Forty-two hours ago a message came through over the comm, hard to decipher against the background of static: “This is Doctor Aguillard of the Earth-registered spaceship Baldr, requesting emergency medical assistance. All passengers and crew are quarantined due to an outbreak of an unidentified disease. Morbidity rate unknown. Two fatalities.” Interference from the roiling debris of the Kuiper Belt made the rest of the transmission unintelligibly choppy and distorted.
So now I'm piloting my little medical research rocket to intercept the ship. As the head of the Solar Community Communicable Disease Centre on Charon, asteroid-borne diseases are my speciality.
Zephyrius, sitting in the co-pilot chair, swivels their spherical head to look at me. The digital display the robot has for a face shows its characteristically cheery grin, despite the situation. “Doctor Forrest, we're fifteen minutes from interception. Magnifying on the viewscreen.”
In the lonely darkness here in the back end of nothing, I don't expect to see a big tourist cruise liner covered with twinkling portholes, topped with a sun-deck under glass, and with a rainbow painted across the whole length of its hull. Its engine exhausts flare purple as it speeds towards the edge of the solar system. What are they even doing all the way out here? It isn't like there's any sightseeing, and nobody's getting a tan seven billion kilometres from the sun.
“Scanning the ship's registry," Zee says. “It's got three pools, six bars, eight restaurants, and a spa.”
“All good vectors for disease transmission. People pressed up against each other in horribly moist environments.”
Zee's digital smile broadens. “No, I mean you can finally get the rest and relaxation you need, to avoid the workplace burnout you are currently hurtling towards!”
“This is a medical emergency. We're not here to have fun.”
“I only mean that you might want a dip and a dance after you quickly and effectively deal with it. After all, there's nobody more qualified than you in seventeen-hundred million kilometres.”
This is technically true, although out here it isn't saying much.
“If anyone's still alive on there.”
“It's been less than two days. Chances are good!”
Amazon.com: The Bifröst Contagion eBook : Gaskin, Francis
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