by David Mack
“Is the artifact what they stole from Vanguard?”
She narrowed her eyes and stared into space. “Possibly. I recall no mention of an artifact in any of the recent news about the station, so if that was what Joshua Kane procured for the Klingons, it was very likely part of Vanguard’s mission to explore the Shedai mystery.”
That speculation made Pennington uneasy. “I don’t care to think about Klingons playing with Shedai gadgets.”
“I share your reservations. The Klingons have been single-minded in their efforts to harness the most destructive aspects of the Shedai’s technology. If the artifact is part of that agenda, then it is imperative we relieve them of it.”
Pennington concurred with an exaggerated nod. “Absolutely.” Then he added, “And if the artifact has bugger all to do with the security breach on Vanguard or the Shedai?”
“That will depend on the Zin’za’s next heading,” T’Prynn said. “If they set a course back into Klingon space, we will have no choice but to terminate our pursuit. This vessel lacks sufficient stealth technology to cross their border undetected, and it is neither fast enough to outrun a Klingon cruiser nor powerful enough to survive a fight with one.”
“So you’re saying if the Zin’za heads for home, we’re going down to check out the artifact.”
“Correct.”
“And what about Commodore Reyes? Or have you forgotten he’s on board the Zin’za?”
Before she could answer him, the guttural voices returned to the comm channel. “Transport complete,” said the Klingon aboard the Zin’za. “Excavation team confirms receipt.”
“Acknowledged, Zin’za . Well done. Qapla’!”
The Zin’za officer echoed, “ Qapla’!”
The channel went quiet, and T’Prynn noted movement on the sensor display. “The Zin’za is breaking orbit,” she said.
T’Prynn watched to see where the Klingon battle cruiser would go; Pennington didn’t know what to hope for.
On the one hand, after spending more than five months trapped in a dark, cold tin can with T’Prynn, he was ready to get out and stretch his legs on a real planet, with real air and real sunshine. On the other hand, a planet occupied by Klingon forces that might be meddling with Shedai artifacts—a practice whose lethal hazards he had witnessed firsthand—was hardly his idea of a vacation spot. The Skylla was dim and chilly and stank of antiseptic, but it also had proved to be safe.
“Heading confirmed,” T’Prynn said. “The Zin’za is on a direct course back to Klingon space. They have just made the jump to warp speed.”
In a voice consciously stripped of all enthusiasm, Pennington replied, “Hurray.” Then he said a silent prayer for Diego Reyes, who now was being taken beyond their reach.
T’Prynn turned her attention back to the piloting controls. “Anchor retracted,” she said, pushing buttons and flipping switches. “Engaging thrusters.” The starfield outside the canopy seemed to waver and pitch gently as she guided the Skylla away from the asteroid. “Course laid in. As soon as the Klingon cruiser moves behind the planet, we’ll make a warp jump into low orbit.” She looked at Pennington and added with mild emphasis, “You should fasten your seat’s safety restraints. We are likely to encounter intense turbulence.”
“Bloody hell,” Pennington said as he strapped himself in. “This is like flying with Quinn, except you talk more.” The last buckle snapped shut around his waist. “Maybe we should think about this—”
“Engaging warp drive in three … two … one.”
The stars stretched and fused into a blinding flash, which gave way to the surface of a Class-M planet. The Skylla shuddered and lurched as it slammed into the upper atmosphere, and T’Prynn fought to maintain control as she nose-dived toward the planet.
Pennington knew he shouldn’t ask his next question, but he couldn’t help himself. Over the roar of air ramming against the ship and the screaming whine of the engines, he shouted, “What if we don’t reach the surface before the Klingons come back around in orbit?”
“They will destroy us with their disruptors,” T’Prynn said, as if it were no big deal.
His fingers clenched the straps of his safety harness as he held on for dear life. “All right, then,” he hollered back as he watched the ground rush up to meet them. “Carry on.”
