STAR TREK - TNG - 44 - Death of Princes

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This is for Rachel Sapienza
Chapter One
“HE’S GOING TO BE ASSASSINATED!”
Starn’s lean face stared back at Maria Wallace as she leaned across his desk, her face flushed with
frustration and anger. His only concession to any form of emotion whatsoever was the slight arching of his
left eyebrow. “I understand that,” he replied.
“Do you?” It was impossible for her to keep her temper. No matter how long she worked with Vulcans,
she wouldnever understand why they considered a dispassionate nature a virtue. “Then what are we
going to do about it?”
For a moment, Starn did not reply. Finally, he blinked. “I believe we are simply retreading the same
ground we have already explored, Observer,” he commented. “If you have no further information to
impart, then you are dismissed.” He gestured at his desk, which was so clean it looked sterile. Knowing
his penchant for cleanliness, it might have been. “I am very busy, as I am sure you must realize.”
Maria took a deep breath and tried to control her temper. Blowing her top wouldn’t win any arguments
with a Vulcan. “What I realize is that a man will die if we don’t do something.”
Starn inclined his head slightly. “At this moment in time, many men are dying, and we do nothing,
Observer,” he pointed out. “Our function here is not to interfere but to observe. Hence your designation.
I would suggest that you return to your duties.”
“Doesn’t his deathmean anything to you?” she cried, wishing that she could kick or smash something.
“Of course it means something,” Starn answered. “I do not relish the death of any living creature, much
less that of a sentient being. And I know that First Citizen Farra Chal is, by any account, an insightful and
intelligent leader. I will regret his demise, if it should occur. But we are forbidden by the Prime Directive
to interfere in any way with this native culture. You knew this when you became a member of my team. I
would appreciate it if you returned to your former objectivity.”
How could she make him understand? He was so close, and yet so utterly far away at the same time!
“But Chal is the one person who could unify Iomides. Youknow that! If he lives, he’ll make this planet a
prime candidate for Federation membership.”
Starn nodded slightly. “I agree with your summation of the political situation here. Chal may well do as
you suggest, should he live. This assassination attempt on his life, if it succeeds, may well set back their
unification by decades, and perhaps longer.”
“Then surely you can see why wehave to stop it?” Maria cried, exasperated. “Not just for the sake of
Chal, but for the sake of the planet!”
The Vulcan shook his head minutely. “Surely you must see that we cannot do this. Allow me to posit an
analogy. What if we were to learn that he had a brain tumor, inoperable by current Iomidian technology
but easily corrected by a laser scalpel? Should we then kidnap him and perform this operation on him to
save his life?”
Maria hesitated barely a moment. “I think we should, yes.”
“And suppose he elects to go mountain climbing?” Starn continued. “A dangerous sport, and one where
he might easily break his neck. Should we then stop him from climbing for the sake of his planet?” Starn
spread his hands. “Observer, you must see that interference, once begun, has no foreseeable ending.”
When she was about to protest again, he held up a hand. “Enough. You clearly have a faulty
understanding of the significance of the Prime Directive. You appear to view it as an impediment to
action, when it is in fact a preventive against disaster. We will do nothing to alter the course of this
planet’s events. If the assassination takes place, then we will mourn the passing of a good and wise
leader.
“Meanwhile, I believe you should reread Morgan’sThe Prime Directive in Action to correct your
faulty perceptions of it. That will be all.”
Maria started to protest, but she could see from the look on Starn’s granite face that there would be
absolutely no point to it. With a frustrated growl, she whirled and stormed out of Starn’s office.
When she had agreed to join the Federation observation team here on Iomides, it had seemed like a
dream posting to her. It was a world on the rim of known space, where ships had only recently explored.
Only two planets in this sector had so far joined the Federation, and Iomides was poised to become the
third. It was standard practice for the Federation to establish an observation post on possible member
worlds, one that was hidden from the population of the planet. There a team of experts would monitor
the progress of the race, and evaluate them. The two prime requisites for membership in the Federation
of Planets was knowledge—no matter how rudimentary—of warp drive technology, and a planetary
government.
