And then, like a mirage fading under a brutal sun, the ship shimmered into view.
A collective gasp swept through the room.
“A Vor’cha-class attack cruiser,” Picard murmured in surprise.
“What the hell are the Klingons doing here?” Moss demanded.
Behind us, Admiral Pressman had practically leapt from his seat, looking as if he wanted to take control of the situation—but something held him back.
Whatever President Moss had done had put the fear of Jesus into the man.
“I’m receiving a hail from the ship, Madame President,” I reported, my eyes flicking meaningfully toward the gathered audience behind us. “Do you want to take it here?”
“Open the channel,” she ordered, shifting fully into presidential mode. “Right here.”
A new display flickered to life before us, revealing the dimly lit bridge of a Klingon warship—and an all-too-familiar face.
“I am General Martok of the Klingon Empire, here on a mission from the High Council itself,” Martok declared. His voice was a deep, gravelly growl, edged with restrained impatience. “I would ask that you release my ship. We mean you no harm.”