“Close, but not quite,” Scotty said. “Are y’sure you’re all right?”

  I took a deep breath and straightened up, trying to summon up a little dignity. “All right? At my age, I’m lucky to be breathing.”

  By the time we made our way back to the little mess table and food replicators in the aft cabin, I’d pretty much recovered my senses. Still wasn’t too happy about being so goddamned old—but old is better than dead. Scotty got us two mugs of coffee and we sat down. I tried to tell him how real that nightmare felt. “The explosions…heat like a blast furnace…the stench. Like the whole city was burning. And Jim and Spock…and I couldn’t get to them.” I closed my eyes, hoping the image would disappear, but I pretty much knew it was seared into my brain forever. “Maybe I’ll just stay awake from now on.”

  “After drinkin’ coffee this strong, y’might have no choice in the matter.”

  “Scotty, what if the Dominion really does attack Earth?”

  “What—just because y’had a dream? All of a sudden, you’re psychic?” Scotty took a donut from a plate on the table. “There’s no place in the galaxy as well defended as Earth. Starfleet’s seen to that.”

  “Have they? I guess. But we’ve never been up against anything like this Dominion. What kind of monsters would unleash something like that nasty virus—it killed dozens of Vulcans, and almost took that damned Bajoran space station before we found a cure. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Aye, but we’re still here, aren’t we?”

  “For now.” Then, out of the blue, I remembered something I told Spock once, on some godforsaken planet. Omega IV, I think. Christ, these days I can’t remember by dinnertime what I had for breakfast. But that I could remember. “Remember Omega IV, when Jim was about to fight that crazy captain? What was it—Tracey, that was his name, mad as a hatter. A fight to the death. And I told Spock that evil usually triumphs, unless good is very, very careful. What if Starfleet’s not careful enough?”

  “When we get back, you can tell ’em that.”

  “I’d give anything to go back to the good old days,” I said, “when all we had to worry about were Klingons and Romulans.”

  “Aye. They may’ve been devils, but at least they were somethin’ like us. But these shapeshifters, and genetically engineered Jem’Hadar—” Before Scotty could complete his thought, an alarm sounded.

  “Engineering alert,” the computer said, in that damned calm voice.

  Scotty swore under his breath and got up fast. I guess engineers also learn that emergencies can’t wait. “I was hopin’ she’d hold together before—”

  “Before what? What is it?” I hobbled to my feet and followed him to the midship engineering compartment.

  “There was a variance in the plasma injector sequence. When it misfires, it can destabilize the whole warp field. For the last two hours, while you’ve been havin’ nightmares, I’ve been tryin’ to keep these engines runnin’ long enough to get us home.”

  As usual, I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about, but I caught enough of it to give me a good case of the jitters. “Are you telling me Starfleet sent us gallivanting across the galaxy, inspecting field hospitals and repair bases, in a bucket of bolts?”

  Scotty blew out a long, tired sigh. “Let’s just say this old girl’s way overdue for an overhaul.”

  “How overdue, Captain Scott?!”

  “There’s a shortage of ships, Admiral McCoy. You know that.”

  I did know—I just didn’t want to think about what that meant about our ship. He opened an access panel and frowned as he checked diagnostic grids and graphs on the little computer screen next to the glowing ship’s guts inside there. “Well? How bad is it?” I asked.

  “The variance started out around two percent off normal performance.”

  My eyebrows went up with relief. “Two percent? That doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Aye, not if she held at that,” Scotty said as his fingers tapped the keypad. The computer screen kept displaying new data, too fast for me to make any sense out of it. “Any variance over ten percent and we’ll have to drop out o’ warp.”

  “So what’s it at now?”

  “Computer, status report.”

  “Injector misfire variance now at nine-point-nine-three-

  five percent, and increasing at a variable rate.”

  “That tears it. Computer, initiate warp-drive shutdown.”

  “You mean we’ll have to go to impulse power? We could row home faster than that!”

  With another sigh, he replaced the access panel, and we went back to the cockpit. “We’ll not be goin’ home. Not just yet.”

