THE DEVIL'S HEART

by
Carmen Carter




Volume I of Three Volumes
Pages i-x and 1-158




For special distribution as authorized by Act of
Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe
permission of the copyright holder.




Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1996.










This braille edition contains the entire text of the
print edition.

Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All
Rights Reserved.











BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

STAR TREK (R)
THE NEXT GENERATION (TM)

A NOVEL

STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION--JUST the
latest chapter in a star-spanning entertainment
phenomenon that has captivated audiences
nationwide for over a quarter century! That
audience made REUNION and IMZADI, the first
two STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION
hardcovers, national bestsellers. Now,
Pocket Books presents THE DEVIL'S
HEART, a thrilling saga of adventure and
betrayal, featuring Captain Jean-Luc
Picard, Lieutenant Commander Data, and the rest
of the crew of the U.s.s. Enterprise
(TM)!

The Devil's Heart--a legendary object
of unsurpassed power and mystery. Worlds that
believe in magic consider it Darkness's
mightiest talisman; worlds of science consider it
a lost artifact of some ancient and forgotten
race. Some say the Heart enables its
possessor to control men's minds, and to amass
wealth enough for a dozen lifetimes, while others think
it capable of raising the dead, perhaps even changing the
flow of time itself. But to all, the location of this fabled
object has remained a mystery--until now.
An isolated archaeological outpost has
suddenly stopped responding to repeated requests
for information. Sent to discover why, the U.s.s.
Enterprise (TM) crew finds a
devastated outpost and a dying scientist, whose last
words fall on disbelieving ears the Devil's
Heart has been found.
Now, as the quest for the Heart unfolds,
Captain Jean-Luc Picard discovers the awful
truth behind all the legends and the ages-old
secrets whoever holds the Devil's Heart,
possesses power beyond all imagining. ...

Carmen Carter's first Star Trek (R)
novel was Dreams of the Raven. With the advent
of Star Trek The Next Generation (TM),
however, she turned her attention to the new crew
of the U.s.s. Enterprise (TM) in
The Children of Hamlin and then coauthored
Doomsday World.
After twelve years of urban living, she has
recently resettled in Northern Virginia where
she can see the Blue Ridge Mountains from her
front porch.



























This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.





















Dedicated to Kate,
who read my books
even before she knew me.












Acknowledgments

Dave Stern believed in this story from the very
beginning and fought for two years to provide me with the
opportunity to write it. If not for him, you would
be holding some other Star Trek book in your
hands right now. I owe him a debt beyond measure.
Thanks, Dave!

Many of my friends have followed the progress of this
book since its inception, some page by page.
Their wealth of comments and reactions helped me
to structure the book and then to polish it. My
special thanks go to
Kate Maynard, who casually said, "Why
don't you make the archaeologists Vulcans?"
T'Sara was born as a result of that suggestion,
and my path into the story began to unfurl.
Cary Dier, who wanted to read this book years
before the first words were written and never lost hope that
the Heart's story would eventually see print.
Her keen eye and relentlessly linear mind made
her an invaluable editor.
Delia Turner, who steadfastly wielded her
blue pencil over the manuscript
pages when she would rather have just enjoyed a good read.
Jessica Ross, for letting me use the
idea behind the Borg sequence.
The Star Trek universe has become
increasingly complex, so there were times when I needed
to delve into technical details beyond my own
understanding. Several people provided me with timely
assistance.
Betsy Ramsey and Cary Dier provided
me with computer terminology that wouldn't make
hackers scream in agony or die laughing, and
thus saved me from public humiliation.
"Doc" Audrey Gassman cast her
professional eye over Beverly Crusher's
medical scenes. I confess that I decided
to let dramatic license overrule authenticity
in a few instances, so don't blame Audrey
for the results.
I also relied heavily upon the STCCTNG
Technical Manual by Rick Sternbach and
Michael Okuda for information about the construction and
operation of the Enterprise. Any errors in that
area are due entirely to my misunderstanding of their
exceptional reference work.

Great Minds Think Alike Department
In the two years between the submission of my first
proposal of The Devil's Heart and the
final acceptance of the storyline by Paramount,
Peter David wrote Imzadi and saw it
published. By sheer coincidence, both of us made
use of the Guardian of Forever, although it plays
only a minor role in my story. For the
record, neither of us was aware of the duplication.















THE DEVIL'S HEART

Prologue

Iconia was dead.
The planet itself would remain intact until its
sun went nova, but the world he had known, the soft
tissue of life rooted on the fragile
mantle, had already been destroyed. Constant
weapons bombardment had vaporized its shallow
seas, incinerated its verdant plains, and
eradicated all who had once inhabited its
surface.
Barbarians.
Kanda Jiak swayed on his feet as yet
another tremor rocked the Gateway chamber.
The station was shielded against detection and proof against
even a direct photon blow, but the land itself was
shifting under the impact of ceaseless explosions.
Could there be anything left worth attacking on
Iconia, any city that had not been razed by the
firestorms? Or was their hatred so fierce that they
prolonged this holocaust out of sheer bloodlust?
After First Contact, the philosopher Senega had
warned that a disparity in technologies could
unsettle other races; she predicted that knowledge of
Iconian superiority would foster fear and
distrust; and as a final legacy before her death, she
prophesied the final fatal connection between fear
and the rage to destroy what could not be understood.
Demons of air and darkness, that is what they
call us.
Ironically, after the diplomats failed
to turn back the space-faring hordes gnawing at
the edges of the Empire, the Gateways that
inspired such superstitions had provided the
ultimate salvation for the surviving Iconians.
Over the last few days, ten thousand of his people had
slipped through narrow rips in the fabric of
space; they and their descendants would build new
homes on the remote outposts of Ikkabar,
DiWahn, and Dynasia. Iconian
language and culture would survive even if this
world was pummeled into dust.
Now it was Jiak's turn to cross the
threshold.
He settled the weight of the Gem into the crook
of his arm. In a room of gleaming metal
panels, humming consoles, and the crackling blue
energy of the Gatekey, this rough rock seemed
strangely out of place, yet it had
built this structure just as surely as the
legions of architects, engineers, and
technicians. The secrets of the entire
universe were locked inside this ancient relic,
and three generations of Iconians had only begun
to coax out that knowledge.
Blue. Red. Blue. Jiak tapped out a
familiar sequence on triangular buttons.
A jagged bolt of light shot out of the central
control globe, forming a dancing umbilical
cord to the narrow frame of an activated
Gateway.
He scanned the cycle of shifting landscapes.
Three habitable worlds were open to him, yet his
final choice meant nothing to him; all were
primitive compared to Iconia.
Farewell.
Jiak stepped forward, and through.
No! This is wrong!
On the other side, the blare of a red sun
seared his eyes, and a gust of dry, heated air
sucked the moisture from his lungs. He sank
deep into the ground as shifting grains of sand gave
way beneath his feet; his weight had doubled under the
force of a heavier gravity.
This desert world was not of his choosing, and he could not
survive in this harsh climate.
"Save me!"
For the past three decades, the Gem had been
his talisman. He stroked the stone in
supplication, but in the midst of this blazing oven it
had turned ice cold.
Jiak collapsed onto the ground. The Gem
fell from his weakened grasp, and he watched it
roll out of his reach.
"Betrayed," he whispered hoarsely. "You have
betrayed me. Why?"
Alone out of all the Iconians, Senega had
called the Gem a curse rather than a blessing ...
the price of True Knowledge comes high ... too
high.
As he slipped toward death's embrace,
Jiak dreamed that his life was nothing but a mirage
shimmering in another mind ...

She cried out her fear of dying alone in the
desert until her flailing arms wrapped themselves
around the stone.
Not lost after all. Not dying.
She awakened enough to separate her own
thoughts from Jiak's identity, to remember that she was
safe in her own bed on a planet called
Atropos. Her covers were tangled about her
feet, but the Gem's heat warded off the chill
night air seeping into her tent. With a sigh of
relief, the old woman curled on her side,
tucking herself around the sphere as if afraid it could
still tumble away from her.
Ko N'ya.
Yes, that was the Gem's name in her language
... and that language was Vulcan.
I am T'Sara.
Even lying still on her cot, T'Sara's body
felt limp, drained by the ordeal that had been
Jiak's and her own blurred together. True
sleep would help restore her strength, but she
begrudged the waste of time. She wanted
to explore the lives of all who had held this
stone before her, and that quest could take many years
to complete.
Tonight, in this dream, T'Sara had seen her
homeworld through the eyes of an alien being, felt the
heavy pull of its gravity on a body that was not
her own. Most important of all, however, she
had discovered another bridge in the meandering path
of the Ko N'ya. The leap from far-distant
Iconia to Vulcan would have eluded her
otherwise.
Any thought of embarking on another search was
suspended by the sound of movement in the compound
outside. The other archaeologists had cleared the
rubble from around their shared habitations, but T'Sara
had no patience for such domestic touches. She
could hear the scuffle of boots climbing over
mounds of fallen stonework and crumbling walls.
By her count, at least four Vulcans were headed
toward her tent.
The visitors came to a stop just outside the
domed enclosure. Someone's hands brushed
lightly across the fabric wall until probing
fingers found purchase on the ridged seams marking
the entrance. A shaft of moonlight slipped through
the widening breach.
"T'Sara?"
Because it was Sorren, she said, "Enter."
The young man slipped inside, then resealed the
portal with more care than she had taken. Each day
she was less and less concerned with the basic
necessities of survival. If not for
Sorren's prodding, she would forget even
to eat.
She made no move to activate a lantern,
and he did not ask for light. The darkness made it
easier for him to ignore the Ko N'ya when they
talked.
"T'Sara, your cries have awakened everyone in
the camp ... again."
The others who had kept him company remained
huddled outside. She could hear them taking shallow
breaths of the frigid air. "I was restless."
"These spells of unrest are becoming more
frequent."
"I have slept away too much of my life,"
said the woman. "I intend to make better use of
my remaining years."
"I am still young, however; and I will never reach your
august age if I am robbed of my sleep
now." There was a hint of wry humor in
Sorren's remark, a rare self-indulgence from
such an earnest young Vulcan.
"Then go back to bed, my child, and I promise
not to wake you again." Her position as leader of the
expedition invested her words with the authority of a
direct command.
"Very well," he said. She heard the rustle
of the seals parting, felt a cool draft of air,
then saw Sorren's willowy silhouette as he
stepped through the opening. "I will bring you some tea in
the morning."
He closed the entrance, plunging her back
into darkness and warmth, yet T'Sara could hear him
whisper to his waiting companions. "It was only
a bad dream."
"That is what you said last night," said
Sohle. His gruff voice merely roughened when
he tried to speak quietly.
"It is no less true for having happened a
second time."
"How many disturbances does it take to convince
you, Sorren?" asked T'Challo. "T'Sara
is ill."
"My last medical scan did not confirm any
ill health."
"You are no doctor," said T'Challo. "And
it is time we ..."
The voices faded away before T'Sara could
overhear any more of their discussion, but she had no
interest in their bickering. Morning was still a few
hours away.
She had just enough time to fall into another
dream.























CHAPTER 1

Captain Jean-Luc Picard slept with the
same air of authority he carried with him on the
bridge of the Enterprise. Even in the privacy
of his darkened cabin and the haven of unconsciousness,
he maintained a commander's demeanor. The silken
blue pajamas he wore only emphasized the
hard contours of his body he lay flat on his
back, his lean frame held at attention
except for one arm flung above his head; his lips
were set in a firm, unyielding line.
It was not a comfortable pose, but then Picard was not
a comfortable man.
A spacious cabin with generous furnishings, their
smooth wash of pastel colors, a lush plant
gracing the table by his bed--none of these luxuries
had softened his sense of responsibility, or his
conviction that danger could be held at bay only
by unceasing vigilance.
As if to vindicate his subconscious wariness,
the trill of a communications call marred the silence
that had surrounded him. The captain was awake and
alert before the second ring of the summons had
sounded. Quickly rolling to a half-sitting
position, he cleared his throat to erase
any trace of sleep from his voice.
"Picard here."
"Incoming message from Starbase 193,
Priority Two."
"Thank you, Ensign Ro. I'll take it
here in my quarters." Knowing the commander of the starbase
in question, Picard automatically scaled down the
urgency of the call by at least one degree;
Miyakawa had a tendency to overdramatize,
an occupational hazard for officers mired in the
mundane activities of an administrative
post. He allowed himself the indulgence of a
leisurely stretch before slipping out of bed
to activate the transmission.
At his touch, the viewscreen on the wall
flickered to life. The first part of the communiqu`e was
brief and to the point, but then Vulcans were not
given to circumlocution. Miyakawa's
subsequent request for aid was brusque, even
imperious, as if she suspected the captain of the
Enterprise might balk at such an
insignificant task.
Perhaps there were some captains who would resent the
diversion of a galaxy-class starship on a
small errand of mercy, but Picard was not one of
them.
Besides, he wanted this particular mission.
A combination of natural reticence and
Starfleet training stripped Picard's voice of
emotion as he activated the intercom and issued
orders to the bridge crew. His excitement was
strictly personal and had no place in the
execution of duty.
"Course change initiated."
Data's voice betrayed no reaction to the
new coordinates, but Picard could swear he
heard Ro Laren's muffled curse in the
background.
Merde. The captain belatedly remembered
the consequences of this diversion on the crew's own
affairs. "Increase speed to warp six." That was
faster than the assignment warranted, but a more
moderate pace might tax everyone's patience.
In the time it took him to step out of his pajamas
and into a clean pair of uniform pants, Picard
was hailed over the intercom yet again.
"Riker to Captain Picard."
"It's a routine diversion, Number One,"
said Picard, aiming his reply at the ceiling
intercom. "At warp six, we'll only
experience a short delay." He slipped the
tunic jacket over his head, confident that the
heavy cloth could not drown out his first officer's
emphatic response.
"With all due respect, sir, routine
missions aren't rated Priority Two. If this
takes more than a few extra days ... well,
it's damn inconvenient for Geordi's maintenance
agenda at spacedock."
"Ah, yes, the new magnetic constrictor
coils," said Picard, careful to keep the smile
on his face from seeping into his voice. Reaching for
his boots, the captain did his best to allay
Riker's anxiety. "In my opinion, the
urgency of the situation was slightly overstated, so
we should be able to make up the lost time without too
much difficulty. Schedule a briefing this morning
for all senior officers so we can ensure a
swift completion of this mission."
"Aye, sir."
The soft hum of the open channel cut off.
Now that the immediate demands of duty had been
fulfilled, Picard walked out into his living
room and turned his attention to breakfast. As was his
custom, he ordered a light menu for two from the
food synthesizer. However, reflecting over
Riker's strained reaction to the change of plans,
the captain considered the probable effect on his
guest's more volatile temper.
"Computer," he said quickly. "Extra butter
and cream."
He had added two different fruit juices
and a jar of orange marmalade to the spread on the
table when his chief medical officer arrived. Some
mornings, Beverly Crusher appeared with the
slightly rumpled look of a doctor just coming off
duty, her eyes darkened by fatigue, but the
previous night must have been free of medical
emergencies because her face was free of stress; the
lines of her blue medical coat were sharp and
crisp, and her long red hair was neatly coiled
at the nape of her neck.
"What's the special occasion?" Crusher
asked, surveying the offerings.
"Nothing beyond the pleasure of your company."
"Hah!" She spooned a large helping of
eggs onto her plate. "If I weren't so
hungry, I'd seriously question your motives."
"I'm wounded by your suspicion, Doctor."
Fortunately, her mouth was too full
for her to press the issue, even in jest.
Judging from her animated spirits, Beverly
seemed to have missed the news working its way through the
ship's grapevine; he would be able to inform her of the
diversion himself. Later. He sought safer ground
by asking about the progress of her latest
theatrical production. Unfortunately, his mind
was too preoccupied with their new destination
to actually absorb much of her answer.
Picard had started on the French toast when she
turned their conversation to the ship's next port of
call.
"There's a restaurant on Luxor IV,"
said Crusher, her blue eyes bright from the
recollection, "that serves the best pancakes in
the entire Federation. It would make a great place
to celebrate--" she caught herself ju st in time,
"shore leave."
"I'm afraid there will be a slight delay, just
a day or two, in our arrival to Luxor IV.
We've been diverted to a fringe-territory star
system on a medical assistance mission."
Picard assumed a look of nonchalance in the
face of Beverly's sharpened attention. "In
fact, the Enterprise was chosen specifically for
this mission because of your expertise in handling
Bendii's syndrome."
"What?" she stopped mid-bite into a scone
lathered with butter. "I'm not an expert in
Bendii's syndrome! I've only seen one
case in my entire medical career."
"Yes, well, it seems that even one is one
more than any other doctor outside of the Vulcan
Medical Academy."
"And Ambassador Sarek wasn't even my
patient," she said, shaking the scone at him for
emphasis. "I didn't treat him, I just
diagnosed the condition."
"Think of this as an opportunity to expand your
medical experience."
"Thank you, Captain, but I prefer to do that
on my own time and not at the expense of my
patients."
Picard poured her a fresh cup of tea with a
generous measure of cream. "We're also the only
Federation starship within easy reach of the system. Under
the circumstances, there is no other option for you or
for your new patient."
The doctor sighed in reluctant agreement.
"So just who is this Vulcan with Bendii's
syndrome?" She hastily popped the last bit
of bread into her mouth, then accepted the cup he
offered her.
"A scientist. T'Sara."
Beverly frowned. "You say that name as if I
should know her."
"Forgive me," Picard said. "Just because I've
followed her work for years, I expect others
to be aware of her as well." He nodded in the
direction of his bookshelves. "She began her
career as a preeminent folklorist renowned for
her work in comparative mythology, then moved on
to archaeology."
"Ah, so that's why she's out in the back of
beyond."
"Yes," said the captain. "For the past ten
years, T'Sara has been the expedition leader for
an archaeological excavation on Atropos.
Her assistant radioed for medical assistance,
claiming that her erratic and irrational behavior
appeared to be symptomatic of early stage
Bendii's."
"She was diagnosed by an archaeologist?"
Crusher rolled her eyes in exaggerated
despair. "Save me from amateurs."
"I'm sure Sorren will welcome your
professional assessment."
"I'm sure he's very welcome."
Despite her sarcasm, she seemed resigned
to the necessity of the mission. Picard smiled with
satisfaction as he offered the doctor another
scone.

Timing is everything on a starship from the warp
drive engines that mesh matter and antimatter for a
duration measured by the single pulse of an
electron, to the life support systems that
regulate the smooth flow of air through the
vessel, even down to the measured movements of the
crew who control the day-to-day operations of the
ship.
First Officer William Riker was a master of
timing. And the master of time aboard the
Enterprise. His skillful juggling of the duty
schedules had created a small window of
opportunity, one that allotted a select group
of people the same break from their respective shifts.
Five senior officers, the same ones who were
due at a mission briefing later that morning, were
gathered together in the close confines of
Riker's cabin. Their captain, however, was
conspicuously absent.
Picard's quelling influence fostered a
degree of decorum that was entirely lacking at
this assembly. During the early days of his posting
on board the Enterprise, William Riker
had tried to mimic the captain's imposing
demeanor, only to find that he had a tendency
to bluster and bully when he asserted himself. Over
the years, the first officer had developed his own
style, a looser and less obvious grip on the
rein of command. So, for the moment, he let the meeting
run its course without his participation; instead, he
sat with his large frame sprawled carelessly over
a chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, and
watched everyone from under hooded eyes.
Geordi La Forge was the first to speak out. His
metal visor might mask the expressiveness of
his face, but he managed to communicate his
indignation without any difficulty. "I say it's
a trick! Somehow the crew of the Telarius
managed to bribe someone to pull us out of the
sector."
"Oh, honestly," said Deanna Troi. She
had been the last to arrive and was perched on the edge
of the sofa with her feet dangling uncomfortably off
the floor. Her dark, exotic features and
shapely figure usually inspired immediate
gallantry from the men around her, but on this occasion
not one of them had given up his seat. Riker
suspected that the unintentional slight was at least
partly responsible for the edge of asperity in her
voice. "No one would go to that much trouble just for
a--"
"You'd be surprised, Counselor," said
Geordi. "Anybody who works on Starbase
193," he grimaced when he mentioned the base,
"would sell his grandmother for ten credits."
"Cowards. They have no honor," said Worf.
At the start of the session, before Riker could call out
a warning, the lieutenant had settled his weight
into a soft chair that would offend his warrior
sensibilities as much as it offended his spine;
Riker judged that the Klingon was as uncomfortable as
Troi, but the sensible solution, an offer to trade
places with her, probably reeked too much of
Human courtesy. "Of course, a Klingon
ship would never waste time on a medical call."
"Stop glaring at me," said Crusher to the
security officer. "It's not as if I
volunteered for this mission."
"However," said Data. "If not for your
specific medical expertise, the Enterprise
would not have been chosen for this particular assignment."
"Nonsense. Captain Picard told me we
were the only starship in range of Atropos."
The android's face creased into his best
approximation of a puzzled frown. If he saw
Riker's frantic hand signal from across the
room, he failed to fathom its meaning; Data
continued inexorably. "I am afraid the
captain was in error. At the time we received the
distress call there were two other starships which were in
greater proximity to the star system."
"Swell," muttered Geordi.
"This is not my fault!" Crusher's grim
expression was a sure sign that she had just added
deception to her list of grievances against Picard.
Now was the time, calculated Riker.
"I'm glad we've been diverted."
With all heads snapped around to stare at him,
he followed the heretical declaration with a broad,
flashing grin. "The delay gives us that much more time
to hone our skills, and it gives the crew of the
Telarius a false sense of security. They
know we're their only serious competition, and if
they think we won't show, we can catch them off
guard."
"Yeah, but what if we don't make it
to Luxor IV in time?" demanded Geordi.
"Nah," said Riker with a dismissive wave.
"This is a routine pickup. We'll be on our
way back before you know it. The trick will be to make
sure we don't arrive too soon. We may
have to find some excuse to slow down our return
trip, a way to ensure a proper entrance ...
say, five minutes before the championship
begins."
His confidence was infectious, and he noted with
satisfaction that Geordi had started to smile at
the dramatic image Riker had conjured; Worf
never smiled, but at least he had stopped snarling.
Unfortunately, Troi still looked dubious;
Riker wondered if she could sense the uneasiness
beneath his bluff. To his relief, she played
along anyway. "Will, what about Captain
Picard? Won't he suspect that something is
going on?"
"Oh, I'll take care of the captain," said
the first officer without blinking an eye at the
ethical contortions that simple statement might
involve. "All you have to worry about is improving
your game."
Springing out of his chair, Riker flourished the
deck of cards that he had kept nestled in the
palm of his hand. Data was right on cue, as
well, whipping out his dealer's visor and a stack of
chips.
"We have just enough time for a practice round."
Riker shuffled the deck back and forth in an arc
through the air like a juggler. "Ante up, my friends,
ante up. We're going to be the next poker
champions of Starfleet!"

In the normal course of events, Picard
resisted the temptation to read while on duty; his
love of the written word was so intense and his
concentration so focused that he never trusted himself
to pay sufficient attention to the demands of command when
he held a book in his hand. Just as a proper
gentleman never shared his affections with more than one
woman at a time, he confined his reading to his
leisure hours.
On this mission, however, Picard had decided
that a review of T'Sara's texts would help
prepare him for his impending interaction with the
scientist. After the briefing session with his senior
officers, he had retrieved the Vulcan's
books from his cabin and carried them off to his ready
room. He even went so far as to sit on the
sofa, rather than behind his desk, but he did so with the
firm intention of only glancing at a few of the more
recent forewords.
Reading her spare yet elegant prose, he
was newly reminded of T'Sara's ability
to present brilliant insights as if they were
self-evident truths and to use logic to convince
and persuade with a skill that was almost seductive.
For a Vulcan, she possessed a keen understanding of
her very emotional subjects.
When the door chime pulled him back to the
present, Picard noticed with a start that he had
been immersed in Oral Histories from the
Andorian Middle Kingdom for over an hour.
And the chime had been ringing repeatedly.
"Come."
The doors snapped apart and the ship's first
officer barreled through the opening. "Captain, are you
al--" Riker skidded to a sudden halt. His
worried fro wn transformed into a knowing
smile. "Oh, you've been reading."
"Guilty as charged." Picard sighed and
tossed the book aside, only to automatically
pick up another in its stead; this second choice
had vellum pages that were thickly covered with the
patterns of an alien script.
"We're within hailing distance of Atropos, but
we haven't raised the campsite yet." Riker
canted his head to one side in order to read the
title on the spine; his lips tried to form the
words, but failed. "I didn't know you could read
Vulcan, Captain."
"I can't." Picard's eyes skimmed down a
page. "At least, I shouldn't be able to ... but
occasionally, as I look over the text, I gather
a hint of meaning in certain words and phrases."
"A legacy of your mind-meld with
Ambassador Sarek?"
"Yes, I believe so." Picard set down
the book on a side table with an exaggerated care
that bordered on reverence. "This volume belonged
to him; it was a gift to me from Perrin after his death."
One of the traits of a good first officer, as well
as a good friend, was knowing when to share silence. A few
minutes later they walked out of the ready room.
As he crossed the deck of the circular
bridge, the captain noted which of his crew were working
at the back duty stations. Deanna Troi and
Beverly Crusher were already seated in the central
command area behind the helm; Ensign Ro and Data
were operating the forward stations. All accounted for,
all as it should be, but he tried never to take that for
granted.
"Still no response from the archaeological
camp," said Worf from the aft deck.
"Continue hailing, Lieutenant," said
Picard as he settled himself down into the
captain's chair between Riker and the ship's
counselor. "Status, Mr. Data?"
"Estimated arrival at Atropos in eleven
minutes, thirty-two seconds."
"Steady as she goes, Helm." Picard
fixed his eyes on the main viewscreen, studying
a single pinpoint of starlight and the space that
surrounded it. A most unremarkable sight, he
concluded. At the beginning of time, when countless
cosmic wonders had been sown throughout the
galaxy, this area had been overlooked. In
fact, to the best of his knowledge, the Federation's claim
to this sector had been made solely
to facilitate traffic through the territory;
until T'Sara's expedition, no one had
bothered to linger.
Troi spoke quietly, easing her way
into his thoughts. "Beverly tells me you've
followed T'Sara's scholarship for years. You
must be looking forward to meeting her in person."
"Yes ... very much so." He could never tell
when the counselor used her empathic abilities
to read him or simply judged his moods
by subtle physical cues that he was unable
to repress. Either way, Troi always caught him
when he was brooding, so there was no point in trying
to disguise his one misgiving about this encounter.
"Yet, on the other hand, I do not relish watching
another brilliant mind disintegrate from
illness."
"Perhaps T'Sara will be spared Sarek's
fate," said Crusher. "Medical research has
advanced considerably in the last year; treatment,
even a cure, may be developed in time to help
her. That's assuming the diagnosis is
correct; after all, I haven't confirmed
anything yet."
"Well," said Riker. "If she does have
Bendii's, we'd better warn Guinan to put
away the breakables in Ten-Forward."
Crusher shook her head. "Psychic
disturbances like the ones broadcast by Ambassador
Sarek don't occur until a more advanced stage
of ..." She turned to the captain. "I only
know that because I've been studying the medical
literature on the syndrome. Any doctor
in the Fleet could read a casebook file and do
what I'm doing."
Just as Picard had feared, Beverly must be
suffering the brunt of the crew's frustration; a
speedy conclusion to this diversion would improve
tempers all around. "Lieutenant Worf, have you
established contact with the Vulcans yet?"
"Channels are open, but they are not answering
our hail."
"You can't trust a bunch of academics
to operate a simple subspace radio," said
Riker with a heartiness that seemed a little forced.
"And archaeologists are the worst offenders,"
added Picard. He caught himself rapidly
tapping one finger on his armrest and stilled the
impatient motion.
"Long-range sensor scan complete,
Captain." Data looked up from his console
to confirm the transfer of incoming data to the main
viewscreen, then nodded with satisfaction at the
image of a marbled orb that appeared there.
"Increasing magnification."
Picard leaned forward to study the surface
features that were slowly coming into focus; gaps in the
dusky-red cloud cover revealed mountains,
valleys, several large canyons, scattered
seas. "Data, are we close enough to scan for
life-forms?"
"Accuracy may be somewhat compromised by the
distance, but it is technically within range." After a
few minutes of manipulating the console
controls, the android turned around to face the
captain. "Sensors detect no
life-signs."
Riker shifted uneasily in his chair. "Try
another pass, Lieutenant."
"Scanning the campsite ... expanding the search
area." At the sound of a soft beep, Data
studied the console output. "Confirmed; there are
no discernible life-signs on the surface."
The captain rose from his chair, taking a step
forward as if to confront the planet itself, but the
clouds had thickened, shrouding the surface below.
"Well, Number One," said Picard. "It
seems this is not a routine mission after all."

CHAPTER 2

The United Federation of Planets was founded
on a tenet of inclusion. Thus, as Starfleet
charted and explored ever greater tracts of space,
new worlds and their civilizations were eagerly drawn
into the loose web of interstellar government. As in
any rapidly growing organization, however, the
Federation's reach occasionally exceeded its grasp.
Inevitably, the grip of central authority
weakened as it stretched out to the most recent
annexations along an ever-expanding frontier.
Starbase 193 was held very lightly indeed.
From a distance, the station looked like a gleaming
metal teardrop suspended in space. Its
recent construction guaranteed a level of
technology far superior to older, more established
structures; and the sophisticated docking and
maintenance services it offered were crucial for
supporting commercial traffic through the sector.
However, aside from the base itself, Federation
presence in the sector consisted of one career
officer.
Commander Miyakawa was forced to work without one of the
standard benefits of a bureaucratic posting closer
to home a well-regulated support staff.
Most of the day-to-day operations of the base were
dependent on a shifting pool of labor
settlers who had run out of money before reaching their
chosen paradise, technicians who had
overslept a shore leave and lost their berth on a
freighter, or confirmed drifters who would leave
when the tendrils of civilization crept too
close for comfort.
The permanent inhabitants of Starbase 193
were employed in business ventures of their own.

DaiMon Maarc sauntered into the murky
recesses of the Due or Die with an air of
confidence that marked him as an especially
prosperous merchant among a race of merchants.
His tailored gray business suit was cut
to flatter his form; its sleeves were embellished with
bands of jewel-encrusted cloth; and the broad, soft
collar was studded with gold pins. For a Ferengi, it
was a discreet display of solid financial
success.
A DaiMon of means would usually avoid a
bar as dingy and cramped as the Due or Die.
Beauty was not the only quality that was missing from the
establishment; cleanliness and comfort were also in short
supply. However, Maarc had little interest in the
quality of the decor. Tourists and the credit-poor
rabble of the station might come here for cheap drinks, but
he had come to see Camenae.
As he threaded his way between wobbling tables, the
Ferengi calculated his current cash reserve for
speculative ventures. Any purchase he
made today would be expensive.
Most of Camenae's clients came to the bar
with a specific question; if they could meet her
price, most walked back out with an answer.
Sometimes they paid with a handful of round tokens, the
only currency that had any meaning inside the bar,
but it was common knowledge that Camenae preferred an
exchange for new information to tuck away in
anticipation of future requests.
Besides forming the basis for her business, facts
were also her private passion, and matching the right
fact with the right customer brought Camenae a deep
sense of personal satisfaction. So,
on occasion she informed certain select
individuals that she possessed an answer to a
question they hadn't thought to ask yet.
Just such a notification had reached the Ferengi a
few minutes earlier, and he had not wasted any
time in responding to the call. Through experience,
DaiMon Maarc had learned that Camenae did
not let her goods grow stale. He would have been a
much richer merchant today if he had paid more attention
the first time she offered him a question.
"I'm expected," boasted Maarc to the
Norsican who blocked his way. The guard
nodded and stepped back to allow the Ferengi to pass
through another door into an even darker room.
Maarc's steps faltered as he waited for his
eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there were no
unseen obstacles waiting to trip him. Shadows
were the only decoration in the bare interior, and the
only touch of color was in Camenae's
burgundy robe.
New clients expected a greater display of
security, but in time they realized that Camenae
stored her most valuable capital beyond anyone's
reach her dark, round face betrayed no
secrets, and a sleek cap of black hair
covered the impenetrable vault of her mind.
Tokens marking a financial transaction were
redeemed elsewhere.
"I got your message." Maarc settled
down at the small table where Camenae held
court. "How much will this information cost me?"
She named a sum that made the Ferengi merchant
hiss with outrage.
"A consortium of DaiMon in your guild
could gather the necessary funds," she said, unruffled
by his reaction. "And given the amount involved,
I'm willing to extend a line of credit."
"That is very generous of you," he sniffed,
"considering that you approached me with this offer. Be
warned, I have no intention of assuming a ruinous
debt to satisfy your greed."
"The price would be much higher if you were my first
customer."
"What!" His gnomish face squinched into a
mass of creases. A certain amount of theatrics
was obligatory, but Maarc's irritation was only
partially feigned.
Camenae shrugged an apology. "My
preferred customer list has grown so large that
there are, inevitably, certain conflicts
of interest."
"Double insult!"
"It was never my intention to offend, DaiMon.
To make amends for any ill feelings I have
inadvertently created, I offer a discount."
He grunted in disdain, but his nose twitched
at the whiff of a bargain. She knew him well enough
to sense his renewed interest.
"Against my usual policy," said Camenae,
"I will waive the charge for the question."
"You would have charged me for the question itself!" This time his
outrage was completely genuine.
"Of course," she said. "Good questions are often
far more valuable than the answers."
"You should have been a Ferengi." Maarc's good
humor was partially restored by her audacity. "So,
what is the question I should have asked?"
When he heard Camenae's reply, the
DaiMon quickly reached into his vest pocket.
Withdrawing his hand, he placed a token on the
table. "Here is a deposit. I will raise the
full sum of the answer's price within the hour."
He stacked a second token on top of the
first. "I will double the amount if you also tell me the
identity of your first client."
Then he added a third token to the pile. "And
I will triple the amount if I am your last
client to receive this information."
Camenae smiled as she gathered up the coins.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with a
professional, DaiMon Maarc."

CHAPTER 3

As the Enterprise swung into orbit around the
yellow sun's lone planet, Counselor
Troi had already begun her reconnaissance work
for the mission. However, unlike the Away Team
members who would soon transport to the ground
below, her terrain was the flaring emotions of the crew.
Data's announcement had set off a tremor
of tension through the bridge, and Picard sat at its
epicenter. His rising anger was probably rooted
in frustration at arriving too late to prevent
whatever catastrophe had occurred on
Atropos. Since the captain had a tendency
to view this type of event as a personal
failure, Troi made a mental note
to monitor this reaction over the next few days.
There should be no problem unless he persisted
in blaming himself, but Picard usually recovered his
perspective without her intervention.
Troi had exerted her empathic abilities
to read the captain, but she strengthened her block
against Will Riker's mind; Imzadi was all too
easy to read, and at close quarters his emotions
blared out like a siren. Each visit to a new world
keyed the first officer's nerves with excitement, but
this time the additional element of unknown danger let
loose a surge of adrenalin that urged him to leap
forward, to move, to run, to shout. Riker continued
to sit quietly in place next to the captain, but
she could see the younger man's cheeks flushing from the
strain; still, he would be fine as soon as he had
permission to lead the Away Team to the surface.
Beverly Crusher was another matter; her
anticipation had soured into apprehension when she
learned the results of the sensor scan.
"Beverly?"
"At least before I had a chance of helping my
patient," said the doctor under her breath so only
Troi could hear her. "Now ..." She lifted the
medical field kit off her lap and slung its
strap over one shoulder in preparation for the Away
Team's departure.
"Landing coordinates confirmed," announced
Data as the flow of sensor information to the computers
finally slowed. "The campsite appears intact."
Captain Picard's silent nod released a
storm of movement.
Riker shot out of his chair, finger stabbing at the
two helm positions. "Ro, Data, with me."
Dr. Crusher was already ahead of him, striding
up the ramp to the aft turbolift.

"Energizing."
At the sound of Chief O'Brien's warning,
Crusher braced herself for the frisson of the
transporter beam. Seconds later, a whistling
shiver rippled its way through the cells of her
body, and when the shiver faded, the bright glare of
sunlight stabbed her eyes. She dropped her
head down, blinking furiously to clear away the
dancing hot spots on her retinas. When the
doctor's vision cleared, she could see her
boots resting on a ground cover of orange
moss.
She could also see a dead body lying at her
feet.
Crusher lifted her gaze and counted
three more bodies of Vulcans in the campsite
one stretched across the threshold of a field tent,
two others fallen in a tangled heap onto the
ground in the center of the compound. More bodies were
probably hidden amidst the ancient, weathered
blocks of stone that had tumbled from their foundations.
"Well, that accounts for four out of the ten," she
said, pulling out her medical tricorder. She
passed the instrument over a Vulcan male in his
middle years, but the scan was little more than a
formality since the cause of death was all too
obvious his chest and face were charred from a
close-range phaser blast.
She proceeded on to the intertwined bodies.
Dropping down to a crouch, she started another
scan.
At Riker's direction, the rest of the Away
Team kept moving, spreading out to survey the area
around the landing coordinates. Their progress was
slow as they skirted crumbling walls and broken
columns and sought firm footing over piles of
debris.
"There's someone over here," called out Ro.
Crusher glanced up to watch as the ensign stepped
over a moss-covered ridge to inspect her
discovery. Whatever she saw on the other side
sent the Bajoran stumbling backward. "Also
dead."
The doctor bent back down to complete her
inspection. The man and woman appeared to have been
struggling over the phaser locked in the grip of the
man's hand, then both had been killed by its
activation.
"Some of the equipment was also damaged by phaser
fire," said Commander Riker when he had circled
back to the starting point. "But the wreckage is
haphazard and nothing of value appears to have been
taken."
Just their lives, thought Crusher, as she
snapped shut the scanner.
Riker sighed as he surveyed the carnage.
"We had outbreaks of violence on the
Enterprise when Ambassador Sarek was on
board; could T'Sara's illness have triggered a
mass homicidal rage among these Vulcans?"
"Please, Commander," protested the doctor, as
she rose to her feet. "It's far too early for
me to speculate on--"
"Over here!" Data rarely raised his
voice; she and Riker whirled around at the
android's shout. "I detect life-signs
ahead ... extremely faint."
Crusher broke into a run to follow Data
down a twisting path, rushing past more dead
bodies, ignoring everything but the call of the living.
It was a very weak call indeed.
When Crusher fell to her knees by the side of the
elderly Vulcan woman, she feared that Data
was mistaken or that T'Sara had loosed her
hold on life only seconds before their
arrival. The shadows of a looming tower had
shielded the archaeologist from the full heat of the
planet's sun, but the phaser wounds on her
side and shoulder should have killed her long before.
"Data, I'm not getting any readings."
Then the medscanner trilled once; the
life-signs were not only faint, they were also
widely spaced.
"Of course," said Crusher. "She's in a
Vulcan healing trance. I must get her up to the
ship immediately." She hit her comm link.
"Emergency transport! Two to sickbay."
T'Sara was no heavier than a child when Crusher
gathered her up in her arms. The doctor whispered
in the woman's ear, "You're safe, you're among
friends, and you're going to live!"
As the transporter beam took hold of the
doctor and her patient, Beverly Crusher hoped
she could keep that last promise.

Over the many years of their service together,
Picard had learned to trust his crew's
observations and perceptions, to let them serve as his
eyes and ears on Away missions. This rapport
had helped ease the captain's sense of
frustration at remaining so far removed from the
reconnaissance of Atropos.
The planet loomed large in the conference room
windows as two members of the landing party summarized
their activities of the last few hours. Between
Data's detailed recital of the essential
facts and Riker's more subjective evocation of the
carnage, Picard was able to recreate their
experience in his own mind.
His first officer had worked his way through a list of the
dead to the last archaeologist. "We finally found
Skorret at the bottom of one of the excavation
pits. He had been working near the edge,
evidently cataloging some ceremonial weapons,
when someone took the broken shard of a
sword and stabbed him through the back."
"I detected blood-stained fingerprints on the
hilt," said Data, "so it will be possible
to determine who is responsible for Skorret's
murder. Unfortunately, culpability will
prove more difficult to establish in most of the other
cases."
"Under the circumstances," said Riker, "the question
of guilt or innocence hardly matters since the
murderers are all dead, t oo. Assigning
blame for this tragedy won't provide much comfort
to their families."
In Picard's experience, Vulcans were less
interested in comfort than in truth. "This is not so much
a matter of justice, Number One, as it is of
discovery. In order to unravel why these murders
occurred, we must catalog the way in which they
occurred."
"Standard forensic recovery procedures are
already in effect," confessed the first officer. "Two
paramedic teams have been assigned to remove the
bodies from the planet surface and take them
to sickbay for autopsies."
As Picard suspected, Riker's instincts were
sound, even when he professed to balk at
Data's dispassionate perspective. The
captain smiled at the quizzical look on
Data's face. The android appeared confused by the
apparent contradiction between the first officer's words and
his actions.
Checking a final notation on his padd, Riker
then said, "Lieutenant Worf will supervise the
removal of the team's personal effects from the
planet surface, but what should we do about the
research equipment and camp facilities?"
Unfortunately, Picard realized, this was one
detail Commander Miyakawa had not thought
to clarify in her briefing report. "Data,
check the camp records to see who has
jurisdiction over the property. We'll need
instructions on whether the excavation will continue without
T'Sara and the other Vulcans."
"I can't imagine it would be abandoned," said
Riker. "From what I saw, the ruins are quite
extensive. There must be hundreds of artifacts
to be recovered."
"How odd." The first officer's observation
triggered a new avenue of curiosity for
Picard. "What you describe would be considered a
major research project, yet I
don't believe I've ever heard of this site
before."
"Falling behind on your journal reading, sir?"
"On the contrary," said Picard. Having
achieved minor acclaim as an amateur
archaeologist, he made a concerted effort
to remain current in the field. "I used
to follow T'Sara's research reports with great
interest, but her last publication appeared nearly
two decades ago, before the departure of the
Stargazer on an extended deepspace mission.
By the time I returned to the Federation, I had lost
track of her whereabouts."
As soon as the captain turned to Data, the
android nodded and said, "I will broaden my search
to cover a profile of the expedition."
"Thank you, Mr. Data."
The background information would be useful, but
Picard doubted it would provide any insight
into the mystery of the violence on Atropos.
Instead, his thoughts shifted to sickbay, where the
answers to his most pressing questions lay just out of
reach, locked deep in T'Sara's mind.
He would continue his investigation there.

She had a gaunt, wrinkled face and hair
leached white by the passage of centuries.
Curled on her side, covered by a light
blanket, T'Sara appeared to be sleeping
peacefully on the diagnostic bed. The only
clue to her steep dive into a healing trance was the
weak flutter of indicators on the medical
scanner; her life-signs barely registered.
The loose sleeve of Beverly Crusher's
coat brushed against Picard's arm. He couldn't
tell if the doctor had moved to his side
to offer silent comfort or to seek it out for herself.
"She's much frailer than I expected,"
whispered Picard. He knew T'Sara was unable
to hear him, yet he couldn't bring himself to speak
louder. "Her writing is so robust that I
unconsciously imagined her to be a Vulcan
Amazon, strong-limbed and tall."
"She must have an incredibly strong constitution
to remain alive this long." Crusher's voice
matched Picard's in softness. "Professionally
speaking, there's little more that I can do for her except
trust that the powers of her mind will heal the
damage."
He stepped away from the bedside so that
he could speak more freely. "The recovery work on
Atropos is only beginning, but I will order an
immediate departure if you feel her condition warrants
the attention of a starbase medical facility."
"No." Crusher's answer was swift and
firm. "I've already discussed that option with Dr.
Selar, and we both determined that our medical
assistance is equal to any provided outside of
Vulcan. We could never reach one of their master
healers in time to make any difference to T'Sara's
recovery. The outcome will be settled within the
next twenty-four hours ... one way or
another."
Her prediction measured out hope and despair
in equal portions. Picard decided he must
balance his expectations on the same razor-edge
of uncertainty.
One of the medical staff had been hovering
discreetly out of range of the conversation between the
captain and his chief medical officer. She quickly
took advantage of Picard's silence and
stepped forward.
"Yes, Nurse D'Airo?" asked
Crusher.
"The first shipment from the planet surface has
arrived."
Picard could see the muscles in Beverly's
neck tighten, and he realized the nurse was
referring to the bodies of the Vulcan
archaeologists. The doctor's voice flattened
into a monotone as she issued a set of
instructions concerning the preparations in the two
surgical suites in sickbay.
When Nurse D'Airo had jotted the last
instruction on her data padd and slipped away,
Crusher turned back around to face the captain.
"I hate autopsies," she said with a grimace.
"When do you need these results?"
"As soon as possible. Until T'Sara
awakens, the results of the examinations are our
only clues to explaining the murders. Not to mention
that those results may serve to corroborate her
future testimony."
"What?" said Crusher. "Captain, you make
her sound like a suspect in the murders.
Remember that she was one of the victims."
"Beverly, given Sorren's misgivings about
T'Sara's failing mental health, I can't
afford to accept her explanation of the events on
Atropos without some supporting
evidence."
Looking over at the huddled figure of the
elderly Vulcan, Picard wondered if she would
live long enough to tell her version.

The encampment on Atropos was still bathed in
daylight when the Enterprise cycled into night.
Seventeen hours after the priority distress call
had pulled the starship off its course, weary
crewmembers drifted into Ten-Forward or sought
quiet refuge in their quarters; corridors
fell silent, drained of their traffic; and lights
dimmed or guttered into darkness.
Of course, there were some exceptions--a few
stubborn pockets of activity--and one of these was
the captain's ready room.
Picard rubbed the bridge of his nose in a
futile effort to ease his aching head and blurring
vision, then he scanned the text on his desk
computer one more time.
"No, that's not right either," he muttered and
tapped a key that would delete the paragraph he
had just written.
The preliminary mission reports
to Miyakawa and Starfleet command had been easy
to draft, but the captain was experiencing more
difficulty with his personal message to the
director of the Vulcan Science Academy.
On the surface, Vulcan culture was
straightforward and rational, but appearances could be
deceiving; logic took some unexpected twists and
turns when mixed with primal issues such as
murder and death. Picard had written and
rewritten his description of T'Sara's injury
and the death of her colleagues, but although his instincts
could lead him away from certain phrases that might
offend, he was less sure of what words to put in
their place.
The trill of the ready room doorbell was a
welcome distraction from the frustration of his task.
"Come," called out Picard, then waved his
visitor to one of the chairs on the other side of the
desk.
"Good evening, Captain," said Data with
typical formality. "I apologize for taking so
long to prepare my report. I was delayed by an
unfortunate discovery the camp's computer data
files were erased by the electromagnetic pulse
from a phaser blast."
Merde. Picard assumed the
Vulcans were methodical enough to maintain
duplicate records elsewhere, possibly at
Starbase 193, but tracking them down would take
more time.
"Fortunately," said Data, "I was able
to reconstruct the broad outlines of the
expedition's history from our own library
archives. The project's formation was quite
unusual."
"In what way?" asked Picard.
"Earlier Federation surveys established that
most items of note were removed from Atropos
several hundred years ago by the original
inhabitants. Although the reasons are obscure,
the colony was deliberately and methodically
abandoned, thus rendering it of minimal scholastic
value. As a result, T'Sara was unable
to secure support from academic institutions
to explore the ruins, and eventually she sold her
family estate on Vulcan to fund the venture
herself."
"A private expedition? That certainly
bespeaks considerable dedication." T'Sara's
reputation for radical departures from conventional
scholarship was well-founded. "So what was the
basis for her fascination with Atropos?"
"The avowed purpose was considered to be
"illogical," even downright eccentric.
T'Sara claimed that an artifact called the
Ko N'ya was buried somewhere on the planet."
"The Ko N'ya?"
"Yes," said the android. "The Ko N'ya
is--"
"Thank you, Data." Picard had become
adept at stemming the android's excess of
information. "However, an explanation won't be
necessary. I'm quite familiar with the legends of the Ko
N'ya, quite familiar indeed."
Ko N'ya.
Years had passed since Picard had uttered
that name aloud. The emotions it evoked were rooted in
childhood and threaded through the long years of his
adulthood. His earliest recollections
surfaced first and sent a shudder of excitement and
fear up his spine and out through the tips of his fingers.
It was a delicious sensation.




CHAPTER 4

When the Iconian people fled through the Gateway
to seek safe havens, Ikkabar was the most
inviting of the new worlds. Its lush plains and
shallow seas were familiar to homesick eyes, and a
walk along the curving coastlines of the northern
continent could trick the mind into thinking Iconia's
destruction had been nothing more than a fading
nightmare.
To this first generation of settlers, Ikkabar was a
clean slate on which to reconstruct their history
and culture. They raised cities filled with the
same delicate architecture that had been
trammeled to dust by enemy weapons, then they
picked up the threads of their past lives as if
nothing had changed. Many called the planet New
Iconia, and this belief in a serene rebirth
clouded their vision with bright colors that had been
mixed under the light of a different sun.
The next generation was not so complacent.
Children born to this world saw more clearly than their
elders; young eyes were not so easily fooled by the
appearance of tranquillity. There were shadows on
this landscape that had not been charted, subtle
intimations of a darker geographic history that no
one had bothered to read. The children still called themselves
Iconians, but they restored the planet's name
to Ikkabar as a reminder that they were strangers to this
place.
Over the following centuries, vague fears of
lurking danger began to harden into grim knowledge. The
temperate climate that had greeted the early
settlers was only a brief respite in a
pendulum swing from one harsh extreme to another.
The planet's orbit was irregular in the
extreme, and its climate equally so; there came
a time when the warm seas dried entirely in the heat
of summer, leaving nothing but sucking mud flats that
stretched to the far horizon; in winter,
torrential rains washed away the mud and
flooded the plains. Growing seasons contracted,
bringing famine to a people who had never wanted for
food. The foundations of their buildings began
to shift and slide in the softened ground, then harden
at angles with their walls cracked open and lofty
spirals splintered.
Old traditions were abandoned as each succeeding
generation desperately searched for new ways to grow
food and to build structures that could
safely house their families. Nevertheless, their
offworld heritage was still treasured. When Ikkabar
cycled back to a temperate climate and the
halcyon days of legend returned, the
Iconians rejoiced. There was talk of a cultural
renaissance, and ancient tomes, carefully
preserved, were opened and read by those who still retained
some measure of that dying skill.
The joy was short-lived. Bitter disappointment
took its place as the weather began to grow
colder, and the seas turned to ice rather than mud.
Much of the knowledge brought from Iconia was lost forever as
precious books were burned as fuel. A few
of the elders fought to save those relics; they were
burned as well.
The hardy survivors of ancient Iconia
now called themselves the Ikkabar. They moved from their
ice-block fortresses to grass huts and back
again with greater ease and fewer deaths, but even so,
their numbers continued to dwindle.
Few remembered the sprawling cities that had
been their first home; however, the buried remnants
of these ancient settlements served as a beacon
to space-faring races. The sensors of a passing
Federation starship traced the record of past
grandeur hidden beneath layers of ice and mud, and a
discreet probe gathered data on the people who lived
on this harsh planet. Little was done with the knowledge until
an ethnographer at the Vulcan Academy of
Science happened to read the field report.
Each year after that, T'Sara petitioned the
Federation for a more extensive survey of Ikkabar,
and each year she was refused, but her constant
pressure pushed its name higher and higher on the
list of projects waiting for funding and
personnel. At last, eight years after its first
visit, the USS Galeone returned to the
planet.
There were even fewer people alive on the surface
now.
The census results unleashed a storm of
controversy among the members of the survey team.
T'Sara led a faction that favored First Contact
so the Federation could provide aid to the scattered
hunting tribes scrabbling for food. The
Vulcan argued that these were the descendants of a people
dependant on a highly developed
technological culture. They were ill-matched
to this primitive world and its demands; and just as one
rescued the crew of a wrecked ship, these
people were in dire need of assistance.
Unfortunately, her evidence for this theory was
weak. Memories of Iconia and the Gateway
had degenerated into a vague creation myth of a lost
paradise, and the similarities to real places and
events were impossible to corroborate. The
opposing faction in the observation team maintained that
the hunters were native to Ikkabar and that their
evolutionary history had been erased by the same
climatic upheavals that had toppled their
ancient civilization.
That winter, more of the Ikkabar died than were
born.
Despite the continuing drop in numbers,
T'Sara could not convince her colleagues that this was
not part of the normal fluctuations of population
growth. There was ample precedent for the wisdom of
leaving a preliterate culture in strict
isolation, so the expedition withdrew.
As decades passed, one after another of the
observation probes malfunctioned, stressed beyond
tolerance by the brutal weather. Mounting tensions between
the Federation and its enemies channeled Starfleet
resources in other directions, so the probes
remained silent for several years.
When the Federation was finally free to turn its
attention back to Ikkabar, the children of Iconia
had lost their battle to survive on this third
world. All that remained of these long-suffering people was
one hungry child found huddled by the coals of a fading
fire.
The boy clung to his alien saviors with a
desperation born of fear and loneliness. With what
little they knew of his language the crew of the
USS Clements learned he was called Kanda
Jiak. T'Sara could have explained the importance
of this name, but she had left Vulcan to continue her
search for the Ko N'ya, and the news never reached
her.

Fourteen years and a few months after he was
rescued from Ikkabar, young Kanda Jiak took his
first trembling steps toward reclaiming his lost
Iconian heritage.
The decision to set off on this quest had been
made on the eve of Jiak's departure from his
second home on Redifer III. Perhaps it
had been made even earlier, because he was one of the
few students on that world who applied to an
off-planet college. In either case, the
trip to Terra Sol University had provided
him with a convenient cover for leaving Redifer, one that
would not arouse any opposition from his parents.
His resolve held firm throughout the first week
of travel away from home, but when the passenger
liner actually docked at Starbase 75, Jiak
cowered in his cabin for the first hour of the brief shore
leave. It would be so much easier, so much safer,
to continue on to Earth as everyone expected him to do.
His quest could wait until he was older.
Yet somehow the last survivor of Ikkabar
suspected that if he failed to act now, he would
never walk down this path in the future. After a
few more years, Kanda Jiak would be fully
assimilated into his life as a citizen of the
Federation. The tattered threads of his origins were
already worn too thin for memory; what little he
knew of his people came from reading the ethnography
reports from the crew of the Galeone.
So, just a few minutes before the passenger
recall sounded, Jiak walked off the
transport liner.
He had half-hoped someone would stop him, but the
ship's first officer had smiled perfunctorily
at the request to permanently disembark, and a
harried crewman had ushered him to the docking
gate. Evidently passengers frequently
changed their itinerary midway through a trip.
Jiak faced a second trial of courage
when he walked through the series of interconnecting
domes that formed the main terminal. Overwhelmed by the
massive complex and the jostling crowds that surged in
currents around him, he felt like a small boy
about to drown in a treacherous sea.
Rooted in place by fear and indecision, he
automatically scanned the stream of alien faces
for one that matched his own in color and shape. It was
an old habit, a holdover from his early
childhood when he still believed that someday his own people
would miraculously appear to whisk him back
to Ikkabar. Over the years he had grown to love
his adopted world and his foster parents, yet the
impulse to search persisted. On all of
Redifer, and even here where over a dozen different
races were passing by him every minute, Jiak was
unique.
That would change soon.
"Hey! Are you lost?" The question was followed by a
sharp jab to his arm.
"No," he said, turning to face his
inquisitor.
"You look very lost." The woman was dressed
in a rumpled blue jumpsuit, but he noticed
the row of captain's pips on the collar. They
weren't Starfleet design, so she was in charge
of a civilian ship, possibly a freighter.
"I know where I am now," said Jiak, mustering
a bravado he did not feel, "and I know where
I'm going next, so I don't see how I could
be lost."
Her hand darted upward to tuck a stray wisp
of her hair back into place. It was a futile
effort; the twisted braid she wore was bristling with
errant curls. "So where are you going?"
His final destination was none of her business,
yet the young man was grateful for her concern, even
if it was rather roughly expressed. Jiak
compromised by revealing an intermediate stop.
"Well, as it happens, I'm on my way
to Davenport V."
The captain snorted derisively at his
answer. "And have you already got a ticket?"
He shook his head. "I need to buy one now.
I'd be in your debt if you could show me where
to--"
"It's not a big tourist spot and that means
top rates." Then she quoted the price of
passage to that distant world.
The cost was staggeringly high. Jiak had been
sure his spending allowance for the first term would cover
all his travel expenses, but instead this one
ticket would wipe out the entire allotment on his
credit chip. He would be left with no funds for the
final leg of his journey from Davenport
to DiWahn.
His dismay must have been obvious, because the woman
sighed heavily. "Go back home, kid."
"I'm not a kid, and I'll find another way
to get there." He would have to find it soon. In
another few days his mother and father would learn that he
had never reached Earth and would begin to trace his
steps. They had no authority to stop him now that
he was of age, but Jiak wanted to escape their
pleas for him to return to the comforting familiarity of
Redifer.
As if she had been reading his thoughts, the woman
said, "I guess you're too old to be running
away from home, but you're still young enough to have stardust in
your eyes. That won't last long on my ship."
"What did you say?" asked Jiak.
"The name is Captain Del," she snapped,
"and I'm not offering you a glamorous job. Some
kids expect a joyride through space, but you'll
work damn hard for your berth."
"I don't want glamour, just free
passage off this starbase."
"As long as you remember that, we'll get
along fine." Del jabbed a finger at the bundle
by his feet. "Is that all your freight?"
"Yes. I travel light."
"Good." She smiled her approval at this
evidence of thrift. "Come on, then. Don't
dally. I have a tight delivery schedule."
Still too startled to fully grasp his good
fortune, Jiak hoisted the backpack into place
and trotted after Del.
In truth, he hadn't had time to retrieve the
rest of his luggage from the passenger liner, and those
heavy cases were on their way to Earth by now. With
careful tending, however, he could make do with the one
change of clothing he carried with him.
His only other remaining possession, the one that
weighed most heavily on his shoulders, was a copy
of T'Sara's Legends of the Iconian
Diaspora.

