“No, it’s not,” Xiong said, choking on the words. “It’s my fault. I sent her there.” He palmed his cheeks dry. “I’m sorry.”

Terrell stood and clamped a hand on Xiong’s shoulder. “No one here blames you, Ming. Nobody except yourself.”

Babitz joined Terrell and Nassir. She cupped Xiong’s face in her hands and lifted it to force him to make eye contact with her. “You know she loved you like the little brother she never had?” Xiong nodded, and Babitz gave him a sad smile. “And you know we think of you as one of us, right? And we always will.”

Despite their assurances, Xiong’s face burned with shame. “How can you forgive me for this?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Nassir said. “It’s called being in command.”

Sheltered in the embrace of his friends and peers, Xiong felt as if he had no right to their consolation, no place accepting their comfort when he was the one most directly responsible for their shared loss. And, for the first time, he believed that no matter how valuable Operation Vanguard’s discoveries might be, they would never be worth the price Bridy’s family and friends had just paid.

20

Quinn’s journey back to Vanguard had felt like time spent in limbo. Aside from one short debriefing session, no one had asked to talk with him, and that had suited him just fine. He had limited his contact with the ship’s crew to its chief medical officer, who had done a superlative job of healing all of Quinn’s wounds except the ones that really mattered, the kind that didn’t show up on medical scanners.

Now the ship was back at its home port, and Quinn had been “put ashore” on Starbase 47 to make his own way. Unfortunately for him, he had nowhere to go.

He drifted across the manicured lawn of the starbase’s terrestrial enclosure. Despite being surrounded by thousands of people, he felt utterly alone. His friend Tim Pennington was off the station, chasing down some story or other for the Federation News Service. There was no one else Quinn wanted to see, no one who knew him well enough to understand his loss, no one else he could trust.

Ahead of Quinn, the cluster of buildings—some commercial, some residential—known as Stars Landing grew slowly larger with each step he took. Somewhere in that small warren of civilian life tucked inside a Starfleet military base there was an apartment with Quinn’s name on it, accommodations arranged by the grace and generosity of Starfleet Intelligence.

I guess this is home for now. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. In one was a credit chip good for a few months’ living expenses and, if he was willing to travel like a piece of luggage, maybe even passage back to the core systems of the Federation. Aside from that, he had nothing but the clothes on his back.

The report from the Endeavourhad said no part of the Dulcineahad been salvageable, and his rescuers had found no sign of the treasures he had amassed in his cargo hold. For the first time in his adult life, he had no job, no ship, and no prospects. He thought about trying to find a poker game with an open seat. A few lucky hands and I could go home first-class instead of in steerage. The idea almost took root, and then he chortled ruefully. A few lucky hands? Who’m I kidding? Lady Luck might be smilin’ on someone right now, but it sure as shit ain’t me.

He felt aimless as he wandered the narrow lanes of Stars Landing, passing familiar storefronts without bothering to look at any of them. I thought I’d had it all figured out,he brooded. My life had purpose. Meaning. Hope. He looked up at the holographic simulation of a dusk sky projected on the ceiling of the terrestrial enclosure. I thought my karmic debt was paid. Didn’t I suffer enough? Or do enough good deeds?Quinn felt as if the stars themselves were looking down at his dreams and calling them delusions. Turning his gaze back toward the cobblestone road under his feet, he felt like a rat in a maze and wondered if he had only been fooled for a moment into believing he’d chosen his own path in life.

Then he stopped. There was no point taking another step. Where was he going? What would he do when he got there? Why did he care anymore?

He looked up and realized he was standing in front of his old watering hole, Tom Walker’s place. Inside, the atmosphere was muted—quiet conversation mixed with low music, subdued lighting, and no vidscreens or other distractions. Just ordinary folks minding their own business and letting others do the same.

All my paths lead here. They always have.

Quinn stepped through the door and made his way to the bar. He found his favorite barstool empty and waiting for him, so he planted himself on it.

Behind the bar, Tom Walker looked over his shoulder at Quinn. The lanky, fair-haired Irishman smiled. “Cervantes Quinn! It’s been too long, man!” Quinn smiled back and nodded at the shelf along the wall. Good ol’ Tom, that was all the cue he needed. He knew just what to do. He grabbed the bottle of Anejo Patron and poured Quinn a generous double shot. “To celebrate your return!”

“I’ll be staying awhile,” Quinn said. “Leave the bottle.”

Tom set the tequila on the counter. “ Sláinte.”

Quinn picked up his shot glass and studied the pale golden liquor. It caught the light and made it beautiful, and the facets on the outer surface of the shot glass gave him the impression he was handling a liquefied jewel.

Twenty-five years a drunk, two years sober—what’s the difference?

He knew the drink wasn’t the answer to his problems, but his latest ordeal had granted him an epiphany: there were no answers to his problems.

Or to anyone’s problems,he decided. There are no answers at all, and never have been. Just pain, and then oblivion. It only hurts when you care . . . and I don’t want to care anymore.

He lifted the glass to his lips.

And stopped caring.

The saga of

STAR TREK ^®: VANGUARD

will continue in

WHAT JUDGMENTS COME

Fall 2011

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

DAYTON WARD. Author. Trekkie. Writing his goofy little stories and searching for a way to tap into the hidden nerdity that all humans have. Then, an accidental overdose of Mountain Dew altered his body chemistry. Now, when Dayton Ward grows excited or just downright geeky, a startling metamorphosis occurs.

Driven by outlandish ideas and a pronounced lack of sleep, he is pursued by fans and editors as well as funny men in bright uniforms wielding tasers, straitjackets, and medication. In addition to the numerous credits he shares with friend and co-writer Kevin Dilmore, Dayton is the author of the Star Treknovels In the Name of Honor, Open Secrets,and Paths of Disharmony; the science fiction novels The Last World War, Counterstrike: The Last World War, Book II,and The Genesis Protocol; as well as short stories in the first three Star Trek: Strange New Worldsanthologies, the Yard Dog Press anthologies Houston, We’ve Got Bubbasand A Bubba in Time Saves None, Kansas City Voices Magazine,and the Star Trek: New Frontieranthology No Limits.For Flying Pen Press, he was the editor of the science fiction anthology Full-Throttle Space Tales #3: Space Grunts,and he has a story in the latest Full-Throttlecollection, Space Horrors.

Dayton is believed to be working on his next novel, and he must let the world think that he is working on it, until he can find a way to earn back the advance check he blew on strippers and booze. Though he currently lives in Kansas City with his wife and daughters, Dayton is a Florida native and maintains a torrid long-distance romance with his beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Visit him on the web at http://www.daytonward.com.