Zero Hour 1

Ghostly streamers of multi-coloured light curled around the forward edge of the USS Cumberland's saucer section as the science cruiser probed into the nebula. On the bridge, Admiral Storok watched the readouts from the main science station, his face typically impassive.

"Fascinating," he murmured at one point.

"Maintaining course, one quarter impulse," Flag Captain Stulat reported. He and Storok were two of a kind; tall, dark-haired, elegant and urbane. They had worked together for over twenty years in Starfleet's science division. While wars and political convulsions had racked the Federation, the two had, by and large, remained aloof, continued on missions of exploration and discovery. Storok, especially, had become almost a symbol of the science division - an expression, in Vulcan flesh and blood, of Starfleet's peaceful mission.

"The nebular material," Storok observed now, "is almost certainly organizing itself into proto-organic molecules. Intriguing. I can recall only two previous similar instances. Perhaps we should consult the data libraries for related literature."

"Sir." The voice was that of Lieutenant Commander Thalev; the Andorian looked hesitant, almost apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to remind you -"

"Ah, yes. The countdown." Storok considered for a moment. "Open a subspace channel to Starbase 446. If there are any untoward events, they will become aware of them and act accordingly."

"Aye, aye, sir." Thalev went to the communications console. Storok turned his attention back to the data stream.

"Unusually high metallicity for nebular material," he observed.

"There are records of recent supernovae in the immediate stellar vicinity which might account for that," said Stulat. "Touching on another matter - is there any reason for concern over this countdown?"

"I do not believe so," said Storok. "It seems a trivial matter - a prank, or an amusement. Perhaps it is leading up to some anniversary which I have forgotten." He frowned, briefly. "It is puzzling that we have not been able to isolate the source of the data stream which carries it. One wonders what sort of mentality would go to so much trouble to anonymize the data, merely for the sake of an amusement. However, we shall know in a minute or so. And, once we have found out, we will return to our normal duties."

The ship shuddered slightly - once, then again. It was as if some vast hand was stroking the Nebula-class cruiser, softly, like a pet.

"I see no significant changes in the density of the nebular material," Storok said. "That vibration must have another cause."

"I will check the settings on the inertial dampers." Stulat went back to his command chair and called up a display on his console. "Curious. There is widespread fluctuation in the EPS grid." He turned to the engineering station. "Lieutenant Nabarro. Compensate and stabilize."

"I'm trying to, sir." Nabarro was human, young, fair-haired, and both his face and his voice were showing strain. "Standard control protocols aren't working - I'm trying emergency measures now -"

Storok tapped his combadge. "Main engineering," he said. There was no reply.

Under Nabarro's hands, the engineering console flashed suddenly red. "I'm locked out of the command structures!" the lieutenant cried out. "Nothing's responding!"

Stulat rose to his feet. "I will go to main engineering in person and direct recovery procedures."

"First, eject a recorder marker," said Storok. "We must leave a record of the ship's status in the event of unforeseen calamity."

"That is logical," said Stulat. His fingers danced briefly across the command interface. "Recorder marker ejected. I will proceed now to main engineering."

He strode across the bridge, to the turbolift doors. Long habit betrayed him - he maintained his calm, measured stride, even as the doors remained shut. The ship shivered again as he walked straight into them, and he fell sprawling on the deck, his face - just for a moment - registering the emotion of surprise.

"The entire grid is going out of phase!" Nabarro called out in despairing tones.

"Main computer," said Storok, while his flag captain scrambled to his feet. "Emergency override, my authority. Identify on my voiceprint, Storok Alpha One. Reconnect all communications. Set alert status to red. Open administrative access to all functions from the bridge engineering station. Implement immediate virus scan and purge. Activate emergency safety measures -"

He was still reciting instructions, in his impeccably unemotional voice, when the warp core destabilized and blew the Cumberland into white-hot trash.

Fast couriers from Starbase 446 were on the scene within hours. They recovered no survivors, only the Cumberland's recorder marker - and even that had failed. It contained no data, except for a single small file - a file whose contents read 00:00:00:00.

---

"Ignore it." Admiral Trosek marched into the RRW Khuaenen's transporter room, brushing aside a harried-looking centurion as he went.

"Sir, with respect -" The centurion was young, and inexperienced, but it was quite clear she was also determined. Trosek turned to look at her. He was tall, athletically built, his black hair touched a little with grey. He looked powerful, confident, and authoritative.

"I receive death threats and practical jokes on a daily basis, Centurion," he said. "My inbox is full of them. You will note, however, that I am still alive. This particular piece of nonsense is not important. My meeting with Admiral Kererek, though, is." He turned to the transporter operator. "Are we prepared?"

"Yes, Admiral. I have confirmation from transporter room seven-A of the flagship. You may beam to the flotilla when ready."

"Thank you. I am ready now." He strode onto the pad.

"Sir, a little delay, a few minutes, that can make no difference!" the centurion protested. "It would be wiser, sir -"

"If there were a genuine threat, Centurion, you would be right," said Trosek. "But this - this nonsense - is hardly a genuine threat. Have you evidence that the Khuaenen's security has been compromised? Or the flotilla's?"

"No, sir, but -"

"No. That is all, Centurion." He turned back towards the transporter operator. "Energize."

"Yes, sir." The transporter pad began to glow. The centurion made an exasperated gesture as Trosek shimmered with green light and faded away.

"Well," said the operator, "he's the flotilla's security problem now." The centurion shook her head.

