by Kevin Ryan
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
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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.
Copyright © 2005 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.
STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.
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ISBN: 1-4165-0676-4
First Pocket Books paperback edition April 2005
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For my father, Michael Ryan
Acknowledgments
At Pocket Books, thanks to Associate Publisher Scott Shannon and editor Keith DeCandido for helping me to continue this adventure. And thanks to Elisa Kassin for her assistance, patience, and good humor.
At home, thanks to my daughter and first editor, Natasha, for her careful reading and thoughtful comments and to my wife, Paullina, for her support.
Prologue
EARTH
2267
ON THE WALK BACK to his apartment, Michael Fuller couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something bad had happened—he could feel it, and he trusted his instincts. They had been honed over decades on countless worlds, where he had seen the deaths of many friends, many crewmates, and even more enemies.
Too many friends. But not countless ones, because each loss was burned into his mind—and probably deeper than that. But Fuller was not a spiritual man and did not think much about deeper matters.
His first thought was of his son, who was on active duty aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. Then he thought of his many friends still in Starfleet, at virtually all levels of the service. Any one of them might be in danger, or lost already. Whatever had happened, Fuller felt certain that he would find out soon. He knew from long experience that bad news never tarried long behind the feeling that announced it.
He quickened his pace.
There are two kinds of people: those who run away from trouble and those who run toward it—but there is only one kind of person in Starfleet Security. Fuller had originally heard that from his first security section chief, but he was certain that the axiom was as old as the service—probably even older.
Fuller was in his apartment minutes later. As soon as he entered the door, the feeling grew. He was practically running when he reached his desk and looked at the comm terminal there. A red light blinked on and off.
Suddenly, his throat was tight and he found it hard to breathe. As a feeling of certainty took hold of his mind, bile began to rise from his stomach to his throat. He had fought hundreds of battles on hundreds of different worlds, but he had never in his life felt such a strong urge to flee. He wanted to turn away, head for the door, and run. If he were on active duty, the feeling would have unnerved him, but it had been years since he had served. When he was still on active duty, he had feared failure far more than his own death.
Yet now he felt no shame at the growing desire to flee, only a dawning sureness.
Through force of will, he held his stance in front of the computer terminal, then he moved forward, making himself sit at the desk. Finally he performed the single most difficult act of his life: he flipped a switch on the console in front of him.
The screen immediately came to life, confirming that his instincts had indeed been correct. Fuller felt his ears burn and his stomach shrink to a solid dense ball. He found that he was trembling. He knew most of the message that followed by heart. He had seen too many similar ones, and he had recorded too many of them himself. Fuller also knew the man on the screen and recognized the steely, pained expression on his face.
“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. It has been my honor to serve with your son Samuel Fuller. Now, I am afraid that I have terrible news. I am sorry to tell you that your son was lost today on a mission on board the Enterprise.”
Fuller had been waiting for it, expecting it. He felt the force of Kirk’s words like a full-power phaser blast that tore through him but didn’t have the decency to kill him. His hands went to his stomach, as if he could somehow hold himself together. As if he could somehow hold his son to him….
“I regret that I cannot return Sam’s body for you to bury, and I’m afraid that I cannot give you any details about his death and his final sacrifice. The mission on which Sam gave his life is highly classified. I can tell you that he gave his life defending his shipmates, the Enterprise, his Starfleet oath, and the United Federation of Planets, which we all serve. He saved many lives before he fell and did a great deal to ensure the survival of both Starfleet and the Federation. I hope that one day I will be able to make a full disclosure to you about Sam’s courageous last moments. For now, all I can do is offer my condolences and return Sam’s many commendations, citations, and medals to you.”
Then, for a moment, the veneer of steely calm on the captain’s face rippled, threatening to falter. That moment nearly cost Fuller his own thin veil of control.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I owe you my own life and more debts than I can ever repay. I’m sorry that I could not return Sam to you.” The captain held his gaze on Fuller’s own. Though it was a recorded message, Fuller still felt the connection as Kirk’s eyes met his.
Then the moment passed and Kirk said, “It was an honor to serve with Sam. Kirk out.” The screen went blank.
Fuller felt as though he were standing on a precipice. In the past whenever he had been struck a blow, his instinct was to act, to take a step forward, to do something. Yet there was nothing he could do for his son now.
A flood of images filled Fuller’s head. Sam as a baby. A toddler. A boy. And then a man. Some of the images were living memories. Too many of them were recorded images he had received while on duty. While I was away.
More failures to taunt him.
Fuller felt himself tottering on the edge. On one side was the duty and the action that had sustained him through losses in the past. On the other side was an abyss of grief, for Sam and for all of the others. Fuller had served long, and perhaps he deserved some release. He knew that it might be as simple as putting his head down and taking it in his hands. He would let it all come. Hell, it would come whether he let it or not.
