Текст книги "What Judgments Come"
Автор книги: Dayton Ward
Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Научная фантастика
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
“Ganz,” said a deep male voice, “this is Tonzak. As you requested, I’ve brought Lekkar.”
Looking once more to Neera, Ganz stood silent as she offered one final, resolute nod. “No doubts.”
There could be no disagreeing with her, Ganz decided, even if that was what he desired. Her logic, though brutal, was indisputable. Despite his personal feelings for the human, Diego Reyes offered more value so long as he was alive. For now, the unlikely, uneasy alliance in which they all were locked would have to continue.
It was just business.
4
“Ow.”
Thomas Blair winced as he looked up at the gymnasium ceiling, his unobstructed view courtesy of the vantage point he currently enjoyed while lying on his back atop the exercise mats covering the floor. From this angle, Blair was able to discern that one of the overhead lighting fixtures was slightly dimmer than its companions.
“Captain, are you all right?” asked a deep voice, before a dark silhouette entered his field of vision and blocked his view. Dressed in red exercise attire, Commander Kamau Mbugua regarded Blair with an expression showing equal parts concern and amusement.
Nodding, Blair replied, “Yeah, I’m fine. Nice throw.” Why he had decided that today was a good day to accept his first officer’s invitation to practice some hand-to-hand drills was a question he would have to ponder at some point. Mbugua’s unarmed combat skills—which included mastery of at least half a dozen different styles of martial arts—were unmatched aboard the Defiant, and while Blair had not aspired to defeat his second-in-command, he had figured he might last longer than five seconds once the friendly sparring match got under way.
Nope.
“Sorry about that, Skipper,” Mbugua said, holding out his large right hand in a gesture of assistance. “That was more instinct than anything else.”
Blair waved away the apology. “My fault, Kamau. That’s what I get for trying a straight-on attack right off the bat.” He thought he might catch the commander off guard by launching an immediate strike right at the start of the match, but Mbugua had seen and reacted to his captain’s movements almost before Blair started moving. His defense was ready even as Blair committed to the tactic, and by the time the captain realized his mistake, he was already being flipped over Mbugua’s hip on his way down to the mat.
Seeing the first officer’s hand, Blair shook his head. “I’m okay. I think I’m just going to lie here a minute, and collect my thoughts.”
“Did somebody call a doctor?” a female voice called out. Mbugua’s response was to release a hearty laugh that echoed off the gymnasium walls as Blair raised his head from the mat to see Jane Hamilton, the Defiant’s chief medical officer, standing at the room’s entrance. Arms crossed, she was leaning against the door frame and eyeing him with no small amount of glee. Rather than a standard duty uniform, the doctor was dressed in gray sweatpants and matching shirt, across the front of which was emblazoned the Defiant insignia. Her shoulder-length red hair was dark with perspiration, and there were damp spots on her shirt.
“Good morning, Jane,” Blair said, reaching up to scratch the top of his head where his sweat-matted gray hair was at its thinnest. “You’re just in time to pronounce me legally dead.”
Her gaze shifting to Mbugua, Hamilton asked, “That bad?”
“I’ve gone up against punching bags that put up a tougher fight,” the first officer replied, making no effort to hide his wide grin.
From where he still lay on the mat, Blair asked, “Do they still let ship captains keelhaul people?” Eyeing Hamilton, he added, “This is all your fault, you know.” For weeks the doctor had been after him to increase and vary his exercise routine. Though the captain made routine use of the ship’s gym and other recreational areas, his duties often prevented him from taking advantage of the facilities as often as he liked. As a result, his last physical had yielded a slight weight gain, in and of itself a recurring problem of Blair’s for the past few years. Though lack of time occasionally was at fault, so far as keeping to a regular exercise schedule, he had admitted to Hamilton that he was becoming bored with the routine of his workouts. With his fifty-first birthday approaching later this year, the doctor had suggested trying some new sports or pursuits, and engaging other members of the crew while working toward that goal. Blair had always preferred to exercise in solitude, often while listening to or reviewing the reports and communiquйs that always seemed to accumulate on his desk, or which were intended solely for his attention. He received no sympathy from Hamilton, who had provided a good-natured scolding with respect to his solitary habits.
“I suggested you try something new,” the doctor said. “I don’t recall saying you should let yourself get thrown around the gym.”
