Текст книги "Harbinger"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Reaching under his belt, he found the security remote. His fingers were still shaking, from the panic response of almost being shot, as he keyed in the code to open the ventral gangway. The plank separated from the hull and descended with a hydraulic hiss. Plumes of vapor from leaky coolant coils tumbled down like the ghost of a waterfall as he climbed the ramp into his ship. Once inside, he pressed the ramp-closing switch on his way forward to the cockpit. With a sickly gasp and a grinding groan, it lifted shut behind him as he collapsed into his seat.

He was sweating. Trickles of perspiration raced down his face and forearms. Ragged breaths wheezed in and out of him. Catching his haggard reflection in the cockpit windshield, he was dismayed by how cruelly the years had treated him. Not getting any younger, that’s for damn sure, he admitted to himself. Runnin’ on fumes and luck these days. And I ain’t so sure ’bout the luck no more.

His left hand reached up and started flipping switches to power up the onboard systems, while his right hand worked the controls to energize the impulse drive and warp coils. As an afterthought, he spun his chair half around and turned on the subspace-radio jammer. Pretty good bet those guys who shot at me are callin’ for help. Temporarily blocking their communications would give Quinn time to leave the system before anyone could come to investigate. He had been cautious about his landing, waiting for six full days after the Sagittarius left orbit before he maneuvered his ship out of hiding and dared to set it down so close to the camp. Still, he reasoned, no point gettin’ careless—well, at least not more careless.

The warp engines were still warming up when the impulse drive indicator light changed to ready. Eager to get off this planet, Quinn keyed the antigrav circuit, retracted the landing gear, and guided the ship forward. As soon as it cleared the shale overhang he angled the nose upward and throttled it out of the atmosphere as quickly as its thrusters could manage.

By the time the Rocinante broke orbit, its warp coils had finished their start sequence. Without so much as a look back at the shrinking curve of Ravanar IV, Quinn plotted the longest, most roundabout course back to Vanguard that he could think of, given his current fuel reserves, and made the jump to warp speed. It would be roughly a week before he set foot on the station again. That should give me enough time to figure out what to tell Ganz, he figured. Or else plan a nice funeral.

Commander Dean Singer looked up as the search party returned to the narrow alley behind the barracks. “Did anyone get a good look at him?” His team responded with dour shakes of their heads. He gave the ruined sensor-screen generator a small kick and sighed. “Great. Just great.” Sweeping aside the bulky mining jacket he wore, he plucked his communicator from his belt and lifted the cover plate. It announced the open channel with a double chirp. He set the frequency to the one used by the underground survey team and keyed the transmitter.

The rest of the team milled around looking confused while Singer waited for a response from the research group working underneath the camp, which had never been more than a poor facsimile of a real prospectors’ outpost.

Ensign T’Hana answered Singer’s message, her uninflected Vulcan voice as bright as a clarion. “T’Hana here.”

“T’Hana, this is Singer.” There was an urgency in his tone. “Is it shut down yet?”

“Not yet, Commander. It will take approximately twenty-one minutes to successfully power down the entire system.”

Singer frowned, then resigned himself to circumstances that were beyond his control. “Understood, Ensign. Please expedite the process if the means becomes available.”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

“Singer out.” He flipped his communicator closed with a slap of his hand. As he bent his arm to put it back on his belt, it beeped twice, signaling an incoming message. With a flick of his wrist he flipped it open. “Singer here.”

“Commander, the subspace channel’s been restored,” said Lieutenant John Ott, the communications officer. “Opening a secure channel to Vanguard. What do you want to tell them?”

“Hang on,” Singer said. Once again fixing his search party with a fiery glare, he asked, “Can anyone tell me whether the intruder was a Klingon?” Shrugged shoulders and shaking heads accompanied the chorus of mumbled answers. “Miguel, you were the first one into the alley. Can’t you tell me anything about him?”

