Laughing, DeSoto said, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Gilbert and Sullivan

fan, Lieutenant.”

“I am not. However, during my first tenure in Starfleet, I served under Captain

Sulu on the Excelsior. He was—inordinately fond of The Mikado, and there were

several performances of it on the ship during my time there.” Tuvok spoke with

as much distaste as he could muster.

“In any case,” Voyskunsky said, “if you’d be so kind as to fire across the port

bow at an angle of forty-five degrees?”

“Of course, Commander.”

As Tuvok took aim, Voyskunsky tapped the tricorder against her chin. “That

raises an interesting question. Legend has it that Vulcans never lie.”

“Extreme generalizations are not logical,” Tuvok said after firing the phaser,

“as it only takes one counterexample to disprove them. However, deliberate

falsehood is frowned upon, yes.”

“And yet you’re going to have to tell the Maquis that your family was among

those lost in that rockslide on Amniphon. Now, the rockslide itself destroyed

most of Amniphon’s computer records—in fact, that’s the biggest argument that it

was artificially induced by the Cardassians rather than natural, since the

damage was so specific—but the fact is, your wife and children didn’t die there.

Are you going to be able to say they did?”

Tuvok lowered the phaser rifle and regarded Voyskunsky. DeSoto noticed no change

in his attitude or demeanor— but then, I probably wouldn’t. According to Tuvok’s

file, during the time between his two tours with Starfleet, he had undergone the

Kolinahr ritual. DeSoto didn’t know all that much about Vulcan disciplines, but

he did know that Kolinahr resulted in a much deeper repression of emotions than

even the Vulcan norm.

“My first duty, Commander, is to Starfleet. You can be assured that I will

follow that duty wherever it may take me. Now then, if you please,” he said,

once again raising the rifle, “what is the next shot?”

Before Voyskunsky could answer, the intercom beeped. “Bridge to Lieutenant

Tuvok.”

“Go ahead.”

“You have a personal message from Vulcan, sir.”

Tuvok looked at DeSoto. “May I take this in the shuttle, Captain?”

“Of course.”

Setting the rifle on the deck, Tuvok moved toward the shuttle hatch, opened it,

entered, and closed it behind him for privacy.

Voyskunsky grinned. “Speak of the devil and the devil calls you on

subspace—assuming that is his wife or one of his kids calling.”

“Probably. I take it you’re concerned with Tuvok’s cover story.”

“Just want to make sure. We’ve had enough legitimate defections that he should

be able to blend in fine. And we certainly created enough of an isolinear trail

that any checks the Maquis do will turn up fine. I’m worried about two things:

whether or not he can sell the cover story, and whether or not he won’t be one

of those defections.”

DeSoto blinked. “Why are you worried about that?”

“Tuvok left Starfleet once already, some seventy-three years back. I don’t want

to risk a repeat performance.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” DeSoto said, putting a reassuring hand on Voyskunsky’s

shoulder. “His record is spotless. I’m sure he’ll do his job and do it well.”

She nodded twice. “You’re probably right, sir—I just want to be sure.”

“Understandable. By the way—is there something going on between you and

Commander Cavit that I should know about?”

“That you should know about? No, sir.”

DeSoto smiled. Nicely handled, he thought. An honest answer without actually

giving any information. “If you say so.”

The shuttle hatch opened. Tuvok stepped out and picked up the rifle.

“Was the news good, bad, or indifferent, Lieutenant?” DeSoto asked with a smile.

“The news was personal, Captain. I would prefer not to go into any more detail.”

“Of course,” DeSoto said. “Carry on, you two. Let me know when you’re ready to

leave.”

 

Gul Eska hated rain.

As he left home for his usual morning walk to the office, he found himself

suddenly pushed by a heavy wind and pelted with enough rain to soak his garments

and hair in seconds.

One of the reasons he had fought hard for the assignment to Nramia was that it

had mild weather—rain was a rarity in the capital city of this Cardassian colony

near the Federation border. No, Nramia was a planet that had nice, hot weather.

The red sun beat down on the planet like a lover’s embrace. It was paradise.

For months, Eska had supervised the military installation on Nramia as well as

the six hundred thousand colonists who lived peacably on the surface. Krintar

grew on Nramia, a rare plant that was the primary ingredient in halant stew. No

replicator had ever been able to match the exquisite flavor of natural halant

stew, and people would pay through the neck for krintar roots, so by

administrating Nramia, Eska was sitting on a latinum mine.

Some pointed out that he would have been better off taking on a few shipboard

assignments, but as much as Eska hated bad weather, he hated no weather even

more. The idea of spending his time trapped inside a duranium can with nothing

but recycled, sterile air to breathe filled him with loathing. True, many lived

their whole lives in artificial environments, whether on ships or on planets

with unbreathable atmospheres, but that didn’t mean Eska had to live that way.

He could barely call that living. No, he wanted the dirt of a planet beneath his

feet and the warmth of a real sun beating down on his face.

On Nramia, he had that.

Until the day it started raining.

Eska had heard that the Federation could actually control the weather, to a

degree, on their planets. While Cardassia had nothing quite that sophisticated,

their ability to predict the weather was near absolute. The meteorological

system on Nramia had never been off by more than a few degrees in temperature

here, a bit off in the speed of the wind there.

Never had the system neglected to predict a rainstorm.

Certainly, not this kind of rainstorm. Oh, it rained periodically in this area

of the continent, but nothing like this.

It was coming down in sheets, a heavy wind blowing hard enough that the rain

seemed to be coming at him sideways.

Eska’s home was only a five-minute walk from the office complex where he had his

seat of power. Picking up the pace, he ran the rest of the way, covering the

distance in less than a minute. Grateful for his Central Command training, he

wasn’t even winded when he reached the door.

When Eska had taken over the administration of Nramia, he had had the military

headquarters moved to this building. Though it was considered an eyesore by

most—it was from a period in Cardassia’s architectural development that many

considered negligible, and indeed most examples of it throughout the Union had

long since been demolished—Eska rather admired it. The entire façade was made of

one-way transparent aluminum. Nobody could see in, obviously—that would be a

security threat—but every room in the building had a glorious view of the

capital city. Better still, throughout the day they could see the sun providing

its glorious warmth.

Except for today, of course. Today, all they saw were the streaks of rain on the

windows.

Eska was greeted at the door by his two aides with a towel and a refresher.

Inside the lobby of the complex, the staccato rhythm of the rain pounding on the

transparent aluminum was a constant undercurrent. It reminded Eska of being on

board a ship. Whenever he traveled, the thrumming engines always seemed

ridiculously loud and made concentration difficult. He never understood how

anyone could grow accustomed to such constant noise. Now, with the even more

intrusive noise of the rain, he wondered again.

The taller of the aides, Glinn Coram, shook his head and smiled. “Were we

transported to Ferenginar without anyone telling us, sir?”

“I’m starting to wonder,” Eska said, toweling his ears. They were so waterlogged

that Coram had sounded like a staticky subspace comlink. “Find out what’s going

on. Get in touch with the meteorological center. This—” He was interrupted by a

massive thunderclap of a type he hadn’t heard since he was stationed on

Chin’toka IX during monsoon season. “—should not have happened,” he finished in

a harder voice.

“Yes, sir.”

To the shorter, fatter aide, he said, “Doveror, do a full sensor sweep of the

entire planet. Tie in to the satellites. I want a full picture.” He had to raise

his voice even higher, as the rain was growing more intense by the minute. No

longer staccato, the rain was a virtual wall of sound slamming against the

building.

“Yes, sir,” Glinn Doveror said in his squeaky voice. Most found him irritating

and difficult to listen to, but he was also a most efficient aide, so Eska put

up with it.

“And call Gul Evek and tell him to get a ship over here, just in ca—”

Eska’s words were interrupted by another thunder-clap, but this time it was

immediately followed by an earsplitting shattering sound, as an entire section

of the transparent aluminum collapsed, shards flying through the air, propelled

by the wind and no longer held in place by the structure of the building. Even

as his ears cleared of that noise, it was replaced by exclamations of pain

ranging from quick shouts to lengthy screams. Shards of transparent aluminum

were all over the floor of the lobby, and probably elsewhere in the building.

Then Eska felt like he was being pelted with stones. The rain had turned into

hail and was now coming into the building. Raising his arm to protect his eyes,

Eska ran toward the turbolift bay at the inner portion of the building. He

didn’t even bother to look to see if Doveror or Coram followed.

As it happened, they did, which he knew only because they entered the turbolift

with him. “Operations,” Eska said as the door closed. “Something is wrong.”

“The weather is certainly a bit aberrant,” Doveror said gravely.

“Aberrant!?” Eska almost grabbed Doveror by the neck ridges. “‘Aberrant’is a few

extra centimeters of rain per year. The first hailstorm in the recorded history

of this continent is not ‘aberrant.’ Thunder intense enough to shatter our

allegedly unbreakable windows is not ‘aberrant’! Someone is attacking us, and I

want to know who.”

Coram fixed his commanding officer with a dubious glance as the turbolift doors

opened. “Attack? That seems unlikely, sir.”

Eska stepped out of the lift into the large room. Consoles lined three of the

walls, and a large round desk sat in the center. The fourth wall was taken up

with a viewscreen. Currently on that screen was an image of the capital city,

which was a chaotic jumble of snow, sleet, freezing rain, hail, and wind.

“Weather patterns don’t develop like this naturally,” Eska said, pointing to the

viewscreen, “and they certainly don’t develop out of a cloudless sky.”

One of the glinns sitting at the main operations table said, “Sir, we’re picking

up—something in orbit.”

Eska threw his towel angrily at Doveror, who fumbled to catch it, and approached

the table. “Define ‘something,’ Glinn.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” she said. “We can’t get a firm fix on it. It’s

probably a ship, but—” Her eyes widened. “Sir, it’s firing on the orbital

defense satellites!”

“Return fire!” Then Eska frowned. “Why didn’t the satellites challenge that ship

immediately?”

“Not sure, sir—best guess, the indeterminate readings were too anomalous for the

computer to register as a threat. Honestly, sir, I probably wouldn’t have

bothered reporting it to you if not for everything else that was happening—and

because the weather changes matched when the reading appeared in orbit.” She

peered at her display. “Sir, all orbital defenses are down!”

Eska was about to say that that was impossible, that one anomalous reading

shouldn’t be able to take out six satellites, but he was interrupted by the

shaking of the entire room. Loose items fell to the floor, and several people

followed the objects. Eska was not among those, as he gained purchase on the

edge of the center table even as his footing was momentarily lost.

When the ground settled, he turned to the glinn. “That was a lightning strike,

sir,” she said in a very small voice.

“That was lightning?” Eska obviously needed to revise his estimates on what was

impossible.

“Yes, sir.” She peered down at her console, then looked back up at Eska. “The

subbasements are still structurally sound, but the infrastructure of the

aboveground portion of the building is compromised.”

“Evacuate the building immediately.”

“Sir, I don’t think they’ll be any safer out there. The winds are now at two

hundred—”

Eska’s head swam. “They’re still safer in the open than inside a fifty-story

building that’s about to collapse!”

“Yes, sir.”

He whirled to face Coram, who was now at a communications console. “Get me

Evek!”

“Waiting for his reply now, sir,” Coram said in a surprisingly calm voice. It

made Eska realize just how hysterical he was starting to sound.

Eska turned to the viewscreen. People, both civilians and Central Command

soldiers, were running out of the building. You could tell the difference only

by what they were wearing, as they all had the same panicked look as they dashed

about madly. The building itself was quite literally a shell of its former self.

Its roginium super-structure was all that was left—the transparent aluminum had

been blasted away, as had the plastiform that made up the interior walls.

If this place is collapsing, Eska thought with horror, then the rest of the

city’s buildings will be dust before this is over. And we have no defenses….

Eska silently cursed whoever was responsible for not assigning any ships to

Nramia. He could hear whichever idiot Central Command bureaucrat it was now,

going on about how the orbital defenses were more than sufficient for the job….

“Sir,” Doveror said, “reports are coming in from all over the planet. This

peculiar weather is not limited to the capital. The polar regions are

registering temperatures several orders of magnitude hotter than usual. The ice

up there is melting, and computer projections are calling for dangerous floods

within a day or two. The tropical regions are suffering blistering heat with no

humidity, the desert regions are getting massive rainfall—”

“I get the idea,” Eska muttered.

