Vanguard,BookOne

by David Mack

  Right now his dilemma was that he was uncertain how many drinks he had downed, and his vision was too fish-eyed to actually discern the time on his chrono. Just play it safe, he coached himself. Try to sit still. If you don’t fall off the stool, they have no reason to throw you out. The hard part, he knew, would be nursing his drink. Slowing his in-take wasn’t difficult, but he was unaccustomed to small sips and was more likely to dribble the beverage down his shirt this way.

  He had almost concocted a way to ask the bartender for a straw without making himself look stupid when a guest sat down.

  Quinn’s eyes lazily slid to his left to assess the man. The new guy was human, young, thin, and appallingly handsome in the Federation’s currently most-favored, clean-cut way. His clothes were casual but looked and smelled fresh from the laundry. He smiled at Quinn and made a courteous tilt of his head. “Good morning,” he said with a mild Scottish accent.

  “Maybe it is,” Quinn slurred, then he ripped out a baritone belch that tasted of bile and stank of tequila. “Maybe it ain’t.”

  The guy gestured toward the rows of liquor bottles lined up against the wall behind the counter. “Care for a drink, friend?”

  Swaying vertiginously on his stool, Quinn shot a glare at the man with the one eye he was able to focus. “My pappy always told me, never trust a stranger who calls you ‘friend,’ especially if he offers to buy you a drink.”

  “Did your old man also tell you not to take the drink?”

  Quinn held up his glass and called over the bartender. “Another.” Jabbing a thumb at the Scotsman, he added, “On him.” The visitor nodded his consent, and the bartender began pouring another double shot of tequila. Quinn lolled his head back toward his enabler. “I still don’t trust you.”

  Thrusting out his hand, the guy said, “Tim Pennington.”

  Seconds passed while Quinn stared at Pennington’s hand. Grudgingly, he reached out and shook it. The younger man’s hand was smooth and warm, which reminded Quinn that his own hands were not only callused but also clammy from holding condensation-coated cocktail glasses. Fighting back the urge to hiccup, he replied, “Cervantes Quinn.”

  “A pleasure,” Pennington said, then waved down the bartender. “Coffee, please.” Noticing the stink-eye Quinn was aiming at him, Pennington amended his order. “Make it Irish.”

  “You’re not quite uptight enough to be Starfleet,” Quinn said, studying him. “But you’re a bit too scrubbed to be one of Ganz’s people.”

  “Right on the first count,” Pennington said. “Though I don’t know anyone named Ganz, so you’ve got me there.”

  Quinn pounded back what was left of the drink he’d been nursing as the bartender put down the new, free drink from Pennington. Euphoric, soothing warmth spread through his body, starting with every place directly touched by his drink. He sucked in air through numb gums and a dry throat, then mumbled through booze-infused breath, “This guy’s either an idiot or the worst liar alive.”

  Pennington leaned closer, looking aggrieved. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, hell—did I just talk out loud again? I gotta stop doing that.” The room’s hard edges were beginning to soften, so Quinn took a healthy sip of his new drink.

  “Look, I don’t know who you think I am—” Pennington paused as the bartender set down his Irish coffee. “But I assure you, I’m not looking to rip you off or jam you up.” He picked up the cup and took a sip. The young man’s face obviously wanted to pucker into a knot, but he fought it admirably. Quinn had to respect the effort.

  “What’s your game, then? You ain’t buying me drinks for my personality. Sharp-looking guy like you must be able to rent better friends than me.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” Pennington said, then he leaned forward to speak in a more confidential tone. “I’m not really looking to be best buds. Truth be told, I think it’s better if most people don’t figure on us knowing each other at all.”

  Quinn glanced down and saw the wedding ring on the guy’s left hand, and figured this was all getting a bit too weird. “Hey, pal, I don’t mess with married people, on either side, get me? I mean, I’m flattered, really—”

  “No no no,” Pennington cut in, waving his hands in small frantic circles. “I’m not…I mean I don’t—that’s not what I’m talking about.” Collecting himself, he continued, “I’m just looking for information. Confidential information.”

