Star Trek - TOS 38 Idic Epidemic (2 page)

Vulcans were the second-largest group, their home
planet and each of their colonies having its own
representative. Although the colonies were all part of one central Vulcan government, their representatives
on the council were not a fair proportion insofar as Nisus’ population was concerned. Science was so much the heart of Vulcan culture that the science colony was forty percent Vulcan, thirty-two percent
Human, and only twenty-eight percent Tellarite,
Hemanite, Andorian, Rigellian, Lemnorian, Orion,
Trakeskian, Jovanian … and Klingon.

Korsal went back to his place at the table and sat
down in the chair that looked like a rather uncomfort
able block until a person sat in it. Then it read his size, shape, body temperature, and muscle tension, and molded itself into contours that would prevent
muscle fatigue, but—since it was designed as part of a
workplace—not allow relaxation into sleep.

Even Keski, the Lemnorian on the council, sat down on an exactly similar cube. It immediately
shifted to accommodate his gigantic frame, expand
ing its back to support the long torso that caused the
Lemnorian, even sitting down, to tower over everyone
else at the table. Such furniture was an invention of
the comfort-minded Tellarites. The tricorders at each
place on the table were a Vulcan invention.

At times like these, items usually taken for granted
took on new significance. The day-to-day lives of people around the galaxy were improved by these
varied technologies. Cooperation among races here at
the science colony had in the past century spawned
technological advances at a rate never seen before in
galactic history.

Only now
…
it had spawned a plague.

Korsal did not want to talk to anyone—did not
want to be questioned about his argument with Borth
—so he reached for his tricorder. It hurt when his
hand closed over it, and he discovered a blister on his
palm where the hot coffee had burned him. It was
nothing.

He turned on his tricorder and reran his notes.
T’Saen, a biochemist, pronounced the words of doom
in that flat way Vulcans spoke when they were control
ling hardest.

“We are proceeding on the assumption that what
we have is a rapidly mutating virus. So far we have
been unable to isolate it because of the rapidity of its
mutation. It is resistant to all the antimutagens
known to science.”

Therian, the Andorian epidemiologist, gave statis
tics on the spread of the disease—too fast, and
accelerating.

Korsal shook his head. The biochemistry was be
yond him, but the math was plain: within sixty days,
every person on Nisus would have the disease. It
showed no respect for race; it attacked equally those with blood based on iron, copper, or silicon.

They had closed the schools and canceled all meet
ings, theatrical performances, or other gatherings twelve days ago, and still it spread. Nonessential
public buildings were closed, masks arid gloves had become standard streetwear, and still it spread.

And killed.

In its original form, the disease had been only a
nuisance. It caused high fever, headaches, abdominal
cramps—exceedingly unpleasant, but not deadly. It
ran its course in five days, leaving the victim weak but
with no permanent aftereffects. The biochemists began working on a vaccine, and no one worried
much.

Then a new strain evolved. It started with the same symptoms for three days, but on the fourth the victim
suddenly went into kidney failure. The hospital began to fill, but they had the life-support equipment to save
these patients too.

Until the day when one of the victims on life
support went into convulsions, followed by liver and
heart failure. The first was a ten-year-old Human girl.
She was so weakened that the most heroic efforts
could not save her.

But she was not the last; the mortality rate escalated
and total systemic failure was added to the symptomology of the disease. What organs failed dif
fered according to species, but they were always vital.

A number of the early fatalities were doctors and
nurses, for the new strain—strains?—also evaded the
antiseptic procedures that had previously sufficed to keep it from spreading within the hospital.

Nor did the early symptoms indicate which strain
of the disease a victim had. The hospital overflowed with frightened people who didn’t know whether the fourth day of their illness might bring death.

Until two days ago, however, eighty-seven percent
of the victims of the more virulent version had survived. The disease might have to run its course, but it would not wipe out the colony.

And then suddenly the disease changed again. New
victims no longer started feeling feverish and headachy; instead, without warning, the first symptoms were unbearable pain lancing through the victim’s head, and an instant, paranoid belief that anyone
nearby was an enemy trying to
kill
him!

Suddenly each new victim was a weapon trained on
anyone in his vicinity, even those trying desperately
to help him. In only two days, a mother killed her two
children, two husbands killed their wives, a staff
member killed a doctor and two nurses at the hospi
tal, and fourteen people were wounded by family, friends, or colleagues suddenly gone berserk. It was
too soon to be certain whether the knowledge of what
they had done undercut the victims’ will to live, but
almost half of the new victims died within hours of coming out of the violent phase, and the rest re
mained critical.

