Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  “Well, hospital and otherwise.”

  She bent her smile down into a frown and snorted as she nodded her head knowingly. “Ohhh, but you’re good. So why are you trying so hard to look like you’re trying so hard?”

  “Damn, I knew I should have gone with the sincere approach.”

  “It might get you further next time.”

  “Further than what?”

  “Well, further than a discussion of hospital policies with me,” she said. “If I were to talk with someone on staff about a medical condition concerning a Vulcan, I would start with Doctor M’Benga.”

  “Would Doctor M’Benga be able to let me see her?”

  “That is up to him,” she said, allowing another smile. “But I can assure you that were your friend under his care, then once you spoke to him you would not need to see her. You would realize that she is in good hands.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “And maybe for now, that’s all I need to know. Is there a way I can contact Doctor M’Benga?”

  “You can leave a message with me and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “Or I can take it back to him myself.” The gravelly voice snapped my gaze from Jennifer and up to find a dark-skinned, gray-haired man wearing a white lab coat over a blue satin, low-collared version of a Starfleet uniform tunic and cradling a coffee mug. Evidently, I had been engaged enough with my bantering that I had not noticed his approach.

  “Doctor Fisher!” Jennifer’s voice let me know she had been equally startled.

  “I’m not meaning to intrude,” he said to her, “but I should be able to assist Mister Pennington here without having to interrupt Doctor M’Benga.” Then he looked back at me with the expression of someone who seemed as interested in talking to me as I might be in talking to him.

  “Of course, Doctor, thank you,” she said as Fisher stepped away from the desk and tilted his head toward a grouping of chairs in a corner of the reception area. I took it as a suggestion to follow him.

  “Thank you, Jennifer,” I said as I joined him. “I hope to see you again.”

  “Mister Pennington,” she replied, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows a bit as if she might be warning me of the conversation to come. I winked in reply and caught up with the physician, whom I knew to be the space station’s chief medical officer as well as a personal friend of Commodore Reyes.

  “I appreciate your help, Doctor,” I said.

  “There’s no guarantee how helpful I might be, but it’s nice to hear your optimism.”

  “I’m not asking you to speak on the record about anything—”

  “Then we’re off to a positive start. Sit down, Tim.”

  I laughed a bit in midsentence as we each sat. “Well, thank you. I admit that this is a personal query, so I’m asking your indulgence. I’m curious as to the condition of Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn.”

  “Then allow me to be curious as to the personal nature of the discussion.”

  “I happened to be in the thoroughfare near the hangar observation windows when she collapsed. I witnessed the whole thing.”

  “I see,” Fisher said. “I can imagine that would be rather unsettling for you.”

  “Well, yes,” I said, finding myself quickly at ease with the man owing to the nature of his voice and presence. As must be the case with the most seasoned physicians, he seemed to have a way of gaining my trust and confidence in a matter of moments. “It’s all a bit . . . haunting, I suppose.”

  “I’m told there was more to the onset of T’Prynn’s condition than her simply dropping to the deck,” Fisher said. “Any insight you could offer might be helpful.”

  When I looked up into Fisher’s eyes, it was easy to sense his interest was hardly prurient. I could sense the care he had for T’Prynn, and in that moment, I grasped that her situation might be more dire than I had thought. “In the moment, she was obviously emotional. Her face was twisted . . . anguished. She was crying, I’m sure of that. It was as if she had been startled . . . well, no, it was more. She looked shocked, almost as if she had snapped under a sudden realization, or had learned something that she did not want to know.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then, her face just wiped blank. It simply . . . reset to looking no different than usual. But she just crumpled. Truthfully? I thought she was dead.”

  “Just as truthfully? She soon may be. It’s pretty clear that she suffered some sort of trauma. From our scans, there is no physical evidence of an injury relative to a concussion. We can find no bleeding nor any blockage of blood to the brain, so she hasn’t had a stroke. And yet, here we are, witnesses to the mysteries of the psychosuppressive wonders of the Vulcan mind. I’d be fascinated by it all . . . if I were a Vulcan.”

  It was easy for me to tell from the physician’s face that his quip was more to mask his frustrations than to dismiss himself as disinterested in the neuroscientific studies of an entire race. “I’m confident you’re doing all you can, Doctor.”

  Fisher regarded me quietly and nodded, then took a sip from his mug. “She’s not my patient, she’s Doctor M’Benga’s. And I will be sure to tell him you stopped by with your concerns.”

  “Any chance that I might be able to see her?”

  “Not this morning. That’s his call to make, and he’s not available right now to make it. Try later, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “As long as we’re here, might I ask as to the condition of another of your patients?” I paused as Fisher’s eyebrows rose in anticipation of my words. “Diego Reyes.”

  Fisher smiled slyly as he stood up from the chair. “And now you’re pushing, Mister Pennington.”

  “No, sincerely,” I said as I rose to meet his gaze. “Well, professionally, too, but sincerely. We’re still off the record.”

