“What?” Johnson said. “Benny, do you mean me?”
Benny looked around the room, but past Eaton and Johnson, as if they didn’t exist.
“No,” Eaton whispered, and she tightened her hold on Johnson’s arm. “Let him go,” she said. Johnson said nothing, but kept her gaze solidly on Benny. So did Eaton.
Benny bounded over to the high desk at the center of the back wall, where the sergeant on duty sat. “You there,” Benny said, pointing up at him. “Constable, do you have a bail ticket for Eli Underwood?”
The police officer—What was his name? La Dotio?—looked up briefly from whatever had him so engrossed. Probably a racing form, Eaton thought. La Dotio peered down at Benny with a blank expression, then returned his attention to whatever he’d been doing.
“Benny, who . . . who is Eli?” Johnson wanted to know. She seemed confused. Her body slumped, as though she’d all at once lost the will to fight. She looked to Eaton, clearly in need of guidance.
“It’s all right,” Eaton whispered. “Stay right here.” She released her hold on Johnson’s arm, then walked over to where Benny stood in front of the tall desk. Eaton reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but when he looked at her, she saw recognition in his eyes. “It’s me, Benny,” she said. “It’s me, Kay. I bailed you out.”
“Kay,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “I have to get Eli out.” He sounded desperate, his manner fraught.
“Who’s Eli?” Kay asked.
“We came in together,” Benny said. “We came in from . . . from . . .”
“From Riverdale?” Eaton asked. “From the asylum?”
“We came in together,” Benny repeated.
“Okay,” Eaton told him. She looked up at the officer. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” she said, adopting her professional tone. “Has a Mister Eli Underwood been arraigned? Do you have a bail ticket for him?”
Begrudgingly, as though the effort somehow cost him, the officer shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Underwood . . . Underwood . . . yeah, here we go.” He held out the same type of form he’d earlier handed Eaton for Benny. “Bail set at fifty dollars,” he said as she took the form. “Second door on your left, pay the officer.” He acted as though he delivered new information, as though he hadn’t said the same words to her only moments earlier.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Eaton said. “Come on, Benny. Let’s go get your friend.” She pointed toward the door the officer had mentioned.
“Yes, thank you, Kay,” Benny said. “I have to set Eli free.”
“We both do,” Eaton said. As she walked with Benny toward the proper door, Eaton looked over at Johnson and pointed to the chairs that stood against the front wall, underneath the tall windows. “Sit down,” she said. “We’ll be right back.”
Eaton could tell that Johnson didn’t want to let Benny out of her sight, but also that she trusted Eaton. Why wouldn’t she? I paid to get Benny out of jail, and now I’m doing the same thing for his friend, just to calm Benny down. But Eaton also knew that it was more than all of that. Johnson had faith in her.
She and Benny reached the door, which featured a metal grille over a frosted glass insert. Eaton opened it and they went inside, to another desk, one of normal height. Oddly, a different woman sat there than when Eaton had bailed out Benny. Younger, she had exotic features and dark, almond-shaped eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked. She wore her long hair tucked up under her cap.
Eaton produced the bail ticket she’d acquired from the sergeant at the front desk, unslung the strap of her pocketbook from her shoulder, and dug out her checkbook again. Once she’d paid the New York City Department of Corrections another fifty dollars, the officer instructed her to wait out front, and that somebody would bring Mister Underwood out shortly.
Eaton and Benny returned to the front of the police station. Johnson looked up expectantly from where she sat, rising when she saw them. Eaton waved her back down, and she sat. Eaton guided Benny over to the corner to wait. “Are you all right?” she asked him gently.
“I have to free Eli,” he said again. Even though she hadn’t seen Benny recently, Eaton had known him for a few years. Although he was a good, sometimes brilliant writer, it hadn’t completely surprised her when he’d become troubled. The world didn’t always play fairly with people, and perhaps that applied to Benny more than most. But he seemed off in a different way at the moment, obsessed with freeing his friend. He had a wild look in his eyes, and he uttered his demand as though reciting words spoken by voices inside his head.
