The Lost Era: Well of Souls: Star Trek (21 page)

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. But then he was at the conference room doors and Garrett was waiting, and Tyvan would have to think about what this meant about
him
later. But, he thought, as the doors hissed apart, how odd that he hadn’t seen the irony.

As it happened, Garrett let Tyvan have it in public.

“My apologies, Captain,” he said, walking rapidly to a vacant chair at Stern’s left elbow. He registered that, besides Garrett, Stern, and a lieutenant recording the proceedings, there were two strangers: a blonde-haired, brown-eyed female lieutenant sitting directly across from Garrett, and to the blonde’s left, a moderately tall though somewhat stocky Vulcan male dressed in the gray and black uniform of the V’Shar, the Vulcan security agency. The blonde would be the Starfleet Intelligence agent, Laura Burke, and the Vulcan’s name was Sivek, if Tyvan remembered correctly.

Stern murmured something he didn’t catch. Sliding into his chair, Tyvan bobbed his head at Garrett, who was to Stern’s right. It hit him at the last second that he probably shouldn’t have sat down until Garrett gave him some indication.
Bravo, Tyvan.
“I was detained by a patient.”

“I see.” Garrett’s dark brown eyes were hard. “And do you always refuse to answer hails when you’re with a patient, Doctor?”

“Well,” said Tyvan, trying to defuse the situation with a small smile, “I don’t like to interrupt the flow of a patient’s session.” He almost winced.

“I see,” said Garrett again, her tone indicating that she
didn’t
see at all. “Well, let me put it to you this way,
Commander.
You’re a Starfleet officer who just
happens
to be a doctor, not the other way around. You wear a uniform. You are given orders, and unless there’s a pretty damn good reason for you to disobey—and offhand, I can’t think of very many—then you obey them. I can appreciate that you felt you had important work to do. Someone’s bleeding to death, you might be late. But you’re a psychiatrist, and none of your patients are likely to bleed to death.”

Tyvan could have mentioned suicidal or homicidal patients, but thought he ought to just sit and listen. It was, he reflected, what shrinks supposedly did best.

“So,” said Garrett, “until you can prove to me that a psychiatric session is equivalent to a life-or-death situation, then there is
nothing
more important than your duties to this ship—not a patient, not this,” Garrett churned the air with her hand, “
flow
of a session, nothing. When I have you hailed, I expect you to answer. You don’t ignore a hail because then you’re ignoring me, and I get, well, a little
unreasonable
when a member of my crew doesn’t follow an order. So this is your first and
only
warning. You read me, mister?”

Tyvan was numb with embarrassment and shock. Only aboard a couple of weeks, and already he’d managed to alienate the captain. But she was right.
This is a mistake. I have no business being here, I can’t function here.
For not the first time, he wondered how Stern did it. Doctors needed autonomy; he required a system to be flexible to the needs of his patients. But that’s not what the military was about. So it was either play by the rules, or think up creative ways around them.

All he said was, “Absolutely, Captain.” The temperature in the conference room was cool, but Tyvan felt an uncharacteristic heat traveling up his face and realized that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, like an errant schoolboy who’d been caught blowing spitballs. “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t because the next time will be your last,” said Garrett. She turned away, swiveling her chair toward a blank-faced lieutenant who sat across and to her right, making recordings of the proceedings. “Strike all that from the record, please.”

Stern took advantage of the momentary lull to lean toward him and murmur, “Nice move. See me after.”

Tyvan didn’t reply. Instead, he played with his padd, scrolled to his reports, and thought, right. Nice move.

“All right.” Garrett leaned her forearms on the conference table and laced her fingers together. “Where were we?”

Stern spoke up. “Commander Halak’s toxicological analysis, Captain.”

Garrett made a go-on motion with her hand. Stern consulted her padd. “As I said, there was nothing, Captain. Commander Halak was clean across the board. No drugs, nothing illegal. Clean as a whistle.” Stern threw a pointed glance at Lieutenant Burke. “If Commander Halak was involved with red ice, or this Asfar whatchamacallit, it wasn’t as a user.”

