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A few moments after the slightly disconcerting feeling of sudden acceleration had passed, the turbolift came to an even more noticeable stop. The hatchway bifurcated, a hissing pneumatic mechanism propelling it open almost instantaneously.

Another pair of armed Romulan soldiers stood just across the threshold of the Vulcan ship’s busy bridge, their disruptor pistols raised and ready as black-garbed crew members busied themselves with various technical tasks all across the bridge. Although Tevik appeared ready to leap upon the nearest of the armed guards, it was obviously a lost cause.

“Move,” said the closest of the soldiers, and Trip allowed himself to be led out of the lift toward the bridge’s bustling center. He was relieved to note that neither Tevik nor Ych’a seemed to be of a mind to try anything stupidly heroic—at least not yet. And he suddenly noticed a certain familiarity about the decidedly nonregulation clothing worn by the bulk of the bridge crew. It occurred to him that their black, paramilitary clothing bore a more than passing resemblance to that of the Ejhoi Ormiin assassins who had killed Doctor Ehrehin last year.

The soldiers brought the trio to a halt at the command deck’s center, just behind the equivalent of the captain’s chair on a Starfleet vessel. The troops withdrew to a discreet yet easily crossable distance, leaving Trip and his colleagues to stare at the back of the salt-and-pepper-haired male who occupied the center seat, his attention evidently focused tightly upon the image being displayed on the broad forward viewscreen.

It was easy to see why. The viewer was presenting a departure view of the Aeihk’aeleir Shipyard, its roughly spherical shape dwindling quickly into the darkness of the outer Achernar system. In the foreground, another vague shape was just as steadily increasing in apparent size. Despite its lack of running lights, Trip could see enough of its outline in the dim ambient light to ascertain that it was another ship.

It wasn’t until the shipyard’s reactor detonated silently, temporarily transforming the giant facility into an artificial sun, that Trip could discern the approaching vessel’s sleek lines amidships and its delta-shaped aft section. Trip’s jaw fell open. His heart could scarcely have beat faster if it had just crossed a black hole’s event horizon. Though the shipyard had been destroyed, the mission had failed spectacularly.

The Romulan warp-seven prototype, the late Doctor Ehrehin’s dream and Earth’s nightmare, was intact and flying, apparently after a last-minute rescue from destruction by whatever skeleton crew had been aboard her.

The man seated in the command chair chose that moment to swivel around to face his “guests.” As he recognized the man in the chair, Trip felt his jaw fall open further still; he managed to close it only with an act of pure will.

“Sopek,” he said when he had at last recovered his voice. “Or Ch’uivh. Or whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days.”

“Traitor,” Ych’a accused the man in a matter-of-fact tone.

The man in the chair seemed content to allow Trip and his colleagues to wonder about him; he turned toward the black-garbed woman who had just approached him, and took the padd she had extended in his direction.

“It’s a new status report from the crew aboard the avaihh lli vastam prototype,” the woman said.

“Very good,” said Sopek/Ch’uivh, his eyes moving quickly across the padd’s display as his thumb quickly scrolled the information.

“What’s your angle this time?” Trip asked the man in charge after he’d handed back the padd and dismissed the woman. Although Sopek had the smooth forehead characteristic of a Vulcan, his true origins and affiliations remained obscure to Trip. “Still working for the Ejhoi Ormiin dissidents? Or have you secretly been on Admiral Valdore’s payroll all along?” Trip knew that the likeliest possibility was that he was really playing both ends against the middle, operating purely