Star Trek: Vanguard: What Judgments Come

by Dayton Ward

  “Well, don’t be in too much of a hurry here, either,” Fisher said. “It’ll take a little time, but not as much as you might think. We can begin some of the scanning work as soon as you feel up to it, and when you want to sleep some more, I can give you more for that, too.”

  Pennington once more glanced down at his arm, or where his arm should have been. Was it odd that he seemed to feel no resentment at having lost the limb, either as a consequence of the firefight or due to Fisher’s inability to treat the injuries he had suffered? Part of him felt as though he should be angry and should be wanting to lash out at something or someone, but as quickly as such thoughts manifested themselves, they seemed to dissolve of their own volition. Was he in denial about what had happened to him, or had he already begun to accept it without so much as a token protest or outburst at the unfairness of his current situation?

  Beats being dead, I suppose, he conceded. At least now, the doc can fix me. Most of me, anyway.

  “Any chance I could get something to eat?” he asked, almost without thinking as he felt a rumbling in his stomach. How long had it been since his last solid meal?

  “Done,” Fisher said. “Also, do you feel up to visitors? Strictly your decision.”

  Pennington was somewhat taken aback by the question. “Really? Somebody’s come to see me?”

  “They’ve actually been waiting quite a while,” the doctor replied. “Hang on a minute.” He left the room, leaving Pennington to wonder who might be calling on him. Admiral Nogura? Vanguard’s commanding officer would be too busy. Perhaps T’Prynn had—against all of her Vulcan logic—taken pity upon him and opted to drop in? Maybe Allie from Tom Walker’s place? There was always Lieutenant Ginther from station security, he supposed.

  And don’t forget …

  His thoughts were interrupted by his room door sliding open once again, followed by a gruff voice.

  “Um, hi, Tim.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Pennington said, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the sight of Cervantes Quinn standing in his doorway. Unable to resist, he offered a small smile. “‘Tim’? I get a bloody ‘Tim’ from you? I must look a hell of a lot worse than I thought.” He watched as the haggard-looking trader entered the room without any actual invitation being extended, shuffling more than walking as he made his way to the side of the biobed. To Pennington’s sleep-weary and drug-hazed eyes, Quinn still appeared unkempt and downtrodden, and appeared to be battling all manner of inner demons even as he put on a brave face.

  “I hear you’ve had a rough go,” Quinn said, his voice low and sounding as tired and drained of spirit as the man himself.

  Pennington nodded. “I’d say you can see I’ve had a rough go. Might as well talk about it, I suppose.”

  “Okay, then,” Quinn said, seeming to relax a bit. “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Like an idiot,” Pennington replied. “I guess I was due, right? Running around, getting the story, doing what I do. I shouldn’t be that surprised to wake up one day and see this. Could’ve been worse, the more I think about it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Quinn said. “You got shot. From what I hear, you kept other people from getting hurt, too.”

  Frowning, Pennington tried to remember details of the fire-fight, and was surprised to realize that some of the memories were still refusing to present themselves. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Maybe it’ll come back to me.”

  “Maybe,” Quinn replied. “Then again, maybe it’s a good thing you can’t remember.”

  Pennington nodded. “Do me a favor? Pass me a drink? I’m not that steady.”

  His expression turning to one of confusion, Quinn blinked several times before answering, “I’m not carrying anything on me at the moment.”

  That’s a damned lie. Pennington almost said the words aloud, but caught himself at the last moment. There was nothing to be gained from going down that path. Not now, at least. Instead, he nodded to the stand next to his bed. “Over there. The cup.”

  Quinn lifted the cup and maneuvered it to Pennington’s lips, and the reporter sipped from the straw. Once he had done so, he tried once more to find a comfortable position in the bed.

  “Believe it or not, it’s good to see you, Quinn.”

  “Yeah,” his friend replied, averting his gaze to stare at something on the wall behind Pennington’s head. “I wasn’t sure that would happen again.”

