A Time to Harvest

by Dayton Ward

  The Skiff Turned to Face in Their Direction.

  “Damn,” La Forge hissed through gritted teeth, freezing in place as the tiny craft angled toward him. There was still a possibility that the pilot had not yet seen any movement or other indications of the away team’s presence, but the chief engineer realized that as nothing more than wishful thinking as the skiff moved to within twenty meters. Its nose dipped toward the asteroid’s surface, allowing the Dokaalan seated inside the ship’s cockpit an unfettered examination of the rocky ground below him.

  Even from twenty meters away, the pilot locked eyes with La Forge.

  And he smiled.

  “He’s got us!” La Forge shouted, no longer making any effort to remain hidden as the skiff accelerated toward them. Bringing the phase pistol up, he moved the weapon’s selector switch to Kill, its maximum power setting, sighted along the pistol’s short barrel, and fired….

  Current books in this series:

  A Time to Be Born by John Vornholt

  A Time to Die by John Vornholt

  A Time to Sow by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

  A Time to Harvest by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

  Forthcoming books in this series:

  A Time to Love by Robert Greenberger

  A Time to Hate by Robert Greenberger

  A Time to Kill by David Mack

  A Time to Heal by David Mack

  A Time for War, A Time for Peace by Keith R.A. DeCandido

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Copyright © 2004 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-8895-4

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  Acknowledgments

  Hmmmm.

  It seems we thanked a whole bunch of people on the acknowledgments page of A Time to Sow. However, once that book was laid to rest, it dawned on us that we had committed a most critical error the first time around.

  Yep, you guessed it. We forgot to mention our wives.

  Whoops.

  You’re probably saying to yourself, “Yeah, but their wives are, like, adults. They probably couldn’t care less if their names aren’t mentioned in a Star Trek book. I think Dayton and Kevin are making a big deal out of nothing.”

  Think again, Naïve Reader.

  So, without any further delay, we’d like to take this opportunity to thank MICHI and MICHELLE, both of whom display endless patience as their goofball husbands continue in their quest to be the oldest students never to graduate from Romper Room.

  And in our own best interests, we’re not thanking anyone else. Ever.

  Except—and here’s where you should picture that poor guy at the award shows who has to talk over the music because his colleague sucked up all the allotted air time—Kevin gives his sincere thanks to Rosy King and the staff of the Paola (Kansas) Free Library and to Gloria and Chuck Gray and the staff of the Paola McDonald’s franchise for allowing him to use their respective establishments as satellite office space for the writing of portions of this novel.

  Okay, that’s it.

  No, we really mean it this time.

  Really.

  Push the button, Frank.

  Prologue

  Translated from the personal journal of Hjatyn:

  AS I WRITE THIS, I wonder whether generations to come will read what I have recorded here and think they have somehow mistaken one old man’s journal for a work of fiction.

  On many nights while sitting alone in my library and reviewing what I have written in these pages, I marvel at the events I chronicled along with the thoughts and feelings I experienced as those extraordinary events unfolded. The fact that all of it is true, free from embellishment and requiring no such aggrandizement on my part, is what makes our story all the more astonishing.

  There can be no doubting that our journey has been a remarkable one. Watching the destruction of our homeworld, Dokaal, and struggling for generations to forge an existence out here, within the artificial environs of the various mining outposts among the asteroid field, it seemed impossible that we would ever be able to achieve anything beyond simple survival. Still, we are here, having thrived splendidly despite the challenges facing us and in fact having become dissatisfied with simply living. Despite all we have accomplished, one vital thing keeps our lives from being complete: We still lack a genuine home. But in true Dokaalan fashion we have set out to make one.

  The remaking of the planet Ijuuka in Dokaal’s image can be described only as the singular technological feat in our history. Transforming its poisonous atmosphere into one capable of sustaining our people has required the employment of scientific and engineering principles never before imagined, not to mention the invention of the technologies, equipment, and skills necessary to complete the task. It is a project of mammoth complexity and duration, and watching our brightest minds devise and implement each stage of the project has been awe-inspiring. Though I never shared the deep spirituality of my late wife, Beeliq, I have found myself thanking Dokaa on more than one occasion for the blessings she seems to have given this mammoth effort. My only regret, one I have harbored since the transformation project began, was that I would not live long enough to see it completed.

  That belief changed with the arrival of the magnificent alien vessel, the Enterprise, its crew representing a vast community of people from hundreds of planets not at all dissimilar to ours. Incredibly, they have come in response to a call for help issued generations ago.

