The Brave And The Bold Book One Page 9

  “That is less a metaphor than a simile, Lieutenant, and it is also rather imprecise. It would be better if—should something amuse you in the future—to simply say that it amuses you. It would save you from having to make lengthy explanations of things you find to be patently obvious.”

  Again, Masada laughed. “You’re too much, Commander.”

  “Too much what?”

  He started to answer, then said, “Never mind.” Turning to his console, which showed him the lateral sensor array—presently detecting many things, with the irritating exception of the precise location of the Malkus Artifact—Masada then asked, “How’s our search coming?”

  “Thus far, sensors have been unable to localize the energy signature.” Spock, Masada noticed, had no difficulty changing the subject back to business.

  They had started their search on the bridge, but soon realized that they would need the more widespread capabilities of the sensor room to work with. Masada had dismissed Soo and most of the rest of the science staff, telling them to work on collating the data from the neutron star. There was no chance they’d get back to it anytime soon—even if they solved the problem here in Alpha Proxima within the next hour, there was no way they’d be able to return to Beta Proxima to do any significant work on the star before they’d have to go off to that silly conference at Crellis.

  And at the rate we’re going, he thought, it’s gonna take a helluva lot longer than an hour to find that damn artifact. Plus, the Constellation was probably going to stick around for at least another day after the crisis was past—if the crisis came to a satisfying conclusion, which was, of course, no guarantee. Masada had therefore resigned himself to the fact that they’d done all they could with the star, so there was no reason not to have Soo and the others start on the final report.

  The only member of the science staff he held back was Sontor, who was presently monitoring the data upload from Vulcan with everything they had on the Zalkat Union in general and the Malkus Artifacts in particular. Masada assumed that the Vulcan records were more complete than the Starfleet ones, which didn’t have much beyond the existence of the energy signature. But then, Beta Aurigae was first explored by an Earth ship, pre-Federation, and prior to the duotronic revolution in computer storage. Not every record survived that particular transition. Thank God that old ship had a Vulcan observer on board to take good notes.

  Masada ran his hand over his head, then tugged on his ponytail. My God, he thought, I do tug my ponytail! Gotta watch that… He looked over their records—which he’d been looking at steadily for many hours—and for the first time realized that the pattern they were using was a bit of a time waster. Funny how you don’t notice something until you’ve stepped away from it for twenty minutes.

  “Why don’t we narrow the field to the northern hemisphere—better yet, to just where there are sentient lifesigns? I mean, those are the only places where there are people, so the artifact has to be there.”

  “It is unlikely that the Zalkatians took human comfort into consideration when hiding the artifact.”

  “Yeah, but there’s an intelligence behind this. You yourself pointed out that this has to be directed by a person or persons with malice aforethought.”

  Spock made an adjustment to the console as he spoke. “That does not require that the artifact be where there is sentient life. Whoever is controlling the artifact could easily have access to a transporter, and could leave the artifact anywhere on the planet.”

  Stopping himself from reaching back to pull on his ponytail again, Masada said, “Oh come on, that’s taking possibilities to an extreme. Besides, we’ve got a deadline here—we’ve got to narrow the search. Logically, we should eliminate less likely avenues of exploration.”

  For several seconds, Spock didn’t move. Masada was about to ask if something was wrong, when he finally spoke. “Your point is well taken. I will narrow the search.”

  Just then, Sontor entered the sensor room. “Sirs, the download from the Vulcan archaeological database is complete.”

  “About time,” Masada said, blowing out a breath. “Anything interesting?”

  Sontor’s right eyebrow was far thicker than Spock’s, but it crawled up his forehead in a disturbingly similar way. “I would be willing to debate at some length that all of it is interesting, Lieutenant. However, I assume that you are referring to data relevant to our current search.”

  “See what I mean?” Masada said, turning to Spock. “He’s nowhere near as funny as you.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Sontor asked, both his tone and his eyebrow arched.

