It examined the star first, an older but still bright yellow star. It still had a million or so years left in its lifespan. From there, the probe analyzed each of the system's planets in sequence. The first four were tiny, lifeless rocks, probably asteroids captured in the star's gravitational pull. The fifth planet was slightly smaller than Titan, its surface covered with an ocean of ammonia. 

A heat signature was detected on the sixth and last planet. The probe determined it was geothermal energy. Obeying its source code, the probe examined and tested the atmosphere, measured radiation and magnetic fields, then proceeded to map, photograph and survey the surface. As per programming, it assigned reference numbers to surface features and catalogued the records for future review. No signs of life, intelligent or otherwise, were detected on any of the planets. 

The probe completed its scans. Firing thrusters, it returned to the area of space where it first appeared. Scanners searched the heavens, recording the location of the system in reference to surrounding stars. It's assignment complete, Z-11 engaged its warp drive and sped to the next system on its list. It's mission had just begun... 

Chapter One 

The fog had been light on Monterey Bay that morning. The morning tide brought the scattered pickets of an oncoming front, but it had stalled out over the coast. Warren Strickland found it on his short hop to San Francisco. The rain fell evenly and without passion, like someone had turned on a faucet. Raindrops trailed along the windows of the monorail as it made its way up the coast. There were two stops past Half Moon Bay before Strickland got off at the Starfleet station. That was where he caught the cablecar headed towards Pacific Heights. 

San Francisco got a lot more rain than Santa Cruz. There were puddles everywhere, and rainwater flowed freely down culverts and drains. Trees dropped handfuls of water at each gust of wind. Strickland loved the smell of the California hills after a rain. It made him feel connected with the Earth, with something bigger than himself. He wished it was a happier day. 

The cablecar rang its bell as it sped through an intersection. Puddles in the street reflected the amber lights of the anti-grav units as it hovered centimeters over the pavement. It turned north, through the Western Addition and into the Pacific Heights part of the city. In the east, sunlight broke through the clouds. As the cablecar topped a hill, Strickland could see a starship hovering a thousand meters over the ocean, its superstructure hidden in the mist. It was headed for the shipyards in Marin County. The ship disappeared as the cablecar turned east, and headed into Nob Hill. 

Strickland recognized his street, and pulled the signal string. Below his feet, he could feel the vibration of the anti-grav units as the cablecar slowed down, then stopped, the engines humming as it hovered over the street. Strickland gave the conductor a wave as he stepped onto the sidewalk. With a comforting ring of its bell, the cablecar sped away, headed for Chinatown. 

The rain had stopped. The historic buildings of Nob Hill glistened in the sunlight. To the north, skyscrapers towered a hundred stories into the sky. A squadron of seagulls sailed overhead, bound for the South Bay. To the west, a shuttlecraft circled over Lafayette Park, waiting for clearance to land. Strickland turned his collar up against the early December breeze and started down Sacramento Street. 

"Warren!" came a voice to his left. A grey-haired man in a Starfleet uniform was crossing the street towards him, boots splashing in the standing water. "I'm glad you could make it." 

Strickland shook the man's hand. "Hello, Steve. How have you been?" 

Admiral Steven Beck shrugged his shoulders. He wore a long, maroon overcoat with a high collar. Nicknamed a ‘Nogura coat," the style had recently become very popular around Starfleet Headquarters. "My doctor says I need to slow down. Of course, he's been saying that for ten years. How do you like Santa Cruz?" 

"Beautiful city," said Strickland. "You should come down and have some fresh seafood –not the replicated kind, either." The two continued walking down the street. "Where were you when you heard the news?" 

Beck sighed. "Paris. Working with the Vulcans for some new planetary defenses. I can respect the family having a private service on Mars, but I'm glad we're getting together like this." 

"Terry Flynn was a good man," Strickland said. "I'm gonna miss him." 

"We all are," Beck said as they turned down a side street. He shook his head. "I should've gotten him promoted him to captain. He deserved his own command." 

"There's no shame in being a commander," Strickland said. "All Terry ever wanted to do was serve. He was proud of his career." Beck just nodded his head. He looked up and down the street at the houses, drying in the sunlight. 

I haven't been back to the Bay in years –it's amazing. You can't even tell the Breen attacked just four years ago." 

"They probably said the same thing after the big fire of 1906, or that attack during the Eugenics Wars. It's always rebuilt. There's always gonna be a ‘city by the bay.'" 