38
The Klingon convoy announced itself from a few kilometers away with a tower of golden dust that rose from the road behind it.
Quinn lay prone behind a jumbled mass of broken stone, watching through a crack in his rocky cover as the Klingons approached. His squad of Denn recruits crouched on either side of him, their hands closed like vices around the rifles he had given them. After weeks of sniping and hit-and-run attacks, this was going to be their first major assault on the enemy.
“Everyone stay calm and follow my lead,” Quinn whispered to the men. “Stretch and his boys are waiting for us to make the first move, but don’t worry—they’ll be there.”
Gesturing as he spoke, he addressed his troops one at a time. “Hopalong, remember to fire a few shots at a time, and check your targets. Don’t waste your power cell if you can’t hit anything. Slugger, stay behind cover; if you go chargin’ into the open without me tellin’ you to, I’ll shoot you myself. Doc, you got the mortar, so land your shots right in the middle of their formation. Turtle and Spaz, just do what I do and shoot anybody who ain’t one of ours. Everybody clear?”
Five upturned thumbs assured him they were ready.
He hunkered down and listened as the Klingons’ treaded all-terrain vehicles turned a corner and advanced toward his position. They were right on schedule.
Every week since their arrival, the Klingons had sent their convoy to round up a new batch of laborers and transport them out to the excavated temple. Until the ATVs made their pickup, their only passengers were Klingon soldiers.
Reckon they don’t figure it’s worth wastin’ shuttle fuel to move slaves, Quinn thought.
In the final moments of quiet, every detail seemed hyper-real to Quinn: the uncommon warmth of the early-morning sun, the stillness of the air, the sky’s deep shade of blue, a bead of sweat tracing a circuitous route down the side of his face to fall from his jaw to the dusty ground.
Then the convoy rolled squarely into the kill zone, and Quinn’s fist closed around the master detonator switch.
Improvised explosive devices on both sides of the street engulfed the four-vehicle convoy in surges of white fire. The earsplitting thunderclaps of the blasts came a split-second later, followed by the rending of metal as the blast waves shredded the four armored ATVs.
When the initial rush of flames and pitch-black smoke mushroomed up and away, the two ATVs in the center of the convoy had been mangled and knocked onto their sides. Both were on fire. The lead and follow vehicles had been badly damaged: both had lost most of their treads, leaving them immobilized.
Quinn barked, “Doc, hit the lead truck! Squad—now!” He scrambled to one knee, aimed over his protective wall of concrete slabs, and opened fire on the convoy.
His men leaped into action beside him. Just as Quinn had taught him, Doc unleashed a mortar round on the first ATV in the convoy. The plasma charge hissed through the air and slammed through the armored vehicle as if it were made of paper. Half a second later, a detonation inside the ATV scattered its parts and passengers in multiple directions.
Hatches slid open on the two toppled ATVs, and Klingon troops began hurtling up and out, rolling to their feet ready to fight. The passengers in the last ATV also evacuated their vehicle and jumped to cover moments before Stretch’s mortar man blew the armored ride to pieces.
The dozen or so Klingons in the street split into two squads and charged at their attackers—one at Stretch’s squad, one at Quinn’s.
None of the Denn hesitated to shoot. Within moments both groups of Klingons found themselves trapped in the same overlapping fields of fire. A few of them tried to shoot back before they were cut down
, but their disruptor blasts caromed harmlessly off the steel and concrete debris that the Denn had chosen for their cover.
The last Klingon dropped to his knees with a smoldering hole in his tunic and metallic sash. He gasped “PetaQpu’!” before falling facedown in the dirt.
Quinn shouted, “Cease-fire!”
All at once, the street was silent again. Only the faintest hush of a breeze and the soft crackling of flames disturbed the blissful quiet.
“Check the bodies,” Quinn said. “Move in pairs. One man covers, one man searches. If you find a Klingon alive, kill him. Take their weapons, spare power cells, communicators, and sensor devices. We have to be gone from here in two minutes. Move out!”
