From: Daniel Butter Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 23:43:32 GMT Subject: NEW: The Immortal Files 7 (7/22) Source: atxc Imperial Senate Building Senatorial Capital, Romulus Romulus System Melok was lunching in the open-air cafe on the third floor of the Senate building when Senator Pardek approached him. "Good afternoon, Pardek," Melok said. "And to you, Senator," replied Pardek. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" "Please, sir," said Melok as he gestured to the empty chair across from him. Pardek settled himself down on the other side of the small table. "To what do I owe the visit, Pardek?" Melok asked. "You cancelled our meeting yesterday, Melok," said Pardek. "I was hoping you might have time today to make it up." Melok tried to discern from Pardek's expression some alternative meaning to those words but found none. "I have time right now, if it's a matter we might discuss in public." "Merely budgetary concerns, I'm afraid," said Pardek as he broke eye contact. He examined the ends of his fingers. "Our data on military expenditures seem not to square with other records." "I've already talked with Admiral Tellan about it. He's asked his accounting staff to look into the matter." "Far be it from me to imply anything untoward about his staff, Melok, but it hardly seems like a matter to delegate to the very people responsible for the discrepancy." "That's not exactly clear," replied Melok. "True," Pardek granted, "but it's a distinct possibility. Corruption is a vice not unknown to men of power. Even military officers." He stressed the last words slightly and looked sharply at Melok. "I can assure you, Senator, that I've known Admiral Tellan for a long time. He is as loyal to the Empire as you or I." "Perhaps I'm merely a confirmed skeptic, but I think that remains to be seen." //About you or about me, Senator?// Melok wondered silently. "But is it not unwise to impugn a decorated military officer when all the facts are not yet in? You and I both have seen our share of accounting errors." An amused smirk broke Pardek's usually stony countenance. "Melok, I must say you never struck me as a defender of the military." Melok took another bite of his dish and chewed thoughtfully before replying. "I'd like to think I stand for honor and duty to our people, not for or against any specific group." "Of course. I did not mean to imply otherwise." "In any case, I'm sure the admiral will tender us some explanation," Melok said, looking now at his food and not at Pardek. "He should be allowed enough time to eliminate any accounting mistakes. There's no point in disturbing anyone if this is nothing." "I certainly agree with you on that, Melok. Disturbances are never good for the health of our Republic." Melok glanced up at Pardek from his food and delicately placed the fork on the edge of the plate. "Unfortunately, I must be going." "I as well," replied Pardek. "But perhaps we might meet tomorrow afternoon. There are some less public matters I'd like to discuss with you." "Certainly, Senator," Melok said with a polite nod. "I'll have my aide contact yours." Lorra House Dakhor Province, Romulus Romulus System Autumn was slowly encroaching on the hilly terrain of Dakhor. The swift morning winds had begun snapping the first orange three-lobed leaves off the thick-trunked varola trees which lined the field before the house in which until recently, Officer Lorra had lived with his wife and daughter. Like all their worldly possessions, the house and property ultimately derived from the wealth of Bela's family. In the older families, wealth as well as prestige descended matrilineally. Bela's mother had augmented her own meager inheritance by a glorious career in the military before ultimately retiring to raise her daughter full time. Bela had chosen the same path for herself, and it had only taken a common criminal to leave her bereft of both husband and plan for the future. Her bereavement leave would end next spring, and she would have to hire a caretaker for her daughter during her long months on patrol. No children were allowed on board the Empire's war vessels until they were old enough to handle a disruptor; for Kala that time would not come for three years, no matter how well she had handled the hnoiyika. It was a custom dating back to planet-fall for children coming of age to be taken into the wild and charged with killing a hnoiyika. The beast, which resembled the Terran weasel, was a little bit over a meter long and stood about a meter tall at the shoulder. They were vicious predators that had once roamed the wilds of the twin planets with such numbers that no young child could be left alone outside an encampment. The ritual slaying of the beast, which to the Romulan temperament meant the final mastery of man over nature, had quickly developed to control their population. Now that the planets had been fully settled, the beasts lived only in selected preserves and their population strictly controlled to allow each generation of Romulan warrior to slay one when the time came. The adolescent was brought to a hnoiyika ranch and set in a pen with the beast while it was sleeping. He or she would be armed with a ceremonial dagger and ordered to wait for the beast's attack. The hnoiyika would then be prodded with a painful electrical pulse and it would naturally attack the only available prey within its reach. It was only very seldom that the child was killed; after all, he or she was better armed than the beast, and as soon as it was dead medical treatment could be had. In recent years, the hnoiyika slaying had fallen out of general practice as the limited opening of the twin planets to offworlders had led to an alarming materialism among the masses and a corresponding decline in the warrior customs. In spite of the house and the influence her family held in Dakhor, Bela refused to let such rampant materialism infect her life too deeply. There was an archaic word used in the fleets (supposedly dating back to the first planet-fall) for those softened by a privileged life on the homeworlds; roughly translated it meant 'jelly-bone,' but like most expletives there was an offense that went beyond its literal meaning. And so today, as she would every week for the next month, Bela set to work raking the orange leaves herself into neat piles that her daughter would undoubtedly destroy the first chance she got. Which looked to be soon, Bela thought as Kala stepped out of the house and started to walk over to where she was standing. She wasn't surprised to see Kala favoring her right leg; the beast had rather viciously slashed her left shin, and even with the dermal regenerator, the muscle would be sore for another day or so. A regenerative bandage also covered Kala's left hand which had been bitten nearly clean through. Bela finished the pile of leaves she'd been working on and paused to watch her daughter trot across the yard. "Mother," said Kala, "Penon called. She wants to know if she can sleep over tonight." "You have classes tomorrow," Bela said, leaning on the rake. "Remember what we talked about last week?" "Yes, mother. I put away all my toys like you said." Her right hand drifted over to the bandage. "Honey, don't scratch that," Bela said, lightly swatting at her daughter's hand. "It'll only take longer to heal that way." "I know, sorry," Kala replied. Neither spoke for a long moment. "Is everything all right, dear?" Bela asked. Her daughter glanced down at the ground and whispered something. "What was that?" Bela asked. "I said I was afraid," Kala said, louder this time. Bela laid the rake down and knelt before her child. "There's nothing wrong with that. We're all afraid sometimes." As she spoke she ran her fingers through her daughter's short hair. Kala finally lifted her eyes to her mother. Her lips pursed and then she said, "But Penon said that her family doesn't have to do these things and she said I could have died!" The words shot from her mouth growing louder at each syllable. When she was finished, she snapped her mouth shut, unsure if she'd said too much, and her lower lip quivered in fear at her mother. "It's possible, yes," Bela said and Kala lowered her eyes again. "But then again -- dear, look at me when I'm speaking." She tilted her daughter's chin up to look at her eye to eye. "It's also possible for you to die on your way to school or to the market. But I made sure you were ready for it." There was no more fear in Kala's eyes and Bela realized that her daughter was not still riddled with the fear she'd undoubtedly felt when first shown the beast. Something else was bothering her. "Dear, what is it? You can tell me." Kala glanced down again before continuing. "Why did I have to kill it?" she asked finally and there was a sternness to her voice that shocked her mother. "Because it was the right thing to do. When something hurts you, you hurt it back. When it tries to kill you, you kill it first. What do you suppose would have happened if you'd let it live and then turned your back?" Her daughter knew the answer already and her mouth twisted into stubborn annoyance. "It would have killed me," she said, and suddenly to her mother she no longer looked like a child. "Exactly," Bela said and for the first time she addressed her daughter in the tone of voice reserved for equals. "Kala, before you were born, I was in many battles against enemies of our people. I learned then that you have to strike first, you must not hesitate, and you must be vicious. Death comes to us all in the end but it comes most swiftly for the sentimental fool. Do you understand?" The little girl nodded. "Good. Now I suppose if you cleaned up like I asked you to, it will be acceptable if your friend comes over. But I have some things to do tomorrow morning, so I don't want you making noise at all hours of the night." Bela grabbed the rake and stood up to continue her work. "We'll be quiet," Kala assured her and once again she looked the part of a young child eager to see her friend. Gone for the moment at least was the young warrior who stubbornly wished to show mercy. "I'm going to call Penon back now. Can she come over for dinner?" "That would be fine." "Superb," the girl replied and then walked back to the house. Presidential Mansion Paris, Earth Sol System It was the sort of party only career politicians and their hangers- on could enjoy. Almost a hundred councilors, bureaucrats, officers, and even a few highly connected reporters milled about discussing current affairs ranging from agriculture to the newest zeta radiation research. Foremost on everyone's mind and therefore the topic least broached in unfamiliar company was the Romulan situation. While the Federation was as open a government as had ever existed, its primary movers and shakers did not lack a certain degree of tact, and on divisive issues it was natural political instinct to treat them like landmines: something to avoid but ever to be aware of. This turned the gathering into one elaborate dance ritual where one spent most of the night talking either with unfamiliar people about irrelevant topics or with irrelevant people about unfamiliar topics -- all while searching desperately for a quiet conclave of like- minded individuals at which to gather when the hour grew late. In that distant past when stars were more familiar as lines than points, Peter Dawson had skillfully avoided those Starfleet get-togethers which characteristically drew those young upstarts hoping to make captain by thirty. The greatest casualty of his promotion to the fleet admiralty was that the parties had grown horrifyingly tense and his presence was no longer optional. "It's good to see you again, Admiral," said a short being whose name and race Dawson couldn't remember. The humanoid extended one of his four upper appendages to the admiral, and he shook it as best he could, hoping that was the correct response. The pin the being wore on his (hers? its?) chest identified him as a member of the Federation Council. "And you, Councilor," replied the admiral, and he tried to make his way past the representative. The dress uniform's collar was choking him, and he wanted to find a safe place to loosen it with a shot of a moderately intoxicating drink. Unfortunately, the councilor had other ideas. "I was most interested in discussing your opinion on the proposed military detente," began the councilor. "Your war record has distinguished you in the public eye and many believe that your opinion may make or break this peace plan." Dawson grabbed a drink from a passing server and took a quick gulp of it. He let himself savor the taste for a few seconds before replying. "Councilor..." "Da Ghorba," the councilor introduced himself with what might have been a hint of annoyance. Dawson recognized the name immediately as the author of the proposed Federation-Klingon mutual defense treaty. "Ah," he said by means of reply. "You've heard of me." The councilor seemed overly pleased with himself. "Yes, Councilor. Your reputation precedes you," said the admiral with the merest inflection of his voice, telling the councilor just what Starfleet's opinion was. "And I believe I've already made my official position on this matter quite clear." "In that you have no official opinion on this matter," said Da Ghorba. Dawson detected what had to be this race's version of a snort. "Precisely, Councilor," he replied with a harsh edge in his tone and left Da Ghorba standing by the hors d'oeuvres table. He moved through the crowd, avoiding the most talkative of his colleagues and looking for the ones who would buffer him best against any further pesky pursuers. It didn't take long for him to bump into Georgy Chuikov. Dawson greeted his colleague with a nod and they moved off to the side of the room. "So what do you think of this gala event?" asked Chuikov. He had a very sobering look on his face, almost wary of the bustling activity around him. He was holding a half-filled glass of fruit punch. "I don't know yet. Let me get back to you." Dawson glanced at the drink. "Alcohol?" "Not a drop. You know I've got the puniest liver this side of Ferenginar. Even synthehol makes it quiver. Besides, we ought best to keep our wits about us tonight." "Why is that?" asked Dawson. "Ah, the vultures are circling, my friend. You mean to tell me Councilor Da Ghorba has yet to pounce on you?" "Actually, I just ended a conversation with the good councilor. He seems terribly interested in Starfleet's support of his proposal." "Yeah, it'll be a cold day on Vulcan before I kowtow to those elected grubs." Dawson looked at his friend again, this time examining his expression more closely. Chuikov was scanning the room with barely restrained disgust. "What happened?" Chuikov looked to Dawson and shook his head. "I've been getting calls all day from others in the admiralty," he said, his tone low and almost too soft to hear over the loud chatter around them. "Apparently, there's some petition circling in the lower ranks for a vote of no confidence in the CnC." "You're kidding me," Dawson said. "I kid you not." "But that's the purview of the fleet admiralty." "Hell," Chuikov laughed with a dramatic wave of his hands, "that's the reason we *have* a fleet admiralty. But my understanding is its some sort of motion to convince us, and six people isn't all that many to convince. A lot of them are trying to get me and Debra Shanthi to bring this matter up at the next staff meeting." "Just you two?" Dawson asked. "Hey," Chuikov replied with a weak smile, "don't take it personally. They just know where you stand. You don't need convincing. I guess most of the other admirals think Nechayev would never go along with it and T'Laris is just too damned Vulcan to." "What about Karen?" asked Dawson. Chuikov shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't talked to her in nearly two weeks. She hasn't made any of the meetings, which you would know if you'd bother to come, Mr. Defense Secretary. Without you there, it's just a power play between T'Laris and Nechayev." Chuikov sighed and leaned against the wall to observe the party. Dawson joined him. After a few seconds he turned and asked, "Do you know where she is?" "Who? Nechayev?" Chuikov said. "No, Karen. I can't remember the last time I saw her over a comm channel, let alone in person." "I don't know. I guess she's just busy with this 'fleet parade.'" That was the phrase being used by Starfleet to describe (rather unflatteringly) Schine's order for a near fleet 'waving of the flag' ceremony. The CnC wanted to personally tour the assembled scientific and military might of the local Federation fleet before sending them all back out to work. "How is that?" Dawson asked. Chuikov looked at him with curiosity. "T'Laris put her in charge of security arrangements." "That's strange." "How so?" "I would think they'd let normal Starfleet Security deal with it. Or Intelligence." "I guess T'Laris wants everything handled perfectly, and that calls for Karen." Chuikov glanced over at his friend with mischief in his eyes. "Speaking of handling things, you two had a thing once, didn't you?" He made an indeterminate wavy gesture with his hand as if that lent meaning to his words. "I wouldn't call it 'a thing.' In any case, we were both very different people then. I was a whole lot younger." Dawson sipped his drink. "We are all getting old, my friend." "Speak for yourself," said Chuikov. "I'm as spry as ever. Do you think it would be impolitic for me to say I'm missing the Dominion War already?" "Without a doubt." Georgy finished his punch. Then as if for the first time, he took a good long look around the room and asked, "Do you have any idea what this party's about?" "None whatsoever." At some point in the evening, after the trays of food had emptied and refilled themselves and social circles separated and merged at least thrice, Dawson was finally able to ascertain the precise purpose of the party -- it was some sort of Andorian birthday celebration for President Doli. "Well, that's not precisely as it sounds to the human ear," added Secretary of State Sarok. "Andorian males celebrate the biennial anniversary of their rite of passage into adulthood." "But which is itself the tenth anniversary of their birth," Dawson said. "To their people it is a much more solemn and momentous event than the corresponding human ritual." Sarok paused in his casual appraisal of Andorian culture to offer Dawson's outfit a raised eyebrow. "The invitation did say 'black tie optional,'" he added before wandering off, leaving Dawson alone at the entrance to the main ballroom. The fleet admiral wandered out a nearby door, hoping to find a quiet corner where he could drink in peace. Instead he found himself in a smaller lounge room where most of ambassadors and Starfleet personnel had gathered. Almost immediately he caught sight of Georgy Chuikov sitting in an oversized antique leather armchair across from a short Andorian male; Dawson recognized the latter immediately as Doli Corvenia, President of the Federation Council. Chuikov was waving his hands vigorously in the air, his eyes wide, and his eager voice drowning out much of the conversation on his half of the room. As Dawson approached, he could hear clearly what his friend was saying over the quiet conversations around him. "You should've seen it, Mr. President. Only eight starships, most of them so outdated that the dilithium crystals would fracture if you tried to break Warp 8. And the Cardassians had this impressive strike force, twenty or so of their best ships; they were just tearing through all our defenses in the area." Dawson had stepped close enough that President Doli noticed his presence and nodded slightly in his direction. Chuikov caught the glance and turned toward his friend. "Ah, the good admiral himself. I was just telling the President about the Cardassian War." "Yes, I heard. You've got a way with exaggeration, Georgy." "Do you hear this man?" he asked of the President while jabbing a finger into Dawson's side. "He says I *exaggerate*! You haven't heard anything yet. The Cardis had this massive fleet of ships just itching to wipe out our defenses around Logra III. I was tactical officer on the Victory and Pete here was XO. People don't talk of it much anymore, but I tell you, Mr. President, Logra III was a textbook example of turning their own strategies against them. Only twenty years ago and some of our best commanders still didn't learn the lesson. That is one of the reasons we paid such a high price in the Dominion War. We didn't learn enough from the last one." President Doli took that chance to stand and politely excuse himself from the conversation. Some of the hangers-on followed him; the rest dissolved into the sea of dress uniforms. Dawson took the seat the president had just vacated. "Collect any interesting intelligence while retelling that old story?" Dawson asked with a faux stern look. "I learned that Andorians are not fond of loud Russians, if