Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  “Oh, there’s plenty of that to go around, believe me,” I said. “With Reyes in the brig, T’Prynn in a coma, Quinn caught in the crossfire of an Orion mad as hell at me, and an entire Federation frightened about the return of ancient, wrathful aliens, hell, I’m the life of every party in the whole damn quadrant.”

  “Oh, so you did all that by yourself.”

  “Didn’t I? I got in this job—hell, I stay in this job—because I want to help put things right, not to be the architect of doom for everyone I know. But I’m not putting many things right these days.”

  “Then consider this, Tim,” Fisher said. “Maybe you don’t try to engineer positive change one quadrant at a time or one planet at a time or one station at a time. Consider doing what’s right by one individual at a time. When you change one life for the better, you can get to feeling pretty damn good about the world. Why the hell else do I stay in medicine?”

  “It’s not for the free coffee?”

  Fisher smiled and nodded at me, then gave me a clap on the shoulder while rising from his seat. As we walked back toward the reception area, I could not help but look back toward Isolation Ward 4, where I knew staff members were checking readouts, holding hands, and changing the world one life at a time.

  But the only life I wanted to change in that moment was my own.

  15

  It should have come as no surprise to me that two days of drinking at Tom Walker’s place would do little to change my life. Well, little to change it beyond the fact that by that time, even the most indulgent of the establishment’s servers had lost a measure of patience with me.

  Not that I had become an unruly, unwashed sot as I occupied my usual table. I had done my best to bide by the establishment’s regular business hours as well as to maintain my professional demeanor, despite my carrying myself in a manner that I assumed made me seem more unapproachable than usual. Yes, I knew my next story could have come from the next person passing by my table, and that my appearing open and interested might well have been the key to unlocking that person’s secrets. But in that moment, I would not have wanted a good lead even if a source had poured it over ice and served it to me in a glass. What was more, while I had the air about me of someone who had come to the place to drink, even that was a façade. Rather than knocking back whisky after whisky on a growing tab of expenses, I simply stared into the glass before me, swirling its contents frequently to appear as though I had been consuming it. In all likelihood, I was losing as much of the alcohol to evaporation as I was to ingestion.

  “Freshen that for you, Tim?”

  I snapped my head up to look at the source of the question, almost expecting to see Amity in her skimpy barmaid’s outfit from aboard the Omari-Ekon. Rather, it was Meryl, the young brunette who seemed to be the only server with any remaining interest in checking on me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were asleep.”

  “I wasn’t. And I don’t.”

  “Don’t?” she repeated. “Don’t sleep?”

  “Do sleep. Don’t want whatever it is you asked me.”

  “Okay,” she said, setting a tall tumbler of ice water on the table. “But I brought this for you anyway.”

  “Fine.” I reached for the glass and brought it to my mouth, the coolness of the water delivering a bit of a sting to my healing lower lip as well as a burst of clearer consciousness to my mind. A bead of water dripped down my chin, and as I brushed it away with the side of my finger, the sensation of the scruff on my unshaven face reminded me that I likely looked much like I felt inside: disengaged and unmotivated. Considering that I had not returned any of my editor’s messages, nor Quinn’s for that matter, since Amity’s disappearance, Meryl here was likely the only person even aware of where I was.

  “Tim?”

  “Yes?” I set the glass down and looked at her.

  “I know I haven’t known you long, but I don’t think this is very like you,” she said. “I don’t know whether I should ask if you want to talk or if I should just leave you alone.”

  “What are you wanting to do?”

  “Ask.”

  “Leave me alone.” Her eyes dropped to the tabletop as my words seemed to sting her at least a little. “Meryl? Sorry. That was my idea of a joke.”

  “Then this is my idea of a laugh,” she said stone-faced.

  “I deserved that. And I’m just a little wrapped up in myself, it seems. My responses to the contrary, I do appreciate your asking.”

  “Then I’ll ask again,” she said, offering a small smile. “If nothing else, just to make sure you haven’t died.”

