13We've jumped again, this time back into the captain's and science officer's minds, because they have authority over the Denobulan and can help to contain the situation, which is threatening to go disastrously wrong.
We're only just in time. Even as we walk into Sickbay, the doctor is coming out in search of us, carrying a PADD on which he's recorded brainwave readings that are dismayingly unlike those we've seen on the monitors above biobeds containing sick Humans.
"What is the significance?" I ask, hoping desperately he hasn't realised.
"The patterns aren't human," he answers promptly. I can see him groping towards an answer we don't want him to find, because if he does we'll have to intervene – something we're not supposed to do at all if it can be helped.
The Senior Observer looks at me. "Did you know they had this capability?" he asks. Clearly he's given up hope of containing the situation and is now resigned to having to intervene whether we like it or not. He's not even pretending to be the Science Officer any more.
I didn't see any sign of it in my initial assessment. "He must have used Denobulan technology."
Denobulans are obviously quick on the uptake. Phlox's blue eyes are sparking with anger as he looks from one of us to the other. "I see. Are you responsible for what happened to my patients?"
"We had nothing to do with it." I'm relieved to be able to disclaim responsibility – it's absolutely true that we had nothing at all to do with the creation of the virus – but it still doesn't feel like enough. Not nearly enough.
"We come here only to study how physical species react to the unknown," explains the Senior Observer, sounding almost bored again. "You can help by telling us how you detected our presence. That only happens in less than two per cent of our missions."
The doctor glares. "Commander Tucker and Ensign Sato were sedated. They shouldn't have been able to stand and talk."
"It's been so long since we had physical form, we weren't able to distinguish sleep from sedation," I explain contritely.
"We'll remember next time." There'll be a note made of it in the report, and next time and the time after that and the time after that nobody will make the mistake and people will go on dying like they have for the last how-many-thousand years and it will still be not in the least exciting.
"Is there anything you can do to help my patients?" demands Phlox.
The Senior Observer glances negligently at the PADD. That too will have to be erased before we leave, in case it provides any inconvenient clues to the information we'll have suppressed by then. "We're here to observe. We can't interfere."
"You're interfering with me!"
"Our subjects are Human. You're Denobulan. You were inhabited a few hours ago. An intriguing experience."
"I have no recollection of that."
"Memories are easy to adjust." I try to sound reassuring – it doesn't hurt, it's really simple and harmless – but I end up sounding more apologetic than anything, at least to my own ears.
"You're going to adjust mine again? So I won't remember a word of this encounter."
"Or what you observed in the Decon Chamber," adds the Senior Observer coolly.
He knows what's coming, but he still protests. "If you have that ability, you must be able to help my patients!"
"We could." Oh, how I wish we would!
"But we won't." The statement is flat, denying any possibility of hope. "Thank you for your help, Doctor."
Phlox's glare of disgust at us as we close in on him is horrifying; I know what we have to do, but I can't ever remember feeling so conflicted, so ashamed. "No wonder you erase memories. Your behaviour is appalling!"
In a way, though, it's a relief when it's done. We leave him preoccupied with his results, and he doesn't even look up as we quietly leave the room.
"According to what I read on the doctor's medical PADD, he's learned how to stop the infection." I force the words through a throat that surely shouldn't be this dry.
"I've seen seven other species develop the radiation cure," says the Senior Observer rather curtly. "But never in time."
"Did we make contact with any of them?" If just once it did any good, if just once there was a point...
I suppose I should be expecting the reply.
"Of course not. Expending resources to attempt an impossible task is not a sign of intelligence." The Vulcan face looks up at me darkly. "The captain and science officer have decisions to make. We need to return to our original hosts."
=/\=
You have to give the Humans points for persistence – well, I do, but I suspect the Senior Observer is just chalking up more scores for refusing to recognise reality when it stares them in the face.
The reality, of course, is that Tucker and Sato are dying, but the captain won't accept it.
He's now come up with the idea that the doctor may be able to save them if they can be moved from the Decon Chamber to Sickbay. He and Phlox are going to do the moving, dressed in EV suits to protect themselves from the virus.
This isn't impossible, of course – the ship was designed so that any area of it could be designated as quarantined and sealed off from the rest. The distance between the two places isn't so great as to present any difficulty, but given the virulence of the virus and its resistance to cure, it's understandable that the captain doesn't want to take the slightest chance of anything going wrong; he won't risk the rest of his crew in the attempt to save two. So, of course, his Tactical Officer is here to supervise the operation, and the helmsman has a good working relationship with him and is there to help is required.
The quarantine could be supervised from the Bridge, and T'Pol the science officer is doing so. But it makes sense to have technical help here at the sharp end of things, just in case, and dispassionately the Senior Observer's host confirms with her that quarantine has been successfully engaged, the seal is positive and environmental systems are isolated.
He looks on, his expression remote to indifference, as on the monitors in front of us Phlox and Archer retrieve the dying casualties and struggle with them into Sickbay. It's already too late for one of them: even as the female's body flops down onto the bioscan bed, her heart loses its battle to stay beating.
