Chapter Nine
Stardate 54357.4 (14 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
En route to the Lancaster System, Warp 6
The Six
Brian West sat by the large viewport, drinking a cup of Vulcan tea in hopes of settling the fire in his stomach and the pounding in his skull. The Bourbon he had gulped down had left him feeling nauseous and light-headed. Captain Slayd’s story had not helped either.
“Hey! I was hoping I would find you here.”
West turned to see Cyndi Kwan smiling at him. Her smile faded to a look of concern as she took in his appearance.
“My God, Brian – you’re as white as a sheet! Are you okay?”
West smiled weakly. “Yeah, sure. I just overdid it drinking Bourbon with the Captain. I’m not much on drinking alcohol and I think it got the better of me.” He wasn’t about to divulge the real reason for his pallor.
Ensign Kwan pulled up a stool. “That must have been some strong stuff. No offense, but you really look sick – are you sure you’re alright?”
“I thought I was the Doctor,” said West, trying to keep his tone light. “Really – I’ll be fine, Cyndi. This tea is helping already.”
Kwan still looked doubtful. “If you say so.”
“How was your shift?” asked West, trying to change the subject.
Her face brightened. “Believe it or not, I actually got an ‘atta-girl’ from Lt. Xevok – or at least the Vulcan equivalent.”
“Really? What happened?”
She smiled shyly and her gaze lowered. “While running long-range scans, I discovered a cloud of tri-chlorium gas along our heading and informed the helm officer. We made a minor course correction to go around the cloud. Xevok read about it in my shift report and said that I had ‘shown admirable observation skills and initiative.’ Usually, all I get from him is ‘adequate.’”
“That’s great! But what’s the big deal about – what did you call it? Tri-chlorium?”
She shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “Well, it wasn’t a big deal – not like the ship was in danger or anything. Tri-chlorium can futz up the sensors temporarily. We just avoided some maintenance issues by avoiding the cloud, that’s all.”
West raised his cup of tea. “Here’s to Ensign Cyndi Kwan, for observation and initiative above and beyond the call of duty!”
She giggled. “Stop it! People are staring.”
“And rightfully they should!” continued West, still somewhat under the Bourbon’s spell. “The best-looking Ops officer on the Dragon’s breath does good.”
“Dragonfire,” she hissed under her breath. “Doctor West, I believe you are drunk.”
West frowned to consider. “Hmmm. You know, you might be right. I’ve never been drunk before, so I have no personal frame of reference.”
Kwan caught the eye of one of the stewards that was waiting tables. “Could we get a pot of coffee? Strong and black, please.”
“And decaffeinated,” added West.
“Belay the decaf,” countermanded Kwan. She turned back to face West. “You need the real stuff. That green Vulcan warm water doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Yes ma’am,” said West, contritely. Kwan looked intently at West.
“It’s not just the Bourbon, is it?” she asked, softly.
He snorted. “Perceptive, too,” he muttered.
“Care to talk about it?” she asked.
He sighed. “I wish I could.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Big time.”
“I understand. Sorry I can’t help.”
West peered at Kwan. It suddenly dawned on him that he was feeling better. A crooked smile formed on his face. “You are helping, Cyndi – more than you can imagine.”
“If you say so.” The steward returned with a large stainless steel carafe of coffee and two mugs. Cyndi poured for both of them. As she took a sip, she gazed at West through the steam rising from her mug.
“Just how drunk were you when you said that?”
“Said what?” asked West, wincing at the strong and near-scalding hot coffee.
“You know . . . the part about me being ‘the best-looking Ops officer on the Dragon’s breath.’”
“Dragonfire,” West corrected.
Kwan threw her napkin at him.
* * *
Stardate 54359.7 (16 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
Entering the Lancaster System
“Now passing outer system boundary,” announced the helm officer, Ensign Hokana.
“Slow to one-half impulse, Ensign,” ordered Commander Nor Huren.
Hokana tapped the helm controls, bringing the Dragonfire back into normal space. “One-half impulse, aye. ETA to Lancaster IV, twenty-eight minutes.”
Nor Huren tapped her combadge. “Bridge to Captain Slayd.”
“Slayd – go ahead, Commander.”
“We just entered the Lancaster system. Twenty eight minutes until we reach orbital insertion.”
“Very good. I’ll be up shortly. Slayd, out.”
* * *
Oracle purred with contentment as Captain Slayd absently stroked the cat’s fur. On the main viewscreen, a green and blue orb swathed in white clouds grew as the Dragonfire made its approach to Lancaster IV.
“Standard orbit, Mr. Hokana. Number One, would you be so kind as to set up shore leave rotations? It will do the boys and girls good to breathe some fresh air and stretch their legs a bit, don’t you think?”
“I do think,” replied Katari Nor Huren from the XO chair. “In fact, I already have the rotations ready for your approval.” She passed a PADD to Slayd.
“Really? Have I become so predictable?” asked Slayd with a chuckle as he affixed his thumbprint to a corner of the PADD, approving the schedule.
“If only,” replied Nor Huren with a wan smile.
