Текст книги "Storming Heaven"
Автор книги: David Mack
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Spock’s observations stoked Kirk’s curiosity—and his suspicions. “You think they had something to do with arranging the attack?”
The question prompted Spock to recoil slightly and cock one eyebrow in mild surprise. “Not at all. I was merely remarking on the admirable degree of precision in their report. In retrospect, it appears to be well grounded in logical assumptions.”
Kirk frowned. “Right down to the Klingons starting to use cloaking devices.”
“A troubling development, to be certain. A Klingon-Romulan alliance could alter the balance of power throughout known space.”
As always, Spock’s knack for understatement fueled Kirk’s cynicism. “That’s a nice way of saying they’d be writing the Federation’s epitaph inside of a year, Spock.”
Brow creased with thought, Spock replied, “I doubt the situation would become so dire so quickly. And, while such a development would prove less than advantageous to the Federation, it would not significantly alter our current security status.”
Anxiety put an edge on Kirk’s voice. “How do you figure?”
Spock folded his arms. “We already find ourselves in adversarial relationships with most of the other powers in local space. Apart from the Klingons and the Romulans, we also face opposition from the Gorn, the Tholians, and, to a lesser degree, the Orions.” His eyebrows arched upward as he added, “While it is not in our interest for the Klingons and the Romulans to pool their resources, share their technologies, and coordinate their actions, I suspect this new alliance they’ve forged will be short-lived.”
“Based on what?”
The first officer cocked his head slightly. “A great many factors. However, I think both peoples will eventually find their respective worldviews . . . incompatible. And I suspect the Klingons will quickly realize their current arrangement benefits the Romulans far more than it helps the Klingon Empire.”
Before the captain could ask Spock to elaborate, Uhura called out, “Captain? We’re receiving a priority signal from Vanguard. It’s Admiral Nogura, sir.”
Kirk and Spock exchanged looks of intrigued surprise. Descending the steps to the command well, Kirk replied, “Put him on-screen, Lieutenant.” As he settled into his chair, the image of the vaQjoH was replaced by the lean, angular features of Admiral Nogura. Striking a relaxed but confident pose, Kirk greeted his superior with a half nod. “Admiral.”
The gravel-voiced admiral’s comportment was stern. “Captain Kirk. Before I begin, let me remind you that Starfleet considers all transmissions in this sector vulnerable to interception—an assessment with which I concur.”
“Understood.”
“Have you held on to your official mission logs, as I ordered?”
“Yes, sir. Though I have to say, Admiral Comstock is starting to insist that we transmit our logs back to Starfleet Command for analysis. He hasn’t yet gone so far as to countermand your order, but—”
“I’ve informed Admiral Comstock your logs will be relayed from here,” Nogura said. “As soon as you finish escorting that Klingon ship out of the Iremal Cluster, set your course for Vanguard. I’ll debrief you in person after you arrive. Understood?”
Masking his unease at Nogura’s gruff manner, Kirk replied with a straight face and not a hint of emotion, “Perfectly, sir.”
“Good. Send us your ETA once you’re en route. Nogura out.” The image on the screen reverted to that of the vaQjoH, cruising at full impulse ahead of the Enterprise.
Kirk leaned forward. “Sulu, how long until we cut that Klingon ship loose?”
Sulu glanced down at his console. “Seven hours and twenty-six minutes, sir.”
Rising from his chair, Kirk said, “Very well. Keep me apprised of any changes.”
“Aye, sir.”
Turning toward Spock, Kirk saw his second-in-command seated at the sensor station, his expression grave as he seemed to pierce the bulkhead with a thousand-meter stare. Kirk climbed the steps to the upper ring, then edged slowly toward his friend. He kept his voice low. “Spock?” No reply. Kirk raised his voice ever so slightly as he inched closer. “Spock?”
Spock blinked, then turned his head to look at Kirk. His manner was even more subdued than normal. “Yes, Captain?”
“Is everything all right? You look troubled.”
The half-Vulcan’s brows furrowed. “Not exactly. I was merely recalling our last visit to Vanguard, approximately three years ago. I departed the station with an important personal matter unresolved.”
Taxing his memory for three-year-old details of the Enterprise’s first visit to Starbase 47, Kirk recalled Spock’s unusual encounter with another Vulcan in some kind of cabaret-bar. “Does this have anything to do with that woman you met at the nightclub inside the station?”
“If you mean T’Prynn,” Spock said, reminding Kirk of the woman’s name, “yes, it does.”