CHAPTER 5

Even from his position at an aft station console,
Data easily followed the overlapping exchange
between Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher.
"I'm sorry, Captain, but there has been
no change in her--"
"What about the--"
"The autopsy reports are still being--"
"Let me know as soon as you have anything
to report."
Data noted the way in which the two officers
consistently anticipated the next request for
information. Humans persisted in this curious
behavior even though his own observations indicated
that it often led to misunderstandings.
Data heard the captain's chair creak ever so
softly as Picard's weight was lifted from the
cushions. With his acute senses, the android
easily followed the sound of Picard's
distinctive tread as he moved up a side ramp
to the elevated deck. He walked to a spot just
behind Data's chair and stopped.
"Yes, Captain?" Data turned
around, thus observing the cultural dictate of
face-to-face interpersonal interaction.
"I'd like to see the team profiles again."
Data had kept the files cued for instant
access. On reflection, he realized that this was
an example of anticipating the captain's
request.
Picard leaned over Data's shoulder and
called the names out one by one. "Skorret ...
Sohle ... Sorren ..."
Data was careful to run the biographical
profiles at a speed that would accommodate the
captain's slower neural responses. The
android's own positronic brain had already
committed all the information on the archaeological
team to memory after one scan, but he accepted the
fact that Humans required this continual review
process to fully assimilate new information.
"Soth ... T'Challo ... Tessin ..."
The lagging pace was never boring, however, because
Data could occupy himself with alternate sensory
input, such as the conversations of the bridge crew
passing by the science station; he could also generate
simulated poker hands to calculate odds and
refine his betting strategy; or he could compare
various renditions of musical compositions
to better understand the aesthetic impact of a
conductor's style. At the moment, he was doing
all three of the above.
"Run the Vulcan distress call again," said
Picard.
"Yes, Captain."
Data cued the transmission to begin with the
archaeology team's identification frame,
written in both Vulcan and Federation Standard.
This was followed by the image of a Vulcan male
with the long face and high cheekbones characteristic of his
species; although exact age was always difficult
to determine in such a long-lived race, he
appeared to be less than a half-century old.
He was dressed in a dusty worksuit; the ruins of
an ancient alien edifice served as his
backdrop.

"I am Sorren, assistant to our expedition
leader, T'Sara. It is the consensus of the
archaeological team that T'Sara is in need of
medical attention. Her behavior is growing
increasingly erratic she is prone to outbursts of
emotion and persists in ..."
[crackle] ...

"There," said Picard, with a jabbing motion of his
hand. Data responded instantly, freezing the
badly fragmented image on the screen. "That
short burst of static obliterates part of
Sorren's message. From the context, it appears
to be an elaboration of what constitutes
T'Sara's erratic behavior." The hand
dropped and Data continued the review.

"... is my belief these symptoms are
characteristic of Bendii's syndrome. I request
immediate transport so that T'Sara can receive
appropriate medical treatment before her condition
deteriorates any further."

Data stopped the recording and waited for the
captain's next command.
"That missing segment was unimportant while
Sorren was alive," said Picard with a thoughtful
rub of his chin. "But now it may be our only
clue as to what happened in the camp these last few
days. Is there any way to recover the information?"
"If the team followed standard communications
procedures, an intact original would be stored
in the memory banks of the subspace radio
transmitter. Unfortunately, the equipment
damage erased all records of previous
activity."
"Just as the expedition's data files were
destroyed," said Picard. "If this vandalism is
an example of T'Sara's "erratic"
behavior, she was also extremely methodical in
its execution."
Data added two new tracks of activity
to his mental processes. In one of them, he
analyzed the captain's voice and identified the
stress pattern as indicative of irritation,
suspicion, and curiosity; of all the crew,
Data found Picard's complex emotional states
the most challenging to unravel. The second train
of thought led to an announcement. "Captain, I have
identified the static interference as a
substantial burst of Hovorka radiation."
Given the captain's lack of reaction,
Data belatedly realized that the conundrum was not
self-evident.
"Hovorka emissions are generated during the
collapse of brown dwarf stars, but there
are no such sources for this radiation anywhere in this
sector or in the area stretching between this solar
system and Starbase 193."
"Then how can you account for its presence?"
"I cannot." Then, anticipating the captain's
next question, Data said, "Neither can I theorize a
connection between the events on the planet and this
anomaly; nevertheless, the radiation should not be there."
Picard was just as quick at anticipating
Data's next request.
"You know how I feel about mysteries, Mr.
Data; it may be inconsequential, but I still
want it explained. Proceed with your
investigation."

The slow, measured beat of the diagnostic
scanner exploded into a flurry of sounds and
flashing lights. Seconds later the chief
medical officer and two nurses were clustered around
T'Sara's bed. The Vulcan woman had
remained limp and unresponsive when her wounds
were first tended, but now her limbs twitched ever so
slightly with muscular tension.
"She appears to be coming out of the healing state,"
said Crusher as she tracked the life function
indicators. Despite the wild fluctuations,
the overall pattern was of an increase in
cellular and metabolic activity. "But
dammit, it's too soon! The tissue damage
has barely begun to regenerate. If she wakes
up now, she'll die of her injuries."
At this point, Crusher knew the ideal
treatment was for a Vulcan healer to forge a
mind-link and guide the patient back into the
trance, but not even Selar was qualified
to initiate that therapy.
Fortunately, there were cruder methods
available to persuade the body to resume its
regenerative efforts.
"Ten cc's of Tochizine." Crusher held out
her hand and felt the satisfying weight of a loaded
hypospray slap into her open palm.
The doctor pressed the instrument against the base
of the patient's neck and triggered a spray of the
drug through the skin.
"Metabolic activity is stabilizing ...
decreasing," confirmed Nurse D'Airo. She
began to read off the declining values, then
paused. When she resumed the count, the numbers were
climbing again.
"Fifteen cc's of D'armacol," ordered
Crusher, but neither that nor an additional fifteen
cc's of Hyzolidine had any lasting effect on
the readouts. "It's as if her body is
constantly adjusting to the injections and neutralizing
the effects."
Crusher accepted a recharged hypo from
D'Airo and positioned it against bare skin, but she
did not trigger the blast. The Vulcan's drive
to regain consciousness could not be repressed without a
massive chemical assault tha t would do equal
damage to her weakened system.
Then T'Sara snapped open her eyes; they were
onyx-black and clear of any confusion.
"All right," said Crusher softly. "If this
is what you want."
T'Sara extended a thin, spindly arm toward
the doctor. From a Human the gesture might have
appeared imploring, but there was no mistaking the
imperious demand of a Vulcan. The fingers of the hand
flexed, then clenched like steel clamps around a
fold of Beverly's coat. Even nearing death,
T'Sara had sufficient strength to pull the
doctor closer until the old woman's mouth was
pressed against Crusher's ear.
T'Sara's hoarse whisper was like a gust of
desert air. "Ko N'ya ... the blood never
stops flowing."

Picard had managed to catch a few hours
sleep since his last visit to sickbay, but he
suspected his chief medical officer had not been
so lucky. Standing in the close confines of her
office, he could hear a rasp in Beverly's
voice and see dark smudges forming beneath her
eyes.
"Are you sure that's what she said?" asked
Riker.
"Yes, I'm sure." Crusher had delivered
her medical report with a crisp detachment, but
now that it was over she shoved aside her medical
padd and sagged back into her desk chair.
"T'Sara spoke quite clearly ... before she
died."
Picard saw Beverly's gaze shift away
to the sickbay ward outside her office; he
glanced back in time to see two nurses lift a
still, covered body onto an antigrav sled.
By the time he and Riker left this office,
T'Sara would be gone, whisked away from the
presence of the living.
Having witnessed Sarek's last days of suffering
from Bendii's syndrome, Picard wondered if
this was a more merciful end.
"What does that mean? Ko Ni--" Riker
faltered over the delicate contraction of the
syllables.
"Ko N'ya," corrected the captain with a
grasp of the inflection that came naturally to him through
long usage. "The name is ancient, with origins
in a pre-Reform Vulcan dialect. There is
no direct translation, but the cultural concept
is roughly analogous to "the Devil's
Heart"."
Crusher frowned at the explanation. "What an
odd choice for one's dying words."
"Not so odd for this particular Vulcan," said
Picard. "For the past two decades, T'Sara
has ... had been obsessed with tracing an
object which she believed appeared in the mythology
of disparate worlds. Her theory, widely discounted
by other scholars and historians, is that this
talisman really did exist and that it was the
factual source for all those legends. She also
believed that the Ko N'ya had somehow ended up on
Atropos, and she spent the last ten years trying
to find it there."
"What a waste," said Riker. "Could this
obsession of hers have been caused by the
Bendii's?"
"Would everyone please stop speculating ahead
of the evidence," snapped Crusher. "Sorren was
an archaeologist, not a doctor, and he was not
qualified to diagnose such an extremely rare
disease. Until my lab tests confirm--"
"How soon--" began Picard.
"I'm working as fast as I can, Captain," said
Crusher stiffly. "My staff is working as fast as
they can. When the results are ready, I'll
let--"
She stopped suddenly, took a deep breath,
then began again. "And when I've gotten some
sleep, I may even remember how to be civil
again."
"No offense taken, Doctor," said
Picard. Sleep might help, but he
suspected her weariness had another, darker,
source; Beverly's next task was all too
obvious.
His chief medical officer rose from behind
her desk. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen,
I have another autopsy to attend to."

"Captain?"
"Sorry, Number One," said Picard, when
he realized that he was still standing in the corridor
outside sickbay, lost in thoughts of T'Sara and
her fruitless quest. He launched himself forward,
setting a brisk pace. "You were saying?"
Riker fell into step beside him. "According
to Worf's progress report, the research
camp is almost completely dismantled. We should be
able to break orbit in the next few hours."
"Not yet," said Picard. "Not until we have
a clear idea of what happened down on the
surface. We may need to examine the site
again."
There was sufficient truth in this statement to ease
Picard's conscience. An additional, unspoken
reason was his need to make peace with T'Sara's
murder. His grief at the scholar's death was more
intellectual than emotional, yet an empty
feeling of deep loss could not be dislodged no
matter how fast he walked.
"I think it's time for me to see Atropos for
myself." Without slowing his pace, Picard executed
an abrupt turn to his right and marched through the open
doors of a turbolift that had just discharged a
passenger. "Deck 6."
Riker dashed into the compartment just before the doors
closed. As the turbolift whined into motion, the first
officer said, "Are you going down there as an
archaeologist or as a detective?"
"A bit of both," admitted Picard, "but
also to pay my respects."
When T'Sara's life had been cut short,
her ceaseless quest for the mythic Ko N'ya had
also come to an end. Atropos, with its covering of
ruins, was a fitting tombstone for both of them.

The hard metallic grill of the transporter
platform transmuted into spongy turf, and
Picard felt his boots sink ever so slightly
into the ground.
He surveyed his surroundings, from the plants
crushed under his boots to the strange jumble of
ruins, like the bleached bones of an ancient
goliath scattered all around him.
Massive tiles had once paved the area with
alternating squares of bright colors, but
their pattern was disrupted now. Some tiles had
settled unevenly, their surfaces tilted at
wild angles; others were shattered into pieces;
all were smeared with a thick layer of dust and dirt.
In the center of the plaza was a jagged ring of stone,
all that remained of a high tower that had crumbled
down to its base. Judging from the amount of
debris, the structure had dwarfed every other
building within miles; even its ruins still reached
high enough to block out the sun.
The air was dry and tartly scented, and he
inhaled deeply, eager to flush his lungs of the
odorless mixture of gases that filled the
starship. Picard smiled, savoring the feel of his
mind stretching to encompass an alien landscape.
The smile faded when he caught sight of a
small metallic tag driven into the ground; it
marked where a body had been found. Four
archaeologists had died in the plaza that sprawled
out before him.
Lieutenant Worf stepped out of the shadows where
he had been waiting for the captain's arrival.
He pointed to a marker by his feet. "T'Sara
fell here."
Three other tags were arranged in a rough
semicircle around the Klingon, placed where the
archaeologists had gathered to face their leader.
According to Riker's mission report, Soth and
T'Challo were also armed, and T'Sara was caught
in their cross fire.
Picard tried to reconstruct the scene in his
mind, but it was difficult to place Vulcans in
the midst of such violence. For ten years T'Sara
and her colleagues had patiently worked their way
through these ruins. What combination of actions and
reactions among them could have led to this fatal
tableau?
"Lieutenant, where was their last excavation
site?"
"Over here." Worf retreated into the shadows.
The captain followed, picking his way through a
maze of fallen blocks, wary of loose tiles
that rocked underfoot.
"We removed a scanner and several sonic
tools from this area," said Worf.
As his eyes adjusted to the shade, Picard could
see that a patch of ground had been cleared of
stones to provide access to a delicate bas
relief of hieroglyphics carved on the tower
wall. One section was partially restored,
but if the Vulcans had managed to decipher the
alien language, the message had been lost again
when the expedition's data files were erased.
"I had hoped for something more momentous," said
Picard with a sigh, "but I'm afraid this would
only have been a footnote in her latest--"
He spied a black shadow breaking the
expanse of gray wall; it was tall and narrow,
like a doorway.
Curiosity demanded an explanation. Picard
walked to the wall, but even up close his eyes
strained to see through the opening. He stretched out an
arm. His hand sank into the darkness and touched air that
was several degrees cooler than where he stood.
"Another footnote?" asked Worf.
"Perhaps. Why don't we find out?"
Picard stepped through the opening.
The tunnel was narrow--he could hear the sound of
Worf's shoulders brushing against the sides of
polished stone--and if the light grew any dimmer
he would be foolish to forge ahead. The darkness did
not thicken, however. Instead, a glowing light
beckoned him to continue his exploration.
They soon discovered that the illumination came from
a field lamp abandoned in the corridor. Its
light revealed that the end of the tunnel had once
been bricked over, but the archaeologists had cut
through the barrier to reach the circular chamber beyond.
"More than a footnote," said Picard when he
caught sight of the interior.
A huge throne, hewn out of the same stone as the
tower above, was set in the center of the bare room.
The attenuated figure that sat on the throne was
no statue, however. On his first breath, Picard
had inhaled the musty odor of mummification. Skin
and tissue had dried, shrinking against the skeleton
beneath.
In life, the alien had been tall and
willowy; in death, it was crouched like a spider in
its web.
"It's holding something," he said, observing how
its arms and hands came together as if cupping a
small object in its palms. When Picard
approached for a better look, his boots stirred
dust motes of decay into the still air.
The object was gone.
He knew the prickle of apprehension that
shuddered through hi m was irrational and unwarranted.
Surely, the contents of this chamber must have been
plundered centuries before the Vulcans had
set foot on the planet.
"I've seen enough."
Worf nodded impassively, but he scrambled
out the portal somewhat faster than he had entered.
Picard ducked his head as he edged through the breach,
then froze in place.
"Captain? Is something wrong?"
"Yes, Lieutenant, although I suppose it
hardly matters now."
The signs were so clear; surely T'Sara had
seen them, too? Picard reached out one hand,
trailing his fingers over the crumbling bricks and
mortar, wondering what fierce emotion had driven
the hands that had built this wall.
"This chamber was sealed from the inside."

CHAPTER 6

Embedded discreetly along the outer shell of
Starbase 193 were a series of subspace
signal collectors, a small part of the vast
communications network that linked one end of the Federation
to another. These electronic scoops gathered up
decaying transmissions from passing freighters or
from settlements uneasily perched on the fringe of
Federation territory, then computers sorted the
compressed digital packets and directed them
to the appropriate transmitter along the upper
rim of the station. The newly fortified signals were
flung back into the void toward their destination or
to yet another of the relay boosters seeded throughout
Federation territory.
The process was automatic, so the
communications packet from the Enterprise passed
through the system in a matter of seconds. It would
have taken even less time, except Captain
Picard's mission report had to be detached from
the compressed bundle before the remaining portion of the
transmission was sent on its way to Vulcan.
Suffering yet another half-second lag, the
captain's report was routed through a short system
subroutine. Following the program's
instructions, the computer created a duplicate of the
transmission and shuttled this copy to an untitled
buffer file. The original proceeded to Commander
Miyakawa's message terminal.
Minutes later, a technician in the
communications center accessed the duplicate and
perused its contents. After the first quick reading, a
nervous tic began to tug one corner of his
mouth askew. He read the message a second
time.
This breach of security procedures would have been
more difficult to implement on a starbase fully
staffed by Starfleet officers, but Thomas Grede
often worked unsupervised, so the subroutine had
been relatively easy to install. None of the
other operators knew the system well enough
to discover the alteration, and few would have cared.
He was depending on this same apathy when he
slipped away from his post in the middle of a shift.
No one noticed his departure, but then no one
noticed Grede much of the time anyway. He was a
slight, timid man who had grown accustomed
to being overlooked by the people around him. Competent and
reliable, his only weakness was a hunger for
attention, yet this craving had persisted
unfulfilled for most of his life.
On Starbase 193, one person had seen his
need and used it to her advantage.
As a matter of routine, any new employee
hired by the base commander was soon tempted
to provide certain business interests on the station
with private services. Grede had stood firm
against repeated bribes, and over several years of
steady if unspectacular performance, he had
earned a high security clearance. During this time,
however, Camenae had patiently cultivated his
friendship with a few kind words and the occasional free
drink at the Due or Die. This mild
flattery was all it took to buy his loyalty.
Grede grew anxious to please her. Without
any prompting, one day he came to her with the gift
of a coded communiqu`e to Commander Miyakawa that
he had skillfully intercepted. Camenae had
paid him for the betrayal, but it was her smile of
appreciation that thrilled him. Unfortunately,
her gratitude did not last very long, and soon
her manner toward him grew cool and distant.
Desperate to regain her favor, the technician
realized that the only way he could maintain his good
standing was with a constant stream of tribute.
Today, as he scurried through the doors of the Due
or Die, Grede belatedly admitted that the
price of pleasing Camenae was climbing higher
than he could afford.
"I have information." These were the magic words that had
first fulfilled his desire to impress the
knowledge-broker. These three words persuaded the
Norsican guard to move aside and
allow Grede access to the inner sanctum.
He knew the way into Camenae's shadowed
office by heart, but he stumbled over the threshold
anyway, his feet tangled by haste and a fear so
strong it weakened his knees. She waved him to a
chair, but he continued to stand, bouncing on the balls
of his feet, ready to sprint away again.
"I've just seen the latest report
to Miyakawa from the Enterprise," he said, still
panting from his run to the bar. "Camenae, the
Vulcans on Atropos are dead!"
"So the Enterprise is handling this matter.
That's definitely information I can use." She
reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a
token.
"No," cried Grede, his voice rising in
pitch. "I didn't come here to sell you something.
Camenae, this situation is getting out of hand.
We're talking the death of prominent Federation
citizens. That means an investigation, questions,
officials prying into every corner of this starbase."
She shrugged. "I'm not responsible if you
failed to consider the consequences of our last
transaction."
"Dammit, I could get into serious trouble for
what I've done!"
"In that case," she said, palming the coin he
had rejected, "I'll put this on your account.
You may have need of it in the future."
He searched her face for some sign of
compassion. The corners of her mouth were turned
down, but not out of concern for his misfortune.
Camenae was merely impatient for him to leave.

Sendei shut his eyes.
After a century of practice, this simple
act should have slipped him easily into meditation, but
today that skill eluded him. The Vulcan struggled
to submerge himself and failed. He could still hear the
muffled exchanges between students and professors
in the hall outside, and the outlines of his office
remained clearly visible in his mind.
He took a deep breath. Then, like a child just
learning the first steps of emotional control, he
summoned the construct of two hands and imagined them
cupped over each of his ears.
When all sounds had faded, Sendei passed the
hands in front of his face, and his awareness of the
room in which he sat receded as well. The
removal of these distractions released other
thoughts that were not so easily blocked.
He was haunted by memories of the dead.
Over ten years had passed since he had found
T'Sara standing on the crest of a moonlit dune,
gazing out across the plains to the blackened
silhouette of Mount Selaya. Sendei had
argued with her for hours, nearly until dawn, but
logic could not deter T'Sara from selling her
estate to continue her search for the Ko N'ya. He
had stormed away when his emotional reserve finally
shattered against her obstinacy. By the time he had
recovered his composure, she had left Vulcan.
He never saw her again.
T'Sara had no close family, and the distant
branches of her clan had severed all contact after
she ceded her ancestral lands. As of this moment,
Sendei claimed her as his own kin. He would
write her name in his family's annals so that his
children's children would revere her memory.
Her image faded and he was alone in the
desert.
Dipping his hands into the dune, Sendei filled
cupped palms with sand, then focused his attention
on the grains as they streamed from between his fingers. This
second construct helped him descend to another
level of the meditative state.
He did not see Sohle's face, but he
remembered the gruffness of the man's voice. Although
Sohle had never professed belief in
T'Sara's quest, he had been the first
archaeologist at the Academy to announce his
decision to accompany her to Atropos, and he had
met the storm of criticism leveled against his
participation with a short answer. "I will learn more from
her folly than from the wisdom of my
colleagues."
Other professors and students had been
persuaded by these words, so T'Sara did not leave
Vulcan alone.
Now Sendei would have to inform Sohle's children that
their father was dead, just as Tessin's brothers must be
told that their only sister would not return home.
Skorret would never finish his dissertation on
pre-Reform metalwork, and the Academy had lost
forever T'Challo's insights into early Vulcan
art forms.
So many names lost ... so many lives disrupted
... so many families wounded by this tragedy.
Drifting grains of sand could not shore up his
crumbling emotional defenses. Sendei
loosed a thundering earthquake across the desert. The
ground trembled and shook until a jagged
fissure opened beneath his feet. He dropped down
into total darkness, into the very center of his despair.
Sorren is dead. My son is dead.
Sendei's reaction was Vulcan, silent but
deeply felt. Offworlders often mistook that
lack of outward show for indifference, but the pain of
such a loss was not meant for display. Few
Vulcans managed to extinguish all emotion, but
most had mastered the ability to contain it. According to the
philosophy that the Vulcan race had adopted,
there was no reason why any emotion, no matter
how intense, should influence behavior or cloud the
path of logic.
Deep in meditation, Sendei searched for a final
construct that would contain his unruly emotions. He
chose the image of a river rushing through an underground
chasm. Here his rage and grief could run freely
and purely in their own channel until death brought
him inner peace.




CHAPTER 7

"There is no Bendii's!"
Beverly Crusher had charged through the doors of the
captain's ready room after only a token ring
of the chime. She was brandishing her medical padd like
the head of a vanquished enemy.
Picard lowered the teacup that had been on its
way to his lips and waved the CMO to a chair in
front of his desk. "I take it your medical
report is ready."
"Yes, by god, it is." She moved into place
with the grace of a dancer, the tails of her lab
coat billowing out behind her. "Tissue cultures
from T'Sara's metathalamus were negative for
Bendii's syndrome. In fact, during the
autopsy I found no signs of any kind of
pathology in her brain or nervous system no
lesions, no tumors, nothing organic that could
result in violent or irrational behavior."
"Then what could have triggered such violence among
the Vulcans?"
"Oh, but I'm not convinced of that either," said
Crusher. Heightened spots of color on her
cheeks betrayed her excitement. "I
may be rusty on the finer points of forensic
medicine, but it appears that several of the Vulcans
were stunned before they were killed, and almost all of the
bodies show obvious signs of having been moved
after death."
She jabbed at her padd screen, consulted the
new readout, then continued. "For instance, Soth was
found lying facedown in the plaza, but blood had
pooled on the back of his body; T'Challo's
arms had small scrapes and bruises that
occurred after death, and three of Sohle's fingers
were broken after rigor mortis had set in,
apparently to force his hand around a phaser grip."
Picard already had a notion of where this discussion was
leading, but he sipped his tea as Beverly continued
to develop her argument.
"Not to mention that Tessin's fingerprints were found
on the weapon that killed Skorret, even though the
rate of cellular degeneration suggests she died
at least a half hour before he did." Tossing the
data padd onto the captain's desk like a
gauntlet thrown down in challenge, Crusher
said, "Frankly, I find it highly unlikely
that a group of homicidal Vulcans would concern
themselves with moving their victims from one place
to another; a far more likely explanation of the
entire situation is--"
"--is that off-planet intruders staged a
clumsy cover for the murders."
"Exactly!"
The new scenario unfolded before his mind's
eye T'Sara caught unawares, falling under the
unexpected barrage of phaser fire, victim
of an attack from without rather than from within. Although the
forms that wielded the weapons were shadowy and
undefined, their existence had the solidity of
truth.
"I concur with your interpretation of the evidence,"
said Picard. "The question remains, who would do this and
why?"
She shrugged. "Sorry, Captain, that's not
my department."
"No," he sighed. "But it is mine." The
answers to T'Sara's death danced just out of reach,
elusive, tantalizing. What would it take
to bring them into focus?
He tapped the communicator on his chest.
"Picard to Data What is the status of your
current project?"
"I have not yet concluded my
investigation, but there is sufficient progress
to warrant your attention."
"Thank you, Data. I'm on my way to the
bridge." The captain rose from behind his desk.
"Doctor, I think you should hear this, too."

Riker's steps echoed loudly as he crossed
the deck of Cargo Bay 12. The loading crew
was gone, as was the fleet of airsleds they had
driven into the spacious hold. After a brief
frenzy of activity, Worf's team had left
behind a tidy mountain of faceted shipping cartons.
Each carton had a number stenciled on its
surface, and as Riker entered that number into his
data padd, the tablet's display screen revealed
the contents stored inside. The first series included
tents, computers, dating scanners, thermal
sensors, laser drills, and sonic picks. Every
last stake and stray piece of rope had been
gathered up and packed away.
Next, Riker checked through the artifacts
uncovered by the excavations shards of pottery and
statuary, broken weapons, small pieces of
jewelry. These were the discarded remnants of a
society, not its treasures. According to the captain,
it was from precisely this sort of detritus that
most archaeologists teased their understanding of a
culture, and T'Sara had displayed a genius for
making these extrapolations.
The last two cartons were filled with items
found in the archaeologists' living quarters.
Vulcans were not a materialistic race, so the
list Riker scanned was spare and consisted mostly
of clothes and books. Even after their long tenure
on the planet, the scientists had made no
attempt to decorate their tents with frivolous
trinkets; every personal article was utilitarian
in purpose and discreetly labeled with the owner's
name.
Upon a second glance, however, the first officer
noticed that every member of the team possessed a
pocket holo. So, at the end of a long day of
excavation and research, even Vulcans wanted
reminders of home and family.
Three of them had brought musical instruments as
well. Riker envisioned a small group of tired
men and women gathered together under the stars, listening to the
soft strains of a lyre and a flute. The scene
made the knowledge of their deaths more poignant, almost
painful, but it helped to overshadow his
memories of contorted bodies mired in blood.
With a final tap on the padd's controls,
Riker transferred the confirmed manifest into the
starship's main computers. Nothing of the Vulcans
remained below on Atropos. Their decade-long
presence had been completely erased.

"Sorren's distress call appears to have been
altered in several ways," said Data. "The first
modification was to the identification slate."
Picard automatically leaned closer to the
science station, then shifted slightly to allow
Crusher an unobstructed view of the screen. The
circular seal of the United Federation of
Planets--a field of stars flanked by olive
branches--floated on a blue background; below
the logo was a small block of text.
The two officers studied the slate and its
standard display of information about Sorren's
message.

Origin UFP 567045-B12-10A
(atropos)
Destination UFP 567045-B23-22C
(starbase 193)
Stardate 45873.4

"I see nothing out of the ordinary," said Picard
as he exchanged puzzled looks with the doctor.
"At first, neither did I," said the android.
"However, when I examined the transmission
envelope I discovered a discrepancy in the date
stamp. Since the envelope is usually accessed
only by the transceiver hardware, its information is
never visible to the recipient of the message."
With quick, practiced movements, Data
unzipped the coded interface and called forth a
dense stream of unformatted data. Numbers
flew by more quickly than Picard could follow until
suddenly Data froze the image. His pointing
finger highlighted the pertinent section of a line.
FMCCUFP567045-B12-10Ast-
TOCCUFP567045-B23-22C/SD-
45873.3
"45873.3," read Picard. "One day
earlier!"
"Correct," said the android. "The last
digit designating the day has been changed on
the identification slate. That alteration obscured
a twenty-four-hour lag between the receipt
of the original message at Starbase 193 and the
transmission of a forged version to the Enterprise."
"And during that time," said Crusher angrily,
"the Vulcans were being slaughtered."
"That would appear to be the case."
The screen image shimmered as Data advanced
the recording to the middle of Sorren's
communiqu`e. Black and white lines lightly
scored the Vulcan's face, then increased in
intensity, fracturing the picture beyond
recognition.
Data continued his explanation. "The second
modification involves the sudden appearance of
static that obscures part of the message. Any
transmission interference should have been noted by the
subspace receiver; however, the data verification
field indicates that the Vulcan's message was
received intact at Starbase 193. Neither is there
any record of difficulty in the transmission
from the starbase to the Enterprise. Thus, I
surmised that the burst of Hovorka radiation is
actually a graphic forgery introduced
to suppress five seconds of the image."
"Can the original be restored?" asked
Picard.
"Yes, I believe so. The transmission
envelope contains a compressed digital
duplicate of lower resolution, but this copy
contains sufficient information for our purposes.
By judicious cross-referencing and multiple
digital sampling I can reconstruct the missing
segment."
"Make it so."
A high whine ensued as the android ran the
message at high speed; his fingers blurred with
equal rapidity over the console as he adjusted
controls, then repeated the process again and again.
With each repetition the tape image became
clearer. "This should be sufficient for comprehension."
Sorren's movements slowed to real time, and his
voice dropped back to a deep pitch.
Despite a slight blurring of image and sound,
his words were intelligible.

"Her behavior is growing increasingly
erratic she is prone to outbursts of emotion and
persists in irrational accounts of her communion with the
Ko N'ya."


"The Ko N'ya again," exclaimed Crusher.
Picard's thoughts flashed to the memory of two
gnarled hands, the hands of an alien who had walled
itself up alive. What had those cupped palms
been holding when T'Sara entered the chamber?
"After all these years of searching," he wondered
aloud, "could she really have found it?"

Troi stirred in her cabin bed, her legs
thrashing beneath the sheets until she kicked off her
covers entirely. The loss of warmth and a nagging
agitation prodded her up through the layers of
unconsc iousness.
Her eyes fluttered open for only a
second. Fighting against the impulse to wake, she
buried her face back into a pillow. This nap was
no luxury. The last few days had been filled
with emergency sessions that had pulled the counselor
out of her cabin in the middle of the night. That was
often the case after Away Team missions that
involved violent death, and this time several members
of the paramedic team had been plagued with
nightmares.
Of their own accord, Troi's feet twitched
as if she were pacing back and forth across a deck.
Of course. Imzadi.
Belatedly, the empath realized what was
happening. Commander Will Riker was striding through the
Enterprise with a heightened vigor and intensity of
purpose, and she was unwittingly keeping him
company. His forceful emotions often overrode her
mental block, like rising floodwaters spilling
over the edge of a dam. Stronger defenses would
prevent these intrusions, but the effort would require
a constant mental strain, and it would also mute the
comforting knowledge of his presence.
Having identified the source of her unease,
Troi damped down her emotional link with the first
officer until the muscles in her legs
relaxed. Then she groped for her covers and sighed
contentedly at the prospect of falling back
asleep.
She drifted lazily into unconsciousness.
"Data to Counselor Troi."
Troi's eyes flew open. "Yes,
Data?"
"The captain has called an emergency
conference for all senior officers."
Stifling a groan of exasperation, the
counselor said, "I'm on my way."

According to the engineering schematics on file at the
Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards,
Ten-Forward was merely a spacious room
designated as a crew lounge. All
galaxy-class starships had a Ten-Forward with
its standard-issue bar and curving transparent
aluminum windows, but only the USS
Enterprise had Guinan, which made this particular
Ten-Forward uncommonly special.
Riker welcomed that difference when he pushed his
way through the familiar double doors. Ever since his
visit to the cargo bay, the first officer had been
plagued by a vague restlessness, but now the urge
to keep moving faded. No one rushed to leave
Guinan's company.
Her shapeless robes and fanciful headgear were
flamboyant; Guinan herself was contained. She
listened more often than she spoke, yet when she had
something to say, the mellow tones of her husky
voice were compelling.
"You look like a man in need of a little
excitement," said the hostess, setting a tall
thin glass of a fizzing liquid on the counter.
Riker had never seen a drink quite like it before, but then
Guinan had a fondness for experimentation.
"Is it that obvious?" sighed the first officer as
he swung onto a bar stool. "We've only
been in orbit around Atropos for two days, but
I'm ready to leave again."
"Odds are against it," came a mocking voice
from behind him.
Riker took a deep breath, then turned
to present a forced smile to the angular Bajoran
woman who slid into place next to him. Never
turn your back on Ro Laren. "What's that
supposed to mean, Ensign?"
"Just that the ship's pool is running two to one
that we won't make it to Luxor IV in time for a
game of canasta, much less poker. Of course,
the crew of the Telarius would probably win the
championship again anyway."
"O ye of little faith." She was baiting him, and
he knew it, but Riker still couldn't stop himself.
"As it happens, our business here is almost
finished, and a steady warp seven will get us back
on schedule. Then the crew of the Enterprise is
going to show the crew of the Telarius how real
poker should be played."
"Don't waste your bluffs on me,
sir," said Ro with an incredibly infuriating and
condescending chuckle. "Save them for the
championship match ... sometime next year."
"I'm not bluffing."
"A hundred says you are."
"You're on," he snapped. "Guinan, you
heard her."
"I heard both of you," said Guinan softly.
"In fact, everyone in the room heard both of
you. Now will you taste that drink I poured for you? The
flavor is very delicate, and it won't last much
longer."
Riker reached his hand out for the glass.
"Data to Commander Riker."
His hand moved up to his comm insignia instead.
"Riker here."
"The captain has called an emergency
conference for all senior officers."
"Understood, Mr. Data," said the first officer
as he pushed away from the bar. "I'm on my
way."
"A hundred credits will come in very handy on my
next shore leave." The Bajoran was openly
smirking.
To add insult to injury, Guinan slid his
untouched drink over to the ensign. The bartender
shrugged an apology to Riker, then turned back
to watch Ro's reaction to the beverage.
Heading out of Ten-Forward, Riker grudgingly
admitted there was a high probability that Ro would
win their bet. Unfortunately, the loss of a
hundred credits would not hurt half so much as the
loss of his pride.

Each of the chairs around the oval conference table
would be filled soon, but for the next few minutes
Picard and Crusher had the observation lounge
to themselves. After the turmoil of the last few days, the
captain welcomed this oasis of tranquillity.
Usually he would have resented sharing it with anyone
else, except Beverly was not just anyone else.
"So," asked the doctor, "when did you
develop this fascination for the Ko N'ya?"
"As a child," said Picard. "My brother was the
one who introduced me to the legend. Although, since
Robert was a bit of a bully, his aim was
to terrify little Jean-Luc."
"Did he succeed?"
"Oh, yes." Even after fifty years,
Picard could recall trembling in their
night-darkened bedroom and burrowing under his
blankets as if they were armor against monsters.
"Robert would wait until our parents were
asleep and the house was completely still, then he would
whisper yet another impressively embellished
tale of blood and gore. He developed quite a
flair for the dramatic and considered himself amply
rewarded if he reduced me to tears."
"How charming," said Crusher wryly, but then she
was the mother of an only child. Picard could never
explain to her the complex web of love and hate that
bound him to his brother.
"However, as I grew older, my fear turned
to fascination, and I would beg Robert for more
stories."
"Let me guess," she said with a smile.
"At that point, Robert lost interest in the Ko
N'ya."
"Exactly." Perhaps she understood the
relationship between brothers after all. "So I began
to read the original lore for myself, and when those
books were exhausted, I moved on to others. That
was the start of my lifelong passion for history and
archaeology of all kinds."
"Jean-Luc, do you really believe T'Sara
could have found this object? Has myth turned out
to be history after all?"
"I hardly dare believe it." Yet he still
could not shake the image of those mummified hands.
"Touching the Ko N'ya would be like touching history
itself. For such an opportunity, I would ..."
Picard groped for the limits of his desire but
found them surprisingly difficult to define.
"Sell your soul?" said Crusher.
Her suggestion had been made in jest, so
Picard answered in the same lighthearted vein.
"No, not sell ... but perhaps rent it for a while."
Once the words were uttered, however, he realized
they were uncomfortably close to the truth.

CHAPTER 8

"There have been some new insights into the murders
of the Vulcans on Atropos," announced
Picard. Then, with a nod, he signaled Beverly
Crusher to recite the results of her autopsy
findings.
As the assembled officers listened first to the
doctor and then to Data, Picard watched the
crew's changing expressions. The
revelation of each new facet of the deception on
Atropos tightened the line of Riker's jaw and
deepened the sorrow in Troi's eyes; Geordi
La Forge grew still and silent, whereas Worf
shifted in his chair as if ready to lunge at an
approaching enemy.
When the reports were finished, a circle of
grim faces turned toward the captain.
"Given the circumstances," said Picard, "we
must proceed under the assumption that all our
communications with Starbase 193 are being
monitored. I've prepared a report of our
investigations for Admiral Matasu at
Starbase 75, but it will take hours for him to even
receive the message."
"Which means we're on our own for now," said
Riker, with an emphatic tug at his tunic.
The gesture, one he unconsciously borrowed from
the captain, was a mixture of defiance and
anticipation.
Picard was more ambivalent about this prospect
than his first officer. One of the most invigorating
challenges of command lay in making decisions that were
his alone, but autonomy from Starfleet authority
was accompanied by an equal measure of
responsibility for the consequences of his judgment.
Nonetheless, he had already reached one firm
resolution.
"Our first priority is to locate the intruders
that we believe murdered the Vulcan
archaeologists."
"Agreed," said Crusher. "Any delay in
pursuit would give them more time to get away." A
supporting chorus of murmured assent quickly
rippled around the table.
"There's one thing I just don't understand," said
La Forge. "Why would anyone be willing to kill
for some dusty old relic?"
Picard smiled at the engineer's naive
description. "Oh, but it's not just any
artifact. This is a mythic icon of tremendous
allure. Ko N'ya, the Devil's Heart
... it has been called many names in many
languages throughout the galaxy."
Data cocked his head, silently accessing
information from a vast storehouse of knowledge. "The
Belnarri call it Nota; the Andorians know it
as Telev's Bane; and to the Klingons it is the
Pagrashtak."
"Pagrashtak!" exclaimed Worf.
"The Bloodstone!"
Picard was startled by the intensity of the Klingo n's
reaction.
"So you know about this, too?" asked Troi.
Picard could practically hear her clinical
persona click into place. Evidently the
counselor sensed considerable depth in the
lieutenant's agitation.
"Yes, I have heard of it," said Worf
reluctantly. The captain wondered if his
scowl was a product of embarrassment at the
outburst or whether the warrior's reserve was still
shaken by mention of the Pagrashtak. "According to Klingon
legend, Lord Kessec founded the First Empire
with its powers ... and Kessec warned that he who
holds the Pagrashtak must drain his veins of
blood or his next of kin will do it for him."
Riker rocked back in his chair, startled by the
severity of Worf's expression. The first
officer's eyebrows knitted together in genuine
puzzlement. "So what exactly is this thing?"
Where to even begin? wondered Picard as he
struggled to condense the work of T'Sara's lifetime
into a few words. "The Heart's exact nature
is unknown, and its origins are lost in
antiquity; all that survives are tales of its
passage through different cultures. In the
mythologies T'Sara collected, the Heart
has been variously described as a stone, a
jewel, even an energy cell. One hypothesis
is that the Heart is an artifact of some ancient
and forgotten race, one highly advanced in
science." His brother Robert's voice whispered
another explanation in his ear. "But worlds which
believe in magic consider it to be a powerful
talisman of Darkness."
"A talisman of darkness?" snorted
Riker. "With the power to do just what?"
Data was ready with the answer. "No one knows
its true capabilities, but they are suspected
to be vast, enabling its possessor to control
men's minds, to amass wealth and power, even
to change the flow of time itself."
"Data, you don't really believe that?"
"Our belief is not really relevant,"
countered Troi. "T'Sara believed, and whoever
killed the Vulcan archaeologists must also have
believed. Regardless of whether this Devil's
Heart has any real powers, people have killed to gain
possession of it."
"Devil's Heart, Bloodstone," said
Riker. "I begin to see why it has such morbid
names."
"Yes," said Picard. "According to many of the
legends T'Sara gathered, the price of gaining the
stone is death or the spilling of blood. Those who
have ruled by its powers have died in combat or been
betrayed by their friends."
Troi suddenly switched her scrutiny from
Worf to Picard. "Captain, what do you
believe--"
"Bridge to Captain Picard." A
voice brusque with controlled urgency drowned out
the counselor's question. "We're picking up an
automated distress call from a Ferengi vessel
in this sector."
"I'm on my way," said Picard, already
rising from his chair.
Riker was on his feet a half second
later. "I have a bad feeling about this,
Captain."
"Yes, Number One, it does appear this
sector is becoming rather crowded."


The Ferengi Marauder-class starship floated
in space, drifting listlessly; its
crescent-shaped rear hull was pitted and scored,
and a gash in the horned front section was charred
down to the duranium frame. Lights were
scattered at random through the decks, but they
flickered weakly.
Picard surveyed the damaged vessel with a
dispassionate eye and a suspicious nature.
"Raise shields."
"They don't look ready for another fight,"
said Riker.
"Perhaps not," conceded the captain. After all,
even Ferengi guile had its limits. "But we
have yet to account for whoever attacked--"
The deck rocked beneath his command chair as the
ship's deflector shields sparked and
crackled. Alert sirens blared, and bridge
lights dimmed momentarily as power was rechanneled
to the defense systems. A less-seasoned officer
might have mistaken the impact for a weapons
salvo, but Picard recognized the telltale
blue flash of Cerenkov radiation that resulted from
a mid-flight collision.
"Helm! Go to quarter-impulse."
As the Enterprise's forward motion slowed, the
force of subsequent collisions was diminished to the
light patter of hail on a rooftop.
"Power reserves holding steady," said Data
as sensor chatter echoed noisily across the
navigation consoles.
"A trap?" asked Riker.
"I don't think so, Number One." Picard
studied the view of the space surrounding them and
confirmed what he had expected the Enterprise
had plowed into the middle of a field of debris.
Chunks of dark, twisted metal were scattered in
all directions, their serrated edges glinting in
starlight. "I suspect we've found the second
player in this drama."
Flashes of blue light danced across the
viewscreen as more of the fragments ricocheted off the
protective envelope of the deflector
shields.
"My analysis of the particles supports that
theory," said Data. "The total mass of the
debris appears equivalent to that of another
vessel, although one somewhat less formidable than the
Marauder class."
"Any speculation as to its origins?"
"That may be difficult to determine since the
wreckage has been distorted by intense heat."
The android magnified several different sections
of the viewscreen until he located a twisted
beam that still retained identifiable form. "This molded
tritanium truss is characteristic of the Orion
Signet series."
"An Orion ship?" Riker turned
to Picard. "They usually give wide berth to the
Ferengi."
"Yet this time it seems two scavengers have
fallen on each other."
"To the detriment of both," said Data. "I
detect no life-signs aboard the Ferengi
vessel."
"And the blood is still flowing," murmured
Picard.
Riker frowned at the repetition of
T'Sara's dying words. "So you think this battle
is related to the attack on the Vulcans?"
Worf's deep voice thundered down from the
tactical station on the aft deck. "One can find
the Pagrashtak by following the flight of
carrion-eaters; keeping it is not so easy." The
Klingon leaned over the rail and added a
more subdued explanation. "That was a quote from
The Ballads of Durall."
Riker was struck speechless by the unexpected
declamation, but Picard's composure was still
intact. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He
agreed with Worf the mythic quality of this quest
seemed to invite the heightened language of
ancient texts.
"Well," said the first officer, "if the
Orions had T'Sara's relic when their ship was
destroyed, we'll be sifting through space
detritus for weeks. So I suggest we search
the Ferengi Marauder first."
"Agreed, Number One. Prepare an
Away Team for ..."
Touching the Ko N'ya would be like touching
history itself.
"No," said Picard suddenly. "Belay that
order."
"Sir?"
"Indulge me, W. I'd like to lead this
mission." The temptation was simply too strong for
Picard to resist, but he would prefer to persuade
Riker into agreement. A confrontation over this
issue would only waste time and delay the
recovery effort. "You know that I've been
fascinated by the legend of the Heart for most of my
life, and if it should actually exist ..."
To his relief, Riker gave way with a
broad grin. "Understood, Captain. Just don't
make a habit of doing my job."
He was already out of his chair. "Worf, Data,
with me."
With each step up the bridge ramp, Picard
felt like he was marching his way into one of Robert's
epic tales of heroic adventure. His two
Away Team companions followed on his heels
into the turbolift, obedient knights sworn
to attend their liege lord.
By the time the three of them reached Deck 6 and
mounted the transporter dais, Picard had
banished the fantasy image from his mind. He was
a Starfleet captain on a mission. Of all the
dreams he had held as a child, this one was the most
powerful.
"Ready for transport, Mr. O'Brien."
"Aye, Captain." The chief checked his
console settings. "I'll set you down in the main
bridge."
The transporter chamber glittered
away. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, new
surroundings materialized around Picard.
He coughed reflexively as swirling smoke
entered his lungs. The air was cold, a sign that
life support systems were failing.
At a glance, Picard could see that the command
center of the Marauder was smaller than the main
bridge of a starship. Everything in its interior, from
the decks and walls to the computer consoles, was
painted a muted gray. Everything was also broken.
Shattered ceiling panels dangled from overhead,
spilling out streams of wire; the deck was tilted
and walls were buckled; and several cracked
equipment consoles squealed softly as if in
pain.
Scattered throughout this wreckage were a
half-dozen bodies of the Ferengi crew.
Despite his sense of urgency, Picard
realized that the task ahead of them was rather daunting.
If the Heart really was here in the midst of all this
rubble, how could he find it? Would he even know it
when he saw it?
"Confirmed," Data said after a sweep of the
tricorder. "There are no life-signs."
At a nod from the captain, Worf and the android
moved forward, picking their way through the rubble.
Picard chose a third path, but he had taken
only a few steps when his boot heel caught
on a loose deck plate, throwing him
off-balance. He reached a hand out to the nearest
console to steady himself, but a humming sound warned him
not to touch the surface. He quickly shifted his
weight and recovered his footing.
"The Signet's plasma bolts seem to have
fused the electrical system," explained
Data.
"And electrocuted the crew," said Worf,
warily prodding aside one of the dead crewmen who
lay slumped over the helm.
"Are we in any danger?" asked Picard as
he stepped over a loosely coiled conduit.
"The initial charge has dissipated," said
Data. "However, the short circuits in the
system are capable of delivering a shock that would
prove uncomfortable to the Human body."
"Thank you, Data. I'll keep that in
mind. " His breath was frosting now as the ship's heat
continued to leach into space.
Picard continued his inspection while keeping a
healthy distance from any sparking equipment
panels. He scuffed the toe of one boot
kicking aside loose rubble and snagged his uniform
jacket on the sharp corners of twisted metal;
his back began to ache as he contorted his body
to peer into dark corners. From the crashing sounds off
to his left, the captain could tell that Worf's
search technique was even more vigorous.
It occurred to Picard that he might not be the first
one to find the Heart.
"Captain," called out Data. "Is this what
you are seeking?"
Casting aside all caution, Picard pushed his
way through the wreckage to the front of the bridge.
He found the android kneeling by the corpse of a
Ferengi DaiMon. Either the electric current
had contorted his face into a rictus of ecstasy,
or he had been killed in the throes of
rapture.
In his hands he clutched a dull, rough rock.
"The Heart," whispered Picard. "It must
be."
Data carefully pried the object out of the
DaiMon's grip and proffered it up to the
captain.
Picard could feel his pulse racing as the
weight of the stone settled into his palms.
It was warm.

CHAPTER 9

"Captain's Log, Stardate 45873.6
The Enterprise broke orbit from Atropos
to respond to an automated distress call from a
Ferengi vessel ..."
Picard had aged well, decided Miyakawa
as she reviewed the captain's mission report.
As a young cadet, his prominent nose and forehead
had overpowered his face, but in his middle years these
same strong features were compelling.
"... encountered a Marauder-class starship
..."
Cadets Picard, Crusher, and Keel had
moved in tandem through Starfleet Academy, and the
common expectation among their classmates had
been that each member of the trio would garner early
commissions and eventually end up back at the
Academy teaching a new generation of cadets.
Life had worked out a bit differently for them;
Jean-Luc was the only one of the three left
alive.
But then I'm not where I thought I'd be either.
"... all crew aboard the vessel were dead.
I'll provide more details when they're
available."
To Miyakawa's surprise, Picard's
narrative came to an abrupt end at that point.
"Wait a minute! Dead of what?" she
demanded of the blank screen on her desk viewer.
Picard had omitted a wealth of vital information
from his log coordinates for the Marauder, the
basis for its distress call, even the next
destination of the Enterprise.
"Dammit, that wasn't a report," muttered
the commander as she rocketed out of her chair. "I
know a stall when I see one." She also knew
where she might find some answers to her questions.
Unhooking her uniform jacket from the wall,
Miyakawa stormed out of her office and headed for the
far end of the starbase.

"How dare you call in this debt!"
Anlew-Is slammed a chit down on the table
and continued to pound his fist at regular intervals
while he screamed in Camenae's face.
"I've lost a Signet-class vessel, not
to mention five of my best-trained mercenaries, and
you expect payment for my ruin? You should pay me
for the damages I've incurred in this odious
venture!"
Camenae leaned back in her chair, trying
hard not to breathe too deeply. She wondered
whether it was the olive-green skin or the black
fibrous hair that gave Orions their penetrating
odor.
"You paid for the information, Anlew-Is, not for a
favorable outcome to your schemes. If you want
insurance, go do business with Aghlarren the Mote."
"But you sold me out to the Ferengi consortium!
I would have the Heart in my hands if not for your
greed and treachery!"
"Don't blame me for either your shortsightedness
or your miserly nature," said Camenae with a
stern frown. "You know my policies and my
prices, yet you consistently refuse to cover the
cost of exclusivity. DaiMon Maarc knew
the value of a long-term investment."
"Ha!" he said, bathing her face with a blast of
fetid air. "Dead men make no profit."
Camenae sighed, her only concession to the truth
of that statement. There was little use in denying
the DaiMon's death; the remaining members of the
consortium were still seated at the bar of the Due or
Die, all loudly wailing and keening over the
imminent collapse of their fortunes. True,
DaiMon Bruk had been sent out on the
obligatory salvage mission, but the presence
of a Federation starship in the sector had shaken their
faith in any recovery effort. Camenae
suspected their pessimism was well-founded.
The thump of a green fist shook the table again.
"I'm made of sterner stuff than mewling
Ferengi merchants I won't pay the balance!"
"Very well."
"What?" His arm stopped in midair, aborting
yet another assault on the furniture.
"In accordance with my policy concerning
delinquent accounts, I will be forced to liquidate
certain information about your organization that I have
kept out of general inventory. The sale of that
information will be applied to your outstanding debt."
"That's blackmail, Camenae!"
"I call it a sound business procedure."
"Damn you!" His fist slammed down yet again,
but this time he left a token in the wake of the
hammer blow. "You'll get another next month
and not a day before."
He turned and stomped his way across the deck
with a deafening clatter.
"Anlew-Is," she called out. "Do you wish
to be kept informed of the Heart's location?"
"No," he screamed from the doorway. "The
Heart can go to blazes for all I care!"
The Ferengi had given much the same answer an
hour before, although the whole troupe of them did not
generate half the commotion made by one Orion
black marketeer.
In the blessed silence that had been restored to her
chamber, Camenae considered the selection of her
next customer.

When Anlew-Is erupted out of the bar's back
room, Miyakawa leaned farther back into the
shadowed recesses of her booth. Her caution was
hardly necessary since the Orion was far too
preoccupied with broadcasting his indignation to pay
any attention to his audience. As she listened
to his loud ranting, and to the background chorus of the
doleful Ferengi, the commander gleaned enough details
to reconstruct their recent activity in the
sector.
Anlew-Is was still fuming when her eyes
tracked a robed figure gliding across the bar and
into Camenae's office. Reyjad@an was a
permanent resident of the base, so Miyakawa
knew his name and his homeworld, but the details of his
personal life were a mystery. The DiWahn was
an alien who kept to himself, rarely appearing in
public. However, if he was one of Camenae's
customers, it might be prudent to learn more of his
background.
The glass in Miyakawa's hands was empty,
but the commander feigned a sip of her drink so the
waiter would leave her alone. Like a hunter
tucked in a blind, she was in the mood to remain
undetected and wait for more game to pass by.

The creature was swathed in cloth from head
to toe, although Camenae was not entirely sure the
figure hidden beneath the heavy robes possessed
either of those features. Its voice issued forth from
the folds of a drooping hood, and it spoke as if
an oily, serpentine tongue formed its words.
"I am Lord Reyjad@an. Your servant
outside referred to me as "the DiWahn." You
are both in need of correction. I am
unDiWahn one who is from, yet not of, that world.
My people's origins are of greater eminence than that
rough planet could ever generate."
"Thank you for that clarification." Camenae
automatically filed away this free fact, although
its value was dubious. "I have information you
seek."
"The Dream Gem!" it said with a dry rattle
of alarm. "What you call the Heart--the rumors
of its discovery are true?"
"Yes. It has been found."
"Why was I not informed of this earlier?" hissed the
cowl. "I stated my interest in the Gem ten
years ago when I first arrived on this starbase."
"I noted your demand at that time," said
Camenae with a dryness that was lost on the alien.
"But I have other customers who make greater use
of my--"
"Kei! I do not involve myself with gossip or
deal in issues of petty trade. My only
concern is with the Gem. Where is it?"
"The answer to that question will cost--"
"Such insolence," said the alien. "You cannot put
a price on my birthright."
"I can, and do, put a price on
everything that is said in this room, Lord
Reyjad@an." After adding an extra ten percent
exasperation tax to her previously decided on
figure, Camenae firmly stated the cost of the
proposed transaction. "Take it or leave it.
I have other customers who would--"
"Spare me your tiresome haggling tactics.
I will pay the sum in full." A jangling sound
came from inside the voluminous sleeves, and a
necklace crafted of refined dilithium
crystals spilled out onto the table.
Camenae shook her head. "I only
accept--"
"But I expect full service from you," said the
alien. "There will be an additional requirement for the
fulfillment of my quest, and I expect it to be
provided without additional charge."
"Oh, very well," she said, impatient to end the
transaction. After all, Aghlarren the Mote would
offer a fair price for the crystals. "What is
the additional service you require?"
To Camenae's intense regret, the demand he
outlined was reasonable and easily arranged.


