Chapter Nine

RIKER CONTINUED TO STAND impassively, waiting for someone to speak. The heavy breathing behind him would normally elicit a comment, but for now, he was just comforted to have Worf watching his back. It had been a full thirty seconds since they breached the control room, but the passive figures before him seemed more mannequin than life-form.

“Do I scare you? You’ll forgive the appearance, but it was difficult finding your address. I shouldn’t be scary, I’m really a nice guy. The man behind me, though, you don’t want to wear out his patience. There isn’t a lot to begin with.” He flashed them a winning grin, not daring to steal a glance at his companion.

Finally, a man at a station toward the room’s rear looked up and spoke. The voice was authoritative, although the body seemed ill formed, somewhat broad at the shoulders, and the human face certainly lacked definition. He idly thought that they sort of resembled the Changelings but with less control over their mimicry.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” the man said, breaking into a smile. “This has been quite a reversal for us, as you can imagine. We’re not used to that.”

The first officer was surprised by the casual tone in the words, expecting something far stuffier. But he could adapt.

“Are you the leader?”

The man smiled benignly, briefly flashing flat, dull teeth. He had a fringe of dark hair from ear to ear, not dissimilar to Picard, but the unlined face offset the appearance of age. In fact, Riker wouldn’t hazard a guess.

“Maybe not for the entire Iconian people,” he began with a slight laugh. “But for the Alpha Quadrant, yes, I do speak for my people. I am Doral.”

Riker grinned back at the unassuming figure but refused to lower the phaser. He did, though, step into the room, letting Worf further within. The bridge felt much fuller, almost annoyingly so, but he was not going to give up the advantage.

“I’d like you to order a cease-fire, and begin discussions with Captain Picard, whom you so rudely ignored.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say ignored, just listened intently without much to say,” Doral replied. “Still, you have me at a disadvantage so I will send out the signal.”

Now Riker was getting annoyed. This leader was being too affable, showing almost no emotion. With caution, he watched Doral give brief hand signals to the officers nearest him and each hunched over the controls, tapping away. He waited, practicing patience, trying not to give away a thing. Instead, he absorbed the controls, how they were being accessed, and added it to his growing knowledge. If he had to fight his way off the ship, he would be damned if he would be caught ill prepared. No doubt, Worf was doing the same.

Doral, a little taller than Riker, but not as solidly built, turned and smiled once more. “There. I’ve also put out the same message throughout this ship so your people, and Ambassador Worf’s, and the Gorn will no longer be at risk.”

Mention of the Gorn surprised Riker, but he kept his poker face intact. Something told him, though, that Doral saw his surprise anyhow. This man seemed placid, but Riker could tell he was being measured up in much the same way. He was used to it by now, but still, these were unknown opponents and he had to think of them as such, much as he wished these were the mighty people Picard somewhat idolized.

“Thank you,” Riker replied. “Now, are you ready to meet with Captain Picard and get this matter settled?”

“Actually, no,” Doral said. “There are a few things I’d like explained, such as what you did to disrupt our technology. We came to your people, offering this boon, and here you are trying to sabotage it. That’s not dealing with us fairly, now, is it?”

“I find it interesting how you’ve gone to great lengths to resemble the quadrant’s key races,” Riker said. “Haven’t spotted any Breen, Kreel, Orions, or Cardassians around here, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of looking a little harder.”

Doral just looked at Riker and said nothing. The look in his eyes was not a happy one.

“I would imagine it was done for a purpose,” Riker said, hoping he could bluff through the exchange. “You have, though, ignored our pleas to turn off the devices while we and the other governments negotiate in good faith.”

Doral smiled, looking deep into Riker’s eyes, and the first officer started to feel more than a little uncomfortable. If he could read some tic, some movement that tipped off the bluff—he had nothing left but force and with a ship full of Klingons and Gorn, he was not going to be the aggressor.

“Of course, Commander, and perhaps we should have. But we could take this as a sign of aggression and retaliate against the Federation while continuing to negotiate with the dozen other governments in this quadrant.”

“I would say, right about now, you don’t have the ability to launch much of a fight,” Riker said, surer of his ground. “If you’ve sent out the cease-fire, we’ll be able to talk and settle this like enlightened beings.”

