Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (31 page)

He had taken to spending his evenings enjoying the cuisine, wine, and hospitality of Manón’s cabaret. In the years he had served aboard Vanguard, he had been there only a handful of times. In the weeks since his retirement, he had been there nearly every night until the house band played its final encore and the bartender enforced the last call. Manón, the club’s ravishing
alien patroness, an expatriate from a race known as the Silgov, had started calling him a regular. Roy, her bartender, had gotten into the habit of comping every third drink for Fisher—not that he ever finished a third drink. To one degree or another, every member of her staff had gone out of his or her way to make Fisher feel welcome and well cared for within their establishment.

He stepped through the front door that evening expecting to be met by Manón’s radiant smile and the cool but funky rhythms of the cabaret’s jazz quartet. Instead, the club was silent except for a sad, andante melody from the piano. Every guest and employee faced the stage, their jaws slack, eyes unblinking and glistening with emotion, and all of them utterly silent. Turning toward the stage, Fisher understood why.

T’Prynn sat at the piano, spotlit in the inky darkness, her eyes closed and her features sedate as she evoked from the instrument a somber, mournful tune that Fisher found deeply moving—and also more than a bit haunting in its tragic undertones. It was nothing like the crowd-pleasing music that T’Prynn had played in the past. To the best of Fisher’s knowledge, this was the first time she had performed publicly since her return to Vanguard. It fascinated him to see her style so radically transformed.

No one noticed him—or, if they did, they paid him no mind—as he glided through the dining room to an unoccupied table near the stage. Every step of the way he was captivated by T’Prynn’s solo showcase. Soft and gentle, the music seemed to spring from her with the simplicity of breath, yet it sounded as if it were in two places at once, bivalent in its nature, harrowing and yet beautiful, touching but also heartbreaking. Though he could not put into words why, he felt certain the song was a work of profound loneliness, an ode to love and mortality, a musical distillation of longing, pain, and shattering loss.

Her song dwindled to a close that felt as natural and elegiac as it was inevitable, and when it ended, the cabaret was heavy with awed silence.

Strong applause came several seconds later, but there was no cheering; the audience responded with reverence and respect, despite seeming more than a bit shell-shocked. T’Prynn left the stage as the clapping tapered off. Fisher’s table was along her path, and he beckoned her to join him. She detoured gracefully toward him and settled into the chair opposite his. He flashed a genial smile. “That was quite a performance.” When she didn’t respond, he realized his remark had been a bit vague. “It was a beautiful piece. What’s it called?”

“It was an improvisation. I did not think to title it.”

Now he was impressed. “You
improvised
that? That’s remarkable!”

She accepted his praise with half a nod. “I am gratified to know you found it aesthetically pleasing.” Turning, she caught the attention of a passing server. “Green tea, please.”

The waiter nodded and looked at Fisher. “Doctor?”

“Bourbon, neat.” Before the waiter could ask him to clarify, he added, “Roy knows the one. Thanks.” As the waiter left to fetch the drinks, Fisher turned his attention to the statuesque Vulcan woman sharing his table. “Long time since you played here. What brought you back?”

His question made T’Prynn ruminative. “After being cured of my . . .
affliction
. . . I had changed. Only after I had accepted myself as I’ve become could I return to my music.”

“I think I understand. Change can be traumatic, even when it’s for the best.”

T’Prynn nodded. “Indeed.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table. Fisher grinned at the youth. “Put them on my tab.” As the waiter departed, Fisher and T’Prynn picked up their glasses. Fisher lifted his in a toast. “To friends and loved ones now departed: may our paths cross again in this life or the next.” T’Prynn watched him with curiosity but didn’t raise her glass.

“Do you believe in supernatural ideas of an afterlife, Doctor?”

He couldn’t tell if her question was innocent or accusatory.
Either way, he saw no need to dissemble. “Not actually, no. The toast is meant more as an expression of hope or remembrance. I didn’t mean it to be taken literally.” His answer seemed to deepen T’Prynn’s introspection. “Why? Do you harbor some belief in a post-physical existence?”

