Vectors (3 page)

"Drown?" Dukat repeated. He couldn't imagine anyone drowning on Terok Nor. If he had to predict a way his people might die here, it would not be by drowning.

"That's the net effect," Narat said.

"This is not possible," Dukat said. "Bajorans and Cardassians cannot contract the same diseases. We have known that-" he caught himself. Kellec Ton looked at him, eyes sharp. The Bajoran doctor did not need to know how much information the Cardassians had gathered on the Bajorans. "We have known that for a long time."

"We have," Narat said. "But this is something new."

"Brand new," Kellec said.

There was something in his voice that annoyed Dukat, a faint accusation. Dukat approached the door. The stench seemed to have grown.

"What are you suggesting?" Dukat asked.

"I'm not suggesting anything." Kellec's expression was mild, but his eyes were not. They were intense, filled with something that Dukat recognized.

Hatred.

Good. Let the Bajoran hate him. He wasn't competing in any popularity contests.

"But," Kellec continued, "I have heard rumors that this disease is the result of a Cardassian experiment, designed to rid the universe of Bajorans. What better way to get our planet than to destroy us all?"

Dukat felt rage rush through him, but he did not move. He waited until the first wave of anger had passed before responding. He didn't want the Bajoran to know that his comment had hit the mark.

"If that were the case," Dukat said, making certain he sounded calm, "then this disease would not be killing Cardassians." "It would if someone made a mistake," Kellec said. Their gazes met for a moment. They both knew the Cardassians were capable of this. Then Dukat said, "Your job is to find a cure for this disease-both versions, Cardassian and Bajoran."

"You're feeling compassion for Bajorans?" Kellec asked, with great sarcasm.

"I prefer to have my Bajorans alive and working," Dukat said. "Not straining the medical resources of Terok Nor."

He turned away from Kellec, no longer willing to look at the man. "If this disease progresses as rapidly as you say," he said to Narat, "then we have to isolate it. We don't want it spreading through the station."

"I'll do what I can," Narat said. "But we have a problem here. We are, essentially, in a floating tin can, sharing the same air. I can have the computers filter for an air-borne version of this virus in the lifesupport system and neutralize it, but the disease might not be spread that way. We don't know enough about it."

"Isolate anyone who comes in contact with it," Dukat said. "I don't want this spreading."

"I won't be able to do that, treat these patients, and find a cure," Narat said. "You'll have to issue the order."

He had a point. "All right," Dukat said. "It's probably too late," Kellec Ton said.

They turned to him.

Kellec shrugged. "If this disease has a long incubation period, then it could have been spreading all over the station long before any symptoms appeared."

"Then we'd all have it," Narat said softly.

Dukat felt his skin crawl again. He couldn't help himself; he shot another look at the ill guards. He would do anything not to end up like that.

Then the door to medical lab swished open. Two Cardassians Dukat didn't recognize entered. They were wearing the uniform of the uridium freighter crews. The woman was hanging on the man, barely able to walk. Her skin was green.

"You the doctor?" the man asked.

Dukat took a step backwards even though they hadn't come near him yet. He was standing near the second door.

"No," he said, and he sounded alarmed, even to his own ears. "I'm not the doctor."

"I am," Narat said, walking toward them as if this thing didn't bother him at all. "Quarantine protocol."

The quarantine field went up around the newcomers. Dukat let out a small sigh.

"Don't relax yet," Kellec said to him softly. "All it takes is a moment to get infected. One small breath of air. A touch."

Dukat whirled.

The Bajoran was watching him, that maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Then find the cure," Dukat said. "I plan to," Kellec said. "For my own people." "I command you to find it for both." Dukat raised his voice. The new patient and his companion were looking at him, along with Narato "Why should I help your people?" Kellec asked. "Why should I help yours?" Dukat asked.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Kellec said, "You want our services and our planet."

"You cannot survive without us," Dukat said. "Not anymore." "We could survive just fine," Kellec said.

There was a crash behind them. Dukat turned. The woman had collapsed. The man who had brought her was clutching the wall as if it gave him strength.

"I need some help over here," Narat said.

