by Dayton Ward
Fisher took a moment to appreciate the breeze that wafted across the meadow. The convincing illusion of an open blue sky and sunlight was no small miracle, of course, nor the expansive plain of genuine green grass or the groves of trees that disguised the false horizon. Vanguard’s groundskeepers did a masterful job tending the station’s terrestrial enclosure, but as far as Fisher was concerned, the real magic of this place was the breeze— randomized gusts of cool wind that caught you by surprise and made the place seem real in a way that nothing else did.
Fisher smiled. “Had a hunch you’d like hearing that,” he told the breeze. “It’s not exactly the sort of news most people around here are celebrating, but I’ll take it. I’m a little worried about Rana. Ever since Diego resurfaced, she’s been finding excuses to avoid me. I know better than to take it personally, but still . . .”
Fisher’s gaze shifted to the brushed metal plaque set into a rough slab of stone beside the tree. The polished silver inscription stood out against textured gray:
IN PROUD MEMORY
U.S.S. BOMBAY, NCC-1926
“OUR DEATHS ARE NOT OURS; THEY ARE YOURS;
THEY WILL MEAN WHAT YOU MAKE THEM.”
Many of the two hundred twenty-four names listed below had been little more than strangers to Fisher. Some he’d met in the normal routine of his duties as Starbase 47’s chief medical officer, but the Bombay’s infrequent and always-too-brief returns to base had made it difficult to know most of them socially, and that failure weighed upon Fisher now, deepening the hole in his chest.
“I’ve missed you, Hallie. I know Diego misses you too—now more than ever, I suspect. God knows there were times in the last couple of years when he would have valued your good advice. Sometimes I think things would have turned out differently for all of us . . . if only you had been here.”
“Doctor Fisher?”
Fisher turned, startled. Standing at parade rest a respectful distance away was Haniff Jackson, Vanguard’s chief of security. “Lieutenant. Something I can do for you?”
“I apologize for the intrusion, Doctor, but Admiral Nogura requires your presence in his office immediately.”
Fisher’s eyebrows went up. “And he needed to send you to deliver the message? How’d you even know where to find me?”
Jackson shrugged. “I volunteered. This is the only place on the station out of earshot from the nearest intercom . . . and it’s the only place you go without your communicator.”
“Should I be worried about how you would even know that?”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“And a helluva job it is,” Fisher said, casting a wistful glance back at the dogwood tree before returning his full attention to Jackson. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”
Fisher knew better than to try to cajole Jackson into telling him the reason for Nogura’s summons; if the young man were at liberty to divulge that information, he would have offered it back on the meadow. That Jackson hadn’t required him to pick up his medkit on the way ruled out a medical emergency, but the normally talkative Haniff had little of anything to say on the turbolift ride up to the command tower, and that in itself troubled Fisher . . . as did the dour faces that greeted him in the operations center. This is not good.
As Jackson escorted him into Nogura’s office, it surprised Fisher to learn it wasn’t the admiral waiting inside, but Rana, looking as if she had just risen from one of the guest chairs. Her pale brown face, framed in shimmering, straight black hair, reflected Fisher’s own growing uncertainty.
Jackson exchanged a cordial nod with Desai, which Fisher pretended not to notice. “The admiral should be along shortly,” the security chief said. Then he added, “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”
Fisher murmured thanks and waited for the door to close before he turned to Desai. “Did he just warn us not to try leaving?”
Desai’s brow furrowed as she sank back into her seat. “It’s probably best if we don’t jump to any conclusions. I take it you’re as much in the dark as I am?”
“Without a candle,” Fisher said, smiling as he took the unoccupied guest chair next to Desai’s. “Though I will say it’s nice to see you, stranger.”
He watched Desai carefully for her reaction. The smile she volleyed back seemed genuine enough, but it failed to reach her big brown eyes. “Oh, come on, Fish,” she said. “It’s not like I’ve been AWOL.”