that's what you mean." Chuikov smiled. "But then again, so few are." "I can't stand them myself. I didn't know you'd met the President before." "Oh, Corvenia? He and I go way back. I've known him... five maybe six minutes." Chuikov straightened in his seat. "Well, things have just gotten a bit more interesting." Dawson turned to see what had caught his friend's attention. From their location in the far corner of the lounge, he and Georgy could see into the vestibule where Commander Schine and Fleet Admiral Nechayev were removing their coats. Both wore military dress uniforms, which Dawson was surprised to see; Schine so rarely wore his. "You can say that again," Dawson replied. "Oh, that reminds me. Schine wanted to know if you would give a speech to the Federation Council tomorrow. He wants to present a balanced perspective from Starfleet." "Seriously?" Chuikov asked after a moment of silence. "Yeah." "Maybe he's not so bad after all." "You've got some good arguments?" "I've always got good arguments," Chuikov said with a smile. "It's a question of whether I have the data to back them up. But then again history and precedent go a long way." He looked to the vestibule where Schine and Nechayev were speaking to President Doli. "I'm in the mood for some fun," he said and headed for the door. "Georgy!" Dawson hissed and then followed suit. "There shall be no matters of state tonight," the Andorian was saying to Admiral Nechayev with a twitch of his antennae. He nodded to the Executive. "Thank you for coming, Commander Schine." Dawson bristled at the mention of Schine's rank. The Dominion War had raised the office of the CnC to heights unseen since the founding of the Federation, and Schine had spent the last several months doing everything he could to convert that waning wartime power into political capital. At least Schine had the courtesy to wear his Starfleet uniform instead of arriving as a politician. The admiral turned his attention back to the conversation. "... good to see you outside of work," Schine was saying. "Anyway, I'm going to go mingle. Good seeing you again, Admiral Chuikov." "Yes, quite good!" agreed Georgy. As Schine left, Doli gave the Russian a curious look and then departed himself. Nechayev had slipped away seconds before. "Are you having fun?" Dawson asked his friend. "I have not yet begun to meddle," Chuikov said with a grin and then broke away to mingle. Dawson spent the next half hour avoiding conversation while attempting to observe Schine and Doli. Whenever they found themselves in the same room, they seemed to naturally gravitate towards opposite sides, each accruing an event horizon of like-minded officials. Doli tended to gather legislators from the Federation Council; Schine tended to find himself among Starfleet officers. But the exceptions were the most curious; many of the younger councilors were speaking mainly to Schine, and a good number of the ranking Starfleet officers spent their time near Doli. It was a strange brew of old and new guard, he supposed. It didn't escape his notice that Nechayev stayed well away from either, despite the fact that she'd arrived with the CnC; Chuikov he kept losing track of, which, if it weren't for his preoccupation with Doli and Schine, would have worried him. He was about to go look for his friend when the foreign delegates arrived. For whatever reason -- comfort perhaps? -- the ambassadors started arriving near the tail end of the party. The first to arrive was the Klingon ambassador, a stocky veteran of the Dominion War named Karlok. He was rumored to be an opponent of Chancellor Martok's thrust upon the popular Klingon leader by a High Council wary of close ties with the Federation; beyond that, Dawson knew little of him. Next came the Cardassian ambassador who with his characteristic efficiency made the rounds and departed moments before the arrival of the third: the Romulan ambassador, Paelin, a thin middle-aged former senator who had requested the position after passing his senate seat to his daughter at the end of the Dominion War. Others showed up later, but from the minute Paelin walked through the door, Dawson had a new focus for his attention. Senator Paelin had something on his mind. After exchanging pleasantries with President Doli, the former senator started making his way over towards Commander Schine. Dawson followed at a respectful distance and watched as Schine and the Romulan spoke in quiet whispers in the far corner of the dining hall. "Wouldn't you love to be a fly on that wall?" Chuikov asked after appearing at Dawson's side. After another minute of conversation, Schine parted ways with Paelin and went looking for Karlok. He found the Klingon ambassador outside on the chilly veranda and exchanged a few words. Dawson and Chuikov had gotten close enough by the end of the exchange that they both heard Karlok's parting words: "I'll believe that green-blooded targ-rider when I hear it from my government." The Klingon pushed his way past Dawson and Chuikov to get inside. Chuikov glanced at Dawson and then broke off to see where Paelin had wandered off to. Schine approached Dawson. "Peter, I'm going to need you to discreetly find Alynna and arrange an admiralty meeting for a few hours from now. Something's come up." Dawson nodded. "Of course. May I ask what the situation is, sir?" "It looks like peace may be coming a bit sooner than any of us suspected." ------------------------ Day 3: December 27, 2376 Imperial Senate Building Senatorial Capital, Romulus Romulus System "The Ferengi captain refused to recognize our claim in the area even after I sent him our authorization. He actually threatened our ship!" The speaker was a Romulan male with a round pudgy face, a crooked nose, and a distractingly receding hair line; he was also a whole two hears shorter than an average male, although that was not apparent from the viewscreen transmission. His name was Jano Torok, and Melok knew him from when the man used to trade spices between Romulus and a colony world on the frontier; over the years, Jano had called on Melok to help him in disputes, and in return Melok had cultivated support from the wealthy coffers of this somewhat disreputable but altogether harmless businessman. "Why didn't you report this to the regional military command?" Melok asked, meaning something else entirely. "I don't see how this is a civil matter." He was leaning back in his chair, right hand rubbing his temple as he listened. "Senator, I did report it to them," Jano said, with forced patience. "They said they'd take care of it, but it's been nearly a week. The Ferengi have sent dozens of ships in and out of the system, stripping the deposits dry! I was promised by the Science Academy full military and civil support for this expedition." "I realize that. Did you try contacting the regional command again? Maybe somebody higher up in the chain of command?" "Of course! This morning I tried; but all I got was some idiot girl who kept telling me there weren't any available ships to deploy. Apparently some jackass has the entire regional task force doing maneuvers. She said they weren't taking any subspace messages. Please explain to me how an entire border guard runs off on maneuvers. I say, I understand the Ferengi are hardly considered a threat, but without any military presence out here they don't take us seriously. It's a long way from Romulus, Senator!" "Jano, I sympathize. I really do. But what do you want me to do about it? I can't give orders to military officers. If they're on maneuvers, you'll just have to wait until they get back." "But the Science Academy-" "Sometimes makes promises it can't back up," said Melok. "I wish I could help you." Jano's eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the camera. "You owe me, Melok." "I haven't forgotten," Melok said, his tone growing formal. "But senators have no direct authority in such matters. Police actions are a military operation out on the frontier." "Look, could you at least contact the Science Academy and ask them to put some pressure on the Praetorate? I've tried contacting the Academy, but they haven't been returning my calls. And whenever I go up the military command, they keep telling me to contact the regional commander." Melok tipped his head forward. "I'll see what I can do." "I'm sorry if I've spoken too forcefully, but I'm watching a small fortune being stolen out from under me." "I understand. Like I said, Jano, I'll see what I can do. Melok out." The senator rotated his chair and stared out the window. After a few seconds, he turned back to his desk and paged his aide. "What time is my meeting with the Proconsul?" "Two hours from now, sir." "Hold all outside calls until I'm back from that meeting. Also, do you have a list of what senators are chairing the oversight board for the Science Academy?" "Uh, hold on, sir." A few seconds passed. "That would be Senators Heron, Loki, and Talnara." "Find out if any of them are free right now." Starfleet Command Headquarters San Francisco, Earth Sol System It was still dark outside but some administrative ensign had taken the time to brew some fresh coffee. Dawson was savoring his second cup when T'Laris and Shanthi finally joined Chuikov, Schine, Nechayev, and him in the briefing room. Shanthi looked exhausted -- Dawson guessed the call had woken her -- but T'Laris was her impeccable self. Karen Brackett was again nowhere to be seen. "Thank you all for coming at such short notice," Schine said. "I asked for this meeting because at the Council President's party a few hours ago, I was approached by the Romulan ambassador and given some surprising news. Early today, or I suppose yesterday, the Romulan Senate voted for a diplomatic solution to the Narendra trade conflict." There was a nearly audible hiss of surprise in the room. Although not strictly involving the Federation, it was hot-button topic for both the Klingon and Romulan governments and so was closely followed by both the Federation Council and Starfleet. "As most of you know," Schine continued, "the Narendra corridor lies along the boundary of Klingon and Romulan space." The ensign who'd provided the coffee now activated the holoprojector in the table and called up a starmap of the region in question. "Traders of all affiliations use the corridor to the economic advantage of all parties. Moreover, the systems within the corridor -- including Narendra itself -- are fantastically wealthy in resources, a fact which has generated continuing conflict in the region. Over the past year, the Klingons have been cracking down on unauthorized dilithium mining operations which were unofficially selling to the Romulans at below market price. In response, the Romulans have been threatening to interdict trade on their side of the border. This would constitute a violation of the last ceasefire agreement, so the Klingons have threatened to not only reciprocate the interdictions but to also order their allies to breach the barrier. "What you don't know, what no Federation official knew until three hours ago, is that the Romulan Senate has just voted to avoid a trade interdiction in return for a binding ceasefire from the Klingon Empire." "What exactly would that constitute?" Chuikov asked. Schine smiled. "I'm glad you asked, Admiral. The Romulans have been in a default state of war with the Klingon Empire for the past century, and with us for the past two; this is partly their own rationale for taking actions which would themselves otherwise constitute acts of war. They have historically signed temporary ceasefires primarily for diplomatic reasons, most recently in our mutual conflict with the Dominion. The binding nature of the ceasefire, as Senator Paelin explained to me, is the notable part; it's considered an unbreakable oath." "That's all well and good," Chuikov said, "but who enforces this?" "It's a question of honor, Admiral," T'Laris said. "Both the Klingons and Romulans claim allegiance to a warrior code which requires they honor all such obligations." "Forgive my saying this, but that and some latinum would persuade a Ferengi," Chuikov replied. "The Romulans have broken treaties before." "Treaties, yes," Schine interjected. "The Klingons have done the same, but they both view ceasefires and treaties in a different light. Treaties are agreed upon for reasons of politics and expediency, but ceasefires fall into the martial domain, which both sides claim to value above all else. If either side violates the ceasefire, it sacrifices moral high ground, which while to us may seem bafflingly irrelevant, to the Klingons and the Romulans it's paramount." Nechayev spoke up: "So the Romulans are asking the Klingon Empire to put aside all forms of military persuasion." "Exactly," said Schine. "Which is why we're here. The Romulans have the military strength to press the Klingons to the bargaining table. That they deliberately choose to relinquish that bargaining power has to be deliberate on their part, a specific choice to show us that they're ready to put aside centuries of conflict and begin working toward a lasting peace." "Admiral Nechayev," T'Laris said, "is there any news yet from our sources in the Klingon Empire regarding this development?" "Not as yet, but we shouldn't expect any until later today or even tomorrow. I'm more surprised that we haven't heard anything about this from our Romulan contacts." "I suspect it was an impromptu development," Schine said. "In any case, before this overture becomes official, I'd like to cement the Federation's position." "The Federation's position?" Chuikov asked. "Why does our say matter?" "It's a condition in our most recent agreement with the Klingons that each party offer council to the other in major diplomatic agreements," Nechayev said. "Martok and Jaresh Inyo hammered it out before Inyo's term expired. I think the Klingon-Cardassian War taught Martok the foolishness of acting unilaterally in matters of mutual Klingon-Federation security. Whether or not Martok would actually listen to us is another story altogether." "I rather doubt anything we say will particularly matter," said Schine. "This plays directly to the Klingons' arrogance; although they're in the weaker military position, the Romulans are asking *them* for peace." "Is there any chance the Klingon Empire might interpret this as a sign of weakness?" asked Shanthi. "They almost certainly will," interjected Chuikov. "But I think the Commander's point is that they're not exactly in a position to exploit that." "Well said, Admiral," Schine remarked. "In any case, Chancellor Martok has made it clear that the Klingon Empire has no interest in fighting another war just yet. I would like to offer President Doli the unanimous consent of the fleet admiralty that he recommend the Klingon ambassador accept this proposal." No one objected. Merchant Vessel Kintaro Outbound from Epirus System "What do you think he's going to tell you?" MacLeod called out as he followed Mulder through the Kintaro. They had spent hours on Epirus sifting through Klein's belongings trying to discern what he might be planning; but nothing came of it. Mulder was pounding a sequence of keys on the communications console when MacLeod reached the cockpit. "I'm about to find out," Mulder replied. "Starfleet Command, Fleet Admiral Dawson," he said before the computer could ask. "Priority one from-" "Computer, belay that." MacLeod took the seat next to Mulder's. "Look, it was the best shot we had." Mulder whipped around to face his friend. "We wasted nearly a day getting here, MacLeod, and hours more down on that rock where we learned nothing about Klein except his love of marginal citation and subspace noise recordings. God knows where he's gone by now." "What other options did we have? Pick a random direction in space and hope if we guessed right, he'd deign to stop, decloak, and wave us down for a chat? We came here, we tried, but there's no more to be gained by sifting through more books or computer files." Mulder leaned back. "You seem awfully fucking calm about all this." His voice was softer in volume but sharper in tone. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Maybe if it was your wife out there-" "Don't you dare think that I'm not torn up inside about what's happened. I'm worried about her too, but maybe just maybe I'm a little bit more objective than you are right at this moment." "I don't need to be handled, Connor. I know what I'm doing." MacLeod swallowed to clear out the bile in his throat. He took a breath and then continued more calmly. "He's familiar with me, Mulder. I think I should be the one to talk to him." "Fine. We'll both talk to him." Starfleet Command Headquarters San Francisco, Earth Sol System The incessant chirping of his desk terminal woke Dawson from his nap on the office couch. He sat up too quickly and regretted it immediately. "Lights to 50%," he said as he stood and stumbled over to the desk. "Yes, what is it?" he asked. A young ensign appeared on the screen. "Sir, we have a transmission from a Connor MacLeod for you. It's coming in on a high priority channel." Dawson nodded, his senses immediately alert and the cloud of sleep cleared from his head. "Yes, thank you, ensign. Put him through." He glanced at the time in the corner of the desk display: still not yet morning. The ensign's face disappeared, replaced by the emblem of Starfleet Command. After another second or two, the screen divided down the middle to show two different men side-by-side. One was the Immortal Connor MacLeod; the other was a man whom Dawson had never seen before. "MacLeod," said Dawson by way of greeting. "Admiral Dawson, this is my friend, Fox Mulder," MacLeod said. Mulder nodded. "Admiral." Dawson stared at Mulder for a second. 'Fox' was an unusual first name, and he was sure he'd heard it before -- which only told him that Mulder was probably an Immortal. Not terribly surprising considering his company. He turned his eyes back to MacLeod. "What is the situation with Jessica Haile?" Dawson asked. "Things didn't go well," said MacLeod. He proceeded to fill Dawson in on what had occurred during the past few days. There was no mention of Dana Scully. "You took care of Jeffrey McClure's body then?" Dawson asked quietly after MacLeod had finished but the question of funeral custom was the least on his mind. There was a widow of a Starfleet admiral who would very soon be learning that her son had been killed for no better reason than the murderous drive of an Immortal. Yet another chalk mark in Jessica Haile's column. "Yes," replied MacLeod. "Mulder and I buried him on the planet." "And you're sure that Klein took Jessica with him?" "We see no reason to believe otherwise," Mulder interjected. "I doubt Klein would have lied about something like that." Dawson thought he saw surprise pass across MacLeod's face at Mulder's words but he couldn't be sure. The Immortal's expression was blank when he added to Mulder's words: "We have reason to believe he may have had some hand in Jessica Haile's assault on the Alioth facility." It wasn't just her then, Dawson thought. It made sense that she would have had help from him; Klein was certainly no friend of the Watchers. "Why didn't you say anything about that before?" Dawson asked. "I had no reason to suspect anything before my contact with him," MacLeod replied. "But he didn't seem surprised at what had happened, so it's possible that her actions were taken under his instigation. She used to be his student after all. That he rescued her only makes that more likely." "I have to agree," said Dawson. "MacLeod, Mr. Mulder, I can assure you that all the available resources of the Watchers will be employed to find Jessica and make her pay for what she did. That we might also capture Klein is something of a bonus. If you send me your ship's transponder code, I can authorize your access to the Watcher network to receive any updates about the matter." "Thank you, Admiral," MacLeod said. "I'm sending the code now." "There was one more thing, sir," Mulder said before Dawson could reply. "I'd like the contact information for Jessica Haile's Watcher." "For what purpose?" Dawson asked. It wasn't exactly standard operating procedure to go passing around Watcher data to Immortals -- not that he was operating under anything close to standard circumstances. "I'd like her Watcher to investigate any permanent residence Jessica had for some hint as to where she and Klein might be going." "I was planning on issuing such an order myself soon anyway, but anything we found would be placed in the report you could read." "I want to oversee the investigation itself if that's possible," said Mulder. "I'm not sure what to look for, but I have some experience in these situations and have something of a vested interest in finding Klein." You and how many others? Dawson thought but didn't voice. He was about to turn Mulder down when he suddenly remembered where he'd heard the man's name before. It had come up in a report several years ago; he was one of a pair of skilled Immortal criminal investigators who occasionally worked for Starfleet. No matter the man's credentials, the Watcher Tribunal would have a fit if he gave Mulder such access. That alone nearly made the decision for him. "This is rather irregular, Mr. Mulder, but I'll instruct Jessica's Watcher to report to you at his discretion. At his discretion, I'd like to make clear. Is your ship equipped for holometric transmissions, MacLeod?" The Highlander nodded. "It is." "Good. You can make use of it if the Watcher has no objections. His name is Akbar Bajwa, and I'll have his information placed in the Watcher investigation file for your perusal." "Thank you, Admiral," said Mulder. Not so fast, Dawson thought with a grim smile. "Now it's time for my own conditions. The Watchers have final authority over Jessica Haile in this matter. Our organization is not to be used to settle any disputes, whatever terrible things Jessica may have done to either of you. The same goes for Klein. I want them both alive for questioning. I cannot sanction revenge killing. Is that clear?" He noticed MacLeod glancing at his friend again. "As crystal, sir," Mulder replied, but there was something in his voice that made Dawson not entirely believe him. For some reason that didn't exactly bother him. "Thank you, Admiral," MacLeod said a bit too quickly. "Kintaro out." Nar Skaala Standing in a hallway of the residential section of the colony's major atmospheric dome, Klein waited until the sensation of Methos' presence passed through his mind before reaching out to knock on the door. There was silence on the other side of the door, but it opened seconds later anyway. Klein took a breath, ignored all the warnings of his instincts, and stepped across the threshold. The door slid shut behind him, and a blade immediately pressed against the front of his throat. "Give me a reason not to," said a voice in the dark to Klein's right. