Central, this is the personal craft Loa-var. We request permission to dock for repair."
There was a delay and Riker wondered if they were running some kind of voice check. They had, of course, communicated with Tobin before. On a monitor screen, Riker watched Tobin's tense frame shift awkwardly.
Finally, there was a response. "Stand by, Loa-var. We are having difficulties."
"Yes, I saw that," Tobin said. "What was that?"
Though there was again a delay in the answer, it was rather brief this time. "None of your concern, Loa-var. Your repairs will have to wait. Most of our personnel are dealing with our current situation."
Tobin laid on the charm. "Of course, of course, I well understand. But I really am in a hurry. I'd heard your fees had doubled recently. I know I'd be willing to pay that in full."
Riker nodded his approval. Tobin had an elegant way of offering a bribe. Considering the restrictive culture he lived in, that made sense--in most non-free-market economies there was a large back-door or underground black market based on trade and bribery.
When there was no immediate answer, Tobin added, "Not including any standard gratuity, of course, which would have to accommodate you for any ... extra trouble."
This time, there was no delay in reaction. "Docking bay three. Dock and await a technician to contact you."
"Jolan true," Tobin said. "Man true." He closed the comm channel and turned toward the aft.
Riker and Deanna came out of hiding. "We're in," Riker said, and offered his hand for Tobin to shake.
"How will you deal with what security is left?" Tobin asked, taking Riker's hand and shaking it.
"You'll see." Riker smiled.
And once their ship was docked, Riker, phaser in hand, was first near the hatch as it opened.
There was only one person waiting for them. Not enough to waste a phaser shot on, Riker punched him in the throat.
The Romulan went down, gurgling and grasping his neck.
Riker nodded at Tobin, a slight smile curling his lips. "That is how I'll deal with security."
From there it had been as easy as Riker suspected. They'd seen two more officials on the entire station, and one of those was in the main docking control room. Riker stunned them both and joined Data, Deanna, and Tobin on Tobin's vessel.
In minutes, they were clear, the cloak was functioning, and Riker wanted to hurry.
"We are free," Tobin said. "Navigation is clear." He seemed quite pleased to be back in control of his own vessel.
"Cloak?"
"Stable," Data said, checking a readout on one of the consoles.
Riker sat in one of the chairs to one side and wished he could be at helm, or in a command chair, or anywhere that seemed to have a purpose other than waiting
"Now we have to hurry, people. What's your maximum on this ship?"
Tobin turned toward him. "Warp seven in bursts. Warp six for extended." He looked a bit disappointed in his vessel's ability, as if he wished it should be better than it was.
"We need to push it," Riker said. "Mr. Data, set a course for the rendezvous--maximum warp."
They'd been traveling silently for some time when it happened. The main lights had gone off suddenly.
"We've lost all main power," Tobin complained. He sounded panicky again.
"Battery systems are active, but warp and impulse are offline," Data said, and in the dim emergency lights looked more orange than pale yellow.
"A dead zone," Riker said, and dreaded the idea. He felt a thin film of cold sweat begin to develop in the small of his back. "What about thrusters?"
"Not responding." Tobin shook his head quickly and if he kept it up Riker thought it might snap off. "We're dead in space."
As if to punctuate that, one of the consoles behind them sizzled and exploded in a shower of sparks. "And because we can't meet them, so might the Enterprise be."
Chapter Eight
U.5.5. Enterprise, NCC-1701E Romulan space Sector 1-42
Two days ago
"WE have a problem." Beverly Crusher walked into Picard's ready room in a manner that could certainly be considered a barge.
"That's not what I wanted to hear."
Beverly looked tired, and Picard knew how she felt. He'd not really slept in days. Sure, he'd tried, he'd pretended by changing into bedclothes and turning off the cabin lights ... but whether he'd actually slept or not was open to interpretation.
"Kalor is dying," she told him. "Slowly but surely. The blood loss for him is too much."
