David Mack - Precipice

Your medallion, the man said, gesturing with his chin toward the mandala resting on Penningtons chest. It is quite unusual. How did you acquire it?

The manner in which the man asked his question made Pennington uncomfortable. A friend gave it to me.

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

Pennington broke eye contact and tried to sidestep the Vulcan. You must be mistaken.

Blocking his path, the Vulcan said, It comes from the commune at Krenthan, does it not?

At the mention of TPrynns native village, a technology-free retreat populated by mystics and ascetics, Pennington froze. He suspected the man was not really interested in the medallion. Facing him, Pennington was wary as he said,

Yes, it does.

As I thought, the man said.

The Vulcan handed him a scrap of fragile parchment that had been folded in half. As soon as Pennington took hold of it, the stranger walked away at a brisk pace and blended back into the earth-toned sea of robed Vulcans crowding the spaceport.

Pennington unfolded the note.

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.

Other

Star Trek: Vanguard books

Harbinger

by David Mack

Summon the Thunder

by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

Reap the Whirlwind

by David Mack

Open Secrets

by Dayton Ward

Precipice

DAVID MACK

Based upon Star Trek created by Gene Roddenberry

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For my brother:
thanks for always being on my side.

This story takes place in 2267, beginning in early January and concluding at the end of December, a few weeks after the events of the second-season Star Trek episode A Private Little War.

Good and bad men are each
less so than they seem.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1830

January 3, 2267

Disruptor pulses thundered against the unshielded hull of the Starfleet transport U.S.S. Nowlan.

On the Nowlans bridge, Diego Reyes clenched his jaw and winced. The forward bulkhead blasted inward. Reyes ducked behind the command chair as shrapnel flew past and pattered to the deck around him. Fine, metallic dust rained down on his shoulders and into his thinning steel-gray hair.

He looked up from behind the chair and peered through bitter smoke to see the ships commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Brandon Easton, lying on the deck, his gold uniform tunic torn by jagged bits of metal and stained heavily with blood. The dull, unfixed quality of Eastons stare was one Reyes had seen far too many times: the man was dead.

Reyes looked aft for Lieutenant Ket, the Bolian security officer who had escorted him from the brig to the bridge minutes earlier. To his dismay, Ket was also gone, the victim of a wedge of duranium lodged in his left temple.

At the forward console, two figures stirred.

The first was the female human navigator and helm officer. She had been lying on the floor, apparently stunned rather than dead. Lucky gal, mused Reyes. If shed been on her feet, shed have a faceful of shrapnel right now. Sitting up from behind the flickering console, which housed the helm and navigators station on the left and the sensor controls on the right, was the sensor officer, a human man with crew-cut blond hair.

The two shaken officers, both dressed in black trousers and gold command shirts with lieutenant stripes on their cuffs, looked at Reyes with desperate expressions. Sir? said the woman, pushing her curly brown hair from her eyes. What do we do?

Years of command experience snapped Reyes into action. He nodded at the two officers. Take your posts. He brushed the grit from the seat of the command chair, then settled into it. Whatre your names, lieutenants?

Paul Sniadach.

Bronwen Hodgkinson.

For a moment, Reyes almost forgot that just five weeks earlier he had been convicted in a Starfleet court-martial, stripped of his rank, and sentenced to ten years in a penal colony. All it had taken was a surprise attack by an unidentified and heavily armed pirate vessel to remind him of who hed been before being branded a criminal:

A starship captain. A flag officer. A leader.

Hodgkinson, set an evasion course, full impulse. Sniadach, find that ship, and get the shields back up.

Course set, Hodgkinson replied. Engines not responding.

Sniadach coaxed his stuttering, half-shorted-out panel back into service. Hostile vessel bearing one-three-eight-mark-seventeen, coming about at quarter impulse.

Reyes thumbed a comm switch on the armrest of his chair. Bridge to engineering! We need aft shields! Respond!

Static was all he heard over the open audio circuit. Engineering had been one of the first sections hit, and a coolant leak had likely forced a temporary evacuation of the deck while the crew struggled into environment suits.

The enemy vessel is scanning us, Sniadach said. Closing to ten thousand kilometers. Swiveling his chair to face Reyes, he added with surprise, Theyre powering down their weapons.

Are they hailing us?

No, sir, Sniadach said, checking his console.

Just like pirates, Reyes said with disdain. They dont even have the courtesy to tell us were being boarded. He got up from his chairand belatedly remembered it wasnt really