Star Trek: Vanguard: Precipice

by David Mack

  T’Prynn held her chin up. “I am, Your Honor.”

  “On the charge and specifications of unlawfully tampering with official Starfleet medical records, this court finds Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn guilty.

  “On the charge and specifications of willfully making fraudulent statements under oath, this court finds Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn guilty.

  “On the charge and specifications of going absent without leave, this court finds Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn guilty.

  “On the charge and specifications of fleeing Starfleet prosecution, this court finds Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn guilty.

  “On the charge and specifications of dereliction of duty, this court finds Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn … not guilty.”

  A pall descended on the courtroom. No one spoke for several seconds. The only sounds were muted clicks and beeps from the recording computer.

  Folding his hands, Nogura asked, “Do you wish to make any statement before this court issues its sentencing decision?”

  T’Prynn remained at attention. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn, it is the ruling of this court that you be immediately reduced two grades in rank, to lieutenant, junior grade. Your security clearance is reduced to level two. Two official reprimands will be entered into your official Starfleet record—one for tampering with your medical file, the other for going AWOL.

  “Furthermore, you will be placed on disciplinary probation for a period of five years. During this probation, you will be barred from advancing in rank and from any increase in your security clearance. If, during your probation, you incur so much as a reprimand, you will be subject to a summary dishonorable discharge from Starfleet service, as well as imprisonment.

  “Do you understand the terms of your sentence, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir,” T’Prynn replied.

  “Do you wish to challenge the verdict or sentence of this court?”

  “No, sir.”

  Nogura picked up his striker. “Then these proceedings are closed, and this court stands adjourned.” The admiral tapped the bell, then stood from his chair. Khatami and Desai got up with him, and together the court-martial board exited the courtroom.

  Lieutenant Moyer looked thunderstruck. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered. Grinning, the young redhead turned toward T’Prynn. “We did it! Congratulations!”

  “Thank you, sir,” T’Prynn said. Facing the empty bench, she realized she had done exactly what she had set out to do.

  Now all she had to do was live with it.

  55

  “I just wanted to congratulate you on staying out of jail,” Pennington said as he and T’Prynn strolled along a path through Fontana Meadow in Vanguard’s enormous terrestrial enclosure.

  “It would be more appropriate to commend my legal counsel,” T’Prynn said, missing the gist of his sentiment as Vulcans so often did. “Her labor secured my relatively light sentence.”

  Pennington sighed. “I simply meant that your plan to work your way back into Starfleet’s good graces was a success.”

  “True. Though I might not have succeeded without your help.” With a sidelong look she added, “I am in your debt, Tim.”

  He reacted with mild surprise. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you call me by my first name.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  They passed by a cluster of off-duty Starfleet personnel playing soccer on one of the lawns near the buildings of Stars Landing. Two men, a brawny human and a lanky Vulcan, stutter-stepped around the black-and-white-checkered ball, vying for control until the Vulcan seized possession and broke away on a charge toward his opponents’ goal, trailed by the other players.

  T’Prynn asked, “So, will you be staying on Vanguard now that Starfleet has dropped its charges against you?”

  “For a while. I just signed a lease on a new apartment.” Searching the Vulcan woman’s face for any hint of what might be going on under its surface, he asked, “And you?”

  “My successor, Commander ch’Nayla, has requested I remain on Vanguard under his supervision,” she said. “I am not permitted to share any details beyond that.”

  Pennington nodded. “I understand.”

  They stopped in front of the meadow’s ornate fountain. High above their heads, its towering plume of water dispersed and became a fine mist that bent the enclosure’s ersatz daylight into a rainbow. The cool spray kissed Pennington’s face as it fell to the ground, drawn by the pull of artificial gravity.

  He sensed T’Prynn was hesitating to say something, but he waited for her to find the right words in her own time. After several seconds, she turned halfway toward him. “Tim … my superiors would like to know how much of our shared experience from the past year will be appearing in your future published writings.”

  It was not an unexpected question.

  “None of it,” he said.

  She looked perplexed. “I do not understand. You are not sworn to secrecy, and as a civilian you have the right to speak and publish freely. Why suppress such information now?”

  He tucked his hands in his pockets and smiled at her.

  “Call it a wedding present.”

  56

  Where did this year go?

  That question nagged at Dr. Ezekiel Fisher as he went about his evening routine. In a few days he would turn another page on the calendar and mark the passing of another cycle of time.

  And take another step toward death, he brooded.

  Morbid thoughts plagued him with increasing frequency now that he was alone on the station.

  Diego Reyes was more than a year gone; his service record had listed him as dead until a recent report from T’Prynn upgraded his status to missing in action.

  It had been almost as long since Ambassador Jetanien had departed the station on an indefinite leave of absence. Though the Chelon was normally talkative to a fault, he had been adamantly secretive about his destination and his reasons for leaving. Fisher had never been close with Jetanien, but they had shared a bond because of their mutual friendship with Diego.

