Turris Morran

War. Turris Morran had little interest in such things. In truth he regarded it as just another fact of nature, another part of the existence which was called life. The fact of the matter was to him, however, that what the higher lifeforms regarded as war, nature did so much more elegantly and ruthlessly. A single petri dish could be host to a battleground bloodier than only field spoken of in the history books. Ranks of bacteria mingling the midst of lymphocytes, each battling for a far more nobler cause than land or latinum. Survival. But man, no, man was different. Their battles involved so much more. Glory and order, riches and luxury, political ideals. Knowledge, truth. Now there was a cause worth fighting for. Morran giggled in spite of himself, drywashing his hands as he meandered down the corridor. “No, I am not mad,” he thought to himself as another crewman walked by, eying him nervously. He had gotten used to those stares and glances, all but the newest crew retrieved from Maturin knew of him. The man who went crazy and stole a shuttle, leading them on a wild goose chase. Some even blamed him for that debacle with that genetic disease that caused people to grow scales. Interesting, that, I don't recall ever encountering such a virus. Perhaps it was developed after he left to handle the incident with the Romulans. Something said that he should remember something of it, but his memory had been fuzzy for some time. Idly he wondered to himself if he ever was mad, despite what the others said. What was madness, exactly? He could hardly define it objectively. I'm sure that Vulcan woman could say something about it. Or maybe the Romulan, the one who always seems to be scowling. What was her name again? The thought was out of his mind as soon as it had been brought about, pricked like a bubble. He had arrived at his destination. Checking the console aside the door, he found the holodeck was still vacant. Suppressing another laugh he looked both ways down the hall and entered, locking the doors behind him. He took one looking around the black room, gridded with yellow lines, nodding to himself. It had become part of his nature, inspecting his surroundings everywhere he went. He had worked on a secret project, been sent to cover up their mistakes, and the looks his latest actions had brought him made him wonder if he would find a knife in his back at any moment. Though, he never could pay attention for long. Marvelous that that had not gotten him into trouble, insofar. He forced his mind to stop its wondering, but his features took on a playful look. He spread his arms wide and uttered as if commanding, “Computer, arch.” This time he did laugh openly as the arch appeared as beckoned. His amusement carried on as he took position in front of the terminal. He knew what he searched for was here and it took little effort to locate it, and to cover his tracks as he did. Part of his so called training for his latest mission had involved working at terminals, leaving no traces and even circumventing security. It was a skill he took some pride in, even taking to taunting the machine as it tried to follow his path, saying “Oh, no you don't” and “Catch me if you can” as if there were another man there beside him countering his moves. There is no good or evil, only man. The thought came unbeckoned, disassociated, just a random thought floating across his consciousness. He found such thoughts often sparked philosophical discussions in his mind, his id and his ego making points and counter-points in his thoughts, until in time an introspective speech had been compiled and was repeated over and over again as if it were somehow pertinent to his situation. No real decision was reached, nothing was agreed upon, and the thought was gone again as if it never were. “Computer, run program 'Genevieve'” In the center of the stark and dull room a woman appeared, clothed in a dark, clinging cloth that seemed to blend into the surroundings except where yellow line ended and began. She was attractive, light skinned and hair the color of a wheat field in the late summer. He had an eye for beauty, it seemed, though most of his kind did. A race of “listeners” they called them, but they perceived with all senses to a higher degree than most. For a moment he longed to see the homeworld of old, with its grand cities and lush country sides his mother had spoken of so fondly. A starship and a cold, sunless moon provided little in the way of grand sights which he so often longed to see. Again he forced his mind to a halt. “I am the Gene Mark IV computational assistance program. How may I assist you, Lieutenant Morran?” Genevieve chimed. Morran looked at her for a moment, a look of puzzlement and surprise. “So, you know I've been promoted it seems. When we you last accessed and by whom?” Turris inquired, scratching his chin. Genevieve replied with the precise date and hour, and gave the names of two of his colleagues. Escher and T'Prise. Something in him thought to be relieved, that a message had been delivered, but still suspicion overtook him. “What was the purpose of their access?” Genevieve replied swiftly, “They wished to learn more about me. They also claimed that you were ill. I am pleased to see that you have recovered.” Morran took no notice except to say “I see”. Suspicion plagued him, and his heart began palpitating as anxiousness overtook him. Genevieve held dangerous information, information which could be used again to reek havoc on an unsuspecting world. Information which should be destroyed, but he could not bring himself to do it. Ridding the universe of knowledge, even dangerous knowledge, was anathema to him and he would take no part in it. But no matter, he had gone to great lengths to see what that information had sowed would cause no harm, and he intended to protect that information so that it never would again no matter the cost. Settling his nerves he walked across the room, inspecting his creation. With a nod he smiled, his cheerfulness returned. “We have a lot to catch up on, Genevieve. Quite a lot.”

