Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (5 page)

Alodae retreated half a step from Nogura and jerked his hand free of T’Prynn’s grip. A flurry of emotions distorted his tattooed face, then his nostrils flared as he drew a deep breath. Features
still crinkled with anger, he bowed his head to Nogura. “My apologies, Admiral.”

Nogura replied with curt formality, “Apology accepted, Captain.”

Though he was obviously still furious, Alodae reined in his temper enough to lower his voice to just less than a shout. “My point stands. This is a violation of my rights, as well as the rights of my crew, passengers, and employer. You can’t just press us into service and use us any way you like. The Federation has laws against this kind of thing.”

“Very true,” Nogura said. “Unfortunately, we’re not inside the Federation.”

Looking as if he’d just been slapped with a dead fish, Alodae stammered, “Huh—what?”

Moyer stepped in from the conversational sideline. “I’m afraid that’s technically correct, Captain.” The svelte redhead flinched slightly as the fuming Rigelian turned his ire toward her, but she rallied her confidence and continued. “Despite the presence of Starbase 47 as a hub for colonization, commerce, and exploration, formal jurisdiction over this sector remains in dispute. And because this is a Starfleet facility rather than a civilian one, the only law in effect here is the Starfleet Code of Military Justice, which does, in fact, authorize us to commandeer vessels and personnel when required to defend Federation security.” She handed Alodae a data slate.

He glanced at it, then at the Starfleet officers surrounding him. “What if I refuse and tell you to get your people off my ship so we can leave?”

Nogura shrugged. “Then we’d continue this discussion in the brig.”

Moyer added, “You and your crew would be placed under arrest, and Starfleet would impound your vessel. Then we’d issue your ship a military registration, crew it with our own people, and proceed with the operation we’ve already described to you.”

The Rigelian merchant captain’s visage was a taut mask of
contempt. “I see. So, that’s it? You hijack my ship and my crew, and we just have to roll over and take it?”

“Well, Starfleet would compensate your employer for the ship, if it came to that,” Moyer said. “Also, you and your crew and passengers would be provided with transport to the nearest Federation port of call and given vouchers for whatever destinations you choose beyond that.”

Alodae narrowed his eyes. “How generous of you.”

“However,” T’Prynn cut in, “if you comply with our requests, you would nominally retain command of your vessel, and after the
Sagittarius
separates from yours at the Iremal Cluster, you would be free to continue on your way.”

Swiveling his head toward the Vulcan, Alodae asked, “And what about my lost profits, Lieutenant? An empty ship might use less fuel than a full one, but flying empty also burns up time and money. Our margins were razor thin
before
you folks forced us to do charity work.”

Nogura traded a look with Moyer, then he said to Alodae, “If it’s purely a matter of remuneration, I’m sure we can negotiate a fair settlement.”

“I’ll take you up on that, but it’s not just about the money.” Alodae aimed his ire at Nassir. “If I use my ship to sneak yours away from this station, that puts my ship and crew at risk. We’d stop being civilians and become legitimate military targets.”

The short, bald, and slightly built Deltan starship captain projected placidity as he answered the beefy Rigelian. “Respectfully, Captain, you and your ship are already targets, every time you cross the Federation border into the Taurus Reach. The Klingons and the Tholians don’t care about the legal niceties of your ship’s status. If they decide to board you or blow you to kingdom come, they will. The only difference between this trip and any other you’ve made in this sector is that, this time, Starfleet will be watching over you every step of the way.”

Alodae surrendered to the inevitable. “Fine. Do what you
want. But you’d better believe I plan to lodge a formal complaint with the Federation Council after I get my ship home.”

“We would expect nothing less,” said Nogura.

The Rigelian frowned at Moyer. “Let’s go set a price for this little adventure of yours.”

As the JAG officer turned to lead Alodae out of Nogura’s office, Nassir took half a step toward the man. “Captain, I just want to thank you on behalf of—”

“Blow it out your ass,” Alodae groused. “And tell your crew that once we’re on our way, I don’t want to see you or any of them inside
my
ship.”

Nassir mustered a polite smile. “You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Alodae turned and motioned for Moyer to continue, and the two of them left the office. The hum of activity from the operations center briefly filtered in through the open doorway as they made their exit, then the door hushed closed, and silence reigned inside the admiral’s sanctum.

