by Dave Stern
“Ah—that was a joke, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and went right on working.
Reed sighed, and went to get the diagnostic kit from the back of the armory. On his way, he passed the monitor Hart had been looking at when he came in.
There was a picture up on the screen—a man in his forties, with a long, thin face and a shock of short gray hair. Reed stopped and studied it a moment.
The man looked oddly familiar to him.
“Who’s this, Ensign?” He turned around just as Hart was looking up from the console.
The expression on her face was one of sheer horror.
“Oh. I’m sorry I left that on the display—I’ll clear it right away.”
“It’s all right,” Reed said, surprised at Hart’s reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just saw the picture and—”
Hart had kept moving while he talked, practically dashing across the armory. Now she reached the workstation, and cleared the image on it, virtually shoving him out of the way to operate the controls. Her face was flushed, almost beet red.
“Ensign, what—”
“Sorry, sir.” She lowered her head. “It’s personal. I would rather not talk about it.”
“Of course,” Reed nodded. “I apologize again for intruding.”
She went back to the firing bay. He got the diagnostic kit. They worked for close to an hour to disassemble the bay and check the integrity of every circuit in it, in that whole time exchanging not a single extraneous word. More than once. Reed thought about asking about the picture and the man in it, but from the way Hart deliberately avoided eye contact with him, he decided the effort would be fruitless. He’d talk to her about it at some point, of course: he was her direct superior, and he had perhaps an opportunity here to get to know her in a way he hadn’t before.
“That seems to be everything,” he said as they resealed the bay’s access panel. “Thank you again, Ensign.”
“You’re quite welcome, sir.”
He shook his head again, thinking of how stupid he had been to leave his glass on the console. “I’m sorry to put you to all that unnecessary work, though I suppose it would have been worse if I’d spilled it back in engineering—could have ended up in the warp core, or the dilithium chamber, or—”
He stopped in midsentence, because all of a sudden he remembered where he’d seen the man in the picture before. Given Hart’s service record, he was surprised it had taken him so long to recognize him.
“That was Captain Lyman’s picture you were looking at,” Reed said. “From the Achilles.”
“Yes, sir,” Hart said, bowing her head.
“Ensign,” Reed said. “Everyone knows about your service record. Everyone knows what happened to the Achilles, and no one holds any of that against you.”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated.
“So there’s no reason to be ashamed of anything. No reason to hide it.”
“No, sir.”
Reed struggled for what to say next. The silence stretched on to an uncomfortable length.
New Year’s Eve or not, it was clear he was going to have to address this issue now.
Which was, of course, when the com sounded.
“Captain Archer to Lieutenant Reed. Archer to Lieutenant Reed.”
“Excuse me a moment.” Reed flicked a channel open. “Right here, Captain.”
He heard laughter in the background. Trip and Hoshi, it sounded like. “We’re waiting on you, Malcolm.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Just finishing up with a little problem we had down here.”
“Will you get out of that damn armory and get up here?” That was Trip. “All work and no play—”
“Yes, yes, I hear you,” Reed said. “It really will be only a few minutes. Reed out.” He closed the channel before Trip could give him any more guff, and turned back to Hart.
“I think we’re all set here, sir,” Hart said. “I’ll get to work on repairing that cable in the firing bay, if it’s all right.”
Reed nodded. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated a moment, then decided to press on. “Ensign—I will want to talk to you later. About Captain Lyman, and the Achilles.”
“There’s no need,” she said quickly.
“It’s not a request.” Reed consulted his schedule. “Ten-thirty hours, day after tomorrow, in my quarters?”
Hart seemed to shrink in on herself. For a moment, then, she seemed small and tired, and very vulnerable.
“Yes, sir,” she said, finally. “In your quarters, ten-thirty.”
“Good.” He affected a small smile. “Nice work, picking up that damaged cable. And thanks again for your help in cleaning up the champagne. Perhaps next year, we can convince you to drink some.”
“Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”
But she didn’t sound like she was.
Reed smiled again. “Happy New Year, Ensign.”
“Happy New Year, sir.”
He left her alone in the armory then, and headed for the captain’s mess.
The whole way there, he thought about Ensign Hart.
Not good, that on a night she could have spent celebrating at any one of half a dozen parties aboard ship, she’d chosen to be by herself. Why was it so hard for her to forget the past? What had happened aboard Achilles?
Even as the clock chimed midnight, and the celebration in the captain’s mess kicked into high gear, Reed couldn’t shake the image from his mind, Hart standing before him in the armory, head bowed.
He felt sad, and sorry, and sympathetic all over again.
He felt certain that she was asking him for help.
Three
CORRIDOR, C-DECK
1/16/2151 1822 HOURS
HART’S FACE FADED AWAY, and the here and now returned. Captain Archer had taken them the long way around. E-deck to the turbolift, then come all the way around C-deck to the converted crew quarters that were serving as the prisoner’s cell.
