Chapter Seven

“GREEN.”

“Veridian IV. Purple and diamond.”

“Eminiar VII. Naked.”

“Easy, Betazed.”

“Really? I was kidding.” Chan turned around in her chair and looked at Rosario. He bobbed his head twice, making the curls wave.

The tactical officer grinned back at her. “Yeah, but trust me, those are wedding holos you don’t want to see.”

“Where were we?”

“I guessed right. My turn: Orange.”

As Chan tugged her ear in concentration, Troi appeared on the bridge and caught the end of the conversation. She smiled at how well the younger crew members were getting along just as Picard described. With a glance, she saw that despite himself, Hol was following the game. She had quickly studied the crew manifests, and got snapshot descriptions from Picard as she rushed through packing a travel case. Things were moving very quickly for her, but she channeled the adrenaline to keep her moving rather than let her anxiety take hold of her. She hoped there’d be time for some meditation en route to the Iconian ships.

Picard had escorted her to the transporter room, trying to convey additional information about the Marco Polo crew. She had smiled, realizing he had come to appreciate them fairly quickly, something he wouldn’t have done a decade earlier. Troi was proud of him.

Riker had remained on the bridge, coordinating shipto-ship activities, and couldn’t spare a moment to wish her well. It hurt a little but she recognized there was little time to waste.

Finally reaching the transporter room, Picard had summed up, “They’re more green than not, but they will follow your commands.” She had nodded and placed her case on the pad beside her. The captain had stepped toward the console and held out his hand to the transporter chief.

He, in turn, had reached down and handed the captain a helmet of some sort. Troi hadn’t recognized it and couldn’t understand why it was here.

“Commander Riker was busy, but he did ask that we present this to you for your new command,” Picard had said with a grin.

“And this is?”

“An old-fashioned helmet, used by the early fliers on Earth. Will thought you might need it in case . . .”

“. . . I crash another ship. Very funny. Thank you, Captain. Will you please tell the commander that I will show my appreciation when I return to the Enterprise.”

His grin had widened. “Of course, Counselor. Good luck. Although I’m sure you won’t be needing it.”

As the transporter beam had caught her, Troi suddenly realized how it was going to look when she arrived on the smaller vessel carrying a crash helmet. Oh yes, Will would see just how much she liked the gift.

Davison was waiting for her and sure enough, gave her a quizzical expression, but chose not to ask. She merely had a yeoman take the case and helmet to the captain’s quarters and escorted Troi to the bridge. Troi realized they were young and eager, some a little scared, but their emotions were bolstering. They all wanted the mission to go well and were thrilled to be a part of it.

She hoped they would not come to regret the notion.

“I’m stumped,” Chan finally admitted.

“Altair IV, Imsk, or Korugar,” Hol said from the science station.

“Let me guess,” Troi said, making her presence known, “colors for weddings?”

“Captain Troi!” Chan exclaimed. All heads swiveled toward the turbolift doors and the counselor. She had forgotten for a moment that the commanding officer of any vessel automatically gained the title of captain for the mission’s duration. It would certainly take getting used to, she noted. On the other hand, she idly wondered if this would finally allow her to ascertain the veracity of the legendary Captain’s Table pub.

“As you were,” she simply said. With purpose, she strode to her command chair and settled in. It felt good and comfortable, she realized. Davison sat beside her, watching in silent amusement.

“We do this to stay sharp,” Rosario said from tactical. “Passes the time, you know?”

“Indeed I do,” Troi replied. “On my first assignment, we would try and name all the Federation worlds and when they joined. We’ve grown a bit so it’s tougher now.”

“Which is good, right?” Chan asked brightly.

Troi nodded in agreement. “We’re moving out in fifteen minutes. Status reports please.” And a flood of information came from around the bridge. Davison went last, reporting on the readiness belowdecks from sickbay to the quartermaster. Troi absorbed things as best she could and found new appreciation for how Picard and Riker could manage the larger amount of data presented them on the Enterprise.

“Ready to move out on Captain Picard’s signal,” Troi said finally.

“Aye, Captain,” replied Chan.

Troi broke into a smile, deciding that she could get used to that.

“Hold tight, Jenny!”

The class teacher, Chuma Chukwu, tried to keep his group clustered together. There were ten of them, but it was hard to see them all. Sure, there had been sandstorms on Mars, but usually seen from a distance, through a wall of transparent aluminum. Never had the teacher or the students been caught in one.

“What happened, Mr. Chukwu?”

“That, Marisa, is a very good question,” he shouted over the wind to be heard. All Chukwu knew was that during a break from their field trip to the first Martian park a ball had rolled away from the group. Three of the students chased it and called the others. Before the teacher knew it, all ten of his charges had gone through the thick, leafy bushes to see the discovery. After a few more minutes, he decided to corral them and continue their prescribed path.

As he pushed the branches aside, Chukwu was greeted with the sight of a gateway, its archway bright and inviting. The students were in a semicircle looking at it and trying to identify the changing scenes.

“It’s Paris!”

“That’s Tellar . . . no Vulcan!”

“And that’s us! How?”

“How indeed,” Chukwu repeated. He stepped closer, fascinated. “Darleen, that is neither Tellar or Vulcan but I believe Beta Proxima. See the cloud formations? Too fast for you?”

Thinking back, he wasn’t sure who darted through first, Bruce or Darleen, but once one went in, the others followed with glee and curiosity. With no choice, Chukwu went through, feeling neither glee or curiosity. It was fear and trepidation, lightened only a little when he realized all ten had wound up in the same place.

He scolded them for taking the risk but that quickly gave way to figuring out where they were. It was sandy, like portions of Earth and Mars. The sky was blue and the temperature was hot, perhaps hotter than they were used to. There was no sign of a city or structure in any direction and the sun’s position meant it was late afternoon, not early morning. Chukwu reached into his shoulder bag and withdrew the padd he used for lesson plans. He had hoped to find some distinguishing feature but saw little out of the ordinary.

“Mr. Chukwu, do you see that?”

He looked up from the padd, turning his head to follow Angela’s voice, and saw the dark forms on the horizon. They were moving closer and growing bigger at the same time, darkening the horizon, and it became apparent to him that it was a sandstorm.

“We have nowhere to go, children. We must huddle together and hope it passes quickly. Hold on to your partner, link arms. We’ll form a ball too big to be moved.” As the children did as instructed, he hoped his words were prophetic. He heard a few whimpers and one, Bruce maybe, call them crybabies. What did Bruce expect from his fellow seven-year-olds? Chukwu wondered.

As the storm approached, Chukwu avoided joining the human ball, but punched in the planet’s characteristics to see if he could narrow things down. He presumed they were somewhere else not somewhen else, but he’d heard enough stories in the media not to be too surprised. Within moments, the padd beeped and he started scrolling through the dozens of planets that fit the broad definition. He peered at the lists, not noticing the arrival of the storm until the padd was ripped from his hand and he went tumbling.

The ball of children was similarly moved, but not as far. They were farther away though, Chukwu realized by listening to their cries. It tore at his heart to hear them in distress but he didn’t have long to think about that as the storm picked him up and sent him tumbling for nearly a minute. Sand got into every crevice of his body and he kept spitting to clear his mouth. After a short while, it proved fruitless.

There was little light and he kept his eyes closed, relying only on his hearing to discern where the children were. This proved difficult as the roar of the wind and grating sand never lessened their volume. After a time, he couldn’t hear them at all and didn’t dare open his mouth to try calling to them. Instead, he got on his hands and knees, hoping to survive the storm. He noted the sand piling around him, rising past his elbows. It even began to feel cooler, away from the direct sunlight.

Chukwu’s plan worked, the children survived the buffeting by linking up. His prayers were similarly answered and the storm proved to be relatively brief, or brief by the standards of Nimbus III, the planet they had journeyed to. It lasted almost twenty minutes but that was enough to change the topography of the landscape and forge new pathways for the planet’s people to use until the next storm.

Jenny and Darleen were the first to stand up, shaking sand from their hair and clothes. Bruce succumbed to terror and had joined in the crying before, but now he resumed his tough-guy stance. The three called out for Mr. Chukwu and grew desperate with each passing call and lack of response. Marisa was the one to find his body, mostly buried in the sand, an arm and leg barely visible and only because of the bright red suit he had worn that morning.

Whimpering, the ten children dug out their teacher, none daring to ask what would become of them now.

“Give me the readings!”

“Blood pressure nonexistent, heart rate twelve, superficial wounds to the face and arms.”

“Was she conscious?”

“Not when we arrived.”

“Never seen clothes like this. They’ve got to go— bag and tag them. Give me an injector with cocamine, ten units.”

“Doctor, when she’s awake we must question her.”

“If she wakes up. She’s not doing much breathing, could be brain damage. Better order a model done.”

“But Doctor, she’s not from here and poses a security risk.”

“Cocamine’s working, blood pressure to two and rising. Heart’s at eighteen.”

“Have you matched the blood type?”

“Alien in origin, Doctor, we have the computer running a diagnostic now.”

“Prepare oxygen ventilation. If she rouses, it’ll help.”

“Really Doctor, I must insist that I speak with her the moment she’s conscious.”

“Actually, officer, if that happens, first we’ll do a medical history so we know how to keep her alive. If, by the Lord’s will, she pulls through, you can ask her anything you want.”

