“Admiral,” Voldat said, “because of the radiation, we cannot establish a transporter lock anywhere but along a relatively small section at the stern, and we read only seven life signs in that area.”

Vokar took in this information reluctantly; he did not appreciate disruptions to procedure. “Transport the seven aboard when the holds are prepared,” he told Voldat. “Form boarding parties and beam over to the uncontaminated section of the ship, and herd its crew into that area so that they can be transported to Daami.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Voldat said, and he started to move away.

“Voldat,” Vokar said, and the centurion stopped. “Take no chances over there. I want to interrogate their officers, but not at the expense of Romulan lives. If any of them offer the slightest resistance, kill them at once.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Voldat said, and he continued on his way.

Vokar looked at the viewscreen again, at the beaten Starfleet vessel displayed there, and he wondered how much of an effect this would have on his career. He had attained the rank of admiral far faster than most in the Romulan military, but that fact did not satisfy him by itself. Vokar had ambitions beyond a simple admiralty. He would lead the Imperial Fleet one day, conceiving and executing victories befitting his people—victories that, today, too many in the upper strata were content to wait for, eschewing preemptive action in favor of reactive policies.

Vokar would change that mindset. He had already done so aboard his ship, and he had set about influencing Imperial Fleet Command as well. Beyond that…well, he did have ties in the Senate, and he had no trouble at all envisioning himself one day among their number, leading his people from the highest levels of power.

From thehighest level of power.

In the future, the Federation, the Klingons, the Tholians, and all the others would bow before the might and natural superiority of the Romulans. And the Empire would be led by Praetor Aventeer Vokar.

Harriman moved through Hunley’s engine room, waiting anxiously for word from Lieutenant Bexx. He paced back and forth behind the chief engineer, trying not to disturb her as she worked at an environmental-control console, but—“Anything?” he asked, stopping beside her. From an intellectual standpoint, he understood the requirements of command, and the need to allow people to do their jobs, but however much time they had, he knew that it must be running out quickly.

“Just a moment,” Bexx said, not taking her gaze from her work. The engine room stood mute around them. Most of the engineering staff had already left to join the rest of the crew in the ship’s cargo holds, and the few who remained observed quietly.

Harriman felt no apprehensions about having to lead a starship crew for the first time in his career, beyond the horror of being seventh in the chain of command and the only one of those seven still alive and conscious. The captain, first officer, science officer, and navigator had all been lost when the bridge had been hit and the hull breached; the second officer had not been heard from since the last disruptor strikes, and might have been among those killed when the penultimate bolt had struck the ship and brought down the deflectors; and the security chief, Lieutenant Grinager, still lay unconscious on the bridge, though Harriman had reported her injuries to sickbay personnel, who would send somebody there to treat her.

“All right,” Bexx said, looking up from her console. “I’ve overridden the radiation protocols and retracted the emergency bulkheads, except in the stern sections.” She reached up and wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead, from beside the bifurcated ridge that ran across her bald skull and down the center of her face. Harriman only now noticed the sheen on Bexx’s light blue flesh, an indication of the anxiety she must be feeling.

“Good work,” Harriman said, then put his hand on Bexx’s forearm, squeezing it softly. “It’ll be okay,” he told her. “This will work.” He felt far less sure than he hoped he sounded, but he’d learned from observing his father over the years that confidence, like fear, could be infectious.

Bexx nodded, though she seemed unconvinced. “I wouldn’t recommend keeping the emergency bulkheads open too long,” she said. “The Romulan sensors won’t be able to find us, but they won’t have to if the radiation kills us.”

“Dr. Latasa has informed me that we have sufficient hyronalin aboard to treat the entire crew,” Harriman said, sidestepping the obvious detail that the medication would be useless to a ship of corpses. “So, are we all set?” he asked.

“Aye,” Bexx said, walking over to another engineering station and consulting it. “Passive sensors are functioning in the stern sections, and also in the hangar deck and in all the docking ports, in case the Romulans decide to board that way.”

“And communications?” Harriman asked.

“All channels are still open below deck two,” Bexx said.

“Good,” Harriman said. He turned to face the other four engineers standing at consoles around the room. “All right,” he said, “you all know your jobs.” As heads nodded in acknowledgment, Harriman started for the doors. Before he left, though, he stopped and told the engineers, “Good luck.” Then he hurried on, headed for a cargo hold, and a desperate attempt to save the Hunleycrew.

Centurion Rentikin Voldat stepped onto the transporter platform and took a moment to scrutinize the first boarding party. The eleven men all appeared alert and serious, each with a disruptor pistol held in his hand, and with a breathing mask strapped across his nose and mouth; intelligence reports indicated that at least some Starfleet vessels incorporated anesthetic gas as part of their intruder-control systems.

Satisfied, Voldat lowered his own mask across his face, then drew the disruptor that hung at his hip. He looked to the transporter operator and nodded. As the operator worked his controls, the blue particles of dematerialization formed in Voldat’s vision, dissolving his view of the transporter room as they multiplied.

And then, in what seemed to be no time at all, and with no perceived lack of consciousness, Voldat saw his eyesight begin to clear. In place of the transporter room aboard Daami,he now saw a dark, unfamiliar corridor. “Sensors,” he said, and at once, he heard the buzz of a portable scanner in use.

“I read no life signs in this section of the deck, Centurion,” reported Lieutenant Arnek. Earlier, scans performed aboard Daamihad detected seven of the Hunleycrew here, but they must have abandoned the area, clearly realizing that, at least for a short time, the radiation in the other portions of their ship would mask their location. It did not matter, of course. There would be no escape for these Starfleet officers.

“What about the other decks in this section?” Voldat asked.

The scanner continued to hum. “Negative, sir,” said Arnek. “I read no life signs in any of the stern sections, on any of the—” As soon as Arnek stopped speaking, Voldat knew something had gone wrong. “Sir, the radiation on the ship has cleared. I’m reading human life signs all over—”

And then the pinpoints of light that marked the dematerialization process filled Voldat’s vision once more. Except that this time, the pinpoints were not blue, but white.

Lieutenant Bexx stared unrelentingly at the console before her, determined to act as swiftly as possible when— if—the time came. She felt the runaway beat of her heart pounding in her chest, a consequence of her fear and anticipation for what lay ahead. If Lieutenant Harriman had been—

The readings she had been waiting for raced across the display on her panel: twelve transporter signals, deck seven, aft. “Now,” she yelled, even as her hands sped across her console, working the Hunley’s environmental controls. She heard the other engineers operating their own consoles behind her. All over the ship, she knew, emergency bulkheads began sliding into place, containing the radiation caused by the disruptor strikes. She had to wait only a second before the red indicator lights on her panel all turned green. Then she sent the predetermined signal to each of Hunley’s cargo holds.