Текст книги "Precipice"

Автор книги: David Mack

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

11

February 23, 2267

Gorkon slammed his hand down on the conference-room table. “I refuse to believe there is no alternative to war!”

Diego Reyes was too exhausted to react to Gorkon’s outburst, and from where he was sitting, Ezthene appeared equally unfazed. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a Klingon would prove to be a political idealist,” Reyes said.

“No one denies that averting a full-scale conflict among our peoples will be difficult,” Gorkon says. “But it must be done. The Empire and the Federation both predict they will be victorious, but the truth is that our militaries are more evenly matched than either side will admit. Any war between us would become one of attrition, and with the Tholians and the Romulans waiting to strike us both, we would become the architects of our own doom.”

Indistinct metallic scratching sounds emanated from inside Ezthene’s environment suit of shimmering Tholian silk. His vocoder translated it for Gorkon and Reyes. “War is rarely the most productive response to a crisis. However, it has been one that your people have chosen many times. Why should this change now?”

“I’ve already said why,” Gorkon said.

“What he meant,” Reyes cut in, “isn’t why but how.”

The Klingon politician grunted softly and ruminated for a moment. “Chancellor Sturka must be persuaded there is more to be gained by negotiating with the Federation for access to the secrets of the Gonmog Sector than there is in taking it by force.”

“Good luck with that,” Reyes said.

Gorkon shot a withering look at Reyes. “Are you implying the Federation would not be willing to exchange information?”

“Why would they? They got to the Taurus Reach ahead of you, and they’ve paid in blood for the privilege.”

“There must be some way to broker a truce,” Gorkon said.

Reyes shook his head. Dull pain throbbed in his temples, and his ears and forehead felt hot. He blamed the Klingon food and the overcaffeinated swill they had told him was “a lot like human coffee,” but which tasted more like hot bitter syrup. “I don’t know,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing down to try to relieve some of the pressure in his sinus. “You’d have to lay groundwork on both sides. I’m talking about people working behind the scenes to open up lines of communication, head off conflicts before they go public, create a political pressure valve. But that’s not gonna happen in a year or even ten years, Gorkon. We’re talking about the kind of change that can take a generation.”

Gorkon nodded. “All too true. An accord between our peoples might not be possible during our lifetimes.” He smiled at Reyes. “Too many people like us are too afraid of change to let it happen. Which makes it imperative we steer the next generation down that path now, before their course becomes set.”

A new chorus of tinny shrieks turned attention back toward Ezthene. “You talk of peace in a generation,” he said. “But it will take far longer than that for the Tholian Assembly to put aside its hatred. Its grudges are long and deep.”

“I suspected as much,” Gorkon said. “At best, the Empire might seek a cease-fire with the Assembly.”

“Diego was right about you,” Ezthene said. “You arean idealist. Most curious.”

A tight smile betrayed Gorkon’s waning patience with his guests. “I could say the same of you,” he replied. “You tried to seek asylum on Vanguard for the same reason I brought you both here. You want to find a new way forward, for all of us.”

“How noble of you,” Ezthene said. “However, did it occur to you that your method was somewhat less benign than ours? After all, this unofficial summit of yours is hardly conducive to producing any kind of lasting agreement among our respective nations. You abducted us and brought us to Klingon space, where you indubitably hold the upper hand.”

Reyes added, “He makes a good point. This is hardly what I’d call a meeting of equals, Gorkon.”

“Because I brought you to Klingon space against your will?”

“That, and the fact we’re not really playing at your level of the game anymore, if we ever were.” Reyes nodded at Ezthene. “He’s an exiled dissenter, an outcast from his people. If what he’s told me is true, they’ll try to kill him on sight. And me? For God’s sake, Gorkon, I’m a legally dead convicted military criminal. Not exactly a mover and a shaker, if you know what I mean.”

Frowning, Gorkon replied, “I am certain I do not.”

“Look,” Reyes said. “You sit on the Klingon High Council. You’ve been the chancellor’s right-hand man for years now. That puts you in a position to make a difference. Ezthene and I, on the other hand, aren’t exactly poised to make much of an impact on ourgovernments. So if you’re counting on us to bring your vision of the future to life, I think you’re in for a hell of a big letdown.”

Gorkon reclined, looked at the overhead, and chortled. “Of course,” he muttered. “How foolish of me.” He stood and planted his fingertips on the tabletop. “Please accept my apologies, gentlemen. I should have communicated my purpose more clearly when we first sat down together. I did not go to the effort and expense of bringing the two of you here so that I could send you back as envoys to your own peoples. You are not here because I believe either of you is positioned to influence the actions of your leaders or your deliberative assemblies.”

