Star Trek - The Next Generation 
UNIFICATION

Chapter One

ADMIRAL RUAH BRACKETT had a secret.
    Not a terribly profound one, and nothing that
would ever interfere with her duties as a fleet admiral
of Starfleet Command. But it was a secret nonetheless
and she enjoyed keeping it. There was something
titillating about indulging a private idiosyncrasy that
was known to no one.
    She felt a momentary twinge of guilt as she and her
young aide strode into the transporter room of
Starbase 234, for her mission was of such importance
that she should not be thinking of her personal
pleasures. The message she carried had been deemed
too important to risk on subspace and was to be
delivered only in person. The security of the Federa-
tion might be at stake--and yet the foremost thought
on her mind was her anticipation of the next few
moments.
    "Well, Lieutenant, shall we do this?" She addressed
her young aide, Severson, who was looking a little pale
under the freckles which dusted his face. Lieutenant
Severson, she knew, wasn't looking forward to the
experience of transporting from starbase to starship;
he claimed it was altogether unpleasant and in fact
made him queasy. He suffered it stoically because as
her aide there was no way to avoid the process, and
after having garnered this plum assignment, he wasn't
about to risk it because of transporter nausea.
    "Yes, Admiral." He waited until she had taken her
place on the pad, then stepped on beside her. They
made an unusual pair--the tall, regal admiral with
her close-cropped brown curls and the smaller, carrot-
headed young manrebut in fact they worked effort-
lessly together, and for that Brackett was willing to
tolerate his frailty with the transporter.
    "Let us know when you're ready, Chief," she said to
the transporter engineer, a seasoned veteran from the
planet Nason Barta. He was remarkably fast at enter-
ing molecular codes because of the ten digits on each
of his appendages.
    "I am prepared, Admiral Brackett. Please give me
your command."
 Brackett smiled. The moment was here.
    For the secret was that she loved being transported.
She knew most people found that it produced no
response whatsoever, physical or emotional; others,
like Severson, became queasy or disoriented and felt it
actively unpleasant.
    For Brackett, it was a transcendent experience. The
conversion of her molecular structure into a
subatomically dissociated matter stream created a
sensation that was rapturous: a mystical-spiritual-
sexual experience all wrapped up in one powerful
phenomenon. Her consciousness remained intact dur-
ing the transport, of course, and in that breathtaking
instant of dematerialization and materialization she
sensed that she brushed against something unknowa-
ble, some mysterious, powerful force that existed only
in that brief and sublime moment. She often felt she
was a breath away from grasping, from understanding
it--but then it was over and she arrived at her
destination. And always, she longed for the next time.
"Thank you, Chief. Proceed."
    Severson tensed beside her, and Brackett closed her
eyes, focusing on the intense experience that was to
come. A roaring sound in her ears signaled the begin-
ning of the dematerialization process, and there was
the brief, flashing swirl of light and then the sensation
of swooping into a void--then blackness.
    A second, a fraction of a second--how long was it?
Majestic feelings overwhelmed her; was she soaring?
Tumbling? Ascending? There it was, that unknowable
something; she was reaching out for it, a second more
and she would touch it...
    "Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Admiral Brackett.
It's good to see you again."
    She looked into Miles O'Brien's cheerful Irish face
and smiled automatically. It seemed as though she
were swimming up from a dark crystal pool, and she
preferred to remain within its remarkable depths. But
of course she had business to attend to.
    "And you, Chief O'Brien." She looked around
lYansporter Room Three, still light-headed, getting
her bearings. And there was Picard.
    She smiled as she saw the familiar face. Jean-Luc
Picard was an incredibly attractive man with hand-
some, chiseled features; he had some time ago lost his
hair, except for a closely trimmed fringe around the
sides, and as far as she was concerned the baldness
added to his virile image. She admired and respected
him--but she was also deeply drawn to him on a feral,
primitive level. Maintaining the bearing and reserve
of a superior officer was always difficult around this
man, though she was sure he was unaware of that fact.
  "It's good to see you again, Captain."
  "And you, Admiral Brackett."
    "Shall we?" she asked, and he gestured her ahead of
him through the transporter room door; they exit-
ed, followed by Severson, who was as pale as a ghost
and drawing deep breaths of air to keep from throw-
ing up.
    When they had reached the bridge and entered the
captain's ready room, she turned to Severson. "You're
excused, Lieutenant." The matter she had come to
discuss was not for anyone's ears but Picard's.
    The captain moved toward his replicator. "Would
you care for refreshments? Tea, perhaps?"
    She smiled. She knew this man, knew what was
going on inside him, knew what he was truly feeling in
spite of his remote, detached manner.
 "You're a cool one, Picard," she said.
    He turned to her, quizzical, an eyebrow lifted, his
look asking the question for him.
    "I know you well enough to know that you're
burning with curiosity about this summons of mine.
And yet you almost manage to convince me that your
only concern is a cup of Earl Grey."
    "And I know you well enough to know that you'll
only tell me what you want to in your own good time.
So we might as well have tea."
    She smiled as he held her look. They were old
friends; they'd had these fencing matches many times
before. In fact their first encounter--when they were
both cadets at Starfleet Academy--had been on the
debate team. They delighted in opposing each other
with vehement arguments, and then switching sides
and going at it again. During the course of their
careers they had continued the friendly rivalry and
Brackett always found herself looking forward to the
match.
    So if Jean-Luc Picard wanted to pretend noncha-
lance, she understood the gambit. But she held the
upper hand this time; she knew the startling reason
for this meeting, and perhaps she would make him
wait for a few moments before she revealed it.
    "I apologize for the mystery, Captain," she began,
"but we must attempt to contain the information I'm
about to reveal to you--at least as long as possible."
    He regarded her calmly, waiting with no perceptible
indication of curiosity.
    "Three weeks ago, one of our most celebrated
ambassadors--an adviser to Federation leaders for
generations--disappeared. He left no word of his
destination."
    And still he waited, gazing at her patiently. She
moved toward his desk and quickly activated the
computer console there.
    "Eight days ago, intelligence reports placed him on
Romulus--and I assure you it's an unauthorized
visit." She keyed an instruction and then said, "Com-
puter, initiate linkage between this terminal and
Starbase computer system alpha-two-nine."
    "Linkage complete," responded the computer voice
pleasantly.
    Brackett busied herself for a moment with comput-
er instructions, wondering if Picard would interject a
question. When he did, it was minimal. "A defec-
tion?" he queried, in the most even of tones.
    "If it is, the damage to Federation security would be
incalculable." She tapped a few more times and then
gestured for him to look at his monitor.
    A blurry image appeared on the computer screen--
it seemed to consist of several figures but none was
distinguishable. Picard leaned in, trying to decipher
it.
    "Taken on Romulus, by long-range scanner," said
Brackett. "Computer, enhance image in section four-
delta."
    The computer whirred and the blurred images
began to come into focus. The peripheral images were
still fuzzy, but the central figure gradually came into
sharp relief.
    Admiral Brackett looked for Picard's reaction as he
found himself looking at the unmistakable image of
Spock of Vulcan--dressed in Romulan clothing.
    Spock, a revered figure in Starfleet history. Spock,
the renowned ambassador. Spock, venerated architect
of peace in the galaxy. Was he a defector to the
Romulans?
    Picard stared at Brackett in astonishment, and she
could not resist a wry smile.
 At least now she had his attention.

Chapter Two

COMMANDER WILL RIKER was so wrapped up in his
thoughts as he strode the corridor of Deck Eleven that
he ran right into Ensign Gretchen Naylor. Their
shoulders bumped and he snapped out of his reverie
to find the tall brunette with pale green eyes looking at
him in surprise.
    "Excuse me, sir, I should have been more care-
ful--"
    "It's my fault, Ensign. I was a million light-years
away and I wasn't watching where I was going. You
okay?"
    "Just fine, sir." She smiled and held his gaze with
her amazing eyes, and the tall, bearded officer found
himself wondering if Ensign Naylor had engineered
this little mishap. He realized he had been noticing
her quite a bit lately, though always in the most
innocuous of circumstances. She had been in Ten-
Forward, the ship's lounge, a few times when he was
there, and in Engineering when he had held a consul-
tation with Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.
She wore a gold uniform and might be assigned to any
area of ship's operations; he realized he had no idea
what it was she did.
    "What's your post, Ensign?" No reason not to
familiarize himself with the crew of the ship; that fell
well within his duties as first off~cer. It was only
Naylor's green eyes and her generous, full-lipped
mouth that made him feel as though this were a more
personal inquiry.
    "Security, sir. I work with Lieutenant Worf in R
and l--recon and intelligence." Her smile was direct
and straightforward, lacking any hint of innuendo.
Riker liked that smile. His mind shot forward to the
two of them in Ten-Forward, heads bent together in
quiet conversation, Naylor's mouth parted as she
listened, little tendrils of dark hair falling forward as
she leaned toward him...
    "Very well, Ensign. Carry on." Riker heard himself
dismissing her and saw a momentary flicker of
something--disappointment?--in her eyes. He nod-
ded and walked on, wondering if she stood and stared
after him, perplexed by his abrupt departure. He
didn't look back to find out.
    Now was not the time to indulge in a shipboard
flirtation. He knew himself well enough to know that
his feelings were particularly vulnerable at this point,
and an innocent friendship might rocket out of con-
trol. That was dangerous on a starship, a small
community where everyone knew everyone else. An
intense love affair could go wrong, leaving an uncom-
fortable residue; on a ship millions of light-years from
port such a situation could create the kind of friction
that spread like the Circassian Plague and under-
mined morale and efficiency. Riker had learned iron
self-discipline in order to avoid such troublesome
situations.
    For he was feeling restless again. That was the most
precise term he could find for the vague miasma that
overcame him from time to time. It wasn't intense, it
wasn't dire, it wasn't profound. Just unsettling.
    The first thing he always noticed was a slight
tendency to become distracted. Sitting on the bridge,
hearing the routine cadence of orders given and
received, he would find that he had missed a few
minutes of activity because his mind was in an
Alaskan wood, hearing the crunch of his footsteps on
icy snow.
    Craving for certain foods was another symptom. He
would be almost overcome by longing for hot oatmeal
with cinnamon, a bubbling potato casserole, or steam-
ing split-pea soup--all warm, filling dishes that his
father used to make on cold winter nights.
    And then, inevitably, his mind would turn to
thoughts of his own command.
    It was a matter Riker thought he had resolved, and
it annoyed him that it kept creeping back, like an
irritating sound that can't be completely blocked. His
decision to stay on the Enterprise as first officer was a
conscious choice that completely satisfied the rational
part of his mind. His reasons were sound and he had
comfortably come to terms with them.
    Why, then, this nagging refrain? Why this occasion-
al lapse into introspection and doubt? Riker liked
tidiness in his life, and this refusal of his feelings to be
neatly compartmentalized distressed him.
    What he needed was an adventure. His own adven-
ture. They were even now racing through space to-
ward Vulcan, hoping to discover the events leading up
to Ambassador Spock's strange disappearance. But
that was the captain's mission, and though he would
do everything he could to support and abet that
mission, it was not his.
    Riker stopped outside Holodeck Two, his mind still
tumbling with these unwelcome thoughts. The
holodeck had been his destination, for he often came
here when he was feeling restless, and usually found
some measure of satisfaction in an hour or two of
music. Music had the power to quiet his mind, to
restore his serenity, and to rejuvenate his enthusiasm.
It made the difference in his life.
    What program would he choose tonight? He'd often
lost himself for hours playing trombone with a simu-
lated New Orleans jazz group. But ever since the
appearance of the remarkable female holofigure Min-
uet in that program--and her reemergence in the
elaborate scheme of the alien child Barash--the puri-
ty of that music had been compromised.
    "Earth," Riker found himself saying after he had
keyed instructions to the holodeck computer. "Mem-
phis, Tennessee. Year, 1925. A honky-tonk called
Stumpy's."
    "Program complete," came the dulcet tones of the
computer, and the doors to the holodeck slid open.
    The noise and the smoke greeted him immediately.
The babble of happy voices was welcoming; the smoke
not so. It was necessary background for a bar on Earth
in the twentieth century, of course, and holodeck
technology had long ago found the means to re-create
the smoky atmosphere without injecting dangerous
particulates into the air. Still, Riker found it incom-
prehensible that people long ago had systematically
occluded their lungs with the foul-smelling stuff and
considered it a mark of sophistication.
    He walked into Stumpy's--a tiny place crowded
with tables--and saw a room of smiling faces turn
toward him. There were welcoming calls and a smat-
tering of applause and encouragement as Riker
walked toward the piano standing on a makeshift
platform.
    "Willie... tinkle them things, Willie..." This
from a gravel-voiced black man with white tufts of
hair over each ear.
    "They'd rather hear you, Stumpy." Riker smiled at
him. "I'm not in your league."
  "Naw, naw... you got the licks, man."
    Riker sat down at the piano and let his hands drift
over the keys for a minute, getting his bearings, letting
himself absorb the atmosphere. This was where the
blues was born, and he was now a part of that energy
and excitement, the unique creativity that spread
throughout the South of the United States in the early
part of the twentieth century.
    His hands came down on the keys and the patrons
of Stumpy's became quiet. Riker started slowly, gen-
tly, letting the music come from inside, not imposing
anything but simply letting it happen. His pain, his
restlessness became part of the music and were lifted
out of him and into the air of the funky little club in
Memphis. The people listening absorbed the music,
sensed the intensity of the feeling within it, let it wash
through them and reflected it back until everything
was one huge, shared experience, music and hurt,
music and longing, music and aspiration turning and
twisting with one another--
 "Captain to Commander Riker."
    Riker opened his eyes as the clipped tones intruded
into the holodeck. It was always the rudest of awaken-
ings, the invasion of the outside into the fantasy
experience, but it was the price one paid for serving
on the Enterprise.
    "Freeze program," he instructed the computer, and
the patrons of Stumpy's became instantly stilled. He
touched his communicator. "Riker here, sir."
"Could you join me in the conference lounge?"
"Right away, sir." Riker rose from the piano and
cast one last glance around the honky-tonk. So much
for the restorative powers of nmsic. He would sum-
mon the discipline to function as he must, providing
his best to his captain.
    Of course, there was always the possibility that the
captain's summons might signal the beginning of an
adventure. His adventure. Something difficult and
mysterious that would test his mettle, summon his
talents and hone them in rarefied challenge.
    There was a new spring to his walk as he left the
holodeck and hurried toward the turbolift, contem-
plating these possibilities.

    But the next hour with the captain was spent
helping him trace through intelligence reports detail-
ing Ambassador Spock's last two decades of activity.
Negotiations, mediations, arbitrations--there was a
well-chronicled history of Spock's ceaseless efforts as
an architect of peace. If there were seeds in his public
behavior of a defection to the Romulans, they were
well buried.
    Riker enjoyed these meetings with the captain. He
respected the well-honed process that Picard brought
to any endeavor: Picard would examine thoughts,
tumbling them around in his mind like a gem polish-
er, extracting something here, buffing something
there, until he could put them all together into a
codified whole. It was always stimulating, and always
challenging, to interact with him.
    But it was a demanding process. Riker stretched his
legs and then looked at the captain, realizing that he
had been at this for hours even before Riker arrived.
Weariness hung over Picard like a veil. "We'll be
coming into orbit around Vulcan in less than an hour,
sir," Riker said. "You may want to get some rest."
    "Yes, yes, of course, you're right." But he didn't
move. Riker saw the captain's eye caught by another
padd on the table, and knew that, although Picard was
tired, his mind was still churning.
    "We should notify Sarek's wife of our plans,"
suggested Picard.
    "All taken care of, sir. She'll be waiting for your
signal to transport on board." Riker had talked with
Perrin, Sarek's human wife, by subspace.  "And Sarek?"
  "She says he is too ill to join her."
    "Not unexpected. The man is dying." There was an
undertone of sadness to the words. Riker recalled the
meeting of those two several years ago, when Sarek,
suffering from the rare affliction Bendii's syndrome,
came aboard the Enterprise and created havoc by
inadvertently projecting his emotions onto the crew.
Riker almost smiled as he remembered himself and
the captain snapping and snarling at each other, and
the patrons of Ten-Forward engaging in a barroom
brawl. The outcome of that experience, of course, had
been a mind meld between Sarek and Picard, which
allowed the venerable ambassador to maintain con-
trol of his emotions long enough to complete an
important negotiation. The mind meld had linked
Sarek and Picard in extraordinary intimacy, and
Riker had no doubt that the captain was carrying
some residual effects of that liaison.
    "And I have the... honor," Picard continued, "to
bring him the news that his son may have betrayed the
Federation."
    Riker sensed, from instincts developed after long
association, that the captain wanted to talk further.
He needed a sounding board to reflect his thoughts
and feelings. It was a role Riker played comfortably
and well. "How well do you know Spock?" he asked.
    He waited patiently as Picard rose from the table
and paced toward the windows, gazing at the spectac-
ular sweep of the stars as the Enterprise raced by them
at warp speed. "I met him only once. What I know of
him comes from history books and of course the mind
meld with his father."
    "That must cover a lot of ground." Riker couldn't
imagine what a mind meld would be like, but it had to
have given the captain a source of insight into Spock.
    But the captain smiled wryly, and said, "Not as
much as you'd imagine. Sarek and Spock..."
    He hesitated, and seemed reluctant to go further.
Then he looked at Riker and said, simply, "Well,
sometimes, fathers and sons..."
     "Understood," answered Riker. He knew Picard
 was aware of his own tortured history with his father.
 He had no difficulty imagining other strong-willed
 men having similar difficulties. But he couldn't help
 but wonder what problems of Spock and Sarek the
 captain was privy to.
  Picard finally rose, and Riker was glad he was
taking the time for a break before they reached
Vulcan. They were at the door when Picard suddenly
turned back, as though remembering something, and
picked up a padd.
    "There was one other thing," he said. "Take a look
at this."
    Riker took the padd and scanned its contents briefly
as Picard continued, "Something that turned up dur-
ing the intelligence sweep on Spock. What do you
make of it?"
    Riker absorbed the succinct report. "Metal frag-
ments, possibly disassembled components, identified
as Vulcan--recovered from a downed Ferengi
ship..."
    "And the crates they were in were marked as
medical supplies."
  Riker raised an eyebrow. "Contraband?"
    Picard simply shrugged his shoulders as he started
toward the door. "They've been sent to Vulcan for
identification. Starfleet has requested we lend them a
hand."
 And he was gone.
    Riker stood in the empty room, holding the padd in
his hand, rereading the information, hoping to discov-
er in it something that promised an adventure.
    But all he saw was a mundane investigation. Identi-
fying metal fragments. Hardly the stuff to challenge
the mind and electrify the sensibilities. But it was
better than nothing.

Chapter Three

JEAN-LUC PICARD SMILED as he entered Transporter
Room Three and saw Miles O'Brien at his post. He
liked O'Brien immensely. O'Brien was the kind of
man who wore well, like old leather, becoming more
comfortable over time. Picard had seen him move
from amiable bachelor to loving husband and now,
within recent weeks, to fatherhood. Molly Miyaki
Worf O'Brien had been born in Ten-Forward during a
catastrophic event on the Enterprise, and Picard was
sure that O'Brien's life was now topsy-turvy. In fact,
as he approached the ruddy, curly-haired transporter
chief, he was sure he could see dark circles under his
eyes, testifying to lack of sleep.
 "Hello, Chief. How are Keiko and the baby?"
    "Very well, sir. Molly's got an Irish set of pipes,
that's for sure. And she uses them, all night long."
    "I thought you were looking a little peaked."
Picard's warm smile eliminated any hint of chastise-
ment.
  "It's amazing to me, sir. She seems to wake up the
minute I go to bed. She sleeps soundly all day long,
never fusses, nurses well. But no matter what time it is
I try to go to sleep, she starts squalling. Do you think
they do these things on purpose?"
    Picard had no idea what babies might or might not
do and had no particular interest in finding out.
Babies were strange, burbling little creatures that
others might enjoy fawning over; he was content to
observe them from afar. "I'm afraid I'm not the right
person to ask, Mr. O'Brien," he responded. "You
might speak to one of the pediatric nurses."
    "Oh, I'm not complaining, sir. I think she's just
being a baby. And I wouldn't have it any other way."
    "Is our guest ready to come on board?" Enough of
this talk of babies; he was here for a purpose, one that
had galvanized his energies as no mission had in a
long while. Visions of Spock haunted his mind and
invaded his dreams. He had become possessed by the
mystery of Spock's disappearance in a way that was
overwhelming and disturbing. And he had no doubt
that it all had to do with his mind meld with Sarek.
  "Aye, sir, I can bring her on any time."
  "Then let's do it."
    Picard moved toward the transporter platfornl as
O'Brien keyed commands into his console. There was
a brief silence, and then the sparkling effect of the
transporter beam began to form on the platform and
coalesce into a woman's body.
    An instant later Perrin stood before him, lovely and
gracious as ever, her graceful features tranquil and
composed. Only her eyes mirrored the pain she car-
ried from dealing with Sarek's illness.
    "Captain Picard." She walked toward him, two
arms extended. Her warm, honey-blond hair was
artfully done, as always, and her hazel eyes radiated
compassionate gentility.
     "Perrin." He lifted his hands and she grasped them
firmly, pressing a generous greeting.
  "It's good to see you again."
  "And you. How is Sarek?"
    Her face clouded slightly as they moved toward the
door of the transporter room. It was a remarkably
expressive countenance, the play of her emotions
reflected in subtle ways, like the drift of sunlight and
shadows on an ever-changing sea. Living with a Vul-
can must have taught her control, and there was
always a certain reserve to her behavior; nonetheless
her humanness had not been suppressed, merely
distilled. Picard had found her, from the moment he
met her, an enchanting woman. So much so that he
dared not think of her often, and then only with the
firm reminder that she was wife to Sarek. And to what
extent these feelings resulted from his mind meld, he
was not at all certain.
    "Sarek has good days... and bad days. More and
more they're bad."
    They exited into the corridor and proceeded down
the corridor toward a turbolift.
 "Then the disease has progressed?"
    "It is a cruel killer. Sarek deserves a noble death.
Instead, he is trapped in this lingering madness."
    "It must be very hard for you." When he uttered
those words, Picard saw Perrin's head swing around to
him. He realized that she was unused to anyone
thinking of her feelings, her needs, and was caught
somewhat off guard. She was silent for a moment
before she responded.
    "Every day I can share with him is a gift. The pain
will be in losing him."
  "I hope that time will not be soon."
    "There's no way to tell. At times I think he won't
make it through another night, and then it seems he's
strong enough to live for years."
    The two walked quietly for a moment, Picard
heavily aware of her presence next to him, catching a
faint scent of something fresh and floral. His next
words came out unbidden, as though they had some-
how bypassed his conscious mind. "Perrin, I admire
your strength more than I can tell you."
    Again, he felt her sidelong glance, but he was careful
to keep his eyes trained straight ahead. She did not
respond, and the two walked the rest of the way in
silence.

    Perrin stared out the windows of the conference
lounge at the dusky red of the planet Vulcan. She had
traveled in space many times, but was always struck
by its awesome beauty. It was cleansing, she thought,
to view her world from above; it changed perspective
and allowed her to free herself for a while of the
burdens that afflicted her when she was on the surface.
    Burdens? Had she thought that word? ttow had it
crept into her mind? A wave of guilt swept over her for
an instant as she acknowledged that Sarek's illness
had become a burden to her. He was her husband, she
loved him beyond all things, she owed him so much--
she mustn't think of his dreadful malady as an encum-
brance.
    It was Captain Picard's unexpected solicitude that
had triggered these feelings, she was sure. His caring
statement, acknowledging that the situation was diffi-
cult for her, had tapped into emotions that she had
tried hard to keep quiescent, and now, as if through a
tiny hole that keeps ripping larger, everything was
trying to spill out. Well, they might try, but she would
push those feelings right back where they belonged.
She had become good at that.
    "Perrin?" Picard's voice caused her to spin around,
and she saw him standing before her with two cups of
steaming tea. She smiled and took one, deeply inhal-
ing the vapor.
    "Mint tea--it's been years since I've had it. Vulcans
have some strange concoction they call 'mint,' but you
wouldn't recognize it." She sipped at the fragrant
liquid and turned back to gaze out at the stars. If only
she could stand there for hours, sipping this lovely tea
and gazing at the glories of space...
    "Perfin, you know why I've come to Vulcan."
Picard's voice was gentle, but it grated on her none-
theless. She knew the purpose of this visit and she had
no desire to go into it. She knew it was inevitable and
that the captain didn't have the luxury of avoiding it.
Still, it was so calming just to look out, see Vulcan as a
huge orb, hazy and florid, just one planet among
millions and millions.
  "I must ask you about Spock."
    Now she turned, bitter feeling welling up in her,
threatening to overcome her precarious control. "He
didn't even say good-bye to his father before he left."
She saw Picard's warm eyes gazing at her, saw his
instinctive understanding of her feelings, his effort to
 make this easier for her. She was grateful.
  "Is it possible he was abducted?"
  "No. He wrapped up his affairs very carefully. He
knew he was going." Looking back, in the weeks since
his disappearance, Perrin had realized what a calcu-
lated move Spock's departure had been. His estate,
his lands had been provided for in the form of a
manager; his diplomatic functions had been brought
to resolution. It made his behavior even more repre-
hensible to her.
    "Do you have any idea why he might have disap-
peared like this?"
    Perrin drilled him with a look. How could one ever
know why Spock did anything? A more closed and
private man she had never met. Sarek, by comparison,
was voluble and communicative. She strained to keep
her voice dispassionate as she answered. "Captain,
as far as I'm concerned he disappeared a long time
ago."
    She saw Picard's surprised look and realized the
bitterness in her voice had suggested more harshness
than she intended.
    Everything had been difficult about her relationship
with Spock, right from the beginning. She had frankly
not been prepared for life among the Vulcans. She
thought she knew them well; at Skidmore University
in upper New York State, she had Vulcan friends and
always found their cool reserve comforting. Her own
mercurial personality was balanced by the un-
flappable calm of her Vulcan companions, and she
found it a pleasurable combination.
    She was still not prepared for the impact of Sarek
upon her life. She had traveled to Vulcan as a youthful
historian, eager to become his amanuensis. The morn-
ing she met him she fell in love with him, a great lion
of a man, powerful and urgent. That he apparently felt
the same way about her still seemed a miracle.
When she married Sarek, his son Spock was approx-
imately four times her age.
    She had no idea what Spock thought about her. He
was polite, solicitous, and deferential. He could not be
faulted for any of his behavior toward her. Yet for all
she knew he might loathe her, so absent of any
emotion was he in her presence.
    Did he feel resentful that she had taken his mother's
place? Amanda had died years before, in old age--her
human life span woefully shorter than the Vulcans'.
Any child feels the loss of a parent, and Perrin feared
she might be the natural recipient of any residual
feelings Spock might be carrying about the absence of
his mother. She had even tried to talk to him about it,
hoping to clear the air and pave the way for a
relationship that was comfortable, if not warm. But
Spock had shut her off, clearly unwilling to discuss
such intimate matters with her--politely, of course,
but definitively. It was the last time she tried to have a
personal conversation with him.
    She could never even define the role she might play
with him. "Stepmother" seemed almost grotesque for
a child so much older than she. "Friend" had seemed
a worthwhile goal, but she felt Spock precluded that.
In the end, there was no definition that suited whatev-
er it was they were to each other; she was simply
Sarek's wife.
    But when Spock had disappeared, a wellspring of
anger within her was tapped. For she was left behind
to see what that unexplained departure had done to
Sarek.
     As though reading her mind, Picard turned back to
 her and said, "Would it be inappropriate to ask what
 happened between you and Spock?" She stared at
 him, emotions surging, wondering if she should sim-
 ply stay silent and leave. Much more of this and she
 would be in tears. She drew hard for air.
    "Not between us. Between Spock and his father.
They had argued for years; that was family. But when
the debates over the Cardassian War began, he at-
tacked Sarek's position--publicly. He showed no
loyalty to his father." It had been a terrible time. It all
came back to her now, Sarek's quiet pain, his refusal
to condemn his son, her own anger toward Spock.
    "I was not aware," said Picard carefully, "that
Sarek was offended by Spock's position."
    '7 was offended. And I made sure Spock knew it."
Had she been wrong to do that? Had she in some way
even widened the break between father and son? She
had tried to temper her response, even then, but every
time she saw Sarek's wounded eyes, her fury rose
anew. "I am very protective of my husband. I do not
apologize for it."
    A silence hung in the air. Picard apparently decided
to move away from that charged subject. "Would
Sarek have any idea why Spock might have left?" he
asked.
    And if it were anyone else, she might never have
become so personal, so revealing. But talking with this
man pulled feelings out of her. "If you could see
him as I do... wasting in bed... whispering to
himself..." Perrin looked at Picard's kindly face and
found it easier to keep going. "He wants to see his son,
to heal any rifts that still remain, before he dies. But
now it may be too late."
    Her voice broke and she turned away, not wanting
to reveal the extent of her anguish. And yet, it felt a
little better, now, having said even that much to
Picard. She heard his compassionate voice behind her
and knew he had been sobered by her distress.
"Perrin... would you allow me to see Sarek?"
She turned back to him, assailed by a welter of
uncertainties. Did Picard have any idea what he was
asking? Could he know how fervently she had pro-
tected Sarek from outside eyes? How could she add to
her husband's humiliation by allowing him to be
viewed by others? And yet...
    "If it were anyone else, I would never permit it."
She stepped forward, studied his eyes. "But you are a
part of him, and he of you."
  She turned away, her decision made.

 Riker was grumpy.
    He stood with Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge in
Cargo Bay Two, watching the activity before him,
annoyance curling every nerve ending in his body.
Spread out before them on the floor of the huge bay
were sections of metal--big ones, small ones, dam-
aged, immaculate, irregular, symmetrical--a hodge-
podge of shards and chunks and fragments. It was a
metal mess.
    "The Vulcans can't figure out what these fragments
are," he told Geordi, "but they've identified the metal
as a dentarium alloy."
    "That pretty well indicates that they're Vulcan,"
replied Geordi. "And dentarium also means that
whatever this was, it was designed for use in space."
    The two surveyed the tangle of metal for a moment.
Geordi wore a metallic visor over his eyes; it shone in
bright contrast to his ebony skin. Blind from birth,
Geordi had undergone an operation in his childhood,
which allowed him to "see" through the visor that was
 directly connected to his visual cortex. "From the
 look of the damage," he offered, "it must're been a
 high-speed impact."
    Riker acknowledged the observation. "A Ferengi
cargo shuttle that went down in the Hanoiin asteroid
belt. The debris was spread over a hundred square
kilometers." None of the Ferengi had survived, of
course, or they might not be having to go through this
time-consuming procedure. Now all they had was this
heap of metal and the intriguing fact that it had been
packed in crates marked as medical supplies.
    Maybe those were the only crates the Ferengi had on
hand at the time, thought Riker, whose interest in this
whole affair was waning. He had decided that in his
next life he would certainly not become an archaeolo-
gist. He simply didn't have the patience for this kind
of slow, detailed reconstruction. If there were an-
swers, he wanted them now.  Restless.
    Forcing himself to concentrate, he walked along the
rows of metal chunks that Geordi and his crew had
laid out. He picked up part of a damaged container;
Geordi picked up a fragment and played his tricorder
over it.
  "Could it be a weapons array?" he asked. ú
    "That was my first thought," admitted Riker. "But
the Vulcans don't have any record of stolen weapons.
Or stolen parts, for that matter. Or stolen anything."
    Geordi shook his head as his visored eyes roamed
over the vast array of mangled metal parts. "This is
going to be like putting together a big jigsaw puzzle--
when you don't know what the picture is supposed to
be."
 Riker nodded, trying to find a way to instill in this
project a sense of excitement. That's when he spotted
Ensign Naylor on the other side of the room, studying
a padd. Had she been here all along? How could he
not have seen her? Was she assigned to this project?
    And was this the excitement he was seeking? Warn-
ing alarms sounded in his head, and he turned away
before their eyes met.

    The walk through Sarek's mountain estate had been
calming. It was designed to be just that, Picard knew,
with its carefully planned landscape of off-world
plants and hybrids. As soon as he had passed through
the wall (most Vulcan homes were walled, a practice
Picard personally thought somewhat medieval) he
was greeted by the sight of formal gardens, their
orderliness imparting a sense of tranquility. Foun-
tains dotted the grounds, their gentle sounds creating
a graceful counterpoint to the symmetry of the plant-
ings. The arrangement reminded Picard of certain
Japanese gardens he had visited, and from which he
had always emerged refreshed and pacified.
    Of course, on Vulcan, it was beastly hot. He'd been
on the surface only minutes and already he could feel
perspiration dampening his body. The heat was op-
pressive, a blast furnace laid open. Perrin, who had
greeted him at the gate, looked over at him and smiled
in sympathy.
     "Awful, isn't it? When I first moved here I had to
 wear a cool suit. Gradually I adapted, but it's still like
 living in Death Valley."
     She led him through the gardens and into the house,
 with its spacious, high-ceilinged rooms and sparse
 furnishings. Vulcans seemed to enjoy concocting elab-
 orate gardens that delighted the eye with pattern and
 variety, but their homes were as empty of artifact as
 they could make them. Furnishings were simple and
 few; adornments were rare. A visit to a Vulcan home
 was rather like visiting a temple.
    As they passed through the halls, footsteps echoing
on the slate floors, Picard was aware of people retreat-
ing before them like wraiths. Shadowy figures melted
into doorways or rounded corners ahead of them. It
was, he knew, a Vulcan show of courtesy, of granting
privacy to their guest by not intruding on his presence.
Still, it was an eerie feeling, as though he were walking
through a house haunted by unseen spirits.
    Perrin paused before a great carved door--one of
the few examples of ornamentation--and glanced
over at him. He could see the strain in her face, the
apprehension in her eyes as she prepared to usher him
into Sarek's chamber. Her eyes implored him for--
what? Understanding? Compassion? He returned her
look, silently promising whatever she asked.
The door swung open and the two stepped in.
The room was large and airy; walls of windows
flooded the room with light. There was one piece of
furniture in the room--a huge, raised bed. Upon it lay
Sarek. His face was turned toward them but he did not
see them; his eyes were turned inward, to some
country deep within. Rivulets of tears had dried on
his face, and his mouth moved faintly, though no
sound emerged.
    Picard was shocked at the man's deterioration.
When last he had seen the ambassador, he was in the
first stages of Bendii's syndrome. His emotions were
threatening to break their bounds, but with effort and
meditation Sarek was able to achieve a measure of
control.
    The man on the bed before him had lost that
capacity. His white hair was matted and clumped; his
strong, angular face was haggard, as though rampant
emotion had extracted a terrible toll His lashes were
wet with tears, and his mouth, cracked and dried,
moved ceaselessly.
    "He's like this most of the time," Pertin said. "His
emotions have taken over."
    She moved toward the bed, followed by Picard.
Picard had the sensation of awful violation. This man
Sarek should be remembered as a prince among
men--authoritative and substantial. There was some-
thing horribly wrong about seeing him in this pitiful
condition.
    "Sarek! You will listen!" Picard was startled by the
demanding tone of Perrin's voice. But it produced an
immediate result in Sarek. He snarled in rage, anger
rushing to the surface in a volatile display.
    "Go from me!" There was certainly nothing feeble
about the roar that emerged from his mouth. He was
like a wounded animal, furious and lethal.
    "Picard is here." Perrin's own voice was strong and
unintimidated. In reply, Sarek began pounding his
fists on the bed.
    "No--more--chaos!" The scream was guttural
and anguished, and it sounded in Picard's heart like
an iron bell. Perrin looked toward him, face impas-
sive.
    'TII leave you alone. He'll either acknowledge you,
or he won't." She turned and left the room, and
Picard found himself alone with the aggravated man.
     His mind flashed, unbidden, to his first encounter
 with Sarek, and the extraordinary experience of the
 mind meld. He could feel Sarek's strong fingers on his
face, and the indescribable emotions that over-
whelmed him as Sarek's energy passed into him. The
hours that followed were harrowing. Rampant emo-
tions swept through him, wave after wave of unbridled
passions: anger, sorrow, lust... all in a shifting kalei-
doscope of sensation, dizzying and dire. It was un-
bearable, yet inescapable. Was this what Sarek dealt
with every moment of his life? How could he not go
mad? Picard had never conceived of emotions so
compelling, did not know if he could endure them a
moment longer...
    He stared at Sarek still pounding on the bed, mind
caught in a fury whose cause was already forgotten.
Picard took his cue from Perrin. He approached the
bed and spoke with firm authority.
    "Sarek, I have come a long way to see you." Those
words only seemed to enrage Sarek more. The cords of
his neck became distended as he bellowed.  "I will not answer!"
  "I must speak to you about your son."
  "I want no one with me--"
  "About Spock."
    Suddenly Sarek went silent. The tension went out of
his body and he was very still. Then, slowly his head
turned toward Picard and his eyes seemed to focus.
    "Spock?" His voice was so quiet Picard could
hardly hear him.
 "Yes. He's missing."
    There was a flicker in Sarek's eyes. Picard hoped he
was moving into the reality of the present from
wherever he had been.
 "Is that you, Picard?"
 "Yes, my friend."
 Sarek looked at him like a bewildered child.
 "You came here... to Vulcan...
 "I need your help. I must find Spock."
    Tears sprang to Sarek's eyes. Picard realized that his
emotions were so volatile, so fragile, that they could
overwhelm him at any time. A strangled sob emerged
from Sarek's throat as he struggled for the control that
was so elusive. "He is not here."
 "I know. He is reported on Romulus."
    Now Sarek's eyes focused on Picard. He was sum-
moning concentration from some reserve deep with-
in; the effort was considerable but he seemed
determined to achieve it.  "On Romulus. Why?"
  "That's what I hope to find out from you."
  "On Romulus."
    Sarek fell silent again, as though musing. But this
time Picard did not sense a retreat from reality but
rather a contemplation of the situation. When he
looked at Picard again, his eyes were clear. It was
remarkable. Picard was staring not at a feeble old man
but at the legendary Sarek, a man in control of his
faculties, mind strong and nimble. What did it cost
him to achieve that control at this point in his disease?
      "You're going there, aren't you?" Sarek queried.
"To find him."  "Yes."
    Sarek brought himself upright. Purpose had given
him strength and it was beginning to course through
his veins. Picard felt as though he were watching
someone awakening from the dead.
     "Have you any idea what might have taken him to
 Romulus?"
  "No."
     "Is there anyone on Romulus whom he might
 know---or choose to contact?"
      A vague memory seemed to stir within Sarek.
 "Pardek," he whispered.  "Who is Pardek?"
  "It could be Pardek..."
  "Who is Pardek?"
    Now Sarek was getting out of bed. His robe fell in
folds around him, billowing around his legs as he
began to pace.
    Picard stared at him, not believing this transforma-
tion.
    "He is a Romulan senator. Spock has maintained a
relationship with him over the years. I don't know
where they met. The Khitomer Conference, I'd imag-
ine."
  "Pardek represented Romulus?"
  "Yes. Yes, I'm quite certain he did."
    Sarek was striding around the room, leonine and
magnificent, as lucid as he had been in his prime.
Picard didn't know quite how to handle this situation.
He had no idea if Sarek could go on like this for hours
or if he might collapse at any moment.
    "In fact, I recall Spock coming to me with optimism
about a continuing dialogue with the Romulans at one
point. And I told him it was clearly an illogical
expectation." Sarek smiled slightly and said, as
though in an aside, "Spock is always so impressiona-
ble."
    He walked to his magnificent wall of windows and
gazed out at the Vulcan gardens, at the tan-and-ocher
sweep of the desert to the red mountains in the
distance. "This Romulan Pardek had no support at
home. And of course, in the end, I was proven
correct."
    He turned and looked at Picard with a shrug, as
though to say, How do you tell a child what to do?
    "I tried to give him the benefit of experience, of
logic," he said mildly, "but he never listened. He
never listened..."
    Picard saw Sarek losing the train of thought .as
though it were a whiff of smoke rising in the air. He
couldn't be sure how much more he would get from
the man. Clearly his lucidity was fragmentary at best.
But he had to try. "It has been suggested that he may
have defected."
    Sarek fixed him with a stern glare. "Never. I can
accept many things, but never that."
  "But you believe he might be there to see Pardek?"
    Sarek looked puzzled. "The Romulan senator? How
do you know Pardek?"
    "I've heard of him." Picard figured it wasn't worth
trying to retrace Sarek's tortured steps. The old man
was nodding, still pacing.
  "That's what he's done. Gone to see Pardek."
    "Do you know what business they could have
together?"
    "No." Sarek turned away and walked toward the
bed, showing signs of exhaustion. "I never knew what
Spock was doing. When he was a boy, he would
disappear for days at a time. He would take his pet
sehlat, I-Chaya, and climb into the mountains. His
mother would be beside herself."
     Sarek turned back toward Picard, who couldn't tell
 if the man was recollecting the past or creating it. But
 Sarek seemed to have an urgent need to reveal what he
 was saying.
     "I asked him where he had gone, what he did... he
 refused to answer. I insisted he tell me, but he would
 not. I forbade him to go~.. he ignored me. I pun-
 ished him... he endured it silently. And always, he
 returned to the mountains."
     His eyes sought Picard's. "One might as well tell the
 river not to flow."
    Picard saw that Sarek's eyes were wet once more,
tears welling up, threatening to overwhelm him. But
still he needed to speak. "Secretly, I admired him...
that proud core of him that would not yield..."
    And then he was silent, tears coursing a path down
his cheeks. Picard was incredibly moved. It was as
though Sarek's anguish were his own, and he was
suffering as Sarek suffered. He even felt tears begin-
ning to sting his eyes.
    "Sarek, we are a part of each other. I know Spock
has caused you pain. But I also know you love him." A
cry burst from Sarek at this and he looked imploringly
at Picard.
  "Tell him, Picard..."
    Then his eyes began to glaze over slightly, and
Picard sensed a slight panic in the man as he struggled
to maintain control for a moment longer. He looked
toward his hand, lifted it, and tried to form the Vulcan
salute. But his fingers wouldn't obey. They trembled
and shifted position and refused to go where they
should. Gently, Picard reached over to him and put
the fingers right. Sarek smiled and held the hand
toward him. Picard formed the salute himselfi
  "Peace and long life, Sarek."
    "Live long and... and..." He stopped, confused,
his mind drifting. "Live long and..." His voice
trailed off vaguely, his hand losing the salute and his
mind losing reality. Sobs welled up in him and he
turned away, stooped and frail, rampant emotions
claiming him once more.
    "Spock... my son..." He cried softly, choking
with ineffable sadness and longing.
    Picard felt a chill as he watched Sarek cry like a
child, the name of his son occasionally punctuating
his sobs. He knew it would be the last time he saw this
man.
  "And prosper," he whispered.