Across the street, Stretch and his squad fanned out in the same search pattern. Working quickly, they took everything of utility from the dead Klingons, then regrouped at the front of the massacred convoy.
“Good work,” Quinn said. “First, turn off the communicators—they can be used to track us.” He held up a Klingon communicator and demonstrated the process. When they finished, he continued. “I’ll show you how to mask your life signs with their sensor devices later. Now double-quick-time back to base!”
He led them through the ruins, sticking to concealed paths and long stretches of old sewage tunnels that had been dry for ages. Less than an hour later they entered the underground hiding place of the Rocinante, where Bridy Mac and the other two squads of Denn guerrillas were waiting. The mood was subdued.
“How’d it go?” Bridy asked as Quinn and his men returned.
“We kicked some ass,” Quinn said. Nodding at the enemy equipment his men were toting, he added, “Brought back a few prizes.” Noting the glum faces that greeted his news, he asked, “Why do y’all look like you came from a funeral?”
Bridy motioned for him to follow her inside the Rocinante. “We have an unexpected visitor,” she said. “She claims she followed one of our recon patrols, and I believe her. Which means your boys need to work on their stealth skills.”
They stepped onto the main deck of the Mancharan starhopper. Seated on Quinn’s bunk was a Denn woman swathed in the bleached robes of a desert nomad. As soon as the woman saw Quinn and Bridy, she stood and said, “You are the aliens who teach the Shire men to fight the Klingon invaders?”
“Yeah, that’s us,” Quinn said. “Who are you?”
“I am Lirev, shahzadi of the Goçeba. My tribe has been enslaved by the Klingons at the temple.”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Times are tough all over. I’d love to help you folks, really, but I just don’t—”
“The Klingons brought something to the temple last night,” Lirev cut in. “A gem the size of a skull.”
Bridy and Quinn traded doubtful looks, then Quinn said to the female nomad, “They’re decorating. So what?”
Lirev’s eyes burned with equal measures of fear and fury. “It is not a decoration—it is a vessel of pure evil.”
“What makes you so sure?” asked Bridy.
The nomad replied, “Because when the Klingons brought the stone inside the precursor temple, the world trembled in fear.”
As he put the facts together, Quinn felt the color bleed from his face. One look at his partner confirmed Bridy had arrived at the same terrifying conclusion: the Klingons had acquired something that enabled them to access the Shedai Conduit hidden inside the desert temple—and if their past mishaps with Shedai technology were any indication, Golmira was now in imminent danger of being blown up.
Quinn faced Lirev. “If I agree to come check this out, can I trust you and your nomad pals to not try to kill me?”
“I give you my word,” she said. “Truce and safe conduct.”
“Okay,” Quinn said, motioning for Lirev to lead the way. “Let’s go have a look.”
39
Trudging over one dune after another, Pennington kept his eyes on T’Prynn’s back and wished he knew voodoo and had a pin and a doll fashioned in her likeness.
“This is brilliant,” he muttered as they lumbered through the shifting sands. “More desert. Our three-day hike on Vulcan wasn’t enough for you?”
She answered without looking back. “I did not choose the location to which the Klingons transported their artifact.”
“No, of course not,” Pennington said. “But you did choose to land the ship plenty far away from it, didn’t you?”
T’Prynn reached the peak of the dune they had been climbing and stopped to wait for Pennington, who was lagging behind, a victim of fatigue and heat exhaustion. “It was necessary to set down at a safe distance from the Klingons’ ground forces,” she said. “Otherwise they would have heard and observed our descent, and we would now be in their custody.”
He joined her at the crest of the dune and squinted into the glare of sun reflected off a vista of pale sand. “Maybe,” he said. “But sometimes I get the feeling you just like walking in the desert.” He met her placid stare. “For the record, I don’t.”
“I gathered that,” she said.
