Chapter Fourteen

For a few moments after he returned to the bridge, Picard stood quietly beside one of the aft consoles as he surveyed his crew in action. Various officers were busily manning stations, scarcely pausing to note his presence. Riker sat confidently in the center seat as if he was born to it. Picard smiled to himself, taking quiet reassurance from the seamless performance of his crew. It was preferable by far to shouts of “Captain on the bridge!”

“Report, Number One,” Picard said as he approached Riker.

“Geordi and Data are nearly finished loading their attack plan into the Romulan ship’s computer core,” Riker said as he rose from the chair. “And Lieutenant Hawk is getting her ready for launch.”

Picard nodded. “Good. How soon can we get the mission under way?”

“No more than another thirty minutes. Maybe sooner.”

Picard suddenly noticed how drawn and exhausted Troi looked. Who counsels the counselor? he thought.

“Have the survivors from the Slayton been keeping you busy, Counselor?”

Troi smiled gently. “They have required a lot of attention, Captain. But that’s to be expected, considering the ordeal they’ve suffered. Apart from their suspicions about Commander Zweller, their morale is actually quite good. I’m really much more concerned about our other guest.”

Picard understood immediately. “Grelun. Dr. Crusher tells me he’s already made a complete recovery. Has he been causing any problems?”

“Not at all,” Troi said, sounding surprised.

Riker grinned wryly. “I suppose it’s a lot easier to be polite when no one’s shooting at you.”

“I’m certain it’s only a temporary cease-fire, Will,” Troi said. “First Protector Ruardh isn’t about to simply leave him in our custody, political asylum or no. And she’d probably go apoplectic if she saw the VIP stateroom we issued him.”

Riker shrugged. “Big people need big quarters.”

“Do you think Ruardh would actually be foolish enough to attack the Enterprise?” Picard asked Troi.

“She’s certainly angry enough, Captain. But I don’t think she’ll do anything overt until after the results of the referendum are officially announced.”

“Grand,” Picard said, shaking his head. Still, his determination to safeguard Grelun from his would-be executioners had not wavered. “So we have to neutralize the singularity and withdraw to a safe position, all within a couple of hundred minutes.”

“At which time the Romulans will be within their rights to use force to get us out of the Geminus Gulf,” Riker said.

Picard heard a pair of doors swish open behind him. He turned and saw Admiral Batanides enter, to be followed moments later by Zweller. Picard had to fight back his surprise at the sight of the bruise on the commander’s jawline. He and Batanides both wore somber expressions; Zweller looked for all the world like a cadet who had just been put on report for brawling.

Picard turned back toward Riker. “You have the conn, Number One. I’ll be commanding the singularity mission myself.”

Riker frowned. Picard didn’t need Troi to read his first officer’s intentions.

“No arguments this time, Will. Mr. Data and Mr. Hawk will be with me. This operation can be executed best by a small crew, and it’s far too important for me to delegate.”

“With all due respect,” Riker said, “a crew of two seems a bit too small.”

Suddenly, the ship lurched hard to starboard, forcing everyone to grab at chairs, railings, and consoles to avoid being flung violently about the bridge. An alarm klaxon shrilled as Zweller toppled hard against a console and Batanides fell onto her knees. The vibrations forced Troi out of her chair, unceremoniously depositing her onto her backside. Riker stumbled, then clutched at a console and struggled back to his feet.

Picard stood beside the command chair, grabbing its arms to steady himself. He experienced a fleeting instant of vertigo. Shaking his head to clear it, he wondered if Ruardh had chosen this moment to launch a surprise attack.

Then, almost as quickly as they had come, the vibrations ceased. A quick glance around the bridge revealed that no one was seriously hurt.

“Number One, what just happened to us?”

Holding tightly to his console, Riker said, “It was another subspace distortion-wave, Captain. Quite a bit stronger than the previous ones.”

“What the hell are the Romulans up to?” Picard said, not expecting an answer. “Yellow alert. Status report, Lieutenant Daniels.”

Staring at his readouts on the upper bridge, Daniels spoke breathlessly. “I’m getting reports of minor hullbreaches on decks eleven and twelve, Captain. Forcefields are up and damage-control crews are responding. It could have been a lot worse.”

“What about the Chiarosans?” Picard said. “Can you tell if the planet was affected?”

