Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

6

Prynn Tenmei watched as the garnet tide rose in a massive wave. The surfer, a Bolian in a black wet suit, dropped in late, catching the steepest part of the wall of water. He rode down to the midpoint of the wave, then executed a slick series of gouges—sharp, fast turns—that threw fans of spray up from the tail of his yellow board. He straightened his course momentarily, then cut back and went vertical, climbing up toward the crest. The board sliced through the water swiftly and smoothly. He boosted, redirected the board in midair, and came down as the wave started to roll over. The lip pitched far and clean as he descended, the falls crashing down and forming a tube. The surfer shot the tube, carving up the wave with a level of skill Prynn had not often witnessed.

“Wow,” she said, expressing aloud her appreciation for the surfer’s exceptional abilities, even though she was alone in her quarters. She watched him ride the wave out, then reached up and operated the controls of the companel to replay the sequence. The entire recording, a collection of different surfers in different locales, lasted almost an hour, but this particular run impressed Prynn more than any other. Not only was the Bolian’s technique remarkable, but so too was the setting. The distinctive color of the water unmistakably established the location as the Canopus Planet, a place Prynn had never been. She had heard only superlative appraisals of the surfing there, though, and she intended to experience it for herself one day.

Although grateful that Captain Hoku had left the recording for her when Mjolnirhad docked at the station last week, Prynn was also disappointed that she had missed a chance to visit with her former commanding officer. Prynn’s first posting out of the Academy had been aboard Mjolnir,where she had learned a great deal…including the art of surfing. The captain hailed from Hawai’i, an archipelago in the middle of Earth’s Pacific Ocean, where surfing—or he’enalu,“wave sliding,” as the natives called it—had been practiced for more than a millennium. Prynn, unable to resist almost any activity that involved high velocity and any sort of piloting, had quickly taken to the sport, spending many of her off-hours aboard Mjolnirin the holodeck with one or another of the captain’s many simulations.

Prynn took hold of the arm of her chair and adjusted herself as the Bolian surfer began maneuvering again along the wave. A dull ache had suffused her midsection for days, and now her flesh had begun to itch. She lowered her hands to her sides, feeling through her shirt the specially treated dressing wrapping her lower torso. She had thought that once she was no longer confined to bed, it would be much easier to make herself comfortable, but that had turned out not to be the case. Part of the problem, she knew, lay in her own temperament; she enjoyed physical activities, and eschewed pursuits that required only sedentary involvement. Injured or not, she would have had a difficult time simply sitting around her quarters.

Prynn leaned her forearm heavily on the smooth surface of the companel and repositioned herself once more in the chair. Today was the first day since the accident that she had been allowed on her feet; she had spent the entire voyage back to the station in Defiant’s medical bay, and all of yesterday in DS9’s infirmary. Dr. Bashir claimed that her recovery was proceeding apace, but it already seemed as though her mobility had been limited, not for days, but for weeks. And though she felt better now than she had at any time since the explosion, she still tired easily.

The Bolian surfer completed his run for the second time, and Prynn deactivated the recording with a touch to the companel controls. “Computer,” she said. “Record a subspace message to Captain Kalena Hoku of the U.S.S. Mjolnir.”

“Proceed,”responded the computer.

“Captain Hoku, this is Prynn Tenmei,” she said, squarely facing the companel so that her image could be recorded. She smiled, happy to be in touch again with this woman she liked and respected so much. “When I returned to Deep Space 9 after your visit here, I was given the surfing—”

The door chime sounded, and a knot immediately formed in Prynn’s stomach. The smile left her face in an instant, as though it had fallen off. Only a handful of people on the station would be calling on her right now, and she did not wish to speak with any of them. “Computer,” she said, “stop recording and erase.”

“Recording terminated.”

Prynn swiveled her chair toward the door. She did not say anything right away, and she briefly considered not answering at all. She had not served for very long aboard DS9—less than half a year—and she had not yet made many friends. Although rather gregarious as a rule, she had spent most of her free time during her first few months on the station with Monyodin—

Her breath caught as she thought of him, the image of his face so clear in her mind’s eye, as though she had just seen him. Wishful thinking,she told herself. During the Jem’Hadar assault on the station almost two months ago, Monyodin had been fatally wounded by a chemical gas leak. He had died several hours later in the infirmary, with Prynn sitting by his side.

