
 DEBTORS' PLANET

Chapter One

The probe went sublight and scanned the
space around it. The first readings matched the data
in its memory banks: one yellow dwarf star,
attended by a family of planets; nearest
celestial landmark: Weber 512. The first
planet was class J, dead and airless,
unchanged since the last probe's visit. The
second planet was class M, Earthlike,
inhabited by primitives--
Data mismatch. High-intensity energy
readings teased the drone's sensor array. Drawn
by a curiosity as intense as that of its makers, the
probe moved into the system. The mystery deepened
as the distance lessened. The robot noted intense
electromagnetic radiations, modulated
into signals; neutrino sources pinpointed
fission reactors; low-frequency radiations
resolved into an electric power grid.
Objects in low planetary orbits radiated
more signals. The probe initiated a subspace
transmission to its makers.
A spacewarp suddenly twisted in high orbit
around the second planet. The drone located the
starship and identified it as a Ferengi vessel.
Logic dictated contact; the probe signaled
the ship. Greetings from the Vulcan Academy
of Science. This craft is a robot probe on
a routine survey. To access a full data
readout, respond on subspace frequency
J. A mutual exchange of data will prove
beneficial. Secrecy was illogical;
cooperation was reasonable.
Ferengi are not Vulcans. The probe was about
to repeat its greeting when the Ferengi ship fired
its phasers and blasted the probe into atoms.

A container of live gagh in one hand, a
bottle of prune juice in the other, Worf was
on his way to Will Riker's quarters when Data
stopped him in the corridor. "Lieutenant," the
gold-skinned android said, "I understand that Commander
Riker has invited you to observe a humorous
cinema recording with him."
"That is correct," Worf said.
"Might I join you?" Data asked. "I would
appreciate the opportunity to observe Commander
Riker's reactions to comedy."
The Klingon security officer grimaced
despite himself, a gesture that further wrinkled the
ridges on his bare scalp. While he
respected Data, the android's desire
to become human annoyed him. It seemed
to slight all the other races in the galaxy,
including his own. "Commander Riker claims that the
recording would appeal to the Klingonese sense of
humor," he said, in what he hoped was a
discouraging tone.
Discouragement was a mystery to Data. "I would
still find his reactions informative."
Worf fought back a sigh. "You would have to ask
Commander Riker."
"Certainly." The android followed Worf as
he resumed walking down the corridor. "May
I ask why you are bringing food to Commander
Riker's quarters?"
"The commander suggested it," Worf said. "It
involves an ancient Earth tradition."
Worf came to Riker's door and signaled.
"Come," Riker's voice said, and the door slid
away. Worf and Data entered the cabin, where the
Enterprise's executive officer sprawled
on a low, padded chair. A bowl of popcorn
sat on the floor in easy reach. "Have a seat,
Worf," he said.
"Thank you." Worf placed the gagh and
juice on the floor next to an empty chair.
"Commander Data has a request."
Data nodded as Riker looked up at him.
"If you find it convenient, I would like to view this
comedy."
"Well ..." Riker fingered his neatly
trimmed beard. "You might find the humor a
bit--esoteric."
"Lieutenant Worf has cautioned me that the
humor is directed at a Klingonese
audience," Data said. "However, am I
correct in assuming that you also find it
humorous?"
"That's right," Riker said. His beard couldn't
hide his smile. "But I'm looking at it from the
Klingon viewpoint, too."
Data nodded. "Nevertheless, I believe I have
enough understanding of humor to predict when and why you will
laugh. I would like to test my understanding."
Riker shrugged. "Pull up a chair."
Worf had already taken his seat. Unlike
Riker, he sat with an erect posture,
which maintained his innate dignity; the chair seemed
inadequate to support his muscular frame.
"Sir," he said to Riker, "might I ask where
you found a Klingonese comedy?" He knew of no
such recordings. As did most Klingons, Worf
considered humor an annoying alien custom.
"It's not Klingonese," Riker told him.
"It's an action-adventure movie from Earth's
late twentieth century. I'd thought it might
supply some raw material for a holodeck
adventure, but after I watched it--never mind.
Computer, start projection."
The cabin lights dimmed. The chairs faced a
blank wall, and an image appeared on it. A
man in a blue uniform walked down the center of a
dark, rain-slick urban street. As words
appeared on the screen--Missing Link 3:
Vacation in Armageddon--a second uniformed
man joined him. They had just greeted one another
when gunfire erupted from one of the buildings. The
two men jumped behind a wheeled vehicle and shouted
at one another. "They're trying to kill us,
Link!"--"Yeah? They gotta try harder!"
Their archaic accents made their words hard to understand.
Metal slugs pierced the vehicle, and the two
men dashed away from it as its hydrocarbon fuel
detonated. They continued shouting at one another as
they ran. "They're going to kill us!"--"So
let's kill them first!"--"Dammit, Link, you
act like you're rabid!"--"Rabid? I was
born rabid!"
The two men ran into a building, where men with
massive rifles fired streams of bullets at
them. The man called Link shot several of his
enemies with his pistol. When he ran out of
ammunition, he picked up a thick metal
pipe. He waved it in front of himself,
deflecting the bullets his last assailant
fired at him. When that man used up his
ammunition, Link struck him over the head with the
pipe. Despite Link's massive
musculature, it took him several blows
to incapacitate the man.
Riker laughed at the scene, then glanced at
Worf. "Admit it, Worf," he said. "That
almost made you laugh."
Worf gave a noncommittal grunt.
Riker had taken up the challenge of making the
Klingon laugh, although so far he had not succeeded.
I wish him success, Worf thought.
Humor is undignified, but understanding it might
help me to deal with Alexander. His son was part
human, and the boy's emotions and behavior often
baffled his father. The sense of humor that Alexander
had inherited from his half-human mother formed the
greatest obstacle between father and son.
On the screen, the character Link put a bullet
in his hand, pointed his fist at an enemy and
squeezed until the bullet fired. Riker
laughed, but Worf felt as mystified as Data.

"Offenhouse," Jean-Luc Picard mused.
He leaned back in his ready-room chair and
gazed at the message on the screen. The
Enterprise was ordered to proceed to Starbase
144, where she would pick up Ambassador
Offenhouse. The ambassador would supply
further orders; the Enterprise would be at his
disposal. By order of Admiral Singh,
Starfleet Command, et cetera, et cetera.
"Offenhouse," Captain Picard repeated.
Why did that name sound so familiar? "Computer,
display the file on Ambassador Offenhouse."
The brisk contralto voice barely
hesitated. "No such file is available."
"How very odd," Picard said, as much to himself as
to the machine. "Computer, has there ever been a
human named "Offenhouse" aboard the
Enterprise?"
"Affirmative," the computer answered.
"Identity: Ralph Offenhouse, located
stardate 41986.0 in cryonic suspension--"
"Enough." The memories came back now. The
Enterprise had stumbled across a derelict Earth
satellite that contained a number of humans in
cryonic suspension. All of them had died in the
late twentieth century, and they had been frozen
in the hope that they could someday be revived and cured.
That day had come in the middle of the twenty-fourth
century. Due to equipment malfunctions aboard
the antique spacecraft, only three of the
passengers remained viable. They had been taken
aboard the Enterprise, thawed out and restored
to good health. Picard had not been present while
this happened; he had been called away to an
emergency conference at Starbase 718. Several
starbases and outposts near the Romulan
Neutral Zone had been destroyed, and
suspicion had naturally fallen upon the
Romulans. Picard had returned to his
ship to investigate the situation ... and to meet
Ralph Offenhouse.
All in all, I prefer the Romulans,
the captain thought as he gazed idly at the
ready-room ceiling. Offenhouse had been
by turns obnoxious, aggressive and
self-centered, and Picard could readily imagine
somebody back in the twentieth century freezing
the man merely to be rid of him. After close
to four centuries in suspension, his only concern
had been with his financial situation. He had
made long and loud demands to be put in contact with
his bankers and breakers--no, brokers, that was the
correct archaism. Offenhouse had been a
financier, and he was blithely unaware of the
changes the past centuries had seen.
To be fair, the man had proven useful during
the Enterprise's confrontation with a Romulan
warbird. The Romulan commander, Tebok, had
blamed the Federation for the destruction of Romulan
bases on the other side of the Neutral Zone.
Offenhouse had listened to Tebok's threats and
bluster--and somehow deduced that the Romulans were
also mystified by the destruction.
That simple observation had allowed Picard
to defuse a potential Federation-Romulan war.
It had become clear that both sides were the
victims of a third party, one with weapons of almost
incredible power. The Romulans had seen that as
well, and for all their belligerence they had proved
too canny to fight the Federation when faced with a
sudden unknown. It had turned out that the Borg were
responsible for the destruction. ...
Picard shook himself out of his reverie. He
left the ready room and stepped onto the
bridge. The primary team was off-duty at this
time of the ship's "day"; the conn was crewed
by Cadet Wesley Crusher and Ensign Shrev.
A technician in antigrav boots stood on
the ceiling, working at an open panel.
At his station, Wesley--currently on home
leave from Starfleet Academy, and quite dapper in
his cadet uniform--did his best to look alert for the
captain. Making amends, Picard thought.
Wesley had been involved in an incident at the
Academy, in which one cadet was killed in a
flying accident. The accident had come about owing to a
gross violation of safety regulations, and
Wesley had become enmeshed in a cover-up.
He had made a mistake and he had
been punished for it, but it was obvious that Wesley
had not come to terms with his error, which had included
lying to Picard.
The young Zhuik appeared to be dozing; her head
was bent over her console--no, she had a look of
concentration on her pinched green face. The wiry
antennae that curved from her forehead waved back and
forth as though reaching for the weak electromagnetic
fields to which they were sensitive. "Try it again,"
the technician called to her.
Shrev's slender antennae quivered as she
touched her controls. "Everything is perfect now,
thank you." Her voice was polite and quiet,
almost a whisper. Although humanoid, the Zhuik
had evolved from arthropods--a more diplomatic
word than "insects," Picard thought--and much of
their social behavior mimicked that of their
hive-dwelling ancestors. Zhuik could be
hot-tempered at times, but Picard had never
heard of a rude Zhuik.
"Okay," the technician told Shrev. He
closed the panel and walked across the ceiling toward
the turbolift.
"Was there a problem, Ensign?" Picard
asked.
"Only a minor power surge in the displays,
sir," Shrev said. "Ensign Dayan has
corrected it."
"Excellent," Picard said. "Cadet
Crusher, how long will it take to reach Starbase
144 at warp six?"
Wesley keyed something into his panel.
"Ten-point-four hours, sir."
Picard nodded. "Make it so." He turned
toward the turbolift as Shrev laid in the new
course.
Picard went to his quarters and lay down.
He wondered if the ambassador had something to do
with the Cardassian situation. The Federation had fought
and won a limited war against the Cardassian
Empire a dozen years ago, but the humanoid
Cardassians had never fully accepted their
defeat. They constantly maneuvered to gain a
strategic advantage over the Federation, and
several intelligence reports said that they were
reinforcing their border with the Federation. The
Cardassian War had been vicious enough,
Picard reflected. With their pride stung
by defeat, a second Cardassian war could be
even more destructive.
You're tired, Jean-Luc, Picard
told himself. Weariness always made him
pessimistic. It was far more likely that the
ambassador was on a routine assignment, something
that could use the prestigious presence of
Starfleet's flagship. A treaty negotiation,
an inauguration, a new world entering the Federation--
The captain turned the lights off.
Offenhouse, he thought as he drifted toward
sleep. The name had to be a coincidence.

"Okay, Link, wha.a we do now?"
"You die!" Riker suggested. He hurled
popcorn at the screen--a strange use for
food, Data reflected, although Riker had
described this behavior as a form of applause.
Worf grunted in agreement as he ate more
gagh. One of the wormlike gagh wriggled out of the
jar and fell to the floor. Its eyespot sensed a
light, and the creature squirmed toward it. Riker
reached for it, but Worf caught it first and ate it.
"Sir--" Data reviewed the situation. The
movie's central characters were in an awkward
position. Trapped in a deep, narrow valley,
they stood between a horde of drug-smuggling
terrorists and a unit of killer cyborgs.
Rabid vampire bats wheeled in the air above
their heads. Giant rats--the product of a
demented villain's genetic-engineering research--
slithered out of meter-wide tunnels in the
valley walls. A sign cautioned that the two
humans stood in the center of a minefield. The
foliage resembled poison ivy. It was about
to rain. "Their optimum survival course is
to destroy one of the rats, then--"
"No," Riker said. "You should never fight
anything smarter than yourself." Data saw Worf
smile at that, but he did not laugh.
"Hurry, Link!" the actor insisted.
"We're in biiiig trouble!"
"What trouble?" Link roared. "Things have never
been better!" He leveled his weapon--a
massive rotary cannon that fired one hundred
explosive shells per second--and blazed
away at the stony ground. The shells touched off
the mines, which threw clouds of rubble and shrapnel
into the air. The shrapnel obliterated the bats.
The multiple blasts stunned the rats, and while
they staggered about in a daze the two actors
surged up the valley slope. Riker
threw more popcorn at the screen.
"This is all impossible," Data said. "The
explosions would incapacitate the humans as
well as the animals. In addition, the cannon
would exhaust its ammunition after three seconds
of firing. Furthermore, the recoil from such a
weapon would propel its user through the air with an
average acceleration of--"
"Data, Data!" Riker chuckled. "That's
what makes it so funny! It's absurd."
The android looked to the Klingon. "Do you
agree with this assessment, Lieutenant?"
"It is absurd," Worf rumbled. He
took a handful of gagh, ate it, then passed the
jar to Riker.
Data cocked his head inquisitively.
"Perhaps I would understand if you defined the nature
of the absurdity."
Riker took a handful of gagh. "It's
funny because we know what real combat is like," he
said, and popped the gagh into his mouth. "And this
isn't it," he mumbled.
"Ah," Data said. One thing became clear.
"Then you are laughing at the movie, not with it?"
Riker nodded at the distinction. "This movie
wasn't meant as comedy," he said. On the
screen, a massive explosion tore through the
valley. The blast lifted Link and his
sidekick into the air--to deposit them,
unscratched, on the ground at the top of the
valley. "But the people who created it knew nothing
about war. Combat was never like this, even back in the
twentieth century."
"But if it were," Worf said wi/lly, "the
twentieth century would have been a marvelous time."

 Chapter Two

Off-duty, lounging in his cabin with a Dixon
Hill mystery novel, Picard seemed a man
at peace with the universe. The universe, however,
was not at peace with him. The intercom beeped just as
Dixon Hill was about to apprehend Jack
Larsen's killer. "Picard here."
"De Shay, sir, in transporter room
three. The ambassador is ready to come
aboard."
Picard glanced at his book. Dixon Hill
had waited almost four centuries to catch Lefty
Lefkowitz; he could wait a while
longer. "I'm on my way," Picard said,
putting the book aside.
A minute later Picard was in the
transporter room, where Chief De Shay
made a final adjustment to his controls.
"Energize," Picard said. The transporter
came to life, and Picard squelched a groan.
If the man who had just materialized on the pad
was not Ralph Offenhouse, then he was his twin
brother. And may a just and merciful God
preserve the galaxy from two such men, Picard
thought. "Mister ... Ambassador?" Picard
asked, unable to control his disbelief.
"Yeah, that's me." Offenhouse stepped off the
pad and shook Picard's hand. He was of average
height and weight, middle-aged and pink-skinned,
possessed of thick dark hair, and neither handsome
nor unattractive. "Good to see you again,
Picard. How's business?"
"Quite well, thank you," Picard said, and
sighed. What next? he wondered.
Romulans? Cardassians? Tribbles?
"Admiral Singh informed me that you would deliver
our orders. After you've settled in, I'll
call a staff meeting."
"Good idea." A pair of suitcases
materialized on a pad, and Offenhouse picked
them up. "Are you going to let me have my old
quarters?"
"If you like--"
"They'll do," Offenhouse said. "I'll see
your staff in ten minutes." He left the
transporter room.
Picard turned to the transporter chief.
"Mr. De Shay," he asked, "did you have any
difficulties when you beamed the ambassador
aboard? Any power surges, or interdimensional
shifts, or other anomalies?"
"No, sir," De Shay said. Me scanned
his instrument panel. "Everything went perfectly."
He gave a helpless shrug which said that he
remembered Offenhouse's last visit to the
Enterprise. "Sorry, sir."
"I suppose it can't be helped," Picard
said. "Carry on."
Picard went to the nearest turbolift and
returned to the bridge. He recalled studying
an incident aboard an earlier Enterprise.
A transporter malfunction had swept the
captain--either Pike or Kirk,
Picard thought without much certainty--and several other
crew members into a parallel universe, one in
which the Federation was an insanely violent empire.
Perhaps a similar accident had connected this
universe with one in which the Federation was violently
insane.
It was an appealing theory. It might even have
been true.
True or not, Offenhouse appeared on
schedule in the conference room. As he took his
seat, Picard noted the reactions of his bridge
crew. Worf and Riker looked at the man with
distaste, while Deanna Troi's wide, dark
eyes showed a mixture of curiosity and
sympathy. Data's gaze, as always, was
unreadable.
Offenhouse opened the meeting. "The
Enterprise has been assigned to escort me
to Megara, which is somewhere in the Perseus sector
--what is it, uh, Info?"
"Data, sir," the android corrected.
"Specifically, sir, Megara is the second
planet of 329 Aurigae. It is a
class-M planet, rated one on the
industrial scale, with a population of four
hundred million humanoids. It has no
interstellar relations and is fully covered by the
Prime Directive."
Offenhouse smiled at the android.
"C-minus, Digit."
"Data, sir. I do not understand this term--
cee-minus?"
"It's your grade," Offenhouse explained.
"Your data is out of date, Data, by a
decade or so. Right now Megara rates nine
on the industrial scale."
"That's impossible," Riker said crossly.
"Glad to have your word for it, sonny,"
Offenhouse said. "A Vulcan robot probe
scanned Megara last month. It may have been
pre-industrial ten years ago, but now it's at
the same technological level as Earth was a
century ago. The probe picked up signs of
high-intensity power sources, high-rate data
transmissions, even something that may have been a
warp drive."
"And this growth disturbs you," Troi said.
Offenhouse shrugged. "Me? Naw. But the
Federation Council is having a fit.
Especially because the probe detected a
Ferengi ship in the area--and the Ferengi shot the
probe down. My orders are to find out what the
little twerps are doing on Megara."
"Why you?" Riker asked bluntly. "You're
no diplomat."
Offenhouse nodded. "Who better to deal with the
Ferengi?"
"You're an anachronism," Riker said.
"Whatever knowledge and talents you may have"--if any,
his tone implied--"are so outdated--"
"--t the Ferengi will skin me alive."
Offenhouse looked at Riker in disdain. "You
think I conned my way into this job, don't you?"
"Essentially, yes. You can't possibly
know--"
Picard felt pained. "That will be enough,
Number One. Mr. Ambassador, I was
told that you would supply our orders."
"Yeah, I almost forgot." Offenhouse reached
into a pocket--Picard felt a stab of envy;
Starfleet safety regulations banned pockets
from uniforms--and pulled out a computer card. He
tossed it across the conference table to the captain.
"Your orders are to do whatever I say will aid my
mission."
Picard fingered the computer card. "I see.
At warp seven, we can reach Megara in five
days."
"Fine," Offenhouse said, and stood up.
"I'm sure you can get me there without too much
trouble. Well, I've spread enough cheer for one
day, Picard. See you around the campus." He
went to the door, then paused. "By the way--"
"I know," Picard said in a sour voice.
"Everything discussed in this room is secret."
"Top secret," Offenhouse said smugly,
and left.
Picard waited until the conference-room door
had slid shut behind Offenhouse before he spoke.
"Comments?"
"This is a ruse," Riker said. "Nobody
could seriously appoint him as an ambassador,
not even to the Ferengi."
"I agree," Worf rumbled. "His
presence conceals some other action."
"Yet the Federation does not play games with
its diplomats," Picard said.
"That is correct," Data said.
"Historically, efforts which use diplomatic
personnel for clandestine purposes have
often ended in disaster. The Federation is cognizant
of this fact."
"So we must take the ambassador at face
value," Picard said. He looked to Deanna
Troi. "Counselor, you've been rather quiet."
"Ambassador Offenhouse is a complicated
man," she said. "I don't believe he's
fully adjusted to his presence in what is--to him
--the distant future. Everyone he knew is
long dead, but he's still alive, and very much alone.
In a way, he's the sole survivor of an
overwhelming disaster."
"And the only disaster is the simple passage of
time," Picard said.
The Betazoid empath nodded. "There's more,
Captain. He's distressed over his presence on
board the Enterprise. I'll need to talk with
him to pin this down, but he seems to think that we
jeopardize his mission."
"Perhaps it is because Ambassador Offenhouse
associates us with his revival," Data said.
The android sounded hesitant; lacking emotions of
his own, he was always unsure of himself when discussing
their import. "However illogically, he may
see us as the cause of his separation from the past."
Troi looked surprised. "That's exactly
what I was thinking, Data. And his belief is
dangerous. A man who expects to fail, will
fail."
Riker snorted. "The ambassador himself is
reason enough for his mission to fail."
"Captain," Data said, "I suggest we
examine our orders."
Picard nodded. "Quite right, Mr. Data."
He slid the data card into a reader slot. A
holographic display appeared above the conference
table. Much of it showed a planetary system, which
expanded rapidly as the Vulcan probe made
its approach. Letters and numerals streamed across the
lower part of the display.
Picard noted that Data kept his gaze
locked on to the readouts, while everyone else
watched the images of the Megara system. That
dichotomy between man and machine--well,
biological and cybernetic life, Picard
corrected himself, with a glance at Troi and Worf
--always intrigued the captain. To humans,
images were more easily understood than rows of
numbers, while Data found it easier to detect
patterns in endless ranks of numbers and
letters.
It's not as though you could read that,
Jean-Luc, Picard thought in self-amusement.
The display data flickered by too quickly for the
human eye to read; the captain settled back
to watch the image. Megara expanded from a silvery
star to a fat crescent. The illuminated part of the
globe showed white clouds, blue oceans and a
green swath of land. The nightside glittered with the
lights of a half-dozen large cities.
A point of light gleamed near the planet.
It expanded into a shape that reminded Picard of a
horseshoe crab. "Ferengi battle cruiser,"
Worf muttered, as a phaser beam slashed out
to envelope the probe. The holograph vanished.
A new image appeared: Admiral Singh.
The dark man's turban and swirling mustachios
gave him a fierce visage, and he seemed
to glare at the camera. "Captain Picard," he
said. "You are hereby informed that the Federation
Council has placed Enterprise at the
disposal of Ambassador Ralph Offenhouse.
The council orders you to give him your full and
unqualified cooperation."
Singh paused and softened. "Jean-Luc,
I've met the ambassador, so I know how hard
this will be. I'm told he's an expert on the
Ferengi; he's studied everything we know about them,
and Councillor Diem claims he's explained
many of their incomprehensible actions. It would be
tactless of me to describe this as an
idiot-savant talent. Good luck; Singh out."
The holograph flicked out.
Picard looked to Data. "Analysis?"
"The Megaran situation is precisely as the
ambassador described it, sir," Data said.
"It is clear that the Ferengi are helping the
Megarans to advance their technology."
"But why?" Troi asked.
"That," Picard said, "is the question we must
answer."

When the conference ended, Worf was the first to leave
the room. He went straight to his post on the
bridge and checked the weaponry. He did not
fear a Ferengi battle cruiser, but he did
respect its powers. In terms of hardware and
energy, such a ship was an even match for the
Enterprise. Fortunately, Federation crews
had the edge in discipline and combat training.
Worf looked around the bridge. Data had
gone to the science officer's post. The android was not
an imaginative soldier, but he had
cybernetic reflexes and a vast memory for
tactical maneuvers. Wesley Crusher, on
vacation from the Academy, and Shrev, the Zhuik,
sat at the helm. Both were young, but both had seen
combat--as bystanders, granted, but neither had lost
their nerve under fire. Crusher was eager to prove
himself, and it was said that Zhuik loved to fight.
Picard, Riker and Troi remained in the
conference room. Troi hated battle, but her
insights into enemy minds were always helpful.
Picard was at heart a diplomat, but he did
not dishonor himself when combat was the only choice.
Riker--
Riker emerged from the conference room and stepped
up behind Worf. "A Ferengi battle cruiser
could supply us with a diverting afternoon," the human
said.
Worf grunted in approval of Riker's
spirit. Of all the ship's crew, Riker was the one
most like him in temperament and inclinations. A year
ago he had served as an exchange officer
aboard the Imperial Battle Cruiser
Pagh, and he had returned from that assignment with a
deepened respect for Klingon ways. "I am more
concerned with this ambassador," Worf said
quietly.
"Same here," Riker said. "He may be
genuine, but something doesn't feel right. We'd
better live back-to-back."
"Indeed." Among Klingons,
back-to-back was the watchword of friends going
in!combat: stay alert and protect one another.
Despite the unknowns in this situation, Worf
felt reassured by those words. He could rely on
Riker.
Picard and Troi returned to the bridge.
"Helm," Picard told Shrev, "set a
course for Megara, warp factor seven."
"Course plotted and laid in," Shrev said
in her silken whisper. Enterprise's warp
drive came to life.
Five days to Megara, Worf thought. That would
give him ample time to drill for action against the
Ferengi.

Wesley went back to his stateroom as
soon as he got off duty. Something's
going to happen, he thought as he sat down at the
computer. The new passenger and Worf's repeated
combat drills said as much, but nobody would say
exactly what was going on. That was too much for his
curiosity.
It didn't take him long to dig information out
of the computer. There was a transmission from
Starfleet Command, and although it was security-coded,
Wesley had little trouble in breaking its
protection. The transmission was a grab bag of
information: a personnel file on Ambassador
Offenhouse, data from a Vulcan probe, and the
usual bureaucratic messages that authorized
the Enterprise to carry out its mission. It
looked like parts of the message had been deleted.
Wesley didn't doubt that the erased parts would have
told him exactly what was happening. Well,
he mused, you couldn't have everything.
Wesley started reading. The probe data
took his attention first. The most interesting thing here
was the information on Weber 512, a gravitational
anomaly about one light-year from the Megaran
system. Weber 512 was a binary system, a
pair of neutron stars that orbited one another
at an average separation of about two hundred
kilometers. Each member of the pair was as
massive as Earth's sun, and their whirligig
orbit caused them to generate some intense
gravitational waves. The pair also had a
powerful, complicated magnetic field, one which
stirred up the interstellar hydrogen into a
maelstrom of radiation as the pair spun through its
orbit dozens of times every second. The system was
more interesting than a simple pulsar, and Wesley
hoped he would get the chance to study it when the
Enterprise reached Megara--
"Caught you," he muttered to himself. Weber
512 wouldn't have anything to do with Megara. He was
letting his fascination with science distract him from the
real subject of his investigation.
He delved back into the probe data. The
probe had been destroyed by a Ferengi ship, which
was the sort of thing you'd expect from the Ferengi.
Before its destruction, the probe had made a
partial scan of the Megaran system and found that
Megara was a typical class-M planet,
rated nine on the industrial scale.
Puzzled, Wesley checked the navigational
summary. It said that Megara only rated one on
the industrial scale. He didn't know
what to make of that. It was unusual to see this big
a discrepancy in the statistics, especially when
the data was collected by Vulcans. He couldn't
imagine what had caused the error.
As he mulled that over he noticed activity
on the computer. Somebody else was accessing the
probe data ... somebody who had circumvented
the security blocks. It looked like he wasn't
the only curious person on the ship.

Solid gold, coated in diamond, the
phaser bespoke Enforcer Durok's wealth. He
smiled as he strapped it to his waist. Among
Ferengi, power and wealth were one and the same.
To display wealth was to display power, and command
respect.
Durok picked up his neural lash and slung
its thick blue coil over his shoulder. The
Megarans understood the lash better than the
phaser. Perhaps it was because a phaser either killed
instantly or inflicted swift unconsciousness,
while the lash delivered unlimited amounts of
raw pain. Pain was the right coin in dealing with
recalcitrant Megarans.
Durok left his cabin and went
to Dividend's transporter room.
Technician Glupet stood at the control
console. "I'm to set you down in Metari
Leeg," he told Durok.
"I know that," Durok snapped. He took a
map unit from the wall locker, switched it on and
snarled at it. Only one red mark showed on it,
but that was enough. "What trouble is there?"
Glupet grunted. "The debtors carved up
Director Sumash."
Durok growled. Sumash had been an
instructor, teaching the smartest--well, the least
stupid of the natives how to run their new
industries. That was a necessary part of the Daimon's
plan; the Daimon Chudak hadn't hired enough
Ferengi to administer all of Megara. Sumash's
death would delay the project, and that would delay
Durok's profits. "Sumash always was an
idiot," Durok said.
"Well, he's a dead idiot," Glupet
said. "Some of the Prophet-boys netted him.
At least they didn't take his share of the profits
away from us."
"I'm surprised Sumash didn't lose the
money to them." Durok stepped onto the
transporter stage. He resented Sumash for his
carelessness, which meant that Durok had to expose
himself to the natives. A man that witless deserved
his fate. Even so, the debtors had to be taught
that a Ferengi's person was inviolable. "Where
does the city's security boss live?"
Durok asked. "Put me in that place."
"Yes, sir." In the moment before Glupet
pushed the control slides, Durok noted dry
bloodstains on the pad under his feet. Carved,
he thought, as with metal wedges. The debtors were
savages.
Durok materialized on a sidewalk, in a
district jammed with crude brick buildings. The
air reeked of ozone, ill-managed sewage,
sweaty Megaran bodies. Natives scurried
away from Durok as he uncoiled his lash.
Get close enough for pain, he thought, and
I'll teach you to let harm befall your
benefactors!
None obeyed his wish; the debtors had learned
to avoid a Ferengi in a vengeful rage.
Durok stomped into the police building, driving
Megarans out of the way with his lash. When the
security boss emerged from his office to gape at
the commotion, Durok coiled the lash over his
shoulder and jabbed a finger at him. "You!" the enforcer
snapped. "You were supposed to keep Sumash
alive. Why didn't you do your job?"
"More-my job I have done," the man stammered.
"Into a crowd alone Sumash insisted on walking,
to me he would not listen--"
"Enough!" Durok said curtly. He rested a
hand on his phaser's heavy golden butt. "Your
job was to keep him alive, you oversized
hairball. People who can't do their jobs don't
need their work permits. Give."
The man's brown face turned gray as
blood drained from it. He fell to his knees and
began begging: he had tried, how would he feed his
family without work, his children would starve--
Irked by his wheedling, Durok drew his
phaser and stunned the man. He sprawled on his
back, and as a dozen other Megarans gaped in the
hallway Durok went to the man, rifled his
coverall pockets and found the man's work
permit. The electronic card's identification
light pulsed green and red as Durok tossed it
on the floor. He readjusted his phaser and
vaporized it with a single shot.
Durok recognized one of the Megarans in the
hall. "You!" he said to the muscular-looking
woman. "You're this idiot's assistant?" The
woman nodded dumbly. "Well, you're the
security boss now. Do a better job than this
lazy debtor."
Durok left the police building. He thought
about returning to the safety of the Dividend--but for
all its dangers, he thought suddenly, Megara
had advantages that the ship lacked. "Durok
to Dividend," he said to his communicator.
"I'm going to spend a few hours inspecting the
city."
"Understood," Communications Officer Nyenyor
answered. The man snickered. "Have a good--
inspection."
Let him laugh, Durok thought as he
deactivated his communicator. I'm after
something better than laughs.
Metari Leeg was a mixture of old and
new. Radio antennae poked from thatch roofs;
superconducting power cables were slung from wooden
posts along the streets; artigrav vehicles
floated along cobbled roads. The debtors
might have shown gratitude for all the good the
Ferengi had done them, but instead they repaid their
debt with riots and murder.
I'll be safe enough today, Durok told
himself as he walked down the street. Sumash's
death would have released some of the tension the natives
felt. The debtors might even feel eager
to make amends, to preserve their own safety.
Still--carved, like a slab of meat. The thought
made Durok shiver, and wonder if the Daimon
Chudak truly knew what he was doing on
Megara. Chudak's plan was simple and bold:
turn Megara into an industrial world and exploit
its production. The rewards would be ... and the
payoff was now only months away.
Bold, but dangerous, Durok thought,
giving high technology to slaves ... even
if they agreed to indenture themselves in payment.
Once Megara was modernized, the debtors could
arm themselves and repudiate their debt. Perhaps it was
in bad taste to question the plans of one as wealthy as
the Daimon Chudak, but at times like this Durok
found it hard to quell his doubts. There was something
mysterious about the Daimon's plans and
behavior, as if he was keeping something hidden from his
crew. Secrecy was a Daimon's
privilege, and no doubt he was just hiding the
full extent of his profits--but Durok still had
qualms. Something just didn't feel right.
Durok stopped cold when he saw a building
with the Prophet's symbol on it. The circle and
jagged lines symbolized a planet shattered by a
lightning bolt--a typical display of debtor
ignorance, Durok thought in contempt. Lightning
wasn't a world-splitting force. Of course,
he reflected, the symbol is easily
drawn, and it's as simple as the Prophet's
blather. And Glupet said the killers followed the
Prophet. So--
The phaser shattered the symbol, and the brick
wall behind it, as readily as a lightning bolt.
That left a message as simple and direct as
the Prophet's ravings against the Ferengi.
Durok smiled as he holstered his phaser.
The street opened onto a broad avenue, a
main street lined with factories, warehouses and
inns. The sidewalks were crowded with humanoids,
and half of them were female. Invitingly tall, with
flesh the warm brown color of expensive
Vulcan amber, faces that exaggerated the most
desirable characteristics of a woman--delicate
teeth, dainty ears, smooth forehead--and
packaged in clothes that kept the goods, so to speak,
tantalizingly hidden.
And all free, Durok thought with a gleeful
chuckle, his doubts and fears forgotten. There was
no need to pay a vendor for any of these feminine
delights, no need to waste money on satisfying
unpredictable feminine whims. They were fun,
too; unlike Ferengi females, alien women
would often talk for hours without harping on their own
greedy wants. Durok locked his eyes onto
the loveliest of the lovelies and set off in
pursuit.
Durok would not have thought it possible, but something
distracted him from his mission: the unmistakable
bleep of a computer's data pulse. He should not
have heard that here. There were no modern computers on
Megara; not even a man as bold as the Daimon
would trust the Megarans that far.
Yet there it was again. Drawing his phaser,
Durok moved toward the source of the sound while
Megarans ran to avoid him. The scooplike
Ferengi ear was highly sensitive, a product
of evolution in Ferengal's thin atmosphere, and
Durok had no trouble locating the
source. When he came to the brick wall of a
building, he thumbed the phaser and blasted his way
clear.
He coughed on brick dust as he stepped through
the shattered wall. The room he entered held
crude wooden furniture--and a computer, and
subspace communications gear, and a holographic
projector.
"Treachery," Durok growled, at once
angered and pleased. One of his shipmates must have
sold out to the debtors, an act that might
endanger his own profits. He couldn't imagine
how the Megarans could make betrayal profitable,
but here was the evidence. On the bright side, the
Daimon Chudak would reward Durok for
uncovering this, and the traitor's share of the profits
would be divided among the rest of the crew--
There was a snick and something stung the top of his
bare scalp. Durok started to reach for the sting before his
hand went limp. As his body grew numb, he
tumbled to the wooden floor and lay slumped on his
side. In seconds his paralysis grew so
complete that he could not even move his eyes.
Two Megarans entered the room; he knew
their number by their voices. His Universal
Translator brought their words in flat, neuter
tones. "We'll have to kill this one, too."
"Two dead aliens, so close, so soon. The
other Ferengi will grow suspicious."
"No, they will only know two of their kind are
dead."
"That will bring more reprisals."
"Reprisals will feed the hatred. We need
that."
"It will also impede our progress."
"What else can we do? Should we let this beast
tell its mates about us?"
"I command here, but you are correct."
Durok's phaser had fallen in front of his
face, and his hand lay only centimeters from its
golden handle. He struggled to grasp the phaser,
willing his hand to cross the distance and take the
weapon. His thumb twitched slightly, once,
twice. More effort shoved his hand halfway toward
the phaser.
A Megaran reached down and took the weapon.
"A pretty toy."
"The handle is solid gold, very heavy."
"Club him to death with it."
 Chapter Three

Politeness, Wesley told himself as he
approached Shrev's quarters. Zhuik
culture placed a lot of emphasis on good
manners. Shrev might make allowances for
human behavior, but a slip wouldn't help now.
Wesley came to Shrev's door and
signaled. "May I ask who it is?" her
quiet voice answered.
"Wesley Crusher. If it's convenient,
I'd like to talk with you."
"Please enter." The door slid open.
Wesley stepped inside. The light was dim and
orange, the twilight glow of Zhuik's sun.
As his eyes adapted to the gloom, he saw
Shrev slip into the quilted gray tunic most
Zhuiks wore. He had a brief glimpse
of the exoskeletal plates that covered her bare
torso and upper arms. The chitinous green
hexagons made Wesley think of a tile
floor. Shrev was warmblooded, but clearly not
mammalian.
"Please, borrow a seat," Shrev said as she
adjusted her garment. She took a brush and quickly
straightened her shoulder-length blue hair. "Would
you find brighter lighting more comfortable?"
"This is fine, thank you." The seat was a bare
wooden stool, as austere as the rest of the room.
The only decorations were a wall mosaic, whose
flat gray hexagons echoed the pattern on
Shrev's torso, and a set of sheathed daggers that
hung by belts from wall pegs. The bed remained
sealed in plastic, as though it had never been used.
"I think we've both noticed that something odd is
happening on the bridge," Wesley said.
"I would agree with that." Shrev sat on a
stool and tilted it back until her shoulders
rested against the bulkhead behind her. She bowed her
head slightly, to better focus her wiry
antennae on Wesley. He found something oddly
intense about her scrutiny, as though she were staring at
him. "I believe you are more familiar with the
bridge personnel than I am," Shrev said.
Wesley nodded, then reminded himself that nodding
wasn't a Zhuik gesture. "Yes. Something's
up. Lieutenant Worf is running combat
simulations against Ferengi ships. And--did you
hear what Commander Riker said to Mr. Worf?"
""Back-to-back,"" Shrev said. "A
phrase which Klingons use to describe
survival in a desperate battle. But there is
more. The ambassador delivered a computer
message to the captain."
"I've looked at it." Wesley kept his
voice low. It seemed polite, and Shrev's
own quiet voice encouraged that. "The message
wasn't private--or if there was a private
part, it was deleted."
"I, too, have seen it," Shrev said. "A
record of a planetary survey, ended by a
Ferengi attack."
"And the data on Megara doesn't match the
computer records," Wesley said.
"The Ferengi may have done something." Shrev
hesitated. "May I ask a question which could seem
rude?"
"Sure--uh, I mean, I won't take
offense."
Shrev smiled; that seemed to be the one truly
universal expression. "Why do you come to me with
this? Others are more knowledgeable, and you have highly
placed friends."
"I've got several reasons," Wesley
said. "When I was on the computer, I noticed you
were interested in this, too. We work pretty well
on the bridge, and I figured we could work together
here.
"For a second thing--" He sighed. "This is
going to sound silly. If I ask the captain,
or Mr. Riker, what's going on, they're
likely to turn this into a research assignment."
And it's still hard to face the captain, he
thought, after the way I lied to everyone. He may
have forgiven me, but I haven't.
"Instead you create your own assignment." There
was humor in her silken voice. "Pardon me;
I intend no mockery. You wish to work on your
own, without pressure from our seniors."
"Right," Wesley said. "I thought you'd understand,
because you haven't been out of the Academy all that
long--" Did that sound rude? he wondered
suddenly. "I don't mean that you're
inexperienced. I mean that your memories are
fresher."
"They are." Shrev rocked forward on her
stool and rose to her feet. "Did you know that this
matter is a secret?"
"Well--it can't be too secret," he said.
"I mean, if you really want to keep a secret
on the Enterprise, you don't put it in
the computer where just anyone can find it."
"Anyone, that is, who finds a minor
challenge in bypassing security blocks. As
I do." Shrev began pacing back and forth, her
hands folded behind her back. "Let us define the
matter. We wish to understand the Megaran situation.
The Federation sends a special ambassador, which
suggests that more is at stake than Ferengi
interference."
"It does." Wesley realized he had
hardly given Offenhouse a thought. He had
looked at statistics and probe readings, as though
this were strictly a scientific problem.
"This ambassador must have special talents,"
Shrev said. "If we can identify them, we
might understand the situation."
"I'll see what I can find out about Mr.
Offenhouse," Wesley said. "A secret is
one thing, but I don't think anyone will mind
talking about the ambassador himself."
Shrev smiled as she paced. "No,
especially as the ambassador annoys everyone
who meets him."
Wesley hadn't noticed that. "I didn't
know that Zhuiks can sense emotions. Uh, I
don't doubt you, but I don't know as much as
I'd like about your people."
Shrev laughed lightly. "You are the most
delightful human I have ever met, Wesley."
She waved a hand alongside one of her slim,
quivering antennae. "We do not detect
emotions, as would a Betazoid, but we can sense the
electric fields which surround most living
tissue. These are often indicative of emotions.
I believe the captain, Mr. Riker and Mr.
Worf were annoyed by their conference with the
ambassador. He puzzled Counselor
Troi. I cannot answer for Mr. Data."
"Nobody can," Wesley said. "Mr. Data
doesn't have emotions. But that means he notices
things other people miss. I'll see what he has
to say."
"And the others, as well," Shrev said. "If
they speak of the ambassador they may disparage
him, but we can take that into account. While you do this,
I shall see what I can learn of the Ferengi
presence in this quadrant."
"Okay," Wesley said, and stood up.
"I'll let you know as soon as I learn
anything."
Out in the corridor, Wesley went to the
nearest computer station. "Where's Ambassador
Offenhouse?" he asked, thinking the direct
approach might work.
"The ambassador is in a turbolift," the
computer answered. "He is en route to the
Ten-Forward lounge."
Then so am I, Wesley told himself.
He decided to walk. It was ship's evening, and the
lights were dimmed in simulated night: a good time
to think.
I screwed up, he thought, thinking of the
accident. Five one-seat training spacecraft,
flying a tight formation in a rehearsal for the
Academy's commencement exercise. The team's
cadet leader had wanted to do something
spectacular, and he had persuaded Wesley and the
other team members to try a simple maneuver,
one which would mingle their trainers' exhausts and
ignite the plasma into a glorious rosette.
The maneuver was dangerous and against regulations, but
Wesley had agreed to try it.
It had failed. The trainers had collided
during a practice run near Saturn, and
Joshua Albert, one of the cadet pilots, one
of Wesley's best friends, had died. There had
been a board of inquiry--and the team's leader had
convinced Wesley and the other survivors to lie about
the accident, to protect the team. That had failed,
too. The lie had grown too complicated to withstand
investigation, but Wesley had told the truth
only after Captain Picard had threatened
to reveal it himself. His punishment, the loss of a
year's academic credit, had seemed trivial
in comparison to what he had done.
Why didn't I show a little backbone?
Wesley asked himself. I should have said the
maneuver was too dangerous ... should have owned up
to what I did, should never have lied to everyone. That
disgrace was as hard to bear as the death of a friend. He
didn't know how he would ever cleanse himself of it.

