Vanguard,BookOne

by David Mack

  “Right, sure,” Pennington said as he followed her back out into the frantic rush of activity on the main floor. “Before I go, can you maybe fill in the blanks for me on a thing or two? Off the record, of course.”

  “Depends,” Langlois said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “C-1 cargo,” he said. “Do you move a lot of it here?”

  “Hang on,” she said. Flipping her headset mic back down to her face, she keyed the transmitter on her belt. “Yellow one-alpha, checking in. Fred, what the hell are you doing up there?…Well, you’ve got a red-green overlap on platform four. Fix it.” Covering the mic with her hand, she looked back at Pennington. “I can’t talk about C-1s, Tim, you know that.”

  “Come on, Elizabeth, I’m not looking for details. No names, no dates. Just general, deep background, right?”

  “Just a sec.” Down came the headset again. “Fred, I swear to God, if you don’t make red nine-five secure that pallet, you’ll be on solid-waste detail for the rest of your hitch, capisce?” She looked back at Tim. “What kind of background?”

  “A general comparison,” he said. “Do you see more C-1s here than you did on your last posting? Does Vanguard move more C-1 cargo than other starbases?”

  “We move a lot,” she said. “But that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Isn’t that odd, for a colony-support mission profile?”

  “Step left,” she said, and he did as he was told. A large pallet loaded with photon torpedoes floated past, driven by a silent antigrav skiff. “We’re multimission-capable, just like every starbase. Colonization, exploration, combat-operations support…. Goes with the territory.”

  “Right,” Pennington said. “Thanks for your time, I’ll clear out and let you work.” He dodged under a crane-lifted shipping container and bounded back onto the elevator platform.

  As he keyed in the command for the top level, Langlois called out, “Just so you know…yes, it’s odd.”

  It began to rise, lifting him away from her. He shouted back down, “But what does it mean?” She shrugged her shoulders.

  Ascending out of the “belly” of the station, Pennington was no closer to the truth than he had been before his visit. He had confirmed only that Starfleet was keeping some details about its mission a secret; such a weak lead wasn’t even worth a cup of coffee, never mind a feature headline on FNS.

  Patience, he admonished himself. Someone on this station knows about the sensor screen and wants to talk. I will find that person. He knew it might take days, weeks, or a hell of a lot longer than that. Keeping promises had not been his strong suit of late. He resolved that this one would be different. I’ll find the truth, Oriana, he vowed. For you.

  Reyes waited patiently after pressing the door signal for the second time in a minute. He felt exposed and transparent standing in the corridor, even though no one had passed by him while he had been waiting. The potential for embarrassment was more than sufficient to leave his face flushed with warmth.

  When the door finally slid open, he didn’t get quite the greeting he expected. Desai was wrapped in a pale blue bathrobe and toweling her short, dark hair. She looked up at him with a befuddled expression and resorted to their public formality. “Commodore?”

  “I always thought that was just a saying,” he said, pointing at her wet hair. “ ‘Not tonight, I’m washing my hair.’ ”

  “I haven’t used that one on you yet,” she said. “I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

  “I see.” He peeked over her shoulder into her dim quarters. “Am I early?”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “For what?”

  He heard footsteps getting nearer. Edging forward, he said, “Mind if I come in?”

  She halted his progress with a palm against his chest. “What are you doing here, Commodore?”

  Keenly aware of whoever was approaching, he lowered his voice. “Isn’t it your turn to make dinner?”

  That seemed to amuse Desai. “I don’t think so.”

  Gesturing toward the sound of looming footfalls, he said with naked urgency, “Rana, please.” Rolling her eyes, she stepped aside and waved him in. He made it through the door, which closed before the passerby reached the corner. “Is this some lawyer technicality because we didn’t get to eat last time? Because I ought to get credit for making that dinner, even if we didn’t eat it.”

  Desai walked back toward her bathroom. “It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s much simpler, actually.”

  “Really?” Reyes never ceased to be amazed by her ability to confuse him then make him feel like it was his own fault by telling him that her convoluted mind games were “simple.”

