Well of Souls

by Ilsa J. Bick

  On the mountain, on his back. Staring into Pahl’s face. Pahl’s lips, moving, but no sound: There had been no sound—because Jase’s comm unit had been switched off.

  “Jase?” Pahl was beside him, his suit pooling around his hips. “You okay?”

  Your thoughts. You could leak.

  “I’m fine.” Hooking his helmet onto its peg, Jase thumbed down the locks to hold it in place. “I’m fine. It’s nothing, Pahl. It’s okay.”

  And this time he even managed a smile.

  Chapter 22

  “Look, facts are facts,” Castillo said, around mashed potato. (The crew’s mess chef was on an Old Earth kick again. Tonight’s menu was meat loaf with a tomato-basil glaze, fluffy mashed potatoes swimming in melted butter, green beans with slivered almonds, fresh-baked apple-walnut pie, and strong hot coffee boiled with chicory and finished with a dash of cinnamon, New Orleans-style.)

  “Facts?” asked Thule G’Dok Glemoor, his forkful of salad halfway to his mouth. The tactical officer sat at Castillo’s left elbow. “What facts? We have only Starfleet Intelligence’s word for anything.”

  Swallowing, Castillo used the side of his fork to chop off another juicy, steaming hunk of meat loaf, spear it, and then cram the bite into his mouth. “If Starfleet Intelligence says they found stuff,” he said, his voice muffled by meat loaf, “they found stuff, pure and simple. Anyway, captain’s got no choice. They want him; she’s got to hand him over, no two ways about it.”

  “You’re suggesting that we simply take their word?”

  “You think they make these things up? Not a chance. Besides…” Cheeks bulging, Castillo shrugged, swallowed. Hiccupped and then followed that with a gulp of ice water. He placed the flat of his hand against his chest, made a face as whatever he hadn’t chewed well went down. “Besides, from what I heard, they’ve been watching the commander for quite a while, after that Ryn thing…you know,” he finished, vaguely.

  Glemoor’s frills twitched as he chewed his lettuce with a contemplative air. “He was cleared. Now, all of a sudden, he isn’t. Wasn’t.” He shook his head, the muscles of his jaw working under his gleaming ebony skin. “I don’t understand that.”

  Focused on cleaning his plate of every last molecule of mashed potato, Castillo grunted. “Boy, I do.”

  “Oh?” asked Bat-Levi. She sat opposite Glemoor and next to Darco Bulast, who was on her left. After her duty shift was up, she’d thought about skipping dinner and simply grabbing something from a replicator to take back to her quarters. But when she’d clumped her way into the mess, she spied a cluster of crewmen around Castillo, Glemoor, and Anjad Kodell, the ship’s Trill engineer. Characteristically, Darco Bulast was also there at his usual spot: diagonally across from and to Castillo’s right. If there was one crewmember who enjoyed the mess chef’s food more than Castillo, it was the garrulous Atrean; no one could remember the last time he’d missed a meal.

  Seeing them all together had started her heart thumping with panic and she’d almost wheeled around and stumped out, but Glemoor called her over. She couldn’t refuse, gracefully, and then she thought about Tyvan keeping tabs on her and his report—his damn report—and decided that, hell, she’d show him. Hanging onto her guilt: What a load of crap. So, plastering a smile on her face and feeling her scar pull tight as the skin of a drum, she’d come over with her tray, wincing internally at how loud her joints sounded. She just had to get them adjusted.

  If the others noticed her servos’ clatter, they didn’t comment, and despite her anxiety, she appreciated Glemoor’s gesture. Of all the bridge crew, she felt most at ease with Glemoor and Bulast, whom everyone liked for his cheery good humor. After a few moments, though, Bat-Levi knew something was wrong with Bulast. Rather than join in on the conversation—something Bulast did with as much enthusiasm as he ate—the Atrean slumped over his plate, his attention fixed on his food. She wished she had the courage to nudge him and ask what was wrong but didn’t want to pry. She decided that even Bulast could have a bad day.

  A bar. Bat-Levi held a cup of steaming coffee in her right hand, the one with fingernails. Next time Command asked for suggestions, she was going to suggest a bar. A hell of a lot easier to socialize with a drink in your hand.

