Remanded to the medical care of Dr. M’Benga, a human physician who had specialized in Vulcan medicine, T’Prynn had languished in a coma for months. Finally, M’Benga had persuaded Starfleet to allow him to transport T’Prynn back to Vulcan, in the hope that an ancient ritual grounded in Vulcan telepathy might hold the key to her recovery.

For reasons that even he still found opaque, Pennington had asked to accompany M’Benga and T’Prynn to Vulcan. He had asked himself several times what he was really doing there, and each time the answer eluded him.

His actions weren’t driven by affection—of that much he was certain. Several months before her breakdown, T’Prynn had sandbagged him; she had used phony sources to feed him a story about the Tholian ambush of the U.S.S. Bombaythat despite being true had been seeded with enough doctored evidence to discredit it and him. Apparently not content with sabotaging his career, she’d tried to blackmail him with evidence of his extramarital affair with a female officer who had died on the Bombay.

He owed her no favors, no allegiance, and no forgiveness. So why in God’s name had he traveled hundreds of light-years to sit by her bedside as some Vulcan mystic pulled her back from the brink of her own personal hell? He still didn’t fully understand how she had become the victim of a rare form of psychic possession by her former fiancé, whom she’d slain decades earlier.

Clutching the mandala she had given him as a token of her gratitude, and that he now wore on a coarse hemp lanyard, Pennington remained at a loss for answers.

A masculine voice said, “That’s an interesting medallion.”

Pennington stopped and turned to face the speaker. It was a Vulcan man dressed in a hooded beige robe. His face was tanned but still had a greenish cast. He wasn’t a youth but not yet middle-aged. Beyond that, Pennington found it difficult to gauge the ages of adult Vulcans based solely on appearance.

“I’m sorry,” Pennington said, stalling while he got his bearings. “What’d you say?”

“Your medallion,” the man said, gesturing with his chin toward the mandala resting on Tim Pennington’s chest. “It is quite unusual. How did you acquire it?”

The manner in which the man asked his question made Pennington uncomfortable. “A friend gave it to me.”

“Odd,” the man said. “Such rarities are usually bequeathed only to family members.”

Pennington broke eye contact and tried to sidestep the Vulcan. “You must be mistaken.”

Blocking his path, the Vulcan said, “It comes from the commune at Kren’than, does it not?”

At the mention of T’Prynn’s native village, a technology-free retreat populated by mystics and ascetics, Pennington froze. He suspected the man was not really interested in the medallion. Facing him, Pennington was wary as he said, “Yes, it does.”

“As I thought,” the man said.

The Vulcan handed him a scrap of fragile parchment that had been folded in half. As soon as Pennington took hold of it, the stranger walked away at a brisk pace and blended back into the earth-toned sea of robed Vulcans crowding the spaceport.

Pennington unfolded the note.

There were three things written on it: a set of geographic coordinates, a precise time, and a date exactly three weeks in the future.

He folded it and put it in his pocket.

His mind was a flurry of questions. Who was this Vulcan who’d asked about the mandala? Why had the stranger given him this information? What did it mean?

It was too good a lead to pass up. Something was afoot, and Pennington had to know what it was.

His return to Vanguard would have to wait.

The shadow cast by the water-collection tower stretched eastward and vanished into the edge of the approaching night. Lightning flashed in the west, a harbinger of foul weather. Something wild roared in the darkness and sounded much closer than Pennington would have liked.

He checked his watch, which had been synchronized with ShiKahr’s master clock. It was one minute before the time written on the parchment he’d received weeks earlier.

As he stood and listened to the wind, he considered for the first time that perhaps the note was a warning of an attack—and he had foolishly placed himself in its crosshairs. The trail to the tower was shrouded in darkness now that the suns had set, but nonetheless Pennington considered making a run for it.

The alarm on his watch beeped twice.

A hand grasped his shoulder.

He yelped in surprise and spun around.

A tall, lithe figure stood before him in a brown desert robe whose cavernous hood was draped low, concealing the person’s face.

“Right!” he shouted. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and waved it accusingly. “Now that you’ve spooked me half to death, would you mind telling me why?”

The stranger drew back the hood. It was T’Prynn.

She met Pennington’s stare with a humble look.

“You’re the only one I can trust. Please help me.”

4

February 18, 2267

Diego Reyes hoped he was dead. He stank as if he were.

His chest expanded by reflex; he sucked in sultry air with a sound that was part yawn, part gasp. Then he gagged on a mouthful of bitter medicinal slime.

He spat it out and coughed. Bits of phlegm from someplace deep in his chest flew out of his mouth.

Feeling a rising urge to vomit, he rolled to his left but collided with a solid barrier. It was smooth and metallic. He gripped the edge and convulsed with heaves.

When the spasms in his diaphragm stopped, he opened his eyes. At first all he could discern was a shadowy red glow. Then his eyes focused, and he saw he was lying in a coffin-shaped pod inside a spartan room that had the hallmark of a compartment on a starship.

Standing around the pod and scowling down at Reyes were a trio of Klingons dressed in military uniforms. These were a different breed of Klingon from those with whom the Federation had been dealing lately. These men had prominent cranial ridges extending almost halfway to the tops of their heads. They wore their wiry black hair in thick, loose manes.

One of the Klingons pointed a small device at Reyes. The gadget buzzed and whirred for a second. The man checked its readout and muttered something guttural in the Klingons’ native tongue. One of the other Klingons nodded but kept his unblinking gaze trained on Reyes.

Reyes returned the stare and asked, “Where am I?”

The one glaring at him replied in heavily accented English, “On the I.K.S. Zin’za. I am Captain Kutal.” Lifting his chin at the other two Klingons, he barked some orders in tlhIngan Hol.Reyes felt at a disadvantage without a universal translator.

Kutal stood back as his two subordinates grabbed Reyes by the arms and lifted him out of the pod, naked and dripping in viscous goop. They dropped him onto the grated deck. He landed hard on his hands and knees and winced in pain.

For a moment Reyes considered standing up but thought better of it. They might take it as a challenge,he realized. And I’m in no shape for a fight. He looked up at Kutal. “What happened to my ship and crew?”

The question seemed to amuse Kutal. “You mean the Nowlan?” Reyes nodded in confirmation, which only broadened Kutal’s jagged-toothed grin. “First of all, MisterReyes, the Nowlanwas not yourship. You were aboard her as a prisoner. Second, they were of no use to us, so they were destroyed.”

“Not by you,” Reyes replied, recalling the unusual vessel that had attacked the Nowlan. “Who’d you get to do your dirty work this time?”

“The same petaQpu’you hired to sabotage my ship in the Borzha II spaceport. Or did you think I’d forgotten?”