However, that victory would not come without aid. For this, she would have to trust others of her kind. She would have to find some way of convincing those whom she once opposed to set aside their own selfish interests, and instead align with her against their common enemy. Would they be willing to do that? The Wanderer did not know, but there was no choice but to try. Her only alternative was to stand by and do nothing, and perhaps wait for the Apostate to finish what he had started. Indeed, the bold action she now contemplated was sure to rouse her foremost adversary, and he would stop at nothing to see to her failure. The lingering question for which she at present had no answer was whether the Apostate had acquired any followers from among her people. He was formidable even while acting alone. With a group to support him, he might well be unstoppable.
Marshaling her increasing strength, she reached with her mind toward the distant stars, seeking any of her people who might come forward to act during this most grievous challenge without question. To anyone who might be listening, she put forth her plea.
There was no answer.
Not yet. For now, the Wanderer would be patient, continuing to broadcast her entreaties while fueled by comforting thoughts of final, merciless retribution.
38
When the door to Cervantes Quinn’s apartment opened, it required physical effort on T’Prynn’s part to maintain her expression and composure as a vile aroma assailed her nostrils. Thanks to her keen olfactory senses—a trait shared by most Vulcans which was even more pronounced in females of the species—she had detected Quinn’s approach to the door even before it had opened, but now the combined stench of alcohol, old food, and his own unwashed body was almost too much to bear. Despite her best efforts to maintain her bearing, T’Prynn could not help blinking several times as her nose twitched in response to the malodorous assault.
“What the hell do you want?” Quinn barked. His voice, which was louder than necessary, echoed off the duranium plating of the nearby bulkheads and almost made T’Prynn wince. As it was, his words were slurred, and Quinn’s features and general demeanor suggested that he was still under the influence of the intoxicating beverage with which he had seen fit to embalm himself.
“Mister Quinn,” T’Prynn said, clasping her hands behind her back and maintaining a formal posture. “Is this a bad time?”
Quinn reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Current station time is 0954 hours,” T’Prynn replied. “I do not consider myself an expert on many human customs, particularly those involving the consumption of mood-altering substances such as alcohol. However, it is my understanding that imbibing such products at this time of day is considered unhealthy, and perhaps even indicative of addictive tendencies.”
Blinking several times, Quinn frowned before shaking his head. “You lost me at ‘current time,’ lady. Think you can condense all of that down to something us non-Vulcan types can understand?”
T’Prynn arched one eyebrow. “You are drunk, Mister Quinn.”
“No,” Quinn said, holding up his hand and pointing one shaky finger at her for emphasis. “I was drunk last night. I’ll probably be drunk again after lunch.”
“And now?”
Shrugging, Quinn belched, his expression twisting as though even he was repulsed by his own breath. “I’m in a cooling-off period.” He paused, his brow furrowing as though he was struggling to push past the fog enveloping his mind. Then his eyes widened and he regarded T’Prynn as though she had just appeared before him. “What?”
“I did not say anything,” T’Prynn replied, now beginning to consider the wisdom of her decision to call on the trader. “Before you decide to embark on your latest bout of inebriation, I have come to … make a request of you.”
That seemed to register with Quinn, as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I thought we were all even on the favors and debts I owed you.”
T’Prynn nodded. “Indeed we are. I have not come to collect on any outstanding obligations, nor is this a formal request from Starfleet. This would be … a favor, one which I would expect to repay at some point.”
“Really?” Quinn said, his tone one of surprise, though T’Prynn still sensed his wariness. “And what might this favor entail?”
Glancing in both directions to ensure they were alone in the corridor, she said, “We believe we have located a possible source for the Mirdonyae Artifacts. At the very least, it is possible it is a repository for such artifacts, and may contain other Tkon technology or clues which may prove useful as defenses against the Shedai. You are one of a very small group of people with any exposure to these objects, and one of even fewer people who have interacted directly with a representative of the Shedai. Your knowledge and expertise might prove valuable on the forthcoming reconnaissance mission to be conducted by the crew of the Sagittarius.”
In truth, she had doubts about Quinn’s usefulness on this mission, and not simply because of his current impaired state. While it was true that his firsthand experience with the Shedai made him an all but irreplaceable commodity, his state of depression over the loss of Commander McLellan would almost certainly affect his judgment. He might engage in some form of reckless behavior that could prove dangerous to the Sagittariuscrew. Had McLellan’s death so completely affected him that he would forsake all of the progress he had made regaining control over his life during the past year?
Judging by his reaction, T’Prynn decided this might well be the case. His demeanor turned even more belligerent, and he scowled at her. “You know who else had knowledge and expertise? Bridy Mac, and she died the last time we went out on one of your little missions. So, I’m done playing spy, sweetheart.”
“I was sorry to hear about Commander McLellan, Mister Quinn,” T’Prynn said. “Her death is regrettable, though she gave it in service to Starfleet, and to you.” The mission reports submitted by Captain Khatami after the Endeavour’s rescue of Quinn from the mysterious, unnamed planet where he and McLellan had encountered the Shedai Apostate were quite thorough. By all accounts, Bridget McLellan had given her own life during a mission to find a possible origin point or other storehouse of Shedai technology and keep it from falling into the hands of the Klingons. The pair also had learned about the Tkon and how they had created the artifacts, and the other technology they had developed as defenses against the Shedai. “If not for her efforts, we would not have the information and opportunities we now possess, but our mission is not yet over. Do you wish her sacrifice to be in vain?”
The look of anger on Quinn’s face deepened, and when he spoke this time, his voice was low and contained what T’Prynn recognized as a hint of menace. “Don’t play that guilt game with me, lady,” he said, and when he pointed a finger at her this time, T’Prynn noted that his hand did not shake. “I said I’m done. Whatever you’re planning, I don’t want any part of it. Now, would all of you damned do-gooder types kindly just leave me the hell alone?” He stepped back into his apartment without another word, and T’Prynn stood in silence as the door slid shut.
It was a waste, she decided—an illogical squandering of a useful resource, which was precisely what Cervantes Quinn had become. However, if he wished to throw aside everything he had accomplished toward reclaiming the sense of self-worth and respect that humans seemed to require, then that was his choice. Despite this conclusion, T’Prynn considered pressing the issue, confronting Quinn yet again and continuing to do so until he saw reason.
She discarded the notion. In his present state, there would be no persuading Quinn, at least not in the short term. There was insufficient time for him to dispel the effects of prolonged alcohol abuse and grief—not in the time she had available to her.