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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.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-9687-6

  First Pocket Books Ebooks Edition November 2004

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

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  http://www.startrek.com

  Chapter

  1

  Commander Sonya Gomez rolled the small, egg-shaped alien artifact in her fingers. It was copper-colored, about the size of a hen’s egg, and she had only the vaguest idea what it was.

  It was a puzzle, the sort she enjoyed. Alone in the hololab of the S.C.E. ship da Vinci—currently set up as a straightforward engineering isolation lab of the type you’d find at the Utopia Planitia Yards on Mars—she could immerse herself in the search for an explanation. So far, she hadn’t found one.

  Okay, they weren’t really her fingers. They were plastic, mechanical digits moved with artificial muscles, and covered with tactile sensors. The sensations were so realistic, the movements so natural, sometimes she forgot.

  “It’s a communicator,” she said to the empty lab, “or maybe a smart identity tag.” Or not.

  The computer’s voice interrupted her thoughts, making her start. “Incoming subspace communication for Commander Gomez from freighter Vulpecula.”

  She sighed. “Oh, Wayne, give it a rest.”

  “Command not understood,” said the computer.

  “Take a message.”

  Satisfied, the computer responded, “Recording message.”

  She turned her attention back to the object. Two minutes passed. She tried to focus, but her concentration wouldn’t return.

  “Computer, replay message.”

  A viewing window appeared on her console, with the image of an angular male face, handsome in an unconventional way. Most notable was the color of his skin: pistachio ice-cream green.

  A shock of black hair hung casually over his forehead, and his eyes were the color of emeralds. Though it was not communicated by subspace, and though the thought made her uneasy, she also knew the man smelled good.

  He was Wayne “Pappy” Omthon, former first officer, now owner and captain, of the private freighter Vulpecula. Mostly human, his grandmother had been a green Orion. Other humanoids found the pheromones of green Orions to be pleasant, even intoxicating, a characteristic that had caused them to be victimized by slavers for centuries.

  Unconsciously, she straightened her jacket and tucked a strand of her wavy hair behind her ear. It was very hard for her to think straight when Wayne was around. But why was she still having trouble thinking straight when he was light-years away?

  “Sonya,” he said, “I’ve been trying to contact you for weeks.” He smiled a little. “I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me, and that is exactly not my intent. I’ve been waiting to ask you in person, but since I just keep talking to da Vinci’s computer and time is short, I’ll ask now. You must have some leave coming, and there’s a traveling exhibit of ancient Bajoran technology making the rounds. It’s going to be on Galor IV for the next month. It’s a long way, but I know a guy,” he grinned and waggled his heavy eyebrows playfully, “with a ship.” The smile faded, his expression puppy-dog hopeful. “Seriously, I’ve got some cargo to drop off there. I’d enjoy the company, and somebody to talk shop with. Uh, let me know.”

  The screen blanked.

  Talking shop? Is that really what this is about? No, I think not.

  “Too soon,” she said to the empty room.

  She looked at the alien artifact and sighed. It was late, she was getting nowhere with this, and the faint trace of ozone in the filtered air was giving her a headache. “Computer, secure and store artifact, containment level six.” A shower and a soft bunk sounded good.

  She stepped into the corridor, then grabbed the doorway as a wave of dizziness made her stumble. Then she spotted a tiny wi
ndmill, a replica of the kind once common on pre-twentieth-century Earth, hanging upside down from the corridor ceiling. The sight was made stranger by the gaudy tracery of tiny lights around its spinning blades, undoubtedly an anachronism.

  She turned and saw Cade Bennett, one of Nancy Conlon’s engineers, at the far end of the corridor with a golf club in his hand. He took three rapid steps, like a gymnast starting his routine, flipped forward into a somersault, and landed firmly on the ceiling. From his perch, he spotted Gomez and smiled sheepishly. “Evening, Commander. Working late, I see.”

  She nodded. “And you’re standing on the ceiling, I see.”

  “Yes, sir. Commander Tev complained the old miniature golf course blocked the corridor, so I—made some adjustments.”

  She reached up and touched the spinning windmill, confirming her suspicion. It was a hologram that passed through her fingers with a flicker. Even though her feet remained planted on the deck, there was a gentle upward pull on her head and extended hand.

