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  Three

  APRIL 2140

  Of all the goddamned days to break my glasses. Professor Aaron Ikerson sat at his office desk and wrapped a piece of clear adhesive tape around the fractured bridge of his spectacles. He had expected the thin metal frames might warp or deform over time, but it had never occurred to him their bridge might snap as he pushed his reading glasses back up his nose. As for the likelihood they would break only minutes before one of the most important meetings of his career—he preferred not to speculate upon such astronomical odds.

  He tested his ad hoc repair. The two halves of his eyeglasses wobbled no matter how tight or thick the tape binding. That’ll have to do. With exaggerated care he put them on. They rested in place more securely than before they had broken, and Ikerson noted the irony that the tape on the bridge was probably the reason why. I guess I’ll call that a win.

  His personal comm buzzed. He picked up the palm-sized device off his desk and checked the text message from his graduate assistant, Lenore McGill.

  It read simply, They’re here.

  Ikerson stood and smoothed the wrinkles from his jacket. He paused to spy his reflection in the glass of his framed doctorate in computer science, to make sure his teeth were clean. Thinning blond hair, cropped short, lent a distinguished air to his boyish features. His fortieth birthday had just passed, but for the most part he had eluded the worst of time’s ravages. Only faint crow’s-feet, smile creases, and snowy chin stubble betrayed his middling years.

  Colleagues nodded and smiled at him as he hurried through the corridors of the computer sciences hall, the newest building on the campus of the Dresden University of Technology. Though he was in a hurry, Ikerson acknowledged each greeting in kind—a cheerful wave; a fleeting salutation; a polite lift of his chin and a benign half-smile.

  He arrived at the main entrance to find Lenore making small talk with their four guests. The stylish and witty graduate student seemed to have captivated her esteemed elders, who all hailed from the international intelligence ­community—though Ikerson had no idea to which organizations any of them belonged. All he knew for certain was that Mister Sanchez represented the Western Coalition’s interests in his project, Ms. Ling had come on behalf of the Pan-Pacific Alliance, Mister Bruneau had been sent by an unnamed entity in the European Union, and Ms. Kandawalla answered to the prevailing powers of the African Federation—and that none of them had told him their real names. All their background checks had turned up blank.

  He greeted them. They were portraits of courtesy as he shook their hands. Next he addressed them as a group. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Once you see the progress we’ve made, I think you’ll agree this update is the one we’ve all been waiting for.” He beckoned them as he started back the way he’d come. “Follow me, please.”

  Ikerson noted his guests’ reflections on office doors as he escorted them through the building. Sanchez’s face betrayed no reaction to anyone or anything, and his eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses. Ling’s attention flitted from one point of interest to the next like a hummingbird dancing between blooms. Bruneau’s attentions also wandered, though with greater subtlety than did Ling’s. Kandawalla was the only one whose focus troubled Ikerson. Her eyes remained fixed upon him, it seemed; whenever he glanced over his shoulder, he found her looking right at him without shame or reservation.

  On the lowest sublevel, he led his guests inside the Forensic Data Research laboratory. Lenore trailed the group and locked the lab’s door behind them once she was inside. The six of them gathered inside the Faraday cage, where Ikerson’s crowning achievement awaited them. As soon as Lenore confirmed the room was secure, Ikerson pressed his palms together. “Humanity has reached a precarious moment in its history. Making contact with the Vulcans has altered the trajectory of our civilization.” He switched on the computer on the workbench beside him, then continued. “Unfortunately, not all the peoples of the world have welcomed this new path. A few holdout superpowers, as well as several small but entrenched factions of hard-liners, extremists, and isolationists, continue to obstruct the international effort to forge a global government.” A sad sigh. “Some of us, it seems, are not yet ready to put aside childish things.”