At this point, Iomides had neither. However, there was a supposedly top-secret laboratory in the city of
Mellim where a team of experts was on the verge of either discovering the first warp inversion field or of
blowing themselves and their small island base halfway across this solar system. The scientific experts
were pretty much split on which would occur first.
As for a planetary government . . . Chal was the brightest hope for this. He had been pressing for this
dream for decades, and now that he was First Citizen of Tornal, he was in a strong position to achieve
his dream and unify Iomides.
Unless he died first.
Maria’s specialty was economics, not politics, but she’d been studying all of the team’s reports on the
planet. Like almost everyone else on the observation team, she didn’t view this assignment merely as a
job but as a mission. They all desperately wanted Iomides to succeed and to become a part of the
Federation. The people here were, on the whole, pretty decent and friendly. The observers were able,
with a minimal amount of cosmetic surgery, to go out from time to time and walk among the people here.
It was a standard procedure, because more information could be gathered by informal personal contact
than by any amount of scanning. Maria had a small apartment on Tornal, and she had assumed an identity
there that she masqueraded under about once a standard month. She went out among her neighbors,
shopping, eating, talking—and she thoroughly enjoyed it. They were decent folk, who reminded her of
her neighbors from her hometown in Iowa, back on Earth.
Shewanted these people to be a part of the Federation. But if anything happened to Chal, the unification
movement would be dealt a potential deathblow.
She ignored her co-workers as she stormed through the corridors of the observation post, heading for
her small cubicle. She knew that Dr. Starn was right, and that the Prime Directive was, on the whole, the
best law on the Federation’s books. But Starn didn’t seem to understand that there were times when the
Directive had to be set aside. In special cases only, she knew, and not just when the whim struck you.
But she knew her history: Many starship captains had made judgment calls and deliberately ignored or
subverted the Prime Directive when the occasion called for it. True, in some cases the people involved
had made horrible mistakes and been reprimanded or even punished for their actions. But in many cases,
the Federation—and Starfleet in particular—had commended the actions of the captains involved. In
fact, some of those men and women were now legends at the Academy. Who hadn’t heard of Kirk,
Sulu, T’Shaar, Belak, or Gardner? They had made judgment calls and defied the Prime Directive when
they knew in their hearts that this was the right thing to do.
And Maria Wallace was absolutely convinced that, despite all his logic, Starn was wrong here. Allowing
Chal to be assassinated would not only be the worst possible thing to happen to the planet, it would also
be morally reprehensible.
She had reached her room now and entered it, locking the door behind her. She took a good look
around the tiny, cramped space and sighed. What she was about to do would certainly get her into very
serious trouble, but she had no choice. She moved to the closet and started to pull a few of her local
clothes out of it.
Maybe the Federation as such couldn’t get involved. Maybe Maria Wallace couldn’t. But Galia
Wade—the Iomidian identity she’d built up—could. All she had to do was to warn First Citizen Chal of
the details that she knew, and then fade away again. He could take it from there. And she was certain
that she could get to him. One of the lovers she’d taken while she was posing as Galia had worked for
Chal’s party, and he was highly placed enough to get a message to Chal that would be believed.
She stripped off every vestige of her Federation-issued clothing, with a wry smile. It seemed to be
symbolic. Then she dressed in her local clothing. She slung her bag over one shoulder, checking that it
still contained her keys and credit chips, and that her credit was still good for the amount she’d need to
draw on for this venture. One of the nice parts about being an economist was that she could . . . transfer .
. . any funds she needed in absolutely untraceable ways.
It would be nice to see Jamal again. She had pleasant memories of evenings and nights that she spent
with him. Though it was frowned upon to get involved with the locals in romantic relationships, it wasn’t
actually forbidden. And, unless she’d been monitored—which was very doubtful—nobody knew about
it, since she didn’t talk about her private life in the observation post. Sooner or later, even Starn was
going to get suspicious of her behavior, but she was certain that she’d have plenty of time to carry out her
plan before he could do anything to stop her. For all of his Vulcan brains, he wasn’t really a very creative
person. It would be a while before he’d even miss her, and even longer before he suspected what she
was doing.
