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  For the defenders of truth

  “It is our highest law that we shall not interfere with other cultures.”

  —Jean-Luc Picard, 2366

  “There can be no justice so long as laws are absolute.”

  —Jean-Luc Picard, 2364

  2165

  Prologue

  December 9, 2165

  San Francisco

  THIS TIME, there had been no parades.

  Twice before in his life, Malcolm Reed had come home from lengthy deep-space missions to be met with celebrations of the successful work he and his Enterprise crewmates had performed in defense of humanity: first at the end of the Xindi mission in 2154, then again six years later after the Battle of Cheron brought victory in the war against the Romulans. Both times, his vessel had been crippled in the final battle and lives had been nobly sacrificed, but Reed and his crewmates had been able to set foot back on Earth with a palpable sense that their ordeal had been worth the cost—for the very fact that there was still an Earth to stand on and a free humanity to share it with meant that their quest had succeeded.

  This time, though, when Captain Reed and the crew of the U.S.S. Pioneer had returned to Earth alongside Captain T’Pol and the crew of Endeavour, there had been no cheering crowds or throngs of reporters to greet them. There had only been questions and recriminations—days of debriefings at Starfleet Headquarters as every action of the task force Reed had led against the rapacious, autonomous technology known as the Ware had been questioned and deconstructed in an attempt to understand how the mission had gone so wrong.

  “It isn’t as though I wanted a celebration, of course,” Reed said now to the ginger-haired woman sitting next to him at the 602 Club’s bar. “All I ever wanted was to do my duty to Starfleet.” He took a sip of his latest ale, leaving foam on his graying goatee.

  The tall, striking woman nodded in understanding, and Reed was still sober enough to remember that she had introduced herself as a Starfleet commander, though he was blanking on the name that had come after the rank. “You just didn’t like being reminded that it didn’t turn out so well this time,” she said.

  “The task force did help many people,” he insisted. “We saved dozens of worlds from exploitation by the Ware. The Menaik, the Vanotli, the Balduk, more. They can live free now, not at the mercy of mindless machines using their brains for spare parts.”

  “And now the Ware is gone. It’ll never endanger anyone again.” The ginger shrugged. “Okay, so it was at Klingon hands, and they weren’t gentle about it. And now they’ve conquered a whole sector that the Ware controlled. But that’s hardly your fault. When they came in, you had no choice but to pull out.”

  Reed shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. It was so much more complicated than that. We made mistakes. Well intentioned, to be sure, but we meddled in something we didn’t understand and set off the whole chain of events.” He wanted to say more, but even through the haze of mild—all right, more than mild—intoxication, he still remembered his duty. He always remembered his duty. There were many details of the incident that should not be discussed in a public place, even the preferred hangout of Starfleet’s finest.

  To her credit, the woman seemed to get the idea. “I see. That’s why Admiral Archer’s suddenly pushing for this Vulcan-style noninterference policy. Saying we need to keep our noses out of other people’s problems so we don’t make them worse.”

  Reed studied her face—something that he found quite pleasant to do. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Not so much. But my captain’s never been a fan of Archer’s hands-off philosophy. He thinks we have a responsibility to help where we can.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think we’ve helped a lot of worlds that way. But I won’t deny there have been a couple of cases where things didn’t turn out as well as we’d hoped. Sauria, for example.” She glanced skyward. “When my crew helped open diplomatic relations, we had no idea that two-bit dictator Maltuvis would leverage our trade deal into a planetary conquest barely three years later.”

  “Oh, of course,” Reed said, remembering. “You’re from Essex. Bryce Shumar’s ship.”

  “You were listening, weren’t you?”

  “Certainly I was, Cath—Caroline.” Remembering Essex had led him to the memory that the ship’s first officer was named Caroline Paris. “Although I don’t think you told me what you’re doing on Earth. Didn’t I hear that your ship was reassigned near the Klingon front?”

  Paris grinned. “That’s right—Starbase 12. But we got pretty banged up evacuating Ardan IV. The repairs are taking a while, so Admiral Narsu gave us leave for the holiday season.”

  “Ardan,” Reed repeated, shaking his head. “I thought my task force had seen its share of devastation in Ware space, but . . .”

  “Yeah. Seeing a whole planet blasted like that . . .” She shuddered. “I still have nightmares. We got the people off in time, but, you know, animals can suffer too. A whole ecosystem, extinct just like that.” She was quiet for a moment, then braced herself with a sip of her drink. “Thank God the Klingons backed down, or they might be trying to do that to Earth or Alpha Centauri.”

  Reed concealed his reaction. He was one of the few who knew that the Klingons had only suspended their invasion plans due to an underhanded backroom deal made by a certain secretive group of ex-Starfleet personnel without official sanction—and without regard for the terrible cost that another civilization would pay for the Federation’s safety.

  Paris reached out and touched his hand. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to get you even more depressed. Tell you what, let’s talk about something more cheerful.”