Picard sighed and his chest felt tight, a rock of tension weaving its way between his ribs. "I thought you were filtering his blood but he wasn't losing anything."
"Something is always lost in the process, and after thirty-nine hours, it's having a detrimental effect." The doctor turned one of Picard's desk chairs toward her and slumped down into the seat.
"Can't you give him something to increase his own blood production?"
Beverly sighed in a manner Picard was used to hearing when he deigned to voice medical opinions. "Not in his weakened condition," she said. "In three hours I'll run out of our Klingon blood stores."
"You need a donor," Picard offered.
She nodded. "And everyone on Kalor's ships has been exposed to a strain of that virus before. To use them as donors in this case would tax Kalor's immune system and could bring that strain of the virus out of its remission."
"You mean they didn't cure it?"
"They only stopped it." She leaned on his desk with one elbow, using her palm to support her chin. "Viruses are rarely cured in and of themselves. We can create a vaccine, find a treatment... make it so the virus doesn't affect a patient in its re missive state... but rarely find a real cure. That's the case with Kalor. And in his weakened state his virus could reassert itself."
Picard nodded solemnly. "What you need is a Klingon who never was exposed to that virus, in any form."
"Yes."
The captain stood. "I think I know where to find one."
Loire sat in the command chair of the U.S.S. Enterprise, letting his useless disrupter rifle balance back and forth as one finger cradled the trigger guard.
He'd lost his men hours ago, and he'd lost his anger sometime after that. He sat now in what he knew to be a fake captain's chair, staring at a fake viewscreen, wallowing in his all-too-real failure. When the fore turbolift door opened, Lotre was only mildly surprised. When Jean-Luc Picard, the man Lotre had "killed," entered, he was even less so.
"Command isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it?" Picard asked, marching toward the Klingon, his phaser raised and aimed.
"I see you're witty, as well as clever." Lotre looked down at his weapon. "No point in aiming this at you, I assume." He tossed it to the deck.
The Earther glanced at the weapon, but didn't lower his own. "No. The moment we beamed you into the holodeck those were useless, except as props."
Lotre nodded slowly and rearranged himself in the command chair. "I should have known," he said. "I should have figured it out sooner."
"Knowing would not have helped you," Picard offered, but there was no accommodation in his voice. Not quite a taunt, either, but more than just an idle comment.
"I suppose not," Lotre said, looking down at his weapon, wishing it were real. "Where are my men?" Picard moved easily around the arc of the fore
bridge, as obviously comfortable with the lay of the false ship as he surely was with the real one. "Like you, they're stranded in various parts of this holodeck. Each time one entered a room alone, the program sealed him in."
"Very impressive." And Lotre was impressed. Pi card's trap was elegant in its way, but so frustrating and disappointing ... and it had caused Lotre to fail T'sart.
"You seem to have killed everyone," Picard said, glancing around the bridge, seeing none of the holographic crew in their positions.
"Only once I knew they weren't real," Lotre said. "My intention was never to kill your crew."
"No, that was somethi
ng special you intended only for me," Picard barked.
Lotre shrugged. "Had 'you' not been so difficult to subdue."
Picard smirked. "Yes, well..." Picard didn't continue his thought, if he had one, and Lotre didn't prod him for more information.
"I'm curious ... Lotre, isn't it?"
"Yes." Why was he here, Lotre wondered. What did the man want?
"Why are you working for T'sart?"
The question took Lotre by surprise. What did it matter to Picard? He searched the Terran's eyes, looking for satisfying answers. Finding none, Lotre decided to answer honestly. "I believe in him," he said.
Picard shook his head and chuckled.
"You find that amusing?" Lotre felt a twinge of anger in his gut, but he let it roll around rather than release it.
"No, just naive."
His eyelid twitching, Lotre thought that ball of outrage that was churning his stomach might burst. "I thought you came here to gloat, not insult me."
