Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

14

Pennington entered the reception area of Starbase 47’s hospital, only to find it empty. Even Jennifer Braun, the attractive young woman who acted as a receptionist and with whom he sometimes flirted, was nowhere to be seen. No one sat at the reception desk, and no one waited in the patient area to be seen by one of the station’s medical staff. The place seemed abandoned.

Can’t say I blame them,he thought, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of antiseptic cleanser that seemed imbued in the DNA of any medical facility. “Hello?” he called out in a voice only an octave or so higher than a normal conversational tone, his words carrying down the short passageway, which he knew from his previous visits led to offices, patient wards, and labs.

A door opened at the far end of the corridor, and Pennington watched as Braun emerged, her soft footsteps echoing in the hallway. Seeing him, she smiled as she moved toward her desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Pennington,” she said, “It’s nice to see you again.”

The journalist nodded. “A pleasure to see you again as well, my dear.” He offered his most charming smile. “I hope they’re not working you too hard today.”

“I was helping Dr. M’Benga,” Braun replied, lowering herself into the chair behind the desk. “He’s with T’Prynn, of course.”

“Of course.” The doctor seemed to have spent every waking moment—and perhaps more than a few not-so-waking moments—overseeing his Vulcan patient from the first moments after she had suffered whatever event had affected her. Nodding in the direction of the patient-care wards, Pennington asked, “Is everything all right? Has there been some change in her condition?” He had come to visit T’Prynn on several occasions during the past weeks, only to find her in almost exactly the same position of repose as when he had last seen her.

He noted how Braun paused before replying. “There’s been no change, but Dr. M’Benga is preparing for a new course of treatment. I should probably leave it to him to say anything else about that.”

“I understand completely,” Pennington offered. He was not family or even a close friend. Neither Braun nor M’Benga was obligated to tell him anything, though the doctor had at least been considerate enough to update him on T’Prynn’s condition every few days, the details of which had not changed since her initial collapse. “Thank you, Jennifer,” he said, turning to head toward the patient ward where he knew T’Prynn was receiving care.

“You can thank me by taking me to dinner sometime,” Braun said from behind him, and when he paused to look over his shoulder, he saw the inviting smile on the young woman’s face. She bobbed her eyebrows, and Pennington could not resist returning the smile.

“I’ll do that,” he said, nodding to her before turning and resuming his walk down the hallway.

He entered Isolation Ward 4 expecting to confront the same scene that had greeted him on his previous visits: T’Prynn lying unmoving in her bed, the medical equipment arrayed around her tirelessly monitoring her condition, and some piece of music from M’Benga’s private collection piped through the room’s intercom system. Instead, he found the doctor supervising what looked like preparations for moving T’Prynn and the plethora of monitoring devices that had become her entire world these past weeks. Around the stricken Vulcan’s bed, three nurses—two men and one woman—were loading some of the equipment onto antigrav transport carriers. To one side sat a stretcher, apparently waiting for T’Prynn to be transferred to it.

Looking up at Pennington’s approach, M’Benga nodded in formal greeting. “Mr. Pennington, I apologize for not notifying you personally, but I’m afraid I can’t allow any visitation today.” He looked tired, standing a bit stoop-shouldered and with dark circles under his eyes. It was easy to discern that the prolonged strain of overseeing T’Prynn’s care—regardless of any progress or lack thereof—was beginning to take its toll on the young doctor.

Frowning as he watched the team of nurses working over T’Prynn and the bedside equipment, Pennington asked, “Is something wrong?”

M’Benga shook his head, his attention divided between Pennington and the data slate in his hand. “No. In fact, there’s been no change at all in her condition, which is why I’ve opted to try a different approach to her treatment.” He paused, using the stylus in his right hand to jot a note. “I’m preparing to transport her to Vulcan.”

His eyes widening at this news, Pennington asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” M’Benga replied. “I’ve done all I can for her, so I’ve gotten permission to take her there, where I hope one of their doctors can help me.” He shook his head, casting his eyes toward the floor as though ashamed to have to say what came next. “Whatever’s happened to her, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever dealt with, even during my internship on Vulcan.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too badly, mate,” Pennington offered. “It takes a good man to know when he needs to ask for help. Lord knows I might have fared better if I’d done that myself once or twice.” Nodding toward T’Prynn, he asked, “When do you leave?”

“Fourteen hundred hours,” the doctor replied. “Commander Cooper’s authorized my using one of the station’s long-range personnel transports, which I’m having outfitted to support this equipment. Between that and various other supplies, there should be just enough room left over for me and a few books to read.”

