Chapter Eleven

HIS HEART STILL PALPITATING, Will Riker stepped off the transporter platform and sucked in a breath of air.

“This has been an outrage!” shrieked Admiral Ulree to Captain Picard. He waved an extremely long arm around the room but couldn’t find Emil Costa. “I don’t know what you’ve done with him, but I demand custody of that maniac who tried to kill us!”

“One moment,” Picard answered. “Let’s make sure we got everyone off safely.”

“Captain,” interjected Engineer O’Brien from behind his transporter controls, “everyone is off the shuttlecraft, and the other three persons are in Transporter Room Two.”

“Worf to Captain Picard,” called a deep voice.

Picard tapped his insignia. “Picard here.”

“Captain,” said the Klingon, “I thought it best not to join you.”

“Understood,” said Picard. “Where are you?”

“In Transporter Room Two. We have taken the wounded Kreel and Ensign Hamer to sickbay, and Emil Costa has been placed under arrest.”

“Is that your security chief?” asked Admiral Ulree.

“Yes, it is,” answered the captain.

“May I speak with him?”

Picard nodded, “Mister Worf, can you hear Admiral Ulree?”

“Quite clearly,” answered the Klingon, his voice betraying none of the irony of dealing with an ancestral enemy who had no idea he was Klingon.

“You place that man under high security!” the admiral ordered. “Because we intend to bear him over for trial!”

“On what charge?” asked Worf.

The grizzled Kreel admiral blinked and scratched his hairy chest. “I’m no lawyer,” he grumbled, “but attempted murder comes to mind. What about hijacking, assault, and endangerment? I don’t think we have any shortage of charges, and the attack took place in our solar system!”

“We will maintain custody,” answered Worf, “because we intend to try him for a more serious crime—murder.”

“If this is a trick . . .” growled the Kreel, pumping himself up to a threatening size. He glared at Picard who returned his gaze noncommittally.

“No trick,” Worf’s deep voice assured him. “Captain, I regret to inform you that Karn Milu is dead; he was killed by a phaser.”

Now Picard looked as angry as his Kreel counterpart. “Are you saying that Emil Costa murdered him?”

“Just before he got on the shuttle,” answered Worf. “Or someone did. Unlike Lynn Costa’s death, this cannot possibly be construed as an accident.”

O’Brien interrupted, “Captain, the Kreel vessel Tolumu requests an immediate audience with their personnel. I could beam them directly there.”

“That is up to the admiral,” said Picard, nodding to the Kreel officer. “This entire unforgivable incident was caused by the fact that we didn’t want to embarrass our guests by using transporter technology. But they have already been transported once, and I have no wish to delay them further. Admiral, do you wish to return to your ship?”

“Let them wait,” scoffed the Kreel. “Just get us to the party—we’re late enough as it is!”

“Beam us down,” purred Kwalrak, eyeing Riker lasciviously.

“We intend to fight for custody of that criminal!” bristled Colonel Efrek. “But later.”

Jean-Luc smiled wearily and tapped his badge. “Captain Picard to bridge. I commend all of you for your quick work in rescuing us. Set course for Kayran Rock and maintain station as planned. After our unexpected detour, we owe our Kreel guests some prompt service. Please inform the Tolumu that all their personnel are safe and accounted for and will contact them from the starbase. Out.”

Data overheard Admiral Ulree confiding to Kwalrak, “They may be good at transporters, but they’re terrible with shuttlecraft.”

 

Lieutenant Worf dragged Emil Costa by the arm down the high security walkway toward the containment cells. The scientist was beginning to struggle, and Worf tightened his grip and walked faster.

“I am innocent!” yelled Emil. “I didn’t kill anyone! Listen to me!”

Eyes straight ahead, Worf growled, “Interrogation will begin immediately after you have been safely confined.”

“All right, all right,” said Emil, slouching into step. “I admit, what I did aboard that shuttlecraft was insane, but I was desperate to get off the Enterprise. With two deaths now, you can see why!”

The ridges furrowed skeptically on Worf’s brow. “Dr. Costa,” he said testily, “I’m not interested in hearing excuses.”

They rounded the corner, and Worf ushered the wizened scientist into one of the comfortably appointed cells. The Klingon stepped out and pressed a button. Realizing he had just been imprisoned, Emil sprang toward the open doorway but bounced harmlessly off the invisible forcefield.

