Fisher knew that the Chelon ambassador was one of the few individuals who had known from the very beginning the nature of Vanguard’s true purpose: understanding the ancient civilization and technology of the Shedai. Even as Starfleet’s brightest young scientific and engineering minds worked toward that goal, Jetanien and his legal cadre from the Starfleet Diplomatic Corps labored to preserve the fragile political ties that currently existed between the Federation and the Tholian Assembly, as well as the Klingon Empire. The Taurus Reach was of interest to all three parties. While the Tholians harbored great apprehension about the region and its former rulers, the Klingons were simply intrigued by whatever had attracted the Federation’s attention.
Now that pretty much anyone in the galaxy capable of reading Federation Standard was aware of at least some aspects of what was going on out here, Fisher knew that the problems facing Vanguard’s crew would only get more complicated.
“You’d think they could at least let you out of that box,” he said, indicating Reyes’s cell with a wave of his hand.
Reyes shrugged. “Be it ever so humble.”
“You’re still a flag officer,” Fisher countered, his irritation beginning to mount, “and we’re on a damned space station, for crying out loud. Confining you to quarters should be good enough. Where the hell else are you going to go?”
Pushing away from the wall, Reyes moved to the edge of the cot so that his boots rested on the floor. “Rana said she put in that request about five seconds after I was locked up, but she never got a response from Starfleet. I’m guessing no one back there wants anything to do with me these days, so here I sit.”
Fisher frowned as he surveyed the commodore’s living arrangements. Other than the cot on which Reyes sat, there was also a straight-backed chair, bolted to the deck before a narrow shelf that might charitably be called a desk. A small viewing screen was mounted to the bulkhead above the desk, equipped with a rudimentary interface that Fisher knew would allow the cell occupant to access a very limited section of the station’s library computer banks and permit communications—all overseen by security personnel. The cell’s only other noteworthy feature was the toilet, separated from the rest of the compartment by a waist-high privacy partition.
“So, you just sit in here until they decide what to do with you.” Fisher shook his head, snorting in disgust.
“Until after the trial, anyway,” Reyes replied, reaching up to scratch the side of his face. “After that, well, most Federation penal colonies have pretty decent accommodations these days.” Pausing, he said nothing for a moment before offering a tired shrug. “Of course, they might hold the court-martial in San Francisco, and the brig there is first-rate.”
“And that’s the other news I brought you,” Fisher said, leaning forward in his chair. “The court-martial is going to be held here.”
Reyes seemed to take this revelation in stride. “Makes sense. The lawyers will have to interview damn near everyone on the station. Easier to do that here than shipping everyone back to Earth or another starbase. After all, we’ve still got our oh-so-secret mission to keep up with.” He rose from his cot and began to pace the width of the cell—all six paces of it. “Then there’s convening the trial board. They’ll all have to be flag rank, commodores or better. Getting four of them who can be pulled away from their regular duties will take time. Hell, just getting them out here could take months.”
He halted his pacing and turned to look at Fisher.
“So, what it boils down to is that my fate will be decided by four desk jockeys with nothing better to do for the next six months.” Nodding toward the door, he added, “I’d rather Beyer just finish her lunch and come put me out of my misery.”
It would be easy to interpret Reyes’s remarks as simple fatalism, but Fisher knew better. The commodore had made no effort to deny or diminish his responsibility in the face of the charges against him. He fully expected to face harsh penalties for his actions and seemed ready to welcome whatever fate might be in store for him. Though he looked tired, Fisher could see that in spite of everything his friend had brought down upon himself, Reyes appeared more at ease than he had been in years.
It was his curious calm that worried the doctor.
5
T’Prynn stood alone in the wasteland, listening to the howling wind as it whipped sand across her face and through her hair and the folds of her desert soft suit. Despite the lack of stars or a moon in the night sky, a strange violet luminosity surrounded her, and what she saw was desolation. Barren low-rise hills and rolling dunes stretched to the horizon in all directions, the faint illumination casting long shadows.
As always, this place did not seem familiar, though it reminded T’Prynn of the foothills leading into one of the mountain ranges that formed the perimeters of Vulcan’s Forge on her home planet. She had visited that region only once, in childhood as a student participating in a field excursion for a geology class, and she still recalled the fear that had gripped her during the group’s encounter with a wayward sehlat.
T’Prynn now felt a similar stab of anxiety as she stood, alone in this place, waiting. Again.
Feeling the weight in her hands, she looked down at the lirpashe wielded. A staff of dark polished wood, it featured an oversized curved blade at one end, offset by a blunt metal weight on the other. The weapon’s heft offered a measure of comfort, which T’Prynn knew was illogical but chose to embrace regardless. In another time and place, she would have rebuked herself for the flurry of emotional reactions she was allowing to detract from her focus. Now was not the time for such distraction.
Movement in the dunes caught her eye, and she looked up to see a lone figure approaching her. Clad in dark robes from head to foot, the new arrival also carried a lirpain his right hand, its blade gleaming even in the weak indigo light that surrounded it and him. He covered the distance between them with long, assertive strides, and as he drew closer, T’Prynn recognized the crest and other traditional symbols woven into the front of his robe. The embroidery highlighted the wearer’s lineage and ancestral history, and once again, T’Prynn considered the price she might well have paid had she agreed to join that family, as well as the penalty she had long endured for refusing to do so.
The figure stopped when less than ten meters separated them, reaching up with his left hand to push back his hood, revealing the face that had haunted her every moment since she had held his head in her hands and broken his neck.
Sten.
“We meet at the appointed place, T’Prynn,” he said, his expression inscrutable but his tone mocking the ritualistic words that were part of the many ancient, time-honored marriage ceremonies still performed by many Vulcans. Lifting his lirpaso that he could grip its staff in both hands, Sten regarded her with his fierce gaze. “Do you finally agree to submit?”
T’Prynn shook her head. Her answer was the same as it had always been, from which she had never wavered over the decades and which she would speak until her dying breath. “Never.”
“So be it,” Sten said, and for a fleeting instant, T’Prynn—as she always did at this point—thought she detected the barest hint of resignation in her bondmate’s voice. Then the time for reflection was over, as Sten charged, his lirparaised and its razor-sharp edge aimed at her.
Expecting the feint, T’Prynn was ready when Sten abruptly stepped to his left, lowering his weapon and attempting to swing it beneath her guard. T’Prynn twisted her own lirpadownward, blocking the attack and forcing his blade away from her body. The move left Sten’s torso exposed, and she jabbed forward, trying to take advantage of the opening, but her former lover was too quick and too well trained in this particular fighting art.