Текст книги "Precipice"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

21

June 3, 2267

“I nailed him,” Lieutenant Jackson said. “Right to the wall.”

Rana Desai looked up from the muddle of sworn affidavits, warrant applications, and defense-counsel motions littering her desk to see the chief of security leaning in her office’s open doorway. “You made an arrest already?”

“Even better,” Jackson said, walking into her office and beaming with pride. He held up a data slate. “I got a signed confession out of him.”

Desai held up one palm. “Back up: who is he, and to what has he confessed?”

Jackson handed the data slate to Desai. “Petty Officer First Class Dmitri Strout has confessed to willful breaches of this station’s operational security in exchange for monetary compensation from a third party.” He pointed to one of the guest chairs. “Mind if I … ?”

“Take a seat.”

Jackson sat down as Desai skimmed through the arrest report and Strout’s confession. It was a long file.

She looked up at Jackson. “Care to sum it up for me?”

“Glad to,” he said. “We’d received anonymous tips that Strout was accessing data for which he wasn’t cleared. He worked in the lower cargo facility, mostly handling munitions. But he was pulling entire cargo manifests, both incoming and outgoing, using his supervisor’s access code.”

“How did he acquire that?”

Jackson’s narrowed gaze telegraphed his doubts. “He claims Chief Langlois was careless and didn’t use the voiceprint safeguard, but her access logs show she did. I think it’s more likely someone helped him hack her terminal and copy her voiceprint, but I haven’t been able to get him to admit it yet.”

“I see,” Desai said. “Go on.”

“Our surveillance operative witnessed Strout accessing the terminal in Langlois’s office, copying classified manifests onto a data card, and depositing the card in some kind of a dead drop in one of the unoccupied sections on level sixteen. We recovered the data card and substituted it with one loaded with false information and marked with a tracking tag. So far, however, no one has come to check the dead drop.”

Desai chortled softly. “In other words, you got made.”

Jackson responded with a taut and long-suffering smile. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we conducted a search of his quarters and found evidence Mister Strout has been sending unauthorized transmissions to an Orion merchant vessel known as the Omari-Ekon.”

Nodding, Desai said, “I’m familiar with it. Continue.”

“We haven’t been able to break the encryption on his messages to the Omari-Ekon,but we know the cipher he used isn’t one of ours. Our liaison from Starfleet Intelligence says the most likely origin for the encryption key was Orion.”

Quickly perusing the rest of the information on the data slate, Desai asked, “How many stolen manifests can we positively trace back to Mister Strout?”

“At least a dozen,” Jackson said. “Several of the manifests were for ships that got boarded in deep space by pirates within seventy-two hours of his accessing their logs.”

So close,Desai thought, but still so far.

She put down the data slate. “You’ve put together some very damning information … Petty Officer Strout is inarguably guilty of enabling pirates in this sector to target the most lucrative cargo on the most vulnerable civilian ships. However, after looking over his confession, I notice it contains no mention of anything having to do with the bombing of the Malacca. For that matter, none of the evidence you collected links this suspect to that event in any way, shape, or manner.”

Jackson looked taken aback. “What are you saying? You won’t prosecute him?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” Desai said. “I’ll run Strout’s guts up a flagpole tomorrow at reveille if it makes you happy. There’s enough in here to make sure he dies of old age in a penal colony.” She leaned forward. “What I’m driving at is you came to me asking for warrants so you could investigate the Malaccabombing. But nothing you’ve brought me today links him directly to that case. Frankly, when you poked your face through my door and declared you’d nailed him, I was hoping for something more … relevant.”

The security chief sighed. “I understand. And I know it doesn’t look like I made any progress on the Malaccacase. But I’m convinced Strout is only the tip of the iceberg. And if I’m gonna dig any deeper, I need more help.”

Intrigued, Desai asked, “Such as … ?”

There was a determined look in Jackson’s eyes. “I think Star-fleet Intelligence could decrypt his messages to the Omari-Ekonif someone with enough clout told them to do it. And I’m betting if we could enforce a warrant to review detailed logs of all communication-relay traffic between here and Orion for the past fourteen months, we’d find new clues to the parties behind the Malaccabombing.”

“How very optimistic of you,” Desai said. “Unfortunately, trying to lay claim to that much raw data risks inviting charges of privacy invasion. We’d have to clear a lot of legal hurdles. And the odds are we’d be refused or overturned on appeal.”

“Maybe,” Jackson said. “But we’ll never know until we ask.”

