The Brave And The Bold Book One Page 5

  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

  LEWIS ROSENHAUS 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’s CMO 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, Nurs
e 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?”