Slumber’s murky curtain parted, and the waking world flooded into Nogura’s mind, smothering him with its overwhelming, concrete reality. He blinked as he turned his head toward the companel on the end table beside his bed. Despite still being so groggy that he felt as if he were bobbing on a storm swell, he swatted open the comm channel. “Nogura.”

“Admiral, this is Lieutenant Commander Dohan.”

Nogura visualized Yael Dohan as he honed in on her voice. He imagined the swarthy, athletically toned Israeli woman with her short-cropped coal-black hair standing over the Hub, the octagonal situation table on the supervisors’ deck inside the operations center. “Go ahead.”

“The Romulans took the bait, sir. At approximately 0356 station time, a bird-of-prey uncloaked and opened fire, destroying our Sagittarius decoy drone.”

Pinching the sleep from the inner corners of his eyes, he asked, “Are we sure they didn’t know it was a decoy?”

“As sure as we can be, sir. The drone’s sensors picked up a fair amount of encrypted signal traffic before the attack, and our long-range sensors picked up major chatter on the secure Klingon and Romulan frequencies just afterward.”

The admiral covered his mouth as he yawned and hoped the sound didn’t carry over the open channel. “All right,” he said. “What time is it now, Commander?”

“Just after 0438, sir.”

“Hrm. Cut new orders to the Endeavour. Have them divert and proceed to the drone’s last known coordinates at maximum warp.”

“Acknowledged. Dohan out.” There was a soft click as the channel closed.

Collapsing back onto his bed, Nogura hoped this convoluted deception didn’t turn out to be a waste of time, or worse. If the enemy really believed it had destroyed the Sagittarius, then the Klingon and Romulan patrols in the sectors adjoining Vanguard might let up just enough for the real Sagittarius to be safely on its way to Eremar. But if the enemy knew that they’d just destroyed a drone, then every patrol ship in the Taurus Reach would be on high alert.

Let the lie live just a few hours longer, he prayed, that’s all I ask.

Captain Droga considered the news his first officer had just given him and felt torn between jubilation and envy. To make sure his revels weren’t premature, he asked, “This is confirmed?”

“Yes, sir.” Tarpek pointed at the communications officer. “Magron showed me the message from High Command. The Sagittarius was destroyed fourteen hours ago by one of our Romulan allies, roughly fifty-nine light-years from our current position.”

Droga swiveled his chair on its elevated dais until he faced the weapons officer. “Rothgar! What’s been Starfleet’s response to the attack?”

The portly lieutenant looked over his shoulder at the captain. “The battle cruiser Endeavour has been diverted from its regular patrol route. It’s on a direct heading for the coordinates where the Valkaya reported the Sagittarius destroyed.”

“Glorious!” The broad-shouldered, hard-muscled captain stood and hopped down to the main deck beside his burn-and-shrapnel-scarred first officer. “Now we’re free to plunder the prey we’ve been tracking since last night.” He pointed to the slow, hulking vessel on the bridge’s main viewscreen. “Have we figured out what that is?”

Tarpek reached over to a command console and keyed in a few commands. A string of data appeared on the screen, superimposed over the image of the ship: registry, tonnage figures, and other technical gibberish Droga didn’t feel like making time to read. That was the job of the first officer, who reported, “The Federation freighter Ephialtes. Twenty-five crew and officers, maximum speed warp six. Primary function: colony support.”

Stroking his brown-and-gray-bearded chin, Droga could see with his own eyes that the vessel was unarmed and likely had only the most perfunctory shielding. “Is it carrying anything worth stealing?”

“Perhaps,” Tarpek said. “Our scans suggest it’s fully loaded with unrefined minerals.”

The captain nodded. “Probably bound for the refinery on Benecia.” He gave Tarpek’s shoulder a hard, fraternal slap. “Let’s make sure it never gets there. Are we set?”

“Yes, sir. The target is now fully inside the blind spot created by the qul’mIn star cluster, and there’s no indication its crew has detected our presence. The cloaking device appears to be working—for now.”

Droga understood the grievance implicit in Tarpek’s last remark. Their ship, the I.K.S. vaQjoH, was a Klingon bird-of-prey, so far the only class of ship that the Klingon Defense Force had succeeded in equipping with the Romulan invention known as the cloaking device. Even aboard the vaQjoH and ships like her, however, the new technology was plagued by overloads, spontaneous failures, and other potentially disastrous malfunctions. As much as Droga enjoyed being able to creep up on his prey in deep space like a hunter stalking targ in the deep forest, he hated the unreliability of the new system and had serious doubts that it would ever really earn widespread acceptance by the great mass of Klingon warriors. That’s a problem for future generations, he decided as he climbed back into his command chair. Once he settled in, he pointed at the ship on the main screen. “Commander, seize that vessel. I want its cargo.”

“Yes, Captain.” Tarpek moved from station to station, handing out orders and back-slaps as he went. “Garthog, prepare to sweep in from their starboard side. Hold position at five hundred qelIqams. Kopar, stand ready to drop the cloak, on my command. Rothgar, target their engines, but do not fire unless I give the order. We want to board this ship, not destroy it.” Returning to the captain’s side, he shouted, “Drop cloak and come to attack position!”

The bridge lights switched from a dull, ruddy background glow to a harsh white glare as the cloaking device disengaged and the ship’s crew switched into combat mode.

Garthog declared, “In position!”

The weapons officer added, “Torpedoes locked!”

“Magron,” Tarpek said, “open a hailing frequency.” A moment later, the communications officer nodded to Tarpek that the channel was open, and the first officer nodded at Droga.

“Attention, Federation vessel Ephialtes. This is the Imperial Klingon warship vaQjoH. Drop to impulse, surrender, and prepare to be boarded.” Droga waited several seconds while watching the slow mountain of a ship on his viewscreen. Then, to his satisfaction, the enormous cargo vessel slowed to impulse just shy of an intimidating-looking planetary debris field. The vaQjoH circled the freighter once, then took up a prime firing position off the ship’s aft starboard quarter. Looking toward Magron, Droga asked, “Have they surrendered yet?”

Holding up one hand to signal that he needed a moment, Magron first looked perplexed, then alarmed. Slowly, he turned to face the captain. “Sir, we’re being hailed by a different ship.”

“Another ship?” Droga spun toward Tarpek. “Where is it?”

From the weapons console, Rothgar answered, “Behind us, sir.” Anticipating the captain’s next order, he patched the aft angle to the viewscreen, and the image of the Ephialtes was replaced by that of a Constitution-class Starfleet battle cruiser. “They have a full weapons lock,” he added with a note of submission that Droga found distasteful.

“They’re hailing us again,” Magron said.

Bloodlust had Droga’s pulse thundering in his ears, but for once his wisdom prevailed over his passion. He took a deep breath, then said in an even voice, “On speakers.”

“Attention, Klingon vessel vaQjoH. This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation starship Enterprise. Power down your weapons immediately, or we will fire upon you. Acknowledge.”