Bloodthirst (12 page)

“Yoshi's father. Well.” McCoy blinked. “I dare say he took after his mother more.”

“Took her family name, at least.”

“No wonder Mendez is hot to get his hands around Adams' throat. Can't say I blame him.”

“I suppose not.” Kirk could not bring himself to say it convincingly.

“Oh, come on, Jim, you're still not thinking”

The whistle of the intercom cut him off. M'Benga's brown face filled the screen.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain. I was looking for Dr. McCoy.”

“He's here.” Kirk turned the screen toward the doctor.

McCoy leaned forward anxiously. “What is it, M'Benga?”

“You asked me to keep you updated on Nurse Chapel's condition. She's just lapsed into a coma.”

Adams lay in a room just like the one on the
Enterprise”
dark, quiet, oppressive—with a few exceptions. Instead of the elaborate containment procedures with three code checkpoints, the star base personnel had rigged a temporary quarantine (no computer codes, Adams had been sure to notice, although he had pretended to be unaware of his surroundings) behind a force field at the door.

He felt better after the last transfusion. Maybe he was recovering after all. His mind was certainly clearer. He spent his time fondling his lucky amulet and considering his best means of escape. All he had to do was get out of here, and then his lucky amulet would see him to freedom. He held the pendant up to eye level and studied it fondly. On the face of the locket, a bas-relief Amerind chief stared into a ruby sun. The necklace had belonged to Adams' grandmother, and he had worn it since he could remember. He had worn it on the
Brass Ring
and credited it with his survival. And it would save him again now.

In front of the force field, a security guard patrolled at all times. Adams supposed they would not be likely to fall for the choking routine again, since Dr. McCoy had warned them. He would have to think of a new way out.

He was on the verge of a solution when his concentration was disturbed by soft scratching on the other side of the room. Damn. The qefla trying to dig out of its cage again. Someone had smuggled it as a pet onto a starship, and no one had been the wiser until a mysterious outbreak of Rigellian fever. They had dumped it at the nearest star base, where it would sit in its quarantined, escape-proof cage. If it recovered, it would be inoculated and shipped back to Rigel, if someone here didn't adopt it first.

Adams grimaced in distaste. Qeflas reminded him of a cross between a cat and a rat. Why would anyone think a twenty-pound rodent cute? He forced his thoughts back to escape, thinking of what, if anything, in the room could be used as a weapon.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

“Shut up, you stupid Rigellian rat!” But the scratching continued. Obviously the qefla did not speak Standard.

And then a chill passed over Adams. He could feel Mendez's eyes on him.

Since getting the disease, he could not explain how he had the ability to sense certain things, but now he could sense Mendez's presence. Mendez was here, watching him now.

But of course there was no one else in the room with him, except for the damn qefla. But it was possible that he was being watched. The doctor's patient monitor

“You're there, Mendez. I know you're there. I know you're watching.”

He waited in the darkness for a moment, and then he sat up slowly and pulled the bedside terminal over to him. He keyed in a few commands, trying to override security programs and find the controls for force fields. The computer did not respond to him. No matter what he asked for, the information had been closed off.

He laughed out loud in the darkness. Mendez
was
there. No one else would think to close down access to this terminal. What sick man would use it?

“Hello, Mendez,” he said, in the most casual voice he could muster. Inside, he was trembling, but he would never let Mendez know. “Are you going to be a coward, or are you going to talk to me if you have something to say?”

There was no response. Just the
scratch-scratch-scratch
of the qefla seeking freedom.

When the terminal whistled at him, Adams jumped. The screen lit up, so bright in the darkness that Adams shut his eyes and turned his head away. He made himself look back, steeling himself against the pain so that he would not flinch. He forced a sardonic smile.

Mendez did not return it.

“I understand you're trying to pin a murder charge on me,” Adams said. “You've got no evidence. It happened as I said. All Starfleet will be shocked when they hear how you've hounded me”

The intense hatred in Mendez's eyes seemed to bore right through him. “I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. You and I both know you're guilty. I'll do whatever it takes to make it stick.”

