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He projected memory facets shared among his armada’s perso
All have heard it. Velrene sent back fragments of countless memory-lines, from worlds throughout the Assembly. The Voice was heard on every world.
Tarskene appended his memory-line to the others. And then it was silenced.
Is the Enemy gone? Her inquiry was tinted with hope.
Resentment, fury, and fear darkened Tarskene’s thought-colors. Not gone. Snared. By the Federation, aboard its space station.
Velrene’s mind-line fragmented with disbelief, then surged crimson with rage. It is not possible to contain the Old Ones! They must be destroyed!
He tried to share soothing hues and calming tones via the InterLink, but Velrene’s anger blazed like a wall of lava. We do not yet know the Federation’s intentions. They may yet choose to destroy the Old Ones, for their own safety if nothing else.
She met his suggestion with sickly hues. Doubtful. The Conclave must confer.
A dull gray hum informed Tarskene that his mindwave on the InterLink had been muted. All he could do was wait while Velrene and the other members of Tholia’s ruling elite weighed the matter and sought to harmonize their thought-colors.
A mellisonant chiming summoned him back to attention.
Velrene’s mind-line radiated resolve. For now, Commander, hold the armada where it stands, and observe the space station. If the Federation’s soldiers destroy the Old Ones and take our vengeance for us, so be it. Then her inter-voice shimmered with violent intent. But if they try to steal the power of the Enemy for themselves, that we ca
Tarskene mirrored the colors of Velrene’s mind-line with fidelity.
So shall it be done.
25
It had been obvious for a couple of days that something big was happening on the station. Because Fisher was no longer on active duty, no one could tell him anything, but he hadn’t needed to hear the news firsthand. He could tell by the way conversations between Starfleet perso
There was no point in angling for information; no one would talk. He guessed the chatter was probably related to Operation Vanguard, in which case he was happier not knowing.
At the same time, he saw no reason to sequester himself in his quarters, which were almost bare now that most of his personal effects had been loaded aboard the transport Lisbon for the journey home—whenever the hell that ended up happening. Delays of incoming cargo had postponed the ship’s departure by at least another week, leaving Fisher with nothing to do but sleep, eat, read, and wander the public areas of the station. He passed most of his afternoons on Fontana Meadow, watching the ad hoc games of competitive sports that tended to spring up on the sprawling greensward that ringed the station’s core, enjoying the fragrance of fresh-cut grass, or reading beside one of the pools, surrounded by the astringent odor of chlorine.
He had taken to spending his evenings enjoying the cuisine, wine, and hospitality of Manуn’s cabaret. In the years he had served aboard Vanguard, he had been there only a handful of times. In the weeks since his retirement, he had been there nearly every night until the house band played its final encore and the bartender enforced the last call. Manуn, the club’s ravishing alien patroness, an expatriate from a race known as the Silgov, had started calling him a regular. Roy, her bartender, had gotten into the habit of comping every third drink for Fisher—not that he ever finished a third drink. To one degree or another, every member of her staff had gone out of his or her way to make Fisher feel welcome and well cared for within their establishment.
He stepped through the front door that evening expecting to be met by Manуn’s radiant smile and the cool but funky rhythms of the cabaret’s jazz quartet. Instead, the club was silent except for a sad, andante melody from the piano. Every guest and employee faced the stage, their jaws slack, eyes unblinking and glistening with emotion, and all of them utterly silent. Turning toward the stage, Fisher understood why.
T’Pry
No one noticed him—or, if they did, they paid him no mind—as he glided through the dining room to an unoccupied table near the stage. Every step of the way he was captivated by T’Pry
Her song dwindled to a close that felt as natural and elegiac as it was inevitable, and when it ended, the cabaret was heavy with awed silence.
Strong applause came several seconds later, but there was no cheering; the audience responded with reverence and respect, despite seeming more than a bit shell-shocked. T’Pry
“It was an improvisation. I did not think to title it.”
Now he was impressed. “You improvised that? That’s remarkable!”
She accepted his praise with half a nod. “I am gratified to know you found it aesthetically pleasing.” Turning, she caught the attention of a passing server. “Green tea, please.”
The waiter nodded and looked at Fisher. “Doctor?”
“Bourbon, neat.” Before the waiter could ask him to clarify, he added, “Roy knows the one. Thanks.” As the waiter left to fetch the drinks, Fisher turned his attention to the statuesque Vulcan woman sharing his table. “Long time since you played here. What brought you back?”
His question made T’Pry
“I think I understand. Change can be traumatic, even when it’s for the best.”
T’Pry
The waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table. Fisher gri
“Do you believe in supernatural ideas of an afterlife, Doctor?”
He couldn’t tell if her question was i