  “What,” Pennington said, nodding toward his right shoulder. “This changed your mind?”

  Quinn nodded. “Got me thinking, yeah.”

  “Thinking that the last time we spoke, you acted like a complete bastard?”

  To Pennington’s surprise, Quinn smiled at that. “There’s the newsboy I know.”

  “And where’s the Cervantes Quinn that I know?” Pennington let the question hang in the air a moment before pressing ahead. “You’re standing there worried about me? Hell, mate, I’m worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t,” Quinn snapped. “I’m the one standing on the good side of a hospital bed, not you.”

  “This time, anyway,” Pennington said. “Maybe next time I’ll be standing on the good side of a slab in the morgue.” No sooner did the words leave his mouth than he felt regret wash over him. Bloody hell.

  Quinn’s features darkened, his brow furrowing and his lips pressing together as he backed away from the bed. “Well, just look at the time. I’ll tell the doctor you’re ready for your next hypospray.” As he walked to the door, he added without turning his head, “See you around. Tim.”

  Angry at himself and his own stupidity, Pennington called out, “Damn it, Quinn, don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m not my—” He sighed when he saw that he was speaking to a closing door. “Damn it.”

  Releasing a sigh of exasperation, Pennington shifted in the bed, hoping he might grow accustomed to reclining just enough that he could doze off again. He knew that was unlikely, at least in the short term, as his mind no doubt would continue to torture him with replays of the disastrous conversation that had just transpired. Despite that, he closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, trying to force himself to relax, but his thoughts turned once more to his friend, whom Pennington suspected might be nearing his limit. How much further could he descend, spiraling ever more out of control? Quinn seemed content to commit slow self-destruction, and it angered Pennington that he would probably be forced to watch the final act of his friend’s deterioration from a hospital bed.

  Damn you, Quinn.

  The sound of his door opening yet again startled him from his reverie, and he looked up to see yet another unexpected visitor.

  “T’Prynn?” Despite his earlier musing about her, part of him had hoped she might see fit to pay him a visit.

  Just outside the doorway, dressed in her familiar red Starfleet uniform and with her hair pulled back into a functional, regulation bun, the Vulcan stood with her hands clasped behind her back. “May I enter without disturbing you?”

  “Probably not,” Pennington said as he squinted into the light from the room’s open door. “But please enter anyway.”

  T’Prynn moved far enough into the room for the doors to close behind her. “May I approach?”

  Pennington laughed for what he imagined was the first time in a while. “You’re being awfully formal, considering we used to be married. I mean, even though it was a sham marriage that you insisted on so that you could use me for personal gain and all.”

  Her right eyebrow arching, T’Prynn replied, “I would never presume that our rather odd venture into temporary matrimony afforded me any special privileges, particularly now that our marital contract has long since been voided.”

  “Of course not,” Pennington said, punctuating the reply with another small chuckle. “Please … approach. I promise that losing an arm isn’t contagious.”

  Stepping closer, T’Prynn countered, “Not unless you had lost it as a result of contracting Arcturan limb-specific necrosis.”

&n
bsp; “Wait, they actually have such a thing?” When T’Prynn said nothing, Pennington’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Did I survive all this just so I could see you crack a joke?”

  “I understand how your recent trauma might alter your perceptions,” T’Prynn said, “so I will keep my visit brief. I trust that you are recuperating according to Doctor Fisher’s expectations.”

  Pennington nodded. “Looks that way. As illogical as I’m sure this will sound, my missing arm hurts quite a bit. Other than that, I seem to be coming along fine.”

  “Excellent,” T’Prynn said. After a moment, she brought her right hand from behind her back. “I also have come to deliver something.” Reaching toward his bedside table, she placed atop it a slim, silver-bodied device.

  “Ah,” Pennington said, recognizing the object as she withdrew her hand. “You’ve found my recorder.”

  “It is not your recorder,” T’Prynn corrected. “Yours was damaged to the point of necessitating a replacement. I was able to acquire an identical model. You will find that it contains all of your original audio and visual files, in case you need them for review.”

