Chapter Eight

MOMENTS AFTER TROI’S MESSAGE, the firing started once more.

None were directed at the Enterprise as all the Iconian ships concentrated on those vessels outside the sphere. Vale noted this as a tactical anomaly but was cautioned against pre-emptive fire. From her reports, Picard knew the battle seemed evenly matched with no new surprise weapons being deployed. Shot for shot, there was a startling amount of parity among all the ships engaged in the fight. Picard pushed that mental note far back in his mind for later.

“Ten thousand kilometers to core ships,” Perim reported.

“Steady as she goes, Ensign,” Riker said.

Picard instructed La Forge to scan the area for any out-of-the-norm readings, still wondering why they had remained unmolested within the defensive sphere. After several moments the chief engineer admitted to nothing out of the ordinary.

“Fear,” Riker said.

“Of us?” Picard asked.

“Could be. We’ve gotten this far, maybe they think we can take them after all.”

“And why not use the same torpedo attack that crippled the Glory?”

“Because it was all they had,” Riker said, sounding speculative. “They have some second-rate ships with just a few offensive tricks up their sleeves. The piloting is uninspired, this sphere is a joke, and if Deanna’s right, they’re awfully scared.”

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” Picard said quietly.

“Sir?”

Picard smiled his first genuine smile in hours. “An early-twentieth-century bit of literature. A man out of his element used all manner of trickery to make those around him think he was some great and powerful wizard.”

“Still, I’d feel better keeping the shields at maximum.”

“There’s no question.”

“Since after all, this wizard behind the curtain may actually have a quantum torpedo.”

“Of course.”

The Enterprise drew closer and the fighting continued around it. The three Iconian ships hung in the center, close enough to potentially share shields. Picard studied their outlines and realized that unlike the other vessels, these were surprisingly uniform. Data confirmed the hulls to be entirely made from the unknown metallic composite and were built for long-distance travel with nearly fifty percent of each vessel dedicated to engines.

“Captain,” Data said, “these ships have exterior armaments that appear to be of Breen design.”

“Now how on Earth did they acquire that?” Picard’s frown etched lines in his handsome face.

“Trade with a friendly Ferengi?” Riker said, clearly trying to keep things light.

“If these people have traded with the Breen before, why have they not dealt them the gateways yet?”

“The Breen are not an especially rich people,” Data replied, “particularly after the losses they sustained in the Dominion War. It could be they could not meet the price.”

“And it’ll be some price,” Riker noted.

“Sir, the Breen use type-three disruptors, which at this range, might cause trouble,” Vale said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Picard said with a nod.

At that moment, the Deltan ships broke through their position, entering the sphere and scattering the remaining Iconian ships near them. The Nyrian ship followed, unleashing their unique weapon, which widened the gap.

Vale let out a short whoop in admiration of the action, which earned her a surprised look from Riker and a stern one from the captain. She returned her gaze to her station and told Picard, “The Qob and Marco Polo have punched through. The entire bottom of the sphere is compromised.”

“The counselor is never going to let you forget this,” Picard whispered to Riker. It elicited a chuckle from his friend. Then he said in a louder voice, “All ships within the sphere, one hundred eighty degrees about face and cover us.” But once more, as the ships entered the sphere’s shape, the Iconian vessels ceased fire.

“They are protecting the core ships,” Data suggested.

“It’s something valuable, not a trap,” Picard said.

“Ensign, hold us at five thousand kilometers,” Riker told Perim.

“Aye, sir.”

“What did the wizard want?” Riker asked Picard.

The captain let out a small laugh. “He liked helping these people, but all he really wanted to do was go home.”

Feeling emboldened by the huge amount of firepower at his back, Picard stared at the three Iconian ships before him. All manner of communication had been rebuffed and he couldn’t tell why. His next actions would prove to be either the key to the mission or his downfall. Standing beside Riker, the two looked at the three ships, their dark colors and minimal running lights making them little better than silhouettes on the screen.

“Number One, I’m bringing the other ships in, closer to us. It should make us safe. When they’re in position, I want you to lead a boarding party. They don’t answer so we’ll have to find them and ask them our questions in person.”

“Aren’t we violating some accord somewhere?”

“None that I can recall,” Worf said. He had kept his silence, which Picard imagined had to have been hard. The Klingon also seemed remarkably unfazed by the battle. Picard had considered including Worf in the tactical discussions, but he knew that if the ambassador had had any contributions, he would not have hesitated to make them. Obviously, the former Enterprise security chief thought Picard’s tactics to be sound for the nonce.

