Текст книги "Reap the Whirlwind"

Автор книги: David Mack

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A stiff breeze fluttered Sturka’s robe around him as he walked. “How big a presence does Starfleet have there?”

“Much larger than necessary,” Indizar said, pleased to see that the chancellor’s deductive powers remained as keen as ever. “It’s worth noting that the Federation’s banner won’t be flying over that world. There have long been rumors of distrust of Starfleet among the colonists; my sources have confirmed that they refused protectorate status from the Federation.”

“Good,” Sturka said. He eyed Indizar. “How soon can we put our own people on the surface?”

“As soon as you give the order, my lord,” she said. “A team of scientists and a group of ‘farmers’ are standing by aboard a transport being escorted by the cruiser Che’leth. They can reach Ge’hoQ in a few hours.”

“Send them now,” Sturka said to her. “As for Captain Kutal, let’s send him some new cruiser escorts and put him back in the hunt. I want the Zin’za to make another sortie to Jinoteur.”

“Yes, my lord,” Indizar said. A cool breeze wafted across the rooftop from the northeast. It chilled her as it passed by. “The Zin’za is still in port making major repairs, but I’ll have it ship out as soon as possible.”

Gorkon glanced at her. “Mask its deployment orders well. It would be best if Councillor Duras and his allies remained as uninformed about the Gonmog campaign as possible.”

“That was already my assumption,” she assured him.

Sturka halted his pacing in front of Indizar. “Have we received any new intelligence about Jinoteur from our agent on the starbase?”

Exhaling an angry sigh through her nostrils, the rankled councillor replied, “No, my lord. Since the recall of our diplomatic team, her communications have become less frequent and less precise. Corrective steps are being taken.”

“See that they are,” Sturka said. “Starfleet plans to send its outrider to Jinoteur, I’m certain of it. I want to know the moment the Sagittarius leaves port. When it gets to Jinoteur, I want its crew to find the Zin’za waiting for them.”

Indizar nodded deferentially. “Yes, my lord. I’ve made Lugok aware of your wishes on this matter.”

“I’m sure you have.” The chancellor aimed a narrow-eyed sidelong glare at Gorkon. “You’re thinking something, my old friend—I can see it in your eyes. Out with it.”

A grim frown settled over Gorkon’s stately features. “I battled Vanguard’s commander a few times in the past, back when we were both starship captains. Considering the losses we have sustained in our expeditions to Jinoteur, I am forced to wonder whether Reyes deliberately leaked us the information about Jinoteur so that Starfleet could learn from our mistakes.”

“If so,” Sturka replied, “it would imply that our agent on Vanguard has been detected.”

“Or compromised,” Gorkon said. He and Sturka both looked at Indizar, as if to challenge her to rebut their suspicions.

Instead, she maintained her countenance of dispassionate calm and replied simply, “If either is true, she will die.”

Hidden deep within the crushing fires of Tholia’s deepest re-doubt, the Ruling Conclave had gathered physically, something that had not been done in ages. Shielded from the psychic tides of anxiety that coursed through the Tholian Lattice, the elite members of the Political Castemoot reached out to one another and made contact with their faceted limbs. Each touch brought another mind-line into their telepathic circle of harmony.

Azrene [The Violet] offered her thoughts in troubled shades of crimson. The Voice grows stronger, and still no word from the Lanz’t Tholis. Reinforcements are in order.

There can be no rescue effort, countered Radkene [The Sallow]. Too many have we sacrificed in that place. No more.

Strident flares of white conveyed the fury of Velrene [The Azure]. The Voice must be silenced, she insisted. Sacrifice the Lanz’t Tholis if we must, but it is past time for us to strike.

Narskene [The Gold] tried to mask his fear in hues of calming indigo, but the rich scarlet of alarm betrayed his stoic words. Mounting a larger expeditionary force to that place will only draw the attention of our enemies, he opined.

May they all suffer the same fate as Palgrenax, interjected Eskrene [The Ruby], her words coruscating with antipathy and interspersed with fleeting images of the scattered, glowing debris of the Klingon-occupied world that had recently exploded.

Yazkene [The Emerald] darkened his mind-line with grim disapproval and conveyed his warning in dolorous chimes. The Federation appears to be seeking out all that we have feared. The Klingons, not to be outdone, follow their lead. They must both be stopped.

