by David Mack
The Romulan leaned back in her chair and sulked while staring at her empty glass. “There are no words equal to the depth of my contempt for you right now.”
“No doubt a passing phase.” He picked up the bottle of Romulan ale from the table, reached over, and refilled her glass. “Have another drink, and I’m sure you’ll find the words you seek soon enough.”
10
The intercom buzzed at precisely 0830, exactly the time Admiral Nogura had specified. He noted the detail with approval. There were many qualities he admired in other people, but punctuality was one upon which he placed particular importance; he did not like to be kept waiting. He thumbed open the channel to his yeoman. “Yes?”
Lieutenant Greenfield answered, “Captain Kirk is here for his debriefing, Admiral.”
“Send him in.” The door swished open and Kirk strode in carrying a data slate. Nogura stood and stepped around his desk to greet the younger, taller man. “Good morning, Captain.”
They shook hands. “Good morning, sir.”
Nogura gestured to the chairs in front of the desk as he returned to his own. “Have a seat.” They sat facing each other. “Can my yeoman bring you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“All business, eh? I see your reputation is well earned.” The admiral reclined his chair a few degrees. “Half of Starfleet is buzzing about you these days, you know.”
Kirk responded with a disarmingly modest smile. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I’ve followed your career since you took over the center seat on the Enterprise,” Nogura confessed. “Three years ago, I was one of those who doubted you could ever emerge from the shadow of the great Christopher Pike. Now I hear officers talk as if you’re some kind of modern-day Magellan, and dropping Pike’s name makes the new cadets ask, ‘Who?’”
The captain rolled his eyes, as if to deflect the praise. “I can’t control what others say—but whatever praise they think I’ve earned probably belongs to my crew.”
“No doubt there’s some truth to that,” Nogura said. “A commanding officer has to have good people in order to be effective. But a real leader inspires good people to greatness—and the Enterprise crew has excelled under your command, Kirk. Take pride in that.”
The commendation seemed to bring out a tendency for self-effacement in Kirk, who mustered an embarrassed smile. “I do, sir. Every day.”
“Good. Just don’t do anything stupid—like get yourself promoted to the admiralty. Large bureaucracies tend to reward their best people with desk jobs where they can’t be of any use to anyone, and in your case, I can’t imagine a greater waste of talent.”
That drew a small chuckle from Kirk. “I’ll try to remember that.” He leaned forward and handed the data slate across the desk to Nogura. “Our logs, hand-delivered as ordered, sir.”
Nogura activated the slate and perused the long index of entries. “Your log for stardate 5693.2 indicates you found the Defiant trapped in—I’m sorry, what is interphase?”
“A rip in space-time, like a torn membrane between two universes,” Kirk said. “The space between the universes is like . . .” He paused to conjure the right word. “Well, it’s a kind of limbo, I guess. My first officer could explain it better.”
Even a cursory skimming of the accounts by Kirk and Commander Spock made it clear to Nogura just how harrowing the Enterprise’s attempt to rescue the Defiant had been. “Your first officer’s log says he and the rest of the crew thought you had died when the Defiant slipped out of phase and vanished.”
Kirk’s mood turned somber. “If not for my crew, I would be dead.”
Nogura respected the toll that mission had taken on Kirk. “Well, we’re all glad you’re still with us. It’s unfortunate you weren’t able to recover the Defiant, but from what I see here, you and your crew went above and beyond in your attempt.” He lowered the data slate. “Let me ask you, Captain: Do you or your senior officers think the Tholians had anything to do with creating the spatial interphase that snared the Defiant?”
“No. None of their weapons seemed to function in any way that would account for the phenomenon. Commander Spock speculated the interphase might have been a natural occurrence, but now that it’s dissipated, there’s no way to be sure what caused it.”
“Very well.” With regret, he closed the file on the search for the Defiant, resigned to accepting its loss in the line of duty as another of Starfleet’s everyday tragedies.
