THE DEVIL'S HEART

by

Carmen Carter

Volume I of Three Volumes

Pages i-x and 1-158

For special distribution as authorized by Act of

Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe

permission of the copyright holder.

Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,

National Library Service for the Blind and

Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,

Inc., 1996.

This braille edition contains the entire text of the

print edition.

Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All

Rights Reserved.

BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

STAR TREK (R)

THE NEXT GENERATION (TM)

A NOVEL

STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION--JUST the

latest chapter in a star-spanning entertainment

phenomenon that has captivated audiences

nationwide for over a quarter century! That

audience made REUNION and IMZADI, the first

two STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION

hardcovers, national bestsellers. Now,

Pocket Books presents THE DEVIL'S

HEART, a thrilling saga of adventure and

betrayal, featuring Captain Jean-Luc

Picard, Lieutenant Commander Data, and the rest

of the crew of the U.s.s. Enterprise

(TM)!

The Devil's Heart--a legendary object

of unsurpassed power and mystery. Worlds that

believe in magic consider it Darkness's

mightiest talisman; worlds of science consider it

a lost artifact of some ancient and forgotten

race. Some say the Heart enables its

possessor to control men's minds, and to amass

wealth enough for a dozen lifetimes, while others think

it capable of raising the dead, perhaps even changing the

flow of time itself. But to all, the location of this fabled

object has remained a mystery--until now.

An isolated archaeological outpost has

suddenly stopped responding to repeated requests

for information. Sent to discover why, the U.s.s.

Enterprise (TM) crew finds a

devastated outpost and a dying scientist, whose last

words fall on disbelieving ears the Devil's

Heart has been found.

Now, as the quest for the Heart unfolds,

Captain Jean-Luc Picard discovers the awful

truth behind all the legends and the ages-old

secrets whoever holds the Devil's Heart,

possesses power beyond all imagining. ...

Carmen Carter's first Star Trek (R)

novel was Dreams of the Raven. With the advent

of Star Trek The Next Generation (TM),

however, she turned her attention to the new crew

of the U.s.s. Enterprise (TM) in

The Children of Hamlin and then coauthored

Doomsday World.

After twelve years of urban living, she has

recently resettled in Northern Virginia where

she can see the Blue Ridge Mountains from her

front porch.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places and incidents are either products of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or

locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to Kate,

who read my books

even before she knew me.

Acknowledgments

Dave Stern believed in this story from the very

beginning and fought for two years to provide me with the

opportunity to write it. If not for him, you would

be holding some other Star Trek book in your

hands right now. I owe him a debt beyond measure.

Thanks, Dave!

Many of my friends have followed the progress of this

book since its inception, some page by page.

Their wealth of comments and reactions helped me

to structure the book and then to polish it. My

special thanks go to

Kate Maynard, who casually said, "Why

don't you make the archaeologists Vulcans?"

T'Sara was born as a result of that suggestion,

and my path into the story began to unfurl.

Cary Dier, who wanted to read this book years

before the first words were written and never lost hope that

the Heart's story would eventually see print.

Her keen eye and relentlessly linear mind made

her an invaluable editor.

Delia Turner, who steadfastly wielded her

blue pencil over the manuscript

pages when she would rather have just enjoyed a good read.

Jessica Ross, for letting me use the

idea behind the Borg sequence.

The Star Trek universe has become

increasingly complex, so there were times when I needed

to delve into technical details beyond my own

understanding. Several people provided me with timely

assistance.

Betsy Ramsey and Cary Dier provided

me with computer terminology that wouldn't make

hackers scream in agony or die laughing, and

thus saved me from public humiliation.

"Doc" Audrey Gassman cast her

professional eye over Beverly Crusher's

medical scenes. I confess that I decided

to let dramatic license overrule authenticity

in a few instances, so don't blame Audrey

for the results.

I also relied heavily upon the STCCTNG

Technical Manual by Rick Sternbach and

Michael Okuda for information about the construction and

operation of the Enterprise. Any errors in that

area are due entirely to my misunderstanding of their

exceptional reference work.

Great Minds Think Alike Department

In the two years between the submission of my first

proposal of The Devil's Heart and the

final acceptance of the storyline by Paramount,

Peter David wrote Imzadi and saw it

published. By sheer coincidence, both of us made

use of the Guardian of Forever, although it plays

only a minor role in my story. For the

record, neither of us was aware of the duplication.

THE DEVIL'S HEART

Prologue

Iconia was dead.

The planet itself would remain intact until its

sun went nova, but the world he had known, the soft

tissue of life rooted on the fragile

mantle, had already been destroyed. Constant

weapons bombardment had vaporized its shallow

seas, incinerated its verdant plains, and

eradicated all who had once inhabited its

surface.

Barbarians.

Kanda Jiak swayed on his feet as yet

another tremor rocked the Gateway chamber.

The station was shielded against detection and proof against

even a direct photon blow, but the land itself was

shifting under the impact of ceaseless explosions.

Could there be anything left worth attacking on

Iconia, any city that had not been razed by the

firestorms? Or was their hatred so fierce that they

prolonged this holocaust out of sheer bloodlust?

After First Contact, the philosopher Senega had

warned that a disparity in technologies could

unsettle other races; she predicted that knowledge of

Iconian superiority would foster fear and

distrust; and as a final legacy before her death, she

prophesied the final fatal connection between fear

and the rage to destroy what could not be understood.

Demons of air and darkness, that is what they

call us.

Ironically, after the diplomats failed

to turn back the space-faring hordes gnawing at

the edges of the Empire, the Gateways that

inspired such superstitions had provided the

ultimate salvation for the surviving Iconians.

Over the last few days, ten thousand of his people had

slipped through narrow rips in the fabric of

space; they and their descendants would build new

homes on the remote outposts of Ikkabar,

DiWahn, and Dynasia. Iconian

language and culture would survive even if this

world was pummeled into dust.

Now it was Jiak's turn to cross the

threshold.

He settled the weight of the Gem into the crook

of his arm. In a room of gleaming metal

panels, humming consoles, and the crackling blue

energy of the Gatekey, this rough rock seemed

strangely out of place, yet it had

built this structure just as surely as the

legions of architects, engineers, and

technicians. The secrets of the entire

universe were locked inside this ancient relic,

and three generations of Iconians had only begun

to coax out that knowledge.

Blue. Red. Blue. Jiak tapped out a

familiar sequence on triangular buttons.

A jagged bolt of light shot out of the central

control globe, forming a dancing umbilical

cord to the narrow frame of an activated

Gateway.

He scanned the cycle of shifting landscapes.

Three habitable worlds were open to him, yet his

final choice meant nothing to him; all were

primitive compared to Iconia.

Farewell.

Jiak stepped forward, and through.

No! This is wrong!

On the other side, the blare of a red sun

seared his eyes, and a gust of dry, heated air

sucked the moisture from his lungs. He sank

deep into the ground as shifting grains of sand gave

way beneath his feet; his weight had doubled under the

force of a heavier gravity.

This desert world was not of his choosing, and he could not

survive in this harsh climate.

"Save me!"

For the past three decades, the Gem had been

his talisman. He stroked the stone in

supplication, but in the midst of this blazing oven it

had turned ice cold.

Jiak collapsed onto the ground. The Gem

fell from his weakened grasp, and he watched it

roll out of his reach.

"Betrayed," he whispered hoarsely. "You have

betrayed me. Why?"

Alone out of all the Iconians, Senega had

called the Gem a curse rather than a blessing ...

the price of True Knowledge comes high ... too

high.

As he slipped toward death's embrace,

Jiak dreamed that his life was nothing but a mirage

shimmering in another mind ...

She cried out her fear of dying alone in the

desert until her flailing arms wrapped themselves

around the stone.

Not lost after all. Not dying.

She awakened enough to separate her own

thoughts from Jiak's identity, to remember that she was

safe in her own bed on a planet called

Atropos. Her covers were tangled about her

feet, but the Gem's heat warded off the chill

night air seeping into her tent. With a sigh of

relief, the old woman curled on her side,

tucking herself around the sphere as if afraid it could

still tumble away from her.

Ko N'ya.

Yes, that was the Gem's name in her language

... and that language was Vulcan.

I am T'Sara.

Even lying still on her cot, T'Sara's body

felt limp, drained by the ordeal that had been

Jiak's and her own blurred together. True

sleep would help restore her strength, but she

begrudged the waste of time. She wanted

to explore the lives of all who had held this

stone before her, and that quest could take many years

to complete.

Tonight, in this dream, T'Sara had seen her

homeworld through the eyes of an alien being, felt the

heavy pull of its gravity on a body that was not

her own. Most important of all, however, she

had discovered another bridge in the meandering path

of the Ko N'ya. The leap from far-distant

Iconia to Vulcan would have eluded her

otherwise.

Any thought of embarking on another search was

suspended by the sound of movement in the compound

outside. The other archaeologists had cleared the

rubble from around their shared habitations, but T'Sara

had no patience for such domestic touches. She

could hear the scuffle of boots climbing over

mounds of fallen stonework and crumbling walls.

By her count, at least four Vulcans were headed

toward her tent.

The visitors came to a stop just outside the

domed enclosure. Someone's hands brushed

lightly across the fabric wall until probing

fingers found purchase on the ridged seams marking

the entrance. A shaft of moonlight slipped through

the widening breach.

"T'Sara?"

Because it was Sorren, she said, "Enter."

The young man slipped inside, then resealed the

portal with more care than she had taken. Each day

she was less and less concerned with the basic

necessities of survival. If not for

Sorren's prodding, she would forget even

to eat.

She made no move to activate a lantern,

and he did not ask for light. The darkness made it

easier for him to ignore the Ko N'ya when they

talked.

"T'Sara, your cries have awakened everyone in

the camp ... again."

The others who had kept him company remained

huddled outside. She could hear them taking shallow

breaths of the frigid air. "I was restless."

"These spells of unrest are becoming more

frequent."

"I have slept away too much of my life,"

said the woman. "I intend to make better use of

my remaining years."

"I am still young, however; and I will never reach your

august age if I am robbed of my sleep

now." There was a hint of wry humor in

Sorren's remark, a rare self-indulgence from

such an earnest young Vulcan.

"Then go back to bed, my child, and I promise

not to wake you again." Her position as leader of the

expedition invested her words with the authority of a

direct command.

"Very well," he said. She heard the rustle

of the seals parting, felt a cool draft of air,

then saw Sorren's willowy silhouette as he

stepped through the opening. "I will bring you some tea in

the morning."

He closed the entrance, plunging her back

into darkness and warmth, yet T'Sara could hear him

whisper to his waiting companions. "It was only

a bad dream."

"That is what you said last night," said

Sohle. His gruff voice merely roughened when

he tried to speak quietly.

"It is no less true for having happened a

second time."

"How many disturbances does it take to convince

you, Sorren?" asked T'Challo. "T'Sara

is ill."

"My last medical scan did not confirm any

ill health."

"You are no doctor," said T'Challo. "And

it is time we ..."

The voices faded away before T'Sara could

overhear any more of their discussion, but she had no

interest in their bickering. Morning was still a few

hours away.

She had just enough time to fall into another

dream.

CHAPTER 1

Captain Jean-Luc Picard slept with the

same air of authority he carried with him on the

bridge of the Enterprise. Even in the privacy

of his darkened cabin and the haven of unconsciousness,

he maintained a commander's demeanor. The silken

blue pajamas he wore only emphasized the

hard contours of his body he lay flat on his

back, his lean frame held at attention

except for one arm flung above his head; his lips

were set in a firm, unyielding line.

It was not a comfortable pose, but then Picard was not

a comfortable man.

A spacious cabin with generous furnishings, their

smooth wash of pastel colors, a lush plant

gracing the table by his bed--none of these luxuries

had softened his sense of responsibility, or his

conviction that danger could be held at bay only

by unceasing vigilance.

As if to vindicate his subconscious wariness,

the trill of a communications call marred the silence

that had surrounded him. The captain was awake and

alert before the second ring of the summons had

sounded. Quickly rolling to a half-sitting

position, he cleared his throat to erase

any trace of sleep from his voice.

"Picard here."

"Incoming message from Starbase 193,

Priority Two."

"Thank you, Ensign Ro. I'll take it

here in my quarters." Knowing the commander of the starbase

in question, Picard automatically scaled down the

urgency of the call by at least one degree;

Miyakawa had a tendency to overdramatize,

an occupational hazard for officers mired in the

mundane activities of an administrative

post. He allowed himself the indulgence of a

leisurely stretch before slipping out of bed

to activate the transmission.

At his touch, the viewscreen on the wall

flickered to life. The first part of the communiqu`e was

brief and to the point, but then Vulcans were not

given to circumlocution. Miyakawa's

subsequent request for aid was brusque, even

imperious, as if she suspected the captain of the

Enterprise might balk at such an

insignificant task.

Perhaps there were some captains who would resent the

diversion of a galaxy-class starship on a

small errand of mercy, but Picard was not one of

them.

Besides, he wanted this particular mission.

A combination of natural reticence and

Starfleet training stripped Picard's voice of

emotion as he activated the intercom and issued

orders to the bridge crew. His excitement was

strictly personal and had no place in the

execution of duty.

"Course change initiated."

Data's voice betrayed no reaction to the

new coordinates, but Picard could swear he

heard Ro Laren's muffled curse in the

background.

Merde. The captain belatedly remembered

the consequences of this diversion on the crew's own

affairs. "Increase speed to warp six." That was

faster than the assignment warranted, but a more

moderate pace might tax everyone's patience.

In the time it took him to step out of his pajamas

and into a clean pair of uniform pants, Picard

was hailed over the intercom yet again.

"Riker to Captain Picard."

"It's a routine diversion, Number One,"

said Picard, aiming his reply at the ceiling

intercom. "At warp six, we'll only

experience a short delay." He slipped the

tunic jacket over his head, confident that the

heavy cloth could not drown out his first officer's

emphatic response.

"With all due respect, sir, routine

missions aren't rated Priority Two. If this

takes more than a few extra days ... well,

it's damn inconvenient for Geordi's maintenance

agenda at spacedock."

"Ah, yes, the new magnetic constrictor

coils," said Picard, careful to keep the smile

on his face from seeping into his voice. Reaching for

his boots, the captain did his best to allay

Riker's anxiety. "In my opinion, the

urgency of the situation was slightly overstated, so

we should be able to make up the lost time without too

much difficulty. Schedule a briefing this morning

for all senior officers so we can ensure a

swift completion of this mission."

"Aye, sir."

The soft hum of the open channel cut off.

Now that the immediate demands of duty had been

fulfilled, Picard walked out into his living

room and turned his attention to breakfast. As was his

custom, he ordered a light menu for two from the

food synthesizer. However, reflecting over

Riker's strained reaction to the change of plans,

the captain considered the probable effect on his

guest's more volatile temper.

"Computer," he said quickly. "Extra butter

and cream."

He had added two different fruit juices

and a jar of orange marmalade to the spread on the

table when his chief medical officer arrived. Some

mornings, Beverly Crusher appeared with the

slightly rumpled look of a doctor just coming off

duty, her eyes darkened by fatigue, but the

previous night must have been free of medical

emergencies because her face was free of stress; the

lines of her blue medical coat were sharp and

crisp, and her long red hair was neatly coiled

at the nape of her neck.

"What's the special occasion?" Crusher

asked, surveying the offerings.

"Nothing beyond the pleasure of your company."

"Hah!" She spooned a large helping of

eggs onto her plate. "If I weren't so

hungry, I'd seriously question your motives."

"I'm wounded by your suspicion, Doctor."

Fortunately, her mouth was too full

for her to press the issue, even in jest.

Judging from her animated spirits, Beverly

seemed to have missed the news working its way through the

ship's grapevine; he would be able to inform her of the

diversion himself. Later. He sought safer ground

by asking about the progress of her latest

theatrical production. Unfortunately, his mind

was too preoccupied with their new destination

to actually absorb much of her answer.

Picard had started on the French toast when she

turned their conversation to the ship's next port of

call.

"There's a restaurant on Luxor IV,"

said Crusher, her blue eyes bright from the

recollection, "that serves the best pancakes in

the entire Federation. It would make a great place

to celebrate--" she caught herself ju st in time,

"shore leave."

"I'm afraid there will be a slight delay, just

a day or two, in our arrival to Luxor IV.

We've been diverted to a fringe-territory star

system on a medical assistance mission."

Picard assumed a look of nonchalance in the

face of Beverly's sharpened attention. "In

fact, the Enterprise was chosen specifically for

this mission because of your expertise in handling

Bendii's syndrome."

"What?" she stopped mid-bite into a scone

lathered with butter. "I'm not an expert in

Bendii's syndrome! I've only seen one

case in my entire medical career."

"Yes, well, it seems that even one is one

more than any other doctor outside of the Vulcan

Medical Academy."

"And Ambassador Sarek wasn't even my

patient," she said, shaking the scone at him for

emphasis. "I didn't treat him, I just

diagnosed the condition."

"Think of this as an opportunity to expand your

medical experience."

"Thank you, Captain, but I prefer to do that

on my own time and not at the expense of my

patients."

Picard poured her a fresh cup of tea with a

generous measure of cream. "We're also the only

Federation starship within easy reach of the system. Under

the circumstances, there is no other option for you or

for your new patient."

The doctor sighed in reluctant agreement.

"So just who is this Vulcan with Bendii's

syndrome?" She hastily popped the last bit

of bread into her mouth, then accepted the cup he

offered her.

"A scientist. T'Sara."

Beverly frowned. "You say that name as if I

should know her."

"Forgive me," Picard said. "Just because I've

followed her work for years, I expect others

to be aware of her as well." He nodded in the

direction of his bookshelves. "She began her

career as a preeminent folklorist renowned for

her work in comparative mythology, then moved on

to archaeology."

"Ah, so that's why she's out in the back of

beyond."

"Yes," said the captain. "For the past ten

years, T'Sara has been the expedition leader for

an archaeological excavation on Atropos.

Her assistant radioed for medical assistance,

claiming that her erratic and irrational behavior

appeared to be symptomatic of early stage

Bendii's."

"She was diagnosed by an archaeologist?"

Crusher rolled her eyes in exaggerated

despair. "Save me from amateurs."

"I'm sure Sorren will welcome your

professional assessment."

"I'm sure he's very welcome."

Despite her sarcasm, she seemed resigned

to the necessity of the mission. Picard smiled with

satisfaction as he offered the doctor another

scone.

Timing is everything on a starship from the warp

drive engines that mesh matter and antimatter for a

duration measured by the single pulse of an

electron, to the life support systems that

regulate the smooth flow of air through the

vessel, even down to the measured movements of the

crew who control the day-to-day operations of the

ship.

First Officer William Riker was a master of

timing. And the master of time aboard the

Enterprise. His skillful juggling of the duty

schedules had created a small window of

opportunity, one that allotted a select group

of people the same break from their respective shifts.

Five senior officers, the same ones who were

due at a mission briefing later that morning, were

gathered together in the close confines of

Riker's cabin. Their captain, however, was

conspicuously absent.

Picard's quelling influence fostered a

degree of decorum that was entirely lacking at

this assembly. During the early days of his posting

on board the Enterprise, William Riker

had tried to mimic the captain's imposing

demeanor, only to find that he had a tendency

to bluster and bully when he asserted himself. Over

the years, the first officer had developed his own

style, a looser and less obvious grip on the

rein of command. So, for the moment, he let the meeting

run its course without his participation; instead, he

sat with his large frame sprawled carelessly over

a chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, and

watched everyone from under hooded eyes.

Geordi La Forge was the first to speak out. His

metal visor might mask the expressiveness of

his face, but he managed to communicate his

indignation without any difficulty. "I say it's

a trick! Somehow the crew of the Telarius

managed to bribe someone to pull us out of the

sector."

"Oh, honestly," said Deanna Troi. She

had been the last to arrive and was perched on the edge

of the sofa with her feet dangling uncomfortably off

the floor. Her dark, exotic features and

shapely figure usually inspired immediate

gallantry from the men around her, but on this occasion

not one of them had given up his seat. Riker

suspected that the unintentional slight was at least

partly responsible for the edge of asperity in her

voice. "No one would go to that much trouble just for

a--"

"You'd be surprised, Counselor," said

Geordi. "Anybody who works on Starbase

193," he grimaced when he mentioned the base,

"would sell his grandmother for ten credits."

"Cowards. They have no honor," said Worf.

At the start of the session, before Riker could call out

a warning, the lieutenant had settled his weight

into a soft chair that would offend his warrior

sensibilities as much as it offended his spine;

Riker judged that the Klingon was as uncomfortable as

Troi, but the sensible solution, an offer to trade

places with her, probably reeked too much of

Human courtesy. "Of course, a Klingon

ship would never waste time on a medical call."

"Stop glaring at me," said Crusher to the

security officer. "It's not as if I

volunteered for this mission."

"However," said Data. "If not for your

specific medical expertise, the Enterprise

would not have been chosen for this particular assignment."

"Nonsense. Captain Picard told me we

were the only starship in range of Atropos."

The android's face creased into his best

approximation of a puzzled frown. If he saw

Riker's frantic hand signal from across the

room, he failed to fathom its meaning; Data

continued inexorably. "I am afraid the

captain was in error. At the time we received the

distress call there were two other starships which were in

greater proximity to the star system."

"Swell," muttered Geordi.

"This is not my fault!" Crusher's grim

expression was a sure sign that she had just added

deception to her list of grievances against Picard.

Now was the time, calculated Riker.

"I'm glad we've been diverted."

With all heads snapped around to stare at him,

he followed the heretical declaration with a broad,

flashing grin. "The delay gives us that much more time

to hone our skills, and it gives the crew of the

Telarius a false sense of security. They

know we're their only serious competition, and if

they think we won't show, we can catch them off

guard."

"Yeah, but what if we don't make it

to Luxor IV in time?" demanded Geordi.

"Nah," said Riker with a dismissive wave.

"This is a routine pickup. We'll be on our

way back before you know it. The trick will be to make

sure we don't arrive too soon. We may

have to find some excuse to slow down our return

trip, a way to ensure a proper entrance ...

say, five minutes before the championship

begins."

His confidence was infectious, and he noted with

satisfaction that Geordi had started to smile at

the dramatic image Riker had conjured; Worf

never smiled, but at least he had stopped snarling.

Unfortunately, Troi still looked dubious;

Riker wondered if she could sense the uneasiness

beneath his bluff. To his relief, she played

along anyway. "Will, what about Captain

Picard? Won't he suspect that something is

going on?"

"Oh, I'll take care of the captain," said

the first officer without blinking an eye at the

ethical contortions that simple statement might

involve. "All you have to worry about is improving

your game."

Springing out of his chair, Riker flourished the

deck of cards that he had kept nestled in the

palm of his hand. Data was right on cue, as

well, whipping out his dealer's visor and a stack of

chips.

"We have just enough time for a practice round."

Riker shuffled the deck back and forth in an arc

through the air like a juggler. "Ante up, my friends,

ante up. We're going to be the next poker

champions of Starfleet!"

In the normal course of events, Picard

resisted the temptation to read while on duty; his

love of the written word was so intense and his

concentration so focused that he never trusted himself

to pay sufficient attention to the demands of command when

he held a book in his hand. Just as a proper

gentleman never shared his affections with more than one

woman at a time, he confined his reading to his

leisure hours.

On this mission, however, Picard had decided

that a review of T'Sara's texts would help

prepare him for his impending interaction with the

scientist. After the briefing session with his senior

officers, he had retrieved the Vulcan's

books from his cabin and carried them off to his ready

room. He even went so far as to sit on the

sofa, rather than behind his desk, but he did so with the

firm intention of only glancing at a few of the more

recent forewords.

Reading her spare yet elegant prose, he

was newly reminded of T'Sara's ability

to present brilliant insights as if they were

self-evident truths and to use logic to convince

and persuade with a skill that was almost seductive.

For a Vulcan, she possessed a keen understanding of

her very emotional subjects.

When the door chime pulled him back to the

present, Picard noticed with a start that he had

been immersed in Oral Histories from the

Andorian Middle Kingdom for over an hour.

And the chime had been ringing repeatedly.

"Come."

The doors snapped apart and the ship's first

officer barreled through the opening. "Captain, are you

al--" Riker skidded to a sudden halt. His

worried fro wn transformed into a knowing

smile. "Oh, you've been reading."

"Guilty as charged." Picard sighed and

tossed the book aside, only to automatically

pick up another in its stead; this second choice

had vellum pages that were thickly covered with the

patterns of an alien script.

"We're within hailing distance of Atropos, but

we haven't raised the campsite yet." Riker

canted his head to one side in order to read the

title on the spine; his lips tried to form the

words, but failed. "I didn't know you could read

Vulcan, Captain."

"I can't." Picard's eyes skimmed down a

page. "At least, I shouldn't be able to ... but

occasionally, as I look over the text, I gather

a hint of meaning in certain words and phrases."

"A legacy of your mind-meld with

Ambassador Sarek?"

"Yes, I believe so." Picard set down

the book on a side table with an exaggerated care

that bordered on reverence. "This volume belonged

to him; it was a gift to me from Perrin after his death."

One of the traits of a good first officer, as well

as a good friend, was knowing when to share silence. A few

minutes later they walked out of the ready room.

As he crossed the deck of the circular

bridge, the captain noted which of his crew were working

at the back duty stations. Deanna Troi and

Beverly Crusher were already seated in the central

command area behind the helm; Ensign Ro and Data

were operating the forward stations. All accounted for,

all as it should be, but he tried never to take that for

granted.

"Still no response from the archaeological

camp," said Worf from the aft deck.

"Continue hailing, Lieutenant," said

Picard as he settled himself down into the

captain's chair between Riker and the ship's

counselor. "Status, Mr. Data?"

"Estimated arrival at Atropos in eleven

minutes, thirty-two seconds."

"Steady as she goes, Helm." Picard

fixed his eyes on the main viewscreen, studying

a single pinpoint of starlight and the space that

surrounded it. A most unremarkable sight, he

concluded. At the beginning of time, when countless

cosmic wonders had been sown throughout the

galaxy, this area had been overlooked. In

fact, to the best of his knowledge, the Federation's claim

to this sector had been made solely

to facilitate traffic through the territory;

until T'Sara's expedition, no one had

bothered to linger.

Troi spoke quietly, easing her way

into his thoughts. "Beverly tells me you've

followed T'Sara's scholarship for years. You

must be looking forward to meeting her in person."

"Yes ... very much so." He could never tell

when the counselor used her empathic abilities

to read him or simply judged his moods

by subtle physical cues that he was unable

to repress. Either way, Troi always caught him

when he was brooding, so there was no point in trying

to disguise his one misgiving about this encounter.

"Yet, on the other hand, I do not relish watching

another brilliant mind disintegrate from

illness."

"Perhaps T'Sara will be spared Sarek's

fate," said Crusher. "Medical research has

advanced considerably in the last year; treatment,

even a cure, may be developed in time to help

her. That's assuming the diagnosis is

correct; after all, I haven't confirmed

anything yet."

"Well," said Riker. "If she does have

Bendii's, we'd better warn Guinan to put

away the breakables in Ten-Forward."

Crusher shook her head. "Psychic

disturbances like the ones broadcast by Ambassador

Sarek don't occur until a more advanced stage

of ..." She turned to the captain. "I only

know that because I've been studying the medical

literature on the syndrome. Any doctor

in the Fleet could read a casebook file and do

what I'm doing."

Just as Picard had feared, Beverly must be

suffering the brunt of the crew's frustration; a

speedy conclusion to this diversion would improve

tempers all around. "Lieutenant Worf, have you

established contact with the Vulcans yet?"

"Channels are open, but they are not answering

our hail."

"You can't trust a bunch of academics

to operate a simple subspace radio," said

Riker with a heartiness that seemed a little forced.

"And archaeologists are the worst offenders,"

added Picard. He caught himself rapidly

tapping one finger on his armrest and stilled the

impatient motion.

"Long-range sensor scan complete,

Captain." Data looked up from his console

to confirm the transfer of incoming data to the main

viewscreen, then nodded with satisfaction at the

image of a marbled orb that appeared there.

"Increasing magnification."

Picard leaned forward to study the surface

features that were slowly coming into focus; gaps in the

dusky-red cloud cover revealed mountains,

valleys, several large canyons, scattered

seas. "Data, are we close enough to scan for

life-forms?"

"Accuracy may be somewhat compromised by the

distance, but it is technically within range." After a

few minutes of manipulating the console

controls, the android turned around to face the

captain. "Sensors detect no

life-signs."

Riker shifted uneasily in his chair. "Try

another pass, Lieutenant."

"Scanning the campsite ... expanding the search

area." At the sound of a soft beep, Data

studied the console output. "Confirmed; there are

no discernible life-signs on the surface."

The captain rose from his chair, taking a step

forward as if to confront the planet itself, but the

clouds had thickened, shrouding the surface below.

"Well, Number One," said Picard. "It

seems this is not a routine mission after all."

CHAPTER 2

The United Federation of Planets was founded

on a tenet of inclusion. Thus, as Starfleet

charted and explored ever greater tracts of space,

new worlds and their civilizations were eagerly drawn

into the loose web of interstellar government. As in

any rapidly growing organization, however, the

Federation's reach occasionally exceeded its grasp.

Inevitably, the grip of central authority

weakened as it stretched out to the most recent

annexations along an ever-expanding frontier.

Starbase 193 was held very lightly indeed.

From a distance, the station looked like a gleaming

metal teardrop suspended in space. Its

recent construction guaranteed a level of

technology far superior to older, more established

structures; and the sophisticated docking and

maintenance services it offered were crucial for

supporting commercial traffic through the sector.

However, aside from the base itself, Federation

presence in the sector consisted of one career

officer.

Commander Miyakawa was forced to work without one of the

standard benefits of a bureaucratic posting closer

to home a well-regulated support staff.

Most of the day-to-day operations of the base were

dependent on a shifting pool of labor

settlers who had run out of money before reaching their

chosen paradise, technicians who had

overslept a shore leave and lost their berth on a

freighter, or confirmed drifters who would leave

when the tendrils of civilization crept too

close for comfort.

The permanent inhabitants of Starbase 193

were employed in business ventures of their own.

DaiMon Maarc sauntered into the murky

recesses of the Due or Die with an air of

confidence that marked him as an especially

prosperous merchant among a race of merchants.

His tailored gray business suit was cut

to flatter his form; its sleeves were embellished with

bands of jewel-encrusted cloth; and the broad, soft

collar was studded with gold pins. For a Ferengi, it

was a discreet display of solid financial

success.

A DaiMon of means would usually avoid a

bar as dingy and cramped as the Due or Die.

Beauty was not the only quality that was missing from the

establishment; cleanliness and comfort were also in short

supply. However, Maarc had little interest in the

quality of the decor. Tourists and the credit-poor

rabble of the station might come here for cheap drinks, but

he had come to see Camenae.

As he threaded his way between wobbling tables, the

Ferengi calculated his current cash reserve for

speculative ventures. Any purchase he

made today would be expensive.

Most of Camenae's clients came to the bar

with a specific question; if they could meet her

price, most walked back out with an answer.

Sometimes they paid with a handful of round tokens, the

only currency that had any meaning inside the bar,

but it was common knowledge that Camenae preferred an

exchange for new information to tuck away in

anticipation of future requests.

Besides forming the basis for her business, facts

were also her private passion, and matching the right

fact with the right customer brought Camenae a deep

sense of personal satisfaction. So,

on occasion she informed certain select

individuals that she possessed an answer to a

question they hadn't thought to ask yet.

Just such a notification had reached the Ferengi a

few minutes earlier, and he had not wasted any

time in responding to the call. Through experience,

DaiMon Maarc had learned that Camenae did

not let her goods grow stale. He would have been a

much richer merchant today if he had paid more attention

the first time she offered him a question.

"I'm expected," boasted Maarc to the

Norsican who blocked his way. The guard

nodded and stepped back to allow the Ferengi to pass

through another door into an even darker room.

Maarc's steps faltered as he waited for his

eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there were no

unseen obstacles waiting to trip him. Shadows

were the only decoration in the bare interior, and the

only touch of color was in Camenae's

burgundy robe.

New clients expected a greater display of

security, but in time they realized that Camenae

stored her most valuable capital beyond anyone's

reach her dark, round face betrayed no

secrets, and a sleek cap of black hair

covered the impenetrable vault of her mind.

Tokens marking a financial transaction were

redeemed elsewhere.

"I got your message." Maarc settled

down at the small table where Camenae held

court. "How much will this information cost me?"

She named a sum that made the Ferengi merchant

hiss with outrage.

"A consortium of DaiMon in your guild

could gather the necessary funds," she said, unruffled

by his reaction. "And given the amount involved,

I'm willing to extend a line of credit."

"That is very generous of you," he sniffed,

"considering that you approached me with this offer. Be

warned, I have no intention of assuming a ruinous

debt to satisfy your greed."

"The price would be much higher if you were my first

customer."

"What!" His gnomish face squinched into a

mass of creases. A certain amount of theatrics

was obligatory, but Maarc's irritation was only

partially feigned.

Camenae shrugged an apology. "My

preferred customer list has grown so large that

there are, inevitably, certain conflicts

of interest."

"Double insult!"

"It was never my intention to offend, DaiMon.

To make amends for any ill feelings I have

inadvertently created, I offer a discount."

He grunted in disdain, but his nose twitched

at the whiff of a bargain. She knew him well enough

to sense his renewed interest.

"Against my usual policy," said Camenae,

"I will waive the charge for the question."

"You would have charged me for the question itself!" This time his

outrage was completely genuine.

"Of course," she said. "Good questions are often

far more valuable than the answers."

"You should have been a Ferengi." Maarc's good

humor was partially restored by her audacity. "So,

what is the question I should have asked?"

When he heard Camenae's reply, the

DaiMon quickly reached into his vest pocket.

Withdrawing his hand, he placed a token on the

table. "Here is a deposit. I will raise the

full sum of the answer's price within the hour."

He stacked a second token on top of the

first. "I will double the amount if you also tell me the

identity of your first client."

Then he added a third token to the pile. "And

I will triple the amount if I am your last

client to receive this information."

Camenae smiled as she gathered up the coins.

"It's always a pleasure doing business with a

professional, DaiMon Maarc."

CHAPTER 3

As the Enterprise swung into orbit around the

yellow sun's lone planet, Counselor

Troi had already begun her reconnaissance work

for the mission. However, unlike the Away Team

members who would soon transport to the ground

below, her terrain was the flaring emotions of the crew.

Data's announcement had set off a tremor

of tension through the bridge, and Picard sat at its

epicenter. His rising anger was probably rooted

in frustration at arriving too late to prevent

whatever catastrophe had occurred on

Atropos. Since the captain had a tendency

to view this type of event as a personal

failure, Troi made a mental note

to monitor this reaction over the next few days.

There should be no problem unless he persisted

in blaming himself, but Picard usually recovered his

perspective without her intervention.

Troi had exerted her empathic abilities

to read the captain, but she strengthened her block

against Will Riker's mind; Imzadi was all too

easy to read, and at close quarters his emotions

blared out like a siren. Each visit to a new world

keyed the first officer's nerves with excitement, but

this time the additional element of unknown danger let

loose a surge of adrenalin that urged him to leap

forward, to move, to run, to shout. Riker continued

to sit quietly in place next to the captain, but

she could see the younger man's cheeks flushing from the

strain; still, he would be fine as soon as he had

permission to lead the Away Team to the surface.

Beverly Crusher was another matter; her

anticipation had soured into apprehension when she

learned the results of the sensor scan.

"Beverly?"

"At least before I had a chance of helping my

patient," said the doctor under her breath so only

Troi could hear her. "Now ..." She lifted the

medical field kit off her lap and slung its

strap over one shoulder in preparation for the Away

Team's departure.

"Landing coordinates confirmed," announced

Data as the flow of sensor information to the computers

finally slowed. "The campsite appears intact."

Captain Picard's silent nod released a

storm of movement.

Riker shot out of his chair, finger stabbing at the

two helm positions. "Ro, Data, with me."

Dr. Crusher was already ahead of him, striding

up the ramp to the aft turbolift.

"Energizing."

At the sound of Chief O'Brien's warning,

Crusher braced herself for the frisson of the

transporter beam. Seconds later, a whistling

shiver rippled its way through the cells of her

body, and when the shiver faded, the bright glare of

sunlight stabbed her eyes. She dropped her

head down, blinking furiously to clear away the

dancing hot spots on her retinas. When the

doctor's vision cleared, she could see her

boots resting on a ground cover of orange

moss.

She could also see a dead body lying at her

feet.

Crusher lifted her gaze and counted

three more bodies of Vulcans in the campsite

one stretched across the threshold of a field tent,

two others fallen in a tangled heap onto the

ground in the center of the compound. More bodies were

probably hidden amidst the ancient, weathered

blocks of stone that had tumbled from their foundations.

"Well, that accounts for four out of the ten," she

said, pulling out her medical tricorder. She

passed the instrument over a Vulcan male in his

middle years, but the scan was little more than a

formality since the cause of death was all too

obvious his chest and face were charred from a

close-range phaser blast.

She proceeded on to the intertwined bodies.

Dropping down to a crouch, she started another

scan.

At Riker's direction, the rest of the Away

Team kept moving, spreading out to survey the area

around the landing coordinates. Their progress was

slow as they skirted crumbling walls and broken

columns and sought firm footing over piles of

debris.

"There's someone over here," called out Ro.

Crusher glanced up to watch as the ensign stepped

over a moss-covered ridge to inspect her

discovery. Whatever she saw on the other side

sent the Bajoran stumbling backward. "Also

dead."

The doctor bent back down to complete her

inspection. The man and woman appeared to have been

struggling over the phaser locked in the grip of the

man's hand, then both had been killed by its

activation.

"Some of the equipment was also damaged by phaser

fire," said Commander Riker when he had circled

back to the starting point. "But the wreckage is

haphazard and nothing of value appears to have been

taken."

Just their lives, thought Crusher, as she

snapped shut the scanner.

Riker sighed as he surveyed the carnage.

"We had outbreaks of violence on the

Enterprise when Ambassador Sarek was on

board; could T'Sara's illness have triggered a

mass homicidal rage among these Vulcans?"

"Please, Commander," protested the doctor, as

she rose to her feet. "It's far too early for

me to speculate on--"

"Over here!" Data rarely raised his

voice; she and Riker whirled around at the

android's shout. "I detect life-signs

ahead ... extremely faint."

Crusher broke into a run to follow Data

down a twisting path, rushing past more dead

bodies, ignoring everything but the call of the living.

It was a very weak call indeed.

When Crusher fell to her knees by the side of the

elderly Vulcan woman, she feared that Data

was mistaken or that T'Sara had loosed her

hold on life only seconds before their

arrival. The shadows of a looming tower had

shielded the archaeologist from the full heat of the

planet's sun, but the phaser wounds on her

side and shoulder should have killed her long before.

"Data, I'm not getting any readings."

Then the medscanner trilled once; the

life-signs were not only faint, they were also

widely spaced.

"Of course," said Crusher. "She's in a

Vulcan healing trance. I must get her up to the

ship immediately." She hit her comm link.

"Emergency transport! Two to sickbay."

T'Sara was no heavier than a child when Crusher

gathered her up in her arms. The doctor whispered

in the woman's ear, "You're safe, you're among

friends, and you're going to live!"

As the transporter beam took hold of the

doctor and her patient, Beverly Crusher hoped

she could keep that last promise.

Over the many years of their service together,

Picard had learned to trust his crew's

observations and perceptions, to let them serve as his

eyes and ears on Away missions. This rapport

had helped ease the captain's sense of

frustration at remaining so far removed from the

reconnaissance of Atropos.

The planet loomed large in the conference room

windows as two members of the landing party summarized

their activities of the last few hours. Between

Data's detailed recital of the essential

facts and Riker's more subjective evocation of the

carnage, Picard was able to recreate their

experience in his own mind.

His first officer had worked his way through a list of the

dead to the last archaeologist. "We finally found

Skorret at the bottom of one of the excavation

pits. He had been working near the edge,

evidently cataloging some ceremonial weapons,

when someone took the broken shard of a

sword and stabbed him through the back."

"I detected blood-stained fingerprints on the

hilt," said Data, "so it will be possible

to determine who is responsible for Skorret's

murder. Unfortunately, culpability will

prove more difficult to establish in most of the other

cases."

"Under the circumstances," said Riker, "the question

of guilt or innocence hardly matters since the

murderers are all dead, t oo. Assigning

blame for this tragedy won't provide much comfort

to their families."

In Picard's experience, Vulcans were less

interested in comfort than in truth. "This is not so much

a matter of justice, Number One, as it is of

discovery. In order to unravel why these murders

occurred, we must catalog the way in which they

occurred."

"Standard forensic recovery procedures are

already in effect," confessed the first officer. "Two

paramedic teams have been assigned to remove the

bodies from the planet surface and take them

to sickbay for autopsies."

As Picard suspected, Riker's instincts were

sound, even when he professed to balk at

Data's dispassionate perspective. The

captain smiled at the quizzical look on

Data's face. The android appeared confused by the

apparent contradiction between the first officer's words and

his actions.

Checking a final notation on his padd, Riker

then said, "Lieutenant Worf will supervise the

removal of the team's personal effects from the

planet surface, but what should we do about the

research equipment and camp facilities?"

Unfortunately, Picard realized, this was one

detail Commander Miyakawa had not thought

to clarify in her briefing report. "Data,

check the camp records to see who has

jurisdiction over the property. We'll need

instructions on whether the excavation will continue without

T'Sara and the other Vulcans."

"I can't imagine it would be abandoned," said

Riker. "From what I saw, the ruins are quite

extensive. There must be hundreds of artifacts

to be recovered."

"How odd." The first officer's observation

triggered a new avenue of curiosity for

Picard. "What you describe would be considered a

major research project, yet I

don't believe I've ever heard of this site

before."

"Falling behind on your journal reading, sir?"

"On the contrary," said Picard. Having

achieved minor acclaim as an amateur

archaeologist, he made a concerted effort

to remain current in the field. "I used

to follow T'Sara's research reports with great

interest, but her last publication appeared nearly

two decades ago, before the departure of the

Stargazer on an extended deepspace mission.

By the time I returned to the Federation, I had lost

track of her whereabouts."

As soon as the captain turned to Data, the

android nodded and said, "I will broaden my search

to cover a profile of the expedition."

"Thank you, Mr. Data."

The background information would be useful, but

Picard doubted it would provide any insight

into the mystery of the violence on Atropos.

Instead, his thoughts shifted to sickbay, where the

answers to his most pressing questions lay just out of

reach, locked deep in T'Sara's mind.

He would continue his investigation there.

She had a gaunt, wrinkled face and hair

leached white by the passage of centuries.

Curled on her side, covered by a light

blanket, T'Sara appeared to be sleeping

peacefully on the diagnostic bed. The only

clue to her steep dive into a healing trance was the

weak flutter of indicators on the medical

scanner; her life-signs barely registered.

The loose sleeve of Beverly Crusher's

coat brushed against Picard's arm. He couldn't

tell if the doctor had moved to his side

to offer silent comfort or to seek it out for herself.

"She's much frailer than I expected,"

whispered Picard. He knew T'Sara was unable

to hear him, yet he couldn't bring himself to speak

louder. "Her writing is so robust that I

unconsciously imagined her to be a Vulcan

Amazon, strong-limbed and tall."

"She must have an incredibly strong constitution

to remain alive this long." Crusher's voice

matched Picard's in softness. "Professionally

speaking, there's little more that I can do for her except

trust that the powers of her mind will heal the

damage."

He stepped away from the bedside so that

he could speak more freely. "The recovery work on

Atropos is only beginning, but I will order an

immediate departure if you feel her condition warrants

the attention of a starbase medical facility."

"No." Crusher's answer was swift and

firm. "I've already discussed that option with Dr.

Selar, and we both determined that our medical

assistance is equal to any provided outside of

Vulcan. We could never reach one of their master

healers in time to make any difference to T'Sara's

recovery. The outcome will be settled within the

next twenty-four hours ... one way or

another."

Her prediction measured out hope and despair

in equal portions. Picard decided he must

balance his expectations on the same razor-edge

of uncertainty.

One of the medical staff had been hovering

discreetly out of range of the conversation between the

captain and his chief medical officer. She quickly

took advantage of Picard's silence and

stepped forward.

"Yes, Nurse D'Airo?" asked

Crusher.

"The first shipment from the planet surface has

arrived."

Picard could see the muscles in Beverly's

neck tighten, and he realized the nurse was

referring to the bodies of the Vulcan

archaeologists. The doctor's voice flattened

into a monotone as she issued a set of

instructions concerning the preparations in the two

surgical suites in sickbay.

When Nurse D'Airo had jotted the last

instruction on her data padd and slipped away,

Crusher turned back around to face the captain.

"I hate autopsies," she said with a grimace.

"When do you need these results?"

"As soon as possible. Until T'Sara

awakens, the results of the examinations are our

only clues to explaining the murders. Not to mention

that those results may serve to corroborate her

future testimony."

"What?" said Crusher. "Captain, you make

her sound like a suspect in the murders.

Remember that she was one of the victims."

"Beverly, given Sorren's misgivings about

T'Sara's failing mental health, I can't

afford to accept her explanation of the events on

Atropos without some supporting

evidence."

Looking over at the huddled figure of the

elderly Vulcan, Picard wondered if she would

live long enough to tell her version.

The encampment on Atropos was still bathed in

daylight when the Enterprise cycled into night.

Seventeen hours after the priority distress call

had pulled the starship off its course, weary

crewmembers drifted into Ten-Forward or sought

quiet refuge in their quarters; corridors

fell silent, drained of their traffic; and lights

dimmed or guttered into darkness.

Of course, there were some exceptions--a few

stubborn pockets of activity--and one of these was

the captain's ready room.

Picard rubbed the bridge of his nose in a

futile effort to ease his aching head and blurring

vision, then he scanned the text on his desk

computer one more time.

"No, that's not right either," he muttered and

tapped a key that would delete the paragraph he

had just written.

The preliminary mission reports

to Miyakawa and Starfleet command had been easy

to draft, but the captain was experiencing more

difficulty with his personal message to the

director of the Vulcan Science Academy.

On the surface, Vulcan culture was

straightforward and rational, but appearances could be

deceiving; logic took some unexpected twists and

turns when mixed with primal issues such as

murder and death. Picard had written and

rewritten his description of T'Sara's injury

and the death of her colleagues, but although his instincts

could lead him away from certain phrases that might

offend, he was less sure of what words to put in

their place.

The trill of the ready room doorbell was a

welcome distraction from the frustration of his task.

"Come," called out Picard, then waved his

visitor to one of the chairs on the other side of the

desk.

"Good evening, Captain," said Data with

typical formality. "I apologize for taking so

long to prepare my report. I was delayed by an

unfortunate discovery the camp's computer data

files were erased by the electromagnetic pulse

from a phaser blast."

Merde. Picard assumed the

Vulcans were methodical enough to maintain

duplicate records elsewhere, possibly at

Starbase 193, but tracking them down would take

more time.

"Fortunately," said Data, "I was able

to reconstruct the broad outlines of the

expedition's history from our own library

archives. The project's formation was quite

unusual."

"In what way?" asked Picard.

"Earlier Federation surveys established that

most items of note were removed from Atropos

several hundred years ago by the original

inhabitants. Although the reasons are obscure,

the colony was deliberately and methodically

abandoned, thus rendering it of minimal scholastic

value. As a result, T'Sara was unable

to secure support from academic institutions

to explore the ruins, and eventually she sold her

family estate on Vulcan to fund the venture

herself."

"A private expedition? That certainly

bespeaks considerable dedication." T'Sara's

reputation for radical departures from conventional

scholarship was well-founded. "So what was the

basis for her fascination with Atropos?"

"The avowed purpose was considered to be

"illogical," even downright eccentric.

T'Sara claimed that an artifact called the

Ko N'ya was buried somewhere on the planet."

"The Ko N'ya?"

"Yes," said the android. "The Ko N'ya

is--"

"Thank you, Data." Picard had become

adept at stemming the android's excess of

information. "However, an explanation won't be

necessary. I'm quite familiar with the legends of the Ko

N'ya, quite familiar indeed."

Ko N'ya.

Years had passed since Picard had uttered

that name aloud. The emotions it evoked were rooted in

childhood and threaded through the long years of his

adulthood. His earliest recollections

surfaced first and sent a shudder of excitement and

fear up his spine and out through the tips of his fingers.

It was a delicious sensation.

CHAPTER 4

When the Iconian people fled through the Gateway

to seek safe havens, Ikkabar was the most

inviting of the new worlds. Its lush plains and

shallow seas were familiar to homesick eyes, and a

walk along the curving coastlines of the northern

continent could trick the mind into thinking Iconia's

destruction had been nothing more than a fading

nightmare.

To this first generation of settlers, Ikkabar was a

clean slate on which to reconstruct their history

and culture. They raised cities filled with the

same delicate architecture that had been

trammeled to dust by enemy weapons, then they

picked up the threads of their past lives as if

nothing had changed. Many called the planet New

Iconia, and this belief in a serene rebirth

clouded their vision with bright colors that had been

mixed under the light of a different sun.

The next generation was not so complacent.

Children born to this world saw more clearly than their

elders; young eyes were not so easily fooled by the

appearance of tranquillity. There were shadows on

this landscape that had not been charted, subtle

intimations of a darker geographic history that no

one had bothered to read. The children still called themselves

Iconians, but they restored the planet's name

to Ikkabar as a reminder that they were strangers to this

place.

Over the following centuries, vague fears of

lurking danger began to harden into grim knowledge. The

temperate climate that had greeted the early

settlers was only a brief respite in a

pendulum swing from one harsh extreme to another.

The planet's orbit was irregular in the

extreme, and its climate equally so; there came

a time when the warm seas dried entirely in the heat

of summer, leaving nothing but sucking mud flats that

stretched to the far horizon; in winter,

torrential rains washed away the mud and

flooded the plains. Growing seasons contracted,

bringing famine to a people who had never wanted for

food. The foundations of their buildings began

to shift and slide in the softened ground, then harden

at angles with their walls cracked open and lofty

spirals splintered.

Old traditions were abandoned as each succeeding

generation desperately searched for new ways to grow

food and to build structures that could

safely house their families. Nevertheless, their

offworld heritage was still treasured. When Ikkabar

cycled back to a temperate climate and the

halcyon days of legend returned, the

Iconians rejoiced. There was talk of a cultural

renaissance, and ancient tomes, carefully

preserved, were opened and read by those who still retained

some measure of that dying skill.

The joy was short-lived. Bitter disappointment

took its place as the weather began to grow

colder, and the seas turned to ice rather than mud.

Much of the knowledge brought from Iconia was lost forever as

precious books were burned as fuel. A few

of the elders fought to save those relics; they were

burned as well.

The hardy survivors of ancient Iconia

now called themselves the Ikkabar. They moved from their

ice-block fortresses to grass huts and back

again with greater ease and fewer deaths, but even so,

their numbers continued to dwindle.

Few remembered the sprawling cities that had

been their first home; however, the buried remnants

of these ancient settlements served as a beacon

to space-faring races. The sensors of a passing

Federation starship traced the record of past

grandeur hidden beneath layers of ice and mud, and a

discreet probe gathered data on the people who lived

on this harsh planet. Little was done with the knowledge until

an ethnographer at the Vulcan Academy of

Science happened to read the field report.

Each year after that, T'Sara petitioned the

Federation for a more extensive survey of Ikkabar,

and each year she was refused, but her constant

pressure pushed its name higher and higher on the

list of projects waiting for funding and

personnel. At last, eight years after its first

visit, the USS Galeone returned to the

planet.

There were even fewer people alive on the surface

now.

The census results unleashed a storm of

controversy among the members of the survey team.

T'Sara led a faction that favored First Contact

so the Federation could provide aid to the scattered

hunting tribes scrabbling for food. The

Vulcan argued that these were the descendants of a people

dependant on a highly developed

technological culture. They were ill-matched

to this primitive world and its demands; and just as one

rescued the crew of a wrecked ship, these

people were in dire need of assistance.

Unfortunately, her evidence for this theory was

weak. Memories of Iconia and the Gateway

had degenerated into a vague creation myth of a lost

paradise, and the similarities to real places and

events were impossible to corroborate. The

opposing faction in the observation team maintained that

the hunters were native to Ikkabar and that their

evolutionary history had been erased by the same

climatic upheavals that had toppled their

ancient civilization.

That winter, more of the Ikkabar died than were

born.

Despite the continuing drop in numbers,

T'Sara could not convince her colleagues that this was

not part of the normal fluctuations of population

growth. There was ample precedent for the wisdom of

leaving a preliterate culture in strict

isolation, so the expedition withdrew.

As decades passed, one after another of the

observation probes malfunctioned, stressed beyond

tolerance by the brutal weather. Mounting tensions between

the Federation and its enemies channeled Starfleet

resources in other directions, so the probes

remained silent for several years.

When the Federation was finally free to turn its

attention back to Ikkabar, the children of Iconia

had lost their battle to survive on this third

world. All that remained of these long-suffering people was

one hungry child found huddled by the coals of a fading

fire.

The boy clung to his alien saviors with a

desperation born of fear and loneliness. With what

little they knew of his language the crew of the

USS Clements learned he was called Kanda

Jiak. T'Sara could have explained the importance

of this name, but she had left Vulcan to continue her

search for the Ko N'ya, and the news never reached

her.

Fourteen years and a few months after he was

rescued from Ikkabar, young Kanda Jiak took his

first trembling steps toward reclaiming his lost

Iconian heritage.

The decision to set off on this quest had been

made on the eve of Jiak's departure from his

second home on Redifer III. Perhaps it

had been made even earlier, because he was one of the

few students on that world who applied to an

off-planet college. In either case, the

trip to Terra Sol University had provided

him with a convenient cover for leaving Redifer, one that

would not arouse any opposition from his parents.

His resolve held firm throughout the first week

of travel away from home, but when the passenger

liner actually docked at Starbase 75, Jiak

cowered in his cabin for the first hour of the brief shore

leave. It would be so much easier, so much safer,

to continue on to Earth as everyone expected him to do.

His quest could wait until he was older.

Yet somehow the last survivor of Ikkabar

suspected that if he failed to act now, he would

never walk down this path in the future. After a

few more years, Kanda Jiak would be fully

assimilated into his life as a citizen of the

Federation. The tattered threads of his origins were

already worn too thin for memory; what little he

knew of his people came from reading the ethnography

reports from the crew of the Galeone.

So, just a few minutes before the passenger

recall sounded, Jiak walked off the

transport liner.

He had half-hoped someone would stop him, but the

ship's first officer had smiled perfunctorily

at the request to permanently disembark, and a

harried crewman had ushered him to the docking

gate. Evidently passengers frequently

changed their itinerary midway through a trip.

Jiak faced a second trial of courage

when he walked through the series of interconnecting

domes that formed the main terminal. Overwhelmed by the

massive complex and the jostling crowds that surged in

currents around him, he felt like a small boy

about to drown in a treacherous sea.

Rooted in place by fear and indecision, he

automatically scanned the stream of alien faces

for one that matched his own in color and shape. It was

an old habit, a holdover from his early

childhood when he still believed that someday his own people

would miraculously appear to whisk him back

to Ikkabar. Over the years he had grown to love

his adopted world and his foster parents, yet the

impulse to search persisted. On all of

Redifer, and even here where over a dozen different

races were passing by him every minute, Jiak was

unique.

That would change soon.

"Hey! Are you lost?" The question was followed by a

sharp jab to his arm.

"No," he said, turning to face his

inquisitor.

"You look very lost." The woman was dressed

in a rumpled blue jumpsuit, but he noticed

the row of captain's pips on the collar. They

weren't Starfleet design, so she was in charge

of a civilian ship, possibly a freighter.

"I know where I am now," said Jiak, mustering

a bravado he did not feel, "and I know where

I'm going next, so I don't see how I could

be lost."

Her hand darted upward to tuck a stray wisp

of her hair back into place. It was a futile

effort; the twisted braid she wore was bristling with

errant curls. "So where are you going?"

His final destination was none of her business,

yet the young man was grateful for her concern, even

if it was rather roughly expressed. Jiak

compromised by revealing an intermediate stop.

