He projected memory facets shared among his armada’s personnel. From thousands of different mind-lines, the Song of the Enemy echoed and stopped. You have heard it.

All have heard it. Velrene sent back fragments of countless memory-lines, from worlds throughout the Assembly. The Voice was heard on every world.

Tarskene appended his memory-line to the others. And then it was silenced.

Is the Enemy gone? Her inquiry was tinted with hope.

Resentment, fury, and fear darkened Tarskene’s thought-colors. Not gone. Snared. By the Federation, aboard its space station.

Velrene’s mind-line fragmented with disbelief, then surged crimson with rage. It is not possible to contain the Old Ones! They must be destroyed!

He tried to share soothing hues and calming tones via the InterLink, but Velrene’s anger blazed like a wall of lava. We do not yet know the Federation’s intentions. They may yet choose to destroy the Old Ones, for their own safety if nothing else.

She met his suggestion with sickly hues. Doubtful. The Conclave must confer.

A dull gray hum informed Tarskene that his mindwave on the InterLink had been muted. All he could do was wait while Velrene and the other members of Tholia’s ruling elite weighed the matter and sought to harmonize their thought-colors.

A mellisonant chiming summoned him back to attention.

Velrene’s mind-line radiated resolve. For now, Commander, hold the armada where it stands, and observe the space station. If the Federation’s soldiers destroy the Old Ones and take our vengeance for us, so be it. Then her inter-voice shimmered with violent intent. But if they try to steal the power of the Enemy for themselves, that we cannot abide. In such an event, we will have no choice but to act for the good of Tholia—and the galaxy—no matter the cost.

Tarskene mirrored the colors of Velrene’s mind-line with fidelity.

So shall it be done.

25

It had been obvious for a couple of days that something big was happening on the station. Because Fisher was no longer on active duty, no one could tell him anything, but he hadn’t needed to hear the news firsthand. He could tell by the way conversations between Starfleet personnel spontaneously halted or sank into whispers as he passed by in his civilian clothes, and by the heightened level of excitement that seemed to be spreading through the crew like a contagion.

There was no point in angling for information; no one would talk. He guessed the chatter was probably related to Operation Vanguard, in which case he was happier not knowing.

At the same time, he saw no reason to sequester himself in his quarters, which were almost bare now that most of his personal effects had been loaded aboard the transport Lisbon for the journey home—whenever the hell that ended up happening. Delays of incoming cargo had postponed the ship’s departure by at least another week, leaving Fisher with nothing to do but sleep, eat, read, and wander the public areas of the station. He passed most of his afternoons on Fontana Meadow, watching the ad hoc games of competitive sports that tended to spring up on the sprawling greensward that ringed the station’s core, enjoying the fragrance of fresh-cut grass, or reading beside one of the pools, surrounded by the astringent odor of chlorine.

He had taken to spending his evenings enjoying the cuisine, wine, and hospitality of Manуn’s cabaret. In the years he had served aboard Vanguard, he had been there only a handful of times. In the weeks since his retirement, he had been there nearly every night until the house band played its final encore and the bartender enforced the last call. Manуn, the club’s ravishing alien patroness, an expatriate from a race known as the Silgov, had started calling him a regular. Roy, her bartender, had gotten into the habit of comping every third drink for Fisher—not that he ever finished a third drink. To one degree or another, every member of her staff had gone out of his or her way to make Fisher feel welcome and well cared for within their establishment.

He stepped through the front door that evening expecting to be met by Manуn’s radiant smile and the cool but funky rhythms of the cabaret’s jazz quartet. Instead, the club was silent except for a sad, andante melody from the piano. Every guest and employee faced the stage, their jaws slack, eyes unblinking and glistening with emotion, and all of them utterly silent. Turning toward the stage, Fisher understood why.

T’Prynn sat at the piano, spotlit in the inky darkness, her eyes closed and her features sedate as she evoked from the instrument a somber, mournful tune that Fisher found deeply moving—and also more than a bit haunting in its tragic undertones. It was nothing like the crowd-pleasing music that T’Prynn had played in the past. To the best of Fisher’s knowledge, this was the first time she had performed publicly since her return to Vanguard. It fascinated him to see her style so radically transformed.

No one noticed him—or, if they did, they paid him no mind—as he glided through the dining room to an unoccupied table near the stage. Every step of the way he was captivated by T’Prynn’s solo showcase. Soft and gentle, the music seemed to spring from her with the simplicity of breath, yet it sounded as if it were in two places at once, bivalent in its nature, harrowing and yet beautiful, touching but also heartbreaking. Though he could not put into words why, he felt certain the song was a work of profound loneliness, an ode to love and mortality, a musical distillation of longing, pain, and shattering loss.

Her song dwindled to a close that felt as natural and elegiac as it was inevitable, and when it ended, the cabaret was heavy with awed silence.

Strong applause came several seconds later, but there was no cheering; the audience responded with reverence and respect, despite seeming more than a bit shell-shocked. T’Prynn left the stage as the clapping tapered off. Fisher’s table was along her path, and he beckoned her to join him. She detoured gracefully toward him and settled into the chair opposite his. He flashed a genial smile. “That was quite a performance.” When she didn’t respond, he realized his remark had been a bit vague. “It was a beautiful piece. What’s it called?”

“It was an improvisation. I did not think to title it.”

Now he was impressed. “You improvised that? That’s remarkable!”

She accepted his praise with half a nod. “I am gratified to know you found it aesthetically pleasing.” Turning, she caught the attention of a passing server. “Green tea, please.”

The waiter nodded and looked at Fisher. “Doctor?”

“Bourbon, neat.” Before the waiter could ask him to clarify, he added, “Roy knows the one. Thanks.” As the waiter left to fetch the drinks, Fisher turned his attention to the statuesque Vulcan woman sharing his table. “Long time since you played here. What brought you back?”

His question made T’Prynn ruminative. “After being cured of my . . . affliction . . . I had changed. Only after I had accepted myself as I’ve become could I return to my music.”

“I think I understand. Change can be traumatic, even when it’s for the best.”

T’Prynn nodded. “Indeed.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table. Fisher grinned at the youth. “Put them on my tab.” As the waiter departed, Fisher and T’Prynn picked up their glasses. Fisher lifted his in a toast. “To friends and loved ones now departed: may our paths cross again in this life or the next.” T’Prynn watched him with curiosity but didn’t raise her glass.

“Do you believe in supernatural ideas of an afterlife, Doctor?”

He couldn’t tell if her question was innocent or accusatory. Either way, he saw no need to dissemble. “Not actually, no. The toast is meant more as an expression of hope or remembrance. I didn’t mean it to be taken literally.” His answer seemed to deepen T’Prynn’s introspection. “Why? Do you harbor some belief in a post-physical existence?”