"You don't think I came here to kill you?" Picard asked and motioned toward the Klingon with his phaser.
"The Federation?" Suddenly Loire's anger melted and he laughed--slightly at first, then heartily. "I wouldn't be surprised if you came here to offer me tea."
Picard seemed to ignore Lotre's sudden bout of cheer. "How does a Klingon end up believing in a Romulan?"
This caught Lotre and cut him. His chuckle died and he glared at Picard. "I thought the Federation was beyond racism."
"My apology." The Earther bowed his head.
Lotre snickered darkly. He didn't like Picard, and not merely because he was his enemy. He didn't like his manner and his smugness and he especially didn't like his apology, which was probably sincere and so ruined Loire's total disrespect for him. It was difficult to have complete disdain for someone who sincerely apologized. But, perhaps Lotre could yet use that. Picard had weakness, and weakness could always be used to an enemy's advantage. "Is this when we order the tea?"
"No," Picard said, and then ordered the holodeck to create an exit. "This is when you save T'sart's life." The captain motioned for Lotre to rise and move toward the real Enterprise corridor. "And after that, should we all survive, you can stand trial for a variety of crimes."
Chapter Nine
Romulan Warbird Makluan
Romulan-claimed space
Just outside the Caltiskan system
Yesterday
"This isn't possible." Folan turned away from the science station scanners, and tried to wipe the expression of what must have been horror from her face. She spun toward the helm. "Full stop!"
The helm officer responded and Medric turned from his own station. "A dead zone around the entire Caltiskan system?"
She shook her head. "No, it's not the same. A dead zone should not show any sensor data--as if looking into a void because the scanning signals cannot make
the return voyage." She tapped a few commands into the board to her side and a graph appeared on an overhead monitor. "This is scattered data, a mass of signals that are meaningless." She compared again what the system should look like--one star, six planets, next to another system very close by, a black hole at its center. That in itself was significant.
Folan turned back toward the bridge and found the crew watching her. It struck her how different their demeanor was from just two days ago.
Of course, Medric was the reason for that. She glanced down at the ring on her finger--the same one worn by the attacker Medric had kept from killing her. "He gave me this?" she'd asked Medric when he gave it to her.
"It's all we were able to find of him. He's disappeared. You should probably wear it," Medric had told her. "Prominently."
His meaning was obvious to her, and would be to others as well: don't cross Folan, or one morning you'll wake up dead.
And of course her attacker was dead--who could wind up missing on a starship?
Whatever else Medric did or said to others, Folan could not know, but the result was plain: where once she reaped scorn and disdain, now she commanded respect.
"What are your orders," Medric asked.
Unsure, Folan tried to consider her options quickly. How could she order her ship to fly blindly into ... well, she didn't know what.
Of course ... what were her alternatives?
"Ahead," she ordered. "Slow."
The helmsman nodded, Medric nodded, and the bridge crew seemed assured under her command. If only she felt the same.
Folan needed to have the confidence in herself that her crew now had. The problem was she didn't really think they had confidence in her. What they had was fear. While no one publicly spoke of the Tal Shiar, the organization had its roots throughout all Romulan society. That had never been so evident as when Medric was able to secure spare parts from any ship they'd happened to encounter on their voyage to the Caltiskan system. At first anyone they met was most reticent to offer help. A short, private discussion with Medric changed that dramatically.
Now the warbird was almost completely repaired, and under Folan's command. It felt odd to her, less rushed and hectic. It was one thing to take command in an emergency, and there still was an emergency, but it hadn't felt that way. The ship was calmer, the personalities more defused. She tasted the power of the Tal Shiar, and liked it, but worried that it was more fleeting than the true respect that came with experience and accomplishment, rather than threats and fright.
She had to prove herself, Folan decided, and as the Makluan entered the perimeter of the Caltiskan system, the sensors cleared and she saw her opportunity.