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Klein rasped softly, "You want to know why I'm risking my life to come here. I can't tell you if I'm dead." He kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, willing them to adjust to the dark. There was a soft chuckle in the darkness and the blade slid along his throat. The razor edge cut a new path above the ugly scar Jessica had left. "It looks like someone's already started the job for me." "Don't you want to know?" A pause. "I've never been a curious man." "Then I'll tell you. I need your help." "My help? And why should I listen to anything you might have to say?" Klein turned his head finally and his eyes had dilated enough that he could barely make out Methos' face in the shadows. The cold anger was plain even in the dark, but he thought he could make out some hint of curiosity, which made him almost burst out in derision. After a moment Methos' eyes narrowed. "Take off your coat." Klein smiled. "I'm unarmed." Methos pressed the sword harder against Klein's throat. "I said take off your coat." Klein slowly shrugged out of the garment and tossed it out. He took notice of where it landed several meters in front of him. When he looked back at Methos, both the curiosity and the cold anger were hidden. "Kneel on your hands," Methos said. He slipped both hands under his knees as he lowered himself to the floor. The sword edge never wavered from his neck during the motion. "How did you find me?" Methos asked. "The Watchers," Klein said. "It figures," Methos said. There was contempt in his voice wholly unrelated to Klein's presence. "I'll have to take care of that." Then he lifted the blade away from Klein's throat. Klein rolled forward under the blade's sweeping arc, losing a few hairs along the back of his head. He grabbed his coat, pulled the small device from its pocket, and threw the coat backward to block Methos' approach long enough for him to bring the device to bear. "Stop," Klein hissed. He was surprised that Methos did, and admired the man's restraint. "What the hell is that?" Methos asked. He stood only two meters away with Klein barely outside his reach. "It's a Klingon disruptor," Klein replied. "An old one and rather crude, but quite effective when it comes to our kind." Methos glanced at the weapon. "You said you were unarmed." "I lied," Klein said impatiently. "I may need your help, but I'm not stupid." He grabbed his right sleeve with his teeth and pulled back the fabric, revealing a small electronic device bound to his forearm. "Have you ever seen one of these before?" Methos' gaze darted to the device and then back to Klein's face. "It's a medical sensor." "To monitor a person's life signs. This one has been modified slightly with the addition of a small subspace transmitter. If I should be killed or if I should clench my fist in a particular fashion, the transmitter will detonate a small explosive device hidden beneath a major building on this colony." For the next few seconds, Methos neither replied nor removed his gaze from Klein's face. After what felt to Klein like an eternity, the ancient Immortal glanced again at the medical device. "Which one?" Methos asked. Klein smiled. "Oh come on, what fun would it be if I told you that? All I will promise you is that many children will die if you do not give me what I want." "And that is?" Methos was playing his role precisely as Klein had expected. Sentimental fool. Against those types it was easy to use children -- even Ferengi children! -- and the threat of harming them to extort nearly anything. "All in good time," Klein rasped. "But I promise you that if you do this, no innocents will die and you may yet have a chance at my head at the end." "All right," Methos replied gravely. He didn't appear to fully believe Klein's threat of a bomb, but no matter. He knew it could be true, and that possibility forced him to give Klein some breathing room. "I'll listen." Good, thought Klein. It was all he needed. Apartment of Karen Brackett San Francisco, Earth Sol System It was unusual for Dawson to visit anyone -- especially so early in the morning -- without calling first. The fact that he was visiting Karen Brackett unannounced was stranger still. What he'd said to Georgy was true enough; the more torrid days of their relationship were long behind the both of them, even though Peter still enjoyed spending the occasional off- duty time with her. But what with all the business with the Watchers and Starfleet, he hadn't noticed Karen's persistent absence. He couldn't even recall when she'd stopped coming regularly to the informal parties the Earth-based admirals liked to throw; those were the sort of thing she'd loved in the past, gathering together with friends and peers to discuss politics and tactics. His official reason for showing up at her door -- the one he rationalized to himself -- was professional concern for her as an officer. That wouldn't stand up under scrutiny so he didn't bother examining his own motives too closely. The fleet admiral lightly tapped the door chime button with his index finger. He heard the echo of the sound within the apartment and waited. "Yes?" came a response through the intercom. Dawson decided to go for simple and direct. "Karen, it's Peter. Can I come in?" There was a long pause and Dawson began to worry about his presumption at showing up at her door like this. Despite the time they spent together, they were not nearly as close as they once were. They were professional colleagues who didn't much talk about personal matters anymore. He contemplated possible impersonal excuses for his visit, but those thoughts were cut short when the door slid open. Karen -- Admiral Brackett, he chided himself -- stood before him. She was already in uniform despite the early hour, Dawson noted. He smiled at her weakly. "Can I come in?" Karen hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Sure, Peter." She gestured for him to enter and led him into her living room. Dawson began to apologize for dropping by so early when he noticed T'Laris standing from a chair. "Good morning, Admiral," he said quickly. "Admiral Dawson," T'Laris replied with a nod. She glanced to Karen. "Admiral Brackett, I'd like to finish going over the security arrangements later today if you can find time to drop by my office." "I will, Admiral." "Excellent." T'Laris nodded at Dawson. "I'll see you at work, Admiral Dawson," she said and then left the apartment. "What was that all about?" Dawson asked mildly when they were alone. "Oh, T'Laris dropped by to talk about security for the fleet parade." Karen turned away and walked into the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink, Peter?" "No, I'm good," he replied. He watched his old friend as she jammed half an orange into the maw of a juicer. Deep space veterans like Karen hated replicators with a passion. He started clearing a patch for himself on her cluttered couch and noticed a PADD with a familiar schematic on its display. "Would you mind if I sit?" he called to her as he placed the PADD on her coffee table. "No, go ahead," she replied. A few seconds later and she joined him in the living room. "So to what do I owe this honor?" she asked with a touch of humor as she sipped her juice. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. We've missed you at Fleet HQ." She sat down on the other end of the couch, facing him. "Who's 'we'?" "Georgy and I. We were at the President's rite of passage celebration last night." Karen chuckled. "Did Georgy behave himself?" "Define 'behave.' I think he picked a fight with at least three different Council members last night over this Romulan business." "Sounds just like the man we all know and love." Dawson nodded and paused for a few moments to phrase his reply carefully. "But seriously, Karen, it's not like you to fall out of sight like this." She shook her head dismissively. "I've just got a lot of work to finish. You know how it is." "Yeah, I do. I just can't figure out why T'Laris did this?" Karen flinched noticeably. "Did what?" "Put you in charge of security," Dawson said carefully. "Are you all right?" "It's just my nerves, Peter," she replied, staring at the coffee table. "I'm stretched too thinly on this fleet parade business. My guess is T'Laris wanted me on this because a certain Deputy Director of Starfleet Operations likes to sing the praises of his old friends." Dawson chuckled at that. "I've been known to tell a few stories, all of which are true, but I certainly didn't recommended you for this. It's not like one of Starfleet's foremost tacticians doesn't have better things to do with her time than protect a man who will be surrounded by the bulk of our forces in the quadrant..." He jabbed a finger at the PADD lying on the table. "Like keeping abreast of the more illicit goings-on of Starfleet Intelligence and Tactical." "Don't even get me started on that," Karen muttered and took another sip. "A lot of their assessments are trash and it's got Nechayev's fingerprints all over it." "What do you mean? I read it and it seemed perfectly cogent." She stared at him with poorly disguised disdain for a few seconds as if formulating the most polite way to hand his ass to him. "Peter, what is the first thing they teach us about shield systems at the Academy?" "Randomize your frequency every day?" "Simpler. 'Shields may save your arse from a torpedo-'" "'But smashing into an asteroid at Warp 5 is a different story altogether,'" Dawson finished the quote from the authoritative text that everyone used. "Shields are good for many small independent threats like torpedoes... which is what we're talking about here." "Not quite. You fire fifty torpedoes at a starbase at sufficient range and chances are it could shoot down only twenty or thirty. You remember why?" "I'm not a complete desk jockey, Karen. Torpedoes can travel faster than a defense network's high resolution short range sensors can track, eliminate, and reacquire. So our shield systems are particularly designed toward quickly managing small proximity matter-antimatter explosions at random locations around the starbase for anything the phasers can't take down." "Right. But what happens if you can cloak a torpedo, and you fire it from say in a nearby nebula or behind a particularly dense asteroid where the starbase wouldn't pick up your ship decloaking. You would have to program in a curvilinear trajectory but that's not too hard to do." He knew his pride and manhood were about to be handed to him wrapped in a neat little bow, but Dawson took the bait anyway. "Yeah, big deal. So the starbase doesn't get a chance to shoot it down. So what?" "So you pack this little cloaked monstrosity to the brim with protomatter or trilithium and you blow a gigantic hole in the side of the starbase because its shields thought they were countering a puny matter- antimatter explosion." "And the starbase wouldn't be able to shoot it down because they wouldn't even know it was coming," he finished the thought for her. "Exactly. Now you need a cloaked torpedo to do this because these materials are exceedingly rare. The Romulans don't have a clue how to make protomatter; hell, I highly doubt there's anyone in the Federation who still knows who isn't under constant observation. On the other hand, anyone knows how to make trilithium. You just purify dilithium stupidly. Its saving grace is it's too damn hard to make enough of it and keep it stable long enough to do anything with." "The Dominion tried to send Bajor's sun nova with a trilithium bomb during the war," Dawson commented. It was something that had been kept relatively quiet and he doubted Karen had heard of it. She hadn't but the prospect didn't seem to surprise her. "Well, one thing the Dominion did well was prove me wrong over and over again, but I bet they had to spend about a century's worth of mining in the Gamma Quadrant to get enough of the stuff to waste it on that silly endeavor." Dawson didn't know if that was true but he suspected so. "How much would you need to do make your starbase-buster?" "A couple hundred milligrams maybe? Probably about five years' worth of mining on a major dilithium refinery station, assuming you devoted it to that and nothing else. That would be for one weapon, and you would need this new cloak to have any chance at all. But even then it's really hard to bring enough energy into the torpedo to force the trilithium to go critical before it scatters or decays. It would be very likely to fizzle if you tried to pack in any more trilithium." She paused for a moment, her mind racing at the new information Peter had given her. "I bet that's why the Dominion thought a star would work; it's a huge thermal bath." "I take it no one thought of this application in the report." "Not a word!" she cried and tossed the PADD back onto the table. "I don't want to belittle Nechayev and her people. They're bright, they really are, but they don't think creatively enough. I'm going to write up some notes and send them her way in the next couple days. Anyway, this is all low priority. The Romulans aren't going to be using this weapon anytime soon. They'd be mad to go to war against the Klingons and there isn't a snowball's chance on Vulcan they'd try to take us on." She flinched at Dawson when he broke into a smile. "What?" "I was just thinking what a waste it was for T'Laris to have you spending all this time on this fleet parade nonsense. Your talents lie elsewhere." "T'Laris is a Vulcan," said Brackett. "Maybe she just wants it done right." "What is that supposed to mean?" Dawson asked with faux outrage. "I'm just saying you're not exactly one for details," she said playfully. "Anyway, I've got to kick you out. I have some calls to make and some things to take care of. But we'll talk later, ok?" Dawson nodded and stood. "Of course. I've got to get back to work; meeting after meeting today with no end in sight." Karen followed him to the door. "I'll give you a call this weekend if I'm not too busy. Just to check in." For a moment there was something strange in Karen's eyes but then it was gone. "I'll talk to you then," she said and left Dawson alone in the hallway. Pyrrhus "Nice ship," Methos muttered. He was standing in the hatchway connecting the cramped body of the ship to the narrow single-seat cockpit with a ceiling too low for him to stand without hunching over. Klein was next to him, the two Immortals cramped together between the bulkheads. In his peripheral vision, Methos could see Klein watching him, and he had to fight an overwhelming urge to kill the man then and there. He couldn't be sure if Klein was bluffing about the bomb, and he wasn't taking any chances with innocent lives. Instead of imagining his fingers crushing Klein's windpipe, he forced himself to breathe calmly and remember lessons he learned in a place he could barely remember from the man whose killer now stood beside him. Klein stepped past Methos into the cockpit. "It does the job," he replied. "It's designed as a single-man vessel. All the major controls are accessible from this computer station. There are a couple auxiliary stations in the back. Have you ever piloted a ship before?" Methos' eyes widened. "I'm not flying this thing!" //I would never turn my back on you,// he added silently. Klein's stern expression broke a little bit when the ends of his lips curled slightly. "I'm just thinking that I might need your help if both of us are going to survive this little adventure." "Where are we going?" Methos asked. "There's a Watcher facility near here with a few things I need to pick up before we commence our adventure." "And how are we going to do that? 'Oh, hello, we're just your friendly neighborhood Immortals coming by for a cup of sugar?' I'm sure they'll just let us right in." "They had a little accident a couple of days ago. I don't think anyone there is going to be in much of a position to stop me, and if everything doesn't go precisely according to plan, I can count on you to watch my back. After all," Klein raised his right arm, "we wouldn't want all those cute little Ferengi boys and girls to die, now would we?" Methos stepped forward so that he and Klein were separated only by a few centimeters. "When this is all over, I'm going to kill you." Klein's chortle surprised Methos. "Ah, my old friend, I heartily expect you to try." He tapped his right arm with his gloved left hand. "Just mind the arm." Almost three hours had gone by since Klein had entered the cockpit and sealed the hatch behind him. Methos took the chance to familiarize himself with the ship they were traveling in. Its interior was rather nondescript, so it was difficult to tell who had built the ship. The structural material was a common alloy of plastasteel and duranium out of which nearly every modern vessel was built. The construction of the hatchways and corridor struck Methos as vaguely human, but the color scheme and lighting were darker than Starfleet standards. He found himself wondering whether Klein had built it himself, but discarded the thought; more likely the main body had come from a shipyard and upgrades made along the way. It had the look of a vessel that had gone through many a retrofit. A narrow hallway led along the axis of the ship bordered on one end by the cockpit and the other by a sealed door. Along this hall were several other doors. Directly behind the cockpit on the left was a three by four meter room containing four bunks, stacked in a pair of two beds each, but no other furniture. The next door was on the right and refused to open when Methos touched the access panel. The third door was on the left and opened into another room of about half the size of the first. There was a computer terminal with a chair against the rear bulkhead. The forward wall was bare. The port wall had a small hatch at waist level which opened into the ship's stores where were hung rows of sealed plastic bags. Methos pulled one free and tore it open. It contained a granular orange paste that Methos guessed was some sort of condensed food. It smelled terrible, so he didn't risk tasting it; instead he tossed it back inside the wall and sealed the hatch. He ignored the computer terminal at first and tried the fourth door which lay on the right side. It opened into a cramped one by two meter space with an open Jeffries tube rising from the floor to his knees. Kneeling down, Methos could see a ladder at the opposite end, about four meters away. The rhythmic hum of the warp reactor was louder here. He'd been in a few small warp-capable ships in his day; they usually had crawl spaces leading to the warp core and nacelles. He didn't bother exploring the crawl space; instead he tried the last door which stood at the aft end of the corridor. Locked. After checking that the hatch to the cockpit was still closed, Methos tried to access the computer terminal. He was surprised that the computer talked to him but soon discovered that almost every system was locked out without voice authentication. The only system