Picard shook his head in firm agreement with Worf’s statement. “We don’t know these people and they fired without provocation. I feel that gives me a tremendous amount of latitude. Take Vale and let’s invite our Klingon allies to beam their own team aboard. We’ll share our information with the others, but I can’t trust the Carreon at this time.”

“And the Nyrians?”

“We can share our data,” Picard noted. “They’re lost people, Will. Whatever we can do to return them home will remain a priority.”

“Be nice to get Voyager back the same way,” Riker said.

“Captain!”

Picard turned and looked at the viewscreen to see the disgruntled visage of DaiMon Bractor.

“I am most displeased I am not allowed to board the ship. Space salvage rights clearly give us an equal opportunity to participate. You’ll be giving the others a clear advantage over my people.”

Picard knew the Kreechta acquitted itself well in the just concluded battle, and he was pleased there seemed to be no lingering grudges from their first meeting.

However, he disliked the pushy nature of the Ferengi, who seemed to think diplomacy was just another sales tool.

“DaiMon, I am trying to control a volatile situation. I should point out that space salvage involves derelicts and abandoned ships, not those still crewed.”

“You’re hiding something!”

“You’ve thought that of me before,” Picard said as mildly as possible. “I wasn’t then nor am I now. I’ve shared all of our telemetry to date and will continue to do so. Please stand by.” He signaled for the message to be cut.

Turning to Worf, Picard continued, the Ferengi already forgotten. “Ambassador, I’d like you on the ship with the away team.”

“Of course, Captain,” Worf said, practically bursting in anticipation of doing something useful.

Picard turned the other way, looking at Riker. “ Assemble your teams, full armaments, and you’d better bring a medic with you, just in case.”

“Dr. Crusher will insist it be her,” Riker said with his customary grin.

“I have no doubt,” Picard replied.

Finally, some action.

It was all Riker could think about as the turbolift brought him, Worf, and Vale below to the transporter room. Picard controlled the space battle as well as any commander could have under the circumstances, but the first officer was definitely feeling the itch to do . . . something. Picard was content to analyze, study, and pore through ancient Iconian artifacts, while Riker preferred activities that involved movement—either his cooking, or his music, for example.

That was one of the main appeals to remaining first officer: the ability to be usually the first one down to a planet, meeting the unknown face-to-face. It was one thing to study them with sensors and probes and another to share a room with them, picking up on all the subtle clues you couldn’t detect with instruments, no matter how sophisticated.

They stopped at the armory and were met by the rest of the team, which consisted of Vale’s security people. There was Iol, a Bolian woman who recently signed aboard; Rutger VonBraun, who was Vale’s number two; and Patrice Ribero, a five-year veteran. Fine choices, in his mind, as he accepted his hand phaser. Vale couldn’t keep the gleam of anticipation from her eyes and he appreciated that they shared the same enthusiasm for any mission.

Down the corridor was Transporter Room Three and as the solemn sextet strode in, he noted the absence of chatter. It was just as well, since he wasn’t sure the level of danger inherent in this contact. Already inside was engineer Tomas DeSanto, who handed the first officer a tricorder, matching his own. With approval, Riker nodded at the hand phaser tucked into DeSanto’s hip pocket.

Following behind them was a breathless Beverly Crusher. She had her medical bag slung over one shoulder and she too had a phaser in sight.

The instructions he gave were fairly simple: board and find the Iconian leader, learning as much without causing any loss of life.

“The Chargh is beaming aboard her own team,” Vale warned her officers. “Knowing them, they will be even more heavily armed and without any medical support. Captain Grekor intends to place them on the opposite side of the ship since we can’t tell where their command center might be.”

Riker remained impressed with Vale’s hard-nosed demeanor, commanding respect not only by her actions but how she carried herself. Her addition to the crew could never replace Worf or even Tasha Yar, but she was more than capable and was even willing to sample his cooking. A glance over to the ambassador showed a nod of approval on his part. She knew how to brave unknown territory.

“Which ship do we board?” DeSanto, built like a security officer but one of the gentler souls aboard the Enterprise, asked.

“The center one,” Riker replied. “Data managed to triangulate the bulk of the communications to that ship.” With that, everyone took their positions and the transporter chief sent them to the Iconian vessel.

