Frowning, I started back to sickbay to give the Doctor the results, and met the Captain in the hall.
He smiled his usual smile at me. “And how are you today, my medical officer?”
“Fine, sir. You?”
“Busy,” he answered promptly. “Mr. Whales and I have just been going over Doctor Pearson’s data.”
“How does it look?”
“Promising. I haven’t come to a decision yet, though. Come to lunch? I’m briefing Guilders on it, and you can listen if you like.”
I was eager to hear more, but I hesitated. “The Doctor is waiting for me…”
Instead of replying, the Captain flicked his wristcom controls and held the com up to his mouth. “Gerry, I’m taking Andi to lunch. You can join us when you’re ready.”
“All right, Trent,” the familiar voice grunted.
He turned off the com and smiled at me. I laughed resignedly and fell into step beside him.
Guilders was waiting alone at a table in the center of the large room, surrounded on all sides by hungry, chattering crewmembers. The room smelled spicy and warm, and I distinctly caught the scents of garlic and broccoli.
The helmsman nodded at me as we approached. “Miss Andi.”
“Hello, Mr. Guilders.”
The Captain pulled out a chair for me with his usual chivalry, then seated himself. “I’m starved.”
Guilders nodded almost imperceptibly. “Have you arrived at a conclusion about Captain Holloway’s proposal, Captain?”
“Just like you, Guilders, to conduct business on an empty stomach,” sighed the Captain. “No, I have not yet decided. Far be it from me to decide such a thing without consulting my first officer.”
“If you regard my advice, it will be the first time you have ever done so.”
“Mr. Guilders! I’m surprised at you. I do not—always—spurn your advice.”
“No,” said Guilders, with a touch of sarcasm, “only when it does not agree with your own ideas.”
I couldn’t stifle a chuckle.
“Do I sense resentment in you, Guilders?” The Captain raised an eyebrow.
“No sir, but I don’t think I have made it any secret that I don’t like this idea.”
“No you have not,” the Captain agreed as a kitchen assistant put steaming dishes of broccoli casserole in front of us.
I lowered my head to say a brief, silent prayer, silent prayer. The two men respectfully kept silent for a moment, familiar with my mealtime ritual. When I was finished, I picked up a fork and looked at Guilders. “Why don’t you like it?”
“In the first place, Captain Holloway’s insistence on ignoring protocol is troubling to me. But more importantly, the galactic center is off-limits.”
“Period,” the Captain sighed. “You didn’t say it, but I can hear you thinking it. Maybe, but you and I both know that there’s a good chance for a vessel to survive such a mission with proper precautions…”
“It’s against the law for any class A vessel to go there.”
“I know that,” the Captain flushed. “But they didn’t know we’d find something so useful there when they made that law.”
“Irrelevant. This ship is someone else’s property.”
“I swear to you, Guilders, if I didn’t know better—”
“—you’d think he was a sensible, well-trained officer,” another voice spoke up. We all looked up to see the Doctor standing next to the table holding a tray of food.
The Captain relaxed slightly and smiled, and Guilders scooted his chair over to make more room.
“What’s this all about?” the Doctor asked as he sat down. “You’ve got your feathers ruffled, Trent.”
“Guilders is being narrow-minded.”
The Doctor huffed as he picked up his spoon. “And you’re probably being a little too broad-minded. Perhaps a perfectly balanced individual like myself could be of help.”
The Captain scoffed. “You’re more narrow-minded than he is.”
“Let me guess—this is about Captain Holloway’s proposal.”
The Captain nodded and opened his mouth, but the Doctor held out his hand to signal a pause, bowed his head for a moment, then took a bite of his casserole.
“You have the same old-fashioned ideas he does,” the Captain smiled. “If not more of them.”
“Your ideas aren’t exactly in mint condition themselves,” the Doctor retorted. “You’re a Machiavellian, Trent.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” the Captain smiled. “Though I’m not sure I see how it applies at the moment.”
“You want to disobey the rule you promised to stick to in order to do something you think is good.”
“I know what I’m doing, thank you,” the Captain insisted. “But I still don’t see how it’s Machiavellian.”
I frowned at the Doctor. “What’s a Machiavellian?”
He had his mouth full, so Guilders spoke instead, pushing his empty dishes away. “You’re not familiar with Niccolo Machiavelli? The Prince?”
“I don’t think so. What was he the prince of?”
The Doctor swallowed. “He wasn’t a prince. He wrote a book called The Prince about getting and keeping power.”
“But when people say Machiavellian,” Guilders said, “they’re usually referring to the ‘Machiavellian principle.’ It's the idea that any action is appropriate when used to work towards a goal that is itself appropriate.”
“The end justifies the means,” the Doctor translated.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” the Captain insisted.
“If you’re not, no one ever has,” the Doctor scoffed. Before the Captain could retort, he went on. “But if it makes any difference, I know Captain Holloway is a liar.”
The Captain’s brows furrowed deeply. “How can you know a thing like that?”
“Because he told me one thing, and Andi found out another.”
I squirmed under the Captain’s penetrating glare. “It’s—not really that important…”
“That’s for me to judge. I do not appreciate my crew keeping information from me.”
