Strange New Worlds 2016 (9 page)

The transporter beam sparkled as the forms of Crusher, Data, and Worf materialized
on the planet’s surface. Doctor Crusher sighed as she always did coming out of beaming,
as if the jump through space somehow added breath to her body. She looked around.

It was a divided world. The place where they stood—it appeared to be a courtyard of
sorts—was spotted with blue-green shrubs, the ground covered in a soft purple moss.
There was a muteness to the lighting, as if it was diffused, much like the foggy skies
of Caldos II—a colony terraformed to reproduce Scotland—where she lived with her grandmother
in her youth. They were standing on the outskirts of a large but seemingly peaceful
city, shiny buildings reaching in hexagonal pillars toward the hazy sky.

At the edge of the courtyard, however, reality changed, and beyond that point Crusher
found herself gazing into a wasteland. The shrubs and moss were gone, replaced by
a few clumps of hardy-looking gray grass. There was no moss cover in this other landscape,
and the bare white stone ground reflected back the cool light of Vakor II in strong,
harsh clarity.
Like the photographs of Earth’s first lunar landing
,
she thought. Stark. Surreal. Beautiful in its alienness.

“Now you see the necessity of our shielding,” a voice said. The members of the away
team turned to find two Shar-Mi’lans approaching, sandals sinking slightly in the
soft moss. “Without the shield’s protective barrier, the radiation of the sun would
destroy all but the most basic life-forms on our world, ourselves included.” The man
smiled and bowed his head in greeting, his heavily ridged brow rivaling Worf’s in
intricacy. Their skin was a bright magenta, with eyes of gleaming gold. “Welcome to
Shar-Mi’la, friends. I am Cal’Sohn, Commissioner of Tia’Wreth, this city. This is
Keeper Ro’Kell, of our Medicinal Protectorate.” He motioned to the man beside him,
who performed the same formal bow.

“Thank you for responding to our distress call,” the keeper said. Ro’Kell was taller
and thinner than the commissioner, though Crusher found both of them to be pleasant
in presence and tone.

“We’re glad to help,” she said. “I’m Doctor Beverly Crusher, and this is Lieutenant
Worf and Lieutenant Commander Data of the
U.S.S. Enterprise.
Where do we start?”

“This way, please,” Ro’Kell said, walking along a white stone path toward one of the
metal buildings. “Recently a small percentage of our city’s population has fallen
dangerously ill, and as of yet, we have been unable to ascertain the cause, though
we suspect it may be related to exposure to tetra-helon radiation.”

“Keeper, if I may ask,” Data began, his voice artificial yet still warm, “is that
not why you erected the shielding system? To prevent such toxic exposure to this radiation?”

“That is correct,” Ro’Kell said. “However, there has been a slight complication in
our technology.”

“What are those men doing?” Worf asked, his bass voice booming through the courtyard.
He pointed to the barrier between the two worlds—living and dead—where men in what
looked like environmental suits were working with energy tools. The spot seemed to
be a gate of some sort, with a shiny metal arch rising high above the ground.

“They are attempting to repair the breach in the shield,” Cal’Sohn said. “We are fairly
sure that the portal to the sunscape is where the leak occurred and is the source
of the exposure Ro’Kell mentioned.”

The Klingon whirled on the Shar-Mi’lans, his imposing frame towering over the aliens,
his tone stern. “Why were we not notified of such a security risk?”

“Worf, I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Crusher said, though her own anxiety jumped
a notch at the surprise threat to her away team.

Data already had his tricorder out and was taking atmospheric readings. “Tetra-helon
concentration currently holding steady at seventy-three rhubions.”

Crusher quickly did some calculations. “Worf and I should be fine for a couple of
hours. I can inoculate us once we return to
Enterprise.
Data, your system should be unaffected by tetra-helon radiation, thanks to the interference
from your positronic net.”

“I apologize for the alarm, Doctor,” Ro’Kell said. “I had every intention of explaining
the situation, though my timing was obviously not ideal. We do have our own inoculant
that we planned to offer you.” They arrived at an arched entrance into a pillar structure
and walked into a long hallway of shiny hematite-like material.

The doctor thought a moment. “What about the rest of your population, Keeper? How
long have they been exposed?”

“We’re not sure,” Ro’Kell said, leading them down winding corridors of mirror. “Our
surveillance systems registered a slight spike in helon particles several months ago,
though it was well within tolerance levels when the problem began. As it grew, our
engineers searched for failures in the shield framework, finally discovering a misalignment
in one of the shield generators, which, as you observed, is currently being repaired.”

The commissioner continued the story. “Ro’Kell and his team have been able to release
a counteragent into the air circulation systems. Most of the citizens we’ve tested
have shown no adverse effects to the exposure.”

“Then why do you need us?” Worf said.

“Because,” Ro’Kell began, halting the group in front of a set of solid doors, “a small
subset of the population has become inexplicably ill. We’re not certain of the cause,
but we fear they may be more . . . susceptible . . . to the radiation than the rest
of us.” He looked at the floor for a moment, almost sadly, then pressed his palm against
the metal.

The doors opened in front of them. Crusher inhaled sharply.

The room was filled with children.

Her heart beat harder as she stepped inside, dozens of young patients lying sick around
the room. Their eyes were vacuous, a milky white rather than the bright gold of the
adult keepers in the room. Crusher could feel her throat catching.
Focus. Focus on your duty
,
she told herself. She had gotten through distressing assignments before. These children
needed her. And yet she could not control the pounding in her chest.

Data seemed to sense something was wrong. She could tell by the way he cocked his
head to the side. “Are you all right, Doctor?” he said, his best attempt at emulated
emotion softening his words.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Ro’Kell, what—what are their symptoms?”

