Cries of incredulity and denial erupted from the growing crowd. Rella found it unlikely that Komoraq was intimidated or even impressed by the protests, and there certainly was no outward appearance of the Klingon’s even registering the display. Still, it was obvious that he had anticipated such resistance, if not something more aggressive.

“You growl like mongrel dogs, Earthers, and I can smell the fear you hope to hide,” he continued. “Perhaps some of you are considering brandishing a weapon and striking me down from the shadows. Should that come to pass, know that my crew will not rest until every living thing is dead, and every trace of your colony is wiped from the face of this planet.”

“The Federation won’t stand for this!” someone yelled from the crowd.

“This is an act of war!”

Komoraq seemed to consider those along with other comments and epithets. He even nodded in apparent acknowledgment, allowing the tirades to continue for a moment before raising his right hand. Incredibly, the assembled colonists fell silent at the unspoken request.

“It would be wise for you to channel your anger and fear into the energy required to pack your belongings and depart this world.” He paused, unleashing a smile that revealed uneven rows of jagged yellow teeth before waving his hand with dramatic flair. “Once I return to my ship, you will have one standard day to be gone. Anyone still on the surface one heartbeat after that deadline will die. The choice is yours. Make it a wise one.”

From his belt, the Klingon retrieved a palm-sized device that Rella took to be a communicator. An audible chirp filled the air before Komoraq uttered something all but unintelligible into the unit.

“M’ahtagh. HIjol!”

An instant later, the stark, fiery-red transporter beam enveloped the Klingon, and he disappeared, the only trace of his having been among the colonists the distinct prints his boots left in the soft earth of the courtyard. In the wake of Komoraq’s departure, a subdued buzz of halting, uncertain murmuring filled the compound as colonists looked askance at one another, anxiety and dread weighing on them all like a stifling blanket.

Behind him, Rella heard Pehlingul say, “He can’t be serious.”

“Tell that to the crew of the transport he just shot down,” Casale snapped.

Rella was astounded at the Klingon captain’s unchecked audacity. Starfleet would learn of the Bacchus Plateau’s destruction, to say nothing of whatever might happen here during the days to come. Would they stand idly by and allow the empire to wrest control of the planet for their own ends? Of course, to Rella, the real question was whether the Federation considered Lerais II important enough to risk declaring interstellar war.

I wouldn’t bet on it.

“So, that’s it?” the Tellarite engineer pressed. “We just give up and run away like scared children?”

Lifting his head to stare transfixed once more at the dissipating cloud of debris that was all that remained of the ill-fated merchant vessel, Rella shook his head in resignation. “Better scared than dead.”

3

Commander Jon Cooper sat behind the desk that until three weeks ago had belonged to Commodore Diego Reyes, poring through the twenty-sixth of forty or so personnel requests from different members of the station’s crew—transfer applications, recommendations for promotion or personal commendations, requests for extended leave, and other administrative drivel. These had followed status reports, one submitted by each of the station’s fifteen department heads, which, in turn, had followed five intelligence briefing memos.

All of that, and he had been in his office less than an hour. It was not shaping up to be a good day.

Paperwork never had been Cooper’s strong suit, and the administrative duties that came with the role of Starbase 47’s executive officer gave him more in this arena than could be accomplished by two people working full-time. In the weeks that had passed since he had assumed temporary command of the station, the correspondence demanding his attention seemed to be multiplying at an exponential rate. Though he knew that he would be replaced just as soon as Starfleet could assign a flag officer to the station and transport that person out here, Cooper wondered if he would survive that long. It was as though the mass of documents, reports, memos, and position papers he faced each morning was a living thing, threatening to expand until it consumed him, the office, and possibly even the station itself.

How the hell did the commodore do this every day and not blow himself out an airlock?

It had been difficult to take on the duties of which Reyes had been relieved, especially given the circumstances under which that action had occurred. Despite the amount of time that had passed, Cooper knew that the station’s crew still functioned beneath a cloud of shock and uncertainty. The vast majority of people assigned to Starbase 47 had been blissfully unaware of the true purpose for its presence in the Taurus Reach. Naturally, many of them now wondered if they had been placed on the forward edge of a new battleground, soon to fight a war for which they were woefully unprepared, against an enemy they did not understand and who by all accounts outclassed them on every level.

As for Diego Reyes, the commodore remained in confinement since his arrest. Though visitors were permitted, Reyes had made it clear that he wished no contact from any member of the station’s crew, particularly the senior staff. At first, Cooper had thought this was simply a matter of ego or embarrassment, but it was Ambassador Jetanien who told him that the commodore was actually looking out for his crew. Anything they might discuss would be subject to deposition when the court-martial began, and Reyes had taken great pains to ensure that only those persons with absolute need-to-know about Starbase 47’s true mission were so informed.

Including T’Prynn, of course.

Many of the actions taken by the station’s intelligence officer remained cloaked in mystery. Investigators from Starfleet and even Starbase 47’s lead officer from the Judge Advocate General Corps, Captain Rana Desai, had already conducted thorough searches of the Vulcan’s quarters and office, to no avail. Her computer files were sterile, offering no clue to the activities she had been conducting in secret, allegedly in defense of Starfleet and Federation security interests. Such information had to be stored somewhere, or perhaps Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn simply carried it around in her mind, which at this moment was being held captive by the coma into which she had fallen three weeks ago. Frequent updates from the station’s chief medical officer, Dr. Ezekiel Fisher, and the physician assigned to oversee T’Prynn’s care, Dr. Jabilo M’Benga, had offered no change in the commander’s condition.

The second she wakes up, she’ll be held in irons,Cooper mused. Maybe they should just move her bed to the brig and be done with it.

The intercom positioned at the corner of the desk chirped for attention, and he heard the voice of his assistant, Ensign Toby Greenfield. “Commander, Ambassador Jetanien is here to see you, sir.”

Setting aside the data slate containing the latest mind-numbing report, Cooper sat up in his chair and stretched the muscles in his back. The fact that he was already performing such a therapeutic action at this early hour was yet another indicator of how he expected the rest of his day to unfold.

As if you don’t already have enough clues.

“Send him in, Ensign,” Cooper said, rising from his chair as the door slid aside to admit the towering figure of Ambassador Jetanien, dressed as always in the flowing, ornately designed robes of his office.