Poison in the Blood - [Part 1 - FIXED]

Posted on Sat Sep 20th, 2014 @ 1:05pm by

Mission: The Art of the Hunt [Incomplete]

OOC: Sorry for posting this again, the first was a mess. Somehow the site, or something, completely screwed it up. Made it seem way longer than it was, and made it all screwy. I decided to make this more episodic, so this is a portion of what the other one had, and I'll post the rest over time. Thanks for your patience.

"It is adapting," the young woman said. Her tone was certain, and she did her best to sound confident, but there was an undercurrent of concern.

Ibraham Stern sat on the med-bench, stripped to the waist, as the young Starfleet girl - woman, he reminded himself - stared at the hypo in her hand. The tiny display told her everything she needed to know, and her knitted brow told him everything he needed. It wasn't good.

He was going to be dead soon.

"The treatments are doing what they are supposed to," Lieutenant Junior Grade Elizabeth Heyworth said. "They are keeping the symptoms in check, allowing you to function. There is evidence that the virus is reacting to the treatment in an unexpected way, however."

Stern closed his dark eyes. Stripped down as he was, Elizabeth took a moment to appraise his physical condition. For a man of his age, his body was, she had to admit, at peak form. He had a powerful frame that only months before when she had seen him last, had been going slightly to fat. Spending as much time in the field as he had been, he had trimmed dramatically. Still... Old scars crossed his body, and his face. A particularly nasty scar"It is adapting," the young woman said. Her tone was certain, and she did her best to sound confident, but there was an undercurrent of concern.

Ibraham Stern sat on the med-bench, stripped to the waist, as the young Starfleet girl - woman, he reminded himself - stared at the hypo in her hand. The tiny display told her everything she needed to know, and her knitted brow told him everything he needed. It wasn't good.

He was going to be dead soon.

"The treatments are doing what they are supposed to," Lieutenant Junior Grade Elizabeth Heyworth said. "They are keeping the symptoms in check, allowing you to function. There is evidence that the virus is reacting to the treatment in an unexpected way, however."

Stern closed his dark eyes. Stripped down as he was, Elizabeth took a moment to appraise his physical condition. For a man of his age, his body was, she had to admit, at peak form. He had a powerful frame that only months before when she had seen him last, had been going slightly to fat. Spending as much time in the field as he had been, he had trimmed dramatically. Still... Old scars crossed his body, and his face. A particularly nasty burn ran across his right shoulder and down his back – it was old, and largely faded. “How is your leg?”

Stern’s eyes snapped open and his pupils focused, which Heyworth noted as a good sign. “My leg?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you still have a lot of pain?”

Stern smiled. “Lizzy, I always have a lot of pain.” Her withering gaze ushered a sigh from the grizzled shadow. “Yes,” he said. “Usually when I am on it for a long time, or I have to bed down in a rough place. Not much to be done about it,” he said.

Heyworth shook her head and looked back down at the scanner. “Based on my research of Doctor Kvilla and her work…” Heyworth sighed. The sigh was simply an audible acknowledgement of the inevitable. “Based on my original calculations you should have had at least another year,” she said. “With the treatments longer.”

“Okay,” Stern said, pulling the dark blue shirt over his head. “And now?”

“Maybe three months,” she said flatly. “The virus is adapting,” she said.

“You already said that,” Stern.

“It’s more than that,” Elizabeth added. “It isn’t simply adapting, it is getting stronger. More potent. There is still so much I do not know about the Kvilla virus. Since contracting it…”

Stern looked away. She kept talking, motioning towards him every now and again, but he stopped hearing her. For a moment, the old man let his mind drift.

- 2389, Banta Outpost 101 -

“Lieutenant Stern,” a voice called.

Outpost 101 was located on a planet that not many in the Federation would even know existed. In what had once been a very ancient temple now rested an ill-kept Intelligence Outpost. This particular one was maintained by a very shrewd Intelligence Admiral named Damian Gohan.

