CHAPTER 11

Planetary Governor Tharrus watched the data screen with unblinking eyes.

“How many dead?” he asked.

“Fourteen,” came Phabaris’s clipped reply.

“Any casualties among our soldiers?” the governor asked.

The security officer shook his head. “Only very minor injuries. Nothing requiring treatment,” he reported.

Tharrus grunted. His soldiers had performed well. All of the prisoners armed with the deactivated weapons had been killed, with only two incidental deaths.

And the survivors had learned a much-needed lesson. Of course, had all of them participated, or had they enjoyed even a remote chance of success, the governor never would have allowed the attempt.

On reflection, it surprised him that the pathetic philosophers had gone through with their plan. It showed they still had some teeth—that there was some Romulan left in them despite everything.

In any case, there were more than thirty of the unificationists left. It was an acceptable number for the upcoming trial.

Tharrus took a moment to congratulate himself on keeping his operative in place through it all. The Tal Shiar would no doubt have recalled the agent as soon as the initial arrest was made.

But then, the Tal Shiar did not understand the value of information as the governor did. That was why he had been able to infiltrate the unificationists, whereas the homeworld organization had failed.

Fascinated, Tharrus took a closer look at the data screen. In the closing seconds of the incident, its recorder had swept over all of the surviving prisoners—including the cowardly bunch of unificationists who had chosen not to make the attempt.

For a moment, the recorder had lingered on them. They were watching the scene with the same maddening, impassive expressions the governor had seen them wear in person.

They had watched their braver friends perish, yet their faces betrayed nothing of what they must have been thinking. No doubt, the cowards envied the dying—for they were escaping the trial and the lingering death that came with it.

That kind of thinking was of concern to Tharrus. He could not allow any further nonsense, certainly nothing that would jeopardize the trial.

If the remaining traitors sought another escape attempt as a way to court death and cheat their fate, that would put him in an awkward position. The trial was to be broadcast throughout the Empire. The recognition it would bring was vital to his long-term plans.

Speaking of which …

He turned to Phabaris. “Has there been any official response to our communique to the homeworlds?”

“No, Governor,” the security officer replied.

That didn’t make sense. Romulus was certain to be furious at the announcement that Tharrus was handling the business of the traitors on his own.

He had not released the information until just the day before—specifically to reduce the central government’s options. Not that it could do much without losing support in the outer systems. But the governor had expected a reply at the very least.

He thought for a moment, then made his decision. There would be no surprises—not from the prisoners or anyone else.

“Ready your staff,” he told Phabaris. “I’m moving the trial up a day. The traitors will face their fate tomorrow.”

Walking the corridors of his outpost, Administrator Barnak resolved to have the matter of the human settled before the proconsul arrived. He knew full well that this was not exactly in the spirit of Eragian’s orders, but he would do it anyway.

After all, Barnak was already at an age when it was generally considered too late for a major promotion. He knew that this might be his last opportunity to do something that would be noticed by the central government.

If he failed, and damaged the human in the process, he would certainly incur the proconsul’s wrath. But if he succeeded, his impertinence would no doubt be forgotten. It was a chance he would take.

Besides, he was determined not to fail.

A moment later, he reached the door of the interrogation room. The administrator motioned for the two guards posted at the door to follow him inside.

He found the human seated on a chair in front of the table in the center of the room. As they entered, he looked up at them.

And immediately, a scowl formed on his face. He glowered at Barnak and his guards with hate in his eyes. It was a dangerous look, thought the administrator. A peculiarly Romulan sort of look.

The human stood slowly, maintaining his scrutiny of Barnak as he did so. It was then that the administrator noticed the officer’s clothes. Though familiar, they did not look like the Starfleet uniforms he had seen in reports.

Then Barnak realized what was wrong. The uniform was Starfleet, all right. But it was very old.

That was curious. Both the human’s uniform and his ship were from another era. Perhaps he really was mad.

For a moment, the administrator thought the human would attack them. He certainly looked as if he wanted to.

Barnak could sense his guards—his two best—tensing beside him, preparing themselves to react if the prisoner made an aggressive move. But the human didn’t attack. He merely continued to glare at his captors.

Not entirely mad? the administrator wondered.

“I am Administrator Barnak,” he said. “I would like to ask you a few questions.” His tone was serious, but not threatening. Certainly it was not meant to antagonize— not yet, anyway.

But antagonize it did. Suddenly going red in the face, the human snapped, “I have nothing to say to the likes of ye, Romulan!”

Barnak ignored the outburst, keeping his own tone even and inflectionless. “You have invaded Romulan space. You have made your hostile intent extremely clear. Yet, we are treating you with all the courtesies required by the Treaty of Algeron—which, I will point out, you yourself have broken.”

He paused. “Perhaps this incident was a mistake, in which case we could arrange your release with your government. But I can do nothing for you unless you cooperate.”

