April/May Challenge Entry - Captain Strauss and the USS Blanchard: “Unintended Consequences”
Stardate 65519.7 (9 July 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
At 0530 hours, ship's time, Captain Inga Strauss rose from bed, dressed in workout shorts and an old Starfleet Academy T-shirt, and made her way to holodeck 2 for her scheduled hour of racquetball. Her holographic opponent looked and acted very much like a sadistic upper-classman from Inga's Academy days who made her plebe year a living hell. Strauss took pleasure in running the little über-bitch all over the court, no small feat as her opponent was programmed as an advanced amateur.
By the third set, however, the hologram's algorithms began anticipating Strauss' moves, and now it was Inga's turn to frantically chase the little rubber ball. She valiantly dove after one volley, just reaching the ball with her racket and scoring the point. In doing so, she landed awkwardly, knocking the breath from her lungs.
As she gasped for breath, her holographic opponent stood over her. “Do you require medical assistance?” Inga thought she saw a smirk on her face.
Strauss replied with a series of choice curses she learned years ago from a certain Tellarite engineer. The hologram actually took a step backward, wearing a comical expression of surprise.
The Captain grimaced but managed to stand to her feet. “You just . . . gonna stand there . . . or . . . are you . . . ready to play?”
The hologram was about to reply, when a voice came over the comm. “Bridge to Captain Strauss.”
"Save and end program,” ordered Strauss. The hologram extended a middle finger as she disappeared.
“Arch.” A large structure appeared on the holodeck grid. Inga went over, still nursing a bruised diaphragm, and activated the view screen. The image of Lt. Maya Vashtee, Blanchard's Operations Manager, appeared.
“Sorry to interrupt your workout Captain, but we're receiving a priority one communication from Admiral Izuko at Starbase 90.”
“Understood . . . Patch it through . . . to my quarters. . . I'm on . . . the way there now.”
An expression of concern formed on the Sri Lankan officer's face“Are you alright, Captain?”
“Just . . . swell. Patch it through . . . Lieutenant.”
“Aye, ma'am.”
Strauss hurried from the holodeck, trotting through the corridors to ease the stitch in her side. She must have pulled something when she laid out for that save. Totally worth it, she thought, smugly.
Entering her cabin, she grabbed a towel and swiped at the perspiration on her face. She was hardly presentable for the sector commander, but it was a Priority One call, after all. At least she could now speak without gasping like a fish out of water.
Seated at her desk, she suffered through the requisite security scan before the image of Rear-Admiral Foshimi Izuko appeared. He made no mention of her appearance, coming directly to the point.
“Captain Strauss, I am ordering you to take the Blanchard to system AV-772 at best speed, where you will rendezvous with the science vessel, USS Huxley. You will establish quarantine protocols around the second planet, AV-772-B, known to the inhabitants as J'Ril. This is a pre-warp civilization, so General Order One is in effect.”
Strauss nodded. “Understood, sir. May I ask the reason for the quarantine?”
Admiral Izuko's brow furrowed. “You may. However, this operation is classified Stygian Level 2. Senior officers and appropriate science and medical personnel may be privy to all data. Other crew members will operate under a 'need to know' basis.” He paused. “Captain, a virulent pathogen has been unleashed on the inhabitants of J'Ril. Captain Syvik of the Huxley can provide more pertinent details. Suffice it to say, the inhabitants are incapable of developing a vaccine or effective treatment for this virus. Early estimates range from a 65 to 80 % mortality rate.”
Strauss took this in, momentarily stunned to silence. She quickly found her voice as she replayed the Admiral's words in her head.
“Sir, you said, 'unleashed.' Do you believe this to be a deliberate attack? Germ warfare?”
“Not a deliberate attack, no,” he replied. Strauss noted the stress creeping through the Admiral's normally stoic facade. “Call it, 'unintended consequences.”
She frowned. “Admiral, I'm afraid I don't understand.”
His dark eyes fixed on hers over the light years of distance. “Inga . . . we caused this.”
* * *
USS Blanchard
Conference Room A
0710 ship's time
Captain Strauss strode into the conference room, followed closely by the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, Chief Engineer Lt. Commander Bradley Fuller and Chief Operations Officer, Lt. Maya Vashtee.
