Yazkene [The Emerald] darkened his mind-line with grim disapproval and conveyed his warning in dolorous chimes. The Federation appears to be seeking out all that we have feared. The Klingons, not to be outdone, follow their lead. They must both be stopped.

From Azrene and Narskene came scintillating pulses of alarm and objection. A flurry of images from the recent past flickered over Narskene’s thought-facets, recapping dozens of abortive attacks on Klingon warships by Tholian vessels. Then, for emphasis, he added several dispiriting reminders that of six Tholian ships that had launched an ambush on the Starfleet frigate Bombay, four had been destroyed before the enemy ship was finally overcome and detonated its self-destruct ordnance.

Though Narskene had been content to let the images speak for themselves, Azrene summarized his intentions with her own vermilion passion. We are not capable of fighting a war against the Klingon Empire and the Federation at the same time, she warned. Even to consider it is to court our own destruction.

Indignant, sickly colors blazed around the mind-line of Falstrene [The Gray]. We cannot cede the Shedai Sector to them!

Agreed, seconded Velrene. It is not necessary to wage war for the entire sector. We need only deny them access to the source of the Voice.

Low and steady came Radkene’s reply. There is no evidence that the Federation or the Klingons even know of the Voice, or its source. They see only the shells, not the essence.

The Federation’s people are far more clever than you give them credit for being, counseled Eskrene. They have already learned too much. If left unchecked, they will unlock the secrets of the Voice. We must act before that happens. The Voice must be silenced, this time forever.

Sharp, discordant tones of dismay echoed through their private mind-link, all of them emanating from Narskene. We assault the Voice at our peril, he cautioned. Already we have lost one battle cruiser. Ancient, terrifying fragments of vague, genetically encoded species memories blinked across his thought-facets. Look to the past. Remember the price our kind paid for freedom. What if challenging the Voice brings it here to Tholia?

Panic swelled for a moment among the members of the Ruling Conclave, only to be suppressed by the dark and dominating mind-line of Yazkene. If the Shedai come to Tholia, he declared, we will give them a fight such as they have never known.

Madness! protested Azrene in strident tones of violet.

Narskene tinted his thought-colors to match Azrene’s, then added to Yazkene, Only a fool would risk the wrath of the Shedai! Their coming would herald our destruction.

I would rather their wrath than their rule, Yazkene countered with incandescent pride. Better to be annihilated than subjugated. Mark my words, Narskene: Our people will not wear that yoke again. They will kill to prevent it and die before they accept it. It is time to face the truth: This is war.

5

There were no clouds in the night sky above New Boulder, but Ensign O’Halloran was nonetheless convinced that at any moment a bolt of lightning would slice down from the heavens to smite him and Ensign Anderson. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he said to his friend, who also happened to be the one person on Gamma Tauri IV he most wanted to strangle. “What are you trying to do, start a riot?”

“Would you relax?” Anderson wrinkled his nose at O’Halloran as if he’d suddenly detected an unpleasant odor. “This is going to be the best night of your life if you don’t screw it up. More important, it’s gonna be the best night of my life if you don’t screw it up. So don’t screw it up.”

Visions of painful public death haunted O’Halloran’s thoughts. He and Anderson were walking from the far edge of the settlement to a low-profile establishment somewhere in its center. Rumors of a party had lured Anderson in search of the basement bar, and, as usual, O’Halloran had somehow gotten dragged along. “This is a bad idea,” he said as the streets around them grew darker and less trafficked. “Let’s go back.”

“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Anderson said. “Another night sitting on a mound of dirt around a campfire with a bunch of engineers.” He punched O’Halloran in the shoulder. “Are you nuts? This isn’t just any party we’re talking about, it’s a colony party: girls a couple hundred light-years from home who haven’t seen a new face in months. And you know what they say about colony girls—they’re up for anything.”

“Spare me the details,” O’Halloran groused.

Anderson shook his head. “Suit yourself, kemosabe. But this is as good as it gets. This is the Garden of Eden, this is Mecca, this is—” He paused in mid-sentence, stopped walking, and looked up. All traces of humor and irony vanished from his expression. O’Halloran followed his line of sight.

A flaring orange pinpoint of light across the sky grew brighter as it descended. “Meteor?” O’Halloran wondered aloud. Anderson said nothing; he just watched the speck of fiery brilliance grow larger and brighter as it drew closer to the surface. In a single dramatic arc the object leveled its flight and cruised directly toward the New Boulder colony.

Within seconds it neared to within several kilometers, slowing as it went but still cruising at supersonic speed. It flew over the settlement and was kilometers gone before a deafening boom of displaced air rattled the entire colony. O’Halloran looked around and saw that the streets were no longer empty. People had piled out of residential shelters and workspaces to see what had caused the commotion.

He looked at Anderson. “Did you see what it was?”

“Yup,” Anderson said.

Exasperated by his friend’s dearth of details, he replied, “So? What was it?” After a few more seconds of watching Anderson stare grimly toward the vanishing engine glow of the retreating ship, O’Halloran snapped, “Dammit, Jeff, say something!”

Anderson sighed heavily and looked at him. “There goes the neighborhood.”

The emergency signal on his communicator all but knocked al-Khaled out of his bunk. He fumbled to grab the device from the floor next to his cot and flipped it open. “Al-Khaled here.”

“We’ve got company,” said Captain Okagawa. “Get to ops on the double.”

“On my way,” al-Khaled answered, already halfway out the door. Falling asleep in his uniform, normally a symptom of his absentmindedness or fatigue, all at once seemed prescient. No sooner had he stepped outside than all of New Boulder was shaken by a thunderous roar from overhead.

Minutes later he scrambled out of the switchback staircase and into the underground bunker, still winded from his hundred-meter sprint from the officers’ barracks to the operations center. “Someone talk to me,” he demanded.

“Klingon D-5 cruiser in orbit, sir,” answered Lieutenant Christopher Gabbert, the night-shift room boss. “Based on her power signature, we’ve identified her as the I.K.S. Che’leth.” It was Gabbert’s job to watch over all the other stations and coordinate all departments’ responses to whatever crisis might present itself.

“What buzzed the colony?” al-Khaled asked, slightly distracted by the sweat dampening his uniform jersey.

Gabbert called up several screens of sensor readings and flight telemetry detailing the path of the ship that had flown over the settlement. “Klingon transport,” he said. “Big enough to carry about three thousand people and a whole lotta gear.” The bearded operations specialist added, “Looks like they set down about fifty kliks away, near the Cardalian Mountains.”

“Dammit,” al-Khaled muttered. “Didn’t take them long, did it? They moved in as soon as they heard the colony refused protectorate status.”