by Ilsa J. Bick
“You don’t have time? Gee, that’s too bad. I suggest you make it, Marta.” Unlike Commander Batanides, Garrett didn’t take refuge behind formalities. The two women had known each other—albeit briefly—when Garrett had been on a layover on Starbase Earhart in 2327. Garrett had been heading back to the Carthage, where she was XO. Batanides was fresh out of the Academy. Batanides was a striking woman then—a lean brunette with a long neck and wide, almost oval-shaped blue eyes—and Garrett had seen nothing in the face that stared out of her companel to change her opinion. The two women had struck up a casual friendship; Garrett wasn’t there long enough for more than a few drinks in the bar. Garrett remembered Batanides as a somewhat anxious young ensign waiting for her first assignment. There were two others from her class, she recalled, close friends that Garrett hadn’t met at all, though she’d heard through the grapevine that there’d been a bar fight the day after Garrett shipped out: a couple of Nausciaans and one of Batanides’s friends. The friend was unarmed, and so, of course, one of the Nausicaans pulled a knife. Stabbed Batanides’s friend in the back, right through the heart, or so Garrett understood. It figured; Nausicaans were never known to worry about little things, such as fair play.
Well, as far as Garrett was concerned, it would be fair play all the way as long as she was in charge of Enterprise: everything on the up and up, and out front, something Starfleet Intelligence wasn’t exactly famous for.
“Now,” Garrett said, taking aim with her right index finger, “either you deal straight with me, or your people are going to hang in space a long, long time, and I mean it, Marta. I’ll take this as high as it needs to go. I am not going along with this until I understand why the hell they’re here in the first place. They show up unannounced, no advance warning, no contact from Starfleet Command, nothing. I don’t get a single communiqué; no one’s on the horn to me. Last time I checked, our communications systems were working just fine. So I’ll just chalk it up to an oversight on your part. But you want cooperation from this moment forward? Then you damn well ask me for it. Now, on whose authority is Burke here?”
To her credit, Batanides sat through Garrett’s diatribe without a squeak of protest, though Garrett could tell by the way that Batanides’s lips thinned until her mouth disappeared that the woman was not pleased.
“Burke has authorization from Starfleet Intelligence,” said Batanides.
“Meaning you. Sorry, Marta, not good enough.” Garrett wagged her head from side to side. “That’s not the way things run on my ship. I call the shots, not Starfleet Intelligence, and in case you haven’t noticed, Commander, you don’t outrank me. The way I see it, you’re asking for a favor I don’t have to grant. Okay, fine. You want me to do you a favor? Then you goddamned make the time and tell me why the hell Starfleet Intelligence is so interested in Halak—my first officer, might I add—or I send your people packing.”
“Captain, don’t force me to ...”
“To what?” Garrett interrupted. Batanides didn’t know, but Garrett didn’t respond well to threats, and was just as likely to come out swinging if Batanides so much as twitched. “Go to a higher-up? Great. Do it. The more higher-ups involved, the better.”
“Why are you being so antagonistic?”
Maybe because I got to be the lucky one to give notification to Anisar Batra’s mother. Maybe because these are my people. “Let’s just say I don’t like people who make their living working in the shadows. I prefer things straight on. I like to know whom I’m dealing with. Now I know there’s good and valuable work that SI does,” Garrett said, not believing a word but knowing she had to give Batanides something, “and I understand that intelligence operatives have their place. I’m not naïve, and I’m not particularly pugilistic.”
(Oh, really?)
“Really,” Garrett said, as much to Batanides as that little voice in her head. “But, you know, my plate’s a little full right now. In case you haven’t noticed, one of my officers is dead, and my XO is being held pending an inquiry. I don’t need your people running around on my ship. Starfleet Intelligence comes aboard, I have a whole new set of headaches, and I sure as hell don’t have time to baby-sit your people.”
“No one’s asking you to,” said Batanides. “All I’m asking is that they pursue their own investigation and sit in on the inquiry.”