Then, to Eska’s relief, the image of Gul Evek came on the screen. Cardassian

heads tended to be rather rectangular, but Evek’s countenance was downright

boxy.

“What can I do for you, Eska?” Evek said distractedly, looking down at some

readouts even as he spoke.

“We need to evacuate Nramia.”

Everyone whirled toward Eska at that. Eska couldn’t blame them, as he was as

surprised as any of them at the words that had come out of his mouth, but it was

the only sane course of action.

Evek looked up sharply at that. “Excuse me?”

“Something in orbit has wiped out our defenses and is causing deadly weather all

over the planet.”

Smiling an unkind smile, Evek said, “You want us to evacuate because of the

weather, Eska?”

The building chose that moment to shake again. “Another lightning strike, sir,”

the glinn said.

“That was lightning?” Evek was frowning now.

“Yes, Evek, that was lightning. And we’re in a subbasement in the most

structurally sound building on Nramia. Our polar ice caps are melting, our

jungles are drying out, our deserts are flooding, and here in the capital, we’re

being subjected to deadly hail and gale-force winds.”

“Don’t you have ships of your own?”

Eska rolled his eyes. Save me from spacefaring types. “Yes, of course we do. And

at present, they’re all on the planet. With conditions as they are, none of them

would be able to achieve orbit before being torn to pieces.”

The building shook again for good measure.

“I’m diverting the Sixth Order to Nramia now,” Evek said. “We’ll be in orbit

within three hours.”

Eska grimaced. “I hope we live that long.”

“If you don’t, the Maquis will pay for your deaths, rest assured.”

“The Maquis?” It never occurred to Eska that the Maquis would be responsible—not

because they weren’t philosophically capable of it, quite the opposite, in fact,

but because they were a ragtag group of terrorists whose ships were held

together with little more than stem bolts and happy thoughts. Nothing in any of

the intelligence reports Eska had read indicated that they had any kind of

weaponry that could do this. He said as much to Evek.

“Perhaps you’re right. But this fits their mode of operation, even if it is

beyond what we know of their capabilities. Still, remember that there are far

too many former Starfleet personnel in the Maquis, and they are distressingly

resourceful.” With a bitter smile, Evek added, “Besides, whether they are

responsible or not doesn’t mean we can’t blame them.”

“I’m thrilled for your ability to milk this for political gain, Evek,” Eska said

through clenched teeth, “but I’m a bit more concerned about the people of

Nramia.”

“I’ve done all I can for now. I will contact you when we arrive.”

With that, Evek’s face faded, replaced once again with the image of

ever-more-panicky Cardassians in the street of Nramia’s capital.

“Sir,” Coram said, “the anomalous reading has disappeared. If it was a ship, I

would guess that it has left orbit.”

“Let’s hope the weather improves, then.”

But it did not. By the time the Sixth Order—five Galor -class ships, including

Evek’s command, the Vetar —arrived at Nramia, fully a quarter of the population

were dead, most were injured to some degree or other, the capital was flooded

under several meters of rainwater, and the polar ice caps had started to melt,

with icebergs starting to roam in the oceans. Computer projections estimated

that Nramia would be uninhabitable within a day.

As Eska was beamed up to the flagship of the Sixth Order, he thought, I really

really hate rain.

Chapter Four

AS CAL HUDSON READ THE REPORT from the Maquis infiltrator on Deep Space 9, he

felt queasy.

He was tempted to mention this to his second-in-command, Darleen Mastroeni,

presently sitting next to him in the cramped bridge of the Liberator. Indeed,

the word “bridge” bespoke a grandeur it hadn’t earned. It was more like the

cockpit of an old airship. Hudson and Mastroeni sat side by side in chairs they

barely fit in, surrounded by controls on either side of them and lining the

bulkhead in front of them—excepting the tiny viewscreen, of course. A third

person on the bridge would have been a physical impossibility.

However, if Hudson did share his gastrointestinal discomfort at the report with

Mastroeni, the shorter woman would probably just make a comment about how his

precious stomach, having been raised on safe and easy replicated food, wasn’t

used to the home cooking favored by most Maquis—mainly because replicator power

was not the near-infinite resource it was on a Starfleet vessel, and needed to

be rationed for other uses.

But it wasn’t the badly prepared hamburger he’d had for lunch that was making

him ill right now. It was the report from Michael Eddington, newly appointed

head of Starfleet security for DS9, and Maquis agent.

Getting Eddington onto the station had been quite a coup for the Maquis. DS9

was, after all, the most important strategic post in the sector thanks to the

Bajoran wormhole that led to the Gamma Quadrant. Many ships went through there,

and having an agent on-station would be invaluable—even if that agent was

someone who pretty much told a lie every time he put on his Starfleet uniform.

But it wasn’t even the use of a Starfleet officer to aid the Maquis cause that

irked Hudson. He, too, had turned his back on Starfleet and the Federation—but

given how shabbily those two organizations had treated their citizens with this

idiotic treaty, he had no compunctions about that. If Michael Eddington had no

trouble reconciling his duties on DS9 with his dedication to the Maquis, then

Hudson had no trouble using him.

No, the true source of Hudson’s queasy feeling was that he was doing this to Ben

Sisko.

Hudson and the DS9 station commandant had been friends since their Academy days.

They had gotten into trouble with each other, they had participated in each

other’s weddings, they had consoled each other when they lost their respective

wives.

Now they were on opposite sides of a war. Ben had brought Hudson his Starfleet

uniform, and Hudson had made a show of phasering it into oblivion in front of

him. And now Hudson had put a viper in his friend’s midst.

“Cal, we’re picking something up,” Mastroeni said. She looked up and touched a

control over her head. “It’s a Starfleet distress call, but with a Maquis call

sign.”

“Really?”

Mastroeni snarled. Her face had never formed a smile in the six months that

Hudson had known her. “An outdated call sign. It isn’t one of ours—probably some

Starfleeter trying to lure us into a trap. Permission to blow it to atoms.”

Hudson sighed. The unfortunate thing was, Mastroeni was dead serious. However,

Hudson wasn’t so cavalier. He checked the sensor readings. “Reading a type-3

shuttlecraft—call sign indicates it’s the Manhattan, presently assigned to the

U.S.S. Hood.”

“I’m not picking up the Hood on any scans—or any other Starfleet vessel,”

Mastroeni said. “So if we destroy them, no one will know.”

“She’s also damaged,” Hudson continued, ignoring her. “Those are phaser hits—

starship phaser hits.”

“Now we’re being hailed. I assume I should ignore it and fire phasers?”

Turning angrily at Mastroeni, Hudson said, “I’m not about to fire on a ship in

distress, Darleen.”

“You’re not in Starfleet anymore, Cal.”

“You’re right—and I haven’t joined Central Command, either. If we start firing

on ships that ask for help, we’re no better than the Cardassians.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about being ‘better’ than the Cardassians!”

Mastroeni said, slamming a hand on the arm of her chair. “I just want them and

Starfleet gone from my life.”

A beep from the console sounded before Hudson could reply. It was a repeat of

the hail from the Manhattan. Hudson reached over and answered it rather than ask

Mastroeni to open the channel.

“This is the Federation Shuttlecraft Manhattan to any Maquis ship within range.

This is Tuvok of Vulcan, former lieutenant in Starfleet. I request asylum with

the Maquis. Please respond.”

“Good thing he identified himself as a Vulcan,” Hudson muttered. “That’s the

only thing to explain how calm he is.” Louder, he said, “Mr. Tuvok, this is the

Maquis.” He wasn’t about to identify himself by name over an open channel.

“We’ve got you on sensors. What happened?”

“I absconded with this shuttlecraft when Starfleet refused my request for a

leave of absence following the deaths of my wife and children on Amniphon.”

Hudson looked sharply at Mastroeni. The rockslides on Amniphon had killed

thousands. They still hadn’t even begun to properly catalogue the dead.

“So you left Starfleet.”

“Affirmative. The Hood naturally tried to pursue, but they would not enter the

Demilitarized Zone without authorization. However, that authorization may come

soon. Therefore I would request that you beam me aboard and then destroy the

shuttle.”

Hudson rubbed his chin. “Mr. Tuvok, I’d love to accommodate you, but I’ve got a

first mate here with an itchy trigger finger. She’d like to just destroy your

shuttle without bothering to beam you over first. I’m gonna need a good reason

to hold her back.”

“Your attempt to play the human game of ‘good cop/bad cop’ is somewhat

transparent, sir. However, I do understand that you will require a gesture of

good faith. I was the chief of security on the Hood, and can provide you with

intelligence and current access codes that might prove beneficial to the

Maquis.”

Mastroeni lined up a shot with her phasers. “Like we need him for that. C’mon,

let me—”

“In addition,” Tuvok added, “I have information on how to detect a weapon that

is currently within the confines of the Demilitarized Zone. It is an artifact of

tremendous power that might tip the balance of power in favor of the Maquis. And

Starfleet Command is not presently aware of it.”

“He’s lying.” Mastroeni’s eyes almost rolled back in her head.

“Maybe.” Hudson rubbed his chin again. “And maybe not. I’m willing to look into

it.” He smiled at Mastroeni. “We can always kill him later.”

She just snarled again in response.

“Prepare to be taken in tow, Mr. Tuvok.”

“I would not recommend that course of action. As long as the Manhattan is

intact, the Hood will be able to track it. Starfleet has recently improved the

security measures on their shuttlecraft. One such attempt by a potential

Starfleet defector to deliver a shuttle into Maquis hands resulted in the

officer’s incarceration. I would prefer to avoid Ensign Lestewka’s fate.”

“I don’t believe him,” Mastroeni said.

Hudson frowned. “There was an Ensign Lestewka who served on the Tian An Men.

Reports were that he was favorable to our cause, but he was caught trying to

defect. I always assumed he just got caught ’cause he was stupid, though.”

“Only,” Tuvok said dryly, “if you consider not paying attention to security

briefings ‘stupid.’ The choice is, of course, yours, but it would be safer for

all concerned if you destroyed the shuttle. If nothing else, it denies me my

best avenue of escape and leaves me wholly at your mercy.”

“You already are at our mercy, Vulcan,” Mastroeni said, now locking phasers on

target.

“Hardly. Although damaged, this shuttlecraft could still hold its own in a

firefight—especially against a sub-standard Mishka -class raider with a

malfunctioning phaser array.”

At that, Hudson laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Mastroeni asked.

“He’s good. All right, Tuvok, have it your way. Stand by for our signal to beam

you aboard. Out.” Then he opened an intercom channel. “Mindy, you there?” Mindy

McAdams was supposed to be on duty in the transporter room.

“Yeah, Skip. And I overheard your tête-à- Vulcan. I’ll get Schmidt in here with

a couple of rifles and bring him on board.”

“Good.” Hudson had long since given up discouraging McAdams from calling him

“Skip,” short for “Skipper.” He turned to his copilot. “Once he’s on board, blow

up the shuttle. Then let’s start doing some digging. I want to know everything

there is to know about Tuvok of Vulcan, security chief of the U.S.S. Hood. See

if Eddington can call up his service record and get it to us.”

“Fine, whatever you say.”

Hudson sighed and fixed his first mate with an encouraging expression. “Look,

Darleen, if even the slightest thing is off-kilter with what we find, we’ll kill

him. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that, Cal. Because we’re going to regret having that Vulcan

on our ship, mark my words.”

 

“Are you out of your mind?”

Tharia heard Chakotay’s words, but did not acknowledge them. He was busy trying

to figure out what his next target should be.

Chakotay’s ship—which he had christened the Geronimo, after some Earther freedom

fighter or other—had been salvaged from a Tellarian depot a year earlier. Tharia

admired the bridge design: a U-shaped, two-level room at the fore of the ship.

The upper level extended from the back wall about halfway into the room, and

contained the command center. Generally, Chakotay, Seska, and Tharia sat there;

they were there now, plus Torres. The front part of the lower level had the

navigation and engineering consoles, with all other systems controlled from

consoles under the command center, which was accessible via a ladder.

Most impressive of all was that the entire front wall was a viewscreen. Right

now, it showed Nramia. Normally appearing bright green and yellow from orbit,

now the planet was shaded in darker greens and blacks, giving it an almost

sinister look. Inset into the huge screen was a sensor reading that showed the

abnormal weather patterns throughout the world.

