Chapter One

“C APTAIN , I believe you should come down to see this.”

The captain of the Enterprise smiled at what almost sounded like enthusiasm

coming from his Vulcan science officer, filtered through the intercom speakers

in his quarters.

“See what, T’Pol?” Captain Jonathan Archer asked. He was currently kneeling on

the floor, scratching his beagle Porthos behind one floppy ear.

“I believe that we have found evidence that this planet is, in fact, the

homeworld of the Zalkat Union.”

The planet to which the Vulcan sub-commander referred was Beta Aurigae VII.

Enterprise, the still largely experimental flagship of Earth’s nascent Starfleet

space service, had been given a mandate to explore new worlds, and the Beta

Aurigae system was full of them. The seventh planet even had an oxygen/nitrogen

atmosphere (what the Vulcans referred to as a “Minshara-class” planet), so

Archer had authorized T’Pol to lead a team to explore the surface—after a

thorough scan, naturally. Archer had made the mistake of not making sufficient

preparations for visiting an Earth-type world once, and several members of his

crew almost paid for that with their lives. Jonathan Archer liked to think that

he learned from his mistakes.

They had not detected any sentient animal life—indeed, the largest animal they’d

been able to detect was an insect—nor anything especially dangerous to

humanoids. There was plenty of plant life, and the probe and sensor readings

indicated a scattering of refined metals and the remnants of a system of roads.

“Let me guess,” Archer said, standing upright, thus prompting a hurt look from

Porthos, “the Alley Cat Union’s another one of those races we’re not meant to

know about yet?” He reached for the cup of coffee on the nightstand as Porthos

started sniffing his boots.

“Zalkat, not ‘alley cat,’ Captain, and hardly,” T’Pol said in the tone that

Archer had come to recognize as the one she used when he was being annoyingly

human. As far as he could tell, those times were roughly whenever Archer was

awake. Sometimes, however, the teasing was impossible for him to resist, hence

his deliberate malapropism.

She continued: “Archaeological evidence of the Union has been found on several

worlds throughout the sector—and all of it indicates that the Union’s heyday was

over ninety thousand years ago.”

Archer almost sputtered his coffee. “Ninety thousand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wow.” It took Archer a moment to wrap his mind around the number. Ninety

thousand years ago, Homo sapiens didn’t even exist. “What have you found?”

“The remains of a building that, as best I can tell, was recently unearthed.

I’ve been extrapolating the weather patterns, and it would seem that erosion has

been caused—”

“T’Pol,” he said with a smile, “please tell me you didn’t call to talk about the

weather.”

“Excuse me?” she said archly.

Archer sighed. “Just give me the basics of what you found. Save the details for

your written report.”

A noise that Archer chose to interpret as static rather than a tcha of

disapproval preceded T’Pol’s next statement. “We have found several items

containing markings consistent with other Zalkatian artifacts, as well as

humanoid bone fossils that are consistent with those found at other Zalkatian

sites. Ensign Sato has also discovered a box.”

“A box?” Archer prompted when no further details were forthcoming.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Reed has been attempting to gain ingress to the box, thus far

with minimal success.”

“What, blasting it open with a phase pistol didn’t work?” Archer said with a

laugh.

“No.”

Archer blinked. “T’Pol, I was kidding.”

“So was Mr. Reed when he first made the suggestion. However, after all other

avenues were exhausted, he did attempt to, as you so eloquently put it, blast it

open. That proved as fruitless. The box is made of a material impervious to

coherent phased light.”

After gulping down the remainder of his coffee, Archer asked, “What’s the big

deal about this box anyhow?” At Porthos’s pleading look, Archer disposed of the

coffee cup and then knelt down to scratch the canine behind the ears some more.

“You’re not getting any cheese, so stop giving me that look,” he said to the

puppy.

“Sir?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “What about the box?”

“Ensign Sato has concluded, based on a very limited linguistic database that I

provided, that the box contains critical documents relating to Malkus the

Mighty.”

“Dare I ask what Malkus the Mighty is?”

“Was, Captain. Several of the documents that have been recovered from Zalkatian

sites have made reference to Malkus—apparently a tyrant who ruled for many

years. Accounts have chronicled his reign at anywhere from ten years to a

thousand years—the former is more likely, though the latter more prevalent in

the accounts. The box is probably of the same tenor as most other documents

relating to Malkus: tributes to his glory, accounts of his greatness, and other

such emotional outpourings.”

Grinning, Archer asked, “Is that distaste I hear in your tone, Sub-commander?”

“Certainly not,” T’Pol said indignantly.

“In any case, you’ve sold me.”

“Sir?”

“Sounds like this is a major archaeological find.” He cradled Porthos in his

arms and then stood upright. The dog made a happy bleating noise in response and

licked Archer’s hand. “I’d like to get a good look at it. Mr. Tucker, Porthos,

and I will be on the next pod down.”

“Sir, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to bring—”

Archer sighed as he interrupted. “Are we going to start this again? Porthos is a

beagle. He’s spent most of his time sitting patiently in my cabin when every

instinct in his little canine body pushes him to run yapping all over the ship.

I’d say he’s earned another chance to run free in the great outdoors for a

while.”

After a brief pause, T’Pol said slowly, “If you’d let me finish, sir, you’d have

known that I have no objection to bringing your animal down—assuming he is kept

out of the main archaeological site we have established. My objection was to the

presence of Mr. Tucker.”

“I can’t see why—you two haven’t gotten into an argument for hours,” Archer said

dryly. “You must be suffering withdrawal.”

“I simply do not see what Mr. Tucker can contribute to the landing party—plus it

would place Enterprise’ s four seniormost crew members off-ship.”

“Travis can handle the conn while we’re gone. And Trip’s an engineer. They’re

good at opening things that don’t want to be opened—in fact, that’s a particular

talent of Trip’s.”

“Really?” The dubiousness practically dripped from T’Pol’s voice.

“Really. We’ll be down within the hour. Archer out.” After cutting off that

connection, he opened another. “Archer to Tucker.”

“Tucker here.”

“How’d you like to take a little trip, Trip?”

There was a pause, then a snort of what might have almost been laughter. “Cap’n,

however long you been waitin’to use that line—you shoulda waited longer.”

 

It took Charles “Trip” Tucker all of forty-five seconds to open the box.

Malcolm Reed stared daggers at him. “How in the hell did you do that,

Commander?”

“Sorry, trade secret,” Tucker said with his toothy smile.

“Look, I went at that thing for the better part of an hour,” Reed said, his

normally dry face looking positively sour. “I think—”

“Forget it, Malcolm,” Archer said with a grin. “Trip’s not one to reveal a trade

secret.”

As his security chief continued to regard his chief engineer with disdain,

Archer looked around the dig site. One of Reed’s people had been detailed with

keeping an eye on Porthos as he ran around a bushy area. Archer, meanwhile,

looked admiringly at a pile of stones that vaguely resembled pictures of Greek

ruins he’d seen. The architectural style was completely different, of course,

but it evoked the same feeling of treading on ancient ground. Ninety thousand

years, he thought, still in awe of the number. Once, this barren, brown

kilometer-wide patch of dirt was probably a thriving metropolis. Now there was

nothing but an assortment of rocks and broken trinkets. Look upon my works, ye

mighty, and despair, he thought, recalling the Percy Bysshe Shelley poem.

T’Pol had collected several items—some seemingly ordinary pieces of rock, others

that appeared to have a particular shape—into a sample case, each tagged with a

notation written in the severe Vulcan script. Archer instinctively wanted to

rebuke her for that— Enterprise was an Earth ship, so to Archer’s mind the

documentation should have been in an Earth language—but he realized immediately

how foolish that was. The two people who were going to be spending the most time

with the artifacts from this dig were T’Pol and the ship’s linguist, Ensign

Hoshi Sato. It mattered only that those two could read the notes. Their reports

would be in English in any case.

Speaking of the young ensign, she was now kneeling down in front of the box,

pawing through its contents, her hands clad in sterile gloves. “I was right!

These have the same markings as the box.” She held something up to T’Pol, who

stood next to her. Archer leaned in close to see a very small cube—barely two

centimeters on a side—with surprisingly elaborate markings, given its size. Sato

easily held the cube between her forefinger and thumb. “See? That glyph is

definitely the symbol for ‘mighty,’” she added, pointing to a marking on one

side, then pointed to the opposite side, “and that’s the one for ‘story.’ It’s

got to be more of those Malkus Chronicles.”

T’Pol, her hands also gloved, took the cube. “The evidence does seem to point to

that conclusion.”

“The word ‘mighty’ shouldn’t be a clue all by itself,” Archer said. “I mean,

this Malkus guy can’t have been the only person to whom that word would apply.”

“Actually it is,” Sato said sheepishly. “See, that,” she said, pointing to one

corner of the glyph, “indicates that it’s a proper name, and belongs to a great

personage.”

T’Pol added, “The word ‘mighty’ written in that particular style has thus far

been exclusively found in relation to Malkus. It would seem that Ensign Sato’s

hypothesis was correct.”

Smiling, Sato stood up. “Told you.”

“This is an even greater find than you might think,” T’Pol said. “These are a

type of data storage. Other such items have been found—many of them fragments of

the so-called Malkus Chronicles. Until now, however, we have not found any units

in such pristine condition.”

“They were certainly well preserved in that damn box,” Reed muttered. Then,

louder, he added, “Actually, that’s probably why that box was so bloody hard to

get into. If it was related to such an important figure…”

T’Pol nodded. “That is a logical deduction.”

“Pristine or not,” Archer said, “it doesn’t do us any good if we can’t read it.

I don’t think we have anything on board that’ll interface with that thing.”

Tucker walked over to the box. “Lemme take a look at that.”

Sato grabbed the box and moved it away from Tucker. “Not until you get some

gloves on.”

“Whoa there, Ensign Squeaky Clean, I took a shower ’fore I came down.”

“I don’t care if you dipped yourself in a vat of decon gel, you’re not touching

my artifacts without gloves on.”

“Your artifacts?” Tucker said with a laugh. “You said they had this Malkus

fella’s name on ’em, not yours.”

“Malcolm, give the commander a pair of gloves,” Archer said before the argument

went on.

“Fine, fine, gimme the damn gloves,” Tucker said with a look at Sato. For her

part, Sato continued to look defiant. She had obviously taken a personal

interest in this find.

Reed smiled as he went to the supply box, and said in a perfect imitation of

Tucker’s drawl, “Keep your shirt on.”

Archer managed to maintain a straight face, as, naturally, did T’Pol. Sato had

somewhat less discipline, and burst into a giggle.

Tucker turned to Archer. “Y’know, if I wanted abuse, I coulda stayed home. Next

time, open y’own damn boxes.” However, he took the gloves Reed profered a moment

later, put them on, then looked at Sato. “May I?”

Presenting him with the box, Sato said with a smile, “Knock yourself out,

Commander.”

Tucker studied one of the cubes for several seconds, then said, “I think I might

be able to modify one of the readers. It’ll take a couple hours, though—and I’ll

need to take one of these with me.”

“All right, take them back up to Enterprise,” Archer said. “T’Pol, go with him

and give him a hand.”

“Captain,” Sato said, “request permission to go back—”

“Denied—for now,” he added at the ensign’s forlorn look. “Once they’ve rigged

the reader up, then I’ll want you in orbit translating what’s on these cubes,

but until then, with T’Pol going back to the ship, I want you down here

cataloging what we find.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be remaining as well?” T’Pol asked Archer.

The captain nodded. “Not quite a first contact, but close enough for me. I’d

like to learn more about this Zalkat Union. Besides,” he added with a smile,

“Porthos could use a little more running-around time.”

