Chapter Four

“YOUR POSITION is not logical.”

“But it is my position, Ambassador Lojal.”

The Vulcan ambassador stiffened at the tone. Usually the translators could not convey emotion, but this time the message was clear. Lojal had been dispatched to make contact with the Tholians, since they were isolated from the stops being made by Picard, Troi, and Ross. An experienced diplomat, he found himself looking forward to the experience, having never dealt with the enigmatic people before. The meeting was proving to be short and fruitless.

“Erask, I must ask,” Lojal said, trying a different tactic. “Are there no gateways in Tholian space?”

The current leader of the Tholian Assembly stood his ground, his features unreadable. The brightness of the Tholian being irritated Lojal’s eyes, despite them being used to the harsh Vulcan sun. While he was used to the glare from his homeworld’s deserts, these were garish, bright colors that seemed to shift across Erask’s skin. The two men were alone in an antechamber, with the Tholians showing little in the way of customary diplomatic finery. Lojal did not always see the point of elaborate customs but, coming from a world with a plethora of its own rituals and mores, he had come to accept them and their infinite variety. The almost total lack of them here should have been refreshing, but he found them troublesome.

“There are, Lojal. And we are dealing with the intrusion into our sovereign space.”

“Of course,” the ambassador said. “However, if you sit idly by and let another race gain control of the technology, it would not end these intrusions. They might increase.”

Lojal watched the colors shifting, trying to discern patterns, read into them emotions or communications. So little was known of these aggressive, private people that he could not help but be intrigued by them. They were, though, vexing in their inability to see his point. “I should further point out, Erask, that if you exclude the Tholians from this mission to the Iconian base ship, then you lose the tactical advantage of knowledge.”

The oranges grew over more of the Tholian’s body than the reds, and the yellows were almost nonexistent. Lojal was beginning to form a hypothesis over how the color worked but he was more surprised by Erask’s sudden movement forward. He planted his feet firmly and stood his ground, ignoring the violation of personal space. “You would not share with your diplomatic neighbors?”

“Erask, the Tholians have followed their own code of conduct in the years we have known you,” he patiently explained. “Rather than share the burden of opposing an invading race, you signed a nonaggression pact with the Dominion. Had the war gone in their favor, you would be feeling their encroachment on your space. The Federation had hoped you would see this problem in a similar light and agree to help us before the gateway problem grew to galactic proportions.”

“Ambassador Lojal, we consider ourselves an isolated race and prefer it that way. We cannot ignore the races that surround our space, but we prefer to pursue our own agenda. It does not include risking our ships in this foolhardy mission.”

The Vulcan nodded, recognizing the end of the meeting. Since there were no formalities to observe, he would not tarry. He would simply return to his transport, filing a disappointing report with the Federation. Clasping his hands to his chest, he deeply bowed, saying, “As you wish, Erask.”

As the ambassador turned to leave the room, Erask spoke up one final time. “Know this, Vulcan, we could afford to bid and own this technology. But it would invite more dealings with other governments. That is not our current interest. We will not be making an offer.”

Lojal nodded once in acknowledgment. While not gaining an ally, at least he could report that they had not gained a potential threat, either. Sometimes, that was the best an ambassador could hope for and he would have to content himself with that. Touching his communicator medallion, he asked to return to the ship and a swift journey home.

“Landik Mel Rosa, I give you one hour to turn your ships around and go home. At that time, if you are still here, we will fire,” Oliv ordered.

Riker shook his head in amazement. There was no possible way the Enterprise could stop the Deltans from firing, no way to prevent a war from breaking out between worlds. This mission had certainly changed his thinking about the Deltan people.

“Vale, any options occur to you?”

The security chief thought for a moment, eyes straining at her station. “Without additional firepower, we’re right now sitting in the potential crossfire. Too many ships, spread out in a classic pattern, and everyone’s hot to shoot first. We’re out of luck, sir.”

Riker nodded in agreement and continued to pace the bridge. Walking eased some of the strain, but not enough of it. The standoff was growing tenser and the addition of more Deltan vessels spoiled any hope of a diplomatic solution. Starfleet had not responded to his last communiqué and the Diplomatic Corps was equally nonresponsive. He did not have the authority to contact the Deltan homeworld directly and he wasn’t even sure if he should bother. Oliv was determined to gain possession of this dead rock, for whatever good it would do the Deltan people.

He wasn’t sure what to do next: make popcorn to watch the inevitable fight or pray for Q to turn up.

Worf stood at the entrance to the bridge of the Chargh, taking in the activity. It was, as usual, darker than Federation starships and the officers were in a ring, behind the captain. Commanding the ship was Grekor, tall, overweight, and given to fastidious habits such as even fingernails and well-groomed hair. The hair itself was starting to streak with gray and the full beard was already more salt than pepper in color.

