by Dayton Ward
The reality of the situation, Nogura knew, was that such a trial would only serve to shed unwanted light on the reasons for the incident in the first place, including the acts of subterfuge and espionage Reyes had conducted with Starfleet authorization aboard the Omari-Ekon. After consulting with Lieutenant Commander Holly Moyer in order to get the Starfleet JAG view of the situation, Nogura had come to the reluctant conclusion that the best for all involved parties was to see to it that the matter was handled as quickly and quietly as possible. The Orion Syndicate would also want to avoid public attention, so attributing everything to Ganz, his wounded pride, and his insatiable need for vengeance against Reyes in response to any perceived slights made for a nice, tidy end to the entire odious affair. Starfleet’s position was that it was easier to accept such a premise knowing that Reyes had been successful in obtaining the navigational log information from the Omari-Ekon’s computer.
Reyes said, “I don’t think it’s a simple case of blame game. If Neera really was pulling Ganz’s strings, then there’s no way she would have sanctioned sending an armed boarding party to the station after me.” He paused, frowning as though recalling a memory. “You should have seen the look on Ganz’s face there at the end. He was livid, and wanted my head on a plate, right then and there, and by any means necessary.”
“That’s pretty much what Neera said when Lieutenant Jackson questioned her,” Nogura replied. “According to her, she laid on the tears and came across as little more than the helpless moll, forced to do his bidding. She had no idea that we suspected the truth about her relationship with Ganz.” There had been isolated reports—some dating back more than a century—of other female Orions holding positions of power within criminal organizations similar to the one supposedly run by Ganz. In several of those examples, the females chose to downplay their role, allowing a subordinate—almost always a male—to be the group’s public face. This carried with it the obvious benefit of allowing the figurehead manager to be the target of competition, ridicule, and even the odd assassination attempt. The dynamic also was useful for situations where blame needed to be shifted away from the organization’s true leader.
“You mean Neera didn’t try any of those tricks on Jackson that Orion women do so well?” Reyes asked. “I’ve experienced that sort of thing firsthand, and I can tell you that resisting their charms is harder than you might think.”
“I can imagine,” Nogura said. “I observed Jackson’s interview with her, and she did try to wile him with her charms. She played up how grateful she was that we’d taken care of Ganz for her, as she’d been scared of him and all sorts of other nonsense.” He shook his head. “There was a minute there when I thought I’d have to intervene, but Jackson kept everything under control. Her little secret’s safe, though I expect she’ll have a tough time finding a dependable replacement for Ganz, given the fate he suffered and how quickly Neera and everyone else threw him to the lions.” He shook his head. “Her problem, not ours.”
Nogura led the way into his office, instructing the two security guards that they could wait outside before indicating that Reyes should follow him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he waited until the doors closed before saying, “By the way, I haven’t yet had a chance to thank you for what you did over there. I know how much danger you were in just by being there, but helping us placed you at even greater risk. I appreciate that you accepted that risk on our behalf.”
Reyes shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I just hope it’s worth it, for ch’Nayla’s sake, and Pennington, Hetzlein, and Gianetti, and everyone else who’s died or been hurt since we found that damned meta-genome.”
“With any luck,” Nogura replied, “we’ll know something soon.” Even as he stood here with Reyes, Lieutenants T’Prynn and Xiong were working with the navigational data Reyes had secured from the Omari-Ekon.
“I can hardly wait,” Reyes said, and Nogura heard the tinge of sarcasm in the other man’s voice. “By the way, I want to thank you for simply confining me to guest quarters. You’d have been right to just toss me in the brig until someone’s ready to take me to Earth.”
Though he had considered doing exactly that, Nogura had decided such treatment was not needed. He did not believe Reyes to be any sort of flight risk, and keeping him under guard in guest quarters would be sufficient to contain him until such time as his final disposition—be it transport to the New Zealand penal colony on Earth as per the original sentence from his court-martial, or something else—was determined. “It seemed the least we could do, given the circumstances. I trust you’re comfortable in your new quarters?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in months,” Reyes replied. “It’s nice, being able to go to bed and not have to worry about maybe being dead before you wake up.”
Nogura chuckled at that. “I can imagine.” Gesturing to where Reyes had been injured during the firefight that climaxed his escape from the Omari-Ekon, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Zeke—that is, Doctor Fisher—fixed me up. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be sore for a few days, but that’s about it.” Reyes’s expression changed to one of concern. “Don’t know if I can say the same about Pennington.”
Nodding, Nogura released a sigh. “What happened to him is unfortunate, but I have every faith in Doctor Fisher.” Unlike Reyes and others who had been injured during the firefight, Pennington had been wounded much more severely. According to Fisher’s last report, the damage to the journalist’s arm and shoulder were such that the doctor was still considering amputation and prosthetic replacement. “I’ve also recommended to Starfleet that he be awarded a civilian citation for valor. What he did probably saved your life, and T’Prynn’s.”
