“Would you join us for a late lunch, Commander?” Amarante asked, then looked up to Picard to make sure that was his wish as well.

  He nodded his approval.

  “Oh, please, call me Deanna.”

  “Deanna, then. We were going to—”

  Picard stopped listening to his niece. A distant rumble drew his attention away from the conversation. It sounded like thunder, but the temporary VIP quarters Starfleet had given Picard were supposed to be soundproofed to most outside noise. And, he thought, there was no forecast for thunderstorms. He furrowed his brow and turned toward the computer terminal. That was when the rumbling turned into a howl as the ceiling cracked and the floor shook, and the walls crumbled around them.

  “Enterprise to Starfleet Command, come in. This is Enterprise.” Lieutenant Daniels looked up to Commander William Riker and shook his head despondently. “I can’t get through, sir.”

  Riker leaned forward in the command chair. “Data? Interference from the storm?”

  “Scanning.” Lieutenant Commander Data leaned over his ops console. “I do not believe the storm is to blame. I am picking up steady navigational beacons from both Vulcan and Andor. Subspace communications from the Sol system seem—” he turned, looked back to Riker, his android brows raised in intrigue “—jammed at the source, sir. No clear channel on any Starfleet frequency.”

  Not something anyone wanted to hear at a time of war. Riker twisted back around to Daniels. “Try nonfleet frequencies, Lieutenant. Scan the commercial bands, too.”

  “Aye, sir.” Reconfiguring his station for a frequency set not usually scanned, Daniels had to wait a moment for a full scan to complete. “Getting something now. Multiphasic transmissions, sir. Not jammed but so active it’s almost a garble.”

  “Data? Can you make any sense of it?”

  “I shall attempt to.” Data’s fingers moved quickly over the face of the ops console. “The strongest broadcast without waver is from commercial news agencies, sir.”

  Riker nodded toward the main viewer. “Put one on the screen.”

  Before them, the starscape warbled out of view, replaced by the charred and melted remains of Starfleet’s home.

  “—the scene from San Francisco today. Uncounted dead and injured at the Golden Gate Bridge park and museum, but area hospitals are overwhelmed. As well, many of the the buildings that house Starfleet Command have been completely obliterated. Communications with other Starfleet offices have been jammed, and we are unable to determine survivors at this time. The Federation News Service is reporting that recently elected Mayor T’Grell, San Francisco’s first Vulcan mayor, has urged calm, and requested that both the state of California and the Federal government designate the city a disaster area. That request has been granted and national, state, and planetary agencies are coordinating with the city. Repeating our top story once again, Starbase 1 has lost all power, trapping one line of Earth defense within its confines. We have reports that the orbital defense platform protecting North America has been disabled as well, leaving this hemisphere utterly without protection from the attacks. This is Wendy Spampinato, reporting from San Francisco, Earth. Back to you, Afya.” She paused awkwardly, then felt for an unseen earpiece. “Afya? We’ve lost the connection to the NewsCenter. Jeff? Jeff? I can’t read my producer either. It’s possible…” The reporter was now choking back tears. “I think the NewsCenter has been attacked. I’m sorry, I’m going to transfer to Los Angeles.” As the transmission broke down, the reporter could be heard fading away. “My husband, I need to find my husband!”

  Silence enveloped the bridge until Riker stood. “Red alert,” he ordered. “Mr. Daniels, continue to monitor that band for more information. Data, tactical report. Nearest Federation starships?”

  Riker joined Data at the ops console.

  “Columbia is docked within Starbase 1 itself, undergoing refit, sir.” The main viewscreen shifted graphics from Starbase 1 to a starchart of their sector. “We and the Lexington are the closest starships to the Sol system. Lexington is escorting TF-12 to Starbase Midway and is within communications range despite the storm.”

  “What about the Indianapolis?”

  “Also within range, sir, though at least five hours away.”