The Atarxis sun hung high in the grayish sky without a single cloud to block its presence as it baked the cracked, dry sand. The barren planet barely earned its classification as a Class M planet; the air was unbearably hot and dry, hardly suitable to breathe with all the sand kicked up by the people and carts thronging the streets. Most of the buildings were stone, cracking and falling apart; some were only held together by wooden or scrap metal frames dug into the ground. The people looked equally unkempt, and mostly broken with their downturned eyes and their unsteady march through the crowded streets. Morran walked steadily along with the thronging mass, clad in white civilian clothing he had replicated on the shuttle. He certainly stood out among the crowd, and the large heavy pack he carried over his shoulder only strengthened his appearance as a wealthy individual. More than once he had to snarl at a street urchin or footpad who got too close. Snarling of course wasn’t all that difficult for Morran, considering where he was and what he was about. “Look at these people, Turris. They need your help." A soft voice came from behind him. He resisted the urge to look back, keeping his eyes fixated on his path as she went on. “You can help them come to a more peaceful existence, lead them into a better future. Their leaders are the ones that force them to live in this squalor.” “I don’t want any part of that,” Turris mumbled in reply. It was getting more and more difficult again to ignore her. However, the disgusted look on her face was probably mirrored in his own features. “Think about it! You could be in control of one of the most strategic planets in this sector,” she continued, dodging a few children as they ran past giggling. “Why do you think the Federation hasn’t taken the planet? Or the Klingons? Because they need these people, they need the smugglers and the mercenaries to do their dirty work over the border…” Morran stopped midstep and turned on his heel. “I don’t want any part of this place, or you! Now just shut up!” She looked almost as astonished as the haggard man standing next to her, though he looked more frightened. Turris turned his gaze towards the man, who lowered his eyes and hurried off in the other direction through the crowd. Morran never noticed the blade the man was carrying, intended for his back. Turning again, he continued down the road, enjoying the relative silence. It was long before he found his destination. The sign hanging outside the bar was written in Klingon, but the picture painted on it matched the description he had been given, to a T. There couldn’t possibly be two establishments in this quadrant, let alone on this planet, with a sign that depicted a half-naked Klingon woman riding what looked like a giant winged lizard whilst holding an overflowing tankard. Morran stood there examining the sign for a few moments, imagining the possible translation of the bar’s name, but was soon interrupted when he was shoved off the street and the milling throng moved occupied the space where he was standing. He spared a few curses out towards the crowd, though they probably never reached the ears of his assailant. Sighing, he slung his pack over his shoulder, its contents clinking together as he made his way over to the bar. A few eyes followed him as he strolled across the dirt floor, though most of the glances were for the leather sack. The bartender took a particular interest as Morran took a seat, but was satisfied to continue washing the bar while Turris scanned the room. For a drinking establishment, the bar was fairly quiet and reserved, and the majority of the patrons’ faces were focused into their glasses or mugs. Most of the seats were empty, and the tables that were taken were occupied by one particular race; a few Klingons sat laughing, wiping foam from their beards and slapping one another on their backs, while across the room sat a group of humans, enjoying a companionable silence. “Can I help you?” the bartender asked, setting a mug filled with some foul-smelling spirit on the bar in front of him. Morran eyed him warily before pushing the glass away and leaning over the bar to speak quietly. “I’m looking for Sir’al. Do you know where I can find her?” he asked quietly, watching the bartender's eyes. “Who? Tirol? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by the name,” the bartender replied, with only a tinge of apprehension on his voice. Then he grinned; his eyes straying to Morran’s pack as Turris inconspicuously produced a small bar of gold-pressed latinum and set it on the bar. “No, no. Her name is Sir’al.” Morran said slowly, drawing out the syllables. He pushed the ingot across the bar, and the tender picked it up and eyed it with glee. “Ohh, Sir’al. Yeah, I’ve seen her, but I’m not really sure where she is,” the barkeep replied, eyeing Morran with a sly expression. His grin disappeared quickly, however, as Morran’s features turned to a snarl and he grasped the man's collar tightly. Then it was Morran’s turn to grin, as he procured two more ingots from his sack and waved them in front of the barkeep’s eyes. Snatching them from his hand, the tender pointed to a curtained room in the corner of the bar. “Now, friend, no need to get upset. You can find her there, but beware, she doesn’t much like visitors.” Morran nodded, securing the flap on his sack and standing. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, eyeing the glass the bartender had set out for him. Picking it up, he raised it to his nose and sniffed it, immediately pushing it away with a look of disgust. “Warnog. Gah.” His gaze turned the private room, and, taking a deep breath, he headed towards it with a look of purpose. Time seemed to slow for a moment as she approached him, rising from a table with one of the human cliques. “You heard him, love. She doesn’t want your company. Why don’t you forget this foolishness before you get yourself killed?” She swayed across the floor to him taking the glass from his hand and emptying half of it while staring into his eyes. She seemed to notice something in him as he looked away. “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” she asked, the knuckles on her hand turning white as she grasped the glass tighter, dropping it to the floor. “Forget her! She cannot love you like I do!” “Get out of my way!” he yelled, and she was gone. Two Klingons stood in front of him instead, guarding the curtained entrance to the private room, looking down at the dented tankard laying on the floor and the spilled warnog on their boots. They looked up at him, showing their teeth and producing a throaty growl. One had just reached out to grab his shoulder when the beaded curtain slid to the side and a young Vulcan woman stepped out. Young, perhaps, did not describe her well. Morran could never seem to place a proper age on Vulcans; as young as they often looked, they always had a look of knowing in their eyes only one with a lifetime of experiences could possess. She was certainly attractive, in an exotic sort of way. Unlike many Vulcan women he had met her hair was long, with only a hint of her pointed ears appearing from behind her brown locks. Her clothing was sheer and clinging, and Morran found himself imagining her in some rather inappropriate situations. She stepped forward, laying a hand on her Klingon guard’s arm as she looked Morran up and down. “A human Starfleet officer, wearing civilian clothing and carrying a heavy bag. Somewhat suspicious looking, and acting very..." She paused for a moment as she approached him, taking his chin and drawing his face up to look into her eyes, “peculiar.” She turned, pushing aside the curtain and motioning for him to enter. “I was told I could be expecting your company. Do join us.” Morran eyed the two Klingons at his side and slowly moved forward, only to be pushed along into the room by the brutish attendants. One of them tore the sack from his shoulder, throwing it on a large desk that sat in the center of the room, while the other directed him, rather forcefully, to sit. Morran through the arm off his shoulder and growled at the one who had taken his belongings, but he sat obediently, lounging back in his chair, addressing the Vulcan woman. “I heard this magnificent joke some time ago, and I heard that you rather enjoy a bit of humor.” She eyed him surreptitiously, taking a seat across from him at the desk and opening the bag in front of her. “You heard wrong, I’m sure.” “Oh, but you simply must hear this one! An old man is sitting on a park bench when suddenly he exclaims ‘5,1, 4, 1, 3! I’m done!’