Feeling his headache getting worse the longer Gorkon talked, Reyes said, “Get to the point, will you?”

A forbidding scowl creased the Klingon’s brow as he replied, “You’re not here to sway yourgovernments. You’re here to help me sway mine.”

12

February 24, 2267

“I know it’s generally considered gauche to make comparisons between one’s former and current spouses,” Pennington said, “but I have to admit I enjoyed my first honeymoon a lot more than this one.”

T’Prynn looked up from her bowl of plomeeksoup at Tim Pennington. He had not said much during their first day aboard the civilian transport to Ajilon, preferring to sleep off the fatigue from their trek through the L-langon Mountains. Now that he was awake and facing her across their tiny dining-room table, she wondered if rather than requesting a suite with two bunks she ought to have requested separate quarters.

Without betraying her regrets regarding their travel arrangements, she replied, “If you are referring to the chaste nature of our cohabitation, I should think it would have been entirely expected.”

“Actually,” Pennington replied between bites of his pasta pesto with goschmolmushrooms from Tellar, “I was talking about the lack of fun and conversation more than the lack of sex.” He speared another forkful of food, lifted it halfway to his mouth, and stopped. “Wait a minute. What do you mean this should have been expected?”

“First, because I swore my marital vows under an assumed name, they are not legally binding. Ergo, you and I are not actually married, and no act of consummation should be expected.”

Cracking a rakish smile, Pennington asked, “Not even to maintain appearances?”

“I doubt anyone is observing our activity here in our cabin, Mister Pennington. Such a charade would in all likelihood be of no value to the preservation of our cover story.”

“Bloody match made in heaven,” he mumbled, then shoveled the forkful of pasta into his mouth.

T’Prynn added, “Also, since you seem to be unaware, I should make it clear my sexual preference is for women.”

He stared at T’Prynn as he chewed and swallowed. “Well,” he said. “That throws a wrench in things, doesn’t it? Thanks for sharing.”

The rest of dinner was quiet.

After placing his dishes outside the cabin door for the ship’s housekeeping staff to collect, Pennington said, “I’m pretty sure there’s a lounge or pub somewhere on this boat, and I mean to find it.”

“I have no doubt that your experience as an investigative journalist will serve you well in that endeavor,” T’Prynn replied as she sat down in front of the cabin’s comm terminal.

Pennington walked away, and the cabin’s door slid shut.

Emancipated from her pseudo-husband’s inane small talk, T’Prynn powered up the comm and began a methodical survey of the major news feeds available within the Federation. Before her surreptitious departure from Vulcan, she’d had no opportunity to catch herself up on events that had transpired during the year she had been in a coma. The ban on modern technologies inside her native village of Kren’than had prevented her from learning anything notable during her post-coma convalescence, and her need to move quickly and evade detection after fleeing the commune had made such prolonged research impossible until now.

She intially looked for any news related to Starbase 47 during the year of her absence. The first news items returned by the system had been published within two days of her mental collapse. At the top of the list was a story by Tim Pennington that exposed Diego Reyes as the officer responsible for issuing General Order 24 against the independent colony on Gamma Tauri IV. The resulting photon-torpedo barrage by the starships Endeavourand Lovellhad reduced the planet to a molten sphere—and claimed more than thirteen thousand lives, including those of a few thousand Klingons.

Next she read a firsthand account—also written by Pennington—of the rescue of the downed scout vessel U.S.S. Sagittariuson the planet known as Jinoteur. The story was extremely detailed, especially in its description of the shape-shifting, consciousness-transmitting aliens known as the Shedai.

T’Prynn wondered how Pennington had evaded the Starfleet censor on Vanguard when filing both stories. Then she saw the next series of linked reports. Commodore Reyes had personally facilitated the release of Pennington’s stories, bypassing the normal vetting process and transmitting the journalist’s content directly to the Federation News Service.

T’Prynn was perplexed as she skimmed through the redacted transcripts of Reyes’s court-martial. Why would Reyes compromise Operation Vanguard in such a manner? Even as she read his condemnation of Starfleet’s recent shift toward excessive secrecy, she found it difficult to accept his reasoning. Consequently, she was not surprised to read at the end of the transcript that Reyes had been convicted, stripped of his rank, dishonorably discharged from Starfleet service, and sentenced to ten years’ incarceration at a penal facility in New Zealand on Earth.