“Doctor, computer matches the blood to one of four worlds: Kavis Alpha, Kaelon II, Cor Caroli V, and Lysia.”

“Lysia! Have the computer scan the sample and match against our blood.”

“Doctor, what’s wrong?”

“Officer, Lysia had an outbreak of Vegan choriomeningitis only a year ago. If the disease is in her blood there could be an outbreak.”

“Heart rate and respiration are reaching safety norms.”

“Ready to scan for the brain model.”

“Computer analysis confirms the disease is in her blood, Doctor.”

“Grife. Hold on the model. Okay, we’re now going to quarantine protocol one. Officer, whoever was there when she wandered through that doorway has to be brought to this installation—now!”

“There’s a cure for this chorio . . . whatever, right?”

“Known Federation treatments do not work on our systems. If there’s an outbreak, we’re going to have a lot of dead Troyians before we can find a cure.”

The man was scared. That much was obvious to his inquisitors. His green skin, sloping brow, and long hair made them almost as nervous. Whatever came out of his mouth made no sense to them and the metallic adornments on his clothing gave them concern. They had never seen anything like it.

He had wandered into their village, dusty, tired, and obviously thirsty. The man stumbled by the well, helping himself to cool water while the villagers scattered, calling for the Protectors. They weren’t sure what to do with a green-skinned man and in turn summoned the Clerics.

Wrapped in their gray robes, allowing only their eyes to be seen, the women came from their secluded church and studied the stranger. They whispered among themselves while the Protectors kept the man surrounded. Parents kept their children indoors but the windows were filled with round, young faces looking anyway.

When he first spoke, everyone took a step back. Some felt he was a demon pronouncing a curse but cooler heads prevailed and realized he was attempting to communicate. One Protector, an older man, stepped forward and gestured. The man repeated the gesture, proving there was intelligence behind those frightened eyes. The stranger made any number of hand motions to suggest the direction he had come from and then pointed to their setting sun and held up two fingers.

He had walked for two suns, they concluded. No wonder he was thirsty. Quickly they estimated how far two days’ walk would get a stranger, where could he have possibly come from. There were no other enclaves in that direction, it was the wrong time of the year for the nomadic tribes to be in the area, and that left them one conclusion: he had been cast out of heaven. The Protectors turned to the Clerics, who continued to silently watch.

When they shared the news, the lead Cleric reached within the robe and extracted a small object and plucked its center. The sharp, high note reverberated through the now-silent village and made the stranger wince.

Shortly, three colossal, robed figures came forward. Their robes were not gray but brown, and they carried coils of rope with them. The Cleric gestured toward the stranger and the men surrounded him, quickly binding his hands and feet. Two then hauled him on their shoulders and carried him toward the church.

None of the Protectors accompanied them, instead bowing deeply toward their spiritual leaders. The women ignored the obeisance and followed their Inquisitors to their home and the beginning of their study.

Now the stranger screamed in gibberish and the women watched in silence. One of the Clerics had retrieved scrolls from the catacombs under the church, wiping the dust from them with a scarlet cloth. She unfurled them on a wooden table and two others joined her as they scanned the texts. They had always known that God cast out the ill behaved but the last such known instance predated the village’s existence. The Clerics did not know what to do with such a Holy Criminal so they had to ask him. And he did not know the answers.

The hot coals of the fire, providing scant warmth to the chamber, glowed orange and red as an Inquisitor stirred them with a stick. It caught fire, adding additional illumination to the room. The stranger’s eyes bulged in fright and anticipated pain. He babbled, going on and on in long strings of words that made no sense to the Clerics or the Inquisitors.

With detached interest, the Clerics watched as the green skin on his left arm began to blacken after being prodded by the stick. When the skin cracked and peeled, they were more than a little surprised to find that the blood matched their own: red. Studying this cast-out demon would prove more interesting than any other devotions the Clerics had carried out since their ordination.

One sat at the table, dipped a pen in a bowl of ink, and began inscribing a new incident for the texts.

The stranger’s screams, she later wrote, stopped after the third day.

Geordi La Forge and Data were on an Enterprise holodeck, looking at a re-creation of the one Iconian gateway they had encountered years earlier. Over time, the Federation had managed to decipher exceptionally little of the language, not nearly enough to attempt manipulating the controls.

Using a handheld probe, La Forge took careful measurements of the re-created gateway and then peered at it with his enhanced eyes. The size was designed for taller people, maybe wider but definitely one at a time. Data had already accessed the files regarding the larger gateway encountered on Vandros IV by the Defiant, as well as another, previously classified mission on Alexandra’s Planet. La Forge used those measurements to estimate the size required for starships and shook his head.

“Is something wrong, Geordi?”

“Not at all, Data. I was just wondering why the Iconians would have built themselves gateways that would allow starships. Why would they need something so large?”

Data walked around the simulation and came closer to his companion. “Modes of transport and the needs of their people were no doubt very different two hundred millennia ago. It is not useful to waste time wondering when we have more pressing issues.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I am not your mother,” the android replied.

“Of course not, Data, you just sound like her.” La Forge chuckled and closed the device. “Have you studied the reports from Admiral Ross?”

“Yes,” Data answered, not looking away from the control console. “The person-to-person gateways all appear to be approximately the same size, though some have frames, as the one on Vandros IV, and others, such as the one we discovered on the homeworld, do not. Those with control stations all have similar designs. Starfleet has determined that they range in age from two hundred millennia old to 200.237 millennia old. That now gives us a better understanding of their rise and fall.”

He fell silent and La Forge waited, hoping to get more information or even supposition from his friend. Instead, all Data seemed to be doing was looking at the console.

“Something wrong?”

Data didn’t reply at first. “The Iconians have demonstrated, long after their civilization existed, superior technological skills. Their probes caused the Yamato’ s destruction. These are a formidable people, Geordi.”

“Right. Makes me still wonder why they are willing to sell the technology. If they keep it, they become major players in the quadrant.”

The two stood quietly for another moment and La Forge watched his friend. Clearly, something was troubling him but La Forge couldn’t quite tell. “Captain Picard is right, Geordi. This seems most unlike the people who built these devices. The questions remain unanswered about where they have been, why are they coming back now, and why sell their prized possession.”

“Okay, so we’re agreed this mission makes sense.”

“The Iconians did not seem to keep records. We have not found any and now have more places to look. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, Data. Maybe to keep their privacy.”

“But in those records would be the keys we seek now.”

La Forge thought back to the original mission, over ten years ago, and suddenly the pieces fit together.

“Are you troubled over encountering their computers again?” Data finally turned toward the engineer and nodded once. “I was nearly reprogrammed by them, losing memory engrams in the process. Everything that I have become was almost wiped clean.”

“And you’re scared?”

“With my emotion chip now in place, I recognize how close I came to ceasing to function. Yes, Geordi, I think I am a little scared of dealing with this technology.” He made a small laughing sound, which sounded very artificial to La Forge, though much less so than past attempts. “Silly, is it not?”

“Not at all, Data. You and I, we’ve both had technology turned against us. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. It makes us protect ourselves a little better, but not once has it made either of us crawl into a shell. And you’re not alone, Data. We’ll be right beside you. We saved you once, and know what to do should this happen again.”

Geordi touched Data’s arm in the spirit of friendship and was a little surprised when the android’s other hand crossed over and held the gesture a moment longer. With nothing left to say, they exited the holodeck and returned to the bridge.

The aroma of her hot food made Troi realize how much she missed her last meal, skipped because she got involved with a sensor overload. Without trying to micromanage everything, she did want to stay atop of the ship’s performance since she expected to call upon it to perform in the heat of battle. Something deep within her warned that the outcome was not to be a diplomatic one. Were these the real Iconians, she knew, there might have been a chance, but if they were impostors, as Starfleet and Picard feared, the situation might well get ugly. Taking a seat, she forced her mind clear and wanted to simply enjoy the Heshballa curry, with its four varieties of meats and seventeen spices. Two mouthfuls into the tangy meal, though, she saw Mia Chan hovering nearby, holding her tray.

“Please, come join me,” Troi said. Before the words were done, Chan had already settled in to Troi’s right. The counselor broke into a broad grin, noting the enthusiasm Chan brought to everything.

“Sorry to intrude, Captain,” Chan began but Troi waved her silent.

“Forget it,” she said.

“I never imagined we’d get to stay for the fleet and see the action close up,” Chan admitted before beginning her soup. “I just thought we’d be Captain Picard’s taxi and get dismissed, but this is so much better. Don’t you think?”

“Well, since this allows me my first command, I would think we all benefit,” Troi said cheerfully.

“Very true. We couldn’t begin to guess who would command us when we learned the Marco Polo was staying. . . .”

“So no betting, eh?”

Chan shook her head in silent laughter. They ate in silence for a few moments before the conn officer spoke up. “I should admit to you, before we go into battle that is, that I have feelings for Johnny Rosario. Not that I think it will interfere with my work, since after all, my back will be to him and . . .”

Troi looked up with mild surprise. She suspected with a crew thrown together and the excitement of the mission, something like this might develop. It was perfectly natural but Chan’s freely admitting it was different. “Does he know?”

“He’d be blind not to, but he’s not saying much. You’re an empath, can you tell anything?”

Troi shook her head before resuming her meal. “I wasn’t really looking for any clues, Ensign. After all, with so many life-forms nearby, I’m doing my best to screen out the conflicting sensations.”

