Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  She scowled at him. “They had to work with what you gave them.”

  They paused at the entrance while Quinn programmed in their standard temporary security code. Once he confirmed the code, the door lifted open, revealing a street busy with vehicular and pedestrian traffic. The air was heavy with the scents of exotic spices, the savory aroma of cooked meat, and the acrid bite of smoke and combustion-engine exhaust fumes. He stepped over the threshold and led Bridy outside. “Away we go.”

  They moved in careful steps through a dense crowd of aliens, most of them humanoids, all of them being observed by armed Gorn soldiers moving in pairs or squads of four. Right away, Bridy noticed strangers glaring in her and Quinn’s direction. “I get the impression humans aren’t very popular around here.”

  “Not just humans—anybody from the Federation. We’re about as welcome here as a shit stain on a wedding dress.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  “Pull your hood up. You’ll draw less attention.”

  As they rounded a corner into an intersection, they could see the city of Tzoryp sprawled around them. Built on and between six low hills, it was uneven and incomplete. Its main starport had been erected atop its broadest and highest elevation, affording Quinn and Bridy a commanding view of the cityscape. Squat industrial structures stood flanked by mid-sized residential towers and hotels, and entire blocks were filled with half-constructed buildings, steel skeletons gleaming beneath the brutal white glow of a Class F star.

  Quinn stopped and seemed to listen for something. All Bridy heard was the rumbling of traffic, the scuffling of hundreds of feet, and the rasping growls of Gorn conversation. Staying close to Quinn, she said in a low voice, “If you’re a Gorn, I guess this planet looks like paradise.”

  “Well, I ain’t, and I think it looks like an overbaked turd.” He nodded toward a nondescript, unmarked doorway in a building across the street. “Over there.” Then he gently nudged Bridy into step beside him as he hurried toward it.

  Dodging oncoming vehicles, Bridy asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Fact-finding mission.” They scrambled off the street, slipped through the open doorway, and descended a short staircase to a dim basement cantina thumping with aggressive music. The air inside the bar was cool and thick with several fragrances of smoke, some that Bridy found pleasant and a few that made her want to retch. Quinn sucked in a deep breath and grinned. “My kind of place.”

  Bridy gave the joint a quick looking-over and noted two possible alternative exits. She also counted thirty-nine patrons and four employees and concluded that every single one of them was likely to be armed. “This doesn’t bode well.”

  “It’ll be fine. We’re just here to do business.”

  “I thought you said people on this planet hate Federation citizens.”

  “Sure they do. But they still like our money. Call it Quinn’s Law.” He bladed through the knot of people crowding the room and reached the bar with Bridy close behind him. Then he waved over the bartender. “Two waters, please.”

  The bartender—a burly, three-eyed, three-armed chap— said, “What kind?”

  “Pardon?”

  “We sell nine varieties of water.”

  “Got one with just carbon dioxide in it?” The bartender nodded; so did Quinn. “Great. Two of those. With ice.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Sorry?”

  Impatience put an edge on the bartender’s deep voice. “Ice is one of the varieties we offer. Do you want carbon water or frozen water?”

  Bridy rolled her eyes at the simple transaction gone wrong.

  Quinn made a fist behind his back, ostensibly in a bid to rein in his temper. “Can you break the ice into chunks and pour carbon water over it?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “What gave you that idea?” He drew a fistful of Gorn currency crystals from inside his cloak and dropped them on the bartop. “Two carbon waters with ice.”

  “Coming up.” Wearing a put-upon expression, the barkeep stepped away and mixed the drinks. He returned, set them in front of Quinn, and plucked two small crystals from the pile Quinn had dropped on the bar. “That’ll be six szeket.”

  Quinn maintained eye contact with the alien as he pushed a few more crystals across the bartop. “Here’s thirty.”

  The bartender regarded Quinn and Bridy with suspicion, and he made no move to pick up the proffered crystals. “Was there something else you wanted?”

  “An introduction,” Quinn said. “We need to meet someone who knows how to find things. For instance, ships in Gorn military custody.”