  “If I need to move along, just let me know.”

  “I could,” Meryl said over her shoulder as she walked from the table, “but it would be more fun just to call Security.”

  I returned my gaze to the tabletop, choosing to chase my sip of water with a nip from my whisky glass. I swallowed, knitting my eyes shut as I did to savor the burn of the single-malt spirit, thankful for the familiar sensations that helped to cover my memory of whatever it was I had been served on the Orion ship that led to my disorientation and my inability to keep any harm from befalling Amity.

  “Mister Pennington?”

  The low voice prompted me to open my eyes, and as they focused, all I could discern before me was a field of red that began to coalesce into the outline of a man in a Starfleet tunic.

  “Wait,” I spoke quickly to the red shape, “the woman’s remark about calling Security was merely a joke, I assure you.”

  “I wasn’t called to take you away,” the man said. “At least not yet.”

  My eyes unblurred enough to see the face of who addressed me. “Lieutenant Ginther.”

  “I have some information for you, but we’re not talking in here,” he said. “Follow me out.”

  I complied, but not before settling what small bill I had with Meryl. Ginther left Tom Walker’s place and strode ahead of me, eventually turning into an alleyway between buildings in Stars Landing. I stepped in as if it were a natural path to take rather than hesitating and looking around to determine whether I had been observed. I simply took it on trust that Ginther had a good idea of the area’s discretion.

  The broad-shouldered man seemed to examine my current state of appearance, but extended the grace of not making a verbal comment. “I did some follow-up on your report and I wanted to tell you what I found,” he said, “but what I tell you doesn’t leave this alley. Are we clear?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But what report?”

  “Your missing-persons report on Amity Price.”

  “What? You filed a report?”

  “No, I didn’t file a report. But I did some checking, and I found something. Well, someone.”

  “You found Amity? You’re kidding?” I felt a wave of relief and joy start to wash over me.

  “Calm yourself, Pennington,” he said. “It’s not what you think. The scrubbing of Vanguard’s computer records was not as untraceable as the responsible party had hoped. We detected evidence just fast enough to lead us to the perpetrator and it was a Starfleet computer engineer, someone who had a high clearance for a great amount of information.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Just know that we were able to plug a sizable security breach as a result of your call, so I thank you.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, my joy giving way to some confusion. “And that led you to Amity?”

  “Not directly,” Ginther said. “We have reason to suspect foul play, but that investigation has been sealed.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It has become a matter of Starfleet Intelligence.”

  “Wait,” I said, trying to sort these new facts. “You’re telling me Amity was in Starfleet Intelligence?”

  “No,” he said. “Slow down and listen. The perpetrator of the computer work revealed himself as employed by someone outside the Federation as an intelligence gatherer. In return for leniency in prosec
ution from the Judge Advocate General’s office, he has agreed to offer information about his employer’s operations and all details on what Federation secrets have been leaked to this point.”

  “Leaked to who?” I had asked the question out of reflex, but I knew full well who lurked behind it all without being told. That did not stop Ginther from revealing the information as my disgust at the situation mounted.

  “The Orions,” he said.

  “Damn it,” I spat. “So now you get to hear who has been whispering what to whom, and who has been secretly moving whatever piece in any number of the political games everyone plays on board this goddamned station. Meanwhile, a young woman is dead—or worse—and the bastards responsible get away clean. That’s bleeding brilliant!”

  “Pennington, I’m no less frustrated than you are,” he said, “but I understand how this plays into the greater benefit to operations in the Taurus Reach and, yes, regardless of how farfetched it sounds to you right now, the entire Federation.”

  I was livid. “If you quote that ‘needs of the many’ shit to me right now, I’m going to gobsmack you.”

  In a flash, Ginther snatched my wrist in his grip and held it firm. “You don’t want to be hitting anyone, and you don’t want to be raising your voice to me. Are we clear?”