  As one of a shrinking number of Dokaalan alive at the time disaster struck our home planet, I remember the speech First Minister Zahanzei gave to the people where he outlined a plan to dispatch unmanned craft into space, each carrying an appeal for help. Everyone I talked to at the time considered it an outlandish scheme born of desperation and panic, with no actual chance of success. While I had always been of a mind to believe that there could be life on other planets far beyond the confines of Dokaal, I held no illusions that three tiny vessels would be able to cross the immense void of space and be found by such people, or that those same people would have the ability to help us. Still, a small part of me prayed for the first minister’s plan to be successful, right up until the moment I watched my homeworld disintegrate before my eyes.

  And yet, here we are, long after Zahanzei’s death, with the answer to everything he prayed for all but handed to us. I wonder what he would say today if he could be here to meet those who have traveled so far in answer to his plea. My appreciation for the true size of our universe only grew as I listened to the Enterprise captain’s account of how long it took to travel here from his home planet, despite his ship’s ability to travel many times faster than the speed of light. It also goes a long way toward explaining why such a large gap of time passed between the launching of our three unmanned ships and the discovery o
f the first one, to say nothing of the interval that lapsed before the second probe was encountered.

  Several members of the council expressed natural suspicion as to the aliens’ true motives. It is apparent even from a cursory inspection of their vessel that they possess the technology and weaponry to conquer us with minimal effort, and I will admit that I had my own reservations about our guests at first. Their dark uniforms are intimidating, reminiscent of those worn by the military forces of a rival nation on Dokaal.

  It is there that the similarities begin and end, however. That much was evident from the moment the ship arrived here and its crew set to work attempting to rescue mining workers and their families from a damaged outpost. Even though some people were lost in the effort, it was evident that the Enterprise crew’s actions saved countless others. Their medical staff worked tirelessly to treat the wounded while others provided all manner of support to displaced victims until our own ships could arrive from the central habitat. In short, they are an extraordinary group of people.

  Captain Picard in particular is an impressive man. While he is somewhat diminutive in stature compared with the average Dokaalan, watching him during his interactions both with me and my staff and with members of his own crew, there is no denying that he is a confident leader. His crew follows him of their own free will, not simply because they are bound by an oath or contract. Even from my two brief meetings with him I am drawn by a desire to trust this man.

  It is also evident that the captain is a practiced diplomat. He has offered to help my people in a number of ways, most notably to move us to a planet where we might make a new home for ourselves. Instead of being offended at my polite refusal of his most generous offer, Picard expressed admiration at our desire to complete our formidable task of remaking Ijuuka ourselves. Honoring the millions lost with the destruction of Dokaal by completing the reformation ourselves and using the materials, tools, and skills at our disposal is a pledge our people have taken very seriously, after all.

  Still wishing to help, Captain Picard already has directed specialists aboard his ship to examine our techniques and look for areas where we might improve what we are doing. He has posed the idea that his crew might be able to provide suggestions for accelerating the project’s completion while still leaving the work to us. It is a notion I find most agreeable, especially since, if it is successful, I will actually get the opportunity to walk beneath a real sky and with real soil and grass under my feet, alongside nearly everyone currently laboring to make our people’s collective dream a reality.

  Beyond that, I am also intrigued and excited at the idea of learning more about Picard’s interstellar community, his United Federation of Planets. It sounds like a wondrous ideal, with each member world adding its individual technological and artistic gifts to the greater cooperative. Perhaps one day, after we have established our new world, we will be invited to join that Federation.

  The very possibility warms my heart, for I truly believe that accomplishing such a goal would be an even greater testament to Dokaalan society and the legacy we seek to honor each day.

  Chapter One

  ALONE IN HER OFFICE, Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev relaxed in her favorite overstuffed chair and held her mug of coffee close to her nose, allowing its aroma to warm and tickle her nostrils. The chair was positioned so that she could look out over San Francisco Bay, watching as the first feeble rays of sunlight began to highlight the Golden Gate Bridge through the dense morning fog.

  The coffee, along with the splendid view, was her private pleasure, one of few she allowed herself while ensconced in the surroundings of Starfleet Headquarters. The combination of Colombian beans and Klingon raktajino was a blend introduced to her by friend and colleague William Ross, and it had quickly become a favored component of her morning ritual. After all, reading status reports and intelligence briefings before sunrise went a lot easier over a good cup of coffee.

  On this day, however, Nechayev was also able to take satisfaction from another quarter. The padd resting in her lap and containing the latest status report from Jean-Luc Picard, sent from the Dokaalan sector and the site of the Enterprise’s current mission, had already proven to be the highlight of the scores of reports she was required to review. She had no doubt the report would cause much discussion during the various meetings she would be required to attend today.

