The only console still active aboard the Skyllawas T’Prynn’s piloting station. She keyed the ship’s thrusters and initiated a slow roll and turn. “We will need to take cover behind the nearby moon to ensure we aren’t detected by the Klingons when they return from their initial orbit of the planet,” she said as the star-scape spun outside their canopy.

I guess I should be used to this by now,Pennington mused as T’Prynn guided the Skyllatoward safety. During the past few weeks, in between rebuilding the ship from the inside out, they had been forced to “go dark” several times to evade various Klingon vessels and, in one case, a Tholian cruiser.

The enemy ships were ostensibly on routine patrols of unclaimed regions of space, through which he and T’Prynn were tracking signal fragments from two private vessels: the OmariEkon,an Orion merchantman that belonged to notorious crime lord Ganz; and the Icarion,an argosy captained by Ganz’s chief enforcer, a Nalori by the name of Zett Nilric. Less than a year earlier, both vessels had often been docked at Vanguard. With the change in the station’s leadership, however, the two ships had been pressured into plying their illicit trade elsewhere.

Pennington kept an eye on a timer that was counting down when the bird-of-prey would emerge from behind the planet and be in a position to train its sensors on the Skylla. “Ten seconds.”

“Acknowledged,” T’Prynn said. “Engaging impulse drive at ten percent.” A slight bump accompanied the increase in speed as the impulse engines kicked in. “That should move us out of range behind the moon before the Klingons—”

T’Prynn’s hand shot up from the helm and pressed a master kill switch over her head. The Skyllawent dark. The engines cut off instantly, and it began a slow roll as it drifted into the moon’s shadow. She and Pennington floated up from their seats in the suddenly zero-gravity environment.

Alarmed, he asked, “What? What just happened?”

“There is another vessel behind the moon,” T’Prynn said.

She pointed at it. Pennington strained to discern the shape from the shadows, but then it became clear: two cylindrical warp nacelles mounted on struts beneath a saucer-shaped primary hull. It was a Miranda-class vessel, the same type of starship on which his lover Oriana had died more than a year earlier.

“Well, hello,” he said. “Who’s that, I wonder?”

“If recent news reports are accurate, it is most likely the U.S.S. Buenos Aires,presently assigned to Vanguard.” As the Skyllatumbled, they began to lose their view of the Starfleet ship. She craned her neck to study it for a few moments more. “Its running lights are off, and its nacelles are dimmed. It appears to be keeping a low profile, as well. Most likely its crew is tasked with monitoring Klingon patrols in this sector.”

“Do you think they saw us?”

“It’s difficult to be certain,” T’Prynn said. “However, the fact that we were already in low-power mode when we moved behind the moon might work in our favor. If I was quick enough, it is possible they were unable to obtain a sensor lock before we went dark.”

The languid tumbling of the Skyllamomentarily returned the Buenos Airesto view outside the cockpit. Pennington noted how much closer it seemed. “Can’t they detect us at this range?”

“To passive sensors we should appear as a bit of random space rock or other debris,” T’Prynn said. “Only an active sensor sweep would detect our life signs. It is likely they will refrain from running such scans to avoid alerting the bird-of-prey.”

Several minutes passed as the Skyllarolled slowly through space. The only sound Pennington could hear inside its cockpit was his own shallow breathing. He began to relax when it became clear the Starfleet ship had not powered up.

“Looks like we’re in the clear,” he said. “Good reflexes on the kill switch, by the way.” He turned toward T’Prynn. “Though I have to wonder why we’re running scared from a Starfleet ship. I mean, ducking the Klingons I understand. But it’s not like Star-fleet makes a habit of boarding civilian vessels, not even in the Taurus Reach.”

One of T’Prynn’s eyebrows twitched upward. Pennington didn’t know if he should interpret that microexpression as one of curiosity, irritation, or disdain.

“You might wish to remember our vessel is stolen,” T’Prynn said. “Though we’ve altered its transponder identification, even a routine check would show the Skyllato be, at best, an unregis tered vessel—and Starfleet does halt and impound such ships within the territories it controls.”

He frowned but nodded at the correction. “I guess you have a point,” he said.

“Furthermore,” she added, “you should keep in mind that I am at present a fugitive from Starfleet military justice, and you are a Federation citizen who has aided and abetted my flight from custody.”

“Say no more,” Pennington replied.

Looking out at the lazily turning cosmos, he took her meaning perfectly: for now, in the Taurus Reach, everyone was their enemy; no one was their friend.

All they had was each other.

21

June 3, 2267

“I nailed him,” Lieutenant Jackson said. “Right to the wall.”

Rana Desai looked up from the muddle of sworn affidavits, warrant applications, and defense-counsel motions littering her desk to see the chief of security leaning in her office’s open doorway. “You made an arrest already?”

“Even better,” Jackson said, walking into her office and beaming with pride. He held up a data slate. “I got a signed confession out of him.”

Desai held up one palm. “Back up: who is he, and to what has he confessed?”

Jackson handed the data slate to Desai. “Petty Officer First Class Dmitri Strout has confessed to willful breaches of this station’s operational security in exchange for monetary compensation from a third party.” He pointed to one of the guest chairs. “Mind if I … ?”

“Take a seat.”

Jackson sat down as Desai skimmed through the arrest report and Strout’s confession. It was a long file.

She looked up at Jackson. “Care to sum it up for me?”

“Glad to,” he said. “We’d received anonymous tips that Strout was accessing data for which he wasn’t cleared. He worked in the lower cargo facility, mostly handling munitions. But he was pulling entire cargo manifests, both incoming and outgoing, using his supervisor’s access code.”

“How did he acquire that?”

Jackson’s narrowed gaze telegraphed his doubts. “He claims Chief Langlois was careless and didn’t use the voiceprint safeguard, but her access logs show she did. I think it’s more likely someone helped him hack her terminal and copy her voiceprint, but I haven’t been able to get him to admit it yet.”

“I see,” Desai said. “Go on.”

“Our surveillance operative witnessed Strout accessing the terminal in Langlois’s office, copying classified manifests onto a data card, and depositing the card in some kind of a dead drop in one of the unoccupied sections on level sixteen. We recovered the data card and substituted it with one loaded with false information and marked with a tracking tag. So far, however, no one has come to check the dead drop.”

Desai chortled softly. “In other words, you got made.”

Jackson responded with a taut and long-suffering smile. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we conducted a search of his quarters and found evidence Mister Strout has been sending unauthorized transmissions to an Orion merchant vessel known as the Omari-Ekon.”

Nodding, Desai said, “I’m familiar with it. Continue.”

“We haven’t been able to break the encryption on his messages to the Omari-Ekon,but we know the cipher he used isn’t one of ours. Our liaison from Starfleet Intelligence says the most likely origin for the encryption key was Orion.”