Captain Picard, two humans disguised as Bajorans, and two unconsious Cardassians materialized in a heap on the transporter pad of the Orb of Peace.

 

 

Picard staggered off, setting Letharna gently on the floor and tucking her knife and her isolinear rod into her belt. The blacked-garbed officers quickly surrounded the fallen Cardassians. The wounded one appeared to be dead.

 

 

"Mr. La Forge," said Picard urgently, "what about the warships?" The engineer grinned. "They lit out right on cue, twenty seconds ago." "Accelerated orbit," ordered Picard. "I want Ro and the rest of the team back here as soon as possible." La Forge carried out the command on his transporter console, while the captain gazed down at Letharna. "A remarkable woman--I wish I had time to thank her properly. I'm glad she was willing to help us. Beam her back down to the planet." "Like that, unconscious?" "Yes, we don't have time for good-byes." He looked with distaste at the living Cardassian. "I hadn't intended to take a prisoner, but now we have one.

 

 

Starfleet may want to interrogate him." "But, Captain," said La Forge, "we don't have a brig. And no internal forcefields either." Picard turned to the security detail. "Put the prisoner in the captain's quarters. We haven't been using it. Strip the furnishings, except for a mattress, and put restraints on his legs. I want him to feel as if he's being well treatedrebut watch him closely." "Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

 

 

"Captain," said Geordi, "we're coming up on transporter range." "Notify the away team and tell them to keep their good-byes short," ordered Picard, striding toward the door. "We're getting out of here." It was a peaceful evening aboard the Tag Garwal. At least, it felt like evening, with both their test flights over and almost everyone asleep. The bridge was quiet, with only Sam Lavelie on duty. There was no particlar reason why he had to be on duty, because they were docked and safely cocooned within the might of the Dominion. Their comrades were suffering only a short distance away, but no harm could befall the chosen ones.

 

 

That is, no harm could befall them until tomorrow, when they set off on their mission. Perhaps that was why Sam couldn't sleep, why he had to haunt the bridge long after his shift was over. He wasn't worried about their official mission, only the unofficial one.

 

 

He had promised his crew that they would try to escape; it was their duty as prisoners of war. But how could he pull it off?. Did he have the right to jeopardize all their lives in what could well be a futile gesture? Especially when they had a chance to survive this hell.

 

 

Survival versus honor--it was a tough choice.

 

 

Sam was startled by heavy footsteps on the ladder, and he knew before he turned around that it was Grof. The big Trill lumbered up the steps, veered toward him, and slumped into the tactical station.

 

 

"Can't sleep?" asked Sam.

 

 

Grof scowled. "No, of course I can't sleep with the voices coming from the quarters next door. That Deltan is up all night, entertaining her friend, Enrique." "Oh, let them be," replied Sam, putting his hands behind his back. "Sex is a kind of religious experience to Deltans. Besides, weren't you ever young... and about to die?" "We aren't going to die," muttered Grof through clenched teeth. "The Dominion should have continued to keep us segregated by sex even here." "I guess they don't think of everything," said Sam with a sly smile. "And if we manage to live through this, it will be a miracle." "I wish you would stop saying that. Although it's dangerous, there's no reason why we can't successfully complete this mission." Yes, there is, thought Sam, but he wasn't going to tell Grof why. Besides, it was time to change the subject. "Tell me about our destination, the Eye of Talek." Grof shrugged. "It's the smallest black hole in Cardassian space. Probably the oldest, too." "It's not an imploded star?" "No," answered Grof, "the Eye of Talek dates from the formation of the universe. At least that's the legend according to the Cardassians, and the cosmology tends to bear it out. Had we tried to go with an imploded star, the gravity would have been too great for our operation. You know, a typical black hole keeps the same mass it had when it was a star. As for the small ones, like the Eye of Talek, and the huge ones, like that monster at the center of our galaxyw we can only guess where they came from." "Some people think it was a supreme being who created the universe," said Sam. "What we call God.

 

 

Some people wouldn't like the idea of you creating an artificial wormhole either. Don't you sometimes feel like you're playing God?" "Yes," answered Grof proudly, "but it's necessary to play God. Once we discovered that space and time were curved, it was essential that we try to exploit the intersections where they curve back upon themselves.

 

 

Where God failed was that he made wormholes unstable. The Bajorans consider the Prophets to be gods, simply because they stabilized a wormhole.

 

 

Imagine what kind of god I'll be after I stabilize hundreds of wormholes, connecting every corner of the galaxy?" Sam shook his head in amazement. "You have a big enough ego for the job." 'TI1 take that as a compliment," said Grof smugly.

 

 

The lieutenant yawned and pointed to the sleeping alcove off the rear of the bridge. "You're welcome to bunk back there if you don't want to go below." Grof glowered at the injustice of it all, but he finally acceded. "Thank you." The bear of a Trill rose to his feet and shuffled off; then he looked back. "You know, Lavelie, this mission depends entirely upon you. You're our leader. If you crack--or you pull something stupid--we'll all go down with you." "Not that you would put any pressure on me," muttered Sam.

 

 

"I just want you to know how much is riding on this. Our equalityre" "Equality?" Sam burst out laughing. "We're slaves, Grofi Maybe someday a few of us could aspire to attain the status of a Jem'Hadar or a Vorta. Well, thanks but no thanks. There's only one race who matters--the Founders. The rest of us are just the help. If you try to be a god, they'll squash you like a bug. The Founders are the gods around here." Grof opened his mouth and started to respond, but Sam let him off the hook by jumping up and brushing past him. Stomping as loudly as the burly Trill, he headed down the ladder.

 

 

In the corridor outside the captain's quarters, Ro Laren compressed her lips in annoyance as she listened to the sounds of their prisoner kicking the bulkhead. Even though he had restraints on his arms and legs, he was still thrashing around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. She couldn't understand why Captain Picard had put the Cardassian in their best cabin; whatever impression he wished to make, it was obviously lost on the brute.

 

 

The captain stood beside her, his jaw clenched. He motioned to four armed officers behind him and said, "Phasers set to heavy stun." "We can't keep him stunned all the time," said Ro.

 

 

"I know. And I am open to other suggestions." "We could throw him out an airlock." The captain scowled. "That's not an option. If we could only interrogate him, he might be useful." "Chances are good he doesn't know anything about the artificial wormhole," said Ro, "stationed in the middle of nowhere like he was. The Cardassians are good at keeping secrets, even from each other. We could jeopardize the mission if we take him with us into the Badlands, and we'll be there soon." "Nonetheless, Captain," said Picard with determination. "It is always worthwhile to try talking." He tapped his comm badge. "This is Boothby to the captain's quarters. Please quiet down and listen to me. You are our guest, and we would like to send you home." But the ferocious thrashing went on, and it was now centered on the door itself. He could wreak some serious damage if left alone like this, thought Ro.

 

 

Picard glanced at the crew assembled to help them, and he picked the two stoutest officers. "You two, hand your weapons to the others, and let's subdue him by hand. Stand on either side of me. The rest of you, be prepared to use your phasers." Ro hefted her Bajoran phaser rifle as Picard stepped closer to the door. After the two unarmed officers took up their places on either side of him, the captain reached a long arm across the bulkhead to touch the wall panel and open the cabin door.

 

 

As soon as the door slid open, the Cardassian headbutted Picard sending him reeling into the bulkhead.

 

 

Then came a howl of indignation as the Cardassian hopped out, his legs bound together and his hands tied behind him. Lowering his shoulders, he bulled into the two unarmed guards and knocked them back on their heels. He hadn't looked so big lying on the deck, but now he looked huge, with his thick neck muscles bulging like the hood of a cobra.

 

 

"Surrender!" ordered Picard staggering to his feet.

 

 

"Die!" shrieked the Cardassian. He lowered his head and charged toward the captain.

 

 

Ro lifted her rifle, ready to protect the captain, but he stepped gracefully away from the charge as he brought his knee upward in a swift kick. He caught the Cardassian in the nose, and he howled as his head bounced. Then Picard grabbed him by the seat of his pants and tossed him headfirst to the deck. That should have subdued him, but the bloodied Cardassian rolled onto his knees and tried to stand once more.

 

 

"Cease resistance!" warned Picard.

 

 

"No!" Eyes bulging from their bony sockets, the Cardassian flopped onto his back and tried to kick Picard. Amidst his enraged grunts and groans, the captain's comm badge sounded.

 

 

"That's enough," he told Ro. "Stun him." She shot her weapon, and the red beam finally put the wild prisoner back into blessed unconsciousness.

 

 

Only then did Picard answer his comm badge.

 

 

"Boothby here." "Sir, you'd better get to the bridge," said a nervous voice. "We've picked up enemy ships on our tail, closing fast!"

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

Ro FOLLOWED CAPTAIN PICARD onto the bridge of the Orb of Peace. The relief personnel had an edgy look about their eyes, and they didn't seem Bajoran anymore, despite the nose ridges and earrings. Maybe it was the human scent of their sweat.

 

 

The man on the conn jumped to his feet when he saw Picard.

 

 

"Status?" barked Picard as Ro headed toward the conn.

 

 

"Three Jem'Hadar attack ships are on an intercept course with us," reported the officer, stepping aside to let the Bajoran take his seat. "They're going twice our speed, and they'll be in weapons range in approximately thirty-six minutes." "And how much time to the Badlands?" "Approximately forty minutes," answered Ro.

 

 

Picard scowled, and she could feel his frustration.

 

 

They were so close to reaching a hiding place, only minutes away, but the hounds were running them aground. Ro knew this feeling of dread--to run for her life with time counting against her. "Evasive maneuvers?" she asked.

 

 

"Not yet," replied the captain, tapping his finger to his chin. "Steady as she goes." Ro knew that Picard was reviewing his options, but they weren't many. They were no match for one Jem'Hadar ship, let alone three, and they couldn't explain making a mad dash to the Badlands. This time, they probably wouldn't even get a chance to talk to the enemy before the attack began.

 

 

"They must have us on scanners," said Ro. "I'm sure they're watching every move we make. Evasive maneuvers might work against bigger ships, but not against these. The Jem'Hadar attack ships are the most maneuverable vessels we've ever seen." "The Orb of Peace has two operational escape pods.

 

 

Let's put our Cardassian friend into one of those pods and launch him toward a planet. If they're watching us, they'll have to stop to investigate, especially after they scan and find a Cardassian on board," said Picard.

 

 

Ro tugged thoughtfully on her earring. "We'll have to come out of warp, which will cost us some time, but it will be worth it." "Captain," said the officer on ops, "may I remind you that we need both of those escape pods to evacuate the ship's crew. If we're missing one, eight crew members cannot evacuate." The captain gazed at Ro, and the Bajoran knew from his determined expression that they were still on the same frequency. This mission would either result in success or death, perhaps both, so there was no point in planning for survival in Cardassian space.

 

 

When Picard armed the self-destruct sequence, they had both known it would be all or nothing. - Will Riker had been right--this was a suicide mission.

 

 

Picard leaned over her. "Attend to it, Ro. Ready escape pod one, and put the prisoner into it. Tie him down securely." "Don't worry about that," she assured the captain.

