Star
Trek TNG – Gateways
Book Three
Of Seven - Doors Into Chaos
Chapter
One
the first thing they noticed was the stench. A rotting-food kind of smell
drifted from the open window at the rear of the museum. Its visitors were long
gone, its doors locked. The building itself wasn't terribly large, just two
stories tall but a block wide. In fact, it was a rather ordinary building,
without much in decoration, which made Jhen sneer. They showed more respect for
their past back home, he decided.
Four
figures moved quietly toward the window, ignoring the odor. Street lighting
was minimal toward the rear and this helped hide their tall and thin
silhouettes. After all, few Andorians were seen on Tellar, each race preferring
to keep to themselves.
It
occurred to Jhen that he never quite knew what the original problem was between
these two people. He
knew
they had found one another long before there was a United Federation of
Planets, but why two aggressive races did not form an alliance and conquer
nearby worlds such as Alpha Centauri and Vulcan made no sense to him. It didn't
matter, because the Andorians had their pride and if the Tellarites wouldn't he
their allies they were to be considered potential adversaries.
When
the dormant doorway lit up and Tolin saw it led to Tellar, it was she who
suggested they step through and retrieve the revered artifact, the colAndor
Scrolls. Jhen knew the history: how the Scrolls were brought to Tellar as part
of a cultural exhibition. How they were used to show Tellar another way to
organize their government. And how Ger, High Councillor to the First Seat of
Tellar, spirited them away and threw the Andorian delegation off the planet.
The Scrolls had been lost to the Andorians and skirmishes almost led to a war.
Changes in both governments led to a truce some years later, but the Scrolls
remained on Tellar.
Tolin
tugged at Jhen's loose sleeve. He turned and saw her gesture toward the window.
Below it was a stack of containers, sturdy enough to support them. How very
careless of these arrogant creatures, Jhen thought. With a wave of his hand,
Jhen directed his small party forward, inching toward their goal. No sound came
from the building, so if it was guarded, it was from an artificial, not living,
source. This made it simpler, as Tolin thumbed a palm-sized cylinder. Its
purple light flared and she nodded in satisfaction. Now the automated
surveillance would be fooled and they could move freely. She placed the
cylinder just inside the window, fastening it to the interior wall.
Okud
was the first one through the window, open
more
than enough to allow their slender forms through. The drop to the polished
marble floor was less than a meter and was done with only the slightest of
noises. Tolin followed, then Mako, and finally Jhen. All four stood within the
room, breathing through their mouths to ignore as much of the stench as possible,
which was stronger inside the building. Lighting was dim and Jhen could spot
the various sensors, none of which changed from their amber status. The room
they had entered was cluttered with stone carvings and paintings on metal. He
knew even less of Tellarite culture than his companions, so he couldn't begin
to guess what he was looking at. What he did know was that the workmanship was
crude, like the Tellarites themselves.
Mako
looked closely at one statue, that of a boy at play. He smiled at it, earning
him a disapproving glance from Tolin. As far as Jhen was concerned, there was
nothing to like about the heathen race, and Tolin seemed to agree. Reaching
into a hidden pocket within her leather tunic, she extracted a folded piece of
paper, opened it, and studied the map. Satisfied, she replaced it and pointed
one light-blue-skinned finger to her right.
The
quartet ignored the rest of the items surrounding them, heading straight for
their objective. Passing through two more rooms, they finally saw a large
chamber with a glass-covered pedestal. Within it was their objective: the
Scrolls. Jhen silently counted to five, smiling that they were all together.
Tolin grinned at him. Mako walked ahead of her to peer at the placard
underneath the glass, trying to read the description. He growled in
frustration; his knowledge of the Tellarite language was almost nonexistent, so
he couldn't understand the words.
Remaining
silent, Jhen pointed at Okud, who opened up a brown satchel that had been
strapped to his back. The first object was palm-sized, oblong and dark. He
removed it, thumbing a control set deep within the item. Its low hum indicated
the localized disruptor was scrambling a spectrum of frequencies normally
associated with security shielding. Withdrawing thin, elegant tools next, he
made quick work of the sealant around the glass's base. A glance at the
disruptor showed no warning lights, so Tolin and Jhen gently lifted the glass
upward. Mako reverently touched the Scrolls, then placed each of them in the
satchel. He nodded toward Jhen, signaling he was done. Okud absently disengaged
the disruptor while Tolin reached once more into her bag when they were
interrupted.
As
expected from the outset, an undetected sensor was triggered and a keening
sound came from the pedestal. The Tellarites weren't entirely stupid, they
knew, but they figured they would get this far before being detected. They had
speed working in their favor.
None
of them hurried, but walked with long strides toward their window exit. Jhen saw
that a metal plate was sliding down to cover it—a standard security tactic.
Tolin unholstered a hand-sized phaser, and fired. The amber beam turned the
metal plate into molten slag, halting its movement. With a little more speed,
they exited and began strolling away. Jhen had successfully found the
back-alley route that would return them to the door, and home.
When
a security detail arrived five minutes later, they went from room to room
checking for damage. As they approached the chamber that once contained the
Andorian
Scrolls, they saw in its place a small figurine. It was of an Andorian female,
in cleric's robes, praying.
"Grand Nagus!" The voice was urgent, if high-pitched. It sounded like that
of a child entering adolescence, cracking and nervous.
"Yes,"
said Grand Nagus Rom of the Ferengi Alliance. There were still mornings he woke
up convinced this was the longest dream he had ever had. But no, he was really
the Grand Nagus. He still remembered the day it happened, with vivid clarity: Zek,
gnarled and cackling as usual, telling him it was time he and Ishka—Rom's
mother—settled down into retirement. Since Rom shared Zek's vision for
long-term changes in Ferengi society to insure its viability in an
ever-shifting universe, the outgoing Grand Nagus asked Rom to succeed him.
With his Bajoran wife Leeta by his side, Rom considered himself the luckiest
man on the face of the planet.
Of
course, not everyone agreed with Zek's logic, most notably Rom's older brother
Quark.
"Three Orion ships approaching orbit. They've already disabled
forty-three percent of our satellite defenses!" His voice grew even more excited, if that was possible.
Rom
raised a hand to his left ear, making sure it was not blocked and that he heard
the warning properly. Orions! They had no respect for the Rules of Acquisition,
just plunder. They had proven incredibly unreliable business partners and even
his older brother avoided working with them. But they had never ventured
anywhere near Ferenginar before, so what did they want—and how did they get so
close without triggering the deep space sensor net?
Jumping
to his feet, Rom left his soft, warm bed, letting the tall and sultry Leeta
remain slumbering. If she was anything, he mused, slipping into a shiny robe,
Leeta was a good sleeper. He began flipping switches on the desk he used for
late-night accounting reviews. While he might have been poor with business, Rom
was good with matters technical, and this got bis curiosity aroused.
"Errr,
just stay clam," he muttered into the communications system. "Have
we mobilized the Treasury Guard?"
"Yes, Your Grandness."
"Oh,
okay," he replied. "Make sure we have forces surrounding our key
trading facilities and, um, let's mount an aerial force to keep them from
landing."
"Yes, Your Grandness!" Rom wasn't sure who this shrill man was, but he assumed he
was from the mom-ing watch, and had never experienced the unexpected before.
The current Nagus had certainly seen plenty of that during his time on Deep
Space 9, both as the "assistant manager of policy and clientele" for
his brother's bar, and later as an engineer during the Dominion War—a
war in which Rom had fully
expected to become a casualty. In the months since he had returned home to
rule, Rom had fallen into a new routine and it gave him comfort. While letting
business continue as usual, he began exploring the various ways offworld
trading was conducted, drafting reforms mat he would phase in. It was like
solving any engineering problem, as Chief O'Brien used to tell him: don't try
and fix anything until you're sure you know the full extent of the damage.
"Shortcuts can lead to short circuits," he used to mutter in his
Irish brogue. Rom
missed
that voice and idly wondered how the chief was faring back on Earth.
With
a shake of his head, he turned his attention to the feeds from the remaining
orbital satellites. Telemetry was coming in and he began to notice odd energy
readings just a few tens of thousands of kilometers from Ferenginar. The
readings were massive, emitting an energy signature he didn't recognize, but
clearly a portal of some sort, large enough to allow Orion starships to
traverse through it. This was disturbing, if the Orions found some way to alter
the scale of trade. Should they manage to just show up and attack worlds or
shipping lanes, no one would be safe.
Again,
he wondered why would they come to Ferenginar. Zek was no fool, and had made
certain their wealth was spread out far and wide, controlled through some of
the most sophisticated software imaginable. Rom saw no reason to change what
worked.
"Grand Nagus!" shrieked the voice once more.
"Yes?"
"They've established orbit and are engaging the aerial police.
But we've detected transporter activity."
This
wasn't good. Orions would not beam down just to trade or make a deal. They came
to steal and his people would not know what to do. This would be worse than
the Great Monetary Collapse. "Where?"
"Your home."
Rom
bit his lip in surprise and he yelped. His home! Not that he had a lot of
gold-pressed latinum on hand, but he had mementos brought from both Deep Space
9 and the house where Ishka raised him and Quark. "But I don't hear
..."
His
words were cut off by a loud crash, as the front
door
was kicked in. Orions, Rom knew, were physically imposing and preferred brute
strength to weapons, and if they needed weapons, loud and destructive ones over
anything subtle. Hands flew over his ears as the thumping continued, growing
closer.
Rom
hurried over to his bed and spent a few precious seconds gazing at his wife.
How he loved Leeta, he thought. Then, with rising panic, he shook her awake
with almost violent force.
"What's
the matter, sweetie?" Her voice was still sleep-thick.
"We're
being invaded! Quick, to the closet!" Rom tugged at her and Leeta rose
from the bed, eyes wide in shock. Her next few words were garbled since she
couldn't quite form a coherent sentence, which suited Rom just fine, since he
didn't think he could give her a proper response. Tapping two studs in the
wall, a hidden panel opened up and Rom practically shoved his wife, still hi her
diaphanous gown, through the doorway. "You stay there," he advised
her. "I'll see what they want."
"Want?
They want everything!" she exclaimed as the hatch sealed itself, once more
looking like an ordinary closet.
Rom
turned and headed back to his desk. He studied the data from space, marveling
over the size of the aperture that allowed the invading force. Was it stable
like the wormhole he lived near for so long? Could the Prophets of Bajor come
for his meager profits? His thoughts were stopped when his bedchamber door was
obliterated by a booted foot. Six Orions, each in his own version of fighting
gear, walked in, weapons waving in every direction. The leather they wore was
dark, well oiled, and reflected the hall lights. The weapons
seemed
almost as big as the average Ferengi and they hummed with power.
"You!"
the first one shouted. He had scars along the right side of his face and, Rom
noted, had rather dainty ears. He suppressed a giggle.
The
next few minutes had the Orions rampage through the room and the rest of the
house, taking what looked valuable, breaking a few things when they were
frustrated, and demanding Rom quote open-market prices on just about
everything. He had a hard time keeping up with six determined shoppers but
through whimpers, he managed. Rom could hear fighting going on, in the rainy
streets. Thank the Great Exchequer, he thought, his people were defending
their Nagus.
Finally,
satisfied they each had enough, they tapped identical blue buttons on their
forearms and were transported back to their ship. Rom stood, shaking, amid the
litter. Some of his favorite items were gone, others cracked or broken. Still,
he was alive and they never found Leeta. As he returned to the bedroom to
retrieve his wife, Rom remained fascinated by the engineering that was used to
create the passageway.
"Macan
deserves its unity! Macan's people deserve peace and prosperity! Macan does
not, however, deserve its corrupt government!"
The
small throng of people listened intently as the portly figure spoke. He was
tall, broad, and had perfectly coiffed hah". His clothes were neatly
pressed, the sixteen buttons on the jacket gleaming in the afternoon sun. For
the last month, he had met with small groups such as this one, speaking with a
lilt in his slightly ac-
cented
voice, which the people of Sherman's Planet found appealing.
Jiggs
Cardd had escaped his homeworld of Macan, fearing for his life. Now, several
systems away, he once more was an outspoken critic of his government. Since
unification came to his world, it had struggled to band nine continents and
three dozen smaller governments into a cohesive whole. To accomplish this meant
a merging of ideologies, finances, and a plethora of other details. What Cardd
had learned was that along the way, those left to organize this glorious new
beginning for the people of Macan were accepting bribes and favors to help
shape a government that would favor some countries' peoples over others. There
was even word that deals with off-planet interests would weaken their ability
to conduct trade or apply for admission to the United Federation of Planets.
The
people leaned in, engaged by the tenor of his voice but also by his spirit.
Cardd was not the only one to speak out, but by being first, he was seen as the
leader of a rebellious faction. On more than one occasion he avoided being
arrested by the hastily formed Planetary Defense Initiative—Macan's secret
police. His home had been burned to the ground, he had lost his job, and he had
been roundly criticized on the information networks.
And
still he spoke, making sure his people knew they were being sold out.
When
things got so difficult he could no longer speak out in public, he found
sympathetic friends who took him away from Macan. Now, speaking out in exile,
Cardd tried to keep people focused on the problems before they were too
entrenched to be fixed.
"We
have over two hundred cultures and languages
on my
world, two hundred different ways for describing a sunny day. Should fifteen
of those ways be given preference over the rest? I think not. Nor should those
unfortunate enough to live in poverty be subjected to testing to qualify for
relief. Pooling together these countries means redistributing all the resources
to help everyone. These are the overriding principals that allowed Vulcan to
become one of the leading races in the galaxy. These are the same reasons that
allowed Earth to put countless world wars behind them and seek a better way of
life. And that's all I ask for Macan."
As
Cardd spoke, no one noticed the three men that entered the town square. They
wore dark brown uniforms and visors that covered their eyes, and had energy
weapons clipped to their sleeves. With determined steps, the men neared Cardd.
Once they spotted him, they fanned out in a well-practiced formation, undipped
the weapons, and took aim. Without a word, they fired in unison and all three
bright violet beams struck the speaker. Cardd slumped forward, people screaming
in shock.
The
men merely turned away and walked back through the town, to the doorway that
remained patiently open, waiting for their return.
Delta
IV and Carreon were separated by four solar systems, each populated with up to
eleven planets. And yet, they each laid claim to one planet in a nearby system.
Admittedly, the planet was mineral rich unlike any of the others. In fact, the
solar system was devoid of life, so the planets were ripe for the exploitation.
In
the past, to avoid a war that would devastate both cultures, they signed
treaties to leave the planet alone. But now, a small number of Carreon ships
emerged
through
a gateway, figuring the instant transport to the planet would go undetected by
the generally peaceful Deltans.
The
Deltans clearly had the same thought.
Now,
a total of seven ships hung in space, none close enough to orbit the
planet—which had curiously gone unnamed all these years—and unwilling to give
an inch.
Aboard
the Carreon lead ship, Landik Mel Rosa looked through his viewscreen and tried
to guess what his counterparts would do next. His red-gloved hand stroked his
stubbly chin as he fine-tuned a sensor reading. Their bridge, located deep
within the center of the vessel, was bright and well staffed by veterans. Mel
Rosa liked that about bis crew; they had all tested their mettle together and
formed a battalion that was undefeated.
While
he had protected his world from threats such as Orion pirates and exploratory
Klingon ships, Mel Rosa had never led his crew into battle against the Deltans.
Those days were lost to him, he assumed— that is, until recently.
Just
days before, a gateway opened near their twin moons. No one knew it was there,
hidden as it was among asteroids that floated in a loose ring around Carreon
and its moons. One brave pilot led a scout craft through the gateway to see
what lay beyond and within an hour returned with word: it was a direct pathway
to the coveted planet. The transition was instantaneous and did no damage to
life or equipment.
Quickly,
Mel Rosa was asked to lead a small fleet through the gateway, finally laying
claim to the planet and establishing a presence before the Deltans had a clue
that anything had changed. He remembered laughing with his subordinates as
they took the fastest jour-
ney
of their careers yet went farther from home than ever before.
The
laughter quickly turned into something less mirthful when Mel Rosa spotted
flashing pinpricks of light near the world. Sensors confirmed four other ships,
Deltan in design. He snapped an order to his weapons officer and sure enough,
another gateway signature was spotted, a little farther out in the system. It
appeared the Deltans had the same sneaky idea.
Now
they faced off, neither one answering the other's hails. Mel Rosa could not go
back for reinforcements; they were already outgunned by one ship. He couldn't
reduce the odds without letting the Deltans think they had won. The world was
needed to help a shaky economy and the timing was opportune. Once more he
rubbed his chin and looked at the readouts. The gateways had identical
signatures, so he knew it was not of Deltan origin. They also had hot moved
into a fighting configuration, and their weapons remained offline.
Mel
Rosa turned to his second and asked, "What do you think?"
"I
think they're ripe for the picking. Deltans go for all things sensual; they're
not fighters. Four against three, I still like our chances."
The
captain looked around his bridge, the determined looks on the crew's faces.
All of them knew the stakes, knew the need for the world just within their
grasp. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began giving orders.
The
first volley rattled the Deltan craft. Inside the flagship, Oliv, leader of the
expedition, nearly fell from his chair. "Shields, return fire!"
Confirming
calls went out from the crew and he watched as crimson streaks crossed his
forward viewscreen. As expected, the Carreon were prepared and began moving
away, letting the shots graze then-shields.
Oliv
knew the Carreon were practitioners of battle. Their vessels were better armed
and protected. The Deltans had the advantage of numbers, but not the experience
of bloodlust he knew was required. Which was why the moment the Carreon
starships floated through the surprising second gateway, Oliv sent out a hail
to Starfleet for help.
"We
should have expected this," Hath said. "After all, why should we be
the only ones so blessed with this miraculous transportation device?"
The
captain looked at his companion, noting the sweat adding a shine to his bald
head. This was a vessel full of miners and explorers, with just a handful of security.
Still, Oliv was one of the few to have actually participated in battle. He had
recently returned to Delta IV after volunteering with a mercenary band that
fought in the Dominion War. It was that experience that led his government to
ask him to undertake the current mission.
"Oliv,"
the communications officer called. She was incredibly attractive, with thick
eyebrows and high cheekbones. "We've received word from Starfleet that
help is on the way. They say it's the Enterprise."
Oliv's
own eyebrows rose in surprise. "Now we just have to survive until they
arrive."
Chapter
Two
captain jean-luc picard stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking
at the sunny day. As was typical of San Francisco most of the year, there was a
breeze, keeping the environs cool, and the wind brushed the lush trees dotting
the campus that was Starfleet Command. He gazed at the buildings that were just
about completely reconstructed after the Breen attack on Earth a year earlier.
There were some stylistic differences from what originally stood there and he
nodded in satisfaction that the Federation had prevailed. Starfleet and the
United Federation of Planets had expended much in the way of manpower and
mat6riel during that war. The costs were quite high, probably the highest since
the first Romulan War nearly two centuries earlier. Picard and the crew of the
U.S.S. Enter-
prise fought
in the battles, doing their duty, but did not play as decisive a role as one
would have thought of the Fleet's flagship. Still, he was proud of how his
people had conducted themselves, and appreciated the last few months when the
majority of missions were satisfying, short, and didn't require the phasers.
But now he found himself back at Command headquarters. The commu-niqu6 from
Admiral Ross was precise: return with all haste.
No
sooner did his ship achieve orbit than a series of orders were issued. Picard
and Counselor Deanna Troi were to beam to headquarters while Will Riker was to
take temporary command and assist a border dispute between the Carreon, an
independent world, and the Deltans, one of the older members of the Federation.
While he trusted Riker with his ship, Picard was curious as to what was
important enough to keep him and his counselor behind.
A day
before, Picard mused, he had noticed a higher than normal incidence of daily
briefings dealing with problems throughout the Alpha Quadrant. People going
missing, races tangling over problems when peace existed merely a week
earlier. It got him curious, but before he could begin investigating, he
received his orders back to Earth. He was equally curious and more than a little
anxious to tackle a big problem.
The
sun was warm against his skin and Picard enjoyed a relaxed moment, although he
was also growing tenser as he awaited the admiral and the briefing to follow.
Troi was elsewhere, receiving a briefing of her own. He imagined they were
connected but one could never tell with Starfleet Command.
"Calm
before the storm, eh, Captain?"
Picard
turned and saw Admiral Ross rounding a cor-
ner,
his hand already out to greet the captain. Ross was slightly younger than
Picard, but commanding the Fleet during the Dominion War took a lot out of him.
Even as he tried to smile, Ross couldn't shake the hangdog look on his face.
His dark hair was flecked with gray and his eyes seemed tired. He looked fit,
however, filling out his uniform nicely if a few kilos over the norm. Picard
grasped the beefy hand and was approving of the firmness in the grip.
"It's
a pleasure to see you again, Admiral," Picard replied.
"You
tended to avoid our conferences fairly regularly," Ross chided him.
"Now I'm blessed with your presence twice in as many months. The pleasure
is truly mine, even if we do only tend to see each other during crises."
They
stared out the window in companionable silence for a few brief moments and
Picard suspected times like this came all too rarely for the admiral. Cadets
and officers strolled leisurely by, ignoring the construction going on around
them. Picard could see a substantial space for a new garden, a memorial, he was
informed, for those who gave their lives during the war.
"All
those lives given for our ideals," Picard said.
Ross
just nodded in agreement. "Not just ideals, but for the freedom to enjoy
our choice of destiny. Worth fighting for again and again.
"Captain,
we're due to begin the conference in a minute, we should go in and get ready.
Once it's over, we'll speak privately."
"Yes,
sir." Picard was curious. How many others were summoned to Earth? There
didn't seem to be a preponderance of activity at Spacedock or in orbit. He
hadn't a chance to visit the Quantum Lounge so he
couldn't
even pick up any gossip. Just as he could sense when his ship was the merest
bit out of trim, he usually could tell when something was afoot at Command,
but not this time.
"Our
final speaker will be with us shortly, but we should go in to begin."
Ross
led the way to a set of double doors and walked through. The captain recalled
this area as a simulator room, a chance for Command to run contingency plans
before implementation. Certainly an odd choice for a meeting but once again,
the mysteries of command preceded him.
The
space was lined with holo-emitters in the usual crisscross pattern, all
deactivated. A small console was on the far side of the room with a lieutenant,
small in form, dark-skinned and utterly silent, standing by. And it was empty.
Picard frowned in mild confusion.
"Singh,
is the captain in the building yet?"
"Yes,
sir, he's just beamed down and should be here in three minutes."
Ross
walked toward the center of the room and gestured for Picard to stand by his
side, about two feet away. The admiral nodded at the other man and small lights
winked on in the space above and around them. In a matter of seconds, several
dozen humanoid forms began taking shape and the captain began recognizing
fellow officers. Quickly, he scanned the faces, looking for patterns, and it
became apparent that these were captains of patrol and fighting vessels from
all points across Federation space, as well as Starbase commanders from strategic
regions. The new holotechnology had clearly been improved, hence the lack of
starships in orbit—they weren't needed.
Picard
noted, with some satisfaction, Mackenzie Calhoun among those gathered. The
Xenexian officer had been thought recently dead, but managed to turn up quite
alive just as Picard was dedicating the new U.S.S.
Excalibur, after the original was
destroyed, presumably with Calhoun still aboard. Calhoun spotted Picard beside
Ross and gave him a relaxed smile. Also among the officers was Calhoun's new
wife, Elizabeth Shelby, now captain of the Trident
after briefly commanding the Exeter.
In fact, Picard had the
pleasure of conducting the marriage ceremony right after dedicating the new
starship. While he had his problems with Shelby's style, Picard kept the
opinion to himself since Calhoun obviously saw something about her to love.
Off
to his right, a little farther behind the newly commissioned commander of the Exeter,
whom he did not know, was
Colonel Kira Nerys, from Deep Space 9. He had worked with Kira recently and
found her to be hard-edged, nothing at all like the previous commander Ben
Sisko, but definitely a worthy successor. She was also the only non-Starfleet
person participating, but given DS9's importance, her presence made a certain
sense. Standing beside her, looking intently curious, was Commander Elias
Vaughn. The assignment of the enigmatic older officer to DS9 as Kira's first
officer seemed to agree with him—he looked more relaxed than he had when he'd
been temporarily assigned to the Enterprise on their mission to the Badlands weeks earlier.
"Good
afternoon," Ross began in a deep voice. Many returned the greeting, some
nodded; Solok of the T'Kumbra offered the Vulcan salute. "It's nice to know our relay
systems are fine-tuned enough to allow holoconferences like this to occur. It
certainly beats trying
to
find parking orbits for all of you." He smiled but he instantly knew the
joke fell flat.
"I'm
placing you all on yellow alert until further notice." He paused a moment
to let that sink in before continuing. "As for why we're doing this, we
have a new problem. A few days ago, the Federation Council was approached by a
group of beings who identified themselves as the Iconians." He paused
again, letting the name seep into the minds of those assembled and waiting for
the general reaction.
Sure
enough, many widened their eyes, some nodded, others quickly asked
"off-camera" officers to check the name.
"Captain
Picard, would you please detail what we know of the Iconians?"
"Of
course, Admiral." He straightened his uniform and looked out among the sea
of holo-images. Moving slowly in circle, he began. "The Iconians were
known to exist in this quadrant of space some two hundred millennia ago. Their
culture and technology were unparalleled in that time period but records about
them are scant. About a decade ago, Captain Donald Varley of the U.S.S.
Yamato determined the location of
their homeworld in the Romulan Neutral Zone, but was lost along with his ship
when a destructive Iconian computer program inserted itself into the Yamato's
mainframe. Even after all
this time, the technology on the Iconian homeworld remained
functional—including the gateways.
"These
gateways provide instantaneous transport between two points that could be
meters or light-years apart. Two functional gateways have been found over the
last few years: one on the homeworld, which I myself destroyed rather than
allow gateway technology to
fall
into Romulan hands; and one, discovered by the Dominion, in the Gamma Quadrant,
which was destroyed by a joint Starfleet/Jem'Hadar team from the U.S.S.
Defiant."
"Thank
you, Captain," Ross said with a nod. "The Iconians who have come
forward now have offered us the gateway technology for a price. The Council is
considering the offer, but it's a bit more complicated than that. First, they
are offering the technology to the highest bidder. Similar offers have been
made to governments throughout the quadrant. Clearly, this could have a
devastating impact should any antagonistic or ambitious government obtain the
technology exclusively.
"Second,
and most immediate: the Iconians have chosen to demonstrate how useful the
gateways can be by activating the entire network. Gateways have opened up all
over the quadrant, and beyond. The Iconians have seen fit to withhold how to
control them and they have chosen not to provide us with any form of useful
map."
As
Ross paused, several captains passed on comments as the missing puzzle piece
was provided to them. Picard was pleased that so many of his peers also noticed
the higher number of incidents and now they knew why. However, Picard frowned,
recognizing just how dangerous such a move was and how it struck him as wrong
for a race as revered as the Iconians were.
Now
he knew why Ross looked stressed and tired.
"As
the gateways came online," Ross continued, silencing the group, "we
immediately began studying their output, trying to get a handle on how they
work. We became rattier alarmed at some of the readings, and so turned the
study over to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. We now have a preliminary
report."
As he
stopped speaking, Picard became aware of a figure approaching him. The captain
was so caught up in Ross's revelation, and its implications, he never heard the
doors open.
"Captain
Scott, thank you for joining us."
Montgomery
Scott nodded at Ross, and then beamed at Picard. The crew of the Enterprise
had rescued Scott from a
transporter loop seven years earlier. Shortly thereafter, the original Enterprise
engineer was loaned a
shuttlecraft to find his place in the new universe. Picard heard Scott had
spent some time actually working on Risa before accepting Starfleet's offer to
act as liaison between the S.C.E. and the admiralty. Their paths had crossed
just a month or two previously and Picard couldn't help but smile at the living
legend.
"It's
nae a problem," Scott began, his Scotch brogue a little heavier than
before. "Those gateways, to be blunt, are behavin' in ways we never
imagined. It seems that when they exhaust their power, they tap into any other
power supply that's available. Like pussy willows here on Earth, that seek
water and break into pipes to find it. These gateways are so beyond our ken
tha' figuring out how they tick and stoppin' them will be almost
impossible."
Ross
looked alarmed, even though he must have had some inkling of this prior to the
briefing. "Do you mean, they could tap an entire planet's resources and
drain them dry?"
Scott
took a deep breath. "Aye. Worse, for those worlds using predominantly
geothermal or hydraulic power. Their ecosystem could be compromised. We don'
have all the figures in yet, but one o' my ships is measuring solar
consumption. My fear is some stars
might
be destabilized by additional power demands. It's a very nasty bit o'
business."
"All
the more reason for us to mobilize the Fleet. Duty packets are going out now
with specific sector assignments. We'll need to maintain the peace. Some of
our scientific vessels will be working with the S.C.E. to determine just how
severe the problems might become. Captain Solok...."
The
Vulcan captain raised an eyebrow.
"I
will want you and your crew to begin monitoring all incident reports from
gateway activity. If the Iconians won't give us a map, I want us to make
one."
"Understood. I should point out that it will not be complete and
therefore not entirely accurate."
"Noted,"
Ross said. "I'll take whatever we can get since it's better than the
nothing we have right now." He turned to Kira and Vaughn. "Colonel,
Commander, our scientists have done some preliminary mapping based on the
gateway power signatures and we've discovered something very interesting out
your way. We're estimating no gateway activity within ten light-years in any
direction of Bajor."
Vaughn's
eyes closed to slits. "The
wormhole."
"We
think so, yes."
Kira
added, "It could be the Prophets
protecting this region." Picard
instinctively wanted to dismiss the idea, trying to keep possible deities out
of the complicated mix, but he had to admit, be they Prophets or alien lifeforms,
they wielded considerable power.
"That's
certainly a possibility," admitted Ross. "Vaughn, given your
experience with the gateways, I want you out there, finding out why there
aren't any
gateways
near Bajor. Is it something natural? Is it the doing of the aliens—that is to
say, the Prophets?" he amended with a respectful glance at Kira.
"What properties are being displayed, and can they be harnessed beyond
your sector?"
Nodding,
Vaughn said, "You're hoping we
can turn it into a practical countermeasure."
"Exactly."
Picard
was more interested in what Ross had said about Vaughn's experience. As far as
he knew, he, Worf, and Data had been the first to discover a functioning
gateway, and he'd always been a little jealous that Worf had encountered a
second. "I was unaware, Admiral, of any encounters with gateways beyond
those by the Enterprise and the Defiant."
With
a look at her first officer, Kira said, "Neither
was I."
"It was a few years ago," Vaughn said neutrally.
Ross
gave Picard a reassuring look. "The relevant portions of Commander
Vaughn's mission will be declassified in light of the present emergency."
Picard
nodded. "Good."
As
Ross and Kira discussed another assignment of DS9's relating to the Europa Nova
colony, which needed to be evacuated, Picard stared at Vaughn. There was layer
upon layer of story shrouding the man. How much of it could be true? he mused.
Given DS9's own checkered history and its enigmatic wormhole aliens, Vaughn was
probably even better suited to the place than Picard had imagined.
Before
he could let his mind wander further, he heard Calhoun's name.
"Captain,
you and the Excalibur will go deep in
Thallonian
space. There's a concentration of gateway signatures that bears
investigation."
"We don't habitually go shallow in Thallonian space, Admiral.
'Deep' is our status quo. Can you give us a bit more of a hint than that?"
Picard
inwardly winced at Calhoun's comment. Even after all this time, the warrior
showed through the veneer of Starfleet training.
"We'll
forward the coordinates to your science officer," Ross said curtly.
"Thank you. What do the gateway signatures say, by the way? 'With
all our love, the Iconians'?"
"Captain,"
said Ross, his voice sounding less pleased by the moment, "I'm obviously
referring to energy signatures, not autographs, and this is no laughing
matter."
"You're only saying that, Admiral, because your joke didn't get a
laugh."
Picard
glanced over at Ross and saw his hands forming fists, knuckles whitening.
"Admiral," Shelby
cut in, "if I may..."
"Please
do, Captain," Ross said. At least Shelby knew proper protocol, Picard
thought. She might help defuse the moment.
"/
have a new crewman on my ship. She came to me
through the Temporal Displacement Office, and she described the means through
which she got here as a sort of 'gateway.' 1 don't think she used the term in
the 'official' capacity you're using here, but it may well be the same
technology."
'Transporting
through time and space?" He looked grim. "These things may be even
more powerful than we had previously imagined. Was she on the Iconian homeworld
or in the Gamma Quadrant?"
"/
don't believe it was either, sir. She'd filed a
report with the TDO; obviously it wasn't passed along to you."
"Damned
paperwork trail," Picard said. "Thanks to modern technology, the left
hand can be oblivious of the right hand's activities with greater efficiency
than ever."
This
drew more chuckles. "Careful,
Picard," Calhoun said. "He
hates it when other people get more laughs than he does."
"Captain!"
Ross snapped.
"Yes, sir?" said
at least two dozen of those present.
Ross
winced, then spoke to Shelby even as he gave Calhoun a withering glance.
"In light of the current situation, Captain Shelby, speak with this
crewwoman and see what further details you can learn. Send a report directly
to me, if you'd be so kind."
He handed
out a few other specific assignments, especially to vessels near the Klingon
and Romulan borders. Then he concluded with: "These will be some trying
days ahead of us all. I want to keep in constant contact and I'll be reachable
any time you need me. Good luck."
The
holo-images winked out almost entirely at once, leaving Ross, Picard, Scott,
and the technician standing in the barren room. It was a quiet moment, filled
with both energy and tension.
"Ye
know," Scott said, "we may have found it first."
"Found
what?" Ross asked.
"A
gateway. Tha' talk of temporal displacement had me thinking back to my Enterprise's
encounters. And well, one
thought led to another and I recall my Enterprise being a thousand light-years from its origin point in just a
blink."
Ross
looked at him askance. "Gateways aren't that big."
"Who's
to say," Scott said in turn, rocking on his heels, looking a little
satisfied. "How else do ye explain that?"
"I
don't," Ross said curtly. Clearly he disliked the direction of the
conversation and fell silent.
Picard
allowed that silence to last barely half a second and then finally raised his
own concern. "Admiral, I still do not see why I was brought to Earth ...
and my ship sent on without me."
Ross
gestured for them to head for the door. Scott ambled over to the technician,
knowing the two needed to be alone. The two officers left the room and began
walking down the gleaming corridors of Starfleet Headquarters. It dawned on
Picard how empty they seemed, with office doors closed and overhead communications
muted. Now he felt the vibration of work being done, as if everything went into
motion as the holoconference was being conducted.
"Jean-Luc,
you and Varley shared a deep interest hi the Iconians. In fact, you may now be
Starfleet's foremost authority on them."
Picard
nodded but added, "In the Fleet maybe, but Professor Chi Namthot at Memory
Alpha has continued to analyze what we found on Iconia."
"Be
that as it may, you have the qualifications to help us." Ross continued
walking, barely noticing those around him. His voice grew grave. "To be
candid with you, we in Starfleet do not think these are really Iconians."
Picard
paused, turning to look at Ross's expression. He saw only seriousness and maybe
exhaustion as the eyebrows hunched further down. Despite all the findings on
Iconia, not a single image of an Iconian had been identified, so they remained
a visual enigma.
"I've
read your logs, I've even seen excerpts of Namthot's work. None of us believe a
race as sophisticated as the Iconians would merely want to sell this
technology. The Council, however, cannot dismiss the possibility after all this
time and are negotiating in good faith. We have to be fully prepared for
whatever the outcome. If we gain the technology, another race such as the
Breen might see that as a prelude to war. If we do not gain the technology,
other races might use it to dominate this quadrant or more. The Orions are
engaged in aggressive negotiations with the Iconians on Farius Prime right now,
and I don't have to tell you what a disaster it would be if those pirates got
their hands on the technology. Should these prove to be other than real
Iconians we need to know who they really are. Right now, diplomacy is going on
so we cannot do invasive medical scans. From surface scans, we do not recognize
the physiology so they are at least alien to this section of space. Their
starships are also of unfamiliar design using some ion-based propulsion unique
to themselves."
"How
do they act?"
"Formal,
following all of our diplomatic protocols. They came already knowing Federation
Standard so we can't guess at their native tongue. I attended two working
sessions at the President's request and came away feeling uneasy. I guess
winning a war gets me a little credibility because once he heard that, I was
authorized to begin mobilizing the Fleet, just in case."
Picard
looked at him, steeling himself for the hard question. "Are you afraid of
another war?"
Ross
shook his head slowly. "We can't afford one, Jean-Luc. The Fleet is
seriously stretched thin after losing so many ships to the Borg and Dominion.
Ship-
building
takes time, training crews takes time, and if that technology ends up with the
Romulans, or the Orions, or even the Jem'Hadar, we might become very, very
vulnerable."
"I
see," Picard replied slowly. Already, he was creating and rejecting
scenarios that showed how the Federation would stack up against an aggressor
gifted with a gateway network. The picture was grim, adding further importance
to the mission, whatever his role was to be.
"We're
surprised by how easily the Iconians are operating on Earth since our gravity
differs from Iconia. Also factor in over two hundred millennia of genetic
growth and they seem too comfortable. My gut says we have two problems: them and
the gateways. I've sent
everyone else out, including your boy Riker, to handle the gateways. I need you
to handle the Iconians."
Picard
was surprised, since it sounded like he'd be apart from his ship and crew for
longer than he would have liked. By now, then: wandering had led to a briefing
room, on the opposite side of the building. Ross had led them here, through the
silent, empty corridors, and escorted him inside. Seated at the grand, U-shaped
table was Troi, a data padd by her hand. Her eyes grew wide, signaling to
Picard that she still wasn't certain why she was here. The captain smiled and
nodded slightly.
"Counselor
Troi, it's nice to see you again." Ross greeted her with a quick
handshake, while at the same time gesturing for her to remain seated. The
admiral slipped behind the podium at the open section of the U and tapped on a
console. The screen behind him came to life and a map of the Alpha Quadrant
appeared.
"I
suspect we do not have a lot of time," Ross began.
"Therefore,
since we're spread thin, I'm asking for your help in assembling a quadrant-wide
delegation. I have two vessels ready for you, and one for myself. Ambassador
Lojal has been freed up by the Diplomatic Corps to pay a few visits on our
behalf. We're going on a journey, asking for representatives of the key races
in our quadrant to come speak as one with the Iconians. If nothing else, I
want us to present a united front, asking them to close the gateways until
negotiations are over. I'm hoping that will buy the negotiating team some time,
and give the Fleet a chance to regroup in a more battle-ready way. Captain
Picard, I will ask you to head up that delegation."
The
captain looked sharply from the map to Ross. "Me? Sir, if you're helping
to assemble this group, it should be the ranking officer who ..."
"Picard,
you have a reputation almost unequaled in the Fleet. When the Borg attacked
Earth, you took command and managed to knock out the cube."
"Disobeying
direct orders to stay away," Picard added quietly.
Ross's
eyes twinkled for a brief moment "All's forgiven. You have dealt with the
key races: Klingons, Romulans, Corn... and have earned their respect one way
or another. And, you know the Iconian culture better than I ever will. My gut
instincts got us this far but I need you, your experience, and your own
instincts to take us further."
"And
me, sir, what is my role?" Troi asked.
"Counselor,
you carry the standard of the Enterprise, just as respected as Picard himself. Your empathic skills
will be necessary to help us sort out who our real allies are and to back up
Picard's sense of the Iconians. You make an excellent team."
Troi
smiled. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"It's
earned, Counselor."
"But
why not more from the Federation's diplomats?"
Ross
looked grim. "The gateways have caused so much trouble that the entire
Diplomatic Corps has been sent out to help mediate problems or escort lost
people home. There's no one left to send. You'll join the Mercury
and approach the Corn first.
I have your flight plan already worked out."
Troi
nodded. Then Ross turned to Picard. "Our ambassador on Qo'noS has already
arranged a meeting for you with Chancellor Martok. That'll be your first stop
aboard the Marco Polo."
"Sir,
I'd much rather do this aboard the Enterprise,"
Picard protested.
"I
need that ship out there on active duty. You don't need it to make these
visits. I'll be out too, starting with the Romulans. Our alliance remains
intact, but this will no doubt add strain so I need to give it the personal
touch. Then it's off to the wild-card regions—Melkots, Metrons."
"Any
thought about Organian intervention?"
"No,
Counselor. They haven't appeared in so long, it's our opinion that they forced
a peace between the Federation and Klingons to steer us where we are today.
Whatever their concerns are, they are clearly not directed our way."
"I
see. That does make sense."
Ross
smiled tightly. "Of all the powerful beings out there, I'm more than
thankful that only one of them seems interested in dealing with us. Imagine if
we were bothered by the Q, and the Organians, even the Excal-bians,
and..."
"We
understand," Picard said, cutting off Ross, It pained him to see how the
admiral was handling the new pressure. As far has could tell, Ross saw this as
a larger problem than the Dominion. And he couldn't argue.
"Gateways
are marvelous tools, but in the hands of those who would exploit it, the
problems clearly outweigh the benefits." He stood, tugging his uniform
into place. "We had best get to our ships and begin lining up our allies.
If Mr. Scott is right, and I'm willing to bet he is, we have entire planets to
worry about."
Ross
agreed and handed them padds from the lectern. The captain and the counselor
accepted them and strode from the room hi one direction while Ross went the opposite
way. Once they were some distance, Picard slowed his gait and turned to his
counselor.
"What
do you think?"
"Ross
is a good man. He's very concerned over how many variables have to be kept in
check and he's very worried that Starfleet is not yet up to a challenge of this
magnitude. He needs to head this off now. That's why four of us are making the
contacts."
Picard
slightly nodded in agreement. "He's right that the Enterprise
is best off helping those in
need but still..."
Now
Troi smiled. "I know, it's not the same: not the same ship or same crew.
It's just to gather the people together, you'll be fine."
"Am
I that obvious, Counselor?"
"Just
to those of us you've led."
Changing
the subject, Picard added, "Did you know Mr. Scott may have beaten me to
the gateways?"
"Do
tell," she implored. She liked Scotty and had
grown
to appreciate the exploits of that Enterprise
and its crew, so any new story
was welcome.
"I
can't. I need to look up the facts since Ross inter-rupted. Still, imagine a
gateway big enough for a starship ... how that could change space
travel."
Troi
smiled and said, "If you had gateways, you wouldn't need such huge ships. Seems
almost wasteful to use that much power to open such a large hole in
space."
"And
I thought you were the dreamer in my crew."
"Oh,
I am, sir," she said. "I just don't dream about holes in space."
"Landik
Mel Rosa, I must insist you stand down."
"Would that I could, Commander Riker, but you see, I have weapons
trained on me and were I to lower my shields, well, I
certainly would be tempted to fire if I could."
Stroking
his smooth chin, Riker shifted uncomfort' ably in the command seat. On the
forward viewscreen was a tactical display showing the planet standing be' tween
the Deltan and Carreon vessels. Sensors showed both sides were running hot,
although neither had fired since the Enterprise
dropped out of warp, entering
the solar system. Were a firefight to break out, the Enter-prise
could not protect any other
ship. Since he was still unclear on the dispute itself, Riker could not take
sides although, strictly speaking, since the Deltans were members of the
Federation they deserved his pro-tection. Still, if they were the aggressors,
they might have it coming.
"Stand
by," Riker declared and signaled for the com channel to close. He stood,
crossing the short distance to where Data sat at ops. Putting one foot on the
side of
the
console, he leaned forward, resting an arm on the raised knee. "Opinion,
Mr. Data."
The
gold-skinned android turned his head slightly and frowned. "Sensors have
detected identical readings in this system that I match with that of the
Iconian gateways."
Riker
looked at him in surprise. "I thought we destroyed the one on their
homeworld."
"We
did. It seems there are others, as suspected, throughout this section of space.
As a result, both races could have come here through the two gateways and found
themselves in conflict over the planet."
"Does
either have a legitimate claim?" Riker's mind raced through his memories
of the gateway encounter, recalling being on the bridge throughout most of the
action. Picard knew the Iconian legends; Riker only had a passing knowledge.
Clearly, the first officer needed to brush up on them if those gateways were
the cause of the conflict.
"Negative.
Computer records indicate both sides have clashed over this planet in the past.
It has remained unclaimed and undeveloped."
Riker
nodded.
"Commander,
three more vessels approaching this system," called out Lieutenant
Christine Vale. Currently security chief, she took over the tactical station
once the Enterprise left Earth orbit and had provided briefings on Deltan and
Carreon ship configurations and armaments. She even found time to drill the
photon torpedo teams in case the flagship got caught in the crossfire and they
needed to stop both sides simultaneously. Despite her diminutive size, Vale
commanded respect and got it from Picard on down.
"Whose
side are they are on?" Riker asked.
"Deltan
vessels, hot and ready for fire."
"Advantage,
Deltans," Riker muttered, watching the ten vessels on the screen.
In a
clear voice, he spoke out. "Captain Oliv, this is Commander Riker of the Enterprise.
I must ask that your support
ships stand down and remain at the edge of the system. If they come closer, the
Carreon will see this action as hostile."
A
moment later, an audio-only response was heard. "I'm
sorry, Commander, but too long have we waited for a chance to tame this world
and my government would have it be today."
Riker
grimaced, sensing the battle to come. "That's for the Federation diplomats
to decide. Let's get a negotiator out here to meet with you and the Carreon
and we can get this settled without a fight."
"I'd rather not wait, thank you," the Deltan replied, the voice soft, milky. Then he cut the
connection.
"I
always thought they were lovers, not fighters," Riker said.
"Actually,
Commander," Data said, "the Deltans are known for their passions.
While renowned throughout the Federation for their physical prowess in the art
of lovemaking, they are also passionate in all their tasks including fighting.
Some fourteen different boxing, fencing, and armament titles are held by
Deltans and have been for the last decade."
"Swell."
Riker furiously tried to think through the options available to him. After all,
the last thing he wanted was to bear witness to a slaughter, especially over an
uninhabited world.
Chapter
Three
"picard's coming?"
"Is
it true, is it really Picard?"
"Four
of us heard it's Picard, you make five, so it's got to be true."
"I
dunno, an hour ago, we thought Admiral Jellico was being assigned."
"And
he never left Earth."
"Which
is a good thing."
"Mia
and Kai heard it, so that's two. I heard it..."
"Yes,
but you heard it from them so you don't count."