. Another man walking by as he says this looks over and asks the old man, ‘My, you look exhausted. What have you been doing?’ to which the old man replies, ‘I’ve just finished reciting the entire decimal equivalent of pi backwards!” Morran looked between his companions with a bemused expression, noticing bewilderment on the Klingons’ faces and the rather unamused look the joke had produced from the Vulcan. A few moments passed before he burst into raucous laughter, slapping the table in front of him. “He’s a madman,” one of the Klingons snarled, crossing his arms in front of him, as Morran’s laughter slowed to spats of giggling and he wiped his eyes. “That would seem to be the case, considering that he ventured through the streets carrying this much wealth in these times,” the Vulcan woman said dryly as she spilled the contents of his sack onto the desk. Fifty or so bars of gold-pressed latinum glinted there, and the Klingons eyed it greedily. “And just what were you hoping to buy with this?” Morran wiped a few tears from his cheek as he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I always wondered how you Vulcans ever got past the concept of the paradox. I make it a habit of telling that joke to every Vulcan I meet, and to be perfectly honest I almost always expect your heads to explode.” Morran paused for a moment, waving a finger in the air and looking up. “Well, there’s one I haven’t told it to yet, but no matter.” Morran leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin in his upturned hands. “You are quite the paradox, my dear Sir’al. A Vulcan mercenary! Who would have thought of it? Whatever happened to the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few?” Sir’al stood, pouring a glass of water from a bar across the room. “Spock’s philosophies are quite admirable, but incomplete, I must say. Indeed, what is good for the many is also good for the individual, yet that holds true only in a perfect universe.” Sitting back down at the desk, she set two glasses of water in front of them, on either side of the pile of latinum. “But here, one must also come to the logical conclusion that also what is good for the individual is also good for the many.” She paused, sipping from her glass and setting it gently back down in front of her. “I can only assume that you did not come here to discuss Vulcan philosophy, and you have not answered my question.” “I require your services.” Morran stated simply, eyeing his glass before taking a sip from it himself. It was cool and clear, and it felt crisp as it ran down his dry throat. He tilted the glass back further, emptying the its contents entirely. “A very good friend of mine spoke very highly of you; he said you were one who could get things done quietly, and without asking questions.” “I see.” The Vulcan replied coolly, folding her hands in front of her. “And what might this friend be called?” “Robert Locke.” Sir’al quirked an eyebrow, tapping her fingers together. “Ahh, yes. The human scientist, I do recall him. A very disagreeable man if I may say so.” She eyed Morran once more before she began stacking the latinum back into the empty sack. “I’m afraid we’re not interested in your offer. My suggestion is that you leave, return to your Admiral and tell them we are not interested in dealing with him further.” Morran grabbed her wrist, and looked into her eyes, a sincere and purposeful look playing across his features. “I have Genevieve. I have the key to Enlightenment, the key to the 'Admiral’s’ ultimate downfall.” The Vulcan’s eyebrow quirked again, and she leaned forward before quietly uttering, “Go on.”

“Computer, direct sensors to aft and scan for any warp signatures on this course heading.” The computer chimed to acknowledge his request, and in a short time replied. “No warp signatures detected.” Morran giggled with glee, though he wasn’t really sure why. He wasn’t completely aware why someone would be following him, but he had a feeling someone would be. He was on some sort of shuttle. No, a fighter of some sort; a Star Fleet fighter judging by the layout and the consoles in front of him. The LCARS interface was clumsy and blocky; it’s only purpose to provide pure utility and functionality. All those square angles and mismatched colors, the overbearing font, and all behind a boring glossy black background. Star Fleet engineers could certainly take a lesson from the miracle that was life. Functionality and beauty, all rolled into an extremely efficient package, and yet still possessing the exciting quality of uniqueness. Take Echococcosis for example. Suddenly a wave of clarity washed over him, a remembrance of where he was and what he had done. A bead of sweat dripped off his brow, followed by another, and yet another. Morran wiped his forehead with his sleeve, noticing the darker patch of sweat that had been transferred to it. It was a Star Fleet fighter, stolen off the flight deck of one of the Federation’s most dangerous ships. “What have I done?” Morran asked himself in a quivering voice. “What you had to, my love,” there came a woman’s voice from behind him. A hand ventured down his shoulder and his chest, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up on end as a warm breath passed over his ear. “You did precisely what you had to, considering the circumstances. They would have killed you had you stayed, and you have everything you will ever need.” The soft hands moved, gently massaging his temples. A sigh escaped Turris’ lips as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His ecstasy was short lived, as a vision of a Romulan cadaver passed over his consciousness. “No!” he exclaimed, twisting in his chair to look behind him, but the woman was gone and so was his balance, tumbling head over heels onto the floor. Looking up he found the woman leaning against the control console, one leg crossed over the other, staring at him. She was strikingly beautiful, her eyes seemed to penetrate into the very depths of his soul, and her flowing brown hair framed her face so as to accentuate her perfectly symmetrical features. And her legs. Such long and shapely calves. He cried out again, pushing himself back with his hands, feeling for something behind him. But his cry was interrupted by her approach -- she swayed across the deck of the fighter, one leg in front of the other, and her melodic voice called out to him like a siren’s song. “Their suffering will be but mere child’s play when compared to the power that you could possess. You have within your grasp the ability to create chaos, my dear, and to turn chaos into order. All will fear you, and revere you. Their doom and their savior.” Morran continued to back away, his hand finally finding a small sack he had managed to carry away with him when he escaped from the Manticore. He soon found himself spilling the contents across the floor, searching furiously through the items it had contained. Most were trivial items, most of which he had ‘requisitioned’ from sickbay: a few hyposprays, a cortical stimulator, a medical tricorder. Among them however were two small vials of a bluish liquid, marked in his own illegible hand. “Frontal lobe is flooded with dopamine… glutamine receptors in the hippocampus… not compatible. You are not real!” He loaded one of the vials into a hypospray and was about to bring to his neck when he found his hands clasped by those soft, delicate hands. Looking into her eyes, he pleaded, “ Please. I need… clarity.” “But you already have all the clarity you will ever require. I am yours, Turris Morran.” She said softly, but her expression quickly turned to one of fury; an expression even a Klingon would back away from. “And you are mine! Mine! Don’t you understand? We could rule, my sweet. Any place of your choosing: Romulus, Vulcan -- even earth if you wish to go back to those pitiable humans. Wherever you choose, I will be beside you. You will rule, and I will rule beside you.” “No!” he cried once more, throwing her hands away from him. “I will destroy it! All of it, and their suffering will come to an end. My… suffering will come to an end.” He paused, holding the hypospray up to his neck. “I… just need… a little… clarity.” He barely felt the hypospray puncture his skin, and in almost an instant everything was gone – the woman, the fighter, the thoughts. All replaced by an endless void of black. And yet just a single sound reverberated through the void, a strong voice that sounded familiar. It was his own voice, echoing in his mind as he slowly lost consciousness. “Genevieve.”

