“Indeed, I did.” His voice had an edge that could cut through steel. “Do you have any idea how much damage control Starfleet has had to do because of your actions at Eremar? The Tholians have filed formal protests with the Federation Council! Half the members of the Security Council are calling for your stripes.” He stood and stepped around his desk, then circled slowly behind her as he continued. “You damned near put us into an all-out shooting war with the Tholians. In the last seven days, I’ve had my head handed to me by everyone from the C-in-C to the president’s chief of staff! If they had their way, you’d be swabbing decks aboard a sublight garbage scow on an endless loop through the Rigel colonies.” He stopped in front of her and trained his stare on her brown eyes, which were fixed on the rear wall of his office. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Captain?”
Khatami’s demeanor was cool and composed. “Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”
“Granted.”
She turned and met his gaze. “If you’ve read my report, sir, then you know that I did absolutely everything I could to resolve the situation without the use of force. The Tholian fleet commander refused to negotiate in good faith or even permit the Sagittarius to withdraw safely. Once they began bombarding the statite, and refused our requests to cease fire, they left me no choice but to take armed action. In keeping with both the letter and spirit of your orders, I restrained our initial response to targeting the interphasic generators the Tholians had deployed. Legally, we acted in defense of the Sagittarius, and under the terms of the Selonis Accords, we were fully within our rights to do so. Subsequently, the Tholian fleet opened fire on us, and I took such action as I deemed necessary to defend my ship and crew, as well as the Sagittarius. Our tactical responses were designed to be proportional, not lethal.” She paused, drew a deep breath, and looked away from Nogura. “If placed in the same situation again, I would respond exactly the same way. If that means you need to take my stripes and relieve me of my command, so be it. But I stand by my decision, whether the paper-pushers back on Earth like it or not.”
Holding his poker face steady, Nogura paced back to his chair and sat down. He folded his hands and leaned forward. “No one’s taking your stripes, Captain. Or your command. Not if I have anything to say about it.” She registered the news with a wide-eyed stare, and Nogura smiled. “Of course you did the right thing. But the president yells at Starfleet Command, and Starfleet Command tells me to yell at you. So, this is me yelling at you. After all, orders are orders. And now that I’ve obeyed my orders, I can tell you what I really want to say: Well done, Captain. You and your crew have an open tab tonight at Manуn’s.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Take a seat. There’s something else we need to talk about.” Khatami sat down in a guest chair and crossed her legs at the knee—a relaxed pose made possible by her preference for wearing the standard duty uniform of tunic and trousers rather than the minidress variation some personnel had adopted. She raised her brow, cueing Nogura to continue. “I’m afraid it’s going to take a bit longer than usual for us to complete your ship’s repairs. We used up a lot of resources refitting a super-freighter to sneak the Sagittarius out to the Iremal Cluster, and what we didn’t pour into that went into building the decoy whose wreckage you recovered. We have a shipment of spare parts on order, and we’re doing our best to fabricate what we can, but I’m afraid the Endeavour will have to spend at least the next few weeks in the docking bay—and maybe longer, depending on whether our shipment gets delayed by piracy.”
Khatami’s features tightened. “Putting aside my own feelings about the matter, how will this affect the station’s tactical posture?”
“I’ve ordered the Akhiel and the Buenos Aires to tighten their patrol routes, but with Defiant gone and the Endeavour down for maintenance, we’re more vulnerable than ever before. I’d hoped we could count on the Enterprise to cover the gap, but Starfleet insists she’s needed elsewhere.” He reclined his chair. “You’ve been out here longer than I have. How long do you think it will take the Klingons and the Tholians to realize we’re on the defensive?”
The captain thought that over for a few seconds. “It depends. From what I’ve read, the Tholians know the Defiant is MIA, but the Klingons might not be aware of it yet. From their perspective, it might seem as if the Defiant’s been deployed on a long-range recon. It might be useful to set up some fake comm chatter to make the Klingons think the Defiant’s still in action.” One side of her mouth pulled into a crooked frown. “Unfortunately, the Tholians already know about the Defiant, and they also know just how hard they hit us and the Sagittarius. Plus, judging from the size of the armada they have standing by at their border, I think it’s possible they’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”
Nogura’s concerns increased. “If that’s the case, what are they waiting for? They could cross the border any time they wanted. There’s nothing we could do to stop them. Why wait?”
“I have no idea, sir.” She cracked a sardonic smile. “If you’re really that curious, you could hail them via subspace and ask.”
“No, thank you,” Nogura said. “Something tells me I won’t like their answer.”
“That makes two of us, sir.”
Ezekiel Fisher felt like an invisible man as he forded the commotion of business-as-usual inside Docking Bay 92, located low on the station’s central core, just above the lower docking ring. Forklifts buzzed in and out of the open cargo hold of the civilian transport ship S.S. Lisbon. The boxy yellow vehicles filled the docking bay with resounding metallic bangs as each one struck the ramp that led up into the ship. Lifting his eyes to take in the vessel at a glance, Fisher found it sorely wanting by more than one measure. It looked like a fat, ugly fish. The only parts of its gray hull not dulled by a patina of scrapes and dents were those covered by mismatched off-white patches whose welded edges reminded Fisher of scar tissue.
Overamplified music echoed inside the docking bay; at first it sounded like raw noise to Fisher, then he realized that was because he was hearing three different songs at once: one from inside the Lisbon’s hold; another from one of the forklifts, giving it a peculiar Doppler-shifted quality as it sped past in one direction or another; and one from atop the ship, where a team of grime-covered mechanics and engineers walked across the dorsal hull, scanning it with microfissure detectors and tagging areas in need of repair. A few dozen men of various species worked around the ship, packing or unpacking cargo containers—that is, when they weren’t dodging the irresponsibly driven forklifts. Fisher had no doubt that Vanguard Hospital would be treating a number of work-related injuries from this crew in the immediate future. He forced that thought from his mind. That’s not your problem anymore, he reminded himself.
Navigating the energetic chaos with caution, he slipped through a narrow channel between two tall mountains of stacked cargo containers, following the clamor of voices. As he emerged on the other side, he saw a cluster of people—some in coveralls, others in more formal merchant marine uniforms—surrounding a lean, short-haired woman of Thai heritage. She was in her mid-forties, Fisher guessed, and what she lacked in stature she made up for in intensity. Without the use of a universal translator, she seemed adept at berating each of her people in their native language, whether that was Tellarite, Andorii, Vulcan, or any of a handful of Terran tongues, sometimes switching from one to another in mid-sentence without missing a syllable. While verbally eviscerating one person who would then slink away in shame, she would also be signing paperwork presented by another and silently dismissing a third, complaint unheard.