which would recognize his authority was stellar navigation; he learned they were moving toward a planet in the Alioth star system at a rather impressive warp velocity, but the computer wouldn't tell him precisely how fast or when they would get there. By guessing at how much time had passed since leaving Nar Skaala, Methos estimated they would reach Alioth by the following morning. With not much else left to do, Methos returned to the bunk room, picking up his sword from where it lay by the cockpit hatch, and sat down on the bunk farthest from the door. After a moment's hesitation he lay down facing the door and placed his sword reassuringly on the ground next to him where he could grab it if necessary. He didn't trust Klein, but the truth was that Klein didn't want him dead just yet. From locking Methos in the transporter buffer to stunning him first with a disruptor, Klein could have killed him at any time, which meant that his enemy was speaking honestly at needing Methos' help for some purpose. But then again, Klein seemed less than sane, so Methos couldn't count on logic to guide too many of his enemy's actions. It would do best to stay awake and alert, just in case. Imperial Senate Building Senatorial Capital, Romulus Romulus System Sometime after his talk with Senators Loki and Talnara, Melok found himself once again in the Proconsul's office feeling a strange blend of treason and loyalty. "I wanted to thank you," Neral said, taking his hand, "for your words in the Senate yesterday. They may have turned opinion in my favor and could help prevent a war should the Klingons agree to the ceasefire. Not even the Praetorate would violate that." "To be honest, my words were my own and Pardek was in the wrong." Neral smiled and tipped his head conspiratorially towards the senator. "Ah, but you saw it, didn't you? He was beginning to lay the groundwork for the war rationale, and you deftly turned opinion against him." When Melok didn't immediately respond, Neral continued. "I take it then that you found something to substantiate what I said?" He gestured for Melok to take a seat as he paced behind his desk. "I talked with an old friend, Admiral Tellan, yesterday before the Senate meeting," Melok replied. Neral's ears perked up at the name. "Doesn't he oversee most of the R&D projects?" "Yes. He was involved in developing the cloaked torpedoes, but he told me they were abandoned for being tactically useless. His rationale seems valid to me: they could only be of practical use against stationary installations because the ship launching them would still have to decloak to fire." The Proconsul rubbed his chin as he stared out the window. "That certainly agrees with what I've heard about them. But then again no one ever accused the military command of an overabundance of rationality." "He also told me that several lesser class ships have moved to the frontier recently, but that there didn't seem to be any good reason. Then I heard earlier today from a trader who works on the edge of the frontier. He claims he's being harassed by Ferengi competition and that he isn't getting any of the support promised to him. At first, I thought it was the normal sort of bureaucratic nonsense between the Science Academy and the military, but I contacted some of the senators on the Science Academy oversight board and according to them, the military confirms that orders were given to the regional commander." "And why should he be left defenseless if the frontier is overflowing with ships?" Neral smiled as he spoke. "Exactly. The regional HQ says the ships are all on maneuvers, but what sort of maneuvers would occupy so many lighter vessels? I would think they could spare one science vessel to offer him support. The Ferengi would back down at the sight of even one of our fleetcraft." Neral sat behind his desk and leaned back as he considered Melok for a few seconds. "Do you think Admiral Tellan lied to you?" "I've known him a long time..." Melok said, trailing off at the end. He hadn't realized he'd been speaking so freely to the Proconsul. When had he decided Neral, for all his previous faults, might actually be working for the good of the Empire here? //Perhaps about the same time you realized Pardek wasn't,// he thought to himself. "I doubt it," Melok continued. "Someone's probably deceiving him about our ship movements." Neral's expression was grave now; gone was the easy smile. "Then it's almost certain that my sources are true. If memory serves, the area of the frontier closest to Ferengi space also isn't all that far from the Klingon border." He looked away from Melok as he spoke, leaving the senator with the impression he was trying to convince them both of the same facts. "They must be moving ships into position slowly, trying to keep any spies out of the loop." When he again turned his eyes back to the senator, his smile was both wan and wry. "I think I was still hoping I was wrong about this. Perhaps Pardek was right about my inexperience. These ships, they could very well be the vanguard of the invasion." "But the only ships moving through those areas are explorer ships, science ships, not an invasion fleet." "It wouldn't be too difficult to trade flight plans with a science ship. Most of our long-range installations rely on the ship's transponder code for identification. Those can be forged." "No," Melok said, shaking his head swiftly. "Tellan said our capital ships are accounted for." "Maybe he's being deceived about that, too." "I doubt it. The frontier is far enough away that it's plausible he has to rely on third or even fourth-hand reports. But our main fleet can't be hidden from any of the higher admiralty." Neral leaned forward ever so slightly and locked his eyes on Melok's. "Then he must be lying to you." Melok paused before replying. He honestly hadn't considered it a real possibility before now. "I won't accept that. I've known him too long." "Then what other explanation do you have?" Melok leaned forward in his chair. "*Your* sources may be lying to *you*. Maybe we're looking at something else entirely. Something nonmilitary. Perhaps a major scientific breakthrough." The words came as quickly as his mind could supply them. "Most of the Academy's work in controlling wormholes is conducted out on the frontier. If they made a major discovery, it would make sense to secretly funnel explorer and science class vessels out to the area." "And they would certainly want to keep any major scientific discovery under wraps. Fine, but why lie to Tellan then? Wouldn't he be kept in the loop about all of it? Don't you think you would be? That I would be?" "Why lie to him if we were going to war? How could a major offensive be planned without the knowledge of the higher admiralty?" "Which brings us back to him lying to you." "No, that doesn't make any sense. If he were covering up a planned invasion, there would be no reason to tell me about the ships moving out to the frontier. That only corroborates the suspicion that something secret is going on." Neral paused, digesting what Melok had said. Then he rotated his chair to stair out the large window behind him. "My sources were rather insistent," he said after a moment of contemplation. Melok stood and walked around the desk to join the Proconsul before the window. "Where did you hear about this from?" Neral looked up at the senator and shook his head. "I can't reveal that." "I've told you everything I know." "But if the Praetorate found out what Tellan told you, it would mean nothing to him. He pled ignorance about any matters that border on treason. My contacts are facing death if their identities are discovered." "And what makes you think you can trust them?" Melok asked, tossing Neral's words back at him. "The same thing that makes you think you can trust Tellan," Neral said. "I had my doubts; I told you that. But everything you found, everything you told me here, corroborates my contacts. There could be other explanations but none that make such sense as what I suspect even you are now coming to believe. Melok, someone is making a point of either keeping the admiralty out of the loop or having them lie to the Senate; that tells me that this isn't simply a local operation. As paranoid as the Praetorate would be, they would never shut out the higher admiralty unless the situation were grave." The senator was about to reply but Neral stayed him with a hand against his shoulder. "Melok, I'm still a young man, but I have many well-placed allies, and I'm no stranger to intrigue. I've gotten this position, an honor usually reserved for the most senior senators, because I know when to trust my instincts and my friends. This is a military buildup we have on our hands, and it's leading not to a conflict over Narendra but an invasion. I didn't want to believe it, but I don't have that luxury anymore, and frankly, neither do you." Presidential Mansion Paris, Earth Sol System Dawson hadn't read Dante's Inferno since grade school, but he had a sneaking suspicion that while the party he'd attended the night before would be located on the seventh circle, his current meeting had to lie squarely in the ninth. He and Schine were supposed to be briefing the Council President on the Romulan-Klingon ceasefire proposal, but he suspected any constructive information sharing had ceased about a minute before. "Well, Mr. President," Commander Schine was saying, "you should feel free to 'take my recommendation under advisement,' as you say. I will be glad to communicate my own personal recommendation to the Chancellor and his government. " In that moment he was saying something else entirely: that he was the Executive of the Federation with his Defense Secretary at his side, standing in the office of the Council President and making it his own. Dawson had realized something was up the moment Schine had expressed enthusiasm at the prospect of bringing his proposal to President Doli, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized just why. "Do you have an alternative suggestion, Commander?" Doli asked. The Andorian was sitting behind a desk staring up at the man across from him. At some point he'd completely forgotten Dawson was in the room. "As a matter of fact, I do," Schine replied. "You could make your recommendation to the Klingon Chancellor and then we could submit a joint resolution to the Federation Council on the Romulan question. It would call for the granting to your office carte blanche to negotiate with the Romulan ambassador in the interests of peace. I think the current environment in the Council, with this unprecedented possibility of a ceasefire between the Klingons and Romulans, would be especially favorable to such a motion." Dawson almost laughed at the CnC's offer. A hand grenade disguised as a white flag. He was rather glad Doli didn't fall for it. "I see," the President said. "And what would I receive in turn?" "I understand it's in the interests of your office to keep Starfleet's role minimal in any peace proceedings with the Romulan Star Empire. I am entirely amicable to that arrangement and would be happy to keep my own role in this matter quiet. After all, the Romulan ambassador really ought to have approached you first, Mr. President." And there it was, Dawson thought. "Yes, he really ought to have," Doli replied. "Admiral Dawson, might I ask your opinion?" Schine turned to look at the admiral, too. Dawson chose his words carefully. "Diplomacy is the purview of this office, Mr. President." "Then we're in agreement," Commander Schine concluded. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Mr. President." "Delightful as always, Commander Schine." Imperial Senate Building Senatorial Capital, Romulus Romulus System "He'll be with you in just a moment, Senator," said the young assistant whose desk occupied the hall outside Pardek's office. Melok nodded in reply and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and staring at the elaborate carpet that covered the floor. The central image was the former emblem of the Romulan Senate dating from before the Praetorate had taken the reins of power. There were two planets in the center, Romulus and its sister world Remus. Below them flew the proud image of an eagle, and above lay the ancient books of law. If Melok recalled correctly, that older Senate emblem had once been the official seal of the Empire. He noted that the carpet was fraying at the edges, but from the fine craftsmanship of the embroidery, he knew the fraying had to be from age rather than shoddiness. "Senator?" Melok looked up from the carpet. "Yes?" "He's ready to see you," the woman said. She examined him more closely for a moment and asked, "Are you feeling all right, sir?" He smiled to put her at ease. "I'm fine. It's just been a long day." He walked past her and pushed open the doors. They gave way easily, because motors hidden in the hinges did most of the work for him. Pardek was seated at the far end behind a large wooden desk. He was bent over the desk, writing on a piece of paper, but he bade Melok enter. Melok complied, closing the door behind him. "Please, sit," said Pardek, "and excuse me while I finish this up. Silly bureaucratic business." Melok smiled in unfeigned sympathy. "I know what you mean." Briskly crossing the short distance between door and desk, Melok seated himself in one of the two chairs before Pardek's desk. Pardek signed his name across the bottom of the page in an elaborate gesture and dropped the pen in a holder. He picked up the sheet and slid it into a folder, which he dropped in an opaque basket on the corner of his desk. "Can I get you anything?" he asked as he stood. He walked over to the left wall and waved his hand in front of a section; it silently slid open to reveal a small bar. "Water is fine," Melok said. As Pardek poured the glasses, Melok cleared his throat and asked the question that had been on his mind since yesterday. "What is it you'd like to discuss with me?" He was startled to hear Pardek chuckle as he finished pouring the drinks. Pardek carried them back to the desk and handed the tumbler of water to Melok as he took a sip from a clear blue liquid -- ale, Melok guessed by the tint and the pungent aroma he could smell even from across the desk. "Something of a rather delicate nature." Pardek pressed his thumb firmly down on a section of the desk, which flipped open to reveal a small green button. After pushing it in, he closed the panel and smiled at Melok. "Now we can talk freely. I'm never certain that my office isn't bugged." "Paranoia and public service do seem to go hand in hand," Melok said. "It's funny you should say that. I've heard that you've been speaking with Proconsul Neral rather regularly the past few days." So this was what it was about. "I wouldn't call it that. There have been matters we've had reason to discuss." "I don't doubt that," Pardek said. "I also hear that you've made some rather indelicate inquiries from certain officers in the military about the current disposition of our forces." Melok smiled calmly. "Curiosity is something I still think valuable. Even in this most sardonic of ages." "Both curious and sardonic are words that described you succinctly when we were closer friends than we are now, but it's been many years since then, and I'm beginning to wonder if you haven't grown senile in your age, Melok." "Pardek, I don't have time for games. What is your point?" "Proconsul Neral is not what he seems. I know he's portrayed himself to you as having some sort of pacifist position, but I have sources who tell me that he's deeply wedded to their agenda." Melok took a sip of water and nodded. "Certainly that's crossed my mind, but then again you do not lack your unfortunate ties to the more extreme elements in our government, now do you, Pardek?" "And yet you trust him and not me." "I never said I didn't trust you, Pardek." "No, not in so many words, but I thought you made the subtext rather clear yesterday. I'm going to be totally honest with you, Melok. It's not something I do very often, and I hope it is not wasted on you. Yes, I have allies in the military. Among them was the late Praetor. Things are tense right now, and some of us believe that Neral may be planning some sort of power play, perhaps setting himself up as the new Praetor. The newer commanders in the Praetorate who seem ready to replace the senior committee when they retire all have extensive ties to the Tal-Shiar, and if my sources are to be trusted, so does Proconsul Neral." "The secret police?" Melok said scornfully. "What reason would the Tal-Shiar have to concern themselves with a civilian leader?" "They want power. Maybe he promised it to them in return for their assistance." Melok broke out in open laughter and part of him delighted at the annoyance that flashed across Pardek's face. "So how does the bastard bureaucratic child of an intelligence and police agency and one weak Senate leader overthrow the collective might of our military?" "If I knew that," Pardek said, all traces of civility gone from his expression, "I wouldn't be bothering myself with a drunken has-been like you, now would I?" "Tell me something, Pardek," Melok said as he finished his water and placed the glass on the desk between them. "What do you know about the disposition of our forces?" Pardek seemed disappointed that Melok had not responded to the insult, and the last question visibly caught him off-balance. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Do you realize that hundreds of our ships are moving around secretly out near the frontier? That they're likely moving toward the Klingon border and that in a month or two, we may be at war?" "Did Neral tell you that?" "He didn't need to. The evidence is there for anyone willing to look." "I can tell you with certainty that there is no such plan," Pardek said. "I've spoken today with two members of the Praetorate's senior committee, and as far as they know, all our ships are right where they ought to be. Perhaps Neral is deliberately deceiving you." "For what purpose?" "That's what I'd like to know. It's why I asked you here. Help me figure out what Neral's plan is." "If the senior committee thought Neral was up to anything, why not just interrogate him directly?" Melok asked, feeling more daring as the conversation went on. "Or even kill him. We've not been lacking in our share of political assassinations." "Because there is uncertainty about the power balance. They're trying to maintain control of the military. Their younger colleagues, many of them allies of Neral, are gathering support... perhaps even planning a coup." "And if they can get both you and I to come out against Neral, the military's regime is secured." "I'd prefer to think of it as stabilizing our government." "I'm sure you would." Pardek bit down lightly on his lower lip and locked his gaze with Melok's for a few seconds before replying, "I suppose that you're not going to help me." "I've been asked by one man to side with him against a destructive war and by another to believe that no such war is planned when all evidence points to the contrary. What would you do?" "A few missing ships is hardly what I would consider solid evidence." "But it's more than you're giving me." Before Pardek could reply, Melok continued, "But tell me this. If Neral is planning some sort of coup as you say, why involve me? I have nothing that he needs. Any support I show him would evaporate the moment I discover he's lying to me. So why bring me into any of this?" "Why bring you into it if he's telling the truth? The only reason we're even talking here right now is because Neral first approached you. Why did he do it?" "Maybe because he knew I could confirm his suspicions. Maybe because he thought support from an elder senator would help him." "Unlikely." "And yet somehow more likely than Neral being a Tal-Shiar puppet." Pardek looked away and angrily downed the remainder of his drink. He set the empty glass down in front of him and focused his gaze on it rather than Melok. "Try to keep an open mind. Or if you don't trust me, fine; but don't trust him either." Pardek looked up from the glass to Melok. "And be careful." "If that's all, Senator?" Melok asked as he stood. "That is all, Melok." Melok nodded and left Pardek with the empty glasses. Starfleet Command Headquarters San Francisco, Earth Sol System Dawson was in his office for nearly fifteen seconds cursing continuously under his breath before noticing with a startled jerk the man sitting quietly in the corner. "Damn, you scared me," he said. "What are you doing here?" "Waiting for you." The admiral walked around his desk to take a seat behind it. "What do you need?" The other man stood and walked over to the admiral's desk. "We got your message this morning. Things didn't turn out well." "A researcher and an Immortal dead, the diary lost, and a murderer still free? I would think not." "There's more." Dawson glanced up from his perusal of his daily schedule. "What happened?" "We