Captain Picard steeled himself as he felt the tingle of the transporter beam, although Ro gave him an encouraging nod at the last second. He admired her élan—she seemed more at ease around scoundrels than most, though he wasn’t entirely sure she would regard the sentiment as a compliment if he gave voice to it.
They materialized inside a sumptuous dining hall festooned with pastel-colored banners and golden tinsel draped from the ceilings. In one sunken corner were plush pillows and chaise longues that overlooked a stage upon which torches burned brightly. To the rear of the hall was a beautiful table of pure amber, set for four. A Ferengi harpist sat in another corner, playing a sweet melody on his golden instrument.
“‘Song for Solitude,’” said Ro with a faint smile. “It’s a well-known Bajoran piece. We’ll have to thank our hosts.”
Picard tried to imagine himself as someone else, a kindly vedek perhaps. Ro was the captain, so she could play the tough one. He needed to appear serene and spiritual, above the baser, petty aspects of life.
Double doors at the far end of the hall swept open, and Shek, the Ferengi, swept into the room, with luxurious satiny robes trailing behind him. Towering over him, looking like a bodyguard, came the hulking Orion, Rolf.
“Welcome!” gushed Shek, rushing toward Ro and taking her hand. He gazed lasciviously into her sullen eyes. “It’s a pleasure to have you aboard my humble vessel, the Success. This is Rolf, captain of our consort, the Swift. Excuse us for firing upon you, Captain Ro, but you can never be sure who you will meet in these trying times.”
“Understood,” said Ro with a polite bow. “This is my first mate.”
“We are enjoying the music,” said Picard with a polite bow. “‘Song for Solitude’ always reminds me of childhood. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And may I say, that is a very nice earring you’re wearing. That stone comes from Jerrado, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” answered Picard with a smile. “Not many people realize that.”
“We recognize items of value. Since no one can visit Jerrado anymore, that earring is a real collector’s item. Are you hungry?” Dwarfed by his oversized robes, Shek shuffled toward the table. “We don’t know much about Bajoran cooking, although it looks less exotic than our own. It’s certainly less exotic than Orion cooking, what with all those tear-inducing spices.”
“Bah,” grumbled Rolf. “He likes everything bland.”
“I do not,” countered Shek. “It’s just that we have to respect other people’s tastes. Therefore, we are having roasted hornbill, a type of local fowl.”
“Yes, we saw some at a Cardassian farming colony on our way here,” said Ro. “The Cardassians stole half our cargo; they said it was contraband.”
Rolf laughed heartily. “Yes, they’ll do that. If you don’t have a ship that can outrun them, what do you expect?”
Shek pulled out a chair for Ro. “Please sit here, Captain.”
“Thank you,” said the Bajoran, taking the proffered chair.
Shek quickly sat on one side of her, and Rolf sat on the other, leaving Picard to take the outermost chair. He didn’t like the way the two pirates were sandwiched on each side of Ro, but his persona didn’t allow him to do much about it. With a pleasant smile on his face, Picard had to watch them fawn over her.
“You can’t possibly expect to find any terrorists alive after all this time,” said their host. “Would you like some Trakian ale?”
“Thank you,” answered Ro, folding her hands in front of her. “Whether we expect to find them alive or not, we have to look.”
“Have you ever considered dancing?” asked the Orion, admiring her slim physique.
“I’m a ship’s captain,” she replied, “the same as you. Have you considered dancing?”
“Eldra!” shouted Shek, waving toward the door. A short, blubbery Ferengi woman rushed in with a pitcher full of dark ale, bubbling at its narrow neck. Picard had to admit that his throat was dry, and the beverage looked good. There was a pause in conversation as glasses were poured and drinks were hoisted.
“To hell with the Dominion!” cheerfully toasted the Orion before downing his entire glass. Picard and Ro drank along with him as they exchanged glances.
“You don’t care for the Dominion?” asked Picard.