Weather patterns that Tharia had caused.

Chakotay was pointing at those sensor scans. “This was not part of the plan,

Tharia. We were just going to target the military headquarters, not wipe out the

entire population.”

From below, Chell said, “Uh, actually, they may not all die. I’m reading a fleet

of Galor -class ships. Registers as the Sixth Order. My guess is that they’re

here to handle some kind of evacuation or other. At least, that’d be my guess.”

“Evek,” Chakotay muttered. Then he said to the Bolian, “Get us out of here,

Chell. Maximum warp.”

“No!” Tharia screamed. “We can’t! Not yet! They have to all die first!”

Chakotay grabbed Tharia by the shoulders. “Get ahold of yourself! I don’t know

what you think you’re doing, but it stops now.”

“What’s the big deal, Chakotay?” B’Elanna asked.

With a vehemence that might have surprised Tharia if he bothered to care about

such things anymore, Seska replied. “There are civilians down there, B’Elanna.

Military’s one thing—they swore an oath to die for the Central Command, and they

knew what to expect. But the civilians aren’t responsible for the treaty or for

the actions of the government, any more than we are—or than my people on Bajor

were when the Cardassians subjugated them.” Turning to Tharia, she added, “They

certainly don’t deserve this. At this rate, unless you reverse what you did, the

planet’s entire ecosystem will tear itself apart within a few months. The

flooding alone will cause incalculable damage.”

“We’re not giving him the chance,” Chakotay said. “Engage at warp six, Chell.”

Tharia said, “We have to make sure they all die!” at the same time that Seska

said, “We can’t just leave them!”

Chakotay, ever the calm presence, first looked at Seska. Tharia knew that the

two of them were lovers, and he wondered if he’d still be so calm if he found

her broken body destroyed by Cardassians. “We can’t stick around so Evek can

pound us to a pulp, Seska. B’Elanna’s right—these are Cardassians, and I have no

problem with tying them up in a rescue mission and with the military outpost

here being history.” Then he turned to Tharia. “I do have a problem with the

scale—and with my orders being disobeyed. I want you to turn that box of yours

over to me right now.”

“You don’t understand,” Tharia said.

“You’re right, I don’t. And I don’t care, either. Dalby,” he called down to the

lower level, “escort Tharia to his barracks and retrieve that box of his.”

Tharia paid no attention to anything anyone was saying, or to Kenneth Dalby, who

came up the ladder and practically yanked Tharia toward the doorway. “C’mon,

ch’Ren,” he said, “let’s get this over with.”

He paid no attention because he was turning his thoughts to his next campaign.

It was obvious that Chakotay was no longer to be trusted. There’s one

warp-capable shuttlecraft left, he thought. The Geronimo had two originally, but

they had crashed one on the planet where Tharia found his gift.

As soon as he and Dalby reached the cabin Tharia shared with Hogan, Ayala, and

Bendera, the Andorian reached out with his mind to the weapon. In turn, the

weapon reached out to the ship’s environmental controls.

The traitors cannot be allowed to stop me, he thought.

“C’mon, ch’Ren, get a move on,” Dalby said, pushing Tharia toward his bunk.

As the temperature in the room lowered, Tharia turned and leapt through the air,

tackling a surprised Dalby. While he lay stunned on the floor, Tharia ran to his

bunk, grabbed the weapon, ran back toward the door, grabbed Dalby’s phaser,

kicked him in the ribs for good measure, then headed toward the shuttlebay.

The temperature continued to lower to near-freezing levels, but Tharia only

really noticed it on an intellectual level—he didn’t feel anything except for

his burning need to make the Cardassians pay.

By the time he got to the shuttlebay, he reckoned, it would be down past

freezing. Then he would raise the temperature to the boiling point as he left

the Geronimo. The hull would start to rupture under the stress.

In his mind’s eye, he started plotting a course for the Slaybis system. The

traitors there will die just as the traitors here will.

Chakotay and the others had been his comrades. But they could not see the truth.

The Cardassians all had to pay, whether civilian or military. They all had to

die. Seska was Bajoran, she should have understood that.

Since she did not, she would die when the hull buckled.

Ayala and Henley were doing some kind of maintenance on the shuttle when Tharia

came in. Without hesitating, he shot them both. He had no idea what setting the

phaser was on—the fact that they fell to the deck in a heap meant it wasn’t set

to disintegrate, but that still left half a dozen possible settings—nor did he

much care. If they weren’t dead now, they would be soon.

He boarded the shuttle, entering an override code. The bridge systems were

probably literally freezing up by now, so there was no way Chakotay or Torres

would be able to stop him.

“Bridge to shuttlebay. Whoever’s in there, get back here now!” Chakotay’s calm

voice had finally broken into a shout. Tharia also could hear a shiver in his

voice.

Tharia cut off the communication as he exited through the shuttlebay doors.

Once he was clear of the Geronimo, he set course for the Slaybis system. There

were more people there who needed to die.

About his comrades, he didn’t spare a thought.

He was thinking about the broken bodies of his mates. And the broken bodies of

the Cardassians who died on Nramia.

It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

I will help you achieve your goal.

Soon…

 

Cal Hudson sat in his quarters and read through the data on the optical chip

Tuvok had provided. Half-remembered Academy classes in galactic history came

back to the forefront of his mind as he read it. So many of those damn ancient

civilizations, he thought, they all blend. The Zalkat Union, the Iconians, the

Tkon Empire…

He remembered sitting in that class, bored out of his mind. Ben Sisko was in the

class with him, and they’d spend most of their time the first few weeks trying

to get the other one to do something stupid that would get the (negative)

attention of the professor. It was childish, but they were first-year students

who were eager to explore strange new worlds. A class about dead civilizations

didn’t interest either of them.

Eventually, they settled down, of course—if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have made

it through the Academy in the first place. Those were good times, Hudson thought

with momentary sadness.

Exacerbating the painful nostalgia was the fact that the artifact that Tuvok had

found with the Hood’ 'ssensors while on the night shift at ops—and, according to

the Vulcan, had then wiped from the ship’s records—was one of four. Two others

had been discovered, one only a few months ago on one of Bajor’s moons. Ben was

involved in that mission. So if I do chase this thing down, it’ll be another

connection to Ben. Seems we can’t get away from each other, even when I try….

Hudson shook his head. Thinking about Ben led to thinking about Ben and

Jennifer, which led to thinking about Gretchen. He shook his head, forcing

himself to pay attention to the data in Tuvok’s chip.

Tuvok himself was currently under guard in the mess hall. The Liberator didn’t

have a brig—prisoners weren’t often a consideration in their line of work—so

Hudson stuck him there while he went over the data and sent Mastroeni to check

out his story.

The door chime rang. “Come on in,” he said. The door opened to the short,

compact form of his second-in-command. “What do you have for me, Darleen?”

As the door closed behind her, Mastroeni let out another of her snarls. “I hate

to say it, but everything checks out. Eddington went over the records on DS9,

and Tuvok was recently assigned to the Hood and the Hood has been patrolling the

Cardassian border lately. His family is listed as having lived on Amniphon at

the time of the rockslides.”

“What about his requests for leave?”

She shook her head. “DS9 doesn’t have records that complete about officers not

actually assigned to the station, and he couldn’t really dig that deep without

arousing suspicion. However, I got Quiring to hack into the Vulcan central net.”

Hudson’s eyes widened and he rose from his chair. “What!? Are you out of your

mind? Darleen, you don’t hack the Vulcan net!”

Mastroeni almost smiled. “Quiring did. At least a little. He got out before

anyone caught on to him, but he was in long enough to verify that T’Pel and all

the little Tuvok-lets moved to Amniphon three years ago. What about the stuff he

gave us?”

Sitting back down, Hudson glanced at the small viewscreen on his desk. “Well,

the codes he gave us aren’t anything we haven’t gotten from Eddington, but Tuvok

wouldn’t know that. If nothing else, it worked as a good-faith gesture. And this

artifact thing he found could be damn useful.”

“You’re not sure?”

Tilting his head, Hudson said, “It depends. It’s one of two possible artifacts

left over from a ninety-thousand-year-old empire.”

A snort escaped from Mastroeni’s lips. “And it’s still supposed to work?”

“Two others have been dug up, and they both worked just fine.” Too fine, he

thought with a shiver, having just read the reports of the epidemic on Proxima a

hundred years ago, and the near-destruction of one of Bajor’s moons only a few

months ago. “One possibility is that it can manipulate weather patterns.”

Mastroeni’s eyes widened. “That has all kinds of entertaining possibilities.”

“I agree.” Hudson leaned back in his chair and fixed Mastroeni with a serious

look. “The problem is, the other possibility is that it’s a telepathic weapon

that enables the user to control other people’s minds.”

It woud be inaccurate to say that Mastroeni’s face darkened, given her

near-permanent scowl, but that scowl did appear to deepen. “If it’s a telepathic

weapon, I don’t want a damn thing to do with it.”

“Neither do I. But—”

Slamming a hand on the wall, Mastroeni said, “I mean it, Cal. I won’t have us

going that way! I’ll destroy the thing!”

“Good luck.” Hudson chuckled. “Those things are apparently indestructible.

That’s why they’re still intact and working after ninety millennia. Anyhow, it

doesn’t matter—point is, we need to track this thing down, and Tuvok’s given us

the energy signature. I think we ought to follow it. And I think we need to keep

Tuvok alive. He’s earned at least that much.”

With obvious reluctance, Mastroeni said, “I agree—but only that much. So far,

he’s done everything right, but he’s also done everything I’d expect a Starfleet

infiltrator to do. I want a phaser pointed at his head every minute of every

day.”

Hudson sighed, knowing that she was serious, regardless of the impracticalities

of such a plan. Still, he figured it would probably be wise to assign McAdams to

Tuvok, at least for the time being. Unlike Mastroeni, she would keep a clear

head, and was much less likely to fire without provocation or orders.

He got up and proceeded to the mess hall, Mastroeni right behind him. McAdams

and Schmidt were on opposite sides of the room—McAdams’s lithe form leaning

against the wall near the door, Schmidt’s massive body crammed into one of the

mess-hall chairs across the hall, both of them with phaser rifles conspicuous.

Tuvok sat placidly in the middle of the room, his elbows resting on one of the

tables, his fingers steepled together near his forehead. Probably something

vaguely meditative, Hudson thought.

At the new arrivals’ entrance, McAdams straightened up. “He’s just been sitting

there, Skip. I don’t think he’s even blinked since he sat down.” She grinned.

“Better check, make sure his eyes haven’t gone all crusty.”

Hudson smiled and approached the prisoner.

Tuvok looked up. “My suspicions were correct, I see.”

Frowning, Hudson said, “What suspicions, Mr. Tuvok?”

“Your voice over the comlink sounded sufficiently similar to the voice on record

as belonging to a former lieutenant commander in Starfleet named Calvin Hudson.

Your face matches that record as well. It is therefore reasonable to deduce that

you are he.”

McAdams grinned. “Well, if he does wind up joining, he can fill Sakona’s old

role of class pedantic.”

Mastroeni shot the other woman a venomous look, no doubt angry that McAdams used

the name of one of their fellow Maquis, but Tuvok said, “If you are referring to

the woman who was captured on Deep Space 9 last year, it is my hope to prove

more useful to you than she was.” He turned his impassive gaze on Hudson. “You

have investigated the data?”

“We have.” Hudson rubbed his chin. “So far, it looks promising—but I don’t see

any good reason to trust you. On the other hand, I have half a dozen reasons to

shoot you on sight.”

“I will assume, since you have not shot me on sight, that you’re willing to give

me the benefit of the doubt for the nonce.”

“For the nonce,” Hudson said with a nod. “We’ll enter these energy readings into

the computer, see if we can track it down.”

“I will join you on your bridge,” Tuvok said, standing up.

Hudson smiled. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Tuvok. Our bridge doesn’t

have much walking-around room. We’ll keep an open channel down here.” He pointed

to the viewscreen on the side wall. “I’ll tie that in to the main viewer so you

can see what we see. Let us know if we do anything wrong.”

Dryly, Tuvok said, “I will assume that request is limited to anything you might

do in relation to the Malkus Artifacts.”