Chapter Four

It is WRONO. A lifetime of discipline washed away, and
in its place, bedlam... nothing but bedlam. And I am
helpless to prevent it/I am old/Nothing left but dry
bones and dead friends. Weary, so weary...
    Picard's eyes snapped open and inexplicably he
found himself in his own bed in his quarters on the
Enterprise. His heart was hammering in his chest and
he could feel dampness on his cheeks from tears.
    Slowly, he sat up, eyes adjusting in the darkness. It
was his quarters, all right; the padd he had been using
earlier was on the bedside stand where he had left it,
with a half cup of now-cold tea nearby. Where had he
been in his dream?
    The memory was slipping away even now, an elu-
sive wisp dancing just ahead of his grasp. He remem-
bered being cold, unbearably cold... there was a
sensation of torment and misery... overwhelming
passions crowding in on him, suffocating himm
 Sarek. That was it; he had revisited the mind meld.
    Picard sat up in bed, far from sleep now. It was his
habit to dissect disturbing dreams like this, to attack
them head-on and process them completely. He be-
lieved that was the way to deal with these unbidden
denizens of the night: haul them up into conscious-
ness, look at them, explore them, probe them, make
them such a part of the rational mind that they could
never again descend into the depths of the uncon-
scious.
    That he was connected to Sarek in some profound,
indescribable way he did not doubt. That this connec-
tion should invade his dreams did not seem odd.
What it portended for his encounter with Spock,
should that occur, he did not know. That realization
made him uneasy. Picard preferred to feel certainty,
and there was almost nothing in this mission that
allowed him that luxury. He was afloat in a landscape
of strange, mystic possibilities that his mind could not
even grasp, much less control. That wasn't the way he
liked to do things.
     He sat up in bed and reached for the padd. He
 needed to focus his mind, to deal with realities--
 things precise and tangible. He worked for a few
 moments, refining the plan he had concocted. He
 thought it workable, though risky. The most difficult
 part of it would probably be in persuading Admiral
 Brackett to approve it.
  But he did have a few ideas about that.

    His face on her viewscreen was affable and confi-
dent. To Admiral Brackett, that meant he was about to
present her with some proposition that was danger-
ous, unwieldy, intractable--or some combination of
all three.
  She adored this man.
    "Yes, Jean-Luc"--she smiled, in her most earnest
manner--"how can I help you?"
      "Admiral." He smiled. "I have visited Vulcan, and
talked with Spock's father and stepmother."
  "Yes?"
    "They were unable to give me any real insight into
Spock's motives for going to Vulcan. However, I
learned from Sarek the name of a Romulan senator
with whom he might have been in contact."
  "Who is that?"
  "His name is Pardek."
  "Yes. Pardek."
  "You know of him?"
    "A senator... he has the reputation of being a
moderate."
  "So I gather."
  "Then--you would make contact with Pardek?"
      "Yes. Admiral... getting through the Neutral
Zone and to Romulus is not a simple task."  "Of course not."
"I have a plan, but you will need to approve it."
Every finely honed instinct in Admiral Brackett
went on alert with that statement. Even though Picard
tried to speak of it casually, this "plan" sounded
alarming.
 "Let me outline it for you," continued Picard.
 "Please don't," replied Brackett.
 Picard's face on the viewscreen was quizzical.
    "Jean-Luc--I very strongly suspect I don't want to
know this plan of yours."
 "But, Admiral, I must have your approval."
 "You have it."
 "Pardon me?"
 "My approval. You have it."
 "I see."
 "Any further questions?"
    There was a long moment, and Brackett held his
look imperturbably. Picard was no fool. He realized
that her blanket approval also meant that if anything
were to go wrong, she would disavow the entire
mission. But she was sure it was the only way she
could give him the freedom he needed to complete
this most delicate of assignments.
    Was that a faint smile she saw on his lips? Maybe,
maybe not. But finally, he responded in the most even
of tones. "No, Admiral, no more questions. I think we
understand each other perfectly."
    She nodded toward him and the transmission
ended. Have a safe journey, Jean-Luc. I wouM miss
you terribly if you did not return.

    Picard's spirits lifted as soon as he entered the
small, private room just off the bridge that served as
his office. He knew there were many on board who
were uncomfortable here; it could be a bit claustro-
phobic, especially when the captain's will (or the
captain's ire) was at its most potent. It had been
described to him by Will Riker as an experience in
which all the available oxygen in the room seemed to
have been absorbed by the captain's forcefulhess,
leaving the recipient literally struggling to breathe.
Picard had smiled at this, not displeased.
    To him, the ready room was sanctuary. It reminded
him of his mother's closet at home in France, near the
village of Labarre. He had discovered that room as a
very young boy; it was large for a closet, and for some
 reason possessed a window high on one wall. It
 provided enough light for reading, and young Jean-
 Luc would spend hours in there, safely nestled behind
 the rack of clothing, reading books and fantasizing
 about his future.
    Often, as he hid there, he would hear his father or
his older brother, Robert, calling for him. They
wanted him to help in the vineyards, of course, but
Jean-Luc's dreams were not of earth but of the stars.
He would be up there one day, he was sure of it, riding
the heavens in a spaceship. What purpose would it
serve now to tend the grapes?
    His father had plenty of answers to that question,
and whenever Jean-Luc reappeared his father would
be irate, demanding to know where he had been. But
he never told. He would no longer have had his
sanctuary if he had.
    I asked him where he had gone... he refused to
answer. I insisted he tell me... but he would not. And
always, he returned to the mountains.
    Sarek's words flashed into his mind and Picard
drew an involuntary gulp of air as he realized the
parallel. Spock and Sarek, he and his father...
fathers and sons...
    The door chimed and Picard was drawn out of his
reverie. "Come," he said.
    Lieutenant Commander Data entered. "You
wanted to see me, sir?" he asked, waiting patiently for
the captain's orders.
    Picard turned to his second officer. The pale an-
droid gazed calmly at him through his golden eyes;
Picard realized he had been in a momentary reverie
and had quite forgotten that he had requested Data's
presence. That wasn't like him. He worked to clear his
mind, address the matters at hand.
    "I'd like your help, Mr. Data, in preparing for my
journey to Romulus."
"I would be happy to be of assistance, sir."
Picard could do all of this himself, of course. But he
enjoyed sharing sessions of information retrieval. He
often summoned Will Riker for that purpose, and as
frequently turned to Data. He found the android
officer an ideal backboard off which to bounce ideas,
theories, hypotheses. The fact that Data was a synthet-
ic rather than a biological being meant that his
responses came uncluttered with human emotion.
That gave them a purity of reason that was usually
helpful and, on occasion, stunningly insightful.
    "I'd like you to access Starfleet records on Romulan
legislators."
  "Yes, sir. Anyone in particular?"
  "His name is Pardek. He's a senator."

"Sir, I believe I know why our messages are not
being answered."
    Picard frowned slightly at this statement from his
Klingon chief of security, Lieutenant Worf, standing
now at his tactical station on the bridge. Picard had
come to an aft station to review the material Data had
accumulated.
    For three days now, as they had been warping
toward the Klingon home world--the first phase of
his plan to get to Romulus--they had been trying to
reach Gowron, head of the High Council. In that
Picard and his crew were directly responsible for
Gowron's coming to power, he doubted that the
Klingon chief was ignoring him. He had his hands
full, no doubt, since seizing the reins after the disas-
trous civil war that had rent the Empire. In a nation
where treachery and assassination were a matter of
course, any leader needed to keep his wits about him
and his eyes on his back.
    The tumultuous days of the Klingon strife came
flooding over Picard, and for a moment he felt as
though he were once again ensnared in the political
machinations of the Klingon Empire.
    And once again as though he were confronting the
Romulan known as Sela.
    This woman had haunted his memories ever since
their encounter near the Klingon home world--this
apparition, this inexplicable creature. She was the
adroit and skillful commander of a Romulan fleet
which had attempted to influence the outcome of the
Klingon war, and had almost succeeded.
    More incredibly, she claimed to be the daughter of
Tasha Yar, Picard's chief of security who had died on
an away mission some years ago--and who certainly
died without ever having had a daughter.
    But Sela looked exactly like Tasha. Her hair was
close-cropped and shaped in the Romulan fashion,
but it was the same honey blond as Tasha's, and the
jewel-blue eyes were uncomfortably familiar. It was
Tasha's face staring at him from the viewscreen, and
Tasha's long-limbed body which had paced restlessly
around his ready room.
    Guinan, who tended the lounge on the Enterprise
known as Ten-Forward, a woman possessed of myster-
ious and undeniable metaphysical capacities--
capacities which Picard had learned to trust--had
insisted that, somehow, Sela was the daughter of
Tasha.
    Nothing in Picard's experience could explain just
who Sela was. But she intruded into his memories
nonetheless.
    Picard looked up and realized that Worf was staring
at him expectantly, wanting to continue the conversa-
tion. The captain nodded.
    "Gowron," said Worf, "has been rewriting Klingon
history." His eyes shone with a particular intensity,
which, abetted by the fearsome aspect of his ridged
forehead and his towering height, gave him a formida-
ble appearance.
 "Rewriting history?" queried Riker.
    "He is claiming," said Worf, "that it was his
courage--his genius--that brought about an end to
the civil war." "I see."
    "In the new version, there is no mention made of
the Federation's help in his rise to power." That's why
Worf was angry; his captain had been slighted. Picard
himself took a more sanguine view. He allowed him-
self a wry smile.
    "It's all right, Mr. Worf. Victors usually rewrite
history books. He can take every bit of credit; I'll
gladly grant him that. But I need a ship."
    Picard considered the situation for a moment, and
then said, "If Gowron won't talk to me, get somebody
who will, somebody on the High Council, K'Tal
perhaps."
    "Yes, Captain," said Worf, not happy with this
compromise. Picard turned toward Data, who was
studying a monitor.
  "Captain," he said, "I have a visual identification of
 Senator Pardek of Romulus." Picard sat with him and
 Data activated the monitor.
    Picard saw what appeared to be a video log of
several Romulans and another alien engaged in what
looked like a handshaking session. As they watched,
Data explained, "This is a Barolian record of a trade
negotiation in which Pardek participated four years
ago."
      Abruptly, the monitor went blank. "That's all?"
queried Picard.
  "Yes, sir."
  "Run it again."
    Data activated the sequence once more, and Picard
studied it intently. There was a familiarity to one of
the Romulans--had he seen that face before? He
tapped a command and it froze on a closeup of the
man's face. "Call up the intelligence scan of Spock on
Romulus," he directed Data.
    And on the screen appeared the shot of Spock that
Admiral Brackett had shown him days ago. With him
was a Romulan--and Picard realized he was right.
"Same man," he stated. "Pardek."
    Pardek looked to be in his fifties, but Romulans, like
Vulcans, had long life spans and Picard had no guess
as to Pardek'$ true age. If Spock had met him eighty
years ago, they were probably nearly the same age--in
the fourth decade of their second hundred years.
    Pardek was a bit hefty, too--somewhat unusual for
a Romulan. He had a round, almost puckish face that
gave him a grandfatherly look. He was a bit unique for
a Romulan, and Picard was glad for that. He would
need to pick Pardek out of a crowd.
 "What do we know of him?" he asked.
 Picard knew that Data would already have ab-
sorbed everything available about Pardek, and Data
did not disappoint him, reeling off the information
from memory. "He has been in public service since he
was a young man, a senator for nine decades. He is
considered a 'man of the people,' and has sponsored
many reforms. Reportedly, he is considered by the
Romulan leadership to be something of a radical
because he has been an advocate for peace throughout
his career."
    "I can see why Spock would cultivate a relationship
with him," reflected Picard. "Where are we likely to
find him--other than on the floor of the Romulan
Senate?"
    "The district he represents is called Krocton seg-
ment. He maintains a dwelling there."
    Picard stared at the image on the monitor. This is
the man he would have to find, the man who might
lead him to Spock. Pardek of Romulus...
    "There is more, sir," said Data, breaking into his
nmsing. "I took the liberty of expanding the parame-
ters of my search, and have discovered that Pardek
has several relatives in Krocton segment. It is likely
that you will be able to locate him there on the third
day of the Romulan week, when the Senate is not in
session."
     Picard smiled at this. "Your resourcefulness never
ceases to amaze me, Mr. Data," he said truthfully.
  "Thank you, sir."
    An idea was forming in Picard's mind. His original
thinking had been to go to Romulus alone; one man
would cause less suspicion than two, one man was
more mobile--and if things went wrong, only one
man would be lost.
    But a second pair of eyes, a second analytical mind,
an unflappable presence for support... "If I ever get
to Romulus," he said, "I'm going to need help. I'd like
you to accompany me."
      The android's face reflected both his puzzlement
and his pleasure. "Me, sir?"  "Yes."
    "I understand how you can be made to look
Romulan, sir. But I believe it will be more difficult to
transform an android."
    "I think Doctor Crusher can come up with some-
thing."
    "Captain!" Worf's deep voice rang through the
bridge. "We are being hailed by the Klingon home
world."
    Pleased, Picard moved toward him. No cause for
alarm, after all, in spite of Worf's anxieties. "Gowron
or K'TaI?" he asked.
    "Neither, sir." There was the briefest of pauses, and
then Worf admitted, "It is the junior adjutant to the
diplomatic delegation."
    A definite slight. Picard briefly considered his re-
sponse, then moved toward the viewscreen, asking
Worf as he passed, "Name?"
  "B'ijik, sir."
  "On screen."
    B'ijik's outward appearance was traditionally
Klingon, though the bony ridge of his skull and
forehead was somewhat less pronounced than some,
and his long, stringy hair perhaps more tailored. But it
was his attitude that leapt off the screen and assaulted
Picard. This was a small-minded person, unctuous
and officious, who basked in the reflected glory of his
superior. He was one of those minions in the ranks of
the mighty who have the authority to say "no," but
never "yes," and who delight in wielding that small
cudgel of power.
    "Greetings, Captain," he began breezily. "I am
B'ijik, adjutant to Gowron. I regret to inform you that
he is quite busy with the High Council and won't be
able to speak with you today."
    "Is he aware that we've been transmitting messages
for three days?"
    B'ijik's surprise was clearly feigned. "Messages? I'll
have to inspect the logs... but I'm sure we haven't
received any."
    The captain's eyes narrowed. This smarmy little
obfuscator was irritating, but Picard kept his voice
carefully modulated. "Nonetheless, if you tell
Gowron that I have arrived, I'm certain that he will
want to talk with me."
    B'ijik's smile was simpering and dismissive at
once. "Captain, Gowron wishes it were possible to
talk with everyone who wants an audience. But he
is one man. The demands on his time are for-
midable. If you would like me to take him a mes-
sage...
 "A message. Very well."
    There was a brief moment as Picard stepped for-
ward, working to control the indignation that rose in
him at being treated like this by a weaseling functio-
nary. When he spoke, it was a voice that the bridge
crew recognized: quiet but foreboding.
    "Tell Gowron, Leader of the High Council of the
Klingon Empire, that his Arbiter of Succession, Jean-
Luc Picard, needs a favor."
  "A favor?"
  "1 require a cloaked vessel."
    A faint and condescending smile appeared on
B'ijik's lips. "A cloaked vessel. This is no small favor,
Captain."
    "lt is for a mission that could have repercussions
throughout the quadrant."
    "How would it benefit the Klingon Empire? I'm
sure Gowron will ask."
    Picard had to take a long moment to control his
temper. He longed to give this officious junior officer a
tongue-lashing he would remember to his grave, but
instead, he said quietly, "The only benefit to the
Klingon Empire... would be our gratitude."
    B'ijik smirked. "That's what you want me to tell
Gowron?"
    "Yes. And please add that if he is unable to provide
a ship, I am sure there are others in the Klingon
Empire who would be willing to help me. And then
they would have--our gratitude."
    That simple statement hung in the air for a mo-
ment. Picard knew he had scored, knew that B'ijik
was running in his mind the list of Gowron's enemies
and had found it formidable. "I see," he replied.
    "Also please tell him that 1 am immensely gratified
that he is prospering so well. It is a tribute to his
skilled leadership."
    B'ijik made no reply to this, merely inclined his
head, as though glad to be done with this conversa-
tion. His image disappeared and the starfield returned
to view. Picard turned around to see Riker had come
on the bridge and was listening to this interchange
with amusement.
 "Nicely done," he offered.
    "We'll see." Adrenaline was coursing through
Picard's veinstoa pleasurable sensation. He enjoyed a
challenge and liked getting a bit lathered up now and
then. Good for the circulatory system.

Chapter Five

48

THE SENSATION IN his ear was peculiar: at first a chilling
sensation as the interferometric scanner was turned
on, and then a slight ringing in his ear--not painful,
but somehow unsettling. He was relieved when the
process was complete and a three-dimensional model
of his ears had been registered in the computer.
    He watched as Beverly Crusher turned to inspect
Data's ears. The elegantly beautiful doctor, with her
porcelain skin and her strawberry red hair, was con-
centrating fiercely as she peered into the android's ear
canal. Data was obediently turning his head this way
and that, at Doctor Crusher's request.
    They had been in sickbay for half an hour, discuss-
ing the necessary prosthetics that would be necessary
to transform both him and Data into Romulans. He
had every confidence in Beverly; she had accom-
plished these sophisticated conversions before.
    "They aren't removable, are they, Data?" he now
heard Beverly ask.
     "Removable, Doctor?" queried Data, uncertain as
to her precise meaning. "Your ears."
    "No, Doctor. They are fully integrated
components."
    Crusher turned to her assistant. "We'll need molds
of his ears, too." The assistant turned to reconfigure
the computer, and to scan Data's ears.
"What about his skin color?" Picard asked.
Beverly eyed Data's unique pale skin covering and
considered for a moment. "We'll have to do some tests
with his pigmentation. Changing it to appear
Romulan shouldn't be too hard. I just want to be sure
we can change it back again afterwards."
    Perhaps he wouldn't mind changing skin color,
thought Picard briefly, and then realized that Beverly
was coming at him with yet another scanner, which
she proceeded to point at his forehead. It was at that
moment that he saw Will Riker enter sickbay and
stifle a smile at the scrutinizing the captain was
undergoing.
    "Your right eye," Beverly announced seriously, "is
four thousandth higher than the left."
 "It is not," retorted Picard, and she grinned at him.
    "You want a proper fit on your prosthesis? Trust
your tailor."
    Picard saw Riker from the corner of his eye, ap-
praising him and the device Beverly continued to
move about his face.
    "I won't tell a soul about your eyes, sir," Riker said
with mock seriousness.
    "Anything from Gowron?" asked Picard. The crew
had had quite enough fun at his expense. He was
becoming eager to get this demeaning procedure over
with and get on with his business.
    "No, sir. But after your tailor is done, would you
join me in the cargo bay? La Forge has made some
progress on those metal fragments."
    But apparently Doctor Crusher wasn't ready to
release her hold on him. "These two still have to
report to Mister Mot to get their hairpieces designed,"
she cautioned. Picard groaned inwardly. The blue-
skinned barber would talk his ear off, protracting the
process from half an hour to twice that.
    Well, he'd have to control the situation. He'd give
Mot a half-hour and no more. "Thirty minutes,
Number One," he said firmly. Riker nodded and
exited.
    "Hold still," said Beverly. "I'll never get these
measurements right."

    The way Mot saw it, a lot of people in Starfleet did a
lot of things they just didn't think through too clearly.
Take the time they'd delivered Ambassador T'Pel to
the Romulans. If they'd asked Mot about that one, he
would have told them never to rendezvous with
Admiral Mendak. You just had to know that was a
questionable move, and sure enough it resulted in
handing over a spy with twenty years of classified
Starfleet information to reveal to the enemy.
    Maybe it was because he had more time to think
things out than the average Starfleet officer. His job as
ship's barber gave him time to ponder. That's what
some of these high-ranking people didn't seem to do.
Ponder. Look at things from all sides, turn a situation
upside down and backwards and inside out and then
back straight on again. Pondering was a unique abili-
ty, and one that Mot prided himself on having devel-
oped to a fine turn.
    That's why it didn't make a lot of sense to him that
he wasn't consulted more frequently. He had many
times correctly predicted the outcome of one situation
or another--usually while the people on the bridge
were busy running into themselves or whatever it was
they did up there. He was sure he could save everyone
a lot of time and trouble if they'd let him get to the
heart of the matter and tell them what to do.
    Of course, he frequently got the chance to make his
views known anyway. The captain came in regularly
for a trim, as did commanders Riker and La Forge.
You can bet that he didn't miss the opportunity to
point out a few of their wrong choices. And they
seemed to appreciate it. Eventually, he was sure, they
would realize what a prize they had in him and would
insist that he not hide his light in the barbershop but
join them in important strategy sessions. It was just a
matter of time.
    Today, he had some very important matters to
discuss with the captain. Picard and Commander
Data were coming in to get fitted for Romulan hair
forms, and Mot intended to show the captain how
knowledgeable he was about this current mission. He
had no doubt the captain would be amazed.
    "All, Captain! And Commander Data!" he greeted
them as they entered his establishment.
    "Mr. Mot, how are you?" asked the captain in his
gracious manner. He was a gentleman, no doubt about
it.
    "Fine, fine," replied Mot. "You gentlemen have a
seat and I'll start right in."
    "That would be good, Mr. Mot. We're on a rather
tight schedule. I have to meet Commander Riker in
just half an hour."
    "We'll have you out of here in no time," breezed
Mot, quickly measuring the captain's skull with an
optical scanner. "Let's see... I think I've got the
basic hair form right here, we'll just see how it fits."
    He drew from his supplies a brown hairpiece, which
would eventually attach to the scalp with an epider-
mal adhesive. He placed it in position on the captain's
head and inspected it. It was the correct fit, but the
hair would have to be trimmed into a Romulan cut;
now it was of one length and fell over Picard's eyes,
rather like a sheepdog in winter.
    "Well, Captain, sounds like you're off on quite an
adventure," he began, as he began snipping at the hair
form with a laser edge. "Now, mind you, I know it's
supposed to be a somewhat secret mission, but of
course these things have a way of getting around, and
since I'm to make you a Romulan hair form I can
certainly put one and one together and get an answer,
if you know what I mean."
    "Um-hmm," replied the captain, whose eyes were
still obscured with hair.
    "Of course, I'm not so easily taken in that I think
you're actually on your way to Romulus. That would
be too obvious, and a man like you would never go in
such a straight line. Right?" "I suppose..."
    "So, it stands to reason that the Romulan thing is
intended to throw everybody off. Make us think
you're heading for Romulus, so you can get to your
real goal while we're misdirected."
 "Mmrnmm."
     "And, all in all, not a bad plan. Everyone looks
rightmyou go left. I like it." "Thank you."
    "Now, maybe you'll use the Romulan getup, maybe
you won't. I'm betting you will. You're going under-
cover as a Romulan--but not to Romulus. So the
question becomes, where would you go as a Romulan
that wouldn't bring suspicion? And I think I know the
answer to that." "Ah."
    Mot snipped and clipped for a moment, drawing
out the moment. He knew the captain was wondering
if he could possibly have figured out the real Plan. And
wouldn't he be astonished to find out that Mot--Mot,
the barbeft--had deduced what was really going on.
    "Let's use the process of elimination," Mot contin-
ued. "Where might you need to go on a particularly
sensitive diplomatic mission? Not a Federation plan-
et, that's for sure. And if your real business were with
the Klingons, you wouldn't be needing a Romulan
disguise. So we're heading for the home world for
another purpose--probably for something you need."
    There was silence at this. Mot felt that was implied
acquiescence. "Romulus, as I've said, is too obvious.
Who else does that leave?"
    He stopped clipping for a moment as he pondered.
It was hard to ponder and trim hair at the same time.
One of Picard's eyes looked out from under the
Romulan hair; the other was still draped in the brown
fringe. Mot looked into the one eye. "The Talarians? I
don't think so. No need to go to all this trouble, you'd
just go talk to them. The Breen? They're bad ones, all
right, but there hasn't been so much as a whisper of
any negotiations with them; I don't think we're close
to that. The Cateloxes? They've been pretty quiet
lately--word is they're having enough trouble with
drought on their planet that they're focusing their
energies on surviving."
    Mot was aware that the captain seemed to be
moving a little restlessly in his chair. Awed, no doubt,
by this insightful analysis of the Federation's adver-
saries.
    "Now," he continued, "who does that leave? The
Murdoth? Too passive. The Pbylosians? Vanquished.
The Skorr? Irrelevant. The Ferengi? Inconsequential.
The Pakleds?"
    Picard stirred in the chair. "Forgive me, Mr. Mot,
but I really must meet Commander Riker shortly."
    "Right, Captain, we'll have you there," said Mot,
moving back to his clipping. "Now, where was I? Oh,
the Pakleds. Well, I think we'd have to agree there's no
problem there." And he threw back his blue head and
laughed heartily. The captain smiled.
    "So. Where does that leave us?" He tapped the
captain's head gently. "I think we both know." Mot
leaned in and whispered pointedly. "The
Cardassians. "
    He stood back to assess the captain's response.
Picard stared up at him, his second eye now almost
uncovered. "The Cardassians," said the captain. His
voice gave nothing away--but of course that's what
Mot would have expected. Never admit what you
know.
    "That's right, Captain. I know you didn't think
anyone would figure it out--but it's all pretty clear to
me. You're going into Cardassian space but you're
going as a Romulan. There's an unholy alliance brew-
mg there, I'm wflhng to bet. So the Cardassians will
talk openly with you about their dealings, and you'll
get the real story for Starfleet!"
    Mot beamed in triumph. Captain Picard gazed up
at him with what was clearly admiration. "Mr. Mot,"
he said, very softly, "I must ask you to keep this
information absolutely confidential. To do otherwise
would jeopardize the security of the mission."
      "Me? I wouldn't so much as breathe a word about
it. I'm very good at keeping my mouth shut."
  "I'm sure of it."
    Mot began snipping at the hair form once more.
"Now," he continued, "I've had some thoughts about
just how to deal with the Cardassians. Seems to me,
the mistake that's always made with these people..."
    He told the captain his entire philosophy about
handling the Cardassians, and followed up with a few
observations about the potential alliance between
Romulus and Cardassia. Picard was impressed, all
right, and even if he was a little late for his appoint-
ment with Commander Riker, Mot was certain that
he was glad for the briefing. It probably wasn't that
often that he got the results of such clear and precise
thinking.

    Riker couldn't have articulated exactly why he was
feeling more enthusiastic about this investigation. It
was an instinct. When La Forge and his team had
finally pieced together the metal fragments and had
realized what the object was, its identity was so
unexceptional that it would seem likely to have damp-
ened Riker's zeal rather than stimulated it. But that's
exactly what made the puzzle alluring to him--the
very mundane nature of this piece of equipment.
    Now that Captain Picard had finally arrived in the
cargo bay--forty-five minutes late--Riker stood with
him and Geordi, surveying the hunks of metal ar-
ranged on the floor, which had assumed at least
partial shape. There were missing sections every-
where, but the chief engineer and his men had done a
remarkable job of piecing together this jigsaw. "What
we seem to have here, sir," reported Geordi to the
captain, "is a navigational deflector array. Or at least
what's left of one."
    Picard gazed out over the unlikely piece of equip-
ment. "Why would anyone want a Vulcan deflector
array?" Riker smiled inwardly. His question exactly.
     "Beats me, sir," replied Geordi. Every question we
answer here seems to bring up two more."
  "You're certain it is Vulcan?"
    "Yes, sir. A metallurgical analysis confirmed it,
and by running a molecular pattern trace, we even
identified the ship as the T'Pau. It was decom-
missioned years ago and sent to the surplus depot
at Qualor Two. As far as anyone knows it's still
there."
    "Worf to Captain Picard." The Klingon's voice
boomed throughout the cargo bay. The captain
touched his communicator.  "Yes, Lieutenant?"
    "A Klingon vessel is decloaking off our port bow.
Compliments of Gowron."
    Picard and Riker exchanged an amused glance.
"Please convey our gratitude, Mr. Worf. Advise the
captain that Lieutenant Commander Data and I will
be transporting aboard shortly."  "Aye, sir."
  So the last obstacle to crossing the Neutral Zone
had been conquered. The captain would soon be on
his way. Riker turned to face him.
    "If it's all right with you, sir, I'd like to take the
Enterprise to Qualor Two. See what I can find out
there."
    The captain didn't take even a moment to consider
the request. "By all means, Number One."
    Picard extended his hand and Riker shook it.
"Good luck, Will."
    "And you, sir." Picard nodded and headed for the
exit. Riker felt a momentary twinge of regret that he
wasn't the one to be embarking on the venturesome
journey into the Neutral Zone, but it was quickly
replaced with the thought that was to become a refrain
for him in the next few days: Who would want a
Vulcan deflector array?

Chapter Six

CAPTAIN K'VADA GROWLED as he ate his bowl ofgagh.
It wasn't fresh. A few of the wormlike creatures still
stirred, but most were already dead and lay liraply in
the dish. The best part of eating fresh gagh was the
sensation of the still-squirming slugs; even after he
had bitten through them, they spasreed for several
minutes afterward in their death throes, and the
unique fluttering continued in his stomach through-
out the meal. There was no point to eating them
already dead; the taste was dreadful.
    He flung the bowl to the side; it bounced and rattled
across the bridge of his ship, the Klingon Bird of Prey
Kruge. Bits of gagh splattered onto the deck and the
bowl finally rolled under the navigator's console. No
one on the bridge reacted with so much as a look; to
do so would have been risking severe punishment.
    The stale meal was just one more annoyance in a
day that was full of them. He had had a terrible fight
with his mate, K'kam, and as a result was nursing a
painful shoulder. K'kam was strong and agile and
possessed of a terrible temper; it was probably a
mistake to fight with her. But she made it impossible
to avoid. K'Vada growled again as he remembered her
obstinate insistence that she leave for an extended
tour on a science cruiser bound for the Lambdor
system. He was not about to have his mate disappear
for such a long time.
    He had lost that argument, however, when she
dislocated his shoulder. In agony, he agreed to her
expedition, and she helped him snap the shoulder
back into its socket, but the pain was still intense. And
now she would be leaving and he would not have her
in his bed again for nearly a year. That is what he
would miss; K'kam was as violent in bed as she was in
combat, and the experience was incredible.
    But by far the worst thing that had happened was
his being called by his commanding officer and in-
formed that, by personal order of Gowron, he was to
ferry two Starfleet officers to a secret destination. If
they failed to return no mention would be made of
their deaths; if they came home safely the effort would
not be acknowledged. There was no honor in such a
mission, and K'Vada resented it deeply.
    He had brought his ship alongside the huge starship
Enterprise and uncloaked, awaiting the transfer of the
two officers. He had no idea who they would be;
everything about this mission was veiled in secrecy.
He didn't like secrets. They made his shoulder ache.
    "Two to transport directly to the bridge, Captain,"
said his first officer. K'Vada nodded and seconds later
two men in Starfleet uniforms appeared before him.
To his astonishment, one was the captain of the
Enterprise, Picard, and from the looks of him the
other was the android, Data. Whatever mission this
was, it was of supreme importance if it required these
two senior officers to enter the Neutral Zone.
    "Welcome aboard, Captain Picard. I am Captain
K'Vada."
    "Thank you, sir. This is Lieutenant Commander
Data." K'Vada noted that the android was already
looking around the bridge, as though assessing its
capabilities. He eyed Picard, determined to get some
information from him. He assumed his most con-
fronting and challenging tone.
    "When ! received my orders, Captain, I was not told
where we were going." He glared at Picard, demand-
ing an answer.
    But none was forthcoming. The distinguished
Starfleet officer simply looked at him calmly, making
no offer of information. K'Vada pushed on.
    "But the heading I was just given takes us into the
Neutral Zone--and directly to Romulus."
    "That's right." Simple confirmation of the obvious.
Nothing more. K'Vada's shoulder throbbed.
    "I know my duty, Captain. When I'm given orders,
I follow them." He paused and assumed his most
intimidating countenance. "But I do not like secrets.
They make my shoulder ache." He hoped Picard
would think the pain in his shoulder represented a
wound received in battle. "I want to know why we are
on this mission."
    "I'm sorry. It is a confidential matter." Picard
seemed not at all intimidated, or even unsettled. His
manner was calm, even polite. He was beginning to
irritate K'Vada.
    "You're going after the defector, aren't you?"
K'Vada watched closely to see what impact this state-
merit had. He was sure Picard wouldn't have expected
it.
    But Picard revealed nothing, his face impassive.
"Defector?"
    "You think information like that stays a secret?
Ambassador Spock has gone to Romulus--and you're
going after him." K'Vada stared at Picard, daring him
to deny the statement.
    But Picard's voice was even as he replied, "Your
orders are to take us to a set of coordinates near
Romulus, and to bring us back. That is all I am
prepared to discuss."
    "if we are discovered near Romulus, it means death
for all of us."
  "I realize that."
    K'Vada glowered at Picard, his heavy eyebrows
almost meeting in the center from his scowl. But
Picard's composure was unshaken. K'Vada realized
he would be getting no information from this man. He
turned to his helmsman and snapped an order for him
to set a course. Then he turned back. "Very well,
Captain. We are on our way to Romulus."
    "Thank you, Captain. And I do hope your shoulder
gets better." K'Vada looked for a hint of sarcasm, but
there was none.

