Chapter Eight

The shuttlecraft Kepler descended swiftly through the turbulent Dayside atmosphere, its passage creating plumes of superheated plasma that clutched at the hull like the fingers of some angry god. The cockpit rattled and jerked. Picard stole a backward glance at the admiral, who was sitting beside Crusher in the crew cabin. He could only imagine the hell she had endured, having first lost Tabor and then having discovered the ambassador’s possible malfeasance on Chiaros IV. He noticed then that her skin had taken on an almost greenish tinge; spacesickness, adding insult to injury.

“Will someone please explain again just why the Federation is so interested in this place?” Crusher said as she scanned the admiral with a medical tricorder.

Batanides smiled weakly. “I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.”

“Excuse me?” Crusher said, looking startled as she deactivated the tricorder.

“Sorry, Doctor. A very old intelligence operative’s joke.” The cabin shuddered again, and the motion appeared to intensify the admiral’s nausea. “I just had an even better idea, Doctor: Why don’t you kill me?”

Smiling, Crusher touched a hypospray to Batanides’s neck. “You’ll start feeling better in a minute or so, Admiral.”

Lieutenant Hawk occupied the control station to Picard’s right. “The plasma discharges are still affecting the inertial damping system, Captain,” he said.

“Continue compensating manually, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.” Hawk’s fingers moved nimbly, almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Picard was reminded for a moment of Data’s ultrafast motions at the ops console.

“Ship’s status, Mr. Hawk?” Picard said.

Hawk continued manipulating the controls as he spoke: “As predicted, sir, our sensors are at less than half efficiency, thanks to these atmospheric effects. And even our enhanced subspace transmitter can’t make contact with anything as small as a combadge, if any of the survivors still have one. Shields won’t function at all in the lower atmospheric layers, but the phasers are operational. The transporter is on-line, but I wouldn’t recommend trying to exceed a two-kilometer radius with it.”

“Grand,” Picard said wryly. He was grimly aware that without shields, a single hostile phaser blast could finish them all in the space of a heartbeat. Fortunately, that problem cut both ways; most of the rebel compound would be accessible via the Kepler ’s transporter, even if the base’s detention-area forcefields were to remain intact.

Though the sensor display was still obscured, the forward viewer showed the planet’s rapidly approaching terminator. Seconds later, a nightward mountain range rolled past and a shroud of darkness enveloped the little ship. To avoid detection, Hawk brought the ship low, hugging the planet’s dim curvature, maintaining an altitude of no more than sixty meters. The topographic map Batanides had obtained from Ruardh’s Intelligence Ministry was helping to keep the half-blinded shuttle clear of hills and rock outcroppings.

Hawk tapped several controls on the navigation console, and the shuttle responded by banking gently onto a southeasterly heading. The craft’s forward velocity began to diminish, as did the buffeting and turbulence.

“Captain?” the lieutenant said, his brow crumpling. “Something about these sensor readings isn’t right.”

“Apart from the interference?”

“Yes, sir.” The younger man gestured to the staticgarbled tactical display. “Even through the charged atmospheric particles, we’re already close enough to detect some sign of the rebel base. But I’m reading absolutely nothing. Not even a stray calorie of waste heat.”

Picard pondered what that might mean. Then he glanced at his chronometer and decided to put the matter to one side for the moment. “Carry on, Mr. Hawk,” he said, rising from his seat. Best to let the lad do what I brought him along to do.

Picard sat beside Batanides and Crusher. The admiral was massaging her temples.

“Admiral, perhaps you should remain aboard with Dr. Crusher,” Picard said. “If you’re not feeling up to this—”

Meeting his gaze, she cut him off. “Remember the time I came down with that Berengarian virus?”

He was glad they lacked the time to tell Crusher that story. During their Academy days, Batanides had been exposed to an alien enzyme that put her into a coma and nearly killed her. She was alive now thanks partly to her own innate ruggedness, and partly because Picard and Zweller had secretly—and illegally—taken her to the remote planet Yrskatdon for the gene resequencing therapy that had ultimately saved her life.

He wondered: Was she trying to remind him that she was tough? Or that their current circumstances might force him once again to bend Starfleet regulations?

“How could I forget?” Picard said, nodding. If she could survive that, then a little queasiness wouldn’t even slow her down. He could already see the color returning to her cheeks.

“How’s the mission timetable?” Batanides said.

“We’re locked on course for the coordinates we received from Corey. The shuttle should be over the base in . . .” Picard paused to consult his chronometer “. . . two minutes and five seconds. We’ll have only a few moments to beam into the base before the Kepler flies out of transporter range. That will put us inside the base four and a half minutes before the forcefields in the detention area come down.”

“If the forcefields come down,” Crusher said grimly.

Picard ignored the doctor’s comment. “After the beamin, Mr. Hawk will circle around, pass back into transporter range, and retrieve everyone from the beam-up point.”

His eyes on the instruments, Hawk said over his shoulder, “It’ll be tricky, because I’ll have to do the beam-outs a few at a time. I’ll just have to keep circling over the base until I’ve recovered everyone.” With a sheepish grin, he added: “Assuming that the Chiarosans don’t shoot me down first.”

“And also assuming,” Crusher said, her gaze trained on Picard, “that this entire situation isn’t a trap. It’s still possible that Commander Zweller’s message was a ruse created by the rebels.”

“Or perhaps even by the Romulans,” Picard said as he rose and walked to the portside weapons locker. He quickly removed two tricorders, a pair of hand phasers, and a compression phaser rifle. “I’ll grant that we may be walking into a trap. On the other hand, we can’t accomplish anything by waiting. This is the best—and the only —lead we’ve got.”

Batanides followed him and took possession of a tricorder and one of the hand phasers. After checking the charge on her weapon, she turned toward the cockpit. “Heads up, Mr. Hawk.” She threw the phaser to him, hard.

Hawk swiveled his chair toward her and plucked the phaser out of the air as though it had been standing still. The admiral smiled. “Good reflexes, son. You’ll be a real asset to the away team.”

Picard frowned as he slung the rifle onto his back. “Admiral, I prefer to have Mr. Hawk piloting the shuttle. His reflexes will be put to better use here in case of a Chiarosan attack. I hadn’t intended on leaving the doctor on board alone.”

Crusher gave him a look of mock umbrage. “I’m capable of piloting a shuttle, Captain.”

Batanides took the remaining phaser and tricorder out of Picard’s hands. “She won’t be alone. You’ll be staying aboard with her.”

