Constellations (2 page)

Dayton Ward has been a fan of
Star Trek
since conception (his, not the show's). His professional writing career began with stories selected for each of Pocket Books' first three
Star Trek: Strange New Worlds
anthologies. In addition to his various writing projects with Kevin Dilmore, Dayton is the author of the
Star Trek
novel
In the Name of Honor
and the science fiction novels
The Last World War
and
The Genesis Protocol
as well as short stories that have appeared in
Kansas City Voices
magazine and the
Star Trek: New Frontier
anthology
No Limits.
Though he currently lives in Kansas City with his wife, Michi, Dayton is a Florida native and still maintains a torrid long-distance romance with his beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Be sure to visit Dayton's official website at http://www.daytonward.com.

For more than eight years, Kevin Dilmore was a contributing writer to
Star Trek Communicator,
penning news stories and personality profiles for the bimonthly publication of the Official
Star Trek
Fan Club. On the storytelling side of things, his story “The Road to Edos” was published as part of the
Star Trek: New Frontier
anthology
No Limits.
With Dayton Ward, his work includes stories for the anthology
Star Trek: Tales of the Dominion War,
the
Star Trek: The Next Generation
novels
A Time to Sow
and
A Time to Harvest,
the
Star Trek Vanguard
novel
Summon the Thunder,
and ten installments of the original e-book series
Star Trek: S.C.E.
and
Star Trek: Corps of Engineers.
A graduate of the University of Kansas, Kevin lives in Prairie Village, Kansas, with his wife, Michelle, and their three daughters, and works as a writer for Hallmark Cards in Kansas City, Missouri.

Blood was
everywhere.

Revati Jendra knelt before the young male's motionless form, fighting to bring her breathing back under control after the harried sprint from her clinic to the village's small ironworks. Coughing as she inhaled some of the building's sooty, metallic-tasting air, she pried open the injured adolescent's eyes to see that his large, black pupils remained sensitive even to the dim, orange-hued light within the metal shop. That was a good sign, at least a somewhat better sign than the pale pink blood staining his chalk-white hair and widening into a disturbingly large pool where his head rested on the bare, dirty floor of the shop.

“He just fell,
Beloren,
” said a voice from the crowd, addressing her, as nearly all of the villagers did, by the Grennai term for “healer.” It was a name to which she'd grown accustomed during the year or so she had lived and worked among them. “He started shaking and then just let go of the ladder.”

A growing crowd of concerned friends and co-workers—all of them, Jendra thought, appearing too young to be working in such a place—began to encircle her as she lowered her ear to the injured male's lips, listening and feeling for even the faintest breath.

If only they weren't hovering over me, this could go so much more damned quickly.

Spasms abruptly wracked the young man's body, and Jendra reached down to support his head with one hand while rolling him to one side in case he started to vomit. “I need help to move him,” she called out to no one in particular as he continued to tremble. “We have to take him to the white home right away.” Though possessing only rudimentary facilities, the Grennai hospital and its staff would probably be able to see this young man through most of his injuries. As his seizure started to fade, however, Jendra began to suspect that the man's fall had been no mere accident.

In a practiced move, she reached into the pocket of her frayed, homespun overcoat and retrieved a small, light-colored cloth. Hoping her actions appeared to the onlookers as trying to staunch the flow of blood from her patient's wound, Jendra activated the small Starfleet medical scanner concealed within the cloth. Pressing it against the dark skin of the man's head and watching as it turned pink with his blood, she manipulated the hidden, silenced device in order to determine the extent of his injuries. While his neck and spine were undamaged, the scan had detected a small tumor within the man's brain, and Jendra recognized it as the likely culprit behind the man's seizures.

“Step aside,” said a strong, deep voice, that of Crimar, the ironworks supervisor. Jendra looked up to see the burly Grennai and one of his workers carrying a makeshift stretcher. Sweat matted their stark white hair to their heads and soot stained their rough, woven clothing. “We will carry him,
Beloren.”

“Just a moment, Crimar,” she said as she searched through her worn, leather medicine satchel. While she knew the bag did not contain what she needed to eliminate the tumor, which under Grennai medical standards would be undetectable and eventually fatal, Jendra was sure she could cure the young man given a little time and privacy. Unable to administer a hypospray in the midst of the onlookers, Jendra opted for an oral dose of trianoline. She slipped the small strip into his mouth, where it dissolved instantly on contact with his tongue. Within moments, the medication would begin to relieve some of the trauma the fall had inflicted upon his brain.

After taking an additional few moments to wrap the man's head in a thick bandage, Jendra pointed to one of the workers and had him kneel next to her. She handed him another wad of cloth, instructing him to hold it against the victim's wound.

“Keep pressing here until you get to the
beloren
at the white home,” Jendra ordered as she rose and waved to Crimar. “Take him now. I'll follow after you.” She stepped back, allowing the supervisor to direct two workers to load their comrade onto the stretcher.

After directing the rest of the workforce to return to their respective tasks, Crimar turned to Jendra. “Thank you for coming so quickly,
Beloren,
” he said. Though normally she found his accent as he spoke in his native language to be fluid and almost musical, on this occasion his tone was flat and emotionless. “But he has lost much blood. Surely he will die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Jendra replied, the resolve in her voice abruptly shattered beneath the force of a ragged cough that hunched her aging, slender form. Seeing the look of concern in Crimar's wide eyes, she offered a weak smile as she wiped her mouth. “I'm fine, my friend. It's merely the soot in here. Maybe you could tidy up for me the next time I pay a visit?”

