Seeking to distract himself, Mentir tried to imagine being back home in the depths of Alonis. But the water here, maintained as it was for all the inhabitants of Space Station KR-3, could not compare to his native seas. Here, the color, the density, the motion, the solids content, all varied too much from his home waters to allow him even a moment’s fantasy. And although he had designed his quarters and office here on the station to more closely mimic the familiar environment of Alonis, he still often found himself longing for the oceans of his birth.

A pair of short midrange tones pulsed through the canal, followed by a spurt of muffled clicks and squeals. Mentir opened his eyes, immediately recognizing the communications signal, as well as the sound of somebody attempting to contact him, though he could not at this distance distinguish the “words.” He switched his tail once, moving slowly forward and upward, until he rose to the midpoint of the channel. Then he surged into motion. A third of the way around, he arrived at an underwater communications console, one of three installed on the station. Another had been set up in his quarters, and another in his office.

Mentir swam in close to the console and focused. His people had no opposable digits, but they possessed a short-range psychokinetic ability, which they utilized to manipulate water into effectively solid tools. With his mind, Mentir pushed a concentration of water against an activation pad, then opened his short, flat snout and issued a quick series of snaps and chirps. The universal translator in the communications console, he knew, would broadcast his sounds as “This is Admiral Mentir. Go ahead.”

“Admiral, this is Dr. Van Riper in the infirmary,”came the response, interpreted into the language of the Alonis. “I thought you’d want to know: Admiral Harriman has regained consciousness.”

At once, Mentir felt a rush of energy course through his body. After being operated on a day and a half ago, Blackjack had remained in a coma, with the prognosis for his recovery indeterminate at best. The news that his chief medical officer had just delivered came as a welcome surprise.

A string of questions flooded Mentir’s mind— Is Blackjack lucid? Has he recovered any of his strength? Does this mean he’ll be able to recuperate completely?—but he would ask those once he arrived at the infirmary; right now, he wanted only to see his friend. “Thank you, Doctor,” he clicked and twittered. “I’ll be right there. Mentir out.” He closed the channel with a burst of thought.

Just past the communications console, a small spur led from the main oval of the watercourse. Mentir swam into it, to where he had left his environmental suit when he’d entered the channel. He slipped his head inside the helmet, then settled his body atop the open, formfitting suit, which he maneuvered closed around him using his psychokinesis. He heard the cottony sniks of the electromagnetic locks as they fastened, followed by the whisper of the environmental controls as they automatically activated. The suit held a layer of water against Mentir’s scales, and adjusted the characteristics of the water so that it more closely matched that of Alonis. The unit also included an aquatic rebreathing device.

Once secure in his portable artificial environment, Mentir swam forward to the antigrav chair in which he traveled when not in water. He settled back into the seat and directed it upward, operating it with slight but specific body movements. The chair slowly lifted out of the channel, water spilling back down with a splatter. As he rose, he saw few people in the natatorium—the elliptical waterway surrounded a long, wide swimming pool—and those present swam quietly and alone. Since the news that a starship had been lost had reached KR-3, the mood among Mentir’s crew had been understandably somber.

Mentir floated into a locker room adjoining the swim center, and then to a smaller room within. There, several fans dried both his environmental suit and his antigrav chair. Then he exited into a corridor and headed for the nearest turbolift. The infirmary was actually housed on this level, but in a different one of the station’s three arms. Only five decks through, Space Station KR-3 looked from above like a letter Y,the wide arms of the station meeting at obtuse angles.

Mentir entered the lift and identified his destination, a device in his helmet transmitting the sound of his sub-aqua voice out into the air. The antigrav chair swayed slightly as the turbolift began its horizontal journey, and Mentir felt momentarily unsettled. He realized that he had anxiety about visiting the infirmary. He had not seen Blackjack since his old friend had been brought back to KR-3 after the accident; Mentir had instead heeded the counsel of Enterprise’s chief medical officer, who had suggested that staying away might be the better course.

Blackjack,Mentir thought. They’d met fifty-seven years ago, when the Starfleet vessel Allegiancehad arrived at Alonis on a diplomatic mission. Mentir had just been embarking on what would turn out to be a fleeting political career, and Ensign Harriman had been one of Allegiance’s officers selected to accompany the Federation delegation. They’d met during the conference and had quickly become friends; Mentir had particularly appreciated Blackjack’s straightforward manner and punctilious nature, characteristics that had only grown stronger through the years.

The turbolift slowed, crossing the threshold into the station’s hub. Mentir felt the lift sweep into a broad arc, then pick up speed again as it passed out of the hub and into another of the station’s arms. The infirmary, he knew, was not much farther.

After the summit on Alonis all those years ago, Mentir had stayed in contact with Blackjack, and the two had grown close. Back in those days, they’d often joked that they knew far more about each other’s culture than did the diplomats. And years later, when Mentir had decided to apply to Starfleet Academy, Blackjack—a starship captain at that point—had helped him become only the second Alonis accepted. These days, several more of Mentir’s people served in Starfleet, and a dialogue had begun on his homeworld about whether or not to submit a request for membership in the Federation. Although Mentir knew that numerous issues would have to be resolved before Alonis would be invited to join, he hoped that it would happen within the next two or three decades. And Blackjack had supported that position, becoming an outspoken proponent for the Alonis over the past several years. There were few people in Mentir’s life whom he respected and appreciated as much as his old friend.

The turbolift slowed again, this time coming to a stop. The doors parted, revealing one of the entrances to the infirmary directly ahead. Mentir eased from the lift, crossed the corridor, and entered. He moved through the main section of the infirmary, past a series of empty biobeds, and over to the wide door leading to the intensive-care section. The door opened as he reached it, and he floated inside.

As the door closed behind him, he spotted KR-3’s chief medical officer standing at a console to the right, studying a readout. “Doctor,” Mentir said, and the lanky physician turned at the sound of his voice.

“Admiral,” Van Riper said.

“How is he?” Mentir asked. Then, feeling the need to say his friend’s name, he asked, “How is Admiral Harriman?”

“We don’t know,” Van Riper said, walking over from the console. “But he doesn’t appear to be appreciably better, even though he’s no longer unconscious.”

“So you haven’t upgraded your prognosis?” Mentir asked, surprised. He had expected better news than this.

“We haven’t,” Van Riper said. “There’s just no way to tell how fast or how well Admiral Harriman’s brain will heal.”