Chen saw nothing whatsoever outside the observation lounge port. Since her conversation with Tuvok, she had spent several of her off-hours here, contemplating the things she’d discussed. Vulcan meditation still seemed like an alien and unnecessary practice to her—but she couldn’t dispute that being here relaxed her, allowing her to focus on the larger issues.
One of them was the Holy Order of the Kinshaya. Janalwa had gone relatively mute, a highly irregular thing for a people who couldn’t keep from evangelizing. Her padd displayed only a handful of news items. They came from the Episcopate and were bizarre even by Kinshaya standards. Regularly scheduled agricultural reports appeared as expected, but now spoke in rapturous terms about the most mundane things. The taproot harvest had come in three percent higher, proof that the gods were alive and walked Janalwa, where their feet produced miracles whenever they touched the soil.
A three-percent miracle, Chen thought. The gods must favor taproots, but not by a lot. She set the padd on the table behind her.
Exhaling, Chen looked out at the emptiness—and found it reflected in her being. Ennui aboard Enterprise had been replaced by confusion following the ship’s mysterious orders away from the one lead it had found on Cabeus. Chen felt useless and out of the loop. Now that mood was spreading, threatening even to engulf the captain. He was close to losing his temper over Starfleet’s unwillingness to explain their strange redirection.
Chen tried to focus for several moments on the blackness before giving up. She shook her head. “Sorry, Tuvok,” she said to the air. “I don’t see what you get out of this.” She rose and reached for her padd—
—which buzzed, indicating a message. Examining the device, she saw the missive had been sent some time earlier from one of the Devotionalist friends she had made on Janalwa. Multiple attempts at delivery had been made, prodding at the Holy Order’s firewall in hopes of reaching her. One, finally, had gotten through.
The message contained no words, written or spoken. The Episcopate’s automated censors would have stopped that immediately. What it did contain was nineteen seconds of shaky imagery, taken by a tricorder.
She recognized the location. The subject, however, was something else.
The doors opened. Tuvok stepped through. “It is agreeable to see you, Lieutenant Chen. Have you been meditating?”
“No.” She offered Tuvok the padd. “Tell me what you think of this . . .”
• • •
A quiet family dinner had been a rarity for Picard in the days since the Unsung crisis had started. The delay in Aventine’s arrival had given him a chance to eat with René, who was nearly five. And a chance for him and his wife to discuss something other than their disappointment at being ordered away from Cabeus.
Still the subject crept in, despite both their efforts to avoid it. “It’s occurred to me there might be some genetic material deposited on the illium,” Crusher said. “Someone had to have dumped that material out of the birds-of-prey.”
Picard nodded. That was the only sample they’d had time to collect before returning. “By all means, have a look.”
“Are you looking for Number One?” René asked, using the term he’d always heard his father use for Worf.
“We are looking for quite a few things right now,” Picard said. He managed a smile. “But yes, Worf is one of them. Many of our friends have been lost before, and have been found.”
Picard and Crusher managed to stay off the subject of Enterprise and its mission until they had put René to bed. For a few hours after that, the two did their best to avoid talking of Klingons, illusionists, and missing friends before retiring.
The break from reality ended when the captain’s combadge chirped. He looked at his wife and sighed as he found the badge where he had left it on his bedstand. “Yes?”
“Bridge, Captain. Aventine has just arrived.”
“Hail them. And route it to my quarters.”
He dressed quickly and stepped out to his desk. On-screen, Sam Bowers appeared. “We were expecting you sooner, Commander,” Picard said.
“Sorry, Captain. We had a little trouble with our passengers.” Bowers smirked. “Well, really just one. Captain Dax will be delivering them to you personally.”
“Acknowledged,” he said. “I’ll meet them there.”
Crusher appeared in the doorway, already back in uniform. “Still a mystery?”
“I’ll see what it is. Stay here.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’d love to see what was so important we couldn’t spend five more minutes on Cabeus.”