Half an hour after Reyjad@an's
departure, Commander Miyakawa had just about
decided to put an end to her afternoon of hiding in the
shadows of the Due or Die when Thomas Grede
skulked into the bar and sidled through to the back room.
She settled back into her seat and ordered
another drink.
Base personnel were not prohibited from
frequenting the Due or Die since such a
regulation would have been impossible for her to enforce,
but the technician's familiarity with the Norsican
guard betrayed more than a casual acquaintance
with the staff. The knowledge that Grede merited a solo
audience with Camenae was even more intriguing.
I'm just one officer. I can't supervise
all my personnel.
Miyakawa had been promised more support,
but most of Starfleet viewed an assignment
to Starbase 193 as a punitive measure and a
blot on their record. So far, all the officers
designated to serve on the station had successfully
wrangled reassignments; the most recent
lieutenant to be posted to the station had chosen
to resign from Starfleet instead.
Until reinforcements arrived,
Miyakawa would do her best to hold the fort. Today
that meant having a little talk with Grede after his
next duty shift.

"I have some information for you."
"For me?" said Grede. "But, Camenae, you
know I haven't got enough credits to buy anything from
you."
"Oh, but this information is free."
"Free?" He squirmed uneasily in his
chair. She could see fear pooling in his eyes.
"According to my sources, Starbase 75 is now
receiving Captain Picard's mission reports."
Unfortunately, the contents of the communiqu`es were
beyond her reach, but this fact alone was sufficient for
her purpose.
Grede was a little slow to make the obvious
connection, but it finally came to him. "They must know
the distress call was altered." That realization
drained color from his face.
"Furthermore," said Camenae. "A
Tellarite freighter headed for Orion passed
within hailing distance of the Enterprise; it appears
to be on a direct heading for this base." The
starship's destination would be common knowledge within the hour, but
the captain of an outbound vessel loaded with
contraband had gladly paid for the early warning.
"Camenae, you've got to help me!"
"Help of that magnitude is not free. It
requires another investment on your part."
"Another ... but that's how I ..." His
voice trailed off in confusion. "I'm in enough
trouble already."
Camenae assumed her most reassuring
smile. "I can arrange for your transport beyond
the reach of the Federation authorities."
"How soon?" he croaked.
"Just as soon as you transmit a series of
coded messages for one of my clients and then
erase all records of the proceeding."
Grede seemed to fold in upon himself, shoulders
slumping and head drooping. As she waited for the
technician's answer, Camenae felt a stab
of irritation at the difficulty he had making such
a simple decision.
Finally, he mumbled his assent.

Commander Miyakawa tossed two tokens next
to her empty glass before slipping out of the booth.
There was no point in trying to pay for her
bar tab--she had lost that battle long ago--but
as a compromise she always left a hefty tip
for the waiter.
The money was well spent. Over the last few
hours, Miyakawa had surmised much of what
Captain Picard had left out of his mission
report. Now all she needed to know was why he had
held back this information from her.

CHAPTER 10

"T'Sara."
She did not want to let loose her dream, but
somewhere on the other side of consciousness there came
an insistent demand for her to wake. Her name was
repeated over and over again until she grew weary
of resisting and opened her eyes.
"You sleep deeply these days," said the man
who knelt before her. The muscles of Sorren's
face were marshaled into an impassive mask, but
he still lacked the necessary discipline to erase concern from
his voice; she hoped he never learned to tame his
dark, expressive eyes.
Despite the lingering memory of a soft
cushioned bed, T'Sara realized she was sitting
upright and the wall against her back was hard and
unyielding.
"I was dreaming that I was a man asleep--
dreaming of mad Vulcans sifting a dry dusty
planet in search of lost shards of knowledge. When he
wakes, my life will fade away, as will all the
stone and mortar surrounding us."
"You spend too much time in this chamber."
Sorren was unaware of the frown that slipped past his
control; he glanced up at the enthroned figure
that loomed over them. "I do not fear the dead, but
neither do I seek out their company."
"The Collector was a less pleasant
companion when she was alive," said T'Sara before
she thought to curb her tongue.
His fierce glare was like a shout of anger.
"Another dream?"
She tightened her grip on the Ko N'ya.
He had tried to wrest it from her once before when she
spoke of Surak on the plain of Ishaya.
Logic dictated that a young male approaching his
physical prime could easily overpower an old
woman, yet he had failed to take it from her
then.
"No, T'Sara, I did not come
to argue with you over the stone." He still refused
to utter its name. "The time for discussion has
passed."
"Explain."
"I feel honor-bound to inform you of the action we
have--"
"We?" she demanded.
"Sohle, T'Challo, the entire
archaeological team. It is our unanimous
decision that your thinking has become increasingly
disordered and that you are in need of medical
assistance. This morning I received confirmation that a
Federation starship has been authorized to return
you to Vulcan."
"My colleagues at the Science Academy
will not thank you for that," she said. "My enemies have
thought me mad for over a century, and even my
supporters are embarrassed by my empathy for
alien cultures. They all would rather that I confine
my ravings to a small group of students as far from
Vulcan as possible."
"There is a difference between unorthodox methods
and insanity. I have long admired and respected
your research, and I value highly what I have
learned of your excavation techniques, but even I
have lost patience watching you squander your
abilities on this quest for the Ko N'ya. And
your recent behavior ..."
were Vulcans always so long-winded, she
wondered as Sorren prattled on, or had her
patience worn as thin as her aging skin? Her
wandering thoughts seized on his earlier words.
"Sorren," she said with a sharpness born of
alarm. "Did you speak of the Ko N'ya in this
message of yours?"
"What?" After a moment to reorient himself to her
question, he said, "Only in passing."
"Child, you must not let your adherence to logic
block your understanding of races who act on their
emotions. News of the Ko N'ya is a beacon
for the greedy who ..."
She fell silent.
"T'Sara?"
The walls of the chamber were too thick for sound
to penetrate, rather she had felt the shouts ringing in the
air outside. An inchoate mental surge
washed over her again.
"A Call," she said.
"Yes, I heard it, too!"
They both scrambled to their feet, but
Sorren was young and supple and left her far behind as
he raced through the dark tunnel toward daylight.
Pushing her bones and muscles beyond the petty
annoyances of pain, she gained a new burst of
speed and emerged from the ruins. The noonday sun was
baking the tiles of the plaza.
"Sorren!"
He was standing just a few meters ahead of her.
At her cry, he twirled to face her, and she
saw that his chest had blossomed into fire.
Horror thwarted her understanding, then she realized
he had been shot and the force of the phaser blast had
thrown his body around, because Sorren himself was already
dead. His husk twitched, then collapsed.
T'Sara caught a fleeting glimpse of
armored figures, tall men with dusky green
skin, rushing toward her. Orions were not known for
showing mercy to their victims. Before she could escape
back into the shadows of the tower, she was buffeted
by two hammer blows of searing heat.
As she fell to her knees, weakened by the
destruction gnawing its way through her body, the
desire to retaliate against her attackers raged
through her mind. She could will their death and the stone would
obey.
No, T'Sara, only a foolish old
woman would ignore the wisdom of Surak any
longer.
She let loose her grip, dropping the Ko
N'ya. It hit the ground with a ringing sound, then
rolled away with a curious vigor. As the
intruders scrabbled in the dirt to recover it,
T'Sara curled in upon herself with one last conscious
thought.
I will not give it to any living being.
The desert sand faded out from under her ...
... to be replaced with the smooth texture of
fabric.
The man shivered in the cool air of the cabin and
wrapped the covers more tightly around his body. The
sensation of a burning pain in his side faded away,
but the landscape of the dream itself was etched into his
memory.
I am ... Jean-Luc Picard.
He opened his eyes and saw T'Sara's stone
glittering in the dark by his bedside.




CHAPTER 11

The chime trilled for a second time, then faded
into silence.
The door remained closed.
Beverly Crusher silently debated the
wisdom of pressing the call button a third
time. She was beginning to feel oddly conspicuous
standing in the corridor outside Picard's cabin
at such an early hour of the morning. Not that their
breakfast routine was a secret, but she was wary of
drawing too much attention to any intimacy between the
captain and his chief medical officer. This
balancing act between duty and friendship was hard enough
to sustain without an audience.
Before she had taken more than two steps away,
Crusher heard the door whooshing open behind her.
"Beverly."
The slurred quality of Picard's voice
prepared her for the sight of his rumpled pajamas.
"Good morning, Jean-Luc."
He squinted in the bright light of the corridor.
"Sorry, I was up late writing reports for
Admiral Matasu, not to mention the Vulcan
Science Academy. Then I had the strangest
dream ..."
"I'll take a rain check on breakfast."
"No, please come in." Picard moved
aside to let her pass through the doorway. "I
want to tell you ab out my dream."
She set about ordering tea and biscuits from the
replicator while Picard changed into his
uniform in the bedroom. By the time the coffee table was
set, he had emerged a transformed man, dapper
and alert.
"That's the Heart?" asked Crusher when she
saw the object the captain carried with him. She
had heard a secondhand recounting of the discovery from
Worf late last night when she tended a gash in
his hand.
"Yes, this is T'Sara's Ko N'ya."
Picard settled down on the sofa beside the
doctor. "They were both in my dream."
"Tell me." Crusher sipped her tea and
listened to Picard recount his version of the
Vulcan's death. As he talked he rolled the
stone over and over in his hands as if searching for a
chink in its rough surface, a key to the interior.
"So, Detective Hill," she said when he
had reached the end of the tale, "your
subconscious thinks a band of Orions killed
T'Sara?"
He glanced up from his study of the Heart. "I
realize it's not such a startling conclusion given the
evidence."
"Well, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of
being right," said Crusher. From here, the gem that had
built empires looked like an ordinary rock.
"But whether it was the Orions or the Ferengi, there
aren't any criminals left alive to bring
to justice."
"Yet there's at least one accessory lurking
on Starbase 193. We're due to arrive there
soon, and I hope the element of surprise will
give us an advantage in--"
"How could so many people die fighting each other for that
thing!"
His eyebrows shot upward at her outburst.
"It's just so ... drab," said Crusher. "I
expected something more dramatic."
"A faceted ruby the size of a
watermelon?"
"Something like that," she admitted with a laugh.
"If this is the Heart, I'm afraid its
only value lies in its historic
significance."
She leaned over the table and dropped her voice
to a whisper. "But what about its powers over
Darkness?"
Picard smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Oh,
I grant the legends are grandly
melodramatic ... still, it is a rather curious
object."
"In what way?"
He started to speak, then hesitated, then began
again. "Perhaps its my overactive imagination at
work, but I can feel a heightened quality about it.
Nothing I can put into words." He shrugged away
his inability to explain. "Perhaps Data will be able
to quantify its properties."
"This should provide material for an
impressive article for the next archaeological
symposium. Not bad for an amateur." But she
could tell from his lack of reaction that Picard
wasn't listening to her anymore.
Propelled by an inner train of thought, the
captain suddenly bolted from the table and was
halfway across the cabin before he remembered he
had company. "Oh, my apologies, Beverly.
It's just that Data is expecting me
to bring the Heart to his laboratory."
"But, Jean-Luc, you haven't eaten a thing."
Even his teacup had gone untouched.
"I'm not hungry. No, really, I'm not."
"Well, I am. Do you mind if I stay here
long enough to finish my biscuit?"
He had the good grace to flush. "Please
make yourself at home." Stopping in the doorway,
Picard called back, "I'll make it up
to you. Why don't we have dinner tomorrow night?"
"Yes, I'd like--"
Then he was gone.

"This may take some time," said Data as he
carefully placed the stone in the center of a small
metallic stage.
"Actually," said Picard, craning his neck
to follow Data's movements, "I'd like to stay and
watch."
"As you wish, sir." The weight of the specimen
triggered a ripple of electronic chirps across
a control console; Data quickly tapped a
series of minor adjustments to the estimated
calibration figures he had entered earlier.
After he positioned the first equipment array over
the stage, Data provided a running commentary of the
laboratory procedure in specimen
analysis. To his gratification, the captain
appeared to welcome the information; unfortunately,
this was not always the case.
"By combining the three different techniques," the
android continued, as he concluded the final step of the
third measurement, "I should be able to determine the
age of the stone to a value of plus or minus one
hundred years."
The results of the calculation were not what he had
expected.
"Is something wrong, Data?" asked the
captain, stepping closer to the equipment. "What
have you found?"
"Preliminary dating analysis indicates the
object is remarkably young, falling in a
range between eight hundred and one thousand years
old. This would fall far short of the reputed age
of the Ko N'ya."
Picard was silent for a moment, then said, "I
suggest you run the dating analysis again."
"Certainly, Captain. As you wish."
Data reached out to reconfigure the equipment
for a repetition of the dating scans.
"What else did you find?" asked Picard.
"Meir-Delaplace analysis indicates
the rock was formed from a mixture of a common
crystalline form of silicon dioxide and a
metamorphic sandstone--"
"Data!" Evidently this answer did not
please the captain either. "T'Sara did not spend
over a hundred years of her life looking for a
rock. It may look like rock, but it is ...
well, more than that. According to her theory this relic
possesses unusual and puzzling features. For
instance, what about the warmth?"
Data assumed a slightly puzzled frown as
a visual adjunct to his reply. "I
record no difference between the temperature of the
object and that of the ship's interior."
"But when I held it before I could feel the
warmth." Picard shoved aside the equipment
array to seize the rock. "I can feel it now."
"Indeed?" Data double-checked his instrument
readout, but there was no indication of a scientific
basis for the captain's perception. "Perhaps you could
hold the stone while the analysis is in
progress?"
"Certainly, if that's what it takes to prove
my point."
Before Data could activate the appropriate
equipment, they were interrupted by an intercom
call.
"Riker to Captain Picard."
"Picard here."
"We're being hailed by Starbase 193.
Commander Miyakawa requests a conference with you
concerning your mission progress."
"I'll conduct it in my ready room,
Number One." With a sigh of exasperation,
Picard sketched a parting wave to Data.
"You'll have to carry on without me."
"Captain?"
"Yes?"
"I would like to continue my analysis of the ...
object." Data pointed to the stone still cradled in
the crook of Picard's arm.
Picard stopped in mid-stride. "Oh, yes,
of course."
Data retrieved the specimen from the captain,
then stood in place holding the stone in his hands.
It never warmed to his touch.


"Qu`e pasa, Picard?" Estrella
Miyakawa still rolled the r in his name, but her
Mexican accent had been muted over the years.
He studied her image on the desk monitor and
noted a few streaks of white in her straight
black hair; otherwise, time had touched her very
lightly.
"Estoy bien," answered Picard. She
had taught him what little Spanish he knew in
exchange for tutoring her in calculus; he never
mastered the language, and she failed the
Academy course.
"So why have you been sending me mission reports
that could be written on the head of a pin?"
Age had not softened her blunt manner.
"Perhaps I erred on the side of succinctness," said
Picard, displaying his most genial, diplomatic
smile.
She laughed in his face. "Captain, you've
cut me out of the information loop since your departure
from Atropos, and I want to know why."
"Commander, my last report on the Ferengi
distress--"
"Did not contain one word about the destruction of the
Orion ship Dark Runner."
"How did you hear of that?" asked Picard.
"News travels fast in this sector. Although,
as a Federation official, I was probably the
last person on the starbase to find out. Any
idea why they were fighting, or are you going to keep
that to yourself as well?"
He sighed at the increasing tone of bitterness in
her voice. Any further attempt at
secrecy would only alienate his one ally on the
base, not to mention cost him the goodwill of an old
friend. "Estrella, I have reason to believe that the
security of your communications system has been
breached. Until the source of the leak is found,
I prefer not to discuss the details of the mission."
"Oh, I have a pretty good idea of who's
responsible already," she said grimly. "One of
my communications operators--Thomas Grede.
Unfortunately, Mr. Grede met with an
accident last night. It seems that when he came
off shift, he took a wrong turn and walked out
an airlock."
"He was murdered."
"Thank you, Jean-Luc, but that thought had
occurred to me already. I'll fill you in on the
details when you arrive."
There went his advantage. "How the devil
did you know the Enterprise was headed for Starbase
193?"
"The usual base channels," said
Miyakawa with a wry smile. "I overheard it
in a bar."

"Of course, it's not just any bar," explained
the commander later that day as she and Picard walked
through the doorway of the Due or Die. "This is
Camenae's bar, and that makes all the difference."
The dimly lit room was crowded, with no
empty tables, but one of the waiters waved them over
to a booth. Two Tellarites and an Andorian
scrambled off the benches with half-filled drinks
still clutched in their hands.
Picard heard their muttered curses as he and
Miyakawa settled into the hastily vacated
booth. Another waiter swept by and left two
glasses of synthehol in his wake. "Are these the
perks of base command?"
"Some of the very few," sighed Miyakawa.
"Camenae, for reasons I haven't yet
fathomed, likes to maintain the fiction that I'm a
power to be reckoned with on this station. Perhaps the
tourists find the illusion of law and order
comforting."
"You weren't this cynical at the Academy."
She shrugged and gestured toward the patrons of the
densely packed bar. A group of Ferengi
merchants were huddled at one end of the room;
Orions were at the other end; in between, Picard
counted at least ten other alien races, none of
them known for their pacifism or a highly
developed sense of ethics.
"I'm one Starfleet officer working alone in a
den of smugglers, thieves, and cutthroats. If
I ever manage to get my hands on any hard
evidence of criminal activity, I'll
probably end up walking out an airlock just like
Grede." She downed her drink in one gulp, then
said, "Which hasn't stopped me from trying, mind you.
However, Camenae is fond of me, so she works
very hard to keep compromising materials out of my
reach."
"Just who is this Camenae?" asked Picard.
"Officially, she's merely one of the
inhabitants of the starbase, but unofficially,
I'd have to say that Camenae is the real
administrator of this place. I may
supervise the base's technical services and
facilities, but Camenae runs its affairs.
She always knows what's going on in every corner of this
sector, so if someone wants information, she
sells it to them; when something needs to be done, she
arranges it."
"Does that include murder?"
"I'm sure it does." Miyakawa frowned,
then shook her head. "But I don't think she
ordered Grede's death. It was a sloppy job,
and Camenae would never allow one of her informants
to be killed in such an obvious way."
"But you think she knows who did?"
"Yes. Not that I'll ever be able to get that
information out of her; and unless she gives the
signal, there's not a single being on the starbase
who will talk to me about Grede's death."
"So you're telling me that the murderer will go
free?" said Picard angrily.
"Without any evidence, or any witnesses, my
hands are--"
Miyakawa was cut off by the crash of heavy
furniture and a stream of curses uttered in a
mixture of Ferengi and Federation Standard.
"Nothing!" continued the Ferengi who had
overturned a chair as he staggered to his feet;
he was weaving back and forth in place. "Bruk
says he found nothing in the wreckage but my
brother's corpse!"
One of his companions plucked at the sleeve
of his gray jacket, but the Ferengi swatted
away the restraining hand.
"The salvage effort alone will bankrupt me.
All it brings me is the trouble of selling
Maarc's ship for scrap metal and the
exorbitant expense of the crew's funeral."
"I think I've met his brother," said
Picard softly. "Perhaps we should leave before--"
"Ah ha!" The Ferengi was staring directly
at them. "The captain of the Enterprise has come
to laugh at my defeat."
"Too late, Jean-Luc," said
Miyakawa, as the bantamweight Ferengi bore
down upon them as fast as his unsteady legs could
carry him. His domed head and flaring ears had
flushed a deep red from too much drink and an
excess of rage.
"You were there, thief!" His finger jabbed
repeatedly at Picard's chest. "Return what
is rightfully mine, what you stole from my
brother!"
Before Picard could form a reply, a dark hand
settled on the Ferengi's shoulder. The woman's
grip was firm enough to choke off any further
accusations.
"DaiMon Tork," she said in a low
voice. "I prefer my customers to conduct their
private business with greater discretion and
decorum."
So this was Camenae.
Then the bar owner turned her attention
to Picard, and he was struck by the intensity of her
gaze. There was a familiar quality to her face
that he couldn't quite place.
"Welcome to the Due or Die, Captain
Picard. My apologies for the disturbance."
The Ferengi uttered a strangled squeak of
protest.
"DaiMon Tork," said Picard in a
voice loud enough to carry to all corners of the bar.
"You have my word that we took nothing that belonged to the
Ferengi off that ship."
Camenae's lips curved into a smile, and she
released her hold on Tork.
"Just as I thought," the DaiMon groaned,
collapsing onto the floor. He rubbed gingerly
at his sore shoulder. "Scrap metal and
funeral expenses."
With a snap of her fingers, Camenae signaled
Tork's companions to carry him away, and they
scurried forward to do her bidding.
The sense of familiarity deepened. "Have we
met before?"
"I'm disappointed, Captain Picard. I
expected a more original opening line from you."
En garde.
Perhaps she would respond to a direct
approach. "Commander Miyakawa tells me
you're in the information business. I'd like to become
one of your customers."
"That's a much better tactic," she said.
"Unfortunately, Starfleet doesn't have an
account with me, and I'm not accepting new clients
at the moment. If you like, I'll put you on my
waiting list."
Lunge and parry.
"At the very least," said Picard, "I'd like the
opportunity to talk to you in private ... about
Thomas Grede."
Camenae shook her head gently.
"I have nothing to say to you that can't be discussed right
here in the middle of the Due or Die. Private
meetings with Starfleet officers are bad for my
business reputation." Touch`e. "Now, if
you'll excuse me, Captain, I must get
back to work."
She glided away.

The memory of Camenae's smoky eyes
haunted Picard all the way back to the
Enterprise. However, standing in his brightly
illuminated ready room, Picard realized that his
impressions of the Due or Die and its elusive
owner would be impossible to convey in words. He
restricted himself to relating the bare bones of his
experience to his first officer.
"That's it?" Riker rocked back in his chair
so he could look Picard in the eye. "Grede was
the victim of an accidental death under unknown
circumstances?"
Picard's hands gripped the back of his desk
chair. He could not bring himself to sit down since
at any moment he should receive a call that would pull
him away. "I'm not comfortable with Miyakawa's
preliminary ruling either. However, I have a better
appreciation for the difficulties of her situation
now that I've actually visited Starbase 193.
The Federation's control of this area is
relatively recent and definitely
precarious."
Riker held up one hand and ticked off the
points of contention across his fingertips. "So the
Orions can't be brought to justice because they were
killed by the Ferengi, and the communications officer who
leaked the information about the Heart has conveniently
died so he can't be charged, and the case of the murder
of ten Vulcans is now closed."
"Yes, it is suspiciously neat and tidy,"
said the captain. The call still had not come, and he
began to admit that the delay worried him.
"So what do we do now?" asked Riker.
Picard appreciated the effort it must have taken
for his first officer to maintain a neutral tone
to ask this question. At warp eight the Enterprise
could still reach Luxor IV in time for the poker
tournament. "I've assured Commander Miyakawa
that we'll remain in the area another twenty-four
hours to provide at least a token show of strength
in the sector."
"I'm glad to hear that, sir."
Despite the personal sacrifice involved,
Riker's reaction seemed sincere. Picard
knew the first officer disliked letting bullies go
unchallenged. "Will you consider allowing shore leave
privileges--"
"Let's continue this discussion later, Number
One," said the captain. He moved out from behind the
desk at a brisk pace. "I should have received
Data's report on the Heart by now."
Picard bolted out the door before his first officer
could trail after him.

Data accepted as an axiom of his construction
that he did not possess emotions; therefore, he could
initiate yet another repetition of his
laboratory procedures without an accompanying
sense of frustration or anger. However, based on
his experience with the crew of the Enterprise, the
android greatly suspected that these were precisely
the set of emotions that he should be feeling at this
time.
Moving the equipment array into position over the
specimen, he closely monitored his actions so
that he might detect any departure from his
previous routines. No difference. He had
followed the same pattern of movement with the same
precision each of the four times before.
Data repeated the dating measurement a fifth
time.
A new result appeared on his viewscreen.
Entirely new. Over the course of hours, he
had not been able to obtain the same age for the
specimen twice in a row.
Since there was no reason to believe that a sixth
attempt would reveal any new insights, Data
concluded that another approach was required.
Unfortunately, the formulation of such an approach
eluded him.
The android was pondering the nature of
scientific inspiration when the doors of the
laboratory parted to admit a swiftly moving
Captain Picard. Judging from the somewhat grim
set of the captain's facial features, Data
surmised there was no need for an exchange of
pleasantries and launched into an immediate explanation
of the project's difficulties.
Picard's expression hardened even more as he
listened.
"The largest given value was twenty million
years old," continued Data. "Which would
be consistent with the theory of the Heart's involvement with
ancient history. Unfortunately, the extreme
variations raise considerable doubt as to the validity
of any of the results I have obtained."
"Obviously your equipment is malfunctioning,
Mr. Data," said Picard. He plucked the
stone off the scan stage and carefully examined its
surface for signs of damage.
"I ran extensive diagnostic tests
subsequent to each of the anomalous findings. There
is no sign of malfunction. Furthermore, my
measurement of all other test objects has been
consistent and predictable. There appears to be some
substance in the specimen itself which interferes with the
scan."
"Earlier, you claimed it was nothing more than a
rock."
Data attempted a shrug. "Apparently the
composition analysis was in error. I shall repeat
that procedure as well."
He extended one arm, reaching for the stone, but
Picard took a step backward as if to evade
him. "I think we should suspend any further
analysis until you've straightened out the
technical difficulties in the laboratory
equipment."
"Captain, the specimen would be useful in
determining--"
Picard stepped away again. "Until you can
establish the nature of the malfunction, I
won't risk inflicting any damage to the
Heart." Cradling the stone in the crook of his
arm, he said, "I'll keep it in my cabin for
now."
Data searched for the emotion that might best suit
this situation. The answer came to him just after the
captain's departure exasperation.
He wondered what it felt like.

END OF VOLUME I


































THE DEVIL'S HEART

by
Carmen Carter




Volume II of Three Volumes
Pages i-ii and 159-344




For special distribution as authorized by Act of
Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe
permission of the copyright holder.




Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1996.











Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All
Rights Reserved.












THE DEVIL'S HEART

CHAPTER 12

For one hour every night, the Due or Die was
closed for a perfunctory cleaning. Grumbling
patrons were pushed off the premises or carried
out into the corridor if they lacked the ability
to walk by themselves; it was an open secret on the
starbase that the synthehol served at the bar had an
unusually potent effect on anyone who slipped
a hefty tip to the bartender.
Other branches of Camenae's business,
however, were open at all times. So while Orlev
wiped stains off the pitted countertop, Camenae
perched on a barstool, waiting patiently for the
arrival of one of her operatives.
"We've been very busy lately," said the
bartender as he gathered up an armful of dirty
glasses.
His breathy, sibilant complaint reflected
her own train of thought. She sighed in agreement.
"For ten years we laughed at that old Vulcan
woman and her quest for a mythical treasure. But
now, it seems the joke is on us. She found that
damn Heart--and disrupted this entire sector."
Of course, the greedy scramble after the relic
had also fattened Camenae's coffers, but she
distrusted these windfall profits. They were
short-lived and unpredictable, not to mention that her
overhead had also risen sharply.
For instance, there was the matter of Thomas
Grede.
She had promised to transport him
to safety, and she was in the habit of keeping her
word. After all, broken contracts were bad for
business.
A warning whistle from Kajima announced the
arrival of someone at the threshold of the bar.
"It's the Squib," announced the guard after he
checked the image coming from the security camera.
Camenae nodded and slipped off the barstool.
The Norsican knew to wait for her retreat
into the back office before he released the lock on
the entrance.
She was seated in her customary place when she
heard the clicking sound of chitonous legs on the
metallic deck. Krtakk scurried forward
to greet her with a customary wave of its eye
stalks. As a longtime operative, it knew not
to waste any more time on extraneous
civilities.
"As you suspected, Camenae," it said in a
chittering voice. "Lord Reyjad@an stole the
transport papers from Grede and obtained free
passage on the Villareal all the way
to Smelter's Hold."
"After that?"
To her disgust, Krtakk bobbed its hard-shelled
body up and down, a submissive gesture that
signaled failure. "I could find no trace
of the unDiWahn after leaving the Villareal.
He has gone into hiding somewhere on the Hold, but
it will take time and money to determine who is
sheltering him."
"Continue the trace, whatever the cost."
The Squib chirped its acceptance of the task.
"There is one item more Grede was supposed
to erase all traces of the alien's
transmissions, but the new tech in communications was
able to recover a scrap that escaped overwrite."
Krtakk executed a rapid series of nervous
bobs. "Unfortunately, the price for commissioning
the effort was exorbitant and the result
disappointing."
"Let me hear it anyway," said Camenae
with a sigh of resignation at the escalating cost of
her revenge.
A tentacle looped up over the table edge and
dropped a small vocoder into the palm of her
hand. Camenae pressed a control switch and sound
issued forth from its speaker.
"... seeking has ended. The Gem has
been uncovered, and it is again ..."
That was all. Such a small scrap and yet so
very revealing.
"Thank you, Krtakk. You have done well."
The Squib squeaked, surprised by her
praise, then scuttled away with a churring
prattle of self-congratulations.
Camenae played the short recording over
several times, listening carefully to the quality of the
voice instead of the words. The content was indeed
unrewarding, but there was an unexpected value in
hearing Reyjad@an speak in private his
crisp enunciation of Federation Standard was devoid
of the thick oily accent and hissing sound he had
used with her.
Evidently she had underestimated the
unDiWahn. And poor Grede had paid the
price of her miscalculation.

Some men turned to fat in their old age, but
First Prefect Lorris had added no weight
to his lean, muscular frame as decade piled
on decade. By his ninetieth year, his
eyesight had not dimmed, the peaked scrollwork of
his ears missed no whisper of gossip or slander,
and his dry laughter had developed a blade-sharp
edge that could cut his victims to the quick. If his
reflexes had slowed any since his youth,
Lorris had hidden that change beneath an imposing
dignity of bearing.
His one concession to the passage of time was a
diminished patience for disruption and disorder. So, as
his family size swelled with succeeding generations of
offspring, Lorris retreated more and more often to the
sheltered confines of his library.
Only on this morning, when the prefect entered
his sanctuary he found it already occupied. His
irritation at the violation of his privacy was
mollified once he recognized the uniformed
intruder. Subcommander Vedoc was rooted in
place by one of the tallest bookshelves, head
bent over an open book; he was so immersed in his
study that he had not heard the door of the room
open.
"For a soldier, you read a great deal of
history, Nephew."
The young man twirled around. Then, with a smile
of greeting, he ducked his head in an informal
gesture of respect that acknowledged close
family ties yet did not forget the distance between
their ranks. "Your library is impossible
to resist, Uncle. I have spent many of my ship
leaves in this room."
"Hah! If you value your career, you should be out
whoring and drinking with your shipmates." Settling
into a broad chair in the middle of the room, the
old man beckoned his sister's son to come
closer. "There was a time, in the early days of the
Empire, when an officer was despised as a
common throat-slitter if he did not also
cultivate a knowledge of art, music, and
literature. Those days are gone. Most of my
fellow prefects are either mercenaries or
bureaucrats, and I suspect that they consider me
to be a peevish eccentric."
"Then I appear to take after you."
"You could do worse," said Lorris with a
sniff. Vedoc had always been a
favorite of his, more so than any of his own
spawn. The prefect was struck with a sudden
inspiration, and he forged his attack strategy with the
same rapidity that he had used as a commander in
battle. "That book you are holding is
contraband."
The young man looked down in surprise at the
volume in his hands. "But if that is so, however
did you obtain it, Uncle?"
Lorris chuckled at the boy's na@ivet`e.
"One of the advantages of a military career is
the chance to make contacts with unsavory characters; the
Ferengi, for instance. A loathsome race, but they do
have their uses."
"They smuggled Federation books to you for
payment?"
"For payment, yes," said the old man. "But
also for trade. There are those in the Federation who are
equally curious about the Romulans. In fact,
as a centurion I provided the author of that very
book," he pointed once again to the tome in his
nephew's hands, "with a copy of the early history
of the Romulan people."
"I've read several of her works here in the
library," said Vedoc eagerly. "She's a fine
scholar."
"Was a fine scholar. According to my contacts,
T'Sara died just a few days ago."
"Of old age?"
"Perhaps," said Lorris with a shrug. "She must
have been close to three centuries old. Yet the
report is that she died along with a group of other
Vulcans, which implies the death was not
natural."
"Her loss will be a blow to Federation science."
"I agree, but the Vulcans do not value her
scholarship as highly as we do. Evidently
T'Sara's uncanny understanding of alien emotion
offends their delicate sensibilities."
The young man frowned. "There is much I do not
understand about the Vulcans."
"They are a dull race, Vedoc. Their
philosophy of logic leaves no room for the
vices that make life worthwhile." It was time
to test the waters; with a deep sigh, Lorris
added, "Yet the only vice I have carried into my
old age is curiosity ... and I am curious
to learn how T'Sara died and what has come of her
research into our legends. The answers I seek
may do nothing more than satisfy my
meddlesome nature, but then again ... well, t hey
may do far more."
Vedoc's eyebrows angled upward; this turn
in the discussion had definitely piqued his interest.
"I have the ear of the Praetor," continued the first
prefect, "and in payment for some long-standing debts
born of my attention to his private affairs,
he has agreed to send a warbird beyond the
Neutral Zone to investigate the matter."
His nephew's interest heightened into alarm.
Eyes wide with disbelief, he said, "He would
violate the Neutral Zone treaty for this
venture?"
"For a chance to possess the Ko N'ya, the
Praetor would do anything." Lorris chortled
softly. "Or at least, order someone else to do
anything."
"The Ko N'ya," whispered the young man. The
library was warm, yet he shivered as if a cold
draft had chilled his bones. "A myth risen from
the Vaults of the Dead."
"You have a vivid imagination, Vedoc, but then so
did I at your age. Military service will
teach you how to channel that faculty into more sensible
pursuits."
His nephew stiffened to attention, a tactful
response that did not commit him to agreement.
Enough dallying, thought the prefect. There was not much
time to implement this revision to his plans. "It
would please me to have these proceedings supervised
by someone who is personally concerned with our family
interests."
Vedoc caught his meaning without difficulty.
"Can you arrange for my transfer to the warbird?"
"Oh, yes," said Lorris with a wry smile.
"I have nearly as many favors to call in as I have
books on these shelves."
"Then I am yours to command, Uncle."
"Excellent. Prepare to leave this house within
the hour." Lorris was impressed by the young
soldier's courage. His sister's son would make
a fine prefect some day and bring new honors
to the family name.
If he survived this mission, of course.

Those called to the Gathering began to assemble when
the first moon of DiWahn started its climb up
through the twilight sky. Out of houses and inns, through
darkening streets, the robed figures streamed
toward the Gateway Temple. Heavy
cowls hid the faces of those who called themselves the
unDiWahn. Some walked singly, others in
pairs or small groups, but by the time they reached
the tiled plaza surrounding the high tower, their
swelling numbers had merged into one mass of the
Faithful.
Townspeople not sworn to the Faith cowered in
their homes, for within memory there had never been a
Gathering as large as this one. Every Guardian on the
face of the planet must have journeyed to the walled
city of Iconiad@an, but no one outside the
order had envisioned there were so many to answer the
call; the sound of their swishing robes seeped like
flood waters through barred doors and shuttered
windows.
Those men and women who had settled into a
complacent acceptance of their adopted world were
reminded once again of half-forgotten legends of
ancient Iconia and its lost grandeur. In
fearful whispers, they wondered what cabalistic
cataclysm had roused the Guardians. The
Faithful kept alive the memories of their
race before the Passage through the Gate, and they
possessed knowledge beyond the understanding of farmers and
merchants; therefore, whatever alarmed the Guardians
might well terrify a commoner.
When the moon reached its zenith, tolling bells
chased a few stragglers through the massive archways
at the base of the tower, and thick doors hewn from
the strongest wood swung back into place to seal
all entrances against any uninitiated intruders.
Body pressed tightly against body inside the
domed chamber that barely contained the assembly; but
in the very center of the densely packed crowd there was a
clearing just large enough for one hooded figure to sit
cross-legged on the floor. The abstract
mosaic design beneath this Guardian marked the
spot where the first Iconian had stepped through the
Gateway; only a handful of the Faithful had the
right to occupy this place of honor.
After the last knell faded into silence, the
Master rose from the floor and pushed back the
heavy folds of the hood to reveal a man in the
middle years of his life. The scalloped
ridges of his forehead were plainly patterned,
devoid of beauty yet not quite ugly; his skin was the
pale shade of violet that marked him as a
native of the southern hemisphere of the planet.
One by one, the members of the Gathering followed his
example. When all of the Guardians
had bared their heads, Kierad@an spoke in a
deep, melodious voice that could reach every straining
ear and fill it with honey. The only sound from the
listening host was their soft breathing.
"Here is the story, as my grandfather told it
to me ..."
When I was a young man, newly initiated
into our order, an offworlder came to my village
to live. She was a tall woman with delicate,
sweeping features and hair the color of ash; her
dark eyes burned with the desire to learn the
language and ways of our people. I had never seen
her like before, and she said that she was the first of her race
to set foot upon DiWahn; however, my elders
among the Faithful knew her already.
At that time, I was still too young to have learned more
than a half dozen Dreams, but Ikajad@an
assured me that T'Sara was part of the Gem's
lore and that she was destined to become one facet of the
Dreaming.
For weeks I listened as the Guardians
debated their part in the Gem's plan and how
to fulfill it. Some among them said it would be
sacrilege to even contemplate action, that such
direct interference would actually disrupt the course
of the Dreaming; others denounced this passivity,
believing instead that the unDiWahn had been chosen
to set T'Sara on the proper path.
In the end, the way was simple.
Ikajad@an invited her to attend the
Tellings. There was no precedent for allowing one
unsworn to the Faith to hear the Dreams, and
T'Sara quickly sensed that she had been greatly
honored. So night after night she joined me as
we took our place in the circle of
Guardians; and each night someone recited one
of the Dreams recorded by our Iconian
ancestors, although never one in which she had a part.
She listened patiently at first, then with a
growing hunger that carried her through the entire winter.
On the first day of spring, Ikajad@an recounted
the death of Iconia, and thus reached the end of the
ancient lore. By this time, T'Sara yearned
to discover what had become of Kanda Jiak's
Gem and to fully understand its powers.
Her restlessness drove her away from our world,
but she was not lost to us. Always I knew where to find
her, and those Dreams were the ones I never tired of
hearing.
Kierad@an paused for breath, then
said, "That is the end of my grandfather's Telling, but
the story does not end there.
"For many years, T'Sara sent word of her
search to several of the unDiWahn who had tutored
her. Then, one by one these Guardians grew old
and died, until there was no one left among the
Faithful who was known to her, and her letters stopped.
"My father took part in the Gathering that chose one
of its number to leave DiWahn and seek her out.
Jaradad@an spent the rest of his life on this
mission, wandering from one planet to another in
T'Sara's wake, always careful to keep out of her
sight. His son was born offworld and continues the work
of his father."
Raising his hands high into the air, Kierad@an
proclaimed, "Reyjad@an has this to say to us
T'Sara's seeking has ended; the Gem has
been uncovered; and it is again time for the Faithful
to take a part in the Dreaming."
His words unleashed a storm of emotion from the
Guardians. Shouts of joy mixed with the sobs of
those moved to tears by the arrival of a day foretold in
myth. Young and old, men and women, strangers and
friends, all embraced each other as kin.
Kierad@an waited for the throes of their fervor
to calm, then he drew a scroll from the folds of
his robe. The parchment was yellow with age, and it was
tied with leather laces.
"We have prepared for this day in many ways. There
are those among you who were chosen to pave the path we
must follow, others to walk its length." He
scanned the multitude of eager faces that had
turned back toward him. "Daramad@an!"
A large, heavyset man pushed his way through the
assembly to the center of the chamber. Few of the
Guardians had ever met this man, but everyone
knew of him by another name; his inclusion in the order
had never been revealed before.
"Are you with us?" asked Kierad@an. It was a
ritual question, but the answer had never carried so much
weight as it did tonight.
"I am with you," said the one that most of
DiWahn knew as Admiral Jakat. "As
are my forces."
"Hai!" A chorus of voices scattered
throughout the crowd attested to the loyalty of the senior
officers Daramad@an had brought into the order.
Bowing his head in a gesture of subservience, the
admiral of the DiWahn space fleet asked,
"Where are we to go, Master?"
"To the Appointed Place," said Kierad@an.
At his touch, the brittle leather ties circling
the scroll crumbled into dust. He unfurled the
sheet and held it high so all could see what was
drawn on its surface.
It was a map filled with stars and a single blazing
comet.

CHAPTER 13

The sighing winds carried aloft the moans and
cries of the dying as if beseeching the heavens for
pity, but the red sun was merciless. Blazing in
noonday splendor, it dried the throats and
tongues of men too weak to crawl toward shelter,
and beat down upon bodies that had no warmth of their
own. Small fires smoldered in the
blood-sodden ground, then guttered out in trails
of dark, foul smoke. Here and there across the
littered field were flutters of movement the
trembling of limbs as death finally took hold of
an eviscerated warrior, the lazy flap of wings
as a carrion-eater feasted on the carna ge, the
rippling of a clan banner whose broken staff was
driven through the chest of the standard-bearer.
As the sun tipped over on its westward
descent toward the jagged peaks of Mt.
Selaya, and the dry desert breezes gathered
strength, one lone figure broke the taut line
of the horizon. He picked his way carefully,
stepping over the fallen warriors if possible,
skirting around them when the mounds of intertwined
bodies grew too deep. His tunic was clean,
unspotted, untorn, but his legs and sandal
laces were streaked with the olive color of drying
gore.
The boy stopped for a moment, winded by his long
run from the mountain village and his tortured
progress through the battlefield of Ishaya;
closed eyes gave respite to his mind. His
mother and the healers had demanded that he stay in
isk'Kahr, but he had twisted out of
T'Leia's grasp and raced away.
"Wait!" they had cried after him. "You are
too young," they had Called into his mind when he
passed beyond hearing.
He was much older now.
In the last hour he had learned that the colorful
scenes of clashing armies intricately
embroidered in tapestries and the lilting
melody of the War Ballads were all treats for
children, just like the tales of wise old sehlats who
talked to lost hunters. Emerald-green thread
shimmered in lamplight, but the blood that covered his
own legs was not so pretty, and armor had no
luster when it was splattered with gore. Five
Vulcan clans had emptied their veins into this
sandy plain, sullying its air with the stink of
putrefaction; few survived to sing tales of
bravery, or even of treachery. Where was the glory
in this silence?
Come.
The need to continue pressed against his mind again.
He had mistaken the desire for his own
curiosity, for his own willfulness, but now he
recognized that the summons was from without, a Call
from someone alive and adrift in this sea of
corpses. He opened his eyes and scanned the
torn landscape.
"Father?"
He was answered by a visceral tug toward the
north, as if a hand plucked weakly at his
sleeve when lips could no longer form words.
His pace quickened now that he had been given a
path to follow and a sense of purpose. Even the
horrors of the killing field were less shocking
than before. The endless variations of mutilation--charred
limbs, split skulls, sunken chests--all
played out the basic theme of death. The weapons
also varied in configuration, yet all had drawn
sufficient blood to silence their enemies. Some
of the slain were unmarked, showing no open wounds, but
their faces were clenched and contorted in the
grotesque physical manifestation of the Calls
that had expertly twisted their minds.
The tattered remnants of a bright red flag
caught his eye. He approached it with dread,
torn between the urgency of his father's Call and fear
of where it drew him. Yes, his family had fought
here. By a freak accident of the wind, the cloth was
draped like a shroud across the body of one of his
clansmen, mimicking the act of a healer
acknowledging the limits of her art. His search was
almost over.
My son.
The Call was weaker than before, yet still he could
sense that his father lay nearby.
He took one step forward, then faltered when
he saw the face of the body lying in his path.
Surrell lay crumpled on the ground
where a shard of metal had pinned him down; he had
died in agony, thrashing to free himself. To lose
any brother was a cause for grief, but this brother
had been a favorite, and his death brought more pain
than all the other horrors the boy had witnessed.
A second step revealed another slain brother.
Then a third.
All the dead before him had names; he had seen
each of these still, pale faces laughing in the
radiant moonlight during the last Festival of
Moons. Brothers, uncles, cousins; there were
too many to mourn.
"Father!"
"Here." The soft word was spoken, not Sent.
The boy frantically scrabbled through the dead
bodies until his hands touched warm flesh. He
fell to his knees by the side of his father. Stef's
face was covered with blood, blurring the familiar
angular features. His eyes, normally dark and
piercing, were clouded with pain and exhaustion, but they
cleared when he felt the touch of a hand on his arm.
"I've come, Father."
"What, no other sons left?" asked Stef,
his weak voice hoarse with anger.
"No, Father, just me."
"So be it. I will have more sons." With a gasping
breath to gather strength for movement, Stef drew
back his cloak to reveal a small object
nestled by his side. "Behold your birthright and
your future the king-maker, Ko N'ya!"
"This is what my brothers died for?" asked the
boy. He had overheard Surrell and the others
whispering in the dark when they had thought he was
safely asleep; they had spun strange tales
of a relic of great power that would bring immense
wealth to the clan that possessed it. Yet this dull
gray rock was not worth one day of Surrell's
life.
"Death is a small price to pay for our
place in history. My dynasty shall unite all
Vulcan," said his father. He lifted up the stone
and his voice grew louder. "We will live forever
... rule forever."
The boy reached out to touch the rough surface of the
Ko N'ya, but Stef pulled it away.
"Mine!" he hissed. "Do not be so eager
to succeed me."
"No, Father, I never meant--"
Stef's cry of pain cut off the boy's
apology. A spasm racked through the
man's body, twisting his muscles into knots and
robbing him of the strength to hold the stone. It
slipped from his trembling fingers, and the boy lunged
forward to catch it before it hit the ground.
Mine!
"Father?"
The soft flutter of Stef's Calling mind
faded to silence.
The boy rocked back on his heels, the Ko
N'ya in his hands. He was the only living being
left on the plain of Ishaya.

Desert nights are chill on Vulcan. The
borrowed warmth of the sun does not linger for very long
in the dark. A young boy in a linen shirt and
sleeveless vest would need to huddle close to the
licking flames of a fire in order to survive
until morning.
Not this boy.
He sat cross-legged on the cold ground,
yet his limbs did not shiver and tremble. The stone
rested in the palms of his hands where he held its
weight all night without strain. Under moonlight
it transformed into a crystalline gem, glittering
and sparkling as if lit from within, but at dawn the
spell was broken.
A hoarse shouting reverberated across the plain,
and the boy looked up to see figures moving in the
distance. At first he assumed the people of his village
had finally arrived to seek out their dead, but as the
group drew nearer he caught the foreign lilt
to their voices. They spoke with the harsh bark of
warriors, not healers. Another clan,
probably the Ghe'Hara, he guessed once he
could see the cut of their armor. He counted eight
men scouring the field, darting here and there and
rummaging among the dead as if in search of something.
More fierce shouting ensued when one of the men
gestured toward the red flag of Stef's clan.
The troop began to run across the field, heedless
of the dead underfoot, and in their haste one of the
warriors nearly trampled over the boy where he
sat silent and unmoving.
"Th'a!" cursed the man, jumping back as if
a serpent had crawled out of the grass. He took
a wild shot with a phaser, and the boy felt the
breath of the beam's passage a scant inch from his
cheek. "Garamond, come see what I've
found!"
One of the warriors veered aside
to answer the call. He was tall and carried himself
with a confident swagger. Where his companions wore the
functional armor that would repel modern weapon
fire, his suit was crafted along ancient
design; and the decorative sword that swung from
his belt was just as lethal as their phasers.
The sight of the boy, and what he possessed,
brought a grunt of surprise to Garamond's
lips. "You have something that belongs to me."
The boy looked up, but did not speak.
Garamond stepped back, instinctively
brandishing his sword. A trick of the morning light
had given the boy the face of an old man. One
blink and the illusion was gone.
"Give it up to me, child."
"My name is Surak," said the boy
quietly. "And I will not give you this stone. I will
not give it to any living being."
"Are you so eager to die, young one?" Garamond
resheathed his weapon, more curious than kind in the
face of this unexpected defiance.
"No, I don't wish to die," said Surak,
"but I could not live with that deed on my conscience."
"Then you propose to keep this bauble to yourself?"
The boisterous laughter that followed his question covered
a growing uneasiness. Garamond's grip on the
sword handle tightened again. If the stone held
Powers, then this boy could be as dangerous as his
elders and must be killed after all.
"No, I have no need for it now that the sun has
risen." To Garamond's relief, the young boy
bent forward and placed the stone on the ground.
"You have given it to me after all," the man crowed
as his fist closed over the rough rock and hefted it
high into the air.
Surak shook his head. "You have taken it of your
own free will."
"A fine distinction, my young philosopher,"
said Garamond with a lifted brow. "But why do you
disdain these Powers. It is rumored this dull gem
you have tossed aside can fulfill all desires.
The Ko N'ya could even raise the dead of your
clan."
Surak surveyed the field of slaughter with a
new dispassion. "They chose this fate, so restoring
them to life would only prolong the battle."
His hands clenched, then eased again. Laying his
open palms down upon his knees, he continued.
"I don't seek the fulfillment of desires.
I have chosen to end the desires themselves."

I have chosen to end the desires themselves.
The words were spoken in Ancien t Vulcan, with the
lilting cadence of a pre-Reform dialect.
Picard shifted in his bed, and the movement pulled
him closer to consciousness.
The phrase whispered again, but this time he could not
fathom any meaning in the guttural sounds.
He slipped back into another dream.

