Vanguard,BookOne

by David Mack

  The door swished open at his approach, and he shimmied carefully into the corridor, sidestepping with his bulky, heavy duffel toward the aft ladder to the transporter pad. Passing the open galley, he noticed a savory aroma. Ilucci was standing in front of the food slot, holding a plate in one hand and a half-ruptured burrito in the other. Bits of his meal tumbled into his scraggly beard whiskers as he wolfed down his lunch. The heavyset chief engineer struggled to swallow an entire mouthful in one gulp when he saw Xiong; he half-succeeded. Through half a gulletful of semi-masticated food, he asked, “Hey, are you leaving?”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way out,” Xiong said, pointing aft.

  Ilucci dropped the shredded remains of his burrito on his plate and stepped quickly over to Xiong and extended his cheese-and-salsa–covered hand. “Gonna miss ya, buddy.” Xiong blinked and felt his mouth pursing as he struggled not to point out the obvious. Looking down, Ilucci realized what the problem was. He wiped his hand broadly across the leg of his jumpsuit, first the palm and then the sides, then extended it once again to Xiong. This time the slim but muscular anthropology-and-archaeology specialist accepted the gesture and shook Ilucci’s hand.

  “Take care, Master Chief.” One of the first things that Xiong had learned after coming aboard the Sagittarius was to always refer to Ilucci as “Master Chief.” The chief engineer insisted on it. Tellingly, even the commissioned officers respected Ilucci’s request and frequently reminded others to do likewise. Ilucci was not a tall man, but his gift for “percussive maintenance” (hitting defective machines until they worked again), his impassioned ranting, and his uncanny ability to start bar fights had long ago earned him the nickname “Mad Man,” a moniker that now preceded him by many light-years, no matter how far he traveled.

  Clumsily trying to wrap his fingers around the shredded remains of his half-eaten burrito, Ilucci said with an evil grin, “I’ll keep the bunk warm for ya.”

  “Yeah, you do that, Master Chief.” One thing Xiong was not going to miss about the Sagittarius was “hot-bunking.” Because of the ship’s acute lack of crew accommodations, only the captain and first officer had private quarters. The other twelve personnel shared four single-bed compartments, sleeping in shifts and taking whichever bunk was empty. As a result, life aboard the scout vessel had a nomadic quality both inside and out. Strangely apropos, Xiong mused as he left the galley.

  Less than a minute later, he reached the aft ladder. Before he could adjust his duffel for the climb, the mellow-voiced first officer, Commander Clark Terrell, leaned down through the ladderway and extended his hand. “Pass it up to me.”

  “Thanks,” Xiong said, then lifted his bag until Terrell grasped one of its shoulder straps and hoisted it effortlessly up to deck two. Clambering up the wide-planked ladder, Xiong heard the low hum of a transporter coil energizing above. He emerged into the transporter bay to see Captain Nassir standing with Commander Terrell. The two men were like night and day: Terrell was brown, beefy, with close-cropped hair; Nassir was slender, pale, and, like most Deltans, completely bald. A few meters behind them, science officer Ensign Vanessa Theriault was adjusting the settings of the transporter panel, seemingly at random. Nodding in her direction, Xiong said quietly to Nassir and Terrell, “Does she know what she’s doing?”

  The two senior officers turned in unison, looked at Theriault, then looked back at each other. Terrell shrugged at Xiong. “Probably.” Xiong didn’t like the sound of that. He was about to suggest that maybe Ilucci could take over for the attractive but undeniably kooky young redhead from the Martian Colonies when Nassir and Terrell both lost their poker faces and snorted with suppressed laughter. “Relax,” Terrell said, patting Xiong’s shoulder. “She’s a pro, you’re in good hands.”