Isn’t that what I’ve been doing? Eaton asked herself. She had behaved as if she knew Cassie Johnson, not just in passing, but as a good friend. Eaton felt she knew some of the things Johnson should and shouldn’t do, but where had all that originated, if not from within her own mind? It occurred to her that she didn’t even have enough money in her account to cover the two checks she’d written to the Department of Corrections that day.
As minutes ticked by, Eaton stood quietly with Benny. His breathing had calmed from when he’d frantically reentered the police station, and his eyes no longer appeared quite as stormy. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she told him, and she found that she actually believed that.
The far door finally opened, and another police officer entered with an old man who looked as though he could barely stand up. Pale and lifeless, he wore garments that might once have fit him, but hung on his body like outsized bedclothes. His skin resembled cheap paper, and Eaton thought that he probably suffered from consumption. His eyes seemed empty.
“Kay Eaton?” the officer said.
“I’m Kay Eaton.”
“You have a release form?” the policeman asked. Eaton gave it to the officer, who studied it for a moment, then handed it back to her. “We’re releasing Eli Underwood into your custody,” he said.
Benny rushed over, as though he hadn’t recognized his friend until he’d heard his name. When the officer released his grip on Underwood’s arm, the old man would have collapsed to the precinct floor if Benny hadn’t caught him. Benny threw an arm around his friend’s waist and pulled one of Underwood’s arms across his shoulders.
“Come on, Eli,” Benny said. “We have to go.” Holding his friend up, Benny headed for the door.
“Wait,” Cassie Johnson said, leaping to her feet. “Where are you going?”
As Benny balanced Underwood’s body against his own, he reached for the door and pulled it open. Then he took hold of his friend once more and started out into the city.
Eaton went over to Johnson. “It’s all right,” she said. “Remember, you have to let him walk his own path.”
“What does that even mean?” Johnson asked, obviously frustrated. “I’m worried about Benny.” She began to push past Eaton so that she could get to the front door.
“Wait,” Eaton said, grabbing for Johnson’s arm again, but Johnson pulled it away. Eaton wondered how she could possibly stop her, but then an idea came to her. “I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll go after Benny. You go home and wait, and I’ll follow Benny. I’ll make sure . . .” Make sure of what? But the words rose in Eaton’s mind, and so she said them. “I’ll make sure he comes home to you.”
A sequence of expressions passed over Johnson’s face: anxiety, relief, fear, elation.
“Trust me,” Eaton said.
Johnson nodded. “I have faith in you,” she said.
“What’s your address?”
Johnson told her, then said, “But you better hurry.”
“Right,” Eaton said, and she strode toward the front door and through it.
Outside, down on the sidewalk, Eaton immediately ran into trouble. She didn’t see Benny anywhere. She looked left, trying to see past the many people crowding the street. Then she peered in the other direction. Thinking that she’d already failed, she wondered how she could possibly face Cassie Johnson.
But then she saw Benny in the distance, heaving himself forward as he c
ontinued to carry his friend at his side. How far has he gotten already? One long block? Two?
Eaton hurried down the sidewalk after Benny. She moved as quickly as she could, but her high-heeled shoes made it difficult. She thought about kicking them off, but running barefoot along a teeming New York City street didn’t seem like a good idea. Her handbag flopped against her body, and she grabbed it to hold it steady.
Eaton reached an intersection and had to wait for the traffic signal to change. As she did, she looked behind her, hoping that she wouldn’t espy Johnson following her, hoping that she had gone home. Fortunately, Eaton didn’t see her.
She hastened on when the signal changed. She kept looking on either side of the people near Benny’s location, to make sure that if he entered a building or turned onto another street, she would see him. Every few seconds, she would catch sight of him, though, and he kept moving forward, toward the direction of the setting sun.