The bedchamber walls were hung with intricately
woven tapestries of panoramic views that
rivaled nature, but the fabrics were muted by dust
and heavy shadows. Rugs covered the flagstone
floor, but their colors and patterns had been
worn away by the scuffle and tread of five
generations. Once the room had been filled with
rich furnishings of dark wood deep chairs that
invited guests to linger and tables spread with trays
of wine and bread to entice them to stay yet awhile
longer. These were all gone now, removed one by one
as the desire for fellowship dimmed, then guttered
out like the cold torches set in their sconces.
A pall of age and decay draped like a
discarded veil over the entire room, but it coiled
most thickly around the bed and the single frail
figure nestled deep in its embrace.
"I am old, J'ross. Our people die young on
this new world, but even by our reckoning before The
Crossing from Vulcan, I am old."
Garamond had uttered this petulant complaint
so often that the woman at his side no longer tried
to frame a soothing reply. Instead, she studied
the blotchy, wrinkled skin of his face with new
interest; his complexion had an ominous brown tinge
that had not been there yesterday. His lean, bony
features had turned gaunt. She wondered if
either of the chamber's sentries had noticed the
changes.
Her hand searched for the basket tucked under the
bed. The contents were intact. She pulled out a
small leather-bound book and turned to a marked
page. "Shall I read to you this morning?"
"No, I am dying."
He had said this before as well, day after day for the
last year, but she thought that today he might be right.
There was a soft, dry rattle when he breathed that
warned of lungs grown brittle overnight.
Garamond had wakened only an hour before, yet
there were dark smudges beneath his eyes and their
puffy lids drooped down lower and lower.
His eyes closed. He drifted off to sleep.
Laying the book facedown, J'ross
carefully shifted her weight off the bed so as not
to wake the old man. With expert movements born
of much practice, she straightened and tucked the
tangled covers. He did not stir. She picked
up the book and bent down. Her hands sought out the
basket again.
"Who is there?" cried out Garamond, waking
suddenly. His fingers clutched fitfully at his
side. "Gone! It is gone!"
"Hush, my husband. It was only hidden by the
covers." She guided his fumbling hands to the right
place, then cast a glance over her shoulder
to check the sentries' reactions.
Pymer had come to immediate attention with a drawn
knife balanced in his palm; he took a
hesitant step forward. Deemus was less
alarmed, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed
sword. They craned their necks to see what was
happening.
"I commend your diligence." She moved aside
to give them a clear view of the bed where the old
man cradled the stone in his arms. "But it was only
another nightmare."
Pymer grunted, then slumped back against the
wall and began idly picking at his teeth with the
blade. Deemus sighed heavily.
They were, to the best of her knowledge, loyal
to Garamond, but there was far less reason to trust
their loyalty to her. J'ross feared that a dying
king's young wife, no matter how beautiful, could
hardly compete with Garamond's nephew.
Taramuk's political sway was based in part
on his bloodlines, but even more on his ambitions
he promised the Aegis a new purpose. Where
Garamond had reduced the guard to a
decorative, but essentially unnecessary, appendage
to his House, Taramuk promised the soldiers
global warfare, and ultimately, an empire.
All he needed was the Ko N'ya.
She moved back to Garamond's side,
anxious to quiet his mewling. Pymer was bored, and
bored soldiers were too curious for comfort's
sake.
"Betrayed." Fortunately Garamond's
voice had sunk to a whisper. "You have betrayed
me."
"No, not so." She tucked a lock
of straggling white hair back behind the elegant
point of one ear. Despite his age, he had
been a handsome man when they first met. "I have been
true to you, Husband, in my own way."
He fell back against the pillows, exhausted
by the outburst, and the stone tumbled out of the crook of his
arm. When he made no move to recover it,
J'ross tucked it against his side. Then she
took a soft cloth and wiped the tears that streamed
down his sunken cheeks, but there was nothing she could do
to ease his labored breathing or still his feebly
thrashing limbs.
An hour passed, then another. She waited
patiently until Garamond exhaled deeply,
then stirred no more. Her fingers pressed against his
wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none; he was
finally at rest.
J'ross pulled the basket out from under the bed
to set about her next task.
"The king is sleeping. Do not disturb him," she
commanded as she walked past the guards.
Deemus nodded; Pymer sheathed his knife and
fell into step beside her. As the lady of the manor
she had the right to an armed escort, but over the last
year she had noted a subtle shift in the
guard's demeanor, an increased vigilance and
attention to her activities. As Garamond's
health worsened, the privilege of Pymer's
company had become more difficult to decline, and the
few opportunities to slip away from his
supervision had been hard won. Her guard was
rapidly becoming her jailer.
They proceeded to the House kitchen in silence
since her past attempts to make light conversation
had only rendered Pymer more surly. This
failure to charm confirmed her suspicions that the
Aegis soldiers were ready to transfer their
loyalty to Taramuk.
"Th'a! It's hot down here," cried Pymer
as they descended the back steps. "This is no work
for a soldier."
"The king's chamber is cool. You could have stayed
there."
He only scowled.
No queen had set foot in the kitchens before
J'ross, but then no other queen of the House had
been a baker. Some of the servants admired her
ascent into nobility, while others scorned her
common origins; they all kept their distance when she
entered their domain.
She threaded her way between bustling cooks and
table servers with their trays, but the soldier was
less nimble and earned several muttered curses
when he blocked their path or tripped their feet.
By the time he caught up with her, J'ross had
pulled a ball of dough from her basket and was
pinching shut the cracks in its surface. She then
placed it on a wooden paddle and shoved it
inside the nearest oven.
Pymer began to sweat. "How long is this going
to take?"
"Not long," she said. "Spiced kahla
doesn't need to rise."
His scowl etched deeper and deeper into his
face as they waited, and his face had flushed a
bright green from the radiant heat before she
pronounced the crust to be properly browned.
"Anyone could do this," said Pymer as they
retraced their path to the king's chamber. Irritation
had loosened his tongue.
"It's not so easy as it looks," said
J'ross. She swung the bread basket from one
arm, but her free hand wiped a trickle of sweat
from her brow.
Their entrance into the chamber caught the single
sentry in the middle of a yawn. "The king is still
sleeping."
"I hate to wake him, but he must eat to keep
up his strength." She raised her voice as she
approached the bed. "I've brought you fresh baked
kahla, my lord. Your favorite delicacy."
She peered down at the old man's face.
"My lord?"
She dropped the basket and fell to her knees
by his bedside. "My lord! My lord is dead!"
Her cries turned to sobs as she threw herself
over the still body. She could hear the pounding of the
sentries' boots as they ran toward her.
"Move aside, woman!" commanded Deemus,
shoving her away so that he could examine the king for
himself. He touched the man's face, then snatched
back his hand. "Th'a! He's already cold."
"Then he died on your watch," said Pymer
quickly.
"Idiot, Taramuk won't care when the old
king died." J'ross watched Deemus scrabble
frantically through the bedcovers. "It's the rock that
matters now. Where is--" He spun around,
sword drawn clear of its sheath by the time he
faced her.
Deemus, reflected J'ross ruefully, was
much brighter than Pymer.
"Drop it, m'lady, or I shall be forced
to kill you."
"Brave man, to attack the holder of the Ko
N'ya." To her relief, the soldier froze in
place. "With a single tap on this stone I could
burn out your heart and twist your entrails into a
knot. A wave of my hand and this castle will come
crashing down over your heads, plague will kill
any survivors, and monsters will grow in the womb
of any woman who walks over this land for the next
ten generations."
From the look of terror on his face, Pymer
might have let her flee the room just to stop the
stream of curses, but Deemus was almost grinning
at her recitation. Almost. A sliver of
uncertainty stayed his hand.
"Well said, my Queen, but I'll let my
betters judge the weight of your threats." He
edged backward toward the door. His eyes never
left her or the stone she held. Pymer
scurried after, and together they bolted shut the door.
She was left alone with the dead king.
J'ross calculated that a swift messenger
could carry the news of Garamond's death to his
nephew in just over an hour. It should take
somewhat longer for Taramuk to make the return
journey from his neighboring estate. If the
Aegis was on his side, they would make short work
of any token opposition to the joining of the two
Houses.
Her fate would be settled by dusk.
Contemplation of her own death did not frighten
J'ross. She had known the risks when she
married old Garamond and then bore him a child that
usurped Taramuk's position as heir; she had
gambled that Garamond would live until her son
was old enough to defend his reign, and she had lost.
Death was the likely forfeit for her; however, if
Rume had followed instructions, her child would
survive. That was a victory of sorts.
The sun was still a finger's width from the horizon
when she heard the sound of marching feet outside the
chamber. There was a hasty scrape of metal against
wood, then the doors burst open, shouldered apart
by a force of Aegis soldiers.
As I expected.
To give him credit, Taramuk led the
assault. Garamond's nephew was
broad and carried his bulky armor with ease.
Elaborate designs of beaten gold added
luster to the metal breastplate. He was a
warrior who planned to be an emperor.
J'ross raised the stone up above her head.
"I have powers that are greater than those naked
swords."
Taramuk merely laughed. "It takes more than
a few hours to learn to wield those powers,
J'ross. However, I expected some move for
power on your part, so I've come prepared."
He clapped his hands and a soldier stepped
forward. He was carrying a small squirming
bundle. As the heavy cloth fell away,
J'ross heard the crying of a child. Seconds
later a naked boy tumbled out onto the
flagstones.
"Did you really think you could hide him away?
His wet nurse offered him to me for a single gold
coin."
"Let him go!"
"Give the Ko N'ya to me," Taramuk said,
"or the child dies."
J'ross shook her head ever so slightly.
"Kill the king's son and rightful heir? Not even
you would dare do that."
"Do you take me for a fool, J'ross?
Garamond was nearly three hundred years old,
too old by a century to sire a son." He
prodded the trembling child with a boot. "You've been
seen speaking to your village lover; this is the
spawn of a potter, not the king's own flesh and
blood."
"You're wrong. The child is blood of this
House, Taramuk, which makes him kin to a
butcher!"
Taramuk snapped two fingers.
"No!" she cried, but it was too late
to forestall his order.
The guard's cutting slash brought forth a gout of
blood from the boy's neck; waves of bright
emerald green cascaded down his chest. The child's
limp body collapsed into a crumpled heap
onto the faded carpet; J'ross dropped to her
knees as if felled by the same blow.
"You will be next," said Taramuk.
Even as he spoke, J'ross had let
loose the stone. It tumbled from her slack hands,
rolling across the floor toward his eager, grasping
reach.
She remained silently in place, head bowed,
as two guards stripped her of the gown she had been
wearing, their rough hands tearing away the fabric
until she was naked. Her jewelry was removed
with equal force, raising welts and bruises about
her neck and wrists; a trickle of blood
marked where an ear-gem had been wrenched free of the
lobe. Even her slippers were forfeit. They could
not untangle the leather ties that bound her braided
hair, so the braid itself was lopped off with the same
knife that had slain the boy.
When the men had finished their task, she lifted
her head high, as if in anticipation of a final
killing blow.
Taramuk waved back the guards. "If you were
less liked, and less beautiful, I would kill
you myself. Instead, I will spare your life if you
return to the mud village where my uncle found
you."
"I won't beg for mercy from you," she said in a
flat voice, "yet give me leave to take a
cloak with which to cover myself and a loaf of bread
to eat. To do less would shame your House. After
all, I was its queen."
"You were a better baker," he said with a sneer,
but he plucked a cloak from the back of one of his
soldiers and threw it onto the floor. "Now
go!"
With a clumsy bow of acquiescence, J'ross
scooped up the cloak and wrapped the cloth
tightly about her body and over her head. Then,
taking up her bread basket, she walked past
Taramuk with the same bearing and poise that once
carried her across a throne room. The House
guards hastily stepped back, eyes averted in
acknowledgment of their betrayal. She left
Garamond's bedchamber unhindered.
The estate appeared deserted by servants and
Family alike, but she sensed eyes following
her stately passage through the corridors and
heard whispers coming from behind closed doors. Those
who would have championed her cause were dead or in
hiding.
She strode faster down the halls, through
doorways, under arches, over steps and out into the
courtyard. From high above her, a wailing of
horns announced the king's death to the countryside.
Impatient to escape the same air that Taramuk
breathed, she ran over cobblestones until she
reached a dirt road, one that led to the
village of her birth.
J'ross waited until the looming towers of the
House had faded into the distance before she loosed the
laughter welling up inside her. Her feet had
grown soft over the last few years of manor
house living, and they pained her already, yet she
danced barefooted over the rough pebbled surface.
By the time the sun had set, she would be safely
home.
"I am a better baker than you know,
Taramuk the Mighty, Taramuk the
Empire-Builder, Taramuk the Dead!"
The basket she carried was heavy, far heavier
than a round loaf of kahla should weigh.
Tonight she and her family would feast on the thin
crust of stale bread that covered the Ko N'ya
baked inside. Taramuk might dine on fresh
meats and wine, but it would be his last meal. The
rock he carried into battle had been formed in the
heat of a potter's kiln, and a lump of fired
clay would offer little protection to him or his
armies.
She and Rume would live to spit on
Taramuk's grave. If even half the stories
of the Ko N'ya's powers were true, her lover would
spend the rest of his days making the statues he
loved; and Garamond's infant son would grow
tall and strong while the bones of that poor dead
child--Taramuk's own whelp by a cast-off mistress
--turned to dust.
J'ross stopped her dance for a moment, struck
by an unsettling thought. If old Garamond was
to be believed, she herself had a long life waiting
to be filled. Regaining possession of the House
would not occupy more than a few years of that span.
What, then, was she to do for the next three hundred
years? Unlike the king, she had no interest in
idle pleasures of the flesh, neither did she intend
to end her life alone in a dusty bedchamber.
After a moment's thought, she had her answer.
Taramuk was treacherous and cruel, but he was not
entirely a fool; neither was she too proud
to learn from her enemy. She had enjoyed being queen
and had run the House with admirable skill; that
same talent for organization could work as well for
an empire.
Perhaps she could even return the Romulan people
to the stars.
J'ross resumed her dance down the path.

CHAPTER 14

"Twenty ... nineteen ... eighteen ..."
Chief O'Brien had started the final
countdown, and most of the people gathered in Ten-Forward
had quickly joined him.
Geordi La Forge was not one of them.
"Look," he said to his table companion, "if just
one more starship is diverted at the last minute,
they won't meet the five-ship quorum for
calling a championship match."
"Too late," said Worf, quaffing his prune
juice in one gulp. "The USS Venture
docked there an hour ago. That gives them six."
He waved to Guinan for a refill.
"What!" cried Geordi. He had been too
busy talking to take more than a few sips of his
own drink. "But the Venture wasn't even
scheduled for RandRather at Luxor IV."
"Chief Engineer Logan reported a baffle
plate malfunction yesterday."
"Yeah, right." Finally acknowledging defeat,
Geordi slumped down into his chair. "And what
do you bet he has it fixed by the time the game is
over?"
Worf's glass was still empty. The Klingon
raised his hand to signal again, but when he saw the
number of people pressing up against the bar he decided
the effort was futile.
"... fourteen ... thirteen ..."
William Riker sniffed at the colorful
concoction that Guinan had dropped on the counter in
front of him. His nose wrinkled at the burst of
bubbles that rose to the surface.
"I ordered a Finnegan's Wake," he
called out when the lounge host passed by again.
Guinan paused in mid-stride, a tray
full of glasses balanced in her hands. "As far
as I'm concerned, that is a Finnegan's
Wake."
"Since when is a Finnegan's Wake
purple?"
"Since half the starship crew decided
to drop by Ten-Forward this morning," she said
firmly and sped away.
"I hate bubbles." Riker pushed aside the
drink and began to toy with several stacks of
colored poker chips. Even seated, he towered
over the woman who was perched on the stool beside him.
"I tried to get Beverly to join us,
as a member of the team," said Deanna Troi as
she dug her spoon into a mound of chocolate ice
cream, "but she insisted she had too much work to do.
I suspect our CMO is brooding instead; she
seems to think that everyone blames her for our
diversion from Luxor IV. I wish you would talk
to her."
"I don't know, Deanna," said Riker with a
shrug, "if it hadn't been for Beverly--"
"Will!"
"... seven ... six ... five ..."
Having spied the first officer from across the room,
Ro Laren jostled her way through the milling crowd
to reach the counter. The ensign was slim and muscular
and used her sharp elbows to good advantage. "Are
you ready to pay up, Commander?"
Riker shook his head. "Not until the game
actually--"
"... one ... zero!"
The room echoed with a collective groan as
somewhere on Luxor IV, the first hand of the Fleet
poker championship was dealt out.
Riker heaved a sigh and shoved the stacks toward
the ensign. Red, blue, and green chips
cascaded across the countertop. "Here's your
hundred."
"Poker chips?"
"You never specified the exact form of
payment," he said with a perfectly sober face, but
there was an undercurrent of smugness in his voice.
"So I've decided to pay up in chips."
Ro called out to Guinan as she swept by.
"Can he do this?"
"What now?" asked the designated arbiter as
she looked over her shoulder. Ro pointed to the
chips on the countertop. "Yes, I'll allow it
as legal tender."
"Fah!" said Ensign Ro as she scooped up
the tokens, but the sight of Riker's amusement
brought a wry smile to her own face. "You'll
probably win every one of these back from me."
Riker's grin widened even more. "I certainly
intend to try. Care to test your luck at tonight's
game?"
"No, thanks," said the Bajoran. "I'd rather
lose my money on Starbase 193."
The first officer shook his head. "Sorry,
Ensign Ro, no shore leave privileges at
this port."
"None?" Troi looked up from her
dessert. "Not even for senior officers?"
"No one from this ship goes on that starbase,"
said Riker. "It seems the owner of a bar called
the Due or Die is some kind of black market
knowledge-broker, and the captain is concerned that she'll
find a way to pump the crew for information on our
current mission. Evidently, listening is her
specialty."
"What did you say?" Guinan doubled back in
her tracks to confront the first officer. "What's
the name of this woman?"
"Something exotic," said Riker, searching his
memory. "The captain said it was from Greek
mythology ..."
"Camenae?"
"Yes, that sounds right. How did--"
But Guinan had already slipped out from behind the bar
and was halfway to the doors of Ten-Forward.

Picard's desk was cluttered with piles of
books, yet her eyes were drawn immediately to a
dull gray rock lurking amidst the disorder. It
hunched half-hidden beneath the cover of an opened
volume. "Am I disturbing you, Captain?"
Laying aside the thick textbook he had
been reading, Picard said, "No, Guinan, come
in." Yet she could see that his eyes were still clouded
with thoughts far removed from her presence in the ready
room. She remained silent and watched as his
distracted gaze moved downward to the desk
surface and his hand strayed out to stroke the rough
surface of the rock.
Age emanated from it in waves. At times,
after prolonged contact with short-lived races such
as Humans, Guinan felt herself to be an old
woman; this small object reminded her that she was
still a child in the universe.
"That's a very unusual paperweight."
"What?" When Picard caught her meaning, his
fist closed over the stone. Several seconds
passed before he reached the decision to tell her more.
"It's called the Devil's Heart."
Yes, the stone was very old indeed. "I've
heard of it." She had heard other names for it as
well, darker names that had laced through the mythology
of her homeworld. That world was gone now, and so were her
people's legends.
The stone had survived.
Picard was rubbing the bridge of his nose. She
studied the cast of his shoulders, then said,
"You look tired."
"Do I? Perhaps because I haven't been sleeping
too well lately." He took a deep breath
and recovered the sharp inquisitive look that
usually resided on his face. "So, Guinan,
has the wake in Ten-Forward driven you to the
bridge?"
"According to Commander Riker, you don't know anything
about that."
"The innocence of the young is frightening," said
Picard with a smile. "As a newly promoted
lieutenant, I lost a month's wages betting
on my ship's crew at the same floating poker
championship. All we needed were five starships
in the same place, so as soon as I saw the
docking roster at Luxor IV, I knew
someone would call for a championship game."
"The crew were disappointed to miss the game."
"I knew they would be." The captain's
expression of geniality evaporated. "But we were
unavoidably delayed." His gaze flickered
briefly to the Heart, but he offered no further
details of their mission. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to visit Starbase 193."
He stared up at her for a moment, then said,
"Surely you know that I've canceled all shore
leave privileges for the crew?"
"Yes, but I'd like to go anyway."
Picard was not given to prying into her personal
affairs. He grimaced before he asked, "For
what purpose?"
"I'd like to see an old ... acquaintance."
Guinan had been about to say friend, but too much time
had passed for her to make that assumption.
"I see." From the thoughtful expression on his
face, she realized that he had made the connection
very quickly. "Very well, Guinan. You have my
permission for shore leave."
"Thank you, Captain."
Just as she reached the doorway of the ready room,
Picard added, "When I first saw Camenae, I
had the distinct feeling that we had met before. Now
I realize that I was mistaken; instead, she
reminded me of someone I already know."
She smiled and slipped quietly out of the
room.

As soon as he was alone again, Picard picked
up the book he had been reading and resumed his
study of its contents.
Surak ... Ishaya ... Garamond ...
J'ross ...
Familiar names and places met him at every
turn of a page, yet the factual details of the
pre-Reform era were difficult to separate from
legend. Several dry accounts of Surak's
life contradicted the possibility of his stark
walk through the field of dead on the plain of
Ishaya, and only one of his contemporaries had
recounted a version that echoed Picard's dream of that
pivotal moment in the philosopher's life.
The confusion only deepened after the exodus from
Vulcan. T'Sara's foreword warned that her
original sources for early Romulan history
were impossible to confirm through other records. Those
who had spurned the path of logic were the only
witnesses to the taming of their new world and the building
of new empires.
Picard snapped shut the book.
He had found the obvious root of his dreams.
Even though some twenty years had passed since
he had last read this history text, the names must
have remained nestled in his memory. Finding the Ko
N'ya had triggered his imagination to embroider an
unusually elaborate tapestry around them.
Dreams ... they were only dreams.

When Guinan walked into the Due or Die, the
Andorian bartender pointed the way to the back of the
establishment. Each step she took in that
direction filled her with distaste. The lighting was
dim, but not dim enough to hide the scruffy floor and
battered furniture; the few customers
scattered here and there at tables were bent over their
drinks, gazing too intently upon an inner
landscape to notice her. She expected a
challenge from the stocky Norsican guard at the
back, but he stepped aside without comment to let her
pass through a doorway.
The shadowed interior of the next room was bleak
and barren. It prepared her for Camenae's
glacial expression. The woman sat motionless,
with her hands folded together on the tabletop; only a
flicker of Camenae's eyes betrayed any
sign of recognition. She uttered no greeting
to her visitor.
"I get the feeling I was expected," said
Guinan in Federation Standard. She sat down in a
chair that was uncomfortably hard, but then no one
would choose to linger in this room.
"When the Enterprise docked at this starbase,
I considered the possibility of your coming here."
"Then you knew I was working on a Federation
starship?"
"You've been with them for several years," said
Camenae. "Word gets around."
But you didn't call me. "I heard
rumors you were off-planet when the Borg
attacked, but I was never able to confirm that you were still
alive. Or to find you."
"It's a large universe," Camenae said in
a flat voice. "We were scattered apart by the
solar winds." Then she dropped into the language
of their race. "Leaves that have fallen from a tree
do not attach themselves to a branch again."
There was a vestige of lyric poetry in her
words, but her verse had never dealt with images of
death or decay. The woman Guinan remembered
had laughed often; now Camenae's face was carved
in somber, unyielding lines.
Guinan shook her head, warding off the morbid
spell cast her way. "I prefer to think of us as
cuttings from a plant; we will grow tall in new
soil."
Dropping back into Federation Standard, Camenae
countered, "You won't grow at all if you continue
working on a starship like the Enterprise. Wasn't
one encounter with the Borg enough? Why must you persist
in confronting them over and over again?"
"Danger comes with the job."
"And what of this visit? Is it also part of your
job? Did Picard send you here to interrogate
me?"
"No," said Guinan with a weary shake of her
head. "I came because I wanted to see you again."
"How flattering." Camenae smiled, but it was
not a pleasant expression. "I'm not sure that
I believe you. Your captain was curious about the
murder."
"Murder?" said Guinan. "I've heard about
the deaths of the Vulcans on Atropos, but
Picard already knows they were killed by Orion
mercenaries."
"You must not be a very good Listener. One of my
operatives on this starbase was killed as well."
Guinan shrugged away the insult. "That's not the
type of information I seek out, and the ship's
officers don't discuss classified matters with
me, just personal ones."
"There's no profit in mending people's
love lives."
"Is that what you do? Listen for profit?"
"Yes," said Camenae. "And what I hear
is far more interesting than the petty problems of some
homesick ensign."
"So you do know who murdered your--"
"Answering that question would betray a client
confidence, a confidence I have been paid to keep."
"Let me get this straight," said Guinan
incredulousl y. "You won't betray the murderers
and thieves who are crawling over this starbase because
they paid you?"
"My business ethics are the only
principles I have left. I'm loathe to give
them up."
Beneath the cynicism was a kernel of truth that
saddened Guinan enough to bite back any more
recriminations. Instead, she said, "Then I'd like
to become one of your customers."
Camenae laughed with genuine amusement rather than
scorn. "You can't afford me, Guinan. Not on
a bartender's wages."
"My expenses are low; I can pay the debt
off if you'll extend me credit."
Camenae shook her head. "Given your
penchant for hazardous duty, you're a bad
risk."
"Given how often I've survived, I'd
say that luck is on my side, and that I'm a very
sound investment."
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious," said Guinan.
Camenae frowned as she mulled over the
request. "Very well," she said at last, "I will
take you on." Then, with a swift and practiced
motion she flipped three tokens onto the
tabletop. "That's your credit stake. You can keep
asking questions until I take all the coins
back."
There were many questions Guinan wanted answered, but
one above all others. "Tell me about the
Heart."
"What do you know of its history?"
"Enough," said Guinan. "I'm more interested in
current events."
After a pause to order her thoughts, Camenae
recounted what she knew of T'Sara's ten-year
quest on Atropos; then she described the
Vulcan distress call that Grede had brought
to her, the alterations to the message that had
delayed the arrival of the Enterprise, and the
frantic scramble among the Orions and Ferengi
to take possession of T'Sara's discovery.
At the conclusion of her tale, Camenae reached
out one hand and picked up the first token.
"Vulcans can be such fools at times. They may
lack the capacity for greed, but they should remember
how many other races do not."
"Do you know who has the Heart now?" asked
Guinan.
"As fact, no," said Camenae thoughtfully.
"But I can offer a conjecture at a very reasonable
price." Her hand hovered over the next token.
"I'll pay you to keep that conjecture to yourself."
The second token disappeared. "And to keep any
more information you hear about the Heart out of
circulation."
"Exclusivity is hardly worth the expense
at this point," said Camenae. "The news is beyond
recall and spreading quickly."
"All I'm asking is that you don't fan the
flames any further."
"Very well," sighed Camenae. She swept the
last token from the table. "That concludes our
business for today."
It was an abrupt dismissal, but Guinan had
lost all desire to prolong their reunion.
Gathering up the skirts of her robe, she rose
from the table. She said good-bye in their old tongue
and waited for some response from Camenae.
"I won't sell you information about my
clients," said the woman. "But I will offer one
piece of advice as a parting gift. Beware the
race called the unDiWahn. They are more
dangerous than I had judged."
After her warning, she fell silent again.
Guinan left her sitting in the darkness.

By the time the end of Sendei's communiqu`e had
scrolled across the screen of Picard's desk
terminal, the captain was battling down a
substantial tide of anger.
According to Sendei's instructions, the bodies of the
archaeologists and the items salvaged from the
encampment were to be shipped to the Science
Academy. The director himself would then
supervise the distribution of personal effects
to the heirs; all of T'Sara's property,
consisting of the research equipment and the excavated
artifacts, had been willed to the
Academy itself.
Sendei claimed the Heart as part of that
bequest.
Yet the director did not acknowledge the
discovery of the Ko N'ya. His brief reference
implied the stone was merely a curiosity crafted
by the original artisans of the Atropos colony.
"In the absence of medical validation
by Vulcan physicians, I consider it prudent
to accept Sorren's diagnosis of Bendii's
syndrome. Unfortunately, the relic you
recovered from the Ferengi provided T'Sara with a
focus for her delusions."
With typical Vulcan condescension, that one
paragraph summarily discounted Doctor
Crusher's medical evaluations and Picard's
scientific assessment of the stone's origins.
Worse yet, Sendei dismissed T'Sara's
achievement as the product of madness. Given that
interpretation, he expected the Heart to be
packed into a cargo container along with the rest of the
shipment and shuttled from the Enterprise to any
freighter on its way toward Vulcan.
Picard's every instinct argued against this prosaic
conclusion to the starship's mission to Atropos and such
a casual disposal of the Ko N'ya and
T'Sara's remains.
No, I will not do this.
The captain cleared the screen of text and
began to draft yet another communiqu`e
to Admiral Matasu. Sendei's position at
the Academy had gained him prominence in
Starfleet circles; but Picard was not without
influence of his own, and he intended to take full
advantage of it now.

"No, I'm not much of a tea drinker," said
Guinan, waving away the steaming cup.
"Take it anyway," said the captain. "I
find that just the act of holding a cup of Earl
Grey has great therapeutic value."
She couldn't help but smile.
Picard settled down beside her on the sofa, and
they sipped the hot tea in silence. Guinan had
never lingered in the ready room before; she had always
thought of it as Picard's office, a place of
business, but now she realized that it could also serve
as a safe harbor from turmoil. The window behind the
captain's desk offered a miniature version of the
panoramic view in Ten-Forward, and for a
while Guinan loosed her mind to wander idly from
one star to another. The plush sofa eased the tension
in her body, and Picard's undemanding
companionship eased other deeper and less
obvious aches.
"She's not the first to change so drastically from the
person I knew before," said Guinan at last.
"It affects some of my people that way. The loss of
our families, our world, everything that we were, is
simply too great a pain to bear. A part of them
withers away, and they turn dry and bitter."
"You, however," said Picard softly, "chose
to embrace life."
"That's my way of honoring the dead ... perhaps
even of mourning for them."
She had been born to a race of Listeners and
had spent centuries honing her skills, but right
now she needed someone to listen to her. Picard sat
quietly as she recalled memories of
Camenae as a girl, then as a young woman
maturing into an accomplished poet, andofa friendship
that had seemed strong enough to last a lifetime.
And then Guinan told him of Camenae's
warning.
Picard set down his cup and moved to the ready
room desk. Picking up the Heart, he said,
"I welcome the information, but I don't think there
is any need for concern about these unDiWahn.
We'll be leaving Starbase 193, and this
sector, very soon."
"You've received new mission orders?"
"No, I've requested permission to divert the
Enterprise to Vulcan." He seemed to be
speaking to the Heart when he said, "We're taking
T'Sara home."

CHAPTER 15

DaiMon Tork twirled the heavy ring on the
third finger of his left hand as he calculated its
worth and what percentage of that figure he could
actually obtain for it at the open bazaar.
Not enough.
A cut-rate sale of his entire payload
had just managed to pay off his portion of the
consortium debt, but he had been left without
sufficient funds to continue docking his Marauder
at Starbase 193. The last of his fuel had
brought him to Smelter's Hold, only to find that
the news of Maarc's debacle had
preceded him. No one was willing to extend him
credit to purchase new stock, for nothing scared
away old associates so fast as financial
failure.
Cursed be the day that Maarc had drawn him
into that transaction with Camenae!
"You eat too much of my food," Tork said,
lashing out at his first officer. Kazago was perched
on a pile of boxes containing the last of their
personal possessions and some items too
worthless to be sold. He was crunching his way through
one of the ration packets they had scrounged from the
ship's emergency stores.
"It's not as if I like this food," said
Kazago with sullen impertinence. "But you haven't
paid me any wages for a month, DaiMon, so
I can't afford to buy anything else to eat." He
resumed his crunching.
"Enough of your complaints. I'll think of
something; I always do."
Tork peered out the grimy window of the
stockroom. Now he was in debt for a day's
rental of this space, and the means of paying off even
that pittance had eluded him so far; however, the
bazaar down below was filled with customers spending
money. There must be a way to siphon some of those
funds back into his own coffers.
That was when he saw them two Vulcans
walking side by side down an aisle sporting
used engineering parts. Traders by the look of them.
Vulcans usually stayed within the boundaries of
Federation space, but this pair probably had been
detoured to the Hold by an engine malfunction.
Even before Tork had formulated a plan, his
instincts had centered on them as an essential
element to recouping his fortune.
A scheme began to gel in his mind.
"Did we sell that universal text
translator?" Tork asked his first officer.
"No, DaiMon."
The details clicked into place. It was,
he concluded, a workable plan. Best of all, if
it failed with the Vulcans, he could rework it to use
on another alien race.
"If you ever hope to receive your wages,
Kazago, keep those two Vulcans in sight and
guard them from the crooks and thieves on this
outpost. They're our prey."
Throwing aside his half-eaten food packet,
Kazago raced out of the room; Tork
pulled out the translator and a wri ting padd and
began to compose a letter.
Ten minutes later, the DaiMon had finished
constructing his first prop; the other he already had in
inventory. He ripped the printout from the padd and
scurried down the staircase to the bazaar.
Kazago was hovering nearby and pointed Tork in
the right direction. To his relief, the Vulcans
had drifted even closer to his stall.
"You! Vulcans! I would speak with you."
"As you wish," said one, and they both came to a
halt. Their unadorned tunics reeked of
spice and grain.
"Vulcans are honorable, that is what I have
always been told. So, like a fool, I believed
this myth; I trusted a Vulcan when I wouldn't
trust my own grandmother. But one of your kind has
tried to dupe me! He owes me a king's
ransom and paid for it with a worthless bauble."
"What is this to do with us?"
They had listened to his ranting with more patience and
civility than he had dared hope, but it was time
to present the bait and see if they were hungry.
"This note," he shook the printout in their
faces, "supposedly explains his perfidy, but
it is written in Vulcan!"
"I see," said the taller one with a solemn
nod. "You have need of a translation."
"Brilliant deduction," exclaimed Tork
with an acid sneer. "Your rapier mind should bring
you much wealth and happiness." In his experience,
sarcasm and verbal abuse disarmed suspicion
by misdirection watch my temper, not your
purse.
He shoved the flimsy into the hands of Short
Trader. "Tell me! What do those ridiculous
squiggles mean?"
The two bent their heads together and scanned the
text. After an exchange of veiled glances,
Short Trader spoke.
"It is addressed to DaiMon Tork. "I
lack the funds to honor my debt at this time, so
I have sent a family heirloom as a bond of
my good faith. The item itself has little value, but
my family holds it in great esteem." It is
signed by one named Suprell."
Got them! exulted Tork to himself. The
message he had forged clearly stated that the debt
was paid in full with the Ko N'ya. So, as he
suspected, even Vulcans had their
price; everyone did.
"What am I to do?" Tork stormed,
presenting his marks with the opportunity to take
advantage of him. "I need funds, not
promises."
"You have not been misled, DaiMon," said
Tall Trader. "We Vulcans are an
honorable race, as I will prove to you.
Suprell's family is known to me, and I will
redeem the heirloom and assume his debt."
"Excellent!" Tork beamed happily. For
all their much vaunted intelligence, Vulcans were
an absurdly naive race when it came
to practical matters. He would have to pursue more
business transactions with them in the future.
"Come this way, come this way, so that we can arrange
this matter in private."
He grabbed the sleeve of the nearest trader and
led them both through the crowds and up the narrow
staircase to the rented stockroom. The soft
snick of the door closing behind them was like the teeth
of a trap snapping shut.
After throwing off the boxes that covered a large
chest, the DaiMon made a great show of fussing
with the lock and then rummaging through the jumbled contents.
His hands closed around a large round shape.
"Ah, here it is!"
When Tork turned around with the synthetic gem in
his hands, he immediately realized his mistake.
Vulcans did not smile, yet both of these
men were smiling broadly. Then Tork saw the
Romulan-issue disrupters they were slipping out from
behind their cloaks.
Their trap, not mine.

The house in the Old Quarter was still standing after
five centuries, proof of the skill of the
architect who had designed its massive
chambers and sprawling wings. In the beginning it had
been grandly furnished, but each succeeding generation
had stripped away its treasures room by room
to slow the pace of their slide down into poverty.
Eventually, all that remained of past glory and
past wealth was the house itself.
Tonight a young warrior strode through the cold,
empty halls. Despite the reversal of his
family's fortune, he carried his wiry frame
with a strutting arrogance that was the equal of any
Klingon on the planet of Kronos. Passing
by the foot of a wide spiraling
staircase, he ducked down a shadowed
corridor that led to the warmth and light of the
servant's hall.
The last servant had left long ago; the old
man who waited for him inside was the master of the
house. Kruger sat hunched over a low trestle
table, too absorbed in his dinner to look up at
the sound of the opening door.
"She's dead," announced the warrior.
There could be only one "she."
The old man tore another mouthful of meat from
the joint of beast. He chewed. He spat a
piece of gristle onto the bare floor.
"Fifty years ago I would have cared."
Kruger's grandson sat down at the table, but
he did not pluck any food from the platter.
There was little to spare, and he would eat better fare
elsewhere at the expense of wealthy sycophants
in awe of his ancient lineage. "According to security
reports circulating in high Federation
circles, she was killed by Orion smugglers."
"Did you learn this from your cousin?" Kruger
spat out the last word with even greater distaste than
he had the gristle.
"Grandfather, Ambassador Nedec has access
to classified documents, and according to those
documents--"
"Nedec is a toady to that upstart Gowron,"
shouted the old man. "Nedec throws you favors like
scraps to a targ. You, who should be .his emperor!"
He threw the chewed bone onto the floor. "After
my death, of course."
"According to those documents," persisted Kruger's
heir, "the Ferengi were also involved with
T'Sara's death."
"Meddlesome Vulcan crone! Your father was a
fool to talk to her, revealing what should only be
known to the Family."
The young man shouted back into his face.
"You're the fool!" His impudence won a moment
of silence and his grandfather's undivided attention.
"Don't you see? She found something, something that
both the Orions and the Ferengi wanted. Something that
the Enterprise is carrying back to Vulcan."
"The Pagrashtak?"
"Yes, Grandfather. I think it must be."
Kruger took a swig from a tankard of ale.
His close-set eyes were slitted in thought. "So,
perhaps your father was not so much the fool as I
believed."
"I think not. After all, she kept her word and
did not publish the account of Kessec's disgrace
in her texts. Instead, it seems she used the knowledge
of his actions to trace the path of the Pagrashtak."
"Our Pagrashtak," said Kruger firmly.
"Yes, Grandfather. I will see to that personally."

Diat Manja wept at the news of
T'Sara's death.
Nearly sixty years had passed since she
had last set foot in this room, yet there were
reminders of her presence everywhere he looked.
Her textbooks and monographs were scattered
throughout his bookshelves, along with bound volumes
of their correspondence. She had sat for hours in
this carved wood chair beside his desk, leafing through his
translations; at other times she had nestled in the
deep bay window to soak up the warmth of the sun as
she read. He could open any of those
manuscripts and find her scribbled notes in the
margin of a page.
So few of the Iconian Dream texts had
survived from ancient times; if there had been more,
perhaps she would have stayed longer.
Most Dynasians on campus had been
vaguely repulsed by the offworlder with an unadorned
forehead and pale green skin, so young Diat had
been the only scholar in his department who
volunteered to help with her research. Unlike the
others, he had been moved by her intensity of
purpose and her complete disinterest in the opinion
others held of her; both were qualities that he
lacked.
His hands reached for the tails of the tattered scarf
draped around his neck, and his fingers stroked the rough
weave as if caressing the face of a lover. The
scarf was made of a sturdy Vulcan fabric, and
T'Sara had worn it throughout her visit because even
during a heat wave the Dynasian summer was
colder than Vulcan's winter. For years
Manja had wondered if she left it behind
by accident or by design. Vulcans were
unsentimental by nature, yet she had fathomed the
emotions of the beings in a multitude of
cultures; and if she had suspected his love for
her, then she had saved a poor young professor
from humiliation by tactfully ignoring that fact.
After her departure from Dynasia, he had
worshiped her from afar and taken what comfort he could
from the letters they exchanged. Some would
consider that meager fare, yet this meeting of minds
exceeded any pleasure he had ever found in the
arms of his consort.
Now there would be no more letters.
Three days ago he had sent an urgent
message to T'Sara telling her of a lost
Iconian scroll that had been discovered in the
archival vaults of the Flight Engineering
library. The star map had been improperly
cataloged as a technology-related text
until one of Manja's former students stumbled
upon it and recognized it as part of the Dream series
he had studied in a literature class.
However, T'Sara had already died before the news
reached her, and one of her colleagues had answered
instead.
The professor reached for the crumbled
communiqu`e that had arrived just an hour ago and
smoothed out the creases. Through eyes still fogged
by tears, Manja read the short message one more
time. Like a typical Vulcan, Sendei had
reported the tragedy in terse, dry language;
yet, upon this second reading, Manja realized the
double tragedy in the scientist's account of
T'Sara's death.
The members of the Vulcan Science Academy
did not even recognize T'Sara's greatest
achievement! The director believed she had died
in the first stages of madness.
"No!" cried out Diat Manja. "They must
honor her success. After a century of searching,
she found the Ko N'ya, the Gem of Ancient
Iconia. I will see to it that the entire Federation
learns the trtth of her discovery!"
Then he slumped back into his chair, his skin
flushing to an indigo hue from embarrassment at his
outburst.
How could he possibly keep this vow? He was
a tired, old man with no influence, even on
Dynasia. Professors of ancient
literature were held in low esteem on a world that
hungered for technological sophistication.
Besides, T'Sara herself would have cared little about her
reputation.
Yet she had always championed the quest for
truth.
Diat Manja took up a pen from his
desktop. It was the only weapon he could
wield, so he would have to wage this campaign with
words.
There was one person on Dynasia who might have
the power to call attention to this issue, one who was in
constant communication with members of the Federation
Council; and while Manja had no influence with the
warden, one of Manja's former students was now the
man's secretary. Ganin would see to it that
Warden Chandat read this letter, and then surely
Chandat would see to it that justice was done.
Manja began to write.

CHAPTER 16

A cushioned sofa was positioned only a few
steps away from his desk, but Picard had waited
too long to seek out its comforts. Sleep, held
at bay for hours, suddenly swept over him,
robbing him of the strength or desire to move.
The book he had been reading fell from numbed
fingers onto the desktop. Shoving the volume
to one side, he dropped his head down into the
cradle of his arms and released his hold on
consciousness.
The sound of the captain's breathing could barely be
heard, and his body moved imperceptibly with the
steady rise and fall of his chest. The fingers of one
hand twitched until they brushed against the rough
surface of the Heart, then they stilled their
movement.
As time passed, overhead lights dimmed
automatically, tricked into quiescence by the still
silence of the room. In the darkness, the gray rock
came to life with an inner glow that dipped and
flickered like the flame of a candle.
The man's lips began to move, framing alien
words.
"This one is ..."

"... is dead," said Telev automatically,
yet when he looked up there was no one to hear his
pronouncement.
The nearest aide was at the far end of the ward
passing out bowls of soup to those strong enough to feed
themselves. If there was time, and food enough to go around, she
would try to help the weaker ones eat. The woman
stopped ladling for a moment, wracked by a chesty
cough, and Telev suspected that before too long he
would find her lying on one of the cots herself. He
only hoped there would be someone left to bring her
food by then.
The healer turned back to the dead
man. A cursory search of the body confirmed that
it carried no identification beyond a clan scarf.
Telev studied the vaguely familiar pattern,
but his mind was so numbed with fatigue that the answer
was slow in coming.
Ah, yes, Assan.
There had been three family members attending
an Assan in the ward just last week ... weavers
by trade ... too poor to leave the city, but not
too poor to pay for hospice treatment. Telev
took a closer look at the puffy face of the
man and recognized him as one of those three. So
there were probably no Assan left alive or
they would be here at this bedside.
Telev draped the scarf over the young man's
throat. Eventually someone would come along and haul
the body outside for the next passing death cart.
They rumbled through the streets at all hours now,
piled high with corpses, carrying their load to the
funeral kilns that burned day and night to keep
up with the victims of the Scourge.
Telev moved on to the next bed, where two
sleeping children were huddled together as if for warmth.
Chills and a creeping cold over the
extremities were the first sign of the pestilence, but
perhaps they only sought the comfort of each other's
embrace. He listened to the steady sound of their
intertwined breathing and was relieved that their lungs were
still clear; their skin was still a pale blue, free of
any mottled dark patches. By all rights, they were
too well to merit space in the hospice, and the
continued confinement put them at risk of contracting
the Scourge, but as orphans he feared they would
roam the streets of Andor until they starved or
fell ill. There were more ways to die than from
pestilence.
The condition of the last patient on the row was not so
promising. The healer had known Evalla since
childhood, had watched a quicksilver girl grow
into a graceful young woman who had danced the
sissalya cycles at the last fall
solstice. Now, however, her white hair had
turned as yellow as a grandmother's and her once
agile frame was stiff and bloated. Telev
perched on the edge of her cot to examine her more
closely. Air whistled in and out of her jointed
antennae, an indication of their inflamed interior;
her complexion had deepened to purple.
"She won't eat," said Shaav, the woman's
consort. He held a half-eaten
chunk of bread and carefully picked at the
scattered crumbs that had fallen from her mouth
onto the bed.
"It hurts to swallow," she said, gasping for
breath. "I've gotten worse, haven't I?"
"Yes, quite a bit worse." Telev knew of
several herbs that could at least ease her pain, but
he had used up the last of them long ago, and there
was no one left in the hospice who had time
to search the countryside for more or even possessed
the knowledge of where to find them.
"Am I dying?"
"Yes." In the beginning, Telev had offered
hope to any who needed it. False hope. Most
of the patients had died, as had those who mourned
them. He had no strength left for telling
untruths.
Evalla managed a weak smile. "I
haven't paid my reckoning, Healer."
"You're in luck. Our collector is out
sick today."
Shaav did not react to their words; he was too
intent on salvaging crumbs. He had keened
loudly when his mother died last month and railed at
the death of his young sister soon after, then watched in
silence as his father, two brothers, and a cousin were
carried to the kilns in rapid succession. He
took meticulous care of his sworn consort, but
he talked very little these days.
As Telev rose back to his feet, an
old woman scurried down the central aisle
of the ward. She spotted him immediately, the only
standing figure in a sea of recumbent forms.
"I need a bed for my son," she demanded in a
voice that was loud enough to rise above the moans and
cries of the sick.
The healer pointed toward the dead Assan.
True, there would be no time to change the laying
cloths, but then Telev doubted there were any clean
ones to be had. "If you dispose of the former
occupant, that place is yours."
"Fair trade," she said with satisfaction, and
scurried away to summon assistance in the chore.
A new patient.
And when he was done with this one, there would be another
one, and yet another after that as the dead were carried
away and the dying took their place. So much to be
done but so little that he could do.
Telev fled the ward.
All available rooms, even those that
had once served as studies and bedrooms for the
healers, had been turned over to the care of the
sick. Nonetheless, he had managed to keep one
small closet reserved for his own use as a
refuge. There was just enough space for a narrow cot, but
he had given that up yesterday, along with the last of
his extra shirts. All that remained was a hard
pallet on the floor. The supplies that had
been stored here were also gone.
Except for a canister of talla bark. It
had no medicinal value and normally just was used
to fill the stomach before a purge, nonetheless he still
experienced a sharp pang of guilt for hoarding it
away from others.
Telev opened the canister and measured out a
small quantity of the dry flakes into the cup of
steaming water he had snatched off a passing soup
wagon. After a minute of steeping, too
impatient to wait any longer, he eagerly
sipped the hot brew.
Ah, that brings warmth back to my chilled
...
Yes, his hands were cold and the air, so balmy
for the last few weeks, seemed unusually biting
tonight.
So be it. Even healers must die.
He took another gulp of the bark potion. It
was a poor substitute for tea, but it was the only
indulgence left to him. If only this were srjula
that he held in his hands, but the wealthy merchants
had fled the city at the first news of the spreading
plague. If there was any tea left in Andor,
it was locked in warehouses awaiting the return of
owners and customers with the money to pay for their
merchandise.
I'll probably never taste srjula
again.
A small window in the outside wall of the
closet afforded a view of the city below, bathed in
the orange light of the setting sun. He leaned his
forehead against the glass and searched for signs of
life people walking in the streets, lights springing
up in houses, or even just the flutter of newly
washed clothes hanging out to dry. Here and there he
caught some reassuring indication that survivors
endured, but they were very few in a city that once
held a half million inhabitants.
He scanned the horizon as well, looking
for the trails of smoke that had curled around the
mountaintops for the past few days, but they
seemed to have finally dissipated. Rumors of vast
fires beyond the ridge were impossible to confirm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rapping on the door was soft with apology.
Telev crossed the room in two steps and
peered out into the corridor. "What is it,
Sathev?" The aide had been a patient, one of the
few to recover from the Scourge, but his face had
been so badly scarred by his illness that he had
chosen to stay in the hospice.
"There's someone at the south door asking to see
the healer in charge of n ew admissions."
Telev laughed at the absurdity of such a
formal request. Admissions procedures had
collapsed when the healers themselves began to sicken and
die.
"Well, I tried to explain how it is," said
Sathev wearily. "But she was very insistent."
"Do not bother yourself further. I shall deal with it."
Some people, reflected Telev as he shuffled his
way to the portal, had a remarkable ability
to deny reality. The world they had all known was
rotting away, yet they clung stubbornly to the
old ways.
A woman and two men were waiting for him at the
south entrance. At their feet lay a body
wrapped in stained laying cloths; he would have
mistaken the unmoving bundle for a corpse if not
for the sound of a muffled groan.
"I am Viloff," said the woman, and lifted
a lantern up to show her face. She was dressed
in a nondescript tunic made from the sturdy
cloth favored by the craft-trades, but her bearing
was not that of a common worker; rather she held herself alert
and erect, with one arm swung loosely by her
side where it could reach up to her belt knife.
"We need a room for our friend. He is very
ill."
"We have no rooms, but in an hour or so we
may have a cot."
"That will not do. He needs privacy. Now."
He saw her weight shift ever so slightly as
her hand fluttered upward toward the weapon.
"You can gut me here on the steps, but that will not
gain you any space inside; it will simply make
a mess."
"Enough!" she said. "Take me to your
superior."
That placed her and her silent companions without
question.
"What is your rank, Viloff?" asked the
healer.
"You see too much, old man."
"And you are a foolish young woman, even if you
are a soldier." Telev rubbed his hands to ease
the stiffness in his finger joints. "There are no other
healers. I am the last one."
"The last one ..." she echoed. Her bravado
collapsed like a leaking water-skin. "I was
Subcommander Viloff last week, but for all I
know now, I could be a battalion admiral. The
plague hit the camps last month, and then there was
an attack ... we've traveled for two days
without seeing another officer."
"Bring your friend into the wards," said Telev,
impatient to escape the cold air. "I will care
for him."
Viloff shook her head, danced a few steps
of indecision, then grabbed his sleeve, dragging him
over to the bundle. Bending down, she drew
aside a fold of cloth.
Telev saw enough in the circle of lantern
light to grant her demand.
"You can use my room," he said, beckoning
them inside the hospice.
Viloff's two subordinates hoisted up the
awkward bundle, ignoring a new spate of
groans that issued forth, and followed the healer to the
closet. There wasn't enough room for the entire
group, but the men seemed eager to leave the matter
to their commander; they stepped back into the corridor and
stood like sentinels on either side of the door.
Viloff set the lamp on a high shelf.
Telev crouched down by the pallet andwitha
trembling hand pulled away the rough covers. He
had taken the damp patches for blood until he
saw their deep green color.
"Where did you find ..." He had no words
to describe what lay before him.
"We were attacked," said Viloff. "In
flying ships that rival anything to be found on
Andor. Our offensive weapons had no effect
on them; in a matter of hours they laid waste
to our forces in the western province. Then, as if
by a miracle, their defensive shields seemed
to collapse and one by one we were able to pick them
off. I searched the wreckage, but this was the only
survivor."
By now, the healer had completely unwrapped the
alien creature. Even without a healthy
specimen for comparison, it was obvious that its
legs were broken; the skin covering its midsection
was lacerated, the underlying muscles and organs
torn and bleeding; scrapes and bruises covered
the rest of its torso and arms.
"Ugly creatures, aren't they?" said
Viloff. "The others, the dead ones, looked like
this, too."
"I strive to find beauty in all living
beings." Although in this case, Telev admitted
to himself, he would have to try very hard. Even if one
could overlook the peculiar dark hair and olive
skin color, the alien's jutting forehead and
atrophied auditory organs were quite disconcerting.
Its naked body, when compared to that of an
Andorian, was thick-framed and squat; and the
sexual organs, if that was indeed their purpose,
were in an absurdly vulnerable location.
"I am the Emperor Vitellius!"
Telev twitched and rotated his antennae
away from the sound. The alien's voice was
uncomfortably loud, and the strange language was
hardened by a clipped accent and too many
consonants.
"I shall lead the Romulan people to victory."
The alien's limbs trembled, but it was too
weak to even raise itself. Telev noted that its
eyes were not focused, and it had not reacted to their
presence. In an Andorian, these symptoms would
accompany eadiliac failure, but this species
probably did not even possess an
eadilium.
"You will surrender to me or die!" The
raving and shouting were incomprehensible.
He guessed that the alien had lost a considerable
quantity of the green liquid, but the healer couldn't
replace the volume. The standard treatment of an
infusion of water might kill rather than cure.
"There's nothing I, or any healer, can do for this
creature. It will die before I've learned enough about
its biology to treat it."
"Too bad," said Viloff. "There is much we
need to know about our new enemies."
Telev knelt closer to continue his examination.
With a start, he realized that the creature was finally
making eye contact.
"Let me go! I command you, let me go!"
Its hands were clutching at its side, digging in
the rumpled laying cloth. Viloff explained the
action with a rather apologetic sigh. "It
carries some sort of talisman, a clan token
perhaps, harmless. We tried to remove the thing when the
alien was first found, but it held fast and wouldn't
let go. Of course, it was stronger then."
"You must obey me, or the Ko N'ya will
destroy you."
The alien suddenly lifted up a gray stone and
shook it at them. It was an impressive display
of strength for a being so near death.
"Surrender! I cannot be defeated."
The effort was short-lived; the creature
collapsed back onto the bed as if drained of
all strength.
"I am ... the Emperor ..."
The alien's voice dropped to a weak whisper,
and it shut its peculiar dark eyes. Pressing a
finger against the short neck, Telev monitored the
fluttering pulse and wondered whether the rate was
too high or too low, and what he could do about it
even if he knew the answer.
The fluttering stopped altogether.
"It's dead," said Telev. All that remained
of this strange being was the simple relic it had
carried from its distant homeworld. Curious,
Telev plucked the object from the alien's
slack hands. "A superstitious race," mused
the healer as he examined the rough stone. It was
warm, apparently heated by the fevered body of its
owner.
"We shall have to carry the body to the kilns
ourselves," said Viloff. She stepped to the door and
ordered the men to the task.
"Skae!" cursed one of the soldiers as they
roughly bound up the corpse again. "I still reek of
its gore."
"Forget what you've seen here tonight, Healer,"
said the commander. "Andor has enough worries of its
own."
"Who would believe me?" He held up the
stone. "What of this?"
But the soldiers were already gone, faded into the
shadows of the night. The only proof of their brief
visit was the ruined pallet on the floor.
And the stone.
It was still warm, easing the painful throbbing in his
hands, and in the darkness its dull surface seemed
to glitter and sparkle. So this and the cold cup of
tea were his only remaining comforts, yet they were like a
bounty of riches in the midst of devastation.
Tucking the alien talisman in the
crook of his arm, Telev carried the canister of
talla with him to the wards. Sathev was able to steep
five cups of weak tea from the contents and pass
them around to the few patients who were still awake. A
soft word, a gentle caress, these were the only
weapons Telev had left to fight the ravages
of plague, but he gave these away to all, even
those who slept through his visitation.
By the time he had finished his rounds of the
hospice, he was overcome with such a deep
weariness that he could not go one step farther, but sank
down onto the flagstone floor and curled around the
fiery glow of the stone. He felt as if all his
strength, all his life, was seeping away.
Must the knot untie so soon?
As he waited for the final dissolution of his bond
with the world, Telev heard the sound of laughter and the
skipping steps of children running. He knew without
seeing that all who had lain dying were now risen from
their beds; that Evalla was dancing through the
corridors, and Shaav was singing a triumphant
ballad about her miraculous recovery; that
Sathev was weeping at the feel of smooth skin on
his face, and Avae had stopped coughing.
I seem to have borrowed a little luck from the
stars.
If his life had blazed to its end that much
sooner as a result of the talisman's powers, it
was still a fair trade. He was a healer, after
all.
Eager hands reached out to pull him into the circle
of celebration, but he slipped away before they could
touch him.

CHAPTER 17

The yellow DiWahn sun had not risen above
the horizon, but King Akhanatos was already
awake when a court aide sidled into his
bedchamber.
"Your Highness, a visitor to the palace
desires a private audience with you." Before
Akhanatos could dismiss the request, the aide
added, "He is unDiWahn."
The king quickly nodded assent, and the servant
scurried out of the room. The curtains of the
doorway had ba rely stopped swinging from his
passage when a stranger stepped back through the
entrance. The heavy cowl that covered his head cast a
shadow on his face, but Akhanatos
recognized the stately bearing of Master
Kierad@an.
The king rose from his couch to greet the robed
emissary. Tradition reserved this gesture of
respect for the landed nobility. As one of the
stateless unDiWahn, this man owned no
territories, but he was the leader of the Faithful and
thus as powerful as any king.
"Well met, Akhanatos," said the
unDiWahn. With the arrogance typical of his
fellows, he did not bow, nor did he address
Akhanatos by any of his honorifics.
"You honor me with your presence." The king was
relieved that they were alone so none of his other
subjects would witness his meek acceptance of this
disrespect. He owed the order too great a
financial debt to act on his displeasure now, but
he noted the incident for retribution at some
later date.
"I bring you word from Admiral Jakat."
Upon hearing that name, Akhanatos felt his first
tremor of suspicion. "What do you mean? My
fleet admiral speaks directly to me."
"No longer." Kierad@an spread wide his
arms as if to welcome someone into his embrace.
"Jakat's true name is Daramad@an. He
belongs to the Order of the Faithful and serves only
the memory of our Iconian ancestors."
"Do not play games with me, unDiWahn!"
Akhanatos was beyond hiding his alarm. "On this
morning of all mornings, I have no patience for
your mystic intrigues."
"Ah, yes. Today you were to launch your offensive
against the Kingdom of Roshamel."
His impulse to deny the truth collided with his
fear of having been discovered. Choked into silence,
Akhanatos listened aghast as the unDiWahn
outlined the assault plans that the king had
delivered in person to Jakat three nights before.
"If you may remember," continued
Kierad@an, "your agreement with my order was that the
ships would be used for peace, not war. The
Iconian lore in our stewardship is preserved
for the benefit of all of DiWahn, not the
advancement of one of its petty fiefdoms. You have
broken that covenant and betrayed our laws."
"You want peace?" said Akhanatos,
recovering his pride and his tongue. "Only the
unDiWahn can afford that dream. I paid a heavy
price for your holy knowledge, and I paid even
more for the construction of the fleet itself. Did you really
think I would bankrupt my coffers to benefit my
enemies?"
"No," the master said with an enigmatic
smile, "you have acted just as we expected. Thus,
as a penalty for your transgressions against the
Faithful, we claim possession of the fruit which
was born of our knowledge."
"So, you are turning my own troops against
me." Akhanatos finally fathomed the bitter
depths of his gullibility. First they had led him
into ruinous debt; now they were taking away the means
for recouping his fortunes in war; and finally they would
grind his kingdom into dust with his own weapons.
To the king's surprise, Kierad@an shook his
head. "Jakat is no traitor, and we have no
interest in taking your territory from you. Instead, the
admiral is preparing to pursue a mission of our
choosing. If you are still here upon the fleet's
return, we will meet again to discuss the terms of
its future use."
"If I am still ..." The question faded as
Akhanatos answered it for himself.
Of course, once Roshamel learned of the
fleet's departure, he would attack while
Akhanatos was vulnerable. Both of their ground
troops were roughly equivalent in strength, which
meant any victory would be hard won. The
surviving kingdom would be forced to deal with the
unDiWahn from a position of weakness.
"I can still best you in this game." Akhanatos
sneered in the master's face to show his disdain for the
order's devious political strategies.
"Be forewarned. If I make peace with
Roshamel, both our kingdoms will thrive."
"We would applaud such a rational action, King
Akhanatos," said Kierad@an. "May your
opponents always match you in wisdom."
After honoring the king with a low bow of respect,
the unDiWahn emissary turned and swept out
of the chamber.