As expected, the gravity and atmosphere were close enough to human norms that they couldn’t even detect a difference. The transport brought them to an empty corridor at the prow of the ship, which suited Riker just fine. It was not as well lit as the Enterprise, but he could make out doors with signs in an alien script, and a dark red and brown color scheme that contrasted with his own ship. There was the tinge of an odor in the air, not offensive but clearly marking the ship as alien. The decks had bare metal floors and not much in the way of decoration. He did spot several computer interfaces down the lengthy, empty corridor.

Flipping open his tricorder, Riker scanned the area and was satisfied to see no life signs in the vicinity. With his free hand, he gestured DeSanto forward. The first officer was surprised by the bulky man’s agility, but he moved quickly to the first interface and scanned it with his tricorder.

DeSanto frowned, which bothered Riker. To date, they had not been successful at piercing the Iconian communications or computer systems. Still, the engineer tapped in commands, trying to coax the Iconian computer to open up its secrets.

“Commander, we’re being scanned,” Vale said, holding her own tricorder up toward the ceiling.

“They know we’re here, then.” Riker was not at all surprised. He signaled for the engineer to return to the group. Now he had to pick a course. The lack of activity implied command was elsewhere, so he pointed with the tricorder to a juncture about fifty meters before them. In a tight group, they moved down the hall.

With several meters left, doors on either side of the corridor opened, disgorging a large number of Iconians. Riker barely had time to absorb their appearance but he noticed their yellowish skin and his last thought was of Data’s own golden skin when a fist doubled him over. Okay, he admitted, they had strength.

The phaser rifles would do the team no good although Iol wielded hers as a club, taking down two Iconians with one swing. Riker’s own fist connected with a chest, pushing his attack off him.

With a brief glance, Riker saw that, robes or not, the ambassador was Klingon-born and was not going to stand by idly. Instead, he hefted an Iconian over his head and tossed him down the corridor.

They were outnumbered at least two to one and he had no idea how long Crusher and DeSanto could hold on with such odds. As with their ships, the Iconians seemed to believe in numbers being a deciding factor. He also spotted that the doors remained open and seemed to reveal turbolifts.

“Vale, can you handle these goons?”

“POC,” she said.

“POC?” he asked as he lashed out with his left leg, staggering an opponent.

“Piece of cake, go!”

“Commander, I will help the lieutenant and join up with you,” Worf shouted, as he elbowed an attacker trying to attack from behind.

Grinning, Riker hauled one Iconian headfirst into another, freeing Crusher for a moment. He stepped over a fallen body and twisted to avoid another one being thrown by VonBraun. Finally, he stepped into the small cabin and prayed he could get the door closed. A quick study of the single control panel showed nothing intuitive, so he began pressing buttons at random until one finally snapped the door closed with a resounding clang.

Three buttons later, the lift began to move, sideways and then down. A preprogrammed destination, he suspected. As the lift moved him, Riker caught his breath and began to think about the Iconians. They appeared approximately human norm in size and shape although these had rather bland faces. Chins, Riker thought, as he focused on the details. They had little in the way of chin and their eyes seemed ill formed, as if a sculptor had not completed his work. They certainly didn’t match any species he could recall and he was not terribly surprised to find them bipeds. A suspiciously high percentage of all four quadrants were designed that way.

Riker noticed the lift slowing, estimating he must have descended to the final deck of the ship.

Taking out his hand phaser, Riker touched the door stud and sure enough, it slid open, making the same racket. No sense of surprise now, he thought. He crouched low and peered out the doorway, first right then left. Another dim corridor, but this one had Iconians lined up one-third of the way. One turned his way and pointed, sounding an alarm in clear Federation Standard. That alone made Riker hesitate, but what really caught his attention was that several of these Iconians seemed to have Klingon forehead ridges. He quickly recovered and fired the phaser toward the ceiling, hoping to scatter the crowd. He turned about only to discover the lift had closed and moved on.

Scatter they did and Riker bolted in the other direction, turning left at the first opportunity, searching for either another lift or some place to hide until he could figure things out. He ran quickly, hearing sounds of pursuit, and he realized he had no idea what sort of hand weapons they possessed. So much for journeying into the unknown.

Ten meters down the new corridor, Riker heard the sound of metal grating on metal and saw an Iconian figure fly through an open doorway. This one had a Romulan brow, and pointed ears but the same yellowish skin. He then heard a sound that made him smile and he ventured toward the battle.

As expected, the Klingon landing party was having their hands full of rushing Iconians. Even outnumbered three to one, Riker could tell there wasn’t even a contest. One Klingon, Captain Grekor himself, spotted Riker and grinned.