  Dropping his dishrag over the crystals, the bartender leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

  “I understand,” Quinn said. He discreetly placed four more crystals on the bartop. “Thanks, anyway.”

  Wiping up the bar—and sweeping the additional currency under his rag—the bartender replied, “You’re welcome.” Then he made a subtle tilt of his head toward one of the cantina’s corner booths. Then he walked away, cash in hand.

  Quinn picked up the glasses of sparkling water and handed one to Bridy. “Let’s go say hello.” They navigated a weaving path through the crowd to the corner booth, where three people sat observing their approach. The two hairy brutes seated on the outer ends of the booth looked to Bridy like the bodyguards for the slender, dapper one secluded in the back corner, just beyond the pool of light from the shaded lamp hanging by a wire above the table.

  The voice that emanated from the shadows was feminine— dark, smoky, and mysterious. “Are you two lost, perchance?”

  “Don’t think so. The name’s Cervantes Quinn. And you are . . . ?”

  “Not in the habit of introducing myself to strangers.”

  “Then how do you ever meet anyone?” Quinn’s irreverent question seemed to befuddle the mystery woman, but her bodyguards wasted no time in standing up and moving to lay hands on their employer’s uninvited guests.

  Just before the situation turned ugly, the woman spoke with a voice sharp enough to carve diamonds. “Geeter, Kresh—sit down.” The bodyguards froze, maintained threatening eye contact for a moment with Quinn, then slowly retreated and eased back into their seats. The woman continued in a milder tone, “Forgive their exuberance. Anticans are loyal to a fault, but they can be rather excitable.”

  “No worries,” Quinn said. “This is my associate, Bridy Mac.”

  “Hi,” Bridy said with a small wave.

  The woman in the corner leaned forward. Her dark-bronze face was framed by long curls of sable hair. She looked human, but Bridy knew that looks could often be deceiving. “A pleasure. My name is Chathani. Now, if you will forgive me for speaking directly: what do you want?”

  “I hoped we might drink together,” Quinn said.

  Chathani dipped her chin and gave Quinn the skunk eye. “Unlikely.”

  “And if, while we’re enjoying our drinks together, you should happen to let slip some bit of information that proves useful to me—”

  “I fear you have been misinformed, Mister Quinn. I do not think I will be sharing a beverage—or anything else—with you today.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very.”

  “That’s a shame.” He scattered another fistful of Gorn currency across the table. “Because I was buying.”

  In the light of the hanging lamp, the crystals burned with inner fires.

  Chathani’s eyes widened with avarice. She whispered in the ear of the Antican on her right. He calmly swept the crystals into one massive palm and pocketed them, and then Chathani smiled. “How gauche of me,” she said. “Please, join us”—her smile became a grin—“friends.”

  6

  “That sure looks like the Orion ship,” Quinn said, studying the vessel through his miniature binoculars. He and Bridy were across a wide avenue from a starport hangar even more decrepit than the one in which they’d landed. Its struc
ture was mostly open, a series of heavy girders wrapped in barbed-wire mesh. The hangar had a few entrances, each blocked by a metal gate and armed guards.

  Bridy peeked over the edge of the roof’s low safety barrier. “If the Gorn were looking to secure this ship, why park it in plain sight?”

  “For starters, these are the biggest hangars in the city, and probably the only ones large enough for a ship that size. For another, keeping it in plain sight makes it harder for someone to break into it without being seen.” Quinn surveyed the street-level security. Traffic on their side of the avenue was heavy, but the other side was empty, having been cordoned off by Gorn infantry.

  Beside him, Bridy made a clicking noise with her tongue. “The Gorn have big hangars on the other side of the planet, don’t they?”

  “Sure.” Quinn lowered the binoculars. “But those areas are for Gorn only. Can’t have the Orion crew wandering around out there. And if they drop the crew here and take the ship there, it’d be too obvious they’re punking the Orions.”

