STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2336 - Well of Souls
Page 47
“Why have you told me this?” Halak asked then. “Why are you telling me this?”
Castillo searched Halak’s face and saw no anger there. Only sadness. Resignation. “Because you had to know,” Castillo said. “Because we’ll ... because you needed to know going forward.”
“Going forward.” Halak gave a mirthless laugh. “Ensign, the only place I’m going right now is to a formal inquiry. Again. And,” he tapped his wrist, “we’re late.”
They didn’t speak again until they stood before the doors leading into the Starbase 12, Level 7 conference room.
Halak took a deep breath. “Before we walk through those doors, Ensign, I just wanted to say ... thanks. I know that was hard for you. It took courage.”
Castillo’s gaze was unwavering. “It would have taken more courage to live with my feelings. To learn that things can’t always go my way.”
“We all learn, Ensign,” said Halak, and then his lips turned in a slight smile. “One step by one step.”
They walked through the doors.
A waiter came her way with a tray laden with Maltran sea-scallops marinated in a Kefarian apple-orange sauce, but Garrett waved her away. She taken special care with the menu, though she didn’t exactly enjoy that duty. My God, when was the last time she’d arranged a reception? She sipped at an amber liquid in a squat glass tumbler, smelled the spicy aroma of bourbon. The Carthage, that reception for the Klingons and Cardassians—Cardassians, for crying out loud. Garrett swallowed, felt the bourbon burn its way down her gullet before exploding in a ball of heat in the pit of her stomach. What a headache that was. Garrett gave a soft, private laugh of amazement, shook her head. Trying to figure out what Cardassians would eat, and then having to find those bizarre taspar eggs, getting the mess chef to cook them just the right way so they weren’t still raw and looking at you ... Garrett shuddered. Everything had gone off all right, though she’d drunk a fair amount of bourbon that night, enough to kill the pain. She’d made sure there was plenty to drink, for everyone, including Ian Troi who was practically addicted to Betazoid allira punch.
Poor kid. She smiled at the memory. Fresh off his honeymoon, and wishing he could go back to Betazed and his new wife Lwaxana, but itching to have his adventures, pursue his career; she could sympathize. She’d known exactly how he felt because that was how she’d been torn between Ven and her career. Only the Trois had made it work. Ian was still serving on the Carthage, still happily married; from what Garrett heard, they’d just had a second child.
Oh, Ven. Her eyes glazed with tears. She turned aside; she was glad now that she’d chosen to take up a station next to a viewing window that looked out at the stars and her ship. She took another pull from her drink (easy, girl, don’t get weepy on me), composed herself. Waited until the burn of tears pricking her eyelids faded.
Time for this later, in private. She turned back, let her gaze wander over the room, her crew. She spotted Tyvan right away; he was so tall it was hard not to. She saw that he was talking to two science techs, and good for him. Coming out of his shell. Glemoor was shooing Bulast away from the servers readying the food at the buffet, no surprise there.
Then she spotted Kodell and Bat-Levi at a small round table, their heads bent toward one another in that earnest way of two people who are, for the moment, seeing only one another, and that was a bit of a surprise. Kodell said something to Bat-Levi, and Bat-Levi laughed, hooking that star-white streak of hair, so startling in that otherwise full head of black, behind her right ear. Bat-Levi was wearing her hair down this evening—still tucked up in some ingenious way as to be within regulations, because she was in full dress—but Garrett thought that the effect of that river of black spilling around her shoulders very attractive.
Something there. Garrett saw how Bat-Levi brushed her fingers against Kodell’s forearm. Something’s going to happen for those two.
She thought about Ven again, and that made her immensely sad, but she couldn’t help it. And maybe that’s the way I will have to be for a while. Garrett swirled her bourbon, watched the amber fluid catch and refract and break the light. Her thoughts spiraled, like the liquid: Maybe that’s the way it should be. Maybe I haven’t let myself be sad, only angry that I couldn’t fix it, or that loving Ven wasn’t enough when it should have been enough and now it’s too late ...
“A penny for your thoughts,” a voice said from over her right shoulder.
Grateful for the interruption, Garrett turned. “Don’t forget to clue Glemoor in,” she said, lightly, covering. “You look very nice, Doctor. Is that make-up?”
“Don’t be mean.” Stern raised a flute half-filled with pale yellow champagne. “And Glemoor knows that one, I’m sure. You’re not mingling, Captain.”
Garrett gave a disparaging half-shrug. Swirled her drink. “Just thinking.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Plucking Garrett’s bourbon from her hand before Garrett could protest, Stern snagged champagne from a passing waiter and handed the flute to Garrett. “Bourbon’s for good cries, and smoky bars on rainy nights. Or sickbay, when there’s just the two of us. You want to talk about it?”
The flute was chill against her fingers, a nice feeling. Garrett took a tiny sip. After the bourbon, the champagne tasted icy and crisp and fizzed in her mouth. “Not really. But ... thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
Garrett changed the subject. “They’re late.”
“Think there was a screw-up somewhere?”
“Maybe. You never can tell with Command.”
“Amen to that. Relax. If it was really serious, we would’ve heard.” Stern nudged Garrett, lifted her chin toward the waiter who’d been circulating with the sea-scallops. “Ten to one, I have to put Darco on another diet.”