“It is a complicated question,” T’Prynn said. “On Vulcan, we have the ability to preserve the essence of a person, their memories and persona—we call it the
katra
—in special arks, so that future generations can commune with them telepathically and benefit from their wisdom. Our philosophers are divided, however, on the question of whether what is contained in the ark is what humans might call a soul, or merely a psychic snapshot of a mind’s electrochemical profile at a moment near death. Either way, I know of many who have derived solace from knowing that those close to them have been judged worthy of such preservation by the Seleyan elders.”

Her answer gave him much to think about. “I’d never really known much about Vulcan mysticism. It sounds like it has quite a remarkable set of traditions.” She didn’t answer, so he continued. “I guess it might be nice to think that someone important to us might be able to live on like that—even if it’s just a copy or a part of them. And nicer still to think we might not have to be completely erased from reality when we die.”

They sipped their drinks for a minute in silence.

“Ultimately,” T’Prynn said, “it is the nature of things to pass away. The universe tends toward entropy, and even time itself will eventually end.”

Fisher sipped his smoky-sweet bourbon and smiled. “True. But that’s why we have to savor life and do all we can to help others enjoy it while it lasts. Because we never know when we’ll lose the people we care about, or when our time will be up.” He set down his glass. “I think there’s an alchemy to life. Call it what you will—circumstance, fate, magic—but it’s always felt to me like there’s an underlying pattern that brings together certain people in the same place at the right time. You can’t force it. It just has to happen. And when it does, when those pieces come together
. . . sometimes they make something really special. But part of what makes those mixtures special is that they never last.”

T’Prynn seemed to be looking through Fisher rather than at him, and her voice was flat, as if her thoughts were light-years away. “Everything changes. Always.”

He nodded. “And everything ends.”

“No doubt about it, Chiro, congratulations are in order.”
The angular jaw and cheekbones of Admiral Harvey Severson looked distorted to Nogura, not by any error of the subspace transmission but by the smile he wore. Nogura had never seen the man happy before.

“Everyone back here on Earth is singing your praises,”
Severson continued,
“from Starfleet Command to the suits at the Palais. Capturing all the Shedai in one shot is probably the most significant strategic and tactical victory we’ve had on the frontier in the last five years. I’ve personally recommended you get another stripe on your cuff for this.”

Nogura couldn’t muster much gratitude, because he suspected Severson’s parade of praise was merely camouflage for an impending barrage of bullshit.

“I’m glad you’re all so happy,” he said. “But you could have told me this in writing. So, are you going to tell me what’s so urgent that you’re spending energy and bandwidth on a real-time channel from Earth, or do I have to guess?”

Severson’s jovial mood vanished as quickly as if he’d pulled off a comedy mask—a simile that Nogura suspected contained as much truth as it did poetic license.
“Just because Starfleet Command is happy with you, that doesn’t mean they’re satisfied with your team. Specifically, the research plan filed by your new project leader is, shall we say,
unambitious
.”

“I thought its objectives were more than reasonable,” Nogura said.

Severson’s scathing glower leapt across the light-years.
“We’re long past the point of reasonable. Satisfactory isn’t going to cut it. We have an edge over the Klingons in the Taurus Reach
for the first time in five years, and we’re not going to let it slip away.”

Nogura resented the implication. “We’re not letting anything slip away, I assure you.”

“You’re not pursuing the advantage, and that’s the same thing. We’ve had our people evaluate Lieutenant Xiong’s research plan, and it’s far too cautious for our taste.”

Suspecting he would not like the answer, Nogura asked, “Cautious in what way?”

“It reads like Doctor Marcus wrote it,”
Severson said, as if that were a fault.
“Instead of pushing the envelope on the array’s capabilities, it’s focused on studying the Shedai.”

“That’s not surprising,” Nogura said, “considering that Xiong is an A and A specialist.”

His answer only deepened Severson’s animosity.
“That’s all well and good, but it’s not what we need right now. Xiong can do as much pure research and write all the history books he wants—
after
he carries out the experiments and operations we’ve deemed essential.”

