SICKBAY HADN’T BEEN so filled with the smell of burning flesh since she could hardly remember when. No. Wait. She could remember. It smelled like this, and for that matter, looked and sounded like this during the war. Crusher tried to shut out the chaos so she could concentrate on closing a wound on a Bader woman’s shoulder. The seriously injured who were far from hospitals were being beamed to the Enterprise as part of the coordinated efforts to keep panic to an absolute minimum. Members of her staff were summoned to the surface by Vale’s people when necessary.

The first serious cases started arriving only a few hours ago. Some form of ordnance struck a cabin in a wooded area and a family was caught in the resulting conflagration. Alerted by the Council, the Enterprise transporter crew had beamed the survivors right to sickbay, where they were being treated with a gel that would reduce the chance of infection.

Since then, Crusher had dealt with broken bones, a cracked skull, a gouged eye, one ear ripped off, a piece of metal spike imbedded in a leg, and numerous other problems. Her staff was being rapidly depleted as more and more cases required attention. From what she could tell, Wasdin and her people were stretched to their limits, their ability to travel impeded by the fighting. Meanwhile, Dorset and Bader doctors had stopped communicating with one another, which did nothing to help the situation.

On top of it all, she was kept from her research, and she felt that every second saving a life was another second the mystery disease had a chance to spread and cause more destruction. She hoped her subconscious mind was sifting through the data and would help provide her with a solution. It was at moments like this that she envied Data’s ability to apportion parts of his amazing positronic brain to work on different tasks simultaneously.

When she finished suturing a wound caused by debris falling on an elderly man, Crusher forced herself back to her office and slumped into her desk chair. Calling up her staff roster on the desktop, she checked where everyone had been sent and who was left. Reluctantly, she put every member of the medical and science staff on full alert and started scheduling rotations so those on the surface could come back for food and rest or simply more supplies.

Her nostrils involuntarily flared when she smelled coffee, and she raised her head wearily to see a yeoman in her doorway. She was young, probably new to the ship, and they had not been introduced.

“You’re an angel,” Crusher said, accepting the cup.

“Commander Data’s suggestion,” the woman replied, all business. “He was noting how busy your department was and assigned a few of us to bring refreshments to your staff.”

“I’m going to put that android in for a commendation,” the doctor muttered between sips.

“I didn’t know the CMO could do that.”

“We normally can’t, but I can certainly try. And you are…?”

“Vasha Massaro.”

“That’s a lovely name,” Crusher said with a warm smile.

“Thank you. When I came aboard Dr. Tropp did the medical workup,” the yeoman explained.

“Not to worry, with so many to keep track of, I can’t meet them all the first few months. Although I am sorry not to have met someone as thoughtful as you.”

Vasha looked down for a moment and hesitated before replying, “I’ve been on board for a year, ma’am.”

“My God, I’m so sorry,” Crusher said quickly. A year and she hadn’t met the woman. How was that possible? She prided herself on knowing the crew one way or another even if it took her some time to meet them. But a year was quite out of the ordinary.

“Well, I have been pretty healthy,” the young woman said.

“That’s still no excuse,” Crusher quickly added. “Which department are you normally associated with?”

“Communications, but we’re a pretty small group.”

Crusher nodded, sipping at her coffee, which tasted nice and hot and came just in the nick of time. “I’d love to chat more, but patients await and it looks like there will be no end to them.”

“I completely understand. After all…”

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shrill beep that alerted Crusher to another crisis. The doctor swiveled her desktop display to a better angle and activated it with her thumb.

“We have seventeen critical cases to beam aboard!”

Crusher rose from her chair. The medic’s face was so grimy that it took her a moment to recognize him as the Bandi named Isthit.

“What the hell happened?”

“All we heard was a whistle, and then a building exploded near our position. It was an apartment complex. These people are the only survivors, and we can’t help them because we’re out of supplies.”