“Not in this light,” said Chief Petty Officer Miguel Velez. “I’m pretty sure he had light-colored hair, but I can’t really say if it was white, gray, or yellow.” No doubt reading the acute disappointment in Singer’s expression, he added, “Sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault,” Singer said. Turning back to his other conversation, he said into the communicator, “Ott, inform T’Prynn we had an intruder, identity unknown. And make sure she understands we need a new sensor screen, on the double.”

3

“Bridge to Lieutenant Xiong.”

Ming Xiong forced the last of his uniform shirts into his duffel and cinched it shut. He was packed and ready to travel. Reaching to the wall—which was uncomfortably close in the claustrophobic confines of the quarters he shared with the Sagittarius’s chief engineer, Master Chief Petty Officer Mike Ilucci—he pressed the intercom switch. “Xiong here.”

“It’s time, Ming,” Captain Nassir said. “The Bombay is standing by to transport.”

“On my way,” Xiong said, hefting both straps of his duffel over his shoulder. “Xiong out.” He shut off the intercom, made a final survey of his locker to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then closed it. Cramped as conditions were aboard the Archer-class scout vessel, he was going to miss this ship and its crew. In the two short weeks he had spent with them—the first on his way out to Ravanar IV to examine their initial discovery, and the second now on his return to Vanguard, via painfully indirect routes both times—he had found them to be more relaxed than most of his comrades in Starfleet. As a long-range outrider with just fourteen personnel aboard, it had a close-knit feel that was enhanced by Captain Nassir’s easygoing manner. Unlike most Starfleet crews that Xiong had traveled with, there was little sense of hierarchy among the Sagittarius team. The standard duty uniform aboard the ship was a simple green utility jumpsuit without rank insignia or specialist markings, just a patch bearing the name of the ship on the right shoulder and the crewperson’s name stitched on the front left chest flap. Though Xiong had at first felt anonymized when he donned an unmarked, borrowed garment, he’d quickly grown accustomed to the less complicated apparel.

The door swished open at his approach, and he shimmied carefully into the corridor, sidestepping with his bulky, heavy duffel toward the aft ladder to the transporter pad. Passing the open galley, he noticed a savory aroma. Ilucci was standing in front of the food slot, holding a plate in one hand and a half-ruptured burrito in the other. Bits of his meal tumbled into his scraggly beard whiskers as he wolfed down his lunch. The heavyset chief engineer struggled to swallow an entire mouthful in one gulp when he saw Xiong; he half-succeeded. Through half a gulletful of semi-masticated food, he asked, “Hey, are you leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way out,” Xiong said, pointing aft.

Ilucci dropped the shredded remains of his burrito on his plate and stepped quickly over to Xiong and extended his cheese-and-salsa–covered hand. “Gonna miss ya, buddy.” Xiong blinked and felt his mouth pursing as he struggled not to point out the obvious. Looking down, Ilucci realized what the problem was. He wiped his hand broadly across the leg of his jumpsuit, first the palm and then the sides, then extended it once again to Xiong. This time the slim but muscular anthropology-and-archaeology specialist accepted the gesture and shook Ilucci’s hand.

“Take care, Master Chief.” One of the first things that Xiong had learned after coming aboard the Sagittarius was to always refer to Ilucci as “Master Chief.” The chief engineer insisted on it. Tellingly, even the commissioned officers respected Ilucci’s request and frequently reminded others to do likewise. Ilucci was not a tall man, but his gift for “percussive maintenance” (hitting defective machines until they worked again), his impassioned ranting, and his uncanny ability to start bar fights had long ago earned him the nickname “Mad Man,” a moniker that now preceded him by many light-years, no matter how far he traveled.

Clumsily trying to wrap his fingers around the shredded remains of his half-eaten burrito, Ilucci said with an evil grin, “I’ll keep the bunk warm for ya.”

