Table Of Content“A Romulan Subcommander
Striking a Starfleet Officer,”
Harriman Said.
“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 Vokar. 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.”
“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. But it is of no matter with respect to this planet. You are trespassers
in Romulan territory, and you will leave at once.”
And there it is, Harriman thought, understanding 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. “The people here don’t even
know that sentient life exists beyond their world.”
Vokar turned to glance up at his ship hanging above the city, the fires raging
below. “They know it now.”
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.
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To Jennifer Lynn George,
who blazes through my life like a shooting star,
constantly dazzling me,
shining with her wit,
illuminating with her intellect,
and brightening with her love, kindness, and support
…I see Moments as stones in the trails of
time:
Serpentine paths cast among the cinders
Of a life weighed down by the faithful climb
To ends not my own. Loss cannot hinder
The progress gained for the promise of peace,
As stepping sidelong through the remnant
ash,
I focus on the goal, my mind at ease
With the menace of war soon to be passed.
And what designs, I wonder, will I draw
As through the ruins of lifetimes I crawl?
—Phineas Tarbolde, “Sonnet XIII,”
The City After the Fire
We are but dust and shadow.
—Quintus Horatius Flaccus, “Ode VII,”
Odes, Book IV
Historian’s Note
This story is set in the year 2311, eighteen years after the presumed death of
Captain James T. Kirk aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise-B in Star Trek Generations,
and fifty-three years before the launch of the Enterprise-D in “Encounter at
Farpoint.”
Prologue: Countdown
He heard the explosion before he saw it, and as he turned and peered down into
the valley to witness walls of flame surging skyward, he knew that he’d found
what he’d come here seeking. His intuitions had been realized. So too had his
fears.
Captain John Harriman crouched in the tall grass, but not so low that he lost
sight of the alien city spread out below the surrounding hills. The orange-red fire
stood out at the edge of the municipal sprawl, the most vibrant hue among the
flat whites and grays and blacks of the steel-and-concrete construction. The
heavy report of the blast rolled over Harriman, drawing out agonizingly as he
watched seared debris rain down on the streets and buildings bordering the
inferno. The rumble, though softened by distance, contrasted dramatically with
the gentle midmorning sounds that had preceded it. The lilting mesh of birdsong
here in the hills had vanished now, the occasional calls and movements of other
animals stilled by the artificial thunder of destruction. Even the sough of the
constant breeze sifting through these undulating grasslands had been lost,
overwhelmed by the deep notes now saturating the air.
Harriman reached to the back of his hip, beneath the native crimson tunic he
wore so that he would blend with the inhabitants of this world; the other
members of the landing party wore similar clothing. He pulled out his
communicator and flipped it open. “Harriman to Enterprise,” he said, resisting
the impulse to contact his first officer. The commander led the reconnaissance
team currently searching the city, and Harriman wanted to know right now that
the ten members of his crew composing the team had not been injured, or worse,
in the explosion. But his first officer knew her job—all of his people did—and
she or one of the others would contact him as circumstances allowed.
When no response came from the ship, Harriman checked the power level of
the communicator. The indicator read well into the green. “Harriman to
Enterprise,” he tried again. “Come in, Enterprise.” He heard urgency in his
voice, but otherwise his tone remained even, belying the apprehension growing
within him. He had long ago learned of the need in his position for composure;
his crew looked to him for direction, and they followed the cues he provided.
Still no response.
Harriman eyed the dark billows of smoke rising into the sky, the thick
plumes pushed aslant by the wind. Beneath sat the southern verge of the city, an
area given over to industry. He recognized the ground-vehicle manufacturing
plant as he watched that building and two adjoining warehouses burn. He could
make out the shapes of people fleeing the blaze, although at this remove, several
kilometers away, he could not identify any who might be Enterprise crew
members. He dreaded the thought of how many casualties the Koltaari would
suffer—now, and during what would surely come in the weeks and months to
follow. Harriman found himself hoping, with a desperation he resented, that the
conflagration below would ultimately reveal itself to be the result of an industrial
accident, and not the prelude to an invasion. But he knew better.
Harriman studied his communicator, intending to execute a diagnostic on the
device, but then motion to one side caught his attention. He glanced in that
direction to see Lieutenant Tenger racing back toward him. The security chief’s
short, well-muscled legs were hidden by the flows of tall grass, his broad torso
visible above, as though sailing across the sea of green stalks. The color of his
flesh nearly matched that of the lea through which he moved. His speed seemed
effortless, his brawny arms barely pumping as he ran.
After the recon team had earlier detected an anomalous energy reading
emanating from the hills, Tenger had accompanied Harriman out of the city in
search of the reading’s source. The sensor spike had lasted only seconds and
might well have been a scanning ghost or reflection, or even the product of a
power surge in the tricorder itself. Considering the current circumstances,
though, Harriman had been unwilling to risk ignoring anything even remotely
suspicious.
Now the security chief settled on his haunches beside Harriman. “Captain,”
he said, his voice resonant despite being not much louder than a whisper.
“There’s some sort of interference. I can’t take any readings of the city.” He
worked his tricorder, doubtless attempting to configure it in some manner that
would allow him to scan successfully.
“I can’t raise the ship either,” Harriman said, holding up his communicator.
