Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven

by David Mack

  “Their shields are holding,” Thorsen said.

  Klisiewicz raised his voice while keeping his eyes on the sensor readout. “Incoming!” Muffled explosions shook the Endeavour and reverberated for several seconds in the hull.

  “Aft shields holding,” Thorsen said. “For now.”

  Stano stepped back down into the command well and took her place beside Khatami. “It’s a long run back to Vanguard. And it’s gonna seem even longer with them shooting us in the back every step of the way.”

  Khatami swiveled left and looked back toward the comm station. “Estrada, let Vanguard know we’re coming in hot and could use a helping hand.”

  Sliney cast a nervous look back at the captain and first officer. “How long do you think they’ll keep chasing us?”

  There was no point in lying to the anxious helmsman. “Until we turn and fight or run out of fuel,” Khatami said, “whichever comes first.”

  14

  Once the old melody had been familiar, a bastion of comfort; now all T’Prynn could hear in it were the echoes of old lies.

  She masked her frustration behind a placid façade as her best efforts raised nothing from Manón’s grand piano but graceless notes that embodied banality. Her only consolation was that the shadowy cabaret was empty except for her and Spock, who sat beside her with his Vulcan lyre perched on his thigh. His expression mirrored hers, fixed somewhere between neutral and dour, while he listened to her uninspired performance of Gene Harris’s arrangement of “Summertime,” a number that once had been her signature piece, and that he had heard her perform years earlier. She hit all the right notes in the right tempo, and yet the song no longer sounded right. Some element she couldn’t define, some ineffable quality that differentiated mere competence from virtuosity, was absent. It left her feeling empty even as she filled the darkened nightclub with sound. She no longer found any meaning in it.

  Less than halfway through the piece, she lost patience with it and stopped. The interrupted note decayed for several seconds until she lifted her foot from the sustain pedal, restoring the yawning silence that surrounded her and Spock.

  He wore a contemplative look as he stared at the stage, his angular features accentuated by the hard shadows of the spotlight that illuminated them on the piano’s bench. T’Prynn imagined he was choosing his words with care. “You learned to play this instrument on Earth,” he said, posing the question with the flat inflection of a statement.

  “Correct.”

  Cradling his lyre, he shifted to face her. “And your teacher was a human.”

  A minuscule nod. “Yes.”

  His upswept brows furrowed slightly. “Did you choose to study this style of music, or was it the only option available to you?”

  “I chose it.” She found it difficult not to succumb to defensiveness at his questions. “Why do you consider that relevant?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “The fact that you gravitated to styles as expressive as jazz and blues suggests that those genres resonated with your subconscious. However, they no longer seem suited to you—or, to be more precise, you no longer seem suited to them.”

  In no mood for riddles, T’Prynn said, “Speak plainly, Spock.”

  “Very well. You’ve told me you feel disconnected from your music. But these are styles and songs you learned and related to when you were, in a very real sense, a different person.” He leaned closer and spoke more gently. “You learned to play this instrument when you were a val’reth, two living katras fused in psychic conflict. Though you denied it, I suspect that, for you, music served as a psychic outlet for emotions you dared not otherwise express.”

  She looked down at the keyboard. In the past, her pride would have impelled her to deny his assertion, but now, freed of the combative katra of her dead fiancé, Sten, she saw the logic of Spock’s assumption. “Do you mean to suggest that I no longer need music?”

  “That is not for me to say.” He thought for a moment. “However, I think that it will be futile for you to continue trying to play as the person you were. I would suggest you change your approach to this instrument, and to music in general, to reflect the person you have become.”

  Trying to imagine how she would put his simple-sounding advice into practice, she felt paralyzed. “How can I put aside more than fifty years’ worth of training and experience?”

  “Let go of old patterns,” Spock said. “What was once an emotional purgative can now become an act of meditation and pure creation. Don’t think about what to play; just play.”

  “I’m not sure I know how,” T’Prynn confessed.

