Star Trek - TOS 38 Idic Epidemic (25 page)

T’Kar lay still, the machine now breathing for her
and forcing her heart to beat. But was she alive?

There was only one way for a healer to know, and
for that he had to touch his bare hand to her face.

But her daughter would know. Sorel looked to T’Pina, whose whole face he could now see. She
looked serene, content. “T’Pina … ?”

“No, Healer. My mother’s
katra
did not pass to me.
She lives.”

Indeed, within half an hour T’Kar’s own system
began to struggle against the life-support system.
They moved her to a diagnostic bed that became
available when another patient died, and within an
hour she regained consciousness.

“Where is T’Pina?”

“Unfortunately, in saving your life she was exposed
to your illness,” Sorel explained. “She is being
examined—and once the symptoms start she will
immediately be placed on life support. We won’t be
caught off guard again.”

But where do we get the equipment?
he asked
himself.
This disease is outrunning our ability to cope
with it, simply in terms of equipment and personnel.

When Sorel returned to the computer lab after finishing his rounds, he found T’Mir and Daniel
already studying the schematic of the new strain of
the virus. “We’re about to find out if Klingon blood
eats this one for breakfast as well,” said Daniel.

Sure enough, when it was introduced to Klingon
blood cells, it acted like the other strains, shriveling
up and dying. Daniel grinned. “We’ve got it! Now all
we have to do is test it on somebody!”

“We have a list of volunteers,” said T’Mir. “All
critical and unstable.”

“Let’s hope none of ‘em are allergic to Klingons,” said Daniel. “Start with three?”

Sorel nodded. “A Human, a Tellarite, and a Lemnorian—all with iron-based blood.”

“Right,” said Daniel, looking from his partner to
his wife, his hopeful smile fading. But he said only,
“Let’s go. At least if we can protect personnel with
iron-based blood, we can put together a medical staff to care for everyone else.”

They administered the serum, and T’Mir returned
to the laboratory while Sorel and Daniel went back to their patients. There were three more cases of the new
strain already, two of whom had died before being diagnosed as such. By the time they had examined
and treated a dozen more patients, hearing on every
side complaints about lack of equipment, lack of personnel, Sorel could see the tension and fatigue in his Human partner.

He knew Daniel’s dedication, knew that he would force himself beyond endurance to save lives. But when they had finished in the hospital proper and Daniel said, “We’d better go over to the mixed-heritage section, check for this new strain—” Sorel interrupted him.

“Not until you have eaten a meal and slept for at least two hours. That is a prescription, Daniel. You have forgotten again that you are not physically
Vulcan.”

The Human smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I’m not hungry, either.”

“Shall I insist that you have your blood sugar levels analyzed?”

“You’d get the report back in about three days! Okay, okay—let’s see if the cafeteria has anything
palatable.”

It was late afternoon, but no one was keeping a
normal schedule these days. Only computerized food
was available. They dialed up their choices, then
waited their turn to go through decontamination and
into a small room where it was safe to eat without
masks and gloves.

Or was it? What if one of them was carrying the
plague right now?

It was on Daniel’s mind too. “Sorel,” he said, “have
you noticed a growing fear of interaction, even in the short time we’ve been here?”

“It is normal, Daniel… and healthy, given the
current circumstances. Even our best precautions are
not preventing the spread of the disease—but if
people are overly cautious, at least that may slow it.”

“That’s not what I meant. Earlier today, T’Mir and
I were talking outside the computer lab. We were
speaking Vulcan—and a Rigellian came up, stared at
me, and demanded to know why I wasn’t over in the
medical residence with the rest of the …
‘ergoflin’
was his word. I suppose that means ‘person of mixed
heritage’ in Rigellian, but I got the impression that it
was not the polite term for it.”

Sorel did not speak Rigellian, either. Here on
Nisus, the standard languages were English and Vul
can; there were not the universal translators every
where, as there were aboard a starship, and he and
Daniel were not carrying translators, since they were
fluent in both languages.

Daniel was still puzzling over the incident. “Even under decontamination gear, you’d think anyone could see I’m Human.”

“You look Human, but to a Rigellian, your Vulcan
probably sounds accentless,” said Sorel. “Only a
native speaker would know that you are not one.”

“Thanks, but that’s not really the point. The man
was insulting and aggressive. When I identified my
self, his focus of anger turned away from me, but in another direction. He began to rant against allowing
people of different races to have children together.
Said this plague is nature’s way of showing us how
wrong it is. He didn’t know T’Mir was my wife, of
course—but Sorel, if she had not exerted calm on me through our bonding, I would probably have slugged
him.”