“Apparently not, sir,” Daniels said. “I’m monitoring their orbital communications tether now. It seems to be working, and I’m not picking up any emergency message traffic. The atmosphere and the planet’s Nightside must have taken the brunt of the shock.”

“I recommend we don’t take the Enterprise any closer to the singularity than it already is,” Riker said. “We can’t predict when these subspace slippages will occur, and a ship this large is a sitting duck for spatial disruptions this intense.”

“Won’t our shields protect us?” Troi said.

Riker shook his head. “Subspace distortions alter the shape of space itself. The Enterprise occupies a pretty fair amount of that space. And she can’t take this sort of punishment the way the planet can.”

Batanides strode toward the turbolift, where Zweller awaited her with a sullen expression. She paused in the open doorway and turned to face the bridge. To Picard, she said, “Commander Zweller I and will be in the shuttlebay.”

Picard nodded to her. “Everything is ready for you,” Picard said simply, then watched as his two oldest friends entered the turbolift, headed to their rendezvous with Chairman Koval. Just before the doors hissed shut, Picard saw the thunderheads looming behind Batanides’s gaze.

He was supremely thankful that he was not Cortin Zweller.

Thanks to the tireless efforts of Data and La Forge, the Romulan scoutship was ready for launch ten minutes ahead of schedule. The bridge crew had detected three more strong subspace distortion wave-fronts that followed no perceptible pattern. The Romulans were clearly stepping up their efforts. It could be that they were closer to harnessing the subspace singularity’s colossal power than anyone had suspected.

But they might also be losing control of it, Picard thought. No wonder they wanted us to clear out of here yesterday.

The shuttlecraft Herschel, carrying Zweller and Batanides, had already departed when Picard entered the shuttlebay. Now that the damage had already been done to Federation–Chiarosan relations, Picard could only hope that his old comrades-at-arms could extract some useful information from the Romulans. And that they would survive the attempt.

Aboard the Romulan ship, Picard found Data seated directly behind the cockpit, where he had become part of an arcane and faintly disturbing tableau. The back of the android’s head, including much of his hair, lay discarded on a nearby seat. The gleaming cortenide and duranium of his skull lay exposed, baring the busy polychromatic flashings of the positronic matrix that comprised his sentience. A flat, paper-thin cable ran from near the top of his head to an information access port in one of the bulkheads.

Picard realized he was staring when Data smiled up at him. “Please forgive my appearance, Captain. This direct interface will allow me to access the array’s security grid a great deal faster than I could by entering commands through the consoles.”

Picard had rarely seen Data in such a state of partial disassembly. The sight was a stark reminder of the huge gulf that still separated his inorganic friend from the humanity to which he aspired. Organic beings, Picard reflected, tended to take their basic bodily integrity as a fait accompli.

“Carry on, Mr. Data,” Picard said as he made his way forward into the cockpit, where he took one of the two narrow seats. Lieutenant Hawk sat in the other, and was running a series of preflight checks.

During the flight from the rebel base, Picard had become quite familiar with the scoutship’s many systems and instruments, despite the alien appearance of the icons in the cockpit’s graphical interface. Still, he was glad to have Hawk at his side on this mission; the lieutenant was not only a fine pilot, but also an exceedingly quick study. Picard was well aware that Hawk had been watching the cockpit controls attentively during much of the voyage from Grelun’s compound to the Enterprise.

Assuming that we get out of the current circumstances alive, Picard thought, I expect you to go quite far, Mr. Hawk.

“Captain, could I ask you a question?” Hawk said, setting his activities aside for a moment.

Picard could see that something was bothering the younger man. “Certainly, Lieutenant. What’s on your mind?”

“Assuming we succeed . . . what are the chances of anyone ever locating this subspace singularity again?”

“Commander La Forge is of the opinion that it won’t be detectable again for centuries. If ever.”

“I . . .” Hawk hesitated, then seemed to find the courage to go on. “Commander Zweller spoke with me shortly after the mission briefing.”

Picard thought he knew where this was heading. “And he believes that we may be overreacting to the threat posed by the singularity.”

“I think he may have a valid point,” Hawk said. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“Of course.”

“We’re about to destroy this thing, for all intents and purposes. Doesn’t that fly in the face of our overall mission of exploration? It might even be questionable under interstellar law.”

“With the fate of the universe at stake, Lieutenant, I’d gladly face the consequences of my decision in a court of law,” Picard said. A moment later, he added, “I take it Commander Zweller brought these matters to your attention as well.”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

“And are you strongly in agreement with him?”

