“We’ve Lost Primary Power in Ops,” Nguyen Said.

“Auxiliaries have kicked in, but most of our systems are down.”

“Can you get the primaries back up?” Lenaris asked.

“Trying,” Nguyen said. “It looks like an override from somewhere…” He tapped different sequences into his control interface, then slammed his hands on the console in frustration. “I’m locked out. We no longer have control of the station.”

“Then who does?” Akaar demanded.

An electronic hum from the transporter stage gave him his answer. A figure materialized and took a single step forward, phaser in hand, surveying the operations center with a glare that, Lenaris thought, could melt neutronium.

Ro Laren.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An OriginalPublication of POCKET BOOKS

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Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

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It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,

“ULYSSES”

Prologue

Smells were not, contrary to what most people believed, the most memorable things about kitchens. What stayed with a person, long after an aroma had faded, were the sounds. The clatter of pans, the crackle and snapping bubbles of oil boiling, the crisp, loud crunching snap of fresh vegetables cut on a worn chopping board, or of a stolen stem of celery chewed while a salad is prepared. Voices, laughing. It was, thought Judith Sisko, symphonic. It spoke to heart, and to soul, and it told a tale.

As she stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the family rooms above Sisko’s Creole Kitchen and thought back over the most vivid memories of her childhood, it was the sounds coming from the kitchen Judith remembered most vividly. Life centered around that place, not just because her father was a chef or that he ran the restaurant below their home, but because the kitchen was the place that everyone gathered to share news, and where her father somehow, no matter what the news was, always seemed able to make the worst moments feel happy.

Sounds of life.

So it was with a great sense of loss that she stood there now, in the place where she’d grown up, to find it utterly, desolately silent. The restaurant had been closed for weeks now. Where once Humans, Bolians, Vulcans, and a half-dozen other species had all eaten casually in the main dining area at any given time…now a fine layer of dust covered the bare wooden tables.

“Can I fix you some breakfast?” a voice said, snapping Judith back.

“Thanks, Gaby, but I’ll pass,” she said. Gabrielle Vicente was perhaps the only other constant for Judith at the restaurant. She almost always looked as she did now, dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and pants. The only thing missing was her apron, which was invariably stained with okra and olive oil.

Gaby walked past Judith on her way to the garden, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she said. “I was going to head home after I tended to the vegetables, but if you need me to stay—”

Judith smiled weakly and shook her head. “No, go home. You deserve to rest. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

Judith nodded.

“I’m just a call away if you need anything, anytime,” Gaby insisted.

“I know. Thanks.” They hugged, and Gaby proceeded out back.

Judith’s gaze followed the stairs up to the second floor. There was no putting this off. Her hand took hold of the great post that anchored the smooth wooden banister, and she started her ascent.

Walking down the hallway next to the stairwell, Judith stopped at the closed door of the master bedroom, her hand hovering over the knob. She released a breath and opened the door.

Sitting at the window overlooking the garden was her father.

The first thing she noticed was how stooped his shoulders were. Sitting or standing, Dad always had his head held high, shoulders back, as if daring the world to push against him. Ramrod straight and facing whatever came his way, that’s what she remembered. His hair, always salt-and-peppered from the earliest images she had of him, was more white now than anything else, and the side of his face seemed tight, drawn. His arms had become so thin they practically disappeared in the sleeve of his loose-fitting shirt. She knew he’d been losing weight and wearing his age even before his collapse. He sat forward with his large, gnarled hands pressed together between his knees, looking out the window, like a caged bird who misses the sky.