Several other officers of the senior staff were already present. Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Jiang Ying Yue and Ship's Counselor, Commander Phillip Montaigne were standing to the side, carrying on a quiet conversation. Chief Science Officer, Lt. V'Xon, sat ramrod straight at the conference table, perusing her PADD. First Officer, Commander Raymond Graycloud, leaned against the wall near the replicator, sipping coffee and lost in his thoughts.
All looked up when the Captain entered.
“Good morning, everyone,” began Strauss. “Please, be seated.”
As the assembled officers sat at the table, Strauss activated a holo-viewer. A three-dimensional image of a roughly cylindrical device festooned with antennae and sensor nodes appeared, turning along alternating x, y, and z axes. It was dull black in color, with thruster ports and heat radiators covered much of its surface. The design appeared to be of Terran origin, though much of the technology appeared obsolete.
“You've all read the mission brief?” A chorus of nods and a few “Yes ma'am's” rang out softly.
Commander Graycloud gestured toward the holo-image. “Captain, what are we looking at? Appears to be a space probe of some sort . . . an old one at that.”
“You win the prize, XO,” replied Strauss, lapsing back into Border Service terminology. Old habits were hard to break. “That is a representation of a satellite from Project R.O.V.E.R., otherwise known as a Random Orbit Vehicle for Extra-terrestrial Research.”
Lt. Commander Fuller snorted. “You've got to be kidding. Who came up with that?”
“It's an old 'Use-Pa' acronym,” replied Graycloud.
V'Xon lifted a slender eyebrow. “Use-Pa?”
“Sorry,” said Graywolf. “Use-Pa is short for U.E.S.P.A., or United Earth Space Probe Agency. They loved their acronyms back in the day.” He caught the look from Strauss and cleared his throat. “But that's not why we're here. Sorry, Captain.”
Inga nodded. “All relevant to the topic at hand, Mr. Graycloud,” she replied, diplomatically. “The United Earth Space Probe Agency sent out literally hundreds of these probes, beginning in the early days of Earth's space exploration beyond the Solar system. The program lasted for nearly thirty years, beginning in 2147 into the 2170's. Advances in warp technology and the expansion of the early Starfleet ended the program. Still, the probes proved to be highly successful, many continuing to collect data and transmit for a century or better. They were advanced for their time, with rudimentary stealth technology and small but efficient reactors. Most eventually burned up in planetary atmospheres as they lost power and de-orbited. A few were picked up by Starships. But one . . .”
She gestured to the slowly turning image. “One, survived re-entry. And in doing so, introduced a long dormant virus that originated on Earth. Commonly known as COVID-27, the virus first appeared on Earth in the early twenty-second century and spread over much of the planet. Fortunately, viral protocols were advanced enough that this particular strain was mostly a nuisance with no ensuing pandemic.”
“But how do we know the virus on J'Ril is the same? How could it have survived more than two centuries on an obsolete space proble?”
Strauss glanced at the CMO. “Doctor?”
Dr. Yue folded slender fingers as she spoke. “COVID-27 is susceptible to warm, humid conditions. It cannot survive long at temperatures in excess of 80 degrees centigrade. However, it becomes dormant at sub-freezing temperatures. As unlikely as it seems, some sample of the virus managed to attach itself to the probe. How it survived re-entry is a mystery. Perhaps it was attached to the reactor cooling system. As to how we know it is in their ecosystem, the Huxley was engaged in a routine survey of the system. They discovered the pandemic through long-range scans. Beaming aboard atmospheric samples provided evidence of the COVID-27 virus. To make matters worse, the virus mutated quickly. The atmosphere of J'Ril is highly conducive to its growth.”
“What is our role in this, Captain?” asked Counselor Montaigne. “No offense to V'Xon or Dr. Yue, but we're not a science vessel. How can we help?”
There was the question that Strauss dreaded. She stood and made eye-contact with each person around the table.
“We're not on a rescue mission. We have been ordered to quarantine the system, preventing any vessels other than the Huxley to approach J'Ril.”
“With respect, Captain,” began Graycloud, barely keeping his emotions in check, “but what the Hell? Are you saying we're going to stand by and let an entire civilization die?”
“I don't like it any more than you do, Ray. But we're constrained by General Order One. No direct contact and no interference with pre-warp societies.”
“The Prime Directive?” The First Officer rose from his chair. “But Captain, we've already interfered – it's our frakking virus!”