  Just what I wanted to hear. “Then where the hell are we going?”

  “To find the nearest repair station.”

  The search turned out to be brief, and didn’t turn up many choices. At top sublight speed, the only repair facility within two days of where we were limping along turned out to be run by the Bakrii, a reclusive species who’d had the gall to turn down four invitations to join the Federation. Now, Starfleet background reports tend to be pretty bland documents, but whoever approved this particular dossier let a little bite slip in there. Despite the fact that they’d benefited mightily from the peace, security, and free trade afforded them by Federation military power, the Bakrii government had made it damned clear that they preferred to remain neutral during the war against the Dominion.

  Knowing that, neither of us figured on a warm welcome when Scotty eased the Hudson down at the Bakrii shipyard on a northern continent. But their reception was even chillier than we expected.

  While Scotty shut down and secured ship’s systems, I took a good look out the window. From what I could see, the Bakrii spaceport looked almost as long past its prime as I did. Scotty had set the Hudson down at the open end of a massive horseshoe-shaped complex, with ten huge hangars, each big enough to accommodate four or five ships the size of the runabout. But most of the hangars were empty, with crews at work in only three of them. One other ship was being lowered beneath ground level on an elevator platform, presumably to subterranean facilities. The main horseshoe structure was patched and shabby, with more than a few broken and boarded windows. The weather looked as bleak as the outpost itself, cold and windy, with an iron-gray overcast shrouding a dim sun. I opened a storage compartment, pulled out a pair of jackets and tossed one to Scotty. “Remind me to defrost in Hawaii when we get back.”

  “Let’s hope the Bakrii’ll help us get there sooner rather than later.”

  Just then, I looked outside again and saw a dozen armed guards trotting double-time out of a bunker not far from the landing pad, and surrounding the runabout. “Not exactly a brass band out there. Guns pointing at us before we so much as say howdy is generally not a good sign.”

  Scotty popped the hatch. As we climbed out, a biting wind hit us right in the face. And the way the circle of guards leveled their rifles at our chests wasn’t terribly comforting either. I’ve never seen a Bakrii before, but they all had characteristic rough wrinkles and folds around their facial features, kind of like elephant skin, and I wondered if it made all their expressions look grave. Then one older Bakrii man in a uniform cut through their line and came toward us, and I didn’t doubt for a second the expression on his face—about as friendly as your average batch of fire ants.

  He strode over as fast as he could, as if he didn’t want us taking even a step away from the runabout. “Starfleet ships,” he barked, “are not welcome here.”

  Scotty narrowed his eyes. “Captain Montgomery Scott, sir. This is Admiral Leonard McCoy. We don’t plan on settin’ up house-keepin’. Just here for emergency repairs. You are listed as a repair station, are you not, Mister—?”

  “Vuko. Supervisor. Yes, we are a repair station, but—”

  “Then give us a hand, Mr. Vuko,” Scotty said, “and we’ll be outta your way before y’know it.”

  Vuko pursed his lips, and the folds above his brow nearly obscured his amber eyes. “Your presence is a delicate matter, Captain Scott. Dominion ships have been sighted in the sector. We don’t want or need any trouble.”

  That made me hopping mad. “Trouble? Starfleet’s kept the peace for decades, allowing you Bakrii to go about your business. You’d think you’d actually have some idea who the enemy is!”

  “We have no enemies, Admiral. That’s the point of neutrality. In that spirit, we will extend the use of our port to you.” He turned toward a deferential younger Bakrii woman who’d slipped up behind him so quietly I hadn’t even noticed. “Deputy Supervisor Mezta here will assist you in getting your ship repaired and away with all possible haste. You should be leaving in no more than three hours.” With a sort of subtle precision, like they were doing an old dance step, the Bakrii woman moved aside just enough for Vuko to scuttle past her before we could argue with him.

  I glanced at this Mezta’s face, trying to get a feel for how much she agreed with her boss. Unfortunately, she was either very good at hiding how she felt or had nothing to hide. She looked like one of those people who didn’t doubt for a second the job she was told to do. All business. Too bad for us.