"But
you heard it from Sacker, so you're three."
"Sacker
would be four."
"Jessie
thinks she's heard it, does that count?"
"Picard
or not, I still don't care." And that seemed to settle the debate on the
bridge. Everyone had arrived in
hurried
fashion, throwing their gear in temporary cabins, quickly logging in to check
duty rosters, and then grabbing a bite before some captain arrived. Everything
had been rush-rush, orders cut, people pulled from other vessels. No one felt
properly oriented and it grated on Kai Sur Hoi, the newly named science
officer.
"Picard
can throw his weight around, but what's the big deal? I was scheduled to depart
with the Gettysburg and now I miss out."
"It's
Jean-Luc Picard! Don't you realize what we're dealing with?" The woman
asking was Mia Chan, the conn officer. She belonged on this vessel and seemed
to welcome the sudden change in routine. Her equanimity grated against Hoi.
"Yeah,
yeah, commander of the allmighty Enterprise,
discovered this, settled
that, Arbiter of Succession for the Klingons, once a Borg ... what's he doing
on this miniature starship?"
Chan
toggled a switch, swiveled around, and stood up. Hoi noticed she was young,
probably on her first posting and grateful for any deep-space assignment. She
had auburn hair, cut short, a smooth unlined face that told Hoi she had not had
much experience at much of anything, and dark eyes that took in everything.
There was that freshly minted Academy glow about her; he was glad his had worn
down over the years through experience starting with even smaller craft in
remote portions of the sector. He had returned to Earth, a land-based assignment
in the wake of the Breen attack on Starfleet. Finally, he was given a fresh assignment
and then this came up: short duty but vital to the Federation.
"He's
taking us places," she said. "Serving with him, impressing someone
like that, can do us all wonders."
Enthusiasm
dripped from her every word. Had he ever sounded so sincere?
"This
milk run will not be a chance to impress him at all, Chan," he said with
disdain. "We're running him from point to point, just being good footmen.
You think we'll discover some new stellar phenomenon along familiar routes?
Find another Q? Always heard how the Enterprise
stumbled across this spatial
glitch or that space-breathing life-form. You ask me, he's just trying to outdo
April and Pike. Now, they were explorers."
The
younger woman tugged at her right ear, an annoying habit, and was staring at
the Tiburonian with dismay. "Picard helped stave off wars and his crews always
got the best postings. Wouldn't it be great to serve on the Sovereign-class
ships like Enterprise?"
Hoi
sighed. "The Gettsyburg would have been big enough, thank you. Better take a
station, though. Davi-son went to meet him and I bet he comes right here."
"So
it is Picard, then?" she asked, seeking that final confirmation.
"It
better be, wouldn't want him disappointing you," he said archly.
The
main transporter facility at Starfleet Headquarters was in constant action
when Picard arrived. He could see officers, young and old, being beamed to
their ships, belongings sometimes coming along, other times left behind in
haste. In his right hand was a data padd filled with the roster of the Marco
Polo, and he had had scant time to
even look through the names, let alone service records. He had never felt more
rushed, less prepared for an assignment. Still, he recognized the
need
for speed and was doing what he could to keep things moving along.
Yet,
he felt like he was only a step ahead of a tidal wave.
He
went to the duty officer and announced his destination and was given priority
clearance so he could skip waiting on line. Everyone seemed to know who he was
and there were nods of acknowledgment. Picard returned them, wishing to know if
any of them were to be among his crew. As the person on the pad dematerialized,
he heard his name, and turned to face the speaker.
"Ah,
Counselor, ready for your journey?"
Troi
rushed up to him, still adjusting her jacket collar. She seemed as rushed as
he was and he gave her a sympathetic smile.
"Just
about. Captain Brisbayne is anxious to depart. Are you ready for a new
command?"
"It's
just temporary, Counselor. We'll be back with Will and the others soon
enough." He eyed the platform and saw it was empty and waiting for him.
'This
is a new crew and they only know you by reputation," she pointed out.
Picard took a step toward the platform and paused. He looked at her as if there
was a deeper meaning to her words. His silence prompted her to continue.
"It's
a young crew, and that means they don't have the experience yet. All they have
are lessons and simulations. You'll be something larger than life to many of
them and you need to keep that in mind."
"Am
I some sort of ogre?"
She
laughed and touched his shoulder with reassurance. How lucky Will was, he
considered. "Not at all,
but
there will be nervousness trying to live up to your reputation. Don't let it
distance you from them."
"Thank
you," he said quietly. In all the rush, he never considered his impact on
the crew. He saw them mainly as a means to an end; she gave them substance.
With a final smile, he walked to the platform, carrying his baggage himself,
and placed it on the pad beside his own. His final image was of Troi, giving
him one of her patented broad grins.
Just
three hours after the conference, Picard and his belongings were aboard the Marco
Polo, which had just finished a
maintenance check before being crewed and launched.
She
was a Sabre-c\s&& vessel, a light cruiser built for speed and maneuverability.
The first such vessels, Picard knew, were launched just prior to the Borg
attack on Earth two years previous. Most of them were attached to the S.C.E.
these days—in fact, Picard had lent his chief engineer to one, the U.S.S.
da Vinci, for about a week, and he had
almost had to pry Commander La Forge away. It was a snub-nosed vessel, with
nacelles close to the hull and painted a dark gray.
The
captain noted that its complement was only forty, spread over four decks, and
that at 310,000 metric tonnes it was smaller even than the Stargazer,
which he had commanded prior
to Enterprise. From the padd Ross gave him, Picard learned that the crew
was thrown together from Starfleet resources: original crew complement still
on Earth during shore leave, other personnel pulled from ships in orbit, and
even one or two volunteers when word got out that something was happening.
Picard
grew concerned that a crew that had never worked together, under a captain
unfamiliar with the
ship
and its capabilities, would never perform well in combat. For a rush diplomatic
mission, such as this, there was a slight hope this would be fine. In fact, he
mused, this might be good for their training. Picard was among the captains
that noted their concerns with Starfleet Academy that recruits were being
pushed along too fast, not enough were logging sufficient star hours before
graduation and ship postings—particularly both during and after the war when
the greatest concern was refilling the ranks. There was a genuine concern that
such ill-prepared crew might be a danger to their ships and themselves.
As
the transporter beam coalesced, a middle-aged woman with long brown hair piled
high on her head greeted Picard. She wore her gray duty jacket open, her red
shut showing a fit figure. "Commander Jessie Davi-son" was all she
said.
"Captain
Jean-Luc Picard," he replied by way of greeting.
"Welcome
aboard, sir. I'll have someone bring your bag to the captain's quarters."
Picard
nodded, preferring not to disturb the ship's real commander, who was off
enjoying a conference on some distant world. Gripping the padd in his right
hand, he said, "Let's get up to the bridge and head out."
"Agreed.
The crew is anxious to meet you."
Troi's
words echoed back in his mind and he marveled at her accuracy. "Are
they?"
"You
do have a reputation, Captain. And it's not every day they get a chance to
serve, however briefly, with such a storied commander." Her voice seemed
full of joy and enthusiasm; this was a veteran who still loved every star hour
logged.
"I
see." He was concerned over the gateway damage, not being on the Enterprise,
the true nature of these
Iconians, Will doing something to his ship, and making these rapid-fire
diplomatic contacts. And he wasn't aboard his familiar command. He wasn't sure
there was time left to coddle a boatload of youngsters. Still, he had to make
the effort.
In
the turbolift, Davison explained that all forty members of the makeshift crew
had now reported in and they had received priority clearance to leave Spacedock
and clear the system. Picard nodded at both Ross's efficiency and Davison's.
"We
achieved a new record," she said proudly.
"Haste
is not always useful," Picard warned.
"True,
but we wagered at being staffed before Mercury
and beat them once you
reported in."
"Really?
What was the wager?"
"An
advance copy of the latest Risa solar surfing holoprogram." She grinned at
Picard.
He
took one final glance at the roster, then lowered his arm as the doors opened
to the bridge. It had been over a decade since he last took command of a ship
that wasn't called Enterprise. He liked to think he had learned from the experience,
wouldn't be as stiff and distanced as he was back then.
Picard
ignored the captain's seat for a moment, strolling around the circle of duty
stations that ringed the command center. Starting to his left, he walked by the
tactical station and said, "Good to have you aboard, Lieutenant
Rodriguez." He continued walking by the science, engineering, and
environmental controls aft, then flight control and operations console at the
bridge's front, and the science station. Along the way,
he
greeted each officer by name, making him or her feel welcome.
"Mr.
Sacker... Ensign Chu-Fong ... Lieutenant Sik-luna... Mr. Putski..."
Once
he took his place in the captain's chair, he let out a deep breath and turned
to Davison, who had a grin on her lined face.
"Was
I even closer
"Pretty
close on two of them, but I'm sure they appreciated the effort."
Picard
stifled a sigh, looked around once more, and then checked the readouts on
either side of the command chair. It was time to get to work.
"We're
cleared to depart, helm, take us out. Engage."
Chan
smoothly eased the smaller vessel out of Spacedock and across the solar system.
Picard watched everyone at work, satisfied that they knew what they were doing.
It pleased him that he had to revise his estimates at the total youth aboard
the ship as evidenced by Davison and Hoi.
"We're
making a series of brief visits, Ensign Chan. Please review the flight charts
and make certain we're taking the most expedient course."
"Aye,
sir," she replied at once. He noticed the withering stare Science Officer
Hoi gave her from the ops console next to her.
"Best
speed to Qo'noS," he ordered.
"Leaving
the solar system in five minutes, before engaging warp," she said.
"Very
good. I'll be in the ready room. Commander, will you join me?"
Once
the captain left the bridge, leaving the conn to Hoi, Chan turned right around
to address her colleagues. "So, that's Captain Picard, huh?"
Hoi
looked at her with penetrating eyes, emphasized by his race's lack of hair.
"And?"
She
shrugged, pulling at her ear. "I thought he'd be, I don't know ...
taller."
"He
is what he is," Hoi replied. It didn't seem pertinent what size the
captain was. On the other hand, he was concerned over the mission. "As I
understand it now, we're to bring him to a number of targeted worlds. An
interesting collection of non-aligned races."
Chan
adjusted the heading and checked the readouts, nodding to herself with
satisfaction. "Well, the Klingons aren't exactly non-aligned."
"She's
right," chimed in Rosario, the tactical officer. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered man, the fitting image of a security chief. His blond hair,
cut severely short, reflected the light so it always seemed to shimmer around
his skull, which took nothing away from the penetrating blue of his eyes.
"Klingons. I am so ready for warp speed."
"We
will need warp speed to maintain our schedule," Hoi said skeptically. It
drew some chuckles from around him.
"Warp
speed is very good," said Chan.
"Good,
because I would hate to think warp speed meant something other than the
velocity."
"Oh,
it does," Rosario told the Tiburonian. "We've left orbit, making a
direct line for the Klingon Empire, where we will be greeted by the chancellor
himself, and our leader is none other than Captain Jean-Luc Picard."
"So,
that means we're at warp speed," Hoi said hesitantly. Clearly this banter
was beyond him. It promised to be a long trip.
"Yes
it does," Rosario said with a broad grin.
"Do
you think Picard is at warp speed?" Chan asked.
Chan
turned to Rosario, hoping for a positive reply. Hoi looked at her, noting the
intense interest in Rosario's reply. He considered the question thoughtfully.
"I don't know if that man ever gets to warp speed. Seems beneath
him."
Within
the ready room, after dismissing Davison, Picard settled back in the chair and
sipped his tea. The chair, he noted, was not as plush as the one he had grown
accustomed to on the current Enterprise. In fact, Marco Polo was built for immediacy.
On
the viewscreen built into the desktop, Picard had called up all existing
records on the Iconians. Although he had committed much of the information to
memory, he sifted through Varley's logs, his own, as well as Data's and Worf's
from the visit to Iconia; those taken by Worf and the rest of the Defiant
crew at Vandros IV, which had
been sent directly to Picard from Deep Space 9; and the declassified portions
of Commander Vaughn's mission to Alexandra's Planet, which, like Picard's own
Iconian experience, also involved the Romulans.
The
Iconians were spread far and wide throughout the galaxy, yet only three worlds
had been found with direct links to the Iconian heritage. Their gateways were a
marvelous example of an advanced technology, but so was their expertise with
computers and computer interfaces. He felt saddened by the loss of Varley and
his crew but gratified that his loss was not an empty
one—it
gave the Enterprise a chance to comprehend the discovery and, in turn, managed
to save the Romulans. More closely, it also meant they managed to save Data
when the programming tried to rewrite the android's neural pathways.
The
Iconians, with their technology and reach, had always impressed Picard. Of all
the long-dead races he studied over the years, they captured his imagination
and held it The time they flourished in the galaxy was long before sentient
life even existed on Earth or Vulcan or Qo'noS. What they managed to build and
achieve, where they traveled, how they did it... all of it showed a sense of
achievement mixed with purpose.
Picard
agreed with Ross: there was little reason for the Iconians to return after so
much time merely to want to sell their technology. True, he did not know all
about their culture and he certainly knew nothing of their governing structure.
But his instincts screamed at him that this was all wrong.
Putting
down the tea, he looked away from the screen, and let his mind wander. He
needed to absorb the enormity of the task ahead, make plans in case some of the
races said no. And for the ones that would say yes, what if they lied? Without
his complete command staff, Picard did not have trusted voices for feedback and
would have to make do with the Marco Polo's ad hoc crew. He would force himself to keep an open mind
when they ventured an opinion, and he would also make sure they had a chance to
offer their thoughts.
He
looked forward to seeing his old comrade Worf once more. They last were
together when the Enterprise brought Worf, newly appointed ambassador to the
empire,
to his posting. Picard also looked forward to speaking with Martok, a vastly
different sort of chancellor than Gowron was. As his mind began focusing on
details of Klingon government, he grew anxious. Finally, he admitted he was
looking forward to at least this first portion of the mission.
Satisfied
for the moment, he returned to the bridge, where obviously the crew had been
chattering, forming a working relationship. However, the voices drifted toward
silence as he emerged and took his chair.
"Status,
Ensign Chan?"
"Proceeding
on course to Qo'noS, sir. Nothing unusual between here and the empire
border."
"Very
good. Mr. Rodriguez..."
The
tactical officer cleared his throat. "Rosario, sir."
Picard
looked over his shoulder, in mild surprise. "My apologies. Mr. Rosario,
maintain yellow alert and make sure weapons remain offline until I say
otherwise."
"Very
good, Captain."
Picard
studied the bridge and the collection of unfamiliar faces. "We have a
little time before we arrive at Qo'noS but I must say, I am looking forward to
this," he added, a tone of pleasure in his voice. "Have any of you
been?"
Murmurs
in the negative came from around him.
Picard
nodded and began telling them of the world, and its people. He made sure to
cover some of the cus-loms that would need to be observed and pointed out the
Federation ambassador and staff would be present to help smooth the way. The
talk went on for several minutes, with none of the crew daring to interrupt
even though Chan appeared to have many questions. Davi-son herself remained
quietly respectful by his side.
When
finished, he turned command over to her and retired to his quarters.
As he
left the bridge, Davison looked at the other members of the bridge staff and
commented, "That man is at warp speed."
Chan
broke into a wide smile. "Yes, he is!"
Captain
Brisbayne was not waiting for Troi when she arrived on the Mercury.
Instead, the first officer,
Ranjit Srivastava, an exceedingly thin, dark-skinned man with a face of
indeterminate age despite his graying temples, greeted her.
"The
captain offers his compliments but is preparing to leave orbit,"
Srivastava explained in a soft voice.
"It's
not a problem," she said. "I can understand the rush."
"We
will have to travel at top warp for each leg of the journey to stay on Admiral
Ross's schedule. This has the captain concerned."
"Why
is that?" she asked. They had left the transporter room and began walking
down the corridor, toward the turbolift. The few they passed rushed by as if
they were in a race. And perhaps they were.
"We're
a smaller ship than you're used to, Commander," the first officer said,
using her official rank rather than job title. "We're not built to sustain
such speeds for long and it's going to prove a challenge to the engineering
staff."
Once
inside the lift, Troi was surprised they were heading directly to the bridge.
"Is this crew as quickly put together as the Marco
Polo?"
"Fortunately
not," he replied. By then, they had made the quick trip to the top of the
vessel and
emerged
on the bridge. It was certainly smaller than she was used to, but it was of
little concern to her. In the center sat the captain, who was issuing orders
while reading a data padd and waving off a hovering crewman. He was burly and
older, a career officer, she knew. She heard him demand clearance from command
to depart while still ordering a final container of medical supplies be beamed
aboard.
The
first officer quietly took his place to the captain's left with Troi standing
beside them. Srivastava made the introductions and Brisbayne merely nodded in
her direction as he squinted at something on the padd.
"Excuse
me," he said to her. "Brisbayne to engineering. Solly, did you get
the extra FTL nanoprocessor units I ordered?"
"We're just storing them now, Captain."
"Fine.
Bridge out." He turned to the counselor and gestured for her to take a
seat on his right. Still holding her baggage, she shrugged and did as
requested.
"We're
going to get out of here in record time and then hit warp. Soon as we clear the
solar system, we'll convene department heads for a briefing. Will you be
ready?"
Troi
nodded. "I'm as prepared as any of us are."
"I
need you to be better prepared than I am," he said. "We've had our
orders changed four times in the last twelve hours, and I'm flying a tired crew
that came here for shore leave. We cut short the overhaul the ship needed to
take you places, so I hope to God you're ready."
The
waves of agitation washed over her and she steeled herself to handle them. She
suspected he would remain so until they had made their stops. Her em-
pathic
feelings indicated he was dedicated to the mission but worried about both ship
and crew. She couldn't tell if his manner was always so blunt but would adjust
her reactions accordingly.
"I'm
ready, Captain."
"Good."
"Entering
orbit," Chan said, as the Marco Polo approached the green world of Qo'noS.
"Very
good," Davison said, as Picard entered the bridge. 'Tactical, contact the
consulate and ask for any updates to the schedule. Science, now's a good time
to look for gateway activity—just in case."
Picard
watched from near the turbolift, satisfied with Davison's handling of the crew.
He felt refreshed and ready for the meetings. It had been made clear that although
a pleasant stop since the Klingons were an ally, it was also to be a brief one.
Starfleet felt a personal approach to Chancellor Martok was best and Picard
couldn't disagree. With their codes of conduct, just expecting them to fall
beside them could be seen as an insult. Picard also did not fully know the
tenor of the Klingon government since Martok took control of the Council. As he
understood it, Worf killed Gowron in combat and earned the title himself.
Instead of seizing the power, once and for all restoring glory to his family
name, he felt unworthy of the position. Instead, Worf decided a race of
warriors needed to be led by one who had seen battle, and lived long enough to
learn from it. Martok took control of the Klingon people that day, and, after a
rather tumultuous transition period, had effected changes that benefited his
people. In a society that had seen more than its share of corruption, Martok
sounded
like the right man for the times. And Picard was immensely proud of Worf's
actions, feeling more than a little like a parent.
He
took his place in command seat and asked for a direct link to Worf's office at
the Federation embassy. Rosario complied but rather than an image of his old
friend, Picard was greeted by a human of very mixed ancestry; Worf's aide,
Picard recalled.
"Giancarlo Wu at your service," the human said.
"I
was seeking Ambassador Worf," Picard said.
"So you were. He is overseeing the preparations for your meeting
himself and so is unavailable. How may I help, Captain?"
"I
was just calling to make certain all is in readiness and to see if I needed any
further... preparation for my meeting with the chancellor."
Wu
nodded and smiled. "The ambassador
did suggest you bring along a mild analgesic. The chancellor has decided there
will be a meal during the meeting."
Picard
gritted his teeth and nodded. "Fresh gagh no doubt."
The
adjutant smiled and shrugged. "It's not the
chancellor's favorite, but whatever is served will absolutely be the freshest
available."
"Delightful."
Worf
had to force himself to stop pacing in the transporter room. Even though he
and Picard had seen each other since his appointment as ambassador, he still
didn't wear the mantle well in front of his former comrades. A part of him
missed the journey through space, the battles to be fought, and the glory to be
found in the unknown. Still, he recognized the responsibility that
came
with the honor of representing the Federation. They were his chosen people and
despite that loyalty being tested time and again, he had found a steadfastness
that saw him through each adversity.
"Welcome
to the First City," he rumbled as Picard stepped off the platform. They
looked each other in the eye. Picard seemed fit and healthy, as befitted the
captain. Worf respected a great many members of Starfleet, but Picard was one
of two he held in the highest esteem. He had watched as Picard took a
reputation from his days on the Stargazer and forged it into a legend with the Enterprise.
"Ambassador
Worf, it's good to see you again," Picard said, a warm smile on bis face.
"How goes it?"
"Well,
sir," Worf replied. He didn't see any reason to review the litany of
problems, issues, and politics that filled each day. Picard could change none
of it, nor could speaking of it do him well with any who overheard.
Worf
walked through the door and Picard followed, leaving the cramped transporter
room behind. The stone-carved hallways were filled with Klingon officers moving
about, few even acknowledging the ambassador in their midst. Unless they had
need of the Federation, he was largely left alone, which suited him fine. It
was a short distance to the council chamber, where Martok awaited. Armed guards
stood on each side of the wide, heavy doors, and looked at both ambassador and
captain with suspicion. These were Martok's elite, and after the Dominion War
and the invasion of the changelings, Klingons chose to remain in a heightened
state of paranoia.
"Have
you found a gateway here?" Picard asked casually.
"No,
but remnants of one were located on the remains of Praxis," Worf said.
"Once the government learned that the entire network had been activated,
the High Council ordered an immediate check. When nothing was recorded here,
they sent a team to check the moon."
"I
assume it was destroyed when the moon exploded eighty years ago?"
"Yes."
The
explosion of Praxis, overmined and under-cared-for, was actually the event that
started the Klingon Empire on its inevitable path toward peace with the
Federation. It wasn't a straight path but with each passing generation it grew
a little easier.
"Has
the Empire found many active gateways?"
"The
chancellor keeps that information to himself but I take that to mean there are
more than a few."
Picard
digested that information for a moment. "How will your people react?"
"When
threatened, they will defend their homes," Worf said. "I cannot say
if the lost and bewildered will be made as welcome here as they might in the
Federation."
"There
are more than enough Federation planets that can just as easily act out of fear
or territorialism," Picard noted.
"My
people may see the gateways in more than peaceful ways," Worf said.
"There will always be those who do not see benefit from allying ourselves
with the Federation. Some, like the House of Duras, would try and buy the technology
for themselves, dividing the Empire."
"Few
have gone to the lengths that House has," Picard said. Privately, Worf
was just as glad Lursa and
B'Etor
had been dead for years. They had dishonored him and brought shame to his
people on more than one occasion.
"A
civil conflict was not something I had anticipated," Picard said.
"Martok
continues to instill order, but the strain on my people has been great. Gowron
ruled unwisely and some Houses have bided their time. He will have to remain
strong."
Two
guards gripped the handles and opened the doors inward, admitting the
ambassador and captain. The room was dimmer than the halls and Worf noted that
the full complement of the Council was missing, a protocol insult that few but
Picard would even notice. Leaning over a dark wooden table was Martok. Worf
appraised the chancellor, noting that he seemed unchanged since taking control
of the government. He knew some leaders visibly aged when in power, but Martok
seemed fueled by the authority. Not reveling in it, but with newfound purpose
which suited his sturdy form. The body was thin, tall, and rangy,
battle-hardened. Martok's face showed interest and the one good eye gleamed in
the light.
He
imagined looking at the chancellor from Picard's perspective. Gowron, the man
the captain helped attain the leadership role, was fierce, a true warrior. But
he was not a veteran of war, had not led men and ships into battle. Gowron knew
how to play the political games that seemed to be preferred to matters of honor
on Qo'noS and his eyes bulged in delight. Martok, though, had seen more than
his share of battle. He had risen through the ranks and had collected something
more valuable than political chits: respect and loyalty. His bearing and tone
spoke of each battle, each death
achieved
in defense of the Klingons' interest. It was a voice that had seen more than
enough senseless bloodshed as well, Worf knew, making him the right man at the
right time to help steer his people.
It
certainly wasn't going to be easy as the political machinations within the
council chambers and many of the influential Houses still remained active—too
active if anyone bothered to ask Worf. Like Martok, he disapproved of such
games, feeling it cheapened the honor of those Houses and their inhabitants.
Martok
looked up with his good eye and made a noise that sent the courtiers away from
him. The chancellor straightened and strode forward, studying the captain.
Martok stopped about six feet from Picard and held his ground. Picard
straightened as Worf launched into the formal introductions—not, strictly
speaking, necessary, since the parties all knew each other, but one thing Worf
had learned in his short time as a diplomat was the importance of protocol,
even with Klingons.
"May
I present Captain Jean-Luc Picard, son of Maurice," Worf said.
"Captain, I bring you before Martok, son of Krigar, leader of the High
Council."
The
two men nodded at the other as Worf continued.
"Know
before all that this meeting between the Klingon Empire and the United Federation
of Planets is duly authorized and is overseen by the ambassador." As he
spoke, trying to make it sound smooth, he eyed the other councillors around the
chamber. They had stood at attention, but there was some whispering back and
forth and Worf knew that meant speculation was running between them.
"Captain,
welcome," Martok said, when Worf had concluded the formal introduction.
"A drink?"
Picard
nodded and tankards were brought forth and quickly handed to one and all. Worf
saw Picard sniff at his drink and hid a smirk. Picard would gamely drain the
tankard, not to be bested by the most basic of Klingon tests. Sure enough,
Picard smiled and nodded toward Martok and took a very long pull.
The
chancellor smiled and took an equally long drink. "Excellent
vintage."
"I
know a thing or two about vintages," Picard said. "I don't know this
one, though, but it is remarkably ... smooth."
"From
my wife Sirella's family," Martok said.
"Chancellor,
this is a fine drink but I do not have time for a lengthy visit. I do not mean
to be rude. ..."
"What
does the Federation need of us?" Martok put the drink down, studying
Picard with his usual intensity. Worf hoped this would be brief but without
rancor.
"The
gateways," Picard replied.
"Very
efficient mode of transport," Martok said, not changing his expression.
Worf stood to the side, between the two leaders, watching with only his eyes.
"But
right now, very dangerous," Picard replied. "The Iconians are seeking
the highest price for the technological plans but until they are satisfied, the
gateways remain active and the chaos is already being felt throughout the
quadrant. I was hoping we could form a fleet, made up of several races, and approach
the Iconians at their base position."
Martok
took another long drink, clearly thinking. Worf knew his friend, and leader of
his House, to be a shrewd judge of character. He already knew of Picard's
exploits
before
the ambassador could even begin to speak on his behalf. Worf also knew the
Iconians had a representative on Qo'noS a week earlier making the same offer.
"Have
the gateways not already caused your empire trouble?"
Martok
paused, thinking carefully before answering. "We have had some unwelcome
visitors" was all he would say.
"Imagine
invading hordes," Picard said.
"We'd
train our disruptors on each gateway if need be."
"Admirable,"
Picard said. "But a waste of men and equipment given their dampening
fields. Wouldn't you be better off securing the other side?"
"Each
gateway opens to multiple locations, that would spread our resources even
thinner," Martok said. With his left hand, he gestured to a guard at the
door. He nodded and disappeared into another room.
Picard
nodded and held his tongue for a moment, letting Martok consider.
"I
would sooner encase each one in a block of duranium than expose my
people."
"And
the starship-sized ones?"
Worf
rarely saw Martok surprised but this was one of those opportunities. Clearly,
anything more than humanoid-proportioned had not occurred to him. The
ambassador also saw that it told Picard nothing of that nature had been spotted
within the Empire. The captain was filing that away with all the other arcane
information he needed.
Attendants
brought in platters and bowls, setting them at a side table that was already
prepared. Steam rose from one bowl, its scent quickly making its way
toward
the men. Worf recognized it as a spiced soup, one Martok liked.
"The
Romulans think us weak after the war," Martok said, looking at no one in
particular. "We lost many warriors, many ships. To have the ability to
walk from one room on Qo'noS to Rura Penthe in a second would mean much for the
Empire."
"Oh,
there's little doubt that anyone controlling the gateways would find their
culture transformed," Picard said. "It would revolutionize your
economy and place within the galactic community. But what if it was not the
Klingon Empire or the Federation that gained control?"
"Bah,
then we'd be picking Ferengi out of our teeth every day," Martok spat.
"We
need to show solidarity, need to show the Iconians that they cannot divide us.
I cannot do that alone, Chancellor."
Martok
strode over to the side table and looked at the food. He nodded once in
approval and gestured toward Worf and Picard. The ambassador hoped Picard took
Wu's advice and had come prepared. He knew Riker could handle the raw meats,
but Picard always struck him as preferring things ... cooked.
"Try
the soup first, Captain," Martok said. "Something I learned to live
on as a young warrior."
Picard
filled the bowl, letting the steam fill his senses before taking the first sip.
Worf was amused by the way his former captain tried to contain the reaction. If
anything, the soup's spices were even more potent than habanero peppers from
Earth. Picard breathed in again and then took a sip, smiling all the while.
Worf was proud of how well Picard handled himself, but also felt himself grow
hungry.
The
unease of the moment grated on Worf's nerves. He had tremendous respect for
both men and would dislike seeing them at odds. To distract himself, he filled
a plate with flat bread and some of the gagh.
"Your
name has been known to me for some time, Picard," Martok finally said, as
he reached for some gagh of his own. "The exploits of the great Enterprise
may be the most studied in
the Empire. The first such ship certainly caused enough dishonor to several
Houses. But, your own actions redeemed that ship's honor and I respect
that."
Martok
took a deep drink of the soup. "Like you, I worry about our community and
the Klingons' place in it. The Iconians tempt us with technology but there is
something I do not trust about them. Do you feel it?"
"I
have not met them in person, Chancellor, but Starfleet Command shares your
suspicions."
"Of
course they do," Martok said loudly. "Starfleet has people who are
suspicious of everyone and everything. Why else have an intelligence
division?" Martok drained his drink and held it out, arm stiff, for an
attendant to collect. "While you have my people's respect, Picard, know
that the honor carried by being Arbiter of Succession is over. Gowron is dead
and I lead the people. However, K'mpec saw honor in you, as does the ambassador.
You therefore have my trust. I will assign two battle cruisers, but they shall
act under my direction."
"Do
you mean to join us?" Picard asked carefully. If Martok joined him, he
would have to defer more often than not, which would weaken the plan.
"Not
at all. The captain shall follow my directions but do not worry, Picard, if the
Iconians fire at you, my ships will stand at your side."
Picard
bowed with formal thanks. Then, to seal the point, took a handful of the gagh
and stuffed it into his
mouth. Worf exhaled, sensing the momentum had shifted in his former captain's
favor, and Martok laughed.
As
Worf finished his plate, he was stunned by Picard's next comment.
"Chancellor,
I wish to bring along an experienced diplomat. I feel I may need the help. Can
Qo'noS do without Mr. Worf for a little while?" Worf recognized Picard's
excessive formality with Martok; a gesture of respect. After all, permission
wasn't required.
Martok
stared at Worf, his mind clearly turning over the possibilities, but the
strategic importance made the answer clear. He quickly replied, "We won't
be negotiating with the Iconians any time soon. Whatever problems the
gateways bring us will be internal ones. Being a Federation initiative, Worf
can da better with you."
"Thank
you, Chancellor."
"Qapla'!"
Worf
had to contain his smile, but bowed toward the chancellor. He stole a glance at
Picard, who seemed more than satisfied with the way things had gone.
"Chancellor,
not to rush matters, but I have more stops to make before we can visit the
Iconians and with every moment, I suspect we're risking some unforeseen
calamity."
"Go,
Picard," Martok said. "The Empire will stand beside the Federation
once more. Oh, and do bring Worf back in one piece."
Although
the sun was bright and there was nary a cloud in the sky over Armus IX's
capital city, Clan-
dakin
sensed only doom. She had been elected governor of the planet less than a year
ago and had just completed consolidating the bickering factions into a
coalition that would allow her people to finally move forward after a
decade-long economic crisis.
She
returned to her chambers after a Regency session, unfastening the bright yellow
and orange-feathered cloak she wore when conducting official business. The cool
air felt good after the five-hour meeting that was not stopped once. The
business at hand was serious indeed. An hour earlier, her Surgeon reported that
at least one-third of the planet had quickly contracted the disease. The
Guardian had also announced that the culprits had been found but the Regency
didn't know what to do with them.
Pictures
had been displayed of the aliens who had unleashed the virulent disease among
her people, shown alongside a picture of a hospital ward filled with people
vomiting and bleeding. They seemed most benign with their oblong heads, dusty
skin, and oversized ears. Their expressions showed a lack of comprehension, as
if they had no idea where they were or what was happening around them. None had
been armed; in fact, none had anything remotely resembling a weapon or
communications device. One carried a satchel full of food and drink while
another had a tubular item, similar to a ball. Her best guess was that they
were out for a walk, not at all intending to sabotage a planet.
Doctors,
nurses, and volunteers, wearing as much covering as possible, were also seen.
She was heartened by their heroics but saddened that the death toll was
already beginning. Clandakin, all of twenty-seven years old, was watching the
worst medical crisis the people of Armus IX had encountered in three centuries.
The
last time, such a violent epidemic left one-quarter of the planet's population
dead and the world took two generations to get itself back on course.
Would
this be the same?
A
sweaty hand smoothed out the long crimson dress she had worn under the cloak.
Leading the people was such a thrill and a chore at the same time. But now it
felt like a crushing yoke around her neck, threatening to snap the spinal
column. The Surgeon had said testing determined the people to be responsible
but it would take time to isolate what germ was unleashed, how it spread, and
how to combat it. Those in custody looked bewildered, neither known enemies of
her planet nor fanatics with a cause.
She
shut her eyes but pictured them again, noting the look of terror in their own
eyes. She winced. They were clearly as scaled as the Armusians.
Why
shouldn't they be? she mused. To them, it was a chance for a lark, a simple
picnic for three families taking a short holiday.
Of
course, the fact that they lived ninety-five parsecs away might have been cause
for some caution, she realized. Still, wouldn't she have been tempted had a
gateway, spinning like some jewel, opened up on the outskirts of their village
on Tavela Minor? A chance to see another world, meet an entirely different
culture, would certainly be too tempting to resist.
No
one had stopped to think how their worlds might have differed. Germs and
microbes that meant nothing to them suddenly became the cause of plague on
Armus IX. Never had her people been victim to so innocent an act.
Could
her Surgeon find a cure before too many more
died?
A distress call to the Federation had already gone out and the hope was that
one of the medical starships could be dispatched. The call went out a day ago
and Starfleet had yet to respond.
She
knew why, of course. Armus IX was just one of several worlds cursed by the
gateways.
"The
planet is heavily industrialized in just one section," the science
officer announced.
The
commander turned and looked at her. "Population?"
"No
life signs. It appears to be entirely designed for automation."
"Is
it active?"
"Not
from our readings."
The
commander nodded and looked once more toward the forward viewscreen. The world
looked like so many others, nothing distinguishing it at all. He did not
recognize it, or the stars around it. In fact, he couldn't recognize any of the
formations. This, more than the planet's emptiness, disturbed him.
"Long-range
scan," he said, continuing to prowl the cramped bridge.
"Nothing
to indicate any vessels have been this way. All we detect is the gateway."
It
spun lazily in space, large enough to allow the entire ship to fly through,
its aperture showing three, no four, differing locales. He thought he
recognized the one he came through, but it spun just fast enough to elude
confirmation. Regardless, the ship's computers would isolate it when it was
time to go home.
But
first the world needed exploration. It was not tike most civilizations to build
a factory and leave it alone.
"Approach
and orbit, helm," he said quietly.
"Orbit
in five minutes," came the reply.
"Good.
Place us in geosynchronous position to the factory and let's get a complete
reading. Navigation, have you determined where we are?"
There
was a long, uncomfortable pause before the navigator spoke. His voice betrayed
his youth and his nervousness; the commander would welcome neither.
"Commander, from our charts, I believe within Federation space."
There was silence around the bridge and the commander nodded just once.
"Where
precisely?"
"I
believe it to be a star system near the galactic barrier, one called Delta
Vega by the Federation."
The
commander was surprised and more than a little concerned. Although the galactic
barrier was nowhere near his homeworld, ship commanders around drinks of strong
ale spoke tales of it. People went mad there, it was said; ships were never
heard from again, and monsters were created/Improved shielding meant it could
be traversed, but none dared try ... just in case. Better he survey the world,
grab what riches might remain, and return home intact.
"Study
this factory world. What did they produce here? Are there weapons?"
The
officer turned and saluted, fist to heart.
"If
the Federation abandoned it, let's see what the Romulan Star Empire might learn
and profit from the planet."
The
first Bolian coughed in the thick atmosphere. His companions had dwindled to
three from an original group of nine. All felt scared with one going almost
catatonic,
refusing to say or do anything, just shuffling after the others.
Felk
had somehow become the group leader and he didn't like it. It was one thing to
lead them in a mag-noball contest, completely another to handle this emergency.
No one else seemed willing to take point and explore the hot world so rather
than stand still, he had them move forward.
Just
an hour earlier, they were finishing their weekly game, having bested the
Gropla Team from Engineering Division. They usually beat the Groplas since
they were always looking for opportunities to try obscure patterns and angles,
treating the games more as experiments than competition. Felk didn't care,
since it was another notch on their tally sheet and got them ready for the
championship bout, coming in another month.
Everyone
was relaxed and happy when they stepped out of the courts, going for their
groundcars. Instead, they found the swirling device where then: vehicles were.
The ten men and women, five each from the two teams, gaped at the bright
aperture.
"I
recognize that, it's Mount Seleya on Vulcan!"
Another
stared and saw a rounded, tall building surrounded by lush foliage. She didn't
recognize it, which seemed to fascinate her all the more. Felk's partner, Helt,
pointed and noted the aperture was rotating and three locations were distinct:
Vulcan, the building, and an unidentified ice floe. Sure enough, a member of
the engineering team whipped out a recorder and took notes, speaking quietly
into the device.
"I
wonder if we can enter it?"
"Who'd
want to?"
"I
like Vulcan, always wanted to visit."
One
picked up a small stone and tossed it at the whirling gateway and it got
swallowed up without so much as a sound. This seemed to embolden the engineers
who wanted to explore, their curiosity getting the better of them.
Two
made it through and then the others stumbled when it became obvious the device
would spin at the same speed so getting to Vulcan would require timing. One
woman tripped while hesitating, and ended up on the ice. This seemed to sober
the group, but one, an overweight player from Felk's team, pushed forward,
knocking several into the gateway, scattering them.
Felk
and Helt could see Opel on the ice, shivering. They silently counted among
themselves, gauging the rotation and timing their action. If they could get it
right, travel through to Opel, then they should be able to reverse themselves
and get her home safely.
Their
count was off, however, and the two men were suddenly in the humid air of the unknown
world. Four others were standing and shaking themselves off, all looking to
Felk for leadership. With a swallow, he began timing the rotation once more,
trying to compensate for the error. Helt, on his signal, stepped through,
hoping to reach Opel. Instead, he was back on Belarus IX and running to get
help.
There
was a growing buzzing sound that bothered Felk and, fearing the worst, he
debated between staying by the gateway, waiting for help, or moving toward the
building, a sure sign of civilization. None of them recognized the planet they
were standing on, noting the gravity seemed lighter than home. The air stank of
rotting vegetation and something unknown, which scared them all the more. It
was that fear that drove them to-
ward
the building, which was round, made from metal, and tapering toward the top. It
must have been fifteen or twenty meters high, twice that around, Felk estimated.
It
had higher technology based on the devices they saw scattered around the
structure's exterior. No doors were obvious, or windows, which concerned Felk,
but he figured they needed to walk around the entire perimeter before finding
an entrance. Here by the building, they took comfort in the buzzing sound
growing more distant.
Balit
pulled out his magnoball and tossed it back and forth, from hand to hand,
trying to channel his nervous energy. Felk didn't pay it any attention as they
continued around the structure, tying to guess where hi the galaxy they might
be. He wasn't much on travel and didn't immediately recognize the world and
noted it was not a place he'd want to see again unless the people inside the
building proved to be the friendliest folk this side of Wrigley's Pleasure
Planet.
A few
minutes more, and the party made its way around to the other side of the
structure, fending off growing vines, thick underbrush, and oppressive heat.
Balit had taken to tossing the ball to Felk every now and then so it almost
seemed like an outing, just a little more adventurous than any of them had
hoped for.
They
stopped to catch their breath and immediately heard loud buzzing once more.
Notan, the silent one, looked up and stared, pointing with his left hand. Rising
from the top of the structure were three beings, looking more insect than
humanoid. They were black with yellow markings, had antennae and wings. Each
also carried some sort of weapon that was strapped to their short arms, drawing
power from a device at their
chest.
The insects buzzed among themselves and then began to descend toward the
now-paralyzed quartet.
"You
have encroached on Jarada's colony Torona Alpha," one of them buzzed.
"Why do you invade us?"
No
one said a word, continuing to stare, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of
events. The trio eased down a little lower, but clearly keeping their distance
from the blue-skinned Bolians. For long moments, neither side moved nor said
anything.
Finally,
Balit, gripping his magnoball, let out a scream. It was a scream of fear, fear
of the unknown, fear of dying, just plain fear.
Then
he threw the ball. The three Jaradan sentries scattered, avoiding the hurtling
spheroid, and watched it strike one of the devices attached to the building's
wall. Despite being on an alien world, the ball's magnetic core did its job,
obeying the universe's physical laws, and stuck to the building.
What
happened next was unexpected. The ball's magnetic charge caused an overload to
the device, which turned out to be a sensor. The overload surged through the
structure, tripping relays and causing havoc. As the sounds grew ominous from
inside the building, the sentries were shaken back to action. Taking aim, they
swiftly let loose volleys of plasma energy, which quickly killed the Bolians.
The lead Jaradan began to make a report, but was cut off as the entire
structure, now supercharged to overload, began to spark. The Jaradan patrol
scattered toward the rain forest before them, narrowly escaping the firestorm.
Two hundred of their brethren remained trapped within the burning hive.
"You
watched them hatch?"
Troi
smiled at the ensign, brightening to the topic. "Sure did. They are fast
growing to become the ruling caste for the Gorn, insuring stability for at
least another generation."
The
ensign, a young Asian named Linda Liang, grew wide-eyed. She was dividing her
attention between the counselor, standing to her left, and the conn console before
her. Troi had read the roster reports three times to familiarize herself with
the Mercury and
its crew and had come to know them fairly quickly.
"Eyes
front, Ensign, wouldn't want you to hit any planets." That from the
captain, Carter Brisbayne. To Troi, the silver-haired by-the-book career
officer seemed to take every order with a determined grimness. Troi found
herself overcompensating, forcing herself to be relaxed with the crew, even if
her posting was extremely
temporary.
"Captain?"
The
question came from Ranjit Srivastava. He had been with the ship since its
launch, surviving the Borg attack on Earth and several skirmishes against the
Jem'Hadar. This, Troi felt, gave him enough experience to get past the
eagerness much of the crew exhibited.
"Yes,
Number One?"
Troi
suppressed a smile. Anyone other than Captain Picard calling anyone other than
Will Riker Number One just struck her as wrong.
"Entering
Gorn space in five minutes."
"Understood.
Mr. Livingston, full sensor sweep and then let's hail them."
"Aye,
Captain."
Everything
according to the command directives, she
noted.
Inwardly, she realized their mission objective had an entirely different
library to follow. With the Gorn, it could be tense. She and the Enterprise
crew had recently helped
stopped a civil war. The Gorn took some time to heal and proved to help during
the Dominion conflict, but to a much lesser degree than the Federation had
hoped. Time having passed, Troi hoped the reception would be a warmer one but
she knew their point of view would not be in synch with the UFP's.
A
loud sound interrupted the idle thought and Troi saw the red lights before her.
"What
is it, Ensign Liang?" barked Brisbayne.
"Gorn
patrol vessel, closing fast at warp two. Weapons online, shields up."
"Yellow
alert. Mr. Livingston, keep weapons offline until I say otherwise. Damn, not
what I need right now."
A
chorus of affirmative sounds was returned and Troi nodded in satisfaction. She
turned to the captain and explained their opponents. "They value strength
over diplomacy but let's not bare this ship's teeth. We need to get past them
and reach the current leader, Lord Slessshh."
"That's
a mouthful," Srivastava commented.
"Well,
they have a lot of teeth," Troi added with her characteristic smile.
Brisbayne ignored her, studying readouts on his screen.
"Ship
closing, refusing to answer our hails," Livingston said. "Fifty
thousand kilometers."
"Slow
to impulse, helm," the captain said.
"Weapons
lock!" the tactical officer cried.
"Shields
up, red alert," Brisbayne said.
Damn, Troi
thought, as the red lights bathed the
bridge
and the klaxon sounded, this was the last thing she wanted.
Before
another command could be given, bright light emitted from a speck in space. Too
far, she figured, for an accurate shot. She pushed her mind, hoping to get some
idea what was going on with the alien ship, but they were too far away—too
alien to do her much good.
The
light, a projectile actually, streaked in front of the Mercury,
and detonated, some four
thousand kilometers in front of the ship.
"A
warning shot," Livingston said.
"Good
guess," Brisbayne muttered. "Do not return fire. Try and raise the
bastards."
It
was tense on the bridge, which Troi could feel without even trying. A good
third of the crew were newly assigned and had probably never seen battle.
Liang, Livingston, and Srivastava had, which helped. The counselors were
playing an instrumental role in spreading out veterans among the Fleet, making
sure senior staffs were populated with enough experienced personnel to get the
jobs done without problems. Moments passed in silence, waiting to see if the
Gorn were now ready to talk.
"No
reply."
"Open
a channel. This is Captain Carter Brisbayne of the United Federation of
Planets. We seek access to your homeworld and a chance to speak with Lord
Slessshh."
Before
he could say another word, Troi uttered a throat-wrenching phrase that no one
on the bridge could understand. Brisbayne stared at her coldly.
