Precipice

by David Mack

  T’Prynn was perplexed as she skimmed through the redacted transcripts of Reyes’s court-martial. Why would Reyes compromise Operation Vanguard in such a manner? Even as she read his condemnation of Starfleet’s recent shift toward excessive secrecy, she found it difficult to accept his reasoning. Consequently, she was not surprised to read at the end of the transcript that Reyes had been convicted, stripped of his rank, dishonorably discharged from Starfleet service, and sentenced to ten years’ incarceration at a penal facility in New Zealand on Earth.

  Then she read that Reyes’s transport had been destroyed by an unknown attacker while it was en route to Earth. Lost with all hands. Reduced to a cloud of gas and dust.

  Diego Reyes was dead. Murdered.

  The usual suspects had denied responsibility, of course. Even though the Klingons had placed a bounty on Reyes’s life after the Gamma Tauri IV incident, they insisted they had wanted him to stand trial on Qo’noS, not be granted a glorious death in battle. Figures linked with the various Orion smugglers who prowled the sector protested their innocence, claiming they were merely thieves and not murderers—as if making that distinction gave them some claim to the moral high ground. Predictably, the Tholians said nothing at all.

  Without access to hard evidence and witnesses, T’Prynn would not be able to form a hypothesis determining who was responsible for the death of her friend and former commanding officer. But between the reports of increased pirate activity in the Taurus Reach and escalating demonstrations of aggression by Klingon forces in that sector, it seemed clear to her that there was a significant breach in Vanguard’s operational security.

  That is where my service will be of the most value, she decided. If I am to redeem myself and reclaim my career, those who destroyed the Nowlan must be brought to justice … and Star-fleet’s control over the Taurus Reach must be restored.

  In twenty-five days the transport would deliver her and Pennington to Ajilon. She had that long to come up with a plan.

  It wasn’t much time. But it would be enough.

  13

  February 26, 2267

  Reyes pulled back the center tine of his fork and let it snap forward, catapulting a live gagh worm across his cell.

  The wriggling thing sizzled as it struck his cell’s force field. It fell to the floor and was still. Tendrils of vapor rose from its lightly browned skin. Reyes leaned forward, picked it up, and bit off a piece. He chewed for a few seconds, then nodded at Ezthene.

  “You’re right. They do taste better cooked.”

  “I am pleased my advice proved useful,” the Tholian replied from the opposite cell.

  Gorkon had adjourned their meeting for a short lunch break. Rather than send Ezthene back to his artificial environment—which entailed a tedious protocol of adjusting the composition of gasses in his insulated cabin, increasing their pressure by a few orders of magnitude, and raising the temperature until the compartment was as hot as a furnace—Gorkon had elected to let Ezthene remain in the brig with Reyes.

  One by one, Reyes launched the gagh in his bowl at the force field. When he was sure they were all at least medium rare, he scooped them off the deck and back into his bowl.

  “Just one drawback to this little plan,” he said.

  “And that is?”

  “Now my cell stinks like fried worms.”

  Ezthene waved his upper limbs in an “oh, well” gesture he had learned from Reyes. “No plan is perfect,” he said.

  Through a mouthful of half-masticated worms, Reyes mumbled, “Got that right.” Barely cooked gagh was better than live gagh, but he didn’t care for it either way. Forcing himself to swallow the greasy, mushy mess, he reminded himself it was protein and he needed it to keep his strength up. At least they let me drink clean water, he thought with some relief. He picked up his cup and took a swig to wash the taste of gagh from his mouth.

  Poking inside the bowl with his fork to find the next-most-cooked worm, he asked Ezthene, “What do you eat on this ship? I can’t imagine the Klingons have a menu packed with all your favorites.”

  “My species does not consume organic matter as fuel,” the quadruped replied. “We process chemicals from our atmosphere to energize our internal functions.”

  Reyes grinned. “All you need is the air you breathe, eh? Convenient.”

  “Yes. Quite.”