To Kanda Jiak's relief, Davenport
Terminal was smaller than Starbase 75 and far
less crowded. After winding his way out of the docking
bays, he found that a single dome contained all the
passenger operations.
Stepping up to a ticket counter, the Iconian
shoved his identity chip into a scan slot. "I'd
like to purchase a one-way passage
to DiWahn."
"DiWahn!" The Benzite clerk uttered a
barking laugh. He ejected the chip and shoved it
back at Jiak. "Out of the question. Even under the
best of circumstances, DiWahn is
off-limits to unauthorized Federation citizens.
The entire planet is politically unstable."
"But I--"
"And the best of circumstances no longer exist,"
said the clerk. He sniffed loudly, inhaling the
vapors of the atmospheric inhaler suspended under
his chin.
"But I--"
"All traffic into and out of the system has been
suspended indefinitely. If we had a
diplomatic relationship with the planet, which we do
not, it would have been severed this morning."
"This morning?" asked Jiak, dismayed to have
missed his opportunity by such a slim margin.
"What happened this morning?"
"That is none of your concern," snapped the
Benzite. He waved aside the vapors from his
face and peered at the young man's face. "According
to your bio credentials, you are a resident of
Redifer III ... but you bear a passing
resemblance to a DiWahn native."
"I do?" cried Jiak. In his excitement,
he paid no attention to the figure that had moved up
beside him.
"Yes, quite a resemblance," repeated the
clerk, and Jiak belatedly recognized the
man's suspicion.
"It's just a coincidence," said Del sternly.
The freighter captain shoved herself between Jiak and the
counter. "Come on, Kanda. You've overstayed your
welcome. This clerk has other customers in need
of his attention."
"Indeed I do!" said the Benzite. Like most of
his race, he disliked having his bureaucratic
routine disrupted.
Del clamped her hand around Jiak's upper
arm and jerked him away.
"Let me go." She had no business trailing
after him, thought Jiak angrily. He was not some
orphaned child in need of a guardian angel. "I
can take care of myself."
"Quiet down," the captain muttered under her
breath, "or you'll end up in a detention cell."
Her warning stopped him from crying out again, but he
still struggled against her iron grip. Not that
it did him any good. Del had dragged him to the
other side of the Davenport terminal before Jiak
managed to free himself.
"I'm still shorthanded on the Haverford," said the
captain. "I could use you on my next tour."
Jiak rubbed gingerly at the sore muscles of
his arm. His disappointment at being shut out of
DiWahn hurt much more. "This was just my first stop.
I'm going to Dynasia next."
"What! That godforsaken place is a
trillion light years away from here."
Despite her exaggeration of the distance involved,
Del jabbed her hand to a specific spot just to the
left of his head. Jiak had no doubt that
Dynasia could be found by traveling beyond the tip of
her finger; the freighter captain had an uncanny
memory for all the backroad planets in the
galaxy.
"I don't care how far away it is," he
said sullenly. "That's where I'm going next."
"Then you haven't got the brains of a Meegan
glowworm." When he remained silent, she heaved
a deep sigh. "The Marshall is docked in
Bay 3. Find First Officer Conrad, and tell
him I sent you. His freight run will get you
to Hayhurst Junction, which is the closest
Federation outpost to Dynasia. After that, you're on
your own again."
Jiak's face flushed with shame at having
resented her interference. "Thanks, Captain."
"Only members of my crew call me
captain," said the woman. "My friends call me
Del." She wrapped the boy in her arms,
squeezed the air out of his lungs with the strength of
her hug, then stalked away without a backward
glance.
Thanks, Del.
He almost changed his mind and ran after her, but the
impulse faded with the thought of setting foot on
Dynasia. Eager to secure his next berth,
Jiak settled his pack securely on his
shoulders and headed back toward the docking bays.

CHAPTER 18

"Engage."
In Riker's mind, that simple word was
inextricably intertwined with the basso pulse of the
starship engines and a dazzling starburst of warp
light on the viewscreen. A feeling of
suppressed excitement was underscored by Picard's
crisp declamation; he never issued that order in
an offhand manner.
"At current warp speed," announced
Data, "our estimated arrival at Vulcan will
be in three point six days."
Picard never even slouched when he occupied the
captain's chair. At his most relaxed, he
might cross his legs and lean back. Today,
Riker noted, the captain had adopted his most
regal carriage, with both feet planted
firmly on the deck and his head held high as he
studied the viewscreen. The very mention of Sarek and
T'Sara's homeworld seemed to trigger this
unconscious show of respect; Picard's only
departure from a formal posture was the crooking of
one arm to hold the Heart.
"I've been to Vulcan several times," said the
first officer, "but I've never had a chance
to actually visit the planet surface. I'm
looking forward to that opportunity now."
When the silence that followed this comment lengthened
uncomfortably, Troi leaned slightly forward from
her position on the other side of Picard.
"Yes, I'm also looking forward to shore leave
there. It should prove to be very interesting, if rather
warm." She spoke to Riker, but her eyes were on
the captain.
Another silence.
"And I'm sure the Vulcan Science
Academy will look forward to our arrival," said
Riker, forging ahead des pite a growing
self-consciousness. He had started this damn
conversation, but he couldn't seem to stop it as
easily. "The Heart is a most unusual--"
"What did you say?" Picard turned to face
his first officer. "What about the Heart?"
"Just that I'm sure the archaeologists at the
Vulcan Science Academy must be very curious
about it. As an historical relic, it should keep
them occupied for quite some time."
Picard reacted to that admittedly banal
statement with a frown. His one free hand tugged at
the hem of his tunic. "Yes, I suppose it
will."
"Isn't that the purpose of this trip?" asked
Troi, and Riker wondered what emotion she
sensed that made this request for clarification necessary.
"To return the artifacts of T'Sara's
excavation to Vulcan?"
"Of course, Counselor," said Picard with a
grimace of impatience. "I was under the
impression I had made that clear during our last
briefing."
Troi nodded, but made no reply.
"In the meantime, it makes a dandy conversation
piece," said Riker with a grin. No one laughed.
"Although, I've noticed that it must be lighter than
it looks. You don't seem to mind its weight."
This was a rather blatant ploy for a chance to at least
touch the stone; except for Data, the captain was
the only one who had held the Heart.
"I hadn't given it much thought," said Picard.
He did not proffer the stone to his curious first
officer, and Riker wondered why Picard had
bothered to bring the stone with him onto the bridge.
To Riker's relief, the next long silence
finally signaled the death of this particular topic of
conversation; but his trepidation returned when he saw
Data swivel around in order to face the command
center.
"Captain, I have completely reassembled and
recalibrated all testing units in my
laboratory, and I have certified that they are in
excellent working order. If I could continue my
examination of the Heart, we could provide the
Academy scientists with valuable baseline
information as to its nature."
"That's a very good point, Mr. Data."
"Thank you, Captain." The android swung
aside the Ops console so that he could stand.
"Don't bother with it now," said Picard.
"I'll deliver the Heart to the lab at the end of
your duty shift."
Data sank back down into his chair.
"Until then," continued the captain, "I have
some historical research of my own to attend to.
Number One, the bridge is yours."
"Aye, Captain."
Riker was actually relieved by Picard's
swift departure from the bridge to his ready
room. This was a new feeling, and not one that the first
officer welcomed.
"He's very tired, Will," said Deanna before he
could even ask her to comment on the captain's state
of mind. "I sense he hasn't been sleeping very
well lately, and that makes him rather edgy."
"The Borg nightmares again?"
Troi paused, then shook her head. "No,
I don't think so. He's not so ...
shaken. Just tired and somewhat distracted."
"Perhaps we should ask our chief medical officer
to prescribe some warm milk at bedtime."
"Warm milk?" asked Data.
Riker hated having to explain his quips to the
android since they always sounded so lame after a
clinical analysis. "That was just a joking
reference to an old remedy for insomnia."
"Ah. Then I might make a similar
reference to using a wrench to regain possession of the
Heart from the captain." The android blinked in
surprise when Riker laughed out loud. "Was that
also funny?" he asked hopefully.
"Yes, it was, Data," said Riker, but his
grin faded when he saw the look of concern on
Troi's face. Apparently the ship's
counselor was not so amused.

As the chief medical officer of the
Enterprise, Beverly Crusher had more than a
passing acquaintance with the methods the crew used
to deal with stress. Some of the more exuberant
attempts at tension-relief resulted in a
visit to sickbay. Miles O'Brien, for
instance, was fond of white-water rafting, and
Deanna Troi tended to eat large
quantities of chocolate; thus the former
occasionally needed muscle and bone regeneration, and the
latter a stern reminder on the importance of a
balanced diet.
Crusher was more inclined to moderation and indulged
herself by dancing in the holodeck with a succession of
computer-generated partners. However, when she was
feeling especially despondent, the doctor ended
up in sickbay as well.
"Are you sure you don't mind updating these
equipment inventories, Dr. Crusher?" asked
the nurse as he held out his data padd.
Lewis was a relatively new staff member,
one who hadn't learned to take quick advantage of
these rare moods.
"I don't mind at all." Crusher whisked
the padd away from the man before he could change his
mind. Two other nurses and a doctor had already
cheerfully provided her with a full day's worth of
mind-numbing busywork projects, the kind she
usually avoided like the plague or foisted off on
some hapless resident who had run out of
patients.
"Well, I really appreciate this
..." Despite his words, Lewis still looked as
if he was waiting for the catch.
"Am I interrupting something important?"
came a voice from the doorway to her office.
"Not at all, Geordi." She waved away
the bewildered nurse and studied the chief engineer as
he walked closer. La Forge showed no obvious
signs of illness; except for an unusually
somber expression, he appeared to be in good
health. "What can I do for you?"
"This isn't a medical matter, Doctor.
I just dropped by to see if you were coming to the poker
game tonight."
Crusher winced with the sudden realization that this was the
source of her bad mood. Odd how she had
managed to avoid this self-knowledge all morning.
Geordi must have seen her reaction, because he
sighed and said, "Look, I'm really sorry about
the last few days. We all know it wasn't your
fault we missed the championship, and I'd
really feel bad if you stopped playing poker just
because we've been acting like jerks."
"Thank you, Geordi," she said with a growing
smile. "As it happens, I have plans for this
evening, but it was very nice to be asked."
"Next time?"
"Definitely."
"Great." Her assurance seemed to ease his
conscience, because he walked out of the office with a much
lighter step.
As the last tatters of her melancholy
evaporated, Crusher shoved aside the temptation
to break her dinner date with the captain so she could
attend the poker game after all. Her vindication
could wait until another time. Besides, she hadn't
seen much of Picard lately and ...
She happened to glance down at her desk, a
desk covered with the mountains of work that she had taken
on, work she no longer had the slightest interest in
doing.
Suddenly the pleasures of this evening lay too
far in the future to even contemplate.

Data heard the sound of heavy footsteps
marching down the curving bridge ramp. There was
only one member of the crew who could overcome the
shock-absorbent qualities of the deck carpet.
"Your duty shift is over ... sir."
Data looked up from the captain's chair that
he had occupied since Riker's
departure from the bridge. The ship's security
chief towered above him. "Thank you, Lieutenant
Worf. I was just waiting for the captain."
Worf glanced over his shoulder at the closed
doors of the ready room. "He is busy."
"Yes, it appears he is preoccupied and
has forgotten our appointment. Perhaps I should
remind--"
The Klingon's bony forehead gathered a new
set of furrows. "One who holds the
Pagrashtak should not be disturbed for trivial
matters ... sir." He shifted his broad
body ever so slightly to block Data's view
of the door. "The captain would be annoyed by an
interruption."
"Then my concerns can wait," decided the
android. Despite the belligerent delivery,
Worf's assessment of the situation was probably
quite accurate.
"As most senior officer present, do you wish
to retain command of the bridge?"
"No." Data rose from the captain's chair.
"I will be heavily involved in computer research
on the aft deck. The conn is yours."
This answer seemed to mollify the Klingon--
his glower softened into a frown--yet Data was
aware that Worf was still watching him as he proceeded
up the ramp to the back of the bridge. It occurred
to the android that Worf could be a bit overzealous in
the execution of his duties, especially where
Captain Picard's welfare was concerned. No
doubt these were admirable qualities in the chief of
security, yet if Data were capable of emotion
he would probably find them extremely
irritating at times.
Taking a seat at an empty science console,
Data changed its display option to a high-speed
scan mode and quickly set to work.
During the last hour of his duty shift, he had
prepared a contingency plan just in case he was
delayed from working directly with the Heart. In the
absence of new test results, he would proceed
under the assumption that the anomalous data he had
gathered was correct, and he would conduct a search
for similar contradictory findings in both
archaeological and geological data bases.
He began by requesting a listing of all instances
in which variations in both dating and material
composition were linked to one object. Cosmic
spacesttime distortions were the first items
to be ruled out; he narrowed the search field
to objects less massive than black holes.
Then he excluded artificially generated
anomalies that were the result of esoteric
physics experiments.
Then the screen froze.
A Human would not have noticed; however, given
the rate at which Data processed information, the
brief lag was quite obvious to him.
After a microsecond flash of a new file
listing, the screen returned to the previous display
of physics experiments.
"Search complete. No new matches on
stated search parameters."
"That is not correct," said Data firmly.
" Access Archaeology File
TGOF-1284-678A."
"No such file is present in the data
base."
The computer was in error. He had clearly seen
that file listing added, then quickly deleted.
"Repeat, access Archaeology File
TGOF-1284-678A."
The screen went blank. "Listing error that
file material has not been entered in the data
base."
Yet he had noted a considerable volume
size in the file description. He considered a
backdoor approach that might open a new
access route. "Correlate data on the
Devil's Heart with data in Archaeology
File TGOF-1284-678A and--"
"Starfleet Command override ... Attention
Lieutenant Commander Data, USS
Enterprise, you have requested classified
material. Your current security clearance is
not sufficient to allow access to this file."
"Intriguing." He tapped his comm insignia and
began with, "Data to Commander Riker."
Less than ten minutes later, the first officer
was standing by Data's side.
"Computer," said Riker sternly. "This is
Commander William T. Riker. Show me
Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A."
The screen remained blank while the
computer-generated voice repeated its refrain.
"Starfleet Command override ... Attention
Commander William T. Riker, USS
Enterprise, you have requested classified
material. Your current security
clearance is not sufficient to allow access to this
file."
"Damn." The first officer tapped his comm
insignia. "Riker to Picard."
Less than two minutes later, the captain
had joined them on the aft deck. He listened
patiently to Data's recapitulation of the data
base search. "And you think this file has
material pertaining to the Heart?"
Data shook his head. "I cannot corroborate
any connection until I have actually seen the
file, but the request for a correlation triggered the
security procedures."
"Then I agree this subject is worth
pursuing," said Picard. "Computer, this is
Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I require
access to Archaeology File
TGOF-1284-678A."
"Starfleet Command override ... Attention
Captain Jean-Luc Picard, USS
Enterprise, you have requested classified
material. Submit your justification for access
to Admiral Emm Wilkerson, Director of
Starfleet Special Projects."
"Well, I suppose that's progress of some
sort," said Picard with a wry smile. "I'll
send a priority request for an explanation to the
admiral right away."
Given their distance from Command Headquarters,
Data quickly calculated that the earliest possible
response could not arrive for hours. In the
meantime, however, he could conduct another round of
laboratory tests.
"Mr. Data," continued Picard, "until
we've received some clarification from Starfleet
Command, I suggest we suspend any further
attempts to analyze the Heart."
"As you wish, Captain."
"Why am I not surprised by that?" muttered
Riker under his breath as he watched Picard
return to his ready room.
This was a rhetorical question, decided Data;
he was not required to respond. Nonetheless, he
noted with interest that his own reaction matched that of the
first officer.

Beverly Crusher had just started the last
paragraph of the last page of a very dreary set of
reports when she heard the sound of the outer doors
to sickbay open and shut. Her fingers
picked up their pace over the keyboard.
"I'm almost done, Jean-Lu--" Then she
looked up. "Oh, Deanna."
"You were expecting the captain," said Troi.
"Yes, actually, I was. He invited me
to join him for dinner tonight."
The counselor's eyebrows quirked in
surprise. "A very late dinner."
Crusher cast a quick look at her desk
chronometer and was amazed to see she had worked through
most of the evening. "I've been rather absorbed in my
work and lost track of time. He should have called me
hours ago ..." She could feel a slow burn of
anger working its way up her neck. "In fact,
I do believe the captain has stood up his
chief medical officer ... again."
"Oh," said Troi, her eyes bright with
undisguised curiosity. "So this happened before?"
"Yes," said Crusher with a tight smile.
"Last night we were supposed to have dinner to make
up for a breakfast we missed. Only
Jean-Luc didn't show up. This morning he
apologized and explained that he had been
distracted by an unexpected meeting with Guinan.
To make amends, he promised to meet me for
dinner tonight."
"Knowing Captain Picard, he's probably
forgotten to eat entirely and is off somewhere studying
the Heart."
"Probably." The doctor found scant
consolation in this explanation. "He certainly is
fascinated by it."
"Well, I just stopped by to see if you wanted
to help me celebrate. I just won fifty
credits from--"
"The poker game!" cried Crusher. "I
forgot all about it. If the captain had bothered
to cancel our dinner plans, I could have gone to the
game instead."
"Beverly," said Troi in her most pedantic
counselor voice, "it's still not too late
to call him."
"Oh, no!" she said, sweeping the work tapes
off her desk into a drawer and slamming it shut.
"After all, who am I to come between a man and his
rock?"
He sat cross-legged on the bed, just as young
Surak had sat on the cold ground of the desert,
and the Heart rested in the cradle of his hands. The
boy had been waiting for morning, but
Picard was waiting for night.
It was so difficult to keep his eyes open,
yet he fought to stay awake just a little while
longer.
His cabin was dark, just as it had been that first
night when he wakened from the dream of T'Sara's
death and saw the stone transformed. He wanted
to see the change again. Or had its glittering
light been part of the dream as well?
Could he even tell the difference between waking and
dreaming any more? For three nights in a row, he
had been left with memories of other lands and other
people that were too vivid to dismiss as fantasy, yet
he had no other name for them.
Visions, perhaps.
Starship captains were not supposed to have visions.
He knew he should tell someone, but he feared the
telling would shatter the spell.
So tired. Too tired to watch the stone any
longer. He slumped down onto the bed, curling
himself around the warm, round shape.
Dreams were the voice of the Heart, and he would
listen to what it had to say.


CHAPTER 19

Halaylah darted through the gathering crowd,
skipping and twisting between the lumbering heavyset
bodies that towered above her. News of the
approaching bier had traveled quickly, outstripping
even her nimble race to the doors of the Great
Chamber. She wondered, in fact, if that knowledge had
spread too quickly, whether there had been an air
of veiled expectation when the cart lumbered up the
causeway with its blood-sodden burden.
Three armor-clad admirals stood at the
threshold of the throne room, planted like boulders
in solemn and unperturbable authority, yet the
guttural exchanges they whispered to each other
betrayed their unease. As a rule, Klingons were
not given to whispering; they bellowed and roared like
wounded targs whether they were in a good humor or
bad. She had been told they sounded much the same
in battle or in lovemaking. After a decade of
living on this planet, she still found the unleavened
noise of its natives to be the most
oppressive element of her captivity.
Skirting closer to the guarded entrance,
Halaylah caught a whiff of the
admirals' fear, incongruously sweet compared
to the normal acrid smell of a Klingon adult.
She listened to their awkward sibilant speech,
then tucked a hidden smile inside her cheek.
These mighty warriors, with the blood of a dozen
space-faring races on their hands, feared facing the
emperor. Each was desperately trying to escape
the honor of announcing the processional that marched
ever closer.
Skipping past the admirals, ducking under the
crossed swords of the Imperial guards and under the
arched entrance, she passed unchallenged into the
interior chamber. This was the privilege of the
mightiest monarch and the lowliest servant.
Dim red light obscured the bleakness of bare
stone walls and a flagstone floor, but did nothing
to warm the chill air. Even the warriors among
her people had craved beauty, whereas Klingons
seemed to disdain the cultivation of art and music.
When she had ventured to question this lack of aesthetic
development, Kessec had reminded her, not
unkindly, that her elegant homeworld had been
defeated in battle. Still, she wondered if she
could have enjoyed victory over the Klingons if
Tehalai had been as ugly as this planet. The
loss of flower gardens and carved fountains saddened
her more than the loss of her freedom.
Her slippered feet whisked softly over the
hard tiles. At their sound, a deep voice
cut through the murky air. "Approach and be
recog--oh, it's you, child."
Kessec was unattended. More and more often she
found him alone, yet he allowed her to enter and
remain when all others had been sent away.
Despite his seclusion, she always found him
dressed in ceremonial robes and chain-link,
sitting erect on the wide metal throne as if
he were about to admonish his admirals and ministers.
And always the Pagrashtak rested in the palms of his
hands.
"Do they think I'm deaf?"
His hearing was sharper than hers, but even
Halaylah could hear the muffled murmur of the
crowd waiting outside.
"Your sons are bringing a bier to this chamber,"
she said.
"All my sons?"
"All that are left alive, my Emperor."
"Ah." He, alone of all the Klingons she
had met, had the capacity to express
himself with subtlety and restraint. He said nothing
more until the death marchers arrived. The security
guards moved aside to admit the emperor's
sons and the burden they carried, but the procession
stopped just over the threshold.
"Approach and be recognized!"
Halaylah, crouching in the shadows by the side
of the thr one, watched as Mohtr, the eldest son,
stepped forward and saluted. He echoed his father's
sturdy build, but his tangled mane was shot with
white where Kessec's hair remained black.
"Durall, son of Kessec, has brought
honor to his family!"
She glanced quickly upward to study Kessec's
face. He betrayed no sign of emotion, yet
she knew young Durall had been a favorite of
his. She drew a deep breath and learned the
smell of grief.
"How many shared that honor with him?" asked
Kessec.
Mohtr hesitated, emitting the same sweet
scent that had glistened on the skin of the admirals
outside. "None. His death was an accident,
Father."
"A very small honor, then," said Kessec.
"There have been many of these accidents of late among
my sons bruises, wounds, broken bones.
Now death."
"We are warriors!"
Leaning forward, Kessec curled back his
lips. "Warriors die in battle, not in
accidents; they kill their enemies, not their
brothers."
"You have left us precious few battles
to fight, my Emperor," said Mohtr, baring his
teeth in return.
"Yes, that is one of the unexpected
disappointments of overwhelming victory against our
enemies." Kessec sank back against the
unyielding throne. "So is watching my sons
squabble like scavengers over the right to succeed me."
"If we succeed you. Unlike you, sire,
we grow old. Better to die like Durall than
to reach our dotage still yearning for our right
to succession!"
"Enough, Mohtr." Kessec dismissed him with
an abrupt wave of his arm and called out, "Bring
me Durall's body."
Even in the murky light, Halaylah could
discern the sullen looks on the faces
of the five bier-bearers as they shuffled forward and
laid the pallet at the foot of the emperor's
dais. Durall's body, once possessed of a
wiry vitality, was limp and drained of color;
his tunic was stiff with crusted blood where his chest
had been crushed inward. She wrinkled her nose
at the whiff of decomposition. Death smelled the
same here as it did on Tehalai.
"I see there was no hurry to bring me this
honor," said Kessec as he rose from his throne.
The Pagrashtak was cradled in the crook of one
arm.
"We were far from home, Father," muttered
Tagre, Fourth-born. "Travel was
difficult."
"No doubt." Kessec stepped down from the
circular base. Several of his sons were taller
and broader of frame, yet to Halaylah they
lacked his presence and gravity. She wondered if
he had been born with that quality or whether it was
another gift of the stone.
With one hand Kessec brushed aside a lock
of Durall's hair. The gentle gesture
seemed to bring Kessec pain, a physical pain
that stiffened his body; it lacked the aroma of
grief. His fingers sought out the young man's throat.
Time passed, but the emperor's ragged breathing was the
only sound in the chamber. Halaylah had never
mastered the Klingon Discipline of Waiting, but she
was too frightened to move. She could smell the
changes in the body before she saw its skin darken
with the warmth of flowing blood.
When Durall finally stirred, Kessec
dropped his hand away.
"Is there anything the Pagrashtak can't do?"
cried Gistad, Second-born. Alone among
his brothers, he met the restoration of life with a
smile of wonder and joy. A politic
reaction, noted Halaylah, for a man who might
be the next to die.
She also noted the slump in Kessec's
broad shoulders, the effort with which he kept his head
raised. The arm holding the Pagrashtak was
drooping by his side.
"You are tired, Father," said Mohtr, taking a
step closer to the emperor. He averted his gaze
from the stone, but his body twitched ever so slightly
when Kessec shifted the talisman to his other
hand.
"I will be fit enough by morning, as will
Durall. And then we shall hear his account of this
accident that befell him."
"Hearing him speak again will be a miracle, but
miracles are taxing; you must keep up your
strength through eating." Mohtr bellowed out for
food. His call had barely stopped echoing before
servants came running into the chamber with brimming
bowls of meat, steaming pies, and jugs of ale.
"Such concern for my welfare is touching,
Mohtr."
His hand signal was weak, lightly sketched in
air, but Halaylah had been waiting for the
emperor to summon her. She scrambled out of the
shadows to Kessec's side.
"I'm partial to the rougath," he said,
scooping out a ball.
She leaned forward and sniffed his choice. The
smell of the food itself was pure, but the tart
glutinous paste had been handled by someone who had
smeared his fear like icing over the top. Halaylah
glanced up to the emperor and blinked her eyes in a
gesture of rejection. Better not.
Kessec sighed. "Perhaps I will eat later."
"You let this slave's whelp run your life?"
"An eccentricity of mine. You, on the other
hand, are welcome to ignore her warning." He
proffered the morsel to his First-born.
"I'm not hungry."
"No, of course not." Kessec dropped the
food back onto a tray and carefully wiped his
fingers on the rough fabric of his robe. "Leave
me. All of you."
The words were softly uttered, but even an
emperor's whisper had to be obeyed. The
servants fled, dropping the tainted bowl, and
everything else they had carried, onto the
flagstones. His sons were less quick to abandon their
dignity, but they too edged away without protest.
As they retreated from the chamber, Kessec
called out to Mohtr one last time.
"Take a deep breath, First-born.
Deeper! That tightness you feel in your chest is from
a bout of Gorault's fever that you contracted as
a boy. Few children survive that illness."
"My survival is a sign of my strength!"
Mohtr cried in defiance, then marched out of the
chamber.
"Ah. Of course."
Halaylah stayed. She knew when Kessec
did not want her with him, and this was not one
of those times.
"Come closer, child." In the early days of her
service to the emperor, Kessec had tried
to wrap his thick Klingon tongue around the
delicate syllables of her name, then joined in her
laughter at the clumsy result; but he had not
laughed for over a year now, and there was no one
else to speak her name aloud, no matter how
mangled.
"I have another story to tell you," he said, and
she settled herself at his feet to listen.
"In a time before this one, there lived two
brothers who had been born of the same mother and on
the same day. Kessec and Batahr, for those were
their names, were so alike in appearance that it was as if
they were a single man and his still-water reflection
walking together on land. Their hearts were equally
mirrored; within each burned the bloodlust of a
warrior, and when they fought together in battle, their
enemies fled before them like dry straw on a high
wind rather than face their raging fire.
"They shared the honor of their victory, just as
they shared their weapons, their house, and their lovers.
In time, they even shared the reign of all the
territory within a two week's march of their
birthplace."
His deep, rasping voice fell silent.
"Then it came to pass," prompted
Halaylah when the pause in the story grew too
long. The form of the telling was familiar, but she had
not heard this tale of Kessec's life before and was
curious to hear more.
"Ah, yes, then it came to pass that the
brothers defeated their greatest enemy, a
neighboring warrior-king, and in their victory found
the one thing which they could not share. The first brother
to touch the Pagrashtak felt its warmth and heard
its whispers; the other held a cold, silent
stone. Soon, the first brother was loathe to loosen his
grip on the prize. Instead, he swore an
oath to share the fruits of its powers. Despite
this generous offer, the second brother brooded and
grew sour with jealousy and suspicion, until
he forgot all honor and slew his twin while he
slept."
Halaylah sniffed cautiously at the lip
of a mug of ale, then passed it over to Kessec.
He took a deep draft of the hot liquid before
continuing.
"The traitor grasped the stone and
felt its powers, but he also repented of his
murderous deed, so he used the stolen
Pagrashtak to bring his dead brother back
to life."
"You saved him just like you saved Durall!"
cried Halaylah with a joyful stamp of her
feet. Klingon tales rarely had such a
satisfying ending.
"No, child," said Kessec. "Batahr raised
me from the dead. And for that deed, I quickly slew
him in turn. Then I burned his body and
scattered the ashes so I could never be tempted
to resurrect him."
Not such a happy ending after all, she sighed
to herself.
"All this happened long ago," said Kessec,
reciting the formulaic ending of a historic
narrative. He studied the face of his youngest
son, the one who looked the most like him and who, she
realized, must also look like his dead brother. "Or
so I thought."
Durall's breathing was still labored and his limbs
trembled with the pain of his wounds. Kessec laid a
palm flat against his son's heaving chest and kept
it there until the boy sighed and slipped into an
untroubled sleep.
The effort left the emperor so weak that he lost
his grip on the Pagrashtak. Halaylah cried
out in distress when the stone rolled away from him.
Her dismay deepened when she heard his next
command. "Take it, quickly, before I recover my
strength. And my greed."
"Sire?"
"Take it!"
She took the Pagrashtak in her hands. It was
warm to the touch and not as heavy as she had expected.
"Go," whispered Kessec. "Go as far from here
as you can, child. Found your own empire if you must, but
take this curse away from me and mine."
Slipping the stone into her shapeless tunic where it
nestled like a curled beast against her stomach,
Halaylah ran from the throne chamber for the last
time.

Those light footsteps were still echoing in
T'Sara's mind when her eye s opened. She
breathed deeply of the cool air of the
Collector's chamber. The desert night
encircling the tower would be even colder.
"So that is what you were once," said the
Vulcan woman to the mummified body. "And
look at what you have become now."
When had the generous young slave girl turned
into the miserly, grasping, and selfish fanatic that
T'Sara had met in other dreams?
Ten years of excavation had shown that
Halaylah used the powers of the Pagrashtak
to found an artist's colony on Atropos, but it
had flourished for only a century. Over time,
her desire for creating beauty had narrowed into a
rapacious hunger for possession.
T'Sara had tried to explain to Sorren what
had happened, to teach him to feel how the
self-entombment of their founder would horrify
Halaylah's followers. While he acknowledged
the physical evidence of the disbanding of the colony,
he would not allow himself to fathom their motivation.
Young Vulcans were like that; too unsure of their
emotional control to risk the dangers of empathy.
"But I am old enough to contemplate what I will
not emulate you wanted to keep the Ko N'ya
to yourself for all eternity. If not for me, you would have
succeeded, but I have taken it from you."
T'Sara stroked the glittering stone. "Did
none of them ever wonder what you wanted, Ko
N'ya? I have seen much of your journey, but I
keep searching the dreams for a clue as to where you are
going."
Her head fell back against the chamber wall.
But I am old ... and so tired ... I
may not have the strength to find your answer.
Her eyes closed ...

... and the outermost shell of nested dreams
shattered when Picard opened his eyes. He felt
as old and tired as T'Sara until he drew a
shuddering breath and revived his own strength.
"A journey?" he asked the glowing Heart that
hugged his side. "Is that what this is all about?"
Its inner fire seemed to flare more brightly than
before.

CHAPTER 20

Estrella Miyakawa had reached the rank of
lieutenant commander of the USS Brande through sheer
hard work, but by that point in her career it was obvious
that her promotions were lagging farther and farther behind those
of her Academy classmates. Then Starfleet
Command had made it clear that a transfer
off a starship would be her only route to becoming a
full commander; affronted by the mandate, she finally
had agreed to an administrative post rather than
remain at that lower rank forever.
She had expected a prestigious but routine
desk job at any one of a dozen major
starbases. To her dismay, however, she found herself in
charge of an isolated docking base on the
fringes of Federation space. Insult had been
added to injury.
So for the first year of her assignment at
Starbase 193, Miyakawa had nursed a
bitter grudge against Starfleet and the character
assessment tests that had robbed her of the command of a
starship. Then, by the second year, her innate
sense of honesty had reasserted itself, and her
resentments had eased in the face of self-knowledge
while she possessed the independence of mind that
all good captains needed, she had never learned
to moderate that trait. Blunt to a fault and
impatient with subordinates, she had earned a
reputation for being difficult and creating unnecessary
tension among the crew of every ship on which she had
served.
By her third year of duty, Miyakawa knew
she had found her proper niche in life. As the
sole officer on the base, she had no one
to answer to but herself. On a starship her brusque
manner and snap decisions had ruffled feathers;
here they had earned her the respect of the hardened
locals and a rapid promotion to captain. Over
the course of five years, Starbase 193
became her home, and Miyakawa lost the
desire to walk any deck other than this one.
Still, there were times when she would have welcomed the
presence of another Fleet officer.
Now was one of those times.
The commander scanned the page in her hand once
again. Despite its dry tone, the Starfleet
security communiqu`e troubled her. During his
brief visit, Picard had teased her about the
tendency of administrators to exaggerate the
magnitude of their problems. She had bristled
at the implied criticism of her judgment, but
today she yearned to hear his opinion on this matter.
Lifting her gaze to the curving windows of her
office, Miyakawa studied the tranquil scene
of exterior base activity with growing unease.
An Andorian passenger ship floated through
space in search of the orbit
coordinates dictated by the station dockmaster;
maintenance droids swarmed over the hull of a
Tellarite freighter; a shuttlecraft ferried
a salvage crew to the remains of a Ferengi
Marauder. To all appearances, this was the start of
another routine, uneventful day.
Yet, if there was a Romulan warbird out
there, it would be cloaked and invisible to her eyes.
She shook her head and returned her attention
to the communiqu`e. Really, the very notion that there
might be Romulans headed for this sector was
absurd. Even if Starfleet intelligence was
accurate and a warbird had indeed crossed the
Neutral Zone, there was nothing of value at
Starbase 193 to attract the attention of any
enemy of the Federation. Six other sectors had
received this routine warning and any one of them was a more
likely target.
Tapping her comm insignia, Miyakawa said,
"Miyakawa to dockmaster."
"Ramsey here."
"Initiate Security One shutdown
procedures for all docking operations."
She was accustomed to immediate obedience from her staff,
but Ramsey's brief silence was understandable under the
circumstances.
"What's going on, Commander?"
"I'm feeling bored today." She wasn't
ready to explain her decision to anyone yet, not
even herself.
"Right. Well, this should liven up everyone's
life. Security One shutdown now in
effect."
Within seconds, the Andorian passenger ship
came to a dead stop; maintenance droids
scurried away from the freighter, then dove through the
closing doors of a cargo bay; and the repair
shuttle executed a sharp turn on its hasty
return to the station. There would be no more dockings or
departures without her express permission, and every
crewmember or passenger on shore leave would be
automatically recalled to his ship.
The decision to suspend service operations would
outrage every captain in the sector; it would disrupt
tight flight schedules and inconvenience thousands of
passengers and merchants. So before the first wave of
irate calls could flood through her office,
Miyakawa made a second announcement.
"Attention all starbase personnel.
Security One alert procedures are
now in effect. This is not a drill. Repeat, this
is not a drill."
The scramble to close down shops and return
to quarters would keep everyone quiet for at least
fifteen minutes. She had that much time to think of
an excuse for her actions.
Someone tell me I'm overreacting.
Camenae was just the person for the job, thought
Miyakawa ruefully when the bar owner swept
into the Starfleet office. Of course,
Miyakawa's open-door policy was not in
effect during a security alert, but Camenae was
not known for her adherence to station regulations.
"I need to talk to you, Commander."
If this had been a normal alert,
Miyakawa would have had no patience for
interruptions, but this time there was no discernible
emergency, no further demands on her authority,
so there seemed little point in turning Camenae
away. "I imagine you're here to register a
complaint from the trade community."
"No. I was already on my way here." The
woman sat down, leaned her elbows on the
desk, and said, "Four twenty-three mark
seventy-six mark three sixty-seven."
Miyakawa puzzled over the sequence. "Those
coordinates are in this sector." She punched the
numbers into her viewer padd, then studied the
screen image. "However, according to Federation star
charts, there's nothing but a few asteroids at that
intersection."
Camenae shook her head. "One of those
asteroids is three kilometers in diameter,
large enough to hide Smelter's Hold in its
hollow core."
"What! Starfleet has been trying to confirm
the location of the Hold for years; now you walk in
here and give me its coordinates. Why?"
"Because I suspect the outpost no longer
exists."
The commander's sense of approaching danger grew
stronger. "Explain."
"I had an operative working at the Hold,"
Camenae hesitated, then continued with an
uncharacteristic revelation, "who was tracking after
Reyjad@an."
"The DiWahn who killed Grede?" It was
Miyakawa's best guess, but she knew better
than to expect any confirmation. When Camenae
nodded agreement, the commander's alarm
deepened yet again.
Camenae began to talk faster, as if rushing
against time. "The Squib witnessed a curious
scene at the Hold bazaar. DaiMon Tork
was pulling a scam on two traders ... two
Vulcans. He left the bazaar in their company
and did not return."
The commander's fist clenched, crumpling the
communiqu`e into a tight ball. "What are the
odds of any Vulcan trader knowing about the
Hold?"
"That was my first thought, but I didn't have the chance
to ask any more questions. Our communications were cut.
All contact with the Hold has been lost."
With her heart racing from a sudden surge of
adrenalin, Miyakawa asked, "Camenae, do you
know of any reason why a Romulan warbird would
be headed to this starbase?"
"I think they are after T'Sara's Ko
N'ya."
"I find that hard to believe." Yet that very
suspicion had been at the root of her
apprehension. "Would the Romulans risk an
interstellar war with the Federation and its allies for so
little?"
"If the Romulans gain possession of the Ko
N'ya," said Camenae, "they could probably win
that war."
Miyakawa reached for her comm insignia one more
time. "Attention all starbase personnel.
Initiate evacuation procedures. This is not a
drill. Repeat, this is not a drill."
Finally, she knew what to do next.

"Dispose of him," said Commander Taris, stepping
away from the limp body.
She waited, seemingly impassive, as two
security guards rushed forward to remove the
Ferengi from the chair. In truth, she had to clench
her jaw to keep from snapping at them to hurry as
they fumbled with the bindings that held the subject in
place.
Subcommander Vedoc was less
self-disciplined; she could hear his boot tapping
impatiently on the ship's metal deck. "So,
this wretched Ferengi was telling the truth after all,
and he hid nothing from us."
"I could have done with far less revelation,"
Taris said dryly. The clever trickster had
dissolved into a babbling fountain of information
even before he was attached to the mind-sifter; she
wondered if all of his species were equally
weak-willed.
The last of the restraints were unfastened, and one
of the guards easily lifted the small alien into the
air. Both of the subject's eyes were still open,
darting this way and that in independent directions. The
highest setting of the mind-sifter seemed to sever the
brain's ability to coordinate muscle
movement; it severed many other connections as well.
The DaiMon was still alive in a technical
sense, but this vegetative state would not persist for
long as the body's nervous system functions
continued to fail.
When the guards had carried the body away,
Taris could speak more freely. "The
Enterprise! I might have known it would be
involved with these tales of the Ko N'ya's
reappearance."
"But Commander, most of what he told us was
speculation rather than fact."
"Learn to trust your instincts, Vedoc." She
suspected that instinct was another of the leadership
qualities that he lacked; worse yet, he
apparently lacked a comprehensive knowledge of their
enemies. "The captain of the Enterprise has a
fondness for ancient cultures, and this would not be the
first time he has meddled in our affairs."
"Then it will be his last!"
"Your enthusiasm is noted," said Taris.
The young man jerked to attention, chest puffed out;
he had mistaken her sarcasm for praise. What
a shame that his finely chiseled features were not
accompanied by an equally impressive
intellect.
With a weary sigh, the commander turned on her
heel and marched swiftly out of the interrogation
chamber. Vedoc scuttled after her.
When they stepped into the circular bridge, the
quiet air of efficiency restored her temper.
Unlike the subcommander, the soldiers hunched
over their work stations had served on the Haakona
for years. Taris had weeded out the weak and the
stupid, leaving her with a leaner crew than most
warbirds possessed, but one that was more competent.
She stepped up onto the dais of the captain's
chair. Each of the crew cast her a quick
side-glance that signaled their ready status; a
simple nod on her part would have elicited a
verbal report; a series of hand
signals could relay her own orders. The
subtlety of this silent communication usually
unnerved Vedoc, who preferred to bark out his
commands.
A flash of orange light warned of a sudden
change in the ship's status.
"Third-stage perimeter alert, Commander,"
explained the weapons officer. "Vessel one
approaching on a direct intercept vector,
seven minutes; Vessel two approaching on a
direct intercept vector, eleven minutes;
Vessel three will pass within firing distance in
five minutes."
The viewscreen was clouded by the dampening effect
of the Haakona's cloaking field, but she could
see three globular shapes growing in size as
they drew nearer.
"We'll be surrounded," whispered Vedoc.
Even in the subdued light of the command pit, Taris
could see him tremble at the thought.
"Surrounded by two freighters and a passenger
ship," explained the weapons officer without any
trace of amusement. Seemus was too well
trained to reveal contempt for a superior officer,
even one who had not learned the difference between an
alert and a warning.
"Full power to the cloaking device," ordered
Taris. Her voice carried easily across the still
bridge. "Evasive maneuvers to avoid
collision."
The first of the approaching vessels filled the
viewscreen, then veered off to one side. Her
helmsman had steered the Haakona out of harm's
way with an economy of motion. He ducked under
the second trade ship, then returned the
warbird to its previous course heading.
"Estimated arrival at the starbase in
twelve minutes."
If fortune favored this mission, the
Enterprise and her captain would soon rue their
theft of Romulan property.
A new shape took form on the viewscreen,
the triangular profile of an orbital docking
station. Even with the compromised resolution of the
image, Taris could see that the space surrounding
the station, an area normally cluttered with stationary
vessels, was empty.
She looked to her navigator for an
explanation.
"Commander," said Etrajan, "sensors
reveal there are no life-signs on the
starbase."
"Your instruments must be in error!" Vedoc
stepped behind the man and peered over his shoulder
to double-check the instrument readout. "Life
support functions are still operating ... energy
collectors near maximum ..." He scowled
fiercely, then said, "no life-signs."
"And no Enterprise." Little else mattered
to Taris, but Vedoc kept prattling on about the
station.
"Somehow they must have been warned! A
full-scale evacuation explains the ships we
passed earlier. We could still catch one--"
"No," Taris snapped, growing weary of his
inflexibility; a good soldier learned to adjust
to the fluctuations of war. "Let them pass on.
We have larger game to track."
"Yes, Commander." He ducked his head,
visibly chastened by her reprimand, another sign
that he was too easily swayed even from a bad
opinion. At the conclusion of this mission, she would
recommend that his highly placed uncle find
another post for his nephew; Vedoc would not serve
on her ship again.
"What is our next course of action?" he
asked.
"Destroy the base as planned."
His large brown eyes blinked rapidly in
confusion. "But there's no one even on the station."
"It doesn't matter, Subcommander."
Perhaps, if she was exceptionally clever, he could
die honorably in battle; his uncle would
probably thank her. "Upon hearing of the
destruction of a Federation starbase, the nearest
starship will proceed immediately to this sector."
"And that starship will be the Enterprise," said
Vedoc, finally comprehending the obvious.
"Photon torpedoes locked on target,"
announced Seemus.
"Fire."
A cluster of dark shapes shot out from beneath the
warbird's curving hull. She lost sight of them
as they sped through the void toward their target, but the
weapons officer tracked their progress.
"... three ... two ... one ..."
Commander Taris smiled as she watched the
starbase explode into a cloud of molten metal.
Its fires flared like a beacon in the cold
night of space.

CHAPTER 21

Having reached the limits of his own understanding,
Data swiveled his Ops station around to face the
occupant of the captain's chair.
"Commander Riker, I have been reviewing your
evocation of "Lady Luck" during the course
of the game last night. Despite your repeated
requests for intervention from that entity, in actual
fact, your poker performance fell below your usual
standards."
The first officer sighed. "Luck is fickle,
Data."
"And do you believe that explains why
Counselor Troi won?"
"No," said the first officer. "Deanna
cheats."
"Intriguing." Data had not expected that
explanation. "However, I saw no evidence
of--"
"That was a joke."
"Yes, of course." A very small one,
Data decided; he would forgo a laughter
response. Besides, according to Geordi, the chuckle
he had developed was still in need of refinement.
The android was about to resume a forward position
when a soft beep from the aft deck caught his
attention.
"Incoming message from Starfleet Command,"
announced Worf as he scanned the communications
console. "A Priority One, security-coded
communiqu`e from the Department of Special
Projects."
"That is probably the answer to our inquiry
on the Heart," said Data. The response time
was three hours and thirteen minutes shorter than
his estimate, which implied a greater urgency than
he had assigned to the matter.
"Pipe it to the captain's ready room,
Lieutenant," ordered Riker, as he rose from
his chair.
Data slipped out from under the console
to accompany the first officer.
"You are not included, Mr. Data," said
Worf firmly. "According to my security
instructions, only Captain Picard and Commander
Riker have been granted clearance to view this
message."
The android sat back down.
"Sorry, Data," said Riker. "You know how
the Brass loves to guard its secrets; but
I'll bet that by the end of this mission, we can fill
you in on the details."
"Thank you, Commander. Nevertheless, I suspect
this is one conundrum I will never be allowed
to solve. Fortunately, I have no--"
"--no emotions." Riker completed the sentence
for him.
"Correct. So I am not disturbed by the lack
of resolution in this matter."
The first officer shrugged. "If you say so,
Data."
"Yes, Commander, I do say so." However, this
clarification only seemed to amuse Riker; he
was still smiling when he walked into the ready room.
Data had encountered this same veiled
skepticism among members of the crew on other
occasions; Dr. Crusher and the captain often made
similar asides to his declarations.
Data addressed the security chief. "I do
not possess the capacity for emotion."
Worf grunted. "I do not care ... sir."


"What exactly is Spe cial
Projects?" asked Riker as he sat down
across from the captain.
"Few people below the rank of admiral seem
to know." Picard plucked the Heart off a stack
of books and shoved them to one side. When he had
cleared the area around the small viewscreen, he
said, "I've heard it called the "black
hole" department because information goes in, but it
rarely comes back out."
"Well, then, this should be very interesting."
A figure suddenly appeared on the screen.
Admiral Wilkerson was a spare, elderly
woman with a tight bun of fading coral-red hair
and a brisk but congenial manner.
"Captain Picard, if I played this by the
book, neither you nor Commander Riker would be allowed
to hear anything I'm about to say. Fortunately,
Special Projects is given some latitude
in its affairs, and it is my judgment that you need
to know the scope of the situation."
Her expression grew more somber.
"The analysis anomalies which you reported
are not unique. They have been detected emanating
from a ... structure, perhaps even a being,
of immense age. We call it the Guardian of
Forever, and there is a strong possibility that the
relic you possess is a fragment broken from the
Guardian."
Out of the corner of one eye, Riker could see the
captain's hands close protectively around the
stone.
"If this is so," continued the admiral, "the
legends of the Heart's powers may not be
exaggerated. The Guardian itself is beyond our
comprehension; we haven't even confirmed whether or
not it is sentient ... and it has other
properties that are best not talked about."
Like what? wondered Riker with growing
unease.
"A team of researchers from Special
Projects will be waiting for you on Vulcan; they
can take the Heart to more secure quarters.
However, be very careful on your journey here,
Captain Picard. At all costs, the Heart
must be kept out of the hands of the Federation's
enemies."
Admiral Wilkerson blinked away, and
once again the screen went dark.
"The Guardian of Forever," said Picard, but
he was looking down at the Heart as he spoke.
"Is that where you belong?"
"Captain?"
Picard looked up as if startled that he was not
alone. "Yes?"
"Up until now, we've assumed this rock was
a harmless archaeological relic." Riker
shook his head in disbelief at Starfleet's
revelations. "But if what the admiral said is
true, you'd be safer holding a photon torpedo
in your hands. Shouldn't we keep the Heart in a
guarded security vault?"
The captain frowned at the suggestion. "I
don't think deep storage will be necessary. If
anything, it will simply draw extra attention to the
Heart. However, to be on the safe side,
I'll order an end to any more of Data's
attempts at laboratory analysis."
This wasn't the result Riker had intended, but
before he could marshal an argument, Picard added,
"That will be all, Number One."
"Aye, sir." Riker rose and walked
swiftly out of the room and onto the bridge.
Data looked up from his Ops console, his
gold eyes gleaming with unasked questions.
"Don't hold your breath, Data."
"Sir?"
Riker kept walking.
He passed through the command area and was halfway
up the side ramp when he tapped his comm link and
said, "Riker to Counselor Troi. Meet me
in the main conference room."

The captain's chair of a starship was comfortable--
Worf knew this from personal experience--but
until such time as he earned the right to assume command
authority, the Klingon preferred his position on
the aft deck. From this lofty perch, he could
observe every action on the bridge and overhear almost
all conversations. He had little personal interest in
most of the information he gathered, but as the chief of
security, Worf felt it was his duty to be
aware of the petty concerns of the crew and the weightier
matters that involved the senior officers.
So Worf did not miss the anxious look on
Commander Riker's face as he strode off the
bridge toward the conference room; his call to the
ship's counselor was duly noted as well.
"There appears to be a problem," said Data.
The android had a comment for every event, no matter
how minor; he would not have lasted very long on a
Klingon warship.
"Messy Human problems."
Unfortunately, Troi's involvement was usually
a warning of an imminent disruption to order and
discipline on board the ship.
"In theory, the counselor's early
involvement can forestall the development of greater
difficulties."
"Bad theory." Worf had little faith in the
android's understanding of such matters. "Klingon
ships have no counselors, and they have fewer
problems."
Before Data could prolong this exchange, Worf
turned away to a more concrete task, one that did
not involve speculation about Human frailties.
Flickering green lights on his console
indicated the presence of a faint communications
broadcast in the sector surrounding Starbase
193. The steady pulse of a blue light
indicated that the signal was an automated
message, sent out at regular intervals but without
sufficient power to reach a starship traveling at
warp speed.
The security chief made a slight
adjustment to the alignment of the ship's antenna
array. Then another.
By the time Riker had returned to the bridge, with
Counselor Troi following in his wake, Worf
had established that the call was spread across all the
frequencies used by commercial freighters and
passenger liners, and that it was broadcast in a
scattershot pattern that would saturate the
sector. Since only a starbase had the energy
resources for that effort, the implication was that
Commander Miyakawa was transmitting information of
importance to local ship traffic.
Worf rechanneled more auxiliary power to the
amplifiers of the subspace transceivers.

Deanna Troi rang the chime to the ready
room. As she waited for a response from within, she
could feel Riker watching her. The first officer's
concern hovered like a cloud over the bridge, but
during their meeting in the conference room he had
fumbled for words to explain his unease. In the end,
Riker simply shrugged and asked her to see for
herself if she sensed any changes in the captain.
"Come."
The counselor stepped forward through the opening
doors, then paused on the other side of the
threshold until the sliding panels had closed
behind her; she needed the barrier to help her block
out Riker's anxiety. Taking a deep breath,
Troi cleared her mind of expectations, then
approached the captain's desk.
She had planned to begin this session with a casual
conversation, thus constructing an oblique approach
to probe Picard's mood. As soon as she
drew near, however, the empath sensed an intensity
of emotion that would not yield to such subtle
methods. Although the captain was looking straight
at her, his mind was focused on the book he
held and on the Heart, which rested near his right hand.
"You've been very absorbed of late," remarked
Troi.
"I've been following a hunch," said
Picard. She read an excitement, almost an
exultation, in that statement. Her timing was
fortunate; he was in need of an audience. "I
believe that T'Sara saw a pattern in the
Heart's travels to different worlds, and that is how
she tracked the stone to Atropos in the first
place. Although any record of her conclusions was
destroyed in the attack of the campsite,
many of the original pieces of the puzzle are still here
in her writings."
"Tell me more," said Troi. She was mildly
curious about the Heart, but even more curious about the
captain's reaction to it.
"For instance," Picard said, "the Heart
appears in both Andorian mythology and early
Klingon history. But how could it possibly have
traveled from the healers of Andor to the emperor
Kessec? The key lies in the records of the first
Andorian/ferengi contact the Ferengi threatened
wholesale slaughter of the populace if they were not
provided with "trade" merchandise."
"How charming." She noticed that the lines of his
face were more pronounced than usual. Had he
lost weight in the last few days?
"Among the items of tribute may have been the
Heart. However, unaware of its true value,
the Ferengi merely loaded it into the hold of a
freighter and carried it away." Picard opened the
book to a marked place near the back.
"T'Sara's appendix includes the ship's
manifest; it lists "assorted baubles and
trinkets" which were later traded to the barbaric
natives of a technologically primitive world
known as Kronos."
"This is all very fascinating, but what is its
significance to our current mission?"
"Deanna, you must see that the Heart is going
somewhere. It also has a mission."
"Really?" she said. "I'm not sure that I would
have drawn that conclusion." But Picard did not
appear to hear her doubt.
He swiveled around his desk viewer so she could
see the star map on its screen. His enthusiasm
flaring like an aura around him. "If I can chart
where the Heart has been, perhaps I can determine
where it is going, its final destination ... and its
motivation."
"You make it sound alive." She reached down
and picked up the Heart. She sensed nothing from the
stone, but Picard's shifting emotions were obvious.
"You resent my holding it. Why?"
"Not at all, Counselor. I'm simply
concerned that--"
"Riker to Captain Picard. We've
picked up a distress call from Starbase
193."
How ironic, Troi observed, that it was
Riker himself who was interrupting the
session, one that he had specifically requested.
"On my way, Number One," called out
Picard, quickly rising to his feet.
Troi stepped aside to let the captain
pass, but he stopped just long enough to pull the Heart
from her hands. With a frosty smile, he said, "We
shall have to continue this discussion some other time."
Instead of putting the Heart back on the
desk, Picard carried the stone away with h im.

Like every member of the bridge crew,
Lieutenant Worf held himself to high standards of
performance. Fulfilling one's duty was no cause
for congratulations; competence was expected, not
rewarded. Nevertheless, he felt a measure of
satisfaction in having captured the transmission
from Starbase 193 just before the Enterprise had
traveled beyond the range of the signal. He had
undertaken the effort as an exercise in long-distance
communications recovery, but the result had proved
to be of far greater importance than he had
expected.
"Status report, Number One," demanded the
captain as he strode out of the ready room.
To the Klingon's gratification, Picard
carried the Pagrashtak with a care and dignity that
showed the proper respect for its powers.
Riker rose to his feet, vacating the
captain's chair. "Lieutenant Worf has
picked up an automated distress call from
Starbase 193."
At a nod from the first officer, Worf touched his
console to release the message. Commander
Miyakawa's voice was coldly factual, but
emphatic.
"... is not a drill. Repeat, this is not
a drill. Starbase 193 has been
evacuated; do not approach the base; do not
attempt to dock. I strongly advise all
vessels to leave the sector. This is not a
drill. Repeat ..."
Worf cut off the repeating loop.
"Why have they evacuated?" demanded Picard.
"No explanation," said Riker with a shrug of
frustration.
After checking another panel of the console, the
Klingon shook his head. "Channels are open, but
there is still no answer to our hails."
"Continue contact efforts, Lieutenant." The
captain took his place in the command
center and addressed his next spate of orders to the
helm. "Set course for a return to Starbase
193."
Even though he concentrated his visual attention
on the tactical station, Worf still listened to the
general activity on the bridge Data laid
in the new course, Geordi confirmed sufficient
power for a sustained warp eight, and Picard sent the
Enterprise back toward the starbase.
The deck throbbed beneath Worf's feet as the
high warp speed strained the propulsion engines
to near maximum capacity. Within seconds, the
faded distress call from Starbase 193
reappeared on the communications console.
"Estimated arrival in four hours and seven
minutes," said Data.
Just under Worf's tactical station, Picard and
Riker were discussing reasons for the unexpected
diversion. Their muted voices drifted upward.
"The likeliest explanation is that the station
suffered some kind of equipment malfunction," said
Riker.
"But why weren't we notified? Miyakawa
knew our course headings; she could have sent a
distress call directly to us if--"
A flurry of crimson alarms suddenly
tripped across the tactical consoles on the aft
deck. From where he stood, Worf could see
identical patterns washing over Data's Ops
controls as well.
"Captain," called out Worf.
"Long-range sensor scans have detected an
explosion in the sector."
The android confirmed the announcement with a sharp
nod of his head. "Magnitude of the energy
release would be consistent with the detonation of a
starbase's generators."
"And the base distress call has stopped,"
added Worf. All signs of the strengthening
signal had disappeared.
"Damn!" exclaimed Riker, jumping to his
feet. "We'll need survival rescue
teams, paramedics--"
"Hold on that," said Picard. His order
froze the first officer in place. "Lieutenant
Worf, are there any other Federation vessels within
this quadrant?"
Worf quickly checked the latest position
reports from Starfleet Command. "At warp nine,
the Portsmouth could reach Starbase
193 in six point five hours; the Plath would
take seven hours."
"Captain!" protested Riker. "Those extra
hours could mean the difference between life and death
to any people who were on that station."
"We will have to trust to Commander Miyakawa's
efficiency and assume there was sufficient time for a
complete evacuation. If she had wanted the
Enterprise to provide assistance, she would have
signaled us directly; she intended for us to stay
away."
"But why would--"
"I suspect someone destroyed the starbase
while in pursuit of the Heart," said Picard.
"We have become a magnet for trouble, Number
One, and our best course of action is to draw that
trouble away from innocent bystanders."
"Deliberately make ourselves a target?"
"Exactly."
Picard rose to his feet, moving to the center
of the bridge. As he turned toward the aft
deck, Worf could see that the captain gripped the
Pagrashtak in both hands, just as a warrior
might hold fast to the pommel of his sword.
"Lieutenant Worf, transmit a
message to the Portsmouth on an uncoded
channel "Enterprise has urgent business
elsewhere, request you proceed immediately to Starbase
193 to aid survivors." And for good measure,
send the same message to whatever may be left of
Starbase 193. Be sure to include our
current coordinates."
Next, Picard turned to face the helm.
"Mr. Data, set course for ... one
twenty-three mark twelve. Reduce speed
to warp six."
Their path was obviously picked at random, and
this arbitrary choice seemed to disturb the first
officer; his face creased with worry. Unlike
Riker, however, Lieutenant Worf knew their
final destination, and he faced it with courage and
eager anticipation.
Since the days of Emperor Kessec, no
other Klingon had been honored with the opportunity
to serve a commander who wielded the powers of the
Pagrashtak. This journey would soon become
legend, and all Klingon legends ended in death.



