Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  The engineering team deployed into the pit and went to work melting snow and ice and excavating dirt, rocks, and debris. Within minutes they had unearthed the main fuselage of Cervantes Quinn’s ship, the Dulcinea. Its hull had been twisted, crushed, and shredded. Mog emerged from the wreck and beckoned Leone. “Site secure! Ready for evac!”

  Leone was already in motion and hollering for his team of equipment-toting nurses and paramedics to keep up. “C’mon! We don’t get paid by the hour!” On their way down to the wreck they passed Mog, who climbed back up to join Stano.

  “Data banks are gone,” the Tellarite engineer said, his gray-maned, porcine face a portrait of bitter disappointment. “It’s just a husk. Nothing left to salvage.”

  Stano nodded. “All right. Pull your team out and fall back to the shuttles.”

  “Yes, sir.” The engineers followed Mog back to the landing party’s pair of shuttlecraft, the Tyson and the Murakami.

  Minutes passed while the medics worked out of sight inside the battered fuselage of the Dulcinea and the security officers lingered at the edge of the pit. Then Leone and his team emerged carrying Cervantes Quinn on a stretcher. They were moving on a direct path toward the shuttles when Stano intercepted them. She nodded at Quinn as she told Leone, “I need to talk to him.”

  Leone shouldered past her and waved his team onward. “He just spent five hours buried alive, Commander. This is no time for a debriefing.”

  “I just need to ask him one question. Please.”

  The doctor rolled his eyes and said to his team, “Hold up.” He and Stano caught up to them and stood on opposite sides of Quinn’s stretcher. “Mister Quinn? This is Doctor Leone from the Endeavour. Can you hear me?” One of Quinn’s eyes fluttered weakly half open. He said nothing. Leone arched his brow skeptically at Stano. “One question.”

  Stano leaned close to Quinn and modulated her voice to a dulcet tone. “Quinn, where is Lieutenant Commander McLellan? Where’s Bridy Mac?”

  Quinn looked to his left, and he pushed one trembling hand out from under his thermal blanket to point into the distance— toward the smoldering crater and slowly dissipating mushroom cloud on the far side of an ash-covered lake. Then he pulled his hand back under the cover and shut his eyes.

  The first officer turned back, her demeanor somber. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  As usual, Leone sounded mildly annoyed. “You’re welcome.” He waved his hands at his team as if fanning flames at their backs. “Okay, show’s over. Move!” They resumed their hurried trot toward the shuttles.

  Stano called out to McGibbon, “Paul! Let’s go!” As the security team double-timed across the snow to catch up with the rest of the landing party, Stano flipped open her communicator. “Stano to Endeavour.”

  Khatami answered, “Endeavour. Go ahead.”

  “Request permission to use the Murakami to reconnoiter the blast area for signs of Lieutenant Commander McLellan.”

  “Permission denied. The wormhole’s destabilizing. We have to leave in the next twenty minutes, so you and your team need to get back here. As in now.”

  “Understood and on our way. Stano out.”

  Quinn lay on the stretcher, frozen in both body and spirit. Through the shuttle’s open hatchway, he saw the pit from which he’d been exhumed—the open grave that held the broken pieces of his ship, his life, his hopes, his future.

  Around him, people spoke in voices of authority, taking refuge in their command of technology, as if it would defend them from the hand of fate. He had nothing to say to them. What difference would any of it make now?

  The hatch was closed, and steady vibrations from thrusters and impulse coils pulsed through the shuttlecraft as it took off. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw the planet’s horizon curve subtly as they gained altitude. Then the planet dropped out of view as the tiny spacecraft turned toward the orbiting Endeavour.

  He knew that in the hours, days, and weeks to come, more than one person would pepper him with questions in a futile attempt to make sense of what had happened on this desolate orb in an empty universe that would soon fold in upon itself and vanish forever. All their queries would be for naught. There were no answers to be found here, no wisdom to be gleaned from this catastrophe. In the name of duty, Bridy had given everything, and Quinn had been left with nothing to show for her sacrifice.