From Azrene and Narskene came scintillating pulses of alarm and objection. A flurry of images from the recent past flickered over Narskene’s thought-facets, recapping dozens of abortive attacks on Klingon warships by Tholian vessels. Then, for emphasis, he added several dispiriting reminders that of six Tholian ships that had launched an ambush on the Starfleet frigate Bombay, four had been destroyed before the enemy ship was finally overcome and detonated its self-destruct ordnance.

Though Narskene had been content to let the images speak for themselves, Azrene summarized his intentions with her own vermilion passion. We are not capable of fighting a war against the Klingon Empire and the Federation at the same time, she warned. Even to consider it is to court our own destruction.

Indignant, sickly colors blazed around the mind-line of Falstrene [The Gray]. We cannot cede the Shedai Sector to them!

Agreed, seconded Velrene. It is not necessary to wage war for the entire sector. We need only deny them access to the source of the Voice.

Low and steady came Radkene’s reply. There is no evidence that the Federation or the Klingons even know of the Voice, or its source. They see only the shells, not the essence.

The Federation’s people are far more clever than you give them credit for being, counseled Eskrene. They have already learned too much. If left unchecked, they will unlock the secrets of the Voice. We must act before that happens. The Voice must be silenced, this time forever.

Sharp, discordant tones of dismay echoed through their private mind-link, all of them emanating from Narskene. We assault the Voice at our peril, he cautioned. Already we have lost one battle cruiser. Ancient, terrifying fragments of vague, genetically encoded species memories blinked across his thought-facets. Look to the past. Remember the price our kind paid for freedom. What if challenging the Voice brings it here to Tholia?

Panic swelled for a moment among the members of the Ruling Conclave, only to be suppressed by the dark and dominating mind-line of Yazkene. If the Shedai come to Tholia, he declared, we will give them a fight such as they have never known.

Madness! protested Azrene in strident tones of violet.

Narskene tinted his thought-colors to match Azrene’s, then added to Yazkene, Only a fool would risk the wrath of the Shedai! Their coming would herald our destruction.

I would rather their wrath than their rule, Yazkene countered with incandescent pride. Better to be annihilated than subjugated. Mark my words, Narskene: Our people will not wear that yoke again. They will kill to prevent it and die before they accept it. It is time to face the truth: This is war.

5

There were no clouds in the night sky above New Boulder, but Ensign O’Halloran was nonetheless convinced that at any moment a bolt of lightning would slice down from the heavens to smite him and Ensign Anderson. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he said to his friend, who also happened to be the one person on Gamma Tauri IV he most wanted to strangle. “What are you trying to do, start a riot?”

“Would you relax?” Anderson wrinkled his nose at O’Halloran as if he’d suddenly detected an unpleasant odor. “This is going to be the best night of your life if you don’t screw it up. More important, it’s gonna be the best night of my life if you don’t screw it up. So don’t screw it up.”

Visions of painful public death haunted O’Halloran’s thoughts. He and Anderson were walking from the far edge of the settlement to a low-profile establishment somewhere in its center. Rumors of a party had lured Anderson in search of the basement bar, and, as usual, O’Halloran had somehow gotten dragged along. “This is a bad idea,” he said as the streets around them grew darker and less trafficked. “Let’s go back.”

“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Anderson said. “Another night sitting on a mound of dirt around a campfire with a bunch of engineers.” He punched O’Halloran in the shoulder. “Are you nuts? This isn’t just any party we’re talking about, it’s a colony party: girls a couple hundred light-years from home who haven’t seen a new face in months. And you know what they say about colony girls—they’re up for anything.”

“Spare me the details,” O’Halloran groused.

Anderson shook his head. “Suit yourself, kemosabe. But this is as good as it gets. This is the Garden of Eden, this is Mecca, this is—” He paused in mid-sentence, stopped walking, and looked up. All traces of humor and irony vanished from his expression. O’Halloran followed his line of sight.

A flaring orange pinpoint of light across the sky grew brighter as it descended. “Meteor?” O’Halloran wondered aloud. Anderson said nothing; he just watched the speck of fiery brilliance grow larger and brighter as it drew closer to the surface. In a single dramatic arc the object leveled its flight and cruised directly toward the New Boulder colony.

Within seconds it neared to within several kilometers, slowing as it went but still cruising at supersonic speed. It flew over the settlement and was kilometers gone before a deafening boom of displaced air rattled the entire colony. O’Halloran looked around and saw that the streets were no longer empty. People had piled out of residential shelters and workspaces to see what had caused the commotion.

He looked at Anderson. “Did you see what it was?”

“Yup,” Anderson said.