CHAPTER 22

"Here it comes--brace yourself!" cried
Miyakawa as she pressed herself deeper into the
cushions of the acceleration seat.
The cubical lifeboat bucked wildly,
buffeted by the explosive force of expanding vapors
and a deadly hail of disintegrating fragments, all
that remained of Starbase 193. Force fields
protected the pod's hull, but she knew that each
muffled impact sapped just a little more energy from a
finite supply.
Seconds later, the wave of flying debris
had passed and the jarring collisions stopped just as
abruptly as they had begun. The lifeboat's
reaction control system hissed on and off in
short bursts until the craft slowed its
tumbling motion, then stabilized with a constant
horizon line.
"Down to sixty-five percent of power
reserves," she said after scanning the control
panel.
"Is that good or bad?"
Miyakawa turned to her companion; the commander
could just make out Camenae's broad face in the
faint glow of light from the illuminated console.
"It means we have about fifty-six person-days of
life support left, which means the two of us can
survive in here for twenty-eight days."
The dark wing of a Romulan warbird swooped
across the view screen, blocking out the vista of
stars.
Miyakawa quickly reached for the pod's manual
override switch; even the smallest puff of the
accelerators could give away their existence. She
held her breath until the uncloaked ship had
receded into the distance.
"Of course, power reserves are immaterial
if the Romulans detect us first," said
Miyakawa in a low whisper. According to the pod's
rudimentary sensors, the warbird was traveling through
space in a wide arc, tracing a lazy circle
around the guttering fires of her dead starbase.
They would be back.
"But we'll have to risk using impulse engines
soon," said Camenae. "If we're still in this
area when the Enterprise arrives, this lifeboat
could get caught in some very nasty cross fire."
"The Enterprise won't be coming back to this
sector," said Miyakawa. "In
fact, there may not be a rescue effort for quite some
time."
"What!"
"I didn't notify Starfleet about the
evacuation; instead, I restricted the broadcast
to this sector's traffic channels. The
Romulans are using my starbase as bait, and
I wasn't about to help them set the trap."
"I see," said Camenae. She shifted
uncomfortably in the narrow confines of her chair.
"This isn't going to be pleasant. I've seen
packing crates with more room to move."
Miyakawa couldn't argue the point. The
escape pod's truncated cube shape
provided storage compartments for generous
quantities of survival supplies, but the
four crew seats took up most of the remaining
space of the interior.
"I'm sorry, Camenae, but I assumed you
would leave the station on a freighter or a liner like
everyone else. If you had followed my orders,
you would have been safely away by now."
"And you would have been vaporized. Like some
melodramatic sea captain who refuses
to abandon a sinking ship."
After a long silence, Miyakawa said, "I
lost track of time."
The other woman snorted. "There wasn't that
much time to keep track of."
Miyakawa shrugged, then realized that her
companion could not see the gesture in the dark. She
hadn't made a conscious decision to stay on the
starbase, but she hadn't scrambled for the lifeboat
until she found Camenae wandering through the deserted
docking bay. "Wait a minute. Why were you still
on board the station?"
Camenae's silence lasted so long that it seemed
she was not going to answer at all. There was a
quaver in her voice when she finally spoke.
"I've been through this before ... and I'm tired of
being a survivor."
So, they had rescued each other, reluctant
heroes sacrificing their own death so that the other
might live.
"I'll see to it that you survive again this time,
whether you like it or not," said Miyakawa with a
fierce conviction that welled up from inside of her.
"A starbase can be rebuilt. Our lives can be
rebuilt."
"That's a job for the young." Camenae
uttered a weary sigh. "And I'm much older than
I look."
"Not too old to feel sorry for yourself."
"Thank you, Commander," said Camenae dryly.
"Your sympathy is appreciated."
Miyakawa laughed. "My charming personality
is well-known throughout Starfleet. Think how
fortunate you are to be cooped up with me for--"
A flashing light signaled the activation of the
pod's transceiver. "Incoming message."
She released the sound into the cabin.
"Attention USS Portsmouth
Priority distress call ... Starbase
193 has been destroyed ... Enterprise
has urgent business elsewhere ... request you
proceed immediately to aid survivors."
"I don't get it." Miyakawa shook her
head in disbelief. "That was an uncoded
broadcast. Everyone in the sector probably
heard that message."
"Look!" Camenae pointed to the viewscreen.
In the distance, they could see the Romulan
warbird changing course. Its curved path
flattened out into a straight line. As it gathered
speed, the ship's image rippled and shimmered,
then faded out of existence. The cloaking device
had been activated.
"Dammit!" cried Miyakawa. "I risked
my life to protect the Enterprise, but they've
fallen prey to the Romulans anyway!"
"Don't underestimate Captain Picard."
Camenae's smile flashed in the shadowed interior
of the pod. "I think he's constructing a trap of
his own."
If this was so, Picard's ploy was a dangerous
one.
"Good luck, Jean-Luc," whispered
Miyakawa.

"Forward thrust ..." ordered Commander Taris,
"... now."
Vedoc staggered back against a metal
bulkhead, unbalanced by the Haakona's jolting
acceleration to high warp speed. For a moment, before the
dampening field could counteract the pressure of
inertial forces against his chest, he could hardly
breathe.
Others among the bridge crew seemed to be
fighting for breath as well, but none of them betrayed
any surprise at the painful effect,
so this was no ship malfunction. Vedoc was
familiar enough with the warbird class to know that Taris
must have reset the inertial dampening field below
standard specifications; undoubtedly this was another
small shaving of energy to funnel toward the
weapons system.
The crush of g-forces finally eased. With a
wheezing gasp of relief, Vedoc lurched back
to his position by the side of the commander's throne.
Taris met his return with a condescending smile
and said, "Of course, it's a trap."
Vedoc assumed a feigned look of
surprise just a second too late, and then
feared she would begin to suspect his deceit.
To his relief, however, the sneer on the commander's
face showed she had mistaken his bad timing for
stupidity.
"A trap, Commander?" he asked with exaggerated
bewilderment. Evidently she was convinced that he was
an idiot and would continue to interpret all his
reactions accordingly.
"Your gullibility is touching, Vedoc."
Taris seemed to enjoy displaying her contempt for
her subcommander; if she had any weakness as an
officer, it was this intractable arrogance. "Picard
has given away his position on purpose. The
Federation is very protective of its civilian
population, and they will often undertake such risks
to shift combat to a more isolated area of space.
All the better; we are more than a match for the
Enterprise."
Vedoc nodded obsequiously, too distracted
to contrive a suitably inane response for his
idiot persona. If the commander's custom
modifications to the operating systems of the
Haakona were any indication, her boast was founded
on fact rather than vanity. This knowledge sharpened the young
man's sense of urgency, but over the past few
days he had found no way to change the course of the
events surrounding him.
Would Surak have waited passively for
opportunity, or would the ancient Vulcan have
made his own opportunities? Vedoc longed
to ask his teacher this question, but the catacombs of
Romulus were light-years away.
"Commander Taris." He assumed the manner of
an eager pup desperate to please its master.
"Give me more to do than stand by your side. Let
me take even a small part in this kill."
She snorted under her breath, but
managed to contain any more blatant expression of
her amusement at this offer.
With fear lodged at the base of his throat, he
pushed harder. "I'm newly posted to this warbird,
but I have served with distinction on other ships. If
nothing else, let me assist at the auxiliary
weapons station."
"Oh, very well," said Taris. "But if
Etrajan has any cause for complaint, you will
return to the bridge."
"It shall be as you order, Commander!" he
proclaimed with a flourishing salute. This archaic
and melodramatic response wrung an
explosion of laughter from the normally impassive
crew. As if mortally embarrassed by their disdain,
Vedoc fled the bridge.
His boots rang loudly on the metal decks
as he raced through the main corridor of the ship's
spine. The auxiliary bay next to engineering
remained unmanned until battle was imminent;
if he stayed far enough ahead of Etrajan, Vedoc
would have a few minutes of unsupervised time in which
to act. Despite lungs that were still sore from the
launch, Vedoc pushed himself to keep running. He
swallowed the bitter taste of blood, yet still he
did not slow his pace. An extra second could
mean the difference between success and failure.
By the time the subcommander skidded into the empty
alcove, he had selected his target. With a quick
look to make sure he was not observed and that no
stray engineering operative was in the vicinity,
Vedoc grabbed a sonic wrench from a recessed
shelf, then fell to his knees by the side of a
forward shield generator.
A quick inspection confirmed his suspicion that
Taris had implemented a number of unorthodox
modifications to the deflector system as well;
but for every gain there was an equivalent loss, so some
other aspect of the ship's performance must have been
sacrificed for this advantage. What basic
crew comfort had she deemed an expendable
luxury?
Disabling the diagnostic sensors in the unit was
a straightforward exercise in sabotage. As an
easily bored ensign, he had repeatedly
assembled and disassembled similar components while
his ship patrolled the borders of the Neutral
Zone. Perhaps it was those same long duty shifts
that had given him time to reflect on history and
philosophy.
The next step was even less complicated, but
far more decisive. The power coupling leading to any
shield generator was a weak link that was rarely
broken; it lay too far inside the warbird's
hull to be vulnerable to enemy attack. Setting
the proper frequency on the wrench, he loosened
the electron-bonded connections on the cable's
casing.
All he had to do now was pull.
Is this the right path?
He had not followed the teachings of Spock long
enough to know if this scheme was true to the philosophy
of Surak, but Vedoc did not have years in which
to master the dictates of logic. He had only
a matter of minutes in which to act.
His hand hovered over the conduit.
Assuming that he had the courage to forfeit his own
life for his beliefs, could logic grant him the
right to kill his unwilling shipmates with the same
gesture? Surak had urged peace and an end
to killing, yet if Vedoc assumed a strict
pacifist stand, the Haakona would obtain the
means to subjugate the Federation, and millions of
people on both sides of the conflict would die.
In the end, he chose according to the dictates of his
own conscience, however flawed.
This is best for all my people.
Vedoc jerked on the conduit, pulling it out just
far enough to loosen the connection without actually severing the
current. Repeated power surges to the activated
forward shield would eventually blow the two sections
apart.
Springing to his feet, Vedoc reshelved the
wrench. Then, with three long strides he covered
the distance to the photon torpedo console. That was where
Etrajan found him a few moments later.
"Don't touch anything," said the crewman with a
dour scowl.
"I am yours to command," replied Vedoc with a
sweeping bow that hid the sweat beading on his face.
As he took his place by Etrajan's side,
Vedoc allowed himself to briefly reflect over
what he had just done.
The Ko N'ya would remain with the Enterprise.
From what he had read of the blood-drenched lore
of the stone, the Federation would have little cause to thank
him for that bequest.

Keyda Chandat searched the night sky for a
glimpse of the starship that circled high
above his planet. Starfleet might consider the
Miranda-class USS Sullivan to be little more
than a scoutship, but the warp-powered saucer was far
more impressive than any spacecraft known to the
inhabitants of Dynasia.
"There, Warden," said the Federation
ambassador, pointing a finger to direct him.
"Yes, I see it." But that was a lie; all
Chandat could see were stars. He pulled his gaze
back to the ground before one of his aides returned and
caught him with his face upturned like a foolish child
dreaming of the lost grandeurs of Iconia.
As they continued their stroll through the garden, he
stared fixedly at the plants bordering the path they
followed. Perhaps the beauty of the flowering aurelia
would ward off the temptation of another glance
upward. "Like all my people, I was expected
to master some aspect of the ancient texts. My
specialty was Flight Engineering, and I yearned
to someday touch the wonders my Iconian
ancestors had designed. When I finally faced
the impossibility of that desire, the schematics
of their starships flattened into mere lines on a
page ... and I decided to become a
bureaucrat instead of a scientist." His fingers
brushed against the metallic disk dangling from a
thick-linked gold chain around his neck. "Of
course, I never expected the yoke of this office
would become so heavy as it has this year."
"If the Dynasian Faculty chooses
to pursue admission, your children will walk the decks
of our starships. They m ay even command them."
Ambassador Tommas was quite adept at
promoting the Federation agenda.
"A more likely scenario is that my children will die
in civil war first," said Chandat. His legs were
cramped after hours of sitting in council, and though
he was tired, it felt good to finally move
freely. "Regardless of what decision the
Faculty government reaches, there will be an
opposing faction enraged by the outcome. If
conservative forces prevail, we must resort
to mass executions to repress the native
insurgents; if the admission factions win, our
central authority will disintegrate and anarchy will
reign in its place. You have unleashed a storm that
will tear my world to pieces, yet you will not commit
military forces--"
"Warden, our Prime Directive--"
"Yes, I know all about your Prime
Directive of noninterference," he said
bitterly. "Having shattered our political
unity, you will step back and watch us writhe in our
death throes."
"That is unfair." A dark color flooded
over the ambassador's pale cheeks; Chandat
wondered what Human emotion that signified.
"Dean Shagret's request for admission to the
Federation constituted a formal invitation to open
negotiations."
"He did not have the authority to issue that
request!"
"Just the means," sighed Tommas. "You can
hardly blame us for his duplicity."
"No, Ambassador, I do not. My
weariness is speaking louder than my reason."
In truth, Shagret's treason had been
cleverly executed. A lifetime of exemplary
administrative service had gained the man the
coveted post of Dean of Communications and thus the
means to send a message directly to the Federation
Council. Who would have suspected that a highly
placed conservative professor harbored
radical insurgent sympathies?
Chandat twirled around, alarmed by the sound of
someone running up behind them. In the last week,
native partisans had gained access to halls and
libraries, areas once thought beyond their reach, but
surely not to the Faculty garden as well?
To his relief, the boy who approached was a
trusted aide. Or could anyone be trusted in these
dark times?
"Warden," called out the boy. "The Faculty
Council is ready to resume the debate."
Having delivered this message, he darted
back down the path. So, fear of terrorist
attacks had spread to the students as well.
"May I meet with you again after this session?" the
ambassador asked as they strolled back toward
the flying buttresses of the Athenaeum.
"No," said Chandat, though he longed to say
otherwise. "Not until the Faculty has reached
a consensus." He had enjoyed these audiences with
Tommas too much; his longing to touch lost wonders
was resurfacing, clouding his judgment and his
objectivity.
Or am I gaining new perspectives?
The warden mused upon this conflict of interests as
he pushed his way through the crowd of professors and
students that were milling by the entrance to the
council chamber.
Inside, he found that the debate had resumed
without him.
"Traitors! Admission to the Federation will
completely undermine our authority and our
financial base on this planet."
The last of the straggling Faculty members
rushed into the room to hear the Dean of
Architecture berate her opponents. As
warden, Chandat was responsible for maintaining
order, but he decided the attempt to exercise
control would only inflame tempers further. He
would let Thorina rave a while longer.
"All that the Dynasian natives possess,
we have given them. They were scrabbling in the dirt
when we arrived, and they would be scrabbling there still if
not for our superior technological knowledge."
"That "scrabbling" populace has taken
care of us for a millennia," retorted Shagret
with the smug demeanor of a self-righteous zealot.
His forehead bore the intricate ridges of a noble
family, but he affected the accent of a native.
"They have grown our food, built our
libraries, even bathed our very bodies; in
return, we have doled out scraps of technology
to them like sweet favors to an obedient child. Then
we execute those who would use it without tithing our
coffers."
Thorina dismissed this defense with a contemptuous
wave. "Unfettered development would have
destroyed their culture."
"We have strangled any true development
centuries ago," said Shagret. The warden
noticed with some unease that several more
professors had grouped around him to show
support. "We play games of the mind in soaring
towers but have forgotten how to turn thought into action.
The master plan of the Ancients has fallen
into disuse because it called for the eventual participation
of the planet's natives; the ideals of our
Iconian ancestors have been corrupted
into self-serving exploitation."
"Admission is inevitable," cried out a
junior Faculty member in Physics and the
leader of a growing Pragmatist faction. "If we
vote in favor of joining the Federation, we can then
control the population's access to new sources of
knowledge."
"Your na@ivet`e is stunning," sniped
Thorina. "And very dangerous."
The one native professor on the
Faculty, little more than a token until now,
stood up to speak. Oomalo's scales glistened
with the iridescence of anger. "If you deny us this
opportunity for advancement, my people have vowed
to return to "scrabbling in the dirt," only
this time you will have to scrabble along with us for your living.
Without our labor, your fine libraries will rot and
your stomachs will go empty."
The hall erupted into chaos. Chandat's calls
for order were drowned out as the cries of outrage from
those who feared the natives mixed with the cries of
indignation from those who championed their cause.
What warden in the history of the Dynasians could
forge a consensus from such divergent convictions? He
fell silent rather than add his own voice to the
tumult.
As the uproar continued unabated, a hand fell
on his shoulder, and Chandat looked up to find his
secretary bending down to whisper in his ear.
"Warden," said the man as he pushed a document
into Chandat's hand. "I bring an urgent memo from
Professor Manja."
"Manja? By the Three Gates, not now!"
scolded Chandat. Under the circumstances, the
doddering scholar's plaintive requests for
increased funding were especially ill-timed;
Iconian Literature was not a priority for this
Faculty at the best of times.
"Read it, Warden!" said Ganin with an
urgency that startled Chandat into compliance.
He read the message. Then he read it again.
As a man of science, the warden had never
believed in miracles, but the words before him were like the
answers to a prayer. There was no time to confirm the
veracity of such an outrageous claim, but true
or not, it would serve his immediate purpose.
Rising from his seat, the warden waved for silence.
When he finally had gained the unruly
Faculty's attention, he read them a
judiciously edited version of Manja's
report.
It was met with stunned silence. For once, the
assembly of professors had nothing to say.
Chandat took shameless advantage of their
confusion.
"This Ko N'ya is the very Gem which Kanda
Jiak used to operate the Gateway from Iconia
to our world--we must act now to seize it from those who
do not suspect its powers. With the Gem in
our possession once again, we can regain the
heights scaled by our Iconian forebearers; the
planets of the Federation will come begging to us for a
superior technology beyond their understanding; and all
the people of Dynasia will share in wealth beyond
imagining."
Every face in the hall was turned toward him with
eyes that burned with patriotic fervor.
Warden Chandat rejoiced. He had restored unity
to his world after all.

END OF VOLUME II





































THE DEVIL'S HEART

by
Carmen Carter




Volume III of Three Volumes
Pages i-ii and 345-515




For special distribution as authorized by Act of
Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe
permission of the copyright holder.




Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,
National Library Service for the Blind and
Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,
Inc., 1996.











Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All
Rights Reserved.












THE DEVIL'S HEART

CHAPTER 23

"T'Sara."
No ... do not wake me anymore ... I
am so tired.
"T'Sara."
She opened her eyes, but the man who had
called her out of the healing trance was not Sorren. Of
course he was not Sorren; Sorren was dead.
And I am dying even now.
The cool air of the Collector's chamber
made her shiver for the first time. She rubbed her hands
together for warmth, then stopped suddenly and looked
down at her palms.
Her hands were empty.
"I have it now," said the stranger kneeling before
her, and she saw that the stone was sheltered in his
large, muscular hands.
"If I no longer hold the Ko N'ya,"
said T'Sara, "then this must be your dream, young
man."
He had the lean, sharp look of a Vulcan
until he smiled at her words. "It has been
many years since I've been called a young
man."
"Your hair may have turned white, but you will
never grow so old as I am now," she said
simply, and he met her statement with a gentle
nod of acceptance. Humans were short-lived
compared to her own people, but this one seemed to have made more
of his brief moment than others of his race. "Why
do you call me?"
"I am trying to unravel the path of the Ko
N'ya, T'Sara. It began at the Guardian
of Forever, but I don't know how it left there or
where it is going. Or even why it travels."
"Greedy Human," she sighed. "Not even I
could live long enough to answer all of those questions ...
but I a lmost touched the truth of Where."
"Almost?"
"In one of my last visions I saw the next
step in its journey; not the end of its quest, but
possibly the end of its dealings with our affairs."
"Tell me, T'Sara!" he pleaded with an
urgency that saddened her.
She pointed to the wizened body of the
Collector, who crouched above them.
"Halaylah learned the ways of the stone better
than anyone, but when she saw that same
vision, she walled herself up alive rather than let
the Ko N'ya fulfill its destiny."
"I am not the Collector; I wish to find a
way to continue what you--"
"No!" she cried out. Her waning strength was not
sufficient to suppress her anguish. "Do not
lay the burden of your actions on me. I have too
much to answer for already."
""I will not give it to any living being,"" he
recited slowly. "I remember, those were your
words."
"And Surak's. As a child he was far wiser
than I could ever hope to be. He released the
stone before it could tempt him beyond the limits of
self-control; I thought I could do the same, but
I waited too long. You have waited too long as
well."
The man shook his head as if angered by what he
heard. "It is not evil, T'Sara."
"No, not evil. Just dangerous." There was not
much time left to her, she realized. On the other
side of this dream, death was waiting. "The Ko
N'ya is not of our world; its powers were meant for
other purposes. It constantly struggles to free
itself from the tangle of our grasping hands."
Overcome by weakness, her head fell back
against the wall. Must the knot untie so
soon?
"No, T'Sara!" he cried. "I need to know
where!"
She extended an arm up toward his head, her
fingers searching for the contact points on his temple.
The man stiffened but did not resist her; he had
mind-melded before.
She reached inward.
When their thoughts were one, she showed him the place
the constellation of stars and the speeding messenger that
waited for the Ko N'ya.
There!
Her arm dropped down, breaking the link. The
fingers of her hand flexed, then clenched like steel
clamps around the cloth of his shirt. With the last of
her strength, she pulled him so close he could
feel her dry breath on his face as she
whispered, "Remember this about the Ko N'ya ...
the blood never stops flowing."

Picard stumbled out of the shadows of the
Collector's chamber into the ruined plaza
surrounding the fallen tower.
Staring up into the night sky, he tried to make
sense of the stars. They were all wrong, and it was so very
important that they be right. He reached out his hands
to move them into their proper positions, to arrange
them according to the image T'Sara had revealed to him
...
... but his fingers hit against the transparent
barrier of an angled ceiling window.
He was standing in the middle of his cabin.
Despite this abrupt awakening, his sense of
urgency remained somehow he must fix the stars in
their place. Stepping over to his desk, Picard
snatched up a data padd and stylus and began
to sketch a series of small circles. Even as
the meaning of what he drew faded out of his understanding,
he fought to preserve the image that lingered in his
mind's eye.
His hand finally stopped, but he knew he was not quite
finished. There was still something missing, an element that
had given this scene a distinctive configuration.
Not another star ...
... a comet.
He drew a flurry of lines to mark the
comet's streaming tail, and the sketch was complete.
With the padd gripped tightly in one hand,
Picard walked back to the threshold of his
bedroom. If the Heart had come to life during the
night, he had missed its shimmering display. He
could barely make out its rounded silhouette on a
low table by his bed.
Picard whispered into the shadows, "If I am
to take you to this place, I must know why."

CHAPTER 24

The bridge was always quiet during the night
shift.
Too quiet, as far as Riker was concerned.
Although a full crew complement was posted at all
the duty stations, the men and women talked in low
voices and went about their work with a more subdued
manner than their day-shift counterparts. The hushed
atmosphere made Riker feel uncomfortably
self-conscious. He was a large man who was
accustomed to moving freely and taking up space;
any attempt to rein in his body robbed him of
composure.
During the day, Riker would have sprawled in the
captain's chair and called out for any information he
wanted, and he would have conducted discussions
across the length of the bridge. During the night,
however, he felt constrained by the lull around him and
chose to walk from station to station to gather reports.
The first officer even shortened his stride as he
walked up a side ramp to the tactical station
on the aft deck, but his boots still thumped too
heavily.
"Status, Lieutenant?" Riker asked in a
voice that was too loud.
"Shields raised; energy reserves holding
steady at ninety-five percent," said Worf.
His voice was deeper than Riker's, yet it
seemed to travel less far. "Sensor scans do
not reveal pursuit by any kind of vessel."
"So the captain's decoy plan doesn't
appear to be working. That's assuming someone really
did attack Starbase 193."
To Riker's consternation, Worf's eyes narrowed
to baleful slits. By nature, Klingons were
fiercely loyal to their commanding officer, but Worf
was especially sensitive to any implied
criticism of Captain Picard. "Do not forget
the report of Romulan incursion into Federation
space."
"An unconfirmed sighting of a warbird, with
no indication of where it might be headed ..." The
first officer shrugged. "Well, I suppose it's
possible."
"We must remain vigilant."
"Absolutely," said Riker. Fortunately,
this display of enthusiasm seemed to appease Worf
sufficiently to ease the belligerent expression
off his face. "Carry on, Lieutenant."
Riker had just turned away to continue his tour
around the bridge when he heard the telltale
trill of an incoming message registering on the
communications console. He waited for the security
chief's explanation before taking another step.
"Commander, we are receiving a scrambled
transmission ..." Worf scanned the signal
packet information, "... from Commander Miyakawa,
currently aboard the Portsmouth."
"Well it's about time!" All across the
bridge, heads snapped around at the sound of
Riker's cry, but he no longer cared whether he
was conspicuous or not.
"Unscrambling in progress."
Moving to Worf's side, Riker eagerly
read the text as it scrolled across a small
window.
Even before he had finished reading all of
Miyakawa's account, the first officer reached for his
comm link. "Captain Picard to the bridge."
Then Riker turned to the security chief and,
taking a deep breath, said, "Raise shields
... and go to yellow alert."
The tranquillity of the night shift was shattered
as amber panels of light throbbed on and off and
sirens whooped to life. Complacent crewmembers
jumped to attention or scurried to secure their
stations, and Riker knew that a thousand sleeping people
throughout the decks of the starship had just been rudely
awakened.
We have become a magnet for trouble.
The captain's ominous words echoed in Riker's
mind. With hands gripping the aft deck rail, he
leaned forward to stare at the main viewscreen.
One cubic meter of space looked very much like
another, but somewhere in that tenuous soup of interstellar
gases was a cloaked Romulan warbird, an
invisible raptor in search of an all too
visible prey.

Deanna Troi struggled to stifle a yawn,
but fortunately the ensign sitting across from her was
too absorbed in his own misery to notice her
momentary lapse of attention. He was hunched
forward on the edge of the sofa, staring down at the
carpet as he spilled out the details of a failed
romance.
"How can I continue living when I've lost the
one person that gave my existence meaning?"
His roommate had been sufficiently alarmed
by this sentiment to roust the empath out of her bed in the
middle of the night for a counseling session. However,
Troi had quickly sensed that Asadourian was not
truly suicidal, merely histrionic. Perhaps
she would pass his name on to Beverly Crusher so he
could indulge his flair for melodrama on the
stage of the ship's theater.
Certain that the ensign had unburdened himself of the
worst of his grievances against his former true love,
the counselor gently urged him to return to his
cabin.
"You'll feel better in the morning," she
assured him as they walked out of her office. She
could tell that he didn't believe her, but then
lovesick young men never did.
As Troi strolled down the quiet
corridors of the ship, she admitted to a
slightly wistful envy of Asadourian's
passion; it was incredibly disruptive, yet so much
fun, to fall madly in love. Many years ago,
she herself had experienced a considerable amount of
emotional turmoil in connection with a certain
tall, dark Starfleet officer.
"And stay out of trouble until that heals!"
Picking up her pace at the sound of the
familiar voice, Troi turned a corner in
time to catch a fleeting glimpse of red and blue
as Beverly Crusher ducked back into sickbay.
Ensign Brengle, the recipient of the doctor's
commandment, was limping away down the corridor.
On the spur of the moment, Troi decided
to take a short detour. After all, as long as
she was awake, she could attend to certain frictions
between the captain and his chief medical officer.
The outer ward of sickbay was empty of
patients, but several nurses were clearing the area
of used medical supplies, and Crusher was standing
in the middle of the room frowning at the data padd
in her hand.
"Busy night?" asked Troi.
"You could say that," said Crusher, with a weary
sigh. "No major emergencies, just a steady
stream of minor injuries from freak accidents. For
instance, did you know there's a holodeck scenario
for riding dinosaurs?"
"That sounds like one of Wesley's ideas."
"Probably," said the doctor.
"But surely he wouldn't construct a dangerous
program?"
With a shake of her head, Crusher said, "Oh,
not even Marte blamed the computer for her accident.
The fail-safe parameters can protect you from being
trampled on by an allosaurus, but they can't
stop you from tripping over a Jurassic vine and
twisting your ankle."
"Interesting setting, but I think I'll stick
to more modern sports." Troi assumed her best
pretense of nonchalance to ask, "When is your
shift over?"
Crusher scratched a quick note on the tablet,
then handed it to one of the departing nurses. "Right
now."
They were finally alone, which gave Troi the
opportunity to ask her next question. "So are you
going to have breakfast with the captain this morning?"
"No," said Crusher emphatically. "In
fact, I have no intention of meeting the
captain for any meal whatsoever in the foreseeable
future."
"I see," said Troi. "He hasn't
apologized for your broken dinner engagement."
"He hasn't even remembered that we made
plans."
"Even so, I wish you would make a point
to meet with him soon." Troi held up a hand
to forestall an indignant protest. "He
doesn't seem to be sleeping well lately."
"Maybe he has a guilty conscience."
"Actually, Beverly," said the counselor,
"I'm getting a little worried about him, and so is
W. The captain's interest in the Heart has
become so intense that I'm inclined to term it an
obsession."
"Are you serious?" Crusher folded her arms
over her chest in an unconscious gesture of
distrust.
"I am very serious." Fortunately, she was able
to say this with complete sincerity. "I'm not ready
to request a formal medical exam, but I'd like
your professional opinion on his condition."
"Off the record?"
"Yes."
"All right, Deanna." Crusher unlocked
her arms and shoved her hands deep into her coat
pockets. "You win. I'll stop by the captain's
cabin this--"
Her last words were drowned out by the intrusive
wail of yellow alert sirens.
So much for that clever plan, thought Deanna
ruefully. And so much for any more rest that night.

The fact that Data did not sleep was
well-known throughout the ship, so it was not unusual
for the android to have visitors at any time of day or
night. Both Geordi La Forge and Miles
O'Brien were in the habit of stopping by Data's
cabin if they had worked late and were in the mood for
company.
Captain Picard, however, was not known for making
impromptu visits; yet, there he stood in the
hall just outside the android's quarters, fingers
rapping impatiently on the back of a data
padd.
"Come in, sir," said Data, stepping back
from the threshold to let his commanding officer enter.
Picard advanced a few feet into the room, just
enough to allow the doors to close behind his
back. "I need your assistance, Data."
"Certainly, Captain. I--" The android
stopped in mid-sentence to peer down at the tablet that
Picard had thrust into his hands. After a brief
study of the crude graphic on the screen,
Data ventured a hypothesis. "These circles
represent stars?"
"Yes, of course they're stars. This is a
map of a particular location that ... well, that is
important for me to identify. So, I need you
to ascertain the coordinates of this site."
Data slowly rotated the padd. "A
two-dimensional representation of
three-dimensional spatial arrangements is
insufficient for this task. I will need a reference
point of some kind."
"There isn't one," said the captain with an
impatient shake of his head. "Except for the
comet."
"Captain, comets are extremely common.
To date, the Federation registry lists
approximately--"
"I'm well aware of the difficulties, Mr.
Data. However, it is imperative that you
establish just where this spot," Picard tapped
emphatically in the center of the map, "can be found."
"I will do my best." The placement of the
circles formed a distinctive pattern. Data
blinked in an involuntary reaction to the activation
of his neural subprocessors and confirmed that the
arrangement of stars was not a constellation that he could
immediately match with any images stored in his
memory. "But this could take a very long time. On
the order of several weeks, if not months."
Picard frowned his disapproval of the estimate.
Snatching the padd out of Data's grasp, the
captain stared down at the sketch. "If only
I could remember ..." His eyes closed. His
fingers traced over the figures he had drawn.
Data waited patiently.
"We were with the Collector ... the vision was
given to her ..." Picard's eyes flew open.
"Presume that this is a constellation that can be seen from
the surface of Atropos if you were standing in the
plaza where you found T'Sara's body."
"Thank you," said Data. "That specification
should provide adequate information to narrow my
search parameters."
"Fine, fine, just let me know as soon--"
"Captain Picard to the
bridge."
Before Picard could answer Riker's hail,
yellow alert sirens signaled a significant
change in the ship's status.
"Our adversary has surfaced," said
Picard, and Data noted the look of triumph
that lit his face, if only for a moment. Flinging
aside the data padd that had absorbed his
attention until now, Picard spun on his heel
and marched out of the cabin.
Data advanced through the doorway in the
captain's wake, then came to a sudden halt just
in time to avoid a collision. Picard had stopped
in the middle of the corridor; he was poised for
movement, yet hesitated as if unsure of which
direction he should take.
"Captain?"
"I left something in my cabin ..." said
Picard, looking back over his shoulder. The
flashing alert lights seemed to highlight the
hollows beneath his eyes. "... but it will have to wait
until later. There really isn't time."
Despite the declarative form, Data sensed
an implied question in the captain's statement.
"No, it does not appear that there is any margin
for delay."
Picard bolted into motion again. "Then what are
you waiting for?" he called out as he raced down the
corridor.
Data scrambled to catch up.

Mission briefings were usually held in the
sequestered comfort of the observation lounge, but
by unspoken agreement, Riker conducted this session
in the command center of the bridge. Tonight, the time
to move from one room of the ship to another was a
luxury they could not afford.
The first officer leaned forward, hands planted on
his knees, as he related his knowledge of the approaching
danger to the captain and Data; Worf loomed
above the seated group from his aerie on the aft
deck.
"According to Commander Miyakawa's account," said
Riker, "the warbird was still circling Starbase
193 when we broadcast the distress message
to the Portsmouth. The Romulans cloaked
moments later, and presumably departed the area
on an intercept course with the Enterprise."
Data canted his head to one side as his
positronic brain incorporated time and
distance into his calculations. "If that is the
case, I estimate that the warbird could approach
firing range of the Enterprise within seventeen
minutes."
"That's too close for comfort," said Riker with
an involuntary glance at the main viewscreen.
"Bear in mind, Commander, that this conjecture is
based on a theoretical performance rate of one
hundred percent. Depending on the degree of
efficiency of the ship and its crew, actual
values will fall short of that figure."
"For safety's sake," said Picard, "let
us presume they are very efficient. Helm,
increase speed to warp nine."
"Aye, sir." The android swiveled his
console chair back into a forward position as he
implemented the captain's directive. Somewhere
down in engineering, Geordi had anticipated this
demand because the warp engines immediately purred into high
speed.
Picard called up to the aft deck next.
"Lieutenant Worf, reduce power
expenditures throughout the ship and channel all
available energy to the deflector shields."
Pitching his voice low, so only the captain
could hear him, Riker asked, "Do you think we can
outrun them, sir?"
"Probably not," said Picard. "They have too
great a lead already. However, cloaking devices
are a heavy drain on a warbird's resources,
so we can make them pay a high price for this
pursuit. If they stay invisible, they will drain
their weaponry system."
"And if they drop the cloaking field, we have
a target we can see."
"Exactly, Number One." Picard rubbed
a hand over his face, as if to wipe away
fatigue, then fixed his gaze on the
viewscreen. "The rest is a waiting game."
At close quarters, Riker could hear a
faint rasp in the captain's voice. Picard's
eyes were rimmed with red, another sign that he
hadn't gotten much rest tonight; but then, if he had
been asleep in his cabin when yellow alert
sounded, his arrival to the bridge would have been
delayed by at least a few more minutes. No,
Riker suspected the captain had already been
awake when he received the call to duty.
"Captain," rumbled Worf. "Long-range
sensors detect an approaching
vessel ... intercept in fifteen seconds."
"Go to red alert, Lieutenant," said Picard
grimly, and in an instant the bridge was bathed in
red light.
Riker shook his head in disbelief. "If it's
the Romulans, they're well ahead of
schedule."
"It appears I was in error," said Data,
looking back over his shoulder. Riker hadn't
intended to slight his estimate, but the android
evidently felt the need to justify his
miscalculation. "Apparently they have sacrificed
the stealth afforded by a cloaking device for speed and
strength of arms."
"Closing at five hundred thousa nd
kilometers ..." warned Worf.
Riker saw Picard nod to himself, a sign he
had chosen his strategy for the coming conflict.
"On my signal," said the captain, "go
to quarter-impulse speed. With luck, they'll
overshoot us by a decade."
"Four hundred thousand kilometers ... three
hundred thousand ..."
"Now!" said Picard.
The Enterprise's sudden drop out of high
warp drive sent a shudder rippling through the saucer
hull. On the main viewscreen, Riker could
see the warbird flashing past, but too slowly for
warp speed. "Dammit! They've
second-guessed us."
"But at full-impulse speed, they still
overshot," said Picard. They watched the
Romulan ship as it circled back to confront
them. "It gives us a few extra seconds."
"Phasers locking on target," announced
Worf.
"Fire at will, Lieutenant."
Riker gripped the arms of his command chair in
anticipation of the coming assault.
The Klingon unleashed a barrage from the
phasers, but the warbird charged straight through the
curtain of fire. Then, as the ships closed, the
space between them burned with a dazzling crisscross
of energy beams. The bridge rocked as the
starship's shields absorbed a series of blows.
"Evasive maneuvers," ordered Picard.
The Enterprise responded with quicksilver
movements under the helm's control, yet the
Romulan pilot was equally adept. The two
ships twirled through space, paired like
dancers who never pulled too far apart.
Warbirds were not known for their grace, but this ship was
different, realized Riker, and the difference could be
deadly.
"Deflector power down to fifty-seven
percent," called out Ensign Taylor from the aft
deck.
Again and again, Riker was tossed and shaken as the
Romulan phasers pounded against the starship's
shields. Worf scored as many hits on the
warbird, but only a scattered few actually
touched the warbird's hull.
"Minor damage to their starboard wing," said the
Klingon.
However, his announcement was quickly followed
by another damage report from the ensign.
"Shield failure imminent in Engineering,
Sector 52."
"Auxiliary power supplies are almost
depleted." Geordi's intercom voice
barely cut through the battle's thunder. "We
can't increase shield strength without compromising
life support."
"Shields gone on Primary Hull,
Sector 36."
As the damage reports flooded in from all
decks, Riker saw a pattern emerge. The
ship was being attacked in noncritical areas where
the deflector shielding was most vulnerable to strong
blows.
"What are they doing?" cried Riker. "Taking
us apart bolt by bolt?"
"They're trying to cripple us," said Picard,
"so they can recover the Heart intact."
The Enterprise was rocked by yet another
hit. Worf's counter charge hit the attacker
broadside, but its main shields were still holding.
Although warbirds were the most formidable vessels of
their class, built solely for combat, the
Enterprise should have proved to be a strong
opponent. However, this particular Romulan ship
was tougher than most.
"Hull breach on Deck 38!"
"Shield failure imminent in Engineering,
Sector 59."
"We could use a miracle right about now," said
Riker through gritted teeth.
"If we cannot win this battle," said Picard,
"then we must lose it completely; the Romulans
must never be allowed to gain possession of the
Heart." Drawing a deep breath, he said,
"Number One, prepare for initiation of a
self-destruct--"
"Captain," called out Data. "Sensors
detect a gap in their deflectors ... a
forward shield has collapsed."
Riker jumped to his feet. "Worf! Aim
for that--"
But the Klingon needed no urging. With the swift
instincts of a born warrior, he had already seized
the advantage.
A single arrow of phaser fire flew straight
through the chink in the Romulan ship's defenses and
drilled a white hot hole through its hull to the
center of the warp drive engines.
"Got them!" exclaimed the security chief with
an intimidating display of pointed teeth.
The warbird shuddered, then bucked, as a chain
reaction of internal explosions ripped through the
length of its frame. A spidery web of
cracks radiated across its hull and licking
flames laced with roiling black smoke streamed
from the breaches.
"You were saying, Captain?" asked Riker.
"I can't recall." Picard rose to stand beside
his first officer. As they stared at the ruined carcass
of their defeated enemy, he said, "You're the one
who asked for a miracle, Number One."
"I'll just have to remember to ask sooner, next
time." And yet Riker couldn't help wondering if
any of the dead soldiers that once walked the
decks of the warbird had also prayed, in vain, for a
miracle.

CHAPTER 25

Beverly Crusher was the last of the senior
officers to slip into place around the conference table but
the first to be fixed with Picard's intense questioning
gaze.
"Doctor?"
Although she had brought a medical padd with her,
the report it contained was still fresh in her mind.
She recited the statistics to a somber audience.
"Reports of minor injuries are still filtering
in from all decks, but the current count of notable
casualties is thirty-five. Intensive care
has two crewmen who are in critical condition
and another five in serious condition; twelve
patients are in the general sickbay
ward; the rest have been released after treatment."
Fighting against a feeling of defeat, she finished
with, "There were three fatalities."
This last statement keyed the tension in the
captain's shoulders even tighter, but he made
no comment beyond a curt nod of acknowledgment.
Picard turned to Geordi La Forge next.
"Maintenance teams have repaired the hull
breach," said the engineer, "and Deck 38 is already
repressurized, but we've uncovered serious
damage to several starboard deflector shield
amplifiers and at least two gravity field
generators."
Crusher half-listened to Geordi's unfolding
report, but her attention was focused mainly on
Picard. Troi's concern had been well-founded;
it was difficult to assess the captain's condition
from across the length of the conference table, but what she could
see from here was disturbing.
At first glance, even as she had entered the
room, Crusher had been struck by the haggard
look of his face. Picard was a lean man at the
best of times, but now the bones of his skull were far
too prominent, and the skin that covered them was pale
and stretched taut. From previous experience, the
doctor knew that prolonged stress had a
tendency to melt flesh off his frame, but she had
never seen him develop a nervous tic before.
Yet she noted that Picard's hands were in constant
subtle motion, with fingers twitching or tracing
patterns on the surface of the table.
Crusher waited until the round of reports
had concluded and the other officers were filing out of the
room before she approached the captain. Picard was
still sitting at the head of the table, fingers drumming a
repetitive rhythm, but he had turned to face
the window. His eyes were flitting from side to side
as he scanned the vista of stars. She wondered
what he was looking for.
"Captain."
His head jerked up, as if pulled against his will.
"Yes, Doctor?" His query was clipped with
impatience.
One look at the stubborn set of his jaw, and
Crusher realized that gentle persuasion would only
waste her breath. "You look like death warmed over.
My medical recommendation is that you get some
rest, immediately."
As she expected, he shook his head. "In
light of Mr. La Forge's damage
reports, Doctor, I don't have the luxury
of abandoning my duties to satisfy your whims.
Please direct your excess medical passion
to the patients in intensive care."
Crusher drew a sharp breath, stung by the
cutting remark. Yet she also recognized that
Picard's bristling anger was probably just
another symptom of his exhaustion. Before she could
frame a tactful reply, the doctor felt
someone brush against her arm; Riker had stepped
back from the doorway to stand beside her.
"Captain," said the first officer with an affable
grin. "I don't think a quick nap could be construed
as abandoning your duties. In fact, this would be a
good opportunity to take a break so you'll be
refreshed by the time Geordi has a new status
report."
Crusher rushed in before Picard could debate this
point. "And if you've been having trouble
sleeping, I can prescribe appropriate
medication." This was the obvious recommendation under the
circumstances, yet she knew that Picard would
perceive this suggestion as a veiled threat.
The captain shifted his glance from her over
to Riker, then back again to her. Rising from his
chair, Picard said, "No drugs will be necessary,
Doctor. I will go to my cabin without further
protest."
"Very sensible," she said, with what she hoped was a
lighter tone, but Picard's stoic reserve did
not soften. He stalked from the room without uttering
another word.
Crusher turned to the first officer. The grin on
his face had faded away. "How long has he
been this way, Will?"
"He's grown noticeably worse in the last
day," said Riker. "But I think the trouble started
when he took possession of the Heart."
Crusher sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that.
Unfortunately, this is one condition I don't
know how to treat."

Picard stripped off his uniform jacket and
tossed it aside. This would be his one concession
to comfort for tonight. Doctor Crusher could order him
to his cabin, but now that he was in the privacy of his
own quarters, he had no intention of following her
instructions any further.
Sleep was out of the question. Even closing his eyes
was asking too much when reminders of disaster
continued to mock him at every turn. After leaving the
conference room, he had walked through smoke-filled
corridors and listened to the crackling exchanges
of repair crews on the intercom; the deck had
lurched several times as a gravity stabilizer
weakened, then failed; and now, Picard could see the
blackened hulk of the Romulan warbird drifting
in space just outside his cabin window.
Perhaps Counselor Troi would argue that it was
symbolic of his success in defeating an enemy.
She would remind him that not all conflicts could be
resolved peacefully and that sometimes even the right
decisions could not lead to triumph against overwhelming
odds. To him, however, the wreckage was a reminder
of his failure to protect his own ship.
The Enterprise was crippled, stranded far
outside Federation territory, and he alone was
responsible for this situation.
His glance dropped down to the Heart, a crude
centerpiece for the elegant glass-topped table that
held it.
What if this quest for the Heart's destination was a
fantasy created within his own mind? If that was the
case, the entire starship crew would pay the
price for his self-delusion. On the other hand,
what if the Heart could help pull the
Enterprise out of this predicament?
You have waited too long ...
T'Sara had advised him to give up the stone,
or at least to stop making use of its powers.
Yet, so far he had only taken part in the
dreams. Surely there was no harm in that? And perhaps
the dreams could show him the way to safety.
He stooped to pick up the Heart, his hands
eagerly closing around its familiar shape. If
there was even a chance of that being true, he must take
the risk.
With measured steps and grim determination,
Picard carried the stone into his bedroom. He
placed it at the head of his bed, then slipped beneath
the covers without bothering to undress.
Closing his eyes, he waited impatiently for
that night's dream to claim him ...

The morning sun was still low in the Delula sky,
but he could feel sweat beading on the back of his
neck. He shivered, chilled by a cool breeze
brushing over damp skin, and rubbed his hands dry
on the front of his thin shirt. There was nothing he
could do to quell the fluttering emptiness in
his stomach. He told himself the ache was hunger, but
the very thought of food brought a rush of bile up his
throat. He swallowed it down and fought against the
impulse to gag.
"Nervous, Picard?" Chiang's inquiry
sounded sympathetic, but his mouth curled ever so
slightly at one corner. His body was solid,
thicker than Picard's wiry form; his blue
shorts and shirt were crisp and dry.
"No, I'm not nervous." The hoarseness of his
reply betrayed the raw burn in the back of his
throat.
"No, of course not. After all, you're going
to win this race." Chiang's smile deepened into a
sneer as he tossed a white towel into the air.
"Here, before you flood the field."
Picard lunged forward to catch the towel before it
could fall to the ground, a certain offense for a lowly
first-year cadet. By the time he straightened up
again, Chiang was walking back to a tight knot of
upperclassmen gathered by the field house.
"Damn you," Picard muttered softly under his
breath, but he took no pleasure in the curse.
He cast a furtive glance at the cadets around
him, wondering how many had noticed the exchange and
understood its significance. They seemed intent
on their own business Drager and T'Soron were
on the grass, arms and legs waving gracefully
back and forth as they stretched hamstrings and
triceps; Miyakawa was knotting her hair
into an intricate braid that would keep her long
black tresses out of her face; and Gareth was
fastening and refastening his shoes for the perfect fit that
always eluded him.
"Too tight this time?"
The young Andorian looked up from his task.
"Too loose," he corrected and cast his gaze
quickly downward again. It was the shortest conversation
they had ever had; usually Gareth was tediously
chatty.
Picard felt himself flush with shame, and the wave
of warmth drove more beads of sweat out of his skin.
So, Gareth had heard.
Everyone at the Academy had probably
heard.
He mopped his face and neck with Chiang's
towel and raked back a wayward curl of hair.
Well, there was no help for it now. The boast had
been made and was beyond recall.
He heard the crunching tread of
boots on grass coming up behind him, and his
muscles tensed and tightened, counteracting the
effects of his recent warm-up.
"Jean-Luc."
"Oh, hello, Walker." He continued to dry
himself off, rubbing first at one arm then another,
careful not to turn and look his friend in the face.
Walker Keel lacked flair, some cadets
even implied he lacked the fire necessary for command,
but at this moment Picard would gladly trade all
of his own brash bravado for just an ounce of
Walker's quiet dignity.
"We'll be waiting for you at the finish line."
His hands clenched and twisted the soft cloth into a
knot. "Jack's here, too?"
He caught Walker's nod out of the corner of
his eye. "The crowd is already pretty thick, so
we're taking turns holding our space."
"Actually, I'd rather ... it would be easier
..." Picard couldn't finish, couldn't find the
words to tell them both to go away. Neither of them had
reproached him for his arrogance, for the absolute
lunacy of his drunken outburst, yet facing them
at the end of this race would be as great a trial as
suffering the scorn of the entire Academy for the
remainder of the term. "You know something, Walker?
I talk too much."
"Yes, I've noticed that," said Walker with a
slow smile. He thumped Picard's back with
an open hand, a gesture of both exasperation and
affection, then strolled away, melting into the stream
of spectators rushing to take their places along
the path.
"Starters up!"
Blue-clad figures all across the field
froze in mid-motion at the announcement, then
responded to the call with a leisurely approach
to the broad white line that marked the beginning of the
40k marathon. Picard mimicked their
nonchalance, but his gait felt stiff and
unnatural. He longed for another stretching
session, but there was no time left.
As fifty-three pairs of feet stepped up
to the starting line, he had one last stabbing thought
What if Boothby had heard?
The sharp crack of the starting gun caught him
unprepared. He pushed off last, almost immediately
trailing behind the throng of runners who jostled for
position and pace. He was a front-runner--
he'd always been a front-runner--but his
concentration had flagged during that critical instant
when reflexes triggered muscles into a first burst
of speed. Faced with an unexpected wall of
pumping legs and flailing arms, he faltered again,
then braced himself for a collision with any runners
moving up behind him. He risked a darting
backward glance.
There were no other runners. He was last.
No freshman has ever won the Academy
Marathon ... until now!
Those echoing words--his own foolish words--set
fire to his lagging feet. Enough of this self-pitying
indulgence; he had a long race to run. Shoving
aside despair, he narrowed his mind to the demands
of the moment. The track surface beneath his thin-soled
shoes was firm with a slight texture that provided
traction without gripping for too long. He barely
registered the towering forest trees that lined the first
portion of the winding path, but he welcomed their
cool shade as exertion warmed his body.
For the first two kilometers he worked at
loosening his tight muscles and setting a rhythm
to his breathing. In the process, he passed six
runners out of the fifty-three, counting them off one
by one. By the fifth kilometer he was sufficiently
centered to ignore such petty distractions and his
weaving progress around slower runners was
unconscious, the automatic avoidance of
obstacles.
When he broke out of the forest into bright sunlight
and baking heat, he spied the quarter-marker of the
Delula course. The air was filled with the sounds
of cheers from the waiting crowds, and he had only
to reach out his arm to have a cup of cool water
eagerly thrust into his hand. He drank
greedily of the first offering and reached out again for some more.
A fresh burst of cheers, then another, signaled
the appearance of more runners from the forest track.
At least I'm not last.
The memory of his late start propelled him
ahead even faster, but his breathing remained steady.
Another cup was thrust into his hand, and he poured
its contents over his head before he succumbed to the
temptation to drink too much.
He began to run for the sheer joy of it.
By the time Picard reached the halfway marker,
he had finally passed Gareth and seen Miyakawa
crumple to the ground with a cramp in her calf.
All the other freshmen cadets were running behind him
on the course.
At the three-quarter mark, he approached a
tight knot of five upperclassmen that blocked
his way. He could hear the sound of their breathing,
ragged with the effort of keeping pace with each other.
They were all pushing themselves a little too hard and a little
too fast by their determination to break free from the
pack. Picard swung left and drove himself
forward through a narrow gap on the edge of the path.
He caught a glimpse of faces twisted with
annoyance at the sudden increase in congestion. An
elbow knocked against his side as one of the less
generous runners moved to keep him back in
place. The unwarranted jostling fueled his next
burst of speed.
He was running alone now.
The level path gave way to the rise and
swell of gentle hills. In his training runs
he had fought to keep a steady pace as he worked the
slopes, but now he used the pull of gravity
to gather another sliver of speed as he sped
downward, then pushed to maintain the new pace on
his climb up the next rise. Sweat poured off
him, stinging his eyes with its salty flavor; the
soft cloth of his clothes chafed a gainst damp skin.
The slight tingle in his thigh and calf muscles
would turn to a tremble if he misjudged his
endurance and pushed too hard. He tossed his
head, slinging back the hair plastered to his
forehead, and then threw off the intrusion of
physical discomfort with an equivalent mental
shrug. It was important to feel his body at
work, and that included the pain, but that knowledge must not
distract him from the run.
He crested another hill and spotted a string
of four runners just ahead. Chiang was leading them,
but even as Picard watched, the others were challenging
his position. Telegar, the fastest of the
Andorians, must be the woman in second place.
The other two cadets were probably Dorgath and
Stemon, both favored to win the race and both
pushing the front-runners to exhaust themselves on the
final stretch.
As he sped steadily onward, driving one
foot after the next, his breath heaving in and out of his
chest, a dull background roar sorted itself into the
sound of a cheering crowd, and he realized that there were
throngs of people lining the path up the next slope.
No, not just the next slope. He was
approaching Mount Bonnell, the last hill of the
marathon.
No freshman has ever won the Academy
Marathon ... until now!
Perhaps it hadn't been such an empty boast after
all. Reaching deep inside himself for the last of his
reserves, Picard propelled himself faster down
the slope. The ground leveled beneath his pumping
feet. He passed Dorgath just as the ground
began to rise again. Chiang was ahead, having
fallen back to third place.
Momentum carried him up the first few meters
of the hill without effort. When the weight of the climb
finally hit him, he expected to slow down, but he
was locked into a rhythm and grace of movement that
remained steady and controlled.
Then the terror struck.
It happens here, soon.
It was as if his mind were detaching from his body,
pulling back to observe and comment on the scene.
I've done this before. This run, this dream.
Chiang had been flagging for the past few
minutes. He was easily overtaken.
Oh, god, it's a very bad dream.
Telegar and Stemon remained ahead. As
Picard pulled even with the Andorian, the dread
deepened and clarified.
I stumble. Any step now, I stumble.
He willed himself to wake up, to stop from
reliving the humiliation of that one false step. The
last few minutes of the race stretched out before him
like a rack. How many times had he tortured himself
with these memories?
All the false sympathy, all the pity.
But they were relieved to see me fail. I came
too close to winning.
Now only Stemon remained. He had a
Vulcan's superior muscular strength and
stamina, but the humidity of the Delula
atmosphere clogged his lungs and reduced their
efficiency. If his keen hearing picked up the
sound of Picard's approach, he was still unable
to summon more speed. The gap between them narrowed.
Now? Two steps from now?
Picard tried to brace himself for the sharp jolt that
would signal his loss of footing, but he could no
longer control his body, could hardly even feel
it, and thus he could not avert the disaster about
to happen.
The scenario varied. Sometimes the jarring fall
landed him at Chiang's feet, at other times he
actually took the lead before dropping to the
ground, breath knocked out of his air-starved
lungs, as the four upperclassmen thundered past
him. The countless variations had plagued his sleep
so many times and for so many years that he couldn't
remember when the real fall had actually taken
place. Doubtless any number of his
classmates at the Academy would remember the
true accounting of events.
Even fifth place would have been a cause for
celebration ... if not for my boast.
That was the true misstep. Perhaps his
subconscious had searched for a metaphor
to frame his arrogance. Certainly this was no less
plausible an explanation for tripping on a
smooth path than the imaginary pebble he had
conjured afterward to explain his sudden failure.
His body passed Stemon.
Now. It must come now. I've never gone beyond
this point.
But he crested over the hill and began the
descent at a breakneck speed that would have
tangled his feet if this hadn't been a dream.
Physical sensation returned, and the rush of air
against his outstretched arms felt like the lift of wind
on the wings of a hawk flying through the sky.
The cheering that had sent him up Mount Bonnell
to overtake the other runners was nothing compared to what
met him on this side. He was buffeted by the
clamoring sound of massed voices.
The white ribbon over the finish line rippled
and waved a greeting to him, waiting for his
embrace.
He closed his eyes, too sick with dread
to watch any longer.
No. This is more than I can bear. To lose
when I'm this close ...
Then the ribbon cut across his chest.