 

Five hours later, Archer took a pod back up to Enterprise, along with Reed, the

rest of the archaeological crew, a crate full of samples, and a very content

beagle (who spent the entire trip from the surface asleep in Archer’s lap). An

hour prior to that, T’Pol had sent a pod down to fetch Sato, and by the time

Archer had settled back onto Enterprise, the two of them had a preliminary

report for him.

The captain sat behind his desk. T’Pol stood calmly on the other side of the

desk, while Sato was pacing around the cramped space, seemingly ready to burst.

Archer found it an amusing contrast.

T’Pol said, “This chronicle is somewhat different from the others that have been

unearthed.”

“It was written after Malkus was overthrown,” Sato added excitedly.

“I have to say, Ensign,” Archer said with a smile, “you’re remarkably

enthusiastic for someone who’d never heard of the Zalkat Union two days ago.”

“It’s a fascinating culture, Captain,” Sato said, now sounding a bit more

sheepish. “I could spend days just listening to their language—it has so many

layers and nuances. They took their words very seriously. And their

sculpture—what we were able to unearth and what the sub-commander’s shown me in

some other records—it’s just amazing.”

Smiling indulgently, Archer said, “Continue your report, Sub-commander.”

After a brief nod, T’Pol said, “Ensign Sato is correct in that this chronicle

was written after Malkus was overthrown. In addition, it also provided the first

evidence of how Malkus was able to rule for so long.”

“How long?”

“Apparently,” and here, it seemed to Archer, T’Pol spoke with the greatest

reluctance, “he truly did reign for the rough equivalent of one thousand years.

Malkus had four items constructed which served as the instruments of his rule.

They were devices of impressive power—far in excess of the Union’s baseline

technology level.”

“Did he steal the technology from another spacefaring power?”

“Unknown—and unlikely. Based on the descriptions that Ensign Sato and I have

translated, it is in keeping with the Union’s technology curve, simply farther

along on that curve than the rest of the Union of that era. To give an Earth

analogy, the creator of these devices was the Zalkatian equivalent of Leonardo

daVinci. Unlike da Vinci, however, who could not construct the ornithopter he

designed, Malkus was able to provide the material for these devices to be

created.”

“So what do they do?” Archer asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“One was capable of controlling the weather, one imparted a fatal virus, one

served as an immensely powerful energy weapon, and the final device could be

used to channel telepathy.”

Archer sat up. “Mind control?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Basically,” Sato said as she paced back and forth past the images of other,

older ships named Enterprise on the office wall, “he could force people to do

what he wanted, and if they still didn’t obey, they had their choice of dying by

disease, tornado, or being blasted into oblivion.”

“That’s quite a combination.” Archer knew his words didn’t do their meaning

justice. He thought back to the tyrants of human history, and imagined what

Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, or Colonel Green

would have done with even one of those devices, much less all four. Hell, he

thought, any sufficiently crazed Japanese sh¯ogun or Russian czar would have a

field day. “So what happened to the devices after Malkus was overthrown?” He

snorted. “For that matter, how was he overthrown?”

“We haven’t found that part, yet,” Sato said. She had moved to stand next to

T’Pol. “Captain, each of the cubes we found had different things on it, but the

information we’re giving you about Malkus’s devices is on all of them. I think

that’s why the box was so well preserved—the Zalkatians wanted someone to find

these chronicles in the future.”

“Why?”

T’Pol said, “As a warning. The devices proved impossible to destroy. According

to the chronicle, they tried every method they could imagine, including dropping

the devices into a sun.”

“That didn’t work either?” Archer asked, surprised.

“No. The devices were able to resist the gravitational forces of the sun and

drift back out, unscathed. However, the Zalkatians could not risk another

possessing even one of them, much less all four.”

“Smart move. So what’d they do?”

“Spread them to the nine winds,” Sato said with a grim smile. She started pacing

again. “The Zalkat Union was huge, Captain. It included parts of the galaxy

we’re probably never gonna see in our lifetime. And the rebels buried them in

four different places on the outskirts of their territory.”

“Where?”

“That information was deliberately withheld,” T’Pol said, “in order to keep

anyone from finding them. The only definitive information is that they are in

four separate locations and that they are simple black boxes.”

A wry smile played across Archer’s face. “The Zalkatians have a thing for

ordinary-looking boxes, don’t they?”

Sato also smiled.

T’Pol, of course, did not, but simply went on as if Archer hadn’t commented.

“This rather generic formmakes recognizing the devices visually difficult.

However, the devices do give off a distinctive energy signature when they’re

active. That signature is encoded into all of the cubes we found, and can easily

be programmed into Enterprise’ 'ssensors.”

Archer stood up. “We need to do more than that.”

Sato frowned. “Sir?”

“Think about it, Ensign—we’re not the only ship out here. More to the point,

we’re not the last Earth ship to explore; we’re the first. If someone comes

across one of these devices when it’s active, they need to know what it

is—especially if they’re so unassuming looking.”

The look of trepidation on Sato’s face showed that she was thinking about it

now, and understood the potential danger.

“Ensign, prepare a message to Admiral Forrest. I want him to know everything you

just told me—along with my strong recommendation that the information about

these devices be programmed into every Starfleet ship and also be made available

to any civilian ship.”

T’Pol nodded what Archer guessed was an approving nod, and said, “I would like

you to prepare a similar message to the Vulcan High Command, Ensign.”

Archer’s eyes widened as an idea hit him. “Actually, I think the recommendations

to both Earth and Vulcan should come from both of us, Sub-commander. And we

might want to provide this information to the Axanar, too—as a goodwill gesture

to our new friends.”

Another approving nod. “An excellent idea, Captain.” Enterprise had made first

contact with the Axanar only a couple of weeks earlier. At last report,

diplomatic relations with them were going well.

Sato headed toward the door. “I’ll start preparing the message right away, sir.”

“One other thing, Ensign,” Archer said. Sato stopped, her arm hovering over the

door control. “I also want to recommend to the admiral that a general order is

created that requires any Starfleet vessel that does encounter this energy

signature be ordered to confiscate the device immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Sato touched the control to open the door and departed.

“Another excellent idea, Captain,” T’Pol said.

“Twice in one lifetime, Sub-commander,” Archer said with a wide grin. “When

you’re hot, you’re hot.”

Archer waited expectantly for some kind of comeback. When none was forthcoming,

he realized that T’Pol knew that Archer was expecting some kind of rebuke, and

she had decided not to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

Well, I did bring her along to keep me on my toes. “What say we head belowdecks

so you can take a look at the other goodies we dug up down there?” Archer asked,

heading for the door.

T’Pol nodded in acknowledgment. “After you, Captain.”

 

Part 1: The First Artifact

2266

This portion of the story takes place shortly before the Star Trek first-season

episode “Balance of Terror.”

Chapter Two

SHE WAS PRETTY SURE the vacation sounded good when Alvaro suggested it. As the

wind sliced through her thermal suit and snow obscured her goggles, however, it

didn’t sound nearly as appealing at the moment.

Pirenne’s Peak had gotten warm enough to be habitable to humans only in the last

few years. It was almost virgin territory. She had always liked hiking and

climbing, and finding a new mountainous area of Alpha Proxima II to explore was

certainly tempting.

And it wasn’t like she had anything better to do now.

Of course, “habitable to humans” was a relative term. Proxima was a colony

world, after all, and, though it was Class-M, no sentient life had ever evolved

on it. That was, many felt, because it was so hot on most of the surface. There

were exceptions, of course: the parts of the northern continent where the colony

had been founded and now, almost a century later, thrived; and the mountaintops,

above the cloud layer, where temperatures plunged to well below the freezing

point.

After spending so long in the oppressive heat of Sierra City, she had thought

she would welcome the cold. It matched her mood.

Damn them all to hell.

It’s normal, they said. This sort of thing always happens when someone new takes

over, they said.

But someone new shouldn’t have taken over, didn’t they understand that? That job

was hers, by every right. Hers, dammit, and they had no right to take it away

from her.

Take a vacation, they said. You’ll feel better, they said.

Right now, she didn’t feel better. She felt cold and miserable and like she was

being attacked by wind and snow and she wanted it to stop.

The path she was on would lead to the top of the peak. It had been cleared by

the tourist bureau as a way of encouraging hikers like herself to come to the

peak. Unfortunately, the path made things too easy. If she had had to work a bit

harder to get up to the top by navigating the natural crevices and outcroppings,

she might have been able to actually accomplish what Alvaro had suggested: keep

her mind off her recent misfortunes.

Misfortunes? Hell, it was thievery. That job was mine, dammit, mine ! They had

no right!

She touched a control on the lining of the glove of her thermal suit. A display

appeared on the inside of her goggles, showing the route that would take her to

the top. She then had the image pull back and expand to show the entire region.

As she had hoped, there was another way to the top. It would take twice as long,

and involve clambering over ground much more treacherous than this

path—including at least one section that, according to the map, was covered in

ice. But she was hardly in a rush—it wasn’t as if she had a job to go home

to—and she’d been in far more dangerous climbs when she was a child. This would

be easy.

Half an hour later, sweat poured down her forehead, staining her goggles (which

obediently cleaned themselves), her arm and leg muscles ached from the exertion

of climbing in the bulky suit, and she hadn’t thought about the misery her life

had turned into for the entire time.

She paused, having found a small rock to sit on. Using one control to call up

the map, she used another to activate the water dispenser. As refreshing water

poured through a straw into her dry mouth, she looked over the display. Only

about another twenty minutes or so, she thought. Had she taken the beaten path,

as it were, she would have been there ten minutes ago. She preferred this.

I’ll just wait here for a few minutes, get my breath back, then go on.

The cold and the snow and the wind somehow didn’t matter as much now. Finally,

she had found something to distract her. To make her forget her misery and what

they took from her.

You can do better.

She sat up. “Who said that?” she asked aloud, not sure that anyone would even be

able to hear her in the fierce wind.

You can get revenge.

Now she stood up. “Who is this?”

I can help you.

Almost against her will, she found herself looking between the rock she sat on

and the one next to it. She squinted, and saw a faint green glow.

You can have your revenge. Just take me with you and everything you want will be

yours.

Her arm just barely fit between the two rocks. She reached in, felt around near

where the green glow was. She felt the metal shape, which was warm even through

the protection of her gloves.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit it through the small space between the rocks.

Indeed, she could barely fit her hand through.

Consumed suddenly by an all-encompassing need to get the whatever-it-was out

from between the rocks, she clambered off the rock, got on her knees, and

examined the space. The rocks were close together, but the gap between them

widened closer to the ground. They were also buried in snow. Maybe if I dig down

a bit, they’re farther apart!

No. Not maybe. They were farther apart. She just had to dig into the snow.

Somehow, she knew this.

On her knees, the peak, the vacation, the climb, everything forgotten, she

started to dig with her hands, clearing away the snow at a great rate.

She had no idea how much time passed before she cleared out enough room to reach

in between the rocks and grab the item. But as soon as she had, she did so.

It was a black box. It felt amazingly warm in her hands.

Now you can have your revenge.

She smiled.

 

“Y’know, I really hate the night shift, Dad.”

Sitting in his quarters on the U.S.S. Constellation, Commodore Matthew Decker

laughed at the image of his son set in the desk monitor. Commander Willard

Decker—whom his father would have sworn was only a child a week ago—sat in the

operations center of Starbase 6, where he served as Admiral Borck’s adjutant.

“It’s space, son, it’s—”

“—always night,” he finished, “I know, I know.”

Both father and son laughed. It was an old joke dating back to when Will was

four. His parents had told him it was time for bed because it was night. Even

then, Will had been thinking about following his father’s footsteps into

Starfleet, and he had said, “Mommy, Daddy, when I go to space I’m’na have to

sleep all the time. ’Cause, in space it’s always night!”

