I appreciate the comments - thanks for your kind words of encouragement! I'm hoping that I can write on a more regular basis now and get back to reading your stories as well.
Chapter Seventeen
Stardate 54366.8 (22 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
In Standard Orbit – Vagabond VI
Bridge
Captain Slayd strode briskly onto the bridge from the turbo-lift, pleased to observe that everyone was at departure stations.
"Yvessa, please take us out of orbit and away from this dreary planet . . . and don't spare the Deuterium!" he ordered.
"Aye sir," replied the Deltan helm officer, her fingers nimbly playing over the steering and thrust controls. "Any particular heading in mind, or do I get to choose?"
Slayd settled into his chair, displacing the ship's holo-cat who regarded the Captain with an affronted expression. "Make our course to Desola Station, Lieutenant. We're overdue a stop there and it is on the way, after all."
The Deltan brought the Dragonfire's impulse engines on line with a bit more power than necessary to break orbit, causing several smaller vessels to maneuver evasively out of the way. The scattering of the motley assortment of ships elicited a small smile of satisfaction on her lips. They were the bane of her existence while orbiting this wretched planet. She spared a quick glance over her shoulder as she guided the cutter away from the planet and on a heading to the mining outpost.
"On the way where, Skipper?"
"Why to the Tzenkethi border, of course. Didn't I mention that before?" He leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. Oracle nimbly hopped into his lap and Slayd idly stroked the gray feline.
Yvessa turned her attention back to the helm/nav controls as the ship continued to pick up speed, her ebullient mood evaporating.
"Shut up and drive, Yvessa," she muttered to herself, considering that Vagabond VI perhaps wasn't the worst place one could visit. The Tzenkethi border on the other hand . . .
Yvessa shook her head slightly. Her intuition warned her that this would not end well.
* * *
Sickbay
West looked over the pathology report and frowned. The glowing letters on the PADD did not change under his fretful gaze, however, so he tossed the PADD back onto the table and sighed.
"I certainly hope you don't treat all the medical equipment in such a cavalier manner," came a familiar, haughty voice.
Dr. West jumped slightly, startled by the sudden appearance of the EMH. He turned to face the holographic surgeon with a mixture of sheepishness and irritation.
"Don't you ever knock?" groused the young CMO as he faced Dr. Zimmerman. The EMH was for once wearing a standard issue Starfleet jumpsuit rather than one of the eccentric costumes to which West had become accustomed.
"Su casa es mi casa," replied the EMH, ignoring West's sour mood and picking up the discarded PADD. "Actually, my tennis partner canceled and I . . ." his voice trailed off as he perused the PADD, a deep burrow creasing his brow. He looked up at West with disbelief.
"This can't be right!"
"That's what I thought as well. I've run the tissue cultures three times with the same results."
"But this makes no sense!" protested Zimmerman.
West rubbed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. "No argument there. But the results speak for themselves."
"But we screened the vaccine before we delivered it - I should know - I ran the tests! The results indicated that we had viable vaccine with no contaminants, no dilution, no degradation. The doses should have worked!"
"Then how is it that eight of the twenty children that died of the Nibo flu show traces of the vaccine in their tissues?" West's tone wasn't accusatory, merely puzzled. "Why did those kids die if they were inoculated?"
"Well, obviously they must have received the vaccine after they were infected," sniffed Zimmerman.
West shook his head. "No - look at the PADD again. It's clear that the vaccine was in their systems for at least two weeks, probably longer. That's more than enough time to have prevented them from being infected by the virus, which has an incubation period of no more than four days."
"I'm fully aware of that!" snapped the EMH. West merely stood quietly, still holding out the PADD.
Zimmerman closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. He took the PADD from West with an air of resignation. "What of the unused vaccine that was recovered? Have you tested it?"
"I was about to. Care to help?"
The EMH snorted. "Just try and stop me!"
* * *
Stardate 54366.9 (22 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
Sector 88121, En route to Desola Station - Warp 7
Captain's Ready Room
West stood quietly, his hands clasped behind his back as Captain Slayd read his report. The Captain's face grew progressively darker as he finished reading.
"There's no mistake then?" he asked, handing the PADD back to West. "Someone deliberately tampered with the vaccine?"
"Yes sir. And we never would have found it with our standard screening methods. Whoever did this knows how to manipulate the anti-bodies in the vaccine at the sub-atomic level - causing them to self-destruct the moment they come in contact with the virus - just the opposite of the intended effect."
"Ingenious," Slayd muttered softly as he prodded the holo-graphic fire with a poker. "And we would be none the wiser except we were on hand when those poor children died."
West frowned. "Sir . . . I don't understand. What's the point? Why would anyone bother to do such a thing?"
Slayd smiled and shook his head sadly as he continued to stare into the fire. "Behold - a young man in whom is no guile," he murmured softly.
"Sir?"
"Never mind, Lad." He straightened and turned to face the young doctor. "As to your question, there are numerous dark explanations. The prime reason that comes to mind is to discredit the Federation, I would wager."
"How is that, sir?"
"Think of it, Brian - we come in promising to alleviate suffering and sickness - then word gets out that the vaccines we give out are worse than useless, that they actually make a person more susceptible to disease. How does that make us look?"
West winced. "Bad, sir."
"That's an understatement, lad! Likely the locals in these outland settlements would begin to shy away from the Federation. They would lose faith in us and would be open to whoever can provide them the aide they need."
"But who would do that, Captain? For that matter, who has the technological know-how to alter these vaccines? It's beyond what we could do on the ship - most likely it would require advanced resources found at a major research facility or a large Starbase."
