by Judith
[96] Picard and Riker exchanged a quick glance. “That’s not a standard Romulan procedure,” Riker said.
Picard stepped up behind Ops. Ensign McKnight could handle that station during Red Alert, so Data wasn’t needed at his usual post. But a replacement was needed for navigation. “Mr. Data, take the conn.” In an instant, Acting Ensign Wesley Crusher slipped out of his chair to be replaced by Data. The look of relief on the teenager’s face was evident. Piloting the Enterprise in standard orbit was one thing, but facing a potentially hostile vessel with the same responsibility was another. Picard kept his attention on the screen as his crew responded smoothly and efficiently around him. “Ops, magnify the Warbird. Keep our weapons off-line, as well, Mr. Worf.”
“But, Captain, this could be a Romulan trick to—”
Picard held up his hand to silence his security officer. On the viewscreen, the image of the Warbird wavered; then a full third of it expanded to the edges of the screen. But the image still rippled and would not come into sharp focus.
“Is there a problem with the viewer?” Picard asked.
At her Ops station, Ensign McKnight reset the optical enhancers on the ship’s main sensors. “Main viewscreen is within operational tolerances, Captain.”
Data spoke quickly before Picard could ask another question. “Captain, I believe we are detecting residual cloaking bleed from the Romulan vessel.”
Picard wrinkled his brow. “‘Residual cloaking bleed’? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Until now, it has only been detected in high-speed, optical sensor scans of decloaking vessels. Usually, it appears for only a few tenths of a second when the cloaking field is switched off.”
“Is the ship damaged?” Riker asked.
“I do not know, sir. However, it would appear that some part of its cloaking device is not operating correctly.”
Picard stepped back to confer with Riker. “What do you make Of this?”
Riker’s expression indicated he was neither impressed nor concerned. “It’s not answering our hails. It’s not making any [97] demands. If it were any other kind of ship, I’d scan it for life signs, but the Romulans might mistake that as preparation for locking our weapons. Then again, as long as its cloaking device is operational, it can’t fire its weapons.”
“Captain Picard,” Data said. “The Warbird is cloaking.”
On the viewscreen, the ominous green ship began to ripple as if seen through water. But it didn’t disappear entirely. After a few seconds, the rippling effect lessened again.
“My mistake, sir,” Data amended. “It appears to have been a power surge in its defensive systems.”
Picard turned as Counselor Troi hurried onto the bridge. She wore a shimmering blue Parrises Squares uniform and her face was flushed. The Red Alert had obviously caught her at practice on the holodeck. She stared at the bizarre image on the screen as the Warbird faded out of and into view again.
“Are they in trouble?” she asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me, Counselor,” Picard answered.
Troi took a deep breath and her face fell into an expression of concentration. “Without a screen image to focus on, it’s difficult reading anything at this distance.” Her eyes focused on something beyond the confines of the bridge. “I’m sensing ... that’s odd.” She looked at Picard with an apologetic frown. “I’m not sensing anything from the Romulan ship, Captain. I’m only picking up the crew of the Enterprise.”
Picard frowned. “Is it possible the whole Romulan crew is incapacitated?” He turned to Worf, waiting impatiently at his console at the back of the bridge. “Mr. Worf, I think we’re going to have to risk a sensor scan. Make it as low-power and as brief as you can. But I want to know about the general health of the crew aboard—”
“Just a minute,” Riker interrupted. He reached down beside McKnight at Ops and tapped the viewscreen’s enhancement controls. “Those aren’t Romulan markings. ...”
Picard stared at the viewscreen as it went into its enhancement mode, freezing pixels of clear optical information in each refresh cycle until a still picture of the Warbird, free of residual cloaking bleed, began to fill in.
[98] “They’re Ferengi.” Riker said.
Picard didn’t bother to hide his surprise; the evidence was there before him. Instead of the blocky, vertical calligraphy of the Romulans, emblazoned on the Warbird’s hull were the branching, hard-angled, bidirectional ideograms of the Ferengi Alliance. “Can you read it, Will?” Picard knew his first officer had taken advanced courses in the language and engineering philosophies of nonaligned worlds. If he ever found himself on a Ferengi ship, he could most likely pilot it.
