The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [168]
Sickbay wasn’t busy. The amount of work that had been taking place on the ship over the past few weeks had afforded the opportunity for a wide variety of industrial accidents, but there were far larger and better-equipped hospitals on the planet below, so the Enterprise’s sickbay wasn’t being used for more than routine shipboard physicals and minor ailments.
Worf had hoped he would see Beverley Crusher and wish her success in her new career at Starfleet Medical. She would be a good leader for any medical team or organization, he thought. When he arrived at sickbay, he found only Doctor Tropp and a human nurse tending some growth cultures in some kind of incubator.
“What can I do for you, Worf?” Tropp asked cheerily. He was a Denobulan, and Worf found his enthusiasm somewhat wearing.
“Captain Picard has”—he wanted to say “ordered,” but that wouldn’t be right—”required me to seek an inoculation for a task.”
Tropp brandished a hypospray. “A shot, eh? What sort of inoculation? Rigelian fever? Varnak’s disease? Orion plague?”
“Allergens,” Worf said reluctantly.
“Allergens? I thought that indomitable Klingon physique was resistant to most types of allergy.”
“Most,” Worf agreed.
“Well, there’s no catchall inoculation, so what type of allergen—”
“Feline.”
Tropp looked at Worf as if he thought the Klingon was joking. “Feline? You mean cats? Earth cats.”
“Yes.” Worf could read Tropp’s curiosity in his expression and was not in a mood to explain in great detail. “Commander Data’s cat will require a home. Until one is found, the captain has given me responsibility for care of the animal.” Worf grimaced. “I have looked after Spot before.”
“And that’s when you found out you were allergic?”
Worf nodded. “I was sneezing on her.”
Tropp nodded slowly. “Well, I’ll get that sorted out for you.” He busied himself at a chemical synthesizer. “It’s actually quite unusual to find feline allergies in this day and age. And even for people who are allergic, only about two-thirds of cats are allergenic.”
“Spot is one of them,” Worf assured him, as Tropp gave him his shot.
“Well, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem now. That should keep you hale and hearty.”
“It had better,” Worf muttered.
Worf entered his quarters and stopped. The carrier containing Spot was right next to the door, ready to be handed over to, or taken to, Spot’s eventual new home. Worf hadn’t anticipated that he would even have to open the carrier himself.
A plaintive mewling was coming from inside the cat carrier. Spot had clearly not been enjoying her imprisonment. That was a thing Worf understood. He bent down and opened the container. “You may come out now,” he said. Nothing happened. He waited a moment, then bent to see if the creature was all right. Perhaps the mewling sound was a noise of pain or illness? There was a breeze of motion, and Worf almost sneezed. The inoculation seemed to be working, however.
As Worf straightened, Spot moved quietly forward. She looked around, sniffing the air. Without warning, she dashed for the bed, a fluid orange blur, and leaped up onto it. Worf did not want to share his bed with cat hairs. He lifted her back onto the floor and received a withering look in return.
Worf glared at the creature. It was repulsively…fluffy, too much like an accursed tribble, in the same way that swimming was too much like bathing. Spot jumped back up on the bed and began to wash herself. Worf gritted his teeth; at least tribbles were not so athletic. This creature was undisciplined and did not know its place. These were both things it would have to learn if it was not to get in the way. “Computer,” Worf said, “restrict door exit privileges to these quarters. Door sensors should not respond to”—he glanced at the signage on Spot’s carrier, which gave Spot’s transponder code—”feline one-four.” All pets on board a starship were chipped with a subcutaneous transponder so that the computer could track them.
“Confirmed. Door exit protocols have been modified to exclude activation by