The time had finally come to bring the horrible truth about Chiaros IV to light.

Flanked by a pair of silent Chiarosan warriors, Zweller and Grelun made their way along a corridor adjacent to–but not directly visible from–the solitaryconfinement cells in which Commander Roget and the other Slaytoncaptives were still being held pending the referendum. After continuing for several meters, they stopped before a small, doorless chamber, where a single guard stood at attention, his back to the slightly orangetinged forcefield that rippled across the room’s entrance.

Inside the detention cell, a man and a woman sat side by side on a low‑slung cot, the room’s only piece of furniture. Both prisoners were attired in somewhat distressedlooking Starfleet dress uniforms, the man wearing red, the woman in blue. Though their combadges were missing, each officer’s collar bore a trio of shiny brass pips, indicating that both held the rank of commander.

I guess I won’t be pulling rank on anyone here. Have to rely on the old Corey Zweller charm instead.

The man rose to his feet first. Tall and vigorous‑looking, he had rumpled brown hair that made an incongruous counterpoint to his neatly trimmed beard. His manner was calm, belying the outrage behind his blue eyes.

“I am Grelun, who now guides the Army of Light,” the dark‑haired Chiarosan said to the male prisoner before the officer could speak. Then the Chiarosan angled an impossibly limber elbow in Zweller’s direction. “I present to you your countryman, Commander Cortin Zweller.” Grelun then made a courtly, triple‑jointed bow toward the prisoners. Zweller interpreted the gesture as ironic, a Chiarosan sign of contempt.

Barely acknowledging Grelun, Riker trained his piercing gaze on Zweller. “Would you mind explaining exactly what is going on here, Commander?”

Abruptly returning to an upright posture, Grelun overrode Zweller before he could respond. “Please accept my apologies, Commander Riker, Commander Troi. I regret that you were handled so roughly. I assure you, we were as gentle with you as the circumstances would permit.”

Zweller noticed that the woman’s eyes were unusually dark. He decided that she probably wasn’t human after all, at least not completely. Perhaps she had some Betazoid ancestry. That could pose a problem. Zweller used the disciplines he’d learned during his training as an agent and quickly erected a barrier around his thoughts and emotions.

“Then can I infer that you intend to return us to the Enterprise?”Troi asked.

TheEnterprise ?Zweller struggled to conceal his surprise from the Betazoid. Johnny.He hoped his old friend wouldn’t get himself swept up in this dangerous situation. But he remembered the brashness of his old Academy classmate all too well; if Jean‑Luc Picard was here, then he would soon be in the thick of things. And an already complex and dangerous situation would undoubtedly become even more so.

“In a short time, yes, we will send you back to your ship,” Grelun told Troi.

Riker glanced at Troi. “Deanna?”

The Betazoid scrutinized Grelun for a long moment before speaking. “He’s not lying, Will. Though he harbors a great deal of hostility toward us, he’s sincere about his intention to release us later. But I sense there’s something important he wants to accomplish first.”

Grelun bared the points of his teeth, evidently displeased that one of his prisoners could find him so transparent.

Looking as though he’d just solved a puzzle, Riker addressed Grelun, ignoring Zweller for the moment. “I think I understand now. We’ll be free to go. But only afterthe Romulans have finished . . . influencing the planetary referendum.”

“Once my people formally acknowledge the Federation’s inability to make good on its promises of security and order,” Grelun said coolly. “Only then will you be free to leave us.”

“If your faction wins in the vote,” Riker said, “we won’t have a lot of other options.”

“Exactly so. Your Federation’s own laws will force your withdrawal from our world. And with the Federation gone, our independence from alldegenerate outworlders will be assured.”

“That is until the Romulans take your world from you by force,” Troi said placidly.

Grelun’s hands twirled for a moment in a complex, eye‑blurring pattern, as though he were cleansing the very air of her words. “This they could have tried to do long, long ago. Because they have not, we will speak no more of it.”

Zweller noticed that Riker had begun looking at him appraisingly. “Commander Cortin Zweller,” Riker said, a calculating look in his eyes. “Captain Picard has told me a great deal about you. Including the fact that we might find you among the Slayton’s survivors.”

Survivors?

Zweller’s heart leaped into his throat. He took a deep, calming breath before speaking, pausing to make certain that his mental shields were still intact.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the Slaytonwas blown to pieces several days ago,” Riker said.

“By whom?” Zweller said, swallowing hard. He had grown quite close to many members of the Slayton’s crew. For the past several days, he’d been trying hard to avoid facing the possibility that, except for the few who had accompanied him to Chiaros IV, they were all dead.

“When we left the Enterprisefor the peace conference,” Riker said, “we were still trying to determine exactly what happened.”

Zweller wondered if Koval might be involved. But what did the Tal Shiar chairman have to gain from the Slayton’s destruction? It made no sense; the Romulans had already all but won the Geminus Gulf. The region simply didn’t have enough value to justify the commission of an overt act of war.

“We recovered some wreckage,” Troi said, “shortly before we escorted Ambassador Tabor to the peace conference.”

Taking care not to let the Betazoid sense just how well he knew Aubin Tabor, Zweller said, “How is the ambassador?”

Riker shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. The last time I saw him, he’d just been run through with a rebel dagger. One of your friends here evidently tried to assassinate him.”

Zweller suddenly felt as though there wasn’t enough air in the room. So many friends and colleagues gone, so quickly. It was too much to digest all at once.

“You call us assassins?” Grelun barked, his voice tinged with murder. He made a quick hand signal to the holding‑cell guard, who immediately dropped the forcefield. Then a wicked‑looking dagger appeared in Grelun’s hand, as though conjured out of thin air. The rebel leader took a single menacing step toward Riker.

Riker made no move to back away, nor did Troi.

“Speak that lie again, human, and I will cut out your tongue! Your ‘ambassador’ was caught drawing a weapon on Falhain.”

“That’s not how it looked from where I was standing,” Riker said. His muscles were tensed, but he didn’t budge. He neither advanced nor gave ground.

Zweller knew that to show fear before a roused Chiarosan warrior was to provoke a lightning‑swift, lethal attack. But he also knew he had to disperse some of the tension in the air, or else Riker was sure to be crippled or killed. Concealing his apprehension behind a stern expression, Zweller stepped between the two men and spread his hands in a placating gesture.

“Falhain would not have wanted this, Noble Grelun,” Zweller said, struggling to back his words with the correct blend of authority and deference. “Too much blood has already been spilled. Instead, I ask you: Let me show them what you’ve shown me.”

A long moment passed, during which time Zweller wondered if Grelun weren’t seriously considering killing them all. Then the rebel leader sheathed his blade as quickly as he had drawn it. He stared at Riker and Troi, his eyes still as cold and hard as the farthest reaches of frozen Nightside.