A shrill tone sounded from the transporter console. The operator frowned as he touched a switch. "Khuaenen transport."

"This is transporter room seven-A," a voice said. "What are you playing at? We have a spike in the ACB! Rematerialization is negative!"

The operator swore under his breath. His hands moved rapidly on the controls. "Calm down, seven-A. Engaging recall circuits and reversing transit now." Then his eyes widened. "Boost signal strength! I'm getting fade and interference patterns in the matter stream!"

"We're already at standard max," the voice of the other operator said. "Going to emergency max now. Can you get him? Our confinement is flatlined, we've no hope of materializing -"

"I'm snagging... something." A bead of sweat stood out on the operator's brow. "Cutting in signal filters, boosting ACB to absolute max - Elements!" Red lights were flashing on the console. The operator's hand smashed down on a row of switches. "Emergency reform and restructure now, or we'll lose him for certain -"

"We have no signal, no signal," the voice from the other transporter room was crying. On the pad, green light began to glow. The air shimmered, thickened -

The operator stepped back from the console, his face paper-white. The centurion cursed.

The column of twisted flesh on the pad bore only the vaguest resemblance to a Romulan. Prongs of naked bone stuck out of the contorted torso, covered only with a thin greenish coating of blood. The thing grasped spasmodically at the air with something that might once have been a hand, then toppled over and burst open, wetly.

The operator hit his communications panel. "Medical to transporter room," he said loudly, over the sound of the centurion's vomiting. "Scramble case." He looked at the shambles on the pad and added, "No need to hurry."

Unnoticed at the time, a data subchannel was showing a message on the console, a string of digits blinking on and off: 00:00:00:00.

---
Khlar advanced, silently, his boots sliding noiseless on the ancient stonework, his bat'leth held out across his chest.

There was little light, but he did not need light. He knew these catacombs, knew them intimately. He had explored them, hunted in them, time after time, as a child growing up on the estate, as a young warrior practicing his skills.... He even had a holo-program with a complete simulation, so that he could visit this place of his boyhood, on the holodeck, while on ship duty.

He knew every twist and turn of the old stone labyrinth. It gave him an advantage... in the hunt.

He could hear his own breathing, even his own pulse. He could hear the faint sighs of the wind in the passages, the slow drip of water as it leaked through the stonework. Somewhere, there was another breath, another pulse. He would find it. And he would end it.

He turned another corner, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a mirthless grin. He knew this particular spot, too... if one stood by a certain curving section of wall, and placed one's head just so...

"Challenger." His voice echoed back from the stonework, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Khlar was convinced that the designers of the labyrinth had planned things that way. "This is my home. My place. You cannot win. Come to me, and I will show you the mercy of a quick death."

He did not wait for an answer, but moved, down the next tunnel, his blade extended out before him like the probing antenna of an insect. His eyes flickered from side to side, watching the familiar shadows, searching for anything new, out of place -

There.

A sound, of boot leather on stone; a shadow, where no shadow ought to be. Khlar snarled. If he was right - and of course he was - his opponent was standing in a little niche, just around the next bend, positioned for an ambush. Perfectly positioned to ambush anyone who did not know about the niche.

But Khlar did know. He sprang forwards, swung his blade around, aiming so that the point should go straight into his enemy's face.

Instead, there was a clash and shock of metal on metal, and a dark figure moved forward to confront Khlar, a mek'leth gleaming in one hand. The figure was humanoid, masked. Khlar roared in rage. He had been masked from the start, this challenger, this upstart, from the first time he had appeared on the viewscreen with his challenge and his damned countdown.

He stamped and roared, his bat'leth a blur in his hands, spinning and slashing in a rapid sequence of manoeuvres. Again and again the blades clashed. The masked opponent was strong, fast and clever - but the mek'leth was an inferior weapon in any case, and he, Khlar, he was a master of the blade -

The two fighters crashed together, then sprang apart. Khlar flourished his blade. He was tired, but he would not show weakness.

"Nicely done." The masked man spoke for the first time; his voice, too, was masked, anonymous behind an electronic filter. "Seriously, Dahar Master, I'm impressed. This is turning out to be a classic battle. What a pity, though, I have a deadline."

He raised his left hand, palm outwards. For one appalled moment, Khlar thought it was a gesture of surrender.

Then blue-white light glared from the man's palm, bolts of light that slammed into Khlar, breaking his bones, knocking him against the old stone wall, knocking the breath from his body.

The light blazed again, and the ancient stones cracked and fell, raining down on him, adding their bruising force to the power of the man's weapon. A Tuterian repulsor device, some dispassionate part of Khlar noted professionally, while the rest of him hurt.

He had dropped his bat'leth. He reached for it, and blue-white light fell on his hand, crushing and battering it against the stone floor.

"Yes," said the filtered voice. "Yes, that will be enough, even for a Klingon. But you've died well, Dahar Master. Go to Sto'vo'kor, now, with your weapon in your hand." The figure stooped, picked up Khlar's bat'leth, placed it almost gently in his hand.

Khlar snarled and tried to grasp it, but his hand was nothing more than a bag of broken bones. His sight was dimming as his shattered body failed him. He heard something fall to the floor, heard his opponent walk away... heard nothing more.

The fallen object turned out to be a cheap commercial datapad, mass-produced and effectively untraceable. It had a very limited storage capacity, but that hardly mattered, since all it had to do was display 00:00:00:00.