  She continued her end of the conversation from the bathroom, her voice pitched upward with its increased volume. “Legal ethics, Commodore. I presume you’ve heard of them?”

  Mentally jumping ahead three steps in the conversation, Reyes growled with frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You can’t see me socially because of the damned inquiry?”

  “You’re quick, sir. I like that in a witness.”

  “This isn’t funny, Rana.” She glared out the bathroom door at him. He corrected himself. “Sorry: It’s not funny, Your Honor.” She returned to brushing her hair.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not. Technically, this is an ex parte discussion. It would probably be best if you left.”

  He stood, stunned and quiet, for several seconds. He waited for the punch line, or the wry grin that would let him off the hook. Moments later he realized that he was waiting in vain.

  “Great jumpin’ jehoshaphat, you’re serious.”

  Desai emerged from the bathroom clad in her bright gold miniskirt uniform. Striking a pose with one hand planted on the curve of her hip, she fixed him with a stare that under any other circumstances he would have described as being of the come-hither variety. She smirked. “Don’t let the hemline fool you, sir. I’m all business. Now, get out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, an eye-rolling grimace conveying his profound disappointment in this unexpected change of plans. She walked behind him to the door. Probably to make sure I really leave, he mused. The door hissed open. He paused on the threshold and turned to face her one more time. “Y’know, you’re cute when you’re ethical.”

  With her fingertips against his chest, she gave him a playful nudge past the doorjamb. “Good night, sir.” She backed away from the door, which closed. Though Reyes knew he was probably only imagining it, he was almost certain he heard her laughing on the other side. Mustering his pride, he ambled away to see if Fisher, Cannella, and the rest of the usual suspects were up for a few hands of seven-card stud at Manón’s.

  “Vanguard Control/Rocinante. Requesting departure clearance, bay ninety-two.”

  The reply of the flight-control officer, or FCO, was distorted by the thrice-rewired speaker on Quinn’s cockpit dashboard. “Rocinante /Control. Submit your flight plan and stand by for preflight check.”

  “Acknowledged, Vanguard. Transmitting flight plan.”

  Outside in the hangar bay, the door to the corridor opened. Chief Ivan Vumelko, the same grouchy customs inspector who had knocked Quinn’s tools all over the hold a few days ago, was back to see him off on another trip. Trailed by a pair of Starfleet security guards, Vumelko marched directly up to the nose of the Rocinante and slapped his palm on the side of the wedgelike forward fuselage. “Open her up, Quinn. Snap inspection.”

  Damn. Quinn unlocked the gangway and lowered it. Figured there was a fifty-fifty chance T’Prynn might’ve had my back on this one. Just don’t panic. Reaching up to a vestigial coolant pipe for a handhold, he lifted his maladroit bulk out of the pilot’s chair and walked back into the hold to meet his guests, who were already ascending the gangway. “Morning, boys.”

  “Stow it, Quinn.” Vumelko keyed his headset transmitter. “Control/Vumelko. Bay ninety-two, starting spot check.” Aiming his tricorder at one shielded cargo container then another, he s
aid, “What’s in the boxes, Quinn?”

  “Hardware,” Quinn said. “Stem bolts, dynospanners, sonic screwdrivers, gravitic calipers—”

  “That’s nice, shut up.” Vumelko pointed at one of the crates and looked at the two guards. “Open it.”

  Play it cool. There was always a chance that Vumelko would be repulsed by the smell of oiled machine parts and, in a sudden and uncharacteristic moment of inattention, forget to rescan the crate’s contents once the sensor-scrambling box was open. The chemical odor of silicate lubricant and freshly cut metal filled the cargo hold as the lid came free. Vumelko pointed his tricorder into the box and ran a standard molecular scan.

  I’m dead.

  Turning off the tricorder, Vumelko motioned to the two guards. “Close it up.” He turned toward Quinn, who slouched, preferring to be led away with a whimper rather than a bang. Vumelko extended his hand. “Your pass-chip, Mr. Quinn.” With a glum frown, Quinn surrendered the chip, without which he couldn’t legally import or export cargo from Federation ports. Vumelko inserted it into a slot on his tricorder, entered a few commands, then removed the chip.