  “Captain Scott,” she said, “we will have your ship moved to Bay Five. Then I will review all your relevant data, and assign a repair crew to work with you. As you can see, we’re not that busy just now. I hope we’ll be able to help you get your repairs done before you have to depart.”

  The picture of efficiency, Mezta didn’t even wait for Scotty’s answer. She went right to delivering her orders through her wrist communicator. Almost immediately, a crane lowered its boom from the roof of the building, stopping directly above the Hudson. A tractor beam locked on, lifted the runabout and moved it into Bay Five, lowered the ship to the floor, released it and retracted.

  Always the gentleman, Scotty waved Mezta toward the Hudson’s open hatch first. We followed her in. While they went directly to the engineering compartment, I went to the cockpit. They hardly needed me back there, and I wanted to see if I could contact Starfleet Command. So I sat in the pilot’s seat, and activated the comm system. “Runabout Hudson to Starfleet Command.” After a few seconds of staring at the Starfleet symbol on the screen, I tried again. Still nothing. I tried a few other frequencies. And then I started to get worried. Was the comm system even working?

  “Affirmative,” the computer said. “Subspace signal has been transmitted.”

  “Did it get where it was going?”

  “Insufficient data for response.”

  “All right, then. Is Starfleet Command’s comnet operational?”

  “Insufficient data for response.”

  “Then give me some damn good reasons why I’m not getting through to them—if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Potential causes include subspace interference, outdated encryption codes, active jamming, malfunctioning receivers—”

  Well, I sure as hell didn’t like the sound of any of those. And the computer didn’t know enough to narrow down the list of possible problems. I wondered if I should interrupt Scotty’s repair work to tell him. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation—or the universe as we knew it could’ve ended. I started thinking of all the disasters that could’ve struck without us having a clue.

  At that point, I didn’t know how much of what I was thinking was that nightmare talking, or even that blasted industrial-strength coffee. Even if I told Scotty, there was nothing to be done other than getting the Hudson shipshape and resuming our voyage home. On the other hand, I’ve never been terribly fond of cruising toward the unknown. I’d just about decided Scotty should know, when a sudden crackle from the comm speaker nearly made me jump clear out of my skin.

  The image on the viewscreen stuttered and froze and rolled with interference. Through all the static, I could barely make out the grim face of a pretty young woman in a Starfleet uniform. She had short, dark hair and dark eyes, and there was a sober urgency in her voice. “U.S.S. Saladin to any Starfleet vessel in the vicinity,” she said. “Repeat—this is the Federation Starship Saladin. Any Starfleet or allied vessel receiving this message, please respond.”

  I fumbled with the companel for a second, then spoke up. “Saladin, this is the Hudson.”

  “Hudson? Thank God you’re all right!” I took her relief as a sign that they’d been out looking for us. At least somebody cared enough to notice we weren’t where we were supposed to be. She identified herself as Commander Julia Rivera, first officer.

  “Dr. Leonard McCoy, at your service, ma’am.”

  “Admiral McCoy?!” When she heard my name, Rivera’s eyes bugged out. I’d seen that look often enough to know that she’d just realized she was talking to the oldest active human in Starfleet. I just wasn’t in the mood for another “living legend” moment.

  Then I stopped being annoyed long enough for it to dawn on me: if Rivera’s ship had been searching for us, she’d have known the only two people on the Hudson were Scotty and me, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to find me on the other end of the conversation. “You weren’t out looking for us, were you?”

  “No, sir. Should we have been?”

  “Well, we’re overdue arriving back at Earth. So I just thought…” My voice trailed off, met only by a long, awkward silence from Rivera. “Then, if you weren’t looking for us—”

  “You don’t know, do you, sir?”

  Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that. “Know what, Commander?”

  “Sir, we’ve lost contact with Starfleet Command.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. Is there something else you’re not tellin’ me?”