“C’mon, son, it’s only for another day.”

“I know, I know. I just prefer to be in the thick of things.” Will leaned back

in his chair and sighed. He looked, his father had to admit, good in his gold

shirt. Won’t be long before he has a command of his own.

Something on the console behind Will beeped. He brushed a lock of blond hair off

his forehead and checked the console. “Damn—I’ve got to take care of that. I’ll

talk to you later, okay, Dad?”

“That’s Commodore Dad to you, mister!” Decker said with mock authority.

Will saluted sloppily. “Yes, sir, Commodore Dad, sir !” Then he nodded.

“Starbase 6 out.”

The monitor on Matt Decker’s desk faded to black. The commodore leaned back in

his chair. He was proud of his son. The boy’s record was spotless. Truth be

told, it was cleaner than his old man’s, which had enough reprimands to choke a

sehlat. Matt Decker had clawed his way through the ranks. His Academy professors

had deemed him not fit to be command material. He came up through security, and

wasn’t expected to advance all that far. Most of his commanding officers

considered him to be insubordinate—though never to the point of

court-martial—and overly opinionated.

No one was more surprised than he when Admiral Fitzgerald gave him his captain’s

braid and command of the Constellation all those years ago.

Will, though, was a Starfleet poster boy. Although Decker hadn’t told his son

this, the next high-level starship first officer position to become available

was probably going to go to Willard Decker.

The commodore got up and pulled his golden uniform shirt over his head. As he

did so, he felt like all the energy drained out of his body—almost as if the

shirt had been keeping him awake. It had been another long day on their two-week

scientific mission examining the emissions from the neutron star in the Beta

Proxima system. His second officer, Lieutenant Guillermo Masada, had been

pushing his people pretty hard to get all the readings that they could before

their next assignment three days hence—the oh-so-exciting hosting of a

diplomatic conference in the Crellis Cluster. Even as Masada had been gathering

enough sensor readings to challenge the storage capacity of the Constellation

computer, Decker’s first officer, Commander Hiromi Takeshewada, had been working

with security to get all the details ready for the conference.

Bleary-eyed, Decker looked at himself in the mirror, scratching his rough,

stubble-covered cheek.

“Bridge to captain.”

It was Masada. Decker was about to ask what he was still doing up, then realized

it was a silly question. Guillermo has hardly slept since we warped into Beta

Proxima.

Thumbing the intercom on his desk, he said, “Decker here.” Then he winced,

realizing how slurred his words were. He wondered if he had sounded that bad

when talking to Will.

“Sir, we’re picking up a distress call from Alpha Proxima II.”

In an instant, he was wide awake. Alpha Proxima was almost literally the star

system next door to the Constellation’ 'spresent location, so they were ideally

situated to respond to the call. “Specifics?”

“Medical emergency—some kind of plague has broken out. That’s all we’ve got.”

“That’s enough. Set a course, maximum warp, and have Commander Takeshewada and

Dr. Rosenhaus report to the bridge. I’ll be right up. Decker out.”

“Sir, I—”

Decker thumbed the intercom off before Masada could finish the sentence. He knew

that tone in his science officer’s voice. He was going to try to talk Decker out

of changing course until they had more information so he could squeeze more

sensor readings out of the neutron star. But the star wasn’t going anywhere, and

he had a duty to respond to the medical emergency immediately.

Throwing his shirt back on, he went out into the corridor, rubbing the sleep

that had already started collecting in his eyes. I haven’t even gone to bed yet,

and I feel like I just woke up.

He approached the turbolift just as Hiromi Takeshewada did likewise from an

adjacent corridor. Decker nodded down at her by way of greeting. Decker was a

tall man, relatively broad shouldered, and starting to get the inevitable paunch

that all the men in his family got after they hit fifty-five. In complete

contrast, the slim Takeshewada only came up to Decker’s shoulder. Where Decker’s

lined (and, at the moment, stubbly) face had all his years etched on it,

Takeshewada’s porcelain-like features probably allowed her to still pass for a

cadet. Some had even been foolish enough to not take her completely seriously

because of that—though never twice.

Right now, she looked as tired as Decker felt. “I take it you were roused out of

bed, Number One?” Decker said with a smirk.

“Not quite,” she said. “I was heading for bed. I could see my bed from where I

was standing when Guillermo called me. But no, I didn’t actually make it to the

bed.” As the turbolift doors opened and they entered, she looked up at Decker’s

face. “So you gonna grow that beard, or what?”

Decker chuckled as he grabbed the turbolift’s handle and said, “Bridge.”

Takeshewada had been on him to simply grow a beard. Decker hadn’t been entirely

comfortable with the idea, but he also hated shaving. “Still thinking about it.”

As soon as the doors opened to the bridge, Decker noticed that any signs of

fatigue were erased from Takeshewada’s smooth features. Nodding his approval,

they both entered the Constellation’ 'snerve center. “Report,” Takeshewada said

to Masada, who had been sitting in the command chair, and vacated it for Decker.

Masada, whose normally well-trimmed beard was now thick enough to obscure his

lips, ran his hand over his receding salt-and-pepper hair as he moved to the

science console. “Alpha Proxima II reports that a plague of some kind has broken

out and they need medical attention. Like I told the commodore, that’s all the

detail we’ve gotten so far.”

As Decker sat in his command chair, Yeoman Guthrie appeared at his side with a

cup of coffee—milk, no sugar. Decker accepted the cup with a grateful smile.

Takeshewada walked to the console directly behind Decker, where the night-shift

communications officer—whose name Decker could not for the life of him

remember—sat pushing several buttons. Before the first officer could say

anything, the young ensign said, “I’ve been trying to raise Proxima since we

received the distress signal, Commander. They have yet to respond.”

“Have any other ships answered the distress call?”

He nodded. “The Enterprise.”

Decker turned around. “Isn’t that Chris Pike’s ship?”

“No, Jim Kirk has her now,” Takeshewada said. “Has since Pike was promoted to

fleet captain.”

Grunting, Decker turned to the navigation console. “ETA to Proxima?”

The helm officer, another fresh-faced young officer Decker didn’t recognize,

said, “Twenty minutes, sir.”

“Something wrong, Ensign?” Takeshewada said.

Decker turned to see that the comm officer looked vexed, which had prompted the

first officer’s question.

The communications officer touched the receiver in his ear. “I’m not sure. The

comm traffic on Proxima is tremendous, but none of it is on the official

frequencies. In fact, the official government channel is dead.”

As he spoke, the turbolift doors opened to reveal the smooth, unlined face of

Dr. Lewis Rosenhaus. Only a few years removed from his graduation with honors

from Starfleet Medical, Rosenhaus had been something of a prodigy. After

Decker’s previous chief medical officer retired a month ago, Admiral Fitzgerald

had all but forced Rosenhaus upon the Constellation, claiming he was one of the

best. Decker’s sole impression of the young man so far was that he was a bit too

eager. He also hadn’t had to do much beyond routine physicals to acquaint

himself with his four hundred new patients. I suspect, Decker thought with some

trepidation, that this will be a test for him. Let’s hope to hell he passes it.

Idly, he wondered who the Enterprise CMO was, and hoped it was a more

experienced hand.

His presence led to some chuckling around the bridge, as the doctor hadn’t

bothered to change into uniform, and his wavy red hair was sticking up in all

directions. He was still wearing his pajamas—silk, Decker noticed, or something

similar.

“What’s happening?” the young man asked. “Lieutenant Masada said it was some

kind of medical crisis.”

“We don’t have any details yet, Doctor,” Takeshewada said. “So far, all we know

is that Alpha Proxima II has been hit with a medical emergency of some kind.”

“That could be anything,” Rosenhaus said prissily.

“The word ‘plague’ was used, Doctor,” Decker said. “Does that help?”

“Not especially, no. Hard to prepare sickbay when I don’t know what to prepare

it for.”

Takeshewada turned to Masada. “Talk to me about Proxima, Guillermo.”

Masada reached behind his head and yanked on his ponytail, which he always did

right before giving a report. “Your basic Class-M planet—part of the big

colonization push after warp drive was discovered, made part of the Federation,

gobby gobby gobby. Nothing particularly notable.”

Decker could hear the undercurrent in Masada’s voice, and knew he was dying to

add, Unlike, say, a neutron star. “Guillermo, knock it off.”

Sounding nonplussed, Masada said, “Sir?”

“We know you’re angry about cutting the neutron star survey short. Get over it

and give a proper report.”

Straightening in his chair, Masada pulled on his ponytail again. “Yes, sir,” he

said quickly, and peered into his sensor hood. Blue light shone on his features

as he read off the data contained therein. “Alpha Proxima II was colonized in

2189 by the S.S. Esperanza. They set up two cities, both on the northern

continent. In fact, the northern polar region’s the only place that’s really

comfortable for humans—rest of the planet’s either too hot or covered in water.

Current population is about one million four hundred thousand. The government

consists of a planetary council run by a chief speaker, and they also have

representation on the Federation Council.” He looked up. “You want their chief

exports?”

Chuckling, Decker said, “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Then Masada’s console beeped. “What the—?”

“Report,” Takeshewada said.

Masada peered back into the sensor hood. “That’s weird.” He looked up at

Takeshewada, who was now standing behind him. “We’re picking up an energy

signature from Proxima, one that triggered a flag in the computer relating to

Starfleet General Order 16.”

Decker frowned. “I don’t remember that one.”

“Neither do I,” Takeshewada said, sounding ashamed at the lapse.

Masada snorted. “Honestly, if the computer hadn’t just shoved it in my face, I

wouldn’t have remembered it, either. But if this sensor reading is accurate, we

may have stumbled across a deadly weapon.”

“What kind?” Takeshewada asked.

“Not sure,” Masada said, shaking his head and starting to work his console, “but

I’ll have something by the time we get there.”

Decker turned away from Masada and smiled. Now that he had a problem to solve,

Masada was sounding less petulant. Good, he thought. Last thing I need is

Guillermo feeling sorry for himself when we’ve got a medical crisis and some

unknown weapon….

 

The Constellation’ 'sSensor Control Center—or “sensor room,” as it was more

commonly known—was not normally a hotbed of activity. Someone was always on duty

to make sure everything was working. However, that person was often alone.

Located on deck twelve, all the sensor information from the ship came through

this room. Unlike the bridge sciences station—where the duty officer could pick

and choose what to focus on—the consoles in this room took in and recorded

everything. Its functions were generally automatic.

Since the Constellation had arrived at Beta Proxima eleven days ago, though,

there had never been fewer than four people in the sensor room at any given

time, and sometimes up to ten. Lieutenant (j.g.) Chaoyang Soo had joked that the

science staff had spent more time in the room in those eleven days than they had

during their entire collective tours on the Constellation.

Right now, Soo was frowning at a new reading that had come in. With the sudden

departure to respond to a medical emergency, Soo had taken it upon himself to

dismiss the staff—mostly noncommissioned scientists who had spent the last

eleven days being harangued by Lieutenant Masada—leaving only himself and Ensign

Sontor. Were Sontor not a Vulcan, Soo would have dismissed him, too. However, he

had apparently altered his metabolism so he would not need to sleep at all for

the two-week period of the mission. It was a move that some viewed as showing

off, but it also made dismissing him so he could get some sleep more or less

pointless.

“Curious.”

Soo, who had been gazing at the lateral sensor array, walked over to stand

behind Sontor, who was staring at the same anomalous reading. “What do you make

of it?”

“We have detected the energy signature of one of the Malkus Artifacts.”

“You say that like I have the first clue what that is.” Soo realized after he

said it that he sounded more irritated than he should have. Ah, hell, it’s not

like Sontor’ll care.

