“That’s unusual,” Terrell said.

“Nice work, people,” Nassir replied. “Keep an eye on them, Bridy Mac. I don’t want them sneaking up on us again.” Next, he tapped a control on the arm of his chair. “Bridge to engineering. What’s the story, Master Chief?”

Over the bridge intercom system, Master Chief Petty Officer Michael Ilucci answered, “Are we done getting shot at, Skipper?”

“That’s affirmative,” Nassir said.

“That’ll help, then,”replied the chief engineer. “We took a decent hit down here. I’m going to have to take the warp engines off line to repair some buckling in the antimatter containment system and the intermix chamber.”

“What about impulse?” Terrell asked.

Ilucci replied, “That’s still available, even though the engine took a minor hit, too. We can maneuver, but I don’t recommend going anywhere too fast until I get a chance to look things over.”

“Captain,” McLellan said, turning from her station to face Nassir, “I just picked up a transmission from the Klingon ship. It’s encrypted, but from what I can tell, it’s the same message being broadcast over and over. I think it’s a distress signal, sir.”

“I’m not picking up any other Klingon vessels or other traffic on long-range sensors,” Theriault added, “but somebody has to know those guys are out here.”

Nodding in agreement, Nassir said to his chair intercom, “Master Chief, how much time do you need to make repairs?”

There was not a moment’s hesitation before Ilucci replied, “About twelve hours, Skipper.”

Turning away from the tactical console, Terrell saw the captain already looking at him, and both men nodded as they reached the same conclusion.

“You’ll need to work faster, Master Chief,” Nassir said, doubting the Klingons would give them that kind of time.

6

Standing on the supervisor’s deck of Vanguard’s operations center with his arms folded, Reyes focused on several of the view-screens arrayed around the room and watched their depictions of activity currently taking place around the starbase’s exterior. A civilian merchant freighter was disconnecting from one of the lower docking pylons positioned around the station’s secondary hull. On another screen, a pair of single-person work bees hovered at the station’s bottom, maneuvering into place a replacement component for the massive sensor array Lieutenant Ballard had determined was defective. Other screens showed images of the outer hull and engineers, shrouded inside environment suits, standing on the tritanium plating with the aid of magnetic boots as they endeavored to complete the installation of one piece of equipment or another.

It was the sort of work that intrigued Reyes for reasons he could not explain, piquing his curiosity and compelling him to watch with rapt attention as his people carried out their duties in efficient, even mundane fashion. It was an interesting notion to ponder, he conceded, given the very real danger in which some of those in his charge presently had placed themselves in order to carry out such necessary tasks. Perhaps that was it; he felt beholden to observe those he commanded while they placed themselves in harm’s way, keeping watch over them until such time as they returned to the station’s comparatively safer confines.

That, or he was motivated by a desire to find something— anything—that might occupy his attention and prevent him from going back to his office and finishing the latest stack of incomplete status reports.

The first one sounds a lot better.

There was another reason Reyes liked to watch his people at work. It helped to ease his mind, particularly when he received a report or other news that was troubling, and about which he was powerless to do anything, such as what he now confronted.

“Any updates from the Sagittarius?” he asked, looking away from the screens to regard Lieutenant Judy Dunbar, the station’s senior communications officer, who sat at one of the eight workstations set into the octagonal conference table situated at the center of the supervisor’s deck. Nicknamed “the Hub,” it was from here that nearly every aspect of the station’s operation was overseen and directed.

Dunbar shook her head. “Not since their last message from this morning, sir.”

Reyes had with mounting concern reviewed the transcript of the message sent to Vanguard by the Sagittarius’s captain. It was troubling that the Klingons had taken an interest in Traelus II, a planet in a system located on the opposite side of the Taurus Reach from Klingon territory. There were dozens of star systems between Traelus and the Empire’s borders, and yet someone in their leadership had seen fit to send a scout vessel to investigate that planet and, presumably, the vast mineral storehouse it was now known to contain. Even more worrisome was the aggressive stance they had taken against the Sagittarius,which now was recovering from damage sustained during a brief skirmish with the Klingon ship. Though Adelard Nassir had made it a point to offer reassurances that his vessel should be repaired and moved away from the system before the Klingons sent reinforcements, Reyes still did not like being unable to send another starship to provide backup. The Endeavourwas still en route to the station, and no other vessels in the vicinity were in range to be dispatched to the Traelus system in anything less than three days. For all intents and purposes, the Sagittariusand its crew were on their own.

Damn it,he thought. To hell.

“We’re going to a lot of trouble dropping subspace relays all over the place,” Reyes said after a moment. “I want them put to work. I want regular updates from the Sagittarius,even if they don’t have anything new to report.”

Dunbar replied, “Aye, sir,” before returning her attention to her workstation.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading up from the ops center’s main deck made Reyes turn to see Captain Rana Desai ascending into view. Her ubiquitous data slate was in her right hand, and the expression on her face told Reyes she was here on business.

“Uh-oh,” he said, offering a small smile. “I know that look. To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?”

Holding up her data slate, Desai said, “If you have a moment, Commodore, I have a question about a message I received from one of the civilian ships making requests to dock.”

Reyes’s eyes narrowed. Knowing that Desai would not bother him with matters that had not caused anyone problems or inconvenience, he figured he knew to which vessel the captain was referring. “Let me guess: the Omari-Ekon.”

“That’s right, sir,” Desai replied. “You refused their request to dock at the station.”

“Imagine that,” Reyes said.

Desai added, “You discriminated against a civilian vessel, Commodore.”

“Calling the Omari-Ekona civilian vessel is something of a misnomer, Captain,” Reyes said. “We’re still talking about an Orion ship, right?”

Nodding, Desai replied, “Yes, sir, but as you know, the Orions officially have declared themselves a neutral body.”

“Yeah,” Reyes countered, “and if you pull on my other leg, it plays the Starfleet Hymn. We’re talking about Orions, Captain. Pirates. Gunrunners. Slave runners. Gambling, prostitution, controlled and banned substances. They’re a threat to the security of this station.”

Desai said, “I’m not suggesting we allow any of that aboard the station, sir, but under current laws and treaties, any civilian merchant vessel from anyone who hasn’t been officially declared an enemy has a right to dock or make port at any Starfleet facility that welcomes such traffic, so long as its crew is willing to abide by all applicable rules and regulations. Has the Omari-Ekonprovided any evidence or other reason to suspect they’re not willing to do that?”