  Riker pivoted to the ensign at conn. “What’s our ETA to Earth at maximum warp?”

  Ensign Kell Perim already had that figured as a normal part of her watch procedure. “Eleven hours, sir, if we continue to go around the storm.”

  Shaking his head, Riker said grimly, “I don’t think we have that time to waste.” He pointed to Perim’s console. “Adjust course to take us straight through.”

  As soon as he heard that order, Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge pushed off toward the port turbolift. “I’ll be in engineering, sir. I can’t promise maximum through an ion storm.”

  “Just batten down, Geordi, and give us the best you can.” Riker returned to the command chair, his shoulders suddenly tense and his jaw tight. “Ensign?” Riker lowered himself uneasily into the center seat.

  “Course plotted and on the screen, sir.”

  “Engage. Best possible speed to Earth.”

  Jean-Luc Picard had seen more battles than he cared to remember, yet he remembered them all. None had been waged on Earth. The dust and debris he now shook from his shoulder was not from a starship bulkhead, but from his quarters at Starfleet Command. Instinctively he reached out for those he knew to be near him when the attack had come. He pulled Deanna from the ground, helping her to her feet, and found he didn’t have to help Amarante who was sweeping a thick strand of brown hair behind her ear and out of her eyes.

  “An earthquake?” Amarante asked.

  “None were scheduled for today, and they wouldn’t have let off this much stress in any case.” Picard coughed, steadied Deanna who in return tried to bolster him as well when he choked on the thick air. “We’re under attack,” he said, his throat feeling rough around the words. “Are you both all right?”

  “Fine, sir.” Deanna nodded and straightened her dress as best she could.

  “Unc—Captain,” Amarante corrected herself, realizing the situation was now an on-duty Starfleet event. “I’m fine, sir.”

  The captain jabbed at his combadge. “Picard to Command.” Nothing. Communications were possibly down. “I’m going to test your communicator,” he told Amarante. “Picard to Lebel.”

  His niece frowned. “It’s not working.”

  He tapped the combadge again. “Picard to Starbase 1.”

  Again, only static crackled back.

  “Damn,” he whispered angrily. “Ensign, I want you to see if you can find some of your classmates. They might still be in the reception room with members of their families. See to the civilians, and then gather your class. They may be needed. Counselor, with me, please.”

  Amarante nodded determinedly, though he could see she was somewhat shaken.

  Gutwrenched not with terror but with dismay and disdain, Picard and Deanna helped one another toward the doorway with Amarante taking the lead. All of them stepped awkwardly over broken furniture, ceiling supports that had dropped, and debris from the floor above. Picard nearly tripped trying to grasp at a tricorder he’d found near the door. Regaining his balance, he dusted the device off and thrust it in his pocket.

  “We need to try to get to HQ ops. If we can,” he told Deanna as Amarante headed slowly but surely down the corridor in another direction. “I think it’s safe to say that operations would have been the target…”

  “The Dominion, this far into Federation space?” From the sound of incredulity in her voice, Deanna obviously found it hard to believe.

  “Not a pleasant prospect,” Picard said, stepping over an exposed lighting panel that had fallen from the ceiling.

  A loud rumble quaked the walls around them and dust fell as ceiling cracks spider-webbed above. “They’re continuing to attack. Hitting the city.” He huffed out his breath, the thick air getting to him. “How many people have died?” he rasped. “Not just in here, but outside. People who thought themselves safe.”

  They reached a dead end where the rubble from above was so high there was no getting around it without breaking through what was left of the ceiling above.

  The captain turned back to Deanna and gripped one of her arms. “We have to assume planetary defenses are neutralized and the scale of this attack is larger than just San Francisco. That means we need to be ready to coordinate a defense if Starbase 1 and other fleet offices cannot.” She nodded her understanding. “There’s a transporter room two levels down. I’m going see if I can make my way there. Meet up with Amarante and I’ll join you later. Care to any survivors and to the civilians.”

