Gidgiddoni

The following log takes place on Obi VI, the Federation colony visited a year ago (late 2294 - early 2295) by the starship Challenger. The outbreak last year of "plasma plague" on Obi VI, so named because of it's ability to survive in the blood plasma of disparate species, had been so lethal that mortality rates exceeded 99.5%. Although the vector had been isolated as originating from a comet impact, there had been no cure found. Exposure had been essentially a death sentence. Only the remoteness of the Giiwhyen community on the northern continent had contained the spread. Still, in the two weeks of its rampage, 3500 colonists had succumbed. The entire settlement had been wiped out. Dr. Susan Nuress and her team of researchers had remained behind on Obi IV after departure of the USS Challenger. Together, they'd sought ways to prevent a recurrence and find an effective treatment. Their first objective had failed. The second outbreak had started with a single woman in the southern urban areas. In days, that single case had expanded exponentially, affecting more than 2000 residents in the capital. Patient Zero and hundreds of others had died. Last time, the medical community had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients. This time, they had been better prepared, with fewer health care providers exposed themselves. Dr. Nuress and her team had been already there, able to call on the past year's research and the advice of distant colleagues to combat the disease. Their second objective had succeeded. "That's wonderful news, Susan," came an enthusiastic reply over the subspace channel. Dr. Nuress couldn't help but smile a little, blinking back the eye strain from so many waking hours. "It was a team effort, Gid," she admitted. "It's not like single-handedly trying to bring Klingon medicine out of the Dark Ages." Onscreen, Dr. Gidgiddoni merely shrugged. "I'm sure everyone will get the credit. Your research associates should be proud." The Deltan doctor mimed getting out a stylus and data slate. "Now, tell me again so I get the details right for posterity." Dr. Nuress scoffed, but relented. "You know my work on developing passive mutations of more aggressive viruses," she explained. "Well, we did that here. I generated a whole series so we could test which proteins to manipulate and render it inert." The image of Gidgiddoni nodded. "Yes, I read your paper in the Grima Center Journal." Nuress continued. "We'd had some success, but as always, the problem was getting the altered virus to overpower the more aggressive variant." The Deltan onscreen waved her on. "I'm familiar with the problem." "We got lucky," Nuress observed. "It was the ninth in the series, one of the early ones we discounted as an under-producer. I was reviewing past samples when I found it had undergone explosive growth." She went on. "We'd used a cyanoacylate solution as a control agent, but it had acted as a catalyst." Gidgiddoni shook her head. "I don't understand," she asked with a frown. "Cyanoacylate is an inhibitor. It's not supposed to react with anything." Nuress nodded vigorously. "You can see why we were intrigued. It was Dr. Hurley who found the connection," she explained further. "Eichner radiation. The cyanoacylate gives off low-level emissions. Bless Maurice and his techno obsessions." The onscreen image leaned closer. "I don't think I'm familiar..." "It's harmless," Susan insisted. "There's never been a recorded instance of it ever interacting with biological matter. Hell, they don't even put a warning label on engineering equipment that generates it." She went on. "So we used cyanoacrylates to generate enough passive agent with the disabled target protein." "But you can't inject cyanoacrylates into a host..." "No," Nuress interrupted, "we filter it out, but it helps us replicate enough for anti-viral inoculation." "From what I've heard, it's been a complete success," Gidgiddoni congratulated. "Not right away," Nuress admitted. "We found dozens of patients too compromised by the plague to produce enough in their own systems. Their bodies were just too weak. But since Eichner radiation is benign, we found we could expose them to a low-level field and stimulate the production artificially. You can thank your replacement on Challenger for that one. Dr. Juno was able to lay hands on some subspace phase inverters, or whatever they are, that did the trick. Alexei spent a few weeks out here with us." "Amazing," Gidgiddoni marveled. She mimed putting down the stylus. "That'll make a great entry in the Memory Alpha archives." Susan rubbed a hand through her hair, imagining how frazzled it was. At this moment, she envied the Deltan's bald scalp. "After more than a year on the Klingon homeworld," she prompted, "I would think you'll have an amazing collection of stories and data." Gidgiddoni folded her hands. "If the Klingons ever let me publish the details outside the Empire," she groused. "They seem to worry about other species exploiting knowledge of their 'inner workings'. I had to appeal to our ambassador just to get some vacation time in Federation space." Nuress massaged her scalp. "I'm going to need some vacation time after we finish here. How was Pacifica?" A smile crept across the Deltan's face. "Warm. Sensuous. Too short. I timed it so I could meet up with some of the Challenger crew, but they got called off on some rescue mission." She grew quiet. "I'm ashamed to say I spent the rest of the trip reading some trashy novel Dr. Harris recommended." Her eyes narrowed wickedly. "You ever hear of The Saurien's Unscaled Mistress?"