“Come, I can save one for you!”

“If it’s all the same, I’m still looking for the command center,” Riker replied.

Grekor hefted an Iconian over his head, the alien’s arms pinwheeling in fright, and tossed him to the far side of the room. “As you wish, Commander.”

Riker watched the toss and tried to figure out the room’s purpose. There were control panels and miniature monitors everywhere. Of course, the writing still made no sense to him, nor did the readouts. He saluted the Klingon with his phaser, shouted “Qapla’!” and continued down the corridor.

The dimness bothered Riker, reminding him of how tired he was. There had been little opportunity to rest, let alone sleep. Still, he knew he was in good shape and had the endurance to go for hours more. He was hungry, though, and thought about the rations Crusher kept in her medical bag. She was nowhere nearby so he banished the idea from his mind, concentrating on negotiating his way through the alien ship.

As he turned another red and brown corner, Riker heard footsteps approach. He tried to step back but the Iconian spotted him. This one, oddly enough, looked more human than others, complete with well-groomed hair in a current Federation style. His clothes also seemed like the style of leisure wear one wore on Argelius, all bright colors and patterns, certainly going against everything he had witnessed aboard this ship to date. The Iconian’s face turned angry as he spotted the Federation officer and he pulled out his own hand weapon, which seemed to glow as it touched his skin.

Riker dove forward into a shoulder roll, and then extended his form so he was practically eye to eye with the alien, too close for him to fire. The move surprised the Iconian and suddenly, Riker had him by the shirt collar, the phaser at his temple.

“Do you speak Standard?”

“Y-yes,” the man stammered.

“The command center, bridge, whatever you call it, where is it?”

The man seemed to consider his options and when he took too long, Riker dug the phaser’s emitter a little more into the man’s temple. He noted there seemed to be a lot of loose skin there. Something to share with Crusher later.

“Two decks up, one-quarter of the way forward,” he finally said in a slightly frantic tone.

Score one for diplomacy, Riker mused. He used his free hand to punch the oval control panel set into the nearest door. It opened loudly and Riker shoved the man in and fired near his feet. It did the trick, freezing him into position until the door cycled shut. One burst from the phaser fused the circuit panel, trapping the man.

Finally, some progress, he thought. Still, something was wildly amiss and Riker tried fitting the pieces together, forming a profile of the Iconians, and it was far from complete. Why were the Iconians looking like Klingons, Romulans, and humans?

He found another lift, finally beginning to recognize that their door shapes were slightly different in style than the others. Not being able to read their writing was bothersome, but he was beginning to get the hang of the technology. It only took four attempts to find the “up” toggle and he managed to stop the lift after two decks. One-quarter forward was not exactly precise, but Riker figured the closer to the command center he got, the more “helpful” Iconians he would encounter.

The door opened, Riker once more peeked out and stepped forward, phaser thrust forward. He stepped gingerly, toward the Iconians walking away from him. By following, he had hoped to locate the bridge. What he didn’t expect was a pair of hands reaching him from behind and hauling him around a corner. Riker was spun against the wall and was surrounded by five men, probably one more than he could confidently handle.

Three of the five were human in appearance, like the one he left below; the other two were the tallest Ferengi he’d ever seen. These, too, seemed in leisure clothes but armed with the same sort of hand weapons. Once again, though, Riker was too close for them to be of much use. He held his ground, hoping to learn from them. No doubt they had questions of their own.

They spoke among themselves in their native tongue; then, finally, the one on Riker’s extreme left spoke to him. The voice was smooth, with almost a melodic quality that was actually pleasing to the ear.

“Why are you here?”

“I’ll explain that to your leader. Where can I find him?”

“Why are you here?” This from the pseudo-Ferengi in the center.

“We’ve tried peaceful contact, but you ignored us. We approach and you fire on us. I think you owe my captain some explanations.” Riker looked them right in the eye, which they seemed unused to. They looked away, at one another and then back at Riker’s chest.

“You invade our ship and will have to pay the price.” The two on his right stepped closer and reached for Riker, who was held tight. However, they ignored his legs so he kicked up, grabbing the alien in the center with a scissors hold. The five struggled, not used to fighting apparently, which Riker turned to his advantage.

With his legs, he pulled the alien toward him, forcing all five off-balance. He twisted and knocked one Ferengi down, tripping up another human-lookalike. They couldn’t maintain a solid grip so Riker struggled free for a moment. One of the fallen men grabbed a leg while another reached for his weapon.