  A few minutes later as Reyes swallowed the last of his worms, the door to the brig slid open with a soft hiss. The Zin’za’s commanding officer, Captain Kutal, walked in. He was followed by Gorkon, who wore a disgruntled expression.

  Unable to resist the urge to needle his captor, Reyes asked, “What’s the matter, Gorkon? You look like someone shot your targ.”

  “Would that they had,” Gorkon said. He came to a halt between Reyes and Ezthene. “I had hoped I might be able to muster enough support among my allies to bring you with me to address the chancellor in an open session of the High Council. Unfortunately, my peers are not as willing to hear foreign perspectives as I am—and unwilling to do so at all in that august chamber.”

  Ezthene replied, “Imagine my disappointment.” The dryness of his sarcasm was only magnified by his vocoder.

  “It’s just as well,” Reyes said. “I wouldn’t have had a thing to wear.”

  Gorkon frowned. “This is a more serious setback than either of you appears to grasp.”

  “No, I grasp it just fine,” Reyes said. “I simply don’t care.” He folded his arms. “What’s the problem, anyway? Aren’t you Sturka’s go-to guy? If you’ve got his ear, why do you need to go marching us in front of the council? Or could it be that Sturka doesn’t want to see us in there, either? Do you need the council’s political muscle to get him to cooperate?”

  The councillor’s frown became a glare aimed squarely at Reyes. “Very astute of you, Diego. You’re right. Sturka is resistant to granting you an audience. However, even if he were inclined to let you two speak for the record, it would still be necessary to appease a majority of the council to make such a public audience happen.”

  Ezthene asked, “So where does that leave us?”

  “In custody,” Reyes said, cutting off Gorkon.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Gorkon said. “It will take time for me to lay the requisite political groundwork for this meeting.”

  Captain Kutal interjected, “Assuming current events don’t render it completely impossible.”

  Reyes’s curiosity was aroused. “What current events?”

  Gorkon shot a reproachful stare at Kutal, then said to Reyes, “Hostilities between Klingon forces and Starfleet have been escalating in recent weeks. Rumors of war are afoot.”

  “As always,” Reyes said.

  Gorkon dipped his chin. “Well put. In any event, I must return to the First City on Qo’noS. Until I am able to return, I need to ask both of you to be patient.”

  From the other cell Ezthene replied, “We seem to have little alternative.”

  “Not hard to be patient in the brig,” Reyes added.

  For a moment Gorkon took on a pensive countenance. “It is rather disingenuous of me to ask for your aid and counsel while treating you like prisoners of war.” He faced Ezthene. “I regret that more of the ship cannot be refitted to your environmental needs, but perhaps we could arrange to provide you with some sort of intellectual diversion.”

  “I would be satisfied with a simple increase in the ambient temperature of my compartment.”

  Nodding, Gorkon said, “Very well. Captain Kutal, please see to it the adjustment is made. Also, arrange for Mister Reyes to be moved to private quarters at once.”

  “Yes, Councillor,” Kutal said, obedient but also visibly seething at the order. “May I recommend, however, that Mister Reyes be monitored by armed guards at all times?”

  Gorkon glowered at Kutal with a mixture of annoyance and contempt. “Yes, obviously, Captain.” Adopting a calmer tone, he said to Reyes, “Will there be anything else before I depart?”

  “
I could use something to read.”

  That drew a thin smile from Gorkon. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  14

  March 22, 2267

  Pennington stepped out of the shuttle onto the surface of Ajilon Prime and decided the last three weeks with T’Prynn had been the longest year of his life.

  He stepped clear of the other passengers exiting the shuttle and set down his duffel. The waters of Tanada Bay sparkled in the morning sunlight. Colorful boats darted across the azure waves. A crisp, cool breeze kissed his face and carried with it the invigorating scent of saltwater.

  This might not be a Federation planet yet, but it will be soon, he mused. Between its natural beauty and its position on the Klingon border, he speculated that its application for membership would be fast-tracked through the Federation Council.

