Stardate 2260.75
"I believe you have everything you should require," Voris announced. Dagny was sitting on the couch, gently scratching Harold between his ears.
"I think I can manage on my own for a few hours," she said, giving him a weak smile.
"A minimum of ten hours," he corrected. "I am not due to return until 1900 tonight."
"It's still not forever," Dagny replied.
"No," he agreed.
Voris was due for his shift at the Va'ashiv district hospital in forty minutes. He'd awoken several hours earlier and given Dagny a thorough tour of the small apartment, making sure she had access to her medication, the food replicator, and his contact information in the event of an emergency. He demonstrated the door locks and hardwired communicator on the wall and ensured she could call emergency services in the event of a fire or some other crisis.
He had contemplated taking several additional days of personal leave to help Dagny transition to life on New Vulcan, but he and Dr. Sevek were the only healers scheduled for the midday emergency room shift and many of his alien patients from the Komihn k'tur settlement had already had appointments rescheduled due to his unanticipated personal matters. He also reasoned that earning a stable income had become more essential due to recent developments.
"Is there anything else you require?" Voris asked, reviewing the medical supplies he was leaving with her.
She stood and wandered in his direction. "Is there anything you'd like me to do while you're gone?"
"You are free to do as you like," he insisted, checking the quantity of her medications. She had enough to last a month.
"I'm just not sure... I can clean, I can… I've never just not done anything."
"I sense you are seeking suggestions for staving off boredom."
"I don't mean to be a bother, I just…" She bit her lip and looked at the floor.
He studied her face. It was only natural for a sentient, intelligent being to seek some form of mental stimulation. Unfortunately, he was so rarely at home and as a result, his apartment had very little in the way of entertainment.
"You had expressed interest in learning Vuhlkansu and studying for medical school," he said, taking a step in her direction.
"That would be nice. The problem is, I can send messages, but I can't link my PADD to Vulcan's networks," she said, nibbling on her lower lip. "Could you maybe show me how?"
"Certainly. I am also willing to grant you the liberty of utilizing my private computer," he said, wandering to his desk in the corner.
He had her sit in his chair and gave her a quick lesson on how to operate his computer and synced her PADD to the local network. He showed her a number of scientific databases, noting how her eyes lit up when she skimmed through the titles of biochemistry and physiology pages.
"Thank you," she said craning her neck to look back at him. There was a small smile forming on her lips and a radiant glow in her eyes. The idea that he'd been able to please her pleased him.
"I am due at the hospital shortly," he said, taking a step back from the desk.
She walked him to the door. "I hope you have a good day."
They stood and observed each other for several seconds. It had been years since he'd had someone to see him off to work. Given the complex nature of their relationship, he wasn't sure how to respond, so he simply opened the door and said, "You also."
He arrived at the hospital precisely on time and made his way to his office to don his white medical coat and review his schedule. He tended to work in emergency care but due to his expertise in interspecies medicine, he also saw alien patients by appointment in the mornings.
The first two hours of his morning shift went by without incident. He performed several physicals, treated a chronic ear infection in a young human female, authorized refills on multiple prescriptions, repaired a broken arm, and referred an elderly man with chest pains to Dr. Sevek. His last scheduled patient of the morning was an eight-month-old human/Vulcan hybrid whose mother had brought her in from the T'Kahr district due to a severe rash.
When he entered the exam room, he found a human woman clutching a baby in her lap. They were both sobbing. The child, a female, was naked except for a diaper and mittens tied on her hands. Crusted blisters surrounded her lips and nostrils and she also had a papular rash on her upper torso and back.
"Good morning," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the baby's shrieks. "I am Dr. Voris."
The girl's mother didn't bother with pleasantries. "Please help her," she sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. "I'm at my wit's end. I've been putting the cream on her and it's not getting any better. All she does is cry and scratch and I can't make her better. She's hurting."
Voris had treated many children in emergency rooms during his career, but he didn't specialize in pediatrics. Some medical professionals had a natural ability to develop a rapport with young patients, but Voris was not one of them. He pulled the stool from the corner and sat across from the woman. According to the chart, the mother's name was Angela Mosby; the infant in her arms was T'Sena.
"Your daughter's medical files show that healers at the T'Kahr district hospital diagnosed her with cellulitis and prescribed a topical antibiotic cream six days ago, is that correct?"
"Yes," the woman sighed, bouncing the baby on her lap. "But it's only gotten worse."