  Most cutting of all was the absence of Fisher’s pseudo-protégé and former attending physician, Dr. Jabilo M’Benga. Despite knowing for more than a year that the young doctor had requested a transfer to starship duty, it still had filled Fisher with disappointment when he’d heard M’Benga wouldn’t be coming back.

  Onward and upward, he reminded himself as he downloaded that day’s personal mail to his data slate.

  While the handheld device retrieved his electronic correspondence from the station’s computers, he sauntered into his kitchen nook and poured hot water from an old-fashioned kettle into a mug he had prepared with a few tablespoons of cocoa mix. Tendrils of vapor twisted up from the rich, creamy beverage. A soft beep from the data slate confirmed he had new messages waiting to be read.

  It was the usual smattering of crap: solicitations to consider starting a private practice on one backwater rock or another; newsletters from various medical journals to which he subscribed, or from associations he had been foolish enough in his youth to join; a reminder that his sixty-fifth high-school reunion was coming up; a letter from some young know-it-all who had found a picayune error in one of Fisher’s old journal articles and just had to bray about it, not realizing Fisher himself had publicly corrected that same error a decade ago; and so it went.

  Then he saw it, the grain of wheat hidden in the chaff: a new message from Jabilo. Fisher smiled. Speak of the devil.

  He carried his cocoa to the main room of his quarters, settled onto the sofa, and rested his feet on his coffee table as he started reading the welcome missive.

  Dear Zeke,

  I meant to drop you a line sooner, but the last several months have been jam-packed with vintage Starfleet SNAFUS.

  First, in January they recalled me to Earth from Vulcan because they said they had a starship billet for me. Well, it
was the same old Starfleet story: “Hurry up and wait.” I hopped a ride back to Earth on a frigate called the Tremina, but when I checked in at Starfleet Medical in February, they said the billet was already filled.

  So guess what they did next?

  They sent me back to Vulcan.

  I got the impression I might be there a while, so at the end of March I accepted a medical-research position at the Vulcan Science Academy.

  Don’t fall asleep on me, old man. This is where the story gets interesting.

  In June the Enterprise made a port call on Vulcan. Around the same time, there was a rash of homicides inside the Vulcan Academy Hospital. It was a huge scandal. I’m sure you read all about it on the newsfeeds.

  In July I was asked to ship out with a Vulcan medical team that was helping the Enterprise crew treat a plague outbreak on the Vulcan colony of Nisus. I won’t bore you with the details of how we ended up containing the outbreak; you can download the official report from the Starfleet Medical database.

  The upshot is that between the homicide investigation and the mission to Nisus, I made a strong impression on the Enterprise’s new CMO, Leonard McCoy. He made a formal request to Starfleet Command to have me transferred to the Enterprise, ASAP.

  Naturally, I was then sent back to Vulcan and told that McCoy’s request would be “processed with all due haste.”

  That was in August. By October I’d given up all hope of seeing the inside of the Enterprise ever again.

  Skip ahead to mid-November. Some admiral wakes me up one morning at oh-dark-thirty and tells me to pack my gear and get on a fast-warp transport RFN, no questions asked.

  Seventy-two hours later, I’m on Coridan. Turns out Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan had suffered a cardiac failure while en route to the Babel Conference. By the time I arrived the matter had been dealt with, but I guess nearly losing a VIP during a major diplomatic mission finally convinced Starfleet Command that having a Vulcan-medicine specialist on the Enterprise might not be such a bad idea, after all.

  Talk about fortuitous timing: a little more than two weeks after I joined Enterprise’s medical staff, its half-Vulcan first officer, Commander Spock, got himself shot in the chest by a primitive projectile weapon during a landing mission. It was a close call, but he pulled through.

  In many respects, Commander Spock is a remarkable individual. And just between us ol’ sawbones, I think one of the nurses is hopelessly in love with him. I’d give her some advice if I wasn’t having so much fun watching her make a fool of herself.

  Anyway, it’s time for me to cut this short. We’re in some kind of mad hurry to get to Deep Space Station K-7 all of a sudden. If this turns out to be anything interesting, I’ll send you an update as soon as I’m able.

  And believe it or not, I do miss you and the rest of the team at Vanguard Hospital—but nothing compares with being out here on a starship, seeing the galaxy with my own eyes. Every day proves the old cliché is true: wonders never cease.

  Be well, Zeke. I’ll keep you in my thoughts.

  Your friend,

  Jabilo

  Fisher set the data slate on the coffee table and exhaled a deep and tired breath. He was happy for Jabilo, but the younger man’s joie de vivre only made Fisher more aware of how much his own appetite for life was waning with age.

  For the hundredth time that day he flirted with the notion of tendering his resignation with immediate effect. After all, what was holding him on Vanguard? What was there for him to do that some younger surgeon with a security clearance couldn’t do better? Why go on bearing the burden of dire secrets?

  You know why, you old coot, he admonished himself. You made a promise.

