Finally, another half-dozen circuits at speed, and fatigue set in. His fury abated, but in its wake came a mournful emptiness. Mentir stilled his tail, and he slowed and dropped, until he floated just a few centimeters above the floor of the waterway. He closed his eyes and tried to blank his mind, but unwanted images assaulted him: he pictured the silent explosion that had torn apart Universe and its crew, envisioned the expanding shock wave that had pummeled Ad Astra, saw his friend smashing headfirst into a bulkhead.
Seeking to distract himself, Mentir tried to imagine being back home in the depths of Alonis. But the water here, maintained as it was for all the inhabitants of Space Station KR-3, could not compare to his native seas. Here, the color, the density, the motion, the solids content, all varied too much from his home waters to allow him even a moment’s fantasy. And although he had designed his quarters and office here on the station to more closely mimic the familiar environment of Alonis, he still often found himself longing for the oceans of his birth.
A pair of short midrange tones pulsed through the canal, followed by a spurt of muffled clicks and squeals. Mentir opened his eyes, immediately recognizing the communications signal, as well as the sound of somebody attempting to contact him, though he could not at this distance distinguish the “words.” He switched his tail once, moving slowly forward and upward, until he rose to the midpoint of the channel. Then he surged into motion. A third of the way around, he arrived at an underwater communications console, one of three installed on the station. Another had been set up in his quarters, and another in his office.
Mentir swam in close to the console and focused. His people had no opposable digits, but they possessed a short-range psychokinetic ability, which they utilized to manipulate water into effectively solid tools. With his mind, Mentir pushed a concentration of water against an activation pad, then opened his short, flat snout and issued a quick series of snaps and chirps. The universal translator in the communications console, he knew, would broadcast his sounds as “This is Admiral Mentir. Go ahead.”
“Admiral, this is Dr. Van Riper in the infirmary,” came the response, interpreted into the language of the Alonis. “I thought you’d want to know: Admiral Harriman has regained consciousness.”
At once, Mentir felt a rush of energy course through his body. After being operated on a day and a half ago, Blackjack had remained in a coma, with the prognosis for his recovery indeterminate at best. The news that his chief medical officer had just delivered came as a welcome surprise.
A string of questions flooded Mentir’s mind—Is Blackjack lucid? Has he recovered any of his strength? Does this mean he’ll be able to recuperate completely?—but he would ask those once he arrived at the infirmary; right now, he wanted only to see his friend. “Thank you, Doctor,” he clicked and twittered. “I’ll be right there. Mentir out.” He closed the channel with a burst of thought.
Just past the communications console, a small spur led from the main oval of the watercourse. Mentir swam into it, to where he had left his environmental suit when he’d entered the channel. He slipped his head inside the helmet, then settled his body atop the open, formfitting suit, which he maneuvered closed around him using his psychokinesis. He heard the cottony snik s of the electromagnetic locks as they fastened, followed by the whisper of the environmental controls as they automatically activated. The suit held a layer of water against Mentir’s scales, and adjusted the characteristics of the water so that it more closely matched that of Alonis. The unit also included an aquatic rebreathing device.
Once secure in his portable artificial environment, Mentir swam forward to the antigrav chair in which he traveled when not in water. He settled back into the seat and directed it upward, operating it with slight but specific body movements. The chair slowly lifted out of the channel, water spilling back down with a splatter. As he rose, he saw few people in the natatorium—the elliptical waterway surrounded a long, wide swimming pool—and those present swam quietly and alone. Since the news that a starship had been lost had reached KR-3, the mood among Mentir’s crew had been understandably somber.
Mentir floated into a locker room adjoining the swim center, and then to a smaller room within. There, several fans dried both his environmental suit and his antigrav chair. Then he exited into a corridor and headed for the nearest turbolift. The infirmary was actually housed on this level, but in a different one of the station’s three arms. Only five decks through, Space Station KR-3 looked from above like a letter Y, the wide arms of the station meeting at obtuse angles.