"Has it spread beyond her torso?" he asked, scanning the girl's legs.
"No."
"Have you done anything else to help relieve her discomfort?"
"I give her cool baths and that calms her down but a few minutes after I take her out, she starts crying again."
"And how long has she had the blisters around her mouth?"
"They showed up two days ago and they're only getting worse."
"I see," Voris said, making a note on his PADD as he pulled a rapid diagnostic probe from a cabinet on the wall. "Is she feeding normally?"
"She doesn't seem to be eating as much, but I think it's because her mouth hurts."
"And has she shown any other unusual symptoms or behaviors?"
"No, she just cries and tries to scratch herself. Can you tell me what's wrong with her?" Ms. Mosby pleaded.
"I am attempting to," he said, pulling a sterile swab from the end of the probe. "I need to collect a small sample from the blisters on her mouth and nose."
"Will it hurt her?"
Voris looked at the baby, who appeared completely inconsolable. Even if the test were to cause pain, which it wouldn't, it would be difficult to detect through the child's current level of misery. "No."
He ran his scan and the test came back as he expected. "Your daughter has a staphylococcal infection. It is a commensal bacteria common among humans."
"Is that serious?"
"Not generally. It is very easily treated."
"Please no more creams," the woman sighed. "She screams when I put it on her."
"I did not intend to prescribe any topical medication," he replied. "I believe the cream has exacerbated her other condition."
"What do you mean?" Ms. Mosby yelped. "They said it was supposed to help."
"Will you set her on the table so I can examine the rash on her chest and back more easily?"
Ms. Mosby readily complied with his request, gently positioning her daughter on the exam table and standing behind her to support her. The child was no longer screaming, but that was mostly due to the fact that she was out of breath from crying. Voris cleansed his hands in the particle fountain and gently touched the rash on the girl's left shoulder. He performed a microscopic scan of the girl's skin using his tricorder and said, "I believe she's suffering from miliaria."
"Is that bad?" she gasped.
"Compared to humans, Vulcans have very few eccrine glands. Because of T'Sena's hybrid physiology, she has human eccrine glands and epidermal ducts, but they are underdeveloped. In essence, she is attempting to sweat to cool herself, but the sweat cannot escape through the ducts and is becoming trapped in the dermis and epidermis. Bacteria, likely the same strain of staphylococcus that has caused the infection on her face, has also become trapped and is causing these papules on her torso."
"So how did the cream make it worse?"
"The healers at the T'Kahr district hospital prescribed a topical ointment with an antibiotic that is ineffective against this species of bacteria, so not only did the cream fail to eradicate the infection, it made her skin more moist, which only aggravated the blocked ducts. The cool baths would have had a similar effect."
"So, you're saying I also made her worse?" Ms. Mosby gasped, tears welling in her eyes once again.
"Unintentionally, yes."
She choked back several sobs. Her daughter, whose immature telepathic midbrain clearly sensed her mother's distress, started to whimper again also.
"Her condition is treatable," Voris continued. "I can also administer medication to relieve her discomfort while she recovers. But it is essential to keep her skin dry. I would also recommend leaving her undressed while the rash heals. Occlusion of the skin due to clothing can further contribute to sweating and overhydration of the skin's outer layer."
"Why did the doctors at our regular hospital not know this?" she snapped. "I've been making my baby miserable for almost a week!"
"Many physicians lack experience in treating hybrids between our species. That is why you were referred to me."
"They hate us over there though," she retorted. "I see the way my neighbors look at me. And the doctors. They think we don't belong here."
Ms. Mosby lived in the T'Kahr district, and the T'Kahr district was where most of the conservative Ba'taklar faction lived. The most fundamentalist Ba'tak adherents would consider T'Sena's very existence to be a violation of the natural order, but even the most radical zealots would have agreed it was illogical to cause another being, any being, to suffer needlessly. Healers also swore oaths to do no harm, so Voris doubted whether prescribing the incorrect medication and failing to correctly diagnose T'Sena's condition was deliberate.
Yet though hatred was illogical, he was also reluctant to discount Ms. Mosby's opinion. It seemed strange that a human with a hybrid child would voluntarily live in a place where she was not welcomed, but it was her decision.
"You're wondering why I live here, aren't you?" she asked.
"Your private choices are none of my concern," he replied. "My most pressing concern is treating your daughter's condition."
Ms. Mosby clucked her tongue, picked up her daughter, and whispered in a childish voice, "I'm so sorry my baby. I didn't know. I didn't mean to do this to you."
