Star Trek - TNG - Dominion War 3 - Tunnel Through The Stars

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

SAM LAVELLE STRODE onto the bridge of the Orb of Peace, hardly able to believe that he had given up a spacious Cardassian antimatter tanker for this austere Bajoran transport. He was sure he had gotten the worst of the deal, especially considering that he thought he was going to be rescued and sent home.

 

 

His last voyage had been a perfect example of Murphy's Law, and this one promised to send him from the frying pan into the fire.

 

 

The cramped bridge had a strange viewscreen with Bajoran writing all around it. He was able to translate two phrases: "The devout will enter the Celestial Temple," and "The Kai holds the lantern of Bajor." Even without the platitudes, the stars glimmered enticingly on the screen, making him wish that he were going home.

 

 

But Sam knew there was no escape from this war-- not until the Dominion was driven back to their part of the galaxy.

 

 

He spotted the slim Bajoran, Ro Laren, seated at the conn. Both Captain Picard and Geordi La Forge looked Bajoran--with nose ridges and earrings--but Ro was the real thing. Sam remembered hearing stories about her on the Enterprise, but he had only seen her once, in Ten-Forward, just before her illfated mission to infiltrate the Maquis. Now she was captain of this Bajoran vessel.

 

 

"I'm your relief, Captain," he said, keeping his voice low in the dimly lit bridge.

 

 

"Thank you." Ro Laren rose from her seat and stretched like a willowy lioness, shaking her shortcropped mane of dark brown hair. She was wearing a Bajoran uniform which hugged the lanky contours of her body, and Sam looked longer and harder than he should have. Ro caught him staring at her, and her eyes drilled into his. Sam knew he should look away, but it had been a long time since he had gazed lustfully at a woman, and he wasn't anxious to stop.

 

 

"I'm sorry," he said, managing a shy smile. "I don't know what got into me. It's funny what even a small taste of freedom will do to a man." Her face softened, and she looked sympathetic if still annoyed. "How long were you a prisoner of the Dominion?" "About two months, I guess," answered Sam. "It's hard to say, because we were never allowed to see any chronometers, except when we were on work detail, building that damn collider. And then, we only saw shift timers. We were kept segregated from the women. I saw them every now and then on the worker transports, but that was it."

 

 

"I know the Cardassiansmit must have been bad." He nodded slowly. "Yes, it was, and a lot of good people are still there. I wish we could do something to help them." "There's no chance for a mass escape?" "I don't see how," Sam answered glumly. "The complex where the prisoners are housed is near the collider, but each pod of prisoners is isolated.

 

 

There's no way to get hold of a ship like we did-- that was a fluke. No matter when you do this, thousands of prisoners will be working. If your mission is to destroy the artificial wormhole, your mission is to destroy them, too." Ro crossed her arms and wrinkled her ridged nose.

 

 

"You know, that's exactly what I've been telling Captain Picard. And it sounds even worse coming from you, because you've been there." "Yes, I've been there, and I can't believe I'm thinking about going back. This isn't exactly the way I envisioned my escape--going back to that place, on purpose." Shivering, Sam sunk into the chair at the conn and studied the unfamiliar instruments.

 

 

"I'm sure Captain Picard would offer you a chance not to go, if he could," said Ro. "But we only have this craft, and no way to split up." Sam snorted a laugh. "Yeah, if you don't mind me saying so, your demolition squad is a little shorthanded." "We had a whole crew and more than one torpedo.

 

 

But we lost five torpedoes fighting our way through the Dominion border patrol, then we got shanghaied by pirates in the Badlands, and hijacked by Romulans--" "Pirates and Romulans?" asked Sam with boyish curiosity. The smile faded from his lips when we saw how upset Ro was about these incidents. "Hey, I'm sorry if we lost more good people, but I'm sort of burned-out on death. I can't even think about it, if you know what I mean." "I know what you mean," admitted Ro, staring down at the deck. "The Enterprise is supposed to take us home, but only if we alert them with a subspace beacon." "But how quickly could they get here?" "That's a good question." The Bajoran hovered over Sam's shoulder and pointed at his console.

 

 

"You'll want to watch the hull pressure--right there." "Okay, thanks." Sam took some time to scan all the readouts, finding them fairly easy to understand. It wasn't nearly as complex as the antimatter tanker. He tried to concentrate on his duties, but the Bajoran's presence was bringing back memories and emotions he had tried to push away, without much success.

 

 

"I had a good friend who was Bajoran, Ensign Sito Jaxa," he said with a wistful smile. "Her death was the first casualty I really experienced in Starfleet, and it hit me pretty hard. She was killed by the Cardassians, and that act started the war for me a couple of years early. I was gung-ho to get at them." "I followed Sito's career," said Ro, "but I never got a chance to meet her. I think I was away at Tactical Training while you and your friends were serving aboard the Enterprise." Sam chuckled. "You couldn't help but to follow Sito's career--she was full of zip. She got into a lot of trouble at the Academy." "Along with Wesley Crusher," said Ro with a smile.

 

 

While they shared an unexpected moment of nostalgia, Sam glanced at the striking Bajoran. It was too bad that his life expectancy was so short, or he would have been tempted to pursue the former Starfleet officer. Of course it was wartime, and anything could happen.

 

 

Returning his mind to his duty, Sam adjusted the viewscreen, and a brown-magenta cloud coalesced into view, still some distance away. Pulses of light blinked on and off within its murky depths, which gave it an oddly cheerful glow, like a surreal Christmas wreath.

 

 

"The Badlands," he mused. "Is it all that bad?" "Worse," muttered Ro. "I wouldn't go back there, except there's no other place to hide." "Well, if it's any consolation, you're within striking distance of the artificial wormhole from here. It's just that there's a fleet guarding it, and it's ten kilometers long." "So I gather," replied Ro solemnly.

 

 

They heard footsteps, and Sam turned to see Captain Picard come striding onto the cramped bridge.

 

 

He looked odd with his Bajoran earring, nose ridges, and tufts of white hair; but his voice, bearing, and stern demeanor left no doubt who was in charge.

 

 

Immediately, Sam stiflened in his seat and studied his readouts until he was caught up.

 

 

"Status?" asked Picard as he consulted the small padd in his hands.

 

 

"Estimated arrival time at the Badlands: one hour," reported Sam. "No sign of enemy craft." "Thank you, Lieutenant. I haven't had an opportunity to say how good it is to see you again, although I wish it were under better circumstances." "Me, too, sir." The captain looked somber. "I've talked to your crew. I realize that we ruined your escape attempt.

 

 

I'm sorry. I'm sure you expected to get farther away than the Badlandsm" "I wasn't really expecting to escape," replied Sam honestly. "I just wanted to die like a Starfleet officer, not a slave. I don't want to go back to that place--and I doubt if this mission will work--but it's still a good chance to die as a Starfleet officer." The captain's lips thinned. "I wish there was an alternative, but there isn't. We can't allow the Dominion to ever use that artificial wormhole." "I know, sir," admitted Sam. "I thought the same thing every day, even while I was building it." Picard consulted his padd and looked around to make sure they were alone. "I need an honest evaluation of every member of your crew. You know what we have ahead of us--a major sabotage mission with a high degree of risk." Sam frowned thoughtfully. "The only member of the crew I really know is Taurik, and I would trust him with my life. As for Woil, Shonsui, Horik, and Maserelli--they're all career Starfleet officers, who ought to be fine in a crisis. But they've been through some rough times lately, and they may be close to cracking. I'm sure you could say that about all of us, except for Taurik, of course. Many times during our imprisonment, I wished I were a Vulcan." "I've often wished that I were a certain android," said Picard with a wistful smile. "What about the scientist, Enrak Grof?." Sam winced, trying not to show his doubts. "Until today, I would've said he was a traitor and a collaborator--and an unpleasant one at that. He could're stopped us but didn't, so I guess he's on our side. As I'm sure he'll tell you, he's basically in it for the science and the glory. Grof knows that artificial wormhole backwards and forwards--he helped design it." "So he told me," said Picard. "None of the rest of you have any in-depth knowledge of its workings?" "No," answered Sam. "Taurik knows some of the theory, but we were grunt labor, only told what was needed. Grof was right in there with the Vorta engineers, on a buddy-buddy basis with our resident changeling." "You saw a changeling?" asked Picard with interest.

 

 

"Only once, when they put me in charge of the tanker." Sam smiled nostalgically. "To tell you the truth, Captain, I remember more about the food than anything else. It was the first decent food I'd had in weeks." Captain Picard allowed him a slight smile. "I know this has been difficult for you, Lieutenant, and I wish I could relieve you of further burden. But you know our situation." "Not really," answered Sam. "Taurik and I were captured early on, defending the outer colonies. We volunteered for that service, if you can believe it. I've heard rumors--if this ship is any indication of what Starfleet can spare, I guess we're in a lot of trouble." The captain looked grave as he explained, "If the Dominion manages to bring through reinforcements from the Gamma Quadrant--either by clearing the mines from the Bajoran wormhole or through their new artificial wormhole--the situation will be desperate. We didn't even know about the artificial wormhole until we encountered Ro and her passengers. There wasn't enough time to do anything but gather intelligence, which is why we're using this ship.

 

 

We've done that, we know it exists, and now it's time to take the next step." The way Picard said it almost convinced Sam that they could pull it off. He tried not to think about what few resources they had at their disposal, even if the Enterprise was out there somewhere. These people have no idea what they're up against.

 

 

After a few moments of uneasy silence, during which no one voiced their obvious concerns, the captain turned off his padd and set it on an empty console. "It appears we have to depend upon this makeshift crew, despite our doubts. Now I have to go talk to the Romulan." Sam blinked at him. "Romulan? There's a Romulan on board?" "A wounded Romulan," answered Picard. "He lost an arm when we recaptured the ship, and he's in the captain's quarters, recuperating. Had I known we would have all these casualties to deal with, I would've brought Dr. Crusher along." Hesitantly Sam asked, "Is Alyssa Ogawa still serving on the Enterprise?" Picard smiled. "Yes, we've managed to hold on to Ogawa. She's now chief nurse in sickbay, and that's quite a job in wartime. Do you feel confident with the Bajoran conn, Lieutenant?" "Yes, sir. I'll contact you if I have any questions." "Good. Ro, will you please accompany me?" "Yes, sir." Sam couldn't help but watch Ro and Picard walk off the bridge--they were two of a kind, calm and controlled on the surface and wild-eyed gamblers underneath. My life is now in the hands of those two.

 

 

He would have disobeyed anybody else in the universe who ordered him to go back to that monstrous collider and the slave pens, but he had to follow Captain Picard. If anybody could get them through this insane war alive, it would be him.

 

 

As Captain Picard descended the spiral staircase to the lower deck of the Orb of Peace, he wondered what he should do with their Romulan prisoner. Some would say it was practical to execute him on the spot--it was no less than he deserved--but such actions were not in Picard's nature. Essentially, the Romulan had been doing the same thing they were doing, pretending to be someone he wasn't in order to gather information about the artificial wormhole. His methods were much different, however, in that he and his comrades had murdered a dozen innocent people trying to hijack the Orb of Peace.

 

 

Picard turne0 to glance at Ro Laren, who was striding behind him, a determined look on her angular face. He wondered if she thought they had a chance to destroy the artificial wormhole, to get out of this alive. But what could she tell him that he didn't already know? They were behind enemy lines, confronting overwhelming odds, and they had no choice but to continue.

 

 

Ro smiled at his concerned expression. "It's all right, Captain. I've given up the dream of living to an old age and retiring on a Starfleet pension." "! don't think anybody is enjoying their pension at the moment," remarked the captain.

 

 

With a rush of heavy footsteps, a burly figure bolted from the mess hall and planted himself in front of Picard and Ro, blocking the corridor. His eyebrows and beard bristled, and the brown spots on his forehead, temples, and neck seemed to pop out of his skin, like mountains on a relief map.

 

 

Enrak Grof scowled angrily. "Captain, I just heard that you expect all of us to go with you on this insane mission to destroy the wormhole! I can understand why you and your crew would feel a need to sabotage it, but it's simply impossible that I go. I'm the only one in the Federation who understands this technology-the only one who could possibly duplicate it.