Picard struggled, not altogether successfully, to control a volcanic surge of anger. “Damn it, Marta, I brought Mr. Hawk along specifically for his piloting skills—”

She interrupted him once again. “Skills that we’ll need more urgently after we’ve rescued the hostages. You’ve certainly got more than enough flying expertise to keep things going until we get to that point. In the meantime, Hawk and I will assemble the prisoners at the prearranged beam-up coordinates.”

“Riker and Troi are my officers. I should be going down there to rescue them.”

“As the captain of the Enterprise, you’re less expendable than Mr. Hawk.” Batanides nodded toward the young officer. “No offense intended, Lieutenant.”

“None taken, sir,” Hawk said, wide-eyed. He was still seated in the cockpit.

“With all due respect, Admiral, you’re beginning to sound like my first officer. You are the most senior officer here. And that makes you the least expendable of any of us.”

Batanides walked to the aftmost section of the cabin and took her place on one of its two transporter pads. “This hellhole has taken too much away from me already. I’m not going to put another old friend at risk unnecessarily. And I’m through discussing it.” She pointed at the pips on her collar for emphasis.

Picard silently bit the inside of his lip as he contemplated just how deep and wide her stubborn streak had grown since their Academy days.

“Then Godspeed,” he said after a long moment.

“Beam-down window opening in thirty seconds,” Hawk said, staring at a readout. The viewscreen still showed nothing but featureless darkness, punctuated by sporadic auroral light-flashes that made the barren land stand out in sharp, shadowed relief.

Hawk suddenly looked up from his console, a puzzled expression on his face.

“What is it?” Picard said.

“It’s strange. I’m picking up tetryon emissions from somewhere. It’s faint, but it’s interfering with the transporter lock.”

“Can you compensate?”

Hawk made several minute adjustments to his console. “There. Lock established. Fifteen seconds to beamdown window.” Hawk then rose from his seat and shot a questioning glance in Picard’s direction.

Picard unslung his rifle and handed it to Hawk, who walked over to the admiral’s side. The captain sat behind the cockpit controls and methodically punched in the transporter commands. Then he turned his chair aftward.

“Marta, I will be very upset with you if you get yourself killed,” Picard said.

She grinned as the pads energized. “Just drive carefully, Johnny. And don’t forget to leave a light on for us.” The beam brightened and the pair shimmered out of existence.

Crusher took the seat beside him. “ ‘Johnny?’ ” she said inquiringly.

An alarm klaxon sounded. He said nothing to the doctor; the wavering image on the tactical display now demanded his full attention. At least four small vessels were approaching, coming from all directions.

And they were all closing on the Kepler very, very quickly.

Will Riker paced back and forth in the holding cell for what seemed like days. Asking the guard for the time had been an exercise in futility, akin to soliciting a charitable donation from a Ferengi DaiMon. The total absence of any sort of clock gave time an elastic, unreal quality.

“Will,” Troi said. Though she was sitting on the cell’s single cot in a contemplative-looking lotus position, she appeared to be having trouble concentrating.

Riker stopped in his tracks. “Sorry. I can’t seem to stop pacing. And there’s not much else to do.”

Zweller, who was leaning insouciantly against one of the cell’s stone walls, chuckled.

“Is something funny, Commander?” Riker said testily.

“You’re wearing a groove. I hope you don’t tip your hand so easily during those poker games the counselor was telling me about.”

“This isn’t a game. Remember, we have no way of knowing if your little stunt will work. Or exactly when it’s supposed to happen.”

Zweller stroked the white stubble on his chin. “I’ll grant you the first point. But not the second. I suggest you be ready to move in exactly four minutes and fortytwo seconds.”

Riker’s eyebrows rose skyward. Even Deanna looked surprised.

“Where have you been hiding your timepiece, Mr. Zweller?” Troi said.

The older man smiled enigmatically, gently tapping his skull with his index finger. Then he nodded toward the guard who was standing in the corridor, his back toward the cell. “Don’t distract me. I’m counting down.”

“In your head,” Riker said, still incredulous.

“Yes. In my head.”

“And what are we supposed to do at the end of your countdown?” Troi asked.

Riker grinned. “I can think of something.”

He laced his fingers together and popped his knuckles loudly.

Hawk almost couldn’t believe his good luck. Not only had he persuaded Captain Picard to bring him along on the mission, but he had also been allowed to participate in the ground rescue itself. He might never get a better opportunity to unravel the mystery surrounding the death of Aubin Tabor—and to learn what Section 31 really expected to accomplish by helping the Romulans take possession of Chiaros IV.

Hawk clutched the stock of the phaser rifle tightly as the Kepler ’s transporter engulfed and disassembled him, bringing on a feeling of vertigo. He felt as though he was dropping over the edge of an endless, iridescent waterfall, tumbling an impossible distance. The sensation brought to mind Reg Barclay’s tales of similar experiences, until he reminded himself that this was no ordinary beamdown; the heavily ionized Chiarosan atmosphere was probably complicating the transport process.

Suddenly, Hawk was whole once again. He found himself standing beside Admiral Batanides in a roughhewn, curving stone corridor. The place appeared to have been excavated from the planet’s very bedrock and was surprisingly well lit, thanks to row upon row of ceilingmounted light panels. Hawk could hear distant shouts echoing up and down the hallway, though no one was visible besides themselves. For a moment he wished they had brought a larger contingent with them from the Enterprise. But if they had, there would have been little room aboard the Kepler for the rescuees.

He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. If the team’s assumptions had been correct—based upon Commander Zweller’s brief subspace transmission—then the security forcefields in the detention area were due to fail in exactly four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

The admiral opened her tricorder and studied it for a few moments. Then she nodded, indicating that she had found her bearings—if, Hawk reflected again, Zweller’s message and its coordinate data could be trusted.

Hawk took the point, staying several paces ahead of Batanides. Cautiously, the lieutenant peered around a corner. He heard the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls and saw a flurry of motion at one of the corridor’s far ends. He ducked back the way he had come, flattening against one of the rough stone walls. The admiral did likewise. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hawk watched as a half-dozen very large Chiarosans, some armed with blades, others carrying disruptor-type weapons, and still others holding Starfleet-issue phasers, ran quickly past. Hawk was struck by how quiet and graceful such large beings could be.

What was their hurry? Were they being mobilized to attack the Kepler?

Peering around the corner once more, Hawk established that it was safe to move, at least for the moment. They crept forward cautiously. Two corridorturnings later, they entered a chamber filled with what appeared to be security holding cells, none of which were occupied. Unfortunately, their entrance surprised a lone Chiarosan guard, who immediately drew a pair of serrated blades and was on top of Hawk almost before he realized what was happening. The lieutenant brought his phaser rifle upward just barely in time to ward off the soldier’s initial blow. Sparks struck as the gleaming swords skipped off the phaser’s tough duranium casing.