  Spock added, “I detect no significant difference in timbre, pitch, or verbal delivery between Ensign Sontor and myself to account for your perceptions, Lieutenant.” Before Masada could reply to that, Spock said, “Then again, as you yourself pointed out, your fatigue may be having an effect on your perceptions.”

  Masada started to say something to Spock, stopped, started again, stopped again, then finally said, “Never mind.” He turned back to Sontor. “What’d you find?”

  Sontor leaned down into one of the consoles and punched up a record. “According to T’Ramir, who has been the primary specialist in Zalkatian matters for the last ninety-seven years and seven months, the Malkus Artifacts might be more easily traced by using a lowband sensor sweep. The lower bands are closer to what is believed to be the primary form of electronic detection during Malkus’s reign. Logically, the artifact’s distinctive emissions would be more readily found with a method similar to that used by the creators of said artifact.”

  “Unnecessarily complicatedly put, Sontor.”As was that sentence, Masada rebuked himself, but didn’t say aloud. I really am tired. “But that follows. Changing bandwith of main sensor array.” He suited action to words as his fingers played about the console.

  “Unfortunately,” Sontor said, “the lower band means that the readings will take considerably longer to obtain. A full sweep will take up to four-point-two-three hours.”

  “Give or take point-three hours,” Masada said with a small smile.

  “Negative. ‘Give,’ perhaps, as the search may take a shorter interval due to the possibility of finding the artifact before the search is complete, but it will not take any longer than that.”

  Pointing at Sontor but looking at Spock, Masada said, “See, now if you’d said that, it would’ve been much funnier.”

  Spock, however, was looking at the sensor readouts. In fact, he looked to Masada as if he were studiously ignoring both Masada and Sontor.

  Grinning, Masada said, “Let’s start the scan at Sierra City and work our way outwards.”

  “Logical,” Spock said.

  “Glad you approve.”

  Sontor said, “A Vulcan would always approve of a logical course of action.”

  “Naturally,” Spock said. “To do otherwise would be foolish.”

  Save me from all this self-congratulating, Masada thought with a wry smile.

  “I think we’ve got something, Leonard,” Lewis Rosenhaus said with a smile.

  They had been working for hours, trying to find some way to modify Dr. Derubbio’s serum so that it wouldn’t produce xelaxine. Thus far, all the methods for doing so also eliminated the serum’s effectiveness in actually removing the virus.

  Still, for whatever reason, McCoy had become easier to work with. Instead of snapping at him, McCoy listened to all his questions and suggestions and had intelligent comments to make. He didn’t denigrate, and his criticisms were bereft of the ire they had had earlier. I never would’ve thought I could bond with a fellow doctor over almost killing a patient, he thought with a happy smile.

  McCoy rubbed his eyes as he came over to where Rosenhaus was sitting. “What’ve you got, Lew?”

  That was the other good thing: Rosenhaus really liked the sound of McCoy calling him “Lew” instead of “boy” or “son.” He hadn’t even liked it when his own father called him “son,” much less someone he’d only just
met.

  Rosenhaus looked at McCoy’s lined face. The older man’s blue eyes were bloodshot, and they had goodsized bags under them. “You should probably take a break, Leonard—or take a stimulant.”

  “I’m fine,” McCoy said, waving him off. “Answer the damn question.”

  Great, he’s getting crotchety again. “I was checking the pH readings. Xelaxine is basic. If we lower the pH value, make it neutral, it’ll go inert. Now, Derubbio’s serum is neutral, and the acidity is irrelevant to its effectiveness. What if we try adding an acid compound to the serum?”

  “You want to introduce an acid into the human bloodstream?”

  Rosenhaus sighed. “It was just a thought. If we can find an acid that’s relatively harmless—ascorbic, maybe, or citric.”

  McCoy looked at the computer model Rosenhaus had called up, and shook his head. “Won’t work. The only acid strong enough to bring xelaxine’s pH down to seven would have to be a lot nastier than the human body can take. It’d eat the blood vessels alive.”

  “Dammit.” Rosenhaus pounded a fist on the table.