“Yeah, you do that, Master Chief.” One thing Xiong was not going to miss about the Sagittarius was “hot-bunking.” Because of the ship’s acute lack of crew accommodations, only the captain and first officer had private quarters. The other twelve personnel shared four single-bed compartments, sleeping in shifts and taking whichever bunk was empty. As a result, life aboard the scout vessel had a nomadic quality both inside and out. Strangely apropos, Xiong mused as he left the galley.

Less than a minute later, he reached the aft ladder. Before he could adjust his duffel for the climb, the mellow-voiced first officer, Commander Clark Terrell, leaned down through the ladderway and extended his hand. “Pass it up to me.”

“Thanks,” Xiong said, then lifted his bag until Terrell grasped one of its shoulder straps and hoisted it effortlessly up to deck two. Clambering up the wide-planked ladder, Xiong heard the low hum of a transporter coil energizing above. He emerged into the transporter bay to see Captain Nassir standing with Commander Terrell. The two men were like night and day: Terrell was brown, beefy, with close-cropped hair; Nassir was slender, pale, and, like most Deltans, completely bald. A few meters behind them, science officer Ensign Vanessa Theriault was adjusting the settings of the transporter panel, seemingly at random. Nodding in her direction, Xiong said quietly to Nassir and Terrell, “Does she know what she’s doing?”

The two senior officers turned in unison, looked at Theriault, then looked back at each other. Terrell shrugged at Xiong. “Probably.” Xiong didn’t like the sound of that. He was about to suggest that maybe Ilucci could take over for the attractive but undeniably kooky young redhead from the Martian Colonies when Nassir and Terrell both lost their poker faces and snorted with suppressed laughter. “Relax,” Terrell said, patting Xiong’s shoulder. “She’s a pro, you’re in good hands.”

Captain Nassir recovered his composure and took Xiong aside. “Before you go, there’s something I’d like to give you. A going-away gift, I guess you’d call it.” The captain opened a storage panel along the lower half of the wall and took out a neatly folded green jumpsuit. It had a U.S.S. Sagittarius patch on its shoulder, and smelled clean and freshly sanitized (like everything else on the ship within reach of Dr. Lisa Babitz, the ship’s medical officer). Xiong’s rank insignia and surname were stitched on its front. “For the next time you visit,” Nassir said as he handed it to Xiong, who accepted it abashedly.

“Thank you, sir. It means a lot to me.”

Nassir’s voice was deep and fatherly. “You’re a good officer, Xiong. You’ve got an explorer’s soul. Try not to let it go to waste sitting on that space station.”

“I won’t, sir. I promise.” He shook Nassir’s hand.

“You’d better get going. Captain Gannon’s a busy woman. Best not to keep her waiting.”

“Aye, sir.” Tucking his new jumpsuit under his arm, he stepped onto the lone transporter pad. Because the Sagittarius was equipped to land on M-Class planets, its one and only transporter was used mostly for emergencies. Which would explain the thin layer of dust on this thing, Xiong noted.

The captain stepped behind the control panel with Theriault and keyed a switch. “Sagittarius to Bombay. One to transport.”

“Acknowledged, Sagittarius. Commence when ready.”

“Safe travels, Mr. Xiong.” Turning to Theriault, Nassir said, “Energize.” Theriault cast a frozen stare at the controls for a few seconds, then hesitantly reached out for one of the sliders. Nassir gently guided her hand to a different bank of switches. “Begin the dematerialization sequence first,” he instructed gently.

Alarmed, Xiong protested to Terrell, “I thought you said she knew what she was doing!”

“It’s all relative,” Terrell said as the transporter sequence began with a rising whine of sound. The first officer added with a farewell wave, “Vaya con Dios.”

By the time Xiong realized that he was a live test subject in Ensign Theriault’s transporter-training regimen, he had already rematerialized safely in the far more spacious transporter room of the U.S.S. Bombay.

A blue-jumpsuited technician worked behind the transporter console. First officer Commander Vondas Milonakis greeted Xiong as he stepped off the platform.