“That’s got to be so hard,” Chan said, ignoring her food.

“It can be difficult but when you’ve been trained from birth, well, you get pretty good at these things.”

“And having a human father, did that make things harder or easier?”

Once more, Troi looked at Chan in surprise. “How did you know that?”

“Well,” Chan admitted while staring at her soup, “I looked up your service record when we got the posting from Enterprise.”

“That’s actually good thinking, just caught me a little by surprise,” Troi said. She stared thoughtfully at her half-full bowl. “Not being a full telepath made it a little difficult, growing up, since my friends had trouble adjusting to my . . . limitations.”

“So, you haven’t noticed anything?”

“About Lieutenant Rosario? Whether or not he has feelings for you?” Troi laughed, which felt good, and she smiled at the eager young officer. “If he has them, they will be pretty clear to one and all. Then you can act accordingly.”

Chan finished her soup in quiet thought, allowing Troi to work on her curry and bread. The change in topic was a nice break. Having recently renewed her relationship with Riker, she wanted to see everyone find happiness. Especially the young like Chan and Rosario or those who had lost much like Worf.

Grekor strode onto the bridge and took his seat toward the front of the room. As officers from behind sounded out status reports, it was confirmed the Chargh was battle worthy.

“Did the meeting go well, Captain?”

The captain settled uncomfortably into his chair, grimacing at the bulk that his stomach had become. He hadn’t noticed it before the conference, but compared with the trim forms of his peers—even the Ferengi was thin—he had let himself go. It was unbecoming a warrior.

“Eh? Yes, yes it did,” he said to his gunner, Daroq.

“What do you make of Picard?” the younger, healthier officer asked.

“Picard looks your ordinary, pampered human,” Grekor replied. “But there’s rock beneath the veneer. I can see why K’mpec liked him.” Indeed, Picard was impressive and not once did he mind serving under such a commander. The captain knew Worf’s history with Picard and felt if he performed well during this mission; the word would go from Picard to Worf and from Worf to Martok. There could be much glory for his House, needed after years of misfortune and ignominy. The House of Krad had long ago joined an alliance against K’mpec and failed, losing their seat at the Council. An entire generation before Grekor’s suffered for it and only now, through years of hard work and hard-forged alliances, did any member of the House earn glory. This very mission meant much to the aging Klingon, perhaps a last chance for honor and redemption for his father’s father.

“Maltin,” the commander snapped.

“Your Lordship,” the man said.

“Contact the homeworld. See if my sister is at home. If so, I would speak with her,” he commanded. The officer snapped to and moved away, letting Grekor sit in the too-tight chair and mull over hopes and dreams.

* * *

“Picard is as hew-mon as they come,” Bractor explained. “Soft-looking, but deceptive. There’s a banker’s brain in there.”

His trusted officers sat around the table, sharing a bottle, enjoying what they knew might be a final moment of peace before the mission began.

“And the Enterprise, is she everything they say she is?”

“That and more, Clax,” the captain said. “I’d love to have seen more of it, understand its propulsion and those wondrous quantum torpedoes but there was no time. By the Grand Exchequer, it will be a treat to fight along side such a beauty.”

Four other Ferengi sat at the table, all younger than Bractor, who was considered one of the finest pilots in the Ferengi fleet. He had parlayed his victories for lucrative contracts that fattened an off-world account, insuring a safe retirement. The thrill of adventure, though, forestalled any thought of leaving the service. He did not live to make deals, although he was more than adept at the practice. No, he owed a debt to his people and found tremendous satisfaction in his duty. Few others among his people could say that, which always made Bractor feel smug.

“Why would the nagus send us to fight,” Clax asked. He was clearly not seeing the bigger picture and the Ferengi captain felt sorry for him.

“Knowledge is power. It’s such an old phrase but so true,” Bractor said. “If the hew-mons are right and these are not Iconians, then we need to know. And if someone else gets the power, then we stand by an alliance that can do more to protect our accounts than we could ever hope to do alone. They may say Grand Nagus Rom is an idiot, but . . .” He paused, raising the glass high in the air.

Together the crew joined in. “He’s our idiot!”

“Ah, Mr. Data,” Picard began when the two returned to the bridge. “We have a new report from Starfleet. Captain Solok is making excellent time in creating a map. Please review the information and let me know if this affects our current plan.”

The android accepted the padd and looked it over from his station. Picard sat back and asked Vale to put a tactical situation on the main screen. With a mixture of pride and concern, he saw the seventeen starships moving toward the Iconian position. Each ship was marked with their government’s crest and the mélange looked a little odd, but appropriate for the moment. According to the readouts below the images, they were going to be in position to begin long-range sensor sweeps within the hour, and at the Iconian position in four hours twenty-seven minutes.

He felt the mounting tension, which was tinged with anxiety, a volatile mixture and one he couldn’t quell. Picard would have to trust his people.

“Everything looks steady,” Riker said. Perhaps he, too, sensed the emotional state of the crew.

“Yes, Number One. Would that it remain so.”

Riker grinned at his commander and sat back, forcing himself into a relaxed posture. “We’re getting close enough to see them, it’s incentive enough to keep even the Romulans in line.”

Picard nodded and continued to think and rethink the situation.

“How do you think Deanna’s doing on the Marco Polo?”

“Oh, she’ll have them eating out of her hands, Number One. They’re eager to please and she’ll respond to that. Pretty bright crew on that ship.”

“Well, that’s good. Sometimes I wonder about the number of cadets being pumped out of the Academy.”

“As do I,” Picard admitted, taking his eyes from the screen. “Of course, I seem to recall saying that around the time your class was graduating.”

Riker leaned over, a look of surprise on his face. “My class in particular?”

“I was guest lecturing at the Academy around then,” he explained. “It was shortly after the loss of the Stargazer, and a few years before the Enterprise was built. Starfleet had given me numerous assignments, but in between them, I spent time at the Academy.” Time well spent, he reflected, although all he recalled of those days was a restlessness to be back in space.

“Many in the faculty thought growing the number of cadets around that time lowered our standards. Starfleet was building bigger ships back then, anticipating the start of the Galaxy class. Bigger ships required more crew. And although the Romulans had been quiet, Command was growing concerned about the Cardassians.”

“So, it wasn’t just my class?”

“Not really, no. But, everyone felt the cadets might not be seasoned enough. After all, there weren’t enough ships available to give them the same number of star hours as in my day.”

“I’d like to think Geordi and I did just fine.”

Picard smiled warmly at his friend. “After tempering some of that youthful inexperience under my command.”

Riker chuckled.

“Captain,” Vale called out. “Admiral Ross is trying to gain contact.”

“On screen,” he said, and assumed his customary command posture.

Ross looked even more tired than he did at the conference, dark marks under his eyes, hair less than perfect. Picard acknowledged his presence.

“Captain, I apparently journeyed to the Neutral Zone in error.”

“Because I already have their support, yes,” Picard replied.

“The Praetor assures me Commander Desan will serve honorably. I’m headed back for Earth and coordinating the activities.”

“How goes the defense?” Picard asked.

Ross frowned before answering. “They’ve started keeping a death toll at Command. People in the wrong place at the wrong time, cultural shock, some religious conflicts, you name it. We’re stretched tight and can’t keep up with the activity, to be honest.”

“Any word from our allies and how they’re handling the events?”

“Chancellor Martok is concentrating on his borders and most of the others are too busy to chat,” Ross said glumly.

“Admiral, this has stretched beyond the Alpha and Gamma Quadrants. We’ve added a ship from the Delta Quadrant.”

“I know,” Ross said. “The Defiant has reported that the gateway that’s endangering Europa Nova opens on the Delta Quadrant.”

Picard nodded. “We have encountered a ship belonging to a race known as the Nyrians and they’ve encountered Voyager. In fact, they came to join us as a result of that experience. We seem to have earned their trust.”

The life in Ross’s face dissipated quickly and he seemed more than a little lost. Times like this, Picard was just as content not to have any admiral’s responsibilities. He liked and trusted Ross and hoped things would turn out well in the end.

“Our fleet is making contact shortly,” the captain said, to keep the conversation going.

“Tread carefully, Jean-Luc,” Ross said. “Everything tells me this stinks.”

“Your instincts haven’t failed the fleet yet, Admiral, we’ll keep your thoughts in mind. Picard out.”

“He seemed troubled,” La Forge said, standing beside Vale at tactical.

“In many ways, this is a much worse threat than the Dominion War,” Picard said.

“Indeed,” Data said. “The prospects of any one culture gaining instantaneous access to the rest of the galaxy would cause massive chaos. Benevolent races might share it while others would hoard it, threatening others to accede to their terms in matters of trade, commerce, and holdings.”

Picard stood, looking out among his friends and officers. Slowly, he walked the bridge, surveying control readouts and once more studying the tactical positions of the fleet. “The Federation alone is trying to protect the sovereign rights of billions upon billions of people,” he began softly, more to himself than any one officer.

“The Carreon have their own people to protect as do the Ferengi and Romulans. The stakes seem to be raised each time we venture out, but the goal remains the same. Protecting the lives and ways of life for each world, making no judgment on how they conduct themselves. Counting on allies or making new alliances to get the job done, asking nothing in return.”