“If I know Pennington,” Reyes said, “he’ll likely offer a polite refusal. He’s a journalist, through and through. He’d rather report the story than be a part of it, even if the last couple of years make it seem the opposite’s true.” Pausing to look around the office, he asked, “I guess I have to wonder what’s next for me?”
Nogura had of course been considering the question since receiving the report from Jackson that T’Prynn and Reyes had made it off the Omari-Ekon. “There are a lot of questions, of course. You’ll be debriefed in full about your time with the Klingons and the Orions. Your association with the Klingons in particular has a lot of people at Headquarters calling for your head. Many of them don’t buy that you were acting to protect Starfleet and this station as much as possible given your situation, rather than actively colluding with the Klingons.”
“Anybody who wants to call me a traitor is going to have to come out here and tell me to my face,” Reyes snapped, the first hint of bitterness or anger over his current status Nogura had seen since the disgraced officer’s return. “Everything I did was to protect as many lives as possible. That’s all I’ve ever done. I even got court-martialed and convicted for it, if you recall.”
“You were court-martialed for disobeying orders and violating your Starfleet oath,” Nogura countered, allowing a slight edge to creep into his voice.
Reyes stood his ground. “My oath was to protect Federation citizens and obey all lawful orders from my superiors and our duly elected civilian leaders. There’s nothing in there about safeguarding dirty little secrets or acting out of political expediency to cover my or anyone else’s ass. I said basically the same thing at my trial, and I stand by it.”
Saying nothing for a moment, Nogura regarded the former commodore before offering a slow nod of appreciation. “I know you do. While I can’t officially condone your actions, I can respect them, because I believe you always were acting with noble purpose. Whether anyone agrees with either of us is something we’ll have to wait to find out.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to tell you this before.”
He had chosen to refrain from interacting with Reyes during his pretrial confinement and court-martial, to avoid even the perception of attempting in any way to influence the proceedings. T
he result was that he had not been afforded the opportunity to simply talk to the man. He had never suspected Reyes of being a traitor, or even of acting with malicious intent when deciding to disobey orders and allow Pennington to publish the story that had brought the Shedai—if not the truth behind the secrets and power they possessed—to the public’s attention. Likewise, Nogura believed him still to be a man of character and honor, as demonstrated by his prompt decision to assist T’Prynn with the espionage she had conducted. The question now was whether anyone else stalking the halls of power at Starfleet Command would see things in similar fashion.
I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.
“The debriefings are liable to take a while,” Nogura said. “We’ll do our best to see to it that you’re as comfortable as possible. Is there anything in particular you need?”
Reyes shook his head. “No, Admiral, thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve already done for me.” He stopped, his eyes turning downward to stare at the floor for a moment. When he spoke again it was without raising his head to meet Nogura’s gaze. “Can you assist me with getting in touch with Captain Desai?”
Having expected that query, Nogura nevertheless was uncomfortable now that Reyes had given it voice. “Of course. We’ll get word to her that you’re no longer with the Orions, but you understand that you’re still technically a prisoner. There’s nothing I can do about that until after you’ve been properly debriefed.”
His expression once more growing impassive, Reyes drew himself up before nodding. “I understand.” Then, as if deciding there was nothing more to be said, he added, “Thank you for your time, Admiral.”
Nogura said nothing as Reyes turned and exited the office, waiting for his security detail to take up positions in front of and behind him as they escorted him back to his quarters. For the first time, the admiral realized he felt sorrow for the former commodore, who at one time may well have been fueled by the knowledge that Rana Desai, the woman he loved, might still be waiting for him once he navigated the obstacles separating them. That this appeared no longer to be the case probably had done nothing but increase Reyes’s sense of isolation. His life and career already in virtual ruin, he had no one but a handful of steadfast friends on whom to lean. Otherwise, Diego Reyes, without doubt, had to feel utterly alone.
And for that, Nogura thought, I’m truly sorry.
28
“My arm hurts.”
The persistent, throbbing ache Tim Pennington sensed in his right arm flared enough to rouse him yet again from fitful sleep. Lying flat on his back, he grunted in irritation at his inability to do little more than doze, rather than enjoying anything resembling restful slumber. Even beyond the pain in his arm, there was the simple matter that the hospital bed was anything but comfortable. He was unable to shift onto his right side and slide his arm beneath his pillow, situating himself as he had since childhood. His current position was likely to be the best he could manage for a while.
Wonderful.
Closing his eyes as the dull pain continued to nag him, Pennington became more aware of the ambient sounds permeating his hospital room: conversations held in hushed tones drifting from the corridor, the low hum of passing antigrav carts, even the dull, two-stroke tone of his own pulse as interpreted and amplified by his biobed’s array of sensors and status indicators. Listening to the melodic chorus of the machines overseeing his care, he began to sense his own body mocking him, as each beat of his heart seemed to pulse in rhythm with the pain from his arm.
Well, that’s just damned annoying.