Slayd stood. “Contact Dr. West and have him meet me in transporter room one, along with my usual entourage.”
“Aye, sir. Don’t forget your sunscreen.”
* * *
Stardate 54359.8 (16 May 2377)
New Providence Settlement
Lancaster IV
The landing party materialized in a grassy meadow beside a blue-green lake. Dr. West looked around, shading his eyes from the bright sunlight that shown down from an azure sky.
Emerald green grass rippled and rolled as a slight breeze whipped through the meadow, mussing West’s hair. A pleasant mélange of aromas tickled his nose – grass, freshly turned dirt, even a familiar floral scent. He inhaled deeply and looked around at the pastoral setting.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Captain Slayd, grinning at the CMO. The landing party was surrounded by rolling hills covered with the tall grass. A few sturdy trees were clumped here and there while in the distance, snow-covered mountain peaks were barely discernable. As West looked around, he saw a cluster of buildings nearby. A horse-drawn cart was approaching from that direction.
“Here comes the welcoming committee,” remarked Senior Chief Paula Burke. The Chief of the Boat was in civilian attire – jeans, chambray shirt and a floppy brimmed boonie hat to protect her from the sun. She held a fishing rod and tackle box and her eyes constantly drifted toward the lake.
The largest horse Brian West had ever seen came to a stop mere meters from the landing party. The beast snorted, then lowered its craggy head and began pulling at the sweet, green grass.
A tall, thin man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, white shirt and sturdy trousers climbed nimbly down from his perch. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties with unkempt, sun-bleached hair, deeply tanned skin and a friendly smile. He extended his head to Slayd.
“Captain Slayd – good to see you again.”
“Hello, Joshua! Sorry for our delay – we had an unexpected detour. I believe you know my compatriots with the exception of our new Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Brian West.”
“Greetings, Doctor – welcome to New Providence. I’m Joshua Compton.” He extended his hand and West took it. Compton’s hand was tough and calloused, a contrast to West’s softer hands. Compton had quite a grip, too.”
“Thank you,” replied West. “This place . . . it’s simply incredible!”
This seemed to please Compton. “We’re blessed, Doctor. It’s a fine place to live and work.” He glanced over at Chief Burke and smiled. “I see you’re ready to try your luck again, Ms. Paula.”
“I intend to catch the big one I lost last time. And stop the ‘Ms.’ I’m just Paula to you.”
Compton grinned. “Hard to break with my upbringing, ma’am.” He looked at Slayd, West, Lt. T’Lin and Petty Officer Nguyen. “Might as well load up and I’ll take you into town. I know you have things you need to do, but I hope you will take a meal with us this evening – we’re having a community supper in the Gathering Hall at work’s end.”
“We would be delighted,” replied Slayd as he pulled himself up into the back of the buckboard wagon.
Though the small town was within walking distance, West enjoyed riding in the slightly swaying wagon. He noticed livestock grazing in the distance.
“Are those cows?” he asked Joshua.
“Polled Herefords,” replied Compton. “They thrive on the grass here. They’re descendants of a dozen that were brought from Earth 200 years ago. Now there are thousands of them.”
“What about native animals – any problems with predators?”
Joshua shook his head as he snapped the reigns, coaxing the draught horse up a slight grade. “No – nothing bigger than a fox, anyway. We’ve lost a few chickens to the Coots – kind of a cross between a bobcat and a badger. They like to burrow and they have some nasty claws, but they’re scared of people. Then there’s the Rockhawks – predatory birds that are bigger than a bald eagle – but they keep to the higher elevations for the most part.”
West listened to Joshua talk about the animals and the land – how they had created hybrid plants from Terran and native varieties, the richness of the soil, the underground ocean some distance away – it all seemed very idyllic. West’s cynical side wondered why the planet had not been exploited by developers to set up a resort planet. He posed the question to Compton.
Joshua shrugged and smiled. “I guess we’re sorta off the beaten path.”
* * *
In short order, Joshua brought the wagon to a halt in a circular area that was the town’s commons. Here, the grass was neatly trimmed and flat stones paved the street. The buildings were of a timeless wood-frame design with the exception of a light gray dome-shaped building. Affixed to the dome was a simple wooden sign which read, “New Providence Infirmary – Claire Delacroix, M.D.”
The away team disembarked from the wagon. Joshua Compton touched the brim of his hat and clicked his tongue at the horse. The big animal began to move off with the wagon in tow, his hooves echoing off the stone pavement.
“T’Lin, you and Mr. Nguyen feel free to walk about for a few minutes. I want to introduce Dr. West to Dr. Delacroix,” said Slayd.
“Very well, sir. We’ll remain close by,” replied T’Lin.
Slayd smiled. “Ever security conscious, eh, Lieutenant?”
The Vulcan inclined her head. “Always, Captain.”
The Captain chuckled. “Suit yourself. Come, Doctor – let’s step inside the clinic.”
A bell rang as they opened the door to the Infirmary. A waiting room with wooden benches was currently unoccupied. The walls were paneled in wood and whitewashed. Overhead, a ceiling fan spun slowly, circulating the dry cool air in a refreshing manner.