 

 

It's imperative that you send me back to Starfleet headquarters immediately!" The captain tried not to grit his teeth as he calmly replied, "Believe me, Professor, I would like nothing better than to send you back to Starfleet, but this vessel and the people aboard it are all I have. You are the only one who understands the technology of the artificial wormhole, which makes you the most essential member of the party." "I can't argue with that," snapped Grof, "but the information I possess in my head cannot die with me.

 

 

You must find a way to return me safely to Starfleet!" While Picard clenched his fists, and carefully considered his next words, Ro stepped in. "What if we could find a way to return the information you possess but keep you here with us--to help? Would that be satisfactory?" "If this is your only ship, how could you do that?" asked Grof skeptically.

 

 

"I don't know yet," answered Ro, "but soon we'll be in the Badlands, where almost anything is possible.

 

 

Let's keep our options open, because there must be a way to safeguard your knowledge. In the meantime, I suggest you go to the science station on the bridge and start recording your notes."

 

 

The Trill nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose I should do that, anyway. What if I had an accident or something? Good thinking. What did you say your name is?" "Ro Laren, captain of this vessel." "Well, Captain Ro, I sincerely appreciate your willingness to accommodate me. I am not exaggerating when I say this technology is crucial to the future of the galaxy." Reluctantly, it seemed, Enrak Grof shifted his attention from the attractive Bajoran to Captain Picard, and his scowl returned. "Captain, you just don't understand the import of the situation like Captain Ro does. You want to destroy the greatest invention of our times, but I won't let you destroy the knowledge as well." "We'll find a way," promised Picard.

 

 

"You had better." The Trill stomped toward the spiral staircase and headed toward the bridge.

 

 

The captain watched him go, then lowered his voice to say, "Insufferable man." "I know that kind," said Ro. "Maybe if he does a good job of transcribing his notes, we won't need him." The captain nodded appreciatively, then grimaced.

 

 

"But we still have him, plus a murderous Romulan and a handful of ex-prisoners who should be in sickbay, not on duty." Ro gave him a smile. "This is how we assembled crews in the Maquis--whoever showed up.

 

 

Sometimes it works." 'Tm glad you're here," said Picard gratefully. "Now let's go see our prisoner." He led the way into the captain's quarters, the only private cabin on the whole ship. Since the Orb of Peace was a civilian transport, it had no brig or interior force-fields, so they had turned the captain's quarters into a temporary cell, with only a mattress. A Cardassian prisoner had managed to escape, but so far the Romulan prisoner had been docile. Of course, he had lost an arm and a considerable amount of blood; he had to be extremely weak.

 

 

Nevertheless, Ro drew her Bajoran phaser as they approached the door. Geordi had disabled the circuitry which opened the door from the inside, and the Romulan had been alone in there for several hours.

 

 

They had to be prepared for anything--from a dead prisoner to a berserk prisoner.

 

 

The captain nodded to Ro to be ready as he touched the wall panel. The door slid open slowly, as if it were still slightly damaged by the Cardassian's rampage.

 

 

Soothing red and turquoise lights lit the cabin, which appeared empty except for a sleeping figure on the mattress.

 

 

The figure on the bed stirred slightly as they entered. Ro stationed herself in the doorway, her weapon leveled for action, and Picard took a step forward.

 

 

The Romulan rolled over, gripping the bandaged stub of his arm. Lying there helplessly, he looked younger than Picard had remembered, the equivalent of a human in his early thirties. Picard knew, however, that appearances could be deceiving with these longlived races. The prisoner gazed at them not with hatred or fear, but resignation.

 

 

"How are you feeling?" asked Picard.

 

 

He sighed. "Weak and ashamed over my capture. I assume now you will execute me." "Don't tempt us," said Ro.

 

 

Picard's jaw tightened. "I still don't see why you had to kill my crew and hijack my ship, just to get away from Shek and Rolf." "You don't know that Ferengi and his Orion henchman," muttered the Romulan. "We would have done anything to get away from them, even if our mission hadn't been almost finished. You happened along, and we knew we might not get another chance to escape. I sincerely doubt if you would have given us your ship." "Perhaps not," answered Picard, "but we might have given you sanctuary, if you had asked. What is your name?" "You can call me Hasmek, if you need a name for your reports, but I refuse to be interrogated." "We know all about your mission," said Ro. "You talked while you were in shock. You and your confederates enlisted with the pirates to get close to the artificial wormhole. Now that you know it exists, you were going to advise your superiors to give up neutrality and ally themselves with the Dominion. Have I left anything out?" Hasmek sneered at them. "Only that I also know your missioninto destroy the artificial wormhole. I realize the Federation is given to fits of fantasy, but do you have any idea how impossible that will be?" "We don't have much choice," replied Picard. "At the moment, our problem is what to do with you." With a grimace, the Romulan sat up and stared at him. "You mean, you haven't decided to kill me?" "That's not Starfleet practice," said Picard.

 

 

"However," added Ro, hefting her weapon, "not all of us are in Starfleet." "You're Bajoran, technically neutral like us. Or are you a fake Bajoran, like him?" asked Hasmek.

 

 

Ro shook her head with disgust. "We're getting nowhere with him. I say we maroon him somewhere in the Badlands, somewhere he'll never be found." The Romulan's cheerful disposition turned sour.

 

 

"Yes, leave me to starve to death--that's the humane Federation way. If you don't execute me properly, I'll make an escape attempt and force you to do it." Ro asked, "I wonder what the Dominion would do with a Romulan spy?" "Probably the same thing they would do with a Federation spy," answered Hasmek. "But they wouldn't have the qualms about it that you seem to have." "We can't let the Dominion find him alive, and he knows it," said Picard. "We could conceivably give him back to Shek and Rolf, if we could find them." The Romulan stuck his jaw out and assumed an arrogant pose. "That would be as good as an execution, probably for all of us." The captain heard footsteps in the corridor, and he turned to see the Vulcan, Taurik, slip through the door. Even in the subdued light, Picard was surprised by the similarity in the facial appearance of the Vulcan and the Romulan. They were similar in age, too, and both men had straight black hair that was uncharacteristically long after their adventures in Cardassian space.

 

 

Hasmek was momentarily stunned to see his double, then he slumped weakly back into bed. "A Vulcan lackey." "Captain," said Taurik in a low voice, "we don't wish to alarm the crew by using the comm system, but Sam has detected a ship. They may be in pursuit." "What kind of ship?" asked Picard.

 

 

"It appears to be Cardassian." The captain exhaled as if he had been punched in the stomach. Relying on Bajoran neutrality, they had talked their way past Jem'Hadar and Vorta sentries, but not Cardassians, who couldn't resist harassing Bajorans whenever the opportunity presented itself.

 

 

"I'11 check on it." Ro shouldered past Taurik and headed for the bridge, with the Vulcan right behind her. Left alone in the room with his prisoner, Picard turned and gazed at Hasmek.

 

 

"The Cardassians have no qualms about torture and execution, especially for spies," he said somberly.

 

 

"I know," answered Picard grimly.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

PICARD REMAINED in the captain's quarters, watching his Romulan prisoner, who was watching him in return. A crazy idea was percolating in his mind, and he might have to act on it, depending on what Ro discovered.

 

 

A few seconds later, Picard's cornbadge chirped, and he answered it with his code name, "Boothby here." Ro's normally resolute voice sounded disheartened as she reported, "A Cardassian Galor-class warship is on an intercept course with us. Contact in approximately twenty minutes." "Any chance that we can make the Badlands in time?" "None." We have one photon torpedo at our disposal, the captain reminded himself. We'd be lucky if we couM take out an unarmed shuttlecraft.

 

 

"Replicate two Romulan uniforms," ordered Picard. "Put one on Taurik and send the other one down to the captain's quarters." "Yes, sir," answered Ro in a quizzical tone. "Out." Hasmek sat up in bed and looked suspiciously at him. "What are you planning, Boothby?" Picard strode toward him and said, "I know you're weak, but do you think you could remain on your feet for a few minutes and do some talking?" Hasmek grinned at him. "Very clever. You're planning to put me and the Vulcan on-screen and say that Romulans are in charge of this vessel. I didn't know Federation captains could be quite so devious." "I'm learning," muttered Picard.

 

 

"How do you know I won't betray you?" "You have nothing to gain and your life to lose.

 

 

Bajoran neutrality works with the Jem'Hadar but not necessarily with Cardassians. I'm hoping that they'll respect Romulan neutrality. There's hardly any bad blood between your races." "Not yet," answered Hasmek. "Have you been so foolish as to come here with no permission at all?" The captain's eyes narrowed--he wasn't used to being addressed in this fashion. "We have documents of passage in our computer, given to us on our first stop. I don't think they've expired yet." With a flurry of footsteps, Sam Lavelle burst into the room clutching a thick gray jumpsuit in his hands.

 

 

He looked quizzically from Picard to the wounded Romulan and held out the bundle of clothing. "Is this what you wanted, sir?" "Yes. Remain here to help me get Hasmek to the bridge. Hasmek, this is Sam." "Charmed," drawled the Romulan, doing a comical impression of a human accent.

 

 

"Yeah," answered Sam doubtfully.

 

 

With his good hand, Hasmek gripped the back of the conn chair and held himself steady. His empty left sleeve was tucked under the armpit of his uniform. The moody lighting on the bridge of the transport had been arranged so that only he and Taurik, at tactical, were visible. Picard and Ro crouched in the forward shadows, phasers in their hands, both aimed at the one-armed Romulan.

 

 

Everyone else was below.

 

 

At his console, Taurik actually had command of the ship and was poised to fire his lone torpedo and go to warp if the Cardassians tried to board or attack. They probably wouldn't get far, but escape was their only option if talking failed... or the Romulan betrayed them.

 

 

Right now, a massive, bronze Galor-class warship filled the small viewscreen and commanded everyone's attention. It looked like a manta ray caught in shallow waters under golden sunlight.

 

 

Ro Laren told herself that she had to watch the Romulan and not be distracted by the enemy, who stood poised to vaporize them. As her sweaty hand gripped her phaser, she glanced at Captain Picard, who nodded to the Vulcan and the Romulan. She leveled her weapon and waited for Taurik to send commands from his console.

 

 

"Gul Dubarok is on screen," said the Vulcan.

 

 

Ro had seen enough Cardassians in her life to know that she didn't have to turn to look at this one. She could imagine the thick, muscular neck, pallid gray complexion, severe black hair, and sunken eye sockets which gave a cadaverous look to the haughty face.

 

 

Luckily, the one race which could match the Cardassians in sneering arrogance were the Romulans, who considered themselves vastly superior to everyone, including the Dominion.

 

 

Disdainfully, Hasmek declared, "I am Captain Hasmek, and this is the Orb of Peace, under the command of a Romulan crew. We have broken no law--why have we been stopped?" Ro heard a woman's voice reply, "You are in a war zone. State your business, and know that we have scanned you. Why do you have such a mongrel crew?" The Romulan drew himself up indignantly. "We have a multiracial crew because we are a joint scientific mission, sponsored by governments which are neutral in this war, principally Bajor and the Romulan Star Empire. Our people have been studying the Badlands for years--you can see that we're virtually unarmed. In our opinion, the Dominion has total control over this sector, and the Badlands are safer than they have been in years." "You've had no contact with Federation vessels or Federation sympathizers?" "Federation vessels?" Hasmek sneered and motioned toward his empty sleeve. "I lost this arm fighting the Federation. If you think Romulans would aid the Federation, your worries are baseless.

 

 

You've beaten those sniveling do-gooders, and I for one am jubilant. By the way, we have traveling documents, which we would be happy to transmit to you." There came a pause, and Ro licked her lips ner- vously. The Romulan appeared unflappable, but she could see his knuckles whiten where he gripped the chair for support. There were also blood spots seeping through his folded sleeve--she hoped the Cardassians wouldn't notice.

 

 

Finally the Gul replied, "Begin transmission." Hasmek nodded to Taurik, who plied his console.

 

 

While the documents were being sent, the Romulan casually sunk into the chair at the conn. Only those on the bridge could tell that he had done so to keep from collapsing.

 

 

"Transmission complete," said the Vulcan.

 

 

There were several more long moments while the Cardassians digested the permits, and Taurik and Hasmek nonchalantly checked their instruments.

