WORF WALKED QUICKLY and used his hand to keep his targ-skin satchel concealed beneath his hooded robe. The streets of the Klingon capital were all but empty in the predawn gloom, but distant traffic and a slight wind blended into soft white noise. A sudden, brief downpour had just ceased, leaving the city streaked with wet reflections. Tugging his hood low across his brow, he crossed the boulevard with haste, rounded the corner, and strode across a wide plaza toward the Federation Embassy.

The embassy resided in one of the city’s newer buildings. The structure was enormous, the color of rust, and shaped like a squat, inverted pyramid. Its four corners, more than two hundred meters overhead, were supported by four towering pillars. At street level the building was surrounded by a ten-meter-high perimeter wall—above and behind which was a forcefield powerful enough to stop nearly any conventional attack, from phasers to photon grenades to speeding vehicles on suicide runs.

Runoff stormwater cascaded from the embassy’s roof and washed down the gradual incline from the building’s perimeter into the plaza, where it pooled ankle-deep. Worf sloshed across the plaza and approached the front gate of the embassy.

He entered an eight-digit code that opened the outer door of the security lock. As he stepped inside the tiny, harshly lit vestibule, the reinforced blast door closed behind him, cutting off all sound from the street. The only sounds in the vestibule were the low-frequency hum of the scanning machines and Worf’s own breathing. As he had done countless times before, he put his hand into the slot and lowered his face toward the retinal scanner. He heard the hum of the machine working as it verified his DNA and confirmed the signal from his identity chip.

“Please authenticate your identity,” the machine said in a pleasing feminine voice.

“Worf, son of Mogh, ambassador to Qo’noS,” he said.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” the voice said. The security lock’s inner door slid open, and Worf walked through it into the embassy. Standing in the corridor on either side of the door was a pair of Starfleet security officers. Both were outfitted with torso armor and helmets and carried heavy phaser rifles. “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” they said in unison as Worf walked past. He grunted, nodded curtly, and kept moving.

Half a minute later he was in the turbolift and descending quickly to the lowest level of the embassy. This was a “secure level,” where, technically, even he did not have full clearance.

Once there, he hotwired the turbolift’s controls, and engaged the manual override. Guiding the turbolift car downward through a combination of careful attention to audible clues and an acute sense of changes in the vibrations beneath his feet, he lowered it until it reached the real lowest level of the embassy—the one that wasn’t on the blueprints, and which he wouldn’t know of except for his family’s old friend Lorgh, a longtime agent of Klingon Imperial Intelligence. He heard the door mechanisms catch and engage. He disabled the security lock. Pushing his fingers into the crack between the doors, he pried them apart with an agonized grunt that grew into a roar.

The doors separated to reveal a narrow corridor whose dim lighting was the color of human blood. At the far end, opposite the turbolift, was a single door. In front of that door stood an Andorian in an all-black uniform. Worf’s first step out of the turbolift had barely touched the floor before the man aimed a Starfleet-issue type-3 phaser rifle and challenged him: “Mr. Ambassador, please step back into the turbolift.”

Worf halted and eyed the tense young Andorian. “This is a matter of Federation security,” Worf said. “Lower your weapon.”

“Sir, you have five seconds to get back in the turbolift.”

Worf clenched his fists. “You are making a grave mistake.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you proceed.”

“I need to speak to Commander Zeitsev. Now.”

Judging by the shocked expression on the Andorian’s face, he clearly was surprised to learn that Worf knew the identity of Starfleet’s real chief of intelligence operations on Qo’noS. Worf concluded this young man would be a terrible poker player. “But you…” he stammered. “You’re not supposed to…”

“To what?” Worf said. “Know who he is? Know what kind of equipment he has behind that door?” Worf took a step forward and was amused to see the man with the rifle take an instinctive step backward. “I need to see him now. Billions of lives depend on it.”

For a moment, the Andorian’s resolve seemed to waver. Then he shook his head. “No, sir,” the Andorian said. “I can’t. You need to—”

Worf pressed his thumb onto the tiny push-switch concealed in his right hand. It emitted a low-power subspace signal that triggered his phaser, which he had fastened snugly along the bottom of his satchel so that its discharge would strike someone standing directly in front of his left hip. The shimmering golden beam burst through the side of the satchel and floored the unsuspecting Andorian in a single shot.

“Very nice,” a man said over the com speakers. His voice reverberated in the confines of the metallic-surfaced corridor. “Well done, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Thank you,” Worf said. “Open the door.”

“Of course,” the voice said. “Come in.”

Worf heard the clacking of the far door’s security bolts being released. He walked away from the turbolift, stepped over the stunned Andorian, and pressed the control pad next to the door, which opened with a low hydraulic hiss.