Exasperated by his friend’s dearth of details, he replied, “So? What was it?” After a few more seconds of watching Anderson stare grimly toward the vanishing engine glow of the retreating ship, O’Halloran snapped, “Dammit, Jeff, say something!”

Anderson sighed heavily and looked at him. “There goes the neighborhood.”

The emergency signal on his communicator all but knocked al-Khaled out of his bunk. He fumbled to grab the device from the floor next to his cot and flipped it open. “Al-Khaled here.”

“We’ve got company,” said Captain Okagawa. “Get to ops on the double.”

“On my way,” al-Khaled answered, already halfway out the door. Falling asleep in his uniform, normally a symptom of his absentmindedness or fatigue, all at once seemed prescient. No sooner had he stepped outside than all of New Boulder was shaken by a thunderous roar from overhead.

Minutes later he scrambled out of the switchback staircase and into the underground bunker, still winded from his hundred-meter sprint from the officers’ barracks to the operations center. “Someone talk to me,” he demanded.

“Klingon D-5 cruiser in orbit, sir,” answered Lieutenant Christopher Gabbert, the night-shift room boss. “Based on her power signature, we’ve identified her as the I.K.S. Che’leth.” It was Gabbert’s job to watch over all the other stations and coordinate all departments’ responses to whatever crisis might present itself.

“What buzzed the colony?” al-Khaled asked, slightly distracted by the sweat dampening his uniform jersey.

Gabbert called up several screens of sensor readings and flight telemetry detailing the path of the ship that had flown over the settlement. “Klingon transport,” he said. “Big enough to carry about three thousand people and a whole lotta gear.” The bearded operations specialist added, “Looks like they set down about fifty kliks away, near the Cardalian Mountains.”

“Dammit,” al-Khaled muttered. “Didn’t take them long, did it? They moved in as soon as they heard the colony refused protectorate status.”

Nodding in agreement, Gabbert said, “They’ve probably been hanging out somewhere between here and the Al Nath system, waiting for a chance to move in.”

“Get the Lovell on the horn,” al-Khaled said. “Secure channel.”

With a nod to the communications officer, Gabbert delegated the task. Seconds later, an active channel beeped on Gabbert’s master console, and he flipped the switch to the open position. The image of Captain Okagawa appeared on the main screen.

“Captain,” al-Khaled said. “Everything okay up there?”

“Yeah, we’re just peachy,” Okagawa said with naked sarcasm. “I was thinking of having the captain of the Che’leth over for a few drinks. What do you think? Sound like a good idea?”

Gabbert mumbled, “I could sure use a drink right now.”

Ignoring the room boss, al-Khaled focused on assessing the situation. “Is the Che’leth making any threatening moves against you? Has its captain hailed you?”

“Negative,” Okagawa said. “They made orbit and released their transport. They’re holding position on the far side of the planet. Looks like their colony team is right in your backyard, though. Everything all right down there?”

“A little shaken from their fly-by, but no real problems. Not yet, anyway.”

The salt-and-pepper-haired CO’s brow creased with concern. “Do you have a contingency plan for continuing the search?”

“Yes, sir, but it won’t be easy,” al-Khaled admitted. “Judging by how fast they moved in once the colonists opened the door, it’s a good bet the Klingons know why we’re here.”

“Count on it,” Okagawa said. “They’ll watch every move you make, and they’ll assume you’re doing the same to them.”

“Understood,” al-Khaled said. It was going to be a battle of wits from this point forward. Both teams would be launching multiple feints, diversionary operations to throw the other off the trail of whatever real finds they might be seeking to make. Whichever side proved better at bluffing and following clues at the same time would gain the advantage. One thing that would work in the Klingons’ favor, however, was that their “colonists” were likely imposters, just a superficial cover for their military and scientific mission on the planet; unburdened by the need to provide material support to a real, working colony, the Klingons would be free to devote all their time and resources to outflanking al-Khaled’s group. That was a challenge al-Khaled was prepared to face, but another matter worried him. “Sir, what are we supposed to do if the Klingon Empire makes a formal claim to this colony? Without protectorate status—”

“I know, Mahmud,” Okagawa said, looking markedly more fatigued by the mere asking of the question. “Unless you or one of your people feels like starting a war with the Klingons, you have to stay neutral down there. Just keep doing your job and stay out of the Klingons’ way.”

“That’s fine in theory,” al-Khaled said. “But if the Klingons come after New Boulder, my team won’t sit it out.”

