Homecoming - Christie Golden [41]
She had completed it. Now would come several weeks of prayer, meditation, and work on her ritual garment. The delay chafed B’Elanna terribly, but she knew she had to observe the form if not the substance of the ritual.
Someone was depending on her.
The six-year-old human girl was quieter than the Bolian doctor had ever seen her. He examined her with the [120] medical tricorder and the good, old-fashioned sense of touch as her worried mother spoke.
“She had a little bit of a stomachache last night. We thought it was just from an extra helping of cake, but then she woke up like this,” Erin Matheson said, wringing her hands. “So pale, and quiet ... it’s just not like her!”
The red-haired, freckled Kara was usually a bit of a trial when Dr. Graalis saw her. She laughed, squirmed and grinned, or if the pain was bad, shrieked with agony and outrage. She was hardly ever sick. Graalis had been her doctor for most of her life, and mainly what he saw her for were the usual cuts and scrapes of a lively, playful youngster.
This was altogether different. She had hardly any color and was so still it was spooky. Kara didn’t answer when spoken to, and her flesh felt cold to the touch.
He sighed. “Ms. Matheson, we’ve been told to be on the lookout for something like this. I’m not sure, but I think it might be something called Xakarian flu. She has all the symptoms.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Erin said.
“It’s only recently been seen on Earth. The symptoms are unusual pallor, lack of appetite, chilled body temperature, and often delusions. It’s not lethal,” he assured her.
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“However, the treatment is a long one, and to contain the spread we are going to have to quarantine you, Erin, and Mr. Matheson.”
She blinked. “Is that ... is that really necessary?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“But if it isn’t lethal—”
[121] “This comes directly from Starfleet, Ms. Matheson. They evidently think it’s important. I’ve been instructed to report it, and you should be ready to transport to the quarantine site within an hour.”
Erin played with her daughter’s red ringlets. Kara stared into space. Graalis suppressed a shudder. But, Starfleet Medical had assured him the virus wasn’t lethal, and he believed them.
Two hours later, Starfleet Medical came for him, too.
Chapter 10
THE DOCTOR WAS BORED.
Maddeningly, deeply; profoundly, exquisitely, screamingly bored. Despite Tom’s wisecrack to B’Elanna, caring for an infant, challenging though he supposed it must be to human parents, was nothing at all to him. After mastering the basics—feeding, diaper changing, burping, lulling to sleep, entertaining with amusing games that a six-week-old baby could wrap its tiny mind around—there was nothing more to do. He could care for Miral in his sleep ... well, if he slept.
He’d put in request after request to Starfleet to be transferred to some research center, some place where there was an outbreak of some new and interesting disease, a war zone, anything other than this pleasant little apartment with a squalling infant and a Tom Paris who [123] deeply missed his wife. To the best of his knowledge, all his requests had been ignored. He’d even offered specifically to assist with the outbreak of Xakarian flu. Surely, with so many quarantine cases, they could use an untiring pair of hands. But he’d never heard anything back, except once from Admiral Montgomery’s assistant, who had said in a very polite way that the admiral wished the Doctor to cease annoying him.
When there was any expression of interest in him, it was usually in the form of fan mail for Photons Be Free. At first, it was enjoyable, but when it became obvious that none of his “fans” was really interested in his actual identity as a doctor, the excitement faded. He installed a system to screen his calls.
So