Harbinger by David Mack & Doug Drexler & Masao Okazaki & NASA & Hubble Heritage Team (STScl/AURA)

Author:David Mack & Doug Drexler & Masao Okazaki & NASA & Hubble Heritage Team (STScl/AURA)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: POCKET BOOKS
Published: 2005-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

13

“Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.” T’Prynn’s dark and icy declaration burned brightly in Quinn’s memory. The burden of his guilt was staggering. Hundreds of lives, he told himself. My fault. To his own disgust, the only thing he could think of to do about it was order another drink.

He was on his fourth or fifth drink of the evening. In his experience, a well-told series of half-truths, omissions, and exaggerations could postpone most bar tabs for about an hour. Then his excuses for delaying payment would stretch too thin to be credible, and it would be time for him to leave. Somewhere around sixty-five minutes or four drinks into his visits, whichever came first, most barkeeps began to suspect that his tab was going to linger much longer than he himself would. To save everyone the embarrassment and effort of eighty-sixing him, he made a habit of evicting himself before his welcomes had to be officially withdrawn.

Right now his dilemma was that he was uncertain how many drinks he had downed, and his vision was too fish-eyed to actually discern the time on his chrono. Just play it safe, he coached himself. Try to sit still. If you don’t fall off the stool, they have no reason to throw you out. The hard part, he knew, would be nursing his drink. Slowing his in-take wasn’t difficult, but he was unaccustomed to small sips and was more likely to dribble the beverage down his shirt this way.

He had almost concocted a way to ask the bartender for a straw without making himself look stupid when a guest sat down.

Quinn’s eyes lazily slid to his left to assess the man. The new guy was human, young, thin, and appallingly handsome in the Federation’s currently most-favored, clean-cut way. His clothes were casual but looked and smelled fresh from the laundry. He smiled at Quinn and made a courteous tilt of his head. “Good morning,” he said with a mild Scottish accent.

“Maybe it is,” Quinn slurred, then he ripped out a baritone belch that tasted of bile and stank of tequila. “Maybe it ain’t.”

The guy gestured toward the rows of liquor bottles lined up against the wall behind the counter. “Care for a drink, friend?”

Swaying vertiginously on his stool, Quinn shot a glare at the man with the one eye he was able to focus. “My pappy always told me, never trust a stranger who calls you ‘friend,’ especially if he offers to buy you a drink.”

“Did your old man also tell you not to take the drink?”

Quinn held up his glass and called over the bartender. “Another.” Jabbing a thumb at the Scotsman, he added, “On him.” The visitor nodded his consent, and the bartender began pouring another double shot of tequila. Quinn lolled his head back toward his enabler. “I still don’t trust you.”

Thrusting out his hand, the guy said, “Tim Pennington.”

Seconds passed while Quinn stared at Pennington’s hand.

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