  He smiled. The warmth of her hand against his was doing wonders for his mood. “All right, let’s see. Hmm. Have you seen any good movies lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m a huge movie buff. But I haven’t been on Earth in a while, so I haven’t had a chance to catch up yet.”

  “Neither have I,” Reed replied. “But I’ve been dying to see The Singing Swords of S’harien.”

  Paris’s grip on his hand tightened appealingly. “That new Bollywood epic about pre-Reformation Vulcan?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She laughed. “Ancient Vulcan warriors having huge song and dance numbers. I hear Commissioner Soval absolutely hates it.”

  “That sounds like a fine recommendation to me.”

  “Think we can catch a late showing?”

  “Let’s find out!”

  Reed followed Caroline out of the club, their hands still brushing together. He hadn�
�t expected anything like this to happen tonight, or anytime in the foreseeable future. But here it was, and he was happy to make the most of the moment.

  December 12, 2165

  U.S.S. Pioneer NCC-63

  Samuel Kirk entered Valeria Williams’s quarters to find her packing a midsized travel case. “Hey,” he said in greeting. “Not bringing much, are you?”

  “Starfleet brat. I travel light.” The wiry armory officer pulled him into an embrace with the strength that intimidated and excited him so much, and he was lost to her kiss within seconds. “Besides,” she said when she let him surface for air, “I thought you’d like us to wear as little as possible while we’re on leave.”

  “I don’t object in principle,” the blond historian said with a grin, “but it’s likely to be a long leave, what with the refit coming up. We can’t spend all of it naked.”

  “We can certainly try,” she said, pulling him in for another kiss. She was rather surprised when he interrupted it several moments later with a massive yawn. “Hey!”

  “Sorry. Not a commentary on your technique,” he said, ruffling the curl of auburn hair that arced across her forehead. “These debriefings are just so tiring. They kept me talking for so long. All the worlds we found out there, how the Ware affected them, what I learned about their histories before and after . . .” He trailed off.

  “Not pleasant to be forced to remember, is it?”

  “And we haven’t even gotten to the Partnership yet. That will be rough.”

  “I know.” Val held him tighter. Sam relaxed into her embrace, amazed at his good fortune. He’d fantasized about being with Val Williams ever since they’d met two and a half years before. She was gorgeous and strong, bold and heroic and devastatingly sexy—and, he’d thought, completely out of his league. It was miracle enough that she’d somehow come to return his affections, and that was every bit as athletic, exciting, and exhausting as he’d dreamed. But it was these quiet moments, when he felt her gentle strength sheltering and nurturing him, that had come to have the most profound meaning for him. For all her raw passion and aggression, all her fighting prowess, it was Val’s bottomless well of empathy and kindness that defined her as a security officer and as a person.

  For a while, Val simply held him, respecting his fatigue. But then she started to get playful, asking for his help packing her lingerie for the trip. Which then turned into Val modeling various lingerie items for him, which then turned into Sam helping her change into and out of them, and then just out of them, and then it was athletic, exciting, and exhausting for the next hour or so. Finally, they snuggled together on top of a hopelessly rumpled pile of her clothes. “This is not an efficient way to pack,” she observed at length, and they laughed for a while.

  “So who do you want to visit first?” he asked. “Your folks or mine?”

  She hesitated. “Are we up to the meeting-folks stage already?”

  Sam stared at her, concerned. “Is there some reason you don’t want to introduce me to Captain Williams?”

  “Oh! No, it’s not . . . Sorry, Sam, that came out wrong. I’m just surprised at how fast this has gone.”

  “You were the one who said you were tired of waiting for me,” he said with a smile. “And I’m very glad you pushed me.”

  “I know. I am too. I just . . . I’m used to more casual romances. Brief flings, or friendships with benefits.” She chuckled. “Most of the men I’ve dated in the past have been . . . well, their strengths haven’t been in the emotional arena. So this is just kind of new to me.” That evoked a faint chuckle from Sam, and she stared. “What?”

  “I’m just surprised that I’m not the only one who feels overwhelmed by this. Or maybe not surprised . . . more like reassured. It puts us on more of an even footing.”

  Val snuggled closer. “We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah. For as far as you want it to go.”

  She gave a nervous laugh, then playfully pushed him off the bed. “In that case, you’d better start helping me pack again.”

  December 15, 2165

  Starfleet Headquarters

  “. . . in your judgment, Captain T’Pol, had the Partnership of Civilizations truly achieved a functional coexistence with the Ware?”

  The question came from Soval, the Federation Commissioner for Diplomatic Affairs—one of several senior officials who flanked Admiral Jonathan Archer at the wide table in the front of the hearing room. Normally this debriefing process would be conducted by Starfleet brass—and by lower-ranking officers, rather than chiefs of staff like Archer and Admiral Thy’lek Shran, who also held a seat at the table. But the ramifications of the Ware debacle had the potential to transform Starfleet and Federation policy, so this review was being conducted at the highest levels. Archer’s own superior, Defense Commissioner Vinithnel sh’Mirrin, was also on the panel.

