From: Jerome McKee (parakeety_at_hotmail.com)
Date: Tue Feb 13 2007 - 13:30:48 PST
"OUTBREAK"
(Continued from " "
----------------------------------------------------
Location: Starfleet Academy Science Annex
Stardate: [2.7]0213.1900
Scene: Instructor's Office
Lieutenant Solomon Arn leaned back in his seat and stretched out his arms
lazily. A yawn, deep and slow, escaped him, and a for a moment he almost
dozed off. It was a slow morning here in the Academy, slow enough that
Solomon could probably afford to take a snooze if he wanted to. He glanced
out of the window - the sky was overcast, with thick grey clouds gathering
on the horizon. Not a good day, then - perhaps the weather control
satellites would hit them with a shower of rain before noon. He put his
feet up on his desk, watching without care as one of his PADDs dropped off
onto the floor, and wondered what the canteen was serving for lunch later.
[[Wright to Arn.]]
Solomon, startled, jerked upright - the quick movement caused his feet to
shear all his papers and PADDs onto the floor in a noisy tattoo, and he
swore aloud. The sudden shifting of his weight on his chair made it swing to
the left in an awkward angle, and in an instant he had fallen right out of
it, landing on his rump amidst the mess his loosely flying appendages had
made. Sitting on the floor, papers floated to the ground on all sides of
him, one landing right on top of his head. The swivel chair completed its
orbit and bonked him on the side of the head.
For a fleeting moment, Solomon wondered at the myriad injustices of the
universe. He stabbed his communicator with an accusing finger. "What do you
want?"
Xon Wright, one of the Academy's junior instructors, sounded like she was
panting as she replied. Every second word was broken with a dramatic and
heaving intake of breath. [[I was -huff - wondering when we were - puff -
going to get together to discuss Cadet T'ial's ACT program.]]
"Cadet who?" Solomon picked himself, sighing as he accidentally crunched a
PADD beneath his foot. Hopefully there was nothing important on it.
[[T'ial, sir. Our new cadet? Didn't you - huffpuff - get the memo?]]
**What memo?** Solomon moaned inwardly. He looked forlornly at the piles of
PADDs and papers lying in an unholy mess on the floor of his office. "Of
course I got the memo!" he lied. He scabbled around in the mess as the heavy
breathing continued over the vox-net. He paused, somewhat suspiciously.
"Lieutenant - what *are* you doing?"
[[Out for - huff - my morning jog - puff - sir.]]
"Oh." Solomon shook his head, trying to remember his timetable. "I believe
that I have a xenobiology lecture in the next hour. How about we meet up for
lunch?"
[[Fine by me. See you - puff - later. Wright out.]]
Solomon cut the connection and stood up. Ignoring the mess on his floor, he
activated his desktop computer terminal and searched for new messages.
Amongst the daily administrative texts from the Academy faculty and that
annoying junk mail - no, he didn't need an extra ten inches / a holiday home
on Risa / a latinum loan at a mere seventy per cent compound interest rate
from the First Bank of Ferenginar - he found the one he was looking for.
Cadet T'ial - the newest admittee to Starfleet's elite Advanced Command
Training programme. A Vulcan - good. Vulcans were easy to teach, good at
absorbing and repeating information. Not the best at practical application
of that knowledge, but such a thing came with experience, and if the
powers-that-be thought that Cadet T'ial (who, he noted with scholarly
pleasure, was a scientist too) was good enough to train to be a department
head straight out of the Academy, then it was his duty to prepare a
challenging and interesting simluation for her.
He transferred a copy of T'ial's Academy record onto a new PADD, and lef the
office. These students wouldn't teach themselves, after all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene: Canteen
Time Index: Two hours later - lunchtime
Solomon caught sight of Xon over the bustling hubbub of the Academy canteen.
There were hundreds of students here, all milling around as they formed
queues to get to the replicators. Some of the Academy faculty were too
snobbish to hob-nob with the minds they were supposed to be shaping, but
Solomon had never been of that bent. If students were comfortable around
their instructors, then they felt freer to express themselves, and that sort
of thing was just what Solomon liked.
He paused for a moment, placing a hand on his stomach as Arn shifted
suddenly inside him. The symbiont didn't usually move around much, but when
it did he could feel it quite plainly. He poked himself in the stomach.
**Everything alright in there?** he thought to himself.
A wave of affection seeped through him as the symbiont responded. Solomon
smiled with happiness. Many people were afraid of the idea of the Joining -
Humans especially seemed to find the idea of a foot-long slug living inside
their colon slightly repulsive. But it took all sorts of species to make the
galaxy go round, and the day he had been Joined with Arn had been *the*
pivotal moment of his life thus far. It was true that there had been some
supplanting of his own personality as his own memory absorbed Arn's four
lifetimes of experiences with its other hosts - so much so that he had been
afraid he would lose himself in the mire of four different memory
personalities - but it had not taken long before *Solomon* to re-emerge to
the fore. It was the way of all things - a Joined Trill was never truly dead
as long as its host was alive. The idea made him happy. **Take it easy in
there,** he thought to himself. **I love you, you old coot.**
It *was* love, a two-way bond that was difficult to explain to a non-Trill.