“That's enough, Commander,” said Strauss, her voice dangerously cold. “Please, take your seat.”
Realizing he had crossed a line, the First Officer complied, but his russet features were a deeper red and the muscles in his jaw twitched.
“Sir, doesn't that make a difference?” queried Lt. Vashtee, cautiously. “I mean, it is the fault of our predecessors. This wouldn't have happened if the probe hadn't crashed on their planet.”
“Be that as it may,” interjected Lt. V'Xon, “The Prime Directive is quite clear, allowing for no exceptions. The J'Ril are a C- on the Richter Scale of Culture. They are a steam-age, early industrial civilization and decades away from aerial flight. First contacts are limited to warp-capable civilizations only.”
“That's pretty cold, even for you, V'Xon” remarked the Chief Engineer.
“Enough, Mr. Fuller!” barked Strauss. “I expect healthy debate from my senior officers. I will not tolerate personal attacks. Is that clear?”
Chastened, Fuller nodded. “I was out of line. My apologies, Lieutenant, Captain.”
The Vulcan Science Officer inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Now,” began Strauss as she glared around the table. “We are ordered to quarantine the planet. We will carry out those orders. We are bound by General Order One. We will not violate the Prime Directive.” She paused. “Nor do I intend to stand by and let nearly a billion sentient beings perish, if we can help it.”
That got their attention. Graycloud and Fuller glanced at each other, then focused on the Captain. V'Xon cocked her head and lifted both eyebrows. Vashtee grinned, Yue frowned, and Montaigne flashed a subtle thumb's up.
“We are Starfleet,” continued Strauss, now energized. “And we by-God come up with solutions for impossible situations each day, twice before breakfast. I chose you because you are supposed to be the best. Prove. It. We have about 72 hours before we reach the point of no return and a civilization dies. Do your jobs, collaborate with the people on Huxley – and they are damn good also – and come up with a third way. That's an order!”
For a moment, they gaped at Strauss. Then, beginning with Commander Graycloud, they quickly gathered PADDs, cups, and styluses and departed the conference room, voices buzzing and ideas already being proposed and debated before the room emptied.
Except for Counselor Montaigne. He stood from the table and began to slow-clap.
“Shut up, Phil,” Strauss grumbled.
“Very nicely done,” he said, coming around the table. He stood before her, folded his arms and eyed her in an appraising manner.
“Any idea how we're going to pull this off?”
“Not a clue.” She collapsed into a chair and put her head on the table. “Phil, did I over-play my hand?”
He exhaled slowly and shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn cardigan sweater. “They had a wise saying when I was in command school, oh, so long ago.”
“What was that?” She lifted her head, hopefully.
“If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”
She stared at the old Counselor for a long moment, then began snorting with laughter. “What the hell does that even mean?” she gasped, the laughter now causing her bruised diaphragm to protest.
“Haven't a clue. Someone wrote it inside my gym locker. But sometimes, a Captain has to propose something outrageous, even if they don't believe it themselves, to break the inertia. You did just that.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Sobering, she looked up at him. “Remember telling me about occasionally lighting a fire under the collective asses of your senior staff?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “Nice little blaze you set this morning.”
Her smile faded. “Until it goes out,” she lamented.
“Nope. None of the negative Nancy bit. Come along, my Captain. I'll buy you a Raktajino and, if you're lucky, I'll let you pet my dog.”
* * *
Stardate 65520.9 (10 July 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
The bridge was quiet as the Blanchard streaked through subspace at warp 9, plus a few decimal points. Captain Strauss was the picture of quiet confidence as the starship approached system AV-772.
Internally, though, Strauss' stomach churned. In moments like these, she missed the wild, dangerous Molari Badlands of the border regions that separated Federation, Klingon, and Orion space. The decisions that Captain Akinola faced on the Bluefin seemed so simple . . . fight pirates, duel with the Orion Syndicate, rescue wayward spacers, and battle the occasional renegade Klingon. Simple, that is, until that fateful day when a quantum filament destroyed the cutter, resulting in the death of many of the crew . . . her friends, her family.
Now, her old mentor, Joseph Akinola, was many light years away, retired and living on Earth. She wished she could have five minutes to hear his voice, to seek his counsel. He always seemed to know what to do.