Clad in a biological hazard suit and carrying three small vials of a bluish liquid, Turris Morran stepped into the science lab’s clean room. Designed for combat and to be self-sufficient, the architects spared very little room for the Manticore’s scientific facilities, and even less on a bio-containment room that would rarely be in use. Moran breaths came out heavy and forced; if the suit didn’t make him feel slightly claustrophobic, the small room – barely the size of the wash rooms in the crew quarters and taken up mostly by the few testing apparatus within – certainly made his heart race faster. Anxiety however, was something far from unusual for Turris Morran, and he was on a mission. Oh, but how do I miss the facilities… Bah! You know damn well you don’t miss a single thing from that place. The two thoughts were there and gone in the span of blink, overlapping one another, both loud and clear as though whispered in his ear. For a moment he looked over shoulder, somewhat wide-eyed, and his pulse grew even faster. Laughing quietly to himself, knowing his mind was playing tricks on him; he examined the room and sat down at the small table in the center. Opening one of the vials, he procured a sample with an extraction tool and plopped a few small drops into a small chamber on the console in front of him, closing the lid. Somewhat impatiently, he waited for the computer to begin its analysis, fidgeting in his suit. A thought wandered into his mind as he was waited, a memory of sorts, but one he had no recollection of ever actually transpiring. A woman, quite attractive, had told him that he was destined to find his answers here, in the science bay of a ship called the Manticore. He spared a few quiet laughs to himself, closing his eyes and nodding, grinning like a mad man. Oh, but she had such nice legs, that… What was her name? “Genevieve.” Turris’ gaze quickly shifted to a position over his right shoulder, and but no one was with him. Before he could mull over the problem, his attention was drawn to the incessant beeping coming from his console, and the words “GENETIC ANALYSIS COMPLETE” in the sleek yet somewhat overbearing LCARS font. Pages upon pages of data scrolled by, A’s and T’s and G’s and C’s. Known protein strings these alleles coded for, and highlighted proteins that were highly complex, dangerous, or unknown. A few stuck out to him, though none that he knew of were highly toxic, a good sign indeed. He found himself giggling, for what reason he couldn’t explain, but his giggling was abruptly halted by a string of the “unknowns” being highlighted on the screen. “Computer, freeze display!” he barked, almost nearly knocking over the other two vials at his side as he threw his hands out. Leaning forward in his seat, becoming almost completely unaware of the hazard suit or the tiny room, he squinted and focused on one particular protein chain. It had a familiar shape, one he had seen on Romulus, and one other time before, in what seemed like a past life. It was altered slightly, taking on a different shape yet, to him it shown as brightly as the suns on Risa. “Computer, begin personal log, science officer Turris Morran. Run analysis on protein E-one-two-seven-C and cross-record log with analysis.” The computer chimed to acknowledge his request and replied in its usual droll and unfeeling tone, “Commence when ready.” Tapping his console, a three-dimensional representation of the folded protein appeared on the screen, along with a continuous deluge of information, causing him to read furiously in order to keep up, his eyes darting from left to right. “Protein E-one-two-seven-C exhibits a similar structure to the metagenase protein, which ironically was not named after its function, but by an architect of ancient Greece,” the last two words came from him sounding almost as if they were foreign to him, or really held no special significance. “How an allele coding for this gene ended up in the common “Hepatitis A” virus, and ever more so how it finally came to end up on Romulus still baffles me entirely. The mutations it encountered, especially in such an unsuspecting and unprepared host were immense, and yet its base structure was recognizable with zero change. Of course it was specifically for this purpose for which it had been created,” Morran paused, seeming to ponder for a moment and chuckling to himself, then continued his log, speaking as if he would to a friend. “Yes, I know I do have a tendency to repeat myself. This information is entirely unnecessary at this point.” Morran cleared his throat and focused on the data on his screen once more. “Specimens four and seven have subsequently failed. Contrary to initial simulations, no noticeable change occurred within the hippocampus, aside from a slight oscillation of the theta rhythm, and again no noticeable decrease in the amount of glutamate was observed. Furthermore the subject showed no signs of any adverse affects, but it is safe to say that tests on these specimens will be discontinued. Protein E-one-two-seven-C shows a promising improvement, and following simulations, will likely continue as specimen eight. Further results will be recorded after these tests are concluded. End log.” Holding the vial up to the light, and peering through the translucent liquid inside, Turris seemed almost awestruck by it, as though he was looking at his savior. Placing a white sticker label around the vial, he scrawled “SPECIMEN 8” in his sloppy handwriting, and then with an almost maniacal laugh he scratched it out and replaced it. “Genevieve. That’s a lovely name.”