 

 

They were both cool under fire, thought Ro. If the Romulan weren't a cold-blooded murderer, he would have made an interesting addition to this crew.

 

 

"Captain Hasmek," said the haughty feminine voice, "the Orb of Peace is cleared for passage. Any deviation in course from the Badlands will result in expulsion from Cardassian space." Hasmek waved imperiously. "Understood. When we meet again, we will toast to your victory and dance on the bones of the Federation." "We await that day," agreed the Cardassian. "Out." The screen switched back to a view of the starscape, dominated by the sleek bronze warship. This time Ro watched as the Galor-class vessel glided slowly over their bow, turned in a graceful arc, and disappeared into warp with a brilliant flash. Only then did she begin breathing.

 

 

The Romulan slumped forward onto the conn and rested his head on his forearm. Picard holstered his phaser and approached the prisoner. "Well done," he said. "You have acted with honor." "You mean, I lied with honor," murmured Hasmek with a weak smile. "If you think we want to ally ourselves with the Dominion, you would be wrong.

 

 

Romulans are a proud people, and we aren't eager to serve anyone." Picard nodded resolutely. "Now I know what to do with you. I've got to take you with us on this mission to make sure that you see the artificial wormhole destroyed with your own eyes. Then I'll get you back to your superiors, so that you can tell them to remain neutral in the war." Ro gaped at the captain along with the Romulan.

 

 

CouM he be serious? Although the Romulan had just shown his worth, how could they add a treacherous murderer to their already makeshift crew?

 

 

"You won't regret this decision," said the Romulan a moment before he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

 

 

Will Riker stood in a nondescript corridor on Starbase 209, torn as to which direction he should go.

 

 

One way led to the repair facilities, where the Enterprise-E lay in space dock, undergoing extensive repairs. In the other direction was the base commander's office, under Vice-Admiral Jack Torrance, a man younger than Riker.

 

 

In yet a third direction--below to the nineteenth level--were the medical facilities of Starbase 209.

 

 

Riker was certain that members of his crew would be there, either receiving outpatient treatment or, in the case of Deanna Troi and Beverly Crusher, assisting the overworked staff. According to their logs, they had been helping out every day since the Enterprise's arrival four days ago, while Riker had been attending tactical meetings. Those meetings had been terribly depressing, because there was no way to disguise the fact that they were losing the war.

 

 

To him, it seemed as if they had been at Starbase for four months instead of four days. Even with the unexpected diversion of his romance with Captain Shana Winslow, he found it difficult to wait here while the war raged elsewhere. He felt helpless, guilty, and oddly relieved all at the same time.

 

 

Most of all, Riker wanted to know that his comrades behind enemy lines were safe, and he wanted to know that he would get his ship back in time to help them. As Shana had told him, Starfleet had no personnel to dispense hugs and reassurance, and that was what he needed most.

 

 

On top of that, he had something else to worry about--Shana's mental health. She was the cause of his quandary, his indecision over which way to go in the corridor. Riker took a few steps toward the base commander's office, but stopped, knowing that he couldn't go over her head without giving her a chance to defend herselfi And he couldn't bring himself to go to her workplace and put more pressure on her, not knowing how she would react. He hadn't seen Shana for a day and a night, since she broke down and cried in his arms.

 

 

No, decided Riker, I have to talk to Deanna Troi before I do anything else. Feeling relieved with his decision, he strode into the nearest turbolift and requested level nineteen.

 

 

He emerged into a broad, busy corridor. Two occupied, robotic gurneys rumbled past going in opposite directions, following invisible magnetic strips embedded in the floor. A flock of medical workers emerged from one room and ducked into another, conversing in low voices as they walked. Two orderlies jogged past in a big hurry, and a man in an automatic wheelchair cruised slowly along the corridor.

 

 

Riker wandered the hall, glancing at signs denoting various departments, such as Surgery, Research, and Recovery. He took a chance and walked toward the door marked "Recovery." When the door slid open, Riker was immediately plunged back into the war. Every bed in the immense room was filled--row after row of injured people from dozens of different races. Over each bed, digital readouts pulsed with cheerful precision, and workers carrying trays and hypos maneuvered through the rows like overworked honeybees. A few visitors clustered around individual beds, and Riker wandered in the direction of one such gathering.

 

 

He glanced at the patient, a blue-skinned Bolian; he was surrounded by uniformed officers, who were joking and kidding with him, obviously happy to have their comrade on the mend. Riker walked down the outer row of beds, seeing several patients who looked alert and well. But he saw many others who were badly scarred, unconscious, and still in field dressings and casts. The most disturbing were those who were awake but were staring vacantly into space--they were still at the battle site. A few patients who looked bored and disgruntled reminded Riker uncomfortably of himself.

 

 

The medical workers and volunteers paid no attention to him as they bustled past. Evidently, visitors were common in the Recovery section. Riker looked for a familiar face among the workers, but there were none until he reached the last bed in the last row.

 

 

There he spotted Alyssa Ogawa administering a hypospray to an unconscious patient.

 

 

He walked closer to her and stood patiently until she finished. "Hello, Nurse Ogawa." "Commander Riker," she said with some surprise.

 

 

"Can I help you with anything?" "Yes, I'm looking for Counselor Troi." The nurse stepped away from her patient and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I believe I saw her in the psychiatric section, which is out the main door and two doors to the right." "Thank you," answered Riker with a friendly smile.

 

 

"I'm amazed how many patients there are in this room. It's great to see so many people on the way to recovery." "Not all of them are," said Ogawa sadly, glancing back at her patient. "There aren't enough beds for everyone. Some of them... we're just trying to make comfortable." "I see." The smile faded from Riker's face. "It's very commendable that you're working here, when you don't have to be." Ogawa sighed and looked around at the hundreds of casualties. "Oh, I definitely have to be here. They just keep coming in--and these are the lucky ones. Excuse me, Captain." "Certainly." Riker watched the slender, darkhaired nurse return to her duties, then he wandered between two more rows of beds, feeling disheartened and ashamed. Here he was, worrying about a handful of close friends, when death and destruction were all around. It was hard to imagine that these people and the crew of the Enterprise had been lucky, but they were... when one considered the alternatives.

 

 

According to Ro, thousands of Starfleet officers were toiling in slave labor camps, where they were treated worse than animals. He wanted to do something-- anything!--but all he could do was to concentrate on his job, which at the moment meant sitting and waiting.

 

 

Riker almost didn't enter the door marked "Psychiatric Care," knowing he could be pulling Deanna away from patients. But he couldn't stop thinking about Shana Winslow, her torments, and her incredibly important position. He had to talk to somebody.

 

 

Taking a deep breath, he walked into the most depressing of the wards on Starbase 209, the place where the casualties couldn't be cured by skinbonding, blood transfusions, and antibiotics. The first room he entered looked like a typical recreation room, with Ping-Pong tables, video viewers, game tables, and a food and drink replicator. Two people were playing a game of three-dimensional chess, and two more people were watching a science program on the viewer. The only thing amiss was the two-way mirror by the door, through which the attendants were undoubtedly monitoring their charges.

 

 

A white-garbed attendant stood by the interior doorway, which led to a corridor and many doors beyond. He eyed Riker suspiciously and walked toward him. "I'm sorry, Commander, but we don't allow visitors here, except by special permission." "Understood," said Riker. "I'm looking for Commander Deanna Troi, who's the counselor aboard my ship."

 

 

"She's a volunteer, right?" "Yes. She's been here about four days." "I think I know where she is. If you'll have a seat, I'll go look for her." The attendant hurried down the corridor, and the door whispered shut behind him.

 

 

Riker strolled over to the chess game and studied the layout of the three main boards and five smaller boards. Then his attention shifted to the players: an older Vulcan woman and a young Merakan with orangish hair. They were so intent upon their game that neither one looked at him or acknowledged his presence.

 

 

The Merakan reached out a fragile hand with slender fingers and moved a white knight from the center board to the top board. The Vulcan woman raised an eyebrow at this and said, "That is not classic Duranian Defense." "Yes, it is," replied the Merakan huffily. He looked straight at Riker. "Isn't it?" "I wouldn't know," answered Riker with a friendly smile. "Chess was never my game." "Then why do you watch it?" asked the Vulcan.

 

 

Riker motioned around the almost deserted recreation lounge, then decided that he had better be extremely diplomatic with these people. "I wish to learn about it." "Then take my place!" offered the Merakan, jumping to his feet. Despite Riker's protests, he was soon ushered into the seat across from the stoic Vulcan, who would undoubtedly crush him in three- dimensional chess.

 

 

"I'm not a very good player," admitted Riker.

 

 

"It matters little," answered the Vulcan. "We only play games that have already been played. Famous games--" "If we can remember them," added the Merakan.

 

 

"We're not allowed to play real games, becausem" He looked puzzledly at the Vulcan. "What is it we do?" "We attack each other," she answered.

 

 

"That's right," said the Merakan cheerfully. "There's no dishonor in losing a game which has already been lost." "Right," answered Riker doubtfully. He motioned to the Vulcan. "Your move." The Vulcan stroked her chin. "At this point, black makes a fatal mistake, is that not correct?" "That's it!" said the Merakan excitedly. "You mistake my retreat for an attack, and you break off your relentless offensive in order to castle with your rook.

 

 

This moment of hesitation allows white to get the momentum. It goes on for another four days, but eventually you'll lose." The Vulcan shook her head. "Durania is famous for beating such an incompetent?" Nevertheless, she made the necessary castling move to continue the game.

 

 

Riker was relieved to see Deanna Troi stroll through the doorway, brushing back a dark strand of errant hair. He jumped to his feet. "Thanks for the pointers. I'm Will Riker, and it's been nice to meet you--" His voice trailed off expectantly, waiting for them to furnish their names.

 

 

"And I'm--" The Merakan raised his finger as if to answer, then he looked puzzledly at his chess opponent. "Who am I?" The Vulcan shook her head. "I have no idea. I only met you today." Troi moved swiftly to Riker's side in order to rescue him from the awkward situation. "You're Lieutenant Anowon, and your friend is Captain Jobra. But it's been a very long day of playing chess--perhaps you should think about dinner, or a nap." "But there's a war going on," said Jobra. Riker stared at the Vulcan, thinking that her answer sounded extremely coherent, until she motioned toward the chess boards. She meant the game.

 

 

"Absolutely!" exclaimed Anowon, dropping into the chair across from the Vulcan. In a matter of seconds, they were intent upon their game to the exclusion of the two visitors.

 

 

Troi ushered Riker toward the door, and he looked fondly at the beautiful Betazoid. Once the love of his life, now a friend for life, sometimes he felt that she would always be the only person who really knew him. It was good to have somebody in the universe with whom he could be totally honest and vulnerable. Of course, Deanna bestowed a feeling of trust and comfort to almost everybody, but he had also known her love. Although they had never been married, he often felt as if she were his amiable ex-spouse, with more than a few sparks of jealousy and physical attraction left between them.

 

 

When they reached the corridor and the door shut behind them, Troi shook her head. "It's sad to see those two," she whispered. "Head injuries gave them a rare form of amnesia which starts all over again every time they awaken. They can remember certain things, like old chess moves, but they can't remember that they know each other. We have to introduce them every morning."

 

 

"There's nothing you can do for them?" "After the war, Jobra could probably get help on Vulcan, and there may be something the Merakans can do for Anowon. But we have no way to transport them, and no one we can spare to take them there. So they sit here, waiting." "Just like us," muttered Riker.

 

 

Troi grabbed his arm and gaily tossed her black tresses. "But, Will, you didn't come down here to talk about depressing subjects, did you? You're going to whisk me away to someplace fun, make me forget that there's a war going on! Right?" He shook his head glumly. "I'm afraid not. I will buy you dinner, though, in someplace private, if you'd care to hear what trouble I'm in." She gave him a disapproving frown. "If you've been having fun, I'll really be mad." "Well, yes," he admitted, "but it didn't last too long." "I haven't seen the aquarium yet," said Troi. "I hear it's beautiful." Riker gritted his teeth, thinking of his memorable date with Shana. "Let's go."

 

 

After staring at a proud lion fish, with its mane of frilly orange and white fins, Will Riker thought about what he had to do. Thus far, he and Deanna had talked shop, including the scheduled time-frame for repairs to the Enterprise, but he hadn't told her anything about Shana Winslow. It was time to summort his courage and open up.

