“That’s where this starts to get interesting,” M’Benga replied. Turned back to the viewer, he tapped the control to resume playing the recorded message he had already viewed half a dozen times before bringing it to the attention of Fisher and Cooper.
On the screen, the image of Sobon said, “I am familiar with T’Prynn’s condition from my tenure at the Vulcan Science Academy. The Adepts of Gol attempted on many occasions to assist her, to no avail. However, their conservative natures have always prohibited them from considering certain unconventional methods of treatment for severe psychological ailments such as this. While T’Prynn’s condition is unique in my experience, I believe I still can offer assistance.”
The message ended with Sobon offering a perfunctory salutation, after which M’Benga turned and moved across the room toward the chair situated next to Fisher’s. “I’ve received a follow-up message. He’s invited me to bring T’Prynn to his commune on Vulcan so that he can attempt treating her with some kind of ancient ritual involving a very powerful form of mind meld.”
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask, is there anything on or about Vulcan that’s not ancient?” Fisher asked.
“I think they have a restaurant or two in the capital city that have only been open for about a year or so,” M’Benga said, taking a seat in the remaining chair.
Cooper asked, “Do we really need to transport T’Prynn to Vulcan? Is it even safe to do that? Why can’t this Sobon come to us?” Before M’Benga could answer, the acting station commander held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess. Since he’s some kind of monk, he’s sworn off space travel.”
“That’s about the size of it,” M’Benga replied. He had already tendered such an offer to Sobon, and the Vulcan healer had promptly refused.
“What about this mind meld or whatever it is?” Fisher asked. “Do we know anything about it?”
M’Benga shook his head. “I searched every database I could think of—including one or two on Vulcan no outworlders are even supposed to know about—and found nothing. Of course, Sobon didn’t tell me much about it, not even what it’s called. He also says he hasn’t heard of it being performed in centuries. He only knows about it because he’s had forty years to spend irritating the rest of the Vulcan science and medical community. He seems to derive a great deal of satisfaction from researching and putting forth theories and papers regarding the benefits of arcane holistic treatment methods, most of which were abandoned about ten minutes after Surak started making a name for himself. Most of the science academy views him as something of an irritant.”
“The more I hear about this guy,” Fisher said, “the more I like him.”
Cooper said, “So, you want transport to Vulcan?” He looked to Fisher. “That okay with you?”
“Seems like an avenue worth exploring,” replied the station’s CMO. Eyeing M’Benga with a wry grin, he added, “It’s not as though I’m getting a true replacement so that I can retire anytime soon, right?”
Returning the smile, M’Benga replied, “Not if I can help it.” He had applied for a transfer to ship duty some months earlier, but Starfleet had yet to approve or deny his request. At last check, the personnel offices on Earth were processing his application, but medical officer berths aboard starships were hard to come by, particularly aboard those vessels tasked with long-duration exploration missions. Though Vanguard’s hospital was one of the leading facilities of its type, it hadbeen jammed into the middle of a space station. M’Benga wanted to go out into the galaxy, not wait for it to come to him. It was the reason he had joined Starfleet in the first place.
Cooper emitted a mock sigh as he regarded Fisher. “Finding you a replacement. It’s just one more thing on my list of things to do before I die of old age, which, by my calendar, should be sometime next Thursday.”
“How much longer until yourreplacement arrives?” Fisher asked.
Shrugging, Cooper said, “Supposedly on the way and should be here in a couple of weeks. I don’t even know who it is at this point. All I know is that he or she is a flag officer, and Starfleet’s not in the habit of publicizing the travel habits of its commodores and admirals, especially these days.” He reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, and M’Benga noted the dark circles beneath the commander’s eyes. Cooper had shouldered immense responsibility during these past weeks, despite his reputation as a competent executive officer. He had, in effect, been engaged in prolonged on-the-job training to take over for Reyes if necessary, but the abruptness of the commodore’s removal from command had hit everyone hard, Cooper harder than most. Still, the commander had risen to the occasion with all of the adroitness and professionalism Reyes obviously had seen in the younger man when selecting him to be the station’s second-in-command.
“Make whatever preparations you need,” he said to M’Benga.
Fisher said, “To be honest, I’m really not sure whether to wish you luck or not. If you’re successful, and T’Prynn’s able to recover from…whatever it is that’s wrong with her, Starfleet’s going to court-martial her at the earliest opportunity.”
M’Benga shook his head. “Not my concern. My only priority is providing my patient with the best possible care. If that means I cart her off to Vulcan, then so be it.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Cooper replied, nodding, “and that means I do wish you luck, Doctor.”
“Thank you, sir,” M’Benga replied, his mind already turning to thoughts of the tasks that lay ahead of him. He was moving into areas of medicine he did not feel qualified to address and was uncomfortable with the notion of placing the welfare of his patient in the hands of someone he did not know and for whom no one of any standing in the Vulcan medical and scientific communities would vouch. Though he considered himself proficient with regard to Vulcan physiology and treating physical ailments unique to the species, the shroud of mystery surrounding Vulcans’ formidable mental disciplines and telepathic abilities was one area M’Benga had never before tried to penetrate.
You keep saying you want to explore,he chided himself. Now’s your chance.
10
Tom Walker’s place was all but deserted save for a few die-hard leftovers from the midday lunch rush, which suited Tim Pennington just fine. This was actually his favorite time of day to visit the small, unassuming bar located in Stars Landing, the residential and commercial center of Starbase 47’s massive terrestrial enclosure. It allowed him to hole up in one of the establishment’s semi-private booths without any distractions but the occasional refill of the drinks he nursed while working. Though the bar was his preferred place to unwind with a drink, he had only paid sporadic visits during the past few weeks. He was overdue, he decided.
“Afternoon, Allie,” he offered to the attractive female bartender leaning against a counter behind the bar as he crossed the floor toward her. She was dressed in a black leather vest, under which she wore no shirt, and matching pants. “How’s things?”
Allie shrugged. “The usual. Quiet time, at least until the evening shift change. You?”
Pennington walked up to the bar, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on its smooth, worn surface. “You know me. I’m a feather on the wind; where fate takes me, I know not.”
“Uh-huh,” Allie replied, pushing away from the counter and moving toward the cooling units beneath the bar. “I figured you were keeping a low profile or something.” She retrieved a bottle of beer—his favorite brand—and turned back to the wall behind her to get a glass, giving Pennington an opportunity to admire her shapely posterior for perhaps the thousandth time since arriving on the station.