Dukat remained where he was.

"Open the force field," Kellec said.

Dukat looked at him. "Open it, and I will help them," Kellec said.

Dukat brought the force field down. Kellec hurried to the others, demanding that Narat drop the quarantine field on that end as well. Both doctors picked up the female patient, helping her to a bed. Then they helped the male patient. They bent over the patients, lost in their work.

Dukat watched them for a moment, feeling itchy and cold. He glanced at his hand. The skin was its normal grayish color. Healthy. He was healthy.

For the moment.

Kellec wasn't looking at him, and Dukat didn't want to go any closer to taunt him. But Dukat knew Kellec, knew his kind. The man was a doctor first. He would heal a patient and then look to see the patient's race. That was why Dukat had Kellec brought to Terok Nor. For all his Bajoran patriotism, Kellec would save Cardassians if he had to.

In fact, he had just demanded to be allowed to. They would work together to solve this, Cardassian and Bajoran, because they had no other choice.

Chapter Four Doctor KATHERINE PULASKI stood in the sickbay of the Enterprise. She was alone. The four medical staff members who were supposed to be in the area had honored her request and granted her the last few moments here alone.

She sighed. The instruments were on their trays, just as she liked them. The monitors were in their off positions. The desk was neat, but all of her personal experiments were gone. Sickbay was tidied up and ready for the new doctor.

Or the old doctor, as it were. Pulaski was being replaced by the doctor she'd replaced, Beverly Crusher. Which was as it should be. Dr. Crusher's presence had never entirely left this sickbay. No matter what Pulaski did, she had a sense of Beverly Crusher's presence. Part of it was the very layout of the bay. Of course, much was standard on each starship and Pulaski had served on a number. But there were items left to each doctor's discretion-where to put the experiments, for example, or the way the desk was situated in the office. Pulaski had always meant to move the pieces around, to make the sickbay more efficient for her type of medicine. But the demands of being the chief medical officer on a starship-particularly an active starship like the Enterprise, a ship with a demanding captain-had never allowed her enough free time to reorganize.

That wasn't entirely true. There had been down periods where she had had some free time-once she had even helped Data in his Sherlock Holmes holodeck program-but she had generally used those times for resting. Making big changes like rearranging sickbay would have required a lot of effort, not just in moving of furniture but in retraining the staff. Effort she was now relieved she hadn't expended.

She tugged at her blue shirt and glanced at her travel bags. She had already removed personal items from her quarters, and all of her experiments and notes were already on the shuttle that would take her to Deep Space Five. She wasn't sure what her new assignment would be-Starfleet was being cagey about it, as always, which usually meant they were considering her for several missions and that she would get the one that rose to the top.

Still, she would miss the Enterprise. She loved starships and the challenges they presented. On starships she saw diseases no one else had seen; injuries whose treatment required a knowledge of the most current techniques or the most primitive, depending on whether she was aboard ship or on a hostile planet; aliens whose physiology was so strange that she didn't know what they looked like well, let alone if anything was wrong with them.

She hoped she would get reassigned to a starship, but she doubted that she would. If Starfleet Medical had its way, she would be heading to some starbase where she would squire newly minted doctors through their residencies.

If the truth be told, she'd rather stay on Deep Space Five than do that.

Her combadge chirruped.

She sighed. She would have to leave now. She wasn't ready. But she pressed the badge anyway.

"Pulaski."

"Doctor, sorry to bother you before you leave, but we have an emergency." Geordi La Forge sounded all business. "One of the crewmen got caught in an explosion in Jefferies Tube Three. There was a localized fire. We put it out, but he's severely burned."

Burns. She hated them. The trauma to the skin could continue long after the fire was actually put out.

"Beam him directly to sickbay," she said. She hated the transporter, thought it an infernal device, but it had its uses. Right now, she needed speed more than she needed caution.

The crewman shimmered into place on one of the biobeds. His blue shirt was in charred ruins around his badly burned skin. He was human, which made her task just a bit harder. Vulcans and Klingons handled burns-indeed all pain better than humans.