  I glowered at the security officer. Despite my rage at learning how Amity’s fate would go undetermined and unpunished, I knew that moment was not the one to seize in the name of justice. “We are,” I said as my deep breathing began to slow. “We’re clear.”

  “And I offer this information to you with my appreciation for your help,” he said. “It will not be acknowledged officially, and should any hint of it appear in a news report, any further cooperation in your work from Starfleet officials will be greatly discouraged. And I will be greatly disappointed. Is that also understood?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” I said as he released my wrist.

  “Quinn says you’re one of the good guys, Tim,” Ginther said in a calm voice. “Believe it or not, after seeing your response to this, I agree.”

  “One of the good guys,” I said, rubbing my wrist a little. “Then tell me how one of the good guys just leaves someone’s story unfinished when I can’t report it and I bloody damn well can’t go vigilante against the Orion Syndicate.”

  Ginther looked at me and paused a moment. “When I’m where you are, and I’m there more than you might think,” he said, “I find someone I can help. Maybe the opportunity just pops up, or maybe I look up someone who my business isn’t finished with, as you say. When I get someone back on track or settle an account that I’ve left open too long, it goes a lot farther toward filling that hole you’re feeling than a grudge or a bottle ever will.”

  I let go a somewhat cynical laugh that part of me immediately regretted. Ginther shrugged his shoulders and extended his hand. I took it. “I appreciate your letting me know. And your advice.”

  “Let me know how it turns out, if you like. I’d offer the same, but, well, I can’t.”

  “Right.”

  As I turned to leave, he spoke my name to get my attention. “Tim, you may do it with your words or your actions, but whatever it might be, I suggest you do it. We all have unfinished business. You’ll know yours when you see it.”

  My mind replayed Ginther’s words. I’ll know it when I see it? As I walked back to my apartment, and back into the reporter’s life I once again felt fated to lead, I hoped to hell the guy was right.

  THE RUINS OF NOBLE MEN

  Marco Palmieri

  For Jem and Ben:

  Dream big, my sons.

  HISTORIAN’S NOTE

  This story is set primarily in early January 2368, in the days following the final chapter of Star Trek Vanguard: Precipice.

  1

  2268

  Vanguard groaned as another piece of its hull tore free and fell into the void.

  The creak of rending metal vibrated through the bulkheads as if the station were in agony, but Rana Desai took little notice. Even the sight of Starbase 47’s open wound was lost on her. Less than two hundred meters above the viewport at which she stood, EV-suited engineers dotted the curved underside of the station’s immense saucer, surrounding the hideous gash in the enormous doors of Docking Bay 4—damage inflicted just days ago by a being of incomprehensible power.

  The new hunk of wreckage tumbled silently through space until a work bee moved in to capture the bent and blackened metal plate. Once secured in the tiny craft’s manipulators, the huge fragment was guided safely downstation to a designated cargo bay where debris from the attack was being gathered for analysis.

  None of it registered. Desai’s gaze fell instead on the bloated vessel moored to one of the primary spokes of the station’s external docking wheel. The Orion merchantman Omari-Ekon, den of iniquity and illicit trade, and inviolable domain of the crimelord Ganz, had recently returned from months of exile, now sanctuary to the most unlikely refugee imaginable: Desai’s former lover, Diego Reyes.

  He’s alive.

  Desai tried to wrap her mind around the thought, to come to grips with how so much had changed. Two years ago, Diego had been a decorated Starfleet flag officer—a commodore and the commander of Starbase 47, overseeing a massive colonization effort that had been initiated in order to mask the real reason for the Federation’s rapid expansion into the Taurus Reach. But the cost of maintaining the secrecy of that mission, both in rising casualties and ever-escalating tensions with the Tholians and the Klingons—to say nothing of the lethal power Starfleet had inadvertently awakened in this region of space—had eroded Diego’s certainty about the Federation’s imperative to decode the transformative potential of the Taurus Meta-Genome.