Once
again there was silence. She leaned forward and saw a readout showing neither
ship had moved. A good sign, she hoped. Looking around, she spotted Sci-
ence
Officer Alfonzo bent over her console, learning what she could. Next to the
science station was Chief Engineer Donald Agbayani, sitting intently. She had
been introduced to them as the Double A team, a reference that made no sense
to her until it was explained it was an archaic Earth term used in a sport
called baseball. The legendary game was just making its presence felt once
again on distant worlds.
"Captain,"
Livingston said in his slow British tone, "I have Lord Slessshh."
"On
screen," he said.
A
green-scaled figure filled the viewer, with huge glittering eyes devoid of
emotion. He stared at the crew and took his time before speaking. Behind him
were the Gorn crest and dark plants. "Troi,
is it?"
"Yes,
Lord," she said. Brisbayne bristled at being ignored but Troi had to keep
the conversation going and would make amends with him later.
"We did not expect contact from the Federation at this time."
"No,
Lord, but an event of widespread proportions has caused this contact. Are you
familiar with the gateways operating in this sector of space?"
"We are," he
replied, not moving once. Troi steadied herself in the chair and noticed Liang
suppress a shiver. Cold-blooded creatures always seem to have that effect on
humans, she knew.
"Have
you also been contacted by the Iconians?"
"We might have spoken to them. What of it?" Clearly he was holding information closely, uncertain of
what the Federation would want. She perceived that they still felt some
obligation to the Federation, and resented it.
"The
gateways are active throughout the quadrant
and
pose a threat while they peddle the technology like fabric. We are suspicious
of their motives and Captain Picard is assembling a representative fleet to
approach their leader and demand details and a shutdown of the devices before
an interstellar incident occurs."
Slessshh
remained impassive, taking in the translation and considering it. There did
not seem to be anyone else in the room with him, she noted. This would
entirely be up to the Lord and this boded well considering the personal
contact he shared with both her and Picard. At least she hoped so; the stakes
were too high for this to fail. Without unity, the approach would appear comic,
not authoritative.
"For Picard, I will trust this mission. I grant you four
ships," he
said slowly. "They will be there for unity but
may not necessarily participate."
"We
appreciate the Corn's support," Troi warmly said.
"Our obligation to the Federation is a heavy one," the Gorn said. "We dislike it but
recognize the need for this mission. Go." And the screen snapped back to the stars.
"Gorn
patrol ship moving off at high warp," the tactical officer said.
"Fine,"
Brisbayne said. "Stand down from red alert. Double A, let's get ready to
lead four recalcitrant Gorn."
"Aye,"
the duo said in unison. It made her smile and relax for just a moment.
"And
Counselor," Brisbayne said, "when making diplomatic contact with a
potentially hostile world, it would help if the captain is allowed to speak for
the ship. My neck is on the line for my crew, not a visitor's. This could just
as easily gone poorly and then we'd have no ships for Picard's convoy."
She
nodded and decided the time for amends would wait.
Oliv
seemed to mean business, Riker concluded, feeling the tension return to his
shoulders. He'd need a good massage when this was over, and found himself
looking forward even more to Deanna's return. Hie Deltan moved his sleek
silvery ship incrementally closer, adjusting position with mere thrusters, but
clearly encroaching on the Carreon ships. Leaning forward in the command chair,
Riker studied the tactical readout. Hie last few hours had dragged as he spoke
with first Oliv, then Landik Mel Rosa, trying to get them to power down their weapons
or open a dialogue. He thought he used every trick in the book. All he got in
return was rhetoric and a stiff neck.
"Mr.
Data, opinion."
The
android turned toward the commander and moved his head at an angle, considering
his answer. "Captain Oliv seems perfectly content with this standoff
while Landik Mel Rosa seems to be losing his patience. If one were to open
fire first, I would think it would be him."
Riker
nodded. "Lieutenant Vale, keep a targeting lock on the Carreon but weapons
stay off line."
"Aye,
sir."
Riker
liked this less by the minute. He had Data monitoring reports from throughout
the Federation and knew the gateways were causing more havoc than help.
Starfleet, in their infinite wisdom, summoned his captain and his Imzadi
to Earth and then flung them
back out among the stars, but nowhere near the Enterprise.
He felt understaffed and more
than a little ill-equipped to deal with people determined to get into a fight.
A
part
of him wanted to just let them strike out, but he suspected Command would frown
on the tactic. Another part of him wanted to be away from this petty problem
and use the Enterprise for some good, helping those people in dire need because of
the Iconian "gift."
Determined
to get them moving, get the hostile races speaking, Riker had a thought.
"Riker to engineering."
"La Forge here, Commander."
"Geordi,
can we punch a transporter beam through the Deltan shields or disrupt
them?"
"Sure, I can think of three ways before I blink."
"What
about the Carreon?"
"We know a lot less about them, but what works for one should work
for the other."
"Okay.
Rig the systems with whichever plan you think has the best chance. Out.
Lieutenant Vale, send security teams to Transporter Rooms Two and Five. We'll
be having company shortly and I want them escorted to the observation
lounge."
"Aye,
sir."
Data
looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. "Is this course
wise?"
Riker
grinned and shook his head. "Maybe not, Data, but if they won't use the
com system, locking them in a room with me might get the dialogue a little
further along. Besides, it has the benefit of not having been tried."
A
sharp sound behind him made Riker snap around, further straining his muscles.
He suppressed a sound and looked at the petite security chief.
"Multiple
warp signatures approaching from 474 mark 6. And the Deltans are now moving
toward the Carreon at one-half impulse."
"Red
alert!" Riker snapped. "Perim, move the Enterprise
between those ships! No one
is going to fight unless I say so. Vale, what do you make of the
signatures?"
"They're
showing as Deltan, sir. I make out seven, same class. All coming in hard and
fast, weapons ready."
"Fourteen
against three is overkill in anyone's book," Riker said.
From
the conn position, Ensign Kell Perim said, "We're in position,
Commander."
"Sir,"
Data added, "those seven ships will make it impossible for the Enterprise
to prevent fighting from
breaking out."
"It'll
be a slaughter at those odds," Vale said. Riker knew it, but had to hear
the words.
Leaning
back in the command chair, the acting captain let out a deep breath. It didn't
help. 'Terrific. What next?"
Chapter
Four
"your position is not logical."
"But
it is my position, Ambassador Lojal."
The
Vulcan ambassador stiffened at the tone. Usually the translators could not
convey emotion, but this time the message was clear. Lojal had been dispatched
to make contact with the Tholians, since they were isolated from the stops
being made by Picard, Troi, and Ross. An experienced diplomat, he found himself
looking forward to the experience, having never dealt with the enigmatic
people before. The meeting was proving to be short and fruitless.
"Erask,
I must ask," Lojal said, trying a different tactic. "Are there no
gateways in Tholian space?"
The
current leader of the Tholian Assembly stood his ground, his features
unreadable. The brightness of the
Tholian
being irritated Lojal's eyes, despite them being used to the harsh Vulcan sun.
While he was used to the glare from his homeworld's deserts, these were garish,
bright colors that seemed to shift across Erask's skin. The two men were alone
in an antechamber, with the Tholians showing little in the way of customary
diplomatic finery. Lojal did not always see the point of elaborate customs
but, coming from a world with a plethora of its own rituals and mores, he had
come to accept them and their infinite variety. The almost total lack of them
here should have been refreshing, but he found them troublesome.
"There
are, Lojal. And we are dealing with the intrusion into our sovereign
space."
"Of
course," the ambassador said. "However, if you sit idly by and let
another race gain control of the technology, it would not end these
intrusions. They might increase."
Lojal
watched the colors shifting, trying to discern patterns, read into them
emotions or communications. So little was known of these aggressive, private
people that he could not help but be intrigued by them. They were, though,
vexing in their inability to see his point. "I should further point out,
Erask, that if you exclude the Tholians from this mission to the Iconian base
ship, then you lose the tactical advantage of knowledge."
The
oranges grew over more of the Tholian's body than the reds, and the yellows
were almost nonexistent. Lojal was beginning to form a hypothesis over how the
color worked but he was more surprised by Erask's sudden movement forward. He
planted his feet firmly and stood his ground, ignoring the violation of
personal
space.
"You would not share with your diplomatic neighbors?"
"Erask,
the Tholians have followed their own code of conduct in the years we have known
you," he patiently explained. "Rather than share the burden of opposing
an invading race, you signed a nonaggression pact with the Dominion. Had the
war gone in their favor, you would be feeling their encroachment on your space.
The Federation had hoped you would see this problem in a similar light and
agree to help us before the gateway problem grew to galactic proportions."
"Ambassador
Lojal, we consider ourselves an isolated race and prefer it that way. We
cannot ignore the races that surround our space, but we prefer to pursue our
own agenda. It does not include risking our ships in this foolhardy
mission."
The
Vulcan nodded, recognizing the end of the meeting. Since there were no
formalities to observe, he would not tarry. He would simply return to his transport,
filing a disappointing report with the Federation. Clasping his hands to his
chest, he deeply bowed, saying, "As you wish, Erask."
As
the ambassador turned to leave the room, Erask spoke up one final time.
"Know this, Vulcan, we could afford to bid and own this technology. But it
would invite more dealings with other governments. That is not our current
interest. We will not be making an offer."
Lojal
nodded once in acknowledgment. While not gaining an ally, at least he could
report that they had not gained a potential threat, either. Sometimes, that was
the best an ambassador could hope for and he would have to content himself with
that. Touching his
communicator
medallion, he asked to return to the ship and a swift journey home.
"Landik Mel Rosa, I give you one hour to turn your ships around
and go home. At that time, if you are still here, we will fire," Oliv ordered.
Riker
shook his head in amazement. There was no possible way the Enterprise
could stop the Deltans from
firing, no way to prevent a war from breaking out between worlds. This mission
had certainly changed his thinking about the Deltan people.
"Vale,
any options occur to you?"
The
security chief thought for a moment, eyes straining at her station.
"Without additional firepower, we're right now sitting in the potential
crossfire. Too many ships, spread out in a classic pattern, and everyone's hot
to shoot first. We're out of luck, sir."
Riker
nodded in agreement and continued to pace the bridge. Walking eased some of the
strain, but not enough of it. The standoff was growing tenser and the addition
of more Deltan vessels spoiled any hope of a diplomatic solution. Starfleet had
not responded to his last communique and the Diplomatic Corps was equally
nonresponsive. He did not have the authority to contact the Deltan homeworld
directly and he wasn't even sure if he should bother. Oliv was determined to
gain possession of this dead rock, for whatever good it would do the Deltan
people.
He
wasn't sure what to do next: make popcorn to watch the inevitable fight or pray
for Q to turn up.
Worf
stood at the entrance to the bridge of the Chargh,
taking in the activity. It
was, as usual, darker
than
Federation starships and the officers were in a ring, behind the captain.
Commanding the ship was Grekor, tall, overweight, and given to fastidious
habits such as even fingernails and well-groomed hair. The hair itself was
starting to streak with gray and the full beard was already more salt than pepper
in color.
Grekor
sat, filling the chair, his arms hanging over the sides, well-manicured fingers
nervously tapping at the sides. He seemed a bundle of energy, barely contained,
and intolerant of the slightest error. However, Worf noted, he was quick with
his tongue, not his fists. Most Klingon commanders ruled with such power, but
inspired little in the way of loyalty. This one, though, had an equally aging
crew and he suspected they had served together a long time.
"Ambassador
Worf, son of Mogh," he announced.
Before
the words were finished, Grekor was on his feet and nodded to the ambassador.
"Grekor, son of Krad," he replied. "Welcome to the Chargh."
Worf
heard an eagerness in the tone that did not seem directed to the battle. He
knew the House of Krad had fallen on hard times and that Grekor was one of the
senior members. No doubt, he saw this mission as a chance to advance his
position. Grekor continued to bark orders, dressing down the engineer, Kliv,
for not being warp-ready yet. When all seemed to his satisfaction, Grekor
finally turned once more toward the ambassador.
"How
may I help the esteemed ambassador?"
Worf
now recognized the solicitous tone and was unhappy. Right after settling on
Qo'noS, he heard it all too often as people came to his office and asked
favors.
"We
remain in orbit around Qo'noS," Worf said. "I
came
to make sure you understood the parameters of our mission."
"Once
more we ally ourselves with the Federation, each grasping for some victory
against the Iconians," Grekor answered.
"You
are to follow Captain Picard's orders without question," Worf said, the
tone allowing no interruption. "Yes, we are allies but we are also there
to find the truth. If there is to be a fight, then we will fight our way to Sto-Vo-Kor,
but under the Enterprise's
direction. Initiative is not
a requirement at this time."
"But
of course, Ambassador. The Chargh's history is nowhere near as illustrious as the Enterprise's.
I hope to learn much from
Picard's dealings with these people."
Worf
winced at the unctious tone, but concluded Grekor would be an irritant, not a
complication.
"Very
well," he replied. "We leave within minutes. Be ready." He left
the bridge, hoping to maintain his distance from the captain.
Picard
felt refreshed as he entered the turbolift at the beginning of the alpha shift.
The Chargh and
the Qob were
matching speed and causing no trouble. Before going to sleep hours before, he
received Counselor Troi's message that the Gorn had agreed to join the mission.
He was already figuring out flight patterns and communications systems to keep
everyone linked.
As he
strode onto the small—too small if you asked him—bridge, First Officer Davison
smartly relinquished the command seat. It was a by-the-book bridge crew,
Picard thought approvingly. He might have been hasty in thinking the Academy
was churning out too
many
replacement personnel with insufficient preparation. Chan, Hoi, and Rosario
all were at their posts.
"Status,
Commander?"
"En
route to the Iconian ships."
Hoi
called out from ops, one hand cupped to the receiver in his oversized ear.
"I'm receiving a long-distance signal on a wavelength not used by the
Federation."
Picard
frowned. "Point of origin?"
Hoi
studied a readout, then turned to the captain. "Off the starboard bow,
about seventy-five thousand kilometers away. It's moving so I think it's a
ship."
Picard
stood and Rosario at tactical snapped on the yellow alert signal. Picard walked
around and leaned over the small, light-haired man's shoulder. "I didn't
order yellow alert. We don't know enough to be worried."
The
tactical officer swallowed twice and keyed off the alert. Picard noted he knew
his station fluently, but was nervous, not something a captain wants in the person
with his finger on the trigger. He noted to himself to be precise in his
orders. Picard pointed to a readout on the left side of the console and
Rosario's head bobbed up and down twice—he seemed to do everything twice,
Picard noticed.
"They're
too far away to fire on us, and we can't tell if they even have their weapons
powered. But do note their course and speed. Ensign Chan, take the feed from
Lieutenant Rosario and project backwards. Let's figure out where they came
from."
Davison
joined Picard at the station and flanked Rosario. The trio studied the monitor
and when no new information presented itself, the captain moved on, completing
a circuit of the bridge, still getting a feel for the space. He had been
spoiled by both Enterprises,
luxuriating
in their size, forgetting his days aboard smaller craft such as the Stargazer.
Picard imagined it granted
the crew easier camaraderie, but also made for close quarters when things grew
tense.
After
another moment, the conn officer announced, "They're projected as coming
from uncharted space."
"Excuse
me, Ensign?"
"Well,
sir, there are no Federation or even M-class planets anywhere along the path.
I've projected a straight-line and it originates in no known system."
Picard
nodded and retook his seat. Davison joined him and the two leaned in together
as she said, "A hostile?"
He
shook his head and gazed off for a moment, analyzing the scant data and
checking his instincts. Nothing definite occurred to him so he let the nod be
his answer. The two sat silently as the starship continued on its course, with
an unknown coming toward them. The captain noted that Rosario had regained his
composure and was whispering with Hoi. He spoke up, "Something to share,
gentlemen?"
Hoi
looked up, the light reflecting off his bald brow. He seemed surprised to
having been caught but had nowhere to turn while the younger tactical officer
retreated to his station. "Actually, Captain, we were speculating."
"On
the intruder?"
"Yes,
sir. Ah, Mr. Rosario and I just placed a wager on the origin of the ship."
Picard
nodded and looked expectantly. The science officer seemed dumbfounded for a
moment but then realized the captain was expecting more information. Picard
held the gaze, measuring the Tiburonian, and hoping he would volunteer the
information. He disliked
feeling
distanced from the crew and was using this opportunity to open things up.
"I
was hypothesizing a Breen attack ship and Johnny, that is, Mr. Roasrio thought
it might be from the Klingons."
"I
think you will both lose the wager, Mr. Rosario," Picard said.
"Chancellor Martok promised two ships so it's unlikely we'll have more.
The Breen, well, they're a long shot, Mr. Hoi."
"Everyone
loses," Davison said. She had moved toward the flight control station and
was checking the readouts. "We're about to make some new friends ... at
least I hope they're friends. Their configuration is new to me and sensors show
differing energy emissions."
Picard
nodded in approval, awaiting more detail from the crew.
"They've
definitely spotted us," Hoi said, caution in his voice. "Slowing to
sublight."
"If
they have weapons, they're not showing on my screen," Rosario added.
"I'm matching their modulation for a hailing call."
"Excellent,"
the captain said, hoping it would help ease some of the mounting tension.
"Helm, go to sublight and let's allow them to catch up easily. Commander
Davison, notify Captain Grekor. Distance?"
"Fifty-three
thousand kilometers and closing."
"Let's
hail them, Mr. Rosario."
"Channel
open" was the reply.
Picard
stood, adjusted his duty jacket, cleared his throat, and then began his usual
greeting. He had certainly handled enough first contacts. However, to make one
now during the Iconian troubles seemed odd and
out
of place. Unless ... he finished his greeting, awaiting a response, and
received only audio.
"Federation? We know of you!"
Picard
was surprised by the reply, coming without the matching formality. "And
how do you know of us? Where do you hail from?"
"You call it the Delta Quadrant."
The
announcement surprised the entire bridge complement. Rosario and Hoi shared a
glance, Picard noted, both officers having lost their bet. Davison seemed
intrigued and Chan was visibly startled. Picard would need to hold them
together as he assessed the situation. Looking again at Rosario, the tactical
officer checked his station, rechecked it, and shook his head: no sign of
weapons being active.
"How
do you know of us? And to whom am I speaking?"
"Sorry, my name is Taleen and I met your Voyager."
Voyager! Picard
knew Starfleet had only verified they had survived a few weeks earlier and were
trapped tens of thousands of light-years from home. In fact, Reginald Barclay,
one of his former officers, had managed to establish the first significant
contact with the missing starship. Troi had worked alongside him, making sure
this was not another of his fantasies gone haywire, but it proved to be the
genuine article. Had a gateway network existed there, too? If so, and this ship
came through it, there might be hope yet for the starship to come back during
Captain Janeway's lifetime. He made a mental note to review the report form
Command on that ship.
"Welcome
to the Alpha Quadrant, Taleen. How did you find us?"
"We were performing routine patrols and then sud-
denly we detected unusual activity in an asteroid field. Upon
investigation we saw this giant spinning window. The pilot steered us too
close and we got caught in its energy field, I guess, and we wound up here.
Well, not here but back there, where the window let us out."
"Do
you have injured or need assistance?"
"Actually, Captain, we have a minimal crew. It was a short-run
patrol and our captain was not even aboard. I guess I'm the acting
commander."
"Have
you tried going back through the window ... which is actually called a
gateway?"
"Well, Captain Picard, the gateway spins so fast, showing
differing destinations, we haven't dared try to make our way through fearing
we'd get further lost."
Picard
nodded to himself; aware of the dilemma posed by an aperture large enough to
fit a starship. "Taleen, you and your ship are welcome to join us. Our
small group of ships are on our way to meet the gateway's owners and have,
shall we say, a little talk?"
"Truth to tell, Captain, we're very unsure of ourselves right
about now. I liked Janeway and think I can trust you."
Picard
looked once more at Rosario, who shrugged: no weapons he could detect. He
wished Troi was with him now, to guide his actions. His own instincts would
have to suffice.
"Of
course you can. Once we're under way, my first officer will be in touch
regarding matching our technologies so we can stay in contact. Perhaps you'll
even have a chance to tour our ship."
"Thank you, thank you, Captain. I wasn't certain what we'd find
once we got under way, but we didn't
want to stay just in case nastier ships followed us through."
"I
understand completely. Stand by for instructions. Picard out. Commander, begin
working out the necessary details. Mr. Rosario, keep an eye out just in case
we're being fooled. You too, Mr. Hoi. I want a full sensor report within the
hour. Meantime, I'll be in the ready room."
As he
rose, the others acknowledged the commands. Picard stopped at the science
station and attracted Hoi's attention. In a low voice he said, "If you're
a betting man, we can try cards later. On the other hand, this is the bridge
where we need to remain focused on the business at hand."
A
chorus of "Aye, sirs" immediately followed and Picard nodded in
approval. Yes, they would come around and act accordingly.
The
captain stared from his viewing station, shaking his head at the sight before
him. Huge mountains, tall and craggy, flanked his shipping vessel. He estimated
them to be several kilometers higher than any mountain he knew at home.
Wrapping his muffler tighter around his neck, the captain couldn't stop
shivering. For the last hour, the temperature had dropped several dozen degrees
and the crew was ill equipped for the adverse conditions. If it kept
plummeting, he expected to find icebergs and wasn't sure how well they'd handle
them.
What
started out as a three-hour fishing cruise had turned into a nightmare.
Belowdecks, fifty wealthy passengers had paid for the tour and a chance to
catch the red gapi, which was in season. They were among the more easily caught
fish, the captain knew, but it made the people happy and they tipped nicely.
Everything
seemed fine as they set out from port but about half an hour into the trip,
they were caught in a strong current, which pulled them toward something he had
never seen before. The archway spanned the entire inlet, embedded in the rock.
Within its center, light swirled fast and showed images like a giant screen. He
had no idea what it was and his ship's equipment had trouble measuring its
output. Worse, the engineer reported the current was gaining strength and
pulling the fishing ship toward the thing. He tried every trick he knew but
they were headed for the spinning crystal, as he named it, and couldn't stop.
With
surprise, the ship simply entered and passed through the crystal. The captain
felt nothing, nor did his crew. His fishing passengers, still inside the
vessel, had no clue what had happened, not that he knew much more. The
wheelwright noted a change in the horizon line and then commented the sun had
moved. Moved and grown larger and darker.
Choking
back panic, the captain quickly checked his maps and couldn't match shorelines.
Worse, his radioman couldn't raise anyone, receiving only static on their
normal bands. The only good news came from the engineer, who said the passage
through the crystal left the ship undamaged.
An
old hand on the water, the captain was reassured by the tang of salt in the
air. For a brief moment he considered what kind of sea life might lurk below.
They
continued to sail, hoping to find a populated landmass or another ship, but
after several hours their 1 topes grew dim. By then, it became clear to all
that i hey were no longer on their homeworld of Prakal II and none had any clue
as to what planet they were now
visiting.
The wheelwright had suggested reversing course and going through the crystal
again, but the captain remained uncertain. Many of the wealthy passengers
didn't want to chance it, being fearful of winding up in an even worse
location.
On
the fifth hour, the navigator found a landmass. It was large and appeared to be
a continent. The captain had them radio once more but received no reply. He
then directed the ship to parallel the coastline and drift closer along the
way. He wasn't sure what else there was to do.
And
now mountains—cold mountains which defied logic and his own senses. The captain
couldn't imagine how they managed to get between such masses without warning
but here they were. He directed the wheelwright to make a steady line between
them, praying to the goddess for success.
For
eighteen minutes they passed between the mountains, which blotted out the sun
and made things that much colder. Except for his crew, everyone was confined
to the party rooms within. No doubt they had raided the wine casks, but the
captain didn't much care right about now.
Suddenly,
directly before them rose a third mountain range, even more immense. Panic
gripped the crew and the ship wheeled about, searching for any safe passage.
The captain had scopes to his eyes looking for life or hope and found neither.
He did feel the sea swell against the hull and the ship started to lose its
path. The swells grew and the ship foundered, as the wheelwright tried to keep
a steady path toward the narrow space between the mountains to their left and
directly before the ship.
Wheeling
hard about, the ship tried to avoid the
mountains
before them and instead rode a swell that brought them perilously close to the
mountains on then-side. The swells grew into waves and the ship was battered
back and forth, now just going with the flow, no longer able to chart its own
course.
The
captain gritted his teeth, seeing the gray, featureless land come ever closer.
The hull scraped against rocks jutting out of the water, knocking the navigator
off his feet. Another swell and another moment of contact but this one had a
sound of metal bending.
Could
he abandon ship? Did it even make sense to send out the lifecraft with waters
getting rougher by the moment?
As
one giant wave smacked the boat into the land, puncturing three different parts
of the hull, the captain's eyes grew wide in amazement. The mountains before
him and to the right were gone, just open sea.
Sunlight
played off the churning water and, frozen with confusion, the captain couldn't
understand what was happening.
What
he would never know was that the sinking ship was another victim of the hypnotic
tides on Balosnee VI, a world the captain and passengers had never heard of.
Deep
Space Station K-7 had seen better days. It was once a thriving place of
business allowing traders to use it as a hub. It was well placed when
originally constructed, just a parsec from the Klingon border. Members of
both the Federation and the Klingon Empire used it for trading, meetings, and
clandestine rendezvous.
It
was also immortalized in the several dozen songs the Klingons sang about their
nemesis, the tribbles.
Over
time, the location became less vital, and as relations thawed between the
governments, K-7 remained a resupply station, but no longer of interest. Its
clientele deteriorated until it became a place thieves brought their goods to
find fences. The station's bar served rumor along with illegal Romulan ale and
information was the coin of the realm.
Although
still managed by the United Federation of Planets, it allowed establishments
within to be licensed and run by, well, just about anyone.
Hovan
knew none of that when he woke up. All he knew was that his mouth was filled
with dust from the steel deck and the smell in the air made him dizzy. He
naturally thought he had too much to drink.
No,
that wasn't right. He forced himself to sit up, spit some of the grit from his
mouth, and concentrated. After a meeting with his minister, Hovan was walking
home when a bright light momentarily blinded him, causing him to trip and
sending him into the light.
When
he stopped falling, by hitting the hard metal deck of the space station, Hovan
had no idea where his home went. The air was different, the sounds were alien
to him, and the smells were offensive. Naturally, Hovan presumed the Kes
kidnapped him, or maybe another party. Whoever had him would regret it, he concluded.
Within his bodysuit was his defensive stunner and he now gripped it tightly in
his right hand.
He
looked around the dim corridor and finally noticed the rotund form nearby. He
was old and had some sort of uniform on complete with weapons belt. Hovan had
concluded he was kidnapped, but for what reason? The man was not of Kesprytt
DI, so the answer was another party, but which one? Ever since the Kes peti-
tioned
the Federation for membership, all manner of unwanted people tried to visit
their world. Hovan was among the more active members of the Prytt, shunning
off-worlders and prohibiting trade whenever possible. He felt it his duty and
moral right to remain isolated from the other races and remained offended that
the Kes opened their arms like a lowly whore.
Hovan
leapt forward, placing the stunner below the left ear of the surprised figure.
"Where
am I?" Hovan hissed.
The
man's body language indicated he did not understand Hovan's words. So, he was
not of Kesprytt, which only confused matters more. Their conflict was strictly
an internal one, so who would interfere and why would they bring him to this
offensive place? Slowly, the man raised his hands, leaving his sidearm attached
to the thick belt. Hovan reached around and grabbed it, not recognizing the
manufacture but knowing it to be a weapon. Suspicious of its use, he tossed it
far behind him.
"I
asked: Where am I?"
The
fat man tried to answer but it sounded nonsensical to Hovan and he sneered.
Gutter language perhaps. Certainly not something he could imagine understanding,
so he spun the guard around and placed the stunner at eye level. The scared
figure was sweating, making his scalp glisten beneath the thinning black hair.
His very appearance bothered Hovan but he would need someone to get him home
and this creature was elected. But what to do next? Without knowing where he
was he couldn't begin to figure out how to get home.
With
his arm stiff, he gestured with the stunner for the guard to start walking
again. The two proceeded several yards in silence until they came upon a view-
port.
Hovan made the guard stop and together they looked out to the stars. The
Kesprytt couldn't recognize any patterns, being a carpenter, not a scientist.
He spoke again, and this time the man shrugged.
Nervous,
frustrated, and annoyed to be relying on an alien for help, Hovan balled his
left hand into a fist and struck out. The punch went deep, given how out of
shape the humanoid was, knocking the breath out of him. A second blow made the
guard go to one knee and Hovan kept asking where he was and every time there
was no response, he struck again. After nearly a dozen blows, Hovan noticed the
human had stopped trying to move or protect himself. He just lay there,
breathing with difficulty. Hovan looked at the form, spat on his back, and
proceeded deeper into the station, hoping to find the elusive way home.
Jerolk
liked the market at midweek. It was full of spices and baked scents; he could
tell from one whiff of the heavy air who had come to sell and who was missing.
For four decades he had come to the market, first with his father and now with
his own son. The trip took all morning, so by the time they arrived, atop a
wagon full of setch, a spud-like tuber, the first thought was not of selling
their harvest but of lunch.
Werq's
was the place to go, he knew. Old Man Werq served the hottest, spiciest stew in
the valley, filling your bowl before you could even sit down. Jerolk's son,
Panni, didn't like the spice and sopped it up with hot bread, hoping to cut the
sharpness. It rarely worked and his eyes watered, making his father laugh.
After all, he was much the same, and the continuity pleased him. Plant after the
last snow, harvest when the trees were at
their
fullest, and every midweek come to the market, dining at Werq's.
The
eatery was filled, as usual, but the air seemed different. He sniffed once,
twice, and registered stronger, sweatier smells than normal. The tables were
also more crowded, making it difficult to navigate. He held tight to Panni's
small hand, not wanting to lose him in the crowd. People were grumbling, he
noted, not sounding at all pleased.
"It's
been like this all week..."
"...
he hands me two bars, tells me to get lost..."
"...
didn't have my order this week, might not next..."
"...
credit wasn't good enough ..."
"...
sold out faster than ever..."
"...
stopped the fight for the last one ..."
Two
large, burly men stood from a corner table and Jerolk grew nervous. They were
bigger than normal farmers, clothes blackened and repeatedly patched. These
were the source of the stench, and their darker skins meant they weren't native
to Cadmon. While this was not unusual, the valley tended not to have many
off-world visitors. He grew to like being in this little oasis, away from
starports and intergalactic trade. Call him old-fashioned, but this is how he
liked his life.
Panni
slipped from his father's grasp and ducked under one fellow farmer, reaching
the table first, and claiming the two seats. His father smiled with pride and
took the opposite chair. The youth didn't notice or at least didn't mention
anything wrong, instead looking at the tabletop.
"What's
wrong, sprout?"
"Nothing,
Dad," he replied. "Just not used to seeing the table without our bowl
and stew."
True
enough, the wait staff could not maneuver swiftly enough to handle the
customers, which contributed to the foul mood permeating the room. Jerolk
wanted to eat and begin selling his setch
so they could start home
before dark. There were chores awaiting them both, along with a warm and loving
wife. Finally, Meloth, one of the regular staff, showed up with an unhappy
look.
"No
stew. All gone."
Jerolk
was stunned. "This never happened before. What's going on?"
Meloth
offered a bowl of bread ends, which the younger man snatched at, causing his
father to chuckle. "Miners, lots of them, come to buy supplies."
"Okay,
this happens now and again, but all the stew?"
"Been
like this all week, Jer," the waiter replied. 'They showed up two days
ago, started buying up supplies, offering raw ore worth a fortune, and
discovered Werq's. We've never been so busy... or so strapped for
supplies."
"Eh?"
"Well,
they buy everything, plus you've got your regulars, Jer. Folk like you.
Unexpected demand, same supply, it just means we run out of everything. Werq
himself can't get enough to keep the larder full, and the miners still come in
and demand food. It's what you might call a situation."
Helping
himself to a crust, Jerolk seemed thoughtful.
"Raw
ore, you say?"
"Purest
stuff I've ever seen. Should bring a fortune
when
processed. Wish I were farming instead of working off me debts."
Jerolk
puzzled over the situation. If the miners wanted setch,
he'd sell the lot instead of
the two-thirds or three-quarters he normally sold. In fact, he might even
charge a higher price to the miners, getting that ore. After all, there'd be
tuition, timing, and a new set of tools he'd need coming up. The ore, if Meloth
was right, would help. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of their hunger.
"Who might have something hot left?"
The
waiter shook his head sadly. "If it's like the last two days, no one.
That's the problem, none of us can keep stocked to meet the demand."
"I'll
put aside a bag or two extra for Werq," Jerolk said absently.
"Couldn't do to make the cook starve, just doesn't seem right. Raw ore
from the mines... how far away did they come?"
Meloth
shook his head once more. "That's the thing of it, Jer. They're from Harod
IV, not from here. And the ore is silver, something they've got lots of and
we've got precious little."
The
news shocked the farmer. Harod IV was nowhere near Cadmon, and they never had
any formal trading. Yet there they were, in the valley, buying up everything in
sight.
Selling
the setch would
bring him a great price, but if everyone had silver ore, what would its market
value be in a day or week? And if they took all the supplies, what would the people
have? Short-term, this looked too good to be true. Looking beyond the week,
Jerolk didn't like the possibilities.
Not
at all.
"Time's up, Mel Rosa. You're still here."
"Did
he have to be so punctual?" Riker asked no one in particular.
Undaunted,
Data commented, "He is actually early by thirty-five seconds."
"Swell.
Status, Lieutenant Vale?"
"He's
a man of his word," Vale replied. "Weapons charged, locking on
targets directly ahead."
Riker
leaned forward, resting his boot on the side of Data's console. "Perim,
get us in the line of fire. Vale, more power to the forward shields."
As
the Trill got the ship moving, the lead Deltan vessel unleashed a crimson beam
that erupted in a shower of sparks on the Enterprise's
defensive screens. The larger
starship was a little rattled but maintained its position between the Carreon
and the Deltan craft.
Even
though the Enterprise took the shot meant for Landik Mel Rosa's ship, the Carreon
fired back. Two other Deltan ships returned that volley and within moments, the
Federation starship was caught in a horrible fight. Shots glanced off the
shields, shaking the ship, but it took no direct hits.
On
the bridge, Riker had a tactical display put on the forward viewer. He and Data
approached the display and studied the positioning of the ships. The Deltan
ships were well spaced, requiring little movement, while the fewer Carreon
vessels scrambled fire and move, fire and move. Those last seven Deltan ships
had hung back—score one for Riker.
"Vale,
I want half the phaser banks locked on to the Deltans, the other half on the
Carreons—I don't care which ship or how many. On my signal, I want a simultaneous
burst. Maybe that'll knock some sense into them."
"Aye,
sir. Targeting now."
"Commander,"
Data asked, "what do you hope to accomplish with this action?"
Riker
glanced at his control screen, tapped in some commands, and considered his
response. It was surely a question the brass would ask of him when this was
over. "I want to make them wonder if I'm willing to fire on a Federation
member, whose side am I really on."
Data
looked at him intently.
"Something
else, Data?"
"Which
side are you on, sir?"
Riker
grinned. "The right one." He turned to Vale, standing tautly over her
station. "Ready, Lieutenant?"
She
nodded.
"Fire."
Riker
could hear the phasers from all around him and was satisfied the starship was
performing as expected. He had grown to like the Sovereign-class version of the
Enterprise, although he still had warm feelings for its predecessor.
Still, one needs to keep up with the times and the time was now for this ship
to perform.
"Direct
hits on four ships, three Deltan and one Carreon. Shields faltering, no other
systems impaired."
"Nice
firing, Vale. Ready another volley."
Just
then, the tactical display started to shimmer as ships from all points began to
move. Riker didn't like the pattern and liked it less when he was proven right.
All the ships converged and fired on the Enterprise,
buffetting it. Riker
stumbled, tripping on the command platform, and fell to the carpeted deck
below.
Picking
himself up, Riker coughed once and looked around as damage control teams
arrived to work on shorted circuits and burned-out isolinear chips. He
noted
that everyone else remained seated, so he took his place in the command chair
and asked for reports. So far they remained relatively unscathed but Riker
didn't like the idea of defending himself against so many ships.
"Okay,
maybe the side of the right was overstating things a bit."
Captain
Picard liked to consider himself an open-minded individual, so he could make
himself equally comfortable sharing drinks with Chancellor Martok or spelunking
on Risa. But he didn't like Cardassia.
He
had plenty of reason to personally dislike the Cardassians, having battled
against them and been tortured quite thoroughly by one of them. Their willingness
to sell their souls to the Dominion brought about a war that would leave its
mark on the quadrant for at least another generation.
As
the Marco Polo approached, he could see a gray ball. Cardassia always
seemed to have a miasma around it from centuries of exploitation. It was a resource-poor
world when life took hold, and remained such, which may have fueled the Cardassians'
desire to grow beyond their solar system. Picard's ancestors faced similar
problems but managed to find ways to generate the power they needed to grow,
without destroying the ecosystems. It was a lesson the Cardassians never
learned.
Now,
though, the miasma was more of a shroud; the result of the Dominion's final,
brutal attack on the planet before their surrender which left untold thousands
of Cardassians dead, their cities in ruins.
They
would certainly have the desire to gain control
of
the gateways, Picard mused, but would they have the ability to pay for it?
"Dingy,"
Chan said, breaking Picard's thoughts.
"Dirty,"
Rosario agreed. Chan looked over to him with bright eyes.
"No,
I go with dingy," Davison added to the discussion, as Cardassia grew
larger on the screen.
"That's
two dingies to one dirty," Chan noted. "What do you think, Kai?"
The
Tiburonian looked up from his studies, glanced at the screen, and offered,
"Unsuccessful."
Picard
nodded at that observation and stood. Everyone grew silent, which bothered the
captain. He had hoped to find himself growing more comfortable with the young
and eager officers, but it wasn't coming easily. The experiences aboard the Enterprise
might have spoiled him more
than he realized.
"I'll
do this from the ready room, Commander. You have the bridge. Let's make sure
our Klingon friends remain on this system's edge. There might still be raw
feelings on both sides."
"Aye,
sir."
The
captain walked from the bridge, noting that the debate over the planet's appearance
had started up again. Had anyone bothered to ask him, he would have suggested
"disappointing."
Seated
at his small desk in the ready room, he personally opened the channel to
Cardassia's government. The planet and its ruling Detapa Council lay in ruin. A
ruling body had formed, with representatives from around the planet. A touch of
democracy, he thought, something foreign to the Cardassian Union for many
centuries. Gone was the joint rule of the military, in the
form
of Central Command, and the shadowy spy network of the Obsidian Order; gone
was the iron hand of the Dominion.
The
new government had readily accepted Federation aid, working around the clock to
rebuild their devastated homes. They appeared sincere in their efforts to start
afresh, which Picard applauded, but he privately wondered if there was too
little left to salvage. The Cardassian people were so accustomed to reaping
the resources of their conquered holdings that they turned scant attention to
rebuilding their own world's ability to sustain life.
Picard
also knew that all was not harmonious on the world. People remained loyal to
the Detapa ideals or even had served in the now-obliterated Obsidian Order.
Accepting Federation assistance would be anathema to them and they might even
go so far as to sabotage the rebuilding efforts.
Still,
they had ships and officers and might be willing to help as a return for the
quadrant's generosity.
The
small desk screen came to life and the benign features of a Cardassian greeted
him. The man was your typical native, pale gray-green skin with the thick
ridges running down the sides of his neck. Picard found he could not read the
man's expression.
"This
is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Marco
Polo," he began.
Unexpectedly,
the man's face brightened. "Ah, the famous Enterprise captain."
"Have
we met?" Picard asked cautiously.
"Not at all. Until recently, I owned a humble tailor's shop on
Deep Space 9 and I don't think you ever paid me a visit."
"I
see," Picard said neutrally.
"But word does spread; some ships have such wonderful reputations
and storied adventures. I daresay most Cardassians are familiar with you and
your ship."
"I
don't know whether to be flattered or alarmed, Mister..."
"I am Garak."
"Do
you have a title, sir?"
"Just plain, simple Garak will suffice. How can we help you
today?" His
unctuous voice sounded like that of a salesman, someone used to serving.
Picard, however, had read the reports and knew of Garak's involvement on DS9,
and how he helped Captain Sisko on numerous occasions during the war. Now,
Garak was something like a world leader, holding power on a world with very
little power to offer.
"I
would think, rather, you would anticipate us coming after your meeting with
the Iconians."
Garak
thought a moment, and Picard realized that he couldn't read the man's
expressions. He masked them quite well, but the eyes were bright and he seemed
interested in talking. "Well, then, it's
no secret they paid us a call," he
said. "I'm told they visited many governments,
hm?"
"Yes,
which is why I am here."
"Not to bring us more supplies, as I had hoped." He genuinely seemed disappointed.
The
captain nodded and waited, deciding to let this Garak prattle on until they
could get serious. To his surprise, though, Garak affably waited as well and
the silence grew. He didn't dare look away, suddenly recognizing the game this
had become. Finally, though, when the time seemed interminable, he gave in and
said, "Mr. Garak, I am assembling a fleet of ships, rep-
resenting
many cultures, hoping to force the Iconians to reveal their true plans for the
technology and why they have chosen to return now."
"A humanitarian mission for the good of the Alpha Quadrant? Very
noble of the Federation, Captain. Your altruism has always impressed me. I keep
expecting it to be your downfall and I remain disappointed." Garak kept his voice well modulated, giving nothing away but
Picard thought there was a mocking tone coming through.
"We
had hoped to include a representative from your government as well."
Garak's
eyes opened a bit and he took a shallow breath. "Now
that's very interesting, Captain. Why would we expend our resources on such a
venture?"
"The
gateways are causing all manner of havoc throughout known space, reaching as
far as the Delta Quadrant." He noticed a change in the Cardassian's eyes.
The tailor lived up to the briefings, Picard concluded. Dr. Julian Bashir had
noted how wonderfully absorbant Garak's mind was and how good he was at
misdirection and subterfuge. The mind was processing this new information,
weighing it against a decision he suspected had already been made.
"Do you expect this to become a battle, explaining K'tinga-class
vessels rather than smaller birds-of-prey?"
Picard
grunted, wondering how good their sensor array was. Now he knew, and it wasn't
like Garak to give something away unless he thought it was payment for the
previous information. It was like trading with a Ferengi, without looking for
the trick.
"I
accepted what the chancellor offered, as I will from your government."
"Very good of you, Captain. Having those gateways would certainly
allow us to rebuild our trade with other cultures a lot faster, wouldn't you
say?"
Picard
grew silent, not rising to the bait.
"Marvelous technology. It's a shame, really, that they don't exist
anywhere within light-years of our world. Imagine how it could make us all one
large neighborhood."
With
Cardassia so close to Bajor and the wormhole, it should have occurred to
Command that the Cardassians might not be approached. And if they weren't approached
or had easy access to even a single gateway, the conclusion was inevitable.
"Indeed,"
Picard said. "I'm not going to receive any assistance from your
government, am I?"
The
game over, Garak shook his head slowly. "I'm
afraid not, Captain. But I must say it was a privilege to have a chance to
speak with you."
With
that, the screen faded to black and Picard sat back in his chair. The trip had
been a waste of time, he concluded. Precious time gone by. There was little
likelihood the Cardassians would ever agree to such a mission and Ross, of
all people, should have known that. Intriguing as Garak was, Picard did not
need to spend time in pursuit of a quarry preferring its current isolation.
He
signaled the bridge, asking the Marco Polo to leave dirty, dingy, unsuccessful Cardassia behind and
continue on their way.
Chapter
Five
thunder cracked overhead as Troi materialized in the Grand Nagus's antechamber. She
had already argued with Brisbayne that a meeting like this needed to be
one-on-one and she would be fine on her own. His coarse manner grated on her
nerves and she felt he wouldn't handle the Ferengi well at all. The Ferengi
could be devious, even dangerous on occasion, but the current ruler, Rom, was
reported to be a different sort of man. He had actually worked alongside
Starfleet for a few years as an engineer for Chief O'Brien on Deep Space 9
before Grand Nagus Zek retired and named Rom his successor. Still, Troi was
uncertain of how fast things might have changed under Rom's leadership.
Certainly some of the attitudes had been altered, including the role for women,
something she ap-
plauded.
To be safe and respectful of the long-standing culture, she needed to operate
under the laws as she knew them.
A
short man with a smile showing well-sharpened teeth awaited her and nodded as
she stepped forward. "I am Grinj," he said. "I am to bring you
to the Nagus."
Grinj
led Troi through ornate double doors and into a chamber where Grand Nagus Rom
sat. On one side of the room sat a series of clerks, working at high tables,
clearly calculating income. There was a constant, almost rhythmic, tapping
from them. On the opposite side, under a small window, sat an older woman
beside a gorgeous, lithe Bajoran woman, which surprised the
counselor—especially since both women were clothed. Given the four-lobed
construction of Ferengi brains, she could not sense anything from them, which
always vexed her. However, from the Bajoran woman she sensed a certain
confidence, and a kind of nervous pride.
"Welcome,
Counselor," Rom said, standing up. As nervous as the Bajoran was, Rom's
body language showed that he was much more so, very much unlike Zek, his
predecessor. Most Ferengi were strong-willed, scheming types, usually with
nerves of steel.
"I
greet you, Grand Nagus, on behalf of the Federation." She put her wrists
together, hands out, fingers curled, for the traditional Ferengi greeting, her
combadge cupped in one hand.
"Ah
... thank you ... Counselor." He stammered a moment more, returned the
gesture, and then seemed lost in thought.
"Is
there a problem?" Troi asked.
"Not
at all... it's just, well... here." He jumped
from
the dais where his large chair was and moved to the far side of the room. From
a peg, he took down a large green, orange, brown, and purple robe, seemingly
made from different fabrics. He walked over to the counselor and presented her
the item.
Now
Troi was perplexed and said so. "Have I offended you, Grand Nagus?"
"No,
not at all," he stammered out. "It was very considerate of you, but,
ah, I think you'd find it more comfortable wearing this."
With
a shrug, Troi accepted the robe, and then suppressed a snicker when she
spotted a large ad across the back for a transportation service. The robe
proved to be very short-cut for a non-Ferengi physique—but certainly warmer
than presenting herself in the manner of most Ferengi women. Her show of honor
and respect seemed not to have worked.
"You're
a good boy, Rom," the older woman said.
Rom
beamed at the praise, started back to his chair, and then turned around again,
looking comical in the process. "Ah, Counselor Troi, I would like you to
meet Ishka, my Moo ... mother. And this is Leeta, my wife."