Feeling better now that she had made her decision, Maria strode down the corridor and to the outer
security door. She nodded amiably to the guard on duty, a woman whose name she couldn’t even recall.
“Your turn again, Maria?” the guard asked.
“Yes,” Maria answered. “Lucky me, eh? A short break before another round of number crunching.”
“Better you than me,” agreed the woman cheerfully. “I’d hate all that analysis. I like things simple.” She
tapped in the code to dephase the outer door.
“Okay, you’re all set.”
“See you in a few days,” Maria lied, as she stepped through the electronic curtain. The last thing she saw
was the guard’s casual wave, and then she was through the phase shield and standing on the hillside
overlooking a small wood.
The post was completely invisible behind her now. It had been constructed into the side of this hill, out in
the wilds. It was sufficiently far from the nearest town so that it wouldn’t be stumbled upon, but close
enough to be able to catch local ground transportation into the city center. No matter how much a local
might search for the post, it was completely secure behind the electronic shields that disguised it.
Not, of course, that anyone on this planet even suspected that aliens were actually here. Well, aside from
the local flying saucer nuts that every pre-space-faring world seemed to spawn, and nobody much took
them seriously.
Maria hitched her bag over her shoulder and started down the hill toward the road about a mile away.
She’d made her decision now, and she would go through with it. Whatever Starn or the Federation might
say, she couldn’t simply sit back and do nothing. She had to help Chal.
She had to break the Prime Directive—and let the future decide whether she was a heroine or a fool.
Chapter Two
“TEA. EARLGREY. HOT.”
As soon as his specified brew had materialized, Captain Jean-Luc Picard walked across his ready room
sipping at it. Its creation was one of those daily miracles of life aboard theU.S.S. Enterprise that he
sometimes had to force himself not to take for granted. The perfect cup of tea at precisely the correct
temperature at any time that he desired it was definitely something to savor and appreciate.
He sat down at his desk and started to glance through the reports. It was a routine task that had to be
done, but one that he knew would all sum up to one sentence: Everything was in order on this ship of his.
If everything hadn’t been in order, he would have been informed of it in person. “Of the writing of books,
there is no end,” he murmured, quoting the Book of Proverbs wryly. “Or reports, either, it seems.”
Taking another sip, he then placed his cup down and started to read the first of the reports.
As he had known, it boiled down to the fact that everything was fine.
The same applied to the next seventeen reports that he gamely plodded through. By this point, he’d
finished his tea and was contemplating having a second brew. It would be an indulgence, but he needed
help in getting through the pile of papers.
His desk communicator chimed. With a sigh of relief, he called out: “Picard here.” He didn’t much care
what it was, he was sincerely glad of the interruption.
“There is an incoming transmission for you from Starfleet Command,” came the gravelly tones of Worf.
“It is marked as most urgent.”
Picard straightened up in his chair. “Put it through to me here, please, Mr. Worf.”
“Aye, sir.”
A second later, the communicator panel on his desk lit up with the Starfleet logo blinking to show a
transmission was being received. Then Admiral Halsey’s face blinked into existence. She looked tired
and more than slightly irritated—pretty much how she always looked, whether she was declaring
disasters or handing out commendations. “Captain,” she said, nodding slightly. “I trust your crew would
not be averse to fresh orders at this moment?”
Picard suppressed a smile. They had been mapping protostars for eight days, and most of the crew was
getting bored of the constant views of gassy clouds. Worf, for example, had been holding practice drills
for his security team and demanding a five-percent increase in reaction times. He was driven by a
frustration that most of the crew probably shared. “Well, Admiral,” he answered carefully, “I suspect that
stellar cartography would be the only department aboard that wouldn’t exactly bless your name.”
