Notes:
As someone fascinated by octopodes and their copper-rich blue blood, the Star Trek canon information about Vulcan blood - that it appears green because it is copper based - has recently been bothering me. Although only a detail in my story, I have tried to address this scientific mistake in official canon through my mention of Andorian and Vulcan blood. For a brief but fascinating look at the different shades of blood possible here on Earth, see the National Geographic news story, 'In Animal Kingdom, Blood Comes in a Rainbow of Color,' from March 12, 2015.
Acknowledgements:
Many thanks to Casper and Chelsea, who gave me feedback on this chapter.
Chapter II: Double-Crossed
Mareg was late, and Tholos could feel his antennae growing rigid with tension, even as his body loosened, readying itself instinctively for the possibility of ambush or combat. Kelev's long silence was cause enough to be on guard, but the lateness of the hour and the tardiness of a contact who had always been most reliable were also troubling. What in Andor's name, he wondered, could have happened to prevent his fellow operative from completing his mission, and why had he fallen out of contact with his superiors? Kelev, a munitions expert who had served in the Imperial Guard for as long as Tholos, had been dispatched to Coridan months before to retrieve the weapons that the Ahm Tal had supplied to the Rashan, one of the most active rebel factions in the Shengars. Shortly thereafter his communications had ceased, and all efforts to contact him, or to ascertain his current whereabouts, had proven futile.
His eyes narrowing, Tholos' head angled to the side as he heard, through the steady patter of rain, the soft sound of footsteps approaching along the alleyway to the north. They had a cautious, uncertain cadence, as if the person drawing near were pausing every now and again in doubt. Like most Andorians, Tholos had excellent night vision, so the minute the approaching figure came into view, he recognized the man he was here to meet.
"You're late," he said, as soon as the Coridanite drew level with him in the alleyway.
"It was difficult to slip away," Mareg replied. "There are rumors that the city is planning a raid, and Toran has the compound under close guard, as we move our base to another location. Leaving during the daytime, even on a rainy day, would have raised suspicions."
Tholos pondered that for a minute. The self-styled 'general' of the Rashan was just the sort to suspect his own followers of treachery. But then, he had cause to be wary. Not only was the city sure to have spies amongst his men, but the Andorians too, for all that they supplied him with weapons, had paid informants in his camp. It only made sense, the commander mused, to keep multiple chains of communication open, in order to ensure the best information.
"Where is Kelev?" Tholos demanded, cutting straight to the point. "The last communiqué we had from him indicated that he was about to meet with your general. What happened?"
The informant hesitated, avoiding the Andorian's eyes, and Tholos stiffened. "You will be well compensated for your information," he said, struggling to speak matter-of-factly, and keep the contempt out of his voice.
As the Coridanite continued to hesitate, it occurred to him that the man might be trying to avoid delivering bad news, rather than angling for better payment. Had something happened to Kelev? Could he be dead, Tholos wondered, his antennae quivering with an unaccustomed feeling of dread, and then straightening out tensely. Despite his long silence, the commander had instinctively believed that his fellow operative was safe, perhaps hidden away somewhere avoiding detection, or waiting on some other party. After all, the man might be overly friendly with aliens from time to time, and absurdly flirtatious toward any Andorian with fully-grown antennae, but Tholos knew from long experience that a cunning strategist and ruthless fighter lurked behind his genial facade. It was always a mistake to underestimate Kelev, as he himself had learnt during their first year in training, when they had been classmates, rivals and occasional playmates. If anything had happened to him, Tholos thought...
"He showed up at the compound two months ago," Mareg finally began, "and met with Toran. He had weapons for us, better than the ones that we'd seen, but he wanted the arms you'd already given us in return." The man hesitated.
"And?" Tholos ground out, thinking he might end up strangling his own informant.
The Coridanite shifted. "Toran had already sold most of the weapons to the leader of a faction in North Shengar. There's a rumor that he owes the Orugan..." here he paused, looking questioningly at the Andorian. Tholos nodded. He was quite familiar with Coridan's largest criminal cabal, who controlled most of the smuggling on the planet, and ran the black market for which the Shengars were known. "Well, he owes them a significant amount," Mareg repeated, "and they say he was desperate for the money. He probably thought you would be willing to give him more weapons, and..."
"So what happened?" Tholos interjected abruptly, impatient to get to the heart of the matter.
"I don't know what was said in the meeting, but after it was over, Toran sent a group of men to follow Kelev, as he left the compound. They must have ambushed him, because my brother found him badly wounded later that night."
