The Garden - Melissa Scott [1]
been a reassurance, a reminder that she was not alone, was part of an entity greater than herself. Here and now, it served more to remind her of just how far she-all of them-were from home. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should remove it from the standard screen, and once again rejected the idea. It was better for everyone, even the ex-Maquis, to keep to the familiar as much as possible. She shook the thought away, impatient with her own sense of loss, and reached for her datapadd. "Computer," she said aloud. "Give me everything you have on ascorbic acid deficiency. Scurvy."
There was a surprising amount of information in the computer's memory banks, considering that the disease hadn't been a problem in Federation space for generations, but none of it explained why people would become ill when there was plenty of vitamin C available. Unless, she thought, the affected crew members hadn't been following the nutritional protocols. She steepled her hands on the desktop, wincing at the sight of the bruise on her own wrist. On the other hand, if she herself were somehow affected, when she knew she had been careful to follow the recommended diet, then they, Voyager, could be in serious trouble. It was probably nothing, she told herself, just a few careless crew members-and it was easy to get careless without the replicators to provide the full range of needed vitamins and minerals-and her own clumsiness that added up to an unnecessary worry. She couldn't convince herself, and shook her head slowly, dismissing the files that filled her work screen. She would know soon enough; until that time, there was no point in letting herself worry.
The doctor was already present in sickbay when she arrived, and she wondered briefly who had forgotten to turn him off this time. His expression when he
turned to face her was less irritable then usual, however, and she guessed he'd asked to be left on-line.
"I have your report ready, Captain," he said, "but I'd prefer to begin with your examination."
Janeway frowned, more reflex than anything, but then allowed herself an inward shrug. "Very well. But I can assure you I'm feeling perfectly well-"
She broke off as the doctor aimed a medical tri-corder in her direction, and waited while the diagnostic cycled. The doctor grunted at the information on his screen, and then gestured to the nearest table. "If you'd have a seat, Captain. And please roll up your sleeve."
Janeway complied, with a lift of the eyebrow that would have warned most of her crew that her patience was reaching its end. The doctor ignored it, and her, focusing his considerable attention on the tiny cylindrical scanner. He frowned at the reading it produced, touched a button, and applied it again to the skin of Janeway's forearm. After a moment, it beeped discreetly, and the doctor removed it, his frown deepening.
"Well?" Janeway asked, after a long moment.
"I wish I could say it was good news," the doctor said, his attention already diverted to another console, and Janeway slid off the table, smoothing her sleeve back into place.
"I would appreciate a full explanation, Doctor. Now."
"I don't have a full explanation," the doctor began, and then stopped, as abruptly as he'd begun. "Oh. You mean of the diagnosis. Well. There's no surprise there, I'm afraid. You're showing the same deficiency as Imbro and Renehan, only not as advanced."
"My teeth feel fine," Janeway said, and was obscurely glad that she'd decided to search the ship's
memory on the topic. "And I haven't noticed bleeding from my gums or any of the other symptoms that I understand are characteristic of the problem."
The doctor nodded, his attention once again on the screen in front of him. "Oh, your condition is much less advanced than theirs. I suspect your