But no. She was the Captain. Starfleet Command had seen fit to make her a plank-owner of USS Franklin Blanchard, seeing the ship through construction, choosing her crew, going through space trials, and now, bearing the burden of command. She accepted it willingly.
Time to earn her pay.
“Captain? Now entering system boundary,” announced Ensign Sh'Chel, the helm officer.
“Drop us out of warp, Ensign. Ahead, one-half impulse. Ops, system scan, please.”
“Aye,” replied Lt. Vashtee. “One other vessel in range . . . Nova-class . . . ID is NCC-77802, USS Huxley. She's holding at LaGrange point five opposite the second planet.”
“Hail them.”
Momentarily, the image of a dark-skinned Vulcan male appeared on the main viewscreen. He inclined his head.
“Captain Strauss, I am Captain Syvik of the science vessel, Huxley. I understand that you are tasked to quarantine the system from other vessels.”
Brief and to the point, thought Strauss. “Greetings, Captain Syvik. That is correct. May I inquire as to the status of the J'Ril people and to your purpose for remaining in system.”
“Of course. Unfortunately, the virus continues to spread at a rate consistent with our early models. Scans show what appear to be funeral pyres for many of the deceased. All major land masses are showing the spread of the pathogen. Our orders are to continue monitoring the situation, and to take atmospheric samples to determine the mutation rate of the virus.”
“I see,” said, Strauss, feeling as if the deck beneath her were falling away. “Captain . . . hypothetically, how long would it take to slow and then reverse the spread of the virus, should a modern prophylaxis be introduced into their atmosphere?”
A crease formed between Syvik's eyebrows. “I fail to see the relevance of this request.”
For the love of . . . “The relevance lies, Captain, in the fate of over one billion sentient beings. People, sir, who are dying because of a virus introduced by us. I believe there is a way to save these people while maintaining the principles of the Prime Directive.”
There was a long pause. Strauss wondered if Syvik was a Vulcan of the “black or white/no gray” tribe. She had met her share. At the other end of the spectrum were Vulcans like her dear friend, T'Ser.
Finally, Syvik replied. “I would be interested in discussing this further, Captain Strauss. Would you and some of your staff be willing to beam aboard Huxley?”
Strauss realized she had been holding her breath. It was a small victory, but it was a start. “Yes, the sooner the better.”
Ten minutes later, Strauss, Dr. Yue, Lt. V'Xon, and Counselor Montaigne, materialized in transporter room one of USS Huxley. Captain Syvik greeted them, accompanied by his CMO and Chief Science Officer. Pleasantries were exchanged, and they followed the Huxley officers to a conference room, albeit one smaller than on the Blanchard. Three other science officers and an epidemiologist were already present.
Time was not on their side. But the Blanchard's team had used their transit time wisely, and came with solid ideas.
After 90 minutes of discussion, argument, counter-argument, and finally consensus, they had a working plan. It was not perfect, far from it. And it would not save those that were in stage two of the disease. But it would, in theory, kill the remaining active pathogen in the atmosphere and, again in theory, prevent the virus from advancing beyond phase one in those recently infected and those still healthy.
Captain Syvik rose from the table, signaling the end of the meeting. “I must commend you all on your work. The plan has a potential for success in the range of 62.7 to 68.4 %. There are too many variables to give a more precise statistical prediction.”
Exiting the conference room, Strauss suppressed a grin. “I'm grateful for your help and expertise, Captain, particularly from your science and medical staff. You caught several problems we had overlooked.”
“Do not be premature in your thanks,” chided the senior captain. “There are many things that can go wrong.”
“True enough,” replied Strauss. “But it would be illogical not to try.”
“Indeed,” murmured, Syvik. “Regardless, it has been an agreeable experience to collaborate with you and your officers. I believe the best course of action is for you to return to your ship now and make preparations. The window of opportunity will close in six hours, seventeen minutes.”
“Then we will take our leave.” They entered the transporter room and ascended the dais.
Syvik favored them with the Vulcan salute, which V'Xon returned. “Live long, and prosper,” intoned the Vulcan captain.
Strauss nodded. “Too you, also. Farewell, Captain Syvik, and many thanks!”
“Energize,” ordered Syvik.
