Chapter Ten

THE SUN WAS NAMED RAO, after an ancient god of a religion long since abandoned by the people. It had shaded to red since recorded history first noted its size, shape, color, and illumination. Science rapidly replaced religion on this world, which saw one golden age after another.

But the inhabitants knew it would have to end one day. A red sun meant it was cooling, and someday, millennia hence, it would no longer be able to support life.

With a keen sense of self-preservation, the people had colonized other solar systems, and their culture was assured survival. Those who still lived on the mother planet enjoyed a high place in the social strata and with continuity now guaranteed, Sir Leop la mir Werstin, current lord of the planet, declared a new Golden Epoch had begun.

That was a month earlier. Now, Sir Leop sat in an empty palace chamber, head in his hands. Short, stubby fingers played idly with the twelve long braids denoting his supremacy. Courtiers who normally attended his every need had fled for their families. His own wife and three children were en route to the winter castle on Glavir, the coolest continent.

With tears in his eyes, he gazed once more up at the sun, the giver of life. It burned a deep red and filled nearly half the sky. Global temperatures were up, small lakes and ponds were losing water, and the air was filled with a cloying humidity. There had been widespread panic as they noted the sun grew in size by the day and now by the hour. Pockets of the lowesteducated people resurrected the old religious beliefs, praying to Rao for deliverance.

Master Oli ma fen Cordiek, Sir Leop’s chief scientist, could only provide details on the phenomenon, not its cause. Their beloved sun was going nova so far ahead of schedule that no one could fathom it. The morning’s projections showed that at best, the planet’s population had weeks or days left to them. Werstin had sighed heavily at the news, aware there was no chance to send even a tenth of the people to one of their colony worlds. Master Oli’s report was his people’s death sentence.

“Why?”

“Because of the doorway.”

The lord of the people looked up, not at all expecting a response to his rhetorical question. Entering the chamber was one of the lesser scientists, one not even at the master level in training or experience. Werstin struggled to summon forth a name but failed.

“The doorway that appeared on the island of Feld,” the scientist continued unbidden. “As soon as it began to operate, it drew energy from the solar batteries. The longer it remained in operation, for whatever reason, the demands of energy increased exponentially. Something happened and it began sucking the life from Rao.”

“Then we shall destroy the doorway,” Sir Leop proclaimed, in his usual royal voice, but it echoed around the empty room.

“My friends on Feld tried, Your Majesty. They tried and failed. Our weapons cannot seem to breach its defense.”

“Devils! What is this doorway? Where did it come from?”

“It had always been there, I’m told; found some hundreds of years ago and thought to be from the Second Golden Age.”

Sir Leop thought about that, not up on his history. Nothing occurred to him of the Second Golden Age.

“Others theorize it was left by the Demons.”

New insight appeared in Sir Leop’s tired eyes. “The Demons of Air and Darkness! This is their doing? But they are myth!”

“The doorway says otherwise,” the scientist said, dropping all pretense regarding titles and ranks. Had Sir Leop been focused, he would have been insulted.

Instead, he sat silent, brooding over the revelations brought to him that day. After all, it wasn’t every monarch who got to oversee the ending of life as he knew it.

From ship ES135659, Doral was also seated and given over to great thought. Plans that should have gone flawlessly had backfired. He, the pod leader in control of the mission, had to escape from his own command ship, separate himself from his pod. Desperately, he needed time to think and regroup.

Ili, his eldest podmate, was now running the flagship and she had called to alert him to the Gorn threat. Although they had grown from the birth pod together, Doral was still uncertain if Ili could command with authority. It was not her strength. With less than two minutes to act, he was faced with utter destruction and failure for overplaying his hand. Could he reason with Picard, not someone he was mastered for, but certainly of the same breed? Maybe, but it would be moot if someone did not stop the Gorn. Perhaps he would have to bluff his way through a negotiation with the Gorn, find a way to stop the explosive, and then escape. They were so alien to him, he wasn’t certain he knew how to act. All his training was for humans. A different podmate had studied the reptilian race and was unavailable.

Quickly, he signaled ES135659’s captain, and relayed a terse instruction. Then, he tried to raise the Gorn ship, hoping everyone measured time in the same way.