The Ten-Forward lounge was half full when
Riker, Worf and Data entered it. "Evening,
gents," Guinan said from behind her bar. As always, the
dark woman seemed amused, as though she had
caught the universe in the act of playing a
subtle joke. "What will it be?"
"The usual, Guinan," Riker said. "All
around."
The lounge's hostess nodded. "Coming right up."
Data turned to Riker as the three officers
waited at the bar. "I remain uncertain about the
cinematic recording we observed," the android
said. "The putative hero, George Lincoln,
was referred to as the "missing link." Am I
correct in assuming that this refers to a
hypothetical stage in the human evolutionary
process?"
"That's right," Riker said. "It means the
missing step between us and our prehuman
ancestors."
Data nodded. "It is my understanding that such a
reference, with its implication of inferior mental
abilities, would offend a human being, yet the
character reveled in this appellation."
"It figures that he would," Riker said.
"Only an idiot would get into the fixes he
did."
"But why did he enjoy this name?" Data
asked.
"I guess the twentieth century didn't have
a lot of respect for brains," Riker said.
"Or for life, when you consider that people back then
took movies like that seriously."
"But it was--diverting," Worf said.
And it almost made you laugh, my friend,
Riker thought as he nodded. Someday Riker would
break the control--or fill in the void--that kept
Worf from laughing. He took that as a challenge.
If he could make Worf laugh, it would mean he
had a better understanding of the Klingon soul.
Guinan returned to them with a tray bearing three
goblets. "Here you go," she said. "One Skagway
Slide, one prune juice, and one Data
Surprise."
Riker raised an eyebrow. "What's a
Data Surprise?" he asked.
Guinan's smile broadened. "Anything that
surprises Data." She watched as Data
tasted his drink. "How about it, Data?
Surprised?"
"I have not yet developed an understanding of that
emotion," Data admitted. "However, as to the
concoction, I believe the appropriate
descriptive terms are sweet, heavy and dry,
with sweet predominating. Am I correct in
assuming that this drink would make a suitable
after-dinner liqueur?"
"Very good," Guinan said in approval.
"That's exactly how they use it on Argelius.
We'll make a gourmet out of you yet,
Data."
Worf grunted and sipped his prune juice.
Riker tried not to smile as the purple liquid
brought a pleased glow to the Klingon's face.
Someday, Riker thought, someone is going to work
up the nerve to tell him why humans drink
prune juice--but that someone won't .be me!
Riker's own drink had the sledgehammer taste of
fermented fruit juices; it was similar to the
moonshine made by lumberjacks in his native
Alaska. Even with synthehol to take the place
of ethyl alcohol, it still tasted like a man's
drink.
The lounge door slid open and Ambassador
Offenhouse came in. There was something belligerent
about the way the man walked up to the bar, but
Guinan only smiled at him. "Hello, Mr.
Ambassador," she said. "What's your
pleasure?"
Offenhouse nodded at Worf. "I'll have what
the big guy's having."
Guinan verged on laughter. "Coming right up."
Prune juice has a soothing effect on the
Klingon soul, and Worf remained calm as
Offenhouse looked at him. "Tell me something,"
the human said. "The Ferengi have been doing
business with the Romulans and Klingons. Do you
think either of them would sell that ship-cloaking
gimmick to the Ferengi?"
"No," Worf said. "Do you fear a cloaked
Ferengi ship?"
"Yes." Offenhouse accepted a glass of
prune juice from Guinan. He started to raise
it to his lips, then lowered it. "Could the Ferengi
have a cloaked ship?"
"Perhaps we shall find out," Worf said.
"Why worry about that?" Riker asked him.
Despite himself he couldn't take his eyes off
Offenhouse's drink. He wanted to see the look
on the man's face when he belted down a slug
of prune juice.
"Why? It should be obvious," Offenhouse said.
He stared into his drink. "What if the little
SOB'S have an ace up a sleeve? I'd
hate to find out the hard way."
"Mr. Ambassador," Data said, "does
this issue not fall under your definition of a top
secret?"
"Yeah, it does," he said. "But I don't
understand modern warfare, and I hate surprises.
Worf, just suppose, for one wild minute, that
some day you chance to meet a cloaked Ferengi
battle-cruiser. What happens?"
"They die," Worf said, and tossed down
half of his drink. It made him talkative.
"No cloaking device is perfect. Against the
Enterprise a cloaked ship has no defense
but overconfidence."
Offenhouse rested an elbow on the bar. "So you
can detect them?"
Worf shrugged. "It is not impossible."
"But it is difficult," the ambassador
said.
"You could ask Commander La Forge about that,"
Riker said, hoping that the ambassador would take
the hint and leave. "He's always looking for new
ways to improve our sensors."
Offenhouse grunted. "Is he any good at
that?"
"Geordi has earned several commendations for his
innovative work in sensor technology," Data
said. "His work on tachyonic heterodynes is
especially well regarded."
The door opened again, and Riker saw Wesley
Crusher come into Ten-Forward. He paused in the
doorway and looked around, then steered himself toward
Offenhouse. "Mr. Ambassador?" he asked
as the man hoisted his glass. "I'm not
interrupting, am I?"
"No." Offenhouse lowered his glass and peered
at the youth. "Wesley Crusher, isn't it?
What can I do for you?"
Wesley hesitated, then plunged ahead.
"Well--I'm taking a history class at the
Academy next term, and the course description
says we're going to spend a week talking about the
twentieth century. I thought I'd do better if
I talked with someone who really was there when everything
happened."
Offenhouse toyed with his glass of prune
juice. "You sound like my boy did when he got
into Annapolis."
Riker, a military man at heart, felt
interested despite himself. "Annapolis was the
American naval academy, wasn't it?"
"Right," Offenhouse said, and looked at
Wesley. "Ask your questions, but you have to understand that
I wasn't there for the entire century. I
missed the last couple of years, and I'm a bit
hazy on the early things, like the Wright Brothers
and the invention of the crossbow."
Wesley nodded eagerly. "But you still must know a
lot of things. Like--you were a businessman, weren't
you?"
"Yep." Offenhouse looked down at his
fingernails. "One of the best, in fact."
"What was business like?" Wesley asked. "The
history texts aren't too clear on that."
"Things have changed a bit," Offenhouse
admitted. "Okay, take my job. I was a
financier, an investor--what you'd call a
developmental analyst. I'd buy property--
a factory, or an airline, or stock--at a
low price, and sell it at a high price. The
difference in prices was the profit--the extra
money I made. I'd use that to make more
investments, so I could make more profits."
Wesley seemed perplexed. "It sounds
pretty circular," Wesley said. "Didn't
you do anything?"
Offenhouse looked thoughtful as he twisted his
glass around and around. "Yeah, I always did
make a profit, and I'll tell you, I earned
every single denarius of it."
"Mr. Ambassador," Data said, "the
denarius was an ancient Roman coin which went out
of use long before the twentieth century."
Offenhouse grunted. "I suppose you read that
in some history book?"
Data nodded. "That is a correct
assumption, sir."
Offenhouse gestured at Data with his drink.
"Who are you going to believe, me or some
historian? Remember, I was there."
Data looked polite. "The historical
record--"
"--ain't all it's cracked up to be,"
Offenhouse finished. "You wouldn't believe how many
errors get into it. Like we used to say, it's the
wieners who write the history books."
"I still don't understand what you did,"
Wesley said impatiently.
"Basically, Wes," Riker said, "he did
what the Ferengi do."
"That can't be right," Wesley said. "I mean,
the Federation wouldn't let anyone act like them. The
Ferengi are liars and thieves."
Offenhouse's jovial air leached
away. "I know," he said.
Wesley missed his sudden change. "They
don't even make sense. Ask Captain
Picard. He made our first contact with them, and the
first thing the Ferengi did was to attack. They
crippled his ship, the Stargazer, and--"
Offenhouse slammed his drink down onto the
counter with a crack that drew startled looks from
everyone in Ten-Forward. He stomped over to the
intercom station, blind to the world around him. "Computer,
where's Picard?"
"Captain Picard is in his quarters," the
computer's brisk female voice answered.
"He is to be disturbed only for ship's
business."
""Disturbed"?" Offenhouse let out a growl
that impressed Worf. "I'll show him
"disturbed."" He left the lounge.
Wesley looked from Worf to Riker to Data.
"What did I say?" he asked plaintively.
Riker spread his hands helplessly. "Beats
me, Wes, but you should say it more often." He
watched Worf as the Klingon went to the intercom.
Worf spoke quietly; Riker heard
Picard's voice answer.
Data was looking at the door. "The
ambassador's reactions are most unusual,"
he observed.
"Do you know what's bothering him?" Wesley
asked.
"It's nothing we can discuss right now," Riker
said firmly. "The ambassador insists on
keeping a few secrets."
"Why?" Wesley asked. "Look, I know
we're taking him to Megara. What's so secret
about Megara?"
"You've checked the data on it, I
suppose?" Riker asked.
"I've looked at the navigational summary,"
Wesley said. "It says Megara is
primitive."
"We have more data than the summary," Riker
said. "If you're interested, you could give me a
report on the library information."
"I'll think about it," Wesley said. He
turned and fled out the door.
Riker chuckled as Worf rejoined him and
Data at the bar. "Nothing scares a cadet like
the threat of an extra assignment."
Guinan had been listening quietly
while she polished the bar with a rag. "Riker, you
have a mean streak," she said.
Worf nodded at the hostess. "He does have
many admirable qualities--for a human." He
picked up Offenhouse's glass and drained it in
a gulp.

Picard nodded at the reflection in his dresser
mirror. Only his admiring smile spoiled the
classic filmnoir look that the fedora and
trenchcoat gave him. If his hunch was right,
dealing with Ralph Offenhouse was about to become much
easier.
The cabin door slid open and Offenhouse
strode into the room, uninvited. "Picard--" he
began, and stopped cold. "What's with the
costume?"
"I'm going to spend an hour on the
holodeck," Picard said. "We can talk there--
in private."
"All right," the man said grudgingly. He
stepped into the corridor with Picard. "But why are
you dressed like Humphrey Bogart?"
Picard needed a second to place the name;
recognition was an unexpected benefit of his
passion for old detective stories. "One of
my favorite pastimes is to play the role of
Dixon Hill," Picard said. "He's a
fictional detective of the San Francisco
of the Roosevelt era, and I simulate that world
on the holodeck. You might find this amusing--I
researched the background myself, but I have my
doubts as to the accuracy of the settings."
"And you'd like me to spot the errors?"
Offenhouse asked.
"If you would." In truth, Picard had done a
good deal of his own historical research, and he
doubted Offenhouse would find any glaring
anachronisms. If anything, he should find himself
at home in surroundings that approximated his own
era.
"It'll be my pleasure," Offenhouse said with a
smile. "Somehow you don't seem like the
detective-novel type, Picard."
"Appearances are deceptive, aren't they?"
Picard said. "I quite enjoy a good mystery. The
beauty of the Hill novels is that they present
all the clues one needs to solve the mystery, but
the presentation is made in such a way that one can
easily miss the clues. One never quite
knows what is happening."
"I'd think you get enough of that in real life," the
ambassador said. They entered the turbolift at
the end of the corridor, and Picard ordered it
to holodeck three. "By the way, Picard,"
Offenhouse said, "you might want to keep an eye
on that Crusher kid. He knows something's in the
wind."
Picard raised an eyebrow. "Does he,
now?"
"Yeah. He was pumping me for information a few
minutes ago, down in Ten-Forward."
"Wesley is an inquisitive and
intelligent young man," Picard said. "He's
also discreet. If he uncovers any secrets,
he won't reveal them."
Offenhouse looked thoughtful. "If he's that
smart, maybe we should bring him in on this."
"No, not yet. I'd like to see how far he can
go on his own." The turbolift stopped and
released them. Picard led Offenhouse to the
holodeck entrance. "Computer, run Picard
program number one. Set a date in March,
nineteen thirty-six."
"Program engaged," the computer said, opening the
door for them.
They stepped into a waiting room, where a blond
secretary sat behind a desk, buffing her nails
with an emery board. "No calls for ya,
Mistah Hill," she said to Picard.
"Understood, Madeline," Picard said,
manually opening the knobbed door to his office.
"Mr. Offenhouse and I are not to be disturbed."
The office was dingy and run-down, but the chairs
were comfortable. "Not too shabby," Offenhouse
admitted as he seated himself. "Of course, your
secretary should wear green lipstick and orange
gloves, and most offices like this would have a cuckoo
clock on the wall."
"I see," Picard said. He sat behind his
desk, wrote a memo on the ambassador's
suggestions, then opened a drawer and pulled out a
gin bottle and two dirty glasses. He found
himself slipping into the Hill persona almost without
thought as he poured the drinks. "I think it's time
we both came clean," he said as he offered a
glass to Offenhouse. "I take it you don't
want my services."
Offenhouse tasted the drink, shrugged and looked
at Picard. "Damn straight. When
Starfleet told me they were sending the
Enterprise to Megara, I banged my fist on
desks, screamed till I was blue in the face,
threatened to resign--"
"Why?" Picard asked. "If you feel a
personal animosity against me--"
"It isn't you, Picard, it's your ship.
When Singh gave me this cock-and-bull story about
how no other suitable ship was available--"
Offenhouse looked at his glass in disgust, then
put it on the desk. "Picard, a talk like this
needs real booze, not this synthehol
sissy-juice."
Picard put his own glass down.
"Precisely what is wrong with my ship?"
"Civilians," Offenhouse said. He got
up, went to the window and looked at the San
Francisco skyline. The Golden Gate
Bridge was a series of curves, as graceful
as a Shinto shrine yet almost overwhelmed by the
ugly lump of Alcatraz. To Picard, those
neighboring structures had always brought home the
extreme contradictions of the twentieth century,
the good and evil that had so frequently lived side
by side--and the inept way in which good had fought evil.
"Civilians," Offenhouse repeated. He
turned away from the window with an expression that
verged on pain. "Picard, this is a battleship
--right?"
"If necessary, yes," the captain admitted.
"It's also an exploratory ship,"
Offenhouse said. "You're supposed to nose around
in odd places and see what turns up."
Picard nodded at the man. "That's true."
"Combat and exploration--those are two good, fast
ways to die."
"Indeed they are." Picard leaned back in his
chair and rubbed his chin in thought. "You're asking
what gives us the right to take civilians
into harm's way."
"You catch on fast," the ambassador said.
He stepped back to the desk and looked at the
documents cluttering it. One was a local
newspaper, the Sun. The paper crinkled as
Offenhouse idly fingered the headlines.
Colored Wards May Vote For FDR This
November, one announced, while another warned
Germany To Reoccupy the Rhineland, Hitler
Declares.
"The risk is a necessary evil,"
Picard told him. "There was a time when
Starfleet ships were primarily military
vessels. We had a "heroic age" of such
captains as Garth, Pike, Kirk and
Sulu--"
"That was a little after my time," Offenhouse said.
"--b it was a dangerous era," Picard went
on. "Too often such captains took enormous
risks with dubious benefits. They would violate
the Prime Directive for reasons that seem
trivial. Several times they almost plunged the
Federation into war. They were sane, by all medical
standards, yet still unbalanced."
"I read about that," Offenhouse said. He sat
down and propped his feet on Picard's desk.
He closed his eyes, but Picard saw nothing
re/l in his face. "Decker slugged it out with a
doomsday machine, just for the hell of it. Garth
tried to become the new Napoleon, Tracey
committed genocide on Omega Three--you
Starfleet captains sure are a distinguished
lot."
"Some of us become carried away with our
authority," Picard said. "And Starfleet tried
numerous solutions to this problem. Civilian
crews, female command staffs, crews which mixed
races from scores of worlds, automated decision
processes. Nothing worked. Then we realized that
we were placing military men in military
vessels, and cutting them off from the rest of the
Federation. A few weeks in such a restricted
environment will distort anyone's worldview."
Offenhouse opened one eye to look at
Picard. "So they pack a ship with families just
to keep you from getting careless?"
"That's one of several reasons for a civilian
presence here," Picard said. He found the
Cyclopean gaze unsettling, and was glad when
Offenhouse closed the eye again. "Bitter
experience has shown that this is necessary. When you have children
underfoot you can't pretend that the universe is
strictly a place of heroic battles, or
forget that your actions have far-reaching consequences. You
also live in a more balanced world, and that preserves
one's own balance."
"And you're convinced this is right," Offenhouse
said.
"No, sir, I am not," Picard admitted.
"Even though this principle works, I do not know that
the means justify the ends. But I do know
that Starfleet will not replace the Enterprise on
this assignment simply to calm your nerves. You will
have to weigh your decisions as carefully as I must."
Offenhouse snorted. "I had that in mind
anyway."
"The captains you named had good intentions,
too," Picard said. "But let's discuss our
intentions in regard to Megara. Why do you think this
world is dangerous?"
"Aside from a trigger-happy Ferengi ship?"
Offenhouse sighed. "Picard, I estimate the
Ferengi have spent fifty billion credits on
Megara. They're trying to hide what they're
doing. I'm sure Dixon Hill has
investigated people who've killed for a lot less."
"Put that way, I understand your concern."
Picard opened his desk drawer and took out a
flat steel rectangle. Its top made a
snapping noise as he flipped it open, revealing
a peculiar arrangement of a bit of twine, a
vented metal cage and a tiny ridged wheel.
"Fifty billion credits?"
"Yeah. That's based on the probe data.
When you look at the budget, and Megara's
location, this smells like a clandestine military
operation."
"Except that the Ferengi are not overtly
militaristic." Picard studied the rectangle.
Its purpose eluded him--wait, he could
smell a volatile hydrocarbon fuel soaking
its wick. Thumbing the wheel created sparks, which
ignited the wick. Perhaps the device was evidence
from one of Hill's cases--it could be useful in
starting a fire. "They only fight when they might
win a profit," Picard said. His nose wrinkled
at the device's acrid smoke.
"I know," the ambassador said. "And--" He
sniffed the air. "And--I never meant to--that
is, I don't see a profit in, in, I
mean around--"
Awkwardly, Picard closed the cap on the
rectangle, extinguishing its blue flame.
"Mister Ambassador?" he asked in concern.
Offenhouse had clenched his chair's armrests in a
white-knuckled grip, as though desperate for
something to anchor him to this world. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah ... I just need a little sleep."
Offenhouse chuckled as he stood up. "You'd
think that after taking the big sleep I'd be wide
awake for the rest of your--I mean this
century."
"We can continue our talk later," Picard
said.
"Yeah ... we've got all the time in the
world." Offenhouse gave Picard an absentminded
wave as he went to the holodeck exit. It
slid open, revealing the starship corridor beyond the
illusory office. Picard saw a look of
painful disappointment on Offenhouse's face as
he stared at the hallway. "All the time in the
world," he repeated sadly.

 Chapter Four

Admiral Singh's image vanished from the
viewscreen. Picard sat in silence for a long
moment, then stood up and went to his ready
room's window. We're on our own, he
thought as he looked at the drifting starfield.
The door hissed. "You wanted to see me,
Captain?" Riker asked.
"Yes, Number One." One dim red star
moved a bit more quickly than the others.
Parallax, Picard thought idly; the red dwarf was
probably within a few light-weeks of the
Enterprise, and the ship's speed made it seem
to race along.
Picard turned away from the window. "I've just
spoken with Admiral Singh. The mission goes
on."
Riker scowled. "With an unstable anachronism
of an ambassador?"
"Ralph Offenhouse is not unstable," Picard
said. "But he is troubled."
"Does anyone know what's "troubling"
him?" Riker asked.
Picard shook his head. "There's very little information
available on the ambassador. As Admiral
Singh just told me, his file begins with his death
certificate. He was less than cooperative
with his counselors, but they believe that he's quite
capable of fulfilling his assignment, and that his work
is the best therapy for his troubles. His talents more
than outweigh his problems--and the historical
record suggests that before his death he was a stable,
even brilliant, man."
"By twentieth-century standards," Riker said.
Picard smiled slightly. "After speaking with
him on the holodeck I find that he's more
impressive than he lets on. For
example, he knows that Wesley Crusher is
investigating the Megaran situation."
"Is he?" Riker asked in obvious
surprise.
"It would seem that Wesley asked some
well-directed questions in Ten-Forward." Picard
returned to his seat and gestured for his
executive officer to join him. "Number One,
both Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi
assure me that the ambassador is all right.
However, I would like to know what made him so edgy
today. What transpired in Ten-Forward?"
Riker stroked his beard. "Well ... he
asked Worf if Ferengi ships used a cloaking
device, and if fighting them was a problem. That's
when Wesley came in. He asked Offenhouse
what sort of work he did, and the ambassador
gave him a lot of double-talk. Then Wesley
mentioned the Stargazer incident, and that's when
Offenhouse called you. He seemed upset,"
Riker finished.
Picard nodded. "What was said about the
Stargazer?"
"Only the basic facts," Riker said. "You
commanded the ship, it was our first contact with the Ferengi,
and they attacked without provocation."
That explains a great deal, Picard thought.
Or does it? It's almost too obvious.
"Can you think of anything else?"
"Well--Offenhouse mentioned his son," Riker
said. "I think Wesley reminded Offenhouse of
him."
"Interesting," Picard mused. "Thank you,
Number One."
Riker left the ready room, and Picard
turned his attention to his computer console. After a
few informative minutes, he called Deanna
Troi.

Wesley spotted Shrev in the corridor
outside holodeck two. She wore her gray
tunic, and she had a knife belted to her waist.
Wesley fought the urge to call her name as he
walked up to her. He hadn't had the time to read
up on Zhuik customs, but intuition told him
that Shrev's people regarded loudness as rude.
She saw him approach. "Hello,
Wesley," she said. Her head bowed slightly
to focus her slender antennae on him. "You
look as though you have news."
Wesley kept his voice low. "I do,
Shrev. I talked with the ambassador a few
hours ago. He said he's a developmental
analyst--well, sort of."
"I do not understand this qualification," Shrev
said.
"It's the nearest modern equivalent to his
old profession," Wesley said. "I would have come
back to you sooner, but I wanted to learn a little
about the profession first."
The holodeck door opened and De Shay
stepped out. He wore a soccer player's
uniform, now muddy and grass-stained, and he
grinned toothily as he juggled a soccer ball.
He had a black eye. "Hi, Wes,
Shrev," he said. "Hope I haven't kept
anyone waiting."
"Not at all, sir," Shrev said. "I
merely arrived a moment early."
"Did you--" Wesley cleared his throat and
raised his voice to a normal level. "Did you
have a good game, Mr. De Shay?"
"That I did," De Shay said cheerily.
"We kicked the stuffings out of the bloody Brits,
two-oh. There's never been a game like that,
mon amie." He strolled away, deftly
bouncing the ball from wrist to heel to head.
Wesley glanced at the holodeck door;
Shrev would be eager to get in there. "We could
talk later, when you're done here," he suggested.
"I must go on duty in an hour." She
paused and seemed to think. "You might consider
joining me here, although I fear my relaxation might
distress you."
Wesley hesitated. "Could I ask how
you'll relax?"
She nodded once, obviously copying the
human gesture. "I will walk through a city
hive. Certain people will behave rudely and I shall
kill them." Shrev patted her sheathed dagger.
Wesley decided that didn't sound any
worse than some of the things Worf and Riker did
on the holodeck. "I'd like to join you,"
Wesley said. "We can talk privately, and
I might learn something about Zhuiks, too."
"May what you learn be useful." Shrev
turned to the door control. "Shrev program
one, if you please."
The door opened into an oval tunnel that
curved up and to the right. By the glow of feeble
orange lamps, Zhuiks streamed up and down
its translucent length in utter silence. The
hard, pinched green faces glanced at Wesley,
then turned away. Many of them looked
unconscious despite their open eyes.
Zhuiks did not sleep, but from time to time their
minds lapsed into a somnolent state; as with
human sleepwalkers, their bodies remained in
motion while their brains rested. Wesley noted
that, like terrestrial hive insects, all of the people
he saw here were female.
"I have researched the Ferengi, as I
promised," Shrev said to Wesley. "I found
only that they have never entered this sector before. It
is far from their own space, and the distance would make
trade unprofitable."
"But they're still here," Wesley whispered.
Walking amid this alien horde made it easy for
him to keep his voice low. He walked quickly behind
Shrev; wherever they were going, they moved at a
pace as rapid as that set by the other Zhuiks.
"And the ambassador is here because they are here,"
Shrev murmured. They went around a sharp bend in
the tunnel. Here the curved floor sloped
downhill, toward a y-shaped junction, while
more Zhuiks swirled around them. Wesley saw
two Zhuiks standing in a cubbyhole, heads bowed
to let their antennae brush against one another. "You
mentioned that he is a developmental analyst. I
must confess my inexcusable ignorance of this
topic. Could I trouble you to enlighten me upon it?"
"I can't claim to be an expert," Wesley
said, "but a developmental analyst studies how
an economic system works and finds places where
you can improve it. That covers a lot of
territory: resources, factories,
personnel, research and development,
distribution, transport--all sorts of things."
"A man who understands such matters could infer much
about a society from only a few observations,"
Shrev said. "Now we must consider--"
They had reached the tunnel junction. One
Zhuik stepped out of the crowd and stood before
Shrev. She glared at Wesley, then looked
at Shrev. "Is there iron in your knife as
well?" she asked quietly.
Shrev drew her knife. "You see that my
knife is hardened copper. May I inquire
who faces Shrev of Hive Zss'zhz?"
The woman brandished her own dagger.
"I trust it pleases you to know that I am Zhen of
Hive Zss'zhz. It is my station in life
to examine the eggs laid in our clutches, and
reject those which are defective."
"And I was hatched to be a Starfleet officer,
serving the Federation to which Zhuik belongs," Shrev
whispered.
"Mutant tool of aliens," the woman
murmured, and pounced on Shrev. The crowd
pulled back to give the fighters room.
Wesley stepped forward to help Shrev, then
retreated against the curved tunnel wall.
It's what she wants, he told himself as
Shrev and the woman circled one another, knives
drawn and heads down. The woman lunged forward.
Shrev spun on her heels and slashed at her.
Shrev's dagger cut into her chest, and she flashed
out of holographic existence. Shrev slid her
dagger into its sheath and turned away, suddenly
oblivious of Wesley.
The crowd surged on, and Shrev was drawn
into the flow of bodies. Wesley shook himself out of
his surprise and hurried after her. When he
caught up with her, he saw a glaze over her
eyes, as though she walked in her sleep.
Her attention returned to Wesley. "Now we
must consider matters which might interest a
developmental analyst," she said, sounding as though
nothing had happened. "We have the enormous growth
of Megaran industry. It is clear that the
Ferengi are involved in this."
"They must be importing a lot of high-tech
gear to do this," Wesley said. He wanted to ask
her what had sparked the fight, but this didn't
seem the proper time for curiosity. "And
advisors. That's expensive ... and ... time."
"What about time?" Shrev asked.
"The changes they've made on Megara must have
taken years," Wesley said. "But Ferengi
don't make long-term investments like that. They go
after quick profits. The quicker, the better."
"I know little of Ferengi," Shrev said. "Is
it possible that they could make enormous profits
by what they do here?"
"I don't know," Wesley said. "I guess
that's one thing Mr. Offenhouse is supposed
to learn. But Ferengi never act like this."
"Then we must refine what we know," Shrev
said. There was a hole in the tunnel floor, with
numerous bent copper rungs set in the
walls. Zhuiks climbed up and down the
rungs. Shrev went down the hole, and Wesley
tried to descend as quickly as she did. It was
invigorating, like working out in a gymnasium.
A Zhuik woman bowed to Shrev as she reached
the ground. "May I trouble you for directions to the
surface?" she whispered. Wesley clutched the
rungs and watched Shrev draw her knife again.

Deanna Troi focused her attention on
Ralph Offenhouse as she neared his quarters.
He was awake and relaxed, and in a humorous
mood. His rebound did not comfort the Betazoid
empath. Mood swings were not uncommon in people with
emotional troubles. His present good humor was not
a healthy sign.
She signaled her presence at his door, and it
opened at his invitation. The ambassador lay on
his bed in a bathrobe, arms crossed behind his head
as he watched a holographic recording of a
popular stage show. "Have a seat," he told
her, and chuckled at the show.
"Thank you," Troi said. "How are you--"
His raucous laugh cut her off. "Sorry,"
he said when his laughter had subsided. "But this show
is a classic. See, it's the one where Mister
Ed thinks he's ready for the glue factory, so
he asks Wilbur to buy a little pony to keep
him company and make him feel young again, only
Wilbur accidentally buys a Shetland pony,
and when Ed realizes the "pony" is over
twenty he suddenly understands he isn't so old
after all, and it's as funny now as when I was a
kid. Classic!"
"I see," Troi said, noting the way he
rambled. "But, Mr. Ambassador, you couldn't
possibly have seen this show as a child. It's
"Robot Rolls.""
"Sure, that's what they call it,"
Offenhouse said with a knowing smirk. "But somebody just
stole an old episode of "Mister Ed,"
changed the talking horse into a robotic aircar,
and passed it off as new. You people may have replaced
TV with staged plays, but popular entertainment
hasn't changed a bit since I kicked the
bucket."
"Then why are you watching it?" Troi asked.
"Why? Simple." Offenhouse went to the
replicator. "Two vodka martinis, with
olives," he said. The replicator
produced a pair of conical glasses, and he
carried one to Troi. "You were born into this
century. I wasn't. I need to pick up the
background, schlock and all. A good
businessman does things like that."
"That's very sensible." Troi sipped her drink.
Thank goodness for synthehol, she thought.
Drinking was an important ritual in many
cultures, and synthehol had many of alcohol's
benefits without the damaging side effects. The
intoxication faded swiftly, but for social
purposes it was enough. "You've probably
guessed that this isn't a social call.
Captain Picard tells me that you were
extremely uncomfortable on the holodeck
earlier today--"
"--and now you want to help me count my
marbles," Offenhouse said, as he sat down with his
drink. "That shouldn't take long. One, two.
Yeah, I still got 'em all."
She smiled. "Can you tell me what you felt
on the holodeck?"
He sighed. "It looked like I was back in the
real San Francisco--I spent a summer
there when I was a boy. Frisco was different then,
but there were still offices like the one Picard showed me,
and my dad took me to some of them. I was okay
at first, but I almost lost it when Picard started
playing with that cigarette lighter. My dad's
old Zippo made the same noise, and then there
was the smell of lighter fluid ..."
"And the past came rushing back," Troi said.
Smells and sounds were potent memory stimuli.
She wished the captain had consulted with her; she
could have warned him that his effort to put Ralph
Offenhouse at ease was risky.
Offenhouse nodded. "It was too much,
Counselor. I felt like I was back home
... like I could walk out of that office and--and--"
"And take care of some unfinished business?"
Deanna asked. She could sense how the question
exacerbated his underlying sense of guilt. "There's
something you'd like to change, isn't there?"
He nodded. "That's the trouble with dropping dead
in your tracks. You don't get a chance to wrap
things up." He sighed. "I figure that in time
I'll get used to being where I am. If that's
all--"
Deanna shook her head. "I'd also like to ask
you about the Enterprise."
He shrugged. "Picard and I already had this
talk. Your ship has a dumb design, but I
can live with it."
"I don't mean this Enterprise," Troi
said. "I mean the American aircraft
carrier."
Offenhouse was silent for a long moment. "My
son's ship," he said at last.
"Captain Picard checked the historical
records," Troi told him. "Peter Linde
Offenhouse was a pilot aboard the Enterprise
when she was blown up in the Sea of Japan."
"Two years after I died," Offenhouse said.
"Why is that the first thing that comes to your mind?"
Troi asked.
"I don't know." He finished his drink, got
up and called for two more.
To be polite, Troi finished her first drink
and accepted a second. "Do you think you were better
off dead?" Troi asked.
"Sometimes I think so," he said. "At least
I wouldn't have to know that my only child died in a war
that shouldn't have happened."
"The Battle of the Sea of Japan was the
turning point of the Eugenics War," Troi said.
She had never cared much for Earth history, but its
darker aspects had the hypnotic fascination of a
good horror story. "It destroyed much of Khan
Singh's military force and marked the beginning of the
end for his super-race. After that battle, the Great
Khanate splintered into a dozen factions which
started fighting one another--"
"--and eventually their leaders were hunted down like
rats," Offenhouse finished. "I know. My boy
died saving the human race from tyranny, and all
that. He still died."
There was a long moment of silence, during which
Troi sipped her drink and Offenhouse's
emotions in equal measure. To him, the
Eugenics War and a centuries-old death were
fresh, raw wounds. He had been conscious for
several years, and he still had not come to grips with his
loss. Perhaps it was because his son had died childless.
Genetic continuity, carrying on the family line
and name, meant a great deal to beings all across the
known galaxy. Failure of this sort often led
to suicide, and yes, she could sense that option
shadowing the man's thoughts.
Troi put her empty glass down on the
carpet; that seemed as good a place as
any for it. Her head buzzed as she concentrated
on the man's emotions. She sensed a raw
current of guilt now. Survivor guilt,
she guessed. He wonders why he lived when
everyone else died. "I'm supposed to offer
words of wisdom," she said. "So let me tell
you that being alive is better than being dead."
Offenhouse grunted. "Why is that? Remember
that you're talking to a man who's tried both."
"Well, Mr. Ambassador, dying is
suicidal, that is, it's certain death, it kills
people all the time. If you die you won't be alive
anymore. Your friends won't talk with you, you'll
miss out on life and you won't be able to do
anything. You, now ..." She leveled a finger at
him; it wobbled as though not quite certain which way
to point. "You're a man who wants to correct
a mistake. You can't do that if you're dead."
"Interesting point," he conceded. "Anything
else?"
"No, I don't want to press you today," she
said.
"Okay, Counselor," Offenhouse said.
Troi watched as he procured a third round of
drinks. No doubt about it, her words were getting
through to him. Her empathic sense was working with a
magnificent clarity today, and she could tell that one
fact--the inability of the dead to change the world--now
pervaded his consciousness.
Troi toasted Offenhouse, finished the drink and
left his quarters. She headed for the bridge, where
she would tell Jean-Luc that something she had said
to Ralph had given him an added measure of
stability. The ambassador had annoyed the
captain, true, but he would feel pleased for the
man. Like almost all the people Troi had ever met, the
captain took pleasure in witnessing the good
fortune of others. Perhaps that was one way to define
decency.
Halfway to the turbolift, Deanna Troi
noticed that the artificial gravity was
oscillating badly. The deck wobbled under her
feet as she went to the nearest comm panel.
"Troi to La George, I mean Fordie, I
mean--are you there?"
"Deanna?" Geordi La Forge sounded
puzzled.
"There's trouble with the grabbing art, I mean the
artigrav, on deck, uh, the deck where I am.
Right here."
"Trouble?" the chief engineering officer asked.
"Deanna, all my boards show nominal
function."
"Oh, good, but the deck's having an awful time
holding on to my feet." She giggled as she
swayed into the bulkhead. "It's rather nice."

There were several recreation areas aboard the
Enterprise, and each served identical food and
drink. Despite this, Worf preferred to dine in
the one on the engineering deck. It was located between
the battle bridge and the torpedo bays. The
armory, which contained the weapons used by away teams
and his own security unit, was nearby. Sharp ears
could hear the rush of coolant through the phaser
banks. Somehow the ambience made the rokeg
pie sweeter, the k'truyg tarter, the gagh
livelier.
Worf entered the cafeteria with his son,
Alexander. The replicator was delivering a
roasted scrag haunch when Riker entered the
cafeteria. "Are you going to complain if your
superior officer joins you?" he asked Worf,
in the rude manner affected by Klingon warriors.
"If you must," Worf grumbled. It pleased
him to have this human around his son. Riker was a good
influence; Alexander was a Klingon and needed those
things which humans called "role models."
Living among so many non-Klingons, the boy was
exposed to such unwholesome concepts as etiquette
and pacifism. Riker's only fault was that he
bathed in water--almost every day, Worf suspected.
The man's behavior wasn't totally
Klingonese.
Riker ordered the same dinner as Worf and
Alexander, and joined them at a table. He picked
up his scrag with both hands and tore off a
mouthful with his teeth. "Alexander," Riker said as
he swallowed. "I saw your teacher today. She
tells me there are no bullies in your class."
"I've been behaving myself," Alexander said.
"So has everyone else," Riker said. "She
credits that to you."
"There has been trouble?" Worf asked,
honored by the compliment Riker was paying his son.
A good Klingon enforced discipline.
Alexander shrugged. "Well, I saw Rajiv
hit Nonong, once."
"And?" Worf asked.
"I told Rajiv that it looked
like--fun." The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of
jagged Klingonese teeth. "I was holding him
upside down by his ankles when I said that."
Riker laughed in admiration. Alexander was
small and delicate for his age, by both human and
Klingon standards. But my son, Worf thought,
more than makes up for his delicacy with his
determination. He will conquer worlds!
"Sounds like you're doing well," Riker said, and
shoveled some rokeg pie into his mouth.
"I like being around humans," Alexander said.
He looked up at his father. "I'm glad we
didn't annihilate them." Riker laughed, and
Worf clapped his son on the shoulder in
approval.
"Hey, Worf?" La Forge had entered the
cafeteria. He sat down at the table, and
looked away from the mug of squirming gagh on
Riker's tray. "We may have a security
problem."
Worf grunted. "Who needs to be killed?"
"It's not that bad," the engineer said. "But
somebody smuggled some ethyl alcohol onto the
ship. Now Deanna Troi's in sickbay with a
bad case of alcohol poisoning."
Riker looked amazed. "Deanna is
drunk?"
"She was doing about two warp factors more than
the ship when I caught up with her," La Forge
said. "Dr. Crusher is detoxifying her, but
she's in no shape to say what happened."
"She had a talk with Offenhouse a while
ago," Riker said. He grimaced as he saw the
connection. "Worf, do you think--"
"I do." The cafeteria walls seemed
to shake with Worf's growl. "I must leave this to the
captain. Diplomats do have privileges."
"Better luck next time, Worf," Riker
said, and took some more rokeg pie. He washed it
down with prune juice.
"Yes," Worf muttered. He looked to La
Forge. "Commander, might we discuss a technical
matter?"
"Sure, Worf," La Forge said.
"I have been considering the problem of detecting
cloaked ships," the Klingon security officer
said. "Our techniques have not improved in several
months. It would be shameful if we failed
to detect a cloaked ship."
"So you want to keep ahead of the
competition," La Forge said. "What brings this
on?"
Worf glanced at Alexander. Admit that he
was concerned for his son's safety? Never. "It is
just a thought."
"Well, it's an interesting thought," La Forge
said. Even though the golden corrugations of his
VISOR hid his eyes, Worf could see how the
problem intrigued him. The human had a
special interest in sensors, perhaps because of his
dependence on artificial sight. "Right now our
sensor technology pretty well pushes the
limits. We'd have to look for something that current
sensors aren't set up to detect. Trouble is,
we already scan for all the things cloaked ships
emit."
Riker finished his pie and picked up the
scrag haunch. "What don't we look for
now?" he asked.
"Lots of things," La Forge said. "Quarks,
gravitinos, photinos, neutrinos, gravity
waves--things that will pass through a cloak, but either
are neutralized by other systems, or aren't
easy to look for, or aren't emitted by ordinary
matter."
Alexander looked up from his scrag. He had
demolished most of it while the adults spoke.
"Can you make another ship emit them?"
A smile slowly spread across La Forge's
face. "Alexander, you're one smart kid.
Maybe I can." He stood up. "I'm going
to check a few things in engineering."
"Can I watch?" Alexander looked up to his
father. "I already did my homework."
"So long as you do not annoy Commander La
Forge," Worf said. He was still speaking when
Alexander got up, grabbed the rest of his pie and
followed the engineer out of the room.
Riker chuckled. "He's quite a kid."
"Yes--even though he bathes." Worf dug
into his scrag. "Commander, I have examined the
archives for more ancient films. I have found one that
might interest you."
"Another comedy?" Riker asked.
"It is similar to your comedy, but it is
more--glorious," the Klingon decided. "There are
frequent, honorable displays of hand-to-hand
combat. The villains are obvious. The hero never
speaks. It is called Rambo V."
"And you say it's glorious?" Riker
asked.
Worf nodded. "Everyone dies."
"Sounds promising." Riker swallowed a
half-chewed bite of scrag. "And I've found
another comedy."
Worf feigned annoyance. "You are
determined to make me laugh."
"Yeah, even if it kills me. ..." His
face went pale and his lips twitched as his
voice trailed off.
Worf looked at Riker in alarm. "Are you
well?"
"Yeah, I just--uhn!" Riker gasped,
clutched at his stomach and doubled over.
Worf sprang to Riker's side and slapped
his communicator badge. "Transporter
Room, emergency beam to sickbay!" he commanded.
The rec area dissolved into the sickbay as the
transporter came to life. "Doctor!"
Worf roared. He picked up Riker and slung
him onto a biobed. Across the compartment, Deanna
Troi lay unconscious on another biobed.
Dr. Beverly Crusher hurried out of her
office. "What is it?" she demanded.
"Commander Riker has been poisoned," Worf
said. He tried to think of how it could be done--
by reprogramming the replicator? And why? Was
some underling attempting to advance his career
by assassinating Riker? That was a common business
aboard Klingon ships, but it was unknown in
Starfleet. Meanwhile Riker was losing the
battle to hide his pain. "There shall be vengeance,"
Worf vowed to him.
"Easy," the doctor said. She activated the
biobed's instruments, glanced at the readouts, then
peered into Riker's eyes and mouth. "You were having
dinner," she said. "What were you eating?"
Worf thought. "Rokeg, gagh, scrag--"
"Scrag," Dr. Crusher said. She
produced a hypospray and injected Riker in the
arm. "Ah, yes. The flesh of the killer
garbat, marinated in its own blood and treated with
ten different spices. The finest achievement of
Klingonese culinary arts--and completely
indigestible by human beings." The doctor
produced a larger hypo and pumped something
into Riker's midriff.
Worf looked down at Riker as the agony
drained from his face. "Scrag did this?"
The doctor nodded and gazed at her
patient. "Will Riker," she said firmly, "I
warned you to avoid certain Klingonese foods.
I gave you a list of items which the human
digestive system cannot tolerate. Didn't
scrag top the list?"
Riker let out his breath in a rattling gasp.
"I forgot."
"And I warned you that certain Klingonese
substances can be lethal," she continued. "You're
fortunate that all you had this time was what, in
medical parlance, we call a dingwally of a tummy
ache."
"It was worth it," Riker rasped. He forced
a skeletal grin as he looked at Worf.
"Bring on the second course."

 Chapter Five

Kardel Anit was hungry and tired. His
eyelid grated over his eye whenever he blinked,
which was often. His body moved more out of habit than
anything else as he dragged his junk cart down the
alley. It had rained that day, and the streets were
muddy where they were not cobbled. His boots kept his
feet dry, and his coverall protected him from the
air's damp chill. The garb and armor of a
Vo's soldier had never been so good as what he
wore now. Twice while a soldier he had
fallen ill in such weather, and once frost had
taken three toes from his feet. Yet who
honored a man who wore this shapeless gray
garment?
There was a fresh pile of waste behind the
rat-eyes' factory. Most of what the workers
cast aside was worthless, but enough could be salvaged
to make this business worthwhile. Anit found
several large cans, a pry-bar, a stained
tarpaulin made from something that seemed more like metal
than cloth.
The factory's rear door slid open, and an
oxless wagon rolled into the alley. The man who
held the steering wheel seemed unaware of
Anit's presence as the wagon rolled past.
Despite exhaustion, Anit felt the old
rage at that. Who was this man to ignore a
soldier?
A whole man, Anit answered himself.
He had tried to get a job in such a factory,
but the rat-eyes and their lackeys had rejected
him. What use was a man with one arm and
one eye? It counted for nothing that Anit had been
maimed in the service of the Vo Gatyn, who now
ruled all of Megara. A man received no work
permit, no place if he was no longer
"useful," if he could not meet a "production
quota." It was all such a man could do to keep
breath and blood in himself and his family.
Anit stopped and looked through a window into the
factory. He saw men operating machines. The
machines caused metal blocks and pipes
to float through the air. Men in clumsy heatsuits
pushed them together, and welded them together with sticks that
spewed flamelike light. Ten years ago such
magical sights would have filled him with awe. Now
he only felt envy for the workers, who were assured
of having their next meal and of finding the money to pay
off the unending demands of the tax collectors.
The junk dealer was pulling his cart through another
alley when a man walked up to him. At first
Anit thought the man was a thief--crime had
spread like weeds since the arrival of the rat-eyes
--but when he reached inside his coverall it was
to draw out a sheet of paper. He held out the
paper to Anit, who took it when he saw the
symbol drawn on it: a world, split by a bolt
of lightning. The sign of the Prophet Against the
Dark. The other side was covered with print.
Anit hid the paper inside his coverall and went
home.
Anit lived in a two-room brick building
with his wife and five children. Six, soon, he
thought as he saw Molokan in the front
doorway. Heavily pregnant, she waddled out
and looked inside the cart. She picked up one
of the cans. "A good bucket this will make," she
said.
"Yes," he said. They carried the junk into the
building's front room. The shop was already
filled with clutter, much of which Anit knew he
would never sell. Still, one never knew what people would
buy.
Their work finished, Anit and Molokan went
into the rear room. Their two oldest children sat on
the floor against one wall, diligently reading the
books from the rat-eyes' school--an old-style
school, he reminded himself, of the sort where
students sat on benches for endless days while a
teacher drilled them in their lessons.
Mercifully, the rat-eyes did not subject children
to the learning helmet. The other children lay
curled in a corner, their backs warmed by the
cooking fire in the pit as they slept.
Anit sat at the table. Wordlessly,
Molokan placed a bowl of stew and a mug of
ale in front of him, and he fed himself with
movements that made him think of factory
machines. The food was not good; it had the stale
taste of food stored too long, but the merchants
sold no fresh food here--only preserved
food, carried in on railways and stored in
iceboxes.
Anit looked at his oldest son. Vaton's
"schoolbook," Anit realized, was one of the
adventure books that the rat-eyes had banned;
the boy read them because they were illegal. Such
books told crude, impossible stories about
worlds that somehow circled the stars, where people did nothing
but kill, betray and rob one another. If there
really were worlds among the stars, Anit could believe
that star folk would behave so monstrously. He had
seen the rat-eyes do worse, and force people to do far
worse.
Molokan stood behind her husband as he ate.
When they had been young, before the rat-eyes came,
she had objected to his demands that she behave as
a proper soldier's wife. No more did she
call this simple gesture a humiliation. Through
it, she too clung to the old times.
She had always been good, he remembered. She
had kept him alive after the battle that had
maimed him. She had refused to take the children and
find a new husband, one who could provide her with
better food and a decent home. Molokan was a
peasant, but she knew more of loyalty than the
Vo Gatyn.
When Anit finished his meal, he took the
paper from inside his coverall and handed it
to Molokan. "Read," he ordered. The
rat-eyes had taught many people to read, forcing them
to submit to a demonic ritual that involved
wearing a metal cap and having needles stuck
into one's flesh, but they had not required Anit
to undergo the ordeal. They had judged him too
worthless to teach.
Molokan read. ""Thus speaks the
Prophet Against the Dark,"" she said in a
voice hushed from the children's hearing. ""Tomorrow I shall
defy the evil which comes from the sky, which has
occupied Heaven itself, scraping the filth of its
boots on the Paths of Paradise and
spewing its foulness into the beards of our gods.
Soon shall we take from the rat-eyes all which is
ours, and more. That which they force upon us, we shall turn
against them, and our children shall crusade against the demon
outworlders in Heaven itself. Tomorrow at midnight you will
see me in the holy places. Now burn this
paper and witness a miracle.""
Anit was too tired to make sense of the
tangled words. "The Prophet Against the Dark
here is coming?" he asked, as simply as a child
might. He didn't know if outworlders were monsters
or evil men; he only wanted to know that there was
hope.
"The paper says among us she shall walk,"
Molokan said.
"Good," Anit said. "Now let us see the
miracle of the paper."
Molokan waddled over to the cooking fire and
fed the paper into the flames. The paper caught
fire and burned with an abnormal brightness. As the
flames consumed it, a ghost no bigger than a
man's fist appeared above it. The Prophet
Against the Dark! Anit thought. He dropped
to his knees in awe as the robed image raised
its hands in benediction before it faded.
Anit and Molokan gazed at the fire for a
long moment. "Good it would be," Molokan said
wi/lly, "the Prophet herself to see, in a
holy place speaking."
"That we shall not do," Anit said, resting his hand
on her swollen belly. "From rat-eyes and
brigands too great the danger is. Of parents our
children we shall not deprive. Besides," he added, nodding
at the fire, "the Prophet we have just seen."
"We have," Molokan said reluctantly.
Anit knew that she wanted to see the Prophet,
with a need stronger than hunger or thirst. There was
a grove outside the city, where people had worshiped
before the rat-eyes had outlawed religion. It
would be good to go there and see the Prophet, even if
it meant being killed by vengeful rat-eyes--
Anit shook his head as if to drive out that
thought. The world had turned cruel since the
rat-eyes had taken over. If he died, who
would take care of Molokan and their children?
Orphans starved in the streets, a shameful
horror that no one would have tolerated in the old
days.
Anit and Molokan made ready to sleep.
They lay down on their cot, and Anit
ordered Vaton to turn out the glassfire. In the
darkness, Anit pulled the blanket over himself and
his wife, and pillowed Molokan's head on the
stump of his arm. She slept deeply--this
pregnancy tired her more than had any other--but
despite his own exhaustion Anit could not
sleep. He pictured the Prophet striding
into the city, leveling the factories with a glance of
her eye, restoring the old times with a spoken word,
sweeping away the rat-eyes with a gesture.