 

 

A short while later, a snarling Cardassian strapped to a vertical seat tried to spit in Ro's face, but she jerked away just in time. He ended up drooling on his angular chin and staring hatefully at her. She didn't want to sink to his level, but she lifted a spool of metal-coated tape and waved it in his face. "I could shut you up." "You... you are cowards!" sputtered the prisoner.

 

 

"Terrorists!" He gasped when a muscular officer tugged sharply on the belt stretching across his chest.

 

 

Because the cramped sphere was designed to fly automatically toward an inhabited planet and make an atmospheric reentry, anyone aboard would have to be strapped in his seat. The Cardassian was simply strapped in more securely than usual, with his hands and legs bound together with metal tape and strips.

 

 

"We're letting you go," said Ro, "so I don't know why you're so angry with us." "Bajorans!" he hissed. "We should have killed you all!" "You tried," said Ro evenly. "In fact, if our roles were reversed, I'm sure you would just toss my body out an airlock. But we've treated you like a gul. We put you up in the captain's quarters, and now we're sacrificing this whole escape pod just to let you go free. You ought to be grateful." The Cardassian growled and tried to twist out of his bonds, but they held tightly. Ro had made sure to get the same two officers who had tried to subdue him earlier; they had scores of their own to settle. She wanted to ask him about the artificial wormhole, and she would have, if they were going to slit his throat instead of let him go. But asking him about the wormhole would reveal their mission, and it probably wouldn't gamer them any information.

 

 

In fact, maybe this was a good time to impart some false intelligence. "We're neutral, you know," explained Ro. "We're not interested in your stupid war with the Federation. We have some terrorists still hiding out in the Badlands, and we're only trying to rescue them. So if you leave us alone, we'll finish our mission and go home. You'll never know we were here." 'Tll know, because you've ruined my career!" wailed the Cardassian. "Why don't you just kill me?

 

 

After failing to protect the station and being kidnapped, I'll be lucky not to be sent to a work camp!" "These are dangerous times," replied Ro. She looked at her comrades, and they nodded, signaling they were through. "Sorry for the inconvenience.

 

 

Have a nice flight." Ro and the two officers ducked through the hatch, which she secured herself. Then she cleared the airlock and listened to the air escape with a hiss. Like most escape pods, this one was jettisoned into space by an array of tiny thrusters, and its flight was totally automated. All that was needed was to enter the coordinates of the destination planet, hit the launch button, and hope for the best.

 

 

She tapped her comm badge. "Ro to bridge. Our passenger is secure in escape pod one." "Good," answered Picard crisply. "We're working on his itinerary. We've got several possibilities, but we need to find a planet which will allow us to jump out of warp and back quickly. We can enter the coordinates from here, so you can return to the bridge." "Yes, sir." A minute later, Ro stood on the bridge, explaining to the captain how she had told the prisoner they were on a simple rescue mission to the Badlands.

 

 

"Do you think he believed it?" asked Picard.

 

 

"That's hard to say," answered Ro. "He was mostly upset that we wrecked his career." "Coming within range of H-574," announced the conn. "Optimal launch window in forty seconds." Picard turned to tactical and asked, "How far are we from our pursuers?" "At present speed and course, we will make contact in approximately twenty minutes." "Come out of warp, half-impulse," ordered Picard, "and prepare to launch escape pod one." "Yes, sir," answered three voices at once.

 

 

Stepping out of the way, Ro watched the viewscreen as the Orb of Peace slowed down just long enough to jetrison the escape pod. The tiny sphere shot into space like an ancient musket ball and swerved toward a nearby planet covered with shimmering blue water and emerald islands, sparkling in the sun. The Cardassians had all these beautiful planets, thought Ro, and they begrudged the Maquis even one little rock.

 

 

"Escape pod on course," reported the officer on ops.

 

 

"Set course for the Badlands, maximum warp," ordered Picard. "Engage." Once again, they were streaking through space at an incredible speed that was faster than light but wasn't faster than the three Jem'Hadar attack craft. There was silence on the bridge and little to discuss until they saw how their pursuers responded to the escape pod. Ro wondered whether they would take the bait, and if so, how many of them would be delayed.

 

 

When the tactical officer spoke, her voice betrayed the uncertain nature of the news: "Captain, one of the Jem'Hadar ships has broken off in pursuit of the escape pod. The other two remain on an intercept course with us. Contact in approximately twelve minutes." Picard glanced at Ro. "That's about the best we could expect. Any more ideas on how to even the odds?" "Well," answered the Bajoran, "there's an old trick we used to use on Starfleet. When you have a small craft traveling at warp speed, it's almost impossible to distinguish it on long-range scans from a photon torpedo at warp speed, especially if you set it for indefinite distance and no detonation." Picard scratched his chin, and a smile of appreciation crept across his face. "You mean, use torpedoes as decoys?" "Yes. We could launch two torpedoes, one of them on the course we're traveling now, and the second one on another likely course to the Badlands. We'll pick a third course and hope they go after the two decoys." "We'll have to match speed exactly," said Picard, sounding excited--or concerned, it was hard to tell.

 

 

He hovered over the tactical station. "Do you understand what Captain Ro is proposing?" "Yes, sir," answered the officer, plying her console.

 

 

"I'm configuring torpedoes now: one for our exact heading and one for ten degrees to port. They're set for no target, indefinite distance, no detonation, and warp speed matching ours." "Right, stand by." Picard stepped across the cramped bridge to the conn. "Set course ten degrees to starboard. We'll enter the Badlands at a different place than we planned, but that can't be helped. We'll slow our warp speed by point-zero-five to launch torpedoes, then change course and resume maximum warp." "Yes, sir," said the pilot. He glanced at Ro and gave her a grateful smile. Although she hadn't saved his life yet, the young man was hopeful that she would.

 

 

"I should point out that we will be reduced to four torpedoes," said the tactical officer.

 

 

"Acknowledged." If it pained the captain to use his torpedoes for subterfuge instead of a real attack, he didn't show it.

 

 

"Course changes laid in," reported the conn.

 

 

With a glance at Ro, Picard brought his hand down.

 

 

"Reduce speed." "Speed reduced," echoed the conn.

 

 

"Fire!" "Torpedoes away," announced tactical.

 

 

"Changing course," said the conn. "Resuming speed." Now it was time to wait again, to see if the Jem'Hadar fell for the parlor trick. A tense silence fell over the bridge, and it wasn't assuaged by the fact that they could see the Badlands on the viewscreen, shimmering in the distance. Although the forbidding cloud appeared relatively close, it was a long way in an underpowered Bajoran transport chased by swift fighters.

 

 

"This is a trick I hadn't heard of before," said Picard conversationally. "And we've been studying Maquis tactics very closely the last few months." "You need a small ship," answered Ro. "I'm worried that this one may be too large." "It's worth a try," said Picard. "If they change course at all to chase the decoys, we'll pick up valuable minutes." With everyone staring intently at their readouts or the viewscreen, the gasp of the tactical officer made them jump. Ro whirled around to see her triumphant grin. "Both Jem'Hadar vessels are following the decoy on our old course." She stared intently at her instruments, and everyone else stared intently at her. After a minute that seemed like a day, the implants over her nose wrinkled into a frown. "Now one attack ship has changed course and is in pursuit of us. They'll be in weapons range in eight minutes." "How long to the Badlands?" "Eleven minutes." "All right, we're down to one," said Picard. "That is certainly much better odds than I expected.

 

 

Maintain course and speed." "Yes, sir." Now it was Ro's turn to hover over the conn station. "Listen, the Badlands are a plasma dust cloud, and instruments are completely useless there.

 

 

So the sooner we reach it, the better. Like most dust clouds, it has fingers and tendrils which stretch into surrounding space. If we can find a tendril, maybe we can cut our time getting there." Picard walked to the viewscreen and studied the octopus-like cloud that loomed in front of them. He pointed to a massive finger of dust shaped like a horse's head. "There--that looks promising." "IfI change course," said the conn, "we could reach it maybe two minutes sooner. But we wouldn't have time to scan the area before we entered." "We don't have much choice." Picard turned back to Tactical. "What's the position of the second craft?" "They've broken off pursuit of the decoy," answered the young woman, not hiding her disappointment. "They're on an intercept course, but they won't reach us in time. Only the first one is a threat." "Change course, most direct route," ordered Picard.

 

 

"Yes, sir. Course laid in." The captain tapped his comm badge. "Bridge to Engineering. Geordi, we need you to boost our warp speed--right now. Any increase would help." "We're in the red zone now, Captain," replied the engineer, "but I can shut down the safety overrides and coax a bit more out of her." "Make it so." "Captain," interrupted the woman on tactical, "they're sending a message, demanding that we stop and surrender. The message is repeating on all frequencies." "They don't want to talk," said Ro.

 

 

"Ignore it," replied Picard. "How many of our torpedoes are aft-mounted?" "Only two." Two or twenty, it didn't matter, thought Ro, because the Orb of?eace wasn't a warship. If they didn't make the Badlands in time to hide, the Jem'Hadar would pick them apart.

 

 

"Lead ship has launched a torpedo," cut in the tactical officer, surprise in her voice. "But they won't be in optimal range for several minutes." "But their torpedo will reach us a few seconds before they do," said Picard. "We're both playing for seconds now. Conn, maintain course and speed, but be ready to go to evasive maneuvers." "We can't use our standard patterns," replied the officer.

 

 

"Devise something simple but effective, based on the alpha pattern, but keep us headed toward that tendril." They could see it clearly now on the viewscreen-- the daunting cloud of dust and debris which rose over the darker body of the Badlands like a horse's head.

 

 

The colors kept shifting from a murky brown to a golden orange to a vibrant magenta, as plasma storms glimmered behind the clouds like lightning in a far-off thunderstorm.

 

 

Ro couldn't help but to remember all the times she had made this mad dash to the Badlands, thinking each time would be her last. Unfortunately, she had never been in a vessel so ill equipped for fighting. Ro also remembered all the ships that had entered that forbidding region but had not come out. Brave comrades, deserving Cardassians, bumbling Starfleet-- the plasma storms and anomalies played no favorites.

 

 

Decrepit shuttlecraft or great starships, when the Badlands claimed them they were gone.

 

 

The Cardassians and Starfleet had developed a healthy fear of the massive cloud, but Ro had no idea how seriously the Jem'Hadar took the legends. With their vaunted superiority, they might think they were immune to the sinister lure of the Badlands. Perhaps they would pursue them into the heart of it, although that wouldn't be easy once their instruments deserted them.

 

 

Thatg it! thought Ro as a shiver gripped her spine.

 

 

We have to fool their instruments now!

 

 

"Contact with torpedo in one minute," reported the officer on tactical.

 

 

"Ready aft torpedoes," said the captain grimly.

 

 

"Target our first one on their torpedo and the second one on the lead ship." "Yes, sir." In the confines of the small bridge, Ro was already at Picard's back. "Sir, if we detonate both of our torpedoes directly behind us, we can blow up the torpedo and disrupt their sensors." "That will only last a few seconds," said Picard thoughtfully, "but we can go to evasive maneuvers right after." "Captain," insisted tactical, "contact in thirty seconds." He strode toward the young woman. "Target both torpedoes on the lead craft, but detonate two seconds after launch. Conn, go to evasive maneuvers on my mark." "Yes, sir," came the tense replies.