  The sound of her door chime interrupted her reverie. “Come,” she called out, spinning her chair around in time to see her office doors parting to allow Admiral Ross himself to enter.

  “Good morning, Alynna,” Ross said as he stepped into the room. With his immaculately tailored Starfleet uniform, close-cut dark black hair liberally peppered with gray, and blue eyes that seemed powerful enough to bore through tritanium, the admiral presented the epitome of a Starfleet flag officer. That description went far beyond simple appearances, of course, as Nechayev knew all too well. Ross had overseen much of Starfleet’s operations during the Dominion War, establishing himself as a dynamic leader and imaginative tactical commander. It could be well argued that a significant portion of the Federation’s success during the war was directly attributable to William Ross.

  “Hello, Bill,” Nechayev replied as she rose from her chair. Crossing the room toward the replicator set into the wall to the left of her desk, she asked, “Coffee?”

  Ross nodded. “Absolutely,” he said as he took a chair opposite hers by the window. Holding up the padd he had brought with him, he added, “The morning briefs make for interesting reading, don’t they?”

  “You could say that,” she replied as she moved back across the room, offering to Ross one of the two coffee mugs she carried. Settling into her own seat, she looked through the window and saw that the hills surrounding the bay were becoming visible as sunlight began to peek over the eastern horizon, signaling the start of a new day. “I’m sure the day’s meetings will be just as enjoyable.” She took a sip from her second mug of the morning, savoring the rich brew and knowing that her private time to truly enjoy the enticing beverage had passed. It was no more than fuel now, providing what she hoped would be enough energy to push through the numerous reports, briefings, and meetings that were part and parcel of the day-to-day life of a high-ranking Starfleet staff officer.

  “Some of these new directives are a little troubling,” Ross said, glancing down at his padd. “Can you believe all this? Proposals for augmenting security patrols along the Klingon and Romulan borders as well as the Bajoran sector, long-term plans for retrofitting all Starfleet vessels with heavier armaments regardless of their current mission, permanent assignment of ground-combat units to line ships.” Looking up, he shook his head. “I’ve even heard rumors of some new kind of elite classified unit being developed to test starship and starbase security using the tactics of known enemies. That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t heard that one yet,” Nechayev replied, thinking to herself as she spoke the words that, on the surface, the idea did indeed seem a bit over the top. Upon further reflection, however, the admiral realized there might well be some merit in the concept worth pursuing.

  Shrugging after a moment, she added, “Still, we’ve learned some hard lessons over the years. Mr. Azernal seems hell-bent to see that we learn from them and that we don’t get caught with our pants down ever again.”

  In addition to his notable political skills, Koll Azernal, chief of staff to the Federation President, had garnered like many of his fellow Zakdorn a reputation as a renowned and cunning military strategist. More so than people like Ross, Benjamin Sisko, and even Nechayev herself, Azernal’s tactical prowess had contributed significantly to the Federation’s winning of the Dominion War. Now, in the wake of that success, Azernal was using his formidable talents along with his newfound popularity to push forward policies designed to ensure the Federation’s continued protection.

  His speech to the Federation Council a month previously had left no doubt as to his feelings on the ma
tter. Citing the invasions by the Borg and the Dominion in recent years as well as other interstellar emergencies along the way, Azernal had shown no mercy in recounting how these incidents had exposed and exploited numerous weaknesses in Starfleet’s ability to defend the borders and people of the Federation. In his view, drastic changes were required, and it was an opinion that appeared to be gaining support.

  “You have to admit he has a point,” Nechayev continued. “Maybe it is time we reexamined our approach to defense. We’ve been taking it on the chin for a long time, Bill. Some of what Azernal is proposing makes sense, when you think about it.”

  Sipping his coffee, Ross replied, “I’m not going to argue that we can always do better when it comes to defense.” He held up his padd for emphasis. “But some of this smacks of ‘too much too fast.’ Even Starfleet Academy’s having to jump through hoops. Admiral Brand’s staff worked two nights straight putting together a proposal for expanding the Academy’s combat strategies and tactics curriculum, and introducing it earlier in the cadets’ training cycle. Azernal wants to increase class sizes at Command School, too, so we can put more junior officers through before they take their first assignment.”

  Her attention partly focused on the world beyond her window, Nechayev said, “None of that is out of line. In fact, some of it’s been on the table for discussion for quite a while now.” Light flickered beyond the window that formed the back wall of the office and a crack of thunder reverberated through its thick glass. She turned to see that the approaching dawn had revealed a distant squall line of gray clouds converging on the bay. Rain was about to christen the new day, it seemed. She hoped the imminent storm was not an omen that might signal a change in her mood.