  Your good hand. Her lips turned down in a self-deprecating grimace. Her left hand, the one without nails, she kept tucked down in her lap, out of sight. Her dexterity was fine, but she was still self-conscious, eating in front of other people. Even after all this time.

  “And what do you understand?” she asked Castillo.

  Castillo’s fork clicked against porcelain as he scraped up tomato sauce and mashed potato. “Look, read your history books. This is the way all intelligence agencies operate. They work behind the scenes, gather bits and pieces of the puzzle. Then when they think they’ve got enough, bam!” He pushed his fork into his mouth and then slid it out, clean. “Done deal by the time they shuttle into town.”

  Bat-Levi frowned. “Are you saying you mistrusted Commander Halak all along? I don’t think that’s being particularly fair.”

  Glemoor spoke up. “Halak had…how do you say? A tough row to hoe, yes. Captain Garrett and Nigel Holmes worked together well. They just…oh, what is that saying? Commander, it’s a sound, meant to signify that two people mesh.”

  “Click,” said Bat-Levi, figuring the Naxeran wouldn’t appreciate the irony about asking her.

  “Yes, thank you.” He turned back to Castillo. “I don’t think the captain’s ever really forgiven herself for what happened to Nigel. You could see it, the way she worked with Halak. Parrying at an arm’s length,” said Glemoor, whose tactical sense and fondness for fencing made him a formidable opponent. He and the captain fenced often, though she favored saber. “She was cautious. We all were.”

  Bat-Levi hiked her shoulders. “Holmes was before my time, and Halak’s always treated me well. But that doesn’t mean Halak has to be everybody’s best friend.”

  Tossing his fork on his plate with a clatter, Castillo sat back and heaved a contented sigh. “Look, I’m not saying that. Of course, everyone’s entitled to his privacy. On a ship, you know, you got to have that, what with everybody packed in here together. But you have to admit he hasn’t been the easiest kind of guy to get to know.”

  Bat-Levi replaced her cup very carefully, not because she was afraid of spilling but she wanted to frame her words well. “Ani seemed to find him worth caring about.”

  Castillo’s eyes shuttered, and Bat-Levi saw the color edge over the ensign’s collar. Even Bulast shot her a quick glance and frowned. Her heart sank. God, she was an idiot. She’d heard the scuttlebutt about Castillo and Batra, and the interesting triangle Halak’s arrival had made. Bat-Levi wanted to kick herself. Just like her to put her foot in her mouth. She compressed her lips into a single thin line. What was she thinking? Better to just do her job and leave the social commentary to somebody else, someone polished, like Glemoor.

  “Castillo,” she began.

  “It’s okay.” Castillo held up a hand. He cleared his throat and gave her a tight smile that did not show his teeth. “Point taken. It’s just, well, he sure as hell picked a funny way of showing he cared, didn’t he? About Ani, I mean.”

  “He couldn’t have known what would happen.”

  Castillo’s chin jutted. “Why not? Farius Prime’s a rough place.”

  “The way I heard it, she just showed up,” Bat-Levi said, even as her mind screamed at her to be quiet. What was she thinking? “He couldn’t control that. Ani was a grown woman, an officer. You can’t treat every situation like the military.”

  “Maybe. But if it had been me?” Castillo snapped his fingers then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Off the planet, like that. Ten seconds flat. You protect the people you love, period.”

  A painful lump swelled in Bat-Levi’s throat. Oh, Joshua. “That’s not always possible, Castillo. No matter how hard you try, sometimes you have to let the people you love take their own risks.
You can’t control everything, even when you want to. It’s like having children.”

  (Where that came from, she had no idea. She knew as much about raising kids as she did about herding Catabrian warthogs.)

  “Eventually, you have to step aside and let kids make mistakes. You just hope that you’ve taught them well enough they don’t do anything terribly foolish, or dangerous. Even then,” she gestured with her bad hand without realizing it, “there’s nothing you can do but pray for the best.”

  “Wrong,” said Castillo, stubbornly. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not talking kids. We’re talking relationship. Totally different. The woman I love? Won’t happen. Officer, no officer; rank, no rank: The minute I think she’s in danger, she’s out.”

  “I think you underestimate most women.”

  “This isn’t about women.”