  Captain Nassir recovered his composure and took Xiong aside. “Before you go, there’s something I’d like to give you. A going-away gift, I guess you’d call it.” The captain opened a storage panel along the lower half of the wall and took out a neatly folded green jumpsuit. It had a U.S.S. Sagittarius patch on its shoulder, and smelled clean and freshly sanitized (like everything else on the ship within reach of Dr. Lisa Babitz, the ship’s medical officer). Xiong’s rank insignia and surname were stitched on its front. “For the next time you visit,” Nassir said as he handed it to Xiong, who accepted it abashedly.

  “Thank you, sir. It means a lot to me.”

  Nassir’s voice was deep and fatherly. “You’re a good officer, Xiong. You’ve got an explorer’s soul. Try not to let it go to waste sitting on that space station.”

  “I won’t, sir. I promise.” He shook Nassir’s hand.

  “You’d better get going. Captain Gannon’s a busy woman. Best not to keep her waiting.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tucking his new jumpsuit under his arm, he stepped onto the lone transporter pad. Because the Sagittarius was equipped to land on M-Class planets, its one and only transporter was used mostly for emergencies. Which would explain the thin layer of dust on this thing, Xiong noted.

  The captain stepped behind the control panel with Theriault and keyed a switch. “Sagittarius to Bombay. One to transport.”

  “Acknowledged, Sagittarius. Commence when ready.”

  “Safe travels, Mr. Xiong.” Turning to Theriault, Nassir said, “Energize.” Theriault cast a frozen stare at the controls for a few seconds, then hesitantly reached out for one of the sliders. Nassir gently guided her hand to a different bank of switches. “Begin the dematerialization sequence first,” he instructed gently.

  Alarmed, Xiong protested to Terrell, “I thought you said she knew what she was doing!”

  “It’s all relative,” Terrell said as the transporter sequence began with a rising whine of sound. The first officer added with a farewell wave, “Vaya con Dios.”

  By the time Xiong realized that he was a live test subject in Ensign Theriault’s transporter-training regimen, he had already rematerialized safely in the far more spacious transporter room of the U.S.S. Bombay.

  A blue-jumpsuited technician worked behind the transporter console. First officer Commander Vondas Milonakis greeted Xiong as he stepped off the platform.

  “Welcome aboard, Ming.” The short, balding man grasped Xiong’s hand in a firm, radiantly warm handshake. “Good to see you again. How’s everybody on the Sagittarius?”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t that Xiong disliked Milonakis; he just found it difficult to trust someone who was always so extroverted. Xiong decided that the bold new hue of gold that Starfleet had recently chosen for command officers’ jerseys suited Milonakis perfectly.

  Giving Xiong’s jumpsuit a once-over, Milonakis said, “I see Captain Nassir’s still keeping things casual.”

  Not wanting to prolong the conversation or start an argument, Xiong mumbled a dismissive “Mm-hmm.”

  “Let’s get you some quarters. I think we have a spare bunk on deck five”—he shot a conspiratorial smirk Xiong’s way—“if you don’t mind sharing the room with a Tellarite.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Xiong followed the Bombay first officer out the door, then left toward the turbolift. The corridor was busy with personnel moving in quick strides from one task to another. This was the first time Xiong had been aboard the Miranda-class starship while it was deployed, but it was just as hectic as he had always expected. Within a few short weeks of his arrival on Starbase 47 it had become obvious that, of the three ships permanently assigned to the station, the Bombay was the unsung workhorse—the one that did all the unappreciated labor that enabled the Sagittarius to speed away to the edges of known space and the larger, more renowned U.S.S. Endeavour to spend its time “showing the flag” and making official first contacts.

  As the two men walked, Milonakis made a point of greeting almost every passing member of the Bombay crew by his or her given name, reinforcing the first impression he had made upon Xiong weeks earlier—that he was a man who excelled in one-to-one exchanges and could
manage dozens of such personal interactions simultaneously. To see him work his way through the lounge on Vanguard, or run into “an old friend” every twenty paces no matter where he was, made it seem as though he very well might know someone on every ship and base in Starfleet.

  Milonakis led Xiong into the turbolift, grasped the throttle control, and said, “Deck five.” He half-turned toward Xiong. “Bet you’ll be glad to get back to Vanguard, eh?”

