The comm dish scraped over sand and slowed. It ceased spinning and came to a halt in front of the open aft gangway to Quinn’s beat-up old Mancharan starhopper, the Rocinante.

“All aboard,” Quinn said. He staggered to his feet and stumbled up the ramp into the mottled gray cargo ship.

It took McLellan a few seconds to regain her balance and stand up. As she climbed the aft ramp into the ship, she heard alarmed voices coming from the wooded cliff high above the ship’s port side. “Quinn? Company on the left flank!”

“Copy that,” Quinn called back from the cockpit.

Seconds later, a series of emerald-hued flashes lit up the woods above the ship’s left wing. Thunderous explosions split the air half a second later. Then all was quiet.

“That oughtta do it,” Quinn hollered over the rising whine of the Rocinante’s engines. “Seal the hatch. We’re outta here.”

McLellan closed the gangway and moved forward through the main cabin to the cockpit. As she settled into the copilot’s chair, Quinn guided the ship to a swift liftoff. By the time McLellan put up her feet, they had cleared the atmosphere and were starbound.

She asked, “You mined the woods above the ship?”

“Seemed like a wise precaution.” He adjusted some settings on the helm, then shot her a rakish grin. “So admit it. Not a bad bit o’ rescuin’, right?”

“It had its moments,” she said, not wanting to puff up her partner’s ego any more than he was already doing for himself.

For the past year they had worked together in the Taurus Reach as covert operatives of Starfleet Intelligence, gathering information, seeking clues to the ancient and dangerous race known as the Shedai, and disrupting the activities of criminals and Federation rivals throughout the sector.

SI had recruited McLellan shortly after the return of the U.S.S. Sagittariusfrom the now-vanished Shedai world known as Jinoteur. As the second officer of the Sagittarius,McLellan had experienced the transformative power of the Shedai firsthand. That, coupled with her expertise in flight ops, combat tactics, and computer science, had made her an attractive recruitment prospect for SI.

As for why SI had sought Quinn’s services, she imagined it might have had something to do with the fact that he’d risked his ship and his life to save the downed Sagittariusby bringing a replacement antimatter fuel pod to it on Jinoteur. But sometimes she wondered if maybe he’d been hired by mistake.

She asked, “Did you get all the tannot ore?”

“Every kilo,” he said. “We’re gonna make a fortune selling this stuff when we get home.”

“We can’t sell it,” she chided. “It has to be impounded.”

“I don’t think you appreciate the market value of—”

“If you sell it, it’ll be used to kill people.”

He sighed. “Right. Sorry. Old habits.” Casting a sly sidelong glance in her direction, he said, “Seein’ as I did kinda save your life back there, maybe tonight we could tie our hammocks togeth—”

“Just fly the ship, Quinn.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

3

February 18, 2267

Red desolation stretched across the horizon and filled Tim Pennington with an aching loneliness.

He stood alone in the shadow of an automated water-collection station on the edge of the desert outside ShiKahr, the capital city of Vulcan.

Behind him, the giant primary star of 40 Eridani—which, during his months-long stay on Vulcan, Pennington had learned was called Nevasa—dipped beneath the jagged peaks of the Llangon mountain range, while its binary companions trailed a few degrees above it. To the south, the monstrous orb of Vulcan’s sister planet, T’Khut, dominated the sky.

His journey to this remote node in ShiKahr’s municipal water-supply network had not been easy. He’d left his short-term lodging before dawn. The city, which was laid out in a circular pattern with boulevards emanating from its center-like spokes on a wheel, had a mass-transit system that was easy to navigate, and it had carried Pennington as far as the outer perimeter. There he’d hitched a ride on a hovercar that was traveling to some small settlements out on the Shival Flats. The driver had let him off approximately ten kilometers from the collection station. From there, Pennington had hiked alone up into the rocky foothills.

A nagging inner voice told him he was wasting his time. That he should not have come alone, no matter what had been asked of him. That perhaps he should have told someone where he was going before he’d left ShiKahr.

Too late now,he lamented.

An arid sirocco whipped up a frenzy of sand on the plains below his vantage point. Soon it would spawn a sandstorm that would grow as it moved east and scour the city throughout the night.

He shook his head, disappointed in himself. Great, now I’m stuck out here. Why don’t I ever learn? Always following my gut, never using my head. That’s how I get into these cock-ups.

Pennington had been scheduled to leave Vulcan weeks ago. He was beginning to wish he had done so.

Then he felt the slip of parchment in his jacket pocket and remembered the peculiar encounter in the ShiKahr Spaceport three weeks earlier that had persuaded him to stay …

“I’ve got good news and bad news, Tim,” said Dr. Jabilo M’Benga as he emerged from the bustling crowd of Vulcans and assorted aliens in the ShiKahr Spaceport.

Pennington looked up from his data reader, on which he had been perusing the latest headlines from the Federation News Service. “What’s the word?”

The Starfleet physician gave a small frown. “The bad news: I can’t go back to Vanguard with you.” A smile of elation broke through his mask of pretend gloom. “The good news is the reason why. I’ve been recalled to Starfleet Medical on Earth pending a transfer to starship duty.”

With a fraternal slap on M’Benga’s shoulder, Pennington said, “S’great news, mate! If you can find us a pub on this dustball, the first round’s on me.”

M’Benga shook his head. “Sorry, can’t.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I have less than an hour to throw my gear in a duffel and beam up to the Treminabefore she ships out.”

“Well, you’d better get movin’ then,” Pennington said. “I’d hate for you to miss your ride on account of me.”

They shook hands. “Thanks for coming to Vulcan with me,” M’Benga said.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pennington said with a small chuckle. “Nothing useful, anyway.”

“You never know.” M’Benga let go of Pennington’s hand and took a step back, apparently eager to start his journey. “I’ll drop you a line as soon as I hear where I’m getting posted.”

Pennington nodded. “I’ll be back on Vanguard in a couple of months. Might be a little hard to reach while I’m in transit.”

“Sure,” M’Benga said, edging back another step. “But stay in touch, right?”

“Absolutely,” Pennington replied, knowing it was an empty promise. He waved to M’Benga. “Godspeed, Jabilo.”

“Good-bye, Tim.”

M’Benga turned and jogged away through the crowd on his way to an exit. He moved with the kind of energy that belongs to people who have something worth running to.

Heaving a tired sigh, Pennington plodded across the spaceport’s broad atrium. Its soaring arched ceiling made the young journalist think of red stone ribs joined by a crystal membrane the color of rosé champagne. It was shortly before noon, and all three of Vulcan’s suns were visible high overhead.

The air inside the spaceport was cool by Vulcan standards but still warmer than Pennington preferred; he was grateful for its lack of humidity, however. Vulcan had made him appreciate the saying, “Yes, but it’s a dry heat.”

As he walked toward a row of automated travel-booking kiosks, he reflected on how he’d come to Vulcan months earlier. It had been almost a year since he had witnessed the emotional sundering of T’Prynn, the former Starfleet Intelligence liaison to Starbase 47, in the aftermath of the terrorist bombing attack on the Starfleet cargo transport Malacca. Moments after the cargo ship had erupted in flames, T’Prynn let out an anguished scream and collapsed.