Both
smiled at her but remained where they were, probably so as not to annoy the
Ferengi men who sat on the opposite side of the chamber. They did not look like
a happy lot, mostly whispering back and forth among them, pretending to be
working over the accounts. Troi found it interesting that the leader of the
Ferengi people had married someone from off world. She would like to have
learned more but needed to stick to the matters most pressing.
"Grand
Nagus ..." she began.
"Rom
will do, please," he said. With a wave of his left hand, he gestured her
to a chair before the dais. While she'd have to look up, at least it'd be more
comfortable this way.
"As
you please. May I ask if the Iconians have come to visit?"
"Yes,
with that amazing technology," Rom said, warming to the topic. "I had
heard about the gateways from when the Defiant
encountered one in the Gamma
Quadrant, and couldn't begin to imagine how they could work. Before they came,
one was found on another continent and I flew to see it. I wish I had the time
to look under the paneling."
Troi
didn't need her skills to see his enthusiasm. "What did the Iconians
offer?"
"They
said we could own the technology, be able to trade across the four quadrants.
Brunt thinks it's a trick but Moogie, that is, my mother thinks we should make
an offer."
Troi
smiled at that, seeing the nagus was actually a man willing to listen to
others. Of course, as a former engineer, he also had an appreciation for the
technology. Troi found herself growing to like him and his unassuming way.
Most of her experiences with the Ferengi had been unpleasant, most notably the
time she and her mother were kidnapped off the Enterprise
and were scheduled for
slavery, so this was a welcome change.
"Did
you make an offer yet?"
"Not
that I know of, Rom," she truthfully replied. "In fact, I am here
because we are growing concerned that the gateways, left active as they are,
pose a great dan-gerr. To be honest, we suspect their motives."
Rom
nodded enthusiastically, as if her point proved him right. "That's the
Seventh Rule of Acquisition: Always keep your ears open." He seemed
pleased and once more, Troi had to suppress another chuckle, imagining how the
Ferengi could ever close their enormous ears. "What do you know of the
Iconians, Counselor?"
"Very
little, actually. My commanding officer, Captain Picard, has made a great study
of the scant information found. He has a great respect for them so we're
proceeding cautiously. May I ask if you have made an offer?"
Rom
opened his mouth, but one of the men, a dour-looking sort, cleared his throat
theatrically and Rom's Ups slammed shut. The nagus and the men exchanged looks
and Troi watched in fascination, not being able to fully discern the obvious
power play going on.
"We
are talking with them," Rom said finally and without much conviction.
"I
see. Well, we're assembling a convoy of ships from different governments in the
hopes we can get more information, and more honesty from the Iconians."
If the Ferengi weren't going to offer up the complete truth, she wouldn't
share the Federation's deeper suspicions.
Rom
looked at his mother, then his wife, and then slowly turned his large head
toward the men. He was clearly torn in making the decision but she couldn't
tell which way he was leaning himself.
"I
think it would be wise if we sent someone with you," Rom said. "We
can still talk with their representative, protecting our individual interests,
while participating in this."
Troi
smiled at the nagus and he looked pleased. She
did
see him check for reactions around the room and was surprised at how little
support he seemed to be getting from the men. Leeta seemed proud and Ishka
just nodded to herself. "I think that's very wise of you, Nagus," she
said formally. "Our ships will leave within the hour. We'll send
coordinates for your team."
"Ah
... Counselor, if you like the robe, it's yours. Just ten slips of
latinum."
Troi
fingered the garish garment and sighed. "Thank you, Rom, but I really am
not in a shopping mood right now."
Rom
shook his head sadly. "I understand."
"Report, Counselor," Picard said from the viewscreen.
"The
good news is we have four Gorn ships meeting with us in just under two
hours."
The
captain nodded solemnly. "And the bad
news?"
Troi
shrugged, back in her own quarters, and sipping tea. She acquired the habit
after countless meetings with Picard and his beloved Earl Grey. It was too
strong for her, and she was experimenting with milder blends, searching for one
to call her own. She was dressed in her uniform again, which she much preferred
to the ill-fitting robe, and the Mercury
was already en route to the
rendezvous point.
"Not
bad news actually," she admitted, thoughtful. "We're bringing along a
Ferengi Marauder as well. I gather they are negotiating already, or have made
an offer. I don't think the nagus really wants to own it, just tinker with the
technology. He's not at all what I expected."
Picard
nodded. "On the other hand, the Cardassians
.ire not interested in helping us. There are no gateways
near them to exploit and Command should have anticipated that."
"No
doubt they're overwhelmed," she said, sounding apologetic when she had
nothing to do with the decision.
"We still wasted time when there is none to waste," he muttered, clearly perturbed.
"It's
in the past; we need to stay focused on the future," she said.
"The Tholians have also rejected our offer. Admiral Ross has also
said there are no traces of the Melkots. We're beginning to head for the
rendezvous ourselves. Oh, and Counselor... it's a lot emptier here without you.
Picard out."
Troi
looked at the Starfleet delta on her screen, sipped her tea, and considered the
burdens of command. Picard's admission was not one she would have heard only a
few years ago. She liked much of the responsibility that came with command but
recognized the stress factor was one thing to study, another to experience.
Something to consider as the Sabre-class vessel traveled at high warp.
Picard
turned away from the screen and pondered his own frustrations. Everything
pointed to the Iconians playing at a larger game, not just selling the technology.
Once more he mentally reviewed the mysterious race that flourished throughout
the quadrant and beyond. They devised wondrous technology, and left on several
worlds an influence that survived over two hundred millennia. Why come back
now, why offer to sell their greatest achievement? And if these weren't the
Iconians, how did they get their hands on the technology, and why were they
selling it?
Shaking
those thoughts from his mind, he picked up a padd and added in the Gorn
complement to his flight plans. With the Enterprise
at the head, he could put the
Klingons on the right flank and Gorn to the left. He still didn't know what to
make of the Nyrians, so he felt putting them in the middle was safest, with the
Ferengi Marauder closer to the Klingons. Mercury
and Marco
Polo he put directly behind. Four
races might not be enough to make the impact Starfleet had hoped, but it would
have to suffice.
Picard
began recording a log entry, but was immediately interrupted by a summons from
Davison. He stopped recording and strode quickly to the bridge.
"We
have two warp signatures coming from 323 mark 37, approaching at warp
five," Davison said, as Picard took his chair.
"Mr.
Rosario?"
"The
power signature makes them to be Romulans."
He
raised his eyebrows at the announcement. Admiral Ross was to deal with the
Romulan Senate and wasn't scheduled to be there yet. The ships must have been
patrol vessels, although they were on the wrong side of the border. With the
relaxation of postures on both sides, strict enforcement of the boundaries had
been lessened. Two were certainly not enough to be an invasion force taking
advantage of the gateway chaos.
"Go
to yellow alert," Picard ordered. "Contact the Chargh
and Qob,
have them standby. I want no
overt actions on their part. Time to contact?"
"Under
an hour, Captain," Hoi said from science.
"Both
Klingons acknowledge, but they didn't sound happy," Rosario said.
"That's
a surprise," Davison added dryly. Picard just gave her a glance.
"Klingons
rarely sound happy," he said. "It's all in how you listen to them.
Commander Davison, let's keep an eye on them. Also, let's summon Ambassador
Worf to the bridge. The enmity between the two races has not lessened at all
despite our work together during the war. Helm, change course to intercept,
let's do this with our eyes wide open."
Everyone
acknowledged and set about their tasks. With a little time, Picard prepared a
personal dispatch to Admiral Ross and sent it, making it clear he felt the
Romulans could either bolster the plan or compromise it. Unlike his crew, he
did not feel like making a wager.
Worf
arrived, eyes alert, face impassive. He immediately stood beside Picard's
chair and ignored the sidelong glances given him by the crew.
"Warbirds," he said.
"Nice
to see you haven't lost your keen observational prowess," Picard said
with a grin. Worf merely stared at him.
"They
are not an attack force," Worf continued. Picard nodded.
"They're
also ahead of the admiral's schedule so they were not sent to us," the
captain added. "Will Grekor follow our lead?"
"His
House has never betrayed the Council," Worf began. "Grekor is old, a
loyalist, and eager to serve for future considerations. He will obey."
"Good
to hear," Picard noted. He gestured for Worf to sit and wait with the
bridge crew. The hour passed quickly, and as the enormous
warbirds
came closer, Picard initiated contact. Almost immediately, a young woman
appeared on the screen.
"I am Commander Desan, of the Romulan ship Glory."
"What
brings you out this way, Commander?" Picard asked.
"There have been disturbances in the Empire and we are seeking
reasons."
"Have
you found anything?" Picard didn't mind fishing for information, fully
expecting Romulan reticence.
"It's an internal matter," the woman replied.
"And
these disturbances, do they have anything to do with the gateways operating in
your Empire?"
She
eyed him carefully, without a quick, prepared response. "That's
not for me to say, Captain."
Worf
shifted in his seat and caught Picard's eye. He slightly nodded, giving
approval, though strictly speaking Worf didn't need it. Picard suspected the
years of serving under the captain led Worf to defer to him out of habit.
"I
am Ambassador Worf from the Federation," he said.
"How interesting," she said disdainfully.
"Commander,
Federation representatives are on their way now to Romulus requesting support
for this mission. Perhaps we can help each other."
"/
am listening, Ambassador," she said. Picard sat hack, content with Worf handling the
woman, giving him a chance to observe.
"I
can surmise that if the Klingon government and the Federation Council were
approached by the Iconi-.iris, then so too did they visit your leaders."
She
remained silent, listening intently.
"The
Federation suspects these people and we are putting together a representative
fleet to find out more from them. Having the Romulans beside us will give us
strength."
"My government likes to remain up to date on all matters of such
import." She
seemed confident, almost arrogant in the response. Her hair was long, lighter
than most Romulans,' and was pulled back, exposing a smooth face. She wore
large dangling earrings in geometric patterns that glittered in the light.
Picard took her presence to mean that somehow, their secret police, the Tal
Shiar, had managed to learn of the Federation's plans—no doubt as soon as they
were announced during the holoconference. Despite increased security, and a
measure of paranoia, Starfleet Command still could not stop the spying.
"Captain, Ambassador, we approached with the truce beacon on and
it remains so. My Praetor feels we have a mutual interest in this situation.
Our patrols were in hopes of finding Iconians for further... discussion."
Picard
recalled the old adage: "Keep your friends close and your enemies
closer." With the war over, it was unclear which category the Romulans
fell into, but either way, it couldn't get much closer than this. He also drew
confidence from the presence of the Klingon ships, which helped even the
numbers should a problem arise. Of course, he knew, the Klingons would object
to their presence, old animosities being very tough to bury.
"Do
you acknowledge that the Federation is taking the lead in this mission?"
Picard asked in his most authoritative tone. "Anyone accompanying us does
so
under
my direction. I will not abide rogue ships causing a problem during these
sensitive talks."
Desan's
eyes flared for the briefest of moments, betraying her true feelings. Good, Picard
thought, honest emotion. Now he knew her better. "Once
we hear what the Iconians have to say, we will decide our own course of
action."
"Agreed,"
Picard replied. "Obviously, I will ask you take the left flank, apart from
the Klingons."
This
time Desan's face twisted into a frown of disgust. "We
would have done so in any case, Captain. Glory out."
Unsettled
by the turn of events, Picard sat in thought as his crew busied themselves
around him. Worf stared at the screen and Picard could imagine what was running
through the warrior's mind. Although Worf had improved his attitude toward the
Romulans, he retained some suspicion and it was understandable. Their dealings
throughout the years built up a body of experience that forced such suspicion.
Davison had already taken it upon herself to begin positioning the ships as
Picard outlined. Chatter remained formal, but he barely paid attention. He
absorbed the new facts and poured them into his mental paradigm, considering
the consequences of each act. The first order of business would be to keep the
peace among the fleet and to accomplish that, he needed Worf.
"/
will not serve with petaQ!"
"Captain,
the chancellor assigned you to this mission, to follow Captain Picard. Who
else accompanies us is not of your concern." Worf was standing by the
tactical station, holding the conversation with the cap-tain while Rosario
stepped back.
"Actually, Ambassador, it is," Grekor said with a surly tone. "/ no
more want to see our people attacked than you do. I think Picard has the heart
of a warrior and I do not object to his being in command. But we will be
exposing our backs to a people known for their treachery, and that I cannot
abide."
Worf
steeled himself, trying to find a persuasive argument to convince the captain
that remaining was better than trying to force the Romulans to leave. Worf
certainly had no love for the Romulans, but for this mission every little bit
would help.
"We
cannot force the Romulans to leave without provoking a fight," Worf
noted. "That would waste time and resources. And there is no honor in
provoking such a fight just because they share the same space with us. They are
our allies and have been since the war—why not travel alongside them now?"
Grekor
considered that, eyes barely wavering from the screen, which showed the
beak-like head of the Romulan ship. Dull green light filled the bridge since
the captain ordered the alert and Worf knew the disruptors were already
trained on both ships.
"They are not to be trusted," Grekor repeated. "What sort of
commander would I be were I to lead my men into a Romulan ambush?"
"A
dead one," Worf replied, not intending any humor.
"True, but there is no pleasure in it this way."
"But,"
Worf persisted, "Captain Picard has also faced these people. He will not
allow such a situation to arise. He has Martok's trust, why not yours?"
Grekor
forced the breath from his body and took a moment. He seemed to be forcing
himself to relax and
Worf
was surprised to see a smile on the captain's face. "You,
I will trust, Ambassador. Your accomplishments have earned that. In fact, when
this is over I would like to discuss ways to bring our Houses closer."
Worf
turned his head away from the corpulent captain and rolled his eyes.
Chapter
Six
"we're taking damage, Commander,"
La Forge called from
engineering. "/ can't guarantee how
long before shields/ail."
"Another
volley coming from port," Vale said from behind Riker.
"Deltan
ships three, five, and six are coming at us, one-quarter impulse," Data
added.
"We're
in over our heads," Riker muttered. It wasn't the most brilliant
observation he had ever made, but it was essentially accurate. For the last
hour, the combined Deltan and Carreon forces had managed to put aside their
differences and took on the Enterprise as a common enemy. Both captains had stopped accepting the
commander's hails and he now considered his last stratagem a spectacular
failure.
He
had tried to avoid direct shots, merely phaser blasts that would divert the
ships away from the hulking starship. Rather than move the battle, he kept the
vessel in its position, avoiding complicating the targeting process by being
constantly in motion. The other ships were not as courteous and darted through
space like angry bees. And they were going for direct strikes wherever they
could. Vale had reported no contact between the races, so they weren't sharing
information. At least it gave him some hope for getting out of this mess
intact.
The
ship shuddered under the current round of pounding as Vale fired back, picking
off what she could, missing on occasion. Riker noted that damage-control teams
were on over half the decks and Dr. Crusher was already complaining about the
increasing number of injured.
Vale
looked at him with concern. "We're hitting the sixty percent mark on
torpedoes, shields down to fifty-four percent."
It
was long past time to put an end to the fighting. He just didn't have an idea
that would get the Deltans' and Carreons' attention.
"Data,
time to get out of here," Riker began.
"Agreed."
"Ensign
Perim, Z minus fifty thousand kilometers, as soon as we're clear, engage at
warp one. Plot us a circular course that will bring us back as quickly as
possible."
Perim
nodded in acknowledgment and set about her station.
"Vale,
open a channel to Starfleet." He heard the telltale beep and began,
"This is the Enterprise. Situation has grown out of hand. Request backup from whichever
vessels are closest to this position."
The Enterprise
began dropping as instructed,
but two Deltan craft dropped with it, firing continuously. Riker, with little
choice, instructed that both ships be disabled. Concentrated ruby light struck
from the ship's underhull, making contact first with one ship, then the other.
On
the bridge, Riker saw the hits register on the tactical display and
congratulated Vale. He saw the ship continue to lower, putting enough distance
between them to form the warp bubble required to leave the area.
Two
more ships, one Deltan, one Carreon, replaced the injured vessels and renewed
the attack. Once more, the Enterprise struck back; a great wounded animal fighting to escape. It
was not a pretty situation for the commander, one he was unused to. It grated
against him and already regretted the report he would have to make when Picard
returned. He had barely thought about his friend's own mission, not allowing
himself to worry about things he could not change.
"Distance,"
he asked.
"Thirty-seven
thousand kilometers," Data answered.
"Geordi,
what's the minimum safety for going to warp?"
"You're right about there, Commander, but it's going to be tough
with them still firing."
"Understood,
out." He turned to Data, prepared to give the order, feeling like he was
running away from a fight he started. Before he could issue the order, Vale
interrupted.
"Signal
coming in, Commander, it's the captain!"
"Will, what in hell is going on there?"
Riker
grinned at the tone, glad if someone had to come haul his butt out of trouble,
it was his friend. "My strategy backfired, Captain. How far away are
you?"
"We've pushed it to warp eight, Number One. We should be there in
minutes."
"Four
minutes, thirty-seven seconds," Data offered cheerfully.
"I missed that precision, Mr. Data," Picard said.
"Captain,
we'll send you complete tactical reports so you know what you're getting
yourself into."
"Try not to lose my ship until then, Commander. Picard out."
This
time, when Riker took his place in the command chair, it didn't feel so
burdensome. "Perim, evasive course, full impulse. Make us a moving target
and let's get some distance between us and that damned planet."
The
Trill ensign began piloting the starship in an erratic pattern that seemed to
confuse the smaller ships. Not that they stopped firing, but they were missing
more than they were making contact. As a result, Riker could hear reports
coming in a little faster as repairs were finished. Even La Forge said the
shields were finally holding steady, back toward the seventy-five percent
mark. Riker let out a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and not get too
excited about his captain coming to the rescue.
"We
have visual, Captain," Chan announced.
Picard
put the fuel consumption report down and saw the image of his starship moving
like a drunken boxer, having taken one shot too many. Its flight pattern seemed
evasive and they were not firing back at the ships, which kept dipping in and
around the vessel. From the tactical report sent by his crew, Picard figured
out that Riker somehow made the Enterprise the focal
point
of all hostilities. While questioning the strategy, he did note no ships had
been lost.
"Red
alert. Captain Picard to Captain Grekor," Picard called out.
"Grekor here," a rough voice replied on the audio system.
"I'm
transmitting a pattern I would like your two ships to follow. I'm asking the
others to hang back and give us room to maneuver. You are to shoot only if
fired upon, and shoot to disable, am I clear?"
"Bah, that's not a battle, it's target practice."
"Still,
our mission is to preserve the peace, not let the gateways sow unnecessary
trouble."
"Chargh
out."
Despite
a few decades of peaceful coexistence, Picard thought, few truly understood
the complex warrior culture that dominated the Klingon people. After being
thrust directly into it, and as a duty to Worf, Picard had immersed himself in
its intricacies. Their codes and mores were fascinating reading, and he
understood how they united under an ideal. Some of their conquered worlds went
unwillingly, but an equal number liked the way of life and were proud to be a
part of the Empire.
"Chargh and Qob
in position," Chan
reported.
"Mr.
Rosario, we're going in at full impulse. Target the ships closest to the Enterprise.
Let's move them off while our
friends start pushing the two sides apart. They just might think twice when
staring down several phaser banks and disruptor turrets."
"Understood,
sir."
"Engage,"
Picard said and then took a sharp breath, readying his mind, from diplomacy to
battle.
Dropping
out of warp, the three ships seemed to ma-
terialize
from nowhere and immediately went about their business. With precision phaser
shots, Carreon craft were moved away from the Enterprise's
nacelles while the Klingon
ships bracketed Deltan ships with fire, giving them only one course to take.
On
the bridge, Picard watched his adopted crew perform and was impressed. They
took little joy in the battle but did as they were told and kept the usual
side comments to a minimum. Even through the red haze of combat lighting, he
could tell from the tactical displays that the plan was working. The sudden
arrival of so much firepower scared off the much smaller ships and they easily
scattered to two clusters, far from the Federation starships.
In
all, it was over in five minutes.
"Go
to yellow alert, stand down from firing. Mr. Rosario, patch me through to
captains of those lead ships. Link the Enterprise
so they can listen."
"Aye,
sir, it'll take a moment," the curly-haired man replied.
While
waiting, Picard once more sought to adopt the more placid tones of a diplomat,
a role he had played more and more often these last few years. During the
Dominion War he was either soldier or diplomat and had come to miss the
exploration aspect of his mission. Even this Iconian situation cried out for an
explorer but first he had to be a fighter. It just didn't seem fair.
"On
screen, Captain. The Deltan is Captain Oliv and the Carreon is Landik Mel
Rosa."
"Thank
you," Picard replied.
Both
captains appeared on the screen and Picard could tell at a glance that neither
one looked happy to see the Federation's best-known defender. Oliv had a
smug
look, one born out of superior
numbers, while his counterpart's eyes spoke of his devotion to the fight.
"I
expect all defensive weapons placed on standby while we sort this out."
There
was no question that they had to comply. Powerful as they were, neither side
wished to anger the superior firepower represented by more than one Federation
starship, not to mention the Klingon battle cruisers. He saw both captains nod
to off-camera personnel and he spared just a glance backward to tactical. He
got a double nod and smile from the relieved lieutenant.
"You
both traveled through gateways to arrive in this disputed area. While I
recognize the risks inherent in using them to return, I urge you both to go
home. Your disputes may be legitimate, but are minor compared to the bigger
issue facing us all. If you wish, once this is over, the Federation can
dispatch a mediator to settle this once and for all."
Before
either captain could react, Picard forged ahead. "This problem will only
escalate, which is why I am trying to ascertain exactly what the Iconians
really want. If I accomplish nothing else, I want them to close the gateways to
prevent further bloodshed. To demonstrate our peaceful intentions, I am
assembling a representative fleet. I would welcome one or more ships from the
Carreon to join us. An equal number of Deltan craft could join if it makes
Captain Oliv feel better about your problems.
"We're
moving out, meeting with other ships. You can coordinate with Lieutenant
Rosario and Commander Davison. You have ten minutes, Picard out." With a
hand gesture, he signaled to cut the signal.
"Didn't
give them a moment to breathe," Davison observed.
"Absolutely
not," Picard said, relaxing just a little. "We don't have time for
posturing or arguments over a dead world. There are times, Commander, when
having a reputation can be put to good use."
"And,"
she added, with a smile, "having two Klingons for emphasis never
hurts."
"Never,"
Worf agreed.
"Mark
me," Picard concluded, "there will be two of each and we can go to
warp on time."
"I'll
take that bet," Chan said, clearly happy order had been restored. A stern
look from Picard reminded her to stay focused on her duty.
To
anyone looking at the warp signatures, they would have scratched their heads in
wonderment. Why would there be a Federation starship, flanked by two Klingon
vessels and two Romulan ships, followed by two ships from Delta IV and two ships
from the Carreon, then a ship with an unrecognized signature, and followed by a
smaller Federation ship? These eleven vessels were streaking through space,
forming a fleet that few would dare challenge.
Picard
suppressed a small smile at the accomplishment, having four (or five, counting
the Nyrians) governments represented before even arriving at the rendezvous
point with Counselor Troi. The smile was also due, in no small part, to his
return to the Enterprise. With the mission complete and now under way, he could leave
the Marco Polo under Davison's watch and assume his rightful place on his
ship.
Riker
was waiting for him as he materialized in
the
transporter room. He looked worn, the captain thought.
"Will,
exactly what have you done to my ship?" he demanded with a smile.
The
first officer shook his head, but couldn't keep the twinkle from his eyes. At
least he hadn't lost his good nature, Picard noted. They strode off at a brisk
pace, heading for the nearest turbolift. "Actually sir, a lot less damage
than the last time I was left in command this long."
"Oh,
so I still have a warp core?"
"Absolutely,
sir. Wouldn't leave the sector without it."
"Excellent
idea. Damage report."
"Minor
structural damage, but Geordi says it won't slow us down. He's also got crews
replacing blown circuits. One ODN is still giving him trouble, but it'll keep
him occupied and happy."
"Very
good." They stepped into the lift and headed straight for the bridge.
Riker had already assigned crew to retrieve Picard's belongings from the other
ship.
"Miss
us?"
"Maybe,"
Picard said. "Not a bad ship, the Marco
Polo. Smaller crew, fewer
headaches."
"Less
glamorous assignments," Riker added.
Picard
nodded. "For a patchwork crew, they performed well, which gives me hope.
We'll need them. But, I don't quite know about leaving Davison in command.
She's logged very few hours in such a position and I'd rather have someone with
more experience."
"I
see you picked up a stray or two," the first officer added.
"The
Romulans happened to be on the way, which adds import to our group, but also
some complications."
"Such
as keeping the Klingons from firing."
"I
have no doubt Captain Grekor will maintain order, and having Worf aboard the Marco
Polo will be an additional
asset."
Riker
raised his eyebrows at the news that an old friend was coming along for the
mission. Before he could follow up on this, Picard succinctly filled nun in on
the Nyrians, the Cardassians, and the lack of success Ambassador Lojal had with
the Tholians. There was little time to waste, he felt. By then, they had left
the lift and taken their customary places on the bridge. He was pleased to see
his alpha shift in position, his most trusted officers ready for the dangers
ahead. And he knew all their names.
"There's
always Data," Riker suggested as they each picked up a padd and began
catching up on reports.
Picard
shook his head. "I will need him when we deal with the Iconians. If he
were to be in command, I'd scarcely let him off that bridge."
"Spoken
like a true first officer," Riker quipped.
Picard
gave him a small smile, then handed two padds to a young officer. "Ensign,
these reports should be routed to the quartermaster before coming to me."
The younger man nodded and hurried off.
"And
that leaves Dr. Crusher out, in case this turns into a fight," Riker
observed.
Staring
at another padd, from an engineer, he double-checked some figures, then added
his thumbprint for approval. "Very true. I suppose Geordi could handle
it," Picard said.
Riker
handed the padd to a waiting officer and looked at his commander. "Same
argument as with the doctor. There's always Deanna."
"Number
One, I thought you said we shouldn't give her another command after she crashed
the Enterprise-D." Picard tried to look overly shocked at the suggestion
but couldn't keep the small grin from his face.
Riker
put on a look of mock surprise. "Me? Couldn't imagine saying something
like that about a capable Starfleet officer."
Picard
cocked an eyebrow and let the comment go without rejoinder. In many ways,
having Troi command the other ship made sense and she would still be close
enough to offer guidance. She certainly had proven her ability with people and
there was plenty of support, in case of trouble.
"Let's
make it so," he said finally.
As
Riker busied himself, Picard spotted Crusher entering the bridge. He stood to
greet her and she seemed pleased to have him back but also a little worn. Her
hands were tucked into her jacket pockets and her reddish hair looked unkempt.
"Good
to have you back, Captain. Your first officer seemed determined to fight like a
Klingon."
"I'm
sure Commander Riker's experience aboard their ships gives him a rather unique
perspective on interstellar politics," he replied seriously. "Any
serious injuries?"
"Nothing
I couldn't fix although they were starting to stand in the halls with all the
shaking going on," she continued, looking determinedly at Riker. He
ignored her, consulting with Data on something, and this amused Picard.
"I'll
try and keep things under control for the duration," Picard said.
"Thanks.
A meal later?"
He
looked into her green eyes, feeling warmed by her smile.
"Absolutely," he promised.
As
the two continued talking, Riker had Vale put a tactical chart on the screen, showing
the fleet and the rendezvous point. From there, he and Picard busied themselves
with contingency plans, trying to anticipate how to move so many ships should
trouble occur. Picard also had Data assemble a report on further troubles
caused by the gateways and also asked for an update from Captain Solok's
attempts to create a map. As the crew busied themselves and he lost himself in
the planning, a part of Picard's mind noted the comfort and ease he had with
his crew. They had served together longer than most command crews and that
gave Picard the confidence to take them further than he might with another
crew, such as that of the Marco Polo. Yes, he was spoiled, but he took full advantage of that
which kept him and the Enterprise in the forefront of the Federation's exploration and
defense.
"Ambassador, I wish to consult you on the tactical planning."
"That
is between you and Captain Picard," Worf replied, bristling. He sat in his
quarters, staring at the viewscreen and the obsequious captain.
Grekor
was hunched over a table, studying the flowing diagrams that charted possible
battle scenarios. Grekor and Krong, the first officer, were trying to see how
quickly the two Klingon battle cruisers could pivot and fire cleanly, without
placing any other ship in the crossfire. When the two disagreed, they turned to
Worf for his input.
"Ambassador," Grekor
began slowly, "we merely
plan our defense in case of treachery. There's little you can offer
when the disruptors begin firing."
Worf
gritted his teeth, frustrated by wanting to offer complete help with his
extensive experience but needing to remember his role as the ambassador.
"Actually, Captain," he said as casually as possible, "if they
do break formation in this manner, you can take the first shot between the
Nyrian and the Marco Polo because a ship of that nature can react faster than you. The
Federation craft will, by routine, rise, opening an opportunity."
Grekor
studied the board a moment, then nodded as an officer reprogrammed the
simulation, watching as the purple blip representing the Marco
Polo moved as Worf suggested. Sure
enough, there was a clear shot awaiting the fastest ship. Armed with this
knowledge, Grekor could strike first, and Worf hoped, respect what he had to
offer.
"Excellent, Ambassador. That's the kind of thinking we need more
of."
Worf
stalked his room, not caring if he moved away from the camera. While he liked
things spare, the ambassador did wish to have room for a holocube so he could
look at rotating pictures of his son Alexander, his now-dead wife Jadzia, and a
recent portrait of his adoptive parents. Still, he hadn't packed for a
vacation but a vital mission.
He
wished for the luxury of a holodeck, but Sabre-class
vessels didn't have room. His
alternative was to find a sparring partner and use a workout chamber, but he
did not know any of the Marco Polo crew well enough to share such an experience.
"Ambassador, your help has been immense. We will
be better prepared thanks to you," Grekor said by way of signoff. Worf felt his frustration
mounting.
Before
he could indulge himself and put a fist into the bulkhead, his communication
terminal beeped. The Klingon letters crawling across the screen indicated it
was from the Enterprise. Hastily, he stabbed the activation button. Riker's
perpetually cheery face awaited him.
"Ambassador, how good of you to make time for a lowly
commander."
Worf
nodded and replied, "Ambassadors are trained to speak with the high ... as
well as the low."
Riker
winced at the barb, continuing to smile.
"It's good to have you with us," the human said, bringing a feeling of calm to Worf. "You
know enough of the Iconian situation to recognize the more experienced hands
the better. How's the diplomat business treating you?"
"As
one might expect."
"/
see," Riker replied knowingly. "If
that's the case, maybe I should arrange a small reception in honor of our
ambassador."
"Thank
you, no ... Will," Worf replied, still trying to get used to using the
first name. "The last one was sufficient." Then, with sudden
inspiration, he looked intently at the screen. "Actually, Commander,
allow me to entertain you. We shall re-create the battle of Malkir, readying
our limbs for the battle ahead."
Riker
looked at his friend and Worf could tell he was being read like an open book.
Try as he might, he could rarely keep from such scrutiny by those who knew him
well. Finally, the first officer smiled and replied, "Sure
thing. If I recall the battle, it was two against a dozen, over an active hot
steam geyser. Did you bring one? "
"We
shall improvise," Worf added and cut the signal.
Twenty
minutes later, the two men were on an Enterprise
holodeck, stripped to the
waist, their skins slick with sweat. All around them were swords and bat'leths,
some still attached to their
opponents' hands. The dead around them might have been holograms, but there was
a joy pounding in Worf's chest. It had been too long, he realized, since he had
the chance to cut loose like this.
Riker
was grinning, which Worf found annoying more often than not. Still, Riker
comported himself well and could display any emotion he wanted.
"Guess
ambassadors don't get to do this too often, even on Qo'noS, eh, Worf?"
Riker ducked and swung his sword, one-handed, to his left, keeping an attacker
at bay.
"Indeed."
Worf jumped right over the geyser, ignoring the stinging steam, and punched an
attacker in the side of the head. It seemed to only stagger him and as he
whirled about, Worf butted him again, this time with his bat'leth,
which forced him to his three
knees.
The
first officer lunged low, aiming the sword up, and the rushing attacker impaled
himself on the tips.
Riker
stepped closer, wiping his twin-tipped sword on the pant leg of a fallen foe.
"You're enjoying this almost too much so I know something's on your
mind."
Worf
leaped high, avoided a swipe from an attacker, then landed. With both hands
gripping the bat'leth, he thrust it so one end was in the enemy's forehead and the
other point in his abdomen. Removing the weapon, he watched the figure fall in
a heap, atop two other bodies.
Riker's
question remained unanswered. While he was able to share many of his concerns
with Wu these last few months, he and Riker had endured so much to-
gether,
even going so far as to love the same woman. While his heart mourned for
Jadzia, it was also glad to see Troi and Riker back where they belonged:
together. His friends aboard the Enterprise
were always getting him to
open up, something he did with reluctance. And yet... and yet it usually did
help.
"My
name, my accomplishments ... they are a matter of public record, yet Grekor
sees me as nothing but a career opportunity." He whirled as the final two
attackers rushed him. He held the weapon horizontal, ready for the final
movement.
Riker
ran toward Worf, jumped onto one pile of bodies, and sprang from it so he
could swing his sword from a high angle, cleaving one of the final enemies almost
in two. The action provided sufficient distraction so Worf needed just one
swing from his blade to decapitate the final one. The battle was over.
"Most
commanders have a natural dislike for diplomats, comes with the
territory." Riker was thoughtful for a moment then added, "You're
just not used to being the center of attention. And, you're a man of action so
sitting on the sidelines hurts."
Worf
nodded in silence, staring at the ichor dripping from his bat'leth,
recognizing the words'
validity.
"I'm
impressed, though," Riker offered. "To put aside those warrior
tendencies to take on an even greater mission for both your people takes quite
a man. I don't know if I could have done it. Martok's lucky to have you close
at hand on Quo'noS."
Although
the commander had said nothing Worf did not already know, hearing it from a
trusted compatriot did take some of the sting out of the mission. He let out a
deep breath and nodded once in appreciation.
"Now,"
Riker said, reaching for his uniform jacket, "I want to know something
about the Qob's captain, Tarnan. The captain and I need to make sure he
won't take the opportunity to gut a Romulan during all this."
The
next hour slid by as the two talked ships, armaments, and strategy. Worf
hadn't felt this good in a long time.
Picard
turned command over to Data and left the bridge for his ready room. As the
android took the center seat, Geordi La Forge strode across the wide space to
join him. To La Forge, Data seemed a little off his game, reacting to orders
just a little slower than usual.
"Something
wrong?"
Data
looked at him, paused and turned his head to stare into space, and less than
twenty seconds later replied, "Internal diagnostics show everything
performing within optimal guidelines."
La
Forge chuckled and shook his head, knowing he should have been more specific
with the question. "No, Data, you seem distracted."
His
mechanical friend looked at him with some concern.
"It's
okay, if you have other things on your mind. Happens to everyone."
"I
am not everyone," Data said. "But you are right. In addition to the
mission, I have allocated portions of my brain to continue working on
long-standing issues. You might be happy to know I am almost done with my
latest poem."
La
Forge rolled his eyes, recalling the last poem was over one hundred stanzas
long and involved a most
technical
explanation of a sunset. He put a sympathetic hand on Data's shoulder and
walked off, heading back to his console. On the way, though, he looked over his
shoulder and sure enough, Data seemed to be staring off into space, not at the
status reports coming through to his station.
He'd
have to keep an eye on his friend.
Picard
watched Taleen appear on the transporter pad and smiled as she looked around in
wonder. She wore a hat that covered much of her dark hair and tapered several
inches higher. Her uniform tunic was of a similar shade of brown, which went
down to her thighs, with matching brown pants. She seemed to be in her
mid-thirties with a wide-eyed expression. Clearly she remained rattled by her
ship's arrival in the Alpha Quadrant and the captain wanted to make certain
they were able to operate as part of the fleet.
"Welcome,
Taleen, I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard," he said by way of welcome.
"Thank
you for having me to the meeting," she said. He noted her voice was rather
pleasant but betrayed a lack of experience as one in command.
"I
have invited all the captains," he said as he escorted her from the room.
"I
still don't feel like much of a commander," she said with a sigh. "I
wasn't trained for it and this was never supposed to happen."
Picard
pointed out some of his ship's features to her as they walked along the curving
corridor. He watched as she took everything in with round eyes, but also noted
how intently she stared at anything technological.
"You
will find, as have some of my crew, that ex-
treme
situations can bring out the best in a person, crew, or ship," Picard said
encouragingly.
"Or
the worst," she countered.
"The
Federation tends to be on the optimistic side of things."
"Captain
Janeway certainly never gave up," she said.
"So
tell me, how did you encounter Voyager? "
Picard
saw her hesitate, clearly reviewing the incident, and finding the best way to
explain it. She certainly didn't look happy about it.
"My
people tried to, well, that is, we were trying to relocate the Voyager
crew and use the ship."
The
captain looked at her with some alarm, worrying that he might have misread the
woman and her intentions. Still, she seemed genuinely abashed by the mere
mention of the incident. She went on to explain how their people took other
ships for their own use, finding a proper place for the crews to live. Janeway
and her people had managed the rare feat of escaping and negotiated not only
the return of Voyager, but also the freedom for the other races in similar
captivity. Picard was once more impressed with the growing legend of Kathryn
Janeway.
Finally,
they found themselves at a pair of doors, which he explained was the turbolift,
which would bring them to deck twelve and the briefing room. "With so many
people, I felt it best to use a larger room," he explained as they stepped
in.
As
they emerged, Riker was waiting for them and the captain made quick
introductions as they walked to the room a short distance away. It had been
just an hour since the Mercury and the Ferengi Marauder Kreechta
arrived, followed by the four
Gorn ships. Seventeen ships meant just as many captains plus an ambassador.
He
decided to bring aboard the primary leaders from each government.
In
attendance were Captain Oliv of the Deltans, Landik Mel Rosa from the Carreon,
Commander Desan for the Romulans, Captains Grekor and Tarnan for the Klingons,
DaiMon Bractor from the Ferengi Alliance, Ralwisssh from the Gorn Hegemony,
Taleen—who seemed woefully out of place—and the Federation's Brisbayne, Troi,
and Riker. Ambassador Worf had a seat near Picard and he sat there, speaking
with Troi in hushed tones.
Before
speaking, he took a moment to truly look at this polyglot of races, all with
one goal: get to the truth. An undercurrent to all that remained keeping the
hostile factions—Deltan vs. Carreon, Klingon vs. Romulan— from open warfare.
Still, he remained suffused with pride that this many different worlds
willingly came together.
It
took a few moments, but all eyes finally settled on the Picard. He was not the
tallest or broadest in the room, but it was unmistakable who was in command. He
prided himself on how he comported himself and felt he could not give in to any
pettiness.
"For
everyone's benefit, let me sum up our situation: the Tholians, Breen, and Cardassians
have rejected our offer. Our Romulan friends have joined us. So much the
better," Picard began. "Essentially, all the major Alpha Quadrant
governments have been asked to be a part of this mission. Now we must move
forward, in unison."
'Tell
me, Picard," Mel Rosa said, interrupting. He was not terribly tall, with
dusky skin, bright blue eyes and a frame that seemed totally out of human
proportion so the head seemed smaller than it actually was. Picard noted,
though, that the man wore a bright, crisp uni-
form
with signals of his command running up the center flap of the jacket. He
didn't know much of the Carreon, having rarely encountered them, so he tried to
retain an open mind despite their belligerent tendencies. "Why don't you
just blow up these portals?"
"There's
no profit in that," Bractor, said. He was the shortest of the captains,
clad in a formfitting monochromatic gray uniform with just gold circles at his
sleeves, denoting his rank. Picard personally met him in the transporter room a
little while earlier. The conversation was tense at first since the last time
they had seen each other, the DaiMon was trying to blow up a Federation
starship during a training exercise. Along the way, he had dealt the Enterprise-^
some severe damage, all the
result of a serious misunderstanding.
"Because,
Captain," Picard interrupted, ignoring Bractor's comment, "they all
seem to possess defensive fields that dampen weapons." He tried to keep
the annoyance out of his voice.
"It's
true enough," Grekor agreed. "We fired torpedoes at one and their
guidance systems failed. Disruptors were also rendered useless at close
range."
"What
are they? Magicians?" Mel Rosa asked.
Briefly,'
Picard sketched out what was known about the Iconians, and asked for his guests
to compare experiences of dealing with the Iconian representatives. He watched
as Troi made herself some notes and was curious for her analysis when they were
once again under way.
"Actually,
Captain," Desan began, "my Praetor has already made two offers. One
several days ago and another within the last few hours. It seems the Orions
are bidding aggressively through an agent of theirs."
"Are
you here, then, to insure the Iconians are treating your offer
seriously?"
"Captain,
I am here to make certain that what they have to offer is genuine and that they
deal fairly with one and all. I think we're agreed, should the Orions or Kreel
get it, none of us will be safe."
"Sooner
the Pakleds than them," Grekor said with a sneer.
"As
if our worlds would be safe if you obtain it?" Desan questioned.
"Or
our worlds," Mel Rosa interrupted. That earned him
an annoyed look from Oliv, the
Deltan captain who had tried to snatch a world away from the Carreon. Picard
watched carefully, wanting to avoid a fistifght.
So
many agendas, most public but some still hidden. One baits another, more out of
habit than anything else, which earns a rebuke. The task Ross gave him was feeling
heavier by the minute.
"We've
run the simulations," Bractor said, catching people's attention. "If
any one government gains control of the gateways, all the spacelanes will have
to be redrawn, avoiding floating apertures and potential tolls. The cost of
either is immeasurable." For a Ferengi to say that, meant it was serious
to all.
"No
one will be safe if just one government has control," Taleen said, her
small voice almost lost among the rumblings.
"Go
on, Commander," Troi said in an encouraging tone.
"You're
all worried about species against species here," she continued. The others
began to look at her intently. "I'm from the other side of the galaxy. If
the Hirogen find their way here, the damage could be in-
surmountable.
Or if your more aggressive races, these Orions I suppose, come to my world, we
wouldn't have the first clue as to how we can defend ourselves. Captain
Picard, no one government should ever control this much power."
The
captain nodded in understanding. He looked at the others, watching each
consider what might happen if the others in the room were to gain the gateway
technology. All had their own fantasies, all looked extremely uncomfortable.
Good.
It would help keep them working in unison.
"It's
a damned big universe," Brisbayne said. "There are dangers
everywhere. Friends become enemies, enemies become allies, and then the
unknown creeps up to bite you. Anyone getting this for themselves will invite
as much trouble as they cause."
"The
Federation has done much to maintain the peace," Oliv said. He was, Picard
imagined, an older Deltan, the skin a little less perfect, crow's feet forming
around the eyes. It struck Picard that this was an experienced space commander
but, as he was also a member of the Federation, pledged to support then- goals.
"It was the Federation who first began mobilizing all of us against the
Borg threat, or once more pulled us together to oppose the Dominion. But even
they should not be allowed sole access to this much power. What we need is a
way to make a pact within ourselves and with the Iconians so the technology is
shared."
"Words,"
Ralwisssh said. His translated tones focused attention on him. "We need
to know everything about the technology, how it works, how it has lasted this
long. When they tell us that, then we can find a price worth paying."
"Should
an enemy government get the device, the Cardassians say," Grekor said,
"nothing will stop us from annihilating them before they could attack us.
Self-defense is a universal right."
"And
so it seems, is starting a needless war," Ralwisssh said slowly.
"You say you are a people of honor. Attacking because you are a sore loser
is not honorable."
"The
Klingons would attack in the name of self-defense which is their right, but to
start a war that may involve us all, is not," Desan said coolly.
"We
have no interest in supporting something so disruptive to our neighbors,"
Bractor added, a tone of salesmanship in his voice.
Worf
leaned forward, wearing his ambassadorial robes, and waited for attention. He
saw Grekor gesture to stop Oliv from making a comment. His eyes were bright,
and his great brow furrowed. Clearly, Picard saw, the ambassador had something
to say but felt the weight of so many counting on his wisdom.
"Klingons
do not fight wars just to fight," he began. "We save that for after.
Romulans rarely allow themselves to get dragged into something so messy as a
war. The Gorn fight to protect what is theirs, but they do not provoke others.
The Ferengi may have armed those seeking war, but have never declared it
themselves. All of that might change should one government acquire this
technology.
"Clearly,
that cannot happen. One race cannot and should never dictate terms to other
races. The Federation has asked you all to come together and seek nothing
more than the truth. Together we can keep the peace, be allowed to pursue our
own destinies. -That is the way it has been and should always be."
Picard
watched the emotional temperature change in the room. He could have said those
words and it would have meant one thing. But for a Klingon to say them, one who
represented not Qo'noS but the Federation, that had a much stronger impact.
Finally,
the Carreon captain broke the silence. "These Iconians of yours, Picard,
are they real?" This from Mel Rosa, strategically located away from Oliv,
seated between Taleen and Troi.
He
looked across the room for a moment, making sure he had their attention.
"Oh they are real," he said. "They ruled here with a reach we
have yet to fully chart. Two hundred millennia after they were last seen, their
equipment still works and is plentiful. Those we are negotiating with claim to
be their descendants. And that is what we are here to discover while restoring
the peace.
"We're
to set out for the Iconian ships in two hours. Commander Riker has already
transmitted flight patterns to your crews. In order to avoid internal
conflict, and to best protect one another, do not deviate from this.
Additionally, I am asking that all ships maintain an open channel to the Enterprise.
We need to make absolutely
certain we can react instantly to any adversity."
There
were some mumbled comments from Mel Rosa and Ralwisssh, but he let them pass.
Looking
over the table once more, he added, "Since I will be taking command of the
Enterprise once more, the Marco Polo will need a mission commander. For your information, I am
temporarily reassigning Counselor Troi to that position."
She
looked surprised and couldn't hide the reaction. The Betazoid looked at Riker,
who merely grinned, and
then
back at Picard. "Of course, sir," she stammered. "I'll make you
proud."
"I
expect so, Counselor. Report to your ship and be ready to move out. Unless
there are any other questions, we're done."
"Just
one, Captain." All heads swiveled to the scaly visage of Ralwissh.
"We're a mighty force, but what if these Iconians, in addition to superior
technology, also have superior weapons?"