The Doctor came to my rescue. “She reported it to me immediately, Trent, and I just verified it.”
“Well?” He had switched to his “captain” mode. No hint of relaxation or personal banter now—he was every inch the starship commander; spine stiffened and shoulders back.
“When treating the personnel for warp stomach, we noticed that four of the men didn’t contract it,” the Doctor explained. “Two of them were Captain Holloway and Doctor Pearson. A third was Gene Dubois, a former physician assistant. We found traces of the vaccine for warp stomach in Holloway’s blood.”
The Captain fingered his chin, forgetting the last few bites of his meal. “I really don’t see…” He cut off, and his frown deepened. “Was the fourth man their chaplain by any chance?”
The Doctor slapped his hand on the table. “He’s your brother, Trent. You acknowledged it to the whole crew, there’s no reason—”
“I acknowledged it only because it was less embarrassing than keeping it from them at that point,” he said stiffly. “I have no respect for a man who deserts the principles he once held stubbornly to. You will answer my question, Doctor.”
The fourth man was Lee. But…” He glanced at me.
I flushed, and wished I didn’t have to tell what I’d found. “He was vaccinated,” I said slowly.
The Captain frowned even more, but he returned to the main issue. “I really don’t see what difference that makes to our potential mission. He probably had a reason—”
“Or at least he thought he did,” said Guilders dryly.
I didn’t miss the implication, and and the Captain’s stiffened shoulders seemed to indicate that he didn’t either.
“Of course I’ll ask him about it,” the Captain assured. “But I doubt this matter will reflect on our mission.”
“Not our ‘potential mission’?” asked the Doctor pointedly.
The Doctor and Guilders glanced at each other wordlessly before standing up and following. Gulping down my last sip of water, I got up to follow, wondering what Napoleon would have to say for himself.
Chapter VII
“My dear friends!” Napoleon’s eyes were wide as the Captain and the Doctor finished their confrontation, and he held out his hands pleadingly. Guilders observed the conversation silently. I glanced around Napoleon’s quarters, noting that he’d brought very little aboard. The only personal effects I could see were a small crate and an extra uniform hanging in his open closet.
“My dear friends,” he repeated, “surely you cannot believe that I am seeking to deceive you! My purpose in hiding the truth about the vaccine from my men—and consequently from you as well—was purely one of benevolence, I assure you. My dear friend Mr. Dubois informed me that he had some of the vaccine, but only enough for three men. Well, part of our responsibility lies in our being able to perform our duties in good health and sound mind, so as much as it pained me, I had to accept the vaccine for Doctor Pearson and myself. As for the third dose, I couldn’t very well refuse Mr. Dubois, could I? And I preferred for my poor men not to know—no sense in making them feel left out. And may I point out, gentlemen, Miss Lloyd, that I never said we had not been vaccinated. If I did not come right out with the whole story, it was only for the sake of my men.” He sighed a little, then looked to the Doctor. “How are they now?”
There seemed to be very little to say to this. For a few seconds, the silence remained unbroken. The Doctor and Guilders exchanged glances again.
“They’re recovering quickly,” the Doctor said. He didn’t add any further reassurance, questioning, or commentary.
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
“I knew you would be,” Guilders said softly, again betraying that subtle streak of sarcasm.
The Captain frowned at Guilders before turning back to Napoleon. “Your actions are understandable—even commendable. In the future, however, I request that I be notified of anything that would be likely to cause problems on this vessel. I hope you can see that this is one of those things.”
“Oh certainly, certainly! Now that I think of it I can see that all kinds of such problems might arise from my actions, and I do apologize, Captain!”
“No harm done.” Without relaxing his manner, the Captain went on. “However, I fail to see where your chaplain comes into this.”
Napoleon had been nodding, smiling a smile that showed his straight, white teeth to their best advantage, but now he stopped, and wrinkled his forehead in a frown. “Our chaplain? I beg your pardon, Captain?”
The Doctor spoke up. “Lee Trent was also vaccinated, Captain. We just verified it. But you said you had only three doses.”
Napoleon sighed deeply, and even his hair seemed to droop with regret. “I had hoped not to mention this…”
“What?” the Captain asked sternly, as the little man hesitated.
“Well… Mr. Dubois did have four shares, originally. One of them vanished… he was watching to see who didn’t go down to sickbay yesterday, and told me it was Lee, so I had assumed… but I didn’t know, you see, Captain.” He hastened to add the last part. “I didn’t want to say anything if I didn’t know.”
The Captain stiffened. “I must ask you not to withhold any information with the potential to affect this ship, while you are aboard, Captain Holloway.”
“Just Holloway, please. And certainly, certainly, I am quite ashamed of myself. I only thought… well, yes, you are right. I am sorry.”
“And before you ask,” the Captain spoke again, “we are still considering your proposal. You will be notified when we have reached our decision.”
“Come on, Andi,” the Doctor said quietly. “We need to get back to sickbay.”
There was no real reason for us to get back there. We had no patients, and we hadn’t been called, but I followed him out, sighing inwardly. Guilders followed us and fell into step with the Doctor, while I lagged a little behind.