received word from the authorities at Riza that Pierce Lagrange is dead." "I'm not familiar with the name." The man nodded. "It's doubtful that you would have ever come across him. He was a researcher on the Methos Chronicle." "You think it was an Immortal?" Dawson asked. "We don't think; we know. Lagrange's home has full silent video surveillance of the downstairs floor." The Watcher walked over to Dawson and handed him an isolinear chip. "Take a look." Dawson stared at the chip for a moment and then back up at the Watcher. No time for a weak stomach now. He put the chip in the socket reader for his desk terminal and watched the silent video unfold. Lagrange was at his desk when something (a knock? a doorbell?) made him look up and proceed to the front door. The camera view switched, following the only motion in the apartment, and showed him open the door. A flurry of black burst into the apartment and knocked Lagrange to the floor. "Klein," Dawson said. The Immortal bound Lagrange to a chair. After a minute or so of walking around him presumably asking questions, Klein backhanded Lagrange and then left to use the computer terminal in the office. That apparently proved unsuccessful as he soon returned to the Watcher with more questions. Then he pulled out his sword and held it to Lagrange's throat. Finally the Watcher started speaking frantically, and Klein lowered the weapon. He returned to the computer, and after a few minutes he came back to put tape over the bound man's mouth, and start walking toward the door. "Now, the best part," the Watcher said. "He's just about to leave, but changes his mind." Klein paused before the front door. He reached up and held his head with left hand and then turned around. He walked across the room, pulled his sword back out of his coat, and took Lagrange's head clean off. Dawson looked away at the last moment and bit hard on his lip to steady his stomach. "He wipes off the sword and then he's gone," the Watcher commented. "Brutal bastard." "You think he's going after Methos?" Dawson asked after his queasiness subsided. He looked up and stared at the grainy final image of a decapitated body bound to a chair. "We contacted Methos' Watcher on Nar Skaala," the Watcher said. "She went by to check on him, and he's gone. No sign of a struggle; he's just gone. We sent her a list of ships that came to and from Riza yesterday, and one of them matched a ship at Nar Skaala." "What is it you want me to do?" asked Dawson finally, but he had already made his decision. "Whatever Methos is up to, we know Klein is a killer. He's killed innocent people in the past, and now he's killed a Watcher. Admiral, you're aware of the standing orders concerning certain Immortals. Klein is on this rather short list. Considering what he did to Pierce Lagrange, I don't see why we shouldn't think twice about terminating him." "I want him brought in. Use any means necessary, but leave his head on. If we're going to do this, we do it right." "Some of my men might not appreciate that order." "Make them understand," Dawson said. "He's a murderer, but we're Starfleet officers. There are rules that we follow." "Understood, sir." After the Watcher left, Admiral Dawson called the members of the Watcher Tribunal and requested a meeting. Lorra House Dakhor Province, Romulus Romulan System The call came in the afternoon while Bela was busy looking through the refrigerator trying to decide what to make for dinner. It was custom to eat a large lunch and then a light salad or other vegetarian dish for dinner, but Kala had her advanced math class during lunch time, which left her free only to eat a small sandwich and some fruit; so Bela was thinking of preparing some sort of meat salad with a thick soup as a side. After the sixth ring, she no longer could ignore the shrill annoyance of the telecom. "Answer, audio only," she shouted as she pulled a roll of sprouts from the bottom drawer. "Yes?" "Madame Lorra, is that you?" She didn't recognize the heavily accented voice. "Yes, this is she." "This is Subcommander Reykjava," the man replied. "I used to work with your husband." "Oh, hello, Reykjava. It's good to hear from you." Lorra had spoken occasionally of him, but he'd always kept his work life separate from his home. The elder police officer was one of the few exceptions, and she recalled Lorra had invited him over for dinner once or twice. He'd been a pleasant enough fellow, but she hadn't seen or heard anything from the tall southerner since the funeral and even then he'd stayed with the other officers away from the family. "I am apologizing for calling in the middle of the day, but there is a situation with your daughter." Bela was so distracted by his verb conjugation -- southerners tended to learn the official Rihannsu dialect only in school -- that the meaning behind his awkward phrasing took a moment to strike her. "Kala? Is she ok?" "Your daughter is fine, Madame Lorra, but there was a thief on the transit. He took a medal of some sort from her. Fortunately, one of the other passengers took notice and intervened. We have him in a holding cell down at the station. We are hoping you can come down and help us take care of everything." "I'll be right there." Provincial Enforcement Center Dakhor Province, Romulus Romulan System "Mother, I'm so sorry. I know I wasn't supposed to, but I thought my teacher would like it so much-" Kala was cut off by her mother's suffocating hug. Bela pulled back and examined her daughter. "Are you ok? Did he hurt you?" Kala's initial response was a look of absolute befuddlement, as if it hadn't even occurred to her that she might have been injured. "No," she replied. "I was in the back row of students and he took it without me seeing. Somebody else saw and stopped him." Kala looked up at a man who was quietly standing beside her. Bela felt rude for having completely ignored the man until then. From his uniform, she could tell he was a subcommander in the public police force. He looked vaguely familiar, so she took that as her cue. "Reykjava, isn't it?" The officer nodded. As a southerner, he was taller, his eyes thinner, and his skin tone lighter than the average Rihannsu. He smiled down at Kala. "I have been keeping her company until you arrived." "Little one, I need to talk with Subcommander Reykjava. Can you sit here until I get back?" Kala nodded. "Of course." Bela followed Reykjava as they walked outside of her daughter's hearing range. "Where is the thief?" "We have him downstairs in a cell by himself." "Would it be acceptable if we just skipped the preliminaries?" "I would rather not. He is a thief, although a petty one, and the law is clear that the responsible party should confront him. Your daughter is still too young, so the responsibility falls to you." Petty theft was considered a crime against person rather than against the state, so the victim had the responsibility to confront and demand restitution from the perpetrator. "I'd rather not be alone with him," she said after a moment of thought. Although he tried to hide it, Bela noticed Reykjava had flinched a bit at her comment. Maybe, she supposed, he thought she was afraid to be alone with such a common criminal? The hallway of holding cells was alternately lit on each side by the diffuse glow of the force fields. All but one of the cell fields gave off a dark blue light, which indicated that while one could see into the cells, the prisoner could neither see nor hear anything outside; the single exception was a red window a little less than halfway down the hallway. Someone, probably Reykjava, had been thoughtful enough to leave a chair in front of the cell. "Touch this," Reykjava said. He was referring to a glowing panel on the control desk that monitored the holding cells. Bela silently complied. "Now you'll be able to open his cell. If you wish." His pronunciation of the last sentence was awkwardly stressed, but Bela didn't bother wondering at it. She headed straight down the hallway. It felt faintly dishonorable to look at someone who couldn't look back, so she kept her eyes locked on the far end of the corridor. When she reached the red window of light, she took a calming breath and then sat down in the chair. The thief was a short thin boy of not more than twenty years. His wavy, almond hair was shiny with grease and dirt. Unlike the other prisoners, he still wore the clothes he was caught in. "Are you the girl's mom?" he asked after a long moment of silence. "Yes," Bela replied. "You stole the medallion from her." The thief nodded, and in the gesture there seemed a mix of defiance and genuine fear, neither of which surprised Bela. Robbery was not generally looked well upon, and to rob one with ties to the higher class would be nothing short of the greatest foolishness. Certainly the youth knew this, and Bela could easily guess what he was thinking. "Why?" she asked with genuine interest. "It looked expensive," the thief chirped. His voice broke when he spoke, either from terror or puberty. "I needed to buy some food." He didn't look ill-fed from her glancing inspection. "Do you know who my father is?" Bela asked. "Someone said a senator," the boy whispered. "That's right. For that reason alone, I could get you the highest punishment -- fifteen years' hard labor. Does that sound pleasant?" He made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry. "But then again I am a commissioned officer in the Imperial Fleet, so if I wanted to I could probably get a lot worse." The boy made no noise this time, but his face blanched further. She noticed his hands were trembling in his lap, and for some reason that startled her. "I'm going to do you a favor today," she said. "Your punishment will be thirty hours of community service. Don't rob anyone else; I don't think the elements will be so kind to you next time." She stood and walked back the way she'd come. No more sounds followed her from the boy's cell and she guessed he must have been shocked. She certainly was. "That was good of you," Reykjava commented quietly as he reset the cloaking barrier on the boy's cell. "You know the normal punishment is five years in prison for petty theft. If you had not come, he would have received that." "I know. It hardly seems worth it. It was only a medal. We could have gotten another one." He nodded at that as if it explained some deep conundrum. "Still, it was kind of you. I wish others were so merciful. We have had another ten such cases this week." "That's a rather surprising amount of petty crime for Dakhor, isn't it?" "It is. Most were caught stealing food." "I hadn't known the food prices were so high." Reykjava gave her a puzzled look. "My family's basic allowances are subsidized by the Imperial Fleet," Bela said. "I hardly ever look at the prices at the market." "Oh, I see. But yes, they are rather high these days. Troubling. It's been that way ever since the Dominion War." They rode the elevator back up to the ground floor in silence. On their way back to the main waiting room, Reykjava, unnerved by the silence, tried to make idle conversation. "So I should ask how is your father these days?" "His job is very time consuming." "Will you tell him I said hello when you next see him?" "Of course," Bela said, and for a long moment she considered augmenting her reply with a question. She wanted both to inquire how Reykjava knew her father and to avoid going into the uncomfortable details of her relationship with him. In the end she chose silence. Merchant Vessel Kintaro En route to Nar Skaala In the cockpit of the Kintaro, neither man spoke as they watched the starlines drift by at warp speed. An indeterminate amount of time had passed since MacLeod and Mulder had spoken with Admiral Dawson and already the Highlander had excused himself to catch a short nap while Mulder kept vigil at the helm. Ship traffic was light and they hadn't crossed paths with another vessel in hours, partly due to their straying from the delineated civilian flight paths in the interests of speed. Mulder wasn't in the mood for conversation for reasons MacLeod shared, but the Highlander had tried anyway with limited results. For the last several minutes he had entertained himself attempting to identify each component sound he could hear in the cockpit, but that was a game he'd played many times before and it wasn't long before even that grew tiring. "You should get some sleep," MacLeod finally said. "Bajwa will be calling back soon," Mulder replied. "Do you really think this is going to be of much use? You said yourself you think Jessica's dead. What clues would we find at her home we didn't find at Klein's?" "I think there was more going on with her and Klein than we know about. And before I can wager a guess about where Klein's going and what he'll be doing, I have to know what he's done and where he's been." Silence. An eternal minute passed before MacLeod spoke again. "What's our ETA to Nar Skaala?" "Does it matter? He was gone long before we heard he was there." Mulder paused for a moment and when he spoke again his voice was softer. "So this is the Methos I've heard so much about?" "The very same." "I almost met him once, didn't I?" MacLeod smiled. "He tried to take Klein's head off in Duncan's dojo. That's pretty high up there on the memorable scale." "Yeah, I'll say." Silence again, broken minutes later by MacLeod's non sequitur: "You know I had no idea Klein might do something like that." "Like what?" "Kill someone in cold blood, a Watcher especially." "Very little in these past few days has made any sort of sense. Do you think this Methos is dead?" "I honestly couldn't say, but I'm starting to trust your instincts." Mulder smiled. "It took you long enough." Another minute or two passed and then MacLeod spoke again. "You know there's something I'd always wanted to talk to you about." "We'd have to be cooped up in here a hell of a lot longer before I start entertaining those sorts of extreme possibilities." His voice was deadpan enough that it took MacLeod about a second or two to process it. "Fuck you, Mulder," was his chosen reply. "I'm just saying." "Anyway, my story." "I could put some popcorn on." MacLeod leaned back in his chair and wedged his knees against the control panel. "Did Susan ever tell you about the time she and I took the trip to Rigel?" "I remember the time she went after she graduated from the Academy. I don't recall you going with her." "Oh. I may have met her there. I can't remember if we'd arranged it before that." "I guess she didn't want me to know about that. I'm feeling really good about you right now, MacLeod. Keep in mind this is my only daughter you're talking about." Mulder's voice remained a cold monotone but there was an undercurrent of amusement that prodded MacLeod forward with his story. "There was this old freighter that ran the last leg of the trading run from Sirius to Rigel that we hitched a ride with. Now I remember: I met her at a way station on some backwater somewhere and we paid for passage on this ore-hauling freighter with Academy credits. Susan still had a bunch packed away in her bag and the freighter captain, this weasel little Tellurite kept making passes at her, but it turned out he couldn't tell the difference between Terran merchant coinage and Academy credits." "It's nice to know you were seducing her to a life of crime even then." "Anyway, we're on this junk freighter heading to Rigel, and she gets it into her head that I've never done a warp EVA before so we have to try that out. So we borrow some EVA suits from the captain and we climb out an airlock and lock ourselves to the hull with magnetic boots. Right there, cruising along at Warp 5." "I'm really loving this story a lot." "So we're out there for a while and I think her oxygen mix was a bit off because she broke into this whole monologue about the universe needing to prepare itself for her and how we were going to paint Rigel red and right then the starboard power coupling -- which has been acting up the whole trip -- finally shorts out. The power surge demagnetizes the hull and all of a sudden we're floating away from the ship and a second or two later we fall through the warp shell and find ourselves in deep space." MacLeod smiled and shook his head. "I think we were out there for about an hour before the Tellurite came back and found us. I hardly said three words to her the rest of the trip." "You are never ever going anywhere near my daughter again." "She wanted to do it. And the whole time we're out there, she's joking about how many ways you would kill me if you ever found out, and then as soon as we get to Rigel, she calls Dana and tells her the whole story. And Dana just looks at her, shakes her head, and closes the comm channel." "She didn't tell me about it." "I think she was afraid you would actually kill me over that. Dana loved teasing you about my friendship with Susan, but I guess this would've been a bit much." He didn't realize what he'd said until he noticed Mulder's disconcerted silence. "'Loves,' MacLeod. Present tense. Don't start mourning her yet." His voice was back to its colder tone but with a tougher edge than before. MacLeod almost retorted that he hadn't meant it that way but he realized it would have been a lie and Mulder would have seen right through it. Instead he opted for silence and then the old standby: "You should get some sleep." "I'll get some sleep before we catch up to Klein. I just can't right now. Besides Bajwa should be calling back... about now." He leaned forward and touched the comm panel. "This is Fox Mulder on the Kintaro; I read you, Akbar. Go ahead." "I have the holorecorder programmed at this end, Mr. Mulder. Whenever you're ready." "Stand by," Mulder replied. He slipped a pair of transparent lenses over his eyes. They were connected by thin cords to a pair of metal discs which MacLeod affixed to Mulder's temples. "You want to tell me what a legal tradesman like yourself is doing with a portable VR set?" Mulder asked as he plugged into the communications panel. "Long distance inspection of property," MacLeod replied. "It's always a good idea to examine from a safe distance what sort of goods people want you to transport." "Thought so. It would be just my luck if these fry my brain, wouldn't it?" "We'll find out in about ten seconds," MacLeod said. "You're good to go." "All right, Akbar. Let's do this." The lenses covering Mulder's eyes darkened leaving only the edges of his vision illuminated. He could see MacLeod to one side monitoring the communications console. To the other he could see the grey metal of the ship's hull. Before himself he saw nothing. "Check your connection; I'm getting nothing on my end," he said. He heard a muttered curse and the sharp smack of a hand against metal and then in a flash the lenses cleared to show a poorly lit apartment light years away. Mulder inclined his head and his point of view slid forward about a meter and a half. He turned a bit and his vision rotated 180 degrees to reveal a short human standing next to the angular frame of a tripod-mounted holorecorder. "Can you see me now?" Bajwa asked. "Yeah," Mulder said. "I'm situated about a meter in front of you." "Pretty cool, huh?" the Watcher said. "I'd prefer the Orion slave channel, but we've got work to do first." The most surprising fact about the distant Earth colony of Antioch was its social character; it was originally founded two centuries earlier by Catholic separatists frustrated by the pervasive secular nature of Earth life. The colony (now numbering about two hundred thousand) was officially ruled by an elected parliament but allowed an oversight council of monks and religious devotees seldom-used veto power. Its primary export (besides volumes of theology generally unread by much of the Federation) seemed to be vegetable products which were carried from Antioch by a semi- annual parade of traders. It wasn't the first world a Watcher would look to find a powerful Immortal, but somehow it was exactly the sort of place where Mulder would have expected to find a mass murderer of Jessica's stripe. Maybe that was due to his experience with the Teglar; maybe it was due to his discomfort with religion; but whatever the reason, he found himself unsurprised to hear that Jessica had spent much of the last four decades cloistered away in the Brothers and Sisters of Divine Poverty monastery. Well, the story didn't exactly begin there, as far as Akbar Bajwa was concerned: Jessica had spent the better part of the 21st and 22nd centuries on a killing spree unmatched among her contemporaries. That wasn't saying much on an absolute scale, according to Bajwa. The history of the Immortals was one of gradually declining ferocity. Barring the Kurgan's rampage during the latter half of the 20th century, the increasing horrors that mortal men wrought upon each other generally correlated with a pronounced softening of the harsh 'kill or be killed' ethic that had so dominated Immortal society for generations. Part of it