 

 

Riker glanced around and saw that they were virtually alone amidst the bubbling turquoise tanks of the aquarium where he had last come with Shana. De- anna was staring into a tank of Vulcan eels, which slithered like flaming arrows through a sea of underwater volcanic ash.

 

 

"I've gotten involved with somebody here," he blurted out.

 

 

"You don't say," remarked Troi, without a shred of surprise. She stepped to another tank and looked at miniature jellyfish lit by phosphorescent lights. "Head of the repair facilities--very impressive." He gaped at her. "You know all about it?" "You don't think a juicy piece of gossip like that could stay secret. Commander Winslow is a remarkable woman." "A remarkable woman with some very heavy responsibilities. She's in charge of us getting the Enterprise back in one piece. And she's deeply troubled-- nightmares, unexpected chills, moodiness. On top of that, she has to cope with losing two limbs, a lot of grief, and tremendous stress from her job. I'm not sure she's coping." "Most of us are barely coping these days." Troi stood up and fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Are you officially reporting to me that her ability to do her duty is impaired?" "I don't know." Riker shook his head with frustration and tried to keep his voice low. "I don't want to do anything official, because I don't want to cause her more problems. Let's just say, her ability to have a personal relationship is badly impaired, and I want you to talk to her." "All right. But, Will, I won't be able to discuss our conversations with you. She has to have her privacy." "I know, I just want what's best for her," said Riker. "With any luck, we'll be gone in a few days, but she'll still be here, struggling with all of this. If I know you're taking over, I'll back off and stay away from her." "Do you really think there's a problem with the ship?" asked Troi, now sounding more like a concerned command officer than a ship's counselor.

 

 

With a glance at the bubbling, turquoise tanks which surrounded them, Riker decided that they were alone. He leaned toward Deanna's ear and whispered, "I checked around, and her shop is always behind schedule. It's usually double the estimate, and she's already told us it would be a week. Of course, with supply lines down and all the shortages, it's quite possible that she's not at fault for the delays." "Can't you get a status report?" Riker frowned and tried to find the Saurian lungfish in a display of coral. "I did, and there wasn't anything on it. Shana won't speak to me, ever since the night when... well, she got very upset. If Geordi or Data were here, I'd send one of them down, and we'd know in ten minutes if everything was all right.

 

 

Otherwise, I'd have to go over her head to the CO, and I don't want to do that. She simply won't talk to me." "What makes you think she'll talk to me?" "Because you're a sweetheart." He gave her his most winning smile.

 

 

Troi groaned, looking deeply troubled. "Of course I'll have a conflict of interest, too, because I'll be trying to get our ship released." "I've tried to get the Admiralty to follow through on the mission," muttered Riker, shaking his head, "but the Kreel system is now in enemy hands. To even find Data's shuttlecraft would require a miracle, and I don't want to think about how hard it will be to spot that beacon. If we don't go soon, nobody will be there for the captain and the others." Troi nodded grimly. "So we need the Enterprise back ASAP, no matter who stands in our way."

 

 

A phaser blast jarred the Cook, a small personnel shuttlecraft with one aboard, a unique artificial lifeform modeled after a human. The android absorbed a number of sensory and digital inputs at once, and he knew that, although his shields and systems were failing, he had enough power left to reach the emerald clouds of the Class-F planet just below him. He was already entering the outer atmosphere, a murky soup of chlorine, chlorine dioxide, and chlorine oxide. The chlorine was poisonous and corrosive, and the chlorine dioxide was explosive--so he didn't expect many visitors.

 

 

Data knew that the planet's atmosphere could damage his hull, but he didn't have much choice with a Jem'Hadar attack ship on his tail. He had two photon torpedoes on his specially outfitted shuttlecraft, but he was determined to save them. This lifeless planet, called SK-73%6 in Starfleet nomenclature, would prove to be either his sanctuary or his undoing.

 

 

Another plasma blast grazed his hull, its energy dissipating in the thick atmosphere. The tiny craft shuddered and grew hot during re-entry, but Data never took his attention off his instruments. He didn't bother to stare in awe at the pea-green swirl of gases as a human would; instead he searched his instruments for solid ground amidst the shifting bogs. If the Jem'Hadar had been foolish enough to follow him into this uninhabitable world, then their presence didn't show up on his instruments.

 

 

More than likely, they had assumed an outer orbit and would look for life-signs--life-signs they wouldn't find. Twice before, he had eluded the Jem'Hadar by escaping to barren planets incapable of supporting life.

 

 

Because Data wasn't a biological being, they had a hard time tracking him once he shut down the shuttlecraft systems. With any luck, they would assume he had crashed and died.

 

 

Unfortunately, every relocation like this brought an inevitable break in his search for the subspace beacon, the distress call from the away team. It also took Data farther away from the Kreel system, where he had left the Enterprise. If he could only find solid ground on this unfriendly planet, then he would once again set up his long-range scanner array to monitor the distant Badlands. If he couldn't, then he would have to make a break for it, before the Jem'Hadar attack ship could summon reinforcements.

 

 

After that it would be another mad dash to another unlikely refuge, with the resultant delays. The lives of Captain Picard, Geordi, and a dozen others--plus the survival of the Federation--depended upon his attention. He had to land and set up the array soon.

 

 

The android headed north to the polar icecap of the planet, peering from his instruments into greenish-yellow gloom. Although he found no level terrain, he was encouraged by the sight of white hills and plateaus pushing up through the clouds. It wasn't real ice, of course, but frozen chlorine dioxide, which should be solid enough to support the shuttlecraft.

 

 

Almost an hour of searching revealed an ice floe that was level and large enough for him to attempt a landing. Not wanting to melt any of the surface with prolonged thruster burns--or risk an explosion--he cut his engines several meters off the ground and came in hard with a resounding thud. Data remained perfectly still as the craft's runners melted into the dry ice with disconcerting cracking sounds. For a moment, he expected the ice to break and dump him into an ocean of chemicals, but the floe held the weight.

 

 

Data quickly shut down all systems. Geordi would say he was "playing possum." As soon as possible, he would resume his duty... and locate his friends.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

TIlE BADLANDS FILLED the viewscreen of the Orb of Peace, looking like a mass of dirty cotton candy filled with giant lightning bugs. Sam Lavelie shifted uneasily in his seat at the conn, trying to forget that the glimmering lights were in reality deadly plasma storms wreaking havoc in a vast dust cloud. He told himself the storms were far, far away, although he didn't know how far away they were. None of the sensors could penetrate the gloom a few meters beyond the ship.

 

 

But Ro had said that they were in a safe spot, a bubble, as she called it. No matter how far away they were, the random bursts of plasma were not conducive to relaxation, although they were eerily beautiful.

 

 

Finally Sam took his hands off the helm and rubbed his sore shoulder, telling himself that if they were hit by one of those charged bolts, it wouldn't matter what he was doing. In fact, he would rather die that way than be captured by Cardassians. He was sure he couldn't go through that ordeal again.

 

 

He heard footsteps, and he turned to see Geordi La Forge striding toward him. The blind engineer no longer sported the VISOR he had worn when Sam served with him aboard the Enterprise; instead he wore some kind of implants that covered only part of each eye. They must have been a big improvement, thought Sam, because La Forge had stuck with his VISOR for a long time. The Bajoran earring and nose ridges only made his appearance more bizarre.

 

 

"Hi, Lavelie," said La Forge with a friendly smile.

 

 

"How does it look out there?" "Weird. How does it look to you, Commander?" The engineer squinted at the viewscreen and shook his head. "It's nice to know there are some things which look weird to everyone." "How is everything below?" asked Sam, worried that either Grofor the Romulan had caused an uproar by now.

 

 

"We're getting to know each other," answered La Forge. "To that end, the captain is assembling everybody in the mess hall for a shipwide meeting. I'm your relief, because he already knows me." "Right now?" Sam stood uncertainly.

 

 

"Relax, Sam, he's not worried about you. But we've got to see where everybody stands before we make a bunch of plans that we can't carry out." "Or trust people who we shouldn't trust," added Sam. "I don't know those people very well, except for Taurik." "That makes two of us." La Forge sighed and took his seat at the conn.

 

 

"What's the captain going to do?" "He'll have to trust his own judgment. Luckily, he's a good judge of character. I think he just wants to get everyone into one room and see how the group meshes." Sam scowled. "With Grof around, we'll probably chafe instead of mesh." Geordi smiled and turned to the swirling brown and magenta clouds on the viewscreen. "You'd better go below." "Yes, sir." Feeling as if he were invited to a party where everyone would be a stranger, Sam wandered off the bridge and down the spiral staircase. Upon reaching the lower deck, he spotted Tamla Horik and Enrique Maserelli lounging in the corridor outside the mess hall. They weren't exactly holding hands, but their affection for each other was more open than ever.

 

 

"Hello, Captain," said the Deltan female with a friendly smile. Although Sam was only a lieutenant, he had been the captain of their late, lamented Cardassian tanker. It was a measure of his crew's respect that a few of them still called him that.

 

 

Enrique gave him a grudging nod, and Sam knew that the materiel handler was still angry at him. At the height of their desperation, Sam had threatened to throw Enrique into the brig if he didn't cooperate.

 

 

Now he regretted those harsh words, but there was no way take them back.

 

 

"Hi," said Sam, mustering a pleasant smile.

 

 

"Ready for the meeting?" "Why do we need a meeting?" muttered Enrique.

 

 

"We know where the artificial wormhole is--let's send in the fleet and take it out." Tamla gave Maserelli a smirk, as if he were a bit of a simpleton. "It isn't that simple. We know about it, but I don't think the rest of the Federation does." "They don't know anything!" growled a voice. Sam and his comrades turned to see Enrak Grof striding toward them from the aft hold. The burly Trill looked as belligerent and argumentative as usual, ready to tell the whole galaxy what to think.

 

 

He stopped in the corridor and regaled them.

 

 

"They don't understand what we built out there! They don't know its value--they only want to destroy it.

 

 

Although I doubt if they know how to do that." "Oh, I believe that Captain Picard has a plan," countered Sam, not at all certain if that were true.

 

 

"A plan to take out a magneton collider ten kilometers long and protected by a fleet of ships? With an unarmed transport? If he does, he's the greatest military genius in the world. I think his plan is to get us all killed in a pointless display of hubris." Lena Shonsui stuck her head out of the mess hall door and glared at Grof. Even though her arm was in a cast and one eye was blackened from a recent injury, the diminutive woman was livid. "Shut up, Grofl The last thing we need is to listen to a traitor like you.

 

 

You're lucky we don't beam you into a bulkhead!" The Trill whirled and glowered at her, his wiry beard and eyebrows bristling. "You! You nearly got us all killed, and your ineptitude cost us two probes!" "At least I didn't kill hundreds of people to promote my own glory!" When Lena took a step toward Grof, his hands balled into fists.

 

 

Sam quickly jumped between them, holding Lena back with one hand and Grof with the other. He could feel Grof backing off, but the middle-aged woman charged forward, wanting blood. He finally had to hold her scawny shoulders with both hands. "Lena, calm down. He's not worth it!" "What's going on here?" demanded a stern voice, and they all turned to see Captain Picard, accompanied by Ro Laren, Taurik, Jozarnay Woil, and the Romulan, Hasmek. The Romulan had a smirk on his face, as if he were amused by this internal bickering.

 

 

"She tried to attack me!" bellowed Grof, pointing at his accuser.

 

 

"I never did, but I should have!" shouted Lena, struggling to get past Sam and reach the Trill. Despite her flailing arms, he held her at bay.

 

 

"Attention!" snapped Picard in a voice which brooked no opposition. Everyone--even Grof---stood stiffly in place. "I don't care what you've been through, what you've done in the past, or how much you hate each other, on my ship, you will maintain order and behave like Starfleet officers." "I'm not--" began Grof.