“My apologies. I had, of course, assumed that you would be familiar with the

major archeological find on Beta Aurigae VII one hundred and fifteen years ago,

since it relates to the sixteenth of Starfleet’s General Orders.” Sontor’s right

eyebrow shot up. “Obviously, my assumption was in error.”

Soo closed his eyes and counted to ten in English, French, and Mandarin. Then he

opened them again. “Ensign Sontor, would you be so kind as to enlighten me as to

what a ‘Malkus Artifact’ is?”

“Masada to sensor room.”

“Our master speaks,” Soo muttered, then thumbed the intercom. “Sensor room, this

is Soo.”

“I need everything on Starfleet General Order 16 and what it has to do with

emissions we’re getting from Alpha Proxima II, and I need it yesterday.”

With a look at Sontor, Soo said, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir.”

 

“So you’re saying that this plague may be caused by this—this artifact?”

Decker felt dubious about the story that Ensign Sontor was relaying to him on

the bridge now. On the other hand, Starfleet didn’t issue general orders without

a reason. Obviously whoever issued the order—and, according to Sontor, it dated

back to when Starfleet was Earth’s space exploration arm before the forming of

the Federation—thought the threat of these four artifacts was real enough. Even

if the distress call turned out to be a false alarm, just detecting those

emissions meant that the Constellation and the Enterprise were now obligated to

find and confiscate the artifact or artifacts. “Do we know what type of disease

the artifact can cause?” he asked.

“No, sir. Only that the disease in question is fatal.” Sontor hesitated. “If I

may say so, sir, this is a fascinating discovery, of great scientific

importance.”

“You may say that, Mr. Sontor, but I’m a bit more concerned about the loss of

life on Proxima.”

“Of course, sir,” Sontor said quickly, though he didn’t sound nearly contrite

enough to suit Decker.

Oh lay off the kid, he admonished himself. He’s just being Vulcan. He wouldn’t

know contrite if it bit him on the rear.

The ensign at helm said, “Entering Alpha Proxima system, sir.”

“Come out of warp and bring us into standard orbit of the second planet.” He

turned to Masada. “Guillermo?”

Peering into the sensor hood, Masada said, “Several artificial satellites and

small vessels in orbit, all matching what should be there. Also reading a

Constitution -class starship in a standard orbit, registry NCC-1701—that’d be

the Enterprise. I can also now verify the presence of the energy signature from

General Order 16 on-planet—but I can’t localize it. At least, not yet.”

Decker turned to communications. “Any luck raising anyone in authority, Ensign?”

The ensign shook his head. “No, sir, but I’m getting a signal from the

Enterprise.”

“Good.” He turned to Takeshewada. “What’s the captain’s name again?”

She rolled her eyes in the long-suffering manner that Decker had long since

learned to ignore. “Kirk.”

“Right. Ensign, open a channel.”

When they came out of warp, the viewscreen had provided an image of Alpha

Proxima II—a gold-and- yellow-tinged planet—and a ship of the same class as the

Constellation in orbit around it. Within moments, that image was replaced by a

bridge that was also of the same design as the Constellation.

In the center seat sat a man who was barely in his thirties. My God, they’re

letting children captain starships. “I’m Commodore Matt Decker of the

Constellation.”

“James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. It’s a pleasure, Commodore—I’m just

sorry we can’t meet under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Decker said quickly. “Have you been able to get anything from the

planet?”

Kirk nodded. “Not from the government, but my chief medical officer has been in

touch with the chief of staff of one of the hospitals. I’m afraid the news isn’t

good, Commodore. Right now, over thirty percent of the population is either

incapacitated or dead from this virus.”

“My God.” That was Rosenhaus, who still stood by the turbolift, still in his

nightclothes.

“Unfortunately, most of the planet’s public officials are among that thirty

percent.”

Decker blinked. “How is that possible?”

“My first officer is working on that right now, though he has a theory based on

some emissions we’ve received.”

Nodding, Decker said, “The Malkus Artifacts? General Order 16?”

Again, Kirk nodded.

“All right, I want you, your first officer, and your CMO to beam over here in

fifteen minutes. Bring everything you know about the situation, both on Proxima

and regarding these artifacts. We’ll do likewise.”

“Of course, Commodore.” Kirk sounded as nonplussed as Masada had when Decker

dressed him down earlier. “We’ll see you in fifteen minutes. Enterprise out.”

Without turning to look at Rosenhaus, Decker said, “Doctor, that gives you

fifteen minutes to put a uniform on and get to the briefing room.”

“Hm? Oh, right. Sorry,” he said sheepishly, and went into the turbolift.

Takeshewada stepped down to the lower portion of the bridge and stood next to

Decker. “A little rough on the kid, weren’t you?”

“He showed up on the bridge in his jammies, Number One, that—”

She smiled. “I don’t mean Rosenhaus, I mean Kirk.”

Decker snorted. “I’m the ranking officer here. Besides, Kirk doesn’t look old

enough to shave.”

“You do know that he’s got a list of commendations about a kilometer long, not

to mention the Medal of Honor, the Silver Palm, a Kragite, and probably some

others I’m forgetting, don’t you?”

Decker grinned. “Yeah, but I bet I’ve got more reprimands.” He hauled himself up

from his chair and drained his coffee cup. Handing it to Guthrie, he said,

“Yeoman, make sure there’s a full pot in the briefing room. We’re gonna need

it.”

“Yes, sir,” the yeoman said, taking the now-empty cup.

“Masada, Sontor, let’s go.” He turned—and realized that he didn’t have a clue

what the names of any of the officers left on the bridge were. He had enough

trouble keeping track of alpha shift, much less the nearstrangers from gamma

shift presently staffing the duty stations.

Takeshewada, bless her, whispered the word “Alamanzar” in his ear.

“Alamanzar,” he said without missing a beat, and wondering which face that name

belonged to, “you have the conn.”

 

Decker spent the time waiting for the Enterprise contingent and Rosenhaus to

show up taking a quick glance at Kirk’s service record. Although the commodore

was appalled to see that Kirk was only a few years older than Decker’s son, he

was also impressed with the young man’s service record. Kirk had several

citations besides the ones Takeshewada mentioned.

Still think he’s too damn young to be a ship captain…

The man himself came in a moment later, followed by two men in blue uniforms,

one Vulcan, one human; they were led in by a security guard, whom Decker

dismissed with a nod.

Decker stood up and offered his hand. “Captain Kirk.”

“Commodore. May I present my first officer, Mr. Spock, and my chief surgeon, Dr.

Leonard McCoy.”

The first officer’s wearing blue? What the hell kind of ship is this kid

running? The ship’s second-in-command should have been in command gold, not the

blue of the sciences. Aloud, he said, “This is Commander Hiromi Takeshewada, my

XO; Lieutenant Guillermo Masada, my second officer; and Ensign Sontor, one of my

science officers. We’re still waiting on—”

The door opened and Rosenhaus ran in, tugging on a blue uniform shirt that

looked like it had been hastily thrown on. He was also trying to smooth his red

hair down, and only partially succeeding.

“—my CMO,” Decker finished with a smile. “Dr. Lewis Rosenhaus.”

“A pleasure, sirs,” Rosenhaus said breathlessly.

Within moments, they were all seated around the table. “Dr.—McCoy?” Decker said.

When the doctor nodded affirmation, he continued. “Since you’ve been in touch

with the surface…”

McCoy nodded. “According to Dr. Baptiste, the head of the Sierra City Medical

Center—and, for all intents and purposes, the surgeon general down there, since

the S.G.’s one of the ones who’s down for the count—what we’re dealing with here

appears to be a virus that stimulates the adrenal gland. The body can only

handle so much of that, naturally, and eventually the organs become overworked.

The most common actual cause of death is heart failure—the heart almost

literally explodes from the intensity of the blood being pumped through it.” The

doctor made a snorting noise. “In fact, most of the people who have died from

this did so before anyone realized something was wrong. Damn difficult to

diagnose a disease whose symptoms include feeling energetic, unusual vigor, and

general excitement.”

Rosenhaus asked, “What finally led them to realize it then?”

“Over a dozen seemingly unrelated deaths with the same cause within a close time

frame. Law-enforcement types tend to notice that kinda thing,” McCoy said dryly.

“The autopsies revealed the presence of the virus, and they started treating it

and asking anyone with the symptoms to report to the nearest hospital

immediately.”

Decker leaned back in his chair. “Which meant the hospitals were flooded with

healthy people who felt good and thought their hearts would blow up.”

McCoy half-smiled. “Exactly. But the virus is fairly easy to identify.”

“So what’s the problem?” Rosenhaus asked.

“No one’s been able to find a cure is the damn problem,” McCoy snapped at the

younger doctor. Decker had to hide a smile. McCoy went on: “Dr. Baptiste is

sending us all his lab work. They’re treating with sedation and anti-adrenal

medications, but that’s only temporary. The virus works past that eventually. It

also inhibits any attempt to put the body into stasis. Even under sedation, it

won’t allow body functions to slow down enough for that.”

“Impressive disease,” Rosenhaus said. “It knocks out the best method of staving

it off, and badly cripples the second-best. Have they tried using brolamine?”

McCoy frowned. “You can’t use brolamine in these cases.”

“Of course you can—according to—”

Both Kirk and Decker said, “Gentlemen,” simultaneously. Decker smirked and

added, “You two’ll have plenty of time to kibbitz later. Doctor, if you could

please have that lab work sent over to us as well, so Dr. Rosenhaus can argue

with authority.”

“Of course,” McCoy said. “The other problem,” he said before Decker could then

turn to Kirk and ask him for a report—Decker had thought McCoy to be finished,

“is that there’s no pattern to the distribution of the virus.”

“It’s not airborne?” Rosenhaus asked.

“No, and it’s not being transmitted by contact, either. In fact, as far as

Baptiste has been able to tell, it’s not in the least bit contagious. But

suddenly, without any kind of warning, a group of people in a certain geographic

area all contract it.”

“Dr. McCoy is correct,” the Vulcan first officer— what the hell is his name?

Decker thought in a mild panic—said. “The size of the area targeted varies from

incident to incident. One of those targets was Sierra City, the colony’s

capital, during a full council session. Most of the representatives of the

government are now ill—and several of them are dead, including the Chief

Representative, who was the head of the government.”

Turning to Kirk, Decker said, “So what’s the situation planetside?”

“In a word, Commodore, chaos. The government’s ground to a halt. We may need to

take drastic actions.”

Sontor spoke up then. “It is likely that the Malkus Artifact is indeed

responsible for the virus.”

The Vulcan from the Enterprise said, “Agreed. The logical deduction would be

that someone has unearthed the artifact and is using it to foment chaos.”

“Or at least strife,” Kirk said. “Chaos is random, and there was nothing random

about the attack on the government.”

Masada tugged on his ponytail. “I’ve picked up the artifact’s energy pattern,

but I haven’t been able to localize it.”

“Nor have I,” Kirk’s first officer said.

“In that case, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said with a small smile, “the logical course

would be for you and Mr. Masada to pool your resources. And see if there’s any

more information about the Zalkat Union.”

“That goes for our doctors, too,” Decker said. “Time to prove if two heads

really are better than one. One question, Doctor—if it’s not contagious, do we

need to quarantine the planet?”

McCoy fidgeted with a stylus. “I’d still recommend it, Commodore. All right, so

it’s being transmitted to a person with some kind of artifact instead of

traveling on microbes through the air—that’s still transmission of a disease,

and it still calls for a full quarantine. No ships leave orbit, no ships come

into orbit. That includes us.”

“Very well—put that into motion as soon as we’re done here.” He turned to Kirk.