Hawk looked uncomfortable. “I just thought . . . I think that the question needed to be raised. Once we do this, there’s no turning back.”

“You’re right. There is no turning back.” Picard sighed and looked through the scoutship’s forward viewports through steepled fingers. “Lieutenant, I’m not insensitive to your concerns. I’ve wrestled with the same issues myself. This mission goes against all of my instincts as an explorer. If I thought there were any safe way to preserve this phenomenon for scientific study, I would. But I can’t. The risk is simply too great.”

“Still,” Hawk said glumly. “If we could find some way to save this thing, and harness its power for some peaceful purpose . . .” He trailed off into silence.

“Lieutenant, are you acquainted with the writings of Lord Acton?”

“ ‘Power tends to corrupt,’ ” Hawk quoted, nodding. “‘And absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ ” A smile slowly fanned across the younger man’s lips.

“Strange,” Picard said. “That old caveat always struck me as more chilling than humorous.”

Hawk looked mildly embarrassed, and his smile abruptly vanished. “That isn’t it, sir. It’s just that . . .” he trailed off again.

Picard frowned. “Yes?”

“It’s just that Commander Zweller told me that you’d probably quote Lord Acton to me if I spoke to you about this.”

Picard’s combadge overrode his tart response before he could deliver it. “Crusher to Captain Picard.”

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I just heard that you’re planning to fly the mission yourself,” the doctor said, her tone slightly chiding. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to enter the cloaking field. We don’t know what effect it will have on your artificial heart.”

“Doctor, what does the cloaking field have to do with my heart?”

“Cloaking devices tend to give off tetryon particles,” Crusher said. “And that energy field is made up of literally thousands of cloaking devices.”

“Then why wasn’t I harmed by the tetryon emissions that led us to this scoutship?”

“The tetryon counts inside the cloaking field could be much higher,” she countered. “You could be flying into a veritable soup of tetryons.”

The only thing Picard disliked more than medical conversations like this one was having them in front of other members of his crew. “Damn it, Beverly, I’m not an invalid.”

“Captain, do I have to remind you what happened at the Lenarian conference?” Crusher said, beginning to sound impatient.

He remembered all too well; the Lenarians had shut his heart down with a compressed tetryon beam. That incident had nearly cost him his life. But Picard knew that the stray tetryon output from any number of cloaking devices was a far cry from a weapon of that sort.

“Doctor, if you believe that I’m endangering my life unnecessarily, then I suggest you relieve me of duty.”

“I wish I could. No one really knows for certain what the conditions will be like inside the cloaking field. But you need to know the risks.”

Picard had never enjoyed being reminded that he owed his life to an artificial heart, and that was especially true now that Batanides and Zweller had come back into his life. After all, the only reason he now needed the synthetic organ was because the three of them had once lacked the simple common sense to demur from a fight against three bloodthirsty Nausicaans.

Picard spoke into his combadge, his manner somewhat gentler. “Objection noted. And if it’s any consolation, Doctor, we won’t need to stay behind the barrier for more than a few minutes at the most. Picard out.”

Hawk quietly cleared his throat. “Everything’s green to go, Captain.”

“Then, I trust that means you’ve put your misgivings aside?”

“Truthfully?” Hawk said. “Not entirely. It still strikes me as a horrible waste. But we don’t have a better option.”

Picard appreciated Hawk’s candor. “Then let’s get under way,” he said as he took control of the helm.

“Cloaking system still functioning properly,” Hawk said, looking up from one of his indicator panels. No one would be able to observe the scoutship’s departure from the Enterprise.

Picard brought the scoutship smoothly forward, guided her through the wide launch bay, and departed for the inky blackness beyond. The viewer now showed the livid red-and-ocher daylight side of Chiaros IV.

Seeing that their heading was already laid in, Picard instructed Hawk to engage the impulse engines at warp point-two. Crossing the approximately five AUs that separated Chiaros IV from the subspace singularity’s cloaking field would be slow going at that speed—the journey would take about three hours—but pushing the scoutship’s engines any harder would risk drawing unwanted Romulan attention. Even at this velocity, they would still reach the cloaking field a few minutes before the Enterprise ’s departure deadline. And a few minutes ought to be all the time Data would require.