He wasn't conscious, for which she was grateful, but he was moaning. Burn pain was excruciating. She hurried to the biobed, with the fleeting thought that the sickbay wouldn't be in order for Dr. Crusher. Ah, well. Reorganization simply wasn't Pulaski's strong suit. Dr. Crusher would understand.

The smell of burned skin filled the sickbay. The biobed was giving his vitals, but she wanted more information. She picked up her medical tricorder and ran it over him, watching the readouts confirm the information she was already receiving.

No deep trauma, no internal injuries. Just burns. The crewman would live. But she didn't slow down. First she eased his pain and put him into a deep, restful sleep. Then, for the next five minutes she carefully repaired the burned skin, one area at a time.

Skin repair was delicate work, but something she had done all of her career. She was quicker at it than most, but that was partly because she disliked it so much. Burns, she often thought, were the worst injury of all.

After she had finished, she stood, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and checked his readings again. Still resting comfortably. She'd keep him that way for a few hours to give that new skin time to heal. And to give his mind time to deal with the memory of the pain. Sometimes in cases like this, the memories were the hardest to heal. Much harder than the skin. She'd have to let Counselor Troi know before she left.

"Nice work, Doctor."

Pulaski started. No one was supposed to be here, and she didn't recognize the voice. Had someone beamed in with the crewman? She had been too preoccupied to notice. She turned.

Beverly Crusher stood in the center of the bay, where Pulaski had been just minutes earlier. Her long red hair cascaded around her face. She looked thinner than Pulaski remembered.

"Very nice work," Dr. Crusher repeated.

"Thank you, Doctor." Pulaski smiled. The compliment meant a lot. Dr. Crusher was one of the best doctors in the fleet. Picard had told her she would always have a berth on the Enterprise, so when she decided that heading Starfleet Medical wasn't for her, she requested her old job back. Picard gave it to her without hesitation, even though-as he had solemnly told Pulaski-their current chief medical officer was one of the most talented physicians he had worked with. Picard was a diplomat, so Pulaski knew he might be exaggerating slightly, but he was also the captain of a starship, and he didn't give out idle praise.

Dr. Crusher looked around the main area of the sickbay as if she were a blind woman just recovering her sight. "You know, there were days at Starfleet Medical when I never thought I would ever see the inside of one of these again."

Pulaski smoothed her hair with one hand. "I missed it a great deal."

"I imagine you did," Pulaski said. She felt her shoulders stiffen. She would miss it too.

"I'm sorry, Katherine," Dr. Crusher said. "You were doing an exceptional job here. I wouldn't have asked to come back to the Enterprise if it weren't for Wesley."

Pulaski nodded. "I had a feeling from the first that I was merely keeping this place warm for you." "It looks like you did more than that." Dr. Crusher nodded at the crewman. His vitals were closer to normal than they had been just a few moments before. "I've never seen such quick work on a burn patient. I doubt I could have done as well."

"I've studied your logs," Pulaski said. "You've done as well or better."

Their gazes met, and an awkwardness that had been reflected in their words seemed to grow. Finally Dr. Crusher tossed her long hair back-such a girlish move from such an accomplished woman-and laughed.

"I'm sorry about this," she said. "I didn't realize it would be so uncomfortable."

Pulaski frowned just slightly. If Dr. Crusher was referring to their meeting, she should have known. It was an unwritten rule among chief medical officers that they never share a sickbay-at least not on a starship. The new officer replacing the old officer would wait until his or her predecessor was off the ship before entering sickbay.

But Pulaski said nothing. An unwritten rule was a tradition, yes, but it wasn't as if Dr. Crusher had done much more than been slightly impolite. It was something easily overlooked.

Apparently Pulaski's silence went on too long. Dr. Crusher's smile faded. "There is a reason that I'm here early," she said. Pulaski felt some of the tension leave her. The breach of etiquette had bothered her, even though she had just been trying to convince herself that it hadn't. She felt Dr. Crusher's returning as a slight rebuke, almost as if she weren't important enough to remain on the ship. She had known that the feeling was irrational and, in her better moments, had forgotten all about it. But it had been a thread, an undercurrent, during the whole last month, since she'd finally learned that she would be leaving.