Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
Warning: Later chapters of this story contains scenes of medical procedures that some readers may find unpleasant.
Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, deeply indebted.
Special additional thanks to Distracted, for help with the medical side of things, and to Shi Shi for background information. Also for all the encouragement ... thanks, Shi!
"Damnation!"
The musical note of the desk-phone's ringtone halted Marcellus Grenham on his way to the door.
For a long moment he hesitated. He'd done a long day's research, even skipping lunch to pursue a particularly interesting avenue of experimentation, and he was looking forward to dinner with his wife and a long evening's relaxation.
The sunshine beckoned. They had a favorite bar looking out across the Bay. Joelle would drink strawberry daiquiri over rocks and tell him about her day at the Uni, and he'd hold her hand and think about how lovely she was, and how he was the luckiest guy in the world to have married a girl who was as gorgeous as she was kind as she was clever.
Ten to one the phone call was just someone ringing to tell him the scanner had jammed again in Lab Eight. Hell, whoever it was could just leave him a message. He was done for the day. Late again, in fact, and even though J would look pointedly at her watch and tap one foot on the floor when he ran in, that would be before she smiled and told him to make sure this never happened again, at least till tomorrow – still, he didn't want to make a habit of it.
He put his hand on the door-handle. Then, with a muttered curse, he strode back to the desk and lifted the receiver just before the answering machine cut in. Most likely whoever it was would have taken the hint anyway, and all he'd hear would be the buzz of the dialing tone. "Lab Seven. Grenham."
"Marcellus. I thought you'd have been gone home by now. New wife, and all that."
He gritted his teeth. Such a remark would have been inoffensive coming from almost any other of his colleagues, but from Sanderson it was imbued with … something. Something that made him want to snap 'She's none of your goddamn business'; something that had been there ever since Joelle had come to a reception for some VIP visitors and Sanderson's eyes had slid down her svelte body in that beautiful, stylish blue dress she'd been wearing.
He'd hated that dress ever since.
But Sanderson had power, and both of them knew it. Sanderson could shut down the lab, and there were few sources willing to fund research in such an esoteric field, where successes were few and rarely acclaimed.
"I'm about to leave now, sir." He kept his voice conciliatory, but not subservient.
"You may want to delay your departure for a while." The other man spoke coolly, all business now. "You have a call from Starfleet."
"Starfleet?"
His initial response was that it must be a mistake. The bigwigs at Starfleet had begun to show interest in Joelle's research, but as a physicist she was working in a field which could easily have ramifications for their development programs. Why anyone there should want to speak to a humble doctor working in a research lab was beyond him.
"You're sure it's me they want?" he asked doubtfully, before he could think better of it.
The reply had bite. "You may not have noticed, Grenham, but there aren't many people with your name working here. The caller was specific. Now take the call and deal with it. Some of us do have homes to go to." There was a click as the call was transferred, and Marcellus found himself listening to a disconcerting silence.
"Hello?" he said cautiously.
"Doctor Marcellus Grenham?"
The person on the other end of the line was male, American, and probably in early middle-age at a guess. It wasn't a voice he'd heard before, that he could remember. Nevertheless he received the immediate impression that the speaker knew him very well indeed.
"Speaking."
"Good evening, Doctor. I apologize for delaying your departure from your laboratory. However, there is something we need to discuss – and at your earliest convenience."
"Something to do with my work?"
"In a way, it may come to that." The voice sharpened. "When you leave, take the third flitter in the rank. It will have its destination pre-programmed. I strongly suggest that you don't make any attempt to find out where you're going; you might find the experience unpleasant. I'll speak to you again when you arrive."
"But – Wait, who are–?"
There was a click, followed by the buzz of the dialing tone.
He checked the call records on the computer. There was no evidence that anyone had been on the phone at all.
There was no point in ringing Sanderson. If the director was on his way home he wouldn't answer his cellphone, and they'd never been on such terms as to exchange home contact numbers, even if the other man would be willing to talk when he got in.
Slowly Marcellus replaced the receiver.
After a moment he called his wife via the vid-phone.
"I'm going to be … a bit later than usual tonight, honey," he said, praying that her clear intelligent gaze wouldn't see at once his confusion and anxiety. "Just one of those meetings, you know? Galloway wants to go through the figures again. I said it would do tomorrow but you know what he's like."
"He's an ass," she replied humorously. "Okay, sweetheart. But you pay for the drinks tonight, right?" That was one of their little jokes, of course; they shared their money the way they shared everything.
"Of course. And I'll even treat you to one of those little paper umbrellas if you play your cards right."
"Wow. Can't wait." There was a message in her gaze that in other circumstances would have sent him flying to the car-park, thoughts of dinner forgotten, but tonight he couldn't let himself notice.
He hated himself for lying to her.
He closed off the vid-link, with the excuse that he was already late for the 'meeting'. Then, slowly, he made his way to the flitter rank, reserved for the company's employees who didn't have their own vehicles. He'd never used one before, but he knew how they worked and he had an account chip.
The third flitter was indistinguishable from all the others. He got into it a little nervously and buckled himself into the seat.
As soon as the chip clicked into place the flitter lifted and began to move. It slipped smoothly out of the car park and onto the freeway, where after a couple of moments the windows automatically darkened. Most vehicles' glass did so to minimize glare, but this one blacked out completely. Even the windscreen went black.
It was an intensely unnerving experience – flying blind in a flitter he couldn't control. He laid his arms on the rests, trying to resist the urge to grip them in panic.
What the heck had he gotten himself into?
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