“Transporter room, this is Crusher. Scan this transmission, lock on, and beam the injured in twos to sickbay. We’ll clear bio-beds.” She was out of her office helping to clear space for the new patients before the transporter chief had time to acknowledge her order.

“Seventeen incoming, get ready!” she snapped to everyone within earshot. Seconds later, the first two bodies materialized on the freshly cleared beds. One was a middle-aged Dorset woman, her right hand missing and blood trickling from the severed veins. The other was a corpulent older man, with something wedged into his abdomen—she couldn’t tell from the blood and caked-on gore.

“Weinstein, with me,” Crusher called as she looked at the stomach. The item was ceramic, a shard of something from within the man’s apartment, no doubt. Her medical scanner was already probing the area while the man alternately groaned and whimpered. Weinstein waved a sterilization tool around the wound and additional abrasions farther up his chest. Her free hand was slowly peeling away shredded portions of the man’s gownlike garment.

Massaro returned with her arms laden with gowns. She dumped them against a wall, grabbed two, and helped Crusher and Weinstein into fresh ones.

“How can I help?”

“Bring me the medical kit over there,” she said, jerking her head toward a table. The yeoman was there and back quickly and opened the case. Crusher grabbed a hypo, checked the settings, and delivered a dose of painkiller to the man.

“I have multiple veins cauterized,” Tropp called from the adjoining table.

“Seal the wound and dress it, then clear the bed,” Crusher called. “What’s with the girl?”

A meditech examined the body, waving a medical scanner again and again over the limp form, but he shook his head. “I have no idea!”

“I’ll be there when I can,” she called back. Her staff was competent, but there were times they seemed too new or too inexperienced to make the quick diagnosis that might be the difference between life and death. Could she do a better job training them if she were back on Earth? She angrily shook the thought from her mind, focusing on the here and now.

The transporter hum filled the room, and two more arrived. Her staff quickly took readings, and Crusher could hear them call back and forth for supplies and tools. She herself had been carefully probing the foreign object sticking out of her patient. The screen above the bed indicated a normal Dorset form, and Crusher figured she’d have to tend to damaged reproductive organs once the object was gone. With a snap, a sterilization field was activated and she gingerly stuck a finger into the wound, alongside the object. The man grunted in his sleep but didn’t move.

“Yeoman, bring me the portable scanner from the next room. It’s blue and boxy,” Crusher called. “Weinstein, we’re going to lift this directly up. Can you reach underneath when I lift it, and take the damned thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good girl. Here we go.” The object may have been firmly impacted, but with a little wiggling with her fingers, it moved. Blood and other fluids helped the doctor, although the damage would be extensive when fully exposed. The heavy foreign object moved incrementally, and she didn’t dare go too fast for fear of dropping it and causing further damage. At that moment, she wished she had a Dorset doctor with her, or was performing this at a Dorset hospital where replacement organs might be obtained.

The object made a plopping sound as it finally cleared the belly. It dripped ichor on the deck before Weinstein’s hands snatched it away. Crusher by then had already wiped her hands and grabbed the probe from the yeoman, who, to her credit, remained nearby. Quickly, Crusher used the probe to look deep into the wound to get a sense of the organ damage.

“I still can’t find anything wrong with this patient,” the doctor who was treating the unconscious teenage girl called out.

Crusher stifled a biting comment and then took a deep breath. She needed the best diagnostician besides herself, much as she loathed him. “Nurse Weinstein, have transporters reroute the remaining patients to Dr. Tropp. I’m calling the EMH.”

There was a brief pause in sickbay as all work stopped and every pair of eyes turned toward their commanding officer.

“Knock if off,” she said tartly. “Computer, activate the Emergency Medical Hologram.”

In seconds, a balding humanoid form in current Starfleet uniform appeared.

“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” the hologram said in a clipped voice.

“The patient at bed five defies diagnosis. Please study and advise,” Crusher called while removing the probe.