  He handed it back to Quinn. “Good luck in the hardware business. Try not to screw yourself.” Vumelko keyed his mic as he led the two security guards down the gangway. “Control/Vumelko. Bay ninety-two, clear for departure.”

  Despite being numb with shock and weak with adrenaline trembles, Quinn closed the gangway hatch and returned to the cockpit. The voice of Vanguard Control crackled over his speaker once more. “Rocinante/Vanguard Control. Flight plan cleared, preflight check complete. Hangar bay door opening. Stand by.”

  “Control/Rocinante. Acknowledged.” With a deep hum of magnetic gears, the hangar-bay door crept upward, revealing a rectangular patch of nebula-clouded starfield. The stars drifted slowly from left to right in the frame of the hangar entrance, owing to the slow rotation of the starbase itself.

  Rocinante’s fusion drive turned over with a satisfying roar that sent a shudder through the deck and up Quinn’s spine. Taking off was his favorite part of any journey. Landing was always a crapshoot. So far his luck had held, but he’d lost count of how many times he had welded the Rocinante’s struts back together after one of his trademark rough homecomings.

  Throttling the small ship forward, he refused to believe he had actually made it past a customs check with a cargo hold full of weapons. It began to sink in only after he had safely warped away. But even as he gave belated thanks to T’Prynn for helping him evade arrest on Vanguard, he knew that escaping Ganz’s trap on Kessik IV would be his own problem to deal with. One crisis at a time, he told himself. One crisis at a time.

  15

  Kirk watched the main viewer, mesmerized by the enormous chunks of gray debris tumbling erratically in orbit over Ravanar IV. Leslie swiveled his chair away from the helm. “This is as close as we can get for now, sir. Any closer and we risk a collision.”

  “Understood,” Kirk said. Such a collision posed no real danger to the Enterprise, thanks to its shields; the real concern in this case was that valuable forensic evidence regarding the destruction of the Bombay might be lost or compromised if proper precautions weren’t taken. The captain turned his chair toward the port-side engineering station. “Mr. Scott, begin recovery at your discretion.”

  “Aye, sir.” The chief engineer turned his full attention back to his console as he initiated the piece-by-piece salvage of the orbiting wreckage.

  On the opposite side of the bridge, Spock—who Kirk was still not accustomed to seeing in a blue sciences uniform—peered down into the sensor hood and called out relevant information as it became known to him. “Debris density suggests three principal groupings,” he said. “Dispersal patterns are consistent with two major detonations…” He looked up and added, “And a collision.”

  The comment turned heads all around the bridge, from Scott and Leslie to Kirk and Uhura. At an aft sensor station, the visiting Lieutenant Xiong appeared equally intrigued. “Interesting,” he said. Kirk got the distinct impression that Xiong was imitating Spock, perhaps unintentionally. “Do we have enough data to speculate which parties were involved?”

  “Scanning for trace elements,” Spock said. “High levels of carbon, methane, sulfur…and crystalline silicon.”

  Scotty interjected, “Tractoring in a big piece of some-thin’ now, Captain—and it doesn’t look like it came from one of ours.” He squinted at the main viewer as a small chunk of twisted metal grew larger on the screen. “Judging by the look of that armor layer, I’d say it’s Tholian.”

  Spock straightened and faced Kirk. “I concur, Captain. Scans are consistent with known Tholian composites. Based on the volume of debris. and the configuration of its largest pieces, I estimate that we are looking at the remains of four Tholian heavy cruisers mixed with the wreckage of the Starship Bombay.”

  “Four cruisers,” Kirk said, now awed by the story he imagined must lurk in these scattered, scorched fragments. “That must have been quite a battle.”

  Looking at the main viewer, Spock added, “I will submit a more detailed report after we complete our scans and conduct a forensic investigation of the recovered debris. However, one last item seems worth noting.” He reached down and patched in an enlarged view of a mangled wedge of the Bombay’s saucer section. “The close proximity of debris from the Tholian cruiser and the Bombay, combined with the fact that the Bombay’s self-destruct package has been detonated, suggests that Captain Gannon’s final tactic was to sacrifice her ship—and destroy another of her attackers at the same time.”