Then she read that Reyes’s transport had been destroyed by an unknown attacker while it was en route to Earth. Lost with all hands. Reduced to a cloud of gas and dust.

Diego Reyes was dead. Murdered.

The usual suspects had denied responsibility, of course. Even though the Klingons had placed a bounty on Reyes’s life after the Gamma Tauri IV incident, they insisted they had wanted him to stand trial on Qo’noS, not be granted a glorious death in battle. Figures linked with the various Orion smugglers who prowled the sector protested their innocence, claiming they were merely thieves and not murderers—as if making that distinction gave them some claim to the moral high ground. Predictably, the Tholians said nothing at all.

Without access to hard evidence and witnesses, T’Prynn would not be able to form a hypothesis determining who was responsible for the death of her friend and former commanding officer. But between the reports of increased pirate activity in the Taurus Reach and escalating demonstrations of aggression by Klingon forces in that sector, it seemed clear to her that there was a significant breach in Vanguard’s operational security.

That is where my service will be of the most value,she decided. If I am to redeem myself and reclaim my career, those who destroyed theNowlan must be brought to justice … and Star-fleet’s control over the Taurus Reach must be restored.

In twenty-five days the transport would deliver her and Pennington to Ajilon. She had that long to come up with a plan.

It wasn’t much time. But it would be enough.

13

February 26, 2267

Reyes pulled back the center tine of his fork and let it snap forward, catapulting a live gaghworm across his cell.

The wriggling thing sizzled as it struck his cell’s force field. It fell to the floor and was still. Tendrils of vapor rose from its lightly browned skin. Reyes leaned forward, picked it up, and bit off a piece. He chewed for a few seconds, then nodded at Ezthene.

“You’re right. They do taste better cooked.”

“I am pleased my advice proved useful,” the Tholian replied from the opposite cell.

Gorkon had adjourned their meeting for a short lunch break. Rather than send Ezthene back to his artificial environment—which entailed a tedious protocol of adjusting the composition of gasses in his insulated cabin, increasing their pressure by a few orders of magnitude, and raising the temperature until the compartment was as hot as a furnace—Gorkon had elected to let Ezthene remain in the brig with Reyes.

One by one, Reyes launched the gaghin his bowl at the force field. When he was sure they were all at least medium rare, he scooped them off the deck and back into his bowl.

“Just one drawback to this little plan,” he said.

“And that is?”

“Now my cell stinks like fried worms.”

Ezthene waved his upper limbs in an “oh, well” gesture he had learned from Reyes. “No plan is perfect,” he said.

Through a mouthful of half-masticated worms, Reyes mumbled, “Got that right.” Barely cooked gaghwas better than live gagh,but he didn’t care for it either way. Forcing himself to swallow the greasy, mushy mess, he reminded himself it was protein and he needed it to keep his strength up. At least they let me drink clean water,he thought with some relief. He picked up his cup and took a swig to wash the taste of gaghfrom his mouth.

Poking inside the bowl with his fork to find the next-most-cooked worm, he asked Ezthene, “What do you eat on this ship? I can’t imagine the Klingons have a menu packed with all your favorites.”

“My species does not consume organic matter as fuel,” the quadruped replied. “We process chemicals from our atmosphere to energize our internal functions.”

Reyes grinned. “All you need is the air you breathe, eh? Convenient.”

“Yes. Quite.”

A few minutes later as Reyes swallowed the last of his worms, the door to the brig slid open with a soft hiss. The Zin’za’s commanding officer, Captain Kutal, walked in. He was followed by Gorkon, who wore a disgruntled expression.

Unable to resist the urge to needle his captor, Reyes asked, “What’s the matter, Gorkon? You look like someone shot your targ.”

“Would that they had,” Gorkon said. He came to a halt between Reyes and Ezthene. “I had hoped I might be able to muster enough support among my allies to bring you with me to address the chancellor in an open session of the High Council. Unfortunately, my peers are not as willing to hear foreign perspectives as I am—and unwilling to do so at all in that august chamber.”

Ezthene replied, “Imagine my disappointment.” The dryness of his sarcasm was only magnified by his vocoder.

“It’s just as well,” Reyes said. “I wouldn’t have had a thing to wear.”

Gorkon frowned. “This is a more serious setback than either of you appears to grasp.”

