by David Mack
Pennington kept an eye on a timer that was counting down when the bird-of-prey would emerge from behind the planet and be in a position to train its sensors on the Skylla. “Ten seconds.”
“Acknowledged,” T’Prynn said. “Engaging impulse drive at ten percent.” A slight bump accompanied the increase in speed as the impulse engines kicked in. “That should move us out of range behind the moon before the Klingons—”
T’Prynn’s hand shot up from the helm and pressed a master kill switch over her head. The Skylla went dark. The engines cut off instantly, and it began a slow roll as it drifted into the moon’s shadow. She and Pennington floated up from their seats in the suddenly zero-gravity environment.
Alarmed, he asked, “What? What just happened?”
“There is another vessel behind the moon,” T’Prynn said.
She pointed at it. Pennington strained to discern the shape from the shadows, but then it became clear: two cylindrical warp nacelles mounted on struts beneath a saucer-shaped primary hull. It was a Miranda-class vessel, the same type of starship on which his lover Oriana had died more than a year earlier.
“Well, hello,” he said. “Who’s that, I wonder?”
“If recent news reports are accurate, it is most likely the U.S.S. Buenos Aires, presently assigned to Vanguard.” As the Skylla tumbled, they began to lose their view of the Starfleet ship. She craned her neck to study it for a few moments more. “Its running lights are off, and its nacelles are dimmed. It appears to be keeping a low profile, as well. Most likely its crew is tasked with monitoring Klingon patrols in this sector.”
“Do you think they saw us?”
“It’s difficult to be certain,” T’Prynn said. “However, the fact that we were already in low-power mode when we moved behind the moon might work in our favor. If I was quick enough, it is possible they were unable to obtain a sensor lock before we went dark.”
The languid tumbling of the Skylla momentarily returned the Buenos Aires to view outside the cockpit. Pennington noted how much closer it seemed. “Can’t they detect us at this range?”
“To passive sensors we should appear as a bit of random space rock or other debris,” T’Prynn said. “Only an active sensor sweep would detect our life signs. It is likely they will refrain from running such scans to avoid alerting the bird-of-prey.”
Several minutes passed as the Skylla rolled slowly through space. The only sound Pennington could hear inside its cockpit was his own shallow breathing. He began to relax when it became clear the Starfleet ship had not powered up.
“Looks like we’re in the clear,” he said. “Good reflexes on the kill switch, by the way.” He turned toward T’Prynn. “Though I have to wonder why we’re running scared from a Starfleet ship. I mean, ducking the Klingons I understand. But it’s not like Star-fleet makes a habit of boarding civilian vessels, not even in the Taurus Reach.”
One of T’Prynn’s eyebrows twitched upward. Pennington didn’t know if he should interpret that microexpression as one of curiosity, irritation, or disdain.
“You might wish to remember our vessel is stolen,” T’Prynn said. “Though we’ve altered its transponder identification, even a routine check would show the Skylla to be, at best, an unregis tered vessel—and Starfleet does halt and impound such ships within the territories it controls.”
He frowned but nodded at the correction. “I guess you have a point,” he said.
“Furthermore,” she added, “you should keep in mind that I am at present a fugitive from Starfleet military justice, and you are a Federation citizen who has aided and abetted my flight from custody.”
“Say no more,” Pennington replied.
Looking out at the lazily turning cosmos, he took her meaning perfectly: for now, in the Taurus Reach, everyone was their enemy; no one was their friend.
All they had was each other.
21
June 3, 2267
“I nailed him,” Lieutenant Jackson said. “Right to the wall.”
Rana Desai looked up from the muddle of sworn affidavits, warrant applications, and defense-counsel motions littering her desk to see the chief of security leaning in her office’s open doorway. “You made an arrest already?”
“Even better,” Jackson said, walking into her office and beaming with pride. He held up a data slate. “I got a signed confession out of him.”
Desai held up one palm. “Back up: who is he, and to what has he confessed?”
Jackson handed the data slate to Desai. “Petty Officer First Class Dmitri Strout has confessed to willful breaches of this station’s operational security in exchange for monetary compensation from a third party.” He pointed to one of the guest chairs. “Mind if I … ?”
“Take a seat.”
Jackson sat down as Desai skimmed through the arrest report and Strout’s confession. It was a long file.
She looked up at Jackson. “Care to sum it up for me?”
“Glad to,” he said. “We’d received anonymous tips that Strout was accessing data for which he wasn’t cleared. He worked in the lower cargo facility, mostly handling munitions. But he was pulling entire cargo manifests, both incoming and outgoing, using his supervisor’s access code.”
“How did he acquire that?”
Jackson’s narrowed gaze telegraphed his doubts. “He claims Chief Langlois was careless and didn’t use the voiceprint safeguard, but her access logs show she did. I think it’s more likely someone helped him hack her terminal and copy her voiceprint, but I haven’t been able to get him to admit it yet.”
“I see,” Desai said. “Go on.”
“Our surveillance operative witnessed Strout accessing the terminal in Langlois’s office, copying classified manifests onto a data card, and depositing the card in some kind of a dead drop in one of the unoccupied sections on level sixteen. We recovered the data card and substituted it with one loaded with false information and marked with a tracking tag. So far, however, no one has come to check the dead drop.”