  “Fair point.” She glanced at the hangar. “Man, the Gorn are all over that thing, aren’t they?” She held out her hand. “Can I have the binoculars?” Quinn handed them to her, and she used them to study the Orion ship as she continued. “The ground crew looks like it’s mixed species. Some Tiburonians, a few humanoids I don’t recognize, a couple of Saurians. Think we can use that?”

  Quinn nodded. “Probably. Impersonating ground crew is our best bet.”

  She lowered the binoculars. “Swiping some maintenance uniforms might get us inside the hangar, but none of them have access to the ship’s interior. And I don’t think either of us can pass for a Gorn.”

  “No, but we could pass as Orions. You did it before, on Amonash.”

  “And nearly got my ass shot off—thanks for reminding me.” She handed the binoculars back to Quinn. “What’re you thinking? Posing as the ship’s officers?”

  He shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. Judging by the uniform markings on the troops closest to the ship, sentry duty’s been left to the grunts. Talk fast enough and rough enough, and we might be able to get aboard.”

  “Sounds like a long shot to me. For starters, we don’t know the names of any of the ship’s officers or crew, and the Gorn probably have a complete manifest.”

  “Okay, then that’s our first objective: get a copy of the manifest.”

  Bridy shook her head. “Forget it, that could take all week.” She pursed her lips. “We’re overthinking this. How about a simple distraction?”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  She pointed out details of the hangar. “Exposed coolant tubing—snipe that and the entire hangar fills with smoke and toxic vapor in fifteen seconds, tops.”

  “Making it the last place I’d want to be.”

  “It would only be dangerous for people on the ground.” She pointed at the top of the ship. “One of us could use the leak as cover to rappel down from above and enter the ship through its dorsal maintenance hatch.”

  “And get shot by the sentries posted outside the hangar, who’d have a perfect angle to see over the commotion.”

  Bridy folded her arms. “Good catch.” Then her mood brightened. “What if we cut the power at the same time? Plant a charge on the underground relay from the city’s mains, and set it off at the same time we snipe the coolant line?”

  “Yeah, that wouldn’t be suspicious at all.”

  “Who cares if it is? Once I’m in, I can hack the memory banks from the engine room and be out in under two minutes.”

  Quinn conveyed his doubts with an arched eyebrow. “Let’s say you’re right. What’s your exit strategy? You’ll be inside a ship teeming with Gorn military, above a hangar filled with poison gas, in the dark.”

  “If I sabotage the transporter scrambler mounted at the top of the hangar, I can use my rubindium transponder to activate the Dulcinea’s remote transporter recall. As long as the merchantman’s shields stay down, I can beam out before anyone knows I was there.”

  He gently slapped his forehead with his palm. “Right, the transporter. I keep forgetting we have it. I got so used to living without one on the Rocinante.” Lifting his chin toward the hangar, he said, “Now all we need to do is wait eight hours until nightfall, find a way to put you on top of that hangar, and make our play.”

  “First, we’ll have to get you a silenced projectile weapon,” Bridy said. “One you can use to snipe the coolant line without giving away your position.”

  “I have one on the ship. What else?”

  “Just a deck of cards to help us pass—”

  An explosion tore through the hangar, a radiant orange fireball rending metal and scattering bodies. The shock front lifted the Gorn troops off the street below and hurled them across the avenue into traffic, which was halted half a second later by the blast wave rolling vehicles like dice. Searing heat slammed against the building beneath Quinn and Bridy as they flattened themselves on the roof, letting the brunt of the blast roar past overhead. The thunder of detonation faded, leaving behind the groaning of metal and the moaning of the wounded.

  Quinn peeked over the crumbling edge of the roof at the devastation beyond while Bridy fished out her tricorder and powered it up. Inside the hangar, the Orion ship was ablaze, its hull fractured and collapsing. Beyond the crackling of flames, Quinn heard disruptor shots echo from the hangar’s far side. “We’ve been aced.”

  Bridy adjusted the tricorder’s settings. “One Klingon life sign, male and hauling ass, leaving the hangar’s rear entrance and moving east.”

  “Give you three guesses who has the intel we came for.”

  She drew her phaser. “Time for Plan B.”