Picard acquiesced easily, as he shared the feeling. They were waiting when two figures materialized.
Ezri Dax was one. Beside her was a rumpled man in his seventies wearing a lavender greatcoat that had seen better days.
“Captain,” Picard said.
“Captain,” Dax replied. She looked about, a little startled.
“Is something the matter?” Crusher asked.
“There were supposed to be three of us.”
“Aventine reports the third person asked for some delay before they energized,” reported the transporter chief.
“Typical,” Dax said, shuddering perceptibly. She turned to the man next to her and helped him off the transporter pad. “Captain, I’d like to present Mister Emil Yorta, a public defender at the Thionoga Detention Center—the place we’ve just come from.”
Picard advanced toward the pair. “I know your name, sir. They tell me you were the last person to see Buxtus Cross.”
From under bushy white eyebrows, Yorta winced. “That, ah . . . was a long time ago.”
“Is that the reason you’re here? Because he was your client?” Picard asked as he shook Yorta’s hand.
“No, it’s because of my other client.” Yorta pulled Picard closer, turning him away from the transporter pads. He spoke in a low whisper. “She, ah . . . talks about you a lot.”
“She—?”
Before Picard could ask anything else, a glowing figure materialized behind him on the transporter pad. Picard froze as he heard a buttery voice he had done his best to forget. “Why, hello, Jean-Luc. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Beverly’s stunned reaction was all the confirmation he needed of what he already had guessed. Reluctantly, he turned. “Hello, Ardra. Welcome back to Enterprise.”
Thirty-two
Picard had seen many prisoners board Enterprise. Some were sullen, others defiant. But not one had looked as Ardra did. Imperious, majestic—and not at all like someone who had been incarcerated for nineteen years.
Silver threads in her sleek ebon gown made her appear to shimmer as she walked down from the transporter pad; under a towering crown of curly black hair, she looked as if she’d stepped off a chessboard. Bone structures flared upward above her dark eyes, creating the illusion that her eyebrows were always arched. Perfect. Her manner had always seemed to him to range from mocking arrogance to impetuousness.
He had never discovered her real name, nor her species. But he knew she was not his favorite person.
Unfortunately, he had always seemed to be hers. “This is truly a reunion long overdue,” she cooed, wafting across the deck to him. She reached out for his hands—and when he did not offer them, she proceeded to place hers on his chest. “I should hate you for what you’ve done to me. But I knew the fates would bring us back together.”
Picard edged away from her and cleared his throat. He gestured toward Beverly. “You remember Beverly Crusher, my chief medical officer—”
“And his wife,” Crusher added.
“Oh,” Ardra said, looking the doctor over and deciding not to offer her hand. Instead, she put her fingers beneath the captain’s chin. “I thought you’d have preferred that counselor of yours.”
Picard grimaced. Nineteen years earlier on Enterprise-D, Ardra had impersonated Deanna Troi while trying to seduce him. He gave her an icy look. “What are you doing here, Ardra?”
The illusionist h
eld his gaze for a moment—and then withdrew her hand. “Your Starfleet asked for my help,” she said, sashaying across the transporter room. “I told them I would only give it to you, personally, and only if I could surprise you,” she said, pausing to look pointedly back. “I may still bear a grudge.”
Picard looked to Dax for an explanation. She confirmed what Ardra had said. “She told Starfleet she would only talk to you, Captain,” Dax said. “Admiral Riker dispatched us to Thionoga to bring her to you.”
“Captain Dax has been the most wonderful host,” Ardra said, voice dripping with syrupy malice. “Aventine is surely the most luxurious ship in the fleet.”
“She refused to go anywhere unless we fashioned new clothes for her. Not replicated,” Dax said. “Fortunately we have an ensign in engineering with skills.”
“I’m sorry I was delayed in transporting over,” Ardra said, “but I couldn’t do without my favorite perfume. I—” She paused, laying eyes on the new arrival in the doorway. “Who have we here?”
