shana Russel.” Deanna glanced at Saduk, but he never took his eyes off Karn Milu.

“Shana Russel,” repeated the administrator, tapping his head as if making a mental note. With a sweep of his hand, he turned off his computer screens, and the office was darker and less intimidating. “Those are the only people who came in contact with the Costas on a regular basis,” he added. “Of course, you will want to talk to Emil.”

“Yes,” agreed Worf distastefully. He turned to the slight Vulcan and asked, “When can we see the cleanroom?”

“Immediately,” nodded Saduk, leading them out the door.

 

Deck 31 and its accompanying residential decks, 32 and 33, were sandwiched between deuterium reactors above and a mass of environmental support equipment below. This restricted location made deck 31 highly secure and the logical choice for any sort of experiments that were dangerous or classified. On the downside, these lower decks were in the narrow part of the battle section, near the weaponry and the battle bridge. There was no saucer separation for them, mused Deanna Troi, and no evacuation in a sudden combat situation.

The counselor knew that working on deck 31 bestowed a certain mystique among the scientific community aboard the Enterprise. She was also reminded, as they wound their way down a nondescript corridor, of what Shana Russel had said about there being no windows in the heart of the ship. Deanna and the bridge crew were lucky enough to live at the edge of the ship, surrounded by stars. Down here, on deck 31, there were vast expanses of featureless beige space.

Lieutenant Worf was doing a good job of keeping Saduk talking, not always an easy task with a Vulcan. “I have always admired your extraordinary results,” he remarked with a sweep of his hand. “Certainly, no Klingon ship would have work areas as clean as these.”

“The entire Enterprise is a class-ten-thousand cleanroom,” replied Saduk, “meaning the air contains no more than ten thousand dust particles per square meter. Keeping a breathable atmosphere devoid of contaminants is easy, until you let people in.”

“Why can’t you use transporter technology to sanitize the workers?” asked Worf.

The Vulcan knitted his eyebrows slightly before answering, “The transporter’s greatest strength is its ability to recreate exactly what it finds—warts and all, to use a human expression. The biofilter is not programmed to remove the dirt under your fingernails, the dead skin particles, the mucus in your nostrils . . .”

“Understood,” Deanna hastened. “It’s not practical to use transporters to clean people.”

“No,” answered the Vulcan, “and not cost efficient either. Every method has been considered, but biological beings are rife with microorganisms, dust, moisture, every contaminant known. Cleanroom suits remain, after hundreds of years, the best solution. Our suits are not designed to keep the wearer safe from the environment—they are designed to keep the environment safe from the wearer.”

“Which is why Lynn Costa’s suit didn’t help her,” Deanna observed, thinking of the clammy feeling of the helmet in her dream.

The Vulcan nodded, “Yes. The air leaving the suit was highly filtered—but not air entering.”

He stopped abruptly in front of another faceless corridor, this one guarded by a voice-activated door. “We’re here. How far into the environment do you wish to venture?”

Worf narrowed his eyes. “How far? To the site of the accident, of course.”

“The pods are in a class-one cleanroom,” declared Saduk. He eyed the big Klingon dubiously. “Special cleanroom suits are required.”

“Can we dispense with suits?” asked Worf. “We only want to see the place where Lynn Costa died.”

“I’m afraid not,” Saduk answered. “In order to reach the class-zero pods, we must pass through class-one-thousand, one-hundred, and class-one cleanrooms. Perhaps you have seen the children’s toy that is one egg within another egg, each one smaller in size. That is similar to a cleanroom system.”

“I don’t care what I have to wear,” muttered Worf. “Can I bring my tricorder?”

“We will supply you with a dust-free unit inside,” the Vulcan replied. He turned to the voice analyzer beside the door. “Saduk requesting entrance.”

“Voice-print confirmed,” replied the computer, as the door slid open.

