Trying to interrupt without breaking Fisher’s chain of thought by speaking, M’Benga covered his closed mouth with his fist and made a few low, throat-clearing coughs.
Fisher peeked sideways at him. “I knew you were there, Jabilo,” he said. “No need to be coy.”
“My apologies, sir,” M’Benga said. “I can see you’re busy.”
Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Fisher sighed. “What brings you downstairs?”
“T’Prynn’s medical records,” M’Benga said.
The chief medical officer turned his back to the console and leaned against its edge. “I sent them over two days ago. Did you get them?”
“Yes, sir,” M’Benga said. “I reviewed them at length.”
Crossing his arms, Fisher said, “And?”
“They’re suspiciously perfect,” M’Benga said. “From her adolescence through the present, her records paint her as the picture of health.”
Fisher shrugged. “Vulcans take good care of themselves.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I interned on Vulcan. So I know from experience that they suffer illnesses, just like everyone else. But according to T’Prynn, she’s never been sick, and every injury she’s ever suffered has been duty-related.”
“You talked to her?” Fisher asked. “Did you have her come in for a physical and a history like I told you?”
M’Benga nodded. “Yes, I did. And I didn’t find anything wrong…at first.”
Suspicion creased Fisher’s wrinkled brow. “Meaning?”
“When I compared the history she gave me with the file you sent over, they matched—perfectly. I know Vulcans often display eidetic memories, but how many know their own medical files word for word?” He offered Fisher the data slate he was carrying. “So I compared the data from her physical with her history. They don’t line up.” Pointing out several items, he continued, “She says she suffered dozens of minor injuries during her years of service in security and intelligence, but look at the numbers on those fractures and deep-tissue scars. Those injuries were all inflicted at the same time—approximately fifty to fifty-five years ago, either before or while she was a cadet.”
Sounding confused and alarmed, Fisher mumbled, “She lied.”
“There’s more,” M’Benga said. “Over the last two days, I’ve spoken to six doctors who were CMOs at her previous assignments. Most don’t remember treating the kinds of injuries she reported, but three of them said they did treat her for symptoms similar to the ones that brought her into the ER six days ago. And they all found that their private records regarding T’Prynn had been…expunged.” Nodding at the data slate, he added, “Forgive the pun, sir, but her medical records have been doctored.”
Fisher pulled a hand slowly and firmly over his gray goatee. “Exposing a lie is one thing, Jabilo. Getting the truth is another.” He handed back the data slate. “Let me tell you what I found out from the brass at Starfleet Medical. Her files were sealed by someone at Starfleet Intelligence—someone with a much higher clearance than mine. The whitewashed version was the best I could do; if you really want to get her original medical file, you’ll have to talk to someone above my pay grade.”
“Someone like Commodore Reyes?”
A knowing smile pulled Fisher’s mouth wide. “If you think you can get him to sign the order, be my guest.”
M’Benga asked, “Could you help me convince him?”
“Sorry,” Fisher said, turning back toward the console. “I have a lot to do and no time to do it. If you want to go tilting at windmills tonight, you’re on your own.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” M’Benga said, hiding his irritation at being left to carry on alone. “I will.”
Lines, circles, and arrows. That’s all that Reyes could see after staring for too long at the sector chart on his office wall. Dots, rings, and washes of color. It was all bleeding together, turning into gibberish. Part of him suspected that the idea of borders in interstellar space had always been nonsense.
Arrowheads, trefoils, diamonds, and squares—ship markers were scattered far and wide across his map. Arrowheads were few and far between: those were Starfleet vessels. Slightly greater in number were the trefoils representing Klingon warships. The diamonds were scarcest of all, not because the Tholian vessels they represented didn’t exist but because Reyes’s team had no idea where they were. Cluttering the map were the squares: civilian ships. Freighters, tankers, colony vessels. Almost too many to count, but it was his team’s job to protect them all.
Every day he tracked the activity in the sector like a hunter watching for a telltale warning sign in the brush or a rustle of movement in the tall grass. Sooner or later, either the Klingons or the Tholians would make their move to seize control of the Taurus Reach. Assuming I do my job right, he reminded himself, I’ll see it coming and be able to stop them.
Reyes picked at his midnight snack. The lasagna had gone cold while he’d sat staring at the wall, and the salad had marinated in its red-wine vinaigrette to the point of nearly disintegrating. He tried forcing down another mouthful of lasagna, but it had been mediocre when it was hot and had since become all but inedible.
His intercom buzzed. He thumbed open the channel. “Yes?”
“Dr. M’Benga to see you, sir,” said Yeoman Finneran.
He felt himself blink and recoil gently. This is new. “Send him in,” he said. Grateful for an excuse to abandon his meal, he pushed the tray aside.
His office door opened, and M’Benga walked in. The doctor noticed the tray on Reyes’s desk. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner, sir.”
“I was finished,” Reyes said, standing up to greet him. He circled around the desk and extended his hand. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“No, sir,” M’Benga said.
Sifting through memories of recent events, Reyes flashed upon why M’Benga’s name was familiar. Snapping his fingers, he said, “You put in for a transfer a few weeks back, didn’t you?”
“About two months ago, actually,” M’Benga said.
Reyes gestured to the chairs in front of his desk as he circled back behind it to his own. “Well, these things take time. If you’re here about speeding up the process—”
“I’m not,” M’Benga said. “I came to talk to you about Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn’s medical records, sir.”
Settling into his chair, Reyes knew this couldn’t be good. “What about them, Doctor?”
“For starters,” M’Benga said, “I’d like to know why they were redacted by Starfleet Intelligence. Regulations require us to maintain complete medical histories on all serving officers. But someone at Starfleet Intelligence modified her records, removed critical information, and inserted fraudulent data. T’Prynn herself gave me false information when answering questions about her medical history. I want to know why.”
Exercising care in his choice of words, Reyes said, “There are numerous reasons why Starfleet Intelligence might classify someone’s records, Doctor.” He slowly adjusted the monitor on his desktop so that he alone could see it. As he continued, he submitted a request for T’Prynn’s medical records using his own security clearance. “What if our medical database was compromised? An enemy might data-mine those records to match dates and places with injuries, to identify undercover field operatives. Even years later, an agent’s history might have to remain redacted to protect others.”