  “I’ve always been curious how this whole on-the-record-off-the-record thing works for a reporter,” Fisher said. “I would venture to guess that your real determination of what stays off the record is made after it’s told to you.”

  “Well, would you prescribe a course of treatment for a patient before considering the results of your own examinations?”

  Fisher nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “But in this case, I’m not asking for a story. I’m, well, I’m concerned.”

  Fisher paused before speaking. “If I have the opportunity, I will send the commodore your regards. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” I said, extending my hand. Fisher met it with a firm and noticeably warm shake. “I appreciate the chance to talk.”

  “I’m usually around,” Fisher said. “I’m even usually agreeable, if I’ve had my coffee.”

  7

  “You’re that journalist, aren’t you?”

  With a bite of my eggs poised on my fork and almost in my mouth, I stopped myself before being forced to respond to the question with my mouth full. I also had to mentally revisit a few personal mantras upon which I relied in moments like those, the ones when what I would like to do is answer no and keep eating: the next story can come from anywhere and anytime, be polite, and when I don’t want to be interrupted I don’t eat at Tom Walker’s.

  “I can’t be certain I am that journalist, but I am one, yes.” I looked up to find standing next to my table a young man wearing a Starfleet uniform with a red tunic, which told me he was in some area of operational services. From the look of his chest and upper arms, I assumed he was in security. At least, I hoped someone of his size was in security.

  “The one who wrote the reports about what we’re doing out here. That’s you, right?”

  I could sense from the man’s tone of voice that his intensity was rising, but I could not imagine he was there to pick a fight. I hoped that my being in a public restaurant at a time of day that one was not likely to be drunk—Quinn’s example excepting— might be my saving grace. “Yes, sir, that’s me.”

  “I thought I recognized you. Hey, I have a sto
ry for you.”

  “Really? Then let’s hear it.”

  “Get the hell off the station. There’s my story.”

  “I see,” I said, noting that the scowl now on the man’s face had done an effective job of checking any condescending remark that might have tumbled from my mouth in reply. Instead, I ventured to think that some civility might defuse the situation. It certainly was not the first time I had been approached by an upset reader and I doubted it would be the last. Such incidents typically worked to my advantage. “You seem anxious to talk about it. Would you like to join me?”

  “No, I’m fine where I am. You must feel pretty good about what you wrote.”

  “Well, I feel as though I presented a fair story about activities here, yes. I won’t lie about that.”

  “Fair,” he said. “Is it fair to put a Starfleet mission at risk? People’s lives at risk?”

  I set my fork down onto my plate. “My personal observations on a planet that now no longer exists as we comprehend it should not put lives at risk, sir.”

  “It’s more than that and you know it. The more people who know about what is happening here, the more of them will get interested in what might happen next out here, and the more of them will show up.”

  “Well, I do appreciate there might be some sightseeing interest out here.”

  “It’s not just civilians. It’s traders, anyone who thinks there are ancient ruins with advanced technology just waiting to be discovered and turned into credits from the highest bidder. That’s just the kind of circus Starfleet doesn’t need at a time like this.”

  “I can understand your frustration and concerns about keeping people in line, but look around you. Starfleet didn’t build simply a collection of laboratories, refueling stations, and supply storerooms out here. There’s a hotel, restaurants, shopping, a theater, a full-fledged terrestrial area that feels closer to being back on Earth than you can get for hundreds of light-years around. Vanguard is practically a resort at the rim of the quadrant with some of the most spectacular views of space that I’ve ever seen. Regardless of what I might report, word is going to get around that it’s an interesting place to be and people are going to come.”

  “Oh, people will come, and not just people inside the Federation. The Klingons are already here, trying to figure out what’s going on, and nothing good can come from that. You think they don’t monitor our news reports to decide what military actions they want to take here? You keep telling everyone what there is to see here and find here, and the Klingons and everybody else will push in and we could have a war on our hands.”

  My adrenaline surged a little at this point, but I did my level best to keep that from creeping into my voice. “If war were to break out between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, it would be the result of a great many more circumstances than a reporter’s accounting of events.”

  The man glared at me. “And we are in the perfect position to defend ourselves with our commanding officer in the brig.”

  “Ah, so that’s what this is really about. You are upset about what has happened to Commodore Reyes.”

  “It’s your fault he’s in there.”

  “I disagree. Commodore Reyes is facing charges brought by Starfleet Command for actions he took that violated the code of conduct for an officer. I may have made people aware of his conduct, but the decisions he made to do the things he did were entirely his own.”

  “Part of what he’s being court-martialed for is because of what you put in your story. You can’t deny that.”

  “His charges include releasing information to me that was deemed confidential by a higher authority. I did not force the commodore to tell me what he did. And the information I reported came directly and completely from him. I did not steal classified documents and shoot them across subspace channels without a care as to how that information might put lives at risk, as you put it. I take my responsibilities as a reporter very seriously, Mister . . .”

