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  For John, who got me into this mess

  HISTORIAN’S NOTE

  The events of this story take place in 2384, approximately four years and four months after the events of the movie Star Trek Nemesis, and two months after the events of Cold Equations, Book I: The Persistence of Memory, in which legendary cyberneticist Noonien Soong (who was not so dead as the galaxy had been led to believe) sacrificed his life to resurrect his android son, Data—who has now undertaken a personal mission to bring back his own lost child, Lal.

  Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur.

  (The world desires to be deceived, so let it be deceived.)

  —Petronius,

  Roman satirist

  PROLOGUE

  It had been three days, nine hours, and eighteen minutes since Federation Security officers Kohl Chamiro and Treg mor Glov had embarked on their patrol of the Komatsu Sector’s most desolate star systems, and it would be three days, fourteen hours, and forty-two minutes before they could chart a course back to civilization. Kohl stared with sullen boredom at his reflection in the Sirriam’s cockpit window. He noted with dismay the first hint of a doubled chin on his otherwise youthful face and the slow proliferation of gray hairs above his ears. Despite his best effort not to disturb the silence between himself and his partner, the disgruntled Bajoran man succumbed to a heavy, dejected sigh. “I’m not trying to point fingers or anything, but this is all your fault.”

  The rust-maned Tellarite swiveled away from the helm console and looked down his snout at Kohl, his brow furrowed with reproach. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

  “We could be at the game right now, Treg.” The harder Kohl tried not to think about missing the long-awaited championship fútbol match between Pacifica United and Royal Betazed, the more stubbornly rooted his resentment became. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get those tickets? We had sideline seats, Treg. At midfield.”

  Glov’s solid black eyes betrayed no sympathy. “I won’t apologize for doing my job.” He shook his head and frowned at Kohl’s resurrection of this sore subject. “It’s unfortunate that our recreational plans were affected, but that was beyond our control.”

  “It was completely within our control. If you hadn’t been so gung-ho to chalk up another arrest, we could be kicking back at the stadium with cold drinks and an unobstructed view.”

  A low growl of irritation rumbled inside Glov’s chest. “I did what the law required. Just because young Mister Nolon’s father is the governor of Tyberius Prime, that doesn’t exempt him from responsibility for his actions.”

  Kohl wondered why this was so hard for Glov to understand. “I’m not saying it does, but it’s not like he killed someone. Letting him make restitution would have been a perfectly—”

  “He tried to drive a hover vehicle while intoxicated. It was only good fortune that his accident resulted in no injuries or fatalities. Reducing his penalty to a mere fine would hardly have been equal to his offense. I doubt such a sum would even seem significant to him.”

  “So, because his family’s rich, we have to put him in jail?”

  “No, we put him in jail because that’s what the law instructs us to do.” Glov shot a disparaging glance at him. “The fact that Governor Nolon abused his authority to punish us for performing our duty reflects upon his character, not our judgment.”

  The rant drew a bitter chortle from Kohl. “Your judgment, pal—not mine.”

  A tense and uncomfortable silence fell between them for a long moment. Then Glov mumbled under his breath, “No one forced you to come with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” The Tellarite aimed a sidelong glare at his partner. “The director put my name on the duty sheet for this patrol, not yours. If you’d really wanted to attend that fútbol match, you could have let one of the rookies ride shotgun for me.”

  Kohl pinched the ridges above his nose, then rubbed some crud from the inside corners of his eyes. “Nice try, Treg, but you seem to be forgetting one important detail.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  It pained him to say it, but it had to be said. “I’m your partner. If you’re on dust patrol, so am I.” He sighed. “Besides, it’s not like I’d enjoy the game half as much without you.”

  His admission coaxed an embarrassed smile from Glov. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” A small flashing icon on the sensor display snared Kohl’s eye. “Hey, look at this. Guess we’re not the only ones roaming the galaxy’s ass crack.”