Picard
stared hard at the Gorn and didn't have an answer. The question did, though,
make him stifle a shiver.
Chapter Seven
"GREEN."
"Veridian
IV. Purple and diamond."
"Eminiar
VII. Naked."
"Easy,
Betazed."
"Really?
I was kidding." Chan turned around in her chair and looked at Rosario. He
bobbed his head twice, making the curls wave.
The
tactical officer grinned back at her. "Yeah, but trust me, those are
wedding holos you don't want to see."
"Where
were we?"
"I
guessed right. My turn: Orange."
As
Chan tugged her ear in concentration, Troi appeared on the bridge and caught
the end of the conversation. She smiled at how well the younger crew members
were getting along just as Picard described.
With
a glance, she saw that despite himself, Hoi was following the game. She had
quickly studied the crew manifests, and got snapshot descriptions from Picard
as she rushed through packing a travel case. Things were moving very quickly
for her, but she channeled the adrenaline to keep her moving rather than let
her anxiety take hold of her. She hoped there'd be time for some meditation en
route to the Iconian ships.
Picard
had escorted her to the transporter room, trying to convey additional
information about the Marco Polo crew. She had smiled, realizing he had come to appreciate
them fairly quickly, something he wouldn't have done a decade earlier. Troi was
proud of him.
Riker
had remained on the bridge, coordinating ship-to-ship activities, and couldn't
spare a moment to wish her well. It hurt a little but she recognized there was
little time to waste.
Finally
reaching the transporter room, Picard had summed up, "They're more green
than not, but they will follow your commands." She had nodded and placed
her case on the pad beside her. The captain had stepped toward the console and
held out his hand to the transporter chief.
He,
in turn, had reached down and handed the captain a helmet of some sort. Troi
hadn't recognized it and couldn't understand why it was here.
"Commander
Riker was busy, but he did ask that we present this to you for your new
command," Picard had said with a grin.
"And
this is?"
"An
old-fashioned helmet, used by the early fliers on Earth. Will thought you might
need it in case ..."
"...
I crash another ship. Very funny. Thank you,
Captain.
Will you please tell the commander that I will show my appreciation when I
return to the Enterprise."
His
grin had widened. "Of course, Counselor. Good luck. Although I'm sure you
won't be needing it."
As
the transporter beam had caught her, Troi suddenly realized how it was going
to look when she arrived on the smaller vessel carrying a crash helmet. Oh
yes, Will would see just how much she liked the gift.
Davison
was waiting for her and sure enough, gave her a quizzical expression, but chose
not to ask. She merely had a yeoman take the case and helmet to the captain's
quarters and escorted Troi to the bridge. Troi realized they were young and
eager, some a little scared, but their emotions were bolstering. They all
wanted the mission to go well and were thrilled to be a part of it.
She
hoped they would not come to regret the notion.
"I'm
stumped," Chan finally admitted.
"Altair
IV, Imsk, or Korugar," Hoi said from the science station.
"Let
me guess," Troi said, making her presence known, "colors for
weddings?"
"Captain
Troi!" Chan exclaimed. All heads swiveled toward the turbolift doors and
the counselor. She had forgotten for a moment that the commanding officer of
any vessel automatically gained the title of captain for the mission's
duration. It would certainly take getting used to, she noted. On the other
hand, she idly wondered if this would finally allow her to ascertain the veracity
of the legendary Captain's Table pub.
"As
you were," she simply said. With purpose, she strode to her command chair
and settled in. It felt good and comfortable, she realized. Davison sat beside
her, watching in silent amusement.
"We
do this to stay sharp," Rosario said from tactical. "Passes the
time, you know?"
"Indeed
I do," Troi replied. "On my first assignment, we would try and name
all the Federation worlds and when they joined. We've grown a bit so it's
tougher now."
"Which
is good, right?" Chan asked brightly.
Troi
nodded in agreement. "We're moving out in fifteen minutes. Status reports
please." And a flood of information came from around the bridge. Davison
went last, reporting on the readiness belowdecks from sickbay to the
quartermaster. Troi absorbed things as best she could and found new
appreciation for how Picard and Riker could manage the larger amount of data
presented them on the Enterprise.
"Ready
to move out on Captain Picard's signal," Troi said finally.
"Aye,
Captain," replied Chan.
Troi
broke into a smile, deciding that she could get used to that.
"Hold
tight, Jenny!"
The
class teacher, Chuma Chukwu, tried to keep his group clustered together. There
were ten of them, but it was hard to see them all. Sure, there had been sandstorms
on Mars, but usually seen from a distance, through a wall of transparent
aluminum. Never had the teacher or the students been caught in one.
"What
happened, Mr. Chukwu?"
"That,
Marisa, is a very good question," he shouted over the wind to be heard.
All Chukwu knew was that during a break from their field trip to the first
Martian park a ball had rolled away from the group. Three of the students
chased it and called the others. Before the
teacher
knew it, all ten of his charges had gone through the thick, leafy bushes to see
the discovery. After a few more minutes, he decided to corral them and continue
their prescribed path.
As he
pushed the branches aside, Chukwu was greeted with the sight of a gateway, its
archway bright and inviting. The students were in a semicircle looking at it
and trying to identify the changing scenes.
"It's
Paris!"
"That's
Tellar... no Vulcan!"
"And
that's us! How?"
"How
indeed," Chukwu repeated. He stepped closer, fascinated. "Darleen,
that is neither Tellar or Vulcan but I believe Beta Proxima. See the cloud
formations? Too fast for you?"
Thinking
back, he wasn't sure who darted through first, Bruce or Darleen, but once one
went in, the others followed with glee and curiosity. With no choice, Chukwu
went through, feeling neither glee or curiosity. It was fear and trepidation,
lightened only a little when he realized all ten had wound up in the same
place.
He
scolded them for taking the risk but that quickly gave way to figuring out
where they were. It was sandy, like portions of Earth and Mars. The sky was
blue and the temperature was hot, perhaps hotter than they were used to. There
was no sign of a city or structure in any direction and the sun's position
meant it was late afternoon, not early morning. Chukwu reached into his
shoulder bag and withdrew the padd he used for lesson plans. He had hoped to
find some distinguishing feature but saw little out of the ordinary.
"Mr.
Chukwu, do you see that?"
He
looked up from the padd, turning his head to fol-
low
Angela's voice, and saw the dark forms on the horizon. They were moving closer
and growing bigger at the same time, darkening the horizon, and it became
apparent to him that it was a sandstorm.
"We
have nowhere to go, children. We must huddle together and hope it passes
quickly. Hold on to your partner, link arms. We'll form a ball too big to be
moved." As the children did as instructed, he hoped his words were
prophetic. He heard a few whimpers and one, Brace maybe, call them crybabies.
What did Brace expect from his fellow seven-year-olds? Chukwu wondered.
As
the storm approached, Chukwu avoided joining the human ball, but punched in the
planet's characteristics to see if he could narrow things down. He presumed
they were somewhere else not somewhen else, but he'd heard enough stories in
the media not to be too surprised. Within moments, the padd beeped and he
started scrolling through the dozens of planets that fit the broad definition.
He peered at the lists, not noticing the arrival of the storm until the padd
was ripped from his hand and he went tumbling.
The
ball of children was similarly moved, but not as far. They were farther away
though, Chukwu realized by listening to their cries. It tore at his heart to
hear them in distress but he didn't have long to think about that as the storm
picked him up and sent him tumbling for nearly a minute. Sand got into every
crevice of his body and he kept spitting to clear his mouth. After a short
while, it proved fruitless.
There
was little light and he kept his eyes closed, relying only on his hearing to
discern where the children were. This proved difficult as the roar of the wind
and grating sand never lessened their volume. After a time,
he
couldn't hear them at all and didn't dare open his mouth to try calling to
them. Instead, he got on his hands and knees, hoping to survive the storm. He
noted the sand piling around him, rising past his elbows. It even began to feel
cooler, away from the direct sunlight.
Chukwu's
plan worked, the children survived the buffeting by linking up. His prayers
were similarly answered and the storm proved to be relatively brief, or brief
by the standards of Nimbus III, the planet they had journeyed to. It lasted
almost twenty minutes but that was enough to change the topography of the landscape
and forge new pathways for the planet's people to use until the next storm.
Jenny
and Darleen were the first to stand up, shaking sand from their hair and
clothes. Bruce succumbed to terror and had joined in the crying before, but now
he resumed his .tough-guy stance. The three called out for Mr. Chukwu and grew
desperate with each passing call and lack of response. Marisa was the one to
find his body, mostly buried in the sand, an arm and leg barely visible and
only because of the bright red suit he had worn that morning.
Whimpering,
the ten children dug out their teacher, none daring to ask what would become of
them now.
"Give
me the readings!"
"Blood
pressure nonexistent, heart rate twelve, superficial wounds to the face and
arms." "Was she conscious?" "Not when we arrived."
"Never seen clothes like this. They've got to go—
bag
and tag them. Give me an injector with cocamine, ten units."
"Doctor,
when she's awake we must question her."
"If
she wakes up. She's not doing much breathing, could be brain damage. Better
order a model done."
"But
Doctor, she's not from here and poses a security risk."
"Cocamine's
working, blood pressure to two and rising. Heart's at eighteen."
"Have
you matched the blood type?"
"Alien
in origin, Doctor, we have the computer running a diagnostic now."
"Prepare
oxygen ventilation. If she rouses, it'll help."
"Really
Doctor, I must insist that I speak with her the moment she's conscious."
"Actually,
officer, if that happens, first we'll do a medical history so we know how to
keep her alive. If, by the Lord's will, she pulls through, you can ask her
anything you want."
"Doctor,
computer matches the blood to one of four worlds: Kavis Alpha, Kaelon II, Cor
Caroli V, and Lysia."
"Lysia!
Have the computer scan the sample and match against our blood."
"Doctor,
what's wrong?"
"Officer,
Lysia had an outbreak of Vegan chori-omeningitis only a year ago. If the
disease is in her blood there could be an outbreak."
"Heart
rate and respiration are reaching safety norms."
"Ready
to scan for the brain model."
"Computer
analysis confirms the disease is in her blood, Doctor."
"Grife.
Hold on the model. Okay, we're now going
to
quarantine protocol one. Officer, whoever was there when she wandered through
that doorway has to be brought to this installation—now!"
"There's
a cure for this chorio ... whatever, right?" "Known Federation
treatments do not work on our systems. If there's an outbreak, we're going to
have a lot of dead Troyians before we can find a cure."
The
man was scared. That much was obvious to his inquisitors. His green skin,
sloping brow, and long hair made them almost as nervous. Whatever came out of
his mouth made no sense to them and the metallic adornments on his clothing
gave them concern. They had never seen anything like it.
He
had wandered into their village, dusty, tired, and obviously thirsty. The man
stumbled by the well, helping himself to cool water while the villagers
scattered, calling for the Protectors. They weren't sure what to do with a
green-skinned man and in turn summoned the Clerics.
Wrapped
in their gray robes, allowing only their eyes to be seen, the women came from
their secluded church and studied the stranger. They whispered among themselves
while the Protectors kept the man surrounded. Parents kept their children
indoors but the windows were filled with round, young faces looking anyway.
When
he first spoke, everyone took a step back. Some felt he was a demon pronouncing
a curse but cooler heads prevailed and realized he was attempting to
communicate. One Protector, an older man, stepped forward and gestured. The man
repeated the gesture, proving there was intelligence behind those frightened
eyes. The stranger made any number of hand motions
to
suggest the direction he had come from and then pointed to their setting sun
and held up two fingers.
He
had walked for two suns, they concluded. No wonder he was thirsty. Quickly
they estimated how far two days' walk would get a stranger, where could he have
possibly come from. There were no other enclaves in that direction, it was the
wrong time of the year for the nomadic tribes to be in the area, and that left
them one conclusion: he had been cast out of heaven. The Protectors turned to
the Clerics, who continued to silently watch.
When
they shared the news, the lead Cleric reached within the robe and extracted a
small object and plucked its center. The sharp, high note reverberated through
the now-silent village and made the stranger wince.
Shortly,
three colossal, robed figures came forward. Their robes were not gray but
brown, and they carried coils of rope with them. The Cleric gestured toward the
stranger and the men surrounded him, quickly binding his hands and feet. Two
then hauled him on their shoulders and carried him toward the church.
None
of the Protectors accompanied them, instead bowing deeply toward their
spiritual leaders. The women ignored the obeisance and followed their Inquisitors
to their home and the beginning of their study.
Now
the stranger screamed in gibberish and the women watched in silence. One of the
Clerics had retrieved scrolls from the catacombs under the church, wiping the
dust from them with a scarlet cloth. She unfurled them on a wooden table and
two others joined her as they scanned the texts. They had always known that God
cast out the ill behaved but the last such known instance predated the
village's existence. The Clerics did not know what to do with such a Holy
Criminal
so they had to ask him. And he did not know the answers.
The
hot coals of the fire, providing scant warmth to the chamber, glowed orange and
red as an Inquisitor stirred them with a stick. It caught fire, adding additional
illumination to the room. The stranger's eyes bulged in fright and anticipated
pain. He babbled, going on and on in long strings of words that made no sense
to the Clerics or the Inquisitors.
With
detached interest, the Clerics watched as the green skin on his left arm began
to blacken after being prodded by the stick. When the skin cracked and peeled,
they were more than a little surprised to find that the blood matched their
own: red. Studying this cast-out demon would prove more interesting than any
other devotions the Clerics had carried out since their ordination.
One
sat at the table, dipped a pen in a bowl of ink, and began inscribing a new
incident for the texts.
The
stranger's screams, she later wrote, stopped after the third day.
Geordi
La Forge and Data were on an Enterprise holodeck, looking at a re-creation of the one Iconian
gateway they had encountered years earlier. Over time, the Federation had
managed to decipher exceptionally little of the language, not nearly enough to
attempt manipulating the controls.
Using
a handheld probe, La Forge took careful measurements of the re-created gateway
and then peered at it with his enhanced eyes. The size was designed for taller
people, maybe wider but definitely one at a time. Data had already accessed the
files regarding the larger gateway encountered on Vandros IV by the Defiant,
as
well
as another, previously classified mission on Alexandra's Planet. La Forge used
those measurements to estimate the size required for starships and shook his
head.
"Is
something wrong, Geordi?"
"Not
at all, Data. I was just wondering why the Iconians would have built
themselves gateways that would allow starships. Why would they need something
so large?"
Data
walked around the simulation and came closer to his companion. "Modes of
transport and the needs of their people were no doubt very different two
hundred millennia ago. It is not useful to waste time wondering when we have
more pressing issues."
"Yes,
Mom."
"I
am not your mother," the android replied.
"Of
course not, Data, you just sound like her." La Forge chuckled and closed
the device. "Have you studied the reports from Admiral Ross?"
"Yes,"
Data answered, not looking away from the control console. "The
person-to-person gateways all appear to be approximately the same size, though
some have frames, as the one on Vandros IV, and others, such as the one we
discovered on the homeworld, do not Those with control stations all have
similar designs. Starfleet has determined that they range in age from two
hundred millennia old to 200.237 millennia old. That now gives us a better
understanding of their rise and fall."
He
fell silent and La Forge waited, hoping to get more information or even
supposition from his friend. Instead, all Data seemed to be doing was looking
at the console.
"Something
wrong?"
Data
didn't reply at first. "The Iconians have demonstrated, long after their
civilization existed, superior technological skills. Their probes caused the Yamato's
destruction. These are a
formidable people, Geordi."
"Right.
Makes me still wonder why they are willing to sell the technology. If they keep
it, they become major players in the quadrant."
The
two stood quietly for another moment and La Forge watched his friend. Clearly,
something was troubling him but La Forge couldn't quite tell. "Captain Picard
is right, Geordi. This seems most unlike the people who built these devices.
The questions remain unanswered about where they have been, why are they coming
back now, and why sell their prized possession."
"Okay,
so we're agreed this mission makes sense."
"The
Iconians did not seem to keep records. We have not found any and now have more
places to look. Why do you think that is?"
"I
don't know, Data. Maybe to keep their privacy."
"But
in those records would be the keys we seek now."
La
Forge thought back to the original mission, over ten years ago, and suddenly
the pieces fit together. "Are you troubled over encountering their
computers again?"
Data
finally turned toward the engineer and nodded once. "I was nearly
reprogrammed by them, losing memory engrams in the process. Everything that I
have become was almost wiped clean."
"And
you're scared?"
"With
my emotion chip now in place, I recognize how close I came to ceasing to
function. Yes, Geordi, I think I am a little scared of dealing with this
technol-
ogy."
He made a small laughing sound, which sounded very artificial to La Forge,
though much less so than past attempts. "Silly, is it not?"
"Not
at all, Data. You and I, we've both had technology turned against us.
Sometimes intentionally, some-tunes not. It makes us protect ourselves a little
better, but not once has it made either of us crawl into a shell. And you're
not alone, Data. We'll be right beside you. We saved you once, and know what to
do should this happen again."
Geordi
touched Data's arm in the spirit of friendship and was a little surprised when
the android's other hand crossed over and held the gesture a moment longer.
With nothing left to say, they exited the holodeck and returned to the bridge.
The
aroma of her hot food made Troi realize how much she missed her last meal,
skipped because she got involved with a sensor overload. Without trying to
micromanage everything, she did want to stay atop of the ship's performance
since she expected to call upon it to perform in the heat of battle. Something
deep within her warned that the outcome was not to be a diplomatic one. Were
these the real Iconians, she knew, there might have been a chance, but if they
were impostors, as Starfleet and Picard feared, the situation might well get
ugly. Taking a seat, she forced her mind clear and wanted to simply enjoy the
Heshballa curry, with its four varieties of meats and seventeen spices. Two
mouthfuls into the tangy meal, though, she saw Mia Chan hovering nearby,
holding her tray.
"Please,
come join me," Troi said. Before the words were done, Chan had already
settled in to Troi's right.
The
counselor broke into a broad grin, noting the enthusiasm Chan brought to
everything.
"Sorry
to intrude, Captain," Chan began but Troi waved her silent.
"Forget
it," she said.
"I
never imagined we'd get to stay for the fleet and see the action close
up," Chan admitted before beginning her soup. "I just thought we'd
be Captain Picard's taxi and get dismissed, but this is so much better. Don't
you think?"
"Well,
since this allows me my first command, I would think we all benefit," Troi
said cheerfully.
"Very
true. We couldn't begin to guess who would command us when we learned the Marco
Polo was staying...."
"So
no betting, eh?"
Chan
shook her head in silent laughter. They ate in silence for a few moments before
the conn officer spoke up. "I should admit to you, before we go into
battle that is, that I have feelings for Johnny Rosario. Not that I think it
will interfere with my work, since after all, my back will be to him and
..."
Troi
looked up with mild surprise. She suspected with a crew thrown together and the
excitement of the mission, something like this might develop. It was perfectly
natural but Chan's freely admitting it was different. "Does he
know?"
"He'd
be blind not to, but he's not saying much. You're an empath, can you tell
anything?"
Troi
shook her head before resuming her meal. "I wasn't really looking for any
clues, Ensign. After all, with so many life-forms nearby, I'm doing my best to
screen out the conflicting sensations."
"That's
got to be so hard," Chan said, ignoring her food.
"It
can be difficult but when you've been trained from birth, well, you get pretty
good at these things."
"And
having a human father, did that make things harder or easier?"
Once
more, Troi looked at Chan in surprise. "How did you know that?"
"Well,"
Chan admitted while staring at her soup, "I looked up your service record
when we got the posting from Enterprise."
"That's
actually good thinking, just caught me a little by surprise," Troi said.
She stared thoughtfully at her half-full bowl. "Not being a full telepath
made it a little difficult, growing up, since my friends had trouble adjusting
to my... limitations."
"So,
you haven't noticed anything?"
"About
Lieutenant Rosario? Whether or not he has feelings for you?" Troi laughed,
which felt good, and she smiled at the eager young officer. "If he has
them, they will be pretty clear to one and all. Then you can act
accordingly."
Chan
finished her soup in quiet thought, allowing Troi to work on her curry and
bread. The change in topic was a nice break. Having recently renewed her relationship
with Riker, she wanted to see everyone find happiness. Especially the young
like Chan and Rosario or those who had lost much like Worf.
Grekor
strode onto the bridge and took his seat toward the front of the room. As
officers from behind sounded out status reports, it was confirmed the Chargh
was battle worthy.
"Did
the meeting go well, Captain?"
The
captain settled uncomfortably into his chair, grimacing at the bulk that his
stomach had become. He hadn't noticed it before the conference, but compared
with the trim forms of his peers—even the Ferengi was thin—he had let himself
go. It was unbecoming a warrior.
"Eh?
Yes, yes it did," he said to his gunner, Daroq.
"What
do you make of Picard?" the younger, healthier officer asked.
"Picard
looks your ordinary, pampered human," Grekor replied. "But there's
rock beneath the veneer. I can see why K'mpec liked him." Indeed, Picard
was impressive and not once did he mind serving under such a commander. The
captain knew Worf's history with Picard and felt if he performed well during
this mission; the word would go from Picard to Worf and from Worf to Martok.
There could be much glory for his House, needed after years of misfortune and
ignominy. The House of Krad had long ago joined an alliance against K'mpec
and failed, losing their seat at the Council. An entire generation before
Grekor's suffered for it and only now, through years of hard work and
hard-forged alliances, did any member of the House earn glory. This very
mission meant much to the aging Klingon, perhaps a last chance for honor and redemption
for his father's father.
"Maltin,"
the commander snapped.
"Your
Lordship," the man said.
"Contact
the homeworld. See if my sister is at home. If so, I would speak with
her," he commanded. The officer snapped to and moved away, letting Grekor
sit in the too-tight chair and mull over hopes and dreams.
"Picard
is as hew-mon as they come," Bractor explained. "Soft-looking, but
deceptive. There's a banker's brain in there."
His
trusted officers sat around the table, sharing a bottle, enjoying what they
knew might be a final moment of peace before the mission began.
"And
the Enterprise, is she everything they say she is?"
"That
and more, Clax," the captain said. "I'd love to have seen more of it,
understand its propulsion and those wondrous quantum torpedoes but there was no
time. By the Grand Exchequer, it will be a treat to fight along side such a
beauty."
Four
other Ferengi sat at the table, all younger than Bractor, who was considered
one of the finest pilots in the Ferengi fleet. He had parlayed his victories
for lucrative contracts that fattened an off-world account, insuring a safe
retirement. The thrill of adventure, though, forestalled any thought of leaving
the service. He did not live to make deals, although he was more than adept at
the practice. No, he owed a debt to his people and found tremendous
satisfaction in his duty. Few others among his people could say that, which always
made Bractor feel smug.
"Why
would the nagus send us to fight," Clax asked. He was clearly not seeing
the bigger picture and the Ferengi captain felt sorry for him.
"Knowledge
is power. It's such an old phrase but so true," Bractor said. "If the
hew-mons are right and these are not Iconians, then we need to know. And if
someone else gets the power, then we stand by an alliance that can do more to
protect our accounts than we could ever hope to do alone. They may say Grand
Nagus
Rom is an idiot, but..." He paused, raising the glass high in the air.
Together the crew joined in. "He's our idiot!"
"Ah,
Mr. Data," Picard began when the two returned to the bridge. "We have
a new report from Starfleet. Captain Solok is making excellent time in creating
a map. Please review the information and let me know if this affects our
current plan."
The
android accepted the padd and looked it over from his station. Picard sat back
and asked Vale to put a tactical situation on the main screen. With a mixture
of pride and concern, he saw the seventeen starships moving toward the Iconian
position. Each ship was marked with their government's crest and the melange
looked a little odd, but appropriate for the moment. According to the readouts
below the images, they were going to be in position to begin long-range sensor
sweeps within the hour, and at the Iconian position in four hours twenty-seven minutes.
He
felt the mounting tension, which was tinged with anxiety, a volatile mixture
and one he couldn't quell. Picard would have to trust his people.
"Everything
looks steady," Riker said. Perhaps he, too, sensed the emotional state of
the crew.
"Yes,
Number One. Would that it remain so."
Riker
grinned at his commander and sat back, forcing himself into a relaxed posture.
"We're getting close enough to see them, it's incentive enough to keep
even the Romulans in line."
Picard
nodded and continued to think and rethink the situation.
"How
do you think Deanna's doing on the Marco
Polo?"
"Oh,
she'll have them eating out of her hands, Number One. They're eager to please
and she'll respond to that. Pretty bright crew on that ship."
"Well,
that's good. Sometimes I wonder about the number of cadets being pumped out of
the Academy."
"As
do I," Picard admitted, taking his eyes from the screen. "Of course,
I seem to recall saying that around the time your class was graduating."
Riker
leaned over, a look of surprise on his face. "My class in
particular?"
"I
was guest lecturing at the Academy around then," he explained. "It
was shortly after the loss of the Stargazer,
and a few years before the Enterprise
was built. Starfleet had
given me numerous assignments, but in between them, I spent time at the
Academy." Time well spent, he reflected, although all he recalled of those
days was a restlessness to be back in space.
"Many
in the faculty thought growing the number of cadets around that time lowered
our standards. Starfleet was building bigger ships back then, anticipating the
start of the Galaxy class. Bigger ships required more crew. And although the
Romulans had been quiet, Command was growing concerned about the Cardassians."
"So,
it wasn't just my class?"
"Not
really, no. But, everyone felt the cadets might not be seasoned enough. After
all, there weren't enough ships available to give them the same number of star
hours as in my day."
"I'd
like to think Geordi and I did just fine."
Picard
smiled warmly at his friend. "After tempering some of that youthful
inexperience under my command."
Riker
chuckled.
"Captain,"
Vale called out. "Admiral Ross is trying to gain contact."
"On
screen," he said, and assumed his customary command posture.
Ross
looked even more tired than he did at the conference, dark marks under his
eyes, hair less than perfect. Picard acknowledged his presence.
"Captain, I apparently journeyed to the Neutral Zone in
error."
"Because
I already have then" support, yes," Picard replied.
"The Praetor assures me Commander Desan will serve honorably. I'm
headed back for Earth and coordinating the activities."
"How
goes the defense?" Picard asked.
Ross
frowned before answering. "They've started
keeping a death toll at Command. People in the wrong place at the wrong time,
cultural shock, some religious conflicts, you name it. We're stretched tight
and can't keep up with the activity, to be honest."
"Any
word from our allies and how they're handling the events?"
"Chancellor Martok is concentrating on his borders and most of the
others are too busy to chat," Ross said glumly.
"Admiral,
this has stretched beyond the Alpha and Gamma Quadrants. We've added a ship
from the Delta Quadrant."
"/
know," Ross said. "The Defiant has reported that the
gateway that's endangering Europa Nova opens on the Delta Quadrant."
Picard
nodded. "We have encountered a ship belonging to a race known as the
Nyrians and they've encoun-
tered
Voyager. In fact, they came to join us as a result of that
experience. We seem to have earned their trust."
The
life in Ross's face dissipated quickly and he seemed more than a little lost.
Times like this, Picard was just as content not to have any admiral's responsibilities.
He liked and trusted Ross and hoped things would turn out well in the end.
"Our
fleet is making contact shortly," the captain said, to keep the
conversation going.
"Tread carefully, Jean-Luc," Ross said. "Everything tells
me this stinks."
"Your
instincts haven't failed the fleet yet, Admiral, we'll keep your thoughts in
mind. Picard out."
"He
seemed troubled," La Forge said, standing beside Vale at tactical.
"In
many ways, this is a much worse threat than the Dominion War," Picard
said.
"Indeed,"
Data said. "The prospects of any one culture gaining instantaneous access
to the rest of the galaxy would cause massive chaos. Benevolent races might
share it while others would hoard it, threatening others to accede to their
terms in matters of trade, commerce, and holdings."
Picard
stood, looking out among his friends and officers. Slowly, he walked the
bridge, surveying control readouts and once more studying the tactical
positions of the fleet. "The Federation alone is trying to protect the sovereign
rights of billions upon billions of people," he began softly, more to
himself than any one officer. "The Carreon have their own people to
protect as do the Ferengi and Romulans. The stakes seem to be raised each time
we venture out, but the goal remains the same. Protecting the lives and ways of
life for each
world,
making no judgment on how they conduct themselves. Counting on allies or
making new alliances to get the job done, asking nothing in return."
Vale
leaned over to La Forge and whispered, "That man is at warp speed."
He nodded in agreement. Picard turned toward them, having heard the casual
comment, but chose to say nothing. The captain didn't even offer them a grin.
Picard
continued to walk the bridge, not noticing the silence. Everyone had turned his
or her attention toward him, listening closely. "We cherish these
privileges and protect them, risking our lives because it's the right thing to
do. We are also explorers and today we must be both. Who is out there and what
do they really want? Can we prevent a galactic tragedy and stem the loss of
lives?"
"We
have before and can again," Riker said quietly.
"We
must, Will," Picard said. "Our oaths must be more than words and our
actions must convey the strength behind them."
"Captain,"
Vale interrupted, "we're making contact with the Iconian ships. Long-range
sensors have gone on line."
The
bridge suddenly burst into frenzied activity as people began sifting through
the first readouts as they arrived. Picard settled back in the command chair, letting
the organized cacophony wash over him.
"We
are counting at least five dozen ships, smaller than us," Data said.
"Hard
to get a count at this distance since they're all in motion," Vale added.
"Traces
of ions and neutrinos, warp plasma..." La Forge said. "Can't imagine
what propulsion they use."
"No
return scans from them as yet," Data added.
"Shields
up, Captain?"
"No,
Lieutenant," Picard instructed Vale. "We're on friendly terms so
far."
"We
are too far away to get any life-sign readings," Data said.
"Feed
the signal to Dr. Crusher," Picard said. "She can begin studying them
as soon as distance allows."
"Captain,
extremely strong sensor probes have been launched by the Carreon ships. Small,
self-propelled. No weaponry aboard."
"Keep
track of them," Picard ordered Vale.
"Message
from the Romulans," she said in turn.
"On
screen," Picard instructed.
Desan's
calculating face appeared immediately and without preamble she began. "Odd,
don't you think, that there are no gateways active in this region?"
Picard
hadn't stopped to note that and stole a glance at La Forge, who nodded in
confirmation. He should have thought to ask that of his crew.
"It
could be why they settled here to begin negotiations," he replied.
"Read a star map, Captain," she said harshly. "If you arrived in
this region of space and wanted to contact Romulans, Klingons, Ferengi,
Cardassians, even Orions and Breen..."
"And
humans," Riker interjected.
"This is far from the ideal spot," she continued, ignoring him and letting the omission hang
as an insult. "It must be the lack of
gateways."
"We'll
know more soon enough, Commander," Picard replied evenly. He refused to
let his annoyance at her attitude interfere. No doubt there will be plenty of
strong emotions being suppressed as the mission progressed.
The
screen winked off and the telemetry reports continued to flow in. Riker was
taking the various reports and having them assembled into one master analysis
for Picard's review. They were moving, the Iconian ships, but not any closer.
The fleet remained in formation so things were progressing as well as one could
expect. There were still three hours before they could make direct contact, so
Picard chose to visit his ready room, enjoy a cup of tea, and await Riker's
initial analytical report. He suspected it would be his last chance to relax
for some time.
He
was, of course, quite right.
The
door chimed almost three hours later and Picard welcomed Riker and Worf into
his ready room, comrades in arms, readying themselves for either diplomacy or
battle. Picard suspected a little of both and was comforted by being surrounded
with Starfleet's finest technology—and officers.
"Report,"
he said.
"Sir,
we are coming within hailing range. So far, we have mapped their movements and
can't find a pattern that makes sense. Additionally, die level of comm traffic
between their ships is surprisingly minimal."
Picard
nodded, digesting the information. "Your opinion, Number One?"
"They
must know we're coming by now. Their silence may be a waiting game, forcing us
to make the first move."
"Do
we?"
"Not
yet," rumbled Worf. "We cannot provide a provocation that would weigh
their thinking against any race here."
'These
people came to our portion of the galaxy,
selling
us their wares. They've been in touch with the significant races so I see the
silence as a ploy. Maybe some form of negotiation tactic. I say wait them
out."
"Spoken
like a true poker player," Picard commented with a tight grin.
"Captain,
you seem more than a little preoccupied," Riker said softly.
"Am
I, Number One? It's just that I expected something ... more from a race as
great as the Iconians were. If these are truly they, then I am deeply saddened.
If they are not, they still may hold the key to what became of the
civilization."
"So,
you don't believe the Iconians are extinct?" Worf prompted.
"Not
at all, Ambassador," Picard admitted. "The gateways alone tell me
they could be elsewhere, another galaxy perhaps. That their technology has
survived all these millennia tells me they built things to last. This was not a
culture that just withered and died out like so many others."
Riker
nodded and Picard rose from his desk, snapping off the desktop screen. It had
been reports from their first visit to Iconia, which he continued to pore over
in the hopes of learning their secrets. He needed to push those thoughts to the
back of his mind and concentrate on the here and now.
"Is
everyone alert?"
"Absolutely.
Geordi's been over the weapons and defensive systems while Vale has been
figuring out strategies now that we know how many of them there are. We're
rested and more than a little anxious to see what's really going on."
Picard
turned to his friend, placed a hand on his arm
and
said softly, "Ambassador, I can't ask you to do anything more than
observe. You're welcome on the bridge, of course, but leave the fighting—if
any—to us."
They
stepped on to the bridge and the bustle of activity made the captain glad.
When on duty, he wanted to be accomplishing something and his chance had arrived.
Taking their seats, the command team surveyed the crew and was satisfied.
"We
have sixty-three Iconian craft identified, sir," Vale said from tactical.
"Readings
show an odd propulsion system, among other anamolies," Geordi began,
"but they seem to be moving little better than three-quarter
impulse."
"The
formations they are making seem not to be defensive, but more like coming
close to share information or supplies and then moving on. All of the ships
are involved," Data said.
"Ugly
little things," Riker said quietly.
"Number
One?" Picard inquired.
"Their
ships, not designed for attractiveness."
"Hmm,
I see." Picard asked Vale to show up a closeup view of one such ship and
although their hull cameras had trouble keeping up with the darting vehicles,
he got a good look. The ships were long and with huge exhaust ports for the
engines. They tapered in the middle and then flared out into a cured front section
that seemed to have sensors and weapons exposed. They were built for speed, he
surmised. Yet, there were odd patterns to the hull, a crazy-quilt kind of look,
and it nagged at Picard. After all, the Iconians wrote graceful—albeit
powerful—software and the design of the gateways had an elegance about them.
The
crew continued to study the vessels, making
guesses
and sharing readouts as the fleet drew closer. Nothing in the Iconians'
behavior indicated anything was amiss. They, in fact, seemed to be ignoring the
incoming ships. That action more than mildly irritated Picard, who disliked
this sort of game-playing. He could only imagine how the other captains must
feel.
"Captain,
message coming from Captain Grekor." Now he'd know.
"On
screen, Lieutenant."
Yes,
he confirmed, the Klingon captain seemed less than thrilled to be ignored. "Picard,
are we just going to keep approaching until we ram them? Interesting negotiating
ploy."
"Actually,
Captain, I am trying to force them to speak first, allowing us a better sense
of their attitude toward us." Picard stopped for a moment, then added,
"After all, they may not be happy to have their potential clients teaming
up."
Grekor
snorted in disgust, letting the captain know exactly how he felt about whatever
it was the Iconians were thinking. "As
you see fit. This is your mission but I am already weary of these people."
"I
share your opinion, Captain," Picard said mildly, no doubt annoying his
counterpart. "Still, I suspect this will get us the fairest gauge of their
true nature."
The
screen winked off as Grekor cut the signal and Picard noticed how much closer
they were to the Iconian ships. He was reminded of the old boyhood games of
chicken, daring one another to commit some crazed act, waiting to see who would
blink and stop first. He didn't consider himself to be as good at it as bis
brother, Robert, but he felt he had learned a few tricks over the years.
"Captain,"
La Forge interrupted. "I'm reading fifteen separate types of propulsion
being employed."
Picard's
eyebrows went up at the news. He studied the screen a bit closer and remarked,
"The pattern on the hulls isn't a design—those must be patchwork
ships."
"Confirmed,
Captain," Data said. "We note the hulls have a mix of composite
elements, no two ships with the exact same construction."
"Weapons
seem to vary from phasers to quantum torpedoes," Vale added. "I'm
sure there's more to them because I'm getting energy readings I've never seen
before."
"Steady,
Lieutenant," Picard said. These were the damnedest Iconians he ever
imagined meeting, and with each passing moment he grew firmer in his belief
that Starfleet was right all along. These weren't the Iconians at all.
"Captain,
the Iconian communications have increased," Data said.
"Can
we understand it?" Riker asked.
"Not
at this time," the android replied. "However, if then" emotional
tenor was similar to human norms, I would say our presence was making them
excited."
"That's
something," the first officer noted.
Just
then, the ships all moved, their random meandering suddenly taking form,
clearly putting the Iconians on the defensive.
"How
do you read it, Number One?" Picard asked.
"Groups
of six, spread out, almost forming a globe shape. Haven't seen defense like
that before."
"Agreed.
Anything further on the communications, Data?"
"There
was a spike in traffic, but it has since died
down
to almost nothing, sir. I should point out, Commander Riker is correct. There
are ten clusters of six ships each, but within the center is a smaller cluster
with the three remaining ships. I have triangulated the communications and have
determined the smaller cluster as the central one."
"Perfectly
protected by the others," Vale offered.
"Change
our flight pattern, Captain?" Riker asked.
"Not
yet. Now we can make them sweat a little," Picard replied.
"Captain
Grekor sends his compliments," the security chief noted.
"Well,
that's one Klingon who knows how to acknowledge the game," Riker
commented. "I think I like him."
"You
haven't spent much time with him in person, have you?" Worf asked.
Riker
shot him an amused look but before he could say anything, he was interrupted.
"I
certainly feel safer with Romulans and Klingons at our flanks," Ensign
Perim said at the conn.
"The
last thing we need is a free-for-all, Ensign," Riker admonished.
"Actually,
Number One," Picard said, "with the Klingons, Romulans, and Gorn at
our side, we know what to expect If there's a battle to be fought, I like the
odds."
The
moments ticked away as the fleet drew closer and the Iconian ships remained in
formation. Sensors stopped revealing new information and Picard had his crew
began preparing their analysis. He had Riker check in with the other Federation
ships and all remained ready for whatever came next.
"Slow
to one-quarter impulse," Picard commanded.
"The
last thing we want to do is be at point-blank range should something
happen."
"Are
they forcing our hand?"
"Not
yet, Number One. Just prudence on our part."
"A
standoff like this usually will wear on someone's nerves. Should they have an
itchy trigger finger..."
"...
or someone aboard a Romulan ship," La Forge added.
"Understood,
gentlemen. Picard to Troi."
"Go ahead, Captain."
"Do
you sense anything?"
"Actually, given my position and the high number of differing
life-forms in the vicinity, no. Lots of anxiety, some anger, but I can't
determine if it's our side or the Iconians. I do suggest, though, as the
customer, we may want to hail them."
"Thank
you, Captain Troi," Picard said, and watched Riker's double take at the
title. He smiled, despite the moment.
"A
very short message just came from the central cluster to all vessels,"
Data said. "Content unknown, we still have not managed to decipher their
communications code."
"All
ships, be alert," Picard commanded.
And
as the words left his mouth, the Iconian ships opened fire. A brilliant flare
of pale pink light filled the viewscreen and the Enterprise
shuddered as it took the
brunt of the onslaught. Everyone remained in his or her chair, but the com
system immediately filled with damage reports.
"Do
not return fire," Picard shouted, as much to Vale behind him as to the
fifteen other ships.
"Shields
holding," La Forge called. "Looks like di-
rected
energy similar to phasers. I'm heading down to engineering just in case."
"No
serious damage," Riker reported.
Picard
looked at the main screen and saw the vessels rotate, growing the sphere a
little larger. He couldn't fully understand the tactic and desperately needed
more information.
"Captain," Grekor's
voice filled the speaker. "They've blinked.
Why do we not fight back?"
"We
may have scared them or there may be a misunderstanding. However, I will
politely ask for an explanation before this turns into a war."
Picard
turned to tactical and saw Vale's eyes gleam in anticipation. There was a
ferocity in her slender form that, when unleashed, made her as dangerous a
fighter as Worf. "Lieutenant Vale, target the two ships closest to us but
stand by. Open hailing frequencies, make sure our other ships can hear
me."
She
quickly stabbed at several keys, never taking her eyes off the viewscreen, and
Picard admired her skill. No question, she was an admirable replacement for
Worf— the thought of his friend behind him was also comforting.
'This
is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S.
Enterprise. I wish to understand
why you fired upon us. Our reason for being here is entirely benevolent."
Silence
greeted his words as the Iconian ships continued to rotate their position.
"I
ask again," Picard continued. "Why fire upon us when we are
potentially going to negotiate with you for the gateway technology?"
The
Iconian ships continued to rotate position. Picard swallowed, a sudden
suspicion forming in his mind.
"All
ships, scatter plan Omega, execute!"
The
seventeen ships began to move, appearing to randomly split formation and go
their own ways, but each following a carefully laid-out course. Riker had
devised the plan hours earlier and he was glad it had been loaded at every helm
post.
The Enterprise
surged forward, taking hits
but not stopping. Worf's fingers began to move in the air, pantomiming
activating first phasers and then a spread of quantum torpedoes. Catching
himself, he balled the fingers into fists and stood still, watching the
unfolding battle. Already snippets of a poem occurred to him, although it was
not his place to compose one—he was an observer and that honor was reserved for
actual combatants. The pain in his heart was not new, but still unwelcome.
Just
as the ships began moving, the Iconians, still in motion, opened up with
sustaining fire. The raw energy filled the space where the ships had been,
their rotation allowing them to cover a wider portion of space than if they
were stationary. The move was carefully coordinated and the captain nearly
underestimated them.
"All
ships, defensive fire only. Mercury, when an opening presents itself, try and penetrate the
sphere. That central cluster is our objective."
"Acknowledged," came Brisbayne's rough voice on the com channel.
"Ensign
Perim, swing us about, let's try and scatter the sphere," Picard
instructed his pilot.
"Aye,
sir," the young Trill ensign replied. Perim, Worf knew, could handle her
task. She had performed well under fire against the Bak'u last year when Worf
had temporarily rejoined his old comrades in the Briar Patch.
Riker
had already had a tactical display flashed onto a screen to their left. The
ambassador saw the fleet in their proper positions, holding their fire, with
the Enterprise moving toward the first cluster of six ships.
"Data,
any hope of cracking their communications?" Riker asked.
"Negative,
Commander." Data studied readouts from his operations console and input
new commands.
Just
then, the cluster before the starship opened fire once more. The forward
shields deflected the attack, but not before the Enterprise
shuddered once more.
Aboard
the Chargh, Grekor
grinned with glee at the prospect of a battle. His hands gripped the command
chair, whitening his knuckles. His crew was efficient, the captain knew.
"Bring
us about, 217 mark 38, full impulse," Grekor said.
The
ship moved and managed to avoid a burst of blue light. The officer at the
science post stood over her viewer and finally said, "Unknown energy,
Captain."
"Can
it hurt us?"
"I
can't say with surety," she said.
"Helm,
218 mark 23, keep us dancing," Grekor instructed. He turned to the
officer, who seemed to shrink from his glare. He turned to Daroq, who shook his
head—out of weapons range.
'Tell
me about the energy!" demanded the captain.
"It
was pulsating photons, changing in frequency every second," she said,
holding her ground.
"If
it hits this ship, what happens?" Grekor stopped looking at her and
returned his gaze to the viewscreen.
"The
very pulsations might cause our shield harmonics to be disrupted" was the
answer.
"Potentially
lethal," he muttered. "Bring us within range. Weapons, aim at the
ship on the starboard side. Target that large propulsion tank!"
It
took several long seconds for the ship to be in position, but once it was,
everyone straightened up, ready for battle.
'Target
locked."
"Fire!"
The
battle cruiser's phaser barrage pierced the ship's shielding and struck the
hull. The impact knocked the ship's position, sending it spinning
counterclockwise. Sparks from the remains of the shields showed it vulnerable
and Grekor smiled in victory.
"Fire!"
The
next phaser barrage struck the same spot with deadly accuracy, blistering the
hull, then breaching it. The engines sparked in the naked vacuum of space and
then they died out, leaving the ship a hulk of metal.
"Excellent"
was all Grekor said, as much to himself as to his gunner.
"Do
we go for the kill?" the officer asked.
Grekor
hesitated a moment and then said, "Picard wants none of them killed and
for now, we will do this his way."
"The
Kreechta is using their plasma weapon on the cluster," the
gunner called out. Grekor turned to watch the smaller screen and saw that the
highly effective Ferengi weapon practically obliterated one of the enemy
ships. His brow knit in thought and then he said, "I always underestimate
those sneaky accountants. But then
I see
them fight and remember why we haven't conquered them yet."
Grekor
continued to watch in satisfaction as the battle continued to unfold. The five
ships that remained of the cluster scattered, breaking the formation. The
cap-tarn ordered another blast, trying to force one ship into another, a
calculated risk. It failed and the commander's curse was barely audible.
Instead, he had a torpedo launched at the nearest ship and disruptors fire at
the farthest.
"The
Chargh opened
up the sphere!"
"Lucky
bastards," Captain Brisbayne said. He saw the larger ship pursuing two of
the smaller ships and directed Liang to move the ship through the hole.
"Engineering,
shore up the forward shields," Srivas-tava called.
"Doing what I can, but we're already straining the EPS
outputs," Solly
said from below.
The Mercury
darted forward, avoiding
blasts from two different directions, and returned fire at the one below them.
The shot grazed a shield and did no damage, so the small ship remained caught
between two Iconian ships from the sphere to their port side. As a captain,
Brisbayne had never really been on the front lines much, even during the
recent war. He had his skirmishes with pirates and even traded shots once with
a Romulan border ship that "accidentally" crossed the Neutral Zone,
but his career lacked the color of officers like Picard. It usually never
bothered him, but now he recognized the need for such experience to lend him
insight as to how best to proceed.
After
forty years of service, he was going to have to rely on his skills and
intuition, hoping they did not fail
him.
None of which, though, kept his stomach from churning.
"Twenty-three
thousand kilometers to the center ships," Liang reported.