“Commander Tuvok,” Picard said. He stepped over toward the Vulcan, hoping that would prevent his incorrigible guest from pawing him. “I would have you meet Ardra, the owner of the vessel you have been studying.”
Ardra’s sweet smile became a frown. “I saw my ship outside. Have you been messing about on it?”
“The term I would use is research. Your ship is unharmed.” Tuvok looked past her. “I am here because I have business with Captain Dax.”
Dax nearly leaped at the opportunity to leave. “If you don’t need me, Captain—”
“Thank you very much, Captain.” As Dax and Tuvok departed, Picard looked at Ardra’s companion. “Mister Yorta, why are the two of you here?”
Yorta shuffled to Ardra’s side. Together they were as mismatched a pair as Picard had ever seen. “My client has information connecting to inquiries Starfleet has made,” the lawyer said. “Our arrangement with Starfleet was that her participation would be kept in the strictest confidence. She has a professional reputation to maintain in her community.”
“What community?” Picard asked.
Ardra tilted her head and gave a tsk sound. “Magicians do not tell their secrets, Jean-Luc. And we do not tell on one another.”
Picard’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Yorta. “Cross. This is about Buxtus Cross.”
“Cross is indeed why I was first contacted,” Yorta said. “My brief, regrettable meeting with him. Ardra does have something to say about that individual.” He fished in his pocket for a padd. “But what got our attention was when Starfleet investigators circulated the picture of this woman.” He turned the padd about and displayed for Picard the computer-generated image of an Orion female.
“Shift,” Picard said. “Cross’s murderer.”
“His apprentice, I suspect,” Ardra said. “I know her well. Or as well as you could ever know your cellmate.”
“Your—?” Picard looked back at Beverly, who seemed similarly shocked.
Ardra affected an impish smile, turned, and stepped back onto the transporter pad. “I’m sorry you weren’t happier to see me, Captain Picard. Perhaps if I return to Thionoga, some other old friend will invite me—say, to dinner?”
“We’ve already eaten,” Crusher said, not in the least impressed.
Picard gave her a pained smile that said that the needs of the service would have to come first. “I’ll see if we can arrange something for our guests. But then, Ardra, you will tell us what you know.”
“I can do better than tell you. I can show you.” Ardra raised a dark eyebrow.
• • •
Ezri Dax felt a serious moment of déjà vu as she sat in one of the quarters Enterprise afforded visiting officers and dignitaries. Curzon Dax had been in similar quarters in Excelsior ninety-three years earlier when a young Ensign Tuvok had presented his theories about the visitation of the goddess Niamlar to the Kinshaya on Yongolor.
This time, Tuvok was accompanied by Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen, Enterprise’s first-contact officer. If the meeting had, heretofore, seemed familiar to Dax, the image that Chen put onto the quarters’ display screen took it to another level.
“Whoa,” she said. “The Great Niamlar. That brings back memories.”
“I thought it might,” Chen said.
The imagery—several seconds worth—depicted the great dragon just as Dax remembered it. “That’s an angle I never saw. Where’d you get this?”
“It was supplied to the lieutenant by one of her contacts in the Devotionalist movement,” Tuvok said.
“Interesting,” she said. “I didn’t know there was any imagery captured on Yongolor, apart from what Sulu recorded.”
Tuvok and Chen looked at each other. The Vulcan explained, “Captain, this is not from Yongolor ninety-three years ago. It is from Janalwa—earlier this week.”
Dax’s eyes went huge. “Niamlar’s back?”
“Or a facsimile.”
The Trill stared at the images. “Tuvok, that is exactly the creature I saw in the temple on Janalwa. Nothing is different. Only the background has changed.”
“That was my conclusion also. I only have summary data,” Tuvok said. “I have sent a request to Memory Alpha to obtain Captain Sulu’s full scans. However, based on our mutual recollections, I think it is safe to conclude that whoever created the illusion is back.”