Grekor sat, filling the chair, his arms hanging over the sides, well-manicured fingers nervously tapping at the sides. He seemed a bundle of energy, barely contained, and intolerant of the slightest error. However, Worf noted, he was quick with his tongue, not his fists. Most Klingon commanders ruled with such power, but inspired little in the way of loyalty. This one, though, had an equally aging crew and he suspected they had served together a long time.

“Ambassador Worf, son of Mogh,” he announced.

Before the words were finished, Grekor was on his feet and nodded to the ambassador. “Grekor, son of Krad,” he replied. “Welcome to the Chargh.”

Worf heard an eagerness in the tone that did not seem directed to the battle. He knew the House of Krad had fallen on hard times and that Grekor was one of the senior members. No doubt, he saw this mission as a chance to advance his position. Grekor continued to bark orders, dressing down the engineer, Kliv, for not being warp-ready yet. When all seemed to his satisfaction, Grekor finally turned once more toward the ambassador.

“How may I help the esteemed ambassador?”

Worf now recognized the solicitous tone and was unhappy. Right after settling on Qo’noS, he heard it all too often as people came to his office and asked favors.

“We remain in orbit around Qo’noS,” Worf said. “I came to make sure you understood the parameters of our mission.”

“Once more we ally ourselves with the Federation, each grasping for some victory against the Iconians,” Grekor answered.

“You are to follow Captain Picard’s orders without question,” Worf said, the tone allowing no interruption. “Yes, we are allies but we are also there to find the truth. If there is to be a fight, then we will fight our way to Sto-Vo-Kor, but under the Enterprise’ s direction. Initiative is not a requirement at this time.”

“But of course, Ambassador. The Chargh’ s history is nowhere near as illustrious as the Enterprise’ s. I hope to learn much from Picard’s dealings with these people.”

Worf winced at the unctious tone, but concluded Grekor would be an irritant, not a complication.

“Very well,” he replied. “We leave within minutes. Be ready.” He left the bridge, hoping to maintain his distance from the captain.

Picard felt refreshed as he entered the turbolift at the beginning of the alpha shift. The Chargh and the Qob were matching speed and causing no trouble. Before going to sleep hours before, he received Counselor Troi’s message that the Gorn had agreed to join the mission. He was already figuring out flight patterns and communications systems to keep everyone linked.

As he strode onto the small—too small if you asked him—bridge, First Officer Davison smartly relinquished the command seat. It was a by-the-book bridge crew, Picard thought approvingly. He might have been hasty in thinking the Academy was churning out too many replacement personnel with insufficient preparation. Chan, Hol, and Rosario all were at their posts.

“Status, Commander?”

“En route to the Iconian ships.”

Hol called out from ops, one hand cupped to the receiver in his oversized ear. “I’m receiving a long-distance signal on a wavelength not used by the Federation.”

Picard frowned. “Point of origin?”

Hol studied a readout, then turned to the captain. “Off the starboard bow, about seventy-five thousand kilometers away. It’s moving so I think it’s a ship.”

Picard stood and Rosario at tactical snapped on the yellow alert signal. Picard walked around and leaned over the small, light-haired man’s shoulder. “I didn’t order yellow alert. We don’t know enough to be worried.”

The tactical officer swallowed twice and keyed off the alert. Picard noted he knew his station fluently, but was nervous, not something a captain wants in the person with his finger on the trigger. He noted to himself to be precise in his orders. Picard pointed to a readout on the left side of the console and Rosario’s head bobbed up and down twice—he seemed to do everything twice, Picard noticed.

“They’re too far away to fire on us, and we can’t tell if they even have their weapons powered. But do note their course and speed. Ensign Chan, take the feed from Lieutenant Rosario and project backwards. Let’s figure out where they came from.”

Davison joined Picard at the station and flanked Rosario. The trio studied the monitor and when no new information presented itself, the captain moved on, completing a circuit of the bridge, still getting a feel for the space. He had been spoiled by both Enterprises, luxuriating in their size, forgetting his days aboard smaller craft such as the Stargazer. Picard imagined it granted the crew easier camaraderie, but also made for close quarters when things grew tense.

After another moment, the conn officer announced, “They’re projected as coming from uncharted space.”

“Excuse me, Ensign?”

“Well, sir, there are no Federation or even M-class planets anywhere along the path. I’ve projected a straight-line and it originates in no known system.”

Picard nodded and retook his seat. Davison joined him and the two leaned in together as she said, “A hostile?”