Picard was familiar with the aftereffects of
alcoholic overindulgence--his family owned
one of the finest vineyards and distilleries in France
--but what he found in sickbay astonished him.
Deanna Troi looked like the victim of a
brutal transporter malfunction. Her skin
had turned pasty, her hair lay in disarray on
the biobed, and her wide dark eyes had grown
bloodshot and sunken. "Fear not," Picard said
with sympathetic humor, "Dr. Crusher
assures me you shall survive."
Troi winced and groaned. "Don't remind
me," she said.
"Courage," Picard said, and sighed. "The
ambassador picked a fine time to get you
drunk."
"It wasn't deliberate," Troi said, in a
voice that was barely audible. "I didn't sense
any malice in him--he didn't even realize
he was offering me anything unusual. That's why I
didn't know ..."
"But he did override the replicator
programming to create some rather potent grain
alcohol," Picard said, "in defiance of
Starfleet regulations."
"It seems to have been what he needed," Troi
whispered. "And if he can override a safety
program, then he's not quite the primitive
bumpkin everyone feels he is."
"That isn't at all what I feel,"
Picard said.
"It isn't? Good. Maybe that means this
hangover is going away." Troi started to sit
up, then slumped back as the biobed's
electronic squeals protested her movement.
"And maybe it isn't."
Picard sighed again. "I need to know the
ambassador's mental state."
"He's fine now, although be careful about
mentioning his son." Troi winced again, as though a
bright light had flashed in her eyes. "I don't
believe it. The walls have feelings." She
groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. "At least
they're in a good mood."
"Counselor--" Picard began patiently.
"You want to know more about Ralph," she said.
"It might help if you brushed up on the
Eugenics War."
Picard nodded. "I have already done so. And I
won't deny I'm fascinated by military
history." Barbaric though it was, there had been
something direct and vigorous about
twentieth-century combat--especially when brave
men had hurled themselves and their fragile aircraft
against the flying battlewagons of the Khanate,
or fought laser cannons and electromagnetic
shields with rifles and artillery--
Troi cringed at what he felt. "Captain,
Ralph isn't a pacifist, but he hates war.
The death of his only child hit him very hard. Somehow
it's given him an enormous burden of guilt."
"I'll keep that in mind," Picard said.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes," Troi whispered. She reached up,
grabbed his collar and pulled his face close
to hers. "Please don't feel so loud."
The captain extricated himself from her grip and
left the sickbay. Troi's condition suggested that
the ambassador would be dead to the world, but when
Picard signaled at Offenhouse's door the
ambassador greeted him in a cheery voice.
"C'mon in, Picard."
Picard entered the room. Offenhouse looked quite
healthy. His eyes were clear, his face pink and
clean-shaven. "Mr. Ambassador," Picard
said, his voice at once firm and cordial,
"henceforth please refrain from getting my crew
members drunk."
Offenhouse looked puzzled. ""Drunk"?"
he repeated.
"Counselor Troi--"
"Oh!" He shook his head. "Sorry,
Picard. I didn't think a couple of vodka
martinis could get anyone plastered. But I'll
tell you, she makes more sense drunk than a
lot of people do sober."
"Does she?" Picard asked. He waved a
hand to dismiss the point. "I've come here to discuss
our mission."
"Fine. Have a seat." Offenhouse sprawled
on the bed while the captain settled into a chair.
"Our first problem is going to be exploring
Megara without tipping off the Ferengi."
"That can't be done," Picard said.
"Suspicion is the natural state of the
Ferengi mind."
"Correct," Offenhouse said, "so we've
got to misdirect their suspicions. I think
we can manage that, because they're going to want
to believe their operations are still secret."
"That will be tricky," Picard said. "The
Ferengi are sharp."
"They're a bunch of piranhas. But think of
me as a shark." Offenhouse grinned, showing teeth.
"Picard, back when I was a poor but humble
financier, I learned how easy it is
to outsmart crooked businessmen like the Ferengi. I
can handle 'em."
Picard leaned forward in his seat. "Mr.
Ambassador, are you saying that Ferengi behave
like twentieth-century businessmen?"
"Crooked twentieth-century businessmen,"
Offenhouse said smugly. "That's the secret of
my success, Picard, the one factor that makes
the Federation think I'm a genius, or at least
a, a"--he looked at the ceiling as he snapped
his fingers several times--"what's that French term,
the one that means "wise fool"--"
"Idiot savant," Picard said in a weak
voice.
"Right. Not that anyone says it to my face."
He rolled off the bed and went to the replicator.
"One cherry cola, with crushed ice." He
removed a glass from the opening and eyed Picard.
"Took me a long time to duplicate this drink.
You ought to try it, Picard."
Picard looked at the glass. The brown
fluid fizzed and sputtered nastily, as though it
had just made a forcible escape from a chemistry
lab. "Perhaps some other time," Picard said. "We
were discussing your approach to the Ferengi."
"Business is business," Offenhouse told
him as he sat down. "And crooks is crooks.
Picard, it's been a century since anyone in
the Federation has had to worry about competition and
percentages and all the other things that make
business the grandest game man ever invented.
Okay, you've rationalized your economy to the
point where you have no unemployment,
poverty or depressions, but it means you don't
understand cultures who do."
"Our sociologists might beg to differ,"
Picard said. He watched in barely restrained
horror as Offenhouse drank the hissing brown
fluid in his glass. "They have an excellent
understanding of these matters."
"The way your android understands emotions,"
Offenhouse said. "I've told them things their
"expertise" has missed, because they can't
imagine what it feels like to be threatened with
unemployment, or poverty, or--well, a lot
of things. I've studied everything the Federation has
learned about the Ferengi, and I've felt like I was
reading about some long-lost friends.
"The point is, I understand the Ferengi and I can
handle those smarmy weasels. Right now my real question
is how we're going to investigate Megara.
I'm going down, of course, but I can't be
everywhere. I'll need other people who can look around,
learn things and tell me what's going on."
Picard smiled. "Curiosity, observation and
intelligence are prerequisite qualities in
Starfleet officers. And one of the reasons we have
civilians on this ship is so that they may visit
alien worlds and allow other people to meet Federation
citizens. It's an important diplomatic
function."
"Sounds like a great little icebreaker,"
Offenhouse agreed. He sucked at his drink, and
despite its corrosive effervescence he
seemed unharmed. "How much money will they spend
on Megara? For souvenirs, and dining, and
whatever."
"Modest amounts, I should say," Picard
said. "By and large our people aren't acquisitive."
"Tell them to get the habit," the
ambassador said. "They'll need it."
"Very well," Picard said. "Now, Mr.
Ambassador, let's discuss the Megarans.
They're caught up in the Ferengi's machinations;
what do we do about them?"
"Aside from running the Ferengi out of town?"
The ambassador shook his head. "It's a safe
guess that the Ferengi have turned Megaran
society on its head, but beyond that, I don't know
what to expect or what we'll do to help them
recover."
"Nor do I," Picard said, "but, assuming
we're successful, we can't simply
walk away from the situation."
Offenhouse's knuckles whitened as his hand
tightened on his glass. "No, I won't,"
he said, almost to himself. "Not this time."

Wesley hesitated, then walked into the
Ten-Forward lounge. Guinan was nowhere in sight;
she was off-duty, and Data had taken her place
behind the bar. Shrev sat in a corner, eating
something that looked like a bowl of gummy yellow
soup.
Data was polishing a glass with a clean cloth.
He was out of uniform, and dressed in the archaic,
red-and-white-striped costume of a soda jerk.
"Hello, Wesley," the android said. "What
is your pleasure?"
"Uh--a hot-fudge sundae, please," the
youth said. "A big one, with everything, like
Counselor Troi likes."
"With nonreplicated ingredients?" the android
asked. "Counselor Troi claims that
replication does not "catch" the subtle
flavors of "real" ice cream and chocolate.
I would suggest you attempt the experience."
"Uh ..." Wesley had heard similar
claims before. Frankly, he thought that
nonreplicated food tasted funny--especially
when you thought about where some of the ingredients came from.
On the other hand, he didn't want to offend
Data. "Sure, I'll try it."
"Coming right up."
"Thanks." Wesley watched the android's
hands as they swiftly created the dessert.
"Say, Data, why are you doing this?"
Data's head tilted inquisitively.
"Did you not request that I construct a
hot-fudge sundae?"
Wesley smiled. He sometimes wondered if
Data misunderstood questions on purpose,
to provoke a smile. "I mean, why are you working
behind the bar?"
"Guinan recently informed me that bartenders
obtain a unique perspective on human
behavior," Data said. He piled whipped
cream onto the scoops of ice cream, then added
an assortment of toppings. "This comes primarily
in the form of what she called "confessions," a
process by which bar patrons unburden their
problems to the bartender after a quite modest stimulus.
For example, I would make the
observation that you appear troubled, and you would expound
upon whatever matter troubled you, which would soothe your
emotional state." Data poured hot fudge
over the dessert. "As it happens, you do appear
troubled."
"No, I've just been studying a lot the past
couple of days. Zhuik culture," he added.
"You might consult Ensign Shrev," Data
suggested.
"I've already talked with her a few times,"
Wesley said. "She's the reason I'm
studying."
"Ah. You are cultivating a friendship?"
Data asked.
"I hope so. The problem is, I've been
around nonhumans most of my life, but I
guess I don't understand how different they are."
Wesley took the sundae and a spoon from
Data. Instead of eating, he toyed with the spoon.
"I start to think of other species as just
different-looking humans, and then I get
surprised when they do something a human would never
do."
"This is a common human feeling," Data
noted. "Has Ensign Shrev done something that
troubles you?"
"Yes--no." Wesley shook his head.
"It's me. I shouldn't expect her to act
human, not when what she does is normal for
her."
"Then you wish to accept her as she is," Data
said. His head tilted again, as though he was consulting
some inner data-readout. "I believe the proper
course would be for you to dine with her, which will present the
opportunity for further learning. And as with most
races, Zhuik prefer to dine with friends."
"Right. Thanks, Data." Wesley picked
up the sundae and crossed the lounge to Shrev's
table. Her soup, he saw, was more like honey or
nectar, and the spoon was a spatula which she licked
clean with a raspy tongue as green as her face.
The meal probably was nectar, he decided,
given the fact that Zhuiks had evolved from
insects similar to terrestrial bees.
Wesley remembered to lower his voice when he
spoke to Shrev. He had found that the forced whisper
made it easier to affect the extreme politeness
that Zhuiks found normal. It's almost like being
an actor in an intense role, he thought.
When I'm "in character," it's almost
impossible not to be hyperpolite. "Might I
intrude upon you?" he asked.
"I would welcome your presence, Wesley."
Shrev sniffed delicately. "Your meal has a
pleasant aroma."
"As does yours, Shrev." He bent his head
slightly and raised his eyes to look at her.
Even though he had no antennae to focus on
her, he had a hunch that this position would seem
attentive; to Zhuiks, humans probably
looked as though they were staring off into the space above
someone's head.
She smiled. "You have studied our ways since
we last met."
Wesley nodded. "It seemed polite, and I
wanted to understand what I saw on the holodeck."
"What you saw did distress you," Shrev said
in alarm.
"Only my ignorance distressed me,"
Wesley said. He had rehearsed that line
carefully, and he was glad to see how it soothed
Shrev. "But now I think I know why you did it.
Among your people, behavior is closely linked
to genetics. A mutation can reveal itself as a
change in behavior."
"And we are far more vulnerable to mutation than
most species," Shrev said. The Ten-Forward
lounge had excellent acoustics, but Wesley still
had to strain to hear Shrev over the dinner chatter
of the other patrons. "Our genetic material
lacks the stability inherent in yours. If we
did not purge our hives of mutants, then within
a few generations we would slide into decay and
extinction. Hence we accept our killings."
But it's unusual for a Zhuik to kill a
mutant even once in a lifetime, Wesley
reflected. Zhuiks with obvious birth
defects were killed in childhood, usually by their
parents--a custom not unknown in some backward
human cultures, as more than one text had
reminded Wesley. Shrev had killed over a
dozen of her people on the holodeck. "It also means
that bad manners must upset you," Wesley said.
"And you must find life among humans a continual
display of rudeness."
"My reaction to bad manners is genetic,"
Shrev whispered. "But I can make allowances for
non-Zhuiks. And I find it relaxing to deal with
you. Your manners are impeccable."
"I'm glad to hear I'm learning,
Shrev." Wesley remembered his sundae and
took a bite. "And I'm glad you can work off the
strain on the holodeck."
She smiled. "You are kind, and knowledgeable.
The killing relaxes me; my people feel
zh'hs'hzs, the ... instinctive need to kill
under certain conditions. Through it I also reassure
myself that I still recognize good and bad manners,
that I am a proper person. But did you
recognize the rudeness in the people I killed?"
Not even once, he thought. "I was often
puzzled, Shrev."
"Well." She took a lick of her nectar.
"The woman who asked about iron was insulting my
choice of friends. Our blood uses copper and
yours uses iron, you see?"
Wesley hesitated. "Among humans, we
seldom fight to the death over insults."
"But among humans, rudeness is not a
genetic failing." Shrev took another
spatula of nectar. "I hope I will not offend
you with my frankness, but some of my people feel that
aliens contaminate our culture, by expecting us
to conform to their morals. While we give this topic
much debate, the woman was rude to mention it so
bluntly in front of an outlander."
"And as a proper lady, you could not allow her
insult to pass unchallenged," Wesley
whispered, lifting his words from one of the texts he'd
studied. "Might I ask about the woman who
requested directions to the surface?"
"She showed a lack of direction," Shrev
told him. "Most of my people have an inborn knowledge of
our hive's pathways, but a mutant does not
know which way is up--"
Wesley laughed loudly. "Sorry,
Shrev," he said, then lowered his voice again.
"That's a human joke. When someone acts
confused or stupid, we say they don't know which
way is up."
"An interesting point." She smiled. "It would
be rude of me to say that I am suddenly reminded
of certain Academy instructors."
"I believe I could name them," Wesley said.
"Indeed?" With her eyes and antennae focused
on him, Wesley found her smile sly. "I
most especially recall Klarten, whom I shall not
deny is an excellent instructor in personal
combat."
Wesley winced, recalling
Klarten's habit of taking anyone who erred in his
class and demonstrating judo holds and throws with
his or her body. Klarten maintained, loudly, that
no cadet could fight worth beans. "He's good,
all right," Wesley said.
"And you will be under his expert tutelage for three
more years," Shrev said.
Wesley saw where she was leading the conversation;
she obviously had a very human urge to get even
with Klarten. "I would welcome the chance
to surprise him," Wesley said. "And I saw
your expertise on the holodeck. Could I
impose on you to teach me how Zhuiks use the
knife?"
Shrev smiled again. "That would please me no
end, Wesley." Her meal was almost done; her
spatula scraped the bottom of the bowl.
"Well. I have thought on our last talk. As you
said, what the Ferengi do is expensive and
time-consuming, and not in keeping with their customs."
"I still can't explain that," Wesley said. "I
must be missing something."
"Perhaps we have tasted the wrong flowers. The
nectar we seek may be elsewhere." She licked
at the spatula. "What if the Ferengi are working
for someone else?"
"Yeah ..." Wesley said. "They'll do
anything for money. But who has a reason
to develop a backwater planet like Megara?"
"That question I cannot answer."
"Same here--wait, maybe I'm going at this
backward," Wesley said. He looked up at
the lounge ceiling; he had kept his head bent
forward so long that his neck had begun to stiffen.
"Who can afford to do it?"
"There are many possibilities." Shrev put
her spatula aside. "Romulans,
Tholians, Cardassians, Orion pirates,
Gorn, renegade Klingons."
"Megara has a good strategic position on
the Federation's border," Wesley said, "and there
are a lot of unclaimed planets in the
sector. Any of those people would jump at the chance
to have a base on Megara."
"That is logical," Shrev said. "Now we
must search for facts to support or deny our
logic."


 Chapter Six

The terror had faded years ago, but Odovil
Pardi still felt nervous around the Ferengi. It
did not help that Ri'vok was talking about problems
with her operation. "Two shipments in the past sixday
have contained octahedral crystalline patterns,"
the little man said. He sat behind Odovil's
desk, forcing her to stand in her own office. "It
made the metal worthless. It screwed up the
production quotas at two different
factories. You're all lazy and stupid here,
not checking the quality of your product."
"Our best we do," Odovil said. Pride
would not let her remain silent, although facing up
to the alien made her queasy. She felt cold
sweat inside her baggy gray coverall.
"Your debt-ridden best," Ri'vok sneered.
"If I were you, I'd kick out the lazy
overdrafts responsible for this problem. Take
away their work permits; that's an order. Then you
people will learn to do your best." He raised his hand,
and for a moment Odovil thought he was reaching for the glowing
blue whip coiled around his shoulder. However, he
touched one of the ornaments pinned to his vest, and
shimmered as he dematerialized.
Odovil sat at her desk and waited until
she stopped shaking. Each time she saw one of the
outworlders she was reminded of her education. She had
been ordered to report to the mayoral hall in
Kasten Darr, where she had gone into a small
room. A man--a real man, not one of these
wizened, rat-eyed horrors--had placed a
glowing helmet over her head, and that was the last thing
she had known for three days; the treatment had cast
her into a feverish daze.
It had taken Odovil weeks to regain her
health. As she recovered she had found that she could
read, write, manipulate numbers and
remember in precise detail everything she heard
and saw ... and that a nameless fear shadowed her mind,
leaving her with an urge to hide in the corner of a
small room. In time she learned that the Ferengi
education-machine had ugly effects on certain people,
and when she saw the madness that afflicted other people she
felt she had been lucky. The Ferengi had not
cared; when she was healthy again they had tested her and
told her what job she would perform for them.
Eventually Odovil left the plastic hut that
served as her office. The metal-processing
plant, her plant, covered an area
the size of a small town. Flying cargo bins
brought ores from around the world. Smelters and
separators extracted metals from the ores;
processors and ovens turned pure metals and
other substances into alloys; mills and forges cast
the alloys into plates, beams and other shapes.
Ozone and the smells of glowing metal filled the
air.
The plant employed over two thousand people. Some
of them nodded or tipped their caps to Odovil as
she walked past them. Odovil pretended she
didn't see them. The outworlder had suggested she
discharge a couple of these people, her people, and the Ferengi
never joked about that. Twice before they had ordered
her to fire workers, once to end a strike and once
to punish a quota shortfall. Odovil had
done as ordered; managers who disobeyed such
orders were fired themselves, along with many innocent people.
Resistance was hopeless.
Depriving a Megaran of his or her work
permit was a punishment more diabolic than
execution. Without a work permit one could not hold
a job, rent a home, even buy food ... not
legally. People without a work permit were forced into the
criminal underworld, or to find precarious, menial
work in the black market. Others simply starved.
And now she had to throw some of her people into that living
hell--
Haragan Til supervised the main
processors. The old man had grown up as a
farmer on this land, and when the outworlders had
established the metal plant they had drafted his
family into its service. Odovil found him in a
control shack, discussing the day's schedule with his
assistant. "Crystals," Til said in disgust,
when Odovil told him about Ri'vok's
complaint. "Fluctuations in the initial cooling
phase we must have. At once to it I shall see."
Til left the shack.
The assistant closed the door. "Trouble we
have had," he said. Odovil couldn't remember the
young man's name. "The rat-eyes three of our
best people took away. Two of them the
magnetothermic ovens supervised. We their
replacements still are training."
"Of this nothing I heard," Odovil said
petulantly. She did not feel surprised at
her ignorance. The plant had an efficient
bureaucracy, but it often filtered out "minor"
facts, such as the loss of a few workers.
"Why the rat-eyes these people did take?"
"Why the rat-eyes did not say," the man
said. He looked at the control shack's instrument
panel and spoke as he adjusted a knob.
"Only this I know, that they our best people have taken."
Odovil left the shack and walked back to her
office. She reflected that it was typical of the
outworlders to create a problem and then blame it on
someone else. But perhaps this would give her an
excuse not to fire anyone. The trouble had come about
because the new workers were not fully trained. Firing
them would force her to train new people, which could only
create more problems. Of course, the outworlders
might simply order her to fire somebody else
--but she could try.
Her secretary was waiting for Odovil on the
gravel path outside her office. "You from the
Vo Gatyn a message have," the old woman
said. Her short hair was as gray as her
coverall. "On your desk the letter is."
Odovil nodded. "Other business there is?"
she asked. Her secretary had an expectant
look.
"No ... only that, tonight in Kes Pa'kess
a dance there will be. A relaxing night you might
enjoy."
"No," Odovil said. The thought of going to a
dance filled her with a dull horror. "No. Work
I must, more trouble there is. Good people away the
rat-eyes have taken."
"The oven operators and an expediter?" the
secretary asked. "We replacements already have
hired."
"Good enough they aren't," Odovil said. "The
others back we need."
"Back they will not come," the old woman said.
"Something you know?" Odovil asked.
"Something from my cousin in Metari Leeg I have
heard," she said. "A new school there the
rat-eyes have built. People there the rat-eyes
train, on their starship to work. And to Metari
Leeg the rat-eyes these people took."
"Servants on their ship they need?" Odovil
wondered. She couldn't imagine why the outworlders
would train people to work in space.
"Perhaps a new way to make profits they have
found," she said. "Many talented people for this training
they collect, or so I hear."
Odovil nodded silently and walked into her
office. Talented people. If the Ferengi
decided that they wanted her for this training--no, she
couldn't let herself think about that.
She sat down at her desk and saw the Vo's
letter atop a pile of requisitions and memos.
It was a square of parchment--one of the many
luxuries the Ferengi gave the Vo Gatyn--and
it summoned Odovil to a business meeting tonight
at the Vo's castle, where it would be the Vo's
pleasure to discuss new ways to increase the power
and wealth of her domain.
Odovil tossed the parchment into the disposer.
Everyone knew that the Vo Gatyn was a Ferengi
puppet. Her "contract" with the outworlders was a sham
that allowed them to do whatever they liked. At least
one and probably several Ferengi would be there,
snarling with threats and demands ... along with a
hideous swarm of people, loud, laughing, pressing,
crowding ...
Haragan Til came to the office an hour
later, and found Odovil crouched under her desk,
her head cradled in her hands.

Megara was expanding rapidly on the main
viewer. "Thirty seconds to orbit," Riker
said. "Mr. Worf, sound red alert."
"Aye, sir," the Klingon said happily. The
general alarm wailed throughout the ship. "All
decks report ready for combat," he said.
Picard looked to Offenhouse, who leaned against
the helm next to Wesley Crusher.
"Satisfied, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Lock on to the Ferengi ship as soon as you
can," Offenhouse said. "Oh, yeah--Data, how
much did that Vulcan probe cost?"
The android spoke without looking up from his station
next to Wesley. "Five-point-seven-three-
two million credits, Mr. Ambassador."
"Call it ten million," Offenhouse said.
"Even figures always sound more impressive."
More impressive than what? Picard
wondered, as Wesley brought the Enterprise out
of warp drive. The maneuver was neatly
executed, and the starship entered a standard orbit
around Megara. Wesley could not keep the pride
out of his voice as he spoke. "On station,
Captain. Ferengi battle cruiser bearing
zero-mark-zero, range one hundred
kilometers."
"All weapons locked on target," Worf
announced.
"Hail 'em," Offenhouse said.
The Ferengi bridge appeared on the main
viewer, showing alarmed men preparing for battle.
"Keep your shields down!" Offenhouse roared
at the Ferengi. "Which one of you sleazy wimps is
in charge of that tacky peddler's cart you have the
chutzpah to call a starship?"
One of the Ferengi snarled at the viewer,
displaying a mouthful of sharp, conical teeth. "I
am the Daimon Chudak," he said. Picard had
to give him credit for his self-control; he
seemed utterly unafraid. "Who are you
to annoy me?"
"Quit sniveling," Offenhouse snapped.
"Tell me, spendthrift, did you really think you
could get away with it?"
Chudak bared his teeth. "What are you blathering
about, you earless wonder?"
Offenhouse took two steps toward the viewer,
and Picard saw him clench his fists. "Don't
play stupid, you don't have the brains for it.
I'm talking about the probe you destroyed. If you
want to get out of this alive, you half-credit
leftover from a garbage auction, you're going
to pay the Vulcan Academy of Science the ten
million credits you cost them--"
"That probe was worth no more than one
million!" Chudak said.
"--comand you're not going to bother us!" Offenhouse
leered at the viewer. "We know what's happening
on Megara, you hole in the change purse of the
galaxy. Did you think you could fool the Federation
forever? We know how you tampered with the last probe.
What are you hiding here? A dilithium mine?
Kevas? Pergium? Whatever it is, you are not
going to hog the profits."
Picard saw the Ferengi's sudden befuddlement.
"Tampered--we have never--that is--"
"I should kill you now." Offenhouse crossed his
arms over his chest. "Ten years ago, you service
charge on the great checking account of life, you fed
false data into a long-range probe--or did
your claw-handed flunkies tamper with the records
at Memory Alpha? Either way, you almost
fooled us into thinking that Megara was a primitive
world. We can see that it isn't--"
Chudak's image vanished. "The Ferengi have
broken the channel," Worf said.
"Naturally," Offenhouse said, suddenly calm
and composed. "They'll need a minute
to confer. Picard, I'll bet two bits that they
agree to pay off the Vulcans, now and in
full."
"It's no bet," Picard said. Offenhouse's
rough diplomatic style seemed effective ...
and it had been a pleasure to watch. "Is that
important, Mr. Ambassador?"
Offenhouse nodded. "It'll help confirm a
hunch I have."
"Which is?" Riker asked.
"That these Ferengi have an unlimited supply of
money," Offenhouse said. "And that the little
tightwads will cough up to hide whatever they're
doing here. Counselor, are you picking up anything
from the Ferengi?"
Deanna shook her head. "Betazoids can't
sense Ferengi mentalities. Their four-lobed
brains are unreadable to us."
"Assuming they have something to read," Worf
muttered. Ferengi did not number among his
favorite people. "The Ferengi are hailing us," he
announced a moment later.
"Put 'em on," Offenhouse said.
Chudak's image returned to the main viewer.
"We deny that this Vulcan probe was worth ten
million credits," he grated.
Offenhouse's hostility roared back to life.
"Have you priced interstellar probes lately? You
should have read the sticker before you blew it away. Ten
million credits, Chudak, or I'll
personally give you a five-fingered dental
treatment." He smacked a fist into a palm for
emphasis.
Chudak growled under his breath. "For the sake of a
profitable peace, I shall pay for our understandable
error--but you may not visit Megara. I have
an exclusive contract with its government."
Offenhouse shook his head in defiance. "The
Federation doesn't recognize any such
contract. Never has, never will."
"The Vo of Megara recognizes my
contract," Chudak said. "You! Picard! Since
when does a civilian run your ship?"
Offenhouse laughed loudly before Picard could
speak. "The Federation isn't a military
society, chump. The soldiers work for the
civilians. Like me. Got that? And I work for a
profit."
Chudak glared at him. "The Megarans will
deny you the right to land!"
"What's the matter, Chudak?" Offenhouse
snickered at his opponent. "Are you afraid
I can offer them a better deal?"
"You?" Chudak scoffed. "You couldn't sell
money to a debtor, you badly written penalty
clause!"
"No? Then why are you so nervous?" Offenhouse
let out a lewd chuckle. "Having a bad-hair
day, are we?"
Chudak glowered on the screen, and Picard
felt a twinge of empathy with the smooth-scalped
Ferengi.
"Land," Chudak grated. "Land and be damned,
you furry ceiling-scraper!" The channel
broke.
"That was fun," Offenhouse said idly, his rage
vanishing. "I doubt I lit a fire under the
Ferengi temper, but with any luck he thinks
I'm a hot-tempered jerk."
"Which may lead him to underestimate you," Picard
said. The captain rubbed his chin in thought. "Mr.
Ambassador, your insults show an
impressive understanding of Ferengi idioms."
"It's nothing," Offenhouse said. "When you
figure how important profit is to the
Ferengi, it's obvious that calling someone a bad
businessman or a debtor is a low blow."
Worf growled. "Monitoring a subspace
transmission from the Ferengi ship," he said. "It
is a bank draft for ten million credits,
payable to the Vulcan Academy of Science."
Offenhouse chuckled. "There's nothing more fun
than being generous with other people's money. Picard,
call this "Vo of Megara" and tell him
we're paying a visit. Then arrange shore
leave--officers only, though, and just a token
number."
"Is there anything else?" Riker asked, in a
polite tone that verged on sarcasm.
"Yeah, sonny, you can get me a survey of the
industrial infrastructure down there,"
Offenhouse said. "Factories, mines,
transport--all that jazz. I need something more
detailed than the probe data. Picard, I'm
going to borrow your ready room for a few
minutes."
"By all means," Picard said quietly. He
glanced at Wesley, who was almost visibly
straining to hear everything that went on.

The engine room throbbed as it fed power to the
shields and weapons. Like many a Starfleet
engineer, La Forge wished that the bridge crew
would reset themselves, calm down and end the alert.
The alert placed no real strain on the ship's
systems, but Geordi had better things to do than
play nursemaid to some overcharged phasers.
"There, Geordi." Alexander had perched himself
on a seat at a computer terminal. He pointed
at a readout near the top of the master display.
"You got a power drop in the secondary starboard
intercooler."
"Thanks, Also." Geordi made an
adjustment. Civilians weren't supposed to be
in engineering during an alert, but Geordi was
willing to bend that regulation. Alexander stayed out
of the way--and if things went to hell in engineering,
no place would be safe. Besides, Geordi liked
having the kid around. When it came to having
unique perspectives on the universe, kids
were as good as aliens--witness Alexander's idea for
detecting cloaked ships. Geordi wasn't
sure why Worf's son wanted to hang around him
--the kid didn't want to be an engineer--but he
wasn't going to ask any questions.
Geordi scanned the master display again, then
sat in the operator's chair and adjusted its
back to a comfortable tilt. "Hurry up and
wait," he said idly.
"Can you run the simulations now, Geordi?"
Alexander asked.
"Wish I could, Also," Geordi said, "but we
can't tie up the main computer during an alert.
Don't worry. I have a hunch your idea is
going to work just fine. In fact, it should be able
to detect more than just cloaked ships--we should be
able to find ships t're hiding inside nebulae and
other natural phenomena, which is a pretty
common tactic. The galaxy is full of
blivets where you can't ordinarily detect a
ship."
"Oh." The boy kicked his feet idly against
the deck, then looked up. "Hey, Geordi,
how many Romulans does it take to change a
light bulb?"
"Search me," Geordi said. "How many?"
"Two. One to do it, another to kill him and
take the credit."
Geordi laughed with Alexander. When I was
a boy, he recalled, we told that
one about the Klingons. Aw, what the hell.
"How many Ferengi does it take to change a
light bulb?" Geordi asked him.
"Ferengi never give change!" He giggled.
"How many humans does it take to change a
light bulb--uh--"
Geordi's VISOR picked up a sharp
change in Alexander's facial skin; he was
blushing in embarrassment. Still, it was a fair
joke. "A light bulb?" Geordi asked,
sounding ignorant. "What's a light bulb?"
Alexander laughed, and Geordi heard a couple
of his engineers chuckle as well.
The intercom piped for attention. "All hands,
secure from red alert. Mr. La Forge,
report to the conference room."
"Time to go," Geordi told Alexander. The
boy hopped off his chair and followed Geordi
to the turbolift. "Bridge," Geordi told
the lift.
"Deck twelve," Alexander said, and looked
up at the human engineer. "Geordi? Father
liked that joke about not annihilating humans. You
got any more like that?"
"Not offhand--wait, try this on him. Humans
are okay, even if they like tribbles."
"Dumb," Alexander said with a smile. "Father will
like it. So will Commander Riker. Thanks,
Geordi." The lift stopped and Alexander got
off.
Maybe he and Will Riker were swapped at
birth, Geordi thought as the turbolift started
again. Worf, to judge from the bytes of gossip that
floated around the ship, didn't think his son
acted Klingonese enough, and that was a source of
tension between father and son. The boy could be
rambunctious as all hell by human standards, but
evidently Klingons had higher standards.
The turbolift stopped, and Geordi crossed
the bridge to the conference room. The usual group
was present: Picard, Riker, Troi, Worf,
Data and Dr. Crusher. Ambassador
Offenhouse was there as well. Geordi sat down
between Crusher and Troi.
Geordi looked at his shipmates. His
VISOR could detect the subtle changes that
emotions generated in body-electric fields and
skin temperatures, and while he couldn't read
their meaning with anything like Deanna Troi's
precision, he could often make a good
guess as to what people felt. Everyone in the conference
room seemed alert, but in a good mood; emotions
were not running high. That was a pleasant
surprise, because scuttlebutt had it that the
ambassador was a real pain in the--
Offenhouse rapped his knuckles on the table,
opening the meeting. "I've just gone over my file
on Daimon Chudak--the commander of that Ferengi
ship," he added, with a glance at Geordi and
Dr. Crusher. "What I've got adds to the
mystery. Computer, show Chudak's file."
An image and a text file appeared on the
room's viewscreen. Geordi narrowed his
VISOR'S bandwidth to accept only the "visible"
spectrum, that of light with a wavelength between four
thousand and seven thousand angstroms. The constant
headache his VISOR gave him faded as the data
flow decreased. The image showed a typical
Ferengi male: scooplike ears, bald and
bulging head, wrinkled nose and forehead and a
seemingly endless supply of fanglike teeth.
"Daimon Chudak," Offenhouse said.
"Age, thirty-seven standard years. Personal
fortune, two billion credits--good, but not
outstandingly wealthy."
Geordi broadened his VISOR'S bandwidth
again, and his vision returned to normal. Pain
returned with it; the circuits were now feeding in
all the data his nervous system could handle, and the
overload created a tension headache. Almost
automatically, he slipped into the
pain-suppressing discipline that a Vulcan healer
had taught him when he was a boy. The pain meant
nothing in comparison to seeing the electric fields
and thermal patterns and magnetic fluxes that
permeated the universe.
"Two billion credits," Riker said.
"Does that include the value of his ship?"
"Yeah," the ambassador said. "Chudak
made all his money himself; his family is poor
--you'll notice that he doesn't have a Ferengi
caste-tattoo on his forehead."
"That sounds like quite a handicap in Ferengi
society," Deanna Troi said.
"Not really," Offenhouse said. "The Ferengi
are more impressed by business acumen than
ancestry. This just shows that he's sharp and
aggressive, in addition to being handsome"--Geordi
heard no irony in Offenhouse's voice--"and
courageous. There's also evidence that
he's skirted Ferengi law on a few
occasions."
"You describe a pirate," Worf rumbled.
Geordi thought he heard admiration in the
Klingon's voice.
"Chudak's behavior on Megara is not
piratical," Data said, looking to the
ambassador. "Our sensor scans have confirmed
the probe data. Within the past ten years the
Ferengi have created an extensive industrial
infrastructure on Megara, one which employs
essentially all of the native population. A
pirate would have neither the time nor the inclination
to create such a technological society."
"Weird," Geordi said. "But maybe
Chudak is using Megara as a slave world. They
build things dirt-cheap, and he sells them at a
profit."
"That's plausible," Picard mused. "Can we
tell what the local industries are
manufacturing?"
"No, sir," Data said. "Electronic
interference in the factories makes a detailed
scan of the surface impossible. However, there is
no evidence that anything is being exported from
Megara."
"Everything is staying here?" Geordi asked in
disbelief. "I thought the point of business was
to sell what you make."
"It is, and that brings me to another problem,"
Offenhouse said. "I can't explain where Chudak
got the fifty billion credits he'd need
to finance this operation. It didn't come from Ferengal;
Federation Intelligence has a window into their
financial system, and we know Chudak hasn't
collected any money from his homeworld."
"He could still be holding Megara as a slave
world," Riker said. "A Ferengi battle
cruiser could force an entire world to work for free."
"But that wouldn't pay for everything Chudak would have
to import," Geordi argued. "Construction
equipment, replicators to build factory
tools, blueprints--the Megarans could do a
lot of work themselves, but not without a certain amount of
"seed" equipment."
"Exactly," Offenhouse said in an approving
tone. "I don't have enough information to solve that
mystery yet, so let's get on to the next bit.
Picard, did you wangle some invitations?"
The captain smiled. "The Vo
Gatyn will see the two of us tonight. We're
invited to a dinner on her private estate."
"Good, I always did like to eat out," Offenhouse
said. "What about sending down some tourists?"
"We have permission to land twenty people in
Gatyn's capital city," Picard said.
"Kes Pa'kess, as it's called, is large and
heavily industrialized. The arrangements should
suit your purposes, Mr. Ambassador."
"They do," Offenhouse said. "I'll want
to talk with our people before they go down. One last thing."
He looked at Geordi. "Mr. La Forge,
isn't it?"
Geordi nodded. "Yes, Mr.
Ambassador?"
"We'll need some coins," he said. "Something
made out of pure gold. Also belt pouches
to carry them. Can you program the replicators for
that?"
"No problem," Geordi said, "but are you
sure you want pure gold? It's one of the
softest metals around. Your coins will get
scratched up in no time."
"Especially when somebody bites 'em,"
Offenhouse said as he stood up. "Picard,
let's choose our tourists, then get ready for
dinner."
The captain and the ambassador left the conference
room. "I never thought I'd hear anyone call
a Ferengi "handsome,"" Riker said to Worf.
"Perhaps he's been studying them too long,"
Beverly Crusher suggested. "Some humans get
that way, you know."
Geordi managed not to laugh at Riker's
sudden, multispectral flush. Worf took
umbrage at the joke, however; the Klingon's
bioelectric field rippled in the angry
display that always reminded Geordi of shields
going up. "Say, Worf," Geordi said
quickly, "I should be ready to test the new
anticloaking sensor in a few hours."
Worf growled as though draining the charge from his
temper. "The theory is sound?" he asked.
"I've still got a few simulations to run,"
Geordi said. Troi smiled as she sensed his
exaggeration, but she kept quiet. "But, yeah, the
theory looks good. And it should work on more things than
cloaked ships. If everything works out, we'll be
able to detect any operating reactor. It could
give us quite an advantage."
"Until somebody figures out a way
to counteract it," Riker said.
"Somebody always does, sooner or later,"
Geordi said, unperturbed. "That's what makes
this game so much fun. Anyway, Worf, if it
works I'll mention Alexander's contribution in my
report."
"That is considerate," Worf growled, with all
the politeness he could muster.
"Hey, he earned it," Geordi said as he
stood up. "I'll let you know when I'm ready
to test it."
Geordi left the conference room. Coins,
he thought as he went to the turbolift. Except
for a few special purposes, the Federation
hadn't used physical currency in decades;
replicator technology made counterfeiting
too easy. Geordi decided he could fake it
easily enough. After all, the Megarans had no
idea of what might pass for money in the
Federation. That was probably why Offenhouse had
insisted on pure gold--on many planets it was
the metal itself, and not the symbols stamped on a
coin, that gave money its value.
"Geordi, wait up," Beverly Crusher
called as he stepped into the turbolift. He
held the lift door for her. "I want to ask you
something."
"Sure, Beverly. Engineering," he told the
lift.
The doctor smoothed her hair, and he saw
static charges dance its length, playing
hide-and-seek with her fingers. "Geordi, have you
noticed anything odd about Will Riker lately?"
He chuckled. "Is this the same man who
eats live gagh?"
"Several Earth cultures eat live
insects," Beverly reminded him. "But I'm
afraid Will may be going a little--over the top,
if you know what I mean, with his admiration for the
Klingons."
"Everybody needs a hobby," Geordi said.
"But Will knows when to stop. Remember when Worf
broke his back?"
"Yes. Will kept him from committing suicide,
even though that's the Klingon way." The doctor
shook her head. "I just have doubts about a man who
courts food poisoning." The elevator stopped
and opened into the main engineering compartment. "By the way,
Geordi, I have a new report on
optic-nerve implants. The Vulcans have
made some remarkable advances. Stop by sickbay
and we'll discuss it."
"I will, when I get the time." He hastened out
of the lift and the door shut behind him.
As he always did when he entered engineering,
Geordi looked around the high bay. Everything was
as it should have been. Tight, intense glows wrapped
themselves around power conduits.
Structural-support fields limned the
ship's framework. Computer chips winked and
shimmered in cybernetic thought.
Normal eyesight would be nice,
Geordi thought. He'd always wondered what a
rainbow looked like; he could settle for himself the
friendly debate over whether Deanna Troi,
Beverly Crusher or Guinan was the most
beautiful woman aboard the Enterprise. And
yet--
Geordi stepped up to the main warp drive.
Dormant now, the mechanism throbbed with the
thoroughbred dreams of a racing horse. To every other
human on the ship, Geordi knew, the unit was
an opaque slab of metal shielding, its life
visible only through the cloudy window of sensor
readings.
Give this up? Geordi sighed, and wondered
what excuse he would give the doctor this time.

 Chapter Seven

"Hold the knife higher, if you please,"
Shrev whispered, and feinted at Wesley with her
holoblade. Wesley slipped back quickly--
I'm getting awfully good at retreating! he
thought sardonically--and parried her snakelike
thrust at him. Then--
Skreee! Shrev's blade squealed in
triumph, signaling a fatal strike.
Wesley looked down at himself and saw the
holographic projection that simulated a
fatal wound; Shrev had caught him in the heart.
"Excellent," Shrev said, while the
spectators in the gymnasium chuckled. She
thumbed the hilt of her practice knife, and the
holographic blade vanished. "I took a
full minute to kill you this time."
"A minute?" Wesley picked up a towel
from a wall rack and wiped sweat from his face.
He was short of breath. "It seemed
longer."
"A minute is very long in a fight," she
agreed. "It is enough time for a friend to see your plight
and aid you. Against an experienced fighter, as I
claim to be, such survival shows amazing
talent."
"Thanks, Shrev." The praise took some
of the sting out of the crowd's chuckles, and from his own
record. Shrev had killed him a dozen times in
the past hour, and he had barely managed
to deliver a hypothetical scratch to her left
arm. "I have an excellent teacher."
"We both do well here," she said. She
returned the practice knives to their locker.
The intercom called for attention. "Cadet
Crusher, report to the captain's ready room,"
the ship's computer said.
Shrev looked at him. "This is an interesting
request," she said. "Could he be considering you for a
landing party?"
"It could be," Wesley said. He had told
her what he had heard on the bridge. "In that
case, would you be interested in going if the
opportunity arises?"
"Absolutely," Shrev said. "And now it would
be polite for you to hurry, true?"
Wesley took the turbolift to the ready
room. He was not eager to see Picard. The
captain had been not unsympathetic about his
disgrace, but the man was also a reminder of what had
happened. Breaking a safety regulation, seeing
a friend die because of that, then lying to cover it up--
Well, he told himself, I can't pretend
it didn't happen.
Picard was alone in his ready room when
Wesley entered it. He sat down at a
gesture from the captain. "Cadet Crusher,"
Picard said, "how would you like to play tourist on
Megara?"
"I'd like that, sir," Wesley said.
"I had hoped so," Picard said. "Tell
me, how much do you know about Megara?"
The captain's neutral words seemed to hang
in the air, while Wesley wondered how much the
man knew. This is no time to play games,
he realized. "I've seen the Vulcan probe
data and other files, sir, but I can't figure
out what's going on down there."
"That's a feeling with which I'm familiar,"
Picard said. "Very well. I'm going
to assign you to the away team. I can't tell you
what to look for, but any observations you make may
be of value. Now, I do not anticipate any
risk, but I expect you to exercise discretion.
The Ferengi could see too much curiosity as an
unwarranted intrusion."
"Understood, sir," Wesley said. "I
won't stick my nose where it doesn't belong."
Wesley paused. "Uh, Captain? Would it be
all right if Ensign Shrev went with me?"
Picard raised an eyebrow. "Do you think she
could contribute to your mission, Cadet?"
Wesley nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir.
We've been discussing the situation, and she has
some ideas."
"Make it so," Picard said, and smiled. "I
believe this is the first time a cadet has picked
his own commanding officer. Now there is something else
I would like to discuss, Cadet."
Wesley braced himself. The incident, he
thought. "Yes, sir."
Picard sighed. "I don't require
Counselor Troi's talents to know that you've
been uneasy in my presence. You're still troubled
by what you did at the Academy, and my presence
jogs your conscience."
"Yes, sir," Wesley said awkwardly.
"I just feel ... it's like--I don't know."
"You feel as though you'll never come to terms with
what you did," Picard said. He nodded at the
model starship in his office: the Stargazer. "I
felt the same way after I lost the Stargazer."
"Sir?" That puzzled Wesley. "That isn't
the same thing. You didn't destroy the
Stargazer; the Ferengi did."
"I blame myself for the way I handled events
at Zeta Maxia," Picard said. "A better
captain might have found a way to avoid trouble.
It does not matter if I am wrong or right; the
point is that I still believe that I erred ...
somehow. That I am responsible for all the lives
I lost.
"But you learn to accommodate yourself to such an
experience. You find that it becomes a part of you, that
it exerts a certain influence on your judgments.
High as the price is, it can make you a better
person and a better officer."
"I think I understand, sir," Wesley said.
"You mean it stops being like a weight on your
back, and starts being like a sibyl."
"Something like that," Picard said with a smile. The
sibyls had been ancient prophetesses, and
according to legend they had given advice to the early
Romans--advice that sometimes came at great
cost. "I see you've been studying Latin."
"I've taken a course in it, sir,"
Wesley said, recalling that Latin was one of
Picard's many interests.
"It's a remarkably useful language,"
Picard said. "The study of Latin forces us
to remember that not too long ago we humans were as
"primitive" as many of the races we encounter
on new worlds. The works of Cicero and Marcus
Aurelius also show that "primitives" can
possess wisdom and genius without our
technological trappings."
"I hadn't thought of that, sir," Wesley said.
"I guess I've been too wrapped up in
declensions and verb conjugations to notice anything
else."
"I was the same way when I began my study
of Latin." Picard spoke to the intercom. "Have
Ambassador Offenhouse and Ensign Shrev
report to me. The ambassador will have a few
things to say, I'm sure."
"Yes, sir," Wesley said. He felt
relieved that he had faced the captain and the world had
not ended.
Offenhouse stepped into the ready room a moment
later. "What's up, kid?" he asked as he
seated himself.
"I'm sending Cadet Crusher and Ensign
Shrev to Megara," Picard said.
The ambassador's face turned hard.
"No. Not him. It's too dangerous."
"That's not my assessment of the situation, Mr.
Ambassador," Picard said. "Our relations
with the Ferengi have been largely peaceful, and I am
confident of Cadet Crusher's ability to handle
this assignment without incident."
The two men stared at one another for a moment before
Offenhouse relented. "All right," he said, and
looked to Wesley. "You've been snooping around
this problem. Got any ideas about what the Ferengi
are up to?"
"Ensign Shrev thinks they're working for a third
party, sir," Wesley said. For a moment he had
been afraid that Offenhouse would have his way.
Wesley wanted to visit Megara, both
to satisfy his curiosity and to show the
captain that he would not disappoint him again. "What
they're doing down there doesn't make sense
by Ferengi standards, unless somebody else is
paying them to do it."
Offenhouse nodded thoughtfully. "Could be," he
admitted. "That just beggars the question, though--who
hired them, and why? Does this Shrev have any
ideas about that?"
"Not yet, sir, except that they're
probably hostile to the Federation," Wesley
said. "Megara has a good strategic location."
"Maybe not," Offenhouse said, more to himself than
to Wesley. "It could be some kind of trading post
... somebody outside the Federation, looking to do
business with us while getting a head start on the
competition. Or a research base, for somebody
who wants to study us without attracting our
attention."
"Those are interesting possibilities,"
Picard said, as Shrev entered the ready room.
At Picard's gesture she sat down next
to Wesley. "Mr. Ambassador, I believe
we're ready to begin the briefing."

