by David Mack
It was a slow day aboard Vanguard, all things considered.
A soft beeping from the companel on her wraparound desk alerted her to an incoming subspace message on a secure frequency from Earth. She checked the encryption keys, which confirmed the message had originated at the headquarters of Starfleet Command. Following protocol, she tapped in her authorization code to accept the transmission. The Starfleet emblem on her panel’s vid screen was replaced by the careworn features of Admiral Selim Aziz, the director of Starfleet Intelligence. His skin was of an especially rich shade of brown, a visible testament to his Tunisian heritage. When he smiled, his gleaming teeth seemed almost blinding in contrast to his complexion. “Good morning, Lieutenant T’Prynn.”
“Good afternoon, Admiral.”
His smile faltered, then vanished. “Ah, yes. I forgot to account for local time aboard the station. My mistake.”
She saw no point in prolonging or capitalizing upon his apparent discomfort at the minor faux pas. “It’s of no consequence, sir. How can I assist you?”
“I noted with interest your report of a successful reinterview of Cervantes Quinn. Has the intelligence produced by that debriefing proved useful to the team in the Vault?”
“It has. Lieutenant Xiong informs me the new intel provided by Mister Quinn has been instrumental in the reconfiguration of the array, and it is expected to be of equal value when it comes time to bring the system fully on line.”
A sage nod from Aziz. “Excellent.” He eyed T’Prynn with suspicion. “I also noticed that your report did not explain how your reinterview managed to elicit this intelligence from Mister Quinn, when your initial interview failed to do so.” He folded his hands and leaned forward. “Without casting aspersions upon your interrogative methods, I am compelled to ask what made this latest debriefing more successful than the last.”
She had hoped no one would ask about this, but now that Aziz had, there would be no way to avoid an official record of the matter. “A most reasonable inquiry, Admiral. I extracted the information from Mister Quinn’s memory by means of a Vulcan mind-meld.”
“I see.” He thought for a moment, then nodded once. “From what I know of your people’s customs, that can’t have been an easy thing for you.”
Giving away nothing with her face or voice, she replied, “It was not, sir.”
“I commend you for making such an extraordinary effort, Lieutenant.” Concern creased his ebony brow. “However, it raises troubling questions about Mister Quinn.”
“Such as . . . ?” She focused on masking her alarm at the direction of the conversation.
“My first query would be whether he remembered this intelligence all along but simply chose not to divulge it during his first debriefing.”
“No, sir,” T’Prynn said with verbal force. “My opinion is that Mister Quinn was afflicted by a psychological block induced by emotional trauma. He was unable to recollect the details of that mission with sufficient clarity due to his distress at the death of his partner.”
Aziz pressed his index finger to his lips for a moment, striking a thoughtful pose. “Would you say that your mind-meld had the effect of helping him overcome that mental block?”
A small nod. “That would be a fair assessment.”
“So his memory of that day’s events are now clear in his mind?”
“I think they are, yes. The meld has greatly improved his specific recall.”
The admiral’s mood turned solemn. “Most unfortunate.” He paused, seemingly deep in thought. Before T’Prynn could ask him to explain, he continued. “If his memory had remained unreliable outside of the mind-meld, I might have been able to authorize a simple mind wipe for him and left it at that. But if he recalls the details of the Shedai’s technology clearly, even one of our engram erasures won’t hide that kind of detailed information from a Klingon mind-sifter.”
“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, Admiral.”
“I’ll be blunt, then: Mister Quinn’s history of alcoholism and unstable behavior make him a security risk, especially in light of his recent relapse into binge drinking.”
“I’ve taken steps to help him control his addictions. Given time and support—”
Aziz shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Lieutenant. The intel to which he’s had access is too important and the stakes in the Taurus Reach are now far too high for us to risk Quinn being captured and interrogated by a hostile power or rogue political actor. And considering the current downward spiral of his life, I’m afraid he’s no longer useful to us as a covert asset, which means we have no compelling reason to spend time or resources rehabilitating him.”
T’Prynn said nothing. She just stared at Aziz and waited until he made it an order.
“Covertly neutralize Mister Quinn at your earliest opportunity. Aziz out.”
The admiral terminated the connection without brooking further debate, which was just as well, since there clearly was nothing left to discuss. Quinn’s life had been declared forfeit, and T’Prynn had been designated to collect it.
Seeing no other alternative, she began planning the end of Cervantes Quinn.
23
As a general rule, Admiral Nogura preferred to conduct official meetings inside his office. He tried to avoid visiting the other departments under his authority because, in his experience, the arrival of a commanding officer—especially one of flag rank—tended to have a disruptive effect on business-as-usual. Convening behind closed doors also provided the additional advantage of discretion. Put simply, people often seemed more willing to speak their minds in private.
Some matters, however, demanded to be addressed in person.
The secure airlock portal parted ahead of him with a pneumatic gasp, revealing the well-lit, antiseptic environs of the Vault. He lurched through the hatchway, trailed by a quartet of crimson-shirted security officers, and marched at a quick-step through the laboratory, following the shortest possible route to the object of his unbounded rancor. His broken-glass voice boomed inside the hushed hall of science. “Doctor Marcus!”