(Continued)
Stardate 65519.7 (9 July 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
At 0530 hours, ship's time, Captain Inga Strauss rose from bed, dressed in workout shorts and an old Starfleet Academy T-shirt, and made her way to holodeck 2 for her scheduled hour of racquetball. Her holographic opponent looked and acted very much like a sadistic upper-classman from Inga's Academy days who made her plebe year a living hell. Strauss took pleasure in running the little über-bitch all over the court, no small feat as her opponent was programmed as an advanced amateur.
By the third set, however, the hologram's algorithms began anticipating Strauss' moves, and now it was Inga's turn to frantically chase the little rubber ball. She valiantly dove after one volley, just reaching the ball with her racket and scoring the point. In doing so, she landed awkwardly, knocking the breath from her lungs.
As she gasped for breath, her holographic opponent stood over her. “Do you require medical assistance?” Inga thought she saw a smirk on her face.
Strauss replied with a series of choice curses she learned years ago from a certain Tellarite engineer. The hologram actually took a step backward, wearing a comical expression of surprise.
The Captain grimaced but managed to stand to her feet. “You just . . . gonna stand there . . . or . . . are you . . . ready to play?”
The hologram was about to reply, when a voice came over the comm. “Bridge to Captain Strauss.”
"Save and end program,” ordered Strauss. The hologram extended a middle finger as she disappeared.
“Arch.” A large structure appeared on the holodeck grid. Inga went over, still nursing a bruised diaphragm, and activated the view screen. The image of Lt. Maya Vashtee, Blanchard's Operations Manager, appeared.
“Sorry to interrupt your workout Captain, but we're receiving a priority one communication from Admiral Izuko at Starbase 90.”
“Understood . . . Patch it through . . . to my quarters. . . I'm on . . . the way there now.”
An expression of concern formed on the Sri Lankan officer's face“Are you alright, Captain?”
“Just . . . swell. Patch it through . . . Lieutenant.”
“Aye, ma'am.”
Strauss hurried from the holodeck, trotting through the corridors to ease the stitch in her side. She must have pulled something when she laid out for that save. Totally worth it, she thought, smugly.
Entering her cabin, she grabbed a towel and swiped at the perspiration on her face. She was hardly presentable for the sector commander, but it was a Priority One call, after all. At least she could now speak without gasping like a fish out of water.
Seated at her desk, she suffered through the requisite security scan before the image of Rear-Admiral Foshimi Izuko appeared. He made no mention of her appearance, coming directly to the point.
“Captain Strauss, I am ordering you to take the Blanchard to system AV-772 at best speed, where you will rendezvous with the science vessel, USS Huxley. You will establish quarantine protocols around the second planet, AV-772-B, known to the inhabitants as J'Ril. This is a pre-warp civilization, so General Order One is in effect.”
Strauss nodded. “Understood, sir. May I ask the reason for the quarantine?”
Admiral Izuko's brow furrowed. “You may. However, this operation is classified Stygian Level 2. Senior officers and appropriate science and medical personnel may be privy to all data. Other crew members will operate under a 'need to know' basis.” He paused. “Captain, a virulent pathogen has been unleashed on the inhabitants of J'Ril. Captain Syvik of the Huxley can provide more pertinent details. Suffice it to say, the inhabitants are incapable of developing a vaccine or effective treatment for this virus. Early estimates range from a 65 to 80 % mortality rate.”
Strauss took this in, momentarily stunned to silence. She quickly found her voice as she replayed the Admiral's words in her head.
“Sir, you said, 'unleashed.' Do you believe this to be a deliberate attack? Germ warfare?”
“Not a deliberate attack, no,” he replied. Strauss noted the stress creeping through the Admiral's normally stoic facade. “Call it, 'unintended consequences.”
She frowned. “Admiral, I'm afraid I don't understand.”
His dark eyes fixed on hers over the light years of distance. “Inga . . . we caused this.”
* * *
USS Blanchard
Conference Room A
0710 ship's time
Captain Strauss strode into the conference room, followed closely by the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, Chief Engineer Lt. Commander Bradley Fuller and Chief Operations Officer, Lt. Maya Vashtee.
Several other officers of the senior staff were already present. Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Jiang Ying Yue and Ship's Counselor, Commander Phillip Montaigne were standing to the side, carrying on a quiet conversation. Chief Science Officer, Lt. V'Xon, sat ramrod straight at the conference table, perusing her PADD. First Officer, Commander Raymond Graycloud, leaned against the wall near the replicator, sipping coffee and lost in his thoughts.