They continued walking east. A gust of hot wind-blown sand scoured Pennington’s face. He winced and wrapped a length of fabric from his desert robes around his face and neck, then pulled his goggles down from on top of his head and fixed them into place. “How much farther?” he asked.
Over the howling wind, T’Prynn said, “Approximately twenty-eight-point-four kilometers.”
“And how far have we gone?”
“Since leaving the Skylla, we have traversed one-point-six kilometers of open desert.”
Pennington let out a long, pained groan. “Oh, I hate you.”
“If memory serves, you said quite clearly you were looking forward to spending some time outside the ship.”
“That was when I thought outside would mean grass or trees or water, or something besides sand.”
T’Prynn replied, “I see. Your dissatisfaction with our current circumstances stems from your failure to manage your expectations.”
He waved his arms in wild exasperation. “Or maybe it stems from having to tromp across a bloody desert!” Pennington waited for T’Prynn’s reply, but she said nothing and just kept on walking. Suspecting he was being manipulated, he asked her, “You’re just goading me, aren’t you?”
“Your reactions do provide a break from the monotony.”
“In other words, I entertain you.” He shook his head. “Is that all I am to you? A clown?”
“No,” T’Prynn said. “You are also a drain on expendable resources and a significant tactical liability.”
He fell into step beside her. “That’s funny, but who knew Vulcan humor was so cruel?”
“You confuse wit with humor,” she replied. “A common mistake among humans.”
Scrambling to keep up with the long-legged Vulcan woman, Pennington concluded to his chagrin that he had no comeback that T’Prynn couldn’t dismantle with ease. Instead he plodded along behind her, struggling to catch his breath with each step.
Several minutes later T’Prynn said, “If you begin to feel lightheaded, please try to make some sound before you lose consciousness, so I will know to stop and wait for you.”
Even silence is no defense, he brooded. He let out a heavy sigh. “Yes, I can tell already,” he said. “Your companionship will make this forced desert march just fly by.”
“You are welcome to turn back and go wait in the ship.”
He looked toward the fiery orb that was hammering his head with scorching heat, then glared at T’Prynn. “Now you tell me.”
40
Quinn slithered on his belly up the slope of the dune. Poking his head over the top he caught sight of the precursor temple rising from the desert.
A Klingon garrison patrolled outside the ruins, cracking the proverbial whip on hundreds of enslaved Denn workers, who were helping the Klingons excavate the site. Men and machines worked side by side, carefully peeling away the artistically carved stone façade to reveal the obsidian, biomechanoid stru
cture entombed within. For the most part the Klingons had focused on exposing the front entrance of the Shedai Conduit; most of the temple’s multilevel roof, with its slopes, platforms, and turrets, remained in place though not wholly intact.
That’s at least a full company of troops, Quinn observed. Noting a row of prefabricated structures erected alongside the temple, he retrieved a pair of holographically enhanced binoculars from a pocket of his desert robe and surveyed the Klingons’ camp compound.
Mess hall, he figured. Barracks. Latrine. The one with the climate module is probably the CO’s office. Then he spied the only structure that was under guard. Bingo, he thought with a smile. Ammo dump and weapons cache.
He adjusted the settings on the binoculars and pointed them at the temple’s entrance. Filtering out the glare of daylight, he zoomed in on the interior of the ruins, where a Klingon scientist surrounded by high-tech gizmos was conferring with a trio of Klingon officers. True to their reputations, the three soldiers were shouting at the gray-bearded Klingon civilian, who seemed to be making protests the troops didn’t want to hear.
In short order the matter seemed to have been decided. The scientist unlocked a protective case and opened its lid. Then he reached inside the container and lifted out a peculiar object.
It was a twelve-sided crystal polyhedron; each of its pentagonal faces had five edges of equal length. The crystal’s core pulsed with an intense violet glow. As the scientist lifted it free of its case, the three military men stepped back fearfully.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Quinn muttered to himself. “The little one-eyed kook wasn’t kiddin’.”