“Essential?” It was a simple word, but Nogura knew from experience that when it was spouted by bureaucrats, little that was actually necessary or good ever came of it. “Precisely what are these essential experiments, Admiral?”

Severson relayed a packet of electronic documents via their channel’s data subfrequency as he spoke.
“Our experts at Research and Development in New York have put together a set of experiments to test the power-projection capabilities of the array your team built. According to their analysis of Xiong’s report, that little gizmo should be able to alter the very shape of space-time from across virtually any distance, at any coordinates we choose.”

Unable to hide his misgivings, Nogura asked, “To what end, sir?”

“Whatever we want,”
Severson said.
“In theory, we should be able to crush planets into dust, or even just fold them out of existence entirely, by bending space-time in on itself until it vanishes
into some kind of pocket dimension.”
He shrugged.
“I didn’t exactly follow all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but the end results they suggested sounded pretty exciting.”

“Exciting? I think the word you meant to use was ‘horrifying.’ Sir.”

“Puh-
tay
-to, puh-
tah
-to. The point is, Chiro, that’s just one avenue of investigation. We also want to run some tests that we think could help advance Doctor Marcus’s research into new applications for the Jinoteur Pattern. Ideally, we’d have those datasets ready for her by the time she and her team reach Regula One.”

Nogura rubbed his chin. “Two points, sir. First, I’m not comfortable with any of these recommendations. While I understand the enthusiasm the R and D teams have for the work we’re doing out here, I think they must have skipped the section of Lieutenant Xiong’s report in which he makes clear how fragile the array currently is.”

The senior admiral seemed to be losing patience with the conversation.
“You’re just being overcautious. I know these things ripped a new hole in your station last year, but that’s the past. You need to put that behind you and focus on the present and the future.”

“I believe I am, sir.”

“Well, I don’t agree. And neither does Starfleet Command. You’re sounding all the same alarms you did when we pressed you to bring the array on line in the first place. You were wrong then, Chiro, and the R and D experts are telling me you’re wrong now.”

“I don’t care what your experts are telling you,” Nogura said. “The only person I know who deserves to be called an ‘expert’ when it comes to this array is Xiong. And frankly, I’m inclined to trust his recommendations over yours.”

The shift in Severson’s bearing was subtle, but Nogura read it clearly enough to know he had just lit the fuse on the man’s temper, and that it was about to blow.
“All right,”
said the senior admiral.
“If you won’t heed my recommendations, then you leave
me no other choice but to make it an order. Admiral Nogura, as of now, I am ordering you and all personnel under your command to carry out the research plan and experiment schedule proposed by Starfleet Research and Development and sent to you by me during this conversation. If your team wishes to run supplementary experiments, they may, but only after they have completed the test series prescribed by Starfleet R and D. Is that understood, Admiral?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.”
After a moment’s thought, Severson asked,
“What’s your second point?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“A moment ago, you said you had two points. I heard your first. What was the second?”

Nogura nodded, his memory jogged. “Ah, yes. Don’t ever call me ‘Chiro’ again. Nogura out.” He stabbed the button on his desk that terminated the subspace channel, and his screen blinked back to black, erasing the shocked reaction of Admiral Severson.

Sitting alone with his cold coffee and simmering temper, Nogura dreaded the reaction from the team in the Vault when he relayed Severson’s orders. As much as Nogura disliked being micromanaged by the Starfleet brass, he knew that Xiong was going to hate it far more.

“Are they out of their goddamned minds?” Xiong’s dismay escalated as he read each successive page of the proposed experiments and protocols from Starfleet Research and Development. “It’s like they never read a single word I sent them.”

He sat behind the desk in his office, which overlooked the main floor of the Vault. Klisiewicz sat in one of his guest chairs, and Theriault stood against the wall. All three Starfleet scientists read from data slates on which was loaded the same report. As they pored through its contents, Klisiewicz was aghast and Theriault looked perplexed.