Declassified

“I’ve missed you, Hallie. I know Diego misses you too—now more than ever, I suspect. God knows there were times in the last couple of years when he would have valued your good advice. Sometimes I think things would have turned out differently for all of us . . . if only you had been here.”

“Doctor Fisher?”

Fisher turned, startled. Standing at parade rest a respectful distance away was Haniff Jackson, Vanguard’s chief of security. “Lieutenant. Something I can do for you?”

“I apologize for the intrusion, Doctor, but Admiral Nogura requires your presence in his office immediately.”

Fisher’s eyebrows went up. “And he needed to send you to deliver the message? How’d you even know where to find me?”

Jackson shrugged. “I volunteered. This is the only place on the station out of earshot from the nearest intercom . . . and it’s the only place you go without your communicator.”

“Should I be worried about how you would even know that?”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“And a helluva job it is,” Fisher said, casting a wistful glance back at the dogwood tree before returning his full attention to Jackson. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

Fisher knew better than to try to cajole Jackson into telling him the reason for Nogura’s summons; if the young man were at liberty to divulge that information, he would have offered it back on the meadow. That Jackson hadn’t required him to pick up his medkit on the way ruled out a medical emergency, but the normally talkative Haniff had little of anything to say on the turbolift ride up to the command tower, and that in itself troubled Fisher . . . as did the dour faces that greeted him in the operations center. This is not good.

As Jackson escorted him into Nogura’s office, it surprised Fisher to learn it wasn’t the admiral waiting inside, but Rana, looking as if she had just risen from one of the guest chairs. Her pale brown face, framed in shimmering, straight black hair, reflected Fisher’s own growing uncertainty.

Jackson exchanged a cordial nod with Desai, which Fisher pretended not to notice. “The admiral should be along shortly,” the security chief said. Then he added, “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”

Fisher murmured thanks and waited for the door to close before he turned to Desai. “Did he just warn us not to try leaving?”

Desai’s brow furrowed as she sank back into her seat. “It’s probably best if we don’t jump to any conclusions. I take it you’re as much in the dark as I am?”

“Without a candle,” Fisher said, smiling as he took the unoccupied guest chair next to Desai’s. “Though I will say it’s nice to see you, stranger.”

He watched Desai carefully for her reaction. The smile she volleyed back seemed genuine enough, but it failed to reach her big brown eyes. “Oh, come on, Fish,” she said. “It’s not like I’ve been AWOL.”

Was that an acknowledgment that she had put some distance between them? Fisher supposed it must be, but he wouldn’t probe deeper . . . just as he never pressed her about what had transpired between her and Jackson last year, around the time the first rumors of Diego’s survival had begun to spread. Rana would open up to him in her own time, or she wouldn’t. All he could do was be there for her if and when she needed him.

The office door opened. “Stay seated,” Admiral Nogura said as he entered the room, stopping Fisher and Desai halfway out of their chairs. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he added as he strode briskly toward his desk. Not for the first time, Fisher envied the shorter man’s vigor. Despite being nearly the same age as the octogenarian doctor, Nogura showed few signs of it. The admiral’s deeply lined face and silver-streaked hair belied the energy with which he always moved.

“What I’m about to tell you will be made known to the rest of the crew shortly, but I wanted you two to hear it from me first,” Nogura began as he lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind his desk. He paused as if considering how he should proceed before he finally told them, “There isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll come right to the point. It’s my sad duty to inform you both that Commander Aole Miller is dead.”

The words were a kick in the gut. Rana froze in disbelief. Fisher looked away, shaking his head.

God, not Aole . . .

Miller had been among the first arrivals at Starbase 47, on the same transport as Fisher. The doctor had been instantly taken with the younger man’s upbeat and gregarious nature, and the two became fast friends before either of them had set foot on the station. But Aole had that effect on everyone, Fisher quickly learned, his apparently inexhaustible optimism and indiscriminate affability quickly making him one of the most well-liked members of the crew—the proverbial ray of sunshine even during Vanguard’s darkest days.

Such a loss for all of us . . .

“How did he die?” Rana asked, her voice cracking.

“Commander Miller was on assignment to the New Anglesey colony on Kadru,” Nogura said. “This morning I was informed by the colony’s governor that Miller accidentally drowned when he ventured too far outside the settlement without an escort or authorization.”

Fisher swore under his breath. He knew from experience that young colony worlds were dangerous places, each with its own unique set of hazards, which had to be learned over time by the settlers. But there was always the danger of visitors forgetting that a planet had not been “tamed” the moment colony ships touched down, and in those rare instances the consequences were too often tragic, even for experienced Starfleet perso

The hell of it was, if anyone knew landing party protocols, it was Aole Miller. He might not have written the book on the subject, but as Starfleet’s colonial liaison for the entire Taurus Reach, he had probably contributed more than a chapter or two. The idea that he could have made a mistake that cost him his life—

“Has anyone told Ahmed?” Desai asked.

Nogura nodded. “That’s the reason I was late getting here. I gave Mister Farahani the news myself.”

Fisher wanted to kick himself. On top of everything else, Miller was a newlywed of four months. That it had taken him this long before he gave a thought to Aole’s widower shamed him. Fisher imagined Ahmed alone, overcome with anguish, and it was more than he could endure. Rising from his chair, he said, “Admiral, if you’ll excuse me—”

“As you were, Doctor,” Nogura said without force, but in a ma

Fisher opened his mouth to protest, but quickly tamped down the impulse. Nogura was right. Tziporah Goldrosen was an experienced grief counselor. For Fisher to show up now would probably be more disruptive than helpful. But that raised another question, and once again, Rana was half a step ahead of him.

“Admiral . . . may I ask why you elected to inform the two of us personally, and ahead of the rest of the crew?”

Nogura rose and stepped around his desk. He leaned back against the forward edge and folded his arms. “I’m tasking the two of you with completing Commander Miller’s assignment.”

Fisher blinked.

“Which was what, specifically?” Rana asked.

“To convince the colonists to evacuate Kadru.”

Fisher and Desai exchanged looks before the doctor asked, “What are we looking at? More territorial challenges from the Klingons? Or has someone detected the presence of the meta-genome?”

“Nothing so dramatic—at least, not yet,” Nogura said. He picked up a remote control resting on his desk and pointed it at the office viewscreen, calling up a map of the Federation’s colonial holdings in the Taurus Reach. Blue dots denoted the settlements. A number of arcing yellow lines radiated from the spot that symbolized Vanguard, weaving among the colonies, and Fisher knew these represented starship patrol routes.