The room on the other side was illuminated by a blue flicker. He stepped inside and looked around. To his right was a wall-sized rectangular viewscreen. Its display had been subdivided into thirty-two images of equal size and identical proportions to one another and the master screen itself. The images included Klingon and Federation newsfeeds, and what Worf surmised were illegal taps on internal Klingon security systems. Images of Klingon politicians whom Worf recognized blinked in and out, replaced by surveillance-camera images of people he didn’t know, places whose significance was unclear, and random scrolls of alphanumeric information in several languages. He thought for a moment that he might have glimpsed his own residence, but it went by too quickly for him to be certain.

Silhouetted in front of this mercurial wall of images, with his back to Worf, was Commander Vasily Zeitsev. He stood and tapped commands into a Starfleet-type com panel that was mounted on a lectern’s angled top surface. He spoke without turning to look at his visitor. “Good morning, Ambassador.”

“Commander Zeitsev,” Worf said.

Worf waited for Zeitsev to ask why he’d come looking for him. But the intelligence chief continued his work, his slight frame defined by his military-perfect posture and solid-black uniform. After several seconds, it became clear to Worf that Zeitsev was forcing him to extend himself verbally if he wanted the encounter to progress. It was the conversational equivalent of judo or the Mok’bara, in which the aggressor was the one more likely to be off balance. Worf understood that in most tactical situations, it was more advantageous to defend a strong position than to attack one. But with the Klingon fleet rapidly nearing Tezwa, he had no time for roundabout strategies. A direct approach was his only option.

“I need your help,” Worf said.

“I hardly think so,” Zeitsev said. “You seem perfectly capable of causing an interstellar incident all by yourself.”

Worf took a breath and focused his thoughts. He would not let the arrogant spymaster goad him into a foolish outburst. “I need information about the Klingon High Command’s internal computer network.”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” Zeitsev said.

“How many terminals have access to their Fleet Command Center?”

Zeitsev paused in his work. He half-turned and peeked over his shoulder at Worf. After a moment, he resumed working. “Several dozen at least. How much access do you need?”

“Top-level,” Worf said. “Fleet command codes.”

Zeitsev punched a single key on his panel, and the entire wall of images went dark. A row of harsh overhead lights snapped on as he spun and marched toward Worf, who held his ground. Zeitsev looked older than his fifty-odd years, and his chiseled features were creased and pallid. His eyes, however, were almost as intense as those of a Klingon. He planted himself toe-to-toe with Worf, who towered over him. His voice was hard and sharp.

“What, precisely, are you up to, Mr. Ambassador?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Worf’s mouth as he felt the conversational advantage shifting in his favor. “That,” he said, “is classified.”

Zeitsev glared at him, then chortled.

“Of course it is,” he said, darkly amused. “It always is.” His mouth turned down, into a frown. “There’s a Klingon fleet heading toward Tezwa. Your former ship, the Enterprise, is there now.” Worf grimaced defensively as Zeitsev continued talking. “They don’t stand much of a chance, going it alone against an entire fleet…. Do they, Mr. Ambassador?”

Worf glowered at the smug little man. “No,” he said at last. “They do not.”

“But if Picard had some means of disabling the fleet…”

“It would be a decisive advantage.”

Zeitsev nodded. He turned and walked back to his lectern. “The Imperial Command headquarters is a fortress,” he said. “We don’t have time to get you in there.” He keyed a string of commands into the panel. “The Great Hall, on the other hand…you can get in there anytime you want.”

The wall screen snapped on to show a floor-plan schematic of the Great Hall. A dozen points on the blueprint were marked by blinking red Klingon trefoils. “These twelve terminals are the only ones in the building with access to the Fleet Command Center,” Zeitsev said. “Naturally, they’re all in the private offices of the senior councillors.” He looked at Worf, then added: “And in the chancellor’s office, of course.”

“Of course,” Worf said.

Zeitsev turned off the wall display. “I just want to make clear, Mr. Ambassador, that neither I nor any of my people can be involved in any act of overt espionage on Qo’noS.”

“I understand,” Worf said.

“Good,” Zeitsev said. He nodded toward the door. “You can let yourself out now.”

Worf exhaled an angry breath, then turned to leave. Zeitsev called after him. “And Ambassador…?” Worf turned back toward the gruff-voiced intelligence officer. “Don’t forget to pick up the package in your office.”

Worf didn’t understand at first. “Package…?”

Zeitsev turned away, deactivated the overhead lights, and resumed scanning dozens of screens of information. Worf realized that Zeitsev was likely using him as a pawn in some kind of covert campaign of one-upman-ship against Imperial Intelligence. But with time running out for the Enterprise and the Klingon troops racing toward their doom on Tezwa, that was a risk Worf accepted as necessary. He walked out the door and stepped over the still-incapacitated Andorian, leaving Zeitsev alone with his hidden agendas and his wall of flickering blue secrets.