 

 

"Silence!" roared Picard. "Professor Grof, you will behave like a member of this crew, or you'll be held in irons. Do I make myself clear?" Sam had never seen a Trill's spots blanch, but Grofs spots grew several shades lighter as he gulped and backed away. "Yes, sir." The one-armed Romulan narrowed his eyes. "I suggest you do as the captain says. I have found the captain to be a formidable foe who will stop at nothing to maintain control." The captain looked slightly contrite at his outburst, but still angry and determined. The war had even taken a toll on him, thought Sam; he couldn't imagine such an outburst coming from the Captain Picard he knew aboard the Enterprise. Of course, this wasn't the Enterprise--this was a ragtag crew of desperate people in the middle of a horrendous war--a war which none of them were likely to survive.

 

 

The captain tugged on his rust-colored Bajoran tunic and motioned toward the mess hall. "Now will all of you please have a seat." Sam stepped back, letting the others file in ahead of him. First went Lena Shonsui, the short-tempered transporter operator. Once upon a time, before the war, Lena must have been a level-headed professional, but now she was barely sane, driven over the edge by hatred and abuse. She was followed by Tamla and Enrique.

 

 

Sam looked away from them to watch Grof trying to engage Taurik in whispered conversation. The Vulcan listened politely to whatever the Trill was saying, but he had no comment as they filed into the dining hall. Jozarnay Woil followed them, and the friendly Antosian was also banged up with various superficial injuries. Taurik had done a good job of first-aid.

 

 

Hasmek, the one-armed Romulan, strolled in next, followed very closely by Ro Laren. Sam had a feeling that Ro had been assigned to be the Romulan's shadow, jailer, and bodyguard until further notice.

 

 

Lucky devil.

 

 

This left Sam alone in the corridor with Captain Picard, who did not look at all pleased with his makeshift crew. "How did you keep them in line?" he asked softly.

 

 

"I told them we would escape and reach freedom," answered Sam, thinking what a crock that had been.

 

 

"Freedom is still our goal." Picard motioned to the doorway.

 

 

Sam entered the now-crowded mess hall and took a seat at a table with Taurik and Grof. The Trill immediately leaned across the Vulcan's chest and whispered to Sam, "Did you hear him threaten my life? A Starfleet captain!" Sam gritted his teeth. "Grof, the sooner you learn that this war isn't a game or a research project, the better." "Quiet, please," sniffed Taurik.

 

 

They folded their hands in front of them and sat as attentively as schoolchildren while Captain Picard frowned in thought.

 

 

"I know none of you want to be here," he began.

 

 

"We don't particularly want to be here either. We hoped to discover that the artificial wormhole was only a rumor, a myth. But it's very real, and so is our predicament.

 

 

"You know what the artificial wormhole means to the war--victory for the Dominion, the end of the Federation. You've been prisoners of the Dominion, so you can imagine such a fate for every man, woman, and child in the Federation. Not a pleasant picture, is it?" He looked pointedly at Grof. "We all know the value of scientific progress, but that progress cannot come at the cost of a far-reaching civilization which has only sought peace and cooperation. We don't deserve to be snuffed out like a candle flame, and we won't let it happen." The captain turned to Ro Laren. "Sometimes our search for peace has led us to make mistakes--to trust people we shouldn't have trusted, to appease those without honor. We can't undo the past, but we can save the Federation and billions of lives here and now." The Romulan responded by pounding on the table with mocking applause, shocking everyone with his audacity. "Nice speech, Captain, but you'll need more than words to accomplish your goal." "That's enough," Ro warned Hasmek.

 

 

Picard held up his hand. "No, let him speak. I'll let everyone at this meeting speak his mind. I want to hear your thoughts now, before we set a course that can't be reversed." "Thank you, Captain," replied the Romulan. "I can always speak my mind, because I don't fear for my life. By all rights, I should be dead already. I think the captain has chosen to keep me alive as an object lesson. He will stop at nothing, which is the very attitude he must have to succeed. The problem is, I think he considers me to be a more reliable crew member than some of you." "This is too much!" roared Grof. "Now we must be lectured by Romulan spies! If the captain had a fleet of two hundred ships with him, I would be a lot more impressed. Despite his lofty ideals, I don't think he can destroy the artificial wormhole even if he wanted to!" All eyes turned to Picard, expecting another explosion, but the captain leaned forward and asked, "Professor, with your vast knowledge of this machine, would it be fair to say that we don't have to destroy the entire magneton collider to render it useless?

 

 

Already the Dominion has been delayed due to the lack of Corzanium to finish one small part. A machine that big must have other weaknesses, too. Could a pinpoint strike or an act of sabotage in the right place shut them down for a while?" "Yes, I suppose it could," admitted Grof, scratching his unruly beard. "The most critical part of the collider is the magneton accelerator. If you could do enough damage to the accelerator control room, you would shut them down for quite some time." Picard now appealed directly to the Trill.

 

 

"Professor, we've already accomplished the most difficult part of the mission, getting behind enemy lines.

 

 

Although we're not a fleet of ships, we are poised to make a pinpoint strike. We have all the knowledge we need among the people on this ship, and I can tell you, Professor, I have overcome difficult odds before.

 

 

I'm not against science--I'm against hordes of Dominion ships pouring through an artificial wormhole.

 

 

If we can delay them just long enough to turn this war around, maybe we can capture the collider intact.

 

 

That would be my preference." Now Sam saw where the captain was headed.

 

 

Brilliant. By appealing to Grof's tremendous ego and love for his creation, he was winning him over. Given the serious look on the Trill's face, he was giving the compromise strong consideration. Theoretically, it would save both the Federation and his work.

 

 

"Captain," declared Grof, "I believe this is a plausible beginning, but it's only a beginning. I still have to put my notes about the project on an isolinear chip and make sure it gets to safety. That is my price for participation. I'm the only one who can tell you how to find the accelerator control room. You can be assured that none of the prisoners worked on it--only myself and the Vorta engineers." Lena Shonsui rubbed her eyes. "I can't believe it-- he's bragging about being a collaborator! What a piece of work." "The past is over," said Picard evenly, looking in turn at everyone in the room--Hasmek, Ro, Grof, Taurik, Sam, Tamla, Enrique, Woil, and Shonsui.

 

 

"Forget about everything that happened before we arrived at this place and time. We have one mission-- to shut down that artificial wormhole before it can open. If we have to make compromises and jump through hoops, then we will.

 

 

"Professor Grof, why don't you go back to the bridge and work on your notes. You might also tell Commander La Forge about the accelerator room being our specific target. He's the best engineer in Starfleet, and I'm counting on you two for most of the planning. Meanwhile, Ro and I will consider our options and how best to get your notes back to the Federation." "Fine," said Grof, rising to his feet. "I'm glad you've decided to see reason, Captain. See all of you later." Looking smugly satisfied, the Trill marched out of the mess hall.

 

 

Captain Picard's face did not reveal his feelings, but Sam knew exactly how he felt. He had also bent over backward to cajole and pacify Enrak Grof, and he knew what a demoralizing task it was. With his arrogance and intelligence, that pompous Trill had managed to enthrall the Dominion and hold two crews hostage. But psychologically Picard was his better. First, he had scared the hell out of him, then he had appealed directly to his monster ego. It was a combination that was apparently working; Grof was now on board with the rest of them.

 

 

"Does anybody else have anything to say?" asked Picard. He looked around the room, and his eyes settled on the quizzical Antosian. "Go ahead, Mister Woil." "Sir, I was wondering, if we do pull this off, how are we going to get back to the Federation?" Picard motioned to a tiny porthole. "Out there is the Enterprise, waiting for us to release a coded subspace beacon. They know our approximate location and will get here as quickly as they can. The Enterprise can outright and outrun Dominion ships." "Thank you, sir," said Woil with a smile. He promptly sat down.

 

 

After that reassuring if optimistic response, tension seemed to ebb from the room. Relieved laughter and whispered conversations filled the stale air. It was clear that nobody wished to continue the heated confrontations--it was time to move on.

 

 

The captain must have sensed the change, too, because he rose to his feet and smiled like the host at a party. "The food replicators are operational. Shall we have a drink and a bite to eat?" "Yes, sir!" came a chorus of responses.

 

 

The captain strode to one of two food replicators in the mess hall, and a short line formed at the other.

 

 

Sam waited patiently for his turn; he was still in shock that Picard had managed to tame this unruly crew so quickly. Maybe they really could save the Federation, and maybe the Enterprise would arrive in the nick of time to whisk them away to safety. They had accomplished miracles before.

 

 

"Tea, hot," said Picard to the replicator. When nothing happened, he repeated, "Tea, hot." Still nothing happened.

 

 

"Water," he ordered with a concerned look on his face. When no glass of water materialized, he pointed to Enrique at the other food dispenser. "Try yours." "A glass of water," ordered Enrique. Nothing happened. "Toast, dark." The receptacle remained empty, despite all the indicators being lit.

 

 

Now Ro Laren studied the replicator with concern.

 

 

"It's been working fine for a week. Maybe the voicerecognition system is down." She pushed some but- tons, and Enrique did the same at his slot. Even with manual input, nothing issued from either of the replicators.

 

 

Captain Picard looked more concerned than ever, leading Sam to conclude that these two replicators were their only source of food and water, two substances that had to be hard to come by in the Badlands.

 

 

Picard turned to Ro and said, "Would you please relieve Mr. La Forge and send him down here. We already have to find a way to get Grof's isolinear chip back to the Federation--perhaps we have to find food and water as well." "We still have some fresh fruits and vegetables in the hold," said Ro, heading toward the doorway.

 

 

"I'll check on them," offered Enrique, following her out.

 

 

This incredible meeting, which had inspired so much confidence, was ending with fear as the prevalent emotion. Worse than being captured by Cardassians and Jem'Hadar was the prospect of dying of thirst and hunger. They couldn't drink reactor coolant.

 

 

It was left to the Romulan, Hasreek, to sum up the feelings of the suddenly silent gathering: "You can't fight, or do much else, on an empty stomach."

 

 

Deanna Troi haunted a corridor on Starbase 209, wondering how she had gotten talked into this. Of course, all Riker had really asked her to do was talk to Shana Winslow, but that had proven to be a much more difficult task than she had expected. Three messages for Captain Winslow had gone unanswered, and her aides were extremely protective of her. They had been downright surly to Deanna.

 

 

Somehow they must have known the real purpose of her efforts was to pry the Enterprise out of their grasp, and they weren't going to relinquish the pride of the fleet until they were good and ready. It has been less than a week, she told herself. They aren't behind schedule... yet.

 

 

More troubling was the fact that Shana Winslow seemed to be hiding from everyone but her work associates. Once she had taken Will as a companion, she ought to have enjoyed his company more than one night, especially with a war going on. The way she had ducked him since seemed odd. Still Troi wasn't ready to assault a Starfleet captain in public over a romance turned sour. Instead she was waiting to talk to the starbase's chief counselor, Dr. Arlene Bakker.

 

 

A door whooshed open, and Troi tried to appear as if she just happened to be strolling in that direction.

 

 

Dr. Bakker, a tall, dark-skinned woman with a regal bearing, stepped into the corridor and nearly bumped into the Betazoid.

 

 

"Counselor Troi," she said with surprise. "How are you?" "I'm fine, Counselor. And you?" They began to walk slowly down the corridor.

 

 

Bakker sighed. "Hectic, crazed--I feel as if I'm being pulled in ten different directions. Are you going to the conference on time management?" "I was thinking about it. Do you mind if I tag along?" "Not at all. I don't know how much of this will apply to us, but we can always be hopeful." The tall woman took a right in the corridor and strode toward the turbolift. Troi skipped to keep up.

 

 

"You're doing a good job here," said Troi with sincerity.

 

 

"Thanks. We all appreciate how you, Dr. Crusher, and her medical staff have been helping us out. It's been a big morale booster, I can tell you." "Has morale been a problem?" Bakker rolled her eyes. "You've been out at the front, so you wouldn't know. It's not easy to sit in the bleachers and watch the casualties roll in. A lot of us feel as if we should be at the front--doing more-- even though we know we're needed here." "You're not missing anything," replied Troi.

 

 

"I know." Bakker strode into the turbolift, and Troi meekly followed. "Level thirty-eight," ordered the base counselor, and the door whispered shut.