Hawk acknowledged Picard’s order and adjusted the forward velocity to twenty percent that of light. Chiaros IV quickly turned away into the darkness and fell away into the infinite night of the Geminus Gulf. The commandeered vessel dove outward beneath the ecliptic, arcing headlong toward the singularity.

“Your captain’s beverage is delightful,” Grelun said to Riker and Troi. “The human Urlgray who devised it must surely be a god among men.”

Sipping from a mug that looked absurdly tiny in his enormous hand, the Chiarosan sat shirtless at the edge of a bed that seemed scarcely capable of supporting his weight. Now that Will Riker was in close quarters with Grelun, he noticed that the rebel leader smelled faintly of freshly turned earth and lilacs. The aroma, as well as Grelun’s fierce mien, reminded him absurdly of Worf.

But what struck Riker most was Grelun’s astonishing recuperative powers. Less than three days after he had regained consciousness—and had refused further dermal regeneration treatments—Grelun’s body bore not a trace of the severe disruptor burns he had sustained during the battle in the rebel compound. Even the coarse brown hair on his thick-thewed arms had grown back almost completely.

Riker was just as impressed by the huge Chiarosan’s quiet dignity, as well as by the extreme delicacy with which he held his drinking vessel. Surely, he could have smashed it with a mere twitch of his fingers.

“I must thank you again for the hospitality that you and your captain have shown me,” Grelun continued, setting the mug down on a bedside table. “These are splendid quarters, though I must confess that the floor serves me better as a sleeping place than does this child’s cot.”

The Chiarosan bared his razor-sharp metallic teeth as he finished this last utterance. Though Riker was reasonably certain the mannerism was the equivalent of a human smile, he was still glad that he had posted a pair of security guards, both armed with compression phaser rifles, just outside the cabin door.

“We wanted to make you as comfortable as possible,” said Counselor Troi, who stood beside Riker. She appeared confident that the Chiarosan posed no danger. Still, Riker was uncomfortably aware that Grelun could easily snap her neck without even having to rise to his feet.

Grelun tipped his head in apparent perplexity. Riker wondered for a moment if the universal translator had malfunctioned. Or perhaps the Chiarosan tongue simply contained no word that corresponded to “comfort.”

“No matter,” Grelun said. “We have much larger problems, you and I. Your captain even now risks his life to expose the treachery of my predecessor’s outworld allies.” He practically spat this last word.

Riker tensed at Grelun’s mention of Picard’s secret incursion behind the Romulan cloaking field. Grelun was somehow aware of the mission, despite his not having been briefed about it.

Zweller, Riker thought sourly. We should have arrested him as soon as he came aboard. Even now, he’s trying to play both ends against the middle.

“You disagreed with Falhain’s decision to accept aid from the Romulans,” Troi said to Grelun, her tone matterof-fact. It was clear that she wasn’t asking a question.

Grelun raised and lowered his shoulders in an elaborate triple-jointed shrug. “I did not want an alliance with any outworlders. But during Falhain’s rule of the Army of Light, my opinion was neither day nor night, and was not sought. While my leader lived, it was my part to go where he led and do as he bid.”

Grelun paused to raise his cup for another drink before continuing. “Falhain’s untimely slaying changed this.”

Riker hadn’t seen exactly how Falhain had died during the skirmish in the Chiarosan capital; he’d already been knocked unconscious by the time the deed had been done. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that maybe Grelun had witnessed Falhain’s death, or perhaps even arranged it. Could he somehow be concealing from Deanna his own complicity in the rebel chief’s demise?

“Whatever you might think of us,” Riker said carefully, “your people will be on their own against the Romulans if the referendum forces the Federation to withdraw from your world.”

“That is now spilled grain,” Grelun said. “My people will fight any who seek to conquer us.”

“You won’t be able to direct a revolution from a Federation starbase,” Riker pointed out. “That’s where we’ll have to take you next, if you’re really serious about petitioning the Federation for political asylum.”

Grelun straightened his back, looking both resigned and defiant. “Should you not worry instead about your more immediate problem? Ruardh will send her forces against this ship if you do not surrender me to her before you leave this system. She is implacable. She will not allow me to escape without a fight.”

A look of deep understanding crossed Troi’s face. “You want us to return you to your people. You want to continue leading the resistance against Ruardh’s government.”

“Of course I do,” Grelun said, his eyes narrowing with menace, his voice an angry growl. The fur on his neck rose, like that of an agitated cat. “Do you think me a coward?”