He shook his head and gazed off for a moment, analyzing the scant data and checking his instincts. Nothing definite occurred to him so he let the nod be his answer. The two sat silently as the starship continued on its course, with an unknown coming toward them. The captain noted that Rosario had regained his composure and was whispering with Hol. He spoke up, “Something to share, gentlemen?”

Hol looked up, the light reflecting off his bald brow. He seemed surprised to having been caught but had nowhere to turn while the younger tactical officer retreated to his station. “Actually, Captain, we were speculating.”

“On the intruder?”

“Yes, sir. Ah, Mr. Rosario and I just placed a wager on the origin of the ship.”

Picard nodded and looked expectantly. The science officer seemed dumbfounded for a moment but then realized the captain was expecting more information. Picard held the gaze, measuring the Tiburonian, and hoping he would volunteer the information. He disliked feeling distanced from the crew and was using this opportunity to open things up.

“I was hypothesizing a Breen attack ship and Johnny, that is, Mr. Roasrio thought it might be from the Klingons.”

“I think you will both lose the wager, Mr. Rosario,” Picard said. “Chancellor Martok promised two ships so it’s unlikely we’ll have more. The Breen, well, they’re a long shot, Mr. Hol.”

“Everyone loses,” Davison said. She had moved toward the flight control station and was checking the readouts. “We’re about to make some new friends . . . at least I hope they’re friends. Their configuration is new to me and sensors show differing energy emissions.”

Picard nodded in approval, awaiting more detail from the crew.

“They’ve definitely spotted us,” Hol said, caution in his voice. “Slowing to sublight.”

“If they have weapons, they’re not showing on my screen,” Rosario added. “I’m matching their modulation for a hailing call.”

“Excellent,” the captain said, hoping it would help ease some of the mounting tension. “Helm, go to sublight and let’s allow them to catch up easily. Commander Davison, notify Captain Grekor. Distance?”

“Fifty-three thousand kilometers and closing.”

“Let’s hail them, Mr. Rosario.”

“Channel open” was the reply.

Picard stood, adjusted his duty jacket, cleared his throat, and then began his usual greeting. He had certainly handled enough first contacts. However, to make one now during the Iconian troubles seemed odd and out of place. Unless . . . he finished his greeting, awaiting a response, and received only audio.

“Federation? We know of you!”

Picard was surprised by the reply, coming without the matching formality. “And how do you know of us? Where do you hail from?”

“You call it the Delta Quadrant.”

The announcement surprised the entire bridge complement. Rosario and Hol shared a glance, Picard noted, both officers having lost their bet. Davison seemed intrigued and Chan was visibly startled. Picard would need to hold them together as he assessed the situation. Looking again at Rosario, the tactical officer checked his station, rechecked it, and shook his head: no sign of weapons being active.

“How do you know of us? And to whom am I speaking?”

“Sorry, my name is Taleen and I met your Voyager.”

Voyager! Picard knew Starfleet had only verified they had survived a few weeks earlier and were trapped tens of thousands of light-years from home. In fact, Reginald Barclay, one of his former officers, had managed to establish the first significant contact with the missing starship. Troi had worked alongside him, making sure this was not another of his fantasies gone haywire, but it proved to be the genuine article. Had a gateway network existed there, too? If so, and this ship came through it, there might be hope yet for the starship to come back during Captain Janeway’s lifetime. He made a mental note to review the report form Command on that ship.

“Welcome to the Alpha Quadrant, Taleen. How did you find us?”

“We were performing routine patrols and then suddenly we detected unusual activity in an asteroid field. Upon investigation we saw this giant spinning window. The pilot steered us too close and we got caught in its energy field, I guess, and we wound up here. Well, not here but back there, where the window let us out.”

“Do you have injured or need assistance?”

“Actually, Captain, we have a minimal crew. It was a short-run patrol and our captain was not even aboard. I guess I’m the acting commander.”

“Have you tried going back through the window . . . which is actually called a gateway?”

“Well, Captain Picard, the gateway spins so fast, showing differing destinations, we haven’t dared try to make our way through fearing we’d get further lost.”

Picard nodded to himself; aware of the dilemma posed by an aperture large enough to fit a starship. “Taleen, you and your ship are welcome to join us. Our small group of ships are on our way to meet the gateway’s owners and have, shall we say, a little talk?”

“Truth to tell, Captain, we’re very unsure of ourselves right about now. I liked Janeway and think I can trust you.”

Picard looked once more at Rosario, who shrugged: no weapons he could detect. He wished Troi was with him now, to guide his actions. His own instincts would have to suffice.

“Of course you can. Once we’re under way, my first officer will be in touch regarding matching our technologies so we can stay in contact. Perhaps you’ll even have a chance to tour our ship.”

“Thank you, thank you, Captain. I wasn’t certain what we’d find once we got under way, but we didn’t want to stay just in case nastier ships followed us through.”