Humans were obviously emotional creatures, so it was unsurprising that they made emotional parents. Angela Mosby clearly cared for her daughter, but he wondered about the child's emotional and cognitive development. T'Sena was far too young to comprehend repressing her emotions, but what would happen as she aged? How could a Vulcan child with an emotional primary caregiver learn to live as a Vulcan? His cousin Spock had been able to overcome his mother's influence, so it clearly was possible.
He recognized that without evidence of abuse, T'Sena's upbringing was none of his concern. Also, T'Sena was only half Vulcan: perhaps her parents did not intend to raise in her the Vulcan way. But T'Sena and her mother were forcing him to consider what he desired for his own child. It was difficult to comprehend a life without the serenity of logic, but it was reasonable to conclude it would be difficult for Dagny to comprehend a life with muted and repressed emotions.
Were it a typical appointment, he would have input a prescription and sent a nurse to administer it, but this was his final scheduled appointment of the morning before he began his emergency shift and he was interested in continuing to observe the interactions between a human mother and her half Vulcan child. He excused himself to collect the necessary pharmaceuticals and supplies and returned to find Ms. Mosby had sat down and was attempting to soothe T'Sena by rocking her.
"I have prescribed injectable antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory that you will need to administer three times per day for the next five days," he explained, showing her one of the pre-dosed autoinjectors. "It will treat the rash on her upper body and the infection around her mouth, as well as provide temporary relief from the itching."
"I have to give her a shot?" Ms. Mosby asked, her face wrought with worry. "I've never done that."
"I will provide you with a demonstration," he said, motioning for her to stand. "Hold the autoinjector at a forty-five-degree angle to this part of the neck-"
T'Sena started to squirm and locked her eyes on the autoinjector in his hand. Her mouth fell open and she squealed in delight. Ms. Mosby sighed and shifted the infant onto her hip.
"She probably thinks you're trying to feed her," she laughed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I make a similar motion when I'm trying to get her to eat pureed foods."
"Why?" Voris asked, intrigued.
"Because she seems to think it's funny?" she replied, offering a slight shrug. "It's gotten to the point where she'll refuse to eat unless I pretend the spoon is a bird or a starship or something."
Voris blinked. He had no idea what she was talking about.
"Um, I tell you what, maybe it would be better if you held her and showed me what to do," she sighed, holding T'Sena outward. "I learn better by doing anyway and I want to make sure I'm doing this right."
He was about to tell her she could set her daughter on the exam table instead, but T'Sena was already reaching for him with her mitten-covered hands. He held her under her arms, trying to maneuver her into a more comfortable position. Ms. Mosby watched him carefully, a small smirk spreading across her face.
"Do you have kids?" she asked.
Voris raised an eyebrow. "No."
She sniffed away her tears and grinned. Voris managed to get his arm under T'Sena's legs and she leaned her small body forward onto his chest. She attempted to grip his medical smock to stabilize herself, but was unable to grasp anything due to the covers on her hands. She started to wriggle and push herself off of Voris' sternum, trying to look up at his face. She seemed entirely captivated by her new temporary caregiver, which gave Voris a small window to show Ms. Mosby exactly where to deliver the injection into her neck.
Her mother was nervous and reluctant, but the autoinjectors had a safety feature that prevented them from releasing unless they were able to penetrate a vein. It took her several attempts, but eventually she got it. T'Sena gave her mother and indignant scowl and started to grumble.
"Where do I put this?" Ms. Mosby asked, holding up the spent autoinjector.
"There is a biohazard waste bin on the wall," he explained.
T'Sena whined and squirmed against Voris' hold on her and her face cycled through a series of unpleasant expressions. She was not the first infant he'd ever held, but she was the first to defecate on him. It happened so suddenly that it took his mind several seconds to process what had occurred, and by that point, runny golden-brown feces were dripping down his sleeve and off the front of his white coat onto the floor.
"Oh no!" Ms. Mosby said, clasping her hands over the lower half of her face. There was an unusual glint in her eyes, almost as if she were amused and shocked at the same time, though it was impossible to tell with her mouth covered. The child was wearing a sanitary undergarment, but apparently it had been insufficient for the task of containing so much semi-liquid waste. "I'm so, so sorry."
T'Sena's face returned to a more playful expression and she twisted at the waist to scan the room for her mother. "It is illogical to apologize. She is still several years away from learning to control her bowels."
