Picard pointed toward the screen’s upper right corner. “What is that fourth object?”
Data touched his console again, and the fourth section of the screen moved forward, magnified to its fullest potential. Though the image was tremendously clouded and distorted, the object clearly wasn’t of the same construction as the satellites.
Without waiting to be prompted, Hawk input a command that enhanced the image further, editing out the empty space surrounding it.
A double-bladed, emerald-hued vessel hung in the viewscreen’s center. Picard was hardly surprised. “A Romulan warbird.”
Hawk’s mind raced, scrambling to sift through details he’d studied about the crew’s previous missions. Within moments, he seized on the proper memory. “Captain, I’ve got a theory that might explain some of this.”
Batanides looked over at Hawk, one eyebrow raised as if to question his impertinence.
“Go ahead, Mr. Hawk,” Picard said.
“About four years ago, you discovered a Dyson Sphere. I believe we may have stumbled onto something similar here. What if this trio of satellites we’ve spotted—and the other subspace distortions—are part of a network of thousands of buoys, each one equipped with a Romulan cloaking device—”
“Yes, I see,” Picard interrupted. “With a network like that, the Romulans could enclose and cloak an enormous volume of space. Without having to build a solid structure around it.”
“That is theoretically possible,” said Data. His hands flew over the controls. “I am linking the identifiable point-sources together.” A new image appeared on the screen, this time showing a spherical gridwork of lines with hundreds of intersections, each of which presumably represented an object like the first device the probe had detected. Although the pattern contained gaps—which Hawk attributed to imperfect telemetry readings—the visual effect was similar to the latitude and longitude lines on a planetary map, or a complex spider’s web bent into a globular shape. And the warbird was stationed near the inside northern edge of the hypothetical web.
“Incredible,” Batanides said, leaning back in her chair. “They could be hiding a planet the size of Jupiter for all we can tell.”
“It is also possible that this network is shielded in a manner that would disrupt the operation of approaching ships or probes,” Data said. “That would be consistent with the loss of our probe’s telemetry.”
“But Romulan ships would have to be able to pass freely through the field,” Hawk said.
Data nodded. “Any vessel authorized to enter the cloaked zone would probably gain admittance by emitting a particular cloaking-field resonance frequency.”
Picard said, “But anyone else trying to get across might find their systems completely shut down.”
“Making them defenseless against an attack,” said Batanides. “Maybe now we know what happened to the Slayton. And why they never sent a distress signal or launched a log buoy.”
“If something inside that cloak is so important to the Romulans that they would destroy a Federation starship to keep it a secret, then it’s got to be bigger than our Chiarosan diplomatic problem,” Picard said grimly.
“Maybe the two are interrelated, sir,” said Hawk.
“No doubt, Lieutenant. They’ve gone to great pains to conceal something from us. But they risk starting an interstellar war. What could possibly justify such recklessness?”
Hawk watched in silence as Picard stared at the Romulan warbird’s blurred image, and asked himself the very same question.
“Protector Ruardh, you must understand my situation. We came here to help mediate your conflict, not to aggravate it.” Picard was exasperated, but he tried not to show it as he stood still behind his desk in the ready room. Chiaros IV’s orbiting communications array was finally working again—for the moment—allowing the Enterprise to make contact with the Chiarosan capital. He was uncomfortably aware that the signal strength this broadcast required meant that any ship within the system, visible or cloaked, could easily intercept his conversation with the Chiarosan leader.
On the desktop screen, Ruardh was not so sanguine; she was visibly angry as she paced in front of the screen in her palace. “You saw for yourself what these traitors are capable of, Picard! You very nearly lost your life, and your ambassador did make that final transition. What more proof do you need that this Army of Light is wreaking destruction upon our society?”