Kirk wondered if she was another past romantic acquaintance of Spock’s, like Leila Kalomi, or some link to his mysterious Vulcan heritage, like his former fiancйe, T’Pring. Hedging his bets, he asked, “Hoping to pick up where you left off three years ago, Spock?”
Steepling his index fingers as he folded his hands in front of his chest, Spock replied, “For T’Prynn’s sake . . . I sincerely hope not.”
As the senior officers of the Endeavour impatiently went through the motions of a search-and-recovery operation, Captain Atish Khatami leaned forward, perched on the edge of her command chair. The main viewscreen showed little except infrequent glimpses of scorched wreckage tumbling across the star-flecked emptiness of interstellar space, but Khatami’s focus was on the chronometer mounted on the base of the forward console, between the Arcturian helm officer, Lieutenant Neelakanta, and the irksomely chipper young navigator, Lieutenant Marielise McCormack.
Time’s passage preoccupied Khatami’s thoughts. The Endeavour crew needed to stay long enough at these coordinates, retrieving the debris of the unmanned drone, to convince any Klingon or Romulan vessels that might be observing them that this was a recovery of wreckage from the real Sagittarius, but Khatami didn’t want to spend one moment longer on this charade than necessary. Every second we’re not on patrol, we’re asking for trouble, she worried.
Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano conferred quietly with science officer Lieutenant Stephen Klisiewicz. Khatami shook her head at the younger woman’s new beehive hairstyle. Stano’s dark hair and alabaster skin made the beehive look good, but Khatami still questioned her first officer’s adoption of the fad that had swept through Starfleet during the past few years. Ever wedded to practicality, Khatami had chosen (over her husband Kenji’s desperate objections) to have her own raven hair styled into a short but elegant coiffure that she could wash in sixty seconds and towel dry just as quickly. To each her own, she decided.
The shy-natured first officer stepped down into the command well and crossed to Khatami’s chair. “We’ve reeled in almost every piece large enough to get our hands on,” she said. “If we keep at this much longer, we’ll be chasing dust motes.”
“We still need to stretch this out a bit,” Khatami said. “Vanguard just confirmed the Enterprise intercepted a Klingon attack on the Ephialtes inside the Iremal Cluster nine hours ago. Another couple of hours and the Sagittarius will be in the clear.”
Doubt animated Stano’s youthful features with a lopsided grimace, an arched brow, and a roll of her deep brown eyes, all at the same time. “I think we’ve milked this for all it’s worth, Captain. Even if this had been the Sagittarius, we’d be done by now. There’s nothing left here.”
Despite sharing the XO’s opinion, Khatami paused before she replied, lest she seem too eager to agree or too easily swayed from her opinions. Then she looked at Stano. “All right. File your report with Starfleet Command, as per the mission briefing.”
Stano nodded. “No survivors, no sign of the culprit. Got it.” She moved quickly aft to the comm station, where she directed communications officer Lieutenant Hector Estrada to load up and transmit, on a less-than-secure coded frequency, the Endeavour’s prewritten, phony after-action report—setting into place yet another piece of Vanguard’s carefully crafted puzzle of disinformation. If this is what’s going to be expected of us from now on, Khatami grumped to herself, Starfleet Academy will have to start teaching cadets about sleight-of-hand.
A few moments later, Stano returned to Khatami’s side. “Message sent, Captain.”
“Very well. Helm, set a course for—”
“Captain,” Klisiewicz interrupted. The lean, dark-haired young man looked up from his sensor hood. “I have something here that you and Commander Stano need to see.”
Khatami and Stano exchanged keen glances of alarm. They both knew that Klisiewicz was not prone to emotional outbursts or hyperbole for effect, which meant whatever he’d just found was serious. Khatami sprang from her chair and hurried up to the sensor console, where Klisiewicz remained hunched over the hooded display, and she loomed over his left shoulder while Stano leaned in over the man’s right. The captain asked, “What’ve you got?”
“A massive signal on long-range sensors.” He stepped back to allow Khatami and Stano to take turns confirming his discovery with their own eyes. “Major fleet movements inside Tholian space, all of them heading toward the border zone closest to Vanguard.”
Khatami was still studying the sketchy data being compiled by the sensors and analyzed by the ship’s computer as Stano asked, “Could it be a training exercise?”
Klisiewicz shook his head. “I’ve never heard of the Tholians doing anything like this, not on this scale. If I’m reading that thing right, we’re looking at battle group deployments.”
