by Dave Stern
“Trip—do you ever have problems with anyone on your staff? Fitting in, I mean?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who?”
“All of ’em.” He shrugged. “You have good people, you’re always going to have some friction when they deal with each other. Especially on a long mission like this, cooped up together day after day after day. The trick is to keep on top of things, keep the lines of communication open, and not to let any bad feelings fester. And make sure you’re always the bad guy any time there’s a problem.” He smiled. “That way they start to hate you, not each other.”
“Command one-oh-one, by Charles Tucker the third.”
“I’m kidding,” Trip said. “About the hate part.” He frowned. “We talking about anyone in particular here?”
Reed hesitated. “Hart.”
Trip nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard things about her. Doesn’t play well with others.”
“Yes. She’s just not fitting in. A bit of a loner—as you suggested.”
Trip snorted. “Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I wasn’t even sure you had a first name until six months into the mission.”
“Very funny.” But Reed saw his point.
Trip took another bite of his fried chicken. “She is kinda cute, though.”
Reed rolled his eyes. “Not that that’s an issue.”
“Sometimes it is.” Trip set down his chicken, and frowned. “Am I remembering right—she was on Achilles?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well there it is. You gotta give her some time, that’s all. That was—” He shook his head, clearly searching for the words. “It must have been hard. I can’t imagine.”
“It’s been a few years since all that, though.”
“Something’s still bothering her, obviously. You should find out what.”
“I’ve tried. She’s managed to miss every meeting we’ve set up. Either she’s covering other peoples shifts, working over on her own—”
“She can’t be working all the time,” Trip said.
“You gotta go find her.”
Reed nodded. “You’re right.”
He took a bite of the meat loaf then, and frowned.
Trip was right about that too. It was dry as a bone.
Reed went to the armory after dinner and puttered around for a while. His shift was long over; the next one was due to start shortly. Hart was scheduled to work it. His initial thought had been to catch her when she came on duty, but he realized now that could backfire. Better to go to her cabin, and talk there.
On his way, he briefly considered getting Hart on the com to warn her he was coming, but quickly decided not to. A surprise visit might make for a little awkwardness, but if he did give her a heads-up, she might end up climbing out the airduct to get away from him.
Not what I envisioned running a department was like, Reed reflected, coming to a stop outside her cabin door.
He buzzed the com.
“Yes?”
“Ensign, it’s Lieutenant Reed. May I speak with you a minute?”
There was a long pause—so long that Reed half wondered if she wasn’t, in fact, using the airduct to escape him. Then the door slid open. Hart stood in the entrance, a faint flush of color on her face.
“Sir,” she said. “I’m sorry—I “wasn’t expecting you, or I would have answered right away. I was just getting ready to come on duty.”
Her hair, he noticed, was down. It was the first time he’d seen her wear it that way. It looked better that way, he thought. Not entirely regulation, but—
“Sir?”
Reed suddenly realized Hart was waiting for him to say something.
“Oh. Ah—may I?” Reed asked, and before she had time to respond, he stepped past her into the cabin. She followed, and the door slid shut behind her.
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” Reed said. “But I thought perhaps we could talk for a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” She stood very still, slumped over, almost, waiting to be rebuked for missing all their previous appointments. Reed didn’t think that necessary.
“Is there a place we could sit?” Reed asked, looking around. Like the majority of the crew compartments on this deck, Hart’s was a two-person cabin. Her roommate for the first few weeks of the mission had been Cravens from engineering, but Cravens had since decided to bunk elsewhere, leaving Hart all by herself. Which was no doubt how she preferred it.
“Over here,” Hart said, leading him to a recessed alcove along the wall. She pulled up a chair for herself, and then one for Reed. They sat down opposite each other.
“So,” Reed began. “I wanted to continue our discussion from ...”
He frowned. There was a shelf set into the bulkhead behind Hart. It held a single picture, and a handful of books. The picture was of an older man and woman—her parents, he guessed. One of the books was an oversized blue volume that looked very familiar. He squinted and made out the words on the spine.
England in the Seven Years’ War.
“Corbett?” Reed couldn’t believe it. “That’s not Corbett, is it, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir. It is.” Hart reached up and handed the book down to him. “A facsimile, but still—”
“Good God,” Reed said, smiling as he flipped through the pages. “My father gave me a copy of this when I was sixteen years old. I broke the spine on it.”
“My aunt gave me mine,” Hart said. “When I joined Starfleet. She thought if I was going into the service, I might as well understand how battles were supposed to be fought.”
“My father’s words exactly. This was the primer for him. He used to quiz me on it, for heaven’s sake.” Reed shook his head, thinking about those late night skull sessions with his dad. The closest they’d ever been really, studying Corbett, Fuller, Liddell Hart, even a little Churchill.
But mostly Corbett.
“The three c’s, remember?” Reed continued. “ ‘Convoy’—”
“—‘contain, and conjunct.’ ” Hart finished the old maxim for him.