  Putting a hand on Rosenhaus’s shoulder, McCoy said, “Easy, Lew, we’re not out of the woods yet. There’s something—”

  “What?” he asked, looking up at the older doctor.

  “Computer, call up the molecular structure of Andronesian encephalitis.”

  Rosenhaus frowned. “What does—?”

  “You ever heard of Capellan acid?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Not surprised. I was stationed on Capella IV for a few months before I reported here. The Capellans are warrior types—they had no interest in medicine or hospitals.”

  Rosenhaus blinked, then blinked again. “Okay, at this point I’m completely lost.”

  McCoy smiled. “Bear with me, Lew. Computer, call up molecular structure of Capellan acid.”

  As soon as Rosenhaus saw the second image pop up on the screen, he winced. “That’s a naturally occurring acid on Capella? What do they use it for, sieges of the castle? You could do wonders pouring this over the battlements—wipe out your enemies in a microsecond.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s in their drinking water,” McCoy said with a smile. “They build ’em tough on Capella, but not that tough. One of the things I noticed when I was there was that they didn’t suffer from Andronesian encephalitis, even though the conditions on the planet are ideal for it. Turns out, they did have it, and they also had this corrosive acid in their water.”

  Rosenhaus put it together and snapped his fingers. “The acid neutralizes the encephalitis.”

  “For starters, yes. It still leaves acid in the system, though, just nothing as nasty as the acid’s raw form. The question is if it’s enough to also neutralize the xelaxine.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  McCoy nodded. “Computer, call up molecular structure of xelaxine.” After it did so: “All right, now project what would happen if all three were combined in the human bloodstream.”

  Rosenhaus watched as the molecules rotated toward each other on the screen. Atoms shifted, bonds broke and re-formed, shapes changed—first the xelaxine and the encephalitis each broke apart, then the Capellan acid did likewise, and then they all started to come together in new combinations. Finally, when they settled down, there were five molecules. One was a single oxygen atom bonded with two hydrogen atoms; three were carbon bonded with two oxygen atoms; the last was six carbon atoms, eight hydrogen atoms, and six oxygen atoms.

  “Water, carbon dioxide, and ascorbic acid,” Rosenhaus said. “I don’t believe it.” He laughed. “They go from dying of a nasty virus to the functional equivalent of eating a grapefruit.”

  Chuckling, McCoy said, “That and holding their breath too long. We’ll have to monitor their CO2 levels—probably need to flush it out of most people’s systems before they can be safely discharged—and of course they’ll all need to be re-inoculated for encephalitis.”

  Rosenhaus nodded. “We’ll have to make sure everyone is inoculated first. If they haven’t been, we’ll have to give it to them.”

  “I want to run a few more tests before we try this on Ms. Braker over there, but I think we’re on the right track here.” He turned to Rosenhaus and smiled. “Nice work, Doctor.”

  “What nice work? I made a dumbass suggestion. You’re the one who turned it into something workable.”

  Chuckling, McCoy said, “I tell you, I never thought anything good would come out of those months I spent on Capella.”

  Nurse Jazayerli—whose presence in the lab area Rosenhaus hadn’t even registered—said, “I hate to interrupt this mutual admiration society, Doctors, but I have checked on Ms. Braker, and she has indeed received an inoculation against Andronesian encephalitis.”

  McCoy nodded. “Thank you, Nurse. C’mon, Lew, let’s get to work.”

  Matt Decker swore he would never complain about the difficulties of running a starship ever again. As bad as it could sometimes get, it couldn’t possibly be worse than co-running a planetary government for a day.

  He and Kirk had been at it for almost twenty-four straight hours—and that was on top of a full day of neutron-stargazing. Decker was about as exhausted as he ever intended to be when there wasn’t an actual war on.

  Then again, he thought, for all intents and purposes, we are fighting a war. We’re just waiting on Guillermo and Spock to find the enemy for us.

  However, all the tasks that needed to be performed had been, and any others that were pending could wait until morning. There hadn’t been any new outbursts of the virus since the Enterprise was targeted. Masada, Spock, McCoy, and Rosenhaus had all reported that they were making progress, but had nothing new to report. Bronstein had said that all had been quiet since Kirk’s little speech at the SCMC. As the sun started setting on Proxima, things seemd to have quieted down.

