The Lost Era: Well of Souls: Star Trek by Ilsa J. Bick

Author:Ilsa J. Bick [Bick, Ilsa J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781471107726
Google: hgaUakbMsMIC
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2012-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

“Look, facts are facts,” Castillo said, around mashed potato. (The crew’s mess chef was on an Old Earth kick again. Tonight’s menu was meat loaf with a tomato-basil glaze, fluffy mashed potatoes swimming in melted butter, green beans with slivered almonds, fresh-baked apple-walnut pie, and strong hot coffee boiled with chicory and finished with a dash of cinnamon, New Orleans-style.)

“Facts?” asked Thule G’Dok Glemoor, his forkful of salad halfway to his mouth. The tactical officer sat at Castillo’s left elbow. “What facts? We have only Starfleet Intelligence’s word for anything.”

Swallowing, Castillo used the side of his fork to chop off another juicy, steaming hunk of meat loaf, spear it, and then cram the bite into his mouth. “If Starfleet Intelligence says they found stuff,” he said, his voice muffled by meat loaf, “they found stuff, pure and simple. Anyway, captain’s got no choice. They want him; she’s got to hand him over, no two ways about it.”

“You’re suggesting that we simply take their word?”

“You think they make these things up? Not a chance. Besides ...” Cheeks bulging, Castillo shrugged, swallowed. Hiccupped and then followed that with a gulp of ice water. He placed the flat of his hand against his chest, made a face as whatever he hadn’t chewed well went down. “Besides, from what I heard, they’ve been watching the commander for quite a while, after that Ryn thing ... you know,” he finished, vaguely.

Glemoor’s frills twitched as he chewed his lettuce with a contemplative air. “He was cleared. Now, all of a sudden, he isn’t. Wasn’t.” He shook his head, the muscles of his jaw working under his gleaming ebony skin. “I don’t understand that.”

Focused on cleaning his plate of every last molecule of mashed potato, Castillo grunted. “Boy, I do.”

“Oh?” asked Bat-Levi. She sat opposite Glemoor and next to Darco Bulast, who was on her left. After her duty shift was up, she’d thought about skipping dinner and simply grabbing something from a replicator to take back to her quarters. But when she’d clumped her way into the mess, she spied a cluster of crewmen around Castillo, Glemoor, and Anjad Kodell, the ship’s Trill engineer. Characteristically, Darco Bulast was also there at his usual spot: diagonally across from and to Castillo’s right. If there was one crewmember who enjoyed the mess chefs food more than Castillo, it was the garrulous Atrean; no one could remember the last time he’d missed a meal.

Seeing them all together had started her heart thumping with panic and she’d almost wheeled around and stumped out, but Glemoor called her over. She couldn’t refuse, gracefully, and then she thought about Tyvan keeping tabs on her and his report—his damn report—and decided that, hell, she’d show him. Hanging onto her guilt: What a load of crap. So, plastering a smile on her face and feeling her scar pull tight as the skin of a drum, she’d come over with her tray, wincing internally at how loud her joints sounded. She just had to get them adjusted.

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