Mastroeni raised her phaser. “Good assumption, Vulcan. You’ve been living on

borrowed time since you first entered the DMZ, and it’s only a matter of time

before someone burns your head open with a phaser.”

Tuvok seemed unmoved by the threat. “All mortals live on ‘borrowed time,’ madam.

Concerning oneself over-much about the nature of how one gives that time back,

so to speak, would be an illogical waste of resources.”

“Darleen!” Hudson barked just as Mastroeni raised her weapon.

After a moment, Mastroeni calmed down and lowered her weapon. “Don’t push me,

Vulcan.”

Tuvok continued to look unimpressed.

Hudson grabbed Mastroeni by the arm and led her out, giving both McAdams and

Schmidt nods as he left, indicating that they were to remain on guard. As soon

as the door closed behind them, he spoke. “Will you stop that, please? I know

you don’t trust him, but we’re not killing him if we don’t have to, and if he is

legit, I don’t want him expecting a phaser in the back from you.” As they

approached the door to the bridge, which was on the same deck, he added,

“Unless, of course, you’re just trying to intimidate him, in which case you’re

wasting your time. He’s obviously one of the more imperturbable types.”

Mastroeni snarled again. “I just don’t like him.” With that, she opened the door

to the bridge.

Hudson sighed and followed, settling into his chair. He entered Tuvok’s chip

into one of the slots in the console in front of him, then called up the energy

signature. Not for the first time wishing like hell they had a ship with a

working voice interface, he manually fed the signature into the ship’s sensors

and then did a long-range scan.

“I think this is a waste of time,” Mastroeni said. “We’re not going to find

anything. We should just shoot him and then get as far away from—”

The sensor alarm beeped. “We’ve got something,” Hudson said with a certain

amount of satisfaction. Mastroeni’s caution was understandable, of course, but

there was enough of the Starfleet officer left in Cal Hudson that he didn’t feel

comfortable with a first mate who insisted on shooting a person down in cold

blood.

“That’s in Cardassian space,” Mastroeni said, peering at the sensor display in

front of Hudson. “Right over the border.”

“Nearest planet is Nramia.” Hudson pursed his lips. “That’s on the list.”

Mastroeni shot Hudson a look. He didn’t need to explain any further. The Maquis

had a list of planets that were viable targets. Hudson knew that one of the

other cells—though he did not know which, nor would he know—had targeted Nramia,

a colony that had a military outpost.

Hudson hesitated at first. He didn’t want to barge in on someone else’s

operation—but if one of the Malkus Artifacts was on Nramia, he had to find it

sooner rather than later. They certainly couldn’t risk the Cardassians getting

their hands on it.

Besides, there was no timetable for the attack on Nramia that Hudson was aware

of. So for all he knew, whoever was attacking wouldn’t be doing so for weeks

yet.

“Set a course for Nramia, Darleen. Warp six.”

They made their way toward the Cardassian border in silence. Hudson took

advantage of the time to finish reading the report from Eddington that he’d

started. What got his attention in particular was the Defiant. Hudson remembered

Ben Sisko talking about the ship—a warship originally designed for use against

the Borg—when the latter was assigned to Utopia Planitia. The ship had been

outfitted with a cloaking device, on loan from the Romulan Star Empire with the

proviso that it be used only in the Gamma Quadrant.

I wonder if there’s any way we can get our hands on that….

“Cal, we’ve got a problem. Actually, two.”

Hudson looked up. “What?”

“I’m not reading the energy signature anywhere near Nramia anymore. However, I

am picking up five ships bearing down on the planet, and they’re all Galor

-class.”

Hudson immediately called up a long-range scan of Nramia itself. Something

didn’t look right.

Tuvok’s voice sounded suddenly over the intercom. “Those readings should not be

accurate. Nramia’s northern continent is mostly desert and should not experience

such extremes of precipitation as are being shown in that scan. In addition, the

polar ice caps are melting at an alarming rate, one that would, in the normal

course of time, take decades. The logical deduction is that the Malkus Artifact

in question is the weather controller, and it has already been used.”

“Gee, all that from a long-range scan,” Mastroeni said, rolling her eyes.

“I would also surmise—”

“This ought to be good,” Mastroeni muttered.

Tuvok continued as if Mastroeni hadn’t spoken. “—that the artifact is already in

the hands of fellow Maquis.”

Hudson smiled. Nice touch, he thought, referring to them as “fellow.” “It’s

possible the Cardassians have it.”

“Unlikely. If that were the case, we would still be reading the artifact’s

emissions. I recommend that we abandon our course to Nramia and attempt to

relocate the emission.”

“Much as I hate to agree with our—guest, he’s right,” Mastroeni said.

Hudson nodded. “I agree, too. Those Cardassians’ll have itchy trigger fingers,

and they’ll probably blame the Maquis whether or not we’re actually responsible.

Change course back into the DMZ. I’ll try to reacquire the emission.”

“Changing course 284 mark 9.” Mastroeni then frowned. “We’re picking up a weak

distress signal at 173 mark 6.” She looked up. “It’s a Maquis call sign—a

current one this time.”

“Go,” Hudson said, then looked down at his readout as the sensor display beeped.

“I’ve got the artifact emission.”

“Good. We can pick it up after we check out the distress call,” Mastroeni said.

Hudson grimaced. “It’ll be sooner than that. The emission’s at 173 mark 6.”

Mastroeni looked up sharply.

“Warp eight, Darleen. I’ve got a nasty idea about what’s happening.”

To her credit, Mastroeni didn’t hesitate, even though the maximum safe cruising

speed for the Liberator was warp seven-point-three.

Then Hudson tried to boost the gain on the distress signal. “—otay of the Geroni

—mayday, we need imme—ance. Repeat, this is Chakotay of— nimo, we need immediate

assista—”

That was followed by the sound of wrenching metal.

A shiver went down Hudson’s spine and he froze in his chair. Anyone who had ever

lived on a starship, as Hudson had most of his adult life, learned to fear that

sound, because it meant that the hull—your lifeline, the only thing separating

you from the unforgiving vacuum of space—might well be buckling.

“I lost the signal,” Mastroeni said.

“Warp nine.”

Mastroeni didn’t even look up, trying as she was to regain the distress call.

“That’s crazy, Cal, we can’t—”

“I said warp nine!”

This time she did look up. Cal Hudson rarely raised his voice—but he wasn’t in

the mood for an argument, and he wasn’t about to let Chakotay and his people

suffer any more than they had to. He didn’t know Chakotay well, only that he too

was ex-Starfleet, that he was from Trebus, and that he had already carved out a

good reputation among the Maquis for both efficiency and fairness. But even if

he were a total stranger, he would not allow him to suffer the agonies that

awaited him if the Geronimo’ 'shull ruptured.

“Fine, warp nine,” she said. “I just hope our hull doesn’t go the way of

theirs.”

Chapter Five

ROBERT DE SOTO WAS NOT LOOKING forward to this impending conversation.

About two hours after Tuvok left, he had put in a formal request to Starfleet

Command to enter the Demilitarized Zone. He then awaited the call back from

Admiral Nechayev denying the request. All according to plan. If Tuvok was able

to find the artifact, or if the artifact made its presence known in some more

overt manner, the plan might change, but for now Tuvok needed a clear path to

get on the Maquis’s good side.

Instead, Nechayev’s small face with its even smaller features appeared on the

screen on the desk of his ready room and informed him that she needed to get

back to him, and she would contact him again in one hour on a secure channel,

along with Gul Evek.

Voyskunsky had been in the ready room with him when Nechayev’s call came in. She

frowned. “That wasn’t part of the plan, was it?”

DeSoto shook his head. “What’s the old saying? The plan of action is usually

abandoned three minutes into the mission?”

“Something like that, though my experience says that estimate is often

generous.”

Smiling, DeSoto said, “Obviously the board has changed shape somewhat.”

The captain decided to take the second call alone in the observation lounge. A

secure channel from Alynna Nechayev meant captain’s eyes only—he’d judge

afterward how much Voyskunsky needed to know, though his instinct would be all

of it. It was never a good idea for a captain to have to keep things from his

first officer.

The more spacious observation lounge, with its viewscreen on one of the walls,

gave DeSoto more room to walk around, which he had a feeling he was going to

need. Since this promised to be a long talk—Evek and Nechayev both were overly

fond of the sounds of their respective voices—he wanted room to move to disguise

the fidgeting.

One hour and twenty-five minutes after Nechayev said she’d get back in touch in

an hour, Dayrit said, “Incoming transmission from the U.S.S. Nimitz. It’s

Admiral Nechayev—priority alpha.”

Voyskunsky grinned toothily. “Nice to know that the admiralty’s reputation for

promptness remains nonexistent.”

Merely rolling his eyes in reply, DeSoto got up from the command chair. “Pipe it

through to the observation lounge, Manolet, and make sure it’s secure on our

end, too. You have the bridge, Dina.”

Still grinning, Voyskunsky said, “All our hopes and dreams go with you, sir.”

DeSoto snorted. “That makes it all worthwhile.”

As soon as he arrived in the observation lounge, DeSoto activated the

viewscreen. It revealed a split screen, with Admiral Nechayev’s pinched features

on the left and the rectangular head of Gul Evek on the right.

“Thank you for waiting, Captain,” Nechayev said.

DeSoto came within a hair of saying something offhand about needing the nap, but

with Evek on the line, he needed to present the front of the outraged ship

captain who’d lost an officer to the Maquis. “I didn’t have much choice,

Admiral.”

“I understand. But I hope you understand that this is a delicate matter—even

more delicate than you might realize. Captain Robert DeSoto, may I present Gul

Evek of the Sixth Order.”

“From what Admiral Nechayev tells me, Captain,” Evek said without any kind of

preamble, “the catastrophe on Nramia relates to this artifact of yours.”

DeSoto’s head swam. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to know anything about an

artifact, since Tuvok’s cover story had the information wiped from the Hood’

'ssensor logs. Conveniently, he also had no idea what Nramia was or what manner

of catastrophe was involved. So his confusion was genuine when he said, “Excuse

me?”

“My apologies,” Evek said, sounding completely unapologetic. “I had assumed the

admiral briefed you.”

“That was the purpose of this call,” Nechayev said primly. “Captain, it seems

that another one of the Malkus Artifacts has surfaced. You’re familiar with

them, of course.”

“Of course,” DeSoto said.

“Apparently, the Maquis have discovered a third artifact. And it’s capable—”

Evek shifted in his seat. “It’s capable of destroying a planet, Captain. Right

now, my entire fleet is engaged in rescue operations to evacuate Nramia because

your terrorist friends warped the weather patterns sufficiently to make it

uninhabitable. I can assure you, our response will be appropriate.”

Nechayev said quickly, “They’re not our ‘friends,’ Gul Evek.”

“Not hardly,” DeSoto said, trying to sound bitter. “They abandoned Federation

citizenship. Admiral, I’ve already requested permission to enter the DMZ to

pursue Lieutenant Tuvok. If a Malkus Artifact is in Maquis hands, that’s two

reasons. General Order 16 is very clear on the subject.”

Before Nechayev could speak, Evek said, “The general orders of Starfleet are of

little interest to Central Command, Captain. What we want is revenge for the

indignities—”

“What you want is to escalate the situation,” DeSoto said, “and start a war.”

“You surprise me, Captain. The Maquis declared war on us when they blew up the

Bok’Nor at Deep Space 9 months ago. It will end when they’re all dead.”

DeSoto didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Admiral—”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Nechayev said quickly. “We don’t plan to escalate this

situation. Right now, I think it’s in the best interests of both Central Command

and Starfleet to send one ship from each fleet into the zone to try to locate

the Malkus Artifact and confiscate it.”

“I don’t agree,” Evek said sharply, then softened. “But I have been overridden.

The Vetar will join you in the Demilitarized Zone in three days, once we have

finished overseeing the evacuation of Nramia.”

“Gee, Evek, I thought you were in a rush to get revenge.” Despite DeSoto’s tone,

he was glad to see that the Cardassian was putting saving the lives of those on

Nramia over vengeance. That kind of attitude was the only way there was to be

any hope of peace along the Cardassian/Federation border right now.

“I think we all agree that safeguarding lives is of utmost importance,” Nechayev

said before Evek could respond.

“Bridge to Captain.” That was Voyskunsky’s voice.

