Precipice

by David Mack

  The room was quiet with anticipation as she confessed.

  “She told me Diego Reyes is alive and in Klingon custody. He knew everything Kane would have needed to break into the Vault and escape with the artifact. Which means if T’Prynn is telling the truth, our former commander isn’t dead—he’s colluding with the enemy.”

  32

  August 2, 2267

  Pennington awoke to faint sounds of comm chatter and fingers working the switches of a computer console. He squinted as he checked the chrono. It was just after 0430 ship’s time on the Skylla. His limbs felt like lead and his eyes itched as he rolled out of his bunk.

  The sounds became more distinct as he groggily walked forward in the main corridor. The deck plates felt like ice under his bare feet. A shiver traveled up his legs to his spine.

  Not a night goes by I don’t regret not packing slippers, he lamented.

  Like the rest of the Skylla’s interior, the cockpit was mostly dark. A handful of computer readouts bathed the cramped space in weak ambient light.

  T’Prynn sat with her back to the open hatchway. She was working at the communications station. A compact transceiver was tucked inside her left ear. She touched it lightly with her fingertips while she made an adjustment on the control panel in front of her.

  As Pennington stepped over the cockpit’s threshold, she acknowledged his presence with the slightest turn of her head. Nodding in reply, he eased himself into the copilot’s seat. He had learned to keep quiet while T’Prynn monitored signals; her hearing was sensitive to even the softest sounds, and he didn’t want to distract her while she was working.

  Finally, she returned the console to its standby mode and removed the transceiver from her ear. “I am sorry if I woke you,” she said.

  “No worries. Anything good?”

  She nodded once. “We intercepted an interesting signal from Vanguard to Starfleet Command. I was able to break the encryption sequence, but most of the message is written in a code with which I am not familiar.” She called up a transcript of the intercept. “However, this sequence—‘Echo Sierra Bravo, nine, seven, red’—appears to be a legacy code from my tenure as the SI liaison.”

  Leaning forward, Pennington asked, “What does it mean?”

  “It indicates that an extreme security breach has occurred in relation to the principal mission objective.”

  Pennington rubbed the underside of his stubbled chin. “So either Joshua Kane stole whatever it was the Klingons hired him to get, or Captain Desai reported your tip about Commodore Reyes being alive and with the Klingons.”

  “Or perhaps both,” T’Prynn said.

  That made Pennington think for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “If Kane is working for the Klingon who’s holding Reyes, and if the thing the Klingons wanted stolen was on Vanguard, then Kutal could’ve forced Reyes to help Kane plan the heist. That would be a major breach in Starfleet’s security, both on the station and in this entire sector.”

  “Precisely,” T’Prynn said. “A most logical deduction.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you know us reporters: sometimes we put two and two together.”

  33

  August 3, 2267

  The Vault was a shambles. Dust and debris littered the floor at Ming Xiong’s feet.

  “Most of the damage was localized here, in the experiment chamber,” he said to Admiral Nogura, Dr. Marcus, and Commander ch’Nayla. “The intruder used an ultritium charge to knock out the transparent aluminum barrier.” Xiong stood in front of a bank of shattered consoles facing the breach in the safety barrier. “Blowback from that detonation destroyed these master terminals. Until we replace them, the lab’s internal network will be offline.”

  Nogura’s countenance was grim as he surveyed the damage. “You said you had good news to report, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Xiong replied. He looked at Marcus. “With your permission, Doctor?”

  “By all means,” Marcus said. “Proceed.”

  Xiong nodded and continued. “Although our burglar got away with the artifact, we’ve confirmed he had no access to the Vault’s memory banks. When the evacuation alert was triggered, the computer system secured itself automatically. So at least we still have all our experimental data.”

  “Small comfort,” said ch’Nayla. The Andorian flicked a shard of cracked polymer off a charred console. It bounced across the deck and disappeared through the open floor panel into the sub-level.

