“I thought all that stuff about doing no harm wasn’t even in the Hippocratic Oath,” Reyes said.
Fisher smiled. “You have to look for it. Which is all the more reason to get to the harassment and haranguing, such as telling starbase commanders that their eating habits are atrocious, and that if they don’t start taking better care of themselves, more of their favorite dishes will be deleted from their diet profiles.”
Deciding that he probably would survive this particular breakfast—while at the same time making a mental note to get with the quartermaster about clandestinely shipping in some care packages from Earth as soon as possible—Reyes pushed the plate away and reached for his data slate. It contained various morning reports submitted by the station’s department heads as well as a distillation of message traffic and other updates received from Starfleet Command in the past twenty-four hours.
“Do you remember Terrance Sadler?” he asked as he held up the tablet for Fisher to see.
The doctor nodded. “Sure. Left Starfleet about six years ago to settle down on some colony planet.”
“Right,” Reyes said. “Hell of a security chief. Probably the best I ever had.” As he spoke the words, he looked about the mess hall to ensure that his current security officer, Lieutenant Haniff Jackson, was not in earshot. It was not that he doubted Jackson’s abilities or potential, of course, but Sadler had served under Reyes for three years aboard the U.S.S. Dauntless. Nearly every member of their ship’s crew for one reason or another owed his or her life to Terrance Sadler, who had proven to have a knack not only for anticipating trouble but for handling it, as well.
A real bad karma magnet, Terry was.
“What about him? Did he send you a note, bragging about how exhilarating life is on the frontier?” Fisher asked, reaching for a carafe at the center of the table to refill his coffee cup. “Unlike here, where nothing ever happens.”
Ignoring his friend’s sarcasm, Reyes replied, “The last I heard, he settled on Ingraham B.” He held up the data slate for emphasis. “According to Starfleet Command, all contact with the colony there has been lost.” He frowned as he glanced over the report for the fourth time. “That planet’s nowhere near Klingon space, or any other known threat.”
Was something new making its presence known in that still isolated area of Federation territory? Ingraham B, while not a military target by any means, was still home to a thriving agricultural and scientific colony. Terrance Sadler had elected to resign his commission and accompany his wife, herself an accomplished xenobiologist, to the planet in the hope of settling down, starting a family, and leaving behind the stresses of life aboard a starship.
Yeah, but if trouble comes knocking, you can bet Terry will be the one answering the door.
“You know, it could be something as simple as a power failure,” Fisher offered, “or whatever else that might knock out their communications gear. It doesn’t always have to be something malicious causing problems.”
Shaking his head, Reyes pointed to the data slate again. “It’s been three days since contact was lost. They’re sending a ship to investigate, but it’ll take weeks just to get there.”
“Space is big, Diego,” Fisher said, in that paternal manner of his which allowed him to state even the incredibly obvious without coming off as patronizing or insulting. “For all we know, they’ll have comm up before that ship can get halfway there.”
While he wanted to think that something innocuous could be responsible for the apparent communications blackout, Reyes’s gut told him that simply was not the case. His feelings of apprehension only deepened when coupled with the pain he still carried over the loss of the U.S.S. Bombay. The captain of the ship, Hallie Gannon, had been his first officer on the Dauntless. She and Sadler had also been friends, and their notorious late-night poker games had seen more than a few credits whisked from Reyes’s own pocket.
I hope everything’s all right out your way, Terry.
The report regarding Ingraham B was one of more than twenty received from Starfleet Command since yesterday morning, and those were but a percentage of the briefings and updates transmitted to Starbase 47 during a given week. The reports were a lifeline of sorts for the station, connecting it with the rest of the Federation and reminding all aboard that they were but one act of an immense, multifaceted play that was being written anew with each passing day. While much of what Reyes reviewed was positive—details from dozens of newly explored worlds, a few first contact situations, and so on—there also were several reports that caused him concern. Heightened activity from within Klingon and Tholian borders was at the top of that list, of course, particularly as they related to his current assignment.
What the daily briefings never failed to do, regardless of whether they contained encouraging or disquieting news, was remind him that this was a time of unprecedented potential—for Starfleet and the Federation as a whole. Never before had so many opportunities to make so much progress in so many different areas of knowledge—science, technology, relations with new civilizations—been within such seemingly easy reach.
Of course, much of that excitement was unfolding very far from where Diego Reyes currently sat.
That’s okay,he mused, though with more than a small amount of melancholy. We have our own unique brand of excitement here, don’t we?
The initial discovery of virtually identical samples of incredibly complex genomes—collected by the U.S.S. Constellationtwo years ago from five different star systems and all separated by several light-years—had ignited a firestorm of policymaking and strategizing at the highest echelons of Starfleet Command. Theories raged over the origin of the “meta-genome,” as it had come to be known. Was this a clue to some future step in natural evolution, one that humans and humanoid species throughout the galaxy might eventually take? There were those in the Federation science community who believed the intricate DNA might be artificial in nature. If that was the case, who was responsible for it? Was it someone with whom the Federation might ally itself, or was it a possible—and potentially staggering—new enemy?
Vanguard’s primary mission, so far as the public was concerned, was to provide logistical support for the extensive exploration and colonization effort already well under way in the Taurus Reach, as well as to be a nucleus for Starfleet operations in the area. In reality, that duty provided cover for the station’s true purpose—directing the efforts of Starfleet specialists to learn as much about the meta-genome and its origins as was possible. It was a tall order, especially considering that, with precious few exceptions, Starbase 47’s entire complement was unaware of the meta-genome’s existence in the first place.
The strain of commanding this effort, so far from home, had already taken a personal toll on Reyes, its harshest blow coming with the news of his mother’s death. That loss had weighed heavily on him, along with his inability to even be present at the end, bound as he was by his duty to Starfleet, this station, and the growing number of secrets it harbored.
Suppressing the truth behind the loss of the Bombay,not to mention the steps that had been taken to prevent the ship’s destruction from igniting all-out war with the Tholians, had been distasteful enough. Compounding that dilemma was the willful scuttling of the professional career of journalist Tim Pennington, who had reported the incident via the Federation News Service. The reporter had been used—duped into writing a story using information both fabricated and manipulated so that Starfleet might discredit him in the eyes of the public. Their sacrifice of Pennington cast off suspicions that the Bombaytragedy had resulted from anything more than an unfortunate accident.