“Hold on a second, please, Admiral, Gul.” DeSoto then muted the video and audio

feed to Evek. Nechayev’s face now took up the entire viewscreen. “Go ahead,

Dina.”

“Captain, we’ve reacquired the emissions from the Malkus Artifact.” Now DeSoto

was glad he’d muted Evek. The use of the word “reacquired” would not have jibed

with the cover story they’d given the Cardassians. “It’s in motion, heading for

the Slaybis system.”

DeSoto turned to Nechayev’s image with a questioning look. “Why do I know that

name?”

“There are two Class-M planets in that system. One is a Cardassian colony. The

other is a human colony.” Nechayev hesitated.

“Slaybis IV,” DeSoto said, finally putting it together with a Starfleet

Intelligence dispatch that he and Voyskunsky had read as part of their briefing

prior to being posted to the Cardassian border. For that matter, they had shared

the contents of that briefing with Tuvok prior to his departure. “SI has an

operative there, doesn’t it?”

Nechayev nodded. “Obviously, this information should not be shared with Gul

Evek.”

“Yeah, but the artifact going to Slaybis should. This might be just what we need

to give him a kick in the tail.” He brought Evek back up on the screen. “Gul,

that was my bridge. They’ve detected a signal that matches the records of the

Malkus Artifact—and it’s heading for the Slaybis system. I believe there’s a

Cardassian colony on the second planet?”

Evek spoke with a sarcastic disdain. “After a fashion. The colonists on Slaybis

are a group of fanatics, Captain. Cultists who think that technology has ruined

their lives. They flew to Slaybis in a spaceship that they proceeded to

dismantle and now live a peaceful, agrarian lifestyle unsullied by the evils of

replicators and other such equipment.” Evek hesitated. “Captain, do you mean to

tell me that those murderers of yours are headed for Slaybis II?”

“We don’t know where they’re headed, just that they’re on course for that star

system.”

“They’re not even a formal part of the Cardassian Union! They’ve rejected any

form of aid from the government—it’s funded by a few rich eccentrics.” Evek

spoke in a tone of voice that told exactly what he thought of oddball projects

funded by wealthy civilians.

“That makes it less likely to be a target, if there’s no military value,” DeSoto

said. “Of course, there’s a human colony there, too.”

“I think we can safely rule out a Maquis attack on a human colony, Captain. If

the Maquis are targeting a completely unmilitary—one might even say anti

military—target, then—”

DeSoto saw an opening. “Then, Gul Evek, we need to go in now. We can’t afford to

wait three days for you to finish your evac. Let the Hood go to Slaybis—we can

be there within twenty-four hours.”

Until this moment, DeSoto had never seen a Cardassian grit his teeth. It was not

a pretty sight. “Captain, the term ‘demilitarized zone’ means a zone with no

military. The treaty—”

“—can be flexible up to a point,” Nechayev said.

“We cannot allow a Starfleet presence in the zone without an equivalent Central

Command presence.” Evek’s words were sure, but his tone was weakening. DeSoto

tried not to smile. His white pieces were surrounding Evek’s black ones oh so

slowly but surely.

“What if we promise to share all intelligence we gather on the Maquis?” Nechayev

said.

Evek leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What assurances do I have

that you’ll share all your data gathered?”

Nechayev’s lips moved only infinitesmally, but it definitely qualified as a

smile. “I never said we’d share all our data, Gul, only that we’d share our

intelligence on the Maquis. You won’t have unexpurgated access to Captain

DeSoto’s logs, but you will be provided with useful intelligence. And all we ask

in return is for one ship to go unescorted into the DMZ just long enough to save

a planetful of Cardassian cultists.”

Unfolding his arms, Evek glared at the screen. DeSoto once again had to keep

himself from smiling. The gul was making a show of thinking about it, but DeSoto

knew when the other player was ready to resign. And, as little as Evek might

have thought of the people who formed the colony on Slaybis II, it would be

politically unwise to condemn them to death over a technicality in the treaty.

“Very well—but I expect a complete sharing of intelligence on the Maquis. I am

determined to make sure this ragtag group of terrorists are wiped from the face

of the galaxy once and for all!”

Evek punctuated his outburst by cutting off the communication at his end.

“Very dramatic.”

Nechayev actually chuckled. “I’m surprised. Evek doesn’t usually go for those

kinds of histrionics. But this is a difficult situation.”

“True. If that’s all, Admiral, we need to get the lead out.” DeSoto moved as if

to cut the connection.

“One thing, Captain.” DeSoto’s finger hovered over the control. “The most

important thing right now is retrieving the artifact. We can’t afford to let it

fall into Maquis or Cardassian hands. It’s far too dangerous.”

“We’ll get it back for you, Admiral. Hood out.”

As he walked out to the bridge, he shook his head. Gee, Admiral, thanks so much

for explaining to me what I already knew.

“Dina,” he said to Voyskunsky as she vacated the command chair for him, “if I

ever turn into a hidebound desk-jockey type, please don’t hesitate to shoot me

in the head.”

“Noted and logged, sir.”

“Anyhow, we’ve got our free pass in the DMZ. Baifang, set course for the Slaybis

system, warp nine. José, keep an eye on those readings. If the artifact changes

course even a micrometer, I want to know about it. Manolet, arm phasers and load

torpedo bays.” He gave Voyskunsky a small smile. “We’re the lone white piece in

a sea of black pieces.”

A chorus of “Aye, sir’s” flew about the bridge.

Hsu added, “Course plotted and laid in, sir.”

“Hit it.”

 

When the Liberator came out of warp, Cal Hudson was surprised to see an intact

hull.

“Pull in to forty thousand kilometers,” he told Mastroeni, and then did a full

scan. The sensors explained the seeming discrepancy between the hull-buckling

sounds in Chakotay’s distress call and the image on the viewscreen: Hudson was

reading severe damage to the inner hull, and also extreme temperature variations

throughout the small vessel. “Looks like Tuvok’s weather controller got loose

inside the ship.”

“The emissions are still in motion, about two light-years ahead and traveling at

warp three.” She looked over at Hudson. “Their course takes them right to the

Slaybis system.”

“Slaybis?” Hudson racked his brain, and then came up with a match. “There’s a

human colony on the fourth planet and a bunch of Cardassian farmers on the

second. Neither of them’s much of a target. Why would whoever has the artifact

be heading there?”

“You can ask Chakotay himself,” Mastroeni said, looking down at her console.

“He’s hailing us.”

A dark face appeared on the tiny viewscreen. The captain of the Geronimo had

determined features, accented by a featherlike tattoo over his left eye, and

close-cropped black hair. “This is Captain Chakotay of the Geronimo. You must be

Captain Hudson.”

“Cal is fine,” Hudson said. He’d left ranks behind when he quit Starfleet, and

being referred to as a captain—particularly given that he was “only” a

lieutenant commander when he resigned—just brought back bad memories.

Chakotay smiled grimly. “Normally, I’d be wary of the two of us talking like

this.” Maquis cell leaders deliberately avoided contact with each other as a

security measure.

Returning the smile, Hudson said, “Hey, if you want us to turn around…”

“That’s quite all right. We’ve got thirty-eight people here and a ship that’s

buckling at the seams. My engineer tells me we’ll implode inside of fifteen

minutes.”

“You can give me the details once we get you settled over here. Hudson out.” He

then instructed the transporter room to start beaming Chakotay’s people over, as

well as whatever cargo the Liberator had room for. There turned out to be very

little of that; most of Chakotay’s people’s personal belongings were in a safe

place that Hudson didn’t want to know the location of.

It only took ten minutes to complete the transfer. From the transporter room,

Chakotay said, “If you’ve got the weapons to spare, Hudson, I’d like you to

destroy the ship. I’d rather a stray Cardassian didn’t come across any useful

remains.”

“Understood.” Hudson nodded to Mastroeni, who loaded the torpedo bays. Within

two minutes, the Liberator’ 'sphoton torpedoes had reduced the Geronimo to

components far too small to be of any use.

Hudson then joined Chakotay in the cargo bay, where thirty-five of his people

were gathered. The other three had been taken to sickbay—a small room that

consisted of two beds, a medical tricorder, and a mishmash of medikits. Two had

been stunned by phaser fire, and the other had three broken ribs.

“The ship’s been scuttled,” Hudson said. “I’m sorry we had to do that.”

Chakotay nodded. “That’s all right—it was my fault, really, for giving her that

name. The real Geronimo fought the good fight, but came to a bad end. Next time,

I’ll think more carefully.”

“So what happened?”

Quickly, Chakotay summarized his rescue of three of his people from a desolate

planet in the DMZ, with the added bonus of a black box of some kind—the Malkus

Artifact. The Geronimo then attacked Nramia, but what Chakotay had ordered as a

strike against the capital city turned out to be a planetwide disaster.

“This Tharia person,” Mastroeni said, “doesn’t normally act like this?”

Before Chakotay could reply, a Bajoran woman stepped forward. “Like a complete

lunatic? No, he doesn’t. That damn box must’ve done something to him.”

A woman with Klingon-like features spoke up. “He could’ve just cracked. The man

lost his entire family.”

Hudson flashed on a mental image of Gretchen, which he forced out of his mind.

“What happened?”

“His three mates died in a Cardassian attack,” Chakotay said. “He took it fairly

well—maybe too well. Sometimes it just takes a little longer to grieve—or to

fall apart.”

“Or maybe just the right tool,” the part-Klingon woman said. “This weapon is

incredibly powerful.”

Hudson nodded. “We saw what it did to Nramia. In fact, it’s why we found you.”

He then quickly filled Chakotay in on his own reasons for being here, and on

their prisoner and potential recruit in the mess hall.

“I’d like to meet this Tuvok,” Chakotay said.

“Of course.” Hudson was about to lead Chakotay to the mess hall when a Betazoid

stepped forward.

In a soft voice, the dark-eyed man said, “Excuse me, sir, but there’s something

I think you should know.”

“What is it, Suder?” Chakotay asked.

The Betazoid hesitated. “It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, but—well,

since you rescued Tharia, B’Elanna, and Gerron, there’s been something—”

“Spit it out,” Chakotay said impatiently. This Suder person spoke very quietly,

and Hudson could see how his roundabout way of talking—unusual for a

telepath—could be irritating.

“Tharia’s mind has been—different. It isn’t anything specific, but—you know that

I’d never pry into your minds without permission, sir. But—Tharia was definitely

changed, subtly, by that thing he found.”

Chakotay started to say something, then stopped. Hudson suspected that the large

man was going to upbraid the Betazoid for not speaking up sooner—it’s what

Hudson might have done under the same circumstances—but then he thought better

of it. After all, there was little to be gained by recriminations now.

Instead, he simply said, “Thank you, Lon. Seska, B’Elanna, come with me. The

rest of you, stay here. Hudson?”

Hudson and Mastroeni led the trio to the mess hall, where McAdams and Schmidt

still stood guard. To them, Hudson said, “You two report to the bridge until

Darleen and I report back.”

Nodding, the pair departed. Chakotay, meanwhile, gazed upon the Vulcan. “Hudson

says you know about this artifact.”

“Yes. I am Tuvok of Vulcan. My family was killed at Amniphon, and I have come to

the Demilitarized Zone in order to join the Maquis. The information about the

Malkus Artifact that I provided to Mr. Hudson was by way of—”

“Letting us think you’re legitimate, fine,” Chakotay said quickly. He obviously

wasn’t interested in the preliminaries. “One of my most trusted comrades has

gone from a sane, steady presence to a homicidal maniac thanks to this thing,

Vulcan. I have a Betazoid who says that his thought patterns have changed. Can

you explain that?”

“One of the Malkus Artifacts is reported to have the ability to control

thoughts, but that is separate from the artifact that affects weather patterns.”

Hudson frowned. “What about the other two people who wielded the artifacts?”

Tuvok’s eyes almost seemed to turn inward for a half-second as he recalled the

records of the artifact. “One was a citizen of a human colony. She was a

disaffected civil-service worker named Tomasina Laubenthal, and had no history

of mental illness prior to finding the artifact. However, she had recently gone

through a life change that was believed to be the reason for her using the

artifact to commit attempted mass murder. The second artifact was used by the

Bajoran terrorist Orta.”

The Bajoran woman—Seska—snorted at that. “I’ve heard of him. He isn’t a model of

mental health at the best of times.”

