A phaser beam suddenly hit the Chiarosan squarely in the chest, instantly incinerating most of his body cavity. He was dead before his massive body struck the stone floor. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the corridor, making Hawk’s gorge rise.

Incredulous, Hawk turned toward the admiral, whose phaser was still raised. At that moment, he couldn’t help wondering how Section 31 could really be any worse than the Federation’s so‑called “legitimate” intelligence agency.

Hawk spoke haltingly as he recovered his breath. “Was . . . that . . . really . . . necessary?”

The admiral’s eyes were steel. “Stunning these people only makes them mad,” she said. “And I’m through wasting time.” Calmly, she holstered her weapon and resumed making tricorder scans. “There are no lifesigns in this part of the detention area. They must have moved the prisoners.”

Hawk’s throat clenched involuntarily. “Or killed them.”

Batanides adjusted the tricorder and her expression brightened. “No. I’m picking up human lifesigns, about a hundred meters that way.” She gestured toward a “T” intersection about twenty meters down the corridor, and they began quietly walking in that direction. Hawk stayed in front, controlling his breathing, keeping his rifle at the ready.

“The tricorder says there’s a Tellarite among the humans,” she said.

“That would be the Slayton’s CMO,” Hawk said, nodding. “Dr. Gomp.”

“You know him?”

Hawk shook his head. “I took a look at the Slayton’s crew manifest last night.”

“Sounds more like you memorized it.”

He shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. Though he rarely showed off his eidetic memory gratuitously, he couldn’t deny that it often came in handy.

The admiral returned her attention to the tricorder, then suddenly stopped walking. Hawk followed suit when he turned and saw the look of alarm on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Hawk said. He thought he could hear distant shouting.

“A whole bunch of Chiarosan life‑form signatures are approaching, fast,” she said. “And they’re getting between us and the prisoners.”

He gripped the phaser rifle tightly. “I guess we’re not going to make that first rendezvous at the beam‑up coordinates after all.”

She tucked the tricorder away and took up her phaser. “Then we’ll have to switch to Plan B,” she said, gesturing toward his rifle. Its stock was slick with sweat. “Lieutenant, this time you’d better remember that that thing is not a club.”

Then she bolted ahead of Hawk in the direction of the oncoming din. He was surprised at her speed, and sprinted to keep up.

* * *

Picard took the Keplerinto a steep dive until the dark ground seemed to be getting close enough to touch. Then he barrel‑rolled to gain some altitude, temporarily evading the pursuing Chiarosan vessels.

Crusher studied an intermittently functioning sensor display. “There are five of them now, as far as I can tell,” she said gravely. “And none of them is answering my hails.”

“Phasers are armed,” Picard said. Such weapons were not ordinarily standard on most shuttlecraft, but it would have been sheer folly to embark on a mission like this without them.

“The shields are still off‑line,” Crusher warned.

“Fine. Then theirs probably aren’t working either.” He tried locking onto the nearest target, but the computer refused to accept the command. The atmospheric ionization was playing hell with the automatic phaser‑lock.

Picard activated the manual targeting controls. Using the tactical screen, he displayed his manual‑acquisition targets. A split‑second later, a Chiarosan disruptor beam lanced out in their direction, barely missing the shuttle’s unprotected hull.

Picard returned fire just as his target drifted out of his makeshift sights. A clean miss. A second ship’s beam rocked the shuttle with a glancing blow. Luckily, the Kepler’s hull held together. But he knew their luck couldn’t last.

The battle reminded Picard of an exercise he had conducted decades ago, at the Academy. The cadets had been expected to cope with glitches and malfunctions of all sorts; one such test had involved the unexpected failure of a simulated starship’s computerized phaser target‑lock. Picard had very quickly dispatched a pair of Tzenkethi raider ships using what Corey Zweller had admiringly called “dead reckoning.” For weeks afterward–and for reasons he still couldn’t fathom–Batanides had referred to him as “the Pinball Wizard.”

Just as he had in that simulation, Picard allowed his instincts to take over. A Chiarosan ship dropped into the path of his drifting manual target‑lock, and he fired at it. The bright orange beam contacted the unshielded alien ship squarely, blowing it apart. He swung the manual target‑lock to his far right and just as quickly dispatched another before resuming his rolling, swooping evasive maneuvers. The three remaining Chiarosan ships continued to buzz about undeterred, trying to encircle him.

Picard glanced at Crusher, whose somber expression reminded him that this was no simulation. People were dead, by his hand–and it would never be a thing he would take pride in. Without speaking, he looped back toward the coordinates of the invisible rebel base, hoping for an opportunity to beam the captives aboard and outrun his pursuers.

But the three Chiarosan fighters were quickly gaining ground.

Will Riker watched as Zweller held up four fingers, then three, then two, then one.

A split‑second later, the orange forcefield that barred the cell’s only doorway crackled and vanished. The guard turned toward the silence and Riker leaped on the man, surprising him and knocking him to the stone floor. As they landed, Riker drove both of his knees into the Chiarosan’s stomach, then rolled onto his shoulder and sprang back onto his feet. The guard was already getting up, but he was winded and startled. Riker knew that he would be dead very soon if he failed to press that very slim advantage.

One of the soldier’s huge hands grasped a sword pommel just as Riker sent a flying kick toward the Chiarosan’s head. Wincing as his bootheel connected sharply with the other man’s skull, Riker almost fell over when he landed, his hip stitched with pain. The guard sprawled onto the floor heavily, and Riker landed a twohanded hammer‑blow at the base of his skull.

The alien wheezed, then lay still.

A moment later, Troi and Zweller were standing in the corridor beside Riker as he panted with exertion. Ignoring the agony in his hip, Riker knelt beside the unconscious guard, taking his swords and removing a large, pistolshaped beam‑weapon from the Chiarosan’s belt. He rose and handed one of the swords to Zweller, who hefted the weapon appraisingly. Riker gave the pistol to Troi.

“All right,” Troi said, examining the weapon’s controls. “We’re out of our cell. What’s our next move?”

“We find the rest of the hostages,” Zweller said, pointing his sword down the stone corridor. “Then we fight our way to the hangar and take one of the rebels’ flyers.”

“Oh,” Troi said laconically. “Is that all?”

Riker raised his sword before him, as though it were an anbo‑jytsu staff. He was grateful for the chance to finally do something to end their confinement–even if it did seem to be a lost cause.

“If you’ve got a better plan, Deanna, I’m all ears.”

Troi nodded, conceding his point. “Lead on, Commander,” she said to Zweller, spinning her weapon by its trigger guard, in the manner of a gunfighter from the ancient American West.

As they made their way down the empty corridor, Riker could hear shouts and the sounds of a struggle. He saw Troi frowning at her pistol’s electronic controls.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“I can’t find the stun setting.”

“Chiarosans don’t believe in nonlethal weapons,” Zweller said, then led them around a corner.