Unable to disagree with his reasoning, Desai relented. “All right,” she said. “I’ll submit a request for the comm logs.”

Rising from his chair, Jackson replied, “Who could ask for anything more?” He stopped at the doorway. “I’ll bet you one of my furlough days we get the logs.”

His challenge made her smile because Jackson had a well-earned reputation on Vanguard: he never lost a bet.

“You’re on,” she said.

Admiral Nogura stood in his office facing a wall-size map of the Taurus Reach. His attention was focused on one highlighted dot more than a hundred light-years rimward of Vanguard’s position. He asked the Starfleet Intelligence liaison, “When did the signal come in?”

“Approximately thirty-nine minutes ago,” said Commander Serrosel ch’Nayla, a middle-aged Andorian chanwho had filled the position formerly occupied by the now-AWOL Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn. “Its arrival was delayed by the lack of sub-space radio relays between here and its point of origin.”

The admiral threw a quizzical look at the blue-skinned, whitehaired humanoid. “I thought we had relays seeded throughout the region.”

“We did,” said ch’Nayla. “The Klingons and Tholians have made a sport of seeking them out and destroying them.”

Nogura felt the muscles in his lean and weathered face tense as he digested that bit of news. “Wonderful.” He nodded at the map. “So what do I need to know about this signal?”

“It’s from a pair of nonofficial-cover agents. They were sent to a planet the Vault team thought might harbor a Shedai artifact, and the agents found one—a Conduit. But before they could make a detailed analysis of the structure, a Klingon D-7 battle cruiser entered orbit. It’s likely the Klingons have established a major presence on the planet’s surface.”

Noting the proximity of the system in question to the border of the Klingon Empire, Nogura said, “It was only a matter of time. We know they’ve been looking for the Shedai artifacts. With that one so close to their space, I’m surprised they didn’t find it sooner.” He turned away from the map. “Did our agents get off the planet safely?”

“No, Admiral,” said ch’Nayla. “They’ve requested a priority extraction by Starfleet.”

Pivoting toward the Andorian, Nogura replied, “I suspect that would provoke more problems than it might solve.”

“I have to concur.” Ch’Nayla keyed in some commands through an interface on the wall. The star map was updated to display the positions of dozens of Klingon military vessels across the Taurus Reach. “Any attempt to extract our agents will only draw attention to them and risk an escalation of hostilities with the Klingons. If the Empire has claimed that world, our presence there could be seen as a breach of the Treaty of Organia.”

“Considering the ink isn’t even dry on that thing yet, that would be bad.” Nogura stroked his chin while he pondered the situation. “Do we know for a fact the Klingons have claimed the planet?”

“Yes. Signal intercepts suggest they have undertaken a campaign to subjugate the local population. Normally, that would not be a matter of immediate concern. However, our two agents on the planet are being sheltered by a local community. If they are discovered, they will almost certainly be tortured and forced to reveal classified information about Operation Vanguard.”

Shaking his head slowly, Nogura said, “This mess just keeps getting bigger the longer I look at it.” He turned away from ch’Nayla and began pacing in front of the star map. “Even if I’m willing to risk sparking a war with the Klingons, that system’s out at the ass end of nothing. It’ll take nearly three months to get anybody out there. Can your people hang on that long?”

Ch’Nayla’s antennae swiveled as if they were tracking Nogura’s back-and-forth ambulations. “I think so,” ch’Nayla said. “One of them is a Starfleet officer who has completed a full SERE program. The other is a civilian operative who has on many occasions proved to be … resourceful.”

“All right,” Nogura said. “Here’s what I want them to do until we’re able to pull them out of the fire. Tell them to inflict as much damage on the Klingons as possible while keeping a low profile. They should focus on sabotage, inciting civil unrest, and, if they’re up for it, guerilla warfare.”

“An extremely hazardous assignment,” ch’Nayla said. “And not exactly one in keeping with their mission parameters.”

Nogura folded his hands behind his back. “Sometimes, Commander, we need to go beyond our limits and exceed our own expectations.” He stopped and faced the Andorian. “This is one of those times.”

“Aye, sir. I will relay your order to the agents.” The lanky chanwalked to Nogura’s side and turned his attention to the star map. “Can I at least assure them truthfully that help is en route?”