  Unfazed by the brass ensemble before her, T’Pol sat calmly in her command-green dress uniform and answered with her usual calm precision. “Our opportunity to observe the Partnership was inadequately brief to make a firm determination on that point, Commissioner. On the surface, it appeared they had a stable symbiosis with the technology, providing volunteers to function as adjunct processors for the Ware and swapping them out after several months to minimize the neurological damage thus sustained. However, in our time among the Partnership, some Partners did question whether they had mastered the Ware or simply appeased its appetites. Once we offered the prospect of an alternative, a means of modifying the Ware so that it would no longer require live brains to sustain its functions, a number of Partners expressed the opinion that this could liberate them from a burden they had endured since the beginning of their civilization.”

  “And yet we have heard testimony that other Partners considered this a compromise of their civilization’s core principles,” Soval countered. “That they considered the act of voluntary submission and service to be the essence of their cultural unity. Indeed, none of the member species would likely have been capable of technological civilization or space travel without the assistance of the Ware.”

  “That is correct. As with any civilization, there was a multiplicity of opinions.”

  “Yet when the Klingons obtained the Ware self-destruct protocol and unleashed it upon the Partnership, Captain sh’Prenni and the crew of Vol’Rala presented their offer to defend the Partnership as atonement for the damage they caused to Etrafso, the Partnership world whose Ware they had deactivated. So in their view, that uninvited intervention had been a mistake—even a crime.”

  Shran bristled. “I object to that characterization, Soval. We’re not here to prosecute Vol’Rala’s crew. They’re no longer here to defend themselves. They gave their lives protecting the people of the Partnership!”

  “Nobody denies that, Shran,” Archer interceded in calming tones. “But the goal here is to understand what happened so we can prevent another tragedy like this from happening in the future.”

  The Andorian Guard chief of staff was not mollified. “Which still implies that sh’Prenni and her crew were in the wrong. What if they hadn’t intervened? If we’d just left the Ware alone, kept our hands off because we were afraid of making mistakes, it’d still be out there infecting and enslaving whole worlds. Eventually it would’ve reached us! Sometimes you have to intervene!”

  “Admirals,” sh’Mirrin said. “Need I remind you that we are here to get Captain T’Pol’s account of events?”

  Both admirals fell silent under the Andorian shen’s chastising gaze. As Endeavour’s captain resumed her testimony, Archer felt a renewed surge of regret at the strain that had arisen between himself and Shran in the wake of recent events. Theirs had always been a turbulent relationship—indeed, Shran had captured and tortured Archer when they had first met as starship captains at the P’Jem monastery nearly fifteen years earlier. But over time, as misunderstandings had been overcome and trust had been slowly earned, the two captains had developed a strong mutual re
spect and eventually a firm friendship—and Shran was extremely loyal to his friends.

  But then, that was the root of the problem now. Reshthenar sh’Prenni had been a protégée and close friend of Shran’s, and her death along with nearly the entire crew of Vol’Rala had hit him hard. Archer believed that she and her crew would have welcomed his proposal for an official Starfleet directive of noninterference. As Soval had just said, it had been sh’Prenni’s own judgment that she had acted recklessly in deactivating Etrafso’s Ware without the consent of its inhabitants, before she had learned enough to understand their symbiotic relationship with the Ware and their inability to sustain a civilization without it—or, in many cases, even to live without it. In Archer’s view, sh’Prenni would have wanted Starfleet to learn from her mistake, and so he saw his proposed directive as a tribute to her memory, a legacy she could leave for future generations. But in Shran’s view, it was a betrayal of that same memory, an indictment that would stain her reputation forever. Thus, he had not been inclined to give Archer’s proposal a fair hearing. The human admiral hoped that, in time, his Andorian friend would calm down enough to listen to Archer’s side. But he knew how long Shran could nurse a grudge.

  Jonathan Archer was convinced that a noninterference policy was the right way to go. But to achieve it, he might have to sacrifice one of his closest friendships.

  December 18, 2165

  Sapporo, Japan

  “Why don’t we just . . . get married now?”

  Hoshi Sato suppressed a wince as she huddled with Takashi Kimura under the narrow awning of a souvenir stall. They’d chosen this unseasonably warm night as their best opportunity to come out to Odori Park to enjoy the White Illumination festival and the annual Munich Christmas Market honoring Sapporo’s sister city. Both were traditions that Hokkaido’s capital had observed every winter for more than a century and a half, and Kimura had been eager to show them off to his fiancée now that they finally had the opportunity. But their plan had backfired; the warm air had provoked an intense rainstorm that had opened up on their heads while they’d been enjoying the panoply of multicolored holiday lights that festooned block after block of the long, narrow strip of parkland at the center of the city. They hadn’t thought to bring umbrellas, they were four blocks away from the Ekimae-dori underground walkway, and Takashi’s mobility issues limited his running speed, so they’d huddled under the nearest stall awning to await a break in the storm. But the chilly wind and the minimal awning ensured that they continued to get drenched.