The main viewscreen had shown the visual interpretation of Folan's sensor data: a whitish mass of signals and pulses that made little sense and had no pattern. But as her warbird passed into the area, the sensors and screen cleared.
A surreal swipe of space fell before them. The
starfield looked muted, distorted, and in the lower right corner of the screen a bright flux of space spasmed around another warbird.
Folan stepped down to the command chair. "Magnify that," she ordered, indicating that corner of the viewscreen.
"Yes, SubCommander."
The screen flickered, wavered, and when it should have focused on the warbird in the distance, it seemed unable.
"Clear that."
"I'm unable, SubCommander."
Folan frowned and strained to understand the scene. There was a spherical object, as big as a starbase, in the center of the screen. The warbird was not too close to it, and at time seemed to be trying to veer away from the object. Then it would tack toward it, and away again. The Romulan starship moved up, down, and around and away and back and... it seemed to be caught in a whirlwind of spatial disruption. At first.
And then Folan retreated back to the upper deck and science station. The other warbird, Folan discovered, through hazy and garbled sensor data, was not moving of its own accord. Space was. Or seemed to be. Or... she wasn't sure what.
"This is ... this can't be happening."
"What," Medric asked, and was suddenly at her side. "What is it?"
"That is what I'd like to know." Folan turned to him fully. "I need to know all you know about this, and I need to know now."
"Sub-Commander, I'm getting an erratic sensor lock on the sister ship," one of the operations people called.
"Transfer to my station," Folan ordered, and she twisted toward her computer console.
The data was confusing, and yet in a way made some sense as well. "These energy patterns... they're entirely unknown."
Folan looked back to the main viewer and watched the warbird caught in a vortex of space displacement that That was it--space displacement or... something like it. The warbird wasn't moving that much. Not of its own power. Space around it was, and was taking the vessel with it.
"This is extraordinary," Folan told Medric, excitedly. She was exhilarated and yet also fearful. She wanted to investigate it all, pore over it for hours and hours. "Look at this--that ship is literally in, I
don't even know a name for it. Spatial flux, perhaps."
Medric looked at the data. "I don't understand."
"I don't even have time to explain it," Folan said, tucked over her sensors. "That ship is losing structural integrity."
Back down to the command chair, Folan ordered a slow intercept course. And Medric followed her closely.
"What are you going to do?" he whispered. He'd been much more cautious with voicing his concern or disagreement since "the change," when he'd told her she was going to become a member of the Tal Shiar. He'd shown her respect--devotion, even. She even felt in the two short days that they'd perhaps grown into a small friendship of sorts.
"I'm going to get that ship out of there," Folan told him.
The concern that played out on Medric's expression seemed multifold. "You--you said it was the space around the ship, not the ship itself."
"Something like that, yes."
Medric hesitated, then whispered again, very low, "I think this is something we should clear with ... superiors."
Only now did Folan wonder if Medric had made it clear to others that he was Tal Shiar too. Perhaps not. Perhaps he'd spread rumors about himself, but claimed or hinted only that he was her operative.
It didn't matter. For the first time in two days she felt she could be of some real use. "You try and raise them," Folan told Medric and then indicated the warbird on the viewscreen. "And I'll try and save them."
She could tell by the look on his face that he was nervous. What had he said two days ago? Something about the sponsors of Tal Shiar initiates ... that if the initiate refused, or failed to pass the proper loyalty tests, the sponsor's life was forfeit. Folan was probably on Tal Shiar probation, and not only her neck but Medric's was in the noose if she played anything wrong.
While that was a concern, it had to take a backseat to saving the lives of her comrades if she could.
"I will remind you this isn't your place. We don't know what the planners will--"
He was whispering so low that Folan had to strain to hear him and she was looking down, trying not to be distracted by other sights and sounds. But when Medric
stopped suddenly, Folan looked up and found him staring at the screen, awestruck.
Star Trek - TNG - 63 - Maximum Warp, Book Two Page 7