A voice from somewhere in the back of the building called out. “Just a minute! Be right with you.”
Momentarily, a figure appeared in the hallway that led deeper into the structure. A buxom woman with a broad, smiling face moved with authority into the waiting area. She appeared to be in her late, middle-age years – her sun-streaked chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail – green eyes bracketed by laugh lines peered at them with obvious pleasure. She wore a white lab coat over a Tulane University sweatshirt and blue jeans. She quickly moved to Slayd and embraced him with a tight hug.
“Artie! Glad to see you, sweetie! And who did you bring with you?”
Slayd returned the embrace and gestured toward West. “A colleague of yours, Claire. Brian West, M.D. our new CMO.”
West was somewhat flustered to find himself embraced by two strong arms and pulled tightly against Dr. Delacroix’s ample chest.
“Bless you, Doctor – I’m so pleased to meet you!”
West’s cheeks were reddening with embarrassment. “Um, likewise – good to meet you too.”
She beamed at the two officers. “Well, I know you’re busy men on a tight schedule. We don’t have much use for schedules here, but I still remember those days. Come on, Doctor – let me give you the one credit tour.”
She gently but firmly guided the young CMO through the small clinic with obvious pride. West noted that, while most of the equipment was archaic by 24th century medical standards, the infirmary was functional and absolutely spotless. After showing West the small lab and treatment rooms, they gathered in a larger space that served as a surgical suite.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said with a gleam in her eyes, “how can she function with nothing but cat-gut, scalpels and bottles of aspirin?”
“Oh, no – I . . .” West protested.
She gave him a motherly pat on the back. “It’s alright, Doctor. I felt the same way when I first arrived here 40 years ago. But you would be surprised how well the ‘old ways’ still work. That being said, though – take a gander at these . . .”
She opened a cabinet, revealing a row of proto-plasers, laser scalpels, dermal regenerators and other more modern surgical devices. While not quite state of the art, they were definitely of 24th century vintage.
Dr. Delacroix spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Some of the old-timers are suspicious of any modern technology, so I keep these out of sight. But when they’re under anesthesia, they are none the wiser. They stay happy and I keep them healthy.”
West grinned in spite of himself. He liked this frontier doctor who was something of a force of nature. He doubted that many of her patients would have the courage to argue with her over treatment.
“Claire, why don’t you show Dr. West the ‘special project’ you’ve been involved with? I’m going to look up Elder Johansson and see what I can trade for some of his apple cider.”
“Take your time, Artie – I’ll take good care of Brian.”
* * *
Moments later, West was surprised to find himself ensconced in an electric vehicle, cruising along a dirt road out of town.
“I though the locals didn’t like modern technology,” said West.
Delacroix smiled. “A century-old electric van is hardly modern, Doctor. The folks cut me some slack since I’m considered ‘English’ or not part of their religious group. The clinic uses solar cells for power and there are a few wind turbines here and there that help pump water from the aquifers.”
“Do the people use electricity?”
“Some do. You see, these people represent various sects from Earth – some have their roots with very strict Amish families – others are descended from Mennonite families that are less suspicious of technology. The real ‘hard-shell’ folk keep to themselves. They rarely come into town except for the monthly market days. Some, like the Comptons – you met Joshua, didn’t you? Good – he’s a fine fellow – they have electric lights and running water. But none of them own replicators or holo-visions or even basic comm. systems. There are only four sub-space transceivers on the entire planet. I have one in my office, and there is one each in the other three settlements. Pretty much everyone is self-sufficient. They raise their own food, spin cloth for clothing, forge metal – the whole gamut.”
West shook his head in amazement. “I can’t imagine living like that.”
Delacroix cocked an eyebrow and glanced at him. “Why not? These people have everything they need. They are content, generally healthy, and some of the kindest, sweetest people anywhere.”
“I suppose,” West replied, doubtfully.
She smiled. “I used to feel like you did. I spent two decades in Starfleet, myself. Never imagined I would be a frontier saw-bones.”
“Really?” West was surprised. “What made you come here?”
Her gaze became distant and she didn’t answer immediately. “Let’s just say I needed to regain my bearings.” The van topped a hill and Delacroix seemed relieved to change the subject. “We’re here!” she announced.
The van whined to a stop in a cloud of dust before a low, rambling building. It was made of local yellow stone with a weathered tin roof. Several wind turbines spun slowly in the constant breeze. As the dust cleared, West spotted several children playing under a grove of shade trees. As he squinted his eyes to focus, his jaw dropped.
“Are those children . . . Cardassian?” he breathed.
A sad but proud smile formed on the older physician’s face. “That they are, Brian. Cardassian and quite a few Bajoran children too. They are all war orphans.”
“But . . . what are they doing here?”
“They are being cared for, Doctor. They receive food, a safe and warm place to live, schooling and most of all . . . love.”
* * *
) and a crew who seems up for any wacky plan he comes up with, West, who seems relatively sane, is going to need something to dull his senses every once in a while. A stiff drink is better than raiding the medical supply room.
(I'm not sure what I was expecting. But not that! Eek.)
Really? 
