Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  Reyes input his request to the food slot’s control panel. “No sense wasting this opportunity to get to know each other a little better. So, I hear you’re from out of town.” He could not stifle the chuckle that escaped his lips when Desai rolled her eyes, shook her head, and laughed.

  This might end up being a good day, after all.

  3

  Irritated that he had not considered this course of action any sooner, Ronald Hanagan crossed the cargo bay of the civilian merchant freighter Bacchus Plateau to a tool kit he had brought with him. It took him a moment to rummage through the kit’s contents until he found the item he sought, a P-38. Though the device normally was used to open magnetically sealed hatches as well as access panels on a starship, Hanagan figured the tool should serve his purposes quite nicely.

  It’s either this, or a phaser.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Hanagan made his way back to the oversized cargo container sitting near one corner of the storage bay. It was the last item on the shipping manifest to be unloaded from the Bacchus Plateau and into the internal transport system, which would move the container’s contents down to one of the Starbase 47 cargo lockers currently assigned to Lauren Everett, his employer on the station. According to the manifest, the crate housed a plethora of merchandise and other supplies Everett would use to stock the store she soon would be opening in Stars Landing. Unlike its companions, this container was too large to transport on its own, so it had to be opened and its contents offloaded. Hanagan therefore had saved it for last.

  Fool.

  None of that mattered any longer, he decided. All he wanted now was to offload this bothersome container, which had of course further vexed him by being the only such container in the entire cargo shipment to have a malfunctioning access hatch. Several tries at forcing it open had failed, including one attempt in which Hanagan used a crowbar he had found on a nearby storage shelf. Why he had not remembered the P-38 before now was a mystery to him, but he did not care. Once he got the crate’s contents unloaded and moved to where they belonged, he would be free to go and enjoy a decent meal, some fine spirits, and— with any luck—the company of an enchanting female.

  All in good time.

  Placing the P-38 on the cargo container’s main access hatch, Hanagan pressed the control on the unit’s embedded keypad, which instructed the device to send out a small pulse wave to break the magnetic seal currently keeping the hatch locked in place. It took only a moment before Hanagan heard a satisfying hiss emitted from the seal, at which time the P-38’s status indicator shifted from red to green. He reached for the hatch’s recessed handle and pulled, and the door slid aside with little effort to reveal darkness inside, along with the shadowy forms of a number of smaller containers of varying shapes and sizes.

  “Finally,” he said aloud, even though he was alone in the cargo bay.

  Or so he thought.

  His first indication that someone else was in the chamber came in the form of something clattering on the deck plating near his feet. Hanagan looked down and saw a bright red square, a nondescript Federation-style computer data storage card, resting on the deck near his left boot. Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he looked up to see a lone woman standing less than ten meters from him. How had she come so close without his having heard her?

  “Are you Ronald Hanagan?” the woman asked. She was slight of build, though Hanagan noted the toned yet still slender musculature of her legs and arms. Wearing tan overalls, she looked to be a member of the Bacchus Plateau’s crew. Her hair, light red in color, was held in a bun at the back of her head, leaving her neck exposed.

  Nodding, Hanagan replied, “Who wants to know?”

  Rather than offering her own name, the woman instead said, “I’ve heard that the brothers, they fight one another.”

  After speaking the words, she held his gaze, and Hanagan forced himself not to offer any outward reaction as he considered what she had said. It was the challenge phrase he had been instructed to use when attempting contact with the other covert agent known to be working aboard the starbase. Though he had been on the station for more than three weeks, he had not yet had opportunity or reason to seek out his fellow mole. Had she sought him out, or was this some kind of trap engineered by Starfleet forces who had discovered spies in their midst?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Vaj Duj chIj,” he said, offering the pass phrase—which translated to “navigate a warrior ship” in Federation Standard— in his native language as he had been instructed. Once spoken aloud, he had exposed his status as a Klingon. If this person was not his contact, then she would have to die, quickly and quietly.