“I do not think so,” said Sorel. “It is my experience
that civilized Humans frequently defuse negative
emotions by thinking about aggressive acts, but then
they ‘think twice,’ and do not perform them.”

“Yeah? How many ‘civilized Humans’ do you
know?”

“You, for one. And you are under severe stress, Daniel, as we all are … including that offensive
Rigellian.”

“I know. We walked away from him. But haven’t
you heard the same thing, usually put more politely, at least ten times a day since we’ve been here? God,
Sorel, what if they’re right? I don’t mean the preju
dice. I mean—sometimes the best intentions bring
about the worst results. Take Earth’s Eugenics Wars, for example. We meant to improve the species, pre
vent genetic defects, delay aging. Instead, we created
supermen who tried to take over the world, and let
loose new diseases, new defects.”

Daniel’s dejection was palpable as he continued.
“What if you and I, intending only to help good
people like Sarek and Amanda have children, have
helped start that process all over again—this time on
a galactic scale? What if this plague, which mutates
through such children, is only the beginning?”

His eyes fixed on Sorel’s, devastation in their
depths. “You approved my marriage to your daughter.
I married T’Mir because I love her. Suppose we do
find a cure for this particular disease. T’Mir and I are still left with a terrible decision: either we must deny
ourselves children, or live with the fear that at any
time a plague like the one we are fighting, or some
thing worse, could come again.”

Chapter Twenty-five

When the chief medical officer of the USS
Enterprise
beamed aboard and released everyone from sickbay except those in the isolation unit, Korsal expected
that he and Kevin would immediately be sent back to
Nisus. Instead, Dr. McCoy came to stand between their beds, looking from father to son.

The Human doctor rocked back and forth on his
toes, his face a portrait of mixed emotions. Finally he
said, “My staff has taken a great deal of blood from
you two.”

“We’ve noticed,” Korsal replied.

“Do you know why?” the doctor pursued.

“I assume you’re searching for the reason we’re immune to the Nisus plague.”

“Have you found it?” Kevin asked eagerly. “Can you use our blood to protect other people?”

McCoy frowned at the boy. “Is that what you
want?”

“Of course! Doctor, all my friends are in danger.”
Korsal saw his son’s realization. “You don’t trust us!”

“I’ve been told that I can,” said McCoy. Then he
smiled. “Your reaction says I’ve been told the truth.
Yes, we’ve got a serum, and if you’re willing to help
us, we can make more.”

“How can we help?” Korsal asked.

“I know you want to go home,” McCoy explained,
“but I’d like you to stay here. You’ll need medical supervision, and the hospital on Nisus is a mad
house.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Korsal.

“Take some drugs that will stimulate production of blood cells, and let us have as much of your blood as
possible.”

“Certainly,” said Korsal. “Kevin?”

“Of course. Uh, do you have to put us to sleep again?” This was the first day the boy had been off
medication.

“No,” McCoy assured him. “But you can’t run
around. We can offer all the entertainment tapes you
want and—”

“We’d prefer a computer link,” said Korsal. “Kevin
has studies to catch up on, and I have work to do.”

“You’ll have to ask Captain Kirk about that. He’s
coming to see you today. Now, about your younger
son—”

“Karl? Is he all right?” Korsal asked.

“Oh, yes, he’s fine. Once he was sure he was immune, he volunteered to work in the high-risk
ward, caring for the mixed-heritage children we iso
lated after we got your report. He’s only a child
himself but—”

“Don’t you say that to Karl!” warned Kevin. “He’s
passed Kahs-wan, you know.”

“Kahs-wan? Isn’t that a Vulcan ritual?”

“No ritual,” Korsal replied. “A life-or-death survival test, completely comparable to the Klingon
Survival every boy must pass. When Karl was at the
appropriate age, not enough Klingons remained on Nisus to supervise Survival for him, but I obtained
permission for him to substitute Kahs-wan, and the
Vulcans accepted him for the trial. So you must ask
Karl himself, Doctor. He has the right to make the
decision.”

The doctor’s weary face broke into a grin. “I love
it—a Klingon passing Kahs-wan! You folks really do
live IDIC on Nisus, don’t you?”

“I suppose we do,” Korsal replied. “I had not
thought of it in those terms. Doctor, are you going
back to Nisus soon?”