Beck stopped walking. "We're here." The two were standing in front of a three-story brick brownstone. A half-dozen steps led from the sidewalk up to a landing. A handful of people were talking on the steps, all grey-haired or balding. Several stood leaning on canes. Strickland recognized many of the faces. Beyond, two high glass-paneled doors beckoned. 

"Let's go on in," Strickland said. The two shook hands or nodded to the people on the steps as they made their way up. Next to the doors, a bronze plaque was bolted into the brick. It read, "The Navigator's Club." Inside, Strickland hung up his coat on a long rack in the narrow foyer. Warm light came from frosted glass globes set in the cherry-paneled walls. Photographs, maps and documents hung from the walls in wooden frames. It was a welcome change from the blank, Spartan look of most modern structures. Past the foyer was the sitting room, and the bar. About a dozen people, men and women, were chatting quietly. Several were in the hallway leading back to the kitchens. There were more people, more familiar faces, more than a few Starfleet uniforms. Someone waved to Beck. 

"Excuse me, Warren," he said, and headed off into the crowd. He was gone before Strickland had a chance to say anything. He signed, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. It wasn't unusual for Starfleet people to gravitate towards other Starfleet people. They tended to keep to themselves. He noticed that in many places. He realized Beck wasn't a Navigator member. That made sense. Things were more on an even keel upstairs. A young man in a cadet's uniform came past with a tray full of drinks and offered one to Strickland. He took one and sipped at the colored liquid. Papaya juice, he thought, smacking his lips. Terry's favorite. 

Someone tapped on a glass, and the tinging noise made everyone stop talking. "May I have your attention, please?" someone was saying. Strickland looked over the heads of the people and saw a balding man in a Starfleet uniform. The pips on his neck said he was a captain. 

"I want to thank you all for coming here today to honor our friend and colleague, Commander Terry Flynn," the captain said in a crisp British accent. "Terry spent most of his life in Starfleet serving the Federation. He was an engineer, a poet, a scholar, and one of the hardest-working men I've ever known. I can see many of his fellow officers here today. I think they would agree that Terry's presence made the world a better place." Many heads in the room nodded in agreement. 

"His career reads like a history book. Terry was involved with every major Starfleet operation of the last 20 years. During those years, he was presented awards for bravery, inventiveness and courage under fire– although he almost never wore those awards." Several people smiled at that. 

"Terry did a lot of good in his time on Earth. His life was a series of good deeds. His passing leaves... a void in the world. There's no telling how many more good deeds he might have accomplished. Therefore, I feel it is up to us, the living, to fill that void, to go out in the world and try to be the best people we can be. For Terry." At that, the captain raised his glass. Everyone else in the room raised their glasses in salute. "For Terry!" they all said. 

As everyone took a sip of their drinks, a silence fell over the room. "Well," said the gravelly voice of one wrinkled man at the bar, "I know what Terry would say right now... ‘What're you waiting for?'" Many people laughed and nodded their heads, and even the stoic captain smiled. Strickland sighed deeply. That was exactly what Terry would have said. Strickland finished his papaya juice. He was ready for something stronger. 

"Excuse me?" a voice said. Strickland turned to face a young Starfleet officer. He wore lieutenant's pips. He had straight brown hair parted on the left and a broad face. The teal on his shoulders said he was in the medical department. "Captain Strickland? I'm Charles Gordon." 

Strickland shook his hand. "Do I know you?" 

"You knew my Uncle Terry," he said. Strickland understood. 

"Ah, you're little Charlie," he said. "Terry talked about you. He was really proud when you made lieutenant." 

Gordon smiled. "I know. He kept wanting me to send him pictures of me in uniform. I finally got around to doing it last month. I'm glad I did now. Have you got a minute to talk?" 

Strickland looked at his empty glass, then remembered the bar. "Sure," he said. "Let's grab a seat." 

Within minutes, the crowd in the sitting room seemed to have dispersed. Most of the higher-ranked personnel had taken off down the street, or stepped out to the transporter pad in the back yard. A pair of young men in white aprons were moving tables and chairs along the walls back into the room. Strickland took one chair and signaled to the bartender with two fingers. The portly bartender nodded and got down two glasses. 

Gordon and Strickland sat down at the little table. "I've never been here before. Was this somebody's house once?" 

Strickland nodded. "The Gillespy family lived here back in the 21st Century. The club was founded by Kaiser Gillespy. He was a navigator on one of the first boomer ships to trade with other planets. Ah, here we are." 

