her consciousness with the accuracy and precision of an arrow.
It is a single, streaming impulse, and it is being beamed directly into her communications subroutines. No one would be able to pick it up, not even Zak Kebron monitoring subspace communications. He is looking for normal messages, which consist of thousands upon thousands of bits of information rather than the one impulse that is being pumped into her at a steady, regular rate.
There is only one possible reason such a thing could be happening.
Someone is trying to get her attention.
Well, whoever it is, they have certainly managed to accomplish it. So now the only thing that remains is to determine who it is, and why, and what Morgan is going to do to retaliate.
It takes her barely nanoseconds to trace the impulse to its source. It is no great trick at all, because the originator of the impulse is making no effort to hide. That makes perfect sense. If someone is trying to get her attention, what point would there be in trying to remain hidden? That would just be counterproductive.
With the realization of who is trying to get her notice, Morgan decides that the simplest way to deal with the situation is to give that individual exactly what was sought: her undivided attention.
That might be a far more dangerous accomplishment than the sender of the impulse had anticipated.
With the thought comes the deed, and Morgan Primus sends the merest fraction of her essence—which in and of itself would still be powerful enough to bring an entire planetary system crashing down around itself—back along the impulse channel and into the source with the intention of facing the person who had sent it.
She accomplishes that goal, and the conversation with the individual seeking her attention does not go remotely the way she is expecting.
Starfleet Headquarters
Nanoseconds Later
Admiral Nechayev had left explicit orders with her aide that she was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He had appeared mildly puzzled as to the instructions. But his job was to obey, not to question, and he did his job perfectly. Nechayev then put herself behind her desk, tilting back in her chair and placing her feet upon it, projecting the most relaxed manner that she could. It was important to convey, in every manner available to her, that this was not a meeting intended to be confrontational in any way. Certainly body language was a key component in that.
She didn’t think she was going to have to wait long, and in that respect she was absolutely right.
The air in front of her began to shimmer in a manner that was not dissimilar to a transporter beam. Most senior Starfleet personnel now had holotechnology installed, since holo-meetings were rapidly replacing the boring old process of staring at someone on a flat monitor screen. Indeed, Nechayev wondered why it had taken this long to accomplish that. Of course, the incoming individual was capable of utilizing the technology in manners far beyond what others could pull off. Most people who engaged in holo-conferencing had avatars to represent them. Morgan Primus inhabited hers as only a computer entity could.
Seconds later, she had fully materialized in front of Nechayev. She had a look of both mild irritation and curiosity, as if affronted that Nechayev had chosen to engage her attention in such an intrusive manner, but simultaneously wondering what it was that could have prompted her to do so.
“Hello, Morgan,” said Nechayev, and then added solicitously, “Do you mind if I call you Morgan?”
“If it pleases you to do so,” Morgan replied carefully.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are. I know who your aide is. I know who your direct superiors are, your immediate underlings, and the name of every person in every room of this building,” Morgan said. “I think you will find, Admiral, that there is very little in this entire galaxy that I don’t know.”
“Do you know why I summoned you here?”
“You didn’t summon me,” Morgan said, an edge to her voice. “No one ‘summons’ me. You caught my attention in such a way that I felt prompted to investigate.”
“Phrase it however you wish,” said Nechayev with a languid wave of her hand, as if the entire conversation was already of little interest to her. “The point remains: Do you know why you’re here?”
“I have my suspicions,” said Morgan guardedly.
“I’d be interested to hear them.”
“Very well.” She squared her shoulders, remaining where she was. “The last time I visited Starfleet headquarters, I