The leather pouch of gold coins tugged at
Shrev's hip. "There's plenty more where that came
from," De Shay said, "so call me if you use it
up."
"Thank you, sir, I shall," Shrev said. It was
hard to imagine spending so much gold--De Shay
said there were two hundred coins in the bag, which
weighed two kilos--but her orders from the
ambassador were quite specific. Given the
endurance of her people, she might need more gold
to fulfill those orders.
Wesley fastened a pouch to his waist and
stepped onto the transporter stage with Shrev.
He nodded to her, and she took that as a sign of
readiness. "Energize, please," she said to De
Shay.
The transporter room faded into a bleak
street. The sky was covered with clouds, but
Shrev's sensitive eyes found the sun easily
enough. Light polarization let her establish
directions; north was that way, so the breeze
came out of the west. Gravity was a bit lighter
than that aboard the Enterprise, but not drastically
so. Electric cables crisscrossed above the
street, and cargo vehicles--some of them so
primitive that they used wheels instead of
suspensors--moved along the street. Nothing in
the air smelled very good.
There were humanoids here, male and female,
and with few exceptions they dressed alike in baggy
coveralls. They walked on either side of the
street, leaving its muddy center to the clumsy
vehicles. They were basically human, Shrev
thought, noting a general similarity to Wesley.
Her antennae superimposed their own information on
what her eyes saw, highlighting the gray faces
and bodies with the shimmering traces of
body-electric fields.
Wesley was looking around. "I wish I had a
tricorder," he said.
"A tricorder? Why? We are but humble
tourists," Shrev reminded him. She smiled.
"Even though we have an exhausting task ahead of
us."
"Huh?" the human asked. "I don't understand
that, Shrev."
"Did not the ambassador tell us to shop
till we drop? If I comprehend that--"
Wesley laughed, then caught himself. "My
apologies, Shrev, I don't mean to suggest
that you're wrong. From the way his words rhymed, I
think the ambassador was joking. That sounds like a
humorous way of telling us to spend a lot of
money."
"Ah." Shrev had heard about rhymes, but she
hadn't known that humans used them in casual
conversation. "We must still spend money. Do you see
any suitable places for this?"
"Well ..." Wesley looked up and down the
street. "I don't know, Shrev. This place
is dreary."
"It looks impoverished to me as well." She
pointed down the street, where her antennae sensed
a crowd. "People swarm that way; let us see which
flowers draw them."
The street opened into a square. As the two
aliens crossed it, Shrev noted how the
natives regarded them. The Megarans walked
clear of their visitors, and watched them out the
corners of their eyes. None of them spoke within
earshot of Shrev or Wesley. She wondered
if the Megarans had any unusual senses that
they might focus on the visitors.
"Wesley," she said, "you mentioned dreariness.
Could these people lack your color vision?"
"My--oh." He looked around, then
shook his head. "No, I don't think they're
what we call colorbl, Shrev. I see
colors here, but not many of them. Most of the clothes
here are drab, either gray or dull blue. It
reminds me of a prison, or a labor camp."
"As though the Ferengi keep them as slaves?"
she wondered.
"Maybe. I've never heard of a world where people
like to dress this way." He hesitated. "Although
they might see their garments as attractive. I
don't wish to seem offensive, but to the limited
human eye your tunic appears gray and
drab."
"Your point is well taken," Shrev said,
idly fingering her tunic. "This material contains
special metallic threads. Although invisible
to your eyes and mine, they reflect certain
radiations to which my antennae are sensitive.
Yet I must note that the Megarans appear to have
only senses equal to yours."
"It is puzzling," Wesley agreed. He
pointed. "There's a store."
The store was one of a dozen brick structures
that lined one side of the square. It had glass
windows, which displayed a strange assortment of
goods. Shrev saw a dozen musical instruments,
including a double-flute similar to her people's
merredivy, and a set of metal wind chimes.
Other items were pretty, if useless; she
smiled at the thought of trying to slip that tasseled
bonnet over her antennae. And what good were
earrings to a person whose earholes were surrounded
by concentric chitinous ridges?
She and Wesley went into the shop. It was lit
by a single incandescent light bulb in the ceiling,
and divided into a maze by long wooden tables. The
room was perhaps ten meters on a side, with a
drape-covered door in the rear. After a few
seconds, a youngish man came into the shop. He
wore a patch over one eye, and his pinned-up
coverall sleeve emphasized his lack of a right
arm.
His good eye scanned his customers. "Yes?"
he asked, his tone flattened by the Universal
Translator.
Shrev picked up a twelve-stringed musical
instrument, a device with a long neck and a
bowl-shaped body. "Please excuse a foolish
question," she said, "but is this work of art for sale?"
He made a grunting noise which the
translator ignored. "If you the price have, for
sale it is."
"I am uncertain of how to settle the price.
Perhaps you would aid me?" Shrev handed him a coin
from her pouch. "If this can serve as money, how many
would you request?"
The man's one eye bulged as he fingered the
coin. He bit it, grinned suddenly, then forced
down his grin. "Six," he said, holding up a
hand and displaying all his digits.
"The price delights me," Shrev said,
paying him. He slid the coins into a pocket.
Wesley found a packet of small iron
tools, an octant and a massive spiked
club. He gave the man thirty coins.
Wesley hefted the club. "I'm giving this
to a warrior friend," he said--loudly, Shrev
thought. "He'll want to know if it's been used in
battle."
"Many times," the shopkeeper said. "When the Vo
Gatyn, with cobwebs may her name grow
tangled, the Vo Darvit fought, Anrom himself
in!combat on Ardev ground this mace carried. Before
that ..."
Shrev drifted away from Wesley and the man
while they discussed combat--it seemed a
universal constant that males enjoyed talking about
different ways to butcher one another. The man
made her uncomfortable. Among her people, anyone so
badly maimed would seek to die, to avoid the
disgrace of resembling a mutant. She reminded
herself that many races had different views.
Humans, for example, saw crippling
injuries and deformities as a challenge to their
ingenuity; the ship's chief engineer was living proof
of that.
Shrev looked at trinkets until a wide
metal plate caught her eye and antenna. The
plate's surface showed that it had been beaten with a
hammer, and something--impurities in the metal,
some trick of polarized light, something--made it
look like a flower impossibly rich in nectar.
It looked even richer than the wall mosaic in
her quarters, and it shimmered like the quilted
fabric of her tunic. It was all she could do
to keep from tasting the metal.
It might almost be a sending from the
All-Mother, she thought. She knew that was rank
superstition, yet such icons were important in every
Zhuik religion, a symbol of
wealth and plenty. It was a remarkable coincidence
to find such an object here.
Shrev carried it back to the shopkeeper, who still
chatted with Wesley. The cadet glanced at her
and smiled. "My friend would be pleased to spend more
money, Mr. Anit," he said.
"For that?" The man seemed disbelieving.
"I find it beautiful," Shrev said. "Have you
more like it?"
"No," he said. "Its maker by the rat-eyes
was taken away."
""Rat-eyes"?" Wesley repeated.
"Oh, you mean them." He held a hand out, as
if indicating something barely waist-high.
Shrev realized he meant the Ferengi. Something
about the man changed, and Shrev noticed a sudden
flicker to his body-electric fields, a
sign of apprehension. "The rat-eyes are a
problem on many worlds, I sorrow to say," Shrev
told the man. "But let us not speak of them when
I hold something of beauty."
"Er, yes," the shopkeeper said. His one hand
rubbed his chin as he stared at the plate. "A
beauty to you that old plate truly is?"
"To me, yes." She smiled at him. "I do
not see it as you might. You may have noticed that I
am not like my good friend, or like your own estimable
self."
"We're from out of town," Wesley added.
The man laughed, although it sounded forced. "For you,
only one of those--credits, you said? One credit
only I ask."
Shrev paid gladly. "If you can obtain more
objects in this style, I shall happily buy
them," she said, and looked around the shop. "You
seem to have a talent for acquiring diverse
items."
The man hesitated. "Yes ... well ...
for a soldier to keep soul and body together these days,
dealing in junk the only way left is. Honor
to the rat-eyes nothing means," he added.
"You need say no more," Shrev said. "We know
too much of--" She duplicated Wesley's
waist-high gesture. "But they are no matter.
Would you know of another shop that might sell more art
in this style?"
"A poser that question is." His hand caressed his chin
again. "About a shop that something might have I can tell
you. Out of the square to the north go, and on your right
at the second street turn. Down
three doors on your shady side go, and there an
open-air shop with utensils you'll find."
Shrev and Wesley said their good-byes and
returned to the bustling square. "The universal
translator needs work," the human said.
"Work it needs," Shrev agreed, and chuckled
with Wesley. They walked toward the square's
northern side. "Did you learn much from the man?"
"Yeah. The local ruler, the Vo Gatyn,
is a green."
"That sounds bad, but I fear I don't understand
the meaning," Shrev said.
Wesley hesitated as though trying to frame his
reply. "My apologies for expecting you to know
an obscure detail of our history. A
"green" is a human who serves a
nonhuman conqueror. During our Eugenics
War, a British colonel named Green turned
traitor and helped the Khans invade
Australia."
"So you use his name this way," Shrev said. She
knew a little about Earth's Eugenics War, which had
started after a clique of scientists used some
crude genetic techniques to create a race of
superior humans. The superiority had proved
a dangerous trap when the new race had decided
to enslave the old. "I take it that a "green"
serves willingly?"
"Very willingly," Wesley said. "Anyway,
that's one reason I bought this mace. Anit--that's
the shopkeeper's name--looked like an old
soldier, and I figured I could get him to talk
about the local wars. He told me that when the
Ferengi showed up, they bribed a minor chief
named Gatyn into helping them conquer the planet.
They gave her modern weapons and transport,
and she trounced everyone else. Now she's a
puppet ruler."
"So the Ferengi do not exert direct rule,"
Shrev said.
"Correct," Wesley said. "Officially,
Gatyn has hired the Ferengi to modernize her
world. They even had this big public
contract-signing ceremony to make it look right."
"So they pretend to work for their slave," Shrev
noted as they came to the square's northern exit.
The cobbled road was uneven from the wear of heavy
traffic, and they made slow progress through the
crowd of natives and vehicles. Several
vehicles floated on artigrav
units. "Wesley, you implied that you had more than
one reason for buying that mace," Shrev said,
seeing the hostile gaze of many people. "Do you
expect to use it here?"
"No," he said. "It's a gift."
"Indeed? It seems a rather exotic gift."
Wesley nodded. "It's big, it's clumsy,
it looks like a cactus with a thyroid problem.
Worf will love it. Data will like the octant, and
my mom will like these old surgeon's tools."
He held up the bag.
"Just as my clan's hive-matriarch shall
appreciate this." Shrev tapped the plate.
"I perceive this plate as the heart of a nectar-rich
flower. In my religion, that symbolizes--"
How to translate hzs'sz? "--divine
favor," she finished.
The phrase was inadequate, but Wesley
appeared to understand. "Do you think we can find more like
it?" he asked.
"We shall see," Shrev said. She turned her
head several times as a lack of something registered
on her mind. "Wesley, am I mistaken, or
are there no children about?"
"I don't see any little Megarans, either,"
he said after a moment. "And I haven't, not since
we beamed down."
"As if they were being kept hidden from aliens."
"Yeah," Wesley said. "There's something else
odd, Shrev. I look a lot like the natives,
but you stand out. You should attract a lot more interest
than you have."
"Unless Zhuiks are common visitors here,
which I doubt," she said. She looked around again.
"People seem to avoid us."
"Not all of them," Wesley said. "We're
being followed."

"Dieu merci," Picard muttered as the
ambassador entered the transporter room.
Offenhouse had dressed in a black dovecote
jacket, pin-striped pants, and a stovepipe
hat. A wide ribbon held a gold-plated
Federation medallion on his chest. He carried a
walking stick with a fist-sized diamond knob.
Offenhouse chuckled under Picard's scrutiny.
"I know. You can dress 'em up, but you can't
take 'em anywhere."
Picard cleared his throat. "That's hardly
standard dress for modern diplomats,
Mr. Ambassador."
"Look rich, be rich--that's an old Ferengi
proverb. I'm out to impress Chudak." He
twirled the walking stick. "And jam any bugs
with this beauty. The medallion has a
translator and a limited-spectrum tricorder
built into it, too."
Picard nodded. "And what does the hat do?"
"It keeps my head dry when it rains."
Offenhouse stepped onto the transporter stage
with Picard, then scowled at the deck pads.
"Say, Picard, did you ever see The
Fly?"
"I don't believe so," Picard said, and
gestured to the transporter technician. "What
is it?"
"It's an old movie--"
The transporter's hum interrupted the
ambassador's words. Picard and Offenhouse
materialized in a courtyard surrounded by high
stone walls.
"--t you'll have to watch sometime," Offenhouse
concluded. He looked around the yard and scowled.
"Charming."
"It's rather medieval," Picard agreed,
surveying the castle's crenellations, posterns and
allures. "And in excellent repair."
"Like it still holds off invaders and rioting
peasants," Offenhouse said. He nudged
Picard's elbow. "Company."
A tall, brown-skinned man in white and
yellow robes emerged from a doorway in one stone
wall. "Ambassador Offenhouse, Captain
Picard," he said, executing a minuscule bow.
"I am Verden, pagus to the Vo Gatyn. In
the Great Hall to the Vo I will introduce you.
You will dine, and to you later she will talk. With me you
will come, please."
Picard and Offenhouse followed the Megaran
through the wall. The ambassador's walking stick
tapped the stone floor as they entered a hall. The
chamber was crude and not very large, but Picard
knew that it pressed the limits of stone blocks
and wooden beams. Light came from luminescent
panels set in the ceiling. They needed
adjustment; the glare made it impossible for
Picard to look at the ceiling.
There were long tables set against the main walls
of the rectangular hall, and they were loaded with
platters of wine and bowls of drinks.
A score of people stood around the tables, serving
themselves and eating. They were well dressed, but
Picard saw a half-dozen servants in
ill-fitting coveralls waiting in the corners of the
hall. The only chair in sight was a throne at
the far end of the room. A thin black woman with
short gray hair sat on it. Aside from a red
cloak and a gold circlet for a crown, she
dressed simply, and Picard saw that she had
both a knife and a sonic disrupter tucked into her
waistband.
Offenhouse tipped his hat to her. "Vo
Gatyn, I am Ralph Offenhouse,
ambassador plenipotentiary and
extraordinaire of the United Federation of
Planets ..." Picard stood silent during the
droning protocol exchange. Offenhouse
assured the woman of the Federation's good intentions and
high principles; Gatyn spoke of her lawful
authority over the entire Megaran people, as given
to her by the Elder Gods and demonstrated through her
honorable conquest of all opponents, done without
aid of any but herself and her noble lieges.
What nonsense! Picard thought with a polite
smile. Simple logistics made it
impossible to conquer and hold an entire planet
with medieval technology. Gatyn sounded as though
she was trying to assure herself that she was the true
ruler of Megara, and not a Ferengi tool.
The introduction ended and Verden led the two
humans away from the throne. "When to speak to you she
is ready, return I will," he said, and walked
out of the hall.
Offenhouse grunted. "C'mon, Picard,
let's chow down before Chudak shows up."
Picard nodded. "What do you expect from
Chudak?" he asked quietly. "Information on
who's really in charge here?"
Offenhouse nodded back. "The more I think about
it, the more I'm sure that Shrev and Peter were right
about the Ferengi working for a third party. That means
all this"--he nodded toward the Vo's throne, and the
courtiers surrounding her--"is a sham, so lean
back and enjoy the show."
Peter? the captain wondered. His son?
That's an odd slip of the tongue.
Picard accompanied Offenhouse to one of the
buffet tables. Beverly Crusher had assured him
that it would be safe to eat Megaran foods;
sensor analysis of the surface life
had verified that the local proteins,
carbohydrates and sundry other substances held
no unpleasant surprises for the human
metabolism. That had come as good news to the
captain, who welcomed new gastronomic
experiences.
Picard found himself reviewing his talk with
Wesley. He wished he could have spoken at
length with him, but that would have been unfair to the young
man. Wesley needed guidance, yet too much of
that would interfere with his ability to make his own
decisions. The Prime Directive as
applied to personal relationships, Picard
mused. I want to help Wesley, but too
much "help" would deny him the right to choose his own
future. Have confidence in him, Jean-Luc. He
will discover his own answers.
The captain was spooning up a small plate
of saut`eed mushrooms when Chudak entered the
hall. He wore black garments, tidy,
well-tailored and trimmed in silver. A
Ferengi with taste, Picard thought in surprise.
Chudak had dressed in a style that emphasized
his face and build, and his manner suggested he
knew that, by his people's standards, he was quite handsome.
Chudak strode up to Offenhouse. "You're
even uglier in person," Chudak snarled.
"Who'd have thought?"
"Certainly not you." Offenhouse shook his head
sadly. "I'm sorry to see that my competition
is so shabby."
"And I regret having no competition!" A
half-dozen Megarans gathered around; one handed
Chudak a fresh glass of green punch.
"Look at you! The gods made some heads
perfect. The others, they hid beneath hair. Eh,
Picard?"
"Hair is a marvelous substance," Picard
said, stoutly resisting Chudak's effort to drive
a wedge between him and Offenhouse.
Chudak looked disgruntled by Picard's
indifference. "Try your song and dance, human,"
he told Offenhouse. "See if you can take
away my clients."
The ambassador smiled and shook his head.
"The Federation can beat whatever deal you made with these
people, but I'm in no hurry to take them away from
you, you overdraft on the great checking account of
life."
"You duck the issue," Chudak
growled. "I have sold these people things they would never
get from the Federation, with its selfish talk about the
"Prime Directive" and
"noninterference." I help them to build a
modern world. You would have left them grubbing in the
dirt, human."
"And you'll leave 'em the same way."
Offenhouse turned his back on Chudak and
scooped himself a mug of punch. "This is a poor
planet, Chudak. How do they pay you?"
"As of now, they don't," Chudak said. "I
invest here. But when this planet is fully
industrialized, I'll get a quarter of their
industrial production. Power generators, warp
units, computer systems--everything, fur-head,
for the rest of my life."
"You should live so long," Offenhouse said
quietly, and sipped his drink. Looking at the
men and women who surrounded them, Picard saw that
the ambassador's words reflected the
Megarans' sentiments. If they served Chudak,
they did not do so willingly.
Chudak clearly knew he was hated here. "Do
you think I would ignore my own safety?" he
asked Offenhouse.
"Yes, if somebody paid you enough," Offenhouse
said. "Speaking of payment, how are you financing this
project?"
Chudak growled angrily. "What business of
yours is that?"
Offenhouse shrugged. "Just morbid
curiosity."
Picard turned back to the table. He set his
plate down and picked up something that looked like a
glass of red wine. It was, but it tasted far
too sweet for his palate.
Chudak was lying, Picard thought suddenly.
Intuition told Picard that the Daimon did not
expect to collect anything from the Megaran
factories. The only thing genuine here was the
hatred.
A young woman in a yellow dress appeared
at Picard's side. Her dark face was round and
pretty, and had character. Picard guessed that she was
sixty or so--no, thirty; these people lacked the
Federation's extensive health care. Age would show
quickly on them. "Our vintage your palate finds
pleasing?" she asked.
"I seldom taste one like it," Picard said
truthfully. He made himself smile as
he sniffed its bouquet. "I come from a family
of vintners."
"As well, myself," the woman said. There was
something hesitant about her manner, as though she was
not quite certain that speaking with Picard was a good
idea, and her eyes looked haunted. "As a
girl our vines and vats I tended. But when the
rat-eyes came, a metallurgist I became,
and now for industry alloys I supply."
"An honorable and worthwhile business,"
Picard said, "but of course, one always remains in
love with the vineyards."
"To them a swift return I wish," she said.
"Odovil Pardi I am named."
The captain bowed politely. "Jean-Luc
Picard, at your service."
Odovil smiled, showing a charming gap between her
front teeth, and then lowered her voice. "Your
friend, of the rat-eyes not living long he spoke.
Something he knows?"
"Wishful thinking," Picard said. "My friend and
Chudak are bitter enemies."
""Enemies"? Yet from above the skies you have
come," she said. "In the skies all evil
dwells, or so it is said."
That sounds almost religious, the captain
thought, yet religions in which evil comes from the
heavens are very rare. Or has their experience with the
Ferengi convinced these people that "alien" and
"evil" are synonymous? "Good and evil can
both come from the sky," Picard said. "Think of how
rain can save or destroy a vineyard."
Odovil nodded, then glanced furtively around
the hall. "Many here about the "weather" are
wondering."
"Perhaps it shall improve," Picard said, hoping
that he understood her meaning. "May I ask about
your steel production?"
"Good it is," she said, and launched herself into a
description of alloying techniques, bulk
moduli and tensile strengths. Picard wished that
La Forge had been present to help make sense
of what she said, but he knew enough about engineering
technology to see that her foundries were producing
tritanium--and with some sophisticated
technology.
"Production every year quadruples,"
Odovil told him. "When first the rat-eyes
came, equipment and plans for the foundries to us they
gave. Now foundries by ourselves we
make, and more. Every year more we learn."
Picard nodded at that. The Ferengi would have
"seeded" Megara with equipment and advice--and
almost certainly with an extensive educational
system; ignorant peasants could not operate
advanced technology--but the bulk of Megara's
transformation would have been done by the natives
themselves. Doing so would have required an enormous
change in their lives; no one would call a
slave world a paradise. "The changes must have
been difficult," Picard suggested.
"Difficult and more," the woman agreed. "Much
work, many deaths; now many poor there are, and lucky
to do so well I am. Lucky ..." Her voice
grew distant, and Picard saw something cold in
her eyes. That made him wonder how much the
Ferengi had truly changed this world.

Gul Verden remained in his native costume
as he went down to the intelligence room. He
hated the garb, but changing would inconvenience him
now.
And there are already enough inconveniences, he thought
as his hand touched his face. The implanted sixth
fingers, the surgery that had smoothed and colored his
face and body to resemble these weaklings, the drug
that gave his flesh their bland odor--and, above all,
the years of isolation on this backwater planet.
He was tired of the inconveniences.
But he would endure them. This assignment was not as
satisfying as a fleet command, but it was
important. Megara represented one of many
moves in the maneuverings against the Federation, a
pawn pushed across a chessboard to a strategic
square. It would give the Cardassian Empire
a slight advantage when the next war began, and
enough such advantages would let the Empire win that
war. Disguising himself as a native seemed as
cowardly as it was humiliating, but it was necessary. There
were times when the Cardassian monitors had
to move among the Megarans, and the plan might
fail if the Megarans learned that other aliens were
involved here.
At least I am not hiding from warriors,
Verden told himself, salvaging a scrap of
pride. And this wretched assignment is almost
over. The factories are ready; the natives
are trained and primed for their role. We need
only give them a few proper nudges
to complete the mission. We could be on our
way home in a month.
The job was not yet finished, however. Gatyn,
the nominal ruler of this planet, had disobeyed
Verden by granting the humans an audience. The
woman had a contrary nature, and she had
decided to exercise her independence this way.
All was not lost; spying on the humans now might
uncover something important.
Verden walked up to his
second-in-command's station. "Report," he
ordered.
"The human ambassador is speaking to the
Ferengi, Gul Verden," Ubinew said. He had
a spy-eye fixed on Chudak and the human
ambassador, and a unit in his control console
transcribed their words into a written summary.
Verden read Offenhouse's questions to Chudak, which
proved that the human was suspicious. Around the
intelligence room, other officers monitored the
humans in the city. The Federation presence strained
their resources to the limits, but the team was coping
with them. The visitors were talking and spending a
lot of money, but otherwise doing no harm.
The visual scanner looked down from the Great
Hall's ceiling, where it was hidden in the glare of
electric bulbs. Verden studied Offenhouse's
image on the console display, but he could read no
information into the expression on the pink alien face.
"Can't you get a mindscan on that
ambassador?" he asked Ubinew.
"No. The coward has a jammer against active
probes. It's all I can do to get voice and
image."
Verden climbed the steps to the command platform and
sat down. "Give me the order book," he
told his aide.
Obediently, Bwolst handed the electronic
padd to Verden. The chief-of-mission already knew
the orders for this situation, but Ubinew and the others in
the room had to know that Verden followed the orders
of his own leaders. Otherwise Verden might lose
their obedience.
Verden sifted through the padd's memory bank
and found that the orders remained as he had recalled
them. "How many humans are in the city?" he
asked Hrakin.
The surveillance officer was prompt.
"Eighteen humans, sir. I also report one
Zhuik and one Vulcan in the city. This is in
addition to the two humans in the Great
Hall."
"Excellent!" Verden smiled in approval.
"You obey well, Hrakin. Kill all the
Federation people in the city. Take all the men you will
need."
Hrakin hesitated. "Sir, leaving the complex
may expose us to the starship's sensors."
That gave Verden pause. It was tempting
to face up to the humans now--but one did not spring
an ambush prematurely, and Megara was an
enormous ambush. "We must risk it," he
decided. "They will not be looking for us--and we can
improve the odds of escaping detection. Have the
"Prophet" stir up riots. That should keep
the ship too occupied to scan us."
"I obey," Hrakin said.
"Excellent," Verden said. The riots would
help persuade the Federation intruders that they were not
welcome here. A little diplomatic prompting
would seal the matter; their own Prime
Directive would force the humans to withdraw.
But what if that doesn't work? Verden
asked himself. More drastic measures might be
required. He summoned a squad of guards--
his own people, not the natives--and went with them to the
Great Hall.

 Chapter Eight

"La Forge to bridge," Geordi said.
"Worf, I'm ready to test the detector now."
There was a momentary silence. "Proceed,"
Worf said.
"Okay, people," Geordi called to the
engine-room crew. "By the numbers.
Gravity-wave oscillator to oh-point-oh-one
percent power."
The oscillator was a basic artigrav
unit, stripped of its damping circuits and
mounted near the primary power generator. Instead of
producing a smooth and constant distortion in the
curvature of space-time, the artigrav unit
would now emit gravity waves at a frequency
of twenty cycles per second.
The unit came to life. And I'd hate
to be around it at full power, Geordi thought as
he felt its pulsations. It came across as a
waspish buzzing, too low-pitched to hear but
potent enough to set his teeth on edge. The engineer's
VISOR let him see how the
oscillator's shell vibrated under the load.
"How're the readings?" he called out.
"Steady," Ensign Gakor said from the computer
terminal. He sniffed loudly; rare for a
Tellarite, he had a sharp sense of humor.
"And no circuits are burning--yet."
"That's always a good sign," Geordi said.
He liked working with Gakor. Most people thought of
Tellarites as quarrelsome, and it was true that
they liked to argue. Tellarites made an art out
of debate, and they could be as maddeningly logical
as a Vulcan. That was a useful talent when you
needed to work the bugs out of some new design.
"Okay, give me the neutrino readings."
"No deviation," Gakor said in annoyance.
He kicked the terminal with a hoof. The readouts
remained rock-steady. "Still no deviation."
"Rats," Geordi muttered. He looked
toward the reactor. His VISOR could detect
neutrinos, but just barely; if the experiment was
working, he couldn't see the expected difference in the
neutrinos. "Oscillator off," he said, and the
annoying buzz ended.
"What's wrong?" Alexander asked. He had
been sitting quietly, watching the preparations for the
test of "his" detector.
"I'm not sure, Also," Geordi said. He
sat down, removed his VISOR and massaged the
bridge of his nose. Sometimes a little temporary
blindness helped Geordi think; it was as though the
entire universe had ceased to exist, leaving him
alone with his problem. "I'm following a long, thin
chain of logic here. Maybe I missed a link
in the chain."
Blind without his VISOR, he heard the boy
shift around on his chair. "What's the chain?"
Alexander asked.
"Well ..." Geordi gestured toward the
metal plating around the containment field. "We
mix matter and antimatter in there. In theory,
they interact perfectly and turn into pure energy.
In practice, they don't. We get every kind of
particle you could name in there."
"Which is why you have all the shielding," Alexander
said.
"Right," Geordi said. "Anyway, we have a
lot of neutrons in the soup. Free neutrons
are unstable, with a half-life of thirteen
minutes. Most of them are annihilated or
absorbed before they can decay, but not all
of them. Those neutrons decay into a proton,
an electron and a certain kind of neutrino."
"And it's the neutrinos that slip through the
cloaking device," Alexander said. "Hardly
anything can stop them, because they don't usually
interact with normal matter. But that makes them
hard to detect, too."
Geordi nodded. The kid had definitely paid
attention in his science class. "Ordinarily it's
not worth looking for neutrinos. The universe is
flooded with them, and detecting the neutrinos from a
starship's main power plant is like looking for a
candle flame at noon on Vulcan. So we
change the rules a bit. The gravity waves from
our oscillator should change the way the
neutrons decay, by compressing space and adding a
bit of energy to the process. We should get
neutrinos that are twice as energetic as
normal, which would make them easier to detect."
"Sort of like seeing a blowtorch at Vulcan
high noon," Alexander suggested.
Gakor joined them as Geordi snapped his
VISOR back over his eyes. "All of this
assumes that we understand the physical theory," the
Tellarite engineer said.
"And that I configured the detector right,"
Geordi said. He wondered what he was doing
wrong. Probably displaying my ignorance,
he thought ruefully. He wasn't a physicist,
even though a starship engineer had to have a grasp of
that field. This whole concept was based on the
idea that one type of nuclear decay would act as
he expected. The universe was stubbornly doing
things as it saw fit. What had he overlooked?
Geordi looked at the matter-antimatter
containment field, as if he could see the answer
swirling in its energies. The gravity waves
should add energy to the neutron decay, and the energy
should turn up in the neutrinos. Of course,
neutrinos were peculiar even by the laws of
quantum physics. They had mass--about a tenth
of an electron volt, according to the latest
experiments--but they also moved at the speed of
light. It was supposed to be impossible for an
object with nonzero rest mass to travel at
light-speed in Einsteinian space, but there it
was. Most of the theoretical explanations centered
on the relationship between matter and energy, suggesting
that the mass somehow redefined itself as energy. ...
"Gakor," Geordi said, "let's
reconfigure the detector. We've been
looking at energy levels; maybe we should look
at mass instead. The extra energy could be showing
up as increased neutrino mass."
Gakor's pink snout wrinkled thoughtfully.
"Weighing neutrinos is not the easiest task.
We'll need several hours to reconfigure."
"We've got the time," Geordi said. He
remembered Alexander. "This is going to drag,
Also, and I definitely don't want your dad
telling me I kept you up late on a school
night."
"Okay." Alexander hopped off the chair.
"I've got to take a bath now anyway.
Bye, Geordi."
A bath, Geordi thought. He knew that some
kids liked to get their parents' attention
by annoying them, but Alexander found some pretty
weird ways to do that.

This was the seventh shop Shrev and Wesley had
visited, and Shrev had already seen a pattern.
First, each shop sold items that were useful, but not
necessary to life. Next, each vendor had at least
one physical problem, either a birth defect or
an injury. When they left one shop, somebody--
usually a young child--could be spotted running ahead of
them to the next. Shrev decided there was a network
of shopkeepers, linked by their deformities and
determined to absorb all the gold they could from two
free-spending aliens. The arrangement had its
advantages; these people obviously let one another
know that talking with the aliens would bring more money, and that
aided Shrev and Wesley in their assignment.
This shop sold handmade cloth, and to judge from
Wesley's comments it was attractive to the human
eye. It looked drab to her, just as--or so she
suspected--the light-polarizing material of her
tunic looked dull and murky to Wesley. "Do
you weave this yourself?" Wesley asked the
shopkeeper, a young woman with very long hair.
"My sister and I this cloth make," she said,
and sighed. "Better work we cannot find. The falling
sickness we have, and for us the rat-eyes no place
allow. Lucky we are that for cloth some
money-paper a few people can spend."
""Money-paper"?" Wesley asked.
"I've never seen any of that. Maybe I could
buy some from you?"
The woman found that agreeable, and
Shrev stood by quietly as they bartered.
Excellent, Shrev thought. Wesley asked
questions that established the value of local money, in
terms the ambassador might find useful.
Shrev found it impossible to think in terms of
wages and prices, but at last she saw something that
told her everything that mattered. Wesley swapped
a single gold coin for a double handful of paper, and the
woman shed a tear of joy at the trade. With the
exchange made, Wesley gathered up the bolts
of cloth he'd purchased and they left the store.
""Falling sickness"?" Shrev asked. They
were on a narrow, muddy street, empty of people.
Her voice seemed oddly loud here.
"She probably meant epilepsy,"
Wesley said.
"Ah, a neural problem." Other questions begged
for answers. "I have also noticed how these people taste
their coins. I wonder if they can sense the
flavor of metals."
Wesley looked puzzled. ""Taste"?
Oh. You couldn't know, but biting is a
traditional test for gold--our teeth are harder
than gold, so they can dent the coins if they're
pure."
"Fascinating." Zhuik "teeth" were chitinous
horseshoe plates, suitable only for crushing
certain flowers to extract their nectar. She
looked at Wesley's burden--bolts of
cloth, an ornate rug, a set of bronze
candlesticks. Shrev was carrying an armload of
scrolls and a plumed helmet. "Shall we send our
purchases to the ship?"
"Good idea." They found a dry spot near a
brick wall, set everything on the ground and
signaled the Enterprise. "I'd hate to see
cargo bay two right now," Wesley said.
Shrev laughed quietly. "Imagine how the
captain will feel. I fear his ship will look like
an Orion trader's hold. Should you not add that
paper money to the collection?"
"No, I want to show that to Mr. Offenhouse."
Wesley tucked the paper into his coin pouch, then
watched as the transporter took away their
booty. "He'll want to hear what that woman
told me about the local money. Maybe he can
make sense out of it."
"One may hope." Shrev glanced at the
sky. The clouds had thinned, but the light was
dimming as the sun neared the horizon.
Night would not handicap her, but it would be a problem
for Wesley. Lacking her ability to see in the
infrared, he could not find his way in that thing which his people
called the "dark." "Wesley, please let me
know when the light grows inadequate for your eyes.
We will leave then."
"We should have another hour of daylight,"
Wesley said. He looked up and down the
street. "There's our tail again."
"Our followers?" Shrev followed his glance,
and saw the two Megarans who had followed them
ever since they had beamed down. The men had stayed
several dozen meters away, and Shrev had finally
decided that they were police spies. No doubt the
Megarans, or their overlords, wanted to know
everything their visitors did.
Shrev and Wesley walked away from the two
men, toward a small square. The town was filled
with such squares, connected by zigzag streets. As
they drew closer, Shrev heard a loud voice,
rising above an angry mutter of other voices.
Whatever was said, the tangle of voices was too
much for the Universal Translator.
"There's someone in a brown robe up there,"
Wesley said. He was fifteen centimeters
taller than Shrev, which gave him a better
view. "She looks like she's doing the talking,"
Wesley said. "And--that robe looks funny, but
I can't put my finger on what's wrong with it."
"We will have to get closer--" Shrev stopped as
two men came out of a side alley, five
meters in front of them. For one astonished moment
she refused to believe what her antennae told
her. Then she touched the communicator badge
pinned to her tunic. "Enterprise, we would be
most appreciative if you beamed us up now."
Wesley was shocked out of his manners.
"Shrev, what are you--" he began in a loud
voice.
The two men charged at them, without even the
briefest introduction. One drew a knife with a
curved blade and lunged at Wesley. Shrev
went after the man, twisted back as he turned
to slash at her, came forward again and chopped at his
forearm with the side of her hand.
The knife stung into her left side, slicing
through her tunic and cracking an exoskeletal
plate. The blade became wedged in the chitin, and
Shrev fought to ignore the pain as the man tried
to jerk his knife loose. She clutched
her fists together and slammed them into the side of the
man's head. He dropped his knife as the blow
stunned him, and a second blow sent him to his
knees. Shrev struck two more blows to his
head, and with the last she heard the sharp crack of
bone. The man crumpled in death, the side of his
skull crushed.
Wesley was battling the second man. Shrev
saw him reel backward from a jab to his chest.
Shrev took a step toward him, then clutched at
her side and felt lukewarm blood soaking her
tunic. Then the transporter locked on to them.
Within seconds she and Wesley were back on the
ship.
Wesley caught her as she sagged to the deck.
"Sickbay!" he shouted at De Shay.
The transporter flicked them into sickbay.
As Wesley helped her onto a biobed,
Shrev saw several other injured crew members
undergoing emergency treatment. Dr. Crusher
hurried over to them. "Wesley, are you all
right?" she demanded.
"I'm fine, Mom," he said. "Shrev's
been stabbed."
"I see," Dr. Crusher said. She scanned
Shrev, then cut away her tunic and went to work.
She spoke as she adjusted an anabolic
protoplaser. "Shrev, there's a hole in your
left cardial tube. Don't talk, save your
strength."
"I must speak," Shrev said weakly.
"Wesley, our attackers were Cardassians,
surgically altered to resemble Megarans."
"Cardassians?" he said loudly, then
dropped his voice. "Cardassians. Please
don't misunderstand me, I mean no offense, but
are you certain?"
"Quite," she said. The pain eased as the
protoplaser accelerated the healing process.
"The modifications may fool human eyes, but
not my eyes. Or my antennae. The scars and
distortions are quite visible in infrared, as are the
hz'zhivezh, the ... body-electric
patterns unique to each species. Inform the
captain at once, Cadet."
"Hold it," the doctor said. "Wesley,
you're not going anywhere until--"
"I'm all right, Mom," he said, clearly
nettled.
"Then what's that on your face?"
Dr. Crusher spoke without looking up from her
work. "Catsup? You always were a sloppy eater,
but you're usually not that messy."
Wesley winced as he touched his forehead. "I
still have to tell the captain," he said.
"You can't," Dr. Crusher said. "He's down
on the surface. Dr. Par'mit'kon!"
The Saurian hurried into the sickbay.
"Yes, Doctor?"
Dr. Crusher nodded at her son.
"Bulldog this cowboy and make sure his head
isn't any more cracked than normal. And
somebody bring me a unit of Zhuik blood,
type arrow-down-curl-left."
The reptilian doctor turned his lidless
yellow eyes on Wesley. "Come with me,
Cadet."
"Just let me report first," Wesley
insisted. "Crusher to bridge ..."
Shrev puzzled over the human exchange
while Wesley spoke with Commander Riker.
Among Zhuiks, a child never disputed her mother, and a
mother placed her child's welfare above all else.
Concern for family was a genetic necessity;
without it, one was no better than a mutant--if
not actually a mutant. Dr. Crusher might have
concealed her emotion behind a certain rough humor, but
why would she conceal it in the first place?
Don't complain, Shrev told herself. The
human willingness to place public duty above
family had meant lifesaving attention for her from
the ship's best doctor, and an added measure of
safety for the ship from Wesley. Knowing at once
that the Enterprise faced Cardassians might
mean the difference between life and death for the crew.
"Shrev," Dr. Crusher said after a moment,
"you're a very lucky young lady. You can expect
some discomfort for a few more hours, but you won't even
have a scar."
"I thank you for your excellent work." The
news that she would not bear a scar came as a
relief. There were cultures that regarded scars as
a sign of fighting prowess, but Zhuiks
considered them too suggestive of genetic
defects. "And I must congratulate you on your
son. Wesley conducted himself well during our
mission."
"Glad to hear it," she said with a smile. An
orderly brought a transfusion unit, and Dr.
Crusher slid its needle into a vein on
Shrev's forearm. Green fluid flowed down the
tube.
"Wesley is quite remarkable," Shrev said,
puzzled by her offhand response to the compliment.
"He is intelligent, observant and polite."
""Polite"? My Wesley?" Dr.
Crusher shook her head in mock surprise.
"We really do live in an age of wonders."
"I can assure you that I am quite serious,"
Shrev said.
"I know." The doctor smiled again as she
patted Shrev on the shoulder. "You'd better
rest now, young lady. You're a good influence on
my son and we can't let anything happen to you."

"Cardassians," Riker repeated thoughtfully.
He sat in the captain's chair and looked at the
scene on the main viewer. Smoke plumes
trailed from several fires in the ramshackle
city. Gatyn's fortress, ten kilometers
away, remained untouched by the riot. "You're
certain, Cadet?"
"Yes, sir," Wesley said. He still wore
his civilian clothing, as well as a mediplast
on his forehead. He looked a bit worse for
wear, but his spirits seemed high. "They're
surgically disguised, but not well enough to fool
Ensign Shrev."
"Interesting," Riker said. Cardassians,
he thought. The armistice had banned them from this
sector. Their presence was an act of war, and if
he didn't handle this right, the situation would turn
into a war. "I wish I could think of a way to tell
the captain without tipping off the Cardassians,"
he said.
"Perhaps you should bring the captain and the
ambassador back," Deanna Troi
suggested.
"I agree," Worf said. "These attacks were
too coordinated to be unplanned."
"As if someone was trying to run us out of town,"
Riker said. At least the riots created a
perfect excuse to get the captain out of there.
"Enterprise to Picard."
"Go ahead, Number One," Picard
answered.
"Sir, there are widespread disturbances in
Kes Pa'kess," Riker said. "Our away
teams were attacked."
"Casualties?" Picard asked.
"Several injuries, two of them serious,"
Riker said. "Lieutenant Broz has a
concussion and Ensign Shrev took a knife in
one of her cardial tubes. They're both out of
danger."
"I see. Why weren't our people evacuated at
the first sign of trouble?" Picard asked.
"The disturbances started simultaneously,"
Riker said. "Between the surprise and the load on the
transporter system, we couldn't act fast
enough. We'll know more when Commander Data finishes
debriefing all the away teams. Sir, it might
be a good idea if you return until the situation
stabilizes. I think the situation bears
discussion."
Offenhouse's voice broke in. "We're
safe here, Riker. We'll come home after we
chat with the Vo Gatyn. Bye, now."
Riker heard Worf growl as Offenhouse
closed the channel. "You're right," Riker said
to him. "We should beam them up at once."
Worf growled again.
Riker sighed. "I know. The ambassador is
in charge."
Worf growled for a third time.
"I don't like it either," Riker agreed. He
got out of the captain's chair and went to Worf's
station. "If you were a Cardassian, how would you
hide a ship?"
"Through indirection," Worf said promptly.
"The Ferengi ship?" Riker asked. He
shook his head. "We've scanned it. There are
plenty of Ferengi on board, but no
Cardassians, and no place for them to hide."
"And I don't sense any Cardassians on
it," Deanna added.
"Perhaps a ship arrives only to transfer
personnel and supplies," Worf said. "A
planetary base does not need a ship."
"True ... but I can't imagine the
Cardassians doing without one. A ship is too
useful."
"The Cardassians may have hidden a ship in this
region," Worf suggested.
Riker stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Could
be," he admitted. "The Cardassians make
an art out of ambushes. Where's the best place in
this system to hide a ship?"
Wesley had been listening quietly.
"Commander, there's a binary neutron star
in the area, where they could hide a whole fleet,"
he said. "The radiation is too intense for sensor
readings. Computer, put Weber Five-Twelve
on the main screen."
Riker looked at the distorted, static-hashed
image that appeared on the screen. Two
neutron stars whirled around one another, so
close that gravity pulled them into teardrop
shapes, while their magnetic fields churned the
wisps of hydrogen around the stars into a glowing
plasma. Gravity waves made the image
ripple as though seen through sheets of running
water.
Worf growled at the unsteady image.
"Computer, overlay the image with radiation
levels."
"Unable to comply," the computer stated.
"Radiation levels are fluctuating too
rapidly for reliable measurements."
"The probe data said that the levels are
high," Wesley said, "but a ship with a good set of
shields could take them almost indefinitely."
"And if a Cardassian ship is hiding any-
where, it's there," Riker said. If, he thought.
If a Cardassian ship was hiding there, he could
count on them to exploit Weber 512's
natural cover to the fullest extent possible.
He would have no way to detect it ... unless ...
"Riker to La Forge. How are you coming with that new
detector?"
"We're almost ready for another test,
Commander," the engineer answered.
"Give it priority," Riker ordered. "We
may need it."


 Chapter Nine

Somebody was trying to impress the Federation
visitors with their lack of importance. In the
hour since Riker's call, Picard had seen a
half-dozen people approach the throne to speak with the
Vo Gatyn, and he was certain that all of them had
entered the hall after the humans. Nevertheless,
Picard and Offenhouse waited patiently for their
audience with Megara's ruler.
Picard bent his head and spoke quietly
to Offenhouse. "Exactly what do you hope
to learn from Gatyn?"
"A lot," Offenhouse said. "I'd like to know just
how tight a grip Chudak has here, what sort
of orders he gives, maybe who gives him
orders--things like that. Why? Getting bored?"
Picard shook his head. "I'm concerned with my
crew's safety."
"Riker has things under control. Now cheer up
and, look at our pal. Chudak's twice as
bored as we are."
That was true. The Ferengi Daimon stood by a
table, drinking wine while he eyed a Megaran
woman. From time to time Picard had seen him talk
with various female Megarans, but it was clear that
they loathed his attentions. Even so, that did not
deter him from the Ferengi habit of pestering
non-Ferengi women. As always, Picard wondered
what attracted Ferengi to alien women.
Simple logic suggested that the Ferengi heart
should quicken to the sight of a bald head, slashing
teeth, soup-bowl ears.
The captain smiled at himself. Ah,
Jean-Luc, he thought, since when does
logic count in affairs of the heart?
Verden reentered the Great Hall, his
white-and-yellow robes fluttering as he hastened
to the throne. The pagus spoke briefly to his
monarch, then gestured for the two humans
to approach the throne. They did so; Picard
nodded to the thin woman, while Offenhouse tipped
his hat. "Your Majesty," Offenhouse said. "The
Federation would like to discuss trade and business."
"Such discussions we don't wish," she said.
"Go away."
"Perhaps Chudak doesn't wish it,"
Offenhouse said, "but we can offer you better terms
than he does."
Gatyn looked impatient. "Spoken we have.
G. Verden."
Verden gestured sharply to the humans. "Come with
me."
"Happy to oblige," Offenhouse said. He
raised his walking stick to his hat brim in a
salute, and then he and Picard followed Verden
into a narrow side corridor.
Verden stopped under a glaring light in the stone
ceiling. "Spoken the Vo has," he said. "You
must leave."
"She didn't say to leave now," Offenhouse
said.
"To say this she did not need," Verden said.
Even through the Universal Translator, his
voice sounded cold. "To discuss business you
wish? The rat-eyes you would throw out, their work you
would do instead?"
"Absolutely," Offenhouse said. "We'd
charge less. You'd make more money."
"Trust you we do not," Verden said. He leaned
against the rough, dark wall. "Aliens you are, like the
rat-eyes. To take and take their only wish
is. Why should we think you from them differ?"
"What have you got to lose?" Picard asked.
He felt puzzled; there was something odd about
Verden's grammar, as if he didn't speak the
same dialect as the other Megarans.
Verden looked him over. "Everything to lose
we have," he said. "Our homes, our lives. For
charity you do not come here; things to take you will find.
Even more will we lose."
"Guess again," Offenhouse said. "We want
to get rid of the rat-eyes. That's our profit.
Now--"
"No profit for you!" Chudak said. Picard
turned his head and saw the Ferengi emerge from the
Great Hall. He held a phaser. "Trying
to sell me out, Verden? Break our contract?"
"No, never," Verden said.
"I don't believe you!" the Ferengi grated.
"I ought to kill you now, you debt-ridden,
overpriced piece of native--"
A phaser whined and Chudak toppled to the stone
floor. The door to the Great Hall slammed
shut as a pair of men ran into the corridor.
They were dressed like native servants, in rough
gray coveralls, but they both carried hand
phasers of non-Ferengi design.
Verden drew a phaser from inside his
robe, then spoke to the guards. "Search the
Federation spies and take them to a cell. I will
get the interrogation drugs." He nudged
Chudak's unconscious form with a booted toe.
"And put this rubbish somewhere--comfortable."
Verden returned to the Great Hall as the two
guards herded Picard and Offenhouse down the
corridor. They went up a spiral
staircase, and when they reached the end of a second
hallway the guards searched them with a tricorder.
Picard lost his communicator badge, while the
ambassador was relieved of his cane, sash, and
several items from his pockets. Then they were
locked in a cell.
Picard inspected the cell at once. It was
three meters square and two meters high, and quite
solid. The door was locked on the outside with a
primitive but effective iron contraption,
while a small window in the back wall was
blocked by thick iron bars. There was an
electric light in the corridor, and its glow
came through the cracks around the doorjamb. There was
a heap of straw on the floor.
Offenhouse seemed unimpressed by the cell.
"D'you think this dump is bugged?"
"Certainly with vermin," Picard said, "but if
you mean are we being monitored, I think the
answer is no."
"Really? Why not?"
"There's no point," Picard said. "An
eavesdropper couldn't learn anything that a
skilled interrogator couldn't discover--and whatever
else Verden is, I imagine he's a skilled
interrogator."
"Yeah," Offenhouse said. "He acts like the
boss here. What do you think he is, Picard?
A renegade human?"
"Perhaps," Picard said. "I noticed that he
doesn't talk like a native. However, what
matters now is that we're his prisoners."
"Good point," Offenhouse said. Picard saw
his dim shape inspect the door. "What would
Dixon Hill do in a fix like this?"
"He'd wait for his secretary to post bail,"
Picard said.
"Too bad you don't have a secretary,"
Offenhouse said. He went to the window, grasped a
bar and tugged. "Any chance of Riker beaming us out
of here before Verden comes back?"
"It's not likely," Picard said.
"And all things considered, I doubt we'll
survive the interrogation. We know too much;
Verden's only question may be how to kill us without
exposing himself."
"I was afraid you'd say that." Offenhouse
removed his stovepipe hat and tore off its
brim. He went to the window and rubbed the brim's
edge against a bar. Picard heard a quiet
rasping noise. "Funny thing about people," the
ambassador said. "They'll get so wrapped up
in looking for high-tech answers that they forget about
low-tech approaches."
"I beg your pardon?" Picard said.
"Kidnapping is an old Ferengi business
practice," Offenhouse said. "I figured that
if Chudak grabbed us, he'd take our
communicators and whatnot, but I didn't think
he'd look for files or saws. After all,
you'd expect Federation types to use modern
equipment. Looks like that logic applies
to Verden, too."
"Your hat brim is a saw?" Picard
asked.
"Sealed in plastic for camouflage. Makes
me glad I used to watch those James Bond
movies. Now this"--he patted the stones--"is
one of the castle's outer walls, so once we cut
the bars there's nothing between us and freedom."
"Nothing other than Verden and his forces,"
Picard said. "Suppose we encounter them?"
"I've got a plan," Offenhouse said. He
began sawing on a second bar. "If it makes
you feel any better, why don't you go carve a
phaser out of a bar of soap?"
Picard chuckled at that; Dixon Hill had
used a similar ploy to escape from an abandoned
warehouse. A moment later Offenhouse stopped
sawing, grasped a bar with both hands and pulled.
Picard joined him, and the soft iron bent under their
efforts. After more cutting and pulling, the second
bar curled out of the way, leaving an opening big enough
to pass two men.
Picard climbed out first. The night was almost
impossibly dark, but the stars gave just enough light
to reveal the ground, four meters below the window. The
edge of a forest was a dark swath, five hundred
meters from the castle. Picard dropped to the
ground, and a few seconds later Offenhouse
followed him. "You mentioned a plan," Picard
asked. "What is it?"
"We run like hell," Offenhouse told him.