“No, I grasp it just fine,” Reyes said. “I simply don’t care.” He folded his arms. “What’s the problem, anyway? Aren’t you Sturka’s go-to guy? If you’ve got his ear, why do you need to go marching us in front of the council? Or could it be that Sturka doesn’t want to see us in there, either? Do you need the council’s political muscle to get him to cooperate?”

The councillor’s frown became a glare aimed squarely at Reyes. “Very astute of you, Diego. You’re right. Sturka isresistant to granting you an audience. However, even if he were inclined to let you two speak for the record, it would still be necessary to appease a majority of the council to make such a public audience happen.”

Ezthene asked, “So where does that leave us?”

“In custody,” Reyes said, cutting off Gorkon.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gorkon said. “It will take time for me to lay the requisite political groundwork for this meeting.”

Captain Kutal interjected, “Assuming current events don’t render it completely impossible.”

Reyes’s curiosity was aroused. “What current events?”

Gorkon shot a reproachful stare at Kutal, then said to Reyes, “Hostilities between Klingon forces and Starfleet have been escalating in recent weeks. Rumors of war are afoot.”

“As always,” Reyes said.

Gorkon dipped his chin. “Well put. In any event, I must return to the First City on Qo’noS. Until I am able to return, I need to ask both of you to be patient.”

From the other cell Ezthene replied, “We seem to have little alternative.”

“Not hard to be patient in the brig,” Reyes added.

For a moment Gorkon took on a pensive countenance. “It is rather disingenuous of me to ask for your aid and counsel while treating you like prisoners of war.” He faced Ezthene. “I regret that more of the ship cannot be refitted to your environmental needs, but perhaps we could arrange to provide you with some sort of intellectual diversion.”

“I would be satisfied with a simple increase in the ambient temperature of my compartment.”

Nodding, Gorkon said, “Very well. Captain Kutal, please see to it the adjustment is made. Also, arrange for Mister Reyes to be moved to private quarters at once.”

“Yes, Councillor,” Kutal said, obedient but also visibly seething at the order. “May I recommend, however, that Mister Reyes be monitored by armed guards at all times?”

Gorkon glowered at Kutal with a mixture of annoyance and contempt. “Yes, obviously,Captain.” Adopting a calmer tone, he said to Reyes, “Will there be anything else before I depart?”

“I could use something to read.”

That drew a thin smile from Gorkon. “I’ll see what I can do.”

14

March 22, 2267

Pennington stepped out of the shuttle onto the surface of Ajilon Prime and decided the last three weeks with T’Prynn had been the longest year of his life.

He stepped clear of the other passengers exiting the shuttle and set down his duffel. The waters of Tanada Bay sparkled in the morning sunlight. Colorful boats darted across the azure waves. A crisp, cool breeze kissed his face and carried with it the invigorating scent of saltwater.

This might not be a Federation planet yet, but it will be soon,he mused. Between its natural beauty and its position on the Klingon border, he speculated that its application for membership would be fast-tracked through the Federation Council.

Footsteps halted behind him. He knew without looking it was her. “Mister Pennington,” said T’Prynn.

Reluctantly, he turned to face her. “Yes, dear?”

“I wish to inform you our honeymoon is now over. And I wanted to thank you for your help.”

She offered him her hand. Shaking it, he asked, “That’s it, then?” Noting her confused reaction, he let go of her hand and went on. “I mean, sure, you’ve reached Ajilon. And knowing you, there’s probably some devious scheme already in the works. But do you really think you’re safer going it alone?”

“Safety was never one of my chief considerations,” T’Prynn said, shifting the bag on her shoulder.

He rolled his eyes. “Now you tell me.” He shook his head. “Never mind—what’s your next move?”

T’Prynn stepped beside him and gazed out at the bay. “Before leaving Vulcan I prepared an additional set of identity papers. I will use them going forward to obscure any link between the ruse that enabled us to leave my homeworld and my actions to come.” She threw a sidelong look at Pennington. “Logically, my best chance of preventing someone from linking my two false identities would be to part company with you.”

“Well, obviously,” he said, keeping his eyes on the water. “I know you probably won’t answer me, but I’ll ask anyway. What are you hoping to accomplish?”

An uneasy silence lasted for several seconds. Then T’Prynn said, “I plan to conduct a covert operation to gather intelligence against the Orion crime lord Ganz, his Nalori enforcer Zett Nilric, and whatever smugglers or pirates they have been aiding and abetting in the Taurus Reach.”

Pennington expressed his doubt with a sideways tilt of his head. “A useful goal,” he said. “Though not exactly the kind of high-stakes poker I’d have expected from someone like you. Why spend your time spying on a bunch of thugs?”