"Well, as it happens, I'm on my way

to Davenport V."

The captain snorted derisively at his

answer. "And have you already got a ticket?"

He shook his head. "I need to buy one now.

I'd be in your debt if you could show me where

to--"

"It's not a big tourist spot and that means

top rates." Then she quoted the price of

passage to that distant world.

The cost was staggeringly high. Jiak had been

sure his spending allowance for the first term would cover

all his travel expenses, but instead this one

ticket would wipe out the entire allotment on his

credit chip. He would be left with no funds for the

final leg of his journey from Davenport

to DiWahn.

His dismay must have been obvious, because the woman

sighed heavily. "Go back home, kid."

"I'm not a kid, and I'll find another way

to get there." He would have to find it soon. In

another few days his mother and father would learn that he

had never reached Earth and would begin to trace his

steps. They had no authority to stop him now that

he was of age, but Jiak wanted to escape their

pleas for him to return to the comforting familiarity of

Redifer.

As if she had been reading his thoughts, the woman

said, "I guess you're too old to be running

away from home, but you're still young enough to have stardust in

your eyes. That won't last long on my ship."

"What did you say?" asked Jiak.

"The name is Captain Del," she snapped,

"and I'm not offering you a glamorous job. Some

kids expect a joyride through space, but you'll

work damn hard for your berth."

"I don't want glamour, just free

passage off this starbase."

"As long as you remember that, we'll get

along fine." Del jabbed a finger at the bundle

by his feet. "Is that all your freight?"

"Yes. I travel light."

"Good." She smiled her approval at this

evidence of thrift. "Come on, then. Don't

dally. I have a tight delivery schedule."

Still too startled to fully grasp his good

fortune, Jiak hoisted the backpack into place

and trotted after Del.

In truth, he hadn't had time to retrieve the

rest of his luggage from the passenger liner, and those

heavy cases were on their way to Earth by now. With

careful tending, however, he could make do with the one

change of clothing he carried with him.

His only other remaining possession, the one that

weighed most heavily on his shoulders, was a copy

of T'Sara's Legends of the Iconian

Diaspora.

CHAPTER 5

Even from his position at an aft station console,

Data easily followed the overlapping exchange

between Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but there has been

no change in her--"

"What about the--"

"The autopsy reports are still being--"

"Let me know as soon as you have anything

to report."

Data noted the way in which the two officers

consistently anticipated the next request for

information. Humans persisted in this curious

behavior even though his own observations indicated

that it often led to misunderstandings.

Data heard the captain's chair creak ever so

softly as Picard's weight was lifted from the

cushions. With his acute senses, the android

easily followed the sound of Picard's

distinctive tread as he moved up a side ramp

to the elevated deck. He walked to a spot just

behind Data's chair and stopped.

"Yes, Captain?" Data turned

around, thus observing the cultural dictate of

face-to-face interpersonal interaction.

"I'd like to see the team profiles again."

Data had kept the files cued for instant

access. On reflection, he realized that this was

an example of anticipating the captain's

request.

Picard leaned over Data's shoulder and

called the names out one by one. "Skorret ...

Sohle ... Sorren ..."

Data was careful to run the biographical

profiles at a speed that would accommodate the

captain's slower neural responses. The

android's own positronic brain had already

committed all the information on the archaeological

team to memory after one scan, but he accepted the

fact that Humans required this continual review

process to fully assimilate new information.

"Soth ... T'Challo ... Tessin ..."

The lagging pace was never boring, however, because

Data could occupy himself with alternate sensory

input, such as the conversations of the bridge crew

passing by the science station; he could also generate

simulated poker hands to calculate odds and

refine his betting strategy; or he could compare

various renditions of musical compositions

to better understand the aesthetic impact of a

conductor's style. At the moment, he was doing

all three of the above.

"Run the Vulcan distress call again," said

Picard.

"Yes, Captain."

Data cued the transmission to begin with the

archaeology team's identification frame,

written in both Vulcan and Federation Standard.

This was followed by the image of a Vulcan male

with the long face and high cheekbones characteristic of his

species; although exact age was always difficult

to determine in such a long-lived race, he

appeared to be less than a half-century old.

He was dressed in a dusty worksuit; the ruins of

an ancient alien edifice served as his

backdrop.

"I am Sorren, assistant to our expedition

leader, T'Sara. It is the consensus of the

archaeological team that T'Sara is in need of

medical attention. Her behavior is growing

increasingly erratic she is prone to outbursts of

emotion and persists in ..."

[crackle] ...

"There," said Picard, with a jabbing motion of his

hand. Data responded instantly, freezing the

badly fragmented image on the screen. "That

short burst of static obliterates part of

Sorren's message. From the context, it appears

to be an elaboration of what constitutes

T'Sara's erratic behavior." The hand

dropped and Data continued the review.

"... is my belief these symptoms are

characteristic of Bendii's syndrome. I request

immediate transport so that T'Sara can receive

appropriate medical treatment before her condition

deteriorates any further."

Data stopped the recording and waited for the

captain's next command.

"That missing segment was unimportant while

Sorren was alive," said Picard with a thoughtful

rub of his chin. "But now it may be our only

clue as to what happened in the camp these last few

days. Is there any way to recover the information?"

"If the team followed standard communications

procedures, an intact original would be stored

in the memory banks of the subspace radio

transmitter. Unfortunately, the equipment

damage erased all records of previous

activity."

"Just as the expedition's data files were

destroyed," said Picard. "If this vandalism is

an example of T'Sara's "erratic"

behavior, she was also extremely methodical in

its execution."

Data added two new tracks of activity

to his mental processes. In one of them, he

analyzed the captain's voice and identified the

stress pattern as indicative of irritation,

suspicion, and curiosity; of all the crew,

Data found Picard's complex emotional states

the most challenging to unravel. The second train

of thought led to an announcement. "Captain, I have

identified the static interference as a

substantial burst of Hovorka radiation."

Given the captain's lack of reaction,

Data belatedly realized that the conundrum was not

self-evident.

"Hovorka emissions are generated during the

collapse of brown dwarf stars, but there

are no such sources for this radiation anywhere in this

sector or in the area stretching between this solar

system and Starbase 193."

"Then how can you account for its presence?"

"I cannot." Then, anticipating the captain's

next question, Data said, "Neither can I theorize a

connection between the events on the planet and this

anomaly; nevertheless, the radiation should not be there."

Picard was just as quick at anticipating

Data's next request.

"You know how I feel about mysteries, Mr.

Data; it may be inconsequential, but I still

want it explained. Proceed with your

investigation."

The slow, measured beat of the diagnostic

scanner exploded into a flurry of sounds and

flashing lights. Seconds later the chief

medical officer and two nurses were clustered around

T'Sara's bed. The Vulcan woman had

remained limp and unresponsive when her wounds

were first tended, but now her limbs twitched ever so

slightly with muscular tension.

"She appears to be coming out of the healing state,"

said Crusher as she tracked the life function

indicators. Despite the wild fluctuations,

the overall pattern was of an increase in

cellular and metabolic activity. "But

dammit, it's too soon! The tissue damage

has barely begun to regenerate. If she wakes

up now, she'll die of her injuries."

At this point, Crusher knew the ideal

treatment was for a Vulcan healer to forge a

mind-link and guide the patient back into the

trance, but not even Selar was qualified

to initiate that therapy.

Fortunately, there were cruder methods

available to persuade the body to resume its

regenerative efforts.

"Ten cc's of Tochizine." Crusher held out

her hand and felt the satisfying weight of a loaded

hypospray slap into her open palm.

The doctor pressed the instrument against the base

of the patient's neck and triggered a spray of the

drug through the skin.

"Metabolic activity is stabilizing ...

decreasing," confirmed Nurse D'Airo. She

began to read off the declining values, then

paused. When she resumed the count, the numbers were

climbing again.

"Fifteen cc's of D'armacol," ordered

Crusher, but neither that nor an additional fifteen

cc's of Hyzolidine had any lasting effect on

the readouts. "It's as if her body is

constantly adjusting to the injections and neutralizing

the effects."

Crusher accepted a recharged hypo from

D'Airo and positioned it against bare skin, but she

did not trigger the blast. The Vulcan's drive

to regain consciousness could not be repressed without a

massive chemical assault tha t would do equal

damage to her weakened system.

Then T'Sara snapped open her eyes; they were

onyx-black and clear of any confusion.

"All right," said Crusher softly. "If this

is what you want."

T'Sara extended a thin, spindly arm toward

the doctor. From a Human the gesture might have

appeared imploring, but there was no mistaking the

imperious demand of a Vulcan. The fingers of the hand

flexed, then clenched like steel clamps around a

fold of Beverly's coat. Even nearing death,

T'Sara had sufficient strength to pull the

doctor closer until the old woman's mouth was

pressed against Crusher's ear.

T'Sara's hoarse whisper was like a gust of

desert air. "Ko N'ya ... the blood never

stops flowing."

Picard had managed to catch a few hours

sleep since his last visit to sickbay, but he

suspected his chief medical officer had not been

so lucky. Standing in the close confines of her

office, he could hear a rasp in Beverly's

voice and see dark smudges forming beneath her

eyes.

"Are you sure that's what she said?" asked

Riker.

"Yes, I'm sure." Crusher had delivered

her medical report with a crisp detachment, but

now that it was over she shoved aside her medical

padd and sagged back into her desk chair.

"T'Sara spoke quite clearly ... before she

died."

Picard saw Beverly's gaze shift away

to the sickbay ward outside her office; he

glanced back in time to see two nurses lift a

still, covered body onto an antigrav sled.

By the time he and Riker left this office,

T'Sara would be gone, whisked away from the

presence of the living.

Having witnessed Sarek's last days of suffering

from Bendii's syndrome, Picard wondered if

this was a more merciful end.

"What does that mean? Ko Ni--" Riker

faltered over the delicate contraction of the

syllables.

"Ko N'ya," corrected the captain with a

grasp of the inflection that came naturally to him through

long usage. "The name is ancient, with origins

in a pre-Reform Vulcan dialect. There is

no direct translation, but the cultural concept

is roughly analogous to "the Devil's

Heart"."

Crusher frowned at the explanation. "What an

odd choice for one's dying words."

"Not so odd for this particular Vulcan," said

Picard. "For the past two decades, T'Sara

has ... had been obsessed with tracing an

object which she believed appeared in the mythology

of disparate worlds. Her theory, widely discounted

by other scholars and historians, is that this

talisman really did exist and that it was the

factual source for all those legends. She also

believed that the Ko N'ya had somehow ended up on

Atropos, and she spent the last ten years trying

to find it there."

"What a waste," said Riker. "Could this

obsession of hers have been caused by the

Bendii's?"

"Would everyone please stop speculating ahead

of the evidence," snapped Crusher. "Sorren was

an archaeologist, not a doctor, and he was not

qualified to diagnose such an extremely rare

disease. Until my lab tests confirm--"

"How soon--" began Picard.

"I'm working as fast as I can, Captain," said

Crusher stiffly. "My staff is working as fast as

they can. When the results are ready, I'll

let--"

She stopped suddenly, took a deep breath,

then began again. "And when I've gotten some

sleep, I may even remember how to be civil

again."

"No offense taken, Doctor," said

Picard. Sleep might help, but he

suspected her weariness had another, darker,

source; Beverly's next task was all too

obvious.

His chief medical officer rose from behind

her desk. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen,

I have another autopsy to attend to."

"Captain?"

"Sorry, Number One," said Picard, when

he realized that he was still standing in the corridor

outside sickbay, lost in thoughts of T'Sara and

her fruitless quest. He launched himself forward,

setting a brisk pace. "You were saying?"

Riker fell into step beside him. "According

to Worf's progress report, the research

camp is almost completely dismantled. We should be

able to break orbit in the next few hours."

"Not yet," said Picard. "Not until we have

a clear idea of what happened down on the

surface. We may need to examine the site

again."

There was sufficient truth in this statement to ease

Picard's conscience. An additional, unspoken

reason was his need to make peace with T'Sara's

murder. His grief at the scholar's death was more

intellectual than emotional, yet an empty

feeling of deep loss could not be dislodged no

matter how fast he walked.

"I think it's time for me to see Atropos for

myself." Without slowing his pace, Picard executed

an abrupt turn to his right and marched through the open

doors of a turbolift that had just discharged a

passenger. "Deck 6."

Riker dashed into the compartment just before the doors

closed. As the turbolift whined into motion, the first

officer said, "Are you going down there as an

archaeologist or as a detective?"

"A bit of both," admitted Picard, "but

also to pay my respects."

When T'Sara's life had been cut short,

her ceaseless quest for the mythic Ko N'ya had

also come to an end. Atropos, with its covering of

ruins, was a fitting tombstone for both of them.

The hard metallic grill of the transporter

platform transmuted into spongy turf, and

Picard felt his boots sink ever so slightly

into the ground.

He surveyed his surroundings, from the plants

crushed under his boots to the strange jumble of

ruins, like the bleached bones of an ancient

goliath scattered all around him.

Massive tiles had once paved the area with

alternating squares of bright colors, but

their pattern was disrupted now. Some tiles had

settled unevenly, their surfaces tilted at

wild angles; others were shattered into pieces;

all were smeared with a thick layer of dust and dirt.

In the center of the plaza was a jagged ring of stone,

all that remained of a high tower that had crumbled

down to its base. Judging from the amount of

debris, the structure had dwarfed every other

building within miles; even its ruins still reached

high enough to block out the sun.

The air was dry and tartly scented, and he

inhaled deeply, eager to flush his lungs of the

odorless mixture of gases that filled the

starship. Picard smiled, savoring the feel of his

mind stretching to encompass an alien landscape.

The smile faded when he caught sight of a

small metallic tag driven into the ground; it

marked where a body had been found. Four

archaeologists had died in the plaza that sprawled

out before him.

Lieutenant Worf stepped out of the shadows where

he had been waiting for the captain's arrival.

He pointed to a marker by his feet. "T'Sara

fell here."

Three other tags were arranged in a rough

semicircle around the Klingon, placed where the

archaeologists had gathered to face their leader.

According to Riker's mission report, Soth and

T'Challo were also armed, and T'Sara was caught

in their cross fire.

Picard tried to reconstruct the scene in his

mind, but it was difficult to place Vulcans in

the midst of such violence. For ten years T'Sara

and her colleagues had patiently worked their way

through these ruins. What combination of actions and

reactions among them could have led to this fatal

tableau?

"Lieutenant, where was their last excavation

site?"

"Over here." Worf retreated into the shadows.

The captain followed, picking his way through a

maze of fallen blocks, wary of loose tiles

that rocked underfoot.

"We removed a scanner and several sonic

tools from this area," said Worf.

As his eyes adjusted to the shade, Picard could

see that a patch of ground had been cleared of

stones to provide access to a delicate bas

relief of hieroglyphics carved on the tower

wall. One section was partially restored,

but if the Vulcans had managed to decipher the

alien language, the message had been lost again

when the expedition's data files were erased.

"I had hoped for something more momentous," said

Picard with a sigh, "but I'm afraid this would

only have been a footnote in her latest--"

He spied a black shadow breaking the

expanse of gray wall; it was tall and narrow,

like a doorway.

Curiosity demanded an explanation. Picard

walked to the wall, but even up close his eyes

strained to see through the opening. He stretched out an

arm. His hand sank into the darkness and touched air that

was several degrees cooler than where he stood.

"Another footnote?" asked Worf.

"Perhaps. Why don't we find out?"

Picard stepped through the opening.

The tunnel was narrow--he could hear the sound of

Worf's shoulders brushing against the sides of

polished stone--and if the light grew any dimmer

he would be foolish to forge ahead. The darkness did

not thicken, however. Instead, a glowing light

beckoned him to continue his exploration.

They soon discovered that the illumination came from

a field lamp abandoned in the corridor. Its

light revealed that the end of the tunnel had once

been bricked over, but the archaeologists had cut

through the barrier to reach the circular chamber beyond.

"More than a footnote," said Picard when he

caught sight of the interior.

A huge throne, hewn out of the same stone as the

tower above, was set in the center of the bare room.

The attenuated figure that sat on the throne was

no statue, however. On his first breath, Picard

had inhaled the musty odor of mummification. Skin

and tissue had dried, shrinking against the skeleton

beneath.

In life, the alien had been tall and

willowy; in death, it was crouched like a spider in

its web.

"It's holding something," he said, observing how

its arms and hands came together as if cupping a

small object in its palms. When Picard

approached for a better look, his boots stirred

dust motes of decay into the still air.

The object was gone.

He knew the prickle of apprehension that

shuddered through hi m was irrational and unwarranted.

Surely, the contents of this chamber must have been

plundered centuries before the Vulcans had

set foot on the planet.

"I've seen enough."

Worf nodded impassively, but he scrambled

out the portal somewhat faster than he had entered.

Picard ducked his head as he edged through the breach,

then froze in place.

"Captain? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, although I suppose it

hardly matters now."

The signs were so clear; surely T'Sara had

seen them, too? Picard reached out one hand,

trailing his fingers over the crumbling bricks and

mortar, wondering what fierce emotion had driven

the hands that had built this wall.

"This chamber was sealed from the inside."

CHAPTER 6

Embedded discreetly along the outer shell of

Starbase 193 were a series of subspace

signal collectors, a small part of the vast

communications network that linked one end of the Federation

to another. These electronic scoops gathered up

decaying transmissions from passing freighters or

from settlements uneasily perched on the fringe of

Federation territory, then computers sorted the

compressed digital packets and directed them

to the appropriate transmitter along the upper

rim of the station. The newly fortified signals were

flung back into the void toward their destination or

to yet another of the relay boosters seeded throughout

Federation territory.

The process was automatic, so the

communications packet from the Enterprise passed

through the system in a matter of seconds. It would

have taken even less time, except Captain

Picard's mission report had to be detached from

the compressed bundle before the remaining portion of the

transmission was sent on its way to Vulcan.

Suffering yet another half-second lag, the

captain's report was routed through a short system

subroutine. Following the program's

instructions, the computer created a duplicate of the

transmission and shuttled this copy to an untitled

buffer file. The original proceeded to Commander

Miyakawa's message terminal.

Minutes later, a technician in the

communications center accessed the duplicate and

perused its contents. After the first quick reading, a

nervous tic began to tug one corner of his

mouth askew. He read the message a second

time.

This breach of security procedures would have been

more difficult to implement on a starbase fully

staffed by Starfleet officers, but Thomas Grede

often worked unsupervised, so the subroutine had

been relatively easy to install. None of the

other operators knew the system well enough

to discover the alteration, and few would have cared.

He was depending on this same apathy when he

slipped away from his post in the middle of a shift.

No one noticed his departure, but then no one

noticed Grede much of the time anyway. He was a

slight, timid man who had grown accustomed

to being overlooked by the people around him. Competent and

reliable, his only weakness was a hunger for

attention, yet this craving had persisted

unfulfilled for most of his life.

On Starbase 193, one person had seen his

need and used it to her advantage.

As a matter of routine, any new employee

hired by the base commander was soon tempted

to provide certain business interests on the station

with private services. Grede had stood firm

against repeated bribes, and over several years of

steady if unspectacular performance, he had

earned a high security clearance. During this time,

however, Camenae had patiently cultivated his

friendship with a few kind words and the occasional free

drink at the Due or Die. This mild

flattery was all it took to buy his loyalty.

Grede grew anxious to please her. Without

any prompting, one day he came to her with the gift

of a coded communiqu`e to Commander Miyakawa that

he had skillfully intercepted. Camenae had

paid him for the betrayal, but it was her smile of

appreciation that thrilled him. Unfortunately,

her gratitude did not last very long, and soon

her manner toward him grew cool and distant.

Desperate to regain her favor, the technician

realized that the only way he could maintain his good

standing was with a constant stream of tribute.

Today, as he scurried through the doors of the Due

or Die, Grede belatedly admitted that the

price of pleasing Camenae was climbing higher

than he could afford.

"I have information." These were the magic words that had

first fulfilled his desire to impress the

knowledge-broker. These three words persuaded the

Norsican guard to move aside and

allow Grede access to the inner sanctum.

He knew the way into Camenae's shadowed

office by heart, but he stumbled over the threshold

anyway, his feet tangled by haste and a fear so

strong it weakened his knees. She waved him to a

chair, but he continued to stand, bouncing on the balls

of his feet, ready to sprint away again.

"I've just seen the latest report

to Miyakawa from the Enterprise," he said, still

panting from his run to the bar. "Camenae, the

Vulcans on Atropos are dead!"

"So the Enterprise is handling this matter.

That's definitely information I can use." She

reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew a

token.

"No," cried Grede, his voice rising in

pitch. "I didn't come here to sell you something.

Camenae, this situation is getting out of hand.

We're talking the death of prominent Federation

citizens. That means an investigation, questions,

officials prying into every corner of this starbase."

She shrugged. "I'm not responsible if you

failed to consider the consequences of our last

transaction."

"Dammit, I could get into serious trouble for

what I've done!"

"In that case," she said, palming the coin he

had rejected, "I'll put this on your account.

You may have need of it in the future."

He searched her face for some sign of

compassion. The corners of her mouth were turned

down, but not out of concern for his misfortune.

Camenae was merely impatient for him to leave.

Sendei shut his eyes.

After a century of practice, this simple

act should have slipped him easily into meditation, but

today that skill eluded him. The Vulcan struggled

to submerge himself and failed. He could still hear the

muffled exchanges between students and professors

in the hall outside, and the outlines of his office

remained clearly visible in his mind.

He took a deep breath. Then, like a child just

learning the first steps of emotional control, he

summoned the construct of two hands and imagined them

cupped over each of his ears.

When all sounds had faded, Sendei passed the

hands in front of his face, and his awareness of the

room in which he sat receded as well. The

removal of these distractions released other

thoughts that were not so easily blocked.

He was haunted by memories of the dead.

Over ten years had passed since he had found

T'Sara standing on the crest of a moonlit dune,

gazing out across the plains to the blackened

silhouette of Mount Selaya. Sendei had

argued with her for hours, nearly until dawn, but

logic could not deter T'Sara from selling her

estate to continue her search for the Ko N'ya. He

had stormed away when his emotional reserve finally

shattered against her obstinacy. By the time he had

recovered his composure, she had left Vulcan.

He never saw her again.

T'Sara had no close family, and the distant

branches of her clan had severed all contact after

she ceded her ancestral lands. As of this moment,

Sendei claimed her as his own kin. He would

write her name in his family's annals so that his

children's children would revere her memory.

Her image faded and he was alone in the

desert.

Dipping his hands into the dune, Sendei filled

cupped palms with sand, then focused his attention

on the grains as they streamed from between his fingers. This

second construct helped him descend to another

level of the meditative state.

He did not see Sohle's face, but he

remembered the gruffness of the man's voice. Although

Sohle had never professed belief in

T'Sara's quest, he had been the first

archaeologist at the Academy to announce his

decision to accompany her to Atropos, and he had

met the storm of criticism leveled against his

participation with a short answer. "I will learn more from

her folly than from the wisdom of my

colleagues."

Other professors and students had been

persuaded by these words, so T'Sara did not leave

Vulcan alone.

Now Sendei would have to inform Sohle's children that

their father was dead, just as Tessin's brothers must be

told that their only sister would not return home.

Skorret would never finish his dissertation on

pre-Reform metalwork, and the Academy had lost

forever T'Challo's insights into early Vulcan

art forms.

So many names lost ... so many lives disrupted

... so many families wounded by this tragedy.

Drifting grains of sand could not shore up his

crumbling emotional defenses. Sendei

loosed a thundering earthquake across the desert. The

ground trembled and shook until a jagged

fissure opened beneath his feet. He dropped down

into total darkness, into the very center of his despair.

Sorren is dead. My son is dead.

Sendei's reaction was Vulcan, silent but

deeply felt. Offworlders often mistook that

lack of outward show for indifference, but the pain of

such a loss was not meant for display. Few

Vulcans managed to extinguish all emotion, but

most had mastered the ability to contain it. According to the

philosophy that the Vulcan race had adopted,

there was no reason why any emotion, no matter

how intense, should influence behavior or cloud the

path of logic.

Deep in meditation, Sendei searched for a final

construct that would contain his unruly emotions. He

chose the image of a river rushing through an underground

chasm. Here his rage and grief could run freely

and purely in their own channel until death brought

him inner peace.

CHAPTER 7

"There is no Bendii's!"

Beverly Crusher had charged through the doors of the

captain's ready room after only a token ring

of the chime. She was brandishing her medical padd like

the head of a vanquished enemy.

Picard lowered the teacup that had been on its

way to his lips and waved the CMO to a chair in

front of his desk. "I take it your medical

report is ready."

"Yes, by god, it is." She moved into place

with the grace of a dancer, the tails of her lab

coat billowing out behind her. "Tissue cultures

from T'Sara's metathalamus were negative for

Bendii's syndrome. In fact, during the

autopsy I found no signs of any kind of

pathology in her brain or nervous system no

lesions, no tumors, nothing organic that could

result in violent or irrational behavior."

"Then what could have triggered such violence among

the Vulcans?"

"Oh, but I'm not convinced of that either," said

Crusher. Heightened spots of color on her

cheeks betrayed her excitement. "I

may be rusty on the finer points of forensic

medicine, but it appears that several of the Vulcans

were stunned before they were killed, and almost all of the

bodies show obvious signs of having been moved

after death."

She jabbed at her padd screen, consulted the

new readout, then continued. "For instance, Soth was

found lying facedown in the plaza, but blood had

pooled on the back of his body; T'Challo's

arms had small scrapes and bruises that

occurred after death, and three of Sohle's fingers

were broken after rigor mortis had set in,

apparently to force his hand around a phaser grip."

Picard already had a notion of where this discussion was

leading, but he sipped his tea as Beverly continued

to develop her argument.

"Not to mention that Tessin's fingerprints were found

on the weapon that killed Skorret, even though the

rate of cellular degeneration suggests she died

at least a half hour before he did." Tossing the

data padd onto the captain's desk like a

gauntlet thrown down in challenge, Crusher

said, "Frankly, I find it highly unlikely

that a group of homicidal Vulcans would concern

themselves with moving their victims from one place

to another; a far more likely explanation of the

entire situation is--"

"--is that off-planet intruders staged a

clumsy cover for the murders."

"Exactly!"

The new scenario unfolded before his mind's

eye T'Sara caught unawares, falling under the

unexpected barrage of phaser fire, victim

of an attack from without rather than from within. Although the

forms that wielded the weapons were shadowy and

undefined, their existence had the solidity of

truth.

"I concur with your interpretation of the evidence,"

said Picard. "The question remains, who would do this and

why?"

She shrugged. "Sorry, Captain, that's not

my department."

"No," he sighed. "But it is mine." The

answers to T'Sara's death danced just out of reach,

elusive, tantalizing. What would it take

to bring them into focus?

He tapped the communicator on his chest.

"Picard to Data What is the status of your

current project?"

"I have not yet concluded my

investigation, but there is sufficient progress

to warrant your attention."

"Thank you, Data. I'm on my way to the

bridge." The captain rose from behind his desk.

"Doctor, I think you should hear this, too."

Riker's steps echoed loudly as he crossed

the deck of Cargo Bay 12. The loading crew

was gone, as was the fleet of airsleds they had

driven into the spacious hold. After a brief

frenzy of activity, Worf's team had left

behind a tidy mountain of faceted shipping cartons.

Each carton had a number stenciled on its

surface, and as Riker entered that number into his

data padd, the tablet's display screen revealed

the contents stored inside. The first series included

tents, computers, dating scanners, thermal

sensors, laser drills, and sonic picks. Every

last stake and stray piece of rope had been

gathered up and packed away.

Next, Riker checked through the artifacts

uncovered by the excavations shards of pottery and

statuary, broken weapons, small pieces of

jewelry. These were the discarded remnants of a

society, not its treasures. According to the captain,

it was from precisely this sort of detritus that

most archaeologists teased their understanding of a

culture, and T'Sara had displayed a genius for

making these extrapolations.

The last two cartons were filled with items

found in the archaeologists' living quarters.

Vulcans were not a materialistic race, so the

list Riker scanned was spare and consisted mostly

of clothes and books. Even after their long tenure

on the planet, the scientists had made no

attempt to decorate their tents with frivolous

trinkets; every personal article was utilitarian

in purpose and discreetly labeled with the owner's

name.

Upon a second glance, however, the first officer

noticed that every member of the team possessed a

pocket holo. So, at the end of a long day of

excavation and research, even Vulcans wanted

reminders of home and family.

Three of them had brought musical instruments as

well. Riker envisioned a small group of tired

men and women gathered together under the stars, listening to the

soft strains of a lyre and a flute. The scene

made the knowledge of their deaths more poignant, almost

painful, but it helped to overshadow his

memories of contorted bodies mired in blood.

With a final tap on the padd's controls,

Riker transferred the confirmed manifest into the

starship's main computers. Nothing of the Vulcans

remained below on Atropos. Their decade-long

presence had been completely erased.

"Sorren's distress call appears to have been

altered in several ways," said Data. "The first

modification was to the identification slate."

Picard automatically leaned closer to the

science station, then shifted slightly to allow

Crusher an unobstructed view of the screen. The

circular seal of the United Federation of

Planets--a field of stars flanked by olive

branches--floated on a blue background; below

the logo was a small block of text.

The two officers studied the slate and its

standard display of information about Sorren's

message.

Origin UFP 567045-B12-10A

(atropos)

Destination UFP 567045-B23-22C

(starbase 193)

Stardate 45873.4

"I see nothing out of the ordinary," said Picard

as he exchanged puzzled looks with the doctor.

"At first, neither did I," said the android.

"However, when I examined the transmission

envelope I discovered a discrepancy in the date

stamp. Since the envelope is usually accessed

only by the transceiver hardware, its information is

never visible to the recipient of the message."

With quick, practiced movements, Data

unzipped the coded interface and called forth a

dense stream of unformatted data. Numbers

flew by more quickly than Picard could follow until

suddenly Data froze the image. His pointing

finger highlighted the pertinent section of a line.

FMCCUFP567045-B12-10Ast-

TOCCUFP567045-B23-22C/SD-

45873.3

"45873.3," read Picard. "One day

earlier!"

"Correct," said the android. "The last

digit designating the day has been changed on

the identification slate. That alteration obscured

a twenty-four-hour lag between the receipt

of the original message at Starbase 193 and the

transmission of a forged version to the Enterprise."

"And during that time," said Crusher angrily,

"the Vulcans were being slaughtered."

"That would appear to be the case."

The screen image shimmered as Data advanced

the recording to the middle of Sorren's

communiqu`e. Black and white lines lightly

scored the Vulcan's face, then increased in

intensity, fracturing the picture beyond

recognition.

Data continued his explanation. "The second

modification involves the sudden appearance of

static that obscures part of the message. Any

transmission interference should have been noted by the

subspace receiver; however, the data verification

field indicates that the Vulcan's message was

received intact at Starbase 193. Neither is there

any record of difficulty in the transmission

from the starbase to the Enterprise. Thus, I

surmised that the burst of Hovorka radiation is

actually a graphic forgery introduced

to suppress five seconds of the image."

"Can the original be restored?" asked

Picard.

"Yes, I believe so. The transmission

envelope contains a compressed digital

duplicate of lower resolution, but this copy

contains sufficient information for our purposes.

By judicious cross-referencing and multiple

digital sampling I can reconstruct the missing

segment."

"Make it so."

A high whine ensued as the android ran the

message at high speed; his fingers blurred with

equal rapidity over the console as he adjusted

controls, then repeated the process again and again.

With each repetition the tape image became

clearer. "This should be sufficient for comprehension."

Sorren's movements slowed to real time, and his

voice dropped back to a deep pitch.

Despite a slight blurring of image and sound,

his words were intelligible.

"Her behavior is growing increasingly

erratic she is prone to outbursts of emotion and

persists in irrational accounts of her communion with the

Ko N'ya."

"The Ko N'ya again," exclaimed Crusher.

Picard's thoughts flashed to the memory of two

gnarled hands, the hands of an alien who had walled

itself up alive. What had those cupped palms

been holding when T'Sara entered the chamber?

"After all these years of searching," he wondered

aloud, "could she really have found it?"

Troi stirred in her cabin bed, her legs

thrashing beneath the sheets until she kicked off her

covers entirely. The loss of warmth and a nagging

agitation prodded her up through the layers of

unconsc iousness.

Her eyes fluttered open for only a

second. Fighting against the impulse to wake, she

buried her face back into a pillow. This nap was

no luxury. The last few days had been filled

with emergency sessions that had pulled the counselor

out of her cabin in the middle of the night. That was

often the case after Away Team missions that

involved violent death, and this time several members

of the paramedic team had been plagued with

nightmares.

Of their own accord, Troi's feet twitched

as if she were pacing back and forth across a deck.

Of course. Imzadi.

Belatedly, the empath realized what was

happening. Commander Will Riker was striding through the

Enterprise with a heightened vigor and intensity of

purpose, and she was unwittingly keeping him

company. His forceful emotions often overrode her

mental block, like rising floodwaters spilling

over the edge of a dam. Stronger defenses would

prevent these intrusions, but the effort would require

a constant mental strain, and it would also mute the

comforting knowledge of his presence.

Having identified the source of her unease,

Troi damped down her emotional link with the first

officer until the muscles in her legs

relaxed. Then she groped for her covers and sighed

contentedly at the prospect of falling back

asleep.

She drifted lazily into unconsciousness.

"Data to Counselor Troi."

Troi's eyes flew open. "Yes,

Data?"

"The captain has called an emergency

conference for all senior officers."

Stifling a groan of exasperation, the

counselor said, "I'm on my way."

According to the engineering schematics on file at the

Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards,

Ten-Forward was merely a spacious room

designated as a crew lounge. All

galaxy-class starships had a Ten-Forward with

its standard-issue bar and curving transparent

aluminum windows, but only the USS

Enterprise had Guinan, which made this particular

Ten-Forward uncommonly special.

Riker welcomed that difference when he pushed his

way through the familiar double doors. Ever since his

visit to the cargo bay, the first officer had been

plagued by a vague restlessness, but now the urge

to keep moving faded. No one rushed to leave

Guinan's company.

Her shapeless robes and fanciful headgear were

flamboyant; Guinan herself was contained. She

listened more often than she spoke, yet when she had

something to say, the mellow tones of her husky

voice were compelling.

"You look like a man in need of a little

excitement," said the hostess, setting a tall

thin glass of a fizzing liquid on the counter.

Riker had never seen a drink quite like it before, but then

Guinan had a fondness for experimentation.

"Is it that obvious?" sighed the first officer as

he swung onto a bar stool. "We've only

been in orbit around Atropos for two days, but

I'm ready to leave again."

"Odds are against it," came a mocking voice

from behind him.

Riker took a deep breath, then turned

to present a forced smile to the angular Bajoran

woman who slid into place next to him. Never

turn your back on Ro Laren. "What's that

supposed to mean, Ensign?"

"Just that the ship's pool is running two to one

that we won't make it to Luxor IV in time for a

game of canasta, much less poker. Of course,

the crew of the Telarius would probably win the

championship again anyway."

"O ye of little faith." She was baiting him, and

he knew it, but Riker still couldn't stop himself.

"As it happens, our business here is almost

finished, and a steady warp seven will get us back

on schedule. Then the crew of the Enterprise is

going to show the crew of the Telarius how real

poker should be played."

"Don't waste your bluffs on me,

sir," said Ro with an incredibly infuriating and

condescending chuckle. "Save them for the

championship match ... sometime next year."

"I'm not bluffing."

"A hundred says you are."

"You're on," he snapped. "Guinan, you

heard her."

"I heard both of you," said Guinan softly.

"In fact, everyone in the room heard both of

you. Now will you taste that drink I poured for you? The

flavor is very delicate, and it won't last much

longer."

Riker reached his hand out for the glass.

"Data to Commander Riker."

His hand moved up to his comm insignia instead.

"Riker here."

"The captain has called an emergency

conference for all senior officers."

"Understood, Mr. Data," said the first officer

as he pushed away from the bar. "I'm on my

way."

"A hundred credits will come in very handy on my

next shore leave." The Bajoran was openly

smirking.

To add insult to injury, Guinan slid his

untouched drink over to the ensign. The bartender

shrugged an apology to Riker, then turned back

to watch Ro's reaction to the beverage.

Heading out of Ten-Forward, Riker grudgingly

admitted there was a high probability that Ro would

win their bet. Unfortunately, the loss of a

hundred credits would not hurt half so much as the

loss of his pride.

Each of the chairs around the oval conference table

would be filled soon, but for the next few minutes

Picard and Crusher had the observation lounge

to themselves. After the turmoil of the last few days, the

captain welcomed this oasis of tranquillity.

Usually he would have resented sharing it with anyone

else, except Beverly was not just anyone else.

"So," asked the doctor, "when did you

develop this fascination for the Ko N'ya?"

"As a child," said Picard. "My brother was the

one who introduced me to the legend. Although, since

Robert was a bit of a bully, his aim was

to terrify little Jean-Luc."

"Did he succeed?"

"Oh, yes." Even after fifty years,

Picard could recall trembling in their

night-darkened bedroom and burrowing under his

blankets as if they were armor against monsters.

"Robert would wait until our parents were

asleep and the house was completely still, then he would

whisper yet another impressively embellished

tale of blood and gore. He developed quite a

flair for the dramatic and considered himself amply

rewarded if he reduced me to tears."

"How charming," said Crusher wryly, but then she

was the mother of an only child. Picard could never

explain to her the complex web of love and hate that

bound him to his brother.

"However, as I grew older, my fear turned

to fascination, and I would beg Robert for more

stories."

"Let me guess," she said with a smile.

"At that point, Robert lost interest in the Ko

N'ya."

"Exactly." Perhaps she understood the

relationship between brothers after all. "So I began

to read the original lore for myself, and when those

books were exhausted, I moved on to others. That

was the start of my lifelong passion for history and

archaeology of all kinds."

"Jean-Luc, do you really believe T'Sara

could have found this object? Has myth turned out

to be history after all?"

"I hardly dare believe it." Yet he still

could not shake the image of those mummified hands.

"Touching the Ko N'ya would be like touching history

itself. For such an opportunity, I would ..."

Picard groped for the limits of his desire but

found them surprisingly difficult to define.

"Sell your soul?" said Crusher.

Her suggestion had been made in jest, so

Picard answered in the same lighthearted vein.

"No, not sell ... but perhaps rent it for a while."

Once the words were uttered, however, he realized

they were uncomfortably close to the truth.

CHAPTER 8

"There have been some new insights into the murders

of the Vulcans on Atropos," announced

Picard. Then, with a nod, he signaled Beverly

Crusher to recite the results of her autopsy

findings.

As the assembled officers listened first to the

doctor and then to Data, Picard watched the

crew's changing expressions. The

revelation of each new facet of the deception on

Atropos tightened the line of Riker's jaw and

deepened the sorrow in Troi's eyes; Geordi

La Forge grew still and silent, whereas Worf

shifted in his chair as if ready to lunge at an

approaching enemy.

When the reports were finished, a circle of

grim faces turned toward the captain.

"Given the circumstances," said Picard, "we

must proceed under the assumption that all our

communications with Starbase 193 are being

monitored. I've prepared a report of our

investigations for Admiral Matasu at

Starbase 75, but it will take hours for him to even

receive the message."

"Which means we're on our own for now," said

Riker, with an emphatic tug at his tunic.

The gesture, one he unconsciously borrowed from

the captain, was a mixture of defiance and

anticipation.

Picard was more ambivalent about this prospect

than his first officer. One of the most invigorating

challenges of command lay in making decisions that were

his alone, but autonomy from Starfleet authority

was accompanied by an equal measure of

responsibility for the consequences of his judgment.

Nonetheless, he had already reached one firm

resolution.

"Our first priority is to locate the intruders

that we believe murdered the Vulcan

archaeologists."

"Agreed," said Crusher. "Any delay in

pursuit would give them more time to get away." A

supporting chorus of murmured assent quickly

rippled around the table.

"There's one thing I just don't understand," said

La Forge. "Why would anyone be willing to kill

for some dusty old relic?"

Picard smiled at the engineer's naive

description. "Oh, but it's not just any

artifact. This is a mythic icon of tremendous

allure. Ko N'ya, the Devil's Heart

... it has been called many names in many

languages throughout the galaxy."

Data cocked his head, silently accessing

information from a vast storehouse of knowledge. "The

Belnarri call it Nota; the Andorians know it

as Telev's Bane; and to the Klingons it is the

Pagrashtak."

"Pagrashtak!" exclaimed Worf.

"The Bloodstone!"

Picard was startled by the intensity of the Klingo n's

reaction.

"So you know about this, too?" asked Troi.

Picard could practically hear her clinical

persona click into place. Evidently the

counselor sensed considerable depth in the

lieutenant's agitation.

"Yes, I have heard of it," said Worf

reluctantly. The captain wondered if his

scowl was a product of embarrassment at the

outburst or whether the warrior's reserve was still

shaken by mention of the Pagrashtak. "According to Klingon

legend, Lord Kessec founded the First Empire

with its powers ... and Kessec warned that he who

holds the Pagrashtak must drain his veins of

blood or his next of kin will do it for him."

Riker rocked back in his chair, startled by the

severity of Worf's expression. The first

officer's eyebrows knitted together in genuine

puzzlement. "So what exactly is this thing?"

Where to even begin? wondered Picard as he

struggled to condense the work of T'Sara's lifetime

into a few words. "The Heart's exact nature

is unknown, and its origins are lost in

antiquity; all that survives are tales of its

passage through different cultures. In the

mythologies T'Sara collected, the Heart

has been variously described as a stone, a

jewel, even an energy cell. One hypothesis

is that the Heart is an artifact of some ancient

and forgotten race, one highly advanced in

science." His brother Robert's voice whispered

another explanation in his ear. "But worlds which

believe in magic consider it to be a powerful

talisman of Darkness."

"A talisman of darkness?" snorted

Riker. "With the power to do just what?"

Data was ready with the answer. "No one knows

its true capabilities, but they are suspected

to be vast, enabling its possessor to control

men's minds, to amass wealth and power, even

to change the flow of time itself."

"Data, you don't really believe that?"

"Our belief is not really relevant,"

countered Troi. "T'Sara believed, and whoever

killed the Vulcan archaeologists must also have

believed. Regardless of whether this Devil's

Heart has any real powers, people have killed to gain

possession of it."

"Devil's Heart, Bloodstone," said

Riker. "I begin to see why it has such morbid

names."

"Yes," said Picard. "According to many of the

legends T'Sara gathered, the price of gaining the

stone is death or the spilling of blood. Those who

have ruled by its powers have died in combat or been

betrayed by their friends."

Troi suddenly switched her scrutiny from

Worf to Picard. "Captain, what do you

believe--"

"Bridge to Captain Picard." A

voice brusque with controlled urgency drowned out

the counselor's question. "We're picking up an

automated distress call from a Ferengi vessel

in this sector."

"I'm on my way," said Picard, already

rising from his chair.

Riker was on his feet a half second

later. "I have a bad feeling about this,

Captain."

"Yes, Number One, it does appear this

sector is becoming rather crowded."

The Ferengi Marauder-class starship floated

in space, drifting listlessly; its

crescent-shaped rear hull was pitted and scored,

and a gash in the horned front section was charred

down to the duranium frame. Lights were

scattered at random through the decks, but they

flickered weakly.

Picard surveyed the damaged vessel with a

dispassionate eye and a suspicious nature.

"Raise shields."

"They don't look ready for another fight,"

said Riker.

"Perhaps not," conceded the captain. After all,

even Ferengi guile had its limits. "But we

have yet to account for whoever attacked--"

The deck rocked beneath his command chair as the

ship's deflector shields sparked and

crackled. Alert sirens blared, and bridge

lights dimmed momentarily as power was rechanneled

to the defense systems. A less-seasoned officer

might have mistaken the impact for a weapons

salvo, but Picard recognized the telltale

blue flash of Cerenkov radiation that resulted from

a mid-flight collision.

"Helm! Go to quarter-impulse."

As the Enterprise's forward motion slowed, the

force of subsequent collisions was diminished to the

light patter of hail on a rooftop.

"Power reserves holding steady," said Data

as sensor chatter echoed noisily across the

navigation consoles.

"A trap?" asked Riker.

"I don't think so, Number One." Picard

studied the view of the space surrounding them and

confirmed what he had expected the Enterprise

had plowed into the middle of a field of debris.

Chunks of dark, twisted metal were scattered in

all directions, their serrated edges glinting in

starlight. "I suspect we've found the second

player in this drama."

Flashes of blue light danced across the

viewscreen as more of the fragments ricocheted off the

protective envelope of the deflector

shields.

"My analysis of the particles supports that

theory," said Data. "The total mass of the

debris appears equivalent to that of another

vessel, although one somewhat less formidable than the

Marauder class."

"Any speculation as to its origins?"

"That may be difficult to determine since the

wreckage has been distorted by intense heat."

The android magnified several different sections

of the viewscreen until he located a twisted

beam that still retained identifiable form. "This molded

tritanium truss is characteristic of the Orion

Signet series."

"An Orion ship?" Riker turned

to Picard. "They usually give wide berth to the

Ferengi."

"Yet this time it seems two scavengers have

fallen on each other."

"To the detriment of both," said Data. "I

detect no life-signs aboard the Ferengi

vessel."

"And the blood is still flowing," murmured

Picard.

Riker frowned at the repetition of

T'Sara's dying words. "So you think this battle

is related to the attack on the Vulcans?"

Worf's deep voice thundered down from the

tactical station on the aft deck. "One can find

the Pagrashtak by following the flight of

carrion-eaters; keeping it is not so easy." The

Klingon leaned over the rail and added a

more subdued explanation. "That was a quote from

The Ballads of Durall."

Riker was struck speechless by the unexpected

declamation, but Picard's composure was still

intact. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He

agreed with Worf the mythic quality of this quest

seemed to invite the heightened language of

ancient texts.

"Well," said the first officer, "if the

Orions had T'Sara's relic when their ship was

destroyed, we'll be sifting through space

detritus for weeks. So I suggest we search

the Ferengi Marauder first."

"Agreed, Number One. Prepare an

Away Team for ..."

Touching the Ko N'ya would be like touching

history itself.

"No," said Picard suddenly. "Belay that

order."

"Sir?"

"Indulge me, W. I'd like to lead this

mission." The temptation was simply too strong for

Picard to resist, but he would prefer to persuade

Riker into agreement. A confrontation over this

issue would only waste time and delay the

recovery effort. "You know that I've been

fascinated by the legend of the Heart for most of my

life, and if it should actually exist ..."

To his relief, Riker gave way with a

broad grin. "Understood, Captain. Just don't

make a habit of doing my job."

He was already out of his chair. "Worf, Data,

with me."

With each step up the bridge ramp, Picard

felt like he was marching his way into one of Robert's

epic tales of heroic adventure. His two

Away Team companions followed on his heels

into the turbolift, obedient knights sworn

to attend their liege lord.

By the time the three of them reached Deck 6 and

mounted the transporter dais, Picard had

banished the fantasy image from his mind. He was

a Starfleet captain on a mission. Of all the

dreams he had held as a child, this one was the most

powerful.

"Ready for transport, Mr. O'Brien."

"Aye, Captain." The chief checked his

console settings. "I'll set you down in the main

bridge."

The transporter chamber glittered

away. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, new

surroundings materialized around Picard.

He coughed reflexively as swirling smoke

entered his lungs. The air was cold, a sign that

life support systems were failing.

At a glance, Picard could see that the command

center of the Marauder was smaller than the main

bridge of a starship. Everything in its interior, from

the decks and walls to the computer consoles, was

painted a muted gray. Everything was also broken.

Shattered ceiling panels dangled from overhead,

spilling out streams of wire; the deck was tilted

and walls were buckled; and several cracked

equipment consoles squealed softly as if in

pain.

Scattered throughout this wreckage were a

half-dozen bodies of the Ferengi crew.

Despite his sense of urgency, Picard

realized that the task ahead of them was rather daunting.

If the Heart really was here in the midst of all this

rubble, how could he find it? Would he even know it

when he saw it?

"Confirmed," Data said after a sweep of the

tricorder. "There are no life-signs."

At a nod from the captain, Worf and the android

moved forward, picking their way through the rubble.

Picard chose a third path, but he had taken

only a few steps when his boot heel caught

on a loose deck plate, throwing him

off-balance. He reached a hand out to the nearest

console to steady himself, but a humming sound warned him

not to touch the surface. He quickly shifted his

weight and recovered his footing.

"The Signet's plasma bolts seem to have

fused the electrical system," explained

Data.

"And electrocuted the crew," said Worf,

warily prodding aside one of the dead crewmen who

lay slumped over the helm.

"Are we in any danger?" asked Picard as

he stepped over a loosely coiled conduit.

"The initial charge has dissipated," said

Data. "However, the short circuits in the

system are capable of delivering a shock that would

prove uncomfortable to the Human body."

"Thank you, Data. I'll keep that in

mind. " His breath was frosting now as the ship's heat

continued to leach into space.

Picard continued his inspection while keeping a

healthy distance from any sparking equipment

panels. He scuffed the toe of one boot

kicking aside loose rubble and snagged his uniform

jacket on the sharp corners of twisted metal;

his back began to ache as he contorted his body

to peer into dark corners. From the crashing sounds off

to his left, the captain could tell that Worf's

search technique was even more vigorous.

It occurred to Picard that he might not be the first

one to find the Heart.

"Captain," called out Data. "Is this what

you are seeking?"

Casting aside all caution, Picard pushed his

way through the wreckage to the front of the bridge.

He found the android kneeling by the corpse of a

Ferengi DaiMon. Either the electric current

had contorted his face into a rictus of ecstasy,

or he had been killed in the throes of

rapture.

In his hands he clutched a dull, rough rock.

"The Heart," whispered Picard. "It must

be."

Data carefully pried the object out of the

DaiMon's grip and proffered it up to the

captain.

Picard could feel his pulse racing as the

weight of the stone settled into his palms.

It was warm.

CHAPTER 9

"Captain's Log, Stardate 45873.6

The Enterprise broke orbit from Atropos

to respond to an automated distress call from a

Ferengi vessel ..."

Picard had aged well, decided Miyakawa

as she reviewed the captain's mission report.

As a young cadet, his prominent nose and forehead

had overpowered his face, but in his middle years these

same strong features were compelling.

"... encountered a Marauder-class starship

..."

Cadets Picard, Crusher, and Keel had

moved in tandem through Starfleet Academy, and the

common expectation among their classmates had

been that each member of the trio would garner early

commissions and eventually end up back at the

Academy teaching a new generation of cadets.

Life had worked out a bit differently for them;

Jean-Luc was the only one of the three left

alive.

But then I'm not where I thought I'd be either.

"... all crew aboard the vessel were dead.

I'll provide more details when they're

available."

To Miyakawa's surprise, Picard's

narrative came to an abrupt end at that point.

"Wait a minute! Dead of what?" she

demanded of the blank screen on her desk viewer.

Picard had omitted a wealth of vital information

from his log coordinates for the Marauder, the

basis for its distress call, even the next

destination of the Enterprise.

"Dammit, that wasn't a report," muttered

the commander as she rocketed out of her chair. "I

know a stall when I see one." She also knew

where she might find some answers to her questions.

Unhooking her uniform jacket from the wall,

Miyakawa stormed out of her office and headed for the

far end of the starbase.

"How dare you call in this debt!"

Anlew-Is slammed a chit down on the table

and continued to pound his fist at regular intervals

while he screamed in Camenae's face.

"I've lost a Signet-class vessel, not

to mention five of my best-trained mercenaries, and

you expect payment for my ruin? You should pay me

for the damages I've incurred in this odious

venture!"

Camenae leaned back in her chair, trying

hard not to breathe too deeply. She wondered

whether it was the olive-green skin or the black

fibrous hair that gave Orions their penetrating

odor.

"You paid for the information, Anlew-Is, not for a

favorable outcome to your schemes. If you want

insurance, go do business with Aghlarren the Mote."

"But you sold me out to the Ferengi consortium!

I would have the Heart in my hands if not for your

greed and treachery!"

"Don't blame me for either your shortsightedness

or your miserly nature," said Camenae with a

stern frown. "You know my policies and my

prices, yet you consistently refuse to cover the

cost of exclusivity. DaiMon Maarc knew

the value of a long-term investment."

"Ha!" he said, bathing her face with a blast of

fetid air. "Dead men make no profit."

Camenae sighed, her only concession to the truth

of that statement. There was little use in denying

the DaiMon's death; the remaining members of the

consortium were still seated at the bar of the Due or

Die, all loudly wailing and keening over the

imminent collapse of their fortunes. True,

DaiMon Bruk had been sent out on the

obligatory salvage mission, but the presence

of a Federation starship in the sector had shaken their

faith in any recovery effort. Camenae

suspected their pessimism was well-founded.

The thump of a green fist shook the table again.

"I'm made of sterner stuff than mewling

Ferengi merchants I won't pay the balance!"

"Very well."

"What?" His arm stopped in midair, aborting

yet another assault on the furniture.

"In accordance with my policy concerning

delinquent accounts, I will be forced to liquidate

certain information about your organization that I have

kept out of general inventory. The sale of that

information will be applied to your outstanding debt."

"That's blackmail, Camenae!"

"I call it a sound business procedure."

"Damn you!" His fist slammed down yet again,

but this time he left a token in the wake of the

hammer blow. "You'll get another next month

and not a day before."

He turned and stomped his way across the deck

with a deafening clatter.

"Anlew-Is," she called out. "Do you wish

to be kept informed of the Heart's location?"

"No," he screamed from the doorway. "The

Heart can go to blazes for all I care!"

The Ferengi had given much the same answer an

hour before, although the whole troupe of them did not

generate half the commotion made by one Orion

black marketeer.

In the blessed silence that had been restored to her

chamber, Camenae considered the selection of her

next customer.

When Anlew-Is erupted out of the bar's back

room, Miyakawa leaned farther back into the

shadowed recesses of her booth. Her caution was

hardly necessary since the Orion was far too

preoccupied with broadcasting his indignation to pay

any attention to his audience. As she listened

to his loud ranting, and to the background chorus of the

doleful Ferengi, the commander gleaned enough details

to reconstruct their recent activity in the

sector.

Anlew-Is was still fuming when her eyes

tracked a robed figure gliding across the bar and

into Camenae's office. Reyjad@an was a

permanent resident of the base, so Miyakawa

knew his name and his homeworld, but the details of his

personal life were a mystery. The DiWahn was

an alien who kept to himself, rarely appearing in

public. However, if he was one of Camenae's

customers, it might be prudent to learn more of his

background.

The glass in Miyakawa's hands was empty,

but the commander feigned a sip of her drink so the

waiter would leave her alone. Like a hunter

tucked in a blind, she was in the mood to remain

undetected and wait for more game to pass by.

The creature was swathed in cloth from head

to toe, although Camenae was not entirely sure the

figure hidden beneath the heavy robes possessed

either of those features. Its voice issued forth from

the folds of a drooping hood, and it spoke as if

an oily, serpentine tongue formed its words.

"I am Lord Reyjad@an. Your servant

outside referred to me as "the DiWahn." You

are both in need of correction. I am

unDiWahn one who is from, yet not of, that world.

My people's origins are of greater eminence than that

rough planet could ever generate."

"Thank you for that clarification." Camenae

automatically filed away this free fact, although

its value was dubious. "I have information you

seek."

"The Dream Gem!" it said with a dry rattle

of alarm. "What you call the Heart--the rumors

of its discovery are true?"

"Yes. It has been found."

"Why was I not informed of this earlier?" hissed the

cowl. "I stated my interest in the Gem ten

years ago when I first arrived on this starbase."

"I noted your demand at that time," said

Camenae with a dryness that was lost on the alien.

"But I have other customers who make greater use

of my--"

"Kei! I do not involve myself with gossip or

deal in issues of petty trade. My only

concern is with the Gem. Where is it?"

"The answer to that question will cost--"

"Such insolence," said the alien. "You cannot put

a price on my birthright."