It was a near thing, but Fuller held himself together. Held his ground.
A part of his brain that he didn’t even know was working supplied: Kirk was tired. That wasn’t the only condolence message that he had to record. Fuller had the feeling that it was the first message of the day, but from the look on Kirk’s face it wasn’t the last—not by a long shot. And there weren’t many missions—classified or not—that could take such a large toll on a starship and its crew.
Before he even realized that he was doing it, Fuller found himself hitting buttons on the console, trying to trace the message’s point of origin. The transmission was encrypted and theoretically untraceable, but that didn’t bother Fuller. He was now absolutely certain that the message would have been Kirk’s first of the day—their history together and Kirk�
�s own nature guaranteed that. And the captain would have sent the message immediately after recording it. Well, Fuller’s computer told him the time the message had been sent and when it arrived. It was simple math to determine the approximate distance it traveled, even allowing for the normal amount of rerouting and retransmitting necessary for long-distance subspace transmissions.
The message came from approximately forty-eight light-years away. It could have come from any direction, but Fuller knew exactly where it had come from: the Klingon-Federation border, not far from System 1324, where he knew his son had served during the incident there with the Orions. Suddenly, Fuller knew with grim certainty exactly what kind of mission had taken his son’s life, and who had killed him.
Then, without even realizing it, Michael Fuller did the same thing he had always done on a mission when he lost someone close to him. He took his grief and pain and put it away into a strong box inside him so he could do what he had to do. He had put many friends in that box. This time, he used gentler hands than he had in the past, but still, he sealed his son away. Fuller knew that the process would not be perfect and that Sam would not go as quietly as the others, but Fuller would be able to operate, to do what he had to.
And Fuller knew exactly what that was. He also knew with absolute certainty that this was one task, one mission that he would not fail to accomplish.
His first task was to tell Sam’s mother, Alison. Because it would be so difficult, he decided he would do it as soon as possible. It would mean finding Alison and speaking to her for the first time in years.
Then he would make a series of calls. After that, he would almost certainly have to see a few people. There would be some convincing required. What Fuller intended would not be easy. In fact, it would be extremely difficult, almost impossible. Yet Fuller did not doubt for a moment that he would succeed. He had to.
His son deserved no less.
Chapter One
KRAETIAN SPACE STATION
FEDERATION-KLINGON BORDER
2267 (SIX WEEKS LATER)
“NO RESPONSE from the ambassador,” Fronde said, looking up from the viewscreen.
Ambassador Fox sighed, not bothering to hide his disappointment. He checked his chronometer. There was no mistake.
They were now almost two hours past due for their meeting. Getting the Klingon ambassador to meet with him directly had felt like a great victory after the run-around they had received from the Klingon High Council.
Fox had arranged for the meeting to take place on a station orbiting the Kraetian homeworld, a venue acceptable to both sides because Kraetia was a trading partner of both the Federation and the Klingon Empire but not aligned with either.
The whole time Fox was making the arrangements, he had felt a sense of hope for the first time in weeks, since his talks with the last Klingon ambassador had ended and the Klingon was recalled by his superiors. Fox knew that the key to preventing war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire lay in getting the Klingons talking. As long as talks continued, there was a chance of preventing open fighting.
Sometimes in diplomacy, all that was required was a delay to let passions cool. Of course, this crisis between the Federation and the Klingon Empire had been brewing—at least on the Klingon side—for twenty-five years, since the inconclusive Battle of Donatu V. Nevertheless, the immediate crisis and recent bloodshed were the reasons he was here. His job was to defuse the current situation. If he did that, time might take care of the rest.
“Perhaps the Klingons have a more elastic notion of timeliness than we have previously believed,” Fronde said.
Fox wished that were true. He had endured some frustrating negotiations where he had dealt with races whose concept of time meant that a meeting scheduled months in advance might take place hours, days, or even weeks after Fox arrived. However, he felt certain that this was not the case with the Klingons. Martial cultures like theirs depended on precise coordination of military activities. That sensibility spilled over into every aspect of their culture, including diplomacy. On this point, both Starfleet’s and the diplomatic corps’s analysis were in agreement.
Reading Fox’s expression, Fronde said, “Maybe it’s just a quirk of the new ambassador.”
“No, they’re making us wait for a reason,” Fox said.
Fronde nodded, immediately accepting the judgment even though Fox had offered no facts to back it up. “What are you going to do?” Fronde asked. His eyes looked at Fox with great respect and something else. Expectation. Fronde fully expected Fox to have a strategy for this contingency, a plan of some kind to get the Klingons talking. Fox wished he had the young man’s confidence.
