Zweller leaned back in the copilot’s seat, his fingers laced behind his head. Yes, everything was working out very well indeed.
Still, he avoided looking at Batanides for the rest of the flight.
As Batanides and Zweller stepped from the Herschelonto the Enterprise’s main shuttlebay, the admiral wasn’t surprised to see Dr. Crusher and Captain Picard–the latter now dressed in a light‑duty uniform–already waiting there to greet them. What the admiral didfind surprising was the pair of brawny security guards who stepped forward, bracketing Zweller and taking him into custody.
“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” Batanides said to Picard as she confiscated the data chip. Zweller seemed remarkably unconcerned about what was happening.
“If you’re thinking of using the information on that chip against us, you might as well not bother,” Zweller said as one of the guards manacled his wrists and the other scanned him for weapons, finding none. “I’m the only one aboard this ship who knows the encryption key.”
Damn!she thought, gripping the data chip tightly. She knew that the xenocryptography specialists in Starfleet Intelligence could no doubt crack Corey’s encryption key, given enough time. But by then, the data chip’s contents would most likely be useless.
“I’m sorry I’m forced to do this, Corey,” Picard said in staid tones. “But you have deliberately interfered with the internal affairs of a sovereign government. Your actions demand a trial before a general court martial, which you will face after we remand you into the custody of the nearest starbase.”
“You’re assuming, Johnny,” Zweller said, his expression enigmatic, “that we won’t have any unscheduled detours between here and there.”
Batanides was once again struck by Zweller’s unaccountable calm. What was he up to?
As the guards escorted Zweller away, Batanides listened to the sound of their bootheels reverberating across the cavernous shuttlebay. A deep chill slowly ascended the length of her spine as she contemplated Corey’s words, and wondered just how long his rogue spy bureau’s reach really was.
In the meantime, Picard and Dr. Crusher had walked a few paces away, apparently conferring privately about something urgent. The doctor seemed to be greatly concerned about the captain’s health, and indeed, he appeared slightly unsteady on his feet. After a quick exchange of tense whispers, Crusher strode toward the exit and a careworn Picard returned to the admiral’s side, a resolute expression on his face. Batanides couldn’t help but notice that neither of them appeared satisfied with the outcome of their deliberations. She wondered why it was that ships’ doctors always treated their captains as though they were delicate Barkonian glass sculptures.
Maybe it’s because captains always seem to think they’re made of neutronium.
Her rumination was interrupted by the sound of Will Riker’s voice, which issued from Picard’s combadge. “Riker to Picard.”
“Go ahead, Number One,” the captain said.
“Three small ships on approach from Chiaros IV, and Ruardh’s flagship is among them.”
“Ruardh was evidently quite serious when she demanded that we hand over Grelun,” Picard said as he began walking quickly toward the corridor. Batanides fell into step beside him.
“It certainly looks that way, sir,” Riker said. “They should be in weapons range in just under six minutes.”
“We’re on our way. Picard out.”
After they entered a turbolift, Batanides realized that her old friend was staring inquisitively at her.
“Something on your mind, Johnny?”
“Probably the same thing that’s on yours,” he said, placing one hand against a wall to steady himself. “Given the distinct possibility that Ruardh may attack us, do you believe that I should surrender Grelun to her?”
She genuinely wasn’t certain about that anymore. The Chiarosan people had been so thoroughly misled already by the machinations of both the Tal Shiar and Section 31 that almost any course of action now seemed hopelessly muddled. Despite the antipathy she had harbored toward the rebels in the immediate aftermath of the battle in HagratИ, she was no longer prepared to hold them entirely responsible for Aubin Tabor’s death. It was now obvious to her that Chiaros IV’s treacherous political landscape was no longer a clear‑cut matter of interstellar law and Starfleet regulations.
“Cooperating with a legitimate, sovereign government is one thing,” Batanides said. “But kowtowing to a Romulan puppet regime is quite another.”
Picard nodded. “I agree completely.”
“One other thing still concerns me, though,” she said, leaning against her side of the turbolift as the illuminated deck‑markers sped past.
“What’s that?”
“I wonder just how far Ruardh is willing to go in order to capture Grelun.”
“Let’s hope we won’t have to find out,” Picard said gravely. “Because a war with Ruardh . . .” Though he left his words hanging in the air, his meaning was abundantly clear.
A war with Ruardh could escalate very quickly into a war with the Romulans,she thought, chilled to the marrow by the very notion.
Chapter Seventeen
Looking up from tactical, Lieutenant Daniels announced “Admiral on the bridge.”
Riker, Troi, K’rs’lasel, and Rixa had all risen from their seats. As Picard followed Batanides out of the turbolift and onto the bridge, he was greeted by an unaccustomed sight. Grelun, who stood in the center of the room, favored the admiral and the captain with a quick nod, then returned to his visual inspection of the bridge, his crystalline eyes apparently drinking everything in.
“What is this man doing on the bridge?” Batanides said sternly. Picard gathered that she thought that a man whose people had just voluntarily entered the Romulan Star Empire ought not to have the run of the Federation’s flagship. He had to concede that she had a point.
“I understand your apprehension, Admiral,” Troi said in placating tones. “But I can assure you that Grelun poses no threat to us now.”
“Nor have I been unsupervised,” the Chiarosan said, baring his razor teeth in a vaguely disquieting smile. Picard found Grelun’s presence and bearing impressive, to say nothing of his immense size. He probably could have brushed the bridge’s vaulted ceiling with his fingertips had he extended his arms fully above his head.
Picard turned toward Riker. “Have the Chiarosan ships contacted us yet, Number One?”
“No, sir. But I don’t think it’s any mystery why they’re here.”
Ruardh wants Grelun, and very badly,Picard thought. He reflected uncomfortably on Grelun’s petition for political asylum, a request which he was bound morally, ethically, and legally to honor. Even if First Protector Ruardh–or her new Romulan masters–decided to play rough.
“Let’s have a look at them, Mr. Daniels,” Picard said, seating himself in his command chair. Three rather beatup looking Chiarosan spacecraft, each of them about the size of a Starfleet runabout, appeared on the viewer. They were approaching the Enterpriseat a leisurely pace, the nearest of them now lying some thirty thousand kilometers off the starship’s port bow.
“Give me a tactical appraisal, Number One.”
“Sensors show nothing but simple disruptors and lowpowered deflector shields,” Riker said as he took the seat to Picard’s right. “They wouldn’t stand a chance against us in a real firefight.”
“They might not have to,” Picard said soberly. “ Especially if they’re being backed up by a cloaked warbird.”
“Hail them, Mr. Daniels,” said Riker. A moment later, the image of the approaching Chiarosan ships was replaced by a pair of dour faces. One belonged to a Chiarosan female, whom Picard immediately recognized as Senator Curince. He had last seen her two days ago, when First Protector Ruardh had made her initial demand that Grelun be remanded to government custody. The other visage belonged to a young and supremely confident‑looking Romulan. His gray uniform and the insignia on its collar testified that he held the rank of centurion.