The symbiont did not often open itself up to him, but when it did - usually
at a quiet, private moment - Solomon could feel flashes of its thoughts,
feelings. Arn did not truly *think*, of course - it needed a mouthpiece to
elucidate its own psyche - but it was very aware. It knew exactly where it
was and what was going on around it. Once, Solomon had got a bit drunk on
Romulan ale and tried to delve into the very *being* of Arn through his own
mind - it was an experience he would never forget. That was the first time
he had truly *felt* Arn, and the sheer gratefulness and love that the
ancient being bore him for being its host was enough to make him cry like a
child. Non-Trills could never truly understand, and sometimes Solomon wasn't
sure that he did either.
He sat down opposite Xon. The junior instructor was eating pasta, and
grinned in greeting. Born of a Human father and a Vulcan/Romulan mother, Xon
looked like a Vulcan - pointed ears and all - but acted like a Human. It was
refreshing in its own way. "How's the family?" Xon was married with a baby
girl.
Xon rolled her eyes. "Fine. David's gone away for the weekend to see his
brother. Double the workload for me."
"I hope I never have children," Solomon winked. "Noisy brats."
"Don't you have one already?"
"No. Well, yes. Sort of." Solomon twirled a finger in the air. "Arn's last
host - Jeliah - was a woman, and she has a daughter. Jeliah died when she
was very old, so the daughter is getting on in years now, too."
Xon frowned. "I see. How does that feel for you?"
"Oh, it's great," said Solomon disgustedly. "I have maternal feelings for a
woman who's older than me and who I've only met once in my life. It's a
miracle I'm still sane."
"Who says you are?" Xon grinned. "I sent a message to Cadet T'ial informing
her to report to me tomorrow morning for the commencement of her ACT
programme. Will we be using a holodeck?"
"What do you think we should do?"
"Aren't you the senior instructor?" Xon finished the last of her pasta. "You
know the drill - test their capabilities under stress. It's one thing to be
stuffed full of degrees, but quite another to be a department head."
Solomon nodded. "Let's not use a holodeck. They're boring."
Xon raised a classic Vulcan-esque eyebrow. "Holodecks are boring?"
"They're predictable." Solomon folded his arms. "Once the cadet knows
they're in a holodeck with the safeties on, they take a mental step back."
"Here we go again..."
"I'm serious, Xon. I'm sick of recommending to the Director that we abandon
the silly things, but I suppose she knows best." He shrugged. "Have T'ial
meet us in one of the labs. Send me the details later."
"Alright." Xon stood up. "See you in the morning."
"I'll get to work on her programme." Solomon activated his PADD, knowing
that the time was close.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene: Science Laboratory Two
Time Index: Next Morning
Solomon entered the lab on time next morning to find T'ial and Xon waiting
for him. Everything was set up according to the instructions he had sent Xon
yesterday afternoon - the test tubes and Bunsen burners were ready, and the
centrifuge was on standby. There were several closed petri dishes laid out
on the workbench - sickly yellow clouds of yellow mould bloomed inside them.
He nodded poiltely to T'ial. "Cadet."
The Vulcan inclined her head. "Sir. I am ready to commence my ACT
programme."
Solomon looked at her. Her opaque brown eyes were unreadable, and her dark
hair contrasted sharply with her black cadet's jumpsuit. At the first
glance, he was unsure whether she would perform, but you could never tell
these things on first impressions. "Good, Cadet. Take your place by the
workbench. We are going to prepare an experiment using a live Tarellian
Fever virus. What do you know of microbiology?"
"It was a requirement for our Academy science curriculum," said T'ial. "My
own speciality is in exo and xenobiology, however."
"Tarellian fever is not indiginous to this world, so in a way were are
covering xenobiology also," explained Solomon, handing a PADD to Xon. "Be
aware, Cadet, that this experiment is not being conducted on a holodeck, and
that the Tarellian Fever dishes we are using contain live samples. You must
exercise complete and proper laboratory safety measures when you are dealing
with them."
"I understand." She looked purposeful.
"A science officer on a starship is responsible, by proxy, for the safety of
the entire ship," explained Solomon. "You will be expected to take a leading
role in managing the acitivities of your staff so that their experiments or
research does not in any way affect the safety of the ship as a whole. But
to do this effectively, you must be completely familiar with all aspects of
laboratory safety measures."
"Yes, sir."
Xon took over. "As you know, Cadet, Tarellian Fever is an incurable and
potentially fatal disease. Once exposed, its incubation period inside the
host body is remarkably fast - within three hours the host is suffering full
effects of the disease. If not treated quickly, the Fever negatively affects
the body's enzyme production, leading to the breakdown of several major
biological functions. Death is, unfortunately, quite painful."