Fox had found Fronde when he was giving a lecture at Fronde’s school about his settlement of a Tellarite-Andorian conflict. Fronde had asked insightful questions, and Fox had been impressed by his command of the subtleties of the situation. Now four years out of university, Fronde had shown remarkable promise and Fox felt lucky to have him as his chief of staff.
In the past, Fox had broken impasses in negotiations by working within the framework of the culture or cultures involved. Sometimes that meant wearing traditional dress—or no clothing at all. Other times he’d had to participate in obscure rituals, including one that involved becoming a sort of godfather to a young prince—a relationship he had maintained for more than a decade now.
Each time Fox had found a way to accomplish his objective, but he had never faced stakes this high before. And Fox had rarely seen such a lack of goodwill on the other side before. Yet there it was: Fronde’s absolute confidence in him showing in the younger man’s eyes.
To his surprise, Fox found that some of that confidence seemed to seep into his own consciousness. There were billions of lives at stake, and many worlds were depending on his team, but for the moment, Fox realized that he was moved by the simple belief of a promising young aide.
He made up his mind in an instant and said, “Hail the ambassador’s office.”
Fronde worked the console as Fox stood in front of the viewscreen, preparing himself for what he had to do. The course had been suggested by a Starfleet report, but Fox had resisted using it until now, partly because it went against all of his training and experience, and partly because he didn’t think it would work.
Now it seemed to be all he had, and Fox’s instincts told him that it might just work. In any case, at this point it could hardly hurt. After a few seconds, a Klingon face appeared on the viewscreen. It was Kreg, a diplomatic aide that Fox recognized from his previous talks with the Klingons.
“What do you want?” the Klingon asked gruffly.
Fox took the customary Klingon greeting in stride, but put an edge in his voice when he said, “I demand to speak with the ambassador immediately.” Kreg looked at Fox for a moment and than laughed unpleasantly. “Are you afraid to relay my demand, or simply too stupid to perform such a simple task?” Fox added.
Fox could hear Fronde draw a sharp breath in surprise, as the Klingon looked at him in disbelief.
“I asked if you were afraid or stupid?” Fox said. Before the Klingon could reply, Fox used his ace in the hole and added, “I challenge you to find the ambassador and tell him of my demands.”
A vein on the Klingon’s neck was bulging, and for a moment he looked as though he might explode. “You are taking a great risk, human.”
Fox ignored the comment and said, “Are you refusing my challenge?”
The Klingon hit a button in front of him, and the screen changed to the trefoil symbol of the Klingon Empire.
“Ambassador, that was…unusual,” Fronde said, no doubt putting to words what the other three staff members in the room were thinking.
“Let’s see if it worked,” Fox said.
A few seconds later, the image on the viewscreen changed again and the Klingon ambassador appeared.
“My aide tells me that you insulted us,” Ambassador Wolt said.
“No, I insulted him,” Fox said forcefu
lly. “For you, I have a challenge.”
“A challenge?”
“I challenge you to live up to our previous agreement and meet with me face-to-face so that we may settle the differences between our people,” Fox said.
Ambassador Wolt was silent for a moment, then said, “Wait. I will contact you soon with my response.”
“No!” Fox said. “You will meet my challenge now if you have the courage.”
There was an edge to the ambassador’s voice when he replied, “I accept your challenge and will meet with you in our arranged place immediately.” Then the screen went blank.
There was silence in the room. Fox turned to his staff and said, “It appears that the ambassador has accepted our invitation to begin talks.”
Nervous laughter filled the room. Well, they needed it, Fox realized. The pressure on the diplomatic team was enormous. And soon enough they would be in the thick of tense negotiations with the Klingons.
“Before we go, I have something for each of you,” Fox said. He opened the cargo container that had been left on his high-speed shuttle prior to their departure, a gift from a Starfleet xeno-studies analyst named West. At first, Fox thought the gift another example of Starfleet arrogance, a message from the analyst saying that Fox didn’t know how to do his job.
Fox never dreamed that he’d actually be using the contents of the container, but he’d already done a number of things he’d never thought he would do on this mission, and he thought he might do even more before his job was finished.
“Mister Fronde, you first,” Fox said, holding two items in his hands.
“Ambassador, do you intend to go into negotiations armed with swords and phasers?” Fronde said, disbelief on his face.
“As a matter of fact I do,” Fox said. “The Klingons respect strength. Think of it as wearing another culture’s traditional dress.” The swords were antiques, more ceremonial than useful. They were United States Civil War–era sabers, and Fox couldn’t be sure if the Starfleet analyst had intended them to convey a message to him. The other items weren’t actually phasers, they were laser pistols, of the kind used by Starfleet twenty-five years ago when the service had fought the Klingons to a draw at the Battle of Donatu V.