  “Not really.”

  The first officer nodded once. “Ah, I see. You’re a man of action. I can respect that.”

  More than his assumption of camaraderie, what irked Xiong about the man was that there was no way to take issue with anything he ever said without looking like an ingrate or a misanthrope. Of course, the latter term had been applied to Xiong more than once in the twelve years since he first joined Starfleet, but it was an epithet he was eager to shake off.

  “I just like to see things with my own eyes,” Xiong said.

  “Makes sense.”

  The turbolift stopped. As the doors opened, however, a woman’s voice sounded over the intercom. “Commander Milonakis, report to the bridge.”

  The first officer thumbed a switch on the turbolift control panel. “This is Milonakis. On my way, Captain.” He released the switch, looked at Xiong, and pointed down the corridor. “Quartermaster’s in five-bravo two-twenty-one. If you need help—”

  “I’m fine,” Xiong said, stepping past Milonakis and out of the turbolift. “Thank you, sir.”

  “All right, then.” Taking hold of the turbolift throttle once more, Milonakis said to the computer, “Bridge,” and the doors hissed shut. From behind them, a deep hum rose and faded in a heartbeat as the turbolift shot up toward deck one.

  Xiong’s visit to the quartermaster was brief and proceeded strictly by the book. The crew of the Bombay was nothing if not efficient. Of course, he reflected, when you’re as busy as they are, you have to be.

  Settling into his temporary quarters several minutes later, he felt the low frequency thrumming of the ship’s warp engines ramping up to high power. The Bombay was accelerating rapidly. Xiong dimmed the lights and dropped with a relieved sigh onto the lower rack of a double bunk. Seventy-nine hours to Vanguard, he thought. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and let himself start to drift off to sleep. More than enough time to finish my report for Commodore Reyes…after a nap.

  The door to his shared quarters opened to admit a shrilly whistled tune, followed by the person causing it. The overhead lights snapped on to full strength. Peeking through one eyelid, Xiong silently observed the entrance of a young Tellarite officer whose crimson uniform shirt bore the single cuff stripe of a lieutenant. Xiong had never heard a Tellarite whistle before. It seemed louder and more piercing than human whistling. He guessed that it was because of the Tellarites’ more robust sinus cavities.

  Like a sonic drill, the whistling corkscrewed through Xiong’s thoughts. He rolled away from his roommate and pulled his pillow over his head, but still the semi-musical nasal shrieking continued. He must see me, Xiong told himself. After six torturous minutes that felt like an hour, he couldn’t take it anymore. He rolled over, removed the pillow from his face, and shot a steely glare at the porcine-featured whistler. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Recoiling with a surprised expression, the Tellarite said, “I am whistling.”

  Mustn’t lose my temper. Remain calm. “Why?”

  “Because I enjoy it. It helps me think.”

  The irony alone made Xiong clench his jaw. “Would you mind stopping for a while? I need to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was bothering you.” The brawny, black-eyed fellow stepped forward and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Nem chim Loak, impulse drive assistant supervisor.”

  Xiong shook Loak’s large and rough-textured hand. “Ming Xiong.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ming. Which department are you in?”

  “I’m not,” Xiong said, already regretting that he’d let the conversation last this long but despairing of a way to end it. “I’m just hitching a ride back to Vanguard.”

  “Oh—you must be the A&A officer we just picked up from Sagittarius.”

  “Yeah,” he said, choosing to stifle his usual rant about the abbreviation being a misnomer. Though his position was often referred to as “anthropology-and-archaeology officer,” it was Xiong’s opinion that the job was actually about xenology rather than anthropology. Therefore, he liked to tell people that he should be called the “X-and-A officer.” Recently, however, he had been told by more than one person that it was a pretty boring subject for a rant and that he might as well learn to live with the flawed abbreviation.