  The shuttle circled around to Endeavour’s aft quarter and began its approach toward the main shuttlebay, whose doors yawned open ahead of them. Beyond the Constitution-class starship, the nameless orb that Quinn would curse forever eclipsed the fading glow of its white dwarf star. The best part of him, he was certain, had been left behind on that godforsaken ball of ice and stone.

  As Endeavour swallowed up its shuttle, Quinn wished the rest of him had been left behind, as well.

  FOUR WEEKS LATER

  19

  Ming Xiong had never been comfortable as the bearer of bad news, and he had never had to deliver a more heartbreaking message than the one that had brought him back to the U.S.S. Sagittarius. He had thought he might have the luxury of doing this via subspace, or perhaps even in a letter, but as the Endeavour returned that evening to the main hangar of Starbase 47, Xiong had seen the small Archer-class scout ship berthed in the adjacent bay and realized he would have to fulfill this obligation in person.

  On the gangway that led to the Sagittarius, Xiong stopped walking. I really don’t want to do this. He bowed his head and looked at his olive-green utility jumpsuit. It had his name stenciled over the left chest flap, and its right shoulder was adorned by a U.S.S. Sagittarius patch. It had been given to him by the ship’s Deltan commander, Captain Adelard Nassir, as a token of their friendship. I shouldn’t have worn this, he scolded himself. I don’t deserve it right now.

  Ahead of him, Captain Nassir stepped through the ship’s open port-side hatch. “Xiong! You’re here. Good.”

  “Yes, sir,” Xiong said as he resumed walking and put aside his regrets about wearing the jumpsuit. Too late to change now.

  Nassir beckoned Xiong. “We’re all waiting in the mess.”

  Xiong followed the captain inside the Sagittarius. The ship’s narrow main corridor and low overheads gave it a claustrophobic quality. They followed the ring-shaped passageway aft, past the ladder up to the transporter bay and engineering deck, to the mess hall, which served as the ship’s conference room.

  Waiting inside, mostly seated at the two long tables, was the crew of the Sagittarius. As a tiny scout ship, her crew consisted of only fourteen personnel including the captain, and they all wore the same utilitarian olive-green jumpsuits, which were devoid of rank insignia or department designations.

  At the front of one table sat Commander Clark Terrell, the first officer, a muscular man with brown skin and big hands. Across from him sat the ship’s chief medical officer, Doctor Lisa Babitz, a svelte blond germophobe.

  Behind them, sitting opposite each other, were the ship’s petite and kooky red-haired science officer, Lieutenant Vanessa Theriault, and the brawny and bearded chief engineer, Master Chief Petty Officer Mike Ilucci. At the end of the first table sat Lieutenants Celerasayna zh’Firro, the Andorian senior helm officer, and Sorak, the middle-aged Vulcan chief of security and lead recon scout.

  At the other table, Senior Chief Petty Officer Razka, a young Saurian who served as a field scout, sat across from medical technician Ensign Nguyen Tan Bao. The engineering petty officers—Salagho Threx, a burly and hirsute Denobulan, and Karen Cahow, a tomboyish young woman with dirty blond hair—sat together opposite engineering crewman Torvin, a gawky young Tiburonian.

  At the back of the compartment stood two officers Xiong didn’t recognize, a man with distinctive spots along the sides of his face and neck and a young Orion woman with close-cropped raven hair. As Xiong noticed them, Nassir made the introductions. “Ming, allow me to introduce the newest members of the crew.” He gestured first at the man. “Lieutenant Dastin, our new tactical officer.” Then a
t the Orion woman: “Ensign Taryl, our new recon scout.”

  The two officers nodded at Xiong, who returned the gesture. “Hi.” After a brief pause, he added, “I don’t mean to be rude, but what I’m here to say doesn’t really concern the two of you. But you’re welcome to stay if you like.” No one made any move to leave. Xiong took a deep breath. “It’s been a while since I last saw you all. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why.” The Sagittarius crew members nodded gravely, needing no reminder of their intimate involvement in Operation Vanguard or their harrowing encounter with the Shedai. “The reason I asked to talk with all of you is that I have to tell you something. . . . Bridy Mac’s dead.”