Doral laughed at the word “enlightened” and waved an arm that gestured Worf and Riker further into the control room. The others remained at their stations and just watched, never taking their hands off the control panels. He and Worf looked around at everything with heavy suspicion but joined the Iconian at the far viewscreen. Doral nodded toward the closest officer and the viewscreen switched to a star map. Riker didn’t immediately recognize the star patterns.

“That’s the Beta Quadrant,” Worf said, his deep voice startling more than one officer. “Is that where you hail from?”

“Me personally,” Doral said, “no. I was born on a ship here in the Alpha Quadrant, but we’ve been making our way here from the Beta Quadrant, as you so quaintly put it, for quite some time. We flourished here once, and would like to do so again. For that, we will need resources and after studying the situation here, it seems the gateways were the greatest benefit we had to sell.

“You people, siding with one another and then turning on them. My people are long past that. We can’t even recall our last war.”

“Yet you were known as the ‘demons of air and darkness,’ ” Worf said.

Doral paused a moment, seemingly thinking. Was he offended by the sobriquet, or was there something else? He watched the facial expression and with fewer lines to define the face, he had trouble telling. “That’s a name I have not heard in a long time,” he finally said. “I’m sure we seemed like demons to some of the worlds we visited but in the literal sense, no.”

“It seems like you want to talk, so please, let’s arrange a meeting with Captain Picard. Ambassador Worf and I should not be the ones to debate this with you.”

“Perhaps, Commander, but I do enjoy the opportunity,” Doral said. “But for now, I think I shall remain here.”

“I do not think you should refuse Commander Riker’s suggestion,” Worf said in a menacing tone. Doral actually flinched at the sound, which secretly pleased Riker, but he did not want to settle this through intimidation.

Doral’s eyes darted to an officer, who nodded in return. Just as Riker waved his phaser to cover the man, a transporter beam griped the Iconian and took him from the bridge. Worf’s phaser fired first and the officer slumped over the console. Riker turned his weapon on the next nearest officer and inquired where the leader had gone. He was met with silence and Riker could tell it would remain that way.

“Riker to Picard,” he said, stabbing at his chest emblem.

“Go ahead, Number One.”

“We’ve found their leader, a man named Doral. However, Doral seems disinclined to meet with you and had himself beamed off the bridge. We’re not sure where he went, but we do have control of the ship.”

“Understood. The others have ceased the attack and we have positioned our fleet defensively. I’m sending Data and La Forge over to begin studying their technology.”

“Agreed,” Riker replied. “Worf and I will stay aboard to keep an eye on things.”

“Very well; you’ll stay in charge.”

“Captain, what are the Gorn doing aboard?”

“They are there without permission but apparently have not acted violently.”

“Just another wrinkle in the plan,” Riker commented. “We’ve got it under control, so Data and Geordi can come aboard any time. I suggest they start in engineering.”

“Done. Picard out.”

Maybe some hot cocoa, Troi thought to herself, or better yet, a sundae. Instead, she gulped down the last of a cool cup of raktajino as she reviewed the latest in a steady stream of padds. The cascading effects of the fight meant one system after another had shown strain. Her damage-control teams had locked down the worst of the problem and the ship’s power was almost back to normal. But it meant everyone was working without letup, in case the fighting started again. While the Marco Polo was a lean machine, its smaller crew meant there was little in the way of relief.

On the bridge, Hol had healed enough that he was back at his station, although his left arm was in a sling and he moved slowly. Davison had whispered to him a while ago and he actually cracked a smile so she knew he would be fine.

The turbolift doors opened and Mia Chan returned to the bridge after a checkup. While she hadn’t been seriously hurt, Troi insisted the entire crew get a medical once-over just in case. She lingered at tactical for a moment, slipping her left arm through the space between Rosario’s right arm and chest. Their fingers brushed one another’s for a moment and she leaned into him, which resulted in a wince. Quickly, she disengaged herself and took her station.

“Dr. Buonfiglio pronounce you fit?” Troi asked mildly.

Chan turned and gave her a big smile, nodded, and returned to her readouts. She seemed very intent on looking forward, concentrating on nothing in particular. There was very little for the conn officer to do while everyone in the fleet maintained position.