"Someone always dies," he observes.
That, of course, should be the end of it. There's nothing more for either man to do now but concentrate their efforts on the commander for the few moments he has left, and once that's done they can dispose of the bodies and decontaminate Sickbay and it'll all be over, and we can close our observation and leave and nobody will ever be the wiser.
As for whether I'll ever volunteer to be an Observer again, well, probably not. I know we weren't supposed to get involved with these creatures – these people – but I can't help it, they care about each other and even though they want to live, they're brave and they're trying so hard to save their friends. As far as I'm concerned they're sentient just like us, they just haven't evolved for as long as we have, and apart from the physical side of things I don't see what's so different between us and them in that respect.
But the captain clearly hasn't read the book of 'what's supposed to happen next'. Instead of taking his CMO's verdict, he does something that even the Senior Observer doesn't expect.
The EV suits' gloves are clumsy. They're not designed for intricate tasks like manipulating medical instruments. And when Phlox struggles with a device that offers hope of restarting the ensign's stopped heart, the captain tears off his own glove, exposing himself to the virus that must be already multiplying exponentially in that warm environment.
He's signed his own death warrant in the attempt to achieve the impossible.
"I don't understand," says the Senior Observer, his face blank with astonishment.
This is different. I can tell, this is unbelievably different. A minute ago my heart felt like it was in my boots, now it's surging with excitement and elation. "In eight hundred years, no-one's ever done that before?"
He stares at the monitor as though trying to find some alternative explanation that would help him make sense of it. "No. Not once they know it's hopeless!"
But it still is hopeless. The device doesn't work, and the ensign is dead. Despair's printed on the captain's face as he flings himself into trying to save the officer he still has left.
The momentary delight's changed everything. I can't, I won't let this go on without a fight. "How many have to die before you'll admit humans are different?" I demand. "We need to stop this!"
He's shaken, I can tell, but he's done this for eight hundred years and he's not taking orders from a junior on his first assignment. "I will not depart from protocol. The incident isn't over. When the first death occurs on the ship, there's a sixty eight percent chance the rest of the crew will become infected."
Rhetoric. Rules! Damned protocol, and these people are fighting for each other's lives! "What more will that teach us about them?"
"All this would have happened whether we were here or not. We are not responsible." He glares at the monitor as though blaming the captain for making everything so needlessly difficult.
That's not a reason. It's not even an excuse. I don't even try to keep the disgust out of my voice. "Maybe we should be."
=/\=
The commander dies, of course. The captain's devastated by his death, we can see that. But now he himself is the next casualty, and he's sent Phlox out of the now contaminated Sickbay, in the desperate, vain hope that somehow a cure will be found before the few hours he has left are gone.
It won't. All we have to do now is wait until he dies. The Vulcan will be in charge then, and since her people are apparently deeply logical, the logical thing will be to get rid of the bodies, disinfect the ship and reorganise the crew, and get them all away before anyone else can happen.
In short, we have to play along with the protocol, we have to observe and record, and we have to let the most interesting, unpredictable species we've ever encountered limp away bleeding, bewildered and bereaved, never even suspecting they were nothing more than just one more experiment in the Organian laboratory.
The captain deserves more than that. At least he deserves the truth, even if he's going to die. I want to face him and tell him what happened to his ship and his people.
It's not going to be easy, or pleasant. He obviously cares about his people very deeply. But if I'm going to live with myself after this, I have to do it.
The only hosts available in there are the bodies of the dead. I've never transported into a dead person, but at least it'll be quiet.
It's quiet all right. There's no heartbeat, no thoughts, only the dead weight of an unbreathing body. The commander's.
The captain is right beside me. He steps back, startled and dismayed, as I force Tucker's eyes open.
"I have such respect for you, Captain Archer."
The readout above me has indicated Tucker's death. Now it registers the shadow of my life-force, nothing like the indicators that a human body would produce.
"Trip?" The hope in the word is heartbreaking.
"Not exactly. I'm an Organian. A nonphysical life-form." A dead body takes much more effort to manipulate. There's no co-operation from the host. But somehow I manage to force Tucker to sit upright.
"Trip is my host," I explain.
His eyes roam over me, searching for explanations, for hope. "What did you do to him?"
"Nothing," I say sadly. It's even harder than I'd expected, facing him like this, seeing the dawning realisation that none of this is accidental. "We never interfere in the natural development of other species. We only observe."
"Did you know about the silicon virus?" he demands.
Back before the start of all this, it seemed so straightforward, so easy. It would be on a par with watching single-celled organisms compete for survival in a primordial soup. Now it's nowhere near that simple, and the incredulous accusation in the captain's face tells me just how unpardonable he thinks we are if his suspicions are correct.
"That's why we come here," I say, low-voiced. "To see how different species react when they encounter it."
