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  Dedicated to the memory of Dorothy Catherine (“D.C.”) Fontana, one of the earliest and most influential shapers and caretakers of the Final Frontier

  March 25, 1939–December 2, 2019

  Historian’s Note

  This story takes place in early 2270 during the final year of the U.S.S. Enterprise’s historic five-year mission of exploration under the command of Captain James T. Kirk, and approximately three months after the U.S.S. Endeavour’s encounter with the Lrondi derelict vessel in the Cantrel star system of the Taurus Reach (Star Trek: Seekers #4—All That’s Left).

  One

  “We need to go, Morgan. Now.”

  The statement, tinged with anxiety and warning, was not what startled Morgan Binnix, but instead the simple fact that it was delivered in Federation Standard and not tlhIngan Hol. Speaking in anything other than the Klingon language was something to be avoided at all costs. That her companion, Phillip Watson, had done so was a clear indicator of his growing worry. It also served to emphasize the precarious nature of their present situation and that it likely was deteriorating by the second.

  “Careful, Kvaal,” she said, barking her reply in the native language and stressing the name serving as Watson’s cover identity. “Remember your bearing.”

  Her junior officer, Watson offered a chastened nod. “You are right, Liska,” he said, reverting to spoken Klingon and her own cover name. “But we cannot stay here. If you are correct and they have discovered us, it will not matter what language we use.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Binnix, “but until that happens, we do not break our cover.”

  It was one of the bedrock principles underlying the training inflicted upon her, Watson, and David Horst while preparing for their present mission, and it was one of the very few defenses against exposure. Every waking moment of the last three years had been spent talking, writing, and thinking like a Klingon, to the point that it now was ingrained into nearly every fiber of Binnix’s being and every errant thought she carried in her head. The slightest lapse could prove costly not just for the three of them but also fellow operatives embedded in sensitive positions elsewhere in the Klingon Empire as well as other Federation adversaries such as the Romulan Star Empire and even the Orion Syndicate. Of course, Binnix knew—or at least was very confident—that the same could be said for enemy actors working within Starfleet and the Federation government. That the Klingons exploited such tactics was well known within the intelligence community if not the public at large, but there was only suspicion about similar activities on the part of the Romulans or anyone else. One could only speculate, but it was the job of Starfleet Intelligence to be on constant guard for such eventualities, and to Binnix it made perfect sense based on her own past knowledge and experience for the Romulans in particular to dispatch spies. After all, it would be difficult if not impossible to name even a single government entity that had not played the espionage game.

  It’s not a game, she thought. Even if it had been, it’s not anymore.

  That much was obvious just by looking at her reflection in the nearby window. The face staring back at her was not that of a human but instead a Klingon. Black hair instead of bright red, dark complexion instead of the fair skin she remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago, and her blue eyes turned brown. Like Watson and Horst, she had been surgically altered to appear as a QuchHa’, a descendant of those who a century earlier fell victim to the Qu’Vat genetic mutation virus, which had affected, among other things, the cranial bone structure in many Klingons. Altering the agents in this manner was an easier proposition than the far more involved surgery required to make them resemble members of the HemQuch caste. The deception was enhanced by the addition of a collection of ten subcutaneous implants beneath the skin of their torso and limbs, which worked together to present a false reading to sensors, medical monitors, and other scanning techniques capable of revealing their human heritage. Additionally, the implant at the base of their necks also contained a transponder capable of sending an encrypted signal only the three of them could scan and decipher in order to locate one another anywhere within a radius of one hundred kilometers. Intended for emergencies like the one the agents currently faced, they could be used only once. After activation, the transponders emitted their signals for forty-eight hours. Binnix and her companions activated their respective implants less than an hour earlier, but she was unable to pick up Horst’s signal. That meant he was outside scanning range, which she hoped was a good thing.

  One way or the other, we’re liable to find out.

  Watson, formerly blond and tanned as one might expect from a native of California on Earth, ran a hand through his own dark hair as he paced the width of the small, unassuming apartment that was Binnix’s residence. Located on the outskirts of the wejDIch Quarter of the First City, the capital not just of Qo’noS but the entire Klingon Empire, her dwelling offered what under normal circumstances would be a relaxing view of the Qam-Chee River, which served as the city’s southern boundary. None of that appealed to Watson, who kept shooting anxious glances at her as he continued stalking back and forth across her main room’s large bay windows.

  “How much longer?” he asked.

