Bloodthirst (5 page)

McCoy shrugged. “What's he need that for? Two of them are dead, one is sick and quite possibly dying, if they don't get him for murder first.”

Spock turned and addressed McCoy with a considerable degree of condescension. “If the researchers were in collusion with others, Doctor—especially if they were working for someone outside the Federation—then it becomes imperative to find out
exactly
what they were doing.”

“I suppose so,” McCoy said. “And to find out how Yoshi and Lara really died.”

“That's not my concern.” Kirk stood up again and leaned over the conference table. “The civil authorities can investigate that. What bothers me is the chance of exposing my crew to an illness that we know nothing about.”

“You
are
under orders, Captain,” Spock said.

“The ship's already at risk,” McCoy pointed out. “Adams is on board, and if he took a mind to break out of containment, he could probably do it; and Stanger and I were down there, albeit with our suits on, but with no harm done. It could well be that whatever Adams has isn't all that contagious.”

Kirk's lips had tightened into a grim line. “What you're both telling me, then, is that you think I shouldn't try to buck Mendez's orders.”

“Not at all, Captain,” Spock replied. “But I do believe that someone should go down and ascertain whether the postulated microbe actually exists. And I believe that if it is indeed found to be dangerous, it should, despite Dr. McCoy's comments, be kept ‘out of enemy hands.' The method for so doing I leave to your discretion.”

“Thanks,” Kirk said without enthusiasm. “I suppose you agree with him, Bones?”

“Much as I hate to admit it. We could go down there and retrieve something. We've got trained people, and the risks would not be all that great, barring an unforeseen accident.”

“Before I do that, I want to get as much information out of Adams as I can. Let's set him up for questioning ASAP.”

McCoy nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

“What puzzles me"” Spock chose his words deliberately—is why Admiral Mendez has chosen to involve himself in this affair.”

Kirk let out a deep breath. “I've been trying to come up with an explanation for that one myself. Could it be that intelligence has gotten wind of what was occurring on Tanis, and Mendez was keeping an eye on them?”

“Or,” Spock countered grimly, “that Mendez himself is involved?”

“Wait a minute.” McCoy frowned and swiveled in his chair to face Spock. “I have to admit, I don't keep tabs on everyone's duty assignment, especially when it comes to the brass. Why is it surprising for Mendez to be involved?”

He turned to look from Spock's face to the captain's, but it was the Vulcan who finally answered.

Spock's tone was one of exaggerated patience. “Admiral Mendez,” he replied, “is head of weapons research.”

“Here.” McCoy handed Kirk an infrared visor and put his own on. They were seated at a terminal temporarily moved in front of quarantine and were peering into the dark chamber where Adams lay, wired up for questioning. The doctor had trusted the job to no one else, insisting on suiting up and doing the job himself. It was difficult to do detailed work in infrared, but Adams' illness made ultraviolet light impossible; McCoy completed the job with much swearing, and was in a very sour mood by the time he took his seat next to Kirk at the terminal.

“Why the visors?” Kirk asked. “Do we really need to watch him?”

McCoy scowled beneath his visor. “How the hell am I supposed to make a judgment on whether a man is telling the truth if I can't even see his face?”

“I thought the computer made that decision.” Kirk had the feeling he was wading into dangerous waters.

McCoy rose from his chair and snarled. “The computer can make its decision if it wants, but
I'm
the one who interprets the results. And I might choose not to agree with it; interpreting a person's physiological response to questioning is still an art form, regardless of what the programmers would love us to believe. Of course, if you'd rather believe that pile of circuits than me”

“Sit down, Bones,” Kirk said, in a good-natured tone calculated to mollify. He was as anxious about starting the questioning as McCoy.

The doctor sat grumpily.

“Can he see us?”

“No. Even though I've dimmed the light out here for him, Too, it dazzles him. He's pretty much blinded as to what's going on out here. And I doubt he suspects we can see him.”

