“After countless warnings about how the planet had been warming,” Urova said, “it seemed ironic that Golmira should find itself the victim of a new glacial age. Temperatures plunged. The ice walls advanced, and our ancestors used every bit of energy they could burn to keep their cities alive.”

“But there was no stopping the ice,” said Adeva, picking up the narrative. “Within decades, the carbon fuels and the fissionable elements were used up. The engines stopped, and the cities went dark.”

Enora added, “All that remains of the old world is what you see now. We live in its ashes and grow our crops on its grave.”

Bridy asked, “Didn’t your ancestors explore solar power? Or biofuels? Geothermal taps? Hydroelectrics? Wind turbines?”

The local women nodded. Naya said, “They tried, but by then it was too late. Biofuels require expendable crops, and once the glaciers came we could barely produce enough to subsist. The other options demand resources that our forebears lacked the wisdom to develop in time, and that are now beyond our grasp.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Mind if I ask a question?”

Naya nodded. “Please do.”

“Do you have much contact with other towns? When we were flyin’ in, we noticed y’all have a decent number of boats, and it looks like there are roads between here and some other provinces, or shires, or whatever.”

“Yes,” Naya said. “We trade and share news with other communities on a regular basis. Crops that grow well in one place often fare poorly in others, so we all have an incentive to cooperate. All of this is done by sea, however. The roads between the shires aren’t safe.”

Bridy and Quinn glanced at each other. Bridy asked Naya, “Why aren’t they safe?”

“The Goçeba,” Naya said. “Superstitious nomads. They roam the desert wastes between the coasts and ice walls, and they like to ambush travelers on the roads.”

Decin added, “The only time it’s safe to travel the roads is during the month of the summer solstice, when the Goçebagather at the Precursor temple in the Hinterlands.”

Quinn felt a tingle of anticipation. It was the same sense of excitement he got at the card table whenever he drew a guaranteed winning hand or learned another player’s tell. Feigning nonchalance, he said, “Why do they like the temple?”

Enora replied, “It’s always been a magnet for the delusional, even before the collapse.”

“Some legends say it houses an artifact that predates the evolution of our species,” Naya added. “I’ve never seen it, so I don’t even know if the artifact exists, but the Goçebacertainly believe it does. And they worship it like fools.”

“I’ll bet,” Quinn said. “But only once per year, in high summer?” The Denn women nodded, so he pressed on. “And you said it’s where, exactly?”

“In the Hinterlands,” Adeva said. “In the center of a city once known as Doanhain. It was swallowed by the desert ages ago, but the nomads keep the temple uncovered.”

Quinn looked at Bridy, who inquired, “Is it far from here?”

Naya seemed unsettled by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Ancient cultures are important to the Federation,” Quinn said. “If it’s as old as your legends say, there are thousands of archaeologists who’d love to study it. That alone could be a huge revenue source for your planet.”

Yan leaned forward, her expression eager. “Really?”

Admiring the woman’s finely honed sense of avarice, Quinn said, “Hell, yeah. But only if it’s reallyold. We’d have to go out and run some tests to be sure, but if that temple’s the real deal, we could probably get Federation support and snag some major investors to help rebuild your planet.”

His proposal inspired several seconds of terse, whispered discussion between the landgraves and their cynosure.

Naya looked up and said, “Would your Federation help control the Goçeba?”

He shrugged. “They’d have to if they want to get anything done.”

“Very well,” Naya said. “The temple is half a day’s ride from here. Tomorrow we’ll provide you with mounts, provisions, and a map. Until then, please stay here in Tegoresko as our guests.”

Bridy replied, “Thank you, Naya. That’s very kind of you.”

Quinn sipped his tea and felt as if he’d done some good by inviting himself to dinner. Then he realized there was one very important question he’d neglected to ask.

“It’s not high summer, is it?”

“No, Cervantes,” Naya said. “It is early spring. The Goçebadon’t convene for many months yet.”

He let out a relieved sigh. “Just checkin’.”

11

February 23, 2267

Gorkon slammed his hand down on the conference-room table. “I refuse to believe there is no alternative to war!”

Diego Reyes was too exhausted to react to Gorkon’s outburst, and from where he was sitting, Ezthene appeared equally unfazed. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a Klingon would prove to be a political idealist,” Reyes said.

“No one denies that averting a full-scale conflict among our peoples will be difficult,” Gorkon says. “But it must be done. The Empire and the Federation both predict they will be victorious, but the truth is that our militaries are more evenly matched than either side will admit. Any war between us would become one of attrition, and with the Tholians and the Romulans waiting to strike us both, we would become the architects of our own doom.”

Indistinct metallic scratching sounds emanated from inside Ezthene’s environment suit of shimmering Tholian silk. His vocoder translated it for Gorkon and Reyes. “War is rarely the most productive response to a crisis. However, it has been one that your people have chosen many times. Why should this change now?”

“I’ve already said why,” Gorkon said.

“What he meant,” Reyes cut in, “isn’t why but how.”

The Klingon politician grunted softly and ruminated for a moment. “Chancellor Sturka must be persuaded there is more to be gained by negotiating with the Federation for access to the secrets of the Gonmog Sector than there is in taking it by force.”

“Good luck with that,” Reyes said.

Gorkon shot a withering look at Reyes. “Are you implying the Federation would not be willing to exchange information?”

“Why would they? They got to the Taurus Reach ahead of you, and they’ve paid in blood for the privilege.”

“There must be some way to broker a truce,” Gorkon said.

Reyes shook his head. Dull pain throbbed in his temples, and his ears and forehead felt hot. He blamed the Klingon food and the overcaffeinated swill they had told him was “a lot like human coffee,” but which tasted more like hot bitter syrup. “I don’t know,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing down to try to relieve some of the pressure in his sinus. “You’d have to lay groundwork on both sides. I’m talking about people working behind the scenes to open up lines of communication, head off conflicts before they go public, create a political pressure valve. But that’s not gonna happen in a year or even ten years, Gorkon. We’re talking about the kind of change that can take a generation.”

Gorkon nodded. “All too true. An accord between our peoples might not be possible during our lifetimes.” He smiled at Reyes. “Too many people like us are too afraid of change to let it happen. Which makes it imperative we steer the next generation down that path now, before their course becomes set.”

A new chorus of tinny shrieks turned attention back toward Ezthene. “You talk of peace in a generation,” he said. “But it will take far longer than that for the Tholian Assembly to put aside its hatred. Its grudges are long and deep.”

“I suspected as much,” Gorkon said. “At best, the Empire might seek a cease-fire with the Assembly.”