Here the informant paused again, and Tholos reflected that it must have been an ambush indeed, if these poorly trained insurgents had managed to take down a warrior such as Kelev. "Where is he now?" he demanded.
"We took him to our home, and have been hiding him from Toran," the Coridanite replied, and Tholos antennae began to relax. "But commander," the man continued, looking straight at the Andorian for the first time, "he's been very ill, and he's getting worse. I think... I think he's dying."
There was a note of genuine regret in the informant's voice that surprised the commander. "Take me to him," he said briefly, his antennae flattened back against his head in anger. If anything had happened to Kelev, he thought grimly, those responsible would come to regret it. His comrade would not die unavenged.
As the two set off through the warren of dark alleyways, the Coridanite silently leading the way, Tholos found himself thinking of the first time he had met Kelev. They had both been fifteen years old, and prospective recruits in the Imperial Guard. It was considered a great honor amongst Andorians to be a guardsman, and every year the number of applicants far outstripped that of new recruits accepted. After passing a rigorous physical inspection and a series of exhaustive academic exams in subjects ranging from mathematics to military history, the applicants faced the most difficult challenge of all: the Trial of Courage. Assigned a partner, the would-be recruits were given basic provisions and then dropped on the frozen surface of the planet, there to survive on their own for a month. For most of them, raised in Andoria's massive underground cities, it marked their first encounter with the Outside, and their first glimpse of the stars. It had been a harsh but magical experience for Tholos, and Kelev had been his partner.
The trial administrators had chosen well, Tholos reflected, as he walked soundlessly along behind his Coridanite guide, scanning every shack they approached for possible enemies, and every alleyway they passed for potential ambush. The rain continued unabated, the water finding its way inside his uniform, and running down his back in an uncomfortable trickle. He ignored the unpleasant sensation, as he had been trained to ignore all discomfort. Kelev had been unique amongst the applicants, he recalled, in that he had been an Outsider. Living in a narrow equatorial valley system no more than a few kilometers wide, a valley system which provided the sole habitable region on the surface of the planet, the tiny Outsider minority made up less than three percent of the Andorian population. Famous for their independent nature, and celebrated for their outstanding courage, the Outsiders sent representatives to the Kethni Council, but nevertheless stood somewhat apart from others of their kind. In Tholos' own home city, the planetary capital of Lor'Tan, there was an old saying that ran: "An Outsider's praise blooms with the ava'Tan," referencing a rare and greatly valued snow flower that was seen but once a generation, if at all.
Outsiders weren't easily impressed, nor were they likely to be cowed, and it was this very quality, Tholos was convinced, that had led to Kelev's assignment as his trial partner. After all, most Andorians were rather cautious around members of Keth Dara, convinced (and not without cause) that they were the moving force behind the Ahm Tal. The service might fulfill a necessary role in protecting their people, it might even have won the admiration of some, but it was as well, most reasoned, to be cautious around its members. Tholos in particular, as the youngest grandchild of Talat Dara, had had difficulty making friends outside of his own keth. Kelev, despite a sense of levity unusual in an Andorian, and an irreverence that occasionally infuriated Tholos, had been the first...
"We're here, commander," Mareg whispered, coming to a stop at a dismal looking alleyway, narrower even than the one they had been following, and indicating a door halfway down, on the left hand side. Tholos scanned the roofs of the surrounding shacks, while his keen ears listened for any sound of pursuit, or of neighbors moving about. It appeared that they were alone. Gesturing to the Coridanite, the commander followed the man into the alleyway, antennae curling in on themselves in disgust at the rancid smell of the place. The Shengars weren't known for their cleanliness, and had none of those amenities - running water, waste disposal - taken for granted in the city. Stepping around a pile of garbage, and who knew what else, the Andorian came to a halt as his guide began unlocking his door. Did he really live here, Tholos wondered - couldn't he do better than this, with the money the Ahm Tal paid him? Pushing that thought away, he stepped carefully through the small doorway and into the room beyond, glancing around quickly for his friend. The single-room shack was empty.
"Where is Kelev?" he demanded of his companion, his voice taking on the sibilant sound of an enraged Andorian, his hand instinctively reaching for his hrisal. "What have you done with him?"