“I understand completely. Stand by for instructions. Picard out. Commander, begin working out the necessary details. Mr. Rosario, keep an eye out just in case we’re being fooled. You too, Mr. Hol. I want a full sensor report within the hour. Meantime, I’ll be in the ready room.”

As he rose, the others acknowledged the commands. Picard stopped at the science station and attracted Hol’s attention. In a low voice he said, “If you’re a betting man, we can try cards later. On the other hand, this is the bridge where we need to remain focused on the business at hand.”

A chorus of “Aye, sirs” immediately followed and Picard nodded in approval. Yes, they would come around and act accordingly.

The captain stared from his viewing station, shaking his head at the sight before him. Huge mountains, tall and craggy, flanked his shipping vessel. He estimated them to be several kilometers higher than any mountain he knew at home. Wrapping his muffler tighter around his neck, the captain couldn’t stop shivering. For the last hour, the temperature had dropped several dozen degrees and the crew was ill equipped for the adverse conditions. If it kept plummeting, he expected to find icebergs and wasn’t sure how well they’d handle them.

What started out as a three-hour fishing cruise had turned into a nightmare. Belowdecks, fifty wealthy passengers had paid for the tour and a chance to catch the red gapi, which was in season. They were among the more easily caught fish, the captain knew, but it made the people happy and they tipped nicely.

Everything seemed fine as they set out from port but about half an hour into the trip, they were caught in a strong current, which pulled them toward something he had never seen before. The archway spanned the entire inlet, embedded in the rock. Within its center, light swirled fast and showed images like a giant screen. He had no idea what it was and his ship’s equipment had trouble measuring its output. Worse, the engineer reported the current was gaining strength and pulling the fishing ship toward the thing. He tried every trick he knew but they were headed for the spinning crystal, as he named it, and couldn’t stop.

With surprise, the ship simply entered and passed through the crystal. The captain felt nothing, nor did his crew. His fishing passengers, still inside the vessel, had no clue what had happened, not that he knew much more. The wheelwright noted a change in the horizon line and then commented the sun had moved. Moved and grown larger and darker.

Choking back panic, the captain quickly checked his maps and couldn’t match shorelines. Worse, his radioman couldn’t raise anyone, receiving only static on their normal bands. The only good news came from the engineer, who said the passage through the crystal left the ship undamaged.

An old hand on the water, the captain was reassured by the tang of salt in the air. For a brief moment he considered what kind of sea life might lurk below.

They continued to sail, hoping to find a populated landmass or another ship, but after several hours their hopes grew dim. By then, it became clear to all that they were no longer on their homeworld of Prakal II and none had any clue as to what planet they were now visiting. The wheelwright had suggested reversing course and going through the crystal again, but the captain remained uncertain. Many of the wealthy passengers didn’t want to chance it, being fearful of winding up in an even worse location.

On the fifth hour, the navigator found a landmass. It was large and appeared to be a continent. The captain had them radio once more but received no reply. He then directed the ship to parallel the coastline and drift closer along the way. He wasn’t sure what else there was to do.

And now mountains—cold mountains which defied logic and his own senses. The captain couldn’t imagine how they managed to get between such masses without warning but here they were. He directed the wheelwright to make a steady line between them, praying to the goddess for success.

For eighteen minutes they passed between the mountains, which blotted out the sun and made things that much colder. Except for his crew, everyone was confined to the party rooms within. No doubt they had raided the wine casks, but the captain didn’t much care right about now.

Suddenly, directly before them rose a third mountain range, even more immense. Panic gripped the crew and the ship wheeled about, searching for any safe passage. The captain had scopes to his eyes looking for life or hope and found neither. He did feel the sea swell against the hull and the ship started to lose its path. The swells grew and the ship foundered, as the wheelwright tried to keep a steady path toward the narrow space between the mountains to their left and directly before the ship.

Wheeling hard about, the ship tried to avoid the mountains before them and instead rode a swell that brought them perilously close to the mountains on their side. The swells grew into waves and the ship was battered back and forth, now just going with the flow, no longer able to chart its own course.

The captain gritted his teeth, seeing the gray, featureless land come ever closer. The hull scraped against rocks jutting out of the water, knocking the navigator off his feet. Another swell and another moment of contact but this one had a sound of metal bending.

Could he abandon ship? Did it even make sense to send out the lifecraft with waters getting rougher by the moment?

As one giant wave smacked the boat into the land, puncturing three different parts of the hull, the captain’s eyes grew wide in amazement. The mountains before him and to the right were gone, just open sea.

Sunlight played off the churning water and, frozen with confusion, the captain couldn’t understand what was happening.

What he would never know was that the sinking ship was another victim of the hypnotic tides on Balosnee VI, a world the captain and passengers had never heard of.