"She's been so fussy and her sleeping and feeding schedule has been all over the place because of this rash," she said, gently taking her daughter from Voris' arms. "I'll clean this up."
"That is not necessary," he replied. "You need only look after your daughter. I shall send in an orderly and you have her prescription. Do you have any other concerns?"
Ms. Mosby was digging through her oversized bag and pulled out a new diaper. "No. I just wanted to say thank you for being so kind and patient with us. I know I'm a mess, but…"
"You are welcome, Ms. Mosby."
Voris returned to his office, put his soiled coat in the laundry cycler, and extracted a clean one from the small closet. He was en route to alert the orderly at the main desk to the mess in exam room 3 when he encountered his superior, Dr. Sevek.
He informed Voris that the Oglethorpe, a cargo vessel en route to Nausicaa from Cestus III, had arrived in orbit and was requesting immediate assistance for a number of injured crewmembers. Most of the crew was human, but the New Vulcan Planetary Customs and Control Ministry was waiting for a final copy of the ship's manifest before transporting them to the surface.
Voris and the rest of the staff at the hospital immediately began preparing to receive casualties—initial estimates were between ten and twenty patients total—but almost nothing was known about the cause, nature, or severity of their injuries. Minutes ticked by, yet the emergency transporters remained inactive. After half an hour, Dr. Sevek contacted customs officials who explained the brewing political situation.
The ship's crew was entirely comprised of people from a colony based on Cestus III and due to their open affiliation with a number of species considered hostile to the Federation, New Vulcan's interim government was reluctant to allow them to disembark, even for medical care. New Vulcan was legally obligated to assist Federation citizens, but not all the passengers and crew aboard the Olgethorpe held Federation citizenship, and the injured citizens were refusing care unless treatment was also offered to a seriously injured Orion comrade.
Rather than waste critical time arguing about politics and bureaucracy, Voris approached Dr. Sevek and said, "The High Council can refuse entry to the Orion individual, but is the council prepared to refuse to allow New Vulcan medical personnel to board the ship to treat these patients?"
"We are of one mind," Dr. Sevek replied, activating a hardwired comm switch on the wall and requesting to be patched through to the Immigration Ministry. "Given your expertise in interspecies medicine, particularly with human patients, you are the logical choice to send for such an assignment."
It took another fifteen minutes of discussion and coordination, but the High Council and the captain of the Oglethorpe agreed to allow a small team to go aboard and assess and treat their injured personnel. In that time, they received more information about the ship and the events that had led them to limp into orbit of New Vulcan.
They had been travelling from their colony on the southern continent of Cestus III to Nausicaa to deliver a shipment of ore. They'd set a course through a region of space colloquially referred to as the Briar Patch, which was known to experience high-density cosmic debris and false vacuum fluctuations. The ship had suffered a hull breach during a particularly violent vacuum fluctuation and several members of the crew had been killed and others remained in critical condition.
Voris assigned several members of the junior hospital staff to assemble supplies while he synthesized doses of trialgenine to protect them from any residual radiation. He met Veran, the nurse, and T'Nar and Selaara, the two paramedics, in the hospital's emergency transporter room, administered the inoculations, and waited for transport to the Oglethorpe.
Just before he was pulled into the matter stream, he realized he'd left his PADD on his desk. Should Dagny need to contact him, she would be unable to do so. It was a significant oversight, but he had the growing sense she was doggedly independent and uniquely resourceful, and he did not intend to remain on the Oglethorpe for long.
Dagny's eyes scanned the screen, trying to make sense of the loopy Vulcan text. It looked more like art than words. She'd studying it for hours, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't discern patterns in the lines to distinguish one letter from another with any real accuracy. And that was a problem.
Her stomach growled. Dagny had been hungry before, but she'd never actually gone an entire day without a meal. The clock said it was 1456—Voris wasn't due home for another four hours. Normally, it wouldn't have been a big deal to skip a meal or two, but she wasn't just eating for herself anymore. She wanted to kick herself for not eating breakfast that morning when Voris had recommended it. She felt dizzy, queasy, and exhausted and the longer she remained hungry, the weaker she felt.
She took a deep breath and tried to put it in perspective. She wasn't going to die without eating for ten hours. Of course, it had really been longer than that—her last meal had been at Voris' uncle's house the night before. It seemed like ages ago.