“Of course not,” Troi said calmly, standing her ground; it was unwise to show fear to a Chiarosan warrior. “I think of you as a leader in exile.”

At that, the tension in Grelun’s muscles relaxed visibly. Leaning forward, he said, “You could end my exile. You could return me to the hinterlands to which my people have withdrawn. From there, I could continue the fight.”

“Are you telling us that your asylum request was just a tactic?” Riker said, his eyebrows ascending involuntarily.

Grelun folded his massive arms across his chest. “He who fights and retreats in the now may fight and win in the fullness of time.”

Riker did not enjoy being manipulated. But he knew that Grelun and his people had few alternatives to subterfuge. Having seen the carnage Ruardh’s regime had inflicted upon the rebel tribes, Riker couldn’t say he wouldn’t make some of the same choices Grelun had.

But there were still rules that had to be observed.

“Are you withdrawing your asylum request, Grelun?” Riker said.

Grelun studied him, as though over a hand of five-card stud. “What would be the consequence of such an action?”

“We would be legally bound to turn you over to the Chiarosan authorities,” Troi said sadly. Riker saw tears forming in her dark eyes; she, too, had seen the carnage.

Riker expected to see rage welling up in Grelun’s visage. Instead, there was only sorrow there. “Even after I have shown you the villages of the slain? Even after your own instruments have recorded the ghosts of the slaughtered children?”

“Your people deprived us of the tricorder evidence we gathered in the village,” Riker said. “Until both sides stop shooting long enough to let us gather new evidence, we have no objective way to back up your allegations against Ruardh. And no legal way to get around her extradition request.”

The last thing Riker wanted was to condemn someone—anyone—to certain death. He hated the situation, and was frustrated with himself for his failure to find an honorable way out. But he knew that Deanna’s analysis was correct: they had to either grant asylum to Grelun or else extradite him. It was a clear and apparently irresolvable conflict between law and morality. Still, Riker clung to the hope of finding an acceptable third alternative.

Data keeps saying that I rely on traditional problemsolving methods less than a quarter of the time, Riker thought. Maybe now’s the time for yet another unorthodox solution.

“Let’s speak off the record, Grelun,” he said aloud. “Starfleet officers are bound by laws that respect the sovereignty of democratically elected governments. Whether you intend to leave your world behind or not, if you withdraw your asylum claim we’ll have to hand you over to Ruardh immediately. You’d be giving us no other choice.”

Grelun sat in silence as he considered his scant alternatives. “Then I shall not withdraw my request,” he said finally. “But I will find the means to return to the Army of Light, and to lead my people to freedom.”

Troi turned toward Riker, concern etched on her brow. “Can we still consider his asylum request, Will? He’s just admitted that it was only a ruse.”

“Maybe according to your empathic sense,” Riker said. “But I’m not sure that’s admissible in a Federation court. Besides . . . weren’t we speaking off the record?”

Troi smiled, evidently satisfied with that.

“Tell me, Commander Riker: What will you do when Ruardh attacks?” Grelun said earnestly. “And she will attack, rest assured, probably within the hour. When that happens, will you raise arms against this ‘sovereign government’ your laws respect so well?”

Riker wasn’t sure what to say to that. After an awkward pause, he said, “I’m sure the captain will negotiate a resolution everyone can live with.”

“If he survives his present undertaking,” Grelun said earnestly.

“Jean-Luc Picard is an extremely resourceful man,” Riker said. “And he has a pair of excellent officers at his side.”

“Then I will pray that will be enough,” Grelun said.

The voice of Lieutenant Daniels issued from Riker’s combadge. “Bridge to Commander Riker.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

“You wanted to be alerted when the captain’s scoutship reached the edge of the Romulan cloaking field, sir. That’s due to happen in a little under ten minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” Riker said, then excused himself.

Data sat motionless behind the scoutship’s cockpit, his golden eyes unfocused. Interfaced directly with the ship’s systems, the android consulted the sensors and confirmed that the cloaking field lay dead ahead. It was almost time to begin the mission’s most critical phase.

He heard the captain speaking, his voice sounding as though it had traversed a great distance before reaching him. “Any sign we’ve been detected, Mr. Hawk?”

“Negative, Captain. Our cloaking frequency still matches the data we got from the telemetry probes. The maximum harmonic variances aren’t even worth mentioning.”

Picard sounded relieved to hear that. “Good. Mr. Data, it appears there’s nothing standing in our craft’s way. Let’s hope that means there’s nothing standing in your way, either.”