“Who could like those Denebian slime devils?” grumbled the Orion. “The Cardassians were fine before they came—they were corrupt; they could be bought. The Dominion just wants to take over everything. They don’t want any competition. What fun is that?”
“And they’re trying to kill our best customers,” sniffed the Ferengi. “The Dominion is bad for business. A Ferengi will take a monopoly if he can get one, but he still knows it’s unnatural. These people think it’s all right for a puddle of shapeshifters to rule the galaxy, and skim off everybody.”
The Orion snorted with laughter. “We hope the Federation wins, but we hope the war goes on for a long time, don’t we?”
“Of course,” answered the Ferengi. “War is good for the black market. It’s chaos, and chaos is always good for those of us who work in the shadows. But not this war—too much killing.”
The guests nodded, unable to add much to that sentiment. Fortunately, the food arrived shortly thereafter, delivered by the rotund Eldra, who encouraged them to eat. So zealous were her entreaties that Picard assumed she had prepared the meal. He hoped she hadn’t also prechewed it.
It was good food and decent company, with discussion on all sorts of matters, ranging from the price of antimatter to Bajoran neutrality. Picard wanted to casually slip the idea of an artificial wormhole into the conversation, but it seemed premature. They had just now struck a civil discourse with one another, and even the Orion was behaving like a gentleman.
After the dishes were removed, Shek clapped his hands and rose to his feet. “It’s time for the evening’s entertainment.”
They retired to the cushions and lounges of the sunken den in front of the stage. Picard was a little light-headed after all the ale, although he had tried to pace himself. He had to admit that the food had been excellent, very similar to squab, and he had eaten more than his share. Thus far, this respite with the pirates had proven to be surprisingly enjoyable.
Once they had settled into the upholstered lair, Shek tugged on his ear and gave them a snaggletoothed grin. “Tonight’s entertainment is furnished by my good friend, Rolf. Ah, here is the Saurian brandy.”
When Eldra appeared with a carafe and small glasses, Picard felt like declining, but he saw a warning look in Rolf’s eyes. When the green giant took a glass of brandy, he held it up for all to see, and Picard knew that he had better do the same.
“We toast to your health and your gods,” said the Orion.
“To the Prophets,” said Ro, drinking.
“To the Prophets,” echoed Picard, taking a sip.
“To the dancing girls!” crowed Shek.
A drumroll crashed and thundered behind them, and Picard was about to turn around when three lithe figures leaped from the curtain behind the stage. They landed in the flickering pool of light given off by the torches and began to sway. As the drums increased their frenzy, the green-skinned Orion women undulated to the pulsing beat. Picard had heard of these famed entertainers, but he had never thought he would actually see them … in the flesh, so to speak. There was a great deal of green flesh exhibited by the filmly costumes.
He felt so relaxed and content as he snuggled in the oversized cushions, watching the acrobatic and suggestive dancing of the Orion women. It was hard not to imagine that this dinner party was really a gathering of pirate chieftains in some remote tropical harbor, participating in the drunken debaucheries of yore.
Picard looked over at Ro Laren, and she was asleep, curled peacefully among the pillows. So rare for her to look so peaceful, thought the captain. He looked back at the dancing women—so animalistic, so exotic, so voluptuous. He could almost smell their pungent scent and taste their sweet gree
n skin. Sweat was breaking out on the back of his neck. Enough was enough, he decided. It was time to get some air.
As Picard staggered to his knees, he heard Rolf laughing uproariously in his ear, and a big arm reached out and dragged him back into the cushions. “Settle down, my good man. What about the girl you came in with?”
The captain looked again at Ro Laren, and he realized that she shouldn’t be sleeping. A spark in the back of his brain cut through the fog and told him that this shouldn’t be happening. He was in some kind of trouble. He started to reach for his communicator to give it two quick taps—the signal—but his limbs felt as leaden as tree trunks.
A hand came from nowhere, slapped his chest, and ripped the comm badge off. He touched the hole in the fabric where it used to be, gazed bewilderedly at the big ears of the Ferengi, then slumped back onto the pillows.