Then the Chiarosan stepped quickly backward; with an impossibly limber motion, he delivered a spinning kick to Hawk’s shoulder, knocking him to the stone floor. The wind rushed from the lieutenant’s lungs. His fall was considerably more painful than he expected, no doubt because of the planet’s intense gravitational field. Compared to the point-three-eight Earth-normal gravity he’d grown up with in Bradbury City, the pull of Chiaros was downright brutal. Hawk rolled, hugging his rifle, barely avoiding being eviscerated by one of the guard’s swords. A second blade sang past his ear and clanged deafeningly against the stone floor.

Compared to this guy, Ranul’s holodeck pirates are pushovers.

But although the Chiarosan was strong and fast, Hawk wasn’t out of moves just yet. Tripping the release on the rifle’s strap, Hawk swept the weapon beneath the warrior’s feet, bringing him to the ground with a heavy thump. Hawk rose, then slammed the rifle’s stock up under the Chiarosan’s jaw as the guard scrambled to recover his footing. Hawk hastened to deliver another smashing blow, stunning his adversary and knocking him down once more. But the guard didn’t appear injured— he looked annoyed, and again rose to confront Hawk.

A phaser beam suddenly hit the Chiarosan squarely in the chest, instantly incinerating most of his body cavity. He was dead before his massive body struck the stone floor. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the corridor, making Hawk’s gorge rise.

Incredulous, Hawk turned toward the admiral, whose phaser was still raised. At that moment, he couldn’t help wondering how Section 31 could really be any worse than the Federation’s so-called “legitimate” intelligence agency.

Hawk spoke haltingly as he recovered his breath. “Was . . . that . . . really . . . necessary?”

The admiral’s eyes were steel. “Stunning these people only makes them mad,” she said. “And I’m through wasting time.” Calmly, she holstered her weapon and resumed making tricorder scans. “There are no lifesigns in this part of the detention area. They must have moved the prisoners.”

Hawk’s throat clenched involuntarily. “Or killed them.”

Batanides adjusted the tricorder and her expression brightened. “No. I’m picking up human lifesigns, about a hundred meters that way.” She gestured toward a “T” intersection about twenty meters down the corridor, and they began quietly walking in that direction. Hawk stayed in front, controlling his breathing, keeping his rifle at the ready.

“The tricorder says there’s a Tellarite among the humans,” she said.

“That would be the Slayton ’s CMO,” Hawk said, nodding. “Dr. Gomp.”

“You know him?”

Hawk shook his head. “I took a look at the Slayton ’s crew manifest last night.”

“Sounds more like you memorized it.”

He shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. Though he rarely showed off his eidetic memory gratuitously, he couldn’t deny that it often came in handy.

The admiral returned her attention to the tricorder, then suddenly stopped walking. Hawk followed suit when he turned and saw the look of alarm on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Hawk said. He thought he could hear distant shouting.

“A whole bunch of Chiarosan life-form signatures are approaching, fast,” she said. “And they’re getting between us and the prisoners.”

He gripped the phaser rifle tightly. “I guess we’re not going to make that first rendezvous at the beam-up coordinates after all.”

She tucked the tricorder away and took up her phaser. “Then we’ll have to switch to Plan B,” she said, gesturing toward his rifle. Its stock was slick with sweat. “Lieutenant, this time you’d better remember that that thing is not a club.”

Then she bolted ahead of Hawk in the direction of the oncoming din. He was surprised at her speed, and sprinted to keep up.

* * *

Picard took the Kepler into a steep dive until the dark ground seemed to be getting close enough to touch. Then he barrel-rolled to gain some altitude, temporarily evading the pursuing Chiarosan vessels.

Crusher studied an intermittently functioning sensor display. “There are five of them now, as far as I can tell,” she said gravely. “And none of them is answering my hails.”

“Phasers are armed,” Picard said. Such weapons were not ordinarily standard on most shuttlecraft, but it would have been sheer folly to embark on a mission like this without them.

“The shields are still off-line,” Crusher warned.

“Fine. Then theirs probably aren’t working either.” He tried locking onto the nearest target, but the computer refused to accept the command. The atmospheric ionization was playing hell with the automatic phaser-lock.

Picard activated the manual targeting controls. Using the tactical screen, he displayed his manual-acquisition targets. A split-second later, a Chiarosan disruptor beam lanced out in their direction, barely missing the shuttle’s unprotected hull.

Picard returned fire just as his target drifted out of his makeshift sights. A clean miss. A second ship’s beam rocked the shuttle with a glancing blow. Luckily, the Kepler ’s hull held together. But he knew their luck couldn’t last.

The battle reminded Picard of an exercise he had conducted decades ago, at the Academy. The cadets had been expected to cope with glitches and malfunctions of all sorts; one such test had involved the unexpected failure of a simulated starship’s computerized phaser target-lock. Picard had very quickly dispatched a pair of Tzenkethi raider ships using what Corey Zweller had admiringly called “dead reckoning.” For weeks afterward—and for reasons he still couldn’t fathom—Batanides had referred to him as “the Pinball Wizard.”

Just as he had in that simulation, Picard allowed his instincts to take over. A Chiarosan ship dropped into the path of his drifting manual target-lock, and he fired at it. The bright orange beam contacted the unshielded alien ship squarely, blowing it apart. He swung the manual target-lock to his far right and just as quickly dispatched another before resuming his rolling, swooping evasive maneuvers. The three remaining Chiarosan ships continued to buzz about undeterred, trying to encircle him.

Picard glanced at Crusher, whose somber expression reminded him that this was no simulation. People were dead, by his hand—and it would never be a thing he would take pride in. Without speaking, he looped back toward the coordinates of the invisible rebel base, hoping for an opportunity to beam the captives aboard and outrun his pursuers.

But the three Chiarosan fighters were quickly gaining ground.

Will Riker watched as Zweller held up four fingers, then three, then two, then one.

A split-second later, the orange forcefield that barred the cell’s only doorway crackled and vanished. The guard turned toward the silence and Riker leaped on the man, surprising him and knocking him to the stone floor. As they landed, Riker drove both of his knees into the Chiarosan’s stomach, then rolled onto his shoulder and sprang back onto his feet. The guard was already getting up, but he was winded and startled. Riker knew that he would be dead very soon if he failed to press that very slim advantage.

One of the soldier’s huge hands grasped a sword pommel just as Riker sent a flying kick toward the Chiarosan’s head. Wincing as his bootheel connected sharply with the other man’s skull, Riker almost fell over when he landed, his hip stitched with pain. The guard sprawled onto the floor heavily, and Riker landed a twohanded hammer-blow at the base of his skull.