 

 

"Of course," said Troi, "people on a starbase have a lot of stress to deal with, because everyone thinks they're miracle workers." "No kidding." "Especially in positions such as... head of the repair section." Bakker nodded sagely. "Commander Winslow has it worse than any of us. If you knew what that woman has gone through." Troi made her face an inquisitive blank. "Like what?" "She lost her husband, her ship, and quite a bit of her own body. She's been a line officer, so she's really torn, thinking she should still be out there. And she's expected to work more miracles than anybody on the base, all with shrinking resources." "Does she come to see you much?" "She used to," answered Bakker with a quizzical expression. "But not for a while. Probably no time." The door slid open, and the taller woman led the charge out of the turbolift. Troi could see a gathering of people around a set of double doors at the end of the corridor, and she knew she wouldn't have much more time alone with Arlene Bakker.

 

 

"Counselor," she said, holding out a hand and stopping the woman in mid-stride. "I have something to ask you." Bakker stopped, looking mildly impatient. "Yes?" "Somebody has asked me to talk to Shana Winslow," blurted Troi. "He says she's been acting erratically." The other woman crossed her arms and frowned.

 

 

"She's my patient." "I know. But she happens to be in charge of my ship, and she's romantically involved with my friend.

 

 

I don't want to step on any toes, but you've admitted that she has many issues to deal with and has stopped coming to see you." "Yeah, that's true," grumbled Arlene Bakker. "I've been meaning to call her and reschedule. And it might not be a bad idea to have some... telepathic assistance." Troi smiled, not bothering to correct the assumption that she was a full Betazoid.

 

 

Bakker sighed. 'Tll schedule her for an appointment as soon as possible, and I'll let you sit in. But you've got to promise not to push when it comes to your ship." "I can't promise that," answered Troi, "but I promise not to be the first one to bring it up." "Okay. Now go on about your business. You don't have to pretend to be going to this conference anymore." "I can always learn a thing or two about time management," said Troi with a smile. "And I don't get to talk to a colleague very often." "Come on." Bakker grinned and guided her down the corridor.

 

 

Captain Picard sat forlornly in the mess hall of the Orb of Peace, watching Geordi La Forge take apart the second of two food replicators. He had sent everyone else away, because their expressions were simply too depressing. After all they had been through, they could still be horrified by the prospect of starving to death.

 

 

Fortunately, Ro had determined that they could produce water in the hardware replicator, but only small quantities. Most of the fresh fruits and vegetables in the hold were still edible, too. Picard thought he had struck a bad bargain way back at the Cardassian farming colony, trading exotic fabrics for produce. But at this point, the deal could turn out to save their lives.

 

 

La Forge picked up a singed circuit board, studied it, and shook his head. "I can't believe this. We gave the replicators a complete diagnostic before we left the Enterprise. They were working perfectly." "What happened?" asked the captain.

 

 

"It could be normal wear, but on two replicators at once? The phase-transition coil chambers are shot, along with the waveguide conduits." "Can you fix it?" asked Picard hopefully.

 

 

"I don't think so. I don't have the tools or the parts." The captain leaned forward, not anxious to ask his next question. "If it's not a normal failure, do you think it's sabotage?" The engineer let out a long sigh. "If you wanted to wipe out the food replicators, you couldn't pick two better subsystems to disable. On the other hand, I don't have much experience with this equipment--it might've been caused by a power surge or something." But there couM be a saboteur in our midst, thought Picard grimly. And there g no shortage of suspects: a Romulan spy, a Dominion collaborator, a Maquis officer, and six escaped prisoners who shouM be under psychiatric care. And all of them had unlimited access to this room.

 

 

"For the time being," said the captain, "let's keep these suspicions between ourselves. It may be a coincidence, and we don't want the crew members to turn on each other." Geordi tossed the burnt circuit board onto the table and said, "Maybe one of them already has." Chapter Four

 

 

THE ORB OF PEACE SLICED cautiously through a gritty kaleidoscope of pink, salmon, and mauve dust clouds.

 

 

All around the transport, glimmering bursts of plasma lit the way like warning lights in a foggy tunnel.

 

 

Normal space was empty and dead, while the Badlands was alive with crackling electricity, pulverized debris, and sudden death.

 

 

Seated at the conn, Ro was able to make slight course changes to avoid the worst of the storms, but her efforts were illusory. There wasn't really anything she could do if one of those errant bolts of plasma hit them--they'd be turned into just another swirl of dust and gas. "You are at the mercy of the Prophets," declared one of the platitudes above the viewscreen, and that surely was the truth.

 

 

The bridge seemed crowded, although there were only four other people present: Captain Picard, Sam Lavelle, Taurik, and Hasmek. Grof and the others had joined Geordi in engineering, or they were taking a sleep shift.

 

 

She hated having to trust that murderous Romulan, Hasmek, but he had just spent several months in the Badlands. His knowledge was more recent than hers, a fact which he had been quite smug about. In this shifting morass, the most current data was the best.

 

 

Hasmek seenled very certain about the location of Death Valley, a fabled region of derelict ships. Ro had heard of Death Valley but had never seen it. Although it had once been a Maquis hideout, it was considered too dangerous to visit by the time she had joined. She had heard that scavengers often visited the place, looking for spare parts and salvage. If so, they might find people willing to trade water and food, or deliver an isolinear chip to the Federation.

 

 

Still, Ro didn't quite believe in Death Valley. How could a bunch of lost ships exist in this diabolical dust cloud? If they had been caught in the plasma storms, there would be nothing left of them. Something else must have destroyed them, but what? There were mysteries piled upon mysteries in the Badlands, concluded Ro.

 

 

She could have navigated them back to the OK Corral, but no one was anxious to see Shek and Rolf again. As long as Ferengi and Orion pirates were using the wrecked space station as a base, they would pick an alternate destination. She sure hoped that Hasmek knew what he was talking about.

 

 

Ro glanced back at the Romulan and noted with satisfaction that he was tugging nervously on his empty sleeve. Confident at first, he had leaned over her shoulder, suggesting course changes. Now he stared at the viewscreen, and the flashes of plasma glinted off his dark, almost frightened eyes.

 

 

Only Taurik appeared unaffected by the deadly gloom. Stationed at tactical, the Vulcan hardly took his eyes off his instruments. Occasionally he glanced at the viewscreen and regarded it as if it were an Impressionist painting. In a way, with his implacable calm, Taurik seemed the most insane of all of them.

 

 

"Ro," said Picard with concern, "this is awfully dense. Do you think we should stop and check our position?" "No, sir," answered Ro. "We don't have much to gain by stopping here. Our chances of getting out are better if we keep moving." "Do you think we could find a bubble?" "No idea, sir. I suggest you ask our Romulan friend--he's the one who guided us here." Having diverted attention onto Hasmek, Ro took some time to study her readouts. Long-range scanners weren't working at all, and short-range scanners were working only intermittently. There seemed to be no end to the floating quaqmire.

 

 

The Romulan shifted uneasily under the gaze of the bridge crew. "Captain, I can assure you we are headed for the right coordinates. I came here with Shek only four weeks ago." "Through this?" asked Sam Lavelie, who was seated at the science station.

 

 

The Romulan sighed with exasperation. "We approached from another angle, but that doesn't matter.

 

 

It's here.t Captain, if you think I want to be vaporized by one of these plasma bolts, you're mistaken. If we weren't out of food and water, we wouldn't have to risk--"

 

 

Something odd suddenly appeared on Ro's instruments, but Taurik spoke first. "Captain," said the Vulcan, "I am picking up a high concentration of metallic residue at a heading of two-two-eight- markseven-nine." "That's it!" exclaimed Hasmek with relief.

 

 

"Are you sure it's not a false reading?" asked Picard.

 

 

"Not entirely," admitted Taurik. "The scanners have been erratic." "I'm changing course to intercept," declared Ro, not waiting for Captain Picard to make a decision.

 

 

After all, she was still captain of this vessel, and there was no point in waiting. Any destination was better than plowing endlessly through this morass, waiting for their luck to run out. A concentration of metal could be Death Valley, a Cardassian patrol, or worthless space junk. At this point, it didn't much matter.

 

 

The Romulan leaned over her shoulder and said, "The pirates had a Capellan helmsman who had a sixth sense about the plasma storms, but you aren't bad, Captain Ro." "Anybody who can navigate through this is more lucky than good," answered the Bajoran. "We're starting to get a visual." On the viewscreen, ghostly shapes began to emerge from the swirling layers of dust. There were sleek fins, graceful nacelles, and plump hulls, tilted at odd angles. They looked like a pod of whales captured in three-dimensional quicksand. A plasma burst illuminated the clouds from behind, and the ghostly fleet was silhouetted for a brief instant, making them look like tombstones.

 

 

Ro could see lights twinkling near the closest ship.

 

 

As she steered them closer to Death Valley, she saw that the lights were in reality crystalline clouds which glimmered like spun sugar as they floated among the somnambulant ships. When plasma bolts exploded behind them, the crystal clouds glistened with every color in the spectrum. They looked like sundogs, those halos of color that Ro had seen in snow clouds over the mountains of Bajor.

 

 

"All stop," ordered Picard.

 

 

Ro instantly obeyed the order, thinking that they should investigate before plunging deeper into this eerie cemetery. Although the ships looked fairly intact, there was the nagging question about what had disabled them. It couldn't be the plasma storms, which left nothing behind but memories. These spacecraft looked like a child's toys that had been casually discarded, then gradually engulfed in multicolored spider webs.

 

 

"Why were all these ships abandoned?" asked Picard, giving voice to the question on everyone's mind.

 

 

Hasmek shook his head. "I don't know, but it looks to me as though a great battle took place here--a long time ago." "No," said Sam Lavelle, frowning at the bizarre scene on the viewscreen. "It looks like they came here for a meeting, a big conference, and something killed them all. The question is, what?" "With any luck, we won't be here long enough to find out." The captain stepped forward and stood close to the conn. "Well done, Ro." "Thank you, sir." He looked back at the tactical station. "Mister Taurik, can you identify any of these ships?" "Negative, Captain. The Orb of Peace has a limited computer library of ship types. They are not common Federation or Cardassian vessels. I would be curious to explore one of the better-preserved crafts." "Me, too," replied Picard with a slight smile. "Let's hope that someday we can safely return to the Badlands with a scientific team. For now, we have to find food and water. Are there any functional ships, any salvagers, in the area?" The Vulcan shook his head. "No, sir, but the range of our scanners is extremely limited. There could be a large fleet two thousand kilometers off starboard, and they would register as metallic residue. We do, however, appear to be in a bubble, with all ship's systems functional again." "Can we use transporters?" asked Picard.

 

 

"For short distances, perhaps," answered Taurik.

 

 

"Chief Shonsui would be the expert on that." "Right. Set the sensors to look for water in any of those vessels. Conn, ahead one-tenth impulse. Take us on a slow sightseeing tour, Ro. Stop whenever you feel our safety is threatened." "Yes, sir." She piloted the boxy craft into the graveyard of lost ships at even less than one-tenth impulse.

 

 

Up close, the clouds of crystals seemed like white carnations sprinkled upon the graves. The ships appeared fantastical and extremely advanced-- uncomfortably akin to Dominion ships. They had an otherworldliness about them that wasn't due entirely to the fact that many of them listed at right angles to the others.

 

 

It was also clear that the magnificent ships had been cannibalized to a large degree. Holes were punched indiscriminately in hulls; deflector dishes, hatches, and outer equipment had been ripped off; and some nacelles, tail pieces, thrusters, and impulse engines were gone, leaving gaping wounds in the once-proud vessels.

 

 

After a somber tour through the silent graveyard, Taurik reported, "Captain, I would say the age and condition of these vessels precludes finding any fresh water or useful supplies. It will take approximately thirty hours to scan every vessel from stem to stern." The captain scowled. "I don't suppose we could find a working replicator, or parts that we could use?" The Vulcan raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Every vessel shows signs of being forcibly entered many times. One would have to assume that they have been successfully ransacked." "Keep looking. I'm going to engineering." The captain wasn't entirely successful in hiding his disappointment as he strode off the bridge. It wouldn't take long for a starving crew to mutiny, especially this crew in this place.

 

 

"Captain!" called Sam Lavelle. "I've picked up something!" "Water? Another ship?" "No, sirtlife-signs, four of them." Sam stared at his console, then pointed toward the viewscreen.