The crowd thinned as Eaton pursued Benny, until at last she had an unimpeded view of him. From the way he hauled his friend along, she could not tell if Underwood even remained conscious. Up ahead, she saw, the Hudson River loomed, a natural impediment to Benny’s westerly flight. She waited to see whether he would turn uptown or down, hoping he wouldn’t head out onto one of the piers.
And then the light of the setting sun reflected off the river and into Eaton’s eyes. She turned her head and put a hand up to protect herself against the glare, but she didn’t slow her pace. When she looked ahead again, Benny and his friend had vanished.
Frantic, Eaton tried to increase her pace. By the time she reached the river, Benny had beaten her there by minutes. She stopped at the riverfront and, hands on hips, scanned the area, searching in every direction.
Dejected, perspiring, she turned and peered out over the water, again wondering what she could say to Cassie Johnson. The setting sun gleamed off the river, turning its surface into a vibrant blue that looked electric. But as she gazed out, she saw a dark spot on the water amid the glow of the day’s last light.
It’s a boat, she realized. She squinted into the sunset, trying to make out the figures on board. Then she saw Benny and his friend.
Where’s he going? Eaton thought. New Jersey? That doesn’t make any sense. Of course, it never made any sense to Eaton for people to go to New Jersey.
“Benny!” she called out, waving her arms. If she could get his attention, maybe she could talk to him, convince him to return. “Benny!”
But as she called out, she saw the water in front of the boat begin to swirl. At first, Eaton thought she imagined it, but as she looked on, she could definitely see it wheeling around in a circular motion. The water spiraled downward, creating what looked like a hole in the middle of the river.
And then it began to burn red.
“Benny!” she cried out, louder, worried that he didn’t see the vortex. But then she realized that, even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to escape it. Its currents had caught the boat.
I have to help him, Eaton thought. In desperation, she looked up and down the waterline for another small boat. When she spotted a man not too far away pulling one up onto shore, she ran for it.
As the man stepped away, Eaton threw her hands against the boat and pushed it as quickly as she could into the water. “Hey!” the man yelled after her, but she ignored him and leaped into the boat. She threw her handbag down, then seized one of the oars from where it lay and lifted it up into the curved metal piece that would hold it while she rowed; then she did the same with the second oar.
“Benny!” she cried out again as she began rowing. He won’t be able to escape, she thought. I have to get there. I have to—
“—get to Benjamin.”
Kira blinked, disconcerted for a moment. She realized that she’d spoken aloud, which had apparently interrupted her Orb experience. She reached up and closed the ark.
As she stood up, Kira felt a new awareness. Confused images swarmed through her mind. She knew from her own history that people never fully understood Orb experiences. Communing with the ancient, sacred artifacts reached beyond mere comprehension, and it sometimes took years to fully integrate an experience into oneself.
But in that moment, Kira knew what she had to do.
Lying on his back, Miles O’Brien reached up and closed the access panel beneath the runabout’s main console. Then he gripped one of the forward chairs in the cabin and pulled himself up, considering it a moral victory when he groaned only once. He took a seat at the console and activated it with a touch. Earlier that day, one of the pilots had reported a problem with the shield monitoring display, and the captain had asked him to take a look at it.
O’Brien performed a quick diagnostic, which indicated that he had solved the issue. While the runabout crew believed a serious problem had arisen with the shield generators, the chief immediately suspected one of the relays between the shielding systems and the display. O’Brien had been right. Of course, he’d been a Starfleet engineer for a lot of years, so he expected to be right.
“Chief?”
O’Brien spun in the chair to see a woman peeking in through the open cockpit door. “Captain,” he said, then realized his blunder and corrected himself. “I mean, Vedek.”
Kira Nerys stepped inside the cockpit. “Actually, Chief, considering that we’ve known each other for almost fifteen years, and that I carried your and Keiko’s son in my womb for six months, I think you should just call me Nerys.”