Riker squinted at the screen as the image became sharper. “I believe it says, ‘The 62nd Rule.’ ”
“Commander Riker is correct,” Data said.
“Any idea what that might mean?” Picard asked.
Data’s eyes momentarily flashed to the side as he exhausted his onboard data banks and accessed the Enterprise’s main computer. “None at all, sir. Perhaps it has a mythical connotation.”
“Unlikely for a Ferengi name,” Riker said. “And what the hell is it doing on the side of a Romulan Warbird?”
“Captain,” Data announced, “the residual cloaking bleed is diminishing. It appears they have their cloaking system under control.”
“Go to main viewer,” Picard said.
“Shall we go to Yellow Alert?” Riker asked.
Picard shook his head. He knew that the Ferengi were officially considered to be less of a threat than the Romulans. Romulans were known to shoot first and ask questions later. The Ferengi, though, often tried to beguile or outbargain their victims first, then shoot.
But Picard still remembered the incident at the Maxia Zeta Star System, which the Ferengi insisted on calling the Battle of Maxia. Eleven years earlier Picard had lost his ship, the Stargazer. after an unprovoked attack by a Ferengi Marauder-class vessel. Picard had managed to destroy the attacker before being forced to abandon ship, but the shocking savagery of the unexpected encounter would forever color his dealings with the Ferengi.
“We’ll stay on Red Alert until we find out what they’re up to,” Picard said.
[99] Worf announced that the Warbird was finally responding to his hail.
The captain pointed to the main viewscreen. “Put it onscreen, Mr. Worf.”
The Warbird image was replaced by the grinning face of a Ferengi DaiMon, obviously if surprisingly the commander of the Romulan vessel. He was male—spacegoing Ferengi were always male, as they never allowed their females to leave the homework!—and his enlarged cranial lobes glistened with sweat as the hand-sized ears framing his pinched face dripped with rivulets of the same.
Picard did not need Troi to tell him the Ferengi was agitated about something. Which was just as well. Betazoids could not form empathie or telepathic impressions of Ferengi, which suggested that the Romulan ship had a completely Ferengi crew. Why, or even how, such a thing could be possible, Picard did not venture a guess. He hoped the Ferengi would tell him. “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise. Are you in need of assistance?”
The Ferengi drew himself up, as imperiously as a Ferengi could manage, and through twisted teeth said, “What makes you think I am in need of hew-man assistance, Captain Jean-Luc P—”
The image of the DaiMon dissolved in a burst of static and was instantly replaced by the forward view of the Warbird.
“We have lost their signal,” Worf reported. “They no longer appear to be transmitting.”
Riker smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What do you want to bet they stole it?”
Picard considered the possibility for a moment, but rejected it. “Not even the Ferengi could be so brazen.” He sat down in his chair. Danger seemed less imminent each moment, but he still wasn’t ready to step down from Red Alert.
But Troi was apparently not convinced by the captain’s certainty. “Though I c
an’t read the DaiMon’s emotional state, I heard no sense of guilt in his voice, Captain.” She sat down in her chair to the captain’s left.
Riker took his own position to the right. “Deanna, a Ferengi [100] wouldn’t feel guilt about stealing a starship from a Romulan. I doubt a Ferengi would feel guilt about stealing a crust of bread from his starving mother. If they have mothers.”
Picard spoke over his shoulder. “Can we pick up anything at all, Mr. Worf? Perhaps intercept their intraship communications? Under the circumstances, I think we can risk a more powerful sensor scan. If we keep it brief.”
Worf sounded perplexed. “I am detecting no intraship communications in use, Captain.” There was a flash from the screen and when Picard looked back at it, every interior and running light on the Warbird had gone out, followed a moment later by the slow fading of its green propulsion generators. “In fact,” Worf continued, “I am now detecting no power usage at all.”