Since then, she had begun socializing again, but she had also kept her new crewmates at arm’s length. She had grown friendly, to some extent, with Nog and Sam Bowers, but they had already visited her earlier this morning, as had Colonel Kira. No, Prynn suspected that she was being looked in on by Dr. Bashir or Nurse Richter—both of whom she had seen quite enough of during the past week, even as nicely as they had treated her—or possibly by Counselor Matthias. Prynn actually liked the station’s new counselor—she appreciated Phillipa’s straightforward manner—but she had no desire to discuss the accident. Her body had been traumatized, but not her mind or her emotions; Prynn not only could not remember the explosion, she could not even recall the events leading up to it.

She thought about what she could do or say to cut short any visit by Bashir or Richter or Matthias.

Or worse, by her father.

The chime signaled again. Prynn took a deliberate breath, trying to calm herself, then realized that the fingers of her right hand were wrapped tightly around the arm of the chair. She relaxed her grip, took one more deep breath, and said, “Come in.”

The door slid open to reveal the tall, cool figure of Vaughn. She watched as he peered inside, his steely blue eyes scanning the room for her. When he spotted her off to the side of the room, at the companel, he smiled—a small, unsure sort of a smile, she thought, that barely moved the silver hair of his beard.

“May I come in?” he asked when she said nothing.

The word noscreamed in her mind like a red-alert klaxon, and the urge to give it voice almost overwhelmed her. She had weathered the couple of visits Vaughn had paid her in Defiant’s medical bay during the trip back to the station, but there had always been other people present, and he had neither stayed long nor said much. She worried now that, with just the two of them, such would not be the case. If she told him to leave, though, she feared that might itself provoke a conversation that she did not want to have with him. Finally, she said, “Yes.”

Vaughn lifted his foot over the high Cardassian sill and took one step into the room. As the door closed, he clasped his hands behind his back, a bit of body language Prynn recognized at once: he was nervous, a rarity for him. Vaughn smiled again—that same, unsure smile—and gazed around the room. Before now, he had never been to her quarters.

Prynn sat quietly as Vaughn surveyed the room. Her discomfort grew as she saw him look from one place to another, taking in her personal belongings. On the wall to his right, a pair of prints hung in pewter frames, one of Mjolnir,and the other of the U.S.S. Sentinel,Prynn’s second posting. On the same wall, on the other side of the replicator, a large free-form sculpture, composed of metal rods and sheets, kept Bajoran time in a complex series of movements; she had acquired the clock not long ago, at an art show on the Promenade.

Vaughn turned his head and examined the other side of the room, where she sat, and Prynn followed the direction of his eyes. He regarded the abstract mobile that depended in blacks and grays and whites from the ceiling in the corner nearest him, then looked over the narrow tables lining the wall on either side of the companel station. Several other pieces of kinetic art were displayed on the tables, including silver and gold orreries of both the Terran and Bajoran planetary systems. Then his gaze found her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Prynn said, and knew that she would have to say more. “I’ve been in better shape,” she added, “but I’m improving.”

“Good, good,” Vaughn said, and he took another step into the room. He seemed to struggle to find something to say. He looked away from her and over to the seating area in the center of the room, where a chair and ottoman, along with a sofa, sat around a low, oval table. Prynn felt a jolt of panic when she looked over there herself and spied a framed picture of her mother. Without thinking, she rose, one hand on the arm of the chair as she pushed herself upright. She made her way toward the sofa, too quickly. What had been a dull ache flared into a stronger pain now, a throbbing line across her midsection where her muscles cautioned against her sudden movements.

“Are you all right?” Vaughn asked, the concern in his voice plain. She also heard him take a step closer to her.

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him away without looking around at him. As she reached the sofa, a twinge in her abdomen made her wince and bend over. She brought one arm up to her belly as the other leaned on the edge of the sofa.

“Here let me—” Vaughn started, moving in close now and taking her elbow in his hand.

“No,” Prynn said sharply, snapping her head toward him and freezing him in place. “No,” she said again, this time with a softer tone. “I’m all right.” She extricated her elbow from his grasp, moved around, and lowered herself onto the sofa. “Dr. Bashir said it’s all right for me to walk around, just not to do too much.”