“Qatala.” Burke favored Stern with a frosty brown stare. “The Asfar Qatala.”

“Right.” Stern grunted, returned her gaze to Garrett. “Like I said, not involved.”

“With red ice,” Burke added.

“That’s enough.” Garrett rapped her knuckles on the table. God, she didn’t like this woman. “You’ve made your point, Burke.”

Burke sat back without a word of protest. Garrett suppressed a sigh. Not fair to be angry: Garrett might hate what Burke did for a living, but Burke was doing her job, and Halak had plenty to explain. Garrett
still
didn’t understand what had happened, but then again, she hadn’t confronted Halak herself either.

Stern had argued. “You’re the captain, for crying out loud. More importantly, you’re
his
captain. Talk to him, Rachel. He’s a decent man, and I’ll bet there’s some explanation for this. I have to admit I don’t have a clue what that might be.”

“That’s because there isn’t,” Garrett had said. “Jo, you’re the one with the evidence. He’s lying, and he thinks he can get away with it.”

“And you’re not interested
why? You’ve
never lied when you’ve been in a jam?”

Garrett knew what her friend was referring to, and she inwardly cursed that she’d ever told Jo Stern about what had happened on that night long ago, when she was eighteen and scared to death.

Instead, she’d said, “Don’t start. The situations aren’t the least bit similar.”

Stern had thrown up her hands in disgust. “Jeez, there it is again. The truth is you don’t
want
to hear Halak’s story. You’ve already made up your mind about him.”

And was that true? If Garrett had gone to Halak as his captain—no, his
friend,
as she would have done for Nigel—would they even be sitting here now? Probably not, and the realization made her feel petty and small. Maybe Stern was right.

No
. Garrett felt her heart harden. Halak was Halak, a man with a history and his own baggage and questions dogging his heels, and he’d taken what trust she’d had—precious little—and betrayed it by getting one of her officers killed and then concocting an outlandish story that leaked worse than a sieve.

And Starfleet Intelligence? Garrett’s eyes went to Burke and then Sivek. Wild cards. Still, Garrett felt a premonitory thrill up and down her spine: They had something.

Garrett said, “Burke, is there anything you’d like to ask before we move on?”

As Garrett expected, Burke moved her sleek, groomed head from side to side. Garrett doubted that one blonde curl was ever out of place. The woman was more placid than a Vulcan—or a viper waiting for a chance to pounce.

“No, thank you, Captain, not at this time,” she said, her voice as polished as very smooth glass, “though I am curious. Dr. Stern, so far your report focuses on the nothings: no drugs, etc. But Commander Halak was severely wounded. That’s a
something
.”

Clever girl, Garrett thought. A statement begging a response.

“Thanks, I was getting there,” said Stern, her tone dry. Whatever she felt about Starfleet Intelligence, being intimidated didn’t seem to be one of Stern’s problems. She plucked up her padd. “But, in my line of work, it’s customary to list the things that are normal, too. Just so everyone knows you checked.”

Reading from her padd, Stern began with Halak’s knife wounds. She described the pattern of the wounds and the type of blade that was likely responsible. “The wound to the arm was likely defensive,” said Stern, illustrating by bringing her own left arm up at an angle and across her face. “First of all, it’s a slash, not a stab. Still, it’s a gaping wound because of the direction the blade was moving at the time of contact, moving across Langer’s lines. These are elastic fibers in the dermis. Slash along the lines, and the wound is narrow and slitlike. Slash across, as in Halak’s case, and you’ve got a large gaping wound. The second point is that the slash has a beveled margin. It’s easier if I show you.”

Pushing back from her seat, Stern crossed to the viewscreen mounted in the left wall of the conference room and had the computer bring up images scanned during her examination of Halak. A color image that was clearly the wound to Halak’s left bicep wavered into focus. The image must have been scanned almost immediately after Halak was beamed aboard; Garrett saw how the skin was so pale the hair along Halak’s forearm looked like corkscrews against white paper. The wound itself was fleshy and filled with blackish-purple blood clots.