"I can, and do, put a price on

everything that is said in this room, Lord

Reyjad@an." After adding an extra ten percent

exasperation tax to her previously decided on

figure, Camenae firmly stated the cost of the

proposed transaction. "Take it or leave it.

I have other customers who would--"

"Spare me your tiresome haggling tactics.

I will pay the sum in full." A jangling sound

came from inside the voluminous sleeves, and a

necklace crafted of refined dilithium

crystals spilled out onto the table.

Camenae shook her head. "I only

accept--"

"But I expect full service from you," said the

alien. "There will be an additional requirement for the

fulfillment of my quest, and I expect it to be

provided without additional charge."

"Oh, very well," she said, impatient to end the

transaction. After all, Aghlarren the Mote would

offer a fair price for the crystals. "What is

the additional service you require?"

To Camenae's intense regret, the demand he

outlined was reasonable and easily arranged.

Half an hour after Reyjad@an's

departure, Commander Miyakawa had just about

decided to put an end to her afternoon of hiding in the

shadows of the Due or Die when Thomas Grede

skulked into the bar and sidled through to the back room.

She settled back into her seat and ordered

another drink.

Base personnel were not prohibited from

frequenting the Due or Die since such a

regulation would have been impossible for her to enforce,

but the technician's familiarity with the Norsican

guard betrayed more than a casual acquaintance

with the staff. The knowledge that Grede merited a solo

audience with Camenae was even more intriguing.

I'm just one officer. I can't supervise

all my personnel.

Miyakawa had been promised more support,

but most of Starfleet viewed an assignment

to Starbase 193 as a punitive measure and a

blot on their record. So far, all the officers

designated to serve on the station had successfully

wrangled reassignments; the most recent

lieutenant to be posted to the station had chosen

to resign from Starfleet instead.

Until reinforcements arrived,

Miyakawa would do her best to hold the fort. Today

that meant having a little talk with Grede after his

next duty shift.

"I have some information for you."

"For me?" said Grede. "But, Camenae, you

know I haven't got enough credits to buy anything from

you."

"Oh, but this information is free."

"Free?" He squirmed uneasily in his

chair. She could see fear pooling in his eyes.

"According to my sources, Starbase 75 is now

receiving Captain Picard's mission reports."

Unfortunately, the contents of the communiqu`es were

beyond her reach, but this fact alone was sufficient for

her purpose.

Grede was a little slow to make the obvious

connection, but it finally came to him. "They must know

the distress call was altered." That realization

drained color from his face.

"Furthermore," said Camenae. "A

Tellarite freighter headed for Orion passed

within hailing distance of the Enterprise; it appears

to be on a direct heading for this base." The

starship's destination would be common knowledge within the hour, but

the captain of an outbound vessel loaded with

contraband had gladly paid for the early warning.

"Camenae, you've got to help me!"

"Help of that magnitude is not free. It

requires another investment on your part."

"Another ... but that's how I ..." His

voice trailed off in confusion. "I'm in enough

trouble already."

Camenae assumed her most reassuring

smile. "I can arrange for your transport beyond

the reach of the Federation authorities."

"How soon?" he croaked.

"Just as soon as you transmit a series of

coded messages for one of my clients and then

erase all records of the proceeding."

Grede seemed to fold in upon himself, shoulders

slumping and head drooping. As she waited for the

technician's answer, Camenae felt a stab

of irritation at the difficulty he had making such

a simple decision.

Finally, he mumbled his assent.

Commander Miyakawa tossed two tokens next

to her empty glass before slipping out of the booth.

There was no point in trying to pay for her

bar tab--she had lost that battle long ago--but

as a compromise she always left a hefty tip

for the waiter.

The money was well spent. Over the last few

hours, Miyakawa had surmised much of what

Captain Picard had left out of his mission

report. Now all she needed to know was why he had

held back this information from her.

CHAPTER 10

"T'Sara."

She did not want to let loose her dream, but

somewhere on the other side of consciousness there came

an insistent demand for her to wake. Her name was

repeated over and over again until she grew weary

of resisting and opened her eyes.

"You sleep deeply these days," said the man

who knelt before her. The muscles of Sorren's

face were marshaled into an impassive mask, but

he still lacked the necessary discipline to erase concern from

his voice; she hoped he never learned to tame his

dark, expressive eyes.

Despite the lingering memory of a soft

cushioned bed, T'Sara realized she was sitting

upright and the wall against her back was hard and

unyielding.

"I was dreaming that I was a man asleep--

dreaming of mad Vulcans sifting a dry dusty

planet in search of lost shards of knowledge. When he

wakes, my life will fade away, as will all the

stone and mortar surrounding us."

"You spend too much time in this chamber."

Sorren was unaware of the frown that slipped past his

control; he glanced up at the enthroned figure

that loomed over them. "I do not fear the dead, but

neither do I seek out their company."

"The Collector was a less pleasant

companion when she was alive," said T'Sara before

she thought to curb her tongue.

His fierce glare was like a shout of anger.

"Another dream?"

She tightened her grip on the Ko N'ya.

He had tried to wrest it from her once before when she

spoke of Surak on the plain of Ishaya.

Logic dictated that a young male approaching his

physical prime could easily overpower an old

woman, yet he had failed to take it from her

then.

"No, T'Sara, I did not come

to argue with you over the stone." He still refused

to utter its name. "The time for discussion has

passed."

"Explain."

"I feel honor-bound to inform you of the action we

have--"

"We?" she demanded.

"Sohle, T'Challo, the entire

archaeological team. It is our unanimous

decision that your thinking has become increasingly

disordered and that you are in need of medical

assistance. This morning I received confirmation that a

Federation starship has been authorized to return

you to Vulcan."

"My colleagues at the Science Academy

will not thank you for that," she said. "My enemies have

thought me mad for over a century, and even my

supporters are embarrassed by my empathy for

alien cultures. They all would rather that I confine

my ravings to a small group of students as far from

Vulcan as possible."

"There is a difference between unorthodox methods

and insanity. I have long admired and respected

your research, and I value highly what I have

learned of your excavation techniques, but even I

have lost patience watching you squander your

abilities on this quest for the Ko N'ya. And

your recent behavior ..."

were Vulcans always so long-winded, she

wondered as Sorren prattled on, or had her

patience worn as thin as her aging skin? Her

wandering thoughts seized on his earlier words.

"Sorren," she said with a sharpness born of

alarm. "Did you speak of the Ko N'ya in this

message of yours?"

"What?" After a moment to reorient himself to her

question, he said, "Only in passing."

"Child, you must not let your adherence to logic

block your understanding of races who act on their

emotions. News of the Ko N'ya is a beacon

for the greedy who ..."

She fell silent.

"T'Sara?"

The walls of the chamber were too thick for sound

to penetrate, rather she had felt the shouts ringing in the

air outside. An inchoate mental surge

washed over her again.

"A Call," she said.

"Yes, I heard it, too!"

They both scrambled to their feet, but

Sorren was young and supple and left her far behind as

he raced through the dark tunnel toward daylight.

Pushing her bones and muscles beyond the petty

annoyances of pain, she gained a new burst of

speed and emerged from the ruins. The noonday sun was

baking the tiles of the plaza.

"Sorren!"

He was standing just a few meters ahead of her.

At her cry, he twirled to face her, and she

saw that his chest had blossomed into fire.

Horror thwarted her understanding, then she realized

he had been shot and the force of the phaser blast had

thrown his body around, because Sorren himself was already

dead. His husk twitched, then collapsed.

T'Sara caught a fleeting glimpse of

armored figures, tall men with dusky green

skin, rushing toward her. Orions were not known for

showing mercy to their victims. Before she could escape

back into the shadows of the tower, she was buffeted

by two hammer blows of searing heat.

As she fell to her knees, weakened by the

destruction gnawing its way through her body, the

desire to retaliate against her attackers raged

through her mind. She could will their death and the stone would

obey.

No, T'Sara, only a foolish old

woman would ignore the wisdom of Surak any

longer.

She let loose her grip, dropping the Ko

N'ya. It hit the ground with a ringing sound, then

rolled away with a curious vigor. As the

intruders scrabbled in the dirt to recover it,

T'Sara curled in upon herself with one last conscious

thought.

I will not give it to any living being.

The desert sand faded out from under her ...

... to be replaced with the smooth texture of

fabric.

The man shivered in the cool air of the cabin and

wrapped the covers more tightly around his body. The

sensation of a burning pain in his side faded away,

but the landscape of the dream itself was etched into his

memory.

I am ... Jean-Luc Picard.

He opened his eyes and saw T'Sara's stone

glittering in the dark by his bedside.

CHAPTER 11

The chime trilled for a second time, then faded

into silence.

The door remained closed.

Beverly Crusher silently debated the

wisdom of pressing the call button a third

time. She was beginning to feel oddly conspicuous

standing in the corridor outside Picard's cabin

at such an early hour of the morning. Not that their

breakfast routine was a secret, but she was wary of

drawing too much attention to any intimacy between the

captain and his chief medical officer. This

balancing act between duty and friendship was hard enough

to sustain without an audience.

Before she had taken more than two steps away,

Crusher heard the door whooshing open behind her.

"Beverly."

The slurred quality of Picard's voice

prepared her for the sight of his rumpled pajamas.

"Good morning, Jean-Luc."

He squinted in the bright light of the corridor.

"Sorry, I was up late writing reports for

Admiral Matasu, not to mention the Vulcan

Science Academy. Then I had the strangest

dream ..."

"I'll take a rain check on breakfast."

"No, please come in." Picard moved

aside to let her pass through the doorway. "I

want to tell you ab out my dream."

She set about ordering tea and biscuits from the

replicator while Picard changed into his

uniform in the bedroom. By the time the coffee table was

set, he had emerged a transformed man, dapper

and alert.

"That's the Heart?" asked Crusher when she

saw the object the captain carried with him. She

had heard a secondhand recounting of the discovery from

Worf late last night when she tended a gash in

his hand.

"Yes, this is T'Sara's Ko N'ya."

Picard settled down on the sofa beside the

doctor. "They were both in my dream."

"Tell me." Crusher sipped her tea and

listened to Picard recount his version of the

Vulcan's death. As he talked he rolled the

stone over and over in his hands as if searching for a

chink in its rough surface, a key to the interior.

"So, Detective Hill," she said when he

had reached the end of the tale, "your

subconscious thinks a band of Orions killed

T'Sara?"

He glanced up from his study of the Heart. "I

realize it's not such a startling conclusion given the

evidence."

"Well, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of

being right," said Crusher. From here, the gem that had

built empires looked like an ordinary rock.

"But whether it was the Orions or the Ferengi, there

aren't any criminals left alive to bring

to justice."

"Yet there's at least one accessory lurking

on Starbase 193. We're due to arrive there

soon, and I hope the element of surprise will

give us an advantage in--"

"How could so many people die fighting each other for that

thing!"

His eyebrows shot upward at her outburst.

"It's just so ... drab," said Crusher. "I

expected something more dramatic."

"A faceted ruby the size of a

watermelon?"

"Something like that," she admitted with a laugh.

"If this is the Heart, I'm afraid its

only value lies in its historic

significance."

She leaned over the table and dropped her voice

to a whisper. "But what about its powers over

Darkness?"

Picard smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Oh,

I grant the legends are grandly

melodramatic ... still, it is a rather curious

object."

"In what way?"

He started to speak, then hesitated, then began

again. "Perhaps its my overactive imagination at

work, but I can feel a heightened quality about it.

Nothing I can put into words." He shrugged away

his inability to explain. "Perhaps Data will be able

to quantify its properties."

"This should provide material for an

impressive article for the next archaeological

symposium. Not bad for an amateur." But she

could tell from his lack of reaction that Picard

wasn't listening to her anymore.

Propelled by an inner train of thought, the

captain suddenly bolted from the table and was

halfway across the cabin before he remembered he

had company. "Oh, my apologies, Beverly.

It's just that Data is expecting me

to bring the Heart to his laboratory."

"But, Jean-Luc, you haven't eaten a thing."

Even his teacup had gone untouched.

"I'm not hungry. No, really, I'm not."

"Well, I am. Do you mind if I stay here

long enough to finish my biscuit?"

He had the good grace to flush. "Please

make yourself at home." Stopping in the doorway,

Picard called back, "I'll make it up

to you. Why don't we have dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I'd like--"

Then he was gone.

"This may take some time," said Data as he

carefully placed the stone in the center of a small

metallic stage.

"Actually," said Picard, craning his neck

to follow Data's movements, "I'd like to stay and

watch."

"As you wish, sir." The weight of the specimen

triggered a ripple of electronic chirps across

a control console; Data quickly tapped a

series of minor adjustments to the estimated

calibration figures he had entered earlier.

After he positioned the first equipment array over

the stage, Data provided a running commentary of the

laboratory procedure in specimen

analysis. To his gratification, the captain

appeared to welcome the information; unfortunately,

this was not always the case.

"By combining the three different techniques," the

android continued, as he concluded the final step of the

third measurement, "I should be able to determine the

age of the stone to a value of plus or minus one

hundred years."

The results of the calculation were not what he had

expected.

"Is something wrong, Data?" asked the

captain, stepping closer to the equipment. "What

have you found?"

"Preliminary dating analysis indicates the

object is remarkably young, falling in a

range between eight hundred and one thousand years

old. This would fall far short of the reputed age

of the Ko N'ya."

Picard was silent for a moment, then said, "I

suggest you run the dating analysis again."

"Certainly, Captain. As you wish."

Data reached out to reconfigure the equipment

for a repetition of the dating scans.

"What else did you find?" asked Picard.

"Meir-Delaplace analysis indicates

the rock was formed from a mixture of a common

crystalline form of silicon dioxide and a

metamorphic sandstone--"

"Data!" Evidently this answer did not

please the captain either. "T'Sara did not spend

over a hundred years of her life looking for a

rock. It may look like rock, but it is ...

well, more than that. According to her theory this relic

possesses unusual and puzzling features. For

instance, what about the warmth?"

Data assumed a slightly puzzled frown as

a visual adjunct to his reply. "I

record no difference between the temperature of the

object and that of the ship's interior."

"But when I held it before I could feel the

warmth." Picard shoved aside the equipment

array to seize the rock. "I can feel it now."

"Indeed?" Data double-checked his instrument

readout, but there was no indication of a scientific

basis for the captain's perception. "Perhaps you could

hold the stone while the analysis is in

progress?"

"Certainly, if that's what it takes to prove

my point."

Before Data could activate the appropriate

equipment, they were interrupted by an intercom

call.

"Riker to Captain Picard."

"Picard here."

"We're being hailed by Starbase 193.

Commander Miyakawa requests a conference with you

concerning your mission progress."

"I'll conduct it in my ready room,

Number One." With a sigh of exasperation,

Picard sketched a parting wave to Data.

"You'll have to carry on without me."

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"I would like to continue my analysis of the ...

object." Data pointed to the stone still cradled in

the crook of Picard's arm.

Picard stopped in mid-stride. "Oh, yes,

of course."

Data retrieved the specimen from the captain,

then stood in place holding the stone in his hands.

It never warmed to his touch.

"Qu`e pasa, Picard?" Estrella

Miyakawa still rolled the r in his name, but her

Mexican accent had been muted over the years.

He studied her image on the desk monitor and

noted a few streaks of white in her straight

black hair; otherwise, time had touched her very

lightly.

"Estoy bien," answered Picard. She

had taught him what little Spanish he knew in

exchange for tutoring her in calculus; he never

mastered the language, and she failed the

Academy course.

"So why have you been sending me mission reports

that could be written on the head of a pin?"

Age had not softened her blunt manner.

"Perhaps I erred on the side of succinctness," said

Picard, displaying his most genial, diplomatic

smile.

She laughed in his face. "Captain, you've

cut me out of the information loop since your departure

from Atropos, and I want to know why."

"Commander, my last report on the Ferengi

distress--"

"Did not contain one word about the destruction of the

Orion ship Dark Runner."

"How did you hear of that?" asked Picard.

"News travels fast in this sector. Although,

as a Federation official, I was probably the

last person on the starbase to find out. Any

idea why they were fighting, or are you going to keep

that to yourself as well?"

He sighed at the increasing tone of bitterness in

her voice. Any further attempt at

secrecy would only alienate his one ally on the

base, not to mention cost him the goodwill of an old

friend. "Estrella, I have reason to believe that the

security of your communications system has been

breached. Until the source of the leak is found,

I prefer not to discuss the details of the mission."

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea of who's

responsible already," she said grimly. "One of

my communications operators--Thomas Grede.

Unfortunately, Mr. Grede met with an

accident last night. It seems that when he came

off shift, he took a wrong turn and walked out

an airlock."

"He was murdered."

"Thank you, Jean-Luc, but that thought had

occurred to me already. I'll fill you in on the

details when you arrive."

There went his advantage. "How the devil

did you know the Enterprise was headed for Starbase

193?"

"The usual base channels," said

Miyakawa with a wry smile. "I overheard it

in a bar."

"Of course, it's not just any bar," explained

the commander later that day as she and Picard walked

through the doorway of the Due or Die. "This is

Camenae's bar, and that makes all the difference."

The dimly lit room was crowded, with no

empty tables, but one of the waiters waved them over

to a booth. Two Tellarites and an Andorian

scrambled off the benches with half-filled drinks

still clutched in their hands.

Picard heard their muttered curses as he and

Miyakawa settled into the hastily vacated

booth. Another waiter swept by and left two

glasses of synthehol in his wake. "Are these the

perks of base command?"

"Some of the very few," sighed Miyakawa.

"Camenae, for reasons I haven't yet

fathomed, likes to maintain the fiction that I'm a

power to be reckoned with on this station. Perhaps the

tourists find the illusion of law and order

comforting."

"You weren't this cynical at the Academy."

She shrugged and gestured toward the patrons of the

densely packed bar. A group of Ferengi

merchants were huddled at one end of the room;

Orions were at the other end; in between, Picard

counted at least ten other alien races, none of

them known for their pacifism or a highly

developed sense of ethics.

"I'm one Starfleet officer working alone in a

den of smugglers, thieves, and cutthroats. If

I ever manage to get my hands on any hard

evidence of criminal activity, I'll

probably end up walking out an airlock just like

Grede." She downed her drink in one gulp, then

said, "Which hasn't stopped me from trying, mind you.

However, Camenae is fond of me, so she works

very hard to keep compromising materials out of my

reach."

"Just who is this Camenae?" asked Picard.

"Officially, she's merely one of the

inhabitants of the starbase, but unofficially,

I'd have to say that Camenae is the real

administrator of this place. I may

supervise the base's technical services and

facilities, but Camenae runs its affairs.

She always knows what's going on in every corner of this

sector, so if someone wants information, she

sells it to them; when something needs to be done, she

arranges it."

"Does that include murder?"

"I'm sure it does." Miyakawa frowned,

then shook her head. "But I don't think she

ordered Grede's death. It was a sloppy job,

and Camenae would never allow one of her informants

to be killed in such an obvious way."

"But you think she knows who did?"

"Yes. Not that I'll ever be able to get that

information out of her; and unless she gives the

signal, there's not a single being on the starbase

who will talk to me about Grede's death."

"So you're telling me that the murderer will go

free?" said Picard angrily.

"Without any evidence, or any witnesses, my

hands are--"

Miyakawa was cut off by the crash of heavy

furniture and a stream of curses uttered in a

mixture of Ferengi and Federation Standard.

"Nothing!" continued the Ferengi who had

overturned a chair as he staggered to his feet;

he was weaving back and forth in place. "Bruk

says he found nothing in the wreckage but my

brother's corpse!"

One of his companions plucked at the sleeve

of his gray jacket, but the Ferengi swatted

away the restraining hand.

"The salvage effort alone will bankrupt me.

All it brings me is the trouble of selling

Maarc's ship for scrap metal and the

exorbitant expense of the crew's funeral."

"I think I've met his brother," said

Picard softly. "Perhaps we should leave before--"

"Ah ha!" The Ferengi was staring directly

at them. "The captain of the Enterprise has come

to laugh at my defeat."

"Too late, Jean-Luc," said

Miyakawa, as the bantamweight Ferengi bore

down upon them as fast as his unsteady legs could

carry him. His domed head and flaring ears had

flushed a deep red from too much drink and an

excess of rage.

"You were there, thief!" His finger jabbed

repeatedly at Picard's chest. "Return what

is rightfully mine, what you stole from my

brother!"

Before Picard could form a reply, a dark hand

settled on the Ferengi's shoulder. The woman's

grip was firm enough to choke off any further

accusations.

"DaiMon Tork," she said in a low

voice. "I prefer my customers to conduct their

private business with greater discretion and

decorum."

So this was Camenae.

Then the bar owner turned her attention

to Picard, and he was struck by the intensity of her

gaze. There was a familiar quality to her face

that he couldn't quite place.

"Welcome to the Due or Die, Captain

Picard. My apologies for the disturbance."

The Ferengi uttered a strangled squeak of

protest.

"DaiMon Tork," said Picard in a

voice loud enough to carry to all corners of the bar.

"You have my word that we took nothing that belonged to the

Ferengi off that ship."

Camenae's lips curved into a smile, and she

released her hold on Tork.

"Just as I thought," the DaiMon groaned,

collapsing onto the floor. He rubbed gingerly

at his sore shoulder. "Scrap metal and

funeral expenses."

With a snap of her fingers, Camenae signaled

Tork's companions to carry him away, and they

scurried forward to do her bidding.

The sense of familiarity deepened. "Have we

met before?"

"I'm disappointed, Captain Picard. I

expected a more original opening line from you."

En garde.

Perhaps she would respond to a direct

approach. "Commander Miyakawa tells me

you're in the information business. I'd like to become

one of your customers."

"That's a much better tactic," she said.

"Unfortunately, Starfleet doesn't have an

account with me, and I'm not accepting new clients

at the moment. If you like, I'll put you on my

waiting list."

Lunge and parry.

"At the very least," said Picard, "I'd like the

opportunity to talk to you in private ... about

Thomas Grede."

Camenae shook her head gently.

"I have nothing to say to you that can't be discussed right

here in the middle of the Due or Die. Private

meetings with Starfleet officers are bad for my

business reputation." Touch`e. "Now, if

you'll excuse me, Captain, I must get

back to work."

She glided away.

The memory of Camenae's smoky eyes

haunted Picard all the way back to the

Enterprise. However, standing in his brightly

illuminated ready room, Picard realized that his

impressions of the Due or Die and its elusive

owner would be impossible to convey in words. He

restricted himself to relating the bare bones of his

experience to his first officer.

"That's it?" Riker rocked back in his chair

so he could look Picard in the eye. "Grede was

the victim of an accidental death under unknown

circumstances?"

Picard's hands gripped the back of his desk

chair. He could not bring himself to sit down since

at any moment he should receive a call that would pull

him away. "I'm not comfortable with Miyakawa's

preliminary ruling either. However, I have a better

appreciation for the difficulties of her situation

now that I've actually visited Starbase 193.

The Federation's control of this area is

relatively recent and definitely

precarious."

Riker held up one hand and ticked off the

points of contention across his fingertips. "So the

Orions can't be brought to justice because they were

killed by the Ferengi, and the communications officer who

leaked the information about the Heart has conveniently

died so he can't be charged, and the case of the murder

of ten Vulcans is now closed."

"Yes, it is suspiciously neat and tidy,"

said the captain. The call still had not come, and he

began to admit that the delay worried him.

"So what do we do now?" asked Riker.

Picard appreciated the effort it must have taken

for his first officer to maintain a neutral tone

to ask this question. At warp eight the Enterprise

could still reach Luxor IV in time for the poker

tournament. "I've assured Commander Miyakawa

that we'll remain in the area another twenty-four

hours to provide at least a token show of strength

in the sector."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir."

Despite the personal sacrifice involved,

Riker's reaction seemed sincere. Picard

knew the first officer disliked letting bullies go

unchallenged. "Will you consider allowing shore leave

privileges--"

"Let's continue this discussion later, Number

One," said the captain. He moved out from behind the

desk at a brisk pace. "I should have received

Data's report on the Heart by now."

Picard bolted out the door before his first officer

could trail after him.

Data accepted as an axiom of his construction

that he did not possess emotions; therefore, he could

initiate yet another repetition of his

laboratory procedures without an accompanying

sense of frustration or anger. However, based on

his experience with the crew of the Enterprise, the

android greatly suspected that these were precisely

the set of emotions that he should be feeling at this

time.

Moving the equipment array into position over the

specimen, he closely monitored his actions so

that he might detect any departure from his

previous routines. No difference. He had

followed the same pattern of movement with the same

precision each of the four times before.

Data repeated the dating measurement a fifth

time.

A new result appeared on his viewscreen.

Entirely new. Over the course of hours, he

had not been able to obtain the same age for the

specimen twice in a row.

Since there was no reason to believe that a sixth

attempt would reveal any new insights, Data

concluded that another approach was required.

Unfortunately, the formulation of such an approach

eluded him.

The android was pondering the nature of

scientific inspiration when the doors of the

laboratory parted to admit a swiftly moving

Captain Picard. Judging from the somewhat grim

set of the captain's facial features, Data

surmised there was no need for an exchange of

pleasantries and launched into an immediate explanation

of the project's difficulties.

Picard's expression hardened even more as he

listened.

"The largest given value was twenty million

years old," continued Data. "Which would

be consistent with the theory of the Heart's involvement with

ancient history. Unfortunately, the extreme

variations raise considerable doubt as to the validity

of any of the results I have obtained."

"Obviously your equipment is malfunctioning,

Mr. Data," said Picard. He plucked the

stone off the scan stage and carefully examined its

surface for signs of damage.

"I ran extensive diagnostic tests

subsequent to each of the anomalous findings. There

is no sign of malfunction. Furthermore, my

measurement of all other test objects has been

consistent and predictable. There appears to be some

substance in the specimen itself which interferes with the

scan."

"Earlier, you claimed it was nothing more than a

rock."

Data attempted a shrug. "Apparently the

composition analysis was in error. I shall repeat

that procedure as well."

He extended one arm, reaching for the stone, but

Picard took a step backward as if to evade

him. "I think we should suspend any further

analysis until you've straightened out the

technical difficulties in the laboratory

equipment."

"Captain, the specimen would be useful in

determining--"

Picard stepped away again. "Until you can

establish the nature of the malfunction, I

won't risk inflicting any damage to the

Heart." Cradling the stone in the crook of his

arm, he said, "I'll keep it in my cabin for

now."

Data searched for the emotion that might best suit

this situation. The answer came to him just after the

captain's departure exasperation.

He wondered what it felt like.

END OF VOLUME I

THE DEVIL'S HEART

by

Carmen Carter

Volume II of Three Volumes

Pages i-ii and 159-344

For special distribution as authorized by Act of

Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe

permission of the copyright holder.

Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,

National Library Service for the Blind and

Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,

Inc., 1996.

Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All

Rights Reserved.

THE DEVIL'S HEART

CHAPTER 12

For one hour every night, the Due or Die was

closed for a perfunctory cleaning. Grumbling

patrons were pushed off the premises or carried

out into the corridor if they lacked the ability

to walk by themselves; it was an open secret on the

starbase that the synthehol served at the bar had an

unusually potent effect on anyone who slipped

a hefty tip to the bartender.

Other branches of Camenae's business,

however, were open at all times. So while Orlev

wiped stains off the pitted countertop, Camenae

perched on a barstool, waiting patiently for the

arrival of one of her operatives.

"We've been very busy lately," said the

bartender as he gathered up an armful of dirty

glasses.

His breathy, sibilant complaint reflected

her own train of thought. She sighed in agreement.

"For ten years we laughed at that old Vulcan

woman and her quest for a mythical treasure. But

now, it seems the joke is on us. She found that

damn Heart--and disrupted this entire sector."

Of course, the greedy scramble after the relic

had also fattened Camenae's coffers, but she

distrusted these windfall profits. They were

short-lived and unpredictable, not to mention that her

overhead had also risen sharply.

For instance, there was the matter of Thomas

Grede.

She had promised to transport him

to safety, and she was in the habit of keeping her

word. After all, broken contracts were bad for

business.

A warning whistle from Kajima announced the

arrival of someone at the threshold of the bar.

"It's the Squib," announced the guard after he

checked the image coming from the security camera.

Camenae nodded and slipped off the barstool.

The Norsican knew to wait for her retreat

into the back office before he released the lock on

the entrance.

She was seated in her customary place when she

heard the clicking sound of chitonous legs on the

metallic deck. Krtakk scurried forward

to greet her with a customary wave of its eye

stalks. As a longtime operative, it knew not

to waste any more time on extraneous

civilities.

"As you suspected, Camenae," it said in a

chittering voice. "Lord Reyjad@an stole the

transport papers from Grede and obtained free

passage on the Villareal all the way

to Smelter's Hold."

"After that?"

To her disgust, Krtakk bobbed its hard-shelled

body up and down, a submissive gesture that

signaled failure. "I could find no trace

of the unDiWahn after leaving the Villareal.

He has gone into hiding somewhere on the Hold, but

it will take time and money to determine who is

sheltering him."

"Continue the trace, whatever the cost."

The Squib chirped its acceptance of the task.

"There is one item more Grede was supposed

to erase all traces of the alien's

transmissions, but the new tech in communications was

able to recover a scrap that escaped overwrite."

Krtakk executed a rapid series of nervous

bobs. "Unfortunately, the price for commissioning

the effort was exorbitant and the result

disappointing."

"Let me hear it anyway," said Camenae

with a sigh of resignation at the escalating cost of

her revenge.

A tentacle looped up over the table edge and

dropped a small vocoder into the palm of her

hand. Camenae pressed a control switch and sound

issued forth from its speaker.

"... seeking has ended. The Gem has

been uncovered, and it is again ..."

That was all. Such a small scrap and yet so

very revealing.

"Thank you, Krtakk. You have done well."

The Squib squeaked, surprised by her

praise, then scuttled away with a churring

prattle of self-congratulations.

Camenae played the short recording over

several times, listening carefully to the quality of the

voice instead of the words. The content was indeed

unrewarding, but there was an unexpected value in

hearing Reyjad@an speak in private his

crisp enunciation of Federation Standard was devoid

of the thick oily accent and hissing sound he had

used with her.

Evidently she had underestimated the

unDiWahn. And poor Grede had paid the

price of her miscalculation.

Some men turned to fat in their old age, but

First Prefect Lorris had added no weight

to his lean, muscular frame as decade piled

on decade. By his ninetieth year, his

eyesight had not dimmed, the peaked scrollwork of

his ears missed no whisper of gossip or slander,

and his dry laughter had developed a blade-sharp

edge that could cut his victims to the quick. If his

reflexes had slowed any since his youth,

Lorris had hidden that change beneath an imposing

dignity of bearing.

His one concession to the passage of time was a

diminished patience for disruption and disorder. So, as

his family size swelled with succeeding generations of

offspring, Lorris retreated more and more often to the

sheltered confines of his library.

Only on this morning, when the prefect entered

his sanctuary he found it already occupied. His

irritation at the violation of his privacy was

mollified once he recognized the uniformed

intruder. Subcommander Vedoc was rooted in

place by one of the tallest bookshelves, head

bent over an open book; he was so immersed in his

study that he had not heard the door of the room

open.

"For a soldier, you read a great deal of

history, Nephew."

The young man twirled around. Then, with a smile

of greeting, he ducked his head in an informal

gesture of respect that acknowledged close

family ties yet did not forget the distance between

their ranks. "Your library is impossible

to resist, Uncle. I have spent many of my ship

leaves in this room."

"Hah! If you value your career, you should be out

whoring and drinking with your shipmates." Settling

into a broad chair in the middle of the room, the

old man beckoned his sister's son to come

closer. "There was a time, in the early days of the

Empire, when an officer was despised as a

common throat-slitter if he did not also

cultivate a knowledge of art, music, and

literature. Those days are gone. Most of my

fellow prefects are either mercenaries or

bureaucrats, and I suspect that they consider me

to be a peevish eccentric."

"Then I appear to take after you."

"You could do worse," said Lorris with a

sniff. Vedoc had always been a

favorite of his, more so than any of his own

spawn. The prefect was struck with a sudden

inspiration, and he forged his attack strategy with the

same rapidity that he had used as a commander in

battle. "That book you are holding is

contraband."

The young man looked down in surprise at the

volume in his hands. "But if that is so, however

did you obtain it, Uncle?"

Lorris chuckled at the boy's na@ivet`e.

"One of the advantages of a military career is

the chance to make contacts with unsavory characters; the

Ferengi, for instance. A loathsome race, but they do

have their uses."

"They smuggled Federation books to you for

payment?"

"For payment, yes," said the old man. "But

also for trade. There are those in the Federation who are

equally curious about the Romulans. In fact,

as a centurion I provided the author of that very

book," he pointed once again to the tome in his

nephew's hands, "with a copy of the early history

of the Romulan people."

"I've read several of her works here in the

library," said Vedoc eagerly. "She's a fine

scholar."

"Was a fine scholar. According to my contacts,

T'Sara died just a few days ago."

"Of old age?"

"Perhaps," said Lorris with a shrug. "She must

have been close to three centuries old. Yet the

report is that she died along with a group of other

Vulcans, which implies the death was not

natural."

"Her loss will be a blow to Federation science."

"I agree, but the Vulcans do not value her

scholarship as highly as we do. Evidently

T'Sara's uncanny understanding of alien emotion

offends their delicate sensibilities."

The young man frowned. "There is much I do not

understand about the Vulcans."

"They are a dull race, Vedoc. Their

philosophy of logic leaves no room for the

vices that make life worthwhile." It was time

to test the waters; with a deep sigh, Lorris

added, "Yet the only vice I have carried into my

old age is curiosity ... and I am curious

to learn how T'Sara died and what has come of her

research into our legends. The answers I seek

may do nothing more than satisfy my

meddlesome nature, but then again ... well, t hey

may do far more."

Vedoc's eyebrows angled upward; this turn

in the discussion had definitely piqued his interest.

"I have the ear of the Praetor," continued the first

prefect, "and in payment for some long-standing debts

born of my attention to his private affairs,

he has agreed to send a warbird beyond the

Neutral Zone to investigate the matter."

His nephew's interest heightened into alarm.

Eyes wide with disbelief, he said, "He would

violate the Neutral Zone treaty for this

venture?"

"For a chance to possess the Ko N'ya, the

Praetor would do anything." Lorris chortled

softly. "Or at least, order someone else to do

anything."

"The Ko N'ya," whispered the young man. The

library was warm, yet he shivered as if a cold

draft had chilled his bones. "A myth risen from

the Vaults of the Dead."

"You have a vivid imagination, Vedoc, but then so

did I at your age. Military service will

teach you how to channel that faculty into more sensible

pursuits."

His nephew stiffened to attention, a tactful

response that did not commit him to agreement.

Enough dallying, thought the prefect. There was not much

time to implement this revision to his plans. "It

would please me to have these proceedings supervised

by someone who is personally concerned with our family

interests."

Vedoc caught his meaning without difficulty.

"Can you arrange for my transfer to the warbird?"

"Oh, yes," said Lorris with a wry smile.

"I have nearly as many favors to call in as I have

books on these shelves."

"Then I am yours to command, Uncle."

"Excellent. Prepare to leave this house within

the hour." Lorris was impressed by the young

soldier's courage. His sister's son would make

a fine prefect some day and bring new honors

to the family name.

If he survived this mission, of course.

Those called to the Gathering began to assemble when

the first moon of DiWahn started its climb up

through the twilight sky. Out of houses and inns, through

darkening streets, the robed figures streamed

toward the Gateway Temple. Heavy

cowls hid the faces of those who called themselves the

unDiWahn. Some walked singly, others in

pairs or small groups, but by the time they reached

the tiled plaza surrounding the high tower, their

swelling numbers had merged into one mass of the

Faithful.

Townspeople not sworn to the Faith cowered in

their homes, for within memory there had never been a

Gathering as large as this one. Every Guardian on the

face of the planet must have journeyed to the walled

city of Iconiad@an, but no one outside the

order had envisioned there were so many to answer the

call; the sound of their swishing robes seeped like

flood waters through barred doors and shuttered

windows.

Those men and women who had settled into a

complacent acceptance of their adopted world were

reminded once again of half-forgotten legends of

ancient Iconia and its lost grandeur. In

fearful whispers, they wondered what cabalistic

cataclysm had roused the Guardians. The

Faithful kept alive the memories of their

race before the Passage through the Gate, and they

possessed knowledge beyond the understanding of farmers and

merchants; therefore, whatever alarmed the Guardians

might well terrify a commoner.

When the moon reached its zenith, tolling bells

chased a few stragglers through the massive archways

at the base of the tower, and thick doors hewn from

the strongest wood swung back into place to seal

all entrances against any uninitiated intruders.

Body pressed tightly against body inside the

domed chamber that barely contained the assembly; but

in the very center of the densely packed crowd there was a

clearing just large enough for one hooded figure to sit

cross-legged on the floor. The abstract

mosaic design beneath this Guardian marked the

spot where the first Iconian had stepped through the

Gateway; only a handful of the Faithful had the

right to occupy this place of honor.

After the last knell faded into silence, the

Master rose from the floor and pushed back the

heavy folds of the hood to reveal a man in the

middle years of his life. The scalloped

ridges of his forehead were plainly patterned,

devoid of beauty yet not quite ugly; his skin was the

pale shade of violet that marked him as a

native of the southern hemisphere of the planet.

One by one, the members of the Gathering followed his

example. When all of the Guardians

had bared their heads, Kierad@an spoke in a

deep, melodious voice that could reach every straining

ear and fill it with honey. The only sound from the

listening host was their soft breathing.

"Here is the story, as my grandfather told it

to me ..."

When I was a young man, newly initiated

into our order, an offworlder came to my village

to live. She was a tall woman with delicate,

sweeping features and hair the color of ash; her

dark eyes burned with the desire to learn the

language and ways of our people. I had never seen

her like before, and she said that she was the first of her race

to set foot upon DiWahn; however, my elders

among the Faithful knew her already.

At that time, I was still too young to have learned more

than a half dozen Dreams, but Ikajad@an

assured me that T'Sara was part of the Gem's

lore and that she was destined to become one facet of the

Dreaming.

For weeks I listened as the Guardians

debated their part in the Gem's plan and how

to fulfill it. Some among them said it would be

sacrilege to even contemplate action, that such

direct interference would actually disrupt the course

of the Dreaming; others denounced this passivity,

believing instead that the unDiWahn had been chosen

to set T'Sara on the proper path.

In the end, the way was simple.

Ikajad@an invited her to attend the

Tellings. There was no precedent for allowing one

unsworn to the Faith to hear the Dreams, and

T'Sara quickly sensed that she had been greatly

honored. So night after night she joined me as

we took our place in the circle of

Guardians; and each night someone recited one

of the Dreams recorded by our Iconian

ancestors, although never one in which she had a part.

She listened patiently at first, then with a

growing hunger that carried her through the entire winter.

On the first day of spring, Ikajad@an recounted

the death of Iconia, and thus reached the end of the

ancient lore. By this time, T'Sara yearned

to discover what had become of Kanda Jiak's

Gem and to fully understand its powers.

Her restlessness drove her away from our world,

but she was not lost to us. Always I knew where to find

her, and those Dreams were the ones I never tired of

hearing.

Kierad@an paused for breath, then

said, "That is the end of my grandfather's Telling, but

the story does not end there.

"For many years, T'Sara sent word of her

search to several of the unDiWahn who had tutored

her. Then, one by one these Guardians grew old

and died, until there was no one left among the

Faithful who was known to her, and her letters stopped.

"My father took part in the Gathering that chose one

of its number to leave DiWahn and seek her out.

Jaradad@an spent the rest of his life on this

mission, wandering from one planet to another in

T'Sara's wake, always careful to keep out of her

sight. His son was born offworld and continues the work

of his father."

Raising his hands high into the air, Kierad@an

proclaimed, "Reyjad@an has this to say to us

T'Sara's seeking has ended; the Gem has

been uncovered; and it is again time for the Faithful

to take a part in the Dreaming."

His words unleashed a storm of emotion from the

Guardians. Shouts of joy mixed with the sobs of

those moved to tears by the arrival of a day foretold in

myth. Young and old, men and women, strangers and

friends, all embraced each other as kin.

Kierad@an waited for the throes of their fervor

to calm, then he drew a scroll from the folds of

his robe. The parchment was yellow with age, and it was

tied with leather laces.

"We have prepared for this day in many ways. There

are those among you who were chosen to pave the path we

must follow, others to walk its length." He

scanned the multitude of eager faces that had

turned back toward him. "Daramad@an!"

A large, heavyset man pushed his way through the

assembly to the center of the chamber. Few of the

Guardians had ever met this man, but everyone

knew of him by another name; his inclusion in the order

had never been revealed before.

"Are you with us?" asked Kierad@an. It was a

ritual question, but the answer had never carried so much

weight as it did tonight.

"I am with you," said the one that most of

DiWahn knew as Admiral Jakat. "As

are my forces."

"Hai!" A chorus of voices scattered

throughout the crowd attested to the loyalty of the senior

officers Daramad@an had brought into the order.

Bowing his head in a gesture of subservience, the

admiral of the DiWahn space fleet asked,

"Where are we to go, Master?"

"To the Appointed Place," said Kierad@an.

At his touch, the brittle leather ties circling

the scroll crumbled into dust. He unfurled the

sheet and held it high so all could see what was

drawn on its surface.

It was a map filled with stars and a single blazing

comet.

CHAPTER 13

The sighing winds carried aloft the moans and

cries of the dying as if beseeching the heavens for

pity, but the red sun was merciless. Blazing in

noonday splendor, it dried the throats and

tongues of men too weak to crawl toward shelter,

and beat down upon bodies that had no warmth of their

own. Small fires smoldered in the

blood-sodden ground, then guttered out in trails

of dark, foul smoke. Here and there across the

littered field were flutters of movement the

trembling of limbs as death finally took hold of

an eviscerated warrior, the lazy flap of wings

as a carrion-eater feasted on the carna ge, the

rippling of a clan banner whose broken staff was

driven through the chest of the standard-bearer.

As the sun tipped over on its westward

descent toward the jagged peaks of Mt.

Selaya, and the dry desert breezes gathered

strength, one lone figure broke the taut line

of the horizon. He picked his way carefully,

stepping over the fallen warriors if possible,

skirting around them when the mounds of intertwined

bodies grew too deep. His tunic was clean,

unspotted, untorn, but his legs and sandal

laces were streaked with the olive color of drying

gore.

The boy stopped for a moment, winded by his long

run from the mountain village and his tortured

progress through the battlefield of Ishaya;

closed eyes gave respite to his mind. His

mother and the healers had demanded that he stay in

isk'Kahr, but he had twisted out of

T'Leia's grasp and raced away.

"Wait!" they had cried after him. "You are

too young," they had Called into his mind when he

passed beyond hearing.

He was much older now.

In the last hour he had learned that the colorful

scenes of clashing armies intricately

embroidered in tapestries and the lilting

melody of the War Ballads were all treats for

children, just like the tales of wise old sehlats who

talked to lost hunters. Emerald-green thread

shimmered in lamplight, but the blood that covered his

own legs was not so pretty, and armor had no

luster when it was splattered with gore. Five

Vulcan clans had emptied their veins into this

sandy plain, sullying its air with the stink of

putrefaction; few survived to sing tales of

bravery, or even of treachery. Where was the glory

in this silence?

Come.

The need to continue pressed against his mind again.

He had mistaken the desire for his own

curiosity, for his own willfulness, but now he

recognized that the summons was from without, a Call

from someone alive and adrift in this sea of

corpses. He opened his eyes and scanned the

torn landscape.

"Father?"

He was answered by a visceral tug toward the

north, as if a hand plucked weakly at his

sleeve when lips could no longer form words.

His pace quickened now that he had been given a

path to follow and a sense of purpose. Even the

horrors of the killing field were less shocking

than before. The endless variations of mutilation--charred

limbs, split skulls, sunken chests--all

played out the basic theme of death. The weapons

also varied in configuration, yet all had drawn

sufficient blood to silence their enemies. Some

of the slain were unmarked, showing no open wounds, but

their faces were clenched and contorted in the

grotesque physical manifestation of the Calls

that had expertly twisted their minds.

The tattered remnants of a bright red flag

caught his eye. He approached it with dread,

torn between the urgency of his father's Call and fear

of where it drew him. Yes, his family had fought

here. By a freak accident of the wind, the cloth was

draped like a shroud across the body of one of his

clansmen, mimicking the act of a healer

acknowledging the limits of her art. His search was

almost over.

My son.

The Call was weaker than before, yet still he could

sense that his father lay nearby.

He took one step forward, then faltered when

he saw the face of the body lying in his path.

Surrell lay crumpled on the ground

where a shard of metal had pinned him down; he had

died in agony, thrashing to free himself. To lose

any brother was a cause for grief, but this brother

had been a favorite, and his death brought more pain

than all the other horrors the boy had witnessed.

A second step revealed another slain brother.

Then a third.

All the dead before him had names; he had seen

each of these still, pale faces laughing in the

radiant moonlight during the last Festival of

Moons. Brothers, uncles, cousins; there were

too many to mourn.

"Father!"

"Here." The soft word was spoken, not Sent.

The boy frantically scrabbled through the dead

bodies until his hands touched warm flesh. He

fell to his knees by the side of his father. Stef's

face was covered with blood, blurring the familiar

angular features. His eyes, normally dark and

piercing, were clouded with pain and exhaustion, but they

cleared when he felt the touch of a hand on his arm.

"I've come, Father."

"What, no other sons left?" asked Stef,

his weak voice hoarse with anger.

"No, Father, just me."

"So be it. I will have more sons." With a gasping

breath to gather strength for movement, Stef drew

back his cloak to reveal a small object

nestled by his side. "Behold your birthright and

your future the king-maker, Ko N'ya!"

"This is what my brothers died for?" asked the

boy. He had overheard Surrell and the others

whispering in the dark when they had thought he was

safely asleep; they had spun strange tales

of a relic of great power that would bring immense

wealth to the clan that possessed it. Yet this dull

gray rock was not worth one day of Surrell's

life.

"Death is a small price to pay for our

place in history. My dynasty shall unite all

Vulcan," said his father. He lifted up the stone

and his voice grew louder. "We will live forever

... rule forever."

The boy reached out to touch the rough surface of the

Ko N'ya, but Stef pulled it away.

"Mine!" he hissed. "Do not be so eager

to succeed me."

"No, Father, I never meant--"

Stef's cry of pain cut off the boy's

apology. A spasm racked through the

man's body, twisting his muscles into knots and

robbing him of the strength to hold the stone. It

slipped from his trembling fingers, and the boy lunged

forward to catch it before it hit the ground.

Mine!

"Father?"

The soft flutter of Stef's Calling mind

faded to silence.

The boy rocked back on his heels, the Ko

N'ya in his hands. He was the only living being

left on the plain of Ishaya.

Desert nights are chill on Vulcan. The

borrowed warmth of the sun does not linger for very long

in the dark. A young boy in a linen shirt and

sleeveless vest would need to huddle close to the

licking flames of a fire in order to survive

until morning.

Not this boy.

He sat cross-legged on the cold ground,

yet his limbs did not shiver and tremble. The stone

rested in the palms of his hands where he held its

weight all night without strain. Under moonlight

it transformed into a crystalline gem, glittering

and sparkling as if lit from within, but at dawn the

spell was broken.

A hoarse shouting reverberated across the plain,

and the boy looked up to see figures moving in the

distance. At first he assumed the people of his village

had finally arrived to seek out their dead, but as the

group drew nearer he caught the foreign lilt

to their voices. They spoke with the harsh bark of

warriors, not healers. Another clan,

probably the Ghe'Hara, he guessed once he

could see the cut of their armor. He counted eight

men scouring the field, darting here and there and

rummaging among the dead as if in search of something.

More fierce shouting ensued when one of the men

gestured toward the red flag of Stef's clan.

The troop began to run across the field, heedless

of the dead underfoot, and in their haste one of the

warriors nearly trampled over the boy where he

sat silent and unmoving.

"Th'a!" cursed the man, jumping back as if

a serpent had crawled out of the grass. He took

a wild shot with a phaser, and the boy felt the

breath of the beam's passage a scant inch from his

cheek. "Garamond, come see what I've

found!"

One of the warriors veered aside

to answer the call. He was tall and carried himself

with a confident swagger. Where his companions wore the

functional armor that would repel modern weapon

fire, his suit was crafted along ancient

design; and the decorative sword that swung from

his belt was just as lethal as their phasers.

The sight of the boy, and what he possessed,

brought a grunt of surprise to Garamond's

lips. "You have something that belongs to me."

The boy looked up, but did not speak.

Garamond stepped back, instinctively

brandishing his sword. A trick of the morning light

had given the boy the face of an old man. One

blink and the illusion was gone.

"Give it up to me, child."

"My name is Surak," said the boy

quietly. "And I will not give you this stone. I will

not give it to any living being."

"Are you so eager to die, young one?" Garamond

resheathed his weapon, more curious than kind in the

face of this unexpected defiance.

"No, I don't wish to die," said Surak,

"but I could not live with that deed on my conscience."

"Then you propose to keep this bauble to yourself?"

The boisterous laughter that followed his question covered

a growing uneasiness. Garamond's grip on the

sword handle tightened again. If the stone held

Powers, then this boy could be as dangerous as his

elders and must be killed after all.

"No, I have no need for it now that the sun has

risen." To Garamond's relief, the young boy

bent forward and placed the stone on the ground.

"You have given it to me after all," the man crowed

as his fist closed over the rough rock and hefted it

high into the air.

Surak shook his head. "You have taken it of your

own free will."

"A fine distinction, my young philosopher,"

said Garamond with a lifted brow. "But why do you

disdain these Powers. It is rumored this dull gem

you have tossed aside can fulfill all desires.

The Ko N'ya could even raise the dead of your

clan."

Surak surveyed the field of slaughter with a

new dispassion. "They chose this fate, so restoring

them to life would only prolong the battle."

His hands clenched, then eased again. Laying his

open palms down upon his knees, he continued.

"I don't seek the fulfillment of desires.

I have chosen to end the desires themselves."

I have chosen to end the desires themselves.

The words were spoken in Ancien t Vulcan, with the

lilting cadence of a pre-Reform dialect.

Picard shifted in his bed, and the movement pulled

him closer to consciousness.

The phrase whispered again, but this time he could not

fathom any meaning in the guttural sounds.

He slipped back into another dream.

The bedchamber walls were hung with intricately

woven tapestries of panoramic views that

rivaled nature, but the fabrics were muted by dust

and heavy shadows. Rugs covered the flagstone

floor, but their colors and patterns had been

worn away by the scuffle and tread of five

generations. Once the room had been filled with

rich furnishings of dark wood deep chairs that

invited guests to linger and tables spread with trays

of wine and bread to entice them to stay yet awhile

longer. These were all gone now, removed one by one

as the desire for fellowship dimmed, then guttered

out like the cold torches set in their sconces.

A pall of age and decay draped like a

discarded veil over the entire room, but it coiled

most thickly around the bed and the single frail

figure nestled deep in its embrace.

"I am old, J'ross. Our people die young on

this new world, but even by our reckoning before The

Crossing from Vulcan, I am old."

Garamond had uttered this petulant complaint

so often that the woman at his side no longer tried

to frame a soothing reply. Instead, she studied

the blotchy, wrinkled skin of his face with new

interest; his complexion had an ominous brown tinge

that had not been there yesterday. His lean, bony

features had turned gaunt. She wondered if

either of the chamber's sentries had noticed the

changes.

Her hand searched for the basket tucked under the

bed. The contents were intact. She pulled out a

small leather-bound book and turned to a marked

page. "Shall I read to you this morning?"

"No, I am dying."

He had said this before as well, day after day for the

last year, but she thought that today he might be right.

There was a soft, dry rattle when he breathed that

warned of lungs grown brittle overnight.

Garamond had wakened only an hour before, yet

there were dark smudges beneath his eyes and their

puffy lids drooped down lower and lower.

His eyes closed. He drifted off to sleep.

Laying the book facedown, J'ross

carefully shifted her weight off the bed so as not

to wake the old man. With expert movements born

of much practice, she straightened and tucked the

tangled covers. He did not stir. She picked

up the book and bent down. Her hands sought out the

basket again.

"Who is there?" cried out Garamond, waking

suddenly. His fingers clutched fitfully at his

side. "Gone! It is gone!"

"Hush, my husband. It was only hidden by the

covers." She guided his fumbling hands to the right

place, then cast a glance over her shoulder

to check the sentries' reactions.

Pymer had come to immediate attention with a drawn

knife balanced in his palm; he took a

hesitant step forward. Deemus was less

alarmed, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed

sword. They craned their necks to see what was

happening.

"I commend your diligence." She moved aside

to give them a clear view of the bed where the old

man cradled the stone in his arms. "But it was only

another nightmare."

Pymer grunted, then slumped back against the

wall and began idly picking at his teeth with the

blade. Deemus sighed heavily.

They were, to the best of her knowledge, loyal

to Garamond, but there was far less reason to trust

their loyalty to her. J'ross feared that a dying

king's young wife, no matter how beautiful, could

hardly compete with Garamond's nephew.

Taramuk's political sway was based in part

on his bloodlines, but even more on his ambitions

he promised the Aegis a new purpose. Where

Garamond had reduced the guard to a

decorative, but essentially unnecessary, appendage

to his House, Taramuk promised the soldiers

global warfare, and ultimately, an empire.

All he needed was the Ko N'ya.

She moved back to Garamond's side,

anxious to quiet his mewling. Pymer was bored, and

bored soldiers were too curious for comfort's

sake.

"Betrayed." Fortunately Garamond's

voice had sunk to a whisper. "You have betrayed

me."

"No, not so." She tucked a lock

of straggling white hair back behind the elegant

point of one ear. Despite his age, he had

been a handsome man when they first met. "I have been

true to you, Husband, in my own way."

He fell back against the pillows, exhausted

by the outburst, and the stone tumbled out of the crook of his

arm. When he made no move to recover it,

J'ross tucked it against his side. Then she

took a soft cloth and wiped the tears that streamed

down his sunken cheeks, but there was nothing she could do

to ease his labored breathing or still his feebly

thrashing limbs.

An hour passed, then another. She waited

patiently until Garamond exhaled deeply,

then stirred no more. Her fingers pressed against his

wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none; he was

finally at rest.

J'ross pulled the basket out from under the bed

to set about her next task.

"The king is sleeping. Do not disturb him," she

commanded as she walked past the guards.

Deemus nodded; Pymer sheathed his knife and

fell into step beside her. As the lady of the manor

she had the right to an armed escort, but over the last

year she had noted a subtle shift in the

guard's demeanor, an increased vigilance and

attention to her activities. As Garamond's

health worsened, the privilege of Pymer's

company had become more difficult to decline, and the

few opportunities to slip away from his

supervision had been hard won. Her guard was

rapidly becoming her jailer.

They proceeded to the House kitchen in silence

since her past attempts to make light conversation

had only rendered Pymer more surly. This

failure to charm confirmed her suspicions that the

Aegis soldiers were ready to transfer their

loyalty to Taramuk.

"Th'a! It's hot down here," cried Pymer

as they descended the back steps. "This is no work

for a soldier."

"The king's chamber is cool. You could have stayed

there."

He only scowled.

No queen had set foot in the kitchens before

J'ross, but then no other queen of the House had

been a baker. Some of the servants admired her

ascent into nobility, while others scorned her

common origins; they all kept their distance when she

entered their domain.

She threaded her way between bustling cooks and

table servers with their trays, but the soldier was

less nimble and earned several muttered curses

when he blocked their path or tripped their feet.

By the time he caught up with her, J'ross had

pulled a ball of dough from her basket and was

pinching shut the cracks in its surface. She then

placed it on a wooden paddle and shoved it

inside the nearest oven.

Pymer began to sweat. "How long is this going

to take?"

"Not long," she said. "Spiced kahla

doesn't need to rise."

His scowl etched deeper and deeper into his

face as they waited, and his face had flushed a

bright green from the radiant heat before she

pronounced the crust to be properly browned.

"Anyone could do this," said Pymer as they

retraced their path to the king's chamber. Irritation

had loosened his tongue.

"It's not so easy as it looks," said

J'ross. She swung the bread basket from one

arm, but her free hand wiped a trickle of sweat

from her brow.

