Reap the Whirlwind

A troubled look lingered on Okagawa’s face. “What about the colonists, sir? If a Klingon battle cruiser on their doorstep doesn’t convince them to leave, then what?”

“Then nothing,” Reyes said. His weathered face slackened with dour resignation. “If they won’t ask for help, there’s nothing we can do for them. Once you have our people aboard, pull back to safe distance and stay out of it.”

“That seems pretty harsh,” Fisher said, sounding more irate than he had intended. “Why not tell them the truth? That something really powerful is going to kill them if they don’t get out of there?”

In an arch tone that rankled Fisher, Jetanien replied, “And how do you propose we explain our wealth of knowledge about their predicament, Doctor? The colonists would no doubt ask us to cite previous encounters with these entities. They would inquire about the nature of these beings: Are they intelligent? What do they want? Can they be bargained with? In every case we would find ourselves unable to answer, lest we divulge the entirety of Operation Vanguard.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fisher said. “Those colonists’ lives are in danger. They have a right to know.”

“Perhaps,” said T’Pry

Suddenly, Fisher felt like the only sane person in the room. Indignant, he said to T’Pry

“Not necessarily,” T’Pry

“If we betray our knowledge of the entities the Tholians call ‘Shedai’ in order to save the colonists on Gamma Tauri IV, the Klingons will manufacture a public outcry about our ‘secret programs’ to undermine civilians’ trust in Starfleet and the Federation. Our ability to continue our investigation will be compromised, while the Klingons will be able to justify their own efforts as a reaction to our own.”

Fisher was fuming as he looked to Reyes. “Am I hearing this right, Commodore? We’d let eleven thousand people die on Gamma Tauri to make sure the Klingons don’t embarrass us?”

Reyes sighed. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Doctor. You’ve seen the potential in the meta-genome—hell, you showed us how to unlock part of it.” He reclined regally in his chair. “Now, I could be wrong about this, but I’m pretty sure that whoever figures out the meta-genome first is go

Heavy silence fell over the room. Realizing that he was outnumbered by people just as stubborn as himself, Fisher grimaced and shook his head. “Rationalize it, explain it, justify it any way you like,” he said. “It still adds up to letting i

A low rumbling sound percolated inside Jetanien’s broad chest. Then the Chelon ambassador said, “May I make a suggestion, Commodore?”

“Please,” Reyes said, sounding both weary and curious.

Jetanien grasped the lapels of his robe and said, “It is likely that the Shedai attacked the Starfleet survey perso

Reyes nodded. “Fair enough.” He looked at Fisher. “Sound okay to you, Doctor?”

“I still think it stinks,” Fisher said, glancing at the data card in his hand. “But I can live with it.”

“Then you’d better get to work,” Reyes said, “because your report’ll decide what we do next.”

Dr. M’Benga shivered slightly as he entered the chilly confines of the morgue. Located on the lowest level of Vanguard Hospital, the morgue was a place that M’Benga disliked visiting—not out of superstition but to avoid being reminded of those times when all his knowledge and all of Starfleet’s formidable medical science simply wasn’t enough, the times when death bested them.

Hunched over an angled viewer in front of the morgue’s main computer bank, Dr. Ezekiel Fisher looked lost in his work, staring with unblinking intensity into the greenish illumination of the device’s recessed screen. He didn’t seem to register the sound of M’Benga’s footsteps as the younger physician walked over to join him. Even after M’Benga was right next to him, Fisher continued staring into the viridian glow. A half-empty mug of coffee sat to Fisher’s right; a semi-congealed swirl of artificial dairy product coated its surface. Fisher reached across the console without looking up, grabbed a blue data card from a stack of cards, and inserted it into a slot.

Trying to interrupt without breaking Fisher’s chain of thought by speaking, M’Benga covered his closed mouth with his fist and made a few low, throat-clearing coughs.

Fisher peeked sideways at him. “I knew you were there, Jabilo,” he said. “No need to be coy.”

“My apologies, sir,” M’Benga said. “I can see you’re busy.”

Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Fisher sighed. “What brings you downstairs?”

“T’Pry

The chief medical officer turned his back to the console and leaned against its edge. “I sent them over two days ago. Did you get them?”

“Yes, sir,” M’Benga said. “I reviewed them at length.”

Crossing his arms, Fisher said, “And?”

“They’re suspiciously perfect,” M’Benga said. “From her adolescence through the present, her records paint her as the picture of health.”

Fisher shrugged. “Vulcans take good care of themselves.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I interned on Vulcan. So I know from experience that they suffer illnesses, just like everyone else. But according to T’Pry

“You talked to her?” Fisher asked. “Did you have her come in for a physical and a history like I told you?”

M’Benga nodded. “Yes, I did. And I didn’t find anything wrong…at first.”

Suspicion creased Fisher’s wrinkled brow. “Meaning?”

“When I compared the history she gave me with the file you sent over, they matched—perfectly. I know Vulcans often display eidetic memories, but how many know their own medical files word for word?” He offered Fisher the data slate he was carrying. “So I compared the data from her physical with her history. They don’t line up.” Pointing out several items, he continued, “She says she suffered dozens of minor injuries during her years of service in security and intelligence, but look at the numbers on those fractures and deep-tissue scars. Those injuries were all inflicted at the same time—approximately fifty to fifty-five years ago, either before or while she was a cadet.”