Was that an acknowledgment that she had put some distance between them? Fisher supposed it must be, but he wouldn’t probe deeper . . . just as he never pressed her about what had transpired between her and Jackson last year, around the time the first rumors of Diego’s survival had begun to spread. Rana would open up to him in her own time, or she wouldn’t. All he could do was be there for her if and when she needed him.
The office door opened. “Stay seated,” Admiral Nogura said as he entered the room, stopping Fisher and Desai halfway out of their chairs. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he added as he strode briskly toward his desk. Not for the first time, Fisher envied the shorter man’s vigor. Despite being nearly the same age as the octogenarian doctor, Nogura showed few signs of it. The admiral’s deeply lined face and silver-streaked hair belied the energy with which he always moved.
“What I’m about to tell you will be made known to the rest of the crew shortly, but I wanted you two to hear it from me first,” Nogura began as he lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind his desk. He paused as if considering how he should proceed before he finally told them, “There isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll come right to the point. It’s my sad duty to inform you both that Commander Aole Miller is dead.”
The words were a kick in the gut. Rana froze in disbelief. Fisher looked away, shaking his head.
God, not Aole . . .
Miller had been among the first arrivals at Starbase 47, on the same transport as Fisher. The doctor had been instantly taken with the younger man’s upbeat and gregarious nature, and the two became fast friends before either of them had set foot on the station. But Aole had that effect on everyone, Fisher quickly learned, his apparently inexhaustible optimism and indiscriminate affability quickly making him one of the most well-liked members of the crew—the proverbial ray of sunshine even during Vanguard’s darkest days.
Such a loss for all of us . . .
“How did he die?” Rana asked, her voice cracking.
“Commander Miller was on assignment to the New Anglesey colony on Kadru,” Nogura said. “This morning I was informed by the colony’s governor that Miller accidentally drowned when he ventured too far outside the settlement without an escort or authorization.”
Fisher swore under his breath. He knew from experience that young colony worlds were dangerous places, each with its own unique set of hazards, which had to be learned over time by the settlers. But there was always the danger of visitors forgetting that a planet had not been “tamed” the moment colony ships touched down, and in those rare instances the consequences were too often tragic, even for experienced Starfleet personnel.
The hell of it was, if anyone knew landing party protocols, it was Aole Miller. He might not have written the book on the subject, but as Starfleet’s colonial liaison for the entire Taurus Reach, he had probably contributed more than a chapter or two. The idea that he could have made a mistake that cost him his life—
“Has anyone told Ahmed?” Desai asked.
Nogura nodded. “That’s the reason I was late getting here. I gave Mister Farahani the news myself.”
Fisher wanted to kick himself. On top of everything else, Miller was a newlywed of four months. That it had taken him this long before he gave a thought to Aole’s widower shamed him. Fisher imagined Ahmed alone, overcome with anguish, and it was more than he could endure. Rising from his chair, he said, “Admiral, if you’ll excuse me—”
“As you were, Doctor,” Nogura said without force, but in a manner that had the effect of nailing Fisher’s boots to the d
eck. “Lieutenant Goldrosen went with me to see Mister Farahani, and I left him in her expert care. I’m sure you’ll agree he’s in good hands.”
Fisher opened his mouth to protest, but quickly tamped down the impulse. Nogura was right. Tziporah Goldrosen was an experienced grief counselor. For Fisher to show up now would probably be more disruptive than helpful. But that raised another question, and once again, Rana was half a step ahead of him.
“Admiral . . . may I ask why you elected to inform the two of us personally, and ahead of the rest of the crew?”
Nogura rose and stepped around his desk. He leaned back against the forward edge and folded his arms. “I’m tasking the two of you with completing Commander Miller’s assignment.”
Fisher blinked.
“Which was what, specifically?” Rana asked.
“To convince the colonists to evacuate Kadru.”