  Footsteps halted behind him. He knew without looking it was her. “Mister Pennington,” said T’Prynn.

  Reluctantly, he turned to face her. “Yes, dear?”

  “I wish to inform you our honeymoon is now over. And I wanted to thank you for your help.”

  She offered him her hand. Shaking it, he asked, “That’s it, then?” Noting her confused reaction, he let go of her hand and went on. “I mean, sure, you’ve reached Ajilon. And knowing you, there’s probably some devious scheme already in the works. But do you really think you’re safer going it alone?”

  “Safety was never one of my chief considerations,” T’Prynn said, shifting the bag on her shoulder.

  He rolled his eyes. “Now you tell me.” He shook his head. “Never mind—what’s your next move?”

  T’Prynn stepped beside him and gazed out at the bay. “Before leaving Vulcan I prepared an additional set of identity papers. I will use them going forward to obscure any link between the ruse that enabled us to leave my homeworld and my actions to come.” She threw a sidelong look at Pennington. “Logically, my best chance of preventing someone from linking my two false identities would be to part company with you.”

  “Well, obviously,” he said, keeping his eyes on the water. “I know you probably won’t answer me, but I’ll ask anyway. What are you hoping to accomplish?”

  An uneasy silence lasted for several seconds. Then T’Prynn said, “I plan to conduct a covert operation to gather intelligence against the Orion crime lord Ganz, his Nalori enforcer Zett Nilric, and whatever smugglers or pirates they have been aiding and abetting in the Taurus Reach.”

  Pennington expressed his doubt with a sideways tilt of his head. “A useful goal,” he said. “Though not exactly the kind of high-stakes poker I’d have expected from someone like you. Why spend your time spying on a bunch of thugs?”

  “Because I suspect Ganz’s organization serves as a cutout for the Klingons in that sector—and that he or someone who works for him had a hand in destroying the Nowlan and murdering Diego Reyes.”

  While Pennington processed that bombshell of information, T’Prynn turned and walked away from him, across the landing field toward the encircling cluster of small buildings that passed for a town on this tenuously settled ball of rock.

  “Hold on!” he called to her. He grabbed his duffel and jogged clumsily after her. “You can prove that?”

  Over her shoulder, she replied, “Of course not, Mister Pennington. I said only that I suspect it. I intend to gather evidence so that I can prove it.”

  “Right,” he replied, feeling like a bit of a berk. “You did say that, didn’t you? Sorry.”

  As he fell into step beside her, she glanced at him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you following me?”

  “Y’know,” the intrigued young Scot said with a shrug, “to help.” He omitted the fact that being able to publish a properly sourced story titled “Who Really Killed Diego Reyes?” would likely win him awards and pave his way to a lifetime of prestige. And adoring fans. Preferably young, female fans.

  “I thought I had made it clear my best interests would be served by us going our separate ways.”

  “You did. But the thing is, I’m not so sure. That you’re right, I mean. I learned a lot traveling with Quinn. Enough to make myself useful. Good in a pinch, that’s me. Handy.”

  Christ, he fumed. I’m babbling. I need to keep cool.

  “Would you perhaps have an ulterior motive for coming with me, Mister Pennington? For instance, a desire to chronicle our shared exploits in journalistic or literary form?”

  “Well, I, uh …” He made half a dozen strange faces while he struggled and failed to conceive some means of evading her question. “Well, if I learn something newsworthy, I’m going to write about it, aren’t I? But I’m not a total sod, T’Prynn. I won’t publish something that’ll do more harm than good.”

  Behind them, the shuttle’s engines whined and split the air. The small craft took off and ascended into the sky on its way back to orbit. When the din of its departure abated, T’Prynn replied, “Who determines the relative harm or benefit of one of your articles?”

  “Well, I guess I do.”

  “I see.”