At first Reed thought Archer was doing it to give himself more time to talk to the ambassador, to put their relationship on a smoother path. But the captain’s attempts (a series of stop-and-start—and to Reed’s eyes antagonistic—conversations) to engage her in conversation ended by the time they reached the turbolift.
As the six of them stepped out onto C-deck and proceeded down the corridor in silence, Reed began to suspect that the captain might have had a different motive altogether in choosing such a circuitous route to their destination.
Maybe Archer was giving him a chance to talk to Roan.
He fell back a step and turned to the commodore.
“So how could you tell?”
Roan looked confused for a second. Then he smiled. “How you were the ship’s weapons officer? Or armory officer, if you prefer?”
“Yes—and either title is fine.”
“Well,” Roan fell back a step as well, “let’s just say that there is a certain focus one has when one is responsible for defending so many lives. At least, if you’re doing the job properly.”
“Well.” Reed smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“Although I have to admit a lot of my attention was focused on your ships, Commodore. They’re very formidable-looking vessels.”
“Yes, they are. No disputing the fact that they’re designed for battle, is there?” Roan shook his head. “Part of me regrets that was your first impression of our race, Lieutenant—we are not that warlike a people. It’s just that with what occurred down on the outpost ...”
“I understand, sir.” Reed decided to change the subject. “So you were a weapons officer as well?”
“Yes. But that was a long time ago. Now I command our defense forces in this sector.”
“You must have had a distinguished career—for you to end up where you are now.”
“Where I am now?” Roan shook his head. “Where I am now is more a matter of politics than anyt
hing else.”
“Sir?”
“It’s not important, Lieutenant. Let us just say that I far preferred my years aboard our Striker ships to what I do now.” The commodore looked around the corridor and shook his head again. “Though I’m not sure I’m up for the rigors of extended duty at this point in my life.”
“It has its drawbacks, I will admit,” Reed said.
“The food?”
“No, the food here is actually quite good.”
“Our food was terrible,” Roan said. “Terrible. Of course, that never mattered at the time. One ate to replenish energy, not for pleasure. Back then.”
“I have to admit,” Reed said, “I rarely pay attention to what I’m eating.”
“That’s because you’re still young. You have the energy to enjoy other things in life.”
The two continued in silence a moment.
“I made the closest friends of my life back then,” Roan said. “Aboard the Cressoti, and the Brosman—two of the ships I first served on.”
“I understand completely.”
“Your crewman who was killed,” Roan said. “Did you know him?”
The question hit Reed almost like a physical blow. He forced himself to keep walking.
“Her,” he said. “I did know her.”
“I’m sorry.” Roan stopped for a second, then looked at Reed. “Fairly well, I think—or am I wrong?”
“No. You’re not.”
“You served together a long time?”
“Only a year.”
“A year aboard a ship like this is a long time. You have my sympathies, Lieutenant. It is always hard to lose a friend.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The two walked on. The rest of the party had gotten a good two dozen feet out in front of them, and as Reed watched, they rounded a bend in the corridor, and momentarily disappeared from sight.
“In your journeys,” Roan said, “you have seen many worlds? Many civilizations?”
“Some. We’re hoping that this sector will have more.” And not without good reason. They were set to rendezvous with the Shi’ar, a Vulcan research vessel, in a few days, and that meeting marked the point where Vulcan surveys had stopped completely. From then on, Enterprise and her crew would largely be blazing new territory. “I don’t suppose you could tell us what we might expect to find in this direction?”
“I wish I could. I wish I knew more about what is out here.” Roan sounded frustrated, almost angry. “But exploration has not been a primary component of our policy for many years.”
“I see.” Reed paused. “What, may I ask, is the primary component of your policy?”
“Ah.” Roan smiled. “You mean to say, what was the purpose of our outpost on the planetoid below?”
Reed tried to cover his surprise—then shrugged. So much for subterfuge, he thought.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer that question, Lieutenant. At the moment.”
“I understand,” Reed said.
“I hope our relationship proceeds to the point where I can share that knowledge with you.”
“As do I, Commodore.”
Reed looked up and realized that they had arrived at the prisoner’s cell.
The other four members of their party—the captain, Hoshi, Valay, and Natir—were stopped in front of it. Bishop and Crewman Diaz were there as well, on guard.
Also there—to Reed’s surprise—was Dr. Phlox. He was in the middle of an argument with Dr. Natir.
“I concede your credentials in treating this species, sir,” Phlox was saying. “I do not concede that my obligation to treat him ends with your arrival.”
“I will be happy to let you take a sample of the serum,” Natir responded. “You will see that it is harmless—it simply relaxes certain inhibitions the patient may have so that he responds more freely to questioning.”
“As I mentioned before,” Phlox said, a shade of irritation creeping into his voice, “the prisoner has just regained consciousness. I do not think it wise to subject him to any sort of sustained interrogation. A few questions, at most. Then he should rest.”
“He is a prisoner of war,” Valay said. “He does not warrant such consideration.”