Their entrance into the chamber caught the single

sentry in the middle of a yawn. "The king is still

sleeping."

"I hate to wake him, but he must eat to keep

up his strength." She raised her voice as she

approached the bed. "I've brought you fresh baked

kahla, my lord. Your favorite delicacy."

She peered down at the old man's face.

"My lord?"

She dropped the basket and fell to her knees

by his bedside. "My lord! My lord is dead!"

Her cries turned to sobs as she threw herself

over the still body. She could hear the pounding of the

sentries' boots as they ran toward her.

"Move aside, woman!" commanded Deemus,

shoving her away so that he could examine the king for

himself. He touched the man's face, then snatched

back his hand. "Th'a! He's already cold."

"Then he died on your watch," said Pymer

quickly.

"Idiot, Taramuk won't care when the old

king died." J'ross watched Deemus scrabble

frantically through the bedcovers. "It's the rock that

matters now. Where is--" He spun around,

sword drawn clear of its sheath by the time he

faced her.

Deemus, reflected J'ross ruefully, was

much brighter than Pymer.

"Drop it, m'lady, or I shall be forced

to kill you."

"Brave man, to attack the holder of the Ko

N'ya." To her relief, the soldier froze in

place. "With a single tap on this stone I could

burn out your heart and twist your entrails into a

knot. A wave of my hand and this castle will come

crashing down over your heads, plague will kill

any survivors, and monsters will grow in the womb

of any woman who walks over this land for the next

ten generations."

From the look of terror on his face, Pymer

might have let her flee the room just to stop the

stream of curses, but Deemus was almost grinning

at her recitation. Almost. A sliver of

uncertainty stayed his hand.

"Well said, my Queen, but I'll let my

betters judge the weight of your threats." He

edged backward toward the door. His eyes never

left her or the stone she held. Pymer

scurried after, and together they bolted shut the door.

She was left alone with the dead king.

J'ross calculated that a swift messenger

could carry the news of Garamond's death to his

nephew in just over an hour. It should take

somewhat longer for Taramuk to make the return

journey from his neighboring estate. If the

Aegis was on his side, they would make short work

of any token opposition to the joining of the two

Houses.

Her fate would be settled by dusk.

Contemplation of her own death did not frighten

J'ross. She had known the risks when she

married old Garamond and then bore him a child that

usurped Taramuk's position as heir; she had

gambled that Garamond would live until her son

was old enough to defend his reign, and she had lost.

Death was the likely forfeit for her; however, if

Rume had followed instructions, her child would

survive. That was a victory of sorts.

The sun was still a finger's width from the horizon

when she heard the sound of marching feet outside the

chamber. There was a hasty scrape of metal against

wood, then the doors burst open, shouldered apart

by a force of Aegis soldiers.

As I expected.

To give him credit, Taramuk led the

assault. Garamond's nephew was

broad and carried his bulky armor with ease.

Elaborate designs of beaten gold added

luster to the metal breastplate. He was a

warrior who planned to be an emperor.

J'ross raised the stone up above her head.

"I have powers that are greater than those naked

swords."

Taramuk merely laughed. "It takes more than

a few hours to learn to wield those powers,

J'ross. However, I expected some move for

power on your part, so I've come prepared."

He clapped his hands and a soldier stepped

forward. He was carrying a small squirming

bundle. As the heavy cloth fell away,

J'ross heard the crying of a child. Seconds

later a naked boy tumbled out onto the

flagstones.

"Did you really think you could hide him away?

His wet nurse offered him to me for a single gold

coin."

"Let him go!"

"Give the Ko N'ya to me," Taramuk said,

"or the child dies."

J'ross shook her head ever so slightly.

"Kill the king's son and rightful heir? Not even

you would dare do that."

"Do you take me for a fool, J'ross?

Garamond was nearly three hundred years old,

too old by a century to sire a son." He

prodded the trembling child with a boot. "You've been

seen speaking to your village lover; this is the

spawn of a potter, not the king's own flesh and

blood."

"You're wrong. The child is blood of this

House, Taramuk, which makes him kin to a

butcher!"

Taramuk snapped two fingers.

"No!" she cried, but it was too late

to forestall his order.

The guard's cutting slash brought forth a gout of

blood from the boy's neck; waves of bright

emerald green cascaded down his chest. The child's

limp body collapsed into a crumpled heap

onto the faded carpet; J'ross dropped to her

knees as if felled by the same blow.

"You will be next," said Taramuk.

Even as he spoke, J'ross had let

loose the stone. It tumbled from her slack hands,

rolling across the floor toward his eager, grasping

reach.

She remained silently in place, head bowed,

as two guards stripped her of the gown she had been

wearing, their rough hands tearing away the fabric

until she was naked. Her jewelry was removed

with equal force, raising welts and bruises about

her neck and wrists; a trickle of blood

marked where an ear-gem had been wrenched free of the

lobe. Even her slippers were forfeit. They could

not untangle the leather ties that bound her braided

hair, so the braid itself was lopped off with the same

knife that had slain the boy.

When the men had finished their task, she lifted

her head high, as if in anticipation of a final

killing blow.

Taramuk waved back the guards. "If you were

less liked, and less beautiful, I would kill

you myself. Instead, I will spare your life if you

return to the mud village where my uncle found

you."

"I won't beg for mercy from you," she said in a

flat voice, "yet give me leave to take a

cloak with which to cover myself and a loaf of bread

to eat. To do less would shame your House. After

all, I was its queen."

"You were a better baker," he said with a sneer,

but he plucked a cloak from the back of one of his

soldiers and threw it onto the floor. "Now

go!"

With a clumsy bow of acquiescence, J'ross

scooped up the cloak and wrapped the cloth

tightly about her body and over her head. Then,

taking up her bread basket, she walked past

Taramuk with the same bearing and poise that once

carried her across a throne room. The House

guards hastily stepped back, eyes averted in

acknowledgment of their betrayal. She left

Garamond's bedchamber unhindered.

The estate appeared deserted by servants and

Family alike, but she sensed eyes following

her stately passage through the corridors and

heard whispers coming from behind closed doors. Those

who would have championed her cause were dead or in

hiding.

She strode faster down the halls, through

doorways, under arches, over steps and out into the

courtyard. From high above her, a wailing of

horns announced the king's death to the countryside.

Impatient to escape the same air that Taramuk

breathed, she ran over cobblestones until she

reached a dirt road, one that led to the

village of her birth.

J'ross waited until the looming towers of the

House had faded into the distance before she loosed the

laughter welling up inside her. Her feet had

grown soft over the last few years of manor

house living, and they pained her already, yet she

danced barefooted over the rough pebbled surface.

By the time the sun had set, she would be safely

home.

"I am a better baker than you know,

Taramuk the Mighty, Taramuk the

Empire-Builder, Taramuk the Dead!"

The basket she carried was heavy, far heavier

than a round loaf of kahla should weigh.

Tonight she and her family would feast on the thin

crust of stale bread that covered the Ko N'ya

baked inside. Taramuk might dine on fresh

meats and wine, but it would be his last meal. The

rock he carried into battle had been formed in the

heat of a potter's kiln, and a lump of fired

clay would offer little protection to him or his

armies.

She and Rume would live to spit on

Taramuk's grave. If even half the stories

of the Ko N'ya's powers were true, her lover would

spend the rest of his days making the statues he

loved; and Garamond's infant son would grow

tall and strong while the bones of that poor dead

child--Taramuk's own whelp by a cast-off mistress

--turned to dust.

J'ross stopped her dance for a moment, struck

by an unsettling thought. If old Garamond was

to be believed, she herself had a long life waiting

to be filled. Regaining possession of the House

would not occupy more than a few years of that span.

What, then, was she to do for the next three hundred

years? Unlike the king, she had no interest in

idle pleasures of the flesh, neither did she intend

to end her life alone in a dusty bedchamber.

After a moment's thought, she had her answer.

Taramuk was treacherous and cruel, but he was not

entirely a fool; neither was she too proud

to learn from her enemy. She had enjoyed being queen

and had run the House with admirable skill; that

same talent for organization could work as well for

an empire.

Perhaps she could even return the Romulan people

to the stars.

J'ross resumed her dance down the path.

CHAPTER 14

"Twenty ... nineteen ... eighteen ..."

Chief O'Brien had started the final

countdown, and most of the people gathered in Ten-Forward

had quickly joined him.

Geordi La Forge was not one of them.

"Look," he said to his table companion, "if just

one more starship is diverted at the last minute,

they won't meet the five-ship quorum for

calling a championship match."

"Too late," said Worf, quaffing his prune

juice in one gulp. "The USS Venture

docked there an hour ago. That gives them six."

He waved to Guinan for a refill.

"What!" cried Geordi. He had been too

busy talking to take more than a few sips of his

own drink. "But the Venture wasn't even

scheduled for RandRather at Luxor IV."

"Chief Engineer Logan reported a baffle

plate malfunction yesterday."

"Yeah, right." Finally acknowledging defeat,

Geordi slumped down into his chair. "And what

do you bet he has it fixed by the time the game is

over?"

Worf's glass was still empty. The Klingon

raised his hand to signal again, but when he saw the

number of people pressing up against the bar he decided

the effort was futile.

"... fourteen ... thirteen ..."

William Riker sniffed at the colorful

concoction that Guinan had dropped on the counter in

front of him. His nose wrinkled at the burst of

bubbles that rose to the surface.

"I ordered a Finnegan's Wake," he

called out when the lounge host passed by again.

Guinan paused in mid-stride, a tray

full of glasses balanced in her hands. "As far

as I'm concerned, that is a Finnegan's

Wake."

"Since when is a Finnegan's Wake

purple?"

"Since half the starship crew decided

to drop by Ten-Forward this morning," she said

firmly and sped away.

"I hate bubbles." Riker pushed aside the

drink and began to toy with several stacks of

colored poker chips. Even seated, he towered

over the woman who was perched on the stool beside him.

"I tried to get Beverly to join us,

as a member of the team," said Deanna Troi as

she dug her spoon into a mound of chocolate ice

cream, "but she insisted she had too much work to do.

I suspect our CMO is brooding instead; she

seems to think that everyone blames her for our

diversion from Luxor IV. I wish you would talk

to her."

"I don't know, Deanna," said Riker with a

shrug, "if it hadn't been for Beverly--"

"Will!"

"... seven ... six ... five ..."

Having spied the first officer from across the room,

Ro Laren jostled her way through the milling crowd

to reach the counter. The ensign was slim and muscular

and used her sharp elbows to good advantage. "Are

you ready to pay up, Commander?"

Riker shook his head. "Not until the game

actually--"

"... one ... zero!"

The room echoed with a collective groan as

somewhere on Luxor IV, the first hand of the Fleet

poker championship was dealt out.

Riker heaved a sigh and shoved the stacks toward

the ensign. Red, blue, and green chips

cascaded across the countertop. "Here's your

hundred."

"Poker chips?"

"You never specified the exact form of

payment," he said with a perfectly sober face, but

there was an undercurrent of smugness in his voice.

"So I've decided to pay up in chips."

Ro called out to Guinan as she swept by.

"Can he do this?"

"What now?" asked the designated arbiter as

she looked over her shoulder. Ro pointed to the

chips on the countertop. "Yes, I'll allow it

as legal tender."

"Fah!" said Ensign Ro as she scooped up

the tokens, but the sight of Riker's amusement

brought a wry smile to her own face. "You'll

probably win every one of these back from me."

Riker's grin widened even more. "I certainly

intend to try. Care to test your luck at tonight's

game?"

"No, thanks," said the Bajoran. "I'd rather

lose my money on Starbase 193."

The first officer shook his head. "Sorry,

Ensign Ro, no shore leave privileges at

this port."

"None?" Troi looked up from her

dessert. "Not even for senior officers?"

"No one from this ship goes on that starbase,"

said Riker. "It seems the owner of a bar called

the Due or Die is some kind of black market

knowledge-broker, and the captain is concerned that she'll

find a way to pump the crew for information on our

current mission. Evidently, listening is her

specialty."

"What did you say?" Guinan doubled back in

her tracks to confront the first officer. "What's

the name of this woman?"

"Something exotic," said Riker, searching his

memory. "The captain said it was from Greek

mythology ..."

"Camenae?"

"Yes, that sounds right. How did--"

But Guinan had already slipped out from behind the bar

and was halfway to the doors of Ten-Forward.

Picard's desk was cluttered with piles of

books, yet her eyes were drawn immediately to a

dull gray rock lurking amidst the disorder. It

hunched half-hidden beneath the cover of an opened

volume. "Am I disturbing you, Captain?"

Laying aside the thick textbook he had

been reading, Picard said, "No, Guinan, come

in." Yet she could see that his eyes were still clouded

with thoughts far removed from her presence in the ready

room. She remained silent and watched as his

distracted gaze moved downward to the desk

surface and his hand strayed out to stroke the rough

surface of the rock.

Age emanated from it in waves. At times,

after prolonged contact with short-lived races such

as Humans, Guinan felt herself to be an old

woman; this small object reminded her that she was

still a child in the universe.

"That's a very unusual paperweight."

"What?" When Picard caught her meaning, his

fist closed over the stone. Several seconds

passed before he reached the decision to tell her more.

"It's called the Devil's Heart."

Yes, the stone was very old indeed. "I've

heard of it." She had heard other names for it as

well, darker names that had laced through the mythology

of her homeworld. That world was gone now, and so were her

people's legends.

The stone had survived.

Picard was rubbing the bridge of his nose. She

studied the cast of his shoulders, then said,

"You look tired."

"Do I? Perhaps because I haven't been sleeping

too well lately." He took a deep breath

and recovered the sharp inquisitive look that

usually resided on his face. "So, Guinan,

has the wake in Ten-Forward driven you to the

bridge?"

"According to Commander Riker, you don't know anything

about that."

"The innocence of the young is frightening," said

Picard with a smile. "As a newly promoted

lieutenant, I lost a month's wages betting

on my ship's crew at the same floating poker

championship. All we needed were five starships

in the same place, so as soon as I saw the

docking roster at Luxor IV, I knew

someone would call for a championship game."

"The crew were disappointed to miss the game."

"I knew they would be." The captain's

expression of geniality evaporated. "But we were

unavoidably delayed." His gaze flickered

briefly to the Heart, but he offered no further

details of their mission. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to visit Starbase 193."

He stared up at her for a moment, then said,

"Surely you know that I've canceled all shore

leave privileges for the crew?"

"Yes, but I'd like to go anyway."

Picard was not given to prying into her personal

affairs. He grimaced before he asked, "For

what purpose?"

"I'd like to see an old ... acquaintance."

Guinan had been about to say friend, but too much time

had passed for her to make that assumption.

"I see." From the thoughtful expression on his

face, she realized that he had made the connection

very quickly. "Very well, Guinan. You have my

permission for shore leave."

"Thank you, Captain."

Just as she reached the doorway of the ready room,

Picard added, "When I first saw Camenae, I

had the distinct feeling that we had met before. Now

I realize that I was mistaken; instead, she

reminded me of someone I already know."

She smiled and slipped quietly out of the

room.

As soon as he was alone again, Picard picked

up the book he had been reading and resumed his

study of its contents.

Surak ... Ishaya ... Garamond ...

J'ross ...

Familiar names and places met him at every

turn of a page, yet the factual details of the

pre-Reform era were difficult to separate from

legend. Several dry accounts of Surak's

life contradicted the possibility of his stark

walk through the field of dead on the plain of

Ishaya, and only one of his contemporaries had

recounted a version that echoed Picard's dream of that

pivotal moment in the philosopher's life.

The confusion only deepened after the exodus from

Vulcan. T'Sara's foreword warned that her

original sources for early Romulan history

were impossible to confirm through other records. Those

who had spurned the path of logic were the only

witnesses to the taming of their new world and the building

of new empires.

Picard snapped shut the book.

He had found the obvious root of his dreams.

Even though some twenty years had passed since

he had last read this history text, the names must

have remained nestled in his memory. Finding the Ko

N'ya had triggered his imagination to embroider an

unusually elaborate tapestry around them.

Dreams ... they were only dreams.

When Guinan walked into the Due or Die, the

Andorian bartender pointed the way to the back of the

establishment. Each step she took in that

direction filled her with distaste. The lighting was

dim, but not dim enough to hide the scruffy floor and

battered furniture; the few customers

scattered here and there at tables were bent over their

drinks, gazing too intently upon an inner

landscape to notice her. She expected a

challenge from the stocky Norsican guard at the

back, but he stepped aside without comment to let her

pass through a doorway.

The shadowed interior of the next room was bleak

and barren. It prepared her for Camenae's

glacial expression. The woman sat motionless,

with her hands folded together on the tabletop; only a

flicker of Camenae's eyes betrayed any

sign of recognition. She uttered no greeting

to her visitor.

"I get the feeling I was expected," said

Guinan in Federation Standard. She sat down in a

chair that was uncomfortably hard, but then no one

would choose to linger in this room.

"When the Enterprise docked at this starbase,

I considered the possibility of your coming here."

"Then you knew I was working on a Federation

starship?"

"You've been with them for several years," said

Camenae. "Word gets around."

But you didn't call me. "I heard

rumors you were off-planet when the Borg

attacked, but I was never able to confirm that you were still

alive. Or to find you."

"It's a large universe," Camenae said in

a flat voice. "We were scattered apart by the

solar winds." Then she dropped into the language

of their race. "Leaves that have fallen from a tree

do not attach themselves to a branch again."

There was a vestige of lyric poetry in her

words, but her verse had never dealt with images of

death or decay. The woman Guinan remembered

had laughed often; now Camenae's face was carved

in somber, unyielding lines.

Guinan shook her head, warding off the morbid

spell cast her way. "I prefer to think of us as

cuttings from a plant; we will grow tall in new

soil."

Dropping back into Federation Standard, Camenae

countered, "You won't grow at all if you continue

working on a starship like the Enterprise. Wasn't

one encounter with the Borg enough? Why must you persist

in confronting them over and over again?"

"Danger comes with the job."

"And what of this visit? Is it also part of your

job? Did Picard send you here to interrogate

me?"

"No," said Guinan with a weary shake of her

head. "I came because I wanted to see you again."

"How flattering." Camenae smiled, but it was

not a pleasant expression. "I'm not sure that

I believe you. Your captain was curious about the

murder."

"Murder?" said Guinan. "I've heard about

the deaths of the Vulcans on Atropos, but

Picard already knows they were killed by Orion

mercenaries."

"You must not be a very good Listener. One of my

operatives on this starbase was killed as well."

Guinan shrugged away the insult. "That's not the

type of information I seek out, and the ship's

officers don't discuss classified matters with

me, just personal ones."

"There's no profit in mending people's

love lives."

"Is that what you do? Listen for profit?"

"Yes," said Camenae. "And what I hear

is far more interesting than the petty problems of some

homesick ensign."

"So you do know who murdered your--"

"Answering that question would betray a client

confidence, a confidence I have been paid to keep."

"Let me get this straight," said Guinan

incredulousl y. "You won't betray the murderers

and thieves who are crawling over this starbase because

they paid you?"

"My business ethics are the only

principles I have left. I'm loathe to give

them up."

Beneath the cynicism was a kernel of truth that

saddened Guinan enough to bite back any more

recriminations. Instead, she said, "Then I'd like

to become one of your customers."

Camenae laughed with genuine amusement rather than

scorn. "You can't afford me, Guinan. Not on

a bartender's wages."

"My expenses are low; I can pay the debt

off if you'll extend me credit."

Camenae shook her head. "Given your

penchant for hazardous duty, you're a bad

risk."

"Given how often I've survived, I'd

say that luck is on my side, and that I'm a very

sound investment."

"You're serious?"

"Dead serious," said Guinan.

Camenae frowned as she mulled over the

request. "Very well," she said at last, "I will

take you on." Then, with a swift and practiced

motion she flipped three tokens onto the

tabletop. "That's your credit stake. You can keep

asking questions until I take all the coins

back."

There were many questions Guinan wanted answered, but

one above all others. "Tell me about the

Heart."

"What do you know of its history?"

"Enough," said Guinan. "I'm more interested in

current events."

After a pause to order her thoughts, Camenae

recounted what she knew of T'Sara's ten-year

quest on Atropos; then she described the

Vulcan distress call that Grede had brought

to her, the alterations to the message that had

delayed the arrival of the Enterprise, and the

frantic scramble among the Orions and Ferengi

to take possession of T'Sara's discovery.

At the conclusion of her tale, Camenae reached

out one hand and picked up the first token.

"Vulcans can be such fools at times. They may

lack the capacity for greed, but they should remember

how many other races do not."

"Do you know who has the Heart now?" asked

Guinan.

"As fact, no," said Camenae thoughtfully.

"But I can offer a conjecture at a very reasonable

price." Her hand hovered over the next token.

"I'll pay you to keep that conjecture to yourself."

The second token disappeared. "And to keep any

more information you hear about the Heart out of

circulation."

"Exclusivity is hardly worth the expense

at this point," said Camenae. "The news is beyond

recall and spreading quickly."

"All I'm asking is that you don't fan the

flames any further."

"Very well," sighed Camenae. She swept the

last token from the table. "That concludes our

business for today."

It was an abrupt dismissal, but Guinan had

lost all desire to prolong their reunion.

Gathering up the skirts of her robe, she rose

from the table. She said good-bye in their old tongue

and waited for some response from Camenae.

"I won't sell you information about my

clients," said the woman. "But I will offer one

piece of advice as a parting gift. Beware the

race called the unDiWahn. They are more

dangerous than I had judged."

After her warning, she fell silent again.

Guinan left her sitting in the darkness.

By the time the end of Sendei's communiqu`e had

scrolled across the screen of Picard's desk

terminal, the captain was battling down a

substantial tide of anger.

According to Sendei's instructions, the bodies of the

archaeologists and the items salvaged from the

encampment were to be shipped to the Science

Academy. The director himself would then

supervise the distribution of personal effects

to the heirs; all of T'Sara's property,

consisting of the research equipment and the excavated

artifacts, had been willed to the

Academy itself.

Sendei claimed the Heart as part of that

bequest.

Yet the director did not acknowledge the

discovery of the Ko N'ya. His brief reference

implied the stone was merely a curiosity crafted

by the original artisans of the Atropos colony.

"In the absence of medical validation

by Vulcan physicians, I consider it prudent

to accept Sorren's diagnosis of Bendii's

syndrome. Unfortunately, the relic you

recovered from the Ferengi provided T'Sara with a

focus for her delusions."

With typical Vulcan condescension, that one

paragraph summarily discounted Doctor

Crusher's medical evaluations and Picard's

scientific assessment of the stone's origins.

Worse yet, Sendei dismissed T'Sara's

achievement as the product of madness. Given that

interpretation, he expected the Heart to be

packed into a cargo container along with the rest of the

shipment and shuttled from the Enterprise to any

freighter on its way toward Vulcan.

Picard's every instinct argued against this prosaic

conclusion to the starship's mission to Atropos and such

a casual disposal of the Ko N'ya and

T'Sara's remains.

No, I will not do this.

The captain cleared the screen of text and

began to draft yet another communiqu`e

to Admiral Matasu. Sendei's position at

the Academy had gained him prominence in

Starfleet circles; but Picard was not without

influence of his own, and he intended to take full

advantage of it now.

"No, I'm not much of a tea drinker," said

Guinan, waving away the steaming cup.

"Take it anyway," said the captain. "I

find that just the act of holding a cup of Earl

Grey has great therapeutic value."

She couldn't help but smile.

Picard settled down beside her on the sofa, and

they sipped the hot tea in silence. Guinan had

never lingered in the ready room before; she had always

thought of it as Picard's office, a place of

business, but now she realized that it could also serve

as a safe harbor from turmoil. The window behind the

captain's desk offered a miniature version of the

panoramic view in Ten-Forward, and for a

while Guinan loosed her mind to wander idly from

one star to another. The plush sofa eased the tension

in her body, and Picard's undemanding

companionship eased other deeper and less

obvious aches.

"She's not the first to change so drastically from the

person I knew before," said Guinan at last.

"It affects some of my people that way. The loss of

our families, our world, everything that we were, is

simply too great a pain to bear. A part of them

withers away, and they turn dry and bitter."

"You, however," said Picard softly, "chose

to embrace life."

"That's my way of honoring the dead ... perhaps

even of mourning for them."

She had been born to a race of Listeners and

had spent centuries honing her skills, but right

now she needed someone to listen to her. Picard sat

quietly as she recalled memories of

Camenae as a girl, then as a young woman

maturing into an accomplished poet, andofa friendship

that had seemed strong enough to last a lifetime.

And then Guinan told him of Camenae's

warning.

Picard set down his cup and moved to the ready

room desk. Picking up the Heart, he said,

"I welcome the information, but I don't think there

is any need for concern about these unDiWahn.

We'll be leaving Starbase 193, and this

sector, very soon."

"You've received new mission orders?"

"No, I've requested permission to divert the

Enterprise to Vulcan." He seemed to be

speaking to the Heart when he said, "We're taking

T'Sara home."

CHAPTER 15

DaiMon Tork twirled the heavy ring on the

third finger of his left hand as he calculated its

worth and what percentage of that figure he could

actually obtain for it at the open bazaar.

Not enough.

A cut-rate sale of his entire payload

had just managed to pay off his portion of the

consortium debt, but he had been left without

sufficient funds to continue docking his Marauder

at Starbase 193. The last of his fuel had

brought him to Smelter's Hold, only to find that

the news of Maarc's debacle had

preceded him. No one was willing to extend him

credit to purchase new stock, for nothing scared

away old associates so fast as financial

failure.

Cursed be the day that Maarc had drawn him

into that transaction with Camenae!

"You eat too much of my food," Tork said,

lashing out at his first officer. Kazago was perched

on a pile of boxes containing the last of their

personal possessions and some items too

worthless to be sold. He was crunching his way through

one of the ration packets they had scrounged from the

ship's emergency stores.

"It's not as if I like this food," said

Kazago with sullen impertinence. "But you haven't

paid me any wages for a month, DaiMon, so

I can't afford to buy anything else to eat." He

resumed his crunching.

"Enough of your complaints. I'll think of

something; I always do."

Tork peered out the grimy window of the

stockroom. Now he was in debt for a day's

rental of this space, and the means of paying off even

that pittance had eluded him so far; however, the

bazaar down below was filled with customers spending

money. There must be a way to siphon some of those

funds back into his own coffers.

That was when he saw them two Vulcans

walking side by side down an aisle sporting

used engineering parts. Traders by the look of them.

Vulcans usually stayed within the boundaries of

Federation space, but this pair probably had been

detoured to the Hold by an engine malfunction.

Even before Tork had formulated a plan, his

instincts had centered on them as an essential

element to recouping his fortune.

A scheme began to gel in his mind.

"Did we sell that universal text

translator?" Tork asked his first officer.

"No, DaiMon."

The details clicked into place. It was,

he concluded, a workable plan. Best of all, if

it failed with the Vulcans, he could rework it to use

on another alien race.

"If you ever hope to receive your wages,

Kazago, keep those two Vulcans in sight and

guard them from the crooks and thieves on this

outpost. They're our prey."

Throwing aside his half-eaten food packet,

Kazago raced out of the room; Tork

pulled out the translator and a wri ting padd and

began to compose a letter.

Ten minutes later, the DaiMon had finished

constructing his first prop; the other he already had in

inventory. He ripped the printout from the padd and

scurried down the staircase to the bazaar.

Kazago was hovering nearby and pointed Tork in

the right direction. To his relief, the Vulcans

had drifted even closer to his stall.

"You! Vulcans! I would speak with you."

"As you wish," said one, and they both came to a

halt. Their unadorned tunics reeked of

spice and grain.

"Vulcans are honorable, that is what I have

always been told. So, like a fool, I believed

this myth; I trusted a Vulcan when I wouldn't

trust my own grandmother. But one of your kind has

tried to dupe me! He owes me a king's

ransom and paid for it with a worthless bauble."

"What is this to do with us?"

They had listened to his ranting with more patience and

civility than he had dared hope, but it was time

to present the bait and see if they were hungry.

"This note," he shook the printout in their

faces, "supposedly explains his perfidy, but

it is written in Vulcan!"

"I see," said the taller one with a solemn

nod. "You have need of a translation."

"Brilliant deduction," exclaimed Tork

with an acid sneer. "Your rapier mind should bring

you much wealth and happiness." In his experience,

sarcasm and verbal abuse disarmed suspicion

by misdirection watch my temper, not your

purse.

He shoved the flimsy into the hands of Short

Trader. "Tell me! What do those ridiculous

squiggles mean?"

The two bent their heads together and scanned the

text. After an exchange of veiled glances,

Short Trader spoke.

"It is addressed to DaiMon Tork. "I

lack the funds to honor my debt at this time, so

I have sent a family heirloom as a bond of

my good faith. The item itself has little value, but

my family holds it in great esteem." It is

signed by one named Suprell."

Got them! exulted Tork to himself. The

message he had forged clearly stated that the debt

was paid in full with the Ko N'ya. So, as he

suspected, even Vulcans had their

price; everyone did.

"What am I to do?" Tork stormed,

presenting his marks with the opportunity to take

advantage of him. "I need funds, not

promises."

"You have not been misled, DaiMon," said

Tall Trader. "We Vulcans are an

honorable race, as I will prove to you.

Suprell's family is known to me, and I will

redeem the heirloom and assume his debt."

"Excellent!" Tork beamed happily. For

all their much vaunted intelligence, Vulcans were

an absurdly naive race when it came

to practical matters. He would have to pursue more

business transactions with them in the future.

"Come this way, come this way, so that we can arrange

this matter in private."

He grabbed the sleeve of the nearest trader and

led them both through the crowds and up the narrow

staircase to the rented stockroom. The soft

snick of the door closing behind them was like the teeth

of a trap snapping shut.

After throwing off the boxes that covered a large

chest, the DaiMon made a great show of fussing

with the lock and then rummaging through the jumbled contents.

His hands closed around a large round shape.

"Ah, here it is!"

When Tork turned around with the synthetic gem in

his hands, he immediately realized his mistake.

Vulcans did not smile, yet both of these

men were smiling broadly. Then Tork saw the

Romulan-issue disrupters they were slipping out from

behind their cloaks.

Their trap, not mine.

The house in the Old Quarter was still standing after

five centuries, proof of the skill of the

architect who had designed its massive

chambers and sprawling wings. In the beginning it had

been grandly furnished, but each succeeding generation

had stripped away its treasures room by room

to slow the pace of their slide down into poverty.

Eventually, all that remained of past glory and

past wealth was the house itself.

Tonight a young warrior strode through the cold,

empty halls. Despite the reversal of his

family's fortune, he carried his wiry frame

with a strutting arrogance that was the equal of any

Klingon on the planet of Kronos. Passing

by the foot of a wide spiraling

staircase, he ducked down a shadowed

corridor that led to the warmth and light of the

servant's hall.

The last servant had left long ago; the old

man who waited for him inside was the master of the

house. Kruger sat hunched over a low trestle

table, too absorbed in his dinner to look up at

the sound of the opening door.

"She's dead," announced the warrior.

There could be only one "she."

The old man tore another mouthful of meat from

the joint of beast. He chewed. He spat a

piece of gristle onto the bare floor.

"Fifty years ago I would have cared."

Kruger's grandson sat down at the table, but

he did not pluck any food from the platter.

There was little to spare, and he would eat better fare

elsewhere at the expense of wealthy sycophants

in awe of his ancient lineage. "According to security

reports circulating in high Federation

circles, she was killed by Orion smugglers."

"Did you learn this from your cousin?" Kruger

spat out the last word with even greater distaste than

he had the gristle.

"Grandfather, Ambassador Nedec has access

to classified documents, and according to those

documents--"

"Nedec is a toady to that upstart Gowron,"

shouted the old man. "Nedec throws you favors like

scraps to a targ. You, who should be .his emperor!"

He threw the chewed bone onto the floor. "After

my death, of course."

"According to those documents," persisted Kruger's

heir, "the Ferengi were also involved with

T'Sara's death."

"Meddlesome Vulcan crone! Your father was a

fool to talk to her, revealing what should only be

known to the Family."

The young man shouted back into his face.

"You're the fool!" His impudence won a moment

of silence and his grandfather's undivided attention.

"Don't you see? She found something, something that

both the Orions and the Ferengi wanted. Something that

the Enterprise is carrying back to Vulcan."

"The Pagrashtak?"

"Yes, Grandfather. I think it must be."

Kruger took a swig from a tankard of ale.

His close-set eyes were slitted in thought. "So,

perhaps your father was not so much the fool as I

believed."

"I think not. After all, she kept her word and

did not publish the account of Kessec's disgrace

in her texts. Instead, it seems she used the knowledge

of his actions to trace the path of the Pagrashtak."

"Our Pagrashtak," said Kruger firmly.

"Yes, Grandfather. I will see to that personally."

Diat Manja wept at the news of

T'Sara's death.

Nearly sixty years had passed since she

had last set foot in this room, yet there were

reminders of her presence everywhere he looked.

Her textbooks and monographs were scattered

throughout his bookshelves, along with bound volumes

of their correspondence. She had sat for hours in

this carved wood chair beside his desk, leafing through his

translations; at other times she had nestled in the

deep bay window to soak up the warmth of the sun as

she read. He could open any of those

manuscripts and find her scribbled notes in the

margin of a page.

So few of the Iconian Dream texts had

survived from ancient times; if there had been more,

perhaps she would have stayed longer.

Most Dynasians on campus had been

vaguely repulsed by the offworlder with an unadorned

forehead and pale green skin, so young Diat had

been the only scholar in his department who

volunteered to help with her research. Unlike the

others, he had been moved by her intensity of

purpose and her complete disinterest in the opinion

others held of her; both were qualities that he

lacked.

His hands reached for the tails of the tattered scarf

draped around his neck, and his fingers stroked the rough

weave as if caressing the face of a lover. The

scarf was made of a sturdy Vulcan fabric, and

T'Sara had worn it throughout her visit because even

during a heat wave the Dynasian summer was

colder than Vulcan's winter. For years

Manja had wondered if she left it behind

by accident or by design. Vulcans were

unsentimental by nature, yet she had fathomed the

emotions of the beings in a multitude of

cultures; and if she had suspected his love for

her, then she had saved a poor young professor

from humiliation by tactfully ignoring that fact.

After her departure from Dynasia, he had

worshiped her from afar and taken what comfort he could

from the letters they exchanged. Some would

consider that meager fare, yet this meeting of minds

exceeded any pleasure he had ever found in the

arms of his consort.

Now there would be no more letters.

Three days ago he had sent an urgent

message to T'Sara telling her of a lost

Iconian scroll that had been discovered in the

archival vaults of the Flight Engineering

library. The star map had been improperly

cataloged as a technology-related text

until one of Manja's former students stumbled

upon it and recognized it as part of the Dream series

he had studied in a literature class.

However, T'Sara had already died before the news

reached her, and one of her colleagues had answered

instead.

The professor reached for the crumbled

communiqu`e that had arrived just an hour ago and

smoothed out the creases. Through eyes still fogged

by tears, Manja read the short message one more

time. Like a typical Vulcan, Sendei had

reported the tragedy in terse, dry language;

yet, upon this second reading, Manja realized the

double tragedy in the scientist's account of

T'Sara's death.

The members of the Vulcan Science Academy

did not even recognize T'Sara's greatest

achievement! The director believed she had died

in the first stages of madness.

"No!" cried out Diat Manja. "They must

honor her success. After a century of searching,

she found the Ko N'ya, the Gem of Ancient

Iconia. I will see to it that the entire Federation

learns the trtth of her discovery!"

Then he slumped back into his chair, his skin

flushing to an indigo hue from embarrassment at his

outburst.

How could he possibly keep this vow? He was

a tired, old man with no influence, even on

Dynasia. Professors of ancient

literature were held in low esteem on a world that

hungered for technological sophistication.

Besides, T'Sara herself would have cared little about her

reputation.

Yet she had always championed the quest for

truth.

Diat Manja took up a pen from his

desktop. It was the only weapon he could

wield, so he would have to wage this campaign with

words.

There was one person on Dynasia who might have

the power to call attention to this issue, one who was in

constant communication with members of the Federation

Council; and while Manja had no influence with the

warden, one of Manja's former students was now the

man's secretary. Ganin would see to it that

Warden Chandat read this letter, and then surely

Chandat would see to it that justice was done.

Manja began to write.

CHAPTER 16

A cushioned sofa was positioned only a few

steps away from his desk, but Picard had waited

too long to seek out its comforts. Sleep, held

at bay for hours, suddenly swept over him,

robbing him of the strength or desire to move.

The book he had been reading fell from numbed

fingers onto the desktop. Shoving the volume

to one side, he dropped his head down into the

cradle of his arms and released his hold on

consciousness.

The sound of the captain's breathing could barely be

heard, and his body moved imperceptibly with the

steady rise and fall of his chest. The fingers of one

hand twitched until they brushed against the rough

surface of the Heart, then they stilled their

movement.

As time passed, overhead lights dimmed

automatically, tricked into quiescence by the still

silence of the room. In the darkness, the gray rock

came to life with an inner glow that dipped and

flickered like the flame of a candle.

The man's lips began to move, framing alien

words.

"This one is ..."

"... is dead," said Telev automatically,

yet when he looked up there was no one to hear his

pronouncement.

The nearest aide was at the far end of the ward

passing out bowls of soup to those strong enough to feed

themselves. If there was time, and food enough to go around, she

would try to help the weaker ones eat. The woman

stopped ladling for a moment, wracked by a chesty

cough, and Telev suspected that before too long he

would find her lying on one of the cots herself. He

only hoped there would be someone left to bring her

food by then.

The healer turned back to the dead

man. A cursory search of the body confirmed that

it carried no identification beyond a clan scarf.

Telev studied the vaguely familiar pattern,

but his mind was so numbed with fatigue that the answer

was slow in coming.

Ah, yes, Assan.

There had been three family members attending

an Assan in the ward just last week ... weavers

by trade ... too poor to leave the city, but not

too poor to pay for hospice treatment. Telev

took a closer look at the puffy face of the

man and recognized him as one of those three. So

there were probably no Assan left alive or

they would be here at this bedside.

Telev draped the scarf over the young man's

throat. Eventually someone would come along and haul

the body outside for the next passing death cart.

They rumbled through the streets at all hours now,

piled high with corpses, carrying their load to the

funeral kilns that burned day and night to keep

up with the victims of the Scourge.

Telev moved on to the next bed, where two

sleeping children were huddled together as if for warmth.

Chills and a creeping cold over the

extremities were the first sign of the pestilence, but

perhaps they only sought the comfort of each other's

embrace. He listened to the steady sound of their

intertwined breathing and was relieved that their lungs were

still clear; their skin was still a pale blue, free of

any mottled dark patches. By all rights, they were

too well to merit space in the hospice, and the

continued confinement put them at risk of contracting

the Scourge, but as orphans he feared they would

roam the streets of Andor until they starved or

fell ill. There were more ways to die than from

pestilence.

The condition of the last patient on the row was not so

promising. The healer had known Evalla since

childhood, had watched a quicksilver girl grow

into a graceful young woman who had danced the

sissalya cycles at the last fall

solstice. Now, however, her white hair had

turned as yellow as a grandmother's and her once

agile frame was stiff and bloated. Telev

perched on the edge of her cot to examine her more

closely. Air whistled in and out of her jointed

antennae, an indication of their inflamed interior;

her complexion had deepened to purple.

"She won't eat," said Shaav, the woman's

consort. He held a half-eaten

chunk of bread and carefully picked at the

scattered crumbs that had fallen from her mouth

onto the bed.

"It hurts to swallow," she said, gasping for

breath. "I've gotten worse, haven't I?"

"Yes, quite a bit worse." Telev knew of

several herbs that could at least ease her pain, but

he had used up the last of them long ago, and there

was no one left in the hospice who had time

to search the countryside for more or even possessed

the knowledge of where to find them.

"Am I dying?"

"Yes." In the beginning, Telev had offered

hope to any who needed it. False hope. Most

of the patients had died, as had those who mourned

them. He had no strength left for telling

untruths.

Evalla managed a weak smile. "I

haven't paid my reckoning, Healer."

"You're in luck. Our collector is out

sick today."

Shaav did not react to their words; he was too

intent on salvaging crumbs. He had keened

loudly when his mother died last month and railed at

the death of his young sister soon after, then watched in

silence as his father, two brothers, and a cousin were

carried to the kilns in rapid succession. He

took meticulous care of his sworn consort, but

he talked very little these days.

As Telev rose back to his feet, an

old woman scurried down the central aisle

of the ward. She spotted him immediately, the only

standing figure in a sea of recumbent forms.

"I need a bed for my son," she demanded in a

voice that was loud enough to rise above the moans and

cries of the sick.

The healer pointed toward the dead Assan.

True, there would be no time to change the laying

cloths, but then Telev doubted there were any clean

ones to be had. "If you dispose of the former

occupant, that place is yours."

"Fair trade," she said with satisfaction, and

scurried away to summon assistance in the chore.

A new patient.

And when he was done with this one, there would be another

one, and yet another after that as the dead were carried

away and the dying took their place. So much to be

done but so little that he could do.

Telev fled the ward.

All available rooms, even those that

had once served as studies and bedrooms for the

healers, had been turned over to the care of the

sick. Nonetheless, he had managed to keep one

small closet reserved for his own use as a

refuge. There was just enough space for a narrow cot, but

he had given that up yesterday, along with the last of

his extra shirts. All that remained was a hard

pallet on the floor. The supplies that had

been stored here were also gone.

Except for a canister of talla bark. It

had no medicinal value and normally just was used

to fill the stomach before a purge, nonetheless he still

experienced a sharp pang of guilt for hoarding it

away from others.

Telev opened the canister and measured out a

small quantity of the dry flakes into the cup of

steaming water he had snatched off a passing soup

wagon. After a minute of steeping, too

impatient to wait any longer, he eagerly

sipped the hot brew.

Ah, that brings warmth back to my chilled

...

Yes, his hands were cold and the air, so balmy

for the last few weeks, seemed unusually biting

tonight.

So be it. Even healers must die.

He took another gulp of the bark potion. It

was a poor substitute for tea, but it was the only

indulgence left to him. If only this were srjula

that he held in his hands, but the wealthy merchants

had fled the city at the first news of the spreading

plague. If there was any tea left in Andor,

it was locked in warehouses awaiting the return of

owners and customers with the money to pay for their

merchandise.

I'll probably never taste srjula

again.

A small window in the outside wall of the

closet afforded a view of the city below, bathed in

the orange light of the setting sun. He leaned his

forehead against the glass and searched for signs of

life people walking in the streets, lights springing

up in houses, or even just the flutter of newly

washed clothes hanging out to dry. Here and there he

caught some reassuring indication that survivors

endured, but they were very few in a city that once

held a half million inhabitants.

He scanned the horizon as well, looking

for the trails of smoke that had curled around the

mountaintops for the past few days, but they

seemed to have finally dissipated. Rumors of vast

fires beyond the ridge were impossible to confirm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rapping on the door was soft with apology.

Telev crossed the room in two steps and

peered out into the corridor. "What is it,

Sathev?" The aide had been a patient, one of the

few to recover from the Scourge, but his face had

been so badly scarred by his illness that he had

chosen to stay in the hospice.

"There's someone at the south door asking to see

the healer in charge of n ew admissions."

Telev laughed at the absurdity of such a

formal request. Admissions procedures had

collapsed when the healers themselves began to sicken and

die.

"Well, I tried to explain how it is," said

Sathev wearily. "But she was very insistent."

"Do not bother yourself further. I shall deal with it."

Some people, reflected Telev as he shuffled his

way to the portal, had a remarkable ability

to deny reality. The world they had all known was

rotting away, yet they clung stubbornly to the

old ways.

A woman and two men were waiting for him at the

south entrance. At their feet lay a body

wrapped in stained laying cloths; he would have

mistaken the unmoving bundle for a corpse if not

for the sound of a muffled groan.

"I am Viloff," said the woman, and lifted

a lantern up to show her face. She was dressed

in a nondescript tunic made from the sturdy

cloth favored by the craft-trades, but her bearing

was not that of a common worker; rather she held herself alert

and erect, with one arm swung loosely by her

side where it could reach up to her belt knife.

"We need a room for our friend. He is very

ill."

"We have no rooms, but in an hour or so we

may have a cot."

"That will not do. He needs privacy. Now."

He saw her weight shift ever so slightly as

her hand fluttered upward toward the weapon.

"You can gut me here on the steps, but that will not

gain you any space inside; it will simply make

a mess."

"Enough!" she said. "Take me to your

superior."

That placed her and her silent companions without

question.

"What is your rank, Viloff?" asked the

healer.

"You see too much, old man."

"And you are a foolish young woman, even if you

are a soldier." Telev rubbed his hands to ease

the stiffness in his finger joints. "There are no other

healers. I am the last one."

"The last one ..." she echoed. Her bravado

collapsed like a leaking water-skin. "I was

Subcommander Viloff last week, but for all I

know now, I could be a battalion admiral. The

plague hit the camps last month, and then there was

an attack ... we've traveled for two days

without seeing another officer."

"Bring your friend into the wards," said Telev,

impatient to escape the cold air. "I will care

for him."

Viloff shook her head, danced a few steps

of indecision, then grabbed his sleeve, dragging him

over to the bundle. Bending down, she drew

aside a fold of cloth.

Telev saw enough in the circle of lantern

light to grant her demand.

"You can use my room," he said, beckoning

them inside the hospice.

Viloff's two subordinates hoisted up the

awkward bundle, ignoring a new spate of

groans that issued forth, and followed the healer to the

closet. There wasn't enough room for the entire

group, but the men seemed eager to leave the matter

to their commander; they stepped back into the corridor and

stood like sentinels on either side of the door.

Viloff set the lamp on a high shelf.

Telev crouched down by the pallet andwitha

trembling hand pulled away the rough covers. He

had taken the damp patches for blood until he

saw their deep green color.

"Where did you find ..." He had no words

to describe what lay before him.

"We were attacked," said Viloff. "In

flying ships that rival anything to be found on

Andor. Our offensive weapons had no effect

on them; in a matter of hours they laid waste

to our forces in the western province. Then, as if

by a miracle, their defensive shields seemed

to collapse and one by one we were able to pick them

off. I searched the wreckage, but this was the only

survivor."

By now, the healer had completely unwrapped the

alien creature. Even without a healthy

specimen for comparison, it was obvious that its

legs were broken; the skin covering its midsection

was lacerated, the underlying muscles and organs

torn and bleeding; scrapes and bruises covered

the rest of its torso and arms.

"Ugly creatures, aren't they?" said

Viloff. "The others, the dead ones, looked like

this, too."

"I strive to find beauty in all living

beings." Although in this case, Telev admitted

to himself, he would have to try very hard. Even if one

could overlook the peculiar dark hair and olive

skin color, the alien's jutting forehead and

atrophied auditory organs were quite disconcerting.

Its naked body, when compared to that of an

Andorian, was thick-framed and squat; and the

sexual organs, if that was indeed their purpose,

were in an absurdly vulnerable location.

"I am the Emperor Vitellius!"

Telev twitched and rotated his antennae

away from the sound. The alien's voice was

uncomfortably loud, and the strange language was

hardened by a clipped accent and too many

consonants.

"I shall lead the Romulan people to victory."

The alien's limbs trembled, but it was too

weak to even raise itself. Telev noted that its

eyes were not focused, and it had not reacted to their

presence. In an Andorian, these symptoms would

accompany eadiliac failure, but this species

probably did not even possess an

eadilium.

"You will surrender to me or die!" The

raving and shouting were incomprehensible.

He guessed that the alien had lost a considerable

quantity of the green liquid, but the healer couldn't

replace the volume. The standard treatment of an

infusion of water might kill rather than cure.

"There's nothing I, or any healer, can do for this

creature. It will die before I've learned enough about

its biology to treat it."

"Too bad," said Viloff. "There is much we

need to know about our new enemies."

Telev knelt closer to continue his examination.

With a start, he realized that the creature was finally

making eye contact.

"Let me go! I command you, let me go!"

Its hands were clutching at its side, digging in

the rumpled laying cloth. Viloff explained the

action with a rather apologetic sigh. "It

carries some sort of talisman, a clan token

perhaps, harmless. We tried to remove the thing when the

alien was first found, but it held fast and wouldn't

let go. Of course, it was stronger then."

"You must obey me, or the Ko N'ya will

destroy you."

The alien suddenly lifted up a gray stone and

shook it at them. It was an impressive display

of strength for a being so near death.

"Surrender! I cannot be defeated."

The effort was short-lived; the creature

collapsed back onto the bed as if drained of

all strength.

"I am ... the Emperor ..."

The alien's voice dropped to a weak whisper,

and it shut its peculiar dark eyes. Pressing a

finger against the short neck, Telev monitored the

fluttering pulse and wondered whether the rate was

too high or too low, and what he could do about it

even if he knew the answer.

The fluttering stopped altogether.

"It's dead," said Telev. All that remained

of this strange being was the simple relic it had

carried from its distant homeworld. Curious,

Telev plucked the object from the alien's

slack hands. "A superstitious race," mused

the healer as he examined the rough stone. It was

warm, apparently heated by the fevered body of its

owner.

"We shall have to carry the body to the kilns

ourselves," said Viloff. She stepped to the door and

ordered the men to the task.

"Skae!" cursed one of the soldiers as they

roughly bound up the corpse again. "I still reek of

its gore."

"Forget what you've seen here tonight, Healer,"

said the commander. "Andor has enough worries of its

own."

"Who would believe me?" He held up the

stone. "What of this?"

But the soldiers were already gone, faded into the

shadows of the night. The only proof of their brief

visit was the ruined pallet on the floor.

And the stone.

It was still warm, easing the painful throbbing in his

hands, and in the darkness its dull surface seemed

to glitter and sparkle. So this and the cold cup of

tea were his only remaining comforts, yet they were like a

bounty of riches in the midst of devastation.

Tucking the alien talisman in the

crook of his arm, Telev carried the canister of

talla with him to the wards. Sathev was able to steep

five cups of weak tea from the contents and pass

them around to the few patients who were still awake. A

soft word, a gentle caress, these were the only

weapons Telev had left to fight the ravages

of plague, but he gave these away to all, even

those who slept through his visitation.

By the time he had finished his rounds of the

hospice, he was overcome with such a deep

weariness that he could not go one step farther, but sank

down onto the flagstone floor and curled around the

fiery glow of the stone. He felt as if all his

strength, all his life, was seeping away.

Must the knot untie so soon?

As he waited for the final dissolution of his bond

with the world, Telev heard the sound of laughter and the

skipping steps of children running. He knew without

seeing that all who had lain dying were now risen from

their beds; that Evalla was dancing through the

corridors, and Shaav was singing a triumphant

ballad about her miraculous recovery; that

Sathev was weeping at the feel of smooth skin on

his face, and Avae had stopped coughing.

I seem to have borrowed a little luck from the

stars.

If his life had blazed to its end that much

sooner as a result of the talisman's powers, it

was still a fair trade. He was a healer, after

all.

Eager hands reached out to pull him into the circle

of celebration, but he slipped away before they could

touch him.

CHAPTER 17

The yellow DiWahn sun had not risen above

the horizon, but King Akhanatos was already

awake when a court aide sidled into his

bedchamber.

"Your Highness, a visitor to the palace

desires a private audience with you." Before

Akhanatos could dismiss the request, the aide

added, "He is unDiWahn."

The king quickly nodded assent, and the servant

scurried out of the room. The curtains of the

doorway had ba rely stopped swinging from his

passage when a stranger stepped back through the

entrance. The heavy cowl that covered his head cast a

shadow on his face, but Akhanatos

recognized the stately bearing of Master

Kierad@an.

The king rose from his couch to greet the robed

emissary. Tradition reserved this gesture of

respect for the landed nobility. As one of the

stateless unDiWahn, this man owned no

territories, but he was the leader of the Faithful and

thus as powerful as any king.

"Well met, Akhanatos," said the

unDiWahn. With the arrogance typical of his

fellows, he did not bow, nor did he address

Akhanatos by any of his honorifics.

"You honor me with your presence." The king was

relieved that they were alone so none of his other

subjects would witness his meek acceptance of this

disrespect. He owed the order too great a

financial debt to act on his displeasure now, but

he noted the incident for retribution at some

later date.

"I bring you word from Admiral Jakat."

Upon hearing that name, Akhanatos felt his first

tremor of suspicion. "What do you mean? My

fleet admiral speaks directly to me."

"No longer." Kierad@an spread wide his

arms as if to welcome someone into his embrace.

"Jakat's true name is Daramad@an. He

belongs to the Order of the Faithful and serves only

the memory of our Iconian ancestors."

"Do not play games with me, unDiWahn!"

Akhanatos was beyond hiding his alarm. "On this

morning of all mornings, I have no patience for

your mystic intrigues."

"Ah, yes. Today you were to launch your offensive

against the Kingdom of Roshamel."

His impulse to deny the truth collided with his

fear of having been discovered. Choked into silence,

Akhanatos listened aghast as the unDiWahn

outlined the assault plans that the king had

delivered in person to Jakat three nights before.

"If you may remember," continued

Kierad@an, "your agreement with my order was that the

ships would be used for peace, not war. The

Iconian lore in our stewardship is preserved

for the benefit of all of DiWahn, not the

advancement of one of its petty fiefdoms. You have

broken that covenant and betrayed our laws."

"You want peace?" said Akhanatos,

recovering his pride and his tongue. "Only the

unDiWahn can afford that dream. I paid a heavy

price for your holy knowledge, and I paid even

more for the construction of the fleet itself. Did you really

think I would bankrupt my coffers to benefit my

enemies?"

"No," the master said with an enigmatic

smile, "you have acted just as we expected. Thus,

as a penalty for your transgressions against the

Faithful, we claim possession of the fruit which

was born of our knowledge."

"So, you are turning my own troops against

me." Akhanatos finally fathomed the bitter

depths of his gullibility. First they had led him

into ruinous debt; now they were taking away the means

for recouping his fortunes in war; and finally they would

grind his kingdom into dust with his own weapons.

To the king's surprise, Kierad@an shook his

head. "Jakat is no traitor, and we have no

interest in taking your territory from you. Instead, the

admiral is preparing to pursue a mission of our

choosing. If you are still here upon the fleet's

return, we will meet again to discuss the terms of

its future use."

"If I am still ..." The question faded as

Akhanatos answered it for himself.

Of course, once Roshamel learned of the

fleet's departure, he would attack while

Akhanatos was vulnerable. Both of their ground

troops were roughly equivalent in strength, which

meant any victory would be hard won. The

surviving kingdom would be forced to deal with the

unDiWahn from a position of weakness.

"I can still best you in this game." Akhanatos

sneered in the master's face to show his disdain for the

order's devious political strategies.

"Be forewarned. If I make peace with

Roshamel, both our kingdoms will thrive."

"We would applaud such a rational action, King

Akhanatos," said Kierad@an. "May your

opponents always match you in wisdom."

After honoring the king with a low bow of respect,

the unDiWahn emissary turned and swept out

of the chamber.

To Kanda Jiak's relief, Davenport

Terminal was smaller than Starbase 75 and far

less crowded. After winding his way out of the docking

bays, he found that a single dome contained all the

passenger operations.

Stepping up to a ticket counter, the Iconian

shoved his identity chip into a scan slot. "I'd

like to purchase a one-way passage

to DiWahn."

"DiWahn!" The Benzite clerk uttered a

barking laugh. He ejected the chip and shoved it

back at Jiak. "Out of the question. Even under the

best of circumstances, DiWahn is

off-limits to unauthorized Federation citizens.

The entire planet is politically unstable."

"But I--"

"And the best of circumstances no longer exist,"

said the clerk. He sniffed loudly, inhaling the

vapors of the atmospheric inhaler suspended under

his chin.

"But I--"

"All traffic into and out of the system has been

suspended indefinitely. If we had a

diplomatic relationship with the planet, which we do

not, it would have been severed this morning."

"This morning?" asked Jiak, dismayed to have

missed his opportunity by such a slim margin.

"What happened this morning?"