The alien wheezed, then lay still.

A moment later, Troi and Zweller were standing in the corridor beside Riker as he panted with exertion. Ignoring the agony in his hip, Riker knelt beside the unconscious guard, taking his swords and removing a large, pistolshaped beam-weapon from the Chiarosan’s belt. He rose and handed one of the swords to Zweller, who hefted the weapon appraisingly. Riker gave the pistol to Troi.

“All right,” Troi said, examining the weapon’s controls. “We’re out of our cell. What’s our next move?”

“We find the rest of the hostages,” Zweller said, pointing his sword down the stone corridor. “Then we fight our way to the hangar and take one of the rebels’ flyers.”

“Oh,” Troi said laconically. “Is that all?”

Riker raised his sword before him, as though it were an anbo-jytsu staff. He was grateful for the chance to finally do something to end their confinement—even if it did seem to be a lost cause.

“If you’ve got a better plan, Deanna, I’m all ears.”

Troi nodded, conceding his point. “Lead on, Commander,” she said to Zweller, spinning her weapon by its trigger guard, in the manner of a gunfighter from the ancient American West.

As they made their way down the empty corridor, Riker could hear shouts and the sounds of a struggle. He saw Troi frowning at her pistol’s electronic controls.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“I can’t find the stun setting.”

“Chiarosans don’t believe in nonlethal weapons,” Zweller said, then led them around a corner.

They entered a wide chamber that contained five empty holding cells. In front of the cells, four Starfleet officers—who had evidently also made a bid for freedom once the forcefields had dropped—were grappling hand-to-hand with a pair of hulking Chiarosans. An officer, a human male, lay on the stone floor, either dead or unconscious. One of the Chiarosans sent a human woman sprawling with a single backhanded slap.

The second guard raised a heavy sword and prepared to skewer a very angry Tellarite. Instead of fleeing the blow, the Tellarite leaped forward, sinking his tusklike teeth deeply into the soldier’s bare forearm.

With surprising adroitness, Zweller hurled himself into the melee, striking from behind and hacking at the first guard’s hamstrings. Roaring in pain, the Chiarosan fell to one impossibly flexible knee, twisting his torso almost backward to engage Zweller with two curved, scimitarlike blades. Riker rushed the second guard, parrying a downward sword-thrust aimed at the Tellarite’s thick neck. The Chiarosan shrugged the Tellarite off of him, sending him flying, gobbets of gray flesh trailing through the air behind him. Seemingly unaware of his wound, the soldier turned toward Riker, a death’s-head grin fixed upon his face. The guard rushed him, his blades twirling like the propellers of an ancient terrestrial aircraft.

Riker moved as fast as he could, sidestepping and parrying with his sword. But his hip, which was bonebruised if not sprained, was slowing him. Sparks flew as metal hit metal with a deafening clangor. Something nicked Riker’s scalp, and he felt a liquid warmth soaking into his beard and surging down his neck. The warrior paused, laughing in triumph.

“A little help here, Deanna!” Riker shouted.

The Chiarosan raised his blade, advancing with preternatural speed. Then his eyes went wide in shock and he flung his blades to the floor. Riker saw that the weapons had suddenly changed in color from silvery-gray to bright red. The blades of the guard Zweller had slashed struck the stone floor a moment later, and both warriors stopped moving, startled by their burned hands but bearing their pain stoically. For a moment, the room fell silent.

Troi stood a few meters away from the fracas, holding the pistol before her in a two-handed grip. “I won’t be aiming at your weapons next time, gentlemen,” she said icily. “Please don’t force me to fire again.”

It would have been easy for one or both of the guards to charge her, given their obvious strength and agility. But their muscles slackened and they backed away from her, apparently utterly convinced of her sincerity. Riker smirked, wondering for a moment if this was some new combat application of her empathic talents.

Zweller and one of the freed Starfleet officers—a man who wore a commander’s pips—began helping the injured to their feet. Brushing blood away from his ear, Riker was relieved to note that no one appeared to have suffered any serious injuries.

Zweller and the Tellarite disarmed the guards and escorted them into one of the holding cells, whose forcefields by now had become functional again. Zweller then began distributing the remainder of the Chiarosans’ weapons—swords, disruptors, and even a pair of Starfleet-issue phasers—among his crewmates.

“Commander Roget, one of those guards is cut up pretty badly,” the Tellarite told his superior. “He needs medical attention.”

“All right, Doctor,” Roget said. “But make it fast.”

Zweller spoke up. “Commander, the guard’s pride is the only thing that got hurt.”

“How would you know?” the Tellarite asked Zweller truculently. Riker assumed that the doctor was unaware of the commander’s alliance with the rebels.

“We have to get out of sight,” one of Slayton ’s other officers said.

Roget looked convinced. Hefting a thick-bladed sword, he said, “Okay, then. We leave now.”

“Exactly how are we supposed to get off this base?” snorted the Tellarite. His piglike eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on Riker and Troi. “And who are our new friends?”

Riker and Troi stepped forward and exchanged brief introductions with the Slayton ’s officers.

Looking impatient, Zweller handed a newly confiscated particle weapon to Roget and gave a second one to Riker. “With all due respect, let’s save the pleasantries for the debriefing. Right now, I need everybody to follow me to the hangar.”

Roget turned toward the Tellarite. “Gomp, stay up front with Commander Zweller. If you smell anyone coming, give us a shout.”

Gomp nodded, his porcine nose twitching as he sampled the dank subterranean air. Then he inhaled sharply and issued a very loud, very moist sneeze. Someone behind Riker said “Gesundheit.”

Zweller and Gomp took the point, and Riker fell into step a few paces behind them, his disruptor pistol ready. Farther back, Troi helped support an injured but ambulatory woman—Xenoanthropologist Kurlan—while Tuohy, the planetary scientist, assisted Engineer Hearn, who was moving with a very noticeable limp. Roget watched for trouble from the rear.

“Hold it,” Gomp hissed, his flat nose snuffling loudly. Everyone stopped. “I think I smell—”

About ten meters ahead, a broad intersection suddenly began filling up with Chiarosans, some carrying blades, others clutching disruptors and phasers.

Riker saw that Grelun was standing at the forefront, a curved sword in each of his massive hands. The scowl on the Chiarosan leader’s dark, saturnine face seemed to lower the room’s temperature by five full degrees.

“—trouble,” Gomp finished, almost inaudibly.

The hull of the Kepler banged and shuddered. Picard halfexpected to be blown out of the cockpit and into the ionized darkness, but the shuttle somehow remained in one piece.

