“SO, IF YOU CHECK the rate of cellular degradation, you can begin to see the effectiveness of the antibody,” Dr. Tropp said. Nurse Weinstein nodded as he continued to explain the particular treatment he was performing on Chief Tognetti, a Bandi.

Crusher was working at a nearby station, looking over the results of an experiment. The computer analysis blinked to indicate it was complete and she awaited the results, too tired to build up much enthusiasm for the process. She needed to keep moving or she would give in to weariness. She also did not want Tropp to recognize her stress and nag her to rest.

His voice droned on, so she knew he wasn’t paying much attention to her work. That was fine with her, because she was beginning to think this particular treatment was going to be failure number eleven. Sure enough, a red light presaged the computer’s voice. “Test number eleven has failed.”

“Something I can help with?” Tropp asked. He had completed his work on the crewman, and Weinstein was finishing up, singing to the Bandi as she worked.

“Just another failure,” Crusher said irritably. He meant well, she knew, but there were times his attitude was grating, and now was one of them.

“Let’s work through it,” he said encouragingly. “Maybe there’s something you missed.”

“We know the liscom gas affected not only their blood and chromosomes, but also the brain chemistry…” she began.

“How has it affected the serotonin levels?”

“Good question. They have elevated levels of serotonin compared with baseline readings for both races.”

Tropp studied the large screen’s readout over his colleague’s head and nodded. “Three times higher, at least, from this study.”

“The elevated levels also seem to have worked with the liscom to alter the pineal hormones. Their version of melatonin has changed, and that accelerated not only their body clocks but their entire life cycle.”

“Fascinating,” he said, studying a new readout. She had previously dispatched him to deal with the wounded, letting her concentrate on the liscom gas problem, so he was just now coming up to speed on her research. “So, these people have normally very low levels of serotonin and the liscom forced their bodies to produce higher amounts, effectively drugging them.”

“Right. And I’ve been trying to find something to regulate the levels without harming the rest of their brain chemistry. It’s all very complex and still not entirely understood.”

“Where would our quest for knowledge be if we had mastered everything, hmm?”

She ignored that and reviewed the results of tests ten and eleven, looking to see what changes to make for the next round.

“The uptake inhibitors seem to be withered,” he noted, pointing to a close-up of the Bader neurons.

“I saw that, too,” she said. “That helps explain why the serotonin levels grew over time.”

“May I see an image of the baseline Bader brain as well as the test subjects’?”

Crusher hit several tabs on the panel, and the two requested images flashed side by side on-screen. Tropp murmured to himself as she studied the fluoxetines of the Bader brain. If she could decrease their production, she mused, it might lower the serotonin. It was all such delicate work, given the balances required for a healthy mind and body.

Once more Crusher thought about performing such research back on Earth, with state-of-the-art equipment at her disposal and the cream of the crop of medical students to draw upon for support. And then, she thought about her morning breakfasts in Picard’s quarters.

A shake of her head refocused her thoughts, and she was once again looking at receptors, inhibitors, and levels of neuropeptides.

“The Dorset test subjects show below-normal amounts of serotonin,” Tropp offered.

“I saw that once I knew where to look,” Crusher said. “In humans, it’s as likely to cause depression and suicidal thoughts, but for them, it seems to amplify their aggressive tendencies.”

“So the liscom increased serotonin output, dampened the aggression, and also threw the melatonin levels off the charts, and now you’re trying to rebalance the brain,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Crusher just nodded and began looking at ways to filter the liscom gas from the brain by using fluoxetines, a naturally produced chemical. She had abandoned that line of research after the fifth try but thought it might be worth another look.

“Sulfur,” Tropp said out loud.

Crusher looked at him in mild confusion. “What about it?”

“The Bader and Dorset barely produce any,” he said. “If we can naturally stimulate its production, it would clog the receptors.”

“And the serotonin levels wouldn’t spike, which in turn would leave the melatonin unaffected,” said Crusher in a rush.

“The people would stop aging prematurely, but they would regain their normal levels of serotonin.”

Crusher nodded in agreement. “But that would return them to their natural behavior, right?”

She looked at Tropp, thankful for his insight. She now had new avenues to explore, but new problems to consider. “Don’t you see, if we leave them aggressive, the fighting below won’t stop. They’ll just live longer, with more opportunities to hurt their neighbors.”

Tropp nodded slowly, the implications now settling in his mind. His posture changed, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

“Let me work on this some more, and if we’re right, I’ll tell the captain we have something. Thank you, Tropp.”

“I’ll be checking on the patients if you need me further,” he said, and left her alone. She was grateful, because she really didn’t like the direction her research was taking her.

“The injector is cracked, sure enough,” La Forge said, looking at the scans Hoang had taken.

She and the chief engineer were standing in a small workroom where repairs were made or new equipment fabricated. The scans were on a large screen with readouts on both sides giving almost microscopic details about the injector, which lay atop the table, and the damage.

“I can try to patch it,” she offered.

“If this is off kilter by so much as three microns, it won’t fire in sequence at the higher frequencies. We’d lose warp integrity around five-point-five,” he said.

“Actually, I think it’s closer to five-point-nine,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Well, you’re the expert, so five-point-nine it is,” La Forge said. “Still, we need a replacement, and of course we have none. Starships don’t usually need to replace their injectors.”

“Have you checked the inventories on your trading list?”

La Forge shook his head and grabbed a padd from the tabletop. Quickly he thumbed it active and then scrolled through lists indexed by ship. He shook his head slowly as the lists floated by and Anh craned her neck to watch.