  “Another minute or so,” Binnix replied without looking up from the computer interface she had positioned atop the apartment’s small dining table. On the unit’s compact, crimson-tinged display screen, a series of counters and status indicators flashed in rapid succession. Copying the most updated version of her protected data archive and transferring it to a pair of portable storage crystals was taking longer than she had anticipated. Despite planning for this day while at the same time anticipating and fearing the circumstances under which it might become necessary, she found herself growing more concerned with every extra second she perceived this process was taking.

  The lag just by itself was enough to spark concern. Over the past three years, she had executed this type of data transfer more times than she could easily count. While there was always new information collected and added to the master repository maintained by Binnix and her companions, she had factored that into her planning in the event she needed to carry out a hurried move of data to the storage crystals. It was just one component of the team’s larger emergency protocol to be carried out in the event they needed to flee, either because the nature of their mission and their true identities had been revealed, or they were facing imminent exposure.

  Like right now, she thought, willing the computer to move her data faster. So far as she could tell, the computer gave no notice of her mental entreaties.

  “It is taking too long,” said Watson, his voice gruff as he continued speaki
ng in tlhIngan Hol. “Something is wrong. Is it possible they have found your link to their central computer system?”

  Binnix shook her head before replying in the Klingon language, “No. I have three different subroutines monitoring the connection even as it masks my activity. None of those have triggered any of the alerts I set up.” Still, Watson’s question gave her pause. “On the other hand, they may have enabled extra security software if they suspect illegal access. If that is true, then it is only a matter of time before they find my link, but I only need a few more seconds and then it will no longer matter.”

  At long last the counters and status icons provided the information she wanted to see, signaling the data transfer was complete. Retrieving the crystals from the computer’s bank of access ports, Binnix dropped them into a leather satchel she had already slung over her left shoulder before pushing her chair away from the dining table and rising to her feet. From the satchel she extracted a small civilian disruptor pistol, a modest weapon possessing far less power than those used by Klingon soldiers, or even standard-issue Starfleet phasers. Adjusting its power setting, she aimed the disruptor at the computer terminal and fired. A single harsh red burst of energy erupted from the weapon’s muzzle and enveloped the tabletop unit, reducing it to a puddle of liquefied metal and other composites.

  “That’s it,” she said, returning the disruptor to the satchel. “Let’s get out of here.” Glancing at the chronometer on the wall of the apartment’s small kitchen, she noted the time. “We need to get moving if we are to make the rendezvous with Horst.”

  If they were not already together when the decision was made to run, the team’s evacuation plan called for them to meet at one of three designated rally points around the city. The primary location was an open-air bazaar near the Riverfront Enclave, one of several ancient monasteries scattered around the First City. The Enclave overlooked the Qam-Chee River, and from there it would be easy for Binnix and her companions to make their way to any of a dozen routes out of the city. While they each had personal communication devices that were encrypted, their signals could still be tracked by some savvy individual. Therefore, they would not be used unless absolutely necessary.

  Their walking route to the Enclave would take them near the Federation Embassy. It would be so easy to just present themselves at the gate and—sticking with their Klingon cover identities—request asylum. Any regular citizen doing so would provoke all manner of protests from the Klingon government, but now? With the possibility of law enforcement and the military aware of spies who might be looking for a means of escape? Binnix suspected she and the team would be arrested the moment they tried to approach the embassy grounds, assuming they were not simply shot on sight.

  Let’s try to avoid that, shall we?

  “Time to go,” she said.

  Watson nodded. “No argument from me.”

  Like her, he was traveling light, carrying only a thin, black leather bag slung across his back. While their mission and their very survival disallowed them from possessing any sort of personal keepsakes or other items that might provide clues to their real identities, Watson along with Binnix and Horst had still acquired a few items here on Qo’noS while working under cover. For her part, Binnix was taking with her a trio of books she had purchased over the course of the past three years, while Watson had taken a liking to bladed weapons of various design. Everything else he owned he had left in his apartment in the city’s Old Quarter. Horst had collected a few knickknacks and other small items to decorate his own dwelling, and Binnix knew that he had left all of that behind once the team’s evacuation protocols were activated. All he had to his name was a disruptor pistol like hers and a d’k tagh knife he wore on his belt. If they were stopped for some reason by law enforcement officers who had no clue of their real identities, carrying large travel bags or other bulky items might arouse suspicion. Better to present the part of two people just walking along the streets of the city.

  Using a portable computer terminal, Binnix activated her connection to the apartment building’s security system, giving her access to the internal network’s camera feeds and computer interactions with other systems. No outside alerts or other message traffic out of the ordinary had been transmitted to the system. So far as she could tell, no one was monitoring the building with an eye toward watching her or Watson. It was just the usual sort of passive monitoring one might expect from a middle-income residential space where occupants paid slightly more in rent for additional safety and security measures. The system was easily exploitable, and Binnix saw nothing taking place to warrant concern.