The bartender arrived with two frosted mugs of frothy, dark liquid. "Cheers," Strickland said, raising his mug. Gordon took his and took a sip. 

"Not bad," he said. 

"It's a local brew," Strickland explained. "A father and son place up in Cloverdale make it." 

Gordon frowned. "This isn't synthehol? This is real beer? With real alcohol?" 

"You bet," said Strickland. "The Navigator's Club has a strict policy: no replicated food, and no synthehol. Only real food, and real booze." Gordon eyed the mug of beer suspiciously. 

"I don't know what my CO is gonna say if I show up drunk," Gordon wondered. 

"Tell him you were corrupted by an old boomer captain," a voice chimed in. The two looked up to see the wrinkled old man from the bar approaching them. He had a high forehead, thinning red hair and a wry grin on his face. He carried a glass of whiskey in one hand. 

"Hello Dave," Strickland said. "Lt. Gordon, allow me to introduce Brigadier General David McGovern, Starfleet Marines, retired." Gordon realized his hand was wet from the frosty mug and wiped it on his shirt before shaking hands with McGovern. "The lieutenant here is Terry's nephew." 

McGovern's eyebrows raised in surprise and shook Gordon's hand tightly. "Really? Good to meet you! Good to meet you! Did he ever mention me?" 

"Why, yes -- yes he did," Gordon said, retrieving his hand. "I believe it was you he said got him drunk one time ...and painted his face blue." 

"That's a lie!" said McGovern, pulling up a chair. "That's a complete and total fabrication!" He smiled at the fond memory. "It was two times." 

Strickland took a long swig from his mug. "Your uncle got him back, though. He reprogrammed the food replicator in Dave's apartment to fill his place with two tons of linguini." 

McGovern chuckled. "My neighbors were finding it for weeks. The birds were very happy. Terry Flynn was one creative man. Here's to Terry!" he said, raising his glass. The others raised their glasses and drank, Gordon more carefully than the others. 

"So," said McGovern, "where you stationed?" 

"I'm not, right now," Gordon said. "I mean, they've got me working at Starfleet Medical in Santa Rosa until I get assigned a ship." 

Strickland felt a breeze, and saw someone come in through the front door. A grey-haired woman, about a head shorter than him, hung up her coat and walked towards the elevator. Just then, Beck walked past, waving goodbye. Strickland returned the wave, but the admiral had already left the room. The captain realized Gordon had asked him something. 

"Sorry? What?" 

"I was just asking if you saw somebody you know?" He was pointing towards the now-empty foyer. 

"Oh, no, some Starfleet admiral, retired," he replied. "I forget her name." 

"Harper," said McGovern. "Frannie Harper. Commanded the Third Fleet after the Cardassian Intervention." Strickland nodded and took another swig of his beer. Gordon leaned towards Strickland again. 

"You said you were a retired boomer captain? You weren't even in Starfleet?" 

"Starfleet or not," said McGovern, "he's got more hours in than most admirals I know." 

"What do you mean?" 

McGovern pointed to a plaque on the wall. A long number was written on it. "See that number there? That's how many hours you've gotta have logged in space before you can even apply to be a member here." 

Gordon whistled. He did some quick calculating in his head. "That's -- that's a lot. What's that over it?" 

"That's part of the original navigation console Gillespy used when he piloted his first ship," Strickland said. Gordon noticed the particular arrangement of buttons and dials was repeated on the club's emblem. 

"When Kaiser Gillespy would visit Earth," explained Strickland, "he had trouble relating to people that hadn't been in space much. People that spend most of their lives in spaceships get a certain... bond. It's a common experience, but back on Earth he didn't fit in. So, he opened up his family's house to people like him, people that had spent a big chunk of their lives off-planet. People he could relate to. It was a pretty exclusive club." 

"Still is," McGovern said, finishing his whiskey. "Over the years, as more and more people traveled to other systems, the minimum number of hours for membership went up. That's why you only see Starfleet officers and boomer captains like Warren here upstairs. Speaking of which," he said, scooting his chair back and standing, "I'm going on up. Nice meeting you." McGovern shook Gordon's hand again. 

"Good to meet you, too, sir," Gordon said. 

"I'll be up in a bit," Strickland said. 

"What's upstairs?" Gordon asked as McGovern crossed the room towards the foyer. 