"That is none of your concern," snapped the

Benzite. He waved aside the vapors from his

face and peered at the young man's face. "According

to your bio credentials, you are a resident of

Redifer III ... but you bear a passing

resemblance to a DiWahn native."

"I do?" cried Jiak. In his excitement,

he paid no attention to the figure that had moved up

beside him.

"Yes, quite a resemblance," repeated the

clerk, and Jiak belatedly recognized the

man's suspicion.

"It's just a coincidence," said Del sternly.

The freighter captain shoved herself between Jiak and the

counter. "Come on, Kanda. You've overstayed your

welcome. This clerk has other customers in need

of his attention."

"Indeed I do!" said the Benzite. Like most of

his race, he disliked having his bureaucratic

routine disrupted.

Del clamped her hand around Jiak's upper

arm and jerked him away.

"Let me go." She had no business trailing

after him, thought Jiak angrily. He was not some

orphaned child in need of a guardian angel. "I

can take care of myself."

"Quiet down," the captain muttered under her

breath, "or you'll end up in a detention cell."

Her warning stopped him from crying out again, but he

still struggled against her iron grip. Not that

it did him any good. Del had dragged him to the

other side of the Davenport terminal before Jiak

managed to free himself.

"I'm still shorthanded on the Haverford," said the

captain. "I could use you on my next tour."

Jiak rubbed gingerly at the sore muscles of

his arm. His disappointment at being shut out of

DiWahn hurt much more. "This was just my first stop.

I'm going to Dynasia next."

"What! That godforsaken place is a

trillion light years away from here."

Despite her exaggeration of the distance involved,

Del jabbed her hand to a specific spot just to the

left of his head. Jiak had no doubt that

Dynasia could be found by traveling beyond the tip of

her finger; the freighter captain had an uncanny

memory for all the backroad planets in the

galaxy.

"I don't care how far away it is," he

said sullenly. "That's where I'm going next."

"Then you haven't got the brains of a Meegan

glowworm." When he remained silent, she heaved

a deep sigh. "The Marshall is docked in

Bay 3. Find First Officer Conrad, and tell

him I sent you. His freight run will get you

to Hayhurst Junction, which is the closest

Federation outpost to Dynasia. After that, you're on

your own again."

Jiak's face flushed with shame at having

resented her interference. "Thanks, Captain."

"Only members of my crew call me

captain," said the woman. "My friends call me

Del." She wrapped the boy in her arms,

squeezed the air out of his lungs with the strength of

her hug, then stalked away without a backward

glance.

Thanks, Del.

He almost changed his mind and ran after her, but the

impulse faded with the thought of setting foot on

Dynasia. Eager to secure his next berth,

Jiak settled his pack securely on his

shoulders and headed back toward the docking bays.

CHAPTER 18

"Engage."

In Riker's mind, that simple word was

inextricably intertwined with the basso pulse of the

starship engines and a dazzling starburst of warp

light on the viewscreen. A feeling of

suppressed excitement was underscored by Picard's

crisp declamation; he never issued that order in

an offhand manner.

"At current warp speed," announced

Data, "our estimated arrival at Vulcan will

be in three point six days."

Picard never even slouched when he occupied the

captain's chair. At his most relaxed, he

might cross his legs and lean back. Today,

Riker noted, the captain had adopted his most

regal carriage, with both feet planted

firmly on the deck and his head held high as he

studied the viewscreen. The very mention of Sarek and

T'Sara's homeworld seemed to trigger this

unconscious show of respect; Picard's only

departure from a formal posture was the crooking of

one arm to hold the Heart.

"I've been to Vulcan several times," said the

first officer, "but I've never had a chance

to actually visit the planet surface. I'm

looking forward to that opportunity now."

When the silence that followed this comment lengthened

uncomfortably, Troi leaned slightly forward from

her position on the other side of Picard.

"Yes, I'm also looking forward to shore leave

there. It should prove to be very interesting, if rather

warm." She spoke to Riker, but her eyes were on

the captain.

Another silence.

"And I'm sure the Vulcan Science

Academy will look forward to our arrival," said

Riker, forging ahead des pite a growing

self-consciousness. He had started this damn

conversation, but he couldn't seem to stop it as

easily. "The Heart is a most unusual--"

"What did you say?" Picard turned to face

his first officer. "What about the Heart?"

"Just that I'm sure the archaeologists at the

Vulcan Science Academy must be very curious

about it. As an historical relic, it should keep

them occupied for quite some time."

Picard reacted to that admittedly banal

statement with a frown. His one free hand tugged at

the hem of his tunic. "Yes, I suppose it

will."

"Isn't that the purpose of this trip?" asked

Troi, and Riker wondered what emotion she

sensed that made this request for clarification necessary.

"To return the artifacts of T'Sara's

excavation to Vulcan?"

"Of course, Counselor," said Picard with a

grimace of impatience. "I was under the

impression I had made that clear during our last

briefing."

Troi nodded, but made no reply.

"In the meantime, it makes a dandy conversation

piece," said Riker with a grin. No one laughed.

"Although, I've noticed that it must be lighter than

it looks. You don't seem to mind its weight."

This was a rather blatant ploy for a chance to at least

touch the stone; except for Data, the captain was

the only one who had held the Heart.

"I hadn't given it much thought," said Picard.

He did not proffer the stone to his curious first

officer, and Riker wondered why Picard had

bothered to bring the stone with him onto the bridge.

To Riker's relief, the next long silence

finally signaled the death of this particular topic of

conversation; but his trepidation returned when he saw

Data swivel around in order to face the command

center.

"Captain, I have completely reassembled and

recalibrated all testing units in my

laboratory, and I have certified that they are in

excellent working order. If I could continue my

examination of the Heart, we could provide the

Academy scientists with valuable baseline

information as to its nature."

"That's a very good point, Mr. Data."

"Thank you, Captain." The android swung

aside the Ops console so that he could stand.

"Don't bother with it now," said Picard.

"I'll deliver the Heart to the lab at the end of

your duty shift."

Data sank back down into his chair.

"Until then," continued the captain, "I have

some historical research of my own to attend to.

Number One, the bridge is yours."

"Aye, Captain."

Riker was actually relieved by Picard's

swift departure from the bridge to his ready

room. This was a new feeling, and not one that the first

officer welcomed.

"He's very tired, Will," said Deanna before he

could even ask her to comment on the captain's state

of mind. "I sense he hasn't been sleeping very

well lately, and that makes him rather edgy."

"The Borg nightmares again?"

Troi paused, then shook her head. "No,

I don't think so. He's not so ...

shaken. Just tired and somewhat distracted."

"Perhaps we should ask our chief medical officer

to prescribe some warm milk at bedtime."

"Warm milk?" asked Data.

Riker hated having to explain his quips to the

android since they always sounded so lame after a

clinical analysis. "That was just a joking

reference to an old remedy for insomnia."

"Ah. Then I might make a similar

reference to using a wrench to regain possession of the

Heart from the captain." The android blinked in

surprise when Riker laughed out loud. "Was that

also funny?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, it was, Data," said Riker, but his

grin faded when he saw the look of concern on

Troi's face. Apparently the ship's

counselor was not so amused.

As the chief medical officer of the

Enterprise, Beverly Crusher had more than a

passing acquaintance with the methods the crew used

to deal with stress. Some of the more exuberant

attempts at tension-relief resulted in a

visit to sickbay. Miles O'Brien, for

instance, was fond of white-water rafting, and

Deanna Troi tended to eat large

quantities of chocolate; thus the former

occasionally needed muscle and bone regeneration, and the

latter a stern reminder on the importance of a

balanced diet.

Crusher was more inclined to moderation and indulged

herself by dancing in the holodeck with a succession of

computer-generated partners. However, when she was

feeling especially despondent, the doctor ended

up in sickbay as well.

"Are you sure you don't mind updating these

equipment inventories, Dr. Crusher?" asked

the nurse as he held out his data padd.

Lewis was a relatively new staff member,

one who hadn't learned to take quick advantage of

these rare moods.

"I don't mind at all." Crusher whisked

the padd away from the man before he could change his

mind. Two other nurses and a doctor had already

cheerfully provided her with a full day's worth of

mind-numbing busywork projects, the kind she

usually avoided like the plague or foisted off on

some hapless resident who had run out of

patients.

"Well, I really appreciate this

..." Despite his words, Lewis still looked as

if he was waiting for the catch.

"Am I interrupting something important?"

came a voice from the doorway to her office.

"Not at all, Geordi." She waved away

the bewildered nurse and studied the chief engineer as

he walked closer. La Forge showed no obvious

signs of illness; except for an unusually

somber expression, he appeared to be in good

health. "What can I do for you?"

"This isn't a medical matter, Doctor.

I just dropped by to see if you were coming to the poker

game tonight."

Crusher winced with the sudden realization that this was the

source of her bad mood. Odd how she had

managed to avoid this self-knowledge all morning.

Geordi must have seen her reaction, because he

sighed and said, "Look, I'm really sorry about

the last few days. We all know it wasn't your

fault we missed the championship, and I'd

really feel bad if you stopped playing poker just

because we've been acting like jerks."

"Thank you, Geordi," she said with a growing

smile. "As it happens, I have plans for this

evening, but it was very nice to be asked."

"Next time?"

"Definitely."

"Great." Her assurance seemed to ease his

conscience, because he walked out of the office with a much

lighter step.

As the last tatters of her melancholy

evaporated, Crusher shoved aside the temptation

to break her dinner date with the captain so she could

attend the poker game after all. Her vindication

could wait until another time. Besides, she hadn't

seen much of Picard lately and ...

She happened to glance down at her desk, a

desk covered with the mountains of work that she had taken

on, work she no longer had the slightest interest in

doing.

Suddenly the pleasures of this evening lay too

far in the future to even contemplate.

Data heard the sound of heavy footsteps

marching down the curving bridge ramp. There was

only one member of the crew who could overcome the

shock-absorbent qualities of the deck carpet.

"Your duty shift is over ... sir."

Data looked up from the captain's chair that

he had occupied since Riker's

departure from the bridge. The ship's security

chief towered above him. "Thank you, Lieutenant

Worf. I was just waiting for the captain."

Worf glanced over his shoulder at the closed

doors of the ready room. "He is busy."

"Yes, it appears he is preoccupied and

has forgotten our appointment. Perhaps I should

remind--"

The Klingon's bony forehead gathered a new

set of furrows. "One who holds the

Pagrashtak should not be disturbed for trivial

matters ... sir." He shifted his broad

body ever so slightly to block Data's view

of the door. "The captain would be annoyed by an

interruption."

"Then my concerns can wait," decided the

android. Despite the belligerent delivery,

Worf's assessment of the situation was probably

quite accurate.

"As most senior officer present, do you wish

to retain command of the bridge?"

"No." Data rose from the captain's chair.

"I will be heavily involved in computer research

on the aft deck. The conn is yours."

This answer seemed to mollify the Klingon--

his glower softened into a frown--yet Data was

aware that Worf was still watching him as he proceeded

up the ramp to the back of the bridge. It occurred

to the android that Worf could be a bit overzealous in

the execution of his duties, especially where

Captain Picard's welfare was concerned. No

doubt these were admirable qualities in the chief of

security, yet if Data were capable of emotion

he would probably find them extremely

irritating at times.

Taking a seat at an empty science console,

Data changed its display option to a high-speed

scan mode and quickly set to work.

During the last hour of his duty shift, he had

prepared a contingency plan just in case he was

delayed from working directly with the Heart. In the

absence of new test results, he would proceed

under the assumption that the anomalous data he had

gathered was correct, and he would conduct a search

for similar contradictory findings in both

archaeological and geological data bases.

He began by requesting a listing of all instances

in which variations in both dating and material

composition were linked to one object. Cosmic

spacesttime distortions were the first items

to be ruled out; he narrowed the search field

to objects less massive than black holes.

Then he excluded artificially generated

anomalies that were the result of esoteric

physics experiments.

Then the screen froze.

A Human would not have noticed; however, given

the rate at which Data processed information, the

brief lag was quite obvious to him.

After a microsecond flash of a new file

listing, the screen returned to the previous display

of physics experiments.

"Search complete. No new matches on

stated search parameters."

"That is not correct," said Data firmly.

" Access Archaeology File

TGOF-1284-678A."

"No such file is present in the data

base."

The computer was in error. He had clearly seen

that file listing added, then quickly deleted.

"Repeat, access Archaeology File

TGOF-1284-678A."

The screen went blank. "Listing error that

file material has not been entered in the data

base."

Yet he had noted a considerable volume

size in the file description. He considered a

backdoor approach that might open a new

access route. "Correlate data on the

Devil's Heart with data in Archaeology

File TGOF-1284-678A and--"

"Starfleet Command override ... Attention

Lieutenant Commander Data, USS

Enterprise, you have requested classified

material. Your current security clearance is

not sufficient to allow access to this file."

"Intriguing." He tapped his comm insignia and

began with, "Data to Commander Riker."

Less than ten minutes later, the first officer

was standing by Data's side.

"Computer," said Riker sternly. "This is

Commander William T. Riker. Show me

Archaeology File TGOF-1284-678A."

The screen remained blank while the

computer-generated voice repeated its refrain.

"Starfleet Command override ... Attention

Commander William T. Riker, USS

Enterprise, you have requested classified

material. Your current security

clearance is not sufficient to allow access to this

file."

"Damn." The first officer tapped his comm

insignia. "Riker to Picard."

Less than two minutes later, the captain

had joined them on the aft deck. He listened

patiently to Data's recapitulation of the data

base search. "And you think this file has

material pertaining to the Heart?"

Data shook his head. "I cannot corroborate

any connection until I have actually seen the

file, but the request for a correlation triggered the

security procedures."

"Then I agree this subject is worth

pursuing," said Picard. "Computer, this is

Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I require

access to Archaeology File

TGOF-1284-678A."

"Starfleet Command override ... Attention

Captain Jean-Luc Picard, USS

Enterprise, you have requested classified

material. Submit your justification for access

to Admiral Emm Wilkerson, Director of

Starfleet Special Projects."

"Well, I suppose that's progress of some

sort," said Picard with a wry smile. "I'll

send a priority request for an explanation to the

admiral right away."

Given their distance from Command Headquarters,

Data quickly calculated that the earliest possible

response could not arrive for hours. In the

meantime, however, he could conduct another round of

laboratory tests.

"Mr. Data," continued Picard, "until

we've received some clarification from Starfleet

Command, I suggest we suspend any further

attempts to analyze the Heart."

"As you wish, Captain."

"Why am I not surprised by that?" muttered

Riker under his breath as he watched Picard

return to his ready room.

This was a rhetorical question, decided Data;

he was not required to respond. Nonetheless, he

noted with interest that his own reaction matched that of the

first officer.

Beverly Crusher had just started the last

paragraph of the last page of a very dreary set of

reports when she heard the sound of the outer doors

to sickbay open and shut. Her fingers

picked up their pace over the keyboard.

"I'm almost done, Jean-Lu--" Then she

looked up. "Oh, Deanna."

"You were expecting the captain," said Troi.

"Yes, actually, I was. He invited me

to join him for dinner tonight."

The counselor's eyebrows quirked in

surprise. "A very late dinner."

Crusher cast a quick look at her desk

chronometer and was amazed to see she had worked through

most of the evening. "I've been rather absorbed in my

work and lost track of time. He should have called me

hours ago ..." She could feel a slow burn of

anger working its way up her neck. "In fact,

I do believe the captain has stood up his

chief medical officer ... again."

"Oh," said Troi, her eyes bright with

undisguised curiosity. "So this happened before?"

"Yes," said Crusher with a tight smile.

"Last night we were supposed to have dinner to make

up for a breakfast we missed. Only

Jean-Luc didn't show up. This morning he

apologized and explained that he had been

distracted by an unexpected meeting with Guinan.

To make amends, he promised to meet me for

dinner tonight."

"Knowing Captain Picard, he's probably

forgotten to eat entirely and is off somewhere studying

the Heart."

"Probably." The doctor found scant

consolation in this explanation. "He certainly is

fascinated by it."

"Well, I just stopped by to see if you wanted

to help me celebrate. I just won fifty

credits from--"

"The poker game!" cried Crusher. "I

forgot all about it. If the captain had bothered

to cancel our dinner plans, I could have gone to the

game instead."

"Beverly," said Troi in her most pedantic

counselor voice, "it's still not too late

to call him."

"Oh, no!" she said, sweeping the work tapes

off her desk into a drawer and slamming it shut.

"After all, who am I to come between a man and his

rock?"

He sat cross-legged on the bed, just as young

Surak had sat on the cold ground of the desert,

and the Heart rested in the cradle of his hands. The

boy had been waiting for morning, but

Picard was waiting for night.

It was so difficult to keep his eyes open,

yet he fought to stay awake just a little while

longer.

His cabin was dark, just as it had been that first

night when he wakened from the dream of T'Sara's

death and saw the stone transformed. He wanted

to see the change again. Or had its glittering

light been part of the dream as well?

Could he even tell the difference between waking and

dreaming any more? For three nights in a row, he

had been left with memories of other lands and other

people that were too vivid to dismiss as fantasy, yet

he had no other name for them.

Visions, perhaps.

Starship captains were not supposed to have visions.

He knew he should tell someone, but he feared the

telling would shatter the spell.

So tired. Too tired to watch the stone any

longer. He slumped down onto the bed, curling

himself around the warm, round shape.

Dreams were the voice of the Heart, and he would

listen to what it had to say.

CHAPTER 19

Halaylah darted through the gathering crowd,

skipping and twisting between the lumbering heavyset

bodies that towered above her. News of the

approaching bier had traveled quickly, outstripping

even her nimble race to the doors of the Great

Chamber. She wondered, in fact, if that knowledge had

spread too quickly, whether there had been an air

of veiled expectation when the cart lumbered up the

causeway with its blood-sodden burden.

Three armor-clad admirals stood at the

threshold of the throne room, planted like boulders

in solemn and unperturbable authority, yet the

guttural exchanges they whispered to each other

betrayed their unease. As a rule, Klingons were

not given to whispering; they bellowed and roared like

wounded targs whether they were in a good humor or

bad. She had been told they sounded much the same

in battle or in lovemaking. After a decade of

living on this planet, she still found the unleavened

noise of its natives to be the most

oppressive element of her captivity.

Skirting closer to the guarded entrance,

Halaylah caught a whiff of the

admirals' fear, incongruously sweet compared

to the normal acrid smell of a Klingon adult.

She listened to their awkward sibilant speech,

then tucked a hidden smile inside her cheek.

These mighty warriors, with the blood of a dozen

space-faring races on their hands, feared facing the

emperor. Each was desperately trying to escape

the honor of announcing the processional that marched

ever closer.

Skipping past the admirals, ducking under the

crossed swords of the Imperial guards and under the

arched entrance, she passed unchallenged into the

interior chamber. This was the privilege of the

mightiest monarch and the lowliest servant.

Dim red light obscured the bleakness of bare

stone walls and a flagstone floor, but did nothing

to warm the chill air. Even the warriors among

her people had craved beauty, whereas Klingons

seemed to disdain the cultivation of art and music.

When she had ventured to question this lack of aesthetic

development, Kessec had reminded her, not

unkindly, that her elegant homeworld had been

defeated in battle. Still, she wondered if she

could have enjoyed victory over the Klingons if

Tehalai had been as ugly as this planet. The

loss of flower gardens and carved fountains saddened

her more than the loss of her freedom.

Her slippered feet whisked softly over the

hard tiles. At their sound, a deep voice

cut through the murky air. "Approach and be

recog--oh, it's you, child."

Kessec was unattended. More and more often she

found him alone, yet he allowed her to enter and

remain when all others had been sent away.

Despite his seclusion, she always found him

dressed in ceremonial robes and chain-link,

sitting erect on the wide metal throne as if

he were about to admonish his admirals and ministers.

And always the Pagrashtak rested in the palms of his

hands.

"Do they think I'm deaf?"

His hearing was sharper than hers, but even

Halaylah could hear the muffled murmur of the

crowd waiting outside.

"Your sons are bringing a bier to this chamber,"

she said.

"All my sons?"

"All that are left alive, my Emperor."

"Ah." He, alone of all the Klingons she

had met, had the capacity to express

himself with subtlety and restraint. He said nothing

more until the death marchers arrived. The security

guards moved aside to admit the emperor's

sons and the burden they carried, but the procession

stopped just over the threshold.

"Approach and be recognized!"

Halaylah, crouching in the shadows by the side

of the thr one, watched as Mohtr, the eldest son,

stepped forward and saluted. He echoed his father's

sturdy build, but his tangled mane was shot with

white where Kessec's hair remained black.

"Durall, son of Kessec, has brought

honor to his family!"

She glanced quickly upward to study Kessec's

face. He betrayed no sign of emotion, yet

she knew young Durall had been a favorite of

his. She drew a deep breath and learned the

smell of grief.

"How many shared that honor with him?" asked

Kessec.

Mohtr hesitated, emitting the same sweet

scent that had glistened on the skin of the admirals

outside. "None. His death was an accident,

Father."

"A very small honor, then," said Kessec.

"There have been many of these accidents of late among

my sons bruises, wounds, broken bones.

Now death."

"We are warriors!"

Leaning forward, Kessec curled back his

lips. "Warriors die in battle, not in

accidents; they kill their enemies, not their

brothers."

"You have left us precious few battles

to fight, my Emperor," said Mohtr, baring his

teeth in return.

"Yes, that is one of the unexpected

disappointments of overwhelming victory against our

enemies." Kessec sank back against the

unyielding throne. "So is watching my sons

squabble like scavengers over the right to succeed me."

"If we succeed you. Unlike you, sire,

we grow old. Better to die like Durall than

to reach our dotage still yearning for our right

to succession!"

"Enough, Mohtr." Kessec dismissed him with

an abrupt wave of his arm and called out, "Bring

me Durall's body."

Even in the murky light, Halaylah could

discern the sullen looks on the faces

of the five bier-bearers as they shuffled forward and

laid the pallet at the foot of the emperor's

dais. Durall's body, once possessed of a

wiry vitality, was limp and drained of color;

his tunic was stiff with crusted blood where his chest

had been crushed inward. She wrinkled her nose

at the whiff of decomposition. Death smelled the

same here as it did on Tehalai.

"I see there was no hurry to bring me this

honor," said Kessec as he rose from his throne.

The Pagrashtak was cradled in the crook of one

arm.

"We were far from home, Father," muttered

Tagre, Fourth-born. "Travel was

difficult."

"No doubt." Kessec stepped down from the

circular base. Several of his sons were taller

and broader of frame, yet to Halaylah they

lacked his presence and gravity. She wondered if

he had been born with that quality or whether it was

another gift of the stone.

With one hand Kessec brushed aside a lock

of Durall's hair. The gentle gesture

seemed to bring Kessec pain, a physical pain

that stiffened his body; it lacked the aroma of

grief. His fingers sought out the young man's throat.

Time passed, but the emperor's ragged breathing was the

only sound in the chamber. Halaylah had never

mastered the Klingon Discipline of Waiting, but she

was too frightened to move. She could smell the

changes in the body before she saw its skin darken

with the warmth of flowing blood.

When Durall finally stirred, Kessec

dropped his hand away.

"Is there anything the Pagrashtak can't do?"

cried Gistad, Second-born. Alone among

his brothers, he met the restoration of life with a

smile of wonder and joy. A politic

reaction, noted Halaylah, for a man who might

be the next to die.

She also noted the slump in Kessec's

broad shoulders, the effort with which he kept his head

raised. The arm holding the Pagrashtak was

drooping by his side.

"You are tired, Father," said Mohtr, taking a

step closer to the emperor. He averted his gaze

from the stone, but his body twitched ever so slightly

when Kessec shifted the talisman to his other

hand.

"I will be fit enough by morning, as will

Durall. And then we shall hear his account of this

accident that befell him."

"Hearing him speak again will be a miracle, but

miracles are taxing; you must keep up your

strength through eating." Mohtr bellowed out for

food. His call had barely stopped echoing before

servants came running into the chamber with brimming

bowls of meat, steaming pies, and jugs of ale.

"Such concern for my welfare is touching,

Mohtr."

His hand signal was weak, lightly sketched in

air, but Halaylah had been waiting for the

emperor to summon her. She scrambled out of the

shadows to Kessec's side.

"I'm partial to the rougath," he said,

scooping out a ball.

She leaned forward and sniffed his choice. The

smell of the food itself was pure, but the tart

glutinous paste had been handled by someone who had

smeared his fear like icing over the top. Halaylah

glanced up to the emperor and blinked her eyes in a

gesture of rejection. Better not.

Kessec sighed. "Perhaps I will eat later."

"You let this slave's whelp run your life?"

"An eccentricity of mine. You, on the other

hand, are welcome to ignore her warning." He

proffered the morsel to his First-born.

"I'm not hungry."

"No, of course not." Kessec dropped the

food back onto a tray and carefully wiped his

fingers on the rough fabric of his robe. "Leave

me. All of you."

The words were softly uttered, but even an

emperor's whisper had to be obeyed. The

servants fled, dropping the tainted bowl, and

everything else they had carried, onto the

flagstones. His sons were less quick to abandon their

dignity, but they too edged away without protest.

As they retreated from the chamber, Kessec

called out to Mohtr one last time.

"Take a deep breath, First-born.

Deeper! That tightness you feel in your chest is from

a bout of Gorault's fever that you contracted as

a boy. Few children survive that illness."

"My survival is a sign of my strength!"

Mohtr cried in defiance, then marched out of the

chamber.

"Ah. Of course."

Halaylah stayed. She knew when Kessec

did not want her with him, and this was not one

of those times.

"Come closer, child." In the early days of her

service to the emperor, Kessec had tried

to wrap his thick Klingon tongue around the

delicate syllables of her name, then joined in her

laughter at the clumsy result; but he had not

laughed for over a year now, and there was no one

else to speak her name aloud, no matter how

mangled.

"I have another story to tell you," he said, and

she settled herself at his feet to listen.

"In a time before this one, there lived two

brothers who had been born of the same mother and on

the same day. Kessec and Batahr, for those were

their names, were so alike in appearance that it was as if

they were a single man and his still-water reflection

walking together on land. Their hearts were equally

mirrored; within each burned the bloodlust of a

warrior, and when they fought together in battle, their

enemies fled before them like dry straw on a high

wind rather than face their raging fire.

"They shared the honor of their victory, just as

they shared their weapons, their house, and their lovers.

In time, they even shared the reign of all the

territory within a two week's march of their

birthplace."

His deep, rasping voice fell silent.

"Then it came to pass," prompted

Halaylah when the pause in the story grew too

long. The form of the telling was familiar, but she had

not heard this tale of Kessec's life before and was

curious to hear more.

"Ah, yes, then it came to pass that the

brothers defeated their greatest enemy, a

neighboring warrior-king, and in their victory found

the one thing which they could not share. The first brother

to touch the Pagrashtak felt its warmth and heard

its whispers; the other held a cold, silent

stone. Soon, the first brother was loathe to loosen his

grip on the prize. Instead, he swore an

oath to share the fruits of its powers. Despite

this generous offer, the second brother brooded and

grew sour with jealousy and suspicion, until

he forgot all honor and slew his twin while he

slept."

Halaylah sniffed cautiously at the lip

of a mug of ale, then passed it over to Kessec.

He took a deep draft of the hot liquid before

continuing.

"The traitor grasped the stone and

felt its powers, but he also repented of his

murderous deed, so he used the stolen

Pagrashtak to bring his dead brother back

to life."

"You saved him just like you saved Durall!"

cried Halaylah with a joyful stamp of her

feet. Klingon tales rarely had such a

satisfying ending.

"No, child," said Kessec. "Batahr raised

me from the dead. And for that deed, I quickly slew

him in turn. Then I burned his body and

scattered the ashes so I could never be tempted

to resurrect him."

Not such a happy ending after all, she sighed

to herself.

"All this happened long ago," said Kessec,

reciting the formulaic ending of a historic

narrative. He studied the face of his youngest

son, the one who looked the most like him and who, she

realized, must also look like his dead brother. "Or

so I thought."

Durall's breathing was still labored and his limbs

trembled with the pain of his wounds. Kessec laid a

palm flat against his son's heaving chest and kept

it there until the boy sighed and slipped into an

untroubled sleep.

The effort left the emperor so weak that he lost

his grip on the Pagrashtak. Halaylah cried

out in distress when the stone rolled away from him.

Her dismay deepened when she heard his next

command. "Take it, quickly, before I recover my

strength. And my greed."

"Sire?"

"Take it!"

She took the Pagrashtak in her hands. It was

warm to the touch and not as heavy as she had expected.

"Go," whispered Kessec. "Go as far from here

as you can, child. Found your own empire if you must, but

take this curse away from me and mine."

Slipping the stone into her shapeless tunic where it

nestled like a curled beast against her stomach,

Halaylah ran from the throne chamber for the last

time.

Those light footsteps were still echoing in

T'Sara's mind when her eye s opened. She

breathed deeply of the cool air of the

Collector's chamber. The desert night

encircling the tower would be even colder.

"So that is what you were once," said the

Vulcan woman to the mummified body. "And

look at what you have become now."

When had the generous young slave girl turned

into the miserly, grasping, and selfish fanatic that

T'Sara had met in other dreams?

Ten years of excavation had shown that

Halaylah used the powers of the Pagrashtak

to found an artist's colony on Atropos, but it

had flourished for only a century. Over time,

her desire for creating beauty had narrowed into a

rapacious hunger for possession.

T'Sara had tried to explain to Sorren what

had happened, to teach him to feel how the

self-entombment of their founder would horrify

Halaylah's followers. While he acknowledged

the physical evidence of the disbanding of the colony,

he would not allow himself to fathom their motivation.

Young Vulcans were like that; too unsure of their

emotional control to risk the dangers of empathy.

"But I am old enough to contemplate what I will

not emulate you wanted to keep the Ko N'ya

to yourself for all eternity. If not for me, you would have

succeeded, but I have taken it from you."

T'Sara stroked the glittering stone. "Did

none of them ever wonder what you wanted, Ko

N'ya? I have seen much of your journey, but I

keep searching the dreams for a clue as to where you are

going."

Her head fell back against the chamber wall.

But I am old ... and so tired ... I

may not have the strength to find your answer.

Her eyes closed ...

... and the outermost shell of nested dreams

shattered when Picard opened his eyes. He felt

as old and tired as T'Sara until he drew a

shuddering breath and revived his own strength.

"A journey?" he asked the glowing Heart that

hugged his side. "Is that what this is all about?"

Its inner fire seemed to flare more brightly than

before.

CHAPTER 20

Estrella Miyakawa had reached the rank of

lieutenant commander of the USS Brande through sheer

hard work, but by that point in her career it was obvious

that her promotions were lagging farther and farther behind those

of her Academy classmates. Then Starfleet

Command had made it clear that a transfer

off a starship would be her only route to becoming a

full commander; affronted by the mandate, she finally

had agreed to an administrative post rather than

remain at that lower rank forever.

She had expected a prestigious but routine

desk job at any one of a dozen major

starbases. To her dismay, however, she found herself in

charge of an isolated docking base on the

fringes of Federation space. Insult had been

added to injury.

So for the first year of her assignment at

Starbase 193, Miyakawa had nursed a

bitter grudge against Starfleet and the character

assessment tests that had robbed her of the command of a

starship. Then, by the second year, her innate

sense of honesty had reasserted itself, and her

resentments had eased in the face of self-knowledge

while she possessed the independence of mind that

all good captains needed, she had never learned

to moderate that trait. Blunt to a fault and

impatient with subordinates, she had earned a

reputation for being difficult and creating unnecessary

tension among the crew of every ship on which she had

served.

By her third year of duty, Miyakawa knew

she had found her proper niche in life. As the

sole officer on the base, she had no one

to answer to but herself. On a starship her brusque

manner and snap decisions had ruffled feathers;

here they had earned her the respect of the hardened

locals and a rapid promotion to captain. Over

the course of five years, Starbase 193

became her home, and Miyakawa lost the

desire to walk any deck other than this one.

Still, there were times when she would have welcomed the

presence of another Fleet officer.

Now was one of those times.

The commander scanned the page in her hand once

again. Despite its dry tone, the Starfleet

security communiqu`e troubled her. During his

brief visit, Picard had teased her about the

tendency of administrators to exaggerate the

magnitude of their problems. She had bristled

at the implied criticism of her judgment, but

today she yearned to hear his opinion on this matter.

Lifting her gaze to the curving windows of her

office, Miyakawa studied the tranquil scene

of exterior base activity with growing unease.

An Andorian passenger ship floated through

space in search of the orbit

coordinates dictated by the station dockmaster;

maintenance droids swarmed over the hull of a

Tellarite freighter; a shuttlecraft ferried

a salvage crew to the remains of a Ferengi

Marauder. To all appearances, this was the start of

another routine, uneventful day.

Yet, if there was a Romulan warbird out

there, it would be cloaked and invisible to her eyes.

She shook her head and returned her attention

to the communiqu`e. Really, the very notion that there

might be Romulans headed for this sector was

absurd. Even if Starfleet intelligence was

accurate and a warbird had indeed crossed the

Neutral Zone, there was nothing of value at

Starbase 193 to attract the attention of any

enemy of the Federation. Six other sectors had

received this routine warning and any one of them was a more

likely target.

Tapping her comm insignia, Miyakawa said,

"Miyakawa to dockmaster."

"Ramsey here."

"Initiate Security One shutdown

procedures for all docking operations."

She was accustomed to immediate obedience from her staff,

but Ramsey's brief silence was understandable under the

circumstances.

"What's going on, Commander?"

"I'm feeling bored today." She wasn't

ready to explain her decision to anyone yet, not

even herself.

"Right. Well, this should liven up everyone's

life. Security One shutdown now in

effect."

Within seconds, the Andorian passenger ship

came to a dead stop; maintenance droids

scurried away from the freighter, then dove through the

closing doors of a cargo bay; and the repair

shuttle executed a sharp turn on its hasty

return to the station. There would be no more dockings or

departures without her express permission, and every

crewmember or passenger on shore leave would be

automatically recalled to his ship.

The decision to suspend service operations would

outrage every captain in the sector; it would disrupt

tight flight schedules and inconvenience thousands of

passengers and merchants. So before the first wave of

irate calls could flood through her office,

Miyakawa made a second announcement.

"Attention all starbase personnel.

Security One alert procedures are

now in effect. This is not a drill. Repeat, this

is not a drill."

The scramble to close down shops and return

to quarters would keep everyone quiet for at least

fifteen minutes. She had that much time to think of

an excuse for her actions.

Someone tell me I'm overreacting.

Camenae was just the person for the job, thought

Miyakawa ruefully when the bar owner swept

into the Starfleet office. Of course,

Miyakawa's open-door policy was not in

effect during a security alert, but Camenae was

not known for her adherence to station regulations.

"I need to talk to you, Commander."

If this had been a normal alert,

Miyakawa would have had no patience for

interruptions, but this time there was no discernible

emergency, no further demands on her authority,

so there seemed little point in turning Camenae

away. "I imagine you're here to register a

complaint from the trade community."

"No. I was already on my way here." The

woman sat down, leaned her elbows on the

desk, and said, "Four twenty-three mark

seventy-six mark three sixty-seven."

Miyakawa puzzled over the sequence. "Those

coordinates are in this sector." She punched the

numbers into her viewer padd, then studied the

screen image. "However, according to Federation star

charts, there's nothing but a few asteroids at that

intersection."

Camenae shook her head. "One of those

asteroids is three kilometers in diameter,

large enough to hide Smelter's Hold in its

hollow core."

"What! Starfleet has been trying to confirm

the location of the Hold for years; now you walk in

here and give me its coordinates. Why?"

"Because I suspect the outpost no longer

exists."

The commander's sense of approaching danger grew

stronger. "Explain."

"I had an operative working at the Hold,"

Camenae hesitated, then continued with an

uncharacteristic revelation, "who was tracking after

Reyjad@an."

"The DiWahn who killed Grede?" It was

Miyakawa's best guess, but she knew better

than to expect any confirmation. When Camenae

nodded agreement, the commander's alarm

deepened yet again.

Camenae began to talk faster, as if rushing

against time. "The Squib witnessed a curious

scene at the Hold bazaar. DaiMon Tork

was pulling a scam on two traders ... two

Vulcans. He left the bazaar in their company

and did not return."

The commander's fist clenched, crumpling the

communiqu`e into a tight ball. "What are the

odds of any Vulcan trader knowing about the

Hold?"

"That was my first thought, but I didn't have the chance

to ask any more questions. Our communications were cut.

All contact with the Hold has been lost."

With her heart racing from a sudden surge of

adrenalin, Miyakawa asked, "Camenae, do you

know of any reason why a Romulan warbird would

be headed to this starbase?"

"I think they are after T'Sara's Ko

N'ya."

"I find that hard to believe." Yet that very

suspicion had been at the root of her

apprehension. "Would the Romulans risk an

interstellar war with the Federation and its allies for so

little?"

"If the Romulans gain possession of the Ko

N'ya," said Camenae, "they could probably win

that war."

Miyakawa reached for her comm insignia one more

time. "Attention all starbase personnel.

Initiate evacuation procedures. This is not a

drill. Repeat, this is not a drill."

Finally, she knew what to do next.

"Dispose of him," said Commander Taris, stepping

away from the limp body.

She waited, seemingly impassive, as two

security guards rushed forward to remove the

Ferengi from the chair. In truth, she had to clench

her jaw to keep from snapping at them to hurry as

they fumbled with the bindings that held the subject in

place.

Subcommander Vedoc was less

self-disciplined; she could hear his boot tapping

impatiently on the ship's metal deck. "So,

this wretched Ferengi was telling the truth after all,

and he hid nothing from us."

"I could have done with far less revelation,"

Taris said dryly. The clever trickster had

dissolved into a babbling fountain of information

even before he was attached to the mind-sifter; she

wondered if all of his species were equally

weak-willed.

The last of the restraints were unfastened, and one

of the guards easily lifted the small alien into the

air. Both of the subject's eyes were still open,

darting this way and that in independent directions. The

highest setting of the mind-sifter seemed to sever the

brain's ability to coordinate muscle

movement; it severed many other connections as well.

The DaiMon was still alive in a technical

sense, but this vegetative state would not persist for

long as the body's nervous system functions

continued to fail.

When the guards had carried the body away,

Taris could speak more freely. "The

Enterprise! I might have known it would be

involved with these tales of the Ko N'ya's

reappearance."

"But Commander, most of what he told us was

speculation rather than fact."

"Learn to trust your instincts, Vedoc." She

suspected that instinct was another of the leadership

qualities that he lacked; worse yet, he

apparently lacked a comprehensive knowledge of their

enemies. "The captain of the Enterprise has a

fondness for ancient cultures, and this would not be the

first time he has meddled in our affairs."

"Then it will be his last!"

"Your enthusiasm is noted," said Taris.

The young man jerked to attention, chest puffed out;

he had mistaken her sarcasm for praise. What

a shame that his finely chiseled features were not

accompanied by an equally impressive

intellect.

With a weary sigh, the commander turned on her

heel and marched swiftly out of the interrogation

chamber. Vedoc scuttled after her.

When they stepped into the circular bridge, the

quiet air of efficiency restored her temper.

Unlike the subcommander, the soldiers hunched

over their work stations had served on the Haakona

for years. Taris had weeded out the weak and the

stupid, leaving her with a leaner crew than most

warbirds possessed, but one that was more competent.

She stepped up onto the dais of the captain's

chair. Each of the crew cast her a quick

side-glance that signaled their ready status; a

simple nod on her part would have elicited a

verbal report; a series of hand

signals could relay her own orders. The

subtlety of this silent communication usually

unnerved Vedoc, who preferred to bark out his

commands.

A flash of orange light warned of a sudden

change in the ship's status.

"Third-stage perimeter alert, Commander,"

explained the weapons officer. "Vessel one

approaching on a direct intercept vector,

seven minutes; Vessel two approaching on a

direct intercept vector, eleven minutes;

Vessel three will pass within firing distance in

five minutes."

The viewscreen was clouded by the dampening effect

of the Haakona's cloaking field, but she could

see three globular shapes growing in size as

they drew nearer.

"We'll be surrounded," whispered Vedoc.

Even in the subdued light of the command pit, Taris

could see him tremble at the thought.

"Surrounded by two freighters and a passenger

ship," explained the weapons officer without any

trace of amusement. Seemus was too well

trained to reveal contempt for a superior officer,

even one who had not learned the difference between an

alert and a warning.

"Full power to the cloaking device," ordered

Taris. Her voice carried easily across the still

bridge. "Evasive maneuvers to avoid

collision."

The first of the approaching vessels filled the

viewscreen, then veered off to one side. Her

helmsman had steered the Haakona out of harm's

way with an economy of motion. He ducked under

the second trade ship, then returned the

warbird to its previous course heading.

"Estimated arrival at the starbase in

twelve minutes."

If fortune favored this mission, the

Enterprise and her captain would soon rue their

theft of Romulan property.

A new shape took form on the viewscreen,

the triangular profile of an orbital docking

station. Even with the compromised resolution of the

image, Taris could see that the space surrounding

the station, an area normally cluttered with stationary

vessels, was empty.

She looked to her navigator for an

explanation.

"Commander," said Etrajan, "sensors

reveal there are no life-signs on the

starbase."

"Your instruments must be in error!" Vedoc

stepped behind the man and peered over his shoulder

to double-check the instrument readout. "Life

support functions are still operating ... energy

collectors near maximum ..." He scowled

fiercely, then said, "no life-signs."

"And no Enterprise." Little else mattered

to Taris, but Vedoc kept prattling on about the

station.

"Somehow they must have been warned! A

full-scale evacuation explains the ships we

passed earlier. We could still catch one--"

"No," Taris snapped, growing weary of his

inflexibility; a good soldier learned to adjust

to the fluctuations of war. "Let them pass on.

We have larger game to track."

"Yes, Commander." He ducked his head,

visibly chastened by her reprimand, another sign

that he was too easily swayed even from a bad

opinion. At the conclusion of this mission, she would

recommend that his highly placed uncle find

another post for his nephew; Vedoc would not serve

on her ship again.

"What is our next course of action?" he

asked.

"Destroy the base as planned."

His large brown eyes blinked rapidly in

confusion. "But there's no one even on the station."

"It doesn't matter, Subcommander."

Perhaps, if she was exceptionally clever, he could

die honorably in battle; his uncle would

probably thank her. "Upon hearing of the

destruction of a Federation starbase, the nearest

starship will proceed immediately to this sector."

"And that starship will be the Enterprise," said

Vedoc, finally comprehending the obvious.

"Photon torpedoes locked on target,"

announced Seemus.

"Fire."

A cluster of dark shapes shot out from beneath the

warbird's curving hull. She lost sight of them

as they sped through the void toward their target, but the

weapons officer tracked their progress.

"... three ... two ... one ..."

Commander Taris smiled as she watched the

starbase explode into a cloud of molten metal.

Its fires flared like a beacon in the cold

night of space.

CHAPTER 21

Having reached the limits of his own understanding,

Data swiveled his Ops station around to face the

occupant of the captain's chair.

"Commander Riker, I have been reviewing your

evocation of "Lady Luck" during the course

of the game last night. Despite your repeated

requests for intervention from that entity, in actual

fact, your poker performance fell below your usual

standards."

The first officer sighed. "Luck is fickle,

Data."

"And do you believe that explains why

Counselor Troi won?"

"No," said the first officer. "Deanna

cheats."

"Intriguing." Data had not expected that

explanation. "However, I saw no evidence

of--"

"That was a joke."

"Yes, of course." A very small one,

Data decided; he would forgo a laughter

response. Besides, according to Geordi, the chuckle

he had developed was still in need of refinement.

The android was about to resume a forward position

when a soft beep from the aft deck caught his

attention.

"Incoming message from Starfleet Command,"

announced Worf as he scanned the communications

console. "A Priority One, security-coded

communiqu`e from the Department of Special

Projects."

"That is probably the answer to our inquiry

on the Heart," said Data. The response time

was three hours and thirteen minutes shorter than

his estimate, which implied a greater urgency than

he had assigned to the matter.

"Pipe it to the captain's ready room,

Lieutenant," ordered Riker, as he rose from

his chair.

Data slipped out from under the console

to accompany the first officer.

"You are not included, Mr. Data," said

Worf firmly. "According to my security

instructions, only Captain Picard and Commander

Riker have been granted clearance to view this

message."

The android sat back down.

"Sorry, Data," said Riker. "You know how

the Brass loves to guard its secrets; but

I'll bet that by the end of this mission, we can fill

you in on the details."

"Thank you, Commander. Nevertheless, I suspect

this is one conundrum I will never be allowed

to solve. Fortunately, I have no--"

"--no emotions." Riker completed the sentence

for him.

"Correct. So I am not disturbed by the lack

of resolution in this matter."

The first officer shrugged. "If you say so,

Data."

"Yes, Commander, I do say so." However, this

clarification only seemed to amuse Riker; he

was still smiling when he walked into the ready room.

Data had encountered this same veiled

skepticism among members of the crew on other

occasions; Dr. Crusher and the captain often made

similar asides to his declarations.

Data addressed the security chief. "I do

not possess the capacity for emotion."

Worf grunted. "I do not care ... sir."

"What exactly is Spe cial

Projects?" asked Riker as he sat down

across from the captain.

"Few people below the rank of admiral seem

to know." Picard plucked the Heart off a stack

of books and shoved them to one side. When he had

cleared the area around the small viewscreen, he

said, "I've heard it called the "black

hole" department because information goes in, but it

rarely comes back out."

"Well, then, this should be very interesting."

A figure suddenly appeared on the screen.

Admiral Wilkerson was a spare, elderly

woman with a tight bun of fading coral-red hair

and a brisk but congenial manner.

"Captain Picard, if I played this by the

book, neither you nor Commander Riker would be allowed

to hear anything I'm about to say. Fortunately,

Special Projects is given some latitude

in its affairs, and it is my judgment that you need

to know the scope of the situation."

Her expression grew more somber.

"The analysis anomalies which you reported

are not unique. They have been detected emanating

from a ... structure, perhaps even a being,

of immense age. We call it the Guardian of

Forever, and there is a strong possibility that the

relic you possess is a fragment broken from the

Guardian."

Out of the corner of one eye, Riker could see the

captain's hands close protectively around the

stone.

"If this is so," continued the admiral, "the

legends of the Heart's powers may not be

exaggerated. The Guardian itself is beyond our

comprehension; we haven't even confirmed whether or

not it is sentient ... and it has other

properties that are best not talked about."

Like what? wondered Riker with growing

unease.

"A team of researchers from Special

Projects will be waiting for you on Vulcan; they

can take the Heart to more secure quarters.

However, be very careful on your journey here,

Captain Picard. At all costs, the Heart

must be kept out of the hands of the Federation's

enemies."

Admiral Wilkerson blinked away, and

once again the screen went dark.

"The Guardian of Forever," said Picard, but

he was looking down at the Heart as he spoke.

"Is that where you belong?"

"Captain?"

Picard looked up as if startled that he was not

alone. "Yes?"

"Up until now, we've assumed this rock was

a harmless archaeological relic." Riker

shook his head in disbelief at Starfleet's

revelations. "But if what the admiral said is

true, you'd be safer holding a photon torpedo

in your hands. Shouldn't we keep the Heart in a

guarded security vault?"

The captain frowned at the suggestion. "I

don't think deep storage will be necessary. If

anything, it will simply draw extra attention to the

Heart. However, to be on the safe side,

I'll order an end to any more of Data's

attempts at laboratory analysis."

This wasn't the result Riker had intended, but

before he could marshal an argument, Picard added,

"That will be all, Number One."

"Aye, sir." Riker rose and walked

swiftly out of the room and onto the bridge.

Data looked up from his Ops console, his

gold eyes gleaming with unasked questions.

"Don't hold your breath, Data."

"Sir?"

Riker kept walking.

He passed through the command area and was halfway

up the side ramp when he tapped his comm link and

said, "Riker to Counselor Troi. Meet me

in the main conference room."

The captain's chair of a starship was comfortable--

Worf knew this from personal experience--but

until such time as he earned the right to assume command

authority, the Klingon preferred his position on

the aft deck. From this lofty perch, he could

observe every action on the bridge and overhear almost

all conversations. He had little personal interest in

most of the information he gathered, but as the chief of

security, Worf felt it was his duty to be

aware of the petty concerns of the crew and the weightier

matters that involved the senior officers.

So Worf did not miss the anxious look on

Commander Riker's face as he strode off the

bridge toward the conference room; his call to the

ship's counselor was duly noted as well.

"There appears to be a problem," said Data.

The android had a comment for every event, no matter

how minor; he would not have lasted very long on a

Klingon warship.

"Messy Human problems."

Unfortunately, Troi's involvement was usually

a warning of an imminent disruption to order and

discipline on board the ship.

"In theory, the counselor's early

involvement can forestall the development of greater

difficulties."

"Bad theory." Worf had little faith in the

android's understanding of such matters. "Klingon

ships have no counselors, and they have fewer

problems."

Before Data could prolong this exchange, Worf

turned away to a more concrete task, one that did

not involve speculation about Human frailties.

Flickering green lights on his console

indicated the presence of a faint communications

broadcast in the sector surrounding Starbase

193. The steady pulse of a blue light

indicated that the signal was an automated

message, sent out at regular intervals but without

sufficient power to reach a starship traveling at

warp speed.

The security chief made a slight

adjustment to the alignment of the ship's antenna

array. Then another.

By the time Riker had returned to the bridge, with

Counselor Troi following in his wake, Worf

had established that the call was spread across all the

frequencies used by commercial freighters and

passenger liners, and that it was broadcast in a

scattershot pattern that would saturate the

sector. Since only a starbase had the energy

resources for that effort, the implication was that

Commander Miyakawa was transmitting information of

importance to local ship traffic.

Worf rechanneled more auxiliary power to the

amplifiers of the subspace transceivers.

Deanna Troi rang the chime to the ready

room. As she waited for a response from within, she

could feel Riker watching her. The first officer's

concern hovered like a cloud over the bridge, but

during their meeting in the conference room he had

fumbled for words to explain his unease. In the end,

Riker simply shrugged and asked her to see for

herself if she sensed any changes in the captain.

"Come."

The counselor stepped forward through the opening

doors, then paused on the other side of the

threshold until the sliding panels had closed

behind her; she needed the barrier to help her block

out Riker's anxiety. Taking a deep breath,

Troi cleared her mind of expectations, then

approached the captain's desk.

She had planned to begin this session with a casual

conversation, thus constructing an oblique approach

to probe Picard's mood. As soon as she

drew near, however, the empath sensed an intensity

of emotion that would not yield to such subtle

methods. Although the captain was looking straight

at her, his mind was focused on the book he

held and on the Heart, which rested near his right hand.

"You've been very absorbed of late," remarked

Troi.

"I've been following a hunch," said

Picard. She read an excitement, almost an

exultation, in that statement. Her timing was

fortunate; he was in need of an audience. "I

believe that T'Sara saw a pattern in the

Heart's travels to different worlds, and that is how

she tracked the stone to Atropos in the first

place. Although any record of her conclusions was

destroyed in the attack of the campsite,

many of the original pieces of the puzzle are still here

in her writings."

"Tell me more," said Troi. She was mildly

curious about the Heart, but even more curious about the

captain's reaction to it.

"For instance," Picard said, "the Heart

appears in both Andorian mythology and early

Klingon history. But how could it possibly have

traveled from the healers of Andor to the emperor

Kessec? The key lies in the records of the first

Andorian/ferengi contact the Ferengi threatened

wholesale slaughter of the populace if they were not

provided with "trade" merchandise."

"How charming." She noticed that the lines of his

face were more pronounced than usual. Had he

lost weight in the last few days?

"Among the items of tribute may have been the

Heart. However, unaware of its true value,

the Ferengi merely loaded it into the hold of a

freighter and carried it away." Picard opened the

book to a marked place near the back.

"T'Sara's appendix includes the ship's

manifest; it lists "assorted baubles and

trinkets" which were later traded to the barbaric

natives of a technologically primitive world

known as Kronos."

"This is all very fascinating, but what is its

significance to our current mission?"

"Deanna, you must see that the Heart is going

somewhere. It also has a mission."

"Really?" she said. "I'm not sure that I would

have drawn that conclusion." But Picard did not

appear to hear her doubt.

He swiveled around his desk viewer so she could

see the star map on its screen. His enthusiasm

flaring like an aura around him. "If I can chart

where the Heart has been, perhaps I can determine

where it is going, its final destination ... and its

motivation."

"You make it sound alive." She reached down

and picked up the Heart. She sensed nothing from the

stone, but Picard's shifting emotions were obvious.

"You resent my holding it. Why?"

"Not at all, Counselor. I'm simply

concerned that--"

"Riker to Captain Picard. We've

picked up a distress call from Starbase

193."

How ironic, Troi observed, that it was

Riker himself who was interrupting the

session, one that he had specifically requested.

"On my way, Number One," called out

Picard, quickly rising to his feet.

Troi stepped aside to let the captain

pass, but he stopped just long enough to pull the Heart

from her hands. With a frosty smile, he said, "We

shall have to continue this discussion some other time."

Instead of putting the Heart back on the

desk, Picard carried the stone away with h im.

Like every member of the bridge crew,

Lieutenant Worf held himself to high standards of

performance. Fulfilling one's duty was no cause

for congratulations; competence was expected, not

rewarded. Nevertheless, he felt a measure of

satisfaction in having captured the transmission

from Starbase 193 just before the Enterprise had

traveled beyond the range of the signal. He had

undertaken the effort as an exercise in long-distance

communications recovery, but the result had proved

to be of far greater importance than he had

expected.

"Status report, Number One," demanded the

captain as he strode out of the ready room.

To the Klingon's gratification, Picard

carried the Pagrashtak with a care and dignity that

showed the proper respect for its powers.

Riker rose to his feet, vacating the

captain's chair. "Lieutenant Worf has

picked up an automated distress call from

Starbase 193."

At a nod from the first officer, Worf touched his

console to release the message. Commander

Miyakawa's voice was coldly factual, but

emphatic.

"... is not a drill. Repeat, this is not

a drill. Starbase 193 has been

evacuated; do not approach the base; do not

attempt to dock. I strongly advise all

vessels to leave the sector. This is not a

drill. Repeat ..."

Worf cut off the repeating loop.

"Why have they evacuated?" demanded Picard.

"No explanation," said Riker with a shrug of

frustration.

After checking another panel of the console, the

Klingon shook his head. "Channels are open, but

there is still no answer to our hails."

"Continue contact efforts, Lieutenant." The

captain took his place in the command

center and addressed his next spate of orders to the

helm. "Set course for a return to Starbase

193."

Even though he concentrated his visual attention

on the tactical station, Worf still listened to the

general activity on the bridge Data laid

in the new course, Geordi confirmed sufficient

power for a sustained warp eight, and Picard sent the

Enterprise back toward the starbase.

The deck throbbed beneath Worf's feet as the

high warp speed strained the propulsion engines

to near maximum capacity. Within seconds, the

faded distress call from Starbase 193

reappeared on the communications console.

"Estimated arrival in four hours and seven

minutes," said Data.

Just under Worf's tactical station, Picard and

Riker were discussing reasons for the unexpected

diversion. Their muted voices drifted upward.

"The likeliest explanation is that the station

suffered some kind of equipment malfunction," said

Riker.

"But why weren't we notified? Miyakawa

knew our course headings; she could have sent a

distress call directly to us if--"

A flurry of crimson alarms suddenly

tripped across the tactical consoles on the aft

deck. From where he stood, Worf could see

identical patterns washing over Data's Ops

controls as well.

"Captain," called out Worf.

"Long-range sensor scans have detected an

explosion in the sector."

The android confirmed the announcement with a sharp

nod of his head. "Magnitude of the energy

release would be consistent with the detonation of a

starbase's generators."

"And the base distress call has stopped,"

added Worf. All signs of the strengthening

signal had disappeared.

"Damn!" exclaimed Riker, jumping to his

feet. "We'll need survival rescue

teams, paramedics--"

"Hold on that," said Picard. His order

froze the first officer in place. "Lieutenant

Worf, are there any other Federation vessels within

this quadrant?"