  At the Academy, Kirk had heard cadets from less gender-egalitarian colonies and civilizations scoff at the idea of women commanding starships. (Though, to be fair, a few cadets from matriarchal worlds had felt the same way about men in the center seat. He considered both prejudices equally narrow-minded.) If only those people could see how Hallie Gannon met her enemy, he reflected with grim pride. You can’t argue with bravery like this.

  “Good work, Spock. Have Scotty and his team continue analyzing the ship debris. I want a scan for life signs at the outpost on the surface as soon as possible.”

  “Already done, Captain.” The Vulcan officer held his unblinking gaze for a moment. Kirk felt his jaw clench as Spock continued in his stately monotone, “No life signs on the surface. The outpost is gone.”

  At the aft station, Xiong sprang from his chair. “Gone?” Everyone looked at him, and he recoiled at the sudden surplus of attention. Walking down into the center of the bridge, he continued, “Commander, can you elaborate? What kind of structural damage are we dealing with?”

  “Quite literally, Lieutenant, the outpost is gone. Its coordinates are now the epicenter of a sizable crater.”

  Cutting in, Kirk said, “Spock, are we certain there are no survivors? Could they have moved out of the blast range?”

  Calm as ever, Spock said without inflection, “Negative. Every living thing on Ravanar IV has been exterminated…. This planet has been sterilized.”

  Sterilized. A chill of horror crept down Kirk’s spine. “Cancel the landing party,” he said. “As soon as we police up the debris, we—”

  “We still have to go down there,” Xiong said urgently.

  “That would be most illogical, Lieutenant,” Spock said. “The listening post is completely eradicated. There is no hope of a successful rescue or salvage operation.”

  “It wasn’t a listening post,” Xiong said.

  Abrupt revelations, in Kirk’s experience, rarely preceded good news. “Go on,” he said to Xiong.

  “It was an underground excavation, an archaeological dig. At least, it was, until we found an artifact we couldn’t identify. That’s when we brought in the Starfleet Corps of Engineers.”

  “The listening post,” Kirk said, piecing this together in his head, “was really an S.C.E. team.”

  “Right,” Xiong said.

  “Here to study an artifact—which you found.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

  Kirk glanced briefly at Spock, if only to avoid burning a hole through Xiong with his glare of anger. “I don’t recall seeing this in your report, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, it was classified. Commodore Reyes’s orders. I know it isn’t likely that anything is left of the dig, but I have to see for myself. Please, sir.”

  Attempting to put a label on his reaction to this sudden snippet of information followed immediately by a request, Kirk decided that “conflicted” would be an understatement. He was not in the habit of rewarding junior officers for withholding vital, mission-related information. On the other hand, he had been itching to know what was so important to the Federation that it built a starbase as large as Vanguard this far beyond its established border. If the excavation on Ravanar IV had been important enough for Commodore Reyes to classify it and order Xiong to lie about his mission objectives, then there was a good chance that the site below was connected to the bigger picture of Starfleet’s push into the Taurus Reach.

  Kirk rose from his chair, snapping orders even before his feet touched the deck. “Mr. Spock, assemble the landing party. Scotty, you have the conn.” Staring hard at Xiong, he added, “Lieutenant, if you have anything else to tell me—”

  “I’ll know when I see the site, Captain. Until then, I have to ask you to trust me, as one Starfleet officer to another.”

  For some men, that would not have been enough. But for Jim Kirk, that was the most solemn vow there was.

  He gestured toward the turbolift, where Spock stood waiting. “Let’s go, Lieutenant.”

  The siren song of the transporter effect diminished as the final shimmering, golden speckles faded from Ming Xiong’s sight.

  His peripheral vision was hindered by the narrow visor of his metallic-red flex-fiber radiation suit. I hate these things, he brooded. Ever since childhood he had despised enclosed spaces. The misery of being sealed up in radiation gear was sometimes mitigated by the view outside. Today, however, the view of Ravanar IV offered no solace—only a smudged sky of churning ash clouds and a broad vista of barren, smoldering dirt that stretched away toward some nearby hills and a distant horizon.