Jase stopped and turned back. “My dad wouldn’t do that. He respects my privacy. He said one of the most important things about being a telepath is to knock.”
“Still. You might,” Pahl searched for the word, “leak. I’ve heard that. Sometimes even when people try very hard not to have their thoughts show, they do, especially if their thoughts are too big for their minds. You know?”
Jase turned away without replying. Pahl was right. Jase knew his dad could pick up on stray thoughts. Gray, he’d have to be gray around his dad.
Jase took a few more steps then thought of something. “Pahl, how did you find me?”
Pahl seemed genuinely perplexed. “I saw you.”
But Jase was shaking his head. “You couldn’t have. I remember. I looked back up the mountain right before it happened, and there was no one there.”
“Well then, I guess I knew you were in trouble because I heard you scream.”
Jase thought back to that split second when he knew he would fall. His shrill scream. The silent rocks skittering down the mountain. But it was only after they’d ducked into the biosphere’s airlock and were peeling out of their suits—when Jase tugged off his helmet—that Jase knew what was wrong.
I heard you scream.No. Jase stared at his helmet. Pahl couldn’t have heard him.
On the mountain, on his back. Staring into Pahl’s face. Pahl’s lips, moving, but no sound: There had been no sound—because Jase’s comm unit had been switched off.
“Jase?” Pahl was beside him, his suit pooling around his hips. “You okay?”
Your thoughts. You could leak.
“I’m fine.” Hooking his helmet onto its peg, Jase thumbed down the locks to hold it in place. “I’m fine. It’s nothing, Pahl. It’s okay.”
And this time he even managed a smile.
Chapter 22
“Look, facts are facts,” Castillo said, around mashed potato. (The crew’s mess chef was on an Old Earth kick again. Tonight’s menu was meat loaf with a tomato-basil glaze, fluffy mashed potatoes swimming in melted butter, green beans with slivered almonds, fresh-baked apple-walnut pie, and strong hot coffee boiled with chicory and finished with a dash of cinnamon, New Orleans-style.)
“Facts?” asked Thule G’Dok Glemoor, his forkful of salad halfway to his mouth. The tactical officer sat at Castillo’s left elbow. “What facts? We have only Starfleet Intelligence’s word for anything.”
Swallowing, Castillo used the side of his fork to chop off another juicy, steaming hunk of meat loaf, spear it, and then cram the bite into his mouth. “If Starfleet Intelligence says they found stuff,” he said, his voice muffled by meat loaf, “they found stuff, pure and simple. Anyway, captain’s got no choice. They want him; she’s got to hand him over, no two ways about it.”
“You’re suggesting that we simply take their word?”
“You think they make these things up? Not a chance. Besides…” Cheeks bulging, Castillo shrugged, swallowed. Hiccupped and then followed that with a gulp of ice water. He placed the flat of his hand against his chest, made a face as whatever he hadn’t chewed well went down. “Besides, from what I heard, they’ve been watching the commander for quite a while, after that Ryn thing…you know,” he finished, vaguely.
Glemoor’s frills twitched as he chewed his lettuce with a contemplative air. “He was cleared. Now, all of a sudden, he isn’t. Wasn’t.” He shook his head, the muscles of his jaw working under his gleaming ebony skin. “I don’t understand that.”
Focused on cleaning his plate of every last molecule of mashed potato, Castillo grunted. “Boy, I do.”
“Oh?” asked Bat-Levi. She sat opposite Glemoor and next to Darco Bulast, who was on her left. After her duty shift was up, she’d thought about skipping dinner and simply grabbing something from a replicator to take back to her quarters. But when she’d clumped her way into the mess, she spied a cluster of crewmen around Castillo, Glemoor, and Anjad Kodell, the ship’s Trill engineer. Characteristically, Darco Bulast was also there at his usual spot: diagonally across from and to Castillo’s right. If there was one crewmember who enjoyed the mess chef’s food more than Castillo, it was the garrulous Atrean; no one could remember the last time he’d missed a meal.
Seeing them all together had started her heart thumping with panic and she’d almost wheeled around and stumped out, but Glemoor called her over. She couldn’t refuse, gracefully, and then she thought about Tyvan keeping tabs on her and his report—his damn report—and decided that, hell, she’d show him.Hanging onto her guilt: What a load of crap. So, plastering a smile on her face and feeling her scar pull tight as the skin of a drum, she’d come over with her tray, wincing internally at how loud her joints sounded. She just hadto get them adjusted.
If the others noticed her servos’ clatter, they didn’t comment, and despite her anxiety, she appreciated Glemoor’s gesture. Of all the bridge crew, she felt most at ease with Glemoor and Bulast, whom everyone liked for his cheery good humor. After a few moments, though, Bat-Levi knew something was wrong with Bulast. Rather than join in on the conversation—something Bulast did with as much enthusiasm as he ate—the Atrean slumped over his plate, his attention fixed on his food. She wished she had the courage to nudge him and ask what was wrong but didn’t want to pry. She decided that even Bulast could have a bad day.
A bar. Bat-Levi held a cup of steaming coffee in her right hand, the one with fingernails. Next time Command asked for suggestions, she was going to suggest a bar. A hell of a lot easier to socialize with a drink in your hand.
Yourgood hand.Her lips turned down in a self-deprecating grimace. Her left hand, the one without nails, she kept tucked down in her lap, out of sight. Her dexterity was fine, but she was still self-conscious, eating in front of other people. Even after all this time.
“And what do you understand?” she asked Castillo.
Castillo’s fork clicked against porcelain as he scraped up tomato sauce and mashed potato. “Look, read your history books. This is the way all intelligence agencies operate. They work behind the scenes, gather bits and pieces of the puzzle. Then when they think they’ve got enough, bam!” He pushed his fork into his mouth and then slid it out, clean. “Done deal by the time they shuttle into town.”
Bat-Levi frowned. “Are you saying you mistrusted Commander Halak all along? I don’t think that’s being particularly fair.”
Glemoor spoke up. “Halak had…how do you say? A tough row to hoe, yes. Captain Garrett and Nigel Holmes worked together well. They just…oh, what is that saying? Commander, it’s a sound, meant to signify that two people mesh.”
“Click,” said Bat-Levi, figuring the Naxeran wouldn’t appreciate the irony about asking her.
“Yes, thank you.” He turned back to Castillo. “I don’t think the captain’s ever really forgiven herself for what happened to Nigel. You could see it, the way she worked with Halak. Parrying at an arm’s length,” said Glemoor, whose tactical sense and fondness for fencing made him a formidable opponent. He and the captain fenced often, though she favored saber. “She was cautious. We all were.”
Bat-Levi hiked her shoulders. “Holmes was before my time, and Halak’s always treated me well. But that doesn’t mean Halak has to be everybody’s best friend.”
Tossing his fork on his plate with a clatter, Castillo sat back and heaved a contented sigh. “Look, I’m not saying that. Of course, everyone’s entitled to his privacy. On a ship, you know, you got to have that, what with everybody packed in here together. But you have to admit he hasn’t been the easiest kind of guy to get to know.”