“Welcome aboard, Ming.” The short, balding man grasped Xiong’s hand in a firm, radiantly warm handshake. “Good to see you again. How’s everybody on the Sagittarius?”

“Fine.” It wasn’t that Xiong disliked Milonakis; he just found it difficult to trust someone who was always so extroverted. Xiong decided that the bold new hue of gold that Starfleet had recently chosen for command officers’ jerseys suited Milonakis perfectly.

Giving Xiong’s jumpsuit a once-over, Milonakis said, “I see Captain Nassir’s still keeping things casual.”

Not wanting to prolong the conversation or start an argument, Xiong mumbled a dismissive “Mm-hmm.”

“Let’s get you some quarters. I think we have a spare bunk on deck five”—he shot a conspiratorial smirk Xiong’s way—“if you don’t mind sharing the room with a Tellarite.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Xiong followed the Bombay first officer out the door, then left toward the turbolift. The corridor was busy with personnel moving in quick strides from one task to another. This was the first time Xiong had been aboard the Miranda-class starship while it was deployed, but it was just as hectic as he had always expected. Within a few short weeks of his arrival on Starbase 47 it had become obvious that, of the three ships permanently assigned to the station, the Bombay was the unsung workhorse—the one that did all the unappreciated labor that enabled the Sagittarius to speed away to the edges of known space and the larger, more renowned U.S.S. Endeavour to spend its time “showing the flag” and making official first contacts.

As the two men walked, Milonakis made a point of greeting almost every passing member of the Bombay crew by his or her given name, reinforcing the first impression he had made upon Xiong weeks earlier—that he was a man who excelled in one-to-one exchanges and could manage dozens of such personal interactions simultaneously. To see him work his way through the lounge on Vanguard, or run into “an old friend” every twenty paces no matter where he was, made it seem as though he very well might know someone on every ship and base in Starfleet.

Milonakis led Xiong into the turbolift, grasped the throttle control, and said, “Deck five.” He half-turned toward Xiong. “Bet you’ll be glad to get back to Vanguard, eh?”

“Not really.”

The first officer nodded once. “Ah, I see. You’re a man of action. I can respect that.”

More than his assumption of camaraderie, what irked Xiong about the man was that there was no way to take issue with anything he ever said without looking like an ingrate or a misanthrope. Of course, the latter term had been applied to Xiong more than once in the twelve years since he first joined Starfleet, but it was an epithet he was eager to shake off.

“I just like to see things with my own eyes,” Xiong said.

“Makes sense.”

The turbolift stopped. As the doors opened, however, a woman’s voice sounded over the intercom. “Commander Milonakis, report to the bridge.”

The first officer thumbed a switch on the turbolift control panel. “This is Milonakis. On my way, Captain.” He released the switch, looked at Xiong, and pointed down the corridor. “Quartermaster’s in five-bravo two-twenty-one. If you need help—”

“I’m fine,” Xiong said, stepping past Milonakis and out of the turbolift. “Thank you, sir.”

“All right, then.” Taking hold of the turbolift throttle once more, Milonakis said to the computer, “Bridge,” and the doors hissed shut. From behind them, a deep hum rose and faded in a heartbeat as the turbolift shot up toward deck one.

Xiong’s visit to the quartermaster was brief and proceeded strictly by the book. The crew of the Bombay was nothing if not efficient. Of course, he reflected, when you’re as busy as they are, you have to be.

Settling into his temporary quarters several minutes later, he felt the low frequency thrumming of the ship’s warp engines ramping up to high power. The Bombay was accelerating rapidly. Xiong dimmed the lights and dropped with a relieved sigh onto the lower rack of a double bunk. Seventy-nine hours to Vanguard, he thought. Folding his arms behind his head, he closed his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and let himself start to drift off to sleep. More than enough time to finish my report for Commodore Reyes…after a nap.

