Chasing Ghosts

Posted on 31 Jan 2013 @ 2:21pm by Raifi Zaren
Edited on on 31 Jan 2013 @ 3:24pm

2,196 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Felicidad: Deck 4, Sickbay
Timeline: MD -01: 0600hrs

[ON]

If it was possible to feel exactly like a color, Raifi Zaren felt green. The transporter that had taken him from Starbase 103 to the USS Felicidad's transporter room had been efficient, certainly, considering that he'd missed their departure by a few hours and would have been a day late and a latinum bar short to meeting Trija at Starbase 185 at the appointed time if he'd waited for the next starship heading that direction.

Still.

He loathed transporters.

He shivered, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders and tucking it under his chin to hold it in place. Why were Sickbays always cold? He'd never figured it out. One of the techs on Bajor had said it had something to do with sterility and discouraging germs, but Zaren was sure there were better ways to accomplish that than freezing the patients. He shivered harder and carefully settled his PADD against his knees, manipulating it through the blanket.

A few more hours, he supposed. It usually took about a day to wear off. The shivering. The nausea. The disorientation; that was the worst. Thank you, but no.

Sniffling a bit, he read through the latest news feeds and cupped hot chocolate in between blanket covered hands.

"How are we doing?"

Zaren flashed a grin at the medical officer who'd come to check on him. She'd seen him throwing up in the transporter bay; she deserved some positive reinforcement. "Crewman Hleya, right?"

She nodded. "Constance."

He smiled. "Nice name. Well, Constance, I'm improving. And I apologize again for the less than pleasant arrival." He sipped his chocolate, "I think it may be more psychological than physical, but the mind has a great deal of power over the body, so there it is."

"As long as you're feeling better." She lifted her tricorder, "I'm just going to do another series of scans to make sure."

"Thank you." He set his cup aside and lay back to let her do her job. "We're still on schedule?"

"Yes," she smiled, running the tricorder over him. "We don't get many reporters on board."

"No, I imagine you don't."

"What story are you working on?"

Zaren lifted a brow, "How familiar are you with the situation on the MS 1 colony right now?"

"MS 1?" She frowned, "Not at all."

"Then I'll tell you everything you need to know." He retrieved his chocolate and started in. Thirty minutes later, the medical officer was sitting on the edge of the biobed, staring at him in disbelief.

"That can't be true!"

"It is," Zaren assured her. "And the thing I don't understand is why there are still Federation transports moving more refugees to the colony on a daily basis when the maximum capacity has almost been reached and no efforts are being made to make those resources sufficient, let alone begin a new site for the rest of the incoming population. Upon arrival to the colony, each family is accommodated in a family size SEL unit - those are sun exposure limitation units - and they receive an initial hydration kit from these industrial transport companies and their partners, as well as a one month food ration. This is civilian aid, we're talking about. Not Starfleet. Not the Federation. It's organized somewhat by the Federation," he sipped, "but not actually executed by them. Us." He shook his head. "You've also got aid agencies on the ground - more civilian presence - providing other basic services, however, their existing capacities are overstretched. And the civilian aid workers, while well-intended, are taking up space and resources as well. So the Federation requested that New Berlin and Bolarus take responsibility for providing humanitarian assistance to MS 1. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? They're the closest star systems, they have plenty of food and water - at the very least replicators. But so far, no help has come. And the Federation claims that because the responsibility has been passed to those systems, they no longer have any need for presence there. Regardless of the fact that no action is being taken. These colonists and refugees are sharing emergency shelters and basic healthcare below Federation standards. For example, every five to seven families share one latrine. Have you ever experienced a latrine?"

"It's a washroom," she said with a small shrug.

"It's a trench dug into the earth. Into the hot. Dry. Dirt. Full of ammonia and excrement." He watched her expression sour as the image settled. "And their water supply - it's being provided by a Ferengi transport service that's trucking it in from New Berlin and sustaining actual demerits from the system's trade bureau for that - is estimated to provide only five to seven liters of water per person per day, and considering the trade restrictions Ferelex Inc. is facing for their aid, it's questionable how long that's going to continue. Oh, yes, and that supply capacity, by the way, is not expanding to match the new arrivals rate. As of three days ago, the colony was receiving new arrivals at an average of 1,000 to 1,500 refugees per day. It is expected that the population will rise past the maximum colony capacity of 60,000 people to 95,000 by midturn."

"But that's suicide."

"No." He sighed, "It's not suicide." And the way he said made it clear he thought it was something else entirely.

Constance gaped at him. "You think the Federation is turning a blind eye to them because they're Romulans?" she shook her head, astonished. "They wouldn't do that. We wouldn't do that."

"But they are. And you are - not you specifically - you didn't know; but how else do you explain it?" Now she looked as unsettled as he felt. He patted her hand, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Mister Zaren?" a Crewman Apprentice in an Ops uniform hurried into the Sickbay. "There's a call for you from a Freya Katril. Chief had me send it to the conference room."

"That's great." Zaren set his hot chocolate aside and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, resting his hand consolingly on Constance's shoulder. "I'll leave you with a parting thought, Constance. It isn't just MS 1 where this is happening." He squeezed her shoulder once, then padded - shoe-less - down the corridor where the Ops apprentice guided him.

"Just in here."

"Thanks. And thank your Chief for me. I appreciate all the help."

"Starfleet says jump," the boy chirped, and Zaren had the impression he was absentmindedly quoting his Chief. Probably in direct regards to seeing to the needs of the journalist on his ship. Ah well. He had fans and he didn't.

