Most of the injuries had been well within the means of modern medicine to cope with. Individually, they would have been fairly simple. But there had been so many of them all at once. Sometimes the difference between life and death came down to the brutal question of whether doctors had the time or resources to devote to a patient. Malcolm was grateful he had not had to make that kind of triage decision today. It had been arduous enough as it was.
“You did well, though.” Doctor Christine Chapel sat beside him and handed him a cup of coffee, which he grasped as a lifeline. “You’re a hard worker, like your sister.”
He let out a small chuckle. “Ironic. Just a week or so ago, I considered my sister a lost cause, a nonfactor in my life. Now I’m the one being treated as an extension of her life.”
Not that he hadn’t been thinking in similar terms when he’d volunteered for the emergency program Starfleet was organizing in the Sol system to prepare for the vacuum flares. If this crisis was somehow connected to his sister, or aimed at her, then it was a matter of an elder brother’s pride to stand against it. So it had been as Nyota Uhura’s brother that he had signed on. He should not have been surprised that a colleague of hers had spotted his name and requested his assistance aboard her hospital ship. But it had been surprising to hear the glowing terms in which Doctor Chapel described his sister’s brilliance and dedication, as well as her warmth and kindness. It wasn’t normal for an eldest child to think of his annoying second-born sibling in such terms, even without twelve years of estrangement.
“So what’s it like?” Chapel asked. “Finally getting to see your sister’s world?”
He sighed. “It’s… intense. Your world. Bizarre and stressful, compared to my cozy research lab back in Kampala.” He gave Chapel an appraising look. “But it clearly forges powerful bonds among its members. I’m grateful that Nyota found some family in the wake of her memory loss.”
Chapel held his gaze. “I was the one who did the bulk of the work re-educating Nyota after Nomad. I really came to feel a sense of responsibility for her. And even though her memory had been effectively reset to zero, I felt I got to know her better than ever before. Her keen mind, her eagerness to learn. Her love of music, her warmth, her playfulness. The things that remained intrinsic parts of her even without her memories.”
He studied her. “Why did you keep her aboard the ship? Why not send her home to recuperate?”
She sighed. “We were out in deep space. Nomad damaged us, and by the time we were able to limp toward a starbase, another emergency came up and we had to divert. By then, Uhura was already back on duty, because she learned so fast. She was given the option of a medical leave…”
He nodded. “But she refused. She didn’t want to face us.”
Chapel touched his hand. “She didn’t want to be reminded of what she’d lost. Remember, she only lost episodic memories, not emotional bonds. She could bear facing her crewmates more than her family, because losing her memories of her crewmates didn’t hurt as much.”
Malcolm thought that over in silence for a time. It was a good, soothing thought.
The next thing he knew, he was waking up on the couch hours later with a blanket draped over him. He smiled. Christine Chapel was good to the Uhura family.
Chapter Fourteen
Starfleet Security Headquarters
“Free Ashley! Free Ashley! Free Ashley!”
Vekal stood with Targeemos on the periphery of the group of protestors standing outside Starfleet Security Headquarters. The two cadets did not join in their chant, but they offered tacit support with their proximity. Vekal saw little logic in the idea that repeatedly restating a demand would increase the likelihood of it being granted, but apparently it had a symbolic value for these emotional beings, and Vekal wished to express his support for the peace movement’s goals. His concern about Starfleet’s intentions for the Warborn had only been exacerbated by the events of the peace activists’ recent visit, and upon learning that Targeemos shared his concerns, he had suggested approaching the activists and offering their support.
Beside him, the natural-born Arcturian shifted her weight and looked around nervously, betraying a level of conviction rather weaker than Vekal’s. “Are you sure it’s okay to be out with them in public?” she asked, a variation on an inquiry she had posed several times already.
“Starfleet has always respected the rights of free speech and protest,” Vekal told her, “and the freedom of its members to question and dissent, within the bounds of duty.” He set his jaw. “If that has changed, then our concerns at the evolution of Starfleet will be borne out, and whatever response we may provoke will serve as evidence for our cause.”
“I’m all for making my voice heard, but my parents would be furious if I got kicked out of the Academy in my first month.”
“Whereas mine would be disappointed if I continued to pursue membership in an organization that did not comport with my principles.”
“Great. Then I can come live at your house when I get kicked out of mine.”
Further badinage was interrupted by the cheering of the protestors as Doctor Janith-Lau emerged from the building at last, accompanied by her attorney. The reporters on the scene moved forward, but the attorney intercepted them and advised them that the doctor would not be making a statement at this time. Instead, she hurried over to meet with the other activist leaders at the head of the group, the slightly built Vulcan woman T’Sena and the heavyset Argelian man Rogo. The other activists circled around the three leaders to cordon them off from the reporters and escort them toward their private air tram, which granted Vekal sufficient proximity to overhear their conversation.
“I’ve just been released on my own recognizance,” Janith-Lau told them. “They still consider me a suspect.” She pulled back her right sleeve to reveal a tattoo-like imprint on her forearm. “It’s a passive sensor tag—it’ll trigger an alert if I try to leave the city.”