“You’re reading it right,” Khatami said. “Those are heavy warships massing on the border.” She leaned back to let Stano have a look as she added, “Those aren’t recon units looking to harass border worlds. If I had to make a bet, I’d say that’s a major expeditionary force.”
Gazing into the azure light of the sensor display, Stano looked perplexed. “None of them are crossing the border, even though there’s nothing ahead of them. What’re they waiting for?”
The science officer shrugged. “Maybe they’re waiting for final orders?”
“More ships would be my guess.” Khatami’s already fretful mood darkened. “Either way, we need to get a warning back to Vanguard immediately. It looks like the Tholians are gearing up for war in the Taurus Reach.”
Stano and Klisiewicz swapped nervous glances, then the first officer mustered the will to ask, “War against who?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” Khatami descended into the command well and strode back to the center seat. “Neelakanta, set course for the Tholian border. Estrada, inform Vanguard of the change in our flight plan, warn them about the Tholian fleet, and ask if they have any idea what’s got the Tholians riled up this time. Klisiewicz, keep an eye on that fleet and let me know if you read any more ships moving to join it.”
The bridge crew swung into action. Watching one last, lonely piece of debris tumble-spin past on the main viewscreen, Khatami sensed she was witnessing a disaster take shape.
Stano moved back to Khatami’s right side. “What are my orders, Captain?”
Khatami hardened her heart for the days to come. “Start running battle drills.”
9
“You perplex me, Jetanien.”
The Chelon diplomat lowered his bowl of N’va’a and shot a questioning look across the table at his young Romulan hostess, who reclined lazily in her chair and held a tall-stemmed cocktail glass brimming with the blue ale of her homeworld. “In what regard, S’anra?”
S’anra met his stare. “You’ve always struck me as a creature of refined tastes and educated sensibilities. So I find it impossible to fathom how you tolerate that odiferous swill.”
“On my world, N’va’a is considered a beverage of rare quality.”
Her coy smile threatened to stretch into a smirk. “On my world, we’d call it compost.”
Jetanien lifted his bowl of fermented fruit juice in a jaunty faux salute. “Your loss.”
The former aide to Senator D’tran of Romulus favored Jetanien with a brief glimmer of amusement, then sipped her drink. As the pair enjoyed a moment of silence, Jetanien noted the tasteful appointments of S’anra’s villa. They sat in the center of an interior courtyard, beside a small swimming pool ringed by tall trees that offered her shade from the powerful rays of the late-afternoon summer sun. The rooms of the villa all had been decorated with works of art, such as sculptures and paintings, that were as beautiful as they were subdued. Like his own residence, S’anra’s home on Nimbus III was located outside of Paradise City, and, despite its obvious attention to creature comforts, it was equipped with a variety of potent concealed defenses. It would seem she’s taken the same lessons from D’tran’s death that I have, Jetanien concluded.
She set down her drink. “Since you took the liberty of arriving with an ample supply of your own beverage, I presume your visit is not about availing yourself of my hospitality.”
“Not entirely, no,” he confessed. “Though who could resist your charming company?”
Her gaze sharpened as she studied him. He could tell that, far from the eager young naпf she had presented herself as months earlier to his assistant, Sergio Moreno, S’anra was a shrewd if inexperienced player in the political arena. “What are we really here to talk about?”
“Any number of topics present themselves.” Jetanien kept her waiting a few moments by taking another swig of N’va’a and then setting down his bowl before sitting back against his portable glenget, a special type of kneeling chair designed to accommodate his unusual anatomy. “Your assumption of D’tran’s mantle of diplomacy here on Nimbus III; the need to defuse tensions between our two governments following that unfortunate incident with the Enterprise and one of your birds-of-prey; the Romulan Star Empire’s new accord with the Klingons; the rumors of a new praetor rising to power on Romulus in the next year; my suspicion that you’ve initiated a sexual relationship with my assistant, Sergio, as a means of compromising my privacy. Many things are in short supply on Nimbus III these days, my dear, but worthy topics of conversation we possess in abundance.”
She tapped her index finger twice on the tabletop and narrowed her eyes. “I saw what you did there, Jetanien. You muddied the waters with an excess of verbiage to conceal which subject really matters most to you. It was an especially deft gambit to finish with a personal accusation designed to make me feel defensive and vulnerable, so that I would dismiss the rest of your prattle as preamble. But I think it’s the new accord with the Klingons that sparks your interest.”
“What a curious presumption,” Jetanien dissembled. “Why would you think that?”