In the command center, Worf quickly surmised the situation belowdecks. Without waiting for Riker to notice him, he tapped his communicator and ordered the Chargh to send him from the bridge to engineering.

“What do you think you’re doing, Ambassador?”

“Saving your neck,” Worf said. Before Riker could object further, Worf, gripping his d’k tahg, dematerialized.

All his training from children’s games on Gault to his Academy training and experiences in Starfleet would come in to play as he had to vanquish his opponent in time to stop the explosive. Knowing Picard, he presumed the captain would beam his people from the ship, taking as many of these faux-Iconians as possible. Grekor would also retreat, he suspected, knowing the captain would rather fight from strength than blunder blindly in the name of honor.

Free of the transporter beam, glancing just once around engineering, he spotted three Gorn keeping watch over a console. Holding the personal blade in his right hand, Worf snarled a challenge at the reptilian beings. They moved slowly, turning their bodies toward him, their faces unreadable.

“This ship blows in a minute if these aliens don’t give in to the demands,” one of the Gorn warned Worf.

“You will be dead long before if you do not disable the device,” Worf retorted.

That was all one of the Gorn needed to hear and he raised his left arm, pistol mounted at the wrist. He fired off one shot but Worf was nowhere near his original position. Instead, he had ducked, rolled, and lunged forward, his floor-length ambassadorial vest making him appear larger than he was. His momentum carried him forward, and he barreled into the trio. One grabbed at his sleeve, while another lost balance and fell. Worf’s blade found the third, sticking him in the abdomen.

His left fist found a snout and his leg kicked out, striking the already downed Gorn. It felt good to strain his muscles, fight for a worthwhile cause. It was like shaking off the cobwebs and coming to life once more.

The downed attacker stayed that way and the one he sliced open made an odd, mewling noise, quite unlike anything Worf expected. All that remained was the one clutching at him, his talons biting through the layers of fabric and actually ripping open his skin. He knew enough to avoid the sharp teeth and continued to use his greater flexibility as an asset. He wriggled around, maneuvering his body so he could clasp a crushing bear hug on the Gorn. Planting his feet firmly on the deck plating, Worf hefted the Gorn into the air and smashed him to the ground.

With the d’k tahg at the Gorn’s throat, Worf asked, “Will you disable the device?”

“So you see, Ralwisssh, we had no idea you were this interested in the technology to this degree. I have some of the technical schematics here to offer you as a sign of good faith. In turn, you can disable the explosive.”

Doral felt the sweat begin to itch his chin, a flaw in the duraplast process which his people had never managed to correct. He ignored it, gazing at the viewscreen with as much sincere intent as he could muster. While he was used to reconstruction to deal with potential clients, he did muse for a moment that he was glad they didn’t initially target the Gorn. Better his podmate endure the lengthy reconstruction.

His opponent seemed to consider the offer longer than expected, and Doral mentally counted down. They were at thirty seconds, maybe less, and time was against him.

“I agree to the terms. Once we receive these schematics, we will turn off the device.”

Anticipating the move, Doral was prepared and stabbed a control as the words were still being heard.

“Done.”

Ralwisssh was taken aback by the speed of the action, but also flicked a control that might have been the signal to his people aboard Doral’s own vessel.

“Received. We thank you.”

Doral faced the screen, but glanced with his eyes on the readouts from ES135659 and he saw the energy spike start to recede. There had to have been scant seconds left. He disliked doing what he just completed, but it was a necessary part of the overall program. Survival was all.

The Gorn had completed dismantling the complex wiring that forced the overload when his communicator beeped deep within his tunic. He started to reach for it, but Worf made a sound that conveyed his disapproval. As the beep continued, Worf checked his mental calculations and determined that the time had past—the ship should have been rendered into scattered atoms but nothing happened.

From behind, a door swished open and the ambassador heard the cries of victory from his fellow Klingons. Several got to him and they were smacking him on the shoulders. It felt good, but less than genuine, and he felt resentment start to build up. Before he could wave them away, they fell a step back, clearing a space for Grekor.