  Another long silence from Rivera chilled my blood. Then she swallowed and spoke up. “Earth’s been attacked…by the Breen. They’ve allied themselves with the Dominion.”

  The words hit me like a punch in the solar plexus. “Good God! Were you there?”

  “No, sir. We were part of a combined Starfleet-Klingon patrol. We engaged a Jem’Hadar task force. We took losses but we walked away. They didn’t.”

  I tried to sound upbeat. “Well, that’s good news. Is your captain there?”

  “Captain Shinoda…” Rivera’s voice caught. “She’s dead, sir. We took some casualties. I’m in temporary command. We did manage to capture prisoners—one Jem’Hadar soldier who died, and one Vorta, who’s pretty badly wounded. Our doctor was also killed, so we sure could use your help keeping this prisoner alive for Starfleet to interrogate.”

  Then it was my turn to swallow hard. “If there’s any Starfleet left.”

  “Doctor, we’ve located you on Bakrii. We’ll be landing there in a few minutes.”

  As soon as she signed off, I got up as fast as these creaky bones would move. Now it was time to tell Scotty. Then we rushed outside the ship, just in time to see the Saladin landing in the center of the repair complex. She was one of those newfangled Defiant-class ships, with NCC-74350 marked on her battle-scorched hull. Compared to the starships I was used to, big ships like the Enterprise s, Saladin was small. But she was still a whole lot bigger than our runabout. As Saladin touched down in the heart of the complex, Vuko and his guards rushed up, looking even less happy than when we’d arrived.

  We came up behind Vuko as the starship’s hatch opened. Rivera climbed down and introduced herself. Her uniform was streaked with soot, and she had a bloodstained rip where she’d suffered a shoulder wound.

  Seeing her for the first time without comm static obscuring her face, I was stunned by how young she looked. Couldn’t be more than twenty-five. But that’s how wars go. As the more seasoned troops are killed, the ones who come next just get younger and younger. If they survive, they advance through the ranks long before their time. And they get to live with the psychic scars of war far longer than anyone should have to. Rivera was just one of the latest generation unlucky enough to be part of an old story, replayed century after bloody century.

  Speaking of replays, Vuko gave Rivera the same hostile reception as he’d given us—and then some. Having one Starfleet vessel here during perilous times was bad enough. Having a second—and one that was a lot more heavily armed and just escaped from mortal combat—was even worse.

  “What if the Dominion ships you fought come looking for you?”

  “They won’t,” Rivera said softly. “We destroyed all five. They never had time to send any maydays. Nobody’s hunting us.”

  On their own, out of context, Rivera’s words could’ve sounded boastful. But there wasn’t any bravado in her voice. I looked at her eyes, and all I saw was numb acceptance of the reality of her situation.

  Then Mezta spoke up, and what she said surprised me. “They’re here, Vuko. We have the crews available. We can get them both repaired.”

  That didn’t sit too well with Vuko. “Do it,” he huffed. “But the time limit stands.”

  Scotty and Mezta huddled with Rivera and her blue-skinned Bolian engineer. That Mezta wasn’t one for wasting time. She decided right then and there what needed to be done, assigned teams to each ship, and they got right to work. The Saladin got squeezed into the work bay next to the Hudson, which meant Scotty could keep an eagle eye on both ships as the Bakrii swarmed around them. But it didn’t take long for him to be as impressed as hell by their tools, skills and professionalism. Maybe it was because he trusted Mezta, but he decided to let the Bakrii work without his needing to watch every diagnostic scan and turn of a bolt. He asked where she’d found so many good engineers.

  “It’s in the Bakrii blood, you might say,” she told us, letting her pride show through for the first time. “Our planet’s climate is harsh and resources aren’t abundant, so we’ve had to develop a culture based on efficiency and inventiveness.”

  “Aye, nothin’ like a cold wind and the wolf at your door to inspire a clever mind.”

  “I’d never phrased it so poetically, but that’s the sum of things here.”

  Rivera’s combadge chirped. It was one of her officers from the bridge. “Commander, you’d better get up here.”