Projecting her suspicion like a rebuke, S’anra said, “Off the top of my head? There’s no reason to discuss my succession of D’tran as your clandestine channel to Romulus; it’s a fait accompli. The Enterprise fiasco is far too public to merit our attention, and any rumors of a new praetor are woefully premature—as I’m sure you already know. And you should have more faith in your man Sergio. His only virtue greater than his stamina is his phenomenal discretion. Your secrets are safe with him, Jetanien—but you already knew that, too, or else you would certainly have forbidden him to become my lover.”
“Actually, I did forbid it. When I took him to task for his disobedience, his only defense was the rather cryptic human expression, ‘Й l’amore.’” Jetanien had to stop himself from grinding the halves of his mandible in frustration. “If he weren’t such an exemplary attachй in every other respect, I’d have fired him on the spot. I might do so yet.”
S’anra threw her head back and laughed, then half covered her mouth with her fingers. “Please don’t,” she said with a teasing lilt. “I rather enjoy him.”
“You mean you enjoy his company.”
A rakish tilt of her head. “That, too.” Putting on a more serious air, she continued. “In any event, that leaves the Romulan-Klingon accord as the sole remaining topic of interest.”
“If you say so,” Jetanien replied, feigning disinterest. “I suspect your alliance will be short-lived.”
She picked up her drink and lounged back, affecting a casual air. “Alliance? That’s quite a loaded word. I think you might be overstating our relationship with the Klingons.”
“What would you call it?”
A small shrug. “A dйtente, perhaps. A beneficial exchange of technology in return for certain logistical considerations.”
“In other words, you traded the secrets of cloaking technology for a handful of warships and . . . what else? Passage through Klingon space to the Taurus Reach? Those hardly seem like a recompense worth surrendering your monopoly on the cloaking device.”
She swallowed a sip of Romulan ale. “Our monopoly lost some of its value after the Enterprise absconded with one of our devices.”
“Ah. I see.” He reached out with one clawed manus and lifted his bowl of N’va’a to his mandible, then inhaled its heady fragrance while he waited for S’anra’s patience to crumble. He did not have to wait very long.
Simmering behind dark eyes, S’anra asked, “What do you see, Jetanien?”
“Now that Starfleet has one of your devices, you’re afraid you can no longer traipse undetected through Federation space. You’ve lost your advantage against us because you were tricked, so rather than risk creating a second enemy on your doorstep, you bribed the Klingons to let you travel through their Empire, and to provide you with more powerful ships that you think can keep Starfleet on its side of the Neutral Zone.” He clicked his mandible in an approximation of the tsk-tsk noise some humanoids made. “Still, it’s a terrible price to pay for that privilege . . . unless you happen to be close to rolling out a newer, better version of that technology.”
Noting with satisfaction that S’anra’s mood had taken a turn for the petulant, Jetanien rewarded himself with another draught of the N’va’a.
The young Romulan took a calming breath and forced herself back into a semblance of composure. “An interesting hypothesis. Most imaginative.”
“Thank you. I do strive to entertain with my prognostications and analyses.” At the first sign that S’anra was starting to relax, he added, “But even those boons would not yield a sufficient return on Romulus’s investment, would they? No, it seems to me your praetor and Senate must be angling for a far greater reward, something valuable enough to merit currying favor with the Klingon High Council. Or part of it, at least.”
His speculation pushed S’anra back into an agitated state. “Such as?”
“Who’s to say? But given what I know of your praetor and the Klingons’ Chancellor Sturka, I find the notion of them sharing common ground less than plausible.”
As Jetanien had hoped, his verbal feint enticed S’anra to smugness. “Sturka is not the only member of the High Council.”
He leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. “Of course not, but he and Gorkon hold most of the others in line. Now, if you can get to Gorkon—well, that would be a very different scenario. But it’s not likely your people could offer him anything better than what Sturka has already promised him and his House.”
Mimicking his body language, S’anra shifted forward and lowered her voice. “And what, exactly, do you think Sturka’s promised to Gorkon?”
“The Empire. Gorkon seems likely to succeed Sturka as chancellor.”
S’anra’s eyes shone with a conspiratorial gleam. “I wouldn’t be so certain.”
“I didn’t say I was certain, my dear, only that I thought it likely. Pray tell, who do you predict will be the next to sit upon the throne of Kahless?”
She sat back and waggled a finger at him. “That would be telling.”
“So it would. And I’d hate for you to incur the wrath of someone like Duras.”
