The first hints of the afternoon heat encroaching on the house’s temperate climate were affecting Pennington, in the form of perspiration forming on his forehead. After wiping it away, he regarded his damp hand. “A month, you say? I don’t know if I have enough fluids in my body to hold out that long.”
“It’s likely that Starfleet will insist on your extradition, Commander,” M’Benga said. “They’ll argue that you’re well enough to travel to a Starfleet medical facility in order to complete your rehabilitation, during which you’ll almost certainly be under arrest. I can’t imagine a court-martial is far off, either.”
The right side of T’Prynn’s face twitched again. “Healer Sobon will resist such a request, on the grounds that he’ll wish to observe my neurological recovery, which he’ll no doubt perform via one or more mind melds.”
“I have no reason to argue or disagree with Sobon’s diagnosis or treatment suggestions,” M’Benga replied.
Pennington could not help smiling at his friend. “Look at you, being a bloody rebel and all.”
Raising his right eyebrow in fine Vulcan fashion, the doctor replied, “My concern is for my patient, and that’s the way it’ll be until she’s discharged from my care.”
“Your dedication to your duty is commendable, Doctor,” T’Prynn said, “but as I will be remaining in Healer Sobon’s care for some time, I see no reason for you to stay here. Starfleet surely has better uses for a man of your august talents.”
M’Benga nodded, reaching into a pocket and producing a piece of folded parchment. “It appears so,” he said, holding it up. “This was delivered to me via messenger from the Starfleet security contingent outside the commune. I’m to report to the Starfleet liaison in Shi’Kahr once I’m finished here. It looks like I’m receiving new orders.”
“Back to the station?” Pennington asked.
Shrugging, M’Benga replied. “I don’t know, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Healer Sobon has already contacted the Starfleet liaison office in Shi’Kahr,” T’Prynn said, “and informed them that you will arrive in due course. They will continue to post security details here until he declares me recovered, at which time I will surrender myself to Starfleet. You are relieved of your responsibility for me, Doctor, without any prejudice. Indeed, Sobon also has communicated a request to Starfleet that you be awarded a commendation for your devotion to duty.”
She paused, and though her expression revealed nothing, Pennington noted in T’Prynn’s body language that she was coping with something—perhaps a wave of disorientation, fatigue, or even nausea. For a moment, the journalist imagined what the Vulcan must be experiencing, helpless to do anything except react to whatever fits and starts her strained body and mind subjected her to. In a sense, she had been at war for decades, he knew. Was it unrealistic to assume that her recuperation would not take longer than a few days or weeks, as Sobon predicted? What, if any, long-term effects of her protracted torment remained to be discovered? Would T’Prynn ever achieve complete recovery?
“I suppose that’s it, then,” M’Benga said, nodding in final agreement. “I’ll honor your request, T’Prynn. However, I hope you’ll contact me and let me know how you’re doing.”
T’Prynn nodded. “I will do so, Doctor. Thank you.”
Much to his own surprise, Pennington found himself saying, “If you’d like the company, I wouldn’t mind staying. I need material to finish my book, and it’s not as if Starfleet cares if they ever see me again.”
“Yes, I’ve been told about your news features,” T’Prynn said. “I imagine they make for most interesting reading.” When she said nothing else for a moment, Pennington wondered if the Vulcan also had been told about the court-martial and conviction of Commodore Reyes or even the worsening political climate between the Federation and the Klingons. He decided that for now, unless she broached either subject, it likely was best not to mention them.
T’Prynn, with some difficulty, adjusted her position in her chair, and this time, the lack of mobility in her legs and right arm was apparent. Pennington could not help but feel sympathy for her, though he knew she likely would dismiss his open display of such emotion.
“As I said to Dr. M’Benga,” she said, “I appreciate your concern, as well as your offer, but it is not necessary. I will have everything I require here, and Sobon’s staff will tend to me during my recovery.”
Pennington recalled his conversation with young T’Lon and the hardships endured by those who returned to Kren’than after having chosen to leave the village for whatever reason. “It might not be the easiest path to travel, staying here, what with things being the way they are and whatnot.”
Understanding his veiled statement, T’Prynn nodded while casting her gaze down to her folded hands. “Indeed, but it is a burden that I am prepared to carry. I consider it a measure of recompense for the care I have been given.” When she looked at him again, Pennington saw something come over the Vulcan, as though she had made a decision. “You and I have had something of an adversarial relationship, Mr. Pennington, and that is my doing. While I would like to think that the actions I took served a greater good, I know now that there may have been other avenues to explore, options that might have spared the injuries done to you. While this may not be sufficient in your view, I hope you will accept my apology.”
Seeing her now, weakened and vulnerable, and in the wake of what they had shared, Pennington realized that he could no longer hold on to the anger he had felt toward her. With his reputation restored, was there really anything left for which to hold her accountable? Would doing so accomplish anything?
No. Let it go.
“Thank you, T’Prynn,” he said, his voice soft. He glanced at M’Benga, who was nodding in approval.
T’Prynn slumped in her chair, and M’Benga moved forward to help her. She raised her left hand, halting his advance. “I’m fine,” she said, “but I am growing fatigued. T’Nel will assist me in returning to bed.”
Pennington said, “I think that’s our cue, then.”
“Yes,” M’Benga replied. “Thank you for seeing us, T’Prynn.”
“Think nothing of it. I wish you a safe journey back to Starbase 47, gentlemen.” Reaching beneath her blanket, she said, “Mr. Pennington, there is something I’d like you to take with you.” Her hand emerged and extended toward Pennington. In her palm, the journalist recognized the familiar bronze finish of the mandala.
Frowning in confusion as he took the disc from her, he said, “I don’t understand.”
“A reminder,” T’Prynn replied. Straightening her posture, she regarded them both as she held up her left hand and offered a traditional Vulcan salute. “I wish you both peace and long life.”
M’Benga returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Commander.”
“Goodbye, T’Prynn,” Pennington added, swallowing a lump in his throat as his fingers caressed the mandala. Would he see her again? He found it unlikely, given Starfleet’s intentions toward her.
Then again, she wasT’Prynn.
47
Reclining against the chair’s padded backrest at a table in a quiet corner of Manón’s Cabaret, Nogura sipped his wine and watched the subdued hive of activity taking place around him. Members of the station’s complement and civilian personnel occupied most of the other tables, as well as chairs, sofas, and floor cushions arranged about the nightclub’s interior. A low buzz generated by numerous conversations hovered in the air, the words themselves just beyond his hearing, and he took note of the few furtive glances cast in his direction from other officers. It was easy to comprehend the subject of at least some of the conversations: him.