  Satisfied they weren’t being set up for an ambush, she exited her apartment building with Watson following her. They both tried to affect the air that had become instinctive over the course of the past three years, acting as nothing more than a pair of citizens who had every right to be here. She had made similar walks through this, the proverbial pulsing heart of the Klingon Empire itself, uncounted times during this assignment. Like everything else, it was a routine she had developed as a survival mechanism, teaching herself to react to any sort of stimuli or distraction as a Klingon would. This meant breaking old habits like making unnecessary eye contact with or offering greetings to passersby, or striking up conversations with those she might encounter in a store or restaurant. The trick was not to avoid such things, but to react in Klingon fashion to those situations when they occurred. Her training had incorporated hours of classes and practical exercises on these subjects, drilling her to the point that when she arrived on Qo’noS, she along with her team could carry out their charade without thinking about it.

  Of course, the real tests came when she assumed her duties as a midlevel employee on the administrative staff working for Maroq, a member of the Klingon High Council. Using that unassuming role as cover, Binnix spent most of her first year here working to identify for exploitation Maroq’s list of contacts as well as take advantage of the classified information to which he was privy. Some of that was simplified by the fact that her work required her to have access to some of the same materials, while others required her to be more inventive. Another part of her training for this assignment involved learning how to operate and interact with Klingon computer systems. Despite holding an A6 computer specialist’s rating in Starfleet, a holdover from her prior career as a science officer, she was still required to essentially learn how to write and reconfigure software in a manner not always compatible with her existing knowledge. Her experience working with Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellarite systems helped her in this regard, along with the fact that when it came down to it, there were only so many ways to tell a machine what to do or how to do it, and most of them were universal. One only had to account for the idiosyncrasies of the language being employed.

  An additional, less pleasant aspect of her task called for her to tolerate Maroq’s seemingly unending advances. A widower, the elder council member had never remarried and instead embraced a lifestyle of carousing with women on a frequent basis. It was Binnix’s special hell that she maintained his schedule, including a calendar tracking his various rendezvous. Maroq’s attempts to see her added to what she called “the rotation” were as annoying as they were frequent. Most of the time, she was able to keep his interests directed elsewhere, as there seemed to be no shortage of prospective partners waiting for an invitation to dinner or other activities on which she preferred not to dwell. Instead, she used the time he was away from his office to gain access to his protected files.

  Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

  Binnix and Watson walked in silence for several moments, moving from the residential section of her neighborhood to an area populated more by commercial establishments. Without being obvious, she scanned the windows and doorways leading into shops, taverns, restaurants, and other businesses. It was early enough in the evening that many of them were still open, and the bars and eateries in particular were well trafficked. She checked faces, looked to see if eyes might be follo
wing her movements, but aside from the sort of brazen leers to which she long ago had become accustomed, no one seemed to take any undue notice of her or Watson.

  Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean the entire Klingon Empire isn’t out to get you.

  Two

  “Want to stop for a drink?”

  It was the first time Watson had spoken since leaving her apartment. They had walked for nearly fifteen minutes in silence broken only by Binnix confirming their path through the city to the rendezvous point. She turned to look at him, noting he was not looking at her but instead at someone or something farther up the street. Her stomach tightened in sudden anxiety, and it required physical effort not to follow his gaze.

  “This really isn’t the best time for that sort of thing, Kvaal. Don’t you think?”

  “Liska, you look like you could use a drink.”

  Nudging her arm, Watson directed her toward a tavern occupying the corner space of a building at the end of the block. Glancing through the establishment’s lone window, she saw that perhaps a third of its tables and stools were claimed by patrons. It was still early, and she knew from experience places like these would become more active as the evening wore on. As they moved to the entrance, Binnix used the opportunity to glance up the street, but did not see whatever it was that had spooked her friend. At first, she considered Watson was just worried and therefore even more alert than she was, and might be overreacting to something that would prove innocuous. On the other hand, the junior agent had always displayed sound instincts. If something had his attention, it could not be ignored. Not now.

  The tavern’s doors parted, releasing a cloud of smoke and the sounds of numerous conversations, raucous laughter, and music from at least two different sources. The small crowd of male and female Klingons was making up for its lack of numbers with enthusiasm, and while Binnix and Watson earned a few cursory glances upon entering the room, their arrival provoked no reaction.