Fisher and Desai exchanged looks before the doctor asked, “What are we looking at? More territorial challenges from the Klingons? Or has someone detected the presence of the meta-genome?”
“Nothing so dramatic—at least, not yet,” Nogura said. He picked up a remote control resting on his desk and pointed it at the office viewscreen, calling up a map of the Federation’s colonial holdings in the Taurus Reach. Blue dots denoted the settlements. A number of arcing yellow lines radiated from the spot that symbolized Vanguard, weaving among the colonies, and Fisher knew these represented starship patrol routes.
“Starfleet Command is increasingly concerned about its ability to adequately safeguard Federation colonies in the Taurus Reach,” the admiral said. “Some of them are simply too remote for the resources available to Operation Vanguard.”
“It was my understanding the recent increase in dedicated starship support was supposed to have addressed that,” Desai said.
“Unfortunately, the rising frequency of military engagements in the region has effectively negated the benefits of our enlarged fleet. Simply stated, the Taurus Reach is too hot, and we’re spread too thin, for the number of colonies we need to protect.” Nogura tapped his remote, and several of the outermost colonies shifted from blue to red. “The Federation Council agrees with Command’s assessment, and has determined these four settlements are in areas where continuing to provide Starfleet support would be contrary to Federation interests at this time.” Another touch on the remote, and the patrol routes shrank, leaving the red dots well outside their arcs.
“A strategic withdrawal,” Rana interpreted.
“A temporary one, we hope,” Nogura said.
“The Klingons won’t see it that way,” Fisher warned. “They’ll see it as a sign of weakness, and they won’t hesitate to exploit it. Admiral, we’re essentially relinquishing our claim on those systems.”
“I don’t disagree with you, Doctor,” Nogura said. “I’m against this course of action for those very reasons, but the decision has been made. One month from now, all four of these colonies will be outside our regular patrol routes. We need to get those settlers relocated ASAP.”
“And New Anglesey?” Desai prompted.
“The one holdout.” Nogura keyed the screen to zoom in on one of the red systems, displaying a cloud-heavy Class-M planet, second out from a G0 main sequence star, HD-24040. “Kadru was colonized three years ago. It’s a scientific research settlement that went independent after just six months. Since then relations between New Anglesey and the Federation—Starfleet in particular—have deteriorated to the point where they’ve been denying our people permission to set foot on the planet. We notified them of the Federation Council’s decision, but they’re refusing to cooperate. They’ve dug in and have no intention of leaving Kadru.”
Desai frowned. “If they’re not allowing Starfleet visitors, how is it Miller was able to go there?”
“He sweet-talked his way in,” Fisher guessed.
“You’re not far off,” Nogura confirmed. “A few weeks ago Miller started building a rapport with Governor Ying Mei-Hua over subspace, and he finally persuaded her to give him permission to make his case in person. He was four days into his visit when the colony contacted us with news of his death. And judging by the conversation I had with Ying, the New Anglese haven’t changed their position on being evacuated. That’s where you two come in.”
“Begging the admiral’s pardon,” Desai said, “but this sounds like an assignment better suited to someone on Commander Miller’s staff, or perhaps Ambassador Jetanien—”
“Under ordinary circumstances, that would be true. But as I said, there are other colonies besides New Anglesey affected by this decision, and Miller’s department is fully occupied with the logistics of relocating those settlements. Ambassador Jetanien’s office is likewise engaged in ongoing diplomatic talks with the Tholians, the Klingons, the Romulans, and more recently, with the Orions.”
The slight emphasis the admiral placed on the word Orions was not lost on Fisher, and he was certain Rana hadn’t missed it either, though she gave no sign she had noticed it. Fisher wondered how Jetanien, who considered Diego a friend, was handling his assignment to somehow negotiate Reyes’s extradition.
“All that aside,” Nogura went on, “you’re far too modest about your own qualifications for the mission, Captain. You frequently coordinated with Commander Miller’s department in matters of Federation law and Starfleet regulations as they pertained to TR colonies. You’re also no stranger to dealing with the colonial mindset, and that’s exactly what’s needed here.
