“Even with its effects on our sensors, the Tholians should not have been able to detect us,” Ineti said. “Drawing power directly from the warp engines is the most likely cause, and perhaps is a design flaw. We should alert Fleet Command of the unexpected discrepancy as soon as possible.” With another knowing smile, he added, “Whenever that might be.”
Allowing the cool, slightly vibrating surface of the bulkhead to act as therapy against the headache she could feel descending upon her, Sarith finally opened her eyes and glanced at the chronometer displayed on her desktop computer terminal. She quickly calculated the interval of time remaining until her next planned subspace communication back to the empire and noted that several hours remained—more than enough time for her to compose a thorough account of their current situation and status.
Finally, something new to report.
The journey to this region of space, far beyond Romulan boundaries, had taken months, thanks in no small part to the circuitous route that had been required in order to skirt Federation and Klingon territory, not to mention their paying particular attention to avoid the network of observation outposts the Federation had deployed along their border with Romulan space. To the best of Sarith’s knowledge, it was the first time any military vessel had left the confines of the Romulan Star Empire since shortly after the war against Earth.
All so that we might spy on our former enemies.
“I know that expression,” Ineti said after a moment. “Once again, you wonder if this assignment is worthy of an officer of your stature.”
Sarith smiled. As always, she failed utterly at concealing her thoughts and feelings from her oldest friend. “I do not question the Praetor’s orders, or the directives of Fleet Command,” she said, the words sounding rehearsed even as she said them. “I would simply have appreciated more information. It is preferable to know for what exactly we are undertaking such risk, would you not agree?”
“Of course,” Ineti replied, “just as I’ve agreed with you on each of the seventeen occasions since our departure when you have raised this same question.”
Sighing, Sarith shook her head. The old man certainly could be exasperating at times. “I have to wonder what interest the Praetor might have in happenings taking place so far from home,” she said. Her vessel had traveled almost the length and breadth of explored space, and for what reason? To gather information on the recent upswing of Federation, Klingon, and even Tholian activity in this heretofore isolated region of space, to relay that information back to her superiors, and to do so without alerting anyone to her ship’s presence. It was of paramount importance to the Praetor that no one know of the Romulans’ first slow steps toward emerging from an isolation that had lasted more than a century, and that their interests were piqued by whatever might be unfolding here.
“Just because we do not see the threat,” Ineti said after a moment, “does not mean it does not exist. Such prudence has guided us for countless generations, my friend. Do not forget that.”
“Some would call that philosophy nothing more than simple paranoia,” Sarith countered. In fact, judging from the scant intelligence data received from undercover operatives positioned within the ranks of the Federation Starfleet, the Earth-centric political body seemed almost obsessed with expanding their influence into this region of space, which apparently had provoked the Klingon Empire into dispatching their own vessels. The activities of both entities appeared to have angered the Tholians, and by all accounts, war in this region seemed inevitable.
Among the many things missing from the intelligence reports was what had set these events in motion.
What had brought the Federation here, possessing it to venture into territory flanked by two rival powers who both considered the humans and their allies to be a threat? Had the Klingons learned of some potential military advantage the area offered, and were they now determined to seize it before the Federation staked their claim? How did the Tholians factor into the equation, apart from simple xenophobia and a desire to be left well enough alone?
Sarith’s mission was simple: Find answers to those questions.
3
“Go away.”
The words were spikes piercing Cervantes Quinn’s head even as he said them, aided as they were by the fact that he was speaking while pressing his right cheek into the cool surface of the bar in Tom Walker’s place. The wood—or whatever material simulating wood that had been used to construct the bar—vibrated beneath his face, sending renewed waves of pain into his skull and giving him cause once again to utter his oft-used yet never-honored entreaty to any benevolent deity who might be listening.
Please, just let me die in peace.
“Quinn,” Tim Pennington said, repeating the summons for the third time while simultaneously placing a hand on Quinn’s left shoulder and shaking it. “Come on, we’re going to be late. We’re due to ship out in less than an hour.”
“Huh?” Quinn said, the word coming out as much a gargle as it was anything remotely intelligible. Pulling his head up, during which he discovered that some of his long gray hair had become stuck to the bar by way of a congealed green substance equally likely to be Aldebaran whiskey or engine coolant, he turned and regarded Pennington—all six of him—dancing in his unfocused vision. “What are you talking about?”
Pennington rolled his eyes. “The shipment, Quinn, don’t you remember? The replacement parts for the load lifters that farmer on Boam II ordered? You contracted with the station to deliver them in a week. We have to leave this morning if we’re going to keep that schedule.”
Watching as the six dancing Penningtons continued their fluctuations before his eyes in a frenzied attempt to meld into a single irksome speaker, Quinn came to the conclusion that the journalist’s slight Scottish brogue was even more irritating to hear first thing in the morning, particularly when Quinn was nursing a hangover that harbored enough force to initiate a warp-core overload.
“Right,” he said finally, nodding in acknowledgment to Pennington and immediately regretting the movement. He reached up to cradle his forehead in his hands. It was going to be a long day, but ultimately one he had no choice but to survive, at least if he wanted to get paid.
Vanguard’s quartermaster division had already taken pity upon him by offering him a contract to transport supplies and other requested items from the station to the various colonies that were springing up throughout the Taurus Reach. So far the work had been marginally profitable, if not exciting, at least enough to keep him fed and his ship, the Rocinante,in working order. It also provided him with at least some funds that he could put toward his outstanding debts, the number and amount of which escaped him at the moment.
I wonder if I’ve got enough to buy a new skull,he thought as another stab of pain wormed its way behind his eyeballs.
Regarding him skeptically, Pennington shook his head. “Did you spend the night here?”
“Possibly,” Quinn replied. “I think so.” He pondered the question for an additional moment. “Yeah.” Like many of the other establishments located within Stars Landing, Starbase 47’s commercial and entertainment district as well as home to the majority of the station’s civilian population, Tom Walker’s was open around the clock so as to better serve personnel assigned to each of the station’s three standard duty shifts. The bar was also one of the few places aboard the mammoth station where Quinn normally could find solace at this ungodly hour of the day, as evidenced by the fact that the bar was empty of other patrons.
Almost empty, anyway.
“Well, you look like hell,” Pennington replied, making no effort to hide his disdain. “Are you going to be able to pilot that flying death trap of yours, or not?”