Blair chuckled. “Captain’s prerogative, I suppose. Every crew should see their commanding officer getting his or her butt handed to them once in a while. Keeps things in perspective.”
“If the crew sees you exercising,” Hamilton countered, “even with everything you’ve got on your plate, then they might just think they have no excuse, and they’ll get out there and work up a little sweat themselves.” She gestured in his direction. “Now, get up and continue to perspire in an orderly, proficient, captainly manner, and lose those four kilos before I have to change your diet card again.”
Any retort Blair might have given was cut off by the whistle of the ship’s intercom system. “Bridge to Captain Blair,” said the voice of Ensign Ravishankar Sabapathy, one of the Defiant’s communications officers.
“Saved by the bell,” Blair said as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to a wall-mounted comm panel and thumbed its activation switch. “Blair here.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain,” Sabapathy said, “but we’re picking up a faint broadcast message that appears to be a distress signal.”
Frowning at the report, Blair asked, “Any idea who it is?”
“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied. “According to its signature, the signal’s source is Tholian. The translator says it’s a ship, and that they’ve been attacked.”
Blair glanced to his left as Mbugua moved to stand beside him. “Do they know who attacked them?” the first officer asked.
“I don’t think so, Commander,” said Sabapathy. “The signal looks to be automated, repeating at regular intervals. It’s encrypted, but using an algorithm we’ve managed to break. Still, it’s taking a bit of work to translate the whole thing, and from what we can tell, it’s intended for other Tholian ships that might be in the vicinity.”
“Are sensors picking up signs of other Tholian ship traffic?” Blair asked.
The communications officer replied, “Negative, Captain. So far as we can tell, we’re all alone out here.”
Remembering that gamma shift was still on duty, Blair said, “Have Commander Shull take us to Yellow Alert, and change course to intercept the ship. We’ll see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
There was a break before Lieutenant Commander Terry Shull, the gamma shift duty officer, answered, “I’ve already had the helm computing an intercept course, Captain. If we accelerate to warp six, we can be there inside of sixteen hours.”
Blair nodded in approval. Of course she would be anticipating his orders. The Defiant’s crew did such an exceptional job of anticipating and reacting to his instructions that he often wondered how long they might carry on with their duties before noticing that he had slipped away in the dead of night, bound for a vacation on Argelius or some other fanciful destination. “Do it, and keep me apprised of any new developments.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Shull replied.
Terminating the connection, Blair turned away from the companel to regard Mbugua and Hamilton. “Well,” he said, “what do you make of that?”
“Out here?” Mbugua asked. “There’s no telling. Could be Klingons, could be pirates, could be somebody else we don’t know about yet.”
Hamilton said, “We’re fairly close to the Tholian border, aren’t we?”
“Depending on whom you ask,” Blair replied, “and what day of the week it is, and the mood of the captain of whichever Tholian ship you happen to run across on that day.” The Tholians, despite being strict and even extreme isolationists, often engaged in the contradictory practice of extending and redefining their territorial boundaries as though fueled by whimsy. The lone exception to this odd policy was in how the Tholians treated the Taurus Reach, which they steadfastly refused to include in their expansion or annexing efforts. Indeed, their only excursions into the region were usually in response to actions by other parties they deemed threatening to their territorial security. Looking to Mbugua, Blair asked, “What about the Klingons?”
The dark-skinned first officer reached up with a towel to wipe perspiration from his bald head before replying, “They’ve laid claim to a few planets along the Tholian border, but nothing in this immediate area. At least, that’s so far as we know from the latest survey and intelligence reports.” Klingon activity in this part of the Taurus Reach had been on the rise in recent months, which was but one of the reasons that ships such as the Defiant had been re-tasked to the region and placed under the overall command of Starbase 47. The rationale was simple: Despite the fact that all-out war with the Klingons had been avoided, tensions remained elevated between the Empire and the Federation, and one of the potential flashpoints for any hostilities that might break out was the Taurus Reach. Therefore, in addition to conducting security patrols, the Defiant and other Starfleet vessels also were charged with visiting and offering expanded protection for the numerous colonies established in the Taurus Reach since the Federation had taken an interest in the area five years earlier. For the most part, all the parties in the area seemed to be keeping to themselves, but that did not rule out the occasional skirmish.