    Picard had realized within minutes of beaming
onto the Klingon ship that Captain K'Vada was
spoiling for a fight. He saw nothing to be gained,
however, by giving him one. K'Vada looked to him
like one whose days of warrior glory were probably
behind him, and he had no doubt that the captain of
the Kruge was rankling under the menial task of
providing transportation for Starfleet personnel. He
resolved to resist the impulse to rise to argument with
the burly Klingon.
    When K'Vada flung open the door to the quarters
provided for him, however, Picard realized it might
be hard to keep that resolve. Judging from the size of
the room, K'Vada must have converted a storage
closet into a bedroom. It was small, cramped, and
bleak. A desk and two chairs were the only furnishings
--that and a shelf recessed in the wall, which presum-
ably served as a bed. It had a dank, unused odor, and
Picard guessed it hadn't been occupied in a long time.
    "Here it is," intoned K'Vada. Then, with thinly
veiled sarcasm, "It may not be what you're used to on
a Starfleet ship."
    Picard took a breath and turned to K'Vada with an
even smile. "Quite nice. Thank you." He could see
that K'Vada was disappointed in his response, which
told him he was correct in adopting this mien.
    Data had been inspecting the room with android
calm. "Is this the captain's quarters, or mine?"
    "Both." Picard couldn't contain a surprised reac-
tion at this. The room was cramped for one person;
that two would share it was ludicrous. He saw a spark
of victory in K'Vada's eye. "We have limited space.
We're a military ship, not a pleasure craft." "Of course. This will be fine."
    Picard noted that K'Vada was feeling better now
that he'd scored a hit. The Klingon circled the room,
enjoying their momentary discomfiture, pointing out
the features. He smacked his hand on the shelf-bed,
which bore no mattress, no pillow, no piece of bed-
ding.
    "You'll sleep Klingon style. We don't soften our
bodies by putting down a pad."
Picard walked to the shelf and smacked it with
gusto. "Good. I prefer it that way."
    K'Vada eyed him challengingly. "You'll take your
meals with us. And we don't serve Federation food."
    "I haven't had gagh in a long while. I've been
looking forward to it. Fresh, if you have it."
    K'Vada refused to look at him. "I regret to say,
Captain, that my patahk of a cook has not stored the
freshest of gagh. I hope you would not be displeased
to have it as I myself eat it."
    Picard inclined his head politely. "It would be an
honor." Picard sensed that K'Vada was listening
carefully for the sound of any revelatory emotion--
dismay or disgust--and he was careful to keep his
voice neutral.
    K'Vada turned to survey the room once more, then
started toward the door. He hesitated, and Picard
wondered uneasily what this gruff, threatened man
had in store now. When K'Vada turned back to them,
there was what passed for a smile on his face.
    "One more thing. Our passage into the Neutral
Zone is illegal and hence dangerous. I will require all
nonessential personnel to remain in their quarters at
all times."
    Picard felt astonishment rising in him and fought it
back. Stay in these miserable quarters? He tried to
keep his features composed, but from the flash of
satisfaction in K'Vada's face he knew he had not
completely succeeded. "Surely you can't mean the
two of us, Captain. We are Starfleet personnel. We are
accustomed to the dangers of combat."
    But K'Vada knew he had scored a touch, and he
would not yield that slight advantage. "As captain, I
am responsible for all persons on my ship. For your
own safety I must require you to stay confined." He
smiled, showing small, stained teeth in which bits of
his lunch were still imbedded, and withdrew.
    Picard turned to see Data's imperturbable face
regarding him calmly. "It would seem, sir, that we are
to see a great deal of one another. May I suggest that
an amusing way of passing the time would be to play a
game? It involves arranging higher polynomials into
sets of rational coefficients. I have found it so absorb-
ing at times that the hours seem to pass like minutes."
    Picard let out a sigh. He walked to one of the chairs
in the room--an ill-formed piece of furniture with no
cushioning--tugged at his jacket, and sat down. "By
all means, Mr. Data. That sounds captivating."

Chapter Seven

SEEN UP CLOSE in the subdued lighting ofTen-Forward,
Gretchen Naylor's eyes were even more remarkable
than they had seemed before. A pale green, almost
translucent, framed by heavy, dark lashes, they were
almost otherworldly. But Naylor was human, born
and raised on Earth, in the North American agricul-
tural paradise of Indiana. Riker had visited Indiana
once as a schoolboy, and had been struck with the
rural beauty of the rolling hills and verdant plains.
With the advent of sophisticated replicator technolo-
gy the need for vast acres of corn and soybeans had
been obviated; land in the state had been converted to
huge agricultural parks devoted to the production of
flowers, herbs, and medicinal plants. A patchwork of
color extended as far as the eye could see--
burgundies, corals, silver greens--and the air was
sweet with heady fragrances.
    Perhaps it was living in such an Eden that produced
people of such bountiful friendliness and generosity.
Riker could still remember thewarmth and affection
of the family he stayed with, the immediate accept-
ance with which he was welcomed, and the friend-
ships he maintained for many years. The people of his
native Alaska were decent and honest, to be sure, and
above all hardworking; but more of their energies had
to be devoted to simple survival, leaving less time to
the nurturing of friendships. He wasn't sure he would
have traded his childhood in Alaska, for it gave him
disciplines and strengths for which he was grateful.
But his visit to the balmy, fragrant hills of Indiana
would stay with him all his life.
    Gretchen Naylor was typical of Indiana natives in
her straightforward honesty, but she didn't have the
easygoing, relaxed quality that he remembered from
his youth. There was a drive to this woman, an
underlying eagerness to achieve. That would have
been a necessity, of course, for her admittance to
Starfleet Academy. One did not beat out the twelve
thousand applicants for each position by hanging
back.
    "... and then I was posted to the Reliant. I served
there for two years as junior security officer. When a
position opened on the Enterprise I couldn't believe it.
Everyone wants to be here. When I applied I didn't
really think there was a chance. But I got it--and my
friends said they could hear me whooping all over the
ship." She smiled, a wide, bounteous smile that
illuminated her face. She bent to sip her fruit drink,
and little wisps of her dark hair fell forward over her
face. Just as Riker had imagined.
    "I'm sure it's our good fortune to have you here,
Ensign." Riker was being careful to preserve the
formality of the relationship. Naylor had been
assigned--by Worf--to provide research and intelli-
gence on the Zakdorn, the race who operated the
surplus depot at Qualor Two. Riker had been secretly
pleased with her choice, and the selection of Ten-
Forward as a location for the briefing had been his;
but he was still wary of the dangers of shipboard
romance, and this green-eyed woman stirred him too
deeply to ignore those risks.
    "Would you like to hear what I've learned about the
Zakdorn, sir?" She had picked up on the businesslike
tone of his voice and was responding in kind. Bright
woman. If they   could have met in other
circumstances...
"By all means." He settled back as she placed a
padd on the table and began keying instructions.
    "The Zakdorn are one of the more recent species to
be admitted to the Federation. They are a peaceful
race with no real enemies. They achieved warp-drive
capacity relatively early in their development because
all their resources could be channeled toward scientif-
ic development." Unlike Earth, Riker thought. He
nodded for her to continue.
    "Their strengths seem to lie in their penchant for
organization and efficiency. They lack a creative imag-
ination and have almost no native art forms. They are
superior accountants, bookkeepers, and mapmakers."
    Riker grinned. "They sound like a dull lot. A planet
of bureaucrats." She smiled back, nodding. "My
thoughts exactly. But perfect for receiving and storing
out-of-use space ships."
     "I guess that's why they have the largest of the
 surplus shipyards." There were three other depots
 that the Federation maintained in various sectors, but
 the one at Qualor Two had swollen mightily in the last
 twenty years. :Several thousand ships, in varying states
 of repair, had found a resting place there, ranging
 from proud vessels rendered inoperable in battle to
 ships that had simply become outmoded as new
 designs took their place. Riker had never visited one
 of these graveyards, and he was curious to see it.
    But most of all, he was curious to see the T'?au, to
find if the Vulcan ship offered any clues as to how its
deflector array could have wound up in the hands of
the Ferengi.
    He pushed back his chair. "Good work, Ensign. We
should be in orbit of Qualor Two by tomorrow at
eleven hundred hours. This information will be put to
good use."
    Naylor nodded and pushed her chair back, collected
her padd, and stood.
    "Fll be happy to escort you to your quarters,"
offered Riker.
    "Thank you, sir, it's not necessary," she said, to his
disappointment. Then she paused and gazed at him
with those strange pale eyes. They seemed to spark
and flash as they reflected light from the room. "I'm
happy you're pleased with my work, Commander.
Please don't hesitate to ask for anything more you
might need."
    Suddenly Riker felt himself as insecure as a school-
boy with a crush. Was there a double emendre in her
statement? Or was he projecting his own feelings,
reading something he wanted to be there? That there
was something needy emanating from Gretchen
Naylor he didn't doubt. Just what it was, he couldn't
define.
 "Thank you, Ensign," he said formally, and she
turned and walked toward the door. Riker watched,
trying not to be affected by the sight of her willowy
form swaying in front of him.

    "Most Romulans live in multi-unit structures
known as 'takas.' There are few single-unit dwellings,
and they are reserved for those in power. Population
density in the capital city is forty thousand per square
kilometer." Picard stretched his neck as he read from
the information on the padd; they'd been at it for
hours and he felt the stiffness throughout his body
from having sat so long in the Klingon chair, which he
had by now decided was a cleverly planned torture
device.
    "Pardek's neighborhood, Krocton segment," added
Data, "is in one of the older parts of the city." He
didn't read from a padd; he had undoubtedly ab-
sorbed every particle of intelligence contained in it
some time ago and was now reciting from memory.
"It is a lower-class area of no architectural distinction.
He has maintained a taka there for many years."
    "Krocton segment," murmured Picard. "That's
where we'll plan to transport." He looked up at Data
and realized he was very glad indeed that he had
brought this valued officer with him. The journey
might have been even more of an ordeal if he had
chosen to undertake it alone. Data's calm and steady
presence was reassuring; and certainly this cram-
session study of the Romulans was more pleasurable
with the two of them.
    Picard rolled his neck again, working out the kinks.
He felt genuinely weary, and realized it must be well
past the time he usually retired.
     "That's enough for me, Data," he said. "I think I'll
 turn in."
     Data cast his eyes about the barren room. "Since I
 do not require sleep, I propose you take the--" The
 android hesitated, not sure what to call the dismal
 hole in the wall that was to pass for a bed. "--the
 shelfi I will be content to stand."
    "Very well, Mr. Data. Thank you." Picard headed
toward the shelf, eyeing it warily. It was about four
feet off the deck--an awkward position for entering
--and only about two feet in height. Getting into the
damned thing would require an act of contortion.
Picard felt ungainly and clumsy as he climbed in,
cracking his head and both his shins during the
process.
    Once he was settled, he found himself lying on a
bare board surface, staring up at the underside of the
shelf barely more than a foot away. He rolled his head
to the side and saw Data staring at him imperturba-
bly. "Are you comfortable, sir?" he asked.
  "I suppose so," replied Picard evenly.
  "Then good night, Captain. Sleep well."
  "Thank you."
    Picard closed his eyes, determined to relax and get
the sleep he knew he needed. He'd slept in uncomfort-
able places before, after all; it was merely a matter of
concentrating, of blocking outside annoyances and
allowing the mind to drift aimlessly... perhaps en-
hanced by a bit of fantasy... a restful lagoon, a
tropical breeze, exotic trees bending in the warm
winds... waves lapping on a shore...
    His eyes snapped open and he turned toward Data.
"What are you doing?"
    Data looked puzzled and concerned. --~lrf was l
making noise?"
 "Not exactly."
    "I was processing information we have accumu-
lated on Romulan society. I am preparing for the task
of impersonating a Romulan." "I see."
 "Would you like me to discontinue?"
    "No, no. Please go ahead." Picard was annoyed
with himself. Of course he couldn't hear Data process-
ing information; it was a silent function, just like
thought. It was just that he knew Data was doing it. He
could almost see the circuitry in Data's head, blinking
and twinkling as millions of bits of information sped
along his neutral nets. Of course, maybe it did make a
sound, no matter how slight, and that could explain
why Picard found it difficult to relax, knowing that all
those remarkable functions were occurring in the
positronic brain of someone not four feet from him--
    His eyes opened again and he almost gasped as he
saw Data staring at him. "What are you looking at?"
      Again, Data was puzzled. "I am not looking at
anything, sir. I am continuing to organize my files."
  "But you're looking at me."
    "I am sorry if I am disturbing you, sir. I will not
look in your direction." And he swiveled so that the
back of his head was toward Picard. The captain eyed
him for a moment, feeling sheepish and annoyed at
the same time. He realized it had been many years
since he had had what might qualify as a roommate,
and even then, at Starfleet Academy, it was not an
arrangement he particularly savored.
  "Mr. Data..."
  "Yes, sir?"
  "Could you possibly--sleep?"
  "I do not think so, sir."
    "I see." Picard closed his eyes once more. He was
not going to be defeated. He was a man used to taking
charge of his circumstances; quieting the mind re-
quired only certain techniques of relaxation and
focus... relaxation ... focus...
  Relaxation ... focus...
  Relaxation...
    Picard crawled out from the confining space. Data
looked at him with quizzical eyes.
 "Sir? Do you not wish to sleep?"
    "I don't think so. Shall we continue to go over the
files?"
    "I would be happy to." Without further ado, Data
began rattling off facts. "I have been studying Krocton
segment, as you asked, and have selected several
appropriate sites for our transport. I will describe
each of them to you."
    Picard stifled a yawn and sat once more in the chair
of pain.

    By 0900 hours the next morning, the Enterprise was
within hailing range of Qualor Two, and Riker in-
structed Worf to make contact. He was too impatient
to wait until they achieved orbit. It seemed to take
forever for Worf to establish the connection, but
finally the Klingon announced from his tactical sta-
tion that he had been successful.
    "On screen," Riker ordered, rising and stepping
forward, eager to speak to the Zakdorn who might
unlock some of the mysteries of his mission.
    The humanoid who appeared before him was not at
all what Riker expected. He was grizzled and worn, a
graying hulk who had perhaps taken on the aspect of
the abandoned ships he oversaw. He looked vaguely
surprised, as though he had been interrupted in the
middle of something. A small frown knotted his brow;
the characteristic Zakdorn folds in the skin of his face
seemed draped in remonstration.
    "I'm Commander William Riker of the Federation
starship Enterprise," said Riker, in an amiable fash-
ion.
    "Klim Dokachin here, quartermaster of Surplus
Depot Zed-one-five." The man's tone was terse, unin-
viting, offering nothing more than a statement of fact.
    "We need some information about a Vulcan ship,
the T'Pau," continued Riker. "It was sent there a few
years ago."
 "Did you arrange an appointment?"
     Riker was sure he looked as startled as he felt. The
question was completely unexpected.
  "Appointment? No..."
    "Then I can't help you. Communicate with Sched-
uling."
    And with that the transmission was abruptly ended
and Riker found himself staring at a starfield. He was
nonplussed. He turned to Counselor Deanna Trot for
vindication. "Who does this guy think he is?"
    But Troi's dark eyes sparkled as she replied calmly,
"The quartermaster of the surplus yard, Commander.
With information you need."
    Riker absorbed that for a moment. It was Troi's way
of' communicating that he would need to use a differ-
ent tactic if he wanted to get information from this
recalcitrant old bureaucrat. He drew a breath. "Right.
Mr. Worf, reestablish communication."
  "Yes, sir."
     A moment later Dokachin appeared on the screen
 once more, somewhat taken aback at having been
 interrupted again. Riker gave him a friendly smile.
 "Mr. Dokachin--"
     That was as far as he got before the man inter-
 rupted. "Ahchin. Klim Dokahchin."
     Riker took a breath. "Mr. Dokahchin, the informa-
 tion I need involves a matter of major importance to
 the Federation."
  "Yes?" Dokachin looked unimpressed.
    "I'll need access to your logs, your files..." he
trailed off, but Dokachin made no reply. He plunged
ahead gamely. "It won't take long... my people can
do the work."
    There was a lengthy pause. Dokachin stroked his
chin, drummed his fingers, and looked at the ceiling.
Finally, he announced, "I don't let outsiders into my
computer system."
    "Fine. One of your people, then . . ." Riker would
have agreed to anything to overcome this annoying
obstacle.
  "Wish I had the people to spare. I don't."
    Riker made himself stay calm, but he could feel his
heart starting to punch a little harder. There was an
edge to his voice as he asked, "Well, sir--what would
you suggest?"
"I don't know. Contact me when you reach orbit."
And the starfield returned. Riker turned again to
Trot, pulsing with indignation. "I don't believe him."
But Troi's beautiful mouth curled into a wry smile.
    "He's king of his particular hill, Commander.
You'll have to treat him that way."
    Riker stared at her, and didn't miss a beat as he
replied, "Counselor--a perfect job for you."
    And he sat. One of the requisites of command was
the ability to delegate responsibility. This was one
case in which he was only too glad to do so.

    Counselor Deanna Troi stifled the smile that sprang
to her lips when Will Riker passed the responsibility
of dealing with Klim Dokachin to her. She wasn't
surprised, and she really couldn't blame him--the
man was irritating, no question. And he was the kind
that an impatient man like Will would have a lot of
trouble tolerating.
    Troi didn't mind being assigned the handling of
Dokachin; it fell well within the boundaries of her
responsibilities on board the Enterprise. One reason
she enjoyed her post was the opportunity to rise to the
unique challenges involved in dealing with alien per-
sonalities.
    But the more races she encountered, the more she
was aware of the constants. There were far more
similarities than dissimilarities in the psyches of the
multitudes of species she had experienced. Most
responded to nurturing, kindness, compassion, and
understanding. Most disliked assault, rudeness, insen-
sitivity, and humiliation. This meant that it was
usually wise for her to follow her own empathic
instincts when meeting a new race.
    She frankly thought dealing with Klim Dokachin
would be like melting butter. He seemed transparent
to her in his need for ego stroking. He was a being
whose identity was deeply involved with his work,
who derived his satisfaction from the execution of his
duties, and who wanted to be recognized for his
expertise. It would not be difficult to give him what he
needed.
    Gazing out at the starfield as they raced toward
Qualor Two, Troi felt a momentary twinge of melan-
choly. She had been in some turmoil lately, examining
her life and trying to come to some decisions about
her priorities. She did not particularly enjoy this
process; by nature she was given to equanimity, and
tended to accept life as it was dealt to her without a
great deal of angst or examination.
    But something extraordinary had happened to her
recently, and she felt irreparably changed by it. The
whole experience had taken less than twenty hours,
and yet she knew that it had altered her life.
    It had been a strange set of circumstances that had
led to the situation. She was on the bridge with Chief
O'Brien when Will Riker was busy elsewhere and the
captain had taken three young winners of the school
science fair on a tour. A chance phenomenon, the
collision with a quantum filament, had catastrophical-
ly damaged the Enterprise and killed the bridge duty
officer, Lieutenant Monroe.
    Sealed off from the rest of the ship, with communi-
cations systems down, Troi found herself the ranking
officer on the bridge--and as such, acting captain.
    It had been frightening at first; she wasn't familiar
with emergency protocols and if it hadn't been for
O'Brien and Ensign Ro she would have floundered.
    But the situation called for her to make a difficult
and risky command decision, one in which she had to
reject the intelligent option for which Ro argued
eloquently. She had stood everyone down, trusting
her own instincts--and won the day.
    A horrible phrase came to mind, one she knew was
used in reference to Terran animals: the taste of blood.
It was said that a newborn wild animal who had lost
its mother might be tamed if it were retrieved shortly
after birth. But if it were allowed the taste ofblood--a
fresh kill--its feral nature would be stirred, and the
animal would revert to its primitive state, never again
satisfied with the tepid pleasures of domesticity.
    The phrase had been running through Troi's head
ever since she had risen to the moment and captained
the ship in a time of crisis. Since then, nothing had
come close to providing the heady excitement of that
experience. She performed her tasks competently, and
she was sure no one was aware of her inner confusion.
But the world of the Enterprise seemed to her drawn
in tones of sepia--colorless and pale. She felt an
indescribable yearning for something wild and potent
in her life, something extraordinary.
    Her mother, she knew, would tap into those feelings
instantly if she were on board. But her solution was
not one that would satisfy Troi. Lwaxana was still
entreating her to abandon this demanding career,
return to Betazed, get married, and have children.
Troi believed that someday she would probably do
just that--but she wasn't anywhere near ready.
Lwaxana's pleas had far more to do with her desire to
become a grandmother than with Deanna's desire for
home and hearth.
    "We are approaching the orbital surplus yard of
Qualor Two," announced Worf, and Troi noted that
she was comforted by the gruff, sure tones of the
Klingon. She gazed at the viewscreen and saw that
they were coming on an incredible sight: a vast
ocean of spaceships--old, abandoned, decommis-
sioned-stretching as far as the sensors could see, a
graveyard of once proud ships from throughout the
Federation. It was an eerie sight, this silent armada
of ghostly vessels, and she realized with a sudden
shiver that each of those abandoned hulks represent-
ed stories of ordeal, daring, and mystery. She thrilled
for a moment to imagine the incredible events that
had befallen them. And wondered if ever again she
would taste the raw excitement of untrammeled
adventure.
    Deanna honestly didn't know just what it was she
was seeking. She was sure, however, that if it pre-
sented itself, she would recognize it.

    Riding the turbolift from the Enterprise transporter
room, Klim Dokachin fought dizziness. Transporter
technology had been introduced to his planet when
they became members of the Federation, and he had
not adapted well to it. He'd thought of holding firm in
his insistence that the officers of the starship Enter-
prise come to him if they wanted his records so badly;
but in the end he couldn't resist the opportunity to see
what the magnificent vessel looked like. When the
turbolift door opened and he stepped onto the bridge,
he was glad he'd done so.
    He felt the eyes of the bridge crew as he took his
time gazing around, and he was glad he had on his
best outfit--one that held the emblems of merit he
had achieved through his work. They would realize
this was no raw novice they were dealing with.
    As he inspected the bridge of the vast starship, he
could sense the anxiousness of the crew. The tall one
with the beard, with whom he'd spoken on the com-
municator, was particularly impatient. Well, he could
wait. Klim Dokachin was doing this on his terms, and
he wasn't about to be hurried.
 "Thank you for coming on board, Mr. Dokachin."
That from the bearded one. He was trying to win him
over; Klim could hear it in his voice. Well, maybe he'd
be won over, maybe not. He'd take his time before he
decided how he felt about that one.
    He strolled down the ramp and inspected Ops and
Conn. Everything was immaculate, shining, function-
al. Dokachin thought it was perhaps the most beauti-
ful ship he'd ever seen.
 "Not bad," he said dryly.
    The beard was following him around the bridge,
trying to get his attention. "We've tied into your
computers. If you could access the files..."
    Dokachin continued his slow tour, inspecting the
consoles and the forward turbolift. "I don't usually
see them in such good condition. By the time they get
to me, they're falling apart."
    From the comer of his eye, Dokachin could see the
beard turn and look at someone--a woman in a
form-fitting gray jumpsuit. She began to move toward
him and Klim turned to meet her.
    She was the most beautiful creature he had ever
seen.
    He had never found humans particularly attractive
--the way their skin was so tightly drawn over the
bones of their faces looked positively painful--and
this woman looked human. Though there was some-
thing different about her eyes--they were the darkest
black imaginable. Her hair was black, too, but her
skin was pale and delicate. Too taut, but delicate.
    "Mr. Dokachin, we must find this ship--and you're
the only one who can help us." Her voice was gentle,
and her eyes were friendly as she smiled at him. And
Klim Dokachin realized that what made her beautiful
was not the way she looked, but what was within.
There was a beautiful soul within this woman, and it
shone from her like a radiant moonrise.
  "Who are you?" he asked.
  "Deanna Troi, ship's counselor."
    Dokachin moved closer to her, nodded his head
toward Riker. "He probably figures we don't get to see
women like you very often. And you might get more
cooperation from me." He smirked inwardly that he
was one step ahead of the beard.
    Then he looked into those black eyes again. "He's
probably right," he said, and found himself moving to
one of the consoles at the aft portion of the bridge, the
beautiful woman following. The beard trailed along.
Klim began expertly keying instructions into the
computer, hoping that the woman would realize how
proficient he was at his task.
    "The T'Pau, wasn't it? Vulcan registry..." He
gestured as the information instantly leapt to the
screen. "There. Logged in on Stardate 41334."
    "Where is the ship now?" Klim looked up at the
sound of a different voice. This might be a nonhuman,
he wasn't sure. The skin was dark and the being wore
a device around his eyes.
     "Docked," Klim replied. "Section eighteen-
gamma-twelve. Want me to take you over there?"
  "I'd appreciate that," the beard said.
  "Helmsman," said Dokachin with a touch of com-
  mand in his voice, "lay in a heading one-four-one by
  two-zero-eight. Ahead slow, two hundred kph."
  They'd realize he knew his way around ships before he
  was done. Knew his way around before most of them
  had been born, probably.
    He noted that the helmsman didn't act on the
command until the beard had nodded to him. That
was irritating for an instant, until the beautiful wom-
an fastened these melting black eyes on him and said,
in her haunting voice, "It must be so difficult to keep
track of all these ships. How ever do you do it?"
    Dokachin smiled at her. He'd pegged her right away
as a woman of intelligent curiosity. She would appre-
ciate the near genius of his classification procedure,
with its dozens of systems and subsystems. His peers
found it so complex and intricate that they had
trouble following it, but Klim was sure that this
woman would not only grasp it but value its elaborate
mysteries.
    "Well," he said, settling himself next to her, "the
first problem is the initial gross assessment. Now, you
may think that's a simple task, but that's where people
get into trouble right at the start."
    The woman nodded, and Klim knew he had her
riveted.

    Riker gazed at the viewscreen as they navigated
their way toward the T'Pau. They moved at a cautious
pace through the immense graveyard of ships, skirting
their way carefully through the ghostly flotsam. Occa-
sionally Riker would recognize a name or a design;
once Worf announced that they were passing the
Ghandi, a legendary ship whose exploits Riker had
studied at the Academy, and whose last explorations
he had chronicled in a junior thesis. He was stunned
to see the ship whose crew he had described in
intimate detail, floating immobilized and impotent in
space, a burned-out shell that had been the victim of
violence while on a nonviolent mission, as though its
name had determined its fate. He briefly held his hand
over his heart as they passed by, in tribute.
    To his rear, he heard the steady, droning tones of
Klim Dokachin, describing to Deanna in crushing
detail his record-keeping mechanism. Riker briefly
tuned in.
    "... and then you have to make subcategories
according to tonnage. Some people like to classify by
propulsion system, but I find that can lead to confu-
sion. A galaxy-class ship like this one, for instance,
employs a fifth-phase reactor. But you might find that
in a scout ship, too. It gets messy."
    "I can see that," murmured Troi, and Riker smiled
to himself. Her eyes must be glazing over by now.
    "Commander," interjected Worf's brusque voice,
"we are approaching the designated coordinates."
    "On screen," said Riker, and everyone turned ex-
pectantly to see the Vulcan ship.
 What they saw was the starfield--empty space.

    Klim Dokachin's jaw dropped when he found him-
self staring at section eighteen-gamma-twelve and
there was no ship in sight. One moment he had held
the beautiful woman enraptured with his discourse on
the surplus depot, now he was staring at what seemed
to be proof that his immaculate record-keeping sys-
tem was faulty.
    He felt the others looking at him, puzzled, as he
stepped toward the screen. "Where is it?" he breat-
hed, staring at the starfield as though he could will
the Vulcan ship to appear. "What happened to it?"
Check the coordinates, his mind told him, and he
stepped to the console, tapped carefully. Glancing
over his shoulder he found the ship had not magically
appeared. "These are the correct coordinates," he
found himself saying apologetically.
  The beard spoke. "The T'Pau is missing?"
    "The T'Pau," began Klim intently--and then he
looked up at the starfield, and back at the array of
faces looking expectantly at him--"is missing," he
intoned.
    The beard's eyes narrowed. "How could a ship
disappear from your depot?"
    Klim began to feel chastened. His professional
integrity was being questioned. He drew a deep breath
and turned back to the console. He would not crumble
before these judgmental intruders.
    "I'm not accustomed to losing things, Command-
er," he said resolutely. "I'11 find your ship for you."
He began to work the keys with furious intent. "I have
the T'Pau cross-referenced in four different
directories."
    "When it was brought here, was it stripped of
materiel--armament, sensors?" This was from the
dark one with the instrument on his eyes.
    "Of course," said Dokachin, still working to locate
the missing ship.
    "Can you tell us what happened to its navigational
deflector?"
    Klim looked at the monitor. He had accessed a
processing file on the T'Pau and was able to determine
the disposition of its materiel. "It was routed to the
Tripoli, a holding vessel on the outer rim of the
shipyard."
 The beard jumped in. "It's not there anymore.
What's left of that deflector is laid out on the floor of
our cargo bay."
    Suddenly Klim Dokachin was frightened. Things
beyond his control were happening. He had trusted
his records, his books, his files, and they were crum-
bling before him. Until now, if his computer said
something was stored somewhere, that's where it was.
There was surety in his system. If that was gone, what
else was there? How could he count on anything?
  "How can that be?" he breathed weakly.
    "Maybe we ought to pay a visit to the Tripoli," said
the beard. Dokachin realized he was afraid to go
there.
    But of course they did. He gave the coordinates to
the helmsman--he tried to make his voice sound as
confident as the first time--and they maneuvered
their way through the shipyard. Dokachin was silent
for a long time, his mind racing to find a rational
explanation for the missing ship. But none of the
possibilities he constructed held up for very long. It
would seem he had made an error. The T'Pau was not
in space eighteen-gamma-twelve; it was somewhere
else, and he couldn't imagine how to begin tracking it.
Had someone made a logging error? Had some junior
computer operator assigned the ship to another space
and failed to make the correct entry?
    But he himself always checked those entries, just to
prevent something like this from happening. He felt
himself sinking lower into the chair, the weight of his
misery crushing him.
    "Mr. Dokachin, I'm sure there's a reason for this,
and we'll find it." It was the beautiful woman with her
beautiful voice and her beautiful sensitivity. He took
refuge in the comfort of her large, dark eyes; it was as
though he dared not look away from them. For the
first time, he felt like speaking.
    "In all the time the Zakdorn have operated this
depot, nothing's ever been lost," he assured her.
"Never." She nodded sympathetically and he felt
better. "I'll tell you this--somebody will pay. I'll
conduct an investigation. Whoever is responsible--"
    "Approaching the coordinates of the Tripoli, sir."
The guttural growl of a formidable Klingon inter-
rupted Dokachin's discourse. Klim felt himself go
queasy, and he was aware that the beard looked in his
direction.
 He tried to appear nonchalant.
 "On screen," said the beard.
The Tripoli was not in its assigned docking position.
Dokachin was devastated. "I do not understand
this. This is not possible." His universe was giving way
beneath him. Nothing made sense.
    "We beam goods to the Tripoli on a regular sched-
ule," said Dokachin desperately. "There was a ship-
ment yesterday, and another is set for today. It must
be there."
 "When is today's transport?"
    "Just over two hours from now. A shipment of
deuterium storage tanks."
    The beard considered this for a moment, then
turned toward the Conn. "Ensign, align the Enterprise
so we'll appear to be one of the abandoned ships. Mr.
La Forge, when we're in position, shut down engines
and all systems except sensors and life support."
  "Aye, sir."
    The beard moved toward a chair that Dokachin
assumed was that of command.
    "I'm guessing somebody's going to be here to
receive those sensors--and I'd be very interested to
see who it is."
    Hearing the man's quiet authority, Dokachin felt
better. He looked at the woman, and she smiled
warmly at him. For the first time, he felt a camarade-
rie with these starship people. Whatever was going on
here, they were in it together.

Chapter Eight

THIS TIME Picard knew it was a dream and he struggled
to come out of it. He was flailing in a cloud of cold fog,
crying and raging; another man was standing a dis-
tance away, struggling to free him from the oppressive
cloud. Or perhaps that second person was
himself... a second Picard... ? Who was it? He
strained to make his way toward the man, but the
roiling billows of icy vapor took on substance, and
kept him from moving forward.
    He could not remember ever being so cold. It was a
bitter, damp cold that seeped into his muscles and
joints and paralyzed them with pain. And it was such
a sad thing to be cold; he sobbed with griefi Then, still
wracked with anguish, he felt anger rising, a fury at
the cold and damp, a frenzied flame within him,
which ripped through his insides until he became
uncontrollably furious. He raged at the crippling chill,
shrieking his wrath until the sheer force of his fury
helped warm him.
    No! This weakness disgusts me/I hate it! Where is
the logic? I am betrayed... betrayed... betrayed...
    Someone else was with him now--was it the figure
he had seen before? And who was he?--trying to pull
him from the icy bog. A pinpoint of light appeared in
the depths of the foggy mists, a light that glowed
golden, spreading larger and larger, casting a warmth
that seemed to melt the numbing cold, an orb that
grew bigger and brighter, heat, welcome heat...
  Where had the other man gone?
    Picard opened his eyes and found himself looking
into Data's face, his yellow eyes reflecting concern.
"Sir? Perhaps we have studied sufficiently. You might
want to go to bed."
    Picard sat upright in the chair and discovered
himself still in the cramped quarters on the Klingon
ship Kruge. He felt as though he had been out for
hours. "How long was I asleep, Mister Data?" he
asked, his mouth dry and his voice hoarse.
    "I do not believe you were asleep, sir," replied the
android. "You closed your eyes for only a fraction of a
second."
    Picard stared at him briefly, then dropped his eyes
to the padds on the table. They had been studying
Romulan culture. It seemed like hours ago. He picked
up his padd and keyed it, wanting desperately to
regain a feeling of normaIcy. He forced himself to
focus on the padd, where the words blurred and swam
before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut until he felt
sure that when he opened them, they would behave as
he willed.
    Sarek was part of him. Whenever he slept, Sarek
crept inside him, possessing him, becoming him. As he
drew nearer to Spock, he couM feel Sarek more and
more strongly.
    Picard was startled when the door opened suddenly
and K'Vada strode in. The strapping Klingon captain
looked as threatening as ever and yet Picard sensed
not menace but something he couldn't quite pinpoint.
A certain solicitude? Puzzled, Picard gazed up at him.
    "Captain. In monitoring subspace messages we
picked up a piece of information that might interest
you." He handed a padd to Picard, who glanced at it,
instantly absorbed the message, and had to steel
himself to respond in a normal voice.
    "Thank you, Captain." K'Vada gazed at him for a
moment more, as though something might be forth-
coming, then nodded and withdrew.
    Data was staring at him, waiting patiently for an
explanation to this peculiar scene. Picard turned to
him and, as evenly as he could, read the message.
  "Sarek is dead."
    He heard himself say the words and that gave them
reality; until that moment he wasn't sure if he might
not be back in the dream. But the close Klingon
quarters were real, and the dim lighting, and the
miserable chair, and Data gazing at him with imper-
turbable saffron eyes. And the padd in his hand was
real, and so, he knew, was its message.
    He turned to the chair and sat, feeling disoriented.
The room spun slightly and he fastened his eyes on the
padd.
    Then he felt something icy move through him, and
he shivered.