“Good question,” Nogura said. He stepped over to the control interface and called up a deployment grid for all Starfleet vessels currently active in the sector. “Now that we have enough reinforcements to maintain steady patrols in the alpha and beta grids, I think we can free up a few ships.” Standing in front of the wall, he pointed at different vessels’ labeled icons. “The Gloucesterand the Buenos Airescan hold the line in the choke point between the Tholians and the Klingons. And the Intrepidis close enough that I can task it to watch the Klingon border.” He folded his arms and tapped one index finger against his upper lip. “If we’re going to make a bid for that distant chunk of rock, we’ll have to go all in. We’ll send the Defiant,the Endeavour,and the Akhiel. That should be enough to make that D-7 bug out of orbit on the double.”

Ch’Nayla’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his antennae twitched. “Are you certain that will be a prudent use of our resources, Admiral? Sending two Constitution-class starships and a frigate escort on a mission that far from Vanguard is a major commitment. It will be at least six months before they are able to return to the station.”

“I know. But look how much Starfleet has increased its presence in this sector in the past few months. I think we might be in a position to flex our muscles a bit.” He stepped closer to the star map and permitted himself a small but devilish smile of anticipation. “The Klingons seem to get a kick out of running our colonists off their planets. Let’s see how theylike running for a change.”

22

June 4, 2267

After more than two months cooped up inside the Skylla,adrift in deep space, Pennington was certain he had read and re-read every word printed on every surface and scrap of paper aboard the ship. He’d nosed through every document in the ship’s databanks. Listened to every audio file. Watched every vid.

He had tried filling the hours, days, and weeks with his own writing, but his thoughts felt unfocused. The harder he tried to shape his recent experiences into a narrative, the greater his mental paralysis became. Words refused to come.

Sitting alone in the cockpit, gazing out at the stars, he let himself drift into an almost hypnotic trance. Enveloped in blissful silence, he let his mind go quiet. What had started out weeks earlier as excruciating boredom had evolved into something new and unexpected: serenity.

The noise and chaos of his old life fell away. He let go of the need to fill every moment with ordered thoughts, pointless conversation, or entertaining distraction. Finally graced with a surfeit of time, he discovered the simple pleasure of merely letting himself be…

An alert flashed on the cockpit’s main console, and its repetitive buzzing sound dragged him back into the bleak reality of the moment.

He turned and shouted down the main corridor, “T’Prynn! One of your gizmos is harshing my mellow!”

A door slid open, and he heard T’Prynn’s soft footfalls. As she entered the cockpit and edged past Pennington to take her seat, he noticed she smelled freshly showered, and that she was wearing her hair down.

She silenced the alert and activated the sensor console. After studying the readout for a few seconds, she removed a small transceiver from the console and placed it in her left ear. Listening intently, she turned to Pennington and said, “We have located the Omari-Ekon.”

“Ganz’s ship?” His pulse quickened. “Is it close?”

“Very,” T’Prynn said. “However, it is moving away from us. We will need to adjust course to pursue it.”

T’Prynn accessed the helm controls and started keying in commands. A low purr from the aft section accompanied a subtle vibration in the deck as the engines engaged. Outside the cockpit, the stars seemed to spiral and slip away as T’Prynn changed the Skylla’s heading.

Pennington found himself imagining worst-case scenarios. “If we go and start following Ganz’s ship, don’t you think he might notice? And maybe take offense?”

“We will maintain a moderate distance from his vessel,” T’Prynn said. “Thanks to the improvements you and I have made to this ship, we might be able to shadow the Omari-Ekonwithout coming within range of its sensors.”

“Do you think that’s likely? That they might not see us?”

“No, I do not. Orion vessels often are better equipped than Federation civilian starships. We must expect their sensors are at least as accurate as our own and act accordingly.” She entered more commands into the helm. “I have programmed the autopilot to maintain a constant bearing and range from Ganz’s ship. After I adjust our warp signature to match that of the OmariEkon,we should appear to its sensors as a subspace echo.”

“Will that really work?”

“As I lack powers of precognition, I cannot answer your question with absolute certainty. However, I believe this tactic has a greater chance of concealing our presence than would doing nothing.”

Pennington smiled at her. “Which is a lot of fancy words for, ‘I’m not a fortune teller, but it’s worth a try.’ You also could have just said, ‘I don’t know.’ ”

“I could have, but I did not.” Though her face betrayed no hint of emotion, Pennington was certain he had detected an undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice. She ignored his probing stare and turned her chair to work at a different console. “Now that we have a lock on the vessel’s position, our next priority will be to access its internal and external communications.”

“Intercepting external communications ought to be a snap,” Pennington said. “At least, for someone like you, I mean. But how do you plan on listening to their internal comms?”