"Members only," Strickland explained. The two watched as McGovern stood in front of the paneled elevator doors. A red light in a silver panel flashed over the doors. "Sensors in the door are programmed to only let club members upstairs. The computer scans retinas, fingerprints and DNA markers, and then only opens the doors when it recognizes the voice of the member saying the precise entrance code." 

McGovern looked up at the blinking sensor, took a deep breath, and said: "Open the damn door!" 

The light turned green, and the doors opened. 

Strickland pointed to Gordon's empty mug. "Another?" 

"Huh? Oh, no thanks. I should really be getting back." The chair made a scooting noise as he stood up. "I'm glad I came. I'm glad I got to meet some of Uncle Terry's friends." 

Strickland shook the lieutenant's hand. "You take care, okay?" Gordon smiled, and left. Only two other people remained in the sitting room. It seemed much emptier than that. 

A young man in a white apron approached his table. "Will you be dining in this evening, Captain?" he asked. "It's chicken casserole night." 

Strickland thought of the long trip back home. "Yeah, sure." He caught the bartender's eye, and hooked his thumb towards upstairs. "One more -- for the road." 

The first floor of the Navigator's Club was the only one open to the public. It had the sitting room, which was really the bar, and the kitchen in back. Starfleet cadets often volunteered to work in the kitchen, but most of the cooks were civilians: local kids just helping out. Standing in the foyer, Strickland noticed about eight coats remained hanging on the hooks in the wall. 

"Open the damn door!" The wood paneled doors opened, and Strickland rode the tiny elevator to the second floor. The doors opened to a wide room, shelves of books along one wall going floor to ceiling. There were several comfortable recliner chairs, with small end tables and reading lamps. One wall displayed dozens of small, framed pictures: portraits of club members, past and present. An archway led to smaller rooms with computer consoles, communications equipment and data storage. Framed between two bookcases against the far wall was a fireplace; the cackling fire within seemed especially inviting on such a chilly evening. As Strickland got closer, he noticed someone sitting in an easy chair near the fire. It was the grey-haired woman he saw earlier. She sat back in the chair's cushions, a snifter of brandy in her hand, her eyes lost in the flickering flames. 

I missed it, she thought. I tried like the dickens to get here on time, and I missed it. She had started the day at her niece's home in St. Louis, where she had been staying. That was where she got the news. From the spaceport, she took a hopper flight to San Francisco, but she got tired and nodded off at the airport. The cab driver said she knew the way, but then she ended up at some address in Telegraph Hill. By the time she arrived at the club, most of the people were already leaving. A couple of officers recognized her, exchanged pleasantries, polite hugs, promises to keep in touch. She watched their backs as they left, walking down the wet street. Might as well go on up, anyway, she thought. Better late than never, somebody once said.  

Her eyes trailed over to the wall of portraits. Terry Flynn's face would be there soon, she figured. Someone stepped in her line of vision. "Oh, hello there, Frannie," said McGovern. "I didn't see you sitting there." 

"Hello, Dave," she said, her voice a monotone. She took another sip of her brandy. 

"I was listening to the news this afternoon," McGovern said as he sat down in the opposite chair. "Shinzon, that new Romulan Praetor? He got himself killed in some explosion." 

"Really?" the woman said, her eyes sparking with interest. "That should shake things up. Who's taken over the senate?" 

"Don't know yet. Reports are still coming in. One of the moderates, hopefully... You wanna talk about it over dinner?" 

Might as well, she thought, finishing her brandy. 

Strickland checked the "manifest" -- the club's reservation book, to see about a bed for the night. The third floor of the club was a bunkhouse for any club members that wanted a place to sleep for the night (or were too drunk to go home). It was a much appreciated convenience. Luckily, there were plenty of spaces open. As long as our members keep dying off, there'll be spaces open, he mused. He reserved a bed for the night, and signaled for some supper. 

Outside, night fell on San Francisco. The western clouds parted just enough for some tenacious rays of sunlight to squeeze through, lighting up the Golden Gate Bridge in brilliant shades of color. The worst part of the front had moved east to stall out over the Sierra Nevadas. The starship over the ocean had moved north to dock near Point Reyes. As night fell, a Starfleet destroyer came down from orbit, crossed the Bay, and settled down several hundred meters above the repair facilities at Alameda. A lot of lonely crewmen anticipated some much needed shore leave. 