  Numerous possibilities immediately suggested themselves to Quinn. Pennington might be a corporate scout, looking to cut in on Ganz’s business. That would give Quinn another buyer, enabling him to negotiate for better prices. Or the young man might be some kind of spy, looking for access or a set of eyes. Either way, he smells like money. “What kind of information?”

  “Comings and goings,” Pennington said with a small shrug. “Unusual details. In particular, any solid leads on things like the loss of the Bombay.”

  Suddenly, the smell that was coming off Pennington wasn’t money but something far less appealing. “How much can you pay?”

  “Not much,” Pennington said. “This is more about sticking up for the truth.”

  “Truth can be expensive.”

  “Look, I’m only a journalist for FNS, but maybe we can—”

  “A reporter?” Quinn plastered a dopey grin on his face and slapped his left hand down on Pennington’s shoulder. “Hell, son, why didn’t you just say so up front? You didn’t need to work this hard.”

  Pennington sighed with relief. “I’m glad to hear—”

  Quinn’s right uppercut caught the squeaky-clean reporter solidly under his square jaw and lifted his lean, well-toned body a few inches off his barstool. The young man staggered two steps backward, and Quinn lunged forward and finished him with a sloppy but adrenaline-fueled right cross to the side of the head. Pennington collapsed on the floor in a well-dressed and still mostly symmetrical heap.

  Weaving like tall grass in a shifting wind, Quinn picked up his drink from the bar, took one step toward the door, and paused above the supine, barely conscious Pennington. “Thanks for the drink…. I still don’t trust you.”

  Lurching out the door, Quinn knew he was probably going to feel horribly guilty about this when sobriety returned to him. With that in mind, he set his sights on finding another bar.

  Pennington sat on a biobed in the infirmary and massaged his aching jaw, grateful that the damage to his teeth had been limited to a small chip in the enamel of a molar and a corner broken off one of his upper front incisors—both easily fixed. He hadn’t really expected Quinn to buddy up to him, or to tell him much of value. But the man had been stinking drunk, and there had been a slim chance that the motto in vino veritas might once again have proved its wisdom. The fact that it didn’t work doesn’t make it a bad plan, Pennington consoled himself.

  He looked up from his reflection in the chair’s swiveling mirror and said to Dr. Thelex, the chief of dentistry, “Still hurts. What can you give me for this?”

  “Advice,” the gruff Andorian said, his pale eyes peeking over his narrow, octagonal-frame glasses. “Stay out of bar fights.”

  “Anything stronger?”

  Dr. Thelex rotated the mirror aside. “You’re a pathetic weakling who should stay out of bar fights.”

  Great, a dentist with a sense of humor. Pennington’s headache pounded mercilessly as he pushed himself out of the chair and back on to his feet. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “All part of the service.”

  Back to it, then. Pennington walked quickly out of the dentist’s office. He was eager to be out of the medical center entirely. Hospitals were too visceral for Pennington. Blood and disease, suffering and tragedy…the only places closer to these gruesome facts of mortality were battlefields, and he made a point of avoiding those, as well. Some FNS reporters spent their entire careers as war correspondents, warping from one strife-riven world to another, seeking to put a rational voice on the most irrational, primal form of waste known in the universe. Covering
politics wasn’t much better, in Pennington’s opinion, but he would prefer a war of words over a war of attrition any day. History, however, was replete with evidence that the one almost inevitably led to the other, if you waited long enough.

  He slipped out the door into the corridor and hurried toward the turbolift. Just after he pressed the call button, a hand slapped down on his shoulder. More than a flinch, he recoiled with frightened surprise.

  Behind him, Xiong quickly pulled back his hand and raised both arms to show he meant no harm. Pennington released a lungful of breath that had been trapped by his panic. “Sorry,” Xiong said. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “It’s okay, Ming. I got decked an hour ago, and I’m a little jumpy.”