Borth’s idea of using the virus as a weapon sickened
Korsal. Klingons would fight, anytime, and gladly.
But they fought fair, enemy against enemy, whether the battle be of wits or of weapons. This terrible plague would not only be a dishonorable tactic; it
would be an invitation to those it was used against to
retaliate in kind. Let
anyone
use it the first time, and
it would be set loose to decimate the population of the
galaxy.

Calmer now, Korsal recognized that he had been wrong to walk out on the Orion. The man was not stupid; he had had the plague himself, so he knew
Orions were not immune. He would surely listen to
reason.

The council reconvened, and the vote to ask the
Federation for aid was quickly passed. Unanimously, Korsal noted.

Then one of the Humans, Dr. John Treadwell, took
the floor. He was a tall, thin man, a researcher who
rarely spoke up in council. “I think,” he said hesitant
ly, “that while we wait for help, we may be wrong in
handling this epidemic in the traditional way, by trying to protect those who have not yet had the
disease.”

“What would you suggest, Dr. Treadwell?” T’Saen
asked.

“We are still trying to isolate the virus so as to find
both a cure and a means of inoculation. That is standard procedure. Even as our best efforts fail,
though, the disease becomes more deadly, and at the
same time escapes our antisepsis procedures. Twenty-eight percent of the population of Nisus has had the
disease and recovered. Prognosis is far worse for the other seventy-two percent, because of the new
strains.”

The man swallowed hard, turned deep red, but
continued. “In Earth’s history, there was a time when
smallpox was a disease even more feared than this
plague we face. In that time, nothing was understood
of inoculation.

“There was another disease, called cowpox, often
contracted by dairy workers. Its symptomology was
similar to that of smallpox, but it was far less severe.
It almost never killed or scarred like smallpox. It was
observed that even when exposed to smallpox, those
who had had cowpox never caught it. So, out of fear of
smallpox, some people exposed themselves to the
lesser disease, cowpox.”

T’Saen nodded. “Then you suggest that we deliber
ately expose people who have not had the disease to the lesser strain?”

Again Treadwell swallowed convulsively, his
Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his scrawny
neck. “I am
…
offering a suggestion for discussion.”

Ginge, the Tellarite councillor, spoke up. “The idea
is sound, provided we can guarantee exposure is to the lesser strain.”

“Yes,” agreed Stolos, in his high-pitched Hemanite
voice, the tassel of his flat-topped round cap shaking
with the eager movement of his head. “Everyone on
this council has had either the first or second strain of
the plague, and we have all recovered. With no hope
of a vaccine in sight, immunity to the deadly variety is
surely worth the pain associated with the first strain.”

Korsal spoke up. “You are wrong, Stolos—I have
not had any strain of this disease. This latest variation
frightens me as much as it does the rest of you …
more, since I have developed no antibodies against it.
Klingons fear no enemy that can be seen and understood—but a disease that attacks invisibly,
stealing a person’s mind—” He turned to the nervous
Human. “Dr. Treadwell, I will volunteer to test your theory.”

It felt good to take action, even if only to offer himself in a passive role. In his frustration over the
inability to act, Korsal was pure Klingon.

Warner Jurgens, the council chair, sent the request
for help to be transmitted, and the council settled
down to the logistics of the new strategy. “We’ll take
specimens from all victims entering the hospital,”
said Rita Esposito. “Then, when we see which course
the disease takes, we’ll use those from people who develop the least violent strain to expose volunteers who have never been ill. If it gives them the lesser
illness, then their specimens will be used on others,
and while it will be an unpleasant experience—”

“No! Damn you to Zarth’s lowest hell, Human! You
want to kill us all!”

Keski, the Lemnorian, lunged at Esposito, grasping
the startled woman by the throat with one hand while
he reached for her tricorder with the other.

There were no weapons in the council chamber, but
the tricorder was a blunt instrument, and Keski had
more than enough strength to smash Esposito’s skull
with it.

Everyone at the table moved, but Korsal reached
Keski first, grabbing his arm before he could connect.

Keski shook Korsal off, but his swing was broken.

Two Human men were trying to pry the Lemnorian’s fingers free from the choking woman’s neck as T’Sael came up behind Korsal and tried to
reach Keski’s shoulder for the neck pinch. He was too
tall, so she climbed onto his chair, which had returned
to its cubic shape.

The Lemnorian lurched and struggled, and the
Vulcan woman missed her grip.

With a mindless roar, Keski dropped Esposito and
swung a punch at Korsal, taking both of them out of
T’Saen’s reach.