Dagny had spent the first part of the morning reading about various biochemical processes, but around 1000 hours she'd laid down for nap. When she'd awoken some time later, she was disoriented and soaked in her own sweat. For whatever reason, the power had gone out, cutting off her ability to use the environmental controls, computer, lavatory, or food replicator. The networks had also been down. Even if she'd wanted to call for help—which she absolutely didn't want to do unless she was on the verge of death—she wouldn't have been able to.
Luckily, the power was restored around 1230 hours and she was no longer withering in a sweltering apartment. The environmental controls were back online and the toilet was functioning, but something had happened to the food replicator. It had gotten reset and she'd received an error message when she'd tried to push the button to select Standard rather than Vuhlkansu. At least she'd assumed it was an error message.
Life aboard a ship had taught her how to troubleshoot technology from an early age, but she'd met her match in Voris' replicator. She'd started by using his computer to search for a technical manual, but couldn't find one because she couldn't even identify the machine's model number. She'd finally captured an image of the error message on her PADD and used an online universal translator to translate it but as it turned out, all it said was, "Press 'start' to continue" and she couldn't find anything that looked like a distinct start button.
She'd tried touching several keys on the side of the replicator at random and then it had shut itself off and she couldn't find a way to turn it back on. After more than an hour of combing various databases for information on how to resolve the issue, she finally felt ready—and hungry enough—to swallow her pride.
She picked up her PADD and typed a quick message –
Sorry to bother you, but I think I did something to the replicator and I can't get it working. I looked through the kitchen for something to eat, but I couldn't find anything there either. I'm so sorry. The screen won't come on. Do you know how to fix this problem?
She poured herself a glass of water, gave herself her afternoon medications, and trudged to the bedroom to lie down again. She set the PADD by her pillow and stared at it. Hopefully he would reply soon.
The moment Voris re-materialized on the Oglethorpe's transporter pad, he and the medical team were thrust into chaos. The ship had a crew complement of twenty-two and had been transporting nine passengers—twenty-five humans, two Orions, and two Nausicaans. The passengers had been asleep in their bunks at the time of the hull breach and were mostly uninjured but the same could not be said for the crew.
The first officer and a payload specialist were dead from depressurization injuries and twelve others were suffering from decompression or radiation sickness or both. The Oglethorpe wasn't equipped for extended deep space missions and as such, lacked a formal sickbay or clinic. A young woman wearing a tattered dress and tear-streaked cheeks led them to a series of small central storage lockers they had been converted into a makeshift hospital.
"T'Nar, begin triage. Isolate those with radiation sickness into the closet on the left," he said, pulling out his tricorder. "I will begin decontamination protocols on those affected patients. Veran will treat the patients with decompression sickness and Selaara will assess the minor injuries and ensure they are in fact minor, and once you have completed that task, assist wherever it is most logical to do so."
Voris then set to work reversing the radiation sickness in an Orion and multiple human patients. Their situation was urgent, but it was not nearly as dire as Dagny's had been. He worked through the standard decontamination protocols, inoculating his patients with trialgenine to stop the progression of their radiation sickness and removing the lingering radiation from their clothing and tissues.
He and his medical team worked methodically and after several hours, they'd wrestled the crisis into a more manageable state. Within the first hour, all of the patients were stable and though a full recovery remained uncertain for three of the patients with decompression-induced ebullism, there was nothing anyone could do but wait and see if their condition would improve.
He was in the midst of delivering an anti-emetic to a young human man suffering lingering nausea from the radiation exposure when he heard shouting coming from the room next door. Moments later, a man entered and said, "That other Vulcan guy says you're the doctor. You have to do something. Please."
A human woman with honey colored skin and full black hair came in immediately behind him and choked, "He's going to die no matter what we do. Exposing him will mean exposing us. He doesn't want that."
His conscious patients began to murmur among themselves and shout questions at the people standing in the doorway, asking things like. "What's wrong, Jake?" and "Is it Rhaal?"
"Explain," Voris said, trying to speak over the pandemonium.
"We have another person on board not on the manifest and he needs help."
"Lead me to him," Voris said, straightening his back.
The woman gave a pained scowl and ran her hands through her mass of hair. The man's face paled but he nodded and backed out of the doorway. He led Voris down a corridor, moving so purposefully he was nearly stomping.
"I know having a passenger unaccounted for it a violation of Federation regulations and I accept full responsibility," the man said, wringing his hands. "But he was down in engineering trying to keep the warp engine from breaching and he has really bad plasma burns. We tried patching him up but he can't breathe and he's got radiation sickness too and I don't know what to do for him. He's dying."
