Deep Space Station S-8
Less than an hour after the emergency in the shuttlebay, Sulu emerged from the infirmary, which had been forced to cannibalize adjacent storage areas and a gymnasium in order to accommodate all the new patients. Doctor M’Benga had given Sulu a clean bill of health, more or less, while advising him to get some rest.
Right, Sulu thought. Like that’s going to happen.
A mob of angry civilians had already gathered outside Tilton’s office to protest the lockdown. Grandle blocked the entrance, backed up by a trio of stone-faced station security personnel. She shouted over the frustrated crowd, struggling to maintain order.
“Dial it down, everybody! Mister Tilton is reviewing the situation and will release a statement soon. We appreciate your concerns, but all this commotion isn’t helping. The sooner you let us do our jobs, the sooner we can straighten this out.”
“And how long is that going to take?” Mirsa Dajo stood out among the protesters. “I have passengers booked for Baldur III. I can’t afford to keep them waiting!”
“And I’m one of those passengers,” a nameless Tiburonian said, his species evident from his exaggerated earlobes. “I’ve staked everything on this expedition! You can’t strand me here!”
A chorus of voices, from both skippers and would-be miners, added to the tumult. Sulu pined briefly for the (apparently short-lived) teamwork and unity displayed during the crisis in the shuttlebay. It was discouraging to see people clashing angrily again now that the immediate emergency was over for the time being.
“That was my call,” he said loudly. “If you have any issues with it, take them up with me . . . after I’ve had a chance to confer with Mister Tilton and Chief Grandle.”
Braving the gauntlet, he strode through the crowd, which grudgingly parted to let him through. Complaints, demands, questions, and curses pelted him, reminding him of the treatment Tilton had gotten when the landing party from the Enterprise had first beamed aboard several days ago. Grandle’s eyes tracked Sulu’s progress toward the office door, her beefy arms crossed atop her chest. Her stoic expression would have done Spock proud, providing no clue as to what kind of reception Sulu could expect from her.
“Sulu,” she greeted him.
He nodded at the door. “He waiting for me?”
“What do you think?”
Leaving her people to guard the door, Grandle led Sulu into the office. Tilton was slumped in the chair behind his desk, staring off into space. His eyes were vacant, as though his spirit had already departed his body. He barely acknowledged Sulu’s arrival, merely lifting his head to look at the newcomers. The strain of the last few months was obviously getting to him. Sulu regretted adding to his troubles.
“Sorry for setting off that brouhaha out there,” he began.
“Don’t apologize,” Grandle said. “You made the right call.”
Sulu was pleasantly surprised by her reaction. “I did?”
“In my book, yes,” she said. “We’ve obviously got a serious problem on our hands, so we can’t take any chances. Business as usual is going to have to wait until we can guarantee the safety of this station by finding out who is responsible for these incidents.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Sulu was glad to find Grandle on the same page. He turned toward Tilton, who had the final say on the matter. “Do you feel the same way, sir?”
“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Tilton asked, as though he hadn’t been paying attention. He stared out the viewport gazing blankly at the rotating arms of the station and the crowded space beyond. His voice was hollow, affectless.
“The lockdown, Mister Tilton,” Sulu prompted. Despite his preemptive action, he had no desire to usurp the manager’s authority. It would be better for all concerned if they presented a unified front on the controversial move. “Do we have your okay?”
“I suppose.” Tilton shrugged, seemingly worn out. “Do whatever you have to, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man’s condition worried Sulu, who wondered if he should have M’Benga discreetly check the older man out. The last thing the station needed during this crisis was an overwhelmed manager who had checked out mentally and physically. Sulu started to turn away from Tilton, to confer with Grandle, when the manager startled Sulu by speaking up again.
“Lieutenant Sulu?”
“Yes?”
“The incident in the shuttlebay?” Tilton roused himself to ask. “How bad was it? How many hurt . . . or worse.”
“No fatalities that we know of,” Sulu said, although any bodies would have been swept out into space when the hangar depressurized. Short-range scanners were now searching the surrounding vacuum for any possible humanoid remains. “Doctors M’Benga and Trucco have already discharged the majority of the victims, who were just suffering from treatable respiratory problems, but are keeping roughly eleven patients under observation, just to be safe. They expect everyone to make a full recovery . . . eventually.”
Sulu’s own throat and lungs felt raw and scratchy, but that was the least of his concerns. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“Thank goodness,” Tilton said. “Thank goodness . . .”
His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted back to the view outside his viewport. His face went slack as his eyes emptied out again. Sulu shared a concerned look with Grandle, who could hardly miss how out of it Tilton was. The security chief shrugged helplessly.
Looks like it’s just the two of us for the duration, Sulu thought.