Slayd pondered this. "Point well-taken, Doctor. But there are quite a number of players in the surrounding sectors that might be able to pull this off, perhaps engaging the services of someone with access to such facilities."
"The Tzenkethi?"
Slayd shook his head. "Doubtful, though it would certainly work to their interests. Still, the cats are not known for this degree of subterfuge. I could see the Ferengi pulling such a stunt, or perhaps elements of the Orion Syndicate, though I'm not sure I see how destabilizing frontier planets with limited resources and sparse populations makes it worthwhile. Perhaps the Maquis? . . ." His voice trailed off in thought.
West spoke, "You know, if it weren't for Daimon Gog stealing back part of the vaccine shipment and killing Mr. Mueller, we would never have learned that someone had tampered with the vaccine."
"Twisted irony, Doctor, but you are quite right. I must remember to express my gratitude to the Daimon whilst I carve his ears from his sodding head."
* * *
Stardate 54368.2 (24 May 2377)
USS Dragonfire
Sector 88122, Approaching Desola Station
Bridge
"On final approach to Desola Station," announced Ensign Hokana from the helm. "ETA is twenty two minutes."
"Thank you, Ensign," replied Commander Nor Huren. "Maximum magnification on the viewscreen, please."
The image on the viewscreen shimmered then re-focused on a pale yellow space station that floated languidly amongst the stars. Desola Station was a commercial outpost where ore-carriers refueled and rough-neck miners stopped by to spend their earnings on recreation and relaxation before returning to their dangerous jobs in the nearby asteroid fields.
The station itself was utilitarian in design, similar to the old K-class stations used by Starfleet for more than a century. A central hub festooned with lights, sensors and comm antennae was surrounded by three habitat pods. Small craft flitted about the station like flies around a carcas.
Lt. Commander Banton turned from his station at tactical and gazed at the station. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Commander - unless my eyes are deceiving me, those are torpedo launchers on the 'north' end of the hub."
Nor Huren directed her gaze to where Banton had indicated, a small frown forming on her face.
"Good catch, Marcus," she said without pleasure. "Looks like Lazka decided to take security matters into his own hands."
Banton nodded but did not reply. Technically, it was a serious violation for a civilian station to be armed with military-grade weaponry, even utilizing nearly obsolete technology. But Banton understood that the isolated outpost was an attractive target for marauders and, with only one cutter available, he couldn't fault the station manager for wanting to protect his interests.
Nor Huren apparently shared the same viewpoint. "We'll let the Captain deal with Mr. Pumjir if he wishes. Ensign Kwan, signal the station and request an approach vector. Helm, slow to one-quarter impulse and keep an eye open for any outbound ore-carriers. Those rock-jockeys don't care what's in their way when time and credits are on the line."
The door to the ready room slid open and Captain Slayd stepped out. Oracle balanced gracefully on Slayd's shoulder as the Captain stepped down to take his seat.
"Am I seeing Mark VI rotary launchers, Marcus?" queried Slayd.
"Correct, sir."
Slayd pursed his lips and nodded. "A prudent precaution, I should think." He turned his attention to Ensign Kwan.
"Cyndi, I don't suppose your recent Academy education included training in deleting sensor logs?"
Kwan's eyes widened in surprise. "Ah, no sir. I was under the impression that we aren't supposed to . . ."
"Pity," interrupted Slayd, "though I suppose the ethical implications tend to bollocks up the practical aspects of such a skill. No matter - I'll have Xevok take care of that oversight in your education. In the mean-time, please open a channel to the station manager, Mr. Lazka Pumjir."
Still bewildered by the Captain's strange request, Kwan complied and soon the image of Lazka Pumjir appeared on the main viewscreen. Pumjir had a broad, brown face and thick, jet-black hair. His dark eyes shone with good-natured intelligence and his smile was dazzling. Literally - for his teeth were covered with Latinum plating. Kwan blinked, momentarily speechless, astounded by his sparkling set of teeth. Slayd spoke up instead.
"Ah, Lazka! Good to see you, old fellow. I trust you are well?"
"Quite well, Captain Slayd. So nice of you to stop by - it's been a while."
"Indeed, too long my friend. I hope you are still keeping that dusty brown bottle of Janx Spirits in your office?"
Incredibly, Pumjir's smile broadened even further. Kwan found herself squinting.
"You know me well, Artemus. I look forward to sharing it with you soon and with your lovely first officer!"
Nor Huren raised a demure eyebrow. "Lazka, I hope we don't have a repeat of our last visit." Her voice was light but there was a hint of warning.
Pumjir's entire body shook as he laughed with good humor. He raised his hands in supplication. "I promise to behave, Commander."
"Lazka, I couldn't help but notice that you've added a few . . . accessories to the station." Slayd likewise kept his tone light, but the note of concern was evident.
The station manager's smile faded and he became somber. To Kwan, it seemed like a cloud blocking the sun.
"We have much to discuss, Captain, but I prefer we do so in person. Unfortunately, the topics of conversation will not be entirely pleasant. How soon can you beam over?"
Slayd glanced at Nor Huren, who replied, "We should be in transporter range in ten minutes."
"Then, if you are agreeable, I would ask that you beam to my office in eleven."
Slayd nodded. "That is agreeable."
"I will see you soon, my friends. Pumjir, out."
The viewscreen shifted once more to the image of Desola Station, which was rapidly growing in appearance.
"Normal magnification on the viewer," ordered Slayd. "Marcus, you have the bridge. Number One, you're with me."
* * *