  Glov checked the command display between their seats and tapped it a few times to call up more detailed readings. “Wow, that’s big. What do you make of it?”

  “Hang on. Scanning it now.” Kohl trained the interceptor’s sensors on the ship, which was maneuvering into orbit above Tirana III. “It’s a Trill design, a Mardiff-class industrial ship.” He paged through some secondary screens and read a few of the highlights aloud. “Crew complement ranges from as low as twenty-five to as high as sixty. Says here they’re used mostly for mining, heavy salvage, and refinery operations.” Troubled by suspicions he couldn’t name, he keyed in a new series of commands. “I’m running a check on its transponder.”

  As the onboard computer processed his request, Glov plotted and executed a short-range warp jump. After a momentary blurring of the heavens, the Sirriam cruised into orbit close behind the hulking mass of the Trill industrial ship, which looked more like a floating factory than a vessel capable of crossing interstellar distances. “Coming up on their six,” the Tellarite said. “Quick scan shows they have no weapons, no shields, and a skeleton crew. I’m reading only twelve life-forms on board—humanoids, species unknown.”

  “I’ve got a hit: the S.S. Basirico, an excavation-and-recovery ship. Registry . . . Ramatis.”

  Glov frowned. “That figures.”

  Kohl inferred his partner’s meaning. In the three years since the Borg invasion had laid waste scores of worlds within sixty light-years of the Azure Nebula, criminals had made a practice of fabricating ship registries from worlds on which there no longer existed anyone or anything to corroborate or refute their authenticity. “What do you think? Smugglers?”

  “Could be. Or it might be an illegal mining op.” He nodded at a console showing a geological profile of the planet below. “Gallicite, kelbonite, noranium, boridium . . . no shortage of minerals worth stealing.” He powered up the interceptor’s weapons. “Hail them.”

  With a tap on the comm controls, Kohl opened hailing frequencies. “Attention, mining vessel Basirico. This is the Federation Security interceptor Sirriam. Please respond.” Several seconds passed. Kohl looked askance at Glov, who was locking the interceptor’s phasers onto the Basirico’s prodigious impulse drive. Glov nodded, and Kohl pressed the transmit key again. “Mining vessel Basirico, this is the Federation Security interceptor Sirriam. You are ordered to respond and prepare to be boarded. Please acknowledge.”

  “I hope they try to run,” Glov grumbled. “I’ve got a lock on their warp core. First sign of a power-up, I’ll put a hole through that thing so big it’ll—”

  An alert chirped from the forward console half a second before a thundering blast rocked the Sirriam and sent it spiraling toward Tirana III. Sparks erupted from bla
cked-out consoles, and outside the cockpit canopy, the airless world whipped in and out of sight as the interceptor wheeled and tumbled out of control.

  Kohl shouted over the screeching of the fragged impulse drive. “What the hell hit us?”

  “No idea!” Glov struggled with the helm controls in a bid to arrest their uncontrolled plunge. “Patch in the backup thrusters! Try to—”

  A flash of white light was the last thing Kohl knew . . . and then there was nothing but darkness and silence, forever.

  1

  Few things vexed Hilar Tohm as much as being kept waiting. Ever since her youth on Trill, all through her years at Starfleet Academy, and since then as an analyst and now a section chief for Starfleet Intelligence, she had prided herself on her punctuality, and she took it as an affront when others failed to extend to her the same degree of professionalism and courtesy. In her opinion, those who insisted on arriving late to scheduled appointments tended to fall into one of two categories: the passive-aggressive, who used their tardiness to exact a measure of revenge on others, and the utterly rude, who kept others waiting as an exhibition of personal power, a means of telling others, I feel free to waste your time because I think mine is more important.

  She took a sip of tepid oolong tea with lemon and honeysuckle honey, brushed a lock of her curly chestnut hair from her eyes, and glanced at her wrist chrono. It counted down the final thirty seconds to 1600 local time, adjusted for the peculiar variances of chronometry on the Orion homeworld. He’d better not be late.