"I do not work for the Federation," Voris replied. "You should have informed me immediately."
"He begged us not to, but I can't stand to see him suffer anymore," the man insisted. "He asked me to kill him and I don't have the stomach for it."
His guide suddenly took a sharp right; Voris followed him into a dimly lit room and could hear raspy breathing coming from behind a stack of several small cargo drums. "J-J-J-Jake, is- that- you?"
"Yeah, Rhaal," the man said, ducking out of view behind the containers. "I brought the doctor. He's Vulcan. Maybe he can help."
"Why?" the voice yelped. Why- would-"
Voris came around the stack of containers and saw a Vulcanoid man with severe burns on the upper half of his body and most of his lower face. His clothes were melted to his chest and his nose was partially burned away. The exposed areas of his flesh were charred and oozing plasma around brilliant green wounds.
The raspy quality of his breathing and the frothy green-tinged spittle on his lips indicated he'd sustained burns to his lungs as well. Voris turned on his heel to return to the storage locker and collect supplies to intubate the man, but his human companion stopped him. "Where are you going?"
"I require additional medical supplies, I-"
"No," snapped the man, erupting into a fit of dry coughing. "I'm- not- going to- live. Get Suna-"
"I'm here," called a female voice from behind him.
The woman with the golden skin and wild hair inched forward. "He's going to die, isn't he?"
A Vulcan would readily prefer a hard truth to a reassuring lie and though he wasn't certain his patient was Vulcan, it was evident he'd already accepted his fate. "Yes, I believe so."
"Is there anything you can do?" she asked.
Voris studied the man. He didn't need to perform a more thorough examination to know that he didn't have long to live, even with the best medical interventions available. Even if he'd received immediate treatment following the exposure to the hot plasma and radiation, his prognosis still would have been very poor. Vulcanoid lungs were extremely delicate and slow to heal and even with the best care available, Voris couldn't conceive of the man surviving beyond twenty-four hours.
"I can make him comfortable," Voris replied.
The woman inhaled a staggering breath and nodded. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, converging on her chin where they dripped onto the front of her rumpled shirt. Voris reached into his medical kit and prepared a hypospray of pain-relievers and sedatives.
"S-S-Suna," the man groaned, extending two feeble arms in her direction.
"I'm here, love," she sniffed, shuffling forward to sit down cross-legged next to him.
"Stay- with- m-me," he whispered.
The human man ran his hands through his close-cropped graying hair and winced. He gave Voris a pleading look but Voris shook his head.
"Perhaps you should wait outside," Voris suggested quietly. The man left without uttering another word.
Voris approached the unusual couple; they both seemed oblivious to his presence. "I can administer medication to relieve some of your pain. Do you consent?"
"Why- did y-you tell h-h-him?" the man gurgled, ignoring Voris and touching the woman's hand with his charred fingers. "He-he'll expose-"
"I told Jake you didn't want this but you know how he is," the woman interrupted with a sob. "And the truth is, I can't bear to see you this way. I love you."
Voris took another step forward and was about to speak when the woman yelled, "Just give him the meds and get out. Please."
Voris pulled a laser scalpel from his kit and cut a small hole in the inside of the man's trousers to deliver an injection of a near lethal dose of triptacedrine into his femoral vein, a site he'd chosen due to the severe burns to other more traditional injection locations.
Voris excused himself just as the woman lay down next to him and started to cry. The human man was waiting by the door, agony sketched into every feature of his face. "We'd all be dead if it wasn't for him."
"I grieve with thee."
"The medicine you gave him—is it going to kill him?"
"No, but it will ease his journey into death."
The man took several deep, gasping breaths and said, "Look, I know I don't have any right to ask this of you, but is there any way I could convince you not to mention any of this to your people?"
"Is it because he is unaccounted for on the ship's manifest or because he is Romulan?" Voris asked, locking eyes with him.
The man's face hardened. He gritted his teeth and replied, "Both, I suppose."
Voris was legally obligated to report deaths to the New Vulcan authorities, who in turn were obligated to report them to the Federation. This man was not a Federation citizen, but planet of origin and citizenship were irrelevant to Voris' duty to report his death.
"Perhaps you could explain his presence on your ship."
"We're from Bergeron colony on Cestus III," the man replied, giving a small sigh. Voris expected the explanation to continue, but the man gave him a look that suggested he'd said all he needed to say on the matter.
"Expound."