“Because I suspect Ganz’s organization serves as a cutout for the Klingons in that sector—and that he or someone who works for him had a hand in destroying the Nowlanand murdering Diego Reyes.”

While Pennington processed that bombshell of information, T’Prynn turned and walked away from him, across the landing field toward the encircling cluster of small buildings that passed for a town on this tenuously settled ball of rock.

“Hold on!” he called to her. He grabbed his duffel and jogged clumsily after her. “You can prove that?”

Over her shoulder, she replied, “Of course not, Mister Pennington. I said only that I suspectit. I intend to gather evidence so that I canprove it.”

“Right,” he replied, feeling like a bit of a berk. “You did say that, didn’t you? Sorry.”

As he fell into step beside her, she glanced at him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you following me?”

“Y’know,” the intrigued young Scot said with a shrug, “to help.” He omitted the fact that being able to publish a properly sourced story titled “Who Really Killed Diego Reyes?” would likely win him awards and pave his way to a lifetime of prestige. And adoring fans. Preferably young, female fans.

“I thought I had made it clear my best interests would be served by us going our separate ways.”

“You did. But the thing is, I’m not so sure. That you’re right, I mean. I learned a lot traveling with Quinn. Enough to make myself useful. Good in a pinch, that’s me. Handy.”

Christ,he fumed. I’m babbling. I need to keep cool.

“Would you perhaps have an ulterior motive for coming with me, Mister Pennington? For instance, a desire to chronicle our shared exploits in journalistic or literary form?”

“Well, I, uh …” He made half a dozen strange faces while he struggled and failed to conceive some means of evading her question. “Well, if I learn something newsworthy, I’m going to write about it, aren’t I? But I’m not a total sod, T’Prynn. I won’t publish something that’ll do more harm than good.”

Behind them, the shuttle’s engines whined and split the air. The small craft took off and ascended into the sky on its way back to orbit. When the din of its departure abated, T’Prynn replied, “Who determines the relative harm or benefit of one of your articles?”

“Well, I guess I do.”

“I see.”

Passing into the warren of narrow streets beyond the landing field, Pennington and T’Prynn cut through a mass of people. There seemed to be bodies moving in all directions at once, like threads being woven into a living tapestry. On either side, tiny shops stood edge to edge, as if huddled for warmth.

“Look, you can trust me,” Pennington said, still trying to plead his case. “And right now, it seems to me like you could use every friend you can get.”

As they turned a corner, she replied, “The mission I am about to undertake will be time-consuming, tedious, and at times extremely dangerous.” She stopped and faced him. “I am grateful to you for helping me escape custody on Vulcan, but the longer you stay with me, the greater your legal jeopardy becomes. I cannot ask any more of you.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Pennington said. “I’m offering.”

She made a small bow of her head. “If that is your choice, then I will not refuse your aid.”

He sighed and smiled. “You’re welcome.”

T’Prynn and Pennington lurked in the shadows on the edge of the town. Beyond the cluster of squat structures, many of the more transient visitors to Ajilon had parked their vessels. They were being tended by a small fleet of hovercraft that brought them fuel and expendable supplies and transported their cargo.

“Looks like a bloody smugglers’ cove if ever I saw one,” Pennington said, eyeing the line of small vessels and the rogues’ gallery of seedy individuals who lurked within and around them.

Pulling an illegal scanning device from under her tunic, T’Prynn said, “An astute observation.”

“Travel with Quinn long enough and places like this start to look familiar.”

“No doubt.” She aimed her scanner at the row of ships and adjusted the device’s settings. “Most of those vessels have been illegally modified.”

Even though they were concealed in the darkness between two buildings, Pennington felt exposed. Vulnerable. “What’re you looking for? Are we trying to link one of those ships to Ganz?”

“No, Mister Pennington. We are going to steal one.” She wasted no time selecting a ship. “That one,” she said, nodding at a teardrop-shaped craft with a protruding pod on the starboard side. “It will suit our needs well. It has been upgraded with a number of improvements that I suspect were acquired via the black market. It has stealth, speed, and superior offensive and defensive capabilities for a vessel its size.” Putting away her scanner, she added, “It also has three people aboard. If you wish to dissociate yourself from my plan—”

“I don’t,” he said. “I’m in.”

“Very well.” T’Prynn handed him a plasma blaster.

He looked at the weapon in his hand. Its potential excited and terrified him. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Right. What do you need from me?”

She arched one eyebrow. “A distraction.”