“All right,” said Shek, leaning over him, “why don’t you tell us where you really came from. And what you’re really doing here.”
“My … my ship!” gasped Picard helplessly.
“Yes, let’s not forget about your ship,” agreed Shek. He tapped his comm badge. “Captain to bridge: activate tractor beam. Prepare to board.”
Chapter Ten
LYING SUPPINE ON CUSHIONS in the dining hall of the Ferengi ship, Captain Picard had a strong sense of déjà vu. He felt the way he had when he was going through emergency heart surgery—conscious but unable to feel anything or control his limbs. He didn’t exactly float over his body, but he wasn’t inside of it either. He felt oddly apart, like an observer, shunted off to the side.
The Orion dancing girls kept undulating suggestively to the throbbing drumbeat, but there was something wrong with them, too. They seemed to be nothing but moving bodies, devoid of consciousness.
The Ferengi, Shek, clapped his hands. “Computer, end program.”
At once, the green-skinned women disappeared, and so did most of the furnishings and decorations in the sumptuous dining hall. Glasses of brandy dropped to the floor and shattered, and Picard’s body collapsed onto a hard floor as well. He struggled to sit up—but couldn’t.
“It’s a nerve conditioner,” said Shek. “You have no control over what you do or say. Oddly, you and Captain Ro reacted completely differently to the drug. She fell asleep.”
“And you?” asked Picard in a hollow, raspy voice.
Shek smiled and pointed to Rolf, the big green Orion. “Oh, we took the antidote before dinner.”
Rolf scowled. “I miss the days when we used to torture people to get information.”
“Yes, but you must admit, these new species-specific drugs are faster and more efficient.” Shek patted his large partner on the shoulder, then turned back to Picard. “All right, what is your real name and position?”
He tried to make his mouth form the words “Lieutenant Tom Smith,” or “Chief Ray Jones,” or anything but the truth. But to his horror he heard his own voice say “Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise.”
“Really?” said Shek, obviously impressed. “And your friend, Captain Ro?”
“She is Captain Ro Laren of the Orb of Peace, formerly of my command.”
“What are you doing in Cardassian space?”
“We are looking for the Dominion’s artificial wormhole.”
Rolf burst out laughing. “And what are they going to do with it when they find it? The Federation is more desperate than I thought.”
Perhaps he could pretend to be as feebleminded as he felt and change the subject to something a bit less controversial. “The dancers?” asked Picard reaching toward the empty space where they had been.
“Alas, they’re holograms,” replied Shek. “In this day and age, who can afford real Orion slave girls? But you’re more interesting, anyway, Captain. What were you planning to do with the artificial wormhole, should it exist?” Change the subject, indeed. Perhaps he was as feebleminded as he felt, Picard thought bitterly.
“Destroy it,” he whispered.
The Ferengi and the Orion looked at one another and laughed, slapping their thighs. “Do you know how big that thing is?” asked Shek.
“How big?”
Shek pushed him back onto the hard floor. “We need to confer now, Captain. Your eyes are getting heavy, and you’re very tired. All you want to do is sleep, like your comrade. Go to sleep, Captain Picard, you’ve earned the rest.”
With that the captain closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.
“When the reactor exploded and the concussion hit me, I went unconscious,” said Commander Shana Winslow as she stirred her Mai Tai with a swizzle stick held in the mechanical fingers of her left hand. She and Will Riker were sitting at a back table in a place called the Bolian Bistro, reputed to be the best restaurant on Starbase 209, although it served a limited menu. All of the eateries on the starbase were suffering from shortages.
“For all intents and purposes, I was dead,” she went on. “I never knew they beamed me out until I woke up in a bed on a medical ship. And when I looked down and saw how much of me was missing, I cursed the hell out of them.”
Will Riker smiled and shook the ice in his glass. “I can imagine you did. How long did your recovery take?”
“It’s still going on,” answered Winslow. “The physical therapy, the counseling sessions—I don’t think it will ever end. As I said, I long to be out there as much as you do, but I’ve got to be realistic. This is my job now; it’s a job for which I’m suited.”