 

 

"Launch when ready." "Torpedoes away!" barked the tactical officer.

 

 

Silently, Ro counted to herself, one thousand one, one thousand two.

 

 

"Mark," said Picard, pointing at the conn.

 

 

While the pilot worked his console, Ro tried to imagine the brilliant light, like a miniature nova, as the two photon torpedoes exploded inside a warp corridor. That would make a very large blip on their pursuers' scanners, not to mention sending their torpedo haywire. For several seconds, the Orb of Peace would be invisible. When they found her again, they would have to change course, but which course? If the pilot were good, he could send them the wrong way again, buying the transport a few more seconds. She fought the temptation to hover behind him and watch what he was doing.

 

 

"They're firing more torpedoes," said tactical.

 

 

"Phasers, too. But we're out of phaser range." "They're desperate," said Picard. "We're losing them." The viewscreen filled with an ominous cloud of debris and dust--the scene of some cosmic cataclysm and the resting place of countless ships. The twinkling of plasma storms in the swirls looked like some exotic lighting in a smoke-filled nightclub.

 

 

"I'm losing instrumentation," said the conn.

 

 

Picard motioned for Ro to take over for the young man, who bolted to his feet. "Good flying," said Ro as she took his seat.

 

 

"Thank you." Beaming, the young man shuffled behind Captain Picard.

 

 

"Keep the viewscreen on as long as possible," ordered Ro. "And keep adjusting to correct for static." "Aye, sir," answered the officer on ops.

 

 

"They're closing on us," warned Tactical.

 

 

"That's all right. By now, they're losing sensors and instrumentation, too. I'm corning out of warp--to full impulse. Shields up!" "Shields are up," echoed the woman on tactical, "but I've lost the Jem'Hadar! They're nowhere to be seen." "Keep looking," said Ro, knowing it was useless; but it would keep her busy. Flying through the Badlands was not for the faint of heart, especially with the enemy hot on your tail and no reconnaissance ahead of you. If they hit a major plasma storm, nothing in the universe could save them.

 

 

The scene on the viewscreen changed very little as the boxy transport plowed into the thick of the plasma-charged cloud. She couldn't see the sleek attack ship with its pulsing blue lights, but she knew it had followed her in.

 

 

Without slowing speed, Ro piloted them through the thickets of smoke and mist, which flowed past on the viewscreen like some psychotropically induced dream, She tried to navigate the pockets of calm, avoiding the plasma streaks, which lit up the cloud like electrical impulses shooting across a nerve ending. Ro didn't mention to her comrades that at any moment they could get struck by plasma and evaporate-or whatever ships did when they disappeared in here. Ideally, she would pick her way through this morass at one-quarter impulse, but there wasn't anything ideal about this mission.

 

 

The viewscreen crackled with streaks of static, and she slowed to half impulse. She had to find their pursuer while there was still a chance.

 

 

"Ops, give me a view from aft," she ordered.

 

 

"Want a split screen?" asked the man.

 

 

"No, give me what I ask for," demanded Ro.

 

 

"Flying like this through the Badlands requires more luck than sight." Stiffening his back, the ops officer changed the view to the aft lens. It was hardly any different than the view from the front, except that their wake was like a tunnel in the colorful dust. She saw a small beam of light in the distance, and at first she thought it was another bolt of plasma--until the Orb of Peace shuddered from a sudden impact.

 

 

"Torpedo," said Tactical. "I'm not sure it hit us-- no damage." "It was discharged by the plasma," said Ro.

 

 

"They'll quickly figure out they'll have to use phasers, or whatever kind of beamed weapons they have. Front view." The ops officer obeyed her order instantly, showing Ro the thickening, stringy fog of the Badlands, shot through with brilliant streaks of plasma. For the first time, Ro set course for the brightest storm in the area and increased speed to full impulse.

 

 

"You are aware, I take it, that we are heading into the storm?" asked Picard, controlled concern audible in his voice. Just how far does he trust me? Ro wondered.

 

 

"I'm coming about now, before we reach it." Ro eased the transport into a steep turn, finding that the craft was surprisingly easy to handle. At least her people built simplicity and elegance into all their creations.

 

 

"You're hoping to draw their fire," said Picard, comprehension dawning on his face.

 

 

She squinted into the filmy swirls of dust and debris, searching for their nemesis. When she finally spotted the Jem'Hadar ship, they were almost nose to nose, streaking toward each other at speeds too fast for the limited visibility. Ro ignored the gasps behind her as she dropped the transport into a steep dive. In the same instant, the warship fired a deadly beam that streaked through the dust, barely missing the transport.

 

 

Instead the phaser beam struck a bolt of plasma in the storm that Ro had lured them into. The plasma rippled along its new path and hit the Jem'Hadar attack ship like an avenging bolt of lightning. Ro turned her ship around just in time to see the sleek vessel light up like a fluorescent bulb and then burst into a billion shards of shimmering crystal.

 

 

When the gasps quieted, Picard said hoarsely, "Well done." Ro sighed and brought the craft to a complete halt.

 

 

She was finally able to rub her eyes and brush the hair off her clammy forehead.

 

 

"For once," she said, "it was good to fight a Jem'Hadar ship. I couldn't have pulled that trick on a Cardassian." "I can truthfully say, we would not have made it without you," answered Picard. The faces of the young crew beamed at her with relief and respect, and they began to look Bajoran again. Maybe they would hop to when obeying her orders next time.

 

 

"So we're here," she declared. "What now?" "First of all, we have to see if the artificial wormhole exists," answered Picard. "We have to know if it's there. Data said they need a verteron collider of large size, so we should be able to find it." He wrinkled his artificial nose ridges. "Of course, that means we have to cross the entire Badlands, without knowing where it is on the other side. I wish we could get some intelligence first. I understand that the Badlands are inhabited by people who like their privacy, for one reason or another, and they're willing to risk the plasma storms." "There is a place--" mused Ro, turning back to her console. "I wonder if it's still there? I'll get an approximate fix from our last known position, and we'll use dead reckoning from there. Settle back, and let me take you on a tour of the Badlands." On the shuttlecraft Cook, Data put in another day of work without relief, staring at instruments as he drifted through an asteroid belt for cover. He would not have thought to complain; in fact, Data believed his time had been remarkably well spent. He had located the Orb of Peace on long-range scanners and had followed her all the way until her disappearance in the Badlands, which was to be expected. He had also seen the transport somehow manage to shake four enemy ships, with a fifth one still in pursuit.

 

 

Had his emotion chip been turned on, the android would have been extremely apprehensive about the mad chase he had witnessed from afar. Now it was simply a successful incursion into Cardassian space, unless the fifth ship had destroyed them. But from what he knew of the Badlands, Data considered it far more likely that the plasma storms would destroy them.

 

 

His vigilance was far from over, as now he planned to vacate the asteroid belt and sneak even closer to Cardassian space. From peripheral scans, Data had concluded that the fighting had moved on from this sector, leaving him some room to maneuver. For as many days and weeks as it took, he would scan the Badlands, looking for a craft which could be the Orb of Peace. At the same time, he would be looking for the Enterprise to rendezvous with him. Since they were currently overdue, there was a very good chance they had been destroyed as well.

 

 

No, concluded Data, he had no intentions of turning on his emotion chip.

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

AT LONG LAST, THE TAG GARWAL was cruising through space under the command of Federation prisoners, with orders to stay out until her mission was accomplished, or they were all killed. Despite the dire circumstances, Sam Lavelle felt almost giddy as he stood on the bridge and watched the endless expanse of stars stream past. He could easily forget the war, the Dominion, the artificial wormhole, and everything else in the mistaken belief that he was free to explore this dark infinity. Space was oblivious of their petty quarrels; it always looked the same--endless, vast, imponderable.

 

 

For a taste of realism, Sam put the aft view on the screen. Now he could see the Jem'Hadar attack ship keeping a respectful but watchful distance behind them. The craft was smaller than theirs, but Sam knew it superior in every other way. The tanker had decent shields but no weapons, whereas the Jem'Hadar craft was a flying arsenal with no other purpose but to destroy enemy vessels. Their shadow was friendly at the moment, but Sam had no doubts that the Jem'Hadar would destroy them with all aboard at the slightest provocation.

 

 

"Their relative distance has not changed in twelve hours," observed Taurik, seated at the conn.

 

 

"I know," replied Sam. "I didn't expect them to be gone." "Staring at them will not change the situation." "I know!" groaned Sam. Vulcans! Sometimes their literal nature drove him crazy. Of course, it made no sense to stand here and watch the Jem'Hadar ship, hoping it would go away, but that was precisely the sort of thing humans did.

 

 

How could he make it go away? That was the question. Without their shadow, they were in a good position to make an escape and get back to Federation space. The Tag Garwal was a common type of supply ship found everywhere in Cardassian space, and she would typically be traveling alone. Nobody would pay any attention to them.

 

 

He looked around the bridge. As usual, only he and Taurik were on duty, with Grof and the rest of the crew below, fretting over their tractor beams, transporters, mining probes, and recombination chambers.

 

 

Sam tapped the ops console and put the starscape back on view, then he lowered his voice to ask Taurik, "How can we get away from that Jem'Hadar ship?" The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "I hope you are asking in the theoretical sense, because eluding them would be virutally impossible." "Impossible?" repeated Sam, not liking the taste of the word in his mouth. "Then we just carry out this operation and put them closer to victory? We don't even try to escape?" "I did not say that," answered Taurik, "only that escape from that Jem'Hadar attack ship is virtually impossible. We have no weapons, and they are well armed and three times faster than us." Sam bent down and whispered into the Vulcan's pointed ear, "Could we beam over to their ship? We have a larger crew--we could take them in hand- tohand combat." Taurik raised an eyebrow. Sam knew the Vulcan was calculating the abysmal odds of such a fight.

 

 

"We could if only they lowered their shields and came within transporter range, neither of which they appear inclined to do." "Then we'll have to make them do it," said Sam determinedly. He heard footsteps on the ladder, and he asked loudly, "How much longer to the Eye of Talek?" "Twelve more hours. We are approximately halfway there." "Excellent!" barked the voice of Enrak Grof as he lumbered out of the hatch and strode toward them.

 

 

He was followed up the ladder by Enrique, the lucky material handler.

 

 

"Is the ship handling well?" asked Grof expansively, as if this were his private yacht.

 

 

"Fine," answered Sam with false cheer. "It feels good to be out in space again." "I would imagine," Grof replied. "I would hate to be separated from my work for a lengthy period." Sam bit his tongue and didn't say any of the several nasty things that occurred to him. Despite everything he had seen and heard, Grof was steadfastly determined to get the Corzanium and return to the Dominion. The war, the slave-labor camps, the subjugation of the Federation--these were all annoying side issues to the important matters of Grotes wormhole and his place in history.

 

 

Sam once again decided not to trust the Trill with any knowledge of their escape plan, when they had one. Grotes only purpose was to provide cover until they were ready to make their move. Sam had to make sure they got a realistic opportunity to sabotage the mission and escape. He hated to think about killing Grof with his own hands, but he would if he had to.