After what seemed like a moment’s hesitation, Kirk asked, “Sir, can you tell me what happened after my crew and I finished our first-contact mission with the Melkots?”
“They admitted they’re curious about us, but they’ve chosen to remain in seclusion.”
“Damn. Powers like theirs might’ve been useful against the Shedai.”
“Technically, Captain, you—”
“I guess we could have asked the Metrons for help, but I get the impression they won’t think we’re worth talking to for another millennium or so. If Trelane wasn’t so damned impetuous, I’d almost be tempted to—”
“Captain.” Nogura spoke the word with such force that it silenced Kirk in mid-sentence. “I appreciate your input, but you need to refrain from discussing the Shedai—or any other aspect of our mission here.”
All at once, the captain’s humble bearing was replaced by a steely confidence. “Admiral, my senior officers and I stand ready to help you and your team. You might not be aware of this, but three years ago we were the ones who unlocked a key part of the mystery that had the research team here completely baffled. No one told us exactly what we’d discovered, but I think we’ve proved that we can be trusted with sensitive intelligence. Let us help.”
Yes, Nogura thought, this is how I imagined Kirk the starship commander. Aggressive, direct—and in need of an ego check. “Captain, unless there’s been a radical change in Starfleet’s chain of command, starship commanders don’t get to decide for themselves when they should be read into classified operations.”
“We’ve already been read into Operation Vanguard, for the mission to Ravanar IV.”
Nogura held up one hand, palm out. “All details of which you were ordered to purge from the Enterprise’s databanks. I’m sorry, Captain, but Operation Vanguard remains on a strictly need-to-know basis, and right now there’s no reason for you or your crew to be in the loop.”
A sour frown expressed Kirk’s resignation to the inevitable. “I see.” After a calming breath, he asked, “How soon can the Enterprise depart?”
“I’m afraid we need you to linger awhile,” Nogura said. “With our other ships deployed to the far ends of the Taurus Reach, we’d all feel better with the Enterprise standing by for short-range tactical deployments.”
A curt nod. “Of course.” His shifting posture telegraphed his desire to be anywhere other than Nogura’s office at that moment.
“Dismissed.” The captain rose and strode to the door. Before he got there, Nogura called out, “You should know that one of our resident scientists is Doctor Carol Marcus.” Kirk halted shy of the door, turned back, and glared at Nogura, who added, “Your son, David, is here, too. Maybe you could pay the boy a visit before you ship out again.”
Kirk seemed on the verge of an irate reply to Nogura’s benignly intentioned suggestion, but then the captain reined in his anger and walked briskly out of the office without another word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving Nogura alone in his office. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the closed door and tried to make sense of Kirk’s reaction.
I guess he’s not much of a family man.
Spock exited the gangway from the Enterprise and joined the steady flow of pedestrian traffic in Vanguard’s main docking bay concourse. The broad thoroughfare consisted of a single, vertig-inously high-ceilinged passageway that ringed the station’s core and linked the four internal docking bays in the lower half of the station’s mushroom-cap saucer. Well lit and immaculately clean, it b
etrayed no evidence of the damage it had sustained in two separate incidents: a bombing inside the docking bay, three years earlier, and a Shedai attack just a few months before the Enterprise’s return visit. The latter had resulted in hull breaches to both the saucer and the core and had penetrated all the way down into the station’s most fortified areas.
The opposing currents of pedestrian traffic that slipped past each other in the wide concourse resembled a cross section of the Federation’s population. Most of the people Spock saw looked like humans, but there also were Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians, Caitians, Arcturians, Rigelians, and Denobulans. He also noted a handful of individuals from species whose homeworlds were not yet full members of the Federation, including a Bolian and a Grazerite—the latter of which Spock had, until that moment, only ever read about.