0-0-0
Closing the last shutter, Elinor realized with a start that it was even later than she'd imagined. Dr. Togar, her Coridanite partner, had long since left for his home in the city, and Connor, her nurse, clinic assistant, and all-around handyman, who always insisted on accompanying her on the journey to and from the city, looked eager to be off himself. Connor Dowd was a miracle, she acknowledged to herself, and no minor one at that. A trained nurse, competent mechanic, and martial arts enthusiast, he had proved invaluable over the last year, providing assistance in countless areas in which Elinor had not even anticipated needing help. She had wondered a bit, when first reading his application, that the friendly Irishman had wanted to work so far from home, but it turned out that Connor was a Boomer, born and raised for his first twelve years on the interstellar cargo ship where his parents worked. It was only in his adolescence that his family had returned to their native land. A part of him was always yearning after the stars, he'd told her with a grin during his interview, "And sure," he'd said, a twinkle in his eye, "there are a few Travelers, far back in the family tree, so we come by our wanderlust naturally."
Jolted out of her reverie by a loud banging on the clinic door, Elinor turned startled eyes to her assistant.
"I'll get it, Doc," he said in his pleasant Irish lilt, moving toward the front door of the clinic. The banging came again, louder and more insistent. Perhaps it was the sudden noise after such a quiet day, but Elinor had a moment of panic as the nurse moved toward the entrance, fearful of what could be on the other side of the door. Shaking off her jitters, she reminded herself that she was a doctor, and that any emergency landing on her doorstep was likely to be medical in nature. As Connor opened the door, she had an impression of a group of men huddled outside the front vestibule, and then they were bustling in, two burly Coridanites supporting a slim Andorian between them. Momentarily at a loss, in the bright lights of the clinic, the men blinked like owls as they looked about the front waiting room uncertainly.
"This way," Elinor said, indicating the door behind her, leading to the main examination room. The unconscious Andorian the men were carrying was obviously very ill; his normally blue skin pale and sickly white, his antennae collapsed limply against the sides of his head. Laying their burden on her examination table with surprising care, the two Coridanite men stepped back, the taller one looking at her and saying briefly, "He's not well, Doctor. We hoped you'd take a look."
"Of course, Garam," she said, using the customary Coridanite term of respect for an unrelated male. The man who had spoken titled his head, as if taken aback at her mode of address, and then nodded. Elinor had noticed that the Shengari who visited her clinic always paused a second or two, as if in surprise or confusion, when she used the polite titles she had been taught in her introductory course on Coridanite language and culture. They were rough miners, many of them, dressed in worn and shabby clothing so unlike the elegant raiment of their city counterparts, and their hands were often permanently stained from handling ore. Did they find her politeness a ridiculous city affectation, she sometimes wondered, something no self-respecting Shengari would indulge in, or were they simply surprised to find themselves treated with courtesy by a resident of the great metropolis? Perhaps those forms of address were only used by some sections of Coridanite society, or perhaps she simply wasn't using them in the correct way. She would have to ask Dr. Togar for his thoughts on the matter. In the meantime, no doubt the locals attributed any oddities in her behavior to the fact that she was so clearly an alien. Pushing these thoughts resolutely aside, Elinor walked to the table, taking out her scanner.
"What happened?" she asked, addressing herself to the man who had spoken first to her, and beginning to examine her patient.
"He was attacked," the man replied. "We found him to the south of here," he continued, gesturing vaguely with his hand, "and took him in. At first he seemed to improve, but then he became ill. He has been feverish for many days."
Knowing she was unlikely to get any more details - the Shengari were notoriously close-mouthed around outsiders, and this injured alien was likely to bring nothing but trouble to those discovered harboring him - Elinor continued with her scans, noting that the information being relayed by the device only confirmed her own observations. The man's injuries were appalling, and looked to be complicated by infection and fever. At some point he had been exposed to particle weapons-fire, and had also been badly beaten, and then stabbed multiple times with sharp blades. The pattern of bruises and lacerations seemed to indicate that he had been lying prone when attacked, so perhaps he had been stunned by phaser-fire beforehand. Elinor's lips tightened at that idea, and she had to steady her hands as she thought of someone beating the man before her, while he lay helpless on the ground. The Andorian's wounds had been treated, after a fashion, but they were terribly infected, and the flesh around them had begun to decay, giving off an unpleasant odor that was detectable when standing close by. His skin was clammy and moist to the touch, something highly unusual in his species, and his temperature was far above what it should be. Her patient was in very bad shape, and Elinor realized with a sense of panic that she wasn't entirely sure she could help him. She'd never actually treated an Andorian before, although she had studied his species in her exobiology course.
Taking a deep breath, Elinor reminded herself that she'd come halfway across the sector, to a strange planet light years from home, explicitly to give medical aid to aliens she had never before set eyes on. So what if this wasn't the kind of alien that she'd had in mind? She was a doctor, and this man needed her help. Looking up at Connor, who had come quietly into the examination room with her, she came to a decision:
"We need to clean his wounds Connor, and assess the internal damage more closely." Taking out a hypospray, she administered a painkiller, and then a respiratory agent to aid the Andorian with his shallow breathing, before turning to her assistant. "Let's get him into the back recovery room, and get these dirty clothes and old bandages off."