All looked up when the Captain entered.
“Good morning, everyone,” began Strauss. “Please, be seated.”
As the assembled officers sat at the table, Strauss activated a holo-viewer. A three-dimensional image of a roughly cylindrical device festooned with antennae and sensor nodes appeared, turning along alternating x, y, and z axes. It was dull black in color, with thruster ports and heat radiators covered much of its surface. The design appeared to be of Terran origin, though much of the technology appeared obsolete.
“You've all read the mission brief?” A chorus of nods and a few “Yes ma'am's” rang out softly.
Commander Graycloud gestured toward the holo-image. “Captain, what are we looking at? Appears to be a space probe of some sort . . . an old one at that.”
“You win the prize, XO,” replied Strauss, lapsing back into Border Service terminology. Old habits were hard to break. “That is a representation of a satellite from Project R.O.V.E.R., otherwise known as a Random Orbit Vehicle for Extra-terrestrial Research.”
Lt. Commander Fuller snorted. “You've got to be kidding. Who came up with that?”
“It's an old 'Use-Pa' acronym,” replied Graycloud.
V'Xon lifted a slender eyebrow. “Use-Pa?”
“Sorry,” said Graywolf. “Use-Pa is short for U.E.S.P.A., or United Earth Space Probe Agency. They loved their acronyms back in the day.” He caught the look from Strauss and cleared his throat. “But that's not why we're here. Sorry, Captain.”
Inga nodded. “All relevant to the topic at hand, Mr. Graycloud,” she replied, diplomatically. “The United Earth Space Probe Agency sent out literally hundreds of these probes, beginning in the early days of Earth's space exploration beyond the Solar system. The program lasted for nearly thirty years, beginning in 2147 into the 2170's. Advances in warp technology and the expansion of the early Starfleet ended the program. Still, the probes proved to be highly successful, many continuing to collect data and transmit for a century or better. They were advanced for their time, with rudimentary stealth technology and small but efficient reactors. Most eventually burned up in planetary atmospheres as they lost power and de-orbited. A few were picked up by Starships. But one . . .”
She gestured to the slowly turning image. “One, survived re-entry. And in doing so, introduced a long dormant virus that originated on Earth. Commonly known as COVID-27, the virus first appeared on Earth in the early twenty-second century and spread over much of the planet. Fortunately, viral protocols were advanced enough that this particular strain was mostly a nuisance with no ensuing pandemic.”
“But how do we know the virus on J'Ril is the same? How could it have survived more than two centuries on an obsolete space proble?”
Strauss glanced at the CMO. “Doctor?”
Dr. Yue folded slender fingers as she spoke. “COVID-27 is susceptible to warm, humid conditions. It cannot survive long at temperatures in excess of 80 degrees centigrade. However, it becomes dormant at sub-freezing temperatures. As unlikely as it seems, some sample of the virus managed to attach itself to the probe. How it survived re-entry is a mystery. Perhaps it was attached to the reactor cooling system. As to how we know it is in their ecosystem, the Huxley was engaged in a routine survey of the system. They discovered the pandemic through long-range scans. Beaming aboard atmospheric samples provided evidence of the COVID-27 virus. To make matters worse, the virus mutated quickly. The atmosphere of J'Ril is highly conducive to its growth.”
“What is our role in this, Captain?” asked Counselor Montaigne. “No offense to V'Xon or Dr. Yue, but we're not a science vessel. How can we help?”
There was the question that Strauss dreaded. She stood and made eye-contact with each person around the table.
“We're not on a rescue mission. We have been ordered to quarantine the system, preventing any vessels other than the Huxley to approach J'Ril.”
“With respect, Captain,” began Graycloud, barely keeping his emotions in check, “but what the Hell? Are you saying we're going to stand by and let an entire civilization die?”
“I don't like it any more than you do, Ray. But we're constrained by General Order One. No direct contact and no interference with pre-warp societies.”
“The Prime Directive?” The First Officer rose from his chair. “But Captain, we've already interfered – it's our frakking virus!”
“That's enough, Commander,” said Strauss, her voice dangerously cold. “Please, take your seat.”
Realizing he had crossed a line, the First Officer complied, but his russet features were a deeper red and the muscles in his jaw twitched.