A pained look deepened the frown lines on Okagawa’s face. “You don’t have any choice, Mahmud. Unless the Klingons take a shot at uniformed Starfleet personnel, we can’t interfere.”

“Not even if the colonists ask for help?”

Okagawa considered that for a moment. “If they send an SOS, we can respond. But it has to be an official request for aid from the colony leadership. Anything short of that, and we have to stay out of it. That’s an order. Clear?”

As disappointed as he was concerned, al-Khaled answered simply, “Yes, Captain.” After a breath, he asked, “Do you want to file the report with Vanguard, sir, or should I?”

The captain closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his fingertips for a moment before he said, “I’ll do it. You’ve got a lot on your plate…. Besides, I already have a headache.”

Less than four minutes after receiving an urgent bulletin about the Klingons’ landing on Gamma Tauri IV, Ambassador Jetanien stepped out of a turbolift into Starbase 47’s voluminous and quietly busy operations center. The enormous Chelon diplomat moved swiftly across the main deck toward Commodore Reyes’s office, his immaculate scarlet robes fluttering dramatically behind him as he went. He tried to control the nervous rapid clicking of his beaklike proboscis, but it refused to be still.

In one web-fingered manus he carried a data slate loaded with the key details of the Klingons’ brazen action; in the other he held a hard copy of his unabashedly belligerent official rebuke of Jeanne Vinueza for inciting such an outcome.

As Jetanien passed the supervisor’s deck, the station’s first officer, Commander Jon Cooper, looked down at him from the circular elevated platform. For a moment the fortyish officer looked as if he were going to say something, but then he shook his head and turned his attention to his station on the hub, an octagonal bank of terminals and control panels that dominated the middle of the supervisor’s deck.

No one seemed willing to get in Jetanien’s way until he approached within five meters of Reyes’s office door. Then the diminutive but unyielding shape of Yeoman Toby Greenfield appeared in front of him. The top of her head was level with the middle of his chest. Looking up with proud determination, she said, “The commodore is in a classified briefing.”

“This cannot wait,” Jetanien said. He tried to walk around her, but she sidestepped adroitly into his path.

“You’ll have to be announced first, Your Excellency,” she said, her voice polite but firm. “Commodore Reyes’s orders.”

“Young lady, I don’t have—”

“My rank is lieutenant, junior grade,” Greenfield said. “You can call me Lieutenant Greenfield. Or, if you prefer, you may also address me as Yeoman Greenfield.”

Flaring with impatience and imperiousness, Jetanien was about to launch into a verbal riposte when he noticed that Greenfield’s declaration had drawn the attention of nearly every Starfleet officer and crewman on the deck. He clutched his chattering beak shut a moment, inhaled, then exhaled and bowed his head as he remembered his manners. “Quite right, Lieutenant. My apologies. It will not happen again.”

Tilting her head in a half-nod, she replied, “Apology accepted, Your Excellency. Shall I announce your visit?”

“Please do, Lieutenant.”

He waited while Greenfield moved to her console, inserted a small Feinberger transceiver into her ear, and opened an intercom line to Reyes’s office. She spoke in whispers, nodded to herself while listening to a response, then removed the small device from her ear. As she pressed a control to unlock the office door, she glanced at Jetanien. “The commodore will see you now, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, moving in long strides toward the door, which slid open at his approach.

Inside the office, Commodore Reyes was seated behind his desk, reclining with his right foot crossed over his left knee. Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn stood in front of the desk, hands folded together behind her back. Both watched Jetanien as he hurried in. As soon as he heard the door close behind him, muting the sounds of the operations center, he said to them, “We have a problem. The Klingons—”

“Just landed a colony ship on Gamma Tauri IV,” Reyes cut in. “We know. T’Prynn’s been tracking them and their escort, the Che’leth, since they shipped out of Somraw five weeks ago.”

“How considerate of you both to keep me so well informed,” Jetanien said. “Since the Klingons do not share our objective of preventing hostilities in the Taurus Reach, I recommend that we withdraw all uniformed Starfleet personnel from Gamma Tauri IV immediately and—”

“Whoa!” Reyes bellowed. “One disaster at a time, Jetanien. T’Prynn got here first. You’ll just have to take a number and wait your turn.”

Only now did Jetanien notice that the display screen on the wall beside Reyes’s desk showed an orbital chart of the Jinoteur system. His already profound sense of foreboding deepened. “Have the Klingons lost another ship at Jinoteur?”

“Three ships, actually,” T’Prynn said. “The lead vessel escaped but suffered significant losses. However, that is the least notable detail of today’s sensor logs.”

