Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  Her cabin’s buzzer sounded. She called out, “Come in,” and Fisher entered carrying an oversized tray with several covered plates, a teapot, and a small vase of flowers.

  “What’s this?” Desai asked.

  “Afternoon tea,” Fisher answered, as if the question surprised him. He set the tray down on top of her desk, and she barely got her data cards out from under it in time.

  “Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Fish, but I’m really too busy to—”

  “Who said it was for you?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Right. What are you doing here, then?”

  “I was temporarily evicted from my quarters,” Fisher said, starting to uncover the plates. “Glitch in the climate control. I’ve got fog. Mm, these look good.” On one plate were stacks of small sandwiches: some salmon, some cucumber; on another, scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream.

  “Fog?” Desai asked, trying to ignore the fact that her mouth was suddenly watering.

  “Yeah, can you believe it? The chief engineer said half the compartments in my corridor are affected. They just need a couple of hours to sort it out.”

  Hours. Wonderful. “Fish, I’ve got a ton of prep I need to finish—”

  “So do it. You won’t even know I’m here,” he said, pushing the tray deeper into her workspace. “Does that slate need to be there?”

  Sighing, Desai moved the device safely out of the way.

  Fisher took the lid off the teapot, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam. He leaned into it, breathing deeply. “Ahh . . . Darjeeling. It’s too bad you’re so busy, this is almost more than I can—”

  “Shut up and pour me a cup, already.”

  The doctor smiled. “Happy to. Mugs?”

  “Behind you.”

  “Help yourself to a sandwich or three,” Fisher said as he went to retrieve a pair of mugs from a shelf in the back wall. While he poured, Desai filled plates for both of them.

  “Where’d you get all this?” Desai asked. “And don’t tell me it came from a food slot.”

  Fisher pulled the cabin’s lounge chair closer to the desk. “While you’ve been barricaded in here, I’ve been making friends. Happened to mention to a nice fellow in the galley how much I used to enjoy afternoon tea and . . . voilà!” With a playful flourish, Zeke produced a shot glass candle from somewhere, gave the bottom a sharp tap to ignite it, and set it between them.

  Desai smiled in spite of herself. “Nice touch.”

  “My wife always thought so,” Fisher said as he sat down.

  “Afternoon tea was a tradition for you two?” Desai brought her mug to her lips, inhaling the steam through her nose before sipping. It was exquisite.

  Fisher smiled and picked up a sandwich. “You could call it a tradition, I suppose. It’s what I always did when I needed to apologize for something.”

  Desai laughed, then stopped as she realized the subtext of Fisher’s answer. “Wait. You think you need to apologize to me?”

  “Do I?” he asked.

  She set down her mug and sighed. “If I’ve given you reason to wonder, Zeke, maybe I’m the one who ought to apologize. I know I’ve been—”

  “Rana, stop,” Fisher said. “Don’t you dare say another word. I didn’t mean to guilt you into unburdening yourself. I just wanted to spend some time with a friend I’ve seen far too little of the last few months. I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through right now. This thing with Diego . . .” He paused and then continued with a chuckle, “Hell, I’ll just say it: any damn thing with Diego is enough to drive a person crazy, even someone who’s known him as long as I have.”

  Desai had the absurd impulse to laugh even as she wiped at the tears forming in her eyes. Fisher’s kind brown face, all crow’s feet and silver whiskers, radiated a tenderness that was unconditional and free of judgment.

  “But if the time comes when you need a friend to lean on, you know I’ll be here for you, right?”

  She reached out and placed her hand atop his. “Right.” Her voice sounded hoarse in her ears. “Thank you, Fish.”

  He waved away her gratitude. “Drink your tea. You’ll feel better.”

  Desai arched a black eyebrow at him over the brim of her mug. “There’s no fog in your quarters, is there?”

  “I’m invoking the Seventh Guarantee.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  They ate in companionable silence for a while, then started swapping memories of Aole. Zeke had several funny stories to relate, as did Desai, and for the next hour the two kept each other laughing to the point of breathlessness.