“Why? And into what?” Garrett jabbed the point of her index finger into her desk. “Damn it, Marta, you’re presuming a lot. I’ve been on the up and up with you. I filed my report, and I’ll hold an inquiry, thanks. Everything will be by the book. Presuming there’s sufficient evidence to press specific charges—and that’s putting the cart before the horse, you know, because we haven’t had the damn inquiry—I’ll remand Commander Halak to Starfleet Command for further disciplinary action, if it’s needed. You can get a crack at him then. What’s so important about the inquiry that you people want in?”
Batanides’s tongue flicked over her lips. “Look, Captain, you’re asking the impossible. I can only say that we’re interested in Commander Halak’s story.”
“Story?” There was something about the way Batanides said the word that made Garrett uneasy. “Are you saying you don’t believe my first officer?”
“I said we were interested.”
“May I ask why?”
Batanides blew out, backhanded a wisp of hair fluttering along her cheek. “Captain, I can’t. Please understand my position. Most of what you want is classified.”
“At what level?”
“Need to know.”
“And you don’t think I need to know.”
“No, you don’t,” said Batanides, with such bluntness that Garrett blinked. “I’m sorry, but if the gloves are off here ...”
“Please,” Garrett held up her hands, palms out, “don’t pull punches on my account. The gloves are off and ... ?”
“And the simple truth is, Captain, you and your crew are unimportant. You are not part of the bigger picture.”
Ouch. Well, at least the woman got to the point. “Bigger picture.”
Batanides dragged in a deep breath. Exhaled. “Lieutenant Laura Burke is part of an ongoing covert investigation into certain aspects of, shall we say, government on Farius Prime.”
“Government.” Garrett chewed the word. “A euphemism for?”
“The Asfar Qatala and Orion Syndicate.”
“Organized crime. Okay.” Garrett spread her hands, hiked her shoulders. “So what? What about them? It’s not like they’re some sort of secret.”
“But it’s not every day that a Starfleet officer chooses to go to a place where organized crime substitutes for law and order.”
Garrett had known that; in fact, she had a couple questions of her own about Halak’s choices. Still, she shook her head. “It’s not a proscribed world. Commander Halak didn’t break any rules.” She decided not to add that she thought Halak’s judgment stunk. Need to know, Marta.
“We’re aware of that aspect of the case. But he might be.”
“Be what? Involved? Halak?” Garrett had a sudden inspiration. “Does this have anything to do with that flap over the Ryns eight months back, before he transferred here?”
“Possibly. I’m sorry,” Batanides said quickly, in answer to Garrett’s grunt of exasperation. “That’s all I can say. Really. Try to understand my position. Just how covert would anything be if I, or any other intelligence operative, had to explain every nuance, every move?”
She had a point; Garrett gave her that. “And the Vulcan?”
“Lieutenant Sivek, yes. We have enlisted the cooperation of Vulcan’s security agency, V’Shar. Sivek’s on loan.”
“Why is Vulcan interested?”
“Same reason as the Andorians, the Threllians, the Pythagos Clans. They’re all Federation worlds, and the Federation, as a whole, is more than a little concerned about red ice.”
“Red ice.” Garrett searched her memory. “A genetically altered opiate.”
“Ri
ght. At first, it showed up on a colony or two, none of them Federation. It may seem cold and calculated, but the Federation has enough to worry about. Playing the universe’s policeman means your resources get stretched, so you pick and choose what to worry about.”
Garrett knew it wasn’t fair, but she said it anyway. “So as long as red ice killed other people—non-Federation worlds, of course—then it was okay?”
“I’ll just let that pass,” said Batanides dryly. “Two years ago, red ice started popping up on Federation colonies. The remote ones, mainly, as if whoever distributing it knew that bypassing busier worlds would keep them in business longer. The Federation wants to stop the spread of the drug; they’ve asked for our help.”
“Fair enough. What does this have to do with my first officer?”