Mentir entered the lift and identified his destination, a device in his helmet transmitting the sound of his sub-aqua voice out into the air. The antigrav chair swayed slightly as the turbolift began its horizontal journey, and Mentir felt momentarily unsettled. He realized that he had anxiety about visiting the infirmary. He had not seen Blackjack since his old friend had been brought back to KR-3 after the accident; Mentir had instead heeded the counsel of Enterprise’s chief medical officer, who had suggested that staying away might be the better course.
Blackjack, Mentir thought. They’d met fifty-seven years ago, when the Starfleet vessel Allegiance had arrived at Alonis on a diplomatic mission. Mentir had just been embarking on what would turn out to be a fleeting political career, and Ensign Harriman had been one of Allegiance’s officers selected to accompany the Federation delegation. They’d met during the conference and had quickly become friends; Mentir had particularly appreciated Blackjack’s straightforward manner and punctilious nature, characteristics that had only grown stronger through the years.
The turbolift slowed, crossing the threshold into the station’s hub. Mentir felt the lift sweep into a broad arc, then pick up speed again as it passed out of the hub and into another of the station’s arms. The infirmary, he knew, was not much farther.
After the summit on Alonis all those years ago, Mentir had stayed in contact with Blackjack, and the two had grown close. Back in those days, they’d often joked that they knew far more about each other’s culture than did the diplomats. And years later, when Mentir had decided to apply to Starfleet Academy, Blackjack—a starship captain at that point—had helped him become only the second Alonis accepted. These days, several more of Mentir’s people served in Starfleet, and a dialogue had begun on his homeworld about whether or not to submit a request for membership in the Federation. Although Mentir knew that numerous issues would have to be resolved before Alonis would be invited to join, he hoped that it would happen within the next two or three decades. And Blackjack had supported that position, becoming an outspoken proponent for the Alonis over the past several years. There were few people in Mentir’s life whom he respected and appreciated as much as his old friend.
The turbolift slowed again, this time coming to a stop. The doors parted, revealing one of the entrances to the infirmary directly ahead. Mentir eased from the lift, crossed the corridor, and entered. He moved through the main section of the infirmary, past a series of empty biobeds, and over to the wide door leading to the intensive-care section. The door opened as he reached it, and he floated inside.
As the door closed behind him, he spotted KR-3’s chief medical officer standing at a console to the right, studying a readout. “Doctor,” Mentir said, and the lanky physician turned at the sound of his voice.
“Admiral,” Van Riper said.
“How is he?” Mentir asked. Then, feeling the need to say his friend’s name, he asked, “How is Admiral Harriman?”
“We don’t know,” Van Riper said, walking over from the console. “But he doesn’t appear to be appreciably better, even though he’s no longer unconscious.”
“So you haven’t upgraded your prognosis?” Mentir asked, surprised. He had expected better news than this.
“We haven’t,” Van Riper said. “There’s just no way to tell how fast or how well Admiral Harriman’s brain will heal.”
“But surely waking from his coma must be a positive sign,” Mentir said, s
eeking some measure of hope.
“Yes,” Van Riper said cautiously, stretching the word out, “but that’s not in itself cause to believe that the admiral can overcome his injuries.”
“I see,” Mentir said, though he wasn’t necessarily sure that he did. “Is he lucid?”
“He seems to be,” Van Riper said, “but he’s also extremely tired, and Dr. Morell has reported that he’s shown some signs of distress.” Even though Blackjack was being treated on Space Station KR-3, Mentir knew that he still remained in the primary care of the Enterprise’s CMO, who had first treated him.
“Distress?” Mentir asked, but then he heard the door open behind him. He turned his antigrav chair to see Blackjack’s son enter.
“Admiral,” Captain Harriman said, his expression stoic. He did not look as though he’d been sleeping particularly well, though.