  Xiong lowered his hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, mate, I’m fine. Doc Thelex patched me up, right as rain.” The turbolift door opened, revealing an empty car. Pennington stepped inside, and Xiong followed him. “What’s got you down here, then?” The doors slid closed. Pennington grabbed the throttle and gave it a twist. “Park level.”

  Light flashed sideways through narrow vertical panels as the car shot along horizontally toward a free vertical shaft.

  “Came looking for you,” Xiong said. “Confidentially.”

  “Always.” Three months earlier, after Pennington had begun reporting about events on Vanguard, Xiong had approached him to talk about some off-the-record information. The headstrong A&A officer apparently felt unfairly muzzled with regard to his work in the Taurus Reach, and was looking for a way to force some things into the open. So far his leads had been small and not particularly juicy, but Xiong was privy to certain high-level operations on the station, and he spent a lot of time away on the starships assigned to Vanguard, so there was no telling what he might know.

  “I read your piece about the deaths on the Enterprise,” Xiong said. “I thought you might want to know I’ve been given orders to ship out with her crew.”

  “On the salvage mission?” Xiong nodded. The turbolift shifted to a vertical drop as Pennington continued. “When?”

  “A few hours from now. They told me to bring a phaser.”

  “Why? Is there still a problem on the ship?”

  Rolling his eyes, Xiong said, “No. For the landing party.”

  “So the Bombay was lost in orbit of a planet?” Again, Xiong nodded but didn’t say anything. Pennington had heard T’Prynn say the Bombay was lost at Ravanar, but he needed a second source to confirm that fact before he could use it. “Which one?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Not yet, anyway.”

  Damn. He pondered mentioning Ravanar and seeing if Xiong would be willing to confirm it, but the A&A officer’s cagey behavior felt like a warning not to dig too deeply. Going with his instincts, Pennington moved on. “Do you think the Bombay was attacked?”

  “I don’t know,” Xiong said. “And I don’t care to guess.”

  “Fair enough.” Watching the level numbers tick by, Pennington noted that their privacy would soon be at an end. Time for one more question. “Why is Reyes sending you?”

  “That’s classified,” Xiong said. “Look, do you want me to ask around about the Mitchell-Dehner thing while I’m aboard the Enterprise? Some of the officers might tell me things they won’t tell you.”

  “Sure, I’d appreciate that,” Pennington said. “But I can’t use anything you tell me until it’s confirmed by another firsthand source. If you find anything really big, remember that I need a reliable source or hard evidence before I can publish.”

  “I know,” Xiong said. The turbolift slowed, then stopped. A hydraulic hiss preceded the opening of the doors, which let out on a wide promenade in the torus-shaped residential tower that circled the core and faced out at the terrestrial enclosure. The two men stepped out of the turbolift. As they walked across the grass and basked in the synthetic solar warmth, Xiong said, “Could you do me a favor while I’m gone?”

  Here we go again. Unlike most confidential sources, Xiong had no use for money, and to Pennington’s great relief he didn’t seem to have any political or personal vendettas to settle. For all the information he provided, Xiong only ever asked for information in return—and always about the same subject.

  Pennington grinned. “What do you want to know about her this time?”

  “I don’t care, anything. Did she have any pets growing up? Where did she go to school? Does she have a favorite flower?”

  “Bloody hell,” Pennington said. “What am I doing, Ming? Writing her biography?”

  “Okay, just the flowers. Find out her favorite flower.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He began to veer away from Xiong, toward the outdoor café. “This bloody crush of yours had best be worth it, mate, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “It will be,” Xiong said, and then he about-faced and headed back toward the turbolift.

  Shaking his head, Pennington pulled his data recorder from his belt and jotted another item on his already lengthy to-do list: Anna Sandesjo, favorite flower. He eyed the note. Poor Ming. Knowing that woman, her favorite flower is poison ivy.

  Xiong made it down the gangway and through the hatch just before the chief petty officer sealed it and signaled all-secure to his deck officer. Passing through the airlock, the A&A officer admired how meticulously the ship was maintained, from its pristine decks to its spotless pressure-hatch mechanisms. You’d never guess this ship had already seen twenty years of service.