Worf saw him gingerly touch his nose, which was still caked with blood. “I will get you some medical attention,” he offered.

“No, that’s all right,” muttered Emil, slumping toward the bed. “I’ve got a sink here—I can clean myself up. I don’t really want to see anybody else at the moment, anyway.”

“I have many questions to ask you,” said Worf, “the most important of which is: Did you kill Karn Milu?”

“No,” muttered the old man. “When I left him, he was alive.”

“Did you kill your wife?”

“No!” Emil shrieked. “Get out of here! Go away!” He sprawled across the bed and sobbed pitifully.

Worf remained, impassively studying the famous scientist. The frustration at not having prevented Karn Milu’s death grated upon the Klingon, but they couldn’t have acted any differently. The captain had been correct to let Emil Costa go when Lynn’s death looked so much like an accident, but in so doing, they had lost another life.

However, Worf was not forgetting that his own death could have been the third murder. But Emil had spared him, which was very puzzling considering his probable mental state at the time. In fact, there were many inconsistencies in this chain of events—one carefully planned and executed murder, one brutal mindless killing, a timely phaser stun, and the willful sabotage of an entire shuttlecraft filled with people. At the rate he was going, Emil Costa would have to be considered the most dangerous man in the galaxy.

But he didn’t look dangerous, the frail white-haired old man curled up in bed sobbing pathetically. He didn’t seem at all like the kind of desperate lunatic who would willfully murder two people and endanger the lives of a dozen more. At least, thought Worf gratefully, they only had two cases of murder to prosecute. They had come uncomfortably close to having a dozen murders, complicated by the murderer’s suicide.

In reality, the Klingon would have preferred to try Emil for his rampage aboard the shuttlecraft, because there had been so many witnesses. But he had committed himself to prosecuting the scientist for the murder of Karn Milu, and he was damned if he was going to back down on his word to a Kreel. They would prosecute the most serious crime first.

Thankfully, they had a strong witness in Ensign Crusher, as well as an obvious motive. Karn Milu had been hounding Lynn and Emil for details of a discovery they were keeping secret, contrary to Starfleet regulations. Emil could hardly deny complicity in that coverup. Lynn’s destruction of the computer records now made perfect sense in this twisted scheme of things, and he couldn’t forget Shana Russel’s testimony that she had heard Karn Milu threaten Lynn’s life. All this over one exceptionally sturdy submicrobe, thought Worf with amazement.

“What drove you to do it?” he asked the researcher. “Did Karn Milu tell you that he killed your wife?”

“He probably did kill her!” Emil moaned in a distraught German accent. “But he never told me about it, and I swear he was alive when I left him. You’ve got to believe me, Lieutenant, I didn’t kill anyone!”

Deanna Troi and Wesley Crusher quietly entered the security chamber and stood behind Worf.

“Wesley!” shrieked Emil, charging toward the forcefield and being repelled. “Tell the lieutenant that I didn’t kill anyone! Tell them that you only saw us arguing! I swear I didn’t kill anyone!”

Wesley started to speak but Worf glared at him. “Ensign,” he warned, “you are a material witness in this case. You cannot converse with the suspect. In fact, it would be a good idea if you didn’t converse with anyone regarding this case, except the captain, Counselor Troi, and myself.

“I don’t mean this to sound like punishment,” the Klingon continued, softening his tone. “I am extremely grateful for your help, even if you didn’t entirely heed my warning not to endanger yourself. But, Ensign Crusher, you are restricted to quarters until summoned to testify. Go over your own memories of what you witnessed, and don’t let other people make suggestions to you. The less you know about subsequent events in the shuttlecraft, the better. I haven’t seen your account to Counselor Troi, but that deposition immediately after the fact will be our most important piece of evidence.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Wesley. He glanced at Emil, shrugged helplessly, and started for the doorway.

“Wesley!” shouted the scientist, “I need a lawyer. If you could pick anybody on board to represent you, who would it be?”

Wesley stopped and looked toward the security chief, who nodded his approval for the boy to answer that question.

Wesley answered without hesitation, “Data.”

“Get me Data,” the old man told Worf, shuffling toward the sink at the rear of his cell. “I won’t answer any more questions without him.”

“Data was with you on the shuttlecraft,” Worf protested. “He could be a witness against you.”