“Captain,” Mentir returned. He knew that there must be some physical resemblance between father and son, but he had never been able to see it. Nor had he ever seen much similarity in their personalities. But then, few people could match up against Blackjack; he cut such a commanding figure, tall and muscular, with a strong, self-assured presence. Captain Harriman was his own man, of course, and a fine commander, but he was not his father. “I assume that Dr. Van Riper contacted you about your father.”
“Actually, I did,” came another voice.
Mentir looked around to see Dr. Morell approaching from one of the intensive-care bays. “Doctor,” he greeted her.
“Admiral,” Morell said, and then, looking with some apparent concern to the younger Harriman, “Captain.”
“May we see him?” Captain Harriman asked.
Morell hesitated, peering at Mentir and Dr. Van Riper in quick succession before looking back at Harriman.
“May I see you privately for a moment, Captain?” she asked. Mentir thought that she seemed very uncomfortable.
“It’s all right, Doctor,” Harriman said, and Mentir got the impression that the captain knew what Morell had to tell him. Mentir thought that he knew as well. “Go ahead.”
“I mentioned to Admiral Harriman that you and Admiral Mentir would be coming to see him,” Morell said, still clearly ill at ease. “He got…um…agitated.”
“He doesn’t want visitors?” Dr. Van Riper asked, but Mentir knew that was not the case.
“He doesn’t want me,” Captain Harriman said.
“No, sir,” Morell agreed. “And I’m afraid, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go in. The admiral’s in no shape to be upset.”
“I understand,” the captain said, and Mentir could see that he did, although Mentir himself did not—at least not entirely. He knew that a rift had long ago developed between father and son, but he had never known why that had happened, or why the two had never resolved whatever issues lay between them. Mentir had inquired a few times many years ago, but Blackjack had always deflected the conversation elsewhere, never once bringing up the subject himself.
Captain Harriman started to leave, but Mentir stopped him. “Would you like me to tell your father something for you?” he asked.
“Tell him—” the captain began, but then he seemed to catch himself. “No. No thank you, Admiral.” He turned and exited.
A stony silence drifted into the room, which Mentir finally broke. “I’d like to see him then,” he said.
“Of course,” Morell said. “This way.” She gestured toward one end of the long room. “I’ll have to ask you to stay only a short time, Admiral. Just a couple of minutes at most. Admiral Harriman is obviously very weak and very tired.”
“I understand, Doctor.” Mentir followed Morell to the bay in which Blackjack lay. She walked up to the side of the biobed and leaned down near her patient’s face, blocking him from view.
“Admiral Mentir is here to see you,” she said quietly. She backed away, allowing Mentir to maneuver his antigrav chair in beside the biobed. He peered over at his friend and felt horrified by what he saw. Bandages swathed the entire top of Blackjack’s head, and covered most of one side of his face. But even where his head and face were not visible beneath the gauze, the impression was that of flesh that had been compromised, bone that had been fractured. His complexion barely contrasted with his bandages, so pallid did it appear. His lips had thinned into an ashen line. A respirator encircled his chest and evidently breathed for him. Blackjack looked bloodless, his body seeming too frail to hold life within it.
Mentir leaned in toward his longtime friend. “Blackjack,” he said gently, “it’s Tirasol.” Blackjack’s one visible eyelid fluttered, but did not open all the way. His eye appeared hazy and unfocused, as though attempting to see through a fog. He looked not just exhausted, but hurt.
In pain, Mentir thought. Both physically and emotionally.
He waited a few moments, and when Blackjack said nothing, and seemed to see nothing, Mentir thought that he should probably leave. But as he prepared to move away, Blackjack’s gaze found him. “Tirasol,” he said in a voice barely strong enough to be called a whisper, the syllables almost lost in the murmur of the respirator. “I wanted…to tell you…it worked.”
“‘It worked’?” Mentir repeated, unsure what Blackjack meant. Was he coherent, or had his medical condition rendered his words meaningless?