 

 

"Yes, sir--that large gray ship on the left. It sort of looks like an old New Orleans-class starship." "A bit," allowed Picard. "Is there life support on that ship?" 'Tll check." Sam squinted at his readouts and frowned. "That's weird--now I've lost the life-signs! I could have sworn they were there." "Parts of that ship are shielded from sensors," added Taurik. "It is difficult to say whether this is accidental or deliberate." "Mysteries upon mysteries," muttered Ro, gazing at the behemoth of a wreck, silhouetted against the glittering scrim of the Badlands.

 

 

"Any gravity? Any oxygen over there?" asked Picard.

 

 

"None in the sections I can scan," answered Taurik.

 

 

"All right, Lavelie, you're with me on the away team," ordered the captain. "We'll take La Forge, too.

 

 

You don't have a problem with space suits and gravity boots, do you?" "No, sir," answered Sam, rising to his feet. "I've worn them a lot lately, working for the Dominion." "Ro, you have the bridge," said Picard as he strode into the corridor.

 

 

Deanna Troi knew immediately why Will Riker had been attracted to Commander Shana Winslow. Not only was she an interesting, intelligent woman, but she was a study in contrasts. With her prosthetic limbs and slight limp, she was both fragile and strong. She had a pleasant face, yet a severe haircut, and Troi could see the determination in her violet eyes. After spending most of her life in space, Shana Winslow had been grounded, literally and figuratively. She seemed like an ethereal creature, a fairy with broken wings.

 

 

Dr. Arlene Bakker conducted her into her private office and motioned toward the Betazoid. "This is Deanna Troi, a colleague of mine. I hope you won't mind if Counselor Troi sits in on our session--she has unique talents and experiences." Winslow gave her a curious look and a bemused smile. "Counselor aboard the Enterprise, aren't you?" "I am," admitted Troi with a nod. "I didn't expect you to know who I was." Winslow's face grew tighter. "I saw your name on the officer's roster, and I know you've been trying to see me. But in what capacity, counselor or bridge officer?" "Friend of a friend," answered Troi with what she hoped was a nonthreatening smile.

 

 

Now Captain Winslow's face hardened into a mask, and she turned to the base counselor. "I don't really appreciate this, Arlene. I'd prefer to see you alone, not to be ambushed by a stranger." "We didn't mean to ambush you," explained Dr.

 

 

Bakker. "Counselor Troi might be able to help you, and she won't be on the base much longer." "Nothing you say to me will leave this room," promised Troi. "I'm really only here to help you." "You're not worried about your ship or Will Riker?" asked Winslow incredulously.

 

 

"I'm a realist," answered Troi. "It does no good to worry, but it often does a lot of good to talk. I'd like to know why you're so defensive about Will Riker and the Enterprise." Winslow gave a sharp intake of breath, and Troi was certain that she was going to bolt from the room.

 

 

Instead she stood her ground. "You're the Betazoid-- you tell me." "That's not the way I work. But I've studied your files and drawn some possible conclusions. I'd say you were charmed by Will until he got too close, until he saw you in a moment of weakness. Because of your injuries and your immense responsibilities, you're very careful not to let anyone see you as weak or helpless. But we all feel that way sometimes, especially now, in the middle of a war.

 

 

"It may be your survivor's guilt that won't allow you to enjoy any happiness, even a fleeting wartime romance. You might be suffering a post-traumatic stress disorder, which will only get worse if un- treated. I don't know why you're so secretive about your work, but it could be control issues, or feelings of inadequacy. You don't want anyone to second-guess you--" "That's enough!" snapped Winslow, her calm facade breaking apart. "I don't need some half-baked mind-reader telling me what's the matter wth me!" "I don't read minds. And nothing's the matter with you," countered Troi. "You're normal. Everything I mentioned is perfectly normal for a person in your circumstances. It's your reaction to these issues which is abnormal." Winslow's eyes drilled into Troi's. "Don't try to cause me problems. I have backing in high places, and my staff is loyal to me!" "I couldn't make half the problems for you that you are making for yourself," Troi replied evenly. "I'11 be happy to leave and say no more about this, if you'll work with Arlene." "There's no time!" snapped Winslow. "Do you want your ship back or not? It's finally moved to the top of the heap, the parts are in, and I've put my best team on it. That's the best I can do, and all the counseling in the galaxy won't make the shortages any better. Now I've got to go." She turned to leave the room.

 

 

"Talk to Will--he might be good medicine," advised Troi, pushing her own feelings of jealousy to the bottom of her heart. I would.

 

 

Winslow froze for a second in the doorway, and her shoulders stiflened as she shuffled out. The door snapped shut behind her with a resounding thud.

 

 

"It's worse than I thought," muttered Dr. Bakker.

 

 

"So what should we do?" Troi sighed and shook her head. "It's your call whether to report her to the CO--you have grounds.

 

 

But I don't think causing an uproar will help her, or get the Enterprise repaired any faster, so I'm against it." "I don't even know Will, but I wish she would talk to him," grumbled Arlene Bakker.

 

 

Troi sighed. "Yes, he's the right man for the job."

 

 

Sam pulled on the helmet of the Bajoran space suit, which was beige colored and much lighter weight than the industrial suit he had worn during his labors for the Dominion. Of course, this suit was designed to be used with magnetic boots for getting around a ship that had lost artificial gravity and life-support. The Dominion suits had been designed for extended spacewalking and manual labor, which were more strenuous pursuits.

 

 

He looked at Captain Picard and Geordi La Forge, both of whom were checking the controls on their sleeves. At the transporter console stood Lena Shonsui, looking once again like a calm professional, not a wild-eyed instigator. He couldn't blame her for hating Enrak Grof. Plus Lena had been the only one to know his final escape plans from the tanker, and she had kept his secret under stress. He would always respect her for that.

 

 

"Chief, any life-signs on our target?" asked Picard, his amplified voice sounding hollow in Sam's helmet.

 

 

"No, sir. The bridge reports no life-signs on that craft, but we've found a wide-open space where I can beam you down." "I saw life-signs," insisted Sam. "Right about in the middle." "Don't worry, Lieutenant," said Picard's calm voice, "we're not putting much stock in sensor read- ings taken in the Badlands. We have to start looking for supplies, and it might as well be here.

 

 

Doublecheck your oxygen levels." Sam, Geordi, and the captain adjusted the controls on their sleeves, and Picard stepped onto the transporter platform. Sam spent a few moments fighting an uncomfortable sense of ddj~t vu, as if he were once again joining a Dominion work gang, hounded by cruel Cardassians who would execute him for working ten seconds too slow. The more he thought about it, the more he liked getting revenge against them--even if this was a suicide mission.

 

 

Last onto the transporter, Sam had barely found his spot when Picard motioned to Shonsui and ordered, "Energize." Sam turned to see the unfamiliar transporter room dissolve into utter darkness. A moment later, the lights on their helmets and wrists flicked on and pierced the abject gloom with narrow beams, revealing a massive chamber. Every arm movement sliced through a curtain of dust, which hung in weightless suspension. Sam was reminded of his grandpa's barn and the way dust used to float in the beams of sunlight that slipped through the old wooden slats.

 

 

As his feet began to leave the deck, the captain's voice echoed in his helmet: "Activate boots." Sam grabbed his wrist and turned on the magnetic boots. His feet returned to the deck with a sudden impact that shuddered through his body. Lifting his feet heel to toe to deactivate the pressure plates, he learned how to walk all over again.

 

 

La Forge was already taking tricorder readings.

 

 

"Captain, I'm getting what looks like the residue of a temporal phase inversion." "Time travel?" asked Picard.

 

 

The other helmet turned slowly back and forth.

 

 

"Hard to say. Maybe it's a phase shift, and not that long ago either." "Is it localized in here?" asked Sam. His voice sounded odd, echoing in his own ears.

 

 

"It's like it's all around us," said Geordi. "Wow! I know you two just see darkness and our light beams, but I can see spots of energy and heat that shouldn't be here. It should be as empty as space, but it's not." Sam consulted his tricorder and concentrated on finding the two things which had brought them here: life-signs and water. At the farthest range of the Bajoran tricorder, about eighty meters away, a single life-sign appeared briefly, then vanished. He put the reading into flash memory.

 

 

"I saw it again--a life-sign." "Which way?" asked Picard.

 

 

Sam pointed into the blackness, and the captain bravely led the way. La Forge fell in behind him, but he was still gaping in every direction, seeing things in the darkness that Sam could only imagine. From his cautious crouch, it was clear that the engineer wasn't comfortable in this place, and Sam couldn't blame him. The way the life-signs kept appearing and disappearing was very spooky.

 

 

The captain walked vigorously forward, pushing off heel to toe. Without warning, he bounded upward, waving his arms to keep his balance. His voice sounded in Sam's helmet: "I've lost gravity." La Forge let go of his tricorder, which floated in the darkness, as he reached up to grab the captain. Still several meters behind them, Sam just tried to train his light beams on the rescue, and he saw what had happened: There was a hole on the deck where a chunk of metal had broken away. That chunk of the deck was still attached to Picard's magnetic boots, broken off when he bounded upward. Essentially, he had fallen up a hole.

 

 

La Forge pulled the captain back down to a sturdy part of the deck, and it took them a few seconds to reestablish artificial gravity. While Geordi retrieved his tricorder, Sam checked his again. To his utter amazement and delight, he began picking up the other object of their search--water!

 

 

"Commander La Forge," he said excitedly. "Do you see water on the deck above us, at about sixty meters?" Geordi quickly checked his tricorder, then nodded his helmet forcefully. "Yes, only it wasn't there a little while ago." "That is a problem," admitted Sam.

 

 

"How do we get up there?" asked Picard, craning his helmet back and gazing at the ceiling.

 

 

Sam shined his light at the distant surface and spotted a hatch where one shouldn't be. "I think that's the deck above us, and we're walking on the ceiling," he said. "This ship is upside-down." "Or we're upside-down," replied Geordi. "Take your pick." "This place reminds me of a funhouse I used to visit at the Pier in Jersey," added Sam.

 

 

"All right," ordered Picard, "bend your legs and get ready to push off. Then turn off your boots and jump upward. We should be able to get enough momentum to float to the deck above us." With his recent experience, Sam gave the best push and was the first one to reach the distant deck. Still weightless, he worked his way along the surface with his hands until he reached the hatch, which proved to be open already. Hanging on to it, he extended his hand and pulled the captain and Geordi to the anchor. After positioning their feet on the deck, they reactivated their boots and were soon walking again.

 

 

Sam pulled the hatch open all the way, and the trio slowly climbed down to the lower level.

 

 

Standing in a dark, nondescript corridor, Sam and Geordi took more readings and determined that the water must have collected in a conduit about forty meters away. Captain Picard again took the lead, but he was now very careful about where he put his feet.

 

 

After several moments of cautious travel, they reached a part of the corridor that appeared to be blown inward, as if with a careless grenade. Some people can't be bothered to look for hatches, thought Sam. They had to crawl along the bulkhead to avoid the rubble around the hole, but they finally squeezed past. Sam shot a beam of light into the cavity and saw the remains of tables and equipment, most of which was reduced to wires snaking from the bulkheads.

 

 

About ten meters from their goal, La Forge gave a startled cry. Sam caught up with him and found him staring at his tricorder. "It's gone! The water is gone." "Impossible," said Picard, "it was just here in this conduit." He shuffled forward in his magnetic boots and bulky suit until he reached a sturdy conduit embedded in the bulkhead.

 

 

From a distance, the conduit appeared to be intact, but when Sam and Geordi reached the spot, they saw that it had gaping holes, ringed with ancient corrosion. That conduit hadn't held water for a thousand years, thought Sam, despite the false alarms on their tricorders.

 

 

"I don't get it," muttered Geordi. "It clearly registered water. It's like small sections of this ship go in and out of phase, on sort of a random basis. I think this ship is too dangerous to explore." "I'm inclined to agree," said Sam.

 

 

"Take down these coordinates," ordered Picard. "If water shows up here again, I want to retrieve it... in however few seconds it exists." "Yes, sir," responded Geordi, entering data into his tricorder.

 

 

Something possessed Sam to look up, and he did just in time to see a white-suited figure at the far end of the corridor. "Captain!" he croaked, pointing toward the apparition.

 

 

Picard and La Forge looked up just as the mysterious figure turned and disappeared into an open cabin door. At least that's what appeared to happen.