  “It’s more important than you might think,” Xiong said. “I saw what little progress the Klingons made with the artifact, both before and after they put me to work on it. We’ve learned far more about it than they ever did, or ever could.” He looked back at Nogura. “I’d like to show you what my team was working on up until we lost the artifact.”

  The senior officers and Dr. Marcus pressed in close as Xiong found an intact console and coaxed it back to life. “Even though our scans failed to penetrate its outer surface, we were able to measure other phenomena to develop a virtual model of the artifact’s subatomic structure.” He activated a display screen, which showed an animated wire frame image of the twelve-sided alien object. “Our simulation was able to predict the artifact’s response to new stimuli with near-perfect accuracy. I believe we can continue our research even without the original artifact. At least, on a theoretical level.”

  “Excellent work, Xiong,” said Marcus.

  Nogura added, “I’ll second that. Well done, Lieutenant.”

  Ch’Nayla was less enthused. “Commendable as this may be, it falls short of the practical application we were led to expect.”

  Xiong reflexively shot a narrowed stare at ch’Nayla, but forced himself to remain calm in the presence of superior officers. “True,” he said. “And the loss of the artifact means we’ll be relying on simulations until further notice, so we won’t be able to confirm any of our current hypotheses. However, there is one that’s very close to ready for a field test.”

  He used the console to call up his latest project. “I had the idea that we could modulate a particle beam using the waveform from the Jinoteur Pattern. Our simulations and early tests on the artifact suggest this would create a signal that would not only pierce the object’s outer shell but also trigger the release of a pulse attuned to the same frequencies the Shedai use to change their physical states. Depending on the specific segment of the pattern we employ, we might be able to use it as bait or as a means of immobilizing them.”

  Marcus added, “I’ve reviewed Xiong’s proposal, and I think that if it works, it could have even more significant long-range applications in a variety of sciences, from long-distance subspace communications to tissue-regeneration and beyond. Its possibilities could be effectively endless.”

  “Sounds promising,” Nogura said. “How long will it take to weaponize it?”

  Ch’Nayla cut in, “There are serious security concerns that need to be addressed first, Admiral.”

  Nogura eyed the Andorian. “Such as … ?”

  “It is not yet clear whether bombarding the artifact with energy beams utilizing the Jinoteur Pattern would risk releasing the Shedai entity currently trapped inside it,” ch’Nayla said. “If such an event were to occur aboard a starship or space station, to say nothing of on the surface of an inhabited planet, the potential loss of life could be substantial.”

  The admiral asked Xiong, “Is that a risk, Lieutenant?”

  Uncertainty painted a grimace on Xiong’s face. “Hard to say, sir. None of the simulations we’ve done so far indicates any loss of structural integrity to the artifact. On the other hand, we don’t really have a baseline. It might have a limit to how much energy it can channel at once before it loses the ability to contain its Shedai.”

  Horrified, Marcus interjected, “You’re all forgetting something very important. The entity inside the artifact is not some abstract concept—it’s a sentient life-form. Before we start running tests to see how much raw energy we can flood thr
ough that thing, I think we need to figure out whether we’d be causing any harm to the creature inside.”

  Ch’Nayla regarded Marcus with skepticism. “What do you propose we do then, Doctor? Should we gear our efforts toward releasing the Shedai from its captivity inside the artifact?”

  “That might be the humane thing to do,” Marcus said.

  Nogura’s eyes widened. “And the most tactically dangerous. In any event, I don’t even want to talk about letting it out until we know who put it in there, how they did it, and why.”

  Xiong held up his hands and said, “There might be a middle path to consider.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Nogura said.

  “We know from Lieutenant Theriault’s encounter with the Shedai Apostate that not all of the Shedai are necessarily hostile. At this point, we don’t really know anything about the identity or intentions of the Shedai trapped inside the Mirdonyae Artifact. While I agree with Commander ch’Nayla that releasing it without proper safeguards would be unwise, I think it might be beneficial, from both a scientific and diplomatic standpoint as well as a humanitarian one, to establish contact with it.”