  A pall settled over the room. Grief moved like a wave across the crew’s faces. Theriault turned away and hid her eyes with one hand; Threx bowed his head and let his long hair conceal his face. Cahow and Tan Bao both appeared shaken by the news that their former shipmate and second officer was gone. The only unaffected visage was that of Sorak, leading Xiong to envy the Vulcan for his completion of the emotion-purging Kolinahr ritual.

  Cahow asked in a small voice, “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” Xiong said. “All the details are classified.”

  Babitz cast a teary-eyed stare at Xiong. “Will there be a memorial service?”

  “Not in public. The brass doesn’t want to call any attention to her death. Her family on Deneva’s being told it was an accident.” Xiong’s composure began to crumble; tears welled in his eyes, and his voice shook. “But I wanted you all to know it wasn’t an accident. She died bravely. In the line of duty.” His last vestige of control disintegrated, and he bowed his head to hide his tears.

  Nassir draped a comforting arm across Xiong’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Ming.”

  “No, it’s not,” Xiong said, choking on the words. “It’s my fault. I sent her there.” He palmed his cheeks dry. “I’m sorry.”

  Terrell stood and clamped a hand on Xiong’s shoulder. “No one here blames you, Ming. Nobody except yourself.”

  Babitz joined Terrell and Nassir. She cupped Xiong’s face in her hands and lifted it to force him to make eye contact with her. “You know she loved you like the little brother she never had?” Xiong nodded, and Babitz gave him a sad smile. “And you know we think of you as one of us, right? And we always will.”

  Despite their assurances, Xiong’s face burned with shame. “How can you forgive me for this?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Nassir said. “It’s called being in command.”

  Sheltered in the embrace of his friends and peers, Xiong felt as if he had no right to their consolation, no place accepting their comfort when he was the one most directly responsible for their shared loss. And, for the first time, he believed that no matter how valuable Operation Vanguard’s discoveries might be, they would never be worth the price Bridy’s family and friends had just paid.

  20

  Quinn’s journey back to Vanguard had felt like time spent in limbo. Aside from one short debriefing session, no one had asked to talk with him, and that had suited him just fine. He had limited his contact with the ship’s crew to its chief medical officer, who had done a superlative job of healing all of Quinn’s wounds except the ones that really mattered, the kind that didn’t show up on medical scanners.

  Now the ship was back at its home port, and Quinn had been “put ashore” on Starbase 47 to make his own way. Unfortunately for him, he had nowhere to go.

  He drifted across the manicured lawn of the starbase’s terrestrial enclosure. Despite being surrounded by thousands of people, he felt utterly alone. His friend Tim Pennington was off the station, chasing down some story or other for the Federation News Service. There was no one else Quinn wanted to see, no one who knew him well enough to understand his loss, no one else he could trust.

  Ahead of Quinn, the cluster of buildings—some commercial, some residential—known as Stars Landing grew slowly larger with each step he took. Somewhere in that small warren of civilian life tucked inside a Starfleet military base there was an apartment with Quinn’s name on it, accommodations arranged by the grace and generosity of Starfleet Intelligence.

  I guess this is home for now. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. In one was a credit chip good for a few months’ living expenses and, if he was willing to travel like a piece of luggage, maybe even passage back to the core systems of the Federation. Aside from that, he had nothing but the clothes on his back.

  The report from the Endeavour had said no part of the Dulcinea had been salvageable, and his rescuers had found no sign of the treasures he had amassed in his cargo hold. For the first time in his adult life, he had no job, no ship, and no prospects. He thought about trying to find a poker game with an open seat. A few lucky hands and I could go home first-class instead of in steerage. The idea almost took root, and then he chortled ruefully. A few lucky hands? Who’m I kidding? Lady Luck might be smilin’ on someone right now, but it sure as shit ain’t me.

  He felt aimless as he wandered the narrow lanes of Stars Landing, passing familiar storefronts without bothering to look at any of them. I thought I’d had it all figured out, he brooded. My life had purpose. Meaning. Hope. He looked up at the holographic simulation of a dusk sky projected on the ceiling of the terrestrial enclosure. I thought my karmic debt was paid. Didn’t I suffer enough? Or do enough good deeds? Quinn felt as if the stars themselves were looking down at his dreams and calling them delusions. Turning his gaze back toward the cobblestone road under his feet, he felt like a rat in a maze and wondered if he had only been fooled for a moment into believing he’d chosen his own path in life.