    Riker felt like laughing. Or humming. Or pacing or
driving his fist into his palm. Instead, he sat in the
command chair, staring at the viewscreen as though at
any moment it would provide the answer to the
question they were all asking: Who was receiving the
transport of the materiel routinely beamed to a cargo
ship that apparently no longer existed?
    Riker could feel his heart rate rising; the hammer of
his pulse in his temple sounded like timpani. It was a
heady, sensual feeling and he reveled in it. It brought
to bear sensations with which he was not consciously
in touch--the thrill of hunt, of combat, and conquest,
akin to lust. Was it racial memory? There was certain-
ly nothing in his experience that would account for
the feelings coursing through him now as they waited
silently in the black cold of space for a confrontation
with the unknown.
  But he no longer felt restless.
    He stared at the viewing screen, which showed only
an inky space punctuated by stars. His eyes burned
into the image, seeking anything abnormal, when--
     "Commander, sensors detect a ship approaching at
warp speed." Worf's announcement was a crisp growl.
  The pulse in Riker's temple drummed harder.
  "Identification?"
    "Negative. No transponder signal. No subspace
marker."
    "Sounds like they don't want to be identified." This
a staccato punctuation from Geordi.
    "The ship is coming out of warp now," continued
Worf.
    Riker stared at the viewscreen, scrutinizing it with
fierce concentration, looking for the covert ship. He
could see a faint blip, almost indistinguishable.
    "Magnify," he breathed, and the blip jumped into
relief.
    It was dark, huge, and ominous. It was bristling
with armament but carried absolutely no marking of
any kind. Riker stared at it, breathless, awed by its
proud malevolence.
    "Sensors indicate a combat vessel... origin
undetermined... heavily armed." Geordi's com-
posed voice seemed at odds with the fearsome image
he described. "Mass and density suggest it's fully
loaded with cargo. From the look of these internal
scans, I'd guess a good part of that cargo is weap-
onry."
    Riker watched as the dark ship swung away from
them and slowed. "The ship is moving into section
twelve-beta-three," announced Worf.
    "It's taking the position assigned to the Tripoli,"
said the Zakdorn. "The coordinates are identical."
    "Commander," interrupted Geordi, "readings in-
dicate the surface-to-ship transport has begun."
    This produced an instant and irate reaction from
Dokachin. "He's taking my deuterium tanks!"
    "Bring the engines back on line, Mr. La Forge," said
Riker, "and restore all systems to normal."
    But the sinister ship wasn't waiting around now
that it had the goods. "He's powering up engines, sir,"
barked Worf.
     "Open a channel," retorted Riker, and rose to
approach the screen. "Open, sir."
    "This is Commander William Riker of the U.S.S.
Enterprise. Identify yourself."
    Several seconds passed, in the silence of which
Riker could feel his heart pelting his rib cage. "I
repeat: you have entered a Federation depot. Identify
yourself."
  "Sir, the ship is locking phaser banks."
 "Shields up. Red alert."
    The whine of red alert and the red flashing strobes
signaled the onset of combat readiness. Riker could
feel the tension on the bridge rise another notch.
"That ship easily matches our armament, Command-
er," Geordi noted.
    That was a theory Riker hoped he didn't have to
prove. On the screen, they all watched as the giant
ship slowly hove to and swung to face them. Riker
stepped a bit closer to the screen.
    "If you do not respond to our hails, we will take that
as evidence of hostile action."
    "There is an energy buildup in their phaser banks--
sir, they are activating weapons!" roared Worf, and
before Riker could respond, a mighty WHUMP!
struck the Enterprise, jolting them and causing lights
to flicker. Worf's voice cut through the commotion.
"Forward shields down to seventy-two percent--"
    "Boost power to the shields," snapped Riker. "Mr.
Worf, target their weapon systems only and prepare to
fire--" But the other ship had already loosed another
barrage and the Enterprise took an even heavier
wallop. Several of the bridge consoles sparked furious-
ly, and emergency lighting sprang on.
    "Forward shields at sixty-eight percent, aft shields
forty percent."
    "On my mark, a point-seven-five burst only. We just
want to slow them down." Geordi might feel that the
dark ship was their match, but Riker felt sure the
Enterprise weapons could fatally damage the other
vessel, and he wanted to avoid that. He was more
interested in answers than in destruction.
 "Mr. Worf--fire," he ordered curtly, and Worf let
loose with a staggered phaser array. Riker knew it
wouldn't cause irreparable harm to such a sturdy ship,
but it would sure as hell get their attention. He
watched with satisfaction as the spread of phaser fire
hit at various points on the ship.
    "Their forward shields are damaged, sir," an-
nounced Worf, with perhaps just a hint of triumph.
But it was Geordi's voice that cut in now. "We
destroyed one of their phaser arrays... looks like
collateral damage in the cargo area." Geordi scruti-
nized his sensor readings carefully, then said in an
alarmed voice, "Sir, I'm picking up massive power
fluctuations... internal explosions... with all the
armament that ship is carryingmit's going to blow!"
    Even with that warning, Riker wasn't prepared for
what happened next.
    The dark ship exploded in a cataclysmic eruption of
flame and fire. Secondary explosions followed one
after the other in a succession of towering blasts;
extruded matter was hurled hundreds of kilometers
into space. The catastrophic explosions continued
until the viewers on the Enterprise could not imagine
there being any matter left to detonate, but the molten
core continued to erupt, spewing still more slabs of
burning metal.
    When it was over, there was nothing left. It was as
though every bit of matter in the ship had been
pulverized. Small flaming chunks drifted toward
them, brought into sharp relief by the ship's sensors,
though they were still thousands of kilometers away.
Those last blazing embers gradually extinguished and
became dust, and presently, there was only darkness
and the undisturbed starfield.
 It was as though the ship had never existed.

Chapter Nine

"WELL, MR. DATA--what do you think?"
    They were still in their cramped quarters aboard the
Klingon ship Kruge. Picard passed a mirror to Data,
who took it and held it in front of him.
    The reflection he saw revealed a startling transfor-
mation. Most immediately noticeable was the hue of
his skin, which had lost its android paleness and was
now an earthy, ruddy tone. His yellow eyes had been
changed, with lenses, to a medium brown, and a
prosthesis gave his skull and forehead the angular
bony structure of the Romulans; a blunt-cut hairpiece
completed the effect.
    The cleverness of Beverly Crusher's prosthetics had
become apparent when Picard and Data applied their
Romulan ears. Made of a synthetic biopolymer mate-
rial, they were able to mold directly into the skin with
gentle pressure. No seam line was visible; they were as
natural looking as their own ears.
    Data took a full minute to inspect himself, and
finally announced, "I am very pleased, sir. I would not
have thought it possible." Picard admitted to himself
that he had shared the same anxieties, and he breat-
hed a silent thanks to Beverly for her expertise.
    His own changeover had been as successful, he felt,
and though the synthetic ears continued to give him a
vaguely uncomfortable feeling, he was sure he would
grow accustomed to them. He had been startled at
first by seeing himself with hair; it had been a long
time since he'd had a full head, and looking in the
mirror was rather like looking at a portrait of himself
as a young man.
    They were both dressed in Romulan clothing, Data
in a gray, square-cut jacket and Picard in a brown cape
with a stand-away collar--replicated for them from
accurate designs provided by Starfleet Command.
    "I am eager to test the success of our efforts, sir. It
does remain to be seen if the Romulans will accept
US."
    Picard smiled. "We'll soon find out," he replied. He
knew that Data was incapable of feeling either eager-
ness or apprehension, yet he seemed to have some-
thing that passed for one of those emotions. Picard
knew exactly what his fellow officer meant--he, too,
was glad that the waiting was over and they were
nearing Romulus. Biding time was difficult; Picard
had no doubt that the several days of inactivity on the
Klingon ship had helped to contribute to his aberrant
dreams. He hoped, now that they were about to
launch into the heart of the mission, those dreams
would abate.
    In the dreams, Sarek never appeared, and yet Picard
knew he was there, lurking behind some vaporous
curtain, just out of comprehension. Every morning,
Picard would wake shivering and chilled, remember-
ing almost nothing of his dreams except the sensation
of cold and a near avalanche of overwhelming
emotion.Occasionally he would come to conscious-
ness with the name of Perrin on his lips.
    In each of those dreams, he dreaded the thought
that Sarek might appear and he would have to look
into those tortured dark eyes once more.
    "Sir," said Data, "you have seemed unusually pen-
sive since we received the news of Ambassador Sarek's
death."
    Picard began packing away the materials Beverly
had provided them to complete their Romulan trans-
formations. He knew what Data had said was true. He
had felt himself turn inward when he read that
message on K'Vada's padd; he had not wanted to
examine or to talk about the effect that Sarek's death
produced in him. Now Data's calm observation asked
him to reflect on it.
    "Sarek and I shared a particular bond," he began.
"Our lives touched in an unusual way. I admit that I
feel the effects of his loss."
    Even as he spoke these words, Picard realized that
he was intellectualizing the response, analyzing the
situation and presenting a nonemotional reply. He
tried to obscure the acknowledgment that he had no
desire as yet to explore his feelings about the matter.
    "The tenor of our mission has changed, at least for
me," he continued, beginning to feel on safer ground
by shifting the discussion away from himself and onto
their journey. "We were sent to confront Spock about
his disappearance. Now, we must also tell him his
father is dead."
    "I am afraid I do not entirely understand, sir. As a
Vulcan, would not Ambassador Spock simply see
death as a logical result of his father's illness?"
    "It is never quite that simple. Not even for a
Vulcan. Certainly not for Spock, who is also half
human." Talking about Spock and Sarek certainly was
more comfortable than talking about his own ambigu-
ous relationship with them, and he tried not to listen
to the nagging voice in his mind that told him he was
avoiding something significant. "They spent a lifetime
in conflict... now the chance to resolve their differ-
ences is gone."
    Data took a moment to process this statement.
"Considering the exceptionally long lifespan of the
Vulcans," he said presently, "it does seem odd that
Spock and Sarek did not choose to resolve those
differences in the time available."
    "Yes," acknowledged Picard. "It really is quite--
illogical." He looked at Data, envied him briefly for
the fact that he would forever remain innocent of the
tangled agonies of human emotion. "A father and
son... both proud, both stubborn... more alike
than either would care to admit. They can't easily
break down the emotional barriers they've spent a
lifetime building."
    Picard closed the satchel containing Beverly's im-
plements. "And then the time comes when it is too
late to try. When one realizes that all the things he had
planned to say will go unsaid."
    He looked into Data's guileless face, and wondered
if the android grasped even a part of what he was
saying. "That is a difficult moment. And a lonely one.
Spock will now have to face that moment."
 Data tilted his head in an effort to understand the
complex undertones of familial relationships. Picard
felt a draft of cold air and turned to see what had
caused it.
 But as he suspected, nothing was there.

    When Captain K'Vada saw the two Starfleet officers
walk onto his bridge disguised as Romulans, he could
not help but laugh. He thought they looked absurd,
but then he thought Romulans themselves looked
ridiculous, with their pointed ears, upswept eyebrows,
and strange-colored skin.
    "Don't you two look sweet?" he chortled at the two
of them. Picard accepted the jibe without responding,
as usual, and the android never changed expression.
K'Vada couldn't resist pushing it a little further. He
strolled toward Data and circled him, eyeing him up
and down. "Be careful, android," he murmured.
"Some Romulan beauty might take a liking to you...
lick that paint right off your ears..." He was pleased
to see that the now brown eyes blinked a bit at that.
    Enjoying the discomfiture he felt he was creating,
K'Vada moved to Picard, gave him a scrutinizing
glance. "You know what the Romulans would do to
you if they found you out?"
"I have a pretty good idea," replied Picard.
K'Vada wondered if he did. If he himself had not
seen the results of a Romulan interrogation, he would
not have believed it.
    Picard eyed him coldly and announced, "We are
ready to be transported to the surface, Captain." The
brusque tone of his voice grated on K'Vada. He
thought the Starfleet officer needed to be reminded of
his place on this ship.
 "Just so we understand each other," he said in a
voice he hoped was just dark enough to be menacing,
"my orders don't include rescue missions."
    For the first time, he saw something harden in
Picard's eyes; it affected him more than a raised hand
might from another man. K'Vada looked right into
those flinty eyes, and after a moment convinced
himself that he'd frightened Picard enough. He ges-
tured casually to his tactical officer. "yIghuHlup!" he
ordered. Then he turned back to Picard and Data.
"Good luck, Captain," he said without rancor, and
gestured once more. The two false Romulans
dematerialized in front of him.
    You'll need it and then some, he thought. Then he
turned and sat in his command chair, and decided to
devote the next hour to erotic thoughts of K'kam.

Chapter Ten

THE PLANET OF Romulus had throbbed below them like
a live bacillus.
    A planet could not throb, of course, but that's what
it had seemed like to Picard as they had looked at it
from the bridge of the Kruge. It was a gray, bleak
sphere, from which occasional and spectacular erup-
tions of red fire blistered their way toward the upper
atmosphere--the famed Firefalls of Gath Gal'thong.
This massive area of constant volcanic activity was
one aspect of Romulan geology that had become
known outside their binary star system. On the unsta-
ble continent of Dektenb, tectonic plates ground and
shifted against each other, and the molten interior of
the planet sought the weak points of the crust. Flare-
ups were frequent and immense, as plumes of flame
shot miles into the sky; fires and lava flows glowed red
and orange in serpentine patterns.
    From space, the effect was that Romulus appeared
to throb with malevolent, palpitating life.
Romulus was the third planet of a binary star
 system comprised of Romulus and Romii. All the
 planets maintained a highly elliptical orbit; for that
 reason, geologic development was erratic. Dektenb
 was unpredictable and volatile; in the other hemi-
 sphere, the continent of Masfarik was barren and
 rocky except in a few oases where cities and towns
 struggled for survival. The population of the planet
 was jammed into these cities, which tended to grow
 upward rather than outward, and population density
 reached intolerable levels.
    But if the planet, from space, throbbed with malig-
nant, pulsing life, there was no sense of that muscular
vitality on the streets of the capital city of Dartha.
Now that he and Data had transported to the surface,
and into the teeming neighborhood known as Krocton
segment, Picard was overwhelmed with a sense of
deadness. Massive structures of steel and glass
climbed toward the skies, creating narrow tunnels
below where sunlight seemed not to penetrate. An
eternal dusk prevailed, relieved sporadically by artifi-
cial lights that had been installed at periodic intervals
and whose pale green light seemed ineffectual against
the relentless gloom.
    At street level there was no evidence of steel or glass.
Dartha was an ancient city, and had grown upward
from the ground. Here at its lower depths the founda-
tions were of timeworn granite, stained with age and
use. The harsh angles of the architecture were punctu-
ated with occasional touches of strange whimsy; Pi-
card noted two leering creatures like gargoyles carved
in stone, peering down from a high lintel.
    But the most desolate component of the city was its
people.
Dressed in dark, drab clothing, they moved along
the streets with heads down, rarely speaking, not even
making eye contact. No one seemed in a hurry, no one
seemed even to have a purpose; clumps of them would
stand on corners, congregated for no apparent reason
or function. Some spoke in low tones, but there was
no sense of joy, of ambition, not even of anger. There
was only an overriding pall of grim despair.
    Picard knew that life was difficult in Krocton seg-
ment, and everyone very much looked out for them-
selves. They would have to be constantly vigilant; this
was not a situation in which they could expect any
quarter given. He recalled ancient laboratory experi-
ments in which rats were crowded into smaller and
smaller cages; eventually, stripped of space, they
began eating each other.
    He and Data stood quietly for a few moments,
inspecting the situation. They attracted no attention
by doing so, for many others stood silently in the same
way. Picard saw Data gazing ingenuously at the sur-
roundings, and knew that he was memorizing every
detail.
    Picard drew his cloak about him more closely. He
wasn't cold; in fact, Dartha was exceptionally warm.
Perhaps he was trying to keep the insidious spirit of
hopelessness from invading his soul.

    Proconsul Neral of Romulus stood at the windows
of his office and gazed contentedly at the spectacular
views. In the foreground, the city spires rose proudly
toward the skies; beyond them, dark, jagged moun-
tains erputed in fierce grandeur. Neral loved those
mountains, and would spend long moments staring
out at them, enjoying their majestic, dreadful beauty.
Such views were rare in Dartha; only the upper
 echelons of the Romulan hierarchy could aspire to
 them. His office, likewise, was large, and stately, with
 a quiet elegance. The marble fixtures, the exquisitely
 tooled leather chairs, the massive, hand-carved desk
 --all these amenities were comforting to him. He
 worked hard on behalf of the Romulan people; he felt
 justified in enjoying the environment in which he did
 that work.
     The door opened and Neral smiled pleasantly at the
 rotund figure who entered. "Ah, Senator Pardek. You
 received my message."
 "I got here as quickly as I could, proconsul."
 Neral smiled and gestured toward the monitor on
 his desk. "What do you know of this human, Jean-Luc
 Picard?"
  Pardek looked puzzled. "Picard," he repeated.
  "Yes. Have you seen him recently?"
  "To my knowledge, I've never seen him."
     "I have received intelligence that says he's on his
 way here. Perhaps here already," Neral said.
    This produced a truly surprised response. Pardek
looked amazed as he responded, "Here--on Romu-
lus?"
    "Yes. Curious, isn't it? I suppose we'd better find
out if the report is accurate--or merely rumor."
Neral eyed the old senator briefly, considering his
next move. "Circulate his likeness to the security
forces," he ordered. "Remind them that if he is here,
he is probably disguised as one of us."
    'TII see to it," said Pardek, and scurried toward the
door. Relieved that Pardek was taking this disquieting
responsibility from him, Neral turned once more to
contemplate the stark beauty of the black mountains.
    Picard felt as though they had been standing in the
same place for an hour, though he knew that only
minutes had passed. Time in this dank, dreary place
seemed elongated, as though the unpleasant minutes
moved more slowly. When Data spoke to him, he felt
jolted from a reverie.
    "This is definitely the street on which the intelli-
gence scan of Spock and Pardek was taken, sir.
Adjusting for the optical distortion, I am able to verify
the architectural features."
    "Where were they standing?" asked Picard. That
might offer them a clue as to where to start looking for
either Pardek or Spock. He waited while Data did
some processing, looking up and down the street.
Picard was afraid that his movements seemed too
androidlike and might attract attention. He stepped
toward him and casually draped his arm around
Data's shoulder. "Data," he began.  "Yes?"
    "You're moving about in a very--android man-
ner."
    "I am sorry, Captain," replied Data immediately.
"I will be more careful."
  "And don't call me 'Captain.'"
 "Yes, Cap--" Data cut himself off. "I understand."
 Then, looking around in as human a manner as he
 could summon, he said, "I have located the spot
 where they were standing."
     Picard removed his arm from Data's shoulders. He
 realized that such camaraderie was not typical of the
 Romulans. "Where?" he asked.
     To his surprise, Data now put his arm around
 Picard's shoulders and led him a few doors down the
 street. "It is here," he said. "At this doorway."
    Picard looked at a small sign near the door, which,
being written in Romulan, was indecipherable to him.
To his relief, Data dropped his arm and moved
forward to read the sign. "A legal intercessor's office,"
he announced. "The name is similar to Pardek's. It
would appear to be one of his relatives."
    Picard reached out and tried the door; it didn't
yield. "Not open for business yet," he guessed.
    "Nevertheless," Data ventured, "it would be my
recommendation that we keep this location under
observation. I have clearly determined Pardek's rou-
tine. On days when the Senate is not in session, he
invariably comes to this section after the median
hour."
    Picard quickly glanced around, looking for a reason
they could stay close to this office without attracting
attention. He saw, within close range, people eating at
a cluster of tables--a dinglh, or food center. He
turned back to Data. "Very well, why don't we take
the opportunity to try some of the local cuisine."
    They moved casually toward the food court, pass-
ing as they did some Romulan soldiers. They were
hard-looking men who strolled indolently along the
street; Picard and Data kept their eyes straight ahead,
and had no idea if the soldiers took notice of their
passing.
    Every patron of the food court was standing at the
small tables that dotted it. Picard and Data did the
same, and were immediately approached by a dour
woman with small, piercing eyes. She inspected them
carefully.
  "What do you recommend?" asked Data easily.
  "Soup," was her terse reply.
    "That sounds very appealing," Data assured her. "I
will have soup."
    The woman's stern look swung to Picard. "Soup is
fine," he said.
    She moved off and Picard turned nonchalantly and
glanced toward the soldiers. They were still nearby,
talking in hushed tones. He turned back and saw the
woman approaching them with two bowls. Picard
looked at her and asked in a friendly voice, "Do you
know what time the intercessor's office across the way
opens?"
 "Why do you want to know?" Her voice was flat.
 "I need his services. He was recommended."
    There was a brief pause, and then the woman said,
"I haven't seen you here before."
    "We are here for the day," Data interjected smooth-
ly. "From the city of Rateg."
 "Rateg," she said. "I don't think so."
      Picard tried to stay calm. If this woman was suspi-
cious, and the soldiers only a few feet away...
 "Why do you say that?" asked Data.
  "You don't sound like you're from Rateg."
    "Ah," said Data, on sure ground here, "it is a
misconception that all Rategs speak with a particular
inflection. In fact, there are twelve different--"
    "We come from several kilometers outside the
city," interrupted Picard evenly. If Data got into the
detailed complexities of his voluminous research,
they would be quickly uncovered.
    The woman drew back and studied them for a
moment. "Or perhaps," she offered, "you come from
the security forces, to watch the intercessor's office. Is
he in trouble?"
 "Madame, you are mistaken." Picard was genuine-
 ly surprised.
     "It doesn't matter to me," she shrugged. "I don't
 know when he opens. Eat your soup. Courtesy of a
 loyal establishment. Jolan tru."
    She moved off and Picard breathed a silent sigh of
reliefi He noted that Data was already drinking the
broth that the woman had set before them. He looked
down at his own. It was a thin, greasy gruel with a
rancid smell. He had read of this popular dish, gletten,
in his research, and wished now he had not. It didn't
help to know what was in it.
    He took a sip and, as he did, looked up to see that
the soldiers had been looking at them; when he
glanced up, they quickly turned their heads.
    Picard took another swallow of the distasteful liq-
uid, and then said quietly to Data, "We can't stay here
long."
    "We may not have to," Data answered. "Direct
your view to the far corner. Is that not Pardek?"
    The bowl to his lips, Picard shifted his glance in the
direction Data had indicated. There, just having
entered the area, was a round-faced man in a brown
cloak, moving to talk with several people clustered
together. He had the same kindly visage as the man
they had seen on the Barolian tape.
    "I believe you're right," said Picard. He set down
the bowl and concentrated on watching Pardek. But
he heard Data's voice in his ear. "Perhaps you should
appear to enjoy your soup."
    He turned and realized that the foot soldiers were
staring at them again. With a subtle show of enjoy-
ment, Picard lifted the bowl and drank deeply. As he
swallowed the slightly gelatinous broth, he noted that
it was undoubtedly a far easier task for Data to feign
enthusiasm for this dreadful mixture. He realized
he'd better stop thinking about it or he might not be
able to finish it.
    Uneasily, he noticed that the foot soldiers had
moved into the food center and were now standing
only a few meters behind them, talking easily. Picard
kept his eyes on Pardek, who now bid farewell to his
colleagues and began to move further on down the
street.
    Picard and Data unceremoniously put down their
bowls and turned to move after him.
    But the soldiers were right there, blocking their way,
disruptors drawn. "Do not move," said one.
    Picard was aware that the patrons of the food court
had drawn imperceptibly away, heads down, ignoring
the confrontation as though it weren't happening.
"What is it?" demanded Picard. "You've made a
mistake."
    "Quiet," said the other soldier, his voice menacing.
"Come with us."
    Strong hands grabbed them and shoved them up the
street, and within minutes they were sitting inside an
antigrav pod, streaking along the labyrinthine streets
of Dartha, toward a fate that Picard was sure would be
unpleasant.

    Picard's sense of alarm was heightened when he
realized the soldiers' vehicle was taking them out of
the city. This did not portend well. The proconsul's
secret security forces were known for their ability to
extract information from spies, and it seemed not
 unreasonable that there were particular locations for
 such activities. Captain K'Vada's dire warning flashed
 uncomfortably through Picard's mind.
     When they disembarked at the mouth of a cave, his
 dark suspicions grew stronger. The soldiers prodded
 them into a tunnel lit at intervals by the intense white
 light of kekogen lamps. Picard knew that, within the
 bowels of this cave, one could scream for days on end
 and never be heard except by those whose ministra-
 tions he suffered.
     The soldiers pushed them down a ramp, at the
 bottom of which was a subterranean chamber of some
 size. There was a small group of Romulans assembled
 in the room, and Picard noted briefly that they
 seemed to be civilians; that seemed anomalous.
   "Wait here," said the soldier gruffly.
    "For what?" asked Picard, hoping the challenge
would help to still the heightened beating of his heart.
    But there was no answer. The soldiers watched
them carefully, disruptors still aimed; the civilians
regarded them curiously.
    Then there was a sudden movement at the top of
the ramp, and everyone in the vaulted chamber
turned toward it.
    Pardek strolled down the ramp, his cheerful face
somehow out of place in these dark surroundings.
"Welcome to Romulus, Captain Picard."
    Picard's mind reeled, embracing the possibilities.
He didn't want to speak before he had his bearings in
this unexpected circumstance. He saw that the
Romulan soldiers were now stripping off their
uniforms--revealing civilian clothing underneath.
 "Don't let our 'soldiers' alarm you," said Pardek.
"We had to get you off the streets quickly. Romulan
security knows you are here."
    Picard looked quickly around the room, trying to
assess the situation. Were these people an under-
ground movement of some kind? One that operated
with Pardek's support and approval? Or was this some
kind of ruse, intended to throw him off balance and
force him to reveal his true purpose?
    Pardek's voice was reassuring. "I am Pardek. You
are among friends, Captain."
    He looked into the man's eyes and knew he must
take the risk. He had not come across three sectors to
Romulus and into the midst of the Federation's
enemies because he intended to play it safely. The
stakes were too high for that.
    "I have come on an urgent mission from the Federa-
tion," he announced. "I am looking for Ambassador
Spock."
  There was silence.
      Then, from the depths of the cavern, through a
tunnel shrouded in darkness, came a voice.
  "Indeed," it said.
  All heads turned toward the sound.
    Footsteps began to echo on the cave floor, emanat-
ing from deep within the tunnel, the measured steps
ringing with amazing magnitude in the silence of the
cave.
    The steps grew closer. Picard strained to see into the
tunnel, but there was only gloom. The footsteps
echoed louder and louder in the stillness.
    Then a shadowy figure began to emerge, a tall
person, regal and poised, his face still shrouded in
darkness. The man stepped into the light.
  It was Spock.
"You have found him, Captain Picard," he intoned.
There was no warmth to his voice, and his piercing
eyes were cold. He stared at the man who had traveled
so far to see him, but there was no welcome in the
look.

Chapter Eleven

WHAT SEEMED LIKE several minutes passed in a strange
kind of suspension. Picard was aware of the hushed
silence of the onlookers, the eerie glow cast by the
kekogen lamps in the cave, of Data's curious gaze and
Pardek's puckish face in the shadows. He was aware of
all those things.
 But he saw only Spock's eyes.
    Dark and probing, they held Picard's in a look that
caused him to feel the blood pounding in his head.
There was no outward indication of anger; Spock's
face was expressionless. But those eyes were black fire,
a window to some deep and unfathomable part of the
man where anger churned and seethed.
    Picard was fascinated, held in that grip like a bird
mesmerized by a snake's eye. It was not until Spock
uttered his next words that Picard felt released from
the hold of that powerful gaze.
    "What are you doing on Romulus?" No preamble,
no niceties, just blunt frontal assault. But the words
 restored Picard to a sense of himself, and when he
 spoke, his voice was clear and calm.
  "That was to be my question for you, sir."
  "It is no concern of Starfleet's."
     "On the contrary, Starfleet is most concerned."
 Picard was finding the dialectic comfortable; debate
 put him on familiar ground. "You are in a position to
 compromise the security of the Federation."
    Spock's look hardened. "You may assure your su-
periors that I am on a personal mission of peace, and
will advise them when appropriate."
    Picard's voice echoed Spock's resoluteness. "That
will not be satisfactory." And he saw a flash in Spock's
eye, felt the conflict growing, knew they were polariz-
ing.
    "You cannot remain, Captain," retorted Spock, as
though that final statement ended the dispute.
    "And I cannot return without a full explanation."
Picard took a breath, then plunged ahead. "Ambassa-
dor, with the greatest respect for all you've achieved
on behalf of the Federation, this sort of cowboy
diplomacy is not easily tolerated any more."
    Picard noted that he had scored with that. Spock
seemed almost amazed as he repeated, "Cowboy
diplomacy?"
    "If you wish to undertake a mission with potential
repercussions to the Federation, it is appropriate to
discuss it with the Federation. I am here as their
representative. You will have to discuss it with me.
NOW."
    Spock moved away from him, frowning with frus-
tration. "This is precisely what I wanted to avoid."
    Picard felt Spock's backing off was perhaps an effort
to constrain rising emotions. He sensed it was time to
move from confrontation, although he was reluctant
to introduce the next subject. But it had to come.
    "I also have the responsibility of bearing some
unhappy news."
    Spock turned back and fixed him with those pene-
trating eyes.
 "Sarek is dead," he said.
    Startled, Picard thought for a moment that the news
had reached Romulus somehow, then realized that it
was simply Spock's prescience.
    There was a long silence. Picard could hear others
breathing, shifting position, feeling uncomfortable
about the nakedness of this intimate moment. Finally,
Spock gestured toward a passageway. "Walk with me, Captain Picard."
    Picard glanced at Data, letting him know it was all
right to stay behind, and followed Spock out of the
chamber. They walked quietly through the rough
pathway and then emerged into another, smaller
section, one where water oozed from the walls and
dripped into unseen underground rivers. It was warm
and moist there, and Picard was reminded of the
vineyards of southern France just before a thunder-
storm.
    Spock turned and gazed at him. Whatever might be
going on inside him, there was no hint of it on the
surface. His voice, when he spoke, was as composed as
ever. "I know of your mind meld with my father. It
enabled him to complete his last mission."
  "It was an honor. He was a great man."
    "He was a great representative of the Vulcan people
and of the Federation."
    Picard gave him a glance. It sounded as though
Spock meant that as a qualifter, and not a compli-
 ment. But with his dry intonation, it was impossible
 to be sure.
     Picard thought of Sarek, a feeble, trembling man
 with tears staining his face, unable to hold his hand in
 the Vulcan salute. His last words were a plea to Picard
 to convey to his son what he felt, but now in Spock's
 presence Picard felt inadequate to the task. How to
 tell Spock of Sarek's love for him? How to convey a
 lifetime of feelings unspoken? Yet he felt bound to try.
     "I was with him before coming here," he began.
 "He expressed his pride in you, his love..." The
 words sounded hollow in Picard's ears, and his mind
 struggled to find better ones.
     "Emotional disarray," replied Spock dryly, "is a
 symptom of the illness from which he suffered."
     "No, the feelings were in his heart, Spock. He
 shared them with me. I know."
    Spock turned away and Picard knew he was uncom-
fortable with this emotional discussion. He would
prefer to mourn Sarek's death in his own way, some
rational acknowledgment that all living beings die;
Picard was making him uneasy with the message from
his father.
    Spock moved back to business. "Sarek would no
more approve of my coming to Romulus than you do,
Captain." He began to pace the small, humid cham-
ber, organizing his thoughts, gradually becoming
caught up in his ideas, eager to communicate.
    "For some time, I have been aware of a growing
movement here... of people who seek to learn the
ideals of the Vulcan philosophy. They have been
declared enemies of the state. But there are a few in
the Romulan hierarchy, like Pardek, who are sympa-
thetic." Spock paused and looked solemnly at Picard.
    And then he said something that Picard would
never, in his wildest thoughts, have imagined to have
been at the heart of Spock's clandestine journey to
Romulus: "He asked me to come here now because he
believes it may be time to take the first step toward
reunification."
    Picard stared at him, genuinely stunned at this
revelation. His mind whirled to process the ramifica-
tions. "Reunification... after so many centuries...
so many fundamental differences that have evolved
between your peoples..."
    "It would seem unlikely to succeed," Spock agreed.
"But I cannot ignore the potential rewards that a
union between our worlds would bring."
    Picard took a moment to reflect. He was familiar
with the history of the Vulcans and Romulans, who
were once one people--a passionate, raging, violent
race whose emotions were untrammeled. The Vul-
cans, fearing the consequences of unbridled sensi-
bilities, consciously opted for a life of control and
orderliness, a life in which meditation was used to
conquer rampant feelings, a life of contemplation in
which reason and logic were lifted to an exalted
position.
    The Romulans made no such effort. Their passions
raged unchecked. They were violent, turbulent, vi-
cious, and cruel. They channeled their native intelli-
gence into warfare and conquest, their productivity
into armament and weapons--instruments of death.
    Centuries had passed since the original separation.
Was it possible, after all that time, that the two
nations could find a rebirth in unification? Picard's
mind scrambled to understand the nuances of this
monumental plan.
 "What is this 'first step' that Pardek suggests?"
 "There is a new proconsul of the Romulan Senate,
 Neral. He is young and idealistic. He has promised
 many reforms. Pardek believes he may be receptive to
 discussing reunification."
     Picard digested this. "Why would you not bring
 something this important to the attention of your
 people--or the Federation?"
     He could see Spock's mind reeling backwards--one
 hundred thirty years of memories, how could one
 contain them all?--and light on a painful incident.
 "A personal decision, Captain. Perhaps you are aware
 that I played a small role in the first overture to peace
 with the Klingons..."
     "History is aware of the role you played, Ambassa-
 dor."
    "Not entirely. It was I who asked Kirk to lead that
peace mission. And I who had to accept the responsi-
bility for the consequences to him and his crew."
Spock's dark eyes held his for a brief moment. "Quite
simply, I am unwilling to risk anyone's life but my
own on this occasion. I would ask you to respect my
wishes and leave."
    Picard had to suppress a smile. "Ambassador, your
logic escapes me. If I didn't know better, I would say
your judgment had been influenced by emotion."
    There was a new timbre to Spock's voice as he
replied. "You speak as my father would if he were
here, Picard."
    Hearing the bite to that speech, Picard retorted in
kind. "I speak as a Starfleet officer. And I cannot
ignore the risks to you--"
 "I was involved with 'cowboy diplomacy,' as you
describe it, Captain, long before you were born,"
Spock came back. They were polarizing again.
    "Nevertheless, sir, I am not prepared to leave until
your affairs are completed."
    Spock hurled him a look of withering disdain. "In
your own way, you are as stubborn as another captain
of the Enterprise I once knew."
    Picard repressed the smile. "Then, sir," he stated
calmly, "I am in good company."
    Spock stared at him for what felt like an hour and
was probably only seconds. Finally, he nodded--
which Picard was only too glad to take as acquies-
cence.

Chapter Twelve

 CAPTAIN K'VADA'S SHOULDER was not healing well. At
 night he suffered awfully and could not find any
 position in which the lancing pains did not interrupt
 his sleep. Each time he adjusted his body his shoulder
 felt as though a fiery brand were being jabbed into it,
 and he had to force himself not to cry out.
    He would mutter vile oaths toward K'kam, willing
the most ghastly catastrophies to befall her for having
caused him this grief. When he saw her again he would
punish her himself, and he briefly derived some
satisfaction from a vision of K'kam, her strong,
sinewy body glistening with sweat, begging him for
mercy.
    Days brought some relief from the pain, which
seemed to ease with activity, but lack of sleep made
him irritable, and his crew was beginning to dread his
appearance on the bridge. He had already ordered
disciplines for several and had had another locked in
chains for several days without food or water. He had
finally relented when he visited the wretch and found
him near unconsciousness from thirst, his lips cracked
and bleeding, but who refused nonetheless to beg for
mercy. He glared at K'Vada with burning eyes, proud-
ly silent, and K'Vada was moved by his courage.
    Now K'Vada sat in his command chair, shoulder
throbbing with each beat of his heart, and listened to
what the absurd-looking Commander Data, still in his
Romulan guise, was telling him.
 And it made him even more irate.
    The Starfleet creature was telling him that Picard
was remaining on the surface for an undetermined
amount of time, and that the Kruge would be required
to stay in orbit, cloaked, until such time as he chose to
return.
    K'Vada glared at Data. "We have more important
things to attend to than acting as your nursemaids,"
he grumbled.
     Data's voice was annoyingly calm. "Captain Picard
 regrets that he must detain you but it is necessary for a
 while longer. In addition, I will be requiring access to
 your ship's computer."
     This statement caused K'Vada to lean forward
 abruptly, and he winced as a fierce pain lanced
 through his shoulder. "Access to our computer? For
 what purpose?"
     "I am going to attempt to penetrate the Romulan
 central information net."
     In spite of the misery of his shoulder, K'Vada
 smiled. "Don't bother," he warned. "We've been
 trying for years."
     "I have unique skills that may permit me to suc-
 ceed."
     The nagging suspicion that that was true annoyed
 K'Vada. He felt compelled to offer obstacles. "I can-
 not reveal classified Klingon entry codes to Starfleet."
     "Your entry codes can be easily reconfigured after
 we depart." With great effort, thought K'Vada, and
 was prepared to refuse permission until Data added,
 "And Captain Picard has authorized me to share with
 you any information we obtain from the Romulan
 data banks."
     Captain K'Vada frowned and grunted, but his mind
 was giddy with the prospect of tapping into Romulan
 intelligence. This would bring him praise and com-
 mendation from the High Council. Romulan data
 banks! Never had the Klingons had such information.
 His mind accommodated a brief image of K'kam, in
 awe of her remarkable mate, aroused and growling,
 promising him any pleasure he wanted...
     "Anything else?" he asked sarcastically, still trying
 to save face.
    To his surprise, the android replied, "We will also
need to communicate with the Enterprise in sector
two-thirteen."
    "You do and the Romulans will instantly know our
coordinates," shot back K'Vada. Was the android
mad? Surely he knew there could be no communica-
tion out of the Neutral Zone.
    But Data's equanimity was undisturbed. "Using
conventional means, that would be true; however, I
propose that we piggyback our signal on Romulan
subspace transmissions."
    "Piggyback?" K'Vada had never heard the phrase; it
sounded faintly silly.
"A human metaphor--pardon me. We would use a
Romulan signal as a carrier for our own, thus disguis-
ing its origin."
    It was a stunningly simple idea. K'Vada cursed
inwardly that it had never occurred to him. "It won't
work," he announced.
    "I believe it will." The android, unaffected by
K'Vada's curt reply, proceeded to explain his ration-
ale with measured calm. "During the last hour, I have
conducted a systematic review of the entire Romulan
subspace grid and compared my findings with the
specifications of your transmission array. It would
appear they are compatible."
    K'Vada studied him for a long moment. Something
had occurred to him, something that was likely to
bring him even more honor than information from
the Romulan data banks. He brusquely nodded his
approval to Data, who politely replied, "Thank you
for your cooperation," then exited the bridge.
     K'Vada turned his new thought over in his mind for
 a few moments, and it was sweet. Almost smiling now,
 he moved to a comm panel and tapped in his entry
 code. "Captain's notation," he said confidently. "Rec-
 ommend we study the potential for a Klingon artifi-
 cial life entity."
     He had mused on the idea for several moments
 before he realized that his shoulder had stopped
 aching.