The door to his shared quarters opened to admit a shrilly whistled tune, followed by the person causing it. The overhead lights snapped on to full strength. Peeking through one eyelid, Xiong silently observed the entrance of a young Tellarite officer whose crimson uniform shirt bore the single cuff stripe of a lieutenant. Xiong had never heard a Tellarite whistle before. It seemed louder and more piercing than human whistling. He guessed that it was because of the Tellarites’ more robust sinus cavities.

Like a sonic drill, the whistling corkscrewed through Xiong’s thoughts. He rolled away from his roommate and pulled his pillow over his head, but still the semi-musical nasal shrieking continued. He must see me, Xiong told himself. After six torturous minutes that felt like an hour, he couldn’t take it anymore. He rolled over, removed the pillow from his face, and shot a steely glare at the porcine-featured whistler. “What the hell are you doing?”

Recoiling with a surprised expression, the Tellarite said, “I am whistling.”

Mustn’t lose my temper. Remain calm. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy it. It helps me think.”

The irony alone made Xiong clench his jaw. “Would you mind stopping for a while? I need to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was bothering you.” The brawny, black-eyed fellow stepped forward and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Nem chim Loak, impulse drive assistant supervisor.”

Xiong shook Loak’s large and rough-textured hand. “Ming Xiong.”

“Nice to meet you, Ming. Which department are you in?”

“I’m not,” Xiong said, already regretting that he’d let the conversation last this long but despairing of a way to end it. “I’m just hitching a ride back to Vanguard.”

“Oh—you must be the A&A officer we just picked up from Sagittarius.”

“Yeah,” he said, choosing to stifle his usual rant about the abbreviation being a misnomer. Though his position was often referred to as “anthropology-and-archaeology officer,” it was Xiong’s opinion that the job was actually about xenology rather than anthropology. Therefore, he liked to tell people that he should be called the “X-and-A officer.” Recently, however, he had been told by more than one person that it was a pretty boring subject for a rant and that he might as well learn to live with the flawed abbreviation.

“So,” Loak said, “what were you doing on—”

“It’s classified.” Just as Xiong had hoped, his comment brought the conversation grinding to an awkward halt. “Anyway, thanks for not whistling. I’m going back to sleep now.”

“Um, sure,” Loak said. “Do you mind if I read for a while?”

“Be my guest.”

Loak grabbed a data display tablet and carried it with him as he climbed into the top bunk. Down below, Xiong rolled over and pulled his pillow back over his head once more. A few deep, measured breaths later, he was almost over the threshold of consciousness, back to sleep.

Then the small room reverberated with Loak’s deep, resonant humming. Loud and tuneless, it was enough to prompt Xiong to indulge in homicidal fantasies: I wonder if I can shove this whole pillow through his snout and into his throat.

Xiong stared up at the bunk bottom above him and projected his seething ire toward the drooping bulge caused by the Tellarite lieutenant. Carefully stripping the bilious anger from his voice, he said with poisonous overpoliteness, “Loak?”

The humming paused. From above came Loak’s cautious “Yes?”

“Are you familiar with the effects of sleep deprivation on humans?”

“Not exactly, but I—”

“It can cause irrational behavior,” Xiong said in a tired monotone that nonetheless conveyed a quiet edge of danger.

“I wasn’t aware of—”

“You never know what might make a sleep-deprived human do something insane. A word spoken out of turn…a tune taken out of context. Any little thing…and a human can just snap.”

“I see,” Loak said softly. “That’s very—”

“Have you ever considered dyeing your hair pink?”

“No,” Loak said defensively.

“Are you planning on sleeping any time between now and when we reach Vanguard?”

Suddenly, Loak sounded nervous. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Xiong said quietly. “No reason at all.” After allowing a few moments for the conversation to sink in, he added, “I’m going back to sleep now.”

There was no reply from the top bunk. Not a word, not a whistle, not a single hummed note. Satisfied that he had made his point, Xiong finally relaxed and fell asleep.

