Plodding forward in a trancelike state, he was startled when T’Prynn stopped, turned, and declared, “It is time to make camp.” She doffed her pack and started to pull out fabric. “I need your help. There are additional pieces in your pack.”

He set down his burden, opened its top flap, and began pulling out stakes, rope, and anything that looked like a tent component. Looking around, he asked, “Where are we setting up?”

T’Prynn pointed to a spot in the shadow of a long slab of rock lying on a diagonal against some boulders, creating a large gap underneath. “In there. We will first have to check it for aylakimand k’karee.”

“I’m sorry—for what?”

“The aylakimis a hand-size scavenging arthropod with two stinging tails. The k’kareeis a venomous serpent.”

“Brilliant.”

Pennington focused on assembling the tent while T’Prynn checked their daytime shelter to ensure it was free of other occupants. When she returned, the sky showed the first traces of predawn gray. “Suns are coming up,” he said.

“We should make haste,” T’Prynn said. “Minerals in these rock formations will mask our life signs from scanners, but we must still evade visual scans.”

As he continued putting together their tent, which he noted had an outer skin made from the same camouflage-printed fabric that had concealed their packs, he remained fixated on the implications of what T’Prynn had just said. “Why are we evading sensors and search parties?” When she didn’t answer him, he filled in the blanks for himself. “Because you left Kren’than without permission. You’re AWOL from Starfleet, aren’t you? A fugitive.”

She met his accusatory look with an untroubled gaze. “Yes, I am.” Acting as if there were nothing else to be said on the matter, she finished assembling the tent’s frame and began stretching the fabric over it.

“Why would you flee custody?” Pennington asked. “Won’t that just make things worse when they catch you?”

Dragging the tent under the rocks, T’Prynn said, “That is a risk. However, it is a necessary step if I am to continue my career as a Starfleet officer.”

Pennington planted the first stake to secure the tent. “Sorry, ‘fraid you’ve lost me. Why is it necessary?”

As they placed the rest of the stakes and secured the tent with ropes, T’Prynn explained her reasons in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Had I surrendered to the Starfleet Security personnel who were waiting to escort me from Kren’than, I would have faced an immediate court-martial. The outcome of such a proceeding is not in doubt: I would be convicted.

“Mental illness is the only plausible defense I can present to explain why I tampered with my own Starfleet medical record and abused my security clearance to do so. However, even if a court-martial accepts such an argument and spares me the indignity of incarceration, I will still be made to accept a dishonorable discharge from Starfleet.”

She finished securing the tent and moved it into place beneath its broad rock roof. Pivoting to face Pennington, she added, “Regardless of whether my conviction leads to prison or to a discharge, the premature termination of my Starfleet commission will render wasted my decades of acquired skills and experience. If, on the other hand, I can redeem myself through some meritorious action prior to my surrender, I might yet be able to salvage my career.”

“I see,” Pennington said. “You’re looking for leverage.”

She arched one elegant eyebrow. “Exactly.”

“Nice to see you still think it’s all about you,” he said. “At least you’re consistent.” He pulled open the tent flap and ducked inside. “Now, if you don’t bloody mind, I’m going to sleep. Wake me when the suns go down.”

6

February 20, 2267

Cervantes Quinn hung upside down in his ship’s cargo bay and reminded himself pain was his friend.

All the muscles in his torso burned with the effort of folding himself up toward his knees, which were hooked over a horizontal beam he’d installed a year earlier, during the Rocinante’s refit by Starfleet Intelligence. He kept his feet tucked under a second beam, which braced him securely while he fought toward his goal of a hundred inverted sit-ups that morning.

Ninety-three,he counted in his head, determined not to stop short. Resisting the pull of the ship’s artificial gravity, he relaxed slowly from the tuck and eased back to the starting position rather than let himself fall. With his arms crossed over his chest, he pushed himself into another crunch. Ninety-four …

Sweat dripped from his buzz-cut head and bare upper body. Despite the thick carpet of hair on his chest and midriff, he could see the outline of his abdominal muscles. He had shed nearly twenty kilograms of weight in the past year, most of it excess body fat. His face had angles again, and for the first time in more than two decades he had only one chin. The only details that differentiated him from his younger self were his receding hairline, gray stubble, and ever-creased forehead.

Ninety-five …

Bridy Mac descended the metal ladder from the ship’s main compartment. Though she was still an active Starfleet officer, she dressed in civilian clothes because of her undercover status with SI. Her sable hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, as it often was. She walked down the aisle between the stacks of cargo containers, which were secured in place against the outer bulkheads, and stopped a couple of meters from Quinn as he relaxed out of a crunch.

He smiled at her. “Mornin’.” He folded himself upward. Ninety-six…

“Good morning. Almost done?”

Grunting with exertion, he said, “Almost.” Down and up again without delay. Ninety-seven…

She folded her arms and eyed the packed-to-capacity cargo bay with a wry smile. “How much of this is tannot ore?”

“ ’Bout three-quarters,” Quinn said, dropping from his tuck. One deep breath, then up. Ninety-eight …

“In other words, enough to level a small city.”

Without pausing his routine, he asked with a grin, “Got one in mind?” Ninety-nine …

“Just making conversation.”

She sat on top of a crate. Quinn noticed the small data slate in her hand.

He finished his last sit-up, grabbed hold of a chain dangling beside him, unhooked his feet, and swung himself down to the floor. His legs felt wobbly and uncertain, so he sank into a squat, leaned forward, planted his fists on the deck, and did some pushups.

The dull gray deck plate under him smelled of the ammonia he’d used to swab it the day before, and it vibrated with the infra-sonic pulse of the ship’s impulse drive.

He looked up at Bridy Mac as he started his regimen of a hundred slow reps on his knuckles, and asked, “New orders?”

“How’d you guess?”

“It’s the only time you ever come down here.” He paused and rolled onto his side. “So what is it this time?”

“Another recon.”

“Pirates, lobster-heads, or monsters?”

Lobster-headswas Quinn’s epithet du jour for the Klingons, and he’d referred to the Shedai as monsters ever since his return from their obliterated homeworld, Jinoteur.

“Monsters,” Bridy Mac said. She handed him the data slate. “It’s a new lead from the scientists on Vanguard.”

Quinn studied the classified communiqué and frowned. “If these coordinates are right, we’ll be pokin’ around in the lobster-heads’ backyard on this one. This is what, maybe ten light-years from their border?”

“Three,” Bridy Mac said. “The Klingons annexed FGC 62-24–Gamma last month. They call it Gr’oth now.”

Shaking his head, Quinn said, “That’s just great.” He reached the end of the terse command directive on the data slate. “Is this all your SI pixel-pushers sent? What about advance intel on the third planet?”