Quarantine

Posted on 28 Jul 2014 @ 10:31am by Lieutenant Olsam Mott
Edited on on 28 Jul 2014 @ 2:13pm

1,813 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Episode 06 - Legend of Souls
Location: USS Galileo - Deck 5, Supply Storage Locker 05-1202
Timeline: MD07: 0820 hrs

ON:

Living next to the deuterium fuel storage compartment had its advantages, Olsam thought. It was one of the best shielded portions of the ship, given the volatile nature of deuterium. And if something bad did happen - perhaps a rogue microsingularity breaching the hull in just the right place or a well-directed torpedo blast - he was likely to vaporize almost instantaneously from the truly spectacular resulting explosion. He'd always imagined he'd go down with more a fight, like battling some ravishing plague on the frontier or heroically saving a crewmate from phaser fire. But then again one couldn't be picky about how one died, and he was, indeed, dying.

His new "quarters," Supply Storage Locker 05-1202, were a bit cramped. Perhaps even coffin-like, he thought, inducing a wave of anxiety and claustrophobia that had to be fought down. It's not really all that bad. There was a bunk, a desk, a replicator and a specialized waste extraction unit. There was even enough space for him to stand up from the bunk and walk precisely one and one-third steps forward without hitting the desk, the replicator, the WEU or the overpowered force field at the door. And the absolute, pervasive, deafening, endless silence had given him enough time to draft or submit forty-seven different articles to three different medical publications within the Federation.

It wasn't exactly a month-long holiday on a sprawling Tuscan estate with your every need attended to by three lovely Risian ladies, but it had been home enough for the past six days. Or...had it been six weeks? Six months? Six years? Six decades? Every minute seemed to drag on as if his room, his tomb - Lieutenant Olsam Mott, M.D. Corpse Storage Locker 05-1202 - existed within a temporal anomaly. And for all intents and purposes it may as well have been because one hour was enough "alone time" for a person like Olsam Mott, much less six days, and beyond that point time lost all meaning. Being alone - being quarantined - was a fate worse than dea-

"Incoming transmission from Starfleet Medical."

Olsam blinked. Had he imagined that?

The insistent beeping of the computer console at his desk told him otherwise, though it took him several long moments to acknowledge the fact. Being alone for six days ("7,447 days and counting" in the highly socialized Bolian's version of time) could cause one's senses to be deceptive. Or maybe he just wanted contact from Starfleet Medical so badly that he imagined the transmission. Maybe he was imagining this whole space. Maybe he wasn't really stuffed inside this storage locker but rather caught in a time loop, awakening at 0600 hours every morning only to relive the same day again and again until-

"Incoming transmission from Starfleet Medical."

"Oh, right, the message," Olsam said aloud, though he immediately regretted it. After so many days alone his own voice seemed to resonate at hundreds of decibels higher than normal. Even the squeak of the chair as he settled into it seemed too loud.

"Good morning, Dr. Mott."

Olsam stared at the viewscreen for a long moment. The voice and face seemed vaguely familiar, probably someone he'd met at an official reception; pips at her collar marked her as a captain.

"Uh, good morning. Is it morning?" Olsam's eyes darted quickly to the chronometer then back to the viewscreen. "Yes, it is morning. Still. I seem to be losing my sense of time..."

"I'm Deputy Director Marjan Tashakor, Office of Infectious Diseases at the Division of Health Security. I believe we met once at the Interscience Confer-"

"Stockholm," Olsam blurted out, finally remembering where he knew the woman from.

Dr. Tashakor nodded, seeming unfazed by the Bolian's eccentric personality. "Yes, the Interscience Conference on Clinical Microbiology and Microbial Genomics in Stockholm last year. I particularly enjoyed your presentation on the genotypic resistance mutations of the viral agent that caused the hemorrhagic fever at the Yegan III colony. Based on your findings, I recommended a field study...after they finish removing the remains, of course."

Enough time passed to make it clear she expected some sort of response, so Olsam forced himself to smile even though he really just wanted to cringe. Infectious disease specialists gave him the creeps; the impersonal way they discussed the mass eradication of hundreds, thousands or even millions of people had always been disturbing.

"Uh," Olsam said eloquently, squinting his eyes in scrutiny. "I was under the impression I wasn't allowed to communicate with anyone. I thought the comm system on this unit had even been deactivated."

When Dr. Tashakor smiled, he thought it seemed a little mechanical. Rehearsed. It was probably the sort of smile she used while briefing the Federation Council's Subcommittee on Health about an unnamed encephalitic illness capable of debilitating an entire colony and possibly affecting the health security of the entire Federation.

