Praise for

USA Today Bestselling Author

David Mack

“There are few authors who can write action sequences…the way David Mack does.”

“Incredibly powerful, compelling and thought-provoking…. Stunning and climactic…seat-of-your-

pants action-adventure.”

“David Mack exhibits superior skill in drawing the reader into the story to such a degree that you have to stop and remember to breathe.”

—Jacqueline Bundy, TrekNation.com

“[A Time to Heal] is a tightly written, riveting book. A fast read that offers believable intrigue, stunning war descriptions, striking character struggles and nemesis confrontations. If [it] were the score for an opera, it would obviously be the crescendo to the curtain drop.”

—Kathy LaFollett, The Lincoln Heights Literary Society

“If you need a story that combines fear, pain, sorrow, suffering, thrills, humor, and an atmosphere awash in raw, intimate emotion and life-or-death tension, Mack is your man.”

—Killian Melloy, wigglefish.com

“David Mack clearly has his finger on the pulse of Star Trek as we once knew it and as we know it now, elevating him into the top echelon of expert storytellers in both Star Trek and in the world of literature…. [A Time to Heal] could have easily been ripped from today’s headlines or the current techno-thriller novels of Tom Clancy.”

—Bill Williams, TrekWeb.com

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 1-4165-2181-X

First Pocket Books paperback edition August 2005

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Cover art by Doug Drexler; station design by Masao Okazaki; background image courtesy of NASA and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScl/AURA)

Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com/st

http://www.startrek.com

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

—T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

Historian’s Note

Harbinger begins in early 2263, shortly before the promotion of James T. Kirk to captain of the Enterprise, and concludes in 2265, between the events of “Where No Man Has Gone Before” and “The Corbomite Maneuver.”

2263

Prologue

Commodore Matt Decker wasn’t entirely certain what to call the swath of fuzz that currently adorned the lower half of his face. It was too long to be stubble, but far too sparse to be a beard. Scratching it gently during the turbolift ride to the bridge, he found the description he was looking for: It was scruff.

Well, that won’t do, he decided. In his opinion, the commanding officer of a starship could be clean-shaven, bearded, or even a bit prickly from time to time. Scruffy, however, was not an option. Unless it’s an intermediate stage on the way to a beard, he mused. That would be all right. Every few months he toyed with the idea of growing a beard. Then he’d note yet another subtle increase in the number of gray follicles populating his chin, and once again the dense bramble of hair would be shorn away until the next piquing of his curiosity.

The hum of the turbolift crested and fell quiet; then the doors swished open. A cascade of gentle synthetic chirps filled the bridge of the U.S.S. Constellation. As the burly commodore’s first step hit the deck, his deceptively fragile-looking first officer, Commander Hiromi Takeshewada, rose from the center seat and greeted him with a single, graceful nod. He gave her a curt half-nod in return as he strode quickly past the gamma-shift communications officer, whose name once again eluded him, despite his repeated attempts to commit it to memory.

At the science station, Lieutenant Guillermo Masada—whose own neatly trimmed beard Decker struggled not to envy—peered into the sensor hood, which cast a pale blue glow across his brow. The science officer’s short ponytail didn’t violate any regulations, but it drew a sharp contrast between Masada and the vast majority of Starfleet’s close-cropped male officers. Though Decker rarely said so, he often found Starfleet’s lockstep mind-set more than a little stultifying.

Takeshewada joined Decker in flanking Masada, who looked up from his sensor readings with an apprehensive side-to-side glance at his superior officers.

“Report,” Decker said, cutting straight to business.

Masada reached behind his ear as if to scratch, then gave an almost absentminded tug on his ponytail as he straightened and pivoted toward Decker. “We were running a routine gene-sequence scan on the biosamples from Ravanar IV,” he said. “Most were nothing to write home about.” He gestured for Takeshewada to look at the sensor data for herself. “Then we found this.”

Decker tried to be patient, but at times like this it was hard. “Guillermo, please don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s a gene sequence unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. My best guess would be that it has several million chemical base pairs, and it’s more complex than simple G-A-T-C. It has molecules we’re still trying to identify.”

Takeshewada lifted her gaze from the blue-gray sensor hood. Her already fair complexion looked paler than normal. “That’s incredible,” she said.

Folding his arms across his chest, Decker said to Masada, “Where did it come from? Some kind of über-life-form?”

“Hardly,” the science officer said. “From a simple mold.”

“Simple?” Decker shook his head, as much in disbelief as in sheer wonderment at the never-ending tricks the universe had up its proverbial sleeve. “That’s a lot of DNA for something I’d scrape off my breakfast. Speaking of which—” He turned toward his yeoman, who happened to be walking past. “Lawford, get me some coffee, will you?”

“Lawford transferred to the Yorktown two weeks ago, sir,” the yeoman said. “I’m Guthrie.”

Decker squinted in disapproval. “And that has precisely what to do with my coffee?”

“Nothing, sir.”

The commodore pointed the yeoman toward the food slot. “Milk, no sugar.”

“I know, sir.”

“Thanks, Lawford.”

“Guthrie, sir.”

“Whatever.” Decker turned back toward the science station while the yeoman plodded away, muttering quietly. Returning his attention to Masada, Decker said, “Why would mold need that much genetic information?”