The older officer strode toward Worf, a look of consternation on his face. He kicked aside the wounded Gorn, ignored the other subdued saboteurs, and faced the ambassador.

“Has this one finished?”

“He has, Captain,” Worf replied.

“Then why is he not dead?”

“He may have intelligence we can use,” he said.

“Wise answer. Qapla’! You did well, Ambassador. Now, we have this ship and within it a gateway. We shall be victorious this day and your role will not be forgotten.”

With a gesture, two Klingons flanked the Gorn, and Grekor headed back to the gateway, his crew following. Worf fell into line, having done enough in engineering. There was little need for him on the bridge and with his blood now racing, he chose to remain at the locus of activity.

As they walked, Grekor fell into step with the ambassador and grinned at him. Worf inwardly sighed, unable to extricate himself from the man’s gaze.

“The House of Krad is a small one, I know,” Grekor began. “But I’ve checked, and my be’nI’, Rorka, remains unattached. A man like you could benefit from a woman’s companionship. Shall I arrange an introduction when we return to Qo’noS?”

Stuck, Worf was uncertain of the proper answer. He, of course, had no interest in meeting this man’s sister, but he had less wish to insult the captain. Were he anything but an ambassador, Worf could hurl out an insult and be done with it. Instead, he represented not the homeworld, but the Federation.

“I shall . . . consider it.”

“The Gorn ships are powering up,” Perim said.

Picard bit back a curse. For all his good intentions, the alliance was proving shakier than he had hoped after all.

“Have we checked out the transmissions fully?” he asked Golik.

“There was definitely information exchanged between an Iconian ship and the Gorn.”

“And of course, we still haven’t cracked their communications code,” Picard said quietly. “Put the Gorn on screen.”

The Gorn ships hung against the stars looking innocent. Within, he knew, were people operating under their own agenda. In silent alarm, Picard saw them break formation, turning about. He didn’t have to ask where they were going; the only place for them was their home. What, he wondered, did they take from the Iconians? It was not likely the gateway technology, so what could it be to make them break apart the alliance?

“Shall we pursue?” Perim asked.

“No, Ensign,” Picard said sadly. “We won’t fragment the fleet further. Alert Mr. Riker of the news.”

He strode toward his ready room, his mind racing with new configurations of the alliance ships.

Without the Gorn, there was little chance he could expect the Iconian ships to stay in line. With Doral also running free, it was clear something would happen— and soon.

Without sitting down, Picard punched some information into his desktop display and looked at the readings. He then tapped his badge and put his next gambit into motion.

“Picard to Taleen.”

“How can I help, Captain?”

“Just how good are your translocators?”

She laughed and it lightened his spirits for a moment. “Better than your transporters I would think.”

“Could you then help me move some of my people around? I think it’s time I meet with Doral face-to-face, and he does not seem interested in doing so.”

Once more she laughed and agreed to help. He outlined his plan and asked her to execute it within the next fifteen minutes.

“Picard to quartermaster,” he next commanded. “ Prepare a room for an Iconian guest. Also, have the conference room on Deck Four ready in the next ten minutes, please.”

Okay, maybe this wasn’t the best place to be, Riker mused.

He stood in the Iconian command center and had somehow managed to lose their leader, Doral, then miss out on helping stop the Gorn’s treachery. It had actually gotten downright boring just walking around the command center, looming over the frightened Iconians. He did note that all of them seemed to be in their natural appearance, not at all needed for the fantasy of universal unity.

After Worf beamed below, Riker had plenty of time to consider exactly why the Iconians would need to imitate the various races. In fact, he had some theories and had sounded out the Iconians who remained at their station, usually avoiding his glance. Since they wouldn’t chat, he needed to try them out on someone so he ordered a link established with the Marco Polo. With relief, he saw that Troi seemed fit and even happy in her temporary role.

“Bored, too?” she began the conversation. He was impressed she could tell from such a distance but after all, they had known each other so well, for so long.

“A little,” Riker admitted. “How goes your crew?”

“Fine. A little beaten up but they’re young and have learned from the experience,” she replied.

“I have a theory and want to run it by you,” Riker said. He briefly outlined his discovery of the Iconians’ detailed makeups and the races represented. “I think these people are scam artists on a rather large scale. The makeups are intended to imply some form of genetic link to a common ancestor. Lull the governments into working with the Iconians rather than study them.”