“Well,” Nassir said to no one in particular, “that went better than I expected.”

Nogura walked to his desk and sat down. “Alodae says he’ll cooperate, but I don’t trust him. He’s willful. And proud.” He steepled his fingers while he considered the situation, and Nassir and T’Prynn waited quietly for him to continue. Then he made up his mind, pressed his palms on the desktop, and pushed himself back to his feet as he looked at Nassir. “Have your chief engineer make sure your bridge crew controls the cargo hold doors on the
Ephialtes
. I don’t want Alodae or his crew ejecting your ship without permission.”

“Yes, sir.”

He shifted his gaze to T’Prynn. “Post a security team on the
Ephialtes
to make sure its crew don’t do anything to jeopardize the mission.”

“Understood, Admiral. What rationale shall I give Captain Alodae for their presence?”

Nogura stroked his chin. “Tell him they’re just passengers,
heading home now that they’ve finished their tours of duty. And add their fares to his compensation package.”

“Very good. Shall I book them in the first-class cabins?” She noted the incredulous stares of both Nogura and Nassir, then arched one brow in sardonic understanding. “No, of course not. Such generosity by Starfleet would be certain to draw suspicion. Steerage it is, then.”

Reality was a muddy blur as Cervantes Quinn blundered through the cobblestone lanes of Stars Landing, a cluster of residential and commercial buildings tucked inside the expansive terrestrial enclosure that occupied the upper half of Vanguard’s saucer hull. Every step he took was a dare to the station’s artificial gravity to pull him down and drop him on his face. His vision and his memory both were dulled by bourbon, a result entirely of his own design. For a few blessed seconds, he could neither see where he was nor remember where he was going.

Such moments had become all that he lived for, the holy grail of his existence. In the months since he had come back from the mission that claimed his beloved Bridy, he had become a surgeon with a shot glass, and whiskey was his scalpel: He used it to carve away his sorrows.

Stumbling half-blind, he relished the near-constant sensation of free fall, the feeling that at any moment he might plunge down a rabbit hole into endless darkness. He longed for such oblivion, for a total divorce from his memories. Then he recalled where he was going: back to his apartment, a depressing hovel adorned by only a few meager furnishings and an ever-growing number of carpet stains. There he would slip into a dreamless and fitful slumber and pray this might be the night when he finally choked to death on his own vomit.

Best not to get my hopes up,
he cautioned himself.
Otherwise I’ll just be sad when I wake up tomorrow, alive and feeling like hammered crap
.

He was in no hurry to get home—or anywhere else for that matter. Most of the reputable drinking establishments in Stars Landing had long since eighty-sixed him for one thing or another.
Starting fights, or not paying his tab, or urinating on the bar; it was always something.

Bereft of hope as well as a destination, he spent most of his days hiding from the station’s simulated daylight, and most of his nights dragging his sorry ass from one joint to another in an ever more difficult search for someone who’d serve him a goddamned drink. Morose and at a loss for any other reason to go on, he drifted alone through the twisted wreckage of his life, turning in steadily shrinking circles while waiting for the Great Drain of Time to suck him whole into its infinite abyss and put an end to his misery.

Quinn’s toe caught on the edge of a cobblestone. His elbows hit the road, followed a moment later by his face, and he thought perhaps he’d finally gotten his wish. Then the sharp pain of impact faded to a dull ache of bruises and the steady throb of a fresh gash on his chin. He reached up with one dirty hand and palmed away the bright red blood running in a thick stream over his Adam’s apple, and he chuckled at the hopeless stupidity of his life.

He was still gathering the will to stand when a pair of feet edged into his sharply limited field of vision. A few hard blinks and a deep breath improved his sight from triplicate to duplicate, and he lifted his head to see who was looming over him. It came as little surprise to find freelance journalist Tim Pennington looking back at him. “Hey, Newsboy,” he slurred.

The fair-haired, Scotland-born writer looked annoyingly fit, in a yogurt-and-yoga kind of way. His smile felt condescending. “Quinn. I see you found the fast track back to the gutter.”

“Yeah, but I’m looking up at the stars.”

Pennington looked up. “Those are holograms.” Back down at Quinn. “Can you even see them through those whiskey goggles you call eyes?”