"It works!" Geordi exclaimed. Gakor
laughed and slapped the display panel in
triumph. The rippling gravity waves were
causing the neutron-decay process to emit
neutrinos that weighed nine-tenths of an
electron volt. While neutrinos came in
several masses, none occurred in nature with that
weight. The gimmick was working far better than the
engineer could have hoped. "La Forge to bridge.
Commander, we've got the bugs worked out of the
detector. We'll be ready for a full-scale
test in an hour."
"Understood," Riker answered. "Hurry it
up."
Geordi looked at Gakor, who gave him
a very human shrug. "You just can't please some people,"
the Tellarite said.
"Things must be heating up," Geordi said. He
switched off the oscillator and its annoying
vibrations ended. He and Gakor walked over to the
oscillator. "I figure it'll be easier
to mount this beast outside a shuttle-bay door."
"No, we should reconfigure the hull mooring
plates," Gakor said, jumping on a chance
to argue.
"We'll just have to reconfigure them again after
we're done," Geordi said. "That's a lot of
work for one test."
"But if the test works, we won't want
to reconfigure," Gakor said. "And the mooring
plates are already plugged into the computer.
Adjustments will be easier than with this
oscillator, and the mooring plates can emit more
powerful gravity waves."
"The trouble is, Riker wants us to hurry,"
Geordi said. He tapped the oscillator's
base with a toe. "Besides, I'd just love to boot
this thing out the airlock."
Gakor laughed heartily. "At full power
it would interfere with the ship's artigrav systems,
even placed outside. The whole ship will feel that
grauko buzz, and that won't make us
popular."
Geordi threw up his hands. "You've convinced
me. We'll use the mooring plates."
"That will be time-consuming," Gakor said,
smoothly changing his side in the argument.
"We're only after proof-of-principle
now, and if we don't get it, we'll have wasted
our time and effort."
Geordi laughed. "Gakor, if I said
suicide was a bad idea, I honestly think
you'd talk yourself into trying it."
"Me? Never," the Tellarite said. "But if
you were to try it, it would improve my chances for
promotion. ..."
Laughing, the two engineers went to the computer
station and set to work on the mooring plates. These were
powerful artigrav generators, placed at
strategic points around the ship's hull and used
to anchor the Enterprise in spacedock. They
weren't designed for any other purpose, and
Geordi could see that they would need extensive
modifications before they could serve as gravity-wave
emitters. Cross-connections--new circuit
modules--sensors and controls--"We've got
our work cut out for us," he said happily.
"It should keep us out of trouble for a while,"
Gakor agreed. He called up a master
circuit chart on the computer display and
highlighted points around the ship's hull. "I
think we'll do better if we work together."
"No, we can get this done faster if we work
separately." Geordi smiled. "But first things
first. La Forge to Alexander Roshenko."
A rasping, grating noise answered him.
Like father, like son, Geordi thought, hearing the
Klingonese snore. He could wait until tomorrow
to tell the kid that the test had worked. "Let's
get going," he told Gakor.

Something had happened to put the entire castle in
an uproar. The Vo Gatyn had vanished into her
battle hall, and servants and guards scurried
everywhere. The guests were leaving quickly, getting out of
harm's way.
Odovil felt calm amid the uproar, as
though her meeting with Chudak had broken something within
her--or thrust her into a state beyond terror. When
she had entered the hall this evening, she had argued
with the outworlder, telling him that she could not blame a
couple of trainees for defective alloys.
Chudak had agreed with her reasoning--and had
ordered her to discharge four of her people tomorrow morning, as
a warning against sloppy work. Grab the last four
who come through the gate, Chudak had said, and take
away their work permits; latecomers are usually
the laziest workers anyway, and deserve
to starve.
She was not going to do it. It was time to gamble. These
outworlders were Chudak's enemy, and they might be the
key to destroying him. Enlisting their aid might be
a problem, but she thought she could do it. If she
failed--no, she would not think about that. She would not
fail.
Odovil was standing in the mouth of a corridor,
watching the commotion in the Great Hall, when a
corporal strode by her. "Stop," she said
quietly, touching his elbow. "What trouble there
is?"
"Prisoners of the tall outworlders the Vo
made," the man said. "Treachery they planned, and
now escaped they have."
She nodded. "And now you the outworlders hunt?"
"Yes," he said, tightening his sword belt.
Ferengi night-goggles dangled around his neck.
"This escape to you nothing is, worker."
Odovil almost smiled as she saw the
speculative look in his eyes. She had seen
that gleam before, in people who had their price.
Bribery-eyes, she called it; corruption had
become common since the Ferengi took over.
Odovil began to toy with her bracelet. The
small jewels and silver facets glittered in
the Great Hall's light. "The outworlders you will
catch," she said. "How I do not care. When you
do, with them I would speak."
"Hard that would be," the corporal said. "Other
guards will look, and the outworlders to the Vo at once
we must bring." His eyes had fallen to her
bracelet. The corporal lacked all
subtlety, and in a moment Odovil had made
her arrangements with him. The bracelet vanished
into a pocket, and he hurried away.
Hoping that he would not keep the bribe and betray
her, Odovil went down the corridor. Stairs
took her into the castle's underrooms, and after a
few moments she found the laundry room.
Piles of clothing lay heaped near the sonic
machinery. Odovil picked through them, ignoring the
Vo Gatyn's finery and the tailored garments of
her soldiers and personal servants. At last
she found a gray coverall that would fit her.
Odovil changed into it, hiding her own yellow
dress amid the soiled garments after she had
transferred her jewelry and possessions into her
coverall pockets. She regretted losing the
dress, which had cost her dearly, but it
would only attract attention now.
The castle's remaining guards seemed
nervously alert, and Odovil kept in the shadows
as she slipped toward one of the posterns in the outer
wall. The small gate was barred but not locked.
She had a bit of luck, and found several
glowmoss sticks resting in the brackets by the
door. Odovil took them and snuck through the
gate.
The night was black, with only the stars and the
shimmer of the moss to light her way. She found the
hunter's trail and followed it, hoping that the
corporal had kept to their deal. It would be hours
before she knew. With luck, the man had already
captured the outworlders and was taking them to the
yeoman's hut hidden in these woods ... a hut
that had been a popular place to meet one's
boy, when she had been a girl.
Odovil laughed nervously as she recalled
stories about the witches and bandits who lurked in
forests. The thought of meeting such creatures did not
frighten her now. None of them could be as dangerous as
the Ferengi.

When Wesley entered the sickbay he found
Data standing next to Shrev's biobed. "You are
recovering, Shrev?" Wesley asked quietly.
"Yes, thank you," she answered, her voice
firm by Zhuik standards. Her torn,
bloodstained tunic had been replaced with a
loose hospital smock. "And yourself?"
"Just a scratch," he said, gesturing at his
forehead. Wesley glanced at the indicators
above the Zhuik's head. He didn't know the
proper ranges for Zhuiks, but all the pointers
floated within their green zones, so she had to be
all right. That filled him with relief. She had
accompanied him to Megara at his request, and he
felt responsible for what had happened. "I
imagine Commander Data has questions for us," he
whispered, with a glance at the android.
"That is correct--" Data stopped, cocked
his head, then spoke in a low voice that matched
Wesley's and Shrev's. "We will begin this
debriefing with an account of your experiences,
Ensign."
"Yes, sir. We arrived in a street ..."
Wesley listened patiently while Shrev
spoke. From time to time Data asked him
to describe the conversations he'd had with
different Megarans. Data was efficient,
Wesley noted, and ten minutes after the start of the
debriefing his questions had brought them up to the fight.
"Perhaps you should speak with Counselor Troi,"
Data said, when Shrev described the native's
death at her hands. "Killing is always a
traumatic event."
"It is," Shrev agreed, and Wesley saw
how puzzled she looked. "But I must tell you,
sir, it is too late for Counselor Troi
to have words with my traumatized assailant."
Wesley strangled a laugh. "Shrev, I
believe Commander Data is concerned with your
feelings."
Her wiry antennae squirmed in obvious
confusion. "Indeed? I thank you for your concern,
Commander, but I am not troubled, even though the man
I fought was unforgivably rude."
"He didn't give his name when he attacked
her," Wesley told Data. Then he thought of
something that had been nagging him. "That woman in the
robe."
"What about her, Wesley?" Data asked.
Wesley fought to put what he knew into words.
"I'm not sure what this means, sir, but the robe
looked ... bright, like there was a light shining on
it."
"Perhaps a trick of the sunlight--" Data
stopped. "No, the lighting conditions make that
improbable. I will note this as another oddity.
Wesley, you mentioned obtaining paper money, with the
purpose of analyzing its information content. I would
like to see this money."
"Yes, sir." Wesley was still in his
civilian clothes, with the pouch belted to his
waist. He opened it and gave Data the money.
The android flicked through the wad of paper in a
matter of seconds. "Fascinating," Data
said. "When viewed in the ultraviolet portion
of the spectrum, it would appear that numerous printing
processes were employed here, using many types of
ink and paper. All but one type is of low
quality."
That touched a memory from a book Wesley had
read. "Counterfeiting?" he asked.
"That is the logical conclusion, Cadet,"
Data said. He returned the money to Wesley.
"Assuming that the money with the best-quality paper and
ink is genuine, then one-third of this money is
counterfeit."
"That is a large proportion," Shrev said.
"That is correct, Ensign," Data said.
He looked thoughtful. "This suggests an unusually
high level of criminal activity on Megara.
In addition, this amount of counterfeiting would
seriously destabilize the Megaran economy."
"And things are already bad down there," Wesley
said. "Most people are paid just enough to live. I've never
seen anything like it," he added helplessly. "It's
like somebody is trying to destroy these people."
"Neither the Ferengi nor the Cardassians are
known for their charitable natures," Data said.
"Yet if they are exploiting Megara, this
behavior does appear counterproductive."
"Perhaps it is a side effect of whatever they
plan," Shrev said. "Yet I also find it hard
to imagine that this destruction serves a purpose."
Dr. Crusher approached the group. "Shrev,
you've had enough excitement for now."
"I feel in excellent health, thanks to your
ministrations," Shrev said.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Dr. Crusher
said. She ran a scanner up and down Shrev's
left side. Her cardial tubes were muscular,
multichambered cylinders that ran from above her hip
to the base of her skull, and the knife wound had
caused extensive damage to the pseudoheart's
muscle tissue. "There's still a lot of
swelling, but if you stay quiet I may let
you leave in the morning."
"As you wish," Shrev said. Her eyes
remained open, but the pointers on her biobed
monitor drifted downward, and her antennae
curled back against her head.
Dr. Crusher looked at the readings. "Good.
Dormancy will help her heal."
"Is she all right?" Wesley asked.
His mother nodded. "She'll be fine. And you can
stop whispering now; she can't hear you."
"Okay--" Wesley stopped, cleared his
throat and raised his voice to a normal level.
"Okay, Mom."
"I may wish to question Ensign Shrev tomorrow,"
Data said to Wesley, as they stepped away from
Shrev's side. "I am still puzzled by certain
facets of your experience, especially this
brown-robed woman. Several other people saw such a
person immediately before the trouble began."
"They sound like clergy," Dr. Crusher
suggested.
"That is not the only possible deduction,"
Data said. "There are indications that hooded
robes are a traditional form of Megaran
dress, at least among the lower social
classes. The garb may be affected
by xenophobic agitators as a political
statement."
"That makes sense," Wesley said, while
wishing that Data's maker had given the android a
clearer speech style. "But why are you puzzled?"
"None of our people observed the robed
individuals at any time before the attacks,"
Data said. "Lieutenant Somek, whose Vulcan
memory is quite reliable, saw nothing. It is as
though the agitators appeared out of thin air."
Wesley shrugged. "Maybe they didn't put
on the robes until just before they started making their
speeches."
"That is possible," Data admitted. "If
you will excuse me, I will report to Commander
Riker now. Thank you for your cooperation,
Cadet." Data left the sickbay.
At a gesture, Wesley followed his mother
into her office. "It sounds like you and Shrev are
getting along famously."
"I like her," Wesley said.
"Enough to talk like a Zhuik," she said. "She
tells me you're very polite."
"It makes her more comfortable," Wesley said.
"It doesn't hurt me to do that."
His mother arched an eyebrow. "No, it doesn't
--as long as you remember she's not entirely
humanoid, biologically speaking."
"I will," he said, feeling a bit
embarrassed. Wesley had studied enough comparative
biology to know why Zhuiks did not intermarry with
other species. He was glad his mother hadn't
launched into one of her no-nonsense lectures
about the facts of life. "And I think Shrev will
remember I'm not part-insect," he said, rallying
his spirits.
The doctor laughed. "Touch`e. Seriously,
though, be careful not to let your feelings pull you
into an impossible situation."
"Don't worry," he said. Wesley walked
out of sickbay. He knew there was no danger of
falling in love with Shrev. Zhuik males were
drones: small and short-lived, and with
intelligences barely equal to that of a tree
shrew. Biology aside, Wesley
knew that the possibility of romantic love could
never enter Shrev's mind.
Which was too bad.

It was all Gul Verden could do to tame his
rage. Anger is a tool, he told himself.
Use it, do not let it use you. He repeated
the dictum over and over, as he had done as a child,
until he felt in control of himself again.
Verden knew he had reason to feel anger
over his mistakes. He had underestimated his
opponents, which was always a blunder in the combat of
life. He had relied too deeply on
native equipment; stone walls and iron bars
should have been enough to hold the humans. He had
trusted the native guards, who had not noticed the
escape until Verden had returned to the cell
with the interrogation drugs. And yet--who could have
expected the humans to fetch along a
thrice-damned saw?
Ubinew was supervising the hunt at his station.
Verden did not waste his time and concentration by demanding
a report; he could read the indicators and
displays for himself. Half of the castle's native
guards were scouring the woods around Gatyn's
castle. They wore Ferengi night-goggles, but
Verden doubted they would find anything. The native
troops had little experience with night-goggles, and the
humans had a small but precious head start on
their pursuers.
Verden sat down in the command seat. He wished
that he had sent his own people out there, with their own
equipment. That would have made short work of the hunt
--but he had to consider the human starship. One
sensor reading--or one prisoner--would tip off the
humans to the Cardassian presence on this world.
So far the risks Verden had run had been
successful, but he refused to push his luck.
I must face the worst, he thought. The two
humans knew that the Ferengi were not the only
aliens on Megara. The ambassador had already
been suspicious, and Chudak's interference had
forced Verden to reveal too much. If they got
back to their ship, they would report what they
knew. So the two humans must be killed before they
could return to their ship--no, that was no good. The
Federation ship would investigate their deaths.
We must destroy the ship, Verden
decided. That would require him to call the
Fleet for help, a decision that did not
please him. His pride demanded that he remain as
the commander, and not subordinate himself to another
person--
Abruptly Verden got out of his chair and
left the intelligence room. He found himself
alone in one of the bunker's narrow passageways,
where he remained until his training and discipline
had subdued his instincts. Pride is
unworthy, he told himself in shame, as he
repeated the mantras of his earliest lessons.
Selfishness is unworthy. I must think of
others. Alone we are weak. Together we are
strong. Are my legs weak because I stand upon them?
It is better to share in victory than to stand
alone in defeat ...
At last he could accept the humiliation of
calling for help. There was a binary neutron star
less than a light-year from the Megaran system,
and its radiation fields concealed a powerful
Liburnian-class warship. The ship waited
there for the chance to ambush any enemy vessels that
pried into the Megaran operation. A battle against
a Galaxy-class starship was a gamble, but the
alternative was certain discovery and failure.
Verden returned to the intelligence room, where
he went to the communications officer. "Signal the
Fatal Arrow," he told Bwolst. "We shall
require their presence to destroy the human ship.
And have the "Prophet" keep the city stirred
up."
"I obey," the man said.
As do I, Verden thought. He went
to Ubinew and stood behind him. Verden frowned as he
saw how disorganized the search pattern had
become. The native troops were no good at this.
One group was so thoroughly lost in the woods that it
was running away from the castle.

Chapter Ten

I never knew there were so many shades of
black, Picard thought wryly, as he and
Offenhouse stumbled through the woods. There was just enough
starlight to let him see a few dim shapes, but
not enough to let him distinguish between inky shadows and
fallen branches. The captain's only consolation
was that the ambassador had tripped and fallen more
times than he had.
Offenhouse stumbled, fell flat on his face
and cursed. "Picard," he said
quietly, "would you say we're lost?"
"Thoroughly," Picard answered.
"Then there's not much point in moving on, is
there?" Offenhouse asked. "For all I know
we're heading straight back toward Castle
Dracula. I'd rather sit quiet and not attract
attention."
"I see your point," Picard said.
Carefully, he sat down and rested his back against
a tree trunk. "We should try to think of a way
to signal the Enterprise."
"With what?" The vague shape that was the
ambassador sat down by a tree. "Think their
sensors will find us?"
"Possibly," Picard said. "The question is, will
it occur to anyone to search outside the castle for
us?"
Offenhouse chuckled. "I hope you're not
suggesting we go back. You know, it isn't going
to take our playmates long to start looking for us,
and I'll bet they've got night-vision gear,
or whatever you people use nowadays."
"We use something that we call night-vision
gear," Picard said. "Of course--"
The ambassador hushed him. "Light," he
whispered.
Picard craned his head and spotted a feeble
green glow moving in the woods. Not Ferengi,
he thought. Their equipment would not give itself away
with any light. The same rule applied
to Federation equipment.
The light grew closer, and Picard saw
several human shapes among the trees. He
saw more lights and realized that he and Offenhouse were
surrounded. If they stayed absolutely still, the
searchers might miss them--
The search was too efficient for that, and within
moments a trio of men found them. One man
carried a wooden staff, which was covered by a glowing
green moss. A corner of the captain's mind
noted how the Megarans used a bioluminescent
plant as a nightlight. The feeble light glinted
oddly on another man's bulging eyes--No,
Picard realized, he's wearing infrared
goggles. That's a Ferengi design, too.
Curiouser and curiouser.
The other two men carried swords, and they
gestured for Picard and Offenhouse to stand. One
man tapped the ambassador's elbow with his
swordpoint, making him raise his hands.
"Do you affect everybody this way?" Picard
asked Offenhouse in exasperation while three more
armed men joined them.
The man with the staff hissed urgent words.
Deprived of his translator, Picard could still
guess his meaning: Keep quiet. Come with us.
Or else. The captain knew better than
to resist; he hoped the ambassador felt the
same way.
What happened next made little sense. A
knife flashed, and the man with the staff fell to the
ground with a gurgling sigh. His killer hissed harsh
words to the other men, and the soldiers answered with
sullen mumbles. The killer picked up the
er/while leader's staff.
The Megarans led the two humans away. The
phosphorescent staff gave enough light to make
walking easy, and they struck a brisk pace.
Picard tried to estimate the distance they crossed
by counting his steps. He gave up after the first five
kilometers.
They had walked through the woods for several hours
before they reached a low stone building. Their
captors opened the door, guided Picard and
Offenhouse inside and then closed the door on
them. Picard heard a heavy bar rattle
into place, locking the door.
Offenhouse sniffed loudly in the darkness.
"I'd be careful where I sat down, Picard."
"Yes," Picard said. "I imagine that this
place doubles as a stable."
"Or a goat pen." Offenhouse sighed. "Our
pals don't act like they work for the Ferengi. What
do you suppose they want?"
"I can't imagine." Picard moved along the
walls, feeling them with his hands. "They are, or rather
were, the Vo Gatyn's soldiers; that's how
they knew we were out there, and that's where they got those
goggles."
"And then they double-crossed their Vo,"
Offenhouse said.
"It would appear there's yet another player in
the game." Picard found the door and probed it with
his fingers. As he had expected, it was quite stout.
He felt the low ceiling; the smooth texture
told him it was slate. The stone would interfere with a
sensor scan; given the general similarity between
humans and Megarans, the Enterprise might
mistake Picard and Offenhouse for natives.
Picard sighed. "This is
embarrassing," he told Offenhouse. "Starship
captains are not supposed to allow aliens
to capture them."
"Really? I heard that it happens to starship
captains all the time," Offenhouse said. "Beam
down to a planet, get captured, escape--"
"--jeopardize your crew and mission with a
rescue," Picard finished. "That sort of
carelessness is considered bad form, Mr.
Ambassador. As for getting captured twice
in the same day--" Picard shook his head
ruefully. "I may never live this down."
"Take it easy," Offenhouse said. "It's
after midnight now. You've only been captured
once today."
"So I have. That's a great comfort." Picard
scraped at the floor with a foot until he
decided it was reasonably clean. He squatted
down. "Well, Mr. Ambassador, it would
seem we have privacy and time in good measure. Shall
we discuss the diplomatic situation?"
"Why? It's as bad as the air in here."
Picard heard Offenhouse settle to the dirt
floor. "One thing's obvious. Chudak thought
Verden was a native."
"While Verden is quite clearly an alien,"
Picard said. "It would seem that Ensign
Shrev's inference was correct. The Ferengi are
working for an outside party."
"Who haven't told the Ferengi what their real
plan is," Offenhouse said. "Chudak is as much
in the dark as we are."
"So it appears." The Ferengi were normally quite
canny; Picard found it odd to think that someone could
use them as a tool. "I wonder what game is
being played on Megara."
"A dirty one," Offenhouse said promptly.
"Verden's people wouldn't play games if they were on
the up-and-up."
"I quite agree," the captain said. "I
imagine that this is a military game, as you
suggested. Aside from the secrecy, there is the
enormous expense involved here."
"That fifty billion credits," Offenhouse
said. "That's a big enough budget for a military
operation. Maybe Verden's people hired the Ferengi
as defense contractors. That still doesn't tell
us what Verden is, though."
"Quite true." Picard's dark-adapted eyes
noticed a dim glow coming from a small
vent in the hut's ceiling. Dawn, he thought.
By now Riker would be searching for him and the
ambassador. "Speaking of military operations,
Mr. Ambassador, you took quite a risk when
we encountered Chudak's ship."
"I wouldn't say so," Offenhouse said.
"Chudak shot down that probe, and he might have
done the same with the Enterprise. We were safer this
way."
"You still gambled with my ship," Picard said.
"Military force is a dangerous tool, Mr.
Ambassador. The threat of its use often
provokes a violent reaction from one's
adversaries, especially when that adversary feels
surprised and insecure. Even when force seems
justified, it has often dragged its user to his
own destruction, and more than a few victors have
found that they were worse off after "winning" a
bloody war than they were beforehand. Your own
twentieth century offered ample proof of this--"
A crude, grating buzz interrupted the
captain's words. He listened for a puzzled moment
before he recognized the noise. As it grew
louder Picard sighed wearily. Ralph
Offenhouse had a snore that would have impressed a
Klingon.

"Something's wrong," Riker said when the captain
failed to answer his call. Picard hadn't
checked in for hours. That wasn't unusual on a
diplomatic mission, but after the riots it made
Riker uneasy. Riker clasped his hands behind his
back as he paced the deck. "Data, get a
fix on the captain."
Wesley watched the android cross the bridge
to the science officer's station. He worked the controls
for a moment, then faced Riker. "Sir," he said,
"I can locate neither the captain nor the
ambassador. I am commencing a scan of the
castle environs."
"I don't think we'll find them that way,"
Riker said.
"They may have been taken hostage," Worf
said.
"That seems likely," Riker agreed. He
stepped up to Worf's station and looked at his
display. "Ferengi, Cardassians, riots,
assaults and now an abduction," he said
sourly. "To coin a phrase, Mr. Worf,
things have never been better." The Klingon
grunted thoughtfully at that.
Wesley gave Data a puzzled glance.
"The words come from a twentieth-century motion
picture," Data explained quietly. "In
their proper context they describe an
extremely dangerous situation."
Wesley nodded. He'd heard that Riker and
Worf had developed an interest in ancient
movies. Riker paced for another moment, then
settled into the captain's chair and glowered at the
main viewer. "Mr. Worf, let's start
looking for the captain. Hail the Ferengi ship."
The Ferengi bridge appeared on the screen.
Wesley looked at the man in the center, and saw
that it wasn't Chudak. "I want to speak
to Chudak," Riker said.
"The Daimon isn't available," the man
answered. "I'm Oshal, his
second-in-command."
"Where's Chudak?" Riker demanded.
Oshal shrugged. "He's conducting business with the
Vo Gatyn. If your business cannot wait, you
must do it with me."
Wesley scanned the Ferengi ship as Riker
closed the channel. "Commander Riker," he
reported, "there aren't any humans on board the
Ferengi ship, and they haven't used their
transporter recently."
"But there is something odd beneath the castle,"
Data said. "There are anomalous energy readings,
suggestive of a small, shielded installation."
"Can you be more specific?" Riker asked.
"No, sir," the android said. "The installation
is masked by the castle above it, and by electronic
interference from the surroundings. I have only a few
extra energy traces."
"Well, at least we know where the
Cardassians have their headquarters," Riker said.
"It makes sense that they'd stick close to their
puppet. But we can't get in there while their
shields are up." Glancing over his shoulder,
Wesley saw him tap his fist on his chair's
armrest in controlled frustration.
"Sir," Data said, "might I suggest that
we signal the Cardassians and open
negotiations?"
"That is a bad idea," Worf rumbled.
"I agree," Riker said. "The Cardassian
presence is an act of war. Officially we
don't know they're here--because the minute
we do know, we're back at war."
"And Cardassians execute prisoners of
war," Worf noted.
Riker nodded. "That would be hard on the captain
... and the ambassador," he added after a thoughtful
pause.
Wesley looked at his instruments while
Riker, Worf and Data discussed their options.
The helm position had its own sensors, and while
they weren't as sophisticated as the ones at the
science station, they were still quite capable. Wesley
focused them on the Megaran castle.
It was night down there, but the infrared imagers
placed an adequate view of the castle on
Wesley's display screen. On a hunch,
Wesley narrowed the bandwidth, so the sensor would
detect only objects within a few degrees of
human and Megaran body temperature. The
image on his screen turned to a score of white
points on a black field. He stared at it
for a minute, puzzled, then saw how the points were
moving. "Commander Data?" he called. "Look
at the infrared image. Something odd is happening
outside the castle."
"Outside the castle?" Riker repeated.
"That is correct," Data said. Wesley
heard the computer station bleep quietly as the
android fed in commands. "There are a large number
of individuals outside the castle walls. Their
motions suggest they are searching for something."
"Such as escaped prisoners," Worf said.
"Can the sensors differentiate between humans and
Megarans?"
"Not from orbit," Data said. "The differences
are too subtle for long-range observation."
Worf growled in discontent. "If the captain
has escaped, we must move quickly."
"But not blindly," Riker said. He got up,
went to Data's station and looked at the display.
"Which one of those dots is the captain?"
Wesley thought of something. He turned his seat
around and looked at Riker. "Commander, maybe the
Megarans could help."
To Wesley's relief he didn't laugh.
"A little while ago these same Megarans
attacked our people," Riker said.
"Not all of them were involved, sir," Wesley
said. "I think we can trust one of the people I met
down there, a shopkeeper named Anit."
"What could he do?" Riker asked.
"I'm not sure," Wesley admitted. "But
he's an ex-soldier, and he knows the land and the
people."
"This has possibilities," Worf said.
"It has more possibilities than sitting
around," Riker agreed. "Mr. Worf, take
an away team and look for the captain."
"Yes, sir," Worf said. "Commander Data,
Cadet Crusher, follow me."
Wesley followed Data and Worf into the
turbolift. "Tell me about this Anit,"
Worf said to Wesley as the lift took them to a
transporter room.
"He's an ex-soldier," Wesley
repeated, "about thirty years old. He needs
money to take care of his family, so I think we
could hire him even if he doesn't like aliens.
He lost an arm and an eye in a battle, but
he's sharp and he has a lot of connections."
""Connections"?" Data tilted his head.
"Ah. You refer to acquaintances, associates,
business partners--"
"Can we trust him?" Worf asked
impatiently.
"I think so, sir," Wesley said, "but it
might be a good idea if I spoke with him before
he sees you."
"That is an excellent suggestion," Data
said. "You might negate some of his xenophobic
tendencies."
"It would help more if we brought along a lot
of gold," Wesley suggested.
The turbolift stopped. The trio walked
down a corridor and entered the transporter
room. While the technician on duty
produced phasers, night-vision goggles and
money pouches, Wesley retrieved the mace from
cargo bay two. After it materialized on the
transporter stage, he picked it up and handed it
to Worf. "I told Anit I was buying it as a
gift for a warrior," Wesley told the
Klingon. "He'll be pleased to see you carrying
it, sir."
Worf nodded as he hefted the mace.
"Useful," he said in satisfaction. Wesley
recognized that as the highest praise a Klingon
could give a weapon. Worf used it to gesture
at the transporter stage. "You will go first,
Cadet," he said.

The coffee was vile. Tired as he was,
Geordi chuckled when he recalled the trouble
he'd had programming the replicator to make this
slop. The replicator computer was designed
to cater to its users' pleasures, and the machine had
had trouble believing that anyone would want a drink
that tasted like--like--
Pond scum? Geordi wondered.
Reactor coolant? Tribble squeezings?
Geordi had never managed to identify the
coffee's precise flavor, but it fit an old
Starfleet tradition. When engineers needed to work
long hours, they punched themselves awake with bad
coffee.
Well, human engineers, he conceded,
looking at Gakor. The Tellarite engineer
sat at the high bay's main computer station, his
hands folded across his potbelly and his head tilted
back as he caught a quick nap. Mercifully,
Tellarites did not snore.
Geordi felt awake as he finished his
coffee. "La Forge to bridge," he said.
"We're ready to test the new detector now."
"Understood," Riker said. "Proceed."
Geordi woke Gakor. The Tellarite
sat up and scanned the computer display. "All
readings are normal," he told Geordi.
"Okay," Geordi said. "Computer,
activate detection sequence."
"Activating," the computer said.
Geordi sat down. His whole body felt
sore, and not just from lack of sleep. He and
Gakor had crawled through what seemed endless
kilometers of accessways and Jeffries tubes
as they made the rounds of the mooring-point stations,
adjusting circuits and changing modules.
Geordi hoped that the test worked; he didn't
want to have to repeat that tour and put everything back
the way it had been.
Gakor laughed and slapped his clawlike hands
on his knees. "It works!"
"Son of a gun," Geordi said, trying to sound
surprised. The detector was getting a
neutrino flux, exactly as predicted.
"Engineering to bridge. Can you give me the location
of the Ferengi ship?"
A woman's voice answered.
"One-seven-two mark thirty-eight, range one
hundred kilometers."
"That matches our readings," Geordi
said as he looked at the computer display. "Say
... we're getting a second reading, from a power
source on the planet's surface."
Riker's voice spoke. "Is that at bearing
two-zero mark one-oh-seven?"
"Yes, sir," Geordi said, studying the
data. The neutrino flux was barely one percent
that of the ship's output. "It's not powerful enough to be
a spacecraft power plant, though. I'd say
it's a primary generator for a fixed installation."
"That's what it is," Riker said. "Well
done. Geordi, what sort of range does this
detector have?"
"Not much," Geordi said reluctantly. He
didn't like to admit it, but the new detector
wasn't going to live up to his expectations.
"Ten, maybe fifteen light-hours. Maybe
I can improve that a bit, but we're up against a
fundamental limit here. We use gravity
waves and they drop off by the inverse-square
law."
"Damn," Riker muttered. "I was hoping we
could use it to scan Weber 512."
"That's almost a light-year away," Geordi
said. "Detecting an operating power plant at the
edge of the Megaran system is the best I can do."
"We can still use it. Hook your detector
into the sensor network, then tie it into the fire
control system."
"Aye-aye, sir," Geordi said, as Riker
closed the channel. He went back to the food
replicator. It looked like he was going to need more
coffee.

Chudak dreamed. He was happy; he had all
the wealth a Ferengi could want, with more on the way.
Even now the most beautiful woman in the galaxy
was entering his bedroom to tell him of new profits.
He leered at her as she approached his bed and
leaned over him. Tall, delicate, and
seductive, she smiled as she touched a hand
to Chudak's shoulder--
Chudak grunted as Verden shook him awake.
"You are well?" the pagus asked.
"Yes--" Chudak felt a tumult of
emotion as the immediate past flooded back. The
sleazy debtor had shot him--the pagus must have
connections with somebody else, if he had a
phaser--he was beset by treachery--
Chudak looked at Verden's hand as
the pagus released his shoulder. Now that he
examined it closely, he realized that the
Megaran's sixth finger looked deformed. There was
a ridge at its base, and its brown color was
far too even. It was clearly artificial, which
could mean only one thing. "You're a
Cardassian," Chudak said.
"Correct."
Chudak growled. His private negotiations
with the repulsive creatures had been maddening.
They had demanded secrecy and assurances of
secrecy at every step; they had not even allowed
Chudak to tell his senior officers that the
Cardassians were involved here. That secrecy had
complicated the operation--and now this--
Chudak felt fear. He had always expected
the Cardassians to double-cross him. He had
made preparations, of course--and here he was in the
one situation for which he had never prepared. Well,
his only hope was to brazen it out. "Why wasn't
I told your people would have agents here?" Chudak
demanded.
"You do not need to know the reason," Verden said.
"What matters is that I command here."
"My contract--" Chudak began.
"I now invoke paragraph twenty of your
contract," Verden said. "I speak of the real
contract, not the one you signed with Gatyn. And I
remind you of paragraph twelve. Should the
Federation learn of our presence, you forfeit any
profits you might make."
The bed creaked as Chudak sat up in anger.
"You would not dare break our contract!"
"I speak of keeping it," Verden said. He
stepped away from the bed--a very good bed, Chudak
noted, and placed in one of the castle's more
splendid rooms. To an experienced
negotiator such as Chudak, this attention to his
comfort suggested that Verden did, indeed, want
to maintain the contract. And now that the situation had
changed a bit, perhaps Chudak could put himself in a
more advantageous position.
Chudak lay down again and pillowed the back of
his head on his hands. "Let's speak of keeping the
contract, Verden. Of course, having the
Enterprise hovering above us makes secrecy
difficult, and you know how difficulties increase
my expenses--"
"You will do as I say," Verden said. "You will
help me to destroy the Enterprise."
Chudak grunted. "That's risky. My crew
will demand hazard pay--"
Verden's face twitched in irritation, a
sight that pleased Chudak. That's one thing I have
in common with that fur-headed Federation
ambassador, he thought in grudging respect.
Offenhouse may be two lobes short of a
full brain, but we both know how to put an
opponent off balance. "I have no time to waste in
negotiation," the Cardassian said. "Name your
price."
"One billion credits," Chudak said.
"The destruction of a Federation starship is worth
that price," Verden said. "We have a deal. This
is what you will do. You will return to your ship. You
will contact the Enterprise and soothe them."
"Soothe them?" Chudak repeated. "They're
already suspicious. What's happened to Picard and
Offenhouse?"
"You will tell them that the humans have escaped after
offending the natives," Verden said. "You will
negotiate a rescue and ransom, but you will see
to it that the negotiations are long and unsuccessful.
While you distract the humans, a warship will
arrive and destroy the Enterprise."
Chudak smiled in satisfaction. "Put that
billion credits in writing and we have a deal.
And--will that warship of yours arrive any time
soon?"
Verden looked at him in suspicion. "You do
not need to know."
Chudak laughed. "I'm only looking for a
spare hour or so. This is the Vo Gatyn's
bedroom, isn't it?"
"Correct," Verden said. "What of it?"
The Ferengi Daimon laughed again. "It
seems a shame to kick such a beautiful lady out
of her quarters. Send her in."

Chapter Eleven

Some instinct woke Anit in the time before the
dawn. Thieves, he thought, reaching for his dagger.
Since the arrival of the rat-eyes, the number of
thieves and bandits in the world had grown like flies
on a dung heap, and they were as bold and greedy as
a tax collector. The outworlders had left their
gold all across the city, and now the city's
thieves would come looking for that gold.
Anit slid out of bed; Molokan
muttered in her sleep but did not wake. Anit
went to the opening between the building's two rooms and
stood behind the blanket that covered the doorway.
The gold was in the living room, buried under the
floor; he would kill the burglars when they came
through the doorway to look for it.
He heard noises in the shop. Yes, someone
was stumbling around in the dark. Then--"Kardel
Anit?" a flat, familiar voice asked.
One of the outworlders, Anit thought. He
felt uncertain. The Prophet had warned against
outworlders, and there was no reason to trust them--
especially not when they came sneaking in in the
middle of the night ... yet their gold was good.
"Kardel Anit?" the voice repeated. "I
need help."
Anit came to a decision. "Enter," he said
while Molokan and several of the children stirred. He
took a step back from the doorway and placed his
hand on the glassfire's knob.
The outworlder entered the home-room. As he
came through the doorway, Anit turned on the
glassfire, and its glare blinded the alien. It
was the pink one, not the green one, and he was alone.
A money pouch hung at his side. "My help
you asked," Anit said.
"Yes, sir." He glanced at Anit's
dagger, then looked into Anit's eyes. "The
rat-eyes have abducted my ship-leader."
Anit puzzled over the alien's words. Did
he mean his ship-leader had taken the rat-eyes?
No, surely he had the words reversed. "More
speak," Anit said, while Molokan and the children
gaped in fright at the outworlder.
The outworlder obeyed. "We don't know where
ship-leader Picard is, or how to find him here.
I hoped you might help us."
"Help I might," Anit said. In truth
he had no idea of what he might do, but this was a
chance to get more gold. "Much risk I would take.
Much gold to me must you give."
The outworlder held out his pouch to Anit. "Is this
enough?"
One-handed, Anit gestured to Molokan with his
dagger. She took the bag, opened it and dug
into it. "Gold," she said, wide-eyed. "Three
klets it weighs. Three!"
That much gold would feed his family for a year.
"A deal we have," Anit told the outworlder. He
glanced at his family, then stepped through
the doorway into his shop. The young outworlder
followed him. "Alone do you come?"
"My friends are waiting for me to call them." The
outworlder touched an ornament on his chest. "Officer
Worf, Officer Data, he'll help us. Come
on down."
Light shimmered and two outworlders appeared in the
room. Anit took their arrival in stride.
Everyone knew that the rat-eyes traveled like this,
and he had lost his awe of miracles after the first
dozen times he saw a glassfire dispel the
night. His children claimed this was not a true
miracle, but how could you trust the things they learned
in the rat-eyes' school?
Anit studied the newcomers. One was gold
instead of pink, and had yellow eyes. The other was
the color of a person, but had a ridged,
half-bald scalp. He carried the mace that
Anit had sold the first outworlder. The three
outworlders spoke rapidly among themselves, and then the
pink one vanished in a shimmer of light. As he
did so, Molokan waddled into the shop and stood
blocking the door. She held a carving knife,
and Anit knew she would use it if she thought the
outworlders might harm the children.
The one with the mace looked at Anit. "How shall
we find our ship-leader?"
Anit sighed; he'd been afraid someone would
ask that. "Disguises you need," he said. He
took them into the shop, where he picked through a heap
of clothing. Within moments the three men were clad in
alt-robes. Ferengi law banned the old
garment, but with the city in a ferment after the riots that
law would go unenforced. The hoods would hide those
alien faces, and the long sleeves would hide their
deformed five-fingered hands.
The one called Worf looked at Anit with
wary eyes. "After we find our ship-leader," he
said, "you will receive ten more bags of gold."
Anit felt his lips tighten. A canny
one this creature is, he thought. He had
planned to lead the outworlders on a long and harmless
march outside the city, avoiding danger and running
them around until they gave up. But this reward
changed everything. It meant decent food for his
family, warm clothes, heat in the winter.
And if he died, or if the outworlders betrayed
him? Anit shrugged inwardly. His death would free
Molokan to find a new husband, someone who could
give her and the children a better life. Children
and honorable women were still highly regarded by people,
despite the rat-eyes' efforts to treat them like
merchandise.
And now a soldier again I will be, he
thought. A mercenary for my family. Honorable
a mercenary is not, but long gone my honor is.
"With me now you will come," Anit told the
outworlders. He led them out the front door, into an
empty square touched by the dawn's first gray
light. Molokan did not risk bad luck
by saying farewell; after all these years she
remained a soldier's wife.