  Then he stopped. There was no point taking another step. Where was he going? What would he do when he got there? Why did he care anymore?

  He looked up and realized he was standing in front of his old watering hole, Tom Walker’s place. Inside, the atmosphere was muted—quiet conversation mixed with low music, subdued lighting, and no vidscreens or other distractions. Just ordinary folks minding their own business and letting others do the same.

  All my paths lead here. They always have.

  Quinn stepped through the door and made his way to the bar. He found his favorite barstool empty and waiting for him, so he planted himself on it.

  Behind the bar, Tom Walker looked over his shoulder at Quinn. The lanky, fair-haired Irishman smiled. “Cervantes Quinn! It’s been too long, man!” Quinn smiled back and nodded at the shelf along the wall. Good ol’ Tom, that was all the cue he needed. He knew just what to do. He grabbed the bottle of Anejo Patron and poured Quinn a generous double shot. “To celebrate your return!”

  “I’ll be staying awhile,” Quinn said. “Leave the bottle.”

  Tom set the tequila on the counter. “Sláinte.”

  Quinn picked up his shot glass and studied the pale golden liquor. It caught the light and made it beautiful, and the facets on the outer surface of the shot glass gave him the impression he was handling a liquefied jewel.

  Twenty-five years a drunk, two years sober—what’s the difference?

  He knew the drink wasn’t the answer to his problems, but his latest ordeal had granted him an epiphany: there were no answers to his problems.

  Or to anyone’s problems, he decided. There are no answers at all, and never have been. Just pain, and then oblivion. It only hurts when you care . . . and I don’t want to care anymore.

  He lifted the glass to his lips.

  And stopped caring.

  The saga of

  STAR TREK®: VANGUARD

  will continue in

  WHAT JUDGMENTS COME

  Fall 2011

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  DAYTON WARD. Author. Trekkie. Writing his goofy little stories and searching for a way to tap into the hidden nerdity that all humans have. Then, an accidental overdose of Mountain Dew altered his body chemistry. Now, when Dayton Ward grows excited or just downright geeky, a startling metamorphosis occurs.

 
Driven by outlandish ideas and a pronounced lack of sleep, he is pursued by fans and editors as well as funny men in bright uniforms wielding tasers, straitjackets, and medication. In addition to the numerous credits he shares with friend and co-writer Kevin Dilmore, Dayton is the author of the Star Trek novels In the Name of Honor, Open Secrets, and Paths of Disharmony; the science fiction novels The Last World War, Counterstrike: The Last World War, Book II, and The Genesis Protocol; as well as short stories in the first three Star Trek: Strange New Worlds anthologies, the Yard Dog Press anthologies Houston, We’ve Got Bubbas and A Bubba in Time Saves None, Kansas City Voices Magazine, and the Star Trek: New Frontier anthology No Limits. For Flying Pen Press, he was the editor of the science fiction anthology Full-Throttle Space Tales #3: Space Grunts, and he has a story in the latest Full-Throttle collection, Space Horrors.

  Dayton is believed to be working on his next novel, and he must let the world think that he is working on it, until he can find a way to earn back the advance check he blew on strippers and booze. Though he currently lives in Kansas City with his wife and daughters, Dayton is a Florida native and maintains a torrid long-distance romance with his beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Visit him on the web at http:­/­/­www.­daytonward.­com.

  KEVIN DILMORE has found ways to make a living from his geek side for a good while now.

  It all started in 1998 with his eight-year run as a contributing writer to Star Trek Communicator, for which he wrote news stories and personality profiles for the bimonthly publication of the Official Star Trek Fan Club. Since that time, he also has contributed to publications including Amazing Stories, Hallmark, and Star Trek magazines.

  Then he teamed with writing partner and heterosexual life mate Dayton Ward on Interphase, their first installment of the Star Trek: S.C.E. series, in 2001. Since then, the pair has put more than one million words into print together. Among their most recent shared publications are the novella The First Peer in the anthology Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins (March 2010) and the short story “Ill Winds” in the Star Trek: Shards and Shadows anthology (January 2009).