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  Praise for

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  David Mack

  “There are few authors who can write action sequences…the way David Mack does.”

  “Incredibly powerful, compelling and thought-provoking…. Stunning and climactic…seat-of-your-

  pants action-adventure.”

  “David Mack exhibits superior skill in drawing the reader into the story to such a degree that you have to stop and remember to breathe.”

  —Jacqueline Bundy, TrekNation.com

  “[A Time to Heal] is a tightly written, riveting book. A fast read that offers believable intrigue, stunning war descriptions, striking character struggles and nemesis confrontations. If [it] were the score for an opera, it would obviously be the crescendo to the curtain drop.”

  —Kathy LaFollett, The Lincoln Heights Literary Society

  “If you need a story that combines fear, pain, sorrow, suffering, thrills, humor, and an atmosphere awash in raw, intimate emotion and life-or-death tension, Mack is your man.”

  —Killian Melloy, wigglefish.com

  “David Mack clearly has his finger on the pulse of Star Trek as we once knew it and as we know it now, elevating him into the top echelon of expert storytellers in both Star Trek and in the world of literature…. [A Time to Heal] could have easily been ripped from today’s headlines or the current techno-thriller novels of Tom Clancy.”

  —Bill Williams, TrekWeb.com

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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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.

  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: 1-4165-2181-X

  First Pocket Books paperback edition August 2005

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  Cover art by Doug Drexler; station design by Masao Okazaki; background image courtesy of NASA and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScl/AURA)

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  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  —T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

  Historian’s Note

  Harbinger begins in early 2263, shortly before the promotion of James T. Kirk to captain of the Enterprise, and concludes in 2265, between the events of “Where No Man Has Gone Before” and “The Corbomite Maneuver.”

  2263

  Prologue

  Commodore Matt Decker wasn’t entirely certain what to call the swath of fuzz that currently adorned the lower half of his face. It was too long to be stubble, but far too sparse to be a beard. Scratching it gently during the turbolift ride to the bridge, he found the description he was looking for: It was scruff.

  Well, that won’t do, he decided. In his opinion, the commanding officer of a starship could be clean-shaven, bearded, or even a bit prickly from time to time. Scruffy, however, was not an option. Unless it’s an intermediate stage on the way to a beard, he mused. That would be all right. Every few months he toyed with the idea of growing a beard. Then he’d note yet another subtle increase in the number of gray follicles populating his chin, and once again the dense bramble of hair would be shorn away until the next piquing of his curiosity.

  The hum of the turbolift crested and fell quiet; then the doors swished open. A cascade of gentle synthetic chirps filled the bridge of the U.S.S. Constellation. As the burly commodore’s first step hit the deck, his deceptively fragile-looking first officer, Commander Hiromi Takeshewada, rose from the center seat and greeted him with a single, graceful nod. He gave her a curt half-nod in return as he strode quickly past the gamma-shift communications officer, whose name once again eluded him, despite his repeated attempts to commit it to memory.

  At the science station, Lieutenant Guillermo Masada—whose own neatly trimmed beard Decker struggled not to envy—peered into the sensor hood, which cast a pale blue glow across his brow. The science officer’s short ponytail didn’t violate any regulations, but it drew a sharp contrast between Masada and the vast majority of Starfleet’s close-cropped male officers. Though Decker rarely said so, he often found Starfleet’s lockstep mind-set more than a little stultifying.

  Takeshewada joined Decker in flanking Masada, who looked up from his sensor readings with an apprehensive side-to-side glance at his superior officers.

  “Report,” Decker said, cutting straight to business.

  Masada reached behind his ear as if to scratch, then gave an almost absentminded tug on his ponytail as he straightened and pivoted toward Decker. “We were running a routine gene-sequence scan on the biosamples from Ravanar IV,” he said. “Most were nothing to write home about.” He gestured for Takeshewada to look at the sensor data for herself. “Then we found this.”

  Decker tried to be patient, but at times like this it was hard. “Guillermo, please don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s a gene sequence unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. My best guess would be that it has several million chemical base pairs, and it’s more complex than simple G-A-T-C. It has molecules we’re still trying to identify.”

  Takeshewada lifted her gaze from the blue-gray sensor hood. Her already fair complexion looked paler than normal. “That’s incredible,” she said.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Decker said to Masada, “Where did it come from? Some kind of über-life-form?”

  “Hardly,” the science officer said. “From a simple mold.”

  “Simple?” Decker shook his head, as much in disbelief as in sheer wonderment at the never-ending tricks the universe had up its proverbial sleeve. “That’s a lot of DNA for something I’d scrape off my breakfast. Speaking of which—” He turned toward his yeoman, who happened to be walking past. “Lawford, get me some coffee, will you?”

  “Lawford transferred to the Yorktown two weeks ago, sir,” the yeoman said. “I’m Guthrie.”