almost certainly could be blamed on the higher density of the mortal population; the need for secrecy in an age of instant news belied a long trail of headless corpses. Then the end of the Third World War gave birth not only to world peace but to a renewed spirit of space exploration that spread even to the most ancient of Immortals. With their mortal brethren, they passed beyond the boundaries of the solar system, first on sleeper ships and then on more sophisticated warp-equipped vessels. They settled colonies and lived their secret lives as they had for generations on Earth. All the extra room only meant that those who left Earth would seldom encounter each other. Jessica Haile was an anomaly in the system. At some point after the carnage of the Romulan War, some observant Watcher took notice of a pattern in the killings of Immortals far from Earth. It wasn't particularly apparent until five Immortals who had settled in a loose community on Dalven were found slaughtered. The forensic team had determined that all five were murdered within seconds of each other. Three had been armed. And so the story grew and myth obscured fact until nearly every unexplained beheading was placed on her doorstep. Conservative estimates gave her count at five hundred; more liberal estimates passed a thousand. Most of those killed were relatively young. In terms of raw power, this left Jessica Haile not particularly exceptional. That she had so single-mindedly and effectively pursued her goals was what made her frightening. And then she'd stopped. No one knew why. Deaths ceased being attributed to her. Eager Watchers stopped guessing they'd seen her in a crowded bar. Some suggested that she'd finally been killed. And then Akbar Bajwa had tracked her down on the colony world of Antioch almost by chance: she'd used a passport with her picture to procure a weapons permit for a phaser. Since Antioch was a relatively small colony, his first task was to find a reason to be there. That was easy. Antioch was deficient in a number of areas, most critically in ocean travel. For that reason alone he'd been trained for months in oceanic engineering so that his position in the colony could be secured. (He was currently employed by the local harbor master as a mechanic and general engineer responsible for keeping Antioch's sea vessels operating at full capacity.) And so he'd spent the last five years of his life living and working on this distant colony trying to reconstruct the life of a woman he could only observe from a distance. During the majority of that time, Jessica had alternated between a small apartment on the outskirts of the only major city and a room in the monastery inside of which Bajwa had never dared to venture. He'd never been able to ascertain why Jessica had come to Antioch, but he had more than a few guesses as to why she'd left. "Her name was Serena Park," Bajwa said as he led his invisible disembodied companion through the apartment. "Jessica met her in the monastery. She was a devotee and planning to join permanently." "Were they lovers?" Mulder's voice asked. "I'm not sure," Bajwa replied, "but I highly doubt it. They were more like sisters, pardon the pun. I don't quite know what it was Serena offered her, but maybe it was her innocence, the way she saw the world simply and plainly. I talked with her once or twice, a great risk I know, and she seemed a truly exceptional person." "And then. There's always a then." "Then she got sick. She developed a debilitating adult form of Nather's Syndrome. Once she became symptomatic, her nervous system disintegrated in a matter of weeks." "There's no cure for that?" "Not for the adult variant. Jessica requested that she be cryogenically frozen at the point of death, and the monastery agreed. That surprised me, considering their views on death, but I suppose there are always exceptions." "Then Jessica left." "Then she left. I would have gone after her but I wasn't sure she wasn't coming back, and securing work here was hard enough without alienating my employer. It was probably good I didn't, or else I'd likely be dead like so many of our colleagues." "Death of a friend drives an Immortal over the edge? That's starting to sound like a cliche. Somehow I don't buy it." "Well, it's not like there's much to go on here." Akbar Bajwa was right about that. The apartment was sparse and not particularly interesting. It was equipped with a kitchen and refrigeration unit which were stocked with stale and rotting food items. There was a small living room with a couch, some chairs, and an old portable computer unit that was connected to a terminal and a dust-covered PADD which Bajwa found shoved under a pillow. There was also a small bedroom with a mattress and a desk. "What about the computer?" Mulder asked. "Can you check the contents?" It turned out to be encrypted. 'Serena' didn't work as a password; that would have been too easy. After some thought, Mulder suggested the next obvious choice, but 'Klein' also failed to unlock it. Bajwa was readying an aggressive computer virus when inspiration struck and Mulder suggested 'Ignatius' and then 'Evodius.' The second worked. "He was the first Christian bishop of the old Earth city of Antioch," he explained to Bajwa as he advanced his point of view to peer over the Watcher's shoulder at the computer terminal. Watcher Headquarters Seattle, Earth Sol System "Do you have an update for us?" asked the first member of the Watcher Tribunal after Dawson stepped into the boardroom. The look on his face said that he didn't think it necessary for Dawson to update them in person. "Yes, I do, but I don't think it's the kind you're looking for. This morning I learned of another Watcher's death. Another researcher, Pierce Lagrange, who works on the Methos Chronicle. Klein killed him." "Klein?" asked the second Tribunal member with poorly disguised disbelief. "He hasn't surfaced in years." "Well, he's out now, and I think it's hardly a coincidence that his only known student picks the same time to go on a rampage." "You think the two are related?" asked the second member. "They almost certainly are." "Well, we will take this matter under advisement-" "I don't think you understand," said Dawson. "Another man is dead. How many more deaths are we going to allow before we do something?" "Admiral Dawson," the first Tribunal member exclaimed, "that's quite enough." "Yes," Dawson said, "it is. This morning I sent an order to the Watchers under my direct command. I have instructed them that both Klein and Jessica are to be detained at once." The first Tribunal member looked as if Dawson had slapped him. The third member who had until now remained silent finally spoke: "Admiral, this is -" "I'm not finished," Dawson stated forcefully and his tone shut them up immediately. "They will be detained, without killing them permanently, and they will be returned to Earth. When they get here, we are going to put them on trial for the murders they have committed. When they are convicted, they will either be locked away for the rest of their lives, or they will be executed. No more innocent people will die on my watch." "This is absurd. You have no authority beyond what this Council grants you!" shouted the first member. "I think you'll find that your personnel in the military are Watchers second and Starfleet officers first. The way I see it, either you agree to this, or the entire Starfleet infrastructure on which this organization stands will be removed." The second member remained impassive. "This is extortion." "No, this is somebody finally having the guts to do the right thing. I'm offering the rest of you the chance to do it, too. In your hearts, you know we can't just stand by. We have to do something." Gorka Province, Romulus Romulus System It took nearly five hours for a package Melok carefully stuck to the bottom of a public transit bench to make it across Romulus and into the hands of the only half-human Vulcan on the planet. It contained several sheets of paper written in an elegant hand detailing the senator's interaction with the Proconsul and others over the past two days. In a short hurried prose, Melok described his supposition that the Narendra issue would likely serve as a flashpoint for a Romulan invasion of Klingon space, making use of their new weapon to gain an early and decisive strategic advantage. With the Klingons too weak to put up a major fight, they would likely fall within a month. Melok's recommendation was for Spock to contact his government and have them put pressure on the Klingons to take advantage of the temporary truce with the Romulans; Spock saw the reasons Melok only hinted at, but he would make sure to outline them clearly in his next communique. After dispatching his analysis and summation to his Starfleet contact, Spock took a well-needed walk to reflect on the situation. That peaceful contemplation was interrupted when he came across three young Romulans, a male and two females, locked in heated debate. As he no longer wore a universal translator -- such devices were too easily detected and remarkably effective at raising suspicion -- it took him a moment to understand the rapid-fire dialect of the discussion. Keeping track of the myriad of Romulan dialects was not an easy task even for a man of his intelligence. "It is a general principle that all rational beings ought to agree upon!" said one of the girls, who looked barely out of her schooling years. "Rational, bah!" the boy replied with a dismissive shake of his head. Although Spock attempted to walk by quietly, the boy noticed him and beckoned him over. "Sir, please, if you have but a moment." No one referred to him by his name, instead defaulting to one of the many ancient Romulan honorifics. Spock nodded politely. "I am at your disposal." "We were discussing the philosophical debate in proto-Romulan circles." The human side of Spock's psyche was mildly annoyed whenever he heard a Romulan refer to their common ancestors as proto-Romulan, but he let the matter of nomenclature slide for now. "Specifically," the boy continued, "the competing orders of morality before the sundering of our peoples." "I presume the subject of debate is the objective hypothesis of S'Task." It always was. "Partly," interjected the talkative girl -- which was how Spock was now thinking of her. He noted that the other girl remained silent, though her eyes followed the discussion with obvious interest. "We were reading that copy of Surak's _Principles of Logic_ that you'd brought with you, and we came upon a reference we cannot track down." It was unsurprising, Spock thought to himself. Vulcan texts, especially those authored by Surak's school of thought, were strictly forbidden within the Romulan Star Empire. When the girl did not immediately continue, Spock prodded her with a nod. "It's in the section of the _Principles_ where Surak argues that his philosophical system is the logical outgrowth of the prior history of Vulcan moral thinking." "I am familiar with those chapters," Spock said. "I presume you are referring to Surak's reference to the philosopher S'Polya." "That is correct," the boy said with obvious pleasure. "Surak implies that this S'Polya believed the cardinal error to be the martial value. We have found no reference to S'Polya in any of S'Task's extant works even though it is logical to assume that the anti-Surak movements would have departed together after the sundering." "It is believed among my people that S'Polya departed with S'Task and the other Rihannsu," Spock said, politely using their chosen appellation. "Given S'Task's well-documented distaste for pacifism and your people's subsequent history, it is not surprising that a pacifist founder would have been conveniently forgotten." "But why would a pacifist depart Vulcan with S'Task?" the girl questioned. "As you yourself have implied, he would have been more comfortable with the Surakans." "It is perhaps a mistake to presume that S'Task's distaste for pacifism equates to a fondness for violence. Although it is common among Vulcan thought to make such an assumption a priori, I must admit it is likely S'Task merely rejected any principle that placed an ideal above the objective good of the public." "But how does that differ from Surak?" the girl asked, obviously confused by the contradictory treatments of Surak's teachings. Spock paused to collect his thoughts before continuing. "Vulcan thinking is often mistakenly reduced to the principle of logic. That word fails to touch on the subtleties of our moral thought. Some have argued for 'objectivity' as the guiding principle, but as you have noted, that seems to miss the distinction between S'Task and Surak, a distinction that certainly must have been very great indeed. I rather prefer the phrase 'right-thinking' which while denotatively less descriptive is less likely to conflate with other connotations. Surak believed, unlike S'Task, that the pure utilitarian calculation of an objective good was a means to an end rather than the end itself; rather, one must act under the guidance of a logically-coherent moral system that allowed no loopholes to be exploited for one's own advancement. For example, in contrast to S'Task, Surak refused to the victim of a crime the right of personal vengeance -- a right which remains even today a major principle of your Empire's jurisprudence." "Assuming that to be the case, I cannot understand what Surak means when he refers to objectivity and generalization," said the girl. "If he distrusts utilitarianism, what does he mean by those words?" Spock nodded. "Surak's later works are notably indefinite in their use of language. Near his death, he had come to believe in a version of meta-ethics, and he struggled to reconcile those beliefs with his teachings on logic. I am afraid there is no general consensus on what he meant." "But whatever Surak's meaning," interrupted the overeager boy, "this S'Polya's principles must have lent themselves more readily to an effective interpretation rather than an ideal one." Exchanging a quick look with his vocal compatriot, he added, "It seems strange to me for a pacifist to ground his beliefs in effective results." "As it should, for the Romulan ethic vents one's natural violent urges into military service; for our early ancestors, there was no such structure to exploit. Their only option was to either suppress those urges or to direct them toward social improvement. S'Polya, as you have logically concluded, must have found himself divided between a pacifist inclination and a belief in the utilitarian generalizations of S'Task. As his final action was undoubtedly to depart Vulcan, the logical conclusion is that S'Polya's pacifism was based not on a specific moral abstraction but rather on the most important need to transform the naturally destructive impulse into a socially constructive one." That silenced the two questioners for a moment, and the formerly silent girl took the chance to glance fleetingly up at Spock and then lock her eyes on the center of his tunic as she said, "Ambassador, I was hoping you might be able to bring in another of Surak's works: his _Principles of Justice_." The female armchair moralist gave her friend an annoyed look. "Ainluya fancies a career as an attorney now!" Spock ignored the impolite barb and nodded respectfully at the young girl. "I will do my best to locate it. Now I must be going. My business takes me across Romulus today." After exchanging polite farewells with the other two children, Spock resumed his interrupted journey down the dimly lit underground corridor. Such exchanges had become all too common since his arrival. Bringing not only his illegal collection of Vulcan philosophy but also his even more dangerous experience in their application, Spock had quickly found himself the focal point of the underground youth movement. Many of them were merely rebelling against their parents and society -- proud as they were now to be a part of a forbidden system of beliefs -- but there was an occasional mind with the necessary acumen to fully grasp the full purpose and necessity of Surak's revolution. It was this rare but growing group that had brought Spock to Romulus and motivated him to remain there in spite of the danger to his life. Even before he'd begun using his underground contacts to assist the Federation spy network, the Romulans would have had no qualms about executing him; at least, he consoled himself, if he were executed now he would deserve it. Lorra House Dakhor Province, Romulus Romulan System Bela was busy scraping dinner remnants into the compost disintegrator when the chime interrupted her. Kala had been sitting at the kitchen table finishing up the last bit of her school work and used the sudden sound as an excuse to leap off the stool and run for the door, clearly expecting her best friend's arrival. Bela placed the plates and utensils in the cleaner and was about to pour some tea for the two girls when Kala called, "Mother, the policeman is here." Her brow furrowed, Bela wiped her wet hands on her pants and walked down the hallway to the main foyer. Subcommander Reykjava was standing awkwardly in the doorway, partially hunched over so his head wouldn't hit the low-hanging frame. He was no longer wearing his uniform, but rather a charcoal grey shirt and trousers. His hands were busily clasping and unclasping a folder that he held in front of his stomach. Bela's first reaction was that there was something wrong with her father, but from his mildly nervous expression, she quickly concluded that was not the case. "Subcommander," Bela said blandly. "Is something the matter?" "Oh, nothing is wrong," Reykjava said quickly. "I just had some papers to drop off about the thief." He looked down at Kala and smiled warmly at her. "Your mother was very merciful today, Kala." Kala nodded and quickly returned her gaze to looking out the front door, searching for her characteristically late friend. "Please, come in, Subcommander," Bela said. Reykjava stepped in and closed the door behind him. Kala promptly ran over to the window to stare out into the darkening yard. The subcommander gave the little girl a curious look and then handed the folder over to Bela, who slipped it under her arm. "I was just about to make some tea," she said. "Would you like some?" Reykjava smiled "That would be pleasant." Penon had come minutes after Reykjava's arrival, and the two girls were already ensconced in Kala's upstairs bedroom busily doing whatever young girls did at that age. Bela guessed from the noise that they were playing with some of Kala's larger birthday gifts; at least, she thought, it would be easier to get them to fall asleep after they tired themselves out. The subcommander for his part was apparently enjoying the tea Bela had given him. He was already into his second cup, while Bela had barely finished her first. The two adults were talking about everything and nothing and Bela kept half her mind on the subject of why the subcommander had decided to make this very unnecessary house call when the forms could very well have been sent to her electronically. "I suspect you'd like to know why I so rudely arrived here," Reykjava said, as if reading her mind. "I don't mind the company," Bela replied. It was the truth. It had been several weeks since she'd spent casual time with anyone over the age of ten that she'd almost forgotten how pleasant it was to simply talk. "Your husband and I would often talk during long investigations about his family. Forgive me if I feel some familiarity toward you and your daughter; I feel as if I already know you both." "From what little he talked of work, I gathered that you were one of his closer friends." "I am happy to hear that," Reykjava said with a smile. "Your husband was one of the few men willing to work with me." Bela nodded. That sounded exactly like Lorra. His soul had no place for prejudice, and she didn't doubt that he might have personally requested the southerner as his partner to snub some of the older, less open minds in the force. It was something of an irony that she'd chosen as a mate someone so liberal in his thinking. "He often talked of your relationship with your father. That it has been strained in recent years." Bela fidgeted in her seat before replying. "It has." "I am sorry if I am being forward. This is not my business, but I didn't talk to you at the funeral, so I thought I might finally tell you this now. Lorra was very fond of your father, and he told me a few months before he died that he was always hoping you two might reconcile for Kala's sake. I know it isn't any of my business." "No, it isn't," Bela replied, but she was surprised at the lack of rancor in her words. "I didn't know my husband thought much of my father." "He didn't at first, but I told him of what I knew of the senator, and I think it may have changed his mind." At Bela's curious stare, he continued. "I have been an officer for many years. For the last twenty, I have worked in Dakhor, and I have seen the influence of your father, and I have even talked with him a few times. In my experience, most senators care little for what happens in their districts, but your father has always been different. He always made sure Dakhor was taken care of, whether that meant convincing the Senate to give us funds or personally intervening in criminal affairs. What you did today with that young thief, it reminded me of your father. He would often do such things. For the personal crimes, he would occasionally send private messages to the victim to counsel mercy. For the state crimes, I know of several possibly innocent men whose death sentences were commuted because of the senator." "That might have been the case years ago, but not anymore." "Yes. When your mother died, he did change. He stopped taking as much interest." "Can you blame him?" Bela asked, her voice rising sharply. It didn't escape her notice that she'd suddenly gone from attacking her father to defending him. "Is that what you've blamed him for all these years? You think he was not careful and lost his wife for it." She almost let her visceral response pass uncensored when some glimmer in the subcommander's eyes, the same indescribable glint she'd noticed twice at the police station, gave her pause. "What is this about? And don't tell me you've come all this way to tell me hidden truths of my husband or father." "I had no idea I was that transparent. To be truthful, I was just very puzzled by your treatment of the thief." "In what way?" "I heard about what happened when they caught the last man who was involved in your husband's death." //So that was what this all was about?