  To his relief and in flawless tlhIngan Hol, the woman replied, “jaj qeylIS molar mIgh HoHchu’qu’.” Hanagan smiled with longing as he recalled the words to the ancient drinking song he had enjoyed along with his fellow warriors while consuming far too many tankards of firewine or bloodwine, in the days before he had become a deep cover operative for Imperial Intelligence.

  In those days, Ronald Hanagan had answered to the name bestowed upon him by his parents, Komaleq.

  “You must be Lurqal,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Never use that name. I am Anna Sandesjo.”

  Hanagan knew this, of course, having been given this information by his handler, Turag, who soon would be serving as part of the diplomatic entourage invited to take up residence in the Klingon Embassy housed aboard the station. “Fine, Anna Sandesjo,” he said, glancing about the cargo bay to ensure they were still alone. “What can I do for you?”

  By way of reply, Sandesjo gestured toward the data card still lying at Hanagan’s feet. “You can explain that.”

  Frowning, Hanagan bent to retrieve the card, holding it up and studying its surface. “What is it?”

  “It’s a recording of an encrypted message you dispatched to our mutual acquaintance.” By that, Hanagan knew she meant Turag. “Rather, the message you attempted to send.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hanagan asked, confused. How dare this female question his competence?

  Sandesjo shrugged. “I’m talking about your carelessness. You did a fine job encrypting your report and embedding it within the station’s outgoing transmission feed, but what you didn’t count on was the engineering staff disabling the communications array in order to make some adjustments to the equipment to address some technical issues. The array was off line for nearly six hours, during which all outgoing message traffic was held in a transmittal queue and subjected to a further round of scans and validation checks.”

  For the first time, Hanagan realized the severity of what Sandesjo was describing. If indeed the starbase’s engineers had deactivated the communications system in order to perform some maintenance work, it had not been announced. In his role as a civilian merchant, he did not have access to any such information passed among the station’s Starfleet contingent. It was without question a potentially devastating oversight on his part.

  “If I hadn’t been aware of this procedure taking place and acted to remove your message from the queue,” Sandesjo continued, “it would’ve been discovered by security personnel and set off a stationwide search for you. In the event this explanation’s beginning to tax your comprehension abilities, I’ll reduce it to this synopsis: You jeopardized our mission here. Such flagrant disregard for security is inexcusable.”

  Ronald Hanagan saw the small dark object in her hand an instant before a high-pitched whine filled the air and a bright red flash engulfed everything around him.

  Idiot.

  Anna Sandesjo allowed the single word to repeat in her mind as she watched the last vestiges of Ronald Hanagan—Komaleq—dissolve into nothingness even as the echo of the disruptor blast faded. As his body disintegrated, Sandesjo raised her right hand to inspect the dull metal finish of the compact disruptor she held. She had purchased the weapon from a civilian dealer on the Omari-Ekon, an Orion mer
chant vessel operating in nearby space. The arms broker had been content not to ask questions, likely owing to the sizable number of Federation credits she had deposited in his account. As for the disruptor, it was an efficient weapon, small enough to be concealed on one’s person yet possessing sufficient power to be of inarguable use in combat. It had also demonstrated its value to a covert agent needing a means of wiping away evidence of an inexcusable blunder.

  Releasing a tired sigh, Sandesjo shook her head. She had not wanted to kill Komaleq, of course. Such actions were not within the normal scope of her assigned mission. Her duties as a covert agent aboard Starbase 47 involved straightforward tasks. She was to listen and watch; read and collect data by any means available; learn and report to her superiors; repeat as required. Anything more risked discovery, and finding a Klingon agent aboard a Starfleet space station—an operative surgically altered to appear human, no less—would trigger a manhunt for other spies across the quadrant. Such a reaction could prove disastrous for the Empire’s still-evolving plans for finally engaging its longtime rival, the Federation.