Worf quickly checked the latest position

reports from Starfleet Command. "At warp nine,

the Portsmouth could reach Starbase

193 in six point five hours; the Plath would

take seven hours."

"Captain!" protested Riker. "Those extra

hours could mean the difference between life and death

to any people who were on that station."

"We will have to trust to Commander Miyakawa's

efficiency and assume there was sufficient time for a

complete evacuation. If she had wanted the

Enterprise to provide assistance, she would have

signaled us directly; she intended for us to stay

away."

"But why would--"

"I suspect someone destroyed the starbase

while in pursuit of the Heart," said Picard.

"We have become a magnet for trouble, Number

One, and our best course of action is to draw that

trouble away from innocent bystanders."

"Deliberately make ourselves a target?"

"Exactly."

Picard rose to his feet, moving to the center

of the bridge. As he turned toward the aft

deck, Worf could see that the captain gripped the

Pagrashtak in both hands, just as a warrior

might hold fast to the pommel of his sword.

"Lieutenant Worf, transmit a

message to the Portsmouth on an uncoded

channel "Enterprise has urgent business

elsewhere, request you proceed immediately to Starbase

193 to aid survivors." And for good measure,

send the same message to whatever may be left of

Starbase 193. Be sure to include our

current coordinates."

Next, Picard turned to face the helm.

"Mr. Data, set course for ... one

twenty-three mark twelve. Reduce speed

to warp six."

Their path was obviously picked at random, and

this arbitrary choice seemed to disturb the first

officer; his face creased with worry. Unlike

Riker, however, Lieutenant Worf knew their

final destination, and he faced it with courage and

eager anticipation.

Since the days of Emperor Kessec, no

other Klingon had been honored with the opportunity

to serve a commander who wielded the powers of the

Pagrashtak. This journey would soon become

legend, and all Klingon legends ended in death.

CHAPTER 22

"Here it comes--brace yourself!" cried

Miyakawa as she pressed herself deeper into the

cushions of the acceleration seat.

The cubical lifeboat bucked wildly,

buffeted by the explosive force of expanding vapors

and a deadly hail of disintegrating fragments, all

that remained of Starbase 193. Force fields

protected the pod's hull, but she knew that each

muffled impact sapped just a little more energy from a

finite supply.

Seconds later, the wave of flying debris

had passed and the jarring collisions stopped just as

abruptly as they had begun. The lifeboat's

reaction control system hissed on and off in

short bursts until the craft slowed its

tumbling motion, then stabilized with a constant

horizon line.

"Down to sixty-five percent of power

reserves," she said after scanning the control

panel.

"Is that good or bad?"

Miyakawa turned to her companion; the commander

could just make out Camenae's broad face in the

faint glow of light from the illuminated console.

"It means we have about fifty-six person-days of

life support left, which means the two of us can

survive in here for twenty-eight days."

The dark wing of a Romulan warbird swooped

across the view screen, blocking out the vista of

stars.

Miyakawa quickly reached for the pod's manual

override switch; even the smallest puff of the

accelerators could give away their existence. She

held her breath until the uncloaked ship had

receded into the distance.

"Of course, power reserves are immaterial

if the Romulans detect us first," said

Miyakawa in a low whisper. According to the pod's

rudimentary sensors, the warbird was traveling through

space in a wide arc, tracing a lazy circle

around the guttering fires of her dead starbase.

They would be back.

"But we'll have to risk using impulse engines

soon," said Camenae. "If we're still in this

area when the Enterprise arrives, this lifeboat

could get caught in some very nasty cross fire."

"The Enterprise won't be coming back to this

sector," said Miyakawa. "In

fact, there may not be a rescue effort for quite some

time."

"What!"

"I didn't notify Starfleet about the

evacuation; instead, I restricted the broadcast

to this sector's traffic channels. The

Romulans are using my starbase as bait, and

I wasn't about to help them set the trap."

"I see," said Camenae. She shifted

uncomfortably in the narrow confines of her chair.

"This isn't going to be pleasant. I've seen

packing crates with more room to move."

Miyakawa couldn't argue the point. The

escape pod's truncated cube shape

provided storage compartments for generous

quantities of survival supplies, but the

four crew seats took up most of the remaining

space of the interior.

"I'm sorry, Camenae, but I assumed you

would leave the station on a freighter or a liner like

everyone else. If you had followed my orders,

you would have been safely away by now."

"And you would have been vaporized. Like some

melodramatic sea captain who refuses

to abandon a sinking ship."

After a long silence, Miyakawa said, "I

lost track of time."

The other woman snorted. "There wasn't that

much time to keep track of."

Miyakawa shrugged, then realized that her

companion could not see the gesture in the dark. She

hadn't made a conscious decision to stay on the

starbase, but she hadn't scrambled for the lifeboat

until she found Camenae wandering through the deserted

docking bay. "Wait a minute. Why were you still

on board the station?"

Camenae's silence lasted so long that it seemed

she was not going to answer at all. There was a

quaver in her voice when she finally spoke.

"I've been through this before ... and I'm tired of

being a survivor."

So, they had rescued each other, reluctant

heroes sacrificing their own death so that the other

might live.

"I'll see to it that you survive again this time,

whether you like it or not," said Miyakawa with a

fierce conviction that welled up from inside of her.

"A starbase can be rebuilt. Our lives can be

rebuilt."

"That's a job for the young." Camenae

uttered a weary sigh. "And I'm much older than

I look."

"Not too old to feel sorry for yourself."

"Thank you, Commander," said Camenae dryly.

"Your sympathy is appreciated."

Miyakawa laughed. "My charming personality

is well-known throughout Starfleet. Think how

fortunate you are to be cooped up with me for--"

A flashing light signaled the activation of the

pod's transceiver. "Incoming message."

She released the sound into the cabin.

"Attention USS Portsmouth

Priority distress call ... Starbase

193 has been destroyed ... Enterprise

has urgent business elsewhere ... request you

proceed immediately to aid survivors."

"I don't get it." Miyakawa shook her

head in disbelief. "That was an uncoded

broadcast. Everyone in the sector probably

heard that message."

"Look!" Camenae pointed to the viewscreen.

In the distance, they could see the Romulan

warbird changing course. Its curved path

flattened out into a straight line. As it gathered

speed, the ship's image rippled and shimmered,

then faded out of existence. The cloaking device

had been activated.

"Dammit!" cried Miyakawa. "I risked

my life to protect the Enterprise, but they've

fallen prey to the Romulans anyway!"

"Don't underestimate Captain Picard."

Camenae's smile flashed in the shadowed interior

of the pod. "I think he's constructing a trap of

his own."

If this was so, Picard's ploy was a dangerous

one.

"Good luck, Jean-Luc," whispered

Miyakawa.

"Forward thrust ..." ordered Commander Taris,

"... now."

Vedoc staggered back against a metal

bulkhead, unbalanced by the Haakona's jolting

acceleration to high warp speed. For a moment, before the

dampening field could counteract the pressure of

inertial forces against his chest, he could hardly

breathe.

Others among the bridge crew seemed to be

fighting for breath as well, but none of them betrayed

any surprise at the painful effect,

so this was no ship malfunction. Vedoc was

familiar enough with the warbird class to know that Taris

must have reset the inertial dampening field below

standard specifications; undoubtedly this was another

small shaving of energy to funnel toward the

weapons system.

The crush of g-forces finally eased. With a

wheezing gasp of relief, Vedoc lurched back

to his position by the side of the commander's throne.

Taris met his return with a condescending smile

and said, "Of course, it's a trap."

Vedoc assumed a feigned look of

surprise just a second too late, and then

feared she would begin to suspect his deceit.

To his relief, however, the sneer on the commander's

face showed she had mistaken his bad timing for

stupidity.

"A trap, Commander?" he asked with exaggerated

bewilderment. Evidently she was convinced that he was

an idiot and would continue to interpret all his

reactions accordingly.

"Your gullibility is touching, Vedoc."

Taris seemed to enjoy displaying her contempt for

her subcommander; if she had any weakness as an

officer, it was this intractable arrogance. "Picard

has given away his position on purpose. The

Federation is very protective of its civilian

population, and they will often undertake such risks

to shift combat to a more isolated area of space.

All the better; we are more than a match for the

Enterprise."

Vedoc nodded obsequiously, too distracted

to contrive a suitably inane response for his

idiot persona. If the commander's custom

modifications to the operating systems of the

Haakona were any indication, her boast was founded

on fact rather than vanity. This knowledge sharpened the young

man's sense of urgency, but over the past few

days he had found no way to change the course of the

events surrounding him.

Would Surak have waited passively for

opportunity, or would the ancient Vulcan have

made his own opportunities? Vedoc longed

to ask his teacher this question, but the catacombs of

Romulus were light-years away.

"Commander Taris." He assumed the manner of

an eager pup desperate to please its master.

"Give me more to do than stand by your side. Let

me take even a small part in this kill."

She snorted under her breath, but

managed to contain any more blatant expression of

her amusement at this offer.

With fear lodged at the base of his throat, he

pushed harder. "I'm newly posted to this warbird,

but I have served with distinction on other ships. If

nothing else, let me assist at the auxiliary

weapons station."

"Oh, very well," said Taris. "But if

Etrajan has any cause for complaint, you will

return to the bridge."

"It shall be as you order, Commander!" he

proclaimed with a flourishing salute. This archaic

and melodramatic response wrung an

explosion of laughter from the normally impassive

crew. As if mortally embarrassed by their disdain,

Vedoc fled the bridge.

His boots rang loudly on the metal decks

as he raced through the main corridor of the ship's

spine. The auxiliary bay next to engineering

remained unmanned until battle was imminent;

if he stayed far enough ahead of Etrajan, Vedoc

would have a few minutes of unsupervised time in which

to act. Despite lungs that were still sore from the

launch, Vedoc pushed himself to keep running. He

swallowed the bitter taste of blood, yet still he

did not slow his pace. An extra second could

mean the difference between success and failure.

By the time the subcommander skidded into the empty

alcove, he had selected his target. With a quick

look to make sure he was not observed and that no

stray engineering operative was in the vicinity,

Vedoc grabbed a sonic wrench from a recessed

shelf, then fell to his knees by the side of a

forward shield generator.

A quick inspection confirmed his suspicion that

Taris had implemented a number of unorthodox

modifications to the deflector system as well;

but for every gain there was an equivalent loss, so some

other aspect of the ship's performance must have been

sacrificed for this advantage. What basic

crew comfort had she deemed an expendable

luxury?

Disabling the diagnostic sensors in the unit was

a straightforward exercise in sabotage. As an

easily bored ensign, he had repeatedly

assembled and disassembled similar components while

his ship patrolled the borders of the Neutral

Zone. Perhaps it was those same long duty shifts

that had given him time to reflect on history and

philosophy.

The next step was even less complicated, but

far more decisive. The power coupling leading to any

shield generator was a weak link that was rarely

broken; it lay too far inside the warbird's

hull to be vulnerable to enemy attack. Setting

the proper frequency on the wrench, he loosened

the electron-bonded connections on the cable's

casing.

All he had to do now was pull.

Is this the right path?

He had not followed the teachings of Spock long

enough to know if this scheme was true to the philosophy

of Surak, but Vedoc did not have years in which

to master the dictates of logic. He had only

a matter of minutes in which to act.

His hand hovered over the conduit.

Assuming that he had the courage to forfeit his own

life for his beliefs, could logic grant him the

right to kill his unwilling shipmates with the same

gesture? Surak had urged peace and an end

to killing, yet if Vedoc assumed a strict

pacifist stand, the Haakona would obtain the

means to subjugate the Federation, and millions of

people on both sides of the conflict would die.

In the end, he chose according to the dictates of his

own conscience, however flawed.

This is best for all my people.

Vedoc jerked on the conduit, pulling it out just

far enough to loosen the connection without actually severing the

current. Repeated power surges to the activated

forward shield would eventually blow the two sections

apart.

Springing to his feet, Vedoc reshelved the

wrench. Then, with three long strides he covered

the distance to the photon torpedo console. That was where

Etrajan found him a few moments later.

"Don't touch anything," said the crewman with a

dour scowl.

"I am yours to command," replied Vedoc with a

sweeping bow that hid the sweat beading on his face.

As he took his place by Etrajan's side,

Vedoc allowed himself to briefly reflect over

what he had just done.

The Ko N'ya would remain with the Enterprise.

From what he had read of the blood-drenched lore

of the stone, the Federation would have little cause to thank

him for that bequest.

Keyda Chandat searched the night sky for a

glimpse of the starship that circled high

above his planet. Starfleet might consider the

Miranda-class USS Sullivan to be little more

than a scoutship, but the warp-powered saucer was far

more impressive than any spacecraft known to the

inhabitants of Dynasia.

"There, Warden," said the Federation

ambassador, pointing a finger to direct him.

"Yes, I see it." But that was a lie; all

Chandat could see were stars. He pulled his gaze

back to the ground before one of his aides returned and

caught him with his face upturned like a foolish child

dreaming of the lost grandeurs of Iconia.

As they continued their stroll through the garden, he

stared fixedly at the plants bordering the path they

followed. Perhaps the beauty of the flowering aurelia

would ward off the temptation of another glance

upward. "Like all my people, I was expected

to master some aspect of the ancient texts. My

specialty was Flight Engineering, and I yearned

to someday touch the wonders my Iconian

ancestors had designed. When I finally faced

the impossibility of that desire, the schematics

of their starships flattened into mere lines on a

page ... and I decided to become a

bureaucrat instead of a scientist." His fingers

brushed against the metallic disk dangling from a

thick-linked gold chain around his neck. "Of

course, I never expected the yoke of this office

would become so heavy as it has this year."

"If the Dynasian Faculty chooses

to pursue admission, your children will walk the decks

of our starships. They m ay even command them."

Ambassador Tommas was quite adept at

promoting the Federation agenda.

"A more likely scenario is that my children will die

in civil war first," said Chandat. His legs were

cramped after hours of sitting in council, and though

he was tired, it felt good to finally move

freely. "Regardless of what decision the

Faculty government reaches, there will be an

opposing faction enraged by the outcome. If

conservative forces prevail, we must resort

to mass executions to repress the native

insurgents; if the admission factions win, our

central authority will disintegrate and anarchy will

reign in its place. You have unleashed a storm that

will tear my world to pieces, yet you will not commit

military forces--"

"Warden, our Prime Directive--"

"Yes, I know all about your Prime

Directive of noninterference," he said

bitterly. "Having shattered our political

unity, you will step back and watch us writhe in our

death throes."

"That is unfair." A dark color flooded

over the ambassador's pale cheeks; Chandat

wondered what Human emotion that signified.

"Dean Shagret's request for admission to the

Federation constituted a formal invitation to open

negotiations."

"He did not have the authority to issue that

request!"

"Just the means," sighed Tommas. "You can

hardly blame us for his duplicity."

"No, Ambassador, I do not. My

weariness is speaking louder than my reason."

In truth, Shagret's treason had been

cleverly executed. A lifetime of exemplary

administrative service had gained the man the

coveted post of Dean of Communications and thus the

means to send a message directly to the Federation

Council. Who would have suspected that a highly

placed conservative professor harbored

radical insurgent sympathies?

Chandat twirled around, alarmed by the sound of

someone running up behind them. In the last week,

native partisans had gained access to halls and

libraries, areas once thought beyond their reach, but

surely not to the Faculty garden as well?

To his relief, the boy who approached was a

trusted aide. Or could anyone be trusted in these

dark times?

"Warden," called out the boy. "The Faculty

Council is ready to resume the debate."

Having delivered this message, he darted

back down the path. So, fear of terrorist

attacks had spread to the students as well.

"May I meet with you again after this session?" the

ambassador asked as they strolled back toward

the flying buttresses of the Athenaeum.

"No," said Chandat, though he longed to say

otherwise. "Not until the Faculty has reached

a consensus." He had enjoyed these audiences with

Tommas too much; his longing to touch lost wonders

was resurfacing, clouding his judgment and his

objectivity.

Or am I gaining new perspectives?

The warden mused upon this conflict of interests as

he pushed his way through the crowd of professors and

students that were milling by the entrance to the

council chamber.

Inside, he found that the debate had resumed

without him.

"Traitors! Admission to the Federation will

completely undermine our authority and our

financial base on this planet."

The last of the straggling Faculty members

rushed into the room to hear the Dean of

Architecture berate her opponents. As

warden, Chandat was responsible for maintaining

order, but he decided the attempt to exercise

control would only inflame tempers further. He

would let Thorina rave a while longer.

"All that the Dynasian natives possess,

we have given them. They were scrabbling in the dirt

when we arrived, and they would be scrabbling there still if

not for our superior technological knowledge."

"That "scrabbling" populace has taken

care of us for a millennia," retorted Shagret

with the smug demeanor of a self-righteous zealot.

His forehead bore the intricate ridges of a noble

family, but he affected the accent of a native.

"They have grown our food, built our

libraries, even bathed our very bodies; in

return, we have doled out scraps of technology

to them like sweet favors to an obedient child. Then

we execute those who would use it without tithing our

coffers."

Thorina dismissed this defense with a contemptuous

wave. "Unfettered development would have

destroyed their culture."

"We have strangled any true development

centuries ago," said Shagret. The warden

noticed with some unease that several more

professors had grouped around him to show

support. "We play games of the mind in soaring

towers but have forgotten how to turn thought into action.

The master plan of the Ancients has fallen

into disuse because it called for the eventual participation

of the planet's natives; the ideals of our

Iconian ancestors have been corrupted

into self-serving exploitation."

"Admission is inevitable," cried out a

junior Faculty member in Physics and the

leader of a growing Pragmatist faction. "If we

vote in favor of joining the Federation, we can then

control the population's access to new sources of

knowledge."

"Your na@ivet`e is stunning," sniped

Thorina. "And very dangerous."

The one native professor on the

Faculty, little more than a token until now,

stood up to speak. Oomalo's scales glistened

with the iridescence of anger. "If you deny us this

opportunity for advancement, my people have vowed

to return to "scrabbling in the dirt," only

this time you will have to scrabble along with us for your living.

Without our labor, your fine libraries will rot and

your stomachs will go empty."

The hall erupted into chaos. Chandat's calls

for order were drowned out as the cries of outrage from

those who feared the natives mixed with the cries of

indignation from those who championed their cause.

What warden in the history of the Dynasians could

forge a consensus from such divergent convictions? He

fell silent rather than add his own voice to the

tumult.

As the uproar continued unabated, a hand fell

on his shoulder, and Chandat looked up to find his

secretary bending down to whisper in his ear.

"Warden," said the man as he pushed a document

into Chandat's hand. "I bring an urgent memo from

Professor Manja."

"Manja? By the Three Gates, not now!"

scolded Chandat. Under the circumstances, the

doddering scholar's plaintive requests for

increased funding were especially ill-timed;

Iconian Literature was not a priority for this

Faculty at the best of times.

"Read it, Warden!" said Ganin with an

urgency that startled Chandat into compliance.

He read the message. Then he read it again.

As a man of science, the warden had never

believed in miracles, but the words before him were like the

answers to a prayer. There was no time to confirm the

veracity of such an outrageous claim, but true

or not, it would serve his immediate purpose.

Rising from his seat, the warden waved for silence.

When he finally had gained the unruly

Faculty's attention, he read them a

judiciously edited version of Manja's

report.

It was met with stunned silence. For once, the

assembly of professors had nothing to say.

Chandat took shameless advantage of their

confusion.

"This Ko N'ya is the very Gem which Kanda

Jiak used to operate the Gateway from Iconia

to our world--we must act now to seize it from those who

do not suspect its powers. With the Gem in

our possession once again, we can regain the

heights scaled by our Iconian forebearers; the

planets of the Federation will come begging to us for a

superior technology beyond their understanding; and all

the people of Dynasia will share in wealth beyond

imagining."

Every face in the hall was turned toward him with

eyes that burned with patriotic fervor.

Warden Chandat rejoiced. He had restored unity

to his world after all.

END OF VOLUME II

THE DEVIL'S HEART

by

Carmen Carter

Volume III of Three Volumes

Pages i-ii and 345-515

For special distribution as authorized by Act of

Congress under Public Law 89-522, andwiththe

permission of the copyright holder.

Produced in braille for the Library of Congress,

National Library Service for the Blind and

Physically Handicapped, by Braille International,

Inc., 1996.

Copyright 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All

Rights Reserved.

THE DEVIL'S HEART

CHAPTER 23

"T'Sara."

No ... do not wake me anymore ... I

am so tired.

"T'Sara."

She opened her eyes, but the man who had

called her out of the healing trance was not Sorren. Of

course he was not Sorren; Sorren was dead.

And I am dying even now.

The cool air of the Collector's chamber

made her shiver for the first time. She rubbed her hands

together for warmth, then stopped suddenly and looked

down at her palms.

Her hands were empty.

"I have it now," said the stranger kneeling before

her, and she saw that the stone was sheltered in his

large, muscular hands.

"If I no longer hold the Ko N'ya,"

said T'Sara, "then this must be your dream, young

man."

He had the lean, sharp look of a Vulcan

until he smiled at her words. "It has been

many years since I've been called a young

man."

"Your hair may have turned white, but you will

never grow so old as I am now," she said

simply, and he met her statement with a gentle

nod of acceptance. Humans were short-lived

compared to her own people, but this one seemed to have made more

of his brief moment than others of his race. "Why

do you call me?"

"I am trying to unravel the path of the Ko

N'ya, T'Sara. It began at the Guardian

of Forever, but I don't know how it left there or

where it is going. Or even why it travels."

"Greedy Human," she sighed. "Not even I

could live long enough to answer all of those questions ...

but I a lmost touched the truth of Where."

"Almost?"

"In one of my last visions I saw the next

step in its journey; not the end of its quest, but

possibly the end of its dealings with our affairs."

"Tell me, T'Sara!" he pleaded with an

urgency that saddened her.

She pointed to the wizened body of the

Collector, who crouched above them.

"Halaylah learned the ways of the stone better

than anyone, but when she saw that same

vision, she walled herself up alive rather than let

the Ko N'ya fulfill its destiny."

"I am not the Collector; I wish to find a

way to continue what you--"

"No!" she cried out. Her waning strength was not

sufficient to suppress her anguish. "Do not

lay the burden of your actions on me. I have too

much to answer for already."

""I will not give it to any living being,"" he

recited slowly. "I remember, those were your

words."

"And Surak's. As a child he was far wiser

than I could ever hope to be. He released the

stone before it could tempt him beyond the limits of

self-control; I thought I could do the same, but

I waited too long. You have waited too long as

well."

The man shook his head as if angered by what he

heard. "It is not evil, T'Sara."

"No, not evil. Just dangerous." There was not

much time left to her, she realized. On the other

side of this dream, death was waiting. "The Ko

N'ya is not of our world; its powers were meant for

other purposes. It constantly struggles to free

itself from the tangle of our grasping hands."

Overcome by weakness, her head fell back

against the wall. Must the knot untie so

soon?

"No, T'Sara!" he cried. "I need to know

where!"

She extended an arm up toward his head, her

fingers searching for the contact points on his temple.

The man stiffened but did not resist her; he had

mind-melded before.

She reached inward.

When their thoughts were one, she showed him the place

the constellation of stars and the speeding messenger that

waited for the Ko N'ya.

There!

Her arm dropped down, breaking the link. The

fingers of her hand flexed, then clenched like steel

clamps around the cloth of his shirt. With the last of

her strength, she pulled him so close he could

feel her dry breath on his face as she

whispered, "Remember this about the Ko N'ya ...

the blood never stops flowing."

Picard stumbled out of the shadows of the

Collector's chamber into the ruined plaza

surrounding the fallen tower.

Staring up into the night sky, he tried to make

sense of the stars. They were all wrong, and it was so very

important that they be right. He reached out his hands

to move them into their proper positions, to arrange

them according to the image T'Sara had revealed to him

...

... but his fingers hit against the transparent

barrier of an angled ceiling window.

He was standing in the middle of his cabin.

Despite this abrupt awakening, his sense of

urgency remained somehow he must fix the stars in

their place. Stepping over to his desk, Picard

snatched up a data padd and stylus and began

to sketch a series of small circles. Even as

the meaning of what he drew faded out of his understanding,

he fought to preserve the image that lingered in his

mind's eye.

His hand finally stopped, but he knew he was not quite

finished. There was still something missing, an element that

had given this scene a distinctive configuration.

Not another star ...

... a comet.

He drew a flurry of lines to mark the

comet's streaming tail, and the sketch was complete.

With the padd gripped tightly in one hand,

Picard walked back to the threshold of his

bedroom. If the Heart had come to life during the

night, he had missed its shimmering display. He

could barely make out its rounded silhouette on a

low table by his bed.

Picard whispered into the shadows, "If I am

to take you to this place, I must know why."

CHAPTER 24

The bridge was always quiet during the night

shift.

Too quiet, as far as Riker was concerned.

Although a full crew complement was posted at all

the duty stations, the men and women talked in low

voices and went about their work with a more subdued

manner than their day-shift counterparts. The hushed

atmosphere made Riker feel uncomfortably

self-conscious. He was a large man who was

accustomed to moving freely and taking up space;

any attempt to rein in his body robbed him of

composure.

During the day, Riker would have sprawled in the

captain's chair and called out for any information he

wanted, and he would have conducted discussions

across the length of the bridge. During the night,

however, he felt constrained by the lull around him and

chose to walk from station to station to gather reports.

The first officer even shortened his stride as he

walked up a side ramp to the tactical station

on the aft deck, but his boots still thumped too

heavily.

"Status, Lieutenant?" Riker asked in a

voice that was too loud.

"Shields raised; energy reserves holding

steady at ninety-five percent," said Worf.

His voice was deeper than Riker's, yet it

seemed to travel less far. "Sensor scans do

not reveal pursuit by any kind of vessel."

"So the captain's decoy plan doesn't

appear to be working. That's assuming someone really

did attack Starbase 193."

To Riker's consternation, Worf's eyes narrowed

to baleful slits. By nature, Klingons were

fiercely loyal to their commanding officer, but Worf

was especially sensitive to any implied

criticism of Captain Picard. "Do not forget

the report of Romulan incursion into Federation

space."

"An unconfirmed sighting of a warbird, with

no indication of where it might be headed ..." The

first officer shrugged. "Well, I suppose it's

possible."

"We must remain vigilant."

"Absolutely," said Riker. Fortunately,

this display of enthusiasm seemed to appease Worf

sufficiently to ease the belligerent expression

off his face. "Carry on, Lieutenant."

Riker had just turned away to continue his tour

around the bridge when he heard the telltale

trill of an incoming message registering on the

communications console. He waited for the security

chief's explanation before taking another step.

"Commander, we are receiving a scrambled

transmission ..." Worf scanned the signal

packet information, "... from Commander Miyakawa,

currently aboard the Portsmouth."

"Well it's about time!" All across the

bridge, heads snapped around at the sound of

Riker's cry, but he no longer cared whether he

was conspicuous or not.

"Unscrambling in progress."

Moving to Worf's side, Riker eagerly

read the text as it scrolled across a small

window.

Even before he had finished reading all of

Miyakawa's account, the first officer reached for his

comm link. "Captain Picard to the bridge."

Then Riker turned to the security chief and,

taking a deep breath, said, "Raise shields

... and go to yellow alert."

The tranquillity of the night shift was shattered

as amber panels of light throbbed on and off and

sirens whooped to life. Complacent crewmembers

jumped to attention or scurried to secure their

stations, and Riker knew that a thousand sleeping people

throughout the decks of the starship had just been rudely

awakened.

We have become a magnet for trouble.

The captain's ominous words echoed in Riker's

mind. With hands gripping the aft deck rail, he

leaned forward to stare at the main viewscreen.

One cubic meter of space looked very much like

another, but somewhere in that tenuous soup of interstellar

gases was a cloaked Romulan warbird, an

invisible raptor in search of an all too

visible prey.

Deanna Troi struggled to stifle a yawn,

but fortunately the ensign sitting across from her was

too absorbed in his own misery to notice her

momentary lapse of attention. He was hunched

forward on the edge of the sofa, staring down at the

carpet as he spilled out the details of a failed

romance.

"How can I continue living when I've lost the

one person that gave my existence meaning?"

His roommate had been sufficiently alarmed

by this sentiment to roust the empath out of her bed in the

middle of the night for a counseling session. However,

Troi had quickly sensed that Asadourian was not

truly suicidal, merely histrionic. Perhaps

she would pass his name on to Beverly Crusher so he

could indulge his flair for melodrama on the

stage of the ship's theater.

Certain that the ensign had unburdened himself of the

worst of his grievances against his former true love,

the counselor gently urged him to return to his

cabin.

"You'll feel better in the morning," she

assured him as they walked out of her office. She

could tell that he didn't believe her, but then

lovesick young men never did.

As Troi strolled down the quiet

corridors of the ship, she admitted to a

slightly wistful envy of Asadourian's

passion; it was incredibly disruptive, yet so much

fun, to fall madly in love. Many years ago,

she herself had experienced a considerable amount of

emotional turmoil in connection with a certain

tall, dark Starfleet officer.

"And stay out of trouble until that heals!"

Picking up her pace at the sound of the

familiar voice, Troi turned a corner in

time to catch a fleeting glimpse of red and blue

as Beverly Crusher ducked back into sickbay.

Ensign Brengle, the recipient of the doctor's

commandment, was limping away down the corridor.

On the spur of the moment, Troi decided

to take a short detour. After all, as long as

she was awake, she could attend to certain frictions

between the captain and his chief medical officer.

The outer ward of sickbay was empty of

patients, but several nurses were clearing the area

of used medical supplies, and Crusher was standing

in the middle of the room frowning at the data padd

in her hand.

"Busy night?" asked Troi.

"You could say that," said Crusher, with a weary

sigh. "No major emergencies, just a steady

stream of minor injuries from freak accidents. For

instance, did you know there's a holodeck scenario

for riding dinosaurs?"

"That sounds like one of Wesley's ideas."

"Probably," said the doctor.

"But surely he wouldn't construct a dangerous

program?"

With a shake of her head, Crusher said, "Oh,

not even Marte blamed the computer for her accident.

The fail-safe parameters can protect you from being

trampled on by an allosaurus, but they can't

stop you from tripping over a Jurassic vine and

twisting your ankle."

"Interesting setting, but I think I'll stick

to more modern sports." Troi assumed her best

pretense of nonchalance to ask, "When is your

shift over?"

Crusher scratched a quick note on the tablet,

then handed it to one of the departing nurses. "Right

now."

They were finally alone, which gave Troi the

opportunity to ask her next question. "So are you

going to have breakfast with the captain this morning?"

"No," said Crusher emphatically. "In

fact, I have no intention of meeting the

captain for any meal whatsoever in the foreseeable

future."

"I see," said Troi. "He hasn't

apologized for your broken dinner engagement."

"He hasn't even remembered that we made

plans."

"Even so, I wish you would make a point

to meet with him soon." Troi held up a hand

to forestall an indignant protest. "He

doesn't seem to be sleeping well lately."

"Maybe he has a guilty conscience."

"Actually, Beverly," said the counselor,

"I'm getting a little worried about him, and so is

W. The captain's interest in the Heart has

become so intense that I'm inclined to term it an

obsession."

"Are you serious?" Crusher folded her arms

over her chest in an unconscious gesture of

distrust.

"I am very serious." Fortunately, she was able

to say this with complete sincerity. "I'm not ready

to request a formal medical exam, but I'd like

your professional opinion on his condition."

"Off the record?"

"Yes."

"All right, Deanna." Crusher unlocked

her arms and shoved her hands deep into her coat

pockets. "You win. I'll stop by the captain's

cabin this--"

Her last words were drowned out by the intrusive

wail of yellow alert sirens.

So much for that clever plan, thought Deanna

ruefully. And so much for any more rest that night.

The fact that Data did not sleep was

well-known throughout the ship, so it was not unusual

for the android to have visitors at any time of day or

night. Both Geordi La Forge and Miles

O'Brien were in the habit of stopping by Data's

cabin if they had worked late and were in the mood for

company.

Captain Picard, however, was not known for making

impromptu visits; yet, there he stood in the

hall just outside the android's quarters, fingers

rapping impatiently on the back of a data

padd.

"Come in, sir," said Data, stepping back

from the threshold to let his commanding officer enter.

Picard advanced a few feet into the room, just

enough to allow the doors to close behind his

back. "I need your assistance, Data."

"Certainly, Captain. I--" The android

stopped in mid-sentence to peer down at the tablet that

Picard had thrust into his hands. After a brief

study of the crude graphic on the screen,

Data ventured a hypothesis. "These circles

represent stars?"

"Yes, of course they're stars. This is a

map of a particular location that ... well, that is

important for me to identify. So, I need you

to ascertain the coordinates of this site."

Data slowly rotated the padd. "A

two-dimensional representation of

three-dimensional spatial arrangements is

insufficient for this task. I will need a reference

point of some kind."

"There isn't one," said the captain with an

impatient shake of his head. "Except for the

comet."

"Captain, comets are extremely common.

To date, the Federation registry lists

approximately--"

"I'm well aware of the difficulties, Mr.

Data. However, it is imperative that you

establish just where this spot," Picard tapped

emphatically in the center of the map, "can be found."

"I will do my best." The placement of the

circles formed a distinctive pattern. Data

blinked in an involuntary reaction to the activation

of his neural subprocessors and confirmed that the

arrangement of stars was not a constellation that he could

immediately match with any images stored in his

memory. "But this could take a very long time. On

the order of several weeks, if not months."

Picard frowned his disapproval of the estimate.

Snatching the padd out of Data's grasp, the

captain stared down at the sketch. "If only

I could remember ..." His eyes closed. His

fingers traced over the figures he had drawn.

Data waited patiently.

"We were with the Collector ... the vision was

given to her ..." Picard's eyes flew open.

"Presume that this is a constellation that can be seen from

the surface of Atropos if you were standing in the

plaza where you found T'Sara's body."

"Thank you," said Data. "That specification

should provide adequate information to narrow my

search parameters."

"Fine, fine, just let me know as soon--"

"Captain Picard to the

bridge."

Before Picard could answer Riker's hail,

yellow alert sirens signaled a significant

change in the ship's status.

"Our adversary has surfaced," said

Picard, and Data noted the look of triumph

that lit his face, if only for a moment. Flinging

aside the data padd that had absorbed his

attention until now, Picard spun on his heel

and marched out of the cabin.

Data advanced through the doorway in the

captain's wake, then came to a sudden halt just

in time to avoid a collision. Picard had stopped

in the middle of the corridor; he was poised for

movement, yet hesitated as if unsure of which

direction he should take.

"Captain?"

"I left something in my cabin ..." said

Picard, looking back over his shoulder. The

flashing alert lights seemed to highlight the

hollows beneath his eyes. "... but it will have to wait

until later. There really isn't time."

Despite the declarative form, Data sensed

an implied question in the captain's statement.

"No, it does not appear that there is any margin

for delay."

Picard bolted into motion again. "Then what are

you waiting for?" he called out as he raced down the

corridor.

Data scrambled to catch up.

Mission briefings were usually held in the

sequestered comfort of the observation lounge, but

by unspoken agreement, Riker conducted this session

in the command center of the bridge. Tonight, the time

to move from one room of the ship to another was a

luxury they could not afford.

The first officer leaned forward, hands planted on

his knees, as he related his knowledge of the approaching

danger to the captain and Data; Worf loomed

above the seated group from his aerie on the aft

deck.

"According to Commander Miyakawa's account," said

Riker, "the warbird was still circling Starbase

193 when we broadcast the distress message

to the Portsmouth. The Romulans cloaked

moments later, and presumably departed the area

on an intercept course with the Enterprise."

Data canted his head to one side as his

positronic brain incorporated time and

distance into his calculations. "If that is the

case, I estimate that the warbird could approach

firing range of the Enterprise within seventeen

minutes."

"That's too close for comfort," said Riker with

an involuntary glance at the main viewscreen.

"Bear in mind, Commander, that this conjecture is

based on a theoretical performance rate of one

hundred percent. Depending on the degree of

efficiency of the ship and its crew, actual

values will fall short of that figure."

"For safety's sake," said Picard, "let

us presume they are very efficient. Helm,

increase speed to warp nine."

"Aye, sir." The android swiveled his

console chair back into a forward position as he

implemented the captain's directive. Somewhere

down in engineering, Geordi had anticipated this

demand because the warp engines immediately purred into high

speed.

Picard called up to the aft deck next.

"Lieutenant Worf, reduce power

expenditures throughout the ship and channel all

available energy to the deflector shields."

Pitching his voice low, so only the captain

could hear him, Riker asked, "Do you think we can

outrun them, sir?"

"Probably not," said Picard. "They have too

great a lead already. However, cloaking devices

are a heavy drain on a warbird's resources,

so we can make them pay a high price for this

pursuit. If they stay invisible, they will drain

their weaponry system."

"And if they drop the cloaking field, we have

a target we can see."

"Exactly, Number One." Picard rubbed

a hand over his face, as if to wipe away

fatigue, then fixed his gaze on the

viewscreen. "The rest is a waiting game."

At close quarters, Riker could hear a

faint rasp in the captain's voice. Picard's

eyes were rimmed with red, another sign that he

hadn't gotten much rest tonight; but then, if he had

been asleep in his cabin when yellow alert

sounded, his arrival to the bridge would have been

delayed by at least a few more minutes. No,

Riker suspected the captain had already been

awake when he received the call to duty.

"Captain," rumbled Worf. "Long-range

sensors detect an approaching

vessel ... intercept in fifteen seconds."

"Go to red alert, Lieutenant," said Picard

grimly, and in an instant the bridge was bathed in

red light.

Riker shook his head in disbelief. "If it's

the Romulans, they're well ahead of

schedule."

"It appears I was in error," said Data,

looking back over his shoulder. Riker hadn't

intended to slight his estimate, but the android

evidently felt the need to justify his

miscalculation. "Apparently they have sacrificed

the stealth afforded by a cloaking device for speed and

strength of arms."

"Closing at five hundred thousa nd

kilometers ..." warned Worf.

Riker saw Picard nod to himself, a sign he

had chosen his strategy for the coming conflict.

"On my signal," said the captain, "go

to quarter-impulse speed. With luck, they'll

overshoot us by a decade."

"Four hundred thousand kilometers ... three

hundred thousand ..."

"Now!" said Picard.

The Enterprise's sudden drop out of high

warp drive sent a shudder rippling through the saucer

hull. On the main viewscreen, Riker could

see the warbird flashing past, but too slowly for

warp speed. "Dammit! They've

second-guessed us."

"But at full-impulse speed, they still

overshot," said Picard. They watched the

Romulan ship as it circled back to confront

them. "It gives us a few extra seconds."

"Phasers locking on target," announced

Worf.

"Fire at will, Lieutenant."

Riker gripped the arms of his command chair in

anticipation of the coming assault.

The Klingon unleashed a barrage from the

phasers, but the warbird charged straight through the

curtain of fire. Then, as the ships closed, the

space between them burned with a dazzling crisscross

of energy beams. The bridge rocked as the

starship's shields absorbed a series of blows.

"Evasive maneuvers," ordered Picard.

The Enterprise responded with quicksilver

movements under the helm's control, yet the

Romulan pilot was equally adept. The two

ships twirled through space, paired like

dancers who never pulled too far apart.

Warbirds were not known for their grace, but this ship was

different, realized Riker, and the difference could be

deadly.

"Deflector power down to fifty-seven

percent," called out Ensign Taylor from the aft

deck.

Again and again, Riker was tossed and shaken as the

Romulan phasers pounded against the starship's

shields. Worf scored as many hits on the

warbird, but only a scattered few actually

touched the warbird's hull.

"Minor damage to their starboard wing," said the

Klingon.

However, his announcement was quickly followed

by another damage report from the ensign.

"Shield failure imminent in Engineering,

Sector 52."

"Auxiliary power supplies are almost

depleted." Geordi's intercom voice

barely cut through the battle's thunder. "We

can't increase shield strength without compromising

life support."

"Shields gone on Primary Hull,

Sector 36."

As the damage reports flooded in from all

decks, Riker saw a pattern emerge. The

ship was being attacked in noncritical areas where

the deflector shielding was most vulnerable to strong

blows.

"What are they doing?" cried Riker. "Taking

us apart bolt by bolt?"

"They're trying to cripple us," said Picard,

"so they can recover the Heart intact."

The Enterprise was rocked by yet another

hit. Worf's counter charge hit the attacker

broadside, but its main shields were still holding.

Although warbirds were the most formidable vessels of

their class, built solely for combat, the

Enterprise should have proved to be a strong

opponent. However, this particular Romulan ship

was tougher than most.

"Hull breach on Deck 38!"

"Shield failure imminent in Engineering,

Sector 59."

"We could use a miracle right about now," said

Riker through gritted teeth.

"If we cannot win this battle," said Picard,

"then we must lose it completely; the Romulans

must never be allowed to gain possession of the

Heart." Drawing a deep breath, he said,

"Number One, prepare for initiation of a

self-destruct--"

"Captain," called out Data. "Sensors

detect a gap in their deflectors ... a

forward shield has collapsed."

Riker jumped to his feet. "Worf! Aim

for that--"

But the Klingon needed no urging. With the swift

instincts of a born warrior, he had already seized

the advantage.

A single arrow of phaser fire flew straight

through the chink in the Romulan ship's defenses and

drilled a white hot hole through its hull to the

center of the warp drive engines.

"Got them!" exclaimed the security chief with

an intimidating display of pointed teeth.

The warbird shuddered, then bucked, as a chain

reaction of internal explosions ripped through the

length of its frame. A spidery web of

cracks radiated across its hull and licking

flames laced with roiling black smoke streamed

from the breaches.

"You were saying, Captain?" asked Riker.

"I can't recall." Picard rose to stand beside

his first officer. As they stared at the ruined carcass

of their defeated enemy, he said, "You're the one

who asked for a miracle, Number One."

"I'll just have to remember to ask sooner, next

time." And yet Riker couldn't help wondering if

any of the dead soldiers that once walked the

decks of the warbird had also prayed, in vain, for a

miracle.

CHAPTER 25

Beverly Crusher was the last of the senior

officers to slip into place around the conference table but

the first to be fixed with Picard's intense questioning

gaze.

"Doctor?"

Although she had brought a medical padd with her,

the report it contained was still fresh in her mind.

She recited the statistics to a somber audience.

"Reports of minor injuries are still filtering

in from all decks, but the current count of notable

casualties is thirty-five. Intensive care

has two crewmen who are in critical condition

and another five in serious condition; twelve

patients are in the general sickbay

ward; the rest have been released after treatment."

Fighting against a feeling of defeat, she finished

with, "There were three fatalities."

This last statement keyed the tension in the

captain's shoulders even tighter, but he made

no comment beyond a curt nod of acknowledgment.

Picard turned to Geordi La Forge next.

"Maintenance teams have repaired the hull

breach," said the engineer, "and Deck 38 is already

repressurized, but we've uncovered serious

damage to several starboard deflector shield

amplifiers and at least two gravity field

generators."

Crusher half-listened to Geordi's unfolding

report, but her attention was focused mainly on

Picard. Troi's concern had been well-founded;

it was difficult to assess the captain's condition

from across the length of the conference table, but what she could

see from here was disturbing.

At first glance, even as she had entered the

room, Crusher had been struck by the haggard

look of his face. Picard was a lean man at the

best of times, but now the bones of his skull were far

too prominent, and the skin that covered them was pale

and stretched taut. From previous experience, the

doctor knew that prolonged stress had a

tendency to melt flesh off his frame, but she had

never seen him develop a nervous tic before.

Yet she noted that Picard's hands were in constant

subtle motion, with fingers twitching or tracing

patterns on the surface of the table.

Crusher waited until the round of reports

had concluded and the other officers were filing out of the

room before she approached the captain. Picard was

still sitting at the head of the table, fingers drumming a

repetitive rhythm, but he had turned to face

the window. His eyes were flitting from side to side

as he scanned the vista of stars. She wondered

what he was looking for.

"Captain."

His head jerked up, as if pulled against his will.

"Yes, Doctor?" His query was clipped with

impatience.

One look at the stubborn set of his jaw, and

Crusher realized that gentle persuasion would only

waste her breath. "You look like death warmed over.

My medical recommendation is that you get some

rest, immediately."

As she expected, he shook his head. "In

light of Mr. La Forge's damage

reports, Doctor, I don't have the luxury

of abandoning my duties to satisfy your whims.

Please direct your excess medical passion

to the patients in intensive care."

Crusher drew a sharp breath, stung by the

cutting remark. Yet she also recognized that

Picard's bristling anger was probably just

another symptom of his exhaustion. Before she could

frame a tactful reply, the doctor felt

someone brush against her arm; Riker had stepped

back from the doorway to stand beside her.

"Captain," said the first officer with an affable

grin. "I don't think a quick nap could be construed

as abandoning your duties. In fact, this would be a

good opportunity to take a break so you'll be

refreshed by the time Geordi has a new status

report."

Crusher rushed in before Picard could debate this

point. "And if you've been having trouble

sleeping, I can prescribe appropriate

medication." This was the obvious recommendation under the

circumstances, yet she knew that Picard would

perceive this suggestion as a veiled threat.

The captain shifted his glance from her over

to Riker, then back again to her. Rising from his

chair, Picard said, "No drugs will be necessary,

Doctor. I will go to my cabin without further

protest."

"Very sensible," she said, with what she hoped was a

lighter tone, but Picard's stoic reserve did

not soften. He stalked from the room without uttering

another word.

Crusher turned to the first officer. The grin on

his face had faded away. "How long has he

been this way, Will?"

"He's grown noticeably worse in the last

day," said Riker. "But I think the trouble started

when he took possession of the Heart."

Crusher sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that.

Unfortunately, this is one condition I don't

know how to treat."

Picard stripped off his uniform jacket and

tossed it aside. This would be his one concession

to comfort for tonight. Doctor Crusher could order him

to his cabin, but now that he was in the privacy of his

own quarters, he had no intention of following her

instructions any further.

Sleep was out of the question. Even closing his eyes

was asking too much when reminders of disaster

continued to mock him at every turn. After leaving the

conference room, he had walked through smoke-filled

corridors and listened to the crackling exchanges

of repair crews on the intercom; the deck had

lurched several times as a gravity stabilizer

weakened, then failed; and now, Picard could see the

blackened hulk of the Romulan warbird drifting

in space just outside his cabin window.

Perhaps Counselor Troi would argue that it was

symbolic of his success in defeating an enemy.

She would remind him that not all conflicts could be

resolved peacefully and that sometimes even the right

decisions could not lead to triumph against overwhelming

odds. To him, however, the wreckage was a reminder

of his failure to protect his own ship.

The Enterprise was crippled, stranded far

outside Federation territory, and he alone was

responsible for this situation.

His glance dropped down to the Heart, a crude

centerpiece for the elegant glass-topped table that

held it.

What if this quest for the Heart's destination was a

fantasy created within his own mind? If that was the

case, the entire starship crew would pay the

price for his self-delusion. On the other hand,

what if the Heart could help pull the

Enterprise out of this predicament?

You have waited too long ...

T'Sara had advised him to give up the stone,

or at least to stop making use of its powers.

Yet, so far he had only taken part in the

dreams. Surely there was no harm in that? And perhaps

the dreams could show him the way to safety.

He stooped to pick up the Heart, his hands

eagerly closing around its familiar shape. If

there was even a chance of that being true, he must take

the risk.

With measured steps and grim determination,

Picard carried the stone into his bedroom. He

placed it at the head of his bed, then slipped beneath

the covers without bothering to undress.

Closing his eyes, he waited impatiently for

that night's dream to claim him ...

The morning sun was still low in the Delula sky,

but he could feel sweat beading on the back of his

neck. He shivered, chilled by a cool breeze

brushing over damp skin, and rubbed his hands dry

on the front of his thin shirt. There was nothing he

could do to quell the fluttering emptiness in

his stomach. He told himself the ache was hunger, but

the very thought of food brought a rush of bile up his

throat. He swallowed it down and fought against the

impulse to gag.

"Nervous, Picard?" Chiang's inquiry

sounded sympathetic, but his mouth curled ever so

slightly at one corner. His body was solid,

thicker than Picard's wiry form; his blue

shorts and shirt were crisp and dry.

"No, I'm not nervous." The hoarseness of his

reply betrayed the raw burn in the back of his

throat.

"No, of course not. After all, you're going

to win this race." Chiang's smile deepened into a

sneer as he tossed a white towel into the air.

"Here, before you flood the field."

Picard lunged forward to catch the towel before it

could fall to the ground, a certain offense for a lowly

first-year cadet. By the time he straightened up

again, Chiang was walking back to a tight knot of

upperclassmen gathered by the field house.

"Damn you," Picard muttered softly under his

breath, but he took no pleasure in the curse.

He cast a furtive glance at the cadets around

him, wondering how many had noticed the exchange and

understood its significance. They seemed intent

on their own business Drager and T'Soron were

on the grass, arms and legs waving gracefully

back and forth as they stretched hamstrings and

triceps; Miyakawa was knotting her hair

into an intricate braid that would keep her long

black tresses out of her face; and Gareth was

fastening and refastening his shoes for the perfect fit that

always eluded him.

"Too tight this time?"

The young Andorian looked up from his task.

"Too loose," he corrected and cast his gaze

quickly downward again. It was the shortest conversation

they had ever had; usually Gareth was tediously

chatty.

Picard felt himself flush with shame, and the wave

of warmth drove more beads of sweat out of his skin.

So, Gareth had heard.

Everyone at the Academy had probably

heard.

He mopped his face and neck with Chiang's

towel and raked back a wayward curl of hair.

Well, there was no help for it now. The boast had

been made and was beyond recall.

He heard the crunching tread of

boots on grass coming up behind him, and his

muscles tensed and tightened, counteracting the

effects of his recent warm-up.

"Jean-Luc."

"Oh, hello, Walker." He continued to dry

himself off, rubbing first at one arm then another,

careful not to turn and look his friend in the face.

Walker Keel lacked flair, some cadets

even implied he lacked the fire necessary for command,

but at this moment Picard would gladly trade all

of his own brash bravado for just an ounce of

Walker's quiet dignity.

"We'll be waiting for you at the finish line."

His hands clenched and twisted the soft cloth into a

knot. "Jack's here, too?"

He caught Walker's nod out of the corner of

his eye. "The crowd is already pretty thick, so

we're taking turns holding our space."

"Actually, I'd rather ... it would be easier

..." Picard couldn't finish, couldn't find the

words to tell them both to go away. Neither of them had

reproached him for his arrogance, for the absolute

lunacy of his drunken outburst, yet facing them

at the end of this race would be as great a trial as

suffering the scorn of the entire Academy for the

remainder of the term. "You know something, Walker?

I talk too much."

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Walker with a

slow smile. He thumped Picard's back with

an open hand, a gesture of both exasperation and

affection, then strolled away, melting into the stream

of spectators rushing to take their places along

the path.

"Starters up!"

Blue-clad figures all across the field

froze in mid-motion at the announcement, then

responded to the call with a leisurely approach

to the broad white line that marked the beginning of the

40k marathon. Picard mimicked their

nonchalance, but his gait felt stiff and

unnatural. He longed for another stretching

session, but there was no time left.

As fifty-three pairs of feet stepped up

to the starting line, he had one last stabbing thought

What if Boothby had heard?

The sharp crack of the starting gun caught him

unprepared. He pushed off last, almost immediately

trailing behind the throng of runners who jostled for

position and pace. He was a front-runner--

he'd always been a front-runner--but his

concentration had flagged during that critical instant

when reflexes triggered muscles into a first burst

of speed. Faced with an unexpected wall of

pumping legs and flailing arms, he faltered again,

then braced himself for a collision with any runners

moving up behind him. He risked a darting

backward glance.

There were no other runners. He was last.

No freshman has ever won the Academy

Marathon ... until now!

Those echoing words--his own foolish words--set

fire to his lagging feet. Enough of this self-pitying

indulgence; he had a long race to run. Shoving

aside despair, he narrowed his mind to the demands

of the moment. The track surface beneath his thin-soled

shoes was firm with a slight texture that provided

traction without gripping for too long. He barely

registered the towering forest trees that lined the first

portion of the winding path, but he welcomed their

cool shade as exertion warmed his body.

For the first two kilometers he worked at

loosening his tight muscles and setting a rhythm

to his breathing. In the process, he passed six

runners out of the fifty-three, counting them off one

by one. By the fifth kilometer he was sufficiently

centered to ignore such petty distractions and his

weaving progress around slower runners was

unconscious, the automatic avoidance of

obstacles.

When he broke out of the forest into bright sunlight

and baking heat, he spied the quarter-marker of the

Delula course. The air was filled with the sounds

of cheers from the waiting crowds, and he had only

to reach out his arm to have a cup of cool water

eagerly thrust into his hand. He drank

greedily of the first offering and reached out again for some more.

A fresh burst of cheers, then another, signaled

the appearance of more runners from the forest track.

At least I'm not last.

The memory of his late start propelled him

ahead even faster, but his breathing remained steady.

Another cup was thrust into his hand, and he poured

its contents over his head before he succumbed to the

temptation to drink too much.

He began to run for the sheer joy of it.

By the time Picard reached the halfway marker,

he had finally passed Gareth and seen Miyakawa

crumple to the ground with a cramp in her calf.

All the other freshmen cadets were running behind him

on the course.

At the three-quarter mark, he approached a

tight knot of five upperclassmen that blocked

his way. He could hear the sound of their breathing,

ragged with the effort of keeping pace with each other.

They were all pushing themselves a little too hard and a little

too fast by their determination to break free from the

pack. Picard swung left and drove himself

forward through a narrow gap on the edge of the path.

He caught a glimpse of faces twisted with

annoyance at the sudden increase in congestion. An

elbow knocked against his side as one of the less

generous runners moved to keep him back in

place. The unwarranted jostling fueled his next

burst of speed.

He was running alone now.

The level path gave way to the rise and

swell of gentle hills. In his training runs

he had fought to keep a steady pace as he worked the

slopes, but now he used the pull of gravity

to gather another sliver of speed as he sped

downward, then pushed to maintain the new pace on

his climb up the next rise. Sweat poured off

him, stinging his eyes with its salty flavor; the

soft cloth of his clothes chafed a gainst damp skin.

The slight tingle in his thigh and calf muscles

would turn to a tremble if he misjudged his

endurance and pushed too hard. He tossed his

head, slinging back the hair plastered to his

forehead, and then threw off the intrusion of

physical discomfort with an equivalent mental

shrug. It was important to feel his body at

work, and that included the pain, but that knowledge must not

distract him from the run.

He crested another hill and spotted a string

of four runners just ahead. Chiang was leading them,

but even as Picard watched, the others were challenging

his position. Telegar, the fastest of the

Andorians, must be the woman in second place.

The other two cadets were probably Dorgath and

Stemon, both favored to win the race and both

pushing the front-runners to exhaust themselves on the

final stretch.

As he sped steadily onward, driving one

foot after the next, his breath heaving in and out of his

chest, a dull background roar sorted itself into the

sound of a cheering crowd, and he realized that there were

throngs of people lining the path up the next slope.

No, not just the next slope. He was

approaching Mount Bonnell, the last hill of the

marathon.

No freshman has ever won the Academy

Marathon ... until now!

Perhaps it hadn't been such an empty boast after

all. Reaching deep inside himself for the last of his

reserves, Picard propelled himself faster down

the slope. The ground leveled beneath his pumping

feet. He passed Dorgath just as the ground

began to rise again. Chiang was ahead, having

fallen back to third place.

Momentum carried him up the first few meters

of the hill without effort. When the weight of the climb

finally hit him, he expected to slow down, but he

was locked into a rhythm and grace of movement that

remained steady and controlled.

Then the terror struck.

It happens here, soon.

It was as if his mind were detaching from his body,

pulling back to observe and comment on the scene.

I've done this before. This run, this dream.

Chiang had been flagging for the past few

minutes. He was easily overtaken.

Oh, god, it's a very bad dream.

Telegar and Stemon remained ahead. As

Picard pulled even with the Andorian, the dread

deepened and clarified.

I stumble. Any step now, I stumble.