At the dumb waiter, Strickland's supper tray arrived: a plate of casserole, a small salad, and a glass of water. And a mug of beer. He looked around for an empty place to eat. Every seat seemed to be taken, but then he noticed the woman he'd seen earlier in the foyer. She looked familiar, but couldn't quite place her. As he approached, he was spotted by McGovern. 

"Warren! Come, come sit with us," he said, waiving his hand. 

"If the lady doesn't mind some extra company," Strickland said. 

"Warren," said McGovern, "you know Admiral Harper, don't you?" 

Harper! That was her name, he suddenly remembered. "Sure thing. How are you tonight?" 

Harper extended her hand. "Call me Frannie," she said. Strickland sat down and got out his napkin. "Dave and I were just talking about the turnover with the Romulans." 

"I heard about that," Strickland said. "Shinzon kills off the senate, then gets killed off himself. That should either be really good news, or really bad news." 

"The jury's out for now," said McGovern, between bites, "but I think it's gonna be good news." 

"I think most Romulans are tired of being at war with the universe," Harper said. "I think the moderates will replace the hawks. The moderates want to re-focus the Romulan economy, open up the whole Empire for trade, which should be good news for everybody." 

"The Romulans were hit hard fighting the Dominion," said Strickland. 

"The Dominion War was a drain on everybody," McGovern continued. "I'll bet we see a lot more deep exploration soon." 

"That'll be exciting," said Strickland. "I'd sure like to see that." 

"Me, too," said Harper. 

"Yeah," said McGovern. "Blasting off into unknown territory, meeting new civilizations, seeing places nobody else has ever seen before..." 

"That'd be... great," said Harper. The three had stopped eating. 

"Deep space," said Strickland. "Traveling at warp speed headlong into uncharted space like a bat out of hell... there's nothing like it." 

"I know," said Harper. "I remember my first command. Mapping mission in the Beta Quadrant. We ran into some Orion pirates. Danced back and forth with them for two days before they disappeared into some nebula. You never forget that feeling." 

"Tackling the unknown," said McGovern. "Thinking on your feet, going with your gut instincts, all the time knowing one wrong move, and that's it -- it's all over." 

"And liking those odds," said Harper. 

Strickland nodded. "Exactly." 

A silence fell over the table. 

"I miss that," said McGovern. 

"Well, hell," said Harper. "It's not like we can turn back the clock, you know. We had our time. We fought our wars. It's time to hand things over to the next bunch through the door. We should be happy with what we've done, satisfied with what we got." 

Strickland looked at her. "Are you happy?" Harper frowned in response. 

"Okay," said McGovern. "Maybe we've had our time. But that doesn't mean we just gotta curl up and die. That's not what life is supposed to be. Life should be for living. Life should be about setting a goal and getting there." 

"I know what we need," said Harper. "We need a goal. We need something to shoot for." 

McGovern's eyes drifted to the wall of pictures. "Like those guys," he pointed. "Damn. Years to travel between systems. Medicine not much better than medieval butchers. Waiting forever just for messages to get through. But they did it -- they met their goals. They got where they were wanting to go. They had adventures. Compared to what we have now, those guys were stumbling around in the dark. But they were legends." 

"No stumbling anymore," said Strickland. "Everything's safe, secure, mundane. There's no frontiers anymore. Everything on Earth's been explored and over-explored. The floors of the oceans, the tops of the mountains... What used to be a great adventure is a weekend holiday anymore. Did you know there's a transporter pad on the top of Mount Everest?" 

Harper nodded. "I've been twice." 

"There, see? It used to be a great adventure to climb a mountain. Now, what's the point anymore?" 

McGovern's eyes locked on one particular picture on the wall. It was a faded photograph of a man in an orange space suit. In one hand he held a staff with a torn flag, flapping in the wind. With the other hand he was waving. The picture was of the first man to climb Olympus Mons, the highest mountain on Mars. "That's it..." whispered McGovern. 

"What?" asked Harper. "What's it?" 

"That's it," he repeated breathlessly. "Let's climb a mountain." 

"A mountain?" asked Strickland. 

"Yeah. A mountain that's never been climbed before." 

"But every mountain on Earth has already been climbed," said Harper. "Every mountain in known space, I'll bet." 

"Then we find a mountain that hasn't been climbed yet," said McGovern. "There's a whole universe out there –- there's gotta be zillions of mountains." 

"Hello? Dave?" asked Strickland, leaning forward for emphasis. "Haven't you been listening? Nobody climbs mountains anymore. What's the point when you can just transport to the top?" 