  Decker squinted in disapproval. “And that has precisely what to do with my coffee?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  The commodore pointed the yeoman toward the food slot. “Milk, no sugar.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Thanks, Lawford.”

  “Guthrie, sir.”

  “Whatever.” Decker turned back toward the science station while the yeoman plodded away, muttering quietly. Returning his attention to Masada, Decker said, “Why would mold need that much genetic information?”

  “I don’t think it does,” Masada said.

  Decker was getting annoyed. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “No, sir,” Masada said. “What I mean is, I think only a very small portion of the genetic string has anything to do with the mold itself. The rest is…well, just kind of there.”

  Takeshewada tilted her head in a way that implied she found Masada’s answer less than satisfactory. “But what does it do, Guillermo?”

  The science o
fficer’s eyes widened as his lips tightened into a thin line and his shoulders rounded into a shrug. “No idea. I can tell you that it’s big, but other than that…” He just shook his head.

  “And our tradition of excellence continues,” Decker said with a sour inflection. His darkening mood was brightened by the arrival of his coffee. He accepted the mug from Guthrie, then turned immediately back toward Masada. “How soon can you finish some tests and get me a real report?”

  “I’m not sure I can,” Masada said. “Our lab’s good, but it’s not this good. We’re gonna have to send all of this—the samples, the scans, the whole kit and kaboodle—back to Starfleet Command and let them handle it.”

  Decker’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “Are you serious? We make a once-in-a-lifetime find, and you’re telling me we have to punt?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.” Masada looked even more disappointed than Decker felt. “With our hardware and manpower, we could spend years on this and not make a dent.” Dejected, he added, “It’s just too big for us to tackle alone.”

  With a heavy sigh, Decker resigned himself to the situation. “There’s an old saying on Earth,” he said as he gave Masada’s shoulder a consoling squeeze. “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team.’ ” Sipping his coffee carefully, he walked down the short stairs to his seat, settled into it with a muffled grunt and a few pops from his aging knees, and pivoted around toward the communications officer. He opened his mouth to issue the order, then remembered that he didn’t know what her name was. Glancing at Takeshewada, he gave her a quick nod to carry on.

  To the first officer’s credit, she knew exactly what Decker needed her to do and covered his lapse seamlessly. “Ensign Ponor, open a secure channel to Starfleet Command,” she said. “Prepare to relay information from Lieutenant Masada’s station, on his mark.” Ponor acknowledged the order, and minutes later Masada finished the data transfer. Takeshewada appeared at Decker’s side as he finished his coffee. “Transmission complete, sir. And we have new orders from Starfleet.”

  “Do tell,” Decker said, handing his empty cup to Guthrie, who was breezing past at precisely the right moment to relieve the commodore of his petty burden.

  “We’ve been ordered back to Federation space,” Takeshewada said. “To begin patrolling the Klingon border in the Gariman Sector, before putting in for resupply at Deep Space Station K-7.”

  Decker looked at the mesmerizing drift of warp-distorted stars on the main viewer. “Looks like the Taurus Reach will have to wait for someone else to plant our flag. Helm: Plot a course for Station K-7, and hug the border all the way there.”

  “Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

  It cut against the grain of Decker’s nature to turn his back on a mystery such as the meta-genome that Masada had uncovered. Even more difficult was turning away from the exploration of such a vast unknown as the Taurus Reach in favor of a mundane border cruise. But as the starfield on the viewer blurred and shifted, and the Constellation turned homeward, he knew that the work he and his crew had begun here, hundreds of light-years from home, was no doubt in very good hands.

  2265

  1

  Captain James T. Kirk walked alone through the crowded, busy corridors of the Enterprise. He moved quickly, like a man with a purpose, but the truth was that he had been wandering without a destination for the better part of an hour. Memories of Delta Vega haunted him. Gary Mitchell’s eyes, fiercely aglow with the alien power that had corrupted him, refused to stop staring back at Kirk every time he tried to sleep. Night after night, the ghost of Kirk’s best friend, dead by his hand, awaited him in his dreams, his spectral stare an inescapable silent reproach.

  Even though the power packs Scotty had salvaged from the Delta Vega lithium-cracking station had enabled the Enterprise’s warp engines to be restarted, the ship’s current top speed was well short of its rated maximum. At their current best possible speed, they were still months from the nearest Federation base. By now Kirk’s after-action report—filed via subspace radio—had likely reached Starfleet Command. He did not regret the simple notation he had entered for Mitchell, despite the fact that the man had tried to commandeer the Enterprise and had turned his new psionic powers against Kirk. The young captain continued to remind himself that the being who had jeopardized his ship and crew had not been Gary Mitchell—not really. After the Enterprise’s failure to breach the energy barrier at the edge of the galaxy, Mitchell—and, later, psychiatrist Dr. Elizabeth Dehner—had been changed by the experience, transformed. Kirk had to believe that the man he had known would not have been capable of such casual cruelty…of murder. Instead, he had noted in his log only that Mitchell had died “in the line of duty.”