From the pocket of his jacket, Pennington took out the object he had been carrying around with him since purchasing it two days earlier. It was sheathed in a piece of beige material similar to canvas, which he unwrapped to reveal a palm-sized disc of polished bronze, upon which was engraved an elaborate geometric design. Its edge was engraved with a string of what Pennington had learned were Vulcan glyphs. Offering it to M’Benga, he asked, “Do you think there might be room for this?”

The doctor looked down at the object in Pennington’s hand, his eyebrows arching with interest. “A mandala.”

Pennington nodded. “I bought it from a Vulcan vendor in Stars Landing. According to him, it’s supposed to help with meditation or something.”

“More or less,” M’Benga said. “You focus on it to help quiet your mind and your emotions, removing barriers or distractions that might prevent you from concentrating on the reception and application of logic.”

“It seemed kind of hokey to me,” Pennington replied. “I mean, considering how well disciplined most Vulcans are, it’s odd that they’d need some kind of trinket to help them.”

Shrugging, M’Benga said, “You’d be surprised. Vulcans are known to employ a wide range of meditational aids, from mandalas to art, music, and even games.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Handing the bronze medallion to M’Benga, Pennington said, “Anyway, I thought it would be a nice gift for her, when she…you know…wakes up.”

M’Benga nodded in understanding as he accepted the mandala. “ Likeisn’t the right word, but I’m sure she’d appreciate it, just as I appreciate the time you’ve spent with her. You’ve told me you two weren’t especially close, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped you.”

Once more, the heart-wrenching scene of T’Prynn collapsing beneath the weight of whatever trauma now plagued her came surging to the forefront of Pennington’s mind. Juxtaposed against that was the sting of betrayal he still felt when contemplating the actions the Vulcan had taken against him in the name of preserving the truth behind the U.S.S. Bombay’s destruction. He also remembered the evening—months ago now—when he had seen T’Prynn come to his apartment in Stars Landing. Though she had left before even knocking on his door and they ended up not meeting on that occasion, her actions and body language suggested that she might have been guided by guilt, something Pennington still found hard to believe. Had she come to apologize? The reason for her visit remained a mystery, a question for which he sought answers. Also an enigma was the nature of the odd bond he seemed to feel with her. What kept bringing him back to visit her? What did he expect to get from his time here? Try as he might, Pennington failed to find explanations for that.

“I guess you could say we’ve unfinished business, Doctor,” he finally said, his eyes lingering on T’Prynn’s unmoving form. Would someone on Vulcan really be able to help her, and if so, to what extent? Was it possible for her to emerge from her coma free of any debilitating effects? If so, what would happen to her after that? Surely, Starfleet would have some say in that matter.

“Doctor, I’d like to travel with you to Vulcan.”

The words came out without Pennington’s conscious bidding, and he blinked in astonishment even as they left his mouth. He was almost certain the expression of surprise on M’Benga’s face mirrored his own.

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” the doctor said, frowning.

Nodding, Pennington replied, “I know, I’m not family, and we’re not even good friends, but the truth is that…for reasons I’m not really sure I understand myself, I care about what happens to her.”

M’Benga’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Setting aside for the moment the fact that we’re going to Vulcan,a planet not known for welcoming outsiders—particularly when it comes to anyone observing some of the more private aspects of the culture, such as medical care—how do I know I’m not going to read all about this on the Federation News Service?”

Pennington held up his hands. “Word of honor, Doc. I’m not going as a reporter. This isn’t about exploiting her condition in order to grab a headline. I wantto go, as…as someone who just gives a damn.” After watching M’Benga’s features tighten as he contemplated the pros and cons of this notion, he added, “Besides, it’s a long trip. You might enjoy the company.”

Another moment passed as M’Benga considered Pennington’s request and turned his attention to his nurses and their continued preparations to move T’Prynn. Then he asked, “What about this business with Commodore Reyes’s court-martial? Won’t they want you to stick around for that?”

“Reyes’s lawyer has already deposed me,” Pennington said, “and Captain Desai won’t want me anywhere near the trial. I’m a hostile witness. Reyes didn’t offer me any classified information or make available any member of Starfleet to corroborate my article. Everything in that piece is as I saw it happen with my own eyes. I haven’t been subpoenaed to testify, and I’m a member of the press, so they can’t confine me to the station. I’m free to go wherever I want.” Naturally, it occurred to him that a subpoena might well be coming and that Reyes’s lawyer just had not yet gotten to it, but Pennington saw no reason to make it any easier for Starfleet to hang the commodore.