Jetanien paid careful attention to S’anra’s lack of a reaction. Her face was a blank slate—perfect for playing poker but ill-suited to brazen mendacity or fervent denial. Had she pretended to confusion or surprise, he might have had a harder time gauging whether his educated guess had struck the mark. Instead, she had made such an effort to bury her surprise that she had simply frozen. She may as well have indicted Duras herself, he gloated silently behind his leathery physiognomy. All that remained now was to play out the conversation according to its unwritten rules before retiring to his residence and passing the news along to Lugok.
“In any event,” the Chelon said, “even with your help, Duras is a long shot at best. And considering the wealth and influence his House already wields, he can’t have been an easy mark for your people to exploit. Still, I can’t fault your—what do you call them? ah, yes, the Tal Shiar—for their forward thinking in this matter. Though I doubt the Federation has anything worth trading for someone of his stature, perhaps we should look into buying a few lesser figures on the Klingon High Council. No doubt the return on investment would be quite stellar.”
The Romulan leaned back in her chair and sulked while staring at her empty glass. “There are no words equal to the depth of my contempt for you right now.”
“No doubt a passing phase.” He picked up the bottle of Romulan ale from the table, reached over, and refilled her glass. “Have another drink, and I’m sure you’ll find the words you seek soon enough.”
10
The intercom buzzed at precisely 0830, exactly the time Admiral Nogura had specified. He noted the detail with approval. There were many qualities he admired in other people, but punctuality was one upon which he placed particular importance; he did not like to be kept waiting. He thumbed open the channel to his yeoman. “Yes?”
Lieutenant Greenfield answered, “Captain Kirk is here for his debriefing, Admiral.”
“Send him in.” The door swished open and Kirk strode in carrying a data slate. Nogura stood and stepped around his desk to greet the younger, taller man. “Good morning, Captain.”
They shook hands. “Good morning, sir.”
Nogura gestured to the chairs in front of the desk as he returned to his own. “Have a seat.” They sat facing each other. “Can my yeoman bring you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“All business, eh? I see your reputation is well earned.” The admiral reclined his chair a few degrees. “Half of Starfleet is buzzing about you these days, you know.”
Kirk responded with a disarmingly modest smile. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I’ve followed your career since you took over the center seat on the Enterprise,” Nogura confessed. “Three years ago, I was one of those who doubted you could ever emerge from the shadow of the great Christopher Pike. Now I hear officers talk as if you’re some kind of modern-day Magellan, and dropping Pike’s name makes the new cadets ask, ‘Who?’”
The captain rolled his eyes, as if to deflect the praise. “I can’t control what others say—but whatever praise they think I’ve earned probably belongs to my crew.”
“No doubt there’s some truth to that,” Nogura said. “A commanding officer has to have good people in order to be effective. But a real leader inspires good people to greatness—and the Enterprise crew has excelled under your command, Kirk. Take pride in that.”
The commendation seemed to bring out a tendency for self-effacement in Kirk, who mustered an embarrassed smile. “I do, sir. Every day.”
“Good. Just don’t do anything stupid—like get yourself promoted to the admiralty. Large bureaucracies tend to reward their best people with desk jobs where they can’t be of any use to anyone, and in your case, I can’t imagine a greater waste of talent.”
That drew a small chuckle from Kirk. “I’ll try to remember that.” He leaned forward and handed the data slate across the desk to Nogura. “Our logs, hand-delivered as ordered, sir.”
Nogura activated the slate and perused the long index of entries. “Your log for stardate 5693.2 indicates you found the Defiant trapped in—I’m sorry, what is interphase?”
“A rip in space-time, like a torn membrane between two universes,” Kirk said. “The space between the universes is like . . .” He paused to conjure the right word. “Well, it’s a kind of limbo, I guess. My first officer could explain it better.”
Even a cursory skimming of the accounts by Kirk and Commander Spock made it clear to Nogura just how harrowing the Enterprise’s attempt to rescue the Defiant had been. “Your first officer’s log says he and the rest of the crew thought you had died when the Defiant slipped out of phase and vanished.”
Kirk’s mood turned somber. “If not for my crew, I would be dead.”
Nogura respected the toll that mission had taken on Kirk. “Well, we’re all glad you’re still with us. It’s unfortunate you weren’t able to recover the Defiant, but from what I see here, you and your crew went above and beyond in your attempt.” He lowered the data slate. “Let me ask you, Captain: Do you or your senior officers think the Tholians had anything to do with creating the spatial interphase that snared the Defiant?”
“No. None of their weapons seemed to function in any way that would account for the phenomenon. Commander Spock speculated the interphase might have been a natural occurrence, but now that it’s dissipated, there’s no way to be sure what caused it.”