He closed the door gently behind him and went to the vidscreen console, sitting down, PADD in hand. "Freya."

"You look like hell."

He probably did. Pale and shaky, his dermal patterns standing out against the white of his flesh; Zaren picked at the light blue blanket wrapped around him. "It's not my best color, no. Clashes with all the ink."

"Well, pull yourself together. I'm going to patch the doctor through, from Vega IX."

"Nice work," he said, shifting the blanket off his shoulders and spreading it over his legs. He shivered a little, but forced his spine straight and his head up. "Any time you're ready." He watched the vidscreen blink to dark, flash twice, and then come up again on the face of a homely Terran with graying hair and an enormously photogenic nose. The nose alone pronounced 'doctor character' without him needing the red uniform. "Doctor Dreydan Prost," he smiled. "Hello. I'm Raifi Zaren, Federation News Service. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"We're not live, are we?"

Raifi shook his head, "No, sir. We're not even recording for broadcast." He was recording for notes, but that was beside the point. "I wanted to thank you again for reaching out to us in regards to the USS Galileo's departure."

"Well, I don't feel right about it, Mister Zaren; I just don't."

"It's just Zaren," he smiled. "What is it you don't feel right about, sir?"

"They took him." Prost shook his head irritably, "They took that Vulcan on their ship. And I saw the way they crashed. They were playing it on the local news. I don't know why they would take him on their ship with all the potential dangers inherent in a telepath like that."

"A telepath," Raifi tilted his head in a gesture of concern, "I'm not quite sure I follow. There are a number of telepaths working aboard Starfleet ships."

He grumbled for a moment, then looked up seriously. "This is a breach of protocol, you understand. Medical records are sealed for a reason. I could lose my license."

"My lips are sealed. Your name will never come up. I promise you."

"This Vulcan - Liyar. He was registered as a P-eight telepath. But the psi-cuffs that Ambassador Azure requisitioned for him were for P-eleven. I'm no detective," he clarified, as if it were necessary, "but the Vulcans are no slouches at psionic testing. So if he came in a p-eight and left a p-eleven... I don't know if he leapt over three levels on the psionic chart - which is unheard of - before he came in or while he was working with the Ambassador, but either way, he's an inexperienced, high-powered telepath with no training for the abilities he has. He's a danger to himself and others. He shouldn't be on a ship that small. He shouldn't be on any starship at all. He should be on the ground, learning to control his abilities."

"Uh huh," Zaren listened intently. It was a strange thing. "And you say the Galileo left with him?"

Prost nodded. "And, well, I'm not entirely sure what the Ambassador was thinking, is what I'm saying."

"And this is Ambassador Azure."

"Ambassador Near-Jareth Azure, he's a Betazoid ambassador to Vulcan. Can't imagine what those two get up to in their heads together.

"And the patient's name?"

"S'tanial T'verith Liyar maat'Niram."

"Right. Thank you, this has been very helpful. Were there any others?"

"Other what?"

"Any other crew members in or about the medical center during the time that the Galileo was there."

"I don't know; I spend most of my time in the visiting specialists wing. Setting them up with equipment, space, testing suites... Many of these off-worlders don't understand our particular systems here, so I make sure things are done properly." He stared out through the screen, "This was not done properly."

"I understand. And thank you again. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, if you come across any additional information, please don't hesitate to contact me or my producer Freya Katril."

"I surely won't."

"All right. Have a pleasant day," he said and toggled the callscreen. So the Vulcan was a telepath. A powerful one at that. Why would Trija be remotely concerned about him getting in touch with a potentially dangerous mind? How would that bring protestors to her door? He twisted the ring around his little finger, round and round, then glanced at the LCARS terminal. He looked around the room. "All right," he murmured. "Let's see what you've got for me." He touched the terminal, but it only blinked 'Out of Order'. Clever, clever Chief of Operations. Zaren couldn't help but smile and returned to the vidscreen. "Freya. Get me whatever you can on a... S'tanial T'verith Liyar maat'Niram," he read from his PADD.

"What's the interest?"

"I'll let you know when I find out myself," he told her. "Just send it as an encrypted data pack, would you?"

"Sure."

"Oh, and Prost says there's footage of the Galileo crashing. Let's get that file, shall we?"

"You got it," she nodded and the screen winked to black. Tugging the blanket back up to surround him, he hummed quietly to himself. Interesting. This Vulcan. He'd have to learn more.

There was something in him, something ornery, that made any idea that the Network specifically didn't want him to follow up on seem all the more alluring. And this ship... He looked at his PADD and studied the information on the Galileo that his and Freya's contacts had dug up so far. A shining send off, a mysterious mission, and a crash landing. It was interesting, he conceded to Fenta's point. But why was that more interesting to her and her viewers than the potential for undiscovered life in undiscovered countries? Starships weren't exactly a rarity and there were any number of reasons for one to land poorly. For one thing, they weren't exactly meant to land on planets. They were built for space. Landing on planets was what shuttles were for.

With a little mutter to himself, he tucked the PADD under his arm and stepped out of the conference room to find the crewman apprentice waiting dutifully for him. Of course. He couldn't possibly be left un-shepherded, he thought gleefully. What if he reported what color underwear the Chief Science Officer had hidden in his bureau? The horror!

[OFF]

Raifi Zaren
FNN Journalist
USS Felicidad
(pNPC Lilou Peers)

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