“Not in a trial concerning the death of Karn Milu,” countered the old man, wetting a cloth and washing the blood off his face. “If that’s the crime you are charging me with, Data can be my attorney.”

“He is correct,” added Deanna Troi. “Data had no involvement with this case until the shuttlecraft incident.”

With a scowl, Worf heaved his chest and banged his communicator badge. “Security team to containment unit one,” he ordered. “Emil Costa will be guarded by security teams rotating in two-hour shifts. Maintain this schedule until further ordered. Worf out.”

“A whole security team?” scoffed Emil. “Four men to guard me?”

Worf fixed him with a baleful glare. “We haven’t had anyone shoot up a shuttlecraft in some time. We consider you extremely dangerous and irrational.”

The Klingon tapped his badge again. “Worf to Captain Picard.”

“Picard here,” answered the captain crisply. “We are just about to embark for Kayran Rock, but I will not be gone long. I just want to make sure that our guests are well treated.”

“Understood,” answered Worf, “but there is a condition you should be aware of. Dr. Costa refuses to answer questions without legal representation, and he has requested Data for that purpose.”

“Data as defense counsel?” asked Picard slowly, mulling over the concept. “We’ll decide this when I return, but I suppose we should ask Data himself. He knows more about the regulations and legal requirements than I do.”

“Captain,” said Worf, “with so many crew members as witnesses, we may spend considerable time resolving this case.”

“Undoubtedly,” grumped the captain. “I will do what I can to see that Dr. Costa is afforded a speedy trial, but we might as well accept the fact that we will be stationed at Kayran Rock for an indefinite period.”

The Klingon knew that Admiral Ulree was probably within earshot, and the captain was making this last statement as much for his benefit as Worf’s.

“We are in transporter range,” added the captain. “I will make the necessary inquiries regarding the trial. Out.”

Forcing himself to be cordial, Worf turned to Emil Costa and pointed to the food slot in his cell. “Have yourself something to eat, Doctor,” he suggested. “Your screen is not connected to the main computer, but you can read periodicals and fiction on it. For a measure of privacy, you can lower the blinds. As I previously stated, I can arrange medical attention for you.”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Emil sarcastically. The old man sat on the bed and crossed his arms, suddenly feisty and rejuvenated. “I am guilty of crimes, yes, but not the murder of either Karn Milu or my wife. I refuse to speak to anyone until you get me my counsel. Get me Data!”

“As you wish,” snarled Worf. “You will remain in solitary confinement until Commander Data returns to the ship.” He waved everyone out, and the solid double hatches closed on the block of containment cells.

 

Alone and wishing to remain so for the present, Captain Picard strolled down a deserted corridor in the first starbase built inside an asteroid. Kayran Rock was almost three thousand kilometers in diameter, and only a small pocket had been carved out for Starfleet’s use. The natural walls of the corridor were blacker than the blackest ebony, and they glistened with a coat of resin that had been applied to strengthen the carbonized stone. Picard ran his hand over the dark surface, feeling its coldness. The asteroid was really a small planet that had failed to attract an atmosphere, so it had no soft blanket of gases to protect it against the coldness of space.

Spying a lounge area ahead, the captain quickened his step. The chatter and clatter of the reception taking place behind him in the dining hall was barely audible, and it faded completely before he reached the observation lounge. His attention was instantly drawn toward a circular viewport, which exhibited an immense array of stars, framed by a tunnel that had been bored through two meters of asteroid.

The view from inside an asteroid wasn’t all that different than from inside a starship, except that these stars held steady—no gentle pulsing or blurring at warp speed. This celestial body was on a leisurely tour of its own solar system.

The captain found a seat strategically located for contemplation of the starscape and sat down. It was extremely quiet, even with a party going on less than a hundred meters away. Picard so seldom had time alone with himself that at first he was stunned to realize that no one knew where he was at that moment. Of course, they could contact him via communicator, but he wasn’t aware of the usual bustle of his crew. Even when he was alone in his ready room or his quarters, he was aware of them and they of him. Here, for the moment, he was truly alone.

If only he had something pleasant to think about, instead of ugly murders, sabotage, and insanity. The events of the last few hours had left him numb and unusually weary. The harrowing escapade in the shuttlecraft was not so troubling—he was accustomed to danger and tense situations. But cold-blooded murder? Insane behavior from an enormously respected scientist? Careers ruined, files destroyed, violence, and extortion over secret discoveries? It was staggering to think that such problems could have remained hidden—and then gotten so totally out of hand—in such a small community as the Enterprise.