"Then we find another mountain, a different mountain... That's it!" he said, snapping his fingers. "We find one you can't transport to," said McGovern. "Some place where transporters are useless." 

"Climb a mountain," repeated Harper. "We're gonna climb a mountain... Sure... Hell, why not? It wouldn't hurt to look." 

"Right," said McGovern. "Climb a mountain nobody's ever climbed before. Hell, we could go down in the history books!" 

"You realize," said Strickland, "this is a completely illogical, pointless and stupid thing to do, right?" 

McGovern looked him in the eye. "What, you got someplace better to be?" 

Strickland thought of his apartment, the lonely rooms, the silent pictures on the wall and the relatives that never visit... 

"Okay," he said. "I'm in." 

Another hour of discussion took the three space veterans from the dining tables to the computer area. Other members eventually dispersed from the room. Beer and wine gave way to coffee. 

Strickland brought another cup of coffee in from the dumb waiter. It was near midnight in the Navigator's Club, and everyone had either gone home or found a bunk to crash in upstairs. Harper and McGovern were seated in front of the communications console. On the screen, grids of starmaps scrolled back and forth. "Just finding a rock to climb is turning into a major adventure. Any luck yet?" he asked. 

"We're not getting anywhere," Harper said. 

"Have you tried Trill space?" Strickland asked, handing Harper her coffee. 

"Yeah," said McGovern. "Some hotshots from the Horizon bagged all the major summits the first year they were assigned to the sector. Little twerps." 

Harper blew on her coffee before taking a sip. "There's probably lots of peaks over in Klingon space." 

"Odds are they've been bagged, too," McGovern growled. "Like Mt. Bishta on Q'onoS. Klingons have a thing for taking the high ground." 

"We could still be the first humans to climb Bishta," Strickland offered. 

The old general flopped down in a chair. "Wouldn't be the same," McGovern said. 

Strickland leaned over the console. "Are we looking in all the right places? What's the search parameters?" 

"Highest mountains in known space," Harper replied. "The Federation atlas library pulls data from all across the Federation, plus accesses data cores from Klingon space, Romulan space, even Cardassian files." 

"Are there any databases the atlas library doesn't access?" Strickland asked. 

Harper thought for a minute. "No. Wait, yes." She put down her cup and turned to face the others. "I mean no. The library searches all data in all the databases... but there's data that's not in the databases... not yet, anyway." 

"You mean stuff that's not entered in yet?" Strickland asked. 

"Yes. Raw telemetry data from unmanned probes. There's not nearly enough ships for exploration, so Starfleet routinely sends probes into uncharted space to map the region and search for intelligent life. For security reasons, that data has to be analyzed before it's entered into the database." 

"Analyzed by who?" 

"Well," said Harper, "that would be the long-range stellar cartography analysis office at Starfleet Command." 

"Damn," said McGovern, looking up, "I think I've still got security clearance there." Harper got up from her seat at the console. 

"See if you can get in," she said. McGovern took her seat and started entering in codes. He found the access screen for the long-range analysis office –- then paused, tapping his fingers. "What is it?" Harper asked. 

"Forgot the password... Wait, I got it," he said. He typed in a string of alpha-numeric letters. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the screen exploded with columns of data, pictures, and scrolling text. 

"You did it!" said Strickland. McGovern smiled. 

"Now, the fun begins," he said, entering search parameters, his fingers dancing across the console. 

It was well after one AM, and McGovern was thinking of going downstairs for a snack when Harper finally found something. "Here we go, how's this?" Harper asked. The screen lit up with picture of a barren, peach-colored sphere. "Catalog name Concordia VI. A Class-H planet. Minimal atmosphere, no life forms." 

"Any mountains?" Strickland asked. 

"The probe did a level three survey from orbit...yes," Harper said. The screen lit up with a computer simulation of mountain ranges. 

"Did the probe find the highest mountain?" McGovern asked. 

"Shouldn't be hard to find," Harper replied. "The probe would have cataloged all the major surface features... Here we go." The screen zoomed in on a rounded, cracked hump of rock -- an extinct volcano. The image loomed above them on the screen, and seemed to look back at the three pairs of curious eyes. 

"What's the elevation?" McGovern asked. 

"There's no oceans, so it wouldn't be measured off sea level," Harper explained. "Scans indicate elevation from base to summit 2,113 meters." 

