Harbinger

Stepping away from the table, Kirk thumbed the transmitter switch on a nearby wall panel. “On my way. Kirk out.” He closed the cha

Piper’s reply of “Aye, Captain” trailed Kirk as he exited the galley, grateful for something new to think about.

Spock rose from the center seat as Captain Kirk emerged from the turbolift. “Report,” the captain said, making a beeline for his chair. He seemed primed to face a crisis that did not exist.

“Receiving an audio-only hail from a Federation outpost, Captain,” Spock said, moving to the right of the captain’s seat.

Rather than sit, Kirk stood to the left of his chair while he assessed the situation. “Which one?”

“Starbase 47,” Spock said, “a Watchtower-class space station, also known as Vanguard.”

“Vanguard?” Kirk narrowed his eyes while he pondered that information. Spock had yet to determine what benefit the captain accrued to his concentration by reducing his visual acuity. “I thought that base was years away from being operational.”

“Apparently not.” Spock added, “They await our reply.”

The captain glanced at Spock but said nothing. In one fluid motion he pivoted into his chair and swiveled it toward the communications officer. “Lieutenant Uhura, patch them in.”

“Aye, sir,” Uhura said. The young woman deftly routed the signal to the bridge’s main speakers. “Cha

“Starbase 47, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. Do you read me?”

“We read you, Enterprise,” a youthful-sounding female voice said. “Go ahead.”

“We require extensive repairs to a number of key systems. Are you in a position to assist us with maintenance?”

“Affirmative, Captain. Should we clear a berth for you?”

The captain frowned before he answered. “Please.”

“Consider it done. What’s your ETA?”

Kirk looked to Spock, who answered in a clear baritone, “Six days, three hours, and twenty-four minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” the female voice said. “Vanguard out.”

The cha

Spock sensed the suspicion radiating from his commanding officer. “You seem less than encouraged by the news, Captain.”

“How long does it take to build a Watchtower-class station, Spock?”

From memory, Spock said, “On average, four years, nine months—”

“And how long ago was the Vanguard project initiated?”

That required a few moments of thought. “Two years, seven months, and ten days.”

The first officer watched the slow curling of Kirk’s hand into a fist. “Somebody was in a big hurry to get this station built. With all the saber-rattling the Klingons have been doing, why put a major base this far from the Federation?”

Spock considered the most likely possibilities. “Support for a colonization effort?”

The captain looked unconvinced. “Maybe.”

“In the absence of another rationale, it would be the most logical explanation.”

“Dig up everything in the databanks on Vanguard,” Kirk said. “I want a full briefing before we make port.”

2

The sultry jungle night buzzed with the sawing song of nocturnal insects. With a casual sweep of his hand, Cervantes Qui

He straightened from his crouch and reached into his left pants pocket. Nestled deep inside, under the lock-picking kit, past his last snack stick of meat-flavored synthetic something-or-other, was his flask. As quietly as he was able, he pulled it free, unscrewed the cap, and downed a swig of nameless green liquor. It tasted horrible. He kept it in his flask only because his most frequent employer, an Orion merchant-prince named Ganz, had an irregular habit of demanding that other people pour him impromptu drinks—and then shooting anyone who poured something he didn’t like. Ganz liked the green stuff.

Awful as it was, it still constituted a minor improvement over the stale aftertaste of the pseudo-beef snack stick Qui

From his vantage point deep in the undergrowth, beyond the tree line that marked the perimeter of the mining camp, he saw the prospectors moving from one semipermanent building to another. Most were winding down for the night, settling into their bunks, making final trips to the latrine. Vexing him were the two who continued to sit inside their Spartan mess hall, playing the most uninspired game of cards Qui

He was certain he could beat them handily in just about any game, from Texas Hold’em to Denobulan Wild-card. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider scrapping his mission of covert confiscation in favor of card-sharking the mining team. Qui

Patience was not one of Qui

Batting away lush fronds and dangling loops of thorny vines, Qui

He unholstered his stun pistol. The street was empty. In the distance, something shrieked three times in quick succession and something else roared in reply. With his hand resting lightly on the grip of his sidearm, he emerged from the trees and moved in a quick, low jog across the street. The mud under his boots made every step an adventure; it slipped like congealed hydraulic lubricant and stank like the open sewers of Korinar. Several quick steps brought him back into the cover of shadow. He leaned sideways and cast a furtive glance around the corner into the dark, narrow stretch between the barracks and the equipment shed. It was empty, and he stole into it, his feet seeking out the driest—and therefore quietest—patches of ground from stride to stride.