Vectors (4 page)

"I hope it's not too serious," Pulaski said.

Dr. Crusher's mouth formed a thin line. "Starfleet Medical wanted me to tell you there's a problem on Bajor."

Whatever Pulaski had expected, it wasn't that. She fought to keep her face impassive, not to let her emotions show. Dr. Kellec Ton, after all, was her ex-husband, and as much as she cared about him, she had known that this moment could come. She had urged him to leave Bajor, knowing that with his temperament, he couldn't be safe under the Cardassian occupation. But he had refused, just as he had always refused to do the sensible thing during their marriage, citing his loyalty to his homeland and its great need for him in time of crisis.

"Why did Starfleet Medical believe they needed to inform me of this?"

Dr. Crusher's gaze held hers. "There are rumors that a plague on Bajor is killing both Cardassians and Bajorans."

Pulaski threaded her fingers together and held her hands over her stomach, as if the pressure would keep her nerves from getting worse.

"That's not possible," Pulaski said. "Their systems are too different. Viruses cannot be spread from Bajoran to Cardassian and back again."

"I thought the same thing," Dr. Crusher said softly. "But Starfleet Medical is taking the rumors seriously."

Rumors. If they only had rumors, they wouldn't know who died. For all they knew, Kellec was just fine.

Suddenly Pulaski knew why Dr. Crusher was telling her this. "They want me to contact Kellec for them, don't they?"

Dr. Crusher nodded. "A message from Starfleet might put him in jeopardy. A message from you"

"Would seem normal. Or somewhat normal." Pulaski let her hands drop to her sides. She was on good terms with Kellec, as she was with her other two ex-husbands. But she didn't like talking with him. She had loved him a great deal, but his stubbornness had frustrated her-and it continued to frustrate her, even now.

"Starfleet Medical believes that Dr. Kellec Ton can confirm or deny the rumors."

Pulaski nodded. "As long as I present my questions in a way that won't put him in any danger."

"From what I understand of Kellec Ton," Dr. Crusher said, "he's probably already in danger, at least the political kind."

"He never could remain quiet about things that bothered him," Pulaski said. "When was the last time you spoke with him?" "A month ago." They had fought, as they often did.

Kellec had agreed to go to a Cardassian space station to take care of their Bajoran workers. He hadn't explained his motives he didn't dare on the un scrambled channels he could get out of Bajor-but he didn't have to. He would take care of the workers' ill health, document the atrocities he saw, and do what he could to promote the resistance movement from the inside-maybe even destroy the station, if it were within his power.

She had argued against the assignment, attempting to use medical arguments that couched her larger objections. But they had both known what she was talking about. And the argument had ended, as they all had, with Kellec shaking his head.

Katherine, my love, he had said. Our fundamental problem is, and has always been, your unwillingness to let me make my own mistakes.

She was letting him make his own mistakes. But she'd had to divorce him to do so.

"Can you contact him again?" Dr. Crusher asked.

Pulaski nodded. "I believe I know where to find him."

"Good," Dr. Crusher said. "I'm sorry to bother you with this, especially now. But it is the best way for us to handle this potential crisis."

There was something that Dr. Crusher wasn't telling her, something that Starfleet Medical was very interested in, something that they were willing to risk a high-profile contact with Bajor over. But Pulaski had been military for a long time. She knew better than to ask for information that she had not been given. If it had been something she needed to know, Dr. Crusher would have told her.

"Well," Pulaski said, "I guess it's time."

She glanced at her last patient on the Enterprise. The crewman's readings were mostly normal, his new skin looking pink and healthy. She went over to him and drew a blanket across him. He was sleeping peacefully. He wouldn't even remember his treatment. He would think Dr. Crusher had taken care of him, and even though she would probably correct him, he would never really know what had happened

But Pulaski would.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess. I had planned to leave it tidy for you."

Dr. Crusher smiled. "Medicine is rarely tidy."

Pulaski nodded. That was a fact she knew all too well.