  “Well,” Fisher said at last, rising to his feet. “I know you have work to do, so I’m just gonna gather up these things and clear out.” Licking the tips of his thumb and forefinger, Fisher snuffed out the candle.

  “This was nice, Zeke,” Desai said sincerely. “I didn’t realize just how much I needed the break. Thank you.”

  Fisher finished loading up the tray and lifted it off her desk. “It was my pleasure. So I guess I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  Fisher froze in place. “I forgot to mention Captain Khatami’s dinner invitation, didn’t I?” At the look she gave him, he hurriedly added, “It’s just a small thing with the captain and a few of her officers.”

  “You’re telling me this now?” She cast an exasperated glance at the time displayed on her slate. “It’s sixteen-thirty! When are we expected?”

  “Nineteen hundred, in the captain’s mess.”

  “And where’s the captain’s— Wait, never mind. I’ll look it up. Get out of here now so I can get some work done before I have to start getting ready.”

  “I’m gone.”

  As Fisher started for the door, Desai took up her slate and found where she had left off. “Computer, resume playback.”

  “What saddens me most is the way Mei-Hua threw it all away, as if the friendship we’d built over the last six months meant noth—”

  A crash startled Desai, and she spun around to see Fisher struggling to keep his grip on the tray. A couple of plates had toppled to the deck. She rushed to his side, reaching to steady him. “Zeke, are you okay? What happened?”

  “I’m fine, it’s just . . . Is that Hallie?”

  Oh, God, I forgot he knew Captain Gannon! What was I thinking? “Computer, pause playback! Zeke, sit down.” She tried to relieve him of the tray, but he refused to let go of it.

  “Rana, please. I’m okay,” he assured her. “She’s been on my mind lately, and it just caught me off guard to hear her voice all of a sudden. Was that an old log entry from the mission file?”

  Desai nodded, recovering the fallen plates and setting them gently back onto the tray. “Gannon’s ship helped set up the colony on Kadru.”

  “Is that a fact? How about that. . . .”

  “I can authorize your access, if you’d like to—”

  “No, that’s okay,” Fisher said. “I appreciate the offer, but . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Desai frowned. What in the world does that mean? “Zeke, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Who’s the doctor here?” Fisher asked. “I’ll just be on my way. Sorry I startled you. See you at nineteen?”

  Desai nodded. “Nineteen.”

  She watched him go, and as he did, it occurred to Desai that Zeke’s life was all about looking after people. And not just his patients; she had long suspected he had delayed his overdue and well-deserved retirement just so he could be there for Diego, and when that was no longer possible, he had honored the obligation he’d felt he owed his oldest friend by staying on to look after the woman Diego loved.

  But who looked after Fisher?

  “To absent friends,” said Atish Khatami as she raised her water glass. The other five officers at the table, their own small glasses filled with a ruby port, mirrored the captain’s gesture as they echoed her toast. The sweet after-dinner wine proved to be a del
ightful follow-up to the baked pears Endeavour’s master chef served up for dessert, the hot caramelized fruit steaming from crystal bowls. Desai found it easier to lose herself in the dish than to take part in the current topic of conversation.

  The captain’s mess was impressive. Desai had expected to dine in a repurposed briefing room or something similar. This was nothing so austere, with soft recessed lighting, warm colors, real wooden furniture, and art on the walls. Apparently every Constitution-class starship had a small percentage of discretionary space, subject to the preferences of the commanding officer. Khatami’s immediate predecessor, the late Captain Zhao Sheng—whose portrait hung on the wall behind Khatami next to that of Endeavour’s first commander, Captain Mary-Anne Rice—had ripped out the tennis court that had been here when he first took command and replaced it with one for racquetball. In the process, Zhao had converted the leftover space into a formal dining room. Bersh glov Mog, Khatami’s Tellarite chief engineer, claimed to have it on good authority that at least one of Endeavour’s sister ships had a bowling alley, but CMO Anthony Leone refused to believe it.

