“Finally,” he said aloud, even though he was alone in the cargo bay.

Or so he thought.

His first indication that someone else was in the chamber came in the form of something clattering on the deck plating near his feet. Hanagan looked down and saw a bright red square, a nondescript Federation-style computer data storage card, resting on the deck near his left boot. Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he looked up to see a lone woman standing less than ten meters from him. How had she come so close without his having heard her?

“Are you Ronald Hanagan?” the woman asked. She was slight of build, though Hanagan noted the toned yet still slender musculature of her legs and arms. Wearing tan overalls, she looked to be a member of the Bacchus Plateau’s crew. Her hair, light red in color, was held in a bun at the back of her head, leaving her neck exposed.

Nodding, Hanagan replied, “Who wants to know?”

Rather than offering her own name, the woman instead said, “I’ve heard that the brothers, they fight one another.”

After speaking the words, she held his gaze, and Hanagan forced himself not to offer any outward reaction as he considered what she had said. It was the challenge phrase he had been instructed to use when attempting contact with the other covert agent known to be working aboard the starbase. Though he had been on the station for more than three weeks, he had not yet had opportunity or reason to seek out his fellow mole. Had she sought him out, or was this some kind of trap engineered by Starfleet forces who had discovered spies in their midst?

There was only one way to find out.

“Vaj Duj chIj,”he said, offering the pass phrase—which translated to “navigate a warrior ship” in Federation Standard— in his native language as he had been instructed. Once spoken aloud, he had exposed his status as a Klingon. If this person was not his contact, then she would have to die, quickly and quietly.

To his relief and in flawless tlhIngan Hol,the woman replied, “jaj qeylIS molar mIgh HoHchu’qu’.”Hanagan smiled with longing as he recalled the words to the ancient drinking song he had enjoyed along with his fellow warriors while consuming far too many tankards of firewine or bloodwine, in the days before he had become a deep cover operative for Imperial Intelligence.

In those days, Ronald Hanagan had answered to the name bestowed upon him by his parents, Komaleq.

“You must be Lurqal,” he said.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Never use that name. I am Anna Sandesjo.”

Hanagan knew this, of course, having been given this information by his handler, Turag, who soon would be serving as part of the diplomatic entourage invited to take up residence in the Klingon Embassy housed aboard the station. “Fine, Anna Sandesjo,” he said, glancing about the cargo bay to ensure they were still alone. “What can I do for you?”

By way of reply, Sandesjo gestured toward the data card still lying at Hanagan’s feet. “You can explain that.”

Frowning, Hanagan bent to retrieve the card, holding it up and studying its surface. “What is it?”

“It’s a recording of an encrypted message you dispatched to our mutual acquaintance.” By that, Hanagan knew she meant Turag. “Rather, the message you attempted to send.”

“What are you talking about?” Hanagan asked, confused. How dare this female question his competence?

Sandesjo shrugged. “I’m talking about your carelessness. You did a fine job encrypting your report and embedding it within the station’s outgoing transmission feed, but what you didn’t count on was the engineering staff disabling the communications array in order to make some adjustments to the equipment to address some technical issues. The array was off line for nearly six hours, during which all outgoing message traffic was held in a transmittal queue and subjected to a further round of scans and validation checks.”

For the first time, Hanagan realized the severity of what Sandesjo was describing. If indeed the starbase’s engineers had deactivated the communications system in order to perform some maintenance work, it had not been announced. In his role as a civilian merchant, he did not have access to any such information passed among the station’s Starfleet contingent. It was without question a potentially devastating oversight on his part.

“If I hadn’t been aware of this procedure taking place and acted to remove your message from the queue,” Sandesjo continued, “it would’ve been discovered by security personnel and set off a stationwide search for you. In the event this explanation’s beginning to tax your comprehension abilities, I’ll reduce it to this synopsis: You jeopardized our mission here. Such flagrant disregard for security is inexcusable.”

Ronald Hanagan saw the small dark object in her hand an instant before a high-pitched whine filled the air and a bright red flash engulfed everything around him.

Idiot.

Anna Sandesjo allowed the single word to repeat in her mind as she watched the last vestiges of Ronald Hanagan—Komaleq—dissolve into nothingness even as the echo of the disruptor blast faded. As his body disintegrated, Sandesjo raised her right hand to inspect the dull metal finish of the compact disruptor she held. She had purchased the weapon from a civilian dealer on the Omari-Ekon,an Orion merchant vessel operating in nearby space. The arms broker had been content not to ask questions, likely owing to the sizable number of Federation credits she had deposited in his account. As for the disruptor, it was an efficient weapon, small enough to be concealed on one’s person yet possessing sufficient power to be of inarguable use in combat. It had also demonstrated its value to a covert agent needing a means of wiping away evidence of an inexcusable blunder.

Releasing a tired sigh, Sandesjo shook her head. She had not wanted to kill Komaleq, of course. Such actions were not within the normal scope of her assigned mission. Her duties as a covert agent aboard Starbase 47 involved straightforward tasks. She was to listen and watch; read and collect data by any means available; learn and report to her superiors; repeat as required. Anything more risked discovery, and finding a Klingon agent aboard a Starfleet space station—an operative surgically altered to appear human, no less—would trigger a manhunt for other spies across the quadrant. Such a reaction could prove disastrous for the Empire’s still-evolving plans for finally engaging its longtime rival, the Federation.

She had been here long enough, Sandesjo decided, taking an extra moment to reseal the cargo container Hanagan had opened and return the P-38 opening device to his tool kit, which she then secreted within one of the storage lockers lining one bulkhead. An inspection of the area revealed no other sign of the man’s presence or of her having been there. There were no security video feeds in this area of the ship, and given her wardrobe she should be able to make her way without incident back to the station. The last thing she wanted now was to encounter a member of the Bacchus Plateau’s crew or Starbase 47’s security contingent.

Despite her standing orders to remain a passive observer while embedded as a member of Ambassador Jetanien’s diplomatic cadre, finding Komaleq’s message in the outgoing communications feed had necessitated extreme action in order to protect the larger mission. Removing all traces of the communiqué from the transmittal queue had been a straightforward if time-consuming task. That aside, if Komaleq had made one error, he may well have made others, either in sufficient quantities or of such scope that Sandesjo would be unable to take corrective action before someone else discovered what he had done. The only sure way to prevent further errors was to remove its potential cause with surgical precision and dispassionate efficiency.