Thomas Blair’s gut was telling him this might be something else.
“Let’s revisit those reports,” Blair said, “and prep a report for transmission back to Vanguard. Admiral Nogura’s going to want to know about this.”
5
Cervantes Quinn turned from the bar in time to see the fist coming right at his face. In his mind’s eye he visualized his opponent’s stance in an instant, determining from the arc of the swing and the way he carried his body that the other man was an experienced bar fighter, but woefully lacking in any sort of refined unarmed combat skills. Countering his attack would be child’s play.
It was a good theory, Quinn decided. His instincts were sharp—no mean feat considering his present condition. On the other hand, his reflexes were deplorable. In attempting to step into the other man’s attack, Quinn instead succeeded only in moving his face into a position better suited to receiving the full force of the punch. He took the strike along the left side of his jaw, the impact of bone against bone snapping his head back. Stars danced before his eyes as he stumbled, his back slamming into the bar behind him.
“Hey!”
The voice was distant and dulled by the bourbon currently doing its best to marinate his brain, and Quinn ignored it, just as he gave little regard to other nearby patrons of Tom Walker’s place as they scattered away from the escalating fight. Quinn registered movement in his peripheral vision and raised his left arm in time to block a second attack by his opponent. This time, instincts kicked in and he adjusted his stance as he brought up his right fist, driving it into the other man’s abdomen. He was rewarded with a satisfactory grunt of pain, which was repeated when he again slammed his fist into the man’s midsection.
“Knock it off! No fighting in here!”
His opponent went limp in his grasp, and Quinn let him fall away just as he sensed someone else closing on him. He looked up in time to see a big, brawny giant lunging at him with arm raised and fist clenched. Like the first man, the newcomer wore a set of worn, dirty beige coveralls. He likely was a shipmate, Quinn figured, and looking none too happy that his friend seemed to be getting his ass kicked by a drunk.
“You should learn to keep your mouth shut, old man,” the giant said, his boots thumping along the bar’s simulated wooden floor. Quinn, his jaw still smarting, shook his head. Blinking did nothing to bring his eyes back into focus, and instead they split the big man into three as he barreled forward.
Shit.
The muscled freight hauler—all three of him—started to swing his fist. Without any shred of grace, Quinn dropped to one knee and threw a punch straight into the figure dancing in the center of his blurred vision, catching his opponent square in the groin. The result was immediate, with the other man crying out in pain as his legs gave out and he staggered backward before colliding with another of the bar’s patrons, who, Quinn saw, was also wearing beige coveralls.
“How many of you are there, anyway?” he grumbled, reaching up to rub his aching jaw.
The new guy scowled. “Just me, boss.” Though smaller than his friend, this freighter jockey was stockier, as well as being bald and possessing no neck that Quinn could see. He looked as though he might bench-press cargo containers just to pass the time while enduring the boredom of low-warp transport.
A few drinks earlier, Quinn would have found a way to avoid turning a verbal exchange born of alcohol-induced bravado into a physical altercation. A few drinks before that, he might even have laughed off the antics of the freight haulers, who as far as he could recall were merely enjoying their first night in port after being cooped up inside their ship for weeks or even months.
And a few weeks before that, I wouldn’t even be in here.
That was then, Quinn conceded, and this was now, and now he could not care less how the verbal joust had started, or why it had escalated. The fight was all that remained, and for Quinn, that was good enough.
Gesturing toward the newcomer, he made a show of bringing up his hands and assuming a defensive stance. “Okay, big boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Quinn jerked his head around to find himself staring into the none-too-pleased expression of Marshall Watts, a member of the kitchen staff who also doubled as one of the bar’s unofficial bouncers.
“Sorry, Quinn,” Marshall said, his tone one of warning. “Can’t let you do that.”
The freight hauler did not seem worried by the bouncer’s presence. “You saw what he did to my friends.” To emphasize his point, he waved one beefy hand to where one of his shipmates still sat on the floor with his hands pressed to his groin. His other friend, the one who had thrown the first punch at Quinn, was leaning against the bar while holding his midsection.
“It’s not my fault they fight worse than they dress,” Quinn said, pausing to run his tongue along his teeth. None of them felt as though they had been knocked loose. Well, that’s nice.
His comment got the expected response as the brawny freighter crewman growled something unintelligible before stepping forward.