“Anything?” Adams forced the smile wider. “I told Kirk that you were out to kill me. If anything happens”

“Kirk can think what he wants.” Mendez's lips drew back to reveal large, uneven teeth, but he was not smiling. “Threaten all you like, Adams. No matter what you do, you're a dead man.”

Adams cut off the communication before his expression revealed how much he feared Mendez was right.

THE DOOR TO Kirk's quarters opened in response to Spock's buzzing. The captain had quite clearly not been sleeping—if anything, he seemed alert and anxious.

“Come in, Spock.” Kirk did not smile in greeting; such an emotional display would have been wasted on the Vulcan anyway.

“Thank you, Captain.” Spock stepped inside and remained standing while Kirk paced up and down on the carpet. Spock watched him go back and forth, reminded of the time on Earth he had sat in the Wimbledon stands during a tennis match. It had left him with a slightly stiff neck and no real enlightenment as to what humans found so fascinating about the sport. “I trust that everything with Adams proceeded smoothly.” Although he anticipated it had not, judging from Kirk's behavior.

“Let's hope so. I talked to Mendez. He came to take Adams back to Federation Headquarters.” He stopped for a moment to glance up at Spock. “He told me that Yoshi was his son.”

Spock's expression remained bland. He had not suspected this, yet it made little difference as far as his conclusions.

Kirk eyed him carefully for a reaction. “I suppose it explains Mendez's hatred for Adams. I guess Adams' charges are beginning to sound pretty ridiculous.”

“It
does
explain his hatred of Adams, if he indeed believes Adams to be his son's murderer. But it in no way makes Adams' claim any more or less credible. Yoshi and the others may well have been working for Admiral Mendez.”

“Damn,” Kirk said softly, looking vexed. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

Spock opened his mouth to express his confusion, but Kirk waved him silent. “Don't respond to that, Spock. I just meant I wanted to hear your opinion and I was hoping you wouldn't agree with me. But you came here to talk about something else.”

Spock folded his arms behind him. “I was able to piece some of the data from the Tanis record banks together, Captain. The information I gleaned is extremely spotty—a few garbled data fragments from various documents. In some cases, it was impossible to match data to any file.” It was illogical, Spock knew, to feel at fault simply because he had not met with success; failure in this case was unavoidable. His abilities could have made no difference in the outcome. And yet, for some reason, he found himself feeling personally to blame. “I have done what I could”

“Enough disclaimers, Spock. Any conclusions?”

“Two rather surprising ones, sir. First, there is a strong likelihood that research was being done on
two
viruses. Second, a Vulcan researcher on Tanis died as a result of exposure to one of those viruses.”

"What
Vulcan researcher?”

“I told you the conclusions were surprising. Some of the data fragments were from personal logs. One of them was kept in Vulcan—by someone called Sepek. References to his death were made in what appears to be Lara Krovozhadny's log. Also, references in several documents were made to an R-virus, as well as an R-prime virus, which later came to be called the H-virus.” A muscle in Kirk's jaw twitched; the captain clearly understand the implications of what Spock was telling him.

“So it's certain that the researchers were involved in biowarfare experiments.”

It was not a question, but Spock had learned to recognize that particular human tone of voice as requesting confirmation. He phrased his answer carefully, though he knew humans often paid little attention to such distinctions of certainty, and Kirk was likely to take it as an outright affirmation. “At present I am unable to come up with a better explanation.”

“If the Vulcan died, then where is his body? Back on Tanis somewhere?”

Spock nodded assent. “I have no data on it, but I would expect to find it in stasis.”

“And why
two
viruses? Why one deadly to humans and one to Vulcans?”

“Unfortunately, all data relating to the researchers' purpose was destroyed. But there are three possible theories. One, the researchers were working for Starfleet. In that case, it would be logical for them to develop a germ harmful to the Romulans. That would explain Sepek's death, since Romulans and Vulcans are often susceptible to the same diseases.”

