Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [11]
Watching Deanna and Ree disappear around a curve in the corridor, the captain tapped his combadge. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, we’ve just been hailed by the runabout Irrawaddy , on approach from Earth. She’s requesting priority clearance to land in the main shuttlebay. Admirals Ross and Akaar are on board.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jaza. I’ll be right there,” Riker said as he headed for the turbolift, his poker face suddenly inadequate to the task of suppressing the frown that was creeping across his features.
A surprise visit from two of the most influential admirals in the fleet. This can’t be good news.
Chapter Three
U.S.S. TITAN
It had been four years since Lieutenant Melora Pazlar had left her brief assignment aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise-E and until two months ago she hadn’t been back aboard a Federation starship. Her chief reason for staying so long in her native world’s microgravity environment was personal. But now she realized that she’d had another legitimate rationale for having steered clear of Starfleet vessels for so long: physical discomfort. Even in the specially designed uniform she wore, adapting to the “normal” shipboard gravity could be a chore.
The uniform’s exoframe servomotors let out a low, almost inaudible whine as Pazlar’s willowy form progressed down the corridor. She moved forward deliberately, her garlanic wood walking stick assisting the exoframe’s step-by-step redistribution of her weight. She saw a Vulcan and a Bolian approaching her, and politely nodded and smiled to them as they neared. She hoped she was concealing the constant pain and pressure Titan’s “standard” gravity settings caused her.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Pazlar,” the young Bolian woman said as she came to a stop alongside her Vulcan companion. Her smile displayed a wide mouth full of bright teeth.
“Good afternoon, Ensign Waen,” Pazlar said. Her mind raced, but she couldn’t remember the name of the middle-aged Vulcan male, even though she had met him several days earlier. She noted that he seemed disinterested in her, so intent was he on the padd he carried. “I hope your day is going well,” Pazlar said, at a loss to think of any other chitchat.
“Very well, thanks,” Waen said. “We’re on our way to the arboretum to see how Savalek’s new Kylo orchid is faring.” She gestured toward the Vulcan as she spoke the name, then back down in the direction from which they had just come. “I suppose you’re off to see what they’ve done to your quarters?”
Pazlar nodded. “I have to confess I’m a bit anxious about that.”
Waen leaned in closer, bringing her hand up to her mouth in a conspiratorial gesture. Pazlar doubted that she needed to bother whispering, since Savalek seemed absolutely absorbed by whatever was on his padd. “I heard some fairly loud swearing coming from the open doorway as we passed. I think it was that Ferengi geologist.”
The Ferengi? What is she talking about? Why would—what’s her name, anyway?—why would Bralik be in my quarters? Pazlar shifted her cumbersome weight, wincing slightly as her body settled into a new position. “Well, I’d best get down to see what all the swearing is about.”
“We’ll see you soon,” Waen said, her tone jolly.
“Good grace,” Pazlar said, remembering the Bolian term for a friendly farewell. As she made her way down the corridor, she heard Waen whispering to the Vulcan behind her. She turned her head slightly, and caught Savalek staring back at her with a strange look on his face. The Bolian woman, caught whispering, waved to Pazlar with slender blue fingers.
What were they whispering about? And what was that look in Savalek’s eyes? Melora was used to such whispers; as the first Elaysian to join Starfleet, she had initially been confined to a gravity-negating mobile chair, and had later worn an exoframe even more cumbersome than the current model. Early in her career, she had often felt—fairly or unfairly—as though “high-g species” regarded her as a cripple. Despite the subtly contoured brow ridges that marked