Navigating through the flow of bodies, he made his way toward a nearby turbolift. His intention was to pay a visit to the Stars Landing establishment know as Manón’s, located inside the station’s terrestrial enclosure, and inquire after T’Prynn. Her peculiar predicament—involuntary possession by the katra of her former fiancé, Sten, whom she had slain in the Kal-if-fee decades earlier—had made a profound impact upon him, though out of respect for her privacy he had never discussed it with anyone else. Despite their extremely brief acquaintance, he felt an obligation to seek her out and once again offer whatever succor he might be able to provide.
He had already pressed the tubolift’s call button when he noticed, at the periphery of his vision and through a brief gap in the river of pedestrians coursing past him, a lone figure standing at the towering wall of transparent aluminum in the observation lounge opposite. Looking more closely, he observed that it was a tall Vulcan woman, her jet hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that revealed the elegant upward curve of her ears. As if she sensed his attention from more than fifteen meters away, she turned her head slightly, enough for him to take in her striking, angular profile. Certain that it was T’Prynn, he slipped and dodged through the busy passageway and then crossed the empty lounge until he stood behind her shoulder.
She stared out the window into the docking bay, as if deep in thought. Several seconds later she acknowledged his presence. Her reflection looked at him. “Hello, Spock.” There was a placid quality to her manner that he did not recall from their last encounter.
“T’Prynn.”
With slow grace, she turned and faced him. “I read of your part in the capture of the Romulan cloaking device,” she said. “It would seem you took to heart my advice regarding the occasional tactical necessity of falsehood.”
He recalled their discussion about the ethics of a Starfleet officer—in particular, a Vulcan—employing lies in the line of duty, especially when doing so harmed others. They had left the matter unresolved when they last parted ways. Though her accusation was correct, in that he had misled a female Romulan starship commander so that Captain Kirk could steal the newest cloaking device prototype, he was not yet prepared to cede his entire argument. For the time being, he contented himself with a rhetorical evasion. “I did as I was ordered to do.”
“A convenient rationalization. One I know all too well.” She softened. “Forgive me. I meant no offense, and I doubt you’ve come in search of a debate. May I be of service?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “I had thought to ask you the same question.” Looking into her eyes, he could see that her once turbulent psyche had been calmed. “When last we spoke, you were a val’reth, beyond the help of the Seleyan Order.”
“Much has changed.” She averted her eyes and looked back out at the docking bay. “A few months after you left, while standing on this very spot, I suffered a psychological collapse. I nearly died.” There was no pathos in her voice, only cold truth. “I was made whole again on Vulcan, by a healer in my native village of Kren’than.”
The mention of the small, technology-free commune stoked Spock’s curiosity. “You lived among the L-langon mystics?”
“For a time. With my sister, T’Nel, when we were young.” Her gaze took on a faraway quality, as though she were peering through a needle’s eye into the distant past. “But after I slew Sten in the Kal-if-fee, maintaining my psionic defenses became too difficult in that place. So, I left Vulcan.” Shifting back into the present, she looked at Spock. “A shipmate of yours brought me to Healer Sobon. A Doctor M’Benga.”
Spock noted the coincidence with curiosity. “Then it would seem we are both in his debt. Doctor M’Benga was instrumental in saving my life on two occasions.”
“Most fortuitous.”
Shifting to an at-ease stance, Spock said, “I presume that Healer Sobon was successful in removing Sten’s katra from your mind?”
A subtle tilt of her head signaled agreement. “He was. The process was difficult and not without risk, but my liberation was more than worth the cost of those hardships.”
“Most agreeable news. . . . Yet your mind remains troubled.” It was only a guess on Spock’s part, but one he’d made with confidence. For all her affectations of serenity, he divined shades of melancholy in her fleeting microexpressions and the subtle intonations of her voice.
An ephemeral flush of shame deepened the green tint of her exquisite features. She was unable, or perhaps simply unwilling, to meet Spock’s gaze as she answered him. “My freedom came at a price, one that I did not expect but in retrospect seems inevitable.” She turned her palms upward and looked at them. “After I awoke, I gave no thought to my art. It wasn’t until I came back here and sat down at the piano that I realized I no longer knew how to play.”
