by David Mack
“Just watch,” said his boss, Vanguard’s gray-haired, dark-skinned, gravel-voiced chief medical officer, Dr. Ezekiel Fisher.
The two men were alone on the top row of the bleachers beside the athletic field, squinting against simulated sunlight beaming down from an artificial sky. Though the massive inner space was officially designated the “terrestrial enclosure,” most of the station’s residents called it simply “the park.”
M’Benga—a handsome, soft-spoken young attending physician—had been all that Fisher had hoped to find in a successor. His diagnostic skills were second to none, and his bedside manner was personable without being overly familiar. Though he had been on Fisher’s staff for a few months, since shortly after Vanguard became operational, M’Benga’s quirks and moods remained a mystery to him. The junior physician reminded Fisher at times of a Vulcan; he had served in a Vulcan ward before being assigned to Vanguard, prompting Fisher to wonder if the Vulcans’ inimitable stoicism had rubbed off on the young doctor.
In the distance, the skyline of Stars Landing was partly distorted by surface irregularities on the broad central core of the station, which was camouflaged with photosensors that reproduced the images in front of them on massive diodes 180 degrees away, on the other side of the core, to preserve the illusion of an unbroken pastoral vista.
Nestled out of sight, along the gently rising slope that bounded the perimeter of the circular park, were entrances to the station’s high-speed maglev tram. The automated people-mover ran a small fleet of trams on two levels, one set in each direction. The system had been designed so that the terminals, which were spaced roughly two hundred meters apart, would each be visited by one tram every two minutes.
A tight cluster of brightly uniformed athletes clashed in a haphazard pile on the grass in front of the bleachers. M’Benga eyed the scrum with detached curiosity. “What did you say this game was called?”
“Rugby.”
“And what’s the objective?”
“Don’t ask so many questions,” Fisher said, a hint of his late father’s native Tennessee drawl peeking out from behind his words. He gestured to the tray on the bench between them. “Have some chips.”
With poise and precision, M’Benga reached out and gingerly plucked a single chip from the plate on the tray, lifted it to his mouth, and ate it without dropping a single crumb.
He reminds me of Noah, Fisher thought, picturing his firstborn son. M’Benga was a bit younger than Noah, and his dark skin was a slightly richer shade of brown, but his and Noah’s mannerisms were eerily similar—so precise, so measured. Is that why I took such a shine to him?
“Do you think about your next career step?”
M’Benga shrugged. “Now and then.”
Stroking the graying whiskers of his goatee, Fisher hesitated to spell out his agenda too bluntly. Decades of experience in Starfleet had taught him that sometimes it was best not to show all of one’s cards at the same time. “What do you see for yourself? A few more years and out? Or a future in Starfleet medicine?”
“Definitely a future,” M’Benga said, his confidence apparent. “I joined Starfleet for a reason.”
“Didn’t we all,” Fisher said under his breath. More than fifty years of service in Starfleet had left him somewhat world-weary, and he was long past the point of apologizing for it. In his opinion, he had earned the right to grumble a little from time to time. He refocused his thoughts. “If you plan to make a real go of it, the best advice I can give you is this: Learn to see what people don’t show you, learn to hear what they don’t tell you, and learn to trust your gut.”
“Interesting counsel,” M’Benga said. “Thank you.”
How very Vulcan of you, Fisher mused. “You’re welcome.”
On the field in front of them, the players wrestled furiously, a writhing pile of color and dirt-flecked sinew. Grunts and groans and agonized shouts were muffled inside the crush of bodies. A pained expression formed on M’Benga’s lean, impeccably shaven features as he watched. “I still fail to see the point of this game,” he said.
“What’s the point of any game?”
After thinking a moment, M’Benga said, “To win.”
“Right.” Fisher grabbed a small cluster of deep-fried chips and pushed them into his mouth. They were crisp and salty with just a slight tang of vinegar.
“So who are you rooting for?”
“No one,” Fisher said. “I just watch.”
“You have no interest in the outcome?”
“Not really.”
Now young M’Benga looked confused. “Then what do you get out of it?”