Of course, Picard realized sadly, they were a small community but not really a close-knit one. The bridge crew was one separate entity; the science branch consisted of dozens of self-sufficient disciplines; and then came all the departments like sickbay and Engineering. Each was part of the whole but each was self-absorbed in its own work and circle of workers. In the few places where everyone on the ship brushed against one another, like the Ten-Forward Room or the theater, the crew members connected only briefly before returning to their primary pursuits. What connected them most, he guessed, was their desire to serve aboard the Enterprise and make the most of that opportunity.

They were so wrapped up in their duties, though, that they often failed to see what was going on around them. For example, he had doubted Worf when the Klingon had insisted Emil Costa was dangerous. If he had listened to his security chief, the episode in the shuttlecraft wouldn’t have happened and maybe Karn Milu would still be alive. Picard hardly ever second-guessed his decisions, but this was one that bore reflection.

“Jean-Luc Picard!” called a cheery female voice behind him. He stood and turned to see Ambassador Gretchen Gaelen striding toward him, her arms out-stretched.

He hugged the diminutive gray-haired ambassador and she beamed back at him with a grandmotherly smile. “You’re looking a bit thin, Jean-Luc,” she observed. “Get in there and eat some of my goulash. It doesn’t come from a food slot, but from my great-great-grandmother’s cookbook!”

“I’m sure it’s delicious, Gretchen,” Picard winced, rubbing his stomach. “But I’ve had plenty to eat.”

“You’ve had nothing to eat,” she corrected him. “I may be pretty busy at these affairs—but I started out as a caterer, and I notice who’s eating.”

Now Picard was forced to laugh. Gretchen Gaelen was the Federation’s master organizer of official ceremonies. He couldn’t imagine her as anything but a galaxy-class traveler and ambassador of good will. He didn’t even know how many starbases she had opened up, but between the two of them, they had probably been to more starbases than any other two people in the Federation. She was way ahead of him, however, on planetary galas celebrating new treaties and such.

“So what’s the matter with you, Jean-Luc?” she persisted. “You’re not even wearing the right uniform. Where’s your dress uniform?”

“Uh,” he hesitated, “I had a change of clothes, but they . . . It’s a long story.”

“Yes, I know,” Gretchen grimaced, “and that long-winded Kreel is in there telling it to everybody. He keeps making himself the hero, although I’m sure that isn’t true.” She lowered her voice and asked in disbelief, “Is it true Emil Costa tried to kill himself and everyone on board a shuttlecraft?”

Jean-Luc nodded grimly, “It’s considerably worse than that.”

“The murder charge,” Ambassador Gaelen acknowledged. “The Kreel have been talking about that too, but no one seems to know very much. Actually, I’ve been grateful for these fascinating rumors. Everyone has been so interested in finding out the real story that the Kreel and the Klingons have forgotten to argue! I heard that Emil Costa was trying to escape on the shuttlecraft when the murder was discovered?”

“Those are essentially the facts, as I know them,” answered Picard. “Our security chief believes he has sufficient evidence to press a murder charge, and several of my officers will be witnesses.”

“You can’t be too pleased about this,” Gretchen observed sympathetically.

“Not very,” the captain admitted. “We could be tied up here for longer than expected.”

A sly look crept over the ambassador’s kindly face. “The Kreel may try to use this for leverage,” she whispered. “What would they want from us?”

Picard shrugged, “They say they want Emil Costa bound over for trial for endangering them.”

“Once they find out who he is,” warned the elder stateswoman, “they will want him for his knowledge about biofilters and transporters. We must make sure our trial is thorough, so there will be no need to hand him over to them.”

“Who would serve as judge?” asked Picard.

Gretchen frowned, “They’re not fully staffed here yet, but we have one thing in our favor. Do you know who acting commander of this starbase is?”

“No,” answered Picard.

Gretchen beamed, “I am! My replacement is Captain Nadel, but she doesn’t take over until after the dishes are cleaned up. I may be able to get the wheels turning on this before I quit tonight. Leave it to me.”

“Thank you, Gretchen,” said Picard gratefully, clasping the lady’s hand. “Maybe I could go for some of that goulash.”