“We just want to listen to what he has to say. He’s been on Farius Prime; for whatever reason, he became a target. We want to know why. Other Starfleet officers have been to the planet and left without incident. Now Burke and Lieutenant Sivek are trained investigators and excellent intelligence officers. I ... we’d like you to give them access to Commander Halak’s ship.”
Ah, the royal we. “For what purpose?”
“First, a complete and thorough search. Then the inquiry, and it’s more than likely we’ll want to ask Commander Halak some questions. Maybe have a few revelations of our own. Then, depending on what we ... you find, we go from there.”
“We.”
“Yes, Captain, we. We will consult with one another; we, in conjunction with other Starfleet officers, will decide what to do.”
“Just how much weight will my opinion have?”
For the first time, Batanides smiled. “Don’t you think that depends on what we find, Captain?”
And, with that, Garrett had to be satisfied. After Batanides rang off, Garrett punched up the bridge, and gave the appropriate orders at which point Bulast informed her that Dr. Stern wanted to see her in sickbay. Now.
“Actually,” said Bulast, “the way she said now ...”
“Meant yesterday.” Garrett sighed. Stern was probably the only person aboard she let boss her around—to a point. “I got it. Tell her I’ll be right down.”
Great. Garrett ducked out of her ready room, bypassing the bridge, and scuttled down the hall toward a turbolift. The doors swished open; they hissed closed; and, as if on cue, Garrett’s migraine thumped to life. This is just turning out to be another great day in a string of great days.
The Enterprise’s chief medical officer, Jo Stern, eyed her captain as Garrett stepped into Stern’s office in sickbay. “You look like hell,” Stern said.
“Thanks,” said Garrett, dropping into a chair across Stern’s desk. She winced, blinked against the overhead lights. “You always keep it so damn bright in here?”
“Headache?” Stern depressed a control and the clear soundproof glass door to her office hummed shut.
“Worse.” Propping her elbows on Stern’s desk, Garrett washed her face with her hands. “Migraine.”
Stern commanded the lights to half. “Want something for it?”
“No.”
“Good, I’ll have some, too.” Stern pushed back from her desk and crossed to a thermos she kept filled with hot coffee for precisely these occasions. She siphoned out two gray stoneware mugs’ worth and popped the top of a container of chilled cream. “Too early for a drink, so coffee will have to do. Lucky for you, caffeine does wonders for migraines. That’s cream and two sugars, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Garrett said, accepting the mug of steaming coffee from her friend. Stern’s brew was nearly as good as her own. Garrett inhaled, blew then sipped. She sighed, this time with pleasure. “You don’t know how good this tastes.”
“Bet I do,” said Stern, sliding behind her desk again. She eyed Garrett through the steam rising from her own mug. “You ready to talk about that call from Ven yet?”
Stern was an old friend and knew about Garrett’s divorce and the agony Garrett felt over her and Jase having to live apart. Still, Garrett wasn’t really in the mood to rehash it all. So, instead, Garrett sipped, swallowed. “Not really. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Anyway, that’s old news. A lot’s happened since then.” (The call had come a few days ago, but Garrett felt like she’d aged twenty years.) Garrett cradled her mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth that came through the stoneware. “So what’s on your mind, Jo? You gave Bulast the impression that this was some sort of emergency.”
“In a way.”
“Halak?”
“You could say that.”
“How is he?”
“He looks like hell, too.” Stern had a smoky voice that always reminded Garrett of dim bars. This was apt: Stern, like Garrett, took her bourbon neat. “But I’d say it’s a toss-up who looks worse, you or him. Of course, Halak’s got a lot of reasons. On the other hand, so do you. Other than the reasons we all know, like worrying about crew morale, having to make notification to next of kin, and whipping your acting first officer into shape ... how is Bat-Levi doing, by the way?”
“She’s good,” said Garrett. “She was good at ops, and she’s good at being the XO. But I have to admit, I was a little concerned at first.”
