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Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!
"Sickbay to Captain Archer."
The call made the captain of the starship Enterprise jump slightly, so that Porthos, who had been dozing, raised his head and looked anxious. His pack-alpha was off duty and relaxing in his quarters, and as usual some kind of game involving water and a ball was playing on the vid-screen. The dog was well accustomed to this, and also to the fact that a running commentary on it was usually forthcoming – sometimes becoming quite loud and excited. Often one of the other Humans came to watch the game (the kind one who smelled to a dog's nose of metal and oil, no matter how hard he washed), and it was always noticeable that although their voices sounded as though they were quarrelling there was always a playful note there so there was never any need for worry. The dog had learned quite early on that that after one of these visits the possibility of cheese was strong. He liked that Human to visit. It made his master happy, and apart from any other considerations a happy master was far more forthcoming with treats.
Over the past couple of weeks, however, it had been noticeable that the visits had almost ceased. The games were still on the screen, but the commentary from the watcher had become more and more sporadic and less and less animated. Sometimes the vid was not activated at all, and his master simply sat and stared at the wall or out of the viewing port at the streaking star trails outside. Tonight had been one of those times to begin with; eventually the screen had been activated, but there was no response to the action on it at all, and the dog had crept up on to the bed to lay his head on his pack-alpha's thigh. The familiar long fingers had caressed his soft ears affectionately, but there was a sense of absence in them. The murmured words 'She'd probably have eaten you for a snack' had no meaning for him, and his tail only wagged very gently, to acknowledge that he'd been spoken to.
Disturbed from not really watching the water-polo, the captain muted the match commentary and tapped the comm. panel. "Archer."
"Phlox here, Captain. I apologise for disturbing you off duty, but I'd appreciate your coming down to Sickbay as soon as possible."
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes, Captain. And one we need to discuss as a matter of some urgency."
"I'll be there." He didn't even bother to switch off the screen before he was out of the door.
Porthos, well attuned to the slight signals that told him whether or not a walk was in prospect, knew even before his master had jumped up that this wasn't going to be one of the good times. He padded to the door as it closed and sniffed beneath it, whining very softly. Then, resigning himself, he went back to his bed. He turned around on it a couple of times, but couldn't settle. Eventually he did what he knew he shouldn't – jumped up on to his master's bed and sought out the faint warmth remaining among the covers. The bedding was permeated with the comforting smell of his pack-alpha, and he curled up there, saturating himself in it. Perhaps his master had gone to find the other human, the kind one. Perhaps they would come back soon and they would watch the moving pictures on the wall, and their voices would have the playful sound again and everything would be all right. Perhaps when his pack-alpha returned his smell would be like what it had been before, without that underlying not-rightness that had pervaded it since that day he had come back stinking of dangerous-sharp-claws-teeth. Even the other human had smelled of it that evening, if not so strongly. Something had gone wrong that day.
Something that had never gone right since.
The captain strode into Sickbay and stopped dead in his tracks.
He had not been prepared to find his science officer perched on the side of one of the bio-beds, looking – for a Vulcan – somewhat shocked. Dr Phlox was standing immediately opposite to her, and for once there was not even the ghost of a smile on the Denobulan's usually cheerful features.
"Phlox? What's wrong?" He stared at T'Pol, who stared mutely back at him. "Will somebody tell me what's going on here?"
The doctor cleared his throat, as though he found speech difficult to come by. "I regret to tell you, Captain, that Sub-Commander T'Pol has a serious medical problem."
"A problem?" He glanced up at the bio-readouts as though they might mean something to him. They didn't. "As in what sort of serious medical problem?"
"The sort of 'serious medical problem' that means she has fewer than three months to live if it is not treated soon."
Sickbay seemed to recede to an infinite distance and come back again several times before his head cleared. "But it is treatable?" he got out eventually. Time had been – and not so long ago – when he'd have turned somersaults at the prospect of seeing the back of her off his ship: the Vulcan 'spy' as he'd thought of her then, the supercilious, condescending bitch who made it offensively obvious what an ordeal it was to endure living alongside Humans for however long her bosses kept her there to keep them informed. But never, even at the very worst, had he wished any actual ill on her; and the intervening time had transformed their relationship into something that he at least regarded as a closer friendship than he'd ever thought possible between two people of their species. What she thought of it he'd never found the opportunity to enquire, though there seemed little doubt that her attitude towards Humans in general had mellowed considerably. Now the prospect of losing her was dismaying on far more than a professional level. He didn't consider any member of his crew even remotely dispensable, but all of his alpha bridge staff held a special place in his heart, and somehow T'Pol had found a way in there too, without his ever having even realized it.