  Passing into the warren of narrow streets beyond the landing field, Pennington and T’Prynn cut through a mass of people. There seemed to be bodies moving in all directions at once, like threads being woven into a living tapestry. On either side, tiny shops stood edge to edge, as if huddled for warmth.

  “Look, you can trust me,” Pennington said, still trying to plead his case. “And right now, it seems to me like you could use every friend you can get.”

  As they turned a corner, she replied, “The mission I am about to undertake will be time-consuming, tedious, and at times extremely dangerous.” She stopped and faced him. “I am grateful to you for helping me escape custody on Vulcan, but the longer you stay with me, the greater your legal jeopardy becomes. I cannot ask any more of you.”

  “You don’t have to ask,” Pennington said. “I’m offering.”

  She made a small bow of her head. “If that is your choice, then I will not refuse your aid.”

  He sighed and smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  T’Prynn and Pennington lurked in the shadows on the edge of the town. Beyond the cluster of squat structures, many of the more transient visitors to Ajilon had parked their vessels. They were being tended by a small fleet of hovercraft that brought them fuel and expendable supplies and transported their cargo.

  “Looks like a bloody smugglers’ cove if ever I saw one,” Pennington said, eyeing the line of small vessels and the rogues’ gallery of seedy individuals who lurked within and around them.

  Pulling an illegal scanning device from under her tunic, T’Prynn said, “An astute observation.”

  “Travel with Quinn long enough and places like this start to look familiar.”

  “No doubt.” She aimed her scanner at the row of ships and adjusted the device’s settings. “Most of those vessels have been illegally modified.”

  Even though they were concealed in the darkness between two buildings, Pennington felt exposed. Vulnerable. “What’re you looking for? Are we trying to link one of those ships to Ganz?”

  “No, Mister Pennington. We are going to steal one.” She wasted no time selecting a ship. “That one,” she said, nodding at a teardrop-shaped craft with a protruding pod on the starboard side. “It will suit our needs well. It has been upgraded with a number of improvements that I suspect were acquired via the black market. It has stealth, speed, and superior offensive and defensive capabilities for a vessel its size.” Putting away her scanner, she added, “It also has three people aboard. If you wish to dissociate yourself from my plan—”

  “I don’t,” he said. “I’m in.”

  “Very well.” T’Prynn handed him a plasma blaster.

  He looked at the weapon in his hand. Its potential excited and terrified him. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Right. What do you need from me?”

  She arched one eyebrow. “A distraction.”

  Dochyiel stood under the bow of his employer’s sta
rship and used a Klingon painstik to swat another nymock off the power cables attached to the forward landing gear.

  “Damned pests,” muttered the Efrosian hired gun. He jabbed the painstik into the fallen parasite—to make sure it was dead and to vent some of his anger. This isn’t even supposed to be my job, he brooded. But the chief engineer is the boss’s best friend, so we can’t have him doing scut work when there’s booze to be guzzled, can we? The nymock let out a pathetic screech as it expired under the electrical torment of the Klingon prod.

  As the Efrosian resigned himself to heading aft to check the other landing struts, a commotion from a few ships away caught his attention. It sounded like a cross between drunken singing and someone trying to strangle a small animal.

  Lurching and stumbling along the row of ships was a human man. He was young, fair-haired, and relatively handsome for one of his species. In one hand he held an all but empty bottle of something; in the other he brandished a blaster.

  Resting his hand on his own sidearm, Dochyiel kept a watchful eye on the weaving loon who was ranting in singsong gibberish. This ought to be interesting, he predicted.

  “Garble, gribble, brouhaha!” crowed the mad-eyed human. “Did she say why? No! ’Course not! That would’ve been bloody civil!” He hiccupped, and his cheeks puffed as if an emetic incident was imminent. Then he sucked in a breath and continued his wild screaming. “Not even a by your leave, guv! And what’m I s’posed to say?”

  The man dropped his bottle and unfastened the belt on his pants, which fell to his knees. He began dancing spastically in a small circle with one arm held high over his head, and the blaster pointed at his own head.