Текст книги "Harbinger"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Xiong glanced at the plate Sandesjo had turned in. “Not hungry this morning?”

“I’m on a diet,” Sandesjo said.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The ‘drop everything for Ambassador Jetanien’ diet?”

She nodded once. “Ah…you’ve heard of it.”

“Who hasn’t?” He smiled shyly at her and shifted his weight awkwardly. Breaking eye contact, he glanced away toward the chow line. Looking back, he said, “Guess I better get on line before Farber eats all the eggs.”

“Probably a good idea.” She stepped around him. “Enjoy your breakfast, Lieutenant.”

“You too,” he said, then hastened to correct himself. “I mean, I hope you did, you know, have a nice breakfast.”

Tossing her straight, cinnamon-hued hair with a turn of her head, she cast a flirtatious look back over her shoulder at him.

He finished his farewell with a simple, “Have a nice day.”

“You too, Xiong.” As she left the commissary, she felt him watching her. Despite the brevity of their few meetings, his attraction to her had been clear from the start. Silly man. He has no idea what he’d be getting himself into.

Minutes later Sandesjo was sequestered in her office. Her secret communication device opened quietly on her desktop, and Ambassador Lugok’s flushed, angry visage filled its screen. His voice was loud enough to crackle the device’s speakers with distortion. “Was your file on Karumé a joke?”

She turned down the volume on the speaker. “I take it your first meeting did not go well?”

“She nearly cut off my loDmach.”

“I warned you she was aggressive,” Sandesjo said, an evil gleam lighting up her gaze. “Tell me, did you underestimate her because she was human or because she was a woman?”

Lugok’s face bunched with annoyance. “Don’t be stupid, Lurqal. I would never underestimate a woman.”

“Good to know.” Chilling her tone, she continued, “My time is short, Ambassador. What can I do for you?”

“What is the Federation doing to learn who destroyed its ship?”

“Enterprise is being readied for departure,” Sandesjo said. “Probably within the day.”

His brow knitted with confusion. “Today? There’s been no announcement.”

“Starfleet’s probably keeping the deployment quiet, but none of the alpha-shift spacedock crew were at breakfast today. They must have been called in during gamma shift.”

“Interesting,” Lugok said. “Do you know where the Bombay was lost?”

“Not yet.” She transmitted a data file over the secure channel. “I’ve sent you a list of six star systems that would be worth monitoring during the next few days.”

“Your selection criteria?”

“Situated within the range of the Bombay at maximum warp for seventy-eight hours, presence of M-Class planets, source of subspace radio traffic within the past three months.”

“Very good,” Lugok said. “Let me know if discussions resume with the Tholian envoy.”

“As you command.”

They traded valedictions of Qapla’, then cut the channel.

Sandesjo tucked the closed briefcase device under her desk. She activated her computer, checked her morning schedule, then walked to her door and looked for an aide who would fetch her another cup of watered-down, barely caffeinated Terran swill. It was going to be a long day, and weak human coffee would be better than none.

Her carefully laid plan was derailed by an all too familiar voice of authority. “Ms. Sandesjo,” Jetanien said from the doorway, in his favorite tone of arch superiority. “Permit me to thank you for recommending Akeylah Karumé as our new envoy to the Klingon delegation.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. The huge Chelon ignored her.

“Until now, I had been greatly vexed by the problem of how to maintain a political dialogue with the Klingons, while at the same time threatening their chief representative with forced emasculation. Fortunately, Ms. Karumé has adroitly merged these two concepts.”

“You must be very proud, sir.”

“Exquisitely,” he said. “Are you familiar with the Nemite Revolution that occurred two thousand, four hundred and twelve years ago on Tamaros III?”

“If I say yes, will it stop you from lecturing me?”

“It all began when the proconsul to the High Epopt of Tamaros appointed a Yoçarian to serve as the castellan of the capital city…”

Steeling herself for a very long history lesson whose only allegorical moral would be another iteration of “Thanks for sending me a maverick,” Sandesjo concluded that there wasn’t enough coffee in the galaxy to make this job bearable.

“We should have been prepared for this,” Councillor Torr said, his tirade inciting a low chorus of grumbles among the rest of the Klingon High Council. The sharp-featured young councillor paced like a chained targ in the dimly lit chamber ringed by statues of great warriors of ages past. Chancellor Sturka listened with waning patience as Torr continued. “One of the ships defending Vanguard has been destroyed, yet we are unable to capitalize on this opportunity. Why? Because we have been too cautious in our strategy for seizing the Gonmog Sector.”

“Save your propaganda, Torr,” Sturka said, his voice worn to a low growl after more than a decade of presiding over this increasingly fractious ruling committee. “They lost one frigate, but another battle cruiser has made port. If anything, Vanguard is better defended than it was before.”

“Enterprise is there, that’s true,” said Veselka, a woman whose peculiar charms were matched only by her cunning. “But she made port for repairs, and her captain is untested.”

Kulok, the grizzled councillor from Lankal, snorted out a derisive laugh. “Pike, untested? Ridiculous.”

“You need stronger raktajino, old man,” snapped Alakon, a warrior who had risen from commoner origins and earned his place on the council through honorable combat. “Pike commands a fleet now. His old ship is in the hands of a new commander: Kirk.”

Argashek grunted and turned toward Grozik and Glazya, his longtime allies on the council. “Kirk?…A good Klingon name.”

Councillor Narvak interjected, “Just because his name sounds Klingon, it doesn’t mean he’ll fight like one.”

“But it will be fun to see him try,” Councillor Molok said, flashing an evil grin that sent creases halfway up the sides of his bald head.