Tuvok steepled his fingers together. “However, the artifacts do not have any

visible controls. They must function by reacting to the thoughts of the

wielder.”

“Tharia seemed to simply will the device to do what it did,” Chakotay said.

“It may therefore be logical to postulate that the transfer of psionic waves

works both ways, as it were—that the artifacts are capable of, in essence,

forcing the possessor to utilize them. This hypothesis is supported by a

telepath noticing a change in thought patterns.” One of his eyebrows rose. “In

the case of Ms. Laubenthal, it probably would have taken very little to convince

her to do so, given the life change she had undergone.”

“In Orta’s case, it wouldn’t have taken any convincing whatsoever,” Seska said.

Nodding, Tuvok said, “It is an intriguing hypothesis.”

“It’s also pretty irrelevant.” That was B’Elanna, the part-Klingon woman. “We

need to find Tharia—that shuttle can’t go higher than warp three. I assume this

tub can do better?”

Mastroeni gave the woman one of her lesser snarls. “We hit warp nine to rescue

you.”

“Tharia was headed for Slaybis. He’s got a head start, but we should be able to

beat him there at warp nine.”

Hudson shook his head. “We can’t maintain it that long. But I’m not sure why

he’d want to go there. The only Cardassians there are a bunch of civilians.”

Chakotay hesitated. “Actually, Slaybis IV was on our list.”

“That’s a human colony!” Mastroeni said angrily.

To Hudson’s surprise, it was Tuvok who responded. “However, it is a human colony

with a Starfleet Intelligence operative working on it.” He turned to Chakotay

and again raised an eyebrow. “Logically, that is the only possible reason why

Slaybis IV would be a legitimate Maquis target.”

Hudson also turned to Chakotay. “Is this true?”

Slowly, Chakotay nodded. “We got word that one of our couriers, a young man

named Elois Phifer, was working for SI.”

Tuvok added, “Lieutenant Phifer is, in fact, an SI operative, sent in six months

ago to gather intelligence on the Maquis, though his information has been

sporadic and less than useful to Starfleet.”

Rubbing his chin, Hudson turned to Mastroeni. Her face was unreadable, which

told Hudson all he needed to know. Tuvok gave up an SI operative before Chakotay

had a chance to—that was a major point in the Vulcan’s favor.

He tapped an intercom. “McAdams, set course for the Slaybis system, warp

seven-point-five.” He turned to B’Elanna. “I can’t risk going any faster than

that—we already strained our engines to get to you as fast as we did.”

B’Elanna smiled. “Let me get a look at your engines. I’ll coax warp eight out of

them at least.”

“Let her do it,” Chakotay said. “She’s the best. In fact, she’s better than the

best.”

Chakotay didn’t strike Hudson as the type given to hyperbole. “Darleen, take her

to engineering.”

Mastroeni fixed Hudson with a glare, but did so without comment.

“All right, Mr. Tuvok, I think you’ve shown plenty of good faith,” Hudson said.

“I’m still not completely convinced that your desire to join the Maquis is

legitimate, but I’m content to not shoot you for the time being. Right now, the

main thing is to get that artifact back from Tharia. We’ll figure out our next

move after that.”

“Agreed,” Chakotay said.

Tuvok nodded. “Thank you.”

“First thing we’re doing is getting you out of that uniform. It won’t go over

well around here.” Hudson smiled. “I think I’ve got something in my footlocker

that’ll fit you.”

Tuvok’s eyebrow practically climbed off his head. “That estimation may be

optimistic.” The Vulcan had a tall, lithe form, completely unlike Hudson’s own

bulkier frame. Tuvok’s torso could practically fit in one of Hudson’s shoulders.

“We’ll figure something out. C’mon.”

“Cal.” It was Mastroeni over the intercom.

“Go ahead,” Hudson said, looking up.

“I’ve got good news and bad news. Tell Chakotay he wasn’t kidding about this

Torres woman. We’ve got warp eight-point-five.”

“The bad news?”

“Tharia’s still going to beat us to Slaybis by about two hours.”

Chakotay muttered a curse in a language Hudson didn’t recognize. “With that

weapon, two hours is a lifetime.”

“It will surely be the remaining lifetime of Lieutenant Phifer,” Tuvok said

dryly.

Whirling on Tuvok, Chakotay said, “I don’t give a damn about the life of a

Starfleet infiltrator, Vulcan. He knew the risks when he went undercover. But

Tharia can’t tell what a legitimate target is anymore. He’s lashing out at

everything in his way. He’s spent the last nine months pretending that the

deaths of his mates didn’t affect him, and now he’s making up for it by killing

indiscriminately.”

As calm as Chakotay had been intense, Tuvok said, “Then logic dictates we do

everything we can to stop him.”

Chapter Six

ASMALL SHIP FLEW THROUGH THE REGION between star systems in a sector that

currently was designated 22402 by the United Federation of Planets. Its registry

was the Sun, though it was, truthfully, not registered to any particular planet,

only to its owner, a woman named Aidulac.

Various and sundry ships piloted by Aidulac and named the Sun had wended their

way throughout the galaxy for millennia, with but one purpose: to find the

Instruments of Malkus the Mighty. The four Instruments that she herself had

helped create millennia ago. The four Instruments that Malkus had used to cause

untold death and destruction. The four Instruments that the rebels who overthrew

Malkus hid throughout the galaxy.

The four Instruments that Aidulac swore to destroy if it took her the rest of

her life. And, since she was functionally immortal, the rest of her life was as

long as it needed to be.

It was, for the most part, a tedious existence. But Aidulac persevered.

The universe, naturally, didn’t make things easy on her. Perhaps it was its

revenge for her having pried into so many of its secrets. Or perhaps she just

hadn’t noticed the universe’s vicious sense of humor before. But for an

obscenely long time, nobody unearthed the Instruments, and so she never found

the wave pattern that would identify them. She went through hundreds of

ships—all of which she named the Sun, after the vessel that had given her

freedom from the Zalkat Union—and waited.

No one knew of the Instruments, even when questioned under Aidulac’s

irresistible mental charms. So she waited some more.

At one point, bored with waiting and insane with loneliness, she went to a world

now called Pegasus Major IV and used her abilities to take on many lovers and

bear many children. Her mental charms had lessened over the years, to her

annoyance. Nowadays she could truly affect only males. But that was sufficient.

She thought she wanted the company of children while she waited.

But she grew bored with that, too, and resumed her wandering ways.

And her waiting.

Finally, the universe gave her hope. She detected an Instrument on a human

colony belonging to a governmental body that had taken over many of the worlds

once ruled by the Zalkatians: the United Federation of Planets. They called it

Alpha Proxima II. However, by the time she reached the world, two Starfleet

ships had already arrived, and they would not permit her to land on the planet

to take the Instrument—ironically, because the planet was quarantined thanks to

the Instrument’s virus, which had infected thousands.

She might have been able to convince the two Starfleet commanders, Decker and

Kirk, to let her take the Instruments, but many of her descendants on Pegasus

Major IV had inherited her persuasive abilities. They had been nicknamed

“Sirens” after some human mythological creature and gained a reputation—one that

Decker and Kirk had used against her.

The second Instrument had proven just as elusive, again because of the

interference of Starfleet. This time it was the energy weapon, which had been

discovered on a moon of the planet Bajor.

Now, only a few short months later, she had been thrilled to find that the third

Instrument—the weather controller—was in a region of space between the

Federation and the Cardassian Union. Best of all, the region was

demilitarized—there was no chance of interference from Starfleet.

The Instrument was in transit to a star system that the locals referred to as

Slaybis. Aidulac put the Sun on course for that world.

This time, she thought, I will not fail.

 

“So what’s your story?” Darleen Mastroeni asked B’Elanna Torres.

Torres had just finished rerouting some of the power relays to coax some more

speed out of the warp engines without straining the Liberator hull or shorting

out its structural-integrity field. Mastroeni had been worried about the latter,

since the SIF had taken a beating after their last throw-down with the

Cardassians, but everything seemed to be functioning well. Torres was obviously

very good at the type of seat-of-the-pants engineering that was required to

survive in the Maquis, and Mastroeni had decided that she was going to do what

she could to recruit this prodigy away from Chakotay.

“Story?” Torres asked as she checked over the readings.

“C’mon, everybody in the Maquis has a story.”

Smiling, Torres said, “Oh yeah? What’s yours?”

“You ever hear of Juhraya?”

“Of course,” Torres said with a nod.

“Did you know that the first contact between humans and Cardassians was on

Juhraya? Most people don’t know that.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Torres muttered. “Is there somewhere I can get a drink on

this boat?”

Mastroeni nodded and led the way toward the mess hall. “Sure. Follow me.” Tuvok

wasn’t there anymore, so Mastroeni could go there to relax. “Anyhow, a

Cardassian ship crash-landed on Juhraya about fifty years ago. Some people say

it was a Starfleet ship that made the first contact—some kind of silly

diplomatic thing—but that’s typical of their propaganda. It was us, and everyone

who matters knows it.”

Torres laughed. “No love for Starfleet, huh?”

Snarling, Mastroeni said, “Not remotely. A bunch of arrogant prigs with no

conception of how the galaxy actually works.”

As they entered the mess hall, Torres said, “You won’t get any argument from me.

I went to that penal colony they call the Academy for a year and a half.”

Mastroeni nodded. “They kicked you out.”

“Let’s just say we all agreed that it wasn’t the place for me.”

“Well, that agreement turned out good for us. Coffee?”

Torres nodded, and Mastroeni approached the food replicator and ordered two

coffees, black.

“How’d you know I took my coffee black?” Torres asked as she removed her

steaming mug from the slot.

“You’re an engineer. Haven’t met one yet that didn’t drink it black.”

“Very observant.” She took a sip. “Anyhow, you’ve now heard most of my ‘story.’

I grew up on both Kessik IV and Qo’noS.”

“So you are part human?”

“Half and half,” Torres said with a nod. “My father’s human, but he left when I

was a kid. After that, my mother and I moved to Qo’noS.”

“Which did you like better?” Mastroeni asked the question mostly by way of

trying to find out what Qo’noS was like. She knew very little about the

Klingons, but she always imagined that she would like it on their homeworld.

“I hated both of them pretty much equally, actually. Kessik was too pastoral for

the Klingon side of me, and Qo’noS was too rough-and-tumble for my human side to

deal with.” She laughed. “Or maybe I was just rebelling. Who knows? I was a dumb

kid who resented her parents, like most dumb kids. So I went to the Academy,

figuring they’d take just about anybody, and I hated that, too. Came to live out

here and actually liked it until the treaty messed everything up, so I joined

Chakotay.”

“Who is now a man without a ship,” Mastroeni said, grateful for the opening.

Torres shrugged. “He’ll pick up another one. Probably some junk heap I’ll have

to beat into shape, like usual.”

“You know, we could use a good engineer here. The Liberator obviously likes your

touch.”

“I don’t think it’d work.” Torres grinned. “Chakotay and Hudson on the same ship

would just get ugly.”

Mastroeni started to ask why they needed Chakotay, but she cut herself off.

Torres had thought the offer was being extended to the entire cell. “Yeah, that

would,” she said slowly. “Of course, you could just come over yourself.”

Before Torres could answer, the door opened to reveal Tuvok. The Vulcan had

changed into a shirt that was tailored for a person twice his size— probably one

of Cal’s, Mastroeni thought—and pants that had been rolled up at the ankles. On

anyone else such garb would have looked foolish, but, much as Mastroeni hated to

admit it, Tuvok wore it with dignity.

Her hand automatically went to her phaser. “What do you want, Vulcan?”

“I was seeking out Ms. Torres. Ms. McAdams informed me that she would be here.”

“We’re having a private conversation,” Mastroeni said.

“That’s all right,” Torres said, setting down her mug and walking over to the

Vulcan. “What is it, Tuvok?”

Cursing, Mastroeni set down her own mug and also walked over to the Vulcan, who

was holding a padd. Obviously, her attempt to recruit Torres had failed. Still,

she didn’t trust the Vulcan—and she wasn’t at all happy that he was gallivanting

around the Liberator unescorted. She made a mental note to talk to Hudson about

that later.

“I have been perusing the data on the Malkus Artifacts from the Rector

Institute—where the first two artifacts are being studied,” he added at Torres’s

quizzical look, “as well as sensor data from the Odyssey, Rio Grande,

Enterprise, and Constellation.”