  She had been here long enough, Sandesjo decided, taking an extra moment to reseal the cargo container Hanagan had opened and return the P-38 opening device to his tool kit, which she then secreted within one of the storage lockers lining one bulkhead. An inspection of the area revealed no other sign of the man’s presence or of her having been there. There were no security video feeds in this area of the ship, and given her wardrobe she should be able to make her way without incident back to the station. The last thing she wanted now was to encounter a member of the Bacchus Plateau’s crew or Starbase 47’s security contingent.

  Despite her standing orders to remain a passive observer while embedded as a member of Ambassador Jetanien’s diplomatic cadre, finding Komaleq’s message in the outgoing communications feed had necessitated extreme action in order to protect the larger mission. Removing all traces of the communiqué from the transmittal queue had been a straightforward if time-consuming task. That aside, if Komaleq had made one error, he may well have made others, either in sufficient quantities or of such scope that Sandesjo would be unable to take corrective action before someone else discovered what he had done. The only sure way to prevent further errors was to remove its potential cause with surgical precision and dispassionate efficiency.

  Covering up that action, however, required somewhat more ingenuity.

  Fortunately, Sandesjo was used to working several steps ahead when planning a task. She already had transmitted a message—ostensibly from Hanagan himself—to his employer on the station, informing her of his intent to end his tenure with her small company and return to Earth, having acquired passage aboard the Bacchus Plateau, which was due to leave later in the evening. As for the freighter itself, another message had been dispatched to its captain, asking her for passage back to Federation space. Playing the role of Hanagan would be another human male who, through a notable lack of skill and judgment, had amassed a sizable gambling debt aboard the Orion vessel currently docked at the station. The human had expressed no small amount of enthusiasm at the idea of adopting Hanagan’s identity and acting in his stead in exchange for Sandesjo’s seeing to his debt with no questions asked. The deception might be detected one day, but only after weeks if not months had passed—more than long enough for Sandesjo to find a way to deal with the issue.

  Her next order of business would be relaying a report to her superior, Turag, informing him that Komaleq was out of the picture. Sandesjo was certain her handler would be displeased at this development, regardless of any explanation she might provide for her actions and how she had in fact preserved the integrity of the larger mission. She did not care, for now she had other concerns. Regardless of how Turag might respond to what she soon would tell him, Sandesjo’s immediate priority was ensuring that neither Komaleq nor Ronald Hanagan had done, said, or left behind anything that might endanger her presence on the station. With the potentially dangerous Komaleq now out of the way she was—so far as she knew—the only Klingon operative on the station, at least until Turag arrived. Until then, she was on her own here.

  Sandesjo rather liked that.

  4

  “Let me put this as diplomatically as I know how, Ambassador. Your Klingon friends are really starting to piss me off.”

  Positioned to the left of Commodore Reyes, Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn said nothing as the station’s commanding officer stood before the desk of Ambassador Jetanien, the diplomatic envoy assigned to Starbase 47 with the task of overseeing Federation political interests in the Taurus Reach. For his part, the Rigellian Chelon appeared unmoved by Reyes’s comment, opting instead to reach for the oversized bowl of dark brown broth sitting atop a matching saucer on his desk. Grasping the bowl in his oversized manus, Jetanien raised it to his beaklike mouth and proceeded to slurp. T’Prynn forced herself not to react to the rancid odor emanating from the bowl, but rather concentrated on identifying the vessel’s contents.

  She failed.

  “What have the Klingons done to test your patience this time, Commodore?” the ambassador asked as he returned the bowl to its saucer.

  Reyes said nothing at first, his expression neutral as he watched Jetanien eat, and T’Prynn could see that the commodore also smelled the broth’s pungent odor. Unlike her, Reyes had no problem voicing his likes and dislikes. “Are you sure someone didn’t switch your lunch with a tub of lubricant from down in engineering?”