 

 

The professor motioned toward the glimmering starscape ahead of them. "Even without this wormhole business, we are making history on our little mission. No other operation has ever succeeded in extracting more than a few cubic centimeters of Corzanium from a black hole, and we're going to mine fifty cubic meters of the stuff." "If we live long enough," added Taurik. "There are logical reasons why no one has been successful. Shall I list them?" "No, thank you," muttered Grof. "Nobody has ever had as good a reason as ours, or else they would have done it before. All the models say it's possible with standard equipment. Right, Enrique?" But the material handler was staring off into space with a moonstruck expression on his face. "Right, Enrique?" asked Grof testily.

 

 

"Whatever you say, boss," replied the avuncular human. "I'd better get below and recheck those calibrations." Whistling cheerfully, the lithe man dropped into the hatch and was gone.

 

 

Grof scowled and opened his mouth undoubtedly to offer another tiresome prudish opinion, Sam thought. He cut the Trill off before the tirade even began.

 

 

"Oh, let him be," said Sam. "We've got twelve more hours before we have to get serious. The important thing is not to get overconfident or careless. No one's ever been sucked into a black hole and lived." "Or ever been found again, except for some minute trace particles," added Taurik.

 

 

"The Eye of Talek is perfect for this operation," insisted Grof. "We've got nothing like it in the Federation. But I agree with you, Sam--we have to be careful. You just keep reminding me of that, because I do have a tendency to be overconfident." Sam blinked at this outburst of humility. "I'11 remember that, Grof." The Trill nodded and looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if he wanted to be accepted into their circle but knew he never would be. "See you at chow!" called Grof, heading for the hatch.

 

 

"Yeah, at chow." Sam waved lazily and turned his attention to the viewscreen. Once the footsteps had stopped clomping down the ladder, Sam switched the view back to the sleek Jem'Hadar ship on their tail.

 

 

Taurik would never agree, but maybe staring at it would give him an idea on how to lure it close enough to board it and capture it.

 

 

At times during their tense but sluggish cruise through the Badlands, Picard wanted to ask Ro if she really knew where they were going. He admired her ability to navigate by dead reckoning, only getting her bearings on rare occasions when they found a bubble, as she called them, where the dust and interference were thin enough to take sensor readings. He could tell that Ro was tempted to remain awhile in the relative safety of the bubbles, but she knew they had to push on.

 

 

Once, it seemed, they came very close to another ship, but they passed so quickly in the surreal fog that it was impossible to tell for sure what it was. Maybe it was only a plasma storm, thought Picard. Perhaps they were hallucinating. The Badlands struck him as the kind of place where a person's imagination and fear might get the better of him.

 

 

So dense was the dust and debris in some stretches that Picard felt as if he were on a submarine floating through a sea of mud. The shields took a beating, but the transport held together and somehow avoided the ubiquitous bursts of plasma.

 

 

Through all of this, Ro piloted the craft in a businesslike calm, talking very little and only relinquishing the conn for a few moments. Picard had little to do but watch the bizarre light show.

 

 

After hours and hours, Ro began to peer intently at the viewscreen, and Picard began to watch more closely, too. He saw it at the same moment she did-- something black and ominous that sat like a gigantic spider in the middle of a vast neon web.

 

 

"There!" she said excitedly, pointing toward the viewscreen. The relief in her voice surprised Picard.

 

 

"What is it?" he asked.

 

 

"I think it started life as a space station," answered Ro. "Don't ask me whose, because it's ancient. I don't know how anyone thought they could build a station that would survive in this mess, although maybe it was here before the cloud. The Maquis call it the 'OK Corral.'" Picard smiled. "It seems fitting that the Badlands should have a famous corral." "And that's what it's used for," added Ro, cautiously steering them closer. "It's been hit so many times over the years by the plasma blasts that it's developed a repulsion effect--now the plasma actually stays away. The hull is nothing but a black hulk-- you can't even tell what it's made out of." "It sounds fascinating." Picard stared with interest at the spidery structure hanging in the magentabrown haze. When it was illuminated by a far-off streak of plasma, be could see that the "legs" of the spider were broken spokes coming from a central hub.

 

 

In its prime, this station must have been bigger than Deep Space Nine, and it was built in a similar gyroscopic design. Despite its familiar traits, the OK Corral seemed otherworldly, perfectly suited to its bizarre surroundings.

 

 

Ro circled the blackened ruin from a respectful distance, as if she were afraid something was going to pop out. Close up, the structure looked more like a lopsided, pitted asteroid than a creation of civilized beings; but its shape and symmetry were too exact to be accidental. It reminded Picard of an ancient burial mound he had seen in North America--beaten into something natural by the elements yet unmistakably a work of intelligence and artistry.

 

 

Without warning, they were jarred by a sudden blast, and Picard had to grab Ro's chair to remain upright. "What was that? Plasma burst?" Ro scowled. "More like a photon torpedo." "She's right," agreed the tactical officer. "No damage." "A warning shot," added Ro grimly. "But we're not going to be warned off. We've got as much right here as anybody else. Still, keep those shields up." Picard was about to ask where the shot had come from when a burst of plasma reflected off something silvery lurking within the hulk of the old station. As they continued to circle the OK Corral, the captain spotted a gaping crater that was big enough for the Enterprise to fly through. It looked as if something had taken a huge bite out of the central hub, leaving a blackened, hollow wreck. Sure enough, docked inside this unlikely safe harbor were two Ferengi marauders; they looked like sleek, bronze horseshoe crabs.

 

 

"Ro," said Picard, pointing at the viewscreen.

 

 

"I see them," she answered with a smile. "The old neighborhood is still active. They're most likely pirates and smugglers, so let's keep on our guard.

 

 

Tactical, all auxiliary power to shields." "May I remind you," said the woman on Tactical, "we're down to two torpedoes." "They won't do us much good, anyway," answered Ro. "When they see how small we are--and that we're Bajoran--maybe they'll let us in." "If they don't?" asked Picard.

 

 

"Then we'll look for friendlier pirates and smugglers. A good friend of mine used to say that you don't meet any choirboys in the Badlands." When Ro mentioned her friend, her eyes got a faraway look, and Picard glimpsed the grief she had been hauling with her.

 

 

Acting as if the Orb of Peace were the equal of the two battle-scarred warships, Ro Laren swept through the crater and into their midst. Picard half-expected the Ferengi to rake them with withering phaser fire; then he realized that these ships were not going to risk destroying their refuge. He had seen enough of the Badlands to know that safe places to stop were few and far between.

 

 

Now that they were inside the hollowed-out ruins of the main hub, the captain marveled at the bizarre sights that surrounded them. In addition to the two garish warships, he could see a cross section of the devastated space station, complete with decks, chambers, and bays; it all looked like a massive burnt honeycomb. He made a pact with himself that if he were ever free to travel Cardassian space--with no war--he would come back to the OK Corral and investigate this wondrous artifact.

 

 

"Have we got anything to trade for information?" asked Ro.

 

 

"Perhaps some tetralubisol," Picard suggested.

 

 

Ro shrugged. "I guess that's worth a try. I'm going to hail them. Ops, let's dim the lights." "Yes, sir." "Remember," said the captain, "they're smugglers and pirates." "And fellow neutrals." Ro stood up and nodded to Tactical.

 

 

"Hailing frequencies open," reported the young woman on duty.

 

 

"Greetings. This is Captain Ro Laren of the Orb of Peace, from Bajor. We were forced off course by some unusual circumstances, and we hope you don't mind if we stopre" "Quiet!" growled a voice, and the viewscreen popped on, showing a flurry of moving figures, most of them naked. They were clearly in the master stateroom of the Ferengi captain, because his wives were scurrying to get out of the way. But it was a muscular, unclothed Orion male who stepped into their view. The green-skinned humanoid grabbed a shimmering blue robe and pulled it around his thick body; then he motioned to the unseen shadows.

 

 

"Shek, get out here!" bellowed the Orion. His rough voice seemed to have only one volume--loud.

 

 

Accompanied by giggles and women straightening his clothes, a scrawny Ferengi strolled toward them from the shadows. He looked a bit taller and more fit than the typical Ferengi, although he was still dwarfed by the big Orion.

 

 

With a snaggletoothed grin, the Ferengi asked them, "What is this? A Bajoran vessel sneaking around Cardassian space--in the middle of a war7 Are you lost? Or crazy?" The muscular Orion glared suspiciously at her.

 

 

"Nobody knows about this place... nobody who's still alive." Ro put her hands on her hips and sighed. "Okay, we're really trying to find some terrorists we left here.

 

 

We think they're still fighting the war with Cardassia and don't know that we're neutral. This used to be a place we could find them." The Orion and the Ferengi looked at one another, and Picard thought they would buy it--until the Orion turned and shook his fist at them. "I say we loot their ship! You have ten seconds to surrender!" "Wait a minute, Rolf," said Shek, patting his large partner on the shoulder. "You never dispose of merchandise until you find out its worth. They have exhibited considerable skill and knowledge just getting here. Unless I am a worse judge of appearance than usual, they have nothing of value aboard their ship. Their ship isn't worth anything either. I know. I tried to sell one of those once--took a real loss. Had to sell it to the Maquis!" The Orion scratched his chin and leered at her. "! know a place where they pay dearly for young Bajoran females. It's not far from here either." "We're not young," scoffed Ro. "We're all old and haggard, like me." She reached out and pulled Picard into their view. "See, this is my first officer. He's typical of this crew. This is a humanitarian mission to rescue some of our warriors who no longer need to fight. Do you think somebody young and beautiful would take a job like this?" Shek laughed. "I like her. Let's have dinner with her. Anyone who can find her way here has got to have some interesting stories." The toothsome Ferengi wiggled his finger at her.

 

 

"We'll beam you over in one hour--you and your first officer. Unarmed, please." "Thank you," said Ro evenly. "We accept your invitation." The screen went dark, and Ro's tense shoulder blades finally dropped into their regular position. She looked so worn, Picard thought as he placed a tentative, but he hoped comforting, hand on her shoulder.

 

 

"It's worth the risk," he said gently. Ro glanced back at him with a rare glint of insecurity in her dark eyes.

 

 

"Those are fast ships out there," Picard continued, pointing to the two bronze marauders filling the viewscreen. "They can outrun Jem'Hadar and Cardassian ships, so they've probably seen a lot of this sector. They may also have dealings with the Dominion. If the artificial wormhole is real, they ought to know." Ro looked back at her young crew and whispered, "On the other hand, our relief should be prepared to run for it, if we don't return." "We'll work out a signal," said Picard grimly.

 

 

Ro smiled. "Make sure your earring is on straight.

 

 

Believe me, how you wear that earring is nine-tenths of being a Bajoran." "Understood," answered Picard gravely.

 

 

Will Riker paced outside the office of Commander Shana Winslow on Starbase 209, fuming. Winslow was head of the repair pool, and she had refused to release the Enterprise for active duty. Sure, Will knew they were a little banged up, but unfit for duty? He didn't think so! Besides, he had friends and comrades out there who needed him, and Starfleet forces were spread too thin to worry about one little fact-finding mission. Picard, Data, La Forge, every member of the away team--they were counting on the Enterprise.