“How bad is it?” Vaughn asked. “I mean, I’ve spoken with the doctor, and I know you’re going to recover completely, but how bad is the pain?”

“Not bad,” she lied, forcing herself to quiet her breathing. Her skin felt clammy beneath her clothes. Given the choice, she thought, she could live with the pain, but it infuriated her that even walking just a few steps required such an effort from her recuperating body. And the last thing she wanted was help from Vaughn. “Dr. Bashir told me that he could block the pain, but that if I was going to be on my feet, he’d rather not,” she explained. “He wanted me to be able to feel what I was doing to my body so that I wouldn’t overexert myself.”

“I guess he’s gotten to know you already, then,” Vaughn said lightly, and when she looked up at him, he smiled at her, not quite so tentatively as before. She said nothing. All she wanted was for this conversation to end and to be left alone. “Really,” he went on, more serious, “you shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I should be able to return to part-time duty within the next week, according to the doctor,” she said, ignoring Vaughn’s admonition. “I’d like to do that.”

“I know,” Vaughn said. “Whatever the doctor’s recommendation, I’ll abide by it.”

Prynn nodded and looked down. Silence seeped into the room, and she tried to think of something to say to prevent it from surrounding them. She could only summon the most innocuous of words, words she could not utter because they would only demonstrate how she craved to avoid talking about anything substantial with Vaughn. Nothing she could think of to say would keep her afloat as the quiet rose around them.

“Prynn.”

It was only the second time since he had transferred to Deep Space 9 that he had called her by her given name—by the name that hehad given her. She knew that it meant he wanted to say something to her, not as her senior officer, but as her father. It made her skin crawl. She refused to look up at him, instead keeping her eyes focused down toward the floor. Beside her, Vaughn moved, walking around the table toward the chair opposite her. As he did so, she quickly reached forward, grabbed the picture of her mother, and lowered it facedown onto the table.

When he reached the chair, Vaughn turned to her. He did not sit, nor did he say anything right away. She cast about for something that would stop him from attempting to talk with her on a personal level, but again she failed.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. And she knew that he was, and why. For her injury, of course, though that was absurd; he could not be held responsible for the actions of the Jarada, or for the explosion on Defiant’s bridge. But she knew that he intended his apology to encompass much more than that anyway; he meant to apologize for what he had done to her mother.

Now she raised her head and looked at him. Though he appeared fit, his faced seemed drawn, his eyes old. This was not the first time he had told her he was sorry, but as in those other times, it did not matter. They were merely words to Prynn, and they meant nothing.

“It was an accident,” she told him, her tolerance for Vaughn’s visit rapidly diminishing. Then, wanting to be clear, she added, “The blast aboard the Defiantwas an accident. There’s no need to apologize for that, Commander.” The last word slipped from her lips before she could stop it. She desperately wanted him to leave, but antagonizing him would not serve that purpose.

Again, silence filled the room like rising water, threatening to drown her. In her mind, she heard herself yelling at him to get out—out of her quarters, off of the station, out of her life—but she would not do that. But she could do nothing else, either. She closed her eyes, simply wishing that he would just go.

Instead, Vaughn sat down in the chair. Prynn opened her eyes to find him staring at her. He sat unmoving, his arms resting along the arms of the chair. No trace of emotion showed on his face now. “Are you still planning to be aboard Defiantfor the mission to the Gamma Quadrant?” he asked, seemingly apropos of nothing. And then he added, “Ensign,” and she understood that he was drawing a line.

“Yes, I am,” she said, aware that Vaughn already knew this, and knew how much she loved piloting, especially starships. Her advancement from Mjolnirto Sentinelto Defianthad brought her to the point where she would be alpha-shift conn on the coming mission—which posed its own problems, of course, since Vaughn would also be on the bridge for the alpha shift. But during the evacuation of Europa Nova, she had demonstrated—to herself and, she had thought, to Vaughn—that she could work with him at a high, professional level. The mission to the Gamma Quadrant would be a wonderful opportunity for her.

“Then I think you need to establish a better relationship with me,” he said.

She felt another jolt, this time not of panic, but of rage. Is he threatening me?she asked herself. He could not force her to love him or like him or forgive him, she knew, but he could see her transferred, or reassigned to other duties, or kept away from the missions that would allow her to succeed and advance. She could not allow that. She had worked hard to attain her station; she would not go backward, and she would not stand still.