The following log is from the perspective of Dr. Susan Nuress, the character I guest-played last week. She moved deftly down the gravel path toward the town school, showing no signs of awkwardness inside the stiff material of the environmental suit. She led with her tricorder. She and her team of researchers had beamed down from the John Snow less than an hour ago. It was obvious that the community of Giiwyen had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of the dead. Of thirty-five hundred citizens exposed to this pathogen, nearly everyone was dead or dying. There might still be some alive in pockets or outlying areas where there'd been no exposure, but contracting this disease was basically a death sentence. At least for 99.6% of the population... so far. At least their remoteness had seemed to contain the spread. She looked back at the Challenger tactical officer behind her. An unsealed helmet was probably the last mistake he'd ever make. According to her scans, the pathogen was already inside his suit and almost certainly inside his system. Was it because the virus was airborne, or simply because he'd been handling samples? Susan knew she was being dispassionate, but it was the only way to deal with so much death. Vulcans were lucky that way, but she'd know so few that were doctors. So it was here job to learn what she could, even from people who were doomed. If they could isolate the disease and keep it from spreading, there was a chance they could find a cure and keep others from suffering the same fate. She entered the gymnasium alone. Hundreds of corpses lined the floor in neat columns. Some lay in cots, others lay on the blanketed wooden floor. They had died in this overflow facility, eventually untreated after the hospitals grew full and the doctors succumbed themselves. Humans, Efrosians, Caitans, and a few other species of all ages. She blinked harder as she saw the number of children. She breathed deeply, momentarily fogging the front of her helmet. No time for grief. She fumbled at her shoulder strap for the medical satchel. She needed to collect tissue samples from as many of the deceased as possible. There wasn't time for a detailed autopsy on each, not now. She needed to see how the pathogen was able to affect different tissue, different DNA. She needed to cross-examine the effects at a molecular level. And she knew she was the best person to do it. Alexei Juno might not agree with her self-importance, but then, he had always been a worthy competitor. She'd been disappointed to see him leave the Grima Center. But they both knew when to set the competition aside and pool resources. Until then, they'd use their own methods. He was here somewhere, probably blaming himself for the death rate, as if it was something he could control. He'd be pursuing his own leads, perhaps looking for more survivors. The Vulcan lieutenant had said they'd been unable to isolate a vector. Maybe he was tracking that down. "Dr. Nuress, this is Hurley," came a voice over the helmet communicator. She toggled the switch at her neck. "Maurice, what've you got?" she asked, kneeling down beside one of the cots. "It may act like the Legato or Hutzel strains," Dr. Hurley answered, "but it hasn't responded to any of the normal treatment protocols. The local doctors and the Challenger people exhausted the whole series." She adjusted her hypospray to take fluid samples from the cadaver in front of her. "Damn," she muttered. "Does Summers think he can synthesize a new series, something stronger?" "Jaron thinks it's a waste of time if we don't isolate the propagation method," Hurley answered. "Bowman wants to work up a background on the survivors. There's actually a few recovering, but they're scattered around town. I'd like to see if we can relocate them somewhere central, maybe closer to the lab." "See if they're healthy enough," she approved. "Where's Povill?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer. She knew he'd be most interested in observing the terminal affects in play. He'd come by his ghoulish reputation honestly. "There's an end-stage patient laid out in the park," Hurley replied, "And another at the hospital cafeteria." She placed the hypospray vials in the satchel, entering the patient information in her tricorder. "We've got a first-stage exposure he may want to observe discreetly. Lieutenant Savros will know all about it," she explained. They'd be able to get a baseline comparison from the Challenger medical database. There was a pause. "Let's hope it's the last," Maurice added. Susan nodded inside her helmet. "Let's make it the last," she insisted. "It'll take me another hour to gather and catalog these samples. Then we'll get to work."

