Then, the generator fired.

From his vantage point lying flat on his back, Festrene had an unobstructed view as a pulse of orange energy erupted from the top of the mechanism, accompanied by a shrill whine as it described an arc across the clear blue Traelan sky. As it traveled, the pulse began to expand, flattening and stretching with each passing moment. In the distance, Festrene could see the pulses fired from other generators in the network following similar courses, each doing their part to weave their portion of the web as they converged on a point Festrene had calculated as being above the center of the Klingon colony.

It is working! The thought pushed past the torment gripping Festrene as the pain from his wound mounted. He could not be sure, but he thought the Klingon’s attack may well have damaged at least one vital organ in his torso. It was almost certain that he required medical attention, but there was none to be found in this place.

The field’s effect on the Klingon was immediate, who staggered to a stop in midstride and dropped her weapon as she reached with both hands to grip the sides of her head. There was no mistaking the distress she obviously was experiencing as she fell to her knees. Blood was running from her nose, and Festrene saw now that it also was coming out of her mouth. She released a gurgling, anguished howl before falling forward and landing face-first in the dirt. Her body continued to twitch as Festrene watched in horror.

What was happening?

The device had been designed to be used as a neurological attack, so the field’s effects on humanoids should not be this severe, and it certainly should not be killing anyone, as it appeared now to be doing.

What have I done?

Unable to move and feeling his strength ebbing, Festrene reached with one feeble appendage toward the console, willing it to deactivate itself. The mechanism was out of reach, and though it would deactivate itself after a prescribed interval, he knew by then it would be too late. Every Klingon at the colony would be dead, quite possibly along with every other specimen of animal life in the targeted area.

He had killed them.

With supreme effort as he fought through the pain racking his body, Festrene maneuvered himself so that he could crawl along the ground. Accompanied by the incessant hum of the web generator, he pulled himself through the dirt and dust until he felt the console’s warm smooth surface. Once activated, the field could not be aborted until it completed its programmed duration, but there remained a single option for disabling it. Festrene’s phalanges moved across the rows of controls and indicators until he found the familiar, octagonal switch that sat by itself in the center of the panel. It was intended for use only in the most dire of circumstances, which to Festrene seemed appropriate just now.

Despite his injuries and even as he felt consciousness beginning to slip away from him, Festrene was still awake and aware of his surroundings when the self-destruct protocol was triggered.

21

“What the hell are you doing here?”

His eyes wide with surprise as he regarded the welcoming, smiling face of Ezekiel Fisher, Reyes had to raise his voice to be heard over the background noise of the restaurant situated on the fringe of the Omari-Ekon’s gaming deck. All around him, patrons, servers, and other employees bustled past on their way into and out of the restaurant. Fisher himself seemed immune to the minor chaos unfolding around them, just as he appeared oblivious to the pair of Orions who had accompanied him this far into the casino. The burly security guards were going out of their way not to look obvious as they stood several meters away, pointedly looking anywhere except to where Fisher and Reyes stood.

Amateurs.

Hooking a thumb over one shoulder at the two guards, Fisher replied, “It’s like I told Thick and Thicker over there: I’m here for the buffet.”

Reyes resisted questioning the statement, knowing that for every guard he could see failing in his attempts to keep them under covert surveillance, there was another pair of eyes or ears keeping tabs on him from another, better vantage point. Instead, he said, “There’s nothing in there that’s good for you.”

“Exactly,” Fisher replied, smiling again. “I get tired of Starfleet dietary menus. Sometimes I just want to feel my arteries harden while I eat.”

“This place’ll do it,” Reyes said, following Fisher as the other man led the way into the restaurant. “I’m surprised Nogura didn’t declare this place off-limits to station personnel.”

Looking around before answering, Fisher regarded Reyes with a neutral expression. “Why would he do that? It’s not as though anything odd or bad has happened over here. At least, there’s nothing on any of the news feeds or daily briefing reports.”

It was more than just a casual statement, Reyes knew, thanks to the information T’Prynn had supplied him. The failed attempt to extract him, and the deaths of the two officers who had been involved, was being kept under wraps, at least for the time being. This had come as no great shock to Reyes, who could understand all the various reasons why Starfleet and Admiral Nogura, to say nothing of Ganz and Neera, would want to keep things quiet. It was just the sort of incident that could touch off all manner of headaches for the Federation. As for the Orions, while Neera seemed content to observe the status quo for the moment, Ganz was getting edgy. T’Prynn, having somehow managed to infiltrate the Omari-Ekon’s communications system, had overheard Ganz’s instructions to his underling to begin plotting Reyes’s “accidental demise.” She had passed that information on to Reyes, with the advisory that he be even more aware of his surroundings and the very real danger he now faced, and that steps were being readied to extract him from the Orion ship, sanctioned this time by Admiral Nogura. Despite this, Reyes had volunteered to remain in place long enough to take another crack at the Omari-Ekon’s navigational logs, knowing that whether he succeeded or failed, it likely would be his last attempt to secure the information.

Meanwhile, Reyes mused as he tried to keep up with Fisher, who was working his way farther into the restaurant like a man possessed, might as well eat. He was only somewhat surprised to see Tim Pennington, sitting alone at one of the tables with several small plates and bowls arrayed before him. The journalist smiled, lifting a fork to his temple in mock salute as Reyes approached.

“Mister Reyes,” Pennington said. “Fancy meeting you here, mate.”

Returning the greeting, Reyes noted that neither Pennington nor Fisher so much as acknowledged each other as the doctor walked past. A casual observer might not pick up on this, but Reyes knew the men were acquainted if not actual friends, so the lack of greeting was more than a bit odd.

What are you up to, Zeke?

The pair navigated a path around tables, patrons, and servers bearing plates and bowls of various substances Reyes had learned over time was food of one sort or another. Reaching the start of the buffet line, he let his eyes wander over the dual aisles with their stations containing all manner of cuisines. Markings on placards next to each station indicated which foods were suitable for one species or another, and Reyes had learned during his first days aboard the Omari-Ekon which stations to avoid. Most of the selections were self-service, and patrons took advantage of the setup to load their plates with whatever particular foodstuff tickled their fancy.

“What’s with you and Pennington?” Reyes asked, keeping his voice low.

The doctor turned and regarded him with a flat expression. “Pennington? He’s here? Imagine that. He probably likes the buffet, too.” He moved toward the serving line. “They make a pretty good Kohlanese stew, as I recall, but it’s been a while, and I heard they changed chefs.”