    Spock saw the boy from the corner of his eye,
running down the street, already out of breath, clutch-
ing the rose-colored lagga flower in his fist. It was
D'Tan, a Romulan child not yet past puberty. Spock
recognized him from his whippet body and smooth,
 gaited run; he had marveled at the boy's boundless
 energy on several occasions. That is one thing age
 gives us, he thought. An appreciation of things the
 young take for granted.
     D'Tan paused near a line of Romulans who were
 queued for a goods dispenser, and handed the flower
 to one of the men standing there--a man Spock knew
 as Jaron.
     The man took the flower, glanced furtively around,
 then stepped out of line. Spock knew Jaron was
 headed toward him, but he kept his eyes resolutely
 forward.
     Spock and Picard were standing at one of the small
 tables that dotted the floor of the dinglh. They had
 been standing casually there for several minutes and
 had already ordered soup--almost the only thing that
 was ever available. Spock knew that the powerful
 denizens of Romulus dined each night on sumptuous
 delicacies; the ordinary man stood in line for a crown
 of bread and a chunk of gristle.
    Spock would have preferred to be here alone; he had
hoped to convince Picard to transport back to his
Klingon ship and then return to Federation space. An
affair like this was best handled without outside
interference and with as few participants as possible.
The delicacy of the situation made a Starfleet cap-
tain's presence troubling, indeed.
    Spock looked at the trim, fit man opposite him,
registered his grave, intelligent eyes and his assured
bearing, and reflected that, all his misgivings notwith-
standing, if Starfleet felt they had to send someone,
this had undoubtedly been a wise choice.
    He had never met Jean-Luc Picard, but he had of
course heard of the captain of the fleet's flagship. His
reputation heralded him as a man of courage, erudi-
tion, and compassion, and in their brief encounter
Spock had no reason to doubt any of those qualities.
To those he might add perceptivity, articulateness,
and tenacity.
    All the same, he made Spock uneasy. And he wasn't
sure why.
    Spock disliked not being able to objectify his in-
stinct; it was like an elusive mote in the eye that can't
be seen or extracted but continues to irritate nonethe-
less. What was it about Picard that he found so
disquieting?
    Perhaps it was that Picard's attitude about the
possibility of unification was simply not logical.
Spock was sure that the Federation and its representa-
tives could only benefit if his mission were successful,
and he did not doubt that Picard would ultimately be
supportive of such a movement. So there was no
reason for Picard to disapprove of his goal.
     But he did. That was it--Jean-Luc Picard thought
 he was an impressionable fool for having entered into
 this endeavor.
     Perhaps that is why Spock seemed to hear his
 father's voice whenever Picard voiced his concerns
 about the reunification talks. Sarek, too, had never
 given credence to Spock's beliefs that there were some
 Romulans who wanted peace, who wanted to live in
 reborn harmony with their Vulcan cousins. It had
 been a lifelong source of conflict. And now here was
 this Picard, echoing that same attitude.  In a way, it was fascinating.
     In a corner of the dinglh, Spock saw the man with
 the flower moving idly toward them. In a moment he
 was passing their table, and as he did so he casually
 placed the blossom in a glass of water, then deposited
 it in front of Spock.
     "Allow me to brighten your table," Jaron intoned,
 and Spock nodded noncommittally. "Jolan tru,"
 added the man, and moved on. The Romulan greet-
 ing, which meant variously "good day," "best
 wishes," or "good luck," was a neutral one shared by
 all. It connoted no political allegiance or leaning,
 though Spock knew the man was a member of the
 movement.
     He turned back toward Picard, his voice quiet;
 fortunately, a hushed conversation drew no attention,
 for everyone spoke in guarded tones in this city. "The
 Senate has adjourned. Pardek will be here shortly."
 He glanced toward the pink lagga blossom. The
 flower is a signal."
    Picard nodded. Spock knew the Starfleet captain
was curious to hear Pardek's message, for it would
signal either an end to or a continuation of Spock's
objective. Picard's eyes carefully swept the interior of
the food center; Spock was pleased that he was ever on
the alert. "Just how widespread is this movement?"
asked the captain.
    They had been talking, before D'Tan's flower had
arrived, about the remarkable events that were tran-
spiring here in the Romulan system. Picard had
listened carefully, gathering in the information Spock
provided him, asking intelligent questions. He
seemed to be intrigued by Spock's revelation of an
active, pervasive underground of those who longed for
reunification. "I am told," replied Spock, "that there
are groups in every populated area."
    He stopped as he felt the arrival of the matron: he
had not seen her here before and was unwilling to take
the chance that even a whispered conversation might
he overheard. The woman sat before them bowls of
gletten, eyed the flower, looked hard at them, and then
moved off.
    "The spread of these groups has become a serious
concern to the Romulan leadership," Spock then
continued.

    "Serious enough for the leaders to suddenly em-
brace a Vulcan peace initiative? I have a difficult time
accepting that."
    In that sentence, Spock heard the intransigence and
stubbornness that disturbed him. He admired the fact
that this captain had courage; he would never be
intimidated into altering his position. But could he
not embrace the possibility of change? Was he thor-
oughly inflexible?
     "I sense you have a closed mind, Captain," he
 retored. "Closed minds have kept these two worlds
 apart for centuries."
     He saw Picard give him a look that suggested
 puzzlement. Perhaps he had spoken a bit sharply.
 Spock continued, determined to win his support. "In
 the Federation, we have learned from experience to
 view the Romulans with distrust. We can either
 choose to live with that enmity or seek an opportunity
 to change it." He paused and looked at Picard with his
 most penetrating gaze. "I choose the latter."
     Picard seemed unaffected by the stare. "I will be the
 first to cheer when the Neutral Zone is abolished, sir. 1
 only wonder if this movement is strong enough to
 reshape the entire Romulan political landscape."
     Again, it was a familiar tone that Spock heard from
 this man. Surprising that it did something to his
 stomach that was vexatious.
     His eyes shifted and fell on the flower in the glass,
 already wilted and gasping in the Romulan heat. "One
 can begin to reshape the landscape with a single
 flower, Captain."
     He didn't look at Picard to see what response that
 observation had produced, because he had noticed
 D'Tan approaching, his wiry child's body full of
 angles and joints. He was carrying something.
     "Jolan tru, Mr. Spock," he said. D'Tan always spoke
 as though he were half out of breath, probably because
 he never walked when he could run. "Look what I've
 brought you."
     "This is my friend D'Tan," Spock told Picard. "He
 is very curious about Vulcan."
     "Hello, D'Tan." Picard's voice was friendly, if
 somewhat cautious. Spock sensed a man who, though
 warmhearted, was not comfortable with children.
    D'Tan handed Spock a book and he turned it in his
hands. It was worn, with a cover made of wood that
had been carved by hand, and pages that were
smudged and brittle. "It is very old," ventured Spock.
"Where did you get this?"
    "They read from it at the meetings. It tells the story
of the Vulcan separation--"
    A new voice knifed into the conversation, startling
them all. "You should not bring that out here, D'Tan.
You've been told many times."
    They turned to see Pardek approaching, his benign
face a ruddy red from the heat. D'Tan looked sheepish
and took possession of the book once more. "I just
wanted to show it to Mr. Spock," he said lamely.
    Pardek's smile was not threatening. "Off with you.
We will see you later tonight."
D'Tan's eyes sought Spock's, as though to feed from
him once more before he left. "Will you tell us more
stories about Vulcan?" he asked.
    "Yes," answered Spock, and enjoyed the smile that
D'Tan gave him in return. Then the boy sprinted off,
hurling back over his shoulder as he did, "Jolan tru."
    Spock saw Pardek casting his practiced eye around
the denizens of the food center and lighting on the
grim-faced old woman who had brought their gletten.
"Perhaps this is not such a good place to talk," he
murmured, and the three moved casually out of the
court and into the colorless world of the Romulan
streets.
    Spock knew that most of his countrymen, and most
Federation members for that matter, would find the
dark, somber passageways of this city bleak and
depressing. Ironically, he did not. The vast, rugged
beauty of Vulcan, with its ocher deserts and its jagged
red mountains, had instilled in him a love of spacious-
ness and light. Why, then, his appreciation of these
squalid passageways where little light intruded? The
dark facades of the structures were ominous, the
corridors narrow and constricting. The people all
dressed in pallid clothing and their expressions were
quietly despairing. There would seem to be little to
cherish in these desolate streets.
     But Spock had a palpable sense of the spirit that
 lurked beneath; a knowledge that, behind those joy-
 less faces, burned the eagerness for a new order. There
 was a river of desire that ran unseen beneath this city,
 a wellspring from which more and more would soon
 be drinking. That such a flame could burn in these
 woeful alleyways seemed remarkable to him, and
 imbued the surroundings with a unique beauty whose
 essence was almost tangible to him.
      The three men walked the street, heads down in
  Romulan fashion. Pardek cast a glance toward Picard.
  "And what do you think of your enemy, Captain
  Picard?"
     Picard gave him a look that was not accusatory yet
 had an intensity that surprised Spock. "These people
 are no one's enemy, Senator." How true, thought
 Spock, and if only someone wouM tell that to all the
 governmental authorities and all the military leaders.
 The people were rarely each other's enemies...
     Pardek smiled an acknowledgment. "Many of my
 colleagues fear what the people have to say. But I have
 learned to listen carefully." Pardek paused a moment,
 formulating his thoughts. "Children like D'Tan are
 our future. Old men like me will not be able to hold on
 to ancient prejudice and hostility. These young people
 won't allow it."
     Spock glanced at Picard, to see what effect these
 words were having on him. Picard seemed to be
 listening intently.
     "Now that they've met their first real Vulcan,"
 continued Pardek, "it has only inspired them more.
 I'm sure that is evident to you, Spock."
    "I did not anticipate such a passionate response to
my arrival," admitted Spock, remembering the near
delirious joy with which some people at meetings had
greeted him,.
    Pardek smiled. "Romulans are a passionate people.
Vulcans will learn to appreciate that quality in us."
    "If we are successful," added Spock, curious that
Pardek seemed so optimistic today. Were there new
developments?
 That question was answered an instant later when
Pardek looked at him with a smile that crinkled his
merry eyes. "We will know soon," he declared, not
without a certain pride. "The proconsul, Neral, has
agreed to meet with you."
    Spock was pleased to note that Picard seemed
amazed by this announcement.

Chapter Thirteen

 FOR RIKER, the week at Qualor Two had passed like a
 day. After the astonishing explosion of the smuggler's
 ship, the Enterprise had gone into synchronous orbit
 around the planet in order to investigate. Klim
 Dokachin had put the full resources of the formidable
 Zakdornian computer system at their disposal, as well
 as the combined sensibilities of several dozen of his
 colleagues to whom the desecration of their surplus
 depot was tantamount to sacrilege.
    Riker found, after his initial period of discomfort
with Dokachin's officiousness, that the rotund little
man was a treasure. He had taken the theft of his ships
and his materiel as a personal affront, and would leave
nothing undone in order to uncover the perpetrator.
The Zakdorn were methodical and fastidious to a
fault, but in a case like this they were of inestimable
value.
    He and Gretchen Naylor had spent hours with
Dokachin at a computer console, tracking manifests
and logs. They had uncovered a trail of lost materiel
that went back well over a year, and which included
sensor arrays, deflectors, computers, armament, and
almost anything else integral to the fitting of space-
ships.
    And then there were the two missing ships: the
T'Pau, the quest for which had begun this whole
adventure; and the Tripoli, the huge cargo ship that
had been used to store equipment that was routinely
stripped from starships consigned to the depot.
    It was, reflected Riker, an ambitious and remark-
ably clever plan. The Tripoli--they weren't sure how
yetmhad quietly been slipped from its docking space.
Whenever shipments werebeamed to its coordinates,
the smuggler's ship apparently took its place and
received the goods, then warped away with no one the
wiser.
     "It seems to me that would mean there was a
 collaborator on the surface," mused Riker. They were
 on board the Enterprise, seated in one of the small
 security offices on Deck Nine; Riker was leaning back
 in his chair, absorbing the information Gretchen was
 relaying to him, mulling it over, worrying it like a pup
 with an old sock. "The computer would have to have
 been reconfigured to indicate the Tripoli was still
 there. Unless the locking coordinates were showing on
 the computer, whoever was programming the trans-
 port would have known there was nothing there."
     Gretchen was nodding, her glossy black hair pulled
 back today into a thick braid. Riker noted idly that he
 liked that look on her. "I think there was someone else
 involved, too," she was saying. "So does Dokachin.
 He's written a scanning program to look for patterns
in computer usage during the last year. He'll cross-
reference the usage patterns with personal and duty
logs to find who might be responsible."
    Riker nodded his approval. "We need to find that
person. They might be our only link to whoever it was
that piloted the smuggleifs ship."
    "Dokachin will transport on board at fifteen hun-
dred hours," said Gretchen. "Maybe he'll have some
results by then."
    "That leaves time for lunch," said Riker, realizing
that it had been hours since breakfast. "Join me?"
    "We have a replicator in the conference room,"
offered Gretchen. "We can eat and continue to study
files." She rose and Riker grinned as he got to his feet.
Naylor set a pace that few could match; she was
single-minded in her diligence. He wondered if she
was always this absorbed in her work. If so, he
doubted that she had any friendships, male or female,
for there would be literally no time to formulate them.
    He also realized that for all the hours they had spent
together this week, he knew remarkably little about
her. She was friendly and cheerful, but other than
sharing first names, they had exchanged no other
personal information. Riker decided to do something
about that.
    She ate sensibly, as he somehow knew she would: a
vegetable salad and rice bread; he opted for an omelet
even though he'd never quite adapted to the taste of
replicated eggs.
    'Td rather have them fresh," he admitted, and she
looked at him in mild surprise.
 "You mean--cook?" she queried.
    "I enjoy cooking. Not all the time, mind you, but I
make a mean omelet myselfi"
"With what?" She sounded genuinely mystified.
"With whatever I can find... eggs, vegetables, that
kind of thing. It doesn't happen often." He was silent
for a moment, dousing catsup on the omelet. Repli-
cated catsup was even stranger than eggs, but some-
how the two complemented each other.
    "I've never cooked," she stated flatly. "My mother
didn't cook. No one in my family has ever cooked.
I don't understand--it just seems like a waste of
time."
    He smiled. This was not an uncommon attitude. In
fact, it was becoming rarer and rarer to find anybody
--especially in Starfleet--who had ever participated
in any kind of food preparation. "To me, it's a creative
outlet. Every time I make something, I try to vary it a
little, so it never comes out the same way twice."
  "Why?" Her brow was knotted in a frown.
    He shrugged. "Aren't there things you just like to
do... for no reason except that it gives you pleas-
ure?"
    She considered. "I like to work. That gives me
pleasure."
    "I mean besides work. Music, art, reading,
sports..." He paused, remembering the fragrant
hills of her home, and offered, "Gardening."
    "Definitely not that. I saw enough of gardens in
Indiana to last me all my life." She looked up at him
and smiled, and he could see flecks of another color--
gold?--in her eyes. "You have to realize, I knew from
the time I was a little girl that I wanted Starfleet. I
knew what it would take to get accepted to the
Academy, and I vowed I wouldn't let anything get in
my way."
    Riker nodded. He knew what it took; he had put in
years of preparation himself. But somehow there had
been time for sports, for playing the piano, for read-
ing. Even, in the crisp wilds of the snowy Alaskan
forests, time just to walk and dream. Maybe that had
been his mother's legacy: his father certainly never
condoned giving time to daydreams.
    "My parents were incredibly supportive," she went
on. "The whole family was. My brother and my sister
took over my chores so I'd have more time to study.
Getting me into Starfleet was a family goal. They all
sacrificed a lot to give me that chance, and I always felt
I owed it to them to succeed."
    She stirred vaguely at her salad. Riker found him-
self feeling sorry for her, this serious young woman
with the overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He
wondered if her family would enjoy knowing that she
had given up everything in life that might be pleasura-
ble except her work. Somehow he doubted it. They
might be proud of her and gratified that the joint
efforts had paid off; but surely they would want her to
enjoy herself occasionally.
    "Ensign, as your commanding officer, I have an
order for you." Her head jerked up at this and she
fixed him with a clear gaze.
    "Yes, sir," she replied crisply. He almost smiled at
her seriousness.
    "I want you to find a hobby." She looked at him,
perplexed. "Doesn't matter what, as long as you spend
at least ten hours a week at it. And it cannot be
work-related."
    They were in the midst of discussing options, with
Riker suggesting that he could teach her to play
stand-up bass--she'd never heard of a stand-up bass
--when Dokachin sent a message from the surface
informing them that he had found the collaborator.

    The culprit was a female Zakdorn named Gelfina.
She seemed pathetic to Riker, with her wrinkled,
squat body and her whiny voice. She sat wringing her
hands nervously, and her eyes were already wet. He
felt that anything but a gentle approach would be
brutal.
  Gretchen felt no such compunctions.
    To Riker's amazement, she was an intimidating
interrogator, hammering away relentlessly, unmoved
by the Zakdorn woman's tears and unswayed by her
excuses.
    "We've identified your computer-usage pattern,"
snapped Gretchen. "We've matched your personal
and duty logs with the files documenting the trans-
ports to the Tripoli. If you believe we've made a
mistake you'll be given the chance to make a typical
entry so we can see if the same pattern occurs."
    Gelfina shook her head miserably. She knew that
usage patterns for a race as precise and meticulous as
the Zakdorn were as identifiable as fingerprints are on
humans. No two people used a computer in the same
way, and the technology that could recognize the user
through his or her pattern was well established.
    "Then you acknowledge that we have correctly
distinguished your signature?" Gretchen's voice was
adamant, and Gelfina nodded, snuffling a bit as she
did.
    "Then you admit that you forged the locking coor-
dinates of the Tripoli into the depot's computer
system?"
 The woman hesitated, looked around her, calculat-
ing her chances of getting out of this. Riker saw her
give that up when she turned back to Gretchen, and
looked into those green eyes, blazing now with intent.
Gelfina nodded.
    "Why?" asked Riker. He was always interested in
what motivated people to act in ways that were
ultimately against their own best interest. But this
question only caused Gelfina to dissolve in tears--
huge, wracking sobs that caused her pudgy shoulders
to heave and shudder.
    Gretchen shot him a look. She clearly felt the
question and its resultant histrionics had gotten in the
way of her clean drive toward the truth. And she was
right. But Riker was still curious. Gelfina's sobs
subsided and, for the first time, she spoke.
    "He was nice to me," she burbled. "He said I was
p-p-p-pretty," and then she dissolved once more in
tears. Riker realized his curious question had un-
locked more than motivation, and Gretchen realized
the same. She flicked her eyes toward Gelfina and
backed away. Riker moved forward and sat in front of
the miserable Zakdorn woman.
    "Gelfina," he said softly. "I know this is hard on
you. But we need your help. I think someone has taken
advantage of you. Can you tell me who it is?"
    She wiped large hands across her porcine face, and
struggled for control. "He didn't take advantage of
me... he cared about me. He understood me. He
was the only one who ever treated me that way...
and now he's dead!" That brought on another episode
of wailing, and Riker waited patiently until she could
continue.
    He reflected on the scenario that was unfolding.
Gelfina, a squalid, torpid creature whose job as a
computer technician was probably all she could ever
look forward to, was easy prey for a seducer. A few
soft words, a compliment, an understanding ear...
and a grasping man could have just about anything he
wanted.
    "He was on the ship that exploded," Riker deduced,
and Gelfina nodded, rubbing the backs of her hands
across her eyes, which were now red and swollen.
"What was his name?"
    "M-M-Melcor." She shuddered, as though to say
the name would undo her again.
    "And he asked you to configure the computer
system so everyone would think the Tripoli was still
docked in its space?" Another nod. He sensed that
Gelfina was becoming sullen again. "Do you know
why he did it? What he did with the materiel he
stole?"
 An emphatic shake of the head.
    "Do you know whom else he dealt with?" Another
no. Riker leaned in close, and took her now wet hand
in his. "Gelfina," he said gently, "you've been very
brave. I'm going to recommend that the Zakdorn
authorities treat you with understanding. But I would
very much appreciate it if you could tell me the name
of even one other person that Melcor knew."
    At this her head snapped up and her round moon
face took on a furious look. "Amarie," she snapped.
"His fat, stupid, worthless, lazy, uncouth ex-wife."

    Amarie sucked a salt stick with one hand as she
played the keyboard with the other three. She'd been
swearing she'd give them up for months, and once
she'd gone as long as four days without one. But the
cravings became so intense that she found herself
holding a stick with trembling fingers, licking it des-
perately, without remembering any conscious deci-
sion to do so.
    After that, she gave up. What the rune, anyway? So
she lived a few months less. The way her life was going
she wouldn't miss those months, and maybe be glad to
check out sooner rather than later.
    Amarie sighed and put down the salt stick, joined
her fourth hand to the keyboard. This was what the
customers at Shern's Palace came to hear: all four
hands blazing away on the keys and Amarie's ample
girth jiggling to the beat of her music. Although, as she
looked around, she realized not many were coming
anymore. The bar was nearly empty; only a few jaded
regulars sat at tables and mostly they ignored her
music.
    Who could blame them? They'd heard it all before.
There were no new customers; the only ones who
came here any more were those with nowhere else to
go. Shern's Palace, indeed. Some palace. It was a
tacky, overblown hideaway that had already seen its
glory days. The decor was pure Zakdorn, even though
Shern was a Filimase: lots of red panels, with ropes
and nets and chains and--did anyone still do those?
--stone shriva birds at the entrance.
    Amarie had long since found she could do an
evening's set at the keys without her mind ever being
engaged in the music. It was rote to her by now, her
repertoire so extensive that she could segue from piece
to piece without having to direct her conscious mind
to the process.
 Unfortunately, that gave her a lot of time to think.
 Thinking wasn't something she enjoyed much these
days; too much in her life was disappointing. All the
wrong turns and bad choices kept recycling in her
mind like a feedback loop. Mostly those choices
involved men, rune them. Frank, Nard, Melcor,
Renninum... losers every one. What was it about
her that kept attracting this space flotsam? Weren't
there any good men left in the galaxy?
    She glanced over toward a wall panel where she
knew she could catch her reflection, and grabbed a few
licks of salt as she did. She looked good enough, she
thought. Maybe she was a little heavier than when she
was young, but roundness was not necessarily a draw-
back; lots of men liked a little bounce in a woman, and
Amarie could bounce with the best. Her hair was
always neatly done, its black ringlets upswept, and her
makeup artfully applied--quickly, too, because her
four arms came in handy for more than keyboard
playing (and more than a few men would agree with
her). Her nose rings were elaborate and artfully in-
serted; her gown was one of her best--a rose color
(quite flattering to her), with just a bit of a sheen to it.
    "Amarie, my pumply..." The dreaded voice of
Shern, the owner of the hideaway, knifed into her
reverie. She glanced up at him with a bored expres-
sion.
 "What, Shem?"
    "The patrons they are asleep failing. May we not
more music lively be having?"
    Shern drove her crazy. In this age of the Universal
Translator, there was simply no reason not to use one.
Why Shem had to murder the language in his pathetic
attempts to be native was beyond her. She hated his
thin, scaly face and his unblinking, beady eye. But
mostly she loathed him because he held her livelihood
in his control, and lately it seemed she could not
please him, no matter what. Well, rune him.
    "I do my kind of music, Shern. You liked it when
you hired me."
    "But the sameness again and again occurs. Is not
there some variety possible beingT'
    Variety. She could play maybe four thousand sepa-
rate melodies, enough to run continuously for several
days, and he accused her of not having variety.
Annoyed, she grabbed at her salt stick and stuck it in
her mouth. "You tell me what you want, Shem, I'll
give it to you. Better than anybody else you could get
to do this job for what you're paying." The words were
a little muffled behind the salt, but she knew he'd get
the idea.
    "If no there is customers more, job will be continu-
ing not," he hissed, and, glowering at her portentous-
ly, moved off.
    Amarie's second-greatest fear was that she would
spend out her days in this runey little hovel, sucking
salt and making music, without ever knowing the love
of a good man or the fulfillment of children.
    Her greatest fear was that she would not spend out
her days here, would in fact not spend any more of
them here, and be cast out jobless to make her way on
Qualor in whatever fashion she could work out. And
that would be next to impossible, because she and the
weird little runes known as Zakdorn did not get along
at all.
    She'd never have chosen this place to live; it was
light-years from her home planet in more ways than
distance. Talemstra, where she'd been born, was in-
habited by a peace-loving, creative species, all of
whom had four arms and who used them in the
pursuit of the arts. Music, sculpture, dance--her
people delighted in these activities, and Amarie would
give anything if she could get back to them. She'd been
abandoned on Zakdorn by her third husband, Nard, a
handsome adventurer who had his own starship, but
who unfortunately also had a roving eye. He'd left her
for a Siblite beauty who was too young for him, and
far too thin, and she figured they hadn't lasted long at
all. But in the meantime, she was stuck on Zakdorn.
    She hated it here. They were such dull, officious
little runes; they had no appreciation for a creative
soul. And she was incapable of doing any of the jobs
they offered her--she couldn't deal with columns of
numbers and lists of files. Music was all she knew, and
if she lost this job she'd be in real trouble. She'd die
homeless and friendless on this awful planet, with no
one to mourn her passing.
    Amarie crunched the last of her salt stick in her
mouth and winced as the bitter granules went down
her throat. She took one hand to wash it down with
Trastor ale, then attacked the keyboard with all four
hands. She'd make Shern eat his words. Variety? She'd
show him variety.
    She was working the quartet of arms into a lather
when she saw the man walk in, and her heart suddenly
pounded. He was tall and breathtakingly handsome,
with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was
dressed in a well-tailored red outfit--a uniform?-
and he had eyes the color of the seas on Hoalot.
    There was a woman with him, and she was thin--
planklike actually. Amarie knew that kind of skin-
and-bones could never bounce a man like this. The
woman's hair was dark and neatly tied, her face
looked drab without makeup, and she wore the same
outfit as the man, only it was a brownish color.
    Amarie intensified the beat of the music and swayed
on her stool. She'd get that man up here and they'd
make real music together.
 For the first time that night, Amarie smiled.

    Riker's eyes swept the murky interior of the hide-
away. There were few patrons; those that were there
tended to hover in the shadows toward the rear. What
were clearly prostitutes lounged in a bored fashion
along the bar, but there were no takers.
    He was aware of Gretchen at his side, studying the
room as intently as he; he wondered if he'd been wise
in bringing her. She'd been determined to come, of
course, and Worf had backed her up' the Klingon
lieutenant liked to know that one of his trained people
was along on any away mission.
    Nonetheless, this sordid little den was not, in
Riker's mind, the place for a young woman from
Indiana. He knew Gretchen would be furious if she
knew he was thinking that, and he would never voice
it aloud; but call him old-fashioned, this was no place
for a lady.
    He'd spotted Amarie the moment they came in; she
was notable because of her four arms, but even
without those he'd have recognized her. She was
blowsy and plump, with frizzy dyed black hair and too
much makeup; cheap-looking artificial jewelry
adorned her fingers, her hair, and her nose. Her pink
sequined gown was loose and flowing, but it did not
conceal her ample girth.
 "Take a seat here, I'll be back in a while." Riker
gestured toward a small table and saw Gretchen's
predictable reaction--her eyes widened in surprise
and then narrowed in resistance.
    "I think I should stay with you, Commander," she
said quietly. "After all, I am assigned to you as
security."
    He smiled easily. "Understood, Ensign. But I-have
sized up the situation and examined the objective.
And I promise you this is one case where I will
function better on my own."
    Her eyes blinked and he pulled out a chair for her.
"I'd suggest you stick to the Trastor ale. It's tasty, and
it won't put you on your ear like some other drinks
they probably serve here." There was a brief moment,
and then Gretchen sat, though reluctantly.
    "All right, Commander," she said. "But I'll be
watching."
    "I hope so. That's your job." And he smiled down
at her.
    He felt, rather than heard, the music take a jump in
energy, and glanced up toward the spotlighted center
of the room where Amarie sat at the keyboard. Briefly
touching Gretchen on the shoulder, he moved toward
the light.
    The woman was sucking on a salt stick as she
played, seemingly oblivious to his approach, though
Riker's instincts told him she was very aware. He sat
at one of the unoccupied stools that surrounded the
keyboard instrument. Amarie gave him a quick, non-
committal glance.
 "A new face," she drawled in a husky voice.
    "Same one I've always had," countered Riker, and
was pleased to see a ready grin spread her lips. He
liked people with humor; it made everything so much
easier.
    "What would you like to hear?" she asked, fingers
roaming the keys. Riker was fascinated by the rippling
counterpoints she could produce with her four hands.
  "Know the blues?" he asked.
    Another grin on her generous mouth. "Look at me,
mister. What do you think?"
    Riker decided he liked this woman. She was garish,
but at the core she was earthy and honest. "Seven
different shades of them," she continued. "How about
some low-down Andorian blues?"
    Two hands shifted into a bluesy riff, another worked
the salt stick, and the fourth offered him one from a
nearby bowl. "Suck salt?" she queried.
    "Never cared for it," replied Riker. He thought it a
disgusting habit, and wondered if the people who were
caught up in it realized what it did to their mouths.
He'd dated a woman once who loved her salt sticks,
and every time he kissed her he felt his own mouth
pucker and dry; it was like kissing a desert floor.
    "Good for you. Nasty habit." She took a few more
licks and then put the stick down. Without looking at
him, she said, "Who are you looking for?"
    Caught a little off-guard, Riker felt his reply was
bumbling. "Who says I'm looking for anybody?"
 "Your face. Your uniform. In a place like this."
 "Okay. I'm looking for you."
    "You just made my day." Amarie's delivery was
dry, but Riker felt there was a truth in the words that
she would never admit to.
 "I have to ask you about your husband."
 Amarie cast him a glance and her music took on a
different tone--a little busier, more urgent. "Well, it
was nice while it lasted," she said with studied non-
chalance. "Which husband?"
 "The dead one, I'm afraid."
    She kept playing, never missing a beat. But that
faintly frantic element was still in the music. "You
must be from the Enterprise," she said laconically.
"You destroyed his ship."
    Riker was relieved that she wasn't a game player.
This whole endeavor could have been protracted
interminably, but Amarie was not a guileful woman.
He wondered what feelings she might still have for the
dead man who piloted the smuggler's ship, so he trod
carefully. With a touch of regret in his voice, he said,
"He fired first."
    "He always did." Riker gave her a sharp glance,
looking for any hidden meaning, but her face was
neutral.
    "He was involved in some pretty bad business," he
continued. "And he took the evidence with him."
    "His one endearing quality--he always cleaned up
after himself." Now Riker thought he saw a twinkle in
her eye. "What do you want from me?" she asked.
    "I was hoping you might know his business part-
ners."
    Amarie sighed faintly and looked down at her
hands, moving idly over the keys. "Why should I help
you?" she asked softly.
    "To be honest, I can't think of a good reason." He
smiled at her, and hoped honesty appealed to an
honest woman.
    "Well, you did kill my ex-husband. That's not a bad
start." He shook his head, grinning at her; the more he
sat here, the more he liked her. "Why don't you drop a
few coins in the jar," she suggested. "I'11 see what I
remember."
     "I don't carry money," he said truthfully. She gave
him an appraising glance, and then sighed again.
  "You don't offer much, do you?"
    Riker considered this. It was true. He was asking for
information--a commodity of great value to him.
And he had nothing to offer in return. There was
something unfair about it. What might this used-up
woman want, he wondered, except a man to treat her
decently and take her away from all this?
 Then it occurred to him what it might be.
 "Slide over," he ordered.
 She looked at him in surprise. "What?"
    Riker got up and sat next to her at the piano,
catching a whiff of her salty breath. He reached
toward the keys.
    "Just what I need--another set of hands," she
commented.
    "You know this one?" He began to play the way he
had in the re-creation of Stumpy's place on the
holodeck. "Early twentieth century, from a place on
Earth called Memphis." He played for a moment and
could tell from her reaction that she was responding.
"Maybe," he suggested, "I could teach you a lick or
tWO."
    "You already have," she acknowledged, watching
his hands carefully, absorbing the riffs, studying the
way his fingers drifted over the keys. She was genuine-
ly impressed, loving the music, moved by its heartfelt
origins.
    He played for a few moments, and then ventured
idly, "So, what do you say?"
      She shrugged, looked up at him, gave him that
ready grin. "Gonna be around a few days?" "I can be."
    "Sooner or later, a man named Omag will come by
for a song. Always wants to hear the same thing--
'Melor Famagal.' He's an arms trader. A fat Ferengi."
    Riker stared at her. This was it, the connection he'd
been looking for. The sensation of victory welled up
in him and he laid into the keys, pulling the music up
from some place deep within. At some point he
realized Amarie's four hands had joined his, and they
continued to make sweet six-handed blues for a long
time.

Chapter Fourteen

SPOCK SAT WITH Pardek in the outer chamber of
Proconsul Neral's suite of offices. They had climbed
through the grandiose chambers of the nearly
kilometer-high governmental edifice, the Irnilt, and
Spock had noted the statelines of the architecture, the
clean elegance of the design. The rooms were vaulted
and spacious, and conveyed an impression of urbanitY
and power. The grandeur of the building was in
marked contrast to the rough streets of the city, the
fetid passageways where people lived in abject desola-
tion. The contrast was fascinating.
    He had become aware, as they made their way
through the building, that Pardek was a man whose
time of power was waning. Pardek smiled and called
out to everyone they met, and the replies were always
gracious. But he was certain that Pardek was the
needy part of the equation; those who possessed
power did not need to seek so blatantly the recogni-
tion of others. That did not concern Spock. Pardek's
value was to initiate the meeting for which they had
climbed the imposing black marble stairs of the Irnilt.
    Now, waiting in the outer chamber for Neral to
receive them, Spock observed Pardek chatting amia-
bly with a woman who had introduced herself as an
associate to Neral. She was, Spock noted, an unusual-
looking Romulan, in that her hair was blond. Pardek
was avuncular and friendly to her, but Spock sensed
that even she kept herself at a remove from him, and
was talking out of courtesy rather than choice.
    It was not a good sign that they were being kept
waiting. If this meeting were in fact the priority that
Pardek insisted it was, they would not be kept on this
hard bench in the lobby to make conversation with
functionaries. For a brief moment the echo of Sarek's
--Picard's?--skepticism resonated in his mind.
    Spock was relieved when a young man came scurry-
ing from Neral's office and announced that the pro-
consul would now see them. Pardek broke off his
conversation with the assistant and hurried over to
Spock, his round, friendly face beaming with happi-
ness.
    "Shall we?" he asked, and Spock rose to follow him
inside the inner chamber.
    The man who greeted them was younger than Spock
had imagined. He had heard the proconsul described
as a youthful, dynamic leader, but this man seemed
almost boyish. His eyes were dark and flashing, and
his smile was immediate. He moved across the room
toward them, his step buoyant.
 "Proconsul." Pardek's voice was a bit ingratiating.
    "Yes... Pardek ... come in," said Neral. But his
eyes were on Spock.
"Ambassador Spock of Vulcan," said Pardek un-
necessarily.
    "Proconsul," said Spock evenly. He held Neral's
look.
    "Please," said Neral, waving the appellation away.
"I've never liked titles since I was a lowly Uhlan in the
Romulan guard. I am Neral." He lifted his hand,
looked at it in comic uncertainty. "Now, how is it
again? Pardek's tried to show me..."
    He finally managed to arrange his fingers in the
Vulcan greeting. Spock returned it. "I am honored,"
he said.
    "Good," replied Neral. The two men held a look
once again.
    Pardek smiled nervously and Spock knew he felt
like the outsider here in his own country's seat of
power. "Permit me to withdraw," he said, and Spoek
caught the touch of obsequiousness in his voice.
    Neral turned to Pardek with practiced diplomacy.
"Will we see you and your wife tomorrow at the state
dinner?"
    Pardek beamed with pleasure. "We're looking for-
ward to it," he said, and bowed his head slightly. Itc
turned and exited.
    Neral turned back to Spock; the inflection of his
voice implied that they shared some commonalty as
he said, "It's been years since old Pardek was invited
to an official function. He's far too attached to the
common man for most people's comfort."
    "That is their loss," replied Spock. He would not be
disloyal to Pardek now, after all these years. 'Tve
always found Pardek to have a unique insight into
many issues."
 Neral didn't respond, but waved him into a corn-
fortable chair covered in some kind of softly tooled
hide. "Let me tell you something, Spock," he said
without preamble. "We're going to start something
here, you and I, that will redraw the face of the
quadrant."
    Spock was startled. He had been prepared to speak
eloquently about his cause, had hoped to persuade--
but had not expected to hear Neral already commit-
ted. Perhaps he was reading more into the proconsul's
statement than was intended. "You are prepared to
support reunification?" he asked, wanting clarifica-
tion.
    "I believe it must eventually come. Our two worlds
need each other."
    "Forgive me. But I did not expect to hear a
Rornulan proconsul speak like a member of the under-
ground."
    Neral smiled comfortably. "I want you to know
exactly where I stand."
    Spock pondered this unusual turn for a long mo-
ment. It was an unexpected gift that Neral seemed
predisposed to unification. But then, he was part of a
young, liberal generation of leaders; if he in fact
represented the future, there was reason for hope. On
the other hand, the proconsul's views were not neces-
sarily those of the rest of the leadership. "Do you
believe you can gain the support of the full Senate?"
asked Spock.
    Neral leaned in to him, speaking not conspiratorial-
ly, but with a quiet confidence. "Things are not what
they once were in the Senate. The old leaders have lost
the respect of the people." He stood and began to
pace. "Involvement in the Klingon civil war...
endless confrontations with the Federation... The
people are tired of it all. Times are changing. Leaders
who refuse to change with them--will no longer be
leaders."
    He turned back to Spock, enthusiasm apparent in
every aspect. "Spock, I am prepared to publicly en-
dorse the opening of talks between our peoples." He
smiled at Spock's obvious astonishment. "How do
you think the Vulcan people will respond to that?"
    Spock did not hasten to reply. Things were moving
quickly; he preferred to keep his own measured pace.
He had found over a lifetime that haste was rarely an
ally. Finally he said, "They will be cautious. There are
generations of distrust to overcome."
    Neral was obviously perplexed by his cautious
reply. "But surely," he began, "with a man of your
influence leading the way--"
    Then a disembodied voice on the Romulan corem
system interrupted. "Proconsul," announced the as-
sociate from her outer chamber, "the Senate has been
recalled into session."
      Neral frowned briefly, then replied, "Very well." He
turned to Spock. "Can we meet again tomorrow?"
  "As you wish," offered Spock phlegmatically.
  "Good," replied Neral. "Jolan tru, Spock." Then,
  remembering something, he added, "Oh--live long
  and prosper."
    Spock bowed gravely and exited. He was left with a
distinct feeling: the conversation was not logical.