Kirk nodded, grateful for the advantage, and put his visor on. Adams lay, threaded to the diagnostic bed by a hundred tiny filaments. His face was still starkly gaunt, but the shock of seeing it a second time was less. In time, Kirk supposed, he could even get used to it.

McCoy held down a control and spoke into the terminal. “Dr. Adams, the computer will begin to ask you questions now.” He released the button and turned to the captain. “We can't be heard unless we want to be.”

“Please state your full name,” the computer droned in its slightly bored, feminine voice.

“Jeffrey Ryan Adams,” Adams answered. He appeared perfectly relaxed.

McCoy's eyes remained fixed on the terminal screen in front of him; Kirk's were fixed on Adams.

“Please state your correct age in standard sols.”

“Forty-one.”

“Please state your place of birth.”

“New Orleans, North America, Terra.”

“Thank you,” the computer answered in flat tones incapable of expressing gratitude. “Please give incorrect answers to the following questions. What is your full name?”

“Vlad the Impaler.” Adams smiled faintly, amused by his choice.

McCoy raised an eyebrow at that; his eyes darted from Adams to the readout.

“Age?”

“A thousand years.”

“Place of birth?”

“Old Earth, Transylvania, outside the town of Bistritz.”

“Thank you.” The computer paused. “Please answer all the following questions correctly, to the extent that you are aware of the information. What is your occupation?”

Adams answered easily, without reflection. “Research microbiologist.”

“What are the names of the other researchers who worked with you on Tanis?”

“Lara Krovozhadny and Yoshi. Yoshi Takhumara, I think it was.”

“Why is Tanis listed in Starfleet's charts as uninhabited?”

“For security purposes,” Adams said shortly.

McCoy and Kirk looked at each other; McCoy pressed for the intercom. “Dr. Adams, please elaborate.”

“We didn't want the Klingons or the Romulans to get wind of what we were doing.”

Kirk could not restrain himself. “What
were
you doing on Tanis, Dr. Adams?”

“Agricultural research,” Adams said agreeably, still perfectly composed, with out a trace of defensiveness. “We're working on a new plant to be used as food. You'll remember, Captain, what happened on Sherman's Planet”

“That's the second time I've been reminded,” Kirk muttered, but McCoy had already switched off the intercom.

The computer stuck to its line of interrogation, unaware of the content of the interruption. “Did you do agricultural research on Tanis?”

“Yes,” Adams said, with the barest hint of smugness. “Yes, I did. High security agricultural research.”

“Did you do any other type of research on Tanis?”

“No.” The answer came quickly. “I did not.”

“Did you know Lara Krovozhadny?”

“I did.”

“How did Lara Krovozhadny die?”

“She was killed.” There was a hint of painful hesitation in the voice, but Adams' expressio did not alter; it remained relaxed and agreeable, as if he were discussing something pleasant. “Her throat was slit, I think.”

“Did you kill Lara Krovozhadny?”

“No,” Adams said softly.

“The reading,” Kirk hissed at McCoy. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Looks like it.” But McCoy's expression seemed troubled.

“Did you know Yoshi Takhumara?” the computer asked Adams.

“Yes.”

“How did Yoshi Takhumara die?”

“The same way as Lara. His throat was cut.”

“By whom?” Kirk asked, but Adams could not hear.

“Did you kill Yoshi Takhumara?” the computer queried.

“No,” said Adams. There was a pause, as if Adams found it too painful to answer. “Yoshi killed himself.” And, clearly thinking himself to be invisible, he gave a wide, beatific smile.

“Good Lord.” McCoy glanced down at the terminal screen.

“What does it say?” Kirk demanded, and, when the doctor did not answer immediately, asked again. “What does it say?”

“It says,” McCoy said, his eyes now fixed on the still smiling Adams, “that he's telling the truth.”

The questioning went on for what seemed to Kirk an interminable period of time, with the computer asking the same questions over and over in a thousand different ways; through it all, Adams remained unrattled. At last, Kirk pulled off his visor and turned to McCoy.