The two looked at each other. Both were smiling now.
“Convoy your ships to protect them from the enemy,” Reed said. “Contain the enemy’s fleet close to home. And conjunct—conduct joint-forces exercises to speed your operations.”
“You have to wonder what Corbett would make of war now,” Hart said. “How much technology has changed everything.”
“Has it, though? Remember World War Three? What happened to ECON’s fleet—gone like that.” Reed snapped his fingers.
“Not exactly the same thing, sir,” Hart said.
Reed shook his head. “Exactly the same thing.”
“I disagree. That was destruction, not containment.”
“With the same outcome.” Reed shook his head. “Ah, well. My father didn’t buy my ideas about that war, either. Or about Starfleet. Pissed him off beyond words when I decided to enlist here rather than in the Royal Navy.” Reed continued to flip through the book as he talked. “I haven’t thought about this stuff in years—some interesting things here though. ...”
“Borrow it, if you like.”
“No, that’s all right. It’s in the computer—I can look at it there.” He held the book out for her to take back. “Thanks anyway.”
“Please, sir—go ahead. It’s not the same thing, looking at it on a monitor.”
Reed nodded. “You’re right, of course.” He held up the book. “All right—I will take it. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Reed settled the book on his lap.
“So,” he said, looking up at Hart.
And just like that, the comfortable rapport between the two of them was gone, and Reed was acutely aware of what he’d come here to talk about.
So, from the look in her eyes, was Ensign Hart.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble the last few day
s to avoid talking to me, Ensign,” he said. “I’ve been trying to figure out why.”
Hart’s head was bowed, and her hands were in her lap. She twisted her fingers together nervously.
“I’m sorry, sir. I—I try not to think about the Achilles too much, sir. Or Captain Lyman.”
“I can understand that,” Reed said. “Some painful memories there, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But some good ones as well?”
“Yes, but ... they’re not as—present in my mind. I just remember the others.”
“What happened at Dinai.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve been reviewing those records—as many of them as I could lay my hands on,” Reed said. “And there’s not a lot of detail there. I can’t figure out exactly what happened.”
“Achilles happened to be in the area. We made a routine call in to the station, and the commander responded with a coded SOS. We tried to help, but ...”
She sighed heavily, and stood. She walked to the small window at the far end of her quarters. Reed followed her there.
“How did you try to help? That’s what the records don’t say.”
“It was a rescue mission,” Hart answered, her back to him. “It went wrong.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say.”
“You mean you can’t remember?”
“No, I—” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Reed studied her profile. She was sorry, he saw. More than sorry, in fact. The expression on her face was one of anguish.
“Ensign, what happened out there? Tell me.”
She shook her head again. Her eyes glistened with tears. “I can’t. I’m not supposed to.”
Reed was stunned into silence for a moment.
“Not supposed to?” he asked finally. “Who says you’re not supposed to? Starfleet?” Which would explain the lack of detail in the records—possibly the newsfeeds as well, but still. ... “Why?”
“Oh, please, sir,” she said, turning to him suddenly. “Please don’t ask me about this any more. Please.”
“Ensign, something is obviously bothering you a great deal, and—”
“I can’t talk about it, sir,” she repeated. “Please.”
Reed looked at her and realized Hart wasn’t going to say anything more about Dinai, no matter how hard he pressed.
“All right.” Reed said. “We won’t discuss it right now.”
Which didn’t mean he was giving up. He was going to get the answers he wanted, and soon. Not just for the sake of satisfying his curiosity, either. For Ensign Hart, because whatever had happened, keeping it a secret was tearing her up inside. It was a wound as raw as any he’d ever come across, and it was five years old and festering. It had to be exposed to fresh air and allowed to heal. But not tonight.
Tonight he’d settle for taking a much smaller step toward helping integrate Hart into the crew.
“Hart—what happened on the Achilles—I can accept that you can’t, or won’t, tell me about it. That’s fine. What I can’t accept is that incident affecting your performance aboard Enterprise. And you shouldn’t accept it affecting the rest of your life.”
Hart nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re right, sir.”
“Please,” Reed said. “You can stop calling me sir all the time. Lieutenant will do as well.”
“All right,” Hart said. “Lieutenant it is.”
The two of them stood, still facing each other.
“Hart—when I was reviewing the information on Dinai—I also took the time to pull your service record. And I found that you’re an expert marksman—top five in your class at the Academy. Yet you haven’t even attempted to qualify on the new phase pistols.”
“No, sir.” Hart was avoiding his gaze again. “I didn’t think it necessary—since I hadn’t asked to be on any of the away missions.”
“There may be other situations that arise where you need to use that weapon. You should prepare for them.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“Of course I am. We’ll meet in the armory—tomorrow morning, before breakfast. I’ll show you the weapon then, and we can conduct a little drill—all right?”
“All right.”
Reed smiled. “Good.”