Deep Space Station K-7 had seen better days. It was once a thriving place of business allowing traders to use it as a hub. It was well placed when originally constructed, just a parsec from the Klingon border. Members of both the Federation and the Klingon Empire used it for trading, meetings, and clandestine rendezvous.

It was also immortalized in the several dozen songs the Klingons sang about their nemesis, the tribbles.

Over time, the location became less vital, and as relations thawed between the governments, K-7 remained a resupply station, but no longer of interest. Its clientele deteriorated until it became a place thieves brought their goods to find fences. The station’s bar served rumor along with illegal Romulan ale and information was the coin of the realm.

Although still managed by the United Federation of Planets, it allowed establishments within to be licensed and run by, well, just about anyone.

Hovan knew none of that when he woke up. All he knew was that his mouth was filled with dust from the steel deck and the smell in the air made him dizzy. He naturally thought he had too much to drink.

No, that wasn’t right. He forced himself to sit up, spit some of the grit from his mouth, and concentrated. After a meeting with his minister, Hovan was walking home when a bright light momentarily blinded him, causing him to trip and sending him into the light.

When he stopped falling, by hitting the hard metal deck of the space station, Hovan had no idea where his home went. The air was different, the sounds were alien to him, and the smells were offensive. Naturally, Hovan presumed the Kes kidnapped him, or maybe another party. Whoever had him would regret it, he concluded. Within his bodysuit was his defensive stunner and he now gripped it tightly in his right hand.

He looked around the dim corridor and finally noticed the rotund form nearby. He was old and had some sort of uniform on complete with weapons belt. Hovan had concluded he was kidnapped, but for what reason? The man was not of Kesprytt III, so the answer was another party, but which one? Ever since the Kes petitioned the Federation for membership, all manner of unwanted people tried to visit their world. Hovan was among the more active members of the Prytt, shunning off-worlders and prohibiting trade whenever possible. He felt it his duty and moral right to remain isolated from the other races and remained offended that the Kes opened their arms like a lowly whore.

Hovan leapt forward, placing the stunner below the left ear of the surprised figure.

“Where am I?” Hovan hissed.

The man’s body language indicated he did not understand Hovan’s words. So, he was not of Kesprytt, which only confused matters more. Their conflict was strictly an internal one, so who would interfere and why would they bring him to this offensive place? Slowly, the man raised his hands, leaving his sidearm attached to the thick belt. Hovan reached around and grabbed it, not recognizing the manufacture but knowing it to be a weapon. Suspicious of its use, he tossed it far behind him.

“I asked: Where am I?”

The fat man tried to answer but it sounded nonsensical to Hovan and he sneered. Gutter language perhaps. Certainly not something he could imagine understanding, so he spun the guard around and placed the stunner at eye level. The scared figure was sweating, making his scalp glisten beneath the thinning black hair. His very appearance bothered Hovan but he would need someone to get him home and this creature was elected. But what to do next? Without knowing where he was he couldn’t begin to figure out how to get home.

With his arm stiff, he gestured with the stunner for the guard to start walking again. The two proceeded several yards in silence until they came upon a viewport. Hovan made the guard stop and together they looked out to the stars. The Kesprytt couldn’t recognize any patterns, being a carpenter, not a scientist. He spoke again, and this time the man shrugged.

Nervous, frustrated, and annoyed to be relying on an alien for help, Hovan balled his left hand into a fist and struck out. The punch went deep, given how out of shape the humanoid was, knocking the breath out of him. A second blow made the guard go to one knee and Hovan kept asking where he was and every time there was no response, he struck again. After nearly a dozen blows, Hovan noticed the human had stopped trying to move or protect himself. He just lay there, breathing with difficulty. Hovan looked at the form, spat on his back, and proceeded deeper into the station, hoping to find the elusive way home.

Jerolk liked the market at midweek. It was full of spices and baked scents; he could tell from one whiff of the heavy air who had come to sell and who was missing. For four decades he had come to the market, first with his father and now with his own son. The trip took all morning, so by the time they arrived, atop a wagon full of setch, a spud-like tuber, the first thought was not of selling their harvest but of lunch.

Werq’s was the place to go, he knew. Old Man Werq served the hottest, spiciest stew in the valley, filling your bowl before you could even sit down. Jerolk’s son, Panni, didn’t like the spice and sopped it up with hot bread, hoping to cut the sharpness. It rarely worked and his eyes watered, making his father laugh. After all, he was much the same, and the continuity pleased him. Plant after the last snow, harvest when the trees were at their fullest, and every midweek come to the market, dining at Werq’s.