“Depends on the game,” Fisher said. He wondered if M’Benga would understand his philosophy with regard to competitive sports. “Some games, you admire the skill of certain players or the harmony of a good team. Others, the strategy has a beauty to it…. Sometimes, it’s enough just to appreciate the struggle.”
Nodding, M’Benga said, “You love the effort—regardless of the result.”
“Right.” Fisher could sense it: He’s catching on.
“That would be an apt description of the scientific method. Opposed hypotheses vie for evidentiary support—and scientists observe impartially. The result is secondary to the method.”
Fisher smiled at the young attending physician. “Not bad. It took my last attending months to work that out.”
Gesturing at the quickly intensifying scrum below, M’Benga asked, “Does rugby actually have any rules?”
A wry half-smirk tugged at Fisher’s mouth. “Sure,” he said. “No autopsy, no foul.”
“Angry? No, Your Excellency, I wouldn’t say they’re angry. I think ‘apoplectic’ might be a better term.”
Senior attaché Anna Sandesjo clutched her briefcase as she trailed close behind Ambassador Jetanien, who swept through the frantic chatter and cluttered work nooks of the Federation Embassy office, grabbing up hard-copy reports from each of the consulate case officers as he went. The towering Chelon diplomat spoke over his shoulder to Sandesjo as he reviewed his daily intelligence updates, one in each scaly, web-fingered manus. “What, exactly, did Ambassador Sesrene say?”
“The translators couldn’t parse it,” Sandesjo said, taking care not to step on the tail of Jetanien’s flowing white coat, which fluttered ethereally behind him as he strode forward. “It was more like a metallic shriek than the chiming tones they usually make. It sounded like he was in pain.”
For the sake of brevity, she had substantially understated the situation. Never before had she seen a Tholian become so unhinged without apparent cause. Sesrene’s sudden seizure and retreat had alarmed her.
Jetanien stopped her with an upraised hand and loomed over a communications supervisor. “Mr. Stotsky, did you know that the Gallonik III civil war of 2177 was sparked by a single misstatement in its first treaty of global alliance?”
“No, Your Excellency,” the supervisor said cautiously, staring up at the enormous Chelon.
“A simple error, really,” Jetanien continued, ramping up his well-known dramatic lecturing cadence. “Its articles of territorial sovereignty contained conflicting geographical coordinates for the borders demarcating areas of settlement for its two rival sentient species. Historians chalked it up to a transcription error…after seven hundred thirty-eight million Gallonikans butchered each other over one of the most picayune clerical blunders in recorded history.”
“Tragic, sir,” the supervisor said, his voice cowed.
“Indeed, it is. Now imagine how tragic it would be if you actually sent this communiqué to Qo’noS with the modifier ’pu appended to that ordinarily inoffensive noun. How do you think the chancellor will respond to such a heinous slander against his paternal grandmother? Tell me, Mr. Stotsky, do the Klingons strike you as a species inclined to laugh at our lack of facility with tlhIngan, or do you think it more likely they would demand an honor duel, pitting me in mortal combat against the leader of the Klingon Empire?”
&
nbsp; “I’ll correct the error immediately, Ambassador.”
“Thank you,” Jetanien said, then resumed walking and tossing words over his shoulder at Sandesjo. “You were saying?”
“Ambassador Sesrene became incoherent for several minutes, then left in a hurry. He hasn’t responded to our requests for an update on his status.”
“And you didn’t see fit to advise me of this last night?”
“Well, it’s not as if he declared war,” she said.
He reached the door to his private office and turned to face her. “Are you sure? If I sound less than convinced of your analysis, Anna, it’s only because I find it refreshingly unburdened by the weight of evidence.” Resuming his original course, he stepped toward the door, which opened with a gentle swoosh. She followed him inside.
Sandesjo respected Jetanien’s political acumen, and at times she admired his ability to negotiate while under stress. Most of the time, however, she found that working for him was a lot like indentured servitude, with the added insult of knowing the condition was self-inflicted. He could be the grand master of tact and finesse when circumstances demanded it, but with his own staff he demonstrated a penchant for imperiousness.
