Possession - J.M. Dillard [78]
Worf repressed a sigh of consummately Klingon disappointment. “Thank you, sir. If you will come with—”
“And I must protest!” Tarmud interrupted vehemently. “This is nonsense, taking this man away from our work! I’m telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree!”
Worf’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar colloquialism. Why would a Klingon want to bark at any tree?
“Please, Doctor,” Skel said reasonably, turning to his friend. “We can communicate via computer console and continue our work. You cannot imagine the devastation the entities can cause. If they are concerned they are responsible for the death of my liaison officer, it is only logical that I cooperate. I have spent my life working on this very problem.”
“If you insist,” Tarmud grumbled, but his expression remained reluctant.
“I will contact you as soon as I am able,” Skel assured him, and walked out of the quarters to accompany Worf to sickbay.
The one thing Worf appreciated about Vulcans was their disinclination to prattle, so it surprised him when, in the turbolift, Skel said conversationally, “Are you aware, Lieutenant, that we have no knowledge of the entities’ effect on Klingon physiology?”
Worf kept his gaze fixed on the seam in the lift doors. “Yes, sir, I am aware of that.”
“I, for one, cannot imagine what would happen should a Klingon be infected by an entity who must feed on the most primal and savage emotions, the most powerful feelings. Can you?”
Worf glanced sideways at his charge, wondering why Skel would ask him this question. “No, sir, I cannot.”
“These entities were created as a weapon of war, Lieutenant,” Skel remarked. “Can you imagine the devastation they must have wrought when released on the enemy side? Within a day, perhaps, or at the most two, the entire army would be infected, fighting among themselves wildly, slaughtering one another to feed their opponent’s creatures.”
Worf could repress neither the surge of anger that rose within him at the thought, nor the growl that emerged unbidden from the back of his throat. “That is not warfare. That is slaughter. There is no way I can imagine such a dishonorable way to defeat your enemy. It is beyond my imagination.”
“I suspect it was beyond its creators’ as well,” Skel said mildly. “For there is no doubt that the entities they were so clever to develop devoured them as well as their enemy.”
That pleased Worf, in an odd way, that such a dishonorable people would have caused their own destruction. The turbolift came to a halt, and the two men proceeded to sickbay.
Once there, they joined Dr. Crusher and Captain Picard.
“I appreciate your cooperation in this matter,” Picard said cordially.
“I think you all know my opinion of this,” Dr. Crusher complained, her tone one of uncharacteristic irritability. Worf was surprised at her bluntness, but he knew the medical officer was permitted a frankness that was not acceptable in other positions.
“The quarantine unit is ready,” Dr. Crusher explained. “Once Skel steps inside it, it will seal automatically.” She faced the Vulcan. “Your computer and the other things you requested are already inside. We’ve tried to make it as comfortable as we could. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to prepare for our shipwide shutdown.”
All three men nodded as Dr. Crusher left the room. Worf’s eyes followed her as she began working on a computer program in the next room. Near her stood an antigrav cart loaded with ten large canisters designed to hold compressed gas. The silver canisters were color-coded: one group blue, one yellow to mark those which carried the anesthetic and the accelerator.
“I will enter the quarantine unit now, Captain,” Skel said, pulling Worf’s attention back. “I leave it to you and your capable crew to determine when I might be released.”
“Thank you, Skel,” Captain Picard said, as the Vulcan entered through the doorway in the transparent aluminum walls. Once inside, Skel went about removing his research materials from his carry bag as the doors sealed shut behind him. Worf watched Picard check the monitoring