“Then why develop a virus harmful to humans?” Kirk asked.

“An accidental mutation, perhaps. Or perhaps the same microbe proved to be more deadly to Vulcanoids than to humans, and the other was a harmless decoy. I can only speculate.”

“Go on. Second theory.”

“The researchers were working for an enemy of the Federation. The Klingons would have much to gain from acquiring weapons effective against humans, Vulcans
and
Romulans.”

“But there was a
Vulcan
working on that base, Spock.”

“I know, sir,” Spock said quietly. The thought had troubled him greatly. What Vulcan would knowingly work to create weapons capable of causing such misery and destruction? It went beyond his normal curiosity; Spock felt a moral obligation to find out what role Sepek had played in the development of the viruses. “It is not logical, yet the fact exists. I have no explanation for it at present.”

“Let's hear the third theory, then.”

“The researchers were mercenaries, intending to sell their products to the highest bidder.”

"That,”
Kirk said slowly, “is the one that frightens me the most.”

“I find none of the theories to be particularly comforting, Captain.” Spock hesitated, searching for the correct words to make his request. There was more he wished to discuss, but broaching the subject required delicacy.

It would not do to say,
Sir, I wish to recover Sepek's body and ascertain whether his
katra,
his spirit, survives, in the hope that spirit and body may be rejoined; or, failing that that Sepek's knowledge may be preserved in the Hall of Ancient Thought.

No, it would not do. For the prospect of recovering Sepek's
katra
was so dismal that Spock had little hope of success. He had heard of the rare instances in which
katras
were saved (usually those of Kolinahr High Masters), but they were always from those who sensed death's approach and had time to make the proper arrangements. The
katra
was then placed in the Hall of Ancient Thought. Spock knew of no successful attempts at rejoining, for the body was invariably too worn or diseased or damaged.

And even assuming that Sepek had had the time to make arrangements, thy only possible receptacle for his
katra
was Jeffrey Adams.

Clearly, logical argument in favor of recovering the body was impossible. Even so, Spock was morally bound to try.

“Something on your mind, Spock?”

Spock cleared his throat, mildly disgruntled at his transparency. “I have a request, sir regarding the Vulcan Sepek's body.”

Kirk waited.

Spock continued rather uncomfortably. “It is extremely important for Vulcan families to recover the body of a deceased member. I respectfully request that we return to Tanis and”

“Retrieve Sepek's body?” Kirk finished for him, and shook his head. “I'm sorry, Spock, but Tanis is out of our way. Not to mention that the whole base is contaminated. I refuse to risk any more people down there.”

“Sir.” Spock suspected from Kirk's expression that his was a losing battle, but conscience compelled him. “I cannot emphasize strongly enough the responsibility that I feel—that any Vulcan would feel—to recover another Vulcan's body to send it home. If we do not”

The faint surprise on Kirk's face indicated that the captain had finally registered the urgency with which Spock made the request, but he held firm. “I'm sorry. I'll see to it Starfleet is notified of the body and also of your request.”

Spock sighed and took his leave. There was no point in arguing once the captain had made up his mind. Unfortunately, Starfleet currently had no ships in Tanis' vicinity. Recovery of the body would be given low priority and take months. But there was nothing Spock could do. Further explanation would only bring charges of Vulcan mysticism and raised eyebrows. And Spock far preferred raising a brow to having one raised at him.

Adams had forgotten what color looked like. The world for him had become so many varying shades of gray. Yet he had learned to tell colors apart in the darkness—could recognize the red tunic of Security, the blue of Medical.

He had not slept at all, though he knew he had been awake more than twenty-four hours. How could he sleep, knowing that Mendez would be coming for him soon? He spent the day with his eyes open wide at the ceiling, seeing nothing, listening to the maddeningly patient scratching of the qefla and thinking of what to do.