  He had told Diego he would look after Rana Desai, that he would be a friend to her in Diego’s absence. She was the only person on the station who loved Diego more than Fisher did. For her sake he would stifle his complaints and play the part of the stoic. As long as she stayed on the station, so would he.

  Lord help us, he mused with bittersweet humor, the things we do for love’s austere and lonely offices.

  57

  T’Prynn stood alone on the stage, the fingers of her right hand barely grazing the keys of the piano.

  It had been more than an hour since the last of the club’s patrons had been shown the door by Manón, its exotically beautiful alien proprietor. Now that the after-hours cleanup was finished, Manón shooed her employees out of the cabaret.

  Transfixed by the details of the baby grand piano—the shine of its polished keyboard, the subtle scratches in its lacquered frame, the reflections of the stage lights on its propped-open lid—T’Prynn only half-listened as Manón closed and locked the club’s front door. She remained still, gazing at the bars of black and white beneath her hand as she listened to Manón’s footsteps echoing in the empty dining room.

  “Everyone’s out,” Manón said. The elegantly dressed woman’s coif of multicolored hair was styled in a helix that curved from her left temple to the back of her right shoulder. Looking up at T’Prynn with her emerald-green, almond-shaped eyes, she asked, “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

  “No, thank you. That will not be necessary.”

  Manón replied, “All right. Turn off the stage lights after you finish. The back door will lock behind you on your way out.”

  T’Prynn nodded. “I will. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Call it a welcome-home gift.” At that, the pale-skinned alien woman slipped away and exited to the kitchen, leaving T’Prynn to face the piano in solitude.

  She pulled back the bench a few centimeters and sat down. Placed her hands over the keys. Tried to find her way back to a melody, to a starting point.

  There was only silence.

  Moving with trepidation, she plunked out one flat note. The sound of it was jarring to her ear. For the first time in her life the instrument felt alien to her. Distant. Unknown.

  I remember the notes, she assured herself. I know the songs. Forcing her hands to work from rote memory, she pressed them into service. She struck all the notes in the right order, but it was a struggle to find the grace in them, to feel the attack in the keys, to hear the sustain in the chords.

  The melody had become hollow. Empty.

  There was no beauty in the music.

  She let her hands fall from the keyboard and rest at her sides. Her mind was quiet, her thoughts calm and ordered.

  For fifty-three years the katra of her dead fiancé Sten, whom she had slain in the heat of the kal-if-fee to escape an arranged marriage, had haunted her mind. He had brought her nothing but pain and madness. His psychic attacks had clouded her logic and inflamed her passions, eroded her control and dulled her conscience. It had taken her total, public collapse to expose her affliction and deliver her into the hands of Dr. M’Benga and the mystics of her childhood home in Kren’than, with whose help she’d finally cast out Sten’s malevolent spiritual essence.

  Free of Sten’s torments she no longer felt any temptation to succumb to base emotions, but she also no longer felt the sweet stirrings of music. Her emotional equilibrium had been purchased at the cost of her only artistic gift.

  T’Prynn closed the keyboard cover. Pushed back the bench. Smoothed the front of her red uniform minidress as she stood. Drew a slow, deep breath and let it go.

  She thought of all she had sacrificed in the name of duty and self-preservation: her lover, her sanity, her career. If the price of her repentance had to be the loss of her music, she was hardly entitled to protest.

  So be it.

  Bidding a silent farewell to her muse, T’Prynn turned her back on the piano. Then she stepped off the stage and back into the shadows, where she belonged.

  58

  December 29, 2267

  Abandoning the most boring staff meeting of his life, Admiral Heihachiro Nogura quick-stepped out of his office into Vanguard’s operations center. A shrill Yellow Alert klaxon whooped once in the normally hushed ci
rcular compartment.

  Nogura hurried up the stairs to the supervisors’ deck. “Commander Cooper,” he called out, announcing his arrival. “Sitrep.”

  Cooper looked up from the Hub. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting, Admiral, but we’ve picked up an armed Orion merchantman on approach. Bearing three-eight mark five, range one million kilometers.” Dropping his voice as Nogura drew near, Cooper added, “It’s Ganz’s ship, sir—the Omari-Ekon.”

  “Give him credit for having a pair,” Nogura said. “I told him if he ever came back I’d put a hole in his ship, and I meant it. Raise shields, arm and lock all phaser banks, and order Endeavour to stand by for rapid deployment, just in case.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Cooper, who turned and swiftly relayed the admiral’s commands to a team of junior officers.

  On the lower level of the operations center, the station’s other senior personnel filed out of Nogura’s office. Jackson, Desai, and ch’Nayla followed Nogura up to the supervisors’ deck, while chief engineer Isaiah Farber commandeered a science-purposed workstation for his use.

  Ambassador Akeylah Karumé—a striking, colorfully attired, ebony-skinned human woman who had temporarily been promoted into Jetanien’s role as Vanguard’s senior diplomat— seemed content to remain removed from what was transpiring around her. She walked to an open area of the operations level between the supervisors’ deck and the enormous wraparound viewscreen that dominated the high, curving bulkheads.