“First of all, the weapon was single-edged. You can tell because one end of the stab wound, here,” said Stern, using her finger to illustrate, “where the stab wound starts, is pointed. The other end is blunt, and there’s a divot that got taken out of his arm when the knife was withdrawn. So his assailant comes at him; Halak throws up his arm to take the
hit, and the assailant stabs him with a downward slashing motion, like this.” Stern illustrated.

“That squares with what Halak said,” Garrett offered.

Stern was nodding. “Yeah, so far so good. They’re jumped. This other guy—and he’s right-handed, by the way—rushes Halak, and Halak deflects the first blow. But here’s what doesn’t jibe. The first wound is a clean slash. Down, in, out. The second, the one on Halak’s right flank, isn’t so clean.”

Stern called up another image and this time Garrett saw from the knobs of Halak’s spine and the curve of his right hip that the image had been scanned as the commander lay on his stomach. She also saw, immediately, how different this wound was from the first. The stab wound was larger and very long, easily ten to twelve centimeters. The wound wasn’t gaping, but it wasn’t a line either. It was very deep, and the wound almost looked like a
V
, with the point jutting toward Halak’s spine.

“Now, that’s not a straight slash because the knife changed direction,” said Stern. “Part of it you can explain because of where he’s been stabbed, right? Unless you’re unconscious, lying down, not resisting, or being held very tightly, a slash that long and in that particular place isn’t going to be straight. That
V
, though, that’s caused by movement, probably by Halak twisting to get away. See? You can tell where the cut changes direction and the skin is torn. Now what’s wrong with this scenario?”

Garrett’s forehead furrowed. “I’m not sure I see anything wrong. That’s what Halak said happened.” She saw Tyvan and Stern exchange glances, and Stern give the other doctor a slight nod. “Dr. Tyvan?” asked Garrett.

“I think Dr. Stern is suggesting he left out a few things, Captain. If I’m hearing this correctly, there are several problems with Halak’s account. First of all, unless he’s behind you, a right-handed assailant can’t stab you on your right side. If he’s coming at you from the front, or slashes around
at your back, then the wound will be on the left, just like the wound on Halak’s left forearm.”

“So he got behind Halak,” said Garrett.

“Yes, but the question is: how?”

“Distracted? He managed to get away, but the guy jumped him? You know,” said Garrett, stroking her chin between thumb and index finger, “it could work just the way Halak said if the Bolian puts a pulse gun to Batra’s head. That would make Halak stop whatever he was doing and leave plenty of time for his assailant to get around behind him. Then, for whatever reason, Halak is stabbed; in the confusion, Batra elbows the Bolian, gets away, makes a grab for the knife ...” She trailed to a halt, shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it probably isn’t.” Tyvan looked over at Stern. “No wounds on Batra’s hands, are there?” When Stern shook her head, he turned back to Garrett. “So it’s unlikely she made a grab for a weapon that way. She’d have gotten cut. But this begs the question. Where are the defensive wounds on Commander Halak? If I were being stabbed from behind, I’d do something about it. But the wound is far too deep and far too regular, even with that divot, unless Halak was standing still. And the only way for that to happen would be if he were held from behind, with his arms pulled back and out of the way.”

“You see what I’m driving at, Captain,” said Stern. “There had to be more than just the Bolian and this other guy. Or he was knifed at a different time. I say the knifing happened first.”

Quickly, Stern went through what Garrett already knew: Halak’s blood loss, the fact that the wounds were a good six hours older than the time frame Halak had given, the traces of antimicrobial packs on Halak’s skin, traces of Bolian blood and brain matter under Halak’s nails, and the absence of ionized residue from the pulse gun or a phaser on Halak’s hands or clothing.

“But Batra fired a phaser, not a pulse gun,” said Stern.
“There was evidence of mitochondrial disruption in the cells of her right hand consonant with phased energy exposure.”

Garrett gave Stern a weary look. “And I take it that Halak didn’t check a phaser out of the weapons locker.”

“Nope, and nothing in the shuttle. Had to be his personal carry and then either he ditched it, or it got left behind. There’s no regulation against that, though.”

“Anything else?” When Stern shook her head, Garrett looked at Burke. “Questions?”