“It’s always hard to keep them happy,” Halsey answered, with no trace of humor in her tone. “And they
won’t like this either, I’m afraid. TheEnterprise is ordered diverted immediately to the Buran System,
Captain. Coordinates are being relayed as we speak. You are to head there at maximum warp and
prepare to render all medical assistance possible.”
Picard raised his eyebrows. “May I ask what, precisely, we will be heading into?”
“A plague, Captain.” Halsey sighed, and ran a hand through her short, graying hair. “The Buran are
suffering terribly from a highly virulent plague that is apparently one hundred percent lethal to anyone
infected. The death tolls are staggering, and Starfleet has promised all possible assistance in this
situation.”
“Of course.” Picard nodded slowly. “I’ll have my medical staff begin work, and head for Buran
immediately.”
“There’s one more thing, Jean-Luc.”
He narrowed his eyes and stared at the admiral’s image. There wasalways “one more thing.” “Yes?” he
prompted.
“I don’t know if you know much about the Burani,” she replied, and waited for an answer.
Thinking hard, Picard shrugged. “They’re a relatively new race to have joined the Federation, I believe,”
he answered. “Within the last two years, if I recall correctly. Nothing more than that, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve hit on the salient point,” Halsey informed him. “They were inducted eighteen standard months
ago. An Andorian trader recently stopped at their world, and the plague began immediately after this
visit. The Burani vote to join the Federation was almost evenly split, Captain, and there seem to be a lot
of them who feel that it was a bad move. Some of the more vocal opponents of Federation membership
are claiming that the plague came from the Andorians, and they’re screaming for Buran to pull out of the
Federation.”
Picard frowned. “Is that possible?” he asked.
“That they might pull out? Yes. That the Andorians somehow transmitted the disease?” She shrugged.
“That will be up to you and your crew to discover, Captain.” She paused. “As you probably know,
Starfleet is actively seeking footholds in this sector to strengthen our borders. Buran is quite important to
us, since there is only one other world already in the Federation in that area of space. And three others
under scrutiny. If Buran should pull out—or worse, decide to ally itself instead with the Romulans—it
would weaken our presence in the sector severely.” She paused. “Not to mention, of course, the terrible
consequences of this plague from a humanitarian perspective.”
“I understand,” Picard said softly. “We will, of course, do everything in our power to address both
aspects of the situation.”
“I know you will, Jean-Luc,” Halsey answered, a faint smile showing. “You have a good crew and a fine
reputation. All relevant files are being transmitted to you now. Good luck. Halsey out.” The screen
reverted to the Starfleet logo, and Picard tapped it off.
He strode immediately to the door, and then onto the bridge. Despite the routine nature of their current
mission, it was a hive of activity as always. “Mr. Data,” he called as he marched across to his command
chair. “You should be receiving new coordinates from Starfleet. As soon as they are in, set a course for
the Buran System at maximum warp.”
Commander Riker moved swiftly from the captain’s chair to his own as Picard approached. “Trouble,
sir?” he asked.
“Yes indeed, Number One.” Picard checked the displays in the chair arms, noting that everything was
still copacetic. “Plague.” He tapped the communicator panel. “Bridge to sickbay.”
“Crusher here,” came the reply a moment later.
“We’re receiving data from Starfleet at this moment,” he informed her. “As soon as it’s complete,
download it and examine it. We’re heading for Buran and a plague situation. There will be an officers’
meeting in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready for it,” Beverly promised, and then signed off.
Picard glanced up at his android officer. “Mr. Data, please stand down and review all current files on
Buran and prepare a presentation.”
Data rose smoothly from his seat. “Certainly, Captain.” He nodded as Lieutenant Van Popering took his
place. “I shall begin immediately.” He headed for the science station.
Sighing, Picard sat back in his command chair. “This isn’t going to be very pleasant, Number One,” he
commented. “The plague is apparently highly infectious and almost inevitably fatal.”
Riker nodded, a slight frown on his face. “Will any of our personnel be at risk?” he asked.
