“If you’d planted your flag first, maybe. But the crew of the mining ship Epimetheus staked their claim on Kessik IV before Vanguard was even half-built. They have a local government and a solid claim to independence.”

Legal semantics irritated Reyes to no end. “They’re Federation citizens—the law still applies.”

“Not on the frontier, it doesn’t,” Desai said. “Eminent domain applies only inside Federation space. And even there, the rights of the state do not trump the rights of the individual, or of free communities on previously unclaimed worlds.”

Reyes tossed the folder of legal mumbo jumbo on a stack with a host of other documents he planned to ignore for the foreseeable future. “I like high-minded ideals as much as the next guy, Captain, but I also have to face hard facts: Starfleet needs that dilithium resource. The Federation needs it.”

“Then perhaps we should have devoted more time, more ships, and more personnel to securing it before someone with civil rights came along and laid legal claim to it.” Abandoning her lecturelike tone, she continued, “As of 0830 today, I have acted on behalf of the JAG office to void the Federation’s claim to Kessik IV, and I have countermanded your order to have its residents relocated.”

A flare of temper twisted his face into an angry mask. “ ‘Countermanded’?” In long, ominous strides, he circled his desk toward Desai. Her face betrayed a fleeting sign of fear; then she hardened her features and stood her ground as he harangued her. “Captain, there’s one thing we need on the frontier even more than lawyers, and that’s a chain of command. You want to challenge me on points of law, fine—but I will not permit you to usurp my authority.”

Desai’s voice was steady, her gaze unyielding. “I didn’t usurp your authority, Commodore—you exceeded it. And it’s my job to tell you so.” She continued to stare up at him, apparently content to respond to whatever verbal tactic he chose next.

He took the easy way out: “Dismissed.”

The dark-skinned lawyer maintained her proud bearing as she acknowledged the command with a nod, turned away, and left his office. Alone once more, he remembered a not terribly clever old joke that suddenly had the ring of truth to it: What do you call a ship carrying a thousand lawyers into a black hole?

A good start.

Tim Pennington was still learning the finer points of being a journalist, but after six years as a stringer for the Federation News Service he knew that taking a confrontational attitude with a senior UFP diplomat could be risky.

In particular, it would be exceedingly awkward if an ill-chosen comment were to provoke a heated exchange or angry outburst here, in a public, “outdoor” café on the edge of the plaza for Stars Landing, a crescent-shaped cluster of commercial and—to a lesser extent—civilian-residential buildings that wrapped halfway around the station’s central hub. Its architecture, which evoked such natural shapes as shells and honeycombs, was as much a work of art as a marvel of engineering. Some of its structures were nearly twenty stories tall and all but scraped the simulated spring sky of Vanguard’s vast habitat shell, which was rich with transplanted flora and teeming with off-duty station personnel and transients. Dozens of people were eating at tables adjacent to Pennington’s. Several meters away, two clusters of Starfleet officers had just organized an impromptu game of Frisbee. Without a doubt, this would be a most regrettable place for an argument.

On the other hand, his instincts told him that Ambassador Jetanien was hiding something. He chose his words with caution.

“I think you’re evading the question, Your Excellency.”

His thoughts well hidden behind a leathery, unexpressive shell of a face, the alien diplomat chewed another pickled keesa beetle. “Perhaps I was distracted by the fact that I am eating breakfast…. Maybe your question was poorly worded.”

Sickly sweet and pungent odors from Jetanien’s insect-breakfast entrée mingled in Pennington’s nose as he leaned forward and feigned contrition. “May I rephrase?”

“By all means,” Jetanien said, spearing another keesa beetle with the two-tined fork clutched in his clawed hand. His movements were unhurried, graceful. The Rigellian Chelon was the sort of person who could eat the messiest meal without making a spot anywhere on his snow-white, gold-hemmed, satin-textured raiment. Even the headdress that hung from his gleaming black fez remained pristine.

“Given that the Taurus Reach is so remote from established civilian shipping lanes and Starfleet patrol routes,” Pennington said, “why has the Federation Council chosen to devote so many personnel and resources to a mission so far from home?”

Jetanien chewed slowly. His voluminous, amber-colored eyes stared past Pennington. I’ll give him credit, the young reporter thought. He certainly knows how to play up a dramatic pause.

“Exploration has always been the Federation’s most honored endeavor,” Jetanien said at last. “The imperative to make contact with new life-forms and civilizations is the key to enriching our understanding of the universe, and of ourselves.” Skewering another keesa beetle and wrapping it in a twirl of reddish Vulcan seaweed, he concluded, “Our mission requires us to dare the unknown, and few regions within our reach are as unknown—and unclaimed—as the Taurus Reach.”

With a sound that Pennington took to be a grunt of self-satisfaction, Jetanien guided another vinegar-scented forkful of his breakfast into his prodigious beak of a mouth.

Suspicion crept into Pennington’s tone. “Mr. Ambassador, with all due respect, I received almost the exact same answer from a Starfleet Command press liaison two days ago.”

“Really?” Lifting a swan-necked beverage container, Jetanien added, “Imagine that.” He downed a generous mouthful of N’v’aa, an amazingly sour fruit cocktail that Pennington had sampled the first night he arrived on Vanguard. It was a throat-clenching mistake he had vowed never to repeat. Apparently, only Chelon taste buds found the libation even remotely palatable.

Putting aside the unpleasant memory, Pennington soldiered onward with his impromptu interview. “Is it possible that the Federation’s push into the Taurus Reach is part of a broader astropolitical strategy?”

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Pennington?”

“Even a cursory review of regional star maps indicates that the region is bordered almost entirely on one side by the Klingon Empire, and on the other by the Tholian Assembly.”

“Quite correct,” Jetanien said.

“So what is the Federation’s motivation for moving so aggressively into this area?” Pennington clenched his fist as he struggled to make his thoughts coalesce. “The Tholians have consistently pushed the borders of their territory in the opposite direction of the Taurus Reach, but the Klingons are extending their frontier in as many directions as possible. If they expand to the Tholian border, the Federation would be caught in the crossfire of a Klingon-Tholian conflict. Is this station part of an interstellar firewall—a tactic to avert a Klingon-Tholian war and deny the Klingons any more territory on our border?”

Jetanien finished chewing and swallowed with a muffled croaking noise. “A very good question,” he said, then picked up his plate and extended it toward Pennington. “Would you care for a keesa beetle? They’re quite crunchy today.”

“Thank you, no.”

The ambassador took back his plate. “Suit yourself.”

Bland rehearsed answers were all that Pennington had ever heard, from anyone, whenever questions about Vanguard were broached. In press conferences last year on Earth, the president had answered queries about the project with so many euphemisms and empty platitudes that the press corps was surprised he had any rhetoric left for his reelection campaign. Regardless, the questions continued to persist: Why had Vanguard’s construction been fast-tracked? Why had three ships of the line been assigned to it on a permanent basis? What made the Taurus Reach a more viable arena for commerce and colonization than the Kalandra Sector, which was so much closer to Federation space?