“Whoa, ace!” Marshall said, holding up his free hand, but the hauler paid no heed.
Quinn jerked his arm free of the bouncer’s grip. “Let go of me!” he snapped, keeping his eyes on the other guy as he closed the distance. If there was going to be a fight, there was no way he was giving this idiot a free shot at him. The instant the hauler was close enough, Quinn slammed an uppercut into his jaw, snapping back the other man’s head and sending a bolt of pain down the length of Quinn’s arm.
What the hell’s he got in his mouth? The question screamed in Quinn’s mind as he winced and pulled back his hand. Duranium?
It was still a good punch, halting his opponent’s advance and giving him pause as he staggered to retain his balance. That was enough time for Marshall to move in and grab the other man’s right arm and begin the arduous process of dragging the hauler’s muscled bulk away from the bar. Quinn was still trying to shake off the ache in his hand when he felt a hand on his collar before he was jerked backward.
“Hey!”
“You’re out of here, Quinn,” said a female voice, one Quinn recognized as belonging to Allie, one of Tom Walker’s lead bartenders.
Twisting himself around, Quinn could not help but smile in appreciation at the bartender, who was wearing maroon leather pants and a matching vest. She wore no shirt beneath the vest so her arms were left bare, and so far as he was concerned, the form-fitting ensemble was doing a fine job of accentuating the curves of her trim, athletic figure.
“Stop staring at my ass,” Allie warned, her tone possessing not a hint of her usual humor as she pulled him along through the crowd of onlookers on her way toward the bar’s front door.
Doing his best to dredge up some lingering vestige of charm, Quinn replied, “But, it’s …”
Allie turned to glare at him, holding up her free hand and aiming her forefinger at him. “Finish that sentence and I’ll carve out your liver. Whatever’s left of it, anyway.”
“Come on, babe,” Quinn said as she resumed directing him toward the door. “You know I never mean any of the stuff I say. Even the stuff I say when I’m drunk.” Frowning, he added, “Which I know is a lot, lately.”
“Too much, in fact,” Allie replied. “I can’t have you in here riling my customers anymore, Quinn.” She stopped when she got within arm’s reach of the door, and turned to face him. “It seems like all you do anymore is come in here looking to pick a fight.”
Holding up a hand, Quinn waved it back the way they had come. “I didn’t start that. He hit me first, remember?”
Allie nodded. “Sure, after you insulted his girlfriend. Don’t play games with me, Quinn. You knew what you were doing, and what kind of reaction you’d get.” She paused, releasing a sigh of disappointment. “Look, I know things have been rough for you since your friend died. I get it, but you can’t be using that as an excuse to come in and disrupt my place.”
“Your place?” Quinn said, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought this was Tom Walker’s place?”
Rolling her eyes, Allie replied, “You know what I mean, you idiot. Tom wanted me to throw you out weeks ago, but I kept talking him out of it, because I know you’ve been hurting, but I can’t keep covering for you if all you’re going to do is cause trouble. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, I do,” Quinn said, reaching up to rub his bruised jaw. “I’m sorry, Allie. It’s just …” He let the words fade away as thoughts of Bridget McLellan forced their way through the fog clouding his muddled brain. Bridy Mac, his partner, confidante, and lover, had died on a planet with no name—Starfleet might have given it a name by now, but Quinn did not care—sacrificing herself to keep Shedai technology from being acquired by Klingon agents. Everything about her had made Quinn come alive, filling him with a confidence and conviction he had not felt in years. After the second chance he had been given, thanks to the timely assistance of T’Prynn, the enigmatic Vulcan intelligence officer, having Bridy Mac around had only strengthened his resolve to continue the arduous task of reforming and remaking himself. In the aftermath of years wasted on drinking, gambling, carousing, and simply eking out a marginal existence on the fringes of civilized society, partnering with McLellan and doing something that actually mattered had given him a fresh, optimistic outlook on whatever years might remain to him. Her passing had taken with it all of the hope and drive he had worked to accumulate. What was the point? He had done his best to pay whatever penance might be owed for his earlier mistakes and sins, and had come up short. Bridy Mac, the only part of his life that made the rest of it worth a damn, was gone, and so too was his ability to care about whatever might come next.