She picked up a data slate from Reyes’s desk and offered it to Jetanien. He reflexively reached forward to take it, then remembered that both his hands were full. Fumbling in a diagonal reach, he handed his data slate to her and then accepted hers. Reyes watched the transaction with droll amusement. “What, nothing for me?”

Jetanien handed him the letter. “This is for your ex-wife.”

“I’m not sure that counts,” Reyes said, tossing the folded pages casually onto his desk.

Reviewing the information on T’Prynn’s data slate, Jetanien adopted a more professional tone. “Forgive the interruption, Commander. Please proceed.”

“Our reconnaissance probes have detected a Tholian ship in orbit above the fourth planet of the Jinoteur system,” T’Prynn reported. “Based on previous sensor readings, we estimate that it reached the planet between 0300 and 0500 station time today. Shortly afterward, four Klingon battle cruisers attempted to join it in orbit. They were immediately fired upon by artillery concealed on the planet’s three moons.”

As Jetanien studied the details on the data slate, he was troubled by the news. During a heated round of negotiations seven weeks earlier, the Tholian ambassador, Sesrene, had intimated that his people feared the Taurus Reach, that they had for ages avoided it because of something they called Shedai. “Of all places,” Sesrene had confided, “this is where we are not to be.” Even more telling, not only did the Tholians wish to leave the Taurus Reach unclaimed, but it seemed vitally important to them that no one else lay claim to it, either.

The pieces of this ancient puzzle had begun to come together for Jetanien. Starfleet discovered the meta-genome and an alien artifact on Ravanar IV, and the Tholians wiped out the planet; the Klingons moved aggressively to claim worlds in the Taurus Reach, and the Tholians retaliated by launching a campaign of sneak attacks on Klingon ships.

On every planet on which Starfleet had found an artifact like the one on Ravanar, it also had found the meta-genome. With those discoveries had come terrible reprisals, by a powerful adversary unlike any the Federation had ever encountered before. Merciless and brutal, the obsidian entity had proved itself willing to obliterate entire planets in order to protect its secrets. Though Jetanien as yet had no proof for his hypothesis, he was certain that whatever else this foe proved to be, it was the force that the Tholians called Shedai.

At the heart of the entire mystery lay the Jinoteur system. It had been the source of bizarre carrier wave signals that had disrupted Vanguard’s systems during construction a year earlier. Now, having looked more closely at the system, Starfleet had discovered that its planets’ orbital mechanics were unlike anything else ever recorded in nature. All evidence currently available suggested that if the Taurus Reach mystery had a focal point, the Jinoteur system was it.

And now a Tholian heavy cruiser was there.

Jetanien put down the data slate on Reyes’s desk. “Most troubling,” he said. “Covertly enlightening the Klingons about Jinoteur was a calculated risk. Their impulsive nature has spared us a great many casualties and provided us with valuable intelligence. But the presence of the Tholians is…unexpected.” He made a few clicking noises with his beak while he pondered the matter. “Why would the Tholians, after making a point of their aversion to the Taurus Reach and the thing they call Shedai, send a starship to Jinoteur?”

Reyes replied, “Maybe for the same reason that they sent six ships to destroy the artifact on Ravanar IV.”

T’Prynn cocked one eyebrow into a high arch. “Doubtful, sir,” she said. “If the Tholians had attempted an attack on Jinoteur IV, we would have detected radiation from a planetary barrage. Furthermore, to neutralize all the planets and satellites in the system would require more firepower than one ship could carry. Lastly, considering the violent responses the Klingons have suffered when entering the Jinoteur system, a single Tholian vessel would seem to have little hope of waging a successful assault.”

Reyes pressed two fingers against his left temple while he considered T’Prynn’s reasoning. “Good points,” he said. “So answer me this: If the Tholians aren’t there for a fight, what are they doing there?”

“At present I find their motives opaque, sir,” T’Prynn said. “We lack sufficient information about their link to the meta-genome and the artifacts to make an informed hypothesis regarding their purpose in the Jinoteur system. I do, however, find it interesting that the Tholian ship does not appear to have been fired upon—unlike the Klingons’ vessels.”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Jetanien said, “It seems that expediting our investigation of the Jinoteur system has become our chief priority.”

Reyes frowned and fixed Jetanien with a dour look. “You think?” He uncrossed his legs and sat up straighter as he pulled his chair closer to his desk. “I canceled Sagittarius’s shore leave five minutes before you got here. As soon as we get them loaded and Xiong finishes their briefing, they’ll be shipping out, probably by 2300.”