The truth hangs in the contaminated air between us like something so disgusting he doesn't even know how to imagine it. "You knew about the virus that killed two members of my crew, and you didn't warn us?"
His expression makes me want to shrivel up with shame. All along I've been fighting against the realisation that this is wrong, but I can't fight it anymore; Archer's stare drives it into me in a form there's no possible denying. It's like the doctor's, but a hundred times worse. This is his crew we've experimented on and killed. He's not like the Klingon captain in the report, shrugging and moving on regardless. He cares.
"I wanted to, but it's not up to me," I mumble.
On the bed across the other side of the room, the sheeted figure of the dead ensign suddenly stirs.
She sits up, pulling down the sheet and glaring at both of us. At me in particular – the captain probably doesn't matter enough to glare at. "You're breaking every rule we have!"
I don't care. I'm not going to stand for this stupid reasoning anymore. "Because they don't apply to this species!"
"That is not our decision to make!"
"If we don't challenge the rules–"
But the captain interrupts us. "I don't care about your rules! Tell me what happens to Trip and Hoshi when you're finished with their bodies!"
The Senior Observer looks at him flatly. "We have to leave them as they are."
He looks at her incredulously. "Dead?"
She doesn't bother to answer. Her face is answer enough, and his face twists as he struggles desperately to understand where she's coming from, to find some common ground of experience on which he can stand to argue with her.
"I understand why you won't get involved with a species' natural development," he says at last. "I've faced that decision myself. It isn't an easy one to make."
"Then we agree."
"No, we don't. Our encounter with the virus was an accident. One that you could have prevented." If you'd cared enough, his tone implies.
"Then how would we ever learn about you?" she asks, as if it's a really, really stupid question.
"Ask us. Talk to us. Just like you're doing now!"
Her expression shows her irritation with how limited his comprehension is of the issues involved. "Talking is a limited form of communication for us. We're much more advanced than humans."
Instead of being crushed into acceptance, he reacts like all she's done is illustrate how disgusting we are in his eyes. "Not from where I'm standing. Maybe you've evolved into beings with abilities I can't comprehend, but you've paid a hell of a price. You've lost compassion and empathy. Things that give life meaning.
"And if that's what it takes to be advanced, I don't want any part of it."
I don't know if it stings her, but it does me. Apparently not, though, because she just gives a little shrug to say she doesn't care one way or the other what he thinks. "We're leaving now, Captain. You won't remember a thing about our presence. And in three hours, you'll die as well."
Right up till that moment, I think I can do this. Then, as I see the captain realise that we've killed his crew and we're going to walk away like it really doesn't matter one little bit, and there's nothing he can do to stop us, reality hits me.
"No. We have the power to save them all."
The Senior Observer's host turns and stares at me as if he thinks her hearing has suddenly become defective. "Are you defying me?"
Well, yes actually, I am. And there's a terrifying freedom in it. "I'm defying the entire protocol. What Archer has done today, his act of compassion, you've never witnessed that before."
She blinks, clearly trying to think of some way around the situation. Because although I'm only the junior observer here, we have the same power to influence events. If I really have decided to act against orders, I'm effectively unstoppable.
"In time, we'll study other humans," she points out. If I've become so inexplicably interested in the species, it's not as if it'll be the last chance we have to study them. We're not going anywhere in the next few millennia or so, after all.
Scenting hope in our dissension, the captain seizes his opportunity. "There's another way," he says, stepping forward and speaking passionately. "Experience compassion for yourself. You want to know what it means to be human, you need to do more than observe!"
=/\=
We've quitted Sickbay, after restoring the dead officers and wiping the captain's memory of our presence. The last thing we need to do to cover our tracks is to restore our hosts to their duty posts on the Bridge, and then we can leave.
The Senior Observer is extremely disgruntled. "You realise the consequences of what we've done," he complains as the turbo-lift door closes. "We will never be able to observe another species encounter this virus!"
He's already gone into the gory details of the scandal all this is going to cause. The disruption to the scientific community. The chaos of having to write a new protocol, when the old one had worked perfectly well for thousands of years.
The sheer embarrassment.
"Good," I say contentedly. "I'm looking forward to making my first report. After ten thousand years, the rules need to change."
I don't think that was exactly what he wanted to hear. As the lift disgorges us into the corridor, he's still radiating righteous indignation.
I don't know what the Human word 'pissy' means, but Travis would have used it right now. I hide a smile as I follow him into the corridor.
"These humans have not been a good influence on you," he continues sniffily, stalking in the direction of the Bridge as if he can't wait to get there and get shot of these aliens who've ended up causing such an unbelievable amount of trouble. "I would not encourage further encounters."
"I don't think we can avoid them. I'm going to recommend that we start preparations for an official First Contact mission."
He definitely gives me the eyebrow at that idea. "InDEED. At the rate they're progressing, that'd barely give us five thousand years to prepare."
I can't help it. I'm laughing in sheer relief. "Then we'd better get started."
The End.
