“As does the Romulan Star Empire,” Kamemor asserted.

“That is good,” Kage said. “Then there will be nothing but peace.” Except that Kage knew that would not be the case. Either the Romulans or the Federation—or both—were moving steadily against the other, and he believed that nothing would stop them from the eventual inception of battle.

There would be war. But he and Chancellor Azetbur had just made certain that, in the end, it would be the Klingons who decided everybody’s fate.

When the transport Andoriahad arrived at Space Station KR-3, Lieutenant Elias Vaughn had made sure to be in an observation lounge on the ship. Although he seldom these days reflected on the wanderlust of his youth, he still took enjoyment from looking at the great vessels of exploration. And few of those ships, if any, possessed a more storied past than those that had borne the name Enterprise.

Vaughn had stood at a viewing port as Andoriahad approached the space station. They’d passed Enterpriseto port, where the illustrious starship sat docked at the end of one of KR-3’s three honeycombed arms. Vaughn had followed the beautiful contours of the Excelsior-class ship from aft to bow with his gaze: the long, narrow warp nacelles; the unusually configured secondary hull, with its shallow aft half expanding to the bulging “belly” of its forward section; and the relatively small, almost flat circle of its primary hull.

Now Vaughn stood in another observation lounge, this one aboard Enterpriseitself. From the viewing port here, on the starboard flank of the ship, he could see only stars. Behind him, he heard the footsteps of his commanding officer as she paced about the room.

As an academic exercise, Vaughn attempted to identify some of the stars he saw as he peered out into space. From this unfamiliar vantage—he had never before traveled to this region of the Federation—he encountered some initial trouble. But after a few minutes of concentration, his decade of deskbound analysis with Starfleet special operations—his apprenticeship, as he thought of it—allowed him to begin naming the brilliant specks in his view.

Belak, Algorab, Achernar, Unroth, Devoras…

Vaughn shifted as he studied the sky, not entirely comfortable in the charcoal gray suit he wore. For years with special ops, while he’d studied and interpreted intelligence reports and learned a vast array of disparate skills, he had looked forward to the days when he would finally throw off the shackles of his office and take his turn in the field. Vaughn had known back then that he would meet continual challenges once he left his desk behind, that he would face difficult, sometimes impossible obstacles, that he would likely have to endure great hardship in the performance of his duties, but he’d never anticipated how much he would despise the clothing. He felt comfortable in his crimson Starfleet uniform, the single gold bar on his right shoulder and his left sleeve, but during his five years in the field, he’d discovered that when he’d been required to outfit himself differently for his various missions, he frequently had trouble finding something comfortable to wear.

… Chaltok, Gasko, D’Deridex, Tranome Sar, Nequencia…

He had only covered a handful of the “major” stars when the doors leading into the observation lounge hissed open. Vaughn turned from the viewing port to see John Harriman, the Enterprisecaptain, stride into the room. Vaughn was familiar with Captain Harriman—and just about every other Starfleet officer, as well as numerous enlisted personnel—from his work with special ops; when a mission had to be undertaken, it paid to know whose abilities best fit the requirements of the task. Vaughn did not yet make final decisions regarding personnel assignments, but he had helped cull the names of candidates for several missions now. In this case, though, as far as he knew, he had himself been selected by his commanding officer for whatever lay ahead.

As Captain Harriman entered the room, Commander Gravenor approached him, her hand extended. She wore a stylish, tailored dress of navy blue. “Captain, I’m Drysi Gravenor,” she said, avoiding the use of her Starfleet title, no doubt because this mission called for her—and for Vaughn—to assume roles other than as Starfleet officers. Still, Harriman surely knew their identities and actual positions in special ops.

The captain and the commander shook hands, hers swallowed up in his grasp. Commander Gravenor was petite, barely a meter and a half tall, and probably not even forty-five kilos. She had dark, straight hair that hung down to the middle of her back, a sharp intellect, and a fiery determination. She had served with special ops, Vaughn knew, for almost twice as long as he had, and he considered her a mentor to him.

“Ms. Gravenor,” the captain said. “John Harriman.”

The commander turned toward Vaughn, who started around the conference table over to where she stood with Harriman. “This is my colleague, Elias Vaughn,” she said. Her voice held the hint of a lyrical accent, a relic of her up-bringing in Wales. Vaughn shook hands with the captain.

The introductions made, they all sat down, Harriman at the head of the table, Vaughn and Gravenor to either side of him. “I’ve been told that you both have gray-level security clearance,” the captain said. “Is that correct?”

“It is,” Gravenor said. “Mr. Vaughn has silver clearance, I have slate.”

“Good,” Harriman said. “Then you know about the Starfleet vessel lost five days ago in the Bonneville Flats.”

Commander Gravenor peered across the table at Vaughn and nodded her head. “Only that it was an accident,” she said. “The C in C informed us before we boarded Andoriathat this assignment would involve the lost ship, and that Mr. Vaughn and I—” She waved a finger over the table to include the two of them. “—would be operating as special Federation envoys.” Starfleet’s commander in chief, Admiral Margaret Sinclair-Alexander, had personally assigned Gravenor to this mission, Vaughn knew. “But we have heard rumors about the lost ship,” the commander finished.

“Yes,” Harriman said, “I’ve been told that word is spreading throughout Starfleet, and even into the civilian population.” He lifted his elbows onto the table and folded his hands together in front of him. “Admiral Sinclair-Alexander has now reported to the Federation Council, and the Council will soon release the following details about the incident. That an experimental starship, U.S.S. Universe,was conducting classified tests of an advanced propulsion system dubbed ‘hyperwarp.’ That a Romulan vessel conducting covert surveillance detected the tests, and that the Romulan government has misinterpreted the long-range sensor scans taken by that vessel. That the praetor believes Starfleet to be developing a metaweapon that will provide us with a first-strike capability. And finally, that because of this, the Klingon Empire is on the verge of joining the Romulans in a military alliance against the Federation.”

Vaughn managed to keep his mouth from dropping open, but only with a conscious effort. Beyond the obvious tragedy of what had happened to the crew of Universe,he saw now that the Federation faced an even greater loss. Starfleet could not stand against a combined Romulan-Klingon force. He also understood why Captain Harriman had been selected to lead whatever action special ops would now take. Considered an expert on the Romulan space fleet in general, and on some of its highest-ranking officers in particular, the captain had a great deal of experience with the Romulans.

“How far out from armed conflict are we?” Commander Gravenor asked.

“Not far,” Harriman said. “The Romulans have begun mobilizing their fleet, shifting massive amounts of matériel toward their borders with Federation space. The Klingons have also begun redeploying their vessels, and Starfleet has had little choice but to match them.”