Vale leaned over to La Forge and whispered, “That man is at warp speed.” He nodded in agreement. Picard turned toward them, having heard the casual comment, but chose to say nothing. The captain didn’t even offer them a grin.

Picard continued to walk the bridge, not noticing the silence. Everyone had turned his or her attention toward him, listening closely. “We cherish these privileges and protect them, risking our lives because it’s the right thing to do. We are also explorers and today we must be both. Who is out there and what do they really want? Can we prevent a galactic tragedy and stem the loss of lives?”

“We have before and can again,” Riker said quietly.

“We must, Will,” Picard said. “Our oaths must be more than words and our actions must convey the strength behind them.”

“Captain,” Vale interrupted, “we’re making contact with the Iconian ships. Long-range sensors have gone on line.”

The bridge suddenly burst into frenzied activity as people began sifting through the first readouts as they arrived. Picard settled back in the command chair, letting the organized cacophony wash over him.

“We are counting at least five dozen ships, smaller than us,” Data said.

“Hard to get a count at this distance since they’re all in motion,” Vale added.

“Traces of ions and neutrinos, warp plasma . . .” La Forge said. “Can’t imagine what propulsion they use.”

“No return scans from them as yet,” Data added.

“Shields up, Captain?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Picard instructed Vale. “We’re on friendly terms so far.”

“We are too far away to get any life-sign readings,” Data said.

“Feed the signal to Dr. Crusher,” Picard said. “She can begin studying them as soon as distance allows.”

“Captain, extremely strong sensor probes have been launched by the Carreon ships. Small, self-propelled. No weaponry aboard.”

“Keep track of them,” Picard ordered Vale.

“Message from the Romulans,” she said in turn.

“On screen,” Picard instructed.

Desan’s calculating face appeared immediately and without preamble she began. “Odd, don’t you think, that there are no gateways active in this region?”

Picard hadn’t stopped to note that and stole a glance at La Forge, who nodded in confirmation. He should have thought to ask that of his crew.

“It could be why they settled here to begin negotiations,” he replied.

“Read a star map, Captain,” she said harshly. “If you arrived in this region of space and wanted to contact Romulans, Klingons, Ferengi, Cardassians, even Orions and Breen . . .”

“And humans,” Riker interjected.

“This is far from the ideal spot,” she continued, ignoring him and letting the omission hang as an insult. “It must be the lack of gateways.”

“We’ll know more soon enough, Commander,” Picard replied evenly. He refused to let his annoyance at her attitude interfere. No doubt there will be plenty of strong emotions being suppressed as the mission progressed.

The screen winked off and the telemetry reports continued to flow in. Riker was taking the various reports and having them assembled into one master analysis for Picard’s review. They were moving, the Iconian ships, but not any closer. The fleet remained in formation so things were progressing as well as one could expect. There were still three hours before they could make direct contact, so Picard chose to visit his ready room, enjoy a cup of tea, and await Riker’s initial analytical report. He suspected it would be his last chance to relax for some time.

He was, of course, quite right.

The door chimed almost three hours later and Picard welcomed Riker and Worf into his ready room, comrades in arms, readying themselves for either diplomacy or battle. Picard suspected a little of both and was comforted by being surrounded with Starfleet’s finest technology—and officers.

“Report,” he said.

“Sir, we are coming within hailing range. So far, we have mapped their movements and can’t find a pattern that makes sense. Additionally, the level of comm traffic between their ships is surprisingly minimal.”

Picard nodded, digesting the information. “Your opinion, Number One?”

“They must know we’re coming by now. Their silence may be a waiting game, forcing us to make the first move.”

“Do we?”

“Not yet,” rumbled Worf. “We cannot provide a provocation that would weigh their thinking against any race here.”

“These people came to our portion of the galaxy, selling us their wares. They’ve been in touch with the significant races so I see the silence as a ploy. Maybe some form of negotiation tactic. I say wait them out.”

“Spoken like a true poker player,” Picard commented with a tight grin.

“Captain, you seem more than a little preoccupied,” Riker said softly.

“Am I, Number One? It’s just that I expected something . . . more from a race as great as the Iconians were. If these are truly they, then I am deeply saddened. If they are not, they still may hold the key to what became of the civilization.”

“So, you don’t believe the Iconians are extinct?” Worf prompted.

“Not at all, Ambassador,” Picard admitted. “The gateways alone tell me they could be elsewhere, another galaxy perhaps. That their technology has survived all these millennia tells me they built things to last. This was not a culture that just withered and died out like so many others.”

Riker nodded and Picard rose from his desk, snapping off the desktop screen. It had been reports from their first visit to Iconia, which he continued to pore over in the hopes of learning their secrets. He needed to push those thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrate on the here and now.

“Is everyone alert?”

“Absolutely. Geordi’s been over the weapons and defensive systems while Vale has been figuring out strategies now that we know how many of them there are. We’re rested and more than a little anxious to see what’s really going on.”

Picard turned to his friend, placed a hand on his arm and said softly, “Ambassador, I can’t ask you to do anything more than observe. You’re welcome on the bridge, of course, but leave the fighting—if any—to us.”

They stepped on to the bridge and the bustle of activity made the captain glad. When on duty, he wanted to be accomplishing something and his chance had arrived. Taking their seats, the command team surveyed the crew and was satisfied.

“We have sixty-three Iconian craft identified, sir,” Vale said from tactical.

“Readings show an odd propulsion system, among other anamolies,” Geordi began, “but they seem to be moving little better than three-quarter impulse.”

“The formations they are making seem not to be defensive, but more like coming close to share information or supplies and then moving on. All of the ships are involved,” Data said.

“Ugly little things,” Riker said quietly.

“Number One?” Picard inquired.

“Their ships, not designed for attractiveness.”

“Hmm, I see.” Picard asked Vale to show up a closeup-view of one such ship and although their hull cameras had trouble keeping up with the darting vehicles, he got a good look. The ships were long and with huge exhaust ports for the engines. They tapered in the middle and then flared out into a cured front section that seemed to have sensors and weapons exposed. They were built for speed, he surmised. Yet, there were odd patterns to the hull, a crazy-quilt kind of look, and it nagged at Picard. After all, the Iconians wrote graceful—albeit powerful—software and the design of the gateways had an elegance about them.

The crew continued to study the vessels, making guesses and sharing readouts as the fleet drew closer. Nothing in the Iconians’ behavior indicated anything was amiss. They, in fact, seemed to be ignoring the incoming ships. That action more than mildly irritated Picard, who disliked this sort of game-playing. He could only imagine how the other captains must feel.

“Captain, message coming from Captain Grekor.” Now he’d know.

“On screen, Lieutenant.”

Yes, he confirmed, the Klingon captain seemed less than thrilled to be ignored. “Picard, are we just going to keep approaching until we ram them? Interesting negotiating ploy.”

“Actually, Captain, I am trying to force them to speak first, allowing us a better sense of their attitude toward us.” Picard stopped for a moment, then added, “After all, they may not be happy to have their potential clients teaming up.”

Grekor snorted in disgust, letting the captain know exactly how he felt about whatever it was the Iconians were thinking. “As you see fit. This is your mission but I am already weary of these people.”

“I share your opinion, Captain,” Picard said mildly, no doubt annoying his counterpart. “Still, I suspect this will get us the fairest gauge of their true nature.”

The screen winked off as Grekor cut the signal and Picard noticed how much closer they were to the Iconian ships. He was reminded of the old boyhood games of chicken, daring one another to commit some crazed act, waiting to see who would blink and stop first. He didn’t consider himself to be as good at it as his brother, Robert, but he felt he had learned a few tricks over the years.

“Captain,” La Forge interrupted. “I’m reading fifteen separate types of propulsion being employed.”

Picard’s eyebrows went up at the news. He studied the screen a bit closer and remarked, “The pattern on the hulls isn’t a design—those must be patchwork ships.”

“Confirmed, Captain,” Data said. “We note the hulls have a mix of composite elements, no two ships with the exact same construction.”

“Weapons seem to vary from phasers to quantum torpedoes,” Vale added. “I’m sure there’s more to them because I’m getting energy readings I’ve never seen before.”

“Steady, Lieutenant,” Picard said. These were the damnedest Iconians he ever imagined meeting, and with each passing moment he grew firmer in his belief that Starfleet was right all along. These weren’t the Iconians at all.

“Captain, the Iconian communications have increased,” Data said.

“Can we understand it?” Riker asked.

“Not at this time,” the android replied. “However, if their emotional tenor was similar to human norms, I would say our presence was making them excited.”

“That’s something,” the first officer noted.

Just then, the ships all moved, their random meandering suddenly taking form, clearly putting the Iconians on the defensive.

“How do you read it, Number One?” Picard asked.

“Groups of six, spread out, almost forming a globe shape. Haven’t seen defense like that before.”

“Agreed. Anything further on the communications, Data?”

“There was a spike in traffic, but it has since died down to almost nothing, sir. I should point out, Commander Riker is correct. There are ten clusters of six ships each, but within the center is a smaller cluster with the three remaining ships. I have triangulated the communications and have determined the smaller cluster as the central one.”

“Perfectly protected by the others,” Vale offered.

“Change our flight pattern, Captain?” Riker asked.

“Not yet. Now we can make them sweat a little,” Picard replied.

“Captain Grekor sends his compliments,” the security chief noted.

