“I’m aware of that, sir,” M’Benga said. “That’s why I called you. I requested T’Prynn’s records and was denied.”
That made Fisher sit up straight. “Denied?”
“Yes, sir. Starfleet Medical informed me that I don’t have sufficient security clearance to review her file.”
The older doctor put down his coffee mug on the desk and grabbed the data slate that showed T’Prynn’s incomplete work-up. “Did you tell them she’d collapsed?”
“Yes, sir,” M’Benga said, his manner far more calm and professional than Fisher expected his own would be under the circumstances. “They still refused to release her records.”
Fisher studied the unusual bio readings taken during T’Prynn’s ER visit and tried to make sense of them. “Doesn’t add up,” he said. “Why would medical records be classified?” He tapped the face of the data slate. “Quite a fever she was running. Any sign of viral infection?”
“Not that we found,” M’Benga said. “No sign of injury, either. But lots of pain response in her somatosensory cortex. My first diagnosis was premature Pon farr.”
Nodding slowly, Fisher said, “That fits with the elevated temperature and pulse. But I don’t see the pain connection. That sort of thing usually happens when they can’t get back to Vulcan to mate. Are we sure it’s not her usual cycle?”
“I asked,” M’Benga said. “She insisted it’s not time. Then she left.”
“And you didn’t stop her?” Before the other man could answer, Fisher continued, “This isn’t some backwater private practice, Jabilo, this is a Starfleet starbase.” As he got up from the chair, he felt his temper rise with him. “You were the attending physician, and she was your patient. Order her to the ER for a follow-up exam and a complete history. Make it clear that if she refuses any part of that order, I’ll suspend her from duty immediately. Clear?”
“Yes, Doctor,” M’Benga said, standing up with Fisher.
Collecting his coffee mug from the desk, Fisher added, “As for her medical records being classified? We’ll see about that.”
The spray from the shower nozzle was warm and forceful on the top of Diego Reyes’s head. Jets of white water pushed through his graying hair and tingled his scalp, ran in long rivulets over his shoulders and down his torso. He reached up and massaged the back of his neck. Surrounded by the white noise of the running water, secluded briefly from the burdens of command, he reminded himself to breathe. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine himself somewhere else.
Reyes pressed his palms against the tiled wall in front of him and bowed his head beneath the falling cone of water. Fatigue imbued his limbs with a leaden quality. I wish I could sleep for a year, he thought. There’s never time to think, no time to read, no chance to catch up. This is no way to live.
Cool air wafted across his back. Even with his eyes shut and his head submerged in spray, he recognized the sensation. “Hello, Rana,” he said with a bemused grin.
“You’ve been in here almost an hour,” Desai said as she slipped into the shower behind him. She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her body against his back. “Hiding from me?”
“Why would I do that?” he said with a grin, adjusting the shower nozzle to toss some water over his shoulder at Desai.
She laid her head in the valley between his shoulder blades. Her soft London accent gave her voice an especially wistful quality. “I don’t know. Maybe you were regretting taking us public the other night in Manón’s?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Switch?” In response to his offer, she shuffled around him to step under the main thrust of the spray, while he moved behind her. The water added weight and shine to her short but lustrous black hair. Thanks to the difference in their heights, a generous portion of the water angled over her and continued to pelt Reyes’s chest.
Desai took half a step back and pressed her hands against her head. With a backward push she squeezed the excess water from her hair. “What’re you still doing in here?” she asked with a coquettish grin. “Trying to use up Vanguard’s hot water?”
“Just wanted a quiet place to think,” he said.
Her delicate tan fingers explored his wet, steel-gray chest hair. “About work?” she pried. “Or about Jeanne?”
“They’re kind of the same thing now,” he said. “If something happens to her—”
“It won’t be your fault,” Desai said, her mien both firm and comforting. “You didn’t send colonists to Gamma Tauri.”
“No,” he said, cupping his hand to collect a palmful of water. “But I didn’t warn them, either.”
“You couldn’t.” She rested her head on his chest. “They’ve been there almost a year, Diego. Did you know that planet was part of your mission when they set up their camp?”
“Of course not,” he said. He pressed his handful of water to his face. Wiping his eyes clear, he continued, “I’d never put civilians at risk just to cover an op. But now that they’re there, I can’t force-evac them just ’cause Xiong and his white-coat brigade think we might find something useful under the surface.” He sighed heavily, feeling the pressure of his command reasserting itself. “And by the time we know for a fact that they need evac, it’ll probably be too late.”
She traced her fingernails up and down along the flanks of his back. “They have the Lovell and the Starfleet team on the surface, and the Endeavour will be there in a few days. If anything goes wrong, they’ll protect the colony.”
“Sure,” Reyes said glumly. “But if they end up defending it from the Klingons, it’ll mean war. And I can’t let that happen.” He stepped back from the spray. “A bigger problem is what’ll happen if Jeanne talks to one of our people on Gamma Tauri. She’s too good an esper not to know they’re hiding something.”
Shutting off the water, Desai said, “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” She turned to face him and slid open the translucent stall door. Cool air rushed in, creating thick clouds of water vapor that rolled around them. “For now, you have to trust the people under you to do their jobs.” She stepped out of the stall, grabbed two towels, and handed one to Reyes. “Dry off and come to bed,” she said. She wrapped her towel around herself and padded away toward the bedroom.
Reyes tied his towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall. He stopped in front of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror, despairing at the dark canals that concern had etched into his face over the past thirty years. His father’s favorite saying echoed in his memory: “By the age of fifty, we all have the face we deserve.” Eyeing his own weathered, grim countenance and the deep, dark crescents of fatigue beneath his doleful eyes, Reyes decided that his father had been right.
Desai called to him from the other room. “If you’re not in bed in sixty seconds, I’m going to sleep.”
“I’ll be right there,” he answered. Knowing she would make good on her teasing threat, he turned out the bathroom light and exited to his bedroom, where Desai was already ensconced under the covers. These are the good times, he reminded himself as he climbed into bed beside his girlfriend. Enjoy it while it lasts…. Because it always ends sooner than you think.
8
A choir of cacophony. Too many voices clamoring to set the tone. To the Apostate it was beneath contempt. He seethed with resentment that his placid aeons of silent reflection had been stolen for this manic chaos. Saying nothing, he held himself at a remove from the din of the Shedai Colloquium.
The hour has come, declared the Maker. Earlier than we expected, we must reclaim what is ours. Thunder punctuated her call to action. The atmosphere of the First World churned around the Colloquium, hurling forks of lightning and deluges of rain upon the convocation.