The captain eased herself out of the center seat and moved forward, coming alongside Chan. “He’ll be fine.”

“Oh I know, Captain, but I don’t like seeing him hurt.”

“Only him?” she asked mischievously.

She blushed and shook her head, making the hair fly about. “Not at all! Well, okay, maybe those that fired on us, but you know I have feelings for him.”

“As he seems to have for you. But I need you focused on the mission. If you can’t do that, I’ll have to summon relief.”

“I’ll be okay, Captain,” Chan said, sounding all business. “No need to worry about me.”

“As you have no need to worry about him,” Troi finished.

Within five minutes, La Forge and Data were in the engine room, which now had more members of the alliance than Iconians. Kliv took most of the ship’s complement and locked them in a nearby room, posting a guard. Klingon, Gorn, and Starfleet officers waved sensing devices over the equipment and Grekor stared with smoldering hatred toward the aliens.

La Forge thought Data was acting fine, betraying no sense of apprehension, but he suspected it remained with his friend. Despite having used the emotion chip for several years now, Data was still coming to grips with the powerful changes it effected on his perceptions of the world around him. Something like this was sure to rattle him, considering what happened the first time.

Turning his attention to the main engines, Geordi allowed his optical implants to go to work. Similar to the tricorder, his implants allowed him to scan things at almost the molecular level. He could determine the metallurgical composition of the hull plating, the kinds of monofilaments used to wire the control panels, and the number of strands in the weave of the fabric on the control chairs. La Forge never ceased to be awed by how his sight far exceeded his fellow humans.’ Still, he not too long ago was also able to see the pure colors of a sunrise without artificial enhancements. He remained wistful over losing his natural sight once again but was at least aided by trusted technology.

Kliv, taller and far broader than the chief engineer, nearly tripped over him. The Klingon swore an oath loudly but unintelligibly and Geordi took it in stride. Seeing the access panel, the Klingon also bent down, and the two men stared in through the panel.

“I see no dilithium in use,” the Klingon muttered.

“Me either,” Geordi said, hoping to share knowledge, which was more likely from a Klingon than a Gorn. “Their antimatter flow seems regulated through pulsed magnetic fields, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.”

“There is an imbalance in the warp field this engine generates as well,” the Klingon said, trying to sound more like he was talking to himself than to a fellow engineer.

“I see that. The pulse seems to cause it, which also seems to form a tighter warp bubble, which I believe gives them some greater maneuverability than either of our ships.”

The Klingon spat but nodded in reluctant agreement. “But I also see three types of alloy used for the housing, which also makes little sense.”

“We think these ships are old enough that they have been patched with salvage. We’ve seen that sort of thing before,” La Forge said.

The two went on exchanging technical small talk for a little while, and in so doing, seemed comfortable with their surroundings. Still, even as they moved around the engineering deck, no Gorn came near them. On the one hand, Geordi was just as pleased, but on the other, he wanted to know what they knew. He spotted one lingering near them, no doubt eavesdropping and doing a rather poor job of masking the task.

La Forge looked across the room and saw that Crusher was idly studying readouts that probably made as little sense to her as they did to him. He then looked to the left and saw that Data had literally climbed atop a control station and had removed the top paneling. Nothing seemed to stop his friend from researching the machinery and he was tempted to get his hands a little dirtier as well but decided to let his colleague start.

Data was waist-deep inside the paneling for several minutes and La Forge paused to look over the tricorder results. There was a great deal of information, some of which made sense, a lot of which seemed contradictory. His captain might have seemed somewhat in awe of these people, but they seemed awfully sloppy starship pilots after hundreds of centuries. Maybe they relied too much on the gateways and fell out of practice. He wasn’t sure, but he would find it hard to take any pride in captaining ships like this one.

Suddenly, La Forge heard a somewhat muffled cry of “Eureka!”

Data scrambled out from the computer’s innards and smiled at his friend and La Forge knew Data’s childlike wonderment and positronic brain met up and reached a vital conclusion.

“Geordi, these people may have control of the gateways, but they are not the Iconians.”