  From there, the evening went downhill as far as Desai was concerned. It was impossible for the group not to talk about the recently resurfaced Reyes, and Desai patiently endured speculations from First Officer Stano about the likelihood of Reyes’s eventual return to Federation custody.

  The conversation eventually moved on to the sad subject of Aole Miller, and then more generally to the challenge of safeguarding planetary colonies, which everyone agreed was difficult even in the best of circumstances.

  At length, Khatami said, “May I ask how your research into New Anglesey is progressing, Captain Desai?”

  Desai took a sip of her port while she considered how to answer. “It’s all a little strange,” she finally admitted. “I’ve been wading through more background material than I know what to do with, yet nowhere is there any explanation for why things went south between New Anglesey and the Federation. Nobody seems to understand why they became so inflexibly isolationist.”

  “Aole never figured that out?” Fisher asked.

  “If he did, it isn’t in the files. Maybe he hoped to find out by going there in person, effect a reconciliation even while he tried to persuade them of the need to evacuate.”

  Fisher chuckled. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Nor would I. I’ve seen the man work. He wasn’t always successful at solving every problem, but he never encountered one he didn’t feel he could talk his way through.”

  “What is it about this planet that these people are clinging to?” Doctor Leone asked.

  “My understanding,” Khatami said, “is that the scientists who founded New Anglesey were granted their colonial charter primarily in order to conduct research on the planet’s ecosystem.”

  “That’s it?” Leone scoffed and consumed the last of his port.

  “Then why are they being so obstinate?” Stano asked.

  “That’s hard to say,” Desai replied. “But in my experience, there are essentially two kinds of colonists: those who believe they can find greater prosperity in the service of Federation expansion, and those who believe they can find prosperity living independently, free from what they consider the too restrictive core worlds of the UFP, so they can build a world better than the ones they left behind. The former expects Federation support and Starfleet protection. The latter expects the same thing—they just want it on their terms.

  “New Anglesey falls into the latter camp. It’s almost a case study in a growing trend among the outer colonies, more and more of which believe that the Federation has too much control over their lives.”

  Leone shook his head. “Yeah, until the Klingons decide they want the planet. Then suddenly the Federation can’t do enough.”

  “That’s a rather ungenerous position, don’t you think?” Mog said.

  “It may have escaped your notice, Mog, but I don’t have a lot of sympathy for ingrates who think they can have it both ways.”

  “Imagine my shock,” Mog said.

  Leone pressed on. “It’s all well and good to think you have better answers than the prevailing authority. But that’s what elections are for. Chucking reason out the airlock and then taking pride in the act is just a stupid way to make a point.”

  “To some colonists,” Desai said, “what you call ‘chucking reason’ is actually a narrowing of focus on fundamental issues that they feel aren’t getting enough attention.”

  “In other words, provincial thinking,” Leone countered. “They’re so caught up in their own interests, they don’t see the big picture.”

  “And they would probably argue that they are too frequently overlooked in the big picture,” Desai said.

  “Respectfully, Captain,” Leone said, “if that were true, you and Doctor Fisher wouldn’t be on your way to New Anglesey, and Commander Miller would still be safely back on Vanguard. Instead, he gave his life trying to help those people. And still they don’t trust us!”

  “Why is that, Captain?” Stano asked Desai. “Clearly the New Anglesey settlers once trusted Starfleet enough to help get their colony up and running. What went wrong?”

  Desai sighed. “That’s a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for the last thirty-six hours, Commander.”

  “Are you at liberty to share your suspicions?”

  And there it is: the opening. “To be honest . . . with so little time until Zeke and I make planetfall, it might be helpful if I could discuss them,” Desai admitted. “I’m just not sure it would be prudent.”

  “Why would it be imprudent?” Khatami asked, her brow furrowing.

  “Because you all were there when everything changed,” Desai said. “This isn’t something isolated to New Anglesey. What’s happening on Kadru is symptomatic of something bigger: a chasm of suspicion and mistrust that’s grown only deeper in the last couple of years, because of events right here in the Taurus Reach.”

