A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [65]
Burtin remained silent. He had said about all he could. Now it was up to the first officer.
“I think,” Riker said finally, “that our best course is to stay put-at least for the time being.” He glanced in the direction of Fredi and Vanderventer. “But I want you to keep me posted. Let me know if anyone else comes down with the disease-or if it mutates again. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Burtin. “However, I’m going to have to file my request in the medical log. That’s procedure.”
The first officer’s expression softened. “I have no problem with that. Do as you see fit, Doctor.”
And he turned to go.
“Commander?” said Burtin.
Riker stopped, looked at him over his shoulder.
“Sorry to put you in this position,” said the doctor. “I know we don’t know each other very well yet-but I’m not the kind of doctor who can’t see the big picture. I know you’ve got your priorities.”
The first officer smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve given me a new sense of urgency. I should thank you.”
And with that, he strode out of sickbay-a man with a purpose. The double doors slid closed behind him.
Burtin felt a tightness in his neck; he massaged it.
He had known in advance what Riker’s decision would be. He’d likely have made the same one if it had been him sitting in the command chair.
Probably, it had been a sign of panic on his part to make his request official. To include it in the log. Would Pulaski have done the same thing-or was he overreacting to something he should have been able to take in stride?
Hell, there was still a chance that he’d find the cure before too long. That is, if he got some work done instead of jawing with the first officer.
Sighing, Burtin headed back to the lab.
Days before, some of Worf’s comrades had made an attempt to sneak into the fortress-concealed in the enemy’s supply wagons. Apparently, that attempt had failed.
Now, they were using a more straightforward approach: a siege. Various raiding parties-including what was left of his own-had spilled out of the hills and coalesced on the road to this place. Before long, more than a hundred of them had come to hunker down outside the walls, eyeing the fortress as a hunting beast eyes its natural prey.
The ladders arrived not much later, transported in sections on mountain-worthy carts. The carts were driven by scrawny beings who wore no armor and carried no weapons but who put each ladder together before turning around and moving off again.
Worf wondered at the precision of it all, the sense of organization. Who had sent out the runners to gather the troops? Who had arranged for the delivery of the ladders? It was even rumored that a battering ram was on its way-a tale told by the most experienced in the camp, who claimed they’d had occasion to use such a tool in other sieges.
On the other hand, none of them had ever seen an assembly of warriors as large as this one. It was unprecedented, they claimed-unheard of.
“Things are changing,” grunted the veteran in Worf’s circle, as they dipped their naked hands in the common gruel pot. His name was Harr’h; his tiny pink eyes were barely visible beneath an immense mane of spiky, black hair. He sniffed the wind through the slit that served him as a nose. “If I didn’t know it, I could smell it.”
Someone leaned forward to scoop out another handful of the thin, tasteless porridge. “What do you mean? Changing how?”
Of all those the Klingon had encountered, Harr’h’s memory was by far the longest. Certainly, there were veterans who were older than he was, and who looked it. But of everyone in camp, Harr’h had spent the most time here-as a warrior.
It garnered him a certain amount of respect.
“We fight more often now,” he observed, meeting Worf’s gaze for a moment over the gruel pot-another item that had arrived in the wagons. “Also, in bigger groups. There is more death, more blood.”
“Is that bad?” asked another in their circle. He laughed