It was the same question that Picard had been asking himself. “We’ll have to wait for the briefing and
hear what Beverly’s opinion is,” he admitted. “We can only pray that it’s a very specific disease. It won’t
do anyone any good if our relief teams were to come down with this thing as well.” He stared at the
starscape on the main viewer, and then called out: “How long until we reach the Buran System?”
“At present speed, three days, sir,” Van Popering replied promptly.
“I wish it were sooner,” Picard muttered. “Who knows what hell those poor people are going through?”
There was death everywhere. J’Kara stared about the ward, his eyes peering through the contamination
suit with difficulty. The suit was designed to protect its wearer from infection, but that was about all. It
had been a rush job, and the designers had evidently not taken into account humidity from the wearer’s
breath. The supposedly clear plastic lenses over each of his eyes were fogging over already. It made the
nightmarish sight all around J’Kara look blurred and even worse.
This was simply a temporary hospital—if “hospital” was the right word. It was little more than a waiting
place for the dead-to-be. There were over three hundred patients here, all in terminal stages of the
plague. Their sore-encrusted bodies oozed puss from their joints. Their feathers had molted, leaving
glaring, palid patches of infected skins. Their eyes were rheumy and milk-white where the disease ate at
their corneas. Each breath was a labored, long, painful wheeze.
His heart felt as though it would burst. Three hundred of his nestlings in here, all of them dying. And this
was only one of forty temporary hospitals set up in the capital. The overall numbers of the infected were
appalling.
J’Kara walked slowly into the ward, trying to avoid breathing too much. It was partly to avoid steaming
up his mask’s lenses and partly a foolish but strong revulsion against smelling the air in here. Since his suit
had its own self-contained air supply, that was stupid, but he couldn’t prevent the thought. Heknew the
place must reek horribly from the open sores on the victims.
“My prince,” came a crackling voice over his radio link, “again I tell you that you really should not be
here.”
“Where else should I be?” asked J’Kara bitterly. “At home, feasting and pretending that all is well with
my world? Doctor, when my people suffer, I suffer with them.” He sighed. “This is appalling.”
“We do the best we can,” the doctor beside him assured him hurriedly, wringing his hands together in
despair. “It is just that—”
“I meant no accusation against you or your staff,” J’Kara interrupted. “I can see that you are doing all
that you possibly can. More, in fact, than anyone has a right to expect. It is the situation that upsets me,
not your treatment. It is appalling that anyone should have to suffer and die like this.”
The doctor nodded, relief showing even through his smoky mask. “It is dreadful, my prince,” he agreed.
“We should never have joined that cursed Federation. This is all their fault.”
That angered J’Kara. “You are an educated man,” he said sternly. “I had not expected to hear such
foolish speculation from you. This plague cannot be connected in any way with our decision to join the
Federation. In fact, a starship has been dispatched to help us and will arrive in a few days. With their
technology, they should be able to help us to recover from this plague.”
The doctor didn’t immediately reply. J’Kara could see that he wanted to do so, but that he was racked
with indecision. “Well,” the prince said with a sigh, “out with it. What is it that you don’t like? Don’t
worry, this won’t go any further than the two of us.”
“Are you sure,” the doctor asked slowly, “that the Federation will be coming to help us? They may
simply be intending to check up on how well their work is progressing. They may only be pretending to
offer us aid.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” J’Kara snapped. “Why should the Federation have caused this plague? I don’t
know how that stupid rumor ever began, and I don’t know why anyone believes it to be true. What
possible motivation would our allies have to inflict such terrible devastation upon us?”
“Forgive me, my prince, for saying this,” the doctor answered. “But you must hear it, obviously. There
are many who believe as I do, that the Federation is not our friend. They covet our world because we
are on the border between them and their enemies, the Romulans. They wish to fortify our planet and turn
us into a war zone.”
“That is ridiculous,” J’Kara said coldly. “First of all, we have a treaty that states the Federation will
import no weapons to our world unless we specifically request them. And, second, you know that my
father would never allow our world to be so used.”
