Most cutting of all was the absence of Fisher’s pseudo-protégé and former attending physician, Dr. Jabilo M’Benga. Despite knowing for more than a year that the young doctor had requested a transfer to starship duty, it still had filled Fisher with disappointment when he’d heard M’Benga wouldn’t be coming back.

Onward and upward,he reminded himself as he downloaded that day’s personal mail to his data slate.

While the handheld device retrieved his electronic correspondence from the station’s computers, he sauntered into his kitchen nook and poured hot water from an old-fashioned kettle into a mug he had prepared with a few tablespoons of cocoa mix. Tendrils of vapor twisted up from the rich, creamy beverage. A soft beep from the data slate confirmed he had new messages waiting to be read.

It was the usual smattering of crap: solicitations to consider starting a private practice on one backwater rock or another; newsletters from various medical journals to which he subscribed, or from associations he had been foolish enough in his youth to join; a reminder that his sixty-fifth high-school reunion was coming up; a letter from some young know-it-all who had found a picayune error in one of Fisher’s old journal articles and just had to bray about it, not realizing Fisher himself had publicly corrected that same error a decade ago; and so it went.

Then he saw it, the grain of wheat hidden in the chaff: a new message from Jabilo. Fisher smiled. Speak of the devil.

He carried his cocoa to the main room of his quarters, settled onto the sofa, and rested his feet on his coffee table as he started reading the welcome missive.

Dear Zeke,

I meant to drop you a line sooner, but the last several months have been jam-packed with vintage Starfleet

SNAFUS

.

First, in January they recalled me to Earth from Vulcan because they said they had a starship billet for me. Well, it was the same old Starfleet story: “Hurry up and wait.” I hopped a ride back to Earth on a frigate called the

Tremina

, but when I checked in at Starfleet Medical in February, they said the billet was already filled.

So guess what they did next?

They sent me back to Vulcan.

I got the impression I might be there a while, so at the end of March I accepted a medical-research position at the Vulcan Science Academy.

Don’t fall asleep on me, old man. This is where the story gets interesting.

In June the

Enterprise

made a port call on Vulcan. Around the same time, there was a rash of homicides inside the Vulcan Academy Hospital. It was a huge scandal. I’m sure you read all about it on the newsfeeds.

In July I was asked to ship out with a Vulcan medical team that was helping the

Enterprise

crew treat a plague outbreak on the Vulcan colony of Nisus. I won’t bore you with the details of how we ended up containing the outbreak; you can download the official report from the Starfleet Medical database.

The upshot is that between the homicide investigation and the mission to Nisus, I made a strong impression on the

Enterprise

’s new CMO, Leonard McCoy. He made a formal request to Starfleet Command to have me transferred to the

Enterprise

, ASAP.

Naturally, I was then sent back to Vulcan and told that McCoy’s request would be “processed with all due haste.”

That was in August. By October I’d given up all hope of seeing the inside of the

Enterprise

ever again.

Skip ahead to mid-November. Some admiral wakes me up one morning at oh-dark-thirty and tells me to pack my gear and get on a fast-warp transport RFN, no questions asked.

Seventy-two hours later, I’m on Coridan. Turns out Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan had suffered a cardiac failure while en route to the Babel Conference. By the time I arrived the matter had been dealt with, but I guess nearly losing a VIP during a major diplomatic mission finally convinced Starfleet Command that having a Vulcan-medicine

specialist on the

Enterprise

might not be such a bad idea, after all.

Talk about fortuitous timing: a little more than two weeks after I joined

Enterprise

’s medical staff, its half-Vulcan first officer, Commander Spock, got himself shot in the chest by a primitive projectile weapon during a landing mission. It was a close call, but he pulled through.

In many respects, Commander Spock is a remarkable individual. And just between us ol’ sawbones, I think one of the nurses is hopelessly in love with him. I’d give her some advice if I wasn’t having so much fun watching her make a fool of herself.

Anyway, it’s time for me to cut this short. We’re in some kind of mad hurry to get to Deep Space Station K-7 all of a sudden. If this turns out to be anything interesting, I’ll send you an update as soon as I’m able.

And believe it or not, I do miss you and the rest of the team at Vanguard Hospital—but nothing compares with being out here on a starship, seeing the galaxy with my own eyes. Every day proves the old cliché is true: wonders never cease.

Be well, Zeke. I’ll keep you in my thoughts.

Your friend,

Jabilo

Fisher set the data slate on the coffee table and exhaled a deep and tired breath. He was happy for Jabilo, but the younger man’s joie de vivreonly made Fisher more aware of how much his own appetite for life was waning with age.

For the hundredth time that day he flirted with the notion of tendering his resignation with immediate effect. After all, what was holding him on Vanguard? What was there for him to do that some younger surgeon with a security clearance couldn’t do better? Why go on bearing the burden of dire secrets?

You know why, you old coot,he admonished himself. You made a promise.

He had told Diego he would look after Rana Desai, that he would be a friend to her in Diego’s absence. She was the only person on the station who loved Diego more than Fisher did. For her sake he would stifle his complaints and play the part of the stoic. As long as she stayed on the station, so would he.

Lord help us,he mused with bittersweet humor, the things we do for love’s austere and lonely offices.

57

T’Prynn stood alone on the stage, the fingers of her right hand barely grazing the keys of the piano.

It had been more than an hour since the last of the club’s patrons had been shown the door by Manón, its exotically beautiful alien proprietor. Now that the after-hours cleanup was finished, Manón shooed her employees out of the cabaret.

Transfixed by the details of the baby grand piano—the shine of its polished keyboard, the subtle scratches in its lacquered frame, the reflections of the stage lights on its propped-open lid—T’Prynn only half-listened as Manón closed and locked the club’s front door. She remained still, gazing at the bars of black and white beneath her hand as she listened to Manón’s footsteps echoing in the empty dining room.

“Everyone’s out,” Manón said. The elegantly dressed woman’s coif of multicolored hair was styled in a helix that curved from her left temple to the back of her right shoulder. Looking up at T’Prynn with her emerald-green, almond-shaped eyes, she asked, “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

“No, thank you. That will not be necessary.”

Manón replied, “All right. Turn off the stage lights after you finish. The back door will lock behind you on your way out.”

T’Prynn nodded. “I will. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s my pleasure. Call it a welcome-home gift.” At that, the pale-skinned alien woman slipped away and exited to the kitchen, leaving T’Prynn to face the piano in solitude.