“That’s an interesting conclusion,” she said. “My crew was wagering on them being anything from a rogue offshoot of the true Iconians to the legendary long-lost fleet from Acaramenia.”

“But does it make sense?”

She looked directly at the camera and Riker felt her gaze, taking strength and comfort from it. He was never happier to have rekindled their romance. “It does, Will, and it’s an excellent deduction. Captain Picard will agree, I think.”

“Thanks, Captain Troi, I look forward to seeing you when this is over.”

“As do I, there’s much to thank you for,” she said, and Riker saw an expression cross her face he wasn’t entirely certain he liked.

He disliked being stuck on this smaller ship, with its high-backed seating and oily smell. It had been picked up when it was apparent the pod would grow long before they could get another ship from home. Doral was not fond of adding alien technology without an overall plan; it disturbed his sense of order. The ship was also in constant need of maintenance with precious little time available for such matters.

Doral preselected escape to this ship for the very reason that it was weak and likely to be overlooked by the various sensors, which had ceaselessly been probing his fleet. Of course, he had done the same with each ship encountered since entering the Alpha Quadrant a year earlier. From their records, none of his ancestors had been to this section of space for something like eighty years. It made Doral wonder what would have directed his people away from such a quadrant, teeming with intelligent races, but it was not for him to ask that aloud. The people’s leadership would be the ones to question, probe into their past and chart their future.

He did know the pod that did find the first gateway did so at great cost. Lives were lost and the first gateway might not have been worth the effort. As he learned from his teachers, the gateway that arrived on his homeworld took many lifetimes to master and even then, the one they field-tested elsewhere in the quadrant flickered inexplicably on and off. The greatest engineering minds tried to master the alien technology, he was taught, and they had come only so far. It had been decided to send the pods back to the quadrant, trying to find the aliens who originally built the wondrous devices or someone who knew how it worked.

Times had gotten tougher for his people, Doral was told when given his ship. Their drive to explore the farthest reaches of the galaxy, and set up colonies, meant they were spread exceptionally thin—too much so, as they had lost contact with one colony after another. No doubt the colonies established themselves and then went farther out among the stars. It meant his people controlled vast portions of space, but it also meant they lacked cohesion and as an empire teetered on the edge of collapse.

Doral’s team was to acquire more technology, maybe even the keys to the gateways, to once more reestablish contact with the far-flung people.

At first, their studies showed no one using the devices, going so far as to ignore them entirely. It then became apparent no one knew what they were. Their builders, he came to learn from tapping into computers from derelict starships left over from the just-concluded war, had gone from fact to legend. No race seemed to possess a similar enough technology to allow Doral to make a substitution, and he was left in need of ships for their growing pod family and supplies for the next leg of their never-ending journey. All contact with home had ended before they even reached the quadrant, and Doral was left to his own devices.

Such thoughts occupied him as he sipped at his bowl of tepid soup. The ship’s cook had thrust it upon him, a woman he had never met before. There was something comforting about her natural appearance, while he retained his human masquerade. He would have to deal with Picard, but how could he gain some advantage, any advantage over the human? How could he acquire what he needed to go forward since back was not an option?

The door to the galley seemed to sizzle, waver, and then melt in a matter of seconds, letting people gasp and little else. For a mere moment, the pod leader thought the oily air itself might burst into flame. Doral began to rise and as he did, three Federation people burst into the room, equipped in protective armor, phaser rifles swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The one in the center pointed directly at him and the other two surged forward, flanking the confused leader as he completed rising.

They gripped him firmly, maybe even a little roughly. As soon as they had him in their grasp, the remaining one tapped a control on the armor and suddenly Doral was caught in a transporter beam. His last thought before the beam fully caught him was how tasty the soup had been.