Laughter rocked the hall. Sturka rapped the end of his staff on the cold stone floor. The sharp reports and echoes muzzled the jollity. All eyes turned back to the chancellor, who leaned forward on his throne. “Before we move against Vanguard, we should make certain we know who destroyed their vessel.”

“It wasn’t us,” Glazya said, her wild frazzle of dark hair, her wide eyes, and her upswept eyebrows conveying perfectly her almost feral temperament. “Unless Starfleet blew up its own ship, it had to be the Tholians. After that episode with Ambassador Tolrene here on Qo’noS and Sesrene and his delegation on Vanguard, it’s obvious there is something wrong with them.”

Sturka noted Glazya’s point. Tolrene’s abrupt seizure and subsequent behavior had been decidedly odd. Reports that the Tholian delegates to Vanguard, Earth, and Qo’noS had suffered the same symptoms at the exact same moment had been even more alarming. It was unclear, though, what had caused the incidents, or why it might provoke the Tholians to start a war.

“The Gonmog Sector is unexplored space,” said Councillor Gorkon, a former general who remained the leanest and strongest warrior on the council. Sturka knew that Gorkon could easily defeat him in mortal combat, which is why he had cultivated the former battle-fleet commander as an ally, ever since the day Gorkon had first hinted at his political ambitions. “There are countless unknown threats that could have destroyed the Federation ship,” Gorkon continued.

Torr lost his patience. “What difference does it make who destroyed their ship? We should strike before they regroup.”

Gorkon turned his forceful gaze against Torr. “Until we know who destroyed the Bombay, we won’t know whether attacking Vanguard will pit us against one foe or two.”

“Facing two foes would only add to our glory,” Torr said.

“Only if we win, you ignorant young jeghta’pu.”

“We have underestimated the Federation in the past,” Sturka said. “Not again. Encourage our warriors to boast, it will keep their spirits up. But in here, we face the facts. They have moved many ships and people into the Gonmog Sector—or the ‘Taurus Reach,’ as they call it…. Why?”

“It’s obvious,” said Councillor Indizar. Slimmer and more feminine-looking than Veselka, she had ascended to the High Council because of her background in covert intelligence. “They fear we will expand our conquests to the Tholian border, leaving them surrounded and unable to grow.”

Every councillor nodded in silent agreement—all but one, a heavyset man lurking in the back of the group, half in shadow. Sturka pointed to him. “You have another opinion, Duras?”

Councillor Duras walked forward, stepping into the broad circle of harsh overhead light in front of the chancellor’s throne. An acrid, musky odor clung to him like a bad reputation. “The Federation would not risk war on two fronts merely for the possibility of future expansion. A commitment this large can mean only one thing: There is something in the Gonmog Sector that they want…. We should learn what it is.”

Sturka stroked his bearded chin briefly as he considered Duras’s suggestion. “You might be right.” He looked up and scanned the faces of the gathered councillors. “It is likely that the Tholians destroyed the Starfleet ship. If so, I look forward to one day facing them in battle. But if other powers are in play in the Gonmog Sector, we must know who they are before our ships cross the border.

“Duras, your suspicion that the Federation has a motive besides expansion…interests me. Work with Indizar’s people in Imperial Intelligence. If you can show me a plausible alternative motive for the Federation’s efforts…we’ll adjust our strategy and tactics accordingly.”

Three successive strikes of Sturka’s metal-tipped staff on the stone tile beside his throne signaled that this meeting of the High Council was adjourned. The councillors filed out in a few mumbling clusters, grouped into three rival factions. Keeping them plotting against one another was hard work for Sturka, but it was better than having them plotting against him. Politics was a cutthroat business on any planet, but on Qo’noS the term was always used literally.

Walking quickly back to his chambers, Sturka noticed Gorkon fall into step behind him and his retinue of imperial guards. Sturka nodded to his chief defender, Tegor, to let Gorkon breach the defensive circle. Gorkon slipped inside the perimeter of guards and remained a respectful half-pace behind Sturka. “You know why he wants to investigate the Gonmog Sector,” he said. Sturka did not need to ask who Gorkon spoke of. The ex-general’s long-festering distrust of Duras made it abundantly clear.

“Of course I do,” Sturka said, turning the corner. Outside the narrow slices of window on their right, the sunset washed the First City in soothing crimson hues. “He thinks he’ll find something to make himself rich or powerful. Something that can make him chancellor.”

“That will be a cold day in Gre’thor, my lord.”

Sturka imagined his d’k tahg sunk deep in Duras’s throat. He smiled. “Yes, Gorkon. It certainly will.”

13

“Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.” T’Prynn’s dark and icy declaration burned brightly in Quinn’s memory. The burden of his guilt was staggering. Hundreds of lives, he told himself. My fault. To his own disgust, the only thing he could think of to do about it was order another drink.

He was on his fourth or fifth drink of the evening. In his experience, a well-told series of half-truths, omissions, and exaggerations could postpone most bar tabs for about an hour. Then his excuses for delaying payment would stretch too thin to be credible, and it would be time for him to leave. Somewhere around sixty-five minutes or four drinks into his visits, whichever came first, most barkeeps began to suspect that his tab was going to linger much longer than he himself would. To save everyone the embarrassment and effort of eighty-sixing him, he made a habit of evicting himself before his welcomes had to be officially withdrawn.

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 breath. 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.”

It was obvious that Kirk didn’t care for that answer. “Permit me to rephrase, Lieutenant: Why did Commodore Reyes insist that I take you on our search-and-salvage to Ravanar?”