“And you don’t have any family to worry about?”
The engineer shook her head sadly. “Not now. I had a husband, but he died aboard the Budapest in the same action against the Borg.”
“I’m sorry,” said Riker, regretting his glib comment.
Winslow managed a bittersweet smile. “Don’t worry about it. Talking about it is part of my recovery. In some respects, it was a marriage of convenience, since we were both so wrapped up in our careers. We had finally gotten assigned to the same ship, and we were going to work on the marriage. Instead, we nearly died together in our first action.”
She stirred her drink and looked at him coyly. “What about you?”
“Confirmed bachelor,” answered Riker, leaning back in his chair and grinning. “Although I won’t say that I haven’t come close to marriage—but only once, seriously.”
“And what happened to her?”
“She’s my best friend,” answered Riker, taking a sip of his drink. “She understands me better than anybody—well enough to know that she wouldn’t want to be married to me.”
“Yes, that’s what I miss most about Jack being gone. It’s good to have at least one person who really knows you, around whom you don’t have to pretend.” Shana Winslow gave him a melancholy smile.
Riker reached for her hand. “Listen, you were spared for a reason. We’ve all been spared this long for a reason—maybe it’s to fight this lousy war.”
“Ah, now you’re getting back to the subject of your ship,” said Winslow. “It’s still seven days—six if we can get the EPS couplings we need by tomorrow.”
Riker smiled. “Who do I have to rob to get those couplings?”
“Just hope for the supply convoy to get through.”
Riker quickly lifted his glass. “Here’s to the supply convoy. And also to good company.”
“To good company,” echoed Shana Winslow, hefting her glass and peering at him over the rim with her intense dark eyes.
“I hope my crew is enjoying their liberty as much as I am,” said Riker.
Ro Laren awoke with shooting pains in her arms, legs, and head. She quickly determined that the cause of the pain in her extremities was from the ropes binding her to a stiff, hard chair. But the pain in her head was like the worst hangover she’d ever gotten from drinking’s Derek’s homemade wine.
She looked around the empty room, which had a grid on the walls but nothing else, and she saw Captain Picard sitting about five meters away. He was als
o bound tightly to his chair. The captain looked more disheveled and beaten than she did, although he managed a wan smile. “Good morning.”
“What happened?” she asked with a groan.
“We were drugged by our hosts.”
“But they ate and drank the same things we did.”
“Yes, but they took an antidote first.” Picard struggled against his bonds for a moment, but it was useless.
“Where are we?”
“Same place we were before,” answered the captain, “only now you can tell it’s a holodeck. Listen, my memory is hazy, but I believe they know everything.”
“Everything?” she asked in horror.
He nodded grimly. “I don’t know what they intend to do to us.”
Ro shivered, not wanting to think about all the gruesome options they had.
Picard continued, “I believe they know they have a valuable prize. If I were them, I might go to both the Federation and the Dominion, seeing who will bid more to get a starship captain.”
“The ship—” began Ro.
“Your ship is all right,” said a snide voice. With difficulty and pain, Ro twisted her head around enough to see Shek and Rolf stride through the doors into the holodeck. The Orion was holding a padd, a handheld computing device, which looked out of place in his big green hands. The Ferengi had a pulse whip tied to his belt in a serpentine coil.
“We’ve just interrogated your crew and searched your ship,” said Shek glumly. “As I suspected, you have nothing of value. Why are patriots always so broke?”
“There are some young Bajoran females.” Rolf smiled lasciviously at the prisoners.
“They aren’t really Bajoran,” countered Ro.
“We know,” muttered Shek, “and that is problematic. If they ever found out we sold them fake merchandise … well, that’s not a good way to conduct business. So the only thing of value is Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”
“I’m not valuable,” answered Picard. “I would be just one of thousands of prisoners of war.”
“At least that way you might get to see your artificial wormhole,” joked Rolf.
Behind Enemy Lines Page 15