 

 

Commander Winslow's assistant was a bookishlooking Benzite, who sat behind his desk and watched Riker with thinly veiled contempt. Every so often, he clucked like a chicken, which was driving Riker crazy.

 

 

"Where is she?" grumbled Riker. "Doesn't she know there's a war going on?" "Oh, she's quite aware there's a war going on," answered the Benzite with a long blue face. "Too many ships needing repair, too few parts, too many interruptions in supply and manufacturing--it's all quite difficult." "If I don't get in there to talk to her pretty soon, it's going to be even more difficult," vowed Riker.

 

 

At that moment, the door to Commander Winslow's office slid open, and four engineers walked out and brushed past him with stricken expressions on their faces. They looked like men who had just been chewed out. Riker straightened his uniform and tried to be calm. Honey instead of vinegar, he told himself.

 

 

He stared expectantly at the Benzite, who took his sweet time in looking up and saying, "You may go in, Commander." "Thank you." Riker stode through the door from the anteroom to Commander Winslow's inner office.

 

 

The first thing that struck him was the size of the office: it wasn't ready-room-size but more like a miniature auditorium with several rows of seats and a large viewscreen. Either Commander Winslow conducted classes here, or she liked to chew people out en masse.

 

 

The second thing that struck him was Commander Winslow herself. She was a striking brunette about his own age, with dark eyes that drilled into him as he approached her. She was also partly bionic, with a prosthetic left arm and left leg, which he glimpsed before she limped behind her desk.

 

 

Commander Winslow gave him a businesslike smile as she sat down and punched her computer terminal. "Commander Riker of the Enterprise," she read aloud. "I thought that ship was still under the command of Jean-Luc Picard. I trust that Captain Picard is all right?" "So do I," answered Riker, mustering a smile. "I'm acting captain, and I hope we can return to active duty soon. We've got to support Captain Picard and several of our senior officers who are on a mission into Cardassian space." "Sounds risky," replied Winslow with extreme understatement. She folded her hands and drilled him again with those dark eyes. "Commander Riker, I know you want to leave right now, but the Enterprise has failed almost every readiness test. You've got leakage from the warp coil, stress failure on the outer hull, burned-out circuitry on every deck, and dozens of patchwork field repairs that are holding, somehow, but can't for long." Riker winced, then held out his hands. "But she's still in one piece. We flew in here, didn't we? La Forge has kept her in top shape--." Shana Winslow gave him a sympathetic smile.

 

 

"Despite the redoubtable Mr. La Forge, your ship is in no condition to go back into action. I would be remiss in my duties if I released her now." Riker's shoulders drooped. "How long?" "The Enterprise is a top priority, Commander, but the best I can promise is a week." "A week!" blurted Riker, not meaning to. He was shocked that it would take that long--in a week, Captain Picard could be dead.

 

 

She fixed him with her disconcerting eyes. "I'm sorry, but if I release you before we complete all the necessary repairs, Starfleet's most advanced starship--and most experienced crew--could be lost to us. It's my job to make sure that ships are ready to do the job for which they were intended, and your ship is not." Back off, Riker told himself. Honey, not vinegar.

 

 

He stepped away from her desk and sighed. "I suppose I should welcome a few days of liberty for my crew, but it's difficult when we've got comrades out there." "Believe me, I know." Winslow lifted her prosthetic arm and set it on her desk. "I was once a ship's engineer--I'm still not used to flying a desk." He glanced at her arm and wondered why Starfleet hadn't provided her with a more natural looking prosthetic. "How did you get injured?" "On board the Budapest last year, defending Earth from the Borg. We let them get past us--thanks for saving our hides." She paused, apparently noting his stare. Smiling gently she said "Your ship and I have something in common." She pointed to her clumsy artificial limb.

 

 

"We both have to wait out the war shortages to be properly refitted." Riker grinned. "The Enterprise spent a month on 413 after that battle, while we cleaned all the Borg technology out of her." Commander Winslow leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, I wish I could've been there to see that, to be able to study it firsthand. I've always had tremendous interest in the Borg, which was only heightened when they almost killed me. Their efficiency is amazing--if I could only get a crew of them working for me." "I've had them on board, and I don't recommend it." Riker stepped closer and flashed a boyish smile.

 

 

"If you were to have dinner with me tonight, I could tell you all about the Borg." "Hmmm," she replied thoughtfully, checking her computer screen. "Yes, that would be acceptable at, say, nineteen hundred hours. And I can explain to you about our procurement problems, which have delayed everything. We've got to end this war soon, or the infrastructure is going to break down." "Right," said Riker. "That's why I'm trying to get back into it." "I know." Winslow stood and motioned to the door. "We'll meet here again at nineteen hundred hours." Riker started to the door, then turned nervously.

 

 

"The Enterprise, you are--" "Yes, we're working on it. See you later, Commander." Captain Picard steeled himself as he felt the tingle of the transporter beam, although Ro gave him an encouraging nod at the last second. He admired her 61an--she seemed more at ease around scoundrels than most, though he wasn't entirely sure she would regard the sentiment as a compliment if he gave voice to it.

 

 

They materialized inside a sumptuous dining hall festooned with pastel-colored banners and golden tinsel draped from the ceilings. In one sunken comer were plush pillows and chaise longues that overlooked a stage upon which torches burned brightly. To the rear of the hall was a beautiful table of pure amber, set for four. A Ferengi harpist sat in another corner, playing a sweet melody on his golden instrument.

 

 

"'Song for Solitude,'" said Ro with a faint smile.

 

 

"It's a well-known Bajoran piece. We'll have to thank our hosts." Picard tried to imagine himself as someone else, a kindly vedek perhaps. Ro was the captain, so she could play the tough one. He needed to appear serene and spiritual, above the baser, petty aspects of life.

 

 

Double doors at the far end of the hall swept open, and Shek, the Ferengi, swept into the room, with luxurious satiny robes trailing behind him. Towering over him, looking like a bodyguard, came the hulking Orion, Rolf.

 

 

"Welcome!" gushed Shek, rushing toward Ro and taking her hand. He gazed lasciviously into her sullen eyes. "It's a pleasure to have you aboard my humble vessel, the Success. This is Rolf, captain of our consort, the Swift. Excuse us for firing upon you, Captain Ro, but you can never be sure who you will meet in these trying times." "Understood," said Ro with a polite bow. "This is my first mate." "We are enjoying the music," said Picard with a polite bow. "'Song for Solitude' always reminds me of childhood. Thank you." "You're welcome. And may I say, that is a very nice earring you're wearing. That stone comes from Jerrado, doesn't it?" "Yes," answered Picard with a smile. "Not many people realize that." "We recognize items of value. Since no one can visit Jerrado anymore, that earring is a real collector's item. Are you hungry?" Dwarfed by his oversized robes, Shek shuffled toward the table. "We don't know much about Bajoran cooking, although it looks less exotic than our own. It's certainly less exotic than Orion cooking, what with all those tear-inducing spices." "Bah," grumbled Rolf. "He likes everything bland." "I do not," countered Shek. "It's just that we have to respect other people's tastes. Therefore, we are having roasted hornbill, a type of local fowl." "Yes, we saw some at a Cardassian farming colony on our way here," said Ro. "The Cardassians stole half our cargo; they said it was contraband." Rolf laughed heartily. "Yes, they'll do that. If you don't have a ship that can outrun them, what do you expect7" Shek pulled out a chair for Ro. "Please sit here, Captain." "Thank you," said the Bajoran, taking the proffered chair.

 

 

Shek quickly sat on one side of her, and Rolf sat on the other, leaving Picard to take the outermost chair.

 

 

He didn't like the way the two pirates were sandwiched on each side of Ro, but his persona didn't allow him to do much about it. With a pleasant smile on his face, Pieard had to watch them fawn over her.

 

 

"You can't possibly expect to find any terrorists alive after all this time," said their host. "Would you like some Trakian ale?" "Thank you," answered Ro, folding her hands in front of her. "Whether we expect to find them alive or not, we have to look." "Have you ever considered dancing?" asked the Orion, admiring her slim physique.

 

 

"I'm a ship's captain," she replied, "the same as you. Have you considered dancing?" "Eldra!" shouted Shek, waving toward the door. A short, blubbery Ferengi woman rushed in with a pitcher full of dark ale, bubbling at its narrow neck.

 

 

Picard had to admit that his throat was dry, and the beverage looked good. There was a pause in conversation as glasses were poured and drinks were hoisted.

 

 

"To hell with the Dominion!" cheerfully toasted the Orion before downing his entire glass. Picard and Ro drank along with him as they exchanged glances.

 

 

"You don't care for the Dominion?" asked Picard.

 

 

"Who could like those Denebiau slime devils?" grumbled the Orion. "The Cardassians were fine before they came--they were corrupt; they could be bought. The Dominion just wants to take over everything. They don't want any competition. What fun is that?" "And they're trying to kill our best customers," sniffed the Ferengi. "The Dominion is bad for business. A Ferengi will take a monopoly if he can get one, but he still knows it's unnatural. These people think it's all right for a puddle of shapeshifters to rule the galaxy, and skim off everybody." The Orion snorted with laughter. "We hope the Federation wins, but we hope the war goes on for a long time, don't we?" "Of course," answered the Ferengi. "War is good for the black market. It's chaos, and chaos is always good for those of us who work in the shadows. But not this war--too much killing." The guests nodded, unable to add much to that sentiment. Fortunately, the food arrived shortly thereafter, delivered by the rotund Eldra, who encouraged them to eat. So zealous were her eritreaties that Picard assumed she had prepared the meal. He hoped she hadn't also prechewed it.

 

 

It was good food and decent company, with discussion on all sorts of matters, ranging from the price of antimatter to Bajoran neutrality. Picard wanted to casually slip the idea of an artificial wormhole into the conversation, but it seemed premature. They had just now struck a civil discourse with one another, and even the Orion was behaving like a gentleman.

 

 

After the dishes were removed, Shek clapped his hands and rose to his feet. "It's time for the evening's entertainment." They retired to the cushions and lounges of the sunken den in front of the stage. Picard was a little light-headed after all the ale, although he had tried to pace himself. He had to admit that the food had been excellent, very similar to squab, and he had eaten more than his share. Thus far, this respite with the pirates had proven to be surprisingly enjoyable.

 

 

Once they had settled into the upholstered lair, Shek tugged on his ear and gave them a snaggletoothed grin. "Tonight's entertainment is furnished by my good friend, Rolf. Ah, here is the Saurian brandy." When Eldra appeared with a carafe and small glasses, Picard felt like declining, but he saw a warning look in Rolf's eyes. When the green giant took a glass of brandy, he held it up for all to see, and Picard knew that he had better do the same.

 

 

"We toast to your health and your gods," said the Orion.

 

 

"To the Prophets," said Ro, drinking.

 

 

"To the Prophets," echoed Picard, taking a sip.

 

 

"To the dancing girls!" crowed Shek.