The human remained defiant. But underneath the defiance, Barnak detected something else at work. He was no expert in non-Romulan body language and responses, but he would have sworn he saw something behind the human’s eyes. The only word that came to mind was … intelligence.

The human may very well have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. The administrator could see that.

Nonetheless, when the human spoke, it was with the same active disdain he had displayed since Barnak entered the room.

“My mother didnae raise any fools, Romulan. Yell nae more let me go than I’ll grow wings and fly out of here.”

The administrator eyed the man. “I am an officer of the Romulan Empire. My word is my word.”

The prisoner was unimpressed. “Yer word means nothing to me, ye pointy-eared barbarian. Yer Empire is a lying, thieving band of bullies, and I’ll nae kneel before ye.”

Feeling his own anger rise within him, Barnak allowed some of it to seep into his voice. “All we are asking is simple cooperation,” he insisted. “Our governments are not at war—yet you invade us and dare to insult the Empire. You will answer my questions, or you will answer the proconsul’s—and his are not likely to be so polite.”

In response, the human did something that completely surprised the administrator. He laughed.

“Are ye threatening me?” he asked. “Are ye playing Good Romulan, Bad Romulan?” the human railed.

Barnak was silent for a moment. He was growing impatient with this exercise.

Forcing down his anger, he sat at the table in front of the Starfleet officer. His guards remained standing beside him.

Looking up at the human, he said, “Please, have a seat.”

To his further surprise, the prisoner sat down immediately. For the moment, he wore a calm expression, except for a maddening twitch in one eye.

“I would like to begin again,” Barnak told him. “Perhaps you will explain to me how it is that you are the only crew member aboard a century-old starship, and how you are wearing a uniform at least as old?”

The human mirrored the administrator’s reasonable tone. “I have come from the past,” he whispered, “to defend the Federation against the blight on the galaxy that is the Romulan Empire.”

Barnak grunted softly. “Yet it is you who attack us.”

The human waved his hand dismissively. “I know yer plans,” he breathed in an almost conspiratorial way. “And I’ll nae let ye take the Federation without a fight.”

Watching the man’s eyes closely, Barnak could see that same flash of something. Intelligence? Recognition? He once again had the feeling that the prisoner was somehow toying with them.

But to what end? He would surely know that anything hidden on his vessel would be found, and any secrets would be revealed in a formal interrogation.

What would be the purpose of a charade that merely postponed the inevitable? Unless … the key was in the postponing.

The administrator frowned, disappointed. This had not worked out the way he had planned. Still, there was no harm done. The prisoner was undamaged, as ripe as ever for Eragian’s plucking.

“I am afraid,” Barnak announced, “you leave me no choice but to end this interview.”

The human’s mouth twisted. “Romulan bastard,” he spat.

The administrator didn’t understand the reference. But he understood from the man’s tone that it was meant as an insult.

Resolving not to be baited, Barnak began to stand. But before he was out of his chair, the human’s hand shot out and grabbed the Romulan’s uniform at the throat.

Pulling himself close, the prisoner regarded Barnak with his now familiar sneer. “Yer mother’s a Klingon,” he snarled.

Reacting more to the insult than to the pitiful display of aggression, the administrator shook free of the human’s hand and stood—drawing his sidearm in the process.

With the disruptor aimed directly at the prisoner’s head, the Romulan reached for the trigger with his firing finger. But in the fraction of a second before he could fire, he was reminded of Eragian’s instructions.

The prisoner is to remain undamaged. Otherwise, Barnak knew, whoever had damaged him would be damaged in turn. Exquisitely so.

With an effort, the administrator put away his weapon, then motioned his guards to do the same. Apparently, he’d been wrong about the human. Only a madman would court death the way he had, for no apparent gain.

Barnak smiled a thin, grudging smile. “That concludes our interview. I regret that I have other business to attend to.” He glared at the human. “But do not worry. If you are withholding something from us, the proconsul will extract it from you. The time may come when you regret not having spoken with me.”

And with that, he left the room.

The first time Worf noticed the intermittent energy pulses on his long-range sensor monitor, he believed they were caused by a natural phenomenon. His best guess was that they’d come across a pulsar, positioned somewhere in Romulan space.

However, after he’d observed the pulses for a while, he began to wonder if he hadn’t discovered something else entirely.

That was when he put the ship’s computer on the case. Before long, an answer came back. The pulses didn’t seem to be generated by anything natural, the computer advised him.

More than likely, they represented some sort of message.

But what was it? Who had sent it? And for what purpose?

Again, he set the task before the ship’s computer. As it began its translation protocol, the Klingon tapped his communications badge. A moment later, he received an acknowledgment in the form of Picard’s voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?”

Worf told him about the pulses. And by the time he was done, the computer had finished its work. The answer to his questions stood in small red letters on the otherwise dark monitor screen.

It wasn’t good news. Not at all.

“Lieutenant? Are you still there?”

“I am, sir,” the Klingon replied. “Unfortunately, our rescue mission just became a good deal more complicated.”