"... stack of pancakes, smothered in maple
syrup," the ambassador was saying. He sat
on the hut's floor with his back against the stone
wall. By Picard's estimate the sun had been
up for an hour, and light came through chinks in the
walls. "With bacon and orange juice. And a
side order of toast, with--"
"Mr. Ambassador," Picard said, "if
I may be frank, you were less annoying while you
slept." While not racked with hunger pangs, the
captain felt in distinct need of a meal.
Offenhouse chuckled. "Sorry, Picard, but
being a pain in the butt takes constant
practice, especially if I want to stay
ahead of Chudak. Did you see how he acted with
all those gals at the castle? It takes
talent to get turned down by so many women, so
fast."
"He excelled at that," Picard agreed,
glad that Offenhouse had turned the subject
away from food. He sat down alongside the
door. "I have always wondered why Ferengi males
are so fascinated by non-Ferengi women. They
seem rather mismatched."
"No more than humans and Vulcans,"
Offenhouse said. "Or humans and Klingons,
humans and Romulans, humans and
Betazoids, humans and Bajorans--oh, never
mind." He rubbed the black stubble on his chin.
"You're serious?"
"Certainly. I wanted to ask you--" Picard
stopped and stifled a yawn. A restless night had
left him fatigued. "Excuse me. The
Ferengi are one of the most mysterious races in the
galaxy, yet you have made some remarkable
deductions about them."
"I like to call them "guesses,""
Offenhouse said. "That reminds me I could be
wrong; I don't have enough facts to support all
of my ideas. But if you want my best guess as
to why they like alien women, it's simple. What do
you look for in a woman?"
"In a word? Companionship," the captain
said.
"Same here," Offenhouse said. "Everyone
needs someone they can share their feelings and dreams
with. We're what biology makes us, so we
look for that someone in a lover. But the Ferengi--
does the phrase "battle of the sexes" mean
anything to you?"
The captain smiled despite himself. "I do
believe I've heard the term somewhere."
"Well, I figure that on Ferengal it's
open warfare," Offenhouse said. "The Ferengi
act as if they have two separate societies,
one male and one female, and the only thing they have in
common is the little matter of producing children. The
separation may be so extreme that the women won't
even raise the boys--they give them to their fathers,
who take their sons into--into the family
business--"
This is no time for him to have a problem,
Picard thought, hearing the man's voice catch.
"It doesn't sound emotionally satisfying."
"It wouldn't be," Offenhouse said. "Maybe
that's why Ferengi men are so outgoing with alien
females. Ferengi men and women don't get
any companionship from one another, so they look for
it in aliens."
Picard nodded thoughtfully. "I see. I had
wondered if it was the same cause which attracts
humans to aliens."
"No. Ferengi are lonely, but humans just like
the exotic. Look at Shrev and Peter--I
mean Wesley."
He needs to talk, Picard thought. Something
in the man was pressuring him to raise his past.
Picard decided he would have to risk an
explosion. "Wesley Crusher is much like your
son, isn't he?"
Offenhouse sighed. "In more ways than I can
describe."
"For the little it's worth," Picard said, "your
son's death had meaning. He helped to destroy
Khan Singh's empire--"
"I know that," Offenhouse said. "And I know how
little it was worth."
Picard was baffled. The destruction of the Great
Khanate had started the process that led
to Earth's unification and the abolition of war. "I
don't understand."
The ambassador sat in silence for a long
moment. "Let me tell you something that isn't in the
history books," he said at last. "Do you know
where Khan's super-race came from?"
"That's hard to answer," Picard said. "Their
progenitors were an international group of
scientists; they had labs in Haiti and
Pakistan during the nineteen-sixties and
seventies--"
"They also had a lab in Chad," Offenhouse
said, "and headquarters in North Yemen. They
worked in the poorest countries on Earth because it was
easy to bribe officials into silence and hire
human guinea pigs--"
Picard felt a chill. "How do you know?"
"Because I supplied a lot of their equipment,"
Offenhouse said, his voice thick with self-disgust.
"Electron microscopes, computers, drugs,
chemicals, name it. Everything they wanted, and no
questions asked, not even when I had to break export
regulations and smuggling laws. They couldn't have
done it without me. I'm as much Khan Singh's
godfather as anyone."
No wonder Counselor Troi sensed
guilt in him, Picard thought. "You couldn't have
known what they planned," he said. "You were no
scientist. Even if you had known what to ask--"
Offenhouse shook his head. "I didn't
want to ask. I knew something was fishy, but I
was making too much money to care. If I'd
reported them to Interpol--well, I didn't.
My son paid the price. So did the world. And
what happened to me? I died rich, and I died
right before I had to face the consequences. Then I
got a second chance at life, an important
job, respect--when I deserve to burn in
Hell." He sighed. "You people should have left me
where you found me--dead and lost."
"You made a mistake," Picard said.
"We've all done that--"
"You've never done anything as big as this,"
Offenhouse told him.
"My conscience doesn't take a tape
measure to my errors," the captain replied.
"It only asks me what I will do to make
amends."
"I've been looking for a way to do that,
Picard," he said. "Ever since I talked to your
counselor. Maybe even before that--sometimes I
don't understand what's going on inside my head.
Only, what can I do to make up for bringing the
Khans into the world? Nothing is enough--"
Offenhouse stopped speaking at the sound of
voices outside the hut. Picard listened
intently, but without his Universal Translator
he could extract no sense from the words.
The door opened and Odovil Pardi, the
woman with whom Picard had talked at the
castle, entered the hut. She wore an ugly
gray coverall in place of the dress she had
sported earlier. Odovil was unarmed, but the
large man who stood in the doorway carried a
scimitar, which compensated for that. The woman
approached Picard and said something in her own
language; her nervous voice had a questioning tone.
Picard sighed. "I'm afraid I don't
understand."
Odovil frowned, then drew a folded paper
and a pencil from her coverall pocket. She
sketched something on the paper and showed it to the
humans. "Meh-gah-rah," she said carefully.
"Feh-ren-gee."
Picard looked at the sketch. It showed two
stellar systems, one accompanied by a crude
human face and one by a Ferengi. Is she
asking us to choose sides? Picard wondered as
Odovil handed him the pencil. She and the guard were
giving him some intense looks. ...
Offenhouse took matters into his own hands.
"Ferengi!" he said emphatically, drawing a
thumb across his throat.
That brought a smile to Odovil's face.
"Ferengi!" she repeated, and matched the
throat-slashing gesture. She looked at
Picard and waited.
I hope I'm not cutting my own throat,
Picard thought as he pulled a thumb across his
throat. "Ferengi!"
That made Odovil smile again. "See,
Picard?" Offenhouse asked cheerily. "It
pays to speak a second language!"
Neanderthal? Picard wondered, looking at the
paper. There was a good deal of open space on it,
and that gave him an idea. He took the paper and
borrowed Odovil's pencil. He sketched a
dozen stellar systems, then drew the
heads of a human, a Vulcan and a Zhuik,
whom the woman might have heard described in the
away teams.
The ambassador looked over his shoulder as he
sketched. "Not bad," he said in admiration.
"Art is a mandatory Academy subject,"
Picard said. "I hope to convey the idea that the
Federation is larger and more powerful than the Ferengi.
And--" He added a Klingon head. "--if I
know Commander Riker, he'll send Worf to look
for us. Let's make sure she knows he's a
friend."
"Good idea," Offenhouse said. "Add a few
more people, Picard."
Picard drew a Tellarite and a Saurian
before the pencil became too blunt for use.
"Federation," he told Odovil, pointing to his
sketch.
"Federation," she repeated, looking at the
paper. She seemed impressed by the Federation's
implied size. Odovil took the paper from
Picard, then fished a second scrap of paper
from her pocket. She showed it to Offenhouse and
Picard.
The ambassador peered at it. "That's
money," he said.
"I believe you're correct," Picard
agreed. He watched Odovil move the
currency back and forth across the sketch, between
Megara and the Federation. "Trade," he said as
Odovil gave him an inquiring look. "Mr.
Ambassador, I believe she wants to do
business."
"Well, now," Offenhouse said, smacking his
lips. "Things are finally looking up."

Data had programmed himself to understand
Ulathic, the local Megaran language, before
he left the Enterprise. This was more efficient
than using a Universal Translator, a
device that his creator had incorporated into his
circuitry. The translator had several
limitations: it could not always distinguish the subtle
differences among words of similar meanings, and such
vital features as idioms and emotional
overtones were lost in the translation process. It
could only handle one voice channel at a time,
and two or more speakers could overload the device.
Anit led Data and Worf through a string of
narrow, twisted alleys. Most of the
buildings that abutted the alleys were brick, but
their doors were thin and their windows were glassless
holes covered only by shutters. As he walked
along, his sensitive ears picked up a string of
conversation fragments, one after the other. The topics
seemed appropriate to the early-morning
activities of diurnal creatures: the rousing
of late sleepers, the preparing and eating of
breakfasts, dressing, the saying of farewells for the
day. In this respect the Megarans seemed no
different from humanoids throughout the galaxy.
Data also heard references to yesterday's
riots. The statements blamed the disturbances on
the Ferengi, who on several occasions were
identified by a word that meant "outworlders." The word
was related to a term that meant "demons," a
point he would have missed if he had relied on a
translator.
Data did not like the implication. It
appears that the Megarans view "Ferengi,"
"alien," and "evil" as identical concepts,
he thought. This is unfortunate, but it could
explain why our crew members were attacked.
Their language forces the Megarans to regard
all aliens as enemies. At least none of the
voices had a high emotional loading, which
suggested that the local population had grown calm.
A second riot seemed unlikely.
The trio walked down an alley that finally
opened into a crowded public square. "Dung on
this I hurl," Anit said to Worf and Data.
"Empty in the morning often this place is."
Worf growled inside his robe's hood.
"There is trouble?"
"Here trouble quickly could grow," Anit said.
"The Prophet Against the Dark here speaks."
"We this crowd must go around?" Data asked.
He believed he understood the Ulathic syntax;
as with Russian and Latin, proper grammar put
the verb at the end of the sentence. Placement of
subjects and objects seemed to depend upon
poetic requirements of scansion and meter, with
suffixes to differentiate among the cases.
"Correct you are," Anit said. He scowled
at the knot of people who blocked the alley mouth.
Data noted that several of the people wore
alt-robes, while one man wore a garment
similar to a toga. All others dressed in
gray coveralls.
"The crowd a problem is not," Anit
said at last. "Trouble I expect, if you the
Prophet should see. Outworlders accursed you are."
"We are enemies of the rat-eyes," Worf
said, his voice sour with irony. "Perhaps the
Prophet will forgive us for that."
"Perhaps," Anit said. "The edge of the crowd behind
we shall circle. Caution we must exercise.
Come."
The square was a sea of heads and a murmur of
voices. There was little space between the crowd and the
line of shopfronts, and it took a quarter of an
hour for the three men to make their way to the next
alley entrance. During this time Data tried
to observe the Prophet. At first he heard
only the voice, loud and strident, which he
analyzed as having a seventy-five percent
probability of being female and a
ninety-nine-point-three percent probability
(approaching certainty) of being artificial. This
was such an unusual observation that Data stopped,
found a ledge mounted in a wall and climbed onto
it.
The precarious perch let him observe the
Prophet. She stood in the center of the square,
her arms upraised and her hood thrown back
to expose a head of long, straight gray hair.
During the five seconds in which Data remained
on the ledge, he adjusted his optical sensors
several times. The Prophet was not entirely
opaque to visible light; she transmitted
approximately one ten-thousandth of the ambient
light that fell upon her, making her translucent
to Data's enhanced vision. In addition, she was
invisible when viewed in the infrared and
ultraviolet portions of the spectrum. Her
gaze turned toward Data, but she did not
react to his presence.
Remarkable, Data thought as he hopped off the
ledge. The Prophet is a hologram.
He hurried after the others, who had not noticed
his absence. Anit and Worf turned down another
alley, and Data followed them. He had
traveled approximately ten meters when a
small, solid object impacted between his shoulder
blades. He estimated that the blow would have caused
severe injury in a human.
"Outworlder!" Data turned around at the shout.
A trio of young Megaran males stood in the
opening of the alley. One hurled a cobblestone, which
Data easily ducked. They ran down
the alley toward Data, and two of them brandished
knives. "Outworlder, demon, monster!" they
shouted.
"Get down!" Worf roared, while Anit
cursed. Data assumed that Worf was giving him
an order appropriate to the situation. He
rapidly lowered himself to the ground and lay in a
facedown posture, after which he heard the shriek
of a phaser set for heavy stun. Data raised his
head and saw his three assailants fall to the
alley's muddy surface.
Worf and Anit were already running down the
alley. Data found this a well-advised action;
he ran after them. They slowed only after they had
rounded a corner. "Alive we remain," Anit
gasped. "Followed we are not."
"Indeed." Worf glowered at Data from
inside his hood. "We must exercise more
caution, Commander, not less."
"I shall endeavor to do so," Data said. The
Megarans' xenophobic reaction had surprised
him. Anit seemed a reasonable being, and Data
saw how that had led him to discount the experience of the
other crew members. He reminded himself that
Anit had an economic interest in helping the
aliens, while the other Megarans saw outworlders
as a threat.
Anit found a doorway and knocked at it.
After a moment it opened and the trio entered a
brick-walled room that reminded Data of
Anit's dwelling-place. There were straw
pallets, a crude table and a small fire
pit, where embers now smoldered.
A man in gray coveralls greeted Anit.
"My old captain!" he exclaimed, hugging him
with two sound arms. "We not often enough one another
see. Old days we must discuss."
"Gold we must discuss, Sergeant
Taygar," Anit said, throwing back his hood.
"And blood of rat-eyes. Still much rat-eye
blood you would shed?"
"Much and much," Taygar said. The young man's
eyes gleamed, then turned on Worf and Data.
"With them?" Data heard the suspicion in his
voice.
"Reliable they are," Anit said. "They the
rat-eyes with a passion hate, and they with gold
pay. The old company you can find?"
"I can," Taygar said. "Today no work is.
Closed the factories are, and the power
grid in a tangle lies. The company by noon
here you will see. But who your friends are?"
"Good outworlders," Anit said. "Outworlders who
the rat-eyes hate. Worf, Data, your
faces my sergeant must see."
"Certainly," Data said, and pulled his hood
back. He noted that Taygar did not appear
disturbed by the alien faces. This implied that his
xenophobia was not deeply rooted.
Anit nodded at them. "Rat-eyes they are
not, Taygar. Soldiers for them we can be,
honor we can have."
"Honor again," Taygar said. "But what if us
they betray?"
Anit shrugged, a gesture made lopsided
by his missing arm. "Then as betrayed soldiers
we die. Or forever you as a rat-eye slave would
live?"
"Good your question is," Taygar admitted. He
looked Worf over, then pointed at his mace.
"That you can use?"
"Easily," Worf rumbled. "How many men can
you summon?"
"Two handfuls," the sergeant said. "Good men,
good weapons."
Worf grunted in approval, then reached
into his robe. "Good soldiers deserve good
gold," he said, and handed his money pouch
to Taygar. "Bring them and we will talk battle."
Taygar opened the bag and stared into it. For a
moment he seemed transfixed by the coins. Then
Anit nudged him. "More they will give," Anit
said. "Much more."
Taygar left, and Anit sat down in the
room's only chair. "Not all our men now I
would trust," he said, "but so long as the gold
lasts, they last."
"We have much gold," Worf said. He
carefully turned off his Universal
Translator, turned to Data and spoke in
Klingonese. "I heard the Prophet speak.
Her words were sweet with hate, but she did not sing
like a native."
Data reviewed the Prophet's speech, then
answered in the same tongue. "Yes, her
syntax was wrong. I also noted that the Prophet
was a hologram."
Worf looked puzzled. "A mere seeming?"
"Correct. I cannot explain why the Ferengi
desire to create rage, but they are doing
so."
Anit watched impatiently as Worf and
Data spoke a language he could not understand.
"Of what you do speak?" he asked.
Worf dodged the truth as he reactivated his
translator. "We wonder how you will find our
captain."
The Megaran rubbed his chin. "No details
I have. Where last he was seen?"
"In the castle of the Vo Gatyn," Worf
said. "We believe he escaped into the woods
north of the castle, but if he did, he has not
contacted us."
"Fregav Woods," Anit murmured.
"Much thought must I give."
"Give, then," Worf suggested.
Data had his own thoughts. In Ulathic, "good
outworlders" was almost a contradiction in terms, yet
Anit had used the words and Taygar had accepted
them without hesitation. It appeared that these people had a
great deal of mental flexibility. Yet they
do not always exercise it, he thought, reflecting
on the attack. That did not bode well for the
future.

I could use more sleep, Wesley thought as
he studied the helm display. He'd grabbed a
few hours of downtime during the night, but he
didn't feel fully operational. Well, he'd
gone into final exams at the Academy with no
sleep, and that hadn't hurt his performance.
A light blinked on his display. "Sir, the
Ferengi ship is hailing us," Wesley told
Commander Riker.
"Ignore them," Riker said. "We'll talk
when I am ready. And keep trying that neutrino
detector."
"Yes, sir." Wesley returned his
attention to his instruments. A short while
later, Shrev came onto the bridge and joined
Wesley at the helm. "I am extremely
pleased to see you are well," Wesley whispered
to her.
Her chuckle sounded like the rustle of dry
leaves. "I am equally pleased to be well," the
Zhuik said. "Your estimable mother is satisfied
with my recovery. Could I now trouble you to inform me
on the situation?"
Wesley did so, quickly, and Shrev shook her
head when he described how Worf had
ordered him to return to the Enterprise. "This
seems a waste of a talented junior officer,"
Shrev said. "Did Lieutenant Worf
explain this decision?"
"Mr. Worf never explains orders,"
Wesley said, although he thought he could guess
Worf's reasons. Wesley was inexperienced in
this sort of operation--and there was the incident at the
Academy. Worf had never said so, but he had
to feel displeased by Wesley's soiled honor.
Wesley shrugged off his thoughts. "I've been
doing what I can up here," he told Shrev,
"looking at our sensor readings."
"That is a useful function," Shrev said.
"Have you found anything yet?"
"I don't know," Wesley said. He keyed
in one of the records and put it on the helm
display. White dots drifted around the screen;
the display was speeded up at a rate of fifty
to one. "Here's a record of the activity outside
the castle, starting an hour after our last contact
with the captain. The searchers are circling in the
woods, all except this one group of six or
seven people. We don't know what to make of them."
"Travelers, perhaps," Shrev said. She
studied the display. "How odd. I intend no
slight, but for humans all of these people move quickly
in the dark, as though it does not handicap them."
"The Ferengi or Cardassians must have given
them infrared viewers," Wesley said.
"Including these travelers?" she wondered.
"They were probably following a road,"
Wesley said. "That would have made travel easier
... wait. It was still dark for them. They weren't
carrying lights or torches or anything; we'd have
spotted that. So how could they have seen the road?"
"Unusual acts bear investigation," Shrev
said. Her antennae twitched eagerly. "Let us
see which flowers line this road."
"Good idea," Wesley said. He turned on
the mapping sensors.

Chapter Twelve

Ubinew looked up from his console in the command
room. "The Fatal Arrow will arrive in four
hours," the Cardassian intelligence officer
told Verden. "The ship is maneuvering to keep
itself on a line between the neutron stars and the
Enterprise."
That pleased Verden. The binary neutron star's
radiation would mask the Fatal Arrow's
approach, if the commander kept his vessel
precisely between the star and the Federation craft.
"What of the Federation ship?" Verden asked.
"Agents have beamed down from the Enterprise
into the city. We are keeping tensions high in the
city, to hamper their activities. Chudak is
back on his ship and attempting to communicate with the
human vessel."
""Attempting"?" Verden repeated.
"The Enterprise has not yet responded,"
Ubinew told his commander. "My estimate is that
they desire to annoy the Ferengi by delaying their
response."
"That is typical human behavior," Verden
said. "Inform me when they open communications."
"I obey," Ubinew said.
With that, Verden sat down in his chair to ponder
the situation. Fatal Arrow would destroy both
the human and Ferengi ships, making it appear that
the two craft had destroyed one another. Verden
would have to create evidence to support this, as the
Federation would inevitably send a vessel
to investigate the loss. He would also have to prepare
to deal with a heightened Federation interest in Megara.
That would not be a problem. The plan was almost
complete, and the Federation could do little to interfere--their
preposterous ethics would keep them from doing anything
effective. Verden could have used the Ferengi for a
while longer, but he could cope with their loss, and the
plan had always called for their elimination.
Sacrificing them now would protect the plan.
It is a pity that Chudak will die cleanly
in space, Verden thought. Once the Ferengi had
finished building Megara's industries, the plan
called for the Megarans to regain control of their
world. That would be done in the guise of a revolt; the
Cardassian team would have instigated uprisings
all over the planet--after beaming a fusion bomb
onto Chudak's ship. Verden had been looking
forward to the revolt. Its violence would have confirmed
the success of the plan, the final transformation of
these tribal apes into something resembling warriors
... and he had wanted to see Chudak die at the
hands of a mob.
That was not to be. At least Chudak and his
Ferengi would all die, which was also important;
dead, they could not sell their secrets to the
Federation. Verden drew some consolation from
the fact that Chudak would never see the billion
credits he had been promised for helping
to destroy the Enterprise. He hoped Chudak
would live long enough to understand that he had been cheated.
Other problems remained. The two human
spies had escaped. Sensors indicated that they
had neither signaled the Enterprise nor
transported back aboard her, but so long as they
remained loose their knowledge threatened the plan--and
several Federation personnel had beamed down into the
city, against Verden's expectations. In addition,
all of the Vo Gatyn's guards had returned from
their search empty-handed--all but one squad, and
their sergeant had been found in the woods, stabbed
to death.
The desertion perplexed Verden. Like humans,
Ferengi, Vulcans and so many other inferior
races, the Megarans had evolved from tribal
apes. That heritage gave them a strong,
instinctive loyalty to their own groups and leaders.
The guards had clearly betrayed that loyalty.
Or had they? Their loyalty was an instinct, but
it remained the instinct of intelligent minds.
Perhaps the guards had not run off on their own; perhaps
they had given their loyalty to someone other than
Gatyn--or given it to themselves? Sometimes
humanoid groups split into smaller groups after
a disagreement. And sometimes they could be subverted
by a strong and clever leader--such as a starship
captain like Picard--
Verden stood up. "Give me a map which
charts the path taken by the deserters," he said
to Ubinew.
"I obey." Within seconds a sheet of paper
materialized in the printer.
Verden took the map and turned toward the exit
before training caught up with him. "I believe that the
human spies have joined forces with the deserters,"
he told Ubinew. "I owe you a full
explanation of my new plans, but time is short
and I must ask you to wait for the explanation."
"You have never betrayed my trust," Ubinew
said.
"I thank you for your trust," Verden said. He
left the room and went upstairs into the castle.
He strode quickly into the Vo Gatyn's audience
chamber, where the Vo conferred over a map with her
guard captain. Tattered battle pennants
hung on the dark stone walls around them.
The powerless ruler of Megara gave
her master a bitter look. "You with your Vo an
audience crave?" she asked.
Verden ignored her sarcasm. "I believe
your missing guards have joined forces with the Federation
spies. One of the spies is a ship-leader, and
your lost soldiers may have found him too strong a
leader to resist. You will send your guards after them and
kill them."
"I will?" she asked in disdain.
Verden turned away from her and thought. Gatyn
had a pride to match a Cardassian, and that
made using her difficult. Although only a
figurehead, she demanded that everyone treat her as
though she were the true power on Megara.
Verden looked back to her. "My Vo," he
said in a formal voice. "It is my sad duty
to say that there may be treachery among some of your
forces. I believe your missing guards have given
their loyalty to your enemies. At least I can
tell you where to locate the traitors."
"Tell," Gatyn said.
Verden spread the map on the table. Gatyn and
her guard-captain studied the print. "They a
hunter's trail follow," the captain said.
"My Vo, to follow them my forces you do command?"
"Follow," Gatyn ordered. "But kill them
you may not."
"They must all die!" Verden snapped.
Gatyn glared at him, then looked to the
captain once more. "Living prisoners I wish.
Your company I will join, so that live prisoners
I may see taken."
"Combat is dangerous," Verden said. "You're
too valuable for me to risk."
Her gaze turned haughty. "A tool I
am not, for you the costs and risks to measure.
Leave."
Verden strode out of the audience chamber. My
own training betrayed me here, he thought. Among
Cardassians, anyone whose discipline was so weak
that he would betray his friends was destroyed. His demand
that the traitors be killed had been almost a
reflex--and it had made him forget Gatyn's
vanity, her wish to feel that she commanded here. She
had decided to let the traitors and spies live
merely to spite Verden.
Verden closed his eyes as the elevator took
him down to the intelligence room. It does not
matter if the spies and traitors live or
die, he thought. Their capture is
the important thing.

Worf wanted to move, to find his captain,
to fight his enemies with phaser in one hand and mace
in the other. Waiting was torture, and the answers that
Anit had given to his questions did not convince the
Klingon that fruitful action was imminent.
Data had not been idle, but neither had he
spent the past hour in a useful pursuit. His
first act had been to read the half-dozen books that
Taygar had kept on a shelf. After he had
assimilated the texts, Data had described
them to Worf as disgustingly violent--a combination of
words that disgusted Worf. The android had then
drawn Anit into a discussion of pre-Ferengi
life on Megara, a display of idle chatter that
had further annoyed the Klingon's warrior
instincts.
"Traditional Megaran society contained a
remarkable division of authority," Data said
to Worf, as though sharing an important
observation. "Males and females shared
economic power. However, diplomacy and warfare
were male domains, while females controlled
politics and religion."
"This the rat-eyes have attacked," Anit said
angrily. "But the will of the Elder Gods? No
evil creature this can change." The look he
gave Worf suggested he found all outworlders
evil.
The alley door opened, and a young girl looked
into the dingy room. She spoke rapidly
to Anit, who sighed as he got out of his chair.
"Soon I return," he promised Worf and
Data, and left.
Worf took the chair, and sat with his back to the
brick wall as he faced the door. He did not
expect Anit to betray him, but Worf did not
discount the possibility. Meanwhile, there was
another problem. "We are in a tactical
situation, Commander," Worf told Data. "I
do not see how your talk with Anit aided us."
"You had already asked Mr. Anit all questions which
seem relevant to our position," Data said.
"I therefore took the opportunity to fill in other
gaps in my knowledge."
Worf grunted. "Do you have any other gaps
to fill?"
Data, as always, took his sarcasm literally.
"Yes. I would like your comments on Commander
Riker's personal behavior."
Worf felt suspicious. "What of it?"
"Although human, he seeks to emulate
Klingonese attitudes," Data said. "As a
Klingon, would you describe his emulation as a
success?"
Worf's temper rose. "Must you ask such a
personal question?"
"I must," Data said. "I wish to develop
human characteristics in myself, but my efforts have met
with minimal success. However, if Commander Riker
has adapted himself to Klingon standards, I might
study his example and use it to find a way
to become more human."
Worf mulled that over as he watched the
room's door. As always, Data's wish
to become human annoyed him, and at the moment
Worf's toleration had dipped to a new low. "I
wonder why you seek to become human," he said.
"It would seem more logical for an android
to copy Vulcans."
Data absorbed the barb as though it had been
nothing more than a reasonable suggestion. "I find
a certain merit in that concept," he said. "I
am a creature of logic, and my creator
programmed me so I would not behave in too
human a fashion. However, I believe that when
Dr. Soong programmed me he felt a
subconscious desire to give me human
behavior, and my programming mirrors this
desire."
"Instinct," Worf said.
Data nodded. "Whether by evolution or
by engineering, we are all molded by the forces which
created us."
Worf felt stirred by an odd emotion. He
had been orphaned after a Romulan attack on
the Klingon colony of Khitomer, and he had
been adopted by his human rescuers. The
Roshenkos had tried to raise him as a true
Klingon, but they had not fully succeeded. In
consequence Worf had labored to develop
Klingon virtues in himself, even though they sometimes
felt alien: the indifference to others' pain, the use
of treachery, the joy of seeing a friend die in
glorious combat. It had been difficult, but by and
large he had succeeded. And if that is so, he
thought, it is because I have always had it within me
to become fully Klingon--and because I need to do so,
to fulfill myself. This need makes
Data and myself ... brothers.
Worf could not express that aloud. "Do you think
you can become human?" he asked gruffly.
"I believe I have the capacity to grow
into humanity," Data said. "And I seek
to make this transition in the least possible time."
"Unfortunate," Worf said. "Why would you
wish to hasten this change?"
Data puzzled over that statement. "Because ...
I find delay ... undesirable."
"You are impatient," Worf said.
"Impatience is a human failing."
The android looked intrigued. "Fascinating.
Although I cannot correctly describe this as a
feeling, it seems I may have developed a
human trait without realizing it. I must
investigate this when the opportunity arises.
Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
"My pleasure," Worf said sarcastically--
but, to his surprise, he did feel
pleasure.
"Riker to Worf," Riker's voice said.
"Lieutenant, we may have some information on the
captain's location. We're downloading a map
projection into your tricorder."
Worf activated his tricorder. The display
showed a map of the region north of the castle,
including several local cities. There was a
wavy line that made a broad arc from the castle.
It looped around this city and ended in the woods. The
scale said the line was some thirty kilometers
long. "Do you have more precise information?" Worf
asked.
"No. This is the best Ensign Shrev and
Cadet Crusher could do. The captain is
probably hidden somewhere along the marked route.
Our best guess is that somebody down there is
playing a double game."
"Excellent," Worf said, almost purring.
There was nothing like a little betrayal to enliven the day.
It also pleased him to learn that Crusher had not gone
into a sulk after being ordered to return to the ship.
By doing his duty the youth helped to earn his way out
of the disgrace he had brought upon himself after the disaster
at the Academy. It was a pity he lacked a
warrior's training; this mission would have given him the
perfect chance to earn honor.
Anit returned a moment later, accompanied
by two men. "More soon will arrive," he told
Worf. "Two handfuls, as promised."
Worf grunted in approval. He assumed
that referred to the six-fingered Megaran hand, which would
mean twelve more men. A total of eighteen
soldiers, counting himself, Data, Anit and his
sergeant. That should make a respectable force for this
mission. The new men wore gray coveralls, but
carried short swords and daggers belted to their
waists. They looked at Worf with the expressions
of soldiers, and he knew they were sizing him up,
either as a potential enemy or a potential
leader. Respectable, indeed.
Worf returned their looks, then showed his
tricorder map to Anit. "Let us discuss how
we will find my captain," he said.

After a few hours Picard would have given a
great deal for a Universal Translator. Even
so, he and Offenhouse had made progress with
Odovil Pardi. The Megaran woman was
intelligent and eager to communicate, which aided the
process of learning her language.
"It also helps that I know what she wants
to talk about," Offenhouse said, when Pardi stepped
out of the stone hut for a moment. "Business.
Profits. She's a woman after my own heart."
"With a scalpel," Picard said.
Offenhouse grinned. "She is a sharp
operator, isn't she?"
"I'd call her ruthless," Picard said.
"She arranged our abduction--"
"--and her henchman killed his leader,"
Offenhouse finished. "I know. We can still use her
here, once we give the Ferengi the heave-ho."
Odovil reentered the stone hut. She was
accompanied by a gust of wind, and the forest odors
only heightened Picard's awareness of the hut's
fetid air. "More talk," she said. She stayed
close to the door, and her nervous eyes gave
Picard the impression that she thought the humans
might attack her. "Ral'feh, some
factories a thing make, I what not know."
"Describe thing," the ambassador said in his
pidgin Megaran.
Odovil gestured with her hands. "A metal
box it is, more big than this hut. Inside the
box, many coils of cable, strange rock,
comp'ter, pipes like this--" Her hands made a
zigzag pattern in the air.
Picard found something familiar in that
description. "This strange rock," he
said. "When it touch--" His hands mimed a lightning
strike while he imitated the sound of thunder.
"Lightning," Odovil said, and nodded. "When
lightning the strange rock hits, it goes--"
She flung her arms wide. "Whoomp!"
"Dilithium," Picard said. "Mr.
Ambassador, she's describing an
antimatter generator."
Offenhouse nodded. "Chudak said they were making
things like that for him. I wonder--" He switched
to his Megaran pidgin. "Odovil, how many
factory this box make?"
"This many." She held up both hands and wiggled
her fingers five times. "To full production already
they go."
"Sixty factories," Picard said. "There
aren't that many on Earth. Chudak couldn't
possibly hope to sell so many generators."
"I know," Offenhouse said. "And I don't
see how his employers could use that many, either. So
who could?"
Picard tried to think. Back in the castle--
twelve hours ago?--she had described the
enormous amounts of tritanium produced by her
foundries. "Odovil," he said. "Factory
on Megara is, make--" He struggled
to describe a phaser coil. Odovil agreed
that many factories were producing such items, although
she was at a loss to describe their purpose.
Picard knew their purpose. "Odovil, is
one place, all make-things bring together?" he
asked.
The woman pursed her lips. "Tritanium
to five places we send," she said. "And ...
to these places also other things are sent."
Picard nodded. "Up to ship, do Ferengi
take things?"
"No," she said. "Things in large buildings
are kept, why I do not know."
Things fell into place. "Starships," Picard
said. "They're going to build starships here."
"A whole thundering lot of them," Offenhouse
said. "And with all those phaser coils--Picard,
somebody is arming for war."

I can't put it off forever, Riker thought.
"Hail the Ferengi ship," he said.
"Aye, sir." Ensign Anna Novotny,
one of Worf's subordinates, stood at the
Klingon's usual post. The tall,
muscular woman--A human designed
to Klingon specifications, Riker thought in
admiration--opened a channel, and the Daimon
Chudak appeared on the bridge's main viewer.
To Riker's surprise, the man did not look
annoyed to see him.
"All right," Riker began. "Where are
Captain Picard and the ambassador?"
"I don't know," Chudak said. "I haven't
seen them since last night, at the castle. But
let's deal, Riker. Several of my crew
members are missing. Maybe they were grabbed by the
same people, and if that's true, we have a common
enemy."
"You have nothing but enemies," Riker said.
"What do you propose to do about this?"
"I propose that we join forces," Chudak
said. "Share information, discuss ideas, search the
planet."
Riker snorted. "What's your price?"
"No price," the Ferengi said. "My profit
is what I get out of this arrangement. That's your
profit, too. Let's trust one another."
Hell will freeze first, Riker thought.
"Close channel."
Seated at his side, Deanna Troi touched
his elbow as a starfield replaced Chudak's
image on the screen. "He didn't actually
lie about anything, but he's hiding something," she
said. "It's obvious."
Riker nodded. Deanna couldn't sense
Ferengi minds, but she was still a shrewd judge of
character. "He acted wrong," he said. "Every
Daimon I've seen has been either arrogant
or fawning, depending on the situation."
"He tried to appear cooperative,"
Deanna agreed. "But I'd say he's stalling
for time."
Shrev and Wesley Crusher were seated at the
helm stations. Now Shrev turned in her seat and
faced Riker, her head bowed to focus her
antennae on him. "Commander Riker," she said,
raising her voice to a near-normal level,
"if I interpret the neutrino detector's
readings correctly, a starship is entering the
Megaran system at bearing
seventeen-mark-eight."
Novotny was busy with her own instruments. "I
don't have anything, sir," she said. "Weber
Five-Twelve is at that bearing. The
radiation is saturating the sensors."
"I see," Riker said. That sort of
maneuver was practically a Cardassian
trademark. He stroked his beard as though he could
extract an idea or two from it. This is like
that silly movie I showed Worf, he
reflected. We face more and more enemies at every
turn. Too bad I'm not laughing.
"Counselor, do you suppose Chudak is
stalling until this ship arrives?" he asked.
"That seems likely," Deanna said. "I
suggest that you press him as hard as you can."
"I will," Riker said. "Novotny, sound red
alert. Lock all weapons on the Ferengi
ship, then open a channel."
"I didn't mean to press Chudak that
hard," Deanna said.
Riker smiled tightly. "This gives me a
reason to put the Enterprise on alert without
alarming that Cardassian ship. Chudak!"
The Daimon was back on the viewer. "What
is going on?" he demanded. "Why have you--"
"Here's my proposition," Riker said. He
slipped into the arrogant, commanding slouch of a
Klingon captain. "You are going to answer all
of my questions, now."
Chudak spluttered. "This is--"
"Chudak, I trust you as far as I can throw
you." Riker smiled again, showing his teeth. "Shall we
find out how far that is? Now, dammit, where was the
last place you saw Captain Picard?"
"In the Vo Gatyn's castle!" Chudak
snapped.
"Exactly where?" Riker roared, rising
to his feet. "Who was he with, was he well, what
was happening? I'll have the truth!"
Chudak's image vanished from the screen.
Deanna raised an eyebrow. "I could almost
sense how scared he was."
Riker chuckled like a Klingon. "His
Cardassian masters must want him to keep us
occupied," he said. "They won't thank him for
botching the job."
Riker noticed that Shrev and Wesley were
whispering to one another. He stepped up behind them and
cleared his throat. "If Worf heard you two
whispering like this," he said, "he'd suspect a
conspiracy."
"I would assure him that there is nothing but
polite conversation, sir," Shrev said.
"We were merely discussing the sensor readings on the
Cardassian ship."
"Do you have something?" Riker asked.
"Yes, sir," Wesley said. "From the size
of the neutrino flux I'd say that the
Cardassian ship has a reactor system even
more powerful than ours. That would make it a
Liburnian-class warship--one of their largest.
It's on course for Megara, and it will arrive in
twenty minutes."

Chapter Thirteen

The mercenary band moved quickly, and within an hour
it was out of the city and deep inside the woods marked
on the tricorder map. Data scanned
constantly for a human presence. Because humans and
Megarans were so similar, he realized that even a
small amount of interference would confuse the
tricorder; a few centimeters of stone or
dirt would blur the readings enough to mask the human
parameters. Consequently he expanded the search
to locate caves and dwellings.
He found something. "Lieutenant," he said
to Worf, "there is a stone building, range
three hundred meters, bearing thirty-seven
degrees. I detect at least one being who
probably is not a Megaran."
"Human?" Worf asked, signaling the band
to stop.
"Sensor readings are indeterminate," Data
said, "but that would be my ... best guess. I
detect five Megarans in the immediate vicinity.
The building is in the center of a clearing some
twenty meters in diameter."
"Excellent." Worf conferred with Anit
while Data scanned the area. The tricorder
found a small path that branched off from the trail
and led to the clearing. That was the only way
to approach the building; it would have taken hours
to pass through the dense forest underbrush, and Worf
did not think it could be done quietly.
"We outnumber them," Worf said.
"Not for long," Anit said. "Crossbows,
darts they may use."
"I shall lead," Worf said, drawing his phaser.
Data verified that his own phaser was set on
stun, then followed Worf down the path. It was
narrow and winding. As the mercenaries neared the
clearing, Data held up a hand,
halting the group. "There are people on the main
trail," he whispered to Worf, holding out his
tricorder. "They are moving quickly."
Worf looked at the readings. "More
soldiers," he said.
Anit glanced back down the trail. "Cork
in a bottle," he whispered in dismay, seeing a
trap.
"The situation is not bad," Worf said.
Data realized that Worf was attempting
to keep the mercenary in good spirits. The android
recalled a phrase which seemed appropriate
to that task. "Things have never been better," he
stated.
Worf stared at him for a moment, then made an
odd grinding, wheezing noise, as though he was
having trouble breathing. When he had regained
control of his respiration he gestured for Data
to follow him.
As they reached the clearing Data saw a small
stone hut. Three Megarans squatted on the
ground in front of it, warming their hands over a
campfire. Two more men strolled around,
crossbows in their hands. The similarity of their
dress suggested they were soldiers. As Data
raised his phaser, one of the men spotted him,
took aim and fired his weapon. The bolt missed
him, but its impact shattered a tree trunk at
his side. Data stunned the man before he could
reload; Worf shot the other crossbow-wielder
as he fired. The bolt sailed off into the woods.
The men around the campfire were on their feet,
swords in hands. Worf and Data stunned them.
Data heard shouts behind him, and knew that the
mercenaries were under attack from the rear. "Get the
captain!" Worf ordered, and plunged back
down the trail. The sounds of combat grew louder.
Data went to the stone building. He opened the
door and saw three people inside; Picard and
Offenhouse blinked in the morning light while a
local woman gaped at Data. "Hello,
Captain, Mr. Ambassador," Data said.
"Enterprise, beam us up."
Transporter room three solidified around
Data and the others. Worf stumbled as he
materialized; he held the mace above his head.
"No!" he roared at De Shay. "Send
me back!"
De Shay stood at his controls, frozen
by surprise and indecision. Worf
turned to Picard. "Captain! Please!" he
said.
Picard nodded. "Quickly."
Looking like a man who knows he is making a
terrible mistake, De Shay returned Worf
to the surface.
Picard's jaw clenched. "Report," he
ordered Data.
"There is only one significant fact
to report, sir," Data said, while he,
Picard, Offenhouse and the Megaran woman
stepped off the transporter stage. "We have found
that the Cardassians are conducting a clandestine
operation on Megara."
"Understood," Picard said. "Picard
to Riker. Number One, Mr. Worf has
returned to a battle on the surface. Take
an away team and assist him."
"We can't, sir," Riker answered from the
bridge. "There's a Cardassian warship entering
orbit. We took enough of a risk lowering our
shields to beam you back."
The captain hesitated, then nodded as he
accepted that. "I'm on my way to the bridge,"
Picard said. "Mr. Data, see to the
ambassador and our guest."
"Yes, sir." As Picard left the
transporter room, Data realized that the
captain was uncertain of his actions. Data himself
was not certain that sending Worf back to Megara had
been correct. While Klingon ethics demanded
such a move, beaming into the middle of a battle had
placed Worf in enormous danger. He would
require a few seconds to assess his new
situation, and during that pause he would be exposed
and vulnerable.
The ambassador was scratching the coarse stubble
on his chin. "Cardassians, eh?" he asked
Data.
"Yes, sir," Data said. "I have reports
from our away teams."
"Good, I'll want to look at them. Oh,
yeah--Odovil needs one of those translator
gizmos."
"That is an excellent suggestion." Data
removed his communicator badge. The Megaran
woman stepped back as the android approached
her, then made a visible effort to stand her ground.
Data pinned the translator to her coverall.
"You should be able to understand me now," Data
said.
"You I understand," she said, and fingered the badge.
"How this works?"
"The Universal Translator works--"
Data verged on explaining linguacode theory,
neuroinduction techniques and recursive
computer processing, then thought better of it. "--q
well," he finished.
The ambassador laughed and clapped Data
on the shoulder. "I couldn't have put it any
better myself. Let's see those reports now."

"They're waiting for us to lower our shields,"
Riker said as Picard studied the tactical
display on the bridge's main viewer. The
numbers and stylized symbols showed the positions
of three starships. The Ferengi vessel held a
position only a hundred kilometers from the
Enterprise, while the Cardassian ship
carefully maneuvered to stay in the cover provided
by Weber 512; the Cardassian had slowed
to sublight speed, and it would be in phaser range
in a matter of minutes. Wesley Crusher and
Shrev sat at the helm, ready to move the
Enterprise out of danger. They had listened
quietly while Riker had briefed the captain
on the situation. "Chudak has been trying
to sweet-talk us into standing down from our alert,"
Riker added.
"He expects us to be destroyed," Deanna
Troi said.
"I'm afraid we'll have to disappoint him,"
Picard said. He noticed that Troi, seated in
the chair at his left side, was leaning away from
him; the captain decided that his stay in the hut had
given him a certain aroma. A pity I can't
take the time to clean up, Picard thought
ruefully, and nodded at the tactical display.
"Number One, can you imagine an innocent
reason for a Cardassian ship to approach us in this
manner?"
"A friendly little ambush, perhaps," Riker said.
At last the Cardassian ship came close enough
for the optical sensors to scan it despite the
background interference. The image on the main
viewer reminded Picard of a lance: long and
narrow, a shape that exposed the smallest possible
area when the ship was making a frontal attack.
Its forward end bristled with weaponry.
"Captain, their presence here is an
act of war," Riker said.
"I'm aware of that, Number One," Picard
said. "I'm also aware that a Liburnian-class
starship outguns us. But perhaps we can dissuade them,
Ensign Novotny, lock all weapons on to the
Cardassians and hail them."
"Channel open, sir," Novotny
reported.
"Cardassian warship!" Picard called.
"I assume that you're here through a slight
navigational error. Return to your territory
at once."
There was a prolonged silence as the Cardassian
ship made its final approach. For a moment
Picard could hope that the Cardassians would
decide to avoid trouble. Then the bridge lights
dimmed and the artificial gravity wavered as
phaser beams raked the Enterprise. "Return
fire!" Picard ordered.
Picard heard the screech of phasers and the
hollow roar of photon torpedoes blasting from their
tubes. "Shields holding!" Novotny
reported. Enterprise shuddered from more hits.
"Maintain firing rate," Picard called, and
checked the tactical display. "Come to course
fifty-two mark eighty, ahead one-half
impulse." Enterprise was more maneuverable than
her attacker, and that advantage might save her
now. A Liburnian's long, thin shape made
it clumsy, and the bulk of its weapons were
concentrated in its bow. A Liburnian could not
concentrate all of its firepower on its
flanks.
On the tactical display, the Ferengi ship
turned and began to accelerate away from the
battle. As Picard watched, a torpedo
spread leaped from the Cardassian ship and speared
into the Ferengi vessel. As it slowly pitched
over, Picard saw that its warp drive had been
crippled. It could not escape.
With the Ferengi ship crippled, the
Cardassians returned their full attention to the
Enterprise. The Liburnian's attack
weakened as the Federation ship maneuvered around the
attacker, but the battering continued at an
intolerable level. "We're losing the port
shields," Novotny shouted over the din.
Wesley had news of his own. "Sir, the
Ferengi are hailing the Cardassians--" he
began.
Novotny interrupted him. "Cardassian
shields are dropping," she said. "Down to fifty
percent ... ten percent ... they're firming up,
back to twenty percent ..."
The shields never recovered, and the image on the
main viewer told the story. The Enterprise's
phasers sliced through the faltering shields, and raw
plasma vented into space as photon torpedoes
slammed into its engineering section, demolishing
reactors and leaving the ship powerless. A
sputtering pink glow around the sensor arrays
spoke of the fading strength of the ship's emergency
power supply.
"Cease fire," Picard ordered. He rose
from his chair and took two steps toward the main
screen, a perplexed look on his face. How
could the Cardassian shields have failed so quickly?
"What happened?"
"The Ferengi, sir," Wesley said. "They
transmitted a computer worm into the Cardassian
comm system. It brought their computers down for a few
seconds, before their countermeasures could erase
it."
Saved by the Ferengi, Picard thought, shaking
his head. He wondered if Chudak would present
him with a bill for his services.
On the main viewer the lance-shaped
Liburnian tumbled slowly, revealing blackened
gouges in its hull. Metal glowed white-hot
inside the gaping holes, and plumes of gas
sprayed from fissures in the metal skin. The
damage to the Ferengi ship appeared less
dramatic, but it was equally fatal. The ship's
warp drive had become a red-hot pit, and as
Picard watched, sequential explosions
rippled down the ship's port side, tearing open
the cargo holds.
Murder, Picard thought in disgust, suddenly
understanding the Cardassian plan. Had it worked, it
would have seemed as if the Enterprise and the Ferengi
had destroyed one another ... and the Ferengi would have
taken their secrets to the grave. The
Cardassians might have managed to conceal their own
presence here.
Shrev scanned the Cardassian ship. "All
of their weapons are out, sir," she reported, in
what was for her a virtual shout. "They retain
emergency power and one impulse engine. I read
thirty-one survivors."
"Stand by to pick them up," Picard
said. "Open a channel--"
On the viewer, the tumbling Liburnian
stabilized itself and began to accelerate toward the
Enterprise. "Captain," Wesley said,
"they've activated their self-destruct system.
Estimate twenty seconds to detonation."
Picard nodded curtly. "Ensign
Novotny, put a tractor beam on the
Cardassian ship," he ordered. "Helm, come
to course eight-six mark twelve, ahead warp
factor two."
"Captain, a Cardassian self-destruct
system--" Riker began as the Enterprise
maneuvered.
"--is equivalent to a hundred-gigaton
fusion bomb," Picard finished. The Federation had
paid dearly for its knowledge of Cardassian suicide
bombs; several ships had been destroyed by them
while attempting to rescue the survivors of
defeated Cardassian warships. "If it
detonates this close to Megara, the blast and
radiation will disrupt the atmosphere and
magnetosphere. That will render Megara
uninhabitable. We need to draw that ship away from
the planet."
"Understood," Riker said grimly.
"Captain, I recommend that we disengage and go
to warp eight at five seconds before detonation.
That will take us clear of the explosion and still
protect Megara."
"Make it so," Picard said. And hope
we're right about the time factor, he thought. The
Cardassian ship would destroy itself by building up
an overload in its reactors. Under ordinary
circumstances that was a straightforward
catastrophe, but combat damage would only make
the reactors more likely to explode without warning.
At eight times the speed of light, they saw
Megara swiftly shrink from a world to a small
disk on the main viewer. Enterprise's
engines labored as they towed the massive
derelict, but the Cardassian ship remained
firmly caught in the tractor beam.
"Estimate five seconds to detonation,"
Wesley reported.
"Disengage tractor beam," Riker ordered.
"Ahead warp eight." The tractor beam cut
loose, and the wrecked ship vanished astern as the
Enterprise accelerated away from it. The
Federation ship was as far from its attacker
as the moon is from the Earth when the Cardassian
vessel exploded.