The mood in the laboratory had taken on a hurried life of its own. Time was running short; it was only a matter of time before the Romulan authorities turned their attention to the small lab tucked out of the way in a back hallway of the Echo facility. Time was of the essence, and none knew it more than the four scientists grouped around a series of consoles in the center of the lab. Ensign Turris Morran paced back and forth, watching his colleagues with a worried and thoughtful frown. His hands were moving wildly and quietly conversing with himself, his nervousness apparent. "If we target here," Commander Escher stated, pointing at his display, "and here…make sure to use a fully integratable operon and vector, I think this can work." T’Prise leaned over him to examine the screen, "I concur, by utilizing previous treatments for Hepatitis A and altering them to fit this instance, we should have a stable antiviral to treat the patients that are already infected." "Combine that with a little gene therapy, and Whamo!" Escher exclaimed, clapping his hands together, his pose triumphant. Morran stopped midpace behind him, staring confusedly at that back of his head and mouthing the word ‘Whamo’ before resuming his pacing. Ian Syndrx looked up at the pair from across the large terminal. "If you can give me the specifications for this cure, I believe I can synthesize enough for a test batch." he stated helpfully. Making a few notations on her PADD, the Vulcan brought up a matrix containing the DNA analysis of various Romulan blood samples, including Dr. t’Tamarak’s. "The DNA sequences found in these blood samples represent the genetic variations that need to be addressed. We have a baseline for each blood type with infected, uninfected, normal, and manipulated examples, respectively. I have run an analysis and isolated the specifications," she explained, handing over the PADD. Snydrx nodded his thanks and took the PADD, turning back to his display and reading over the data quietly. After a few moments he looked up again. "Alright, I think I can do it." Looking up momentarily to acknowledge his statement, she turned back to her console as the Lieutenant went about powering up the needed equipment. Stopping in front of a particular console, he began programming a retro-virus to isolate the genetic sequence which was altered by the Romulan’s treatments, in hopes of reversing the changes. Watching his second in command for a moment, Escher turned around in his chair, and directed his attention towards the pacing Morran and placid T’Prise. "All right, your guys’ job is to find a decent antiviral that won’t interfere with our homegrown version of gene therapy." Morran nodded, taking up position in a chair beside the console occupied by T’Prise’s, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, one leg dithering. "We need to come with a plan of attack. I’m of the opinion that we need to stop the virus at some point during the lytic cycle," he conjectured, leaning back in his chair and tapping his chin thoughtfully. "We should focus on preventing the virus from entering the liver cells in the first place." She turned to face him eyeing the junior officer coolly. "I believe if we utilize a compound known to stop the cycle prior to the start of the early phase, when using enzymes to halt rather than start RNA polymerase, we would be successful in stopping the virus from replicating." Observing his scientists at work, Escher leaned back in his chair, quietly supervising so that they would stay on course and not be sidetracked by theoretical debates, but content to let his brilliant team solve the matter. Turris scratched the back of his head and nodded slowly in agreement. "Pleconaril? "I believe that Pleconaril is an entry inhibitor when used in conjunction with Amantadine, an upcoating inhibitor, would create an anti-viral strong enough to stop the lytic and lysogenic cycles from occurring in conjunction with one another and preventing the virus from mutating," T'Prise hypothesized, quirking an eyebrow as Morran’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically in agreement. At the station directly across from the erstwhile trio, Syndrx finished loading the materials into the replicator and moved to sit at the controls, initializing the sequence to create the genetic structure for his retro-virus. After a few moments, the analysis results appeared on his monitor, allowing him to read over the results, nod with satisfaction and direct the gene sequencer to begin synthesizing a retro-virus. "How's it coming, Lieutenant?" Escher asked, moving to look over Syndrx's shoulder. "I've started synthesizing a retro-virus to reverse the effects of the genetic enhancements. It should be finished sometime in the next hour, although I can't be sure with this technology." "How long until it is ready for mass production?" Checking to see that the sequencer was working properly, Syndrx turned, handing a PADD to Escher. "Well, I've put some thought into that already. I'll need to test it on the patients here first, but if it works it will be ready for production by tomorrow." "I agree that we could use pleconaril, however it is very much prone to allergic reactions,” Morran stated earnestly, looking over the chemical compound being constructed on T’Prise’s console. “We will need to be very careful not to administer it too freely, or the patient's already overloaded immune system may experience a cytokine storm." The Vulcan paused for a moment, contemplating his statement before adjusting her calculations. "While pleconaril does cause allergic reactions in humans, we do not know the effect it will have on Romulans. Perhaps we ought to consider adding some type of montelukast to the serum as well?" “Aye, I think it would advisable to add some sort of leukotriene suppressant to the cocktail,” the El-Aurian interjected, watching her work. Inserting additional data into the matrix, she executed the processing sequence, waiting patiently for the computer to produce a model of the molecular structure of their anti-viral serum. After several moments, the console gave a slight tone, indicating the procedure was complete. “I believe we now have a working model.” Morran stumbled slight, knocking into her in his attempt examine the results. Steadying himself, he nodded enthusiastically. “I think that may work. We should run some simulations on it before do any live tests.” Giving him an arch look for being so clumsy, T’Prise moved slightly away before replying. “We should also test it in conjunction with the retro-virus Lieutenant Syndrx is replicating.” They were joined by Syndrx and Escher who had moved around the large station to inspect the results as well. “Looks excellent, TP. That should be simple enough to replicate!” Escher exclaimed after a few moments. “I do not believe it will interfere with the retrovirus, but I do agree that testing will be required,” Syndrx concurred. A self-satisfied smirk played across Morran’s features as he leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. Giving Escher a stern look of disapproval for her newly minted appellation, T’Prise rechecked her data once more. “I believe we have everything required to now begin replicating the antiviral in combination with the retrovirus for testing purposes.”