The EMH made a quick study of the body and checked the overhead display. As he did his work, Crusher returned her attention to the wound before her. Two organs were definitely pulped beyond repair. One was a secondary organ, and he could survive without it. The other was the sole kidney, and that needed replacement. She called for a portable dialysis machine, and Weinstein hurried for the item. Crusher then used her fingers to very carefully feel the surrounding organs and tissue. There seemed to be lacerations that could be closed and nothing else life-threatening.

“Yeoman, the blood infuser to your left, please.”

Massaro grabbed the pistol-like device and handed it over without a word. Crusher was appreciating this woman more and more, and made a mental note to actually have a conversation with her when this was all over.

As Crusher worked methodically, sealing the lacerations and making sure the blood system worked, she called out to her other teams working on cases nearby. Despite drills and training, most of her staff had never seen anything quite like this. The Enterprise avoided the bloodiest battles during the Dominion War. Even the disasters on Dokaal weren’t quite as insane as this. She’d have to make a study of their performance and figure out which ones would need additional drilling as time allowed. But first, she had to finish attaching the dialysis device. And she had to do it quickly since she was needed elsewhere in her domain.

“Neural stimulator!”

“I need more plasma!”

“Laser scalpel!”

“This one’s ready to move out. Orderly!”

“I’m losing this one!”

At that, Crusher snapped the final connection and tapped a control, activating the dialysis machine. She hurried over, and from what she could tell, one of the people had a crushed head with bits of skull broken away. The brain was swelling faster than the medic could treat it, and the body could not take the strain. Nothing in sickbay could save this life. She slowly closed her eyes, and, taking the cue, Weinstein quickly covered the head with the sheet and snapped her fingers for an orderly. The bed had to be cleared, the body tended to in an adjoining room.

People moved, sometimes as blurs, other times gingerly. Crusher kept looking up and down, watching her room hum. The other sickbay, on deck twelve, was also keeping very busy, but Tropp was good and confident in his skills, and she appreciated having another experienced doctor down there. Once this patient was finished, she’d have to check in with them. In fact, unless she was specifically required, she was going to have to circulate. Seventeen-plus cases were just too many to juggle on top of the ones already in sickbay. She finished as quickly as she could, then joined the EMH at the bedside of the comatose patient.

He made irritating humming noises, rested his chin on his fist, and circled the body.

“The patient is suffering mental trauma,” he announced. “Obviously,” he added with typical unnecessary smarminess. Crusher gritted her teeth. Weren’t there enough arrogant humanoid doctors in the universe? Did Starfleet really have to add arrogant holographic doctors to the mix?

“She has retreated within herself and won’t come out until she gets the sense that everything is fine. If she recovers at all,” the EMH continued.

Nice attitude, Crusher thought. She looked at the lithe, young body and found herself stroking the flow-ing dark hair. Then she glanced at the overhead monitor. Much as she hated to admit it, she was forced to agree with her holographic colleague. “An extreme defense mechanism.”

“Absolutely.”

“Let’s get her out of sickbay into an unused area.”

“Well, it’s not likely we’ll need the brig,” the EMH suggested.

She frowned at the hologram, but acknowledged he probably had a point. Not that she was going to satisfy his ego by stating the fact. Instead, she signaled to an orderly and gave the instruction.

“Am I required further?”

“Please send yourself to deck twelve and see what you can do to help until I arrive,” Crusher said, tired of seeing him.

“As you wish.” He blinked once, and then his form vanished. Seconds later, the young girl was taken from sickbay, and the bed was immediately sprayed down to prep it for the next patient.

She knew there’d be someone along very shortly.

 

With the destroyed village now an hour behind them, Riker and Seer flew on. The protocol officer checked in with members of his staff and the news media, learning how bad things were getting. Riker, meanwhile, confirmed the official reports with Vale, who sounded breathless, exhilarated, and terrified all at the same time. A part of him wanted to work alongside her, do something more productive than fly over the devastation, but he had his own mission.