The tactical display fluttered, but not because of the atmospheric static. The system itself had apparently taken damage and was beginning to fail. Despite that, he could still make out the intermittent image of three Chiarosan attack ships. The pursuing vessels continued firing while Picard coaxed the Kepler into evasive loops that threatened to tear the small craft apart.

“Why aren’t we returning fire?” Crusher said, her voice carrying a carefully controlled edge of fear.

He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the turbulent atmosphere and the discharge of the Chiarosan weapons. “We can’t spare the power. We need it for the transporter and the structural integrity field.” If the latter system were to fail, the shuttle would quickly become thousands of dinnerplate-size pieces, spread across hundreds of square kilometers of the frigid Nightside.

“We’re going to abandon ship?” Crusher asked.

“There’s no other choice. We’ve taken too much damage to outrun our attackers. And we’ll never reach orbit in this condition.”

The doctor calmly eyed a readout on her console. “Jean-Luc, at these power levels, we’ll never be able to transport together. Only one at a time.”

Picard nodded curtly. “The rebel base is in transporter range again. Beam yourself down first. I’ll join you as soon as I can. And no arguments.”

Though Crusher looked unhappy about her orders, she began trying to lock the transporter onto a safe destination within the rebel compound. Suddenly, her fingers stopped moving on the instrument panel. Picard saw the frown that darkened her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s those tetryon emissions again. I’m having trouble establishing a lock. I’m trying to compensate . . .”

Picard swiftly rolled and yawed the Kepler until the shuttle was headed directly for the nearest of their attackers. He felt the seat harness biting into him as gravity in the cockpit shifted, the force of acceleration threatening to overwhelm the inertial dampers. The distance between the two craft evaporated swiftly.

“There,” Crusher said. “Ready for transport.”

“Energize,” Picard shouted. A moment later, he sat alone in the cockpit.

The ship he was approaching went into an evasive swoop, but Picard had no trouble staying on top of the other pilot. He stole a glance at the transporter’s energy indicator; there still wasn’t enough power in the unit for a beam-out, though the system’s capacitors were slowly building up energy. If he could continue evading his opponents for perhaps another minute or two, he still had a chance to beam out to wherever Crusher had sent herself—but only if he avoided squandering the shuttle’s limited energy on the phasers.

Fortunately, there was an alternative to the phasers. As the shuttle came within meters of the nearest Chiarosan fighter, Picard touched a release toggle, then sent his vessel into a dive. The Kepler lurched slightly, and the light of a fiery explosion flooded the viewport.

At close quarters—and with no shields—a shuttlecraft log buoy made quite a projectile.

On the tactical display, only two hostile vessels remained. Both were maintaining the chase. Glancing at his console, Picard saw that the transporter was still steadily recharging. But it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Then he checked the transporter lock, only to discover that it wasn’t working properly.

Damn. Tetryons again.

Picard knew well that tetryon emissions were a byproduct of certain Romulan technologies. If there was a “smoking gun” pointing to Romulan involvement with the Army of Light, then this was it. And the presence of Romulans—and their cloaking devices—would account for the rebel base’s complete invisibility from the air.

Suddenly, one of the Chiarosan ships increased speed, approaching the Kepler on an intercept course. And there were no more log buoys left.

A green light winked on in the transporter-power display. Relieved, Picard quickly compensated for the tetryons and locked the transporter onto the same coordinates Crusher had used.

Then, as he attempted to energize the transporter, every system in the Kepler ’s cockpit went dead and dark.

Lack of time had forced Crusher to lock the Kepler ’s transporter into the most easily detectable tetryon-free area in the rebel base—which was, ironically, located at the center of a tetryon-rich area. The eye of the storm, she thought as the transporter beam began disassembling her, molecule by molecule.

When the transporter’s shimmering light faded, Crusher found herself standing in a narrow, teal-colored chamber. A sign on one of the bulkheads bore several characters of angular, alien script.

In the center of the chamber, two men and a woman, all wearing gray uniforms, busied themselves around what appeared to be a partially disassembled warp core.

A Romulan warp core, Crusher thought, just as the woman turned toward her, a disruptor in her hand.

At least two dozen pairs of iridescent Chiarosan eyes stared balefully from across the wide, branching corridor. Riker seriously doubted that he and his companions could survive a firefight against so many determined opponents.

The troopers were holding their fire, apparently awaiting orders from Grelun, who stood in their front ranks. The Chiarosan leader seemed to be staring intently at Zweller.

Riker heard Zweller hissing at Gomp, the Tellarite. “I thought Tellarites had keen noses! How could so many of them slip right past you?”

Gomp snorted unhappily, wiping his snout with one of the sleeves of his soiled uniform. “I’m a doctor, not a tricorder. Besides,” he snuffled, “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

“Disarm, or die,” Grelun said.

Riker stepped forward, his weapon lowered in what he hoped the Chiarosans would see as a nonthreatening gesture. He stopped beside Zweller and Gomp.

“Grelun,” Riker said calmly. “We have to talk.”

Grelun sneered. “Falhain should never have trusted you Federation folk. Particularly that one.” He twirled one of his blades, then aimed its point straight at Zweller. “The man who tried to betray us to Ruardh.”

Riker heard surprised mutters among the Slayton survivors, which receded slowly after Roget gave a terse order for silence. All eyes were upon Zweller now, and none looked very friendly.

Apparently oblivious to everyone in the chamber except for Grelun, Zweller was still holding his particle weapon, his arms at his sides. In a steely voice, Zweller said, “Not true, Grelun. I could have done a lot more than just tamper with your communications and security systems. I could have sabotaged the cloaking devices that keep this place hidden from your enemies. But I didn’t do that.”

Cloaking devices. The words echoed in Riker’s mind. Looks like the Romulans have been stacking the deck, after all. He saw from Troi’s expression that she must have come to the same conclusion. But what, he wondered, did the Romulans have to gain?

Zweller continued: “And do you know why, Grelun? Because I believe in your cause. I want to help you stop the slaughter of your people.”

Grelun appeared unmoved. “You outworlders and your schemes. You plot and you plan. You manipulate us as though we were but pieces in a game. And who suffers? Those who dwell in the provinces you conquer.”

“We’ve never ‘conquered’ anyone, Grelun,” Riker said. “And I would like a chance to prove it to you.”

“How, human?” Grelun said.

“I offer you a neutral place to meet with us: aboard our starship, the Enterprise. There, you can learn more about our history.”

Grelun laughed, then said, “The writing of history is ever the privilege of the conqueror. Life here was far better, far simpler, before outworlders came among us. Then, only Ruardh and her death-dealing minions stood against us.”