“Precisely,” agreed the doctor, triumphantly.“That is why the Federation has caused this plague. They
hope to either wipe us out completely and then resettle our world with their own soldiers, or to devastate
us to such a great degree that we will have to allow them tohelp us to rebuild—in their image.”
J’Kara felt his feathers rising as his anger grew. “Is this nonsense what passes for logic nowadays?” he
cried. “If the Federation wanted to wipe us out, they need never have contacted us first to offer us their
friendship. They could have performed all of this”—he waved his hand about the death ward—“while
hidden in orbit waiting for us to die. They could have completely hidden their existence. You and others
like you are victims of foolishness and paranoia. The Federation is our friend and will prove itself when
theirStarship Enterprise arrives.”
The doctor nodded and bowed slightly. “I can only pray that your belief in their goodness is correct, my
prince,” he said unctuously. “Because I must tell you frankly that the medical community of Buran cannot
stop this plague. The rate of infection is growing, and those who are infected will die. In a month or less,
every last living Burani will be infected. In two months, our entire race will no longer exist.”
Two months . . . J’Kara stared around the ward in horror. In two months or less, his whole world would
be like this, without exception. Only pain, suffering, horror, and then, finally, death to look forward to.
It was Hell indeed.
Chapter Three
THE MOOD IN THE BRIEFING ROOMwas grim. Picard nodded for his senior staff to be seated as
he took his place at the head of the table. “I’m sure that you’ve all heard by now that we have
abandoned our charting mission and rerouted to the Buran star system,” he began, looking at the serious
faces around the table. Data appeared as attentive as ever. Worf, the Klingon security chief, was as
always grim. Very little made him smile—and when he did, it was often a prelude to battle. On the other
hand, the rest of his senior staff tended to be pretty lighthearted as a rule. It was impossible to feel that
way in the present circumstances.
Deanna Troi, the ship’s counselor, was frowning. Beside her, Will Riker scowled at the padd in front of
him that he’d been studying. Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge’s face was tight, his eyes invisible behind
his omnipresent VISOR. Grimmest of them all—aside from Picard himself—was Beverly Crusher, the
ship’s chief medical officer. She had very good cause to be so serious.
“Doctor, could you fill us all in on what you know about the plague?” Picard inquired.
“Of course.” Beverly was all business. She glanced occasionally at her own padd as she spoke, but
she’d memorized most of her presentation. “Most of you won’t know a lot about the Burani, since
they’re very recent members of the Federation. They’re basically an ornithoid species, having descended
from avian ancestors.” She tapped the padd and a small hologram sprang into being above the
conference table, showing a typical Burani. “They’re about two meters tall,” Beverly explained. “Body
structure is similar to Terran bird-forms, though their legs are more humanoid than avian. They’re
light-boned and large-brained. Their wings are functional—Buran has a surface gravity only about point
four Earth normal and a thick atmosphere. They don’t fly well—they glide, mostly. Their wings end in a
three-fingered hand with an opposable thumb.
“On the whole, they’re a pretty robust race, even given their light body structure. However, they are
being ravaged by a plague that has sprung into existence only in the past few months. I have virtually no
details about it except for some news footage of victims. The disease is proving to be very difficult to
trace for the Burani, and impossible to treat. Their medical knowledge is fairly advanced, though not yet
up to Federation standards. I understand that there has been some resistance from the population to
assimilating Federation technology, and that resistance is undoubtedly hampering their medical efforts.
“No cause or origin for the disease has yet been discovered. We don’t know how it’s transmitted, or if it
is even possible to cure it. Once we arrive, we’re going to have to take down several medical teams
immediately and begin scanning for everything we need.” She glanced back at Picard.
“I have to ask,” he said gently, “whether there is any risk of our people becoming infected once we
reach Buran.”
Beverly chewed at her lip. “I don’t have a lot of data about Burani biochemistry,” she said finally.