He awoke two hours and nine minutes later to the most horrific snoring he’d ever heard in his entire life. The baritone vibrato of Loak’s deviated septum shook the bunk frame. Glaring through half-lidded eyes, Xiong reminded himself that, as a guest aboard the Bombay, he had the luxury of changing his schedule so that he could sleep while Loak was on duty and simply pass Loak’s sleep cycle elsewhere.

I’m still going to dye his hair pink, he decided.

4

Hostile colors coursed through the elite Political Castemoot SubLink of Tholia. Cacophonous tones of anxiety and dark hues of indignation underscored the collective mind-line of the Ruling Conclave, which reigned supreme over Tholia’s Great Castemoot Assembly and the species’ telepathic network, the Lattice.

The Federation provokes us, insisted Narskene [The Gold]. Too long have we left their trespasses unanswered.

Calming shades of indigo infused the SubLink as Velrene [The Azure] replied, We have made no claim in that region. She offered up memories, several hundred generations old, of Castemoot decisions to push Tholia’s explorations in every other possible direction but into the Shedai Sector. Dozens of thought-facets twinkled with images of inherited history.

Always have we defended our trailing border, interjected Yazkene [The Emerald], referring to the orientation of Tholia’s territory relative to the rotation of the galaxy. Seventeen previous Castemoots planned to repulse the inevitable Klingon encroachment. His mind-line darkened with shame. But when the Federation constructed its starbase, there was no plan. Why were we not poised to retaliate when the Federation came?

Sonorous chimes heralded the inclusion of Falstrene [The Gray] into the discussion. It is pointless to speak of defense unless we commit to colonization. We cannot defend the Shedai Sector from alien incursion unless we occupy it.

Azrene [The Violet] objected with coruscating anger. The Laws of the First Assembly forbid it!

Rolling clamors of dissent propagated laterally and disrupted the Castemoot’s already heated deliberation.

The Klingon Empire did not exist when the First Assembly ratified its canon, retorted Radkene [The Sallow]. The law speaks to the galaxy that was. We must rule in the one that is.

Eskrene [The Ruby] adjusted her mind-line hue to complement Radkene’s. I concur. Might not the Federation aggrieve the Klingons by impeding their expansion? Our enemies may yet neutralize one another, leaving the Shedai Sector barren once more. Patience is—

Deafening and blinding, an excruciating thought-pulse ripped through the Political Castemoot. Hues blanched to near-transparency, mind-lines faded, the SubLink faltered. Instinct propelled the conclave participants to escape the SubLink, to retreat into the broader sanctuary of the Tholian Lattice. But there was no peace to be found; a piercing wave of psionic power held the Tholian race in its crushing grip. In a flash, every Tholian mind knew the icy touch of enslavement.

As abruptly as it had come, it ceased.

Echoes of the thought-pulse rocked the Lattice, like the aftershocks that followed quakes in the volcanic Underrock beneath Tholia’s three principal continents. Normally, the Ruling Conclave withheld alarming knowledge from the lower echelons of the Lattice-at-large, in the interest of preventing reckless actions by individuals that could bring harm to the rest of the Assembly.

Such discretion had just become impossible.

The Lattice was ringing with terror and incandescent with fury. An ancient and terrible force had seized the Tholians by usurping their most inviolate form of communion. They knew not this power’s name, its purpose, or why it had called to them. About it, they knew only two things:

Where it was—and that it must be annihilated, at any cost.

5

Commodore Diego Reyes exited his office and strode across the top level of the operations center of Starbase 47. Even at its least frenetic moments, the nerve center of the enormous facility buzzed with signal chatter and pulsed with foot traffic—yeomen bearing reports and work orders, department chiefs going to or returning from one meeting or another. This morning, service personnel dodged out of Reyes’s unswerving path. Technicians tore their eyes from the huge display screens, which wrapped around the top third of the high perimeter wall, to watch the lanky flag officer pass in a swift blur.