Crusher sat on the low sofa, just out of the screen’s line of sight; Batanides stood beside her. Picard noticed that the admiral had stiffened slightly at the mention of Tabor’s death. “Madame Protector,” the admiral said coolly, “the political situation on your planet is far more volatile than we had understood when you first requested Federation mediators. In this matter, we must remain as neutral as possible. Our Prime Directive—”
The incensed Chiarosan stepped hard on Batanides’s words. “Don’t speak to me as if we are some species with whom you have just made first contact! We are a people who have petitioned for membership in the Federation, and you are refusing to aid us against our enemies! Have we chosen the wrong power to side with? Should we have chosen the Romulan Star Empire as our Dhaekav all along?”
Batanides took a deep breath before responding. “Your government has indeed petitioned for membership. But it appears that your government does not enjoy the full support of your people, Protector. It is my understanding that the upcoming referendum will decide whether your citizenry wish to join with us or not.” The admiral’s next words were delivered with a deadly calm. “If they decide in favor, we will be much better able to help you defend against any . . . insurgent attacks.”
Picard interjected before Ruardh could speak again. “As for the Romulans, we have reason to believe that their empire has more of a stake in this region of space than we had previously considered. This makes the situation even more volatile. We cannot risk igniting a war with—”
“Risk? What you are risking are my people, Captain! And your people as well. Or have you forgotten that two of your own command crew are still in rebel hands?” The picture on the viewscreen flickered, Ruardh’s image and words splitting into fragments.
Picard tapped his combadge. “Geordi, we’re losing the signal. Can you boost it?”
The engineer’s voice piped through the small transceiver. “Sorry, Captain. The problem seems to be on the Chiarosans’ end.”
Picard leaned in toward the small viewscreen. “ Protector Ruardh, I’m afraid that we cannot maintain subspace contact for much longer. But I promise you that we will try to find a way to help all of your people and—” The signal suddenly blinked out, and Ruardh was gone, replaced by a silver-white Starfleet insignia superimposed over a dark background.
Picard sighed heavily and leaned against the desk, tapping his fingertips on its gleaming top. “That certainly went well,” he said sardonically, gazing first at the admiral, then toward Crusher.
The doctor, still seated on a low sofa in a far corner of the room, finally broke her silence. “It went as well as could be expected, Jean-Luc. This . . . situation . . . is difficult, to say the least.”
Batanides put a supportive hand on his shoulder. “At least you won’t have to make any precipitous decisions without a higher-up on board. Whatever we decide to do, I’ll be the one who has to answer to Starfleet Command.”
Picard looked over at her, and saw a wan smile on her lips. Through her cool exterior, he could sense her grief. He searched for something to say in reply, when his combadge chirped, followed by Data’s voice. “Captain, we’ve just received another transmission from Chiaros IV.”
“Ruardh?”
“No, sir. It came on a Starfleet frequency. And it appears to be from Commander Cortin Zweller.”
Picard, Batanides, and Dr. Crusher entered the bridge quickly. Hawk was busy at the conn station, while Data stood before one of the science consoles, working alongside the Vulcan technician, K’rs’lasel. The Vulcan spoke first, facing the ca
ptain. “Sir, I intercepted a subspace signal moments ago. It was very brief, but I believe it was intended for us. The signal contained a Starfleet identification code belonging to Commander Zweller.”
“The subspace burst was weak, but we have managed to salvage most of it over the past three minutes,” Data added. “It appears to contain several adjacent sets of coordinates located on the Nightside of Chiaros IV. It also contained a garbled message about security-grid forcefields, the significance of which I have yet to ascertain. In addition, the transmission mentioned the word ‘ prisoners’ very prominently, as well as a stardate which will occur five hours, fifty-seven minutes from now.”
Picard smiled broadly as hope welled up within his chest. “He’s telling us that he’s their prisoner,” he said to Batanides. “And that he needs our help.”
“Captain, the message could be a ruse,” Batanides said, her voice pitched low enough so that only Picard, Data, and K’rs’lasel could have heard it. “They may have tortured Zweller to gain access to his command codes.”