 

 

A drumroll crashed and thundered behind them, and Picard was about to turn around when three lithe figures leaped from the curtain behind the stage. They landed in the flickering pool of light given off by the torches and began to sway. As the drums increased their frenzy, the green-skinned Orion women undulated to the pulsing beat. Picard had heard of these famed entertainers, but he had never thought he would actually see them... in the flesh, so to speak.

 

 

There was a great deal of green flesh exhibited by the filmly costumes.

 

 

He felt so relaxed and content as he snuggled in the oversized cushions, watching the acrobatic and suggestive dancing of the Orion women. It was hard not to imagine that this dinner party was really a gathering of pirate chieftains in some remote tropical harbor, participating in the drunken debaucheries of yore.

 

 

Picard looked over at Ro Laren, and she was asleep, curled peacefully among the pillows. So rare for her to look so peaceful, thought the captain. He looked back at the dancing women--so animalistic, so exotic, so voluptuous. He could almost smell their pungent scent and taste their sweet green skin. Sweat was breaking out on the back of his neck. Enough was enough, he decided. It was time to get some air.

 

 

As Picard staggered to his knees, he heard Rolf laughing uproariously in his ear, and a big arm reached out and dragged him back into the cushions.

 

 

"Settle down, my good man. What about the girl you came in with?" The captain looked again at Ro Laren, and he realized that she shouldn't be sleeping. A spark in the back of his brain cut through the fog and told him that this shouldn't be happening. He was in some kind of trouble. He started to reach for his communicator to give it two quick taps--the signal--but his limbs felt as leaden as tree trunks.

 

 

A hand came from nowhere, slapped his chest, and ripped the comm badge off. He touched the hole in the fabric where it used to be, gazed bewilderedly at the big ears of the Ferengi, then slumped back onto the pillows.

 

 

"All fight," said Shek, leaning over him, "why don't you tell us where you really came from. And what you're really doing here." "My... my ship!" gasped Picard helplessly.

 

 

"Yes, let's not forget about your ship," agreed Shek.

 

 

He tapped his comm badge. "Captain to bridge: activate tractor beam. Prepare to hoard."

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

 

LYING SUPPINE ON CUSHIONS in the dining hall of the Ferengi ship, Captain Picard had a strong sense of d6j/~ vu. He felt the way he had when he was going through emergency heart surgery--conscious but unable to feel anything or control his limbs. He didn't exactly float over his body, but he wasn't inside of it either. He felt oddly apart, like an observer, shunted off to the side.

 

 

The Orion dancing girls kept undulating suggestively to the throbbing drumbeat, but there was something wrong with them, too. They seemed to be nothing but moving bodies, devoid of consciousness.

 

 

The Ferengi, Shek, clapped his hands. "Computer, end program." At once, the green-skinned women disappeared, and so did most of the furnishings and decorations in the sumptuous dining hall. Glasses of brandy dropped to the floor and shattered, and Picard's body collapsed onto a hard floor as well. He struggled to sit upmbut couldn't.

 

 

"It's a nerve conditioner," said Shek. "You have no control over what you do or say. Oddly, you and Captain Ro reacted completely differently to the drug.

 

 

She fell asleep." "And you?" asked Picard in a hollow, raspy voice.

 

 

Shek smiled and pointed to Rolf, the big green Orion. "Oh, we took the antidote before dinner." Roll scowled. "I miss the days when we used to torture people to get information." "Yes, but you must admit, these new speciesspecific drugs are faster and more efficient." Shek patted his large partner on the shoulder, then turned back to Picard. "All right, what is your real name and position?" He tried to make his mouth form the words "Lieutenant Tom Smith," or "Chief Ray Jones," or anything but the truth. But to his horror he heard his own voice say "Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise." "Really?" said Shek, obviously impressed. "And your friend, Captain Ro?" "She is Captain Ro Laren of the Orb of Peace, formerly of my command." "What are you doing in Cardassian space?" "We are looking for the Dominion's artificial wormhole." Rolf burst out laughing. "And what are they going to do with it when they find it? The Federation is more desperate than I thought." Perhaps he could pretend to be as feebleminded as he felt and change the subject to something a bit less controversial. "The dancers?" asked Picard reaching toward the empty space where they had been.

 

 

"Alas, they're holograms," replied Shek. "In this day and age, who can afford real Orion slave girls? But you're more interesting, anyway, Captain. What were you planning to do with the artificial wormhole, should it exist?" Change the subject, indeed. Perhaps he was as feebleminded as he felt, Picard thought bitterly.

 

 

"Destroy it," he whispered.

 

 

The Ferengi and the Orion looked at one another and laughed, slapping their thighs. "Do you know how big that thing is?" asked Shek. "How big?" Shek pushed him back onto the hard floor. "We need to confer now, Captain. Your eyes are getting heavy, and you're very tired. All you want to do is sleep, like your comrade. Go to sleep, Captain Picard, you've earned the rest." With that the captain closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

 

 

"When the reactor exploded and the concussion hit me, I went unconscious," said Commander Shana Winslow as she stirred her Mai Tai with a swizzle stick held in the mechanical fingers of her left hand.

 

 

She and Will Riker were sitting at a back table in a place called the Bolian Bistro, reputed to be the best restaurant on Starbase 209, although it served a limited menu. All of the eateries on the starbase were suffering from shortages.

 

 

"For all intents and purposes, I was dead," she went on. "I never knew they beamed me out until I woke up in a bed on a medical ship. And when I looked down and saw how much of me was missing, I cursed the hell out of them." Will Riker smiled and shook the ice in his glass. "I can imagine you did. How long did your recovery take?" "It's still going on," answered Winslow. "The physical therapy, the counseling sessions--I don't think it will ever end. As I said, I long to be out there as much as you do, but I've got to be realistic. This is my job now; it's a job for which I'm suited." "And you don't have any family to worry about?" The engineer shook her head sadly. "Not now. I had a husband, but he died aboard the Budapest in the same action against the Borg." "I'm sorry," said Riker, regretting his glib comment.

 

 

Winslow managed a bittersweet smile. "Don't worry about it. Talking about it is part of my recovery. In some respects, it was a marriage of convenience, since we were both so wrapped up in our careers. We had finally gotten assigned to the same ship, and we were going to work on the marriage. Instead, we nearly died together in our first action." She stirred her drink and looked at him coyly.

 

 

"What about you?" "Confirmed bachelor," answered Riker, leaning back in his chair and grinning. "Although I won't say that I haven't come close to marriage--but only once, seriously." "And what happened to her?" "She's my best friend," answered Riker, taking a sip of his drink. "She understands me better than anybody--well enough to know that she wouldn't want to be married to me." "Yes, that's what I miss most about Jack being gone. It's good to have at least one person who really knows you, around whom you don't have to pretend." Shana Winslow gave him a melancholy smile.

 

 

Riker reached for her hand. "Listen, you were spared for a reason. We've all been spared this long for a reason--maybe it's to fight this lousy war." "Ah, now you're getting back to the subject of your ship," said Winslow. "It's still seven days--six if we can get the EPS couplings we need by tomorrow." Riker smiled. "Who do I have to rob to get those couplings?" "Just hope for the supply convoy to get through." Riker quickly lifted his glass. "Here's to the supply convoy. And also to good company." "To good company," echoed Shana Winslow, hefting her glass and peering at him over the rim with her intense dark eyes.

 

 

"I hope my crew is enjoying their liberty as much as I am," said Riker.

 

 

Ro Laren awoke with shooting pains in her arms, legs, and head. She quickly determined that the cause of the pain in her extremities was from the ropes binding her to a stiff, hard chair. But the pain in her head was like the worst hangover she'd ever gotten from drinking's Derek's homemade wine.

 

 

She looked around the empty room, which had a grid on the walls but nothing else, and she saw Captain Picard sitting about five meters away. He was also bound tightly to his chair. The captain looked more disheveled and beaten than she did, although he managed a wan smile. "Good morning." "What happened?" she asked with a groan.

 

 

"We were drugged by our hosts." "But they ate and drank the same things we did." "Yes, but they took an antidote first." Picard struggled against his bonds for a moment, but it was useless.

 

 

"Where are we?" "Same place we were before," answered the captain, "only now you can tell it's a holodeck. Listen, my memory is hazy, but I believe they know everything." "Everything?" she asked in horror.

 

 

He nodded grimly. "I don't know what they intend to do to us." Ro shivered, not wanting to think about all the gruesome options they had.

 

 

Picard continued, "I believe they know they have a valuable prize. If I were them, I might go to both the Federation and the Dominion, seeing who will bid more to get a starship captain." "The ship--" began Ro.

 

 

"Your ship is all right," said a snide voice. With difficulty and pain, Ro twisted her head around enough to see Shek and Rolf stride through the doors into the holodeck. The Orion was holding a padd, a handheld computing device, which looked out of place in his big green hands. The Ferengi had a pulse whip tied to his belt in a serpentine coil.

 

 

"We've just interrogated your crew and searched your ship," said Shek glumly. "As I suspected, you have nothing of value. Why are patriots always so broke?" "There are some young Bajoran females." Rolf smiled lasciviously at the prisoners.

 

 

"They aren't really Bajoran," countered Ro.

 

 

"We know," muttered Shek, "and that is problematic. If they ever found out we sold them fake merchandise... well, that's not a good way to conduct business. So the only thing of value is Captain Jean- Luc Picard." "I'm not valuable," answered Picard. "I would be just one of thousands of prisoners of war." "At least that way you might get to see your artificial wormhole," joked Rolf.

 

 

Both Ro and Picard stared at the Orion. "Then it does exist?" asked the captain.

 

 

Rolf nodded. "Oh, yes. It's a gigantic thing, bigger than several moons I've seen. If it were up to Shek here, you would never see it, because he wanted to sell you to the Dominion. But I convinced him not to." Ro and Picard looked accusingly at the scrawny Ferengi, who gave them an apologetic shrug. "Hey, a fellow has to make a profit." "I convinced him that we should let you carry out your mission," said the muscular Orion with a note of pride in his voice. "With a little help from us." Ro gaped at him. "You're going to join us with your ships?" The Orion burst out laughing. "Hardly! Do we look like fools? We can't be seen having anything to do with this." Shek pointed a bony finger at them. "And we hope you have the good sense not to get captured again!

 

 

Next time, have the decency to get killed, will you?" Picard ignored the last part of Shek's request. "We have no intentions of being captured by the Dominion," he said.

 

 

"Good." The Orion held out the computer padd.

 

 

"We've done some calculations, and we don't see how you could ever destroy the verteron collider, even if you had the Enterprise with you. But maybe you don't have to destroy it to keep it from working." Ro and Picard glanced puzzledly at one another, then back at their captors. "What do you have in mind?" asked Ro.

 

 

Even though they were all alone on the Ferengi vessel, Shek glanced around nervously and lowered his voice. "I received a nice bit of intelligence the other day. The Dominion has had a hard time finishing the mouth of the wormhole, because they need a rather exotic material to withstand the pressure. They blew up a tanker trying to off-load a sub-quark compound, and now they're getting desperate." Shek tapped his fingertips together. "My spies tell me that they've sent a mining vessel to a black hole called the Eye of Talek. They're trying to extract some Corzanium to use for the building material. Does this sound plausible to you?" "Very," answered Picard.