  His voice was deep and soothing. “Close your eyes.” She did as he asked, and then he continued. “Clear your mind of all thought. Let your hands rest on the keys.” She settled her fingers into the middle third of the keyboard. “Breathe, T’Prynn. Relax and listen.”

  As she emptied her mind of its chaotic flurry of concerns and anxieties, she heard the first faint notes rise from Spock’s lyre, music floating on the air like a feather aloft on a spring breeze, slow and meandering, seemingly random yet entirely natural in its effect. “What song is that?”

  “An improvisation,” Spock said, his voice hushed as he continued to play. “Listen and join me when you feel the music you want to play.”

  She tensed with disapproval. “Feel the music? Isn’t that rather human?”

  “Logic doesn’t ask us to deny that our emotions exist, but to control and channel them in productive ways. All I ask is that you confront your emotions honestly, T’Prynn.”

  Reassured by his interpretation of the Vulcan disciplines whose apparent internal contradictions had long baffled her, T’Prynn drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax and let the sweet sound of the lyre free her mind from its endless tumult. Seconds slipped away and melted into minutes, and then she lost herself in Spock’s carefree melody. It was deceptive in its simplicity, and soon her trained ear discovered subtleties in it, hints of a longing behind its innocent façade. Then she noted a new richness in the tune and realized it was the piano—with eyes still shut, she had begun to explore the tune with Spock by instinct alone.

  At first she merely filled in harmonies or echoed passages that Spock had played. Soon, she settled into key and devised her own melody to complement Spock’s. As her performance became more confident, Spock let the lyre become her accompaniment, and then he let his part fade away altogether as T’Prynn charted her own musical course.

  The music emerging from the piano was a mystery to her. The melody was nothing she had ever heard or been taught. It was very different from the human jazz and blues that she had played for decades; this new style was slower, more fluid and yet just as complex as jazz and as rich with feeling as blues. At moments it skirted the edge of dissonance, but each time she felt the way to bring it back into harmony before it went too far. Hidden in its rhythms and chords, she was certain she could hear influences as varied as Terran classical and Vulcan sonatas, Deltan chamber music and Andorian concertos.

  All at once she felt the improvisation draw to a close. The melody culminated artfully and found its ending with a quiet grace. The measured, dignified conclusion reverberated softly inside the deserted cabaret, and as the last note decayed into silence, T’Prynn opened her eyes. She understood then what Spock had meant. It had simply felt right.

  Neither of them spoke for several seconds. They sat together, reverent in their respect for the silence and each other. Reflecting upon her inner state, T’Prynn discovered a feeling she had not truly known since her childhood: contentment.

  Spock’s communicator beeped twice. He tucked his lyre under his left arm, plucked his communicator from his belt, and opened its gold grille with a flick of his wrist. “Spock here.”

  A voice that T’Prynn recognized as James Kirk’s responded, “Spock, we need you back on the Enterprise. There’s an emergency, and we’re shipping out in twenty minutes.”

  “On my way. Spock out.�
� He closed the communicator and tucked it back onto his belt as he stood. “You must excuse me.”

  As he moved to step away from the piano, T’Prynn reached out and gently grasped his left wrist. He met her gaze as she said in a humble voice, “Thank you, Spock.”

  He turned to face her and raised his right hand, fingers spread in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, T’Prynn.”

  She stood and returned the salute. “Peace and long life, Spock.”

  He lowered his hand, then hurried down the stage’s front steps and crossed the cabaret’s main room at a quick step on his way to the rear kitchen entrance. As she watched him leave, she wondered how she would ever repay him for this great kindness.

  Then she imagined what Spock would want her to do: He would want her to live a life worthy of such a gift. She didn’t know if she was equal to such a goal, or if she ever would be.

  But as he disappeared from her sight, she vowed to try.

  15

  I don’t know whether to admire the Tholians’ tenacity or pity them for it, Khatami brooded.