Riker and Seer were finally nearing the edge of the Tregor continent and were approaching the large islands that might be hiding Kyle Riker. They had hoped they would outrun the disturbances and find relative calm, but the cities and towns they had flown over on their way all reported troubles. Crusher had as much as confirmed that with her latest update, indicating that at least half the planet could be infected with…whatever it was.

Still, the sights were breathtaking.

The last city was behind them and they were flying over a thick forest that extended like a border for as far as Riker could see. The trees were an almost uniform shade of deep green, so thick he couldn’t tell one from another. After a few minutes, they cleared the forest and were over plains that extended for maybe a hundred kilometers. He thought he spotted herds of animals grazing or running here and there.

And then there was the sea. It beckoned blue-green, gentle waves lapping against a distant sandy shore in parts, the land ending as cliffs in other parts. Not a person or animal in sight. It was as if they were the first explorers to the planet and nature was welcoming them in its glory. For a moment, Riker allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight and its sheer beauty.

As they crossed from land to water, Seer changed course to northwest and added thrust. Within minutes, the first of several islands appeared, huge and brown with hills or mountains that were snowcapped. Seer pointed past Riker and identified a large animal with very long fur, a fish wriggling in its mouth.

“Riker to Data.”

“Enterprise here, Commander.”

“We’re currently flying over a series of islands to the north. Can you conduct scans for any Bader or Dorset life-signs?”

“One moment. We are detecting life-signs on three of the nine islands in the area.”

The landmass directly beneath them was one of nine, or so Seer said. It formed a sovereign community and was inhabited primarily by Bader, although about a third of the people were Dorset. As one would expect, fishing was the mainstay of the economy. As they neared, Riker saw docks and ships of various sizes. A few were still out on the water, not far from the island.

“Fly over before we land,” Riker suggested.

“Aye, aye, Commander,” Seer replied.

They flew once around the island’s perimeter, descending to get a good view. They spotted a rally near a dock, but it seemed small and generally peaceful. However the disease was being passed, Riker assumed that these people were protected by their relative isolation. How long that protection might last was unknown.

“Should we land?”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Riker said, going with his instincts.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s peaceful, they keep to themselves, and they’re fisherfolk. I don’t think he’s here.”

“You have an instinct about this?”

“I do. He’d been heading in this general direction, but this isn’t his destination. I think he’s looking for Alaska.”

“Alaska. That’s your home, right?”

“Yeah, and we need to find its analogous location here.”

Seer thought for a moment and then asked Riker to call up information on Alaska on the tricorder. Riker complied and while the flyer hovered for a minute, the pilot studied the information, then compared it with navigational charts on the computer.

“I think I’ve got it. One place, not far, has what you want.”

“Fly on,” Riker instructed.

 

Something soothing and cool.

That’s all Troi had on her mind as she walked into Ten-Forward. While things continued to churn on the planet below, Picard had decided Troi could get some rest. There was little more she could do with the Council, and the hours exposed to the harsh emotions had definitely worn her down. She doubted she was performing at her best as day wore on and was privately grateful for the respite. Even though it was late based on the capital’s time, she figured she had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours.

The lounge was busy since much of the crew had little to do while the medical and security staffs were pressed into service. Department heads had granted additional leave time, which was no doubt appreciated by the crew. Chatter seemed light and felt comforting compared to the roiling feelings on the planet.

Jordan was bartending tonight, one of the few non-Starfleet crew these days. He was tall and handsome, though his good looks were marred by a prematurely receding hairline, giving him a sharp widow’s peak. His laugh carried across the room as Troi saw him share a joke with three patrons. The laughter sounded good, and she hoped to hear a joke herself. Ten-Forward was a reflection of its manager, and while Guinan had served with the Enterprise, it was serene and hospitable. Under Jordan, it was a little rowdier, and the crew responded well to it.

