“Good morning, Jane,” Blair said, reaching up to scratch the top of his head where his sweat-matted gray hair was at its thinnest. “You’re just in time to pronounce me legally dead.”

Her gaze shifting to Mbugua, Hamilton asked, “That bad?”

“I’ve gone up against punching bags that put up a tougher fight,” the first officer replied, making no effort to hide his wide grin.

From where he still lay on the mat, Blair asked, “Do they still let ship captains keelhaul people?” Eyeing Hamilton, he added, “This is all your fault, you know.” For weeks the doctor had been after him to increase and vary his exercise routine. Though the captain made routine use of the ship’s gym and other recreational areas, his duties often prevented him from taking advantage of the facilities as often as he liked. As a result, his last physical had yielded a slight weight gain, in and of itself a recurring problem of Blair’s for the past few years. Though lack of time occasionally was at fault, so far as keeping to a regular exercise schedule, he had admitted to Hamilton that he was becoming bored with the routine of his workouts. With his fifty-first birthday approaching later this year, the doctor had suggested trying some new sports or pursuits, and engaging other members of the crew while working toward that goal. Blair had always preferred to exercise in solitude, often while listening to or reviewing the reports and communiquйs that always seemed to accumulate on his desk, or which were intended solely for his attention. He received no sympathy from Hamilton, who had provided a good-natured scolding with respect to his solitary habits.

“I suggested you try something new,” the doctor said. “I don’t recall saying you should let yourself get thrown around the gym.”

Blair chuckled. “Captain’s prerogative, I suppose. Every crew should see their commanding officer getting his or her butt handed to them once in a while. Keeps things in perspective.”

“If the crew sees you exercising,” Hamilton countered, “even with everything you’ve got on your plate, then they might just think they have no excuse, and they’ll get out there and work up a little sweat themselves.” She gestured in his direction. “Now, get up and continue to perspire in an orderly, proficient, captainly manner, and lose those four kilos before I have to change your diet card again.”

Any retort Blair might have given was cut off by the whistle of the ship’s intercom system. “Bridge to Captain Blair,” said the voice of Ensign Ravishankar Sabapathy, one of the Defiant’s communications officers.

“Saved by the bell,” Blair said as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to a wall-mounted comm panel and thumbed its activation switch. “Blair here.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain,” Sabapathy said, “but we’re picking up a faint broadcast message that appears to be a distress signal.”

Frowning at the report, Blair asked, “Any idea who it is?”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied. “According to its signature, the signal’s source is Tholian. The translator says it’s a ship, and that they’ve been attacked.”

Blair glanced to his left as Mbugua moved to stand beside him. “Do they know who attacked them?” the first officer asked.

“I don’t think so, Commander,” said Sabapathy. “The signal looks to be automated, repeating at regular intervals. It’s encrypted, but using an algorithm we’ve managed to break. Still, it’s taking a bit of work to translate the whole thing, and from what we can tell, it’s intended for other Tholian ships that might be in the vicinity.”

“Are sensors picking up signs of other Tholian ship traffic?” Blair asked.

The communications officer replied, “Negative, Captain. So far as we can tell, we’re all alone out here.”

Remembering that gamma shift was still on duty, Blair said, “Have Commander Shull take us to Yellow Alert, and change course to intercept the ship. We’ll see if there’s anything we can do to help.”

There was a break before Lieutenant Commander Terry Shull, the gamma shift duty officer, answered, “I’ve already had the helm computing an intercept course, Captain. If we accelerate to warp six, we can be there inside of sixteen hours.”

Blair nodded in approval. Of course she would be anticipating his orders. The Defiant’s crew did such an exceptional job of anticipating and reacting to his instructions that he often wondered how long they might carry on with their duties before noticing that he had slipped away in the dead of night, bound for a vacation on Argelius or some other fanciful destination. “Do it, and keep me apprised of any new developments.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Shull replied.

Terminating the connection, Blair turned away from the companel to regard Mbugua and Hamilton. “Well,” he said, “what do you make of that?”

“Out here?” Mbugua asked. “There’s no telling. Could be Klingons, could be pirates, could be somebody else we don’t know about yet.”

Hamilton said, “We’re fairly close to the Tholian border, aren’t we?”

“Depending on whom you ask,” Blair replied, “and what day of the week it is, and the mood of the captain of whichever Tholian ship you happen to run across on that day.” The Tholians, despite being strict and even extreme isolationists, often engaged in the contradictory practice of extending and redefining their territorial boundaries as though fueled by whimsy. The lone exception to this odd policy was in how the Tholians treated the Taurus Reach, which they steadfastly refused to include in their expansion or annexing efforts. Indeed, their only excursions into the region were usually in response to actions by other parties they deemed threatening to their territorial security. Looking to Mbugua, Blair asked, “What about the Klingons?”

The dark-skinned first officer reached up with a towel to wipe perspiration from his bald head before replying, “They’ve laid claim to a few planets along the Tholian border, but nothing in this immediate area. At least, that’s so far as we know from the latest survey and intelligence reports.” Klingon activity in this part of the Taurus Reach had been on the rise in recent months, which was but one of the reasons that ships such as the Defiant had been re-tasked to the region and placed under the overall command of Starbase 47. The rationale was simple: Despite the fact that all-out war with the Klingons had been avoided, tensions remained elevated between the Empire and the Federation, and one of the potential flashpoints for any hostilities that might break out was the Taurus Reach. Therefore, in addition to conducting security patrols, the Defiant and other Starfleet vessels also were charged with visiting and offering expanded protection for the numerous colonies established in the Taurus Reach since the Federation had taken an interest in the area five years earlier. For the most part, all the parties in the area seemed to be keeping to themselves, but that did not rule out the occasional skirmish.

Thomas Blair’s gut was telling him this might be something else.

“Let’s revisit those reports,” Blair said, “and prep a report for transmission back to Vanguard. Admiral Nogura’s going to want to know about this.”

5

Cervantes Quinn turned from the bar in time to see the fist coming right at his face. In his mind’s eye he visualized his opponent’s stance in an instant, determining from the arc of the swing and the way he carried his body that the other man was an experienced bar fighter, but woefully lacking in any sort of refined unarmed combat skills. Countering his attack would be child’s play.

It was a good theory, Quinn decided. His instincts were sharp—no mean feat considering his present condition. On the other hand, his reflexes were deplorable. In attempting to step into the other man’s attack, Quinn instead succeeded only in moving his face into a position better suited to receiving the full force of the punch. He took the strike along the left side of his jaw, the impact of bone against bone snapping his head back. Stars danced before his eyes as he stumbled, his back slamming into the bar behind him.