And yet you waited until after I left to put in a jacuzzi. Just remember, I'm not really gone if you remember me. :: imagines hearing the music for Star Trek II swelling in the background ::

I have updated Gid's file to reflect her stepping down as Chief Medical Officer to remain on Qo'noS.

She took a deep breath, appreciating the feel of the soft white Tholian silk against her naked skin. The light chemise felt cool and gentle in contrast to the heavier fabric of the olive turtleneck she'd shed. She carried a heaviness of heart after the incident in sickbay, although now fully convinced she had made the right decision. She regretted having to countermand a fellow physician. And she had no desire to cause added pain to a patient, especially as much as she'd felt during the empathic shunt. She certainly didn't like vindicating the intelligence officer whose ambition seemed unconcerned about violating boundaries, ethical or not. But everything she'd seen on Qo'noS while tending Klingons showed her how much the culture valued honor above death. She saw the actual pride they took in enduring pain. After witnessing the hegh'bat ritual, it was clear that death with honor held wide importance: not just to warriors. She frowned. Respect for a patient's autonomy was a fundamental ethical principle among Deltans and many humans. It was the premise behind informed consent. In her judgment, Juno had ignored those values. "Frankly," he'd said, "the patient's wishes at this point are irrelevent." That had been the crucial statement. As they'd debated, she thought it was just a conflict of human and Klingon values. Haskins only wanted his information, but was willing to use an argument for the patient's wishes to get it. Even the devil can quote scripture to his purpose, she'd heard said. Juno had countered with an absolute doctrine of "do no harm" without acknowledging that inaction posed harm of its own. This was contrary to human value, as well. Broken bones needed to be set. Birthing pains led to new life. Juno had asserted that Gid was just guessing at the patient's wishes. But he was guessing that, like many humans, the Klingon would prefer to die quietly in his sleep. Letting K'mar slip away unknowing, his mission unfulfilled, felt more like taking a safe default path just to deny the infuriating Haskins his prize. Truly, she did not believe Juno or Dr. Harris meant any such pettiness. But neither did she accept they were seeing past an all-too-human cultural bias. The risk had been hers. She would answer any inquiries. She did not regret it. In his dying moments, as she shunted his pain she felt the relief K'mar had felt. His cryptic malediction had given him peace during his final suffering. This in turn gave her comfort, although she would not offer it as vindication. Even if K'Mar had cursed her for awaking him to dishonor, she knew it had been right to offer him that option. She smoothed the silken blouse across her abdomen. The change in clothes was symbolic of a change in duty. Down on the surface, she had already told Dr. Harris of her intention to step down as CMO, leave the ship, and continue working among the Klingon survivors of Praxis. In those captive hours with K'tossagh, she had composed a request to be stationed on Qo'noS, or failing to secure a transfer, a resignation. After walking away from the corpse in sickbay tonight, she had advised Captain Seiben in person. The captain had understood, agreeing to leave her on the planet with an intact commission, if possible. She had returned to her quarters, taken a sonic shower, and gathered her few belongings. The weight of the CMO mantle had lifted from her shoulders. But as her thoughts returned to K'mar, to Juno, and to Harris, she knew she could not use the excuse to shirk the immediate consequence of her decision. She had driven a wedge in her department; it would be cheating to walk away. Her species might crave nuturing and empathic encounters, but she'd joined Starfleet to learn about the diversity of the galaxy. And that included meetings that might be unpleasant. She exhaled raggedly and unlaced the tie on her chemise. She shrugged back her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her hand went to the olive-colored undershirt and the regulation white medical coat that would cover it. Moments later, more suitably dressed, she left her nearly vacant quarters and sought the cabin of Dr. Alexei Juno.