Data paused to damp down the output from his emotion chip. Nervousness was an emotion he did not particularly enjoy.

“Contact with the cloaking field in fifteen seconds,” Hawk said. Data listened as the lieutenant began counting down. He recognized the slight quaver of apprehension in the lieutenant’s voice, and understood its source well enough. After all, if the Romulans had indeed somehow managed to rotate their cloaking-field harmonics at any time since the Enterprise had last probed the area, then the scoutship would immediately become conspicuous. A warbird could be upon them in moments, ending the mission ignominiously—and there would be no time for a second attempt.

Data’s android perceptions were now attuned to an extremely minute resolution, which enabled him to notice the trillions of separate information cycles that occurred every second within his positronic brain. Each of those seconds seemed to last for hours, enabling Data to review most of the onboard library of Romulan literature, music, and drama in an eyeblink. Using an infinitesimal fraction of his positronic resources, Data listened as Hawk continued with his countdown, leaving protracted lacunae between each word.

“Four.”

Data reiterated the mission plan two thousand and seventy-one times, while simultaneously reviewing the probability theory equations of Earth’s Blaise Pascal as well as the collected sonnets of Phineas Tarbolde of the Canopus Planet.

“Three.”

Data monitored and corrected an almost undetectable engine-output imbalance—which he attributed to the close proximity of the subspace singularity—and at the same time revisited Kurt Gödell’s axiom negating the recursive validation of mathematical systems.

“Two.”

He reviewed the mission plan several dozen times yet again while composing a complex contrapuntal string interlude based on large prime numbers and the mathematical constructs of Leonardo Fibonacci and Jean Baptiste Fourier. At the same moment, he extracted from the ship’s computer core the rules to a multidimensional Romulan strategy game that was strongly reminiscent of the meditative Vulcan pastime known as kal-toh.

Stop fidgeting, Data told himself.

“One.”

Just as the ship crossed the threshold, Data transmitted a simple handshake code to one of the buoys located on the Romulan array’s periphery, then patiently awaited a response. After an eternity—which concluded in an almost negligible fraction of a second—the countersignal arrived. The buoy appeared to have accepted his credentials, recognizing him as a part of its own programming. His foot, as Geordi might have said, was in the door.

Data briefly permitted some real-time visual inputs to enter his accelerated consciousness. He watched as the Romulan array winked into existence on the forward viewer, along with the nearest few dozen of the outermost layer of buoys. From the array’s still-distant center, the subspace singularity’s accretion disk stared out like a baleful red eye. Though he was tempted to pause and continue admiring the vista before him, Data instead shut down his optical inputs and shunted those resources back toward his mission objectives. He resumed parsing time infinitesimally.

“I can see some of the nearer cloaking buoys,” Picard said. “There must be thousands of them out there. It’s extraordinary.”

Data felt a stab of envy, since the sensory information he was receiving at the moment couldn’t really be described as sight. For about a femtosecond, he longed to see everything the two humans in the cockpit were seeing. He wondered if the abstract polygonal shapes and solid geometrical forms now impinging on his consciousness resembled the universe as Geordi La Forge perceived it. He put the matter aside for later consideration.

Redoubling his concentration on the task at hand, Data extended a significant portion of his positronic matrix through the scoutship’s communications system, across a frigid gulf of space, and back into the spaceborne cloaking buoy with which he was linked. He entered the labyrinth of hyperfast subspace channels and positronic pathways that connected the buoy to thousands of identical others. Dozens of blocks of angular Romulan text, each of them scrolling past at lightning speed, flickered almost tangibly before him, though he knew that their ideographic code was visible to no one else. He read them, digested them, analyzed them, and memorized them as though each byte were taking weeks to move through his quickened sensorium. Slowly, he channeled still more of his positronic resources through his subspace connection with the Romulan security network, bringing his artificial metabolism to a near standstill.

“Initiate Phase One, Mr. Data.” Picard’s voice was glacially slow, his words like millennia-old potsherds that required long and painstaking reassembly.