“Very well.” With regret, he closed the file on the search for the Defiant, resigned to accepting its loss in the line of duty as another of Starfleet’s everyday tragedies.
After what seemed like a moment’s hesitation, Kirk asked, “Sir, can you tell me what happened after my crew and I finished our first-contact mission with the Melkots?”
“They admitted they’re curious about us, but they’ve chosen to remain in seclusion.”
“Damn. Powers like theirs might’ve been useful against the Shedai.”
“Technically, Captain, you—”
“I guess we could have asked the Metrons for help, but I get the impression they won’t think we’re worth talking to for another millennium or so. If Trelane wasn’t so damned impetuous, I’d almost be tempted to—”
“Captain.” Nogura spoke the word with such force that it silenced Kirk in mid-sentence. “I appreciate your input, but you need to refrain from discussing the Shedai—or any other aspect of our mission here.”
All at once, the captain’s humble bearing was replaced by a steely confidence. “Admiral, my senior officers and I stand ready to help you and your team. You might not be aware of this, but three years ago we were the ones who unlocked a key part of the mystery that had the research team here completely baffled. No one told us exactly what we’d discovered, but I think we’ve proved that we can be trusted with sensitive intelligence. Let us help.”
Yes, Nogura thought, this is how I imagined Kirk the starship commander. Aggressive, direct—and in need of an ego check. “Captain, unless there’s been a radical change in Starfleet’s chain of command, starship commanders don’t get to decide for themselves when they should be read into classified operations.”
“We’ve already been read into Operation Vanguard, for the mission to Ravanar IV.”
Nogura held up one hand, palm out. “All details of which you were ordered to purge from the Enterprise’s databanks. I’m sorry, Captain, but Operation Vanguard remains on a strictly need-to-know basis, and right now there’s no reason for you or your crew to be in the loop.”
A sour frown expressed Kirk’s resignation to the inevitable. “I see.” After a calming breath, he asked, “How soon can the Enterprise depart?”
“I’m afraid we need you to linger awhile,” Nogura said. “With our other ships deployed to the far ends of the Taurus Reach, we’d all feel better with the Enterprise standing by for short-range tactical deployments.”
A curt nod. “Of course.” His shifting posture telegraphed his desire to be anywhere other than Nogura’s office at that moment.
“Dismissed.” The captain rose and strode to the door. Before he got there, Nogura called out, “You should know that one of our resident scientists is Doctor Carol Marcus.” Kirk halted shy of the door, turned back, and glared at Nogura, who added, “Your son, David, is here, too. Maybe you could pay the boy a visit before you ship out again.”
Kirk seemed on the verge of an irate reply to Nogura’s benignly intentioned suggestion, but then the captain reined in his anger and walked briskly out of the office without another word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving Nogura alone in his office. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the closed door and tried to make sense of Kirk’s reaction.
I guess he’s not much of a family man.
Spock exited the gangway from the Enterprise and joined the steady flow of pedestrian traffic in Vanguard’s main docking bay concourse. The broad thoroughfare consisted of a single, vertig-inously high-ceilinged passageway that ringed the station’s core and linked the four internal docking bays in the lower half of the station’s mushroom-cap saucer. Well lit and immaculately clean, it betrayed no evidence of the damage it had sustained in two separate incidents: a bombing inside the docking bay, three years earlier, and a Shedai attack just a few months before the Enterprise’s return visit. The latter had resulted in hull breaches to both the saucer and the core and had penetrated all the way down into the station’s most fortified areas.
The opposing currents of pedestrian traffic that slipped past each other in the wide concourse resembled a cross section of the Federation’s population. Most of the people Spock saw looked like humans, but there also were Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians, Caitians, Arcturians, Rigelians, and Denobulans. He also noted a handful of individuals from species whose homeworlds were not yet full members of the Federation, including a Bolian and a Grazerite—the latter of which Spock had, until that moment, only ever read about.
Navigating through the flow of bodies, he made his way toward a nearby turbolift. His intention was to pay a visit to the Stars Landing establishment know as Manуn’s, located inside the station’s terrestrial enclosure, and inquire after T’Prynn. Her peculiar predicament—involuntary possession by the katra of her former fiancй, Sten, whom she had slain in the Kal-if-fee decades earlier—had made a profound impact upon him, though out of respect for her privacy he had never discussed it with anyone else. Despite their extremely brief acquaintance, he felt an obligation to seek her out and once again offer whatever succor he might be able to provide.