  “Then what?” Bat-Levi persisted, wondering why she was going after Castillo. He was young, brash and, yes, a tad chauvinistic. He reminded her of Joshua.

  She could almost hear Tyvan’s voice: Maybe that’s why you’re fighting to change his mind.

  Go away, Tyvan. She clamped down on the psychiatrist’s voice. Just you go away.

  Castillo looked exasperated. “Look, this isn’t about what women can, or can’t do. I’d expect someone I care about to do the same for me.”

  “But would you do what she said?”

  “Depends.”

  “But don’t you see,” Glemoor interrupted, “that’s what Bat-Levi is saying. You have a, what you call it, double standard.”

  Bat-Levi turned to the Naxeran, almost grateful that he’d intervened and yet a little angry, too. She was doing just fine on her own, thanks. Relax. He’s just trying to help. That’s what friends do. Tyvan’s thoughts? Her own? Bat-Levi couldn’t tell, and that made her mad. That Tyvan was like an infection.

  “From what I heard, Batra protected Halak as much as Halak tried to protect her,” Glemoor continued. “Anyway, what went on between the two of them is both private, and past. There is nothing we can gain by, how do you call it? That game, played with a stuffed skin, players ran around hitting one another and tumbling to the ground. A most puzzling sport.”

  “Football,” said Castillo. “You mean Monday morning quarterbacking.”

  “Exactly. Yes, thank you.”

  “Sure, I can agree with that.” Castillo pushed his plate away with the flat of one thumb. His fork rattled against porcelain. “My original point was that we don’t know Halak very well. We didn’t know him then, and we don’t know him now. And then we find out he’s not who he said he was.”

  Glemoor stabbed at a slice of pear, nibbled at the port-wine colored flesh. “You are being naïve, Richard. What I don’t know is whether your attitude is willful, or calculated to, how do you say it?” Glemoor stared off into space a moment then returned his golden-yellow gaze to Castillo. “Pull my chain?”

  “Glemoor, you don’t believe SI?” asked Bat-Levi. Privately, she thought the image of the Naxeran eating greens and fruit almost comical. With his long frills and golden eyes, Glemoor looked a little bit like a panther.

  “I don’t know enough to believe or disbelieve. I do know that this would not be the first time an intelligence agency fabricated data to support a hypothesis they were wedded to. Earth history is rife with such examples, from your J. Edgar Hoover to Mars governor Benton Hubbard. And this is not relegated to Earth, you understand. Naxeran history, too—any number of individuals in my own G’Dok clan. Our society is quite stratified. You’d say the Haves, those with less but who still have power, and then the Have-Nots. The G’Dok, the Haves,” Glemoor held his hands as if balancing melons, “and the Leahru, those with less, and then at the very, very bottom, off the scale, the Efram. Either you are born to privilege, or you are not, or you are less than someone with none.”

  “A caste system,” said Bat-Levi, who didn’t know much about Naxera.

  Glemoor nodded, using the knuckles of his right hand to smooth down his frills the way a fastidious man grooms a moustache after taking a sip of tea. Again, Bat-Levi was reminded, involuntarily, of a panther—or a very large, very black cat. “It is that simple, and not simple at all. The Haves, in any society, want to maintain their position. This may include manipulation, or invention.”

  Castillo gave a fake laugh. “You saying SI’s making this up?”

  Glemoor’s ebony brow creased in a frown. “No, no, not at all. I just find the timing interesting. Things are happening too quickly, no? Usually, things that are quite complex go slowly, one step by one step.”

  “You mean, a step at a time,” Bat-Levi offered.

  Glemoor blinked. “I believe I said that. Anyway, my point: If they knew all this before, why not apprehend Halak while he was on Farius Prime, or before? And they’re finding computer records that just happen to corroborate their theories they could not have uncovered before? Everything falls into place so neatly, so quickly? You are telling me that no one looked through his private files before now?”

  “Maybe they were waiting to see who his contact was. Or maybe they just didn’t put two and two together,” said Castillo.

  Glemoor’s frills shivered with surprise. “They implicated Commander Halak in murder but merely bided their time, waiting to gather evidence, yet placing that same commander in a position where, potentially, more deaths would follow? How does that strike you as a strategy?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Castillo. He scooped his hair back in a short, irritated gesture. “You’re the tactician, you tell me.”

