Chapter 4
The escape pod tumbled through space, the trajectory carrying it away from the core of the Serparnian system, farther into deep space. With each somersault, the possibility of rescue became less. As Brett took a sip from his flask of Romulan ale, he considered whether it would be better for the Serparnians to have killed him like Grek and Smitty.
From his very rough calculations, he had enough air in the escape pod to last a week if he rationed his breathing. After that, he’d suffocate, if he didn’t die of boredom first. All he had to do was read Lon Juergen’s diary—his list of grievances to put it more accurately. The ancient, third-rate computer running the pod didn’t have the ability to play even the most primitive games.
For entertainment, he used Juergen’s pen to doodle in the margins of the pages. In one entry where the late captain railed against the company his crew was keeping, Brett drew a rough sketch of the girl Ril had given him with the caption, “Use two hands.”
When he grew tired of this, he tossed the diary to the floor and watched space roll past. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, probably not since taking over the Icarus. At times then he’d sit in his ready room and stare at the stars trailing by. It would occur to him then that this was his ship.
But no longer. He didn’t have a ship anymore. The Icarus had been taken from him for firing on an unarmed ship filled with refugees. Now Serparnians taking revenge had blown the Cassandra out from under him by. If he got out of this alive, he swore never to enter this system again.
After another slug of Romulan ale, he closed his eyes. He again saw the bodies flying out of the freighter, except this time Grek and Smitty were among them. So many lives lost because of him.
“Captain Boutwell, in light of the evidence brought forward, we have no choice but to dishonorably discharge you, effective immediately,” Admiral Thelen said, closing the hearing and Brett’s career in Starfleet forever.
He walked out of Starfleet headquarters a civilian for the first time in fifteen years. Walking the streets of
Around midnight, he ended up in a back-alley bar, the kind of establishment that went against Federation principles. The barkeep was a humanoid seven feet tall and almost as wide who doubled as the bouncer. “Give me the strongest thing you got,” Brett said.
Only after the drink came and Brett downed it, did he remember he didn’t have any currency other than Federation credits. He offered these to the barkeep, who only laughed.
The barkeep glowered down at Brett with yellow eyes on each side of his head like a fish. “No credits,” he said. “Real money only.”
Brett patted his pockets, trying to find anything he might have of value, coming up with a medal of valor he’d received during the Dominion war. “How about a trade?”
“Real money only,” the barkeep repeated, his voice rumbling angrier. He slapped a hand down on the bar hard enough to make every glass in the place shake.
A slip of gold-pressed latinum landed on the bar in front of Brett. “That will cover Captain Boutwell,” a voice hissed from behind him.
He turned around to see a Ferenghi at his elbow, grinning to show off his rows of sharp teeth. “That’s Mr. Boutwell now, but thanks, friend.”
“You can call me Ril,” the Ferenghi said, swinging onto the stool next to Brett. “I watched the proceedings. It’s very unfortunate what happened to you.”
“It’s more unfortunate for those thirty-three Serparnians.”
“No one will miss a few less snake heads,” Ril said. He sipped a brown liquid from his own glass. “Refugees, bah! Your Federation has always been too soft. Where’s the profit in taking in a bunch of reptiles?”
A Starfleet lecture on the responsibility of caring for others rested on the tip of Brett’s tongue, but he couldn’t spit it out. He’d violated Starfleet’s sacred principles; what right did he have to lecture anyone on morality? Instead, he gulped down the second drink the barkeep set down in front of him. The green liquid burned down his throat. He wobbled off the stool, putting a hand on Ril’s shoulder. “Thanks for the drink, but I have to get going. I have to find a job.”
“I may be able to help you with that, Mr. Boutwell. I have a business proposition for you.”
Brett knew he should walk away; no good ever came from doing business with a Ferenghi. But then again, what choice did he have? He didn’t have anywhere to stay unless he wanted to sleep in the alley or in the park. No one else was likely to give him a job anyway, at least on Earth. If he hitched a ride to some faraway system on the fringe of Federation space where no one had heard of him, maybe he could find work mining dilithium or something worse.
He sat down on the stool. “What do you have in mind?”
“My partners and I run a shipping operation. We have need of men with your talents.”
Ril laid out what he had in mind while Brett added one drink after another to the Ferenghi’s tab. Working on a freighter didn’t sound as bad as mining dilithium and it would keep him far away from Earth and the memory of his misdeeds. He shook the Ferenghi’s hand to seal the deal and the next morning boarded Ril’s personal ship. On the way to their destination, Brett learned the basics of his new occupation. It didn’t sound like Starfleet at all. Good, he thought.
A buzzing from a console in the escape pod woke him. “Unidentified craft, this is the Federation starship Orion. Please respond,” a harsh male voice said, causing Brett’s head to pound from hangover.
Starfleet. Just his luck. He cleared his throat before punching the button to respond. “Orion, this is Brett Boutwell, formerly of the freighter Cassandra—”
“Boutwell? What are you doing out here?” a second voice asked, this one even harsher and definitely female. He remembered this grating, irritating voice from his tour on the Excalibur almost twenty years ago.
“Babs, is that you?” he said.
“That’s Captain Stewart to you, Boutwell. I might have known you’d be stupid enough to fly your ship into a war zone. Didn’t learn anything from the first time, did you?”
“I was ambushed by Serparnian raiders. They weren’t much happier to see me than you.”
“Stand by and we’ll bring you aboard. Then you can explain what brings you out here. Stewart, out.”
“Great.” Brett finished off the rest of his Romulan ale, tossing the flask aside before his body turned into shimmering white particles.
He’d forgotten how disconcerting the process of transporting was. First came the stab of fear at watching his body disintegrate. Then the moment of terror as he worried if his body would be reassembled the same as before. Though he’d transported hundreds of times, he always worried this would be the time he’d end up with a leg where his arm should be or without some vital organ he needed to survive.
When he reassembled on the transporter pad, he patted himself to make sure he’d survived intact. Everything on the outside seemed all right. Inside might be another story.
“It’s good to see you again,” said a very familiar voice, a soft, feminine voice he hadn’t heard in fifteen years.
Then he saw her standing next to the controls, wearing the red shoulders and three pips of a full commander. “Robyn?” he said. “Robyn Monroe?”
“It’s Commander Lichen now, Mr. Boutwell.” She held out a hand, still as smooth and soft as he remembered.