To hell with the lot of ’em.

After a moment, his expression remaining almost Vulcan-like, M’Benga asked, “I don’t suppose you play chess, do you?”

Pennington could not help the smile beginning to warm his own features. “Just tell me where and when to show up with my board, mate.”

“As I said,” M’Benga replied, “fourteen hundred hours. Docking Bay four. Pack lightly.”

“You got it,” Pennington said, clapping his hands together and turning toward the exit. Already, his mind was racing with the list of tasks he needed to accomplish in the handful of hours remaining before the transport’s scheduled departure. Pausing, he turned to look over his shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it,” M’Benga said, his attention already returned to his data slate and the preparations he was overseeing. Glancing up one final time, he added, “But if you snore, I’m kicking you out the airlock.”

15

“Gangway! Make a hole!”

Atish Khatami shouted the commands over the wail of the red-alert sirens as she sprinted down the curving corridor of Deck 5 on her way to the nearest turbolift. Ahead of her, crew members already moving to their assigned battle stations cleared the center of the hallway, some even flattening themselves against bulkheads in order to give the captain free passage. Rounding a turn, she nearly bowled over a hapless lieutenant who was trying to vacate the turbolift. The younger officer managed to dodge her and avoided being body-slammed into the wall as Khatami plunged into the lift.

“Bridge!” she called out as she gripped one of the car’s quartet of control handles and the doors closed behind her. An instant later, she felt the slight push from below as the lift began its ascent. Reaching for the comm panel just inside the door, Khatami activated the unit. “Khatami to bridge. Report.”

“Stano here,”replied the Endeavour’s first officer. “Sensors have picked up three Klingon warships at extreme range, but they’ve altered course to intercept us, and they’re coming fast. I’ve raised shields and readied weapons crews.”

The report was completed just as the turbolift slowed and the doors opened, revealing the Endeavour’s bridge. Khatami exited the lift just as Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano glanced over her shoulder and rose from the captain’s chair.

“Sensors indicate they’re D-7cruisers,” Stano said. “They’ll be on us in less than two minutes, Captain.” Her expression was neutral, but Khatami heard the concern in her exec’s voice.

“Maintain course and speed,” Khatami said as she stepped down into the command well, her eyes looking to the viewscreen and taking in its image of stars streaking past as the Endeavourcruised at warp six. She asked, “Have they attempted to hail us?”

Stano shook her head, and a lock of the dirty-blond hair she wore in a short bob fell across her eyes. “No, Captain, nor have they responded to our hails. They’re still approaching on an intercept course, maintaining a loose formation. Their weapons are hot.”

“Well, of course they are,” Khatami replied, offering a humorless grin to her first officer as she settled into the center seat. Behind her, Stano left the command well and moved to the engineering station near the turbolift, taking up the duties she normally performed when she and Khatami were both on the bridge.

At the communications station, Lieutenant Estrada turned in his seat. “Captain, we’re still receiving no responses to our hails.”

“Keep after it, Lieutenant,” Khatami ordered. She knew it likely was a fruitless gesture, but she wanted it on record that every peaceful overture was attempted when and if the situation deteriorated during the next few minutes.

And what are the odds of that?

“One of the ships is breaking formation,” reported Lieutenant Klisiewicz from the science station. He looked up from the console’s hooded sensor viewer. “It’s accelerating to warp seven and coming right at us. Intercept in forty-three seconds.”

Khatami did not have to look around her to know that the anxiety her bridge officers were feeling was heightening with each passing second. The Endeavourwas still a long way from home, and three ships against one were not good odds, even if the one vessel was a Constitution-class starship. Forcing her own unease from her mind, she straightened in her chair.

“Are they targeting us?”

Turning back to his sensor readouts, Klisiewicz shook his head. “No.”

At the helm console, Lieutenant Neelakanta asked, “Captain, should we target?”

“Negative,” Khatami replied. Something was off here. It was a gut reaction, one she could not explain. “Maintain course.” Glancing toward Klisiewicz, she asked, “What about his two friends?”

When the young science officer looked at her this time, a frown clouded his features. “They’ve adopted a parallel course, Captain, holding distance one million kilometers port side, aft.”

“You think they’re screwing with us?” asked Stano.

