"And how will this be accomplished, Commander?" she wondered, addressing the heavyset captain by rank rather than by the customary title adopted in Romulan marriage.

Tazol did not seem to notice, his eyes softening as he took a moment to study the lean form of the woman standing before him. "The Praetor has assigned two of the Empire's finest agents to this case," he explained. "They will bridge the time gap, return to Earth's past, and dispose of the sentimental pacifists who were instrumental in forming the basis for this … this Federationof theirs!" The word was a hiss of contempt. "And once that is accomplished," he added with a deceptively gentle smile, "the entire course of history in the galaxy will have been altered—allowing our Empire to claim the space, the planets and the resources which are rightfully ours."

Sarela continued to scan the computerized theories curiously. "In short, if our operatives are successful in murdering three old men, the entire Federation will never have existed at all?" Again, she heard doubt in her voice, wondered if Tazol noticed. As an officer of the Romulan Fleet for over nine years, she had learned that things were rarely as simple as they appeared on the computerized surface. She chanced a look at her husband, wondering if he possessed the rudimentary intelligence to be aware of those facts. Resentment crept in again when she recalled that his command posting had come as a gift from her own father more so than on any merit from Tazol.

"Once our operatives' mission is completed," Tazol said, "the universe will be ripe for Romulan dominion. By destroying the complacent fools who originally conceived a benevolent Federation, the history of the galaxy will be changed—weakened."

He looked up to the viewscreen which covered nearly three quarters of the front of the Ravon's bridge, almost seeing the invisible line of confinement which marked the boundaries of the Neutral Zone. "No longer will our people be consigned to such a pitifully small area of space."

His eyes were distant, his words cold and deadly, and Sarela felt a chill climb the length of her spine. There had been no actual wars in the Empire for decades … but men like Tazol made it their business to remedy that situation.

"The problem lies not in the amount of space we possess, Tazol," she reminded him. "For there are an abundance of fertile worlds within our Empire. What matters," she continued, unable to hold the bitterness in her voice at bay, "is what one does with one's resources."

Tazol's face grew dark for a moment, eyes narrowing to threatening slits. "We were once a conqueringrace—and shall be again—when the Federation is erased from the memory of this galaxy forever! Only fools are farmers and shepherds; a Warrior need not concern himself with such mundane tasks. A Warrior's place," he continued angrily, "is to takewhat has been prepared for him—to eat the fattened animal, and leave fear in the land. Without the Federation and Starfleet, there will be no one to stop us. We shall once again be that which destiny has chosen for us."

Sarela studied the man through coolly questioning eyes. "You recite rhetoric as well as any man, Tazol," she observed, the smile on her face almost glossing over the words of accusation. "But what is to prevent our Empire from being altered as well?" she asked, recalling previous attempts at time distortion. "If the work of our operatives will do this much damage to the Federation and their government, who is to say what it will do to the Empire?" She did not wait for an answer. "The Federation is nothing more than one minute grain of sand in a galaxy of sand. And Tazol," she pointed out emphatically, "science dictates that if one grain of sand is touched, all the sand moves, changes … distorts."

Tazol stared at the woman, then waved the argument aside with a gesture of his hand and a snort of dismissal. "You underestimate the mind of our Praetor, Lady," he replied. "Our entire fleet is now converging on this area of space—as close to the borders of this Neutral Zone as we dare." He eyed the screen once more, voice hardening as he spoke. "Once the Praetor gives the order, our operatives will be sent into Earth's past using a slingshot effect. And the Fleet will enter hyperspace to await the results."

He paused, thumbing a button on the arm of the chair. On the viewscreen, the star pattern disappeared to be replaced with a computer generated diagram of the Empire's boundaries. Seven blips showed on the readout, all moving slowly toward the Ravon.

"Once our Fleet achieves light-speed, we will be safe in a space which is not space at all. But of course you already know that, my dear," he continued in a condescending purr. A dark laugh separated his lips. "Your beauty occasionally causes me to forget that you are also a scientist." He reached out impulsively, slipping one arm around the woman's slim waist and drawing her to his side. "In the womb of hyperspace, any changes which might occur will not directly affect any of our ships or those aboard them. And since we will carry the historical records of the entire Empire on board, any minor changes which may be caused to our history can easily be corrected once we re-enter normal space."

Sarela slipped free of the powerful arms which held her pinned to her husband's side. "Mistakes have been made before," she pointed out, ignoring the heads of the bridge crew which began to turn in their direction. "There are no guarantees, Tazol. None."

Leaning back in the chair, Tazol rubbed the light growth of beard, then shook his head in dismay. "As a scientist, it is logical that you should question these matters, Lady," he agreed. "But as a subject of the Praetor, you should remember that hismind is more capable of plotting galactic dominion than yours. The Empire's most brilliant scientists have worked on this plan for many seasons; there will be no mistake this time!"

As Sarela's eyes widened, she chanced a look at the Ravon's young navigator—the man she would have selected for life-mate had she had the right to choose. In Rolash's eyes, she read hatred—hatred for Tazol, for the Empire, even for the Praetor. But she quickly looked away. Rolash was lost to her. She turned her attention back to the commander, the Warrior … the man she hated above all else.

"Even our Praetor has been guilty of error," she reminded the stranger to whom she was wed. "And his scientists are often employed in the art of speculation—especially if the Praetor pays them well to say what he wishes to hear." Her voice was oddly calm, cold, threatening. "And do not forget that the Praetor holds as little regard for individual life as you do yourself, Tazol. The Praetor is Romulan; that is his way. But Ido not wish to become the casualty of an erroneous hypothesis," she stated flatly. "I, too, am Romulan, but my beliefs are not necessarily the beliefs of the Old Times. There comes a day when even the most powerful race must admit to itself that it has been defeated in battle. There is no dishonor in that, Tazol; it is nothing more than a fact. Our conquering days are over, husband; it is time to build—with what resources we possess."

A cold, gray laugh escaped Tazol's throat as he slipped to his feet in a surprisingly graceful movement. "Your pacifistic nature nauseates me, my fiery little animal!" he snarled. "And you are overlooking the fact that the Praetor himself will be aboard this vessel when we enter hyperspace! As ruler of our people, he will come to risk his life along with ours. He is not afraid of Death, Sarela, not afraid to die for the tradition of the Empire! His transport ship is on its way here now, and will be arriving within the day!" He leaned closer, a threatening black void covering his eyes. "I suggest you alter your way of thinking before he arrives, for you must certainly be aware of the fate of those who have shared your complacent beliefs in the past. The Praetor will not tolerate your weak views nor your efforts to sway the loyalty of this crew!"