"Steady
as she goes," the captain said. He leaned forward as if it would get him
there any faster. "Livingston, rotate phaser fire, upper and lower hulls,
forward and aft, keep them guessing."
"Aye,
sir" Livingston began the random firing. The captain heard the
whine of phaser fire, mentally tracking its tone from one side of the ship to
the other, and nodded in approval. If he could keep cluster seven away from
him, he might have a chance to reach the goal. Exactly what Picard would have
him do once he arrived remained to be seen, but Brisbayne always considered
himself a patient man. It got him this far in his career and he expected it to
take him just a little bit farther.
The
Iconians, though, seemed to have another idea.
The
six ships on either side, clusters marked six and seven on the screen, swiveled
to turn toward the Mercury, and twelve sets of weapons were unleashed simultaneously.
None
got through the shields, apparently, as Brisbayne tumbled to the back of the bridge,
landing atop another crewman. Smoke was already filling the air and he could
tell from feeling the deck plating beneath the carpet that his ship was badly
wounded. People coughed, someone was vomiting toward the turbolift doors, and
there were moans. He swiped blood from his split lip onto his uniform as he
staggered to his feet, taking stock of the pain throughout his body. Pushing
that to the side, he helped up the crewman below him,
who
turned out to be Livingston. He seemed relatively unharmed, just dazed, so
Brisbayne guided him back to his station.
"Report!"
he bellowed, hoping to get a reply.
Ranjit
Srivastava was on his knees, wiping blood from his forehead, a blank look in
his eyes. He was not in any shape to answer, probably concussed, Brisbayne
concluded. Liang was slumped over the helm, coughing from the smoke. Agbayani
was on his feet, his Hawaiian features marred with soot and blood, and he
leaned over the engineering board.
"Warp
core offline," he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Shields below safe
tolerances at eight percent, structural damage to the port nacelle, phasers
are offline, torpedos seem fine...." He squinted at the board and
Brisbayne turned away and helped Liang settle into her chair. Then he stole a
glance at the screen. The ships seemed to hang in space waiting. He didn't like
it at all and wanted to swat them away like flies on a summer's day.
"Bridge
to sickbay," he called out, and noted how sore his voice sounded.
"Levy here, it's a mess and we're still counting the casualties.
I've a medic on his way up."
"Bridge
out. Engineering, report."
The
silence seemed ominous. Looking around, he pointed to Alan Chafin, still
orienting himself at ops. "Get to engineering, find out what's going on
down there. We need as much power as possible, shields and environmental
systems first."
"Aye,
sir" was the reply and the officer rose unsteadily to his feet. Brisbayne
took a moment to look at him and was surprised to see the burn marks on his
face.
The officer seemed uncomfortable being stared at and looked away.
"When
you're done there," Brisbayne added, "stop at sickbay and have those
burns tended to."
Chafin,
dark-haired with a ready smile, nodded and continued unsteadily toward the
turbolift, stepping over a body, most likely Alfonzo's, the captain realized.
"Livingston,
can you target the torpedoes?"
The
man stared at the equipment, stabbing at controls, and finally shook his head.
"Go
to manual. We're not going anywhere and they're not getting us without a
fight," the captain said.
The
two Romulan warbirds were the largest ships in the melee, and this brought
Desan some comfort. She anticipated this advantage, knowing they had more people
per ship and more weapons than any of the "allies." Still, they were
fighting fiercely, since even gnats could sting.
They
had managed to disable four Iconian ships in cluster three, one of which was
being torn apart by a tractor beam, each piece being carefully scanned. The
science department was already speculating as to the nature of the constructs.
They peeled apart easily since they were not well constructed. Desan had no
feelings for these ships or their people, only contempt for the entire charade.
The
Iconians had approached the Praetor. The Tal Shiar, the Empire's vaunted secret
police, immediately began investigating their claims. There was nothing to
confirm or dispute their claim but the Tal Shiar were a suspicious lot. When
word reached them that Starfleet was on alert and there was suspicious activity
involving
key
personnel such as Ross and Picard, they assumed their suspicions were
justified. As a result, it was decided that Desan would lead a delegation, as
much to learn about the Iconians directly as to keep an eye on the Federation.
Subcommander
Jilith interrupted her thoughts. "Commander, we've completed the initial
scans and have determined the ship is composed of a metal composite we've
never seen before and basic duranium. The propulsion unit is actually an
antique, from around the time of the first Romulan-Earth war."
This
was interesting. How would a race, from another part of the quadrant, have
come across something so old? Her curiosity was piqued.
'Two
of the ships are trying to retreat," the helm officer called.
"Let
them," Desan replied. "They're not firing. Bring us closer to the
core, helm. Half impulse."
"Yes,
Commander," he said. The mighty vessel moved forward, leaving the disabled
Iconian ships in their wake. Others converged on the green starship, opening up
with unusual weapons fire. The particle beams were a veritable rainbow of
colors, but all seemed ineffective against the Romulan shields.
On
the screen, the two smaller Carreon ships flew by them, pirouetting and
concentrating their fire on one of the Iconian ships. She admired their
versatility even though she knew very little about the race since they were
located far from Romulan borders. She did know them to be aggressive and
stubborn, but not annoyingly so, like the Klingons. They tended to keep to
themselves but somehow got dragged into the battle, and given their fighting
prowess, it was good to have them along.
With
their attack a success, the Iconian target hung dark and lifeless in space, so
the ships moved on. What neither Carreon seemed to notice, though, was another
Iconian ship flying up from below them, firing the bright blue beams. Desan did
not warn the allies but instead had the beam analyzed.
She
watched with interest as the beam struck one of the ships, flared against its
shields, but persisted. Within seconds, the shields sparked off and then the
Carreon starship was struck dead-on, a blackening scar appearing near its
nacelles. Another few seconds and the beam completed its work, breaching the
hull and destroying the ship and all hands.
"The
weapon is the most powerful phaser I have ever seen," the science officer
reported.
"Interesting,"
Desan said, watching the other Carreon vessel flee the area while the Iconian
ship chased it.
'Torpedo!"
called the tactical officer, and that got Desan's attention. They hadn't fired
one yet and she thought them without. On the screen she noted it came from a
vessel they hadn't bothered with, presuming it out of disruptor range. An
estimate that may prove fatal, she
calmly thought.
It
slammed right through the shields, and impacted with a deafening thud on the
"neck" of the starship. Everyone fell to the starboard side as the
mighty bird pitched with the impact. Desan's last thought, before losing
consciousness, was how much the rainbow lights reminded her of home.
"I
don't approve of that, Number One," Picard snapped, holding tight to his
chair as the Enterprise en-
dured
a blistering phaser attack from six ships, forming Iconian cluster five.
"Well,
you said not to destroy them, nothing about dissecting them," Riker
replied, equally holding on for dear life.
'Torpedoes
away," Vale called. The ship's quantum torpedoes streaked through space
and managed to hit three of the ships, causing all manner of distortion in the
area and making them break off the attack.
Seeing
the opportunity, Perim had the starship yaw dramatically, trying to squeeze
between two clusters at almost warp one. It was a tricky move but Riker assured
his captain Perim could handle it. The ensign was gritting her teeth, Picard
noted, but otherwise flew his ship just fine.
Now
beyond the clusters and heading toward the core of three ships, Picard let out
a breath and looked about. His crew was handling the battle admirably, and
while he never enjoyed such engagements, he never shied away from them either.
"Captain,
the Mercury's been hit bad," Vale said.
"On
screen," he snapped.
There,
the small ship hung at a steep angle, sparks from one nacelle providing
illumination. Its running lights were out and it seemed dead. As Data and La
Forge reported in, it was far from dead but in no shape to conduct a battle.
"Number
One, order the Deltan ships in to protect the Mercury
then signal the Marco
Polo to go for the center."
"The
Iconians clearly can outgun the Marco Polo," Riker argued.
"We'll
set up covering fire from... the Qob and the
Carreon
vessels," Picard said, checking the tactical display.
"I'd
sooner have the Glory cover Deanna," Riker protested.
Picard
realized the struggle Riker was going through, but duty demanded a specific
course of action and it needed to be followed. He, too, hoped for Troi's survival,
but a diplomatic mission had turned into a battle with no notice and this fleet
could not shirk its responsibility. He grasped Riker's arm in reassurance and
then stood and moved to the upper deck.
"Send
in the Kreechta for support," Picard added.
At
the rear science station, the captain punched up charts showing how badly hurt
the Mercury was.
So far, they were all acquitting themselves well, but there was going to be
damage and it was unfair for the captain to wish it on only the ally ships. He
really didn't know Brisbayne, but he felt for the older man, seeing that he was
now out of the picture and was going to need protection.
"Picard
to Captain Grekor," he suddenly called.
"Go ahead."
"The
Mercury is
hurt. Can you tractor it out of the way?"
"If they can't defend themselves, then we shouldn't risk our ship
to help" was
the reply.
"That's
a Klingon tactic and approach I do not subscribe to, Captain."
Another
voice interrupted.
"The
Federation requests your assistance, Captain," Worf said from the bridge's
rear. "Will you help your allies or not?"
There
was a tense moment and then a station chimed.
"Orders
sent, Captain," Riker said tightly.
"Thank
you, Will," Picard replied. He turned to his left and nodded silent thanks
to the ambassador. They resumed their seats as the Enterprise
moved toward the core,
ignoring the fire from all sides. It was far from a smooth ride, but they were
making progress, which was more than he could say for any other member of his
fleet.
Then,
on the screen, he watched a brilliant light show, as Iconian ships began a new
form of attack on the Glory. It seemed to withstand the onslaught but barely. Then came
the torpedo attack and Picard was stricken to see such a proud and powerful
ship suddenly stopped dead in its tracks.
"What
was that Data?"
"Analyzing
telemetry now, sir," the android responded.
"Glory's hurt
bad, isn't she," Perim inquired.
"Yes,"
the captain replied. "And if the Iconians can do that to a Romulan ship,
we're all vulnerable. Slow to one-quarter impulse, redirect energy to our
shields."
"Aye,
sir," Perim replied.
Whatever
hopes for diplomacy had been shattered over the last few minutes and Picard had
been gearing himself to become a warrior. He preferred such conflicts to be
one-on-one matches, disliking commanding so many ships, controlling so many
lives. But here he had no choice and he had to fight for every millimeter, and
preserve the lives of the fleet. The Iconians needed to be stopped and he also
had to assure that they wouldn't be wiped out in a fit of Klingon or Romulan
rage.
Riker
was standing at the tactical display with Vale, watching the colorful icons
moving about at a rapid clip. Picard joined them and they assessed the scene
for a moment, trying to think of a way to end the battle.
Those
thoughts were interrupted when four ships broke from their positions and as a
unit began an approach toward the sphere's top. If they looked like anything,
they were small insects buzzing about.
"Ralwisssh,"
Riker said.
Picard
saw the Gorn craft swing above the sphere, out of weapons range, and then angle
and aim directly at the top cluster. As then" descent began, they fired
from every port and the ship glowed on the screen. Grimly, Picard watched the
small, but deadly, ships approach the Iconians, narrowing the space. Then, one
Iconian ship winked off the screen, followed by two more.
"Captain
Ralwisssh, I ordered no lives to be taken," Picard cried.
"The time for that has passed, Picard," the guttural voice replied. "They
have hurt us and now it is time for retribution. If you do not have the stomach
for such a fight, we'll cover your retreat."
The
captain, stone-faced, watched three more vessels vanish from the tactical
screen. On the one hand, it made their job easier by blowing another hole in
the Iconian defense, but he didn't want this to become a slaughter. He would
have to act quickly and decisively to remain in control of the fleet. All he
needed was a plan.
As he
was thinking, he saw Riker step closer to the display. He followed his first
officer's gaze and watched the Marco Polo complete a complex turn and begin its approach toward the
center. Riker pointed to the right of the screen and frowned.
"The
circle is closing ranks," he said.
Bractor
didn't need to wait for an order from Picard. He was a trained tactician and
knew what was required.
With
the sphere defense tightening, each hole punctured was being closed. At least
one aperture needed to remain open and he decided that was his assignment.
From
his command chair, he gave a series of commands to the tactical officers
standing before their operational orb. They did their jobs in silence since he
rarely liked chatter during an operation. He liked concentrating on the
opponent and would tolerate interruption only if it was about the operation.
The Kreechta
swooped hi a wide arc, above
the plane of the battle, aiming itself at the space between clusters three and
four. Shields had been reinforced fore and aft; weapons aimed at the closest
ship in cluster three. He had the engines increased so the velocity was on a
gradual increase. As they banked, it forced everyone to hold tight, and
Bractor's breath quickened. This was the moment he loved, the instant when he
committed his ship beyond the point of no return.
"Fire!"
he snapped.
Ferengi
energy leapt across the space between ships and smacked against the shields of
the Iconian vessel. The shields flared, and as a second volley arrived, the Ferengi
Marauder was past them, already firing on the next closest ship. Again and
again, the ship fired as it muscled the Iconians aside, keeping the two
clusters from merging.
Bractor
most certainly loved his job.
"Six
Iconian ships down," Davison said, reading the display to her left.
"With the three disabled by Enterprise,
we've opened up the bottom
entirely."
Troi
nodded and kept her gaze at the main viewscreen. She received her orders from
Riker, cut and
dried
without any hint they were lovers or he was putting her life at stake. While
she intellectually understood it, her heart refused to acknowledge the command
and was in rebellion.
Mentally,
she tried a quick discipline her mother taught her when her mental skills were
just developing. It was to control her quick temper at the playground on
Betazed and worked more often than not.
It
didn't work just now.
All
along, she was trying to filter the thousands of emotions, all heightened, from
assaulting her psyche. She told Chan she could handle the concentrated emotions
but that was before the firefight broke out. Her mental blocks were in place
but they were being unintentionally pounded upon and it was giving her the
mother of all headaches.
The Marco
Polo had to escape being caught in
a pincer move by two clusters of Iconian ships, taking heavy fire in return.
Troi had the ship drop below their approach and then roll to confuse the
attackers. Sacker in engineering said it would be twenty minutes before shields
were again at full intensity. On the Enterprise, if Geordi had said twenty minutes, she could bet on it.
Here, she couldn't tell if Sacker was the kind of engineer who exaggerated
repair time or not.
"We're
clear," Chan said, sounding very relieved.
"Not
entirely," Davison commented. "Our path brings us around and straight
into the gap, but they'll see us coming."
"I'm
reading something unusual," Kai Sur Hoi said from ops. He remained rigidly
bent over the viewer and his left hand punched in commands. "There's an
energy
buildup
from cluster four, something I've never seen before."
"Rosario,
tactical on screen," Troi commanded. The stars became a computer-generated
image with each Iconian cluster numbered. She quickly saw that number seven was
being approached by the Romulan warbird Glory.
"Any
analysis?" she inquired.
"Not
yet. Something like tachyons but not quite. Whatever it is, I'm very intrigued
by its ..."
His
words were cut off as the screen displayed the torpedo assault on the Romulan
ship. She never imagined a simple torpedo could do that much harm to something
so large. Her bridge grew silent, except for the chirps from the equipment.
"Captain,
we're approaching our target," Davison said quietly, breaking the somber
tone that gripped the crew.
"Chan,
as we discussed, ease us into the gap, like a butterfly finding its branch,
float us in," she said as soothingly as she knew how.
The
young flight officer acknowledged and eased up on the speed, giving her more
maneuverability. The Marco Polo had two Iconians fire over their position, caught by the
change in motion. The attacking ships were, in turn, fired on by Landik Mel
Rosa's ships, keeping the enemy distracted as the Federation ship continued
into the sphere.
"Well
done, Mia," Troi said with a genuine smile.
"Careful,
three Iconian ships have broken off from cluster four and are approaching,
weapons hot," Rosario called.
"Increase
speed to full impulse," Troi called. "Bring us up the Z-axis fifty
thousand kilometers."
"Something
that steep, that fast could damage the nacelles," Davison warned.
"No
choice," Troi snapped. "Engage."
The Marco
Polo went into the rapid climb,
taxing the inertial dampners and forcing everyone to hold on to their chairs.
Two of the three Iconians attackers followed them up, while the third held its
position.
"At
fifty thousand, break down, sharply, aim us right at the Iconian ship,"
Troi commanded.
"Ma'am?"
Chan said.
"Just
do it," Troi said, getting annoyed at being questioned. Still, it was a
difficult situation with her in command and a relatively unseasoned crew. They
would have to follow those orders blindly to get the job done. Hesitation, in a
situation like this, could prove deadly.
The
ship shuddered as it reached its zenith and then was pushed straight down, in a
tight arc that forced the integrity fields to their limits. As they descended,
still at full impulse, Troi could hear the reports coming from engineering and
it didn't sound good.
Of
the two Iconian ships following them up, only one managed to slow up as the Marco
Polo flew past them. The other
shot farther up and seemed lost. One did slow down, tried to fire, but their
targeting was off and the rainbow-hued shot went wide. It continued after them.
"At
eight thousand kilometers veer off at 312 mark 8, straight for the center, warp
one in a two-second burst," Troi said. If she recalled the Picard Maneuver
right, this would be similar but would let the Iconians do all the shooting.
This
time there were no questions, just confirming the order and then silence. Utter
silence, which gnawed at Troi but she ignored it. Just as she ignored the
appre-
hension
from Davison and tinge of fear from Chan which stood front and center from all
the other emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
As
the ship approached the eight-thousand-kilometer mark, the Iconian ship that
remained below her angled itself up, taking aim. The Iconian ship pursuing them
from above fired once more and again missed.
"Going
to warp," Chan finally announced.
"Inertial
dampers are failing," Hoi almost immediately called out.
The
ship lurched worse than Troi feared, as it straightened itself out and then
accelerated into warp space. Hoi flipped over his chair and landed with a
bone-popping sound. Rosario managed to hold on to the tactical station but that
only meant a yeoman smacked right into him, injuring a shoulder. Chan rolled
from her chair and backward toward the command chair. Troi, already on one
knee, helped her back up and guided her to the station. Bracing herself against
the chair, the captain studied the readouts. Even the two-second burst was
enough to disrupt all activity on the small starship.
"Who's
hurt?" Troi asked.
"Hoi's
injured," Rosario reported. "Already signaled sickbay."
"Engineering
reports dampers reconfigured and back on line," Davison reported.
"Johnny,
are you okay?" Chan interrupted.
"Fine,
Mia, just fine. You fly the ship safely," he said softly.
With
the Marco Polo no longer in their sights, the Iconians who chose that
moment to unleash a torpedo had no way to call it back. And the ship coming
straight down could not move out of the way fast enough, so it
took
a hit at point blank range. The fifth Iconian cluster ceased to exist.
"Amazing,"
Riker said, shaking his head.
"That
ship has a good pilot," Picard noted.
"We
couldn't do something like that," the first officer said.
"No,
but a smaller ship could and Captain Troi knew that. She continues to surprise
me."
"And
me," Riker said with a grin, a twinkle returning to his eyes.
"The
Marco Polo is now nearing its objective," Data said. "The
Iconians in the center have yet to fire."
"Maybe
they can't," Vale noted. She bent over the far right portion of her
station, straightened up, and shrugged her shoulders. "Then again, maybe
they can. We can't get solid readings."
'Too
much distortion from the firefight," Riker said.
At
that moment, the tactical screen revealed the unusual sight of the Romulan
ship Bloodsword and the Klingon fighter Qob approaching the remains of cluster number four. Disruptors
that were more similar in nature than either side would ever admit unleashed
their fury as the two ships targeted one small Iconian vessel after another.
Within moments, four of them had vanished off the tactical board while the
other two scampered away, going to the far side of the sphere's remains.
"Nice
shooting," Riker said.
"Indeed,"
Picard said, since clearly there was nothing left to be said of the carnage.
It sickened him.
"Captain,
look at this," Vale called.
Picard
strolled over to the tactical station and she magnified the readouts. There,
the Deltan ships, which
had
previously been providing cover for the Marco
Polo, were now under heavy fire
from an entire cluster of ships. He noted the power amplification made to the
phasers were nothing he had ever seen before and the pounding was getting worse
for the Deltans, which were clearly not meant for this style of punishment.
"Who's
closest to them?" he asked.
"Maybe
the Gorn, but they seem intent on decimating our opponents," she replied.
"Wait,
look." He pointed to the bottom of the screen and there, a ship swooped
into view, maneuvering through debris and avoiding fire.
"It
never occurred to me," he muttered, as the Nyrian ship approached the
Deltans.
Coming
from underneath and behind the Iconians, they fired once, then again. Their
discharges seemed to blossom as they traveled away from the Nyrian ship,
crackling with energy and causing damage to the first two Iconian vessels the
energy flow touched. With two such ships damaged, the other four spread farther
and fired on the Deltans. The distraction provided by the Nyrian ship enabled
the two craft to separate, swooping high and avoiding much of the enemy attack.
The
Nyrian ship came closer and fired twice more, and once again, the energy
discharge did serious damage to the Iconian shields.
"Lieutenant,
are you studying the Nyrian weapons output?"
"Recording
everything for study later, sir," she said crisply.
"I'd
be curious to know how that works."
"Me,
too, sir," she said. He noted she was smiling, enjoying the spatial
acrobatics and firefight unfolding
before
them. Truth be told, he was pleased at how well the little ship was
contributing to the fleet and found himself anxious to learn more about Taleen
and her people.
"Don't
you find it amazing, Number One," Picard began, as he returned his chair.
"Look at how well our group has persevered. There may be hope for us all,
yet."
"Maybe,"
Riker said. "But right now we have two goals: get to the lead ship and
protect the Glory."
The
brightness in the captain's eyes dimmed as he realized they still did not know
a thing about the torpedo that managed to do so much damage to the Romulan
warbird. The Iconians might not have been what they appeared to be, but they
were no less formidable. He could not lose sight of that.
Not
once.
Picard
forced himself to slow down and look hard at the tactical display. The
defensive sphere's bottom ceased to exist, as did the adjacent cluster. Even as
they contracted, the Iconians could not possibly close every gap if they
remained in the rigid six-ship-per-cluster formation. That could prove an
advantage but he needed to make sure their next moves would not make them
vulnerable.
The
Carreon had already lost one ship in its defense of the Mercury,
and the Glory
was still showing no signs of
movement. He had fourteen able ships to the Iconians' forty-nine and it seemed
that the Iconians' sole goal was to defend the core three ships. Picard ran the
numbers six and three through his mind, matching them against what he knew of
the Iconians, and nothing came to mind. More than likely, further
evidence
these were impostors. That galled him but he fought to contain the anger,
saving it for the leader of these people.
"Number
One, they will defend the gap here," he began, tapping the wide opening in
the sphere formation—thanks to the Kreechta.
Even as he touched the screen
the Iconian markings moved closer—they were continuing to tighten their
posture. "Everything else will be spread thin, creating weaknesses between
the clusters. I think if we hammer at those points, simultaneously, we just
might crack the entire sphere."
Riker
was studying the screen and the captain approved of how quickly his first
officer was running the possibilities through his mind. In his own career,
Riker had seen his share of combat and also had the experience of serving
aboard a Klingon ship. This gave him possibly even better insights to the
strategy.
"If
everyone behaves, it should work, but I'd put the heaviest guns still working
on the gap. Maybe Kreechta and the Nyrian ship—they seem to pack a wallop."
"Agreed,"
Picard said a tight smile of approval on his worn face. "The Chargh
can go here, between nine and
six, while the Qob, Carreon, and two of the Gorn work between seven and eight.
The other Gorn ships can pierce the top, clusters one and two. We'll move the Bloodsword
to between two and three and
send the Deltans to five."
"Makes
as much sense to me as anything else," Riker said. With one more glance at
the screen, he returned to his position and began tapping in the new commands.
Picard
checked ship's status and then stood before his chair. The screen showed a
swarm of ships, some
from
his fleet and some Iconian. Their odd markings and composite forms disturbed
the captain. It was clear these impostors were in possession of the gateway
technology, and several other marvels, but they had no overriding technological
structure. No sense of a cohesive anything—they seemed to be scavengers, which
meant they likely knew where to find the real Iconians. That was also a worthy
goal and he redoubled his efforts to get to their leader before a crazed Gorn
could atomize them or they chose to self-destruct.
"All
ships will be in position in ten minutes," Riker said.
"Have
them fire while en route, keep the Iconians on the run," Picard said.
Riker
nodded and returned to his screen. Vale acknowledged and Picard welcomed the
sound of the forward phasers pounding cluster nine as the Enterprise
moved into its own position.
The screen once more filled with bright light as the battle was rejoined by the
Iconians. He feared the reappearance of that torpedo but couldn't tell if they
all had the weapon or just that one ship. If his scavenger theory prevailed,
the latter was actually quite likely.
"Desan to Picard."
"Go
ahead, Commander. How is your ship?"
"We're damaged but not dead" was all she would reveal. Sensors showed a degree of the
damage but within the huge starship, the extent remained a mystery. "We
will still fight."
"Stand
by," Picard said. "We're trying to crack their defense and then
surround the core ships. I hope to force a truce."
"You feel the core ships hold your secrets? It could just as
easily be a lure."
"It's
a risk I'm willing to take. Join me?"
"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world, Captain Picard." Unspoken remained the taunt of a surviving Romulan ship to
report the tale back to the Empire. It rattled the captain, but he felt there
was little choice.
The
remaining minutes ticked by and Picard contented himself with reviewing the
status reports coming from the other ships. None had remained unscathed. The
Deltan and Gorn ships were terse in their reports, leaving much unsaid. They
followed his orders and that would have to be enough. The Bloodsword
seemed to be the ship with
the fewest damages. He fretted the most over the Mercury,
which might not be able to
make enough repairs to sustain life. Starfleet should never have sent out a
ship before maintenance was completed. Now there was a price. There was more
than enough room to relocate the crew, but Picard hated the loss of any ship,
recalling how bitter he felt at losing the Stargazer
and not even being present
when the Enterprise-D crashed onto Veridian III
Finally,
he assessed his own ship, consulting with La Forge and Crusher. "Shields
are at full power and I think I can keep them that way," La Forge reported from below. "Of
course, if they have any more surprises in their armory then all bets are
off."
"We'll
try and wrap this up quickly," Picard assured him. He then contacted
sickbay, where Crusher said there were burns, cuts, and a few broken limbs but
the total was surprisingly light. "They
certainly built this one to take a beating," she observed.
"That
they did," Picard replied, with a touch of pride in his voice. The Sovereign-class
was the finest Star-
fleet's
engineers had to offer, after the recent turn of events, starting with the
discovery of the Borg some ten years earlier. The current crop of starships had
to be more resilient, more capable of sustaining itself over time and distance.
"Any
areas of concern?" he inquired.
"Nothing out of the ordinary, just your usual space fight."
"Well
then we'll just wrap it all up and keep things light," he said, forcing
himself to sound relaxed and perhaps more confident than he felt.
"Keep it that way," she admonished him, and cut the signal.
"All
ships will be in position in one minute. Iconians firing at will," Data
said.
Picard
wanted to correct him. These weren't the Iconians and he didn't want that once
grand name sullied by these interlopers. Still, he couldn't just call the enemy
"them," and so let the insult continue.
At
the thirty-second mark, Picard watched as one cluster after another suddenly
stopped firing. Within another five seconds, the entire defensive alignment
went silent and Picard fretted a final assault might be in the offing.
He
was about to have his forces scatter when a frantic-sounding Vale interrupted
his thoughts.
"Captain,
message from Starfleet. The gateways have all closed down!"
Riker
punched up the communique on his screen and nodded confirmation, not that it
was needed. Picard stood still in the bridge's center absorbing the news. Were
they giving in? Had they already sold the technology to some other race?
"Communications
between the ships has reached an unprecedented rate," Data reported.
"We are just beginning to get a sense of their algorithms, but have been
unable to crack the language."
"Damn,"
Picard muttered. "Thoughts, Number One?"
"Same
ones as you, I'm afraid."
"Picard
to the fleet: approach positions but stand by."
Within
seconds, Data reported the ships had achieved the charted positions and were
ready to engage. It was now up to Picard, and he turned options and variables
over in his mind. Indecision could be just as deadly but he had to factor in
the new information. With finality, he straightened himself and asked for a
hailing frequency.
"This
is Captain Picard. We do not wish to prolong this battle but to reach an
understanding. Our ships are now holding their position, but I am bringing the Enterprise
to your core. We intend to
open a dialogue."
His
message was greeted once more with silence, so Picard asked Perim to bring the
starship forward. They slipped past the ships at cluster nine without incident,
giving him confidence.
Riker
turned to Picard, a look of concern on his face. "New message from Admiral
Ross. The gateways are active once again. Apparently, the folks on Deep Space 9
came up with a way to shut them all down, but it only worked for about ten
minutes before the gateways all reset and started working again."
"Troi to Captain Picard."
"Go
ahead, Captain."
"Right after the gateways shut down, the level of panic in this
region increased dramatically. It has now subsided."
'Timed
almost to the moment when the gateways blinked off then on," Picard noted.
"I can't tell you what that means but I would be cautious."
"We
always are, Deanna," Riker said.
And
the Enterprise crept closer to the core ships.
Chapter Eight
moments after troi's message, the firing started once more.
None
were directed at the Enterprise as all the Iconian ships concentrated on those vessels
outside the sphere. Vale noted this as a tactical anomaly but was cautioned
against pre-emptive fire. From her reports, Picard knew the battle seemed
evenly matched with no new surprise weapons being deployed. Shot for shot,
there was a startling amount of parity among all the ships engaged in the
fight. Picard pushed that mental note far back in his mind for later.
'Ten
thousand kilometers to core ships," Perim reported.
"Steady
as she goes, Ensign," Riker said.
Picard
instructed La Forge to scan the area for any
out-of-the-norm
readings, still wondering why they had remained unmolested within the defensive
sphere. After several moments the chief engineer admitted to nothing out of the
ordinary.
"Fear,"
Riker said.
"Of
us?" Picard asked.
"Could
be. We've gotten this far, maybe they think we can take them after all."
"And
why not use the same torpedo attack that crippled the Glory?"
"Because
it was all they had," Riker said, sounding speculative. "They have
some second-rate ships with just a few offensive tricks up their sleeves. The
piloting is uninspired, this sphere is a joke, and if Deanna's right, they're
awfully scared."
"Pay
no attention to the man behind the curtain," Picard said quietly.
"Sir?"
Picard
smiled his first genuine smile in hours. "An early-twentieth-century bit
of literature. A man out of his element used all manner of trickery to make
those around him think he was some great and powerful wizard."
"Still,
I'd feel better keeping the shields at maximum."
"There's
no question."
"Since
after all, this wizard behind the curtain may actually have a quantum
torpedo."
"Of
course."
The Enterprise
drew closer and the fighting
continued around it. The three Iconian ships hung in the center, close enough
to potentially share shields. Picard studied their outlines and realized that
unlike the other vessels, these were surprisingly uniform. Data confirmed the
hulls to be entirely made from the unknown
metallic
composite and were built for long-distance travel with nearly fifty percent of
each vessel dedicated to engines.
"Captain,"
Data said, "these ships have exterior armaments that appear to be of
Breen design."
"Now
how on Earth did they acquire that?" Picard's frown etched lines in his
handsome face.
"Trade
with a friendly Ferengi?" Riker said, clearly trying to keep things light.
"If
these people have traded with the Breen before, why have they not dealt them
the gateways yet?"
"The
Breen are not an especially rich people," Data replied, "particularly
after the losses they sustained in the Dominion War. It could be they could not
meet the price."
"And
it'll be some price," Riker noted.
"Sir,
the Breen use type-three disruptors, which at this range, might cause
trouble," Vale said.
"Thank
you, Lieutenant," Picard said with a nod.
At
that moment, the Deltan ships broke through their position, entering the sphere
and scattering the remaining Iconian ships near them. The Nyrian ship
followed, unleashing their unique weapon, which widened the gap.
Vale
let out a short whoop in admiration of the action, which earned her a
surprised look from Riker and a stern one from the captain. She returned her
gaze to her station and told Picard, "The Qob
and Marco
Polo have punched through. The
entire bottom of the sphere is compromised."
"The
counselor is never going to let you forget this," Picard whispered to
Riker. It elicited a chuckle from his friend. Then he said in a louder voice,
"All ships within the sphere, one hundred eighty degrees about face and
cover
us." But once more, as the ships entered the sphere's shape, the Iconian
vessels ceased fire.
"They
are protecting the core ships," Data suggested.
"It's
something valuable, not a trap," Picard said.
"Ensign,
hold us at five thousand kilometers," Riker told Perim.
"Aye,
sir."
"What
did the wizard want?" Riker asked Picard.
The
captain let out a small laugh. "He liked helping these people, but all he
really wanted to do was go home."
Feeling
emboldened by the huge amount of firepower at his back, Picard stared at the
three Iconian ships before him. All manner of communication had been rebuffed
and he couldn't tell why. His next actions would prove to be either the key to
the mission or his downfall. Standing beside Riker, the two looked at the three
ships, their dark colors and minimal running lights making them little better
than silhouettes on the screen.
"Number
One, I'm bringing the other ships in, closer to us. It should make us safe.
When they're in position, I want you to lead a boarding party. They don't
answer so we'll have to find them and ask them our questions in person."
"Aren't
we violating some accord somewhere?"
"None
that I can recall," Worf said. He had kept his silence, which Picard
imagined had to have been hard. The Klingon also seemed remarkably unfazed by
the battle. Picard had considered including Worf in the tactical discussions,
but he knew that if the ambassador had had any contributions, he would not have
hesitated to make them. Obviously, the former Enterprise
secu-
rity
chief thought Picard's tactics to be sound for the nonce.
Picard
shook his head in firm agreement with Worf's statement. "We don't know
these people and they fired without provocation. I feel that gives me a tremendous
amount of latitude. Take Vale and let's invite our Klingon allies to beam their
own team aboard. We'll share our information with the others, but I can't trust
the Carreon at this time."
"And
the Nyrians?"
"We
can share our data," Picard noted. "They're lost people, Will.
Whatever we can do to return them home will remain a priority."
"Be
nice to get Voyager back the same way," Riker said.
"Captain!"
Picard
turned and looked at the viewscreen to see the disgruntled visage of DaiMon Bractor.
"/
am most displeased I am not allowed to board
the ship. Space salvage rights clearly give us an equal opportunity to
participate. You'll be giving the others a clear advantage over my
people."
Picard
knew the Kreechta acquitted itself well in the just concluded battle, and he
was pleased there seemed to be no lingering grudges from their first meeting.
However, he disliked the pushy nature of the Ferengi, who seemed to think
diplomacy was just another sales tool.
"DaiMon,
I am trying to control a volatile situation. I should point out that space
salvage involves derelicts and abandoned ships, not those still crewed."
"You're hiding something!"
"You've
thought that of me before," Picard said as mildly as possible. "I
wasn't then nor am I now. I've
shared
all of our telemetry to date and will continue to do so. Please stand by."
He signaled for the message to be cut.
Turning
to Worf, Picard continued, the Ferengi already forgotten. "Ambassador,
I'd like you on the ship with the away team."
"Of
course, Captain," Worf said, practically bursting in anticipation of doing
something useful.
Picard
turned the other way, looking at Riker. "Assemble your teams, full
armaments, and you'd better bring a medic with you, just in case."
"Dr.
Crusher will insist it be her," Riker said with his customary grin.
"I
have no doubt," Picard replied.
Finally, some action.
It
was all Riker could think about as the turbolift brought him, Worf, and Vale
below to the transporter room. Picard controlled the space battle as well as
any commander could have under the circumstances, but the first officer was
definitely feeling the itch to do ... something. Picard was content to analyze,
study, and pore through ancient Iconian artifacts, while Riker preferred
activities that involved movement—either his cooking, or his music, for
example.
That
was one of the main appeals to remaining first officer: the ability to be
usually the first one down to a planet, meeting the unknown face-to-face. It
was one thing to study them with sensors and probes and another to share a
room with them, picking up on all the subtle clues you couldn't detect with
instruments, no matter how sophisticated.
They
stopped at the armory and were met by the rest
of
the team, which consisted of Vale's security people. There was Iol, a Bolian
woman who recently signed aboard; Rutger VonBraun, who was Vale's number two;
and Patrice Ribero, a five-year veteran. Fine choices, in his mind, as he
accepted his hand phaser. Vale couldn't keep the gleam of anticipation from her
eyes and he appreciated that they shared the same enthusiasm for any mission.
Down
the corridor was Transporter Room Three and as the solemn sextet strode in, he
noted the absence of chatter. It was just as well, since he wasn't sure the
level of danger inherent in this contact. Already inside was engineer Tomas
DeSanto, who handed the first officer a tricorder, matching his own. With
approval, Riker nodded at the hand phaser tucked into DeSanto's hip pocket.
Following
behind them was a breathless Beverly Crusher. She had her medical bag slung
over one shoulder and she too had a phaser in sight.
The
instructions he gave were fairly simple: board and find the Iconian leader,
learning as much without causing any loss of life.
"The
Chargh is
beaming aboard her own team," Vale warned her officers. "Knowing
them, they will be even more heavily armed and without any medical support.
Captain Grekor intends to place them on the opposite side of the ship since we
can't tell where their command center might be."
Riker
remained impressed with Vale's hard-nosed demeanor, commanding respect not only
by her actions but how she carried herself. Her addition to the crew could
never replace Worf or even Tasha Yar, but she was more than capable and was
even willing to sample his cooking. A glance over to the ambassador showed a
nod
of approval on his part. She knew how to brave unknown territory.
"Which
ship do we board?" DeSanto, built like a security officer but one of the
gentler souls aboard the Enterprise, asked.
"The
center one," Riker replied. "Data managed to triangulate the bulk of
the communications to that ship." With that, everyone took their positions
and the transporter chief sent them to the Iconian vessel.
As
expected, the gravity and atmosphere were close enough to human norms that they
couldn't even detect a difference. The transport brought them to an empty
corridor at the prow of the ship, which suited Riker just fine. It was not as
well lit as the Enterprise, but he could make out doors with signs in an alien script,
and a dark red and brown color scheme that contrasted with his own ship. There
was the tinge of an odor in the air, not offensive but clearly marking the ship
as alien. The decks had bare metal floors and not much in the way of
decoration. He did spot several computer interfaces down the lengthy, empty
corridor.
Flipping
open his tricorder, Riker scanned the area and was satisfied to see no life
signs in the vicinity. With his free hand, he gestured DeSanto forward. The
first officer was surprised by the bulky man's agility, but he moved quickly to
the first interface and scanned it with his tricorder.
DeSanto
frowned, which bothered Riker. To date, they had not been successful at piercing
the Iconian communications or computer systems. Still, the engineer tapped in
commands, trying to coax the Iconian computer to open up its secrets.
"Commander,
we're being scanned," Vale said, holding her own tricorder up toward the
ceiling.
"They
know we're here, then." Riker was not at all surprised. He signaled for
the engineer to return to the group. Now he had to pick a course. The lack of
activity implied command was elsewhere, so he pointed with the tricorder to a
juncture about fifty meters before them. In a tight group, they moved down the
hall.
With
several meters left, doors on either side of the corridor opened, disgorging a
large number of Iconians. Riker barely had time to absorb their appearance but
he noticed their yellowish skin and his last thought was of Data's own golden
skin when a fist doubled him over. Okay, he admitted, they had strength.
The
phaser rifles would do the team no good although Iol wielded hers as a club,
taking down two Iconians with one swing. Riker's own fist connected with a
chest, pushing his attack off him.
With
a brief glance, Riker saw that, robes or not, the ambassador was Klingon-born
and was not going to stand by idly. Instead, he hefted an Iconian over his head
and tossed him down the corridor.
They
were outnumbered at least two to one and he had no idea how long Crusher and
DeSanto could hold on with such odds. As with their ships, the Iconians seemed
to believe in numbers being a deciding factor. He also spotted that the doors
remained open and seemed to reveal turbolifts.
"Vale,
can you handle these goons?"
"POC,"
she said.
"POC?"
he asked as he lashed out with his left leg, staggering an opponent.
"Piece
of cake, go!"
"Commander,
I will help the lieutenant and join up with you," Worf shouted, as he elbowed
an attacker trying to attack from behind.
Grinning,
Riker hauled one Iconian headfirst into another, freeing Crusher for a moment.
He stepped
over a fallen body and twisted to avoid another one being thrown by VonBraun.
Finally, he stepped into the small cabin and prayed he could get the door
closed. A quick study of the single control panel showed nothing intuitive, so
he began pressing buttons at random until one finally snapped the door closed
with a resounding clang.
Three
buttons later, the lift began to move, sideways and then down. A preprogrammed
destination, he suspected. As the lift moved him, Riker caught his breath and
began to think about the Iconians. They appeared approximately human norm in
size and shape although these had rather bland faces. Chins, Riker thought, as
he focused on the details. They had little in the way of chin and their eyes
seemed ill formed, as if a sculptor had not completed his work. They certainly
didn't match any species he could recall and he was not terribly surprised to
find them bipeds. A suspiciously high percentage of all four quadrants were
designed that way.
Riker
noticed the lift slowing, estimating he must have descended to the final deck
of the ship.
Taking
out his hand phaser, Riker touched the door stud and sure enough, it slid open,
making the same racket. No sense of surprise now, he thought. He crouched low
and peered out the doorway, first right then left. Another dim corridor, but
this one had Iconians lined up one-third of the way. One turned his way and
pointed, sounding an alarm in clear Federation Standard. That alone made Riker
hesitate, but what re-
ally
caught his attention was that several of these Iconians seemed to have Klingon
forehead ridges. He quickly recovered and fired the phaser toward the ceiling,
hoping to scatter the crowd. He turned about only to discover the lift had
closed and moved on.
Scatter
they did and Riker bolted in the other direction, turning left at the first
opportunity, searching for either another lift or some place to hide until he
could figure things out. He ran quickly, hearing sounds of pursuit, and he
realized he had no idea what sort of hand weapons they possessed. So much for
journeying into the unknown.
Ten
meters down the new corridor, Riker heard the sound of metal grating on metal
and saw an Iconian figure fly through an open doorway. This one had a Romulan
brow, and pointed ears but the same yellowish skin. He then heard a sound that
made him smile and he ventured toward the battle.
As
expected, the Klingon landing party was having their hands full of rushing
Iconians. Even outnumbered three to one, Riker could tell there wasn't even a
contest. One Klingon, Captain Grekor himself, spotted Riker and grinned.
"Come,
I can save one for you!"
"If
it's all the same, I'm still looking for the command center," Riker
replied.
Grekor
hefted an Iconian over his head, the alien's arms pinwheeling in fright, and
tossed him to the far side of the room. "As you wish, Commander."
Riker
watched the toss and tried to figure out the room's purpose. There were control
panels and miniature monitors everywhere. Of course, the writing still made no
sense to him, nor did the readouts. He saluted
the
Klingon with his phaser, shouted "Qapla'!"
and continued down the corridor.
The
dimness bothered Riker, reminding him of how tired he was. There had been
little opportunity to rest, let alone sleep. Still, he knew he was in good
shape and had the endurance to go for hours more. He was hungry, though, and
thought about the rations Crusher kept in her medical bag. She was nowhere
nearby so he banished the idea from his mind, concentrating on negotiating
his way through the alien ship.
As he
turned another red and brown corner, Riker heard footsteps approach. He tried
to step back but the Iconian spotted him. This one, oddly enough, looked more
human than others, complete with well-groomed hair in a current Federation
style. His clothes also seemed like the style of leisure wear one wore on
Argelius, all bright colors and patterns, certainly going against everything he
had witnessed aboard this ship to date. The Iconian's face turned angry as he
spotted the Federation officer and he pulled out his own hand weapon, which
seemed to glow as it touched his skin.
Riker
dove forward into a shoulder roll, and then extended his form so he was
practically eye to eye with the alien, too close for him to fire. The move
surprised the Iconian and suddenly, Riker had him by the shirt collar, the
phaser at his temple.
"Do
you speak Standard?"
"Y-yes,"
the man stammered.
"The
command center, bridge, whatever you call it, where is it?"
The
man seemed to consider his options and when he took too long, Riker dug the
phaser's emitter a little more into the man's temple. He noted there seemed to
be a
lot of loose skin there. Something to share with Crusher later.
"Two
decks up, one-quarter of the way forward," he finally said in a slightly
frantic tone.
Score
one for diplomacy, Riker mused. He used his free hand to punch the oval control
panel set into the nearest door. It opened loudly and Riker shoved the man in
and fired near his feet. It did the trick, freezing him into position until the
door cycled shut. One burst from the phaser fused the circuit panel, trapping
the man.
Finally,
some progress, he thought. Still, something was wildly amiss and Riker tried
fitting the pieces together, forming a profile of the Iconians, and it was far
from complete. Why were the Iconians looking like Klingons, Romulans, and
humans?
He
found another lift, finally beginning to recognize that their door shapes were
slightly different in style than the others. Not being able to read their
writing was bothersome, but he was beginning to get the hang of the technology.
It only took four attempts to find the "up" toggle and he managed to
stop the lift after two decks. One-quarter forward was not exactly precise, but
Riker figured the closer to the command center he got, the more "helpful"
Iconians he would encounter.
The
door opened, Riker once more peeked out and stepped forward, phaser thrust
forward. He stepped gingerly, toward the Iconians walking away from him. By
following, he had hoped to locate the bridge. What he didn't expect was a pair
of hands reaching him from behind and hauling him around a corner. Riker was
spun against the wall and was surrounded by five men, probably one more than he
could confidently handle.
Three
of the five were human in appearance, like the
one
he left below; the other two were the tallest Ferengi he'd ever seen. These,
too, seemed in leisure clothes but armed with the same sort of hand weapons.
Once again, though, Riker was too close for them to be of much use. He held his
ground, hoping to learn from them. No doubt they had questions of their own.
They
spoke among themselves in their native tongue; then, finally, the one on
Riker's extreme left spoke to him. The voice was smooth, with almost a melodic
quality that was actually pleasing to the ear.
"Why
are you here?"
"I'll
explain that to your leader. Where can I find him?"
"Why
are you here?" This from the pseudo-Ferengi in the center.
"We've
tried peaceful contact, but you ignored us. We approach and you fire on us. I
think you owe my captain some explanations." Riker looked them right in
the eye, which they seemed unused to. They looked away, at one another and then
back at Riker's chest.