She casually stroked a lock of her golden hair from her forehead and turned to confront him with an infuriating, beatific calm. “Yes, Admiral?”
He was so enraged that he could barely compose sentences. “What in God’s name were you thinking? Going over my head to the Federation Security Council?”
Marcus crossed her arms and lifted her chin with haughty pride. “You made it clear my opinions weren’t going to be given due consideration here, so I did what I had to do.”
“Except that I did give your opinions due consideration, Doctor! Far more, in fact, than you realize or could ever know.” He stepped forward, invading her personal space on purpose. “I did all I could to be your advocate to my superiors, but I had to accept that there are larger issues involved than your conscience—or your ego. But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? No, you had to cash in political favors and bring down a shitstorm on all of us. I hope you’re happy.”
“Far from it.” Marcus thrust one index finger in violent jabs toward Nogura’s chest, pulling back each time millimeters shy of contact. “What you and your people are doing here, with this array, is both dangerous and immoral! You’re enslaving the Shedai, in clear violation of Federation law, and—”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Doctor! I agree, this is an ugly situation, but—”
“Ugly! It’s unconscionable! It’s an offense against sentient beings who have just as much right to live in this universe as we do.”
Xiong, Theriault, and the legion of scientists who spent the vast majority of their waking hours inside the Vault gathered around Marcus and Nogura, all of them jockeying by small degrees for the best angle from which to observe and listen. Nogura tried to ignore the pressure that came with an audience and kept his focus on Marcus alone. “Tell me, Doctor, will you defend the Shedai’s rights this vigorously after they start slaughtering civilians by the millions? Because that�
��s what’s going to happen if one of these things gets onto a Federation world.”
“I’m not going to debate hypotheticals with you, Admiral.”
“Then I’ll tell you something that’s not hypothetical: I have my orders from Starfleet Command, and those orders are to bring this array on line and make it operational immediately. It doesn’t matter what I think of those orders, Doctor. I will see them carried out.”
“Even if it means condoning slavery?”
“I’ll do it because it means saving lives. But, yes, I think there might be a poetic justice in yoking the Shedai to the array after what I’m told they once did to the Tholians.”
Marcus radiated contempt. “Answering evil with evil doesn’t add up to an act of good.”
“Good and evil aren’t always options, Doctor. Sometimes all we have to choose from are varying degrees of bad, worse, and completely awful. But we still have to choose.” He shook his head. “It’s all a moot point now. Your complaint to the Security Council stirred up so much trouble at Starfleet Command that your security clearance for Operation Vanguard has been officially revoked. Ten hours from now, at exactly 2130 hours station time, you and your son will be transferred off this station aboard the transport S.S. Linshul.”
His proclamation left Marcus looking as if she’d been gut-punched. “You’re firing me and kicking me off the station?”
“Not me,” Nogura corrected her. “Starfleet Command. You took my prerogative out of the equation the moment you decided to circumvent my authority.” Looking around at the gathered faces spectating on their contretemps, he added, “Any of you who signed that letter Doctor Marcus sent to the Security Council had better start packing, as well. Because your clearances have also been revoked, and you’ll be joining Doctor Marcus at her new assignment.”
Angry voices assailed Nogura from all sides, and his security detachment moved closer to defend him, just as they had been trained to do. Over the din of shouting voices, he heard Marcus call for order. As the clamor died down, she yelled, “You don’t get to fire us, Admiral, and neither does Starfleet! We’re civilians, sent here by order of the Federation Council.”
“Starfleet welcomed you to this facility as a courtesy. Now we’re letting you know that you’ve overstayed your welcome, and it’s time to go.”
“You can’t do this!”
“It’s done. Be at Gangway Four on the lower docking pylon at 2130 sharp. If you’re not there at 2130, I’ll send armed security to find you and bring you there. Is that understood?”
She traded exasperated looks with several of her fellow soon-to-be-exiled colleagues, and Nogura could tell from their deepening mood of collective despair that the reality of the moment was finally beginning to take root in their minds. Bewildered and flustered, Marcus pressed one hand to her high forehead as she asked, “Where are we being sent? Back to Earth?”
“No, to a brand-new research station,” Nogura said. “A state-of-the-art facility where you can continue your work on your own terms—without Starfleet looking over your shoulder.”
That drew a bittersweet smile from her. “Your doing, I suppose?”
“I might have pulled a few strings,” he admitted.
She drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit. “Where is it?”
“Orbiting the planetoid Regula, in the Mutara Sector.”
All her fury returned at once. “Mutara Sector! That’s even more remote than the Taurus Reach! That’s practically the middle of nowhere!”
Nogura harrumphed as he walked away. “Don’t worry, Doctor. Even at the ass end of space, I’m sure you’ll still find something to bitch about.”
