Disguising several of his own subroutines as maintenance programs, Data slipped into an information channel normally reserved for Romulan engineers and repair technicians. An agonizingly slow search–which lasted just short of half a second of objective time–deposited him inside yet another subsystem, this one designed to allow Romulan technical personnel to adjust the entire facility’s cloaking‑field harmonics. He immediately began making subtle alterations to the programming code contained on several of the array’s most critical isolinear chips. At the same time, he altered the scoutship’s cloaking frequency so that it would continue to blend in with that of the array.

Data’s emotion chip surged with elation. If the ploy worked, then the defense systems would soon perceive the array’s own structures as external invaders. Those circuits would almost instantly become overloaded with faulty information, freeing Data to use the principal maintenance channel to send the containment system an “abort” order–thus launching the Romulans’ entire suite of failsafe programs, and thereby irretrievably banishing the singularity into subspace.

With Phase One of the mission completed, Data swam out of the information stream, forcing his cybernetic awareness to resume assimilating time scales meaningful to Captain Picard and Lieutenant Hawk.

“Have you noticed any Romulan security programs yet, Mr. Data?” Picard asked.

Data smiled triumphantly. “No, sir. And my alterations to the defense system are spreading throughout the network. It should be completely paralyzed in another four‑point‑three seconds.”

“Excellent, Mr. Data. Begin Phase Two.”

At once, Data resubmerged himself in the information stream, marshaling his consciousness into the maintenance channels. From this viewpoint, the flow of bytes through the adjacent security network had become a raging torrent, a storm‑swollen river of multiplying, selfcontradictory information that would surely overwhelm any conscious entity caught on its virtual shoals. Fortunately, the maintenance channels were relatively tranquil by comparison.

With a cybernetic whisper, Data loosed the “abort” command into the maintenance channel’s information queue. He watched in contemplative silence as his handiwork propagated itself, copied and relayed through the entire network by dozens of buoys, then by hundreds. The “abort” protocol began working its way toward the singularity’s containment facility, moving at first in a leisurely inward spiral, then taking on increasing urgency.

So far,Data thought, so good.

Then one of the buoys said: No.Immediately, two others rejected the “abort” order as well. An almost defiant refusal swiftly began escalating throughout the network. The inward spiral slowed, then stopped.

Then reversed.

‹xYou do not belong here› declared an unseen presence from behind/above/below/between/within/without him.

“Uh‑oh,” Data said.

The warbird Thrai Kalehlowered her cloak and approached a battered, lifeless asteroid orbiting at the fringes of the system. This far out, all the violence of the Chiarosan sun fit neatly into a deceptively placid pinprick of light.

Koval stood in the vessel’s control center, observing the Federation shuttlecraft that was keeping station nearby. According to the sensors within the lumpen planetoid, the shuttle had come out of warp at the system’s edge nearly three hours earlier. Koval had no doubt that Commander Cortin Zweller was aboard the little craft– and that the Section 31 agent hoped to hold him to his part of their original bargain.

Koval had no objection to doing just that. After all, a list of soon‑to‑be‑purged Tal Shiar operatives wasn’t worth the smallest fraction of the Geminus Gulf’s true value. And with the formal announcement of the Empire’s acquisition of the entire region now only minutes away, Koval was more than happy to conclude his deal with his Federation counterpart; magnanimity after such a decisive victory cost very little.

Over his centurion’s objections, Koval had himself and a pair of low‑ranking Romulan soldiers beamed into the small habitat module built deep into the asteroid’s nickel‑iron interior. Moments later, Koval was standing in the cool confines of one of the Tal Shiar’s small but richly‑appointed safe‑houses, his guards standing quietly alert behind him. At the opposite end of the chamber, Commander Zweller and a silver‑haired woman in a Starfleet uniform shimmered into existence. Koval and Zweller briefly exchanged pleasantries, and Zweller introduced the woman as Marta, his assistant.

Silently noting the lieutenant’s pips on the woman’s collar, Koval nodded courteously to her. It took Koval a moment to place her face, but he quickly recognized her as an important admiral attached to Starfleet’s principal intelligence‑gathering bureau. Batanide,he thought. Or is it Batanides?Regardless, she was one of several Starfleet Intelligence operatives whose dossier was familiar to him. Koval surmised that she might not appreciate the extent of her notoriety, and that she had removed her true rank insignia in the hope of obscuring her identity and avoiding capture.

He turned his attention back to Zweller, and noticed a slight discoloration along the side of the human’s face. “Your escape from the rebels appears to have been rather more perilous than I thought, Commander,” Koval said. “One would think your Federation doctors would have repaired your injuries days ago.”

Zweller put a hand to the remnants of the bruise on his cheek, then smiled. “Oh, you mean this.It happened on the way out to the asteroid. It’s an amusing story, really.” He paused for a moment to look significantly at his ‘ assistant.’ “I fell down. Marta, make a note to have that shuttle’s artificial gravity generator checked as soon as we get back to the Enterprise.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, her tone almost surly.

Humans,Koval thought. They saywe are difficult to understand.

The Romulan walked to a table in the center of the room and lifted a clear decanter in which a pale, aquamarinecolored liquid sloshed. He poured a small amount into three glasses, then raised one to his lips.

“To the future of the Geminus Gulf and the Chiaros system,” Koval said before emptying his glass. He relished the burning sensation the pungent liqueur created as it went down.

Zweller picked up the other two glasses and handed one to the woman. “I can drink to that,” he said, and downed the beverage without a moment’s hesitation. Though the woman seemed a bit put off by the drink’s piquant bouquet, she drank her portion as well, though not as quickly.

“It’s been a good while since I’ve had nonreplicated kali‑fal,”Zweller said. Though he was smiling, his eyes were hard.

Regarding Zweller coolly, Koval segued straight into business. “You must be aware by now that the Federation’s presence on Chiaros IV is at an end, Commander. Most of the precincts have already reported their election results. Within perhaps ten of your minutes, First Protector Ruardh will formally announce her people’s willing entry into the Empire.”

“I suppose so,” Zweller said, nodding slowly.

“Then perhaps we should finish our transaction as quickly as possible,” the woman said evenly.

Koval held up his left hand, palm up, and one of the guards stepped forward and placed a slender data chip into it. Koval was about to present it to Zweller when the secure comm chip implanted into his jaw vibrated gently. Because the tiny speaker conducted sound through the bones of his skull, only he could hear Subcenturion V’Hari’s urgent hail.

Go ahead, Thrai Kaleh,Koval subvocalized. Only the slight clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles betrayed the fact that he was having a covert conversation.