“We know they’ve been doing it with civilian traffic,” Khatami replied. She had read several reports during the past several weeks, detailing accounts of merchant or colony vessels being harassed by Klingon warships, not just in the Taurus Reach but all along the border separating Federation and Klingon territory. No shots were fired, and no communications were exchanged, so the reasons for the odd behavior remained unknown. “There’ve been no reports of them going after Starfleet ships. Not yet, anyway.” Starfleet had no way to know if the Klingons were itching to provoke a fight, a move that essentially would void the ongoing, if largely stalled, diplomatic talks between the Federation and the empire. Khatami figured it was something far simpler, and Klingon ship captains were getting restless and looking for some means to alleviate boredom as they patrolled unfamiliar space far from home.

As opposed to just curling up with a good book.

The next moments passed in silence, save for the omnipresent chatter of the various bridge systems and the occasional voice from the intercom offering some form of status report, before Klisiewicz again spoke. “Here they come. They’re matching our course and speed, Captain.”

“Onscreen,” Khatami ordered, an instant before the aspect on the main viewscreen shifted to show the Klingon D-7battle cruiser as it angled toward the Endeavouron what appeared to be a collision course. It was an incredibly dangerous maneuver at warp speeds, one that lasted mere seconds before the Klingon ship veered to its right, offering a sidelong view of the menacing vessel. From this distance, every seam of every hull plate was clearly visible as it sailed past, arcing out of view.

From over her left shoulder, Khatami heard Stano say, “Somebody tell me I’m not the only one who needs a diaper change.”

“They’re playing chicken,” Khatami said, rising from her chair. Even as she spoke the words, the alert indicator at the center of the helm and navigation console began blinking a deep crimson. “Hell of a thing to do at warp seven.”

“One of the other ships is coming in for a fly-by,” reported Klisiewicz. “Same trajectory as the first one.”

Khatami nodded. “They’re trying to provoke a reaction, hoping we might blink or, better yet, open fire.” The thought of spending the last three days of their return journey to Vanguard being hounded by Klingons did not sit well with her. In fact, the idea of spending the next three minutes so engaged irritated her, and her annoyance mounted as she watched the image of the Klingon ship growing larger on the main viewer.

“Mr. Neelakanta, target their warp nacelles. Don’t use the computer; you’ll have to do it manually. Do notengage weapons. Mr. Estrada, the instant we have target lock, I want you to broadcast a tight-beam signal on all frequencies, directly at the Klingon ship. Channel it through the navigational deflector. I want it to bounce off their walls and rattle their teeth. If you blow out a window or two, I’ll promote you right here and now.”

“Aye, Captain,” replied the communications officer. “What do you want the message to say?”

Crossing her arms as she studied the image of the oncoming ship, Khatami said, “Back off.” As the Klingon ship drew closer, she heard a telltale beeping from Neelakanta’s console.

“Nacelles targeted, Captain,” reported the helmsman, and Khatami nodded in approval. Achieving a target lock without assistance from the ship’s fire-control systems was no easy feat.

“Sending the tight-beam message,” said Estrada.

The reaction on the viewer was immediate, with the Klingon vessel abruptly changing its course and even accelerating as it hurled past the Endeavour.

“That’s got their attention, Captain,” Klisiewicz called out. Khatami looked to her science officer, who was leaning over his sensor viewer. The unit’s cool blue light played across his face. “All three ships are veering off.”

“I’m picking up comm traffic between the ships,” said Estrada. The lieutenant sat with his eyes closed, the fingers of his left hand held against the Feinberg receiver in his ear. “I think you rattled their cage, Captain.”

A chorus of satisfied chuckles and other indications of approval sounded around the bridge, but Khatami ignored them. “Klisiewicz, any indications that they might be coming about?”

“Negative,” replied the science officer. “They’re making a beeline out of here at warp seven.” He turned from his console, his expression one of satisfaction. “Looks as if you spooked them, Captain.”

Khatami shrugged, “Even three on one isn’t a guarantee against a ship of the line.” From a weapons and defense perspective, the Endeavourand her sister starships were theoretically capable of standing up against three D-7cruisers, but it was a hypothesis tested only on rare occasions. In those instances, it had come down to the experience and shrewdness of the vessel’s commander as much as the capabilities of the ship itself.

“The big question now,” said Stano as she moved from her station to stand at the curved red railing, “is how long the Klingons are going to keep up this nonsense.”

As she returned to her seat in the captain’s chair, Khatami felt the first hints of fatigue as the adrenaline of the past moments began to fade. “They’ll keep it up until they get the reaction they’re looking for.”

When that happened, all bets would be off.