"You
invade our ship and will have to pay the price." The two on his right
stepped closer and reached for Riker, who was held tight. However, they ignored
his legs so he kicked up, grabbing the alien in the center with a scissors
hold. The five struggled, not used to fighting apparently, which Riker turned
to his advantage.
With
his legs, he pulled the alien toward him, forcing all five off-balance. He
twisted and knocked one Ferengi down, tripping up another human-lookalike.
They couldn't maintain a solid grip so Riker struggled free for a moment. One
of the fallen men grabbed a leg while another reached for his weapon.
Once
more, the first officer ducked down and rolled,
kicking
the downed alien with his free leg. He began to rise when someone reached from
behind and smacked his head into the hard metal corridor wall. Momentarily,
bright lights flashed before Riker's eyes and he couldn't tell where his
assailants were. His left arm swung lazily, hoping to make contact with
something. Instead, it got grabbed and twisted behind his back while another
hand reached for the phaser, now on the ground.
From
his right, an alien kicked viciously and Riker's ribs protested and he let out
a grunt. Another kick, this from the other side, and Riker knew he had to move
to survive. Balling himself up to protect his body, he tried to roll forward
and moved a foot or two. He then did a backward sweep kick, which managed to
knock down one alien, and Riker pounced. The two struggled, rolling on the
ground, each holding on to articles of clothing. The action seemed to keep the
other four at bay.
But
only for a moment, as two of them reached down and grabbed Riker's arms, this
time keeping away from his legs. The punches began, all over his body and
weakening the first officer. He started to sag, losing hold on consciousness,
and began to find his mind drifting, thinking of Deanna, safely away from the
battle, or of a piece of music he had been trying to master for a week.
He
felt himself slip to the ground, no longer being held, but he was winded and
couldn't focus. Idly, Riker wondered what became of the hitting. It seemed to
have stopped. He shook his head, trying to regain his senses, find the
alertness that had wandered away.
Blood
had stung his eyes as he blinked repeatedly but he was pretty certain some
larger figure was pum-
meling
an Iconian. Maybe two. When he heard the battle cry, he broke into a broad
smile.
"Ambassador
Worf, my hero," he cracked, looking at the Klingon warrior standing atop a
heap made from the five bodies.
"Will,
you are injured," Worf said in that deep, welcome voice of his.
"Nothing
the doctor can't cure," he replied.
Worf
stepped forward and helped the commander to his feet, one arm trying to wipe
the blood from the gash on the side of his head. Riker shook his head once
more, letting everything regain its familiar focus.
"You
came looking to ply your trade but instead, fell back on instinct. Whatever
will the Council think," Riker teased.
"Not
exactly ..."
"Very
exactly," Riker said, using his own sleeve to wipe at his bloody nose.
"You've been stalking the command center, too."
"Yes,"
Worf admitted.
"It's
this way," Riker said, gesturing toward the adjoining corridor.
"They have strong internal sensors which have been tracking us. Have you
noticed anything unusual about these people?"
"No."
"Then
you haven't been looking close enough. I just fought my way through Klingons,
humans, Romulans, and Ferengi, but all with yellow skin."
"A
masquerade?"
"I
think we just need to ask. If you'd please?"
Worf
bent down and picked up Riker's phaser and tricorder, which had been knocked around
during the battle. Riker accepted them, checked their functionality,
and
slipped them into his pockets. With each passing moment he was more and more
alert, which also meant he felt each ache and pain with greater clarity. Trying
to ignore them, Riker led Worf toward the corridor and they made their way to
the Iconian bridge.
No
one challenged the pair, which probably annoyed Worf but gave Riker a chance to
catch his second wind. There was no question he would need Crusher's attention
but he didn't dare contact her and possibly give away his position or
compromise Crusher's. He gestured for Worf to stand on the opposite side of
the door and then they raised their weapons in readiness. With his right hand,
he banged on the door, knocking rather than activating the automation. The
action was greeted with silence so Riker banged once more.
Finally,
the door snapped open and an Iconian, one looking more like the first ones he
saw, stepped into the entrance and spotted Worf. He let out a small sound before
Worf clapped a large, dark hand across his mouth. He yanked the man out of the
doorway, clearing space for Riker to step through.
Well,
he was mussed, bloody, and less than at his best, but Riker was ready for that
all-important first face-to-face contact with an alien leader.
The
command center was not designed for comfort, or even efficiency, the Enterprise
officer thought. Darker than
even the passageways, the room was oblong with two large screens, showing fore
and aft images. People sat in low-slung chairs, control panels to both sides.
There appeared to be six such stations in a ring, three facing each screen. All
six looked at Riker in horror but none dared move.
"Hi,"
Riker said. Worf stepped in behind him, letting
the
door finally close. "Does one of you happen to be the captain?"
The
Iconians proved to be less than a challenge to Grekor and his landing party,
which infuriated him. These yellow-skinned weaklings might have possessed great
firepower as witnessed by the crippling of the Glory,
but they could not fight like
Klingons. Trying to win a battle through sheer numbers proved nothing and was
beneath his contempt.
Once
the Iconians had been incapacitated or killed, he had his people fan out in the
room, trying to decipher its purpose. This much technology, he concluded,
meant it was a necessary location. Kliv, one of his better warriors, seemed
able to learn the control panels and got it responding to his touch. This
impressed Grekor, since he had never before considered Kliv as anything more
than a career soldier. But one who could fight and make a computer sing was a
valuable asset.
"Report,"
he barked at that asset.
"My
best estimate is that this room is an engineering control station, my
lord," Kliv said.
"Where
are the engines?"
Kliv
turned back to the console, knowingly risking Grekor's anger, but coaxed it
into making a portion of the side wall roll back. It turned out to be an
accessway to a platform overlooking a vast engine room. Now, this was something
Grekor understood: a room throbbing with power. These engines could easily
handle the highest warp for longer than those of either the Federation or the
Klingon Empire. So, he would wrest its secrets and bring it back to Martok,
insuring some victory, some advantage for his own House.
Grekor
gestured for Kliv to join him on the platform. He gestured out toward the
engines, idling, but still turning out terawatts of energy for the starship.
"I want this ship's secrets," he whispered to Kliv. "How do
these engines work? Find me that and we shall all benefit."
"My
lord," Kliv began in obeisance, which pleased Grekor. Too few Klingons
seemed to know their place anymore, but Kliv was well trained. Then the junior
warrior turned his attention away from Grekor and down below. The captain
craned his neck and watched nearly a dozen forms take shape near the engine
core.
"Gorn,"
Grekor snarled.
"What
shall we do, my lord?" Kliv asked. "They are allied with us in
this."
"But
they defy Picard's order," Grekor said. "He is not a man to
cross."
The
commander stared at the dozen grotesque forms swarming with sensors, trying to
obtain the same information. He wanted to unsheathe a blade and strike a blow
for Picard's honor but had to stop himself, second-guessing his gut. It galled
him, but for the moment, he would look after the overall interests of his
people—but he would not soon forget this transgression. Should Kahless wish it,
his time would come.
"We
will both have this technology, then, but they bear watching," he said in
slow measured tones.
Kliv
returned his attention to the control room and proceeded to coax the alien code
into revealing itself.
"Captain,
there has been an unauthorized transport," Data calmly announced.
Picard
looked up with a look of alarm. The last thing he needed was the uneasy
alliance to crumble because
the
Romulans or the Ferengi or the Gorn could not wait to plunder the Iconian
ships.
"It
came from the Gorn ships," the second officer continued.
Picard
sighed. Given that they were the first to take lives despite his orders, this
wasn't so unexpected.
"Picard
to Captain Ralwisssh. I demand to know why your people are on the Iconian
ship."
"To the victor go the spoils... is that not one of your
phrases?"
"We
are not victorious," Picard said, fighting to contain his anger.
"We've merely gotten the upper hand for the moment. The gateways remain
active and therefore the threat remains."
"/
see it differently, but will send over no more
crew," Ralwisssh said. Picard wished
he could read a tone, an attitude or emotion from the voice.
Instead,
Picard stood and approached Data, staring at the viewscreen, and wondered what
was transpiring on the command vessel. What did these people know of the
Iconians and how was his crew faring in person? Still, his primary thoughts had
to remain with the fleet.
"Data,
let's move our ships in an effort to corral the Iconian ships. We'll nudge them
into a tighter group, making it more difficult for them to maneuver and fight
or even flee. While they may outnumber us, we do seem to be in control for the
moment. I don't want to waste the advantage."
The
android agreed and began working out courses for the other ships, sending out
signals in place of Commander Riker. In the meantime, with nothing else to do,
Picard retired to his ready room, allowing himself a brief respite.
From
his private sanctum, the captain ordered his favorite tea, and a small scone.
Sitting on his couch, he held up a padd that contained current readings on the
damaged ships. Desan and her crew seemed to have restored more power to the Glory,
so it remained spaceworthy.
He appreciated their efforts and dedication. On the other hand, the Mercury
was having a tougher time.
They remained on auxiliary power and were working nonstop to restore vital
systems. Brisbayne's last report indicated his doubts as to restoring warp
power and they were all too far away from the Federation to expect much backup
help. Without saying so, the captain was ready to send his crew off-ship, a
step before total abandonment. It no doubt hurt the career officer, and Picard
had much sympathy for his plight. It was all he could spare right now; there
were not enough resources all around to allow Picard to send La Forge over to
lend a hand.
He
gazed out the viewport and saw the three Iconian ships floating in the ether.
They fascinated and infuriated him. Like a good chess master, he had
surrounded the opponent, but it irritated him to not know exactly what it was
he had surrounded.
What
secrets could possibly be locked away on those ships and were they smart enough
to discover them?
Chapter
Nine
riker continued to stand impassively, waiting for someone to speak. The heavy
breathing behind him would normally elicit a comment, but for now, he was just
comforted to have Worf watching his back. It had been a full thirty seconds
since they breached the control room, but the passive figures before him
seemed more mannequin than life-form.
"Do
I scare you? You'll forgive the appearance, but it was difficult finding your
address. I shouldn't be scary, I'm really a nice guy. The man behind me,
though, you don't want to wear out his patience. There isn't a lot to begin
with." He flashed them a winning grin, not daring to steal a glance at his
companion.
Finally,
a man at a station toward the room's rear looked up and spoke. The voice was
authoritative, al-
though
the body seemed ill formed, somewhat broad at the shoulders, and the human face
certainly lacked definition. He idly thought that they sort of resembled the
Changelings but with less control over then- mimicry.
"I'm
sorry, Commander," the man said, breaking into a smile. "This has
been quite a reversal for us, as you can imagine. We're not used to that."
The
first officer was surprised by the casual tone in the words, expecting
something far stuffier. But he could adapt.
"Are
you the leader?"
The
man smiled benignly, briefly flashing flat, dull teeth. He had a fringe of dark
hair from ear to ear, not dissimilar to Picard, but the unlined face offset the
appearance of age. In fact, Riker wouldn't hazard a guess.
"Maybe
not for the entire Iconian people," he began with a slight laugh.
"But for the Alpha Quadrant, yes, I do speak for my people. I am
Doral."
Riker
grinned back at the unassuming figure but refused to lower the phaser. He did,
though, step into the room, letting Worf further within. The bridge felt much
fuller, almost annoyingly so, but he was not going to give up the advantage.
"I'd
like you to order a cease-fire, and begin discussions with Captain Picard,
whom you so rudely ignored."
"Oh,
I wouldn't say ignored, just listened intently without much to say," Doral
replied. "Still, you have me at a disadvantage so I will send out the
signal."
Now Riker
was getting annoyed. This leader was being too affable, showing almost no
emotion. With caution, he watched Doral give brief hand signals to the officers
nearest him and each hunched over the controls, tapping away. He waited,
practicing patience,
trying
not to give away a thing. Instead, he absorbed the controls, how they were
being accessed, and added it to his growing knowledge. If he had to fight his
way off the ship, he would be damned if he would be caught ill prepared. No
doubt, Worf was doing the same.
Doral,
a little taller than Riker, but not as solidly built, turned and smiled once
more. "There. I've also put out the same message throughout this ship so
your people, and Ambassador Worf's, and the Gorn will no longer be at
risk."
Mention
of the Gorn surprised Riker, but he kept his poker face intact. Something told
him, though, that Doral saw his surprise anyhow. This man seemed placid, but
Riker could tell he was being measured up in much the same way. He was used to
it by now, but still, these were unknown opponents and he had to think of them
as such, much as he wished these were the mighty people Picard somewhat
idolized.
"Thank
you," Riker replied. "Now, are you ready to meet with Captain Picard
and get this matter settled?"
"Actually,
no," Doral said. "There are a few things I'd like explained, such as
what you did to disrupt our technology. We came to your people, offering this
boon, and here you are trying to sabotage it. That's not dealing with us
fairly, now, is it?"
"I
find it interesting how you've gone to great lengths to resemble the quadrant's
key races," Riker said. "Haven't spotted any Breen, Kreel, Orions, or
Cardassians around here, but I'm sure it's just a matter of looking a little
harder."
Doral
just looked at Riker and said nothing. The look in his eyes was not a happy
one.
"I
would imagine it was done for a purpose," Riker
said,
hoping he could bluff through the exchange. "You have, though, ignored our
pleas to turn off the devices while we and the other governments negotiate in
good faith."
Doral
smiled, looking deep into Riker's eyes, and the first officer started to feel
more than a little uncomfortable. If he could read some tic, some movement
that tipped off the bluff—he had nothing left but force and with a ship full of
Klingons and Gorn, he was not going to be the aggressor.
"Of
course, Commander, and perhaps we should have. But we could take this as a sign
of aggression and retaliate against the Federation while continuing to
negotiate with the dozen other governments in this quadrant."
"I
would say, right about now, you don't have the ability to launch much of a
fight," Riker said, surer of his ground. "If you've sent out the
cease-fire, we'll be able to talk and settle this like enlightened
beings."
Doral
laughed at the word "enlightened" and waved an arm that gestured Worf
and Riker further into the control room. The others remained at their stations
and just watched, never taking their hands off the control panels. He and Worf
looked around at everything with heavy suspicion but joined the Iconian at the
far viewscreen. Doral nodded toward the closest officer and the viewscreen
switched to a star map. Riker didn't immediately recognize the star patterns.
"That's
the Beta Quadrant," Worf said, his deep voice startling more than one
officer. "Is that where you hail from?"
"Me
personally," Doral said, "no. I was born on a ship here in the Alpha
Quadrant, but we've been making our way here from the Beta Quadrant, as you so
quaintly
put it, for quite some time. We flourished here once, and would like to do so
again. For that, we will need resources and after studying the situation here,
it seems the gateways were the greatest benefit we had to sell.
"You
people, siding with one another and then turning on them. My people are long
past that. We can't even recall our last war."
"Yet
you were known as the 'demons of air and darkness,'" Worf said.
Doral
paused a moment, seemingly thinking. Was he offended by the sobriquet, or was
there something else? He watched the facial expression and with fewer lines to
define the face, he had trouble telling. "That's a name I have not heard
in a long time," he finally said. "I'm sure we seemed like demons to
some of the worlds we visited but in the literal sense, no."
"It
seems like you want to talk, so please, let's arrange a meeting with Captain
Picard. Ambassador Worf and I should not be the ones to debate this with
you."
"Perhaps,
Commander, but I do enjoy the opportunity," Doral said. "But for now,
I think I shall remain here."
"I
do not think you should refuse Commander Riker's suggestion," Worf said in
a menacing tone. Doral actually flinched at the sound, which secretly pleased
Riker, but he did not want to settle this through intimidation.
Doral's
eyes darted to an officer, who nodded in return. Just as Riker waved his
phaser to cover the man, a transporter beam griped the Iconian and took him
from the bridge. Worf's phaser fired first and the officer slumped over the
console. Riker turned his weapon on the next nearest officer and inquired where
the leader
had
gone. He was met with silence and Riker could tell it would remain that way.
"Riker
to Picard," he said, stabbing at his chest emblem.
"Go ahead, Number One."
"We've
found their leader, a man named Doral. However, Doral seems disinclined to meet
with you and had himself beamed off the bridge. We're not sure where he went,
but we do have control of the ship."
"Understood. The others have ceased the attack and we have
positioned our fleet defensively. I'm sending Data and La Forge over to begin
studying their technology."
"Agreed,"
Riker replied. "Worf and I will stay aboard to keep an eye on
things."
"Very well; you'll stay in charge."
"Captain,
what are the Gorn doing aboard?"
"They are there without permission but apparently have not acted
violently."
"Just
another wrinkle in the plan," Riker commented. "We've got it under
control, so Data and Geordi can come aboard any time. I suggest they start in
engineering."
"Done. Picard out."
Maybe
some hot cocoa, Troi thought to herself, or better yet, a sundae. Instead, she
gulped down the last of a cool cup of raktajino
as she reviewed the latest in
a steady stream of padds. The cascading effects of the fight meant one system
after another had shown strain. Her damage-control teams had locked down the
worst of the problem and the ship's power was almost back to normal. But it
meant everyone was working without
letup,
in case the fighting started again. While the Marco
Polo was a lean machine, its
smaller crew meant there was little in the way of relief.
On
the bridge, Hoi had healed enough that he was back at his station, although his
left arm was in a sling and he moved slowly. Davison had whispered to him a
while ago and he actually cracked a smile so she knew he would be fine.
The
turbolift doors opened and Mia Chan returned to the bridge after a checkup.
While she hadn't been seriously hurt, Troi insisted the entire crew get a
medical once-over just in case. She lingered at tactical for a moment,
slipping her left arm through the space between Rosario's right arm and chest.
Their fingers brushed one another's for a moment and she leaned into him, which
resulted in a wince. Quickly, she disengaged herself and took her station.
"Dr.
Buonfiglio pronounce you fit?' Troi asked mildly.
Chan
turned and gave her a big smile, nodded, and returned to her readouts. She
seemed very intent on looking forward, concentrating on nothing in particular.
There was very little for the conn officer to do while everyone in the fleet
maintained position.
The
captain eased herself out of the center seat and moved forward, coming
alongside Chan. "He'll be fine."
"Oh
I know, Captain, but I don't like seeing him hurt."
"Only
him?" she asked mischievously.
She
blushed and shook her head, making the hair fly about. "Not at all! Well,
okay, maybe those that fired on us, but you know I have feelings for him."
"As
he seems to have for you. But I need you focused on the mission. If you can't
do that, I'll have to summon relief."
"I'll
be okay, Captain," Chan said, sounding all business. "No need to
worry about me."
"As
you have no need to worry about him," Troi finished.
Within
five minutes, La Forge and Data were in the engine room, which now had more
members of the alliance than Iconians. Kliv took most of the ship's complement
and locked them in a nearby room, posting a guard. Klingon, Corn, and Starfleet
officers waved sensing devices over the equipment and Grekor stared with
smoldering hatred toward the aliens.
La
Forge thought Data was acting fine, betraying no sense of apprehension, but he
suspected it remained with his friend. Despite having used the emotion chip for
several years now, Data was still coming to grips with the powerful changes it
effected on his perceptions of the world around him. Something like this was sure
to rattle him, considering what happened the first time.
Turning
his attention to the main engines, Geordi allowed his optical implants to go
to work. Similar to the tricorder, his implants allowed him to scan things at
almost the molecular level. He could determine the metallurgical composition
of the hull plating, the kinds of monofilaments used to wire the control
panels, and the number of strands in the weave of the fabric on the control
chairs. La Forge never ceased to be awed by how his sight far exceeded his
fellow humans.' Still, he not too long ago was also able to see the pure colors
of a sunrise without artificial enhancements. He remained wistful over losing
his natural sight once again but was at least aided by trusted technology.
Kliv,
taller and far broader than the chief engineer,
nearly
tripped over him. The Klingon swore an oath loudly but unintelligibly and
Geordi took it in stride. Seeing the access panel, the Klingon also bent down,
and the two men stared in through the panel.
"I
see no dilithium in use," the Klingon muttered.
"Me
either," Geordi said, hoping to share knowledge, which was more likely
from a Klingon than a Gorn. "Their antimatter flow seems regulated through
pulsed magnetic fields, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me."
"There
is an imbalance in the warp field this engine generates as well," the
Klingon said, trying to sound more like he was talking to himself than to a
fellow engineer.
"I
see that. The pulse seems to cause it, which also seems to form a tighter warp
bubble, which I believe gives them some greater maneuverability than either of
our ships."
The
Klingon spat but nodded in reluctant agreement. "But I also see three
types of alloy used for the housing, which also makes little sense."
"We
think these ships are old enough that they have been patched with salvage.
We've seen that sort of thing before," La Forge said.
The
two went on exchanging technical small talk for a little while, and in so
doing, seemed comfortable with their surroundings. Still, even as they moved
around the engineering deck, no Gorn came near them. On the one hand, Geordi
was just as pleased, but on the other, he wanted to know what they knew. He
spotted one lingering near them, no doubt eavesdropping and doing a rather poor
job of masking the task.
La
Forge looked across the room and saw that Crusher was idly studying readouts
that probably made
as
little sense to her as they did to him. He then looked to the left and saw that
Data had literally climbed atop a control station and had removed the top
paneling. Nothing seemed to stop his friend from researching the machinery and
he was tempted to get his hands a little dirtier as well but decided to let his
colleague start.
Data
was waist-deep inside the paneling for several minutes and La Forge paused to
look over the tricorder results. There was a great deal of information, some of
which made sense, a lot of which seemed contradictory. His captain might have
seemed somewhat in awe of these people, but they seemed awfully sloppy starship
pilots after hundreds of centuries. Maybe they relied too much on the gateways
and fell out of practice. He wasn't sure, but he would find it hard to take any
pride in captaining ships like this one.
Suddenly,
La Forge heard a somewhat muffled cry of "Eureka!"
Data
scrambled out from the computer's innards and smiled at his friend and La Forge
knew Data's childlike wonderment and positronic brain met up and reached a
vital conclusion.
"Geordi,
these people may have control of the gateways, but they are not the
Iconians."
Deanna
Troi could see the allure of command. It was something that fascinated her when
she served with Picard on the Enterprise. Everyone had their own style and she had seen where Will
Riker got his: a combination of not-his-father and Picard. Edward Jellico, who
captained the vessel for a brief time, was bluster and hardheadedness, not to
her liking at all. Even her close friend Beverly Crusher had a differing style,
empathy
covering
a steel will that no one dared question. As a ship's counselor, Deanna found it
all very fascinating, but as a ship's commander, she realized all made choices
because it was how they wanted the crew to react. She had yet to really make
those choices before now, and she was instinctually following her training. It
meant a good rapport with this crew and she hoped it would prove correct should
a crisis occur.
But
right now, she was restless.
No
longer aboard the flagship, she was commanding a vessel that was assigned guard
duty and she missed the bustle of activity aboard the Enterprise.
Things were quiet, the
Iconian ships were at station-keeping, her crew had a chance to eat at their
stations, and she sat in the command chair and felt... what was it Will called
it once? Ants in her pants. She fully agreed with the description.
"Any
chatter?"
Rosario
looked up from tactical, amazed at the question that made her inwardly sigh.
"No, ma'am. You expressly asked me to inform you and I have not been
derelict in my duties."
"Thank
you."
"If
you're looking for something to fight the boredom," began Hoi, "come
look at this."
Troi
rose, pacing herself, and casually approached the science station. She crossed
the distance in seconds, momentarily forgetting that the Marco
Polo was a much smaller vessel.
The Tiburonian shifted in his chair and gestured at his largest panel.
Displayed on it was a series of energy matrices, making very pretty, colorful
patterns.
"These
are from the Iconian ships?"
"Yes,
the sixty-three vessels break down to these energy patterns."
"Interesting."
There
was a long pause as she carefully read the breakdown of ships to power sources,
wishing more than anything that Geordi were beside her to offer an explanation
rather than force her to ask.
"Good
work," she offered.
"And
you're not sure what you're looking at," he replied, his tone serious,
betraying no warmth.
"Actually,
no," she admitted with a small smile.
"Counselors
don't get a lot of engineering courses at the Academy, I bet," he said.
"Just
the basics—and that was a long time ago," she said, letting her own warm
smile show.
"We
have five dozen ships emitting seven different energy signatures. For a
scientifically advanced people, these Iconians seem to be using a lot of
current engine types. And why not a uniform method of propulsion?"
"Very
good questions, Mr. Hoi. Speculation?"
Now
it was his turn to pause and she liked making him think about the answer.
People rose to command any number of ways, but she was fairly certain she was
the only current ship's commander to come from the medical branch of Starfleet.
She liked the notion but equally disliked not being able to keep up with the
staggering amount of technical information most commanders seemed to have at
their fingertips. Her respect for Picard was once again reinforced.
"They
are not what they appear to be" was his response.
She
nodded thoughtfully, picking up his pride in the analysis. "Captain Picard
agrees. There's much more to
this
than the Iconians simply showing up to offer up the gateways for money. These
may be a very diluted form of Iconian...."
"...
Or not Iconians at all," Chan said.
Troi
turned to see that her conn officer had been listening intently. She was
grinning and seemed rather satisfied with herself. "Could be, but why
such a big smile?"
"I
bet a round of drinks on that answer," she said.
"There's
betting on this?"
"Well,
Captain Picard did not like it on the bridge," Chan said. "Sikluna
had the pool going, in the galley, as soon as we got within scanner range. I
lucked out and got that option. Poor Kranepool, he's my bunk-mate, got stuck
with them being Changelings."
"Kid's
barely more than a plebe," Hoi said with a sniff. "He deserves to
learn how it's done."
"Oh?
And which option did you obtain?"
'Too
many unknowns, so I didn't enter the pool."
Chan
laughed. "He's just a chicken."
"My
people tend to bet wisely with thorough analysis," Hoi said in his
characteristically somber tone.
"Your
people haven't prospered much have they?" Davison said from her seat.
"Wait
a moment," Troi said, her tone shutting down the conversation. Everyone
turned to her expectantly. "We entered scanning range while I was in
command, so why wasn't I invited to join the pool?"
There
was a long silence as the crew exchanged surprised glances and tried to come
up with answers—she could feel their anxiety. Clearly, they expected their
captain to be just like Picard. She, though, was determined to lead in her own
style. Chan, most of all, seemed most upset by the question, which she meant in
good
fun, but they took her seriously—a problem with any command.
"I
can tell you why," she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"Because next to Ferengi, Betazoids are the quadrant's most feared
gamblers. It wouldn't make a good impression if the temporary commander of a
temporary crew fleeced you all. Perfectly understandable." With that she
took her seat, basking in the surprise she felt from Hoi, Chan, and Rosario.
Davison, a more experienced officer, seemed content.
"Well,
that may be true," Chan said, brightening. "But Hoi just showed us
these can't be the real deal so I'm going to win and the chicken here gave me
the prize."
Picard
was restless on the bridge. With Troi on the Marco
Polo, Riker, Crusher, La Forge, Data,
and even Worf on Doral's ship, he was suddenly without his closest allies. The
captain relied on their skills as well as their counsel. A part of him was
tempted to summon Dr. Crusher back to the starship just so he had someone to
talk to, but he shrugged it off as foolishness.
He
admitted to himself how desperately he wanted to be on the ship, be the one to
study close-up these Iconians and find the answers himself. In some ways he
felt cheated by his rank and allowed the frustration to eat at him, which
caused him to mentally berate himself. What he wouldn't give for a distraction.
"Captain,
signal from Taleen," said the relief tactical officer, a Benzite named
Golik.
Well,
be careful what you wish for, he chided himself. "On screen," he
commanded.
Taleen's
pleasant features filled the screen and he reminded himself all over again
that he wanted to make
time
to be more welcoming to the lost Nyrians. They had proved themselves to him as
they came to the fleet's defense hours earlier, so had gained a measure of
trust.
"Captain, as I understand it, the Iconians' leader ran away."
Picard
smiled at the image, but shook his head slightly. "Not exactly ran,
Taleen, but did beam off their bridge."
"Are you looking for him?"
"We
suspect he's hiding somewhere on the ship, but our people have not seen him.
Why?"
"/
wanted to see if you would like our help in
locating him." She
smiled at him, proud to be of service, and Picard warmed toward the woman.
"You
know where he is?"
"Not yet, but it shouldn't take long if you want our
assistance."
"Of
course, Taleen, commence a search with your equipment. If you find him, let me
know."
Taleen
nodded off-screen and told Picard, "It
won't be a minute."
This
made Picard's eyebrows rise in question and she laughed, with a nice tone. She
tried to look more serious despite her youth and explained, "We
specialize in translocators—what
you call transporters. Our equipment sends out a continuous scan of the area
our ship is in, ready to execute a transport at a moment's notice. The range of
our equipment is much superior to yours if our experience with Voyager is an indication."
"Really,"
Picard said, with genuine curiosity. He suspected he let his sympathy for a
lost ship cloud his judgment over its capabilities.
"We can run our scans through the computer and
trace any other transport signature and... here we go," she said. For a moment she glanced below the camera and
smiled broadly. "Interesting. They seem to have a
synchronized escape route. He went from his ship and bounced off eight other
vessels before settling on a ninth ship, about ten thousand meters from the Glory."
Picard
glanced over to Golik, who punched up a tight tactical map showing the two
ships. The captain nodded in appreciation and turned back to his new friend.
"I thank you, Taleen. Trust me when I tell you we will help you find your
way home."
"You've protected us so well, Captain, I'm trying to repay the
debt. Good fortune." She
ended the signal before he could reply.
"Mr.
Golik, get me Desan on the Glory."
"What
do you mean, Data?"
"Geordi,
the large amount of equipment used to construct this, the flagship vessel,
date at most ten to fifteen years. We have already observed that many of the
defending ships seem to be patched with differing hull composites and systems
technology. Everything points to this fleet of ships being scavengers from the
Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Furthermore, none of the language on this ship
resembles the iconology we witnessed on Iconia nor does it match the known
roots of the Icco-bar, Dewan, and Dinasian languages which we already know to
be formed from Iconia."
"Which
explains the fifteen different energy signatures," La Forge added,
feeling heightened emotions. He was genuinely getting excited at finding the
truth, although a part of him knew this would crush Picard.
"Exactly.
Based upon the data gleaned from the three gateways encountered prior to this
current situation, there was a uniformity to the technology. That is not at all
exhibited here."
"So
who are they?"
"That,
my dear Watson," the android said with a smirk, "remains a
mystery."
La
Forge inwardly groaned, not feeling like playing the able assistant to
fiction's greatest detective personified by Data. It was fine for the holodeck
adventures they shared, but on a mission it could prove distracting.
"We'd
better inform Captain Picard," the engineer said slowly. He tapped his
combadge, gave his report, and could hear Picard's all-business tone. He tried
to sense the real feelings but his captain had spent a career masking them when
necessary and for now, he would keep those personal feelings bottled up. As he
made the report, the Klingons drifted over and listened, some nodding in
agreement with Data's revelations.
"Commander, I think it's time Dr. Crusher examine one of these
people and see if we can trace where they're really from."
"Fine,"
La Forge said, appreciating the extra familiar hands. "We'll find a
volunteer."
"Please bring Mr. Riker up to speed, I'll start making my report
to Admiral Ross. Picard out."
That's one disappointed man, La Forge thought. He tried to imagine what it must have been
like to study a race as legendary as the Iconians, get your hopes up about
meeting them, and then have them dashed to find out these were frauds. Not
especially good ones at that.
He
would want to smack the leader, but suspected that wasn't in Picard's
character.
"You
have a volunteer for me, Geordi?" Crusher asked, getting right to work and
not even bothering to look around. She was in full doctor mode.
"Allow
me, Doctor," Grekor said. With a hand gesture, two of his largest men
strode out of the engine room.
As
they waited, La Forge walked over to Data, laid a hand on his shoulder and
said, "There was nothing to worry about after all."
'True,"
his friend replied. "Still, these may not be the Iconians but the gateways
most certainly are. When we encounter them, my concerns will remain
valid."
La
Forge shook his head, unable to convince his friend to avoid fear. It was one
of the toughest lessons any sentient being had to learn and Data was proving no
different.
The
doors snapped loudly open and the Klingons returned with a very frightened
Iconian woman between them. They marched her directly before Crusher and with
hands on the woman's shoulders, forced her to her knees.
"Don't
worry, she won't vivisect you," Grekor said, trying to sound cheerful.
"We
value our privacy quite highly," the woman said in a voice that was almost
a squeak.
"I
think you gave that up when the first shot was fired," Crusher said,
sounding displeased.
Geordi,
Data, and the Klingons stood back and watched as Crusher ran her Feinberger
over the woman's body once, then twice. The doctor was constantly checking her
medical tricorder and made little sounds to herself. This went on for several
minutes and she did her best to ignore the impatient shuffling of the warriors'
boots nearby. She reached into her bag and pulled out a hypo.
"Madame,"
she said to the frightened subject, "I'm going to take a small sample of
your blood for a more complete analysis. I promise, this won't hurt."
"Please
don't," she said, the first words since the exam began. The Iconian began
squirming, twisting her shoulders to keep her arms away from the doctor, who
did not seem amused.
Grekor,
who had been watching from a distance, walked to the small grouping and stopped
directly before the Iconian. His towering form loomed over the group and
clearly, this woman had never seen a Klingon before. The eyes riveted the woman
stock-still although her legs seemed to quiver just a bit. La Forge stifled a
chuckle.
"lo'laHbe'," he
muttered as Crusher extracted a small amount of copper-colored blood. When she
was done, Kliv strolled casually back to his group of engineers.
"What
did he say?" the woman asked La Forge.
"Sorry,
I don't speak Klingon, but it didn't sound good, did it?"
Crusher
connected the device containing the blood to her tricorder and set both down on
a countertop. She fed in some information and then stepped back, waiting for
the analysis to be completed. Both the doctor and chief engineer remained aware
and concerned that as long as the gateways remained operational untold disasters
could occur.
Nagging
in the back of his mind, though, was the notion that these sixty-three ships
might not be the entire fleet of Iconians ... or whatever they turned out to
be. If there were more out there, this small group of ships could never hold
them off.
Picard
was seated in his ready room, his ignored tea cooling rapidly, as he completed
the report to Ross. He regretted revealing the aliens' duplicity, fighting off
the sense of disappointment, and continued with a dry recitation of the known
facts. Before completing the message, he added an additional note about the
Nyri-ans, making it clear they were helpful allies and were to be accorded all
due assistance from Starfleet when the time allowed.
A
part of him yearned to bring his Ressikan flute up from his quarters and play
the melancholy tune he learned years earlier. He found it brought him great
comfort and relieved some of the tensions of command. Still, he pushed the
notion away, since he still was holding together a coalition of species,
outnumbered by potentially hostile ships with its leader refusing to deal with
him. There was no time for personal needs—or so he convinced himself.
He
sent off the report in a subspace squirt, estimating Ross would receive it
within three hours. Deftly, his fingers played on the controls and called up
the tactical display. All remained as it should be, which gave him some measure
of relief. The captain thought he should consider himself lucky that they had
lost but one ship. True, the Corn displayed more of an independent streak than
he would have liked, but they were mostly behaving themselves. All along, his
instincts told him to be wary of the Romulans, but Desan remained an exemplary
officer. When he reached her earlier, asking that the crippled Glory
move closer to the ship
harboring Doral as a safety precaution, she agreed without question. There was
little doubt that everything seen and heard was being recorded for later
analysis. That report
would
concern not just these aliens but how well the Federation ships and Picard in
particular handled the situation. The Romulans were an arrogant bunch, he knew,
but they still studied their opponents carefully.
"Crusher to Picard."
He
was pleased she was getting in touch, afraid he would let things get even more
maudlin if he remained on his own much longer. How he missed having his familiar
crew with him. "Go ahead, Doctor."
"My conclusion supports Data's: these are not Iconians."
He
let the words sink in, their finality feeling enormously heavy. "I
see," he said, expecting the news. "Any chance of a biological
link?"
"None I can see on first analysis," she replied.
"A
match to any race we recognize?"
"No, Jean-Luc," she said.
"Data,
given this information, can we conjecture who they are?"
"Our analysis indicates they come from outside the Alpha Quadrant
but have made significant upgrades to their ships with familiar material,"
Data said.
"My thinking is," La Forge added, "they're a long
way from home so this is a first-contact situation."
"I
concur," Picard said, feeling like they were finally starting to get a
handle on the situation. "But how did they manage to control the
gateways?"
"I'm not sure," Geordi said. "/ do think they are responsible
and have some highly sophisticated systems I can't pierce as yet."
"Captain," Crusher
added, "although these so-called Iconians appear
human, with standard color variations and markings, I also see old evidence of
cel-
lular tampering. Everything is organic, but not necessarily material
they were born with. I believe this is elaborate makeup."
The
conversation lasted another few minutes as they shared notes on the ship, its
largely docile crew, and what the next step needed to be. As far as Picard was
concerned, there was still the matter of Doral's escape that made him
concerned. None of this, though, brought them closer to the gateway problem
itself.
They
were interrupted by a large noise and Picard overheard distinctly Klingon tones
coming through the comlink. A few moments later, Captain Grekor came within
range and bellowed, "There is a
gateway on this very ship! It's active, but we don't recognize the locations.
With this, we can seize control."
"Every other gateway was located on a planet, moon, or
asteroid," Data
observed. "They must have transplanted one
here."
"Excellent
work, Captain," Picard interrupted. "Mr. La Forge, check the power
consumption rates on the ship and Mr. Data, begin an examination of the control
mechanism. I'll take this time to track down Doral."
There
was another commotion, so his crew's comments got garbled, but something
unexpected happened. As usual, Picard yearned to be present but was left in
command. Gripping the now cool mug in his left hand, he squeezed it tight.
"This is Ulisssshk of the Corn Hegemony," the slow, rasping voice said over the link. "Iconians
or whatever you call yourselves know this: we will be given control of the
gateway technology or this ship and those around it will cease to exist in two
minutes."
"I
order you to cease this threat," Picard practically
yelled.
With deft fingers, he called up sensor readings on the ship directly before the
Enterprise. He punched in commands to look for energy signatures from
engineering as the Gorn replied.
"We see no true bargaining going on and my lord commands me to
take the lead," Ulisssshk
growled.
"You
are here at the Federation's invitation, after we helped your people during a
time of crisis," Picard reminded him, hoping to find the cause of the
threat and neutralize it from the Enterprise.
Nothing was apparent other
than an ominous energy buildup near the engines themselves.
"You
acted foolishly," Picard continued urgently. "These people will
surrender nothing with their leader, Doral, off the ship. He's as likely to
sacrifice them as your are to sacrifice my crew. Data, Grekor—clear engineering."
With
just over a minute left, Picard weighed options, unwilling to sacrifice any of
his crew.
'Transporter
room, prepare to use the cargo transporters to start evacuating that
ship," Picard said.
Chapter Ten
the sun was named rao, after an ancient god of a religion long since abandoned by
the people. It had shaded to red since recorded history first noted its size,
shape, color, and illumination. Science rapidly replaced religion on this
world, which saw one golden age after another.
But
the inhabitants knew it would have to end one day. A red sun meant it was
cooling, and someday, millennia hence, it would no longer be able to support
life.
With
a keen sense of serf-preservation, the people had colonized other solar
systems, and then- culture was assured survival. Those who still lived on the
mother planet enjoyed a high place in the social strata and with continuity now
guaranteed, Sir Leop la mir Werstin, current lord of the planet, declared a new
Golden Epoch had begun.
That
was a month earlier. Now, Sir Leop sat in an empty palace chamber, head in his
hands. Short, stubby fingers played idly with the twelve long braids denoting
his supremacy. Courtiers who normally attended his every need had fled for
their families. His own wife and three children were en route to the winter
castle on Glavir, the coolest continent.
With
tears in his eyes, he gazed once more up at the sun, the giver of life. It
burned a deep red and filled nearly half the sky. Global temperatures were up,
small lakes and ponds were losing water, and the air was filled with a cloying
humidity. There had been widespread panic as they noted the sun grew in size
by the day and now by the hour. Pockets of the lowest-educated people
resurrected the old religious beliefs, praying to Rao for deliverance.
Master
Oh' ma fen Cordiek, Sir Leop's chief scientist, could only provide details on
the phenomenon, not its cause. Their beloved sun was going nova so far ahead of
schedule that no one could fathom it. The morning's projections showed that at
best, the planet's population had weeks or days left to them. Werstin had
sighed heavily at the news, aware there was no chance to send even a tenth of
the people to one of their colony worlds. Master Oli's report was his people's
death sentence.
"Why?"
"Because
of the doorway."
The
lord of the people looked up, not at all expecting a response to his rhetorical
question. Entering the chamber was one of the lesser scientists, one not even
at the master level in training or experience. Werstin struggled to summon forth
a name but failed.
"The
doorway that appeared on the island of Feld,"
the
scientist continued unbidden. "As soon as it began to operate, it drew
energy from the solar batteries. The longer it remained in operation, for
whatever reason, the demands of energy increased exponentially. Something
happened and it began sucking the life from Rao."
"Then
we shall destroy the doorway," Sir Leop proclaimed, in his usual royal
voice, but it echoed around the empty room.
"My
friends on Feld tried, Your Majesty. They tried and failed. Our weapons cannot
seem to breach its defense."
"Devils!
What is this doorway? Where did it come from?"
"It
had always been there, I'm told; found some hundreds of years ago and thought
to be from the Second Golden Age."
Sir
Leop thought about that, not up on his history. Nothing occurred to him of the
Second Golden Age.
"Others
theorize it was left by the Demons."
New
insight appeared in Sir Leop's tired eyes. "The Demons of Air and
Darkness! This is their doing? But they are myth!"
"The
doorway says otherwise," the scientist said, dropping all pretense
regarding titles and ranks. Had Sir Leop been focused, he would have been
insulted.
Instead,
he sat silent, brooding over the revelations brought to him that day. After
all, it wasn't every monarch who got to oversee the ending of life as he knew
it.
From
ship ES 135659, Doral was also seated and given over to great thought. Plans
that should have
gone
flawlessly had backfired. He, the pod leader in control of the mission, had to
escape from his own command ship, separate himself from his pod. Desperately,
he needed time to think and regroup.
Hi,
his eldest podmate, was now running the flagship and she had called to alert
him to the Gorn threat. Although they had grown from the birth pod together,
Doral was still uncertain if Di could command with authority. It was not her
strength. With less than two minutes to act, he was faced with utter destruction
and failure for overplaying his hand. Could he reason with Picard, not someone
he was mastered for, but certainly of the same breed? Maybe, but it would be
moot if someone did not stop the Gorn. Perhaps he would have to bluff his way
through a negotiation with the Gorn, find a way to stop the explosive, and then
escape. They were so alien to him, he wasn't certain he knew how to act. All
his training was for humans. A different pod-mate had studied the reptilian
race and was unavailable.
Quickly,
he signaled ES135659's captain, and relayed a terse instruction. Then, he tried
to raise the Gorn ship, hoping everyone measured time in the same way.
In
the command center, Worf quickly surmised the situation belowdecks. Without
waiting for Riker to notice him, he tapped his communicator and ordered the Chargh
to send him from the bridge
to engineering.
"What
do you think you're doing, Ambassador?"
"Saving
your neck," Worf said. Before Riker could object further, Worf, gripping
his d'k tahg, dematerialized.
All
his training from children's games on Gault to his Academy training and
experiences in Starfleet would come in to play as he had to vanquish his oppo-
nent
in time to stop the explosive. Knowing Picard, he presumed the captain would
beam his people from the ship, taking as many of these faux-Iconians as
possible. Grekor would also retreat, he suspected, knowing the captain would
rather fight from strength than blunder blindly in the name of honor.
Free
of the transporter beam, glancing just once around engineering, he spotted
three Gorn keeping watch over a console. Holding the personal blade in his
right hand, Worf snarled a challenge at the reptilian beings. They moved
slowly, turning their bodies toward him, their faces unreadable.
'This
ship blows in a minute if these aliens don't give in to the demands," one
of the Gorn warned Worf.
"You
will be dead long before if you do not disable the device," Worf retorted.
That
was all one of the Gorn needed to hear and he raised his left arm, pistol
mounted at the wrist. He fired off one shot but Worf was nowhere near his
original position. Instead, he had ducked, rolled, and lunged forward, his
floor-length ambassadorial vest making him appear larger than he was. His
momentum carried him forward, and he barreled into the trio. One grabbed at his
sleeve, while another lost balance and fell. Worf's blade found the third,
sticking him in the abdomen.
His
left fist found a snout and his leg kicked out, striking the already downed
Gorn. It felt good to strain his muscles, fight for a worthwhile cause. It was
like shaking off the cobwebs and coming to life once more.
The
downed attacker stayed that way and the one he sliced open made an odd, mewling
noise, quite unlike anything Worf expected. All that remained was the one
clutching at him, his talons biting through the layers of
fabric
and actually ripping open his skin. He knew enough to avoid the sharp teeth and
continued to use his greater flexibility as an asset. He wriggled around,
maneuvering his body so he could clasp a crushing bear hug on the Gorn.
Planting his feet firmly on the deck plating, Worf hefted the Gorn into the air
and smashed him to the ground.
With
the d'k tahg at the Corn's throat, Worf asked, "Will you disable the
device?"
"So
you see, Ralwisssh, we had no idea you were this interested in the technology
to this degree. I have some of the technical schematics here to offer you as a
sign of good faith. In turn, you can disable the explosive."
Doral
felt the sweat begin to itch his chin, a flaw in the duraplast process which
his people had never managed to correct. He ignored it, gazing at the
viewscreen with as much sincere intent as he could muster. While he was used to
reconstruction to deal with potential clients, he did muse for a moment that he
was glad they didn't initially target the Gorn. Better his podmate endure the
lengthy reconstruction.
His
opponent seemed to consider the offer longer than expected, and Doral mentally
counted down. They were at thirty seconds, maybe less, and time was against
him.
"/
agree to the terms. Once we receive these
schematics, we will turn off the device."
Anticipating
the move, Doral was prepared and stabbed a control as the words were still
being heard.
"Done."
Ralwisssh
was taken aback by the speed of the action, but also flicked a control that
might have been the signal to his people aboard Doral's own vessel.
"Received. We thank you."
Doral
faced the screen, but glanced with his eyes on the readouts from ES 135659 and
he saw the energy spike start to recede. There had to have been scant seconds
left. He disliked doing what he just completed, but it was a necessary part of
the overall program. Survival was all.