  Nodding slowly, ch’Nayla said, “Mister Xiong makes some excellent points. If contact could be established, perhaps the entity itself could answer our questions about the artifact’s origins and purpose.”

  “And talking with it might make it possible to defuse tensions,” Marcus said. “So if and when we do release it, it doesn’t go on a homicidal rampage.”

  “Okay,” Nogura said. “You’ve convinced me. Xiong, how long will it take to repair the damage in here?”

  “About two weeks.” Looking around at the dark and deserted laboratory, Xiong continued, “We can swap out those fragged consoles in a day or two, and replacing the transparent aluminum barrier is another one-day job. The real delays will be fixing and upgrading the security entrance, isolating the ventilation system to keep us from getting smoked out again, and sealing that hatch in turbolift four.”

  Nogura nodded. “Very good. Get it done. If you hit any snags, let me know and I’ll make them vanish.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Xiong said.

  The admiral shook Xiong’s hand, then said to ch’Nayla, “Walk with me, Commander.” The pair exited the lab through the wide-open access passageway, whose far end now was under twenty-four-hour armed guard.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Marcus folded her arms and kept her voice down as she said to Xiong, “Are you out of your mind? Two weeks to swap out four state-of-the-art consoles, replace a grade-ten barrier, rebuild an entire bulkhead, and install a new security module? That’ll take at least a month.”

  Xiong smiled at her. “Nope. Two weeks, tops.”

  “Not without a miracle,” Marcus said, clinging to her pessimism.

  He laughed softly. “Relax, Doctor. For Starfleet engineers, miracles are just standard operating procedure.”

  Rana Desai had the best table in Manón’s Cabaret to herself.

  Seated in the front row and just left of center stage, Desai had a perfect view of every member of the jazz quartet providing that evening’s musical entertainment. Their set list since her arrival had consisted of low-key numbers with softly plucked bass lines, smooth wire-brush percussion, and mellow back-and-forth riffs by the piano player and saxophonist.

  The dinner crowd’s conversation was muted. Most of the club’s patrons were civilians, but as always there were a few Star-fleet officers in the mix.

  Manón’s served as the station’s de facto officers’ club for a number of reasons: it offered better food and drinks; its interior design was more pleasing; its furniture was more comfortable; and its acoustics were superior to those of the actual officers’ club, a drab gray box with chairs located in the station’s core. Last but not least, the view from Manón’s newly opened upstairs open-air terrace, of artfully lit buildings in Stars Landing, was far prettier than the official club’s view of hangar bay three.

  All Desai could see, however, was the empty seat on the other side of her table.

  She sipped from her glass of sparkling water and enjoyed the tingle of carbonation on her tongue. Listening to the quartet spin a slow, melancholy tune, she wondered what she was going to say when her guest arrived. It was bound to be an awkward conversation, and Desai admitted to herself that she was dreading every minute of it.

  “Mind a bit of company?”

  The question freed Desai from her reverie. She looked over her shoulder to see Dr. Ezekiel Fisher smiling down at her.

  The gray-haired octogenarian chief medical officer had been a steady and quasi-paternal presence in Desai’s life since they were told of Diego Reyes’s alleged death seven months earlier. She had been grateful for Fisher’s support, especially since Reyes had been one of his closest friends, and she knew the old doctor’s loss had to have been as deep as her own.

  But he wasn’t who she was waiting for, and his presence could only complicate an already messed-up situation.

  She gestured at the empty chair. “Have a seat.”

  He planted one palm on the table to steady himself as he eased into the chair opposite hers. “I should have known I’d find you here,” he said, then exhaled with relief as he settled into place. “This was the table Diego always reserved for you.”

  “I remember,” Desai said.

