Mogan’s eyes studied the distribution of debris, the patterns of scorch marks and bloodstains. He visualized the genesis of each bit of evidence and constructed in his imagination a reenactment of the battle. To one of the nearby QuchHa’ he said, pointing out details, “The attack began here. Multiple opponents. They came from above, from that hole in the cliff. The center of the formation was attacked first.” He turned, backpedaled as he followed the clues, narrating as he went. “The front ranks turned, and the rear guard charged. A cross-fire. Their targets split up, broke toward the flanks.” His eyes roamed the ground, sensing the direction and momentum of the combat. “Whatever attacked them did not prioritize among their targets. They killed whoever was closest.” He reached the edge of the battle zone, where the ground ceased to smolder. Dropping to one knee, he scooped up a handful of the radiantly warm earth and sifted it between his fingers. “They were hit with overwhelming force. It was over in seconds.”

His words provoked anxious looks among the QuchHa’, and not for the first time Mogan was angry and ashamed to think of these weaklings as Klingons. Such as these are not fit for war, he brooded, gazing with contempt on his weak-browed troops.

Dr. Kamron walked quickly toward Mogan, his mien stern. When he had closed to within a half-dozen paces, Mogan commanded him, “Report, Doctor.”

“All members of the reconnaissance unit accounted for,” Kamron said. “Time of death approximately one hour ago. All casualties inflicted by physical trauma. No sign of energy residue on any of our men.”

Mogan pointed at the dark, glasslike substance that coated a nearby head. “What about that residue, Doctor?”

“Some kind of living crystal. Origin unknown.” The scientist pointed up at the roughly circular opening in the cliff. “The same substance is up there, coating the walls of that tunnel. It does not match any natural elements or composites indigenous to this planet.” Stepping close to Mogan, Kamron confided, “But it does resemble substances documented before…on Palgrenax.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mogan said. “I want your full report in six hours. For my eyes only, understood?”

With a nod, Kamron said, “Yes, sir,” and drifted away.

Mogan paced around the perimeter of the battlefield. Allowing such a valuable asset as Palgrenax to fall under the control of an imbecile like Morqla had been a grave misstep by the Empire. It had led to the planet’s destruction at the hands of an enemy and resulted in the loss of a valuable strategic resource—one that the Federation had already taken the lead in studying and possibly exploiting. Imperial Intelligence did not intend to let the mistakes of Palgrenax be repeated here, but the threat that had presented itself could not be ignored, either. Mogan had to act quickly.

He pulled his communicator from his belt and set it to a secure frequency. “Mogan to Hanigar.”

Moments later, his Imperial Intelligence supervisor answered. “This is Hanigar. Report.”

“Threat assessment complete,” Mogan said. “Status positive. Recommend response protocol Say’qul.”

“Understood,” Hanigar replied. “I will relay your recommendation. Hanigar out.” The channel went dead, so Mogan closed his communicator and tucked it back on his belt. He was surprised at how little resistance Hanigar had offered to his suggestion that they summon reinforcements and eliminate the independent colony as a precursor to asserting absolute dominion over the planet. Typically, Imperial Intelligence supervisors were loath to request aid from the Defense Force, preferring to handle sensitive operations independently. The exercise of brute force, however, was the Defense Force’s singular specialty.

He called out to his troops, “Back to the transport! We’re returning to base! Move!” He jogged behind them, barking orders to round up the laggards of the bunch. As he stepped aboard the transport and sealed the hatch behind him, he grinned at the knowledge that a military strike on the independent colony, no matter what flag its people lived under, would certainly draw the ire of the Federation and place the Empire’s diplomats in politically untenable positions.

If there was one thing that Mogan loved above all else, it was finding anonymous ways to make politicians miserable.

Captain Daniel Okagawa prepared his report for transmission to Commodore Reyes on Vanguard. The past six days had been filled with low-key tension, the product of maneuvering survey teams around the Klingons’ recon units, who clearly were seeking the same elusive artifacts that Starfleet had come to Gamma Tauri IV to find. In the past hour, however, the bad news had started to come in like a high tide dimmed with blood, and Okagawa suddenly found himself nostalgic for the days of merely simmering aggression.

He tabbed quickly through the layers of information on the data slate he’d been given for review. Casualty reports, complete with service records on each of the lost Starfleet personnel; brief dossiers on the nine civilian engineers, twenty-eight laborers, and two New Boulder peace officers slain at the aquifer dig; an after-action report by two ensigns who had barely escaped the slaughter of the survey team; several kiloquads of classified forensic data collected at the scene, for Dr. Fisher’s personal review; and his own command report, for Vanguard’s senior officers.

Nothing like a little bit of light bedtime reading for the commodore, Okagawa mused with dark humor.

An insistent beeping on a console behind him was silenced by the Lovell’s junior communications officer, Ensign Folanir Pzial. The young Rigelian placed a Feinberger receiver in one ear, then started flipping switches and inserting data cards in slots around his console. Whatever he was doing, he was working intensely and quickly, and it captured Okagawa’s attention.

“Report, Ensign,” Okagawa said.

Pzial held up his index finger to signal that he needed a moment. His bright red eyes were wide with surprise as he listened to whatever signal he had received. After a few more seconds, he looked up at Okagawa and said, “I’ve intercepted a coded Klingon signal, Captain. It’s one of their newer ciphers, took me a few seconds to unscramble it.” He flipped a few more switches on his console. “I’m still translating it. Sounds like they’re using idiomatic code phrases.”

Commander Araev zh’Rhun stepped behind Pzial and observed over his shoulder. The Andorian zhen squinted as she examined the data on Pzial’s screens. “That encryption method is not generally used by the Klingon military,” zh’Rhun said. “This signal is very likely being sent and received by agents of Imperial Intelligence.”

“Their team on the ground is recommending something called ‘Protocol Say’Qul,” Pzial said. “Whatever that is. I can’t find it in the Klingon language database.”

Science Officer Xav joined zh’Rhun and hovered over Pzial’s other shoulder. “In tlhIngan, words are sometimes compounded to create more complex terms,” the Tellarite said. “Try breaking the word down into its components.”

“Well, Say’ has a few possible meanings,” Pzial said, reading from a screen above his console. “It can be a verb, meaning to make something clean, or an adjective, meaning that something is clean.” He switched to a different set of data. “Qul means ‘research.’…I’m not sure putting those two words together makes much sense.”

Xav scratched the back of his head. “Maybe it’s a directive to purge their computers of sensitive information,” he said. “Clean up their research?”

“It might be an order to remove their scientific personnel from the planet,” zh’Rhun said.

Okagawa got up from his chair, tucked his data slate under his arm, and joined the press of bodies gathered around the communications station. Xav and zh’Rhun both moved half a step aside to make room for him. The communications officer ducked his head slightly as the captain leaned over him. “Pzial,” Okagawa said, “scroll this list back a bit—one screen should be sufficient. I want to see something.”