“In the meantime, Captain—”

Decker’s words were cut off by the comm officer. “Bridge to Decker.”

He thumbed the intercom, and the young ensign’s face appeared on the

three-screen monitor in the center of the briefing room table. “Decker here.”

“We’re getting an emergency distress call from a Chief Bronstein on the planet.

She’s apparently the head of the Proximan Police Department. Riots have broken

out in Sierra City, and they’re requesting immediate assistance.”

“Tell her we’ll be sending a party down. Decker out.” He stood up. “Captain, I

suggest you and I both beam down and assess the situation in person and put both

our security staffs on standby.”

“Commodore, if there are riots breaking out—” Takeshewada started.

“I’m a big boy, Number One, I can handle myself. You have the conn while I’m

gone.” Decker noticed that this Spock person didn’t put up the same argument. He

wondered if that was because he was spineless, or just knew better than to argue

with his captain—and if the latter, did that mean Kirk was stubborn or that

Spock just knew him too well?

Of course, Hiromi knows me too well, and I’m pretty damn stubborn, but so’s she.

She’ll keep beating her head against the same wall, figuring it’ll fall

sometime…

However, that was speculation that could wait. “Let’s go, people.”

Chapter Three

“CHIEF , we’ve got more problems.”

“Oh, good,” Anna Bronstein said through gritted teeth. Her chief deputy had just

entered her toocramped office with this unwelcome news. The chief of police for

the Alpha Proxima II colony had been up for thirty-six straight hours dealing

with crisis after crisis. Keeping order at the hospitals alone was proving to be

a nightmarish duty, and that was only the tip of the iceberg—and now people were

rioting in the streets. Her shoulder-length brown hair, normally tied up and

neat, was loose and tangled, her head felt as if someone had taken a welding

laser to it, and her uniform was starting to take on a rather unfortunate odor

of sweat and grime.

I should’ve joined Starfleet like Aunt Raisa, she thought crankily. She had only

been on the job for a month, was still learning half the regular procedures, and

now she was scrambling to implement the emergency ones.

“I was just thinking I needed more problems. What is it this time?”

Deputy Armando Ramirez ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “Well, first

of all, the people we have guarding the water reclamation plant are about to go

off-shift, and we don’t have anyone to relieve them.”

“Can’t they work another shift?”

“All of them are on their second shift—some of them on their third. They’re

gonna collapse soon.”

“Is there anywhere we can divert?”

Ramirez snorted. “That was a joke, right?”

“I had my sense of humor surgically removed when I took this job, ’Mando.”

“That explains a lot, Chief.”

Bronstein glowered at Ramirez, then started gnawing on her fingernail again.

“Have half of ’em work half the shift. Let the other half get some rest, then

switch ’em off. What else?” The nail broke off, and she looked at the finger

like it had betrayed her.

“Nobody’s showing up to run the cargo transporter downtown.”

“So?”

“Nobody at all. That’s the one they use to get the food and stuff to Arafel

County. If nobody shows up, they don’t get their food.”

Bronstein frowned. “Doesn’t Arafel have an emergency supply?”

“Well, yeah, but that’ll only last a couple days, and—”

“In a couple of days, we’ll probably all be dead, ’Mando. That’s not a

priority.” She started nibbling on her middle finger’s nail. “How’s Stephopolous

coming with his investigation?”

“It’s definitely murder. Stephopoulos figures that it was the roommate.”

Bronstein got up from behind her desk, which was presently so covered with

reports and other items that she couldn’t tell what the desk was made of

anymore, and started to pace. “Why is it that the first wrongful death this

planet has had in six years has to happen when the planet’s falling apart at the

seams?”

Ramirez scratched his ear and started to answer when Bronstein said, “’Mando,

that was a rhetorical question. Anything else?”

Before Ramirez could answer, she heard a familiar sound—that of a transporter.

She whirled around to see two patterns starting to coalesce in the doorway to

her office. Without hesitating, she unholstered her phaser. Ramirez did

likewise.

The patterns became two white males in gold Starfleet uniforms. That means

either two people from those ships that responded to our distress call or two

imposters.

“Identify yourselves now,” she said without lowering the phaser.

The younger of the two men held his arms out in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m

James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. This is Commodore Matt Decker of the

Constellation. We don’t mean you any—”

“Don’t move,” Bronstein said when Kirk started moving forward.

He stopped moving. “I’m sorry. We’re here in response to your distress call.

We’ve both got security teams standing by, but we need you to tell us where to

put them.”

Decker put in, “We figured that beaming down in the middle of the street might

cause more problems than it would solve.”

Well, if they are Starfleet, at least they’re not idiots. “Ramirez?” she asked,

not taking her eye off of Decker and Kirk.

She could hear the whirring of Ramirez’s tricorder. “The transporter beam did

originate from orbit, and not from a position that matches any of the satellites

or local ships.”

Bronstein let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and lowered her

phaser. “I’m sorry, Captain, Commodore, but the way things have been—”

“Say no more, Chief, we understand,” Kirk said with a nice smile and in a

gentle, reassuring tone—and, to Bronstein’s surprise, she actually felt

reassured, an emotion she would not have given herself credit for feeling.

The commodore, though, didn’t smile when he asked, “So where can we put our

people down?”

Indicating the west wall, she said, “Take a look.” The wall contained a map of

Sierra City, with sections marked in red and blue. The amount of red far

exceeded the blue. “The red areas are where the worst of the rioting is—the blue

areas are the ones we’ve got contained. Everything else is stable, for now.

We’ve been trying to keep people indoors, but we’ve got everybody working double

and triple shifts. Not surprisingly, the worst is at Government Center, since

people want their elected officials to actually, y’know, do something.

Second-worst is the two hospitals.” She shook her head. “Can’t tell what they’re

thinking.”

“They’re not,” Decker said. “They’re a mob, Chief—mobs don’t think, they just

act.”

Bronstein sighed in acknowledgment.

Taking out his communicator, Kirk said, “We’ll try to provide you with some

relief. Kirk to Enterprise.”

Decker also took his communicator out, and they each spoke with their security

chiefs. While they did so, Bronstein said, “Ramirez, get in touch with the OICs

at all the sites and tell them to expect some help.”

Nodding, Ramirez headed back to his desk in order to contact the officers in

charge.

“We’ll have people in place within the next minute,” Decker said. “Their phasers

are on stun and they’ll be able to pacify the crowd.”

“Great—then what?” Bronstein said. “We don’t have holding facilities for this

many people, and I can’t just leave them lying in the street.” She sighed.

“Running this place is supposed to be a straightforward operation. I’ve only

been here four weeks, and I specifically came here because it was supposed to be

calm and relaxing. The worst thing I have to deal with is crowd control during

holidays and major sporting events. Now, I have to—”

“Excuse me?” came a small voice from doorway. Bronstein turned to see a short,

pale man wearing an ugly one-piece brown suit. “I’m looking for Chief

Bronstein?”

“That would be me. You are?”

The little man entered, gave Kirk and Decker a surprised look, then offered his

hand to Bronstein. “My name is Johan Trachsel, and I’m one of the directors of

the Sierra City Medical Center. I was told to come see you about authorizing an

Emergency Powers Act for the hospital so SCMC can simply treat everyone who

walks in without having to go through the usual entry process.”

“You mean you haven’t been?” Kirk asked, sounding as surprised as Bronstein

felt.

“I’m afraid not—or, rather, some of the doctors have, but it’s been haphazard.

We’d rather it was official to save problems down the line.”

Decker snorted. “Assuming there is a ‘down the line.’”

“We prefer to remain optimistic, sir.” He turned to Bronstein. “In any case,

I’ll need you to sign off on this.”

Bronstein blinked. “Me? Why me?”

Trachsel went wide-eyed. “You don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?” Bronstein asked, exasperated.

“Uhm, well, you see—you’re in charge now.”

Again, Bronstein blinked. “In charge of what?”

“The planet. The entire council has been either hospitalized or is dead.

According to the Proxima charter, in the event of something like this happening,

power then goes into the hands of the chief of police.”

Bronstein stupidly looked down at her hands, as if Trachsel had spoken

literally. Casting her mind back, she remembered something during her

orientation about the fact that the chief of police was next in line if the

entire government was incapacitated, but she hadn’t taken it very

seriously—after all, how likely was that to happen in real life?

Then she looked up. “Me? In charge?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

She found herself looking helplessly at Kirk and Decker. Decker was inscrutable,

but Kirk looked sympathetic. “I’m barely able to do my job, now I’m supposed to

do the whole government’s?”

Trachsel was holding out a copy of the executive order and a stylus. “Please,

ma’am, if you can sign this, we can streamline the treatment of the sick.”

“Right, fine,” she said, grabbing the stylus and signing in the appropriate

spot. “Someone may want to mention this to the lunatics throwing things at

Government Center…”

 

Soon, they’ll all be dead.

She stared out the window. It all looked so peaceful. So quiet.

But she knew better.

She had been watching the newsfeeds. They were rioting now. Maybe not here, near

her house, but elsewhere in Sierra City, oh, yes.

Cowards. Weaklings.

They had had it so easy, and now they were falling apart at the seams.

And it was all her doing.

Sure, they went through the motions, pretending to be civilized. But introduce a

little bit of death into their perfect lives, and they become savages.

Their lives had been disrupted. Just as hers was. They stole her life from her,

now she was stealing their lives from them.

She turned on the newsfeeds, curious as to whether things had gotten any more

entertaining in the last fifteen minutes.

“According to the latest reports, Starfleet security personnel have been sighted

near Government Center as well as at Kurkjian Memorial and SCMC. It is hoped

that the presence of additional forces from Starfleet will help curb the tide of

violence, though some are questioning the presence of Starfleet under these

circumstances, and wondering what that means in terms of the search for a cure.

Presently, two starships are in orbit, the U.S.S. Constellation and the U.S.S.

Enterprise. Both ships have impressive security staffs and heavy armaments. They

also have medical facilities that rival our own, and have the benefit of not

being inundated with rioting citizens. Further—”

She turned it off in disgust. Damn Starfleet, anyhow, who asked for them to

stick their noses into this?

Not that it mattered. She’d just have to use the gift again.

The gift that gave her power.

The wonderful black box with the green glow.

Take my power away from me? I’ll show you power, my friends. I have the power to

make you dead—and turn the rest of you into a band of raving lunatics.

She laughed. People used to say that she didn’t have a sense of humor, which

wasn’t true. She just didn’t like to laugh very much. When she did laugh it was

always awkward and painful-sounding.

Now, though, she laughed with the greatest of ease.

It had been difficult to not run all the way down Pirenne’s Peak after she had

found the gift. But that was dangerous, both to herself and to her ability to

keep the gift secret. After all, it was her gift. She couldn’t share it, not

with anyone—not even Alvaro. No, it was hers. Her gift, her salvation, her

instrument of revenge.

So she had calmly made her way back down the trail, moving as fast as she could

without raising suspicion, and then had waited impatiently in the queue for the

transporter that would take her home.

She held the gift in her hand and contemplated it. She wondered who to use it on

next. Maybe I’ll use it on the rioters. That would be so wonderfully ironic,

wouldn’t it?

Again, she laughed.

Soon, they’ll all be dead.

 

Never thought I’d love the sound of a transporter so much, Matt Decker thought.

He stood with Jim Kirk on the roof of Police Headquarters, which afforded them a

fine view of the Government Center. Not to mention the hundreds of people who

were yelling, screaming, holding signs, throwing things, and pushing against the

barely adequate cordon of exhausted-looking police officers. That cordon was all

that kept the mob from pouring into the GC.