  Her listeners stared at her, their startled faces hardening into masks of anger and disbelief. Desai wasn’t surprised; this was a sensitive subject to broach with this group. Two years after the fact, the disaster at Gamma Tauri IV had left livid scars on every Starfleet officer assigned to the Taurus Reach. But for the captain and crew of Endeavour, the incident remained an open wound. This was, after all, the ship charged with implementing, at Diego Reyes’s command, General Order 24: the legally sanctioned destruction of that colony world in an attempt to contain the threat of the Shedai, who were in the process of slaughtering every sentient being on the planet.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Stano whispered into the shocked silence. “Do you have any idea what we—”

  “As you were, Kate,” Khatami said. “Captain Desai has an unenviable task to accomplish in a very short time, the nature of which makes it hardly surprising she would need to consider uncomfortable questions.”

  “Thank you for understanding, Captain,” Desai began.

  “However,” Khatami continued, her voice sharpening, “while I have no doubt the New Anglese may have concerns about the impossible choices Starfleet officers must sometimes face, and act upon, the service has done a great deal to protect and assist the Federation’s colonies over the last hundred years, and that good work continues.”

  Khatami wasn’t speaking in the abstract, Desai knew. She’d nearly lost her civilian husband and daughter last year, when the planet Deneva was overrun by neural parasites. Fortunately, a Starfleet crew had been able to end the threat and save the majority of the colonists. And that was hardly the only example of Khatami’s point: Desai was fully cognizant of Starfleet’s extensive record of assisting colony worlds in crisis.

  “I don’t dispute anything you’re saying, Captain,” Desai said. “But let me ask you: How much comfort would you take from your knowledge of Starfleet’s good work, if the captain of the Enterprise had been compelled to implement General Order 24 in order to contain the parasite threat on Deneva?” />
  Khatami’s mouth dropped open, as much in disbelief as in her own futile attempt to form an answer. She recovered quickly, her lips closing into a hard line. “Perhaps,” she said, rising from her chair, “we should all call it a night.”

  “Are you out of your damn mind?” Fisher demanded when he accosted Desai in her quarters a short time later.

  “Let’s not do this, Fish.” Desai kept her back to him while she removed her earrings and set them down on the dresser. She avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror.

  The doctor wasn’t dissuaded. “First Nogura, now Khatami? Are you that determined to commit career suicide?”

  “Look, I appreciate your concern, Zeke. I do. But I promise you I’m not going off the deep end.”

  “Then what is it? Can you give me a good reason why you’ve been acting the way you have, and why I shouldn’t be worried about you?”

  “It wasn’t my intention to offend Captain Khatami, but I’m not sorry I rattled her. The question needed to be asked.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  Desai finally turned to face him. “Because I fully expect that when we meet Governor Ying and I tell her she and her people can trust Starfleet to act in their best interests, Ying is going to ask me the same question, or one very like it . . . and I honestly have no more idea how to answer it than Khatami did.”

  4

  2259

  “Hold fire, Mister Jordan!” Reyes shouted.

  “Sir?” the helmsman said.

  “That was an order, Ensign.” Ignoring Mazhtog’s sneer from the viewscreen, Reyes turned to sciences. “Brzezinski, status of the Chech’Iw?”

  “Unchanged, sir. Maintaining combat readiness. They’re just mirroring us.”

  Reyes’s gaze panned back to the Klingon. “Well . . . that’s certainly interesting. Looks like you were right, Gannon. They’re trying to provoke us into attacking first.” Reyes took a step forward, stopping at the foot of the helm console. “Give Gorkon this message, Mazhtog. I’m hereby demanding that my officers and I be allowed to visit Azha-R7a so that we can assess the condition of the colony and ascertain whether or not your ridiculous claim has any merit. Reyes out.” Putting his back to the screen, Reyes made a throat-cutting gesture to Kendrick, and the comm officer quickly closed the channel.