They entered another corridor, but this one had immense windows on either side of it. The laboratory on the left was dark, with the shapes and shadows of strange equipment jutting eerily into the gloom. To her right, Deanna could see white-suited technicians moving like ghosts through a roomful of large metal boxes, each one glowing with ultraviolet quartz tubes. Within this cleanroom were smaller cleanrooms of transparent aluminum, where robots moved with harmonic ease, shuffling wafers of microchips in and out of reactors and furnaces. Along the walls of the busy cleanroom, tanks, pumps, and piping stretched from floor to ceiling.

“That is semiconductor research and development,” explained Saduk matter-of-factly. “The developers have to duplicate manufacturing techniques that are common throughout the Federation.”

“What is this darkened room?” Worf asked, pointing to their left.

The Vulcan didn’t slow his pace for an instant as he answered, “That is a spare research/manufacturing facility for projects from the other decks. We refer to it as the ‘guest room,’ ” he said without smiling.

Before Deanna had a chance to see more, they moved past a bulkhead and made a left turn into a smaller corridor. The floor under their feet suddenly became a silver grating through which air flowed easily, and they were struck by a gentle breeze.

“Your first air shower,” explained Saduk. “Our next will be in the transition room.”

Before they got to the transition room, they passed some smaller cleanrooms where anonymous white-suited researchers were gathered around electron microscopes and pinpoint laser devices. Some of them sat at lab benches, hunched over culture dishes, their heads covered by hoods suspended from the ceiling by air tubes. The hoods, Deanna knew, kept the work surfaces even cleaner than the room’s atmosphere.

“Biomedical labs,” explained the Vulcan. “Emil Costa occasionally works with this section.”

“Are all these rooms negative-pressurized?” asked Worf.

“It depends,” Saduk replied. “Biomedical labs are usually negative-pressurized, so that air can only enter and nothing can escape. On the other hand, the transition rooms are positive-pressurized, so that dirtier air cannot come in. Air pressure is our greatest ally in keeping the environment clean.”

“In an emergency,” added Worf, “I can negative-pressurize sickbay, the transporter rooms, or any part of the ship.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the Vulcan without the slightest pride, “I designed that system.”

Worf glanced at Deanna and raised a droll eyebrow, while Saduk stopped at another voice-activated door, this one marked TRANSITION ROOM 3. In smaller letters were the words CLASS 1000.

“Saduk requesting entrance,” the Vulcan announced.

“Voice-print confirmed,” replied the computer, as the door brushed open.

The transition room was a sterile cross between a closet and a locker room, with racks of white garments and neatly stacked helmets dressing one wall and lockers and private shower facilities against another. The far wall opened directly onto three gleaming showers of air and ultraviolet rays. Bulbous air nozzles protruded from the walls and ceiling of the chambers, and the quartz lamps gleamed overhead and underfoot. Each chamber was marked by a sign proclaiming its destination: MICROCONTAMINATION, MEDICAL, MANUFACTURING.

“Those are turbolifts,” said Deanna with a start.

“Not just turbolifts,” added the Vulcan. “Once you have changed into protective garments, you will be free to enter the class-one-hundred cleanrooms.”

Worf started to take off his Klingon sash. “No need for that, Lieutenant,” said Saduk. “I am sure we have something large enough to accommodate all of your clothes.” He pressed a button, and a conveyor belt brought him a sheet of filmy white material that looked to Deanna like a parachute she had once seen in an Earth movie.

Worf gathered the material up in his arms, while Saduk searched for a helmet. On her own initiative, Deanna took a garment from the nearest rack and was stunned at the lightness of the material. It was like gossamer.

“You won’t even know you are wearing it,” remarked Saduk with a perfunctory nod.

The garments flowed over their uniforms like a coating of dust, but the helmets were another matter. Saduk had nimble fingers, and he managed to attach the helmet to Deanna’s suit in a matter of seconds, but he was unable to alleviate the claustrophobic feeling of the transparent visor, the headpiece, and the tubes stretching behind her to unseen filters.