He willed himself to wake up, to stop from

reliving the humiliation of that one false step. The

last few minutes of the race stretched out before him

like a rack. How many times had he tortured himself

with these memories?

All the false sympathy, all the pity.

But they were relieved to see me fail. I came

too close to winning.

Now only Stemon remained. He had a

Vulcan's superior muscular strength and

stamina, but the humidity of the Delula

atmosphere clogged his lungs and reduced their

efficiency. If his keen hearing picked up the

sound of Picard's approach, he was still unable

to summon more speed. The gap between them narrowed.

Now? Two steps from now?

Picard tried to brace himself for the sharp jolt that

would signal his loss of footing, but he could no

longer control his body, could hardly even feel

it, and thus he could not avert the disaster about

to happen.

The scenario varied. Sometimes the jarring fall

landed him at Chiang's feet, at other times he

actually took the lead before dropping to the

ground, breath knocked out of his air-starved

lungs, as the four upperclassmen thundered past

him. The countless variations had plagued his sleep

so many times and for so many years that he couldn't

remember when the real fall had actually taken

place. Doubtless any number of his

classmates at the Academy would remember the

true accounting of events.

Even fifth place would have been a cause for

celebration ... if not for my boast.

That was the true misstep. Perhaps his

subconscious had searched for a metaphor

to frame his arrogance. Certainly this was no less

plausible an explanation for tripping on a

smooth path than the imaginary pebble he had

conjured afterward to explain his sudden failure.

His body passed Stemon.

Now. It must come now. I've never gone beyond

this point.

But he crested over the hill and began the

descent at a breakneck speed that would have

tangled his feet if this hadn't been a dream.

Physical sensation returned, and the rush of air

against his outstretched arms felt like the lift of wind

on the wings of a hawk flying through the sky.

The cheering that had sent him up Mount Bonnell

to overtake the other runners was nothing compared to what

met him on this side. He was buffeted by the

clamoring sound of massed voices.

The white ribbon over the finish line rippled

and waved a greeting to him, waiting for his

embrace.

He closed his eyes, too sick with dread

to watch any longer.

No. This is more than I can bear. To lose

when I'm this close ...

Then the ribbon cut across his chest.

Picard woke screaming in the dark. He threw

himself forward to a sitting position, his chest heaving.

His undershirt and pants were drenched with sweat, as were

the sheets wrapped around him like the torn tails

of the ribbon at the finish line.

I won.

He gulped for breath and mopped his face with the

sleeve of his tunic. Sweat was still trickling

down into his eyes; he rubbed his hand over the

smooth scalp of his head.

Of course I won. I only lose the

race in my dreams ... or is it the

other way around?

The two memories battled for predominance in

his mind, shimmering back and forth from one reality to the

other, each remembered with a clarity that was

unsettling.

"Computer ..."

His hoarse whisper was too garbled to activate

the system. Picard cleared his throat and tried

again. "Computer, who won the Starfleet

Academy marathon at Delula II in the

year 2324?"

The whir of access links was followed by the

answer.

"The Academy Marathon of Delula II

was won by Freshman Cadet Jean-Luc

Picard."

Yes. Of course. Had he actually

doubted it?

Throwing back the damp covers, Picard

scrambled out of bed to search for some clean, dry

clothing. His walk through the cabin brought back

another flood of memories. He had

collapsed two steps beyond the finish line, only

to be lifted high into the air by Jack Crusher and

Walker Keel and seemingly every other cadet in the

freshman class. Even Commander Hansen had

been in the crowd that day, taking note, though it would

be years later before the newly promoted

Admiral Hansen would reveal that fact to his

prot@eg`e.

In under two hours, a freshman's arrogant

boast had been miraculously transformed into a

confident prediction, adding another achievement

to his growing reputation as a cadet to be

reckoned with.

Picard opened the top drawer of his dresser and

plunged his hands deep inside, but instead of

pulling out clothes, he removed a small, flat

case. He hadn't opened it in years, hadn't

felt the need. A flick of his thumb triggered the

lid.

The medal was shinier than he had remembered, and

smaller. His fingers traced over the etched words.

It was cold, too.

Yes, of course I won.

Yet he had never taken any pleasure in this

prize, only relief. The close escape from

public humiliation had sharpened his recognition

of the easy arrogance that courted such disasters. He

had always been grateful that this lesson in

humility had remained a private one. The

empty boast wouldn't haunt him for four solid

years, tucked into the sly sneers and whispered

insults of fellow cadets. Chiang had turned

the remainder of that term into a living hell ...

Stop it! I won. The rest was only a

nightmare.

The false memories that followed that fall were

surprisingly sharp. He took a deep shuddering

breath, and they began to fade.

His fingers closed tightly over the metal

disk, its thin edges cutting into his skin. The

medal was real. It was proof.

I won. I must have won. The Heart had

nothing to do with this.

CHAPTER 26

Keyda Chandat was robbed of breath as he

contemplated the beauty of Dynasia as seen from

space. Roiling white clouds ran like liquid

glaze over the polished emerald gem that was his

planet. He had been awed by images of

Iconia in the ancient texts, but he had never

dreamed that this new world was Iconia's equal in

splendor.

"Do you ever grow tired of this sight, Captain

Mycelli?" the warden asked. "Is it now so

commonplace that your people are not moved by such

wonders?"

"No," said the dapper Federation officer. His

eyes were fixed on the bridge's viewscreen as

well. "And I shall resign my commission if it

ever fails to thrill me."

Ambassador Tommas was too clever a

diplomat to miss an opening. "Perhaps continued

visits to this starship will demonstrate some of the

benefits of Federation membership to the

Faculty."

"And I would be delighted to personally conduct a

tour of the USS Sullivan before the council

convenes," said Mycelli, graciously following

her lead.

The warden accepted the offer with a bow. "If

anything can melt the stony hearts of our

conservatives, Captain, it would be your

vessel." The sentiment Chandat had just uttered was

sincere, and therefore doubly disarming. They suspected

nothing.

"Captain," said First Officer

Dier, approaching the trio that stood on the

elevated aft deck. "The Dynasian

delegation reports it is ready for

transport."

"If you will excuse me, Warden," said

Mycelli. "I must go greet our other

guests."

As soon as the captain and his first officer had

departed for the transporter room, Chandat wrenched

his attention away from the viewscreen and turned

to face Tommas. He could not afford to let his

attention wander away from the demands of the unfolding

conspiracy.

"Ambassador, I very much appreciate the

use of this starship's conference facilities. The

entire Faculty recognizes the need for

neutral territory, not to mention that the safety of

these accommodations will ease any tensions raised

by the specter of insurgent attacks."

"So, you are making some progress."

"Of a sort," sighed Chandat. "There is still no

movement toward an agreement over the issue of

admission to the Federation, but I have managed

to reduce the size of the quarrel. By restricting

each Faculty faction to one deputy, the noise

level of our debates has been substantially

reduced."

The ambassador laughed in recognition of the

value of even this small achievement, and Chandat

regretted that their flowering friendship would soon come

to an abrupt end. They continued to chat about less

weighty matters, and if Tommas noticed the

warden's mounting apprehension, she must have

attributed it to the pressures of an impending

council session.

A parting of doors announced the arrival of the

Faculty deputies. As Mycelli escorted

one troupe of Dynasians onto the aft deck

of the Sullivan, a turbolift at the forward

end of the bridge discharged Dier and her charges

onto the command deck.

Chandat waited patiently for his colleagues

to finish gaping at the sight on the main

viewscreen; if nothing else, this reminder of their

common origins would reinforce a spirit of unity.

Then, one by one as they recovered their composure,

each of the professors surreptitiously moved

into place next to a member of the bridge crew.

Spreading wide his arms in a gesture of

welcome, Chandat said, "Now!"

To his relief, the Dynasians actually

obeyed.

Oomalo and Shagret, the most muscular of the

academics, had been chosen to subdue the

captain and his first officer. Given her Starfleet

training, Dier was more than a match for the dean, but

she stopped fighting him the instant she saw the

native Dynasian professor put a

choke-hold on Mycelli and lift him off his

feet. Oomalo's thick reptilian body was

impervious to his kicking boots.

The ambassador easily threw off Dean

Thorina's fumbling grasp, but ever the

diplomat, Tommas called out, "Don't

fight them!"

Fortunately for everyone involved, the Federation

crew obeyed her order, and Oomalo lowered the

choking, red-faced captain back down to the deck.

"I appreciate your cooperation,

Ambassador," said Chandat. "It is not our

wish to hurt anyone."

"Then what is the purpose of this assault?"

Anger at his betrayal of trust had wiped away

all traces of her former amiability.

"We have need of the Sullivan."

"Are you mad?" demanded the first officer. Her

captain was still gasping and incapable of speech.

"How long do you think your people can retain control of

this starship?"

"Long enough for our purposes, Commander Dier.

You see, certain rare Iconian artifacts in

our possession are still in working order." Chandat

reached for the medallion at the end of his chain of

office. "This one, for instance."

Pressing his finger against a depression in the

center of the disk, he waited to see what would

happen.

The effect of the sonic waveform generator was

dramatic and instantaneous. The ship's first

officer crumpled to the deck too quickly to even

groan, as did the ambassador and all the other

Humans.

I got it right! Chandat was astounded that his

estimate of the proper stun frequency for this alien

race had been correct. Perhaps he had missed

his calling as a scientist after all.

"It worked," cried Shagret, equally startled

by their success. A foolish smile spread across

the dean's face as he surveyed the sea of

fallen bodies. Then he stooped down

to check on Dier. "She's still breathing."

"But of course," said Chandat, although

privately he had feared the high-frequency

sonic wave might be fatal. "And they will all

remain unconscious for hours, long enough for us

to immobilize them." This was another prediction

based on ancient lore, but he was suddenly

confident that the technology of his Iconian

ancestors could be trusted to perform as described.

"But what about the others?" demanded Oomalo,

with the pragmatic attitude of a native.

Chandat stepped over Tommas's prone form in

order to move down to the command deck.

"Fortunately, the crew complement of a

Miranda-class starship is small, so the

remainder of the crew will be conquered with even greater

ease."

Some leaders might have chosen to sit in the

captain's chair, but Warden Chandat walked

eagerly to the helm of the Sullivan. As he

settled down behind the controls of the starship, he

called out for Diat Manja.

The old man had lingered on the periphery of the

bridge, taking no part in the action. Upon hearing

his name, however, he shuffled forward. He clutched

a parchment scroll close to his sunken chest.

"But Warden," said Manja in a bewildered

voice. "How can all this violence help forward

T'Sara's cause?"

"Please, Professor, do not worry yourself

with the petty details of interplanetary

diplomacy; that is my job." Chandat studied the

flight control console with growing delight. He

would gladly forfeit his life for these next few

days of space travel. "Now, if you will, the

coordinates for this Appointed Place you

mentioned."

With a heavy sigh, Manja unrolled the parchment

scroll to display an ancient star map.

Asao Matasu had just closed his eyes when the

trill of an intercom hail shattered the serene

silence in his cabin.

"My apologies for interrupting your

meditation, Admiral," said his aide's voice

a second later, "but Lieutenant Commander

Kiley-Smith said it was urgent; something about a

starship that has dropped out of sight and is not

responding to any subspace radio hails."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he

replied, unfolding his lanky body from the lotus

position. "Please meet me at

Communications."

The commander of Starbase 75 walked with a

slightly bowed head through the halls of the station. He

appeared to be in constant meditation, but the posture

was more practical than philosophical;

Matasu was a very tall man whose head would brush

the ceiling otherwise.

Lieutenant Abell was already waiting for him

outside the entrance to the communications complex. She

smiled a greeting, and said, "This way,

Admiral," then turned so as to trigger the doors

to open.

Matasu ducked his head to follow her over the

threshold. His last aide had given up even the

pretense of eye contact and had addressed all his

comments to the admiral's stomach. Matasu

appreciated Abell's greater show of courtesy,

but hoped she did not suffer unduly from the effort.

Perhaps he would recommend yoga exercises

to keep her neck muscles supple, just as he

did to counteract the constant strain of looking down.

Once inside, however, the admiral was able

to straighten up to his full height. The control

room of the communications center was a spacious

dome whose curving walls were alight with colorful

data displays. Dozens of maps, charts, and

graphs tracked the streams of information that moved in

and out of Starbase 75 from every point in the sector

and many places beyond.

"Still no word from the Enterprise?" asked

Matasu.

"No, sir," said Kiley-Smith as he

stepped away from the base-to-ship tracking

console. "But now we've lost contact with the

Plath, a Klingon bird-of-prey, crew

complement of twelve."

The console operator continued the specifics

of the briefing. "The starship's navigator

transmitted a coordinate check just after the

Enterprise reported the destruction of

Starbase 193. Captain Duregh volunteered

to assist the Portsmouth with the rescue effort, but

then the Plath never arrived."

Starbase 193 had covered an area that was far

beyond the reach of Matasu's current resources,

and the loss of the station blinded him as to what was

happening in that sector; he needed eyes to see

through the darkness. "Are there any other

starships in the area that could investigate this

matter?"

Kiley-Smith shook his head. "The

Portsmouth and the Clarke are still docked at

Luxor IV, but currently both are committed

to other missions."

"I shall see to uncommitting one of them," said

Matasu firmly, but he knew that the diversion

would take time to arrange and that even the fastest

vessel would require considerable time to cover the

distances involved. "Meanwhile, issue an alert

to all Starfleet facilities in this quadrant;

tell them to be on the lookout for both the

Enterprise and the Plath ... and their

attackers. I will prepare a report for

Starfleet Command advising them of the situation."

"Aye, sir."

As the admiral headed toward his office, head

bowed once again to facilitate his passage through the

corridors, Lieutenant Abell echoed his own

worried thoughts.

"What's going on out there, Admiral?

Exploding starbases, missing starships ... Could

the Romulans be planning a new offensive for the

Empire?"

He shook his head. "A warbird is powerful,

but I don't think it could take down two

Federation starships in a row."

Abell accepted the admiral's assessment

with a puzzled frown. "Then what could?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant," said

Matasu, "but I hope whoever, or whatever, is

responsible stays the hell away from my

starbase."

And may the gods help Jean-Luc

Picard, wherever he may be.

Kanda Jiak shivered when he stepped into the

cold air of the detention cell. He longed for the

thick knit sweater tucked into his backpack,

a farewell present from First Officer Conrad, but

all his belongings had been confiscated when he

entered the security complex.

Turning to his armed escort, Jiak

protested one last time. "But I'm not a

Dynasian!"

"Right," said the guard with a weary sigh. "You just

happen to look like one." Her finger tapped out a

rapid sequence on a wall panel.

The young man jumped back as the high

humming sound of a force field snapped into place

along the frame of the portal. The immi gration

official of Hayhurst Junction had described

this detention as a bureaucratic formality, so

Jiak had expected to spend a few hours in a

passenger lounge; instead, he had been taken to a

security chamber for interrogation. The references

to ambassadors and starships and insurgents had

been completely bewildering, but there was no

mistaking the consternation of the Starfleet officers.

Somehow, the Dynasians had angered the Federation

even more thoroughly than the DiWahns.

Jiak gingerly approached the entrance of his

cell. Careful not to touch the field itself, he

craned his neck to look up and down the outside

corridor. The guard was gone.

I'm a political prisoner.

That realization was almost as comical as it was

frightening. In either event, it was a reality that could not

be wished away or cried away, so he blinked

back tears and turned to greet his companion in

confinement.

Jiak had caught only a brief impression

of a robed figure huddled on one of the narrow

cots. Upon a closer look, however, the young

Iconian made out the features shadowed by the

heavy cowl. The man's forehead was ridged in a

fan-shaped pattern that arched over his purple

eyes, and his skin was a delicate shade of

violet. This was no mirror image of Jiak's

own face, but they both clearly bore the stamp

of a shared genetic heritage.

When he could breathe again, Jiak stammered,

"Are you ... a Dynasian?"

"That is what my identity papers maintain,"

said the man. His lips curled into a sly smile.

"I've never seen another Iconian before ...

at least, not since I was a small child." Jiak

struggled for composure, restrained by his

cellmate's apparent indifference to this statement.

"My name is Kanda Jiak."

"The Gem-Bearer's namesake!" The

Dynasian's richly colored eyes took on

a gleam of excitement. "How did you come by such

an illustrious name?"

Buoyed by this welcome, Jiak settled

cross-legged on the floor by the man's feet and

spilled out the story of the last days of Ikkabar and

his own flight from Redifer. "Before I reached

Hayhurst Junction, I tried

to visit DiWahn, but--"

"DiWahn!" The man darted forward and grabbed

a fistful of Jiak's shirt. "What do you know

of the planet DiWahn?"

"Nothing ... all travel to the system was

suspended." The intensity of the man's demand was

unnerving. "Conrad said the trouble had something to do with

an armada and the threat of armed aggression against the

Federation."

"Ah, so the fleet of the Faithful was

launched!" Releasing his hold on Jiak, the

man fell back against the cell wall. He

gazed into the distance, as if witnessing a vision

shimmering in the air. "After generations of waiting,

our time to enter the Dreaming has arrived."

T'Sara's writings on the diaspora had

recorded the beliefs of the DiWahn they were

obsessed with the dreams of the Gem-Bearers. "But you

said you were a Dynasian!"

"I have said many things in my life." The

Iconian uttered a throaty chuckle. "The

consulate is checking my identity papers, just as

they are checking yours. Who knows what they will find

in their search? If they find the truth, I will

remain in this cell, or one very much like it, for the rest

of my life."

"I'm sorry," said Jiak, yet he

wondered uneasily what crime the fugitive

DiWahn had committed. Life imprisonment was

usually reserved for murder.

"Save your pity for yourself. I have fulfilled

my life's quest, whereas you have just begun yours."

"What was your quest?"

The DiWahn was still staring into space with a rapt

expression. "Like you, I spent my childhood

among the races of the Federation. I have never even

set foot on my homeworld, but my father showed me

the path of the Faithful. My sworn duty was

to follow after T'Sara."

"You know T'Sara?" cried Jiak. Hearing

her name was like meeting a friend in an unfamiliar

place. "Please, tell me about her."

The DiWahn was too absorbed in his own

memories to attend to the interruption. "My only

regret is that I could not return home in time

to join the armada. In order to elude capture

by unbelievers, I bought forged papers listing me

as a Dynasian. That choice was my undoing."

He shrugged his resignation. "Imprisonment is

a small price to pay for recovering the

Gem."

"The Gem?" Jiak's eyes widened at the

mention of the powerful icon. "You mean the Dream

Gem is not just a legend?"

The DiWahn hesitated, his reply

forestalled by the distant sound of doors parting,

followed by the tread of boots echoing down the

corridor.

"No, not a myth, Kanda Jiak,

Gem-Bearer," he whispered. "See for yourself.

Join our order and hear the Telling."

"But how can I find--"

"Ask a woman named Camenae on Starbase

193. If you're willing to meet her price,

she will answer all your questions. Find the Gem, and

you will find the Faithful."

The footsteps stopped outside the cell.

"Hey, I don't have all day," said a

voice edged with irritation.

Jiak looked up to see that the force field had

been deactivated. The guard standing by the entrance was

holding his backpack in her hands.

She beckoned him with a jerk of her head. "The

Federation consulate has confirmed your residency

on Redifer III. You're permitted to leave the

Junction so long as you stay away from

Dynasia."

"Go!" urged the DiWahn softly.

Jiak scrambled to his feet, his mind still

reeling from the man's revelations.

Thousands of years ago, the Dream Gem had

opened the Three Gates that saved the Iconian

people from annihilation. If the first Kanda Jiak had

walked through the Gate to Ikkabar, the powers of his

Gem could have tamed the planet. Without his

assistance, the third branch of the Iconian race

had withered away.

However, if Kanda Jiak's namesake gained

possession of the Gem, perhaps that tragic history

could be revised.

Grabbing his pack from the guard, the last

survivor of Ikkabar raced down the

corridor. He was headed toward freedom and a

new destination.

CHAPTER 27

Main engineering was rarely quiet. Most often

the rumble that permeated the area came from the steady

pulse of the matterstantimatter reaction

chamber. Today, however, the warp propulsion system

was shut down and the ship's engines were cold; instead,

the noisy bustle of Humans filled the air as

a constant stream of engineering personnel moved from

one work station to another, then dashed away.

Yet there was an island of stability in this

whirlwind of motion. The master situation monitor

covered most of the forward wall section in engineering,

and for the past five hours Geordi La Forge had

returned again and again to the cutaway schematic of the

Enterprise that was on display. When he had first

assessed the damage to the starship, broad

sections of the diagram had been highlighted in

red. Now, as the chief engineer continued to track the

progress of repairs, yet another of the system

indicators blinked from red to green.

After checking the value of a number on the

board, Geordi turned to face the ship's first

officer. "Well, the good news is that the

deflector shields are working again."

"So what's the bad news?" asked Riker

dutifully.

"They're only at about forty-six percent

efficiency, and they're going to stay at that level

until we replace at least five conformal

transmission grids on the primary hull and then

realign the entire array."

"Let's do it."

With a warning shake of his head, Geordi said,

"Yeah, but to work on the grids we have to take the

graviton polarity source generators off-line,

which leaves us without any deflector shields for

over four hours. Usually that's a procedure

performed only in spacedock, because if we

disassociate our shield generators in space

..."

"The Enterprise would be a sitting duck,"

finished Riker. "Anybody with a peashooter could

take us on."

"Exactly," said the chief engineer. "Not

only that, without operational deflector shields,

we couldn't travel above impulse speed without

turning to Swiss cheese. Even full impulse

for a sustained length of time would risk serious

micro-meteoroid degradation of the hull's

duranium substrate."

"You haven't left us with many options,

Geordi."

La Forge shrugged. "I thought miracles were

your department, Commander."

"It looks like I've used up my quota for

now." The first officer glanced over at the

schematic and frowned. "Captain Picard will have

to make this decision. I'll get back to you after

we've had a chance to talk it over."

"No problem, Commander," said Geordi with an

amiable grin. "I'll be right here."

The engineer turned back to the master display just

as another red light turned green. Slowly but

surely, piece by piece, the ship was returning

to normal.

The broad, curving windows of Ten-Forward

provided the best view of space on the

Enterprise, and it was a view that Deanna

Troi usually enjoyed. Today, however, she found the

scene outside the lounge to be a disquieting

reminder of their present danger. The damaged

starship was adrift in the midst of desolate

space with the skeletal remains of a warbird as

its only companion. Perhaps others among the crew

were filled with dread at the sight, because only a

few of the tables in the room were occupied, and the people

sitting there were all facing away from the windows.

The counselor settled herself at the bar and

tried to think of something to order. Out of the corner of

one eye, she watched Guinan set two

glasses in front of a couple at the far end of the

counter, then drift back in her direction.

"What can I get for you?" asked the hostess.

She was dressed in an embroidered robe of forest

green; a wide square-brimmed hat of the same

color, only darker in shade, covered her head.

"I haven't made up my mind," said

Troi. "What would you suggest?"

"Well, that depends. Are you more in an eating

or a drinking mood?"

"I'm not really hungry," Troi decided.

She wasn't really thirsty either, but she would feel

less awkward about her visit to Ten-Forward if

she adopted some token excuse for her presence.

Guinan picked up a conical glass. "A

drink it is. What about a Venusian fruit

cider?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm in the mood

for." Troi's enthusiasm sounded forced to her own

ear, and it must have appeared equally insincere

to Guinan, because she made no move to fill the

glass.

"I get the feeling there's something

troubling you, Deanna."

Troi sighed, andwitha guilty smile, said,

"I'm supposed to be the counselor around here,

remember."

Guinan chuckled with a throaty voice that almost

purred. "Even counselors need a sympathetic

listener now and then." She turned to pour the drink,

giving Troi time to collect her thoughts.

The cider was delicious, and somehow talking

seemed easier after a few sips of its

delicate flavor. "Will Riker is worried

about the captain's fascination with the Devil's

Heart. He fears that it has become an

obsession ... and so do I."

"What makes you think so?"

"Well, the course change which brought us out

here," Troi inclined her head in the direction of the

windows, "was very troublesome. Captain Picard

says it was to draw our pursuers away from

vulnerable Federation colonies, but I can't help

wondering if there was another motivation at work, if

he wasn't actually searching for an excuse

to delay giving up the Heart."

The hostess dipped her head for a moment, and the

flat rim of her hat obscured her expression.

When she looked up again, the concern she had tried

to erase from her face could still be found in her dark

eyes, yet she said, "I don't believe

Picard would let his command judgment be seriously

compromised by the Heart."

"You sound very sure of that. Why?"

"Because," said Guinan, "all the stories

I've heard speak of temptation rather than

coercion. The Heart can turn your own desires

against you, but it can't make you do anything against your

true nature."

"And Captain Picard would never choose

to hurt the Enterprise or the people on it."

Guinan nodded, and Deanna toyed with letting the

whole matter end on this comforting note, yet she

knew Riker would not be so easily reassured.

"Could I have another one of these drinks?"

"I'm glad you liked it." Guinan whisked

away the empty glass, and plucked up a clean

one from beneath the counter.

"Guinan, the captain trusts you more than any

other person on board the Enterprise. If you

could persuade him to give the Heart to you for

safe--"

The glass the hostess had been

holding slipped from her fingers and crashed to the

floor.

"What's wrong?" Troi was surprised that her

request could rattle the imperturbable Guinan.

"Are you afraid that he won't hand it over to you?"

"No, Counselor, I'm afraid that he

might."

"But it would be for only a short time," said

Troi, "long enough to carry the Heart to a storage

vault where Will could secure it for the remainder of

our journey."

Guinan shook her head back and forth as Troi

talked, then said, "One of the advantages of

growing old is learning your own limitations, and this

is definitely a risk I'm not qualified

to take. I trust Jean-Luc Picard with the

Heart far more than I trust myself."

"But why?" Troi's alarm concerning the stone's

powers returned in full force.

"Among my people the Heart was known as the Master

of All Stories, and for a race of Listeners, that

can result in a fatal enchantment."

"Enchantment? You make it sound like a fairy

tale, and the captain is the unlucky prince who

has fallen under an evil spell." Troi

laughed at the analogy, but then she asked,

"Guinan, do you think the Heart is evil?"

"Only living things have the capacity for good or

evil. So, do you think the Heart is alive?"

"I sense nothing from it ... yet more and more the

captain speaks of it as a sentient being." The

empath thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I

just don't know."

"Neither do I, Counselor," said Guinan

softly. "Neither do I."

As the doors to the ready room opened, Data

regarded the interior scene with dispassion. The

android was an impartial observer, and as such the

presence of the Heart on Picard's desk did not

arouse any emotion in him. However, the stone did

trigger a complex set of associations with recent

disruptive events. On purely intellectual

grounds, therefore, Data would have preferred that the

Heart had never been brought aboard the

Enterprise.

"Did you enjoy your rest, Captain?" asked

Data as he walked across the room.

"What?" Picard looked up from his desk

viewer. "Oh, my rest. Yes, I

did, thank you."

Data had often observed that Humans used

certain phrases for their iconic value in

expressing a sense of connection with community

members, rather than in a literal sense of

providing accurate information. He concluded that this

must be one of those occasions because the captain's

physical condition did not appear to have

substantially improved since the conference in the

observation lounge.

Picard glanced back at the computer, then over

at the padd in Data's hands. "Didn't I just

receive your Ops report?"

"This is not a status update," said Data.

"Rather, I have identified the pertinent coordinates

of the location in which you were interested."

"Let me see." Leaning forward over his

desk, Picard reached out eagerly for the padd, then

sighed with relief at the sight of the Federation star

map that had matched his sketch. "Yes, that's the

place exactly! But it certainly took you long

enough to find it."

"My apologies for the delay," said Data.

"However, my search was complicated by a rather curious

aspect of the scene you drew. That particular

juxtaposition of the comet against the designated

constellation of stars has not occurred yet; in

fact, it will not occur for at least forty-eight

hours."

"In the future ..." murmured Picard.

His brow furrowed with the intensity of his thoughts, and one

of his hands dropped down onto the Heart. "Yes

... yes, of course. That means there is still time

to act."

"Intriguing. What particular action does this

call for?"

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Data." The

captain did not remove his gaze from the map.

"That will be all for now."

Data's positronic brain forged a new

connection, one between the star map and the Devil's

Heart. As he left the ready room, the android

began to calculate the probability that another

catastrophic event would occur soon.

Troi felt unusually conspicuous walking

onto the Enterprise bridge, and the empath

quickly determined the focus for that unease

Lieutenant Worf was tracking her progress

from the aft turbolift to the command center.

She sensed in him the usual uneasiness that always

seemed to underlie their interactions, especially those

involving Worf's son, Alexander; but this was

overshadowed by a new set of emotions that were more

difficult to untangle. For some reason she could

not fathom, the Klingon was wary of her.

Riker and Picard were engaged in a somber

discussion involving shield repairs, so she

quietly slipped into place beside the captain.

"... no question that we must improve our shield

strength," continued Picard. "This mission isn't

over yet, and we dare not continue without maximum

protection."

"Agreed," said Riker, although Troi could

easily sense his apprehension about this decision.

She could also read the question in his eyes when he

stole a quick glance in her direction. A subtle

shake of her head was all it took to indicate that

Guinan could not help them, but Worf must have seen

the gesture from his perch above because the Klingon's

suspicions broadened to include the first officer.

The captain cast his voice upward to engage the

intercom system. "Picard to La Forge.

Let's proceed with the deflector shield

repairs before we attract any more company out

here."

"Acknowledged, Captain."

While the captain and the chief engineer exchanged

technical information about the repair procedure,

Troi surreptitiously evaluated Picard's

physical and emotional condition. His fatigue was

even more pronounced than before; he seemed to hoard

his strength by moving only when absolutely necessary.

On the other hand, the growing mental agitation she

had sensed in the conference room was gone now. The

counselor wondered if Picard's composure had

been restored by the Heart, which was tucked

securely into the crook of his arm.

"Conformal grids on the primary hull have

been deactivated," continued Geordi.

"Graviton generators are going off-line

... now."

Troi shivered in response to the feeling of

vulnerability that suddenly radiated from the entire

bridge crew. She strengthened her empathic

shields to block against the projected emotions,

yet she was still left with her own feelings of

helplessness.

As the first few minutes of the repair project

dragged by, the thought of four hours

stretched into an eternity ...

... that was shattered by yellow alert.

"Captain," called out Data. "Sensors

detect an object two hundred thousand

kilometers dead ahead."

"There!" Riker pointed to the main viewscreen,

and Troi looked up to see that the placid vista

of distant stars had begun to shimmer and ripple with

distortion waves. A ship was uncloaking before them.

"Phasers locking on target," announced

Worf tersely.

"Hold fire until my signal,

Lieutenant," said Picard as he rose to his

feet.

Troi could sense that the captain was straining against

the desire to shoot first without waiting to see the

face of their enemy, but Picard's Starfleet

training repressed the urge to provoke a

battle they could not hope to win. Even a lightly

shielded vessel would withstand a phase r attack

long enough to retaliate against the unshielded

Enterprise.

The phantom form took solid shape.

Angled wings stretched wide on either side of a

narrow-necked forward hull.

"It's a bird-of-prey," said Riker, his

chest heaving with a sigh of relief.

"Captain." There was a hint of elation in

Worf's voice when he said, "We are being

hailed by Captain Duregh of the Plath."

"On screen, Lieutenant." Picard

appeared too drained by the sudden emergency to share

in the general rejoicing.

Stars gave way to a close shot of

Duregh's face. Troi thought him young to be

commanding his own warship, but Duregh had the lean,

feral look of an ambitious Klingon warrior.

"Greetings, Captain Picard." The dim

red lighting of the Plath's command pit washed down

over the furrows of Duregh's brow; his

deep-set eyes were lost in shadow. "We heard

of your plight from the Portsmouth and have followed

your trail in hopes of joining in combat against the

Romulans. Obviously, we have arrived too

late to share that honor."

"Not so, Captain," said Picard. "We

welcome your assistance while we effect certain

repairs to our ship."

"Ah, yes. My weapons officer informed me

you are without shields." Despite his

smile, Duregh's facial muscles were stiff

with repressed tension. The empath thinned her

emotional barriers to read him more fully. "So our

journey was not in vain."

Something is wrong.

Troi leapt up from her chair. "Captain,

wait, I sense--"

Her warning came too late.

The Klingon ship discharged its phasers and

seconds later an explosion somewhere in the

primary hull rocked the bridge, throwing the

counselor off-balance. As she grabbed at a

bridge railing for support, the Klingon warship

fired a second time on the Enterprise,

scoring a hit to the engineering hull. Red alert

sirens overlapped the babble of damage reports

from all decks.

Picard had managed to keep his footing on the

deck without releasing his grip on the Heart.

"Fire phasers!"

"Phasers inoperative," replied Worf.

Duregh laughed loudly at the result of his

treachery. "Our next assault will destroy your

ship, Captain Picard."

"Why are you doing this?"

Eyes drawn to the stone in the captain's hands,

Duregh said, "Because the Pagrashtak is mine.

Transport Kessec's jewel over to me, and

I will spare your life."

"No!" cried Picard. "Such an action will

only perpetuate the chaos which has surrounded this

relic. I will not give it up to you or to anyone

who would abuse its powers for violent ends."

"Then prepare to die. I can rake the

Pagrashtak from out of the rubble of your blasted ship

and the corpses of your dead crew."

"Traitor!" stormed Worf from the aft

deck. "You have no honor!"

"Fool," said the Klingon commander with a snarl.

"You speak of matters that are beyond your understanding. I

do this to recover my honor. I am a direct

descendant of Durall, son of Kessec. The

Pagrashtak was stolen from him, and thus stolen from

me; it is my birthright."

The captain shook his head. "No, you are

wrong. Emperor Kessec willingly gave up

the Heart ..."

"Silence!"

"... to a slave," declared Picard, "not to his

sons."

"And for that disgrace he died by their hands!"

screamed Kessec's descendant, his face

contorted by rage. "You have only a few seconds

of life remaining, Captain Picard, and I no

longer care whether you surrender or not."

He stretched out an arm to signal his crew.

"Duregh!" Raising the Heart before him like a

shield, Picard shouted, "I'll see you burn

in hell for this!"

The arm dropped. "Fire!"

A phaser beam lanced out from the underside of the

Plath ...

... then suddenly blossomed into a fireball

that burned back along its own path until it

enveloped the bird-of-prey.

With a cry of pain, Troi threw up her hands

to ward off the blinding light of the explosion that stabbed

her eyes. When she finally dared look again, the

blazing remains of the Plath still crackled and

flickered on the viewscreen.

"Captain?"

Picard stood transfixed in the center of the

bridge; he was staring down in horror at the

Heart clutched in his hands.

CHAPTER 28

A constant cold wind droned through the abandoned

city, lifting clouds of fine-grained dust into the

air. Dusky blue light, stripped of heat,

fought its way down through the haze to illuminate the

ground on which Picard walked. He could still make

out faint traces of a pathway, but most of the paved

surface had been scoured away. The weight of

eons had tumbled all the buildings down and

chipped away at their foundations. At first he had

thought he was on Atropos, then he realized that this

place was much older.

Age frosted the entire planet, but the pulsing

glow of the Heart warmed his hands. Whenever his foot

strayed off the path, the stone shifted in his palms,

gently pushing him to one side or the other until

he recovered his way. Picard let the Heart

guide him over the pitted terrain until they

reached a line of broken columns. There he

stopped to gaze in wonder at the sculpted form just

ahead.

The thick slab of rock was set on edge.

Its original shape may have been oval, but now

its outer rim was broken and irregular;

the opening in its center appeared to be part of the

ancient design, but it was eroded as well.

Picard was buffeted by waves of an invisible but

palpable force emanating from the structure. Or was

it a being?

"The Guardian of Forever," he whispered in

awe.

At the sound of his voice, the crystalline stone

of its ring-shaped body flickered and glowed from within,

suffused with the same quality of light that fired the

Heart.

The reaction was a reply of sorts, and

Picard wondered if he could communicate with the

being. There were so many questions he wanted answered, but

one above all others.

Picard held up the Heart. "Guardian,

what is this stone I carry?"

"It is a seed," said a deep thrumming

voice. The light flickered in rhythm with its

words. "One meant to grow in a better soil than

this dead planet."

"How did it become enmeshed in our history?"

"Those who created me, created the seed; but the

Architects were mortal, and after their passing there was

no one to guide it on its true path. The seed

went astray."

Mist pooled in the center of the slab, then

cleared away to reveal a stream of images

framed inside the stone border.

Picard moved closer, mesmerized by the clarity

of the visions. He saw the Heart fall like a

blazing meteor through a purple sky, then

plunge deep into a grassy plain. Alien hands

scrabbled through the dirt of the crater until they

uncovered the stone. To Picard's horror, he

saw the simple hunting culture of a race known

as the T'Kon erupt outward into a far-flung

stellar empire, then wither away and die.

New hands seized the stone, starting yet another

undulating wave of murder and war. Fiefdoms

burst into imperial splendor, then toppled as

greed-driven betrayals weakened their foundations.

He caught a brief flash of Garamond and

Kessec in the timeslip, but the rest who had held

the Heart went by in a blur.

As Time flowed on, the ripples of disruption

spread wider and wider, all part of an unceasing

pattern of struggle for possession of the Heart.

"Guardian, can this damage be undone?"

"Yes," said the voice, "but if you

take back the seed early in the affairs of these

beings, you also unravel all the greatness built with

its powers. The universe you know will be torn from its

roots, and the river will flow through different

channels."

Picard shook his head; this was no solution. The

consequences of the Heart's presence had gathered

too much weight to be dislodged from the past. "I

must remove the Heart from my own time before it

causes any more upheaval. Show me how

to return it to the path you spoke of."

The mist gathered again, then cleared to reveal a

new scene the blackness of deep space, a

scattering of stars and a comet with its tail stretched

out behind it like a banner.

"I know this place," said Picard. "It was in

the vision given to me by T'Sara."

"Planting time draws near again," said the

Guardian. "The seed must be sown here."

As if called by those words, the Heart stirred in

Picard's hands. He edged to the very lip of the

portal and gazed raptly at the image of the

comet. The seed's yearning to continue its journey

almost drove him to step through the opening. His fingers

closed tightly on the rough texture of the stone's

surface. He knew what it wanted, but letting

go was difficult.

Taking a deep breath, he loosened his grip

and steeled himself to toss the stone into the well.

"No!" A spidery hand pawed at the

captain's arm before he could move. "Do not be so

hasty."

Picard twirled around to face the gaunt

figure of the Collector. The spare flesh of

her body had not dried yet, but her ravaged

face was that of a being near death. On the other side

of her own dream, Halaylah was sealed in her

chamber.

"Let go of me," he said, shuddering away from

her bony fingers. The sight of her filled him with

revulsion. "You died trying to keep the Heart

to yourself, but it has passed on to me. I'll

decide its fate now."

Her shriveled lips contorted into a leer. "You

do not comprehend what you are about to throw away. In

order to act wisely, you must fully understand its

powers, Captain ..."

"... Captain." He could feel the touch of a

hand on the sleeve of his uniform.

"Captain?"

Picard opened his eyes and found himself slumped

over his desk, head cradled in his arms, with the

Heart resting by his elbow. There was a stranger,

oddly familiar, leaning over him.

As the dream-induced confusion began to clear,

Picard belatedly recognized his first officer.

Struggling to pull himself free of the vapors that

clouded his mind, the capt ain sat up in his chair.

"What is it, Number One?"

"We have company." The first officer pulled

away from the desk and assumed a more formal stance

while delivering his report. "A long-range

sensor scan has detected the presence of a

fleet of warp-driven craft at the periphery of

our detection range. The total number of

vessels is still difficult to determine at this

distance, but Data confirmed there are at least

twenty ships."

Picard longed for solitude in which to recall the

details of his dreaming, but he forced himself to attend

to Jack's words. "Do you have any idea who they

are?"

"All we have so far is a name," said Crusher.

"According to some stray bits of their ship-to-ship

communications, the fleet belongs to a race who

call themselves the unDiWahn."

"The unDiWahn!"

"You know them?"

"Yes, I was warned about them by ..."

Picard reached out for a name, but it wasn't in

place. There was a gap in his memory where a

person belonged.

"Warned by a dream?" asked Crusher. There was

a bitter edge to the question. His resentment of the

Heart's influence over his captain was growing

stronger each day.

"Jack ..." It was a signal between them, worked

out over the years, that Picard needed to talk to him

as a friend, rather than as a commanding officer.

Nodding his understanding, the first officer pulled a

chair up to the desk and sat down across from

Picard. In the decades since they had left

Starfleet Academy, Jack Crusher's

boyish face and lanky frame had filled out and

grown more rugged; gray had roughened the texture of

his hair, and adversity had hardened the look in his

eyes; but his smile was still as welcoming now as it

had been when they were fellow cadets.

"I'm worried about you, Jean-Luc.

So is Beverly, both as a doctor and as a

friend."

"The Heart is not a danger to me," said

Picard. It was so difficult to explain with

fatigue dragging him back toward sleep and the

intoxication of more dreams. He reached out to touch the

stone, drawing strength from its warmth. "It is

sentient, Jack, a being in trouble that needs our

help, and I intend to hold fast until the

Heart has reached its destination."

He had been so close to understanding before the

Collector interfered. Perhaps the Guardian could

complete the instructions in his next dream.

Crusher dropped his head down, burying his

face in his hands. When he looked up again, his

brow was furrowed as if in pain.

"Jean-Luc, if you look out the window behind you,

you'll see the charred wreckage of two warships.

We haven't even finished patching the

Enterprise back together again from our battle with the

Plath, yet if we so much as sneeze we could

suddenly be facing an entire fleet of these

unDiWahn. The longer we stay out here, the

less chance there is that we'll ever make it back

home alive."

"I intend to do everything in my power to succeed

without that sacrifice. However," said Picard with a

fervor solidified by his dream of the Heart's

origins, "I believe that this mission is of

overwhelming importance, and that its completion is so

crucial that it demands our continued efforts no

matter what the risk."

Crusher was silent for a long while. At last

he said, "What you ask is difficult,

Jean-Luc, but I've trusted you with my life,

andwiththe life of my wife and children, for over twenty

years now. So I guess I'm not about to stop now

... Captain."

Captain ... That last word echoed in the air,

only the second overlapping voice Picard

heard was not Jack's, and it was muffled as if

by fog and the distance of many years.

"No," whispered Picard, fighting back a

sudden panic born of some terrible knowledge that lurked in

the shadows of his mind. "I won't let this be

taken from me."

"What's wrong, Jean-Luc?" Alarm jerked

Crusher back onto his feet.

"Nothing, Jack. I'm just tired." Picard

felt the touch of a ghostly hand on his

shoulder. Its fingers gripped him with a disconcerting

solidity.

No! Don't do this!

"Captain?"

Picard opened his eyes to find that he was

slumped over his desk once again. He looked

up. The man who had called him out of the dream was

taller than Jack, and he sported a closely

cropped dark beard.

Will Riker ... my first officer is Will

Riker.

Grief churned through Picard's stomach, and he

swallowed down an upsurge of bile. This was

reality; the other scene had been nothing but a

dream. He was awake now.

Awake, yet still tantalized by the fading

memories of a past spent with other people and other

endings to the stories of his life. If he had

finished his dream without interruption, could he have

continued walking along that alternate path or would

it have faded away? Surely, if he had wanted

that reality strongly enough, the Heart could have kept

Commander Jack Crusher alive.

I did want it, Jack. You must believe

that!

Then Picard realized that the dream had been

directed by the Collector. His only failing was

in matching her control over the Heart. If

Jack's resurrection was truly within the scope

of its powers, then Picard could also learn how

to conduct such miracles. It would take time, but

eventually he could change the circumstances that had

led to his friend's death, and the alternate reality could

be recovered.

However, if he gave up the stone, Jack

Crusher would be lost to him forever; Beverly would

remain a widow; and their other children would remain

unborn.

"Captain?"

"Yes, what is it Number One?" asked

Picard, automatically walking through the lines of

his role as this man's captain.

Riker stepped back from the desk to deliver his

report. "Lieutenant Worf has just

intercepted some subspace radio transmissions

coming from the periphery of our sensor range. Some

race called--"

"--called the unDiWahn," said Picard as

one last lingering tendril of his dream coiled

tightly around his chest.

CHAPTER 29

The engineering schematic of the Enterprise was

covered with red highlights once again. These tags

were deceptively neat and orderly, but Riker could

envision the messy damage they symbolized a

starship becalmed in space with its hull scorched

and pitted. This haunting image darkened his thoughts

as he and Data listened to Geordi's updated

status report.

"Repairs to the weapons system should be finished

within two hours," said the chief engineer, pointing

to a forward section of the saucer where the first barrage

from the Plath had drilled straight through the

dorsal phaser array.

"So much for our offense," sighed Riker.

"What about defense?"

Geordi's hand shifted to another area of the

situation monitor that was still livid with contrasting

colors; the second blow from the Plath had landed

in the engineering hull. "We've almost completed the

original repairs to navigational shields--"

The ones that got us into this mess in the first

place. The decision to proceed with repairs had

seemed like a sound one at the time, but it was

difficult for the first officer to remember that as he

stared straight at the consequences of that action.

"However," continued La Forge, "the new

damage to the deflector shields has

compromised tactical defense. There's a

limit to the repairs we can conduct out of

spacedock, but I should know what percentage of

our performance capacity has been restored in about

four hours."

Riker would have found the information reassuring if not

for the recent sighting of the unDiWahn.

"Geordi, a rather large space fleet just wandered

through this area. They appear to be gone for now, but

there's always the possibility they could circle

back and find us. Without weapons and without

defensive shields, our only recourse is

to tuck tail and hope we can outrun them."

"Fortunately," said Data, "our sensor

scans indicate the fleet is moving slowly.

The unDiWahn may lack the capacity for high

warp speeds."

"At the moment, so do we." La Forge waved

at the diagram of patchwork repairs in

progress. "The warp reactor core

has been off-line for the last hour while we

replaced the starboard nacelle generator

coils. As a result, we'll have to ease

into warp drive as we align the

matterstantimatter injectors."

"Swell," said Riker. "At the first sign of

trouble, we'll limp out of here."

"Yeah, but if we'd taken one more hit from the

Plath, we wouldn't be able to crawl out of here,

so I'd say we're pretty lucky."

The engineer's comment brought a puzzled frown

to Data's face. "Geordi, I am most

curious about the Plath's destruction."

Riker had no way to cut off the discussion without

drawing undue attention to the subject; instead,

he listened as La Forge answered the android's

question.

"I can't explain it, Data. There's an

outside chance it was some freak weapons

malfunction, but I just can't imagine what could

make a warship's phasers detonate like that."

Geordi glanced back toward the schematic.

"And frankly, I haven't got time to worry

about the Plath right now."

"Then we'll leave you to carry on more

important work," said Riker, relieved that the

engineer had dismissed the matter so quickly.

A few minutes later, when he and the android were

walking down an empty passageway, Riker

broached the subject himself. "Data, I would

prefer an end to any more speculation about the

explosion on the Plath. If anyone asks,

we can attribute it to a faulty detonation

control."

"You wish me to lie?"

"Well, as a matter of fact ..." Then

Riker sighed, and said, "Let's just say that I'd

rather not concentrate too much attention on the

incident."

"Because it would corroborate certain powers

attributed to the Heart?"

The first officer shook his head. "I can't

answer that." The only person who had the

authorization, or the knowledge, to deal with that question was the

captain; and Riker wasn't entirely sure that

he wanted to hear Picard's explanation.

Data was still silently pondering the implication

of Riker's evasion, when an intercom hail

echoed through the corridor.

"Crusher to Commander Riker."

"Riker here."

"I'm ready to make that house call we

discussed."

"Proceed, Doctor," said the first officer,

coming to a sudden stop. "I'll wait for you in

Counselor Troi's office."

He turned to walk in a new direction, then

realized that Data had overheard the entire

exchange and might refer to it at some

inopportune moment. Riker tried to think of a

plausible excuse for this covert arrangement with the

chief medical officer, but the strain of a

last-minute invention must have showed because Data took

the initiative.

"Commander," said the android. "Would you prefer that

I did not concentrate too much attention on this

event as well?"

"Yes, Data," said Riker with a sigh of

relief. "Your inattention would be most

appreciated."

For now, at least. However, if Beverly

Crusher's effort was not successful, then the

circle of involved officers would have to widen

to include Data.

The lights of the ready room were dimmed to their

lowest level. Taking a cautious step over the

threshold, Crusher peered toward the star window.

There was no one sitting at the desk, yet she had

heard Picard call out permission for her to enter.

The doors shut behind her, cutting the doctor

off from the bridge and throwing the room into even greater

darkness. "Captain?"

"Have you come to order me to my cabin,

Doctor?" His words were faintly slurred with

fatigue.

"No," said Crusher, turning in the direction

of Picard's voice. She could barely make out

a shadowy form hunched on the sofa. "After all, it

doesn't seem to have done much good last time."

"Sleep doesn't refresh me ... too many

dreams ... I was on the verge of a dream when you

came in."

The doctor noted that Picard's response

time was significantly slower than usual, as

if he was still working his way back to consciousness.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"No, don't apologize," he said. "I'm

not sure I want to dream again."

As her eyes grew more accustomed to the

dark, Crusher could see that the captain was bent

over the Heart. For a moment, a trick of the

subdued lighting made her think the stone in his hands

was glowing, but when she stepped closer the doctor

realized its surface was the same dull gray

she had seen before. "I'd like to run a few tests

on you."

"What?" Irritation roused Picard out of his

lethargy. "Go to sickbay? I haven't time for that

now."

"I knew you'd say that." Crusher patted the

medical tricorder hanging by her side. "So I

came prepared to do a scan right here in your

office."

"Very well," he said, slumping back over the

Heart. "Do as you like."

Moving quickly, before Picard could change his

mind, she pulled the peripheral scanner off the

tricorder. After a few passes of the whirring

instrument, she had a preliminary result that

confirmed the exhaustion she had already observed and

also indicated some minor evidence of general

neglect. "According to my readings, you're somewhat

anemic and your blood sugar levels are

depressed. When was the last time you ate a decent

meal?"

But Picard was lost in his own thoughts and didn't

hear her. "If I had understood its powers

better, I could have saved the Enterprise without

killing the crew of the Plath."

A flick of Crusher's thumb abruptly

ended the scan; his mental state was of more interest

to her after that statement. "Captain, do you really

believe the Heart was responsible for the

explosion?"

"I've tried to find some other explanation, but

there is none. I regret ..." He shook his

head as if to dislodge the memory of the Klingon

ship engulfed in flames. "The Heart obeyed

my anger rather than my reason, yet over time I

could learn how to wield its powers more directly."

"Learn? How?"

"It speaks to me, Beverly," whispered

Picard, and she knelt down by his side to hear

him more clearly. "In dreams I see wonders

you can hardly imagine unseen vistas of the

cosmos, times long past and yet just within reach. The

Heart is as old as the stars and has powers beyond

imagining. Why, the destruction of the Plath was

mere child's play. I could--"

"Jean-Luc! What if you're not the one in

control?"

"You don't understand," he said. "The Heart

doesn't compel action, it merely offers the means

to gain one's ends. With this small stone in my

possession, the Enterprise could be proof against

all enemies and their betrayals, free

to explore the entire universe without danger ...

I could never fail."

"Failure is human," said Crusher. "We

learn from our mistakes."

"Some mistakes serve no purpose; some

defeats only bring pain and humiliation." He

looked into her face, meeting her gaze

directly for the first time. "If I were the only one

involved, Beverly, perhaps I could accept my

mistakes; but the consequences of my actions have

affected so many other people. I've even hurt you and

Wesley, and if it is in my power to make

amends ..."

"No, don't torture yourself with those

memories." Crusher laid a hand on his arm,

trying to reach through the sorrow that clouded his eyes.

She had made her peace with Jack's death, but

evidently Picard had not. "You can't change the

past, Jean-Luc."

"But what if I could?" He leaned so close

that she could feel his breath on her cheeks; his

voice took on a deeper, more ominous tone.

"Given the opportunity for study, I suspect

I could learn to hold the flow of time itself in my

hands. Do I have the right to refuse those powers? Would

you, as a doctor, throw away the ability

to restore health, save lives, or even ...

raise the dead?"

Mesmerized by Picard's words, Crusher saw

the Heart as if for the first time. How could she have

missed the aura of strangeness that surrounded its

rough form?

She reached out to touch the stone.

The captain pulled away with a possessive

gesture. Mine! he seemed to say as he

clutched the Heart to his chest. "Are you finished

with your medical exam, Doctor?"

"Yes, Captain." Crusher rose to her

feet and backed away. Just those few steps

broke the Heart's uncanny spell. Once

more, the captain was holding just a rock.

Picard leaned back against the cushions of the

sofa and crossed one leg over the other.

In an amiable, conversational tone, he said, "I

promise to take better care of myself from now

on."

"That's all I ask," said Crusher with a

smile that was stretched thin over her apprehension.

She left the captain sitting alone in the

shadows of the ready room.

Troi had suggested her counseling room as the

most comfortable and convenient meeting place, but the

unspoken understanding among the three senior officers

was that it also offered more privacy than the CMO'S

office. Unfortunately, this need for privacy

imbued their actions with an unpleasantly

furtive nature, and the empath could sense a

general discomfiture when they gathered. Although the

cushioned furniture was designed to encourage

relaxation, Will was perched on the edge of his chair,

and Beverly was pacing back and forth as she

described her encounter with the captain.

"There was no opportunity to take the Heart from

him"--Crusher shuddered at some unpleasant

aspect of the memory--"and I'm just as glad I

didn't even touch it."

"Why not?" asked Troi curiously.

Beverly shrugged away the question as if not really

sure herself. "One moment he seemed himself, then the

next he was like a man possessed."

"Are you qualified to perform an exorcism,

Doctor?" asked Riker. The grim expression

on his face robbed the question of any humor.

"I don't believe an outside agent is the

problem, Commander," said Troi. After her talk with

Guinan, the counselor had reached a new understanding

of the captain's behavior. "Even if the Heart

is sentient, I don't sense that it has taken

control of Captain Picard. It acts more like an

amplifier of all his emotions, and it has

transformed his fascination with the stone's legend into an

obsession."

"There's more to it than that, Deanna," said

Crusher. "It's no secret that our captain

strives for perfection, that he dislikes making

mistakes or losing. And after his abduction by the

Borg ..."

"Ah, yes," said the counselor, pleased by the

additional insight Beverly provided. "After his

abduction he felt very vulnerable. So now he

has what he believes to be the key to preventing

failure of any sort."

Riker frowned at the exchange. "You mean the

Heart has made him an offer he can't

refuse?"

"Yes," said Troi. "Yes, perhaps it has."

"Engineering to Captain Picard."

Picard woke with a start to find he was still sitting

upright on the ready room sofa, and he wondered

if he had been pulled out of sleep or into a

dream.

"Engineering to Captain Picard," repeated

La Forge patiently.

"Picard here."

"The engine core is back on-line,

Captain. We'll have warp speed in ten

minutes."

"Acknowledged, Lieutenant."

Geordi's voice was familiar, and there was no

sense of the disorientation that had accompanied Jack

Crusher's presence, so Picard decided he was

truly awake.

Tapping his comm insignia, he said, "Picard

to Riker. Prepare for an immediate departure from this

sector."

"Aye, Captain!" came the first officer's

enthusiastic response. Riker was obviously

eager for a return to Federation territory; the

demand for yet another diversion would be difficult

for him to accept.

Tucking the Heart securely into the crook of

his arm, Picard whispered, "You have shown me where you

need to go, but I still don't know what to do when we

get there."

If only there had been time for one more dream

... but despite his need for further guidance,

Picard had fought against sleep. The encounter with

Jack Crusher had shaken him too deeply

to slip willingly into unconsciousness. So now,

even though the past history of the Heart had been

illuminated in exquisite detail, the future

remained cloaked in mystery.

Unfortunately, the stakes were too high

to delay action. He would have to proceed anyway,

blindly trusting that the Heart would eventually reveal

the last of its secrets.