“They’re a very insular race and haven’t allowed much probing by outsiders. What I have seen, though,
suggests that their biological makeup is quite different from humans. It is my belief that any disease that
affects them will not be transmittable to humans, or to most of the other species on this ship.” She tapped
the table beside her padd. “There are, however, thirty-four crew members of avian or near-avian
descent. I would advise that none of them be allowed to beam down to the planet or to contact anyone
who has until I can be certain. I’m also recommending that the initial teams who beam down for contact
wear biohazard suits until we can be absolutely certain that there will be no cross-contamination.”
“Understood,” Picard said with some relief. Even if there were a danger of infection, he still would have
proceeded with the mission. It would have been unthinkably inhumane to have done otherwise. But his
first responsibility was the lives of his crew, and he wanted them to be as protected as possible during
this errand of mercy. “Data, could you give us some background for this mission?”
“Certainly, Captain.” Data looked about the table. “The Burani have evolved a highly technical and
intricate civilization, which is slowly unraveling as this plague strikes. Their cities tend to be vertically
planned, with access to the skies from all buildings, and many high points for gliding takeoffs.
“Their world was discovered by the Vulcan StarshipSarek three standard years ago. The Burani were
even then united under a single ruler, named T’Fara. They had limited space travel within their own star
system, and were experimenting with warp technology. As a result, the usual period of observation was
waived and contact made almost immediately. What followed was a yearlong debate and then a vote by
the Burani on whether their world should join the Federation.
“Their world contains a number of large and sometimes very deadly predators. Some of these the Burani
had wiped out, but others still exist. It would seem that there are conservationists who argue that to wipe
out the predators would be unethical, while their opponents believe that it is better to annihilate them all,
for safety reasons. The Federation has remained neutral on the issue, naturally. However, the Burani are,
as a result of historic predator attacks, an insular and suspicious people. Though there were evident
advantages to be gained from Federation membership, many of the Burani strongly favored isolation
instead. In the end, the vote was very close, but with a 52.745-percent majority, the world did become a
member of the Federation eighteen standard months ago.
“There still remains a great deal of discomfort with this decision, and there would appear to be an
upswing in membership of isolationist groups. If the plague continues much longer, this group may force a
revote and then retract Buran’s membership.”
Beverly leaned forward slightly. “If this plague continues, Data,” she observed, “then that will be the least
of their worries. Their figures on the plague indicate that it will infect everyone on their world within two
months. The Burani won’t be isolated—they’ll be extinct.”
Picard winced at this news. “So,” he summed up, “we seem to have a very volatile situation on our
hands here. We have to offer medical assistance to a race that does not really trust us. It isn’t going to be
easy.”
“There is more, Captain,” Data said. “I regret that it complicates the issue further.”
“Proceed, Mr. Data.”
The android nodded. “The plague’s outbreak began some two days after an Andorian trader stopped
off at the world. From the video broadcasts that I have scanned, it would appear that many Burani
ascribe the plague to the Andorian visit.”
Beverly scowled. “You’re saying they think they caught the plague from theAndorians?”
“That is one interpretation they appear to be favoring,” Data agreed cautiously. “Those who favor this
belief appear to be in two camps: one believes that it is an accidental infection; the other believes it was
deliberately induced.”
“Deliberately?” Riker leaned forward, his scowl intensifying. “You’re saying that some of the Burani
believe that the Andoriansintentionally caused this plague?”
Data nodded. “It would appear that this is a view held by approximately twenty-four percent of the
population, if the video broadcasts are to be believed.”
“What is your opinion on this subject, Doctor?” Picard asked Beverly.
“You mean about the feasibility, I assume,” Beverly replied. “The idea that anyone would be low enough
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ThisisforRachelSapienzaChapterOne“HE’SGOINGTOBEASSASSINATED!”Starn’sleanfacestaredbackatMariaWallaceassheleanedacrosshisdesk,herfaceflushedwithfrustrationandanger.Hisonlyconcessiontoanyformofemotionwhatsoeverwastheslightarchingofhislefteyebrow.“Iunderstandthat,”hereplied.“Doyou?”Itwasimpossibleforhe...

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