The Romulan Strain By T'Prise Morran Escher A quiet and reserved air permeated the laboratory, despite the fact that it was abuzz with activity. Various members of the Manticore crew, disguised as Romulans, milled around the cramped quarters, some shifting nervously and making jokes, others trying to find useful employment to occupy their time. News had spread that officials within the Romulan security forces were demanding the new medical team be subjected to rigorous physicals, in order to ensure they were fit for their assignments. The tension level among the crew had risen exponentially, only the smallest spark needed to ignite an already strained situation. Under normal circumstances, Turris Morran would have been nervous, even somewhat claustrophobic surrounded as he was by various people and pieces of scientific equipment. However, with his undivided attention focused on the computer terminal in front of him, he had little time f or such trivialities as nerves. He was instead deeply bothered by the various incongruities in the data; worry evidenced by the ramrod stiff posture and lips moving furiously as he read over the information presented onscreen. Engrossed as he was in his task, it took several long minutes for his mind to register that someone was speaking to him. "Ensign Morran?" questioned a voice, sounding somewhat perturbed at Morran’s lack of response. Although he heard the query, it took several more moments for it to penetrate his consciousness. "Ah, yes...Commander?" Morran began, looking away from the voice to hide the frustration evident on his face. "I'd like you and T'Prise to start working on the analysis of the tissue provided by Dr. t’Tamarak." Subdued noises, emanating from other members of the Manticore crew spread throughout the lab, somewhat muffled the sound of the voice, but Morran recognized it as that of his chief, Lieutenant Commander MC Escher, who currently sat at the main science station in the center of the lab, carefully studying a simulated pathology of the virus. T'Prise, who had been sitting opposite Morran at a separate console had already arisen and was patiently waiting for her colleague to do so as well. "Aye, sir…" Morran acknowledged, coming to his feet. “Proper protocol dictates that an analysis of this type be conducted in a sterile environment in order to minimize any risk of accidental exposure,” intoned the Vulcan science officer calmly, shifting her20gaze from Morran to Escher. "Of course, Lieutenant, the Romulans were kind enough to grant us the use of their clean room," Escher responded, pointing to an airlock in the rear of the lab, somewhat obscured by a large piece of equipment resembling a mass spectrometer. "Make use of it." The commander gave Morran one more curious, puzzled look before shaking his head and returning his attention to the simulation. "There's something wrong with this pathology I just don't know what." T'Prise eyed the clean room with superciliously, a skeptical gleam in her eye. After a moment, as if resigned, she went about collecting the samples before moving towards the airlock. Morran followed closely behind carrying a small stack of PADDs and various equipment. "There are bioprotective suits in the storage lockers on the west wall, Ensign," the Vulcan said coolly, pointing to the back of the airlock. Morran’s eyes followed in the direction her finger indicated to a set of lockers built into the wall, and placed his burden on a shelf in order to don his protective gear. Washing his hands thoroughly, he procured a suit and helmet from one of the lockers and began to pull it on. "I know, I know. It's all so very ambiguous," he mumbled to himself as he zipped up the jumpsuit. His colleague frowned, somewhat puzzled by his comment. "Of what are you speaking, Ensign," she queried. Unaware he had spoken aloud, Morran glanced at the Vulcan a slightly confused look playing across his features before he realized what she was referring to. "Huh? Oh yes. The information we've received from the Romulans, it's incomplete. Full of incongruities. Some of it appears to be outright false." He ended the monologue by slipping the helmet on and fastening it to his suit, startled by the sound made as the dedicated air system pressurized and pumped oxygen into his suit. She joined him at the airlock’s inner door, weighing his statement for a moment and turning the possibilities over in her mind. "I agree with your conclusions, Ensign. Had the information received by Starfleet been more accurate, it would have contained live samples, and the serum they engineered would not have fostered the responses we are observing in the test simulations. The experience of Starfleet Medical staff with the picornavirus which causes Hepatitis A would have aided in the creation of a more stable treatment, one that would have not caused the mutation we are finding in our data." "As soon as you guys find anything, let me know, okay? Time is not on our side." Escher's voice floated into the small enclosed spaced through the intercom. "Understood, sir. I estimate we should have the results in 32.57 minutes," the Vulcan responded succinctly. "Good, I'm going to try to see if I can reason out this pathology. Escher out." The commander switched off the COM and returned to his station, mumbling epithets regarding Vulcan efficiency under his breath. Seating himself once again at the simulator, he began to study the data display with more intensity, desperately searching for answers he could not see. Manipulating the console controls, he studied the cells, looking for anything that might explain the path of the disease. "Hepatitis A....enters the liver…reaction with a measles vaccine...liver failure...massive organ failure." Throwing his hands into the air he let out an exasperated sigh. "This just doesn't make any sense!" ***** "I'm fairly convinced at this point that there is something at work here that we're not noticing. Hopefully we'll get some issues after we get a look at this tissue," Morran stated conversationally as T'Prise attached her headpiece and sealed it to her suit. Pressing the controls on the panel adjacent to the door, she initiated the decontamination sequence. A barrage of chemical agents followed by an outpouring of ultraviolet light filled the small airlock, cleansing the scientists. Moments later, the chemicals dissipated and the light faded as the inner door unsealed and opened into the clean room. The chamber was little more than a small, spare version of the lab, littered with a few computer terminals and various pieces of equipment and two diminutive workspaces. White sterile walls were juxtaposed with a large green and black bird of prey, emblazoned across the rear panel, symbolizing the superiority of the Empire. "These Romulans have such poor taste in decoration," Morran thought, gazing at the emblem unblinkingly. "We will need to run two separate analyses on each sample set and then compare results," T'Prise explained, setting the samples at the work stations. He nodded in agreement, sliding into a terminal and beginning to input the samples for