A wide smile creased Crimar's dark features. “I hope that is not for some time,
Beloren.
”

Jendra patted his shoulder as she suppressed what would have been another coughing fit, then gathered her meager medical bag and headed for her home. As she walked down the village's main thoroughfare with its dual row of one- and two-story wooden frame buildings, she hoped she would not have any patients awaiting her return. Still, she knew that as the villagers became more accustomed to her presence, they would come in a steady stream even for the most minor of ailments. That seemed to be the way of the Grennai as she moved from settlement to settlement, this one her fifth since her return to this planet more than a year earlier.

While her personal mission of medical duty on this decidedly primitive world—catalogued in Starfleet databases only as NGC 667—had not gone precisely as she originally planned, Jendra managed to allow herself some small measure of satisfaction in her accomplishments this afternoon as well as what she would do for her latest patient at the first opportunity. Thanks to her, with an admitted assist from her borrowed Starfleet-issue medical equipment, one young man's life would change for the better.

The least I can do for these kind people, and we
should
be doing a damn sight more.

Hoping to catch a little rest before following up with her patient, Jendra opened the door to the clinic that doubled as her home. Moving shadows in the hallway leading to her examination room caught her by surprise, though, and she stopped. Hushed voices—she could not make out any words—carried from the far room.

Making her way down the hall, minding her steps so as not to clatter her hard-soled shoes against the wooden floor, Jendra peered into the exam room and saw three cloaked figures searching through her belongings. They seemed to know exactly what they were looking for and were gathering specific items atop her worktable: two Starfleet medical tricorders, a communicator, assorted surgical instruments, a hypospray kit, and other equipment that was at extreme odds with the room's comparably primitive trappings.

Her temper flaring at the violation, Jendra burst into the room, hoping to catch the intruders off guard. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?” she shouted.

Three Grennai males looked up at her with matching expressions of alarm, though none of them moved from where they stood. Instead, one of the men regarded her, his features changing from shock to what Jendra read as annoyance. In a firm voice, he said, “I've been waiting to ask you
exactly
the same question, Dr. Jendra.”

The words were in Federation Standard, rather than the language native to Grennai in this region. Jendra's jaw dropped as she fumbled for her own response. She remained silent as one of the other men stepped forward, his hand reaching up to move his hood back from his head, and Jendra was startled to realize that she recognized his face.

“Revati, we need to talk.”

Despite the darkened skin, white hair, and obviously prosthetic ears, there was no mistaking the voice of Dr. Leonard McCoy.

 

McCoy watched as Revati Jendra—cosmetically altered just as he was to resemble the indigenous Grennai—regarded him with an expression first of shock, then confusion before comprehension dawned and a wide smile creased her aged features.

“Leonard?” Jendra exclaimed, stepping forward to clasp both of his hands in hers. Smiling, she said, “I never thought I'd see you again, least of all here.”

“You're not exactly the easiest person to track down,” McCoy replied, relief at seeing her seeping into his voice. “I've been worried about you. A lot of people have.”

Her smile fading, Jendra cast her head downward. “I can imagine.” She cleared her throat before returning her gaze to meet his, and McCoy saw a hint of regret in her eyes. “Not a chance this is happy coincidence, I suppose.”

“You suppose correctly, Doctor.”

Even with his normal features disguised beneath the darkened skin tone and the artificial hair and ears, there was no hiding or suppressing James Kirk's command presence. McCoy saw the familiar set to his captain's jaw as he stepped forward to confront Jendra. “We're here to take you back with us.”

She glanced at McCoy before offering a warm, knowing smile the doctor would have recognized regardless of the situation at hand. “You must be Captain Kirk,” she said. Looking at McCoy's other companion, she added, “And Mr. Spock. Leonard has spoken very highly of you both.” She held out her hand in greeting.

As if unprepared for Jendra's lack of initial resistance, the captain paused before nodding. “Thank you,” he offered, his tone less rigid now. As Kirk and Jendra shook hands, McCoy noticed the slight yet obvious relaxing of his friend's stance and, yes, even the first hints of that now-familiar glint in the man's eye. For Jim Kirk, turning on the charm for a woman—any woman—seemed a reflex as natural as breathing.

“I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Doctor,” Kirk said after a moment, his tone all business once again, “but I'm afraid Starfleet can't allow you to remain here.”

Pulling herself up as if to meet Kirk eye-to-eye, Jendra replied, “The nature of my work here is humanitarian, Captain. I want us to be clear about that.”

“Then
clearly,
” Kirk snapped, biting down on the word, “you must be aware that your presence here is a violation of the Prime Directive and poses a risk to these people and their natural course of development. Your knowledge, your equipment, all of it is centuries ahead of these people and their level of technology.”

McCoy saw the anger in Jendra's eyes, but she held her tone in check as she glared at Kirk. “I'm well versed in the Prime Directive.” She held her hands out and away from her body. “As you can see, I've taken steps to prevent any cultural contamination. I'm also no stranger to the Grennai and how they live.”

“Indeed,” Spock said, moving to stand beside Kirk. “Three years ago, you were assigned as a medical officer to the initial Starfleet cultural observation detachment on this planet.”

Jendra nodded. “That's right, Mr. Spock. We were tasked with covert study of the Grennai's preindustrial development, which we believed very closely mirrored that of your own people on Vulcan. We were here for nearly a year, during which we spent a great deal of time among the Grennai. So, you see, I've become quite adept at blending into the indigenous population.”