Desai chortled softly. “In other words, you got made.”
Jackson responded with a taut and long-suffering smile. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we conducted a search of his quarters and found evidence Mister Strout has been sending unauthorized transmissions to an Orion merchant vessel known as the Omari-Ekon.”
Nodding, Desai said, “I’m familiar with it. Continue.”
“We haven’t been able to break the encryption on his messages to the Omari-Ekon, but we know the cipher he used isn’t one of ours. Our liaison from Starfleet Intelligence says the most likely origin for the encryption key was Orion.”
Quickly perusing the rest of the information on the data slate, Desai asked, “How many stolen manifests can we positively trace back to Mister Strout?”
“At least a dozen,” Jackson said. “Several of the manifests were for ships that got boarded in deep space by pirates within seventy-two hours of his accessing their logs.”
So close, Desai thought, but still so far.
She put down the data slate. “You’ve put together some very damning information … Petty Officer Strout is inarguably guilty of enabling pirates in this sector to target the most lucrative cargo on the most vulnerable civilian ships. However, after looking over his confession, I notice it contains no mention of anything having to do with the bombing of the Malacca. For that matter, none of the evidence you collected links this suspect to that event in any way, shape, or manner.”
Jackson looked taken aback. “What are you saying? You won’t prosecute him?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” Desai said. “I’ll run Strout’s guts up a flagpole tomorrow at reveille if it makes you happy. There’s enough in here to make sure he dies of old age in a penal colony.” She leaned forward. “What I’m driving at is you came to me asking for warrants so you could investigate the Malacca bombing. But nothing you’ve brought me today links him directly to that case. Frankly, when you poked your face through my
door and declared you’d nailed him, I was hoping for something more … relevant.”
The security chief sighed. “I understand. And I know it doesn’t look like I made any progress on the Malacca case. But I’m convinced Strout is only the tip of the iceberg. And if I’m gonna dig any deeper, I need more help.”
Intrigued, Desai asked, “Such as … ?”
There was a determined look in Jackson’s eyes. “I think Star-fleet Intelligence could decrypt his messages to the Omari-Ekon if someone with enough clout told them to do it. And I’m betting if we could enforce a warrant to review detailed logs of all communication-relay traffic between here and Orion for the past fourteen months, we’d find new clues to the parties behind the Malacca bombing.”
“How very optimistic of you,” Desai said. “Unfortunately, trying to lay claim to that much raw data risks inviting charges of privacy invasion. We’d have to clear a lot of legal hurdles. And the odds are we’d be refused or overturned on appeal.”
“Maybe,” Jackson said. “But we’ll never know until we ask.”
Unable to disagree with his reasoning, Desai relented. “All right,” she said. “I’ll submit a request for the comm logs.”
Rising from his chair, Jackson replied, “Who could ask for anything more?” He stopped at the doorway. “I’ll bet you one of my furlough days we get the logs.”
His challenge made her smile because Jackson had a well-earned reputation on Vanguard: he never lost a bet.
“You’re on,” she said.
Admiral Nogura stood in his office facing a wall-size map of the Taurus Reach. His attention was focused on one highlighted dot more than a hundred light-years rimward of Vanguard’s position. He asked the Starfleet Intelligence liaison, “When did the signal come in?”
“Approximately thirty-nine minutes ago,” said Commander Serrosel ch’Nayla, a middle-aged Andorian chan who had filled the position formerly occupied by the now-AWOL Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn. “Its arrival was delayed by the lack of sub-space radio relays between here and its point of origin.”
The admiral threw a quizzical look at the blue-skinned, whitehaired humanoid. “I thought we had relays seeded throughout the region.”
“We did,” said ch’Nayla. “The Klingons and Tholians have made a sport of seeking them out and destroying them.”
Nogura felt the muscles in his lean and weathered face tense as he digested that bit of news. “Wonderful.” He nodded at the map. “So what do I need to know about this signal?”
“It’s from a pair of nonofficial-cover agents. They were sent to a planet the Vault team thought might harbor a Shedai artifact, and the agents found one—a Conduit. But before they could make a detailed analysis of the structure, a Klingon D-7 battle cruiser entered orbit. It’s likely the Klingons have established a major presence on the planet’s surface.”
Noting the proximity of the system in question to the border of the Klingon Empire, Nogura said, “It was only a matter of time. We know they’ve been looking for the Shedai artifacts. With that one so close to their space, I’m surprised they didn’t find it sooner.” He turned away from the map. “Did our agents get off the planet safely?”
“No, Admiral,” said ch’Nayla. “They’ve requested a priority extraction by Starfleet.”
Pivoting toward the Andorian, Nogura replied, “I suspect that would provoke more problems than it might solve.”
“I have to concur.” Ch’Nayla keyed in some commands through an interface on the wall. The star map was updated to display the positions of dozens of Klingon military vessels across the Taurus Reach. “Any attempt to extract our agents will only draw attention to them and risk an escalation of hostilities with the Klingons. If the Empire has claimed that world, our presence there could be seen as a breach of the Treaty of Organia.”