// Bela wondered to herself. "You think I acted inappropriately?" she asked the subcommander. "I am honestly not sure what to think." "He was once a soldier, so I treated him like one." She was annoyed at his implied accusation. "And you think that brutality was justified?" His tone wasn't accusatory but rather curious, so Bela took her time before responding. After several seconds he was about to apologize for that characterization, but then she finally asked, "Have you ever fought in battle, Subcommander?" "Never." "Then I don't think you could ever truly understand my explanation." From her tone of voice, Reykjava gathered it was an honest answer, rather than a belittling jab. He nodded by way of reply and stood from his seat. "Thank you for being so courteous." "Of course." She led him to the door. "I should also thank you for telling me of my husband. We had few friends in common who could share his memory with me." It had started off a perfunctory thanks, but by the end she realized she meant it. "It was my pleasure." Reykjava opened the door and stooped again to get through the frame. "Good night, Bela." He gave her a curt nod and headed off into the night. Home of Senator Melok Senatorial Capital, Romulus Romulus System She didn't answer the first time he called. Or the second. On the third she did, which surprised him because he'd raised her to be more resolute than that. "What do you want, father?" was her customary way of answering his unsolicited calls. He knew it wasn't late enough for her to have fallen asleep, but still there was a weariness in her eyes. He supposed he'd put it there, and he couldn't avoid the flash of guilt that crossed his heart. "I needed to talk to you, Bela," Melok said. He was sitting on his couch using the small terminal that was built into the drink table by the left arm. There was an empty glass behind the screen where Bela couldn't see it, another on the floor by his feet, and several more in the kitchen where he'd opened those bottles of ale that he'd been saving for a special occasion. "Are you drunk?" she asked. "No," was his not completely false reply. He would be sober enough for the next few minutes. "But I'm worried about you and Kala. I want you to take her to your uncle's house." "That's a long trip," Bela said, "and Kala has school." "I know. But things are growing unstable in the government. There may be problems with the military, and you would be safer in one of the outer provinces. Your uncle could protect you there; he has powerful friends." "What business would anyone have with us? Did you do something? If you did, and they take my daughter, I swear-" "Nothing like that," Melok interrupted her. "I'm not involved, but I do hear rumors. If things go badly, the cities might grow very dangerous. I only want you to be there for a week. It would be safer that way." "And if things do go badly?" "You would be safe at your uncle's for a short time, and I have a friend who might be able to smuggle some people off Romulus. If needed, I could arrange for you and Kala to leave the planet." "I regret some of what I said at the party. I know you've never deliberately endangered anyone, but I'm afraid for Kala. When times grow troubled, it's the families of the powerful who suffer. I don't want to see her hurt." "Neither do I. Bela, please, everything I do is to make this a better world for you and Kala." Bela shook her head. "I can't just run away with her." "Just take her to your uncle's. It'll be safer there. Then maybe if you absolutely need to, you could leave Romulus for a short time." "I'll think about it, all right?" Melok nodded. "That'll have to do. I'll call you later if I need to." He reached for the console. "Wait," said Bela. "I... Thank you for the gift. Kala appreciated it." "I thought she would," Melok said and he couldn't help but smile. "I really have no use for those trinkets anymore." Bela smiled wanly. "Well, I'll talk to you later." At Melok's nod, she switched off the connection. Melok shut down the terminal and leaned back against the sofa. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his eyes with his right hand. He could feel the effects of the ale now. Romulan biology was rather different from a human's where alcohol was concerned. Ale that would quickly intoxicate a human only mildly affected a normal Romulan, which meant that a very good smuggling business could be had moving diluted ale across the Neutral Zone. But despite the stout Romulan disposition even hard drinkers like Melok couldn't escape its effects after a certain point. On the table before the sofa lay a folder of papers and a bottle of pills. Melok grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap off. He swallowed two of the orange capsules and then tossed the resealed bottle back onto the table; it rolled off the edge and landed softly on the carpet. The medicine would limit the effects of the alcohol and the subsequent hangover. Melok remembered to increase his breathing rate as the pills dissolved in his stomach. As he rubbed his temples, his eyes passed over the folder on the table and he grimaced at the memory. After his meeting with Pardek, he'd contacted some old friends and requested as much information on Proconsul Neral's background as they could find. They'd worked quickly and returned the folder to him filled with tidbits of personal data that were left out of Neral's public biography. Most of the public record seemed accurate enough. Neral had done the requisite few years of military service and then entered public service at a young age, making a name for himself by championing several liberal causes, both popular and unpopular with those in power. His enthusiasm and honesty had garnered him much public support, and not a few members of the power elite had grown fonder of him after his popularity with the people ballooned. What was lacking in the biography was details of his parents and childhood, which altogether wasn't unusual. In a culture where the stain of political sin stretched across generations, it wasn't considered politic to publicize filial connections lest an ancestor fall out of favor. Neral's case was not uncommon in its general sweep, but the specific details rarely came together in such vivid horror. Neral's father had been a career military officer, like his father and grandfather, and had lost his life in a skirmish with the Klingons. Neral's mother had raised him alone because both parents had come from small families with few relatives willing to take on the extra burden in what proved to be very trying economic times. For a while they'd enjoyed a monthly stipend from the government as Neral's father had died in battle and the Empire made a point of remembering the families of its fallen soldiers. But a crackdown on what had previously been a legal leftist group led to Neral's father being linked with political subversives he'd known in his youth. At that time, the Tal-Shiar had been at its most brutal; although its elite never expressly ordered certain crimes, the subordinates took it upon themselves to carry them out. One night two Tal- Shiar officers broke into Neral's home and brutally interrogated both Neral and his mother to send a message to their 'leftist allies.' They even managed to get her to expose a few sympathizers who were quickly arrested within a week. About a month after the attack, Neral's mother died from heart failure according to the hospital report, and Neral had gone to live with relatives. One thing was certain, Melok thought to himself. Neral was certainly no Tal-Shiar lapdog. That judgement more than any other firmly convinced him that Pardek's words couldn't be trusted. He stood from the couch and grabbed the folder of information. Walking into the kitchen, he opened the hatch for the disintegrator and tossed the folder inside. Better not to leave it lying around the house. He walked carefully across the cold, smooth floor, trying to keep his balance as he fought the effects of the alcohol. He opened the refrigerator door, looking for some fresh fruit from the market. It always tasted better than the replicated garbage. As he reached for a pungent green globe, he heard a muffled thump from the living room. His senses perked up and the mild bit of military training he'd undergone years ago warned him that something was out of order. Melok moved as quickly as he could down the other hallway toward the stairs leading to the second floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw what looked like a shadow move and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. But he made it to the stairs without seeing anyone and quickly stumbled his way up them. Once he got to his bedroom, he pulled open his nightstand to grab an old disruptor. Before he could turn around he felt the hard end of an energy pistol press against the back of his head. "Give me the gun." For a moment, Melok sought the strength to whip around and fire his weapon. Ever since his wife's death, he'd dreamed of this day and the final unflinching pride he would show in resisting to his last breath, but on his knees in a dark bedroom with a disruptor jammed against the base of his skull, all thoughts of struggle and valor fled. He swallowed nervously and handed the disruptor to the man behind him, uttering a silent prayer to the elements. But instead of a burst of pain, he felt cold metal against his neck and the soft hiss of a hypospray. ------------------------ Day 4: December 28, 2376 Merchant Vessel Kintaro By the time MacLeod returned to the cockpit, Mulder had finally finished his discussion with the Watcher Bajwa and was staring off into space. "Where did you run off to?" Mulder asked without turning. "I contacted some old associates on nearby worlds. Some people do in fact owe me favors, surprising as that may sound. They'll contact us if they notice any suspicious psychopaths lingering about." "Sociopath," Mulder said. He rubbed his eyes and lifted his head to stare out the forward window. "Psychopaths suffer from hallucinations." "Whatever. The point is the word is out to our kind now, too. He'll have to show himself eventually." Mulder finally turned to look up at MacLeod. "Did Klein say anything to you about Jessica when you spoke to him on Epirus?" "He said she was his student. That's it." "He didn't say she contacted him?" "No, he didn't. Where did you-" "There was a log of the conversation in her computer bank. She contacted him last year several times trying to get help for her dying friend. And then once more after her friend died." "Did she speak with him?" "One of the conversations lasted long enough according to the log. I suspect so." "What does this say about anything?" "Klein was seen at the Alioth Watcher colony not thirty minutes ago. He murdered three civilians and two Starfleet security officers before escaping." MacLeod let himself fall into the seat next to Mulder. He didn't know what to say; at this point, nothing Klein did would surprise him. "Which brings me to the question I've been wondering ever since we left Mizar," Mulder continued. "Why was Klein just sitting around on Epirus waiting for you to show up when he almost certainly was in constant contact with Jessica?" "I don't know, Mulder." "Don't you?" That the Highlander was exhausted and worried about Dana was hardly justification for the withering look he sent Mulder's way. "I don't like the tone of your voice," he spat out. Mulder stood from his seat. "At this moment, MacLeod, the tone of my fucking voice should be the least of your concerns. You told me you left Epirus first but that he got to Mizar a whole day before you. How exactly did that happen?" "He's got a fast ship." "Or you let him get there first. Or he wasn't there when you went to Epirus. Or any of a number of explanations which would make more sense than what I'm looking at right now." MacLeod tried to draw some sort of calm from the recycled air in the cockpit. "Mulder," he finally said, "everything I've told you is the truth." Mulder sat back down and turned to the computer console. "Something's not right here, MacLeod. I'm sorry, I'm just not... Nothing makes sense anymore." The Highlander touched his friend's shoulder lightly. "We're going to find him, Mulder. And her. It's just a matter of time. Was there anything else you and the Watcher got from Jessica's computer?" "She was after Jonathan's diary because she thought she could save her friend. It was the last entry -- when she left to track it down. She must have thought it would tell her what Klein wouldn't." "I guess that makes sense." MacLeod almost offered some trivial platitude about people taking death hard but thought better of it at the last moment. "What I don't get is why she thought Klein would know something that was in Jonathan's diary." "We retain information after Quickenings sometimes," MacLeod said. "Didn't you tell me you had dreams of Sundiron's life for weeks afterwards?" "Yeah, I guess that makes sense." After a long silence MacLeod asked, "What's our ETA to Alioth?" Mulder leaned over to peer at the computer console. "Looks like nearly two days." He muttered a curse and then a cold scoff. "He got there in under twenty-four hours." "He's got a fast ship," MacLeod said with a weak smile and not a hint of rancor. "I've not been quite myself these past few days, MacLeod. You may have noticed." "I figured it was just a bit of undigested potato. Listen, Mulder-" "I'll get some sleep," Mulder said. "Five hours. Wake me if anything happens. *Anything,* MacLeod." "You got it." //"You fight poorly." He didn't see the sword butt as it came crashing down on his skull or the knee that crushed his nose a second later, but he could hear the scoffing as the mad Immortal walked around his beaten body, waiting to deliver the fatal blow. "You have forgotten your teacher, his lessons. Your swordsmanship is weak." Mulder coughed blood and looked up at Sundiron. "Yeah, but I know something you don't." "And that is?" "My partner is Dirty Harry at fifty yards." But Sundiron didn't say "Dirty who?" He didn't say anything. He just smiled and laughed again. "That's not how we play the game is it?" Then he turned and pointed. Dana was where she was supposed to be but on the ground, on her knees, a sword at her throat, Klein standing next to her. "No, it isn't how the game is played," Klein said. "We don't abide cheating." Then he took Scully's head off.// It took several seconds for Mulder to first realize he'd been dreaming and then to remember where exactly he was. For the longest moment he'd expected Sundiron to be standing next to the bunk with a sword poised to strike; but that was absurd -- the mad Immortal was long dead. He willed his breathing to slow, his pulse to slow. Once he was calm he checked the time. Only thirty minutes had passed since he'd laid down. Sleep wasn't going to work. He asked the food processor for an apple and paring knife and then took a seat behind the desk terminal. The screen still showed what it had before he'd tried to sleep: a local space map of habitable planets and common trading routes. It was a foregone conclusion that Klein would avoid highly trafficked areas as much as possible, but that bit of information was strategically useless: there was just too much room for ships to move in space. The last known locations of Klein's ship were colored and numbered on the display but there was no discernible pattern. First Riza, and the Watcher Pierce Lagrange; then Nar Skaala, for Methos; then Alioth. Lagrange's body had been found but Methos' hadn't. Mulder didn't know what to make of that besides the possibility that Klein could have taken Methos with him. That didn't make a whole lot of sense based on their mutual animosity but at the moment Mulder wasn't rejecting any ideas. He tossed the apple core aside and started tapping on his arm as he continued to think. Klein had gone for Lagrange specifically to find Methos, but why take Methos with him to Alioth? Why not the other way around? The Watchers reported that Klein had stolen not only some unremarkable crystals from storage but also Methos' diary. Maybe Klein went to Methos in search of said diary and couldn't find it there, so he headed to Alioth next. But presuming Klein had the same level of Watcher access after killing Lagrange as Mulder himself now did (it seemed reasonable), he should have known where to find the diary or at least he should have looked if that was his ultimate goal. That he went after Methos first implied he either wanted Methos dead or he wanted something Methos could provide that both Jonathan's and Methos's diaries lacked. But what? There was no obvious answer to that question and no predictable pattern in Klein's movements without information he didn't yet have. Mulder took a moment to bring up the communications console. There wasn't any activity so he assumed that meant MacLeod was busy doing something else at the moment. He queried his Alcor message queue and found a few advertisements but nothing from the person for whom he'd been waiting for three days. Leaving that avenue still unexplored, he turned next to everything he knew of Klein and why he'd come to Mizar. According to MacLeod, Klein had been rather unhelpful on Epirus. He had suggested they get the book away from Jessica and then said something about stopping Jessica himself. Then the next they knew of him, he was on Mizar with Mulder and Jessica and Scully. Jessica and Scully had been fighting and Mulder had been about to intervene. Then Klein had appeared and... and stopped him. Mulder remembered a sharp pain in his back, a sword jutting from his side. He fell. Klein whispered... something to him. He couldn't remember what it was. And then he died. But that wasn't right. The wound wasn't fatal enough to make him lose consciousness immediately. The sword had missed his spine and cut only muscle and gut. The blood loss wouldn't have been severe enough to render him unconscious immediately. He would have been awake. He should have seen what had happened, but he hadn't... or at least he didn't remember it. The communication console blinked to life as a message came in. Mulder disconnected the terminal from the comm network before MacLeod had a chance to respond to the message. He had no reason to give MacLeod any indication that he was pursuing an alternate avenue at the moment -- or doing anything other than sleeping. He looked down and noticed his left arm was covered in drying blood. There were no wounds on the skin but that meant they must have healed; the paring knife was streaked with red. Absent-minded habit, Mulder thought. He would have to change his clothes. Unknown location Consciousness returned in stages. At first, he could only feel hard, cold concrete beneath him. Seconds passed before he could feel the pain in his limbs. He tried to open his eyes but all he saw was darkness. A scorching pain burned through his skull when he tried to lift his head, so he let it lie against the ground. He concentrated on his breathing and tried to wiggle his toes. He felt them, dimly through his muddled brain, and then he tried to bend his knees. A sharp crack broke the silence and he realized it was his joints. He chuckled softly and he heard that too, so his ears seemed to be working. He tried to