The implications of her statement were intriguing. “All your learned ability was gone?”
“No. I remember the notes, but when I play, the melodies no longer flow. There is no beauty in them. No truth.” She paused. “For most of my life, music was my refuge. My salvation. Now I’m forced to find sanctuary in the silence that follows. It’s a poor substitute.”
Spock thought for a moment. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?” T’Prynn shook her head. Might this be an opportunity to be of service? “I, too, am a musician. Perhaps, if we were to try playing music together, I might help you find that which you have lost.”
She studied him with a frank curiosity. “You would do this for me? Even though we’re little more than passing acquaintances?”
“You are in need, and I may be able to help you. It seems the logical course of action.”
For the briefest moment, her emotional control seemed to waver, as if a bittersweet smile desperately yearned to be seen on her face. Then her composure returned, and she restrained her reaction to a polite bow of her head. “Most generous of you, Spock. I would be honored to accept your help, and to share in your music.”
Though he would have been hard-pressed to explain why, Spock found T’Prynn’s quiet gratitude most agreeable, indeed.
Packing it in. Doctor Ezekiel Fisher, M.D.—Zeke, to his friends—figured he must have used that phrase hundreds of times over the years, but it had never seemed so apt a description as it did now, as he prepared to vacate his office at Vanguard Hospital. He resisted the urge to indulge in nostalgia over each knickknack and personal effect as he stuffed them all into boxes. Some items, such as his assorted family holographs, he had removed to his quarters a few at a time, in anticipation of filing his resignation. Others, such as the various gag gifts his friends or subordinates had given him over the years, he had waited until today to box up.
A familiar, squarish head topped with gray hair and fronted by an ashen mustache leaned in around the corner of the office’s open doorway. “Excuse me, Zeke,” said Doctor Robles, “I don’t mean to rush you, but—”
“Yes, you do,” Fisher said. He flashed a teasing grin he’d spent a lifetime perfecting. “Hold your horses, Gonzalo. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
Robles scratched absently at his snowy temple. “That’s what you said three days ago.”
“I have a lot
of things.” Sensing that the new CMO was about to reach the limits of his patience with the already unconscionable delay in claiming his new office, Fisher held up a hand to forestall any argument. “No more jokes. I’ll just be a few more minutes, I promise.”
Making a V of his index and middle fingers, Robles pointed first at his eyes, then at Fisher, miming the message, I’m keeping an eye on you. Then the fiftyish man slipped away, back to the frantic hustle and deadly drudgery of running Vanguard Hospital on an average day.
Fisher tucked a jawless, cast-resin skull that he had used for close to thirty years as a candy dish into his lightweight carbon-fiber box of bric-a-brac. For a moment he considered leaving “Yorick” as an office-warming gift for Robles, but then he decided that inheriting the prime piece of Vanguard Hospital real estate would be reward enough for the soft-spoken internist. Besides, without it, where would Fisher keep his mints?
As he excavated three years of detritus from the bottom drawer of his desk, he heard a knock at the open doorway. Laboring to push himself back up to a standing position, he grouched, “Dammit, Gonzalo, when I said ‘a few minutes,’ I didn’t think you’d take it so literally.” Then he turned and saw not his successor but his former protégé, his professional prodigal son, looking back at him. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Doctor Jabilo M’Benga smiled, adding warmth to his kind face. “I hear I almost missed you.” He stepped inside the office, and Fisher met him halfway. They embraced like brothers, and then Fisher clasped the younger man’s broad shoulders. “Look at you. I hate to admit it, but starship duty agrees with you.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” M’Benga said as they parted. He strolled in slow steps around the nearly empty office. “Hard to imagine this place without you in it.”
Fisher shrugged. “Not that hard. I’ve been doing it for months, and it gets easier all the time.” He continued wedging the last of his private effects into the box. “Sometimes you see the storm coming and you just know it’s time to get out. Know what I mean?”