Reap The Whirlwind Excerpt
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Dr. Ezekiel Fisher reclined in the chair at the desk inside his quarters aboard Starbase 47. It was late for him to be awake, a few hours into the third duty shift. His coffee had become tepid during the hour he had spent composing his latest letter to his daughter, Jane, the youngest of his three children. The missive was almost finished, and he paused to read it over.
"Dear Jane," it began, prosaically enough. "I hope this letter finds you well, and that Neil and your boys are on the mend from that bout of Argelian flu you told me about. I've been keeping my vaccinations up to date, so here's hoping I don't meet any viruses more clever than myself.
"Life and work here on Vanguard remain busy; I know it must seem funny to hear me say that, since there's rarely any mention of us in the news—nothing, in fact, since the loss of the Bombay. As much as I wish I could tell you everything that I've seen out here, it'd be a waste of effort: all our outgoing mail is censored. . . . Such measures must seem draconian on a world like Mars, but the truth is that it's for the best. At least, I hope it is.
"What can I tell you? For starters, my retirement plan has been nixed. Jabilo M'Benga, my handpicked replacement, put in for starship duty. His reasons make sense, I suppose. As it turns out, I've had a couple of months to get used to the idea, which is pretty much what I'd expected. We're pretty far from home, and even in the core systems it would take time to get this kind of thing approved. First, he has to tell Starfleet he wants a transfer. Then Starfleet has to see what billets it has open and whether anybody else put in for them first. Then some joker with a lot of braid on his cuff has to give his okay and cut new orders, which might take a few days to reach us."
Fisher picked up the data slate on which he had composed the letter. He carried the slate in one hand and continued to read while he took his coffee into his kitchenette to dispose of it. "And just to convince you that I've started losing my marbles," the letter continued, "I'm actually reconsidering retirement altogether. I admit, I'd have thought that after more than fifty years in a Starfleet uniform, I'd have had my fill by now. Before I came out here with Diego last year, I was starting to think I'd seen everything, that the galaxy was out of surprises. But, as you never tire of reminding me, I was wrong."
He dumped his leftover coffee into the sink and ran the water for a moment, then resumed reading as he ambled to his sofa. "It's hard to say if I'll ever be allowed to write or talk about the things I've seen here. My guess is, probably not. It's not like I have a shortage of stories at this point, but this assignment would make for some you'd never forget. That's not why I'm thinking of staying on, though. Truth is, I'm beginning to see that this is one of the most important assignments I've ever been given. We're on to something out here, something big. Even if M'Benga wasn't planning on warping away to the great unknown, I'd probably want to stay on to see this through. At this point, any lingering regrets I have over his transfer are grounded in simply being sorry to lose such a fine physician from my staff and feeling pity for him—because he'll probably never know what he's missed."
A yawn stretched Fisher's brown, weathered face. He gently rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and stared back down at the data slate. The letter wasn't long; it had taken an hour to write because every time he'd thought of something to say, he'd realized that it would never make it past the Starfleet censors. He couldn't tell Jane about his role in the analysis of an alien corpse with meta-genome-laced liquid crystal for blood or the bizarre effects that had been inflicted upon a Starfleet officer attacked by the creature. All the tense rumors of a brewing political eruption among the Klingons, the Tholians, and the Federation would be excised as a matter of diplomatic policy, no doubt on Jetanien's orders. Scratching absentmindedly at the gray tuft of beard on his chin, he pondered how to end the letter. After staring at an empty line along the bottom of the slate for a few minutes, he realized that an obvious and simple valediction would be just fine, so long as it was sincere.
"That's all for now. Tell Neil and the boys I miss you all, and I hope to visit you again on Mars very soon. Take care, and write back when time allows and the mood strikes. Love, Dad."
He tapped a few keys on the data slate and transmitted the letter into the station's queue for outgoing comm traffic. In a few hours it would likely meet with the approval of the censors and be on its way to Mars, one of thousands of messages bundled in a massive burst of unclassified data traffic leaving Vanguard. In a matter of hours, Jane would get the message, maybe at home or in her office between patients. Unlike his sons, Ely and Noah, Jane had followed him into medicine, though she had pointedly declined a career in Starfleet in order to open her own private practice in the rapidly growing Martian city of Cydonia. It was there she had met her husband, Neil, and where they were raising their sons, James and Seth.
As always, thinking of his children and grandchildren made him smile. That's a good way to end the day, he decided. He got up from the couch and shambled stiffly off to bed. Tomorrow would be busy; he needed all the rest he could get.
The Starship Sagittarius was coming home.
# # # #
Anna Sandesjo lay in her bed. A tangle of scarlet sheets covered her lap. Her hands were folded on the pillow behind her head, beneath her splayed mane of cinnamon-hued hair. The scratches on her back were deep and fresh.
It was still early, before 0600 station time. At the foot of the bed, Lieutenant Commander T'Prynn was getting dressed. The lithe Vulcan woman donned her red minidress in movements slow and graceful, a stark contrast to the frenzy of attention she'd shown Sandesjo the evening before. T'Prynn's every motion captivated Sandesjo’s attention.
"Did you sleep well, my love?" Sandesjo asked, even knowing that T'Prynn—who had tossed and turned for the past several hours in the throes of night terrors—would lie to her.
Pulling back her long sable hair and tying it into a ponytail, T'Prynn replied flatly, "My rest was adequate." She sat down on the edge of the bed and began putting on her boots.
Sandesjo sat up and let the sheets bundle in her lap. Watching T'Prynn prepare to leave was always difficult for her; it was a reminder of loneliness. "Do you have to go so soon?"