The
Gorn had completed dismantling the complex wiring that forced the overload when
his communicator beeped deep within his tunic. He started to reach for it, but
Worf made a sound that conveyed his disapproval. As the beep continued, Worf
checked his mental calculations and determined that the time had past—the ship
should have been rendered into scattered atoms but nothing happened.
From
behind, a door swished open and the ambassador heard the cries of victory from
his fellow Klingons. Several got to him and they were smacking him on the
shoulders. It felt good, but less than genuine, and he felt resentment start to
build up. Before he could wave them away, they fell a step back, clearing a
space for Grekor.
The
older officer strode toward Worf, a look of consternation on his face. He
kicked aside the wounded Gorn, ignored the other subdued saboteurs, and faced
the ambassador.
"Has
this one finished?"
"He
has, Captain," Worf replied.
"Then
why is he not dead?"
"He
may have intelligence we can use," he said.
"Wise
answer. Qapla'! You did well, Ambassador. Now, we have this ship and within
it a gateway. We
shall
be victorious this day and your role will not be forgotten."
With
a gesture, two Klingons flanked the Gorn, and Grekor headed back to the
gateway, his crew following. Worf fell into line, having done enough in
engineering. There was little need for him on the bridge and with his blood now
racing, he chose to remain at the locus of activity.
As
they walked, Grekor fell into step with the ambassador and grinned at him.
Worf inwardly sighed, unable to extricate himself from the man's gaze.
"The
House of Krad is a small one, I know," Grekor began. "But I've
checked, and my be'nl', Rorka, remains unattached. A man like you could benefit
from a woman's companionship. Shall I arrange an introduction when we return
to Qo'noS?"
Stuck,
Worf was uncertain of the proper answer. He, of course, had no interest in
meeting this man's sister, but he had less wish to insult the captain. Were he
anything but an ambassador, Worf could hurl out an insult and be done with it.
Instead, he represented not the homeworld, but the Federation.
"I
shall... consider it."
"The
Gorn ships are powering up," Perim said.
Picard
bit back a curse. For all his good intentions, the alliance was proving shakier
than he had hoped after all.
"Have
we checked out the transmissions fully?" he asked Golik.
"There
was definitely information exchanged between an Iconian ship and the
Gorn."
"And
of course, we still haven't cracked their com-
munications
code," Picard said quietly. "Put the Gorn on screen."
The
Gorn ships hung against the stars looking innocent. Within, he knew, were
people operating under their own agenda. In silent alarm, Picard saw them break
formation, turning about. He didn't have to ask where they were going; the only
place for them was their home. What, he wondered, did they take from the
Iconians? It was not likely the gateway technology, so what could it be to make
them break apart the alliance?
"Shall
we pursue?" Perim asked.
"No,
Ensign," Picard said sadly. "We won't fragment the fleet further.
Alert Mr. Riker of the news."
He
strode toward his ready room, his mind racing with new configurations of the
alliance ships. Without the Gorn, there was little chance he could expect the
Iconian ships to stay in line. With Doral also running free, it was clear
something would happen— and soon.
Without
sitting down, Picard punched some information into his desktop display and
looked at the readings. He then tapped his badge and put his next gambit into
motion.
"Picard
to Taleen."
"How can I help, Captain?"
"Just
how good are your translocators?"
She
laughed and it lightened his spirits for a moment. "Better
than your transporters I would think."
"Could
you then help me move some of my people around? I think it's time I meet with
Doral face-to-face, and he does not seem interested in doing so."
Once
more she laughed and agreed to help. He out-
lined
his plan and asked her to execute it within the next fifteen minutes.
"Picard
to quartermaster," he next commanded. "Prepare a room for an Iconian
guest. Also, have the conference room on Deck Four ready in the next ten
minutes, please."
Okay, maybe this wasn't the best place to be, Riker mused.
He
stood in the Iconian command center and had somehow managed to lose their
leader, Doral, then miss out on helping stop the Corn's treachery. It had
actually gotten downright boring just walking around the command center,
looming over the frightened Iconians. He did note that all of them seemed to
be in their natural appearance, not at all needed for the fantasy of universal
unity.
After
Worf beamed below, Riker had plenty of time to consider exactly why the
Iconians would need to imitate the various races. In fact, he had some theories
and had sounded out the Iconians who remained at their station, usually
avoiding his glance. Since they wouldn't chat, he needed to try them out on
someone so he ordered a link established with the Marco
Polo. With relief, he saw that Troi
seemed fit and even happy in her temporary role.
"Bored, too?" she
began the conversation. He was impressed she could tell from such a distance
but after all, they had known each other so well, for so long.
"A
little," Riker admitted. "How goes your crew?"
"Fine. A little beaten up but they're young and have learned from
the experience," she
replied.
"I
have a theory and want to run it by you," Riker said. He briefly outlined
his discovery of the Iconians'
detailed
makeups and the races represented. "I think these people are scam artists
on a rather large scale. The makeups are intended to imply some form of genetic
link to a common ancestor. Lull the governments into working with the Iconians
rather than study them."
"That's an interesting conclusion," she said. "My crew was
wagering on them being anything from a rogue offshoot of the true Iconians to
the legendary long-lost fleet from Acaramenia."
"But
does it make sense?"
She
looked directly at the camera and Riker felt her gaze, taking strength and
comfort from it. He was never happier to have rekindled their romance. "It
does, Will, and it's an excellent deduction. Captain Picard will agree, I
think."
"Thanks,
Captain Troi, I look forward to seeing you when this is over."
"As do I, there's much to thank you for," she said, and Riker saw an expression cross her face he
wasn't entirely certain he liked.
He
disliked being stuck on this smaller ship, with its high-backed seating and
oily smell. It had been picked up when it was apparent the pod would grow long
before they could get another ship from home. Doral was not fond of adding
alien technology without an overall plan; it disturbed his sense of order. The
ship was also in constant need of maintenance with precious little time
available for such matters.
Doral
preselected escape to this ship for the very reason that it was weak and
likely to be overlooked by the various sensors, which had ceaselessly been
probing his fleet. Of course, he had done the same with each
ship
encountered since entering the Alpha Quadrant a year earlier. From their
records, none of his ancestors had been to this section of space for something
like eighty years. It made Doral wonder what would have directed his people
away from such a quadrant, teeming with intelligent races, but it was not for
him to ask that aloud. The people's leadership would be the ones to question,
probe into their past and chart their future.
He
did know the pod that did find the first gateway did so at great cost. Lives
were lost and the first gateway might not have been worth the effort. As he
learned from his teachers, the gateway that arrived on his homeworld took many
lifetimes to master and even then, the one they field-tested elsewhere in the
quadrant flickered inexplicably on and off. The greatest engineering minds
tried to master the alien technology, he was taught, and they had come only so
far. It had been decided to send the pods back to the quadrant, trying to find
the aliens who originally built the wondrous devices or someone who knew how
it worked.
Times
had gotten tougher for his people, Doral was told when given his ship. Their
drive to explore the farthest reaches of the galaxy, and set up colonies,
meant they were spread exceptionally thin—too much so, as they had lost contact
with one colony after another. No doubt the colonies established themselves and
then went farther out among the stars. It meant his people controlled vast
portions of space, but it also meant they lacked cohesion and as an empire
teetered on the edge of collapse.
Doral's
team was to acquire more technology, maybe even the keys to the gateways, to
once more reestablish contact with the far-flung people.
At
first, their studies showed no one using the devices, going so far as to
ignore them entirely. It then became apparent no one knew what they were. Their
builders, he came to learn from tapping into computers from derelict starships
left over from the just-concluded war, had gone from fact to legend. No race
seemed to possess a similar enough technology to allow Doral to make a
substitution, and he was left in need of ships for their growing pod family and
supplies for the next leg of their never-ending journey. All contact with home
had ended before they even reached the quadrant, and Doral was left to his own
devices.
Such
thoughts occupied him as he sipped at his bowl of tepid soup. The ship's cook
had thrust it upon him, a woman he had never met before. There was something
comforting about her natural appearance, while he retained his human
masquerade. He would have to deal with Picard, but how could he gain some
advantage, any advantage over the human? How could he acquire what he needed to
go forward since back was not an option?
The
door to the galley seemed to sizzle, waver, and then melt in a matter of
seconds, letting people gasp and little else. For a mere moment, the pod leader
thought the oily air itself might burst into flame. Doral began to rise and as
he did, three Federation people burst into the room, equipped in protective
armor, phaser rifles swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The one in the
center pointed directly at him and the other two surged forward, flanking the
confused leader as he completed rising.
They
gripped him firmly, maybe even a little roughly. As soon as they had him in
their grasp, the remaining one tapped a control on the armor and sud-
denly
Doral was caught in a transporter beam. His last thought before the beam fully
caught him was how tasty the soup had been.
The
putative leader of the Iconian people appeared in a transporter bay, on a ship
he presumed to be the Enterprise. More security officers awaited him, and he didn't bother
speaking to them, since his chances to play off their petty interests and
effect an escape seemed poor. It seemed, also, that if they could punch through
his transporter defenses once, they could repeat it before he could improve the
screens. Affecting a docile manner, he quietly followed the security
detachment through the corridors and he took in the sights. What he caught
first was the harmonious blend of color that suffused the ship. Clearly, this
was designed to comfort the crew and visitors. Black paneling split the walls
in two, and from its polished sheen, he imagined these were computer interfaces
with touch-sensitive surfaces.
The
people who passed him by gave him a glance but continued on their way, but
Doral soaked in their variety. A mixed crew, male and female, human and other
assorted races. Truly, everything the Federation had boasted about their
harmonious ways was true, which probably meant everything else they told him
was mostly true. Not every race was so forthcoming, Doral knew. His own history
was spotted with despots hoping to take advantage, swindlers, cheats, and outright
thieves. There were, of course, other races he had cheated out of technology or
resources. To him it was all part of a galactic game of repositioning
resources, with his sole objective being that of helping his people.
The
walk stopped before wooden doors that slid open soundlessly. Inside the room
was a long table
with
chairs. Decorating the walls were images of other starships, starscapes, and
one captivating image of a molten pit spewing forth lava like a geyser. But
Captain Picard, standing at the table's head, riveted his attention. He
gestured for the security detail to leave and then it was just the two of them
in the room. Picard was not especially tall, or physically imposing. For a
human, his lack of hair or muscle should have made him something less than a
commander. This puzzled him until the man spoke; then he understood.
"Welcome
to the Enterprise," Picard said.
"A
pleasure I truly wanted to enjoy, but at a time of my own choosing." He
had little in the way of options, but practice and habit forced him to stretch
out the conversation.
"You
left me little choice," Picard told him. The voice had a charm to it, a
cultured quality lacking in many of the humans he had dealt with. Certainly
none of the ones from Starfleet itself. He then gestured to the chairs as he
sat down himself. Doral took one close enough for a civil conversation. He had
to continue projecting the same sense of confidence that had gotten him this
far even though he had no clear-cut idea how to excise himself and his people
from this problem.
"I
have a great deal of respect for history," the captain continued.
"This part of the universe can trace intelligent life back for hundreds
of thousands of years. Some races we know of by legend, others by the little
bits and pieces that have survived. The one that I've studied the longest has
been the Iconians."
He
let that hang and Doral was faced with two
choices:
further deception or the truth. Picard had dealt fairly to date, but giving up
their plan was rarely done and it galled him.
"I
must disappoint you," Doral said, letting the scene play out, hoping to
chart its course before too much longer.
"Oh
you do," Picard replied coolly. "Very much. Technology to have
survived intact and still function after two hundred thousand years is
remarkable enough but for the technology to transport instantaneously, that's
the stuff of legend."
"We
weren't called the demons of air and darkness by every planet we visited,"
Doral said. "Just the less sophisticated ones."
"Legends
have a funny way of growing over time so the original picture can get
distorted. In my days at the Academy we swapped tall tales of officers who preceded
us. Ones who single-handedly stopped war or bedded an admiral's son during
exams and still graduated. We even told stories that couldn't possibly have
happened but were there in the records. Garth, Pike, Rabin, Garrett... the
giants among legends.
"Every
so often, you actually get to meet one of these legends in person. You get to
gauge for yourself if the man matches the myth. I had such an opportunity when
I met Captain James T. Kirk and he was even larger than the legends. That
impressed me."
Picard
seemed very contemplative, not at all angry or upset with Doral, which confused
him. These names meant nothing to him and his training had no instances of
great exploits drilled into them. As they approached each new sector of space,
current events filled his data screens. What had been acquired, how it had
helped re-
shape
his people, where they were growing next. All this talk of his, frankly,
baffled him.
"A
very few get to meet legends. I consider myself fortunate, because in my
career, I've met far more than my share. I should have been satisfied, but in
the back of my mind I held out the tiniest shred of hope that I would figure
out what happened to the Iconian people. You can imagine, then, what it was
like to be told we'd deal with one another."
Finally,
an opportunity and Doral sprang for it. He grinned and said, "Your career
has turned you into a bit of a legend, hasn't it?"
Picard
seemed thoughtful, almost embarrassed by the concept. "I suppose, in the
natural course of things, students today can look at my record with the same
feelings I had when I studied Decker or Harri-man."
"The
admiralty spoke very highly of you, actually, so I suppose the legend can run
both up and down the scale. While I may disappoint you, you certainly live up
to the reputation." Doral admonished himself to be wary of using too much
flattery.
"Disappoint
is perhaps the mildest word I can think of," Picard said. His brow turned
inward for a moment. "The one word I keep returning to, though, is
fraud."
He
stopped talking and let it hang in the silent conference room. No doubt the
captain had figured out they were not the Iconians, so prolonging the conversation
seemed pointless. Truth or silence?
Was
there any doubt, he asked himself.
"We're
a dying race, Captain," he finally said. And this time, he let the silence
hang over the two of them. Picard's expression changed quickly, from anger to
confusion
to concern and then passively back to inquis-itiveness.
"Who
are you?"
Doral
took two deep breaths and then began: "We're the Petraw. For a quarter as
long as the Iconians have been gone, my people have explored the galaxy. We're
bred this way, to explore and acquire, building out our empire. One continent,
long ago, led to a planet, to a solar system, then two, then more. Whatever we
managed to acquire through trade or guile was always sent home for study and
application to the race.
"Imagine,
Captain, over fifty centuries of growth and expansion, always being driven
further among the stars. Our birthing planet became a legend, some unvisited
place you sent your belongings to. My pod was bom in space, far from home, but
the drive remained. To survive, pods began to pair up, keeping what we needed
to get further in our quest, and sending the rest back by drone. There was
never acknowledgment of receipt or news from home. We're too far apart and
can't return."
As
Doral paused to calm himself, he looked over at Picard, who now seemed
thoughtful, his real chin resting on top of his knuckles. Whatever anger was
in this room previously had dissipated and all that remained now was the
confession.
"Why
this deception?"
"My
people found this technology years ago, on our last visit to this section of
space. You draw your maps into quadrants and sectors, but from our frame of
reference, it's all nonsense. We know no territorial boundaries and can't imagine
fighting over imaginary lines in space. It took us years to figure out what it
did and how to make it work.
"Not
long ago, we lost contact with the other pods. Our thinking is we've drifted
too far apart and now we're isolated, alone in space. You might turn around and
go home; we can't. We're driven to go forward. Whatever is left of our empire
is a matter of speculation and we rarely indulge even in that.
"We're
running out of space, running out of time and resources. To acquire what we
needed required a major infusion of something—raw materials or currency—to buy
better ships and equipment so we could continue our lineage. We thought of the
gateway device, offering such a wonder for the most money."
"You
just found it," Picard repeated in a neutral tone.
"Years
ago, in what was once the edge of the Federation. It was brought to my
homeworld and studied."
"You've
never even met an Iconian, yet you plunder their legacy," the captain
said, this time with some heat. It made Doral feel small despite his greater
physique.
"Before
recently, we've never even heard of them."
"Turn
them off and leave."
This
was unexpected. Doral thought at the very least that the vaunted Federation
would offer some assistance. He was just beginning to count on it, thinking it
would be the best he could expect given the way this operation had fared.
Certainly the Federation would offer something and leave them alone, unlike,
say, the Klingons, who would merely use them for target practice.
"No."
Picard
eyed him carefully and Doral could sense the penetrating stare. This was no
longer a history lecture or a listing of disappointments. It wasn't even diplomacy
anymore. For Picard, this was personal and that was unexpected.
"No?"
Doral
considered and felt he had revealed this much truth, what did it matter if the
rest came out?
"We
can't."
"You
can't what?" There was steel in the voice and he knew he was bested.
"We
can't turn off the gateways, but we can leave."
Picard's
brow knit once more, clearly absorbing and calculating the information just
received. Doral recognized the feeling, one he had to employ time and again.
"You dared to turn on something with such far-reaching implications with
no way to disable the system?"
"No,
not really, well, yes." He began to feel stupid, which eroded whatever was
left of his bargaining position. "This wasn't a careful ploy, this was
desperation." Doral's statement came out flatly and he merely nodded, no
longer feeling like bantering. Or saying much of anything.
"Is
there anything else you've done that was as stupid?"
"Not
that I can think of."
At
that moment, Picard's communicator came to life with a call from the bridge. "Perim
to Captain Picard. Sir, the Corn ships just blew up."
Chapter
Eleven
"what?" picard stood, staring angrily at Doral, who merely wanted to hold what
little ground he had left. Right now, though, it was beginning to feel more
like water than dirt.
"As
they were exceeding warp four, there seemed to
be some sort of chain reaction and they all had warp-core breaches."
"Full
sensor scans, alert the other captains. Picard out."
He
stared at the Petraw leader.
"I
had to save my ship. I promised Ralwisssh and Ulisssshk the gateway schematics
but sent them a bit of software we bartered from the Relisa. It overwrote their
engineering systems and forced the breaches."
Picard
stared, took a breath, and said in a low tone, "My God, have you no
conscience?"
Doral
hung his head and said, "I am desperate to save my people."
Picard
was left speechless. Everything he expected when he left Earth had failed to
materialize and now he found himself with a new race in desperate straits.
Worse, they unleashed a threat to the galaxy that had no obvious resolution. He
felt equal parts pity, compassion, and fury for Doral and his Petraw.
"I'm
sending teams from my ships to oversee your fleet. Clearly, your word means
nothing and I can't trust a desperate man."
"You'll
do what you have to, like I did" was all Doral would say as he continued
to stare blankly.
The
captain summoned a security detachment to escort him to guest quarters. The
brig would serve no useful purpose and treating him well might make a difference
later. Right after they removed Doral, Picard was collecting his thoughts,
shaking off the emotions and assuming a dispassionate countenance when his
communicator signaled again.
"La Forge to Picard."
"Go
ahead Geordi, what have you learned?"
"Nothing good. We've looked inside the control console and have
noticed an exponential increase in its consumption ratios. From what Data can
determine, it exhausted its fuel cells some time back and has been draining
power from the engines. We've calculated the consumption and this ship will
overload and explode in the next twelve hours. We can extrapolate that the
larger gateways can suck a planet dry in less than a week."
Alarmed,
Picard put his hands on the tabletop and
asked,
"Best guess, how long before a planet might be endangered?"
"Any planet using pure ecology for their power production has
maybe four days before the damage is too severe to repair. Anyone drawing solar
energy just might fry themselves in a week."
"Merde," Picard
muttered. "Geordi, pick an engineer to watch over the device. You and Data
come back to the ship."
"Aye, sir, La Forge out."
"Picard
to Riker."
In
brief terms, the captain outlined the latest developments and revelations to
the first officer. He tried to keep his voice neutral but he knew the strain
was creeping in. There was not enough time to rest, not enough time to save
countless planets, not enough time to absorb the things he had learned. But if
he didn't take the time, there might be costly mistakes.
Riker
shared his own theories behind the false faces of the Iconians and, like Troi,
thought the assessment sound. But right now, it mattered only as an
intellectual exercise. They needed to focus on the gateways and how to turn
them off.
"Will,
if Ambassador Worf does not mind, leave him in control of Doral's ship and come
back to the Enterprise. 1 think I'm going to need my best team at the ready. You've
also been on duty too long."
"And you haven't? I'll come back, but only if it means you can
rest, too. Riker out."
Before
he could even think of resting, Picard went to his ready room, prepared a new
report for Admiral Ross, complete with information sent by Data. It would
become clear that the gateways would either have to be
destroyed—if
that was even possible—or as many people as possible evacuated. He couldn't
even imagine what it would entail. If Ross grew gray during the Dominion War,
he'd be snow white by the time this was over.
"Picard
to Data," he said wearily.
"Data here."
"As
soon as you are situated, please begin coordinating with our fleet. I want
teams to board every Petraw ship. I want all helm controls slaved to our ships
and the teams are to stay in constant contact. Once the first teams have
boarded, please work out rotation schedules so everyone on duty is already
rested."
"Understood, Captain."
Picard
was ready to close the signal when he came to a small realization, one he
chided himself for not having thought of sooner. "Data, ask Commander
Desan if she would be willing to have her crews mix with the others on the
ships. The warbirds have much larger crew complements and she can easily spare
them."
"Of course, sir."
"It
goes without saying, the Romulans and Klingons should not mix."
"True, but you just did say it."
Picard
definitely needed some rest. He sat on his couch and allowed his mind to sift
through the day's revelations.
Troi
remained restless and she could only imagine how her crew was feeling. They had
been out of action for some time, merely keeping observation of the Iconian
ships. Petraw, actually—she had learned that from Picard's report to Admiral
Ross. There was a sense of the tragic in Doral's story, but she couldn't muster
that
much
sympathy given the scale of the problems caused by the gateways operating. The
reports from Starfleet indicated skirmishes and devastating losses to ships and
lives. The Carreon and Deltan conflict was a shoving match compared to some of
the battles starting to break out. Intelligence also indicated the problems
were definitely being felt across the quadrant, although no official word had
been received from the Romulans.
After
discussing the boarding plans with Data, she and Davison looked over the duty
rosters to determine the size and qualifications of those being sent over in
the first wave. Most of the crew had some experience, but not as many had been
in combat-ready situations such as this. She didn't need to be an empath to
register the eagerness Davison had for visiting a Petraw ship and she could
spare the capable woman.
Shift
change was completing as the first watch settled into their positions, running
diagnostics and checking for notes from their predecessors. She surveyed them
with a measuring eye and made some judgments.
"Hoi,
Rosario, a moment of your time."
The
two whipped around, with curiosity on both their handsome faces. She stood and
they approached the command chairs with quick steps. The others on the small
bridge looked over with some curiosity, especially Chan.
"We're
sending over a boarding party to two of the Petraw vessels."
"I
thought they were Iconians," Rosario asked, perplexed.
"We
have learned their true nature and that is their name," Davison answered.
"Poor
Picard," Hoi said quietly. "He seemed very eager to meet them."
Troi
nodded in sympathetic agreement but pushed onward. "Davison will lead the
first party. Mr. Rosario, I'll ask you to lead the second, if you're feeling up
to it. Mr. Hoi, go with Mr. Rosario and learn what you can of their technology.
We're sending over security and engineers with both parties. You leave in
fifteen minutes."
"Aye,
aye," Rosario said, filled with enthusiasm. He then glanced over his
shoulder at Chan, who seemed disappointed. He stepped over toward her, and put
a comforting hand on her left shoulder. She used her right hand to cover his
and they shared a silent moment.
In
the office of the Federation President, Admiral Ross and several other members
of Starfleet filled the room. They had been going over reports from the various
ships, including the mapping efforts of the T'Kumbra.
Their work had been
prodigious but still presented an incomplete chart and the various lines,
indicating the two, three, or four destinations of the gateways, was giving him
eye-strain. Even more maddening was the growing number of deaths directly
attributed to these infernal devices.
"We've
increased the frequency of the warnings," his communications and media
officer reported. "All member planets with identified gateways have
posted guards and barricades."
The
president sighed heavily. "But the people on the other side don't always
come from the Federation."
"We've
asked the Klingon forces to enact similar safeguards but Martok is hard-pressed
to cover them all," Ross added.
"Bill,
were we wrong to send the Iconian representative away until we could convene
the Council? Could this have been stemmed?"
Ross
shook his head, remaining stiffly at attention. "No. They turned those on
as they made simultaneous approaches across the quadrant. They caught us by surprise
and I'm certain it was done on purpose to force us to negotiate quickly."
The
men and women discussed security procedures and precautionary moves to protect
planets under attack. A surprisingly large number of saboteurs and fanatics were
stepping through the portals, thinking they were able to strike a note for
their cause. Of course, there were a large number of causes that tended to
blunt each screed. The damage, however, was painfully obvious.
Ross
was interrupted by the arrival of an aide with a data padd. He took it, crossed
to the quietest corner of the room, and read Picard's latest report. As usual,
it was succinct and exact in its presentation. He had to credit the captain
with never once showing how much pressure he was under. In person was one
thing, but for the record, he was exemplary. Upon the second reading, he fully
grasped the import of the Petraw's revelation and how it just might serve as
an epitaph for long-term peace hi the galaxy.
"Madame
President," he said, "we have news from the fleet."
"We
have it timed—on the eighth micron you jump through, then every fifteen microns
thereafter."
"We
understand."
"Once
you're all through, it's sixteen mics to the target. Make it quick. In, out,
and back."
"You
said it was guarded. We might have to kill more than one."
"A
price worth paying to regain our sovereignty.
These
portals came at exactly the time we needed them. We can move the revolution
timetable forward and be free people once more."
"It
shall be my knife that drinks the blood of the dictator."
"As
it should be. After all, you lost your entire family, I only lost a
wife."
"We
can all begin life anew when this is done."
"Have
you prayed yet?"
"Yes,
the minister came by and administered rites to us all after breakfast. We're as
ready as we're going to be."
"Then
go forth and begin the revolution. When you get back, this colony world shall
be free of the Praetor's influence once and for all."
The
ship wandered aimlessly through the region of space called the Briar Patch. Its
sensors were rendered useless and even their communications failed them.
To
the Breen privateer, this was madness. Her small scout ship was on its way back
to the Black Cluster, its hold full of dilithium and trilium. The pickings had
been good, once she detected the battle near Rimbor. It was child's play to
selectively target and beam plunder from the dead ships. She couldn't have
cared less about why the two races engaged in battle, and hadn't even shown any
curiosity why one ship was totally unfamiliar to her. The trading at Sherman's
Planet was pitiful, so this more than made up for a trip that was originally
written off as a failure. Once the cargo was moved, the profits would allow her
to upgrade the ship and take six months off.
She
had been idly thinking of ways to spend the free time when she was caught up in
the vortex created by a
gateway.
Thrusters couldn't stop the scout and it jetted right through the aperture and
she found herself here. Almost immediately, she noticed her manifolds were
overheating and she slowed her ship to a crawl as she tried to flush them
clean.
It
became apparent that the area was full of cosmic clutter and not safe for
stardrives. Her mapping programs showed the region to be near Federation
territory and nowhere near home. How this had happened baffled her until she
visually spotted the gateway, hanging open near an asteroid belt. Whatever it
was she would reverse course and slowly, very slowly, approach it and return to
her original course. She would make a note of the phenomenon in her computer
logs and tag the sector to be avoided in the future.
Half
an hour later, she managed to turn her ship around, make certain her engines
were clean, and head back for the gateway. She was eager to be back on course;
there was a growing demand for trilium as a building ornament on some of the
colony worlds near her homeworld. That made it more valuable than the
dilithium.
She
approached the gateway, maintaining one-third impulse, and was merely a hundred
meters away when she began to notice the gateway was actually fluctating, with
differing readings coming across her barely functioning sensors. She spotted
her original path, but was also reading high measures of helium, and then something
the ship could not register. Her hands flew to the controls, trying to pull the
scout off the course, but there was too much momentum and she would go through.
She
screamed briefly but then the ship emerged on
the
other side and was in a region without stars. It was totally black. Just the
scout and the gateway on her sensors. This was worse than the other side, she
immediately decided. With no stars, there was nothing to navigate by and she
would be trapped with dwindling power supplies.
There
was little choice but to go through the gateway one more time.
She
tried and failed to find her way back. So, once more she entered the gateway.
And
once more she entered the gateway.
And
once more she entered the gateway.
The
brief nap actually took five hours but left Picard somewhat refreshed. He
stretched and got himself a fresh cup of tea from the replicator. At his desk,
he took a sip and called up ship's status and everything seemed fine. A quick
look at the communications log showed only a terse acknowledgment of his report
from Ross so he presumed things were quiet for a change.
It
wouldn't last, he knew, given the deadly situation he found himself in. While
he had hoped to find the Iconians for real, he hadn't. Their influence was
felt, however, as their gateways continued to cause strife across the Milky Way
galaxy. For a brief moment he wondered if it extended beyond that but quickly
dismissed the notion. Things were complicated enough without adding in other
galaxies.
He
stared at an image of the gateway he found on Iconia and thought about the
influence these people left behind. He couldn't begin to imagine what people
would think of the Federation two hundred millennia from now; it was just too
vast a period of time. Sol
would
still be burning yellow, although beginning to enter middle age.
Influence.
He
quickly reviewed his frustrating conversation with Doral. They had been to Federation
space before, found the gateway on an abandoned world at what was once the edge
of the Federation. Now, where would that be?
"Picard
to Data. Meet me in stellar cartography."
Chapter
Twelve
stellar cartography never ceased to impress Picard. It was huge, round, and able
to project star charts with startling clarity. He often worked out their
problems in this room and it was one of the starship additions he most approved
of. Right now, he and Data stood on a rounded platform extending into the room's
center. Lieutenant Daniel Paisner stood at the console and executed the
commands.
"What
exactly are we seeking, sir?" Data asked.
"Doral
referred to the edge of the Federation, approximately a century ago. I want to
see if we can find the world where his people found their gateway."
A
star chart filled the space, engulfing the duo. It was large enough to allow
individual solar systems and key planets to be named. At first, they began one
hun-
dred
twenty years earlier, scanning for anything obvious based on what they
currently knew. Allowing for Data's more rapid visual receptors, Picard flashed
around the edge of Federation space, marveling at how much they had grown in
such a relatively short span of time. There had been their skirmishes and wars,
repelling invaders of all sorts, but they held together and prospered. Could
they ever reach a point like the Petraw, a point where they were too far
apart? He certainly hoped not, but he was also reminded of how Starfleet
Command had grown to the point where they weren't communicating as effectively.
Once
finished, Data admitted to seeing nothing obvious. With a shrug, Picard
ordered the view forwarded by a year and again by a year. Paisner kept his
fingers moving over the board, his wavy hair shaking with each movement.
"It
might help if we had more context to work from," Data admitted after five
circuits.
"I
agree, but it was not discovered by Doral, but his ancestor. I gather the
records are scant," Picard replied, hitting a control to forward the image
another year.
Finally,
at 2269, Data saw a smudge to the top right of the dome. Paisner enlarged the
sector until it filled the area and then Data looked once more.
"What
is it?'
"Although
we are seeing the star charts as they existed around Stardate 5700, the
computer is also providing us with updated geological data. This faded area,
for example."
"Something
is missing?" Picard felt the tug of something on his memory but dismissed
it to concentrate on Data.
"Yes,
sir, a planetoid was here and is not now."
"It
vanished?" Picard's mind reeled at the possibility of a planet-sized
gateway.
"I
do not believe so. One moment." He manipulated several more controls and
then a stream of information was projected next to the faded space.
"An
artificial world existed here, but exploded at approximately Stardate 5750.
Detonated by Commander Spock... of the Enterprise,"
Picard read aloud.
"Interesting,"
Data said.
"Wait
a minute," Picard suddenly interrupted, his brow furrowing. "What was
it Scotty told me? They were thrown one thousand light-years away...."
"Actually
990.7 light years," Data corrected, reading from a report on the console.
"The
Kalandan people were never explained, were they?"
"No,
sir," Data replied.
Things
were starting to fall into place for Picard and he felt his blood beginning to
rush, his lethargy replaced with renewed vigor. Taking over the console from a
bemused Paisner, he fed in several planetary names. Within seconds, a brand-new
map appeared before them. Several planets were highlighted, forming a crude
line, almost bisecting the Alpha Quadrant.
"We
know the Iconian civilization left its mark on Iccobar, Dewan, and Dinasia, but
look if we link them to the Kalandan outpost and Iconia itself."
"A
clear path is formed," Data observed.
"From
Iconia, in the Romulan Neutral Zone, right across the Alpha Quadrant toward the
Gamma Quadrant border. When their enemies bombarded Iconia, the people seemed
to move across the galaxy. Maybe they
stopped
on each world to regroup or build new gateways."
"It
is certainly a possibility," Data said. "Since we do not know how
many Iconians could have survived, it is unclear what their needs were."
"Or
if they were followed. We only found the one operating system on the homeworld.
And Kirk found one at the Kalandan outpost." Picard briefly thought how
his life and Kirk's seemed to endlessly intersect, a link from one Enterprise
captain to another.
"I
do note that the remainder of that mission seems to be missing from the
official Starfleet records."
Picard
nodded in agreement, a tight smile across his face. "I wonder at times if
the classified records are larger than the public records."
"I
could perform an analysis, calculating the time allowed for all official log
entries of active captains during Starfleet's existence against the public
record and come up with a total number of missing days. It might take some
time, however."
"Never
mind," Picard replied with a sigh.
The
captain once again programmed in a Series of commands and the screen shifted
with a new projection, this one seemingly brighter than the ones seen
previously. "When the universe was two hundred thousand years
younger," Picard said admiringly.
"Donald
Varley found Iconia by adjusting for the galactic shift. If I do that for the
worlds we know had Iconian influence, we get a brand-new direction." He
gestured at the new path that led straight across the Alpha Quadrant, avoiding
the Gamma Quadrant entirely.
"Computer,
adjust map to accommodate the highlighted planet's position during the first
known evi-
dence
of Iconian activity." It beeped compliantly and the planets shifted ever
so slightly on the dome, once more changing the line's direction.
"The
Kalandan outpost was the last known visit, just ten thousand years ago. Perhaps
an offshoot or the last remaining people. Now, Data, look at the distances from
planet to planet," he observed, having the computer add measurements to
the screen. It became apparent, there was a mathematical progression from point
to point.
"Excellent
detective work, Captain," Data said.
Picard
gave him a genuine smile, his first in a while. "You have your Holmes, I
have my Dixon Hill, and neither liked to be stumped. These were not capricious
people, Data. Everything the Iconians left behind spoke of high intelligence
and precision. These markers reinforce that belief."
"Do
you believe they still exist?"
"We
need them to exist since they hold the key to the gateways. Unless you've
managed to decipher their language."
"I
have not been successful," Data admitted.
"Then
we have to find them or their records, don't we?"
Data
turned and studied the captain's determined face. "You have a plan, sir,
do you not?"
"When
don't I, Data?"
Riker
was waiting for them on the bridge. Like the captain, he was a little better
rested but still felt the strain of the mission. And he missed Deanna. Now that
they were together once again he found himself reluctant to let her be apart.
Still, there was a time for love and a time for duty.
He
wished he were beside Picard, finding out more about these Petraw, but someone
had to remain on the bridge, coordinating information from the fleet. It seemed
as if everything had progressed smoothly once Doral confessed. The Petraw acted
like a beaten people, which made them seem more than a little pathetic. It
irritated him, but there was nothing he could offer them other than a stern
lecture, and that was something Picard was far better at.
Vale
had returned from the Petraw ship, changed into a clean uniform, and was once
again on alert behind him. She never seemed to sleep and was always at the top
of her game, which impressed and surprised him. How did she manage to do all
that?
When
the turbolift doors snapped open, Riker turned and was pleased to see Picard
and Data stride onto the bridge. Picard seemed refreshed, so something had gone
right down below. In fact, the captain seemed positively eager, not something
he imagined would have happened. Picard nodded in acknowledgment of his first
officer and tilted his head toward the ready room. Gesturing to La Forge, who
had been bent over the engineering post, the two went into Picard's sanctum.
"I
believe I know where the Iconians are or last were," he said.
This
took Riker aback. He didn't think Picard or Data had enough to go on but
clearly something had changed. He was pleased by this but began to suspect
there was more to it and was trying to think ahead of his captain.
"Can
we get there?"
"Not
all of us, Number One," Picard replied. Riker was now definitely getting a
sense of why Picard was getting to be so eager.
"So
you're going into the gateway," he said.
Now
it was Picard's turn to look surprised. He and Riker looked at one another, as
a silent discussion—one they had had many times before—played out. Data and La
Forge kept silent, waiting for someone to speak next.
"Can
I send Vale with you?"
Picard
smiled slightly, Riker noting he had the better argument—who else knew the
Iconians well enough to deal with them should they still be there? Who better
to eloquently state the urgency of the problem? Of course Picard was going to
risk this, not Riker. Circumstances pointed to Picard this time, when on so
many occasions, Riker won the day.
"If
I'm wrong, I will not risk another's life."
"Even
a volunteer's?" This from La Forge, who displayed as much curiosity about
things as Picard did.
"Even
yours, Geordi."
"When?"
"We
can't wait long, Number One," Picard replied thoughtfully. "I want to
talk to the other captains and send a quick report to Admiral Ross. If this
fails, I want Starfleet to know it was entirely my doing."
Riker
nodded and waited for the dismissal. After a moment, the men were released back
to the bridge and they slowly walked out. There was nothing left to argue, but
they didn't necessarily want to leave the captain either. After all, if there
was a danger, he'd be lost to them.
Once
back in the command chair, Riker didn't feel comfortable, but had to make peace
with the situation. He also had to start thinking like the officer in charge,
because once Picard made the attempt, everything would fall to him. Grekor
would object and Desan might even try a play on her own, so he had to plan ac-
cordingly.
He was like a chess master preparing to play multiple opponents, some of whom
he had never met before.
Turning
the watch over to Data, Riker excused himself to the observation lounge, where
he began reviewing reports, statistics, and tactical readings. If he was going
to be in command, he needed every shred of information to be familiar so he
could react accordingly. Those plans, though, were interrupted by Vale, who
told him a signal was coming in from Troi on the Marco
Polo.
The
wall screen shimmered and the smiling face of his lover greeted him.
"How
can I help you, Captain Troi?" he said, giving her a broad grin. She
seemed concerned, though.
"You're troubled, Will. What's wrong?"
Riker
was surprised by this long-range diagnosis. "Now how did you know
that?"
"Imzadi,
I can read you even when surrounded by
thousands of life-forms. Especially when you're agitated."
"Strong
emotions again?" Riker filled her in and he saw her expression grow
concerned. She fully understood; how could she not after spending most of her
adult life with Riker, as well as Picard.
"You know this is something he has to do for himself as well as
Starfleet," she
said.
"Of
course. He'd never forgive himself if one of us strolled through and made a
faux pas in front of a real Iconian."
"Do you think he 'U be successful? "
"He
got us this far, Deanna. Outnumbered, we held off the Petraw and got the truth
with minimal loss. Even the Romulans are behaving around him."
"Are you ready to take over?"
"Now
that's an entirely different question," he admitted. "I've never had
to coordinate this much before. He can do it his way, but I need to be
myself."
"And so you will be. You've gotten Klingon respect before. If
there's anyone to worry about it's the Carreon. We know so little about them.
They've behaved so far, but who knows what will happen with them next? Desan
will play along while there remains information to be learned. Even repaired,
she won't leave the area until we know what happens to Captain Picard. And it
behooves her to help out, just in case she needs help herself."
Riker
shook his head in amazement. "Are you sure you shouldn't be doing this
job?"
"Oh, I'm quite content sitting here with my own little crew. I'm
growing quite fond of them actually."
"Good
enough. Wish me luck."
"You won't need it when you have Klingons and Romulans at your
back," she
said, and ended the message.
Grimly,
Riker mused, wondering if those people were supporting him, or plotting against
him.
Picard
nodded to the security guard posted outside Doral's cabin. The officer turned
and unlocked the door, allowing the captain to enter.
Doral
was seated at the small desk, the computer screen showing an image of his
ships. Picard appreciated the concern a leader was showing for his people.
"Is
there anything, in any of your records, that will tell us how to read their
language?"
Doral
slowly shook his head and gestured for Picard to sit. The captain took the
chair opposite the Petraw pod leader and they sat in silence for several
moments.
Picard
saw that the bed was untouched, the replicator empty. He suspected Doral had
been at the desk the whole time, wondering how he got into this mess. Still
unsure of how he felt about the Petraw, Picard kept his own counsel for the
moment.
"With
no other choice, I am going to use the gateway on your ship and try to find
the Iconians. We need to turn off the network and do it before more lives are
lost. Those deaths will have to weigh on your conscience. If I don't try, they
will be on mine, too."
"If
you find the mechanism, will you keep it to yourself?"
"I
will do what needs be done to turn them all off, and then if it means sharing
it with those we normally consider our adversaries, then yes. Whatever our
differences, we will not allow the innocent to die."
Doral
looked deep into Picard's eyes, and the captain met the stare with equanimity.
He held it for a moment, then two, and finally blinked. "Such a strong
will," the Petraw softly said.
"The
mark of a captain," Picard said. "And the burden of one."
"When
you return, and the gateways are turned off, what of my people?"
Picard
sat thoughtful, not really having spent much time on the issue. He admitted as
much and then added, "What you did was criminal. I don't know if there's a
way to charge you for such reckless endangerment, but you certainly cannot be
allowed to go unpunished. Your current plight has to take a place behind the
more immediate danger."
Doral
nodded in understanding. Picard stood and
walked
out, not saying another word, letting the guilt hang in the air.
La
Forge and Kliv were bent over the gateway console when Picard arrived on the
Petraw ship. They were passing equipment back and forth, having opened up a
panel on the Iconian console, spare parts littering the floor by their boots.
"If
we can place the microfusion initiators here ..." La Forge muttered.
"Then
the EPS power stabilizer can fit below it," Kliv finished. They continued
working and muttering, totally ignoring Picard's presence. He smiled toward
them but walked over to Grekor and Worf, who seemed irritable, just watching.
"Regardless
of race, engineers always speak in their own tongue," Grekor said.
"They
are a breed apart," Worf said.
Picard
came aboard equipped with field medical kit, tricorder, hand phaser, and
rations. There was little knowing what awaited him on the other side, but
Picard knew enough to be prepared. Crusher had berated him for going alone but
then had stoically talked him through how to use some of the latest diagnostic
devices, how to store readings in case the Iconians allowed themselves to be
studied, and how to counteract the dozen most common poisons.
She
seemed to go into lengthy detail, forcing him to spend more time in sickbay. He
knew she wouldn't like the solo nature of the mission, but he refused to argue
the point. With great patience, he had allowed her to discuss the kit's
contents, noting how often her hands found his. There never seemed to be enough
time for
these
feelings, but in case he wasn't coming back soon, he stored the emotions.
As he
had begun to leave sickbay, Crusher had called to him one more time and he
found himself in a tight embrace. She had said it was for luck but he knew better
and said nothing.
Riker
had been waiting for him in the transporter room, padd in hand. He had tried to
convince Picard there were some orders needing his thumbprint but the captain
knew his friend better than that.
"I'll
be fine, Will," he had said confidently.
"I
hope so, sir," Riker had said, the twinkle appearing in his eye. "I
want my own command, but not like this."
"Careful
of the fleet," Picard had said. "It's fragile and will need a gentle
hand. Bractor will try and gain any advantage while Mel Rosa may continue his
battle with Oliv when this is finished."
"At
least the Gorn are out of the picture," Riker had said, a grim smile on
his face. No one wished their deaths, Picard knew, but not having them around
would certainly make Riker's job simpler.
"Look
after my ship, I'll be back for it."
"As
always," Riker had said with a laugh.
They
had looked at one another for a moment and then Picard had taken his place and
simply said, "Energize."
Now
he was aboard the Petraw ship and felt how alien it was to him. Every race had
their own sense of design and functionality but again, there was not time to
study the hodgepodge vessel. He hoped there would he when he returned.
"From
what we saw on Iconia, my best guess is that the coordinates are input
here," La Forge said, gestur-
ing
to a hooded portion of the board. It contained three triangular areas with
brightly colored buttons.
"I
want all portals to have the same coordinates so as it rotates, all doors lead
to the same place. It seems safest."
La
Forge shrugged, "Guess we can try it. I'll need another photonic amplifier
or two...."
"We
have determined each color represents a set of binary data combinations and
tapping them begins the sequencing," the Klingon engineer added.
"We're
taking an awful lot on faith," La Forge added.
"Sometimes,
Mr. La Forge, faith is all we have." Picard handed his friend a tricorder
with the coordinates on it. "Based on the mathematical progression of each
planetary jump, and then factoring the shift over the millennia, I believe I'm
going here."
Grekor
and Worf had drawn closer, looking at the information. It seemed to Picard
that Grekor was more interested than he had let on, but he would not remark on
it. Worf, however, turned to Picard with some alarm on his face.
"Sir,
that's uncharted space. You have no idea what sort of planet that might be. You
should not go alone. Or first."
"Fortune
favors the foolish, Ambassador," Picard said. He smiled at his friend.
"I will allow no one else to take the risk."
"You
are a warrior after all," Grekor said.
"He
has the heart of a Klingon," Worf said with pride.
"Actually,
I have a heart of steel thanks to Dr. Van Doren." He chuckled at the
confused expression on Grekor's face.
La
Forge had ignored the exchange, concentrating on the coordinates. He tapped a few,
looked at the tri-
corder
and tapped again, muttering to himself, "amber, amber, blue, red, amber,
blue ... no, amber."
The
equipment suddenly chirped and La Forge scrambled backward. Lights blinked on
and off and as Picard looked; the space within the gateway's arch began to
shimmer. Within a few seconds, it cleared to depict a starfield.
Then
it began to rotate, and the starfield became a solar system...
...
then a green planet...
...
then a brown continent...
...
then a golden field ...
...
then a lush rain forest...
...
then a high domed building, glistening damply in the sunlight...
...
then a high domed building, glistening damply in the sunlight...
. ..
then a high domed building, glistening damply in I he sunlight.. .
"I
think that's my port of call," Picard said, more to himself than anyone.
"Good
luck," La Forge said.
"Qapla'!" Grekor
and Worf said simultaneously, their voices resounding off the walls.
Without
turning his back, Picard took two steps and entered the gateway without knowing
what lay beyond.
To Be Continued In...
STAR TREK:
GATEWAYS, BOOK 7 WHAT LAY BEYOND