Ro’Kell eyed Worf uneasily. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. We have established
that much at least. The condition is genetic. For each patient, it began with marked
fatigue and sluggishness. A sort of apathy toward daily life.”

“Clinical depression?” Crusher asked. It was a condition that manifested among many
species for many different reasons.

“We wondered that as well and tried treatment accordingly, with little response. When
we found out about the leak, we quarantined the sick children in this room, which
is our most shielded sanctuary—a bunker of sorts—to keep out all tetra-helon particles.
Their condition continued to decline, and then yesterday the rash appeared.” Ro’Kell
stepped up to one of the beds that held a catatonic child. Her skin was not the bright
pink it should have been, but rather an ashy gray, with what looked like thick patches
of scales breaking out all over her body. “We called you as soon as this appeared.
It is unlike any documented condition my people have seen, and so far, any attempt
we have made to treat it has no effect, or exacerbates the situation.”

Crusher looked down at the ghostly figure, the girl’s hollow expression sending shivers
down her spine.

“You have to help us, Doctor.” Ro’Kell’s words were quiet. Pleading. Desperate.

Crusher held the thin hand of the girl. It was cold and limp. “I will do everything
in my power.” She tapped the combadge on her chest. “Crusher to Picard.”

“Picard here.”

“The situation here is mostly stable, Captain, but may not be for long. I’d like to
bring some tissue samples back aboard for analysis.”

“Very well. Proceed, Doctor. You have my permission to mobilize whatever personnel
or resources you deem necessary. Keep me informed. Picard out.”

Doctor Crusher turned to her away team. “Worf, take tricorder readings of each section
of the city, focusing on the bands of the EM spectrum nearest to tetra-helon radiation.
Data, collect air and water samples, and interview the parents of the children to
see what we can find out about the days leading up to their illness.” She paused and
turned toward the Shar-Mi’lans. “That is, if it’s okay with you, Commissioner?”

“You will have my people’s full cooperation, Doctor Crusher. I promise you.”

Worf and Data exited to begin their survey. Crusher had her own data to collect.

“Ro’Kell, I will need to collect samples from the children.”

The keeper motioned down toward the child in front of them. “Nah’Tren has been sick
the longest.” He looked to the weary-eyed woman sitting next to the bed. “Bel’Narr,
do you consent?”

The woman bowed her head. Crusher knew that this woman was Nah’Tren’s mother. She
reached into her medkit to pull out a hypospray, and felt a hand on her arm.

Bel’Narr was looking at her, through eyes that had obviously cried more tears than
they were meant for. “Federation Keeper—I will not lose my child, will I?”

Crusher moved her mouth but no words came. She squeezed the woman’s hand and forced
a smile, then buried herself in the task of collecting samples.

She stared at the viewscreen in her office, where the image of Keeper Ro’Kell spoke
to her from the surface.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your analysis, Doctor,”
the man said,
“but I wanted to inform you that Nah’Tren’s condition has deteriorated. She has slipped
into a coma.”

No, I need more time!
Beverly thought. Her mind raced. “All right. I need you to take some readings and
send them to me right away. I’m transmitting instructions now.”

Ro’Kell glanced off-screen, then nodded.
“We’re receiving them, Doctor. I will have my team collect the information and transmit
it to you as quickly as possible.”

“Any change in the others?”

“Not anything drastic. Their conditions continue to worsen at the rate we’ve been
observing.”
He paused and emotion gripped his face.
“How could we have let this happen to our children, Doctor?”

Crusher sighed. “This is not your fault, Ro’Kell. We will get to the bottom of this.
If I have to stay up day and night, we
will
solve it.”
If only it were that simple.

“Thank you, Doctor Crusher. For all of your work. You will hear from us shortly.”

“Understood.
Enterprise
out.” The transmission ended, and Crusher rubbed her eyes and looked at the chrono.
How long had she been in here? Six hours? Ten? She had spent them dissecting tissue
samples, running diagnostics algorithms, spectral analysis, radiographic mapping,
genetic sequence patterning—nothing. No headway whatsoever. The Shar-Mi’lans were
correct—it wasn’t a virus, nor an autoimmune disorder, nor an allergy. Crusher respected
Ro’Kell, but it was her policy to double-check for all of these things just in case.

Now what? It
might
be radiation exposure, but the symptoms didn’t seem to match what she knew about tetra-helon
poisoning. Her research of the computer’s databases had been fruitless—most civilizations
stayed far away from tetra-helon stars, for good reason, and no one in the Federation
scientific community had reported studies of a similar condition. She had even tried
contacting one of her old professors at Starfleet Medical. No help.

Data walked around the corner into the sickbay office. He had been assisting the doctor
in her efforts all day. “I must report that my analysis of the gene-sequencing errors
observed in the Shar-Mi’lan children do not match any known phenomena. I can continue
to speculate, Doctor, though based on the usefulness of my suggestions thus far, I
am unsure as to whether that is a good use of our time.”

Crusher listened to the report and stared blearily at the photograph of Wesley on
her desk. It was from the day Captain Picard made him an ensign for his outstanding
performance in the line of duty. The boy wore a goofy grin that held more excitement
over that single pip than most captains experience upon receiving their first ship.
He always dreamed of this life. Of following his father’s footsteps
,
she thought. And he was so very talented. She and Data could use Wesley’s innovative
way of seeing things right about now. She wished he were here, brainstorming alongside
her. As intelligent and analytical as Data was, sometimes his programming limited
his ability to think outside the box. On many occasions, her son had suggested solutions
to problems that no one else saw, saving thousands of lives in the process.
If you’re out there, Wesley, your mother could use a little help right now.