With one boot on, T'Prynn reached for the other as she replied over her shoulder, "Yes."
"Because of the Sagittarius."
"Yes," T'Prynn said.
News of the scout vessel's return to Starbase 47 had been buzzing for a couple of weeks. The ship’s recall from a remote area of the Taurus Reach had been ordered not long after the destruction of Palgrenax. Though ship movements continued to be classified for members of the general public and personnel with no need to know, Sandesjo's assignment as a senior diplomatic attaché to Vanguard's ranking diplomat, Ambassador Jetanien, afforded her access to a variety of otherwise off-limits items of interest.
Standing up, T'Prynn smoothed the front of her minidress and turned to face Sandesjo, all dignity and poise: cold, composed, and aloof. At times like this, Sandesjo felt less like the Vulcan woman's lover and more like a stranger. "Thank you for allowing me to spend the night," T'Prynn said.
"Perhaps you'd let me spend a night in your quarters sometime," Sandesjo said, her tone blatantly suggestive. "Unless you're ashamed to be seen with me."
Subtly lifting her left eyebrow, T'Prynn said, "Shame is not a factor. The heat and gravity in my quarters are configured for Vulcan comfort. I think you would find them … unpleasant."
"Don't be fooled, my love," Sandesjo said with a flirtatious leer. "Just because I look human doesn't mean I'm as fragile as one. Qo'noS has its share of heat."
T'Prynn stepped over to the dresser and collected her communicator, which she tucked onto her belt. "I'm sure your Klingon physiology would bear the temperatures admirably," she said. "The aridity, however, might prove rather uncomfortable."
"I think I can handle it," Sandesjo said. To her dismay, rather than continue their repartee, T'Prynn started to move toward the door. "Don't go," Sandesjo blurted out. As soon as she said it, she regretted having done so; it was a grossly unprofessional expression of desire and weakness.
Slowly, T'Prynn turned and regarded Sandesjo with a stare of clinical detachment. "Why do you wish me to remain?"
"I always want you to stay," Sandesjo said. "You never do."
Raising her steeply arched eyebrows, T'Prynn replied, "An extremely illogical statement, Miss Sandesjo. You—"
"Anna," she interrupted. "Why don't you ever call me Anna? I think we deserve to be on a first-name basis, don't you?"
In a surprisingly sharp tone, T'Prynn shot back, "If we do, then perhaps you would prefer I called you by your real name, Lurqal."
Hearing T'Prynn speak her Klingon name left Sandesjo momentarily shocked silent. Though Sandesjo's true identity had been known to T'Prynn for nearly a year, until now the Vulcan had never uttered it aloud. Suppressed by years of living under her cover identity, that name sounded foreign to Sandesjo. She had submerged so deeply into her cover that she had come to think of herself as Anna Sandesjo rather than as Lurqal.
Finally recovering her voice, she said, "If, when we are . . . alone together, you wish to call me Lurqal, I would not object."
After considering that for a moment, T'Prynn said, "Is our relationship the cause of your current distress?"
"Yes, it is," Sandesjo said, relieved to be able to speak plainly and without the qualifying preambles of diplomatic discourse. "Though I'd really like to know what our relationship is, exactly."
Cocking her head slightly, T'Prynn asked, "What aspect of its nature eludes you?"
"I don't know," Sandesjo said. "All of it? You've been sharing my bed for months, but I still don't know what to call you. My girlfriend? My lover? What am I to you? Just another intelligence asset? Something else? Or am I just your whore?"
The conversation seemed to make T'Prynn uncomfortable. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lowered her head. "You are not my 'whore,'" she said, then looked up. "But defining our relationship is complicated. There are … professional issues to consider."
"Such a nice way of putting it," Sandesjo said bitterly. "Did you start sleeping with me to turn me into a double agent? Or was that just an added perk?"
Unfazed, T'Prynn answered, "Did you become a double agent out of principle or because I had exposed you as a spy? Were you motivated by love, lust, or self-preservation? I am not the only one whose motives in this matter are suspect."
Stung, Sandesjo looked away for a moment. Turning back to face T'Prynn, she said, "I just want to know how you feel about me." As T'Prynn began to answer, Sandesjo recognized the telltale signs of a verbal evasion taking shape. She threw aside the sheets, got out of bed, and moved quickly toward the Vulcan woman. "And don't you dare tell me you don't have emotions, or that they don't matter to you." Standing naked in front of T'Prynn, Sandesjo leaned close to her and dropped her voice to a husky whisper. "I see the hunger in your eyes when you come to me at night. I feel the fire in your kisses, the wild part of you that takes me by force … dominates me … possesses me. You burn for me just as I burn for you."
With a haughty and dismissive mien, T'Prynn said, "If you are so attuned to my inner life, why ask for my declaration?"
Sandesjo turned her head slightly, so that her lips barely brushed T'Prynn's as she said, "Because I love you."
She leaned forward to kiss T'Prynn, who pulled back and then stepped away, haltingly at first, then quickly, until she was out of the bedroom, out of the apartment suite, and gone beyond Sandesjo's reach.
Sandesjo's reflection gazed back at her from the mirror. She looked pale, timid, defenseless—human. Rage, sorrow, and humiliation swelled inside her. Of all the traits that Klingons despised, none was so reviled as weakness. In a single rash statement, she'd rendered her deepest feelings as bare as her body; it was the most vulnerable she had ever felt and the closest she had ever really come to knowing the taste of fear.
Turning away from herself, she lamented ever having met T'Prynn—and surrendering to love's bitter sting.
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