  “So,” Loak said, “what were you doing on—”

  “It’s classified.” Just as Xiong had hoped, his comment brought the conversation grinding to an awkward halt. “Anyway, thanks for not whistling. I’m going back to sleep now.”

  “Um, sure,” Loak said. “Do you mind if I read for a while?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Loak grabbed a data display tablet and carried it with him as he climbed into the top bunk. Down below, Xiong rolled over and pulled his pillow back over his head once more. A few deep, measured breaths later, he was almost over the threshold of consciousness, back to sleep.

  Then the small room reverberated with Loak’s deep, resonant humming. Loud and tuneless, it was enough to prompt Xiong to indulge in homicidal fantasies: I wonder if I can shove this whole pillow through his snout and into his throat.

  Xiong stared up at the bunk bottom above him and projected his seething ire toward the drooping bulge caused by the Tellarite lieutenant. Carefully stripping the bilious anger from his voice, he said with poisonous overpoliteness, “Loak?”

  The humming paused. From above came Loak’s cautious “Yes?”

  “Are you familiar with the effects of sleep deprivation on humans?”

  “Not exactly, but I—”

  “It can cause irrational behavior,” Xiong said in a tired monotone that nonetheless conveyed a quiet edge of danger.

  “I wasn’t aware of—”

  “You never know what might make a sleep-deprived human do something insane. A word spoken out of turn…a tune taken out of context. Any little thing…and a human can just snap.”

  “I see,” Loak said softly. “That’s very—”

  “Have you ever considered dyeing your hair pink?”

  “No,” Loak said defensively.

  “Are you planning on sleeping any time between now and when we reach Vanguard?”

  Suddenly, Loak sounded nervous. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Xiong said quietly. “No reason at all.” After allowing a few moments for the conversation to sink in, he added, “I’m going back to sleep now.”

  There was no reply from the top bunk. Not a word, not a whistle, not a single hummed note. Satisfied that he had made his point, Xiong finally relaxed and fell asleep.

  He awoke two hours and nine minutes later to the most horrific snoring he’d ever heard in his entire life. The baritone vibrato of Loak’s deviated septum shook the bunk frame. Glaring through half-lidded eyes, Xiong reminded himself that, as a guest aboard the Bombay, he had the luxury of changing his schedule so that he could sleep while Loak was on duty and simply pass Loak’s sleep cycle elsewhere.

  I’m still going to dye his hair pink, he decided.

  4

  Hostile colors coursed through the elite Political Castemoot SubLink of Tholia. Cacophonous tones of anxiety and dark hues of indignation underscored the collective mind-line of the Ruling Conclave, which reigned supreme over Tholia’s Great Castemoot Assembly and the species’ telepathic network, the Lattice.

  The Federation provokes us, insisted Narskene [The Gold]. Too long have we left their trespasses unanswered.

  Calming shades of indigo infused the SubLink as Velrene [The Azure] replied, We have m
ade no claim in that region. She offered up memories, several hundred generations old, of Castemoot decisions to push Tholia’s explorations in every other possible direction but into the Shedai Sector. Dozens of thought-facets twinkled with images of inherited history.

  Always have we defended our trailing border, interjected Yazkene [The Emerald], referring to the orientation of Tholia’s territory relative to the rotation of the galaxy. Seventeen previous Castemoots planned to repulse the inevitable Klingon encroachment. His mind-line darkened with shame. But when the Federation constructed its starbase, there was no plan. Why were we not poised to retaliate when the Federation came?

  Sonorous chimes heralded the inclusion of Falstrene [The Gray] into the discussion. It is pointless to speak of defense unless we commit to colonization. We cannot defend the Shedai Sector from alien incursion unless we occupy it.

  Azrene [The Violet] objected with coruscating anger. The Laws of the First Assembly forbid it!

  Rolling clamors of dissent propagated laterally and disrupted the Castemoot’s already heated deliberation.

  The Klingon Empire did not exist when the First Assembly ratified its canon, retorted Radkene [The Sallow]. The law speaks to the galaxy that was. We must rule in the one that is.