analysis. Steadily and patiently, the pair slowly processed the samples, following all the prescribed Starfleet protocols pertaining to their work, while in the main lab Escher paced back and forth, attempting to formulate a valid hypothesis. Time slipped silently by as they worked, its passage unmarked. The lieutenant and ensign continued to work steadily, performing various tasks and entering results for processing and analysis by the computer. Completing his sample set, Morran studied the data feverishly, hoping to find the answers for which they searched. "Woah, woah. Back up! Damnable machine!" Tapping randomly at the buttons on his console, he attempted halt the data analysis. "Take a look at this, uh…” he paused for a moment, thinking hard. “Sir,” he blurted out brightly, pointing at one of the displays. She peered over his shoulder to examine the images. "Odd, the antigens of the picornavirus appear to be identical to those in the somatic liver cells of the host," she stated curiously, pondering the implications. "It explains th e autoimmune response we're encountering perfectly!" Morran exclaimed. "Take a look at this protein." He switched the display again, and indicated to a complex protein displayed there. "I've seen something like this before, but I can't quite put my finger on it." The Vulcan examined the protein he indicated, nodding once more in agreement. "I will send the results to the Commander while you store the tissue samples. We need to consult with him on this issue,” she ordered stoically, tapping on the terminal controls to route the data to Escher whilst simultaneously storing it on an isolinear chip. Morran moved back to the work stations to begin carefully preparing the tissue samples for storage. Placing them inside their containers, he stepped into the airlock after the lieutenant and initiated the decontamination sequence. Emerging from the other side of the airlock, he removed his helmet and strode to Escher's console, bringing up the details on newly discovered protein. T’Prise joined them scant seconds later, also having discarded her headpiece. She shared a significant look with the commander before nodding subtly to Morran. "What do you make of this protein, Ensign?" Escher asked, a little perturbed by the El-Aurian’s proprietary manner, but eyeing his officers speculatively. "I'm not entirely sure, it's making me think of something else I've seen but I just can't place it." He faded off into silence for several moments before suddenly speaking again. "Computer, please cross-reference protein Echococcosis CW-12 with all known mammalian enzymes." "Primary protein structure resembles that of lysosomal enzymes present in ninety-percent of mammalian macrophages." The computer chimed. "Is this protein on the somatic cells themselves?" Escher asked quietly, mulling over the statement. Morran shook his head slowly. "Strangely, no. It's part of the virus' capsomal structure. It's basically collecting and mimicking the somatic cell's antigens, presenting them as its own." o:p> Escher let out a baffled sigh, his frustration showing. "How could such a wild mutation of Hep A occur?" He added after a pause, "Unless the vaccine they were talking about…" "Was not a vaccine at all," T'Prise finished his thought placidly. "There is no indication that there was ever a vaccine in any of our tests. This indicates that the virus was not caused by the Adenoma Ta'Rax vaccine, and is not in fact related to anything specific in a host’s immunity to that virus. Our analysis indicates that in every one of these samples, the host's cells contained a specific gene which appears to react adversely with Hepatitis virus. I hypothesize that the vaccine the Romulan's received is not an inoculation at all; rather, it is a form of gene therapy." "Gene therapy for what is r eally just the Romulan version of the measles? Seems kind of drastic, doesn't it? Well, deadly, now..." Escher trailed off, realizing the implications of her statement. T'Prise inclined her head, considering for a moment. "I concur, such measures are not a rational course of action. If our suppositions are correct, the gene therapy is the cause of the mutations, which in turn causes the autoimmune response." Morran’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically, indicating his agreement as well. "It makes sense that they wouldn't want it widely known that they were experimenting with such a technology. Not only is it highly unethical, it could be used to engineer highly specific virions." "It does not seem logical however for them to create bioweaponry and utilize it on their people," the Vulcan remarked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "It certainly doesn't, though the mere capability to manufacture such a biological weapon has implications that could shatter alliances," Morran said. Escher nodded. "It's Romulans we're talking about here. We have no idea what they're capable of, or what they might do. But we need to focus on the task at hand - helping them. I still don't understand, though; how did these myriad of mutations get solidified into the deadly one we're seeing now?" "The only solution that I can come up with is that this mutation is in some way highly selected for, which is odd, in and of itself. I can't quite piece it together, but I'm certain our investigation will shed some light on it," Morran replied. "Or, perhaps," T'Prise interjected as she tapped the console to call up further data, “this might explain the selected mutation.” Escher and Morran leaned forward, curiously eyeing the display. "I believe the answer to that question may be found in the treatments administered by the Romulans to alleviate the vesicular rash caused by Echococcosis." "You're right!" Malcolm exlaimed. "The exclusionary protocols on the standard treatment kept the harmless mutations from developing, but mistook the deadly version for friendly, effectively sealing the fate of anyone who got the treatment." :D> Escher moved back from the screen and swore vehemently. "We need to stop that treatment, NOW!" Morran nodded fervently. "I agree, commander. And it would make sense that the proper course of action at this point would be to administer immunosuppressants to all the cases before it causes any further problems." T'Prise shot a disapproving glance towards Escher for his use of what she termed colorful metaphors, before turning to Morran. "I disagree with such a prognosis. If immunosuppression is administered, there is a possibility that the patient's entire immune system will collapse and be unable to respond to the virus' own destructive forces." "But if they don't get immunosuppression, their own immune systems will end up killing them instead. There has to be some way to slow the growth of the virus!" Turris attested vehemently. "What we need to do is begin reversing what the Romulans did with their gene therapy,” Escher cut in, attempting to forestall an argument. “We need to go through and use gene therapy of our own to remove their changes and stop the body from making more Hepatitis A from hell! Let's get to it!"