“What’s really bothering you, Grelun?” Zweller said. “Are you regretting Falhain’s decision to accept aid from the Romulans? Are you worried about what they’ll expect in return after the Federation leaves?”

Zweller had evidently touched a nerve; Grelun was baring the razor-sharp points of his silvery teeth. One didn’t need to be a Betazoid to divine his emotional state.

“Get down!” Troi yelled.

Grelun raised his swords high and shouted, “Kill them all!” At least two dozen Chiarosan rebels advanced, amid an ear-splitting, ululating cry that seemed to issue from a single gigantic throat. Gomp turned tail and ran as Riker and Zweller both made rolling dives to the stone floor, bringing their weapons up as they landed. Riker could already hear weapons discharges, even before Zweller began firing his disruptor at the oncoming soldiers.

Then Riker realized that he was hearing weapons fire coming from behind the charging Chiarosans. He noticed the distinctive whooshing sound of a Starfleet compression phaser rifle, a weapon he’d not seen in the hands of Grelun’s troops.

The sound of phaser blasts grew louder and the Chiarosans’ united charge became a disorganized scatter. Grelun, his bare forearms badly burned by energy fire, fell back into his men. Chiarosans had begun dropping to the floor.

Moments later, none of the rebels was standing. Miraculously, none of the Starfleet contingent appeared seriously hurt. Near the chamber’s far wall, behind the stunned Chiarosans, stood Lieutenant Hawk, armed with a phaser rifle. Beside him was Admiral Batanides, who was holding a hand phaser.

Zweller smiled broadly as they approached. “Marta, I was expecting to see Johnny. What the hell are you doing here?”

Her face was set into hard lines. “Saving your ass yet again, apparently.”

Riker noticed that something subtle had changed in the way the admiral carried herself. It was as though she had aged a decade since he’d seen her last on the Enterprise.

Zweller apparently sensed something, too. Anxiously, he asked, “How is Aubin?”

“Dead,” she replied coldly, gripping her phaser hard. “And now really isn’t the best time to discuss it, Corey.”

“Admiral,” Riker said, happy to interrupt. “Since you managed to get in here, I’m assuming you also have a way of getting everyone out.”

“Right, Commander.” To Hawk, she said, “ Lieutenant, signal Captain Picard. Tell him we’ve got ten to beam up.”

Hawk nodded. Tapping his combadge, he said, “Away team to Kepler.”

Riker was relieved to learn that Zweller’s gambit had paid off. The captain had indeed brought a shuttlecraft into transporter range for a lightning rescue. Riker smiled at Troi, who grinned back, evidently thinking similar thoughts.

Then Riker looked again toward Hawk and realized that something wasn’t right. The lieutenant was repeatedly tapping his combadge, which issued a burst of static before going silent.

Hawk’s eyes locked with Riker’s. “I can’t raise the Kepler.”

Riker told himself that the shuttle’s transmitter might simply have run afoul of the local weather patterns. But he knew that the combadge’s silence might also indicate that something far more serious had happened. He felt a deep chill spreading in his gut.

“Damn!” Batanides said. “Keep trying. And let’s find someplace to hide. The last thing we need now is to get captured by the Chiarosans. Or the Romulans.”

“Admiral,” Riker said. “Maybe the Romulans are exactly what we need.”

Batanides seemed to grasp his meaning. “What’s your plan, Commander?”

Hawk thought that the Chiarosans looked intimidating even when sprawled unconscious on the floor. He tried to ignore them as he adjusted his tricorder to scan for Romulan biosignatures. While Hawk worked, the admiral quickly brought Riker, Troi, and Commander Roget upto-date, including some of the details surrounding Ambassador Tabor’s death, Captain Picard’s rescue mission, and the discovery of a Romulan cloaking field some five AUs south of the Chiaros system’s orbital plane.

When Hawk idly mentioned that the energy field the Enterprise had encountered might have been partly responsible for the Slayton ’s destruction, a collective gasp went up among five of the bedraggled former hostages. Zweller, however, stood apart from his crewmates, stony-faced. Hawk wondered: Had the Section 31 agent known all along about the Slayton ’s fate?

“Oh, my God,” Troi said, her dark eyes moistening as she appraised Zweller’s colleagues. “No one’s told them.” Hawk’s tricorder nearly slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers when he realized what a bombshell he had dropped on these already-shaken people.

Admiral Batanides interrupted Hawk’s unpleasant train of thought. “Are any more troops coming, Lieutenant?”

Hawk forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand. He raised the tricorder again, watching as its indicators moved slowly across the readout panel. “No, sir,” he said. “But there are definitely Romulan lifesigns here. It’s hard to tell, scanning through all this rock, but there may be as many as half a dozen of them in various parts of the complex.”

“Scan for tetryon particles,” Riker said. Without hesitation, Hawk again adjusted the tricorder and resumed scanning.

“What good will that do?” barked Gomp.

“Romulan ships are powered by quantum singularities,” Riker explained patiently, “that usually give off tetryon particles as a by-product.”

“Got it,” Hawk said, smiling triumphantly—the tricorder had indeed picked up the fingerprint of a Romulan quantum singularity drive. “And it’s located exactly where Commander Zweller’s message said the spacecraft hangars would be.”

Hawk noticed then that all eyes were upon Commander Riker, who clutched a Chiarosan pistol in his right hand. Acutely aware that they were looking to him to tell them their next move, Riker turned a questioning look on the admiral. Batanides gave him a quick nod, effectively transferring command of the mission to him.

“Mr. Zweller, you’ll lead us to the hangar,” Riker began. “Deanna, I want you to keep trying to raise the Kepler. Mr. Roget, I’d like your people to bring Grelun along with us. Lieutenant Hawk will assist you.”

As the counselor tried without success to contact the shuttlecraft, Hawk stowed the tricorder and walked toward the Chiarosan leader’s supine form. Unconsciousness did little to soften Grelun’s fierce visage; it occurred to Hawk that it would be very bad if he were to awaken unexpectedly. He began helping two of Roget’s officers half-carry and half-drag the man, whose dead weight was akin to that of a small tree. The intensity of this planet’s gravitational field wasn’t making matters any easier.

As he strained, Hawk heard Troi raise an objection. “So now it’s our turn to start taking hostages?”

“I prefer to think of him as a shield, Deanna,” Riker temporized as the group began moving. “The Chiarosans might not fire on us while their leader’s in harm’s way.”

Zweller shrugged and looked over his shoulder at Riker as he led the group along. “Then again, they might not let that stop them. They’re desperate people, Commander.”

