“A Romulan Subcommander Striking a Starfleet Officer,” Harriman Said. “My crew put in danger, possibly injured or killed.” He gestured toward the city, where the thick, dark smoke continued to rise from the sites of the two explosions. “Those are provocative actions, Admiral Vokar. At a time when your people are negotiating peace with mine—” “We do not bargain for peace,” Vokar declared calmly. “We fight to retain our manifest right to live without constraint, and to deny the encroaching imperialism of the Federation. Imperialism, of which your presence on this planet is an example.” “This is neutral territory, Admiral. We are visitors here, and we make no claims on this world or its people.” “In the beginning, you are always visitors,” Vokar said. “And in the end, you always stay. But it is of no matter with respect to this planet. You are trespassers in Romulan territory, and you will leave at once.” And there it is, Harriman thought, understanding that the months and years of diplomatic ebb and flow had ceased, and that the military tide had crashed through the levees and now threatened a devastating flood. And in risking that first move, the Romulans had also taken a strategically valuable asset. “This is neutral territory,” Harriman said again. “The people here don’t even know that sentient life exists beyond their world.” Vokar turned to glance up at his ship hanging above the city, the fires raging below. “They know it now.” This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Copyright © 2003 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved. STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures. This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 0-7434-6404-4 POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Cover design by John Vairo Jr. Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com/st http://www.startrek.com To Jennifer Lynn George, who blazes through my life like a shooting star, constantly dazzling me, shining with her wit, illuminating with her intellect, and brightening with her love, kindness, and support …I see Moments as stones in the trails of time: Serpentine paths cast among the cinders Of a life weighed down by the faithful climb To ends not my own. Loss cannot hinder The progress gained for the promise of peace, As stepping sidelong through the remnant ash, I focus on the goal, my mind at ease With the menace of war soon to be passed. And what designs, I wonder, will I draw As through the ruins of lifetimes I crawl? —Phineas Tarbolde, “Sonnet XIII,” The City After the Fire We are but dust and shadow. —Quintus Horatius Flaccus, “Ode VII,” Odes, Book IV Historian’s Note This story is set in the year 2311, eighteen years after the presumed death of Captain James T. Kirk aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise-B in Star Trek Generations, and fifty-three years before the launch of the Enterprise-D in “Encounter at Farpoint.” Prologue: Countdown He heard the explosion before he saw it, and as he turned and peered down into the valley to witness walls of flame surging skyward, he knew that he’d found what he’d come here seeking. His intuitions had been realized. So too had his fears. Captain John Harriman crouched in the tall grass, but not so low that he lost sight of the alien city spread out below the surrounding hills. The orange-red fire stood out at the edge of the municipal sprawl, the most vibrant hue among the flat whites and grays and blacks of the steel-and-concrete construction. The heavy report of the blast rolled over Harriman, drawing out agonizingly as he watched seared debris rain down on the streets and buildings bordering the inferno. The rumble, though softened by distance, contrasted dramatically with the gentle midmorning sounds that had preceded it. The lilting mesh of birdsong here in the hills had vanished now, the occasional calls and movements of other animals stilled by the artificial thunder of destruction. Even the sough of the constant breeze sifting through these undulating grasslands had been lost, overwhelmed by the deep notes now saturating the air. Harriman reached to the back of his hip, beneath the native crimson tunic he wore so that he would blend with the inhabitants of this world; the other members of the landing party wore similar clothing. He pulled out his communicator and flipped it open. “Harriman to Enterprise,” he said, resisting the impulse to contact his first officer. The commander led the reconnaissance team currently searching the city, and Harriman wanted to know right now that the ten members of his crew composing the team had not been injured, or worse, in the explosion. But his first officer knew her job—all of his people did—and she or one of the others would contact him as circumstances allowed. When no response came from the ship, Harriman checked the power level of the communicator. The indicator read well into the green. “Harriman to Enterprise,” he tried again. “Come in, Enterprise.” He heard urgency in his voice, but otherwise his tone remained even, belying the apprehension growing within him. He had long ago learned of the need in his position for composure; his crew looked to him for direction, and they followed the cues he provided. Still no response. Harriman eyed the dark billows of smoke rising into the sky, the thick plumes pushed aslant by the wind. Beneath sat the southern verge of the city, an area given over to industry. He recognized the ground-vehicle manufacturing plant as he watched that building and two adjoining warehouses burn. He could make out the shapes of people fleeing the blaze, although at this remove, several kilometers away, he could not identify any who might be Enterprise crew members. He dreaded the thought of how many casualties the Koltaari would suffer—now, and during what would surely come in the weeks and months to follow. Harriman found himself hoping, with a desperation he resented, that the conflagration below would ultimately reveal itself to be the result of an industrial accident, and not the prelude to an invasion. But he knew better. Harriman studied his communicator, intending to execute a diagnostic on the device, but then motion to one side caught his attention. He glanced in that direction to see Lieutenant Tenger racing back toward him. The security chief’s short, well-muscled legs were hidden by the flows of tall grass, his broad torso visible above, as though sailing across the sea of green stalks. The color of his flesh nearly matched that of the lea through which he moved. His speed seemed effortless, his brawny arms barely pumping as he ran. After the recon team had earlier detected an anomalous energy reading emanating from the hills, Tenger had accompanied Harriman out of the city in search of the reading’s source. The sensor spike had lasted only seconds and might well have been a scanning ghost or reflection, or even the product of a power surge in the tricorder itself. Considering the current circumstances, though, Harriman had been unwilling to risk ignoring anything even remotely suspicious. Now the security chief settled on his haunches beside Harriman. “Captain,” he said, his voice resonant despite being not much louder than a whisper. “There’s some sort of interference. I can’t take any readings of the city.” He worked his tricorder, doubtless attempting to configure it in some manner that would allow him to scan successfully. “I can’t raise the ship either,” Harriman said, holding up his communicator.