Riker reacted with urgency. “Full sensor scan, Mr. Worf. I want to know if they’ve lost containment of their warp core. All transporter rooms stand by for emergency evacuation of the Romulan vessel.”
Data interjected, “Excuse me, Commander, but it is not known if the D’deridex-class vessels employ warp cores.”
“Then find out if they’ve lost containment on anything,” Riker amended.
But by the time he had finished speaking, the Warbird’s running and interior lights were back, and its propulsion glow intensified.
“Warbird power back on-line,” Worf said. “We have reacquired their signal.”
“Riker to transporter rooms: Stand by.”
The viewscreen image changed again as the Enterprise resumed communication with the Romulan ship. The Ferengi DaiMon was caught hissing at someone out of the visual scanner’s range, off to his side. He instantly recovered as he realized Picard was watching, and a patently false smile grew over his face.
“I repeat,” Picard said, making no attempt to hide his own smile, “are you in need of assistance?”
The DaiMon leered into the scanner. “We have not come to ask assistance, Captain Pee-card. We have come to offer it.”
Picard looked from Riker to Troi in an unspoken poll of their opinions.
[101] Riker leaned forward in his chair. “Whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”
The Ferengi’s tiny eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I am Pol, DaiMon of this vessel.”
“And how do you come to be in possession of a Romulan military vessel, DaiMon Pol?” Riker’s gaze was riveted on the Ferengi’s image. Picard did the same. Something was definitely not right here.
The Ferengi’s lips drew back from his pointed teeth. “By the most fundamental law of the universe, hew-man: Everything has a price.”
Picard heard a beep from the tactical console behind him, indicating that the audio portion of their signal to the Warbird had been cut.
Worf spoke: “Captain, I recommend a full sensor sweep of the Warbird. This could be an unprecedented opportunity to study Romulan technical capabilities.”
Picard nodded. The Warbird was obviously stolen and it appeared likely that its Ferengi crew had neither the training nor the experience to use it to launch a realistic attack on the Enterprise. “Make it so,” he said to Worf. To Riker he added, “And let’s try to keep the DaiMon busy while the scan’s underway.”
The tactical console beeped again as audio was restored.
“DaiMon Pol,” Riker began. “The Enterprise is in no need of any form of assistance. You have nothing which we would like to or need to buy.”
Picard’s face tightened in alarm. He stood up, looked at Worf, and drew his fingers quickly across his neck, signaling for the audio to be cut again. Then he spoke to Riker with his back to the screen.
“I said keep him busy, not break off negotiations.”
Riker looked hurt. “I am negotiating, Captain. In the Ferengi tradition.”
Picard had had better things to do in his career than to study the economic traditions of the Ferengi. But as long as his first officer felt he knew what he was doing, though it seemed rash this time, Picard was still inclined to trust him. He cleared his throat. [102] “Very well, Number One. By all means continue.” He nodded at Worf to restore audio once again.
“—and what you say might very well be true,” DaiMon Pol said, finishing his reply to Riker’s opening volley. “But the assistance we have to offer is something which will have great value to some motivated buyer. If not the Federation, then perhaps the ... Romulan Empire?”
Picard saw the look that flashed over Riker’s face. A game of negotiation was all well and good if it involved just a small matter of one ship dealing with another. But the Ferengi had invoked the name of the Federation, suggesting the stakes might be higher than Picard had first thought.
“Let me take this,” Picard told Riker. He stood up and approached the screen. Behind him, Worf muttered softly that the sensor scan was underway.
“I am curious, DaiMon Pol,” Picard began. “What could the Ferengi Alliance have that might be of any assistance to the entire Federation?”
“This is not an Alliance matter,” the DaiMon hissed angrily. He suddenly looked off to the side, blinked in consternation, then barked out another command in his own language.
“The Warbird’s shields are up,” Worf said more loudly. “Full power. Our sensors can barely penetrate them.”
DaiMon Pol dropped any pretense of being a friendly trader. “I did not come here to be insulted, Pee-card. If you wish to know the secrets of this vessel, you will have to pay for them like any respectful buyer. But you are fools indeed if you do not realize that there are other, greater concerns facing your Federation than the weapons of the Romulan Empire.”