Deanna Troi could see the allure of command. It was something that fascinated her when she served with Picard on the Enterprise. Everyone had their own style and she had seen where Will Riker got his: a combination of not-his-father and Picard. Edward Jellico, who captained the vessel for a brief time, was bluster and hardheadedness, not to her liking at all. Even her close friend Beverly Crusher had a differing style, empathy covering a steel will that no one dared question. As a ship’s counselor, Deanna found it all very fascinating, but as a ship’s commander, she realized all made choices because it was how they wanted the crew to react. She had yet to really make those choices before now, and she was instinctually following her training. It meant a good rapport with this crew and she hoped it would prove correct should a crisis occur.

But right now, she was restless.

No longer aboard the flagship, she was commanding a vessel that was assigned guard duty and she missed the bustle of activity aboard the Enterprise. Things were quiet, the Iconian ships were at station-keeping, her crew had a chance to eat at their stations, and she sat in the command chair and felt . . . what was it Will called it once? Ants in her pants. She fully agreed with the description.

“Any chatter?”

Rosario looked up from tactical, amazed at the question that made her inwardly sigh. “No, ma’am. You expressly asked me to inform you and I have not been derelict in my duties.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’re looking for something to fight the boredom,” began Hol, “come look at this.”

Troi rose, pacing herself, and casually approached the science station. She crossed the distance in seconds, momentarily forgetting that the Marco Polo was a much smaller vessel. The Tiburonian shifted in his chair and gestured at his largest panel. Displayed on it was a series of energy matrices, making very pretty, colorful patterns.

“These are from the Iconian ships?”

“Yes, the sixty-three vessels break down to these energy patterns.”

“Interesting.”

There was a long pause as she carefully read the breakdown of ships to power sources, wishing more than anything that Geordi were beside her to offer an explanation rather than force her to ask.

“Good work,” she offered.

“And you’re not sure what you’re looking at,” he replied, his tone serious, betraying no warmth.

“Actually, no,” she admitted with a small smile.

“Counselors don’t get a lot of engineering courses at the Academy, I bet,” he said.

“Just the basics—and that was a long time ago,” she said, letting her own warm smile show.

“We have five dozen ships emitting seven different energy signatures. For a scientifically advanced people, these Iconians seem to be using a lot of current engine types. And why not a uniform method of propulsion?”

“Very good questions, Mr. Hol. Speculation?”

Now it was his turn to pause and she liked making him think about the answer. People rose to command any number of ways, but she was fairly certain she was the only current ship’s commander to come from the medical branch of Starfleet. She liked the notion but equally disliked not being able to keep up with the staggering amount of technical information most commanders seemed to have at their fingertips. Her respect for Picard was once again reinforced.

“They are not what they appear to be” was his response.

She nodded thoughtfully, picking up his pride in the analysis. “Captain Picard agrees. There’s much more to this than the Iconians simply showing up to offer up the gateways for money. These may be a very diluted form of Iconian. . . .”

“. . . Or not Iconians at all,” Chan said.

Troi turned to see that her conn officer had been listening intently. She was grinning and seemed rather satisfied with herself. “Could be, but why such a big smile?”

“I bet a round of drinks on that answer,” she said.

“There’s betting on this?”

“Well, Captain Picard did not like it on the bridge,” Chan said. “Sikluna had the pool going, in the galley, as soon as we got within scanner range. I lucked out and got that option. Poor Kranepool, he’s my bunkmate, got stuck with them being Changelings.”

“Kid’s barely more than a plebe,” Hol said with a sniff. “He deserves to learn how it’s done.”

“Oh? And which option did you obtain?”

“Too many unknowns, so I didn’t enter the pool.” Chan laughed. “He’s just a chicken.”

“My people tend to bet wisely with thorough analysis,” Hol said in his characteristically somber tone.

“Your people haven’t prospered much have they?” Davison said from her seat.

“Wait a moment,” Troi said, her tone shutting down the conversation. Everyone turned to her expectantly. “We entered scanning range while I was in command, so why wasn’t I invited to join the pool?”

There was a long silence as the crew exchanged surprised glances and tried to come up with answers—she could feel their anxiety. Clearly, they expected their captain to be just like Picard. She, though, was determined to lead in her own style. Chan, most of all, seemed most upset by the question, which she meant in good fun, but they took her seriously—a problem with any command.