  Bridy threw herself flat against one of the alley’s rough limestone walls and went from a full run to a dead stop without turning the corner. Half a second later, Quinn slammed into her and nearly knocked her into the street.

  He disentangled himself from her. “Why the hell’re we stopping?”

  She thrust her elbow backward and knocked him free. “Our Klingon pal’s less than twenty meters away.” She tilted her head to her right. “We need to catch him before he spots us.” She pulled her hood forward to better hide her face, stepped into the street, and beckoned Quinn to follow. “C’mon. Stay close to me.”

  They merged into the thick, fast-moving crowd. Bridy slipped and dodged her way forward, edging through narrow gaps in the river of bodies, closing the distance to the fleeing Klingon with each step. She used the folds of her cloak to hide her hands: she held her phaser in one and her tricorder in the other. Every few seconds she glanced at the tricorder, which was still locked onto the Klingon’s bio-signature. “He’s crossing the street,” she said, lifting her chin toward the target. Leaning slightly to her left, she got her first clear look at their quarry.

  The Klingon seemed short for his species—Bridy estimated his height was no more than 170 centimeters—and he was slight of build. He wore drab civilian clothes and carried a disruptor in a hip holster. His swarthy, sinewy arms were bare, and a peculiar, metallic-looking wraparound sunshade concealed his eyes. He had close-cropped black hair with matching sideburns and a goatee.

  Quinn nudged Bridy’s arm. “We should split up and cut him off.”

  “Good idea. You go left and cut through that alley. I’ll stay on his six.”

  “Copy that.” Quinn fell back a stride, stepped into the street, and darted through a break in the traffic. A few vehicles blared their horns at him, but no one—including their target—seemed to pay the commotion any mind. Then Quinn slipped into an alley that ran behind a row of buildings on the next block.

  Bridy waited for the next break in traffic. The sun beat down like a hammer of fire, and she sleeved sweat from her brow. At last, she crossed and continued closing the distance to the Klingon agent. Street vendors made aggressive efforts to waylay Bridy with samples of their wares, which ranged from fruit and vegetables to exotic textiles and bizarre gadgets whose
purposes she couldn’t begin to imagine. She sidestepped the overzealous hawkers or shoved them aside and sustained her pace until she was within a dozen strides of the Klingon.

  Twenty meters ahead, Quinn emerged from an alleyway and set himself in position to intercept the target. The intersection was an ideal spot for them to take down the Klingon, because he had only one obvious escape route, and Bridy knew it would lead him down a dead end. They had him.

  She quickened her pace and nodded at Quinn, who drew his stun pistol.

  A pulse of charged plasma streaked overhead with a piercing screech and blasted away a chunk of the alley wall above Quinn’s head.

  He cursed as he leaped to cover behind some empty barrels, trailed every step of the way by a furious volley of plasma bolts.

  The crowd in the street scattered in multiple directions, all of them moving away from Quinn, the apparent target of a crazed sniper. A dozen panicked aliens collided with Bridy, the only person other than Quinn who didn’t seem to be running for her life. She was too busy trying not to get run over while scanning the fleeing throng simultaneously with her eyes and her tricorder for the escaping Klingon. As she feared, he was retreating in the midst of a dozen other bystanders—and as he looked back, he saw Bridy staring directly at him. She tried to hide the tricorder, but it was too late. Her cover had been blown.

  Crap.

  Quinn leaned out from behind cover just long enough to return fire in the general direction of his attacker, and then he ducked to avoid another barrage.

  Bridy turned and followed the incoming fire back to its source: a Nausicaan on a rooftop with a scope-enhanced rifle. She lifted her phaser and fired at him, but struck the front of the building half a meter beneath his perch. The sniper recoiled momentarily, then trained his sights on her. Bridy ducked into a doorway just in time to avoid having her head shot off.

  Gray smoke that stank of scorched metal filled the air. Bridy slung her tricorder at her hip and flipped open her communicator. “Quinn! Do you read me?”

  His anxious voice crackled with static. “Bridy, get outta here!”