Riker stepped up behind Picard and spoke in a whisper. “He seems to be in a hurry to make a deal. Too much of a hurry.”
Picard understood what Riker meant. If the Warbird were stolen, the Ferengi could not very well make an offer to sell whatever he had to the Romulans, without risking automatic execution for piracy. Picard turned back to Riker so his face was hidden from the screen, and whispered in return. “Perhaps we have a motivated seller.”
Picard faced the inexplicably nervous Ferengi again. It was [103] time to find out how much of what the DaiMon was saying was hyperbole, and how much was truth.
“What do you believe is of more concern to the Federation than the weapons of the Romulan Empire?” Picard asked.
DaiMon Pol hesitated a moment. A sly smile began to grow. But then he shook off the expression in anger and snapped his fingers at someone offscreen.
A second display area on the screen appeared beside the Ferengi, displaying an image of a mechanical object.
Picard had a sudden flash of recognition. And of fear.
The object on the screen was an artifact—a dark and twisted assemblage of power conduits, junction boxes, weapon nodes, and hull metal laid out in a perverse system of maniacally redundant engineering. Picard had first seen its style of construction more than a year ago, at System J-25, seven thousand light-years from the Federation’s boundaries.
Whatever the object on the screen was, there was no doubt as to its origins. It had been created by the greatest threat the Federation had ever faced. A threat that even now was moving forward through space toward the Federation’s borders as Starfleet undertook the largest defensive buildup in the history of Earth and a thousand other worlds.
That threat was the Borg.
No member of the Federation had ever managed to lay hands on any sizable artifact of the Borg’s alien manufacture. The object on the screen might just hold the secrets of how to defeat them and save the Federation from assimilation into the Borg Collective.
Picard knew that whatever the price, he had to acquire that artifact.
And judging from the smirk on DaiMon Pol’s pinched face, the Ferengi knew it, too.
SEVEN
LONDON, OPTIMAL REPUBLIC
OF
GREAT BRITAIN, EARTH
Earth Standard: June 21, 2078
Colonel Adrik Thorsen held out his hand to Zefram Cochrane with a friendly, cheery smile. “Mr. Cochrane, as you must know,” he said affably, “I have been looking forward to the pleasure of this meeting for a long time.”
But Cochrane remained seated, his hands on the arms of the old wooden chair. He only stared at Thorsen, seeing the pale, handsome face he had seen a thousand times on update transmissions, fiche, and the networks—icy blue eyes, sleek blond hair, short in a military style, all the attributes of a demigod, a deranged fiend.
Thorsen slowly lowered his hand with a self-deprecating grin of good humor. If he felt slighted by Cochrane’s rejection, he didn’t show it. “I think we have a great deal to talk about” was all he said, in the slightly raspy voice that invariably made people strain to listen carefully, lest they miss anything, creating the impression that everything he said was worth hearing. Then he sat down on the desk behind him and made an offhand gesture to the guard behind Cochrane to step out into the hallway.
“Where’s Sir John?” Cochrane demanded. “And his driver?”
“They’re simply waiting in another office,” Thorsen said easily. [105] “And believe me, I’m not comfortable holding them. But, I have to tell you, by avoiding that checkpoint ... I don’t know, Zefram. The mood of the citizens today. They don’t want to think that the rich and the privileged are above the law.” He grinned obscenely, it seemed to Cochrane, as if he were speaking as one equal to another. “And who can blame them, hmm?”
Cochrane remembered the citizens he had seen lined against a wall by the Fourth World mercenaries. “What’s the penalty for avoiding a checkpoint?”
For the first time, Cochrane saw a glimmer of the real Thorsen. The man’s face became expressionless, just for an instant, as if its mask had slid aside. But the practiced smile, perfected for the interviewers and the public, returned just as quickly. “Hard to say. I’m no expert on these matters. It all depends on mitigating circumstances, doesn’t it?” Thorsen stood up again, glanced away, adding, “If there are any, of course.”