Elevated slightly above the chaos was the supervisors’ deck, which was situated in the center of the cavernous circular compartment and bounded only by a simple gunmetal-gray railing. The anchoring feature of the platform was an octagonal conference table, into which were set eight situation monitors, each with its own set of controls. Known to the operations staff as “the hub,” it was from this compact block of workspace that the bulk of the station’s business was managed each day.

Gathered around the hub at 0823, and already deep into the morning staff meeting, were the station’s department heads, minus the chief medical officer, who was notorious for shunning such briefings. Commander Jon Cooper, the station’s executive officer, ran the meeting with his trademark low-key aplomb. Lieutenant Judy Dunbar, the senior communications officer, sat with her eyes closed and twirled a curl of her light brown hair around one index finger as she listened and committed the minutes of the meeting to her photographic memory. No one took any notice as Reyes quietly climbed the steps toward the hub.

“Ray,” Cooper said to the fleet operations manager, Lieutenant Commander Raymond Cannella, “what’s this I’m hearing about a six-hour delay in docking clearance for the Chichén Itzá?”

“It’s their own fault,” said Cannella, a hefty man with a thick, nasal New Jersey accent. “They left Cait two days early but never updated their flight plan. They’re lucky we found them a berth at all.”

Cooper tilted his head in a half-nod. “Fair enough.”

Reyes reached the top of the stairs, and everyone turned at the sound of his approach. Despite his best efforts not to tread with such a heavy step, he found it difficult to muffle his footfalls. The commodore was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and his ex-wife had been fond of telling him that his “aura” frequently preceded him, even through a closed door. Serves me right for marrying a telepath, he brooded. Lifting his chin in a friendly but curt greeting, he said, “Morning, folks.” Overlapping variations of Good morning, sir were volleyed back at him. “Mr. Cooper,” he continued, “do you mind if I butt in for just a nanosecond?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Thank you.” Reyes looked at Vanguard’s senior engineering officer, Lieutenant Isaiah Farber. “Mr. Farber, what’s topping your priority list these days?”

The heavily muscled Starfleet weight-lifting champion mulled his answer for a moment, then said, “Mostly space-dock systems, sir. We’re still fine-tuning the—”

“Because I think that in a claustrophobic environment like ours, it’s the little things that raise or lower the bar on our quality of life. Don’t you agree?”

A sheepish glance worked its way around the hub, from one officer to another, starting and ending with Farber. He looked up at last and said, “Your food slot’s on the fritz again, sir?”

Reyes feigned astonishment. “Amazing, Farber. You must be psychic. Exercise truly broadens the mind, after all.”

“I’ll have your food slot fixed by 1300.”

“Excellent,” Reyes said, patting Farber firmly on one beefy shoulder. “God is in the details, Mr. Farber.”

“Aye, sir.”

Turning his dark gray gaze toward Cooper, Reyes said, “When does the Bombay make port?”

“Nine-twenty hours.”

“Notify me as soon as they enter spacedock.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Carry on. My best to Jen and your boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Reyes nodded quickly to the rest of the group, then turned and walked back down the steps. He looked around the ops center, which was packed with computers, communication devices, and gadgets capable of myriad technological marvels—with the notable exception of being able to produce a cup of coffee. As frontier hardships go, this is kind of petty, he admitted to himself. But if forty years in the service, flag rank, and sector command aren’t worth a cup of java, what the hell is?

He walked into his sparsely furnished office and sat down at his desk. The morning reports and pending orders were all waiting in neatly arranged stacks, courtesy of his alpha-shift yeoman, Toby Greenfield. Although he had expected, upon first meeting her, that her perpetually sunny disposition would grate on his nerves, he had found the opposite to be true. Truth be told, he had to admit that the longer he served with her, the more he grew to appreciate her joie de vivre.