"We will observe you as you destroy these samples of Fever in the
centrifuge," continued Solomon. "You will be expected to adhere all
standards of laboratory safety at all times. When you're ready, you may
begin."
T'ial, wasting no time, activated the centrifuge. Using the device's control
panel, she configured it to handle the Fever specimens, preparing the
rotation speed and temperature and setting the digital timer on it. The
centrfuge would act like a vaccum when activated; the spinning of the main
body would prevent the Fever microbes from escaping into the lab when the
temperature melted the petri dishes and eventually roasted the viruses
themselves.
Solomon and Xon watched intently as T'ial donned a safety visor and
sterilised her hands under the sonic faucet. Moving slowly but with due
care, she picked up the petri dishes containing the viral samples, moved to
the centrifuge, and began to carefully lay them inside.
"Computer, report elapsed time," said Solomon aloud.
[[Two minutes, three seconds,]] intoned the computer.
"Faster, please," said Solomon, watching T'ial's reaction. She nodded, and
closed the centrifuge lid. There was a pause as the machine's interior
sensors scanned the cargo within. Solomon made a note on his PADD.
With a low hum, the centrifuge activated. T'ial stepped away, and the timer
began its countdown. "Why did you specify a ninety second cycle?" asked
Solomon.
T'ial turned to him. "I wanted to prevent any possibility of adaptation of
the virus to the heat. Ninety seconds is sufficient time for the temperature
to rise quickly enough to such an extreme level for nothing of the sample to
survive."
"Good." Solomon made another note in his PADD, not looking up. "And why did
you set a temperature of three thousand Kelvins?"
"Tarellian Fever can survive up to two thousand degrees. I wanted to be sure
of destroying the virus."
"Excellent," nodded Solomon, pleased. This was going very well. "What is the
purpose of a safety visor if the virus can be absorbed through body
orifices?"
"Simple protection of the eyes in the event of an unanticipated accident."
"Very good indeed," smiled Solomon. "What is the rate of cellular decay at
this temperature if - "
He was cut short by a series of warning chimes from the centrifuge. He
looked up sharply. "What's going on?"
T'ial moved quickly back to the centrifuge. "Malfunction. The centrifuge has
not sealed, but its cycle has begun."
Solomon frowned. "Deactivate the cycle immediately and abort the exercise."
"I am attempting to do so." The Vulcan Cadet's hands flew over the control
panel, yet the timer's countdown did not halt its inexorable ticking down.
Solomon and Xon looked on in alarm. "I have been unsuccessful in aborting
the cycle."
Xon turned to Solomon. "If we don't get out of here when that centrifuge
starts its cycle, the virus will not be sealed within it. We'll contaminate
the entire building."
"Let's get out of here!" called Solomon to T'ial.
[[Warning,]] intoned the computer. [[Viral contamination detected in
laboratory two. Initiating lockdown procedure.]]
"Computer, disregard lockdown!" Solomon, knowing it was hopeless, looked up
helplessly as glittering cobalt forcefields appeared over the ventilators
and windows. With an onimous grinding and sudden click, the door locked
itself shut. An instant later, another forcefield appeared around it.
The humming around the centrifuge grew louder and louder as the petri dishes
within were spun at hundreds of miles per hour. Smoke billowed from beneath
the lid. "Get away from there, Cadet!" called Xon, and T'ial moved to stand
beside them.
[[Laboratory lockdown complete,]] came the computer's voice. [[Deactivating
enviromental failsafes.]]
Solomon closed his eyes and looked in alarm at Xon and T'ial. "Are we
trapped?" asked Xon.
"I'm afraid so," said Solomon, watching the smoke from the centrifuge billow
into a thick cloud, spreading through the room, carrying millions of
Tarellian viruses with it. "The main computer's locked us in here - we'll be
exposed within minutes."
"Let's call for help," suggested Xon.
"Do that," nodded Solomon, "but there's no way on this earth that anyone is
coming in here with a bio-hazard like Tarellian Fever on the loose. The
bottom line, people, is that unless we can figure out a way of getting this
situation under control, we'll be exposed to one of the most potentially
lethal microbes in the galaxy."
He looked at them both. "So - any suggestions?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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NRPG: What a fun first day on the programme for T'ial, eh?
MAXINE: It's all yours, girl. Read the following separate NRPG email
carefully. It will break down the above post into sections and explain thewm
in detail, so you can use it as an example, or template, for your own. The
clock is ticking - you have a week to write your first post. Be sure to read
through the class books to find the correct mail string. If you have any
questions, don't be afraid to contact Joy or I - that's what we're here for!
Jerome McKee
the Soul of Lieutenant Solomon Arn
Senior ACT Instructor
Starfleet Academy
the Soul of Captain Michael Turlogh Kane
Commanding Officer
USS DISCOVERY
"He speaks an infinite deal of nothing!"
- Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", Act 1,
Scene 1.113
"Futile is resistance. Assimilated you will be."
- Yoda of Borg
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