The eatery was filled, as usual, but the air seemed different. He sniffed once, twice, and registered stronger, sweatier smells than normal. The tables were also more crowded, making it difficult to navigate. He held tight to Panni’s small hand, not wanting to lose him in the crowd. People were grumbling, he noted, not sounding at all pleased.

“It’s been like this all week . . .”

“. . . he hands me two bars, tells me to get lost . . .”

“. . . didn’t have my order this week, might not next . . .”

“. . . credit wasn’t good enough . . .”

“. . . sold out faster than ever . . .”

“. . . stopped the fight for the last one . . .”

Two large, burly men stood from a corner table and Jerolk grew nervous. They were bigger than normal farmers, clothes blackened and repeatedly patched. These were the source of the stench, and their darker skins meant they weren’t native to Cadmon. While this was not unusual, the valley tended not to have many off-world visitors. He grew to like being in this little oasis, away from starports and intergalactic trade. Call him old-fashioned, but this is how he liked his life.

Panni slipped from his father’s grasp and ducked under one fellow farmer, reaching the table first, and claiming the two seats. His father smiled with pride and took the opposite chair. The youth didn’t notice or at least didn’t mention anything wrong, instead looking at the tabletop.

“What’s wrong, sprout?”

“Nothing, Dad,” he replied. “Just not used to seeing the table without our bowl and stew.”

True enough, the wait staff could not maneuver swiftly enough to handle the customers, which contributed to the foul mood permeating the room. Jerolk wanted to eat and begin selling his setch so they could start home before dark. There were chores awaiting them both, along with a warm and loving wife. Finally, Meloth, one of the regular staff, showed up with an unhappy look.

“No stew. All gone.”

Jerolk was stunned. “This never happened before. What’s going on?”

Meloth offered a bowl of bread ends, which the younger man snatched at, causing his father to chuckle. “Miners, lots of them, come to buy supplies.”

“Okay, this happens now and again, but all the stew?”

“Been like this all week, Jer,” the waiter replied. “They showed up two days ago, started buying up supplies, offering raw ore worth a fortune, and discovered Werq’s. We’ve never been so busy . . . or so strapped for supplies.”

“Eh?”

“Well, they buy everything, plus you’ve got your regulars, Jer. Folk like you. Unexpected demand, same supply, it just means we run out of everything. Werq himself can’t get enough to keep the larder full, and the miners still come in and demand food. It’s what you might call a situation.”

Helping himself to a crust, Jerolk seemed thoughtful.

“Raw ore, you say?”

“Purest stuff I’ve ever seen. Should bring a fortune when processed. Wish I were farming instead of working off me debts.”

Jerolk puzzled over the situation. If the miners wanted setch, he’d sell the lot instead of the two-thirds or three-quarters he normally sold. In fact, he might even charge a higher price to the miners, getting that ore. After all, there’d be tuition, tithing, and a new set of tools he’d need coming up. The ore, if Meloth was right, would help. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of their hunger. “Who might have something hot left?”

The waiter shook his head sadly. “If it’s like the last two days, no one. That’s the problem, none of us can keep stocked to meet the demand.”

“I’ll put aside a bag or two extra for Werq,” Jerolk said absently. “Couldn’t do to make the cook starve, just doesn’t seem right. Raw ore from the mines . . . how far away did they come?”

Meloth shook his head once more. “That’s the thing of it, Jer. They’re from Harod IV, not from here. And the ore is silver, something they’ve got lots of and we’ve got precious little.”

The news shocked the farmer. Harod IV was nowhere near Cadmon, and they never had any formal trading. Yet there they were, in the valley, buying up everything in sight.

Selling the setch would bring him a great price, but if everyone had silver ore, what would its market value be in a day or week? And if they took all the supplies, what would the people have? Short-term, this looked too good to be true. Looking beyond the week, Jerolk didn’t like the possibilities.

Not at all.

* * *

“Time’s up, Mel Rosa. You’re still here.”

“Did he have to be so punctual?” Riker asked no one in particular.

Undaunted, Data commented, “He is actually early by thirty-five seconds.”

“Swell. Status, Lieutenant Vale?”

“He’s a man of his word,” Vale replied. “Weapons charged, locking on targets directly ahead.”

Riker leaned forward, resting his boot on the side of Data’s console. “Perim, get us in the line of fire. Vale, more power to the forward shields.”

As the Trill got the ship moving, the lead Deltan vessel unleashed a crimson beam that erupted in a shower of sparks on the Enterprise’ s defensive screens. The larger starship was a little rattled but maintained its position between the Carreon and the Deltan craft.

Even though the Enterprise took the shot meant for Landik Mel Rosa’s ship, the Carreon fired back. Two other Deltan ships returned that volley and within moments, the Federation starship was caught in a horrible fight. Shots glanced off the shields, shaking the ship, but it took no direct hits.