  Twenty seconds before the hour, the person for whom she had been waiting stepped through the café’s front door, took a cursory look around the room, and spotted her. Slim and blue-eyed, Data was a bit taller than the average human. His complexion was fair, and his head was crowned with a shaggy tousle of light brown hair parted on the right. He dressed in simple clothes—dark trousers and shoes, a cream-colored linen shirt, and a jacket of synthetic leather—and he moved with grace and confidence. Without a wave or any shift in his expression, he slalomed through the room of closely packed tables and back-to-back chairs filled by patrons of dozens of different species, working his way toward her with tireless resolve.

  He reached her table and greeted her with one polite nod. “Is this seat taken?”

  She responded with their prearranged challenge phrase. “I was saving it for my brother.”

  “All men are brothers—until the rent comes due.” Tohm motioned for him to sit, and he settled into the chair across from her. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No problem.” She lowered her voice. “What name are you traveling under?”

  Data leaned forward and whispered, “Daniel Soong.” A one-shoulder shrug and a self-effacing half smile. “Call me sentimental.” His mien shifted like mercury, at once sharp and businesslike. “I just want to say that I appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

  “And I just want to say that if certain notable persons hadn’t vouched for you, we wouldn’t be talking right now.” Impatient, she stole a look at her chrono. “What do you need?”

  The human-looking android reached inside his jacket, took out a translucent aqua-colored isolinear chip, and pushed it across the table to within a few centimeters of Tohm’s hand. “A comprehensive search of the Orion banking system. The private databases and offline archives.”

  She extended one finger and sneaked the chip beneath her palm with a magician’s sleight of hand. “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything related to the finances of the persons and corporations identified on that chip.” He cast furtive looks over his shoulders, as if he were concerned about mechanical surveillance or eavesdroppers on one of the most privacy-obsessed worlds in the quadrant. “The entities in question should already be known to your associates. Some of them have been flagged for investigation for more than a century, and all are currently on the SI watch list.”

  His demeanor was calm and professional, but the scope of what he’d requested put Tohm on edge. “This is quite a bit more than I was led to believe you’d need.”

  “What degree of aid had you anticipated?”

  Studying his reaction, she said, “An address, perhaps. Maybe some comm records. Nothing quite this”—she tapped her finger on the isolinear chip—“incendiary.”

  The youthful android seemed unfazed by her admission. “Should I interpret your reticence to mean you cannot or will not assist me in this matter?”

  “Not necessarily. But I’ll need to know more about what I’m investigating.”

  Concern creased Data’s brow, and a thin frown pursed his lips. “I am reluctant to say too much, for a number of reasons.”

  His evasiveness captured her interest. “What can you tell me?”

  “The subject of my inquiry is an individual who has eluded Starfleet custody on at least two occasions, and who has traveled throughout the Federation and beyond under more than a hundred aliases. He possesses knowledge that I think might be vital to Federation security.”

  Tohm searched Data’s face for any hint of mendacity, but his expression was all but inscrutable. “What makes you think the Orion banking industry has the intel you want?”

  “As resourceful and independent as this person has proved to be, he still has occasional need of the Federation and its resources. But even if he did not, I believe he is unwilling to sever all ties with our culture. If he is to maintain such contact, however tangential, he must have some manner of financial identity we will recognize and accept. I have ruled out the Bank of Bolarus and the Ferenginar Credit Exchange as the havens for this identity. He would not entrust his fortune to depositories under the control of our rivals, and he cannot be using an account at an institution that reports its holdings to the Federation government. That leaves the Bank of Orion as the most likely shelter for his remaining financial personae.”

  I’ll give him credit for this much: he’s thorough.

  She slid the chip off the table and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. But I have one more question.” He cocked his head and affected a quizzical look, prompting her to ask, “You’re not currently on active duty, so why are you really looking for this guy?”

  Her query seemed to amuse Data, who suppressed a smile and looked at the table for a moment until he recovered his composure. “Let it suffice to say that it is . . . a family matter.”