  Two days had passed since the Endeavour and its Tholian pursuers both had run out of torpedoes, but the twelve wedge-shaped warships remained close behind, engines pushed to their limits in order to keep pace with the heavy cruiser and its speedy companion, the Sagittarius. The only way the Tholians would be able to continue their assault would be if one or both of the Starfleet vessels dropped from warp speed to impulse, enabling the Tholians to bring their beam weapons to bear, but that wasn’t likely to happen before they reached Vanguard. And once Endeavour and Sagittarius reached the station, they would be under the protection of its formidable defenses, which would easily pulverize the twelve Tholian ships.

  All we have to do now, Khatami reminded herself, is not let the ship fall apart before we get back to Vanguard.

  Stano conferred with an engineering liaison officer at a console on the bridge’s upper ring, updated some figures on her data slate, then stepped down to join Khatami. “Mog reports he and his people have salvaged enough working parts to keep the last shield emitter running until we get back to Vanguard, but to do that they’ll have to seal off nonessential compartments and shut down a number of auxiliary systems to conserve power.” She handed the slate to Khatami. “Also, I’ve approved his proposal to consolidate crew accommodations and seal off outer sections in the saucer to reduce the strain on the life-support systems.”

  “How long to get it all done?”

  “About two hours. They’ve already started.”

  An approving nod. “Good. Keep me posted.”

  The first officer stepped away to continue coordinating the crew’s seemingly Sisyphean tasks. Though damage-control operations on the Endeavour had continued around the clock since the first shots were exchanged with the Tholians days earlier, so many of the ship’s systems had been overloaded, compromised, or simply destroyed that complete repairs would not be possible without the aid of a starbase. Only the tireless efforts of the crew, guided by the unorthodox solutions of their Tellarite chief engineer, had kept the ship cruising at warp speed.

  Fortunately, the Sagittarius had suffered only moderate damage before escaping from the statite, and that was due in large part to the Endeavour serving as its shield for the entire marathon run for home. Whatever they might have found or learned on the statite apparently had been important enough for Admiral Nogura to make its safe return to Vanguard a top priority. Unfortunately, the numbers on the data slate in Khatami’s hand made it clear that her ship was one mishap away from a total warp core failure, and she had no doubt that if the Endeavour fell behind, the Tholians would scream past it and continue chasing the Sagittarius.

  Her grave ponderings were interrupted by the anxious voice of Lieutenant Klisiewicz. “Captain? Long-range sensors detect a ship ahead of us, moving at warp eight, on an intercept trajectory. Whatever it is, it’s big.”

  Stano crossed the bridge to look over his shoulder. “Can you identify it?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep scanning for an energy signature.”

  Neelakanta turned his chair to look back at Khatami. “Captain, if the Tholians have flanked us with a battleship, and our only functional shield emitter is angled aft—”

  “I’m aware of our tactical predicament, Lieutenant.”

  The Arcturian navigator’s red eyes widened with alarm. “I should also remind you, Captain, that we can’t use phasers at warp, or power them without dropping the shields.”

  “Luckily,” Khatami replied, “we’re not alone out here. Estrada, hail Captain Nassir and let him know we need the Sagittarius to cover our bow. Whatever shield power they have should be angled forward, and if they still carry a pair of photon torpedoes, they should get ready to use them.” The communications officer nodded and set to work relaying the message.

  Khatami took a deep breath and forced herself to present a calm front to her crew as the minutes ticked down, bringing the Endeavour and the Sagittarius closer to whatever was heading their way. She was contemplating turning the Endeavour’s shuttlecraft into bombs and launching them on autopilot at the pursuing Tholian fleet when Klisiewicz suddenly exclaimed at the top of his lungs, “Yes!” All eyes turned toward the lieutenant, who looked up, eyes bright and wide. “Sir, I’ve identified the incoming vessel! It’s the Enterprise!”