The putative leader of the Iconian people appeared in a transporter bay, on a ship he presumed to be the Enterprise. More security officers awaited him, and he didn’t bother speaking to them, since his chances to play off their petty interests and effect an escape seemed poor. It seemed, also, that if they could punch through his transporter defenses once, they could repeat it before he could improve the screens. Affecting a docile manner, he quietly followed the security detachment through the corridors and he took in the sights. What he caught first was the harmonious blend of color that suffused the ship. Clearly, this was designed to comfort the crew and visitors. Black paneling split the walls in two, and from its polished sheen, he imagined these were computer interfaces with touch-sensitive surfaces.

The people who passed him by gave him a glance but continued on their way, but Doral soaked in their variety. A mixed crew, male and female, human and other assorted races. Truly, everything the Federation had boasted about their harmonious ways was true, which probably meant everything else they told him was mostly true. Not every race was so forthcoming, Doral knew. His own history was spotted with despots hoping to take advantage, swindlers, cheats, and outright thieves. There were, of course, other races he had cheated out of technology or resources. To him it was all part of a galactic game of repositioning resources, with his sole objective being that of helping his people.

The walk stopped before wooden doors that slid open soundlessly. Inside the room was a long table with chairs. Decorating the walls were images of other starships, starscapes, and one captivating image of a molten pit spewing forth lava like a geyser. But Captain Picard, standing at the table’s head, riveted his attention. He gestured for the security detail to leave and then it was just the two of them in the room. Picard was not especially tall, or physically imposing. For a human, his lack of hair or muscle should have made him something less than a commander. This puzzled him until the man spoke; then he understood.

“Welcome to the Enterprise,” Picard said.

“A pleasure I truly wanted to enjoy, but at a time of my own choosing.” He had little in the way of options, but practice and habit forced him to stretch out the conversation.

“You left me little choice,” Picard told him. The voice had a charm to it, a cultured quality lacking in many of the humans he had dealt with. Certainly none of the ones from Starfleet itself. He then gestured to the chairs as he sat down himself. Doral took one close enough for a civil conversation. He had to continue projecting the same sense of confidence that had gotten him this far even though he had no clear-cut idea how to excise himself and his people from this problem.

“I have a great deal of respect for history,” the captain continued. “This part of the universe can trace intelligent life back for hundreds of thousands of years. Some races we know of by legend, others by the little bits and pieces that have survived. The one that I’ve studied the longest has been the Iconians.”

He let that hang and Doral was faced with two choices: further deception or the truth. Picard had dealt fairly to date, but giving up their plan was rarely done and it galled him.

“I must disappoint you,” Doral said, letting the scene play out, hoping to chart its course before too much longer.

“Oh you do,” Picard replied coolly. “Very much. Technology to have survived intact and still function after two hundred thousand years is remarkable enough but for the technology to transport instantaneously, that’s the stuff of legend.”

“We weren’t called the demons of air and darkness by every planet we visited,” Doral said. “Just the less sophisticated ones.”

“Legends have a funny way of growing over time so the original picture can get distorted. In my days at the Academy we swapped tall tales of officers who preceded us. Ones who single-handedly stopped war or bedded an admiral’s son during exams and still graduated. We even told stories that couldn’t possibly have happened but were there in the records. Garth, Pike, Rabin, Garrett . . . the giants among legends.

“Every so often, you actually get to meet one of these legends in person. You get to gauge for yourself if the man matches the myth. I had such an opportunity when I met Captain James T. Kirk and he was even larger than the legends. That impressed me.”

Picard seemed very contemplative, not at all angry or upset with Doral, which confused him. These names meant nothing to him and his training had no instances of great exploits drilled into them. As they approached each new sector of space, current events filled his data screens. What had been acquired, how it had helped reshape his people, where they were growing next. All this talk of his, frankly, baffled him.

“A very few get to meet legends. I consider myself fortunate, because in my career, I’ve met far more than my share. I should have been satisfied, but in the back of my mind I held out the tiniest shred of hope that I would figure out what happened to the Iconian people. You can imagine, then, what it was like to be told we’d deal with one another.”

Finally, an opportunity and Doral sprang for it. He grinned and said, “Your career has turned you into a bit of a legend, hasn’t it?”

Picard seemed thoughtful, almost embarrassed by the concept. “I suppose, in the natural course of things, students today can look at my record with the same feelings I had when I studied Decker or Harriman.”