On the bridge, Riker had a tactical display put on the forward viewer. He and Data approached the display and studied the positioning of the ships. The Deltan ships were well spaced, requiring little movement, while the fewer Carreon vessels scrambled fire and move, fire and move. Those last seven Deltan ships had hung back—score one for Riker.

“Vale, I want half the phaser banks locked on to the Deltans, the other half on the Carreons—I don’t care which ship or how many. On my signal, I want a simultaneous burst. Maybe that’ll knock some sense into them.”

“Aye, sir. Targeting now.”

“Commander,” Data asked, “what do you hope to accomplish with this action?”

Riker glanced at his control screen, tapped in some commands, and considered his response. It was surely a question the brass would ask of him when this was over. “I want to make them wonder if I’m willing to fire on a Federation member, whose side am I really on.”

Data looked at him intently.

“Something else, Data?”

“Which side are you on, sir?”

Riker grinned. “The right one.” He turned to Vale, standing tautly over her station. “Ready, Lieutenant?”

She nodded.

“Fire.”

Riker could hear the phasers from all around him and was satisfied the starship was performing as expected. He had grown to like the Sovereign-class version of the Enterprise, although he still had warm feelings for its predecessor. Still, one needs to keep up with the times and the time was now for this ship to perform.

“Direct hits on four ships, three Deltan and one Carreon. Shields faltering, no other systems impaired.”

“Nice firing, Vale. Ready another volley.”

Just then, the tactical display started to shimmer as ships from all points began to move. Riker didn’t like the pattern and liked it less when he was proven right. All the ships converged and fired on the Enterprise, buffetting it. Riker stumbled, tripping on the command platform, and fell to the carpeted deck below.

Picking himself up, Riker coughed once and looked around as damage control teams arrived to work on shorted circuits and burned-out isolinear chips. He noted that everyone else remained seated, so he took his place in the command chair and asked for reports. So far they remained relatively unscathed but Riker didn’t like the idea of defending himself against so many ships.

“Okay, maybe the side of the right was overstating things a bit.”

Captain Picard liked to consider himself an openminded individual, so he could make himself equally comfortable sharing drinks with Chancellor Martok or spelunking on Risa. But he didn’t like Cardassia.

He had plenty of reason to personally dislike the Cardassians, having battled against them and been tortured quite thoroughly by one of them. Their willingness to sell their souls to the Dominion brought about a war that would leave its mark on the quadrant for at least another generation.

As the Marco Polo approached, he could see a gray ball. Cardassia always seemed to have a miasma around it from centuries of exploitation. It was a resource-poor world when life took hold, and remained such, which may have fueled the Cardassians’ desire to grow beyond their solar system. Picard’s ancestors faced similar problems but managed to find ways to generate the power they needed to grow, without destroying the ecosystems. It was a lesson the Cardassians never learned.

Now, though, the miasma was more of a shroud; the result of the Dominion’s final, brutal attack on the planet before their surrender which left untold thousands of Cardassians dead, their cities in ruins.

They would certainly have the desire to gain control of the gateways, Picard mused, but would they have the ability to pay for it?

“Dingy,” Chan said, breaking Picard’s thoughts.

“Dirty,” Rosario agreed. Chan looked over to him with bright eyes.

“No, I go with dingy,” Davison added to the discussion, as Cardassia grew larger on the screen.

“That’s two dingies to one dirty,” Chan noted. “What do you think, Kal?”

The Tiburonian looked up from his studies, glanced at the screen, and offered, “Unsuccessful.”

Picard nodded at that observation and stood. Everyone grew silent, which bothered the captain. He had hoped to find himself growing more comfortable with the young and eager officers, but it wasn’t coming easily. The experiences aboard the Enterprise might have spoiled him more than he realized.

“I’ll do this from the ready room, Commander. You have the bridge. Let’s make sure our Klingon friends remain on this system’s edge. There might still be raw feelings on both sides.”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain walked from the bridge, noting that the debate over the planet’s appearance had started up again. Had anyone bothered to ask him, he would have suggested “disappointing.”

Seated at his small desk in the ready room, he personally opened the channel to Cardassia’s government. The planet and its ruling Detapa Council lay in ruin. A ruling body had formed, with representatives from around the planet. A touch of democracy, he thought, something foreign to the Cardassian Union for many centuries. Gone was the joint rule of the military, in the form of Central Command, and the shadowy spy network of the Obsidian Order; gone was the iron hand of the Dominion.

The new government had readily accepted Federation aid, working around the clock to rebuild their devastated homes. They appeared sincere in their efforts to start afresh, which Picard applauded, but he privately wondered if there was too little left to salvage. The Cardassian people were so accustomed to reaping the resources of their conquered holdings that they turned scant attention to rebuilding their own world’s ability to sustain life.