The emergency blowers were losing their battle
to clear the smoke from the bridge. Chudak's leg
throbbed from where he had been slammed to the deck, but
nothing felt broken. The Daimon picked himself
up and limped to the helm. Oshal sat at the
controls, dead, the top of his skull sheared
away. Chudak pushed the blank-eyed corpse out
of the seat and sat down.
His ship was dead. Weapons out, shields
inoperative, life support on emergency power
... emergency power itself at thirty-one percent and
falling. Warp drive down. Artificial
gravity down to fifteen percent. Fires out of
control in the shuttle dock and cargo holds.
No response from engineering.
Chudak saw an image on the central
viewscreen: the Cardassian ship, badly
damaged but wallowing toward the Enterprise on
impulse power, still game for a fight.
At least they're ignoring us now, Chudak
thought. He had always known that the Cardassians
might betray him someday; they double-crossed people as
enthusiastically as the Romulans did. Warlike
idiots that they were, they could not imagine that a
simple, peace-loving merchant would prepare
to meet treachery with treachery. The software
weapons he had acquired from an Orion trader
had served their purpose. Survival was always
profitable.
Nyenyor staggered to Chudak's side.
"Daimon," he gasped in a voice thickened
by shock, "the Cardassians ... sensors say
they have ... initiated self-destruct."
"Debt!" Chudak snarled. There went any
chance of salvaging his ship; the Cardassian would
glimmer out of existence as a small star,
destroying everything nearby. "Abandon ship,"
Chudak ordered.
Portals slid open in the deck and
bulkheads, and survivors of the bridge crew
climbed into the emergency teleports. Chudak and
Nyenyor picked up a wounded man and carried him
into a chamber. The dirt-simple controls said that
the emergency battery had a full charge.
Chudak pulled the survival kit from its
container, then yanked the power handle.
The teleport set the three men down
in the middle of a Megaran forest. Chudak looked
at his two companions and saw their injuries.
Nyenyor's left arm was a mess of shredded skin
and violet blood. The other man had jagged
metal shards poking out of his chest and belly.
Chudak opened the kit and got out the medical
tools. "The others shouldn't be too far away,"
he said as he set to work on Nyenyor's arm.
"We'll be fine once we link up."
"Yes, Daimon," Nyenyor said without
conviction. With his uninjured arm, he drew the
communicator from the kit and switched it on.
Despite his best efforts, he received no answer
to his calls.
My crew could be scattered all over the
place, Chudak realized. Emergency
teleports weren't fussy about where they sent people;
they locked on to safe spots at random.
Something snapped in the woods, as if a careless
foot had trod on a dry twig. Chudak
looked around at the trees and brush, and heard a
second snap, followed by a third.
Natives, he thought, seeing the raw fear on
Nyenyor's face. Chudak reached into the
emergency kit and pulled out its phaser. Its
power cell held enough charge for five shots.
Chudak searched the kit for spare cells but found
none. Five shots it was, then ... against a world
of vengeful barbarians.
The sounds drew closer in the lonely forest.

Worf's head hurt. Something had bashed him
over the head as he materialized, and when he
awoke it was to find his hands bound behind his back.
He, Anit and three other mercenaries were being
marched back toward Gatyn's castle. A dozen
of Gatyn's soldiers had survived the fight,
but several were wounded and all seemed worn out by a
forced march. One man carried Worf's
equipment; he puzzled over the tricorder as he
followed the trail. He had tucked the phaser
into his belt.
Worf tested his bonds and decided he could
break them when he wished. He began to edge
closer to the man with his equipment. That would take a
while; he could not risk being too obvious.
Anit stumbled closer to Worf. His one hand was
roped to his waist. "Back you came," he said
in disbelief.
"I did." Worf tried not
to bridle at the man's tone. Anit had come
to expect nothing but dishonor from outworlders.
He did not seem impressed by Worf's
action. "A fool you are," he said. "Kill you
they shall."
Worf grunted. "The company is
honorable--"
Light filled the sky, grew brighter. The
tree branches above the trail cast sharp shadows
on the forest floor. Worf squeezed his eyes
shut and ducked his head against the glare. The light
grew brighter still, and he could see through his eyelids
and nictitating membranes. Frightened cries
filled the air around him. A blinded man staggered
into the Klingon and fell with a thud. A ship has
died, Worf thought, feeling the intense glare on
his back.
The light faded. Worf strained his arms and
snapped the cord around his wrists. He raised his
face to the sky and howled at the dying glare, warning
all in the afterlife to beware; the souls of warriors
were coming. Cardassian warriors, he thought.
My son lives. I feel it! Enterprise
was not destroyed. Alexander must live!
His eyesight blurred by the glare, Worf
pushed toward the man who had his equipment. The
blinded soldier clutched a tree, paralyzed
by fear. Worf searched him, flinging aside a
knife and worthless baubles until he found his
communicator badge. "Worf to Enterprise,"
he bellowed. "Answer, you tribble-loving
taHgeg!"
"Good to hear you, too, Mr. Worf."
Radiation static roughened Picard's voice, but
the captain sounded amused. Filled with relief,
Worf did not feel bothered by Picard's tone.
"Report your status."
Worf regained his composure. He took his
phaser from the soldier. "I have captured the Vo
Gatyn and her soldiers," he said. "Medical
assistance will be required."
"We'll have a medical team on the way
shortly," Picard said. "Enterprise is
undamaged, but the Cardassian and Ferengi ships
have been destroyed. Survivors may have beamed
into your area."
"I shall capture any I see," Worf
promised. He smiled at the sky. My son
lives, he thought.
Picard closed the channel, and
Worf walked over to Anit. "Now both eyes
I have lost," he said bleakly, as Worf untied
his one hand from his waist.
"You will see again," Worf said. He gave the
man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Have no
fear."

Radiation flooded the base's sensors, but enough
data filtered through to reveal the extent of the disaster.
Fatal Arrow was destroyed, along with the
Ferengi ship--and the Federation vessel was
unscathed. It would not be long before the humans
came to Gatyn's castle and probed its
secrets. That might give them the means to defeat
the plan, if they had not done so already.
Verden sat in the intelligence room and studied
his orders. The men who had devised this project
had known that Federation interference was a
possibility, and they had taken that into account. The
orders filed in his electronic book suggested
ways to salvage the plan even now. The orders
were imaginative and filled the leader with admiration.
It could be done. He summoned his team.
"We have not lost," Verden told his men as they
joined him. "Not while we live. We are
superior to our enemies. We shall defeat them."
"You have a plan?" Ubinew asked.
"I do," Verden said. "Prepare
to evacuate. We will go to our outpost in Metari
Leeg."
"The shipyard," Ubinew noted. He
hesitated. "Sir, we have fifteen shipyards
on Megara. Would it not be better to occupy a more
distant yard?"
"Yes," Verden said. "Unfortunately, the
teleport limits our choices. The farther we
transport, the more power we must use, and the greater
the chance that we will be detected. Metari Leeg
is closest to us, and minimizes that chance. Now
set the coordinates for Metari Leeg."
"I obey," Ubinew said, and sat down at a
control station.
Verden and the rest of his unit went to the arsenal,
where they strapped on weapons belts. A moment
later Ubinew joined them and armed himself. "The
coordinates are set," he told Verden as he
wrapped himself in an alt-robe. "I have found a
cave outside Metari Leeg. We can
transport into it without attracting the attention of the
Enterprise's sensors, or of the
natives. I have already transported emergency
supplies into the cave."
"Excellent," Verden said. He felt proud
to have such a follower. "You obey orders with
imagination. I have one more order. If the Federation
captures the Vo Gatyn, she will keep no
secrets from them."
"She does not know the plan," Ubinew said.
"True, but she is observant. You must find
her and kill her."
"I obey," Ubinew said at once. Then he
looked thoughtful. "She and her troops will still be in
the forest. Finding them may not be easy, especially
if they scatter. I will require two men to aid
me."
Verden nodded. "Choose your men. Do not allow
yourself to be captured."
"I obey," Ubinew said without hesitation.
He gestured to two men and took them away. A
moment later Verden heard the transporter hum.
Verden led the rest of his men to the transporter.
Before he stepped onto the stage he paused to arm
the base's self-destruct unit. It was far
smaller than the one that had taken care of the
Fatal Arrow, but it was powerful enough for its job.
The humans would find nothing here but a glowing
crater.
A pity I cannot leave it as a booby
trap, he thought as he crowded onto the
transporter stage with his men. It would have pleased
him to kill a few humans as they entered the base
... but booby traps were unreliable, and humans
might have defused such a device. No, it was
better to make sure that the base and its secrets
were destroyed.
The transporter surged and placed the
Cardassians inside a dank, reeking cave.
A native carnivore snarled to life as it
sensed intruders in its home. Almost offhandedly,
Verden shot it as it jumped at him. The
creature tumbled to the cave's muddy floor and
lay still, its lips still pulled back to bare its
fangs.
Verden looked at his men. "We will split
into small groups and enter Metari Leeg
separately. We will meet at the spaceport."
"What are we to do there?" Hrakin asked.
"Regroup and blend in," Verden said. "There
are several ships in Metari Leeg which are ready
for flight. We shall see to it that the
natives use them as we planned. They are a
cocked pistol with a hair trigger; it will not take
much to set them off."
"And strike the Federation in the heart," Bwolst
said.
Hrakin saw further than the hope of
victory. "The Federation will interfere," he said.
"That is possible," Verden agreed. "But if
they send agents to Metari Leeg, we will kill
them."
The Cardassian leader assured himself that the
plan could still succeed. The chances were poor that the
Federation would turn its back on Megara--but their
bizarre concept of morality would keep them from
destroying Megara to protect themselves. And while
they dithered, he could launch the Megarans onto
the proper course. Give these people one taste of the
easy wealth piracy could bring, and there would be no
stopping them.
Verden found himself looking at the cave beast he
had killed. It had been a solitary creature,
proud and independent, in many ways like a
Cardassian. Yet not too much like us, he
thought. It had attacked without thought, and it had died
for that. It had not known how to make combat serve its
needs, to create by destroying.
Light glared in the cave's mouth as the castle
blew up.

Chapter Fourteen

A few seconds at warp eight had flicked
the Enterprise halfway across the Megaran
system, and the starship was still maneuvering back toward
a standard orbit around the planet. Wesley had
gone to the science officer's station to scan the
planet. There was a lot of radiation from the
Cardassian ship's explosion, but the readings
looked good. "Megara is all right, Captain,"
he reported. "There's no damage to the
atmosphere, and the magnetosphere has
stabilized. The radiation levels are high throughout
the inner system, but they're dropping."
"Excellent," Picard said. Wesley saw
him smile slightly, but he could not tell if the
captain was happy or relieved that his gamble had
succeeded. "When will it be safe to use the
transporter?"
"Not for another hour, sir," Wesley said.
"That could be a problem," Riker said
to Picard. "There are a lot of Ferengi down
there, not to mention the Cardassians. I don't like
leaving Worf alone in a spot like that."
"I'm certain that Mr. Worf won't hurt
them too badly," Picard said thoughtfully.
"Mr. Crusher, can you locate any Ferengi or
Cardassians near Lieutenant Worf's
position?"
Wesley shook his head over the display.
"No, sir. There's too much radiation for a
high-resolution scan. We'll have to get closer
to Megara--" He stopped as the readings surged
on his instruments. "Captain, there's been an
explosion at the Vo Gatyn's castle."
"That's where the Cardassians had their base,"
Riker said. "How big was the explosion?"
"Less than a kiloton, sir," Wesley
said. The numbers on the display made the situation
obvious. "It's a simple antimatter
explosion. There's no residual radiation or
fallout."
"We can be grateful for small favors,"
Riker said. Unlike fission and fusion bombs,
antimatter weapons did not leave any lingering
radiation. There would have been a swift pulse of
heat and gamma radiation, and then nothing but a charred
crater.
"I cannot imagine a smaller favor,"
Picard said. "Mr. Crusher, scan the area
around the castle for survivors. There are bound
to be injuries; inform the chief medical officer
when you find them, so she can plan relief
activities."
The radiation from the destroyed ships still fogged the
sensors, but as the Enterprise drew closer
to Megara Wesley began to get some reliable
data. He barely noticed when Ambassador
Offenhouse called the captain away from the
bridge; he was too wrapped up in the
intricate problem of winnowing data from the haze of
radiation surrounding Megara. Wesley located
fifty or so Megarans within a five-kilometer
radius of the castle, although the data wasn't good
enough to tell him if they had been injured in the
blast. He spotted several clusters of
Ferengi, and as he widened the search area he found
Worf's distinctive trace in the readings.
A certain absence struck him at once.
"No Cardassians," he said quietly.
"How's that, Mr. Crusher?" Riker
asked.
"I can't find any Cardassians, sir,"
Wesley said, looking up from the display. "Even
with all the interference, they should stick out like a sore
thumb, but they don't show."
"Perhaps they were all in their base when it blew
up," Counselor Troi suggested. "Suicide
would let them avoid capture."
"And keep us from interrogating them," Riker
said. He shook his head. "I don't believe
it. It's too unlikely that all of them would be in
the base when it blew up. Besides, Cardassians
are warriors. They'd go down fighting."
"If I may comment," Shrev said quietly,
"they could have a hiding place down there, a second
base."
"My thoughts exactly," Riker said. "Keep
searching."

Data had been in the conference room during the
battle, and in his own way he was glad to have
missed the engagement. This had given him the chance
to observe the ambassador and Odovil Pardi.
The Megaran woman had seemed distressed by the
dramatic changes in artificial gravity and
lighting, but not unduly so; considering that this was her
first experience with spaceflight, much less space
combat, Data found her poise quite impressive.
Ralph Offenhouse's reaction perplexed him.
The man had looked annoyed by the battle, as if
it were a mere nuisance. He had studied the
reports made by the away teams, and while
phaser blasts rocked the ship he had asked
Data to expand upon his observations of the counterfeit
money. All in all, the most appropriate word
for his behavior might have been "monomaniacal."
Offenhouse summoned Picard to the conference
room a half-hour after the battle. "Pull up
a chair, Picard," Offenhouse said as he entered
the room. "Are you done slamming us around?"
"For the moment," Picard said, sitting down at
the table. His tone suggested that he found the
ambassador's attitude inoffensive, perhaps
even amusing. "Incidentally, we won."
"That would explain why we're still alive,"
Offenhouse said. "But I've got a hunch that our
problems are just starting on Megara. Our tourists
dug up a real mystery down there."
"This sounds promising," Picard said. He
idly rubbed at a soiled spot on his
uniform sleeve. The captain was a fastidious
man, and Data believed he was unhappy that he
had not had the chance to clean up after last night.
"What's the mystery?"
"It's just that nothing makes sense," Offenhouse
said. "At first glance, it looks like the
Cardassians hired the Ferengi to turn Megara
into an industrial world with a lot of shipyards."
"To build ships for the Cardassian fleet,"
Picard concluded. "I see. For a
fifty-billion-credit investment, the
Cardassians get a fleet and base worth
trillions. And Megara would make an
excellent jumping-off point for an assault
into the Federation. Our border is lightly defended
here. All the Cardassians have to do is to bring in
people to fly the ships ... no."
"You see the difficulty with that theory,
Captain," Data said. "The Cardassians would
have to bring tens of thousands of personnel to Megara.
It is improbable that they could hide the movement of
such a large number of soldiers."
"Perhaps to their world the ships they would take,"
Odovil suggested.
"Perhaps--no," Picard said, shaking his head.
"We would spot such ship movements.
Furthermore, that does not explain why they're
building them so close to the Federation."
Offenhouse nodded. "Megara's strategic
location must be the key to what's happening here. But
there're other mysteries. One is the way the
Ferengi have bungled with Megaran society.
You'd think they want an efficient industrial
organization here, but everything they've done undercuts
that. Take the poverty. No matter how hard a
Megaran works, he can't get ahead. That kills
initiative and encourages corruption."
"Because people see that honest work is inadequate
to their survival?" Data asked. Corruption was
a human failing that had always eluded his understanding,
and he was glad for any insight into it. "Perhaps this
explains the widespread occurrence of
counterfeiting."
"Printing funny money is easier than earning
the real thing," Offenhouse agreed. "And poverty
gives people a good reason to take bribes--"
"Lucky for you that is," Odovil said. "A
corporal I bribed, so that you to me he would
bring. If he the bribe had refused, you to the
rat-eyes he would have given. Dead you
would be."
The ambassador nodded as though her twisted
syntax made perfect sense to him. "And that
corporal knifed a man to earn his bribe," he
said. "Life doesn't mean much on Megara--"
"Much it means," Odovil said uneasily.
As she tapped her fingers on the tabletop, Data
noted that her nails appeared ragged, as though she
chewed them. This suggested a nervous personality.
"But many lives the rat-eyes destroy,"
Odovil continued.
"The Ferengi have been doing something clever here,"
Offenhouse told Picard. "A Megaran can't
get a job without a work permit. When a
Megaran displeases the little monsters, they make his
boss take away his permit. That's nastier than
an execution, because it forces the victims to turn
to crime or take degrading jobs, and it forces
the boss to participate in the brutality, and it
shows other people the prolonged suffering of anyone who
crosses the Ferengi."
"That seems excessive, even for the Ferengi,"
Picard said. "What's more, it's wasteful. These
outcasts become a drag on society. Such
waste is not typical of the Ferengi."
"There is an error in your logic, sir,"
Data said in a regretful tone. "While the
Ferengi have carried out these actions, they are done
at the behest of the Cardassians. We must
assume that the Cardassians find these actions
productive."
"It's hard to see a purpose," Picard
said.
"I agree, sir," Data said. "Cadet
Crusher remarked that the Ferengi appeared to be
destroying the Megaran culture. It does
seem a pointless act."
"As pointless as the Prophet," Offenhouse
said to Picard. "Someone has been using a
holographic projector. A device that
creates images out of pure light," he
explained to Odovil.
"About holographs I know, Ral'feh," she
said mildly. "And one of these the Prophet Against
the Dark is?"
"That is correct," Data said.
"So a rat-eye fraud the Prophet is,"
Odovil said to herself. "Surprised I am not.
Always wrong her words are."
"It is not surprising that the
Prophet's operators would have trouble with the
grammar of the Ulathic language," Data said.
"While pleasing to the ear, the correct placement
of words is difficult for non-native
speakers."
Odovil looked impatient. "Of jumbled
words I do not speak," she said. "Evil the
Prophet is. To her once I listened, and
hate she praised. In such a way no true
priestess would speak--yet people to her listen, when
to hate outworlders she commands. All outworlders,"
she added, in a wondering tone which told Data she
had just noticed something odd, "not just rat-eyes."
"Teaching the Megarans to hate aliens seems
insane," Picard said. "How could anyone
expect them to supply starships to their enemies?
The situation on Megara would be so unstable that they
wouldn't make a reliable source."
"There's more," Offenhouse said. "The Ferengi
pay the Megarans in scrip, paper money that
isn't backed up by any intrinsic value. You
can buy food and clothing with it, but it has nothing
to do with the industrial economy. Just the same, the
Ferengi take a lot of it back as taxes."
"Taxes?" Picard looked thoughtful. "As I
recall from history, heavy taxes often helped
to provoke revolutions. That would only add to the
instability here."
Data listened to the discussion with less than one
percent of his information-processing capacity. He
devoted the rest of his attention to an intriguing
perspective: destruction could be the first step in a
process of replacement. The process on
Megara seemed baffling only because it was
incomplete. Given the parameters, could he
define the process and predict its outcome?
He could. "Captain," he said, "I have
arrived at a hypothesis which I desire
to explore."
Odovil looked puzzled. "Always like this he
speaks, Ral'feh?" she asked Offenhouse.
"He needs subtitles." Offenhouse rested
an elbow on the conference table and cupped his chin in
his palm. "What have you got, Data?"
"I require the answer to one question," Data
said. "Miss Pardi, do you know if the Ferengi
planned to train any Megarans to fly in
space?"
"Of this a rumor I heard," Odovil said.
Data noted that her pulse and
respiration increased, while both hands clenched
into fists. He found it curious that she would appear
more frightened now than she had during the battle.
"A school they have built in Metari Leeg,
about starships people to teach."
"This fits my hypothesis," Data said,
looking to Picard. "Captain, the Cardassians
would find it useful to have a hostile, spacefaring
world here, to threaten the Federation. To that end, I
believe they are creating such a society on
Megara."
"You're calling this an example of social
engineering?" Picard asked.
"Yes, sir," Data said. "The first step was
to destroy the old culture, which cleared the ground
for the construction of a new society. As with
individuals, societies are shaped by what they
see and experience, and conditions have been arranged so
that Megarans know nothing but the law of the jungle.
It is a well-established principle that constant
exposure to violence and brutality causes most
people to become brutal and violent.
"I believe the most important piece of
evidence in favor of my hypothesis is the
holographic prophet. This entity serves no
function except to sanction hatred of aliens.
In addition, someone has been supplying Megaran
children with pornographic novels which glorify war
and robbery. This is useful only if one
assumes the Cardassians wish to instill
xenophobia in the Megarans. Xenophobia is
useful only in a warlike society.
"The precise aim remains unclear,"
Data continued. "Perhaps the Megarans are meant
to become conquerors. A more limited goal of
piracy would be equally useful to the
Cardassians. In either case, it would be necessary
to give the Megarans the ability to construct and
fly their own starships. This has now been done."
For a long moment the only sound in the conference
room was the hiss of the ventilators. The silence
of the three humans made Data wonder if his
suggestion was foolish. His theory depended on an
analysis of emotional factors and
responses, and he knew he had only a
sketchy understanding of such matters.
"I dunno," Offenhouse said at last. "If
the Cardassians are trying to make the Megarans
hate all aliens, how could the Cardassians
use them as allies?"
"It does seem paradoxical," Picard
said. Data heard a rising note of interest in his
voice. "But perhaps they do not need a formal
alliance. If a hostile force arose on
Megara, the Federation would be required to respond
to it, whether or not it had a treaty with the
Cardassians. We would have to reinforce our border
and station warships here."
"Which would tie up some of our forces,"
Offenhouse said slowly. "We wouldn't be able
to use them against the Cardassians when they
attack. That would give the Cardassians an
advantage, kinda like taking a rook off a
chessboard before a game starts."
Odovil's face had clouded. "My people as
weapons they use?"
"That's how it looks," Offenhouse told her.
He rubbed at his eyes, and Data noticed the
fatigue on his face and in the slump of his
shoulders. "It's the same sort of crap the
superpowers used to pull back in the Cold War.
We'd give a small country a gazillion
dollars' worth of weapons and turn 'em
loose. Cuba, Libya, Iran, contras,
mujahideen, Palestinians--it was a great way
to wage war. You could attack somebody, or
threaten their interests, and not put your own country
at risk."
"And the Cardassians have expanded upon this
concept," Picard said, leaning back in his chair.
"They've gambled a great deal on this operation--but
it seems they've lost this wager."
"Also my world has lost," Odovil said
bitterly. She stood up and walked over to the
ready room's window. She looked down on the
cloudy expanse of her homeworld.
Radiation-induced aurorae flickered over the
crescent of night at the horizon as though a
cold fire were slowly consuming the world.
"Into monsters we are made, for the good of others
to fight and die."
"I know," Offenhouse said. He brushed at a
smear of dried mud on his jacket. "We've
stopped the Cardassians before they could pull it
off, but the mess they left down there stinks worse
than me and Picard put together. Straightening it
out--was Offenhouse fought down a yawn.
"Odovil, right now we could all use a meal, a
bath and sleep. Picard, could you get
Counselor Troi to fix up a cabin
for the lady?"
The meeting ended then, and Data left the
conference room for the bridge. Although both the
captain and the ambassador had accepted his
hypothesis as correct, Data felt
dissatisfied with his work. Somehow his theory did not
seem complete, as if he had overlooked a
factor.
Of course. Megara was close to the Federation
border, and the Cardassians must have known that
discovery of this project was always a possibility.
They would have planned for that eventuality, and while
Data could not yet deduce their plans, he
knew they could only work to the detriment of the
Federation.

Geordi was halfway buried in the access
hole as he worked on the shield generator.
"Okay, Also, give me the readings on the
polyphase coupler," he said.
Alexander looked at the readout on the unit
he held. "Five-point-four ...
four-point-six ... four-point-one ..." The
numbers dropped steadily as Geordi adjusted
the shield generator. "Zero-point-zero,"
Alexander said at last. "It's in phase now."
"Great." Geordi squirmed out of the access
hole and sat on the crawlway decking. "La
Forge to bridge. The forward shield is back at
one hundred percent now."
"Is everything fixed now?" Alexander asked, as
Geordi closed the hole's cover plate.
Geordi nodded. "Thanks for lending a hand,
Also. You helped me get everything done faster."
"I like doing this," Alexander said. He knew that
Geordi hadn't really needed his help; the
engineer had wanted to keep him busy so he
wouldn't worry about his father. On the other hand,
Geordi had let him do some real work on the
ship's systems, as if he were a trainee instead
of a nuisance. That was something he liked about the
engineer. Most adults seemed annoyed by kids,
as if they were a life-form that hadn't quite evolved
intelligence, but Geordi always took him
seriously.
Alexander watched him put his tools back
into his repair kit. "Geordi? Why does
my father do all these crazy Klingon things?"
Geordi seemed unsurprised by the question. "You
mean, like beaming back into a fight? A
lot of humans would do that, too, for their friends."
Alexander shook his head. "Humans would stop
to think of a better way to help their friends. Father just
charged in there."
"Well ..." Geordi sat down and rested his
back against the bulkhead. "I think he's trying
to prove that he's really a Klingon."
"Why would he have to do that?" Alexander asked.
"He is a Klingon."
"I mean he's trying to prove it to himself,"
Geordi said. "He was raised by humans, and
sometimes he must feel confused about what he is."
"Oh." Alexander could understand that. Most of the time
he wasn't sure whether he was human or
Klingon, and his emotions often grappled like a
pair of Triskelion gladiators. Even
now, when he knew he had to talk about his
problems, he still felt like he should go off by himself and
brood. At least the need to talk was winning out
now. "I guess that's why he wants me to act
like a Klingon. He can't stand to see a Klingon
act human."
Geordi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't
think that's it, Also," he said. "I know he
feels mixed up sometimes because of how he was
raised. Maybe he thinks that if he raises you
like a Klingon, you'll have an easier time than he
did."
Alexander thought that over. "It won't work," he
said. "I'm part human."
"I know," Geordi said. "I guess he can
give you a hard time over it."
"No," Alexander said quickly. "Well, not on
purpose. He's just got this way of acting when
I do anything too human ... like he's trying
real hard not to let it upset him. He doesn't
even know he does it. Counselor Troi's
talked with us about it, but ..." He shrugged,
unsure of just what to say.
"But she can't help as much as you'd like,"
Geordi said. "I guess it isn't easy for
Klingons to take emotional advice."
"What do you mean?" Alexander bristled. "We
can take it when we have to."
"I know," Geordi said. "Maybe the trick
is to get your dad to take it without knowing he's
taking it."
Alexander felt blank. "Huh?"
"Strategy," Geordi said. "When one
approach doesn't work, try something
else. You've been acting human around him.
Maybe you should try acting Klingonese. Really
Klingonese."
"You mean, overdo it?" Alexander asked.
Geordi nodded. "It won't seem right, so
maybe that'll show him it's okay for you to act
part-human."
Alexander thought it over. It might take a
while for that to work ... but it could be fun. He'd have
to check the computer library and see how a Klingon
kid was supposed to act--and that might give him
some ideas. "Thanks, Geordi," he said as they
stood up. "You know, for a human, you really know
a lot about strategy."
Geordi chuckled as he picked up his
toolbox. "Thank your dad for that. He's a good
influence."

"I'll say this one more time," Beverly Crusher
told the people gathered in transporter room three.
Wesley was among them, adjusting the medical kit
belted to his waist. "None of you are doctors,
so don't try anything fancy. When you find an
injured person, just stabilize them and call for
help. Okay, De Shay, they're all yours."
The relief team beamed down in groups of
six. I'll have my work cut out for me in an
hour, Beverly thought as she hefted her field
kit. As the radiation from the battle cleared, the
ship's sensors had located over a hundred
injured people in the area around the destroyed castle.
She knew that many of them would need surgery
to survive. The explosion would have insulted their
bodies with radiation, heat and blast effects--
burns, fractures, shock, marrow damage,
retinal scarring and Hiroshima eyes, weakened
immune systems--plus surprises, of
course; battles always seemed to create novel
kinds of hurts--
One problem at a time, Bev, the doctor
thought as she stepped onto the transporter stage.
That was the key to handling a disaster: concentrate on the
problem in front of you, and don't think about the
scale of the problem. Relief workers who tried
to think about the big picture usually became
emotionally overwhelmed.
She beamed down onto a forest trail. Worf
stood two meters from her, and a number of
Megarans sat on the ground. Beverly scanned
Worf at once with her tricorder,
although his most serious injury was obvious to the naked
eye. Several of his scalp ridges had been
crushed, and drying violet blood clotted the
flesh. Other than that he was fine; the armorlike
Klingon skull had done an admirable job of
protecting his brain from damage. "I'll have you
fixed up in no time," the doctor promised.
"The others are more severely injured," Worf
said as she worked on his head. "My injury is
minor."
"Sure, it's just a head wound," Beverly said
in annoyance. She started to mend his injury with a
protoplaser. "Hold still, Lieutenant. If
you want to enjoy pain, do it while you're
off-duty." She looked around as he growled at
the joke. "What happened to the others?" she
asked.
"They were flash-blinded," he said.
"That should be a temporary condition," Beverly
said. She had a sudden, shuddering thought that half the
planet might have been blinded--no, haze and
dust in the atmosphere would have filtered out much of the
light from the explosion, even under cloudless skies.
Even so, many people would have had the bad luck to have been
looking straight at the Cardassian ship when it
blew up, barely a million kilometers from
Megara. She might have to treat thousands of blinded
people--
One thing at a time, she reminded herself.
"It looks like some of these people have other injuries,"
she said.
"I met them with enthusiasm," Worf rumbled.
"You must tend to the one-armed man first. He is a
valuable ally."
"Whatever you say." She finished with Worf's
scalp and gave him a final scan with her
tricorder. "You're fine now, Lieutenant.
Just stay off your head for a few days."
Beverly moved on to treat the nearest person
on the trail, the man with one arm and one eye.
"You must be Kardel Anit," she said as she
scanned him. The tricorder found some inflammation
in his retina and elevated pressure in the
vitreous humor, along with several dietary
deficiencies. "My son Wesley mentioned
meeting you yesterday."
"Him I remember," Anit said. "He much
gold spent."
The man sounded tense. Xenophobia,
Beverly guessed, plus the shock of
going blind. "Your sight should return to normal in
a moment," she said as she gave him an injection.
"Replacing your arm and other eye will have to wait
awhile." She gave him a second injection
to make up for his lack of assorted minerals and
vitamins.
""Replacing"?" Anit repeated. "Understand
this I do not."
"We can probably restore what you've
lost," she said. "But it's going to be a few days
before I can start on that."
Anit looked impatient, as though he felt
she had misunderstood him. "Why this you would do?"
"Why not?" she replied, and then recalled some
of the horror stories Wesley had told her about
Megara last night. The man must have thought there would
be strings attached to the offer. "Worf can explain
it better than I can," she said.
Worf, however, was not ready to offer
explanations. As Beverly approached her next
patient, she noticed that the Klingon had dropped
into a crouch, his phaser in his hand as he peered into the
woods around the trail. The doctor was about to say
something when a pair of phaser beams lanced out of the
woods. They struck two of the blinded men sitting
on the trail; their bodies exploded as the
high-intensity beams tore into them.
"Down!" Beverly shouted. "Everyone down!"
She heard Worf crash off into the woods as she
flattened herself against the dirt trail. She heard
frightened cries from the men around her; if there was
anything worse than being in a battle, she thought
grimly, it was to be blind and helpless during an
attack. "Enterprise," she called, "send
down a security detail!"
Beverly drew her phaser, checked its stun
setting and looked around. The blasts had touched off
several small fires in the foliage, but over the
crackle of flames she heard other noises.
Lying flat on the ground, she could see almost
nothing. She didn't mind. She wasn't about
to draw attention--and a shot, perhaps--by standing up for a
look.
She heard the whine of phaser shots, and then a
Megaran stumbled onto the trail from among the
trees. When Beverly saw him she hesitated
until she saw the phaser in his hand. She stunned
him and felt grim satisfaction as he dropped.
That'll teach you to kill my patients, you
son of a bitch, she thought.
A second Megaran charged out of the woods,
stopped on the trail and looked at the stunned
man. He killed the man before Beverly could stun
him, and then Worf's phaser beam caught him and
sent him sprawling.
Worf stepped onto the trail as a security
team materialized. Beverly joined them around the
fallen man. Worf was already busy stripping the
man of weapons and other equipment. "He's a
Cardassian," she said as she scanned him.
"He isn't hurt."
"Regrettable," Worf said, and gestured to one
of his ensigns. "Take him back to the ship and
place him in a security cell. The rest of you
will form a defensive perimeter."
Beverly watched as the ensign and prisoner
dematerialized. "He killed his own man," she
said in surprise.
"And another as well," Worf said.
"Cardassians do not allow themselves to be
captured."
"You sound like you approve," she said.
Worf scowled. "It is an--honorable
inconvenience. I have questions which demand answers."
"At least you have one prisoner," Beverly said.
She looked at the people waiting on the trail. "And
I still have patients."
"Yes." Worf's scowl turned thoughtful.
"Treat the woman next, Doctor--"
"I'll set the medical priorities here,
Lieutenant," Beverly said sharply.
"You will treat her first," Worf rumbled. "She
is the Vo Gatyn."
"You think--" Beverly began.
"I do not think the Cardassians found us
by accident," Worf said. He looked at the
woman, who sat on a fallen tree trunk,
despair heavy on her face. "I believe they
wished to assassinate her."
"And you want to get her to safety before they can
take another shot at her," Beverly said. Put
that way, the Klingon's request made sense.
Worf nodded. "If they seek to kill her, it
must mean she could be useful to us."
"Of course," Beverly said with a sigh. And
I thought he was getting soft. She went to take
care of Gatyn.


Chapter Fifteen

Megara was a fat crescent outside
Ten-Forward's viewpoint. Radiation from the
battle still flooded its magnetosphere, and the
ionized particles painted the night sky below the
starship with eerie aurorae. Although Deanna
Troi's people had no legends about ghosts and
goblins--strange lights and bumps in the night
could not trick their empathic sense--the eldriteh
light somehow made the Betazoid woman think of
lost souls.
Guinan brought a chocolate sundae
to Deanna's table and sat down facing her. "You
look melancholy," the hostess said.
"I feel melancholy," Deanna said.
She stared idly at the sundae. "We have a
Megaran woman on board. I've just spent some
time with her, and ..."
"... and she has a lot of problems,"
Guinan concluded.
"Problems which are beyond me," Deanna said.
"I doubt there's such a thing," Guinan said.
"You have a knack for finding answers,
Counselor."
"Odovil Pardi suffered a bad mental
hurt some ten years ago," Deanna said. "Have
you ever seen a tree that was bent as a sapling? It
grows into a distorted shape. Odovil's hurt
has shaped her personality in much the same
way."
"I can guess what Data would say if he
heard that," Guinan said. ""Your analogy is
erroneous, Counselor. People are not trees.""
Deanna smiled wanly at the hostess's
imitation of Data's speech pattern. "I know,
Guinan. The trouble is that helping her could, will,
take years, and I'm not even sure where to begin."
Guinan looked up as someone entered the lounge.
Deanna had her back to the door, but she sensed
Ralph Offenhouse's presence as he approached
her table. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked
as he slid into a chair. He had bathed and put
on clean clothes, although Deanna sensed he was still
tired and hungry. She decided that he had something
important on his mind if he would postpone his
meal and sleep. "I wanted to ask you about
Odovil."
"Did you have a particular question, or is this idle
curiosity?" she asked.
"I want your professional
opinion," he said. "I know something's wrong with
her; she's as tense as a politician on a
polygraph, and I can't figure out why."
"And that's important to you?" Guinan asked
him.
"Yeah, because I need to know how it could affect
her judgment," Offenhouse said. He looked
needled by the sly amusement in her voice. "I'm
the ambassador to Megara. She runs a major
industry down there, and she has a lot of
connections, so I'm going to have to work with her. Any
idea what's eating her?"
"It has to do with her education," Deanna said.
"The Ferengi needed a high literacy rate
to create a technological society, but most
Megarans were illiterate when they took over.
Under normal circumstances it can take years
to educate an adult. When hundreds of
millions of people are involved, the job can
require a million teachers."
"The Ferengi never brought that many people to Megara,"
Offenhouse said thoughtfully. "Did Odovil
tell you how they did it?"
Deanna nodded. "Her condition gave me a
few clues, and I asked the right questions. They used
neural imprinting. Do you know much about that?"
"Never heard of it," Offenhouse said. "I
musta slept through a class, or a century.
What is it?"
"It's illegal now," Deanna told him.
"Neural imprinting was an experimental
educational technique developed some fifty
years ago. In theory, it can impart the
equivalent of a college education in a matter of
hours. In practice, it damages two percent
of the people who undergo it. The damage can range from a
few minor personality quirks to schizophrenia
or catatonia."
Deanna sensed a protective anger roil
inside Offenhouse. "And Odovil--"
"--was subjected to neural imprinting,"
Deanna said. "It gave her a thorough education,
but it also left her agoraphobic and introverted.
Part of her wants to crawl into a hole and hide.
She works hard because that's easier for her than dealing
with people. She can also be quite ruthless, because she's
afraid of the consequences of failure."
To Deanna's surprise, that left
Offenhouse speechless.
"I suppose the Ferengi would punish
her for failure," Guinan suggested.
Deanna shook her head. "She's terrified
that they might decide to improve her skills
by giving her a second "lesson." That's one
reason why she wanted to deal with the Federation--she
saw a chance to escape from Ferengi control, and she
was desperate enough to take it."
The ambassador's mouth opened and closed
several times before any words came out. "Can you do
anything for her?"
"I've been thinking about that," Deanna said
vaguely. "Her biggest problem has been the
Ferengi, and they're gone now."
"Yeah, they won't be around to give her another
cram course at Imprint U.," he said.
"Although--do imprinted lessons fade with time?"
"No," Deanna said. "They're permanent."
Offenhouse shook his head in bewilderment. "Then
why would she think they'd do that to her a second time?
It doesn't make any sense."
"Fears are seldom rational," Deanna said.
"No, but Odovil is," Offenhouse said.
"If she's scared of something, it's real."
"Well, they wouldn't repeat a lesson,"
Deanna assured him. "That would cause some very
confusing interference. You might call it a type of
mental double vision, something which would make it
impossible for the victim to function."
"Then maybe she's scared they'd give her a
different lesson," Offenhouse mused. His
scowl reflected the churning power of his thoughts.
"Maybe they'd have a new job for her--God,
yes. That's how they'd train astronauts."
"Astronauts?" Deanna asked, before she could
place the archaic word. "Oh, you mean starcrew.
But what does that have to do with Odovil?"
"Plenty," he said. "God, I'm an
idiot. No wonder she's scared--of course
they'd draft the brightest people. And ..." Suddenly
oblivious to everything around him, Offenhouse got
up and left the lounge.
Guinan watched him depart. "What got
into him?" she wondered.
Deanna shook her head. "I don't know."
"Does it involve a certain Megaran?"
Guinan asked.
"You might say that." His thoughts had been a
confusing whirl ... but Odovil Pardi had
featured prominently in them. "It would kill him
to admit it, but he's attracted
to Odovil Pardi, and it's not just sexual. It's
not surprising, either."
"Because he's lonely, and he has things in common
with her?" Guinan asked. "That has a familiar
sound."
"Doesn't it, though?" Deanna asked,
smiling despite herself. She suddenly remembered
her chocolate sundae. She carefully spooned
up a taste of whipped cream and chocolate
sauce. "My mother has a favorite saying:
"Men are so predictable, bless their weaselly
little hearts." But if anything comes of this, I
think it could be good for both of them."
"Well, now, Counselor," Guinan said.
"You really do have a way of finding answers,
don't you?"

"A Cardassian prisoner could prove
useful," Picard said after Riker had described
events on the surface. He leaned back in his
bridge chair and stifled a yawn. Riker had
called him back to the bridge just as he was
crawling into bed. He consoled himself that it would not be
much longer before he could rest. "Where is he?"
"He's in the brig," Riker said. "Worf
is interrogating him now. We've got a
security detail on Megara, stamping out some
fires and looking for anything the Cardassians
may have left."
"While keeping their eyes open for more
Cardassians, I trust," Picard said.
"Yes, sir," Riker said. "There may be a
few more wandering around dawn there. I'm convinced that the
castle explosion was a diversion."
"Perhaps," Picard mused. "Once we had
learned of their base's presence, it was no longer
useful to them. Have you found anything yet?"
Riker shook his head. "With all the radiation,
we couldn't even spot the ones who attacked
Worf."
Data gave the helm instruments a puzzled
look, then turned in his seat to look at
Picard. "Captain, I have noted a
development on the surface. Fifty-seven
minutes ago there were six hundred and seventeen
Ferengi on Megara. The number has dropped
to five hundred and eighty-two."
"Some of them may be dying from injuries,"
Riker said. "Catching a brace of photon
torpedoes is unhealthy."
"I do not believe this entirely relates to the
battle," Data said. "There are Megarans in
all of the locations where Ferengi have died. I
conjecture that they are taking revenge."
"That seems almost inevitable," Riker said.
"Captain, we'd better move before we have a
bloodbath."
"I agree, Number One," Picard said.
He spent a moment marshaling his thoughts. He had
no love for the Ferengi, not since their wanton
attack on the Stargazer ... but Federation law
and morality alike demanded that he rescue them.
"Clear out cargo bay two; we'll use it as a
holding area. Ensign Novotny, take a
security detail to cargo bay two and prepare
to receive prisoners. Mr. Data, give Chief
De Shay the coordinates of all the Ferengi you
can locate. Inform Dr. Crusher that some of our
prisoners may require medical attention."
"Sir," Data said, "if we are to hold the
Ferengi as prisoners, regulations demand that we
specify the charges on which they are detained."
"They've violated the Prime
Directive," Riker said. "That's good enough for
me."
Picard sighed. "The Prime Directive
does not apply to non-Federation members," he
said.
"We can't take them on as passengers!"
Riker protested.
"Ferengi passengers would form an unacceptable
security risk," Data said. He looked
thoughtful. "Captain, as the Ferengi are in danger
from the Megarans, I suggest that we take them
into protective custody."
"Make it so," Picard said.
"And let's protect the daylights out of them,"
Riker added.
Picard handed command of the ship over to Riker and
went to his quarters. He felt thoughts chase one
another through his mind, as though he were a computer
trapped in an endless programming loop. A
few too many unpleasant experiences today, he
told himself in deliberate understatement. He had
risked the safety of his crew and ship; he had
brought them within seconds of obliteration. It had
been an unavoidable risk, taken to pull the
Cardassian warship away from Megara and save
that planet, but it had still been a gamble. And now
he had to rescue the Ferengi, the same
creatures who had helped to devastate Megaran
society.
Picard changed into his bedclothes and ordered a
cup of Earl Grey tea from the replicator.
As he sipped the steaming beverage, he found himself
recalling the conversation he'd had with Offenhouse on
the holodeck--not even a week ago? A
conversation in which the ambassador had criticized the
design of the Enterprise for taking civilians
into harm's way. Picard wondered if the man's
criticisms had been justified. One reason
civilians were here was to keep the ship's captain
from taking undue risks that might jeopardize
galactic peace. Perhaps that was nothing but a
cynical exercise in social engineering, using people
to accomplish a goal--
No, Jean-Luc, Picard told himself.
The goal was to help maintain the peace. The
method was no secret, and the civilians on the
Enterprise had freely chosen to accept the
risks. This was nothing like Megara, where the Ferengi
and Cardassians had manipulated a world for a
purpose its people would never know, a purpose that could
only harm them.
And that purpose was an overture to war.
Picard climbed into bed and closed his eyes, but
sleep eluded him. He reminded himself that the war
had not yet begun. The Federation's diplomats
would work to preserve the peace despite this
provocation. Equally important, the
Cardassians' plan had failed, and the Federation
would be on the alert. The Cardassians were bold,
but not reckless enough to attack a prepared enemy. The
peace would hold a while longer.
That was enough to let the captain sleep.

He does not look defeated, Worf thought
as he stared at the prisoner. The man on the other
side of the forcefield sat on his bunk and
ignored the Klingon. His shoulders retained a
firm set, and his head did not droop. He had
kept silent during the interrogation, revealing
nothing. The only certainty was that a slow poison
would deprive the Klingon of his prisoner in a
few more hours.
The sight of the man filled Worf with
melancholy. The Cardassian presence on
Megara meant that there would be another Cardassian
war ... and Worf did not want that. There is
glory in combat, he thought, and I
hunger for that ... but not for the danger it would bring
to my son. When Alexander dies, let it be as a
warrior, not a victim.
The man gave Worf a disdainful look.
"What do you want of me now?" he demanded.
"Tell me why you would fight the Federation,"
Worf said. Tell me why you would endanger my
son.
The prisoner laughed bitterly. "A Klingon
must ask that?"
"We have reasons when we fight," Worf
said. "What are yours? Has the Federation harmed
you?"
"We must fight," the Cardassian said.
"We are alike in that, Klingon. War holds
our peoples together."
"That is not true!" Worf said.
"It is," the prisoner said. "Our peoples
are lone wolves, Klingon, yours and mine
alike. We need war to hold us together. Without
enemies to unite us, we would divide against one
another. Is that good?"
Disgusted, Worf turned away without answering.
War was good, but Klingons did not use it as a
tool to hold society together. That was dishonorable
... even if combat seemed like the foundation of
Klingon society, even if war seemed like the
Klingon Empire's first answer to all its
problems.
But we are not like the Cardassians! he
thought angrily. We do not make war for such
cynical reasons. We avoid it when it is
dishonorable! Yet even as Worf reassured
himself, he felt uncertainty. There was just enough truth
in the Cardassian's words to sting.
Worf was about to enter the turbolift when he
realized that he had let the prisoner distract
him. I should wonder why he did not seem
defeated, he thought in chagrin. He behaves
as a man who expects to win. It must be that other
Cardassians survived the castle's
destruction, to continue the battle for him. That is
reasonable. But where would I look for them?
Worf thought that over as he went to the bridge.
Cardassians often took advantage of
natural camouflage--or other forms of
interference. The native cities were filled with
crude electronic systems that degraded
sensor readings. Perhaps the Cardassians were hiding
in one of the native cities--or many of
them.
The turbolift deposited Worf on the
bridge, where he took over his duties from one of
his ensigns. A quick study of the security
instruments revealed that everything was normal; the
minor damage the Enterprise had sustained
during the battle was already repaired. Cargo bay
two was slowly filling with rescued Ferengi. On
the surface, relief parties were still searching for
injured survivors of the castle explosion.
Wesley Crusher had volunteered to join the
relief effort. To Worf's annoyance, Picard
had deliberately assigned the young human to a
group that operated in an area far from any likely
danger. It baffled Worf that Picard would deny
Wesley a chance to face danger and prove his
honor ... wait. It could have had something to do with
human empathy. It was no secret that Picard
felt responsible for the death of Wesley's father,
a Starfleet officer. Perhaps Picard now felt
responsible for the dead man's son; a human would
seek to preserve his son's life, just as a
Klingon would raise his son to be a fierce
warrior.
It was not the Klingon way to understand aliens and their
feelings. Worf shook his head as if to clear it
of such thoughts, but he could not entirely dismiss them.
Riker, who was in command at the moment, got out of
his seat and walked around to Worf's station. "I
hear you had an interesting time down there," Riker
said.
Worf grunted. "It was diverting. I think more
diversions await us."
"More Cardassians?" Riker nodded. "I've
had the same thought. It may be a while before we can
look for them, though. The radiation and the native
electronics are making a hash of sensor
readings."
Worf grunted again. "They will have a second
base, a fallback position. That should be easier
to find."
"I've thought of that," Riker said. "We've
scanned for signs of a second base, but we
haven't found one." He smiled grimly.
"Ensign Shrev can recognize Cardassians,
but we can't expect her to search the entire
planet."
"There should be more efficient ways to find them,"
Worf said. "We are superior to them."
Riker looked surprised at
Worf's vehemence. "I'm not going to disagree,"
the human said, "but you sound like you take this
personally."
Worf scowled. "The Cardassians lack
honor."
Riker nodded, accepting that explanation. As
Riker walked to the helm to confer with Data,
Worf realized that this was a matter of honor.
The prisoner had compared Worf's people to the
Cardassians, and there was just enough truth in that to sting.
We are not alike, Worf told himself.
I shall prove it.
A voice spoke from nowhere. "Lieutenant
Worf, report to transporter room three."
Worf growled at the computer's aggressively
cheerful tone. "Why am I wanted?" he
demanded.
"Ambassador Offenhouse has requested that
you accompany him to the surface," the machine
answered.
Worf snarled at the computer. "It could be
worse, Lieutenant," Riker called out as he
went to the turbolift.
"How?" Worf rumbled.
Riker scratched his head. "Well, he could have
asked for me instead."
Worf growled again and left the bridge.

