“Then Godspeed,” he said after a long moment.

“Beam‑down window opening in thirty seconds,” Hawk said, staring at a readout. The viewscreen still showed nothing but featureless darkness, punctuated by sporadic auroral light‑flashes that made the barren land stand out in sharp, shadowed relief.

Hawk suddenly looked up from his console, a puzzled expression on his face.

“What is it?” Picard said.

“It’s strange. I’m picking up tetryon emissions from somewhere. It’s faint, but it’s interfering with the transporter lock.”

“Can you compensate?”

Hawk made several minute adjustments to his console. “There. Lock established. Fifteen seconds to beamdown window.” Hawk then rose from his seat and shot a questioning glance in Picard’s direction.

Picard unslung his rifle and handed it to Hawk, who walked over to the admiral’s side. The captain sat behind the cockpit controls and methodically punched in the transporter commands. Then he turned his chair aftward.

“Marta, I will be very upset with you if you get yourself killed,” Picard said.

She grinned as the pads energized. “Just drive carefully, Johnny. And don’t forget to leave a light on for us.” The beam brightened and the pair shimmered out of existence.

Crusher took the seat beside him. “ ‘Johnny?’ ” she said inquiringly.

An alarm klaxon sounded. He said nothing to the doctor; the wavering image on the tactical display now demanded his full attention. At least four small vessels were approaching, coming from all directions.

And they were all closing on the Keplervery, very quickly.

Will Riker paced back and forth in the holding cell for what seemed like days. Asking the guard for the time had been an exercise in futility, akin to soliciting a charitable donation from a Ferengi DaiMon. The total absence of any sort of clock gave time an elastic, unreal quality.

“Will,” Troi said. Though she was sitting on the cell’s single cot in a contemplative‑looking lotus position, she appeared to be having trouble concentrating.

Riker stopped in his tracks. “Sorry. I can’t seem to stop pacing. And there’s not much else to do.”

Zweller, who was leaning insouciantly against one of the cell’s stone walls, chuckled.

“Is something funny, Commander?” Riker said testily.

“You’re wearing a groove. I hope you don’t tip your hand so easily during those poker games the counselor was telling me about.”

“This isn’t a game. Remember, we have no way of knowing if your little stunt will work. Or exactly when it’s supposed to happen.”

Zweller stroked the white stubble on his chin. “I’ll grant you the first point. But not the second. I suggest you be ready to move in exactly four minutes and fortytwo seconds.”

Riker’s eyebrows rose skyward. Even Deanna looked surprised.

“Where have you been hiding your timepiece, Mr. Zweller?” Troi said.

The older man smiled enigmatically, gently tapping his skull with his index finger. Then he nodded toward the guard who was standing in the corridor, his back toward the cell. “Don’t distract me. I’m counting down.”

“In your head,” Riker said, still incredulous.

“Yes. In my head.”

“And what are we supposed to do at the end of your countdown?” Troi asked.

Riker grinned. “I can think of something.”

He laced his fingers together and popped his knuckles loudly.

Hawk almost couldn’t believe his good luck. Not only had he persuaded Captain Picard to bring him along on the mission, but he had also been allowed to participate in the ground rescue itself. He might never get a better opportunity to unravel the mystery surrounding the death of Aubin Tabor–and to learn what Section 31 really expected to accomplish by helping the Romulans take possession of Chiaros IV.

Hawk clutched the stock of the phaser rifle tightly as the Kepler’s transporter engulfed and disassembled him, bringing on a feeling of vertigo. He felt as though he was dropping over the edge of an endless, iridescent waterfall, tumbling an impossible distance. The sensation brought to mind Reg Barclay’s tales of similar experiences, until he reminded himself that this was no ordinary beamdown; the heavily ionized Chiarosan atmosphere was probably complicating the transport process.

Suddenly, Hawk was whole once again. He found himself standing beside Admiral Batanides in a roughhewn, curving stone corridor. The place appeared to have been excavated from the planet’s very bedrock and was surprisingly well lit, thanks to row upon row of ceilingmounted light panels. Hawk could hear distant shouts echoing up and down the hallway, though no one was visible besides themselves. For a moment he wished they had brought a larger contingent with them from the Enterprise.But if they had, there would have been little room aboard the Keplerfor the rescuees.

He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. If the team’s assumptions had been correct–based upon Commander Zweller’s brief subspace transmission–then the security forcefields in the detention area were due to fail in exactly four minutes and thirty‑three seconds.

The admiral opened her tricorder and studied it for a few moments. Then she nodded, indicating that she had found her bearings–if, Hawk reflected again, Zweller’s message and its coordinate data could be trusted.

Hawk took the point, staying several paces ahead of Batanides. Cautiously, the lieutenant peered around a corner. He heard the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls and saw a flurry of motion at one of the corridor’s far ends. He ducked back the way he had come, flattening against one of the rough stone walls. The admiral did likewise. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hawk watched as a half‑dozen very large Chiarosans, some armed with blades, others carrying disruptor‑type weapons, and still others holding Starfleet‑issue phasers, ran quickly past. Hawk was struck by how quiet and graceful such large beings could be.

What was their hurry? Were they being mobilized to attack the Kepler?

Peering around the corner once more, Hawk established that it was safe to move, at least for the moment. They crept forward cautiously. Two corridorturnings later, they entered a chamber filled with what appeared to be security holding cells, none of which were occupied. Unfortunately, their entrance surprised a lone Chiarosan guard, who immediately drew a pair of serrated blades and was on top of Hawk almost before he realized what was happening. The lieutenant brought his phaser rifle upward just barely in time to ward off the soldier’s initial blow. Sparks struck as the gleaming swords skipped off the phaser’s tough duranium casing.

Then the Chiarosan stepped quickly backward; with an impossibly limber motion, he delivered a spinning kick to Hawk’s shoulder, knocking him to the stone floor. The wind rushed from the lieutenant’s lungs. His fall was considerably more painful than he expected, no doubt because of the planet’s intense gravitational field. Compared to the point‑three‑eight Earth‑normal gravity he’d grown up with in Bradbury City, the pull of Chiaros was downright brutal. Hawk rolled, hugging his rifle, barely avoiding being eviscerated by one of the guard’s swords. A second blade sang past his ear and clanged deafeningly against the stone floor.

Compared to this guy, Ranul’s holodeck pirates are pushovers.

But although the Chiarosan was strong and fast, Hawk wasn’t out of moves just yet. Tripping the release on the rifle’s strap, Hawk swept the weapon beneath the warrior’s feet, bringing him to the ground with a heavy thump. Hawk rose, then slammed the rifle’s stock up under the Chiarosan’s jaw as the guard scrambled to recover his footing. Hawk hastened to deliver another smashing blow, stunning his adversary and knocking him down once more. But the guard didn’t appear injured– he looked annoyed, and again rose to confront Hawk.