  “You’re not violating any laws of physics, are you, Cade?” She smiled. “Because I won’t have that on my ship.”

  “No, sir! No gravity up here. An adjustment of the inertial damper force fields mimics the pull. Makes the game a special challenge, because if the ball bounces, it travels in a sawtooth pattern rather than a series of parabolas.”

  “I see,” she said, having only a vague idea how he’d pulled it off. She would find out later though, in detail. It amazed her how often these little “engineer games” later found valuable application in their real-world problems.

  The thrum of da Vinci’s warp drive changed pitch. Reflexively, she reached out and brushed her fingertips against one of the corridor wall’s supports. It was a DX-1045 support, tied directly to the ship’s main space frame, and a good conductor. She opened her senses and smiled slightly as she thought of Vulcan mind-melds. Talk to me, da Vinci.

  She felt the faint vibrations with her fingers, heard the timing of the plasma injectors, the cycling of the warp core. It was a trick Geordi La Forge had taught her on Enterprise a decade ago, though she suspected she was better at it than he ever was.

  The ship had increased speed, warp five, and they were coming hard about. She couldn’t detect any extra load to indicate shields were up or weapons activated.

  No threat, but something’s up. Why wait for it?

  She tapped her combadge. “Gomez to Gold.”

  “Gold here.”

  “What’s the mission, Captain?”

  “It took you four whole seconds to call the bridge, Gomez. In your old age, you’re losing your touch?” He chuckled, then said, “Meet me in my ready room, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Chapter

  2

  “The mission is pretty routine,” David Gold said from behind the desk of his ready room. Gomez sat in one of the guest chairs, nursing the Earl Grey tea the captain had offered when she came in. “We had a call from the Lokak system. They’ve detected a derelict ship. It’s a navigation hazard and its course is headed for an inhabited world. Salvage is beyond the technical capability of the locals, so we’ve been asked to step in. We’ll need to either alter its course or destroy it.”

  The intercom interrupted. “Captain,” said the voice of the beta-shift tactical officer, Joanne Piotrowski, “Ambassador Goveia’s standing by for you.”

  Gold said to Gomez, “Goveia’s our representative to the Lokra people.” He looked up. “Put it through, Piotrowski.”

  The screen on Gold’s workstation lit up to show the Starfleet Diplomatic Corps seal. The seal was in turn replaced by the image of a slender, middle-aged man. His aristocratic bearing and stiff ceremonial uniform were at odds with his full red beard and the unruly mop of red curls atop his head.

  Gomez presumed he was the ambassador.

  “David, good to see you again. It’s been a while.”

  “Years, Alfredo. Not since Vulcan.”

  “That was a while back.”

  “This is my first officer, Commander Sonya Gomez.”

  “Ambassador,” Gomez said, nodding her head.

  “A pleasure, Commander.”

  “What’s this about, Alfredo?”

  “The locals detected a derelict ship headed on an impact trajectory with their planet. It seems to have drifted in from deep space. It’s big enough to devastate half a continent if it lands.”

  “The Lokra have warp drive. Why do they need us?”

  “They barely have warp capability. Besides that, the whole system is metal poor. They have only a few ships, robot probes for prospecting and mining nearby systems. Staffed spacecraft don’t go beyond the planet’s moons. Without tractor beams, which they don’t have, this would be a dangerous undertaking.” He grinned. “At any rate, I’m eager to show them the Federation would be a valuable ally.”

  “This was a Breen base during the war, wasn’t it?”

  Goveia’s face hardened, and his blue eyes turned icy. “The Breen violently occupied the planet. That was the Lokra’s first contact: a military occupation. Now the Breen have withdrawn, and we’re eager to establish a presence here. It could be a valuable buffer zone.”

  Gomez asked, “What information do you have on the derelict?”

  “Not much, Commander. Trajectory, a size estimate, some crude sensor readings. I’ve transmitted them to you. Lokra sensors aren’t very sophisticated, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re headed your way at high warp,” Gold said. “We’ll reach your derelict in about eight hours. You sit tight and let the S.C.E. handle it.”