    D'Tan had been running for over an hour. He had at
least another hour to go, but he knew he could keep
his pace easily. In fact, he could probably go on
indefinitely. There was something glorious about the
feel of the wind on his face and the thud of his feet on
the hot Romulan clay as he loped through the Valley
of Chula. D'Tan never felt as good as he did when he
was running.
    Everyone was always telling him to slow down, but
he never did. Why slow down? There was so much to
do, to know, to learn. He was often afraid that he
would die without having tasted all that life had to
offer, and he didn't want to waste precious minutes by
strolling. So he ran.
    Eventually those who had admonished him to slow
down began to realize that his running was of value.
The movement had begun using him as a messenger,
for he was more trustworthy than any other means of
communication; and to the followers of the move-
merit, trust was a more important property than
speed.
    He was running now toward an outlying communi-
ty, M'Narth, carrying an important message. There
was to be a meeting tonight in the caves and everyone
must be there. It might be the most important meeting
they'd ever held.
    That was the sum total of the message; D'Tan had
been told nothing more. But in his heart he felt that
the realization of their dream was near. Spock would
be giving them the news they were all waiting to hear:
that they would be joining with their Vulcan cousins
once w~ore.
    For D'Tan and his family, and for many of their
friends, it was a dream that had been carefully pre-
served for generations. D'Tan had been raised, as his
parents had been raised, and their parents before
them and back and back for many generations, with
the belief that someday the Vulcan and the Romulan
races would be reunited. That a day of harmony and
peace would arrive in which all of them would mingle
together, without barriers and without prejudice.
    The first songs D'Tan had heard as an infant were
Vulcan songs; the first stories his mother told him
were stories of Vulcan. He had been steeped in Vulcan
lore and Vulcan history. The desire to see this legen-
dary planet and to live in meditative serenity with his
brothers was a burning passion, and the thought that
it might happen in his lifetime was exhilarating.
    It was Spock who made the difference. Spock! The
name rang on his tongue like a chime, and D'Tan
found himself singing one of the unification songs,
inserting Spock's name for that of an ancient hero.
Singing made the time pass more quickly, and he
wanted the hours until the meeting tonight to flash by
as quickly as possible.

    That night, in the caves, D'Tan's heart was pound-
ing and his face was flushed with excitement. He
could hardly believe what he was hearing, and he
knew everyone in the cavernous meeting place felt the
same. They were hushed; no one stirred, not even the
small children, who seemed to understand that this
was an important occasion. Spock's calm voice ech-
oed through the chamber, describing in detail his
meeting that very day with Neral, making it clear that
the proconsul was receptive to him and apparently to
his ideas.
    Somewhere in the crowd a baby began to cry; soft
sucking sounds told D'Tan that it was quickly silenced
at its mother's breast. And then Spock made the most
incredible statement of all: the proconsul endorsed
unification and was willing to make a public state-
ment urging talks between Romulan and Vulcan lead-
ers!
    A huge cry of joy rang out in the caves; neighbor
embraced neighbor and people babbled excitedly over
the unexpected news. D'Tan's father held him tightly
in an embrace and his mother held both his hands in
hers. His friend Janicka, who sat nearby, was crying
with joy. D'Tan thought he had never been so happy
in his life.
 "A public statement..."
 "We will live with our cousins..."
 "No more hiding in caves..."
    The people were overjoyed. A young woman named
Shalote, unable to contain her elation, jumped to her
feet and took Spock's hand, pressing it in gratitude.
"It's everything we could have hoped for," she cried,
and the crowd clamored its agreement.
    Why, then, that frown on Spock's face? Why did he
turn to survey the euphoric crowd with such a glower-
ing look? Suddenly D'Tan was frightened.
    Spock's voice rang out over the rejoicing. "It is
more than we could have hoped for," he announced.
    And a startled hush fell over the group. D'Tan saw
Pardek register the same confusion as the crowd.
    "But if Neral is ready to publicly endorse
reunification ..." began the good senator, then left
the sentence unfinished, staring at Spock in bewilder-
ment.
    Only one man seemed even to understand what
Spock was saying, and that was the captain from the
Federation, Picard. D'Tan swallowed, not sure he
wanted to hear what was coming next.
 "I can't imagine that one rises to the position of
Senate proconsul without the support of the Romulan
traditionalists," began Picard, directing the statement
to Pardek.
  "That's true," replied the senator.
    The Federation man seemed to bore into Pardek.
"Then how can he turn his back on them so easily?
How can he endorse reunification when it is consid-
ered subversive?"
    A man from the crowd stepped forward and inter-
jected. "Because he's not afraid of them. Because he
knows we will support him!" Even to D'Tan, the man
sounded desperate.
    Spock's composed voice rang through the cavern.
"Captain Picard is correct. It is not logical for the
proconsul to endorse reunification at this time."
    And now the crowd erupted, clamoring their objec-
tions. D'Tan heard his own voice among them, and
felt his eyes sting with tears of frustration. How could
Spock do this? Could he not see that their dreams,
their prayers, were just on the verge of being an-
swered? Was he being swayed by the Starfleet captain
who had arrived so unexpectedly? Was he to snatch
this bright promise from them when it meant so
much?
    Shalote was trembling with anger. "Why would
Neral lie?" she demanded.
    "Perhaps they are hoping to use this to expose
members of your movement," Picard answered, and
D'Tan saw the woman flash him a bitter look.
    "No," she cried out, "this is our chance for accept-
ance. Finally, to be heard!"
    Another man from the crowd joined in. "I believe it
is the Federation that fears an alliance between Romu-
lus and Vulcan!"
    Now the crowd's rumble took an ugly turn, and
D'Tan felt its wrath as though it were a living animal,
coiling and writhing, turning to cast its eye on Picard.
The outsider. The interloper. One on whom they
could vent their anger and disappointment.
    The clamor grew louder and more menacing. Picard
faced them, and D'Tan sensed no fear in him, but
rather a desire to quell the gathering fury of the mob.
"That is not true--" he began, but he was shouted
down.
    Then Spock stepped forward, his look enough to
quiet the unruliest of throngs. He stared at the seeth-
ing mass of humanity, silent until they withered under
his gaze and settled into a restive, murmuring mass.
    "I came here," said Spock quietly, and by his
hushed tone silenced the crowd further, "to determine
the potential for reunification. In spite of what has
occurred, I intend to continue my efforts. I intend to
meet with the proconsul as planned."
    A huge roar of approval thundered through the
caves. Instantly the mood of the people had turned
once more to joyous approbation.
    D'Tan thought he might have been the only person
in the cave who saw the look that passed between
Spock and Picard. To him, it seemed charged with
conflict. Then Spock turned and left the main cham-
ber, and after a moment, Picard followed him.
    D'Tan felt that the destiny of his people walked with
those two men at that moment.

    As Picard followed Spock down the narrow pas-
sageway into the small, damp chamber adjoining the
large cavern, he was smoldering with anger. He would
never have thought that Spock could be swayed by a
surly crowd, but he had just seen it happen. Some part
of his mind realized that he felt personally betrayed by
the ambassador's actions, and that thought puzzled
him for a moment--why personally?rebut then his
ire pushed it from his consciousness.
    Ahead, Spock turned to face him. Picard perceived
suddenly that Spock had not come here to confer with
him, but to be alone, and was not pleased to find
Picard dogging his heels. He didn't care; Spock would
have to deal with him.
    "You let their emotions sway you," he charged,
hoping Spock would answer in angry kind.
    But of course he did not. Spock raised an eyebrow
and intoned in a slightly surprised fashion, "On the
contrary, I am pursuing the most logical course."
    Picard took a breath and tried to calm himselfi It
would serve nothing to run at this man in a white heat.
"You are as skeptical as I am," he said, looking for the
argument that would appeal to reason. "Is it logical to
ignore your own good sense?"
    "I fear the influence of Sarek has colored your
attitudes, Captain. Toward reunification. And per-
haps toward me."
    Picard was taken aback. How did Sarek become a
participant in this interpersonal drama? His mind
flashed back to the discussion he and Spock had had
in the soup stall. Spock had accused him of having a
closed mind... and at the time Picard had been
puzzled. It was as though Spock were accusing him of
having another man's feelings. And now, here it was
again.
    "This is the second time you have accused me of
speaking with another man's voice," he said carefully,
watching for Spock's reaction. The Vulcan gazed at
him without expression, but Picard sensed a mael-
strom of feeling behind his eyes. He knew it was time
to acknowledge Sarek's influence. "Yes, he will always
be a part of me. His experiences. His spirit. But I
speak with my own voice, Spock. Not his."
    There was a long moment. Picard heard the drip-
ping of the moisture on the walls, the rush of distant
underground waters. The face of his own father
flashed briefly in his mind.
    And finally, Spock drew a breath. "Curious," he
said, "that I should hear him so clearly... now that
he is dead."
    The Vulcan moved away then, and Picard recog-
nized the movement as an effort to regain emotional
control. "It is possible," he said evenly, "that I have
brought my arguments with Sarek to you, Captain. if
so, I apologize."
    "Is it so important," said Picard softly, "for you to
win one last argument with him?"
    Spock considered the statement as though he were
pondering the hypothetical premise of a scientific
inquiry. "No," he said solemnly, "it is not."
    Then he turned, and with a naked honesty that
caught Picard like the chill gust of a winter breeze,
said, "Although it is true that I will miss the argu-
ments. It was, finally, all that we had."
    With startling clarity, Picard understood. In some
unspoken fashion, he had become father to Spockm
Spock, almost a century older than he. The mind meld
with Sarek had blended them in some indescribable
fashion. To what extent he was Sarek, and to what
extent Spock simply heard Sarek, he did not know.
But he knew that in a strange, unbidden way he had
indeed done what Sarek had asked of him; he had
come to Romulus and allowed that relationship to
play out its final hand.
    Perhaps he could effect closure between the father
and the son. Perhaps he could grant absolution.
Perhaps he could speak the words that Sarek never
would.
    "Your fight with Sarek is over," he said with simple
sincerity. "And you have none with me."
    Spock turned away, and Picard sensed his Vulcan
desire to place this discussion in a rational context.
But what he heard was a son struggling to achieve the
termination of a protracted and difficult relationship
--and not succeeding.
    "I always had a different vision from my father's,"
he said. "It was an ability to see beyond pure logic. He
considered it weak. But I have discovered it to be a
source of extraordinary strength."
    Picard questioned the reasoning of this statement.
If anything, Sarek had always been more emotional
than Spock. Spock's decision to follow Vulcan, rather
than human, behavior had caused him to eschew
emotions and to deify reason. But he realized that
what Spock was uttering was not reality, but rather his
perception of reality--his feelings. Picard did not
comment.
    "Sarek would find this mission of reunification a
fool's errand," Spock continued, turning the conver-
sation back to the case at hand. "But somehow I think
it is not. Logic cannot explain why... but I know I
must continue to pursue this--"
    "Even," Picard now interjected, "if it leads you into
a Romulan trap?"
Spock shrugged. "If the Romulans do have an
ulterior motive, it would be in the interests of all
concerned to determine what it is."
 And for that, Picard had no answer.
    "So I will play the role they would have me play,"
Spock summed up, and Picard could only acknowl-
edge reluctantly the rightness of his instincts.

Chapter Fifteen

CAPTAIN K'VADA had been sure he would not scream
when his shoulder was dislocated by the ship's physi-
cian. He had anticipated the pain, explored it in his
mind, and prepared his defenses. When K'kam had
torn it from its socket the first time, the wound was
unexpected, and he felt justified in having uttered a
brief howl at the agony of his arm being wrenched
from its joint.
    He had not lost consciousness. He had not thrown
up. He had not uttered a cry beyond that first roar. It
was a response to injury that would make any Klingon
proud.
    And so he was sure that this second violation of his
tortured shoulder was within his control.
    Sitting in the small, dark cubicle assigned to the
ship's physician, K'Vada listened to Klarg, the doctor.
Klarg was a heavy, blowsy man of indeterminate age
who wheezed as he talked. The physician had con-
vinced K'Vada that the incessant pain he felt was due
to an incorrect alignment of the shoulder in its socket.
The only remedy was to pull the ball of the shoulder
from its joint and then reinseft it properly.
    K'Vada knew that scar tissue would have developed
around the injury. He knew that this tissue would
have to be ripped in order to reposition the bone.
    What he hadn't realized was how excruciating that
process would be.
    Klarg was to blame for it, he was sure. Had the
Klingon doctor not been inept and doddering, the
pain would have been manageable. But the idiot,
instead of quickly snapping the shoulder loose, pried
and twisted as though he were trying to torture
K'Vada. It went on interminably, and though he dug
his nails into his palms until they bled, and finally bit
into his tongue in a desperate effort to create pain
somewhere else besides his shoulder, the cry escaped
his lips.
    He had thought it was just a strangled moan, but
from the startled look on Klarg's face, it must have
been far more--a shriek, a humiliating admission of
weakness. With his newly dislocated arm dangling at
his side, he kicked the doctor across the room.
  That had perhaps been a bad decision.
    Klarg was dazed and injured. K'Vada could see that
he was stumbling as he made his way back across the
room. He was not a young man, and unaccustomed to
physicality.
    "Replace my arm!" K'Vada yelled at him. He had
not undergone this much suffering to be left with a
useless appendage.
    Klarg looked up at him, his bony brow distended,
his eyes bugged in a strange and disturbing way. He
was gasping for breath and his face was seeping fluids.
K'Vada stared at him. Was the patahk going to die?
Without having relocated his shoulder socket?
    K'Vada had a moment of panic, and tried to lift the
doctor from his kneeling position. "Get up," he
commanded. "Do your duty to me!"
    But Klarg slumped against him, driving a new shot
of pain into his arm. To his horror, the ship's physi-
cian passed out and his breathing became reedy and
shallow. He was going to die.
    K'Vada glared at him. For a moment he hoped Klarg
would die, as punishment for putting him in this
dreadful predicament. Then he had a moment of
panic as he realized that, with Klarg dead, no one on
board could properly reposition his arm, and he
would more than likely be permanently disfigured.
    He considered trying to reinsert the arm himself. A
warrior, on the field of battle, might be faced with
such a challenge. Would Kahless have qualied at the
thought of pain? Would he have despaired of preserv-
ing consciousness while twisting his bones through
ripped tendons and into their proper resting place?
Never.
    Klarg turned gray at his feet, gasping noisily, as
K'Vada stood, trying to convince himself to take hold
of his useless arm and force it into its resting place.
    Finally, it occurred to K'Vada that he really should
see to Klarg before he took any drastic action with his
arm, and he bellowed for help. Scurrying minions
arrived and he ordered attention to Klarg, all the
while concealing from them his damaged arm.
    He made his way to the bridge, still uncertain as to
what his next action should be. He searched his
memory for anyone on board who possessed rudi-
mentary medical skills, and could think of no one. He
fought pan',c. On a Klingon ship, the weak were
expendable. It was a mark of honor to assassinate
one's superior; if someone were weak and careless
enough to be taken in such a fashion, he did not
deserve either to lead or to live.
    K'Vada would be dead within days if it were learned
that he was defenseless. And it wouldn't take long
before someone would notice that he couldn't even lift
his arm, much less defend himself with it.
    He considered ordering an aide to hack it off at the
shoulder; such a dismemberment, if it were borne
stoically, brought honor. Men often lost limbs in
battle, and proudly waved their stumps as badges of
courage. He might even be able to concoct a plausible
tale to explain the loss of his arm, one which would
bring him glory. He mused briefly about this possibili-
ty, imagined the bite of the sword into his shoulder,
anticipated the sound and the smell as a torch caute-
rized the wound. The thought made him dizzy, and as
he entered the bridge he had to will himself to walk
purposefully past the crew, being careful not to gri-
mace from the pain each step caused.
    He was sitting in his command chair, fighting waves
of nausea, when the android Data entered the bridge
and went directly to a computer station.
    "What are you after now?" K'Vada growled, and he
heard the sound of pain in his own voice.
    The Starfleet officer turned, but K'Vada couldn't tell
if he heard it, too. "I am attempting to penetrate the
Romulan data network. It is protected by sophisti-
cated security measures."
     "You have a console in your quarters," snapped
 K'Vada, irritated to have this stranger on his bridge
 now, of all times.
     "I am sorry if I am intruding," replied Data. "You
 had given your permission for me to use the more
 powerful computer array on the bridge in order to
 access the Romulan data banks."
    It was true, he had. It seemed light-years ago that he
had dreamt of honor and accolades for accessing
Romulan intelligence nets. All that mattered now was
ridding himself of the excruciating pain that riddled
his body and was beginning to make his vision bleary.
    K'Vada blinked through sweat and suddenly saw the
android's pale face just inches from his. He was
expressing concern, saying--what? K'Vada squeezed
his eyes shut and forced himself to stay conscious.
    ... seem to be in some distress..." he heard
Data saying. "Perhaps I could be of help." The
android was offering to help him. How could he
possibly--
    "My arm..." breathed K'Vada, desperate as a
child.
    And Data was gently inspecting his arm and shoul-
der, his synthetic touch strangely painless. "With your
permission, sir?" he asked, and when K'Vada merely
nodded grimly, a sudden, simple motion and
K'Vada's arm was resting in its socket, neatly housed,
in its correct position, he could tell--the pain still
there but somehow dwindling to a tolerable ache.
    He tested the motion gingerly. He could lift his
armmnot to full height, but the range of motion was
surprisingly complete. The pain was receding rapidly.
    "I have a hypospray I could apply that would reduce
swelling and aid in the healing of the ligaments," Data
was saying. And K'Vada could only nod numbly, more
grateful than he would ever be able to admit. The
android left the bridge to get his medicaments, and
K'Vada felt an unaccustomed stinging in his eye; a
wetness formed.
    His arm would heal. He would be a warrior once
more, claiming honor on the battlefield and acclaim
among his fellows. He would lift the bat'lelh in
victory, its curved blade streaming blood, and taste
the sweet mysteries of conquest and death.
    And when, steaming and elated, he confronted
K'kam, he would clasp her to him with two strong
arms, holding her fury contained until, under his
expert ministrations, she erupted in cataclysmic
pleasure.
  He almost wept with gratitude to the android.

    When Spock and Picard transported back to the
Kruge, it was in silence. Their discussion in the caves
had left Spock with much to ponder, and he assumed
from Picard's quiet introspection that the same was
true of the captain.
    Nonetheless, he had been intrigued when Picard
mentioned the android's attempt to penetrate the
Romulan data banks. This was an audacious endeav-
or, and perhaps doomed to failure, but Spock knew
that its success would probably answer his most
deep-seated questions about the Romulan mission.
    And so he was curious to see what progress Com-
mander Data had made. When the doors opened to
his and Picard's quarters, Spock was not focused on
the surroundings, but when he entered, they de-
manded his attention.
  He was astonished at the small, spare quarters. He
had crossed the Neutral Zone in a Barolian freighter,
and his accommodations were better than this. He
cast a surprised glance at Picard, but the captain had
clearly gotten beyond his environment sometime ago
and now took it for granted.
    "Have you had any success, Mr. Data?" Pieard
queried.
    "Negative, Captain. The Romulan information net
employs a progressive encryption lock. I have been
unable to penetrate their security measures."
    "May I assist you, Commander?" asked Spock.
"I've had some experience in these matters." Spock
realized that he was looking forward to this technolog-
ical challenge.
    "By all means, Ambassador," replied Data, and
Spock moved to sit next to him. He was instantly
absorbed in the problem.
    "The Romulans have incorporated a forty-three-
part cipher key into their entry sequence," said Spock,
knowing that Data had covered this material.
    "Yes, sir. The twenty-ninth is the only one I cannot
bypass," Data responded.
    Spock was vaguely aware that Picard was still in the
room, and apparently feeling superfluous. "I think I'll
take this opportunity to remove my ears," the Captain
said, and exited.
    Spock was glad he was gone. He remembered
distantly that one frequently accomplished more
when one's captain was out of the picture. And he had
been looking forward to the opportunity to discuss
Pieard with his second.
 "He intrigues me, this Picard," he said.
    Data was instantly curious. "In what manner?" he
asked.
    "He is remarkably analytical and dispassionate for
a human. I understand why my father would choose to
mind meld with him. There's almost a Vulcan quality
to the man."
    "Interesting," responded Data. "I have never con-
sidered that. And Captain Picard has been a role
model in my quest to be more human."
 This took Spock aback. "To be more human?"
 "Yes, Ambassador."
    Spock raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating," he mur-
mured. "You have an effqcient intellect, superior phys-
ical skills, and no emotional impediments. There are
Vulcans who aspire all their lives to achieve what you
were given by design."
    Spock could see tb.e android processing this state-
ment. He was silent for a moment, and then turned
back to Spock.
 "You are half human."
  "Yes."
  "And yet you have chosen a Vulcan way of life."
  "I have."
    "In effect, you have abandoned what I have sought
all my life."
    This innocent remark struck a surprisingly strong
chord in Spock. His choice, as a child, to follow the
Vulcan ways and eschew emotions had not been
lightly made. It had required a lifetime of discipline
and meditation in order to repress the human side of
him. He was not sure he wanted to consider an
inquiry into what he might have lost by the process.
    He took refuge in the monitor before him. "I
believe I have isolated the twenty-ninth cipher access
code. I'll attempt to access the proconsul's files." He
skillfully worked the controls of the computer, look-
ing for paths into the files.
      "Ambassador, may I ask a personal question?"
Data's voice was infinitely polite.  "Please."
    "As you examine your life, do you find you have
missed your humanity?"
    The computer made a series of beeps and Spock
took advantage of this activity to organize his
thoughts. That the android had seemingly tapped into
his thoughts was uncanny. He considered his answer
carefully. Finally, casually, he said, "l have no re-
grets," and continued to work on accessing the files.
    "'No regrets.' That is a human expression," ob-
served Data.
    Spock was silent for a time. Then he said,
"Fascinating."

Chapter Sixteen

AMARIE PICKED AT a rough spot in her fingernail until it
became a gouge. Then she picked at it with another
hand. She was trying not to hear what Shem was
saying to her.
    They were sitting in Shern's tiny little cubicle of an
office at the rear of the hideaway, where he had
summoned her for this impromptu "conference."
Amarie hated his office. It was decorated with Shern's
usual tacky taste: lots of red, chains piled on the floor,
nets over the windows. Shern was so predictable.
    Now, as his voice droned on and on, she looked
down at the afflicted fingernail, concentrating on it
with fierce intensity, as though it were the most
important thing in the galaxy at that moment.
    I'll have to redo the polish before tonight, she
thought, dimly aware that Shern's voice continued to
rasp in her ears. She tried not to look at his smooth,
bloodless face, or that unblinking eye.
  If l have time I'll redo all four hands... if not 1 can
 do a patch job on the one... or maybe just trim it
 down...
     These irrelevancies ran through her mind as Shern's
 voice filled the room, an endless sound. For someone
 who tortured the language, he sure loved to talk.
     "Many times I this message to you have delivered,"
 he was saying. "Possible it not is a musician having for
 reasons that described have been."
    Amarie snuck a glance at him through lowered lids.
The owner of Shern's Palace was agit, .ed, pacing back
and forth as he talked and talked. He was such a
disgusting-looking thing. Did it ever occur to him that
maybe the reason no one came to his runey little bar
was because they couldn't stand to look at this pale,
waxy thing with an eye that never blinked? That
maybe she was the only reason the place had any
customers at all? That she was saving Shern from
going under because she had talent and people came
to hear her intricate four-handed music?
    "... night one more having," Shern was saying.
Then he stopped and looked at her with a certain
finality, as though expecting a response, and she had
to admit she hadn't been listening.
"Sorry, Shern, go over that once more, will you?"
Shern's sallow complexion went to a peculiar yellow
shade; she had learned this was the onset of anger. "To
be listening necessary is," he spat. "Not do I talk for
listening pleasure myself."
    Amarie sighed. Part of her said, what the rune, get
this miserable creature out of your life forever; but the
other part ordered her to do anything--anything--to
please Shern so he wouldn't cast her out without a job.
I can make him like me, flashed desperately across her
mind; I can never like him followed soon after.
Sometimes she thought honesty was one of her most
troublesome traits.
    "Shern," she said, "if you used the runey Universal
Translator maybe I could figure out what you're trying
to say, but since you don't, just butcher it one more
time for me. All right?"
    Shern's eye bored into her. "Clear making was,
night one more having you are."
    "Shem, maybe to you that's clear making, but to me
it's confusing being. You telling me tonight's my last
night?"
"Simple it is," said Shern, shrugging disdainfully.
"You mean to say that after all I've done for you,
after I've built a clientele, a loyal following, people
who come to the bar night after night just to hear
me--you're going to get rid of me? The only attrac-
tion you have to offer?"
    And then Shem smiled. At least that's what she
thought it was--on Shem it looked like a grimace. But
he was clearly quite self-satisfied when he announced,
"Amazing talent finding am I. Dancer she is--with
many legs having." Shem looked at her smugly.
    Amarie stared at him. Was he kidding? This was his
big idea for building business? A four-armed musician
hadn't put Shern's place on the map of the sector, so
he thought a multi-legged dancer was the answer?
Amarie found herself laughing, a big, throaty, gutsy
laugh--a bray, actually--that clearly caught Shem by
surprise.
    "Why laughing are7" he asked nervously. Shern
hated being left out of things, and a joke he didn't get
was always upsetting to him. That thought only made
Amarie laugh harder.
  "You runey little rune," she said when she had
finally caught her breath. "I am so runey glad to be
getting out of your runey bar. I hope you and your
runey dancer are miserable together."
    And, still chuckling, she stood and walked out of his
office. She knew Shern was staring after her, duInb-
founded by her reaction--and that was a liberating
thought. I'll redo all my nails before tonight, she
thought, and give myself a facial and maybe try that
new raetaphasic eye shadow. If this is my last night, it
going to be one rune of a performance.
    It was not until she got home to her tiny closet room
that she burst into tears, and cried without stopping
for an hour. Then she had to spend hours over a steam
quill trying to reduce the swelling in her eyes; that
took so much time she never did get around to
repairing her fingernail.

    Gretchen Naylor's green eyes flashed as she looked
at Riker, and he had to fight feelings that he had
somehow betrayed her. They were in the captain's
ready room, where Riker had quickly led them after
Naylor had come onto the bridge and requested a
conference. That in itself was unusual; her attitude
once they were secluded was nothing short of aston-
ishing to him.
    "I've been on this investigation from the beginning,
Commander," she was saying now, "and I think I
deserve to be included now."
    "You've been extremely helpful. I know the contri-
butions you've made, and I'm grateful. I'm just not
sure it's wise for you to be seen at Shern's Palace."
  "And that's because--?"
    "You've been there once with me. You go again,
you'll be noticed. I'm not going until Lieutenant Worf
lets me know that an overweight Ferengi who likes
'Melor Famagal' has arrived."
    "But when you go--if you go--I should be with
you."
 "I think I can handle the situation, Ensign."
    The tone in Riker's voice got her attention. She
fixed those eyes on him. "Am I overstepping the
boundaries, Commander?"
 "You're coming very close."
    From the look on her face, he realized this state-
ment frightened her--on some profound, visceral
level. It was a brief flash of vulnerability, and then she
became extremely composed.
    "Sir, if I've seemed pushy, I apologize. I take my
work seriously. It's important for me to do my best. I
want the chance to prove myself, and it's hard for me
to have those chances taken away."
    Riker stared at her. He had a vision of a serious,
dedicated little girl, studying obsessively at her desk
while the warm, fragrant breezes of Indiana wafted
through her room. Somewhere outside, in the lush
gardens, her family worked and laughed together,
bonding in their shared commitment to give this
gifted child a chance to grasp a dream--Starfleet
Academy.
    The family had each other; they had a goal that held
them together. Gretchen was alone, bearing the re-
sponsibility of fulfilling the vision for which her
parents and her siblings gave so much. She had not
only survived a journey that claimed many casualties
--she had excelled. She was admitted to the Acade-
my, graduated with honors, and then was posted to
Starfleet's flagship. Gretchen Naylor was in rarefied
company, the upper minuscule percentile of those
millions in the quadrant who longed to be exactly
where she was.
But did it bring her joy? And what had it cost her?
"Ensign Naylot, you've been invaluable in this
investigation. I've valued your insights. I can honestly
say we wouldn't be where we are if it hadn't been for
you."
    He had the sense that she drank these words as a
dying man gulped water in the desert. Yet her expres-
sion remained impassive. "Thank you, sir. I hope my
performance has been acceptable."
  "More than acceptable. Exemplary."
      She nodded briefly. A moment passed. "But my
presence won't be required on Qualor?"
  "I don't think it's wise."
  "Very well."
    She turned away and started to leave; he felt an
overwhelming flood of protectiveness toward this
driven woman, wanted to salve her feelings somehow.
"Gretchen?"
    She turned back to him. "Maybe we could have
dinner some night. I'd like to know you better."
    She stared at him, a proud tilt to her head.
"Commander--please don't patronize me," she said.
Then she walked out.

    Arnarie's puffy eyes had subsided by the time she
went to work, and the metaphasic eye shadow, which
changed color and design constantly, concealed any
residual swelling. She had that awful snuffiy feeling
she always got when she had been crying for a long
time, but all things considered, she thought she was
looking pretty good.
 The room, as usual, was nearly empty. The prosti-
tutes (thank the rune she hadn't had to sink that
far--yet) sat gossiping in the rear, enjoying the mo-
ments before the men began to drift in and demand
companionship. Amarie walked through the field of
untilled tables and toward the spotlight that centered
on her keyboard.
 A new man was seated there.
    She knew he was from the Enterprise, for he wore a
similar uniform; he had been sent by Will Riker
according to their plan. But she was unprepared for
his powerful virility, and her heart thudded a bit as
she looked at him. His bony ridge marked him as a
Klingon; Amarie thought he was the most devastat-
ingly attractive man she had ever seen.
    She asked if there was anything special he wanted to
hear.
"Do you know any Klingon opera?" he demanded.
Amarie thrilled to the assertiveness of his com-
mand. She wished she had studied more opera. Maybe
she could improvise
    "I don't get a lot of requests for it," she admitted~
hoping this manly being would not think her unso-
phisticated for not knowing his music.
    "Surely you must know at least one theme from
Aktuh and Maylota," said the Klingon.
    Somewhere in the dim regions of her memory
Amarie touched on one aria from the opera, a bari-
tone's lament. It had been popular when her mother
was young, and she had seen holographic recordings
of it. Maybe she could retrieve enough of it to please
this exciting man.
    Her four hands trailed gracefully over the keys,
finding the melody and gradually filling in accompani-
ment. "I may be a little rusty," she said, but surpris-
 ingly it was all coming back to her, and she began to
 play with increasing sureness. And then, unbidden,
 she began to sing, her throat opening to the achingly
 beautiful sentiments of the doomed love affair.
     To her delight, a pleased expression appeared on the
 Klingon's face, and he nodded emphatically. Then he
 seemed to sink into a euphoric rapture, and from his
 throat a softly growling sound emerged as he began to
 hum. This aroused Amarie incredibly. Her mind
 began to hunt feverishly for other Klingon operas she
 might have heard.
    "MayIota, Maaaay-lot-aaaaa," the Klingon bel-
lowed. He had lost all sense of the place and had
thrown back his head, pouring out the sorrows of an
unrequited love in his rich basso voice. Amarie shiv-
ered. She wanted all time to stop, and to spend
eternity in this moment, playing a love theme while
her Klingon warrior sang at her side.
    "What is that dreadful noise?" The harsh nasal
voice knifed through the fetid air of the room like a
laser. "It sounds like a Bardakian pronghorn moose."
    The Klingon stopped singing and turned to see who
it was who had interrupted his aria. Amarie knew only
too well.
    Omag the Ferengi was a regular at the bar, coming
in every few nights. Why he came there she never
understood, because Omag was so rich and powerful
he could have bought the place and had it delivered to
his dwelling.
    He was also the fattest man she had ever encoun-
tered. He waddled toward a table, his rotund body
stuffed, sausage-like, into an outfit so large it could
have held four normal-size Ferengi. On either arm, as
usual, were two striking women in skimpy, disgusting-
ly revealing dresses. One had no back to it, the other
almost no front, and the bottoms of the woman's
breasts and all of her skinny stomach were open to the
wind. Amarie sniffed slightly as she glanced at the
two. They were cheap runey slatterns, as far as she was
concerned, and far too thin. Those women could
never bounce like Amarie.
    Omag looked at her and gave her a nod. "You know
what I want to hear," he announced, and took a seat.
He couldn't draw his chair up close to the table
because of his stomach, so he snapped his fingers and
one of the women handed him a basket of palag
crackers, which he immediately began stuffing into his
mouth.
    Amarie turned to the Klingon and gave him a slight
nod, then began to drift into the familiar strains of
Omag's favorite song, "Melor Famagal." She saw the
officer casually touch the insignia he wore on his
uniform, and softly say, "Worf to Enterprise. "No one
except her could have heard him.
    "Go ahead," came back a voice, and Amarie recog-
nized Riker's quiet tones.
    "A fat Ferengi has just entered the establishment,"
said the Klingon.
  "Is that 'Melor Famagal' I hear?" asked Riker.
  At Amarie's nod, the lieutenant answered, "It is."
  "I'm on my way."
    Amarie looked over to see Omag ordering food and
drink--lots of it, if pattern held. Occasionally he
glanced at her and smiled, nodding his ridiculous
head, encouraging her to keep playing the runey song.
    And Amarie did. She'd rather be playing love
themes from operas and hearing the manly voice of
the handsome officer near her, but Omag was always
good for a big tip at the end of the evening. And if this
was to be her last night of work, she'd need it.
    The remembrance that by tomorrow she would be
unemployed hit her with full force again. The thrill of
meeting the Klingon had temporarily driven that
depressing thought away, but it returned with grinding
impact. What the rune was she going to do? She
couldn't even get off this runey little planet. And there
weren't any more jobs for four-armed keyboard play-
ers; she'd been lucky to find this one.
    Amarie sighed and tried to concentrate on making
sure Omag was happy with her playing. His tip might
have to last her for quite a while.

    Riker transported to the surface alone, trying not to
feel qualms about leaving Gretchen behind on the
Enterprise. Her summary rejection of his dinner invi-
tation had stung, and he reflected that this was exactly
the kind of unpleasantness he had wanted to avoid.
He vowed from this point to keep their relationship
on purely neutral ground.
    But he had to admit that he had been deeply
affected by the vulnerability he had seen exposed in
her. Her need to achieve, to be the best, was a
desperate and driving force, which, if derailed, left her
defenseless.
    It was a failing she would have to correct if she were
going to make it in Starfleet. Needy people are suscep-
tible people, and such people--particularly in
security--make mistakes. Mistakes in Gretchen's
branch of service could be life threatening, to herself
and to others.
    He shook off these dark musings as he entered the
hideaway and heard the strains of "Melor Famagal"
still playing. There were few patrons in the place, as
usual; ahead he saw Worf seated near Amarie, who
was managing to make the fourth time through the
melody sound varied and fresh.
    Riker's eyes roamed the room and easily found the
fat Ferengi, Omag. He was seated at a table with two
gorgeous women, stuffing food into his mouth at a
prodigious rate, washing it down with what looked
like champagne.
    Worf caught Riker's eye and stood, walking casually
toward him. The two men glanced toward Omag, who
was now pounding the table with his shoe.
    "Where is the waiter?" he was squealing, and bits of
food fell out of his mouth as he did so. "Is there no
waiter in this sorry place?"
    Riker and Worf made their way to the table. Riker
leaned down toward the fat little man and asked
seriously, "Is there a problem?"
      "Yes," snapped Omag. "I need more napkins." He
turned away and slurped more champagne.
  "Use your sleeve," said Riker quietly.
    This produced the anticipated effect. Omag turned
to him in shocked surprise, eyes wide. "What did you
say?" he asked incredulously, as bits of food dangled
from his mouth.
    Riker found him disgusting. He glanced toward one
of the lithe young women who were sipping drinks
and pretending to ignore this little encounter. "Or use
her sleeve, I don't care."
    Omag's squinty eyes narrowed further. "Who are
you?" he demanded.
    "Commander William Riker, the U.S.S. Enter-
prise."
  "Am I supposed to stand up and salute?" Omag
 looked at the women and laughed heartily. They
 joined suit.
     "We're investigating the disappearance of a Vulcan
 ship--"
     "You've got the wrong Ferengi. I never trade in
 Vulcan ships."
 "We know you were involved," persisted Riker.
 Omag stuffed something long and oily into his
 mouth and chewed for a moment before responding.
 "Who would want a Vulcan ship? Vulcans are paci-
 fists. I deal in warships." A drizzle of oil squirted from
 his mouth and he wiped it with his hand. "Can
 somebody get me a napkin?!" he yelled.
     Nobody did. "Who would want a Vulcan ship?"
 asked Riker, not letting him wriggle away.
     "Hypothetically speaking?" Omag's eyes were wide
 in mock seriousness.
  "Hypothetically speaking."
    "I never learned to speak hypothetical." Omag
tilted back his head and howled with laughter, spray-
ing bits of matter over the table as he did. The women
followed suit, laughing merrily.
    Riker had had enough. He picked up the edge of the
table and tilted it so that all the food and drink slid
down and descended on top of the Ferengi and his
women. They erupted in shrill shrieks of rage and
dismay, leaping to their feet and brushing ineffectual-
ly at their sodden clothes.
    Riker heard the music stop behind them. He moved
toward the startled Ferengi, now looking ridiculous
with food dumped all over him. "Are you crazy?" the
man screeched. Riker grabbed him by his lapels and
raised him off his feet. It was an effort to do so, but his
adrenaline was pumping. He could sense Worf at his
back, watching for any move from the patrons.
    "Let me explain what's going to happen if you don't
tell me about that Vulcan ship," he began, in a calm
voice. "Your passage rights through this sector will be
revoked. But more than that, I'll be very unhappy."
    The Ferengi, his feet dangling inches over the
ground, looked at him with a mixture of loathing and
fear. "I delivered it to a Barolian freighter," he
gasped.
  "At what coordinates?"
  "I don't remember."
    Riker tightened his grip and the squat little man
wheezed desperately. "Ow, watch it... you're
stretching my neck.. 2'  "Coordinates?"
    "At Galorndon Core. Near the Neutral Zone.
That's all I know. I swear it." His face was turning a
strange purplish color.
    Riker threw him back into his seat, directly on top
of a creamy tart, which squished as the fat man landed
on it.
    "Enjoy your dinner," said Riker pleasantly. He
turned to smile at Amarie, and as he and Worf started
to leave, he picked up a napkin from a nearby table.
He flung it toward Omag, and it landed on the
wretched little man's lap. Riker was pleased to see
that even Worf grinned at that.