Jetanien’s office was small and densely packed with display screens, all of which faced his simple, curved desk. Every screen snapped to flickering life as he entered, though none made any sound. It was Jetanien’s habit, Sandesjo had observed, to raise the volume on a channel only when it had snared his undivided attention.
The ambassador shed his coat, placed it on the ornate coat rack behind his desk, and eased himself down into a half-sitting, half-kneeling position on a piece of furniture custom designed to accommodate such a pose. “Has the Klingon ambassador deigned to join the conversation yet?”
“Not as such,” Sandesjo said. She opened her briefcase, removed a Klingon d’k tahg, and placed it on the desk. “Ambassador Lugok left this for you.”
Jetanien leaned forward and scrutinized the ceremonial dagger. “Left it? Where?”
“In Meyer’s leg.”
She was surprised that Jetanien hadn’t heard about last night’s incident in Manón’s Cabaret. The brief but profanity-laced altercation between Lugok, the Klingon Empire’s most irascible blowhard, and Dietrich Meyer, the Federation Diplomatic Corps’s most notorious drunkard, was already well on its way to becoming the stuff of legend.
“I’d express my sympathy for Meyer’s pain if I thought he’d actually felt any,” Jetanien said. “He’ll recover, I presume?”
“Dr. Fisher says he’ll be fit for duty by tomorrow.”
“ ‘Fit for duty’? That would be an improvement.”
Sandesjo struggled not to roll her eyes. So much for being diplomatic. “Regardless, it might be best to assign a new envoy to the Klingon delegation.”
Jetanien acknowledged the suggestion with a grunt. “Who do you think Lugok would hate more—Sovik or Karumé?”
“A difficult choice, sir,” Sandesjo said. “The Klingons are unlikely to respect Mr. Sovik’s logic as much as the Tholians do. Conversely, Ms. Karumé’s abrasive negotiating style, despite its resemblance to Klingon manners, might prove inflammatory.”
“Your instincts, Anna. Make a snap judgment.”
“Sovik’s reticence would be seen as weakness by the Klingons. Send them Karumé. They might hate her, but at least they’ll understand her.”
“Very well,” Jetanien said, picking up a sealed envelope from Commodore Reyes’s office and slicing it open with the deft pass of a single claw. He plucked the single-page letter from inside and scanned it. “Clear my schedule from 1300 to 1500.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I—”
“Notify Ms. Karumé of her new assignment. I want her daily briefing by 1800 hours.”
“Of course, sir.” Sandesjo didn’t know if she was asking unnecessary questions, or if Jetanien made a habit of cutting her off in midsentence as an ongoing cruel jest. “If there’s—”
“That’s all. Dismissed.”
Mustering her willpower, she left Lugok’s d’k tahg on the desktop instead of wedging it under Jetanien’s chin, then exited the ambassador’s office.
The walk back to her own miserably cramped, windowless office was brief, but she still managed to be intercepted by five different foreign-service officers with urgent diplomatic crises for Jetanien’s attention. It would be up to her to sort the true emergencies from the petty distractions before letting any of these requests reach the ambassador’s desk.
She passed through the door into her private workspace and dropped her handful of passed briefings onto her desk. Slumping into her chair, she let her briefcase slip from her hand. It landed on the thinly carpeted floor with a hollow thud. So much to do, she realized. Sandesjo’s first official item of business, without question, was to inform Akeylah Karumé that she had been named as the new envoy to the Klingon delegation on Starbase 47. Everything else scattered across her desk was, as far as she could determine, tied for second.
All of it, however, would have to wait until she had completed one very important unofficial task.
Sandesjo reached down, picked up her thin, metallic briefcase, and placed it flat on her desktop. Before she opened it, she set its digital lock to a secret combination—one different from the sequence normally used to open it. When she lifted the lid, a false panel opened in the bottom of the case, revealing a compact short-range subspace transmitter. With the flip of a switch, it hummed gently into active mode.