  “Aye, sir.” She nodded, turning away as he released his grip.

  “Find a sidearm, if you can, Commander,” he called after her. “And be careful.” There was no guarantee that this was just an aerial attack. Ground troops could already be swarming the HQ complex.

  She turned to look at him a brief moment, and quietly said, “You too.”

  “I’d call them morons if they’d not been so successful.” Watching the newsfeeds on the viewscreen, Captain Richard Husband watched with anguish as news cameras showed the starbase dock in which he and his ship were locked. He’d never seen Starbase 1 without power before. It was eerily dark when only lit by the sun. The picture was a surreal one.

  Husband still wasn’t sure exactly what enemy had made the sneak attack. Whoever they were, they’d effectively jammed Starfleet communications, but had left lower frequency commercial channels untouched. Not the first time that mistake had been made in the history of warfare, but maybe that loophole had never appeared in this enemy’s experience.

  The news, if it was right, spoke only of the attack on the starbase and San Francisco. If true, it was likely meant to have more a psychological impact, to terrorize the population, hoping that would weaken the Federation’s resolve to defend itself. They don’t know us very well, the captain thought.

  “Lieutenant Chawla, keep monitoring commercial communications, and let me know when you can piggyback one of those transmissions in a secure way.”

  “Aye, sir. I should have the algorithm worked out by the time we have main power.”

  Main power wasn’t supposed to be restored for another four days, but without current from Starbase 1’s spacedock it was important to make a change in that schedule. The trouble was, there was only one full shift of crew on board the Columbia. Clark and the rest were on leave or day passes. That made it hard to work on more than a few damaged systems at a time.

  Husband had to keep himself from bothering Commander Anderson and the rest of his engineering staff. Mike was having enough problems with all the captain had given him to do without needing to answer “Are we there yet?” every five minutes.

  Lifting himself anxiously from the command chair, Husband made his way across the dim bridge toward the rear engineering station. To conserve energy it was shut down, but he tapped in a command to tie it in to the whole system so he could check on battery power.

  “Twenty-two percent left on batteries,” Husband said more to himself than anyone else, then pivoted toward the science station. “Mr. Ramon, any luck?”

  Ilan Ramon shook his dark head of curly hair. “There are a million ways to break through those doors with force, but not if you want to do it without destroying that entire section and perhaps everyone in spacedock, us along with them.”

  “What about cutting our way out? Fine-tuned phaser beams at certain points—”

  Ramon cut his captain off—something he normally would not do. “It would take more time than we likely have, and we won’t have the phaser power until the mains are back online anyway, sir.”

  As if by omen, an increasing hum and brighter lights suggested for a moment that main power was back. But then, an instant later, everything returned to battery power. Before Husband or Ramon could do more than exchange a disappointed glance, however, power returned. They both waited—the entire bridge crew waited—looking at one another, and their now bright consoles, making sure this time the power would be maintained.

  Almost startling them all, the comm crackled to life. It was Anderson. “Sir—”

  “You don’t even have to say it,” Husband told him, then turned to Ramon. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Sir?” Chawla pulled his attention toward her then motioned to the view screen. “I think you should see this.”

  “Get started,” Husband ordered Ramon, then looked toward the main viewer.

  A now familiar news broadcast filled the screen.

  “—now confirmed that Starfleet has scrambled low orbit fighters to combat three unknown vessels that most surely outgun anything but a starship. Forces spread thin because of multiple war fronts, only the U.S.S. Columbia was in Earth orbit at the time of the attack, and she is reportedly locked behind the powerless spacedoors of Starbase 1’s refit docks. Starfleet headquarters in the bay area is little more than a mound of rubble. Obviously orders are coming from somewhere, but that information is being kept classified, likely to avoid that base from being attacked. As I speak, we’ve lost contact with our offices in San Francisco and have verified that the Golden Gate Bridge and Starfleet are not the only targets in this slow, methodical attack. Both civilian populations as well as centers of infrastructure are being bombarded by plasma weapons from this unseen and unknown enemy. Casualty counts are…there’s no way to know at this early date. The National Guard has been mobilized to shore up any possible defenses and bring all available mobile medical units to this city. FEMA has already beamed onto the scene, as has the Interstellar Red Cross/IDIC Kula’na, the joint Terran/Vulcan civilian support organization. Vulcan defense ships have been dispatched as well, but will not cross into the Sol system for at least another hour. Until then, Earth sits defenseless.”