  Shadows moved at the edge of her awareness. Outside, shuttlecraft-sized utility ships shifted position, redirecting high-intensity spotlights toward another compromised section of the bay doors.

  Having come to believe he’d been following unjust orders, Diego enabled the public disclosure of classified information related to Vanguard’s mission, an act that brought down the full wrath of Starfleet Command, against which Desai, as his defense counsel, had been unable to protect him. Relieved of his command, court-martialed, and convicted, Diego’s disgrace had been the end of his career, as well as the end of their relationship.

  And still there was worse to come. The ship transporting Reyes to his imprisonment on Earth was destroyed en route, and for months Diego was believed to be dead.

  How can he be alive?

  She was dimly aware of distant thunder shaking the deck, passing through the soles of her boots as the engineers cut away another section of Vanguard’s armor, this one even bigger than the last.

  After she was nearly consumed by her grief, Desai somehow found the will to move on with her life. For a time she’d even taken a new lover; nothing serious, at least for her—an unsought dalliance to fill the void of physical intimacy, companionship she’d permitted herself to dull the ache of Diego’s absence. After all . . . he was dead.

  And then he turned up alive. What am I supposed to do with that?

  And how did it change anything, really? Diego remained a convicted criminal and a fugitive from Starfleet justice—and for all she knew, he was complicit in recent acts of theft and sabotage aboard Vanguard. There was nowhere in the Federation he could set foot without being placed under arrest. Desai could see no way to alter any of that, or envision a future that allowed them to be together.

  More hull metal sailed past. The breach in the station grew wider, exposing the deeper wounds that had been inflicted upon its core.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  The bosun’s whistle of the station’s comm system cut through her contemplations. “Ops to Captain Desai.”

  She sighed, as much in relief as in annoyance. She had come to this unused observation lounge hoping to figure out certain things in quiet and solitude. But with anything remotely resembling clarity remaining stubbornly
elusive, Desai actually welcomed the interruption. Without taking her eyes off the Omari-Ekon, she thumbed the wall-mounted intercom next to the viewing window. “Desai here.”

  “Rana, it’s Cooper,” answered Vanguard’s first officer. “The admiral wants to see you in his office immediately.”

  Of course he does. Diego’s replacement as base commander had been none too happy about being maneuvered into allowing Ganz back inside Vanguard’s protective shadow, but the Shedai artifact the merchant prince had offered in exchange for safe harbor had made it impossible for the admiral to refuse. The fact that Diego had done the actual maneuvering only made it worse, especially since he was shielded from extradition by the Orions’ thorny relationship with the Federation. Desai’s romance with Reyes was no secret, and she knew it was only a matter of time before Heihachiro Nogura would demand to have words with her. The wonder is that it took him this long to get around to it.

  “On my way,” Desai said, and signed off. She thumbed the channel closed, but her gaze lingered on the Omari-Ekon.

  He’s over there somewhere, she imagined, searching the lighted dots along the ship’s upper half. Maybe he’s even looking up at the station for some sign of me. She considered the distance between her and Diego. It wasn’t far. It felt like light-years.

  • • •

  “Sorry I haven’t been around,” said Ezekiel Fisher. “I’ve been meaning to visit more often, but it hasn’t been an easy time around here. Seems like this place is always attracting the wrong sort of attention. Tholians one day, Klingons the next, and now the Shedai have ripped into us like—” Fisher stopped, raising his hand. “I didn’t come here to make excuses. I don’t visit enough, that’s the bottom line. I’m going to work on that. But I’m here now, because something’s happened that I knew you’d want to hear about. Our old friend has beaten the odds again, Hallie. Diego’s alive.”

  The flowering dogwood made no reply, but not once in the past two years of ever-less-frequent visits to Fontana Meadow had Fisher expected one. His one-sided conversations with Hallie Gannon, here at the tree Reyes had planted to memorialize the captain and crew of the Starship Bombay, always went unheard; Fisher had no illusions about that. Such rituals were for the living, not the dead.