Picard looked at Batanides, then at Crusher. He shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t believe that the rebels would do that. And if Troi were here, I think she would concur.”
“The Chiarosan rebels might not be the ones doing the torturing, Captain,” Crusher said. She didn’t need to finish that thought for him to know exactly what she meant.
Picard weighed the options in his mind. Zweller might indeed be a prisoner, and might have found the means—somehow—to send that signal. On the other hand, the message may have originated either from the Chiarosan rebels or from the Romulans. Even Ruardh’s people could have sent the signal, as a catalyst to force Picard’s hand.
And yet, Corey is still down on the planet. And so are Riker, Troi, and heaven only knows how many survivors from the Slayton.
Then Picard made his decision, and it felt right, somehow inevitable. His jaw set in determination, he began giving orders. “Mr. Data, I want you to pinpoint as close as you can the coordinates that signal gave us.” He turned to address the blond officer who was monitoring a sensor display near the rear of the bridge. “Mr. Daniels, prepare the shuttlecraft Kepler for passage through the planet’s atmosphere. I’ll need the shields operating at maximum efficiency, and I want as much firepower on board as possible.” He sincerely hoped he would not be called upon to use it.
“Aye, sir,” Daniels said, then strode purposefully into the starboard turbolift.
“Sounds like you’re planning a rescue operation, Johnny,” Batanides said, smiling.
Picard gestured toward Crusher. “Nothing overly aggressive, Admiral. Just myself and the doctor. There may be wounded at those Nightside coordinates who will require her attention.”
“There’ll be three of us in that shuttle,” Batanides said, her tone and posture brooking no argument.
Picard nodded, knowing that there were some battles he couldn’t hope to win. “All right,” he said. “But we must leave quickly. The message’s time reference could mean that we have less than a six-hour window.”
Data spoke in a manner reminiscent of the Sherlock Holmes persona he enjoyed playing on the holodeck. “At which time it may be possible to penetrate the detention grid mentioned in the message, then extract whoever is being held at the specified coordinates.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Picard said. “Mr. Data, you’ll be in command until I return.” The android nodded soberly, and Picard stepped toward the port turbolift, preceded by the doctor and the admiral. The doors whooshed open and the two women entered ahead of him.
“Captain,” said a voice from the front of the bridge. Crusher held the door as Picard stopped and turned toward the man who had spoken.
“Mr. Hawk,” Picard said. The lieutenant had risen from his seat behind the conn station.
“Sir, I need to speak with you. Privately.”
Though he wasn’t pleased about the interruption, Picard managed to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Lieutenant, we have very little time.”
“I know, sir,” Hawk said quickly. “And that’s exactly why we need to talk.”
Picard knew that this forward behavior was very unlike Hawk. The lieutenant’s gaze was locked with his, his expression unreadable.
Something truly dire must be on the young man’s mind. He turned toward Crusher and the admiral and asked them to wait for him in the main shuttlebay.
After the turbolift doors had closed he turned back toward Hawk and appraised him. “You have two minutes, Lieutenant. In my ready room. Now.”
Hawk was deep in thought as he followed Picard into the ready room. Strange that I’m not feeling more . . . fear. He recalled telling Tabor that watching Picard had been a valuable education for him. The ambassador had reminded him that sometimes the captain bent the rules to achieve the correct aims. This was most certainly one of those times.
More important, Tabor had told Hawk that Zweller was particularly significant in whatever secret agendas were unfolding in this sector. It seemed vitally important to Hawk that he do everything possible to ensure the commander’s rescue. Zweller, after all, just might be the key to the mysteries of Chiaros IV and the rest of the Geminus Gulf.
Hawk wondered if he should tell Picard about Tabor’s overtures, and about Zweller and his connection to Section 31. But the ambassador had been so clear on the need for utter secrecy regarding the organization that Hawk hadn’t even told Keru about it, or about his discussions with Tabor. Despite the ambassador’s death—or perhaps because of it—it seemed wrong to betray this confidence now.