  “All right, then.” He appeared satisfied to let his answer stand, so she did the same. “I’ll need a couple of days. How do I reach you?”

  A tilt of his head in the general direction of downtown. “Contact me at the Royal Suite of the Imperial Star Resort, under the name Miller.”

  “The Imperial Star?” She was certain she must have misheard him. “The one inside the Nalori diplomatic compound?” He nodded. She was about to ask why he was using the nom de voyage Miller, then thought better of it. “Fine. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  He stood. “I look forward to hearing from you.” They shook hands, and Tohm was surprised to find Data’s flesh warm to the touch, and his fingertips slightly callused. He smiled as he released her hand. “Good night.”

  Tohm watched Data weave his way out of the room, and then she slipped out of the café through its rear service door. For the briefest moment as she stood in the alleyway, she felt the dread of being watched—but when she turned to confront her stalker, she found only an empty lane, darkened windows, and the muffled drone of nighttime traffic in the Orion capital. You’re getting paranoid, she teased herself. Maybe you’ve been a spook for too long.

  Hands tucked into her pockets, she quickened her steps back toward the Federation Embassy. Because as certain as she was that no one was following her, she knew that in her line of work, sooner or later she would be wrong.

  • • •

  Radiant and prismatic, the gas giant’s rings arced across the Enterprise’s main viewscreen. Picard gazed upon them in wonder, swelling with admiration for their ineffable
beauty and harboring unspoken regret over the idea of tampering with such natural marvels.

  Limned by the soft glow of bridge consoles, his crew attended to their duties with a minimum of conversation; semimusical response tones punctuated the white-noise hush of life-support systems and the low-frequency pulse of the impulse engines. Gathered around the aft bulkhead’s master systems display were Lieutenant Dina Elfiki, the strikingly attractive young senior officer of the ship’s sciences division, and two specialists from the astrometrics team: Lieutenant Corinne Clipet, a dark-haired and soft-spoken theoretical physicist from France, and Ensign th’Verroh, an astrophysicist who the year before had chosen to remain in Starfleet, even though it had meant being disowned by his family after Andoria’s secession from the Federation. The trio of scientists had been charged with carrying out the principal tasks of the Enterprise’s current mission: infusing the rings of Azeban V with the same kind of regenerative metaphasic radiation that had made the Ba’ku planet inside the Briar Patch of such interest to Starfleet.

  The trio’s low murmuring, full of esoteric jargon and clipped reports, made poor fodder for eavesdropping, so Picard shifted his attention to the port-side station closest to his command chair. The ship’s new chief of security, Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová, was engaged in a hushed but tense exchange with the first officer, Commander Worf. The broad-shouldered Klingon loomed over the slender but athletic human woman, who’d recently had her raven hair shorn to a stylish and asymmetrical bob that swept forward on the right, beneath her jaw.

  Šmrhová’s struggle to preserve a façade of cool professionalism in the face of Worf’s withering criticism was apparent, and Picard wondered—not for the first time in recent weeks—if his first officer was treating her unfairly. The young woman, a native of the Czech city of Ostrava, had served on the Enterprise for more than four years without drawing a single negative word from Worf, but since the first day that Picard had promoted her to fill the post left vacant by the death of Lieutenant Jasminder Choudhury, it had seemed as if Šmrhová could do nothing that met with Worf’s approval. It felt uncharitable to ascribe Worf’s hostility toward Šmrhová and his micromanagement of her job performance to his grief over the violent loss of his inamorata Choudhury, but Picard found himself at a loss for another plausible explanation for his first officer’s behavior toward the new security chief. Compounding his concerns was the fact that Worf had pointedly declined several summons to meet with the ship’s counseling staff, and after the senior counselor, Hegol Den, had made such a session mandatory, Worf had sat silently through two consecutive appointments. If this situation doesn’t resolve itself in the next day, Picard decided, I’ll have no choice but to intervene.