  “You don’t need to know who I am. I’ve said what I wanted to say.” The young man tugged at the hem of his red tunic, pulling it taut across his chest, almost as if he wanted to make sure I was aware of just how defined his musculature underneath it might be. “Maybe you’ll think about it the next time we have a ship blow up inside a docking bay or when we watch this station rubbed right out of space like what happened to that planet.”

  The man left the table and I picked up my fork again to poke at my eggs. From the looks of them, I could tell without needing a taste that my breakfast had cooled beyond the point of palatability for me.

  “Now that was worth getting up to see,” came a voice from across the table. I looked up and into the deep brown eyes of Amity Price.

  “I didn’t notice you come in,” I said, offering a small smile as I felt the tension start to leave my body.

  “You were a little busy,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite mine. “But you sure sounded convincing.”

  “I sure as hell ought to. It’s the same discussion I’ve been having with myself several times a day for a week. First time I’ve heard it out loud, though.”

  Amity nodded. “My grandfather was a reporter.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Mm-hmm. Not for the FNS directly, but I suppose his stories got picked up once in a while. He moved around a lot and just wrote for the newsfeeds about whatever colony or outpost he lived in at the time. When I told my dad that I wanted to go into the news like Papa did, he told me about when he was growing up and how he remembered very clearly seeing people stop Papa and give him hell for something he wrote. Didn’t matter whether they were having lunch or shopping or just walking someplace, and he never knew when it might happen but it just happened. A lot, from what he said. And the rule was that if they got stopped, my dad had to stand perfectly still and quiet, and let whoever was talking say their piece.”

  “Ah, so you were just following the rule.”

  Amity smiled and gestured to the water glass on the table. “That one yours?”

  “Yes, but I’ve not touched it,” I said, pointing my thumb toward my half-drunk glass of tomato juice.

  “Thanks,” she said before taking the glass and sipping from it. “And I talked to Papa about it and he laughed and laughed. And you know what he said? ‘Amity, a colony is a small place. And you can write up when someone is born and when he scores a touchdown to win the big game. You can write when he gets married and has a boy of his own. You can write about his accomplishments or his discoveries or his travels, all of it, and you won’t hear a word from him. But you write about something he did wrong, even if it’s little, and you’re that son-of-a-bitch with the news service and you always have been and you always will be.’ “

  I laughed, and that appeared to satisfy her. “Your grandfather is an insightful man.”

  “He is . . . he is. And inspiring, too.”

  “I can see from your writing that you’re getting inspiration from somewhere.”

  The bright smile I recalled from our first meeting returned to her face. “You read my work?”

  “I did, and you’ve got good stuff. Thank you for sharing it with me. But I’m still a little puzzled why you did.”

  “How did you get started with the FNS?”

  “Well, I do things pretty much the way you described your grandfather’s work. I just happened to catch someone’s attention at the FNS a few years back with a story I did about a Starfleet officer who had just gotten promoted to fleet captain. The editor said it sounded like I had a good rapport with the officers and that I knew my way around explaining missions and what they really meant for the Federation at large. So she asked me whether I had ever considered a Starfleet beat. And here I am. It was probably more luck of the draw than anything.”

  “You might get away with saying that to a lot of people, but not to me. You’re a great fit. You’re creating quite a record of this place with what you’re getting that actually makes it into the feeds. I can only im
agine what you’ve got that you’re keeping for your book.”

  “My book.”

  “Absolutely! What, you haven’t thought about that?”

  “Frankly, no,” I said. “But you’re straying from the point. What’s got you here and with me?”

  “Things are happening out here. I want to tell a story that gets me some attention from the FNS just like you did. It sure seems like a big enough beat for the both of us.”

  “Big enough and dry enough,” I said, taking a drink of my juice. “I hate to disappoint you, Amity, but right now even I can’t squeeze a story out of this place. Nothing seems to be happening and no one is talking.”

  “No one is talking to you.”

  “So that’s your angle? Slip in and talk to my sources while they’re freezing me out?”

  “Not your sources. I want to talk to the people you’re not talking to—people you can’t talk to, at least for a while.”

  “What’s stopping me from talking to people?”

  “You. That smiling face of yours,” she said as she reached across the table and patted my left cheek several times. “Right now, people recognize you. You’re part of your own story, and that’s going to work against you with sources you don’t really know—people like your new friend I just met. If anyone has something to say with any real merit, he’s not going to come up and just offer it.”

  “But he might offer it to you?”

  “Didn’t say that, either. But he sure won’t recognize me while I’m eating my eggs.”

  “Right,” I said. “So what are you proposing?”

  “I want to work together. You dig up your stories and I’ll dig up mine. I’ll do my own reporting and my own writing. But if I come up with something that you think is worth putting on the feed, you vouch for it with your editor and it goes with my byline.”

  “And you want to work totally independent of me.”

  “Well, it kind of defeats the purpose of my being an undercover reporter if everyone sees me just tagging along with you, right?”