 

Will Riker gritted his teeth. The inevitable had happened and the sound system was playing dance music. Dinner was long over, and the dignitaries remaining had turned to hot beverages, dessert, and mingling. In the corner of his eye, he had seen two of the Kreel dancing, if it could be called that. He had also seen Kwalrak hovering near the computer to request a song, and she had winked at him.

All in all, thought Riker, the affair had been very dignified. They had missed the opening ceremony but had arrived in time for the grand tour and the sumptuous meal. Admiral Ulree had dominated the dinner conversation with his enhanced version of the shuttlecraft incident; even the Klingon representatives had listened intently. In fact, the Kreel were having such a good time that they had outlasted all but the Federation personnel, most of whom lived on the base. The crowd had dwindled from a high of about two hundred to little more than fifty.

Data had attracted a crowd from the start, and everyone in attendance had shaken his hand at some point in the festivities. With his marvelous memory, Data could be utterly charming, remembering names and histories of people he hadn’t even met yet. Once Admiral Ulree had spread the word about the ill-fated shuttlecraft trip, Data had been besieged for his version of the incident. He patiently told the same story to at least a dozen different individuals, his unemotional but fact-filled style making each telling equally compelling.

Will had tried to blend into the black walls, hardly typical behavior for him at parties. But he was content to drink synthehol champagne and listen to tales of drilling through iron silicate. This gathering wasn’t really for the diplomats, he decided, but for the brave men and women who had carved a starbase out of cold rock. Riker wanted to hear their war stories, not a rehash of the shuttle incident. His quiet observation was ending, however, with Kwalrak loping toward him with a big grin on her crooked face. All around him, the computer took up the strains of the “Blue Danube Waltz.”

“Earth dancing music,” she beamed proudly. “You see, I know all about you humans. Shall we dance?”

Before he had a chance to reply, Kwalrak wrapped her tenacious limbs around him and moved him along the dance floor. Riker decided there was no point in trying to lead, so he concentrated on where exactly to touch the hairy half-naked humanoid.

“I like this music,” she cooed, hugging him closely but exhibiting a certain amount of decorum. This was a distinct improvement over her behavior in the shuttlecraft, thought Riker. He relaxed, certain that if he could survive hurtling through an asteroid belt in a crippled shuttlecraft, he could probably survive a dance. One thing was certain: The Kreel had plenty of intestinal fortitude. They may have moaned, but they didn’t blink in the face of death. To Will, their collective wails showed more a recognition of death than a fear of it.

He injected an actual waltz two-step into his aimless lurchings with Kwalrak, but she ignored it. Non-chalantly, she remarked, “They say that man is very famous.”

“Who?” asked Riker innocently.

“You know, Riker,” she scolded him, “that crazy human who tried to kill us.”

“Yes, him,” sighed the first officer. “I hope you won’t judge all of us by the actions of one disturbed individual.”

“Spoken like a true diplomat,” smiled the first assistant. “But it’s nice to know your species isn’t perfect.”

“We never claim to be,” Riker replied. “But we do the best we can, even if we don’t always succeed. Our species has tried to live by one simple rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

“A nice sentiment,” Kwalrak shrugged, “but quite impractical. For example, if you really believed that, why don’t you give us transporter technology? You’ve seen how dangerous shuttle transportation is in this solar system.”

“We live by another creed,” Riker explained, “and it took us several millennia of trying to conquer each other before we learned the value of it. We don’t interfere in the development of other cultures and species. This Prime Directive is the main tenet of our exploration; it keeps us from being exploited or exploiting others.”

“We could buy transporter technology from the Ferengi!” Kwalrak threatened. “We already know most of it—only a few pieces are missing.”

Riker shook his head doubtfully, “Let me tell you what would happen. If you didn’t understand the technology, not having developed it yourself, you would always be at the mercy of the Ferengi. They would sell you the first units cheaply enough, get you dependent upon them, then quickly escalate the prices for everything, including repairs and maintenance. They’d end up owning your planet.”

Kwalrak moaned, “If the prices they’re offering us now are the cheap ones, I wouldn’t want to see the expensive ones.”

Riker smiled at her, noting that her large brown eyes were really quite pretty and expressive. “You’ve achieved space travel,” he observed, “and have developed weapon systems that are quite impressive. Why can’t your scientists apply themselves to this task?”

Kwalrak shrugged disgruntledly, “Those weapon systems you mentioned . . . they take priority over all other research. We still think we’re at war with the Klingons, or somebody.”

