“On the other hand, if it’s neutral, or if we can get past it, our orders from Commodore Reyes are to mount a full survey of the planet’s surface. That includes mapping, geological survey, collecting bio samples, the whole drill.” Nassir looked to Sorak. “Lieutenant, familiarize yourself and your scouts with the new gear from Vanguard. If the Shedai are waiting for us on Jinoteur, let’s be ready to meet them head-on.”
“Understood, sir,” Sorak said.
Turning to Ilucci, the captain said, “Master Chief, our energy signature needs to match the Terra Courser’s perfectly when we leave spacedock in twenty minutes.”
“You got it,” Ilucci said, and his engineering team nodded in agreement.
“Ensign Theriault,” Nassir said to the young science officer. “Work with Lieutenant Xiong. Learn everything you can about the Shedai. Be ready to join the field scouts when we do our survey on Jinoteur.” Theriault nodded without saying a word.
“Dr. Babitz,” Nassir continued. “We have several forensic reports and autopsy files of interest from Dr. Fisher. I suggest you review them in detail with Mr. Tan Bao.”
“Aye, sir,” Babitz said.
The captain clapped his hands together. “Mr. Terrell, Bridy Mac, Sayna, join me on the bridge. It’s time to go. Dismissed.” Everyone rose from their seats and quickly exited the galley, making haste for their duty stations.
Xiong watched the crew snap into action. Nassir paused beside him and said, “Care to join us on the bridge, Ming?”
“Yes, sir,” Xiong said. “I’d love to.”
Nassir gave him a paternal slap on the back. “Glad you’re back for this one,” he said with a restrained grin that betrayed his excitement. “This is what being in Starfleet’s all about.”
Most of the time Xiong found himself at odds with his commanding officers, but this time he couldn’t have agreed more.
Dr. Jabilo M’Benga toweled his hands dry as he exited the scrub-out room beside the operating theater. He had endured a long day of treating emergency cases. Now the last of his critical patients was on the way to recovery, and M’Benga was free to deal with the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in his office.
In the past twenty-four hours, M’Benga had seen a variety of cases, each one coming on the heels of the last. A civilian cargo handler had suffered internal injuries after being pinned under a falling stack of filled crates, which had been knocked over by a colleague’s inept control of a load-lifter; a mechanic in Vanguard’s starship-maintenance complex had accidentally amputated three of his fingers by failing to obey proper safety protocols for storing his plasma cutter; one of the station’s operations officers had slipped on a diving board in the Stars Landing natatorium, breaking her left ulna and giving herself a concussion and an intracranial hemorrhage; and a nine-year-old girl from the colony ship Centauri Star had been rushed into the ER in a state of anaphylactic shock after discovering the hard way that she was allergic to Ktarian eggs.
In other words, a slow day in Vanguard Hospital.
A hot cup of coffee and a warm raspberry croissant were in the forefront of M’Benga’s thoughts as he walked through the parting doors of the ER and into the brightly lit blue-gray corridor outside. He turned right toward the turbolift that would take him back to his office. Before the ER doors closed behind him, the nasal drone of a nurse’s voice squawked over the hospital’s intercom. “Code Two in the ER. Repeat, Code Two.”
M’Benga turned about-face and sprinted back inside. Code Two meant that one of the station’s senior officers was in need of medical assistance. Code One would have meant that Commodore Reyes himself was in distress.
He scrambled past nurses and patients, weaving his way toward the main admissions area for the ER. Despite having been at the far side of the complex when he’d heard the call half a minute earlier, he was still the first doctor to arrive. A nurse and a medical technician had gathered around a crumpled form on the floor, a dark-haired female Vulcan officer in a red minidress. Pushing his way into the circle, M’Benga lifted his medical tricorder and started running a standard diagnostic scan on the unconscious Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn. “Nurse Martinez, report,” he said.
Martinez continued her own tricorder scan as she answered. “She walked in and collapsed, Doctor. Her pulse, body temperature, and neural activity are all elevated.” The young brunette adjusted her tricorder. “There’s no sign of injury, but synaptic patterns in her somatosensory cortex are consistent with extreme pain.”
The data on M’Benga’s tricorder screen confirmed Martinez’s report. He looked up to see that other members of the hospital’s staff had belatedly joined the huddle around T’Prynn. “Someone get me a stretcher,” he said. “We need to move her to a biobed.” As the people around him hurried to fulfill his request, he puzzled over T’Prynn’s bio readings. They were unlike anything he had seen during his residency on Vulcan. Despite his wealth of experience in treating Vulcan-specific afflictions, he was at a loss to pinpoint the nature of T’Prynn’s malady.
“Stretcher comin’ in,” said Dr. Gonzalo Robles, who was assisted by a fourth-year Andorian medical student named Sherivan sh’Ness. Martinez and the med tech stepped aside while Robles and sh’Ness eased the stretcher under T’Prynn. M’Benga helped them straighten the Vulcan woman atop the stretcher. He beckoned to another doctor. “Steinberg, give us a hand here.” To the group he declared, “Let’s move her to exam one.” With six sets of hands on the stretcher, they lifted T’Prynn easily from the floor and carried her in a well-practiced march to a nearby exam room. Gently they set the stretcher on the biobed. Martinez, sh’Ness, and Robles worked in concert to lift T’Prynn just enough to slide the stretcher out from under her. M’Benga activated the biobed and watched the fluctuations in T’Prynn’s vital signs.
“Nurse,” M’Benga said. “Prep five cc of asinolyathin.” Martinez nodded and moved to a pharmaceutical cabinet to load up a hypospray. Robles and Steinberg hovered on the other side of T’Prynn’s bed, while sh’Ness and the medical technician watched from a few meters away.
Robles eyed the cardiac indicator on the display board above the bed. “Look at that,” he said with amazement. “It’s like she’s in the middle of a workout.” He pointed at the pain-level indicator. “Good Lord, her pain reading’s off the chart.”
“Weird,” Steinberg said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve never seen a Vulcan have an anxiety reaction like this.”
As he accepted the hypo from Nurse Martinez, M’Benga said to the two physicians, “Her condition is not the result of anxiety. Of that I am quite certain.” He injected the light dosage of analgesic medicine into T’Prynn’s jugular vein. In less than two seconds, the pain indicator on the board dropped from its maximum level to within a few notches of normal. “That seems to have dealt with the symptom,” M’Benga noted, “but as for the cause, we’ll have to run some—”
T’Prynn’s hand shot up and locked around his throat. Her grip was viselike, and her open eyes were ablaze with fury. The speed of her attack caught everyone in the room off-guard. It took a very long second for Steinberg and Robles to start scrambling around the bed to M’Benga’s aid. Martinez overcame her surprise and rushed forward to restrain T’Prynn while the medical technician hurried to a wall panel to summon security. The medical student remained paralyzed with fear in the doorway.
Before anyone could finish what they were racing to do, T’Prynn let go of M’Benga’s throat. The fire in her eyes abated, and she took a deep breath. Everyone stopped and waited to see what she would do next. M’Benga coughed twice, then gasped for air as he massaged his throat.
In a calm but alarmingly uninflected tone, T’Prynn said, “Please forgive me, Doctor. My reaction was one of reflex.” Her eyes traveled from Martinez to the other two doctors. “There is no cause for concern,” she said to them. “It is not necessary to restrain me. I am in control of my actions.”