Picard also knew that all was not harmonious on the world. People remained loyal to the Detapa ideals or even had served in the now-obliterated Obsidian Order. Accepting Federation assistance would be anathema to them and they might even go so far as to sabotage the rebuilding efforts.

Still, they had ships and officers and might be willing to help as a return for the quadrant’s generosity.

The small desk screen came to life and the benign features of a Cardassian greeted him. The man was your typical native, pale gray-green skin with the thick ridges running down the sides of his neck. Picard found he could not read the man’s expression.

“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Marco Polo,” he began.

Unexpectedly, the man’s face brightened. “Ah, the famous Enterprise captain.”

“Have we met?” Picard asked cautiously.

“Not at all. Until recently, I owned a humble tailor’s shop on Deep Space 9 and I don’t think you ever paid me a visit.”

“I see,” Picard said neutrally.

“But word does spread; some ships have such wonderful reputations and storied adventures. I daresay most Cardassians are familiar with you and your ship.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed, Mister . . .”

“I am Garak.”

“Do you have a title, sir?”

“Just plain, simple Garak will suffice. How can we help you today?” His unctuous voice sounded like that of a salesman, someone used to serving. Picard, however, had read the reports and knew of Garak’s involvement on DS9, and how he helped Captain Sisko on numerous occasions during the war. Now, Garak was something like a world leader, holding power on a world with very little power to offer.

“I would think, rather, you would anticipate us coming after your meeting with the Iconians.”

Garak thought a moment, and Picard realized that he couldn’t read the man’s expressions. He masked them quite well, but the eyes were bright and he seemed interested in talking. “Well, then, it’s no secret they paid us a call,” he said. “I’m told they visited many governments, hm?”

“Yes, which is why I am here.”

“Not to bring us more supplies, as I had hoped.” He genuinely seemed disappointed.

The captain nodded and waited, deciding to let this Garak prattle on until they could get serious. To his surprise, though, Garak affably waited as well and the silence grew. He didn’t dare look away, suddenly recognizing the game this had become. Finally, though, when the time seemed interminable, he gave in and said, “Mr. Garak, I am assembling a fleet of ships, representing many cultures, hoping to force the Iconians to reveal their true plans for the technology and why they have chosen to return now.”

“A humanitarian mission for the good of the Alpha Quadrant? Very noble of the Federation, Captain. Your altruism has always impressed me. I keep expecting it to be your downfall and I remain disappointed.” Garak kept his voice well modulated, giving nothing away but Picard thought there was a mocking tone coming through.

“We had hoped to include a representative from your government as well.”

Garak’s eyes opened a bit and he took a shallow breath. “Now that’s very interesting, Captain. Why would we expend our resources on such a venture?”

“The gateways are causing all manner of havoc throughout known space, reaching as far as the Delta Quadrant.” He noticed a change in the Cardassian’s eyes. The tailor lived up to the briefings, Picard concluded. Dr. Julian Bashir had noted how wonderfully absorbant Garak’s mind was and how good he was at misdirection and subterfuge. The mind was processing this new information, weighing it against a decision he suspected had already been made.

“Do you expect this to become a battle, explaining K’tinga-class vessels rather than smaller birdsofprey?”

Picard grunted, wondering how good their sensor array was. Now he knew, and it wasn’t like Garak to give something away unless he thought it was payment for the previous information. It was like trading with a Ferengi, without looking for the trick.

“I accepted what the chancellor offered, as I will from your government.”

“Very good of you, Captain. Having those gateways would certainly allow us to rebuild our trade with other cultures a lot faster, wouldn’t you say?”

Picard grew silent, not rising to the bait.

“Marvelous technology. It’s a shame, really, that they don’t exist anywhere within light-years of our world. Imagine how it could make us all one large neighborhood.”

With Cardassia so close to Bajor and the wormhole, it should have occurred to Command that the Cardassians might not be approached. And if they weren’t approached or had easy access to even a single gateway, the conclusion was inevitable.

“Indeed,” Picard said. “I’m not going to receive any assistance from your government, am I?”

The game over, Garak shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not, Captain. But I must say it was a privilege to have a chance to speak with you.”

With that, the screen faded to black and Picard sat back in his chair. The trip had been a waste of time, he concluded. Precious time gone by. There was little likelihood the Cardassians would ever agree to such a mission and Ross, of all people, should have known that. Intriguing as Garak was, Picard did not need to spend time in pursuit of a quarry preferring its current isolation.

He signaled the bridge, asking the Marco Polo to leave dirty, dingy, unsuccessful Cardassia behind and continue on their way.