  A waiter appeared from the steady bustle of activity in the dining room, picked up the bottle of water from its ice bucket beside the table, and filled Fisher’s glass.

  “Thanks,” Fisher said with a nod at the waiter, who bowed his head as he returned the bottle to its icy receptacle.

  “I’ll be back with your menus in a moment,” the waiter said, and he slipped away before Desai could explain that Fisher wasn’t actually her intended dinner companion.

  Fisher traced the rim of his water glass with the tip of his index finger until it produced a dulcet tone. Then he stopped abruptly. “T’Prynn’s news about Diego,” he said and shook his head. “I just can’t get a handle on it. No sooner do I start getting used to the idea that he’s gone …”

  “I know,” Desai said. “Part of me screams, Don’t trust her, but I really want to believe she’s telling the truth.”

  “We all do,” Fisher said.

  “Except that if he is alive, he probably helped the Klingons break into the Vault,” Desai said. “So, which would be better: Diego dying as a patriot, or living as a traitor?”

  The doctor’s vaguely amused countenance turned enigmatic. “Seems like a false choice to me,” he said. “If he is alive and with the Klingons, that doesn’t prove he’s there willingly. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Desai considered the common sense in what Fisher had said. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m assuming facts not in evidence. I should know better.”

  “There you go,” Fisher said. “Now ask yourself: If Diego’s alive but being held against his will by the Klingons, is that a truth you could live with?”

  “Absolutely,” Desai said. Then her spark of optimism was snuffed by her doubts. “But it’s still a risk, Zeke. If I start believing that and find out T’Prynn lied to me, I’d be crushed to find out I’d been clinging to a false hope.”

  Fisher cracked a restrained smile. “A long time ago, a wise man once said, ‘There is never anything false about hope.’ It was true then, and it’s true now. Don’t give up on hope—it’s the one thing no one else can take away from you.”

  She lifted her water glass to toast him. “Well said.”

  He picked up his glass and clinked it against hers with the deft touch of a surgeon. “Thank you.” Looking around, he added, “What happened to our waiter? I’m starving.”

  “Um, Zeke … ?” She waited until he looked at her. “I … uh …”

  Before she could put her thoughts into words, she heard another voice from behind her shoulder.

  “Three for dinner?” Jackson asked. “I thought it was just the two of
us.”

  Fisher looked up at the younger man with an expression of mild surprise, then back at Desai. “Oh. I see.” He smiled at Jackson. “My mistake: I seem to be sitting in your chair.” He got up just as the waiter returned. Handing the server his water he said, “The gentleman will need a new water glass.”

  “Very good.” The waiter nodded and stepped away again.

  Jackson looked back and forth between Fisher and Desai then asked, “What’re we talking about?”

  With a sly but knowing glance at Desai, Fisher replied, “Whether we dare to hope Diego Reyes is really alive.”

  “And what’s the verdict?” Jackson asked Desai.

  “Jury’s still out,” she said.

  As Fisher started to leave, Jackson said, “I’ll bet you both dinner here—with drinks, appetizers, and desserts—that he’s alive, well, and still on our side.”

  The wager put a light in Fisher’s eyes. “Folks tell me you never lose a bet,” he said to the lieutenant.

  “That’s right,” Jackson said.

  Fisher shook the man’s hand. “That’s a bet I’ll be happy to lose, son. You’re on.” Releasing Jackson’s hand, he patted the man’s shoulder. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  As Fisher left the club, the waiter returned and set a clean water glass at the table’s other place setting. There was no point putting off the inevitable any longer.

  Desai motioned to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Haniff. There’s something we need to talk about …”

  34

  August 19, 2267

  Pennington’s pulse thudded in his temples as he and T’Prynn eavesdropped on transmissions between the Klingon battle cruiser Zin’za and Joshua Kane’s vessel, the Ali Baba.

  “Standing by to receive your courier,” Kane said. “Shields are down, and the scattering field has been disabled.”