Examining its multilayered metallic skin, Sandesjo speculated, “Scan-shielded duranium composites?”

“Yes,” T’Prynn said.

Sandesjo walked the rest of the way inside the box and stood in the center of its main room. A single-person bed was pressed against the wall on the right. Beside it was a low table. A round-cornered viewscreen was mounted on an adjustable swing arm attached to the wall near the foot of the bed. Tucked into a corner on the other side of the compartment were a food slot and a waste reclamation slot. In the middle of the rear wall was an open door leading to a lavatory and shower. Much of the rest of the interior volume of the large shipping container appeared to be filled with life-support apparatus.

T’Prynn watched Sandesjo fiddle for a moment with the viewscreen. “A variety of prerecorded audiovisual material has been made available for you,” she said, “as well as a broad selection of printed matter. I regret that our catalog of original Klingon works is scarce.”

Every attempted kindness by T’Prynn felt like the twist of an emotional knife in Sandesjo’s heart. Baring her hostility, she said, “I guess you thought of everything.”

“I saw to necessities,” T’Prynn said.

Sandesjo had thought she would have more to say to T’Prynn, but as she looked at her she was unable to put words to her feelings. Bitterness was tangled up with desire, sorrow with resentment, hopelessness with denial. All that was left to her was surrender. “Just close the door,” she said.

For a moment she felt as if T’Prynn might say something, but then the Vulcan took a small device from her belt and pressed one of its buttons. With a low groan and grind, the open side of the container slowly lifted. Sandesjo thought she saw a glimmer of regret on T’Prynn’s face, but then the panel blocked her view and shut with a hollow thud.

All was silent inside Sandesjo’s dull gray purgatory. She sat on the bed and folded her hands across her lap. No one had told her how long she would be inside this portable prison, or even where she was going. Probably some remote dustball at the far end of the Federation, she predicted pessimistically.

A new name, a new face, a new beginning—these were three things she wanted no part of. She had already endured all of them when she gave up being Lurqal and became Anna Sandesjo. How was she to submerge into yet another identity, yet another life?

I’ve already forgotten what I used to look like, she thought. Now I probably won’t even recognize the sound of my own voice. I’ll look in the mirror and see a stranger.

She growled and shook off the numbing comfort of self-pity. Stop whining like a petaQ, she scolded herself. You’ve done this before, you can do it again. Wild things don’t feel sorry for themselves. Be a Klingon.

From outside the container came a bump and a slight lurch. She was in motion. Sandesjo wanted to be brave, to face her circumstances head-on without fear or mercy, and to believe that she was participating in her own destiny. But bouncing around inside a sealed box, being shipped away like an unwanted parcel, she thought of T’Prynn and realized what she was—and what she had been from the moment she first fell in love: a prisoner. Worst of all, she had been condemned, not to a life in love’s thrall or even to death in its name, but to oblivion.

She lay back on the bed and folded her hands behind her head. Like any prisoner, she knew that her future was out of her hands. There was nothing to do but wait and see what happened.

Cervantes Quinn didn’t feel like himself. For one thing, he was sober. He also had showered and shaved, and his clothes were mostly clean. In addition, and to his own surprise, he had shorn off his tangled, shoulder-length white locks, leaving him with a pale gray shadow of stubble covering his round head.

“You look like you’re going to a job interview,” Pennington joked as they walked together along Vanguard’s main hangar deck, where the Sagittarius was berthed.

“Just turnin’ over a new leaf, that’s all,” Quinn said.

They dodged around a loose knot of Starfleet personnel walking in the opposite direction. Quinn caught his reflection in one of the massive, wall-sized transparent aluminum observation windows that looked out on the main docking bay. Embarrassed by his own profile, he tried to suck in his gut, but the effort of holding it in for more than a few seconds was too difficult. Letting it go with a huff of breath, he resolved, Have to do somethin’ about that one of these days.

Pennington smirked at him. “Little trouble there?”

“Shut up,” he replied with his own crooked grin.

“Just kidding, mate,” Pennington said. “If this is the new you, it’s got my vote—for the smell factor, if nothing else.”

Shaking his head, Quinn replied, “Friends like you are the reason most people don’t bother with self-improvement.”

They neared the bay four gangway, which had just been opened by a chief petty officer. Through another observation window, Quinn noticed that the Sagittarius, docked at the end of the gangway, was already being swarmed over by a repair crew from Vanguard. Bright yellow work pods hovered beneath its main saucer, starting sorely needed hull repairs.

Captain Nassir was the first one to emerge from the gangway portal, followed by a slender, dark-haired woman and Theriault, the woman Quinn had pulled out of the water with Pennington. Nassir turned his head and saw Quinn and Pennington, and immediately he threw wide his arms and called out, “The men of the hour!”

More of his crew exited the gangway as he strode over to greet the two civilians. He put out his hand to Quinn, who took it in a firm handshake. Nassir smiled and said, “An honor to meet you face-to-face, Captain.”

“Most folks just call me Quinn.”

Nassir nodded. “Whatever you like is fine by me, sir.” He released Quinn’s hand and shook Pennington’s. “Mr. Pennington, it’s a pleasure. Ensign Theriault’s told me quite a bit about your heroics on Jinoteur.”

The reporter smiled. “I thought I panicked,” he said, “but I’ll take her word for it.”

Letting go of Pennington’s hand, Nassir asked him and Quinn, “What’s next for you gents?”

Quinn shrugged. “Scare up another job and get back to work, I guess.” Hooking his thumb in Pennington’s direction, he added, “I reckon he probably has a few stories to file.”

“No doubt,” Nassir said.

Behind the Starfleet captain, a trio of medical personnel from Vanguard Hospital approached the gangway entrance with a stretcher. Pennington noticed the medics as well and asked, “Is Commander Terrell all right, sir?”

“He will be,” Nassir said. “We fixed him up well enough to get him home, but he’ll need a few days of intensive care before he’s back on his feet.”

Quinn nodded. “Send him our best wishes, Captain. We’re both pulling for him.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that, thank you.” Nassir tilted his head back toward a nearby turbolift. “If either of you would like to join me and my crew in Manón’s for a celebratory drink, consider yourselves invited. First round’s on me.”

Pennington and Quinn traded quizzical glances. Quinn looked back at Nassir and asked, “Are you sure we’d be welcome there?”

“Absolutely,” Nassir said. “You put yourselves on the line out there. You gents are heroes; I won’t forget it.” Brightening his expression, he added, “So how ’bout that drink?”

Quinn was about to accept, but then he caught Pennington’s sidelong glare and remembered why he had sobered up in the first place. “Maybe just an Altair water,” Quinn said, and Pennington signaled his approval with a subtle nod. Nassir indicated with a sweep of his arm that they should follow him to a nearby bank of turbolifts. As they started across the broad thoroughfare, Quinn glimpsed T’Prynn standing like a statue in the middle of the massive corridor, watching him.