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Authors: Christopher L. Bennett
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him. “After all, Klingons area well-traveled people. This could be some alien strain that came to Qo’noS through trade.”
“Then why have others not fallen ill as well?”
“There are countless factors that can influence viral susceptibility. I’d need to know much more about the virus to be sure. It has an unusually lengthy genome containing complexities that are difficult to account for.”
“Too complex to be natural?” Khorkal pressed.
“With respect, Councillor, it is imperative that I avoid preconception or bias in my investigation. That is why you brought me here, after all.” He cleared his throat. “However, I would welcome some assistance from an expert in viral genetics. If Doctor Antaak could be consulted—”
“No!” The fierce objection came from B’orel, a hotheaded veteran councillor that Phlox remembered from his previous visit here. “Antaak has disgraced himself by bringing the QuchHa’ plague to the Klingon people. Had M’Rek’s softness not held us back, we would have eradicated Antaak and all the others of his kind by now!”
Phlox declined to point out that Antaak’s metagenic viral research had been conducted under orders from the High Council. If anyone was ultimately responsible for the Qu’Vat mutation, that list included several of the people here in this room, possibly including B’orel himself. But it would not be conducive to Phlox’s health to remind them of the fact.
“Very well, gentlemen—and lady,” he went on with a nod to Councillor Alejdar, a dignified, middle-aged Klingon who was the sole female on the High Council. “Then I will simply have to do my best to identify the viral strain using the equipment I have. And that may take a good deal of time, so if any of you have other business to attend to . . .”
“We will not leave you unwatched, Denobulan,” Khorkal intoned.
Phlox shrugged. “Then perhaps you could arrange to take turns.”
The councillors grumbled and blustered, but as Phlox went about his meticulous work with the genetic sequencer, they grew increasingly restless, and within another hour, most had wandered off to deal with other things. B’orel stayed and kept his suspicious gaze on Phlox at every moment, but otherwise, the only one who remained the full time was Councillor Deqan, the appointed Arbiter of Succession responsible for overseeing the rites by which the new chancellor would be selected. Deqan was unusually quiet and even-tempered for a Klingon, content to observe rather than intimidate, which Phlox appreciated greatly.
The sheer size of this virus’s genome—well over a million base-pairs in length, carrying nearly two thousand different genes—made it difficult and time-consuming to track down the telltales Phlox was looking for. The majority of the genes were consistent with the genomic “vocabulary” of Qo’noSian life, as one would expect from a virus able to interface with Klingon cells. But there were anomalies in the sequence whose origins proved more elusive. Comparison with Klingon medical databases let him identify many of them as originating on the farming colony of Pheben. “Perhaps a mutation that arose there,” Kon’Jef suggested, “and was carried in the chancellor’s food.”
“Not out of the question, given your fondness for uncooked meals,” Phlox agreed. “But there’s something here that looks familiar, and that shouldn’t be, because I’ve never studied a Pheben genome before.”
“Familiar how? You have seen part of the sequence before?”
“Not so much the sequence as . . .” He kept the rest to himself: t he way the pieces are put together. He was beginning to recognize the artist’s hand.
It was not the answer he had wanted to find.
• • •
Phlox managed to persuade Deqan and Kon’Jef that he needed to consult confidentially with a colleague in the Interspecies Medical Exchange. B’orel was instantly suspicious, but Phlox rode heavily on his
“Then why have others not fallen ill as well?”
“There are countless factors that can influence viral susceptibility. I’d need to know much more about the virus to be sure. It has an unusually lengthy genome containing complexities that are difficult to account for.”
“Too complex to be natural?” Khorkal pressed.
“With respect, Councillor, it is imperative that I avoid preconception or bias in my investigation. That is why you brought me here, after all.” He cleared his throat. “However, I would welcome some assistance from an expert in viral genetics. If Doctor Antaak could be consulted—”
“No!” The fierce objection came from B’orel, a hotheaded veteran councillor that Phlox remembered from his previous visit here. “Antaak has disgraced himself by bringing the QuchHa’ plague to the Klingon people. Had M’Rek’s softness not held us back, we would have eradicated Antaak and all the others of his kind by now!”
Phlox declined to point out that Antaak’s metagenic viral research had been conducted under orders from the High Council. If anyone was ultimately responsible for the Qu’Vat mutation, that list included several of the people here in this room, possibly including B’orel himself. But it would not be conducive to Phlox’s health to remind them of the fact.
“Very well, gentlemen—and lady,” he went on with a nod to Councillor Alejdar, a dignified, middle-aged Klingon who was the sole female on the High Council. “Then I will simply have to do my best to identify the viral strain using the equipment I have. And that may take a good deal of time, so if any of you have other business to attend to . . .”
“We will not leave you unwatched, Denobulan,” Khorkal intoned.
Phlox shrugged. “Then perhaps you could arrange to take turns.”
The councillors grumbled and blustered, but as Phlox went about his meticulous work with the genetic sequencer, they grew increasingly restless, and within another hour, most had wandered off to deal with other things. B’orel stayed and kept his suspicious gaze on Phlox at every moment, but otherwise, the only one who remained the full time was Councillor Deqan, the appointed Arbiter of Succession responsible for overseeing the rites by which the new chancellor would be selected. Deqan was unusually quiet and even-tempered for a Klingon, content to observe rather than intimidate, which Phlox appreciated greatly.
The sheer size of this virus’s genome—well over a million base-pairs in length, carrying nearly two thousand different genes—made it difficult and time-consuming to track down the telltales Phlox was looking for. The majority of the genes were consistent with the genomic “vocabulary” of Qo’noSian life, as one would expect from a virus able to interface with Klingon cells. But there were anomalies in the sequence whose origins proved more elusive. Comparison with Klingon medical databases let him identify many of them as originating on the farming colony of Pheben. “Perhaps a mutation that arose there,” Kon’Jef suggested, “and was carried in the chancellor’s food.”
“Not out of the question, given your fondness for uncooked meals,” Phlox agreed. “But there’s something here that looks familiar, and that shouldn’t be, because I’ve never studied a Pheben genome before.”
“Familiar how? You have seen part of the sequence before?”
“Not so much the sequence as . . .” He kept the rest to himself: t he way the pieces are put together. He was beginning to recognize the artist’s hand.
It was not the answer he had wanted to find.
• • •
Phlox managed to persuade Deqan and Kon’Jef that he needed to consult confidentially with a colleague in the Interspecies Medical Exchange. B’orel was instantly suspicious, but Phlox rode heavily on his
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