  “Quite sure, my friend,” Jetanien replied before uttering a series of clicks and chirps along with a rumbling gurgle that T’Prynn had come to recognize as a Chelon’s equivalent to laughter. “Now, about your mounting irritation with the Klingons, I trust you’re referring to the diplomatic envoy?”

  Nodding, Reyes replied, “That’s them.” He held up the data slate he had brought with him. “We received their latest communiqué this afternoon, which includes their updated list of demands. They’re asking for more floor space in their embassy office section, and they want us to dedicate one of the main docking bays for their exclusive use. Failure to deliver on any of these requests is considered a deal breaker for being able to enjoy their company here in Shangri-La.”

  “The way I see it,” Jetanien said, clasping his hands before him and tapping the extremities that passed for his thumbs in a rhythmic manner, “at least some of these issues most definitely fall within your purview as this station’s commander.”

  Reyes released a low grunt of irritation. “So far as I’m concerned, all of it’s within my purview, but I’m pretty sure the reason the Diplomatic Corps sent you all the way out here was to talk to the Klingons so I wouldn’t have to.”

  “A fair point,” the ambassador said, “though I’d like to think my role has more substance than that. After all, my career ambition really isn’t to simply keep you from starting an interstellar war, despite whatever levels of enjoyment such activity might bring me from time to time.”

  T’Prynn listened with patience to the verbal joust in which Reyes and Jetanien always indulged before turning to whatever matter required their attention. Despite their disparate backgrounds, the commodore and the diplomat had established an easy rapport, which had facilitated their ability to work together as Operation Vanguard continued to evolve. Jetanien had been given a most demanding assignment, acting as the senior diplomatic adviser not only to Commodore Reyes but also the Federation Council. With Starbase 47’s presence in an area of space bordered by both a known rival and a potential adversary, the Federation had no choice but to tread lightly with respect to its own exploration and colonization efforts. Given the Klingons’ ongoing aggressive territorial expansion efforts in all directions, many of Starfleet’s leading political and tactical minds were predicting an eventual confrontation should the Empire extend its reach to the Tholian border, with the Federation possibly caught in the middle. The Taurus Reach was a delicate buffer preventing that from happening, and Starbase 47 had been inserted
into that wedge in order to quell a possible flashpoint situation.

  That was the official story, anyway. Whether Vanguard’s legitimate if arguably secondary mission had any tangible effects on its primary objective remained to be seen, and it was T’Prynn’s job to see that such consequences were mitigated if not altogether avoided. It went without saying that the Klingons most likely would be interested in the station’s activities, and expending considerable resources in attempts to ascertain what other goals it might be pursuing. With the levels of operational security surrounding the mission to learn the truth behind the Taurus Meta-Genome and its creators, diligence at every turn would be required. Indeed, T’Prynn was certain that the Empire had already dispatched covert operatives here in hopes of gleaning any kind of useful information. She had been conducting her own clandestine investigations for weeks, some of which were beginning to show results. Though she had no hard proof to corroborate her suspicions, T’Prynn was certain that obtaining such evidence was only a matter of time.

  Far above and beyond her own role on Starbase 47, and in the interests of working to maintain whatever fragile peace existed between the three powers, the Federation had seen fit to authorize the establishment of full, formal embassy facilities aboard the station for all three governments. It was hoped that having diplomatic representatives from all involved parties in one location would serve to effect quick, agreeable solutions to any conflicts that might arise. In T’Prynn’s opinion, it was a noble goal, though putting the idea into practice had proven to be a formidable challenge. Whereas the Tholians had yet to even acknowledge the Federation’s offer, the Klingons had tempered whatever enthusiasm they had managed to manufacture with the sorts of conditions and demands Reyes found himself addressing on a near daily basis.

  “You know I’m always happy to provide you a cheap laugh or two,” Reyes said, “but do me a favor and talk to these people, would you? Tell them they can’t have a dedicated docking bay, but we’ll reserve one of the lower docking ports, and we’ll move any ship to an available bay if it requires maintenance, repairs, or resupply.”