"At present, Captain, the answer to that is 'no'." The reply fell like lead. "But with your co-operation, we may be able to find a solution."
"What do you mean, 'my co-operation'? I'll do whatever it takes! Just tell me!" His thoughts flitted rapidly through medical procedures: a serum transfusion, even a kidney – sure, their physiology wouldn't be compatible, but Phlox evidently knew how to make it work –
"Then, Captain, you would oblige me by turning the ship around and setting a return course at our best possible speed."
A return course? He fairly gaped at the Denobulan, trying to understand why he was talking in riddles instead of saying plain out what he wanted.
Then the penny dropped.
Kerriel.
"The parasite," he heard himself saying softly, in a voice of despair. "But you got it out, didn't you?"
"Indeed, Captain. But the parasite is not the problem." T'Pol herself spoke up, in a voice that he couldn't help but suspect was steadier than his would have been in the circumstances. "The initial substance that was injected into me to paralyze me evidently contained a second and more slow-acting toxin. Its purpose appears to be to begin breaking down my vascular structure to allow the parasite easier access to my organs as it matures."
"Leading to at first minor and eventually catastrophic and fatal internal bleeding," finished Phlox heavily. "Its nature is different to anything we have on our databases, which is why I didn't pick it up on any of my scans. It only came to light because the Sub-commander noticed that she had what appeared to be minor bruising on her body for which there was apparently no reason. It has taken me over twenty-four hours to isolate the toxin, and I have little hope that anything we have on board will reverse or even slow down the effects. I am sorry, Captain."
"I have a request to make of you, Captain." His science officer straightened up and faced him, keeping her expression unmoved at whatever cost. "I do not wish this to become common knowledge. At least not until I have to become confined to sickbay, if and when that becomes necessary. The emotional reactions that would result would disrupt the efficient running of the ship for no perceptible gain."
He sighed. The request was, as usual, flawlessly logical. He wondered if she took any comfort from the knowledge that she'd inadvertently betrayed, that the news of her condition would be a source of concern and dismay to the crew. "You don't want anyone except us to know?"
"I would be more comfortable if the secret went no further. At least for the time being."
"And you'll be OK to keep going as normal – at least for a while?"
"I can at least administer something on a daily basis that will enable her to function normally for some weeks. A month or so, if necessary." The doctor blinked several times and rallied, trying as he always did to sound upbeat. "Hopefully we will be able to reach the planet and manufacture an antivenin long before any damage is done that will be beyond my skills to repair once the toxin itself is eliminated."
"Of course," he responded mechanically. "So you think if you can capture one of the – the things that attacked her – you can find out how to neutralize the toxin?" They still had the parasite itself. He cast a glance of absolute loathing at the glass jar on the nearby desk top, with the dead creature floating in it in a tangle of grey tendrils. It took little effort to guess that the chemicals in which it had been preserved would have rendered it unsuitable for any meaningful chemical analysis. That left the only hope: to secure another specimen and carry out a detailed analysis of that second toxin.
Though it wasn't the only hope, he found himself thinking, even as the doctor nodded assent to this summary of their intentions. Surely a world that was familiar with these damned creatures would have come up with a treatment, if not perhaps even an antivenin? Even with a civilization as backward as that – his officers' reports had confirmed that they had medical knowledge and actually quite sophisticated skill with drugs (though he scowled as he remembered the use to which some of those skills had been put). Surely it would be possible, somehow, to contact somebody willing to help?
The name was already in his mind of someone who would surely be the very best and most willing person they could ask for help if they needed it. She would help, he knew she would. If a cure was available, Shiránnor would deliver it. They only needed to find her. He thrust down the eagerness that had suddenly sprung up unbidden inside him, an excitement that had nothing to do with toxins or cures or anything else: a yearning that if he'd ever experienced drug addiction would have been sickeningly familiar. It was the work of a moment to key in the comm. code to contact the gamma shift helmsman and give him his orders. The ship came about in a smooth turn. Underneath their feet the deck plating quivered ever so slightly as the speed increased to the maximum that could be safely maintained for the distance.
They were going back to Kerriel.
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