Prynn leaned her forearm heavily on the smooth surface of the companel and repositioned herself once more in the chair. Today was the first day since the accident that she had been allowed on her feet; she had spent the entire voyage back to the station in Defiant’s medical bay, and all of yesterday in DS9’s infirmary. Dr. Bashir claimed that her recovery was proceeding apace, but it already seemed as though her mobility had been limited, not for days, but for weeks. And though she felt better now than she had at any time since the explosion, she still tired easily.
The Bolian surfer completed his run for the second time, and Prynn deactivated the recording with a touch to the companel controls. “Computer,” she said. “Record a subspace message to Captain Kalena Hoku of the U.S.S. Mjolnir.”
“Proceed,”responded the computer.
“Captain Hoku, this is Prynn Tenmei,” she said, squarely facing the companel so that her image could be recorded. She smiled, happy to be in touch again with this woman she liked and respected so much. “When I returned to Deep Space 9 after your visit here, I was given the surfing—”
The door chime sounded, and a knot immediately formed in Prynn’s stomach. The smile left her face in an instant, as though it had fallen off. Only a handful of people on the station would be calling on her right now, and she did not wish to speak with any of them. “Computer,” she said, “stop recording and erase.”
“Recording terminated.”
Prynn swiveled her chair toward the door. She did not say anything right away, and she briefly considered not answering at all. She had not served for very long aboard DS9—less than half a year—and she had not yet made many friends. Although rather gregarious as a rule, she had spent most of her free time during her first few months on the station with Monyodin—
Her breath caught as she thought of him, the image of his face so clear in her mind’s eye, as though she had just seen him. Wishful thinking,she told herself. During the Jem’Hadar assault on the station almost two months ago, Monyodin had been fatally wounded by a chemical gas leak. He had died several hours later in the infirmary, with Prynn sitting by his side.
Since then, she had begun socializing again, but she had also kept her new crewmates at arm’s length. She had grown friendly, to some extent, with Nog and Sam Bowers, but they had already visited her earlier this morning, as had Colonel Kira. No, Prynn suspected that she was being looked in on by Dr. Bashir or Nurse Richter—both of whom she had seen quite enough of during the past week, even as nicely as they had treated her—or possibly by Counselor Matthias. Prynn actually liked the station’s new counselor—she appreciated Phillipa’s straightforward manner—but she had no desire to discuss the accident. Her body had been traumatized, but not her mind or her emotions; Prynn not only could not remember the explosion, she could not even recall the events leading up to it.
She thought about what she could do or say to cut short any visit by Bashir or Richter or Matthias.
Or worse, by her father.
The chime signaled again. Prynn took a deliberate breath, trying to calm herself, then realized that the fingers of her right hand were wrapped tightly around the arm of the chair. She relaxed her grip, took one more deep breath, and said, “Come in.”
The door slid open to reveal the tall, cool figure of Vaughn. She watched as he peered inside, his steely blue eyes scanning the room for her. When he spotted her off to the side of the room, at the companel, he smiled—a small, unsure sort of a smile, she thought, that barely moved the silver hair of his beard.
“May I come in?” he asked when she said nothing.
The word noscreamed in her mind like a red-alert klaxon, and the urge to give it voice almost overwhelmed her. She had weathered the couple of visits Vaughn had paid her in Defiant’s medical bay during the trip back to the station, but there had always been other people present, and he had neither stayed long nor said much. She worried now that, with just the two of them, such would not be the case. If she told him to leave, though, she feared that might itself provoke a conversation that she did not want to have with him. Finally, she said, “Yes.”
Vaughn lifted his foot over the high Cardassian sill and took one step into the room. As the door closed, he clasped his hands behind his back, a bit of body language Prynn recognized at once: he was nervous, a rarity for him. Vaughn smiled again—that same, unsure smile—and gazed around the room. Before now, he had never been to her quarters.
Prynn sat quietly as Vaughn surveyed the room. Her discomfort grew as she saw him look from one place to another, taking in her personal belongings. On the wall to his right, a pair of prints hung in pewter frames, one of Mjolnir,and the other of the U.S.S. Sentinel,Prynn’s second posting. On the same wall, on the other side of the replicator, a large free-form sculpture, composed of metal rods and sheets, kept Bajoran time in a complex series of movements; she had acquired the clock not long ago, at an art show on the Promenade.
Vaughn turned his head and examined the other side of the room, where she sat, and Prynn followed the direction of his eyes. He regarded the abstract mobile that depended in blacks and grays and whites from the ceiling in the corner nearest him, then looked over the narrow tables lining the wall on either side of the companel station. Several other pieces of kinetic art were displayed on the tables, including silver and gold orreries of both the Terran and Bajoran planetary systems. Then his gaze found her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Prynn said, and knew that she would have to say more. “I’ve been in better shape,” she added, “but I’m improving.”
“Good, good,” Vaughn said, and he took another step into the room. He seemed to struggle to find something to say. He looked away from her and over to the seating area in the center of the room, where a chair and ottoman, along with a sofa, sat around a low, oval table. Prynn felt a jolt of panic when she looked over there herself and spied a framed picture of her mother. Without thinking, she rose, one hand on the arm of the chair as she pushed herself upright. She made her way toward the sofa, too quickly. What had been a dull ache flared into a stronger pain now, a throbbing line across her midsection where her muscles cautioned against her sudden movements.
“Are you all right?” Vaughn asked, the concern in his voice plain. She also heard him take a step closer to her.
“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him away without looking around at him. As she reached the sofa, a twinge in her abdomen made her wince and bend over. She brought one arm up to her belly as the other leaned on the edge of the sofa.
“Here let me—” Vaughn started, moving in close now and taking her elbow in his hand.
“No,” Prynn said sharply, snapping her head toward him and freezing him in place. “No,” she said again, this time with a softer tone. “I’m all right.” She extricated her elbow from his grasp, moved around, and lowered herself onto the sofa. “Dr. Bashir said it’s all right for me to walk around, just not to do too much.”
“How bad is it?” Vaughn asked. “I mean, I’ve spoken with the doctor, and I know you’re going to recover completely, but how bad is the pain?”
“Not bad,” she lied, forcing herself to quiet her breathing. Her skin felt clammy beneath her clothes. Given the choice, she thought, she could live with the pain, but it infuriated her that even walking just a few steps required such an effort from her recuperating body. And the last thing she wanted was help from Vaughn. “Dr. Bashir told me that he could block the pain, but that if I was going to be on my feet, he’d rather not,” she explained. “He wanted me to be able to feel what I was doing to my body so that I wouldn’t overexert myself.”