  Adding to the impression of newness were the rich, brightly hued uniforms the Enterprise crew had just been issued by Vanguard’s quartermaster. Retired now were the muted tones and ribbed turtlenecks of the previous generation of duty apparel; in its place were intense colors, of which the red was the boldest.

  The airlock hatch was sealed behind Xiong before he’d made it two steps into the corridor. A Vulcan waited patiently beside the airlock door, standing in classic at-ease posture. “Lieutenant Xiong,” he said in a crisp baritone. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise. I am Lieutenant Commander Spock, first officer.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Observing the Vulcan’s uniform, Xiong endured a moment of cognitive dissonance. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  Nodding at Spock’s bright blue shirt, he said, “I think you might have been issued the wrong color jersey, sir.”

  “I assure you, Lieutenant, my uniform is correct.” Xiong wanted to argue that gold was the preferred color for command officers, but he had already learned better than to argue matters of fact with Vulcans. Perhaps sensing Xiong’s unspoken rebuttal, Spock added, “I am also the ship’s science officer…. I was offered my choice of uniform.”

  “Interesting choice,” Xiong said.

  “Perhaps.” Spock half-turned while keeping eye contact with Xiong. “Please follow me.” With that, he walked away, and Xiong had to step lively to keep pace with the taller man’s stride.

  “Where are we going, sir?”

  “The captain has asked to speak with you.”

  Figuring that it was probably best not to pester the first officer with too many questions, Xiong kept quiet as he followed him through the corridors. Engineers and mechanics were in and out of wall panels and vestibules, all of them extremely busy but moving at a calm pace and speaking in level tones. The mood aboard the Enterprise reminded Xiong of the tenor of life aboard the Endeavour, another Constitution-class starship; it was efficient, professional, and driven by a quiet pride of purpose.

  The turbolift ride to the bridge took longer than Xiong expected. It stopped at nearly every deck. Jumpsuited enlisted technicians got on and off, their hands full of tools and spare parts; male and female officers, all of them looking Starfleet-recruitment-brochure perfect, rode the turbolift while standing ramrod straight. If for nothing else, Xiong had to admire this crew for its dignity and discipline.

  When the doors opened onto the bridge, a small charge of excitement made Xiong draw a short br
eath. Softly warbling computer tones mingled with the low buzz of overhead power relays. The main viewer showed the core of the station looming large, and the bridge crew was preparing for departure.

  “All hatches secure, Captain,” said the helmsman. “All systems ready.”

  “Very good, Mr. Leslie,” Kirk said. Turning his chair toward Spock and Xiong, he added, “Status, Mr. Spock?”

  “All personnel accounted for, Captain,” Spock said. “Essential repairs complete. Ready for service.”

  “Well done. Lieutenant Uhura, hail Vanguard Control.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the elegant, attractive woman at the communications console. She pressed a few switches, then continued, “I have Vanguard Control on channel one.”

  “On speaker,” Kirk said. Uhura pressed a button then nodded to Kirk, indicating that the frequency was open. “Vanguard, this is Enterprise, requesting permission to depart.”

  “Permission granted, Enterprise. Standing by to clear moorings on your mark.”

  “Helm,” Kirk said, “take us out.”

  “Aye, sir,” Leslie said. He patched in his console to the comm channel. “Vanguard, clear moorings in four. Three. Two. One. Mark.” Even through several layers of deck plating and dozens of rows of bulkheads, Xiong heard the heavy clunks of Vanguard’s mooring clamps releasing the Enterprise. “Moorings clear,” Leslie said. “Vanguard Control, Enterprise is ready to depart spacedock.”

  “Confirmed, Enterprise,” came the well-practiced reply. “Opening bay doors now. Stand by.”

  On the main viewer, the core of the station gradually began to look smaller, as the Enterprise reversed away from it, toward the slowly parting spacedock doors.

  Kirk swiveled his squarish chair toward Xiong, who had followed Spock down into the lower circle of the bridge. “Mr. Xiong. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “You’re welcome. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

  “Just following orders, sir.”