Xiong shouldered his way through the slow-shuffling line of his former colleagues as they trudged in a queue down the gangway to the S.S. Linshul. The departing scientists and their family members were burdened with far too much luggage, all of it hastily packed in order to meet their deadline for expulsion from Vanguard. Some of them towed rolling suitcases, others portered bulging duffels on their backs. Most of the banished researchers also lugged overfilled shoulder bags, while the few young children caught up in the mix carted smaller bags and, in a few cases, desperately clutched stuffed animals, as if they feared the Starfleet security personnel shepherding the group aboard the Linshul might confiscate plush bears and velveteen rabbits simply out of spite.
Halfway down the gangway, Xiong saw Carol Marcus, who appeared to be traveling light: all she had was an overnight bag over her left shoulder and her tow-haired seven-year-old son, David, clinging anxiously to her right arm. Xiong called out to her, “Carol! Hold up!”
She stopped and turned to face him as he caught up to her. “Ming! What is it?”
“I didn’t want to let you leave without saying good-bye.” After a moment of struggling with his pride, he added, “And to say, I’m sorry.”
Marcus handed off her son to Doctor Tarcoh, who had been behind her in line. “Kalen, would you take David aboard and show him to my cabin for me?”
The spindly bald Deltan physicist took the young boy’s hand in his and smiled at Marcus. “My pleasure, Doctor.”
“Thanks.” As her son was ushered away, Marcus stepped out of line, set down her bag, faced Xiong, and planted her hands on her hips. “Okay. Sorry for what, exactly?”
Xiong let his conscience speak. “For how this turned out.” He watched the sluggish line moving toward the transport. “I never thought they’d put you all on a slow boat to nowhere.”
“Silly me,” Marcus said. “I thought you might’ve wanted to apologize for selling out your principles and throwing me to the wolves in the name of duty.”
“You don’t really think that’s what happened, do you?”
There was no forgiveness in her eyes. “What do you think happened?”
Realizing he might never see Marcus again, he decided to be as truthful as possible. “I think . . . that you took a stand based on your principles. I think you tried to be a voice of compassion and decency in a time and place where those values can get people killed. I think you’re a great scientist, and an even better person. And I wish there was some way we could live up to your ideals and still accomplish our mission as Starfleet officers.”
“Ming . . .” Her anger melted away, revealing sorrow and disappointment. “You make it sound as if it’s an either-or decision, but it’s not. Saying we have to pick between security and integrity is a false choice. Cruelty is not the path to lasting peace. It can’t be.”
“Carol, I think you’re missing the point. Starfleet’s not doing this because it believes in torture. It’s because, whether anyone outside this station realizes it or not, we’re at war. We’ve tried to communicate with the Shedai, but they’re not interested in talking to us. In almost every encounter we’ve had with them, they’ve tried to kill us. Now, I know you don’t agree with the remedies we’re developing—”
“Remedies? That’s a lovely euphemism.”
Forcing himself not to be baited into a dead-end argument, he took a calming breath and pressed on. “We’re doing what has to be done to protect the Federation, and the galaxy.”
“I see. You’re planning to commit genocide in order to prevent genocide.”
He pushed a hand through his short, spiky black hair. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just want some reason to believe you haven’t let your emotions trump your good judgment.”
Her accusation rankled him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“There’s an old saying, Ming: ‘Inside every cynic is a disappointed idealist.’ You used to be one of the most ethical, principled scientists I knew. But you said it yourself: you saw good people die, and you changed. And I think I know which death it was that changed you.”
Xiong turned to leave. “Have a nice trip.”
Marcus grabbed his sleeve and spun him around. “It was Bridy Mac. Something inside you changed when she died. I saw the difference in you, Ming. It was like
someone flipped a switch inside your head, and you haven’t been the same since.”
“I’m just applying the scientific method. New evidence contradicted my theory of morality, so I changed my theory to fit the facts. That’s how I know I’m doing the right thing.”
“Are you sure?” She was pleading more than arguing. “What if you’re doing the wrong things for the right reasons? Would you even be able to make that distinction?”
He felt like she was talking in circles. “Why would it matter?”
“It matters because our actions define who we are, Ming—not just as individuals but as a society. And I’m telling you right now that Starfleet’s approach to the Shedai and those artifacts is immoral. Whether it succeeds or fails, it’ll demean the spirit of what Starfleet is meant to be, and taint the souls of everyone who’s a willing part of it.” She seized his hands. “You’re playing with fire, Ming. You’re meddling with forces that none of us have even begun to understand, and you’re trying to use them in ways that history will never forgive. Mark my words: this vile experiment can only end in disaster. . . . I just hope you realize that in time to stop it.”
Marcus let go of his hands, picked up her bag, and took a few steps down the gangway. She paused and looked back, as if to say a final farewell, but then seemed to think better of it. Without another word she blended back into the line and passed from Xiong’s sight as she stepped through the hatch of the Linshul.
Xiong walked back inside the lower docking pylon and stopped for a while in the observation lounge overlooking the Linshul’s berth. As the Drogher-class transport separated from the airlock and navigated away from the station on thrusters, Xiong considered all that Marcus had said, but he kept coming back to her warning: You’re playing with fire. As the Linshul sped away at impulse, Xiong realized where he had heard Marcus’s warning before.