Dochyiel stood under the bow of his employer’s starship and used a Klingon painstikto swat another nymock off the power cables attached to the forward landing gear.

“Damned pests,” muttered the Efrosian hired gun. He jabbed the painstikinto the fallen parasite—to make sure it was dead and to vent some of his anger. This isn’t even supposed to be my job,he brooded. But the chief engineer is the boss’s best friend, so we can’t have him doing scut work when there’s booze to be guzzled, can we?The nymocklet out a pathetic screech as it expired under the electrical torment of the Klingon prod.

As the Efrosian resigned himself to heading aft to check the other landing struts, a commotion from a few ships away caught his attention. It sounded like a cross between drunken singing and someone trying to strangle a small animal.

Lurching and stumbling along the row of ships was a human man. He was young, fair-haired, and relatively handsome for one of his species. In one hand he held an all but empty bottle of something; in the other he brandished a blaster.

Resting his hand on his own sidearm, Dochyiel kept a watchful eye on the weaving loon who was ranting in singsong gibberish. This ought to be interesting,he predicted.

“Garble, gribble, brouhaha!” crowed the mad-eyed human. “Did she say why? No! ’Course not! That would’ve been bloody civil!” He hiccupped, and his cheeks puffed as if an emetic incident was imminent. Then he sucked in a breath and continued his wild screaming. “Not even a by your leave, guv! And what’m I s’posed to say?”

The man dropped his bottle and unfastened the belt on his pants, which fell to his knees. He began dancing spastically in a small circle with one arm held high over his head, and the blaster pointed at his own head.

“Itten bitten little ditten …”

Dochyiel keyed his comm to the ship. “Zurtmank, Ertobor. I think you need to come see this.”

“Copy that,”Zurtmank replied. “On our way.”

“Oaten boaten little dotin’,” chanted the human, whose pants were now bunched around his ankles. He appeared to be growing dizzy from spinning in a circle.

Behind Dochyiel, the ship’s ramp lowered and his two crew-mates hurried out to stand beside him and laugh at the spectacle. “What a mess,” Ertobor said between guffaws that made his finlike Tiburonian ears flap back and forth.

“Nish diddly oat dote, bode oh ska deet dot …”

“Go ahead and shoot,” Zurtmank shouted at the human, displaying his finely honed Balduk sense of humor.

“Don’t miss,” Ertobor yelled. In response, the human pointed the blaster at his own genitals, and all three of the smugglers exploded with hysterical laughter.

The human came to an abrupt halt and declared in a grave voice, “G’night, mates.”

Dochyiel steeled himself, expecting to see the man blow his head off.

Zurtmank and Ertobor collapsed to the ground, limp and unconscious. Their faces were contorted and each had one shoulder pressed up against his head.

Spinning to face their attacker, Dochyiel beheld the most beautiful Vulcan woman he had ever seen.

In a blur she poked him in the chest with her index finger.

His head spun, and his knees buckled.

As he felt consciousness slip away, he hoped the woman had killed him—because if she hadn’t, his boss would … and he would make it hurt a lotmore than this.

* * *

“This is a lovely ship you’ve stolen,” Pennington said as T’Prynn guided the vessel into orbit.

“I am glad you approve,” she replied.

He looked around the cockpit and poked at the consoles. “I guess we’ll have to recode its transponder,” he said. “Before ourship gets reported as stolen.”

“Correct.” Fixing him with a detached stare she added, “One might get the impression you have done this before.”

He laughed nervously. “Me? No, no. But Quinn told me stories about his younger days. Taught me a few things.”

“I see.”

He pointed at the console nearest him. “I could fix the transponder now, if you like.”

“Not until we have warped out of orbit.”

“Right,” he said. An alert beeped and flashed on the bank of displays beside her. Pennington pointed at the blinking light. “What’s that?”

“Space-traffic control on Ajilon requesting our flight plan.” She checked the navigation computer and short-range sensors. “They have no means of restraining us, and there are no ships close enough to respond that are capable of overtaking us, so we are going to ignore them.” She entered a new course into the ship’s helm, engaged the vessel’s stealth systems, and jumped it to warp speed.

As stretched starlight drifted past outside the cockpit canopy, T’Prynn said, “You may reprogram the transponder now.”

“On it,” Pennington said, setting to work. After only a few minutes he looked up and said, “Done. I hope you don’t mind, but I changed our ship’s name to Skylla. In Greek mythology, it was one of the immortal horses that pulled Poseidon’s chariot.”