Engrossed in her work, she answered without turning around. “I will attempt to remotely activate and enable a number of taps that were covertly installed aboard the Omari-Ekonduring my tenure as Vanguard’s liaison to Starfleet Intelligence.”

Leaning forward to make sure he’d heard her correctly, he asked, “Did you say taps? As in electronic eavesdropping?”

“Correct,” T’Prynn said. “Once I bring them online, I should be able to access a number of linked and isolated databanks aboard that ship, as well as monitor its real-time internal transmissions.”

Pennington slowly dragged his palm across his stubbled face and ruminated on that new bit of information. “Aren’t all Orion vessels legally recognized as foreign soil by the Federation?”

“Yes, they are.” The screen in front of her filled with a cascade of raw information. Schematics, strings of alien text, static images, and vid-clips flashed by. “The taps are still in place and fully functional. All checksums are valid, indicating they have not been tampered with.”

After a moment of grappling with his conflicting emotions, Pennington asked, “Isn’t what you’re doing illegal? Or against diplomacy or something? What if you started a war?”

“It is highly unlikely my act of private espionage would constitute an act of war,” T’Prynn replied. “Even if the Orion government wished to take such an exaggerated level of umbrage at my violation of the privacy of one of their ships, its forces would not pose a significant military threat.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure that’s the benchmark by which we should—”

“In any event, it is irrelevant unless the commander of the Omari-Ekonwishes to publicly admit its security was breached. Based on my previous observations of Neera, I would speculate she is far too pragmatic to risk diminishing her public image by admitting to such a failure on her ship.”

Now thoroughly confused, Pennington said, “Hang on. I thought the Omari-Ekonwas Ganz’s ship. Who’s Neera?”

“She pretends to be Ganz’s harem madam and personal mistress. In fact, like many Orion women who wield influence through powerful men, she lets Ganz serve as the public face of her criminal organization while she rules from the shadows.”

Pennington nodded. “I suppose you learned that by using these taps?”

“Yes,” T’Prynn said.

“Did any of the information you obtained ever lead to an arrest or a conviction of any of Ganz’s men?”

She partially turned her head in his direction. “No.”

“Why not?”

“As you have duly noted, our placement of the taps was a violation of sovereign Orion territory. Because they were illegally installed, none of the intelligence they provided could ever be legally admissible in a Federation court of law or Starfleet court-martial.”

He waved a hand at the screen full of data and snapped, “If you knew none of this could be used for prosecutions, then what the hell was it for?”

Swiveling her chair to face him directly, T’Prynn said in a cool and measured tone, “Security.”

23

Shocks of impact traveled through Quinn’s gloved fists and up his arms into his shoulders with every punch he landed on the heavy bag. The leather-covered piece of boxing equipment was suspended loosely by a six-strand chain secured in the overhead and anchored by a single chain to the cargo bay’s deck.

Feels good just to hit something,he thought as he bobbed and danced around the bag, throwing jabs and crosses as he went.

He’d always thought the hardest part of boxing—aside from not losing his marbles after getting hit—was the footwork. All that back and forth, the sidling dodges, the stutter steps. It was vital for balance and tempo, for power and follow-through, but it just didn’t come naturally to Quinn.

A fast combination: two jabs, two body blows, a knee aimed at where a groin should be, a hard right cross.

Backing off a step, he felt off-balance. Keep the hands up,he reminded himself. Keep ’em tight, one in front of the other.

Stepping in, he launched a roundhouse kick. It hit the bag just below his shoulder height. Gotta work on my flexibility. He threw a few body blows and rounded out the combination with a jab as he bobbed and sidestepped left.

Hit after hit, the bag’s ball-and-socket joints creaked as the chains twisted and turned.

Sweat dripped from Quinn’s forehead and his arms. His T-shirt was soaked with perspiration, and an hour of this wild exertion had left the cargo bay of the Rocinantesmelling like the inside of an old shoe. His feet ached, and his back hurt. It would have been easy to call it quits.

His rage simmered as he thought of what the Klingons had been doing to the Denn since they’d arrived on Golmira two days earlier, and he pictured one of the lobster-headed barbarians standing in the heavy bag’s place.

A right cross to the head, a left jab to the body, a knee in the ribs, an elbow thrown in for good measure.

The exertion felt good. But not good enough.