Picard had fallen into a fitful sleep, and
he did not feel unduly upset when the
ambassador's call summoned him to the
planet. Picard made his way to the nearest
transporter room, where he found Data waiting
for him. "The ambassador has requested my
presence in Metari Leeg," the android
explained as Picard checked out a phaser. "He
also asked me to familiarize myself with all the
available information on neural-imprinting
techniques."
"Did he, now?" Picard asked as they
stepped onto the transporter stage. The
captain nodded to the duty technician, and in a
matter of seconds they had materialized on the
surface.
It was night, and brilliant aurorae
flickered in the Megaran sky. The
multicolored glow showed Picard that he and
Data had landed in the heart of an industrial
zone. Towering buildings rose all around them.
Broad, paved avenues separated the
structures. Several vehicles, including a
large floating platform, cluttered the roadways
as though abandoned. In the distance, Picard heard
noises that might have been a riot, a
celebration, or both.
Data scanned the area with his tricorder. "The
ambassador is inside the building to our left,
sir," he reported. "He is in the company of
Lieutenant Worf, but he is otherwise
alone."
"I hope we're alone as well," Picard
said, hearing the burr of a sonic stunner echo down
the street. He looked at the looming bulk of a
building. "These structures are far too large
to be factories. What is your analysis,
Mr. Data?"
"This is a shipyard, sir," Data said,
consulting his tricorder. "I detect at least
five starships which are ready for flight. Each is
armed with ten phaser banks and carries shielding
equivalent to that of a Constellation-class starship.
Their cargo bays have a volume of
approximately two hundred thousand cubic
meters. I would estimate their peak velocity at
warp nine."
"Remarkable," Picard said. "A pirate could
not ask for a better ship. It would appear your
theory is correct, Mr. Data."
Data tilted his head. "This discovery does
tend to support my hypothesis, sir."
Picard smiled at Data's caution. His
smile faded as he saw a dead Ferengi. The
man hung by his heels from a lamppost, and
by all appearances he had not died quickly.
Monstrous, Picard thought, looking away. The
captain had known that the Megarans were taking
revenge on their enemies, yet the reality still
revolted him.
Picard and Data entered the training facility.
It was a fairly small structure, a
two-story rectangle with no windows. The
tricorder led Data and Picard to a small
room. The brightly lit room reminded Picard
of a medical examination room, although at second
glance he saw that the chamber did not hold enough
equipment for that role. There were only a few
chairs, a simple biomonitor, and a set of
silvery helmets on a shelf. The walls were
blank white plastic.
Offenhouse was in the room with Worf.
The Klingon did not look as though he enjoyed the
ambassador's company. "Glad to see you,
Picard," Offenhouse said cheerily. "Welcome
to the party."
Worf turned his back on Offenhouse and
reported to Picard. "The ambassador insisted
on coming here, sir," Worf said. "There has been
no trouble. The rioters have avoided this building."
"Rioting's an outdoor sport," Offenhouse
said. "We're safe as long as nobody spots
us, and we couldn't wait for the riots to end before we
examined this place."
"What is this place?" Picard asked.
"It is a training facility, sir," Worf
said. "It is equipped with a large number of
starship simulators."
"Sorta like Starfleet Academy,"
Offenhouse said. "Only I figure that this is the
warp-speed version of the Academy."
Data was inspecting one of the metallic
helmets. "This is a neural-imprint
helmet," he said.
Offenhouse nodded. "That's why I asked you
to brush up on the field, Data. The Ferengi
used neural imprinting to teach adult Megarans
how to read and write, and it figures they'd use
the same technique for astronaut training. Can you
tell exactly what it teaches?"
Data peered at the electrodes inside the
helmet. "I believe I can access its
software."
"Good," Offenhouse said. "I need to know--
hey, stop!"
Data had placed the helmet over his head.
Lights pulsed across its shell. "You are
correct, Mr. Ambassador," he said. "This
unit--"
"Take it off!" the ambassador said in
horror.
Data removed the helmet. "As I was
saying, this device is intended to imprint
humanoid minds with instructions relating to the
operation and maintenance of starships--"
"Data," Offenhouse said in a weak voice,
"don't you know what a chance you just took?" He
sank onto a chair as though his legs had turned
to water.
""Chance"?" The android looked puzzled.
"Ah. You refer to potential damage. You need
not concern yourself, sir, as neural
imprinting can have no effect upon my positronic
brain."
"Mr. Data," Picard said, "just how
extensive are its instructions?"
"The device can impart a variety of
lessons," Data said. "The technical level
is equivalent to that of an advanced course at
Starfleet Academy. The list of
specialties includes piloting, navigation and
engineering. There are also numerous programs
relating to combat, as well as to espionage,
reconnaissance and the financial evaluation of
targets."
"Pirates would need such knowledge," Worf said.
Picard thought the Klingon sounded a bit wi/l.
"I agree, Lieutenant--odd." Data
looked puzzled. "There are no instructions on
communication devices or linguistics."
"That figures," Offenhouse said. "The
Cardassians wanted these people to fight, not talk.
Data, how long would it take someone who used that
gimmick to get the hang of flying a ship?"
Data looked thoughtful. "A period of
familiarization with an actual starship would be
mandatory," he said, "as neural imprinting
imparts knowledge, but not experience. However, given the
sophistication of this"--he hefted the helmet, which
glittered under the room's intense light--
""gimmick," the familiarization would require
only a matter of hours."
"They could use the simulators in this
building," Worf said.
"So a crew could be ready for space almost at
once," Picard concluded.
"That's what I was afraid of," Offenhouse
said, standing up. "Picard, we unconsciously
assumed that the Ferengi would take years to train
their crews. After all, that's how long it takes
at Starfleet Academy, right?"
"And they've only recently begun to train
starcrew here," Picard said grimly.
Worf growled thoughtfully. "This suggests that the
Megarans are ready to take the offensive now."
"Exactly," Offenhouse said. "This is an
efficient operation. It'd be inefficient to build
a bunch of ships, then have them sit idle while the
crews were trained. I'm surprised that the
Megarans aren't already using their ships."
"The danger of that is over," Picard said.
"We've defeated the Cardassians."
"That may not be relevant, sir," Data
said, as he placed the helmet back on its
shelf. He paused, and the look on his face
told Picard he was considering a new idea.
"Our actions may have fitted into their plans.
Once Megara was ready to play its role, it
would have been necessary for the Cardassians to remove the
Ferengi, to return control of their world to the
Megarans."
"And we've just removed the Ferengi,"
Offenhouse concluded. "We don't control this
planet; nobody does. There's nothing
to restrain the Megarans now."
"Nor is there anything to provoke them,"
Picard answered.
Offenhouse gestured at the silvery helmets
on the shelf. "With the sort of training they've had,
they may not need a provocation. They've literally
had their heads filled with ideas of piracy."
"There are also the Cardassians," Data said.
"It is probable that any survivors will continue
their clandestine activities. If a provocation
is needed here, they can supply it."
""Here"?" Worf repeated, a look of
curiosity on his face.
"I meant on Megara in general," Data
said. "However, if their goal is to subvert the
Megarans into a career of piracy, then they would have
to operate within a spaceport."
"Indeed," Worf said, almost purring. "And this
is the closest spaceport to their last known
location. Captain, I suggest that you and the
ambassador return to the ship now."
Picard felt grimly amused by the Klingon's
tone. "Do you expect trouble, Lieutenant?"
"I have my hopes, sir," Worf rumbled.

Chapter Sixteen

Odovil Pardi entered transporter room
three as Picard and Offenhouse materialized.
The captain thought she looked tense. The
Megaran woman had traded her drab coverall
for a long-skirted dress--Picard imagined that
Troi had helped her select it; the flowing
style reflected the Betazoid counselor's
tastes--and her fingers plucked nervously at a
sleeve. "Ral'feh," she said, as soon as the
transport process had ended, "rat-eyes on
this ship there are. More-many
rat-eyes."
"What the hell?" the ambassador asked.
"Picard, what are Ferengi doing here?"
"We rescued them," Picard said. "The
Megarans were lynching them. We're holding the
survivors in protective custody."
The ambassador's jaw twitched. "Put them
back where you found them," he said in a voice as
cold as space.
"No," Picard said, shocked. "That would be
murder."
Offenhouse glanced at De Shay, whose jaw
had sagged in surprise, then looked back
to Picard. "We need to talk--in private."
There was a conference room down the corridor from
the transporter room. Picard led Offenhouse
and Odovil into it and sat down facing them across the
table. "I will not allow the Ferengi to be
slaughtered," Picard said.
"Hear me out," Offenhouse said. "Have you thought
about how we're going to straighten out the mess down
there?"
"Frankly, no," Picard said. "I
haven't had the time."
"You should take it," Offenhouse said. "Think,
Picard. I have to convince the Megarans that we're
the good guys, that we aren't evil outworlders. How
in hell am I supposed to do that if they see us
rescuing the Ferengi?"
"True this is," Odovil said. "If the
rat-eyes you help, our enemies you are."
"And if we're the enemy," Offenhouse said,
"we can forget about fixing things down there. Know what
that means? We won't have a chance in hell of
keeping the Megarans from becoming pirates.
Sure, Starfleet can beat them, but we'll kill
thousands of them in the process--and we'll be doing
exactly what the Cardassians planned all
along. Or are you ready to bombard their brand-new
spaceports and factories, now, to keep them
out of space?"
"Certainly not," Picard said in annoyance.
"I shall not commit an act of war on the assumption
that these people might cause trouble."
Offenhouse snorted in disgust. "But you're
willing to help their worst enemies. Saving the
Ferengi could be the thing that provokes them into hitting
the warpath."
"So what you propose," Picard said, "is that
we gain the friendship of Megara by allowing
them to kill the Ferengi."
"Think of it as justice," Offenhouse said.
"I think of it as something uncomfortably close
to human sacrifice," Picard answered. "And
it is not for us to decide where justice lies here."
"No, it's for the Megarans," Offenhouse said.
He nodded at Odovil. "The Ferengi used
neural imprinting to give her an education. Any
idea of what that was like for her?"
Picard looked at the woman. Is this why
she always seems so apprehensive? he
wondered. Her nervous state might well be a
pathological by-product of neural
imprinting--and the Ferengi would have done far worse
things to many other people. "I doubt that I can imagine
the full extent of the crimes the Ferengi have
committed here," Picard said, "but that does not
matter. I will not hand over the Ferengi to mob
violence."
Offenhouse stared at him across the table. "Even
though it means blowing our chance here?"
"Yes," Picard said. "If we deny
justice to anyone, then we deny the very concept of
justice. And consider this," Picard continued,
raising his voice before the ambassador could
interrupt him. "The Cardassians sought to turn
Megara into a hellhole of violence. If we
hand over the Ferengi, it will only encourage more
bloodshed, not end it--"
"Dammit!" Offenhouse slammed a fist down
onto the table. "Listen, Picard--"
"Ral'feh," Odovil said quietly.
"Too much evil I have seen. Somewhere it must
stop."
"Dammit--" The ambassador stopped as the
woman flinched at his anger. He took a deep
breath. "I'm sorry, Odovil, but I don't
want the Ferengi to get away with what they've
done."
"Justice I would see," Odovil said. "But
like a rat-eyes I would not act, even if
justice they escape."
"They won't," Offenhouse promised, looking
to Picard. "I'll find a way to make them
pay."
"If you can find a way to bring the Ferengi
to justice," Picard said, emphasizing the word,
"I shall be the first to congratulate you. But there is
another matter here, Mr. Ambassador--the
Prime Directive. You speak of
"straightening out" the situation on Megara. I
find that a laudable goal--but precisely how do
you intend to do that?"
"Well ... well, I'm not sure," he
admitted. "Not yet."
"Yet you're willing to send the Ferengi to their
deaths," Picard noted, "without considering the
effect this slaughter might have on your unformed
plans. Mr. Ambassador, this is
precisely why we abide by the Prime
Directive. Well-intended blunders are as
destructive as deliberate malice."
"So what are you saying, Picard?" Offenhouse
demanded. "Are we just going to walk away from
Megara, then come back and blow them to hell if
they make trouble?"
"I have said nothing about "walking away,""
Picard said in irritation, "although we shall, if the
only option is to cause further harm here. Mr.
Ambassador, you may not simply impose your
solutions on the Megarans. That is what the
Ferengi and Cardassians have done. We may
offer them advice, we may offer lessons from our
own mistakes, but it must be the Megarans who
choose their own course."
"To mistakes you admit?" Odovil asked in
surprise.
Offenhouse sighed. "Yeah ... and when we
make 'em, we don't do it by halves.
Odovil, let me tell you about Khan Singh.
Then you can decide just how much help you want from
me." He took her hand and helped her out of her
chair, and they left the room.
Picard leaned back in his chair. It's
too much to expect that man to serve justice, he
thought sadly. Offenhouse's first impulse had
been to throw away the lives of the Ferengi in the name
of expediency. For all his intelligence, the
ambassador was a product of the twentieth
century, and justice had not been a concern of that
era.

Shrev checked her phaser's charge as she
stepped onto the transporter stage with the
security detail. You must think of this
abomination as a tool, she thought in disgust. You
will use it to carry out your orders. While her people
had no qualms about war and violence--Zhuik
hives had been invading and conquering one another
since before humans had evolved--they
fought with honor. It was ignoble to use a weapon that
struck down an enemy at a distance, or to kill
without first identifying oneself to an enemy. That was the
way most mammalian races fought, and their
anonymous style of combat often had led
to millions of anonymous dead.
De Shay worked his control console, and the
transporter set Shrev and five other people in the
middle of a street in Metari Leeg. It was
night, but the heat from buildings and pavement gave
her antenna enough infrared light to show her the scene.
This part of the town was nothing like the city she and
Wesley Crusher had visited. There were no old
buildings here, no cobbled roads or alleys.
Everything was stark and modern.
Lieutenant Worf and Commander Data came
out of a building. "Cardassians may be present
in this area," Worf said, coming right to the point as he
always did. "They are disguised as Megarans.
We will find them and defeat them."
"Sir, how many are there?" one of the men on the
security detail asked.
"That is uncertain, Ensign," Data
answered. "It is possible that there are no
Cardassians present in Metari Leeg--"
Worf growled at that. "--b there are logical
reasons to assume that we shall encounter them," Data
added hastily.
"Indeed," Worf said. "Ensign Shrev."
"Yes, sir?" Shrev whispered.
"You are able to recognize Cardassians," the
Klingon said. "When you see them, commence fire at
once. We will fire at your targets with you."
"Yes, sir." Shrev set her phaser for
heavy stun, then looked to the Klingon. "Sir,
would it not be possible to identify a Cardassian
with a tricorder?"
"There is too much electronic interference in
this area," Data explained. "However, it is
known that your senses are reliable."
"Let us begin," Worf said. The Klingon
began walking down the street. At a gesture from
him, Shrev fell into step at Data's side.
Worf and the rest of the detail spread out, screening
them.
The city was not deserted. Shrev heard the sound
of a riot in the distance, and hot smoke glowed in the
sky. There was something odd about the sky itself, but it was
not until she heard one of the human security
agents mention aurorae that she realized
what it was. The woman called the sight
glorious, but Shrev's color-blind eyes could
detect only vague smears of light.
Concentrate on your duty, she ordered
herself. From time to time she saw Megarans, but they
seemed intent on avoiding the heavily armed away
team, running off the moment they saw the aliens.
On this occasion Shrev did not mind the rudeness;
it proved that they wished to avoid trouble.
Without warning a phaser beam flicked out of a
building and killed a man. "Take cover!"
Worf called. As Shrev dashed behind a parked
truck she saw Data fire a rapid,
precise string of shots into each window, covering the
rest of the team.
Worf landed behind the truck alongside her.
"Are they Cardassians?" the Klingon asked.
Shrev peeked around the truck's cab. She
had a brief glimpse of someone in a window, but
she could not decide if she had viewed a
Megaran or a Cardassian. "I regret that
I cannot give a confident answer, sir," she
said.
Worf grunted. "A pity you cannot see through
walls."
"I share your admirable sentiment, sir,"
Shrev whispered. Then an idea struck her.
"Perhaps we can remove the walls."
Worf shook his head. "Our phasers lack the
energy for--"
A phaser beam carved into the truck, which thumped
to the pavement as its suspensors died. "There may
be another way, sir," Shrev said. "Shrev
to De Shay. Could I trouble you for some technical
advice?"
"That's why I'm here," De Shay's voice
answered.
"We are being attacked from a building to our
immediate north," Shrev said. "Exposing our
assailants would be of great help. Could you use
the transporter to remove sections of the
building's walls?"
"I think so," De Shay said in a distracted
tone. "I'll have to override the safety
parameters--"
"I urge haste," Worf said.
"Give me a minute, Lieutenant," De
Shay grumbled. "Beaming up part of an object
is considered poor form. This machine isn't
designed for it."
Worf snarled something in what Shrev presumed
was an obscure Klingonese dialect. He
adjusted his phaser to a high setting and fired
several shots at the building. Shrev saw no
effect from his assault; whoever was in the building
continued to shoot back.
A ten-meter section of wall shimmered and
vanished, exposing several people. Deprived of
cover, they fell within seconds as the away team
stunned them. More sections of wall vanished,
along with slabs of roof and floor; Shrev saw
that De Shay was methodically demolishing the
building with the transporter.
Shrev watched a man tumble to the ground. "That
is a Cardassian, sir," she told Worf.
"Good," Worf said.
Another section of wall vanished. Shrev
saw a Cardassian with a phaser rifle. She
stunned him, then felt her antennae writhe in
shame at her dishonorable act. At least he had
lived; she could apologize to him for her shameful
behavior later.
After what seemed an eternity the building was
reduced to a few tottering walls. A trio of
Cardassians had gathered with their backs to one
wall. They looked at the humans and stopped
shooting. Shrev wondered if they were going
to surrender.
"Down!" Worf bellowed. "Everyone take
cover!" Shrev hesitated, then heard the rising
whine of a phaser set on overload. She
pressed herself against the pavement as the roar of an
explosion boomed over her.

Worf walked over the rubble while the others
scanned it with their tricorders. The remains of
bodies lay amid smoking, ruined equipment.
Cardassian military equipment, he thought,
recognizing bits and pieces he had seen in
intelligence reports. Some of the debris came
from nonportable equipment, including a
short-range holographic projector, which when
activated produced the ghostly image of a
cruel-faced woman in a robe. It was his
opinion that this building had been some sort of
outpost, pressed into use as an emergency base.
"Scan complete, Lieutenant," Data
reported, crossing a debris pile to reach the
Klingon. "No sign of survivors."
Worf nodded. "And no sign of an
escape route."
"That is correct," Data said. The android
tilted his head thoughtfully. "When the
Cardassians realize how thoroughly we have
defeated them here, they will surely hesitate
to attack us. It appears that your victory is
complete."
More complete than you can know, Worf thought.
By fighting here, he had prevented a larger war.
I have proven that my people are not like the
Cardassians. I have fought to preserve honor,
not to create war.
And I have won because I am a Klingon.
The Klingon smiled up at the night sky, where
aurorae shimmered like a hero's spirit.

It was a coincidence that Picard was in the same
transporter room that brought Wesley
Crusher's team back to the ship; Picard had
been waiting for Worf's return. De Shay
wrinkled his nose as Wesley and three other
relief workers materialized. They were wet and
filthy, and carried the odors of organic
substances in assorted states of decay.
"Apparently I should have given your assignment more
thought," Picard said as Wesley stepped off the
platform.
Wesley smiled sheepishly as he glanced at
his uniform. "It was a bit messy, sir," he
admitted, "but we got through our search area all
right."
"Too bad we didn't find anything," one
of the men said. "The whole thing was a waste of time."
The team's leader, a medical orderly, nodded
ruefully. "All of our sensor contacts were either
interference artifacts or false alarms.
They've got some kind of swamp-ape down there that
reads a lot like a person--and hides a lot
better. Right, Wes?"
"It kept me busy," Wesley said.
"You'll want to get cleaned up now,"
Picard said, noting the young man's attitude.
He did not seem dejected by his "failure"
to rescue any Megarans, or by the rest of the
team's low spirits. "Well done, Wesley."
"Thank you, sir," Wesley said. As he
left he seemed puzzled by Picard's praise.
He will understand, Picard assured himself, thinking
of the new maturity he had just seen in the cadet.
He would have liked to have said something about it
to Wesley, but the best thing he could do for the cadet
was to let Wesley make this discovery for himself.
Worf beamed up a moment later. He had
stayed on the surface after the rest of his away
team returned, and Picard thought he had been
savoring the battlefield. If so, the Klingon
had earned that, and Picard thought he looked
satisfied. "Your report, Mr. Worf?"
Picard asked.
"No Cardassians survived, sir,"
Worf said.
"Can you offer any evidence of this?" Picard
asked. The Cardassians had proven themselves
canny and determined opponents, and he did not
want to underestimate them.
"The ones we fought did not try to escape,"
Worf said. "Instead they fought to the death."
"That's typical of the Cardassians,
Captain," De Shay said. He had served as
weapons officer aboard another starship, and he
had fought in the Cardassian War. "They're
calculating devils. They would have tried
to escape if they thought they had a chance to continue the
fight later. When they go down fighting like that, it
means they know everything is over for them."
"I see," Picard said. "Well, Mr.
Worf, now that we've disposed of all our
enemies--"
The door hissed open and Offenhouse looked
into the transporter room. "Hey, Picard, you
busy? I need you at cargo bay two."
Holding back a sigh, Picard joined
Offenhouse in the corridor. "Is there a
problem, Mr. Ambassador?" he asked.
"No, we're just going to take the Ferengi off
your hands." Offenhouse looked at the captain as
they walked down the corridor. "Picard,
keeping the Ferengi alive was the right thing to do."
Picard felt an eyebrow rise. "What
caused you to change your mind?"
"Mainly it was Odovil," the ambassador
said. "She can be persuasive. But I also
realized something. The Megarans still need to see that
justice is done. Killing the Ferengi looked like
the best way to do that--but I've thought of something
better."
Picard raised an eyebrow. "I trust it's
something legal."
"It is, according to your ship's computer,"
Offenhouse said. "Gatyn is still in the
sickbay--Crusher won't send her home;
she's afraid the Megarans will lynch her.
Anyway, I had a long talk with Gatyn about
her Ferengi contract, and it turns out that,
technically, the Ferengi are working for her."
"Is that important?" Picard asked.
Offenhouse nodded. "Very important. Worf
did us all a big favor when he saved
Gatyn's neck."
There was a momentary pause. "You're being very
mysterious," Picard said in exasperation.
The ambassador showed a wicked grin. "I
thought you liked mysteries."
Picard sighed. "Only in my spare time,
Mr. Ambassador. I would appreciate an
explanation."
"Well, the Megaran economy is a
lopsided mess," he said. "Everything is geared
toward building starships, while providing the people
with the bare essentials of life. We have
to reorganize the factories and the economy so people
get what they need. The Ferengi understand the
technology involved here, so we can use them as
advisors, to convert old factories to new
production and to design new plants and
services. Gatyn is going to set herself up as a
consultant, hiring out Ferengi services."
"Gatyn has formally accepted the Federation's
presence on Megara?" Picard asked.
"She's planning to do that at a public
ceremony in a few days," Offenhouse said.
"Technically she's the only government Megara
has, but now that the Ferengi are gone her position
is shaky. She needs a Federation alliance
to help prop her up, and Megara needs her
to keep things stable. She may have been a Ferengi
puppet," he added with a shrug, "but she never was a
wholehearted quisling. We can work with her--and she
knows she needs us to help straighten out the mess
down there."
They entered a turbolift, and the ambassador
directed it to cargo bay two. "Tell me
something," Picard said as the lift slid along the
shaft. "You may have Odovil Pardi and the Vo
Gatyn on your side, but they're special
cases. Given the xenophobia of the Megarans,
do you think they'll accept Federation aid?"
"Things will be a bit rough at first," Offenhouse
admitted. "But we've got our foot in the
door, which is always the toughest part when
you're doing business. Your people are responsible for
that," he added. "You've handled everything right."
"Getting rid of the Ferengi was bound to make a
favorable impression," Picard said.
"It's more than that," Offenhouse said. "Everything
we've done here has made a good impression on
the Megarans, whether it's the away teams buying
things for a fair price, or Worf beaming back
to rescue what's-his-name, or you towing that
Cardassian kamikaze away from the planet.
It all adds up."
The turbolift came to a halt and released
its passengers near the entrance to cargo bay two.
Four members of Worf's security department
stood guard in the corridor outside the bay's
massive sliding doors. "Fetch Chudak,"
Offenhouse told the senior guard.
Picard nodded to the woman, who spoke into the
intercom. A small secondary door opened a
moment later, and Chudak stepped into the
corridor. His clothing was soiled and scorched, and
dust streaked his hairless scalp, but he maintained
his innate dignity as he looked up at
Offenhouse. "Oh, it's you, you hairy
horror. What in hell do you want?"
"I want to talk about that contract you signed
with the Vo Gatyn," Offenhouse said. "It seems
the whole thing is still perfectly legal,
ironclad and valid--"
"Of course!" Chudak sneered. "Are you
looking for some loophole to prosecute me,
bug-eyes? That contract made everything I did
on Megara legal."
"I know," the ambassador said. "In fact,
I want to see you fulfill your contract."
Chudak looked puzzled. "What trick is
this, you blunt-tooth freak?"
"It's no trick," Offenhouse said. "Listen
up, butthead--"
""Butthead"?" Chudak demanded. "Do you
expect me to butt heads with you? Is this some
perverted human sex-ritual?"
"Listen," Offenhouse snarled. He grabbed
Chudak by his tattered lapels, picked him up
and shoved him against the corridor bulkhead. "You
signed a contract to industrialize Megara. The
Megarans are waiting for you to finish your work. They
want you to get down there and--"
"Are you insane?" Chudak demanded. Picard
saw him squirm in fright as Offenhouse
held him against the wall. "Those filthy debtors
will kill us!"
"Guess again." Offenhouse released Chudak
and let him drop to the deck. "You'll have guards
to make sure nobody harms a hair on your
head--as long as you're working for us. And, if you
decide you don't like the arrangement, you'll be
free to leave."
"We will?" Chudak asked suspiciously.
"Sure!" Offenhouse said. "Of course,
once you quit we'll withdraw your guards, but
maybe you won't mind being alone and unarmed on
Megara while you wait for a ride home--"
"Picard!" Chudak said. "I demand asylum
for my crew and myself. You must grant it."
"I must?" Picard asked. Despite himself
he felt a slight increase in his respect for
Chudak; the man had thought of his crew's safety
before his own. "On what grounds do you request
asylum?"
"On--on--on whatever grounds will keep us
alive!" the Daimon sputtered.
"You'll have to do better than that," Offenhouse
said. "The Megarans will take every possible step
to keep you alive. Your only reason for
requesting asylum is to break your contract--"
"--and we can't grant asylum merely to allow
you to escape a legal obligation," Picard
finished.
Chudak glared at Picard. "We've already
fulfilled our contract."
"Then where are the hospitals, the houses, the
libraries, the universities, the
mass-transit networks, the municipal water
systems?" Offenhouse snickered at the
Daimon. "You can't claim that you've finished your
work just because you've built a few shipyards here.
When the Vo Gatyn talks to you later,
she'll--"
"The Vo Gatyn?" Chudak repeated in a
fading voice. The color drained from his face.
Offenhouse beamed at Chudak. "She's your
boss."
"You can't do this!" Chudak squeaked. The
Daimon's obvious terror astonished Picard.
He actually cowered against the cargo-bay door.
"Gatyn is insane! She'll kill me!"
"No, she won't," Offenhouse said with a
smile. He patted Chudak on the head.
"Don't worry, little fellow. She's
looking forward to working with you for a looong time."

Geordi was having a drink with Worf in the
Ten-Forward lounge when Riker strode up to their
table. "Okay, mister," Riker said to Worf, his
arms crossed over his chest, "explain."
Geordi's VISOR showed him that the Klingon
was genuinely puzzled; his bioelectric fields
rippled in confusion. "Sir?" Worf asked,
setting his glass of prune juice down on the
table.
"I've talked to Data," Riker said. "He
heard you laugh, mister. It's not much of a laugh,
from what he says, but it is a laugh. What
brought this on?"
"It was Megara," the Klingon said.
"You found something funny down there?" Riker
asked in an incredulous voice.
Worf nodded. "It was something Commander Data
said."
"Data finally told an effective joke?"
Riker asked. Geordi watched the man's
bioelectric field intensify with his disbelief.
"Data? What did he say?"
"It happened moments before we rescued the
captain," Worf said, picking up his glass.
"The tactical situation was not good. The odds did
not favor us. Victory appeared uncertain."
Worf paused to take a slow, maddeningly
deliberate sip of prune juice.
"Okay, so things were black and getting darker,"
Riker said impatiently. "What in hell did
Data say?"
Worf toyed with his glass. ""Things have never
been better.""
"That made you laugh?" Enterprise's first
officer demanded. "That? Worf, you hardly even
smiled when you saw that movie. I said the exact
same words to you on the bridge, and you barely
growled at them. So why did you laugh on
Megara?"
"I cannot explain, sir," Worf said, and
sipped more prune juice. "You had to be there."
He's got a pretty good sense of
timing, Geordi thought as Riker neared the
boiling point. "Commander, we're both on duty
in a few minutes," Geordi said, getting up.
"We'd better go."
Riker left the Ten-Forward lounge with
Geordi. "It isn't fair," Riker
complained, once they were out in the corridor. "I
bent over backward to find a way to make Worf
laugh, and Data finally made him crack.
Data!"
"Look on the bright side," Geordi consoled
him. "The real joke is on Worf."
"Oh, really?" Riker asked sourly.
"How's that?"
"You know how Data is always looking for
advice on how to become human, develop
emotions, and all that?" Geordi watched Riker
nod. "Well, now that Worf has started
laughing, Data is spending every free moment he
has studying him to learn how Worf did it.
Data won't leave him alone, and it's driving
Worf nuts."
The corridor boomed with Riker's sudden
laughter.

Wesley rarely drank synthehol; by his
reckoning, this was only the third time in his life that
he'd ever had any. It was part of the celebration.
The relief workers had found over a hundred people
who had been injured when the Cardassians blew
up their base; sensor scans said that they had found
every single survivor, and the word from sickbay was that the
workers had saved at least a score of Megarans
from otherwise certain death. After they had returned
to the Enterprise, Wesley and the rest of the workers
had congregated in Ten-Forward, to rehash their
adventures and congratulate one another on their
accomplishments.
Wesley would have liked to spend a little time
alone, to unravel what the captain had said to him
... or the way he had said it, he reflected.
It was good to have the captain's approval again, but
he wished he knew what the man had seen that
mattered so much.
Wesley saw Shrev enter the lounge. He
excused himself from the group and went to join her. "I
hear that Mr. Worf gave you a commendation for
original thinking," he said quietly.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you," she said, and looked him over.
He had bathed and changed his uniform, but he knew
he still looked a bit ragged. "I believe you have
been busy, yourself."
"It's been a long day," Wesley agreed.
They ordered snacks at the bar--a bowl of
nectar for Shrev, a milk shake for
Wesley--and sat down at a table. Wesley
had a difficult time persuading Shrev to tell
him about her experience. He decided that this went
beyond modesty; Zhuiks saw nothing wrong with a little
justified boasting, but she seemed troubled. "I
guess that being in a firefight is a lot rougher
than a knife duel," he said.
"Yes, in ways I had not imagined." Shrev
toyed with her spatula as she stared down at her
nectar. Wesley noted that she had fixed neither
her eyes nor her antennae on him. "It was
all remote, distant. My actions led to the
deaths of many people, and I never knew their names or
saw their faces."
And now she feels guilty, Wesley
realized. "It's strange," Wesley said. "The
most upsetting thing a human can do is kill
someone you know. We fight our wars at a distance;
a human soldier hardly ever sees his enemy when
he kills him. The way our minds work, keeping
a distance between ourselves and a victim keeps us from
feeling guilty. It makes killing a lot
easier."
"I have heard of this," Shrev whispered.
Wesley nodded. "And I guess you know our
wars are a lot bloodier than yours ever were.
Maybe humans would be better off if we were a
bit more like Zhuiks."
"That is an interesting thought," Shrev said,
raising her head slightly to look at Wesley.
He thought she had taken some solace from his words.
"I have talked much of what I have done and felt,
without doing you the courtesy of hearing your story."
"I haven't really done much," Wesley said.
"Most of my search zone was a swamp. The
ship's sensors thought they'd spotted some people down
there, but I didn't find anyone."
"So your efforts were wasted?" Shrev asked in
sympathy.
"I wouldn't say that," Wesley said. "Someone
could have been down there, and someone had to check it out.
That was me."
"I am delighted that you took pleasure in your
task," Shrev said.
"I did," Wesley said, and meant it. He
talked with Shrev as they ate their snacks, but the
feeling of satisfaction remained with him when he
finally left Ten-Forward. He had spent endless
hours slogging through a swamp, several times holding
his tricorder and medical kit above his
head to keep them safe while he sank
chest-deep in green water and chased after
swamp-apes that might have been terrified
Megarans. He was worn out, he stank, and he
had not felt this good since ... since the incident
at the Academy, he decided.
Wesley thought he understood the reason--and the
reason Captain Picard had shown approval
even though he had accomplished nothing. After
Josh died I had all these heroic fantasies
about how I'd make up for what I did, he
thought. Save the ship, rescue the captain,
win a battle--do one big thing to balance the
books. But it doesn't work that way, does it?
Redemption would only come through a lifetime of
small acts--doing his duty, telling the truth,
obeying orders and playing straight with everyone.
He realized he had been doing that all along,
without a second thought, and the captain had understood
that before he had. Wesley decided that he had
made a good start on making amends for his
mistakes.

It was unseemly for a warrior to skulk,
to glance over his shoulder and peek around corners
... but it was unacceptable for a Federation officer
to assassinate a superior, and Data's
persistent questions about humor inspired heartwarming
thoughts about knives in the dark and accidents with
airlocks. Worf knew it was better to avoid
the android.
Worf sighed. If only Data would
develop the emotion of discouragement ...
Alexander sat at the table, doing his homework as
Worf entered their quarters. He stood up, but
instead of delivering one of those embarrassing human
hugs the boy gave a proper bow of respect
to his father. Worf felt vaguely disappointed.
"I heard that you won a battle today, Father,"
Alexander said.
"A small battle," Worf said.
"Did you kill all of your enemies?"
Worf shook his head. "There was no need
to kill."
Alexander scowled. "Not even once?"
"No," Worf said.
Alexander growled at that and returned his
attention to his homework. Somehow disgruntled,
Worf took his bat'telh sword from its wall
mount, sat down with it and began to hone its
edges. He thought about humor, and laughter. He
reasoned that it was like needlepoint, or cooking, or
swimming--useful talents in other people, but not worth
developing in himself. Childish, really. He would
gladly leave this undignified humor-stuff
to Data ... although it had been interesting to needle
Riker with it ... and it was important
to Alexander.
From time to time Worf heard his son growl as he
battled an especially tough question. Alexander
is in one of his moods, Worf assured himself.
This mood caused him to act, well,
Klingonese, but in an exaggerated style. That would
stop when the boy's mood passed--which was not a
displeasing notion. Alexander should act like
Alexander, Worf thought. Troi had said so on
several occasions, but until now Worf had never
understood that. He wondered how he could tell that
to the boy.
Worf finished sharpening his bat'telh and put
it back in its place. He stood behind Alexander
and looked at his homework. "What are you
studying?" he asked.
"It's my Earth-history assignment, Father."
He twisted the computer pad so Worf could see
it. There was text, and an animated image of
humans dressed in costumes similar to the one
Ambassador Offenhouse had affected on
Megara--black coats, pinstriped pants,
stovepipe hats and sashes. "It's about a
human called Theodore Roosevelt. There was
this big, stupid war between Russia and Japan, and
he was asked to help end it. That was hard because the
two enemies really hated one another, and if either
side saw any sign that he wasn't being fair
to them, they'd leave and the war would go on."
"That is natural," Worf said. "What did
this Roosevelt do?"
"Well, custom said that he had to invite both
sides to a feast," Alexander said. "Humans are
like us, they eat together to show they're friendly. Only
at human feasts like this one you bring in one group
at a time, announce who they are and let them sit
down. Coming in first is important, so it was going
to look like whoever sat down first had
Roosevelt's favor. Everyone was scared that the
dishonor would start the war again.
"So Roosevelt changed the custom. He had
all the chairs taken out of a feast hall. Then he
told everyone that the feast would start at a
certain time, and each side would come in through a
different door. They arrived at the same time, and
because there weren't any chairs nobody was dishonored
by sitting down second."
"Clever," Worf rumbled. He heard the
enthusiasm in his son's voice; his human side
was filled with admiration for this war-ending
Roosevelt. Worf was both pleased and puzzled
to discover that this did not trouble him. "And did
Roosevelt make a peace?"
Alexander nodded vigorously. "The humans
gave him something called a peace prize, too.
His people felt honored because he was the first of their line
to win that."
"Interesting." Worf wondered how he could
tell his son that he could accept the human side
of Alexander's nature. "There are some things
to be learned from humans," he said at last.
The intercom signaled. "Riker to Worf.
Lieutenant, Data is tied up in his lab.
Let's talk battle over dinner."
"Understood," Worf answered. He decided
that Riker's reference to Data and his lab was
figurative, and not literal. Pity, he thought.
"Come," he told Alexander.
"Okay." Alexander switched off his computer and
got up. "I guess Commander Riker wants
to hear about your battle, too."
Too? Worf thought, and smiled. "Commander
Riker is a human of many interests," he said as
they left their quarters.
"He's okay, but ..." Alexander's voice
took on a conspiratorial tone. "I hear he
likes tribbles."
"Nobody's perfect," Worf said. He
found it good to hear his son laugh at that.

Dazed with fatigue, Beverly Crusher stumbled
down the corridor toward her cabin. She had
lost count of the number of operations she had performed
in the past dozen hours, and one of her staff had
sent her off to rest before she could start blundering. At
least the worst of it was over, but her mind was crowded
with memories of melted eyeballs and
irradiated tissues; how could any rational being
use weapons that did such things?
The same way we use knives and
clubs, she thought, recalling Kardel Anit's
injuries. He'd lost an arm and an eye the
old-fashioned way. His injuries had
been repaired easily enough--although he had been
a difficult patient, as uncooperative and
suspicious as a Romulan with an engraved
invitation to a Klingon banquet. Well, he
might not like aliens, but every time he used his new arm
or opened his new eye he would be reminded that he
owed them a debt. That might temper his
xenophobia, and that of anyone who knew him.
Just the same, she was sorry she'd gone to so much
trouble to make sure his new eye matched the old
one.
Beverly reached her quarters. The door slid
halfway open and jammed. Tired and annoyed,
she banged the activator panel with her fist,
then gave up and eased through the crack. Her foot
caught on something, and it was all she could do to keep
from sprawling on the deck.
She gaped at the junk heaped in her quarters:
bolts of cloth, intricate metal devices,
leather bags, a set of grotesquely ornate
chairs, artwork, scrolls, clothing, a loom and
sundry devices unknown to Beverly.
Wesley said he'd bought a few gifts for his
friends, she thought as she picked her way toward her
bedroom. He must be on good terms with everyone
in Starfleet! "Crusher to De Shay," she
said. "What's all this junk doing in my
quarters?"
"Junk?" De Shay repeated. "Oh.
Sorry, Doctor. We had to clear everything out
of cargo bay two, and the only option--"
"--was to give it back to its owners," she
concluded. "Okay, just beam it all into space,
or something."
The transporter chief gave an
apologetic cough. "I'm sorry, Doctor,
but that would violate waste-disposal regulations."
I'd like to prescribe something for whoever
cooked up that regulation, Beverly thought as she
broke the connection. Maybe a good
antipsychotic drug or two ... maybe a
pacemaker for a feeble bureaucratic brain.
She couldn't reach her bed over the mounds of
rubbish. Too weary to fight on, she grabbed a
bolt of quilted fabric, unrolled it on one
of the floor's few open spots, and curled up
on the deck. "Wesley Crusher," she
muttered, "when you get home, you're going to wish
you were back in that swamp."

"You should not have patted Chudak on the head,"
Picard told Offenhouse. The ambassador was
seated on a biobed in sickbay while a
Vulcan doctor ministered to his bloodied,
mangled hand. "He was bound to take offense."
"I know, but I didn't think the jerk would
bite me." Offenhouse looked at the doctor.
"Are Ferengi allergic to human flesh and
blood?" he demanded.
"There are certain metabolic
incompatibilities," the doctor told him as
she adjusted her protoplaser.
"Good!" Offenhouse raged. Anger had turned
his face as red as a Martian sunset. "I
hope I gave him food poisoning! I hope
he has the dry heaves for a week! I hope he
swells up like a dead fish and starts foaming at
the mouth!"
"That's quite possible, Mr. Ambassador,"
Picard said. "You do have a remarkable effect on
people. Now, would you explain why Chudak is so
terrified of the Vo?"
"He raped her," Offenhouse said, slowly
calming down. "Now the little space-sleazoid is
scared stiff that Gatyn plans to get even--which
she does. She's going to work his fanny off for the
next thirty or forty years. I'm going to enjoy
watching that," he added, glancing at his injured
hand.
"Thirty or forty years?" Picard repeated,
nonplussed. "It sounds as though you're keeping the
Ferengi as slaves."
"Who, me?" Offenhouse affected an innocent
look. "Picard, Chudak's contract says that
he has to industrialize Megara, and that the Vo
Gatyn decides when he's done--"
"And I doubt she'll ever feel satisfied,"
Picard said in suspicion. "You suggested this
arrangement, didn't you?"
"I wish I had, but Odovil and Gatyn
worked out most of it," Offenhouse said. "Don't
feel sorry for Chudak, Picard. That contract
was meant as a sham; there's justice in making the
Ferengi live up to its terms."
The doctor finished working on the
ambassador's hand. She wasted no time in
speaking with Offenhouse; there were other patients in
sickbay, Megarans waiting to have their injuries
treated, and the doctor went at once to tend to her
next patient. Picard and Offenhouse
left the sickbay.
They walked down the corridor. "What will
happen on Megara now?" Picard asked.
"I've heard your talk about reconstruction and
justice, but what do you really have in mind?"
"I want to help undo everything the Ferengi
did to these people," the ambassador said. He flexed
his hand and nodded at its supple motions. "The
poverty, the crime, the violence--we have to help
get this society back on its feet."
"And you think you can do that?" Picard asked.
"Me? No," he said. "All I can do is
offer a few ideas and call in some help from the
Federation. But the Megarans can do it."
"You sound quite confident," Picard said.
Offenhouse nodded. "Despite everything the
Ferengi did to drag them down, they're still decent
people. There's a lot of violence down there, but most
of the Megarans are peaceful and hardworking. If they
weren't, Megara would be a lot worse ... and
Odovil wouldn't have drawn the line at killing the
Ferengi. They'll make things improve because that's
what they want. Give them a few years, and
they'll have their world back in order."
"I'm sure they will," Picard said thoughtfully.
"But for the present, the Megarans still pose a
serious threat to the Federation."
"Because they have ships and an attitude."
Offenhouse waved a hand, dismissing the point.
"We've taken care of that. Odovil plans
to hire all of the astronauts the Ferengi trained
here--"
"--and keep them away from their ships?" Picard
nodded. "That's a most elegant and straightforward
solution to our problem, Mr. Ambassador.
Well done."
The ambassador cleared his throat. "Well,
we won't ground all of them," he said.
"Only the ones we don't trust. The others--
see, Odovil's going into the shipping business.
I told her she could sell tritanium to the
Federation, and we could contract out to supply warp
generators and other goodies to folks all over the
quadrant. We'll turn a profit doing this--"
"Why am I not surprised?" Picard
muttered, addressing himself to the corridor ceiling.
"--and we'll use the cash to finance Megara's
reconstruction," Offenhouse finished.
"Even so, allowing the Megarans into space
seems risky," Picard said as they
came to a turbolift door.
"Everything worthwhile is risky," Offenhouse
said, leaning against the bulkhead. "This'll give
the Megarans contact with people on other worlds, and that's
the best way to cure their xenophobia. They'll
see for themselves that outworlders aren't as monstrous as
they've heard.
"And think about this," Offenhouse went on. "The
Cardassians wanted to destabilize this part of the
galaxy and threaten the Federation. Well, I'm
turning the tables on them, using their ships and
factories for our purposes. Not only is
Megara going to be the key to developing this
sector, but some day soon it'll join the
Federation. Don't be surprised if we're
selling you starships in a few years."
"At a profit, no doubt," Picard said.
"You wouldn't want the Megarans to feel
cheated, would you?" The turbolift door opened,
and the two men entered the elevator.
"Transporter room three," Offenhouse said,
and glanced at Picard. "It's time for me to beam
down and get to work."
"You seem to have a lot of plans for Megara,"
Picard said as the lift slid into motion.
"Oh, I do," Offenhouse agreed. "Megara
has unlimited potential. It's going to be the
most important world in this sector, count on it.
And if you think I'm ambitious, you should hear
Odovil's plans. Talk about your irresistible
forces! Give us a few decades, and Megara
will rival Earth."
Picard smiled at the man's optimism, but
something occurred to him. A few decades? he
wondered. By twentieth-century standards
Offenhouse was already middle-aged, and even with
modern medical technology to keep him healthy
his remaining lifespan probably would amount to no
more than forty or fifty years. "It sounds like the
work of a lifetime."
"Well, I've got a lifetime,"
Offenhouse said. He became oddly subdued as
he looked at the captain. "I never thanked you
people, did I?"
"For helping you on Megara?" Picard asked.
"For bringing me back to life," Offenhouse
said. "I made a lot of mistakes the last time
around, and now I've got a chance to make up for
them. Maybe there's even some justice in this. I
used my talents to bring Khan Singh
into the world, and now I can use those talents to help
another world. Thanks."
"Not at all," Picard said. The prospect
of saying good-bye to Offenhouse made him
magnanimous. "Working with you has been a unique
experience."
"Ain't I something?" he asked, recovering his
normal cockiness. The turbolift stopped and
opened its door. "So long, Picard,"
Offenhouse said as he stepped into the corridor.
"I've got a world to save."