He felt a surge of confidence as he turned to descend a staircase to the lower levels of the temple. Then he felt something collide with his forehead.

So much for Plan A,he thought, before he sank like a rock into the black pool of oblivion.

47

“Well, that’s not good,” Pennington said as he saw through his binoculars a pair of Klingon warriors dragging the semiconscious Cervantes Quinn into the main chamber of the temple.

Peering through her targeting scope, T’Prynn replied, “It is an unfortunate turn of events.” She turned her head a few degrees and added, “There is movement in the dunes on the far side of the temple.”

Shifting his gaze, Pennington watched hundreds of natives in desert garb stand up in droves, emerging from the sand like ghosts born of the desert. Without pause they charged and attacked the Klingon troops defending the ruins.

“I think this is about to get interesting,” he said.

T’Prynn put down her scope and took out her phaser. As Pennington lowered his binoculars, T’Prynn said, “This assault by the natives is unlikely to succeed, and certainly not in time to save Mister Quinn. However, it should provide an adequate diversion.” She handed him her phaser. “Cover me until I reach the temple. Once I am inside, withdraw and return to the Skylla. If I do not return in one day, or if I fail to reach the temple, go back to Vanguard and tell them everything we have learned.”

“Are you sure that’s—”

Before he finished his gentle protest, T’Prynn was over the dune and running faster than any biped Pennington had ever seen.

Bugger,he fumed, and then took aim at the half-dozen Klingons still standing on this side of the dive-bombed ancient temple, patrolling in the ruddy glow of firelight. T’Prynn had covered most of the distance to the temple before the first of the soldiers noticed her.

The warrior lifted his rifle.

Pennington fired and hit the man in his gut. The shot struck with enough force to knock the Klingon onto his back.

The remaining troops all drew down on Pennington. He kept firing at them, both to hamper their aim and keep them distracted. Disruptor shots streaked toward him and flashed as they strafed his dune. Globs of sand melted into glass flew in all directions and pattered across the slope behind him.

Then one of the Klingons crumpled and dropped out of sight. Half a second later, disruptor shots from the downed warrior’s position struck the other four Klingons in quick succession.

With the path cleared, T’Prynn climbed onto an excavation vehicle that had been knocked onto its side and ran up its crane arm, which had smashed through the temple’s wall and become stuck there. Seconds later she ducked through the rent in the stone wall and was gone from sight, inside the temple.

Damn,Pennington thought with admiration. She’s good.

Imagining the danger T’Prynn was facing inside the ruins, Pennington was torn. She had been explicit in her instructions that he should return to the Skylla; she was counting on him to be her insurance against failure. But abandoning her felt wrong, and Quinn was his friend—how could he leave him in harm’s way?

There’s nothing between me and the temple,he realized. To hell with it, I’m going. He bolted over the top of the dune and ran toward the ruins. In his head he knew it was a bad idea, but in his heart he knew it was right. His feet felt light as he sprinted across the level sands, and the night air was cool upon his face.

With each step he took the night grew a shade colder. When his breath formed a misty plume ahead of him, he stopped and realized he was shivering. The pale glow of moonlight on the temple’s façade dimmed, and a darkness pure and terrible settled upon everything for as far as Pennington could see. Dreading what he would see but unable to stop himself, he looked up.

There was a hole in the sky.

A patch of black blotted out the stars and descended on the temple from directly overhead.

Pennington didn’t have to wonder what this horror was.

He had seen it before.

Quinn drifted back toward consciousness aware of two things: the fact that he was being held upright by two people holding his arms, and the tickling sensation of blood tracing a slow path down the middle of his nose, pooling on the tip into a droplet, and falling away.

He opened his eyes to see the droplet land on the tip of a Klingon military officer’s boot. Then he lifted his head to see a weathered, goateed face dusted with sand glaring back at him.

“You’re still alive,” the Klingon officer said.

“That’s debatable,” Quinn said, wincing at the pain of hearing his own voice inside his throbbing skull.

Breaking eye contact with Quinn, the Klingon said to someone behind him, “He’s all yours.” Then he stepped away.

“Thank you,” said Zett, who stepped forward to take the Kling on’s place in front of Quinn. The ebony-skinned Nalori flashed a grin of onyx-black teeth. “Hello again, Quinn.” His solid-black eyes made Quinn think of an abyss.

When Quinn said nothing in reply, Zett reached out and with one fingertip gingerly probed the wound on Quinn’s forehead. “I hope I didn’t cause you any permanent damage,” he said. “It would be a shame if one little bump caused you to forget the information Commander Marqlar wants me to extract from that pile of fatty mush you laughably call your brain.”

Twisting to speak over his shoulder, Quinn said, “Hey, Marqlar, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know if you’ll just kill this guy.”

“Tempting,” Marqlar said. “If Mister Nilric’s methods prove unsuccessful, I will consider it.”

Quinn nodded once. “Fair enough.”

Zett’s cruel smile never wavered. To the soldiers holding Quinn’s arms he said, “Turn him around.”

The soldiers dragged Quinn about-face to see the glowing artifact on the pedestal—and Bridy Mac bound by her wrists, supine on the altar.

“I’ll offer you a choice, Mister Quinn,” Zett said. “If you’ll tell me what I want to know, I’ll kill you quickly and with as little pain as possible before the Klingons sacrifice your beautiful friend to something more horrible than you can possibly imagine.”

Fury hardened Quinn’s countenance. He didn’t need to imagine what was coming; he’d seen it and was sure it would haunt him to his grave.

Leaning in close and dropping his voice to a sinister whisper, Zett continued. “But if you don’t cooperate with me, I’m going to glue your eyes open and have these men hold your head still while you watch her die. Then I’m going to kill you with ten thousand slow cuts, so I can savor every last ounce of your pain. Have I made myself clear to you, Mister Quinn?”

“Perfectly,” Quinn said. “You’re suicidal.”

“What makes you think so?”

With perfect calm, Quinn said, “Because you were a dead man the moment you laid hands on her. And you knew it.”

“What I know, Mister Quinn, is—”

A disruptor shot struck the neck of the Klingon holding Quinn’s right arm. The soldier went limp, let go of Quinn, and fell dead.

Another shot from the balcony killed the soldier holding Quinn’s other arm and sent Zett, Marqlar, and the dozen troops and scientists on the main level of the temple running for cover.

Quinn tackled Zett and landed a crushing blow on the Nalori’s transporter-recall bracelet, which shattered. Zett elbowed Quinn in the jaw, pushed his way free, and dashed for cover. Quinn stole a disruptor from one dead Klingon, retrieved his backpack from another, then ducked out of the line of fire.

Disruptor shots flew in every direction. Quinn darted to Bridy’s side and kneeled next to her. “Don’t move,” he said.