“You mean, because of her looks.”
“Sure. But I was thinking more about her mental stability.”
“Another good reason for us to have a psychiatrist aboard this time out,” said Stern. “Anyway, the Vulcans have vouched for her. So has Starfleet Medical. Still, she’s a strange duck, though she’s damned sharp, I’ll give her that. But that’s why you look like hell? Worrying about Darya Bat-Levi?”
“No. Starfleet Intelligence.”
Stern groaned. “An oxymoron if ever there was one.”
“That’s a really old joke.”
“About what you can expect from a really old wreck.” Stern was fifty-one, ten years Garrett’s senior, and there wasn’t a thread of gray anywhere in the shock of wheat-colored hair that she habitually wore pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail that brushed the nape of her neck. A woman of strong opinions and acerbic wit, Stern was lean and wiry, with a square face and wide mouth. She wasn’t beautiful and knew it; she didn’t mourn that either. She had what she called her man’s hands: large, capable, adept at manipulating a laser scalpel. “So what do they want?”
Garrett filled Stern in on her conversation with Batanides. “So we’re to cooperate with Lieutenants Burke and Sivek, no matter what. I don’t get it, frankly. What could Halak know that could possibly interest them?”
Stern looked thoughtful. “It might be nothing more complicated than what Batanides told you. Maybe they just want to debrief him, hear what he saw or heard.”
“Then why search the shuttle? We already did that anyway.”
Stern made a face and drank from her mug. “You got me on that. So there’s another agenda. You get any clue about what’s between the lines?”
“Something about the Orion Syndicate and some other crime family, the Asfar Qatala, and red ice.”
“Red ice?” Stern ran a blunt finger around her mug’s rim. Her nails were flat-cut. “That’s bad business. And they think Halak’s involved?”
“How could he be? Anyway, it’s Starfleet Intelligence’s time to waste.” Garrett gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “So what’s going on with Halak?”
“Well, I think you can hold your inquiry in a couple of days. We have to wait for your two SI types to finish with their little dance anyway, right?” When Garrett nodded, Stern continued, “You know he might feel better if his captain visited.”
“This is why you called? Wondering why I haven’t been mopping my first officer’s feverish brow?”
“Partly.”
Garrett ducked her head over her coffee. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s crap, Rachel,” Stern said mildly. “Sure, you’ve been busy. Hell, we’ve all been busy. But he’s your godda
mned XO.”
Garrett felt a wave of heat rise in her neck. “I know that.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” said Garrett. She picked up her mug, put it down without tasting, picked it up again. “What?”
Stern’s face was impassive. “You want me to say it, or are you going to?”
“Say what?” (Stop playing dumb.) “Say what?”
“Gripes, Rachel, for a smart lady, you can be pretty willfully stupid sometimes, you know that? I’m talking about how you keep beating up this poor guy because he’s not Nigel Holmes.”
Garrett went rigid. “That’s ridiculous.”
(Liar, liar, liar.)
“Oh, crap,” said Stern. “You can tell yourself that if you want to, and since you’re the captain, I guess you can do any damned thing you please. But you’d have to be brain-dead not to notice that the two of you aren’t exactly chummy.”
“Chummy. I’ve been an XO, remember? There’s no need for chumminess. It’s a job, Jo, just a job.”
“With responsibilities and delegation of duties based upon mutual respect and trust.” Stern held up her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t get on my case; it’s in the manual.”
“Did it ever occur to you that our lack of chumminess might be mutual?”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” She had to admit that Halak was more than competent, and she had developed a grudging fondness for the man, though he could be exasperating the way he argued.
(So can you.)
They’d always argued in private, but still. Halak had a savage intensity she found disturbing. Never outright subordinate, but ... Halak seemed to be watching her. Weighing her against some internal scale, judging her ability to command the respect and loyalty of her crew before deciding whether or not she was worthy of his.
(Or maybe it’s mutual. After all, Halak’s no Nigel Holmes.)