Then Decker heard the familiar whine of a transporter beam, only amplified to a

much greater degree than what he was used to. As the sound increased, the noise

from the mob quieted down proportionately. No one was sure what the noise was,

at first, but they didn’t seem to think it was good.

After a moment, the noise reached a crescendo, and some forty humanoid figures

started to coalesce.

The transporter whine died down, but a concomitant noise increase from the crowd

did not occur—mainly due to the fact that the transporter had heralded the

arrival of two score people wearing red Starfleet uniforms and each holding a

phaser rifle. These were Kirk’s people, so Decker didn’t recognize any of

them—the Constellation security detail was assigned to the hospitals—but they

looked sufficiently menacing.

Some people continued to shout, but the efforts were much more half-hearted.

Decker remembered a skirmish with a Klingon patrol several years earlier—the

Klingon transporters, he had noted then, were almost totally silent. At the

time, Decker had envied that discrepancy—especially since it had almost got him

killed. Today he was grateful for it. The noise had had much more of an effect

than even the presence of armed Starfleet personnel.

“Attention, citizens of Sierra City,” came a voice from everywhere. Again,

Decker didn’t recognize the voice, but he assumed it to be that of Kirk’s

security chief, doing what he was supposed to do: using an amplifier on his

voice as he tried to talk them down. True, they could have just stunned everyone

from orbit, but that had a certain ruthlessness that both Decker and Kirk wanted

to avoid if possible. Besides, as Bronstein had pointed out, that would raise

the question of what to do with the unconscious bodies. Better to at least

attempt to pacify with words rather than phaser beams. And we can still knock

’em out from orbit if we need to.

The security chief continued: “Please disperse and return to your homes. The

Proximan government is doing everything it can to alleviate the current crisis,

but it cannot function under these conditions. If you do not comply, we will use

force. Please do not put us in that position.”

With that, the Enterprise security personnel started moving forward—but with

their phasers lowered. Emboldened, the Sierra City police did likewise, with

their weapons holstered, guiding people away from the GC.

Amazingly enough, it worked. Where the mob probably figured it could handle a

few local cops, a cadre of Starfleet security was a completely different matter.

“Everything is being done to alleviate the crisis,” the Enterprise security

chief said. “Please return to your homes and await further word. With your help,

we will get through this and cure the disease, but we can’t accomplish anything

with actions like this going on.”

Ever so slowly, the crowd started to disperse. People lowered the signs,

pocketed items they intended to throw, and started to move off. Some still

shouted the occasional epithet, but without the white noise of the screaming

crowd to back them up, they came across as petty and weak rather than

threatening.

Decker turned to Kirk. “Nice job your man did there.”

“Thanks,” Kirk said absently. “Commodore, are you by any chance related to Will

Decker?”

Feeling his face crack with a smile of paternal pride, Decker said, “Yes, he’s

my son.”

“I met him when we had a layover at Starbase 6. He’s a good man.”

“Thank you,” Decker said, but he could tell from Kirk’s distracted tone that

that was not what he’d intended to ask the commodore about. “Kirk, you’ve

obviously got something on your mind. Nice as it is to know you think well of my

son, I’d rather you just come out and tell me what you’re thinking.”

Kirk took a moment to answer, then indicated the crowd below with a gesture.

“This is only a temporary solution. These sorts of things are going to keep

happening, especially if whoever has that artifact decides to infect more

people. Chief Bronstein can barely handle her own duties without our help, much

less run the government.” He finally turned to look at Decker. His face had a

somber quality that Decker frankly wouldn’t have credited so young an

officer—even a starship captain—as being capable of. “Commodore, with respect, I

strongly recommend that we put Proxima under martial law.”

Decker almost flinched. As it was, he did take a step backward, as though Kirk’s

words were a physical attack. “Are you joking?”

“Not about something like this, believe me.”

“Kirk, we can’t—”

“I don’t make this request lightly, Commodore,” Kirk interrupted. “I’ve lived

under martial law. You familiar with Tarsus IV?”

“Of course,” Decker said. Kirk didn’t need to be any more specific—Decker knew

that Kirk was referring to what happened on that colony world twenty years

earlier. Decker had been serving as security chief on Starbase 4 at the time. A

fungus had wiped out the food supply, and the planetary governor, a lunatic

named Kodos, had declared martial law and ordered half the population—some four

thousand people—put to death. It had been his way of preserving the entire

colony, murdering some so the others could survive. With those four thousand

taken out of the equation, the remaining populace could survive on the remaining

available food stores. From a eugenics standpoint, it made a certain amount of

sense, if one had a sufficiently diseased mind, but from a human standpoint it

was one of the most appalling acts committed since the Federation’s founding a

century earlier.

“You were there?” Decker asked. After Kirk nodded, Decker did the math. “You

must’ve only been a teenager.”

Again, Kirk nodded. “I’ve never forgotten Kodos. For a long time I associated

the very concept of martial law with the death of thousands of people.” Kirk got

a faraway look in his eyes. Then he blinked, and looked at Decker. “But right

here, right now, what we’re looking at is anarchy. Under regulations, our only

recourse is to declare martial law.” He took a deep breath. “It’s your call,

Commodore—you’re the ranking officer. But just because this has been done wrong

by people like Kodos doesn’t mean it can’t be done right. It isn’t martial law

that’s evil, it’s those who abuse it. I’d like to think that you and I are

capable of rising above the temptations and using the power wisely.”

Decker looked into the eyes of the younger man. He saw a determination that

belied the captain’s age. Or maybe I’m just not being fair—being under forty

doesn’t automatically make you an idiot, he admonished himself.

He pulled out his communicator. “Decker to Constellation.”

“ Constellation. Takeshewada here.”

“Number One, please note in the ship’s log that, due to the crisis on Alpha

Proxima II, I, as ranking Starfleet officer, have been forced to take

extraordinary action. As of this moment, Proxima is hereby under martial law, to

be jointly administered by myself and Captain Kirk until such a time as we have

deemed the crisis to have passed. Inform Starfleet Command of this immediately.”

“Commodore—Matt, are you sure—”

“That’s an order, Number One!” Decker barked. Then he took a breath. “Hiromi,

believe me, this way is best. Kirk and I’ll stay down here. You’re in charge of

the Constellation. Ride herd on Rosenhaus and McCoy to find a cure for this

thing, and I want Masada and Spock working round-the-clock to find that damned

artifact.”

“Understood, Commodore,” Takeshewada said in a tone that Decker recognized as

her we’re-going-to-talk-about-this-later tone. Well, at least she’s not giving

me a hard time now.

Indicating the doorway back into the building, Kirk said, “We need to tell Chief

Bronstein, then inform the general population.”

“And won’t that go over like a lead balloon,” Decker muttered. “I doubt most

folks even know that the government’s been laid low by the virus.”

With a small smile, Kirk said, “It’s a challenge, Commodore.”

Chapter Four

LEWISROSENHAUS could barely contain himself as he beamed over to the Enterprise.

He had copies of several notes and papers with him, including case studies he’d

done at the Academy that he thought might be relevant. This was the moment he’d

been waiting for since Admiral Fitzgerald had first given him the assignment to

the Constellation last month.

And not waiting very patiently, either. He had graduated at the top of his class

at Starfleet Medical, only to find himself languishing in a research position on

Earth. Rosenhaus distinguished himself as much as he could in so dreary a place,

but what he longed for was to be out in space, exploring strange new worlds,

seeking out new life and new diseases, and coming up with brilliant methods of

curing them. That was his whole reason for joining Starfleet in the first place.

Finally they put him on one of the twelve Constitution -class vessels—the elite

of the fleet. These were the massive starships that were spearheading the

Federation’s expansion, making first contacts, making history. The

Constellation’ 'sCMO had retired, and Fitzgerald himself had contacted him and

cut him his new orders to report to Commodore Decker.

So how’ve I spent my first month on the job? Doing physicals. Not a single new

world, not a solitary biological phenomenon. Instead, they’d spent almost two

weeks studying a neutron star. Of what possible benefit could that be to

humanity?

Now, though, he had a virus he could sink his teeth into. Better still, he’d be

working with Leonard McCoy, a Starfleet veteran, who had already pioneered

several revolutionary surgical techniques. This was a colleague, not those

sycophants on the medical staff of the Constellation —lab techs with no brains,

nurses with no good sense, and a junior physician with all the skills of a

twentieth-century suturer.

The instant the transporter fully materialized him onto the Enterprise platform,

he was down the stairs and ready to run out the door. He was stopped by a blonde

woman in a blue uniform. “You must be Dr. Rosenhaus,” she said in a pleasant

voice. “I’m Nurse Chapel. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to sickbay.”

“Ah, thanks,” Rosenhaus said, surprised. “But, uh, I already know my way there.

Our ships have the same design, y’know.”

“Perhaps, but Dr. McCoy thought it would be best for you to have an escort.”

Rosenhaus shrugged. “Fine, if that’s what he wants. It’s good manners, I guess,

if nothing else.” As they exited the transporter room, he took another look at

the nurse. “Waitasec—are you Christine Chapel? The one who cowrote that paper on

practical applications of the records found in the Orion ruins—oh, hell, what

was that called?” He started racking his brain.

“That was a long time ago,” Chapel said quietly.

“Not that long. You wrote it with Roger Korby, right?”

“Uh, yes, but—”

“You both did some great work. What are you doing serving in Starfleet as a

nurse? The work you and Korby did was years ahead of its time.”

“Thank you, but—Dr. Korby has been missing for several years. I—I really don’t

want to talk about it, Doctor, if it’s all the same to you.”

Open mouth, insert foot. Nice work, Lew. “Oh my God, Nurse Chapel, I’m so sorry,

I had no idea.”

“That’s quite all right,” Chapel said as they turned a corner and entered

sickbay. Her tone of voice belied her words, but Rosenhaus decided it was best

not to say anything further.

They entered the laboratory area, where McCoy was already working, looking over

a bio sample. “Dr. McCoy, I see you’ve started without me,” he said with what he

hoped was his best smile.

McCoy didn’t even look up as he snapped, “Under the circumstances, I didn’t

think waiting would be such a good idea considering people might die in the

interim.”

Rosenhaus blinked. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I was just trying—”

Looking up from his sample, McCoy waved his hand. “No, never mind, I’m the one

who should be apologizing. Been a long day. Let me show you what we’ve gotten

from the surface.”

They started going over the data, which McCoy had called up on the lab desk

monitor. Rosenhaus sat in front of the monitor—McCoy, for some reason, preferred

to stand.

“What the virus does,” McCoy explained as he paced back and forth on the other

side of the lab desk, “is attach itself to the adrenal medulla and starts

causing it to generate epinephrine and norepinephrine, independent of the usual

stimuli. As far as I can tell, the damn thing actually consumes some of it, but

only a minuscule portion of what’s generated—maybe ten percent.”

Rosenhaus nodded as he peered at the screen. He was grateful for the more

clinical analysis. McCoy had translated the diagnosis into lay language for the

briefing on the Constellation —a necessary survival skill when serving with

nonmedicos, as Rosenhaus had learned early on in his Starfleet career—but that

gave it an imprecision that irked the younger man. “So the rest of it gets

pumped into the system, and eventually the heart rate increases and the heart

muscles constrict.”

McCoy nodded.

Frowning, Rosenhaus asked, “Have there been any other causes of death besides

heart failure?”

“Cause of death is the virus, not—”

He waved a hand. “I realize that, but there are other side effects of pumping

epi and norepi into the system. I mean, lipolysis and pupil dilation isn’t

usually fatal, but what about constricting of blood vessels? Just from a purely

mathematical standpoint, some of these people should have died from a burst

blood vessel rather than their heart giving out.”