  He glanced at the monitor next to him and confirmed his software was booting up. “Intelligence acquired from the Vulcans—and, in a few cases, in spite of them—suggests local space is crowded with hostile intelligent species whose interests might make them a threat to human progress and survival. So make no mistake: if humanity means to endure, not just culturally but as a species, it must stand together.”

  With another sidelong look, Ikerson confirmed his system was up and running. “Ms. McGill and I have created something revolutionary. A new kind of software designed not to change the world, but to give us the tools we need to unite it.” He added with a flourish toward the monitor, “Esteemed guests, allow me to present . . . Uraei.”

  All four of the visitors regarded Ikerson’s masterpiece with blank stares. Bruneau was the first to speak. “What does it do?”

  “It watches,” Ikerson said. “And it listens.”

  Kandawalla cocked one brow. “Watches what? Listens to what?”

  McGill said with pride, “Everyone and everything.”

  Now the guests gave the scrolling strings of code on the monitor their full attention. Sanchez even tipped his sunglasses down his nose to get a clear look at the running program. “This has been tried before. There’s no way to sort useful intel from that much noise.”

  “No way for humans to do so,” Ikerson corrected. “Uraei isn’t just a data dragnet. It’s also a directed-function artificial intelligence. It analyzes everything it intercepts. Anything suspect gets routed to the proper authorities—whether that’s local law enforcement, national security coordinators, the military, or what have you.”

  His description prompted a dubious reaction from Ling. “So your AI casts itself as judge, jury, and executioner?”

  “Not at all. Uraei doesn’t dictate responses. It’s designed to be a witness who calls in tips. But humans choose how to respond to the leads that Uraei provides. Let me show you.”

  The visitors were very patient. For nearly an hour they listened in polite silence while Ikerson walked them through the means by which Uraei deduced and evaluated potential threats, and the algorithm it used to decide to which agency its discoveries should be sent. It was all very dry and technical, but by the end he felt as if he had infused them with his own hard-won confidence in this remarkable dedicated AI.

  Bruneau wore a pensive look as he considered all he had heard. “A most intriguing proposal, Professor. That much will I grant you.” A twinkle in his dark eyes. “If I might inquire—the name: Uraei. It is from mythology, yes?”

  “Egyptian, to be precise. Two asps that encircled the Eye of Ra and spat flames like venom to defend the sun god against his enemies.”

  “A fitting metaphor,” Sanchez said.

  “One certainly hopes so.”

  Ling’s frown conveyed her continued doubts. “I am impressed by what you have achieved, Professor. But you want all four of the world’s superpowers to trust our fates to a single shared system—one whose success would herald the dissolution of our respective sovereignties. If we take that chance, and your system fails, it could mean the collapse of human society. We would be at the mercy of all those hostile alien races you insist lie in wait for us. So before I can recommend your system to my superiors, I need your answer to this question: Are you absolutely positive Uraei will work as you intend?”

  There was no more time for nuance or equivocation. It was time for Ikerson to save the world, and the only way for him to do that was to be certain beyond a shadow of doubt.

  “I give you my word: Uraei will ensure the unity of Earth and the safety of the human race, from all threats native and alien . . . forever.”


  Four

  Patient Zero was running for his life—and dooming a billion others with each panicked stride.

  Julian Bashir couldn’t blame the Romulan man for trying to get away. Surraben Antok was just a semipro burglar who didn’t know he was being used to incubate a virus that would reach its communicable stage in under an hour—and therefore he couldn’t possibly know why Bashir, an offworlder, was chasing him in the middle of the night through the back alleys of the thieves’ quarter of Ramad, the capital city of the Romulan colony world of Alhaya.

  Antok broke stride for half a step, just long enough to fire a disruptor blast at Bashir. Its screech and flash filled the dark alley. The pulse caromed off a wall and streaked past Bashir’s head close enough to spawn the odor of burnt hair. Bashir lost half a step dodging a second shot, which buried itself in a reeking mound of garbage heaped against a wall. In that moment, Antok widened his lead and pulled away into the misty labyrinth of the city’s criminal ghetto.

