“Incredible,” Batanides said, leaning back in her chair. “They couldbe hiding a planet the size of Jupiter for all we can tell.”

“It is also possible that this network is shielded in a manner that would disrupt the operation of approaching ships or probes,” Data said. “That would be consistent with the loss of our probe’s telemetry.”

“But Romulan ships would have to be able to pass freely through the field,” Hawk said.

Data nodded. “Any vessel authorized to enter the cloaked zone would probably gain admittance by emitting a particular cloaking‑field resonance frequency.”

Picard said, “But anyone else trying to get across might find their systems completely shut down.”

“Making them defenseless against an attack,” said Batanides. “Maybe now we know what happened to the Slayton.And why they never sent a distress signal or launched a log buoy.”

“If something inside that cloak is so important to the Romulans that they would destroy a Federation starship to keep it a secret, then it’s got to be bigger than our Chiarosan diplomatic problem,” Picard said grimly.

“Maybe the two are interrelated, sir,” said Hawk.

“No doubt, Lieutenant. They’ve gone to great pains to conceal something from us. But they risk starting an interstellar war. What could possibly justify such recklessness?”

Hawk watched in silence as Picard stared at the Romulan warbird’s blurred image, and asked himself the very same question.

“Protector Ruardh, you must understand my situation. We came here to help mediate your conflict, not to aggravate it.” Picard was exasperated, but he tried not to show it as he stood still behind his desk in the ready room. Chiaros IV’s orbiting communications array was finally working again–for the moment–allowing the Enterpriseto make contact with the Chiarosan capital. He was uncomfortably aware that the signal strength this broadcast required meant that any ship within the system, visible or cloaked, could easily intercept his conversation with the Chiarosan leader.

On the desktop screen, Ruardh was not so sanguine; she was visibly angry as she paced in front of the screen in her palace. “You saw for yourself what these traitors are capable of, Picard! You very nearly lost your life, and your ambassador didmake that final transition. What more proof do you need that this Army of Light is wreaking destruction upon our society?”

Crusher sat on the low sofa, just out of the screen’s line of sight; Batanides stood beside her. Picard noticed that the admiral had stiffened slightly at the mention of Tabor’s death. “Madame Protector,” the admiral said coolly, “the political situation on your planet is far more volatile than we had understood when you first requested Federation mediators. In this matter, we must remain as neutral as possible. Our Prime Directive–”

The incensed Chiarosan stepped hard on Batanides’s words. “Don’t speak to me as if we are some species with whom you have just made first contact! We are a people who have petitioned for membership in the Federation, and you are refusing to aid us against our enemies! Have we chosen the wrong power to side with? Should we have chosen the Romulan Star Empire as our Dhaekavall along?”

Batanides took a deep breath before responding. “Your government has indeed petitioned for membership. But it appears that your government does not enjoy the full support of your people, Protector. It is my understanding that the upcoming referendum will decide whether your citizenry wish to join with us or not.” The admiral’s next words were delivered with a deadly calm. “If they decide in favor, we will be much better able to help you defend against any . . . insurgent attacks.”

Picard interjected before Ruardh could speak again. “As for the Romulans, we have reason to believe that their empire has more of a stake in this region of space than we had previously considered. This makes the situation even more volatile. We cannot risk igniting a war with–”

“Risk? What you are risking are my people,Captain! And yourpeople as well. Or have you forgotten that two of your own command crew are still in rebel hands?” The picture on the viewscreen flickered, Ruardh’s image and words splitting into fragments.

Picard tapped his combadge. “Geordi, we’re losing the signal. Can you boost it?”

The engineer’s voice piped through the small transceiver. “Sorry, Captain. The problem seems to be on the Chiarosans’ end.”

Picard leaned in toward the small viewscreen. “ Protector Ruardh, I’m afraid that we cannot maintain subspace contact for much longer. But I promise you that we will try to find a way to help allof your people and–” The signal suddenly blinked out, and Ruardh was gone, replaced by a silver‑white Starfleet insignia superimposed over a dark background.

Picard sighed heavily and leaned against the desk, tapping his fingertips on its gleaming top. “Thatcertainly went well,” he said sardonically, gazing first at the admiral, then toward Crusher.

The doctor, still seated on a low sofa in a far corner of the room, finally broke her silence. “It went as well as could be expected, Jean‑Luc. This . . . situation . . . is difficult, to say the least.”

Batanides put a supportive hand on his shoulder. “At least you won’t have to make any precipitous decisions without a higher‑up on board. Whatever we decide to do, I’llbe the one who has to answer to Starfleet Command.”

Picard looked over at her, and saw a wan smile on her lips. Through her cool exterior, he could sense her grief. He searched for something to say in reply, when his combadge chirped, followed by Data’s voice. “Captain, we’ve just received another transmission from Chiaros IV.”

“Ruardh?”

“No, sir. It came on a Starfleet frequency. And it appears to be from Commander Cortin Zweller.”

Picard, Batanides, and Dr. Crusher entered the bridge quickly. Hawk was busy at the conn station, while Data stood before one of the science consoles, working alongside the Vulcan technician, K’rs’lasel. The Vulcan spoke first, facing the captain. “Sir, I intercepted a subspace signal moments ago. It was very brief, but I believe it was intended for us. The signal contained a Starfleet identification code belonging to Commander Zweller.”

“The subspace burst was weak, but we have managed to salvage most of it over the past three minutes,” Data added. “It appears to contain several adjacent sets of coordinates located on the Nightside of Chiaros IV. It also contained a garbled message about security‑grid forcefields, the significance of which I have yet to ascertain. In addition, the transmission mentioned the word ‘ prisoners’ very prominently, as well as a stardate which will occur five hours, fifty‑seven minutes from now.”

Picard smiled broadly as hope welled up within his chest. “He’s telling us that he’s their prisoner,” he said to Batanides. “And that he needs our help.”

“Captain, the message couldbe a ruse,” Batanides said, her voice pitched low enough so that only Picard, Data, and K’rs’lasel could have heard it. “They may have tortured Zweller to gain access to his command codes.”

Picard looked at Batanides, then at Crusher. He shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t believe that the rebels would do that. And if Troi were here, I think she would concur.”

“The Chiarosan rebels might not be the ones doing the torturing, Captain,” Crusher said. She didn’t need to finish that thought for him to know exactly what she meant.

Picard weighed the options in his mind. Zweller might indeed be a prisoner, and might have found the means– somehow–to send that signal. On the other hand, the message may have originated either from the Chiarosan rebels orfrom the Romulans. Even Ruardh’s people could have sent the signal, as a catalyst to force Picard’s hand.