  Right now, Commodore Matthew Decker needed a good night’s sleep more than anything.

  Idly, he wondered how anyone on this planet did sleep. Proxima had a thirty-hour day. With the colony primarily in the northern hemisphere, at this time of year the sun was up for about twenty-six of those hours. He remembered Will’s childhood joke about how it was always night in space—on Proxima, it was never night, it seemed.

  Kirk had just gotten a couple hours’ sleep—and he had also gotten some sleep prior to the mission, since his ship’s time was at early morning rather than late night when they arrived at Proxima. The idea was that he would then stay up during the rest of the night in case of an emergency, leaving Decker to catch up on his desperately needed rest.

  As he hauled himself up from his chair to head for the door, he said to Kirk, “So where are we supposed to sack out, anyhow?”

  Before an irritatingly fresh-faced Kirk could answer, Decker’s communicator beeped.

  Shaking his head, he took it out of his belt. “I knew I should have phasered this thing when I had the chance. Could’ve just said the rioters did it.” He opened the communicator. “Decker here.”

  “Wow, Commodore, you sound like hell,” Takeshewada said.

  “Number One, I’m going to sound like the ninth circle of hell if you don’t give me a very good reason why you called me when I was on the way to bed.”

  “As it happens, I do, and it’s good news, twice over. Our two doctors think they’ve nailed the virus. It’s notwithout small risks, but nothing as life-threatening as the virus itself.”

  Kirk stepped up. “How soon can they adminster it?”

  If Takeshewada was bothered by being queried by a different CO, she didn’t show it, and Decker himself was too tired to care. “They have to verify that people have a particular inoculation—some kind of elephantitis or somesuch. Lew said it was a common vaccination, so it shouldn’t be an issue. But they figure to have mass-produced the serum by morning.”

  Decker smiled a happy smile for the first time since arriving at Proxima. “That’s the best news I’ve heard since my son made commander, Nu
mber One. What’s the other good news?”

  “It’s even better. Guillermo and Spock have localized the emissions from the artifact. Unfortunately, we can’t get a transporter lock within fifty meters of the emissions—apparently this thing interferes with the beams.”

  “So much for pulling the beam-out-the-suspect trick,” Decker mutterred.

  “Mhm. And we can’t get any decent sensor readings in there. Best we can tell is that there may be some human lifesigns, possibly. Our only real option is to go in person. Permission to beam down and lead the security detail to apprehend the suspect.”

  “Denied. I’ll take Bronstein, and—”

  “Matt, with all due respect, you’re exhausted. So’s Bronstein. I’ve actually slept recently, and if we’re dealing with the type of psychopath that would infect an entire colony and a starship, you need a fresh hand on deck, not a stubborn old commodore who’s falling asleep on his phaser.”

  Decker sighed. Takeshewada had said all that without even taking a breath—she had obviously rehearsed it ahead of time, knowing full well that he would insist on leading the party himself.

  “I’d like to go also, Commodore,” Kirk said. “With all due respect to the abilities of your first officer, I think we owe it to the Proximans for one of the two of us to be present when the person responsible for this nightmare is taken in. And the commander’s right—you’re in no shape to lead it. It should be me.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of commanding the mission, Captain,” Takeshewada said in her most clipped tone.

  “And I think I’ve earned it after sitting on my rear end since we got here.”

  Decker sighed, as he feared he was going to have to navigate some minefields here. He did not want to have his first officer in a pissy mood.

  “I’m not impugning your skills, Commander Takeshewada,” Kirk said tightly, “it’s just that—”

  “Both of you simmer down,” Decker interrupted. “Hiromi, you’re right, I’m in no shape to deal with this. But Kirk’s right in that he should be in charge. He knows the terrain better, and he’s been the face of the government all day—I think the Proximans will appreciate his presence when we apprehend whoever the hell this is. Where is this location, anyhow?”