“Yes, on Andor.” A humble shrug. “The critics liked them, but most people don’t seem to care. I guess I won’t be retiring on my royalties.”

“Still, I’m envious. At least you have something to occupy your mind.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked around, at nothing in particular. “Without work, all I have right now is too much time to think.”

She set down her slate. “What are you thinking about?”

“This mission. Other missions. Philosophical quandaries.” A crooked, embarrassed smile. “Those and a hundred other dusty thoughts that roll around this dry old brain of mine.”

Her stare was keen. To Nassir, it felt as if she could look right through his pretenses and evasions and know that what he wasn’t saying—what he was really afraid of—was that this mission might go wrong the way the Jinoteur mission had. That ill-fated adventure had cost the life of one of his recon scouts, and it had very nearly led to his ship’s destruction by the Shedai, followed immediately by a close brush with capture by the Klingons. Nassir was not by nature a superstitious man, but lately he had begun to feel as if his luck was running out.

Finally, zh’Firro released him from the bonds of her gaze. Tapping her stylus on the side of the data slate, she asked, “Would it help if you had something else on which to focus?”

The implication of her query intrigued him. “Such as?”

She cocked her head and twitched her antennae in an utterly affected but still totally charming way that was uniquely hers. “I need a Vulcan word that rhymes with Uzaveh.”

Nassir pondered that, feeling both amused and vexed at the same time. “Well,” he said, “that ought to keep me busy for the next few decades till I retire.”

Standing in the center of the supervisors’ deck in Vanguard’s operations center felt to Nogura like standing in the center of the universe. That impression wasn’t a product of the sheer size of the room, though Vanguard’s nerve center was quite cavernous compared to most command decks; rather, it was the towering walls of interactive viewscreens that wrapped two hundred seventy degrees around the expansive circular compartment. At any given moment, a few of those screens might be tasked to monitoring complex shipping traffic or displaying important tactical updates from Starfleet Command, but most of them showed the endless reach of space surrounding the station.

The one that held Nogura’s attention at that moment, however, showed a large, oblong block of a ship slowly maneuvering away from Vanguard and adjusting its heading as it prepared to accelerate to full impulse and, eventually, to warp speed. Seeing the vessel in motion, Nogura realized for the first time how slow and vulnerable-looking the Ephialtes really was, and he felt a pang of regret for having ordered the Sagittarius entombed inside the lumbering bulk of the Antaeus-class superfreighter. Watching it head out into space, he couldn’t help but think of some enormous sea creature being released into the wild only to find itself a fat and easy target for predators.

What if Alodae was right? What if I’ve just doomed him and his crew? Reason reasserted itself in his thoughts. He knew the Ephialtes was in no greater danger than it would be on any other return trip to Federation space. Instead, he reserved his concerns for the Sagittarius and her crew. The ship had survived its tour of duty in the Taurus Reach by exploiting its two chief advantages: tremendous speed and a low profile.

And I just locked them inside a huge, sluggish target. What have I done?

Before Nogura could silently berate himself any further, the station’s executive officer, Commander Jon Cooper, crossed the supervisors’ deck to stand at his side. In a muted but professional tone, the lanky, salt-and-pepper-haired XO said, “Sir, the Ephialtes has cleared the approach lanes and is free to navigate. All her readings appear nominal.”

“Thank you, Commander.” As Cooper stepped away to resume his duties, Nogura allowed himself a small moment of relief. “Nominal” had been a code word chosen to indicate that the station’s sensors—which were formidable—had been unable to penetrate the sensor camouflage the engineering teams had installed inside the Ephialtes to mask the presence of the Sagittarius. Though there was no guarantee that the Klingons or the Romulans hadn’t improved their sensors in some unexpected way that would negate this defensive measure, Nogura knew he should take good news wherever he might find it. Now all we have to do is hope the freighter doesn’t get attacked at random by the Klingons, or raided by some Orion corsair, or blunder into some exotic Tholian trap. He scolded himself. Stop that. Stay positive. His years in Starfleet had made him understand how important his disposition was to the morale of those under his command. If he wanted to inspire optimism and courage and openness to new ideas, he had to exhibit those qualities himself. If he gave in to negativity, to defeatism, he would only drag his people down with him. It all starts at the top, one of his former commanding officers had told him when he was but a newly minted ensign. A commander gets the crew he deserves.

Watching the Ephialtes cruise away into danger, however, he found it hard to put a positive spin on the situation. He wondered if the twist of dread he felt knotting his innards at that moment was anything like what Reyes had felt when he first sent the Sagittarius and her crew all alone to Jinoteur, straight into the heart of the beast, just a few short years earlier. The more he thought about it, the more likely it sounded, but knowing that others had experienced this brand of anxiety did nothing to alleviate the suffocating pressure in his chest.

He descended the stairs to the main level and walked to the turbolift. The doors opened as someone called from behind him, “Admiral?” Nogura turned to see a short, fiftyish man with close-cropped steel gray hair and a narrowly trimmed mustache walking toward him. The man wore the blue tunic and insignia of the Medical Division, and he carried a data slate. He offered a genial smile and extended his hand as he caught up to Nogura. “Hello, sir. I’m Doctor Gonzalo Robles, the new acting chief medical officer.”

“Good evening, Doctor,” Nogura said, motioning for Robles to follow him as he stepped inside the turbolift. “What can I do for you?”

Robles used one hand to hold the lift doors open. “Actually, sir, I came up to let you know that you missed your mandatory physical four weeks ago.”

“I what?”

A conciliatory shrug. “Doctor Fisher let a lot of paperwork slide over the last few weeks. I guess he had a case of short-timer’s disease, if you know what I mean.” He held out his data slate toward Nogura. “Anyway, as you can see, I need to complete your physical so I can certify you for duty. It’s really kind of an embarrassment that it’s been allowed to slip this long.”

Nogura took the slate from Robles and looked over its contents. It displayed an order from Robles, as acting CMO, for Nogura to report immediately to Vanguard Hospital for his physical. Looking up at the physician, Nogura said, “Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“Technically, sir, it shouldn’t have waited this long. It’ll only take an hour. If you—”

“Doctor.” Heads turned throughout ops as Nogura’s voice rose in volume, dropped in pitch, coarsened with exhaustion, and echoed off the high ceiling and surrounding bulkheads. “I have been awake for twenty-one hours. I’ve not had a decent meal since yesterday. And as busy as I know you are, I assure you: I am busier. So I am going back to my quarters to log six hours of rack time. When I get up, I will come to your office, and you can do your tests. But if you say so much as one more word before these turbolift doors close, I will have you pushed out an airlock without a spacesuit. Do I make myself clear?” The lack of a response from Robles made it clear to Nogura, and to everyone else, that he had done exactly that. “Good night, Doctor.”