The walls were made of a tan or yellowed stone, and smelled of salt. There was an uncomfortable stillness in the air, and everything felt stale and dirty. Even the echoes seemed to move slowly.

Stern paused, and then smiled sharply. “Doctor Tillmar?” he queried.

“Indeed,” the dark-skinned, bald man with the most peculiar green eyes said, smiling. “This way.” Tillmar was a short man, and he had the kind face of a healer. Stern recognized him as an Intelligence Officer almost immediately. “She’s just here,” he said, walking towards the end of the corridor. He walked with the gait of a killer trying to cleverly cover up that fact, which immediately put Stern on edge.

A few weeks prior Stern’s superior, Rear Admiral Damian Gohan, had ordered him to, before boarding the USS Sedgemoor, stop at Outpost 101 and verify the death of one of his field agents. Supposedly she had knowledge of extremely sensitive information, and had become deathly ill in the recent months. Gohan, ever a cautious man, wanted to ensure there was nothing nefarious. Supposedly she had a message for Gohan though. Why he needed Stern to be here when he had a man like Tillmar nearby was anyone’s guess, but Stern didn’t care. He just wanted to get it over with and move on. “This is as far as I go,” Tillmar said. “Whatever information she knows is not for me to hear.”

“Right,” Stern said.

“If you need anything, just call.” Tillmar nodded courteously, spinning on his heel and wandering away.

Stern stood in the octagonal entryway. Incense burned in an effort to cover up the scent of rot. Stern could smell the unguents. He could smell the death in the air. It was the kind of sickly sweet smell that stuck to your hair and clothing, like rotting fruit.

He approached, observing the female form. Her breathing seemed almost mechanical, and thick tubes jutted out of her mouth and trailed down to archaic machines. Stern was uncertain of their purpose. A heavy white shroud lay over her, and as he removed it he was met with more bandages and wrappings. He couldn’t even tell what race she was, let alone who she was. He spied a chart at the end of her metal-frame bed and snatched it up. Quinn, Harper. His eyes went to the birthdate. 02082365. “Damn,” he muttered. “Twenty-five. Just a kid…” She was never going to wake up, and whatever message she had was going to the grave with her.

He started to put the chart down, but something caught his attention. It had a section for date of death, which was filled in already. He looked down at her – her breathing had become erratic and labored, but she was still very much alive. He looked back at the chart, and what was entered for the date and time of death.

It was today.

In minutes from now.

He started to turn to the door, and as he did it slammed shut with the finality of a door that was not going to open for him. He dropped the chart, and it clattered against the heavy stone.

There were no windows. Even as the girl began to convulse violently in her bed, the realization of what this was began to sink in. This is a trap, Stern thought. “Damn you Tillmar,” he spat. He didn’t bother asking for the man to open the doors. There would be no point.

He looked at the girl. The shroud had fallen away and he realized her hands and feet had been bound to the bed. Her body began to rock back and forth angrily, and her head snapped back, the tubes wrenching from her mouth. She had light skin, and he thought he caught a glimpse of blond hair underneath the bandages. Her mouth and eyes were open, and she screamed in agony.

One final spasm and there was a loud cracking sound, followed by a spew of red liquid from her mouth. And then it was over, and Harper Quinn fell back, and death blessedly took her.

Stern had watched the scene as impassively as he could. He could feel the air shift as scrubbers seemed to come online, and then moments later the doors hissed open. Tillmar rushed in, an expression of distress on his face. “I am so sorry Lieutenant Stern, the doors malfunctioned. This old place, we are always having problems like that… The dust gets…” He fell silent, looking at Harper Quinn. “Oh, poor girl. Poor, poor girl.”

The entire thing felt forced to Stern. “Tell your master his toy is broken,” Stern snapped, pushing Tillmar away. What the hell was this about?

Of course it wouldn’t be until months later that he would find out.

--

Ibraham Stern
Intelligence Operative