"How's he doing, Q'Nil?"
The words drifted distantly, touching and slowly stirring his consciousness. K'Ronarin, he thought. Bluff, gruff. D'Trelna.
McShane opened his eyes.
"He's coming around now, Commodore."
D'Trelna stood at the foot of the bed, round face concerned. Beside him, thin and detached, Medtech Q'Nil was checking life readings off the unit's medscan. The three were alone in a small, cheery room, walls done in warm earth tones with matching bed coverlet.
"I didn't die," said Bob hoarsely.
"Close," said Q'Nil. Stepping around the bed he poured water from a carafe into a disposable cup, handing it to McShane.
Nodding his thanks, the professor downed it in two loud gulps. "How long have I been out?"
"Two weeks," said D'Trelna as S'Nil took the cup, tossing it into the disposer with an economical flip of his wrist.
"You took a blaster bolt through the chest," said Q'Nil. "Plus shock and some complications. Otherwise, you'd have been up sooner.''
Bob pulled open the front of his green bed gown. A patch of curly gray chest hair was missing, but the skin was smooth and seamless. "What complications?"
"A nasty viral infection," said Q'Nil. "Surely you're aware of it?"
"I have cancer," said Bob evenly. "Is that what you mean?"
"Whatever you call it," said Q'Nil. "We flushed it- took a few days. Very elusive, very adept at hiding from the immuno system. Altering one of its proteins, though, strips its camouflage. We introduced an antigen that did that, then kept you under while your body cleaned up."
Barefeet slapping onto the cold gray deck, McShane was out of the bed, gripping a surprised Q'Nil. "My God, man! You can cure cancer?"
"If we couldn't, you wouldn't be bruising my arm, Professor."
"Sorry," he said, letting go. "It's just that I expected to wake up dead, as my granddaughter says."
"Nothing wrong with your right hand," said Q'Nil, rubbing his left tricep. "How's the rest of you feel?"
"Great. Wonderful!" Vibrant, his voice filled the room. "Better than I have in months." He threw his arms above his head, then bent to touch his toes. "I couldn't have done that a few weeks ago.
"Are there side effects?"
Q'Nil nodded somberly.
"What?" asked Bob, voice suddenly tight.
"You may experience some flatulence."
"That's it?"
"That's it," said Q'Nil. "Now, if you'll excuse me, others await my healing touch." He left, the door hissing shut after him.
Bob sat down on the edge of the bed-sat down hard and was silent for a moment. "I'm alive and others are not," he said finally, studying the backs of his hands. "Is it because we're friends, J'Quel?"
"You are alive. Others are alive," said D'Trelna. "Not because we're friends, but because the Fleet of the Republic has extended aid and comfort to all casualties of the battle of the portal."
McShane smiled ruefully. "Sorry, J'Quel. I'm a pious old coot."
"You're not that old."
"You are going to release this discovery to Terra?"
"Sent it down to Liaison in New York five days ago," said D'Trelna. "They've forwarded it to all accredited Terran legations."
Bob shook his head. "There's a bloated medical bureaucracy with a vested interest in not having this released. Unless pressure can be brought…"
D'Trelna smiled his Cheshire smile.
"What have you done, J'Quel?'
"I felt a senior officer should personally transmit this marvelous discovery to Liaison. In the absence of Captain L'Wrona, I undertook that duty. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar with some of the communications protocols. The transmission was in the clear, in all known Terran languages on every operable voice and data frequency."
"These things happen," said Bob, eyes sparkling.
D'Trelna nodded sadly. "True, true. I will no doubt be reprimanded, should anyone be stupid enough to complain."
"And the reaction?"
"Tumult. Jubilation. Crowds. Demands.
"Q'Nil says the antigen is easily made and will work on all viral variants. Clinics are being set up to supplement existing medical facilities. Three months"-he puffed his cheeks-"pouff. No more cancer."
"You're a good man, D'Trelna," said McShane.
"True," said the commodore. Turning to the wall locker, he tossed boots and brown duty uniform onto the bed. "Get dressed. Fresh Kansas steak awaits in my quarters."
Tugging the boots on, McShane was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger in his belly.
"Wine, Bob?"
"Just a tad. I'd better not overdo it."
D'Trelna poured from the graceful, long-necked bottle, topping McShane's delicate crystal goblet. Dining alone, the two sat at the big t'raq-wood table inImplacahle's spacious flag quarters.
"Delightful," said McShane, savoring the wine's rich, tangy bouquet. "From what strange vineyard under what far, exotic sun?" he asked. Holding the goblet up to the armorglass wall, he watched the crimson liquid catch the starlight.
D'Trelna read the label. "Modesto, California."
"A passable burgundy," said McShane, setting the goblet down.
"So, they got through the portal and that's all we know?"