In short, he reminded himself, to hell with it. To hell with every last damned bit of it. He knew that such a cynical stance should not include innocent bystanders and those concerned for his welfare, and it was this errant thought that made him regard Allie with an expression of apology. It was the first time in weeks that he had acknowledged caring about anyone or anything other than where he might acquire his next drink.
Reaching out to grip the doorjamb in an effort to steady himself, Quinn drew a deep breath and tried to blink past the bourbon. “I just miss her, Allie.”
“I know you do,” Allie said, placing one hand on his arm. “But that’s not good enough, not right now.” She nodded toward the door. “Go and get yourself cleaned up. Until you do, I don’t want to see you around here.”
“Come on, Allie,” Quinn said, genuine regret taking hold in his alcohol-addled mind, at least for a moment. “You know I’m just a harmless idiot.”
“Don’t make Tom ban you outright,” Allie said, her tone now firmer. “Go sleep it off. I’ll check on you when I get out of here, okay?”
Unable to resist one more leering grin, Quinn eyed her with mischief. “Promise?”
Allie’s response was to push past him and open the door, after which she prodded him toward the street. “I mean it, Quinn. Not until you clean up your act.”
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Quinn nodded. “Okay, okay. I get the message. You’ll be sad when I’m gone, though.” The parting comment would have been more effective, he decided, if he had not chosen that moment to trip on the steps leading down from the door to the cobblestone walkway.
“Damn,” he muttered. “I hate when that happens.”
He turned back to the bar, but Allie was already gone, the door closing behind her as she made her way into the crowd and back to work. His last sight of the comely bartender was of her shapely, leather-clad backside.
Anyone who doubts the existence of a supreme being need only look at that.
Chuckling at his lascivious thought, Quinn cleared his throat as he looked up the street, getting his bearings. Humans and other assorted species, some wearing Starfleet uniforms but many more dressed in civilian attire, were walking past the various storefronts or sitting at tables positioned outside some of the establishments. Stars Landing had its share of bars and restaurants, catering to a wide range of clientele and cuisines, but for Quinn none of them held the charm of Tom Walker’s place. Feeling a wave of lightheadedness beginning to wash over him, he considered stumbling his way back to the apartment that had been provided by Commander ch’Nayla on behalf of Starfleet Intelligence for “services rendered.” He frowned at that idea, knowing that the suite of empty rooms and their Starfleet-issue furnishings would provide him nothing in the way of solace. It was little more than a place to grab a few hours’ sleep and a shower, but it was not a home.
“Guess it’s another bar, then,” he muttered, the fingers of his right hand fishing into his trouser pocket to retrieve his credit chip. He tried to focus his bourbon-fogged mind long enough to recall his account balance, and decided the best way to verify the state of his funds was while buying another drink.
“Quinn?”
Turning at the unexpected summons, Quinn had to blink several times before the figure walking toward him came into focus. When recognition finally dawned, he could not help offering a broad, toothy grin. “Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit—if it isn’t Timothy Pennington, superhero journalist to the stars and beyond.”
“Cervantes Quinn,” Pennington replied with a smile, “I’d heard you were dead, or in jail.”
Quinn shrugged. “The night’s young. How they hangin’, newsboy? Still trying to write your own chapter for the history books?”
“I’ve been looking for you, mate,” Pennington replied. “Seems like we’re always missing each other these days. If I’m not off following a story, you’ve been busy doing whatever it is … Commander ch’Nayla’s having you doing.” His expression turned somber. “I just wanted you to know how sorry I was to hear about Bridy Mac, Quinn. I’m truly sorry I didn’t get to say that to you before now.”
Holding up a hand, Quinn shook his head. “Don’t sweat it, ace.” Had it really been that long since he and Pennington had last seen one another? Quinn tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but abandoned the notion when the numbers began drifting in and out of the haze clouding his brain. All he knew was that it had been a while—plenty of time for Pennington to show up before now to offer his condolences. He did not know the reasons for the journalist’s not being able to find him before today, and the more he considered the issue the less he cared. “These things happen.”
Pennington frowned. “I know what she meant to you, Quinn, just as I …” He paused, clearing his throat, and Quinn sensed that the journalist was recalling an unpleasant memory. “I know what you’re feeling, is all.”
