Links watched a beautiful Chinese woman in her late twenties glide by in a floor-length translucent SpecTran-fiber dress and noticed the telltale strip of stiff-looking skin at the base of her neck. The new folks joining the three-letter agencies didn’t have a choice anymore. The human body, with the right technology, is an extraordinary antenna. Fortunately, as a U.S. Navy officer who’d joined before the policy shift, Links had gotten out of that one, at least for the moment. The Navy wasn’t giving him a break; it was just that no one had figured out yet if the chips would interfere with sensitive avionics or ship systems. At some point, though, tradition would lose out to technology.

Someone tapped a glass, and the noise in the room hushed to a murmur. Links looked at his vodka martini and eyed the lemon twist. The question wasn’t whether it was a recording device, but whose.

“Together, let us raise our glasses on this occasion to acknowledge our common interests and objectives,” said General Wu Liao, a Directorate air force commander who Links knew was about to announce another wave of corruption purges. Links even knew the names of the men who would be executed in three days, all because Wu’s driver had left a window cracked open to smoke. That’s how good the collection was.

“It is in a navy officer’s honor I toast. That is not something you often hear from an air force officer of any country’s military.”

Polite laughter from fifteen different nationalities followed the joke.

“The joint China-U.S. exercises to help bring order to the waters around the former Republic of Indonesia are a sign our future together will be a strong one,” said General Wu. “As for our neighbors to the north, I cannot say the same.”

Wu’s angry glance at a Russian officer standing in the corner shifted the guests’ gaze and cut off any remaining laughter. The Russian nodded indifferently and casually moved a highball glass from one hand to the other, as if he cared more about the temperature of his vodka than the speech.

After the toast, Links walked over to the Russian. Major General Sergei Sechin was a regular on the party circuit. He walked with the confidence of someone who’d been in uniform for most of his life, and he always smiled like he had just been told a bawdy joke. Sechin had been in Beijing for over a decade, so he must have been very good at his job if he was able to keep his own bosses happy while also riding out the Directorate’s rise to power. Besides the violent purges of the old Communist Party leadership, there had been more than a few deadly traffic “accidents” involving the foreign intelligence community.

“Sorry about that,” said Links. “Poorly done by Wu.”

“The Directorate new guard, especially the core, like Wu, say they don’t care what anyone thinks. But it makes them think only of their own plan,” said Sechin. “The Communist Party had theirs too, and you can see how it ended for them…”

“I am going to miss our uplifting conversations, Sergei,” said Links. “And the smog, and the winter.”

A waiter passed with a tray of drinks, and Sechin deposited his and Links’s empty glasses and snatched two more frosty vodkas.

“One day, we will all get past this unpleasantness,” said Sechin, handing a glass to Links, downing his own vodka, and nodding for Links to do the same.

“Za vas,” said Links. The waiter reappeared and paused, timing his return perfectly, likely another espionage professional at work collecting.

“Perhaps you will play a role in that…” Sechin focused on his glass. “Do you know what is America’s greatest export?”

Links’s eyes narrowed. “Biggest, or greatest? Sometimes they’re not the same thing. Biggest by the numbers? Oil and gas. Greatest? Democracy,” said Links.

“No, no, no,” said Sechin. “It is an idea, really. A dream: Star Trek.”

He locked eyes with Links.

“If you say so.” Links wondered what the computer analytics that parsed the transcripts would make of this conversation. Staring at his now empty glass, Sechin continued in a serious tone. “Star Trek was a television show watched by Americans during a time when my country and yours held each other, as you like to say in your nation’s defense strategy, ‘at risk.’ ” “Can’t say I ever watched it,” said Links. “At least not the old ones. My dad took me to a couple of the newer movies.”

“The vision was so positive, a crew from all nations sent out by a world federation. An American, Captain Kirk, was their leader. With him was a crew from around the world, from Europe, from Africa — notable in that time of racial tension in your country. Also, and perhaps relevant here, there was Mr. Sulu. He represented all of Asia, which, because of America’s war in Vietnam, made this very capable man a symbol of the peace to come.”

“Peaceful? Nobody like that here,” said Links, tipping his glass at Wu.

“I give you that. But that is not what I want you to remember. Most important, just like you, an American officer, and I are friends,” said Sechin, “the navigator was Pavel Andreievich Chekov, a Russian! Now, this Chekov was not a real man, of course,” said Sechin. “But many believe that the character was named after a brilliant Russian scientist of the time, Pavel Alekseyevich Cherenkov. Do you know of him? He won a Nobel Prize in 1958, when my country was as sure of its destiny as Wu is of China’s.”

Sechin waved his glass to indicate the coterie around Wu. “My point is that without Chekov, what really could Captain Kirk have done out there in space? Our Cherenkov was the key to the future!”

Links caught the eye of the waiter, who brought another tray of vodka.

“It’s coming back to me,” said Links. “But in the story, didn’t the Federation begin only after World War Three?”

“Yes, yes, I allow you this,” said Sechin. “In any case, you should know that though we work for different sides, we are not all bad.”

“There’s work,” said Links, placing their empty glasses on the waiter’s tray, taking two full ones, and holding one out to Sechin. “And there’s friends. You’re a friend.”

“Yes, please remember that. In a few months’ time, when you are back in your warm office in the Pentagon, fourth corridor, D ring… Don’t look surprised, we know these things. When you return to your friends in Naval Intelligence, think of me and think of Chekov. Promise me that.”

Simmons sat at the small desk in his stateroom and watched the daily good-morning vid from his twins. While the Coronado sailed under a night sky, Claire and Martin, six years old, complained about school between bites of waffle. Their voices made his stomach tighten with sadness.

“Good luck today with Riley,” said his wife. “It won’t be easy, I know it. We love you and can’t wait to get you back.”

His wife signed off, as she did every morning, with a kiss sent from around the corner after the kids said goodbye. Then he was alone again inside the ship’s gray hull.

He pulled himself up and walked down the hallway to the bridge wing. Riley was there, smoking a real cigar. The bridge wing was not the officially designated smoking area, but the ship’s captain could smoke where he damn well pleased.

“Freighter, Directorate, freighter, freighter, Directorate,” said Riley, pointing to the mix of ships preparing to move through the Strait of Malacca tomorrow. “What do you see when you look at those ships?”

“Going to be tight in the channel, sir,” said Simmons. “I think if the Directorate crews can actually handle their ships as well as we think they can, it’ll be fine.”

“That’s not all I see,” said Riley. “I see us and them. Working together. What was with the brief? You know how bad they need our oil. In the end, we each know that we have the other by the throat.”

“By the balls, more like. But is that a good thing?” said Simmons.