They entered a wide chamber that contained five empty holding cells. In front of the cells, four Starfleet officers–who had evidently also made a bid for freedom once the forcefields had dropped–were grappling hand‑to‑hand with a pair of hulking Chiarosans. An officer, a human male, lay on the stone floor, either dead or unconscious. One of the Chiarosans sent a human woman sprawling with a single backhanded slap.

The second guard raised a heavy sword and prepared to skewer a very angry Tellarite. Instead of fleeing the blow, the Tellarite leaped forward, sinking his tusklike teeth deeply into the soldier’s bare forearm.

With surprising adroitness, Zweller hurled himself into the melee, striking from behind and hacking at the first guard’s hamstrings. Roaring in pain, the Chiarosan fell to one impossibly flexible knee, twisting his torso almost backward to engage Zweller with two curved, scimitarlike blades. Riker rushed the second guard, parrying a downward sword‑thrust aimed at the Tellarite’s thick neck. The Chiarosan shrugged the Tellarite off of him, sending him flying, gobbets of gray flesh trailing through the air behind him. Seemingly unaware of his wound, the soldier turned toward Riker, a death’s‑head grin fixed upon his face. The guard rushed him, his blades twirling like the propellers of an ancient terrestrial aircraft.

Riker moved as fast as he could, sidestepping and parrying with his sword. But his hip, which was bonebruised if not sprained, was slowing him. Sparks flew as metal hit metal with a deafening clangor. Something nicked Riker’s scalp, and he felt a liquid warmth soaking into his beard and surging down his neck. The warrior paused, laughing in triumph.

“A little help here, Deanna!” Riker shouted.

The Chiarosan raised his blade, advancing with preternatural speed. Then his eyes went wide in shock and he flung his blades to the floor. Riker saw that the weapons had suddenly changed in color from silvery‑gray to bright red. The blades of the guard Zweller had slashed struck the stone floor a moment later, and both warriors stopped moving, startled by their burned hands but bearing their pain stoically. For a moment, the room fell silent.

Troi stood a few meters away from the fracas, holding the pistol before her in a two‑handed grip. “I won’t be aiming at your weapons next time, gentlemen,” she said icily. “Please don’t force me to fire again.”

It would have been easy for one or both of the guards to charge her, given their obvious strength and agility. But their muscles slackened and they backed away from her, apparently utterly convinced of her sincerity. Riker smirked, wondering for a moment if this was some new combat application of her empathic talents.

Zweller and one of the freed Starfleet officers–a man who wore a commander’s pips–began helping the injured to their feet. Brushing blood away from his ear, Riker was relieved to note that no one appeared to have suffered any serious injuries.

Zweller and the Tellarite disarmed the guards and escorted them into one of the holding cells, whose forcefields by now had become functional again. Zweller then began distributing the remainder of the Chiarosans’ weapons–swords, disruptors, and even a pair of Starfleet‑issue phasers–among his crewmates.

“Commander Roget, one of those guards is cut up pretty badly,” the Tellarite told his superior. “He needs medical attention.”

“All right, Doctor,” Roget said. “But make it fast.”

Zweller spoke up. “Commander, the guard’s pride is the only thing that got hurt.”

“How would youknow?” the Tellarite asked Zweller truculently. Riker assumed that the doctor was unaware of the commander’s alliance with the rebels.

“We have to get out of sight,” one of Slayton’s other officers said.

Roget looked convinced. Hefting a thick‑bladed sword, he said, “Okay, then. We leave now.”

“Exactly how are we supposed to get off this base?” snorted the Tellarite. His piglike eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on Riker and Troi. “And who are our new friends?”

Riker and Troi stepped forward and exchanged brief introductions with the Slayton’s officers.

Looking impatient, Zweller handed a newly confiscated particle weapon to Roget and gave a second one to Riker. “With all due respect, let’s save the pleasantries for the debriefing. Right now, I need everybody to follow me to the hangar.”

Roget turned toward the Tellarite. “Gomp, stay up front with Commander Zweller. If you smell anyone coming, give us a shout.”

Gomp nodded, his porcine nose twitching as he sampled the dank subterranean air. Then he inhaled sharply and issued a very loud, very moist sneeze. Someone behind Riker said “Gesundheit.”

Zweller and Gomp took the point, and Riker fell into step a few paces behind them, his disruptor pistol ready. Farther back, Troi helped support an injured but ambulatory woman–Xenoanthropologist Kurlan–while Tuohy, the planetary scientist, assisted Engineer Hearn, who was moving with a very noticeable limp. Roget watched for trouble from the rear.

“Hold it,” Gomp hissed, his flat nose snuffling loudly. Everyone stopped. “I think I smell–”

About ten meters ahead, a broad intersection suddenly began filling up with Chiarosans, some carrying blades, others clutching disruptors and phasers.

Riker saw that Grelun was standing at the forefront, a curved sword in each of his massive hands. The scowl on the Chiarosan leader’s dark, saturnine face seemed to lower the room’s temperature by five full degrees.

“–trouble,” Gomp finished, almost inaudibly.

The hull of the Keplerbanged and shuddered. Picard halfexpected to be blown out of the cockpit and into the ionized darkness, but the shuttle somehow remained in one piece.

The tactical display fluttered, but not because of the atmospheric static. The system itself had apparently taken damage and was beginning to fail. Despite that, he could still make out the intermittent image of three Chiarosan attack ships. The pursuing vessels continued firing while Picard coaxed the Keplerinto evasive loops that threatened to tear the small craft apart.

“Why aren’t we returning fire?” Crusher said, her voice carrying a carefully controlled edge of fear.

He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the turbulent atmosphere and the discharge of the Chiarosan weapons. “We can’t spare the power. We need it for the transporter and the structural integrity field.” If the latter system were to fail, the shuttle would quickly become thousands of dinnerplate‑size pieces, spread across hundreds of square kilometers of the frigid Nightside.

“We’re going to abandon ship?” Crusher asked.

“There’s no other choice. We’ve taken too much damage to outrun our attackers. And we’ll never reach orbit in this condition.”

The doctor calmly eyed a readout on her console. “Jean‑Luc, at these power levels, we’ll never be able to transport together. Only one at a time.”

Picard nodded curtly. “The rebel base is in transporter range again. Beam yourself down first. I’ll join you as soon as I can. And no arguments.”

Though Crusher looked unhappy about her orders, she began trying to lock the transporter onto a safe destination within the rebel compound. Suddenly, her fingers stopped moving on the instrument panel. Picard saw the frown that darkened her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s those tetryon emissions again. I’m having trouble establishing a lock. I’m trying to compensate . . .”

Picard swiftly rolled and yawed the Kepleruntil the shuttle was headed directly for the nearest of their attackers. He felt the seat harness biting into him as gravity in the cockpit shifted, the force of acceleration threatening to overwhelm the inertial dampers. The distance between the two craft evaporated swiftly.

“There,” Crusher said. “Ready for transport.”