 

 

"So," concluded Rolf, "you don't have to destroy the whole thing to stop them. You just have to keep them from mining the Corzanium--destroy the mining vessel." "Do you know the location of the Eye of Talek?" asked Ro. "I've heard of it, but I don't know where it is." "Right here," answered Roll, pointing to his computer padd.

 

 

"Then why are we still tied up?" demanded Ro.

 

 

"We need to get moving!" The Orion and the Ferengi glanced at one another, and the Orion shrugged and pulled a curved knife out of the gold sash around his waist. Ro winced as the sharp blade ran down the skin of her forearms and sawed the rope tying her wrists. When her arms finally dropped to her sides, Ro never thought she could feel such reliefi She watched intently as he cut the rope around her ankles, then she stood and stretched, trying to ignore the screams of her cramped muscles.

 

 

Picard sat stoically as the Orion cut away his bonds; then he stood and rubbed the chafed skin on his wrists. "You know, we could have reached the same conclusion without so much trouble." "Ah," said the Ferengi, grabbing the handle of his whip, "where is the fun in that? Frankly, if you had told us that a little Bajoran transport with two torpedoes was going to take out a verteron collider that is ten kilometers long and protected by a Dominion fleet, we wouldn't have believed you. Would we have, Rolf?." "I'm still not sure I believe them," grumbled the Orion. "But the truth potion never lies, which means they are simply deludedmso let's give them a chance to die for their cause! Besides, we want to keep the war going, don't we, Shek?" "Yes, we do," answered the Ferengi, "but if I find out that you've been captured--when I could have sold you to themmI'11 be very angry." "You won't have to worry about that," vowed Picard. "Can we go back to our ship now?" Roll nodded and shoved the padd into the captain's hands. "Use this information well--we hate to give it away for free." "Is it going to be hard to reach the Eye of Talek?" asked Ro.

 

 

"In your ship, it's a journey of two days," answered Roll. "But you have made it past the front, where most of the Dominion ships are deployed, so you shouldn't encounter many of them." "Thank you," said Picard. He reached for his comm badge and found a torn patch of fabric where it should have been.

 

 

"Oh!" exclaimed Shek, producing two Bajoran comm badges from a pocket on his vest. With an apologetic smile, he handed them over.

 

 

"Thank you." Picard tapped his badge and said, "Away team to the Orb of Peace." "Captain!" answered La Forge's breathless voice.

 

 

"Are you all right? We thought you were dead... or worse." "We're fine, Geordi. Our hosts are letting us go." "They hit us with a tractor beam," said La Forge, "and we had no choice but to let them board and search us." "Yes, they're very thorough when it comes to digging for information," agreed Picard. "But they've given us some news that could prove to be invaluable.

 

 

Two to transport back." "Yes, sir." "We never had this conversation," insisted Shek as the tingle of the transporter beam gripped Ro's spine.

 

 

"You don't know us!" "Nevertheless," said the Bajoran, "we won't forget your help." After they were gone, the two pirate captains looked at one another and shook their heads in amazement.

 

 

"Do you think they stand a chance?" asked Shek.

 

 

"None!" scoffed the Orion. "A tiny transport against the entire Dominion? They'll have to get very lucky." "Something tells me that Captain Picard knows a thing or two about luck." Shek tugged on an oversized earlobe. "Maybe they will disrupt the Dominion long enough for us to pull offa caper or two. Let's go to the chart room and plan it." The Orion slapped his scrawny partner on the shoulder. "Now you're thinking. Lead the way!" Before the two scurvy captains could exit the holodeck, the Ferengi's comm badge chirped. With a scowl, he tapped it and answered, "This is Captain Shek. What is it?" "Captain," said a quavering voice, "that ship which just left--three men beamed over from transporter room two when the others beamed back. Desert they did, sir!" "The scoundrels!" growled the Ferengi, reaching for the handle of his whip. "Listen, hail the Bajorans and tell them they've got stowaways!" "We tried that, sir, and there's too much interference. The plasma storms are really bad out there-- they'll be lucky if they make it through. Should we go after them, sir?" "No," growled Shek, "not if the storms are bad.

 

 

Plus, we've got to meet the Plektaks here. Who did we lose?" "The three Romulans." "Good riddance," muttered Shek. "Out." Rolf chuckled. "I told you not to take them on. Now they've decided to grab their own ship and go freelance. Pretty good timing." "Captain Picard's luck just turned the other way," muttered the Ferengi, shuffling out the door.

 

 

Will Riker stood at the door of Shana Winslow's quarters, wondering how far he should go in the pursuit of special treatment for the Enterprise. Logic told him that no matter what he did, it wouldn't make any difference. Maybe in the field, under fire, Winslow would be willing to make quick and dirty repairs; but in her current post, she was determined to follow procedures. He didn't think she would make any exceptions for an amiable dinner date.

 

 

Then why was he here, paused to follow Shana into her private chambers? He had to answer that he was interested in the woman, not what she could do for him. She had lost her family and her ship, and his heart went out to her. Will knew how many people doubted his sanity over his refusal to leave the Enterprise to take command of another ship. But the Enterprise and her crew were like no other ship. They were family, and the Enterprise was home.

 

 

"A penny for your thoughts," said Winslow as her door slid open.

 

 

He smiled wistfully. "I'm afraid I was thinking about my ship and her crew. I can be awfully singleminded." "Me, too." She motioned toward her small but tastefully appointed cabin, standard issue, as if she hadn't really moved in yet. "Would you like to come in for a drink?" "Yes, I would." She led the way. "I have to warn you that even the replicators are offering reduced selections these days.

 

 

We have to ration both raw materials and power consumption." "Do you still have cold water?" "I think so," she answered with a smile, moving toward the food slot. "One cold water. Please, have a seat." "On the ship, our biggest problem is a lack of experienced personnel," said Riker, dropping into a cushy sofa. "It doesn't do any good to throw bodies at a problem unless they have the experience to deal with it." "Tell me about it." Winslow brought him a glass of water, carrying it in her natural hand. "How would you like to have to compete with ships of the line for good people? The admirals just want to throw everybody into the front, forgetting all about the support services. We've shut down two wings of the station-- nobody to do maintenance." "I noticed." Riker sipped his water and looked quizzically at her. "You're not drinking anything?" "I'm going back now. I have a hard time carrying more than one glass at a time." Riker fought the temptation to jump up and fetch her a drink. Instead he watched her laboriously get herself a cup of tea and return to the sofa. He was flattered when she sat down close beside him.

 

 

"Ah," said Winslow with a sigh. "Now, where were we?" "We were complaining about how we don't have enough good people." "These are extraordinary times," said the engineer.

 

 

"Starfleet has fought plenty of conflicts before, but we've never been stretched so thin, over such a long period of time--with no end in sight." Riker sighed. "There is an end in sight, but it's not one we want to think about." "That bad, huh?" She shook her head. "I know the shortages and pressure we're under, but I don't really get a feel for it. I wish I were out there--with you people." "We're holding our own," he lied. "Even without you." Winslow smiled sweetly at him, her dark eyes glimmering. "I suppose we have to make the most of every moment we're alive. That's something I really haven't learned to do since the Budapest went down.

 

 

Sometimes it's just so easy to get caught up in your work." "I know," said Riker, his arm curling around her shoulder. "Maybe this is a good time to start." She snuggled back into the crook of his arm and closed her eyes. "Can I just sit here for a moment?

 

 

Human contact, and all that. There's one thing you don't get much in Starfleet--a hug. They ought to have a couple of people in charge of hugs, just to dispense them randomly." Riker settled back, too, his arm around this very agreeable women, not in any rush himself. In his younger years, he would have been all over Shana, but now the simple contact felt good. He hadn't had much time for hugs either.

 

 

When she finally opened her eyes, they sparkled like two black opals, faraway and dreamy. Her face had beauty, ruggedness, and character--the face of a woman who worked too hard for too little in return.

 

 

Looking surprised, she touched his other arm, as if trying to make sure he was real. That was when he knew he had to kiss her.

 

 

Riker bent low, and she angled her chin upward, closing her eyes again. As his mouth was about to taste her honey and tea-scented lips and her hand gripped his bicep, an urgent beep sounded on a nearby comm panel.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Will," said Winslow apologetically as she rose to her feet. "I told them not to call me unless it's an emergency." "I understand," said Riker.

 

 

She tapped the panel and said, "Winslow here." "This is Lieutenant Harflon, work detail three on the Seleya," came a crisp voice. "The energy fluctuations in the IPS are still affecting the grid. Lorimar said you had an undocumented fix for this, and the work orders say to call you." "Yes, yes," she answered. "Is the test flight still scheduled for oh-eight-hundred?" "Yes, Commander." "I'll be right there. Out." Winslow winced at Riker as she headed toward the door. "Sorry, Will. But you know, this might not take long. You're welcome to make yourself at home... relax." "How come the Seleya is getting special treatment?" asked Riker, following her out into the corridor. "Because it's the admiral's ship?" "Could be, except that it's been in my shop for a week already, and the admiral is like you-- impatient." She headed determinedly toward the turbolift.

 

 

"Well, then... what about enjoying life?" Winslow waved as she entered the turbolift. "In case you hadn't heard, there's a war on! Dinner tomorrow, same time?" "Sure." The turbolift door shut, leaving Riker to shake his head in amazement. He turned and headed back the other way, curious to see if any of his crew were still at the Bolian Bistro.

 

 

On a large moon where the atmosphere was so thin that day looked like night, Data sat in the powdery dust, watching his portable instruments. They were attached by wires to a small sensor array which he had mounted on the roof of his shuttlecraft. Doing so had helped him target the Badlands.

 

 

In his short stay on the nameless moon, Data had monitored considerable traffic in Dominion ships moving to and from the front. He kept diligent notes on the enemy ship movement, thinking that someday the information might be important. But he hadn't found the Orb of Peace, nor had he detected the return of the Enterprise. Even concentrating long-range sensors on the Badlands, he had yet to locate any ship that could possibly be the Bajoran transport or its emergency beacon.

 

 

As far as he could tell with the shifting borders, this moon was located well into Cardassian space, and he dared not go any deeper. Going farther would only endanger his mission without substantially increasing his odds of success, which were not good to begin with. Data calculated that the odds of the Enterprise or another Starfleet vessel finding him were less than one in four. He preferred not to calculate the odds of recovering Picard, Geordi, Ro, and the Orb of Peace.

 

 

In this instance, the android couldn't be sure that patience would have the desired effect, but he counseled himself to be patient anyway. Nevertheless, Data had recurring thoughts about Japanese soldiers in World War II stranded at their jungle posts years after their war was over. He thought about not ever seeing his friends again, and he academically considered the grief and worry he would be experiencing if his emotion chip were turned on.

 

 

No, Data decided, war required a level head, good judgment, and that ethereal commodity known as good fortune. Unfortunately, it appeared as if he would have to wait for the good fortune part.