  It took Pennington an extra moment to comprehend what he had just heard. When realization dawned, he lifted his head to regard T’Prynn with skepticism. “Wait a minute. All of them? Including what I was recording at the time I—”

  “Your files are complete,” T’Prynn replied. “Admiral Nogura was initially disinclined to return the recordings, but I explained that your traumatic injury likely resulted in some short-term memory lapses, and that your files might offer restorative benefits should you choose to view them.”

  “I suppose they could,” Pennington said, nodding in agreement as he studied the device before him. “And what did he say about their journalistic value? I recorded an armed assault by Orion pirates aboard a Starfleet installation, which was incited by the legally questionable extradition of a former Starfleet officer who had requested asylum within protected Orion property. That’s news.”

  T’Prynn replied, “Your predilection for discerning what information better serves the citizens of the Federation by being kept from public dissemination was successfully argued by Mister Reyes. He may be your strongest advocate aboard the station.”

  “But not my only one,” Pennington said, shifting his gaze from his recorder to her. “Thank you, T’Prynn.” Nodding toward the device, he added, “Don’t get me wrong; it’s a tremendous story, but not for the news feeds. I’ll archive it along with the rest of my Vanguard recordings and when I’m ready, I’ll give it a look.”

  Maybe I can write a book or three about all of this one day.

  “As you wish,” T’Prynn said.

  She said nothing else for a moment, and when that moment began to lengthen to the point of awkwardness, Pennington shifted his position once again, his discomfort now existing on multiple levels. “Was there something else?” he finally asked.

  T’Prynn seemed to be experiencing her own bout of uneasiness. “There is another matter. I have come to acknowledge the circumstances which led to your injury. Your actions prevented harm to me, and I … thank you, Tim.”

  Thanks, from a Vulcan? Pennington could not help the odd tinge of humility he now felt as he contemplated what T’Prynn must have mustered within herself to share those words. Sensing her anxiety despite her best efforts to maintain her cool, composed demeanor, he said, “T’Prynn, please. I did what anyone else would have done in the same situation.”

  “You have shown me much kindness,” T’Prynn said. “I realize this is a normal, if illogical, practice of your species, and one from which I have encouraged you to refrain on multiple occasions. And yet, you persist.”

  “Call me stubborn,” Pennington replied, now feeling more than a bit anxious in his own right, and seeking a way to ease the tension they both seemed to be experiencing.

  T’Prynn’s eyebrow arched once again. “Mister Pennington, with your permission, I would like to reciprocate.”

  “Permission?” Pennington puzzled a bit over his own question. Reciprocate? What the hell is she saying? “I suppose, but what do you need permission for?”

  Without replying, T’Prynn stepped closer to his side, reaching up to rest her fingers along the sides of his face. Pennington felt the gentle pressure of her fingertips against his temples and at points just below his eyes.

  “Tim Pennington,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “my mind to your mind. Our minds are merging. Our minds are one, and together.”

  “Wait, what are you …” There was an initial rush of uncertainty at what was happening, but Pennington forced himself to relax, knowing T’Prynn was not attempting to harm him. He tried to speak further, but the words only thickened in his mouth. Then, a preternatural calm overtook him, and though he could not hear her words, he felt her presence in his mind. Soothing warmth washed over him like a thick, inviting blanket, and he felt the tension in his body melt away, and a sensation of euphoria began to overtake him. T’Prynn was there, but just beyond the perimeter of his perception, and he comprehended he was slipping away into the welcoming embrace of sleep, no doubt brought on by T’Prynn’s mind-meld and whatever passive instructions she was feeding to his subconscious.

  As he drifted away, content to let whatever spell T’Prynn had cast upon him soothe his overtaxed mind and body, Pennington realized she also had given him one additional gift.

  The pain from his nonexistent arm was gone.