Once more, the first officer ducked down and rolled, kicking the downed alien with his free leg. He began to rise when someone reached from behind and smacked his head into the hard metal corridor wall. Momentarily, bright lights flashed before Riker’s eyes and he couldn’t tell where his assailants were. His left arm swung lazily, hoping to make contact with something. Instead, it got grabbed and twisted behind his back while another hand reached for the phaser, now on the ground.

From his right, an alien kicked viciously and Riker’s ribs protested and he let out a grunt. Another kick, this from the other side, and Riker knew he had to move to survive. Balling himself up to protect his body, he tried to roll forward and moved a foot or two. He then did a backward sweep kick, which managed to knock down one alien, and Riker pounced. The two struggled, rolling on the ground, each holding on to articles of clothing. The action seemed to keep the other four at bay.

But only for a moment, as two of them reached down and grabbed Riker’s arms, this time keeping away from his legs. The punches began, all over his body and weakening the first officer. He started to sag, losing hold on consciousness, and began to find his mind drifting, thinking of Deanna, safely away from the battle, or of a piece of music he had been trying to master for a week.

He felt himself slip to the ground, no longer being held, but he was winded and couldn’t focus. Idly, Riker wondered what became of the hitting. It seemed to have stopped. He shook his head, trying to regain his senses, find the alertness that had wandered away.

Blood had stung his eyes as he blinked repeatedly but he was pretty certain some larger figure was pummeling an Iconian. Maybe two. When he heard the battle cry, he broke into a broad smile.

“Ambassador Worf, my hero,” he cracked, looking at the Klingon warrior standing atop a heap made from the five bodies.

“Will, you are injured,” Worf said in that deep, welcome voice of his.

“Nothing the doctor can’t cure,” he replied.

Worf stepped forward and helped the commander to his feet, one arm trying to wipe the blood from the gash on the side of his head. Riker shook his head once more, letting everything regain its familiar focus.

“You came looking to ply your trade but instead, fell back on instinct. Whatever will the Council think,” Riker teased.

“Not exactly . . .”

“Very exactly,” Riker said, using his own sleeve to wipe at his bloody nose. “You’ve been stalking the command center, too.”

“Yes,” Worf admitted.

“It’s this way,” Riker said, gesturing toward the adjoining corridor. “They have strong internal sensors which have been tracking us. Have you noticed anything unusual about these people?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t been looking close enough. I just fought my way through Klingons, humans, Romulans, and Ferengi, but all with yellow skin.”

“A masquerade?”

“I think we just need to ask. If you’d please?”

Worf bent down and picked up Riker’s phaser and tricorder, which had been knocked around during the battle. Riker accepted them, checked their functionality, and slipped them into his pockets. With each passing moment he was more and more alert, which also meant he felt each ache and pain with greater clarity. Trying to ignore them, Riker led Worf toward the corridor and they made their way to the Iconian bridge.

No one challenged the pair, which probably annoyed Worf but gave Riker a chance to catch his second wind. There was no question he would need Crusher’s attention but he didn’t dare contact her and possibly give away his position or compromise Crusher’s. He gestured for Worf to stand on the opposite side of the door and then they raised their weapons in readiness. With his right hand, he banged on the door, knocking rather than activating the automation. The action was greeted with silence so Riker banged once more.

Finally, the door snapped open and an Iconian, one looking more like the first ones he saw, stepped into the entrance and spotted Worf. He let out a small sound before Worf clapped a large, dark hand across his mouth. He yanked the man out of the doorway, clearing space for Riker to step through.

Well, he was mussed, bloody, and less than at his best, but Riker was ready for that all-important first face-to-face contact with an alien leader.

The command center was not designed for comfort, or even efficiency, the Enterprise officer thought. Darker than even the passageways, the room was oblong with two large screens, showing fore and aft images. People sat in low-slung chairs, control panels to both sides. There appeared to be six such stations in a ring, three facing each screen. All six looked at Riker in horror but none dared move.

“Hi,” Riker said. Worf stepped in behind him, letting the door finally close. “Does one of you happen to be the captain?”

The Iconians proved to be less than a challenge to Grekor and his landing party, which infuriated him. These yellow-skinned weaklings might have possessed great firepower as witnessed by the crippling of the Glory, but they could not fight like Klingons. Trying to win a battle through sheer numbers proved nothing and was beneath his contempt.