“Sir, doesn't that make a difference?” queried Lt. Vashtee, cautiously. “I mean, it is the fault of our predecessors. This wouldn't have happened if the probe hadn't crashed on their planet.”
“Be that as it may,” interjected Lt. V'Xon, “The Prime Directive is quite clear, allowing for no exceptions. The J'Ril are a C- on the Richter Scale of Culture. They are a steam-age, early industrial civilization and decades away from aerial flight. First contacts are limited to warp-capable civilizations only.”
“That's pretty cold, even for you, V'Xon” remarked the Chief Engineer.
“Enough, Mr. Fuller!” barked Strauss. “I expect healthy debate from my senior officers. I will not tolerate personal attacks. Is that clear?”
Chastened, Fuller nodded. “I was out of line. My apologies, Lieutenant, Captain.”
The Vulcan Science Officer inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Now,” began Strauss as she glared around the table. “We are ordered to quarantine the planet. We will carry out those orders. We are bound by General Order One. We will not violate the Prime Directive.” She paused. “Nor do I intend to stand by and let nearly a billion sentient beings perish, if we can help it.”
That got their attention. Graycloud and Fuller glanced at each other, then focused on the Captain. V'Xon cocked her head and lifted both eyebrows. Vashtee grinned, Yue frowned, and Montaigne flashed a subtle thumb's up.
“We are Starfleet,” continued Strauss, now energized. “And we by-God come up with solutions for impossible situations each day, twice before breakfast. I chose you because you are supposed to be the best. Prove. It. We have about 72 hours before we reach the point of no return and a civilization dies. Do your jobs, collaborate with the people on Huxley – and they are damn good also – and come up with a third way. That's an order!”
For a moment, they gaped at Strauss. Then, beginning with Commander Graycloud, they quickly gathered PADDs, cups, and styluses and departed the conference room, voices buzzing and ideas already being proposed and debated before the room emptied.
Except for Counselor Montaigne. He stood from the table and began to slow-clap.
“Shut up, Phil,” Strauss grumbled.
“Very nicely done,” he said, coming around the table. He stood before her, folded his arms and eyed her in an appraising manner.
“Any idea how we're going to pull this off?”
“Not a clue.” She collapsed into a chair and put her head on the table. “Phil, did I over-play my hand?”
He exhaled slowly and shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn cardigan sweater. “They had a wise saying when I was in command school, oh, so long ago.”
“What was that?” She lifted her head, hopefully.
“If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”
She stared at the old Counselor for a long moment, then began snorting with laughter. “What the hell does that even mean?” she gasped, the laughter now causing her bruised diaphragm to protest.
“Haven't a clue. Someone wrote it inside my gym locker. But sometimes, a Captain has to propose something outrageous, even if they don't believe it themselves, to break the inertia. You did just that.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Sobering, she looked up at him. “Remember telling me about occasionally lighting a fire under the collective asses of your senior staff?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “Nice little blaze you set this morning.”
Her smile faded. “Until it goes out,” she lamented.
“Nope. None of the negative Nancy bit. Come along, my Captain. I'll buy you a Raktajino and, if you're lucky, I'll let you pet my dog.”
* * *
Stardate 65520.9 (10 July 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
The bridge was quiet as the Blanchard streaked through subspace at warp 9, plus a few decimal points. Captain Strauss was the picture of quiet confidence as the starship approached system AV-772.
Internally, though, Strauss' stomach churned. In moments like these, she missed the wild, dangerous Molari Badlands of the border regions that separated Federation, Klingon, and Orion space. The decisions that Captain Akinola faced on the Bluefin seemed so simple . . . fight pirates, duel with the Orion Syndicate, rescue wayward spacers, and battle the occasional renegade Klingon. Simple, that is, until that fateful day when a quantum filament destroyed the cutter, resulting in the death of many of the crew . . . her friends, her family.
Now, her old mentor, Joseph Akinola, was many light years away, retired and living on Earth. She wished she could have five minutes to hear his voice, to seek his counsel. He always seemed to know what to do.
But no. She was the Captain. Starfleet Command had seen fit to make her a plank-owner of USS Franklin Blanchard, seeing the ship through construction, choosing her crew, going through space trials, and now, bearing the burden of command. She accepted it willingly.