"We'll be after missing curfew tonight, Doc," the Irishman said calmly, carefully lifting his blue-skinned charge and making his way to the back.
"It can't be helped," Elinor replied, following along behind him, "this man will die if we don't see to him immediately." Turning back to the Coridanites, who had followed them out of the examination room, she asked: "Will you be staying? You are welcome to wait here," gesturing to the waiting area behind them.
"We cannot stay, Ganar," the first man said, "but we will come again, if we may, to see about his progress." Elinor flushed. She had been told that 'Ganar' was an archaic courtesy word no longer in use in modern Coridanite society. It translated roughly as "honored lady."
"What is your name?" she asked the man, "where can I send you news?"
He smiled slightly. "It is better for us to come to you." With a nod, he turned, and the two Coridanites left the way they had come.
The Andorian was well and truly her responsibility now, Elinor thought, turning to join Connor in the recovery room. Divested of his clothes, with his bandages stripped away, her patient was a terrible sight. Covered in deep cobalt bruises that stood out all the more dramatically due to his pallor, his knife wounds showed clear skin and flesh loss. The scans had revealed rampant fungal infection, something that came as no surprise to Elinor, who had treated countless Shengari over the past year for similar issues. The wet, humid climate of Coridan made fungal problems ubiquitous, and Andorians, whose frozen homeworld was inhospitable to such organisms, would have little natural immunity.
"Clean and disinfect his wounds," Elinor instructed Connor, "and then treat them with topical anti-fungals. We'll use hypospray injection and radiation treatment to address the internal infection."
The nurse nodded, a grim expression on his face, and set to work. Joining him, Elinor reflected to herself that the fungal infections were just the tip of the iceberg. Andorians often had a very poor reaction to phase injuries, with necrotic flesh loss around the area of impact. It was clear from the state of this man's wounds that the infection and resultant necrosis had spread to his other injuries as well. She needed to cut away the dead flesh immediately, before the infection destroyed any more tissue, and before it spread to his internal organs - assuming that it hadn't already. It was also imperative that the patient be put on dialysis as soon as possible, in order to remove the infection from the bloodstream. He would need a transfusion, possibly more than one. Not only had he lost a great deal of blood in the attack upon him, but his subsequent illness had weakened his entire system. Phase-related infection had the effect of drastically reducing the vital oxygen-carrying hemocyanin in Andorian blood, so even if the dialysis were successful, his system would need an influx of healthy blue blood soon.
Elinor stopped short in her mental catalogue of the patient's injuries and illnesses, as an appalling realization dawned upon her. She had no way of obtaining the necessary Andorian blood, or anything that might conceivably be used to synthesize it. She certainly didn't have a supply of it on hand, and as far as she knew, there was no official Andorian presence on the planet, so it would be difficult to track down a donor. Like humans, Coridanites were red-blooded, with an iron-based hemoglobin-like molecule carrying oxygen through their system. The unusual blue blood of Andorians, by contrast, used copper-based hemocyanin to perform that function. Like the octopodes of Earth, whose blood also ran blue, the Andorians' copper-rich blood was an adaptation to the extreme cold of their environment, as well as to the low oxygen levels in the deep cavernous settlements in which they had evolved. Ironically, given the historic hostility between the two species, Vulcan blood was the closest to Andorian, of all the peoples thus far catalogued by the Interspecies Medical Exchange. They shared a common copper-based chemical composition, although the green blood of Vulcans contained additional components that gave it its distinctive hue.
Reminding herself that she had no greater access to Vulcan blood than she did to Andorian - and that Vulcan blood would hardly solve the problem, in any case - Elinor realized with a sinking heart that she would need to address the issue of blood supply, if she hoped to save her patient. But how? Was it possible to buy it on the black market, she wondered, before dismissing the idea as impractical. She wouldn't have the first idea how to even get in touch with someone involved in the Shengars' illicit trade, and it didn't seem likely that they would have what she needed on hand. She might be able to route a message to the Andorian embassy on Earth through her personal correspondence with a family member back home, but it was bound to take more time than she had. Sighing in frustration, as she worked with Connor to finish up with the initial cleaning of the wounds, Elinor turned to pick up her hypospray, and almost screamed aloud.
Standing in the doorway of the recovery room - she had left the clinic's front door unlocked, she realized with a feeling of terror - was another Andorian. Stone-faced, he looked at her, his antennae unmoving, before his eyes turned to the figure on the table...