  “Well, and I will tell you. It makes no sense, tactically or otherwise. You do not leave an enemy behind the front lines and hope you catch him in the act.”

  “What about when there are spies whom you know are spies? You know, diplomats, stuff like that?”

  “The enemy you know,” said Glemoor, his long slender fingers inscribing an imaginary box in the air, “you hem them in, that is the expression, correct? You give them the illusion of freedom while keeping a close watch. What does not follow is to let the enemy inflict more damage before exposing, or eliminating him.”

  Castillo opened his mouth to reply, but it was the Trill, Anjad Kodell, who spoke first. “That’s a very important point, Glemoor.”

  All eyes swiveled to the chief engineer. Bat-Levi saw that most registered surprise. If Halak had been seen as secretive, Kodell was taciturn, socializing with no one. Worse than she was. At least, she made an effort. It helped that her duties now—as acting first officer—left her no choice. On the other hand, Tyvan was forcing the issue. She wondered if Kodell was required to report to Tyvan. Well, she reasoned, they all were, or would be at some point. That was the psychiatrist’s job, after all: doing a mental exam, like a physical only with talk. And what did Kodell talk about? Bat-Levi’s eyes strayed over the chief engineer’s face. Kodell had chocolate-brown spots sprinkled on the skin of both his temples and down either side of his neck before dipping beneath his collar. Idly, she wondered if the spots continued over his chest, or along his back, and if so, just how far they went. Kodell was thin, though not lanky like Tyvan, or graceful like Glemoor who moved with the ease of the panther he resembled. No, Kodell’s face had a chiseled, hollowed look, as if he’d lost a lot of weight and never properly filled out again. His hair was the color of ripened wheat, light and brown. He was a carefully neutral man, yet Bat-Levi saw that his dark brown eyes were closed somehow, as if he sheltered some inner pain.

  “What point was that?” she asked.

  Kodell regarded her with a mild expression. “Why didn’t Starfleet Intelligence act sooner? Maybe their findings have no veracity. But just like you have to move to contain your enemy, people act to contain themselves, the things inside that they perceive to be the enemies they’ve collected over time.”

  Castillo blinked. “I don’t get your point.”

  “We all have secrets. There are many things people do when they’re desperate, things th
ey do that feel right at the time but which they regret later. Just because something is partly true doesn’t mean it is the whole truth. Maybe there are some things about his past Halak felt he couldn’t share, or didn’t want to.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m saying,” said Castillo. “He was hiding stuff.”

  Kodell looked toward Bat-Levi, then back at Castillo, and his lips moved in a small, and she thought, sad, smile. “And so do you, I’m sure. Everyone has secrets. They may have nothing to do with right or wrong, legal, illegal. Maybe, for Halak, the price of letting anyone peek into his past was, simply, too great. But,” said Kodell, his gaze now wandering over everyone else, “we’re still dancing around the real issue, right? If Starfleet Intelligence is right, Halak’s a murderer. I don’t think anyone’s said anything about that. But why? Why won’t we discuss murder?”

  Murder: The word hung in the air like a bad odor. Castillo dropped his eyes. Glemoor gave a slow, solemn nod. Bulast, who had finished his food, sat listening, with his elbows propped and fleshy chin cupped in his palms.

  Bat-Levi spoke first. “Yes, murder changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course,” said Kodell. “Murder means passion. Sure, you can kill. We’re all trained killers, right? Sometimes our duty is synonymous with death—a last resort, usually, but still there. But murder is different. When there’s murder, there’s passion.”

  “And so the question is,” said Bat-Levi, “that if Halak’s a murderer—if he did kill two crewmen—why?”

  “There is no if,” said Glemoor. “We know. He killed that Bolian.”

  “No,” said Kodell. “You see? Even you use the euphemism. He murdered the Bolian. The Bolian murdered Batra, and Halak murdered him. But that murder we forgive and even understand.”

  Castillo cleared his throat. “Look, this hasn’t got a thing to do with emotion. What Halak did with the Barker crew was cold and calculated and pretty damned ruthless. The way I see it, Halak was afraid he’d be exposed. That’s what SI said. They know the facts, so that says something, right?” He looked over at Bulast who was staring at spot on the table just in front of his plate. “Right?”