“Oh,” Quinn replied, “you do? Well, then. Maybe we could just hug each other until the pain goes away.” Though he knew the reporter was divorced, there had never been mention of some other lover who might have met some tragic fate. That in itself was an interesting notion, considering the amount of time the two men had spent crammed inside the Rocinante, Quinn’s late and very much lamented Mancharan starhopper. Of course, now that his thoughts turned to his former ship, they served only to deepen his foul mood.
Thanks for that, Quinn mused. Jackass.
His expression darkening further, Pennington cast a glance toward a pair of passersby who had overheard Quinn’s comment. “I was thinking you might want to talk about it, maybe over a cup of coffee or something.”
“Talking about it means I have to remember it,” Quinn countered. “And coffee would only get in the way of my drinking, which helps me forget about it, or at least gives me a break from thinking about it. I like my plan better.” It was such a straightforward idea. Why was it that no one besides him could see its simple beauty? Still, even the bourbon he had consumed could not keep Quinn from asking himself why he was coming down so hard on Pennington. Had the journalist truly done anything to be the target of such ire? Quinn had decided that one of the advantages of not caring about anything was that it liberated him to direct his anger at anyone he chose. That included innocent bystanders, idiots taking up space in his favorite bar, or even the man now standing before him.
Friendly fire’s a bitch, ain’t it?
Sighing, Pennington said, “Look, Quinn, I’m just trying to make sure you’re all right. I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.”
That prompted Quinn to offer a disapproving grunt, and before he realized he was even uttering the words, they seemed to just pour forth from him, unimpeded by any filter he might once have used to parse his comments. “Seems like everybody around here knows how rough I’ve had it. I’m surrounded by people who want to be my friend. Well, let me tell you something, newsboy: I don’t need any friends. Life was easier when I didn’t have friends, or didn’t give a damn about anybody.” Despite the occasional stumbling block, that attitude had served him well for most of his adult life, and returning to that path held a definite appeal.
“That’s the booze talking,” Pennington snapped, his irritation now evident. Stepping closer, he held out a hand as though reaching for Quinn’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you someplace where you can catch some sleep.”
Before he even realized what he was doing, Quinn was swinging. His right fist connected with Pennington’s jaw, sending the reporter staggering backward until he stumbled and fell to the faux cobblestone street. Other Stars Landing visitors stopped in their tracks, turning to observe the altercation, and Quinn was sure he heard at least one person using a communicator to summon station security.
“What the bloody hell?” Pennington asked, rolling onto his back and sitting up as he reached to rub his jaw. “Quinn, you damned tosser. What in the name of Satan’s codpiece is wrong with you?”
Stepping toward the journalist, Quinn pointed one long finger at him. “Do us both a favor, and just stay the hell away from me. You’re better off not associating with a damned loser like me, anyway.” He stepped back as Pennington pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he reached once more for his injured jaw.
“You know what, Quinn, you win,” Pennington said, brushing dust off his clothes. “You want to wallow in self-pity, that’s your choice. Try not to die of liver failure or alcohol poisoning while you’re busy feeling sorry for yourself. I’m sure that’s just what Bridy Mac would’ve wanted.”
Now genuinely angry, Quinn advanced on Pennington, once more pointing a finger at his face. “You watch your mouth, or next time I’m not pulling my punch.”
Holding up his hands in surrender, Pennington shook his head. “Don’t worry, Quinn. That’s the last you’ll hear from me. Call me when you clean up, assuming both of us are still alive. See you ’round, mate.” Turning, he walked away without another word, moving past several curious onlookers on his way deeper into Stars Landing. Quinn watched him go, trying to make some sense of what had just happened, and why he had allowed things to deteriorate as they had.
Because you’re an idiot, you idiot.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he called to the spectators, some of whom wore expressions of undisguised disapproval, while others seemed to look upon him with pity. “You never seen a drunk making bad decisions before?”
The next of those, Quinn decided, would be where to find his next drink.
6
Tapping his fingers on the polished surface of his desk, Heihachiro Nogura studied the image of the Omari-Ekon on his office’s main viewscreen. The Orion ship, moored at one of Starbase 47’s lower docking ports, appeared as innocuous as any of the other vessels that made use of the station’s facilities. Nogura knew better. To him, the ship represented nothing less than a tumor requiring excision. Left unchecked, how badly would the vessel and those who worked and played aboard it infect his station and crew?