The ripples on the water sparkled like millions of diamonds, emblazoned by austral sun set high in a cloudless sky. It was Sol, that sun, Turris knew somehow. And yet somehow it gave off no heat, cast no shadows, fueling his angst. Not even the serene tropical landscape before him could calm his nerves. Something was terribly wrong here, something horrid or devious. Seeming from out of the sand rose something, an capsule of some sort. This capsule held some special significance to Turris Morran, caused some feelings to well up inside him that he tried so desperately to quell. The object shined like a beacon, seeming to draw in all of the suns light only to cast it back at him with a vengeance. Smoke rolled off the sides of it. No, not smoke. Condensation. A sudden chill ran through him as he reached out to touch the object, but with a brilliant flash of light the object changed somehow. It was starting to open. What's in it? Again he reached out, squinting, trying to see through the fog that billowed from it's core. A voice, his voice, spoke with urgently to him. "You know what it holds. Power!" Darkness engulfed him. With a frightened yelp, he recoiled, pulling his knees to chest and pressing against..something. Slowly opening his eyes he found the gazes of his companions staring back at him. Some of them wore furrowed brows of worry, some the open mouths and wide eyes of confusion. None of them looked very pleased to have been startled in such a way. Among them the Vulcan seemed least pleased. Oh, dear. What was her name? Price. No, Reese or something like it. Caprice! That must be it. But what Vulcan mother would name her child that? No, that's certainly not it. "It's lieutenant is what it is," Turris said aloud. A few more looks were turned to his direction, but he barely noticed them, if at all. His attentions quickly gravitated inward, and recollection of the dream began to surface through the fog of wakefulness. He never cared much for that Freud fellow, "He'd likely say it was my mother inside the capsule," but he could not help but wonder if there was some sort of interpretation to the nightmares he'd been having of late. No, he knew precisely why the dreams persisted, why he so often found himself sweating beneath his sheets in the middle of the night watch. Power, ha! What would I do with power? Muck it up for everyone else, that's what I'd do. You lack the focus for power. Focus! That's what he needed right now, something to focus on. Echococcosis. The virus had proven to me more resilient than he had ever really anticipated. The initial algorithms he had designed to predict the level of RNA mutations in a given time had been complete failure. Fifteen out of every two-thousand samples displayed some sort of mutation, usually redundant, but at times troublesome. Forty-seven documented variences in the iscosahedral structure had been found, five different strains exhibiting pleomorphic traits. Of course the serum could be easily adapted to all of these mutations, but he feared that if constant growth was maintained it would be impossible to keep up. What else had changed since he received the last data? Time was of the utmost importance. Of course that wasn't what troubled him the most. What he found most strange was that the twelfth, fourteenth, and sixteenth sequences in the virus' genome were highly susceptible to disruption from genetic drift. Any strains that encountered a mutation to one of these allele's either killed it's host cell immediately or simply failed to replicate itself. It was a rarity in nature, almost to the point of improbability. That and the virus' genome contained very little in the way of pseudogenes and other "junk" sequences. It was all very..efficient. "What should really be bothering you is the fact that you're spending your evening in a Romulan cell! And you're sitting here worrying about numbers," said a voice in the back of his head. Suddenly he was very much aware of his surroundings, a dark room with a too-low ceiling and very little in the way of...accomodations. It took a few moments to realize that the people sharing the cell with him were only Romulan-looking. Friends. The thought gave him a chill. I only hope by the time we get out of here I'll still be able to distinguish foe from..."friend". Moments later he was leaning his head against the wall, his eyes closed, imagining a beach where the ripples on the water sparkled like diamonds.

Name: Turris Morran Race: 1/2 Human, 1/2 El-Aurian Gender: Male Date of Birth: October 3, 2295 Place of Birth: Utopia Planetia, Mars Hair: Brown Eyes: Brown Height: 1.70m Weight: 70.76kg Marital Status: Single Current Rank: Ensign Current Assignment: Assistant Science Officer; USS Manticore NCC-5852-A Background: Turris Morran was born two years after the incident involving the SS Lakul. His mother, Freda, was one of those rescued from the Nexus by the USS Enterprise-B in 2293. His father, Solomon Morran was a Senior Petty Officer stationed at the Utopia Planetia Shipyards and was involved in the ongoing construction of the Enterprise at that time. Being of El-Aurian blood, Turris was slow to reach physical maturity. At the conclusion of his primary education at eighteen years of age, he would be accounted of adolescent age. It was for this reason his initial application to join the Starfleet Academy was declined. Between the ages of nineteen and forty he attended a variety of universities including the Daystrom Institute, The University of Cambridge, and the Aldebaran Music Academy. The majority of his studies involved biology, and over the course of his education had been recognized as one of the leading experts on Molecular Biology and Histology. Shortly after his father's death in 2335, Turris again applied for Starfleet Academy and was accepted. Four years later he graduated to the rank of Ensign, though he remained in San Francisco for several years, as a lecturer on his fields of study. Little is known of his activities between the years of 2359 and 2368. Psychiatric Evaluation: "The results of Mr. Morran's evaluation indicate high levels of eccentricity and introversion. He has a tendency to be socially withdrawn, evident in Mr. Morran's preference towards solitary activities and reluctance to become involved in social activities and relationships. Mr. Morran also exhibits some signs of paranoia, often showing feelings of persecution in some cases and a highly exaggerated sense of self-importance. At this point I deem that Mr. Morran is fit for duty, but regular psychiatric evaluations are suggested." Educational Background: Daystrom Institute Center for Biological Studies; Advanced Degrees in Biophysics and Molecular Biology Cambridge University, England; Advanced Degree in Virology Aldebaran Musical Academy; Classical Major in Cello, Music Theory Massachusetts Institue of Technology; Postgraduate degree in Bioengineering and Histology Starfleet Academy; Science Officer's Training