“I don’t like that man,” the Doctor grumbled quietly. “He’s much too pleasant.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being pleasant,” I protested. “Just because someone isn’t a perpetual killjoy doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with them.”
I regretted the words the instant they left my lips.
The Doctor and Guilders both stopped walking and an awkward silence followed. My heartbeat accelerated. I’d often heard people say they wished the floor would swallow them up, and I’d thought it a silly wish, but now I wished it with all my heart.
“I’m needed on the bridge,” Guilders stated, and walked away. The Doctor nodded.
When he finally spoke, he didn’t turn around, and his voice was quiet. “I’m sorry I’m a perpetual killjoy.”.”
The words cracked my heart. “Oh, Doctor! I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that… I just meant…”
“It’s alright. I understand.” He turned and smiled at me, but his smile didn’t make me feel any better. I wished he would have scolded me instead. “I want you to get lots of sleep tonight. You’re not acting like yourself; you’re probably tired.”
I wasn’t tired. I was miserable. I felt like I’d just built a glass wall between us. I wanted to break it by jumping forward and throwing my arms around his neck and apologizing. But—I just couldn’t. I seemed attached to the floor. As if it had started to swallow me up as per my wish, but stopped when it had only had time to grip my shoes.
“Alright, Dad. I will.”
He smiled again, then started towards sickbay. I followed, noting that my feet had no trouble obeying me this time.
Since there were no patients to attend to, I devoted my energy to finding the missing scopolamine sedative. I searched each medical cabinet, straightening them as I went, but it wasn’t in any of them. The Doctor was positive he hadn’t used the last of it, and I knew I hadn’t. I looked under all the cots and in all the personal effects baskets and even the wastebaskets, but the little bottle remained unfound.
By the time I went down to dinner I was beginning to feel tired. But it wasn’t the satisfying tiredness of a long day’s work, it was the frustrating tiredness of a fruitless search, regrets, and confusion. Perhaps it would be wise to go to bed early after all. Then perhaps I’d wake up feeling refreshed and the sleep would help me to sort things out.
Perhaps not.
I ate in silence, half-listening to the Doctor and Guilders’ conversation, and thinking over everything at the same time. Every time I’d start to listen to what they were saying—that the mission was wrong and foolish—an image of Elasson would pop into my head. Dark eyed Elasson, his curly black hair blowing in the hot wind as he watched us leave him behind on his dusty, barren home. Elasson saving our lives even when it meant the resentment of his society and the anger of his ruling half-brother. Elasson smiling and laughing with me as we drew pictures of our lives in the dirt, since we couldn’t communicate through words.
Or the little girl, Nama, whom we had saved from death at the hands of heatstroke. Or the rows of people toiling away in the heat, reeking of perspiration, struggling to provide enough food for the community.
And then I wanted that biodiversity motivator more than anything.
When I went to sleep that night I dreamed of Elasson. I dreamed that he had gotten heatstroke, and lay collapsed alone on the sand, his blotchy-red skin bright against the drab landscape, his curls matted down with sweat. His eyes were dull, and he reached for me, gasping for breath.
“An-di…”
I woke up, crying his name, shivering in the comparative coldness of my quarters.
My quarters. I breathed in the cool life-support system, letting it remind me that I was awake.
It was so quiet.
Pushing the blankets off, I
swung my legs over the right side of the bed and stood up. Feeling the need to keep the silence unbroken, I crept across the room to my dresser. Its silver metal surface reflected the tiny gleam of starlight that streamed through the portholes.
I reached for the cool knob of the top drawer and pulled it open. Then I reached under my leggings and socks to the very back left corner, grasping until my fingers met the rough texture they sought.
I pulled the object out, then held it up in the faint light.
A small, round, brown cap, woven stiffly of thick, coarse grass. I ran my fingers over the weave, remembering the look in Elasson’s eyes as he had removed it from his head and given it to me.
I looked up, frowning. Something didn’t feel right.
I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something just didn’t—feel right.
I listened.
Nothing.
Reaching behind me, I set the cap on top of the dresser and leaned my cheek against the cool metal wall.
Nothing.
No subtle vibrations or vague inertia, no subliminal engine sounds.
We were stopped.
I stood up straight. The Surveyor was on a very tight schedule, and never stopped unless something was wrong, or the Captain was receiving a new assignment.
Forgetting about my dream, I yanked open my closet and pulled out a uniform. It only took two minutes to get dressed, run my fingers through my hair, and rush out into the corridors.
Everything felt different as I sprinted down the hall and towards the elevator. I never really noticed the sounds and vibrations of the moving ship, but when they were gone, everything felt eerily empty.
When I stepped into the elevator, I found August coming up from his quarters below. “What’s happening?” I asked after he’d greeted me.
He shook his head. “I think I heard something about tracking, but I don’t know. All primary bridge officers were called up.”
Tracking—tracking was vital. Tracking was what allowed a starship to orient itself in space, both in reference to Earth and the galaxy itself. Without it, we’d have only what we could see with our eyes to guide us.
Firmament: Machiavellian Page 6