Nodding, D'Trelna sliced off another wedge of medium-rare porterhouse. "That's all we know. Portal's still down, Fleet reinforcements are due shortly." He frowned, steak halfway to his mouth. "I don't know how long I can hold that flotilla here. The Confederation's a mess. Liberated planets are in dire need of everything, S'Cotar ships still attack understrength convoys. We even have pirates." He chewed the steak.
"Pirates?" said Bob, eyes widening. "Honest-to-God space pirates?"
"Honest-to-God space pirates-corsairs. Units that escaped the S'Cotar, lived off badly needed supply convoys during the war and are now raiding the liberated quadrants. Most of them are pre-war Fleet-rotten before the shooting started."
"Lovely. Will you be the senior-officer-present when your reinforcements arrive?"
"No."
"So if there's no crisis, off they go?"
"Correct," said D'Trelna. Finishing the last piece of steak, the commodore leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed, hands clasped over his belly. He sighed contentedly.
"You're taking this all very well, D'Trelna," said McShane suspiciously.
"I think I know how we can getImplacable and any fresh ships to Terra Two." Pushing back his chair, he walked to the armorglass. Hands behind his back, he stood looking out into space. "Or rather, I know who may know the way." He turned back to Bob. "I'd like you to come. It may involve some risk."
Bob sipped his wine. "Tell me about it."
Startled, K'Raoda looked up to see a warsuited D'Trelna at his elbow, belted MK 1A blaster at his waist, M32 blastrifle slung over his right shoulder. "Commodore! What…" he said, swiveling in the command chair.
"Should anyone ask, T'Lei," said D'Trelna, oblivious to the stares of the bridge crew, "especially Ambassador Z'Sha or FleetOps, I am indisposed. A raging fever of unknown origin has left me a useless, gibbering mass. Sick Bay has logged the necessary entries. As acting captain you have, of course, quarantinedImplacable. Oh, and Bob McShane," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, to where McShane stood, armed and suited, "Bob McShane is still deathly ill. Clear?"
"Quite. May I ask where you're going?"
"Ghost hunting on Terra's Moon. We hope to be back."
"Luck," said K'Raoda as the two left. D'Trelna waved absently.
"There's only one thing left down there," said T'Ral as the bridge doors slid shut.
"I know," nodded K'Raoda.
"But it's dead. Dead and empty."
K'Raoda smiled thinly. "Empty of people, certainly. Dead…" He shrugged. "That's a lot of fire power to take into a tomb."
He waited until the shuttle cleared hangar deck, a stubby silver craft flashing past the bridge.
"Computer. Senior officer designating medical emergency."
"Nature of medical emergency?" said the pleasant contralto.
"Crew member stricken by fever of undetermined origin."
"Medical department corroborates," said computer after a second. "Fever of undetermined origin. Advise general quarantine."
"Agreed," said K'Raoda. "Shipwide," he said. Computer switched him intoImplacable's general address net.
"Alert. Alert." K'Raoda's voice echoed through the great old ship. "This is Commander K'Raoda, Acting-Captain. Medical quarantine is now in effect. Medical quarantine is now in effect. We have a minor contagion of Terran origin. Until it's diagnosed, there'll be no more shore leave." He could almost hear the groans sweeping the corridors. "Crew now on Terra will have to remain there. Weekly leave party having just left, we'll be on double watches until Medical gives the all clear. Out."
"Whatever D'Trelna's up to," said T'Ral, "better be worth it. This leaves half the crew on Terra, the rest of us up here on double watch. If anything happens…"
K'Raoda turned, blue eyes meeting T'Ral's gray ones. "Reinforcements will be here soon. Meanwhile, if anything- untoward-happens, we can always do a computer tie to weapons."
T'Ral frowned. "You know what Fleet Regs say on that." The Fourth Dynasty forward had avoided problems with intelligent machinery by carefully restricting AI to necessary uses. Computers processed data. And there were no robots. Period.
"The option exists," said K'Raoda, keeping his voice low. "This is an Imperial warship. If you can't get our programming overlay to selectively revert, Y'Tan, I can."
The tactics officer shrugged. "We're beating a corpse, T'Lei. It's not going to happen."
"Let's hope not. Meanwhile, you have the pleasure of telling Ambassador Z'Sha that we've a quarantine." He stifled the other's protest with upraised palm. "No, no. I've got to compose a message about this to Fleet."
"But, T'Lei…!"
"Just tell him that the two junior officers whom he called 'Filthy, revolting animals' during the UN victory reception…"
T'Ral closed his eyes, pained. "I swear, all I remember is our dancing naked. I can't recall the women, the fountain or the horse."
"Assure him that these same two junior officers have the defense of the planet well in hand." T'Ral opened his eyes. "He's going to go crazy."
"I know," smiled K'Raoda, nodding.