“Considering the ink isn’t even dry on that thing yet, that would be bad.” Nogura stroked his chin while he pondered the situation. “Do we know for a fact the Klingons have claimed the planet?”
“Yes. Signal intercepts suggest they have undertaken a campaign to subjugate the local population. Normally, that would not be a matter of immediate concern. However, our two agents on the planet are being sheltered by a local community. If they are discovered, they will almost certainly be tortured and forced to reveal classified information about Operation Vanguard.”
Shaking his head slowly, Nogura said, “This mess just keeps getting bigger the longer I look at it.” He turned away from ch’Nayla and began pacing in front of the star map. “Even if I’m willing to risk sparking a war with the Klingons, that system’s out at the ass end of nothing. It’ll take nearly three months to get anybody out there. Can your people hang on that long?”
Ch’Nayla’s antennae swiveled as if they were tracking Nogura’s back-and-forth ambulations. “I think so,” ch’Nayla said. “One of them is a Starfleet officer who has completed a full SERE program. The other is a civilian operative who has on many occasions proved to be … resourceful.”
“All right,” Nogura said. “Here’s what I want them to do until we’re able to pull them out of the fire. Tell them to inflict as much damage on the Klingons as possible while keeping a low profile. They should focus on sabotage, inciting civil unrest, and, if they’re up for it, guerilla warfare.”
“An extremely hazardous assignment,” ch’Nayla said. “And not exactly one in keeping with their mission parameters.”
Nogura folded his hands behind his back. “Sometimes, Commander, we need to go beyond our limits and exceed our own expectations.” He stopped and faced the Andorian. “This is one of those times.”
“Aye, sir. I will relay your order to the agents.” The lanky chan walked to Nogura’s side and turned his attention to the star map. “Can I at least assure them truthfully that help is en route?”
“Good question,” Nogura said. He stepped over to the control interface and called up a deployment grid for all Starfleet vessels currently active in the sector. “Now that we have enough reinforcements to maintain steady patrols in the alpha and beta grids, I think we can free up a few ships.” Standing in front of the wall, he pointed at different vessels’ labeled icons. “The Gloucester and the Buenos Aires can hold the line in the choke point between the Tholians and the Klingons. And the Intrepid is close enough that I can task it to watch the Klingon border.” He folded his arms and tapped one index finger against his upper lip. “If we’re going to make a bid for that distant chunk of rock, we’ll have to go all in. We’ll send the Defiant, the Endeavour, and the Akhiel. That should be enough to make that D-7 bug out of orbit on the double.”
Ch’Nayla’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his antennae twitched. “Are you certain that will be a prudent use of our resources, Admiral? Sending two Constitution-class starships and a frigate escort on a mission that far from Vanguard is a major commitment. It will be at least six months before they are able to return to the station.”
“I know. But look how much Starfleet has increased its presence in this sector in the past few months. I think we might be in a position to flex our muscles a bit.” He stepped closer to the star map and permitted himself a small but devilish smile of anticipation. “The Klingons seem to get a kick out of running our colonists off their planets. Let’s see how they like running for a change.”
22
June 4, 2267
After more than two months cooped up inside the Skylla, adrift in deep space, Pennington was certain he had read and re-read every word printed on every surface and scrap of paper aboard the ship. He’d nosed through every document in the ship’s databanks. Listened to every audio file. Watched every vid.
He had tried filling the hours, days, and weeks with his own writing, but his thoughts felt unfocused. The harder he tried to shape his recent experiences into a narrative, the greater his mental paralysis became. Words refused to come.
Sitting alone in the cockpit, gazing out at the stars, he let himself drift into an almo
st hypnotic trance. Enveloped in blissful silence, he let his mind go quiet. What had started out weeks earlier as excruciating boredom had evolved into something new and unexpected: serenity.
The noise and chaos of his old life fell away. He let go of the need to fill every moment with ordered thoughts, pointless conversation, or entertaining distraction. Finally graced with a surfeit of time, he discovered the simple pleasure of merely letting himself be …
An alert flashed on the cockpit’s main console, and its repetitive buzzing sound dragged him back into the bleak reality of the moment.
He turned and shouted down the main corridor, “T’Prynn! One of your gizmos is harshing my mellow!”
A door slid open, and he heard T’Prynn’s soft footfalls. As she entered the cockpit and edged past Pennington to take her seat, he noticed she smelled freshly showered, and that she was wearing her hair down.
She silenced the alert and activated the sensor console. After studying the readout for a few seconds, she removed a small transceiver from the console and placed it in her left ear. Listening intently, she turned to Pennington and said, “We have located the Omari-Ekon.”
“Ganz’s ship?” His pulse quickened. “Is it close?”
“Very,” T’Prynn said. “However, it is moving away from us. We will need to adjust course to pursue it.”
T’Prynn accessed the helm controls and started keying in commands. A low purr from the aft section accompanied a subtle vibration in the deck as the engines engaged. Outside the cockpit, the stars seemed to spiral and slip away as T’Prynn changed the Skylla’s heading.