“It wasn’t us,” Glazya said, her wild frazzle of dark hair, her wide eyes, and her upswept eyebrows conveying perfectly her almost feral temperament. “Unless Starfleet blew up its own ship, it had to be the Tholians. After that episode with Ambassador Tolrene here on Qo’noS and Sesrene and his delegation on Vanguard, it’s obvious there is something wrong with them.”

Sturka noted Glazya’s point. Tolrene’s abrupt seizure and subsequent behavior had been decidedly odd. Reports that the Tholian delegates to Vanguard, Earth, and Qo’noS had suffered the same symptoms at the exact same moment had been even more alarming. It was unclear, though, what had caused the incidents, or why it might provoke the Tholians to start a war.

“The Gonmog Sector is unexplored space,” said Councillor Gorkon, a former general who remained the leanest and strongest warrior on the council. Sturka knew that Gorkon could easily defeat him in mortal combat, which is why he had cultivated the former battle-fleet commander as an ally, ever since the day Gorkon had first hinted at his political ambitions. “There are countless unknown threats that could have destroyed the Federation ship,” Gorkon continued.

Torr lost his patience. “What difference does it make who destroyed their ship? We should strike before they regroup.”

Gorkon turned his forceful gaze against Torr. “Until we know who destroyed the Bombay, we won’t know whether attacking Vanguard will pit us against one foe or two.”

“Facing two foes would only add to our glory,” Torr said.

“Only if we win, you ignorant young jeghta’pu.”

“We have underestimated the Federation in the past,” Sturka said. “Not again. Encourage our warriors to boast, it will keep their spirits up. But in here, we face the facts. They have moved many ships and people into the Gonmog Sector—or the ‘Taurus Reach,’ as they call it…. Why?”

“It’s obvious,” said Councillor Indizar. Slimmer and more feminine-looking than Veselka, she had ascended to the High Council because of her background in covert intelligence. “They fear we will expand our conquests to the Tholian border, leaving them surrounded and unable to grow.”

Every councillor nodded in silent agreement—all but one, a heavyset man lurking in the back of the group, half in shadow. Sturka pointed to him. “You have another opinion, Duras?”

Councillor Duras walked forward, stepping into the broad circle of harsh overhead light in front of the chancellor’s throne. An acrid, musky odor clung to him like a bad reputation. “The Federation would not risk war on two fronts merely for the possibility of future expansion. A commitment this large can mean only one thing: There is something in the Gonmog Sector that they want…. We should learn what it is.”

Sturka stroked his bearded chin briefly as he considered Duras’s suggestion. “You might be right.” He looked up and scanned the faces of the gathered councillors. “It is likely that the Tholians destroyed the Starfleet ship. If so, I look forward to one day facing them in battle. But if other powers are in play in the Gonmog Sector, we must know who they are before our ships cross the border.

“Duras, your suspicion that the Federation has a motive besides expansion…interests me. Work with Indizar’s people in Imperial Intelligence. If you can show me a plausible alternative motive for the Federation’s efforts…we’ll adjust our strategy and tactics accordingly.”

Three successive strikes of Sturka’s metal-tipped staff on the stone tile beside his throne signaled that this meeting of the High Council was adjourned. The councillors filed out in a few mumbling clusters, grouped into three rival factions. Keeping them plotting against one another was hard work for Sturka, but it was better than having them plotting against him. Politics was a cutthroat business on any planet, but on Qo’noS the term was always used literally.

Walking quickly back to his chambers, Sturka noticed Gorkon fall into step behind him and his retinue of imperial guards. Sturka nodded to his chief defender, Tegor, to let Gorkon breach the defensive circle. Gorkon slipped inside the perimeter of guards and remained a respectful half-pace behind Sturka. “You know why he wants to investigate the Gonmog Sector,” he said. Sturka did not need to ask who Gorkon spoke of. The ex-general’s long-festering distrust of Duras made it abundantly clear.

“Of course I do,” Sturka said, turning the corner. Outside the narrow slices of window on their right, the sunset washed the First City in soothing crimson hues. “He thinks he’ll find something to make himself rich or powerful. Something that can make him chancellor.”

“That will be a cold day in Gre’thor, my lord.”

Sturka imagined his d’k tahg sunk deep in Duras’s throat. He smiled. “Yes, Gorkon. It certainly will.”

13

“Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.” T’Prynn’s dark and icy declaration burned brightly in Quinn’s memory. The burden of his guilt was staggering. Hundreds of lives, he told himself. My fault. To his own disgust, the only thing he could think of to do about it was order another drink.

He was on his fourth or fifth drink of the evening. In his experience, a well-told series of half-truths, omissions, and exaggerations could postpone most bar tabs for about an hour. Then his excuses for delaying payment would stretch too thin to be credible, and it would be time for him to leave. Somewhere around sixty-five minutes or four drinks into his visits, whichever came first, most barkeeps began to suspect that his tab was going to linger much longer than he himself would. To save everyone the embarrassment and effort of eighty-sixing him, he made a habit of evicting himself before his welcomes had to be officially withdrawn.

Right now his dilemma was that he was uncertain how many drinks he had downed, and his vision was too fish-eyed to actually discern the time on his chrono. Just play it safe, he coached himself. Try to sit still. If you don’t fall off the stool, they have no reason to throw you out. The hard part, he knew, would be nursing his drink. Slowing his in-take wasn’t difficult, but he was unaccustomed to small sips and was more likely to dribble the beverage down his shirt this way.

He had almost concocted a way to ask the bartender for a straw without making himself look stupid when a guest sat down.

Quinn’s eyes lazily slid to his left to assess the man. The new guy was human, young, thin, and appallingly handsome in the Federation’s currently most-favored, clean-cut way. His clothes were casual but looked and smelled fresh from the laundry. He smiled at Quinn and made a courteous tilt of his head. “Good morning,” he said with a mild Scottish accent.

“Maybe it is,” Quinn slurred, then he ripped out a baritone belch that tasted of bile and stank of tequila. “Maybe it ain’t.”

The guy gestured toward the rows of liquor bottles lined up against the wall behind the counter. “Care for a drink, friend?”

Swaying vertiginously on his stool, Quinn shot a glare at the man with the one eye he was able to focus. “My pappy always told me, never trust a stranger who calls you ‘friend,’ especially if he offers to buy you a drink.”

“Did your old man also tell you not to take the drink?”

Quinn held up his glass and called over the bartender. “Another.” Jabbing a thumb at the Scotsman, he added, “On him.” The visitor nodded his consent, and the bartender began pouring another double shot of tequila. Quinn lolled his head back toward his enabler. “I still don’t trust you.”

Thrusting out his hand, the guy said, “Tim Pennington.”

Seconds passed while Quinn stared at Pennington’s hand. Grudgingly, he reached out and shook it. The younger man’s hand was smooth and warm, which reminded Quinn that his own hands were not only callused but also clammy from holding condensation-coated cocktail glasses. Fighting back the urge to hiccup, he replied, “Cervantes Quinn.”