Hart smiled back—not as big a smile as she’d given him before, when they were talking about Corbett, but a smile nonetheless.
“And thank you for the book, again.”
“You’re welcome. I enjoyed our discussion—about Corbett, anyway.” Her smile fell away a little, and Reed knew she was thinking about Dinai again.
“Ensign,” he said sharply. “The past will fade—eventually. I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah.” Reed held up a warning finger. “Lieutenant—remember?”
“Right. Lieutenant.” She hesitated. “Thank you for talking to me. I do appreciate it.”
“Not at all. I feel as if I’ve fallen down on the job a little, to tell you the truth, taking so long to do it.”
“No, no. The faults been mine.”
“Well. Regardless ...” Reed nodded. “I should get going. You’re on duty in a moment.”
“Not for a few moments actually.”
She sounded, suddenly, anxious to prolong the conversation. Reed wondered why. Then he looked closely at her, and got it.
Hart was lonely.
But looking at her, he was also suddenly very aware of something else. Starfleet regulations, in particular one from the officers’ code of conduct.
No fraternization between officers and the crew.
Reed cleared his throat. “No, ah—not to rush off, but I do have some things to attend to. Good night, Ensign.”
“Yes, of course. Good night, Lieutenant.”
Reed stopped at the door, and turned back to her.
“Tomorrow morning in the armory. You’re going to be there, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and smiled again. “I promise.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
Reed fell asleep that night reading in bed, the Corbett propped open on his lap.
But more than the book, Reed remembered his thoughts had been of the woman who’d given it to him.
Five
CABIN C-423
1/16/2151 1924 HOURS
REED PUSHED THE MEMORIES from his mind and entered the cell. The prisoner and Valay were going at it full tilt, yelling at each other through the mesh screen that split the room in two.
“Ma’or tachee, galla.”
“Ma tee taba lee.”
“Maar k’tanga kol nitachee haruka!”
Reed made his way to the captain’s side.
“What language are they speaking?” he asked.
“The prisoner’s,” Archer said. “Hoshi’s on it.”
Reed saw. She stood next to the captain, her hands flying across the translator padd.
The cell was an unfinished compartment in the crew’s quarters, stripped of everything except a bunk and a workstation for the prisoner to eat meals at, separated from the rest of the cell by the floor-to-ceiling sheet of wire mesh. In case the prisoner managed somehow to tear away the mesh, they’d sealed the room’s ventilation shaft and disabled computer access. He would have been trapped anyway. And if he had somehow managed to get the door open, there were the guards to get past.
All of which had been moot points considering that up until early this morning, the prisoner had been unconscious. In a coma. No longer. Now he was shouting at the ambassador as if his life depended on it.
Which just might be the case. Reed realized.
“Hoshi?” Archer asked. “How much longer?”
“A few more seconds,” she replied without looking up from the padd. “The two languages—Sarkassian and Ta’alaat—are not related at all. The Ta’alaat phonemes do seem to have a lot in common with—” She frowned at which she was see
ing on the padd, and shook her head. “Hajjlaran ones? That’s odd. What we know about Hajjlaran civilization—”
“Hoshi,” Archer interrupted. “Let’s save the etymology for later, and concentrate on the task at hand.”
“Yes, sir,” Hoshi said. “Should have it right about—now.”
And suddenly, the translator began to render Valay’s words into English.
“... for every life you took. In fact, unless those who aided you come forward, I promise that what happened at Dar Shalaan will seem like a mild punishment.”
A thin smile crossed the prisoner’s face. “Violence only begets violence, Ambassador. As I hoped you and yours would have learned by now.”
The prisoner was humanoid as well. Shorter, stockier than the Sarkassians, he had slightly darker skin, with a bluish tinge to it. That bluish tinge had not been there when they’d brought the man aboard—Reed was sure of it. Which made him wonder if there wasn’t something to Dr. Natir’s earlier statement that the prisoner had used drugs to alter his appearance.
“You are going to pay for what you’ve done,” the ambassador responded. “I promise you that.”
The captain moved forward.
“Excuse me, Ambassador,” he said. “My turn to talk to this man, I think.”
“Talk is a waste of time,” she said, stepping back. “But—as you wish.”
The captain took her place at the screen.
“My name is Jonathan Archer,” he said. “I’m captain of this vessel.”
“I am Goridian,” the prisoner said.
“He admits that much, at least,” Valay muttered.
“I don’t know you,” the captain continued. “But these people here, the Sarkassians, have accused you of destroying their outpost—murdering their scientists. They want me to turn you over to them.”
“Instead of questioning me,” Goridian said, raising his voice, “why don’t you ask these Sarkassians”—he used the word like a curse, practically spitting it out—“what deaths they have to their credit? Why don’t you ask them what their scientists were doing there? Why don’t you—”
“We do not target innocent civilians!” Valay shot back, standing right at the captain’s shoulder. “We do not wage war on an entire population!”