The following takes place in the medical facility on Qo'noS. She went on with her work, checking on the progress of the Klingon patients. During the time Gid had been "detained," Dr. Harris had been busy. Hundreds of the most weak and afflicted civilians were showing signs of recovery due to the combined hyronalin and epinephrine series. Sadly, stores of the drug Mr. Kas had sent down were almost depleted. They needed to transfer a pharmalogical synthesizer down here, but for now, she'd need to go retrieve more. The captain said the ship had been busy. That he hadn't been specific may have meant he couldn't say more over an open channel. There were no more sounds of explosion outside, but she could sense the tension from the native medics who seems to be neglecting their duties - again. She turned, hearing the harsh gutteral voice of the Klingon doctor she'd found and sent up to Challenger. He was moving among patients, making his own orders. If he was back, things must be quiet enough. And there was someone tending the ward. She felt a wave of fatigue hit her again. How long had she been down on the surface? She needed new supplies. She needed to rest. She needed to find out what had happened on the ship. It was still her responsibility, until… She needed to talk to the captain about her decision. She withdrew the palm-sized communicator and flipped open the grid. "Dr. Gidgiddoni to Challenger. One to beam up."

How frustrating! She'd left tending her patients up in the Klingon ward to find where the missing members of the landing party had gone. Now she'd been thrown into some make-shift holding area for her troubles. Apparently, the party had stumbled across a group of Klingons who didn't agree with the Azetbur government's plans for Qo'noS. She couldn't quite tell what part they disagreed with, but they were hiding their efforts here below the hospital. It wasn't clear to her why they were hiding at all. They seemed to be running experiments designed to fix the damage Praxis had caused. This confused her, because she thought one of the missions Challenger had been working on was to help save Qo'noS so the Klingon didn't have to evacuate. Did these scientists think the government didn't really want to stay? Did they think the plan was secretly to just abandon the planet? Or did these scientists "cling" to the racist notion that solutions had to be homegrown? She'd already run into some of that last notion upstairs, when a Klingon medic said if their own medicine couldn't help patients, they were fated to die. But no one had stopped her from administering the hyronalin treatments. So far, nothing she'd done had helped get them out of this situation. She'd announced her intention to look for the party more than an hour ago. If they were tracking her, they might have seen where her signal had disappeared at the edge of the dampening field. But tracking wasn't standard procedure, so maybe all they knew was that she had disappeared, too. That should be enough to send some to investigate, wouldn't it? She'd even told the Klingons that someone from the ship would come. What would they do to them? They'd taken her tricorder and during the struggle, she'd dropped her communicator. So there was no technology in the little room that could help broadcast their location. She'd taken a swing at their primary captor, adopting a Klingon line of reasoning. Having shown an ability for aggression, she should have improved her standing as someone to negotiate with. Unless they had dismissed her attempt as vain... It was hard to operate under alien values, but this is what Starfleet had taught her, outside her medical classes. Their captor had disappeared, however. This left them separated in small rooms. She and Poldara were being watched by a pleasant-enough Klingon who'd grandstanded briefly about the worth of their homeworld and the value of Shakespeare. Failing to convince him to return to her patients under guard, she'd decided to see if her pheremones might help persuade the guard that they were no threat. Using her empathic abilities, she'd started to radiate a sense of calm and reassurance, under cover of playing some Earth game called "Twenty Questions" with Poldara. She had no idea if such feelings would be noticed, or even appreciated, by Klingons. She had no intention of staying here while her patients were untended. Who knew what reactions some of them were having to the injections? She had to do something, even it was drastic.