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

THE EYE OF TALEK LOOMED before them like a hole punctured in the fabric of space, notable for an absence of stars and a golden halo of gas and dust streaming into it. The black hole was the size of a saucer section on a big starship, but almost brilliantly black, like the sun as seen in a photographic negative.

 

 

Sam turned away from the viewscreen and looked at Grof, who was beaming with pleasure. "Isn't it magnificent?" asked the Trill with a grand sweep of his arms.

 

 

"'Scary' is the word I would use," replied Sam. "I thought you said this was a small black hole." "It is. If it were a large one, we couldn't have come this close." "What's on the other side?" asked Jozarnay Woil, the Antosian material handler.

 

 

Grof laughed. "There is no other side--it's a celestial body with gravity so strong that not even light particles can escape. An old professor of mine used to call this singularity a 'gravity graveyard.' The smaller the black hole, the older it is. Over time, some material will escape through natural quantum stepping, so in ten billion years, maybe this black hole will shrink to nothing. For now, it's the only place where Corzanium can be found." "However," said Taurik, seated at the corm, "the main reason our task is so difficult is that gravity warps space. At a distance directly proportional to the mass of the collapsed object, an event horizon occurs.

 

 

In essence, the material making up the black hole exists in a different space-time continuum, which is why the gas and debris seem to disappear when they enter. This is also why we must quantum-step the Corzanium out, particle by particle." "Have you and Horik made the adjustments to the tractor beam?" asked Grof.

 

 

The Vulcan nodded. "The metaphasic shield enhancer is on-line and has been integrated with tractorbeam operations." "Excellent!'~ Sam's mind wandered while Grof and Taurik engaged in a rapid-fire discussion of various scientific aspects of their mission. He was more concerned about the Jem'Hadar attack ship that had trailed them halfway across Cardassian space, just to make sure they attended to business and didn't try to escape. Sam was determined to disappoint them and escape anyway.

 

 

Since they didn't have any weapons and couldn't run fast enough from the small warship, the only plausible plan was to escape in the attack craft itself.

 

 

Either that, or they had to use their transporters to damage the Jem'Hadar shiprain effect, tossing a monkey wrench into their engine.

 

 

While Grof, Taurik, and Woil continued their discussion, Sam used the ops console to locate the Jem'Hadar ship. The small but deadly craft had assumed an outer orbit around the Eye of Talek at a distance that was a hundred kilometers beyond their transporter range. The trick would be to lure it closer with some kind of catastrophe or emergency. But what?

 

 

The Jem'Hadar were undoubtedly prepared for an escape attempt, and they were certainly under orders to make sure the prisoners perished rather than escaped. As prisoners and crew, they were expendable, but their cargo was not. The tanker would soon be very important to the Dominion and the war.

 

 

That meant they would have to extract a large amount of the exotic ore before they could make their move--probably by making the tanker appear to be threatened. If they weren't careful, they could all die in an accident before they had a chance to make a break for it. Reluctantly, Sam tuned back in to ongoing conversation, figuring he had better concentrate on their mission for the time being.

 

 

Jozarnay Woil still looked confused as he scratched the bun of tight black hair atop his head. "Professor, can you go through the high points one more time?

 

 

Listening to you and Taurik is over my head." Grof thrust his finger into the air. "To begin with, the Corzanium is extremely volatile until we quantum-step it beyond the event horizon and recombine it in the chamber. The sequence goes like this: Using the tractor beam, we lower the mining probe into the black hole just above the event horizon. Then we bombard the hole with tachyons, which changes the terms of probability and quantum-steps the particles, expelling them in the process. You might compare this to drilling in a typical mining operation.

 

 

Now we have escaping matter which we can guide into the probe with the tractor beam. Then we beam the probe on board and put it in stasis.

 

 

"After that, Mr. Woil, you work your magic and transfer the ore from the stasis field into the recom chamber. Then it's just like any other metal, except that it has a unique resistance to gravity." The Antosian shook his head. "No wonder it's so rare." "We wouldn't be here if it weren't," muttered the Trill.

 

 

"Remember, we only have three probes," said Sam, trying to sound interested. "We can't afford to lose any." "That will be plenty," countered Grof.

 

 

"When do we start?" asked Woil.

 

 

"There's no time like the present!" The Trill clapped his hands together.

 

 

"I would take issue with that," replied Taurik.

 

 

"While some of us have been sleeping, others like myself have been on duty for twenty-five hours straight. Although you make the extraction process sound relatively simple, it is anything but. A mistake by any one of us could destroy this ship and all aboard." "But we could get a start," countered Grof. "Take some readings, prepare the equipment." "A mistake in any of those tasks would be equally disastrous," answered Taurik.

 

 

"He's right," said Sam, putting a friendly hand on Grof's beefy shoulder. "Let's get some rest. Do you think our shadow would mind?" "Forget them," said Grof irritably. "They're merely an escort--/am in charge of this mission." "But they have the weapons," Sam reminded him.

 

 

"Oh-six-hundred hours," grumbled the Trill, checking his chronometer. "No later than that." "Okay, no later," Sam assured him. "Woil, can you tell the others?" "Sure, Captain." The Antosian climbed down the ladder, and the last thing to disappear was the bun of black hair atop his head.

 

 

"I want this to go smoothly," warned Grof, "And if it doesn't," said Sam, "you can harangue me about it in the next life." The Trill shot him a look of disgust. "Remember, I'm an unjoined Trill--I only get one life." Then his glower changed into a tepid smile before he clomped down the ladder, pulling the hatch lid shut behind him.

 

 

"Is he mellowing, or is he crazy?" asked Sam rhetorically.

 

 

"I think a bit of both," answered Woil. "The question is, what are we?" "We're hiding our time," said Sam, biting off the wrapper of a rations bar.

 

 

"All instruments and systems back on-line," said the young man at the ops panel with obvious relief.

 

 

On the viewscreen of the Orb of Peace, the murky but alluring dust cloud called the Badlands faded from view. The rectangular transport finally escaped into open star-studded space.

 

 

Ro Laren looked up from her conn and turned to see a dozen young pseudo-Bajorans gathered on the cramped bridge, beaming at her. The final leg through the Badlands had been extremely tense, with plasma storms rippling all around them, and most of the crew had peeked into the bridge to offer support or look for camaraderie.

 

 

Ro gave them a smile and said, "Well done." "Well done to you," declared Captain Picard, who then leaned back in his seat at the tactical station and took a deep breath. "There aren't many people who could have made it through there." "Nobody else was foolish enough to try," answered Ro. She stood and stretched, thinking that she was more stiff now than she had been when she was tied to a chair on the pirates' ship.

 

 

"Captain Ro, I think you deserve some relief, and some rest." Picard motioned to one of the young bystanders to take her place at the conn, and Ro didn't resist. She stepped aside and let the blond woman have her seat.

 

 

"Our course is laid in," Ro told her. "Just take her to maximum warp, when ready." "Yes, sir." The Bajoran turned to Picard and asked, "Any sign of enemy ships?" "There are a few possible ships on long-range scans, but none of them are headed to intercept us. I think we're finally clear of the border patrol." Ro let out a sharp breath. At last, they were behind enemy lines.

 

 

Picard squinted at his board and reported, "I'm picking up something that might be the artificial wormhole. It's where our friends said it was." "Can you put it on screen?" "Yes, but it won't be very clear. These aren't the most accurate scanners and screens." A large, gleaming cylinder appeared on the viewscreen, floating in the blackness of space. It might have been mistaken for some kind of space probe or satellite, except for the bright blips that surrounded it like fireflies swarming around a log in the woods. Ro knew these insignificant blips were in reality mighty warships, tankers, and troop transports.

 

 

"Boy, up close, it must be the eighth wonder of the universe," said the officer on ops.

 

 

"I'm glad we don't have to take it out," answered Ro.

 

 

But she wondered if this terrible threat could be resolved as easily as all that--by just destroying a mining vessel outside a black hole. Thus far, the pirates' information had proven correct, so perhaps this incredible structure did have a weak spot. Still, it was hard to imagine that the Dominion's most important project in the Alpha Quadrant would turn out to be nothing but a white elephant, useless for lack of the right building material. But now they had seen itm the artificial wormhole really existed.

 

 

"Can we take a holoscan of it for Will Riker?" she asked.

 

 

Picard smiled. "I don't believe that will be necessary. He'll be more than happy to apologize when we get back." "I'm not sure I'll be going back," said Ro. "I'm not that fond of prison." Picard's jaw tightened. "I'll do everything I can to get your situation squared away, I promise. In fact, I can even see about getting you your commission back." "One step at a time. First, let's make sure there's a Starfleet to go back to." Ro started toward the rear of the bridge and paused in the doorway. "If you want to talk about it, Captain, I'll buy you a drink." "All right. I think things are under control here." Picard rose from the tactical station and motioned to a junior officer to relieve him. The young crew members were all too eager to resume their stations now that they were away from the unpredictable dangers of the Badlands.

 

 

"We should have someone check on those fruits and vegetables in the hold," suggested Picard. "Let's dispense them to the crew before they start going bad." "Good idea," replied Ro. "Henderson, you have the bridge. Send a detail to the cargo bay--we'll be in the mess hall." "Yes, sir." Ro followed Picard out, and the Bajoran felt a weary sense of satisfaction as they strolled down the corridor. She finally felt as if she had earned the trust of her unfamiliar crew. She'd had Captain Picard's trust all along, but the others didn't know her and what she could do. Now they did.

 

 

Picard stopped at the turbolift and smiled at her.

 

 

"Do you mind if we ask Mr. La Forge to join us? He could probably use a break, too." "That's fine," answered Ro. In reality, she was too weary to make much small talk, and she knew the gregarious engineer would fill in the gaps in the conversation. Also she wasn't ready to commit to going back to Starfleet, even if they would have her.

 

 

Ro knew she ought to sleep, but she was too wired for that. Just a chair, a glass of juice, and nothing to do for a few minutesmthat sounded manageable.

 

 

Picard tapped his comm badge. "Boothby to La Forge: can you meet us in the mess hall?" "Sure," answered the engineer. "Let me assign my relief, and I'll be right there. Out." Picard and Ro wended their way down a spiral staircase to the lower level, then strolled along a deserted corridor.

 

 

"I was serious about what I said," began Picard, "about getting you back into Starfleet." "I know you were," answered the Bajoran, "and I appreciate it. But if my people really are neutral in the war, perhaps I should be, too. That would be a change of pace for me--I'm always partisan." "I know," said Picard with a smile. "Well, you have our gratitude. Without you, we wouldn't have known about the Dominion's plans until it was too late.

 

 

Apparently we're here in time to stop them." Ro led the way into the mess hall. "Let's hope so." A moment later, they sat down in a small, austere dining room, decorated in tasteful beige colors and subdued lighting. All the rest of the young crew were either working or taking their sleep shift.

 

 

"What would you like to do when this is over?" asked Picard. "Providing it ends the way we hope it will." "Maybe I'll help refugees. There are bound to be millions of them." She held up her hand, cutting him off, she hoped not too abruptly. "I know, there are positions like that in Starfleet, but I have a hard time thinking that far ahead. Whenever I make plans to have a normal life, things go haywire." "I know that feeling," replied the captain wistfully.