“A penny for your thoughts,” a voice said from over her right shoulder.
Grateful for the interruption, Garrett turned. “Don’t forget to clue Glemoor in,” she said, lightly, covering. “You look very nice, Doctor. Is that make-up?”
“Don’t be mean.” Stern raised a flute half-filled with pale yellow champagne. “And Glemoor knows that one, I’m sure. You’re not mingling, Captain.”
Garrett gave a disparaging half-shrug. Swirled her drink. “Just thinking.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Plucking Garrett’s bourbon from her hand before Garrett could protest, Stern snagged champagne from a passing waiter and handed the flute to Garrett. “Bourbon’s for good cries, and smoky bars on rainy nights. Or sickbay, when there’s just the two of us. You want to talk about it?”
The flute was chill against her fingers, a nice feeling. Garrett took a tiny sip. After the bourbon, the champagne tasted icy and crisp and fizzed in her mouth. “Not really. But…thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
Garrett changed the subject. “They’re late.”
“Think there was a screw-up somewhere?”
“Maybe. You never can tell with Command.”
“Amen to that. Relax. If it was really serious, we would’ve heard.” Stern nudged Garrett, lifted her chin toward the waiter who’d been circulating with the sea-scallops. “Ten to one, I have to put Darco on another diet.”
Garrett followed Stern’s gaze and saw her communications officer busily plucking scallops and crackers from the hapless waiter who stood, tray proffered, a study in patience. Glemoor stood alongside Bulast, gazing mournfully at the rotund Atrean.
“Know any pithy idioms about weight?” Stern asked.
“Penny wise, pound foolish?” Garrett saw Stern’s expression and wrinkled her nose. “I guess not.”
“Not that old saw. But you and me, we’ll think of something.” Stern slipped an arm around Garrett’s waist and gave it a quick squeeze. “Come on, you’re so serious!This is a party! Relax!”
“Can’t help it. It’s been rocky, these past few weeks—Batra, Halak.” Ven.Garrett gave a rueful smile, a little laugh. “Everything. Tyvan would say I’m brooding about past mistakes.”
“And he’d be right. You’ve got a good crew, and they’ve got a great captain.” Stern raised her flute in a toast. “The best damn ship in Starfleet. To the future, Captain.”
Garrett smiled. “To the fu…” But then the doors hissed, and Garrett turned in time to see Castillo walk in.
And Halak.
The room went dead. Halak stood absolutely rigid, a look of utter shock frozen on his face.
Then, Castillo blurted, “I couldn’t helpit! They gave me the runaround when I took custody!”
“What?” Halak found his voice. He turned first to Castillo then to the rest of crew, and then his eyes came to rest on Garrett and Stern. “What?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Stern, exasperated. “If no one’s going to say it, I will. Surprise.”
The room erupted in a swell of laughter and applause. Someone shoved a glass of champagne into Halak’s hand, and then Halak disappeared from view as his fellow crew members converged, deluging him with handshakes and pats on the back. Garrett hung back and waited, letting the rest of the crew have at Halak, allowing Halak to revel in the moment.
When the noise level in the room had finally settled down to a manageable roar, Garrett lifted her champagne and raised her voice above the din. “A toast!”
She waited as everyone in the room raised their glasses. She glanced at Stern, gave her friend a wink then turned her smile to her family—her crew.
“To us,” she said, simply. “To the future. Welcome back, Commander. Welcome home.”
Acknowledgments
There are a few people without whom this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day, and they deserve recognition and special thanks.
First and foremost, my most profound thanks and gratitude go to Marco Palmieri, an editor who took a chance on an unknown because, as he put it, sometimes you just gotta roll the dice. Marco has been the most patient, encouraging, and available of mentors, and his invaluable comments and insights into the manuscript, from proposal to outline to finished product, made my work—already enjoyable—an invaluable learning experience as well. Thanks, Marco: let’s hope you rolled a lucky seven. I know I did; other newbies should be so fortunate.
My thanks go to Keith DeCandido, writer and editor, who went over this manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, provided copious and exhaustive notes, and dinged me, gently, on the craft of telling a story well—and dang, if he wasn’t right about those point-of-view shifts. Thanks also to Paula Block at Paramount, who gave my outline the go-ahead.
There is one person who deserves my very special thanks: the editor who gave me my first break. Since 1999, Dean Wesley Smith has been a teacher to whom I have turned repeatedly for help and advice. Dean is not only a great writer; he is also an unselfish and experienced teacher of a craft he truly loves and champions. Dean has been encouraging when I’ve been discouraged; he’s listened to rants; he’s wisely chosen not to respond to self-pity; and he’s not been above giving me a nice supportive boot in the pants when I’ve needed it (thank God, not often). Above all, Dean and his wife, the equally impassioned and accomplished writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch, have taught me that, barring the sun going nova, I really am responsible for my own career. Dean, I am indebted more than I can say, or possibly express.
Finally, my tally wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t thank my husband, David. Seven years ago, David was the one who dared to voice what I could only half-acknowledge: that writing is what I’ve always wanted to do. Since then, David’s enthusiasm, support, and love have made it possible for me towrite, and while I don’t think that he or my two girls, Carolyn and Sarah, suffered too terribly much, I know that he had to put up with his share of what he’s come to call my “writing frenzies.” Wisely, he knows when to phone Domino’s and keep the children at bay.
About the Author
Ilsa J. Bick is a child, adolescent, and forensic psychiatrist and has written extensively on psychoanalysis and cinema. One day, her husband insisted that what she really wanted to do was chuck all that psychoanalytic stuff and write stories. After staring at acoustical tile in her analyst’s office for two–three years, she decided he knew her pretty darn well and since then, she’s done okay. Her story “A Ribbon for Rosie” won Grand Prize in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds II,and “Shadows, in the Dark” took Second Prize in Vol. IV.Her novelette “The Quality of Wetness” (Second Prize) appeared in Writers of the Future, Vol. XVI.Her work has appeared, among other places, in SCIFI.COM, Challenging Destiny,and Talebones.Her short story “Strawberry Fields” appeared in Beyond the Last Star(edited by Sherwood Smith) and her story “Alice, on the Edge of Night” was published in Star Trek: New Frontier: No Limits(edited by Peter David). This is her first published novel. She lives in Wisconsin, with her husband, two children, three cats, and other assorted vermin.