Rogo stared at the temporary imprint sorrowfully, as if it were a grave injury. “Outrageous. To impose such restrictions on your freedom when you’ve done nothing.”
Janith-Lau showed far more equanimity. “Until they find evidence to exonerate me or identify the real killer, they have to consider me a suspect. I don’t blame them for following procedure.”
“You’re far too trusting, Ashley. I wouldn’t put it past them to have killed this Arcturian just to discredit our movement.”
T’Sena gave him a look of strained toleration. “That is hardly logical, Rogo. The victim was one of the primary advocates for the increased militarization we object to.”
“All the more reason it makes us look guilty! Just because he was the public face of it doesn’t mean he wasn’t answering to higher masters. This brings sympathy to their cause by making them look like the victims.”
Janith-Lau touched his arm. “Starfleet isn’t the enemy here, Rogo. We want to reform them, to remind them of their professed principles before they drift too far from them.”
She widened her attention and raised her voice to address the group. “This is a distressing time for us all, but that’s why it’s important to keep calm and not lose focus. Let’s just get back to our offices, regroup, reflect, and talk about what comes next. You’re all welcome to join us.”
As the activists filed into their tram, Targeemos hesitated and turned to Vekal. “Does that include us?”
“The word ‘all’ is unambiguous in English.”
She glared. “I mean, should it include us?”
“Our classes are done for the day. And given the sentiments Rogo expressed, it might be of value to have Starfleet representatives included in the group to provide balance.”
“We’re a few years from being full-fledged Starfleet. If we don’t get kicked out just for being here.”
“Then that should make it easier for those with Rogo’s sensibilities to accept us.”
The young Arcturian still looked unsure of herself. “I don’t even know
how I feel about Rakatheema. I mean, I never wanted him to be murdered… but without him pushing for it, maybe we don’t have to worry about the Warborn being misused anymore.”
Vekal’s expression hardened. “As long as the Warborn are present, the temptation for their misuse exists—both among their superiors and among the Warborn themselves.” He stepped toward the tram. “Which is why this group’s efforts are still needed, and why I am accompanying them. Are you coming?”
After a few more moments’ hesitation, Targeemos rushed inside the tram just before the doors closed.
Presidio Heights, San Francisco
Hikaru Sulu hoped that solving Commander Rakatheema’s murder would be easier than persuading Captain sh’Deslar to accept his help.
He had welcomed Admiral Kirk’s decision to assign him to assist in the murder investigation. Not only was he concerned at what Rakatheema’s death might mean for the Warborn cadets he had championed, but he was intrigued by the opportunity to explore the role of a detective, a persona he had only infrequently had occasion to adopt in the course of his career. But sh’Deslar had been reluctant to grant him the opportunity, even under orders from Admiral Cartwright.
“I know you,” she’d told him when he’d reported for duty the day before. “Part of Admiral Kirk’s special clique. He thinks he can use his influence to get me to drop the case against Doctor McCoy’s girlfriend.”
Sulu had put on his most charming, self-effacing manner. “Honestly, I’ve barely even met Doctor Janith-Lau. I’m more concerned about the Warborn cadets.”
The captain had looked at him skeptically, adopting an interrogatory tone. “How so?”
“I’ve gotten to know a couple of them in my piloting class. I like them. I think they have a lot of potential. And I’m concerned what their sponsor’s murder will mean for their future at the Academy. I figure there’s a good chance it was done to hurt them.”
Sh’Deslar had not softened. “It’s reckless to presume a motive going in. It can bias the investigation.”
Sulu had smiled. “ ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ ” He had shrugged at her stare. “Captain Spock likes to quote Sherlock Holmes.”
She had crossed her arms. “So you’re only concerned with seeing justice done for Rakatheema?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
The captain had bent enough to let Sulu assist in the investigation, but only on a peripheral level. That was what had brought him out onto the streets of Presidio Heights on this brisk October morning, going door to door to canvass Rakatheema’s neighbors for any information they might recall about the comings and goings around his apartment building on the night of his murder. On a safe planet like Earth, there was little need for widespread surveillance, so eyewitness accounts were their best option. Sh’Deslar had gotten no luck interviewing the fellow tenants of Rakatheema’s building; none of them had seen or heard a visitor prior to the point when Janith-Lau had called for help. But there was a chance that the killer had been more careless before reaching the building—or after leaving it, presuming that Janith-Lau was innocent.
Presidio Heights was a quiet residential district in easy walking distance from Starfleet Headquarters and the Academy, a popular neighborhood for Starfleet personnel stationed in San Francisco, and not far from his and Demora’s residence in Lower Pacific Heights. It was a nice neighborhood to walk through, with lots of elegant, lovingly maintained pre–World War III buildings coexisting alongside more modern ones. It had its share of steep, hilly streets, but that was no bother for a native like Sulu. If sh’Deslar had hoped to tire him out with busywork, she’d find that it had backfired. The chance to meet and converse with dozens of his fellow San Franciscans, a number of whom were current or former Starfleet members or the families thereof, was no hardship for the gregarious Sulu.