  29

  Standing on a rise that afforded him an unobstructed view of the valley below, Thomas Blair studied the settlement through the viewfinder of the field binoculars. The structures, all of obvious Klingon design, appeared to be intact. He saw no signs of attack or even a natural disaster that might have been misconstrued as an attack. To his eyes, nothing about the colony appeared amiss.

  Except for the bodies, of course. “Good God,” Blair said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed several times in an effort to work up some spit. Panning the binoculars across the colony center, he opted to stop counting the number of Klingon bodies scattered along the open streets and courtyards. Other corpses were draped over balconies, or slumped over the consoles of land vehicles or other equipment. From somewhere, probably within one or more of the structures, Blair heard the low, constant hum of machinery still in operation. Generators, he thought, or environmental control or refrigeration units. He saw no sign of weapons or other military apparatus. “No life signs. You’re sure about that?”

  Standing next to him, his security chief, Lieutenant Commander Trethishavu th’Vlene, replied, “None, Captain. At least, none within the target area.”

  “Eight kilometers across,” Blair said, repeating that nugget of information from the briefing his science officer had given to him prior to his decision to beam down. “And almost a perfect circle. There’s no way this was a natural phenomenon, so what the hell happened? An attack, or maybe some kind of accident?” Magnifying the image being fed to him through the binoculars, he focused on a section of one of the streets where three bodies were strewn across the ground. The expressions fixed on the Klingons’ faces and the dried blood running from their mouths, noses, and ears told Blair that whatever had caused their deaths, it had been anything but pleasant.

  “Perhaps some sort of chemical or biological agent was deployed,” th’Vlene said. The Andorian thaan was holding up a tricorder, its sensors aimed toward the settlement. “Though it would have to be something we’ve never encountered. I’m not picking up any traces of contaminants in the atmosphere.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” Blair said, “especially considering we’re standing out here in the open, with no sort of protective equipment.” Sensor scans of the planet from orbit had shown no trace of anything untoward, which was the main reason he had opted for a firsthand look at the colony site.

  Th’Vlene frowned, adjusting the tricorder’s settings. “However, I am detecting a r
esidual energy signature. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before.”

  Blair lowered the binoculars and turned to look as th’Vlene angled the tricorder so that he could see its display. “Send your readings back to the ship. We’ll get the computer chewing on it.” Sighing, he reached up to wipe the light sheen of perspiration that had formed on his forehead. “This is a farming colony. Would the Tholians resort to attacking civilians?”

  “There are unconfirmed reports that the Klingons have a military installation hidden somewhere on this planet,” th’Vlene replied.

  “I’ve read those reports,” Blair said, “but according to Commander Nyn, there’s nothing here to suggest a military presence. According to every scan she ran, this is a farming colony, which makes absolutely no sense, considering everything else this planet has to offer.”

  Frowning, th’Vlene replied, “Maybe they got what they wanted simply by laying claim to the planet. If they’re here, then we can’t be, and we can’t conduct mining operations.”

  “But you’d think they would be,” Blair countered. He then paused as he realized what his security chief was inferring. “You mean they’re just holding on to this rock for now—saving it for a rainy day.”

  Th’Vlene said, “I don’t know why the weather should factor into whatever strategy the Klingons might have for exploiting this planet’s resources.”

  His eyes narrowing, Blair chuckled despite the situation and his surroundings, and shook his head. “Are you sure you’re not a Vulcan?”

  By all accounts, the Traelus system had been of interest to the Empire even before their first forays into the Taurus Reach. Traelus II, the world on which Blair and his landing party now stood, was rich in natural resources valued both by the Federation as well as the Klingons. Deposits of dilithium, pergium, rodinium—minerals essential to the operation of modern starships as well as starbases and other land-based facilities—were present across the planet. The system’s proximity to the Tholian border also made it attractive from a strategic point of view, as it was one of a handful of such systems from which military action could be supported in the event of a conflict with Tholian forces. It was these same interests that had motivated the Klingons to stake a claim to Traelus II ahead of the Federation.