“Well, that’s one Klingon who knows how to acknowledge the game,” Riker commented. “I think I like him.”

“You haven’t spent much time with him in person, have you?” Worf asked.

Riker shot him an amused look but before he could say anything, he was interrupted.

“I certainly feel safer with Romulans and Klingons at our flanks,” Ensign Perim said at the conn.

“The last thing we need is a free-for-all, Ensign,” Riker admonished.

“Actually, Number One,” Picard said, “with the Klingons, Romulans, and Gorn at our side, we know what to expect. If there’s a battle to be fought, I like the odds.”

The moments ticked away as the fleet drew closer and the Iconian ships remained in formation. Sensors stopped revealing new information and Picard had his crew began preparing their analysis. He had Riker check in with the other Federation ships and all remained ready for whatever came next.

“Slow to one-quarter impulse,” Picard commanded. “The last thing we want to do is be at point-blank range should something happen.”

“Are they forcing our hand?”

“Not yet, Number One. Just prudence on our part.”

“A standoff like this usually will wear on someone’s nerves. Should they have an itchy trigger finger . . .”

“. . . or someone aboard a Romulan ship,” La Forge added.

“Understood, gentlemen. Picard to Troi.”

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“Do you sense anything?”

“Actually, given my position and the high number of differing life-forms in the vicinity, no. Lots of anxiety, some anger, but I can’t determine if it’s our side or the Iconians. I do suggest, though, as the customer, we may want to hail them.”

“Thank you, Captain Troi,” Picard said, and watched Riker’s double take at the title. He smiled, despite the moment.

“A very short message just came from the central cluster to all vessels,” Data said. “Content unknown, we still have not managed to decipher their communications code.”

“All ships, be alert,” Picard commanded.

And as the words left his mouth, the Iconian ships opened fire. A brilliant flare of pale pink light filled the viewscreen and the Enterprise shuddered as it took the brunt of the onslaught. Everyone remained in his or her chair, but the com system immediately filled with damage reports.

“Do not return fire,” Picard shouted, as much to Vale behind him as to the fifteen other ships.

“Shields holding,” La Forge called. “Looks like directed energy similar to phasers. I’m heading down to engineering just in case.”

“No serious damage,” Riker reported.

Picard looked at the main screen and saw the vessels rotate, growing the sphere a little larger. He couldn’t fully understand the tactic and desperately needed more information.

“Captain,” Grekor’s voice filled the speaker. “They’ve blinked. Why do we not fight back?”

“We may have scared them or there may be a misunderstanding. However, I will politely ask for an explanation before this turns into a war.”

Picard turned to tactical and saw Vale’s eyes gleam in anticipation. There was a ferocity in her slender form that, when unleashed, made her as dangerous a fighter as Worf. “Lieutenant Vale, target the two ships closest to us but stand by. Open hailing frequencies, make sure our other ships can hear me.”

She quickly stabbed at several keys, never taking her eyes off the viewscreen, and Picard admired her skill. No question, she was an admirable replacement for Worf— the thought of his friend behind him was also comforting.

“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S. Enterprise. I wish to understand why you fired upon us. Our reason for being here is entirely benevolent.”

Silence greeted his words as the Iconian ships continued to rotate their position.

“I ask again,” Picard continued. “Why fire upon us when we are potentially going to negotiate with you for the gateway technology?”

The Iconian ships continued to rotate position. Picard swallowed, a sudden suspicion forming in his mind.

“All ships, scatter plan Omega, execute!”

The seventeen ships began to move, appearing to randomly split formation and go their own ways, but each following a carefully laid-out course. Riker had devised the plan hours earlier and he was glad it had been loaded at every helm post.

The Enterprise surged forward, taking hits but not stopping. Worf’s fingers began to move in the air, pantomiming activating first phasers and then a spread of quantum torpedoes. Catching himself, he balled the fingers into fists and stood still, watching the unfolding battle. Already snippets of a poem occurred to him, although it was not his place to compose one—he was an observer and that honor was reserved for actual combatants. The pain in his heart was not new, but still unwelcome.

Just as the ships began moving, the Iconians, still in motion, opened up with sustaining fire. The raw energy filled the space where the ships had been, their rotation allowing them to cover a wider portion of space than if they were stationary. The move was carefully coordinated and the captain nearly underestimated them.

“All ships, defensive fire only. Mercury, when an opening presents itself, try and penetrate the sphere. That central cluster is our objective.”

“Acknowledged,” came Brisbayne’s rough voice on the com channel.

“Ensign Perim, swing us about, let’s try and scatter the sphere,” Picard instructed his pilot.

“Aye, sir,” the young Trill ensign replied. Perim, Worf knew, could handle her task. She had performed well under fire against the Bak’u last year when Worf had temporarily rejoined his old comrades in the Briar Patch.

Riker had already had a tactical display flashed onto a screen to their left. The ambassador saw the fleet in their proper positions, holding their fire, with the Enterprise moving toward the first cluster of six ships.

“Data, any hope of cracking their communications?” Riker asked.

“Negative, Commander.” Data studied readouts from his operations console and input new commands.

Just then, the cluster before the starship opened fire once more. The forward shields deflected the attack, but not before the Enterprise shuddered once more.

Aboard the Chargh, Grekor grinned with glee at the prospect of a battle. His hands gripped the command chair, whitening his knuckles. His crew was efficient, the captain knew.

“Bring us about, 217 mark 38, full impulse,” Grekor said.

The ship moved and managed to avoid a burst of blue light. The officer at the science post stood over her viewer and finally said, “Unknown energy, Captain.”

“Can it hurt us?”

“I can’t say with surety,” she said.

“Helm, 218 mark 23, keep us dancing,” Grekor instructed. He turned to the officer, who seemed to shrink from his glare. He turned to Daroq, who shook his head—out of weapons range.

“Tell me about the energy!” demanded the captain.

“It was pulsating photons, changing in frequency every second,” she said, holding her ground.

“If it hits this ship, what happens?” Grekor stopped looking at her and returned his gaze to the viewscreen.

“The very pulsations might cause our shield harmonics to be disrupted” was the answer.

“Potentially lethal,” he muttered. “Bring us within range. Weapons, aim at the ship on the starboard side. Target that large propulsion tank!”

It took several long seconds for the ship to be in position, but once it was, everyone straightened up, ready for battle.

“Target locked.”

“Fire!”

The battle cruiser’s phaser barrage pierced the ship’s shielding and struck the hull. The impact knocked the ship’s position, sending it spinning counterclockwise. Sparks from the remains of the shields showed it vulnerable and Grekor smiled in victory.

“Fire!”

The next phaser barrage struck the same spot with deadly accuracy, blistering the hull, then breaching it. The engines sparked in the naked vacuum of space and then they died out, leaving the ship a hulk of metal.

“Excellent” was all Grekor said, as much to himself as to his gunner.

“Do we go for the kill?” the officer asked.

Grekor hesitated a moment and then said, “Picard wants none of them killed and for now, we will do this his way.”

“The Kreechta is using their plasma weapon on the cluster,” the gunner called out. Grekor turned to watch the smaller screen and saw that the highly effective Ferengi weapon practically obliterated one of the enemy ships. His brow knit in thought and then he said, “I always underestimate those sneaky accountants. But then I see them fight and remember why we haven’t conquered them yet.”

Grekor continued to watch in satisfaction as the battle-continued to unfold. The five ships that remained of the cluster scattered, breaking the formation. The captain ordered another blast, trying to force one ship into another, a calculated risk. It failed and the commander’s curse was barely audible. Instead, he had a torpedo launched at the nearest ship and disruptors fire at the farthest.

“The Chargh opened up the sphere!”

“Lucky bastards,” Captain Brisbayne said. He saw the larger ship pursuing two of the smaller ships and directed Liang to move the ship through the hole.

“Engineering, shore up the forward shields,” Srivastava called.

“Doing what I can, but we’re already straining the EPS outputs,” Solly said from below.

The Mercury darted forward, avoiding blasts from two different directions, and returned fire at the one below them. The shot grazed a shield and did no damage, so the small ship remained caught between two Iconian ships from the sphere to their port side. As a captain, Brisbayne had never really been on the front lines much, even during the recent war. He had his skirmishes with pirates and even traded shots once with a Romulan border ship that “accidentally” crossed the Neutral Zone, but his career lacked the color of officers like Picard. It usually never bothered him, but now he recognized the need for such experience to lend him insight as to how best to proceed.

After forty years of service, he was going to have to rely on his skills and intuition, hoping they did not fail him. None of which, though, kept his stomach from churning.

“Twenty-three thousand kilometers to the center ships,” Liang reported.

“Steady as she goes,” the captain said. He leaned forward as if it would get him there any faster. “ Livingston, rotate phaser fire, upper and lower hulls, forward and aft, keep them guessing.”

“Aye, sir.” Livingston began the random firing. The captain heard the whine of phaser fire, mentally tracking its tone from one side of the ship to the other, and nodded in approval. If he could keep cluster seven away from him, he might have a chance to reach the goal. Exactly what Picard would have him do once he arrived remained to be seen, but Brisbayne always considered himself a patient man. It got him this far in his career and he expected it to take him just a little bit farther.

The Iconians, though, seemed to have another idea.

The six ships on either side, clusters marked six and seven on the screen, swiveled to turn toward the Mercury, and twelve sets of weapons were unleashed simultaneously.