Hawk suddenly became aware that the captain was speaking to him. “Have a seat, Lieutenant,” he said from the chair behind his desk. Hawk wondered when the captain had sat down, and cursed himself for woolgathering.
“Thank you, sir,” Hawk said, swallowing convulsively as he took the proffered chair.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Hawk?”
Hawk gathered up his courage, then spoke his mind. “I’d like to go along with you on the rescue mission, sir.”
Picard said nothing at first, an indecipherable look in his eye. Finally, he broke the silence. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lieutenant, but I don’t think your presence on this mission will be necessary.”
Hawk shifted awkwardly in his seat, but calmed himself by recalling the best advice his partner had ever given him when dealing with Starfleet matters: Trust your instincts.
“Sir, may I have permission to speak freely?”
“Of course, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, with respect, I think my presence is necessary. Your shuttle has three command officers, one of whom is a doctor. You are about to attempt to navigate treacherous atmospheric storms, approach a hostile military base—which may or may not be a trap—and rescue an unknown number of Starfleet personnel from either the Chiarosans or the Romulans.”
Picard leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow cocked, as Hawk continued. “No matter how good a pilot you are, sir, your attention needs to be focused on getting everyone back to the shuttle safely. Admiral Batanides will be of some help, but what happens to the shuttle while you’re rescuing the prisoners? Do you leave Dr. Crusher behind to face a possible attack? Or do you leave the admiral on board?”
He paused for a moment to let his words sink in, then resumed his plea. “I understand why you aren’t taking a large security contingent along; there’s no room in the shuttle, especially if you hope to bring our people back. But there is room for an excellent pilot and navigator. You’re familiar with my record, sir. You know that I’m one of the best pilots serving on the Enterprise. So I think it’s in everyone’s best interest for you to have me come along.”
Picard sat in silence for a long moment, his eyes boring into Hawk’s. The lieutenant’s heart raced as he forced himself not to break the captain’s basilisk gaze. He hoped he hadn’t pushed him too hard.
Finally, Picard spoke, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll b
e under way in twenty minutes or less, Mr. Hawk. I’d suggest you get your best driving gloves on. Dismissed.”
Hawk grinned, and rose to exit. “Thank you, sir.”
As he moved out onto the bridge, Hawk’s heart beat strongly in his chest. One way or another, he was now on a collision course with Zweller, Section 31, and possibly every secret the Geminus Gulf held.
He couldn’t be sure whether his racing circulation came from trepidation or exhilaration.
Probably both.
Chapter Eight
The shuttlecraft Kepler descended swiftly through the turbulent Dayside atmosphere, its passage creating plumes of superheated plasma that clutched at the hull like the fingers of some angry god. The cockpit rattled and jerked. Picard stole a backward glance at the admiral, who was sitting beside Crusher in the crew cabin. He could only imagine the hell she had endured, having first lost Tabor and then having discovered the ambassador’s possible malfeasance on Chiaros IV. He noticed then that her skin had taken on an almost greenish tinge; spacesickness, adding insult to injury.
“Will someone please explain again just why the Federation is so interested in this place?” Crusher said as she scanned the admiral with a medical tricorder.
Batanides smiled weakly. “I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.”
“Excuse me?” Crusher said, looking startled as she deactivated the tricorder.
“Sorry, Doctor. A very old intelligence operative’s joke.” The cabin shuddered again, and the motion appeared to intensify the admiral’s nausea. “I just had an even better idea, Doctor: Why don’t you kill me?”
Smiling, Crusher touched a hypospray to Batanides’s neck. “You’ll start feeling better in a minute or so, Admiral.”
Lieutenant Hawk occupied the control station to Picard’s right. “The plasma discharges are still affecting the inertial damping system, Captain,” he said.
“Continue compensating manually, Lieutenant.”
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