“The…” Blackjack sputtered. “The Romulans…”
Mentir waited for Blackjack to continue, but he said no more. “What about the Romulans?” he finally asked. “Blackjack, what about the Romulans?” But Blackjack’s eyelid flickered closed. Had he been hallucinating, or disoriented, or had he actually been trying to tell Mentir something? “Blackjack,” Mentir said. “Blackjack.”
“Admiral,” Dr. Morell said, moving back in beside Mentir. “I think that’s enough.”
“Can you revive him, Doctor?” Mentir asked. “Can you bring him more awake?”
“I don’t know,” Morell said. “But certainly not without putting him at risk.”
“All right,” Mentir said. He looked at his friend, and felt as though he didn’t really recognize him. “If he gets stronger, if he can talk,” he said, “I want to know immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mentir backed his antigrav chair away from the biobed, taking one last look at Blackjack. Then he turned and headed out of the bay, wondering if his friend would ever be the same again.
The Klingon recording device sailed through the air in a high arc, nearly striking the ceiling before it descended to the conference table with a crash. The device skittered across the flaxen surface, until it came to rest not far from where the Federation ambassador, Endara, sat. He looked at it, Kage thought, as though it might leap at his throat at any moment.
“What is your explanation for this?” Kage asked angrily from across the room, from where he had tossed the recorder. The storm he forced into his voice belied the calmness within him. The data on the recorder had been transmitted directly to him by Chancellor Azetbur yesterday, and she in turn had received it from the Romulan government. Kage assumed that Ambassador Kamemor had by now been provided the information as well. Both yesterday and today had been scheduled as open days in the Algeron talks, when no negotiating sessions would take place, but after Kage had learned of the Romulan sensor logs and consulted with the chancellor about them, he had requested this special session. He suspected that if he had not done so, Kamemor would have.
At the end of the conference table, among the other four members of his staff, Ambassador Endara seemed to compose himself. He looked up from where the recorder had landed and over at Kage. “Am I to infer that you want me to examine the information on this device, Ambassador?” Endara asked, his tone steady and not acerbic, even if his words were. He made no move to pick up the recorder.
Kage walked slowly—and he hoped, menacingly—toward the Federation ambassador. He glanced at Kamemor and her two aides, sitting facing him from the center of the table. Their attentions, he noted with sa
tisfaction, were firmly on him, as were those of his own two aides, who sat on the nearer side. Kage took his time approaching Endara, wanting to maximize the tension in the room. For the same reason, he had been uncharacteristically but intentionally late to the session this morning.
When he reached the table, Kage bent over it and rested his palms flat on its surface. He leaned in over the corner toward the Federation delegation, his eyes focused on Endara’s. “No,” he said.
“No?” Endara asked, clearly confused. “You throw this device in my direction—” He gestured toward the recorder. “—demand some sort of explanation, and you don’t want me to look at it?” Endara actually peered toward the Romulans, evidently seeking their support. Kage did not look away from the Federation ambassador, though, so he did not know how Kamemor and her aides reacted, but they said nothing.
Kage waited until Endara looked back up at him, and then said, “No, I don’t want you to examine the data on the recorder. What I want is for you to explain why the Federation has developed and tested a metaweapon—a first-strike weapon—and why you lied about it.”
“What?” Endara said, incredulous. “Ambassador Kage, with all due respect, those claims are absurd.”
“‘Respect’?” Kage roared, forcing himself to anger. He knew where he needed to take this meeting for the good of the Klingon Empire, and on the journey he took to arrive there, he would have to be convincing. “You sit here all these months and tell us lies. What do you know of respect?” Kage reached across the table and snatched up the recorder, then slammed it down in front of Endara. “Here are the sensor readings of the Starfleet test,” he said, his voice still loud. He glared across the device at the Federation ambassador.
Slowly and carefully, Endara rose from his chair and faced Kage across the corner of the table. “I’ll thank you not to threaten me, Ambassador,” he said.
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