Frowning, Mastroeni asked, “You got all that from the Hood?”

“Before I departed, yes, I made copies of all that data.”

“You expect me to believe that Starfleet ships carry around sensor data from

hundred-year-old missions?”

“Of course,” Tuvok said as if such a colossal waste of computer storage were the

most natural thing in the galaxy.

Torres nodded. “He’s right, actually. You never know when you may need a piece

of information from an old mission. And Starfleet computers have a lot of

storage space.”

Mastroeni still thought it a waste, but at this point she was staring a gift

horse in the mouth. This information might help them deal with this crazed

Andorian and his weapon. “What’ve you found?”

“The sensor data that the ships have been able to accumulate—combined with the

usual advances in sensor technology—means that we might be able to get a

transporter lock on the artifact when we find it.”

Tuvok handed Torres the padd. She studied the data on the screen, but shook her

head. Mastroeni looked over her shoulder and saw that the screen had several

different sensor readings on different sections of the viewing area, including

recent readings from the Liberator’ 'sown scans.

“These readings are too scattershot. Maybe—maybe—if you got the thing onto a

transporter pad, then the two consoles working together could get a lock, or if

you put some kind of homing device on the thing, but that’s the only way to do

it.”

“My combadge could easily serve such a function,” Tuvok said.

Mastroeni snorted. That combadge was currently in Hudson’s possession,

surrendered to him when Tuvok changed clothes. She had been suspicious that he

had left the device on—it was the easiest way for Starfleet to track him

down—but simply said, “What does this mean in plain words?”

“I had hoped that we would be able to get a transporter lock on the artifact

when we arrived at the Slaybis system and simply confiscate it that way.

Unfortunately, as we have seen, this will not be possible.”

A thought occurred to Mastroeni. “Wait a minute, why don’t we just lock in on

those distinct emissions of yours? Isn’t that how we know it’s there in the

first place?”

“Unfortunately, those emissions cannot be traced to the precise location of the

artifact. A transporter lock requires a precise coordinate fix, and thus far the

energy signature given off by the artifacts has not been able to provide that.”

Torres looked up suddenly. “We might be able to do something sneakier than a

combadge. Tharia’s not stupid. I doubt we’d be able to sneak a combadge or a

pattern enhancer or anything like that onto it. But I might be able to put

together a mini-transponder.” She turned to Mastroeni. “Mind if I paw through

your parts? I know I’ve got some of what I’d need in my footlocker, but I’ll

need some molybdenum, some bits of ODN cable, and a solenoid transtator.”

Tuvok’s eyebrow came dangerously close to flying off his forehead. “I fail to

see how a solenoid transtator would be of any use.”

Grinning widely, Torres said, “Watch and learn, Tuvok.”

I have simply got to get this woman to join our cell, Mastroeni thought as she

led the pair of them to the parts locker. Anybody who can make a

Vulcan—especially that particular Vulcan—look that nonplussed is someone I want

to keep around.

Chapter Seven

AS SOON AS THE LIBERATOR ’ S long-range sensors started picking up readings from

Slaybis IV, Cal Hudson knew they were too late.

For starters, sensors were picking up the distinctive emissions of the Malkus

Artifact on the planet itself, with no immediate sign of the Geronimo’

'sshuttlecraft in orbit.

Then Mastroeni gave her report on what sensors were picking up on the planet:

“Temperatures in the equatorial regions are below freezing, with snow and ice

storms. Temperatures in the polar regions are close to fifty degrees above

freezing, with severe flooding. I’m picking up hurricanes on the coasts and

tornadoes inland.” She looked over at Hudson with as grave a look as he’d ever

seen on her face. “It’s Nramia all over again.”

Hudson shook his head. “Prepare to come out of warp and plot a standard orbit.”

“Sure, I—” Then something caught her eye. “Uh, better make that an orbit of the

third moon. I’m picking up a Starfleet ship, heading for Slaybis at warp eight.”

Again she turned to Hudson, but this time the grave look was replaced by fury.

“It’s the Hood! That goddamn Vulcan betrayed us!”

“We’ll deal with that in a minute,” Hudson said, more concerned with their

immediate safety than the long-term—or even short-term—consequences of the Hood’

'spresence in a demilitarized area. “Get us to the moon without their seeing

us.”

“I know what to do,” she said through clenched teeth. It was risky, but they

could wait until the last possible second to come out of warp and slide right

into orbit of the moon—currently on the far side of the planet. It involved

dumping a lot of velocity in a short amount of time, and was difficult for any

ship to pull off—a ship with a sufficiently small mass to be able to dump

velocity that fast sometimes wasn’t structurally sound enough to survive the

maneuver, and a larger ship simply couldn’t decelerate that quickly. Usually

space was large enough for a huge margin of error when it came to dropping

speed, but a standard orbit decreased that margin considerably.

“Decelerating—now!” Mastroeni said as she performed the maneuver. Alarms went

off all around Hudson. Most were warnings of problems that could be tabled, or

fixed quickly—except for the one that indicated the failure of the

structural-integrity field.

“Engineering,” he yelled, tapping the intercom, “McAdams, we—”

Then the alarm stopped. SIF then read at one hundred percent. The lights did

dim, however.

“McAdams, what just happened?”

“This is Torres. I was able to divert power from life-support to the SIF.”

Hudson blinked. “Are you out of your mind? Life-support—”

“—is nonessential in the short term. Just the air we’ve got will last us a day

or two, and we can live with low lights for a while. We’ll be able to get the

SIF running on its own long before there’s any kind of problem.”

“Uh, fine,” Hudson said, nonplussed. He wanted to rebuke Torres, but he found he

had nothing to say that was in any way recriminatory. “Carry on.” He turned to

Mastroeni. “Any way we can steal her from Chakotay?”

Mastroeni almost smiled. “Working on it.”

It figures. Hudson shook his head and put his mind back to immediate business.

“Did you read any Cardassian ships?”

“No. And I’m still not.”

“What about the Hood?”

“Not reading them either, but that’s because we’ve got a moon and a planet

between us—and it also means they can’t see us, either. Hopefully they didn’t

pick us up. If they stay on course, they’ll be in orbit in five minutes.”

Hudson checked his status board and saw that repairs were already under way on

the lesser systems that had given out. He nodded, appreciative of his team. Then

the comm systems indicated some traffic on the Starfleet channel. “The Hood’

'ssending a message.”

He put it on the speaker. “Slaybis IV Control, this is the Starship Hood.

Respond, please.” A pause. “This is the U.S.S. Hood. We have been given special

dispensation by Starfleet and the Cardassian Central Command to enter the

Demilitarized Zone unescorted in order to comply with General Order 16. Please

respond.”

“Hudson to Tuvok.”

“Go ahead,” came the Vulcan’s calm voice a moment later.

“Mr. Tuvok, the Hood has entered orbit around Slaybis IV. They claim to have

gotten special dispensation to come here in order to confiscate the artifact.

I’m wondering if they’re here for another reason.”

“You suspect me of leading them here.”

“The thought had crossed our minds,” Mastroeni said sharply.

“A reasonable supposition, but erroneous. I have no reason to lead the Hood

here. It was inevitable that they would eventually detect the Malkus Artifact

even after I wiped the sensor logs as long as it stayed in use within the

Demilitarized Zone. It is good that we destroyed the Manhattan. As it is,

Captain DeSoto will no doubt use this excursion as an excuse to try to take me

back.”

Hudson muted the intercom and shot Mastroeni a look.

She shrugged. “He’s saying all the right things, but I don’t like it.”

“They say Vulcans don’t lie,” Hudson said with a wry smile.

Mastroeni snorted. “Yeah, but it’s mostly Vulcans who say that.”

“Good point.” He de-muted the intercom. “All right, Tuvok, we’ll—”

“Cal, I’m picking up readings from the surface,” Mastroeni said suddenly. “The

capital city is coming into range. According to our records, there should be a

very large building that houses the government in the center of the city.” She

looked up. “According to the sensors, there’s a pile of rubble in the center of

the city.”

“This is Tharia ch’Ren,” said a voice over the comm channel, in response to the

Hood’ 'shail, “representing the new face of the Maquis.”

Hudson and Mastroeni exchanged a glance. “I don’t like the sound of that,”

Hudson muttered.

Yet another new voice came on. “Mr. ch’Ren, this is Captain DeSoto. What has

happened to the government of Slaybis IV? We haven’t been able to raise them.”

“That is because they’re all dead, Captain. As is the traitor, Elois Phifer. As

are several dozen other people. And they’re only the first.”

“You said you’re the ‘new face’ of the Maquis. What does that—”

“What it means, Captain, is quite simply that we have been gentle—quiet. Until

now. You have called us ‘terrorists,’but you have not seen true terror before.

The citizens of Nramia know the meaning of terror now, and those who dwell on

Slaybis IV will do likewise—followed by the farmers on Slaybis II, and everyone

else in the Demilitarized Zone.”

“Mr. ch’Ren, do you intend to—”

“We intend to exterminate all life in this sector, Captain. And if you stand in

our way, we will exterminate you as well.”

 

“Well, I don’t like the sound of that,” Dina Voyskunsky muttered from behind

DeSoto. She stood between Dayrit and Kojima. The captain silently agreed with

her assessment from his vantage point in the command chair.

The image of an Andorian was on the main viewer. Tharia ch’Ren’s feathery white

hair extended to the small of his back, and his antennae stood straight up out

of his head. His watery yellow eyes seemed almost empty, which made his words

all the more disturbing to DeSoto.

Ch’Ren had kept his end of the transmission tight on his face. Based on the

sensor readings of the Malkus Artifact and the triangulation of the

communication, he was in the capital city, and based on the fact that he wasn’t

being rained on, he was indoors—according to Kojima, the capital city had gotten

its entire average annual allotment of rainfall in the past two hours—but beyond

that, there were no clues as to his precise location.

Dayrit whispered, “Captain, I have something.”

“Hold on a moment, please, Mr. ch’Ren, while I consult with my senior staff.”

The Andorian simply inclined his head.

DeSoto stood up and made a throat-cutting gesture. Once the transmission was

muted, he said, “Report.”

“I’m picking up the wreckage of a shuttlecraft in the capital city. It doesn’t

match the registry of any of the ships in the Slaybis port—but it does match the

configuration of a Maquis shuttle that attacked a Cardassian freighter a couple

of days ago and made off with a weapons shipment. Central Command claimed the

grenades were for a supply depot in the Chin’toka system, but SI was pretty sure

they were earmarked for Dorvan V. It also matches the type of shuttlecraft that

would be used on the vessel that attacked Nramia.”

Voyskunsky let out an annoyed breath. “Dorvan’s one of the Cardassian worlds in

the DMZ. Captain, if Manolet’s right—”

“And he usually is,” DeSoto added with an appreciative smile at his tactical

officer. Dayrit inclined his head in response.

“—then ch’Ren may have crashed his ride here. We’re not reading any other ships

in the area—maybe we can use it as a bargaining chip.”

“Let’s hope so.” He sat back down in his chair—it gave him more of a sense of

security. Besides, standing was a sign of respect, and DeSoto wasn’t feeling

especially respectful for the person responsible for the carnage on Nramia, or

the similar carnage the Hood’ 'ssensors were picking up now.

“I’d like to avoid extermination if at all possible, Mr. ch’Ren,” DeSoto said

slowly when ch’Ren’s face reappeared on the viewer. “Perhaps we can discuss a

solution that is mutually beneficial to us both.”

“I see no reason to negotiate with you.”

“Right now, I’ve got four phaser banks and a dozen photon torpedoes trained on

your location. I also have a means of getting you off-planet—we know your

shuttle crash-landed. Besides, I’ve read up on your new toy. It has limitations.

My guess is that you can’t do any further damage to the planet for a while.

Until it recharges, you’re vulnerable. I don’t want to use force, but I will if

I have to.”

“Do you expect me to believe that Starfleet would commit murder?”

“Do you expect me to believe that I won’t respond to your threats? You’ve

already expressed a willingness to attack my ship—I’ve now expressed my

willingness to respond in kind. Still, given a choice I’d rather talk this out

like two intelligent beings.” He leaned back. “Of course, within a couple of

days, the Vetar will be here, and I can assure you that Gul Evek will stop at

nothing to destroy you after what you did to Nramia.”