The bridge was alive with the sound and movement of a

ship restored to good health. Every console was fully

powered and brightly lit; crew members marched

briskly back and forth across the deck from

one duty station to another; and minute by minute, the

air Riker breathed was growing sweeter and warmer.

"All systems are operational," called out

La Forge from the aft deck engineering station. From his

post at tactical, Worf echoed the engineer's

words; and Data looked over his shoulder and nodded

to confirm the helm's ready status.

To Riker's mind, however, the return

to normalcy would not be complete until the vacant

captain's chair was filled. Picard's absences

from the bridge were growing noticeably longer. The

first officer was not given to undue flights of

fancy, yet he imagined that the Heart could sense

the crew's antagonism to its presence, and like an

animal under siege, it constantly urged a

return to the safety of its den.

Rising to his feet at the sound of parting

doors, Riker studied Picard as he emerged from

the shadowed recesses of the ready room. The bright,

even lighting of the bridge emphasized the

captain's drawn face and pale complexion; the

impression of a live animal crouched on his arm

was strengthened by his protective embrace of the

Heart.

While the captain walked toward the command

center, Riker continued with the routine preparations for the

ship's departure. "Mr. Data, lay in a

course for Starbase 75."

"Belay that order, Mr. Data," said

Picard. "Set a new course heading."

The string of destination coordinates the captain

called out next meant nothing to Riker, but he was

appalled by the direction Picard had chosen. This

sense of shock was universal; the entire bridge

crew had frozen, arrested in mid-motion by the

unexpected command.

"Captain," said Riker. "That course is on

a direct line away from Federation territory."

"I'm aware of that, Number One," said

Picard. "Helm?"

Data's hands immediately blurred into motion

to make up for his momentary hesitation. "Course

laid in, sir."

"Warp one." The captain stabbed his hand in the

air as if to point the way through space.

"Engage."

On the viewscreen, pinpoint stars transformed

into streaks of light as the Enterprise slipped

into warp speed. Heavy vibrations shuddered through the

primary hull as La Forge adjusted the

injection settings, but within seconds the trembling

eased away. Working in tandem with the chief engineer,

Picard ordered incremental increases in speed

until the starship was cruising smoothly at warp

four.

"The bridge is yours, Number One,"

announced Picard without warning. He turned

sharply on his heel and strode back to his ready

room.

Riker was the first to speak in the wake of the

captain's abrupt departure. "Data, where are

we going?"

"I can find no significant aspect to the

designated location," said the android. "However,

the coordinates for the site came from a star map the

captain has in his possession."

"A star map? Where did he get this map?"

"That I cannot say, but I suspect it is

somehow involved with the Heart."

The association was not surprising, but it was

definitely alarming. "Data, we've got

to get that ... thing away from the captain."

The android adopted a dubious expression.

"He has been most reluctant to release it from

his possession."

"Enough!" said Worf.

Riker looked up in surprise to find the

Klingon leaning over the deck rail, his face

glowering with suspicion.

"The Pagrashtak is best left in the hands of

Captain Picard. As his security chief, I

will not allow it to be taken by force."

"No, of course not, Lieutenant," said the

first officer, compelled into a hasty retraction by this

unexpected opposition. "It's entirely the

captain's decision when to give up the Heart."

Yet Riker seriously questioned whether Picard

would ever reach that decision on his own.

And just what am I going to do about that? he

wondered as they all sped farther and farther toward

nowhere.

CHAPTER 30

"Come," called out Picard, and waited to see

who would enter the ready room.

He had known there would be repercussions from his

last set of orders. His involvement with the Heart

was gathering momentum, and he was pulling his crew

faster and faster along with him toward a

murky climax that was beyond their understanding. It was beyond

his, as well, or he would have tried harder

to explain his actions. Their loyalty to him ran

deep, but for how long could he take advantage

of that faith?

"Do you ever put it down, Captain?"

Picard glanced up from his contemplation of the

Heart to find that Counselor Troi had fixed

him with a speculative look. It was a familiar

expression, and one he had learned to distrust in the

past.

"What are you talking about?" asked Picard,

although he knew quite well what she meant.

Troi only smiled at his clumsy evasion.

"Its very presence seems to comfort you, physically as

well as emotionally."

Her observation was uncomfortably perceptive.

His ready room must have cooled by at least five

degrees when life support services were

reduced to conserve power, but Picard had barely

felt the cold as long as he was in contact with the

stone; and its weight, cupped in his hands or

tucked in the crook of his arm, was a constant

reminder of the protection it offered.

"So," Troi persisted, "I couldn't help

wondering if setting the Heart aside distresses

you. How long can you go without it?"

"Counselor," said Picard with a forced smile,

"you make it sound like an addiction."

"Do I? That's very interesting."

"Oh, no," he said with a shake of his head.

"I have no intention of getting drawn into a

discussion about addiction and obsession. I can end this

matter right here and now."

Rising up from the sofa, the captain walked over

to the far side of his office and tucked the stone on

a high shelf. Stepping away from the wall unit,

he said, "There, Counselor. Are you

satisfied?"

"This is not something you must do to please me," said

the empath. Her dark eyes flitted up and down,

measuring the distance from the floor to the shelf, a

height that was well beyond her reach. "I only ask

you to reflect on how the stone has affected you.

How do you feel about putting it away?"

"I feel nothing other than the desire to get

a good night's sleep."

"Yes, you seem to spend much of your time alone

these days."

Really, there was no pleasing the woman.

"Would you prefer that I drop by Ten-Forward

instead?"

"It's not my preferences that are the issue,

Captain. You should do what you wish."

He uttered a mock groan. "And regardless

of what I do, you'll take notes and look

pensive."

"Probably," said Troi with a good-natured

laugh. "Good-night, Captain."

The counselor walked out of the ready room, but

her challenge concerning the Heart remained behind,

taunting him. Even worse, the exchange with

Troi revived memories of another warning.

It is not too late for me, T'Sara. I

can still maintain control.

Picard shivered in the cool air and without thinking

reached out for the Heart's warmth.

He stopped himself before his fingers touched the rough

surface of the stone, but the arrested motion seemed

to rob him of an alternate purpose and

direction. His original intention had been

to resume his wait for a new dream to guide his

next steps, but now the ready room seemed a

bleak and uninviting place to sleep. Yet the

thought of walking out onto the bridge filled him

with a vague anxiety.

What should I do now?

Guinan looked out from under the broad brim of a

burgundy bonnet. "Tea?" she asked of her

new customer.

Picard nodded. "Tea."

"One Earl Grey coming up."

"No," he said on impulse. "Not Earl

Grey. I'll have Srjula instead."

"Srjula? An Andorian tea?" The

hostess turned to a tidy row of canisters on a

shelf behind her. Common teas could be requested from the

food replicators, but the molecular patterns

of the more exotic brands were rarely available, and the

drink had to be made from real leaves. Guinan

pried open the lid of one of the jars and peered at the

contents. "We don't get much call for this on the

Enterprise."

"I'm in the mood for something different."

"Srjula is certainly different," she said,

setting a clear teacup and saucer on the bar. The

crumpled leaves that she sprinkled into the cup were

orange, but when hot water was poured over them,

they turned bright yellow, then dissolved.

She sniffed experimentally at the pungent aroma,

then grimaced. "I've never actually tasted it,

myself."

Picard picked up the saucer and took a

tentative sip from the cup. His mouth pursed

involuntarily. He took another sip.

"Yes, that's perfect."

"It is?" said Guinan.

He nodded emphatically. Srjula. The

memory of its tart, bitter taste was borrowed from

a dream, yet he knew that it was just as it should be.

Guinan shrugged and moved on to her next

customer, yet Picard felt her gaze following

him as he walked across the deck. He wound his

way to a table where Beverly Crusher was finishing off

a slice of pie. She hastily licked a smear

of whipped cream off her upper lip.

"You came alone tonight, Captain."

"Alone?" he said as he sat down across from

her. A backdrop of deep space framed her

body.

Crusher pointed to his hands, which were wrapped

tightly around his teacup. "No rock."

"Oh, that." Picard loosen ed his grip; the

warm, round shape between the palms of his hands had

been familiar and reassuring. "I left it in

my cabin. It's not as if I can't do without it."

"No, of course not." She made a token

effort to hide her amusement by eating the last bite

of her dessert, but he detected the ends of her

smile curling up around the spoon.

"Let's not talk about the Heart," he said.

"That's an excellent idea." She shoved

aside the empty plate and leaned forward. Her

voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Instead, why don't we--" She stopped. Her

nose wrinkled ever so slightly. "What on earth

is that smell?"

"Tea," said Picard, lifting the cup up

to his lips.

"You're drinking that?"

"Yes, of course." He took a sip, but

had to fight an impulse to spit out the liquid.

His craving for the astringent brew had faded. He

swallowed anyway. "It's delicious."

As he set down the cup, he caught a flash

of movement outside the Ten-Forward window.

"If you say so." Crusher pulled back

slightly and began again. "As I was saying, why

don't we--" She stopped again,

obviously alarmed by the sudden change in his

expression and the silence that had fallen over the

entire room. "Captain? What's wrong,

Jean-Luc?"

He tried to answer, but his throat had closed

too tightly to let the words escape.

They're back.

The doctor checked back over her shoulder;

she was the last to see it. A simple cubic

shape hung in space, its baroque metallic

structures gleaming softly in reflected

starlight.

"Oh my god," she cried. "It's the

Borg."

As her words echoed through the room, flashing red

lights began their staccato pulse and alert

sirens sprang to life. Picard scrambled

to his feet, overturning the table and chair in his

haste, knowing only that he must get away quickly.

"Captain to the bridge! Captain to--"

Riker's intercom voice was drowned out by the

high whine of a Borg transporter beam.

Picard froze in his tracks; the sound brought forth

a memory of pain, a pain so fierce that he would

do anything to escape it again.

Five Borg materialized in the center of the

room, back-to-back in a tight formation like a

satanic pentagram. Each took a step forward

and began to fire straight ahead.

No! Not again. Please not again.

Another step, another round of fire.

Screams. People were screaming; people were falling to the

deck; people were dying.

I should do something. I must do something. I'm the

captain. But the terror that gripped him was so

strong that he couldn't move. If he moved, they

would see him.

He watched instead.

He watched as Guinan pulled a phaser out from

behind the counter. She was hit before she could even pull

the trigger. Her body went up in flames.

The Borg took another step and five more people

crumpled to the floor. A few writhed and

groaned, the others lay still.

He watched as Beverly Crusher brushed past

him, rushing to the aid of one of the dying crewmen. A

sweep of a Borg arm sent her flying through the

air. Her body landed at Picard's feet, her

back oddly twisted and her face slack and

wooden.

One last step. A Borg was standing right in

front of him.

Picard watched as it raised an arm and

extruded a whirring metal rotor from the tip.

The twirling blades shredded the cloth of his

uniform, the skin beneath, and then bored a hole

straight through to his heart ...

Picard woke with a burning sensation deep in his

chest; there were other pains, needle-sharp and throbbing,

embedded in his muscles and bones. Two years

after their removal, his body still remembered

exactly where the Borg implants had been

placed. He clutched the front of his uniform and

nearly retched at the feel of the damp, sticky

cloth.

It's only sweat.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Not so

bad. After all, this nightmare hadn't wrenched

tears and screams from him. He was beyond the need

to drag Deanna Troi out of her bed to hear him

babble about terror and cowardice and loss of

control. This was just a predictable reaction to the

presence of a captured Borg on board the

Enterprise last month; Picard's brief

impersonation of Locutus had triggered

uncomfortable memories ...

... or the dream was a warning.

No, dammit, this has nothing to do with the

Heart.

His fingers curled, cold and stiff, as if they

yearned to wrap themselves around the stone's fire. His

chest was still aching. Had he experienced a routine

nightmare or another vision? If the Heart could

show him the past, could it also show him the future?

"Picard to bridge," he called out as he

swung his legs over the edge of the couch.

"Data here, Captain."

He rose and moved across the room to his

bookshelves. "Lieutenant, increase speed

to warp six and initiate evasive maneuvers."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Maintain our previous

destination coordinates, just get us there a different

way than originally planned."

"Yes, sir."

The captain reached up to the shelf and closed his

hands around the Heart. Its warmth flooded through

him, washing away the tension in his muscles.

The pain in his chest began to fade.

CHAPTER 31

Warden Chandat was accustomed to spending long

hours sitting in place while maintaining an air

of dignity and supreme authority over tedious

proceedings. He had developed this skill

presiding over countless Faculty meetings, but

he was somewhat disillusioned to discover that the demands

on a starship commander were not so very different from his own

administrative duties. The bridge chair was

more comfortable than the one in the council chamber,

Chandat conceded, but the view was less interesting.

Over the last two days, the novelty of staring

forward at nothing but stars on a flat screen had

worn off.

"Estimated time of arrival is one hour and

five minutes," announced Dean Shagret from the

helm. He, unlike the warden, could constantly

entertain himself by scanning the console readouts and

playing with the controls.

"Maintain course and speed." The phrase

felt less foreign on Chandat's tongue after

several repetitions. Without such squelching

directives, the dean had an annoying tendency

to practice new flight maneuvers that sent the

ship careening in unexpected directions.

"Initiating long-range sensor scans,"

announced Thorina. This would be her third scan

within the last hour, but whenever Shagret issued one

of his status reports, she was spurred

to activate her console again.

Their rivalry had started soon after the

Sullivan's departure from Dynasia when the

two deans began squabbling over who among the

Faculty had sufficient seniority to sit in the

command area. Recognizing the importance of this

symbolic center of authority, Chandat had

reluctantly given up his place at navigation

to secure his position as leader of the expedition.

Then his first official act as the ship's commander had

been to order the two deans to posts at opposite

ends of the bridge.

A muffled sound drew Chandat's attention to the

old man seated by his side. The professor

had remained silent until now.

"So near ..." whispered Manja. His voice

was husky with sorrow. "If only T'Sara could

have lived long enough to share this moment with me."

Chandat would have preferred to keep the

historian out of sight; Diat was a constant

reminder that the basis for this venture was taken from a

hoary myth in the Dream literature. However,

banishing the professor from the bridge would have been

too cruel. Manja thought this mission had been

mounted on his behalf, as a champion of

T'Sara, and he would have been hurt by any

attempt at exclusion. As it was, the old

man would be hurt eventually, but Chandat tried not

to cast his thoughts that far ahead.

Fortunately, the demands of operating a starship

had fully occupied the attention of the other

professors and prevented them from asking too many

questions about their destination. However, the Sullivan

would arrive at the Appointed Place soon, and

then the folly of this quixotic search for the Gem

would be all too apparent to all the Dynasians.

"Chandat!" Thorina's cry of alarm jerked the

warden out of his reverie. "I've got something on the

scanners!"

"Could you be more specific?" asked Chandat.

Since she had issued several false alarms

during the voyage, he had quickly learned not

to attach too much significance to such outbursts.

"There's a Federation starship dead ahead,

registry number NCC-1701D."

The warden started up out of his chair and twirled

around to face the dean. "Are you sure?"

"Confirmed," said Oomalo, peering down over

the dean's shoulder at the tactical screen.

"Their trajectory matches ours. It appears

that we will not be the first to arrive at the Appointed

Place."

This news was most unsettling; the warden had

never thought to factor another starship into any of his

contingency plans. Chandat wracked his memory for

an appropriate command response. "Open

hailing frequencies."

"Do what?" asked Thorina, who was still flustered

by the unexpected success of her scan. "Oh,

yes, the radio."

With a dubious frown, she jabbed her finger at the

midsection of the communications console. A

high-pitched squeal of static burst over the

bridge speakers. Thorina jabbed again and the noise

turned into a stream of chattering voices.

As Chandat listened to the oddly familiar, yet

incomprehensible language, Shagret called out

with disdain, "That's not Federation Standard."

"The incoming transmission is not from the

starship," said Oomalo. The native

professor edged in beside Dean Thorina, andwitha

refreshing display of competence, rapidly tapped

a sequence over the console surface.

"Activating the universal translator."

"I would have done that next," snapped Thorina,

but she moved aside to give Oomalo better

access to the controls.

The abstract sounds suddenly turned into words.

"... must rely on sheer numbers to maintain

our advantage. The Federation's weapons

technology is superior to that of any one of our

vessels."

Oomalo glanced over at the tactical

monitor. "We appear to have intercepted intership

communications from a group of vessels just entering the

sector. They also are headed for the Appointed

Place."

An answering transmission crackled over the

subspace radio channel. "The

unDiWahn captains are united as one mighty

fist, Admiral. We shall crush the Enterprise

and reclaim the Gem."

"DiWahn?" cried out Manja. "Did they

really say DiWahn?"

"By the Three Gates," said Chandat in

amazement. "I heard it, too."

"Ancient history is coming alive, Warden!"

Excitement at the discovery wiped away the old

man's grief. He was a Dynasian after all,

and knowledge was the first love of all their race.

Chandat's respect for T'Sara's scholarship

overwhelmed his own concerns for just a moment. Thanks

to the Vulcan, two branches of the scattered

Iconian peoples were finally reunited on the

other side of the Gate.

Oomalo, unmoved by legends that were alien to her

own people, was more practical in her reaction to the

revelation. "We had better make a friendly

overture to these DiWahns before they mistake us

for a Federation faction. If we offer to combine

forces, then the starship will be easily overpowered."

"How very inconvenient," muttered Chandat

to himself. Fortunately, his heretical comment was

drowned out by the ragged victory cheers of the

Faculty.

The ancient engineers of Iconia had

obviously respected the need for introspection.

On each of their starships they had

reserved space for a small niche that would shelter

a body in meditation. After boarding the flagship

of the unDiWahn fleet, Master Kierad@an

had retreated inside just such a niche and spent the

duration of the journey through space in consultation with

himself.

Traditionally, the reciting of the Dream Lore

was done in a circle of the Faithful, but

Kierad@an was conducting a private Telling.

In the circle of his own mind, he was both

dream-teller and listener as he reviewed the

accumulated knowledge of his order and searched for new

insights. The men and women of the Faithful had

spent their lives exploring the lessons laced in

the dreams of the Gem-Bearers, and now Kierad@an

had five short days in which to judge this wisdom

for the last time.

"Master."

The unDiWahn was pulled out of his thoughts by a

low voice from outside the enclosure. Admiral

Jakat would not have interrupted this meditation without good

cause, but Kierad@an resented the intrusion

anyway. He had so little time left.

Drawing aside the curtain that closed off the

niche from the outer room, he said, "Yes,

Daramad@an?"

The admiral stepped closer to the high shelf

where Kierad@an sat. He moved with an

unusually stiff gait. "We have established

communications with a lone starship of Federation

registry; however, the crew claims to be

Iconian. Warden Chandat of Dynasia

asserts that they, too, are on course for the

Appointed Place."

This news explained the tension locked in the

muscles of the admiral's body. Kierad@an

felt his own frame stiffen in reaction to this

unexpected company.

"So, the Dynasians have survived on the other

side of their Gate."

This was no cause for rejoicing. Another contingent of

Iconians could complicate his plans for the Gem.

Despite this risk, Kierad@an decided he

would allow the strangers to continue ... for now. After

all, they might have a place in the Dreaming,

too.

"Propose an alliance to the Dynasians,"

said Kierad@an, "but make it clear that they must

follow our lead and let me negotiate for the

Gem. If they agree to these terms,

let them live."

"As you wish, Master." The admiral withdrew

without asking for further instruction. He was a

capable leader in his own right and required little

direction.

Closing the curtain, Kierad@an resumed his

meditation on the future of the Dream Gem.

Over the past century, those who held the

title of master had reached a consensus of opinion

as to the role of the Faithful in the Gem's

affairs. Upon his investment as leader of the order,

Kierad@an had pledged to honor that agreement when

he reached the Appointed Place, yet the

autonomy of his position encompassed the

authority to change his mind. It was that freedom that

troubled him now. His sworn duty had seemed much

easier to contemplate on DiWahn than it did

here in space, drawing ever nearer to the Gem. With

each hour that slipped away, he discovered new

arguments with which to counter the decision of his elders.

Even if he affirmed the conclusion reached by his

predecessors, Master Kierad@an wondered if

he had the strength of will to keep his feet on the

true path they had outlined. The title he bore

was for mastery over oneself, not over others, but he was

the first of the unDiWahn to actually face the Gem

and test his convictions.

Kanda Jiak, the last Iconian to be called

master, had failed. He had paid for that failure

with his life.

CHAPTER 32

Like a gull skimming the still surface of an

ocean, the USS Enterprise dropped out of

warp speed and coasted into a leisurely orbit

around a cooling star.

The white dwarf had no name, just a number

assigned by astronomers as they charted the

desolate reaches of space beyond the Federation. The

star had burned in isolation for nearly five thousand

years; but now, at the end of that long wait, the

dwarf's single companion was drawing near again.

The heat of their meeting had transformed the

speeding ball of rock and ice into a streak of

luminous vapor; thus, for a few short months

along the course of its elliptical orbit, the

comet flared into prominence. Later, once it

passed perihelion and fell farther and farther

away into cold fringes of the system, the

tail would fade, and the comet would continue in

anonymous invisibility for another five thousand

years.

Riker knew that comets were nothing more than stray

pebbles adrift in space, kicked into motion

by tidal waves of gravity. Over the years of his

Starfleet service, he had seen wonders of far

greater beauty and mystery than this lonely traveler

in its brief flash of glory, but perhaps it was

precisely that ephemeral quality that moved him

with a mixture of sadness and joy.

When he entered the ready room, Riker found the

captain staring out his window at the same bleak

tableau of the white dwarf and its consort. With a

softly uttered sigh of irritation, Picard

turned away from the scene to hear his first officer's

status report.

"Engineering has managed to restore our

deflector shield capacity to fifty-seven

percent," said Riker, "and Geordi expects

another ten percent improvement in the next few

hours, but for now we're extremely vulnerable."

Picard's gaze kept flicking away from his

first officer; he seemed to constantly fight against the

impulse to look over his shoulder. His hands were

equally restless, reaching for the Heart, then darting

back to the data tablet on his desk. "Do the best

you can with what we have, Number One."

One role that Riker often played with the captain

was devil's advocate; Picard had always

encouraged him to present any opposing arguments that

would offer a different perspective to critical

issues. Rarely, however, had Riker felt that

the stakes were so high as now. "The best we can do,

Captain, is to leave this area before we're

attacked."

This statement secured Picard's undivided

attention and sharpened his voice. "Are you questioning my

present command decisions?"

"No, sir, I'm not, but our orders--"

"My orders," said Picard with icy reserve,

"were to keep the Heart out of the hands of the enemies

of the Federation. I intend to do just that."

Riker's intuition led him toward a disturbing

corollary. "But you're not going to take it back

into Federation space, are you?"

"No." Picard lifted the stone up off the

desk as if to include the Heart in the discussion of

its fate. "Self-determination is one

of the basic tenets of Starfleet's

philosophy; as a sentient being, this entity must be

accorded control over its own destiny. Just as

important, in my judgment the interests of the

Federation are best served by removing the Heart from

our affairs. Captain Duregh's betrayal

convinced me that its continuing presence would eventually

destabilize our current political

alliances."

"Can you tell me how you plan to remove it?"

asked Riker. He had hoped for just such an opening

to discuss the captain's plans for the Heart.

"This place is essential. We must stay here

until ..." As he groped for words, Picard

unwittingly revealed the depth of his uncertainty.

"... until the Heart's mission has

completely unfolded."

"The longer we remain here, the greater the chance that

the unDiWahn--"

"The unDiWahn are not a danger, Number

One." With the Heart still clutched in his hands like a

talisman warding off evil, Picard said,

"You've seen what it can do with your own eyes. As

long as I hold the Heart, they can't even touch

us."

Even before his return to the bridge, Troi could

sense the rising intensity of Riker's emotions.

When he finally stepped out of the ready room,

however, she was relieved to see that Riker had

successfully masked his frustration and anxiety

behind an expression of vague geniality.

She watched as the first officer sauntered across the

command deck. His carefree air would convince

anyone but an empath that he had just enjoyed a

casual exchange with the captain. A quick

sidelong glance toward the aft deck nearly

gave Riker away, but Lieutenant Worf was

too absorbed with his tactical sensor readings

to catch the telltale sign of wariness.

Once Riker settled down beside her, however,

he shook his head. No success.

"Now what?" asked Troi in a low voice.

He shrugged. "Your turn again."

"No, I can feel his emotional reserve

heighten whenever I approach him. If he

won't even listen to me, he certainly won't

relinquish the Heart to my care."

"Well, then ..."

In perfect accord, she and Riker

both turned and fixed a speculative look on

the android working quietly at the helm.

Since Picard appeared entranced by the view

outside his window, Data stood patiently in

front of the ready room desk, waiting for the

captain to break out of his reverie. While he

waited, the android considered how he might best

attempt to fulfill Riker's directive.

Persuading Captain Picard to give up the

Heart would prove an interesting challenge in

interpersonal dynamics, but it was an area in which

Data judged himself to be somewhat inadequate.

Considering the strong emotions that were involved,

Data doubted that he would be able to succeed where

Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi had

failed.

Then, catching sight of one of the books on the

office desk, he was reminded of the captain's

deep respect for T'Sara and Ambassador

Sarek. Vulcans did not appeal to emotions,

yet Picard was often persuaded by these writings.

Perhaps logic could provide a more promising

approach.

Under his breath, Picard muttered, "How long

must I wait for an answer?"

Data determined the captain was addressing the

Heart resting in his hands. Apparently he received

no response from the stone, because Picard then

swiveled his chair around to face the android.

"What is it, Mr. Data? Am I to be

subjected to a visit by each of my senior

officers in turn? How can I think straight with

these continual interruptions?"

Without any preamble to soften his intent, Data

said, "We are concerned about the extent to which your

actions are being governed by the Heart."

"Then you need worry yourself no longer. I am

acting of my own volition." Evidently Picard

regretted the overly curt nature of this

response, because he stopped to take a deep

breath and then said, "Data, there is something the

Heart needs, a place it must reach, for reasons

I don't entirely understand, that I may be

incapable of understanding, yet its urgency is

unmistakable."

"Does this mean you will relinquish the stone so that

it can reach that destination, Captain?"

"Yes ... of course." Picard's eyes

widened ever so slightly as he

contemplated that scenario. "But not until the time

is right."

"Intriguing. When exactly will that time occur?"

"Not yet," said the captain. "I'll know when

the time comes."

"I admire your certainty. However, my

analysis of the Heart's history indicates that

if you delay too long, the stone will ensure its

own release by leaving us vulnerable to attack."

"No! The Heart offers us protection."

"Does it?" asked Data. "On this journey

you speak of, the Heart has left a trail of

death and devastation in its wake. This is not legend

or myth, but fact. We have seen the evidence

ourselves in the destruction of the Orions and the

Ferengi."

"The Heart is not to blame for those deaths," said

Picard with a vehement shake of his head. "The

Orions died due to their own greed, as did the

Ferengi; they courted their own downfall."

"And what of the Vulcans? Did T'Sara

deserve her fate?"

A spasm of grief, akin to pain, creased the

captain's face. This time he shook his head more

gently.

"From what I have observed," said Data, "the

protection it offers has a tendency to fail if

the Heart can secure a more useful host. When will

it tire of your custody?"

Picard fell silent for a moment as his thoughts

turned inward. "You aren't the first one to warn me that

I've held on too long." In a voice tinged

with a Vulcan accent, he recited, "It

constantly struggles to free itself from the tangle of

our grasping hands."

Encouraged by this admission of doubt, the android

pressed his argument even harder. "In the years that

we have served together, you have stressed how much you

value my unique perspective. Captain,

trust to my objectivity, to my lack of emotion,

when I tell you that the Heart is more of a danger

to us than any alien fleet. Give it up now,

while you still can. If you rely on its powers

to shield us from harm, we will be destroyed."

He held out his hands, palms upturned,

to accept the stone.

"Data," said Picard, "neither Surak or

T'Sara would lay this burden on another living

being. I don't have that right either."

"Remember that I have held the stone

before with complete immunity. As an android, I

cannot be seduced by its powers."

Picard's hands trembled when he lifted up the

Heart, as if this slight effort required a

concentration of all of his strength and will. "Then

take--"

"Bridge to Captain Picard," boomed

Worf's voice over the intercom. "The

unDiWahn fleet has reentered the perimeter

of our sensorfield ... the ships have been dispersed

in a surround pattern and are drawing in toward

us."

"Surrounded ..." Picard froze in

mid-gesture. "Data, I won't leave the

Enterprise vulnerable to attack!"

This was as much a plea for help as it was a

declaration of defiance. Data urged the obvious

solution. "Then we must leave this place while

there is still time to break through their formation. At our

fastest warp speed we can outpace the entire

unDiWahn fleet."

"Leave?" Despite his reluctance to accept

this suggestion, the captain was unable to marshal a

counter argument. "Yes ... I suppose we

must."

Data reached out to take hold of the Heart.

"Captain," said Worf again. "Sensors

have detected a Federation starship approaching the

sector."

The android's finger brushed against air.

Picard had pulled the stone back a few

inches. "The cavalry has reached us just in time,

Data."

"The registry number is that of the

Miranda-class USS Sullivan," continued

the security chief. "However, they are not

answering our hails, and Starfleet records

indicate the vessel was last assigned

to diplomatic duty in another quadrant."

"Yet another betrayal," said Data, quick

to underscore their growing danger. "All the more

reason for us to depart this sector."

"On the contrary," said Picard

unexpectedly. "This proves the futility of

retreat. Enemies follow in our wake wherever

we go. Even if we escape these forces, new

enemies and new betrayals will be waiting for us at

every port. We carry violence with us like a

plague. The chase must end here."

A calmness seemed to settle over the

captain, smoothing away the furrows of confusion and

doubt that had etched themselves into his face.

Cradling the stone to his chest, Picard said, "I

will need the Heart for just a while longer."

CHAPTER 33

"Make it so."

The huddle of officers around the captain flew

apart. Like players aiming for their marks on a

stage, they all moved briskly to their bridge

stations.

Picard took a step forward to center himself in the

command area, and Riker planted himself by the

captain's side; Worf assumed his background

role at the tactical console; and in the

foreground, Data took the helm. Transporter

Chief O'Brien, the one foreign element in this

familiar tableau, marched through the turbolift's

opening doors and disappeared.

"Status report, Mr. Worf?"

"Sensors show the unDiWahn fleet is still

closing at six hundred thousand kilometers

..."

Images began to form on the viewscreen. From

a distance, the unDiWahn ships appeared

surprisingly delicate. Their colorful hulls

were curled in spirals and waves, like autumn

leaves twisting in the wind. The thick saucer

section of the lone Miranda-class starship was stiff

and ungainly in the midst of these undulating

shapes.

"... five hundred thousand ... four hundred

thousand kilometers."

A hush fell over the bridge as the alien

ships drifted closer and closer until their

fluting edges nearly touched. The assembled

fleet formed the thin shell of a sphere with the

Enterprise captured in the hollow center. For

all its beauty, the pattern was also an

overwhelming display of military strength.

"Captain," said Worf in a low voice.

"We are being hailed by the unDiWahn

flagship."

"Establish visual communications,

Lieutenant."

Squaring his shoulders, Picard mentally prepared

himself for the raising of the curtain that would reveal him

to an audience. His hands tightened their hold on the

Heart, the key element in the unfolding

drama.

The chase would end now; the last blood to be

spilled would be here, on the bridge of the

Enterprise.

To the uninitiated, the gray rock was an

unremarkable object, but Kierad@an knew that

its plain cover masked a crystalline

structure that sparkled in the dark. What could not be

seen, what could only be felt, was the heat that

radiated from it. If only he could warm his hands

on the Dream Gem for just a few moments ...

With the greatest of difficulty, the master raised

his eyes to meet the Gem-Bearer's gaze. "I

am Kierad@an, leader of the Faithful."

"I am Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the

Enterprise." While the captain introduced his

senior officers, Kierad@an noted that fatigue

had left its marks on Picard's face,

bleaching his skin of color and sharpening the planes of

his skull. His fingers were rigid with tension,

gripping the Gem in a vise of bone and muscle.

As soon as the tedious formalities were

concluded, Kierad@an spoke. "Captain, I

request that you return the Gem to the keeping of the

unDiWahn. We are its Guardians and have

charge of its future."

Picard shook his head. "With all due

respect, Kierad@an, I don't recognize

your claim of ownership. The Gem remains with

me."

"Brave words for the commander of a starship far from the

safety of Federation space."

Pic ard's first officer strutted forward, filling

more of the oval viewscreen. "Our safety is of

less importance than the security of the Federation.

This crew has pledged to destroy the stone rather than

let it fall into the wrong hands."

"I do not believe you," said Kierad@an.

"No bearer would willingly give up possession

of the Gem."

"We're going to prove you wrong." Riker then

looked back to Picard as if expecting the older

man to echo this challenge. When the Gem-Bearer was

silent, Riker prompted him by saying,

"Captain, we agreed we must put an end

to--"

"No," said Picard, sidling away from the first

officer. "No, I've changed my mind. Such

an extreme measure won't be necessary

after all."

Riker's arrogance gave way to dismay.

"Captain!"

"Number One, with the Heart in my possession

I can defeat anyone who tries to take it away

from me." Picard's threat was directed at his first

officer, rather than the unDiWahn.

"As you can see," said Kierad@an to the young

officer, "this matter is between myself and your

captain."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Riker.

He slapped at a metal insignia on his

chest. "Now!"

All the doors to the bridge snapped open at

once. As security guards stormed through the

portals, the officer at the helm slid out from behind

his console and lunged toward the captain.

"Data, no!" cried out Picard.

The pale-skinned helmsman had wrapped his

hands around the Gem in an attempt to displace

Picard's hold. The Klingon on the aft deck

tried to rush to the captain's aid, but armed guards

immediately dragged him away from the bridge railing.

It took five of them to keep the warrior's arms

pinned behind his back.

Kierad@an had expected trouble; it was an

inevitable companion to the Gem's travels.

"Daramad@an," the master whispered, "prepare

to fire at my next command."

In the frame of the viewscreen, the two men were

still grappling for dominance. The Gem-Bearer's

face was contorted by a fierce possessive rage

that would have intimidated most assailants.

However, with a display of unusual strength, Data

wrenched the stone out of the captain's grasp.

While two guards wrestled Picard

facedown onto the deck, Data raised the stone

up into the air like the head of a vanquished enemy.

"The Gem is mine!"

Kierad@an's clenched fist held the admiral

at his side in check. Negotiation was still in

everyone's best interests. "You have only weakened

your position, Enterprise. It takes time

to learn how to use those powers."

"I do not need any time at all," said

Data, "because I plan to destroy the Gem now."

Alarmed by the man's resoluteness,

Kierad@an opened his fist and said,

"Daramad@an, fire!"

The Enterprise bridge rocked and

swayed as the Iconian weapons salvo

collided against its defense shields. This sudden

assault threw the crew off-balance. Cries and

shouts rang out as they confronted the deadly

consequences of their resistance. From his vantage

point as a spectator, Kierad@an also saw

Picard take clever advantage of this

widespread distraction.

"Worf!" screamed the captain as he twisted

out of his guard's choke-hold. "Stop Data!"

With a mighty heave, the Klingon threw off the

men holding him. One swipe of his muscular arm

ripped a phaser from a guard's belt. Roaring like

a wounded animal, he took aim at the android

and fired.

A narrow red beam lanced out across the bridge.

With reflexes faster than Kierad@an would have

believed possible, Data spun around and blocked

the force of the phaser blast with the Gem itself.

The stone absorbed the energy like a sponge. For a

moment, the master thought it would survive the blast,

but then the soft glow at its crystal center

ignited.

The Gem and its new bearer disappeared in a

fiery bloom of light.

"Don't move!"

The security guard planted his knee in the

small of Picard's back and shoved the captain

flat against the deck. The air was knocked out of his

lungs by the impact, and a raw scrape on his

cheek burned hotly as his face was ground into the

short fibers of the carpet. Picard battled for

breath against the crushing weight of the body pinning him

down.

"The unDiWahn have severed the communication link

..." Riker's voice came from a direction behind

and above where Picard lay, so the first officer must have

taken over the tactical console. "... and the

fleet appears to be retreating."

Pinpoints of colored light were forming on the

captain's retinas when Riker finally said, "We

did it!"

The guard released his hold.

With a soft groan of relief, Picard rolled

over onto his back and sucked in a lungful of

air. When the dancing spots had faded away,

he made a weak attempt to sit up and discovered

that his ribs were painfully bruised. Two

security guards grabbed hold of his

arms and pulled him up to a standing position.

"Sorry, sir," said a third guard as she

hastily brushed off the front of the captain's

tunic. "I guess we got a little carried

away."

Picard mustered a wan smile to allay their

anxiety, but his first words were directed to the ship's

intercom. "Bridge to transporter room. Good

job, Chief."

"Thank you, Captain," replied

O'Brien. A flash of white light exploded

in front of the helm for a second time. "I

enjoy a spot of fancy work now and then."

The entire crew erupted into laughter,

shattering the tension that had gripped them all during

the confrontation with the unDiWahn. Picard led a

round of appreciative applause, but even after

the clapping ended, high spirits persisted. Worf

sauntered back to his tactical station, the

security squads jostled their way off the

bridge, and Riker vaulted over the aft deck

railing to land with a heavy thud in front of the

captain.

"Your bluff worked!" exulted Riker. "They

really believe Worf destroyed Data and the

Heart."

Picard tugged at his rumpled tunic.

"Yes, Number One, it seems that--"

"Captain," cut in Worf. "The

unDiWahn fleet has halted its retreat.

All vessels are holding position at five

hundred thousand kilometers, just outside of

phaser range."

This statement hit Picard with greater force than

any physical blow. Robbed of speech by bitter

disappointment, the captain whirled around to stare at

the viewscreen. The unDiWahn ships sparkled

like metallic sequins scattered through space.

"At least we've bought some time, Captain,"

said Riker in a subdued whisper.

But time to do what? wondered Picard. Only

minutes had passed since the Heart had been

taken from him, yet he could already feel his empty

hands aching to hold the stone again.

What if I must destroy it after all?

Master Kierad@an stared out the port window of

his cabin, studying the Appointed Place. He

had no interest in the star, just its single orbiting

satellite. The comet was a cosmic

hourglass, and the length of its tail indicated that

valuable time had been lost.

"Do they take us for fools, Master?" The

sound of Daramad@an's heavy tread traced the

admiral's progress back and forth from one end

of the room to the other. "That was a trick, a show of

lights meant to dazzle and confuse the

simpleminded. The Gem has not been

destroyed!"

"No," said Kierad@an softly. "I don't

sense that it has left the Dreaming in that manner."

Yet he wondered if this conviction was based on

hope rather than on truth. His mind was spinning from the

attempt to make sense of the scene he had just

witnessed. Picard was the last of the Gem-Bearers

to appear in the Dreaming; yet even though he had just

given up the stone to another being, his action had not

affected the Telling.

"Let us attack and take--"

"No!" The temptation to agree with

Daramad@an was strong, but there was so little time left

in which to act. Recovering the Gem by force might

take too long, and the consequences of such a

miscalculation would reverberate for five thousand

years. "There is something different about the one they

call Data. He holds the Gem without being

touched by it."

Could I do the same? Do I dare take the

place of someone who has already passed that test.

Kierad@an looked deep inside himself and did not

like what he saw.

Forsaking intellect, trusting to his instincts,

the master said, "Do not attack, Admiral.

Instead, your fleet must remain in position

to ensure that the Enterprise does not leave before the

Appointed Time."

"But I thought our mission was to take possession

of the Gem!"

I thought so, too. "We must trust that

Picard will aid the Gem to fulfill its

destiny." If the captain failed in his task, the

Gem would have to wait yet again to complete its

journey.

"You speak in riddles, Master."

Kierad@an gestured to the port window.

"Watch. You will understand soon enough."

When Picard stepped inside his ready room,

his gaze was drawn unerringly to the Heart. His

fears that it might have been damaged by the

intraship transport were eased by the sight of the

stone nestled in the crook of Data's arm.

"We're at a stalemate with the

unDiWahn," explained Picard when Data

looked up from his examination of the wall aquarium.

Evidently the android considered the Heart an

object of less interest than a fish swimming

idly in place. "However, visual communications

have been severed, so it's safe for you to return to the

bridge."

Data acknowledged the news with an impassive

nod. "Thank you, Captain."

I chose to give it up.

That knowledge did not lessen Picard's sharp pangs

of jealousy as he watched Data carry the Heart

across the room. Each step brought the two of them

closer and closer. When the android passed near enough

to touch, Picard lashed out with one arm. The fingers of

his hand wrapped around Data's wrist, just inches

away from the Heart.

Picard worked to keep his voice steady. "I still

haven't discovered the reason for the Heart 's

journey to this place. If only I could dream

one more time ..."

"Captain, we agreed that it would be best if

I retain possession of the Heart. I do not think

we should change that arrangement."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Picard

forced himself to release his hold on the android's arm

and walk away.

Heedless of direction, the captain ended up at

the ready room window. Picard studied the scene

outside the starship to distract himself from regrets.

According to Worf's calculations, the comet was

approaching perihelion, its closest distance to the

white dwarf, and thus the height of brilliance for

its gaseous tail.

Catching a glimpse of the Heart's reflection

in the window, Picard's thoughts rocketed back

to the events of the last hour. On the bridge, when

the time came to actually let go of the stone, he had

tried to fend off Data. Only the android's

superior strength had ensured that the staged event was

resolved according to plan.

"Data, you'd better leave--"

"Bridge to Captain Picard," called

out Riker. "Sensors have detected an ion

disturbance off the port bow."

Somewhere beyond the comet, Picard spotted a

pinprick of gleaming light. It was

surrounded by a shimmering aura of radiant energy.

"Indications are that a wormhole is forming out

there."

"A wormhole?" whispered Picard to himself.

A split second later, the pinprick

expanded into a glowing sphere, then exploded

outward. He found himself staring into the gaping maw of a

tunnel that had bored its way through light-years of

space.

"Data, that's it!" Picard marveled at the

ingenuity of those who had built the Guardian of

Forever. "The comet is merely a herald for the

wormhole's appearance. If the Heart passes

through that cosmic gate, it will be sown in some far

distant galaxy."

"That is an interesting hypothesis, Captain."

"No, Data, this is more than just a theory; it

is the fulfillment of a dream." Tapping his comm

insignia, the captain said, "Picard

to transporter chief. Mr. O'Brien, I have

one last miracle for you to perform."

Moments later, Picard listened to the high whine

of the transporter beam at his back. Without

looking, he knew, he could feel in his very bones,

that Data's hands were now empty.

Pressing his palms flat against the window's

cold surface, the captain searched in vain for

some glimpse of the Heart's reappearance. The

stone was too small and too dark for him to trace

its passage through the vast tunnel.

As the comet passed perihelion and began its

long fall toward night, the ring of the wormhole

rippled and quavered, then collapsed. This

fleeting channel into another galaxy was gone, and

it would not return for another five thousand years.

With the shuddering breath of a man waking from a long

sleep, Picard pulled away from the window.

"Our part in this story has ended now, Data."

CHAPTER 34

"We are being hailed by the unDiWahn," said

Worf.

Picard nodded and turned toward the main

viewscreen.

With one word, Kierad@an could order his forces

to advance and destroy the Enterprise in a storm

of fire. Picard had accepted his own death as the

price for the Heart's escape, but the loss of his

ship and crew filled him with bitter

regret.

The master appeared. His face bore a serene

smile.

"Good-bye, Gem-Bearer," said Kierad@an.

"Our guardianship is over, so it is time for us

to leave this place."

Before the captain could reply, the leader of the

Faithful had faded off the bridge viewscreen,

displaced by an image of deep space.

"Do you think he means it?" asked Riker.

"Are they really leaving?"

The captain nodded. Somehow the unDiWahn

had sensed the stone's passage through the wormhole.

He would have expected knowledge of its loss to trigger a

violent retaliation against the Enterprise, yet

Kierad@an had addressed him with respect.

Gem-Bearer. It seemed a hollow title

to Picard now that the Heart was gone.

A patch of color flashed across the screen,

then another. One by one, the unDiWahn ships were

breaking away from their spherical formation to gather

around their flagship. When the last vessel had

reached the tail end of the swarm, they all took

flight. Soon distance worked its magic, and the

deadly fleet was transformed into a cloud of

butterflies fluttering away on a summer

breeze.

In their wake, however, the Faithful had left

behind a lumbering stepchild.

"We are being hailed by the USS

Sullivan," announced Worf.

"On screen, Lieutenant."

The view shifted once again, this time to the

bridge of a starship. Picard winced when he

took a close look at the man sitting in the

captain's chair. He had a greenish-purple

bruise on his forehead and a jagged scratch down

one cheek. "You look like hell, Richard."

"Oh, these are old wounds, Jean-Luc," said

Captain Mycelli, shrugging off his injuries.

"As soon as the unDiWahn fleet cut

loose, the Dynasians surrendered peacefully.

I'm back in command of the Sullivan."

"Do you need additional security?" asked

Riker.

"No, the ringleader is in custody, and ..."

Mycelli was rendered speechless by the sight of

Data returning to his place at the helm.

He stared at the android for several seconds, then

looked back to Picard. "I look

forward to reading your mission report, Captain."

"I'm sure you're not the only one,

Captain," said Picard with a wry smile.

To his relief, however, Mycelli did not ask

for details, and the exchange of further amenities

was brief.

"Number One," said Picard when contact with the

Sullivan had ended, "it's time for us to leave as

well."

Lowering himself into the captain's chair, Picard

let his first officer arrange the details of their

departure. Orders and confirmations echoed across the

bridge until Data said, "Course laid in

for Vulcan."

The crew fell silent.

Picard had tested their loyalty to the limit

on this mission, so he could hardly resent their

anxiety as they waited for him to utter one

crucial word.

"Engage."

Anger was not a useful emotion for a diplomat,

reflected Ambassador Tommas as she entered

the security complex of the Sullivan. Allowing

such a simplistic emotion to overwhelm her thoughts

would only hinder her analysis of the Dynasian

situation.

Damn him!

The hijacking of the starship was essentially a

political act, yet she had been personally

betrayed by Warden Chandat's actions. Trust was

an integral component of forging ties between the

member planets of the Federation, and that link began

between individuals. How could she reconcile her

deep respect for Keyda Chandat with the

unpleasant fact that he had taken advantage

of her overtures of friendship?

Steeling herself for the coming confrontation, Tommas

stepped up to the portal of a security cell.

On the other side of the glowing frame, the warden was

seated on a narrow cot. Some prisoners might

slump or lounge in captivity, but he held

himself erect, as if overseeing an invisible

council. Even in detention the man appeared to be

in complete control of his surroundings; however, his

followers were not so self-assured. After Chandat's

surrender, any effective resistance from the other

academics had collapsed entirely.

"Good evening, Ambassador," said Chandat with a

gracious nod of his head.

Tommas could not bring herself to echo the warden's

civility. "For the Faculty's crime against

Starfleet, our Council has ruled that

Dynasia will be barred from admission to the Federation

for at least a century."

"A century?" He appeared curiously

unruffled by this lengthy sentence of punishment. If

anything, the corners of his mouth turned upward with

smug satisfaction.

"Warden, I don't believe you comprehend the

severity of your offenses."

"Of course, I do, Ambassador."

Uttering a sigh of exasperation, the Dynasian

leaned forward and spoke in the didactic tone of a

professor instructing an especially dim

student. "A century of grace will ease the

pressures that have splintered the Faculty

into warring factions. With time, when the conservative

members have all died off, a new generation of

Dynasians may choose to reapply for

admission to the Federation ... and deserve it."

For the first time, Tommas realized how seriously

she had underestimated the warden's commitment to his

people. "You planned this outcome from the beginning."

Chandat's smile broadened. "My scheme was

nearly undone by the appearance of the unDiWahn,

but fortunately Captain Picard's clever ruse

convinced them to retreat, and it gave me an

excuse to surrender the Sullivan.

Historians may record this foiled grab for the

Gem as my greatest failure, yet the stone has

granted me my heart's desire I have

restored peace to my planet."

As a counterpoint to inner reflection, the

ancient Iconian engineers had also designed

an observation chamber for looking outward. The

room was missing any flight controls, so the

curving transparent walls served no functional

purpose beyond fostering contemplation of the universe.

Kierad@an was deeply grateful for the change of

scenery after the prolonged examination of his own soul.

Over the days of their return journey

to DiWahn, he would have the freedom to enjoy this

expansive vista of stars.

The admiral of the fleet was less inclined

to philosophical musings. After a cursory

glance to check the formation of the armada trailing behind the

flagship, Daramad@an continued his argument against

their retreat. "But Master, the powers of the

Gem could have carried our people back to the grandeur of

our Iconian ancestors."

"We fell from that height because Jiak held on

to the Gem too long. Our duty as Guardians

was to make atonement for his misjudgment, not to repeat

past mistakes."

This had been the consensus of a long line of

masters, and Kierad@an had adhered to the s pirit, if

not the letter, of their directive. He had forsaken the

honor of personally sending the Gem on its way

through the wormhole, but then he had also avoided the

temptation to keep it for another five thousand

years.

A heavy sigh from Daramad@an signaled an

acceptance, if not an understanding, of his leader's

wisdom. "Having left this battlefield

empty-handed, must the Order of the Faithful disband?"

"No, Admiral, there is a great deal of work

still to be done. A new era has begun for the

descendants of dead Iconia. You and I will

return to a country that is at peace with its

neighbors for the first time in centuries; your fleet

will serve the needs of our planet, not a

war-mongering king. Our store of knowledge will be shared with

all who seek it."

Iconia's scattered children had spent too many

centuries resisting their fate. With some sadness,

but even greater pride, Master Kierad@an

announced, "The unDiWahn are now the

DiWahn."

Ten-Forward provided one of the best scenic

views aboard the Enterprise, but tonight Picard

had been unsettled by a sense of vulnerability

when he entered the lounge. Halfway through dinner,

he angled his chair to avoid looking out the

spacious windows. After that, his sense of dread

gradually dissipated.

"Earl Grey?" asked Guinan as she passed

by the table.

"Yes, please," said Picard. "Most

definitely Earl Grey."

For some reason the mention of tea touched off the

memory of a sharp, bitter taste. The basis of

this odd association hovered just out of reach.

"Jean-Luc?"

He blinked, then realized that he had been staring

at his dinner companion without truly seeing her.

At least Beverly was smiling at his distraction.

It was a generous reaction considering he

had invited the doctor to join him, then proceeded

to lapse into longer and longer silences.

"Jean-Luc, why don't we--"

"Here you are." Guinan set a steaming cup of

tea down in front of the captain, then rushed

away before he could thank her. She had been

especially attentive this evening, which was her way of

expressing affection.

Picard wrapped his hands around the warm, round

cup. "You were saying?"

"Hmm? I don't remember."

"Why don't we ..." he prompted.

"Oh, yes. Why don't we call it a

night. You're obviously exhausted."

He fought against the sudden urge to yawn, but

lost. When his mouth had stopped its convulsive

gaping, he said, "I suppose you're right. I have

quite a bit of sleep to catch up on."

This admission of weariness seemed to sap away

the last of his strength. He tried to sip his tea,

but the weight of the cup was too much for him to lift more

than a few inches off the table.

"Come on, Captain," said Beverly, rising from

her chair. "I'll see you to your cabin."

"According to ancient etiquette," muttered

Picard, "that's supposed to be my line."

Despite this half-hearted protest, he let the

doctor take hold of his arm and guide him out of

Ten-Forward.

By the time they had threaded their way through the ship's

corridors to the door of his cabin, Picard could

barely lift his feet. Beverly propelled him

through the open threshold with a gentle push, and he

stumbled to the bedroom with his eyes already

half-closed in anticipation of sleep.

He threw himself down on the bed without bothering

to undress, but even though his body was spent, his

mind clung tenaciously to consciousness.

For the first time since he had touched the Heart,

he was alone in the darkened cabin.

No more dreams ...

After its long fight to reach the wormhole, the

seed was working its way toward another world. Someday

it would land on alien soil, and a new Guardian

would grow to maturity, crystal by crystal.

Picard's hands clenched, then relaxed. The

aching hunger to touch the Heart's rough surface was

fading away.

His sharply etched memories of other hands that

had cupped its weight--of Kessec and

Halaylah, of a dying Andorian healer and an

exultant Romulan queen--all these were dimming

as well. He could recall the shriveled face

of the Collector in her chamber, but he had lost

the image of her in life; and there had been a young

Vulcan scrambling through a field of fallen

soldiers, but Picard no longer remembered where

the boy was going or why.

Ko N'ya. One bearer lingered long enough in his

mind to whisper its name for the last time.

"It's gone, T'Sara," said Picard

softly. "The blood has finally stopped flowing."

Then he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Epilogue

Camenae snapped the towel into the air to shake

off any dust, then plucked a tumbler out of the

shipping carton and wiped away the packing foam.

When the glass sparkled once again, she tucked it

into a low shelf beneath the bar.

Guinan had donated the glassware to the new

venture; Anlew-Is had imported the counter from

Orion in payment of his past debts; and the two

tables and five chairs in the middle of the lounge were

on temporary loan from the Starfleet office.

Miyakawa had cheerfully acknowledged that she

wouldn't have time to sit down for at least the next

two years.

Camenae snapped the towel again, then picked

up a long-stemmed wineglass. Although the commander was

driving the base reconstruction effort with a manic

zeal that probably would win her a promotion

to commodore before the year was out, a few amenities

were still lacking. Sonic dishwashers, for instance.

The doors to the room slid open, and a young man

peered inside. He hesitated for a moment, taken

aback by the sparsely furnished interior, then

evidently took courage from the presence of other

customers and crossed the threshold.

The Do or Die was not officially open for

business, but a few people had already drifted inside

this morning, content just to sit and talk. There was

only one familiar face in the group of

Rigelians who had settled at one table. Some

of the old customers had been killed when

Smelter's Hold was destroyed; others, like the

bartender, had left during the evacuation and never

bothered to come back. Camenae could have used some

extra help with setting up the new establishment,

but unfortunately Miyakawa paid better

wages.

The newcomer sidled up to the bar. At close

quarters, he looked even younger than she had first

thought. Beneath the furrows of his brow, his round face

wore the anxious, earnest look of a child trying

to act like an adult.

He tossed a credit chip onto the counter with

an awkward imitation of nonchalance.

Camenae glanced down at the payment, then

smiled. "My drinks aren't that expensive."

"I didn't come here for a drink. I heard you

could give me some information." He shoved the credit

chip closer to her.

"What kind of information do you want?" she

asked.

"I'm trying to find a Vulcan named

T'Sara."

With a sigh, Camenae said, "I can't take your

money for that information. Everyone on this starbase has

heard of T'Sara's death."

The boy's violet skin flushed a deep

indigo, and he bowed his head as if in sorrow.

"I'm sorry," she said, with a frown of

discomfort at his reaction. "I didn't realize

you knew her."

"I didn't." Yet when he lifted his head,

his eyes were filled with pain. "I read that she

once visited my homeworld, and I had hoped

to talk to her about her trip."

Camenae expected the boy to take back the

credit chip and leave, but he swallowed hard and

dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So tell me about the Dream Gem instead. I

need to know where it is."

Camenae finished polishing the wineglass, then

she slid the chip back across the counter. "You're

in luck. Someone else has already paid that bill,

and she gave me permission to answer your question free

of charge."

His eyes brightened with anticipation.

"The Gem is gone," said Camenae. "Gone

beyond the reach of any being in this galaxy."

He shook his head angrily, refusing

to believe. She shrugged and picked up yet

another glass to clean.

"You don't understand--I must find it!" said the

young man.

"And if you don't?"

"I must! The Gem is a part of my

heritage. It once belonged to my people, and I would

give my life for the chance to get it back."

"You're too late to make that sacrifice."

Camenae stopped in mid-motion. "Why does this

mean so much to you?"

At first it seemed the boy would not answer, but

at last he said, "T'Sara would have understood ...

I'm the last of the Ikkabar and ..." Some strong

emotion choked off his next words.

"No, don't stop now," said Camenae

softly. "Tell me more. Perhaps I can help."

She set aside the glass, leaned her elbows

on the bar counter, and began to listen.

THE END

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