"We take all people at Bergeron colony. We don't care where you're from or why you want to join us, just so long as you're peaceful and you carry a reasonable share of the work."
"I see."
"It's not an officially sanctioned Federation colony," the man continued. "We split off from the official Cestus folks three years ago and set up a mining colony on the Southern continent. The Klingon- never mind, it's a really long story. The point is, we have all kinds of people at Bergeron. Cestus colony was Terran so it's still mostly humans, but we have Klingons, Suliban, Nausicaans, Orions, Gorn, and yes, even a few Romulans. A lot of our people are political dissidents or exiles or refugees."
The idea of such an inclusive haven intrigued him, particularly given his current living situation. Humans were such a fascinating species. They so often rebelled against logic, but could occasionally embrace Kol-ut-shan better than most Vulcans.
Voris was not a lawyer, but as far as he was aware, but the presence of an official Federation colony on Cestus III didn't automatically make the entire planet part of the Federation. His knowledge of cosmological geography was poor, but he knew Cestus III was approximately thirty light years away and lay in a neutral region of space between the Gorn Hegemony and the Klingon Empire. If the planet and the sector of space it was in were neutral, the Federation had no jurisdiction to prohibit non-Federation citizens from living there.
But New Vulcan was Federation space, and the Federation was well within its authority to restrict access to non-citizens if it chose. Romulans had been unable to freely enter Federation space as part of the peace treaty following the Battle of Cheron in 2160 that established the Romulan Neutral Zone. Tensions with the Romulan Star Empire also remained extremely high after the loss of Vulcan two years earlier and a Romulan on this side of the Neutral Zone for any reason would have been a catalyst for an interplanetary incident.
"And why would this man, I believe you referred to him as Rhaal, choose to enter Federation space knowing he could be detained or apprehended?"
"He was trying to get his kids out of the Empire," the man replied. "It's a long trip back to Romulus no matter how you go, but he decided he'd take his chances going the longer way through Federation space than the shorter route through the Klingon Empire. We were taking him to Nausicaa and the Nausicaans were going to get him the rest of the way."
"Logical."
"Like I said, I can't tell you what to do, but I'm not above begging. Rhaal was a good person and he deserves to be remembered by good people, not as a Romulan terrorist who died trying to infiltrate the Federation or however the press services will spin it once the investigation starts. I just need you to understand, doctor…?"
"I am Voris," he replied.
"I'm Jacob Diels," the man responded, offering a grim nod. "I'm captain of the Oglethorpe. People call me Jake."
Voris tore his gaze away from Captain Diels' face and thought for a moment. "I have not decided what I will do in regards to reporting Rhaal's death, but I am a physician, not a politician."
"Do you have a minute to give me an update on my crew?" the captain asked. "They look a lot better than they did. We have our passengers running the ship right now, but I need them back on their feet so we can start making repairs and get out of orbit of this godforsaken planet." He scowled but quickly added, "No offense."
Voris conferred with his medical team and made his rounds with Captain Diels. Watching the captain interact with his crew, it was evident they would die for him and he for them. He listened as Diels made idle talk and gave hugs and handshakes to his people, piecing together a better firsthand account of the events that had led the Oglethorpe to hobble into orbit with two dead crewmembers and substantial damage.
They'd encountered a massive, unexpected vacuum fluctuation in the Briar Patch and the subsequent radiation had inversed their warp field and flooded their impulse manifolds, leaving them adrift and exposed. Before engineering crews could restore power to the shields and impulse engines, a small asteroid had collided with the port side of the ship.
The ship's first officer and payload specialist had been conducting an inspection of the port cargo hold at the time of impact and were killed almost instantly from the rapid depressurization. The buildup in the impulse manifolds had nearly caused a warp reactor breach, but Rhaal had remained behind in their engineering section to shut it down.
As they left one of the storage lockers and moved to the next, Veran stopped him. "Doctor, it is 1845 hours. Have you made arrangements with other physicians on the surface to continue our efforts? All of the patients are stable, but they will require continuing care."
"I will speak with the captain," he replied.
"No need to speak to me," Diels said, turning around and flipping open a communications device he wore on his belt. "You and your people have done a lot of good and deserve a break. I don't know how to express just how grateful we all are."
"I also wished to confer with you about the status of the Orion patient," Veran said.