Eventually, his canvass bore fruit in a more practical way. A married foursome of Rigelians had been out on their balcony having a barbecue on the evening of the murder, and two of them recalled seeing an Arcturian in an Academy cadet jumpsuit coming from the direction of Rakatheema’s building around the time of his murder.
“You’re sure it was an Arcturian?” Sulu asked the two witnesses, the endomale and exomale members of the family.
“Oh, yes,” said the pale, craggy-faced exomale. “We’ve seen the commander around the neighborhood often enough.”
“They’re rather distinctive, don’t you think?” the smaller, silver-skinned endomale said. “All that loose, drooping skin. Hard to mistake for any other species.”
“But this definitely wasn’t the commander. Wrong uniform, and the build was different. Taller, leaner. There was something about their movement that seemed… dangerous. Like you wouldn’t want to be in their way.”
“Oh, do you think they killed the commander?” the endomale asked, clasping his husband’s hand for comfort. “I’ve heard about these warrior clones on the nets. There’s no telling what they’re capable of.”
“We can’t say anything for sure yet,” Sulu said. “We’re just interested in talking to anyone who might have been in the vicinity. Can you give me any more details about the cadet you saw? Anything distinctive about their uniform?” He knew there was little chance the witnesses could have noticed anything distinctive about a Warborn Arcturian’s face or build from such a distance.
The exomale snapped his fingers. “They had some kind of metallic epaulets, and a, a sort of tube wrapped around their chest and shoulder.”
“Did you notice any color patterns on them?”
“Hmm, maybe. I’m not sure I remember specifically.”
Sulu worked his data slate to call up personnel files of the Warborn cadets, setting it to display their identifying epaulet and bandolier patterns without showing their faces or other identifying information. He asked the couple to look through them for any familiar patterns. The Rigelians did their best, but they were only able to narrow it down to five patterns with common elements.
Still, their description of the cadet’s path let him narrow his canvass, and before much longer, he turned up another witness, a black-haired human ballerina who’d been returning from an evening dance recital. She described spotting the cadet coming down the sidewalk toward her, freezing for a moment as if surprised to see her, and then turning off at the intersection between them. “They were nowhere to be seen by the time I got to the corner,” she said.
“Did you get a good look at the cadet?”
She nodded. “They were right under a streetlight. I’m not sure I could tell them apart from another Arcturian, though.”
“Can you describe what this person was wearing?”
The ballerina mentioned the epaulets and bandolier, and this time, when Sulu showed her the patterns on her slate, she was able to narrow it down decisively. “It’s this one. The gold and black with the red diagonal stripe between them.”
“Are you positive?”
“Honey, my father’s a fashion designer. I grew up learning the business before I decided I loved dance more. I can’t look at a piece of clothing without deconstructing its design and tailoring. I wish I could unlearn that.”
Sulu smiled at her. “Hey, you gotta go with your dream. I appreciate your help. We may contact you later.”
Despite his surface friendliness, though, Sulu’s heart sank at her description of the cadet’s bandolier markings. He was fairly sure he found it familiar himself. When he took back the pad and opened the full personnel file associated with the image, he winced as he read the name of the cadet who might very well have murdered her own Academy sponsor.
Portia.
Starfleet Security Headquarters
Kirk would have been pleased that Captain sh’Deslar’s investigation had shifted away from Ashley Janith-Lau, if only it hadn’t shifted toward one of the cadets he was responsible for. He would have prefe
rred to keep the students out of this—especially the Warborn, who were grieving the loss of their strongest advocate. But the evidence sh’Deslar and Sulu had gathered could not be denied.
Thus it was that Kirk now stood in the observation room, whose one-way mirrored wall let him watch as sh’Deslar interviewed the Warborn one by one to gather further corroboration for her findings. To avoid leading the witnesses, the Andorian captain kept her questions general, along the lines of “Did you ever hear anyone at the Academy—a faculty member or a fellow cadet, say—express animosity toward Commander Rakatheema?”
“Too many to count,” said the female Warborn named Viola. “Toward him, or toward us. A lot of people are unhappy having us here. That Vulcan, Vekal? His people are supposed to be unemotional, but I don’t see that when he looks at us.”
The Warborn resisted speaking ill of any of their own, their unit solidarity kicking in. The big one, Bertram, showed little interest in cooperating at all. “Rakatheema was a fool. We don’t belong in Starfleet. We don’t belong anywhere. Maybe now they’ll send us back home and freeze us again. Best thing for everyone.”
Sh’Deslar had little luck penetrating their group loyalty—until she spoke to the boyish Benedick. “I want to help any way I can, Captain, really,” he said. “But I can’t believe any of my fellow students would’ve done harm to the commander.”
“Then the more information you share with us, the more easily we can clear them as suspects. If they’re innocent, surely the evidence will show that. Simply telling us what they said won’t make the difference—it’s just one piece of data to consider.”
Benedick fidgeted. “Oh, naturally a number of cadets trash-talk their professors or even their sponsors. It’s just… what’s the human expression? Blowing off steam. It’s just the way some people are.”
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