  A loud cheer erupted from around the bridge, and if not for the demands of propriety, Khatami would gladly have joined them. She raised her voice to be heard above the noisy celebration. “Estrada, tell Captain Nassir to belay my last, then hail the Tholian fleet commander. Let him know he’s about to meet our reinforcements.”

  “With pleasure, Captain,” Estrada said, already at work.

  As she expected, there was no immediate response from the Tholian fleet commander, though she wasn’t sure if it was merely posturing or the fact that the Tholians’ sensors hadn’t yet confirmed the identity of the approaching Starfleet vessel—a Constitution-class heavy cruiser like the Endeavour. Once the Enterprise closed to visual range, however, the Tholian fleet abruptly dropped out of warp and began a hasty course correction, back toward Tholian space.

  “Not a moment too soon,” Stano said under her breath.

  Before Khatami could reply, Estrada said, “The Tholian commander’s hailing us.”

  “Put him on,” Khatami said.

  The image on the main viewer shifted from an aft view of the Tholian fleet to a hazy crimson glow, within which Khatami could barely discern the outline of the Tholian fleet commander’s arthropodal crystalline body. His metallic shriek of a voice came through the universal translator charged with fury. “This is not over,” he said. “You have meddled with forces you do not understand—and you will all pay for your interference.”

  Then the transmission ended, and the screen reverted to the image of the alien fleet as it finished its course change and leapt to warp speed, en route to regroup with its waiting armada.

  Stano crossed her arms. “Charming fellow. Real smooth talker.”

  “For a Tholian, he’s practically a diplomat,” Khatami said.

  Estrada looked up from his console. “Enterprise is hailing us, Captain.”

  “On-screen.” Khatami watched the forward screen snap to an image of the Enterprise’s dashing young commanding officer, a lean and fair-haired man in his mid-thirties. “Captain Kirk, I presume?”

  “And you must be Captain Khatami.”

  She favored him with a grateful smile. “Thanks for rolling out the red carpet.”

  “Our pleasure, Captain.” Kirk turned serious. “What’s your status? Do you need assistance?”

  “More than I’d like to admit. We got beat up pretty badly over the last few days.”

  Kirk nodded. “Understood. We’ll be in transporter range in a few minutes. Once we’re all at impulse, we’ll beam over engineers, supplies, and whatever else you need.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Khatami said. A glance from Stano confir
med that she was passing the good news to Mog. Turning her attention back to Kirk, she added, “Maybe then we’ll be able to keep up with you on the way back to Vanguard.”

  “We’ll only be with you for half the trip, I’m afraid. About an hour ago, we received a distress signal from the planet Ariannus. We’ll have to leave you after we pass Kessik. But don’t worry—the latest intel from Starfleet says the rest of that sector is clear, and the Buenos Aires is en route to meet you at Al Nath. They’ll be your escort from there back to Vanguard.”

  “Acknowledged.” Khatami was about to sign off, but she didn’t know when she might get another chance to speak with Kirk, and her curiosity was too intense to be denied. “Captain, if it wouldn’t be too impertinent, could I ask you a personal question?”

  The young captain looked amused by her carefully couched inquiry. “Be my guest.”

  “I read a report from Starfleet Command last year that said you’d met the Greek deity Apollo. I was just wondering . . . did that really happen?”

  Kirk glanced at someone off-screen, then his mouth curled upward with playful mischief. “I prefer to think that Apollo met me. . . . Enterprise out.”

  16

  Jetanien kneeled on his portable glenget opposite Lugok, at a table in a secluded corner of Ventus, one of the few restaurants still operating within the limits of Paradise City. The narrow, low-ceilinged dining room’s deeply subdued illumination did little to conceal its filthy floors and bare walls. If not for the dim shaded bulb hanging directly above their table, Jetanien doubted he would even be able to read the menu. He looked around the dingy eatery with suspicion. “Lugok, are you quite certain this establishment is open for business?”

  “Quite certain,” the Klingon replied without lifting his eyes from his menu.