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.

“Itten bitten little ditten …”

Dochyiel keyed his comm to the ship. “Zurtmank, Ertobor. I think you need to come see this.”

“Copy that,”Zurtmank replied. “On our way.”

“Oaten boaten little dotin’,” chanted the human, whose pants were now bunched around his ankles. He appeared to be growing dizzy from spinning in a circle.

Behind Dochyiel, the ship’s ramp lowered and his two crew-mates hurried out to stand beside him and laugh at the spectacle. “What a mess,” Ertobor said between guffaws that made his finlike Tiburonian ears flap back and forth.

“Nish diddly oat dote, bode oh ska deet dot …”

“Go ahead and shoot,” Zurtmank shouted at the human, displaying his finely honed Balduk sense of humor.

“Don’t miss,” Ertobor yelled. In response, the human pointed the blaster at his own genitals, and all three of the smugglers exploded with hysterical laughter.

The human came to an abrupt halt and declared in a grave voice, “G’night, mates.”

Dochyiel steeled himself, expecting to see the man blow his head off.

Zurtmank and Ertobor collapsed to the ground, limp and unconscious. Their faces were contorted and each had one shoulder pressed up against his head.

Spinning to face their attacker, Dochyiel beheld the most beautiful Vulcan woman he had ever seen.

In a blur she poked him in the chest with her index finger.

His head spun, and his knees buckled.

As he felt consciousness slip away, he hoped the woman had killed him—because if she hadn’t, his boss would … and he would make it hurt a lotmore than this.

* * *

“This is a lovely ship you’ve stolen,” Pennington said as T’Prynn guided the vessel into orbit.

“I am glad you approve,” she replied.

He looked around the cockpit and poked at the consoles. “I guess we’ll have to recode its transponder,” he said. “Before ourship gets reported as stolen.”

“Correct.” Fixing him with a detached stare she added, “One might get the impression you have done this before.”

He laughed nervously. “Me? No, no. But Quinn told me stories about his younger days. Taught me a few things.”

“I see.”

He pointed at the console nearest him. “I could fix the transponder now, if you like.”

“Not until we have warped out of orbit.”

“Right,” he said. An alert beeped and flashed on the bank of displays beside her. Pennington pointed at the blinking light. “What’s that?”

“Space-traffic control on Ajilon requesting our flight plan.” She checked the navigation computer and short-range sensors. “They have no means of restraining us, and there are no ships close enough to respond that are capable of overtaking us, so we are going to ignore them.” She entered a new course into the ship’s helm, engaged the vessel’s stealth systems, and jumped it to warp speed.

As stretched starlight drifted past outside the cockpit canopy, T’Prynn said, “You may reprogram the transponder now.”

“On it,” Pennington said, setting to work. After only a few minutes he looked up and said, “Done. I hope you don’t mind, but I changed our ship’s name to Skylla. In Greek mythology, it was one of the immortal horses that pulled Poseidon’s chariot.”

“If that is your wish, I have no objection.”

“Thank you.” He finished his task and reclined to watch the stars melt past. “So … what’s next?”

Staring into the darkness ahead of them, T’Prynn saw only possibilities. “Now we go hunting,” she said.

15

March 23, 2267

“Things have certainly gotten a bit more interesting,” Reyes said from the back of the Zin’za’s bridge.

A pack of angry Klingons turned aft and glared at him. They seemed decidedly unamused at having their long-awaited siege of Starbase 47 preempted by a nigh-omnipotent race of interstellar meddlers known as the Organians.

Addressing the Federation and the Klingon Empire, an elder of the Organians known as Ayelborne had appeared simultaneously before the leaders of both nations, and on the bridge of every starship and combat-ready installation of both sides in the imminent conflict. He had rendered the weapons and surfaces of all major systems’ controls too hot to touch. In essence, he had warned both sides to behave themselves or else lose their toys.

Reyes found it kind of funny.

Naturally, the Klingons didn’t.

The executive officer of the Zin’za,a hulking thug named BelHoQ, stormed across the cramped space of crimson light and murky shadows to tower over Reyes. “This must be some kind of Earther trick,” he said with a voice that sounded as if it were made of gravel. “Your kind knows they are going to lose this war, so they asked these yIntagHpu’to interfere.”

“I’m guessing you weren’t the captain of your debate team in school, were you?” Reyes pointed at the image of the equally crippled U.S.S. Endeavourand Starbase 47 on the main viewer. “You and your friends were about to get your asses handed to you. If anybody was looking for the ref to stop this fight, it should’ve been you guys.”

BelHoQ bared his teeth in a growling snarl.

Captain Kutal barked, “Enough! BelHoQ, man your station!”

The XO backed away from Reyes, breaking eye contact only once they were several strides apart.

From his post near where Reyes stood, tactical officer Lieutenant Tonar grumbled, “It seems we’ll have to wait until another day to take our revenge for Mirdonyae V.”

Reyes had no idea what had happened at Mirdonyae V to piss off the Klingons, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “So, is that it? Is this why you woke me up and dragged me in here?”

Eyes wide with rage, Kutal snapped, “I brought you here to see your precious station reduced to fire and fragments! So you could bear witness to our moment of victory!”

Mocking the Klingons’ fury with an insolent smile, Reyes replied, “How’s that working out for you?”

Kutal looked as if he were about to erupt in a profane stream-of-consciousness rant when the communications officer interjected, “Captain?”

“What is it, Kreq?”

“Priority message from High Command, sir.”

Quaking with bottled-up rage, Kutal said in a deathly quiet voice, “Put it on-screen, Lieutenant.”

Kreq worked at his console for a moment. Then the image on the main viewer changed to an older, gray-maned Klingon standing in front of a black banner decorated with the Empire’s trefoil emblem.

“All fleet commanders,”said the Klingon.

“This is General Garthog. Stand down. Withdraw from Federation space and return to regular patrols. High Command, out.”

The transmission ended, and the screen reverted to the view of Starbase 47 and the Constitution-class ship holding position between the station and the Zin’za.