Picard woke screaming in the dark. He threw
himself forward to a sitting position, his chest heaving.
His undershirt and pants were drenched with sweat, as were
the sheets wrapped around him like the torn tails
of the ribbon at the finish line.
I won.
He gulped for breath and mopped his face with the
sleeve of his tunic. Sweat was still trickling
down into his eyes; he rubbed his hand over the
smooth scalp of his head.
Of course I won. I only lose the
race in my dreams ... or is it the
other way around?
The two memories battled for predominance in
his mind, shimmering back and forth from one reality to the
other, each remembered with a clarity that was
unsettling.
"Computer ..."
His hoarse whisper was too garbled to activate
the system. Picard cleared his throat and tried
again. "Computer, who won the Starfleet
Academy marathon at Delula II in the
year 2324?"
The whir of access links was followed by the
answer.
"The Academy Marathon of Delula II
was won by Freshman Cadet Jean-Luc
Picard."
Yes. Of course. Had he actually
doubted it?
Throwing back the damp covers, Picard
scrambled out of bed to search for some clean, dry
clothing. His walk through the cabin brought back
another flood of memories. He had
collapsed two steps beyond the finish line, only
to be lifted high into the air by Jack Crusher and
Walker Keel and seemingly every other cadet in the
freshman class. Even Commander Hansen had
been in the crowd that day, taking note, though it would
be years later before the newly promoted
Admiral Hansen would reveal that fact to his
prot@eg`e.
In under two hours, a freshman's arrogant
boast had been miraculously transformed into a
confident prediction, adding another achievement
to his growing reputation as a cadet to be
reckoned with.
Picard opened the top drawer of his dresser and
plunged his hands deep inside, but instead of
pulling out clothes, he removed a small, flat
case. He hadn't opened it in years, hadn't
felt the need. A flick of his thumb triggered the
lid.
The medal was shinier than he had remembered, and
smaller. His fingers traced over the etched words.
It was cold, too.
Yes, of course I won.
Yet he had never taken any pleasure in this
prize, only relief. The close escape from
public humiliation had sharpened his recognition
of the easy arrogance that courted such disasters. He
had always been grateful that this lesson in
humility had remained a private one. The
empty boast wouldn't haunt him for four solid
years, tucked into the sly sneers and whispered
insults of fellow cadets. Chiang had turned
the remainder of that term into a living hell ...
Stop it! I won. The rest was only a
nightmare.
The false memories that followed that fall were
surprisingly sharp. He took a deep shuddering
breath, and they began to fade.
His fingers closed tightly over the metal
disk, its thin edges cutting into his skin. The
medal was real. It was proof.
I won. I must have won. The Heart had
nothing to do with this.

CHAPTER 26

Keyda Chandat was robbed of breath as he
contemplated the beauty of Dynasia as seen from
space. Roiling white clouds ran like liquid
glaze over the polished emerald gem that was his
planet. He had been awed by images of
Iconia in the ancient texts, but he had never
dreamed that this new world was Iconia's equal in
splendor.
"Do you ever grow tired of this sight, Captain
Mycelli?" the warden asked. "Is it now so
commonplace that your people are not moved by such
wonders?"
"No," said the dapper Federation officer. His
eyes were fixed on the bridge's viewscreen as
well. "And I shall resign my commission if it
ever fails to thrill me."
Ambassador Tommas was too clever a
diplomat to miss an opening. "Perhaps continued
visits to this starship will demonstrate some of the
benefits of Federation membership to the
Faculty."
"And I would be delighted to personally conduct a
tour of the USS Sullivan before the council
convenes," said Mycelli, graciously following
her lead.
The warden accepted the offer with a bow. "If
anything can melt the stony hearts of our
conservatives, Captain, it would be your
vessel." The sentiment Chandat had just uttered was
sincere, and therefore doubly disarming. They suspected
nothing.
"Captain," said First Officer
Dier, approaching the trio that stood on the
elevated aft deck. "The Dynasian
delegation reports it is ready for
transport."
"If you will excuse me, Warden," said
Mycelli. "I must go greet our other
guests."
As soon as the captain and his first officer had
departed for the transporter room, Chandat wrenched
his attention away from the viewscreen and turned
to face Tommas. He could not afford to let his
attention wander away from the demands of the unfolding
conspiracy.
"Ambassador, I very much appreciate the
use of this starship's conference facilities. The
entire Faculty recognizes the need for
neutral territory, not to mention that the safety of
these accommodations will ease any tensions raised
by the specter of insurgent attacks."
"So, you are making some progress."
"Of a sort," sighed Chandat. "There is still no
movement toward an agreement over the issue of
admission to the Federation, but I have managed
to reduce the size of the quarrel. By restricting
each Faculty faction to one deputy, the noise
level of our debates has been substantially
reduced."
The ambassador laughed in recognition of the
value of even this small achievement, and Chandat
regretted that their flowering friendship would soon come
to an abrupt end. They continued to chat about less
weighty matters, and if Tommas noticed the
warden's mounting apprehension, she must have
attributed it to the pressures of an impending
council session.
A parting of doors announced the arrival of the
Faculty deputies. As Mycelli escorted
one troupe of Dynasians onto the aft deck
of the Sullivan, a turbolift at the forward
end of the bridge discharged Dier and her charges
onto the command deck.
Chandat waited patiently for his colleagues
to finish gaping at the sight on the main
viewscreen; if nothing else, this reminder of their
common origins would reinforce a spirit of unity.
Then, one by one as they recovered their composure,
each of the professors surreptitiously moved
into place next to a member of the bridge crew.
Spreading wide his arms in a gesture of
welcome, Chandat said, "Now!"
To his relief, the Dynasians actually
obeyed.
Oomalo and Shagret, the most muscular of the
academics, had been chosen to subdue the
captain and his first officer. Given her Starfleet
training, Dier was more than a match for the dean, but
she stopped fighting him the instant she saw the
native Dynasian professor put a
choke-hold on Mycelli and lift him off his
feet. Oomalo's thick reptilian body was
impervious to his kicking boots.
The ambassador easily threw off Dean
Thorina's fumbling grasp, but ever the
diplomat, Tommas called out, "Don't
fight them!"
Fortunately for everyone involved, the Federation
crew obeyed her order, and Oomalo lowered the
choking, red-faced captain back down to the deck.
"I appreciate your cooperation,
Ambassador," said Chandat. "It is not our
wish to hurt anyone."
"Then what is the purpose of this assault?"
Anger at his betrayal of trust had wiped away
all traces of her former amiability.
"We have need of the Sullivan."
"Are you mad?" demanded the first officer. Her
captain was still gasping and incapable of speech.
"How long do you think your people can retain control of
this starship?"
"Long enough for our purposes, Commander Dier.
You see, certain rare Iconian artifacts in
our possession are still in working order." Chandat
reached for the medallion at the end of his chain of
office. "This one, for instance."
Pressing his finger against a depression in the
center of the disk, he waited to see what would
happen.
The effect of the sonic waveform generator was
dramatic and instantaneous. The ship's first
officer crumpled to the deck too quickly to even
groan, as did the ambassador and all the other
Humans.
I got it right! Chandat was astounded that his
estimate of the proper stun frequency for this alien
race had been correct. Perhaps he had missed
his calling as a scientist after all.
"It worked," cried Shagret, equally startled
by their success. A foolish smile spread across
the dean's face as he surveyed the sea of
fallen bodies. Then he stooped down
to check on Dier. "She's still breathing."
"But of course," said Chandat, although
privately he had feared the high-frequency
sonic wave might be fatal. "And they will all
remain unconscious for hours, long enough for us
to immobilize them." This was another prediction
based on ancient lore, but he was suddenly
confident that the technology of his Iconian
ancestors could be trusted to perform as described.
"But what about the others?" demanded Oomalo,
with the pragmatic attitude of a native.
Chandat stepped over Tommas's prone form in
order to move down to the command deck.
"Fortunately, the crew complement of a
Miranda-class starship is small, so the
remainder of the crew will be conquered with even greater
ease."
Some leaders might have chosen to sit in the
captain's chair, but Warden Chandat walked
eagerly to the helm of the Sullivan. As he
settled down behind the controls of the starship, he
called out for Diat Manja.
The old man had lingered on the periphery of the
bridge, taking no part in the action. Upon hearing
his name, however, he shuffled forward. He clutched
a parchment scroll close to his sunken chest.
"But Warden," said Manja in a bewildered
voice. "How can all this violence help forward
T'Sara's cause?"
"Please, Professor, do not worry yourself
with the petty details of interplanetary
diplomacy; that is my job." Chandat studied the
flight control console with growing delight. He
would gladly forfeit his life for these next few
days of space travel. "Now, if you will, the
coordinates for this Appointed Place you
mentioned."
With a heavy sigh, Manja unrolled the parchment
scroll to display an ancient star map.

Asao Matasu had just closed his eyes when the
trill of an intercom hail shattered the serene
silence in his cabin.
"My apologies for interrupting your
meditation, Admiral," said his aide's voice
a second later, "but Lieutenant Commander
Kiley-Smith said it was urgent; something about a
starship that has dropped out of sight and is not
responding to any subspace radio hails."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," he
replied, unfolding his lanky body from the lotus
position. "Please meet me at
Communications."
The commander of Starbase 75 walked with a
slightly bowed head through the halls of the station. He
appeared to be in constant meditation, but the posture
was more practical than philosophical;
Matasu was a very tall man whose head would brush
the ceiling otherwise.
Lieutenant Abell was already waiting for him
outside the entrance to the communications complex. She
smiled a greeting, and said, "This way,
Admiral," then turned so as to trigger the doors
to open.
Matasu ducked his head to follow her over the
threshold. His last aide had given up even the
pretense of eye contact and had addressed all his
comments to the admiral's stomach. Matasu
appreciated Abell's greater show of courtesy,
but hoped she did not suffer unduly from the effort.
Perhaps he would recommend yoga exercises
to keep her neck muscles supple, just as he
did to counteract the constant strain of looking down.
Once inside, however, the admiral was able
to straighten up to his full height. The control
room of the communications center was a spacious
dome whose curving walls were alight with colorful
data displays. Dozens of maps, charts, and
graphs tracked the streams of information that moved in
and out of Starbase 75 from every point in the sector
and many places beyond.
"Still no word from the Enterprise?" asked
Matasu.
"No, sir," said Kiley-Smith as he
stepped away from the base-to-ship tracking
console. "But now we've lost contact with the
Plath, a Klingon bird-of-prey, crew
complement of twelve."
The console operator continued the specifics
of the briefing. "The starship's navigator
transmitted a coordinate check just after the
Enterprise reported the destruction of
Starbase 193. Captain Duregh volunteered
to assist the Portsmouth with the rescue effort, but
then the Plath never arrived."
Starbase 193 had covered an area that was far
beyond the reach of Matasu's current resources,
and the loss of the station blinded him as to what was
happening in that sector; he needed eyes to see
through the darkness. "Are there any other
starships in the area that could investigate this
matter?"
Kiley-Smith shook his head. "The
Portsmouth and the Clarke are still docked at
Luxor IV, but currently both are committed
to other missions."
"I shall see to uncommitting one of them," said
Matasu firmly, but he knew that the diversion
would take time to arrange and that even the fastest
vessel would require considerable time to cover the
distances involved. "Meanwhile, issue an alert
to all Starfleet facilities in this quadrant;
tell them to be on the lookout for both the
Enterprise and the Plath ... and their
attackers. I will prepare a report for
Starfleet Command advising them of the situation."
"Aye, sir."
As the admiral headed toward his office, head
bowed once again to facilitate his passage through the
corridors, Lieutenant Abell echoed his own
worried thoughts.
"What's going on out there, Admiral?
Exploding starbases, missing starships ... Could
the Romulans be planning a new offensive for the
Empire?"
He shook his head. "A warbird is powerful,
but I don't think it could take down two
Federation starships in a row."
Abell accepted the admiral's assessment
with a puzzled frown. "Then what could?"
"I don't know, Lieutenant," said
Matasu, "but I hope whoever, or whatever, is
responsible stays the hell away from my
starbase."
And may the gods help Jean-Luc
Picard, wherever he may be.

Kanda Jiak shivered when he stepped into the
cold air of the detention cell. He longed for the
thick knit sweater tucked into his backpack,
a farewell present from First Officer Conrad, but
all his belongings had been confiscated when he
entered the security complex.
Turning to his armed escort, Jiak
protested one last time. "But I'm not a
Dynasian!"
"Right," said the guard with a weary sigh. "You just
happen to look like one." Her finger tapped out a
rapid sequence on a wall panel.
The young man jumped back as the high
humming sound of a force field snapped into place
along the frame of the portal. The immi gration
official of Hayhurst Junction had described
this detention as a bureaucratic formality, so
Jiak had expected to spend a few hours in a
passenger lounge; instead, he had been taken to a
security chamber for interrogation. The references
to ambassadors and starships and insurgents had
been completely bewildering, but there was no
mistaking the consternation of the Starfleet officers.
Somehow, the Dynasians had angered the Federation
even more thoroughly than the DiWahns.
Jiak gingerly approached the entrance of his
cell. Careful not to touch the field itself, he
craned his neck to look up and down the outside
corridor. The guard was gone.
I'm a political prisoner.
That realization was almost as comical as it was
frightening. In either event, it was a reality that could not
be wished away or cried away, so he blinked
back tears and turned to greet his companion in
confinement.
Jiak had caught only a brief impression
of a robed figure huddled on one of the narrow
cots. Upon a closer look, however, the young
Iconian made out the features shadowed by the
heavy cowl. The man's forehead was ridged in a
fan-shaped pattern that arched over his purple
eyes, and his skin was a delicate shade of
violet. This was no mirror image of Jiak's
own face, but they both clearly bore the stamp
of a shared genetic heritage.
When he could breathe again, Jiak stammered,
"Are you ... a Dynasian?"
"That is what my identity papers maintain,"
said the man. His lips curled into a sly smile.
"I've never seen another Iconian before ...
at least, not since I was a small child." Jiak
struggled for composure, restrained by his
cellmate's apparent indifference to this statement.
"My name is Kanda Jiak."
"The Gem-Bearer's namesake!" The
Dynasian's richly colored eyes took on
a gleam of excitement. "How did you come by such
an illustrious name?"
Buoyed by this welcome, Jiak settled
cross-legged on the floor by the man's feet and
spilled out the story of the last days of Ikkabar and
his own flight from Redifer. "Before I reached
Hayhurst Junction, I tried
to visit DiWahn, but--"
"DiWahn!" The man darted forward and grabbed
a fistful of Jiak's shirt. "What do you know
of the planet DiWahn?"
"Nothing ... all travel to the system was
suspended." The intensity of the man's demand was
unnerving. "Conrad said the trouble had something to do with
an armada and the threat of armed aggression against the
Federation."
"Ah, so the fleet of the Faithful was
launched!" Releasing his hold on Jiak, the
man fell back against the cell wall. He
gazed into the distance, as if witnessing a vision
shimmering in the air. "After generations of waiting,
our time to enter the Dreaming has arrived."
T'Sara's writings on the diaspora had
recorded the beliefs of the DiWahn they were
obsessed with the dreams of the Gem-Bearers. "But you
said you were a Dynasian!"
"I have said many things in my life." The
Iconian uttered a throaty chuckle. "The
consulate is checking my identity papers, just as
they are checking yours. Who knows what they will find
in their search? If they find the truth, I will
remain in this cell, or one very much like it, for the rest
of my life."
"I'm sorry," said Jiak, yet he
wondered uneasily what crime the fugitive
DiWahn had committed. Life imprisonment was
usually reserved for murder.
"Save your pity for yourself. I have fulfilled
my life's quest, whereas you have just begun yours."
"What was your quest?"
The DiWahn was still staring into space with a rapt
expression. "Like you, I spent my childhood
among the races of the Federation. I have never even
set foot on my homeworld, but my father showed me
the path of the Faithful. My sworn duty was
to follow after T'Sara."
"You know T'Sara?" cried Jiak. Hearing
her name was like meeting a friend in an unfamiliar
place. "Please, tell me about her."
The DiWahn was too absorbed in his own
memories to attend to the interruption. "My only
regret is that I could not return home in time
to join the armada. In order to elude capture
by unbelievers, I bought forged papers listing me
as a Dynasian. That choice was my undoing."
He shrugged his resignation. "Imprisonment is
a small price to pay for recovering the
Gem."
"The Gem?" Jiak's eyes widened at the
mention of the powerful icon. "You mean the Dream
Gem is not just a legend?"
The DiWahn hesitated, his reply
forestalled by the distant sound of doors parting,
followed by the tread of boots echoing down the
corridor.
"No, not a myth, Kanda Jiak,
Gem-Bearer," he whispered. "See for yourself.
Join our order and hear the Telling."
"But how can I find--"
"Ask a woman named Camenae on Starbase
193. If you're willing to meet her price,
she will answer all your questions. Find the Gem, and
you will find the Faithful."
The footsteps stopped outside the cell.
"Hey, I don't have all day," said a
voice edged with irritation.
Jiak looked up to see that the force field had
been deactivated. The guard standing by the entrance was
holding his backpack in her hands.
She beckoned him with a jerk of her head. "The
Federation consulate has confirmed your residency
on Redifer III. You're permitted to leave the
Junction so long as you stay away from
Dynasia."
"Go!" urged the DiWahn softly.
Jiak scrambled to his feet, his mind still
reeling from the man's revelations.
Thousands of years ago, the Dream Gem had
opened the Three Gates that saved the Iconian
people from annihilation. If the first Kanda Jiak had
walked through the Gate to Ikkabar, the powers of his
Gem could have tamed the planet. Without his
assistance, the third branch of the Iconian race
had withered away.
However, if Kanda Jiak's namesake gained
possession of the Gem, perhaps that tragic history
could be revised.
Grabbing his pack from the guard, the last
survivor of Ikkabar raced down the
corridor. He was headed toward freedom and a
new destination.

CHAPTER 27

Main engineering was rarely quiet. Most often
the rumble that permeated the area came from the steady
pulse of the matterstantimatter reaction
chamber. Today, however, the warp propulsion system
was shut down and the ship's engines were cold; instead,
the noisy bustle of Humans filled the air as
a constant stream of engineering personnel moved from
one work station to another, then dashed away.
Yet there was an island of stability in this
whirlwind of motion. The master situation monitor
covered most of the forward wall section in engineering,
and for the past five hours Geordi La Forge had
returned again and again to the cutaway schematic of the
Enterprise that was on display. When he had first
assessed the damage to the starship, broad
sections of the diagram had been highlighted in
red. Now, as the chief engineer continued to track the
progress of repairs, yet another of the system
indicators blinked from red to green.
After checking the value of a number on the
board, Geordi turned to face the ship's first
officer. "Well, the good news is that the
deflector shields are working again."
"So what's the bad news?" asked Riker
dutifully.
"They're only at about forty-six percent
efficiency, and they're going to stay at that level
until we replace at least five conformal
transmission grids on the primary hull and then
realign the entire array."
"Let's do it."
With a warning shake of his head, Geordi said,
"Yeah, but to work on the grids we have to take the
graviton polarity source generators off-line,
which leaves us without any deflector shields for
over four hours. Usually that's a procedure
performed only in spacedock, because if we
disassociate our shield generators in space
..."
"The Enterprise would be a sitting duck,"
finished Riker. "Anybody with a peashooter could
take us on."
"Exactly," said the chief engineer. "Not
only that, without operational deflector shields,
we couldn't travel above impulse speed without
turning to Swiss cheese. Even full impulse
for a sustained length of time would risk serious
micro-meteoroid degradation of the hull's
duranium substrate."
"You haven't left us with many options,
Geordi."
La Forge shrugged. "I thought miracles were
your department, Commander."
"It looks like I've used up my quota for
now." The first officer glanced over at the
schematic and frowned. "Captain Picard will have
to make this decision. I'll get back to you after
we've had a chance to talk it over."
"No problem, Commander," said Geordi with an
amiable grin. "I'll be right here."
The engineer turned back to the master display just
as another red light turned green. Slowly but
surely, piece by piece, the ship was returning
to normal.

The broad, curving windows of Ten-Forward
provided the best view of space on the
Enterprise, and it was a view that Deanna
Troi usually enjoyed. Today, however, she found the
scene outside the lounge to be a disquieting
reminder of their present danger. The damaged
starship was adrift in the midst of desolate
space with the skeletal remains of a warbird as
its only companion. Perhaps others among the crew
were filled with dread at the sight, because only a
few of the tables in the room were occupied, and the people
sitting there were all facing away from the windows.
The counselor settled herself at the bar and
tried to think of something to order. Out of the corner of
one eye, she watched Guinan set two
glasses in front of a couple at the far end of the
counter, then drift back in her direction.
"What can I get for you?" asked the hostess.
She was dressed in an embroidered robe of forest
green; a wide square-brimmed hat of the same
color, only darker in shade, covered her head.
"I haven't made up my mind," said
Troi. "What would you suggest?"
"Well, that depends. Are you more in an eating
or a drinking mood?"
"I'm not really hungry," Troi decided.
She wasn't really thirsty either, but she would feel
less awkward about her visit to Ten-Forward if
she adopted some token excuse for her presence.
Guinan picked up a conical glass. "A
drink it is. What about a Venusian fruit
cider?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm in the mood
for." Troi's enthusiasm sounded forced to her own
ear, and it must have appeared equally insincere
to Guinan, because she made no move to fill the
glass.
"I get the feeling there's something
troubling you, Deanna."
Troi sighed, andwitha guilty smile, said,
"I'm supposed to be the counselor around here,
remember."
Guinan chuckled with a throaty voice that almost
purred. "Even counselors need a sympathetic
listener now and then." She turned to pour the drink,
giving Troi time to collect her thoughts.
The cider was delicious, and somehow talking
seemed easier after a few sips of its
delicate flavor. "Will Riker is worried
about the captain's fascination with the Devil's
Heart. He fears that it has become an
obsession ... and so do I."
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, the course change which brought us out
here," Troi inclined her head in the direction of the
windows, "was very troublesome. Captain Picard
says it was to draw our pursuers away from
vulnerable Federation colonies, but I can't help
wondering if there was another motivation at work, if
he wasn't actually searching for an excuse
to delay giving up the Heart."
The hostess dipped her head for a moment, and the
flat rim of her hat obscured her expression.
When she looked up again, the concern she had tried
to erase from her face could still be found in her dark
eyes, yet she said, "I don't believe
Picard would let his command judgment be seriously
compromised by the Heart."
"You sound very sure of that. Why?"
"Because," said Guinan, "all the stories
I've heard speak of temptation rather than
coercion. The Heart can turn your own desires
against you, but it can't make you do anything against your
true nature."
"And Captain Picard would never choose
to hurt the Enterprise or the people on it."
Guinan nodded, and Deanna toyed with letting the
whole matter end on this comforting note, yet she
knew Riker would not be so easily reassured.
"Could I have another one of these drinks?"
"I'm glad you liked it." Guinan whisked
away the empty glass, and plucked up a clean
one from beneath the counter.
"Guinan, the captain trusts you more than any
other person on board the Enterprise. If you
could persuade him to give the Heart to you for
safe--"
The glass the hostess had been
holding slipped from her fingers and crashed to the
floor.
"What's wrong?" Troi was surprised that her
request could rattle the imperturbable Guinan.
"Are you afraid that he won't hand it over to you?"
"No, Counselor, I'm afraid that he
might."
"But it would be for only a short time," said
Troi, "long enough to carry the Heart to a storage
vault where Will could secure it for the remainder of
our journey."
Guinan shook her head back and forth as Troi
talked, then said, "One of the advantages of
growing old is learning your own limitations, and this
is definitely a risk I'm not qualified
to take. I trust Jean-Luc Picard with the
Heart far more than I trust myself."
"But why?" Troi's alarm concerning the stone's
powers returned in full force.
"Among my people the Heart was known as the Master
of All Stories, and for a race of Listeners, that
can result in a fatal enchantment."
"Enchantment? You make it sound like a fairy
tale, and the captain is the unlucky prince who
has fallen under an evil spell." Troi
laughed at the analogy, but then she asked,
"Guinan, do you think the Heart is evil?"
"Only living things have the capacity for good or
evil. So, do you think the Heart is alive?"
"I sense nothing from it ... yet more and more the
captain speaks of it as a sentient being." The
empath thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I
just don't know."
"Neither do I, Counselor," said Guinan
softly. "Neither do I."

As the doors to the ready room opened, Data
regarded the interior scene with dispassion. The
android was an impartial observer, and as such the
presence of the Heart on Picard's desk did not
arouse any emotion in him. However, the stone did
trigger a complex set of associations with recent
disruptive events. On purely intellectual
grounds, therefore, Data would have preferred that the
Heart had never been brought aboard the
Enterprise.
"Did you enjoy your rest, Captain?" asked
Data as he walked across the room.
"What?" Picard looked up from his desk
viewer. "Oh, my rest. Yes, I
did, thank you."
Data had often observed that Humans used
certain phrases for their iconic value in
expressing a sense of connection with community
members, rather than in a literal sense of
providing accurate information. He concluded that this
must be one of those occasions because the captain's
physical condition did not appear to have
substantially improved since the conference in the
observation lounge.
Picard glanced back at the computer, then over
at the padd in Data's hands. "Didn't I just
receive your Ops report?"
"This is not a status update," said Data.
"Rather, I have identified the pertinent coordinates
of the location in which you were interested."
"Let me see." Leaning forward over his
desk, Picard reached out eagerly for the padd, then
sighed with relief at the sight of the Federation star
map that had matched his sketch. "Yes, that's the
place exactly! But it certainly took you long
enough to find it."
"My apologies for the delay," said Data.
"However, my search was complicated by a rather curious
aspect of the scene you drew. That particular
juxtaposition of the comet against the designated
constellation of stars has not occurred yet; in
fact, it will not occur for at least forty-eight
hours."
"In the future ..." murmured Picard.
His brow furrowed with the intensity of his thoughts, and one
of his hands dropped down onto the Heart. "Yes
... yes, of course. That means there is still time
to act."
"Intriguing. What particular action does this
call for?"
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Data." The
captain did not remove his gaze from the map.
"That will be all for now."
Data's positronic brain forged a new
connection, one between the star map and the Devil's
Heart. As he left the ready room, the android
began to calculate the probability that another
catastrophic event would occur soon.

Troi felt unusually conspicuous walking
onto the Enterprise bridge, and the empath
quickly determined the focus for that unease
Lieutenant Worf was tracking her progress
from the aft turbolift to the command center.
She sensed in him the usual uneasiness that always
seemed to underlie their interactions, especially those
involving Worf's son, Alexander; but this was
overshadowed by a new set of emotions that were more
difficult to untangle. For some reason she could
not fathom, the Klingon was wary of her.
Riker and Picard were engaged in a somber
discussion involving shield repairs, so she
quietly slipped into place beside the captain.
"... no question that we must improve our shield
strength," continued Picard. "This mission isn't
over yet, and we dare not continue without maximum
protection."
"Agreed," said Riker, although Troi could
easily sense his apprehension about this decision.
She could also read the question in his eyes when he
stole a quick glance in her direction. A subtle
shake of her head was all it took to indicate that
Guinan could not help them, but Worf must have seen
the gesture from his perch above because the Klingon's
suspicions broadened to include the first officer.
The captain cast his voice upward to engage the
intercom system. "Picard to La Forge.
Let's proceed with the deflector shield
repairs before we attract any more company out
here."
"Acknowledged, Captain."
While the captain and the chief engineer exchanged
technical information about the repair procedure,
Troi surreptitiously evaluated Picard's
physical and emotional condition. His fatigue was
even more pronounced than before; he seemed to hoard
his strength by moving only when absolutely necessary.
On the other hand, the growing mental agitation she
had sensed in the conference room was gone now. The
counselor wondered if Picard's composure had
been restored by the Heart, which was tucked
securely into the crook of his arm.
"Conformal grids on the primary hull have
been deactivated," continued Geordi.
"Graviton generators are going off-line
... now."
Troi shivered in response to the feeling of
vulnerability that suddenly radiated from the entire
bridge crew. She strengthened her empathic
shields to block against the projected emotions,
yet she was still left with her own feelings of
helplessness.
As the first few minutes of the repair project
dragged by, the thought of four hours
stretched into an eternity ...
... that was shattered by yellow alert.
"Captain," called out Data. "Sensors
detect an object two hundred thousand
kilometers dead ahead."
"There!" Riker pointed to the main viewscreen,
and Troi looked up to see that the placid vista
of distant stars had begun to shimmer and ripple with
distortion waves. A ship was uncloaking before them.
"Phasers locking on target," announced
Worf tersely.
"Hold fire until my signal,
Lieutenant," said Picard as he rose to his
feet.
Troi could sense that the captain was straining against
the desire to shoot first without waiting to see the
face of their enemy, but Picard's Starfleet
training repressed the urge to provoke a
battle they could not hope to win. Even a lightly
shielded vessel would withstand a phase r attack
long enough to retaliate against the unshielded
Enterprise.
The phantom form took solid shape.
Angled wings stretched wide on either side of a
narrow-necked forward hull.
"It's a bird-of-prey," said Riker, his
chest heaving with a sigh of relief.
"Captain." There was a hint of elation in
Worf's voice when he said, "We are being
hailed by Captain Duregh of the Plath."
"On screen, Lieutenant." Picard
appeared too drained by the sudden emergency to share
in the general rejoicing.
Stars gave way to a close shot of
Duregh's face. Troi thought him young to be
commanding his own warship, but Duregh had the lean,
feral look of an ambitious Klingon warrior.
"Greetings, Captain Picard." The dim
red lighting of the Plath's command pit washed down
over the furrows of Duregh's brow; his
deep-set eyes were lost in shadow. "We heard
of your plight from the Portsmouth and have followed
your trail in hopes of joining in combat against the
Romulans. Obviously, we have arrived too
late to share that honor."
"Not so, Captain," said Picard. "We
welcome your assistance while we effect certain
repairs to our ship."
"Ah, yes. My weapons officer informed me
you are without shields." Despite his
smile, Duregh's facial muscles were stiff
with repressed tension. The empath thinned her
emotional barriers to read him more fully. "So our
journey was not in vain."
Something is wrong.
Troi leapt up from her chair. "Captain,
wait, I sense--"
Her warning came too late.
The Klingon ship discharged its phasers and
seconds later an explosion somewhere in the
primary hull rocked the bridge, throwing the
counselor off-balance. As she grabbed at a
bridge railing for support, the Klingon warship
fired a second time on the Enterprise,
scoring a hit to the engineering hull. Red alert
sirens overlapped the babble of damage reports
from all decks.
Picard had managed to keep his footing on the
deck without releasing his grip on the Heart.
"Fire phasers!"
"Phasers inoperative," replied Worf.
Duregh laughed loudly at the result of his
treachery. "Our next assault will destroy your
ship, Captain Picard."
"Why are you doing this?"
Eyes drawn to the stone in the captain's hands,
Duregh said, "Because the Pagrashtak is mine.
Transport Kessec's jewel over to me, and
I will spare your life."
"No!" cried Picard. "Such an action will
only perpetuate the chaos which has surrounded this
relic. I will not give it up to you or to anyone
who would abuse its powers for violent ends."
"Then prepare to die. I can rake the
Pagrashtak from out of the rubble of your blasted ship
and the corpses of your dead crew."
"Traitor!" stormed Worf from the aft
deck. "You have no honor!"
"Fool," said the Klingon commander with a snarl.
"You speak of matters that are beyond your understanding. I
do this to recover my honor. I am a direct
descendant of Durall, son of Kessec. The
Pagrashtak was stolen from him, and thus stolen from
me; it is my birthright."
The captain shook his head. "No, you are
wrong. Emperor Kessec willingly gave up
the Heart ..."
"Silence!"
"... to a slave," declared Picard, "not to his
sons."
"And for that disgrace he died by their hands!"
screamed Kessec's descendant, his face
contorted by rage. "You have only a few seconds
of life remaining, Captain Picard, and I no
longer care whether you surrender or not."
He stretched out an arm to signal his crew.
"Duregh!" Raising the Heart before him like a
shield, Picard shouted, "I'll see you burn
in hell for this!"
The arm dropped. "Fire!"
A phaser beam lanced out from the underside of the
Plath ...
... then suddenly blossomed into a fireball
that burned back along its own path until it
enveloped the bird-of-prey.
With a cry of pain, Troi threw up her hands
to ward off the blinding light of the explosion that stabbed
her eyes. When she finally dared look again, the
blazing remains of the Plath still crackled and
flickered on the viewscreen.
"Captain?"
Picard stood transfixed in the center of the
bridge; he was staring down in horror at the
Heart clutched in his hands.

CHAPTER 28

A constant cold wind droned through the abandoned
city, lifting clouds of fine-grained dust into the
air. Dusky blue light, stripped of heat,
fought its way down through the haze to illuminate the
ground on which Picard walked. He could still make
out faint traces of a pathway, but most of the paved
surface had been scoured away. The weight of
eons had tumbled all the buildings down and
chipped away at their foundations. At first he had
thought he was on Atropos, then he realized that this
place was much older.
Age frosted the entire planet, but the pulsing
glow of the Heart warmed his hands. Whenever his foot
strayed off the path, the stone shifted in his palms,
gently pushing him to one side or the other until
he recovered his way. Picard let the Heart
guide him over the pitted terrain until they
reached a line of broken columns. There he
stopped to gaze in wonder at the sculpted form just
ahead.
The thick slab of rock was set on edge.
Its original shape may have been oval, but now
its outer rim was broken and irregular;
the opening in its center appeared to be part of the
ancient design, but it was eroded as well.
Picard was buffeted by waves of an invisible but
palpable force emanating from the structure. Or was
it a being?
"The Guardian of Forever," he whispered in
awe.
At the sound of his voice, the crystalline stone
of its ring-shaped body flickered and glowed from within,
suffused with the same quality of light that fired the
Heart.
The reaction was a reply of sorts, and
Picard wondered if he could communicate with the
being. There were so many questions he wanted answered, but
one above all others.
Picard held up the Heart. "Guardian,
what is this stone I carry?"
"It is a seed," said a deep thrumming
voice. The light flickered in rhythm with its
words. "One meant to grow in a better soil than
this dead planet."
"How did it become enmeshed in our history?"
"Those who created me, created the seed; but the
Architects were mortal, and after their passing there was
no one to guide it on its true path. The seed
went astray."
Mist pooled in the center of the slab, then
cleared away to reveal a stream of images
framed inside the stone border.
Picard moved closer, mesmerized by the clarity
of the visions. He saw the Heart fall like a
blazing meteor through a purple sky, then
plunge deep into a grassy plain. Alien hands
scrabbled through the dirt of the crater until they
uncovered the stone. To Picard's horror, he
saw the simple hunting culture of a race known
as the T'Kon erupt outward into a far-flung
stellar empire, then wither away and die.
New hands seized the stone, starting yet another
undulating wave of murder and war. Fiefdoms
burst into imperial splendor, then toppled as
greed-driven betrayals weakened their foundations.
He caught a brief flash of Garamond and
Kessec in the timeslip, but the rest who had held
the Heart went by in a blur.
As Time flowed on, the ripples of disruption
spread wider and wider, all part of an unceasing
pattern of struggle for possession of the Heart.
"Guardian, can this damage be undone?"
"Yes," said the voice, "but if you
take back the seed early in the affairs of these
beings, you also unravel all the greatness built with
its powers. The universe you know will be torn from its
roots, and the river will flow through different
channels."
Picard shook his head; this was no solution. The
consequences of the Heart's presence had gathered
too much weight to be dislodged from the past. "I
must remove the Heart from my own time before it
causes any more upheaval. Show me how
to return it to the path you spoke of."
The mist gathered again, then cleared to reveal a
new scene the blackness of deep space, a
scattering of stars and a comet with its tail stretched
out behind it like a banner.
"I know this place," said Picard. "It was in
the vision given to me by T'Sara."
"Planting time draws near again," said the
Guardian. "The seed must be sown here."
As if called by those words, the Heart stirred in
Picard's hands. He edged to the very lip of the
portal and gazed raptly at the image of the
comet. The seed's yearning to continue its journey
almost drove him to step through the opening. His fingers
closed tightly on the rough texture of the stone's
surface. He knew what it wanted, but letting
go was difficult.
Taking a deep breath, he loosened his grip
and steeled himself to toss the stone into the well.
"No!" A spidery hand pawed at the
captain's arm before he could move. "Do not be so
hasty."
Picard twirled around to face the gaunt
figure of the Collector. The spare flesh of
her body had not dried yet, but her ravaged
face was that of a being near death. On the other side
of her own dream, Halaylah was sealed in her
chamber.
"Let go of me," he said, shuddering away from
her bony fingers. The sight of her filled him with
revulsion. "You died trying to keep the Heart
to yourself, but it has passed on to me. I'll
decide its fate now."
Her shriveled lips contorted into a leer. "You
do not comprehend what you are about to throw away. In
order to act wisely, you must fully understand its
powers, Captain ..."

"... Captain." He could feel the touch of a
hand on the sleeve of his uniform.
"Captain?"
Picard opened his eyes and found himself slumped
over his desk, head cradled in his arms, with the
Heart resting by his elbow. There was a stranger,
oddly familiar, leaning over him.
As the dream-induced confusion began to clear,
Picard belatedly recognized his first officer.
Struggling to pull himself free of the vapors that
clouded his mind, the capt ain sat up in his chair.
"What is it, Number One?"
"We have company." The first officer pulled
away from the desk and assumed a more formal stance
while delivering his report. "A long-range
sensor scan has detected the presence of a
fleet of warp-driven craft at the periphery of
our detection range. The total number of
vessels is still difficult to determine at this
distance, but Data confirmed there are at least
twenty ships."
Picard longed for solitude in which to recall the
details of his dreaming, but he forced himself to attend
to Jack's words. "Do you have any idea who they
are?"
"All we have so far is a name," said Crusher.
"According to some stray bits of their ship-to-ship
communications, the fleet belongs to a race who
call themselves the unDiWahn."
"The unDiWahn!"
"You know them?"
"Yes, I was warned about them by ..."
Picard reached out for a name, but it wasn't in
place. There was a gap in his memory where a
person belonged.
"Warned by a dream?" asked Crusher. There was
a bitter edge to the question. His resentment of the
Heart's influence over his captain was growing
stronger each day.
"Jack ..." It was a signal between them, worked
out over the years, that Picard needed to talk to him
as a friend, rather than as a commanding officer.
Nodding his understanding, the first officer pulled a
chair up to the desk and sat down across from
Picard. In the decades since they had left
Starfleet Academy, Jack Crusher's
boyish face and lanky frame had filled out and
grown more rugged; gray had roughened the texture of
his hair, and adversity had hardened the look in his
eyes; but his smile was still as welcoming now as it
had been when they were fellow cadets.
"I'm worried about you, Jean-Luc.
So is Beverly, both as a doctor and as a
friend."
"The Heart is not a danger to me," said
Picard. It was so difficult to explain with
fatigue dragging him back toward sleep and the
intoxication of more dreams. He reached out to touch the
stone, drawing strength from its warmth. "It is
sentient, Jack, a being in trouble that needs our
help, and I intend to hold fast until the
Heart has reached its destination."
He had been so close to understanding before the
Collector interfered. Perhaps the Guardian could
complete the instructions in his next dream.
Crusher dropped his head down, burying his
face in his hands. When he looked up again, his
brow was furrowed as if in pain.
"Jean-Luc, if you look out the window behind you,
you'll see the charred wreckage of two warships.
We haven't even finished patching the
Enterprise back together again from our battle with the
Plath, yet if we so much as sneeze we could
suddenly be facing an entire fleet of these
unDiWahn. The longer we stay out here, the
less chance there is that we'll ever make it back
home alive."
"I intend to do everything in my power to succeed
without that sacrifice. However," said Picard with a
fervor solidified by his dream of the Heart's
origins, "I believe that this mission is of
overwhelming importance, and that its completion is so
crucial that it demands our continued efforts no
matter what the risk."
Crusher was silent for a long while. At last
he said, "What you ask is difficult,
Jean-Luc, but I've trusted you with my life,
andwiththe life of my wife and children, for over twenty
years now. So I guess I'm not about to stop now
... Captain."
Captain ... That last word echoed in the air,
only the second overlapping voice Picard
heard was not Jack's, and it was muffled as if
by fog and the distance of many years.
"No," whispered Picard, fighting back a
sudden panic born of some terrible knowledge that lurked in
the shadows of his mind. "I won't let this be
taken from me."
"What's wrong, Jean-Luc?" Alarm jerked
Crusher back onto his feet.
"Nothing, Jack. I'm just tired." Picard
felt the touch of a ghostly hand on his
shoulder. Its fingers gripped him with a disconcerting
solidity.
No! Don't do this!
"Captain?"
Picard opened his eyes to find that he was
slumped over his desk once again. He looked
up. The man who had called him out of the dream was
taller than Jack, and he sported a closely
cropped dark beard.
Will Riker ... my first officer is Will
Riker.
Grief churned through Picard's stomach, and he
swallowed down an upsurge of bile. This was
reality; the other scene had been nothing but a
dream. He was awake now.
Awake, yet still tantalized by the fading
memories of a past spent with other people and other
endings to the stories of his life. If he had
finished his dream without interruption, could he have
continued walking along that alternate path or would
it have faded away? Surely, if he had wanted
that reality strongly enough, the Heart could have kept
Commander Jack Crusher alive.
I did want it, Jack. You must believe
that!
Then Picard realized that the dream had been
directed by the Collector. His only failing was
in matching her control over the Heart. If
Jack's resurrection was truly within the scope
of its powers, then Picard could also learn how
to conduct such miracles. It would take time, but
eventually he could change the circumstances that had
led to his friend's death, and the alternate reality could
be recovered.
However, if he gave up the stone, Jack
Crusher would be lost to him forever; Beverly would
remain a widow; and their other children would remain
unborn.
"Captain?"
"Yes, what is it Number One?" asked
Picard, automatically walking through the lines of
his role as this man's captain.
Riker stepped back from the desk to deliver his
report. "Lieutenant Worf has just
intercepted some subspace radio transmissions
coming from the periphery of our sensor range. Some
race called--"
"--called the unDiWahn," said Picard as
one last lingering tendril of his dream coiled
tightly around his chest.

CHAPTER 29

The engineering schematic of the Enterprise was
covered with red highlights once again. These tags
were deceptively neat and orderly, but Riker could
envision the messy damage they symbolized a
starship becalmed in space with its hull scorched
and pitted. This haunting image darkened his thoughts
as he and Data listened to Geordi's updated
status report.
"Repairs to the weapons system should be finished
within two hours," said the chief engineer, pointing
to a forward section of the saucer where the first barrage
from the Plath had drilled straight through the
dorsal phaser array.
"So much for our offense," sighed Riker.
"What about defense?"
Geordi's hand shifted to another area of the
situation monitor that was still livid with contrasting
colors; the second blow from the Plath had landed
in the engineering hull. "We've almost completed the
original repairs to navigational shields--"
The ones that got us into this mess in the first
place. The decision to proceed with repairs had
seemed like a sound one at the time, but it was
difficult for the first officer to remember that as he
stared straight at the consequences of that action.
"However," continued La Forge, "the new
damage to the deflector shields has
compromised tactical defense. There's a
limit to the repairs we can conduct out of
spacedock, but I should know what percentage of
our performance capacity has been restored in about
four hours."
Riker would have found the information reassuring if not
for the recent sighting of the unDiWahn.
"Geordi, a rather large space fleet just wandered
through this area. They appear to be gone for now, but
there's always the possibility they could circle
back and find us. Without weapons and without
defensive shields, our only recourse is
to tuck tail and hope we can outrun them."
"Fortunately," said Data, "our sensor
scans indicate the fleet is moving slowly.
The unDiWahn may lack the capacity for high
warp speeds."
"At the moment, so do we." La Forge waved
at the diagram of patchwork repairs in
progress. "The warp reactor core
has been off-line for the last hour while we
replaced the starboard nacelle generator
coils. As a result, we'll have to ease
into warp drive as we align the
matterstantimatter injectors."
"Swell," said Riker. "At the first sign of
trouble, we'll limp out of here."
"Yeah, but if we'd taken one more hit from the
Plath, we wouldn't be able to crawl out of here,
so I'd say we're pretty lucky."
The engineer's comment brought a puzzled frown
to Data's face. "Geordi, I am most
curious about the Plath's destruction."
Riker had no way to cut off the discussion without
drawing undue attention to the subject; instead,
he listened as La Forge answered the android's
question.
"I can't explain it, Data. There's an
outside chance it was some freak weapons
malfunction, but I just can't imagine what could
make a warship's phasers detonate like that."
Geordi glanced back toward the schematic.
"And frankly, I haven't got time to worry
about the Plath right now."
"Then we'll leave you to carry on more
important work," said Riker, relieved that the
engineer had dismissed the matter so quickly.
A few minutes later, when he and the android were
walking down an empty passageway, Riker
broached the subject himself. "Data, I would
prefer an end to any more speculation about the
explosion on the Plath. If anyone asks,
we can attribute it to a faulty detonation
control."
"You wish me to lie?"
"Well, as a matter of fact ..." Then
Riker sighed, and said, "Let's just say that I'd
rather not concentrate too much attention on the
incident."
"Because it would corroborate certain powers
attributed to the Heart?"
The first officer shook his head. "I can't
answer that." The only person who had the
authorization, or the knowledge, to deal with that question was the
captain; and Riker wasn't entirely sure that
he wanted to hear Picard's explanation.
Data was still silently pondering the implication
of Riker's evasion, when an intercom hail
echoed through the corridor.
"Crusher to Commander Riker."
"Riker here."
"I'm ready to make that house call we
discussed."
"Proceed, Doctor," said the first officer,
coming to a sudden stop. "I'll wait for you in
Counselor Troi's office."
He turned to walk in a new direction, then
realized that Data had overheard the entire
exchange and might refer to it at some
inopportune moment. Riker tried to think of a
plausible excuse for this covert arrangement with the
chief medical officer, but the strain of a
last-minute invention must have showed because Data took
the initiative.
"Commander," said the android. "Would you prefer that
I did not concentrate too much attention on this
event as well?"
"Yes, Data," said Riker with a sigh of
relief. "Your inattention would be most
appreciated."
For now, at least. However, if Beverly
Crusher's effort was not successful, then the
circle of involved officers would have to widen
to include Data.

The lights of the ready room were dimmed to their
lowest level. Taking a cautious step over the
threshold, Crusher peered toward the star window.
There was no one sitting at the desk, yet she had
heard Picard call out permission for her to enter.
The doors shut behind her, cutting the doctor
off from the bridge and throwing the room into even greater
darkness. "Captain?"
"Have you come to order me to my cabin,
Doctor?" His words were faintly slurred with
fatigue.
"No," said Crusher, turning in the direction
of Picard's voice. She could barely make out
a shadowy form hunched on the sofa. "After all, it
doesn't seem to have done much good last time."
"Sleep doesn't refresh me ... too many
dreams ... I was on the verge of a dream when you
came in."
The doctor noted that Picard's response
time was significantly slower than usual, as
if he was still working his way back to consciousness.
"I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"No, don't apologize," he said. "I'm
not sure I want to dream again."
As her eyes grew more accustomed to the
dark, Crusher could see that the captain was bent
over the Heart. For a moment, a trick of the
subdued lighting made her think the stone in his hands
was glowing, but when she stepped closer the doctor
realized its surface was the same dull gray
she had seen before. "I'd like to run a few tests
on you."
"What?" Irritation roused Picard out of his
lethargy. "Go to sickbay? I haven't time for that
now."
"I knew you'd say that." Crusher patted the
medical tricorder hanging by her side. "So I
came prepared to do a scan right here in your
office."
"Very well," he said, slumping back over the
Heart. "Do as you like."
Moving quickly, before Picard could change his
mind, she pulled the peripheral scanner off the
tricorder. After a few passes of the whirring
instrument, she had a preliminary result that
confirmed the exhaustion she had already observed and
also indicated some minor evidence of general
neglect. "According to my readings, you're somewhat
anemic and your blood sugar levels are
depressed. When was the last time you ate a decent
meal?"
But Picard was lost in his own thoughts and didn't
hear her. "If I had understood its powers
better, I could have saved the Enterprise without
killing the crew of the Plath."
A flick of Crusher's thumb abruptly
ended the scan; his mental state was of more interest
to her after that statement. "Captain, do you really
believe the Heart was responsible for the
explosion?"
"I've tried to find some other explanation, but
there is none. I regret ..." He shook his
head as if to dislodge the memory of the Klingon
ship engulfed in flames. "The Heart obeyed
my anger rather than my reason, yet over time I
could learn how to wield its powers more directly."
"Learn? How?"
"It speaks to me, Beverly," whispered
Picard, and she knelt down by his side to hear
him more clearly. "In dreams I see wonders
you can hardly imagine unseen vistas of the
cosmos, times long past and yet just within reach. The
Heart is as old as the stars and has powers beyond
imagining. Why, the destruction of the Plath was
mere child's play. I could--"
"Jean-Luc! What if you're not the one in
control?"
"You don't understand," he said. "The Heart
doesn't compel action, it merely offers the means
to gain one's ends. With this small stone in my
possession, the Enterprise could be proof against
all enemies and their betrayals, free
to explore the entire universe without danger ...
I could never fail."
"Failure is human," said Crusher. "We
learn from our mistakes."
"Some mistakes serve no purpose; some
defeats only bring pain and humiliation." He
looked into her face, meeting her gaze
directly for the first time. "If I were the only one
involved, Beverly, perhaps I could accept my
mistakes; but the consequences of my actions have
affected so many other people. I've even hurt you and
Wesley, and if it is in my power to make
amends ..."
"No, don't torture yourself with those
memories." Crusher laid a hand on his arm,
trying to reach through the sorrow that clouded his eyes.
She had made her peace with Jack's death, but
evidently Picard had not. "You can't change the
past, Jean-Luc."
"But what if I could?" He leaned so close
that she could feel his breath on her cheeks; his
voice took on a deeper, more ominous tone.
"Given the opportunity for study, I suspect
I could learn to hold the flow of time itself in my
hands. Do I have the right to refuse those powers? Would
you, as a doctor, throw away the ability
to restore health, save lives, or even ...
raise the dead?"
Mesmerized by Picard's words, Crusher saw
the Heart as if for the first time. How could she have
missed the aura of strangeness that surrounded its
rough form?
She reached out to touch the stone.
The captain pulled away with a possessive
gesture. Mine! he seemed to say as he
clutched the Heart to his chest. "Are you finished
with your medical exam, Doctor?"
"Yes, Captain." Crusher rose to her
feet and backed away. Just those few steps
broke the Heart's uncanny spell. Once
more, the captain was holding just a rock.
Picard leaned back against the cushions of the
sofa and crossed one leg over the other.
In an amiable, conversational tone, he said, "I
promise to take better care of myself from now
on."
"That's all I ask," said Crusher with a
smile that was stretched thin over her apprehension.
She left the captain sitting alone in the
shadows of the ready room.

Troi had suggested her counseling room as the
most comfortable and convenient meeting place, but the
unspoken understanding among the three senior officers
was that it also offered more privacy than the CMO'S
office. Unfortunately, this need for privacy
imbued their actions with an unpleasantly
furtive nature, and the empath could sense a
general discomfiture when they gathered. Although the
cushioned furniture was designed to encourage
relaxation, Will was perched on the edge of his chair,
and Beverly was pacing back and forth as she
described her encounter with the captain.
"There was no opportunity to take the Heart from
him"--Crusher shuddered at some unpleasant
aspect of the memory--"and I'm just as glad I
didn't even touch it."
"Why not?" asked Troi curiously.
Beverly shrugged away the question as if not really
sure herself. "One moment he seemed himself, then the
next he was like a man possessed."
"Are you qualified to perform an exorcism,
Doctor?" asked Riker. The grim expression
on his face robbed the question of any humor.
"I don't believe an outside agent is the
problem, Commander," said Troi. After her talk with
Guinan, the counselor had reached a new understanding
of the captain's behavior. "Even if the Heart
is sentient, I don't sense that it has taken
control of Captain Picard. It acts more like an
amplifier of all his emotions, and it has
transformed his fascination with the stone's legend into an
obsession."
"There's more to it than that, Deanna," said
Crusher. "It's no secret that our captain
strives for perfection, that he dislikes making
mistakes or losing. And after his abduction by the
Borg ..."
"Ah, yes," said the counselor, pleased by the
additional insight Beverly provided. "After his
abduction he felt very vulnerable. So now he
has what he believes to be the key to preventing
failure of any sort."
Riker frowned at the exchange. "You mean the
Heart has made him an offer he can't
refuse?"
"Yes," said Troi. "Yes, perhaps it has."

"Engineering to Captain Picard."
Picard woke with a start to find he was still sitting
upright on the ready room sofa, and he wondered
if he had been pulled out of sleep or into a
dream.
"Engineering to Captain Picard," repeated
La Forge patiently.
"Picard here."
"The engine core is back on-line,
Captain. We'll have warp speed in ten
minutes."
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant."
Geordi's voice was familiar, and there was no
sense of the disorientation that had accompanied Jack
Crusher's presence, so Picard decided he was
truly awake.
Tapping his comm insignia, he said, "Picard
to Riker. Prepare for an immediate departure from this
sector."
"Aye, Captain!" came the first officer's
enthusiastic response. Riker was obviously
eager for a return to Federation territory; the
demand for yet another diversion would be difficult
for him to accept.
Tucking the Heart securely into the crook of
his arm, Picard whispered, "You have shown me where you
need to go, but I still don't know what to do when we
get there."
If only there had been time for one more dream
... but despite his need for further guidance,
Picard had fought against sleep. The encounter with
Jack Crusher had shaken him too deeply
to slip willingly into unconsciousness. So now,
even though the past history of the Heart had been
illuminated in exquisite detail, the future
remained cloaked in mystery.
Unfortunately, the stakes were too high
to delay action. He would have to proceed anyway,
blindly trusting that the Heart would eventually reveal
the last of its secrets.