How many hours had she been working now? Dr. Harris and some of the others had gone off in search of food, but Gid had committed herself to seeing every patient in the ward before she could rest. The mental images of the slain patient and the recovering young boy goaded her on like she was a first-year resident trying to impress the attending. In this case the attending was the whole Klingon Empire. They had to start building trust somewhere. Once the supplies had finally showed up, she rushed to get hyronalin to where it was needed. She wanted to halt the deteriorating tissue throughout their bodies. Using her protoplaser, she'd collected samples of some of the particles embedded inside the patients, from their three lungs, the multi-chambered stomach, cauliflower-shaped kidneys, and their huge livers. All showed signs of emitting theta radiation. She wiped away a small bead of sweat from the front of her bald scalp. From what she could tell, environmental controls either didn't exist or weren't on. When she'd asked, one of the Klingon medics had said something about not wasting resources on comfort. It turns out they had a lot to say, but didn't seem to be doing much. Another one of the Klingon medics had looked over her shoulder and said something about not robbing the patients of their pain, but hadn't made her stop what she was doing. She had no intention of stopping. She wondered when Challenger would call for her, tell her to get back to her sickbay. She only knew she'd made her decision. She wasn't going. Not when there was a whole field of stricken men, women, and children to tend. Their moon had fallen from the sky, right on them. Until these beds were empty, she was here to heal.

I think the Olympics would still be a homo sapiens only competition, but you've got to wonder how they'd enforce it. Sorry, you're half-Vulcan seems discriminatory, but it seems like the only way to keep the playing field even. There's got to be multi-species sports competitions. Voyager mentioned Parissi Squares games with alien players, although there hasn't been a professional Klingon player in since one strangled a referee 40 years ago. Maybe there's Federation Gladiators? I think Kallah is right. Klingons would be good with javelins and blades, but foil fencing seems very Vulcan-ish. The Andorians would dominate winter sports, especially ice skating. They have the right hockey temperment. Tellarites for weight-lifting and wrestling. As for Deltans, gymnastics. That's all I'm sayin'. I also think it's fun to imagine what kind of sports other species would bring.

Her determination had grown over the last thirty minutes. Lacking only basic drugs and medical attention, how many hundreds of these people had languished for months following the destruction of Praxis? How many had already died that could have been saved with a diagnosic wand and drugs that could slowly reconstruct radiation damage. Although readily available inside Federation space, these drugs hadn't even been on the request list from Qo'noS. Epinephrine was a basic staple of every medkit, so there was plenty of it aboard Challenger. There was little experience using hyronalin on Klingons, but Gid had been carefully testing it on the more serious cases and seen good results. There was enough onboard as an alternative. In twenty years, she suspected it might become the standard treatment. She pushed back a mild irritation that the ship had been so long in getting the medicines down to her. What could they possibly be doing up there that was worth delaying life-saving supplies? One of the Klingon patients, a small boy, had actually reached out to touch her after responding well to the series. Scans showed he'd inhaled a lot of the theta-poisoned particles and his lungs were ravaged. A tri-ox compound had given his ragged breathing some relief. She'd risked the hyronalin and had slipped in a mild painkiller. In just a few minutes, he'd gained enough strength to open his eyes feebly and brush her hand. She could feel a tired sense of relief emanating from him. Not for the first time, she thought about the vows she'd taken. What she must do, what she wasn't allowed to. And the earlier question came back at her: What could she possibly be doing up there that was worth delaying the saving of lives? Challenger was the career opportunity of a lifetime. She'd risen as far as she could on her last ship, at least without the transfer of a superior or some catastrophic death - and who wanted to wait for that? Now, as CMO she'd been given a whole department to run, to build, to start from scratch. And yet, looking down at this small Klingon, it all seemed unimportant. Without them, this boy's future might have ended in this bed. Now, he might live. He might grow into an enemy that would seek the death of children of the Federation. But would he really seek to kill those who'd come to help him? She wondered. Was this where hatreds were buried, peace truly forged?

