“Good. Send us your ETA once you’re en route. Nogura out.” The image on the screen reverted to that of the vaQjoH, cruising at full impulse ahead of the Enterprise.

Kirk leaned forward. “Sulu, how long until we cut that Klingon ship loose?”

Sulu glanced down at his console. “Seven hours and twenty-six minutes, sir.”

Rising from his chair, Kirk said, “Very well. Keep me apprised of any changes.”

“Aye, sir.”

Turning toward Spock, Kirk saw his second-in-command seated at the sensor station, his expression grave as he seemed to pierce the bulkhead with a thousand-meter stare. Kirk climbed the steps to the upper ring, then edged slowly toward his friend. He kept his voice low. “Spock?” No reply. Kirk raised his voice ever so slightly as he inched closer. “Spock?”

Spock blinked, then turned his head to look at Kirk. His manner was even more subdued than normal. “Yes, Captain?”

“Is everything all right? You look troubled.”

The half-Vulcan’s brows furrowed. “Not exactly. I was merely recalling our last visit to Vanguard, approximately three years ago. I departed the station with an important personal matter unresolved.”

Taxing his memory for three-year-old details of the Enterprise’s first visit to Starbase 47, Kirk recalled Spock’s unusual encounter with another Vulcan in some kind of cabaret-bar. “Does this have anything to do with that woman you met at the nightclub inside the station?”

“If you mean T’Prynn,” Spock said, reminding Kirk of the woman’s name, “yes, it does.”

Kirk wondered if she was another past romantic acquaintance of Spock’s, like Leila Kalomi, or some link to his mysterious Vulcan heritage, like his former fiancйe, T’Pring. Hedging his bets, he asked, “Hoping to pick up where you left off three years ago, Spock?”

Steepling his index fingers as he folded his hands in front of his chest, Spock replied, “For T’Prynn’s sake . . . I sincerely hope not.”

As the senior officers of the Endeavour impatiently went through the motions of a search-and-recovery operation, Captain Atish Khatami leaned forward, perched on the edge of her command chair. The main viewscreen showed little except infrequent glimpses of scorched wreckage tumbling across the star-flecked emptiness of interstellar space, but Khatami’s focus was on the chronometer mounted on the base of the forward console, between the Arcturian helm officer, Lieutenant Neelakanta, and the irksomely chipper young navigator, Lieutenant Marielise McCormack.

Time’s passage preoccupied Khatami’s thoughts. The Endeavour crew needed to stay long enough at these coordinates, retrieving the debris of the unmanned drone, to convince any Klingon or Romulan vessels that might be observing them that this was a recovery of wreckage from the real Sagittarius, but Khatami didn’t want to spend one moment longer on this charade than necessary. Every second we’re not on patrol, we’re asking for trouble, she worried.

Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano conferred quietly with science officer Lieutenant Stephen Klisiewicz. Khatami shook her head at the younger woman’s new beehive hairstyle. Stano’s dark hair and alabaster skin made the beehive look good, but Khatami still questioned her first officer’s adoption of the fad that had swept through Starfleet during the past few years. Ever wedded to practicality, Khatami had chosen (over her husband Kenji’s desperate objections) to have her own raven hair styled into a short but elegant coiffure that she could wash in sixty seconds and towel dry just as quickly. To each her own, she decided.

The shy-natured first officer stepped down into the command well and crossed to Khatami’s chair. “We’ve reeled in almost every piece large enough to get our hands on,” she said. “If we keep at this much longer, we’ll be chasing dust motes.”

“We still need to stretch this out a bit,” Khatami said. “Vanguard just confirmed the Enterprise intercepted a Klingon attack on the Ephialtes inside the Iremal Cluster nine hours ago. Another couple of hours and the Sagittarius will be in the clear.”

Doubt animated Stano’s youthful features with a lopsided grimace, an arched brow, and a roll of her deep brown eyes, all at the same time. “I think we’ve milked this for all it’s worth, Captain. Even if this had been the Sagittarius, we’d be done by now. There’s nothing left here.”

Despite sharing the XO’s opinion, Khatami paused before she replied, lest she seem too eager to agree or too easily swayed from her opinions. Then she looked at Stano. “All right. File your report with Starfleet Command, as per the mission briefing.”

Stano nodded. “No survivors, no sign of the culprit. Got it.” She moved quickly aft to the comm station, where she directed communications officer Lieutenant Hector Estrada to load up and transmit, on a less-than-secure coded frequency, the Endeavour’s prewritten, phony after-action report—setting into place yet another piece of Vanguard’s carefully crafted puzzle of disinformation. If this is what’s going to be expected of us from now on, Khatami grumped to herself, Starfleet Academy will have to start teaching cadets about sleight-of-hand.

A few moments later, Stano returned to Khatami’s side. “Message sent, Captain.”

“Very well. Helm, set a course for—”

“Captain,” Klisiewicz interrupted. The lean, dark-haired young man looked up from his sensor hood. “I have something here that you and Commander Stano need to see.”

Khatami and Stano exchanged keen glances of alarm. They both knew that Klisiewicz was not prone to emotional outbursts or hyperbole for effect, which meant whatever he’d just found was serious. Khatami sprang from her chair and hurried up to the sensor console, where Klisiewicz remained hunched over the hooded display, and she loomed over his left shoulder while Stano leaned in over the man’s right. The captain asked, “What’ve you got?”

“A massive signal on long-range sensors.” He stepped back to allow Khatami and Stano to take turns confirming his discovery with their own eyes. “Major fleet movements inside Tholian space, all of them heading toward the border zone closest to Vanguard.”

Khatami was still studying the sketchy data being compiled by the sensors and analyzed by the ship’s computer as Stano asked, “Could it be a training exercise?”

Klisiewicz shook his head. “I’ve never heard of the Tholians doing anything like this, not on this scale. If I’m reading that thing right, we’re looking at battle group deployments.”

“You’re reading it right,” Khatami said. “Those are heavy warships massing on the border.” She leaned back to let Stano have a look as she added, “Those aren’t recon units looking to harass border worlds. If I had to make a bet, I’d say that’s a major expeditionary force.”

Gazing into the azure light of the sensor display, Stano looked perplexed. “None of them are crossing the border, even though there’s nothing ahead of them. What’re they waiting for?”

The science officer shrugged. “Maybe they’re waiting for final orders?”

“More ships would be my guess.” Khatami’s already fretful mood darkened. “Either way, we need to get a warning back to Vanguard immediately. It looks like the Tholians are gearing up for war in the Taurus Reach.”

Stano and Klisiewicz swapped nervous glances, then the first officer mustered the will to ask, “War against who?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Khatami descended into the command well and strode back to the center seat. “Neelakanta, set course for the Tholian border. Estrada, inform Vanguard of the change in our flight plan, warn them about the Tholian fleet, and ask if they have any idea what’s got the Tholians riled up this time. Klisiewicz, keep an eye on that fleet and let me know if you read any more ships moving to join it.”