  Sarina Douglas’s voice resonated inside Bashir’s head, courtesy of the transceiver implanted just in front of his right ear. “You’re losing him.”

  “I know.” It was hard not to shout while running.

  “He’s heading for the metro. Go left, there’s an entrance at the corner.”

  Bashir took the turn running at full speed and barreled through a slow-moving crowd. Angry epithets in the local Romulan dialect hectored him as he sprinted up a flight of stairs to a boarding platform for one of the city’s public maglev train lines.

  “Move it! The train’s boarding!”

  “Almost there!” He bounded off the top stair and slammed into oncoming pedestrians fresh off the train and eager to reach the street. He didn’t know enough Romulan to shout them out of his way, so he let his shoulder do the talking. More vulgarities rained down upon him as he bladed through the crowd and boarded the train through its farthest forward set of doors.

  The train’s interior was as pristine and bright as the neighborhood outside was grimy and dark. The maglev had been designed as a flexible tube completely open from nose to tail. Bench seats lined the sides of the commuter train, while its central gangway was dotted with poles and equipped with overhead handholds. There were too many people on board for Bashir to see to the far end, so he began making his way aft, doing his best not to attract attention.

  He whispered so only Sarina could hear him. “Is he on the train?”

  She sounded uncertain. “I think so.”

  “He is or he isn’t, Sarina. I need to know before—” A two-note musical tone preceded the closing of the doors. “Strike my last.” The train glided into motion with only the faintest hums and tremors of acceleration. “We’re moving. Is the suspect with me?”

  “Affirmative. Looks like he’s all the way at the back.”

  “Naturally. Heading his way now.”

  Outside the train’s windows, the angular towers and twisting spires of Ramad glowed in the night. In the distance, the light of the planet’s large moon shimmered across a restless sea.

  Inside the maglev, no one looked at one another, a fact of life Bashir had seen in many large cities on worlds throughout the quadrant. With his cloak’s hood pulled low, he passed unnoticed and unremarked, just another nameless presence in an overcrowded metropolis. His only fear was that as he scrutinized the faces of the other passengers in search of Antok, one of them might look up, meet his gaze, and realize he wasn’t a Romulan or a native.

  No one paid him any mind.

  As he neared the end of the train, he was baffled to find no trace of Antok. He turned for privacy toward a pair of doors and took a personal comm device from his pocket to make himself look like any of the several other passengers carrying on banal conversations during their ride. “Sarina? I’m less than four meters from the back of the train. He’s not here.”

  “He must be, I have him on sensors. He should be up against the aft bulkhead.”

  “There’s no one there. You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Unless someone else on that train is using a signal scrambler to block transporter beams and ID scanners, he’s right there.”

  Bashir had a bad feeling. “No, it just means his scrambler must be here. Hang on.” He continued aft and stole furtive looks under the bench seats. “No sign of Antok or the device.” He pivoted and looked back the way he’d come. “I don’t get it. Where could he—?”

  The question caught in his throat, wedged against an answer he feared to consider. He moved to the locked rear hatch and pressed his face to its window to survey the outside of the train.

  There was Antok, clinging to the rear of the speeding maglev with the aid of magnetic gloves, a pair of goggles, and a face mask. The Romulan looked up at Bashir and froze.

  “Got him.” Bashir backed away from the door and drew his phaser as he declared for the other passengers’ benefit, in his best broken Romulan, “Everyone, please move forward. Quickly. This is for your own safety.” He waited until he was the last one within ten meters of the rear door. Then he set his phaser for an intense, narrow discharge, targeted the door’s lock, and fired. The vermilion beam sliced through the train’s door, which blew outward and was ripped off the train by the four-hundred-kilometer-per-hour winds raging outside.