At least she was doing something. The Klingon patients in this ward were actually responding to treatment. Based on the information from Poldara and Savros, it was clear that many of them injested or inhaled particles laden with theta-radiation. It was some kind of fallout from the Praxis explosion, working its way through the Kronos ecosystem. The resulting poison had damaged their internal organs. If they hadn't been born with their species' legendary stamina, due to a curious smattering of organ redundancy, many would already be dead. There were other injuries that had nothing to do with radiation, though. At least one had been severely beaten. The record said something vague about suppressing a food riot. She'd noticed no one had bothered to knit his broken ribs or prescribe painkillers. Gid felt her face tense as she thought of the wasted death she'd witnessed. Two Klingons had slipped in during her work and actually killed one of the patients in some sort of ritual suicide. They hadn't known he was one of the first to show positive response to the epinephrine treatment. The two had worn white robes over warrior armor and claimed to be the deceased's closest friend and eldest son. They'd been so matter-of-fact about it, drawing the strangely shaped blade, putting the patient's hand on it and then plunging it into his heart. The son had actually wiped the blood on his sleeve as if part of some rite, which he said it was. The hegbat or something. She committed the word to memory for later research. It had only been two hours since her arrival, but she could feel the pull of exhaustion. So many of these patients were treatable. The Klingons just didn't have enough specialists or enough medication. Or, she tried to put the thought out of her head, maybe they just didn't care. The medic who'd shown them around seemed more concerned about evacuating the sick than treating them. She closed her eyes. She couldn't judge them by her own cultural values. But she could do this, she thought as she injected another with a hypo. It made her feel useful. It was far different from treating minor burns and dog bites. That was important, but this was actual life-saving. She brushed a hand over the skin of her scalp, taking a breath. Could she go back to merely tending a sterile, empty sickbay?

They had set foot on Qo'noS to see firsthand the damage done to the Klingon homeworld by the explosion of the nearby moon of Praxis. How many members of Starfleet could claim that? With one step, they'd joined such luminaries as Jonathan Archer and James T. Kirk, and this time, there wasn't a public trial to follow. The Klingon scientist had been thorough, explaining the ravages of the ecological disaster. She'd seen the reports and read the speculative files, but now she saw the evidence firsthand from someone who'd lived through it. When the energy-production facility had exploded, more than 60% of Praxis had been obliterated. Debris still floated in orbit. Left alone, they'd settle into a ring, but she was sure the Klingons had no intention of that. The detonation had sent a subspace shockwave at least 10 light years in every direction, reaching even to the Federation border. While it was known there had been significant damage to the ozone layer of Qo'noS, it was unclear how this had caused the severe oxygen depletion that threatened to reach critical levels within five decades. Theta radiation. In addition to large pieces of debris, some of the contaminated antimatter byproducts of Praxis had fallen on the Klingon planet. In high doses, theta-band emissions could disintegrate organic tissue. In this case, cell structure had been damaged in much of the Qo'noS plant kingdom. If it could not be rejuvenated, oxygen levels would continue to drop until animal life would be unsustainable. It was a classic ecological cycle, as she'd learned in her undergraduate work on Delta IV. Even without the radiation, orbital debris of the former moon would have caused problems. Pieces had rained down, lgenerating tsunamis in the ocean and leaving sizeable craters on the planet's large, single landmass. The elements in these pieces had probably leeched into the water table, making the ecological damage worse. Lieutenant Poldara and Ensign Savros seemed to pay particular attention to the Klingon scientist, which made sense. The Challenger science and engineering departments had been hoping that, in addition to providing needed supplies and resources, they might suggest practical ways for restoring the planet. They'd been sending probes and asking questions. She was happy that the earlier cross-departmental dustup on the bridge had been largely forgotten. Gid thought the idea was ambitious, considering the Federation had consulted some of its foremost experts in planetary science and terraforming. Still, they were here. Perhaps there was some aspect that had been overlooked. She found herself more interested in the toll on living beings. The Klingons hadn't passed much on regarding people killed or injured in the catastrophe, but this one had mentioned respiratory ailments among the young and the elderly. Her follow up questions had resulted in a promise to let them see a treatment facility in one of their nearby cities. As she returned to the ship after a day reviewing the science, she was ready to see where she could help the survivors. More than treating a single bridge injury and a dog bite, it would help her practice her craft in a meaningful way. And maybe even the Klingons would appreciate it.