“I see what you’re saying,” McCoy said with another nod. “Some people do have

stronger hearts but weaker blood vessels.” He rubbed his chin. “Computer, call

up the autopsy reports from Kurkjian Memorial Hospital and Sierra City Medical

Center.”

“Working.”

“Are any of the specific causes of death not heart failure?”

A brief pause, then: “Negative.”

Rosenhaus snorted. “The odds of that are real slim.”

McCoy gave him an annoyed look. “Thank you, Doctor, for stating the obvious.

Computer, were any of the people autopsied checked into the medical facility

prior to dying?”

“Affirmative.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Put their records on screen at this station.”

Rosenhaus moved his chair over so McCoy could stand next to him and they both

could see the monitor screen.

“Look at this,” McCoy said, pointing to one part of the screen. “The norepi

count is fifteen percent lower than the epi count. That accounts for why it’s

always been heart problems—epi is what contracts the heart muscles and increases

the rate. Norepi constricts blood vessels, but that isn’t in as high a

concentration.”

“The virus probably only consumes norepi, then.” Rosenhaus leaned back in his

chair. “Can we inject norepi directly into the virus itself, maybe?”

McCoy shook his head. “That’s already been tried. Do me a favor, son—read over

all the reports before giving me diagnoses?”

That was the third time McCoy had snapped at Rosenhaus, and he wasn’t even

apologizing anymore. Maybe working with a Starfleet veteran isn’t all it’s

cracked up to be, he thought sourly.

Over the course of the next several hours, they continued to pore over the data.

On several occasions, Rosenhaus had a breakthrough, only to have McCoy shoot it

down—either as something already tried on Proxima or as not practical.

“I still think that a kerylene solution would do the trick,” he insisted.

McCoy closed his eyes. “Kerylene turns dopamine toxic—”

“In only five percent of the cases. It’s an acceptable—”

Slamming his hand on the desk, McCoy shouted, “There is no such thing as an

acceptable loss—not in my sickbay! Is that understood?”

“What if the alternative is death?”

“My God, man, we’ve barely scratched the surface! Maybe— maybe —I’d accept

kerylene as a last resort, but we’re nowhere near that yet!”

Rosenhaus took a deep breath. He tried to keep his voice as calm as McCoy’s was

hysterical. “Fine, but I think we may want to consider synthesizing some just in

case it becomes a last-resort situation. If you won’t, I’ll have the

Constellation lab do it.”

“You want to waste your people’s time, be my guest.” He got up.

“Where are you going?”

Before McCoy could answer, the computer beeped. Rosenhaus turned to see a status

display on the monitor. “Finally! We’ve now got all the medical records from the

planet. Their computer must be at least three or four decades old to take this

long.”

“I’m sure they’ll be heartbroken at your disapproval,” McCoy muttered. “To

answer your question, I’m heading down to the planet. I need to take a look at

some of the current patients—maybe see if one of ’em can be brought up here.”

“Are any of them stable enough for transport?” Rosenhaus asked.

“Even if they were, I wouldn’t go scrambling a sick person’s molecules all over

creation. But that’s what shuttles are for.”

“That’ll take hours. Doctor, we’ve got all the reports, and we can do

simulations here without disturbing a live patient.”

“What the hell’re they teaching you at Starfleet Medical these days, boy,

medicine or computer programming?”

“They teach us medicine,” Rosenhaus said, standing up, “and I’m really getting

tired of your attitude, Dr. McCoy. I’m a certified physician, just like you. I’m

a chief medical officer on a starship, just like you. I’d appreciate being

treated with something other than condescension. Or, at the very least, not

being called ‘boy.’ I think I’ve earned that much at least.”

McCoy’s face did soften a bit. “I’m sorry—that was uncalled for, Doctor. Crises

tend to bring out my unprofessional side. There’s a commanding officer and a

halfbreed Vulcan on this ship that can quote you chapter and verse on that.” He

took a breath. “As for the rest of it—the computer models we can build are based

on guesses and hundred-year-old archaeological digs. Call me old-fashioned, but

I prefer to work with the real thing. Besides, anything we do come up with will

need to be tested on a live patient eventually, and I’d rather do that here,

seeing as how down on Proxima they’re having riots and all.”

Rosenhaus found he couldn’t argue with that.

After McCoy left, Rosenhaus went over every single patient, every single

treatment that was tried (and failed). He was proud of the fact that everything

that had been tried was something he had thought of independently. In addition,

several things he did think of weren’t tried at all, though McCoy had rejected

each for a different reason.

The obvious solution was to “starve” the virus of norepi, but all the usual

methods of suppressing the adrenal gland didn’t work—the virus fought past them

or prevented them. The one exception was the most general method: sedation.

Unfortunately, people couldn’t just be kept sedated forever, and as each dose

wore off, a higher dose of the sedative was required to achieve the same effect.

Eventually, the patient would build up an immunity and sedative would be

useless. Worse, the virus didn’t “starve” as such. Even without norepi, it

continued to live on in the adrenal gland, in as sedated a state as the rest of

the host body.

What was more bizarre was that there was no obvious way to track how the virus

got into the patients’ systems. All indications were that it just materialized

in the adrenal gland as if transported there.

Maybe it was, he thought. “Computer, call up all existing records of the Malkus

Artifacts.” Rosenhaus spent the next hour reading through the dryest scientific

report he’d ever seen— why do they let Vulcans write these things? he wondered

plaintively—and found that his analogy may have been apt. From studies of the

Zalkat Union records found on Beta Aurigae a hundred years previous, beaming a

virus right into a person was definitely within the realm of possibility for one

of the Malkus Artifacts.

They need to find whoever’s doing this, and fast. Then he sighed. That’s

Masada’s problem. Mine is to figure out how to stop this.

Another possible solution was to poison the norepi in such a way that consuming

it would be fatal to the virus. The problem was that every known method of doing

so was equally fatal to the person hosting the virus.

Then it hit him. Vrathev. I’m such an idiot.

He dug through the notes he’d brought over from the Constellation. C’mon, c’mon,

he thought as he riffled through the not-as-organized-as-he-wanted-it-to-be

pile, I know you’re in here somewhere—aha!

Reading through the notes he now had called up on the screen, he smiled. Damn,

you’re good, Lew.

Back at the Academy, in his final year, Rosenhaus had aided in the treatment of

an Andorian cadet named Vrathev zh’Ethre. She had been suffering from psychotic

berserker fits that had no discernible cause. It turned out that her own adrenal

gland equivalent—what the Andorians called their parafra —was being hypercharged

in a similar way to what this virus did to humans.

“Computer,” he said, excited for the first time since he came on board the

Enterprise, “create a new program.” He immediately had the computer run a

simulation to see how the treatment used on Vrathev would work on the virus.

When he was done, he asked, “Time necessary to run program?”

“Two hours, fourteen minutes.”

For some reason, that prompted a yawn in Rosenhaus. That, in turn, prompted the

realization that he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep the previous night,

having been awakened by the Proximan distress call. Might not be a bad idea to

take a nap.

He checked the time, and saw that it had been four hours since McCoy left.

Shrugging, he called out to Chapel.

“Yes, Doctor?” she said with an air of both demureness and professionalism for

which Rosenhaus was grateful, since it meant she wasn’t holding his dopey

comments from earlier against him.

“I’ve got a program running that’s going to take two-and-a-quarter hours. I’m

gonna grab a quick nap. Wake me if Dr. McCoy comes back, okay?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Rosenhaus hesitated as he got up from the chair. “Uh, is there any word from

McCoy?”

“He reached the surface safely, but he hasn’t checked in with me since. I can

double-check with Lieutenant Uhura on the bridge, if you like.”

Shaking his head, he said, “No, don’t bother. I’m sure he’s fine. Is there a

free bed in sickbay I can sack out on?”

“Of course, Doctor. Help yourself.”

Nodding, Rosenhaus exited the lab and went two rooms over to the exam room. He

lay down on one of the two beds.

The biomonitor immediately fired up. Sighing, Rosenhaus said, “Computer,

discontinue bioreadings.”

“Disabling of medical functions requires authorization by chief medical

officer.”

“Authorization Rosenhaus-426-Gamma.”

“Authorization not recognized.”

Again, he sighed. You’re not on the Constellation, Lew. Computer doesn’t know

you from Schweitzer.

This was a quandary. The only bed that didn’t show bioreadings was the exercise

bed across the room, but that was too small to lie down on. “Computer, can you

at least mute the noise?”

“Negative.”

A third sigh. “Nurse!” he called out.

After a moment, Chapel came into the exam room. “Yes, Doctor?”

“I’m going to beam back to the Constellation until the program’s run. I need

some familiarity for a bit.”

Chapel actually smiled at that. “I understand completely, Doctor. I’ll have

Lieutenant Uhura contact you if Dr. McCoy comes back before the program finishes

running.”

Viewing that smile as a good sign, Rosenhaus returned it. “That’s very good of

you, Nurse Chapel. Thanks.”

As he walked through the sickbay doors, he had a mild spring in his step. I’m

willing to bet that the Andorian treatment will do the trick. And then, once

I’ve saved the day, maybe I can convince the lovely nurse to let me make up for

my gaffe with dinner….

 

“I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to ensure that a cure is

found quickly, and that your lives can return to normal operation. I repeat,

this is a temporary measure. For now, we ask that people stay in their homes

unless they have sanctioned duties. A list of those duties is readily available

on the information net. Please carry identification with you at all times.”

She stared at the image of the young man in the golden Starfleet uniform in

something like shock.

They’ve declared martial law. Amazing.

She hadn’t thought that her oh-so-esteemed former colleagues would do such a

thing.

But then, maybe they didn’t. Maybe Starfleet just waltzed in and took over.

Not that it mattered. They could impose curfews, restrict movement, quell

riots—none of it could possibly have made the tiniest difference.

Because she had the power.

She walked over to her gift. It sat on her kitchen table, pulsating with the

green glow that she first saw on Pirenne’s Peak.

She still didn’t know where the gift came from or who built it. Images had

flooded her mind of strange alien beings who died in odd ways, thanks to this

gift, but ultimately the images had no meaning to her, no context.

It didn’t matter. It provided her with deliverance. It provided her with

vengeance.

She loved the irony. Not only did it instantly make people fatally ill, but the

illness also had hard-to-identify symptoms. Nobody would even know there was

anything wrong until they were dead.

Dead by her hand.

The only drawback was that it could only do so much at once. She had hoped to

destroy everyone on Proxima in one shot, as it were, but that had proven beyond

the gift’s capabilities. Only a few hundred had contracted the virus before the

green glow dimmed.

At first, she had been furious. Killing a random group of people in Sierra City

hardly satiated her need for revenge. Everyone had to die. More to the point,

everyone had to suffer.

Then the green glow had come back. By that time, people had started to die,

their hearts exploding like photon torpedoes in people’s ribcages. Her only

regret was that she had been unable to stand over their bodies as they expired.

She wanted everyone’s last sight to be of her. She wanted them to know why they

were dead.

When the glow returned, she used it again, this time on everyone occupying the

Government Center, which had called an emergency session.

Now it was glowing again.

Who shall I destroy next?

The voice on the newsfeed droned on. “Medical scanners are being distributed to

all residents of Proxima. Distribution schedules are posted on the nets as well.

Please use these scanners regularly, but do not tamper with them. They have been

specifically calibrated to seek out the virus. If a scan turns up positive,

report to the nearest hospital immediately for treatment.”

She turned in anger. They had identified the virus? They were treating it?

Worse, they were now giving people the means to find it?

Damn them!

She had originally considered targeting police headquarters. With Starfleet

involved, that won’t work anymore. So who—?

Then she realized what she had to do. Oh, this is too perfect.

The annoying Starfleet face went away, to be replaced by the usual newscaster.