“Sir, we just need pieces, not an entire injector. If we have even a spare bottom half, I can do the weld to within one micron.”

“Have you done this kind of thing much?” he asked, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. He was feeling the stress of keeping the starship functioning while playing quartermaster to ships in the nearby sectors. It was heady work and he was taking pride in the wheeling and dealing, but now that his own ship was endangered, he grew angry at the situation. There was no one person at fault, unless he wanted to blame the Founders for starting the war that left the Federation still in rebuilding mode years after the war’s end.

“I’m not even sure if we can find components. Let me think about this,” La Forge said, his voice drifting off.

He walked out of the workshop, leaving Hoang to fuss with the damaged piece. He’d already informed Data of the problem and said he’d have a solution soon. Now he had to make good on that promise.

He went to an alcove, pulled out the seat, and called up a companel. Seconds later, he was talking with his old friend, Whis, chief engineer on the Nautilus. Quickly, he sketched the problem and asked for suggestions.

“That’s a tough one,” the Andorian said. “None of us have needed spare injectors before. What about replicating one until you get to a starbase?”

“I’ve already run simulations, and a replicated injector couldn’t withstand the tolerances required at high warp. We’d be vulnerable if anything came up.”

“And something always comes up with your ship, doesn’t it? Sounds like quite a mess beneath you.”

“Haven’t been down there myself, but yeah, it’s gotten pretty complicated.”

The other engineer seemed lost in thought and then looked up, his eyes intent. “The Bartlet just collected a lot of debris from where we lost the Lakota during the war. They wouldn’t have inventoried the materials the same way. If I remember it right, the secondary hull and at least one nacelle were left intact.”

“All I need is one,” Geordi said with a slow grin.

“Give them a call. The engineer there is named Ranzz.”

“I owe you one,” La Forge said.

Minutes later, Ranzz, a blunt-featured Rigelian, was on-screen. La Forge briefly filled him in on the problem and his needs.

“Heard about your project. Do you really trust a Ferengi to play courier with that much valuable property?”

“He’s my best option, and I really think his desire for profit will keep him honest. For now, at least.”

“I don’t trust them at all. Even with the new reforms. Just don’t see them changing fast at all.”

“So far it’s working out, and I’ll trust him for the moment. Besides, if you have what I need, then he’s my only option.”

“Turns out, we do have what you need. In sight, anyway. We left the nacelle alone, scavenged for other stuff we needed. Never thought we’d have to recover supplies from salvage like…”

“Like a Ferengi, huh?”

“Guess so. Anyway, I figure we’re about three hours away from the site. I can ask our captain if we can return and pick up what you need. Hell, I’ll grab up all seven from the nacelle, send you one and keep the rest since, well, you never know.”

“That’s great! I’ll contact Dex and reroute him, making this a priority.”

“Okay, so now that I’m helping save the mighty Enterprise, tell me, what really happened with Picard at Rashanar?”

With a deep sigh, La Forge launched into another retelling of Picard’s confrontation with Starfleet Command, recognizing the need to get the word out.

She had waited long enough.

Troi approached Picard, who was once more speaking with Cholan. They were figuring out the best way to help put out a fire in a remote village. He seemed tense and agitated, clearly in need of rest but refusing to allow himself the luxury.

Waiting patiently as he finished the most immediate work, she strained her senses once more, seeking out her Imzadi. He was alive but in some pain—maybe physical, maybe emotional. It was hard to tell, and not for the first time did she wish for a full-blooded Betazoid’s mastery and telepathic skill. However, she also knew she’d never want to give up the short time she’d had with her father before duty claimed his life.

Finally, Picard noticed her and excused himself from the councillor. He first looked relieved at seeing her, but her expression telegraphed her concern.

“I know that look,” he said. “Something’s happened to Will.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to maintain her professional demeanor, although she was warmed by his reaction. “He was in a great deal of pain a little while ago. I could tell that much. He’s alive and the pain seems to have lessened, but something’s wrong.”

Picard tapped his combadge. “Picard to Riker.”

Silence. Troi started to lose control of her professional demeanor.

“Picard to Riker, respond.” After more silence, he tapped his combadge again.

“Picard to Enterprise.”

“Data here.”

“Mr. Data, check the sensor logs and let me know the last time we had a fix on Commander Riker’s combadge.”

Seconds passed as Picard and Troi exchanged looks, waiting for their friend to give them news. Any news would be better than speculation.

“Captain, there was a microburst of a signal twelve minutes ago at a location north of your position. We have tried to reestablish contact but have not been successful.”

“I assume you’ve searched for human bio-signs?”

“Yes, sir. We have screened out our personnel, and no other humans register on the planet.”

He gave Troi a look that said he was not at all surprised. Picard then asked for a general update, frowned at news of the plasma injector, but nodded to himself as he heard how Geordi had located a replacement. Troi was pleased the ship was not troubling him, because he needed to focus on Delta Sigma IV.

Picard reached out and placed a hand on her arm. His expression softened and he radiated reassurance. She soaked it up, feeling the need for every bit of friendly emotion. “I’m sure the commander is fine, and right now we need to trust that he is capable. I can’t spare anyone to track him down with so little to go on.”

“Our link confirms he’s still alive, but I’ll certainly feel better when I see him for myself.”

“Why, Counselor, aren’t you the one who tells us to trust our feelings?”

“That might work for most people and their problems, but this is Will we’re talking about. We’ve all been through enough for me to harbor some doubt until I see him.”

He nodded, his expression grave once more.

“We’ll find him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Now she just had to believe the captain’s words and ignore her own feeling of dread.