Voris excused himself and followed the nurse into the adjacent storage locker to examine a young Orion man. He was in the middle of explaining to his patient that he was going to lower his dose of analgesic when a feral, anguished cry rang out from down the hall. It was the singular voice of a human woman lost in the throes of emotional pain and confusion. It was the sound Dagny had made just weeks ago, the memory clawed at his soul. He was due at home very shortly and realized he looked forward to seeing her.
"Uh, Dr. Voris?" Captain Diels muttered, standing in the entry to the storage locker and scratching his head.
"Yes?"
"There's a bit of a problem—your government won't send anyone to replace you."
Voris and Veran exchanged looks. "I can remain behind as long as necessary," Veran offered.
"I don't think you have a choice," the captain said slowly. "The New Vulcan government is quarantining the ship. No one is coming in or going out for at least the next three days."
"I need to send a message to- to someone," he said, wondering how long Dagny could fare on her own. He had nearly called her his mate.
"The New Vulcan Security Ministry is also jamming our signals," Captain Diels replied angrily. "Nothing is going in or out, no people, no communications, nothing. I've been told to direct all pertinent comments, questions, and concerns to someone named Vanek at the Security Ministry: they're the only people I can make contact with. They won't even give me a straight answer about why they're doing this. Any ideas?"
"No."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but are your people always like this?"
"Not always, no," Voris murmured. Vulcans had always been cautious people, but they'd become a lot warier of aliens in the past two years. Vulcans hadn't always been like this, but it was becoming more common, even among those who would call themselves progressive.
"I guess you're going to be our guests for a while," Diels sighed. "I'll see about getting you some quarters and rations."
"Thank you," Voris replied. He took a slow breath and tried to tame his frustration and worry.
Dagny's stomach screamed in protest as she heaved more gastric juices into the toilet. She was now well past twenty-four hours without eating a meal and all she had to throw up was water. She leaned her head against the cool tile on the wall and checked her PADD for what felt like the millionth time.
Voris had never responded to her question about the food replicator and she'd been unable to figure it out how to get it working. He should have been back more than three hours ago. She'd sent two more messages asking if everything was ok and another one to ask if he was coming home late, but all she got in reply was silence. She was worried and frustrated and couldn't shake a horrible feeling that Voris wasn't coming back any time soon. What had happened? Was he safe? She had a sense that he wasn't in any real danger, but how could she really know that?
Another wave of nausea kicked her in the gut and her stomach contracted. All she did was gag until she cried. Hunger, gravity, and the symptoms of early pregnancy had completely tapped her strength.
How pathetic she felt, to be surrounded by so much technology and be so desperate and hungry. She supposed her next step was to try and call for help, but who was she supposed to call? The police? And what should she say? "Please send help, I'm hungry?"
She wasn't accustomed to having to rely on anyone. On the Albret, everyone had always relied on her, but now here she was, unable to make herself dinner. She didn't know anyone on New Vulcan besides Voris, Silek, Sarek, and Dr. Govorski. Voris wasn't answering her messages, Silek probably wouldn't throw water on her if she were drowning, Minister Sarek was kind but still far too intimidating to even consider bothering with something this embarrassing, and then there was Dr. Govorski.
Dagny had just made up her mind to contact the friendly human doctor first thing in the morning—it was so late, after all—when she heard a buzzing sound that made her jump. She held her breath, training her ears for the direction of the noise. After about twenty seconds she heard it again and realized someone was at the door.
The time on her PADD read 2214 hours. Was it normal for Vulcans to visit at this time of day? She climbed to her feet, steadying herself on the edge of the counter and praying the black spots in her vision would go away. She shuffled out of the lavatory and toward the front door, wondering what she should do. It buzzed again and she gritted her teeth. From somewhere deep in her heart, she knew something had happened to Voris. She didn't know what, but she was certain it wasn't him outside insistently pressing the call button.
"Miss Skjeggestad, my apologies for the late hour," called a male voice through the door. "Please come to the door."
It was Sarek. It took her several seconds to summon the courage to decide to open the door, another few seconds to fuss over her appearance, and a couple more seconds to make her way to the front entry hall without fainting from hunger and anxiety. Each step seemed to demand a conscious decision on the part of her muscles.
The comm on the wall started to chirp. She shuddered, disengaged the door release, and found First Minister Sarek. He was dressed in dark purple robes and keying in something on a small PADD. He looked up from his device and said, "Miss Skjeggestad, please accept my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour."
"It's ok," she mumbled. Though talking to him made her nervous, she was starting to feel relieved he'd shown up when he did.
"I regret to say there has been an incident. May I come in?"