As he spotted her, she gave him a welcoming smile. He was already reaching behind him for a glass. By the time she arrived at the bar, he was pouring something light green. He added two ice cubes, stirred the drink, and handed it to her.

Without a word, she took a sip and grinned.

“How did you know?”

“You looked like you could use a Talerian fizz,” he said. “Well, actually, people were saying how tough it was down there, and I guessed.”

“You guessed right,” she replied and leaned against the bar. “It is tough down there, and I think it’s going to get tougher.”

“They find the commander’s dad yet?”

“No.”

“Dr. Crusher figure this out yet?”

“No.”

“Want to come back to my cabin after you finish this?”

She smiled broadly. “No.”

“Just making sure you knew what you were doing and your sanity remains intact,” he said with a laugh. Almost every time he served her, it included an invitation back to his quarters, and while flattering, both knew it was harmless. Jordan was young for her, and the entire crew knew she and Riker had reunited. And he was wise enough never to ask her when Will was anywhere within earshot.

They chatted amiably about crew gossip, which she appreciated since it helped clear her mind. And, as ship’s counselor, she needed to keep her finger on the pulse of the crew. Jordan was an invaluable resource that she consulted on many occasions. It was he who recently pointed out to her that the crew was feeling unsettled after the recent encounters. She started paying attention to corridor conversation and sure enough, the crew was expressing their apprehension over their reputations out loud.

The drink was everything she wanted and the conversation was diverting. As a result, she was acutely aware of her body relaxing, a sign of how tense things had gotten.

“Excuse me, Counselor, do you have a moment?”

The speaker was Dasan Malak, an unjoined Trill who worked in systems maintenance. They had spoken a few times in the past, usually about problems with his parents back home. He was stocky for a Trill and he wore his hair close-cropped, accentuating the dark brown spots that framed his neck and face.

Troi, inwardly sighed, gesturing him toward an empty table near one of the windows. As they sat, she looked at Delta Sigma IV and imagined where Picard, Riker, and Vale were, all working into the late hours. She knew she needed her rest and wondered when they would get their turn.

“How can I help you, Ensign?”

“Can you help me accelerate my transfer request? I just found out about an opening on the Bonaventure that’s ideal for me.”

“You’ve requested a transfer?” He was yet another one looking to leave a tainted ship—not at all surprising but disturbing nonetheless.

“Yes, filed it this morning and then I got a com from a buddy from the Academy. It’s a senior technician spot that I would love to get.”

“You’ve been doing exemplary work here, so why the desire to change ships?”

“Well, I…that is…well, with the ship hated by Command…”

“It’s not hated by Command,” she said emphatically. “We were cleared of all charges, as was Captain Picard. You’re letting rumors affect your judgment, which I think is extremely unfortunate. Before you do anything rash, I think you should at least sleep on it, and we can schedule a meeting when this is over.”

He fidgeted, his hands running over his thighs, and he seemed ready to bolt from the chair. She sipped her drink, which suddenly didn’t seem as satisfying as before. Her quarters and her soft bed seemed more in order.

“Reputation counts for so much, don’t you think? There are hundreds of techs on starships across the quadrant, so captains have to look past service records. It comes down to the written evaluations and scuttlebutt. It’s like Nafir, that troublemaker who transferred aboard a few weeks back. He’s a misfit and they didn’t know where to stick him so they gave him to the poisoned starship.”

“And you think starship captains rely more on gossip than on a man’s record?”

“And you don’t?”

Troi paused. She wanted to give the official statement that of course only records mattered in such personnel decisions, but she’d lose his confidence by claiming something that no one believed. Of course scuttlebutt counted for a lot. She flashed back to the conversation she had with Riker regarding some of the crew transfers on and off the Enterprise and knew such gossip affected her impressions before meeting people.

“I’ll admit it has a role, but every captain interprets such information differently. Captain Picard, for example, rarely lets such information affect his decisions.”

“But doesn’t Commander Riker make the majority of those decisions? He seems more likely to believe the gossip.”