  “Keep monitoring, but get it off the main screen,” Husband ordered, then spun back toward Ramon. “We need to get out of here now.”

  The transporter room Picard hoped to find was there, but without power. There was a battery backup system, but circuits had been crushed by falling debris and the captain could not fix them alone. He made his way back to where he knew Deanna, Amarante, and the other Academy graduates and their families would be. Along the way he checked every door he could open for survivors, and every communications console for power, but neither quest bore fruit.

  It was once he was reunited with Deanna and his niece that the real work began.

  Controlling and consoling the mass of graduate relatives, Deanna was already in full counselor mode before Picard even pulled together Amarante and her classmates and the few other Starfleet personnel that had found their way to the lounge. Some of those Deanna said she’d met on her way from Picard’s VIP quarters. No wonder he encountered no one on his way back. For that reason and because most staff would either be on shift in ops or in offices off base.

  “I don’t know your names,” Picard said, meeting each new ensign’s eyes with his own, “and I’m not sure I have time to learn them. But those of you here, having seen to the safety of your loved ones and the injured without panic, are already holding yourselves well as Starfleet officers. I need you all to stay that course.” He paused in dramatic effect that only starship captains and the finest actors possessed. “Many are likely dead. Those of us who remain…need to be Starfleet Command.”

  The captain had seen more than one eager ensign in his career, and he saw the same determination in every face that looked back at him now. And as well a touch of fear. That was normal, and natural, and they would have to set it aside.

  “Very well,” Picard said. “Who here majored in communications?”

  Two hands raised and one other of the young officers said, “I did.”

  “You three, then. Take two others, not in your field, and get to the surface. There’s an emergency stairway two doors down that is clear. Once outside, find ground transportation, as aerial may be compromised. We don’t know if this is to be a full-scale invasion or not, but I want you out of the air. Get to the nearest intact communications hub, and I don’t care if that’s governmental or commercial. We need to know if communications are jammed locally, globally, and to what extent. If you’re able to get a signal out of the city, you’re to set us up with a link to the nearest Starfleet office.”

  “And if they’re also under attack, sir?” one of them asked.

  It was a good question. “If they’ve attacked Mexico City as well, then try Detroit, or Houston. Then New York, Toronto, Santiago, Tokyo, London, and keep expanding outward. Cover the globe if needed. There’s a reason we have offices and operations spread over the planet. Find sidearms or phaser rifles before you go, then head out.”

  “Aye.” The three of them stood and quickly marched out of the room, exchanging quick glances, Picard noticed, with those who must have been relatives.

  “Amarante,” Picard called for his niece and then corrected himself to call her, “Ensign Lebel.”

  “Sir?” Her eyes were wide, expectant, not so much excited as they were impatient for something to do.

  He handed her the tricorder he’d taken from his quarters. “Connections from this to main Starfleet libraries are jammed. Modify the connections, searching for links to less secure networks. There’s not enough power in this to transmit very far, but we should be able to receive outside nets.”

  She nodded and almost grabbed at the tricorder. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain turned back to the rest of them as Amarante moved off to work. “Now, who wants to be an engineer?” A few of them nodded. “You’ll get your chance. You.” He pointed to one of them. “Find a working computer that has local storage. Get me detailed plans of the HQ complex. You’ll know what to look for. Meet us back in the transporter room two levels below.”