It is done, proclaimed the Maker. The Conduit’s song faded, and the silence of exhaustion lingered over the Colloquium.
They all had been weakened by the effort of effecting the great transit of the Nameless to Avainenoran. Already a handful of the Nameless had engaged pockets of Telinaruul resistance on the planet. Moving now in numbers, they soon would be poised to eradicate the remaining trespassers in a single assault.
For some of the Serrataal there was no rest, even after such a labor. The Avenger hunted the downed Telinaruul, her tireless search siphoning a steady stream of power from the First World’s overtaxed geothermal reserves. Meanwhile, inside the Colloquium, the Warden’s thoughts radiated concern. Another ship has entered our system, he announced, crafting its shape overhead with lines of fire. It is on an approach vector to penetrate our atmosphere.
Destroy it, counseled the Wanderer.
The Sage interjected with soothing blue hues of restraint. Our strength is depleted, he warned. All our reserves have been committed to the liberation of Avainenoran.
The power we shifted there can be reclaimed after the Nameless destroy the ships above that world, the Maker noted.
Burning with impatience, the Wanderer argued, By that time, more Telinaruul will have landed here.
Her caustic protest seemed to amuse the Maker. Let the newcomers land—and lead the Avenger directly to their friends.
“T’Prynn’s directions were specific,” Quinn said, speaking around his lit cigar. “Make sure you check the settings.”
It was the fourth reminder he’d given Pennington in the last hour, and the reporter was now thoroughly annoyed. “They haven’t changed since the last time I checked them,” he said.
“Don’t go gettin’ snippy,” Quinn shot back. “I ain’t in the mood to get fragged today. If you are, get out and walk.”
Pennington humored the older man’s request and verified that their shields—paltry and underpowered as they were—were still cycling on the tremendously unusual harmonized frequency that T’Prynn had specified in her subspace message, which had sent them back to this remote star system. “Shield frequency verified,” he said with grouchy apathy.
“All right, then,” Quinn said. “Hang on to yer hat, I’m taking us into orbit.” A few taps on the helm console, and the rickety old freighter made a short-hop warp jump. What had been a very bright point of light in the starscape inflated in less than two seconds to the overwhelming mass of a planet. They dropped to impulse over its equator and skirted the atmosphere, which erupted in pale flares around them as the ship sliced through the rarefied gases. Turbulence rattled the ship as Quinn threw a few more switches on an overhead control board. “Anybody locking weapons on us?” he asked.
Staring blankly at the blinking parade of lights in front of him, Pennington replied, “How would I tell?”
“Never mind,” Quinn said. “I’m locking in the surface coordinates.” Flashing a grin from the side of his mouth, he added, “Hope you remembered to tie down the booze.”
The Rocinante dived toward the planet, blazing through the air in a nimbus of fire. It was a far more aggressive approach pattern than Quinn normally used. “Ease up, mate,” cautioned Pennington, who realized that his hands were white-knuckle tight on the ends of his seat’s armrests.
“Hell, no,” Quinn said. He plucked the cigar from his mouth. “We’re making great time.”
A patchwork of clouds spread out beneath them. Quinn guided the ship through a clear pocket of sky and leveled out in steep turn that crushed Pennington to his chair. When the dancing purple spots cleared from his vision, he watched a rugged landscape of limestone towers, dense jungles, and winding rivers blur past. A colossal, natural rock formation loomed in their path, enlarging with alarming speed. Pennington pointed at it. “Um…Quinn?”
“Relax,” Quinn said, banking the ship nearly ninety degrees to slip through an empty space in the rocks. When they emerged safely on the other side, Pennington stopped holding his breath; outside the cockpit, the landscape rolled around them as Quinn executed a corkscrew maneuver. He had never seen this dare-devil facet of Quinn’s personality before, and he wasn’t enjoying it.
As if sensing Pennington’s discomfort—and, more surprising, actually giving a damn about it—Quinn leveled out their flight. “Better?” Less caustically he said, “I get carried away. Sorry.”
“No worries,” Pennington said, trying not to sound as discombobulated as he felt. He checked their position with the navigation computer. “We’re almost at the coordinates.”
“I’m on it,” Quinn said, reducing the ship’s speed. Harsh white sunlight streamed across the jungle canopy as far as Pennington could see, in every direction but one. To the north, a massive storm front boiled close on the horizon.
The Rocinante drifted to a halt above a muddy brown river. Quinn punched a few numbers into the computer, then fired some of the ship’s thrusters a few times to correct their position to within a meter of the coordinates. “All right,” he said. “This is the spot. I’ll send the hail. Get down to the cargo bay and stand by on the winch.”
Pennington unfastened his safety harness and patted Quinn’s shoulder as he stood up. “Nice flying, mate.”
Quinn shrugged. “Just a couple dumb tricks by an ol’ space-dog. Still can’t stick my landings.”
“Tell me about it,” Pennington said as he left the cockpit. He walked back through the main compartment to a hatch panel in the deck. A switch on the wall unlocked it; as it lowered with a sharp squeak, it unfolded into a steep stair-ladder to the cargo deck. Pennington hurried down as it finished its lethargic deployment. He had bounded off onto the cargo deck by the time it touched down behind him.
Countless old odors called the dimly lit cargo bay of the Rocinante their home. The most recent stench was from decayed vegetables, a vivid reminder of the Nejev contract that had gone so miserably wrong just a day earlier. Old machine oil and well-hidden patches of mold and mildew competed to create the most pervasive stink. Pennington was no fan of the smell of bleach, but he would have welcomed a few gallons of it just then.
Secured on a thin metal pallet in the center of the hold was the ship’s sole item of cargo: a magnetic-containment pod full of antimatter. They had taken it aboard by opening the Rocinante’s ventral cargo bay doors and pulling it up from the vendor’s warehouse with the ship’s motorized winch; the plan was to deliver it the same way. Pennington checked the safety locks on the harness around the pod and was satisfied that they all were secure; the power supply to the winch was steady, and the cable feeder was clear and free of obstructions. He thumbed an intercom switch to the cockpit. “We’re tight,” he reported. “Have you made contact?”
“Roger that,” Quinn answered. “They’re comin’ up now. Open the bay doors and get ready.”
“Opening bay doors,” Pennington said. He keyed in the sequence to unlock the long doors that constituted most of the deck inside the cargo hold. They parted with a deep groaning drone, and a shudder traveled through the hull.
A sliver of light formed between the massive doors, and that crack widened as the doors slowly lowered open, leaving the fuel pod suspended in its harness attached to the winch cable. Reflected sunlight from the planet’s surface flooded the cargo bay. Wind noise and the roar of the Rocinante’s engines in hover mode drowned out the doors’ servomotors as Pennington squinted against the blinding tropical glare. Warm, humid air rushed in, thick with the scent of the jungle. Seconds later his eyes adjusted, and he saw the river frothing wildly less than fifteen meters below. The first silt-strewn gray curve of the Starfleet ship’s hull emerged from the boiling foam, followed a moment later by its entire oval-shaped primary hull and the top halves of its warp nacelles.