“More to the point, however—and this should matter to both of you—the circumstances of Commander Miller’s death are far from clear. Governor Ying offered to have the body returned to Starbase 47 in a colony transport, but I insisted that a team from Vanguard be allowed to recover Miller’s remains personally. Ying agreed to allow two more officers to visit the colony for that purpose, but she did so grudgingly. That makes me suspicious. If there’s more to Miller’s death than she’s saying, I want to know what it is.”
Nogura returned to his chair and continued, “The Endeavour is set to depart within the hour for its next assignment, which will take her to within shuttlecraft range of Kadru. She’ll be back in the vicinity in a week’s time. You two have that long to perform an autopsy, verify the cause of death, and complete an investigation into what transpired when the commander lost his life.
“But whatever you find, I expect you to persuade those colonists to evacuate before their sector is removed from Starfleet patrol routes. They need to understand the consequences of remaining on the planet: if they run into trouble, help may be too far away to make a difference.”
When Desai didn’t answer, Fisher cleared his throat and said, “We understand, Admiral. Any other instructions?”
Nogura shook his head and picked up a data slate awaiting his attention, which Fisher took as their cue to leave. He rose and started for the door, stopping when he realized Desai hadn’t budged. “Rana?”
The admiral looked up and frowned when he saw Desai staring at him. “Is there something else, Captain?”
“I was just wondering, Admiral,” she began in a quiet voice, “if it’s even remotely possible that the real reason Doctor Fisher and I were selected for this assignment is because we’re the two people on Vanguard closest to Diego Reyes, and you wanted us both off the station while you contemplated some ill-advised plan to get him back into custody—the nature of which might compel the filing of formal protests by the station’s chief medical officer and its senior representative of the Starfleet Judge Advocate General?
“That’s not possible, is it, sir?”
Rana, what in the world are you doing? Fisher’s eyes went to Nogura, who regarded Desai as if trying to decide, from among several options, which form of disciplinary action would be the most appropriate response to her insubordination.
Instead, the admiral leaned back in his chair. “In light of recent events, Captain, I’m going to do you a favor and forget the last thirty seconds.” To Fi
sher’s disbelief, Rana started to respond, but Nogura silenced her with a raised finger. “Don’t push your luck, Desai. Just be glad I’m in a forgiving mood. The Endeavour departs in forty minutes. I suggest you start packing.”
Far too slowly, Desai released her grip on the arms of her chair and stood. “Admiral,” she said by way of acknowledgment, then turned and vacated the office. She didn’t even look at Fisher as she passed him.
Fisher’s brow creased with worry as he followed her out, and his thoughts returned unbidden to dogwood trees and the void left behind by absent friends.
2
2259
Rechecking the settings on his medical tricorder, Zeke Fisher realized it was the third time in the last ten minutes he’d done so and abruptly snapped the device closed. The tension in the room, he decided, was contagious.
From his seat on the steps of the energizer stage, Fisher glanced around at the score of khaki-shirted engineers and blue-shirted medical personnel crowding the emergency transporter, and tried to take the room’s emotional temperature. Lots of fidgeting, very little talking, the frequent snaps and clicks of field equipment being adjusted—all spoke volumes about the group’s growing impatience. At any moment, Dauntless would drop out of warp and the “go” word would come down from the bridge, sending all twenty-two members of the crisis response team scrambling for the pads. The waiting had them all on edge.
Even the ship’s new XO wasn’t immune; she paced the deck in front of the transporter console, the other members of the landing party giving her a wide berth. Tall, blond, and athletic, Commander Hallie Gannon was an imposing physical presence, but still an unknown quantity to many of the crew, having joined Dauntless just nine weeks earlier when the ship’s extensive repairs had been completed at Starbase 7. Lean and long of limb, Gannon moved like a dancer.