“Old habits,” remarked Riker, shaking his head. “Believe me, we know how easy it is to be at war with the Klingons.”

“But you’re not exactly at peace,” Kwalrak scoffed. “You carry massive firepower aboard that Enterprise. I notice you didn’t show us any of it, but we’ve heard reports.”

“I would’ve showed it to you,” laughed Will, “if you hadn’t found the Ten-Forward Room so interesting.”

“I found you interesting, Riker,” she purred, melting into him.

In his younger days, thought Riker, he might have found this interesting, but not now. He enjoyed Kwalrak’s company, but her intentions were a bit too bald for his taste.

“Relax,” she hissed, as if reading his mind and body language. “This is my way of flirting with you. Ulree would have us both killed if we actually did anything. Though if I really wanted you,” she warned, squeezing him tighter, “you’d have been mine by now.”

Somehow, Riker didn’t doubt her, and he was relieved when the waltz ended a moment later. He politely disentangled himself and stepped back, saying, “I wish I had time to get to know you better, but not on this trip.”

She stroked his hairy cheek and purred, “You are cute, Riker. But you aren’t going anywhere soon, and neither are we.”

While he was mulling that over, the Kreel raked a long fingernail through his beard, turned, and sashayed away. She glanced over her brawny shoulder once before joining the rest of her party.

Riker wandered for a moment among mostly empty tables and tasteful decorations. The floral arrangements were quite striking in their variety, suggesting the wealth of places the Federation called home, and each table had a hologram at its center depicting a phase in the building of the starbase. He marveled again at the extraordinary achievement and wished he could enjoy being here more.

Had it only been three days ago that he and Deanna Trot had been planning a sabbatical for Lynn and Emil Costa? Would that have helped? He felt he should have taken Deanna’s request more seriously and done something sooner. More than ever, Riker had meant what he had said at Lynn Costa’s funeral: His biggest regret was not having enough time. Not enough time to get to know Lynn Costa, not enough time for himself, for Deanna. . . .

An automated wagon with a tray of desserts scooted past, and Riker followed it apathetically to its next stop. The large hall was gradually shrinking in size as the lights in its farthest corners dimmed. In one corner, the shadows caught Captain Picard and Lieutenant Commander Data engaged in conversation, but they ignored the darkness—or perhaps welcomed it.

The captain repeated the information as simply as he could, “Emil Costa has asked for you to be his defense counsel. What is your reaction?”

The android cocked his head puzzledly, “My initial reaction is surprise. Emil Costa and I do not know each other very well. Today was the first opportunity I had to spend any amount of time in his presence, and I would not call it a pleasant experience.”

“I see,” nodded the captain. “Then you would remove yourself from consideration for personal reasons?”

“No,” answered Data. “I would be able to ignore that incident in order to act as his counsel. I have not had any conversations with Lieutenant Worf or Counselor Troi regarding the murder investigation, and I consider myself impartial. I assume we will be based here for the duration of the trial?”

“I don’t see how we can avoid it,” Jean-Luc admitted. “You won’t be missing anything exciting on the bridge. But how do you feel about being a trial lawyer, after your own trial experience?”

Captain Picard didn’t talk to Data often about the trial on Starbase 173 in which the one-of-a-kind machine had been granted the legal status of a sentient being. Despite his artificiality, the ruling had determined that Data was nobody’s property and could not be disassembled like a food slot. It had been an inevitable confrontation and a maturing process for all of them. Still, Picard couldn’t help but wonder if courtrooms made Data uncomfortable. They made him uncomfortable, and he had only acted as Data’s defender.

Data considered the question seriously. “It is true, Captain, I have been on trial for my own life, and I might have an understanding of that position. But isn’t that an attorney’s job, to articulate his client’s side of the dispute?”

“Yes,” smiled Picard. “There isn’t any doubt in my mind that you would make a marvelous advocate for Emil Costa. However, when I defended you, it was an emergency situation, and this isn’t. This is a serious obligation, and you don’t have to accept it.”

“I understand,” answered Data. “But nothing in Starfleet regulations would preclude me from acting as counsel for Emil Costa.”

“Then you want to do it?” asked Picard.

“I would like to talk with him first.”

Picard tapped his combadge. “Number One,” he asked, “are you ready to leave?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let’s say our good-byes,” suggested the captain, “and go home.”