“That was Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise, one of the two

starships that has declared martial law on Proxima. It should be added that the

first decree made by Kirk and the U.S.S. Constellation’ s Commodore Matthew

Decker was that the news sources would be allowed to continue uncensored. To

repeat, medical scanners are being handed ou—”

She turned off the feed. Infecting both ships with the virus wasn’t possible—at

least not at once. But she could take down one of them…

 

The computer diligently woke Lewis Rosenhaus up two hours after he’d hit the

pillow in his quarters. As usual, he was wide awake in an instant. First

Rosenhaus checked in with the lab, where Technician Shickele assured him that

the synthesizing of kerylene was proceeding apace. McCoy may not want to be

prepared for every eventuality, but I’m not going to make the same mistake.

He then contacted the bridge and asked the communications officer to put him

through to Nurse Chapel on the Enterprise.

“Yes, Doctor, what is it?”

Rosenhaus blinked. Gone were the demure tones of the woman whom Rosenhaus had

embarrassed with his verbal blundering about Roger Korby. Now she sounded as

excitable as a Klingon. “Uh, I wanted to make sure my program—”

“Yes, your program’s all done, and no, Dr. McCoy hasn’t come back on board yet.

I would’ve told you that, Doctor, I did promise you that. I can assure you, I’m

the type that—”

A fist of ice clenching his heart, Rosenhaus said, “Nurse, do you have a medical

tricorder on you?”

“What the hell kind of ridiculous question is that? Of course I do, but I

hardly—”

“Scan yourself, please.”

“Why should I—?”

“Nurse, please, run a scan on yourself.”

Even as Chapel spoke, Rosenhaus could hear the telltale sound of the Feinberger

running over Chapel’s form as it read her biological data. “Dammit, Doctor, I

really don’t have time for—Oh my God.”

“You have the virus, right?”

“Yes, I—”

Rosenhaus got up from his bed and put a fresh shirt on. “Where are you?”

“Sickbay. Doctor, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Never mind that. Run a scan on some other people—pick crew members at random,

then report back to me.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

She signed off, then he contacted the bridge. “This is Dr. Rosenhaus again. Put

me through to Dr. McCoy, Priority One.”

After a few moments, a familiar, cranky voice came on the line. “This better be

damned—”

“Doctor, I believe the Enterprise has been infected.”

A pause. “What!?”

“I’m back on the Constellation. I left your ship two hours ago while I had a

program running and took a quick nap. And before you bite my head off, I only

got an hour’s sleep before the distress call from Proxima came.”

“That’s one hour more than I got,” McCoy grumbled, “but that doesn’t matter.

What happened?”

“I contacted your Nurse Chapel, and she sounded more excitable than usual. I

asked her to scan herself, and she had the virus. I asked her to scan some

random crew members to be sure, but—”

“But whoever’s doing this probably targeted the whole ship. Damn.” McCoy sighed.

“Jim’s gone and declared martial law, so I’d better let him know, too. At least

he’s safe down here, and Spock’s on the Constellation with your pal Masada.”

Running a hand through his shaggy red hair, Rosenhaus said, “We’ll need to

declare a quarantine on the Enterprise. We can’t let anyone on or off.”

“Don’t be an idiot! First thing we verified is that this isn’t contractible

unless you’re targeted by that blessed artifact.”

Rosenhaus cursed his own stupidity. “Sorry. Force of habit. Not used to a

disease that doesn’t wipe out the whole room.”

“None of us are, son,” McCoy said in a surprisingly conciliatory voice. “I sent

up a woman on a shuttlecraft to the Enterprise. She volunteered to be our guinea

pig. I’ll have it divert to the Constellation. You’ll need to go over to the

Enterprise, verify this and retrieve all the data, then—”

Another voice interrupted. “Bridge to Dr. Rosenhaus.”

“Rosenhaus here.”

“Doctor, I have Nurse Chapel on the Enterprise.”

“Put her through, please.” Rosenhaus took a very deep breath. Here it comes…

“Chapel here.”

“Nurse, I have Dr. McCoy on the line, also. What’s the verdict?”

“The ship’s been completely infected. I’ve got Lieutenant Sulu here as well—he’s

in charge of the bridge, with the captain and Mr. Spock both off-ship. I’ve

informed him as well.”

Another voice, this one deep and male, said, “You know more about this disease

than I do, Doc. What do you recommend?”

McCoy’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “I hate to do this, Hikaru, but the only

treatment we’ve been able to come up with is sedation. At that, it’s only a

temporary measure.”

“Not only that,” Rosenhaus said, scratching his cheek, “it’ll take forever to

administer the sedative.”

“That’s not an issue,” Sulu said. “We can flood all decks with anaesthezine

gas.”

“You can do that?” Rosenhaus asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Sulu said, as if it were the most natural thing in the galaxy. “How

long do we have, Doc?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, before we implement any kind of mass sedation, I’d like to check with the

captain, and Mr. Scott will need to put the ship on automatic so we don’t fall

into the atmosphere when we’re all asleep.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Rosenhaus said. “Some relief crew can come over

from the Constellation.”

“Won’t they get the disease?” Sulu asked.

“Of course not. The disease isn’t contractible.” Rosenhaus tried not to sound

quite so haughty, but he still felt foolish after his previous blunder.

“All right, I’ll have to coordinate with Commander Takeshewada,” Sulu said with

surprising calm, considering that he had a virus that was pumping adrenaline

into his body at a great rate. “I’ll need at least an hour to get everyone to

report to their quarters and set things up for the replacements. Our best bet is

to keep the relief crew on the bridge—as long as they don’t have to do anything

too complicated, they can run the ship from there. And then we’ll flood every

other deck.”

“Sounds like it should work,” McCoy said.

“I agree.”

“I wasn’t asking your approval!” McCoy then took a deep breath. “Sorry, Doctor.

Just goes against the grain to put your crewmates to sleep.”

“As long as the sleep isn’t permanent,” Rosenhaus said. He was starting to

understand why McCoy was so snappish. He hated the idea of being helpless. I

guess we all deal with that in our own way. Me, I prefer to let it drive me to

greater heights.

 

Within the hour predicted by Lieutenant Sulu, the entire Enterprise staff had

reported to their quarters, prepared for a very deep sleep. The chief

engineer—an obscenely excitable man, though Rosenhaus supposed the virus could

have been responsible for that—had routed all functions to the bridge.

Takeshewada had roused the Constellation’ 'sgamma-shift bridge crew out of their

beds and they had taken their bleary-eyed places at the different-yet-familiar

consoles. Rosenhaus had also brought his junior physician over to keep an eye on

things, since the Enterprise’ 'smedical staff was going to be just as

incapacitated as everyone else.

Then, finally, the entire Enterprise, save the bridge, was put to sleep.

Rosenhaus had, of course, beamed off the Enterprise at that point, after

verifying that neither he nor the relief crew had contracted the virus. Captain

Kirk had, he understood, made some sort of speech to his people telling them

something no doubt inspirational and encouraging and downright tiresome, but

Rosenhaus hadn’t bothered to listen. He was too busy gathering his notes.

When he returned to the Constellation, he saw that a woman under sedation had

been placed on a biobed.

He summoned Emil Jazayerli, his head nurse. “Who is that woman, Nurse?”

Jazayerli squinted at the biobed, a habit in the older man that Rosenhaus found

almost as annoying as the nurse’s tendency to run his index finger and thumb

over his thick black mustache. “That’s the woman that arrived with the Galileo,

Doctor.”

Blinking, Rosenhaus said, “The Galileo? There’s another ship in orbit?”

“No, Doctor, the Galileo is an Enterprise shuttlecraft.” He walked over and

picked up the woman’s chart, then held it out for Rosenhaus. “I believe she’s a

Proximan volunteer with the disease.”

“Oh, right,” Rosenhaus said, taking the chart, “Dr. McCoy’s guinea pig.” He

peered at the chart, which showed that her name was Mya Braker, she served as

the Representative for the Ninth District, and she’d gotten the disease at the

same time as everyone else in the Government Center. “All right,” he said,

handing the chart back to Jazayerli, “keep an eye on her EEG and her epi and

norepi count. If any of them change in even the slightest degree, let me know

immediately.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

It irked Rosenhaus that Jazayerli never called him, “sir.” It probably wouldn’t

have bothered him all that much, except that he always called him “Doctor” in a

tone of voice that indicated that the nurse didn’t think much of the title.

Hardly the right attitude for a subordinate.

Sighing, he went into the lab. Maybe I can convince Decker to let me transfer

him off when this is all over.

As he sat down at the desk, he called up the results of his test—which, in all

the hugger-mugger on the Enterprise, he hadn’t had the chance to thoroughly look

over.

After reading over the results, his pale face broke into a huge grin. I think

we’ve done it!

He contacted the bridge. “Is Dr. McCoy still on the surface?”

The communications officer—a friendly young lieutenant named George

Howard—nodded. “He’s meeting with the commodore and Captain Kirk right now. You

need to raise him?”

He was about to say yes, then changed his mind. “No, he can find out when

everyone else does,” he said with a smile.

Frowning, Howard asked, “Find out what?”

“I’ve got a good line on a cure. I’m going to test it now.”

The communications officer’s face split into a grin. “Lew, if that’s true, it’ll

be the first good news all day.”

Rosenhaus belatedly realized that gossiping with the communications officer was

probably not such a hot idea. “Well, keep it to yourself, George. I still

haven’t tested it yet.”

“No problem, Lew. My hailing frequencies are closed till you say otherwise.”

“Good,” Rosenhaus said with a smile. “Sickbay out.”

Howard’s face faded, to be replaced by the computer simulation. Rosenhaus looked

it all over one more time. Briefly, he contemplated waiting until he could have

a second set of eyes look them over, then decided that wasn’t practical. His

junior physician was back on the Enterprise, and McCoy was still on Proxima.

Besides, he’ll probably just come up with sixteen reasons why it won’t work, he

thought sourly.

He went over to the synthesizing lab, where the stout form of Norma Shickele sat

hunched over a computer terminal. “Get off my back, L.R.,” she said in her

booming voice, “you’ll have your damn kerylene soon enough.”

“Hold off on that for a minute,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. He

hated being called “L.R.,” which was, of course, why Shickele insisted on doing

so. Rosenhaus also knew he couldn’t afford to antagonize the lab techs because

he relied on them in situations—well, much like this one, so he had to be on his

best behavior in her presence. She knew that, too, and so always did everything

she could to goad him. So far, he hadn’t risen to the bait.

Maybe I can get Decker to transfer her along with Jazayerli, he thought

wistfully.

He continued. “I’ve got a serum. I need you to prepare a test batch.”

“You said the kerylene was priority.”

Patiently, Rosenhaus said, “This is higher priority. The kerylene has the

potential to be a last-resort cure. This could be the actual cure.” Shickele, he

had learned, preferred to have things explained in detail. Just giving an order

and expecting her to do as she was told was never sufficient.

She reached out one pudgy hand. “Fine. You’re the doctor, after all.”

Sighing with relief, Rosenhaus handed her the data. The words, “you’re the

doctor,” said in that snide tone that Shickele had probably spent most of her

adult life perfecting, usually signified the end of the conversation.

Grateful, Rosenhaus headed back into the main part of sickbay, and once again

looked over Braker’s chart. Everything seemed to be in order—but for the

presence of the virus, she’d be in perfect health.

The doors opened to reveal Commander Takeshewada, holding a hand to her

forehead. “Got anything for a headache, Doc?”

Smiling at the small woman, Rosenhaus said, “Of course. Follow me.” As he led

her into the dispensary, he asked, “Rough day?”

“Rough hour. First I had to rearrange the shift schedule, since our third shift