“If he believed all the gossip he’s heard over the years, I suspect we’d have a very different crew,” she said confidently. “Instead, he’s developed a strong filter and it has served him well.”

The Trill paused, letting the conversation sink in, and he seemed to be considering his situation. Troi hoped she would prove effective because if more members of the crew bought into the belief that the Enterprise was an unofficially tainted ship, then it would become a disastrously self-fulfilling prophecy. As he considered, she thought back over Malak’s service record—specifically why he left Trill to join Starfleet—and also what she knew of the Bonaventure’s upcoming mission.

“I can see why you’d want to take this transfer,” she said, “given where the Bonaventure’s headed.”

He snapped his head up, startled. “What do you mean? I thought they were exploring Sector 212-B.”

“They’ve just finished that. Now they’re being reassigned to Trill for the next nine months.” She favored him with a pleasant smile. “You’ll get to go home.”

Not only did he not return the smile, but he looked downright depressed. “Uh, yeah, that’s great.”

“So, shall I expedite the transfer request? It is, as you said, a great opportunity for you.”

“Maybe not, Counselor, I, uh, need to think about this some more.”

Malak rose and moved away, letting Troi consider herself victorious. The ensign had joined Starfleet in part to get away from Trill, and she doubted he would greet spending nine months there with any enthusiasm. He might still request the transfer, but at least he would consider all the options, not just the fact that he’d be leaving the “tainted” Enterprise. That was the best she could hope for until the current assignment was concluded.

Reaching for the remainder of her drink, she glanced across the room and spotted Anh Hoang sitting by herself, looking out the window. The engineer was another cause that required her time and attention, but she was too tired to strike up another one-sided conversation. Instead, she watched Hoang’s posture, the half-drunk glass on the low table, and the way she sat in public but clearly invited no contact. Disturbing as Troi found this, she needed to get to her cabin.

She nodded once, with thanks, to Jordan and strolled out of Ten-Forward, recognizing how much was left unsettled. It rankled her, but for a change, there was little she could do.

 

Standing alongside Morrow off to the side of the Council chamber, Picard sipped at a cup of bittersweet local tea and watched the Council inaugurate its new Speaker, Jus Renks Jus. Immediately after the ceremony Renks started taking notes and passing on instructions. There was nothing elegant about his style. Instead, it was perfunctory, almost cold. Then again, given the circumstances, he just might be what was needed at the moment.

“Population affected?”

“Forty-seven percent is the current estimate,” an aide replied.

“When we tip sixty percent, we can give up,” Renks said. Picard had no idea where the new Speaker came up with the number, but it made a certain amount of sense. By then, containing that much violence was going to be impossible, even if the full crew of the Enterprise were at the Council’s disposal.

“Speaker,” Councillor Cholan began, “given the difficulties caused by this disease, we need to mete out some form of justice to those behind it.”

“You mean the Federation? We can’t punish our own government,” Renks replied.

“It’s not our government,” another councillor argued. “We are there by choice. This Council is your government. The Federation solved one problem and caused another.”

“We still don’t know what caused this,” yet another councillor said.

“We know that it began when Riker brought the test subjects back here,” Cholan insisted. “Riker must be responsible for this. Why else would he have fled?”

“But the doctor has demonstrated that Riker wasn’t responsible when he arrived.”

“He was, however, involved in the initial research to our problem,” Cholan continued more loudly. “I want someone held accountable for this!”

Morrow looked at Picard with alarm. The captain remained silent, not willing to insert himself in the matter, content to let Renks lead. He suspected, however, the Council was not going to remain immune to the problem engulfing their world.

Fortunately, they had not yet found Kyle Riker, so the demand for his head was a pointless one.

“I think now might be a good time for us to retire for the night. Let them deliberate without us watching over their shoulders. You’ve had a very difficult day, Ambassador.”

“Perhaps tonight I will take you up on your offer of a cabin.”