“The admiralty spoke very highly of you, actually, so I suppose the legend can run both up and down the scale. While I may disappoint you, you certainly live up to the reputation.” Doral admonished himself to be wary of using too much flattery.

“Disappoint is perhaps the mildest word I can think of,” Picard said. His brow turned inward for a moment. “The one word I keep returning to, though, is fraud.”

He stopped talking and let it hang in the silent conference room. No doubt the captain had figured out they were not the Iconians, so prolonging the conversation seemed pointless. Truth or silence?

Was there any doubt, he asked himself.

“We’re a dying race, Captain,” he finally said. And this time, he let the silence hang over the two of them. Picard’s expression changed quickly, from anger to confusion to concern and then passively back to inquisitiveness.

“Who are you?”

Doral took two deep breaths and then began: “We’re the Petraw. For a quarter as long as the Iconians have been gone, my people have explored the galaxy. We’re bred this way, to explore and acquire, building out our empire. One continent, long ago, led to a planet, to a solar system, then two, then more. Whatever we managed to acquire through trade or guile was always sent home for study and application to the race.

“Imagine, Captain, over fifty centuries of growth and expansion, always being driven further among the stars. Our birthing planet became a legend, some unvisited place you sent your belongings to. My pod was born in space, far from home, but the drive remained. To survive, pods began to pair up, keeping what we needed to get further in our quest, and sending the rest back by drone. There was never acknowledgment of receipt or news from home. We’re too far apart and can’t return.”

As Doral paused to calm himself, he looked over at Picard, who now seemed thoughtful, his real chin resting on top of his knuckles. Whatever anger was in this room previously had dissipated and all that remained now was the confession.

“Why this deception?”

“My people found this technology years ago, on our last visit to this section of space. You draw your maps into quadrants and sectors, but from our frame of reference, it’s all nonsense. We know no territorial boundaries and can’t imagine fighting over imaginary lines in space. It took us years to figure out what it did and how to make it work.

“Not long ago, we lost contact with the other pods. Our thinking is we’ve drifted too far apart and now we’re isolated, alone in space. You might turn around and go home; we can’t. We’re driven to go forward. Whatever is left of our empire is a matter of speculation and we rarely indulge even in that.

“We’re running out of space, running out of time and resources. To acquire what we needed required a major infusion of something—raw materials or currency—to buy better ships and equipment so we could continue our lineage. We thought of the gateway device, offering such a wonder for the most money.”

“You just found it,” Picard repeated in a neutral tone.

“Years ago, in what was once the edge of the Federation. It was brought to my homeworld and studied.”

“You’ve never even met an Iconian, yet you plunder their legacy,” the captain said, this time with some heat. It made Doral feel small despite his greater physique.

“Before recently, we’ve never even heard of them.”

“Turn them off and leave.”

This was unexpected. Doral thought at the very least that the vaunted Federation would offer some assistance. He was just beginning to count on it, thinking it would be the best he could expect given the way this operation had fared. Certainly the Federation would offer something and leave them alone, unlike, say, the Klingons, who would merely use them for target practice.

“No.”

Picard eyed him carefully and Doral could sense the penetrating stare. This was no longer a history lecture or a listing of disappointments. It wasn’t even diplomacy anymore. For Picard, this was personal and that was unexpected.

“No?”

Doral considered and felt he had revealed this much truth, what did it matter if the rest came out?

“We can’t.”

“You can’t what?” There was steel in the voice and he knew he was bested.

“We can’t turn off the gateways, but we can leave.”

Picard’s brow knit once more, clearly absorbing and calculating the information just received. Doral recognized the feeling, one he had to employ time and again. “You dared to turn on something with such far-reaching implications with no way to disable the system?”

“No, not really, well, yes.” He began to feel stupid, which eroded whatever was left of his bargaining position. “This wasn’t a careful ploy, this was desperation.” Doral’s statement came out flatly and he merely nodded, no longer feeling like bantering. Or saying much of anything.

“Is there anything else you’ve done that was as stupid?”

“Not that I can think of.”

At that moment, Picard’s communicator came to life with a call from the bridge. “Perim to Captain Picard. Sir, the Gorn ships just blew up.”