“I can tell you why,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Because next to Ferengi, Betazoids are the quadrant’s most feared gamblers. It wouldn’t make a good impression if the temporary commander of a temporary crew fleeced you all. Perfectly understandable.” With that she took her seat, basking in the surprise she felt from Hol, Chan, and Rosario. Davison, a more experienced officer, seemed content.

“Well, that may be true,” Chan said, brightening. “But Hol just showed us these can’t be the real deal so I’m going to win and the chicken here gave me the prize.”

Picard was restless on the bridge. With Troi on the Marco Polo, Riker, Crusher, La Forge, Data, and even Worf on Doral’s ship, he was suddenly without his closest allies. The captain relied on their skills as well as their counsel. A part of him was tempted to summon Dr. Crusher back to the starship just so he had someone to talk to, but he shrugged it off as foolishness.

He admitted to himself how desperately he wanted to be on the ship, be the one to study close-up these Iconians and find the answers himself. In some ways he felt cheated by his rank and allowed the frustration to eat at him, which caused him to mentally berate himself. What he wouldn’t give for a distraction.

“Captain, signal from Taleen,” said the relief tactical officer, a Benzite named Golik.

Well, be careful what you wish for, he chided himself. “On screen,” he commanded.

Taleen’s pleasant features filled the screen and he reminded himself all over again that he wanted to make time to be more welcoming to the lost Nyrians. They had proved themselves to him as they came to the fleet’s defense hours earlier, so had gained a measure of trust.

“Captain, as I understand it, the Iconians’ leader ran away.”

Picard smiled at the image, but shook his head slightly. “Not exactly ran, Taleen, but did beam off their bridge.”

“Are you looking for him?”

“We suspect he’s hiding somewhere on the ship, but our people have not seen him. Why?”

“I wanted to see if you would like our help in locating him.” She smiled at him, proud to be of service, and Picard warmed toward the woman.

“You know where he is?”

“Not yet, but it shouldn’t take long if you want our assistance.”

“Of course, Taleen, commence a search with your equipment. If you find him, let me know.”

Taleen nodded off-screen and told Picard, “It won’t be a minute.”

This made Picard’s eyebrows rise in question and she laughed, with a nice tone. She tried to look more serious despite her youth and explained, “We specialize in translocators—what you call transporters. Our equipment sends out a continuous scan of the area our ship is in, ready to execute a transport at a moment’s notice. The range of our equipment is much superior to yours if our experience with Voyager is an indication.”

“Really,” Picard said, with genuine curiosity. He suspected he let his sympathy for a lost ship cloud his judgment over its capabilities.

“We can run our scans through the computer and trace any other transport signature and . . . here we go,” she said. For a moment she glanced below the camera and smiled broadly. “Interesting. They seem to have a synchronized escape route. He went from his ship and bounced off eight other vessels before settling on a ninth ship, about ten thousand meters from the Glory.”

Picard glanced over to Golik, who punched up a tight tactical map showing the two ships. The captain nodded in appreciation and turned back to his new friend. “I thank you, Taleen. Trust me when I tell you we will help you find your way home.”

“You’ve protected us so well, Captain, I’m trying to repay the debt. Good fortune.” She ended the signal before he could reply.

“Mr. Golik, get me Desan on the Glory.”

“What do you mean, Data?”

“Geordi, the large amount of equipment used to construct this, the flagship vessel, date at most ten to fifteen years. We have already observed that many of the defending ships seem to be patched with differing hull composites and systems technology. Everything points to this fleet of ships being scavengers from the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Furthermore, none of the language on this ship resembles the iconology we witnessed on Iconia nor does it match the known roots of the Iccobar, Dewan, and Dinasian languages which we already know to be formed from Iconia.”

“Which explains the fifteen different energy signatures,” La Forge added, feeling heightened emotions. He was genuinely getting excited at finding the truth, although a part of him knew this would crush Picard.

“Exactly. Based upon the data gleaned from the three gateways encountered prior to this current situation, there was a uniformity to the technology. That is not at all exhibited here.”

“So who are they?”

“That, my dear Watson,” the android said with a smirk, “remains a mystery.”

