“Negative, sir. Only a few Tholian life signs, and they’re retreating at warp speed.”
Khatami remained on edge. “What about the ships chasing us?”
McCormack replied, “They’re changing course, sir. Breaking off and heading back toward Tholian space at warp eight.”
That news seemed to bring a wave of relief to everyone on the bridge except Nogura. He stared at the fading glow of the antimatter-fueled explosion that had just wiped Starbase 47 and every remaining member of the Shedai out of existence, and wondered whether, in the long view of history, this five-year covert operation would be deemed a success or a failure, and if the innumerable lives sacrificed in its name would be hailed as heroes and martyrs, or as victims of a national-security misadventure run amok.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter, he decided. It would fall to future generations to judge this undertaking and its consequences with the benefit of hindsight. There was nothing left for him to do now but file his final report as the commanding officer of Starbase 47 and await new orders.
Officially, as of that moment . . . Operation Vanguard was over.
EPILOGUE
A BRAVER PLACE
CALDOS II
Pennington sat in the stern of Reyes’s narrow skiff, clutching the gunwales with both hands. His coat was pulled tightly closed, and his legs stretched toward the middle of the small boat. Reyes sat facing him on the center bench, rowing the five-meter-long watercraft with slow, powerful strokes through the limbo of predawn fog that surrounded them. Reyes’s oar blades cut gentle wakes, and the handles creaked inside the oarlocks. It was impossible to see more than a few meters in any direction, and all Pennington saw was the rippled water of the lake.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” Pennington said.
Reyes’s long hair swayed with the tempo of his rowing. “Yes, I did.”
“I could have waited another hour for the ferry.”
The former Starfleet officer drawled, “I just wanted you out of my house.”
Pennington chuckled. “Suits me. You were out of whiskey, anyway.” Except for the soft splash of water against the boat and the wooden groans of the oars, the world seemed utterly still. Then, even though he couldn’t yet see the mainland, he caught a faint scent of pine and a distant lilt of birdsong from the vast sprawl of virgin forest that ringed the lake.
Exertion deepened Reyes’s respiration, and his exhalations added ghostly plumes to the morning’s heavy shroud of pale vapor. Catching his breath, he asked, “So, I meant to ask: What was the fallout from the Tholians attacking Vanguard?”
“Less than you’d expect.” Pennington dug his hands into his coat pockets to keep them warm. “The Tholians made a stink in Paris about ‘the crimes of the Taurus Reach,’ or some such twaddle. The Federation Council passed off the attack as a ‘benevolent Tholian intervention’ to help Starfleet contain the Shedai threat after an accident aboard the station.”
Reyes chortled and cracked a cynical smile behind his salt-and-pepper beard. “And who blew the lid off that lie? You or the Tholians?”
“Neither. Starfleet started jamming and censoring all transmissions out of Tholian space, and the editorial board at FNS ran with the official spin from the Palais.” He strained to see anything through the fog, mostly as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Reyes as he added, “That was when I handed in my resignation and went to work for INN.”
“And they broke the story.”
“Nope. They’d been co-opted, too.” The memory still made him angry. “Sometimes, I think the whole galaxy’s in on the lie, and I’m the only one left who cares about the truth.” Suddenly recalling that Reyes had been court-martialed years earlier for helping Pennington expose some of Starfleet’s shameful secrets, he added, “Present company excluded, of course.”
A dour glance let him off the hook. “Naturally.” Reyes looked down at the compass resting between his feet and adjusted his stroke to make a minor correction in the skiff’s course. “Speaking of which, whatever happened to my successor?”
“Just what you’d expect for a man who had a Watchtower-class starbase shot out from under him: He got promoted.” That drew a short but good-natured laugh from Reyes, and then Pennington continued. “Since I know you’re probably dying to ask, Captain Khatami and the Endeavour are exploring the Taurus Reach, and so are Captain Terrell and the Sagittarius.”
Reyes looked pleased. “Seems only fair, after all the legwork they did.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected to find something there, then he turned back toward Pennington and continued his slow-and-steady rowing. “Did you keep tabs on anybody else?”
“Everyone I could,” Pennington confessed. “Doctor Marcus and her civilian partners are in some top-secret location—nobody really knows where—doing God-knows-what. Probably learning how to stop time or turn old chewing gum into black holes. Your old pal Jetanien’s still living on that backwater rock, Nimbus III. When I asked him why, he said he was there ‘for the waters.’ Rumor has it the old turtle’s finally lost his mind.”
A thoughtful frown. “What about T’Prynn?”
“No idea,” Pennington said. “Vanished into her work at SI, along with every last shred of proof the Shedai ever existed. I figure at least some of those artifacts must have been taken off the station before it went up in flames, but I’ll be damned if I can find any trace of them.”
“Probably all boxed up in a warehouse on some airless moon at the ass end of space. I doubt they’ll ever be seen again—at least, not in our lifetimes.”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Pennington said. “I just wish I could find a lead on my old mate, Quinn. He not only disappeared, he erased himself from history, like he was never born.”
Reyes stopped rowing to mop the sweat from his creased forehead with the sleeve of his insulated red flannel shirt. “Take it from me, Tim: some people don’t want to be found.”
Pennington grudgingly saw the wisdom in Reyes’s point. “I know. It’s just my nature to dig at these sorts of things.”
The older man resumed rowing while eyeing him with open suspicion. “True, but you don’t usually do it for free. At least, you never used to. So . . . who paid you to dig me up?”
He tried to deflect the question. “Who says anyone did?”
“FNS? INN?” When he realized no confirmation or denial was forthcoming, he seemed to grow concerned. “The Orions? . . . The Klingons?”
Realizing his reticence had unnecessarily alarmed Reyes, Pennington held out a hand to cue him to stop. “No, no, nothing like that, I promise. If you must know, I’m here on a personal contract. I’m acting more as a private investigator than as a journalist, to be honest.”
Behind Reyes, the mainland dock appeared from the fog—a dim suggestion of a shape at first, then a dark gray outline slowly growing more solid. As Reyes guided the skiff to a halt alongside the mooring posts, a shadowy figure on the dock became half visible through the leaden mist. Reyes stood to secure the skiff for Pennington’s departure with his back toward the unannounced traveler on the dock, and Pennington said nothing as he climbed out of the narrow boat and took a few steps toward the mainland. Then he stopped and looked back.
Reyes turned and climbed onto the dock—probably to bid Pennington farewell and safe travels, the writer surmised—only to find himself speechless.
He faced Rana Desai, who stood and gazed back at him, and in their eyes Pennington saw an affection undimmed by their years apart. Neither of the estranged lovers said anything. Ever a willing martyr to romantic illusion, Pennington imagined the two were so attuned to each other’s feelings that they had no need of words.