“And who will vote in an election that threatens their lives and families?” asked Falhain. “The rebels are not allowed to vote or they will be incarcerated or executed. And are you truly so naive as to believe that a ruler who so oppresses her people would allow for a true and just election?”

Falhain gestured over toward T’Alik and her contingent. “And as for the Romulans, they do not appear overly interested in any struggle of Chiarosan against Chiarosan.”

Picard shot a quick glance at Troi, who shrugged slightly. She can’t tell whether that’s true or not,he thought.

“Then why do you suppose they want this system?” Picard said to Falhain. “In my experience, the Romulans never do anything just because it helps someone else. They are conquerors. What makes you so sure that they will not enslave your entire society if the Chiarosans choose not to ally themselves with the Federation?”

Falhain looked to Picard again, one eyebrow raised. “Your question is rather pointless, is it not, Captain? If the Romulans were going to conquer us, why have they not done so before now?”He paused for a moment, seemingly for the question to sink in, then continued. “I am not a blind man, Picard, nor one who is easily convinced in any argument. The Romulans have neither hindered nor aided us in our battles. My belief is that their chief concern in whether or not Ruardh continues to rule is that they wish to expand the boundaries of the worlds that are a part of their empire, and to stop the creeping expansion and domination of your people. If the referendum moves to Ruardh’s wishes–toward acceptance of Federation membership–the Empire will ultimately lose. If the people’s willwins out, and we rejectthe Federation, then we will be able to continue to chart our own destiny, free of an oppressive outside structure which would support a government that kills its own children!”

Tabor held up his hands to call for order, and Picard broke his eyes away from his steady gaze into Falhain’s. Behind him, and to his side, he saw Deanna Troi’s expression change dramatically, from one of concern to one of pain and shock. Suddenly, she leaped forward, pushing Picard to the ground. A sizzling beam of energy sliced through the air where he had been standing seconds before.

And then all hell broke loose. From the top of the arena, disruptor fire rained down upon the Chiarosan leaders, the Romulans, and the Starfleet personnel. The second blast struck one of Falhain’s rebels in the chest, leaving a smoking crater in his furred skin as he toppled backward. In moments, the Chiarosans–on both sides of the political spectrum–had drawn their scimitar‑like swords, or other bladed weapons, and a melee erupted.

As Troi dove toward a bench, a disruptor blast searing the marble floor by her feet, Picard rolled to one side. A Chiarosan rebel turned and saw him, and raised one scimitar above his head to strike a killing blow. Picard kicked his foot up between the warrior’s legs, and the impact had the desired effect. Picard rolled again as the rebel’s now‑unsteady swing missed its mark. A sharp whistling sound went over the captain’s head, as a nearby Chiarosan used his own blade to chop off the sword arm of the attacker, burying the metal into his foe’s chest. The severed Chiarosan arm flopped down on top of Picard, still clutching its curved weapon.

The captain quickly wrested the scimitar from the hand’s grasp and stood in a defensive crouch. In his mind, Picard cursed the rules of Federation diplomacy that forbade weapons, leaving himself and his officers the only ones unprotected in the fight. He searched for his friends in the melee, but couldn’t spot them. Nor could he see Tabor.

The fighting was loud and brutal, and inhumanly fast. The soldiers and the rebels were interlocked in savagery, their guttural yowls and clanging steel blades creating an awesome din. Picard spotted a soldier advancing on two of the Romulans, holding his weapons in both hands. The captain launched himself at the warrior with a yell, but one of the Romulans was killed before he could cover the distance.

The Chiarosan swung one sword high, and the other low, but Picard ducked and brought his own blade to parry the lower blow. Picard kept the blades in contact and forced both to swing to one side. Before the warrior could recover, Picard brought his weapon down again. It connected with his opponent’s wrist, and the lightly furred hand was cleanly separated from his arm.

The attacker howled, and slashed at Picard with his remaining scythe. Although his aim was unsteady, he still managed to connect, the tip of his weapon slicing through Picard’s tunic and slitting his upper chest. Suddenly, the Chiarosan howled and crumpled forward, a saber wound bleeding at the base of his spine. Behind him was one of Ruardh’s bodyguards, who gave Picard a brief glance of respect before turning to fight another of the rebels.

Picard sensed a presence behind him and turned, his blade at the ready. He relaxed only slightly when he saw that it was Data, now holding a Chiarosan sword himself. He had no doubt that the android’s reflexes allowed him to fight valiantly, but as he put a hand up to his own bleeding chest, engaging in more battle was not on his mind.

“Data, access the shuttle’s onboard computer and beam us out.” Data used his free hand to punch several buttons on his tricorder, while Picard scanned the arena to see if he could spot Riker or Troi or Tabor; he still couldn’t see them through the fighting hordes. Picard tapped his combadge, and yelled to Riker, but the din was too intense for him to hear if there was a reply.

“I’ve got it, sir.” As Picard looked toward Data, two Chiarosans toppled toward them, caught in a mutual death grip, each skewered on the other’s blades. “Energizing.”

And in a moment, Picard was back aboard the shuttlecraft. He tumbled off the transporter pad, still flinching from the two warriors who had been falling toward him. Data squatted on a nearby pad.

“Where are Will and Deanna? And Tabor?”

Data scrambled over to the transporter console, and punched a few buttons, moving his fingers downward in a swift motion on the touchpad. “Attempting retransport now, Captain.”

The familiar sparkle of the transporter shimmered on three pads, but what materialized wasn’t Picard’s first officer and counselor. Instead, their combadges clattered to the floor. On the third pad was Tabor, his back to them as he stood, hunched over. He turned toward them, stumbling, his right hand holding his throat, his left hand at his chest.

Tabor’s legs could no longer hold him, and he fell forward, his left hand moving forward to break his fall. Picard heard a chilling sound when the ambassador hit the floor, as the point of a Chiarosan dagger pushed up through Tabor’s spine. Data and Picard turned Tabor over, only to discover purplish‑crimson liquid spilling from between the diplomat’s fingers.

“We’ve got to get him to the Enterprise,”Picard said. “Data, get us out of here.”

As the android moved to the shuttle’s flight controls, Picard tried to apply firmer pressure to Tabor’s neck wound, holding his head upward. The knife still jutted from his chest, but Picard knew better than to try to remove it before getting him back to the Enterprise.Crusher could save him, if anyone could. He silently cursed the fact that shuttles did not come equipped with Emergency Medical Holograms, and vowed to bring that up with Starfleet Command in his next report.

Entering the stormy atmosphere, the shuttle lurched from side to side. Picard braced himself with one hand, trying not to let Tabor move too much. Tabor’s left hand grabbed weakly at Picard’s tunic, pulling him down. The ambassador was trying to say something, though the sounds coming from his mouth made Picard’s skin crawl. He leaned in closely, listening.