“Acknowledged,” Data said, opening his aperture into the Romulan network ever wider. Now, forced to use a great deal more of his cognitive resources than before, Data put aside still more of his background activities, concentrating on the swiftly churning labyrinth of visual icons that crowded his subjective “sight.” Still, it wasn’t a severe challenge; all he had to do was repeat particular Romulan algorithms and follow specific electronic pathways he and Geordi had discovered during their lengthy analysis of the scout vessel’s computer core. Still, the work took more and more of his attention, and Data felt an increasing sensation of something akin to kinesthesia. It was as though the torrent of information in which he now swam had palpable form, becoming an extension of his artificial body.

Disguising several of his own subroutines as maintenance programs, Data slipped into an information channel normally reserved for Romulan engineers and repair technicians. An agonizingly slow search—which lasted just short of half a second of objective time—deposited him inside yet another subsystem, this one designed to allow Romulan technical personnel to adjust the entire facility’s cloaking-field harmonics. He immediately began making subtle alterations to the programming code contained on several of the array’s most critical isolinear chips. At the same time, he altered the scoutship’s cloaking frequency so that it would continue to blend in with that of the array.

Data’s emotion chip surged with elation. If the ploy worked, then the defense systems would soon perceive the array’s own structures as external invaders. Those circuits would almost instantly become overloaded with faulty information, freeing Data to use the principal maintenance channel to send the containment system an “abort” order—thus launching the Romulans’ entire suite of failsafe programs, and thereby irretrievably banishing the singularity into subspace.

With Phase One of the mission completed, Data swam out of the information stream, forcing his cybernetic awareness to resume assimilating time scales meaningful to Captain Picard and Lieutenant Hawk.

“Have you noticed any Romulan security programs yet, Mr. Data?” Picard asked.

Data smiled triumphantly. “No, sir. And my alterations to the defense system are spreading throughout the network. It should be completely paralyzed in another four-point-three seconds.”

“Excellent, Mr. Data. Begin Phase Two.”

At once, Data resubmerged himself in the information stream, marshaling his consciousness into the maintenance channels. From this viewpoint, the flow of bytes through the adjacent security network had become a raging torrent, a storm-swollen river of multiplying, selfcontradictory information that would surely overwhelm any conscious entity caught on its virtual shoals. Fortunately, the maintenance channels were relatively tranquil by comparison.

With a cybernetic whisper, Data loosed the “abort” command into the maintenance channel’s information queue. He watched in contemplative silence as his handiwork propagated itself, copied and relayed through the entire network by dozens of buoys, then by hundreds. The “abort” protocol began working its way toward the singularity’s containment facility, moving at first in a leisurely inward spiral, then taking on increasing urgency.

So far, Data thought, so good.

Then one of the buoys said: No. Immediately, two others rejected the “abort” order as well. An almost defiant refusal swiftly began escalating throughout the network. The inward spiral slowed, then stopped.

Then reversed.

‹xYou do not belong here› declared an unseen presence from behind/above/below/between/within/without him.

“Uh-oh,” Data said.

The warbird Thrai Kaleh lowered her cloak and approached a battered, lifeless asteroid orbiting at the fringes of the system. This far out, all the violence of the Chiarosan sun fit neatly into a deceptively placid pinprick of light.

Koval stood in the vessel’s control center, observing the Federation shuttlecraft that was keeping station nearby. According to the sensors within the lumpen planetoid, the shuttle had come out of warp at the system’s edge nearly three hours earlier. Koval had no doubt that Commander Cortin Zweller was aboard the little craft— and that the Section 31 agent hoped to hold him to his part of their original bargain.

Koval had no objection to doing just that. After all, a list of soon-to-be-purged Tal Shiar operatives wasn’t worth the smallest fraction of the Geminus Gulf’s true value. And with the formal announcement of the Empire’s acquisition of the entire region now only minutes away, Koval was more than happy to conclude his deal with his Federation counterpart; magnanimity after such a decisive victory cost very little.

Over his centurion’s objections, Koval had himself and a pair of low-ranking Romulan soldiers beamed into the small habitat module built deep into the asteroid’s nickel-iron interior. Moments later, Koval was standing in the cool confines of one of the Tal Shiar’s small but richly-appointed safe-houses, his guards standing quietly alert behind him. At the opposite end of the chamber, Commander Zweller and a silver-haired woman in a Starfleet uniform shimmered into existence. Koval and Zweller briefly exchanged pleasantries, and Zweller introduced the woman as Marta, his assistant.