Once the Iconians had been incapacitated or killed, he had his people fan out in the room, trying to decipher its purpose. This much technology, he concluded, meant it was a necessary location. Kliv, one of his better warriors, seemed able to learn the control panels and got it responding to his touch. This impressed Grekor, since he had never before considered Kliv as anything more than a career soldier. But one who could fight and make a computer sing was a valuable asset.

“Report,” he barked at that asset.

“My best estimate is that this room is an engineering control station, my lord,” Kliv said.

“Where are the engines?”

Kliv turned back to the console, knowingly risking Grekor’s anger, but coaxed it into making a portion of the side wall roll back. It turned out to be an accessway to a platform overlooking a vast engine room. Now, this was something Grekor understood: a room throbbing with power. These engines could easily handle the highest warp for longer than those of either the Federation or the Klingon Empire. So, he would wrest its secrets and bring it back to Martok, insuring some victory, some advantage for his own House.

Grekor gestured for Kliv to join him on the platform. He gestured out toward the engines, idling, but still turning out terawatts of energy for the starship. “I want this ship’s secrets,” he whispered to Kliv. “How do these engines work? Find me that and we shall all benefit.”

“My lord,” Kliv began in obeisance, which pleased Grekor. Too few Klingons seemed to know their place anymore, but Kliv was well trained. Then the junior warrior turned his attention away from Grekor and down below. The captain craned his neck and watched nearly a dozen forms take shape near the engine core.

“Gorn,” Grekor snarled.

“What shall we do, my lord?” Kliv asked. “They are allied with us in this.”

“But they defy Picard’s order,” Grekor said. “He is not a man to cross.”

The commander stared at the dozen grotesque forms swarming with sensors, trying to obtain the same information. He wanted to unsheathe a blade and strike a blow for Picard’s honor but had to stop himself, secondguessing his gut. It galled him, but for the moment, he would look after the overall interests of his people—but he would not soon forget this transgression. Should Kahless wish it, his time would come.

“We will both have this technology, then, but they bear watching,” he said in slow measured tones.

Kliv returned his attention to the control room and proceeded to coax the alien code into revealing itself.

“Captain, there has been an unauthorized transport,” Data calmly announced.

Picard looked up with a look of alarm. The last thing he needed was the uneasy alliance to crumble because the Romulans or the Ferengi or the Gorn could not wait to plunder the Iconian ships.

“It came from the Gorn ships,” the second officer continued.

Picard sighed. Given that they were the first to take lives despite his orders, this wasn’t so unexpected.

“Picard to Captain Ralwisssh. I demand to know why your people are on the Iconian ship.”

“To the victor go the spoils . . . is that not one of your phrases?”

“We are not victorious,” Picard said, fighting to contain his anger. “We’ve merely gotten the upper hand for the moment. The gateways remain active and therefore the threat remains.”

“I see it differently, but will send over no more crew,” Ralwisssh said. Picard wished he could read a tone, an attitude or emotion from the voice.

Instead, Picard stood and approached Data, staring at the viewscreen, and wondered what was transpiring on the command vessel. What did these people know of the Iconians and how was his crew faring in person? Still, his primary thoughts had to remain with the fleet.

“Data, let’s move our ships in an effort to corral the Iconian ships. We’ll nudge them into a tighter group, making it more difficult for them to maneuver and fight or even flee. While they may outnumber us, we do seem to be in control for the moment. I don’t want to waste the advantage.”

The android agreed and began working out courses for the other ships, sending out signals in place of Commander Riker. In the meantime, with nothing else to do, Picard retired to his ready room, allowing himself a brief respite.

From his private sanctum, the captain ordered his favorite tea, and a small scone. Sitting on his couch, he held up a padd that contained current readings on the damaged ships. Desan and her crew seemed to have restored more power to the Glory, so it remained spaceworthy. He appreciated their efforts and dedication. On the other hand, the Mercury was having a tougher time. They remained on auxiliary power and were working nonstop to restore vital systems. Brisbayne’s last report indicated his doubts as to restoring warp power and they were all too far away from the Federation to expect much backup help. Without saying so, the captain was ready to send his crew off-ship, a step before total abandonment. It no doubt hurt the career officer, and Picard had much sympathy for his plight. It was all he could spare right now; there were not enough resources all around to allow Picard to send La Forge over to lend a hand.

He gazed out the viewport and saw the three Iconian ships floating in the ether. They fascinated and infuriated him. Like a good chess master, he had surrounded the opponent, but it irritated him to not know exactly what it was he had surrounded.

What secrets could possibly be locked away on those ships and were they smart enough to discover them?