“I see. And I do understand. You’re sticking to policy and you should, given that we’ve only just met.”

Jennifer smiled. “But as we get to know each other, I’ll certainly relax my approach to hospital policy. Is that what you’re hoping, Tim?”

“Well, hospital and otherwise.”

She bent her smile down into a frown and snorted as she nodded her head knowingly. “Ohhh, but you’re good. So why are you trying so hard to look like you’re trying so hard?”

“Damn, I knew I should have gone with the sincere approach.”

“It might get you further next time.”

“Further than what?”

“Well, further than a discussion of hospital policies with me,” she said. “If I were to talk with someone on staff about a medical condition concerning a Vulcan, I would start with Doctor M’Benga.”

“Would Doctor M’Benga be able to let me see her?”

“That is up to him,” she said, allowing another smile. “But I can assure you that were your friend under his care, then once you spoke to him you would not need to see her. You would realize that she is in good hands.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “And maybe for now, that’s all I need to know. Is there a way I can contact Doctor M’Benga?”

“You can leave a message with me and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“Or I can take it back to him myself.” The gravelly voice snapped my gaze from Jennifer and up to find a dark-skinned, gray-haired man wearing a white lab coat over a blue satin, low-collared version of a Starfleet uniform tunic and cradling a coffee mug. Evidently, I had been engaged enough with my bantering that I had not noticed his approach.

“Doctor Fisher!” Jennifer’s voice let me know she had been equally startled.

“I’m not meaning to intrude,” he said to her, “but I should be able to assist Mister Pennington here without having to interrupt Doctor M’Benga.” Then he looked back at me with the expression of someone who seemed as interested in talking to me as I might be in talking to him.

“Of course, Doctor, thank you,” she said as Fisher stepped away from the desk and tilted his head toward a grouping of chairs in a corner of the reception area. I took it as a suggestion to follow him.

“Thank you, Jennifer,” I said as I joined him. “I hope to see you again.”

“Mister Pennington,” she replied, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows a bit as if she might be warning me of the conversation to come. I winked in reply and caught up with the physician, whom I knew to be the space station’s chief medical officer as well as a personal friend of Commodore Reyes.

“I appreciate your help, Doctor,” I said.

“There’s no guarantee how helpful I might be, but it’s nice to hear your optimism.”

“I’m not asking you to speak on the record about anything—”

“Then we’re off to a positive start. Sit down, Tim.”

I laughed a bit in midsentence as we each sat. “Well, thank you. I admit that this is a personal query, so I’m asking your indulgence. I’m curious as to the condition of Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn.”

“Then allow me to be curious as to the personal nature of the discussion.”

“I happened to be in the thoroughfare near the hangar observation windows when she collapsed. I witnessed the whole thing.”

“I see,” Fisher said. “I can imagine that would be rather unsettling for you.”

“Well, yes,” I said, finding myself quickly at ease with the man owing to the nature of his voice and presence. As must be the case with the most seasoned physicians, he seemed to have a way of gaining my trust and confidence in a matter of moments. “It’s all a bit . . . haunting, I suppose.”

“I’m told there was more to the onset of T’Prynn’s condition than her simply dropping to the deck,” Fisher said. “Any insight you could offer might be helpful.”

When I looked up into Fisher’s eyes, it was easy to sense his interest was hardly prurient. I could sense the care he had for T’Prynn, and in that moment, I grasped that her situation might be more dire than I had thought. “In the moment, she was obviously emotional. Her face was twisted . . . anguished. She was crying, I’m sure of that. It was as if she had been startled . . . well, no, it was more. She looked shocked, almost as if she had snapped under a sudden realization, or had learned something that she did not want to know.”

“Yes.”

“And then, her face just wiped blank. It simply . . . reset to looking no different than usual. But she just crumpled. Truthfully? I thought she was dead.”

“Just as truthfully? She soon may be. It’s pretty clear that she suffered some sort of trauma. From our scans, there is no physical evidence of an injury relative to a concussion. We can find no bleeding nor any blockage of blood to the brain, so she hasn’t had a stroke. And yet, here we are, witnesses to the mysteries of the psychosuppressive wonders of the Vulcan mind. I’d be fascinated by it all . . . if I were a Vulcan.”

It was easy for me to tell from the physician’s face that his quip was more to mask his frustrations than to dismiss himself as disinterested in the neuroscientific studies of an entire race. “I’m confident you’re doing all you can, Doctor.”

Fisher regarded me quietly and nodded, then took a sip from his mug. “She’s not my patient, she’s Doctor M’Benga’s. And I will be sure to tell him you stopped by with your concerns.”

“Any chance that I might be able to see her?”

“Not this morning. That’s his call to make, and he’s not available right now to make it. Try later, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “As long as we’re here, might I ask as to the condition of another of your patients?” I paused as Fisher’s eyebrows rose in anticipation of my words. “Diego Reyes.”

Fisher smiled slyly as he stood up from the chair. “And now you’re pushing, Mister Pennington.”

“No, sincerely,” I said as I rose to meet his gaze. “Well, professionally, too, but sincerely. We’re still off the record.”

“I’ve always been curious how this whole on-the-record-off-the-record thing works for a reporter,” Fisher said. “I would venture to guess that your real determination of what stays off the record is made afterit’s told to you.”

“Well, would you prescribe a course of treatment for a patient before considering the results of your own examinations?”

Fisher nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“But in this case, I’m not asking for a story. I’m, well, I’m concerned.”

Fisher paused before speaking. “If I have the opportunity, I will send the commodore your regards. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” I said, extending my hand. Fisher met it with a firm and noticeably warm shake. “I appreciate the chance to talk.”

“I’m usually around,” Fisher said. “I’m even usually agreeable, if I’ve had my coffee.”

7

“You’re that journalist, aren’t you?”

With a bite of my eggs poised on my fork and almost in my mouth, I stopped myself before being forced to respond to the question with my mouth full. I also had to mentally revisit a few personal mantras upon which I relied in moments like those, the ones when what I would like to do is answer no and keep eating: the next story can come from anywhere and anytime, be polite, and when I don’t want to be interrupted I don’t eat at Tom Walker’s.

“I can’t be certain I am thatjournalist, but I am one, yes.” I looked up to find standing next to my table a young man wearing a Starfleet uniform with a red tunic, which told me he was in some area of operational services. From the look of his chest and upper arms, I assumed he was in security. At least, I hoped someone of his size was in security.

“The one who wrote the reports about what we’re doing out here. That’s you, right?”

I could sense from the man’s tone of voice that his intensity was rising, but I could not imagine he was there to pick a fight. I hoped that my being in a public restaurant at a time of day that one was not likely to be drunk—Quinn’s example excepting— might be my saving grace. “Yes, sir, that’s me.”