None got through the shields, apparently, as Brisbayne tumbled to the back of the bridge, landing atop another crewman. Smoke was already filling the air and he could tell from feeling the deck plating beneath the carpet that his ship was badly wounded. People coughed, someone was vomiting toward the turbolift doors, and there were moans. He swiped blood from his split lip onto his uniform as he staggered to his feet, taking stock of the pain throughout his body. Pushing that to the side, he helped up the crewman below him, who turned out to be Livingston. He seemed relatively unharmed, just dazed, so Brisbayne guided him back to his station.

“Report!” he bellowed, hoping to get a reply.

Ranjit Srivastava was on his knees, wiping blood from his forehead, a blank look in his eyes. He was not in any shape to answer, probably concussed, Brisbayne concluded. Liang was slumped over the helm, coughing from the smoke. Agbayani was on his feet, his Hawaiian features marred with soot and blood, and he leaned over the engineering board.

“Warp core offline,” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Shields below safe tolerances at eight percent, structural damage to the port nacelle, phasers are offline, torpedos seem fine. . . .” He squinted at the board and Brisbayne turned away and helped Liang settle into her chair. Then he stole a glance at the screen. The ships seemed to hang in space waiting. He didn’t like it at all and wanted to swat them away like flies on a summer’s day.

“Bridge to sickbay,” he called out, and noted how sore his voice sounded.

“Levy here, it’s a mess and we’re still counting the casualties. I’ve a medic on his way up.”

“Bridge out. Engineering, report.”

The silence seemed ominous. Looking around, he pointed to Alan Chafin, still orienting himself at ops. “Get to engineering, find out what’s going on down there. We need as much power as possible, shields and environmental systems first.”

“Aye, sir” was the reply and the officer rose unsteadily to his feet. Brisbayne took a moment to look at him and was surprised to see the burn marks on his face. The officer seemed uncomfortable being stared at and looked away.

“When you’re done there,” Brisbayne added, “stop at sickbay and have those burns tended to.”

Chafin, dark-haired with a ready smile, nodded and continued unsteadily toward the turbolift, stepping over a body, most likely Alfonzo’s, the captain realized.

“Livingston, can you target the torpedoes?”

The man stared at the equipment, stabbing at controls, and finally shook his head.

“Go to manual. We’re not going anywhere and they’re not getting us without a fight,” the captain said.

The two Romulan warbirds were the largest ships in the melee, and this brought Desan some comfort. She anticipated this advantage, knowing they had more people per ship and more weapons than any of the “allies.” Still, they were fighting fiercely, since even gnats could sting.

They had managed to disable four Iconian ships in cluster three, one of which was being torn apart by a tractor beam, each piece being carefully scanned. The science department was already speculating as to the nature of the constructs. They peeled apart easily since they were not well constructed. Desan had no feelings for these ships or their people, only contempt for the entire charade.

The Iconians had approached the Praetor. The Tal Shiar, the Empire’s vaunted secret police, immediately began investigating their claims. There was nothing to confirm or dispute their claim but the Tal Shiar were a suspicious lot. When word reached them that Starfleet was on alert and there was suspicious activity involving key personnel such as Ross and Picard, they assumed their suspicions were justified. As a result, it was decided that Desan would lead a delegation, as much to learn about the Iconians directly as to keep an eye on the Federation.

Subcommander Jilith interrupted her thoughts. “ Commander, we’ve completed the initial scans and have determined the ship is composed of a metal composite we’ve never seen before and basic duranium. The propulsion unit is actually an antique, from around the time of the first Romulan-Earth war.”

This was interesting. How would a race, from another part of the quadrant, have come across something so old? Her curiosity was piqued.

“Two of the ships are trying to retreat,” the helm officer called.

“Let them,” Desan replied. “They’re not firing. Bring us closer to the core, helm. Half impulse.”

“Yes, Commander,” he said. The mighty vessel moved forward, leaving the disabled Iconian ships in their wake. Others converged on the green starship, opening up with unusual weapons fire. The particle beams were a veritable rainbow of colors, but all seemed ineffective against the Romulan shields.

On the screen, the two smaller Carreon ships flew by them, pirouetting and concentrating their fire on one of the Iconian ships. She admired their versatility even though she knew very little about the race since they were located far from Romulan borders. She did know them to be aggressive and stubborn, but not annoyingly so, like the Klingons. They tended to keep to themselves but somehow got dragged into the battle, and given their fighting prowess, it was good to have them along.

With their attack a success, the Iconian target hung dark and lifeless in space, so the ships moved on. What neither Carreon seemed to notice, though, was another Iconian ship flying up from below them, firing the bright blue beams. Desan did not warn the allies but instead had the beam analyzed.

She watched with interest as the beam struck one of the ships, flared against its shields, but persisted. Within seconds, the shields sparked off and then the Carreon starship was struck dead-on, a blackening scar appearing near its nacelles. Another few seconds and the beam completed its work, breaching the hull and destroying the ship and all hands.

“The weapon is the most powerful phaser I have ever seen,” the science officer reported.

“Interesting,” Desan said, watching the other Carreon vessel flee the area while the Iconian ship chased it.

“Torpedo!” called the tactical officer, and that got Desan’s attention. They hadn’t fired one yet and she thought them without. On the screen she noted it came from a vessel they hadn’t bothered with, presuming it out of disruptor range. An estimate that may prove fatal, she calmly thought.

It slammed right through the shields, and impacted with a deafening thud on the “neck” of the starship. Everyone fell to the starboard side as the mighty bird pitched with the impact. Desan’s last thought, before losing consciousness, was how much the rainbow lights reminded her of home.

“I don’t approve of that, Number One,” Picard snapped, holding tight to his chair as the Enterprise endured a blistering phaser attack from six ships, forming Iconian cluster five.

“Well, you said not to destroy them, nothing about dissecting them,” Riker replied, equally holding on for dear life.

“Torpedoes away,” Vale called. The ship’s quantum torpedoes streaked through space and managed to hit three of the ships, causing all manner of distortion in the area and making them break off the attack.

Seeing the opportunity, Perim had the starship yaw dramatically, trying to squeeze between two clusters at almost warp one. It was a tricky move but Riker assured his captain Perim could handle it. The ensign was gritting her teeth, Picard noted, but otherwise flew his ship just fine.

Now beyond the clusters and heading toward the core of three ships, Picard let out a breath and looked about. His crew was handling the battle admirably, and while he never enjoyed such engagements, he never shied away from them either.

“Captain, the Mercury’ s been hit bad,” Vale said.

“On screen,” he snapped.

There, the small ship hung at a steep angle, sparks from one nacelle providing illumination. Its running lights were out and it seemed dead. As Data and La Forge reported in, it was far from dead but in no shape to conduct a battle.

“Number One, order the Deltan ships in to protect the Mercury then signal the Marco Polo to go for the center.”

“The Iconians clearly can outgun the Marco Polo,” Riker argued.

“We’ll set up covering fire from . . . the Qob and the Carreon vessels,” Picard said, checking the tactical display.

“I’d sooner have the Glory cover Deanna,” Riker protested.

Picard realized the struggle Riker was going through, but duty demanded a specific course of action and it needed to be followed. He, too, hoped for Troi’s survival, but a diplomatic mission had turned into a battle with no notice and this fleet could not shirk its responsibility. He grasped Riker’s arm in reassurance and then stood and moved to the upper deck.

“Send in the Kreechta for support,” Picard added.

At the rear science station, the captain punched up charts showing how badly hurt the Mercury was. So far, they were all acquitting themselves well, but there was going to be damage and it was unfair for the captain to wish it on only the ally ships. He really didn’t know Brisbayne, but he felt for the older man, seeing that he was now out of the picture and was going to need protection.

“Picard to Captain Grekor,” he suddenly called.

“Go ahead.”

“The Mercury is hurt. Can you tractor it out of the way?”

“If they can’t defend themselves, then we shouldn’t risk our ship to help” was the reply.

“That’s a Klingon tactic and approach I do not subscribe to, Captain.”

Another voice interrupted.

“The Federation requests your assistance, Captain,” Worf said from the bridge’s rear. “Will you help your allies or not?”

There was a tense moment and then a station chimed.

“Orders sent, Captain,” Riker said tightly.

“Thank you, Will,” Picard replied. He turned to his left and nodded silent thanks to the ambassador. They resumed their seats as the Enterprise moved toward the core, ignoring the fire from all sides. It was far from a smooth ride, but they were making progress, which was more than he could say for any other member of his fleet.

Then, on the screen, he watched a brilliant light show, as Iconian ships began a new form of attack on the Glory. It seemed to withstand the onslaught but barely. Then came the torpedo attack and Picard was stricken to see such a proud and powerful ship suddenly stopped dead in its tracks.

“What was that Data?”

“Analyzing telemetry now, sir,” the android responded.

“Glory’s hurt bad, isn’t she,” Perim inquired.

“Yes,” the captain replied. “And if the Iconians can do that to a Romulan ship, we’re all vulnerable. Slow to one-quarter impulse, redirect energy to our shields.”

“Aye, sir,” Perim replied.

Whatever hopes for diplomacy had been shattered over the last few minutes and Picard had been gearing himself to become a warrior. He preferred such conflicts to be one-on-one matches, disliking commanding so many ships, controlling so many lives. But here he had no choice and he had to fight for every millimeter, and preserve the lives of the fleet. The Iconians needed to be stopped and he also had to assure that they wouldn’t be wiped out in a fit of Klingon or Romulan rage.