    Amarie stared at the scene of mayhem in dismay.
The two Starfleet officers were gone, having left be-
hind a powerful Ferengi ship dealer who was now
sitting in the middle of his own dinner. The two
 concubines had disappeared, cleaning themselves up,
 she supposed. But what distressed her was the realiza-
 tion that this was not a night when Omag was going to
 leave a sizeable tip. He'd been roughed up, humili-
 ated, and doused with food and drinkmhe probably
 couldn't wait to get out of there and he wasn't going to
 feel like throwing money around when he did.
     As she looked over at him, she found herself feeling
 sorry for the runey little toad. He looked pathetic,
 daubing at himself with a napkin. The waiters had
 finally reappeared and were doing their best to clean
 up the food, and Shem hovered and clucked uselessly.
 The table and floor looked like a giant baby had just
 eaten dinner there, slopping food everywhere.
    Without conscious thought, Amarie rose and went
to Omag, took the napkin from his hand, and began
wiping his head for him with one hand, his shirt with
another; another patted his shoulder. "Too bad,
Omag," she crooned. "Don't let it get you down." She
tenderly wiped the folds of his huge ears.
    "I'll hire guards. I'll go after them.. 2' he was
sputtering in his rage and distress.
    "Pumply, they're long gone from here. They got
business to do and they're already on their way.
Besides, you don't want to waste your time on petty
little runes like them. You could buy and sell them a
thousand times over."
    Omag frowned, reflecting on this. "It is true," he
pronounced.
    "You just settle down and forget about them. The
evening is young and I haven't even got warmed up
with 'Melor Famagal.' We'll get you set up at a new
table and order some champagne. You ever try the
fried Caldor eel? No? Oh, pumply, you haven't
lived..."
    She continued clucking over him, gently leading
him to another table, all four hands brushing food
from his clothes, seating him, and tucking a fresh
napkin in his neck. "There," she cooed. "Pretend you
just walked in the door and sat down and told me to
play your song. Okay?"
    Omag was undone by her tender ministrations. His
eyes actually seemed moist as he stared up at her.
"Amarie," he snuffied, "you are a good woman."
    She laughed her horsey laugh; it felt good to laugh
again. "You better believe it, Omag." She leaned
down to him and whispered in one giant ear, "and I
got more bounce to me than those skinny little girls
you bring in here all the time."
    Omag smiled and nodded, his eyes twinkling once
more. "You play me 'Melor Famagal' about fifty or
sixty times, I'll be myself again. And then"--he
stretched up to her and she leaned down to hear--
"we will have late dinner together. Just you and me. I
think I would like to get to know you better."
    Amarie gave him a squeeze and a smile, then made
her way back to the keyboard. She felt a joyousness in
her heart that she realized hadn't been there in a long,
long time. She was eager to get her hands on the keys.
That cute little rune was going to hear "Melor
Famagal" like he had never heard it before.
    Amarie knew that somehow, everything was going
to work out just fine.

Chapter Seventeen

DEANNA TROI WAS AWARE of uncomfortable feelings
between Will Riker and Ensign Gretchen Naylor.
They were sitting in the conference lounge, being
briefed by Will on the events at Qualor Two.
    There was nothing overt that happened between
Will and the pretty young ensign, but Troi's empathic
senses were fully engaged by something potent and
puzzling that she sensed, particularly from Gretchen.
She noted that Will seemed to avoid looking at her,
sweeping his eyes by her as he recounted the events of
the previous night and the information he had gar-
nered from Omag, a Ferengi ship dealer.
    "He claimed to have delivered the ship to a
Barolian freighter near Galorndon Core. And you
know what that place brings to mind."
    The rocky shoals of Galorndon Core had figured
prominently in another adventure they'd had with the
Romulans, a few years ago. Troi could remember well
the tension that had been created on the Enterprise
when they had found a downed Romulan craft on that
bleak, storm-ridden planet and had faced down the
Romulan captain, Tomalak, who claimed that the
incursion into Federation space was accidental and
insignificant.
    They were sure that it wasn't, that the Romulans
had their eyes on that prize location near the border of
the Neutral Zone, but nothing was ever proven either
way. And henceforth, the name of Galorndon Core
had always conjured to them the image of Romulans.
    "I think we should get this information to Captain
Picard. It might somehow be related to his mission."
This was Ensign Naylor speaking, carefully addressing
the room and no one person in it.
    "Agreed, Ensign," said Riker, also not looking at
her. Troi found this strange, indeed. What was going
on? Were these two having a romance--one that was
going badly?
    She found it hard to believe. She and Will had
learned years ago that, if they were to serve on the
Enterprise together, they had to sacrifice their own
prior relationship. There was no place on a starship
for such emotional entanglements. Surely Will had
learned that lesson well enough not to repeat it. But
there was definitely something going on between him
and the beautiful ensign.
    "Commander Data was going to work on a piggy-
back communication process in order to get transmis-
sions out of the Neutral Zone," Riker was saying. "If
he's successful, we can apprise them of our findings."
    "Of course, we could go to Galorndon Core. See
what's going on there." That from Ensign Naylor,
again stated to no one in particular.
    "Captain Picard expects us to be at Qualor. That
piggyback transmission would never find us at
Galorndon Core. We'll wait."
    "Aye, sir," replied Naylot quietly, but Troi again
felt a surge of--something--from the young woman.
Not love, not romance ... a longing for something
was as close as Troi could get to it.
    Troi's job on the ship was to help keep emotional
harmony among the crew. It was a job with which she
was feeling vaguely dissatisfied these days, but she
took pride in doing it well and she wasn't about to let
it slip. If she sensed something unusual going on with
any of the crew, it was appropriate for her to figure out
what it was and deal with it.
    When Will dismissed the group, Troi made her way
toward Naylot. "Ensign," she said in a friendly way,
"I'd love to have tea with you sometime soon."
    The younger woman looked taken aback for a brief
moment, but then returned the smile. "I'd like that,"
she said, and what Troi picked up from her now,
overwhelmingly, was relief.  "Why not now?"
    "... and there's never a time when I leave anything
undone until the next day. If there's work on my desk,
I do it before I go to my quarters."
    Troi nodded and sipped at her tea. Gretchen Naylot
was pouring herself out to Troi unabashedly; what
Troi was hearing was a tale of a bright, motivated
young woman who had set her sights on Starfleet and
who never looked back in her single-minded drive to
get there.
 Only once she had, she couldn't turn herself off.
    Ensign Naylor was inflicting a lot of self-made stress
on herself in her need to be the best and the brightest.
Troi wondered if her family, when she was growing
up, ever loved and praised her just because she was
herself--or only because she was an exceptional stu-
dent. Troi felt certain it was the latter.
    Gretchen's feeling of self-worth was all bound up in
her achievements. If she sensed that she was faltering
at all, if she felt rejected, as she had felt by Will Riker
when he wouldn't include her on an away team, it was
an assault on her entire identity. That could be
troublesome, for no one got through life without quite
a few failures, rejections, and missteps. No one of
them could be given such importance that it rocked
the core of one's very being.
    Troi sensed that this was basically a stable, intelli-
gent woman whose focus was just a little obsessive.
She needed something to draw her out of her preoccu-
pation with success.
    "Ensign, have you considered a hobby?" Troi was
surprised when Gretchen burst out laughing, until the
young woman explained that Commander Riker had
suggested the very same thing. This made Troi smile.
    "He was talking about playing something called a
stand-up bass. Have you ever heard of it?" Troi smiled
again. Will was always trying to get people to play
musical instruments. He loved music so much he
believed everyone else would get the same pleasure
from it he did.
 "Yes, I have. It's an ancient instrument."
    "I just don't think that's anything that would hold
my interestY
 "Can you think of something that would?"
    To Naylot's credit, she honestly struggled with the
question. Troi had no doubt that she was searching
within herself, trying to find an elusive something that
might pull her out of her single-minded concern with
achievement.
    But eventually she shrugged. "Not really." She
looked down at her hands for a moment and then
asked, "What's wrong with my just wanting to do a
really good job as a security officer?"
    "There's nothing wrong with that," replied Troi.
"But if thaVs all there is... then, ironically, you
might not be as good a security officer as someone who
has outside interests."
    The young ensign nodded. She understood; she
wasn't resistant. She simply didn't know of anything
else that interested her except work.
    "When you were a little girl," Troi suggested, "was
there anything you enjoyed doing? Anything besides
studying?"
    Gretchen sat quietly, searching her mind, genuinely
trying to recollect her childhood. "I was so lucky. My
family gave me everything, sacrificed for me, let me
have the time I needed to study. I owe them so much."
    Troi studied Gretchen intently. Her heart went out
to this resolute young woman, beset with overwhelm-
ing feelings of responsibility. Her whole family had
given their lives to see her succeed--how could she let
them down? She carried this burden with her every
minute; she had to be the best, or it would invalidate
all the sacrifice her family had endured.
    "Your brother and sister... did you ever just--
play with them? Children's games, that kind of
thing?"
     Ensign Naylor smiled. "Sometimes. Not a lot.
There were always chores, and of course there was--"
  She stopped and looked down, as though stricken.
  "There was what?" Troi asked gently.
    "Chores," repeated Gretchen, "all the time--we
had acres of herbs, and of course there's a lot of work
in natural herbs, weeding, weeds are awful since
chemicals were outlawed, and everybody had to pitch
in--"
    "Gretchen," interrupted Troi, "what are you trying
not to talk about?"
    The green eyes stared at her. Troi saw deep-seated
pain in that look; she knew she had tapped into
something. Gretchen tried to laugh, but it came out in
a strangled cackle. "What do you mean?"
    "There was something else in your life, something
you have trouble talking about..."
    Ensign Naylor rose abruptly, paced the room,
worked to control herself, and finally turned back to
Troi. She seemed composed once more. "I guess
you're talking about Casey."
 Troi's head tilted. "Casey?"
    "My brother. Baby brother. You probably read
about him in my biographical profile."
    "I haven't read your profile, Gretchen. I do that
only if there's a problem."
    "I see." Naylor looked as though she wished she
hadn't brought it up.
 "Tell me about Casey."
 "He was sick. He died before he was two."
 "Sick with what?"
    The young woman hesitated. "I--don't know. My
folks never talked about it much. It was hard on
them."
 "And how about you?"
 "Pardon?"
    "It must have been hard on you, too. How old were
you when he died?"
  A brief hesitation. "I was twelve."
  "It must have been awful for you."
     Gretchen Naylor seemed to be trembling slightly,
 mouth open, eyes focused on empty space in the
 room. She drew a breath, struggling once again for
 composure. "Actually, I didn't even go to the funeral.
 I had divisional tests that day."  And she burst into tears.
    Troi offered her tissues and let her cry for a while,
occasionally patting her shoulder and murmuring
supportively. She knew the accumulated grief of years
was coming to the surface, a mourning that had never
taken place. Crying wouldn't erase that pain, but it
would help bring it closer to the surface.
    After a while, Naylor mopped at her face. Her
words, when she spoke, were occasionally interrupted
by bouts of fresh sobs. "I never got to take care of him.
Everyone else held him, and took him for walks, and
sang songs to him. I would hear them from my room
while I was studying. But they wouldn't let me take
the time from my work." She cried for a few minutes
more, then looked up at Troi. "He was a beautiful
little boy... so tiny and helpless... but he had eyes
like mine. We were the only ones in the family with
green eyes... and I always thought he belonged to
me a little... but I hardly even got to hold him."
    She rose and started pacing again. "Once I snuck
into his room when everybody was asleep, and I sat by
his bed all night and whispered to him, about how
much I loved him and all the things we'd do together
when he got well. The next morning I fell asleep in
class, but I didn't care."
    She stopped pacing and looked at Troi. "That night,
he got a very high fever. Before they could bring it
down, he went into convulsions, and... and he died.
I loved him so much I thought my heart would crack
into pieces. But I couldn't even go to his funeral."
     She sat down again, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry,
Counselor. I haven't thought about this in years."
  "I'm sure that's true."
 "This won't happen again, I promise you."
    "I hope that's not so, Gretchen. You've never
grieved for that little brother. It's time you went
through that."
 "I don't want to think about it."
    "I know. But you must acknowledge the pain, not
bury it."
    Naylor took a great shuddering breath, tried a
crooked smile. "We were talking about finding a
hobby, and it turned into this."
    And a thought struck Troi. "Do you think you
might like to volunteer in the nursery?"
Naylor looked at her curiously. "The nursery?"
"There are always a number of babies being cared
for there. Many of the couples on the Enterprise both
work, and put their children in care centers during the
day. The nursery is always looking for extra hands to
hold and cuddle the babies."
    Troi could feel Gretchen rolling the idea over in her
mind, tasting it, trying it. "Maybe," she ventured.
    Troi had an instinct that this young woman might
take pleasure in giving care to a helpless creature. She
had been cheated from so much of life, and certainly
she had some healing to do regarding her baby broth-
er. The nursery might be just the place for her.
    Gretchen composed herself and, after promising to
see Troi professionally for a few weeks, departed. Troi
had an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Being a
counselor might not be the most exciting job on the
ship, but when things happened right, there was
nothing quite like it. This kind of fulfillment was
buoying to her, and she imagined that even a captain
like Jean-Luc Picard would value these small mo-
ments of triumph.

    Riker was standing on the bridge of the Enterprise,
looking at the viewscreen. There he saw the bridge of
the Klingon ship Kruge, with Picard, Data, and the
Klingon captain all in evidence. Riker had been
running down his experiences at Qualor, and the
information he had pried loose from the Ferengi
dealer, Omag.
    "As soon as I heard this Barolian ship was at
Galorndon Core, I started to think Romulans," he
concluded, and saw Picard absorb the intelligence and
try to determine its significance.
    "And the Romulans are suddenly very interested in
bonding with the Vulcans," Picard mused. "Spock has
been meeting with the new Senate proconsul about
reunification."
    Riker was stunned. A formal realigning of the
Vulcans and Romulans? Such a possibility had never
entered his mind. "Reunification?" he repeated
lamely.
    "The Romulan proconsul says he is prepared to
endorse peace talks," Picard continued, and Riker
found that statement even more surprising. A
Romulan leader pushing for peace? "What about Spock?" he asked.
    "The ambassador is skeptical but he cares a great
deal about reunification. As long as there's a chance of
success, he will pursue it."
    Troi spoke up. "I'm afraid I don't see where a stolen
Vulcan ship fits into all this."
    "Neither do I, Counselor." Picard's eyes sought out
Riker again. "How soon can you be at Galorndon
Core, Number One?"
    Riker checked the calculations on his chair console.
"Little over eight hours," he replied.
      "It may be a wild-goose chase, but I don't think we
have a choice, do you?"  "Agreed."
    The image on the viewscreen suddenly began break-
ing up, and Riker saw Data turn from the console on
the Klingon bridge. "We are losing our Romulan
carrier wave, sir," he announced.
    Picard turned to Riker once more. "We'll advise
you further when you get there, Number One. Picard
out."
    The signal snapped out completely and Riker found
himself looking at stars once more. He turned to the
ensign at Conn. "Ensign, set a course to Galorndon
Core. Take us to warp eight."
    He settled into the command chair and watched as
the stars turned from pinpoints to streaks as the
massive ship jumped to high-warp speed. The solu-
tion to the mystery had been eluding him all along this
journey. Maybe he would find the answer at
Galorndon Core.

Chapter Eighteen

CAPTAIN K'VADA WAS ALL but salivating with glee. The
android--that glorious creature who had returned his
shoulder to its rightful position, where it was now
mending nicely--had managed to tap into the
Romulan information net. The possibilities this
opened for K'Vada were infinite. He listened carefully
as Picard and Data huddled over the computer where
the android was accessing information.
    "Captain, the Romulan subspace logs identify a
transmission from the Romulan surface to a Barolian
ship near Galorndon Core twelve hours ago."
    Picarcl nodded as though this had some signifi-
cance, and K'Vada felt compelled to set him right.
"Galorndon Core is along the Barolian trade route.
They trade a great deal with the Romulans. It's
probably just routine."
    But Data spoke up. "This would not appear to be
routine," he asserted. "I have been able to trace the
source of the transmission. It incorporates the code
prefix of Romulan intelligence."
  K'Vada's salivation increased. Rornulan intelli-
gence! He would be lauded far and wide for bringing
this plum to his people.
"Can you access it, Data?" Picard was asking.
Data's fingers flew over the controls. K'Vada noted
that he functioned at a higher rate of speed than either
humans or Klingons, and filed that away for future
reference. "It appears to be a short sequence of
numbers," he announced. "One, four, zero, zero."
  Picard frowned. "Nothing else?"
  "No, sir."
    The Starfleet Captain paced for a moment, then
turned back to them. "I want to advise the ambassa-
dor immediately. Mr. Data, you will accompany me
to the surface."
    K'Vada's temper flared a bit; now, just when he had
everything at his fingertips, they were going to prolong
this foolish mission! Picard was heading for the
portal; he turned back and said to K'Vada, "Captain,
maintain an emergency transport schedule at our
beam-in coordinates."
    K'Vada simmered. Not only would they not be able
to leave here, but he had to act as a wet nurse to the
two Starfleet officers, staying on alert until they de-
cided to come back to the ship. The words were out of
his mouth before he thought. "I do not take orders
from you, Picard," he snapped.
    He was unprepared for the response this produced.
Picard turned on him and, in perfect Klingon, barked,
"P'tah J'ginQuoE Ktah!" K'Vada blinked. The intensi-
ty of the oath was surprising.
    "You will lock on those coordinates at sixty-minute
intervals after our arrival."
    K'Vada did not answer, and Picard and Data
moved to the portal. K'Vada overheard the android
say mildly, "That was not very Vulcan of you, sir."
And they went out.
    As soon as the portal had shut behind them, K'Vada
began to laugh. He liked this Picard! Any human who
could swear like that won his respect. And anyone
who could stand up to K'Vada was a man who was not
going to be stopped by the Romulans.
    Picard and Data would be back on his ship. They
would make their way through the Neutral Zone and
then back to the Klingon home world. K'Vada would
bring great honor to himself with his information
about Romulan intelligence; he would spur the devel-
opment of an artificial life-form and that would only
enhance his position. He would give up the wandering
life of a starship captain and settle down with K'kam
--who would of course give up her own career to be
with himmand they would live out their days in glory.
    Captain K'Vada settled into his command chair. If
only there were truly fresh gagh on this ship, every-
thing would be perfect.

    Spock was preoccupied when he entered Krocton
segment, and so he didn't notice D'Tan until the boy
was almost on top of him. "Mr. Spock!" D'Tan called.
"I've been looking for you."
    Spock almost smiled. This boy's fervid enthusiasm
was infectious. "I have been meeting with the pro-
consul, D'Tan," he said. It was that meeting that had
so occupied his thinking. He and Neral had spent
several hours outlining the parameters of the discus-
sions that would take place following their historic
announcement that the worlds of Vulcan and Romu-
lus would begin talks that might drastically alter the
future.
    "Does he still speak of reunification?" asked D'Tan,
and Spock smiled at the unfettered idealism he saw
reflected in D'Tan's eyes.
    "He speaks of nothing else," he replied. Nothing
else, his mind's voice repeated, though Spock was not
certain why.
    He and D'Tan moved to a table at the food court.
The boy pulled some objects from his pocket--small,
oddly shaped blocks with carving on each one. "Have
you ever seen any of these?" asked the boy.
    He lay them in Spock's palm, and the ambassador
turned them over, inspecting them. "The syllabic
nucleus of the Vulcan language," he said softly.
    "They were my toys when I was small," explained
D'Tan.
    Spock stared at him. "Your parents wanted you to
learn the Vulcan language?"
    "As did their parents before them. To prepare for
the day when we will live again with our Vulcan
cousins."
    Spock looked into the boy's eager face, and reflected
in it he saw the possibilities of a glorious future--an
era of peace among worlds, a reign of truth and
contemplative tranquility. He was profoundly moved
as he looked into the small, impetuous face.
    He almost didn't notice when Jaron appeared in
front of them and leaned in to speak quietly. "Your
Federation friends have returned," he said. "They
must see you immediately. I've told Pardek. He will
meet you at the cave." Then Jaron moved off swiftly.
    Spock rose and placed the small blocks in D'Tan's
hand, then clasped the hand shut over them. He held
the boy's hand for a moment, as though drawing
strength from him, and then he turned and started for
the caves.

    Picard had waited anxiously until Jaron returned to
tell him that he had been successful in contacting
Spock; He was relieved when Jaron told him the
ambassador would be there shortly. And Pardek was
even now entering the caves, hurrying to Picard with a
look of concern on his round face.
  "What is it, Picard?" he asked worriedly.
      "I'11 wait until Spock gets here, Senator, if you don't
mind. I'd rather brief you both at once."  "Of course."
    "Intelligence gathered by my crew on the Enter-
prise, and by Commander Data. I hope it will prove to
be nothing alarming."
    "As do I, Captain." With that, Pardek retired to a
side wall of the cavern and sat down heavily. Picard
remembered that he was as old as Spock--well over a
hundred years. Hurried, anxious visits to the under-
ground caverns must take a toll on him.
    Spock arrived minutes later, and Picard immediate-
ly launched into a recounting of the events that his
first otticer had encountered on Qualor Two--how a
stolen Vulcan ship had been passed from hand to
hand and was ultimately delivered to a Barolian
freighter near a Romulan-controlled planet,
Galorndon Core.
    And then there was the message Data had uncov-
ered, directly traceable to the Romulan intelligence
unit, a message sent a few hours ago--to a Barolian
freighter near Galorndon Core.
    "The only communication that was sent," he said
finally, "were the numbers one, four, zero, zero."
Pardek looked puzzled. "What does it mean?"
There was a brief silence, and then Spock's voice,
sounding strangely weary, interjected. "It means," he
said, "that the proconsul has apparently been at-
tempting to deceive me."
    Spock moved away from them, as though this
betrayal were a physical anguish. "For what purpose I
cannot say yet," he said. "But his conversations with
me have obviously been part of a greater plan involv-
ing the stolen Vulcan ship."
    "How do you know that, Ambassador?" asked
Data.
    "The time the proconsul has set for the subspace
announcement of our peace initiative is fourteen
hundred hours tomorrow. One, four, zero, zero."
    Pardek looked puzzled. "But why would they need a
Vulcan ship?" he queried.
    "That will become clear very shortly." A woman's
voice rang out through the caves, and all eyes turned
toward the ramp leading to the entrance.
 Pieard's heart went cold when he saw her.
 It was Sela.
    Young and lithe, she strode down the ramp, her
beauty radiant in the damp of the cave. Part Romulan,
part human, her short, cropped blond hair glistened
in the light of the kekogen lamps. She wore the
uniform ofa Romulan commander and held a disrup-
tor in her hands. Her eyes were blue ice.
    From all sides, Romulan guards entered, quickly
taking Picard and Data's weapons and surrounding
the small group of men. It was swift and well Orches-
trated. Picard realized with consternation that they
had been set up for this capture.
 He turned to face Sela. "Captain Picard," she
purred. Her voice was silken honey; it belied the evil
of which she was capable. "Welcome to Romulus. I
trust you've enjoyed your visit."
    He did not respond. He would not play games with
Sela. She smiled and glanced toward Data.
    "And this is the android I have come to respect in
battle." The irony in her voice may have escaped
Data, who said politely, "Lieutenant Commander
Data."
    Sela. That he should encounter her again, here--
was there some predestination involved? Some or-
dained fate that threw their lives into synchronous
collision? And was she Tasha's daughter?
    No matter. Whatever her genesis, she was a creature
without conscience, and her presence in this under-
ground chamber gave a frightening new twist to this
situation.

    Sela stared at the Starfleet captain known as Picard
and felt an undeniable thrill of triumph. She had
heard this man's name from the earliest time she
could remember--and had grown up hating him. Her
mother had talked of him constantly, as she did of all
her fellow officers on the Enterprise, and Sela had
gradually decided that each of those people was her
blood enemy.
    It was bad enough that her mother was human, and
a common prisoner. That she failed to realize the
honor that had been bestowed on her by General
Meldet, who chose to mate with her--this was what
Sela could not forgive. Her mother was not only
foolish but unworthy.
    Sela was the product of the union between the
captured Starfleet officer and one of the highest-
ranking generals in the Romulan guards. And during
the brief part of her childhood while her mother still
lived, she was subject to Tasha Yar's endless stories of
the vast starship on which she had served, and the
wonderful people she had worked with. It was a
strange story, and Sela didn't fully understand it.
Tasha kept saying that Captain Picard had sent her
"from the future." Sela didn't know what that meant
until she was older, and even then she couldn't
comprehend it. But what Tasha had said was that her
ship, the Enterprise D, had somehow encountered its
counterpart from the past--the Enterprise C.
    It was some kind of space-time distortion, obvious-
ly, and who could truly explain those? However it
happened, heI' mother had been sent by Picard to join
the Enterprise C--the ship from the past. And that
ship was attacked by Romulan forces and destroyed,
with all but a handful being killed immediately.
    Tasha was one of those survivors. After standard
interrogation, she had caught the eye of Meldet, who
desired her. And, in order to spare her life and the
lives of her fellow prisoners, Tasha Yar consented to
become Meldet's consort.
 Sela had been born a year later.
    And, for over four years, heard the stories of the
Enterprise crew.
    Sela had probably loved her mother at one point;
she couldn't remember it, but surely love had been
there once. However, her adoration of her father was
immediate and constant. He was powerful and
exciting--tall, with a deep voice that Sela loved. Her
father was feared and respected by everyone.
  How could her mother not adore this man?
  But she didn't. She tolerated him, but she did not
love him. And, one night when Sela was four, her
mother had come to her in the middle of the night
and, warning her to be very quiet, bundled her up and
carried her out of their compound.
    Only when they were outside did Sela realize that
she was being stolen away, away from her beloved
father, away from her home, away from everything she
held dear.
 And so she cried out for the guards.
    Her father had offered this woman her life. He had
given her a home, protection, a daughter. And how
did Tasha Yar repay him? With betrayal.
    Sela stood with her father and watched as Tasha was
executed. Everything in her that was human died with
her mother that day. All that was left was a Romulan,
who burned with the desire to destroy the crew of the
Enterprise, those to whom Tasha had been loyal.
Those who had caused her to betray Sela's father.
    And now, standing in this damp cave, looking at the
astonished faces before her, Sela realized that she had
the glorious Picard in her power. She would see if he
measured up to all her mother's overblown praise. She
doubted it. Before she was through, he would be
revealed for the petty, inadequate human that he was.
 And Sela's lifelong dream would be realized.

    As Picard stood in the harsh white glare of the
kekogen lamps, staring into Sela's cold, gleaming eyes,
Picard realized that his and Spock's instincts about
Neral had been correct. The proconsul had been
leading them on, baiting them and drawing them in so
that he could, ultimately, apprehend them. The
vaunted peace talks were never intended to take place;
reunification was nothing more than an idealist's
dream.
    Picard looked at Spock. The ambassador's face
looked gray and worn, as though he bore the full brunt
of this calamity. Exhaustion showed in every line of
his craggy face; defeat seemed to be crushing him.
      ;'How could they know of this location?" Pardek
was beseeching Spock. "Someone betrayed us."
  "Yes." Spock's voice was flat. "You did."
    Picard's look snapped toward Spock. The ambassa-
dor was boring into Pardek, and the senator was
trembling. "Spock," he said, aghast, "we've been
friends for eighty years."
    But, unmoved and stolid, Spock gazed back at him.
"It is the only logical conclusion. You invited me to
Romulus. You arranged the meeting with the procon-
sul. And you knew that Picard and Data had returned
to the surface with new information."
    Pardek shook his head, trying to maintain the
innocent front, but Sela's throaty laugh obviated the
effort. "The great Spock," she said, not without
admiration. "Very well. Senator Pardek, your service
to the Romulan people is noted and appreciated."
    Pardek seemed to deflate a little. He looked right
into Spock's eyes.
    These men have been j?iends for eighty years,
thought Picard. Has Pardek been using Spock all that
time, lying in wait, hoping for the opportunity to take
advantage of that J)'iendship? Was that all it ever was?
    Spock and Pardek were holding a look. It must have
connoted nearly a century's relationship. It culmi-
nated when Pardek said ruefully, "Jolan tru, Spock."
There was no sense of discomfort, or of acknowledg-
ment of the long friendship. Pardek had simply sev-
ered the bonds. Nothing more.
    "Do not be distressed," Sela said to Spock. The
ambassador was not looking at her, Picard observed,
and she spoke to his ear. "Your dream of reunification
is not dead. It will only take a slightly different
formrathe Romulan conquest of Vulcan."
    She nodded to the guards, and they prodded the trio
up the ramp.

    D'Tan would never be able to say what it was that
cautioned him to take refuge in the ground-level
storage unit he had discovered years ago. It was
nothing tangible, just a sense of unusual anticipation
in the hot, heavy air; a kind of compression as though
distant explosions were felt, rather than heard.
    Others had premonitions, too, he was sure. There
was a restiveness on the street, little eddies of scurry-
ing activity that sprang up and dissipated in random
patterns. A Circassian cat that belonged to a shop-
keeper prowled her window restlessly, arching her
back and spitting.
    D'Tan's hiding place had a grate that opened on to
the street and provided a view. When he was a very
small boy he had discovered that he could wriggle into
this space between the storage unit and the facade of
the building and lie undetected for hours, watching
the panorama of the streets unfold before him. Now
that he was older, it was becoming a tighter fit; and he
had realized sadly that in another year or two he
would have to give up his childhood retreat.
  He had had an aimless day, first wandering the
neighborhood for several hours, looking for Mr.
Spock, hoping to show him the language blocks. After
Spock left to go to the caves, D'Tan spent some time
with his friend Janicka, helping her clean her family's
store. They had given him a meal and a piece of fruit
to take with him.
    It was that indefinable heaviness in the air that
finally sent him crawling into the hiding place. He was
uneasy; his stomach felt sick and he wondered if the
fruit he had eaten was spoiled.
    Sitting cross-legged in his hiding place calmed him
down; it always did. He loved watching the passersby
on the street, the little dramas that played out before
him. There was a heady feeling of omnipotence that
he could see without being seen, though D'Tan knew
that if his parents discovered this little activity, they
would probably not approve.
    D'Tan saw Janicka walk from her parents' shop
toward the food court. Janicka loved sweets, and her
parents kept her on a strict limit. D'Tan knew they
must be occupied now, and Janicka was sneaking
away to get some forbidden treat. He watched as she
spoke to the food keeper, who returned a moment
later with sesketh, a sugary confection twisted on a
spice stick. D'Tan almost laughed out loud, because he
knew of all the treats Janicka's parents least liked her
to have, sesketh was at the top of the list.
    Now she'd have to finish it before she returned to
the shop; she sat on an embankment as she nibbled
daintily at the sweet. D'Tan observed that Janicka was
one of the few people he knew who could eat and still
look delicate. He'd never had such a thought before,
and as his mind considered her gentle face and her
large, dark eyes, he found himself thinking of Janicka
in an entirely new manner.
    It was while he was absorbed in this unaccustomed
exploration of Janicka's attributes that he heard the
first scream.
    It was a woman, and she was not within his sight.
But he saw others on the street react to the scream and
look off, to his right, down the thoroughfare that led
out of Krocton segment.
    Within seconds there was more noise--unfamiliar,
disturbing--a clamor of shouting and more screams.
    D'Tan's stomach twisted with fear. Whatever was
happening, he knew it was worse than anything he had
ever experienced. Now the people on the street before
him 'were running, becoming crazed, colliding with
each other in desperate haste. Some ran to his left,
simply trying to get away from whatever was ap-
proaching; others ran the opposite way to look for
loved ones or to take sanctuary.
    The clamor of noise to his right was increasing in
volume, and soon he could hear a pounding of
footsteps--hundreds of them, many the harsh stamp-
ing of military boots as they marched inexorably
down the street.
    Then he caught the unmistakable sound of disrup-
tor fire. He shrank back in his hiding place in fear.
Disruptors were one of the most terrible weapons ever
invented; were they being used on innocent citizens?
    The next thing he saw was a flood of terrified
people, running, stumbling, some glancing back over
their shoulders as they ran, all wild-eyed, all fleeing
some awful and as yet unseen monstrosity.
 One woman stumbled and fell; the crowd marched
over her, ignoring her pleas for help and then her
frantic screams as she was trampled. Finally she was
still; D'Tan could see only her outstretched arm,
fingers twitching faintly.
 Then came the guards.
    Neral's security guards were the most feared unit of
the military. They were chosen first on the basis of
size and strength; once tapped for service, they under-
went special adaptations of their brain chemistry that
reduced any sense of conscience or empathy. Then
their plan centers were regulated so that their bodies
were impervious to the torment of physical injury.
    The result was a brutal creature without compas-
sion, who would follow orders relentlessly, would not
be slowed by injury, and would fight tenaciously until
the body itself simply gave out.
    These were the beings that marched through
Krocton segment now.
    Faces impassive, dressed in iron gray uniforms, they
moved like a relentless swarm of insects over a field,
destroying it utterly. Disruptor fire lacerated build-
ings and caused them to tremble violently; some
collapsed in on themselves. Glass shattered and ex-
ploded, often showering the frightened citizens with
lethal shards.
    Some guards amused themselves by nipping at the
fleeing civilians with disruptors; a full setting would
vaporize anyone, so obviously they had purposely set
their weapons at a low level. Those who were unlucky
enough to get grazed by the ugly blast dropped in their
tracks, screaming in agony as their internal organs
began to explode.
 All this D'Tan watched with horror, not wanting to
see but unable to look away. It was a living nightmare
of cruelty and mayhem, unfolding in bitter, bloody
detail directly in front of him.
    A gap in the guards' ranks opened briefly, and he
saw Janicka, standing opposite him on the embank-
ment, staring, frozen, at the havoc before her. "Run,
Janicka!" he shouted, oblivious for the moment to his
own safety. But his cry had no chance of being heard
by either the guards or by Janicka; the devastation of
the streets overwhelmed any other sound, and
D'Tan's cry blended with the piteous wails of too
many others.
    And so he watched, riveted, as a guard noticed
Janicka and ran toward her. The little girl stared up at
him, unable to move. He picked her up and slung her
over his shoulder, and then Janicka came to life. She
shrieked, and kicked at the guard with all her might.
Annoyed, he simply grabbed her by her ankles and
swung her around in a circle until her face collided
with the corner of a building.
    He dropped her then and she crumpled, leaden,
onto the street. Even from his hiding place, D'Tan
could see that Janicka's fair, delicate face was now a
template of cracked and broken segments through
which blood was streaming. She did not move or even
twitch. She would never again eat a treat or walk with
him to the caves or clean the windows in her parents'
store. Janicka, his good friend, was gone.
    D'Tan sank back against the wall of the storage unit.
The guards had already passed by, continuing their
carnage as they marched through the segment. Here,
before D'Tan, was a wasteland of the dead and
wounded. Already the noise was subsiding, and all he
could hear were the groans of those who still breathed.
    He knew that Mr. Spock was in terrible danger.
This massacre was meant to wipe out the movement,
and if the guards knew that Krocton segment con-
tained its nucleus and its most dedicated adherents,
there was every chance they knew about the caves,
too.
    D'Tan waited a few moments until the noise of the
marauding guards had grown faint, and then he
crawled out of his sanctuary. Trying not to look at the
devastation around him, he started running toward
the caves.

Chapter Nineteen

THE ENTERPRISE CAME gracefully out of warp speed and
entered orbit around Gaiorndon Core. It was a bleak,
forbidding planet, electromagnetically shrouded and
obscured by fierce storms and wildly erratic arcs of
jagged electricity.
    Riker turned from the viewscreen to Geordi, at one
of the aft science stations. "Any signs of life, Mr. La
Forge?" he asked.
    Geordi shook his head as he scanned the instru-
ments. "Negative, Commander."
    "The Romulans could have a cloaked base on the
surface," suggested Troi.
    "Or anywhere else along the Neutral Zone," added
Riker. He had an unsettling feeling of disappoint-
ment. He had felt they were close to uncovering the
mysterious origins of the stolen Vulcan ship, and now
they found themselves in orbit over an uninhabited
planet. Had they come all this way for nothing?
    "Sir," Worf's voice interrupted, "a coded subspace
signal from Romulus. It's the captain."
    Riker moved to Worf's tactical console, read the
message to himself. Troi must have seen the concern
on his face, because she moved toward him.
  "What?" she asked.
    Riker read the message aloud. "Maintain position
at Galorndon Core. Diplomatic initiative appears to
be succeeding. Will advise soon."
    Riker found this message instantly suspicious. The
captain had only been able to communicate with them
from the Klingon ship, and then by piggyback trans-
mission. This coded message directly from Romulus
was troubling. He cast a glance toward Worh he could
tell that the Klingon officer shared his concern.
    "The message did employ the proper code se-
quence, Commander," Worf said.
 "Yeah," said Riker. "I'm sure it did."
 But he still didn't trust it.