And so are we, Hawk thought, his back and shoulder muscles afire as he continued to help move the insensate Chiarosan.

The three Romulan officers wasted no time confiscating Crusher’s phaser and combadge. Crusher understood, too late, that she must have locked the Kepler ’s transporter onto the engine room of a Romulan ship located somewhere within the Chiarosan rebel base. Romulan warp cores, after all, were known to scatter tetryon particles. In her haste, the “shadow” in the tetryon field, which had probably been created by the shielding of the warp core itself, must have looked like a safe refuge. But that knowledge could do her little good now.

As the seconds slowly ticked by, Crusher’s apprehension grew. Where is Jean-Luc?

The female Romulan, who appeared to be in charge, herded the doctor into the corner of the room farthest from the warp core. The woman spoke tersely into a small communication device attached to her uniform.

“Centurion, this is T’Lei from the technical group. We have captured and disarmed a lone Starfleet officer in our engine room. I presume she is here to try to hijack our vessel.”

“Detain her,” replied a harried-sounding male voice. Crusher heard some sort of commotion going on in the background. The two male Romulan technicians, who had clearly heard the noises as well, looked nervously at one another.

But T’Lei never took her eyes off Crusher, and the weapon in the Romulan woman’s hand never wavered.

“Centurion?” T’Lei said, tapping the transmitter on her tunic.

A moment later, the voice replied: “We have just been advised that the Starfleet prisoners have escaped. They have captured Grelun and are taking him in your direction. If they wish to leave the planet, they will have no choice other than to take your ship.”

Crusher felt a surge of hope rise within her. But she didn’t dare move.

“Surely Grelun’s troops will neutralize them before they can attempt it,” T’Lei said.

“No. They will stand down, to ensure their leader’s safety. You and your men can better handle this situation using stealth. There are only ten escapees, after all. Expect them to arrive momentarily.”

Crusher’s heart abruptly sank. They’re going to walk right into an ambush.

“Understood, Centurion,” T’Lei said, signing off. The male technicians raised disruptor pistols of their own.

Wearing a viper’s smile, T’Lei spoke directly to Crusher. “The ship’s hatch is narrow, Human. Your friends must enter it single-file.

“Rest assured, we will be ready for them.”

Jean-Luc, where the hell are you?

* * *

A moment after the Kepler ’s instrument panel went dark, the emergency lighting kicked in, coloring the cockpit a dull red. Picard silently thanked whatever capricious fortune continued to keep the shuttle’s structural integrity field functioning, though he knew it soon wouldn’t matter. The two remaining Chiarosan fighter craft were still closing in, and he didn’t even know for sure how close to the ground the shuttle had plunged.

Picard channeled every joule of emergency power to the transporter, taking care to leave the structural integrity field in place. Obediently, the transporter controls lit up. Fortunately, he still had a lock on Beverly’s coordinates, and had stayed within nominal transporter range of them.

But he could also see that the transporter’s power level had fallen far below safe operational levels. There was no power to spare anything else now, even life support. It was going to be close.

He checked the transporter’s scanner, which again showed evidence of tetryons. Beverly had evidently beamed into a tetryon-free “shadow” located in the very heart of the most abundant tetryon activity in the rebel base.

Which told Picard what he could expect to find at the beam-down site: Romulans.

Picard left his flight seat long enough to grab a hand phaser from the weapons locker. He entered the “ energize” command and shut off every other onboard system.

The hull creaked and groaned, and one of the braces let go with a loud snap. As the light from the transporter began cascading around him, something slammed very hard into the Kepler. His ears popped as the cabin’s atmosphere vented into the chill Chiarosan night.

A gale-force, ionized wind ripped the shuttle’s hull apart as though it were nothing more than an autumn leaf.

* * *

Hawk was relieved beyond words when Riker’s appraisal of the Chiarosans turned out to be correct; when they’d seen their unconscious leader being spirited away by ten heavily armed Starfleet officers, the Chiarosans had made no move to bar their way to the hangar facility, nor did they pretend ignorance about the location of the Romulan vessel Hawk’s tricorder had detected. After Zweller had made a rather emphatic inquiry into the matter—all the while pointing a beam weapon at the slumbering Grelun’s skull—a Chiarosan technician sullenly punched an authorization code into a console, decloaking a small Romulan scout ship. The vessel’s narrow hatchway now beckoned.

“Scan that ship for Romulans,” Batanides ordered Hawk, who swiftly consulted his tricorder.

After a moment, Hawk shook his head. “I’m picking up too much tetryon activity. It’s jamming my scans.”

“Deanna?” Riker prompted.

Troi closed her eyes, reaching into the small Romulan vessel with her empathic senses. “All I’m picking up right now is a lot of emotional tension,” Troi said. “As though several people were about to engage in combat.”

“Or maybe preparing an ambush?” Zweller ventured.

“Maybe I should knock,” Gomp said, apparently to no one.

Batanides raised her weapon, signaling an end to the debate. “We can’t stay here, people. We’ve no choice but to chance it. Let’s go.” Riker nodded his acknowledgment and took the point, with Zweller and Roget immediately behind him.

Hawk tucked his tricorder away. Muscles straining, he resumed the not inconsiderable task of helping to drag Grelun forward as the group moved across the hangar floor toward the open hatch.

* * *

Picard shook off the slight dizziness he felt when the transporter released him. It had been close, but he was satisfied that he was in one piece.

Phaser drawn, he now stood in what appeared to be an engine room. To his right was what he recognized as a Romulan warp core—obviously the source of the tetryons the Kepler ’s sensors had detected. Some five meters away, in a far corner to his left, stood Crusher, surrounded by a trio of armed Romulans, one of whom had just turned in his direction. The doctor saw him as well, and rolled lithely to the deck.

Using the warp core as cover, Picard opened fire.

Riker held his Chiarosan disruptor at eye level as he entered the hatch. He expected to be fired upon at any moment, and was mildly surprised when nothing of the kind happened. As the others followed, Riker led the way into the crew compartment.

It was empty.

Riker heard an electronic hum coming from the forward portion of the vessel. It sounded as though someone were in the process of activating the scout ship’s instruments, perhaps even preparing the vessel for flight. His weapon ready, he moved toward the sound as Zweller, Roget, and Batanides covered his back. Cautiously, Riker stepped through an open hatch and into a small cockpit.

He was shocked to see Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher seated behind the instrument panel, evidently trying to make sense of the Romulan script on the control panels.

Picard looked up and smiled broadly. “What kept you, Number One?”