The air she breathed was slightly stale, but clean air flowed in from vents in the top of the helmet. The helmet and the gloves served as constant reminders to Deanna that she was considered to be a walking source of contamination and a threat to the cleanrooms.

Saduk slipped on his own helmet and secured it with a few snaps. “This way,” he said, leading them toward the air shower marked MICROCONTAMINATION.

Even through the suit and helmet, Deanna felt the rapid rush of air over her body as she and Worf entered the shower. They stood on a grating through which she could feel the air rushing out of the chamber. The quartz tubes throbbed over her head and under the white booties covering her feet, and she could feel the slight motion of the specially equipped turbolift moving them laterally.

The door on the other side opened, and they entered a vast room with smaller self-enclosed cleanrooms dotting its surface like igloos on an Antarctic plain. Saduk strode quickly through the white landscape toward a small door on the other side of the room, where another white-suited denizen waved to them.

“Ensign Singh reporting,” he said, saluting Lieutenant Worf.

Deanna heard the security officer as clearly as if he had been in her helmet with her, and she surmised that the helmets were patched into the ship’s communication network.

“Thank you, Ensign,” replied Worf. “Status?”

“No one has entered the room since Dr. Costa was beamed out,” answered the ensign, pointing to a door clearly marked CLASS I.

“Well done,” Worf told his underling. “You are relieved.”

As Ensign Singh strode away, Deanna moved to the large window overlooking the room with the pods. It was exactly as she had remembered it from her dream: the white sterility, the row of ominous gray-tinted pods, and the miniature lab equipment and sensors within each pod. Suddenly, the sense of déja vu overwhelmed her, and she gripped the window ledge for support.

“Are you all right?” asked Worf with concern.

“Yes,” she breathed, granting the Klingon a smile he couldn’t fully see. She turned to Saduk and asked, “Is this the window through which Dr. Grastow saw the body?”

“Yes,” nodded the Vulcan. “Shall I send for him?”

“No,” answered Deanna, “let him rest. Is it safe for us to enter?”

Saduk checked the readouts on an instrument panel beside the window. “Levels normal,” he announced. “Particle count point-six-two; lethal gas analysis is negative. Relative pressure is at negative twelve percent, and pod number one has been deactivated.” He punched a code into the instrument panel, and the door slid open.

Worf entered first. Saduk stood patiently while Deanna walked past him; she was in no hurry. The absolute stillness, the silent gray pods, and the knowledge of recent death all combined to make the laboratory seem like a tomb.

The white room was featureless except for the window and the pods. Deanna counted eight of them, all identical except for the identification screens built into their heavily sealed hatches. Some of the screens were dark, but others bore electronic descriptions like BETELGUESE III—IONIZED ATMOSPHERE, UDRYXAL COMPOUND PROCESS REFINEMENT, and SPACE VACUUM—HOLD FOR GRASTOW.

Pod number one’s screen was also dark. Worf studied it somberly for a moment, then turned on the tricorder Saduk had furnished him. “We have to check the integrity of all the seals,” he declared.

“Agreed,” answered the Vulcan. But his attention was focused upon a small mechanism perched atop the pod. “The regulator valve appears intact.”

“What is that for?” asked Deanna, reluctantly edging closer to the gray enclosure.

“Rapid pressure equalization,” answered Saduk. “For example, if you were finished with your vacuum experiment and wanted to open the hatch, you would have to equalize the pressure first.”

“Can the pressure flow both ways?” asked Worf. “Could the gas have escaped from that valve?”

“Highly unlikely,” answered the Vulcan. “Experiments with any sort of risk factor are automatically conducted under negative pressure. Additionally, the valve is computer-controlled and would not be tripped with dangerous gases present.”

“Computer-controlled,” Deanna repeated, studying the blank screen embedded within the pod’s thick hatch. Only days ago, Lynn Costa had alerted her co-workers to her condition by destroying computer records. None of them had listened closely enough then.