Quinn continued his weaving dance around the heavy bag as he heard Bridy descend the ladder from the main deck. He threw a few more solid punches into the bag, then let himself slump against it as she walked over to him. “If you’re lookin’ to spar, you’re about an hour late. I’m wiped.”

“We just got new orders from Vanguard,” Bridy said.

Between labored breaths he gasped, “And … ?”

“They want us to lay low and sabotage the Klingons’ equipment until they can send some in some backup.”

“When’s that gonna be?” He started untying the laces of his right glove with his teeth.

She folded her arms. “In about three months.”

He shouted, “Three months? Are they kiddin’ me?” His right glove came loose, and he shook it off. “The Klingons might wipe out this whole planet in three months!”

“Look, we knew it was risky when we came out here,” Bridy said as she watched him untie his other glove. “Even the Sagittariushasn’t gone this deep into the Taurus Reach before.”

Yanking off the second glove, Quinn snapped, “Are you sure that’s all our orders said? Lay low and break stuff?” Bridy rolled her eyes and looked away, but her lips folded in, showing the dimple in her chin, which told Quinn he’d struck a nerve. “There wassomething else, wasn’t there?”

After an angry huff, she said, “Admiral Nogura also wants us to incite the Denn to launch a guerilla warfare campaign.”

Quinn tossed aside the glove in his hand and pointed at Bridy as he exclaimed, “Now that’swhat I’m talking about!”

“Hang on,” Bridy Mac said, holding out a palm in Quinn’s direction. “My tactical training is starship-based. I’m not qualified to teach these people how to fight Klingons.”

He grabbed his towel off the top of a cargo container and started wiping the sweat from his face. “Who said you’d be the one training ’em?”

“You think you’re qualified? What do you know about waging a ground war against Klingon troops?”

“More than you think,” Quinn said. He toweled the top of his buzz-cut head dry and draped the towel around his neck. He started walking aft. “Follow me. I want to tell you a story.”

Bridy Mac fell in behind Quinn, who found himself dredging up memories he thought he’d put to rest decades earlier. “Once upon a time, I was just a kid like anybody else. Even went to college, if you can believe that.”

“Not really,” Bridy said, “but go on.”

He led her toward the tool locker. “Six months after I got my degree, I married my college sweetheart. Our families said we were too young. We didn’t care. Got married on New Year’s Eve.” He stopped in front of the locker, put his hand on the latch, and let out a grim chortle. “That was thirty years ago.”

She watched him open the gray locker door, revealing a host of heavy tools. He tucked a sonic screwdriver in his pants pocket, grabbed a crowbar, and slammed the locker door. He turned and faced Bridy. “Less than five months after we got married, my wife … my first wife, Denise, passed away. Xenopolycythemia. By the time we knew she was sick, it was too late to do anything. They diagnosed her in March. She died in May.” His eyes misted with tears, and his throat constricted. Talking about it made it hurt as if it had only just happened, and his grief deepened his native Tennessee drawl. “I remember every detail of that day. The color of the sky. The number of vehicles in the hospital parking lot. The sound of her last breath at two-fourteen PM. Everything.”

Crowbar in hand, he walked toward the bow of the ship, and Bridy followed him. “I was lost. My whole life was turned to shit. One day I woke up and knew I couldn’t draw one more breath on Earth. I didn’t want to look at anything familiar ever again.” He stopped beside a cargo container and put the crowbar on top of it. “I’d heard about a mercenary company that was recruiting for jobs outside Federation space. It was good money, and it sounded like a good way to escape. Soon as Denise was in the ground, I signed up and shipped out.”

He put his shoulder to the container and with a furious growl pushed it across the deck. For a moment it seemed like Bridy was going to try to help him, but she recoiled before her hands reached the container. It didn’t matter. Quinn didn’t need the help. He liked moving something he shouldn’t, overcoming its resistance. The effort was its own reward.

After the huge heavy box had been pushed against the port bulkhead, he kneeled beside the exposed deck plate and took out the sonic screwdriver. As he began removing bolts, he looked up at Bridy. “You ever dealt with mercenaries?” She shook her head. He shrugged. “Count your blessings. At first I thought it was the greatest thing in the galaxy. It was all rah-rah macho brotherhood. I was learnin’ small-unit tactics, how to blow stuff up, fly small starships, the works. For a young man who just wanted to forget his old life, it was an adventure.”

Quinn pulled out the last of the bolts from the deck plate, stood, and stepped over to the moved crate. “Fightin’ Klingons out in the middle of nowhere felt heroic, even if we were doin’ it for a mining company instead of the Federation.” He set the bolts on top of the crate and grabbed the crowbar. “But it wasn’t always so black and white.”