La Forge inwardly groaned, not feeling like playing the able assistant to fiction’s greatest detective personified by Data. It was fine for the holodeck adventures they shared, but on a mission it could prove distracting.

“We’d better inform Captain Picard,” the engineer said slowly. He tapped his combadge, gave his report, and could hear Picard’s all-business tone. He tried to sense the real feelings but his captain had spent a career masking them when necessary and for now, he would keep those personal feelings bottled up. As he made the report, the Klingons drifted over and listened, some nodding in agreement with Data’s revelations.

“Commander, I think it’s time Dr. Crusher examine one of these people and see if we can trace where they’re really from.”

“Fine,” La Forge said, appreciating the extra familiar hands. “We’ll find a volunteer.”

“Please bring Mr. Riker up to speed, I’ll start making my report to Admiral Ross. Picard out.”

That’s one disappointed man, La Forge thought. He tried to imagine what it must have been like to study a race as legendary as the Iconians, get your hopes up about meeting them, and then have them dashed to find out these were frauds. Not especially good ones at that.

He would want to smack the leader, but suspected that wasn’t in Picard’s character.

“You have a volunteer for me, Geordi?” Crusher asked, getting right to work and not even bothering to look around. She was in full doctor mode.

“Allow me, Doctor,” Grekor said. With a hand gesture, two of his largest men strode out of the engine room.

As they waited, La Forge walked over to Data, laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “There was nothing to worry about after all.”

“True,” his friend replied. “Still, these may not be the Iconians but the gateways most certainly are. When we encounter them, my concerns will remain valid.”

La Forge shook his head, unable to convince his friend to avoid fear. It was one of the toughest lessons any sentient being had to learn and Data was proving no different.

The doors snapped loudly open and the Klingons returned with a very frightened Iconian woman between them. They marched her directly before Crusher and with hands on the woman’s shoulders, forced her to her knees.

“Don’t worry, she won’t vivisect you,” Grekor said, trying to sound cheerful.

“We value our privacy quite highly,” the woman said in a voice that was almost a squeak.

“I think you gave that up when the first shot was fired,” Crusher said, sounding displeased.

Geordi, Data, and the Klingons stood back and watched as Crusher ran her Feinberger over the woman’s body once, then twice. The doctor was constantly checking her medical tricorder and made little sounds to herself. This went on for several minutes and she did her best to ignore the impatient shuffling of the warriors’ boots nearby. She reached into her bag and pulled out a hypo.

“Madame,” she said to the frightened subject, “I’m going to take a small sample of your blood for a more complete analysis. I promise, this won’t hurt.”

“Please don’t,” she said, the first words since the exam began. The Iconian began squirming, twisting her shoulders to keep her arms away from the doctor, who did not seem amused.

Grekor, who had been watching from a distance, walked to the small grouping and stopped directly before the Iconian. His towering form loomed over the group and clearly, this woman had never seen a Klingon before. The eyes riveted the woman stock-still although her legs seemed to quiver just a bit. La Forge stifled a chuckle.

“lo’laHbe’,” he muttered as Crusher extracted a small amount of copper-colored blood. When she was done, Kliv strolled casually back to his group of engineers.

“What did he say?” the woman asked La Forge.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Klingon, but it didn’t sound good, did it?”

Crusher connected the device containing the blood to her tricorder and set both down on a countertop. She fed in some information and then stepped back, waiting for the analysis to be completed. Both the doctor and chief engineer remained aware and concerned that as long as the gateways remained operational untold disasters could occur.

Nagging in the back of his mind, though, was the notion that these sixty-three ships might not be the entire fleet of Iconians . . . or whatever they turned out to be. If there were more out there, this small group of ships could never hold them off.

* * *

Picard was seated in his ready room, his ignored tea cooling rapidly, as he completed the report to Ross. He regretted revealing the aliens’ duplicity, fighting off the sense of disappointment, and continued with a dry recitation of the known facts. Before completing the message, he added an additional note about the Nyrians, making it clear they were helpful allies and were to be accorded all due assistance from Starfleet when the time allowed.

A part of him yearned to bring his Ressikan flute up from his quarters and play the melancholy tune he learned years earlier. He found it brought him great comfort and relieved some of the tensions of command. Still, he pushed the notion away, since he still was holding together a coalition of species, outnumbered by potentially hostile ships with its leader refusing to deal with him. There was no time for personal needs—or so he convinced himself.