Time to earn her pay.
“Captain? Now entering system boundary,” announced Ensign Sh'Chel, the helm officer.
“Drop us out of warp, Ensign. Ahead, one-half impulse. Ops, system scan, please.”
“Aye,” replied Lt. Vashtee. “One other vessel in range . . . Nova-class . . . ID is NCC-77802, USS Huxley. She's holding at LaGrange point five opposite the second planet.”
“Hail them.”
Momentarily, the image of a dark-skinned Vulcan male appeared on the main viewscreen. He inclined his head.
“Captain Strauss, I am Captain Syvik of the science vessel, Huxley. I understand that you are tasked to quarantine the system from other vessels.”
Brief and to the point, thought Strauss. “Greetings, Captain Syvik. That is correct. May I inquire as to the status of the J'Ril people and to your purpose for remaining in system.”
“Of course. Unfortunately, the virus continues to spread at a rate consistent with our early models. Scans show what appear to be funeral pyres for many of the deceased. All major land masses are showing the spread of the pathogen. Our orders are to continue monitoring the situation, and to take atmospheric samples to determine the mutation rate of the virus.”
“I see,” said, Strauss, feeling as if the deck beneath her were falling away. “Captain . . . hypothetically, how long would it take to slow and then reverse the spread of the virus, should a modern prophylaxis be introduced into their atmosphere?”
A crease formed between Syvik's eyebrows. “I fail to see the relevance of this request.”
For the love of . . . “The relevance lies, Captain, in the fate of over one billion sentient beings. People, sir, who are dying because of a virus introduced by us. I believe there is a way to save these people while maintaining the principles of the Prime Directive.”
There was a long pause. Strauss wondered if Syvik was a Vulcan of the “black or white/no gray” tribe. She had met her share. At the other end of the spectrum were Vulcans like her dear friend, T'Ser.
Finally, Syvik replied. “I would be interested in discussing this further, Captain Strauss. Would you and some of your staff be willing to beam aboard Huxley?”
Strauss realized she had been holding her breath. It was a small victory, but it was a start. “Yes, the sooner the better.”
Ten minutes later, Strauss, Dr. Yue, Lt. V'Xon, and Counselor Montaigne, materialized in transporter room one of USS Huxley. Captain Syvik greeted them, accompanied by his CMO and Chief Science Officer. Pleasantries were exchanged, and they followed the Huxley officers to a conference room, albeit one smaller than on the Blanchard. Three other science officers and an epidemiologist were already present.
Time was not on their side. But the Blanchard's team had used their transit time wisely, and came with solid ideas.
After 90 minutes of discussion, argument, counter-argument, and finally consensus, they had a working plan. It was not perfect, far from it. And it would not save those that were in stage two of the disease. But it would, in theory, kill the remaining active pathogen in the atmosphere and, again in theory, prevent the virus from advancing beyond phase one in those recently infected and those still healthy.
Captain Syvik rose from the table, signaling the end of the meeting. “I must commend you all on your work. The plan has a potential for success in the range of 62.7 to 68.4 %. There are too many variables to give a more precise statistical prediction.”
Exiting the conference room, Strauss suppressed a grin. “I'm grateful for your help and expertise, Captain, particularly from your science and medical staff. You caught several problems we had overlooked.”
“Do not be premature in your thanks,” chided the senior captain. “There are many things that can go wrong.”
“True enough,” replied Strauss. “But it would be illogical not to try.”
“Indeed,” murmured, Syvik. “Regardless, it has been an agreeable experience to collaborate with you and your officers. I believe the best course of action is for you to return to your ship now and make preparations. The window of opportunity will close in six hours, seventeen minutes.”
“Then we will take our leave.” They entered the transporter room and ascended the dais.
Syvik favored them with the Vulcan salute, which V'Xon returned. “Live long, and prosper,” intoned the Vulcan captain.
Strauss nodded. “Too you, also. Farewell, Captain Syvik, and many thanks!”
“Energize,” ordered Syvik.
(Continued)
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). I guess that since there are two completed stories, that this is now a series.
While I envision these stories to take place in the United Trek 'verse (references to Bluefin, plus Strauss, Lt. Vashtee, and Akinola), Phil Montaigne has his genesis in Tot11F, so yeah, it's not unreasonable for the stories to show up in BtS.