The wait for an acknowledgment was always the most nerve-racking part of filing a report. Until the receiver locked in and finished encrypting the signal, there was an infinitesimal risk that their transmission might be detected and intercepted.
From the receiving end of the audio signal came a guttural voice, which uttered the challenge code-phrase: “bImoHqu’.”
It translated roughly as You look terrible. Sandesjo resented this cruel joke at her expense, this mockery of the pain and indignity she had endured in order to pass for a human and infiltrate the Federation’s diplomatic service. No time now for hurt feelings, she reminded herself. She swept her straight, long auburn hair from her eyes. Keying the transmitter, she spoke the prearranged response phrase: “jIwuQ.”
Translation: I have a headache. She vowed that someone in the Empire would pay dearly for these inanities.
“Report,” said Turag, the Imperial Intelligence officer embedded with the Klingon delegation aboard Vanguard.
“You’re getting a new envoy,” Sandesjo said.
“The petaQ’pu Dietrich is dead, then?”
“No. Lugok’s blade missed the human’s femoral artery.”
Over the open channel, she heard Turag spit in disgust. “Sloppy. I would not have missed.”
“And you would have been neutralized.” She transferred a data packet to Turag on the subchannel. “I am sending you Envoy Akeylah Karumé’s dossier. Lugok will need to see it before Karumé calls on him.”
“Understood. What is wrong with the Tholian delegation?”
“Unknown,” Sandesjo said. “I will continue to investigate.”
“As will we. Qapla’, Lurqal.”
Years of undercover work had left Sandesjo unaccustomed to the sound of her true Klingon name. She masked her unease with a quick farewell. “Qapla’, Turag.”
The channel clicked off. Sandesjo closed her briefcase, confident that, despite the perfect silence of its moving parts, it had reverted already to its disguised form. She tucked it beneath her desk, next to her feet. It was time to get to work.
The slender, leggy young woman reined in a bitter chuckle until it was reduced to a disgruntled huff. It’s always time to get to work when you’re a spy.
6
Tim Pennington collapsed back on his side of the bed. Blissfully spent and aglow with perspiration, he lolled his head to the right and admired Oriana D’Amato’s profile. Her wild spill of dark hair, fetchingly tinted with synthetic magenta highli
ghts, obscured her pillow. Both of them heaved heavy breaths. Their chests rose and fell in unison. She turned her head and cast a satiated grin in his direction.
“Welcome back,” he said, and they shared a fleeting moment of conspiratorial laughter. Not a word had passed between them in the two hours since she had stepped out of the gangway surrounded by fellow Bombay personnel and saw him through the crowd, waiting for her. They had both known with a glance to come directly here, to his Stars Landing apartment, without delay. This was their fourth such liaison in three months—nowhere near frequent enough for Pennington, who had been utterly smitten with her since they met. Easygoing, optimistic, lighthearted…everything that made her his opposite had deepened his attraction. Even the contrast of her bright Roman accent and his own Edinburgh brogue—slightly softened after four years in London and six in Paris—excited him.
His fingers traced a gentle line over the alabaster curve of her shoulder and down her arm. “When do you ship out again?”
“Soon,” she said, then sighed. “Too soon.”
He glanced past her, at the golden yellow miniskirt uniform draped over the chair at his desk. Because Oriana had voiced her lack of enthusiasm for the new women’s uniform style when it was first issued, he had suppressed his desire to tell her how amazing she looked wearing it. An hour ago he had considered begging her to leave on the revealing one-piece uniform—or, at the very least, its accompanying knee-high boots—but she had shed them all so quickly once the door closed that he hadn’t had the chance. His disappointment was short-lived. Far be it from me to tell a woman not to disrobe, he had decided.
Pennington finger-combed a tumbled shock of his short, light-brown hair from his sweaty forehead. “Do you want to have dinner? I could pop over to the café.”
Oriana rolled over in his direction, onto her stomach, revealing the perfect slope of her bare back from beneath the silken bedsheets. Planting her elbows on the mattress and her chin in her cupped hands, she teased him with a coquettish batting of her eyelids. “What will you bring me?”