One side of O’Brien’s mouth rose in a half-smile. He stood up and crossed the cabin, his hand extended. Kira took it with a strong grip. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Kira said. “But don’t stop on my account.” As O’Brien retreated back to the chair, she asked, “So how about you?”
“Nothing to complain about here,” he said. “Of course, that usually doesn’t stop me.”
Kira chuckled. “I’ve never known an engineer who didn’t grumble about something,” she said. “So how are Keiko and Molly and Kirayoshi?”
“Great, all great,” O’Brien said. “So what brings you by?”
“I was hoping that you and I could talk about that,” Kira said. “Do you have five minutes to take a walk?”
“Sure, I was almost done in here anyway,” O’Brien said. “I just needed to check on the replicator. The crews say it’s been acting up a bit.”
“And you can’t have an effective Starfleet crew if they can’t get good raktajino,” Kira said.
O’Brien rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that the truth?”
Kira turned and quickly ducked out of the cabin. O’Brien rose from the chair, took a moment to survey the cockpit for anything out of place, then followed Kira outside. He stepped down onto the BSC’s one makeshift runabout pad, which they’d constructed out of the thermoconcrete used to build emergency bunkers. O’Brien knew it wouldn’t last, but it would at least provide a stopgap until they could complete the permanent pads.
“What do you think of our big barn?” O’Brien asked, pointing over at the center. “It’s—” He realized that he didn’t see Kira. He took a few steps toward the center, thinking that she must have gone inside already, though he didn’t see how she could have made it that far so quickly.
That’s when the runabout lifted off behind him.
27
Sisko sat in the ready room aboard Defiant, peering at the computer interface on the desk. There, a split-screen view displayed the images of Admiral Akaar and Captain Picard.
“The Typhon Pact—or elements within it—have apparently engineered their own version of an artificial wormhole,” Akaar said.
“How is that even possible, sir?” Sisko asked. “There are certainly differences in technology between the Khitomer Accords and the Typhon Pact, but for the most part, we’re on a relative par with each other. Yet Federation scientists are nowhere near being able to create a stable wormhole.”
“That’s the good news,” Akaar said. “Accordin
g to our sources, the wormholes that the Pact can create are relatively short—crossing no more than five or so light-years of normal space-time—and they aren’t stable. They can control the near terminus, but the far terminus does not remain in one place for very long.”
“That is good news,” agreed Picard. “Producing a wormhole without stable termini necessarily limits the Pact’s use of such technology.”
“That would be the case,” Akaar said, “if the Pact hadn’t discovered a means of anchoring the far terminus.”
“Admiral, again, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Sisko said. He’d read enough reports over the years about the Bajoran wormhole to have an idea of the tremendous gravitational stresses involved. “If you were to try to anchor a wormhole to a planet, even a massive planet, the gravity well wouldn’t hold it. You could certainly use a black hole to do so, and perhaps even some less massive stars, but if that’s where the journey through their wormhole ends, in the center of a star . . .” It suddenly occurred to Sisko that such technology could conceivably be employed as a weapon, as a delivery device with which to inject—
“As far as we know, their technology cannot anchor their wormhole to a planet or to a star,” Akaar said. “They can only link it to an existing, stable wormhole.”
“An existing, stable wormhole?” Sisko said. In all the exploration Starfleet had ever done, only one example of such an entity had ever been found. “You mean the Bajoran wormhole.”
“That’s what we believe, yes,” Akaar said.
“Which means that the Typhon Pact would have access to the Gamma Quadrant without having to enter Federation space,” Picard noted.
Sisko drew the final conclusion to which Akaar no doubt headed. “And since the Pact has demonstrated its almost obsessive desire to create their own quantum slipstream drive, and since we know that the Dominion has the equipment they need to make that happen, that gives us every reason to believe that they’ll try again to acquire it.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Raise the Dawn (Star Trek, the Next Generation) Page 37