The bridge was alive with the sound and movement of a
ship restored to good health. Every console was fully
powered and brightly lit; crew members marched
briskly back and forth across the deck from
one duty station to another; and minute by minute, the
air Riker breathed was growing sweeter and warmer.
"All systems are operational," called out
La Forge from the aft deck engineering station. From his
post at tactical, Worf echoed the engineer's
words; and Data looked over his shoulder and nodded
to confirm the helm's ready status.
To Riker's mind, however, the return
to normalcy would not be complete until the vacant
captain's chair was filled. Picard's absences
from the bridge were growing noticeably longer. The
first officer was not given to undue flights of
fancy, yet he imagined that the Heart could sense
the crew's antagonism to its presence, and like an
animal under siege, it constantly urged a
return to the safety of its den.
Rising to his feet at the sound of parting
doors, Riker studied Picard as he emerged from
the shadowed recesses of the ready room. The bright,
even lighting of the bridge emphasized the
captain's drawn face and pale complexion; the
impression of a live animal crouched on his arm
was strengthened by his protective embrace of the
Heart.
While the captain walked toward the command
center, Riker continued with the routine preparations for the
ship's departure. "Mr. Data, lay in a
course for Starbase 75."
"Belay that order, Mr. Data," said
Picard. "Set a new course heading."
The string of destination coordinates the captain
called out next meant nothing to Riker, but he was
appalled by the direction Picard had chosen. This
sense of shock was universal; the entire bridge
crew had frozen, arrested in mid-motion by the
unexpected command.
"Captain," said Riker. "That course is on
a direct line away from Federation territory."
"I'm aware of that, Number One," said
Picard. "Helm?"
Data's hands immediately blurred into motion
to make up for his momentary hesitation. "Course
laid in, sir."
"Warp one." The captain stabbed his hand in the
air as if to point the way through space.
"Engage."
On the viewscreen, pinpoint stars transformed
into streaks of light as the Enterprise slipped
into warp speed. Heavy vibrations shuddered through the
primary hull as La Forge adjusted the
injection settings, but within seconds the trembling
eased away. Working in tandem with the chief engineer,
Picard ordered incremental increases in speed
until the starship was cruising smoothly at warp
four.
"The bridge is yours, Number One,"
announced Picard without warning. He turned
sharply on his heel and strode back to his ready
room.
Riker was the first to speak in the wake of the
captain's abrupt departure. "Data, where are
we going?"
"I can find no significant aspect to the
designated location," said the android. "However,
the coordinates for the site came from a star map the
captain has in his possession."
"A star map? Where did he get this map?"
"That I cannot say, but I suspect it is
somehow involved with the Heart."
The association was not surprising, but it was
definitely alarming. "Data, we've got
to get that ... thing away from the captain."
The android adopted a dubious expression.
"He has been most reluctant to release it from
his possession."
"Enough!" said Worf.
Riker looked up in surprise to find the
Klingon leaning over the deck rail, his face
glowering with suspicion.
"The Pagrashtak is best left in the hands of
Captain Picard. As his security chief, I
will not allow it to be taken by force."
"No, of course not, Lieutenant," said the
first officer, compelled into a hasty retraction by this
unexpected opposition. "It's entirely the
captain's decision when to give up the Heart."
Yet Riker seriously questioned whether Picard
would ever reach that decision on his own.
And just what am I going to do about that? he
wondered as they all sped farther and farther toward
nowhere.

CHAPTER 30

"Come," called out Picard, and waited to see
who would enter the ready room.
He had known there would be repercussions from his
last set of orders. His involvement with the Heart
was gathering momentum, and he was pulling his crew
faster and faster along with him toward a
murky climax that was beyond their understanding. It was beyond
his, as well, or he would have tried harder
to explain his actions. Their loyalty to him ran
deep, but for how long could he take advantage
of that faith?
"Do you ever put it down, Captain?"
Picard glanced up from his contemplation of the
Heart to find that Counselor Troi had fixed
him with a speculative look. It was a familiar
expression, and one he had learned to distrust in the
past.
"What are you talking about?" asked Picard,
although he knew quite well what she meant.
Troi only smiled at his clumsy evasion.
"Its very presence seems to comfort you, physically as
well as emotionally."
Her observation was uncomfortably perceptive.
His ready room must have cooled by at least five
degrees when life support services were
reduced to conserve power, but Picard had barely
felt the cold as long as he was in contact with the
stone; and its weight, cupped in his hands or
tucked in the crook of his arm, was a constant
reminder of the protection it offered.
"So," Troi persisted, "I couldn't help
wondering if setting the Heart aside distresses
you. How long can you go without it?"
"Counselor," said Picard with a forced smile,
"you make it sound like an addiction."
"Do I? That's very interesting."
"Oh, no," he said with a shake of his head.
"I have no intention of getting drawn into a
discussion about addiction and obsession. I can end this
matter right here and now."
Rising up from the sofa, the captain walked over
to the far side of his office and tucked the stone on
a high shelf. Stepping away from the wall unit,
he said, "There, Counselor. Are you
satisfied?"
"This is not something you must do to please me," said
the empath. Her dark eyes flitted up and down,
measuring the distance from the floor to the shelf, a
height that was well beyond her reach. "I only ask
you to reflect on how the stone has affected you.
How do you feel about putting it away?"
"I feel nothing other than the desire to get
a good night's sleep."
"Yes, you seem to spend much of your time alone
these days."
Really, there was no pleasing the woman.
"Would you prefer that I drop by Ten-Forward
instead?"
"It's not my preferences that are the issue,
Captain. You should do what you wish."
He uttered a mock groan. "And regardless
of what I do, you'll take notes and look
pensive."
"Probably," said Troi with a good-natured
laugh. "Good-night, Captain."
The counselor walked out of the ready room, but
her challenge concerning the Heart remained behind,
taunting him. Even worse, the exchange with
Troi revived memories of another warning.
It is not too late for me, T'Sara. I
can still maintain control.
Picard shivered in the cool air and without thinking
reached out for the Heart's warmth.
He stopped himself before his fingers touched the rough
surface of the stone, but the arrested motion seemed
to rob him of an alternate purpose and
direction. His original intention had been
to resume his wait for a new dream to guide his
next steps, but now the ready room seemed a
bleak and uninviting place to sleep. Yet the
thought of walking out onto the bridge filled him
with a vague anxiety.
What should I do now?

Guinan looked out from under the broad brim of a
burgundy bonnet. "Tea?" she asked of her
new customer.
Picard nodded. "Tea."
"One Earl Grey coming up."
"No," he said on impulse. "Not Earl
Grey. I'll have Srjula instead."
"Srjula? An Andorian tea?" The
hostess turned to a tidy row of canisters on a
shelf behind her. Common teas could be requested from the
food replicators, but the molecular patterns
of the more exotic brands were rarely available, and the
drink had to be made from real leaves. Guinan
pried open the lid of one of the jars and peered at the
contents. "We don't get much call for this on the
Enterprise."
"I'm in the mood for something different."
"Srjula is certainly different," she said,
setting a clear teacup and saucer on the bar. The
crumpled leaves that she sprinkled into the cup were
orange, but when hot water was poured over them,
they turned bright yellow, then dissolved.
She sniffed experimentally at the pungent aroma,
then grimaced. "I've never actually tasted it,
myself."
Picard picked up the saucer and took a
tentative sip from the cup. His mouth pursed
involuntarily. He took another sip.
"Yes, that's perfect."
"It is?" said Guinan.
He nodded emphatically. Srjula. The
memory of its tart, bitter taste was borrowed from
a dream, yet he knew that it was just as it should be.
Guinan shrugged and moved on to her next
customer, yet Picard felt her gaze following
him as he walked across the deck. He wound his
way to a table where Beverly Crusher was finishing off
a slice of pie. She hastily licked a smear
of whipped cream off her upper lip.
"You came alone tonight, Captain."
"Alone?" he said as he sat down across from
her. A backdrop of deep space framed her
body.
Crusher pointed to his hands, which were wrapped
tightly around his teacup. "No rock."
"Oh, that." Picard loosen ed his grip; the
warm, round shape between the palms of his hands had
been familiar and reassuring. "I left it in
my cabin. It's not as if I can't do without it."
"No, of course not." She made a token
effort to hide her amusement by eating the last bite
of her dessert, but he detected the ends of her
smile curling up around the spoon.
"Let's not talk about the Heart," he said.
"That's an excellent idea." She shoved
aside the empty plate and leaned forward. Her
voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Instead, why don't we--" She stopped. Her
nose wrinkled ever so slightly. "What on earth
is that smell?"
"Tea," said Picard, lifting the cup up
to his lips.
"You're drinking that?"
"Yes, of course." He took a sip, but
had to fight an impulse to spit out the liquid.
His craving for the astringent brew had faded. He
swallowed anyway. "It's delicious."
As he set down the cup, he caught a flash
of movement outside the Ten-Forward window.
"If you say so." Crusher pulled back
slightly and began again. "As I was saying, why
don't we--" She stopped again,
obviously alarmed by the sudden change in his
expression and the silence that had fallen over the
entire room. "Captain? What's wrong,
Jean-Luc?"
He tried to answer, but his throat had closed
too tightly to let the words escape.
They're back.
The doctor checked back over her shoulder;
she was the last to see it. A simple cubic
shape hung in space, its baroque metallic
structures gleaming softly in reflected
starlight.
"Oh my god," she cried. "It's the
Borg."
As her words echoed through the room, flashing red
lights began their staccato pulse and alert
sirens sprang to life. Picard scrambled
to his feet, overturning the table and chair in his
haste, knowing only that he must get away quickly.
"Captain to the bridge! Captain to--"
Riker's intercom voice was drowned out by the
high whine of a Borg transporter beam.
Picard froze in his tracks; the sound brought forth
a memory of pain, a pain so fierce that he would
do anything to escape it again.
Five Borg materialized in the center of the
room, back-to-back in a tight formation like a
satanic pentagram. Each took a step forward
and began to fire straight ahead.
No! Not again. Please not again.
Another step, another round of fire.
Screams. People were screaming; people were falling to the
deck; people were dying.
I should do something. I must do something. I'm the
captain. But the terror that gripped him was so
strong that he couldn't move. If he moved, they
would see him.
He watched instead.
He watched as Guinan pulled a phaser out from
behind the counter. She was hit before she could even pull
the trigger. Her body went up in flames.
The Borg took another step and five more people
crumpled to the floor. A few writhed and
groaned, the others lay still.
He watched as Beverly Crusher brushed past
him, rushing to the aid of one of the dying crewmen. A
sweep of a Borg arm sent her flying through the
air. Her body landed at Picard's feet, her
back oddly twisted and her face slack and
wooden.
One last step. A Borg was standing right in
front of him.
Picard watched as it raised an arm and
extruded a whirring metal rotor from the tip.
The twirling blades shredded the cloth of his
uniform, the skin beneath, and then bored a hole
straight through to his heart ...

Picard woke with a burning sensation deep in his
chest; there were other pains, needle-sharp and throbbing,
embedded in his muscles and bones. Two years
after their removal, his body still remembered
exactly where the Borg implants had been
placed. He clutched the front of his uniform and
nearly retched at the feel of the damp, sticky
cloth.
It's only sweat.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. Not so
bad. After all, this nightmare hadn't wrenched
tears and screams from him. He was beyond the need
to drag Deanna Troi out of her bed to hear him
babble about terror and cowardice and loss of
control. This was just a predictable reaction to the
presence of a captured Borg on board the
Enterprise last month; Picard's brief
impersonation of Locutus had triggered
uncomfortable memories ...
... or the dream was a warning.
No, dammit, this has nothing to do with the
Heart.
His fingers curled, cold and stiff, as if they
yearned to wrap themselves around the stone's fire. His
chest was still aching. Had he experienced a routine
nightmare or another vision? If the Heart could
show him the past, could it also show him the future?
"Picard to bridge," he called out as he
swung his legs over the edge of the couch.
"Data here, Captain."
He rose and moved across the room to his
bookshelves. "Lieutenant, increase speed
to warp six and initiate evasive maneuvers."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. Maintain our previous
destination coordinates, just get us there a different
way than originally planned."
"Yes, sir."
The captain reached up to the shelf and closed his
hands around the Heart. Its warmth flooded through
him, washing away the tension in his muscles.
The pain in his chest began to fade.

CHAPTER 31

Warden Chandat was accustomed to spending long
hours sitting in place while maintaining an air
of dignity and supreme authority over tedious
proceedings. He had developed this skill
presiding over countless Faculty meetings, but
he was somewhat disillusioned to discover that the demands
on a starship commander were not so very different from his own
administrative duties. The bridge chair was
more comfortable than the one in the council chamber,
Chandat conceded, but the view was less interesting.
Over the last two days, the novelty of staring
forward at nothing but stars on a flat screen had
worn off.
"Estimated time of arrival is one hour and
five minutes," announced Dean Shagret from the
helm. He, unlike the warden, could constantly
entertain himself by scanning the console readouts and
playing with the controls.
"Maintain course and speed." The phrase
felt less foreign on Chandat's tongue after
several repetitions. Without such squelching
directives, the dean had an annoying tendency
to practice new flight maneuvers that sent the
ship careening in unexpected directions.
"Initiating long-range sensor scans,"
announced Thorina. This would be her third scan
within the last hour, but whenever Shagret issued one
of his status reports, she was spurred
to activate her console again.
Their rivalry had started soon after the
Sullivan's departure from Dynasia when the
two deans began squabbling over who among the
Faculty had sufficient seniority to sit in the
command area. Recognizing the importance of this
symbolic center of authority, Chandat had
reluctantly given up his place at navigation
to secure his position as leader of the expedition.
Then his first official act as the ship's commander had
been to order the two deans to posts at opposite
ends of the bridge.
A muffled sound drew Chandat's attention to the
old man seated by his side. The professor
had remained silent until now.
"So near ..." whispered Manja. His voice
was husky with sorrow. "If only T'Sara could
have lived long enough to share this moment with me."
Chandat would have preferred to keep the
historian out of sight; Diat was a constant
reminder that the basis for this venture was taken from a
hoary myth in the Dream literature. However,
banishing the professor from the bridge would have been
too cruel. Manja thought this mission had been
mounted on his behalf, as a champion of
T'Sara, and he would have been hurt by any
attempt at exclusion. As it was, the old
man would be hurt eventually, but Chandat tried not
to cast his thoughts that far ahead.
Fortunately, the demands of operating a starship
had fully occupied the attention of the other
professors and prevented them from asking too many
questions about their destination. However, the Sullivan
would arrive at the Appointed Place soon, and
then the folly of this quixotic search for the Gem
would be all too apparent to all the Dynasians.
"Chandat!" Thorina's cry of alarm jerked the
warden out of his reverie. "I've got something on the
scanners!"
"Could you be more specific?" asked Chandat.
Since she had issued several false alarms
during the voyage, he had quickly learned not
to attach too much significance to such outbursts.
"There's a Federation starship dead ahead,
registry number NCC-1701D."
The warden started up out of his chair and twirled
around to face the dean. "Are you sure?"
"Confirmed," said Oomalo, peering down over
the dean's shoulder at the tactical screen.
"Their trajectory matches ours. It appears
that we will not be the first to arrive at the Appointed
Place."
This news was most unsettling; the warden had
never thought to factor another starship into any of his
contingency plans. Chandat wracked his memory for
an appropriate command response. "Open
hailing frequencies."
"Do what?" asked Thorina, who was still flustered
by the unexpected success of her scan. "Oh,
yes, the radio."
With a dubious frown, she jabbed her finger at the
midsection of the communications console. A
high-pitched squeal of static burst over the
bridge speakers. Thorina jabbed again and the noise
turned into a stream of chattering voices.
As Chandat listened to the oddly familiar, yet
incomprehensible language, Shagret called out
with disdain, "That's not Federation Standard."
"The incoming transmission is not from the
starship," said Oomalo. The native
professor edged in beside Dean Thorina, andwitha
refreshing display of competence, rapidly tapped
a sequence over the console surface.
"Activating the universal translator."
"I would have done that next," snapped Thorina,
but she moved aside to give Oomalo better
access to the controls.
The abstract sounds suddenly turned into words.
"... must rely on sheer numbers to maintain
our advantage. The Federation's weapons
technology is superior to that of any one of our
vessels."
Oomalo glanced over at the tactical
monitor. "We appear to have intercepted intership
communications from a group of vessels just entering the
sector. They also are headed for the Appointed
Place."
An answering transmission crackled over the
subspace radio channel. "The
unDiWahn captains are united as one mighty
fist, Admiral. We shall crush the Enterprise
and reclaim the Gem."
"DiWahn?" cried out Manja. "Did they
really say DiWahn?"
"By the Three Gates," said Chandat in
amazement. "I heard it, too."
"Ancient history is coming alive, Warden!"
Excitement at the discovery wiped away the old
man's grief. He was a Dynasian after all,
and knowledge was the first love of all their race.
Chandat's respect for T'Sara's scholarship
overwhelmed his own concerns for just a moment. Thanks
to the Vulcan, two branches of the scattered
Iconian peoples were finally reunited on the
other side of the Gate.
Oomalo, unmoved by legends that were alien to her
own people, was more practical in her reaction to the
revelation. "We had better make a friendly
overture to these DiWahns before they mistake us
for a Federation faction. If we offer to combine
forces, then the starship will be easily overpowered."
"How very inconvenient," muttered Chandat
to himself. Fortunately, his heretical comment was
drowned out by the ragged victory cheers of the
Faculty.

The ancient engineers of Iconia had
obviously respected the need for introspection.
On each of their starships they had
reserved space for a small niche that would shelter
a body in meditation. After boarding the flagship
of the unDiWahn fleet, Master Kierad@an
had retreated inside just such a niche and spent the
duration of the journey through space in consultation with
himself.
Traditionally, the reciting of the Dream Lore
was done in a circle of the Faithful, but
Kierad@an was conducting a private Telling.
In the circle of his own mind, he was both
dream-teller and listener as he reviewed the
accumulated knowledge of his order and searched for new
insights. The men and women of the Faithful had
spent their lives exploring the lessons laced in
the dreams of the Gem-Bearers, and now Kierad@an
had five short days in which to judge this wisdom
for the last time.
"Master."
The unDiWahn was pulled out of his thoughts by a
low voice from outside the enclosure. Admiral
Jakat would not have interrupted this meditation without good
cause, but Kierad@an resented the intrusion
anyway. He had so little time left.
Drawing aside the curtain that closed off the
niche from the outer room, he said, "Yes,
Daramad@an?"
The admiral stepped closer to the high shelf
where Kierad@an sat. He moved with an
unusually stiff gait. "We have established
communications with a lone starship of Federation
registry; however, the crew claims to be
Iconian. Warden Chandat of Dynasia
asserts that they, too, are on course for the
Appointed Place."
This news explained the tension locked in the
muscles of the admiral's body. Kierad@an
felt his own frame stiffen in reaction to this
unexpected company.
"So, the Dynasians have survived on the other
side of their Gate."
This was no cause for rejoicing. Another contingent of
Iconians could complicate his plans for the Gem.
Despite this risk, Kierad@an decided he
would allow the strangers to continue ... for now. After
all, they might have a place in the Dreaming,
too.
"Propose an alliance to the Dynasians,"
said Kierad@an, "but make it clear that they must
follow our lead and let me negotiate for the
Gem. If they agree to these terms,
let them live."
"As you wish, Master." The admiral withdrew
without asking for further instruction. He was a
capable leader in his own right and required little
direction.
Closing the curtain, Kierad@an resumed his
meditation on the future of the Dream Gem.
Over the past century, those who held the
title of master had reached a consensus of opinion
as to the role of the Faithful in the Gem's
affairs. Upon his investment as leader of the order,
Kierad@an had pledged to honor that agreement when
he reached the Appointed Place, yet the
autonomy of his position encompassed the
authority to change his mind. It was that freedom that
troubled him now. His sworn duty had seemed much
easier to contemplate on DiWahn than it did
here in space, drawing ever nearer to the Gem. With
each hour that slipped away, he discovered new
arguments with which to counter the decision of his elders.
Even if he affirmed the conclusion reached by his
predecessors, Master Kierad@an wondered if
he had the strength of will to keep his feet on the
true path they had outlined. The title he bore
was for mastery over oneself, not over others, but he was
the first of the unDiWahn to actually face the Gem
and test his convictions.
Kanda Jiak, the last Iconian to be called
master, had failed. He had paid for that failure
with his life.

CHAPTER 32

Like a gull skimming the still surface of an
ocean, the USS Enterprise dropped out of
warp speed and coasted into a leisurely orbit
around a cooling star.
The white dwarf had no name, just a number
assigned by astronomers as they charted the
desolate reaches of space beyond the Federation. The
star had burned in isolation for nearly five thousand
years; but now, at the end of that long wait, the
dwarf's single companion was drawing near again.
The heat of their meeting had transformed the
speeding ball of rock and ice into a streak of
luminous vapor; thus, for a few short months
along the course of its elliptical orbit, the
comet flared into prominence. Later, once it
passed perihelion and fell farther and farther
away into cold fringes of the system, the
tail would fade, and the comet would continue in
anonymous invisibility for another five thousand
years.

Riker knew that comets were nothing more than stray
pebbles adrift in space, kicked into motion
by tidal waves of gravity. Over the years of his
Starfleet service, he had seen wonders of far
greater beauty and mystery than this lonely traveler
in its brief flash of glory, but perhaps it was
precisely that ephemeral quality that moved him
with a mixture of sadness and joy.
When he entered the ready room, Riker found the
captain staring out his window at the same bleak
tableau of the white dwarf and its consort. With a
softly uttered sigh of irritation, Picard
turned away from the scene to hear his first officer's
status report.
"Engineering has managed to restore our
deflector shield capacity to fifty-seven
percent," said Riker, "and Geordi expects
another ten percent improvement in the next few
hours, but for now we're extremely vulnerable."
Picard's gaze kept flicking away from his
first officer; he seemed to constantly fight against the
impulse to look over his shoulder. His hands were
equally restless, reaching for the Heart, then darting
back to the data tablet on his desk. "Do the best
you can with what we have, Number One."
One role that Riker often played with the captain
was devil's advocate; Picard had always
encouraged him to present any opposing arguments that
would offer a different perspective to critical
issues. Rarely, however, had Riker felt that
the stakes were so high as now. "The best we can do,
Captain, is to leave this area before we're
attacked."
This statement secured Picard's undivided
attention and sharpened his voice. "Are you questioning my
present command decisions?"
"No, sir, I'm not, but our orders--"
"My orders," said Picard with icy reserve,
"were to keep the Heart out of the hands of the enemies
of the Federation. I intend to do just that."
Riker's intuition led him toward a disturbing
corollary. "But you're not going to take it back
into Federation space, are you?"
"No." Picard lifted the stone up off the
desk as if to include the Heart in the discussion of
its fate. "Self-determination is one
of the basic tenets of Starfleet's
philosophy; as a sentient being, this entity must be
accorded control over its own destiny. Just as
important, in my judgment the interests of the
Federation are best served by removing the Heart from
our affairs. Captain Duregh's betrayal
convinced me that its continuing presence would eventually
destabilize our current political
alliances."
"Can you tell me how you plan to remove it?"
asked Riker. He had hoped for just such an opening
to discuss the captain's plans for the Heart.
"This place is essential. We must stay here
until ..." As he groped for words, Picard
unwittingly revealed the depth of his uncertainty.
"... until the Heart's mission has
completely unfolded."
"The longer we remain here, the greater the chance that
the unDiWahn--"
"The unDiWahn are not a danger, Number
One." With the Heart still clutched in his hands like a
talisman warding off evil, Picard said,
"You've seen what it can do with your own eyes. As
long as I hold the Heart, they can't even touch
us."

Even before his return to the bridge, Troi could
sense the rising intensity of Riker's emotions.
When he finally stepped out of the ready room,
however, she was relieved to see that Riker had
successfully masked his frustration and anxiety
behind an expression of vague geniality.
She watched as the first officer sauntered across the
command deck. His carefree air would convince
anyone but an empath that he had just enjoyed a
casual exchange with the captain. A quick
sidelong glance toward the aft deck nearly
gave Riker away, but Lieutenant Worf was
too absorbed with his tactical sensor readings
to catch the telltale sign of wariness.
Once Riker settled down beside her, however,
he shook his head. No success.
"Now what?" asked Troi in a low voice.
He shrugged. "Your turn again."
"No, I can feel his emotional reserve
heighten whenever I approach him. If he
won't even listen to me, he certainly won't
relinquish the Heart to my care."
"Well, then ..."
In perfect accord, she and Riker
both turned and fixed a speculative look on
the android working quietly at the helm.

Since Picard appeared entranced by the view
outside his window, Data stood patiently in
front of the ready room desk, waiting for the
captain to break out of his reverie. While he
waited, the android considered how he might best
attempt to fulfill Riker's directive.
Persuading Captain Picard to give up the
Heart would prove an interesting challenge in
interpersonal dynamics, but it was an area in which
Data judged himself to be somewhat inadequate.
Considering the strong emotions that were involved,
Data doubted that he would be able to succeed where
Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi had
failed.
Then, catching sight of one of the books on the
office desk, he was reminded of the captain's
deep respect for T'Sara and Ambassador
Sarek. Vulcans did not appeal to emotions,
yet Picard was often persuaded by these writings.
Perhaps logic could provide a more promising
approach.
Under his breath, Picard muttered, "How long
must I wait for an answer?"
Data determined the captain was addressing the
Heart resting in his hands. Apparently he received
no response from the stone, because Picard then
swiveled his chair around to face the android.
"What is it, Mr. Data? Am I to be
subjected to a visit by each of my senior
officers in turn? How can I think straight with
these continual interruptions?"
Without any preamble to soften his intent, Data
said, "We are concerned about the extent to which your
actions are being governed by the Heart."
"Then you need worry yourself no longer. I am
acting of my own volition." Evidently Picard
regretted the overly curt nature of this
response, because he stopped to take a deep
breath and then said, "Data, there is something the
Heart needs, a place it must reach, for reasons
I don't entirely understand, that I may be
incapable of understanding, yet its urgency is
unmistakable."
"Does this mean you will relinquish the stone so that
it can reach that destination, Captain?"
"Yes ... of course." Picard's eyes
widened ever so slightly as he
contemplated that scenario. "But not until the time
is right."
"Intriguing. When exactly will that time occur?"
"Not yet," said the captain. "I'll know when
the time comes."
"I admire your certainty. However, my
analysis of the Heart's history indicates that
if you delay too long, the stone will ensure its
own release by leaving us vulnerable to attack."
"No! The Heart offers us protection."
"Does it?" asked Data. "On this journey
you speak of, the Heart has left a trail of
death and devastation in its wake. This is not legend
or myth, but fact. We have seen the evidence
ourselves in the destruction of the Orions and the
Ferengi."
"The Heart is not to blame for those deaths," said
Picard with a vehement shake of his head. "The
Orions died due to their own greed, as did the
Ferengi; they courted their own downfall."
"And what of the Vulcans? Did T'Sara
deserve her fate?"
A spasm of grief, akin to pain, creased the
captain's face. This time he shook his head more
gently.
"From what I have observed," said Data, "the
protection it offers has a tendency to fail if
the Heart can secure a more useful host. When will
it tire of your custody?"
Picard fell silent for a moment as his thoughts
turned inward. "You aren't the first one to warn me that
I've held on too long." In a voice tinged
with a Vulcan accent, he recited, "It
constantly struggles to free itself from the tangle of
our grasping hands."
Encouraged by this admission of doubt, the android
pressed his argument even harder. "In the years that
we have served together, you have stressed how much you
value my unique perspective. Captain,
trust to my objectivity, to my lack of emotion,
when I tell you that the Heart is more of a danger
to us than any alien fleet. Give it up now,
while you still can. If you rely on its powers
to shield us from harm, we will be destroyed."
He held out his hands, palms upturned,
to accept the stone.
"Data," said Picard, "neither Surak or
T'Sara would lay this burden on another living
being. I don't have that right either."
"Remember that I have held the stone
before with complete immunity. As an android, I
cannot be seduced by its powers."
Picard's hands trembled when he lifted up the
Heart, as if this slight effort required a
concentration of all of his strength and will. "Then
take--"
"Bridge to Captain Picard," boomed
Worf's voice over the intercom. "The
unDiWahn fleet has reentered the perimeter
of our sensorfield ... the ships have been dispersed
in a surround pattern and are drawing in toward
us."
"Surrounded ..." Picard froze in
mid-gesture. "Data, I won't leave the
Enterprise vulnerable to attack!"
This was as much a plea for help as it was a
declaration of defiance. Data urged the obvious
solution. "Then we must leave this place while
there is still time to break through their formation. At our
fastest warp speed we can outpace the entire
unDiWahn fleet."
"Leave?" Despite his reluctance to accept
this suggestion, the captain was unable to marshal a
counter argument. "Yes ... I suppose we
must."
Data reached out to take hold of the Heart.
"Captain," said Worf again. "Sensors
have detected a Federation starship approaching the
sector."
The android's finger brushed against air.
Picard had pulled the stone back a few
inches. "The cavalry has reached us just in time,
Data."
"The registry number is that of the
Miranda-class USS Sullivan," continued
the security chief. "However, they are not
answering our hails, and Starfleet records
indicate the vessel was last assigned
to diplomatic duty in another quadrant."
"Yet another betrayal," said Data, quick
to underscore their growing danger. "All the more
reason for us to depart this sector."
"On the contrary," said Picard
unexpectedly. "This proves the futility of
retreat. Enemies follow in our wake wherever
we go. Even if we escape these forces, new
enemies and new betrayals will be waiting for us at
every port. We carry violence with us like a
plague. The chase must end here."
A calmness seemed to settle over the
captain, smoothing away the furrows of confusion and
doubt that had etched themselves into his face.
Cradling the stone to his chest, Picard said, "I
will need the Heart for just a while longer."

CHAPTER 33

"Make it so."
The huddle of officers around the captain flew
apart. Like players aiming for their marks on a
stage, they all moved briskly to their bridge
stations.
Picard took a step forward to center himself in the
command area, and Riker planted himself by the
captain's side; Worf assumed his background
role at the tactical console; and in the
foreground, Data took the helm. Transporter
Chief O'Brien, the one foreign element in this
familiar tableau, marched through the turbolift's
opening doors and disappeared.
"Status report, Mr. Worf?"
"Sensors show the unDiWahn fleet is still
closing at six hundred thousand kilometers
..."
Images began to form on the viewscreen. From
a distance, the unDiWahn ships appeared
surprisingly delicate. Their colorful hulls
were curled in spirals and waves, like autumn
leaves twisting in the wind. The thick saucer
section of the lone Miranda-class starship was stiff
and ungainly in the midst of these undulating
shapes.
"... five hundred thousand ... four hundred
thousand kilometers."
A hush fell over the bridge as the alien
ships drifted closer and closer until their
fluting edges nearly touched. The assembled
fleet formed the thin shell of a sphere with the
Enterprise captured in the hollow center. For
all its beauty, the pattern was also an
overwhelming display of military strength.
"Captain," said Worf in a low voice.
"We are being hailed by the unDiWahn
flagship."
"Establish visual communications,
Lieutenant."
Squaring his shoulders, Picard mentally prepared
himself for the raising of the curtain that would reveal him
to an audience. His hands tightened their hold on the
Heart, the key element in the unfolding
drama.
The chase would end now; the last blood to be
spilled would be here, on the bridge of the
Enterprise.

To the uninitiated, the gray rock was an
unremarkable object, but Kierad@an knew that
its plain cover masked a crystalline
structure that sparkled in the dark. What could not be
seen, what could only be felt, was the heat that
radiated from it. If only he could warm his hands
on the Dream Gem for just a few moments ...
With the greatest of difficulty, the master raised
his eyes to meet the Gem-Bearer's gaze. "I
am Kierad@an, leader of the Faithful."
"I am Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the
Enterprise." While the captain introduced his
senior officers, Kierad@an noted that fatigue
had left its marks on Picard's face,
bleaching his skin of color and sharpening the planes of
his skull. His fingers were rigid with tension,
gripping the Gem in a vise of bone and muscle.
As soon as the tedious formalities were
concluded, Kierad@an spoke. "Captain, I
request that you return the Gem to the keeping of the
unDiWahn. We are its Guardians and have
charge of its future."
Picard shook his head. "With all due
respect, Kierad@an, I don't recognize
your claim of ownership. The Gem remains with
me."
"Brave words for the commander of a starship far from the
safety of Federation space."
Pic ard's first officer strutted forward, filling
more of the oval viewscreen. "Our safety is of
less importance than the security of the Federation.
This crew has pledged to destroy the stone rather than
let it fall into the wrong hands."
"I do not believe you," said Kierad@an.
"No bearer would willingly give up possession
of the Gem."
"We're going to prove you wrong." Riker then
looked back to Picard as if expecting the older
man to echo this challenge. When the Gem-Bearer was
silent, Riker prompted him by saying,
"Captain, we agreed we must put an end
to--"
"No," said Picard, sidling away from the first
officer. "No, I've changed my mind. Such
an extreme measure won't be necessary
after all."
Riker's arrogance gave way to dismay.
"Captain!"
"Number One, with the Heart in my possession
I can defeat anyone who tries to take it away
from me." Picard's threat was directed at his first
officer, rather than the unDiWahn.
"As you can see," said Kierad@an to the young
officer, "this matter is between myself and your
captain."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Riker.
He slapped at a metal insignia on his
chest. "Now!"
All the doors to the bridge snapped open at
once. As security guards stormed through the
portals, the officer at the helm slid out from behind
his console and lunged toward the captain.
"Data, no!" cried out Picard.
The pale-skinned helmsman had wrapped his
hands around the Gem in an attempt to displace
Picard's hold. The Klingon on the aft deck
tried to rush to the captain's aid, but armed guards
immediately dragged him away from the bridge railing.
It took five of them to keep the warrior's arms
pinned behind his back.
Kierad@an had expected trouble; it was an
inevitable companion to the Gem's travels.
"Daramad@an," the master whispered, "prepare
to fire at my next command."
In the frame of the viewscreen, the two men were
still grappling for dominance. The Gem-Bearer's
face was contorted by a fierce possessive rage
that would have intimidated most assailants.
However, with a display of unusual strength, Data
wrenched the stone out of the captain's grasp.
While two guards wrestled Picard
facedown onto the deck, Data raised the stone
up into the air like the head of a vanquished enemy.
"The Gem is mine!"
Kierad@an's clenched fist held the admiral
at his side in check. Negotiation was still in
everyone's best interests. "You have only weakened
your position, Enterprise. It takes time
to learn how to use those powers."
"I do not need any time at all," said
Data, "because I plan to destroy the Gem now."
Alarmed by the man's resoluteness,
Kierad@an opened his fist and said,
"Daramad@an, fire!"
The Enterprise bridge rocked and
swayed as the Iconian weapons salvo
collided against its defense shields. This sudden
assault threw the crew off-balance. Cries and
shouts rang out as they confronted the deadly
consequences of their resistance. From his vantage
point as a spectator, Kierad@an also saw
Picard take clever advantage of this
widespread distraction.
"Worf!" screamed the captain as he twisted
out of his guard's choke-hold. "Stop Data!"
With a mighty heave, the Klingon threw off the
men holding him. One swipe of his muscular arm
ripped a phaser from a guard's belt. Roaring like
a wounded animal, he took aim at the android
and fired.
A narrow red beam lanced out across the bridge.
With reflexes faster than Kierad@an would have
believed possible, Data spun around and blocked
the force of the phaser blast with the Gem itself.
The stone absorbed the energy like a sponge. For a
moment, the master thought it would survive the blast,
but then the soft glow at its crystal center
ignited.
The Gem and its new bearer disappeared in a
fiery bloom of light.

"Don't move!"
The security guard planted his knee in the
small of Picard's back and shoved the captain
flat against the deck. The air was knocked out of his
lungs by the impact, and a raw scrape on his
cheek burned hotly as his face was ground into the
short fibers of the carpet. Picard battled for
breath against the crushing weight of the body pinning him
down.
"The unDiWahn have severed the communication link
..." Riker's voice came from a direction behind
and above where Picard lay, so the first officer must have
taken over the tactical console. "... and the
fleet appears to be retreating."
Pinpoints of colored light were forming on the
captain's retinas when Riker finally said, "We
did it!"
The guard released his hold.
With a soft groan of relief, Picard rolled
over onto his back and sucked in a lungful of
air. When the dancing spots had faded away,
he made a weak attempt to sit up and discovered
that his ribs were painfully bruised. Two
security guards grabbed hold of his
arms and pulled him up to a standing position.
"Sorry, sir," said a third guard as she
hastily brushed off the front of the captain's
tunic. "I guess we got a little carried
away."
Picard mustered a wan smile to allay their
anxiety, but his first words were directed to the ship's
intercom. "Bridge to transporter room. Good
job, Chief."
"Thank you, Captain," replied
O'Brien. A flash of white light exploded
in front of the helm for a second time. "I
enjoy a spot of fancy work now and then."
The entire crew erupted into laughter,
shattering the tension that had gripped them all during
the confrontation with the unDiWahn. Picard led a
round of appreciative applause, but even after
the clapping ended, high spirits persisted. Worf
sauntered back to his tactical station, the
security squads jostled their way off the
bridge, and Riker vaulted over the aft deck
railing to land with a heavy thud in front of the
captain.
"Your bluff worked!" exulted Riker. "They
really believe Worf destroyed Data and the
Heart."
Picard tugged at his rumpled tunic.
"Yes, Number One, it seems that--"
"Captain," cut in Worf. "The
unDiWahn fleet has halted its retreat.
All vessels are holding position at five
hundred thousand kilometers, just outside of
phaser range."
This statement hit Picard with greater force than
any physical blow. Robbed of speech by bitter
disappointment, the captain whirled around to stare at
the viewscreen. The unDiWahn ships sparkled
like metallic sequins scattered through space.
"At least we've bought some time, Captain,"
said Riker in a subdued whisper.
But time to do what? wondered Picard. Only
minutes had passed since the Heart had been
taken from him, yet he could already feel his empty
hands aching to hold the stone again.
What if I must destroy it after all?

Master Kierad@an stared out the port window of
his cabin, studying the Appointed Place. He
had no interest in the star, just its single orbiting
satellite. The comet was a cosmic
hourglass, and the length of its tail indicated that
valuable time had been lost.
"Do they take us for fools, Master?" The
sound of Daramad@an's heavy tread traced the
admiral's progress back and forth from one end
of the room to the other. "That was a trick, a show of
lights meant to dazzle and confuse the
simpleminded. The Gem has not been
destroyed!"
"No," said Kierad@an softly. "I don't
sense that it has left the Dreaming in that manner."
Yet he wondered if this conviction was based on
hope rather than on truth. His mind was spinning from the
attempt to make sense of the scene he had just
witnessed. Picard was the last of the Gem-Bearers
to appear in the Dreaming; yet even though he had just
given up the stone to another being, his action had not
affected the Telling.
"Let us attack and take--"
"No!" The temptation to agree with
Daramad@an was strong, but there was so little time left
in which to act. Recovering the Gem by force might
take too long, and the consequences of such a
miscalculation would reverberate for five thousand
years. "There is something different about the one they
call Data. He holds the Gem without being
touched by it."
Could I do the same? Do I dare take the
place of someone who has already passed that test.
Kierad@an looked deep inside himself and did not
like what he saw.
Forsaking intellect, trusting to his instincts,
the master said, "Do not attack, Admiral.
Instead, your fleet must remain in position
to ensure that the Enterprise does not leave before the
Appointed Time."
"But I thought our mission was to take possession
of the Gem!"
I thought so, too. "We must trust that
Picard will aid the Gem to fulfill its
destiny." If the captain failed in his task, the
Gem would have to wait yet again to complete its
journey.
"You speak in riddles, Master."
Kierad@an gestured to the port window.
"Watch. You will understand soon enough."

When Picard stepped inside his ready room,
his gaze was drawn unerringly to the Heart. His
fears that it might have been damaged by the
intraship transport were eased by the sight of the
stone nestled in the crook of Data's arm.
"We're at a stalemate with the
unDiWahn," explained Picard when Data
looked up from his examination of the wall aquarium.
Evidently the android considered the Heart an
object of less interest than a fish swimming
idly in place. "However, visual communications
have been severed, so it's safe for you to return to the
bridge."
Data acknowledged the news with an impassive
nod. "Thank you, Captain."
I chose to give it up.
That knowledge did not lessen Picard's sharp pangs
of jealousy as he watched Data carry the Heart
across the room. Each step brought the two of them
closer and closer. When the android passed near enough
to touch, Picard lashed out with one arm. The fingers of
his hand wrapped around Data's wrist, just inches
away from the Heart.
Picard worked to keep his voice steady. "I still
haven't discovered the reason for the Heart 's
journey to this place. If only I could dream
one more time ..."
"Captain, we agreed that it would be best if
I retain possession of the Heart. I do not think
we should change that arrangement."
"Yes, I suppose you're right." Picard
forced himself to release his hold on the android's arm
and walk away.
Heedless of direction, the captain ended up at
the ready room window. Picard studied the scene
outside the starship to distract himself from regrets.
According to Worf's calculations, the comet was
approaching perihelion, its closest distance to the
white dwarf, and thus the height of brilliance for
its gaseous tail.
Catching a glimpse of the Heart's reflection
in the window, Picard's thoughts rocketed back
to the events of the last hour. On the bridge, when
the time came to actually let go of the stone, he had
tried to fend off Data. Only the android's
superior strength had ensured that the staged event was
resolved according to plan.
"Data, you'd better leave--"
"Bridge to Captain Picard," called
out Riker. "Sensors have detected an ion
disturbance off the port bow."
Somewhere beyond the comet, Picard spotted a
pinprick of gleaming light. It was
surrounded by a shimmering aura of radiant energy.
"Indications are that a wormhole is forming out
there."
"A wormhole?" whispered Picard to himself.
A split second later, the pinprick
expanded into a glowing sphere, then exploded
outward. He found himself staring into the gaping maw of a
tunnel that had bored its way through light-years of
space.
"Data, that's it!" Picard marveled at the
ingenuity of those who had built the Guardian of
Forever. "The comet is merely a herald for the
wormhole's appearance. If the Heart passes
through that cosmic gate, it will be sown in some far
distant galaxy."
"That is an interesting hypothesis, Captain."
"No, Data, this is more than just a theory; it
is the fulfillment of a dream." Tapping his comm
insignia, the captain said, "Picard
to transporter chief. Mr. O'Brien, I have
one last miracle for you to perform."
Moments later, Picard listened to the high whine
of the transporter beam at his back. Without
looking, he knew, he could feel in his very bones,
that Data's hands were now empty.
Pressing his palms flat against the window's
cold surface, the captain searched in vain for
some glimpse of the Heart's reappearance. The
stone was too small and too dark for him to trace
its passage through the vast tunnel.
As the comet passed perihelion and began its
long fall toward night, the ring of the wormhole
rippled and quavered, then collapsed. This
fleeting channel into another galaxy was gone, and
it would not return for another five thousand years.
With the shuddering breath of a man waking from a long
sleep, Picard pulled away from the window.
"Our part in this story has ended now, Data."

CHAPTER 34

"We are being hailed by the unDiWahn," said
Worf.
Picard nodded and turned toward the main
viewscreen.
With one word, Kierad@an could order his forces
to advance and destroy the Enterprise in a storm
of fire. Picard had accepted his own death as the
price for the Heart's escape, but the loss of his
ship and crew filled him with bitter
regret.
The master appeared. His face bore a serene
smile.
"Good-bye, Gem-Bearer," said Kierad@an.
"Our guardianship is over, so it is time for us
to leave this place."
Before the captain could reply, the leader of the
Faithful had faded off the bridge viewscreen,
displaced by an image of deep space.
"Do you think he means it?" asked Riker.
"Are they really leaving?"
The captain nodded. Somehow the unDiWahn
had sensed the stone's passage through the wormhole.
He would have expected knowledge of its loss to trigger a
violent retaliation against the Enterprise, yet
Kierad@an had addressed him with respect.
Gem-Bearer. It seemed a hollow title
to Picard now that the Heart was gone.
A patch of color flashed across the screen,
then another. One by one, the unDiWahn ships were
breaking away from their spherical formation to gather
around their flagship. When the last vessel had
reached the tail end of the swarm, they all took
flight. Soon distance worked its magic, and the
deadly fleet was transformed into a cloud of
butterflies fluttering away on a summer
breeze.
In their wake, however, the Faithful had left
behind a lumbering stepchild.
"We are being hailed by the USS
Sullivan," announced Worf.
"On screen, Lieutenant."
The view shifted once again, this time to the
bridge of a starship. Picard winced when he
took a close look at the man sitting in the
captain's chair. He had a greenish-purple
bruise on his forehead and a jagged scratch down
one cheek. "You look like hell, Richard."
"Oh, these are old wounds, Jean-Luc," said
Captain Mycelli, shrugging off his injuries.
"As soon as the unDiWahn fleet cut
loose, the Dynasians surrendered peacefully.
I'm back in command of the Sullivan."
"Do you need additional security?" asked
Riker.
"No, the ringleader is in custody, and ..."
Mycelli was rendered speechless by the sight of
Data returning to his place at the helm.
He stared at the android for several seconds, then
looked back to Picard. "I look
forward to reading your mission report, Captain."
"I'm sure you're not the only one,
Captain," said Picard with a wry smile.
To his relief, however, Mycelli did not ask
for details, and the exchange of further amenities
was brief.
"Number One," said Picard when contact with the
Sullivan had ended, "it's time for us to leave as
well."
Lowering himself into the captain's chair, Picard
let his first officer arrange the details of their
departure. Orders and confirmations echoed across the
bridge until Data said, "Course laid in
for Vulcan."
The crew fell silent.
Picard had tested their loyalty to the limit
on this mission, so he could hardly resent their
anxiety as they waited for him to utter one
crucial word.
"Engage."

Anger was not a useful emotion for a diplomat,
reflected Ambassador Tommas as she entered
the security complex of the Sullivan. Allowing
such a simplistic emotion to overwhelm her thoughts
would only hinder her analysis of the Dynasian
situation.
Damn him!
The hijacking of the starship was essentially a
political act, yet she had been personally
betrayed by Warden Chandat's actions. Trust was
an integral component of forging ties between the
member planets of the Federation, and that link began
between individuals. How could she reconcile her
deep respect for Keyda Chandat with the
unpleasant fact that he had taken advantage
of her overtures of friendship?
Steeling herself for the coming confrontation, Tommas
stepped up to the portal of a security cell.
On the other side of the glowing frame, the warden was
seated on a narrow cot. Some prisoners might
slump or lounge in captivity, but he held
himself erect, as if overseeing an invisible
council. Even in detention the man appeared to be
in complete control of his surroundings; however, his
followers were not so self-assured. After Chandat's
surrender, any effective resistance from the other
academics had collapsed entirely.
"Good evening, Ambassador," said Chandat with a
gracious nod of his head.
Tommas could not bring herself to echo the warden's
civility. "For the Faculty's crime against
Starfleet, our Council has ruled that
Dynasia will be barred from admission to the Federation
for at least a century."
"A century?" He appeared curiously
unruffled by this lengthy sentence of punishment. If
anything, the corners of his mouth turned upward with
smug satisfaction.
"Warden, I don't believe you comprehend the
severity of your offenses."
"Of course, I do, Ambassador."
Uttering a sigh of exasperation, the Dynasian
leaned forward and spoke in the didactic tone of a
professor instructing an especially dim
student. "A century of grace will ease the
pressures that have splintered the Faculty
into warring factions. With time, when the conservative
members have all died off, a new generation of
Dynasians may choose to reapply for
admission to the Federation ... and deserve it."
For the first time, Tommas realized how seriously
she had underestimated the warden's commitment to his
people. "You planned this outcome from the beginning."
Chandat's smile broadened. "My scheme was
nearly undone by the appearance of the unDiWahn,
but fortunately Captain Picard's clever ruse
convinced them to retreat, and it gave me an
excuse to surrender the Sullivan.
Historians may record this foiled grab for the
Gem as my greatest failure, yet the stone has
granted me my heart's desire I have
restored peace to my planet."

As a counterpoint to inner reflection, the
ancient Iconian engineers had also designed
an observation chamber for looking outward. The
room was missing any flight controls, so the
curving transparent walls served no functional
purpose beyond fostering contemplation of the universe.
Kierad@an was deeply grateful for the change of
scenery after the prolonged examination of his own soul.
Over the days of their return journey
to DiWahn, he would have the freedom to enjoy this
expansive vista of stars.
The admiral of the fleet was less inclined
to philosophical musings. After a cursory
glance to check the formation of the armada trailing behind the
flagship, Daramad@an continued his argument against
their retreat. "But Master, the powers of the
Gem could have carried our people back to the grandeur of
our Iconian ancestors."
"We fell from that height because Jiak held on
to the Gem too long. Our duty as Guardians
was to make atonement for his misjudgment, not to repeat
past mistakes."
This had been the consensus of a long line of
masters, and Kierad@an had adhered to the s pirit, if
not the letter, of their directive. He had forsaken the
honor of personally sending the Gem on its way
through the wormhole, but then he had also avoided the
temptation to keep it for another five thousand
years.
A heavy sigh from Daramad@an signaled an
acceptance, if not an understanding, of his leader's
wisdom. "Having left this battlefield
empty-handed, must the Order of the Faithful disband?"
"No, Admiral, there is a great deal of work
still to be done. A new era has begun for the
descendants of dead Iconia. You and I will
return to a country that is at peace with its
neighbors for the first time in centuries; your fleet
will serve the needs of our planet, not a
war-mongering king. Our store of knowledge will be shared with
all who seek it."
Iconia's scattered children had spent too many
centuries resisting their fate. With some sadness,
but even greater pride, Master Kierad@an
announced, "The unDiWahn are now the
DiWahn."

Ten-Forward provided one of the best scenic
views aboard the Enterprise, but tonight Picard
had been unsettled by a sense of vulnerability
when he entered the lounge. Halfway through dinner,
he angled his chair to avoid looking out the
spacious windows. After that, his sense of dread
gradually dissipated.
"Earl Grey?" asked Guinan as she passed
by the table.
"Yes, please," said Picard. "Most
definitely Earl Grey."
For some reason the mention of tea touched off the
memory of a sharp, bitter taste. The basis of
this odd association hovered just out of reach.
"Jean-Luc?"
He blinked, then realized that he had been staring
at his dinner companion without truly seeing her.
At least Beverly was smiling at his distraction.
It was a generous reaction considering he
had invited the doctor to join him, then proceeded
to lapse into longer and longer silences.
"Jean-Luc, why don't we--"
"Here you are." Guinan set a steaming cup of
tea down in front of the captain, then rushed
away before he could thank her. She had been
especially attentive this evening, which was her way of
expressing affection.
Picard wrapped his hands around the warm, round
cup. "You were saying?"
"Hmm? I don't remember."
"Why don't we ..." he prompted.
"Oh, yes. Why don't we call it a
night. You're obviously exhausted."
He fought against the sudden urge to yawn, but
lost. When his mouth had stopped its convulsive
gaping, he said, "I suppose you're right. I have
quite a bit of sleep to catch up on."
This admission of weariness seemed to sap away
the last of his strength. He tried to sip his tea,
but the weight of the cup was too much for him to lift more
than a few inches off the table.
"Come on, Captain," said Beverly, rising from
her chair. "I'll see you to your cabin."
"According to ancient etiquette," muttered
Picard, "that's supposed to be my line."
Despite this half-hearted protest, he let the
doctor take hold of his arm and guide him out of
Ten-Forward.
By the time they had threaded their way through the ship's
corridors to the door of his cabin, Picard could
barely lift his feet. Beverly propelled him
through the open threshold with a gentle push, and he
stumbled to the bedroom with his eyes already
half-closed in anticipation of sleep.
He threw himself down on the bed without bothering
to undress, but even though his body was spent, his
mind clung tenaciously to consciousness.
For the first time since he had touched the Heart,
he was alone in the darkened cabin.
No more dreams ...
After its long fight to reach the wormhole, the
seed was working its way toward another world. Someday
it would land on alien soil, and a new Guardian
would grow to maturity, crystal by crystal.
Picard's hands clenched, then relaxed. The
aching hunger to touch the Heart's rough surface was
fading away.
His sharply etched memories of other hands that
had cupped its weight--of Kessec and
Halaylah, of a dying Andorian healer and an
exultant Romulan queen--all these were dimming
as well. He could recall the shriveled face
of the Collector in her chamber, but he had lost
the image of her in life; and there had been a young
Vulcan scrambling through a field of fallen
soldiers, but Picard no longer remembered where
the boy was going or why.
Ko N'ya. One bearer lingered long enough in his
mind to whisper its name for the last time.
"It's gone, T'Sara," said Picard
softly. "The blood has finally stopped flowing."
Then he fell into a dreamless sleep.











Epilogue

Camenae snapped the towel into the air to shake
off any dust, then plucked a tumbler out of the
shipping carton and wiped away the packing foam.
When the glass sparkled once again, she tucked it
into a low shelf beneath the bar.
Guinan had donated the glassware to the new
venture; Anlew-Is had imported the counter from
Orion in payment of his past debts; and the two
tables and five chairs in the middle of the lounge were
on temporary loan from the Starfleet office.
Miyakawa had cheerfully acknowledged that she
wouldn't have time to sit down for at least the next
two years.
Camenae snapped the towel again, then picked
up a long-stemmed wineglass. Although the commander was
driving the base reconstruction effort with a manic
zeal that probably would win her a promotion
to commodore before the year was out, a few amenities
were still lacking. Sonic dishwashers, for instance.
The doors to the room slid open, and a young man
peered inside. He hesitated for a moment, taken
aback by the sparsely furnished interior, then
evidently took courage from the presence of other
customers and crossed the threshold.
The Do or Die was not officially open for
business, but a few people had already drifted inside
this morning, content just to sit and talk. There was
only one familiar face in the group of
Rigelians who had settled at one table. Some
of the old customers had been killed when
Smelter's Hold was destroyed; others, like the
bartender, had left during the evacuation and never
bothered to come back. Camenae could have used some
extra help with setting up the new establishment,
but unfortunately Miyakawa paid better
wages.
The newcomer sidled up to the bar. At close
quarters, he looked even younger than she had first
thought. Beneath the furrows of his brow, his round face
wore the anxious, earnest look of a child trying
to act like an adult.
He tossed a credit chip onto the counter with
an awkward imitation of nonchalance.
Camenae glanced down at the payment, then
smiled. "My drinks aren't that expensive."
"I didn't come here for a drink. I heard you
could give me some information." He shoved the credit
chip closer to her.
"What kind of information do you want?" she
asked.
"I'm trying to find a Vulcan named
T'Sara."
With a sigh, Camenae said, "I can't take your
money for that information. Everyone on this starbase has
heard of T'Sara's death."
The boy's violet skin flushed a deep
indigo, and he bowed his head as if in sorrow.
"I'm sorry," she said, with a frown of
discomfort at his reaction. "I didn't realize
you knew her."
"I didn't." Yet when he lifted his head,
his eyes were filled with pain. "I read that she
once visited my homeworld, and I had hoped
to talk to her about her trip."
Camenae expected the boy to take back the
credit chip and leave, but he swallowed hard and
dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So tell me about the Dream Gem instead. I
need to know where it is."
Camenae finished polishing the wineglass, then
she slid the chip back across the counter. "You're
in luck. Someone else has already paid that bill,
and she gave me permission to answer your question free
of charge."
His eyes brightened with anticipation.
"The Gem is gone," said Camenae. "Gone
beyond the reach of any being in this galaxy."
He shook his head angrily, refusing
to believe. She shrugged and picked up yet
another glass to clean.
"You don't understand--I must find it!" said the
young man.
"And if you don't?"
"I must! The Gem is a part of my
heritage. It once belonged to my people, and I would
give my life for the chance to get it back."
"You're too late to make that sacrifice."
Camenae stopped in mid-motion. "Why does this
mean so much to you?"
At first it seemed the boy would not answer, but
at last he said, "T'Sara would have understood ...
I'm the last of the Ikkabar and ..." Some strong
emotion choked off his next words.
"No, don't stop now," said Camenae
softly. "Tell me more. Perhaps I can help."
She set aside the glass, leaned her elbows
on the bar counter, and began to listen.
THE END