Lieutenant Hawk thought that fitting a Tellarite male, a half-Betazoid woman, eight assorted humans, and an insensate Chiarosan aboard such a small craft might be problematic, but it turned out that there was enough room, after all. But only barely. Hawk accompanied Batanides into the small cockpit, where the admiral had relieved Crusher to allow her to assist Riker, Troi, and Dr. Gomp in tending to a trio of unconscious Romulan technicians. For a moment, Hawk had wondered how much important information the Romulans might reveal—until he considered how crowded the vessel already was. There simply wasn’t enough room to take the Romulans along.

The lieutenant was impressed by how well the admiral knew her way around Romulan instrumentation. It made sense, though; she was an intelligence officer, after all. Perhaps the study of things Romulan was her specialty. Hawk watched her carefully, memorizing each control she touched, each command sequence she entered.

As Picard and the admiral powered up the little vessel, the Chiarosans scrambled to open the hangar doors for them, apparently unwilling to engage in a game of “chicken,” which would more than likely get their leader killed.

Hawk smiled triumphantly. “We’re actually doing it. We’re getting away.”

“We haven’t gotten away yet, Lieutenant,” Picard said, still working busily alongside the admiral to get the ship moving.

Batanides nodded in agreement with the captain. “They can still chase us. Or even shoot us down, Grelun or no Grelun.”

Seconds later, they were under way. The scout ship ascended quickly into the chill darkness of Nightside. Hawk continued observing and memorizing while the admiral coached Picard on the instrument panel.

“That blue rectangular touchpad beside your right hand should control the cloaking device. Activate it.”

Picard complied, smiling ironically. “I suppose we’re in violation of the Treaty of Algeron now, Admiral.”

She chuckled gently. “I don’t think the Romulan diplomatic corps will be in any position to complain about that, under the circumstances.” Hawk was well aware that under the current Federation–Romulan treaties concerning Chiaros IV, neither side were permitted to conceal either personnel or equipment anywhere on the planet.

He wondered what other secrets the Romulans guarded—and if Zweller had any inkling of what those secrets might be.

The admiral frowned as she stared at a readout. “The cloak’s not working.”

Picard activated the comm system. “Picard to engine room.”

“Hearn here, Captain,” responded the chief engineer of the late starship Slayton.

“The cloaking device is not functioning, Mr. Hearn. We need to engage it immediately.”

“Sorry, Captain, but Commander Roget and I have our hands full right now just keeping the engines operational. The Romulan techs had everything in pieces down here.”

Hawk suddenly became aware of Zweller’s presence behind him. “I know a thing or two about cloaking devices, Marta,” the older man said.

“Then get below and get the damned thing working before they start chasing us.”

Finally seeing an opportunity to speak with Zweller in relative privacy, Hawk turned toward him. “Need a hand, Commander?”

Zweller raised a curious eyebrow.

“I did some . . . extracurricular study on Romulan cloaking technology back at the Academy,” Hawk offered. He looked toward Picard for permission.

“We’ve no shortage of qualified pilots up here, Lieutenant,” the captain said from the front of the cockpit. Picard then turned his chair toward Zweller and regarded him coolly. “Commander?”

Zweller looked significantly at Picard and Batanides for a long moment. Hawk knew that something important was passing between these three people, though he wasn’t sure exactly what it was. But it seemed clear they all shared some history together.

Zweller turned away from Picard and Batanides, and regarded Hawk with a shrug. “Why not?” he said, then began making his way aftward.

Hawk followed Zweller into the main crew compartment, past Troi and several members of the Slayton ’s crew. They stepped over Grelun’s unconscious form, which was splayed across the floor while Dr. Gomp and Counselor Troi watched over him; none of the seats aboard the vessel were designed to accommodate anyone so large. Nearby, Crusher tended to what appeared to be a superficial wound on Riker’s scalp, and a nasty-looking burn on his shoulder. Then Hawk followed Zweller down a companionway ladder and into a cramped, equipmentfilled lower compartment that reminded him of one of the horizontal Jefferies tubes aboard the Enterprise. Hawk could hear Roget and Hearn discussing their work on the engine core from around a corner junction.

Zweller removed an access panel just above the deck gridwork, revealing the cloaking device’s winking, glowing interior. Hawk found a tool kit in an adjacent drawer and handed it to Zweller, who lay supine in order to reach the leads running from the device to the ship’s main EPS lines.

After a few passes of an isodyne coupler, Zweller signaled to the cockpit that the cloak was operational. Then he rose, handed the tool kit to Hawk, and headed back toward the companionway ladder.

Hawk took a deep breath. I may never have a better chance than right now. He put a firm hand on Zweller’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“I need to speak to you,” Hawk said softly, not wanting to be overheard by Roget or Hearn. “About Section 31.”

Zweller turned slowly around and regarded Hawk with a sober expression. “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” he said in an admonishing tone, his gaze dilithium-hard.

Hawk stood his ground and stared right back at Zweller. “Ambassador Tabor told me about Thirty-One. He told me you’re working for them, too. And he tried to convince me that losing Chiaros IV and the Geminus Gulf would be better for the Federation than winning them. He even tried to recruit me to help him accomplish that goal.”

Zweller digested this in silence. He appeared to be a difficult man to catch by surprise. But that must be part and parcel of the spy game, Hawk thought.

Zweller spoke quietly after a long, introspective pause. “I suppose Tabor died before he could answer all of your . . . fundamental questions.”

Hawk nodded. “And now that we know the Romulans are mixed up with the Army of Light, I have even more questions.”

“So it appears you have a choice to make, Lieutenant. The same choice I had to make when I was around your age.”

Hawk nodded slowly. “I either have to help you or stop you.”

Zweller smiled. “You’ve got a third option, kid. You can back off. Pretend you don’t know anything about Section 31. Believe me, that would be your safest option.”

Hawk considered that for a moment, then dismissed it out of hand. If he’d been of a mind to play it safe, then he never would have gone against his father’s wishes and entered Starfleet Academy. And he’d be on a safe, dull tenure-track in the antiquities department at some Martian university right now instead of piloting the Federation’s flagship out at the boundaries of human experience.

“Ignoring what Tabor tried to do here would be the same as helping you, wouldn’t it?” Hawk said. “No, I can’t just pretend I’m not involved, Commander. I am involved. And I need to know what you and Tabor were really trying to do here, and why.”

Zweller folded his arms across his chest and paused once again, evidently weighing options of his own. Finally, he said, “Let’s strike a deal, then, son: I’ll tell you whatever I think you need to know. But only after we get safely away from this hellhole.

“And assuming, of course, that both of us live that long.”

And with that, Zweller crossed to the ladder and climbed out of sight, leaving Hawk alone, the coppery taste of fear in his mouth.