“Could Niamlar be like the Bajoran Prophets and really exist?”
“Illogical. That chance seems remote.”
Chen was spellbound by their conversation. Snapping out of it, she asked, “You think it’s possible that the same scam is being run a century apart?”
“Certainly.” Tuvok gestured to the observation port, outside which Houdini floated. “Ardra was active twenty years ago, and there is evidence that her ship is older than that. If Niamlar is a computer-generated holo-construct like the others Houdini generates, that same illusion could be repeated at a later time.”
“But to what end?” Chen asked. “Another robbery?”
Tuvok tilted his head, concentrating. “Perhaps. But to have it happen in such close physical and temporal proximity to the Kruge impersonation raises many questions.”
Dax stared at them both—and then back at the image of Niamlar, god of war. “I think we’d better get some answers.”
• • •
Picard’s second meal of the night had been far less enjoyable than the first. Beverly had declined to join them, going back to bed. But Ardra was wide awake, and he had to find out what she knew—even if it meant having to fend off alternating flirtations and angry barbs about having cost her the last nineteen years of freedom.
He wasn’t surprised that her appearance had little changed since their first meeting. Illusion was Ardra’s business, and just as she had kept the alias she was using when she was captured, she kept the same look. But he was just as certain that this look was, like everything else about her, false. As the dinner wore on, he grew increasingly convinced that the entire meeting was a scam.
The captain had said so when Yorta had suggested they adjourn to, of all places, the holodeck. The lawyer entered a program from his padd into the archway and stood ready to execute it.
“I would like it stated for the record, Captain Picard, that my client has come forward willingly to assist the Federation. By showing you this,” Yorta said, “we expect to see a material change in Ardra’s condition.”
“There it is,” Picard said. He’d been certain all along that Ardra had not suddenly decided to join the side of the angels. “The original charges against her were made by the Ventaxians. They would be the ones to appeal to for leniency, not Starfleet.”
“But the sentence for her crimes on Ventax II has long since expired,” Yorta said.
“One of which involved the theft of Houdini from a Federation impound facility subsequent to her Ventaxian arrest,” Picard said. “Piracy is no small matter. She is serving extensions to her sentence because of her several escapes
.”
“I just knew you were going to bring up Shanzibar,” Ardra said. “That was just a trifle. Besides, if we’re going to talk about theft, what have you people been doing with my vessel? You’re messing around with things you don’t understand—again!”
“We used Houdini to spare the Ventaxians a life of miserable servitude. You were impersonating—”
“Not just impersonating,” she said with a sly grin.
“—a god in order to extort the produce of an entire world. We were not going to let that happen.”
She shook her head. “And that, my dear Jean-Luc, is why Starfleet is such a dreadful bore. You have no respect for a well-cast illusion.”
“I do.” Picard looked around at the black grid of the holodeck. “This is a place for illusions. The illusions here entertain, even inform.” He looked to Yorta. “This will inform the Federation, you say?”
“I believe it will,” the lawyer said.
Picard regarded Yorta. “I trust you.” He looked to Ardra. “I trust him,” he said, making it clear whom he did not trust. “I agree to enter into a negotiation about what we might be able to do on your behalf—after I see this.”
“Enter—?” Ardra shook her head. “Forget negotiations, Picard. I want a deal now.”
“You have just heard it.”
Standing by at the arch, Yorta looked to Ardra. She shrugged. “Starship captains can be so difficult,” she said. “Go ahead, Emil. Run the program.”
Thirty-three
Picard did not understand how a space station could be dank—much less, a holographic one. And yet somehow, Thionoga Detention Center managed to adapt the feeling of a Victorian-era gaol into a modern setting.
Everything looked old, shabby, and used-up. Including the occupants, members of various species who shambled around with shackle-like control mechanisms around their wrists—or whatever limbs they had that suited. Picard stood in line with Yorta, waiting to get into a mess hall whose name, he could already see, was a double entendre.
The Hall of Heroes Page 17