  With one hand on an overhead grip rail, Bashir leaned out and seized the front of Antok’s one-piece jumpsuit. “Stop running! I’m trying to help—”

  Antok let go of the train. His jumpsuit expanded as it caught the wind and became an aerodynamic wingsuit. In a roar of wind that drowned out Bashir’s howl of terror, Antok was launched into the air—and he pulled Bashir with him, out of the train and into the night.

  They were hundreds of meters in the air but falling fast. Bashir was nothing but ballast and drag, an anchor pulling Antok and his wingsuit into free fall. The Romulan punched Bashir’s face three times, fast and hard, until Bashir caught the man’s wrist and shouted, “Stop!”

  “Let go! You’ll kill us both!”

  “I’m trying to save you!”

  The ground raced up to meet them. Confusion and fear played across Antok’s face.

  “Julian, let him go! I can’t beam you up until you’re clear of his scrambler!”

  It was a split-second choice. He could let Antok go and maybe take him down with a lucky phaser shot before being snared by the transporter beam, or he could hang on and gamble on the man actually possessing a sliver of decency and a strong survival instinct.

  He tightened his grip and prepared for impact.

  The Romulan spread his arms and legs to open his wingsuit. “Get on my back! Now!” He fought to catch enough air to slow their fall as Bashir clambered around him to ride on his back. As soon as Bashir was in place Antok leveled them out of their dive and banked hard to soar between a pair of modern office towers. The Romulan swooped down into one of the city’s many parks, all of which were closed after sundown. He spread his arms to catch the wind in a braking maneuver and shook Bashir off as he buzzed the ground. Bashir landed with a thud and a grunt, while Antok skidded to a halt across a patch of grass.

  Enervated and gasping, the two men regarded each other from a distance of several meters. The Romulan studied Bashir with well-founded suspicion. “Who are you?”

  “A medical doctor.”

  “And why do I need a doctor?”

  “That statue you were hired to steal two days ago? It wasn’t a priceless artifact. It was an aerosol dispenser, and it infected you with an engineered virus.”

  Antok’s wariness turned to incredulity. “I feel fine.”

  “That’s because the virus is still in its incubation phase. But in a few minutes, it’ll become contagious. You still won’t feel any symptoms, but you’ll infect anyone who breathes within twenty meters of you. And fifty hours from now, every one of them will become vectors. I
n a matter of weeks, you and everyone else on this planet will be dead—and if any of the infected get off this planet and reach others, the cycle will continue.” Bashir reached under his cloak and pulled from one of his jacket pockets a transparent aluminum ampoule filled with translucent amber liquid. “Or I could inject you with this, now.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “The cure.” He read the Romulan’s absence of trust in his frown. “Fine, don’t believe me. Become the vessel of your race’s extinction.” He loaded the ampoule into a hypospray, pressed its injector to his throat, and dosed himself. “See? It’s safe.”

  “For a human.”

  Bashir got up and walked over to Antok. He offered him the hypospray. “Suit yourself. Take it or don’t. I’m done fighting with you.” He proffered it again. “Take it.”

  Antok reached for the hypospray. Bashir struck like lightning, and before the Romulan knew what had happened, Bashir had seized the man’s hand, twisted it over to expose the underside of his wrist, and injected him.

  The Romulan jerked back. “Hey—!”

  “You’re cured.” Bashir backed away from his unwilling patient. “You’re welcome.”

  Before the aggrieved burglar could register another complaint, a transporter beam enfolded Bashir in a wash of light and sound—

  —which faded to reveal the familiar confines of the transporter room aboard the Section 31 vessel Kòngzhì. Standing behind the transporter console was Sarina. She brushed a lock of her blond hair behind her ear. “Welcome back, hotshot.”

  “Good to be back.” He stepped down off the energizer pad. “Any word from—?”

  The door slid open before he finished his question. Their handler, L’Haan, a lithe Vulcan woman with severe features and Cleopatra-style coiffure, strode in and took Bashir’s measure with cold disdain. “Your solution to the crisis was sentimental and needlessly dangerous.”