Open Secrets

“Shields are down,” reported the man at the sensor console. “Forward phaser banks are offline.”

Another salvo slammed into the ship, this time throwing the helm officer from her chair and slamming her to the deck. The alarm sirens wailed once more, deafening within the compact bridge. Still gripping the center seat, Reyes kept his feet and, without thinking, lunged for the helm, his eyes rapidly taking in the console’s various status readings.

“Damage report!” Easton ordered from where he knelt next to his fallen helm officer. Reyes glanced down at her, unsure if she was unconscious or dead. The odor of burnt circuitry assailed his nostrils, and he glanced around the bridge in search of the source. Nothing presented itself, but Reyes was sure that the last attack had overloaded systems across the ship. Without shields, the Nowlanmight survive one more salvo, but Reyes doubted it.

The rattled lieutenant at the sensor station replied, “Hull breach on Cargo Deck Five, but it’s contained. I’m also reading a coolant leak in engineering.”

That would explain them not responding,Reyes knew. A coolant leak almost certainly meant an evacuation of that entire area of the ship, at least until the engineering crew could don oxygen masks, if not full environment suits.

A crimson indicator flashed on his console, and he called over his shoulder, “Here they come again.” It took another few seconds before the lieutenant ma

“All of their weapons are hot.”

“No response to our hails!” Ket shouted over the Klaxon from the rear of the bridge. “I’ve tried sending out a distress call, but they’re jamming our signals!”

This is it.

The lone thought echoed in Reyes’s mind as he watched the mysterious, unidentified ship growing larger on the main viewer, its blunt bow dominated by a pair of disruptor banks glowing fiery red.

“Here it comes!” Easton shouted. “Brace for impact!”

An instant later, the warship’s disruptors flared again, spitting forth hellish new spheres of barely harnessed energy, which filled the screen a heartbeat before the twin blasts struck the Nowlan’s unprotected hull.

When the ship trembled this time, Reyes knew it was the begi

53

The words on the data slate taunted her. They danced before Desai’s eyes, remaining sharp and distinct as they hovered defiantly before her, refusing to be washed away by her tears.

TransportNowlan destroyed. Suspect attack by pirate vessel. No survivors.

It was a preliminary report, received from the Federation News Service, courtesy of the station’s main computer, and offering no details about the identity or allegiance of the attacking vessel. Admiral Nogura had arrived at her door before she read the article, to inform her personally about what had happened. Unfortunately, he had possessed only slightly more in the way of helpful information. The Nowlan’s disaster recorder buoy had been detected by the U.S.S. Gloucester,a Starfleet ship on long-range patrol in the Taurus Reach, its contents transferred to the vessel and then transmitted to the nearest Federation starbase—Vanguard. As for the recorder, the last log entry captured by the recorder before its launch from the ill-fated transport had been entered by the ship’s commanding officer. It contained no clues to the reasons for the attack.

Nogura departed at her request to be left alone. Desai lost count of the number of times she had read the FNS article. Her entire world shrank to nothing more than the compact screen before her, time ceasing to have any meaning as she commanded the device to provide new information. Instead, the data slate tortured her with the same soulless words and callous turns of phrase.

No survivors.

Tears streaming down her face, Desai threw the data slate across the room, and its molded polymer housing splintered as it slammed into the far wall before dropping to the carpeted floor of her quarters. She brought her knees to her chest and rolled to one side on her sofa, curling into a protective fetal ball.

Diego.

It was ludicrous, but she was certain she still smelled him, on her clothes, in her hair, on her skin still damp with sweat in the wake of their final night of passion. Raising her head, she looked to the end table next to the sofa and saw the framed photograph she had taken of him months earlier. She had caught him in a rare quiet moment, sitting on the grass somewhere in Fontana Meadow—part of the station’s terrestrial enclosure—looking down at something that had caught his attention. The corners of his mouth were turned upward in a wistful smile, as though he was enjoying a private joke. It was one of the few occasions when he had not appeared consumed by the burden of command, awash amid the dozens of decisions that had seemed to dominate his every waking minute. Desai never had asked him what he had been thinking just then, electing instead to allow him that fleeting moment of peaceful i

And now, of course, she never would know.

Desai buried her head in the sofa cushion, unrelenting emptiness reaching out to grip her. It crushed her heart, driving her into a vast pit of darkness. She was alone here, plummeting ever deeper and making no effort to arrest her fall. What was the point? There was no one to save her and no one waiting for her upon her salvation. So be it.

The door chime sounded, intruding on her grief.

“Go away.”

A second chime echoed, wailing for attention. She repeated her call to be left alone, but the door only offered a third signal. Then the door opened, and Desai snapped to a sitting position, her anguish replaced—for the moment, at least—with anger.

“What the hell do you want?”

It was not until she hurled the question across the room that she realized who stood in her doorway. Ezekiel Fisher regarded her from the threshold, his dark eyes narrowed in concern, his mouth pressed shut in an expression of resolve.

“Rana,” he said, stepping into the room.

“How did you get in here?” Desai asked, reaching up to wipe her eyes.

Fisher cocked his head toward the door. “Emergency medical override. One of the benefits of being the head doctor around here.”

Not in the mood for Fisher’s laidback banter, Desai pulled herself from the sofa. “I want to be left alone, Fish.”

“I can understand that,” the doctor replied, standing just far enough inside the room so that the door slid closed behind him. “I just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“Holding up?” Desai nearly spat the words. Then, realizing that her friend meant well, she reined in her follow-up response and paused, drawing a heavy breath and slowly releasing it, working to bring herself under some semblance of control. “I honestly don’t know.” Shaking her head, she moved toward the small kitchenette in one corner.

Fisher shrugged, stepping toward her. “That’s normal.”

Sighing, Desai turned to look at him, for the first time noting the dark circles under his eyes and the unmistakable look of sadness clouding his features.

He knew Diego longer than you did, after all.

A sudden wave of guilt washed over her. Ashamed at her selfishness, Desai felt new tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh, God, Fish, I’m so sorry.” She reached out for him, pulling him to her and burying her head in his shoulder. She felt the older man’s arms wrap around her, one hand resting gently at the back of her head. Fisher said nothing, standing in silence as she began to cry all over again.