Grelun’s gaze remained fixed on them even as his body swiveled toward his guards, to whom he said, “Manacle them and bring them to the vehicle pool.” He then stalked away down the corridor and was gone.

Riker emerged from the cell, followed by Troi. The presence of the three armed guards seemed to persuade them both that any attempt at escape would be illadvised. The pair stood impassively while the guards bound their hands before them.

“I don’t see any handcuffs on you,Commander,” Riker said to Zweller. “Am I correct in assuming that you’ve decided to cooperate with these people?”

Zweller sought the proper words to answer Riker’s pointed question, but they refused to come. What came instead was a surge of guilt for having deprived Riker and Troi of their combadges after they’d been dragged unconscious into the catacombs beneath the HagratИ auditorium; there, a pair of Falhain’s most vigilant guards had kept Zweller “supervised,” and out of the fray for the duration of the peace conference. Zweller knew that by taking the combadges–which the Chiarosan guardsmen had promptly confiscated–he may have prevented Riker and Troi from being beamed to the relative safety of their own shuttle.

But he was also well aware that brief captivity could be a powerful instrument of persuasion. And it was terribly important that he persuade them.

“I have no choice but to help Grelun and his people,” Zweller said finally. “And all I ask is that you keep an open mind.”

Then he led Riker, Troi, and the guards down the corridor toward one of the hangars.

The antigrav‑propelled transport’s hull was painted a dull, unobtrusive black. The passenger cabin was wide, windowless, and unadorned, everything in its interior the same monotonous gunmetal blue. Zweller shifted in a vain effort to get comfortable in his too‑hard, toostraight seat. Clearly, human ergonomic considerations had not been uppermost in the minds of this vehicle’s designers.

A pair of surly‑countenanced warriors, a male and a female, sat facing the still‑manacled Riker and Troi, who passed the fifteen‑minute trip in silence. Seated between the guards, Zweller let his thoughts wander behind the safety of his mental shields. Though he found the transport’s gentle shudders and vibrations oddly comforting, he knew he didn’t dare relax his guard in the Betazoid’s presence.

Zweller found himself desperately hoping that Tabor had somehow managed to survive whatever injuries he’d suffered in the Chiarosan capital. Zweller had always regarded Tabor as both a friend and a mentor, the man who had given his life and career a clarity of purpose that even Starfleet Academy had not been able to do. Tabor had saved him from the consequences of his youthful impetuousness decades ago, on more than one occasion. Had Tabor not warned him away from the beautiful young woman Zweller had taken up with during a shore leave back in ’29–a woman who turned out to be a Tzenkethi saboteur–Zweller would likely have returned to the Ajaxin a body bag, to say nothing of compromising the safety of the ship and her crew. Just two years later, during his second tour of duty with Captain Narth aboard the Ajax,a female Vulcan agent had recruited Zweller into Section 31, where he had come under Tabor’s direct supervision and sponsorship. A universe of opportunities, none of which ever seemed to come fast enough for him as an ordinary Starfleet officer, had opened up for him then. And he had never looked back.

And now Tabor might well be dead. Swept away, just like Captain Blaylock and the crew of the Slayton.

Zweller found coincidences hard to accept. His mind returned to his earlier query: Had Koval been responsible for the attack on Tabor as well as the deaths of his shipmates? Perhaps the Romulan had never intended to surrender the spy list. Maybe he was already back on Romulus, confident that Zweller would never survive his sojourn on Chiaros IV. Regardless, it was abundantly clear to him now that Koval had another agenda besides his deal with Section 31.

But what is it?

The vehicle ceased its shuddering, touching down with a light thump. A moment later, the guards perfunctorily removed Riker’s and Troi’s manacles and handed them thermal blankets, which the captives wrapped about their shoulders on their way to the vehicle’s rear hatchway. Still wearing his jacket, Zweller declined a blanket of his own. Then, his tricorder at the ready, he led the way outside the transport.

Because this near‑Nightside region did not have the benefit of the mountains and canyons that shielded much of Chiaros IV’s habitable meridian, the howling wind struck them brutally. They had to lean into it as they walked in order to make any forward progress at all. The charcoal sky scattered the wan almost‑twilight, revealing the tumble of indistinct shapes that lay ahead. As they trudged closer, those shapes resolved themselves into ruined stone walls, the remnants of dwellings, and the fossil‑dry pieces of a shattered water‑extraction machine. Chunks of burned, shattered masonry lay about in random heaps, like toys discarded by some colossal, tantrumprone child. The exposed bedrock, wind‑scoured for countless ages, bore scorches and craters of obviously much more recent origin. Jagged flashes of ionospheric brilliance leaped across the sky, casting fleeting, irregular shadows in every direction across the detritus of unnumbered destroyed and uprooted lives.

As they walked, Riker shouted to be heard over the keening of the wind. “Is this the same village from the hologram Falhain showed us in HagratИ?”

Zweller hadn’t seen Falhain’s presentation at the peace conference. But the rebels had made him wellacquainted with those particular–and extremely persuasive–holographic images.

“I’m not sure, Commander,” Zweller shouted back. “But does it really matter when there are hundreds more just like it?”

They came to a stop before a partially demolished wall, which appeared once to have been part of a village well. The squat ruin offered them some small respite from the raging winds. Zweller watched as Riker’s boyish face changed, settling into hard planes and angles. Troi looked physically ill. An aurora crackled far overhead, like an electrical arc jumping between the uprights of an old‑fashioned Jacob’s ladder.

Zweller handed the tricorder to Riker, who immediately began scanning the wall and the surrounding terrain. The dour‑eyed guards stood by quietly while Riker pored over the readouts.

The wall bore a small humanoid silhouette. A child’s shadow, rendered in a micrometer‑thin layer of carbon atoms. Several other nearby structures bore similar marks.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,Zweller thought without a scintilla of humor.

Riker’s mouth was moving. Lip‑reading, Zweller thought he made out a “My God.”

Zweller shouted into the wind. “Chiarosan weaponry isn’t all ceremonial flatware, Commander. Especially among Ruardh’s people.”

Zweller paused, smiling mirthlessly before continuing. “Sometimes those folks use disruptors.”

Zweller could still feel the bone‑deep chill even as the antigrav vehicle returned them to the rebel compound nearly an hour later. Nobody spoke until after the guards had escorted Riker and Troi back to their holding cell.

Standing beside the guard outside the cell’s forcefield, Zweller was the first to break the grim silence. “Nowdo you understand why I’ve decided to assist Grelun’s movement?”

Nodding, Riker said, “I understand that you see them as the local underdog. I probably would myself, in your place. But how do we know you showed us the whole story?”

“Commander, I hope you’re not implying,” Zweller said with a scowl, “that there’s any way to justify the slaughter you just saw.”

Riker shook his head. “Of course not. But how do you know the rebels aren’t the ones actually responsible for the killing? They could have staged the massacre themselves simply to discredit Ruardh’s government.”