open his eyes again and this time he noticed something change, a different shade of darkness before him now that told him his eyes seemed to be working. There was just no light in here. His attempt to role over was a success, although when he found himself face down against the concrete he immediately regretted the move. His skull was burning again and he clamped his eyes shut in a pointless effort to quell it. His jaw was sore, his mouth dry. He tried opening his eyes again and this time his vision was clearer. He could make out the floor underneath him, but it was shadowed and devoid of meaningful detail. He pushed against the ground and managed to raise his torso. His skull flared up again but this time the pain was less and he was prepared. He rolled again to sit on the floor and braced himself from falling with his arms. The room looked roughly cubic; three nondescript walls and the fourth with a door. There was no access panel on this side, which probably meant this was some sort of prison facility. He could see no camera above him but that just meant it was probably concealed in miniature fashion in the walls; larger cameras only made sense when you wanted people to know they were being watched. He took stock of himself next and found his clothes to be the very same he'd been wearing when captured. He'd half-expected to be wearing prison fatigues and he wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved that he wasn't. Was Bela safe? he wondered. He offered a plea to the elements to keep her so. Watcher Facility Alioth VI Colony, Alioth System The light years between Nar Skaala and Alioth passed quickly. Klein remained in the cockpit with the hatch closed for the entirety of the trip, allowing Methos free reign over the few areas of the ship left open to him. The computer wouldn't allow him access to anything sensitive anyway, and perhaps the superficial trust Klein was showing him would soften Methos' attitude and maybe save Klein from losing his head once Methos lost his patience. Only once did he bother to check on his passenger; Methos was pacing in the bunk room which both annoyed and amused Klein to no end. Once they neared their destination, Klein went looking for Methos and found his reluctant associate asleep in one of the bunks, his sword laying on the ground next to him with his fingers curled around its handle. He watched him for some time but he didn't know why. There were better things he could be doing -- almost anything would suffice -- than listen to Methos snore along to the rhythmic drone of the engines, but he had inexplicable twin urges to both waken and smother him. His hand found the disruptor almost on its own and trained it on the sleeping Immortal; Klein watched the spectacle without comment until he noticed the power reading on the weapon. He frowned and pressed another button, incrementing the disruptor output several levels. Methos stirred suddenly and Klein nearly fired, but his old enemy was merely turning in his sleep. Methos' arm fell from his side and Klein's eyes were drawn to the insignia on his wrist. A memory broke free from the dusty attic of his mind and he remembered vividly a quiet moment under a night sky. //"I noticed you wear that band often, even on your way to bed," Jonathan says as he chews on the edge of his pipe. "A keep-sake?" Philip gives him a disarming smile. "Why the sudden interest in my choice of attire? I had no idea there was a code of dress for beings such as we. I suppose I ought to don the garb of the aristocrat as the rest of you do!" "Careful, friend. I may have shoulder-length tresses of precisely your size." "It would do great justice to my eyes," Philip agrees. Chuckles. "Connor doesn't know, if you're worried. About your prior occupation." "I beg your pardon?" "Philip, there is no point in hiding it. Your uncanny experience with this lifestyle, your familiarity with MacLeod himself, and especially that silly wrist band; all make your secret abundantly clear. But do not be worried; I'll keep quiet if you insist." "That would be kind of you," Philip acquiesces. "How long have you been MacLeod's Watcher, if you don't mind my asking?" Jonathan is careful in his words and speaks only when he is sure no one else can overhear them. "Not long," Philip replies with the air of one unaccustomed to voicing the truth. "And if you don't mind my asking, how long have you known of our existence? I was instructed that no Immortal would know of us." "A long time. You will find that few Immortals know of the Watchers, as it should be. Those who do often came by that information by chance and are circumspect enough to keep it quiet." Neither man speaks for a minute or two. Finally Jonathan nods to the house and asks, "What about your wife?" "She knew nothing until our incident. I have kept my vocation secret." "She seems to be adjusting well." "As well as could be expected, I suppose." Jonathan seems unsure of how to phrase his next sentence and chooses bluntness over tact. "You may not take kindly to this, but I think she should be trained with a sword." "I can protect my wife," Philip says. "I'm no child where weapons are concerned." "I understand that. But the future is always uncertain." "My wife is my business, Jonathan. I would appreciate your remembering that." There is something in his voice that stops Jonathan dead in what would otherwise have been the leading edge of an argument. "As you wish," he says and leaves Philip alone in the night.// He wasn't sure why that particular memory had risen to his waking mind, but something about it made him holster his weapon. "Let's go," he said. Methos bolted awake, the sword now firmly in his grasp. Klein noticed that the blade was lowered toward the deck rather than raised at him. Interesting. "Where are we?" Methos asked. "Alioth VI. I was mistaken about the Watchers. They have a ship in orbit right now, so it's likely that they've already started to secure the facility. We may face some opposition." Klein unclipped a second weapon from his belt and handed it to Methos. "It's a Type 1 phaser. Do you know how to use it?" Methos scowled in annoyance as he took the weapon. It was a flattened ovoid that fit snugly inside a human hand, powerful enough to stun or kill but not disintegrate. Methos noticed that it was locked on stun and glanced up at Klein. "Just so you don't get any ideas," Klein said. "The transmitter in my arm makes periodic subspace checks with the device back on Nar Skaala. If it misses two, the device detonates." "If that's the case, why lock the phaser on stun?" "In case you decide to shoot at anything down there, I don't want to worry about how good your aim is." That bomb's the only thing keeping you from killing me, Klein didn't bother to add. Best not to let it blow unless necessary. Methos placed his sword back on the ground. "Guess I won't be needing this. Have you any idea what resistance we'll be facing?" "No idea," Klein replied. "Kind of exciting, isn't it?" He turned and walked out of the room. Methos followed him and stopped under the transporter emitter outside the cockpit. Klein continued down the corridor toward the rear of the ship. "Come on," Klein said. Methos kept silent as he followed Klein to the rear door, which opened under Klein's touch. There was a cargo hold behind it, about six meters wide with boxes secured along the walls. Klein grabbed a metal toolbox and stood on a section of the deck which was connected to the ceiling by two pneumatic poles on each side. Methos joined him. After Klein touched a button on a device attached to his left wrist, the poles began to extend. The deck shifted under them as it lowered. Sunlight burst through the burgeoning crack. About fifty meters underneath them he could see a landing platform stretching out in front of a huge pair of shuttlebay doors. Twisted metallic rubble lay strewn across the platform with the tell-tale scorch marks of phaser fire. "We can't get too close to the structure itself," Klein said. "They'd pick us up from orbit." Methos was about to ask Klein about the rubble beneath them when the Immortal calmly stepped off the edge of the platform. The landing thirty meters below looked painful, but Methos decided he really had no other choice. He took a breath and jumped. The impact was as painful as it had looked for Klein. Most of his leg bones snapped, and Methos had to remain curled on his side as they shifted painfully back into place. He at least had the satisfaction of hearing Klein swear as the same painful process wracked his body. Methos rolled onto his back to look up at the ship and was surprised to see nothing but a blue sky above him broken by the dark outline of a square which vanished as the cargo lift closed. "Where the hell did you get a cloaking device?" he asked as he pushed himself to a sitting position. "A Klingon. Bastard cheated me out of a deal so I killed him and took it." Only the second fact was a lie. "Why am I not surprised?" Methos muttered as he pushed himself to his feet. Klein was still sitting, but he was tentatively bending his legs to check their healing. "The universe is a better place without him in it." He pushed himself up to his feet and looked around the platform. "What happened here?" Methos asked. "Someone either shot their way in or out," Klein said. "It's difficult to say." "Is there any chance the Watchers detected us?" said Methos. "Doubtful. I don't think they can see through the cloak, and the only thing a passive scan would detect from orbit is a transporter signal," said Klein. "We sure as hell didn't use the transporter." He nodded to the dark shuttlebay that lay before them. "It looks like they haven't gotten main power on-line yet." "Any idea why?" "She probably shot the hell out of the reactor before leaving," Klein said. "It's what I would've done." The use of the female pronoun did not escape Methos' notice. "You know who did this?" "I think so. Come on." Klein walked into the shuttlebay and Methos followed. The only sources of light in the corridors were emergency lamps stationed every ten meters. Without main power, no air was circulated, and the combination of silence, darkness, and a sourceless musty, rotting smell was eerily tomblike. Methos kept pace a step or two behind Klein, who was carrying the metal toolbox in his left hand and a tricorder in his right, at which he glanced every twenty seconds or so. They'd had to pry their way out of the shuttlebay and into the facility. The phaser explosions in the shuttlebay had driven debris into the walls and door, effectively bolting the exit shut. Klein had luckily brought along a small laser cutter, which he'd used to dig the metal shards from the wall. Methos had suggested blasting the door open with a phaser, but Klein said he wanted to leave as little a trace as possible. "I don't want them to know someone was here," was the meaningless excuse he offered. The next door they came across opened easily, but beyond it was a dark vertical shaft for a turbolift. Klein clipped the tricorder to his pants and set the toolbox down in the corridor. He passed a flashlight to Methos. "See how far up it goes." While Klein continued digging through the toolbox, Methos stepped out onto the ladder built into the wall of the turbolift shaft and shined the flashlight upward. "I see the turbolift about five decks up. I think there's an access port on the bottom." He stepped back into the corridor and looked down at Klein. The other Immortal had removed from the box four magnetic grapples, a portable battery not much larger than a tricorder, and two old Starfleet communicators. He handed one communicator and two grapples to Methos. The rest of the equipment he clipped onto his belt. Then he stepped onto the shaft ladder and started to climb. "What about the box?" Methos asked as he started climbing behind Klein. "We'll get it on the way back," Klein said. When they reached the turbolift, Klein fixed one of his grapples on the nearer side of the access port. Then he grabbed it and swung off the ladder, attaching its partner on the opposite side. He dangled from that by his left hand while he pulled the flashlight from his belt and shined it at the underside of the turbolift. The port was about three quarters of a meter square with hinges on one end and a small mechanical key hole on the other. Klein tapped the flashlight against the panel. "It's locked from the other side. Come out here and give me a hand." Methos took a wavering breath and then reached out for the nearer grapple. He stepped off the ladder and with his left hand fixed one of his grapples halfway along the perimeter of the square between the two already there. Then he let go with his right hand and attached his second grapple to the center of the port panel. He tugged twice to make sure it wasn't just sticking. Klein gave him an annoyed look and then handed him the laser cutter. "Don't burn the carpet on the other side," he said. While Methos started to cut into the lock, Klein scanned the deck above them with his tricorder. He had to use a lower power setting to avoid alerting any passive scanners so the range was limited. "I'm going to have a good laugh when we get wherever we're going and find a group of angry Watchers with phasers," Methos muttered. "Quit worrying," Klein retorted. "They've had ample time before we got here to run active scans of the facility for life signs. There's no reason for them to be scanning now." "Unless someone decides to be careful." "Watchers are too arrogant to be careful." Methos shut off the laser and handed it back to Klein. "I think it'll open now." He reached for the panel and pushed. It didn't budge. He tried a second time. "Try pulling," Klein said. "I am," Methos replied. He gave the grapple a good tug but the port stayed fixed. "Get out of the way," Klein muttered. Methos moved back to his grapple and Klein pulled himself up so that his face was only centimeters from the port. Then he pushed himself down and yanked as hard as he could. Something snapped and the panel swung down. An arm fell through the hole to smack into Klein's face. He jerked in surprise and his hand slipped free from the grapple. Methos's hand snatched out to grab Klein's, and the two dangled over the dark shaft while Methos struggled to hold on. "It's just a body," Methos replied, straining at the effort of holding the weight of two men by one hand. He pulled Klein up far enough for Klein to reach a grapple. "It just surprised me," Klein hissed at Methos as he pulled himself up through the port. Once inside he reached back down to disconnect one of two grapples. "Leave one behind in case we're in a hurry on the way back," he called down to Methos. Methos nodded and climbed up after Klein. He reached back and disconnected his two grapples, leaving Klein's alone. Klein pulled the body out of the way and Methos tried to secure the access port. "It's broken," Klein observed. "We'll weld it shut from the other side on the way back." Methos nodded and let the hatch dangle open. He looked over for the first time at the corpse that shared the cramped turbolift with them. Klein was waving the flashlight around to get a good look at their surroundings, and in the periodic moments of illumination, Methos saw a young woman with a blonde ponytail. A dark brown stain surrounded the gash in her stomach, and the beige carpet was dark around her where her blood had seeped into the fabric. Her eyes were still open, and from the discoloration and smell, Methos guessed she'd been dead nearly a week. Klein knelt down next to Methos and the body and shined his flashlight at her wrist. It bore the familiar insignia of the Watchers. "Who did this?" Methos asked without looking at Klein. "An Immortal named Jessica Haile." There was a curious tone to Klein's words. It almost sounded like regret. "How did you find out about it?" Methos asked. "Watcher News Daily," Klein snapped at him. "Come on, we can't waste time here." There were three more bodies outside the turbolift. The signs of a battle were unmistakable now. There were phaser burns in the wall, shattered panel lights, and horrid slashes in the corpses. The odor here was even worse than in the turbolift. As Klein and Methos made their way across that level of the facility, the carnage only worsened. Methos had seen his share of severed limbs but the sheer enormity of what had happened here only struck him when he saw the bloody trail of a man who'd lost a phaser and an arm and had crawled away to die. Seventeen bodies and their various parts lay between the turbolift and an unlabeled door Klein abruptly halted at. "There should be a terminal in here. Help me with the door." They affixed magnetic grapples to the smooth surface and slid it open. Inside there were no emergency lights, so Klein placed the flashlight on a desk, pointing it upward. Once they were inside the room, they closed the door behind them. Klein walked over to the computer terminal and set to work connecting his portable power supply to it. "How does powering the terminal let you access data in the main computer?" Methos asked as he watched Klein work. "The storage array doesn't take a lot of power to access. The terminal can power it if the main computer is down. It's just that without the main computer searches take a hell of a lot longer." Klein fiddled with the switch on his power supply and the terminal screen blinked to life. The symbol of the Watchers appeared on the screen followed by a login prompt. He looked to Methos. "Now it's your turn." Methos stepped past him and typed in a name and password. The terminal paused as it processed, and then it rejected him. "I have a few more," Methos said. The computer refused his second and third, but on the fourth it beeped and displayed a menu. "Good work," Klein said. "Let me sit down." He took Methos' place and typed some commands. After a minute or two he found what he was looking for. Methos saw the labels on the items Klein was looking up, but all that the terminal displayed was their storage serial numbers. "Are you sure they can't detect the power output from the terminal?" Methos asked suddenly. Klein glanced at him and then looked upward. "I hope not." He logged out of the terminal and turned to Methos. "I'm going to get these items by myself. I want you to stay right here." "You'll get no argument from me," Methos replied. "And here I thought you found my company pleasurable," Klein remarked sarcastically. "Stay out of trouble." He walked over to the door and slid it open without asking for Methos' help this time. Once Klein had closed the door behind him, Methos logged back in to the terminal and set to work examining what resources were available. Subspace communications were down, but all that meant was that the local copy of the Watcher database would be about a week out of date. It wouldn't matter. He queried the Immortal biographical database with the name Klein had mentioned. It took a couple of tries to get the spelling right, but then the terminal rewarded him with her summary biography. Name: Jessica Haile Origin: Italy Immortality: c. January 1658 Sightings: 1658 located Southern Italy 1659 to 1785 located British Colonies / United States 1786 to 1813 located Japan 1813 to 1895 UNKNOWN 1896 to 1995 located Northeastern Russia 1996 to 2045 located France 2046 to 2105 located Baltic Empire / Raben Republic 2106 to 2187 UNKNOWN 2188 to 2210 located Alpha Centauri Colonies 2211 to 2333 UNKNOWN 2334 to 2376 located Antioch Colony Methos stared in disbelief at the list of Quickenings. In the last five hundred years alone, Jessica had racked up nearly seven hundred kills, and those were only the ones the Watchers knew about. And he wasn't at all surprised to see who her teacher had been. So the question remained, did Klein kill all these people, did she, or did they both take part? Methos wasn't foolish enough to take at face value anything Klein said, but suppose he were telling the truth. Suppose Jessica had done all this. It would only make sense that she'd done it at his prodding. She was strong, after all, stronger certainly than Klein and almost any Immortal still living. If anyone was going to take on an army of armed Watchers, it would be her. And it made sense that Klein would recruit a former student to retrieve something when he didn't want to take the risk himself. Except that she had failed. Without the proper access codes, she hadn't been able to get a few items that Klein needed. And so Klein had come to Methos, held innocent people hostage to secure his help, and brought him here to use his knowledge to get those last few items. It made the most sense of all possibilities. Methos queried the terminal for its general library. Most Starfleet computer systems came with a built-in encyclopedia of useful history and scientific data. If the Watchers hadn't taken the time to clear it all out... "There," Methos whispered out loud and started reading about subspace communications.