"There are certain perks associated with my security clearance," she said, more of a matter-of-fact statement than a boast. "I thought we owed you the courtesy of telling you directly that your medical quarantine is being lifted. My staff is preparing the paperwork now, and your commanding officer will be notified shortly. I imagine you'll be released within the hour."

Olsam waited for more information but none seemed to be forthcoming. In fact, he'd been told remarkably little about the entire thing. One moment he was sleeping peacefully in his bunk, the next he was transported into Supply Storage Locker 05-1202 and told by some low-level functionary from Starfleet Medical via the viewscreen that he would need to be placed under medical quarantine for an indefinite amount of time based upon the findings of his pre-deployment health screening.

That was the last time he heard anything official. He'd had a few moments contact with Teth through the computer console before he assumed someone in Security detected the unauthorized transmission and disconnected them. His roommate had been able to relay that the medical staff had subjected him to a number of decidedly unusual scans and tests after Olsam had been removed from their room but they ultimately released him. He reported overhearing Allyndra mention something about an interphasic pathogen, but their connection was severed before he could ask the catian to elaborate.

Naturally, the standard medical databases had been completely devoid of information on interphasic pathogens. Olsam had never even heard of such a thing, so he was forced to do a little more investigative work over the next six days. Not that it had been much of a bother - between writing his own journal articles he had little else to do besides dig through databases and archives containing the collective work of the Federation's finest medical and scientific minds.

In the end he'd managed to find four articles theorizing the existence of interphasic pathogens and an undetermined amount of information in Starfleet databases locked behind a security clearance level he'd likely never achieve during his career. The articles were relatively short and so wildly fanciful that they bordered on absurd, even if Olsam had a hard time arguing with the science behind them. This small handful of scientists seemed to believe that some pathogens had a fluctuation in their phase variance, at various turns appearing normally, pushed just beyond sensor acuity or moved out of phase altogether. Three of the four articles seemed to believe such a pathogen would have to be specifically engineered, but the fourth left open the possibility of naturally occurring interphasic pathogens.

The reading had only made the circumstances of his implicit incarceration all the more perplexing. Did Starfleet Medical believe he was involved in the creation of an interphasic pathogen? Had he been exposed to one? He'd dedicated a great deal of thought to where he might have been introduced to such a thing, retracing his steps during shoreleave and pre-deployment. He even acknowledged the possibility that this was just some twisted joke of Teth's and that he was actually being quarantined for a case of Talatius influenza. But something about that had ringed hollow.

He'd resolved to try to do more research on his own before poking around Starfleet Medical for more information; however, he had a deputy director of the Health Security Division in front of him so took a chance.

"Has this quarantine had anything to do with an interphasic pathogen, Dr. Tashakor?"

If her demeanor hadn't ordinarily been so placid, he might have otherwise missed the tick at the corner of her mouth and the subtle wrinkle appear between her eyebrows. She seemed to be exerting a great deal of effort in controlling her facial musculature.

"An interphasic pathogen?"

"Just something I thought I heard in passing from one of the medical staff," Olsam said, immediately breaking out into a characteristic smile. "I did a little bit of research on it, seems like mostly fringe theories from a few of our more eccentric colleagues. I was pretty sure I'd heard wrong, but it doesn't hurt to ask."

Dr. Tashakor gave another mechanical smile, but her eyes seemed to carry a distinct sense of relief.

"I don't think I've ever heard of an interphasic pathogen. It certainly sounds imaginative," she replied, moving on without pause. "No, Dr. Mott, the circumstances of your quarantine were a little more mundane. The lab results from your pre-deployment work-up were somehow contaminated and gave false indications that we believed endangered the crew of the Galileo. I'm afraid the specifics are privileged information pending an investigation, but the simple version is that someone made a mistake. It's such an embarrassment that I wanted to contact you personally to offer an apology on behalf of Starfleet Medical."

"Oh, thank you for your consideration," Olsam replied, trying to look genuinely gracious and thankful. "I hope no one will be losing their job over one little mix up. Things happen. The number of times I've operated on the wrong limb... It's unimaginable, really. And yet they're still letting me practice medicine, so..."

Dr. Tashakor looked horrified for a moment before giving a laugh that sounded as rehearsed as her smile looked. "Trademark humor of yours, I'm sure." Something drew her attention away from the viewscreen for a moment and caused her brow to crease; the look of concern had faded by the time she turned back to him. "I'm very sorry, Dr. Mott, but an emergency situation has arisen that requires my attention. Again, I hope the quarantine hasn't caused any undue complications for you, and I'm sure the results of the investigation will be forwarded to you in the fullness of time. Best of luck to the Galileo in her mission, and I hope to see you again next year in Stockholm."

Before Olsam had a chance to reply the transmission was terminated.

OFF:

Lt. Olsam Mott, M.D.
Assistant Chief Medical Officer
USS Galileo

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