 

 

"Did you see him?" asked Sam eagerly.

 

 

"I'm reading a life-sign," said Geordi, his voice sounding none too confident as he studied his tricorder.

 

 

"I saw something," agreed Picard. "A glimpse of light, a wisp of fabric--" A loud chirp in their helmets made them all jump, and Sam could barely hear the captain's voice over his pounding heart. "Away team," snapped Picard.

 

 

"Captain, this is the bridge," said Ro's voice.

 

 

"Another ship has shown up, and they're hailing us." "Who are they?" "Talavians, in a freighter. I think they were hiding on the outskirts of Death Valley, watching us. I've told them that our captain is on his way to the bridge." Picard looked reluctantly down the dark corridor, where the white apparition had vanished. Sam could tell that he didn't want to leave this haunted derelict with so many questions unanswered, but he had his priorities.

 

 

"Away team to transporter room," ordered Picard.

 

 

"Three to beam back."

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

JUDGING BY THE FIGURE on the viewscreen and glimpses of crew in the background, the Talavians were a scrawny, yellow-skinned race with prolific amounts of wiry red hair sprouting from unlikely parts of their bodies, such as ankles, knees, elbows, and shoulders. Yet the captain's head was bald and covered with tiny purple veins. He wore a tight leather vest and knee-length pants, which showed off his exuberant hair. Picard wondered if the hair had evolved to protect their bony joints and keep them warm.

 

 

The Talavians hardly looked like saviors--neither did their beat-up freighter--but Picard and the crew of the Orb of Peace were in no position to question help from any quarter.

 

 

"Hello," said the captain with his most magnani- mous smile. "I am Captain Boothby, and this is a joint Romulan-Bajoran scientific mission. We are very glad to have your company." The skinny Talavian guffawed. "Scientific mission?

 

 

Oh, come now. Nobody would take the risks necessary to get to this place unless they were desperate. Or hiding. And what kind of name is Boothby for a Bajoran." "It's a nickname," muttered Picard.

 

 

"Why are you really here?" asked the Talavian.

 

 

"Food and water. We have problems with our replicators." "You won't find anything here, unless you are very brave." The transmission was momentarily scattered by streaks of interference and dithered pixels.

 

 

"Can we talk in person?" asked Picard. "On my ship?" "I couldn't possibly join you on your ship without entertaining one of your crew here," answered the Talavian with a sly smile. He's requesting a hostage, thought Picard. Given the way they were treated by Rolf and Shek on their last trip to the Badlands, Picard could appreciate this precaution.

 

 

"Perhaps your first officer, with whom I spoke." The Talavian seemed to leer at Ro.

 

 

"How about two of my crew?" asked Picard. "And you can bring an aide with you." "But no Romulans," said the Talavian nervously.

 

 

"They provoke uneasiness in my crew." He was clearly referring to Hasmek, who stiflened his spine and stuck out his chin.

 

 

"In five minutes, we'll do a mutual exchange," said Picard. "We look forward to meeting you." He nodded to Taurik, who ended the transmission.

 

 

"You can't trust them, Captain," hissed Hasmek.

 

 

"At best, they're smugglers, and they'd cut all of our throats for a strip of latinurn. We ran them out of the Romulan Star Empire." "I used to see them on Bajor and Terek Nor," said Ro. "I mean, Deep Space Nine. That was before the Federation came. They're a client world of the Ferengi, and they have about the same scruples. I remember that some Talavians have strong religious beliefs, but that doesn't keep them from cheating you." Picard looked around the room, and his eyes settled on Sam Lavelie. The handsome lieutenant rose to his feet and smiled gamely. "Am I about to volunteer for hazardous duty again?" "I'm afraid so. You and Ro report to the transporter room. Go unarmed, but keep an extra communicator badge hidden on you. Be careful what you eat and drink." "It will be hard to turn down food," said Sam, rubbing his concave stomach.

 

 

Five minutes later, Captain Picard stood in the small but tasteful transporter room of the Orb of Peace. Ro and Lavelie stood on two of the transporter pads, and the other four were empty, awaiting their guests. Outside in the corridor, Woil and Maserelli stood by with phasers in their belts, just in case.

 

 

The captain wasn't planning on doing anything that might disturb his guests, unless they were disturbed by requests for food. Hasmek and Taurik would stay on the bridge with Geordi, so as not to cause the visitors undo concern about Romulans.

 

 

"Signal received," reported Lena Shonsui.

 

 

"Lower shields and energize." With some trepida- tion, the captain watched the departure of two of the few people he trusted on this starcrossed vessel. After they disappeared altogether, two thinner, taller figures materialized on the opposite transporter pads. The captain mustered his most charming smile as the hirsute, yellow-skinned Talavians came aboard.

 

 

"Welcome to the Orb of Peace." The one to whom he had spoken on the viewscreen stepped down first, followed by his obsequious aide.

 

 

"Ah, Captain Boothby, I am Captain Fraznulen of the Star Redeemer. This is my scribe, Leztarlen." Fraznulen looked around at the subdued appointments of the Bajoran ship and smiled. Then his ruby eyes rested upon Lena Shonsui at the controls.

 

 

"Captain, you have a human on board. This is not wise in this sector, at these times." "We are a scientific vessel with a crew composed of many races, and we have proper clearances," Picard assured him.

 

 

"Then why don't you leave here and seek help from the Dominion?" asked the Talavian snidely. With the unusual tufts of hair on elbows, knees, and shoulders, he looked like a preening rooster.

 

 

"It's taken us some time and trouble to get to the center of the Badlands," answered Picard. "We know there's a war going on, and we don't want to get caught in it. Mainly we don't want to lose time by going out and trying to come back in. Do you have working replicators?" Fraznulen bent his scrawny neck forward. "Do you want to buy a replicatorT' "That would be the best arrangement," answered Picard, "although I don't know about your prices.

 

 

Out here, you don't have much competition." The Talavian laughed. "l like you, Boothby. Do you have someplace we can sit down? I know you're woefully short of supplies, so I have taken the liberty to bring some Rigdian ale." He snapped his languorous fingers, and his assistant hurried forward with a clay bottle.

 

 

"Thank you," replied Picard. As he led his visitors toward the door, he heard scuffling sounds in the corridor, and he rushed forward to see Enrak Grof, trying to push his way past Woil and Maserelli.

 

 

"Grofl" he snapped. "What's the meaning of this?" "I had to see him! I had to see our visitor," insisted the Trill. "Can he take my notes back for us?" Picard moved forward, grabbed the burly humanoid by the shoulders, and ushered him down the corridor. With a smile plastered to his face, he whispered, "Professor, if I need you, I'll call you. Right now, I need you in engineering." "With La Forge on the bridge, I suppose you do. All right, I'll go, Captainrebut don't forget to ask him." "I won't." Picard took a deep breath to calm himself, then he returned to his guests. "I'm sorry. A captain's job is never done." "Oh, I know, one crisis after another." Fraznulen spied the mess hall and hurried in ahead of the captain. He was studying the stripped-down replicators as Picard and the other Talavian caught up with him.

 

 

"Yes, this is most unfortunate," agreed their guest.

 

 

"What could have disabled your food dispensers and left the rest of the ship intact?" "I wish we knew," answered Picard. "Can you help US?" "First, the ale." He uncorked the clay bottle and took a swig from the open neck, without the benefit of a glass. Then he passed the bottle to Picard, who lifted it to his mouth. He recognized the ale's distinctive bouquet, so he screwed up his courage and took a swig. Relieved that the ale tasted as expected, he handed the bottle back to Fraznulen. The scribe, Leztarlen, was not offered a drink, nor were any members of Picard's crew, who watched curiously from the corridor. This wasn't exactly the opulent welcome Picard had received aboard the pinate ship, but he hoped the results would be better.

 

 

Fraznulen sunk into one of the hard chairs and put his skinny legs up on the table. Red hair popped from his knees, looking like tassels of Indian corn. "All right, Boothby, I believe you are what you say you are, which means you probably have nothing to trade." "Can we appeal to your altruistic nature?" asked Picard, holding out his hands.

 

 

The Talavian guffawed loudly. "Do you think we have come all this way for nothing? Oh, no, Captain, I can assure you we have a goal. There are treasures here, if you know where to look for them. We can't cover all these ships by ourselves, and we need help." Picard frowned. "We only searched one vessel, but we found it very dangerous... and strange." "Oh, yes, the Valley of Death is haunted." The Talavian nodded sagely and stared at Picard.

 

 

"Sightings have been getting more numerous in the last few seasons, driving most visitors away. You can't get a Cardassian to come here anymore, and they used to be our primary diggers." He quickly added, "We revere ghosts, and this is a place of legend for us. These ghosts are very special, because they leave gifts for the living." "Gifts?" asked Picard doubtfully.

 

 

"Yes, they bring gifts from the spirit world. I've seen them." He narrowed his eyes at Picard. "And so have you. I can always tell when someone has been blessed by the ghosts." "We took some inexplicable readings," said Picard guardedly. "Since you know what we want, we should find out what you want. We must have something to offer in trade." Fraznulen pointed to the open doorway and the gawkers in the corridor. "Can we have some privacy?" "Yes." Picard slapped the wall panel, and the door slid shut.

 

 

The Talavian leaned forward and craned his bald head downward. "Captain, we revere the objects which the ghosts transport from the spirit world, and we collect them... reverently. If we could find a ship's plaque, officer's insignia, or some such, it would pay for this entire trip." The captain scowled. "You are talking about objects which--to us--appear to be coming from an unknown phase shift. And they don't stay here long. It could be very dangerous." "I didn't say it wouldn't be," answered Fraznulen frankly. "We have come here for the gifts from the dead, nothing else. If this work is unacceptable to you, then we have nothing to talk about." "We only need a few days' worth of food and water," insisted Picard. "If you could look in our cargo bay, or in our hardware replicator, maybe you could find--" The Talavian cut him off with a sneer. "Bajoran technology offers us nothing we don't already have. If you want food and water from us, you will do precisely what I ask of you." "You'd leave us here, without food or water?" asked Picard with disgust.

 

 

Fraznulen grinned and motioned into space. "The benevolent Dominion is all around you, and I'm sure they would be happy to help you, if you need charity.

 

 

Food for work is what I offer, with no questions asked.

 

 

Every time you retrieve something, we'll give you commensurate food and water. If you find something really valuable, we'll give you a new food replicator." Captain Picard sighed heavily, not wanting to risk his crew on a salvage operation. But what choice did he have? Without food and water, the mission was over, and they faced either capture, mutiny, or slow death. Time was running out, and this was the best offer they were likely to get.

 

 

"We need a down-payment to start," said the captain.

 

 

The Talavian gave him a predatory grin, then rose to his feet. "This is just the accord I was hoping to reach with you, Captain. You have chosen to search a worthy vessel--we call it the Ancestor. You may have a knack for this work after all. We shall be nearby, searching the Soul Maker." The gangty alien took a swig of ale from the clay bottle and offered it to Picard. The captain had searched archaeological sites before, but this was different. This was plunder. He had never imagined he would be pushed to such extremes, but then these were extreme circumstances. With a scowl, the captain took the bottle and sealed the deal.

 

 

"There's one more thing that has to be part of the arrangement," said Picard. "We have Professor Grof's isolinear chip, which needs to be delivered to the Federation. It contains scientific notes." "Scientific notes?" Fraznulen laughed and pried the bottle from Picard's hand. He took a long drink, then wiped his thick lips on his hairy shoulder. "I can't tell if you are a ghost-hunter yet, Boothby, but you are certainly a gambler."

 

 

Ro Laren paced the confines of their gilded cage like a neurotic lioness. Although it was a luxurious boudoir with a sumptuous bed, silk pillows, a plush loveseat, and a coffee table covered with lusciouslooking food, it was also a cage. Ro understood that the Talavians were holding them as insurance for their captain's speedy return, but she didn't like to be confined. From the moment she had realized that the outer door was locked, she had complained.

 

 

It didn't help that Sam Lavelle was imprisoned with her. He had listened with sympathy to her tirade, but he looked annoyingly comfortable, stretched out on the bed, nibbling from a plate of sliced meats and pungent cheeses.

 

 

"I thought the captain told us not to eat anything," she snapped at him.