Riker was standing at the tactical display with Vale, watching the colorful icons moving about at a rapid clip. Picard joined them and they assessed the scene for a moment, trying to think of a way to end the battle. Those thoughts were interrupted when four ships broke from their positions and as a unit began an approach toward the sphere’s top. If they looked like anything, they were small insects buzzing about.

“Ralwisssh,” Riker said.

Picard saw the Gorn craft swing above the sphere, out of weapons range, and then angle and aim directly at the top cluster. As their descent began, they fired from every port and the ship glowed on the screen. Grimly, Picard watched the small, but deadly, ships approach the Iconians, narrowing the space. Then, one Iconian ship winked off the screen, followed by two more.

“Captain Ralwisssh, I ordered no lives to be taken,” Picard cried.

“The time for that has passed, Picard,” the guttural voice replied. “They have hurt us and now it is time for retribution. If you do not have the stomach for such a fight, we’ll cover your retreat.”

The captain, stone-faced, watched three more vessels vanish from the tactical screen. On the one hand, it made their job easier by blowing another hole in the Iconian defense, but he didn’t want this to become a slaughter. He would have to act quickly and decisively to remain in control of the fleet. All he needed was a plan.

As he was thinking, he saw Riker step closer to the display. He followed his first officer’s gaze and watched the Marco Polo complete a complex turn and begin its approach toward the center. Riker pointed to the right of the screen and frowned.

“The circle is closing ranks,” he said.

Bractor didn’t need to wait for an order from Picard. He was a trained tactician and knew what was required. With the sphere defense tightening, each hole punctured was being closed. At least one aperture needed to remain open and he decided that was his assignment.

From his command chair, he gave a series of commands to the tactical officers standing before their operational orb. They did their jobs in silence since he rarely liked chatter during an operation. He liked concentrating on the opponent and would tolerate interruption only if it was about the operation.

The Kreechta swooped in a wide arc, above the plane of the battle, aiming itself at the space between clusters three and four. Shields had been reinforced fore and aft; weapons aimed at the closest ship in cluster three. He had the engines increased so the velocity was on a gradual increase. As they banked, it forced everyone to hold tight, and Bractor’s breath quickened. This was the moment he loved, the instant when he committed his ship beyond the point of no return.

“Fire!” he snapped.

Ferengi energy leapt across the space between ships and smacked against the shields of the Iconian vessel. The shields flared, and as a second volley arrived, the Ferengi Marauder was past them, already firing on the next closest ship. Again and again, the ship fired as it muscled the Iconians aside, keeping the two clusters from merging.

Bractor most certainly loved his job.

“Six Iconian ships down,” Davison said, reading the display to her left. “With the three disabled by
Enterprise, we’ve opened up the bottom entirely.”

Troi nodded and kept her gaze at the main viewscreen. She received her orders from Riker, cut and dried without any hint they were lovers or he was putting her life at stake. While she intellectually understood it, her heart refused to acknowledge the command and was in rebellion.

Mentally, she tried a quick discipline her mother taught her when her mental skills were just developing. It was to control her quick temper at the playground on Betazed and worked more often than not.

It didn’t work just now.

All along, she was trying to filter the thousands of emotions, all heightened, from assaulting her psyche. She told Chan she could handle the concentrated emotions but that was before the firefight broke out. Her mental blocks were in place but they were being unintentionally pounded upon and it was giving her the mother of all headaches.

The Marco Polo had to escape being caught in a pincer move by two clusters of Iconian ships, taking heavy fire in return. Troi had the ship drop below their approach and then roll to confuse the attackers. Sacker in engineering said it would be twenty minutes before shields were again at full intensity. On the Enterprise, if Geordi had said twenty minutes, she could bet on it. Here, she couldn’t tell if Sacker was the kind of engineer who exaggerated repair time or not.

“We’re clear,” Chan said, sounding very relieved.

“Not entirely,” Davison commented. “Our path brings us around and straight into the gap, but they’ll see us coming.”

“I’m reading something unusual,” Kal Sur Hol said from ops. He remained rigidly bent over the viewer and his left hand punched in commands. “There’s an energy buildup from cluster four, something I’ve never seen before.”

“Rosario, tactical on screen,” Troi commanded. The stars became a computer-generated image with each Iconian cluster numbered. She quickly saw that number seven was being approached by the Romulan warbird Glory.

“Any analysis?” she inquired.

“Not yet. Something like tachyons but not quite. Whatever it is, I’m very intrigued by its . . .”

His words were cut off as the screen displayed the torpedo assault on the Romulan ship. She never imagined a simple torpedo could do that much harm to something so large. Her bridge grew silent, except for the chirps from the equipment.

“Captain, we’re approaching our target,” Davison said quietly, breaking the somber tone that gripped the crew.

“Chan, as we discussed, ease us into the gap, like a butterfly finding its branch, float us in,” she said as soothingly as she knew how.

The young flight officer acknowledged and eased up on the speed, giving her more maneuverability. The Marco Polo had two Iconians fire over their position, caught by the change in motion. The attacking ships were, in turn, fired on by Landik Mel Rosa’s ships, keeping the enemy distracted as the Federation ship continued into the sphere.

“Well done, Mia,” Troi said with a genuine smile.

“Careful, three Iconian ships have broken off from cluster four and are approaching, weapons hot,” Rosario called.

“Increase speed to full impulse,” Troi called. “Bring us up the Z-axis fifty thousand kilometers.”

“Something that steep, that fast could damage the nacelles,” Davison warned.

“No choice,” Troi snapped. “Engage.”

The Marco Polo went into the rapid climb, taxing the inertial dampners and forcing everyone to hold on to their chairs. Two of the three Iconians attackers followed them up, while the third held its position.

“At fifty thousand, break down, sharply, aim us right at the Iconian ship,” Troi commanded.

“Ma’am?” Chan said.

“Just do it,” Troi said, getting annoyed at being questioned. Still, it was a difficult situation with her in command and a relatively unseasoned crew. They would have to follow those orders blindly to get the job done. Hesitation, in a situation like this, could prove deadly.

The ship shuddered as it reached its zenith and then was pushed straight down, in a tight arc that forced the integrity fields to their limits. As they descended, still at full impulse, Troi could hear the reports coming from engineering and it didn’t sound good.

Of the two Iconian ships following them up, only one managed to slow up as the Marco Polo flew past them. The other shot farther up and seemed lost. One did slow down, tried to fire, but their targeting was off and the rainbow-hued shot went wide. It continued after them.

“At eight thousand kilometers veer off at 312 mark 8, straight for the center, warp one in a two-second burst,” Troi said. If she recalled the Picard Maneuver right, this would be similar but would let the Iconians do all the shooting.

This time there were no questions, just confirming the order and then silence. Utter silence, which gnawed at Troi but she ignored it. Just as she ignored the apprehension from Davison and tinge of fear from Chan which stood front and center from all the other emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

As the ship approached the eight-thousand-kilometer mark, the Iconian ship that remained below her angled itself up, taking aim. The Iconian ship pursuing them from above fired once more and again missed.

“Going to warp,” Chan finally announced.

“Inertial dampers are failing,” Hol almost immediately called out.

The ship lurched worse than Troi feared, as it straightened itself out and then accelerated into warp space. Hol flipped over his chair and landed with a bone-popping sound. Rosario managed to hold on to the tactical station but that only meant a yeoman smacked right into him, injuring a shoulder. Chan rolled from her chair and backward toward the command chair. Troi, already on one knee, helped her back up and guided her to the station. Bracing herself against the chair, the captain studied the readouts. Even the two-second burst was enough to disrupt all activity on the small starship.

“Who’s hurt?” Troi asked.

“Hol’s injured,” Rosario reported. “Already signaled sickbay.”

“Engineering reports dampers reconfigured and back on line,” Davison reported.

“Johnny, are you okay?” Chan interrupted.

“Fine, Mia, just fine. You fly the ship safely,” he said softly.

With the Marco Polo no longer in their sights, the Iconians who chose that moment to unleash a torpedo had no way to call it back. And the ship coming straight down could not move out of the way fast enough, so it took a hit at point blank range. The fifth Iconian cluster ceased to exist.

“Amazing,” Riker said, shaking his head.

“That ship has a good pilot,” Picard noted.

“We couldn’t do something like that,” the first officer said.

“No, but a smaller ship could and Captain Troi knew that. She continues to surprise me.”

“And me,” Riker said with a grin, a twinkle returning to his eyes.

“The Marco Polo is now nearing its objective,” Data said. “The Iconians in the center have yet to fire.”

“Maybe they can’t,” Vale noted. She bent over the far right portion of her station, straightened up, and shrugged her shoulders. “Then again, maybe they can. We can’t get solid readings.”

“Too much distortion from the firefight,” Riker said.

At that moment, the tactical screen revealed the unusual sight of the Romulan ship Bloodsword and the Klingon fighter Qob approaching the remains of cluster number four. Disruptors that were more similar in nature than either side would ever admit unleashed their fury as the two ships targeted one small Iconian vessel after another. Within moments, four of them had vanished off the tactical board while the other two scampered away, going to the far side of the sphere’s remains.