Garrett followed Stern’s gaze and saw her communications officer busily plucking scallops and crackers from the hapless waiter who stood, tray proffered, a study in patience. Glemoor stood alongside Bulast, gazing mournfully at the rotund Atrean.
“Know any pithy idioms about weight?” Stern asked.
“Penny wise, pound foolish?” Garrett saw Stern’s expression and wrinkled her nose. “I guess not.”
“Not that old saw. But you and me, we’ll think of something.” Stern slipped an arm around Garrett’s waist and gave it a quick squeeze. “Come on, you’re so serious! This is a party! Relax!”
“Can’t help it. It’s been rocky, these past few weeks—Batra, Halak.” Ven. Garrett gave a rueful smile, a little laugh. “Everything. Tyvan would say I’m brooding about past mistakes.”
“And he’d be right. You’ve got a good crew, and they’ve got a great captain.” Stern raised her flute in a toast. “The best damn ship in Starfleet. To the future, Captain.”
Garrett smiled. “To the fu ...” But then the doors hissed, and Garrett turned in time to see Castillo walk in.
And Halak.
The room went dead. Halak stood absolutely rigid, a look of utter shock frozen on his face.
Then, Castillo blurted, “I couldn’t help it! They gave me the runaround when I took custody!”
“What?” Halak found his voice. He turned first to Castillo then to the rest of the crew, and then his eyes came to rest on Garrett and Stern. “What?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Stern, exasperated. “If no one’s going to say it, I will. Surprise.”
The room erupted in a swell of laughter and applause. Someone shoved a glass of champagne into Halak’s hand, and then Halak disappeared from view as his fellow crew members converged, deluging him with handshakes and pats on the back. Garrett hung back and waited, letting the rest of the crew have at Halak, allowing Halak to revel in the moment.
When the noise level in the room had finally settled down to a manageable roar, Garrett lifted her champagne and raised her voice above the din. “A toast!”
She waited as everyone in the room raised their glasses. She glanced at Stern, gave her friend a wink then turned her smile to he
r family—her crew.
“To us,” she said, simply. “To the future. Welcome back, Commander. Welcome home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a few people without whom this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day, and they deserve recognition and special thanks.
First and foremost, my most profound thanks and gratitude go to Marco Palmieri, an editor who took a chance on an unknown because, as he put it, sometimes you just gotta roll the dice. Marco has been the most patient, encouraging, and available of mentors, and his invaluable comments and insights into the manuscript, from proposal to outline to finished product, made my work—already enjoyable—an invaluable learning experience as well. Thanks, Marco: let’s hope you rolled a lucky seven. I know I did; other newbies should be so fortunate.
My thanks go to Keith DeCandido, writer and editor, who went over this manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, provided copious and exhaustive notes, and dinged me, gently, on the craft of telling a story well—and dang, if he wasn’t right about those point-of-view shifts. Thanks also to Paula Block at Paramount, who gave my outline the go-ahead.
There is one person who deserves my very special thanks: the editor who gave me my first break. Since 1999, Dean Wesley Smith has been a teacher to whom I have turned repeatedly for help and advice. Dean is not only a great writer; he is also an unselfish and experienced teacher of a craft he truly loves and champions. Dean has been encouraging when I’ve been discouraged; he’s listened to rants; he’s wisely chosen not to respond to self-pity; and he’s not been above giving me a nice supportive boot in the pants when I’ve needed it (thank God, not often). Above all, Dean and his wife, the equally impassioned and accomplished writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch, have taught me that, barring the sun going nova, I really am responsible for my own career. Dean, I am indebted more than I can say, or possibly express.
Finally, my tally wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t thank my husband, David. Seven years ago, David was the one who dared to voice what I could only half-acknowledge: that writing is what I’ve always wanted to do. Since then, David’s enthusiasm, support, and love have made it possible for me to write, and while I don’t think that he or my two girls, Carolyn and Sarah, suffered too terribly much, I know that he had to put up with his share of what he’s come to call my “writing frenzies.” Wisely, he knows when to phone Domino’s and keep the children at bay.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ilsa J. Bick is a child, adolescent, and forensic psychiatrist and has written extensively on psychoanalysis and cinema. One day, her husband insisted that what she really wanted to do was chuck all that psychoanalytic stuff and write stories. After staring at acoustical tile in her analyst’s office for two—three years, she decided he knew her pretty darn well and since then, she’s done okay. Her story “A Ribbon for Rosie” won Grand Prize in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds II, and “Shadows, in the Dark” took Second Prize in Vol. IV. Her novelette “The Quality of Wetness” (Second Prize) appeared in Writers of the Future, Vol. XVI. Her work has appeared, among other places, in SCIFI.COM, Challenging Destiny, and Talebones. Her short story “Strawberry Fields” appeared in Beyond the Last Star (edited by Sherwood Smith) and her story “Alice, on the Edge of Night” was published in Star Trek: New Frontier. No Limits (edited by Peter David). This is her first published novel. She lives in Wisconsin, with her husband, two children, three cats, and other assorted vermin.
About the e-Book
(JAN, 2004)—Scanned, proofed, and formatted by Bibliophile.