The sound of his room door sliding open was followed by a shift in the light beyond his closed eyelids, and Pennington blinked as he raised his head, squinting to clear his vision. Beyond the foot of his bed, a silhouette moved against a curtain of white illumination, which disappeared as the door closed once more. The room returned to its dim scales of gray, though he still could discern the figure as it moved toward him.
“Hello?” Pennington called out, noting how raspy his voice sounded.
“So, you’re awake,” replied a deep voice he recognized as belonging to Ezekiel Fisher even before the physician moved closer to the right side of his bed. “Take a drink. You’ve been asleep for quite a while.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.” Pennington leaned toward Fisher and the small cup the doctor held in his hand, grasping the tip of its thin straw between his teeth. The water flooded his mouth with cool relief, prompting him to take several gulps of it before releasing the straw. Leaning back, he felt the liquid’s chill as it coursed down his throat.
“How are you feeling?” Fisher asked, an almost paternal expression gracing his weathered features as he set the cup on a stand next to the bed.
“My arm hurts,” Pennington replied.
Fisher smiled. “I heard you the first time. That’s why I came in.” He paused, glancing toward the middle of the bed. “Which arm?”
“That’s not very damn funny,” Pennington said, scowling.
Holding up a hand, the doctor shook his head. “I’m not trying to be, son. It’s a legitimate question given your situation. Do you remember our last conversation?”
Pennington paused for a moment, attempting to sift through his grogginess and pain in order to recall when he might last have spoken to the physician. “I think so. It was after I was shot.”
“Yes, it was,” Fisher said, nodding. “You were brought to the hospital from the docking platform, near the Orion ship.”
Memories came flooding back into Pennington’s consciousness, accompanied by another series of dull throbs in his shoulder. “You took my arm.”
“I did,” Fisher said, his eyes now betraying a hint of sadness. “I took your arm.”
Closing his eyes, Pennington swallowed as his throat once more felt dry. “I remember.” He turned his head, opening his eyes again as he looked to his shoulder. The arm, which had been in enough discomfort to awaken him—and in which he still felt that odd, constant ache—was gone. His shoulder seemed oddly misshapen to him, a sensation enhanced by the fact that the empty right sleeve of his blue hospital tunic appeared to have been tucked neatly behind his back.
“The disruptor bolt damn near destroyed your shoulder,” Fisher said after a moment, “and damaged a great deal of the surrounding tissue. There was no way I could regenerate or repair what you would’ve needed fast enough to save your arm. I had to make a choice. I’m very sorry.”
“No, Doctor,” Pennington said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “No apologies needed. I’m sure you did everything you could to patch me up.” He shrugged. “This will just take some … getting used to, is all.” As he spoke the words, he realized his gaze remained fixated on his right shoulder, and the space where his arm should be resting beside him on the mattress.
“This doesn’t have to be permanent, you know,” the doctor said. “Despite the damage, you’re a perfect candidate for a bio-synthetic replacement. After some extended sessions with our dermal and muscle tissue regenerators, it’ll definitely be an option worth exploring.”
“Of course,” Pennington said, his voice drifting as his thoughts turned to the memory of a veteran reporter he had known at the start of his Federation News Service career. Despite the elder journalist’s byline of Garold Hicks, the news staff had called him “Old Dane” for reasons Pennington never did learn. Old Dane had been as spry and resourceful as reporters one-third his age, and among the tales he heard Hicks relate time and again was how the man had lost his left arm and leg while covering a conflict on a planet being considered for Federation member-ship—an application that subsequently was denied once Old Dane’s reports went live on FNS feeds. He regaled every new member of the bureau staff with his account, ending it each time by saying, “That piece cost me an arm and a leg—but it cost that planet a hell of a lot more!” Pennington never noticed Old Dane’s replacement limbs slowing him down, and that remembrance now seemed to offer a measure of emotional comfort, if only for a mome
nt.
As for physical comfort, Pennington admitted to himself that he could use that, too. “Right now, Doc, I’d be happy for something to ease this pain.”
Fisher offered a knowing nod. “I understand, but the best I can do is to give you something to help you sleep. The pain you’re feeling isn’t real. It’s all in your head.”
Wincing at the words, Pennington lolled his head back on his pillow. “You think I’m just imagining this? It hurts like hell.”
“That’s not what I meant,” the doctor replied, his tone one that Pennington recognized as intended to soothe him. “Your neurological circuitry is adapting to your loss. It’s attempting to rewire itself—to work around what it can no longer control. Now, we can try a few sessions with a neural neutralizer, or I can go in there with a cortical stimulator and desensitize a region of your thalamus, but I don’t want to try any of those solutions before you decide whether you want to try biosynthesis. You might feel better, but you need all the synaptic activity you can get if you want that new arm to work.”
Despite a momentary wave of disappointment he felt sweeping across him, Pennington accepted the explanation. “Okay, you got me.” Then, forcing a smile, he added, “I mean, I can’t bloody well type with just one arm, can I?”
Fisher chuckled at that. “You input your stories manually?”
“Sometimes,” Pennington replied, shrugging again. “When the mood strikes, or I’m not in too much of a hurry.”