“How did he do?”

“You want the official report?”

“Let's start with that.”

McCoy set his visor down on the terminal console and rubbed one hand over his eyes and face. “There were some hints of deviation around certain questions, especially the difficult ones, about the deaths and the nature of the research.”

Kirk was irritated. “So you mean he actually failed, then. He's guilty.”

The doctor shook his head. “Would that it were as simple as all that, Jim. Everyone assumes that the computer can tell who's lying and who isn't, without a shadow of doubt. But the problem is, not everyone reacts to lying in the same physiological manner. Some people are better at it than others. Now, the computer can pick out ninety-nine percent of the liars, as long as you feed it accurate data about the person's cultural background. That's because most people can't completely master their anxiety about lying, and the computer picks up on the physiological changes that go with that anxiety.”

“Most people. What kind of people can outsmart the computer?”

“A Vulcan could probably get away with it, if he wanted to. Or a truly insane individual who didn't know the difference between reality and fantasy.”

“I thought you said Adams wasn't insane.”

“He's not. But he could be sociopathic without any conscience or sense of morality. True sociopaths are pretty rare, these days. Of course” McCoy frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe the disease could have something to do with it.”

“Well, I don't understand,” Kirk said, quite truthfully. “If there were deviations in the readout, why did the computer say he passed?”

McCoy looked down at his readout and sighed. “The computer will tell you that Adams' reaction was ‘within the bounds of normal physiological response.' In other words, that he was just nervous about those few questions.”

“Something in your voice tells me you don't agree with that.”

“I don't though if I can't come up with more conclusive results than a gut instinct, everyone will look at the computer readout and they won't give a damn about my opinion.” McCoy shook his head at the dark chamber in disbelief. “But you saw that smile, Jim. He's lying. And he's not insane—just the coldest, sickest devil I've ever met.”

Jonathon Stanger stood, hands clasped behind his back like an attentive student, and attempted to keep the humiliation he felt from showing while Security Chief Tomson paced in front of him. A rush of blood warmed his face and pounded in his temples.

He had been three minutes late reporting for duty, the result of another near-sleepless night. When he did manage to drift off, his dreams were of the
Columbia
and Rosa, and so full of venom that he wakened, furious, his stomach in knots. Further rest was impossible. It had gone on, night after night for nearly a week now.

Last night, he could have sworn he'd given the computer the correct wake-up time, but it never signaled him. He'd wakened in a panic, some subconscious part of his brain alerting him to the fact he'd overslept. He had stumbled into the closet, synthesized a uniform, and slathered on some beard repressor so carelessly that now he feared he might have lost part of his mustache—from time to time, he touched it to make sure it was still all there. Then he'd staggered down to Security without breakfast. He could have tried to blame it on the fact that the
Columbia
's circadian cycle was almost exactly opposite the one on the
Enterprise
but after a week on board, he knew his insomnia had another, deeper cause. And he also knew that Tomson was not the type of commanding officer to listen to any excuses. He offered none.

Stanger's shame was doubled by the presence of a third party: Ensign Lamia, an Andorian female who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

Tomson came to the end of the invisible line she was walking and turned on her heel to start in the other direction. Stanger took advantage of the break in eye contact to steal another glimpse of the Andorian. Like the other Andorians he had worked with, Lamia was narrower and longer in the torso than a human, and thus taller than most. Unlike the other Andorians he had worked with, Lamia was female.

Her coloring was quite striking: light blue skin against a silky cap of straight, silver-white hair. Not to mention those incredible celery-green eyes. All spring pastels, the colors of an Easter egg basket.

But the red security uniform clashed garishly with the delicate hues.
Should have gone into Science
, Stanger decided distractedly, in the midst of his suffering.
She'd look better in blue. Or maybe the gold of Command
He pulled his tired mind away from the ridiculous train of thought—it was beginning to wander from lack of sleep—and directed his full attention to his wounded pride.