“Nice shooting,” Riker said.

“Indeed,” Picard said, since clearly there was nothing left to be said of the carnage. It sickened him.

“Captain, look at this,” Vale called.

Picard strolled over to the tactical station and she magnified the readouts. There, the Deltan ships, which had previously been providing cover for the Marco Polo, were now under heavy fire from an entire cluster of ships. He noted the power amplification made to the phasers were nothing he had ever seen before and the pounding was getting worse for the Deltans, which were clearly not meant for this style of punishment.

“Who’s closest to them?” he asked.

“Maybe the Gorn, but they seem intent on decimating our opponents,” she replied.

“Wait, look.” He pointed to the bottom of the screen and there, a ship swooped into view, maneuvering through debris and avoiding fire.

“It never occurred to me,” he muttered, as the Nyrian ship approached the Deltans.

Coming from underneath and behind the Iconians, they fired once, then again. Their discharges seemed to blossom as they traveled away from the Nyrian ship, crackling with energy and causing damage to the first two Iconian vessels the energy flow touched. With two such ships damaged, the other four spread farther and fired on the Deltans. The distraction provided by the Nyrian ship enabled the two craft to separate, swooping high and avoiding much of the enemy attack.

The Nyrian ship came closer and fired twice more, and once again, the energy discharge did serious damage to the Iconian shields.

“Lieutenant, are you studying the Nyrian weapons output?”

“Recording everything for study later, sir,” she said crisply.

“I’d be curious to know how that works.”

“Me, too, sir,” she said. He noted she was smiling, enjoying the spatial acrobatics and firefight unfolding before them. Truth be told, he was pleased at how well the little ship was contributing to the fleet and found himself anxious to learn more about Taleen and her people.

“Don’t you find it amazing, Number One,” Picard began, as he returned his chair. “Look at how well our group has persevered. There may be hope for us all, yet.”

“Maybe,” Riker said. “But right now we have two goals: get to the lead ship and protect the Glory.”

The brightness in the captain’s eyes dimmed as he realized they still did not know a thing about the torpedo that managed to do so much damage to the Romulan warbird. The Iconians might not have been what they appeared to be, but they were no less formidable. He could not lose sight of that.

Not once.

Picard forced himself to slow down and look hard at the tactical display. The defensive sphere’s bottom ceased to exist, as did the adjacent cluster. Even as they contracted, the Iconians could not possibly close every gap if they remained in the rigid six-ship-per-cluster formation. That could prove an advantage but he needed to make sure their next moves would not make them vulnerable.

The Carreon had already lost one ship in its defense of the Mercury, and the Glory was still showing no signs of movement. He had fourteen able ships to the Iconians’ forty-nine and it seemed that the Iconians’ sole goal was to defend the core three ships. Picard ran the numbers six and three through his mind, matching them against what he knew of the Iconians, and nothing came to mind. More than likely, further evidence these were impostors. That galled him but he fought to contain the anger, saving it for the leader of these people.

“Number One, they will defend the gap here,” he began, tapping the wide opening in the sphere formation—thanks to the Kreechta. Even as he touched the screen the Iconian markings moved closer—they were continuing to tighten their posture. “Everything else will be spread thin, creating weaknesses between the clusters. I think if we hammer at those points, simultaneously, we just might crack the entire sphere.”

Riker was studying the screen and the captain approved of how quickly his first officer was running the possibilities through his mind. In his own career, Riker had seen his share of combat and also had the experience of serving aboard a Klingon ship. This gave him possibly even better insights to the strategy.

“If everyone behaves, it should work, but I’d put the heaviest guns still working on the gap. Maybe Kreechta and the Nyrian ship—they seem to pack a wallop.”

“Agreed,” Picard said a tight smile of approval on his worn face. “The Chargh can go here, between nine and six, while the Qob, Carreon, and two of the Gorn work between seven and eight. The other Gorn ships can pierce the top, clusters one and two. We’ll move the Bloodsword to between two and three and send the Deltans to five.”

“Makes as much sense to me as anything else,” Riker said. With one more glance at the screen, he returned to his position and began tapping in the new commands.

Picard checked ship’s status and then stood before his chair. The screen showed a swarm of ships, some from his fleet and some Iconian. Their odd markings and composite forms disturbed the captain. It was clear these impostors were in possession of the gateway technology, and several other marvels, but they had no overriding technological structure. No sense of a cohesive anything—they seemed to be scavengers, which meant they likely knew where to find the real Iconians. That was also a worthy goal and he redoubled his efforts to get to their leader before a crazed Gorn could atomize them or they chose to selfdestruct.

“All ships will be in position in ten minutes,” Riker said.

“Have them fire while en route, keep the Iconians on the run,” Picard said.

Riker nodded and returned to his screen. Vale acknowledged and Picard welcomed the sound of the forward phasers pounding cluster nine as the Enterprise moved into its own position. The screen once more filled with bright light as the battle was rejoined by the Iconians. He feared the reappearance of that torpedo but couldn’t tell if they all had the weapon or just that one ship. If his scavenger theory prevailed, the latter was actually quite likely.

“Desan to Picard.”

“Go ahead, Commander. How is your ship?”

“We’re damaged but not dead” was all she would reveal. Sensors showed a degree of the damage but within the huge starship, the extent remained a mystery. “We will still fight.”

“Stand by,” Picard said. “We’re trying to crack their defense and then surround the core ships. I hope to force a truce.”

“You feel the core ships hold your secrets? It could just as easily be a lure.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Join me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Captain Picard.” Unspoken remained the taunt of a surviving Romulan ship to report the tale back to the Empire. It rattled the captain, but he felt there was little choice.

The remaining minutes ticked by and Picard contented himself with reviewing the status reports coming from the other ships. None had remained unscathed. The Deltan and Gorn ships were terse in their reports, leaving much unsaid. They followed his orders and that would have to be enough. The Bloodsword seemed to be the ship with the fewest damages. He fretted the most over the
Mercury, which might not be able to make enough repairs to sustain life. Starfleet should never have sent out a ship before maintenance was completed. Now there was a price. There was more than enough room to relocate the crew, but Picard hated the loss of any ship, recalling how bitter he felt at losing the Stargazer and not even being present when the Enterprise-D crashed onto Veridian III.

Finally, he assessed his own ship, consulting with La Forge and Crusher. “Shields are at full power and I think I can keep them that way,” La Forge reported from below. “Of course, if they have any more surprises in their armory then all bets are off.”

“We’ll try and wrap this up quickly,” Picard assured him. He then contacted sickbay, where Crusher said there were burns, cuts, and a few broken limbs but the total was surprisingly light. “They certainly built this one to take a beating,” she observed.

“That they did,” Picard replied, with a touch of pride in his voice. The Sovereign-class was the finest Starfleet’s engineers had to offer, after the recent turn of events, starting with the discovery of the Borg some ten years earlier. The current crop of starships had to be more resilient, more capable of sustaining itself over time and distance.

“Any areas of concern?” he inquired.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, just your usual space fight.”

“Well then we’ll just wrap it all up and keep things light,” he said, forcing himself to sound relaxed and perhaps more confident than he felt.

“Keep it that way,” she admonished him, and cut the signal.

“All ships will be in position in one minute. Iconians firing at will,” Data said.

Picard wanted to correct him. These weren’t the Iconians and he didn’t want that once grand name sullied by these interlopers. Still, he couldn’t just call the enemy “them,” and so let the insult continue.

At the thirty-second mark, Picard watched as one cluster after another suddenly stopped firing. Within another five seconds, the entire defensive alignment went silent and Picard fretted a final assault might be in the offing.

He was about to have his forces scatter when a frantic-sounding Vale interrupted his thoughts.

“Captain, message from Starfleet. The gateways have all closed down!”

Riker punched up the communiqué on his screen and nodded confirmation, not that it was needed. Picard stood still in the bridge’s center absorbing the news. Were they giving in? Had they already sold the technology to some other race?

“Communications between the ships has reached an unprecedented rate,” Data reported. “We are just beginning to get a sense of their algorithms, but have been unable to crack the language.”

“Damn,” Picard muttered. “Thoughts, Number One?”

“Same ones as you, I’m afraid.”

“Picard to the fleet: approach positions but stand by.”

Within seconds, Data reported the ships had achieved the charted positions and were ready to engage. It was now up to Picard, and he turned options and variables over in his mind. Indecision could be just as deadly but he had to factor in the new information. With finality, he straightened himself and asked for a hailing frequency.

“This is Captain Picard. We do not wish to prolong this battle but to reach an understanding. Our ships are now holding their position, but I am bringing the
Enterprise to your core. We intend to open a dialogue.”

His message was greeted once more with silence, so Picard asked Perim to bring the starship forward. They slipped past the ships at cluster nine without incident, giving him confidence.

Riker turned to Picard, a look of concern on his face. “New message from Admiral Ross. The gateways are active once again. Apparently, the folks on Deep Space 9 came up with a way to shut them all down, but it only worked for about ten minutes before the gateways all reset and started working again.”

“Troi to Captain Picard.”

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“Right after the gateways shut down, the level of panic in this region increased dramatically. It has now subsided.”

“Timed almost to the moment when the gateways blinked off then on,” Picard noted.

“I can’t tell you what that means but I would be cautious.”

“We always are, Deanna,” Riker said.

And the Enterprise crept closer to the core ships.