Silently noting the lieutenant’s pips on the woman’s collar, Koval nodded courteously to her. It took Koval a moment to place her face, but he quickly recognized her as an important admiral attached to Starfleet’s principal intelligence-gathering bureau. Batanide, he thought. Or is it Batanides? Regardless, she was one of several Starfleet Intelligence operatives whose dossier was familiar to him. Koval surmised that she might not appreciate the extent of her notoriety, and that she had removed her true rank insignia in the hope of obscuring her identity and avoiding capture.

He turned his attention back to Zweller, and noticed a slight discoloration along the side of the human’s face. “Your escape from the rebels appears to have been rather more perilous than I thought, Commander,” Koval said. “One would think your Federation doctors would have repaired your injuries days ago.”

Zweller put a hand to the remnants of the bruise on his cheek, then smiled. “Oh, you mean this. It happened on the way out to the asteroid. It’s an amusing story, really.” He paused for a moment to look significantly at his ‘ assistant.’ “I fell down. Marta, make a note to have that shuttle’s artificial gravity generator checked as soon as we get back to the Enterprise.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, her tone almost surly.

Humans, Koval thought. They say we are difficult to understand.

The Romulan walked to a table in the center of the room and lifted a clear decanter in which a pale, aquamarinecolored liquid sloshed. He poured a small amount into three glasses, then raised one to his lips.

“To the future of the Geminus Gulf and the Chiaros system,” Koval said before emptying his glass. He relished the burning sensation the pungent liqueur created as it went down.

Zweller picked up the other two glasses and handed one to the woman. “I can drink to that,” he said, and downed the beverage without a moment’s hesitation. Though the woman seemed a bit put off by the drink’s piquant bouquet, she drank her portion as well, though not as quickly.

“It’s been a good while since I’ve had nonreplicated kali-fal,” Zweller said. Though he was smiling, his eyes were hard.

Regarding Zweller coolly, Koval segued straight into business. “You must be aware by now that the Federation’s presence on Chiaros IV is at an end, Commander. Most of the precincts have already reported their election results. Within perhaps ten of your minutes, First Protector Ruardh will formally announce her people’s willing entry into the Empire.”

“I suppose so,” Zweller said, nodding slowly.

“Then perhaps we should finish our transaction as quickly as possible,” the woman said evenly.

Koval held up his left hand, palm up, and one of the guards stepped forward and placed a slender data chip into it. Koval was about to present it to Zweller when the secure comm chip implanted into his jaw vibrated gently. Because the tiny speaker conducted sound through the bones of his skull, only he could hear Subcenturion V’Hari’s urgent hail.

Go ahead, Thrai Kaleh, Koval subvocalized. Only the slight clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles betrayed the fact that he was having a covert conversation.

“There’s been an attempt to sabotage the Core, Chairman Koval,” V’Hari said emotionlessly. “However, the security failsafe programs are already isolating and purging the intrusion.”

Acknowledged, V’Hari. Keep me informed.

Koval studied Zweller and Batanides through narrowed eyes. He was well-aware of Ambassador T’Alik’s failure to persuade Picard to make an early departure from the Geminus Gulf. He could only assume that this incursion on the Core was Captain Picard’s doing. The scoutship that T’Alik had said Picard claimed to know nothing about—despite the fact that he’d used it to escape from the Army of Light compound—could have given the Starfleet captain some of the tools necessary to mount an effective assault on the Core.

But he knew it couldn’t give him the capacity to defeat the rokhelh, the state-of-the-art artificial intelligence that patrolled the Core’s every system. Nothing Koval had ever encountered could do that.

“Chairman Koval?” Zweller said, ending the protracted silence. “Are you all right?”

Koval still held the data chip tightly in his hand, and continued searching the humans’ faces with his eyes. Their expressions betrayed nothing. Was Zweller involved in the sabotage as well? Or had Picard undertaken the attack entirely on his own initiative?

Deciding that the rokhelh would render those questions moot soon enough, Koval surrendered the data chip to Zweller, who responded by flashing a toothy smile.

“When you return to the Enterprise,” Koval said quietly, “tell Captain Picard that he plays a very dangerous game. That is, if he survives his current endeavor.”

Koval was pleased to see that Zweller’s smile had faltered ever so slightly. So he does know something. Koval suppressed a triumphant grin.

Koval set his kali-fal glass down on the table, none too gently. “The Federation’s welcome in the Geminus Gulf is now worn out,” he said, freighting his words with menace. “And when Protector Ruardh makes the official declaration, you and every other human in this system would do well to be heading back toward Federation space very, very quickly.”