Strickland's voice was a whisper. "Does it have a name?" 

"The probe's computer designated it V761." 

McGovern pulled up planetary data on a smaller screen. "Atmosphere has persistent high winds, electromagnetic storms... and a concentration of hyperonic radiation." 

"Transporters would be useless in a place like that." Harper turned to look at the general. "You couldn't transport to the summit. The only way to the top is to climb it." 

"That elevation makes it almost like Pike's Peak," said Strickland. "It's perfect." 

McGovern smiled. "That's it! We got it! We found our mountain." The general stood, and clapped his hands in excitement. "Call up the coordinates for –- what was it again? Concordia VI? Where is it?" 

"It's in the Beta Quadrant," said Harper, "section –- " Her voice trailed off as the coordinates scrolled across the screen. The three read the numbers, and the weight of their meaning suddenly hit them. 

"Son of a bitch," said McGovern. 

"That's not just in the Beta Quadrant," said Strickland. "That's beyond Klingon space. That's the whole other side of Romulan space!" 

"That can't be legal! What are we doing with probes way the hell out there?" McGovern demanded. 

"Hey, I'm retired, too," Harper replied. "How would I know?" 

"That's not the problem," Strickland said. "The problem is: how do we get there?" He rubbed his chin in concentration. 

McGovern shook his head. "I was thinking we could borrow a shuttlecraft for this, but this is way outside operational range." 

"Even if we had a ship," said Harper, "Starfleet would be all over us with rules and regulations. And even if we got all the way out there, we'd be tied up for months going through customs and security checks." 

"Unless we don't go through customs..." said Strickland quietly. The other two turned to look at him. 

"What do you mean?" asked McGovern. 

Strickland leaned against the wall. "We could outfit a ship, sure, and take it for a long haul to the far side of the galaxy... or, we could go through the back door. Travel light, catch rides on cargo ships, pick up what we need along the way... We don't go through Starfleet at all. We don't need them. That whole section of space already has ships going through it -- civilian transport ships." 

"You mean... hitchhike?" asked Harper. 

McGovern smiled. "I like it. There will be plenty of places along the way to pick up supplies. We can start out light with just the basics." 

"And some beads and trinkets," said Strickland. 

McGovern frowned. "Huh?" 

"Once we get out of Federation space, we won't be able to just pick up supplies –- we'll have to buy them, or at least trade for them. It'll be a whole different set of economies. We'll need to take stuff we can sell or barter with." 

That was a sobering thought for them all. "We can put that on the back burner for now," decided Harper. "We've got a lot of Federation space to get through first." 

"We've got a lot of planning to do all together before we do anything," said McGovern, stifling a yawn. "But the main thing we need to remember is: we don't tell anybody!" 

"What?" asked Strickland. "But, why?" 

"Because it's a nutty idea, that's why," McGovern said. "You were right: climbing a mountain is stupid, illogical, and, when you look at where that particular mountain is, possibly illegal. This is just between us, and it's nobody else's business." 

"Somebody would try to stop us," said Strickland. 

"Or worse," interjected McGovern. "Beat us to it!" 

"Dave's right," Harper said. "We're going to have enough problems with this mission without people holding us back with a lot of questions." 

McGovern smiled. "This really is a mission, isn't it?" 

"A secret mission," corrected Strickland. 

"All right," said Harper. "This is Tuesday –-no, wait, it's Wednesday now. There's a shuttle taking off for Luna every Friday morning from the spaceport at San Leandro." 

"I know it," said McGovern. 

"That gives us a day to pack and figure out what to take for bartering reasons," she continued. "It will look less suspicious if we arrive separately and simply ride the same shuttle. If anybody notices, it has to look like each of us decided to take a vacation, a day trip." 

"Three people that just happened to be on the same flight," said Strickland. Harper nodded. 

McGovern pointed to the console. "Frannie, download all the maps and data you need into your tricorder, then erase everything we did." 

"I'll look into ship schedules and possible routes," said Strickland as Harper went to work. "Most freighters have space for passengers. It won't be fancy, but it'll get us there." 

"This is gonna be a long trip, but don't pack like it's gonna be a long trip. Everybody pack light, like you were going away for a weekend," McGovern instructed. "Just a change of clothes or two. Only pack the essentials. And everybody get plenty of rest. We leave Friday on the dawn flight." 

Harper looked over her shoulder. "You make that sound so dramatic," she smiled.