“Are you sure?” She addressed the Denn. “The Klingons have conquered hundreds of worlds more advanced than this one. They’re one of the most dangerous cultures in this part of the galaxy. The moment you start any kind of war with them, they’ll take it out on all your people. They won’t care who the fighters are. Men, women, children—they’ll execute innocent civilians until you give yourselves up and the attacks stop. If they have to, they’ll drive your race to extinction.”

Stepping between Bridy and the Denn, Quinn asked, “Is that what they teach you in Starfleet? The best defense is a quick surrender?”

She shouldered past him and continued talking to the Denn. “There won’t be any glory in what you’re doing,” she said. “No rewards, no victory. Only pain and death.”

Stretch looked at Quinn. “Permission to speak?”

“Step forward,” Quinn said.

The tall recruit stepped out of the line to face Bridy Mac. “Quinn tells us your people are sending ships and soldiers. They will be here in ninety days. He also says if we stand against the Klingons, we will make it easier for your people to help free us. Is that not true?”

Bridy glanced over her shoulder at Quinn. Her expression was one of barely contained anger. Looking back at Stretch, she said, “Yes, our people will be here in about ninety days. And the more distracted the Klingons are, the better. But I still don’t think you—”

“Then we will stand and fight,” Stretch said. “We think Quinn speaks wisely when he says it is better to die fighting for freedom than to accept life as a slave.”

The Denn’s declaration seemed to leave Bridy speechless. Quinn gently guided her away from the recruits and spoke to her sotto voce. “Look, I ain’t puttin’ these boys into a full-scale ground war, okay? If we time this right, we’ll be lookin’ at maybe a few weeks of harassing the Klingons before the cavalry comes. I’ll stick to minin’ roads, settin’ traps, layin’ ambushes. No standup fights till the end. You have my word.”

“I’m not the one who needs your promises,” Bridy said, scowling. She walked up the ramp into the Rocinante.

Quinn turned back toward the men whose lives were now in his hands. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”

24

July 14, 2267

Kutal felt the wind in his hair as he dashed through the night. Rain pelted against his naked body, washing the blood from his chest and arms. It ran in a steady stream from the tip of his tempered blade, which was still warm from cutting the throats of four thousand foes in one night.

Cresting the hill, he threw back his head and roared with mad laughter. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed, and Kutal lifted his d’k tahgin salute to the memory of Kahless and the honor of his own ancestors, who he now was certain would welcome him into the everlasting glory of Sto-Vo-Kor.

Then the comm signal squawked and stirred Kutal from the best dream he’d ever had. Bleary and bitterly disappointed, he pushed himself up from his bunk with a low growl. The signal buzzed again from a comm panel. Kutal silenced it with the side of his fist and barked, “What?”

BelHoQ, his first officer, replied,

“Priority signal from Qo’noS, Captain. It is Councillor Gorkon.”

Of course it is,Kutal thought. He exhaled with disgust. “Patch it through to my quarters.”

“Ready on your secure channel, Captain.”

Kutal switched off the comm and shambled over to a desktop computer screen. As he entered his security code, he wondered what Gorkon wanted this time. More pillows for the Earther? An Orion slave girl to sing the human to sleep with soft lullabies?

Gorkon had insisted Reyes and the Tholian be treated as guests rather than as prisoners, but Kutal had grown weary of kowtowing to the two aliens.

The screen flashed to life with an image of the Klingon trefoil emblem, which was replaced seconds later by the face of Gorkon.

“Captain, I have new orders for you.”

“I am at your command, Councillor.”

Gorkon leaned forward and pressed a key on his desktop.

“I am sending you a classified mission briefing,”he said. Icon for an in-progress data upload appeared along the bottom of Kutal’s screen.

“Our forces have secured an intact Shedai Conduit on a planet near the Vodrey Nebula. So far, we have not had any success accessing its systems.”

The data package finished loading. Kutal opened it on an adjacent monitor while continuing his conversation with Gorkon. Reading through the briefing’s top-sheet summary, he said, “I’ve received your mission file. What is the link between this new Conduit and the document you’ve sent me?”

“That is all our extant research into an artifact we tested on another Conduit in the Mirdonyae system. It gave us unprecedented control over the Shedai technology on that world.”

Skipping to the end of the summary, Kutal frowned. “It says the artifact was captured by Starfleet, and that the planet was destroyed shortly afterward.”

“True,”Gorkon said. “However, now that we once again have an intact Conduit under our control, it is imperative we resume our research into this new technology.”

Kutal met Gorkon’s steely-eyed stare and asked, “Have we acquired another such artifact?”

“No,”Gorkon replied. “To the best of our knowledge, only the one has been found, and it is currently secured aboard the Federation starbase known as Vanguard. If our work is to continue, the artifact must be recovered with all due haste—and without violating the terms of the Organian treaty.”

“Councillor, Vanguard is very well defended, and in recent weeks Starfleet has escalated its presence in the Gonmog Sector. Short of launching a full-scale assault, how are we to recover the artifact from the station?”

Gorkon responded with a thin, evil smile. “Ask our esteemed guest, Mister Reyes, to help you. It’s about time he learned our hospitality comes with a price. Make sure he understands that if he doesn’t cooperate, or if he leads us into a trap, his beloved Rana Desai will suffer a most gruesome violation before her untimely demise.”

That was more like it. Kutal mirrored Gorkon’s diabolical expression. “Understood, Councillor. I’ll see to it personally.”

25

July 14, 2267

Haniff Jackson leaned on the bar in Tom Walker’s place and held ice against his bloodied nose. The melting cubes had soaked the napkin in which they were wrapped, and cold water dribbled over his split lips and bruised chin. The proprietor and patrons of the popular Stars Landing watering hole had fled during the raucous fight minutes earlier, leaving Jackson alone at the bar.

The front door opened, and Captain Desai walked in. She warily surveyed the room, which was littered with collapsed tables, splintered chairs, broken glass, and spilled drinks. Wrinkling her nose as she stepped through the wreckage toward Jackson, she said, “What a lovely fragrance you’ve invented.”

“Don’t blame me,” Jackson said, his voice a bit nasal thanks to his swollen nose. “I wasn’t the one resisting arrest.”

Desai joined him at the bar and stood on her toes to get a better look at his injuries. “Blood and scars become you,” she said with a teasing smile. Looking down the length of the bar, she asked, “What does a lady have to do to get a drink around here?”

“When that lady’s a captain, all she has to do is ask.” Jackson set down the melting ice, hopped over to the other side of the bar, and spread his arms. “What can I get you?”