Chapter Five A MIST HAD FORMED at the base of the mountains. Gel Kynled felt the chill, even though he stood in the shadow of what had once been an excellent restaurant. It was Cardassian now, with the former restaurant owner working as a waiter and forced to suffer daily humiliation from the occupying army. Gel hated watching that. He hated so many things about Bajor these days. So many Bajorans simply took the Occupation as their lot in life. They looked away when their friends disappeared, mourned when their families died, but did nothing.

He couldn't stand doing nothing.

He had his arm wrapped around the waist of Cadema Hyle. She was too thin for him. Her clothing was baggy and barely hid the signs of starvation that had been so prominent a few months ago. Cadema had managed to escape from one of the camps-probably because the Cardassian guards had left her for dead. She had climbed out of the mountains, surviving on roots and berries before she made it back to their resistance cell. She never spoke of the experience, not after that first day, but it had changed her.

Like him, she was willing to do anything to get rid of the Cardassians. Anything at all.

It was nearly curfew. Most of the Bajorans who were on the streets were hurrying toward their homes. The people left in this area had nominal freedom, all of them knowing they could lose it with a single error. Staying out past curfew could be that error.

The Cardassians passing him were no longer on duty, but they weren't in a hurry either. Gel resisted the urge to check the time. He and Cadema were standing casually, looking younger than they were-because they had always looked younger than they were-and pretending to be in love. Idle youth, not caring about deadlines or curfews or Cardassian soldiers. But it was getting late, and Gel didn't dare call attention to himself. He needed his freedom, and so did Cadema. In fact, Cadema said she would do anything she could, anything, to prevent being captured by the Cardassians again.

He felt her shift ever so slightly. Her movement wasn't noticeable to anyone watching, but it was a sign that she was getting nervous too.

"A few more moments," he said softly.

She smiled at him, tilting her head upward, a lovesick look that didn't make it to her eyes. He smiled back, so fond. Lovers, taking the last few minutes of precious daylight to be together.

Someone coughed a few meters away, a loud, honking cough. It was their signal. Cadema tensed. Gel slid his left hand behind his back. His fingers rested lightly on a stolen Cardassian phaser tucked into a belt, holding it against his spine. He could draw and fire the pistol faster than a Cardassian could raise his arm. Gel had killed at least ten Cardassian guards with that pistol over the last few months. He planned on killing a lot more.

A Jibetian trader walked past, still coughing. He was long and lean, like most of his people, and his ridged cheeks were very pronounced. Gel had never seen him before.

"You need to do something for that cough," Cadema said, her voice gentle, as if giving advice to a friend.

The trader stopped, his cloak flowing around him. The movement was fluid and powerful. It also revealed the weapons at his waist. A pistol like Gel's and something Gel didn't recognize.

The trader's pale green eyes took both of them in. Nothing in his expression changed, but he seemed to recognize them as a team.

He stepped closer, so close that his words were audible only to Gel and Cadema. "My boss does not like being summoned."

Gel didn't move. He kept one hand on his weapon, the other casually draped over Cadema. As he spoke, he smiled, so that anyone watching would think they were still discussing cold remedies. "Bajorans are dying," he said.

The trader shrugged. "You were warned there might be some casualties."

"Some," Cadema said. "We thought that meant only those initially involved. Your boss misled us."

The trader's gaze flickered toward the street and then back to them. They were the last Bajorans out, and there were no more Cardassians. Curfew had started. In a few moments, they all would be in trouble.

"People in your business," the trader said, "should not be soft."

Gel's grip on the pistol tightened. He knew he was being goaded, and he would not let the trader get to him. All of the people he had dealt with, everyone who worked for the person-or persons-who had theoretically developed this perfect biological weapon to fight the Cardassians had been as cold and unfeeling and cruel as this trader. All of them. They were only in it for the money. Gel's resistance cell had spent the last of its reserves getting this weapon, and now it was backfiring on them.

"Soft, weak," Gel said, "those are all subjective terms. We're not talking about our ability to fight, or our own willingness to die for our beliefs. But this disease has spread beyond our cell, to the innocents. Our children have been dying. It's not a pretty death."

