“It seemed kind of hokey to me,” Pennington replied. “I mean, considering how well disciplined most Vulcans are, it’s odd that they’d need some kind of trinket to help them.”
Shrugging, M’Benga said, “You’d be surprised. Vulcans are known to employ a wide range of meditational aids, from mandalas to art, music, and even games.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Handing the bronze medallion to M’Benga, Pennington said, “Anyway, I thought it would be a nice gift for her, when she…you know…wakes up.”
M’Benga nodded in understanding as he accepted the mandala. “ Likeisn’t the right word, but I’m sure she’d appreciate it, just as I appreciate the time you’ve spent with her. You’ve told me you two weren’t especially close, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped you.”
Once more, the heart-wrenching scene of T’Prynn collapsing beneath the weight of whatever trauma now plagued her came surging to the forefront of Pennington’s mind. Juxtaposed against that was the sting of betrayal he still felt when contemplating the actions the Vulcan had taken against him in the name of preserving the truth behind the U.S.S. Bombay’s destruction. He also remembered the evening—months ago now—when he had seen T’Prynn come to his apartment in Stars Landing. Though she had left before even knocking on his door and they ended up not meeting on that occasion, her actions and body language suggested that she might have been guided by guilt, something Pennington still found hard to believe. Had she come to apologize? The reason for her visit remained a mystery, a question for which he sought answers. Also an enigma was the nature of the odd bond he seemed to feel with her. What kept bringing him back to visit her? What did he expect to get from his time here? Try as he might, Pennington failed to find explanations for that.
“I guess you could say we’ve unfinished business, Doctor,” he finally said, his eyes lingering on T’Prynn’s unmoving form. Would someone on Vulcan really be able to help her, and if so, to what extent? Was it possible for her to emerge from her coma free of any debilitating effects? If so, what would happen to her after that? Surely, Starfleet would have some say in that matter.
“Doctor, I’d like to travel with you to Vulcan.”
The words came out without Pennington’s conscious bidding, and he blinked in astonishment even as they left his mouth. He was almost certain the expression of surprise on M’Benga’s face mirrored his own.
“I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” the doctor said, frowning.
Nodding, Pennington replied, “I know, I’m not family, and we’re not even good friends, but the truth is that…for reasons I’m not really sure I understand myself, I care about what happens to her.”
M’Benga’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Setting aside for the moment the fact that we’re going to Vulcan,a planet not known for welcoming outsiders—particularly when it comes to anyone observing some of the more private aspects of the culture, such as medical care—how do I know I’m not going to read all about this on the Federation News Service?”
Pennington held up his hands. “Word of honor, Doc. I’m not going as a reporter. This isn’t about exploiting her condition in order to grab a headline. I wantto go, as…as someone who just gives a damn.” After watching M’Benga’s features tighten as he contemplated the pros and cons of this notion, he added, “Besides, it’s a long trip. You might enjoy the company.”
Another moment passed as M’Benga considered Pennington’s request and turned his attention to his nurses and their continued preparations to move T’Prynn. Then he asked, “What about this business with Commodore Reyes’s court-martial? Won’t they want you to stick around for that?”
“Reyes’s lawyer has already deposed me,” Pennington said, “and Captain Desai won’t want me anywhere near the trial. I’m a hostile witness. Reyes didn’t offer me any classified information or make available any member of Starfleet to corroborate my article. Everything in that piece is as I saw it happen with my own eyes. I haven’t been subpoenaed to testify, and I’m a member of the press, so they can’t confine me to the station. I’m free to go wherever I want.” Naturally, it occurred to him that a subpoena might well be coming and that Reyes’s lawyer just had not yet gotten to it, but Pennington saw no reason to make it any easier for Starfleet to hang the commodore.
To hell with the lot of ’em.
After a moment, his expression remaining almost Vulcan-like, M’Benga asked, “I don’t suppose you play chess, do you?”
Pennington could not help the smile beginning to warm his own features. “Just tell me where and when to show up with my board, mate.”
“As I said,” M’Benga replied, “fourteen hundred hours. Docking Bay four. Pack lightly.”
“You got it,” Pennington said, clapping his hands together and turning toward the exit. Already, his mind was racing with the list of tasks he needed to accomplish in the handful of hours remaining before the transport’s scheduled departure. Pausing, he turned to look over his shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it,” M’Benga said, his attention already returned to his data slate and the preparations he was overseeing. Glancing up one final time, he added, “But if you snore, I’m kicking you out the airlock.”
15
“Gangway! Make a hole!”
Atish Khatami shouted the commands over the wail of the red-alert sirens as she sprinted down the curving corridor of Deck 5 on her way to the nearest turbolift. Ahead of her, crew members already moving to their assigned battle stations cleared the center of the hallway, some even flattening themselves against bulkheads in order to give the captain free passage. Rounding a turn, she nearly bowled over a hapless lieutenant who was trying to vacate the turbolift. The younger officer managed to dodge her and avoided being body-slammed into the wall as Khatami plunged into the lift.
“Bridge!” she called out as she gripped one of the car’s quartet of control handles and the doors closed behind her. An instant later, she felt the slight push from below as the lift began its ascent. Reaching for the comm panel just inside the door, Khatami activated the unit. “Khatami to bridge. Report.”
“Stano here,”replied the Endeavour’s first officer. “Sensors have picked up three Klingon warships at extreme range, but they’ve altered course to intercept us, and they’re coming fast. I’ve raised shields and readied weapons crews.”
The report was completed just as the turbolift slowed and the doors opened, revealing the Endeavour’s bridge. Khatami exited the lift just as Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano glanced over her shoulder and rose from the captain’s chair.
“Sensors indicate they’re D-7cruisers,” Stano said. “They’ll be on us in less than two minutes, Captain.” Her expression was neutral, but Khatami heard the concern in her exec’s voice.
“Maintain course and speed,” Khatami said as she stepped down into the command well, her eyes looking to the viewscreen and taking in its image of stars streaking past as the Endeavourcruised at warp six. She asked, “Have they attempted to hail us?”
Stano shook her head, and a lock of the dirty-blond hair she wore in a short bob fell across her eyes. “No, Captain, nor have they responded to our hails. They’re still approaching on an intercept course, maintaining a loose formation. Their weapons are hot.”
“Well, of course they are,” Khatami replied, offering a humorless grin to her first officer as she settled into the center seat. Behind her, Stano left the command well and moved to the engineering station near the turbolift, taking up the duties she normally performed when she and Khatami were both on the bridge.