“Yes, sir,” she said. “The Starfleet cargo transport Malacca is currently docked in bay three.” She handed her data slate to Reyes, who read it and followed along as she continued. “A standard cargo container unit has been modified to serve as a scan-shielded residential module for Miss Sandesjo. It will appear in the Malacca’s manifest as classified materials bound for the Starfleet Research and Development office on Deneva.”
Jetanien sounded dubious. “How likely is this to deceive the Klingons?” Reyes was keen to know the answer to that question as well.
“Because the Malacca is not a personnel ship,” T’Prynn said, “the Klingons are less likely to suspect it of being used to transport Miss Sandesjo. Furthermore, we can deflect their suspicion by maintaining a heightened state of security aboard the station for several days after her departure.”
Reyes looked over the plan that T’Prynn had drafted and compared it to the schedule of arrivals and departures. “When do you see this happening?”
“Today, shortly after the arrival of the Sagittarius,” she said. “Its homecoming should provide ample distraction.”
“Let’s hope it does,” Reyes said. “The last thing the Malacca needs is a Klingon welcoming committee waiting for it the minute it gets outside our sensor range.” He reclined his chair, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the seed of a headache. “Either of you have any more surprises for me this morning?”
“Not at present,” Jetanien said.
T’Prynn shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Reyes said. “Dismissed.”
Dr. Ezekiel Fisher stood behind Dr. M’Benga’s desk and watched over the younger man’s shoulder as he called up a new screen of deep-tissue imaging scans. “Look,” M’Benga said, pointing at a dark blotch on the screen. “Right there.”
As hard as he looked, Fisher didn’t see any sign of a tumor. “Where?”
“There,” M’Benga said. “Above the corolis gland.”
Fisher strained to pick out the tumor from the background, but the image was too muddy. “Did you take a lateral scan?”
“Yes,” M’Benga said. “Hang on, I’ll bring it up.”
The elder physician waited patiently and sipped his tepid cup of herbal tea—an indignity imposed on Fisher by Dr. Robles after the CMO’s latest physical revealed slightly elevated blood pressure—while M’Benga searched through the patient’s scans for the one they wanted. Fisher suspected that he knew what M’Benga had found, and he doubted very much that it was a cancerous tumor. He double-checked the patient’s chart. “Lieutenant Miwal’s blood work doesn’t show any of the antigens for an internal cancer,” he noted aloud.
“What if it’s an alkalo-carcinoid structure? Caitians can develop them without showing elevated alpha proteins.”
He’s a good diagnostician but a bit too stubborn for his own good, Fisher decided. “Maybe. But then why aren’t we seeing any catecholamines in his serum profile?”
“Well,” M’Benga said, and he paused. His search for a good answer ended as he put the lateral abdominal scan on the screen. “Yes,” he said. “You were right about the lateral scan. It’s much clearer from this angle.”
“It certainly is,” Fisher said. “And it should be fairly obvious that’s not a tumor.”
“But the calcified mass in the—” M’Benga stopped abruptly and took a new, focused look at the image on the screen. Fisher saw no need to say anything; he was certain that within seconds, M’Benga would realize that—
“It’s a bezoar,” M’Benga said with a slump of his shoulders. “In Miwal’s stomach. A harmless bezoar.”
“Or as I like to call it,” Fisher said, “a hairball.” He patted the younger man’s back. “Here endeth the lesson.” He handed M’Benga the data slate that held Miwal’s chart. “I suggest you prescribe the lieutenant a tricophage laxative and tell him to learn how to use the sonic shower.”
M’Benga chortled good-naturedly and started entering the information on Miwal’s chart. Fisher sipped his tea and had started thinking about lunch when the front door of the medical administrative office opened. Captain Rana Desai walked in, data slate in hand. She was followed by a pair of Starfleet security guards. Desai glanced first into Fisher’s empty office and then turned and saw him in M’Benga’s office.
He called out to her, “Morning, Rana. Help you?”
She said to her two escorts, “Wait here,” and proceeded quickly into M’Benga’s office. She shut the old-fashioned wooden door—an anachronistic touch that Fisher had insisted upon for the hospital’s administrative suite. Standing in private with the two physicians, Desai took a deep breath and looked at the floor. “I wish I didn’t have to be here,” she said.
“Don’t be coy, now,” Fisher said. “You came down here to say something. Let’s have it.”
She looked up and took another long breath. “First of all,” she said, “you have to know this is coming down from Starfleet Command. I’m just the messenger.”
Fisher folded his arms across his chest. “All right.”
“Gentlemen,” Desai said, enunciating with the stiff formality of a court officer reading an indictment, “did you, exactly three days ago, petition Admiral McCreary at Starfleet Medical to declassify and release to you the full medical history of Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn?”
The CMO looked over his shoulder at M’Benga, whose calm expression mirrored his own. Fisher looked back at Desai. “As a matter of fact, we did.”
She handed him her data slate, on which was displayed a document thick with tiny type and heavy with legal jargon. “You are both hereby ordered to cease and desist all such efforts to declassify documents related to Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn,” Desai said. “Furthermore, any attempt to circumvent or override security protocols put in place by Starfleet Intelligence will be treated as a court-martial offense. Lastly, you are both hereby prohibited in perpetuity from communicating with any and all parties regarding Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn’s medical history or this order from the Starfleet Judge Advocate General. Is that clear?”
“All except the reason why,” Fisher said.
Desai sighed. “Just sign the top page next to your names.”
Fisher scrawled his signature on the form and handed it to M’Benga, who affixed his own illegible autograph. Desai leaned forward and snapped up the tablet. Then she turned to head for the door. As she reached it, Fisher asked, “Does Diego know about this?”
She turned back. “The only reason you’re not both in the brig is that he refused to press charges for insubordination.” Softening her tone, she added, “I’m really sorry about this, Zeke. Whatever you’ve been doing…stop it.” She opened the door, stepped out, and let it swing shut behind her. It closed with a heavy thud in the doorframe.
“Not exactly the result we were hoping for,” M’Benga said.
“Nope. Wasn’t.” Fisher looked back at his protégé. “Pull everything you can find on Vulcan psychological and neurological disorders. They might not give us her history, but we still have our own data to analyze—and I plan on finding out what it adds up to, whether Starfleet likes it or not.”
Not having been told in advance of the hour or even the day of her departure from Vanguard, Anna Sandesjo was a bit startled when her escorts stepped out of the wall in her bedroom.
A human man and woman, both attired in Starfleet uniforms of black trousers and red jerseys, stood in a narrow, machinery-packed access passage behind the open panel. “I’m Agent Cofell,” said the woman. “He’s Agent Verheiden. It’s time to go.”
Cofell ushered Sandesjo to step past them.