“We need to—” he started, but a low-pitched hum interrupted him. Similar to the whine of a Federation transporter, but deeper, the drone rose from a point about ten meters ahead, an indication that the dampening field no longer operated here. Electric-blue motes danced across the width of the road, coalescing into shapes and gaining substance. Beside Harriman, Tenger moved with uncanny speed, a phaser appearing in the lieutenant’s hand as if by magic. But as ten Romulan soldiers materialized, each with a disruptor pistol held at the ready, it became instantly clear which side would prevail in a skirmish.

An officer in the middle of the line stepped forward, lowering her disruptor to her side. Clad in a standard Imperial Fleet uniform—a formfitting black-and-silver mesh reminiscent of chain mail, with a colored strip running down the right third of the top—she distinguished herself from the others both by her manner and by the right arm of her uniform, also colored. The jade hue, Harriman knew, designated tactical operations, and its place on her arm, her position in command of that discipline aboard ship. The stylized starbursts at her throat specified her rank as subcommander.

The officer closed to within a couple of meters, looking only briefly at Lieutenant Tenger before turning her full attention to Harriman. She stared at his face, seeming to study his features. After a few moments, she said, “Captain Harriman,” her words somewhere between a statement and a question. He surmised that the doctored shade of his skin added some difficulty in identifying him, although the Romulans likely would have expected the use by the Enterprisecrew of such camouflage. The officer said no more, evidently awaiting a response.

Instead, Harriman slowly looked to his security chief. “Stand down, Lieutenant,” he said with feigned nonchalance. Tenger did not take his gaze from the Romulans, but he lowered his weapon without comment. Harriman then peered past the subcommander to see that the members of her landing party continued to wield their disruptors. The soldiers on the flanks had moved away from the group and now surveyed the surrounding areas, presumably to protect against the unexpected.

Harriman at last looked back at the subcommander. A greenish tinge had risen in her high, sallow cheekbones, a hint that his disregard had roused her dudgeon. A small advantage, perhaps, engaging the subcommander’s emotions, but Harriman’s experiences through the years with the Romulan military had proven to him that anyadvantage over them was worth having. “Yes,” he finally told her, “I’m Captain Harriman.”

She raised her empty hand to her mouth and spoke into a communicator mounted around her wrist. “Admiral Vokar, this is Linavil,” she said. “We’ve located him.”

Vokar,Harriman thought. He’d been right, then: the vessel looming above the Koltaari capital wasthe Imperial Fleet’s flagship.

Harriman heard no reply on Linavil’s communicator, but within seconds, the whirr of a Romulan transporter again filled the air. This time a single figure materialized, appearing between the line of soldiers and the subcommander. The admiral wore a uniform similar to Linavil’s, but with a strip and arm of royal purple, indicating Vokar’s advanced position within the command structure of the Imperial Fleet. His hair had silvered more since the last time Harriman had seen him, and the lines etched into his face around his mouth had grown deeper and better defined.

The admiral spotted Harriman immediately. Linavil stepped aside, allowing him to approach directly. Vokar paced carefully over, lifting his gaze to make eye contact with Harriman. Of small stature—not even a meter and two-thirds, and thin—the admiral nevertheless projected a powerful presence. His face showed his age, but his flinty gray eyes exposed vigor and a startling intensity.

“Harriman,” Vokar said, his gentle voice managing to carry with it a subtle dash of contempt. “It has been some time since last we met.”

Harriman nodded and offered a humorless smile. “Not quite long enough to suit me, Aventeer,” he said, attempting to convey his own disdain by employing the given name of the ever-formal admiral. Vokar seemed unmoved by the comment, but Subcommander Linavil took a quick stride forward and threw the back of her closed fist across Harriman’s face. He felt his teeth dig into the inside of his cheek, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He lurched back a step in order to keep himself from going down, then righted himself. In a flash of movement, the subcommander bent and reached her empty hand into her boot, pulling out a long, narrow shape. She flicked her arm toward the ground, and the sheath flew off from the object, revealing an obsidian blade.

Beside him, Lieutenant Tenger tensed, but did not act. As so often happened, the security chief’s restraint impressed Harriman. Despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered and outgunned, many security officers would’ve responded in kind to an assault on their captain. In most cases, such a reaction would simply have proven foolhardy, earning the officer and the captain more physical pain. In this situation, though, such a reaction could’ve had far greater repercussions: what occurred here in the next few minutes might well influence the course of war. Tenger knew that, and his restraint demonstrated his commitment to serving this mission.

“A Romulan subcommander striking a Starfleet officer, threatening him with a knife,” Harriman said to Vokar. “My crew put in danger, possibly injured or killed.” He gestured toward the city, where the thick, dark smoke continued to rise from the sites of the two explosions. “Those are provocative actions, Admiral.”

“Your crew are unharmed,” Vokar said. Harriman had expected as much, believing that the Romulans would not commit to battle via direct action against the Federation, but he felt relief at the news anyway.

“Still,” Harriman persisted, “at a time when your people are negotiating peace with mine—”

“We do not bargain for peace,” Vokar declared calmly. “We fight to retain our manifest right to live without constraint, and to deny the encroaching imperialism of the Federation. Imperialism, of which your presence on this planet is an example.”

“Ourpresence?” Harriman said, surprised by both the absurdity and the audacity of the assertion. “This is neutral territory, Admiral. We are visitors here, and we make no claims on this world or its people.”

“In the beginning, you are always visitors,” Vokar said. “And in the end, you always stay.” The admiral rounded on his heel and paced away, then turned back to his captives before addressing them once more. The movement reeked of theatricality, although for whose benefit—the Romulan soldiers’ or the Starfleet officers’—Harriman could not tell. “But it is of no matter with respect to this planet,” Vokar continued. “You are not visitors, and you are not invited to stay. You are trespassers in Romulan territory, and you will leave at once.”

And there it is,Harriman thought, the need for supposition and analysis gone. The Romulans had decided to act first, though they would assert otherwise, claiming their actions to be reactions incited by the Federation. Harriman understood that the months and years of diplomatic ebb and flow had ceased, and that the military tide had crashed through the levees and now threatened a devastating flood. And in risking that first move, the Romulans had also taken a strategically valuable asset.

“This is neutral territory,” Harriman said again, making the attempt he must make, despite being convinced that nothing short of battle would prevent Vokar from accomplishing the task he had come here to perform. “The people here don’t even know that sentient life exists beyond their world.”

“They know it now,” Vokar said, turning to glance up at his ship hanging above the city, the fires raging below. “And we have made our intentions clear to them.” By intentions,Harriman knew, Vokar meant the ability and willingness to sow destruction and promote fear.