“He’s going to get it,” Archer said. “As long as he’s on my ship. You may speak to him briefly. Then I will speak to him briefly. And then we will leave. I hope I make myself clear.”
Valay’s face darkened in anger. Which—with a very visible effort—she held in check.
“Your ship, your rules,” she said finally.
“Good.” Archer nodded to Bishop and Diaz, who overrode the door lock. It hissed open, and the captain stepped inside. The others followed.
When Reed moved to join them, Phlox stepped in his way.
“Lieutenant,” the doctor said quietly. “I wanted you to know—the autopsy is almost done.”
“And?” Reed asked. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not so far. I should have final results in another hour.” He looked past Reed, and into the prisoner’s quarters. “I don’t trust these Sarkassians at all. Excuse me.”
He pushed past Reed and into the cell.
The lieutenant hesitated a moment before following him in.
Somewhere inside, Reed realized, he was suddenly nervous. He thought a moment, and decided that it must be because he associated the prisoner, Goridian, with Alana. Seeing him, Reed would be reminded of her.
But he didn’t know why that should be a cause for concern. Perhaps the captain had been right—perhaps he wasn’t up to this right now. He certainly hadn’t been able to get anything useful out of Commodore Roan.
“Sir?”
Bishop had spoken. Reed turned to him.
“The doctor’s talking about Ensign Hart?”
“Yes.” The captain had insisted on an immediate autopsy, to discover if there was anything physically wrong with her that could account for her actions.
“Could you—”
“You’ll know the second I do, Crewman.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Reed looked into the man’s eyes then, and saw genuine concern there. Which made him aware he’d been derelict in talking to the rest of the armory crew about Hart. Not so much in giving them the facts about what had happened to her, how she’d died (God knows that was all over the ship), but just in terms of keeping them in the loop, with regard to things like the autopsy. They had served with her for over a year; they deserved to know what was going on. Bishop especially—he, more than anyone else in the armory crew, had always treated her fairly. Never pressed her to do things that made her uncomfortable, or tried to dig up the past.
Unlike me, Reed thought, remembering.
I couldn’t leave it alone.
Four
BRIDGE
1/03/2151 1744 HOURS
HE WAS STARING AT a picture of Ensign Hart—how she’d looked back aboard the Achilles. A less severe haircut—a less severe expression on her face.
“Lieutenant.”
Reed turned hurriedly from the display at his station to see Sub-Commander T’Pol standing next to him. He took a quick step forward, blocking the display from her view.
“Sub-Commander. What can I do for you?”
“You are making extensive demands on the library computer system,” T’Pol said. “Are these related to your tactical functions?”
“No. They’re—ah—personal.”
“I see. Could I ask, then, that you limit your usage for the next hour. In preparation for our rendezvous with the Shi’ar, I would like to consolidate several of our databases in order to maximize the amount of available data storage.”
“Sub-Commander, our rendezvous isn’t for another few weeks yet,” Reed said.
“Two weeks, to be more precise, Lieutenant. Fourteen days, during which I have numerous other tasks to perform, and as most of the crew is otherwise occupied
during the dinner hour, I was hoping to get a head start on—”
“All right, all right, I understand,” Reed said, reflecting that Vulcans had nothing on the Boy Scouts when it came to being prepared. “I’m going to the mess in a minute as well. Let me just finish up here.”
“Thank you. Please let me know when you have completed your task.”
He waited until T’Pol had returned to her station before turning back to his screen.
He’d been researching Jon Lyman and the Achilles, and what happened at Dinai Station. His memory of the incident had been, for the most part, correct. There had been a raid by pirates at Dinai, a dilithium-refining facility near the Denobulan cluster. The Achilles had happened by, and attempted a rescue, with disastrous results. Two hostages (both Vulcans) were killed, the pirates escaped with a fortune in dilithium crystals, and the Achilles itself was badly damaged, taking heavy casualties in the process—including her captain.
Yet for all the headlines the incident had generated, there were precious few details about what had actually occurred at the station. Starfleet records were similarly unhelpful—though they did list Ensign Alana Hart as a member of the security team who’d attempted to infiltrate the dilithium facility. But again, there was very little hard information in the files, and what was even more surprising, no eyewitness testimony from the survivors.
Strange. He wondered if there wasn’t something concrete hiding behind Hart’s reluctance to discuss the past.
Reed closed up the records he’d been studying, and cleared his display.
“All yours, Sub-Commander,” he told T’Pol, and left the bridge.
In the mess hall, he caught sight of Trip at a corner table. He got a tray of food and pulled up a chair next to him.
“That’s a mistake,” Trip said, pointing at Reed’s plate.
“Why mistake? The meat loaf is good. I had it yesterday.”
“My point exactly. You should’ve gotten the fried chicken—that’s hot out of the skillet.”
“Lot of fat in the fried chicken.”
“Lot of taste.”
“Taste away,” Reed said. Trip did just that. Reed pushed his own food around for a moment, then set down his fork.
