Precipice

Remanded to the medical care of Dr. M’Benga, a human physician who had specialized in Vulcan medicine, T’Pry

For reasons that even he still found opaque, Pe

His actions weren’t driven by affection—of that much he was certain. Several months before her breakdown, T’Pry

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, Pe

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

Pe

“I’m sorry,” Pe

“Your medallion,” the man said, gesturing with his chin toward the mandala resting on Tim Pe

The ma

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

Pe

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

At the mention of T’Pry

“As I thought,” the man said.

The Vulcan handed him a scrap of fragile parchment that had been folded in half. As soon as Pe

Pe

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 Pe

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 Pe

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 Pe

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’Pry

She met Pe

“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?”