    D'Tan was prepared for anything as he approached
the caves. He kept cover as he neared them, running in
a crouch through a thicket of dense wagi brush that
paralleled the road. He stopped opposite the cave
opening and watched for a while; he was apprehensive
about entering and being caught in the narrow,
tubelike chamber that led into the main cavern.
    After a few moments, he decided not to risk the
larger entrance but to take the time to come in from
the rear, through a circuitous, winding corridor,
which only he and a few others knew about, and
which only children could navigate successfully be-
cause the openings in many cases were small.
    In a few minutes he had reached the rocky ledges
that traversed the hills rising above the subterranean
caves. He lowered himself into a hole concealed by
thorny bushes, then scurried down the shaft, and
dropped into a small chamber. Three circular open-
ings were grouped on a far wall; D'Tan took the
middle one and wriggled through a long, narrow
passageway. That was the hardest part, and once he
had emerged he was only minutes away from the main
chamber.
    As he neared it, he walked carefully, listening for
any sounds of disturbance; he heard nothing. Ginger-
ly, he made his way down the corridor toward the
cavern, one step at a time, listening between each
step... then he stepped around the corner and into
the cavern.
  Someone attacked him with a rock.
    Instinctively he threw up his arms and the blow
glanced off his forehead, but still with enough force to
drop him to his knees. The wound spouted blood and
D'Tan scrambled backward, holding up his hands to
defend himself.
    It was Shalote, a friend in the movement. Her eyes
were wild and she held another rock in her hand,
ready to attack again. She stared at him. "D'Tan?" she
asked incredulously, and lowered her hand.
    "Shalote, there's been a massacre in Krocton seg-
ment. The guards killed everybody .... It was
awful..." Now that he saw a friend, the terrible
events came pouring out. He longed to be comforted,
held, and soothed until some of the dreadful images
left his mind.
    But Shalote was staring at him, nodding, herself as
traumatized as he. "It was the same here," she whis-
pered. "The guards came and took everyone. I had
been carrying water to the main cavern and I heard
the commotion and hid."
  "Mr. Spock... Captain Picard?"
"They were captured. I saw them being led out."
D'Tan sank to the ground. He wanted very much
not to cry in front of Shalote, who was older and
whom he admired, but he was in despair. He had no
idea if his parents had survived the slaughter in
Krocton segment, if his friends were alive or dead.
Janicka was gone... how many more of his beloved
companions had perished that day?
    But the worst thing of all was the death of the
dream. What he had hoped and longed for all his life,
what he thought he would see happening in his
lifetime--that vision was shattered. His people would
continue to live the bleak and violent lives of
Romulans, shut off from the rest of the quadrant,
never coming to know their gentle Vulcan cousins.
    D'Tan realized he had already started crying, sitting
on the floor of the cave, tears flooding in an endless
current. Shalote was crying, too, and eventually they
held each other and sobbed for a long time, drawing
what comfort they could from each other's presence.

    An almost tangible sense of well-being suffused
Commander Sela on this warm Romulan afternoon.
Everything was going as it should. Spock, Picard, and
the android Data had been taken at the caves, and that
alone would have been enough to make her feel
satisfied.
    But she had also learned that the extermination
process in Krocton segment had been successful. The
area had been decimated, with hundreds dead and
scores wounded. Never again would Krocton segment
be a pocket of sedition.
 Now, as she worked at her padd, she prepared to lay
the final chip in the plan on which she had spent the
past five years. It was all within her grasp. The most
difficult elements were already in place; what re-
mained was relatively easy. And then the heady
rewards of conquest would be hers.
    She heard the door open and knew that Spock,
Picard, and Data were being led in. She purposely
didn't look up; it amused her to keep writing, all but
ignoring them. Idly she said, "Come in, gentlemen.
Take a seat, please."
    As she concentrated on the padd, she was aware
that the guards ushered the prisoners to chairs oppo-
site her desk; they sat. Now she looked up at the
guards and nodded to excuse them.
    Sela smiled as she scrutinized the three men who sat
before her. Spock and Picard were solemn-faced,
refusing to reveal whatever emotions they might be
feeling. The android, of course, had no emotions, and
was sitting placidly, watching her. She went back to
her writing as she said, "Excuse me. I'm just finishing
up a speech. For you, Mr. Spock."
    Presently, she put the padd down and leaned back
in her chair. "I rather enjoy writing. I don't get to do it
often in this job."
    "Perhaps you would be happier in another job,"
offered Data, and she had to suppress a smile. She was
intrigued by this unusual creature, and could even
understand the fondness her mother had expressed
for him. Sela herself had encountered him in different
circumstances, and blamed him--and Picard--for
her failure to sway the Klingon civil war in favor of
her cohorts, Lursa and WEtor. It was delightful to
have both these Starfleet men in her custody; there
would be time for proper, and prolonged, retribution.
    Picking up the padd, she circled the desk and
handed the implement to Spock. "Please feel free to
change any words that you wish. I've tried to make it
sound Vulcan... a lot of unnecessarily long words."
    No one smiled. Spock began to read the padd. "In a
few hours," she continued, "you will deliver this
statement alongside our senate proconsul, Neral. It
will announce to the Vulcan people that a peace envoy
is on its way from Romulus. We will transmit it on all
Federation subspace frequencies."
    Picard spoke first. "A 'peace' envoy in a stolen
Vulcan ship..." he breathed, and Sela could tell he
had fit in a piece of the puzzle. She was only too happy
to provide the rest. It was a wonderfully clever
scheme, and she was proud of it.
    "Actually, three Vulcan ships, Captain. The Enter-
prise is aware only of the one we stole from Qualor
Two." She smiled at his look of surprise. "Yes, we've
been following their investigation. It has forced us to
make some minor changes, including a message that
was sent in your name, ordering them to stay where
they are."
    Picard's astute eyes swept her face. "The moment
those Vulcan ships appear in the Neutral Zone, the
Enterprise will move to intercept." Sela almost
laughed. She lovedthis--it was worth the five arduous
years of planning. She had them at every turn.
    "In that event," she purred, "the Enterprise will be
given more important matters to attend to." She
waited so she could enjoy the puzzled frustration on
Pieard's face. He was learning that Sela had thought of
every eventuality and had provided for it. He would
never underestimate her again.
 She circled now toward the windows of her office,
and gazed out across the lofty spires of the city of
Dartha. She knew that far below, the people lived in
dark squalor, but here, above the streets, her view was
of a maze of soaring towers, stately and pristine.
    "In the meantime," she continued, turning back to
the trio, "Ambassador Spock will be telling his people
to welcome the peace envoy, and when they do, our
forces will seize control of the Vulcan government
before anyone realizes what has happened."
    "Can you possibly believe that the Federation will
not immediately intervene?" The question from Pi-
card was more a flat declaration.
    "Of course it will," responded Sela, relishing these
moments, savoring the feeling of thwarting the great
Jean-Luc Picard. "And we're fully prepared for that.
But we'll be there. Entrenched. And it will be very
difficult to get us out once we are. A new Vulcan
government will be forlned that will embrace their
Romulan cousins." She paused, and then said, with a
trace of irony, "Reunification will become a fact of
life."
    Spock had finished his perusal of the document she
had written, and as he handed it back to her, he said
dryly, "I will not read this or any other statement."
  "If you do not, you will die. All of you will die."
    "It is logical to conclude that you will kill us in any
event. Therefore, I choose not to cooperate."
    Sela was annoyed. "I hate Vulcans," she snapped. "I
hate the logic. I hate the arrogance."
    But of course she had considered this eventuality
and provided for it as well. She walked toward a
computer console. "Computer," she said, "holo-
graphic program Spock One." And then she turned to
see how her three prisoners would react, and her
feeling of well-being returned.

    Picard turned as he heard the characteristic hiss
that signaled the appearance of a holographic figure.
He knew what Sela had done and was sure the others
had anticipated it, too.
    Standing in the room was a perfect representation
of Spock. He was immobile now, frozen in a moment
of serene meditation, his eyes focused on nothing. "By
taking advantage of holographic sampling these last
few days," explained Sela, "we have created a pro-
grammable Spock." She searched the faces of the
men, seeming to want a reaction. Picard carefully kept
his face expressionless; he had no desire to stroke this
shrewd woman's ego.
    "Run program," she said, and the holo-Spock came
to life.
    "This is Ambassador Spock of Vulcan," it an-
nounced, its voice a perfect representation. "By now,
Federation sensors are tracking three Vulcan ships
crossing the Neutral Zone. These ships carry the
future of the Vulcan and Romulan people. Our long
conflict is finally over..."
    "Freeze," said Sela, and the figure stopped in mid-
sentence. She adopted a vaguely disappointed look
when she said, "We would have preferred an interac-
tive Spock who could have responded to questions,
but this will have to suffice." She smiled contentedly.
She reminded Picard of an animal who has feasted
after a kill, belly full and needs assuaged, at one with
its world, sanguine and assured.
 Picard felt impelled to rattle this self-satisfied atti-
tude. "This will hardly convince anyone," he said
tersely.
    "I don't need to convince them," she explained.
"Just confuse them long enough for us to reach
Vulcan." She turned and gazed fondly at her creation,
then said, "End program." The holo-Spock disap-
peared.
    She smiled again--that annoying, lazy smile--and
started tbr the door. "If you will excuse me," she said
pleasantly, "it is time to send the ships on their
journey." And she exited.
    Immediately the three began to examine the room
for escape potential. It didn't seem to offer any; it was
an inner office and well sealed. "Suggestions?" asked
Picard, almost automatically.
      "Commander Data," mused Spock, "are they still
unaware that we have access to their computers?"
  "I believe so, sir," replied Data.
    "Then perhaps you and I can find a way to create a
diversion." Spock and Data moved toward the com-
puter console, and for the first time in many hours,
Picard began to hold a measure of hope.

    The crew on the bridge of the Enterprise had been
sitting in tense silence for an hour. Since arriving at
Galorndon Core, they had each taken a few hours off
to nap, but otherwise they had kept their posts.
    They weren't even sure what they were waiting for.
Riker felt like a coiled spring, his neck beginning to
ache from the pressures of internal stress. "Maintain
position," the captain's message--if that's what it
was--had said. But why? "Will advise soon," it had
continued, but that had been ten hours ago. How long
were they to wait? And for what?
    Riker had managed to take an hour and have coffee
with Gretchen Naylor, briefing her on the latest
developments and offering to let her wait on the
bridge with them. To his surprise, she declined the
offer, assuring him that she knew the situation was in
good hands. There was a relaxed quality to her that he
hadn't noticed before, and it flattered her. They
arranged to have dinner once this present crisis had
resolved itself.
    Now, sitting in silence on the bridge, listening to the
faint electronic hum and crackle that was the normal
background noise of the instruments, his nerves were
taut. More than anything, Riker hated to wait.
    Worf's voice, when he spoke, startled them all.
"Commander, sensors are picking up three vessels
crossing the Neutral Zone." He paused, and then
added, "Vulcan ships."
    Troi whirled on him. "Vulcan?" she said, aston-
ished. Riker was already on his way to the aft science
station, where Geordi stood.
    "What's their heading, Mister Worf?" Riker asked
even before he reached Geordi.
    "One-four-three, mark zero-one-two," replied
Worf, and by the time Riker reached the science
station, a grid on the monitor displayed the bound-
aries of the Neutral Zone, and Riker observed three
small blips moving through it.
    "That would put them on a course to Vulcan," said
Geordi. He stared at the blips for a moment, keying
commands on the console.
    "Worf, signal them on subspace. Request their
status. Geordi, see if you can tell if one of them is the
ship we've been looking for." Riker saw Geordi and
Worf both spring into action. He realized his neck was
feeling better already.
    Worf reported first. "They say they're escorting a
peace envoy from Romulus to Vulcan, sir. They
request that we monitor Federation subspace chan-
nels. Ambassador Spock will be making an announce-
ment shortly."
    "Perhaps his reunification talks were successful,"
suggested Troi.
    But it didn't feel right to Riker. A stolen Vulcan ship
delivered near Galorndon Core... now Vulcan ships
crossing the Neutral Zone from Romulus...
  He turned to La Forge. "Geordi?"
    "None of the transponder signatures match up to
the missing ship, Commander. They might have been
altered. I'll keep checking."
    Riker pondered for a moment, then decided there
was nothing to be lost by putting himself in position in
case there was something rotten in Romulus.
    "Set a course to intercept the Vulcan ships," he
said, and saw Worf's head spin around.
    "Sir," protested the Klingon, "the captain's orders
were to maintain--"
  "I know the captain's orders, Lieutenant. Engage."
    The great ship whipped into warp speed, and Riker
began to feel better. At least he was doing something.

    When Sela had dispatched the ships across the
Neutral Zone, she had purposely delayed returning to
the office where Spock, Picard, and Data waited. She
liked the idea of toying with them, giving them time to
ponder their failure and her triumph, and to dwell
uncomfortably on just what fate she planned for
them. She knew they must be well aware of Romulan
rituals of execution, and some time to consider their
tolerance for those elegant customs might leave them
in a less arrogant mood.
    She was still undecided how to treat the android.
He could feel neither pain nor emotion, so he did not
fit comfortably into the rigorous plans she had for the
other two. She wondered if he would be adaptable to
Romulan use; he might make a worthwhile aide if his
circuits could be reintegrated so that he lost his
attachment to Starfleet and its doctrines. She would
have to check with their robotic scientists about that.
If so, she would keep Spock and Picard alive long
enough to witness the subversion of their colleague.
    So it was with a light heart that she entered her
office to confront her prisoners once more.
And discovered that the room was empty.
Stunned, she and the guards quickly drew their
disruptors and inspected the room. The prisoners
were nowhere to be found. "Impossible," she breat-
hed. "There's no way they could have gotten out of
this room."
    And then, more incredibly, a voice behind her
barked, "That's far enough." She whirled to see Riker,
Picard's first officer, with several of his security forces,
all with phasers trained on them. "Hold it right
there," snapped Riker. "Drop your weapons."
    Instinctively, Sela acted, moving casually toward
her desk, looking for cover.
 ~'Drop your weapons," repeated Riker.
    But she dropped to her knees and, using her desk as
cover, she fired a burst toward them; her guards
immediately followed suit.
    But Riker and his men still stood. "Drop your
weapons," repeated Riker, and suddenly Sela under-
stood. She rose, waved toward her men. "Cease fire,"
she ordered, and walked closer toward Riker. "Holo-
grams," she said with irritation, angry that they had
been deceived.
    What happened next happened so quickly that Sela
felt as if she were watching a high-speed video log. A
hand emerged from the wall--how can that be? her
mind wondered--and clasped one of her guards at
the neck; he crumpled onto the floor. The rest of
Spock then followed the hand through the wall and
took the guard's disruptor.
    At almost the same time, Picard burst through the
wall, too, and took another guard down with a short,
vicious punch.
    By this time Sela had recovered from her shock and
raised her disruptor to aim it at Picardmbut suddenly
there was Speck, right on top of her, holding the
disruptor he had confiscated from her guard.
    "I'm afraid," he said with mock apology, "that I
don't know too much about Romulan disruptor set-
tings."
    They eyed each other for a long moment as Sela
considered the options: But no matter what way she
came at it, she realized Speck could fire on her. She
would either vaporize, if the setting were high, or die
an agonizing death as her organs exploded if the
setting were low.
 She dropped the disruptor.
    Speck glanced at Picard and said something very
strange; it sounded like "Cowboy diplomacy." What-
ever it was, it meant something to the two, because
Picard acknowledged the statement with a slight
smile.
  Then Picard called out, "Well done, Mr. Data--
although I'm afraid you didn't get Commander
Riker's hair quite right."
    And suddenly the wall of her office disappeared--
revealing the true wall, and the android at her com-
puter console, having created a holegram of the wall
behind which they had been hiding all along.
    "I will be more observant in the future, sir," said
Data.
    How pleased with themselves they all were! How
clever they believed themselves. Well, let them con-
gratulate each other all they wanted; Sela's plan was
still running smoothly.
    "It doesn't matter what you do now," she informed
them. "Spock's announcement will be made in min-
utes. Our forces will be on Vulcan before you can alert
anyone."
    And she was delighted to see the looks of consterna-
tion on their faces.

    By Riker's calculation, they were within twenty
minutes of intercepting the Vulcan trio of ships when
they received the message from Dulisian Four. He had
immediately contacted Doctor Beverly Crusher and
she had come to the bridge.
 "Commander?" she queried.
    "Doctor, we've just received a priority-one distress
call from the colony on Dulisian Four--a massive
failure of the environmental support system. They're
going to require evacuation and they already have
injuries."
    Riker knew that the Dulisian colony was comprised
of over four hundred people. Without their environ-
mental support system, the sealed colony could not
sustain life. The Enterprise was within range of the
Dulisian system and could easily evacuate and trans-
port the colonists.
    But that would mean changing course and letting
the Vulcan ships proceed on their way without chal-
lenge.
    What to do? He had no right to interfere with the
Vulcan convoy, but he was mighty suspicious of it. A
friendly hail, a query about intentions--these were
accepted protocol in space.
    On the other hand, all he had regarding those ships
was a hunch. An instinct. A gut feeling. And what was
happening on Dulisian Four was real.
    "Worf, are there other ships in the vicinity of the
Dulisian system?"
    The tactical lieutenant checked his readings, then
announced, "One, sir. A Rutian archaeological ves-
sel."
    That would be a surveyor ship, much smaller and
less well equipped than the Enterprise. Beverly echoed
his thoughts, saying, "I'm sure it's not equipped to
handle something of this scale, Will." And of course it
couldn't.
    Riker moved back to the aft station, where Geordi
was monitoring the progress of the Vulcan ships. "La
Forge, anything more on those ships?"
    "I've checked every sensor display backward and
forward," he replied. "If the Romulans altered them,
they didn't leave any fingerprints. I can't tie any of
them to the surplus yard."
    "The Vulcan ships have entered Federation space,
sir," announced Worf. "Maintaining course and
speed."
    There was no choice. He had absolutely no hard
evidence linking the Vulcan ships to the one he'd been
trailing. He had no reason to believe that trio of ships
was anything other than what it said it was--a peace
envoy proceeding to Vulcan to open talks of reunifica-
tion. And on Dulisian, people were going to start
dying.
    "Lay in a new course," he commanded, "for
Dulisian Four."
    The ensign at Conn complied, but before Riker
could give the order to proceed, Worf's voice broke in.
The Klingon's voice held a note of urgency. "Incom-
ing message from Romulus--on all subspace chan-
nels."
 "On screen," Riker ordered.
    And on the viewscreen there appeared the august
presence of Ambassador Spock. The bridge grew quiet
as everyone listened intently to his message.
    "This is Ambassador Spock of Vulcan," he began.
"By now, Federation sensors are tracking three Vul-
can ships crossing the Neutral Zone."
    The calm way in which he announced these mea-
sured words made Riker assume that he was going to
announce the peace initiative. So it was with astonish-
ment that he heard the Vulcan say, in his next
sentence, "These ships carry a Romulan invasion
force and must be stopped. I repeat, these ships--"
    The image was suddenly scrambled and then it
disappeared altogether. Riker was on his feet.
    "Doctor, contact DullsJan Four and confirm that
distress call. I have a feeling it may prove to be a false
alarm." He saw from the comer of his eye that Beverly
had already started for the turbolift.
    "How long will it take to intercept those Vulcan
ships, Mr. Worf?." asked Riker, returning to his com-
mand chair.
  "Fourteen minutes, sir," Worf responded.
    So that was it. It was all coming down to a confron-
tation fourteen minutes from now--the whole circui-
tous route they had followed, from Vulcan to Qualor
Two to Galorndorn Core; the encounters with Klim
Dokachin, with Amarie and Omag--it was all leading
to this final challenge. Riker's heart was beating
harder; his mind was racing, preparing options. He
drummed his fingers on his leg, unconsciously.
 He couldn't wait.

Chapter Twenty

SPOCK KNEW that his announcement had been termi-
nated abruptly; he just hoped enough had gotten out
to alert the people of Vulcan. He glanced at Data, who
was still at the computer, working to ascertain if the
transmission was successful. Picard still held the
disruptor on Commander Sela.
    Data turned to them. "Communication lines have
been terminated at the transmitter," he declared.
"But I am quite certain the message was sent prior to
the interruption."
    "Well done, Mr. Data," said Picard, still keeping an
eye on Sela. Spock noted that he seemed to take some
pleasure in having bested this clever young woman;
they seemed to have some prior history, and he
thought he would have to ask Picard about that
someday.
    "You'll never get out of this building," insisted Sela,
two bright spots of color on her cheeks. She was
maintaining a contemptuous attitude in spite of the
apparent disruption of her plans.
    "I disagree, Commander," Data told her civi!ly.
"After studying the design of this structure, I have
determined that our best route of escape would be the
underground exit to the east of this wing. I have
disconnected certain security scanners to assist us."
    Spock saw the color in her face darken again, and
her eyes sweep toward the console that contained the
security circuitry.
    Data moved from the console and looked at Sela
almost apologetically, and said, "I am afraid we
cannot permit you to warn your guards."
    And then he did something extraordinary. He per-
formed the Vulcan pinch on her. Spock watched as
Commander Sela crumpled to the floor, and he turned
to Data in amazement. He had certainly tried to teach
others that maneuver in the past, including his former
captain, James Kirk. No one had ever quite mastered
the technique, and Spock had not attempted to impart
the knowledge to anyone in decades.
    But the android had accomplished the task, and
apparently only from watching Spock's own perfor-
mance of the pinch on the Romulan guard. It was a
brilliant assimilation of the procedure. Rarely had he
seen anything quite so remarkable.
    "Not bad," was all Spock said, and they began to
figure out how they could get out of that office and
into the east wing of the building.

    As soon as the Vulcan ships--which they now knew
were carrying an invasion force--were within hailing
range, Riker ordered Worfto open a channel. Then he
stepped toward the viewscreen.
    "I am Commander William Riker of the Federation
starship Enterprise. Identify yourself."
    The viewscreen flickered and then the image of a
smiling Romulan captain appeared. "Commander, I
am Danut of Romulus. We are a peace envoy, on our
way to Vulcan. Our mission is an historic one. We
welcome your congratulations."
    Amazing. Riker never ceased to be astonished the
way some people can look you straight in the eye,
smile at you, and lie. "I assume you're hoping we
didn't hear Ambassador Spock's message, sir. Unfor-
tunately, we know you are an invasion force. You are
occupying stolen Vulcan vessels, which we must re-
trieve. Please set a course for Starbase 314. We are
prepared to tow you with a tractor beam if you do not
comply."
    The smile froze on Danut's face. "You are mistak-
en. Ambassador Spock's message was an announce-
ment of the impending reunification talks between
Romulus and Vulcan. You have no legitimate grounds
to interfere, Commander. I suggest you fall back."
    "We will be within tractor range in three minutes.
Change course now or suffer the consequences."
    Danut's face flushed darkly, and his fury crackled
over the viewscreen. "We are armed, Commander. We
will not hesitate to fire in order to preserve this
historic mission."
    "You are no match for the Enterprise and you know
it," snapped Riker. "Now change course, bearing
two-one-seven, mark zero-zero-seven."
    Suddenly Riker saw a Romulan aide hurry to
Danut's side and whisper something to him. At about
the same time, Worf announced, "Vulcan defense
vessels are also responding."
    So Spock's announcement had reached his home
planet, and ships were rushing to prevent the
Romulan force from invading their planet. Riker
watched as Danut's visage grew dark and glowering.
"We have no further business, Commander," he said,
and the viewscreen returned to a starfield.
    "Sir," said Worf, "the Romutan force is retreating
toward the Neutral Zone."
    "Oh, no," said Riker. "They're not taking those
Vulcan ships home with them." He realized he felt
downright proprietary about those Vulcan ships.
Those were his Vulcan ships. He'd invested himself in
them--well, one--and now he wasn't going to see
some arrogant Romulan take them back across the
Neutral Zone.
  "Change course. Pursue the Vulcan ships."
    "Sir, they have gone to warp eight. They will be
within the Neutral Zone in minutes."
    "Acknowledged, Mister Word Warp nine. Pro-
ceed."
    Riker saw Worf and Geordi exchange looks, and
knew they were thinking that he was playing it close to
the edge. Well, so be it. He wasn't going to let go now,
after all this. He was willing to risk an unauthorized
entry into the Neutral Zone in order to apprehend the
Romulan force and reclaim the ships that he was sure
had been stolen from Federation depots. He had come
too far to quit now.

    Picard would have admitted that he was nervous
about making this next maneuver work. But he had no
better alternatives to offer, and so he agreed they had
to take this chance if they were to get out of Sela's
office and escape the Irnilt.
 The greatest source of his apprehension was that
they could not carry disruptors. They would be un-
armed, and consequently dependent on the cleverness
of their scheme. There was no contingency plan;
either this worked or they would be easily recaptured.
    And so he stood with Spock and Data as two
security guards entered the room and Sela rose to
greet them. She gestured toward her prisoners dis-
dainfully. "These fools are unwilling to talk. Take
them to the underground tunnel in the east wing. Turn
them over to Semeth. He may be more persuasive."
    The guards nodded obediently and gestured Spock,
Picard, and Data toward the door. Sela's men carried
disruptors at their sides but did not draw them. Picard
was sure they felt confident that there was little the
prisoners could do within the well-guarded confines of
the Irnilt.
    And so the small band proceeded out of Sela's office
and into the marble halls of the magnificent edifice.
Remembering the oppressive streets at the ground
level of Dartha, Picard was repulsed by the display of
opulence here in the governmental building. The
mateddals were lavish and costly, every detail exqui-
sitely carrided out. This was a bipartite world, the
powerful existing almost literally above the substruc-
ture of the weak and impoverished.
    They entered a cubicle not unlike the turbolifts on
the Enterprise and began a dizzying journey down,
sideways, and up again. Picard tried to estimate the
time that had passed since they left the office. At some
point, the real Sela would regain consciousness from
the Vulcan pinch, and realize she had once again been
the victim of Data's holographic expertise. She and
her guards had lain unconscious behind that false
wall, and could waken at any moment. If that hap-
pened before they were safely out of the building, they
were doomed.
    The cubicle finally came to a rest and doors slid
open. The group exited to find themselves in a cavern-
ous black corridor that reminded Picard of the caves
he had recently visited with members of the unifica-
tion movement. He had the sense that they were very
deeply underground; all sound seemed muffled, and
kekogen lights provided the only illumination.
    They walked for some minutes through a labyrinth
of passages, twisting and turning, until he had lost any
sense of direction. He knew the maze had been
planned for exactly that purpose; those who de-
scended into these lonely depths were not intended to
find their way out.
    Picard stumbled slightly and paused briefly, unsure
of his footing. "Keep walking," ordered one of the
guards brusquely. Picard turned slightly toward him.
"I'm having trouble breathing," he gasped. He bent
over, drawing ragged breaths of air; a wheeze escaped
him. He crumpled to the ground.
    The guards were not fools. They did not rush to help
him. They stood alertly at a distance as Spock and
Data bent over Picard. Fillally Spock rose and an-
nounced, "He cannot get up."
 "Then carry him," came the terse reply.
 "I am old. I do not have the physical strength."
    The guard jerked his head toward Data. "Then you
do it."
    Data bent to Picard and then, as the captain's lips
began moving, put his ear close to Picard's mouth.
Then he rose.
  "The captain is losing consciousness. He greatly
fears torture. He is willing to tell you what informa-
tion he has, but he cannot speak above a whisper."
 "It's a ruse," cautioned one of the guards.
    Data shrugged. "I would not want to face Com-
mander Sela with the news that the prisoner has died
without having revealed what he knowsmand all
because you were afraid to listen to him."
    The guards exchanged glances. One nodded to the
other, and both drew their disruptors.
    The first guard got to his knees and leaned in close
to Picard. "There is a Federation spy among you," he
whispered, "at the uppermost levels of the Romulan
hierarchy."
    Picard saw the guard look up toward his compatriot
and nod. Then he leaned down again.
    "His name," began Picard, "his name... his name
is..." he began to wheeze again. The guard bent
nearer still. "The name of the spy ism"
    Had it not been for Data's speed, the rest could
never have happened. Data was able to whirl and
advance on the guard holding the disruptor so quickly
that he literally had no idea what had happened.
    At the same time, Spock pinched the neck of the
guard listening to Picard.
    A split second later, both guards lay unconscious
from the pinch, and Picard and Data held their
disruptors. There had been brief consideration of
vaporizing the guards, rather than risk their recover-
ing consciousness too soon, but none of the men could
bring themselves to do it. Now, they looked back
down the twisting maze of corridors through which
they had been led. They needed the east-wing exit--
but where was it?
    "I think this way," said Picard, pointing to a
passageway branching off to his right.
    "I would have said this direction," countered
Spock, pointing to the left.
    "Forgive me, Captain, Ambassador," said Data
mildly. "But if we are to get out of the Irnilt, you will
have to rely on me."
    And he began striding down the corridor straight
ahead. Spock and Picard exchanged glances, and then,
without a moment's hesitation, followed Data.

    The Enterprise had penetrated well into the Neutral
Zone before it overtook the three Vulcan/Romulan
ships. The smaller vessels were no match for the
Starfleet ship on any level--speed, sophistication, or
firepower. Riker felt sure he could help the Romulans
see reason; to do other than follow his directive was to
risk dire consequences.
    The Vulcan defense vessels, dispatched from the
planet, had stopped at the Neutral Zone. Their only
purpose was to prevent the Romulans from invading
their system; if the encroaching force was in retreat,
they had no reason to pursue.
    And perhaps Riker should have followed the same
logic. There was none to his present actions, a fact of
which he was well aware.
    But something drew him forward. He would listen
to its urging now, and question it later.
    "Visual range, Commander," said Worf, indicating
that they had all but overtaken the fleeing Romulans.
    "On screen," said Riker, preparing to engage Danut
once more. He was wholly unprepared for what
happened next.
  Geordi saw it first, reacting from his sensors. "A
 Romulan warbird, Commander. Decloaking along-
 side the Vulcan ships."
     And now the quartet of ships sprang into relief on
 the viewscreen--the three small Vulcan vessels and
 the looming, ominous warbird that shimmered into
 sight next to them.
     "Red alert," said Riker, and the lights flashed
 scarlet on the bridge.
    A warbird was a very diflkrent story from the
Vulcan craft. The Romulan D'Deridex class ship was
as large and as powerful as the Enterprise, and as well
armed. They would be at a standoff if it came to
battle.
    Rikcr's command was to Worf. "Advise the warbird
to withdraw and leave the Vulcan ships where they
are."
    But Worf's response confirmed Riker's fears: "The
warbird is powering up its forward disruptor array."
    So it meant to attack. They were all violating treaty
conditions by being within the Neutral Zone; here,
there were no legal protections, no sanctions. It was
unauthorized entry by all parties--and the devil take
the hindmost.
 "Ready phasers," said Riker grimly.
    The warbird emitted a fierce salvo of its disruptors.
And another. And another.
    But to Riker's astonishment, the weapons fire was
directed right at tile Vulcan ships. One by one, they
shuddered with the impact of the massive disruptor
barrage; they discharged small bursts of burning gases
into space; white fire crackled into an inferno that
enveloped them.
 And then they exploded.
 The bridge crew of the Enterprise watched in awe as
the Vulcan ships ruptured, spewing matter. It was the
ultimate fireworks display, a colorful, orgasmic array
of burning metal and flesh, which catapulted flaming
wreckage into the cold eternal night of space. The warbird recloaked.
    On the bridge of the Enterprise, the crew watched in
stunned silence. Finally, Geordi spoke, and his voice
sounded strangely harsh. "There were over two thou-
sand Romulan troops on those ships," he said.
  There was silence again.
    "They destroyed their own invasion force," added
Troi, as though trying to explain it to herself.
    "Rather than let them be taken prisoner," offered
Riker, seeking reason in an unreasonable act.
    There was another quiet respite, then Riker spoke,
quite softly. "Stand down red alert. Set a new course.
Take us out of the Neutral Zone."
    And the ship wheeled and turned away from the still
burning carnage the Romulans had brought to bear
upon their own people.

    D'Tan had lain in wait for several hours in the
rough wagi brush that provided camouflage and a
clear view of the cave opening. He felt numb with
shock and grief; the awful loss his people had suffered
had not yet registered with him fully.
    He still didn't know if his parents were alive or
dead. Their rooms at the Taka were empty, and
though he had searched through all the makeshift
hospitals and shelters where the dazed survivors of
Krocton segment were trying to care for their own, he
had not found them.
  They might have been killed in that first awful
 slaughter on the streets. Or they might have been
 taken prisoner. If so, D'Tan doubted that he would
 ever see them again. He hoped they had died on the
 streets; to lose them would be terrible, but it would be
 preferable to imagining what they might be going
 through at the hands of Neral's guards.
     A few of their number had regrouped at the cavern,
 and then decided immediately that they must not
 meet there again; they could expect periodic raids,
 and the location of the cave was compromised.
    D'Tan had been posted as a lookout, to waylay any
of their number who might mistakenly seek sanctuary
there, and to be alert for security guards who might
want to pay a return visit close on the heels of the first
sweep.
    He peered down the long road leading to Dartha. It
was rough country out here, craggy and barren, with
only this thorny native bush as covering. In the
distance, the towering structures of the city rose like a
dark growth of sinister crystal spires. D'Tan looked
toward the skies, usually gray with volcanic particu-
lates, and actually saw patches of blue beyond the
haze. He wondered if ever he would sail those heavens
toward Vulcan, as he had longed all his life to do.
    He thought he spotted movement on the road.
Tensing, he crouched lower in the brush. Was it the
guards? Or dazed survivors of the Krocton massacre?
He strained to make out the figures as they made their
way up the road toward the caves.
    When he realized who they were, D'Tan's heart
leapt, and he could not contain himself. He burst out
of the wagi brush, the thorns tearing at his clothes and
skin, but he was oblivious. He went running, hard as
he could, toward the advancing trio. Hope was pound-
ing in his heart once more, and he felt the wind on his
face and his feet pounding on the hard Romuian clay.
 It felt good to be running again.

    Picard saw the lithe figure corning at them, waving
and shouting. He could not restrain a smile as he saw
the child D'Tan fling himself into Spock's arms,
hugging him and crying with joy and relief. Spock
looked faintly embarrassed by this indulgent display
of emotion, but he tolerated it patiently from the
young boy.
    Within half an hour, D'Tan had led them to a new
range of rocky hills, and another subterranean cavern.
They descended through a slippery passageway of
loose shale, unsure of footing, clutching for support
against the damp walls. There were no kekogen lights
here; D'Tan carried a palm beacon that provided the
only source of light.
    But soon they emerged into a chamber lit by
portable lamps, and saw a group of Romulan citizens
--the small core of survivors of the dreadful mas-
sacre.
    "Pardek never saw these caves," explained D'Tan.
"It's safe, they won't find us here."
    Picard's gaze swept over the people in the cavern.
Some looked stunned and abstracted; all carded the
grim look of those who have been witness to butchery.
Many were wounded, and wore makeshift bandages
on various parts of their body.
    But there was an undeniable spirit that radiated
from them, an unquenchable quality of endurance.
These people had survived; more importantly, they
 had not lost hope. Their strength and determination
 hung in the air like a palpable presence.
  "What will you do now?" Pieard asked simply.
    A young woman spoke immediately. "What we've
always done. Continue to teach. Pass on the ideals to a
new generation. Work for the day when new thoughts
may be spoken aloud."
    Picard glanced toward Spock, saw him listening to
the young woman with intent, saw him glance toward
D'Tan, whose eager face shone from the crowd.
    "The Federation will welcome that day," Picard
assured the young woman.
    "Captain," reminded Data, "we will need to reach
our transport site within an hour."
    Picard nodded and as they began to move away
from the others, he felt Spock touch his arm. Picard
turned and looked into the ambassador's eyes, and
suddenly he knew what Spook was about to say.
  "I will not be coming with you."
    Picard wanted to protest, wanted to show him how
illogical such a decision would be. It was clear that
Spock should come with them to the transport site, be
beamed onto the Klingon ship, and return to Vulcan,
where he would live out his years in safety and
comfort, revered by his countrymen and all the people
of the Federation.
    It was clear that's what Picard should say. But he
did not.
    "The reason for my coming here has never been
more clear, Captain," Spock continued. "The union
of the Romulan and Vulcan peoples will not be
achieved by politics. Or by diplomacy. But it will be
achieved."
    Spock moved away from him, pacing restlessly,
formulating his thoughts. Picard's mind flashed back
to their first meeting in the other caves, in what
seemed a lifetime ago. The two men had been instant-
ly in conflict, each of them stubbornly maintaining his
position and assuming the other would back down.
  Had that been only a few days ago?
    "The answer has been here in front of us all the
time," Spock went on. "An inexorable evolution
toward a Vulcan philosphy has already begun. Like
the first Vulcans, these people are struggling to find a
new enlightenment. It may take decades, even centur-
ies, for them to reach it. But they will. And I must
help."
    Picard studied the grave face, the penetrating eyes.
"I have learned," he said finally, "that it is useless to
argue with you once your mind is set."
    "Not at all, Captain," retorted Spock. "I have in
fact found our arguments quite useful. Almost as
useful as those I had with my father."
    Picard paused only briefly before he suggested,
"Would you be surprised to learn that he found them
equally valuable?"
    Another long moment, and Picard could only imag-
ine what was going on inside Spock's mind, but when
he spoke, it was in the voice of a man who has
achieved resolution. "Ironically, Captain, you may
have known Sarek better than his own son did. My
father and I never chose to meld."
    And in that simple statement there lay a lifetime's
relationship, of love felt and not expressed, of hurt
and anger and pride, of arguments, accusations, of
good deeds and mishaps, a century of tangled experi-
 ences and emotions never acknowledged. Therein lay
 the tragedy of Spock and his father.
     Picard did not hesitate. "I would offer you the
 chance to touch what he shared with me."
    Spock nodded, and extended his hand toward
Picard's face. The strong, supple fingers pressed on his
cheek, and once again Picard felt the wondrous blend-
ing of two spirits. His mind whirled, emotions reeled
in tumultuous cacophony; images of his father, of
rain-swept vineyards and sunny fields, of Spock and
Sarek through all the times of tortured love they felt
for each other, the strife and agony--all tumbled
within him, joining, blending, transforming one into
the other. It was overpowering, it was unbearable, the
heightened sensations too vivid, too intense ....
Ancient planets... French meadows ripe in yellow
sunlight... Amanda giving birth... bitter cold...
mechanized violation of the body and mind... fury
... red mountains and withering deserts... the fa-
tal bravery of a loyal pet... Perrin, Perrin, aching
need... the aspiration to go forth .... What more is
out there? What adventures yet remain?... Stars
streaking, blurred... longing... sons and fathers
... fathers and sons...
    He stared into Spock's eyes, and Spock into his.
Anguish bled away, serenity prevailed.
 Unification.