“No, but I know they’re there. And they’re lookin’ back at me.”
And laughing
.

The younger man kneeled and tried to snake his hands under Quinn’s armpits, but the grizzled old pilot and soldier of fortune shook him off with a violent spasm of twists and jerks.

“Let me help you up,” Pennington said. “We need to get you home.” He reached out again, and this time Quinn was too tired to struggle, so he let his body go limp and transform into dead weight in Pennington’s hands. “Come on, you stupid tosser, get up.”

Drool spilled from the corner of Quinn’s mouth and ran down his shirt as he mumbled in a pathetic monotone, “Leave me here.”

Pennington’s voice cracked from exertion. “Not a chance.”

Exhibiting a degree of stubbornness Quinn hadn’t known the man had, Pennington snuck under Quinn’s arm and draped it across his shoulders, then forced him to his feet. Despite thinking he would passively resist, Quinn found his feet keeping step with Tim’s as the writer lurched forward and led Quinn down a street of blurry lights and murky shadows. “You’re doing great, mate,” he said. “Just a bit farther.”

They might have been lumbering along for seconds or minutes—Quinn couldn’t really tell—but he lost hold of his anger and sank into maudlin gratitude. “Thanks.”

Pennington’s voice was taut from the strain of carrying Quinn. “You’re welcome.”

Not certain he’d made his point, Quinn added, following a wet and odiferous belch, “No, really, I mean it, thanks. I’m glad you found me instead of . . . instead of those security goons.”

Pennington guided Quinn around a corner. “They aren’t looking for you.”

“The hell they ain’t. Busted up some shit real good down at Shannon’s.”

“I squared that, mate. Paid for what you broke. Got the charges dropped.” As they started up some stairs, Quinn’s head dipped forward, and he found himself hypnotized by the off-sync spectacle of their moving shoes. Pennington’s feet stepped straight and sure, Quinn’s splayed in a pigeon-toed pantomime of alcoholic ineptitude.

Weaving and staggering down an open-air promenade, Quinn began to recognize familiar details of the residential building in which he lived. Even in his deeply sotted state, he knew that without
Pennington’s guidance, he would never have been able to tell one of the station’s prefabricated living modules from any other, much less have found his own door in this rat’s maze from hell. Then he caught up with the conversation of a minute earlier.
Newsboy’s probably the only reason I ain’t in the brig right now
. “How ’bout my other bar tabs?”

“Settled,” Pennington said.

They stopped in front of a door that Quinn assumed must be his own. With effort, he swiveled his head toward Pennington, only to find the man’s face too close for him to focus on. “So, does that mean I can go back to Tom Walker’s place?”

“No. It just means he won’t press charges.” The door opened, and Pennington dragged Quinn inside. He led him to a sofa whose upholstery had already suffered a terrifying number of indignities caused by Quinn’s headlong plunge off the wagon of sobriety, and then he slipped out from under Quinn’s arm and let him collapse onto the sofa.

“Home sweet home,” Quinn mumbled into the cushion.

Pennington took a moment to prop Quinn on his side, using pillows to prevent him from rolling onto his back. Then he fetched a small trash can from the kitchenette and placed it next to the sofa. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Need anything else?”

Quinn thought he should find some way to thank Pennington, some way to reward him for playing the part of his guardian angel despite all the stupid crap Quinn had said to him, for being such a good friend to him despite all the misery Quinn had brought into his life, most of it unintentional but a catastrophe nonetheless. Of all the people he had ever known, Pennington was one of the few he still knew who hadn’t written him off as a lost cause. That deserved some kind of recognition. At the very least, it merited a sincere word of thanks. Something.

“Tim . . . ,” he began.

His stomach twisted in a knot, his chest heaved, and he puked a gutful of half-digested food and bile that reeked of sour mash, all over Pennington’s feet.

He was almost grateful to lose consciousness before having to say he was sorry.

Doctor Carol Marcus was on the move and in no mood to stop for anyone or anything. She passed one of her colleagues after another as she circled the main isolation chamber located in the center of the Vault. The recently rebuilt, state-of-the-art top-secret research facility lay deep inside the core of Starbase 47, and it was the most heavily shielded and redundantly equipped section of the entire Watchtower-class space station.