"You didn't buy a pretty death," the trader said. "You bought something a bit more destructive than that."

"My people are getting sicker faster than the Cardassians." Gel had to struggle to keep his voice down. Cadema was looking to make sure they were still alone on the street. They were. So far.

"The disease incubates longer in Cardassians."

"Not good enough," Gel said. "You owe us more than that."

"We owe you nothing."

"You lied."

"What are you going to do? Turn us in? Which government will prosecute us for violating the local commerce laws? What remains of the Bajoran government? Or the Cardassian warlords?"

Cadema put a hand on Gel's chest. She knew how close he was to killing this bug.

"We have done what we promised," the trader said. "You wanted to get rid of the Cardassians. We offered you a way, and now they are dying. What more do you want?" "The Bajoran antidote for the plague," Gel said. The trader smiled. It was a cruel, empty smile. "What if we turn you in to the Cardassians and tell them you're working for the person who started this plague?" Gel asked.

"And who's going to tell them? You, the great rebel leader killing his own people?" The trader laughed again, this time louder, his voice echoing down the empty street.

"We have kept complete documentation of all of our dealings with you, including surveillance of all of our meetings."

"You have never dealt with the same person."

"It doesn't matter. We have the conversations and the promises. We have it all."

"All except the names of the people you've really been dealing with," the trader said.

"That's not hard to find," Gel said. He was bluffing, but it was getting dark. He was getting desperate. He had thought this meeting would go better. "Give me the Bajoran antidote."

The trader smiled. "You think you are so courageous." He crossed his arms. "You believe you are so powerful, so smart. You don't like the idea that you've been tricked."

Cadema glanced at Gel. He knew what she was thinking, and he shook his head slightly, but she spoke anyway. "We will pay for it," she said.

The trader's ridged cheeks puffed out. Gel had worked with enough Jibetians to know that to be an expression of surprise. "Really?" he asked. She nodded. "You have no money. You used it all to pay us."

Gel felt cold. Perhaps they had been dealing out of their league.

Cadema let go of him and grabbed the trader by his long cloak. She pulled him close. She had surprising strength in those thin hands.

"We are losing our children, our families, the very reasons we are fighting the Cardassian dogs."

The trader stared at her for a moment. Cadema had let the veneer of civility drop. She had let him see their desperation. Gel thought he saw pity in the Jibetian's eyes. "There is no antidote," the trader said. "What?" Cadema let him go. "There has to be." It hadn't been pity Gel had seen. It had been disgust. The look intensified. The Jibetian straightened his lapels. "My boss hates weakness. If you couldn't stomach the deaths, you should not have bought our services."

Gel brought out his laser pistol, aiming and firing as he moved. But he didn't get to see whether or not his shot hit its target. The Jibetian already had his pistol out. A shot caught Gel in the chest, smashing him back against the wall. His own pistol fell out of his grasp.

He didn't feel any pain, not yet anyway. He knew, somehow, that wasn't good.

Cadema clove out of the way, but the Jibetian turned toward her. The street was still empty. Why wasn't there anyone on the street? Why didn't anyone see this?

He tried to reach for the pistol, but he couldn't move his arms.

A second shot hit Cadema. She twitched once, and then didn't move, arms splayed, legs at an unnatural angle. The Jibetian pushed at her with his booted foot. She didn't respond.

Gel couldn't. His body wasn't obeying his commands. It had slumped down the wall until he was lying on his back, his neck shoved uncomfortably against the brick. Odd that the only discomfort he felt was in his neck. But he really couldn't feel much at all. And he seemed to have control of nothing more than his face. His breathing was short and uneven. He couldn't really take a deep breath at all. The pistol the Jibetian had used had scrambled Gel's systems. If he didn't get help soon, he would die here, on this street, just like Cadema.

Without the antidote. Without being able to tell his resistance cell there was no antidote. All those deaths, on his shoulders.

The Jibetian leaned over him. That look of disgust was in his eyes again. He nudged Gel with his booted foot, and like Cadema, Gel didn't move.