  A door opened as Kirk passed by, and the aroma of fresh coffee lured him into the galley. Dr. Mark Piper sat alone at a table, gratefully inhaling wisps of hot vapor snaking upward from his burnished aluminum mug. “Morning, Captain,” the grizzled, aging physician said, his voice rough.

  The greeting brought Kirk up short. “Is it?” He checked the ship’s chronometer, mounted over the galley door.

  “It’s almost 0100,” Piper said. “Technically, it’s morning.” He sipped carefully at his beverage.

  “I guess it is,” Kirk said with a wan grin. “Burning the midnight oil?”

  “Emergency call,” Piper said. “Nothing serious enough to wake you for. But I guess that’s not an issue.”

  Kirk stood in front of the food dispenser, eyeing his choices. “Who was it?”

  “Alden,” Piper said, then puffed gently on his coffee.

  None of the menu choices appealed to Kirk. He sat down across from Piper. “What happened?”

  “An accident in engineering.” He took another sip, inhaled through gritted teeth, and set down his mug. “Spock’s probably writing the report for your morning briefing even as we speak.”

  “No doubt,” Kirk said. His half-Vulcan first officer was nothing if not efficient. However, the same suppression of emotion that enabled Spock to exercise unimpeachable logic in his other official capacity, as ship’s science officer, had also led him to urge Kirk to kill Gary Mitchell before his new powers drove him to enslave or exterminate the Enterprise crew. Kirk had not heeded Spock’s warning, and helmsman Lee Kelso had paid for Kirk’s mistake with his life. The captain knew that it was absurd to blame Spock for what happened, or to be angry with him for being so quick to condemn Mitchell to death. Spock’s chief duty as first officer was to protect the ship and its crew, even if that meant sacrificing one to save the others.

  Knowing those things made Mitchell’s death no easier for Kirk to accept, however. He had pulled the trigger and brought a ton of rock down on his friend. No amount of rationalization was going to erase the lingering guilt that had shadowed his every thought since that desperate moment.

  After a silent minute, Piper said, “You should eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Try getting some sleep, then.”

  Kirk chuckled ruefully. “Easier said than done.”

  “On this ship, I guess that’s true.” Piper grabbed his mug and stood up. “I have to head back to sickbay. Want to stop in and say hi to Alden?”

  Before he could accept the invitation, Kirk was cut off by a two-note whistle from the overhead speaker. “Captain Kirk to the bridge,” came Spock’s voice over the intraship channel.

  Stepping away from the table, Kirk thumbed the transmitter switch on a nearby wall panel. “On my way. Kirk out.” He closed the channel and looked back at Piper. “Give my best to Alden.”

  Piper’s reply of “Aye, Captain” trailed Kirk as he exited the galley, grateful for something new to think about.

  Spock rose from the center seat as Captain Kirk emerged from the turbolift. “Report,” the captain said, making a beeline for his chair. He seemed primed to face a crisis that did not exist.

  “Receiving an audio-only hail from a Federation outpost, Captain,” Spock said, mov
ing to the right of the captain’s seat.

  Rather than sit, Kirk stood to the left of his chair while he assessed the situation. “Which one?”

  “Starbase 47,” Spock said, “a Watchtower-class space station, also known as Vanguard.”

  “Vanguard?” Kirk narrowed his eyes while he pondered that information. Spock had yet to determine what benefit the captain accrued to his concentration by reducing his visual acuity. “I thought that base was years away from being operational.”

  “Apparently not.” Spock added, “They await our reply.”

  The captain glanced at Spock but said nothing. In one fluid motion he pivoted into his chair and swiveled it toward the communications officer. “Lieutenant Uhura, patch them in.”

  “Aye, sir,” Uhura said. The young woman deftly routed the signal to the bridge’s main speakers. “Channel open.”

  “Starbase 47, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. Do you read me?”

  “We read you, Enterprise,” a youthful-sounding female voice said. “Go ahead.”

  “We require extensive repairs to a number of key systems. Are you in a position to assist us with maintenance?”

  “Affirmative, Captain. Should we clear a berth for you?”

  The captain frowned before he answered. “Please.”

  “Consider it done. What’s your ETA?”

  Kirk looked to Spock, who answered in a clear baritone, “Six days, three hours, and twenty-four minutes.”

  “Acknowledged,” the female voice said. “Vanguard out.”

  The channel clicked off. Kirk leaned on his elbow and stared hard at the slow drift of starlight across the main viewer. Under his breath he said to Spock, “A fully operational starbase, all the way out here. Must be our lucky day.”

  Spock sensed the suspicion radiating from his commanding officer. “You seem less than encouraged by the news, Captain.”

  “How long does it take to build a Watchtower-class station, Spock?”

  From memory, Spock said, “On average, four years, nine months—”