“Could someone rewrite the program?” she asked. “Either to ignore the gases or to mistake positive pressure for negative?”

The Vulcan cocked his head slightly. “Yes, theoretically,” he replied. “The pods have their own computer subsystems.”

Worf continued his scan of all the seals. “I don’t detect the slightest wear on these seals,” he growled. “The maintenance on this equipment has been excellent. I’m inclined to agree with Counselor Troi that this is a very peculiar accident.”

The Vulcan got a determined look on his otherwise emotionless face. “If the regulator valve is at fault, it is easy to prove. Computer?”

“Awaiting instructions, Dr. Saduk,” the machine answered.

“Reactivate pod number one,” he said, “and run containment diagnostics with full simulation.”

“Running diagnostics,” the computer confirmed. Almost immediately, the gray interior of the pod became darker and dingier, and messages and codes began to flash on its screen.

“Incorrect air pressure readings,” announced the computer.

Seconds later, red smoke began streaming from the regulator valve. Deanna recoiled in fright, but Saduk grabbed her arm with a surprisingly firm grip.

“It’s harmless,” he assured her. “But it’s also unexpected and inexplicable, under normal circumstances.”

Worf was measuring the crimson stream with his tricorder. “This flow is more than enough to overcome someone in seconds,” he concluded. “And, she didn’t expect the gas to be so lethal.”

Or did she? wondered Deanna. Looking nervously away from the escaping red gas, she glanced down at the floor and saw a small blue vial. In this bastion of cleanliness, the haphazardly discarded object seemed almost shocking. Deanna reached down with a gloved hand to pick it up.

“End simulation and diagnostics,” ordered Saduk, who peered intently at the regulator valve as soon as the smoke had dissipated. “This valve may appear intact, but it’s not,” he declared. “For a malfunction of this magnitude, two things had to occur. First, as you surmised, Counselor Troi, the pod’s programming was altered to give a negative reading when the pressure inside the pod was actually positive. Secondly, the valve failed when the pressure differential became too great. Such catastrophic failure is impossible without substantial alteration.”

“The valve and the programming were both altered?” Worf asked incredulously.

“Yes,” answered the Vulcan dryly. “Lynn Costa’s death was no accident. Someone killed her.”

Deanna Troi felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She looked around and saw nowhere to sit, so she braced herself against the deadly pod.

“Will you testify to this at an inquiry?” asked Worf.

“Of course,” nodded the Vulcan.

Weakly, Deanna asked, “Would suicide be a possibility?”

“Yes,” replied the researcher. “Dr. Costa had as much opportunity to tamper with this equipment as anyone. But she could have ended her life in a variety of simpler and less painful methods.”

Thoughtfully, Deanna squeezed the vial in her gloved hand. Should she ask about it? Not at the moment, she decided.

“Do’Ha’!” snarled Worf, slamming a gloved fist into a gloved palm. “A murder on the Enterprise! I vow that the killer will be brought to justice!”

“Lynn Costa was afraid,” Deanna muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She began to feel worse that she hadn’t done more to help Dr. Costa right after their disturbing meeting. “It wasn’t paranoia,” she concluded.

Before Worf could reply, an electronic bosun’s whistle alerted them that a message was about to be relayed to all hands. The whistle was followed by a familiar cultured voice. “Attention all hands,” it began, “this is Captain Picard. I wish to relay the grievous news that Dr. Lynn Costa died at approximately zero-four-hundred hours today. The cause of death was the inhalation of a lethal gas.

“A full report will be available to all hands as soon as possible,” he continued. “According to Dr. Costa’s wishes, she will be granted the funeral of a Starfleet crew member. The funeral is scheduled for eighteen-hundred hours in the ship’s theater. Before returning to your regular duties, please join us in a moment of silence for our departed colleague.”

Deanna, Worf, and Saduk didn’t need to be told to be silent. They not only felt the shared loss of a giant within their midst, but they felt the acute burden of being the only ones who knew that she had been murdered.