“Commander,” she said, careful to control her tone, to keep it civil and professional, and not accusatory. Past Vaughn’s shoulder, the avant-garde metal clock ticked off the seconds. “I’ve earned that position. I want to—”

“You’re an excellent pilot, yes,” he agreed, “but there’s more to functioning well as a Starfleet officer than the ability to perform a job. There are interpersonal skills, and they include getting along with your commanding officer, no matter how much you blame—” He stopped, apparently checking his choice of words. “—no matter how much you dislike him,” he finished.

“Commander,” she said, her anger dissipating somewhat as her need to defend her record asserted itself. “Commander, I have not allowed our personal differences to interfere with the performance of my duties.”

“No?” he asked. Prynn blinked, astounded. As much as she despised Vaughn, she had striven to follow his orders diligently and to the letter, and in professional situations to treat him accordingly. She found it unbelievable that he now suggested otherwise. “Ensign,” he went on, “wasn’t it you who said you had to pretend you could stomach just being in the same room with me, and then told me to go to hell?” She began to protest, but he held up his hand, stopping her. “We were alone, and I had given you permission to speak freely. And it’s not as though I don’t know how you feel about me. The problem is, it’s not just me who knows that; it’s clear to a lot of people on this station that our relationship is… strained.It provides for a tense working atmosphere, and it undermines my authority, particularly since I’ve been permitting it to go unaddressed.”

Prynn glanced away, and she saw the overturned picture of her mother on the table. She knew that she would have to tread lightly here. She wanted to tell him that, no matter his maneuverings, he could not make her love him, that whatever they once had between them had long ago perished. But she also understood that there was some measure of truth to what he was saying. She had seen the expressions—first of confusion, and later of recognition and sadness—on the faces of Nog and Shar, of Lieutenant Ro and Colonel Kira. Still looking away, she admitted it. “You’re right.”

“I might be able to deal with your attitude toward me indefinitely aboard the station,” Vaughn told her, “but if you’re going to serve on Defiantfor three months while we explore the Gamma Quadrant, then you’d better learn to get along with me.” He stood up.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She continued looking at the picture frame lying flat on the table, facedown.

“Look at me, Ensign.” His voice carried the tone of command, and she knew that she not only had to look up at him, but that she had to do so with nothing on her face: not anger or animosity, and not a mask covering those emotions. All at once, it came to her that this could be a defining moment in her Starfleet career. Resentment started to build within her, but she quelled it immediately. She would put herself beyond caring what kind of a father Vaughn was to her. From a professional standpoint, that was the appropriate action to take, but on a personal level, wasn’t that the right thing to do too? Wouldn’t her life—and his—be easier if they didn’t have a contentious personal relationship, but rather no personal relationship at all?

Prynn lifted her eyes and met Vaughn’s gaze, letting the tension and ire drain from her. “Yes, sir,” she said, her tone even, responding to him as though he had just ordered her to take the ship to warp.

“Do you understand me?”

“I do, sir, yes,” she said, and then risked adding, “and you’re right.”

Vaughn’s eyes held hers for a long time. He can go either way,she thought. He could believe what she had said, or he could think she was only telling him what he wanted to hear. She pushed the thoughts away, for fear that they would appear on her face. She piloted herself now, and her emotions, and she had never confronted a more difficult test of her flight skills. She fought the controls to keep her course straight and true.

Vaughn relented. “Good,” he told her. “I’m glad.” He turned and headed for the door. She did not turn her head, but allowed herself to slump slightly. She felt completely drained of energy. She heard the door slide open, but Vaughn’s footfalls stopped before they reached the corridor. “Prynn?” he said, and the command in his voice had gone. Regardless, she stood up and turned, facing him across the room.

“Sir?”

“I amsorry,” he said. “For everything.”

“I know,” she told him. He regarded her for a moment more, and she hoped he would not say anything else. Finally, he turned on his heel and left. The door slid closed after him.

He’s sorry,she thought, staring at the closed door. For everything.And she found that she believed it, believed that Vaughn was indeed sorry for all that had happened. But it’s not enough,she thought. It will never be enough.