“That might present a problem, sir,” T’Prynn said. “Klingon fleet activity in this sector has doubled since the recall of their ambassador, and we know they monitor our deployments. It is likely they will try to intercept the Sagittarius.”

“Relax, Commander,” Reyes said with a grin. “I still know a few tricks the Klingons don’t. By the time they realize our boat’s shipped out, she’ll be long gone.”

“Splendid, Commodore,” Jetanien said with vigor. “As you appear to have the Jinoteur crisis well in hand, perhaps you could now direct your formidable talents toward the less glamorous fiasco developing on Gamma Tauri IV.”

Reyes’s grin flattened, and his thick eyebrows pressed down over his eyes, imparting a long-suffering quality to his face. “Would you like to run this starbase, Ambassador?” Knowing that the question was rhetorical, Jetanien took the gentle chiding in stride. Apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, Reyes continued, “I pulled the Endeavour off the border twenty minutes ago. She’s on her way to Gamma Tauri IV at maximum warp.”

“From the border?” Jetanien fumed. “It will take them nearly a week to reach Gamma Tauri! And what, pray tell, will they do to improve the current situation once they arrive?”

The commodore pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, as though trying to will away a headache. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Prevent the Klingons from killing everyone?” He lowered his hand and sighed. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Well, naturally,” Jetanien said. He reached forward and tapped with two clawed digits on the letter he had given to Reyes minutes earlier. “Persuade your ex-wife to reverse her decision about protectorate status. If she signs the accord, we can order the Klingons off the planet.”

A gallows-humor chuckle rattled from Reyes’s throat. “You think it’d be that easy?” He shook his head. “Trust me, that’s not how Jeanne does business.”

T’Prynn sounded almost optimistic as she said, “Your past marital relationship might lend your opinion greater weight with Ms. Vinueza, sir. It might be worthwhile to at least open a dialogue before she departs the station.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been married,” Reyes said. For a moment Jetanien thought he saw T’Prynn wince.

Reyes, oblivious of T’Prynn’s reaction to his offhand remark, looked back and forth at her and Jetanien. Ostensibly concluding that he was outnumbered, he pressed his palms on the desktop and said with grudging resolve, “Fine, I’ll talk to her. But don’t get your hopes up, Jetanien. Listening to reason was never Jeanne’s strong suit.”

“Perhaps you could improve her disposition by broaching the subject somewhere other than this gray dungeon cell you absurdly call an office,” Jetanien said. “For instance, you might take Ms. Vinueza to dinner at Manón’s.”

“An excellent suggestion, Ambassador,” T’Prynn said.

The commodore leaned back in his chair and glared at Jetanien and T’Prynn.

Confused by Reyes’s reaction to the notion of dining with his former spouse, Jetanien asked, “Is there some reason you wouldn’t wish to dine with Ms. Vinueza?”

“You mean aside from our divorce?” Reyes rolled his eyes. “Can’t think of a thing.”

Sitting at the bar in Tom Walker’s place, an unpretentious drinking establishment in Stars Landing, Master Chief Petty Officer Mike “Mad Man” Ilucci had no complaints. The beer was cold, the up-tempo music from the overhead speakers was edgy and loud enough to keep other people from eavesdropping on him and his fellow engineers, and the joint was blissfully free of officers, who generally preferred to drink at Manón’s cabaret.

To his left, Petty Officer First Class Salagho Threx, the senior engineer’s mate, covered a shot glass of Martian whiskey with one beefy hand, slammed the bottom of the glass onto the bar, and dropped it into his pint of amber ale. Overflowing spirits ran down the side of the glass as the sinking whiskey foamed. Threx lifted the glass, booze sloshing over his hand, and guzzled it before the reaction ended. Suds from the ale clung to the tall, heavily muscled Denobulan’s thick dark beard.

On Ilucci’s right sat Crewman Torvin, a nerdy young Tiburonian engineer. He nursed his drink, a pale lavender concoction that Ilucci had never heard of. Bald and fragile-looking, Torvin was barely a year out of basic and still seemed intimidated by most of the universe. Ilucci gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Drink up, kid,” he said. “No telling when we’ll get shore leave again.”

Torvin glanced up toward the speakers and winced. Like most Tiburonians, he had extremely acute auditory senses. It gave him an edge during sensitive diagnostic work, but it also meant that he sometimes found loud noises overwhelming. “Isn’t there someplace quieter we can go, Master Chief?”