He sent off the report in a subspace squirt, estimating Ross would receive it within three hours. Deftly, his fingers played on the controls and called up the tactical display. All remained as it should be, which gave him some measure of relief. The captain thought he should consider himself lucky that they had lost but one ship. True, the Gorn displayed more of an independent streak than he would have liked, but they were mostly behaving themselves. All along, his instincts told him to be wary of the Romulans, but Desan remained an exemplary officer. When he reached her earlier, asking that the crippled Glory move closer to the ship harboring Doral as a safety precaution, she agreed without question. There was little doubt that everything seen and heard was being recorded for later analysis. That report would concern not just these aliens but how well the Federation ships and Picard in particular handled the situation. The Romulans were an arrogant bunch, he knew, but they still studied their opponents carefully.

“Crusher to Picard.”

He was pleased she was getting in touch, afraid he would let things get even more maudlin if he remained on his own much longer. How he missed having his familiar crew with him. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

“My conclusion supports Data’s: these are not Iconians.”

He let the words sink in, their finality feeling enormously heavy. “I see,” he said, expecting the news. “Any chance of a biological link?”

“None I can see on first analysis,” she replied.

“A match to any race we recognize?”

“No, Jean-Luc,” she said.

“Data, given this information, can we conjecture who they are?”

“Our analysis indicates they come from outside the Alpha Quadrant but have made significant upgrades to their ships with familiar material,” Data said.

“My thinking is,” La Forge added, “they’re a long way from home so this is a first-contact situation.”

“I concur,” Picard said, feeling like they were finally starting to get a handle on the situation. “But how did they manage to control the gateways?”

“I’m not sure,” Geordi said. “I do think they are responsible and have some highly sophisticated systems I can’t pierce as yet.”

“Captain,” Crusher added, “although these socalled Iconians appear human, with standard color variations and markings, I also see old evidence of cellular tampering. Everything is organic, but not necessarily material they were born with. I believe this is elaborate makeup.”

The conversation lasted another few minutes as they shared notes on the ship, its largely docile crew, and what the next step needed to be. As far as Picard was concerned, there was still the matter of Doral’s escape that made him concerned. None of this, though, brought them closer to the gateway problem itself.

They were interrupted by a large noise and Picard overheard distinctly Klingon tones coming through the comlink. A few moments later, Captain Grekor came within range and bellowed, “There is a gateway on this very ship! It’s active, but we don’t recognize the locations. With this, we can seize control.”

“Every other gateway was located on a planet, moon, or asteroid,” Data observed. “They must have transplanted one here.”

“Excellent work, Captain,” Picard interrupted. “Mr. La Forge, check the power consumption rates on the ship and Mr. Data, begin an examination of the control mechanism. I’ll take this time to track down Doral.”

There was another commotion, so his crew’s comments got garbled, but something unexpected happened. As usual, Picard yearned to be present but was left in command. Gripping the now cool mug in his left hand, he squeezed it tight.

“This is Ulisssshk of the Gorn Hegemony,” the slow, rasping voice said over the link. “Iconians or whatever you call yourselves know this: we will be given control of the gateway technology or this ship and those around it will cease to exist in two minutes.”

“I order you to cease this threat,” Picard practically yelled. With deft fingers, he called up sensor readings on the ship directly before the Enterprise. He punched in commands to look for energy signatures from engineering as the Gorn replied.

“We see no true bargaining going on and my lord commands me to take the lead,” Ulisssshk growled.

“You are here at the Federation’s invitation, after we helped your people during a time of crisis,” Picard reminded him, hoping to find the cause of the threat and neutralize it from the Enterprise. Nothing was apparent other than an ominous energy buildup near the engines themselves.

“You acted foolishly,” Picard continued urgently. “These people will surrender nothing with their leader, Doral, off the ship. He’s as likely to sacrifice them as your are to sacrifice my crew. Data, Grekor—clear engineering.”

With just over a minute left, Picard weighed options, unwilling to sacrifice any of his crew.

“Transporter room, prepare to use the cargo transporters to start evacuating that ship,” Picard said.