I'd have to say Other since Delta IV isn't on the list. I think you're right about a lot of this, LoAmi. Starfleet seems to be the only military force allowed by member planets, although they can probably keep their own versions of the "Coast Guard" and planet-based defense and police. And it's got to be more powerful than the UN Security Council. Can you imagine Tellar using veto power to not defend the invasion of Betazed? And they can clear set Federation-wide domestic policies. We heard a DS9 episode state that a caste-based society can't join the Federation. I seem to remember slavery is not permitted for Federation members - can't recall the TOS-era source. And a joining planet would probably have to agree to the "Guarantees" mentioned by Picard in TNG: "The Drumhead". But I'm not convinced there'd be all that much meddling in a planet's internal affairs otherwise. I can understand the argument that Deltans entering Starfleet have to take an oath of celibacy or they could simply not choose to join. (Although I still disagree. Starfleet is the public defense and exploration arm of government, not a private club like the Boy Scouts.) But can the Federation say the same to all Deltans who travel off-world? Can they legislate telepaths (which was treated on another discussion board)? Could they establish total alcoholic Prohibition? (Gasp! Now I bet I've got your interest.) It's easy to be an idealist when you don't have to fuss with the details and everybody does things the way you want them to. "I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one."

Medical Log Gidgiddoni, Chief Medical Officer USS Challenger Patient: Doug T Human male subject presented with multiple deep puncture wounds on palm of right hand, consistent with animal bite. Sterilite antiseptic spray with 2 cc terakin analgesic infusion used to clean and numb injury site, followed by protoplasic tissue reconstruction. No indication of pathogen or infectious transfer. Patient remained on duty during treatment and discharged from sickbay. # # # # # Gidgiddoni decided not to mention that the treatment was continually interrupted by the hapless junior lieutenant shouting at some ensign about his errant pet, with Lieutenant Abe Kas trying to keep things in order. Or how she wasn't happy to have the animal making her sickbay less sanitary. And how all three men lost control of the dog and ran out chasing it. Things like that tended to clutter the medical logs. Having discharged her patient, she found herself alone with Dr. Harris in sickbay. Since the ship was now docked at the Klingon orbital base, she wanted to get over there and see and mingle with the aliens that had been their adversaries. She wanted to experience the flavor of their lives, not just see them shouting and glaring on some wide-screen bridge viewer. Some time later, she invited Harris to join her and Lieutenant Kas to explore the station. It was wonderful. As a Deltan, she expected the leering, but the Klingons weren't especially rude about it. There were so many of them. With such huge, armored, physically fit specimens, it was easy to see why they were feared as a warrior race. Even the women she saw rippled with muscles. The air was ripe, but the foods smelled spicy and lively. The three of them picked out an eating establishment and went in, observing the crowd. Around this time, young Doug showed up, flashing a very visible phaser. Lieutenant Kas discretely told him to put it away before turning to share his root beer wares with the nearest table. The security officer ordered something from the bar, as if he were already familiar with their cuisine. After a few minutes listening to him go on about some Klingon trader, Gid found herself suspicious about how the security officer was a little too familiar with the surroundings. Historically, the Klingons had been quite adept at placing spies in the Federation. She remembered that incident at Sherman's Planet. As their enemies, the Klingon Empire had remained basically a closed society to members of the Federation. Travel was restricted, if not prohibited, during their decades of contact. Without the assassination of Chancellor Gorkon and the spectacle of the public trial last year, most Federation citizens wouldn't know anything about Klingon government or whether they even had laws. So how did this young officer come by his familiarity? She narrowed her eyes at Doug warily, resolving to look over his file when she got back to the ship. Challenger had a rare opportunity to see the Klingons in their own environment. As one of the first Starfleet vessels allowed to freely enter their space, they could learn so much that had never been reported. She watched as some of the Klingons dipped empty flagons into a community vat of the thick burgundy-colored liquid someone called bloodwine. She was a sensualist at heart, but found no compulsion to taste the concoction for herself. The thought of drinking what smelled like fermented blood was not only unappetizing, but unsanitary. Still, it might be worth collected a sample to study back in the medlab. She looked over to Abe, who was trying to explain to one of the Klingon how to open a root beer bottle without smashing the neck. Dr. Harris seemed to be taking it all in. Gid grabbed one of the empty metal mugs and walked toward the line of warriors. It wasn't a leap into the darkness of space, but there was some boldness to it. For a doctor, that wasn't too bad.

If Challenger is only doing an unofficial sim due to the American holiday weekend, could we assume the crew can encounter some Klingons on the base or down on Qo'nos?