• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Epilogue

THE CRAMPED LITTLE SICKBAY on board the Saskatoon had never seen so much fame. Over a matter of a couple of days, the midsection of a combat support tender had become the center of the universe. Starfleet’s Lord High Oracle Leonard McCoy and its state-of-the-art shamanness Beverly Crusher were collaborating with every medical facility within comm range. The first several attempts at synthesizing a serum failed, but only by tiny fractions. Gradually the fractions became smaller, and hope swelled.

Busy as he was with construction, Stiles broke away from his crew on the evening of the second day, and with an admitted rush of nerves went to check on Zevon’s progress.

Zevon lay on the portable diagnostic couch that McCoy had ordered brought in. He was clearly in some pain from whatever treatments the doctors were giving him. Sykora was at his side. She hadn’t been able to leave the chamber all this time. After all, she was the center of the center of the universe.

In the small sickbay, Dr. Crusher was bending over a cache of tubes, vials, beakers, microprocessors, and analytical equipment they’d had shipped in. Engrossed in her work, she didn’t even look up when Stiles came in.

McCoy hovered nearby, peering at a colored liquid in a test tube.

Stiles felt he was interrupting something private as he crone to Zevon’s side, opposite Sykora, and fielded the obstinate woman’s glare, still loaded with suspicion. Oh, well, couldn’t win everything at once.

Pressing a hand to Zevon’s shoulder, he gained his old friend’s attention through the blur of pain. “Hey, lightfoot,” he greeted. “You all right?”

“Oh, Eric,” Zevon moaned. “I think I would rather get the plague and die than deal with the cure …. “

A smile of empathy broke on Stiles’s face. “No, no, you’ve got your orders. Get better or face the consequences. You don’t want the vindictive captain to find out.”

“If only… he were vindictive enough to… put me out of this misery….”

“Not much longer,” McCoy said. “Don’t make me break out my hip-pocket psychiatry, boy. I’m whuppin’ a dragon here.”

Even through his discomfort, Zevon managed a smile. Stiles tightened his grip in silent reassurance.

He tried to come up with something more to say but was rescued when Ambassador Spock stepped in over the hatch coming.

“Mr. Stiles, I thought you might be here,” Spock said with not particularly well-veiled contentment.

Stiles instantly saw the undercurrent of success and asked, “How does it look, sir?”

His face expressive in defiance of legend-Spock spoke almost merrily. “Looks quite well. Your defiant declaration has stirred the resting spirits at Starfleet Command.”

“They’re not going to challenge me or throw me in a brig or anything?”

“Hardly. The admiralty has a longstanding policy, albeit unspoken, of backing up their captains’ flares of caprice. Admiral Douglas Prothero has offered the Zebra-Tango Division of the Starfleet Corps of Engineers and the services of the Industrial Trawler True North to assist the Saskatoon in building the spaceborne Constrictor barricade. Within a matter of months, the waves will go from deadly to harmless.” He turned to Zevon and Sykora, amicably adding, “Your planet will finally be safe.”

Battling a rush of deep emotion, Zevon gripped Sykora’s hand and took a few moments to gather himself. “I will go before the Pojjana people” he offered, “and convince them of the Federation’s integrity. I can do that… they will believe me .”

“Such a collaboration” Spock said, “will give Starfleet the leverage to stabilize the sector and declare it clean.”

With both admiration and suspicion, Stiles quipped, “But you didn’t have anything to do with that, I’ll bet.” “Nothing at all;’ Spock loftily claimed. Stiles grinned. “Thanks.” “You’re very welcome. And how is construction going?” “Oh, we’ve had to modify Zevon’s diagrams a few times. Luckily, we’re an innovative pack of wolves. Sir, might I say a few things? They’re kind of… personal.