safe for the next two hours. “Maybe an hour,” she said.
At the look he gave her, like he knew she was lying, she almost recanted and said, Or, no, two. But she held firm.
“All right,” he said. “Give me and Dobbler forty minutes. And if I can't bring Jennifer in, then....”
He trailed off, unable to finish. Blaine waited silently, suddenly feeling very cold.
Farraday took a deep breath, and finished the sentence: “... then we'll flush the Tubes.”
Now that she'd won, Blaine felt deflated. Softly, she said, “Better hurry, then, sir.”
Farraday nodded. They were about to walk through the doors together when both their communicators rang with the emergency break-in signal, and then Miller's voice came squawking over both mini-speakers at once, already in mid-sentence: “... damn werewolf got my man!...”
EIGHT
I n Sickbay, while Lieutenant Eban writhed furiously under the care of Dr. Carlson and Witch Walsh, Miller finally found a moment after the first few hectic minutes to draw Blaine aside into a corner and hiss, “What is he talking to that goddam drug-dealer for right now?!”
“Calm down, Roy,” she murmured. Truth was, she was wondering the same thing; even if the captain was crazy enough to still plan on going into the Tubes to wrangle with that werewolf, she didn't see why he needed to consult with Dobbler this very second. But there they were, whispering in the far corner.
Then again, when Blaine looked back at the captain, she saw that Dobbler was gone and that Tracy Fiquet had taken his place. That made more sense—Carlson and Walsh were too busy to field any medical or magical questions he might have. Still, there seemed to be something surreptitious about their interaction, too.
Miller stalked back over to the bed where Eban lay red-faced, sweating, struggling against his restraints. They couldn't give him any tranquilizers, because they would be lethal to a werewolf, if indeed Eban had been fully transformed.
“He's infected,” said Miller to Carlson and Walsh. “Isn't he? It's the were-rabies.” Miller spoke with such bitterness and grief for his team-member that Blaine not only grieved for her friend, but also worried what might happen if he spoke to the captain before he got that anger under control.
“Well, he's definitely infected,” said Carlson, too busy ministering to her patient to look directly at Miller or Blaine. “As for whether it's a full-blown case and he's going to transition all the way to werewolf, we're just not sure yet.”
“Lieutenant-Commander Miller,” said Blaine. “I understand the werewolf did not bite Lieutenant Eban, but only scratched him?”
“Correct, Commander. He was 'only' scratched. We came to the Manito Buffering Panel, and your engineering people were about to check behind it to make sure the werewolf wasn't hiding back there. Well, it was. As we approached we heard a loud growling, like it was warning us off. We had to roust it out, and carefully, both because of the captain's orders about the werewolf's well-being, but also because of the sensitive nature of the equipment behind the Manito. That equipment meant we couldn't even point our net guns at the thing—basically we just had to walk toward it and wait for the animal to run at us. Which is exactly what it did.”
Blaine felt a chill at the thought of the werewolf lurking behind one of the Manito Panels. Miller was certainly right, there was no way he could have risked using force, even aside from the captain's orders.
She took another long look at Eban, gnashing and thrashing. He'd always been a handsome guy: tall, black hair, olive skin. That skin was dark red now, and glistening with sweat. “I'll be back,” she said, and walked over to the captain.
He was alone; Fiquet and Dobbler were gone. Blaine gave him a serious look as she approached; he gave her a look like he knew what she was going to say and was resigned to it.
“Captain,” she murmured, then found
At the look he gave her, like he knew she was lying, she almost recanted and said, Or, no, two. But she held firm.
“All right,” he said. “Give me and Dobbler forty minutes. And if I can't bring Jennifer in, then....”
He trailed off, unable to finish. Blaine waited silently, suddenly feeling very cold.
Farraday took a deep breath, and finished the sentence: “... then we'll flush the Tubes.”
Now that she'd won, Blaine felt deflated. Softly, she said, “Better hurry, then, sir.”
Farraday nodded. They were about to walk through the doors together when both their communicators rang with the emergency break-in signal, and then Miller's voice came squawking over both mini-speakers at once, already in mid-sentence: “... damn werewolf got my man!...”
EIGHT
I n Sickbay, while Lieutenant Eban writhed furiously under the care of Dr. Carlson and Witch Walsh, Miller finally found a moment after the first few hectic minutes to draw Blaine aside into a corner and hiss, “What is he talking to that goddam drug-dealer for right now?!”
“Calm down, Roy,” she murmured. Truth was, she was wondering the same thing; even if the captain was crazy enough to still plan on going into the Tubes to wrangle with that werewolf, she didn't see why he needed to consult with Dobbler this very second. But there they were, whispering in the far corner.
Then again, when Blaine looked back at the captain, she saw that Dobbler was gone and that Tracy Fiquet had taken his place. That made more sense—Carlson and Walsh were too busy to field any medical or magical questions he might have. Still, there seemed to be something surreptitious about their interaction, too.
Miller stalked back over to the bed where Eban lay red-faced, sweating, struggling against his restraints. They couldn't give him any tranquilizers, because they would be lethal to a werewolf, if indeed Eban had been fully transformed.
“He's infected,” said Miller to Carlson and Walsh. “Isn't he? It's the were-rabies.” Miller spoke with such bitterness and grief for his team-member that Blaine not only grieved for her friend, but also worried what might happen if he spoke to the captain before he got that anger under control.
“Well, he's definitely infected,” said Carlson, too busy ministering to her patient to look directly at Miller or Blaine. “As for whether it's a full-blown case and he's going to transition all the way to werewolf, we're just not sure yet.”
“Lieutenant-Commander Miller,” said Blaine. “I understand the werewolf did not bite Lieutenant Eban, but only scratched him?”
“Correct, Commander. He was 'only' scratched. We came to the Manito Buffering Panel, and your engineering people were about to check behind it to make sure the werewolf wasn't hiding back there. Well, it was. As we approached we heard a loud growling, like it was warning us off. We had to roust it out, and carefully, both because of the captain's orders about the werewolf's well-being, but also because of the sensitive nature of the equipment behind the Manito. That equipment meant we couldn't even point our net guns at the thing—basically we just had to walk toward it and wait for the animal to run at us. Which is exactly what it did.”
Blaine felt a chill at the thought of the werewolf lurking behind one of the Manito Panels. Miller was certainly right, there was no way he could have risked using force, even aside from the captain's orders.
She took another long look at Eban, gnashing and thrashing. He'd always been a handsome guy: tall, black hair, olive skin. That skin was dark red now, and glistening with sweat. “I'll be back,” she said, and walked over to the captain.
He was alone; Fiquet and Dobbler were gone. Blaine gave him a serious look as she approached; he gave her a look like he knew what she was going to say and was resigned to it.
“Captain,” she murmured, then found
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