  “Thanks. This isn’t an imminent threat, but the Lokra government is adamant it be dealt with immediately.”

  “Anything for good relations. We’ll get back to you as soon as we are able to assess the situation. Da Vinci out.”

  Gomez tapped her combadge. “Gomez to Saldok.”

  The da Vinci’s beta-shift ops officer said, “Go ahead, Commander.”

  “We should have just received some files from Ambassador Goveia on Lokra.”

  “They just came in, actually.”

  “Good. Transmit the files to the captain’s ready room, please.”

  Moments later, the ambassador’s files were visible on Gold’s screen. Gomez peered forward and studied it intently. “Not very useful. Trajectory and velocity information. On the current heading, computers confirm planetary impact, with ninety-seven percent certainty.”

  There were no visuals, but she pulled up a wire-frame diagram of the ship, based on the low resolution sensor data.

  “It’s a disk about five hundred meters in diameter. Or—” She hesitated, refining the display. Some of the readings on the center of the object didn’t jibe with the rest. “It has a hole in it, or a window. There’s a section transparent to their scanning beam.” She pulled up an energy scan. “It’s giving off some infrared, some moderate particle radiation consistent with radioactive decay, but that’s it. The radiation suggests a pretty primitive power source. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s the product of a civilization new to space travel.”

  “Well, if it isn’t a Lokra ship, then it’s a long way from home. It’s twelve light-years from the nearest class-M planet.”

  Convinced she’d seen all there was to see, Gomez closed the files. “Shall we gather the troops?” she asked with a smile.

  Gold shook his head. “It can wait until morning. You look like you could use some rest.”

  “I was headed for my bunk when you called.”

  “Go with that, then. I intend to do the same.”

  On the turbolift back to her quarters, Gomez sagged against the wall, fatigue pushing down on her.

  The door to her quarters slid open, and the computer greeted her. “Incoming subspace communication.”

  She groaned. No point in putting it off any longer. She had to talk to him. She tugged at her jacket and straightened her sagging posture, pulling her shoulders back.

  “On screen.”
>
  Her small viewscreen came to life, and Wayne “Pappy” Omthon’s face appeared. His face was expressionless, except for one raised eyebrow. She could see him only from the shoulders up, but she could imagine him, arms crossed over his broad chest, foot tapping impatiently. “Sonya. Glad I could finally catch you.”

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry, Wayne. I’ve been busy.”

  “Nobody calls me Wayne.”

  “Well, I’m not calling you ‘Pappy.’”

  “It’s just a nickname. Everybody calls me that.”

  “It’s a stupid nickname. Why ‘Pappy’?”

  “I’m younger than most of the crew under my command, so of course they started calling me ‘Pappy.’”

  “I’m still sticking with my stupid assessment.”

  “The best nicknames usually are.”

  Gomez refrained from pointing out that there was nothing stupid about “Sonnie,” the nickname Duffy had had for her, but she really didn’t wish to go there. She sat down on the edge of her bunk, leaning forward to pull off her boots. “I was just coming in.”

  “I know.”

  She glanced sharply up at the screen. “How?”

  “I spent a week on the da Vinci after that holoship business, remember? I got to know people.”

  “You called Corsi?” she guessed.

  He nodded. “The security chief always can find out where people are.”

  “And she ratted me out?”

  “Absolutely and without hesitation. I like that lady.”

  “Then ask her out.”

  “She’s taken.”

  So am I.

  The thought came without warning, and her chest tightened with an ache she thought she had finally left behind. It had been months since Galvan VI. Months since Duffy proposed to her and she couldn’t answer—and then never got the chance to when he, along with half the crew, were killed.

  She had moved past the grief, past the discomfort, past the lethargy. True, it took a near-death experience on Teneb to give her the kick she needed, but she thought she had finally gotten on with her life.

  Wayne recognized her discomfort. “Look, this isn’t a week on Risa I’m talking about, Sonya. We’re friends. This is a friendly outing to a museum. We’ll look at eight-hundred-year-old spaceships. We’ll talk engineering shop talk—” He frowned, reached out past the edge of the screen and slapped something, so that the image shook. “—you can tell me how to keep this damned viewscreen from glitching.”