“Your attempts to frighten me are pointless, Captain,” ch’Ren said in a hiss. “I

have no fear of Gul Evek, nor of any other Cardassian. Do not mistake a minor

vulnerability for weakness.” A pause. “However, I am willing to meet with you to

discuss terms. I will transmit coordinates to you.”

DeSoto looked up at Kojima, who nodded.

“The room where we will meet will be encased in a forcefield that will prevent

any communication signalsfrom penetrating. You will not be able to summon

reinforcements, nor transport out of the room. You will come alone, Captain. If

you send surrogates or bring others, I will destroy your ship. And if you doubt

my ability to do so, I challenge you to find the Maquis vessel christened the

Geronimo —or, rather, its twisted hulk.”

With that, ch’Ren cut the signal.

Voyskunsky came around to the middle of the bridge to face DeSoto. “You’re not

beaming down alone.”

“You heard him, Dina—if I don’t, he attacks. Maybe he was bluffing, maybe he

wasn’t. If he’s willing to talk, maybe he isn’t as far over the edge as he

looks.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t put yourself—”

“—in danger, I know. You’re not the first first officer to give me this song and

dance,” DeSoto said, remembering an incident almost a decade earlier on this

very same bridge with Lieutenant Commander William T. Riker. “But right now, I

don’t have a choice.”

Voyskunsky’s wide lips pursed. “All right, but if you turn up dead, I’m putting

you on report, sir.”

DeSoto grinned. “Noted.”

“Do you really think this is the ‘new face’ of the Maquis?”

Shaking his head, DeSoto said, “Doubtful. Especially if he’s telling the truth

about the Geronimo. My guess is he’s gone rogue, and is using the Maquis name to

make a bigger stink.”

“Sir?” Dayrit said. “I’ve got something.”

Both DeSoto and Voyskunsky walked around to the tactical console. With a pudgy

finger, Dayrit pointed at a sensor reading. “I’m reading the forcefield that

ch’Ren’s using. It is proof against communications—but not against transporters.

The problem is, getting a lock would be difficult. But a standard-issue

transponder should be able to penetrate with no problem. If we program it to

send a constant low-level signal, I doubt that ch’Ren will pick it up—it should

read as background comm traffic, especially with the additional EM activity from

all the thunderstorms he’s been cooking up down there.”

DeSoto put a hand on the security chief’s shoulder. “Good work, Manolet. Have

one ready for me in Transporter Room 3.”

“Yes, sir,” Dayrit said with a rare smile.

Turning to the ops officer, Voyskunsky said, “José, I want you tracking that

transponder signal every second. If anything happens to the signal—it changes,

it modulates, and especially if it goes away—beam him out of there immediately.”

“Will do,” Kojima said with a nod.

“Let’s hit it,” DeSoto said. “The bridge is yours, Dina. I hope to be back soon.

I still want a rematch of that Go game.”

Voyskunsky grinned her huge smile. “You’re on, Captain.”

 

Hudson gathered Chakotay, Tuvok, Mastroeni, Torres, Seska, and McAdams in the

mess hall. Tuvok stood against one of the walls by the door, and both Chakotay

and Hudson stood with their backs to the rear bulkhead. The other four sat

around the largest of the tables. Torres had a padd in her hand, while

Mastroeni’s hand hovered near her phaser. Hudson noticed that Mastroeni had made

a point of sitting where she could keep an eye on Tuvok.

“Your friend,” Hudson said to Chakotay, “has gone over the edge.”

“And he’s going to take the rest of us with him,” Mastroeni added.

“These two colonies are peaceful—they’re not affiliated with the Federation,

Cardassia, or the Maquis. If we let him—”

Chakotay interrupted Hudson. “We’re not going to ‘let’ him do anything. We have

to get the artifact back. If we don’t, the Maquis will lose whatever sympathy we

have in the Federation. Starfleet and Central Command will come out in force

against us.”

Tuvok added, “In addition, such a radical departure from the usual methods will

divide the Maquis itself. From what I have seen, the organization is already

relatively fractious—in part by design. By committing genocide in the Maquis’s

name—”

“We know what’ll happen,” Torres snapped. “Chakotay’s right, we have to get the

artifact back.”

Mastroeni shook her head. “The nanosecond we come out from behind this moon, the

Hood’ ll be all over us.”

Seska nodded. “She’s right. I for one have no interest in spending the rest of

my life in a Federation prison.”

“Actually, we won’t have to leave our hiding place,” Torres said. “I can boost

the gain on the transporter so we can get to the surface from here. We’ll have

to go down one at a time, but I can do it.”

Chakotay nodded. “Good. Then we can go in, get the artifact, and get out before

DeSoto even knows we’re there.”

“Even if he does know we’re there, it won’t matter much,” Seska said. “You heard

his deal with Tharia—he’s going down alone. Starfleet captains are usually just

stupid enough to actually live up to promises like that.”

Chakotay snorted in what Hudson supposed was agreement, then turned to Torres.

“Have you finished that mini-transponder to put on the artifact?”

Torres nodded. “I made four of them, just in case.” She grinned. “Amazing what

you can do with a few solenoid transtators.”

“I have an additional suggestion,” Tuvok said.

“As if we care,” Mastroeni muttered.

Hudson shot Mastroeni a look, then said, “What’s your thought, Tuvok?”

“We do as Captain Chakotay suggests—but turn the artifact over to Captain

DeSoto.”

“We’re not giving that thing to Starfleet!” Mastroeni said.

“Starfleet has a general order in place that compels them to confiscate the

artifacts. If we take possession of it, then we become a target. The Hood will

not leave the Demilitarized Zone until they have completed their mission: to

retrieve the artifact.” He turned to Hudson and Chakotay. “In addition, it will

show Starfleet that Tharia is, in fact, a rogue who does not speak for the

Maquis as an organization.”

Chakotay looked at Hudson. Unlike Mastroeni—or Torres or Seska, for that

matter—Chakotay had, like Hudson, worn a Starfleet uniform. The Federation might

have betrayed the people of the DMZ, but Hudson knew that, in some matters,

Starfleet could be trusted. Hudson assumed that Chakotay felt the same.

“Much as I hate to admit it, Starfleet’s better equipped to handle that thing

than we are,” Chakotay said after a moment. “They’ve already got two of them,

and knowing them, they’ll probably dig up the fourth one before long. And

frankly—I don’t want it. It’s already turned one of my trusted comrades into a

psychotic killing machine. And Tuvok’s right about something else—Tharia’s done

tremendous damage to the cause with what he just said to DeSoto. We have to nip

that in the bud before the Hood reports back to Starfleet that we’ve all turned

into maniacs. I think capturing the artifact and then handing it to DeSoto will

accomplish that.” He smiled wryly. “Besides, I get the feeling we may have to

rescue the good captain from Tharia before the day is out. Starfleet captains

may be stupid sometimes, but they also usually are properly grateful.”

Hudson considered. Then he looked at Mastroeni and McAdams. The latter nodded

quickly. “Darleen?” he prompted.

Predictably, she snarled. “I don’t want to do anything to help Starfleet.”

“I don’t see that we have a choice here.”

For the first time since he’d met her, Darleen Mastroeni smiled. “Oh, there’s

always a choice, Cal—just a question of making the right one or not.” She then

sighed. “All right, fine. We do it this way. I’m in.”

Chakotay gave his own people the same look.

“I’m in,” Torres said with no hesitation.

“We should just destroy the thing,” Seska said.

“It has been attempted,” Tuvok said.

Undaunted, Seska said, “Then I say we attempt it again.”

“And when we fail?” Chakotay asked.

Seska folded her arms. “Then we give it to Starfleet.”

“All right,” Hudson said. “Chakotay and I will beam down, along with Tuvok.” He

cut off Mastroeni before she could object. “I know you don’t trust him, Darleen,

but he knows these artifacts better than any of us.” He turned to the others.

“We’ll each wear one of Torres’s mini-transponders so she can pick us up again.

The fourth’ll go on the artifact, just in case we need to confiscate it for a

while.” Looking at Chakotay, he said, “I want to keep my options open.”

“Agreed. Let’s do it.”

Chapter Eight

THE FIRST TIME CAL HUDSON went through a transporter, he was four years old and

he thought it was the most wonderful sensation in the world. One second he was

standing on an indoor transporter platform, the next he was in the middle of

Central Park in New York City. His father had promised young Cal a ride on the

famous carousel, but the four-year-old boy had found the mode of getting to the

attraction more exciting. The entire time he sat going around on the artificial

horses, he was waiting for it to end so he could go through the transporter

again.

In the intervening years, he had tried to keep that same sense of wonder about

this mode of travel, though years in Starfleet—where transporters were used

almost as often as turbolifts—had dulled it somewhat. Still, he always loved

that feeling of moving instantly from one place to another place, watching the

world dissolve and re-form.

Beaming down to Slaybis IV from the Liberator, however, was more like watching

the world dissolve and then dissolve further.

Rain pelted his face while intense wind slammed into his chest. Instinctively,

his right arm went up to protect his eyes. Within seconds, his clothes were

soaked through, sticking to his flesh. He was almost afraid to open his mouth to

speak.

He squinted under his upheld arm—which was doing precious little to protect his

eyes—and saw Chakotay and Tuvok in a similarly bedraggled state.

Just as he was about to scream out if there was shelter nearby, the wind started

to die down and the rain lightened.

Hudson lowered his arm. “That Malkus Artifact doesn’t do things halfway, does

it?”

Chakotay looked up just as the clouds started to clear. “This is definitely not

natural.”

Within seconds, Hudson had to raise his arm again, this time to shield his eyes

from the rays of Slaybis that now beat down on its fourth planet’s surface. “I

hate to think what this is doing to the planet’s ecosystem.”

“Nothing good, I can tell you that.”

“I just wish Torres could’ve put us down indoors.”

“Look around, Hudson,” Chakotay said, indicating the area with one arm. “There’s

not much indoors left.”

Following Chakotay’s gesture, Hudson took stock of his surroundings. He saw no

evidence of habitation—whether people were dead or evacuated was impossible to

tell—but plenty of evidence of damage. None of the nearby buildings were

especially tall, but all were distressed to some degree or other: broken

windows, scarred façades, missing doors and parts of roofs. What especially

concerned Hudson were the cracks in many of the buildings’ superstructures.

Assuming they were constructed from the usual building materials—plastiform,

rodinium, and the like—they shouldn’t have cracked like that. Yeah, Hudson

thought after a second, and the Geronimo’ s hull shouldn’t have buckled from the

inside, either.

Chakotay turned to Tuvok, who had taken out his Starfleet tricorder. “Can you

get any readings?”

“Give me a moment, please,” Tuvok said as he peered down at the instrument. “I’m

afraid the tricorder’s response time is not what it was.”

Hudson smiled, but made no apologies. When Tuvok came on board, Mastroeni had

confiscated the tricorder, and wouldn’t give it back to the Vulcan until after

McAdams had literally taken it apart to look for bugs, transmitters, or anything

else that could be used against the Maquis. It turned out to be clean, and

McAdams—a moderately skilled tinkerer—had managed to put it back together, but

apparently not at one hundred percent.

Sweat was now intermingled with the rainwater on Hudson’s brow. Amazingly, there

was very little humidity in the air, given the recent precipitation, but the

temperature had shot up. Where moments ago he had felt like he was in the

tropics during monsoon season, now he felt like he was in the middle of the

desert.

“I am not reading any Andorian life signs in the immediate vicinity.”

“Damn,” Chakotay muttered. “Did he move?”

“Unlikely. I am also not picking up any Starfleet combadges in the

vicinity—however, there is other evidence to suggest that both Captain DeSoto

and Tharia ch’Ren are present. I am receiving the emissions from the Malkus

Artifact, as well as a low-level signal from a Starfleet transponder. Both are

emanating from an area that has no life readings—or any other significant

readings of any kind.” He looked up. “The logical deduction would be that Tharia

is, as promised, using a forcefield. However, while the forcefield is able to

keep out the relatively passive signals generated by bioreadings and combadges,

it cannot deter the more active signals of the artifact or the transponder.”

Chakotay nodded. “DeSoto probably brought the transponder so his ship can keep

in touch with him. Smart move.”

“Yeah.” Hudson turned to Tuvok. “How far are they?”

“Approximately half a kilometer northwest of here.”