He walked back to the deck plate and pushed the crowbar into the groove along its edge. Straining with the effort of prying it free, he continued. “Sometimes civilians got caught in the cross fire. Other times they were the targets—innocent colonists who made the mistake of pitching tents on a planet that somebody with more money wanted badly enough to kill for.”

The deck plate lifted with a scrape. Quinn wedged the crowbar under the plate, grabbed it, and pushed it over. It clanged onto the deck with a bright clamor, like the pealing of a church bell. Droplets of sweat fell from Quinn’s brow.

In the scan-shielded space under the deck plate was a rectangular steel foot locker. “Give me a hand,” Quinn said. “Grab a handle.”

Bridy and Quinn lifted the weighty box from its hiding place and set it on the deck. Quinn’s fingers hovered over the digital keypad as he tried to remember the code to unlock it. “The guys I served with … I watched ’em kill women and kids. And I saw ’em do worse things than that. When I tried to report ’em, I got told to mind my own business. The commanders either didn’t care or were the ones who gave the orders in the first place.”

Staring at the lock, he remembered Denise’s birthday and tapped in the eight-digit code: 03262217. The case’s magnetic clamps released with loud thunks.

“They wouldn’t let me quit. Said I had to finish my hitch. I couldn’t just hide in my rack, so I spent my time gettin’ drunk, mouthin’ off at the brass, and playin’ cards.” He looked around at his ship. “By the time I got out, I’d won enough to buy ol’ Rosie here. But I couldn’t forget what I’d seen. The things I’d done. So I spent the rest of my cash on booze, and then I spent twenty-five years tryin’ to drown my memories.”

He looked up at Bridy and cracked a bittersweet smile. “Didn’t work. Now all I got left is this ship.”

And one last spark of my self-respect.

Bridy had a soft expression of concern. “I won’t lie and say I know what you went through, or how you feel. But nothing we do here can change the past, Quinn. The Denn’s fight isn’t ours. I understand wanting to help them, but the smartest thing we can do is respect the Prime Directive and stay neutral.”

Quinn opened the foot locker. It was packed with assault weapons, power packs, and explosives.

“I ain’t in Starfleet.” He picked up a rifle. “So fuck the Prime Directive.”

June 5, 2267

“These twenty rifles are all I got,” Quinn told his first platoon of Denn fighters. “Same goes for the power cells. So we’re gonna have to be careful about when we use ’em, and how much. If we play our cards right, we’ll scoop up some of the Klingons’ weapons off a battlefield. Then we can arm more of your people.”

He walked in front of the lanky, shaved-headed militiamen, who were lined up under the starboard wing of the Rocinante. Much as Quinn had expected, Naya and the landgraves had granted his request to recruit a score of able-bodied males to wage a guerilla war campaign against the Klingon occupation. Apparently, male Denn outnumbered females by a ratio of four to one, which gave the women elevated social status and made the men seem expendable.

The tallest of the recruits pulled the trigger of his weapon over and over; he frowned when nothing happened. Quinn stopped and placed his hand atop the man’s rifle, pointing its muzzle at the ground. “Okay, Stretch, give it a rest. That’s why I didn’t give you boys the power cells yet.”

Raising his voice to address the group, Quinn said, “Never put your finger on a trigger till you’re ready to shoot. Never point a weapon at someone you don’t mean to kill. These rifles are not toys. Use ’em right, you can kill a Klingon in one shot.” He patted a hand on Stretch’s chest. “Aim for center of mass. That’s the chest and gut. Don’t bother tryin’ for head shots unless you’re sure you can get a direct hit.” He held up his rifle to illustrate his next point. “When you carry your rifle, keep your trigger finger outside the guard, on the side, like this. That way if you trip or fall, you won’t blow a hole in one of your buddies by mistake.”

He took a few more steps down the line and stopped in front of a heavyset, well-muscled recruit. The man seemed like a natural soldier: his rifle was slung over his shoulder, his posture was straight, and his mien was serious. Quinn gave the man an approving nod. “Lookin’ good, Bubba.”

At the end of the line, Quinn about-faced and paced back the way he’d come. “I won’t take you men into battle till I think you’re ready. Over the next few months, I’ll teach you the basics of what you need to know to survive in the field: marksmanship, first aid, small-unit tactics, camouflage, demolitions. I’ll teach you how to disassemble those weapons and put ’em back together in your sleep.”