Shran found himself standing almost nose to nose with Theras. He grabbed the startled Aenar’s tunic, momentarily lifting him a couple of centimeters off the deck. “I thought you said they couldn’t see or hear us!”

“ They can’t!” Theras said, almost stammering in fear. “At least, theyshouldn’t be able to, even on their scanning instruments.”Once again, Shran felt a wave of loathing for the pasty Aenar, and extended his left arm to shove him up against the same cold metal wall into which he himself was trying to blend.

Another blast bisected the corridor, missing both halves of the team by about a meter.

Theras gasped, making Shran fear for a moment that he’d handled him too roughly. “They’re just firing blindly!”

“But these passageways ought to look empty to them,” Shran said.

Theras nodded, his features taking on an almost hysterical cast. “They should. But the Romulans must know that there are only two ways in or out of this section of the ship.”Large tears pooled in the Aenar’s gray, sightless eyes; he appeared to be in intense physical pain, but it was clearly not because of anything Shran had done to him. “They’ve cut us off. And they’re determined not to let anyone take their prisoners away from them. They’ll kill us all before they permit that. I–”

Yet another disruptor blast illuminated the corridor for a split second. It struck lower than had the previous shot, but came no closer to hitting anyone.

“Even firing blind, they’re bound to start hitting us sooner or later,” Shran said, addressing nobody in particular. He supposed that even if the Romulans hadn’t actually somehow pierced Theras’s psionic veil of selective blindness, they must have intuited the boarding party’s continued presence aboard their vessel by some other means.

Of course, none of that would matter a whit if the Romulans managed to score only a handful of lucky, random shots.

“What have I done?”Theras said, breaking down into shoulder‑racking sobs that were amplified grotesquely by his suit’s com pickup.

Shran wanted to strike him, but restrained himself when he realized he’d only succeed in injuring himself on the Aenar’s helmet. “Shut up, Theras. Remember, they still can’t see us. Otherwise they wouldn’t be lob‑bing their fire at us at random.”

“There is another problem,”T’Pol said. In the dimness, and with the suit’s apparently damaged night‑vision functions disorienting him somewhat, Shran could just make out the fact that the Vulcan woman, flanked by Reed and a pair of rifle‑wielding MACOs, was holding a small scanning device before her face. “We apparently cannot determine the precise location of any of the Romulans aboard this vessel. Therefore we cannot return their fire with any degree of accuracy.”

Shran felt as though a physical blow had abruptly slammed all the air from his lungs. He grabbed the hard carapace of Theras’s suit, keeping both their bodies close to the wall as he caught his breath.

“Why might thatbe, Theras?” Shran whispered.

It took Theras a protracted moment to rein in his sobs and find his voice. “It may be…that using my telepathy defensively has created a…blanket effect.”

“Are you saying,” Shran said, the words leaving his mouth in a snarling rush, “that you’ve blinded usas well as the Romulans?”

Theras nodded, weeping again. “Forgive me, Shran. Forgive me, all of you. I am…unused to the ways of war.”

Pacifists,Shran thought disgustedly. Beautiful.He felt his psionic bond with Jhamel jangling uncomfortably at that thought, momentarily filling his mind with an unpleasant sound not unlike an inexpertly plucked high string on an Andorian zharen’tara.

Still another stray blast briefly ionized the air, once again coming uncomfortably close to Shran’s back. Theras winced as the beam passed and struck a distant wall with a momentary spray of bright orange sparks. In that instant, Shran saw Jhamel clearly, her gray eyes staring and sightless, her mien sedated and confused.

She was in mortal danger, as were they all. Why couldn’t Theras have just tricked the damned Romulans into shooting at each other instead of atus?

“I suggest you getused to the ways of war,” Shran said, no longer trying to hold back the contempt he felt for this weakling. “And quickly,Theras. Otherwise, you’ve probably condemned Jhamel and all the rest of us to death.”

Thirty‑Eight

Friday, February 21, 2155

Rator II

“HANG ON, DOCTOR,” Trip said, though he could see that Ehrehin was securely strapped into his seat, just as Trip himself was. “I’m taking us out.”

“Perhaps we should wait until the hangar bay doors open completely,” the elderly scientist said, a note of apprehension causing his voice to quaver slightly.

Trip grinned at him. “Trust me.” He pulled back the throttle, and the small vessel shot forward. Trip was slammed backward into the pilot’s seat for a second or two, before whatever passed for the scout ship’s inertial damping system compensated for the g‑forces generated by the sudden acceleration. Like Ehrehin, Trip had not yet donned the helmet of his pressure suit–both pieces of headgear were wedged securely beneath their respective seats, where they would remain until they were needed–so his pressure suit’s titanium neck ring bit briefly into the back of his neck as the little ship whipped upward at a steep‑angled roll through the only partly opened hangar dome, narrowly missing the still spreading doors. Trip imagined the hangar bay filling with armed troopers, all of them vainly firing their disruptor pistols at his quickly vanishing stern.

Trip opened the throttle further, and the vessel swiftly arced high into the deep cerulean skies above the Ejhoi Ormiin’s secret island fortress. The paradisiacal blue of Rator II’s atmosphere quickly gave way to a deep, brooding indigo, passing within moments into the star‑flecked blackness of space. The cold vista of the cosmos made Trip grateful for the pressure suit he was wearing, even if he was helmetless at the moment.

When he and Ehrehin had first come aboard the little scout ship, Trip had marveled at his good fortune in having found environmental suits constructed so similarly to the standard Starfleet‑issue vacuum garb used by Enterprisepersonnel. He could only wonder how these suits had made it aboard. Perhaps Ch’uihv–or Sopek–had acquired a few of them through his espionage connections on Vulcan, or maybe the Ejhoi Ormiinhad obtained them by raiding an Earth outpost or by hijacking an Earth ship. Wherever the suits had come from originally, it was easy for Trip to imagine that Phuong had found them elsewhere in the hangar while reconnoitering the place, and then had stashed them aboard the scout ship before leading Trip and Ehrehin into their initial–and catastrophically failed–escape attempt.

An alarm on Trip’s console suddenly flashed a deep sea green; he reminded himself yet again that to a Romulan, green was the color of blood, and therefore signified the presence of imminent danger.

“We’re being pursued,” Ehrehin said, leaning forward and to his left to observe the readings on Trip’s console.

“I’d be surprised if we weren’t,” Trip said.

“We need to hail them, Cunaehr. Otherwise, Valdore’s forces may kill us inadvertently, as you say.”

Trip shook his head, wondering how long he could continue dissembling, stringing the elderly scientist along–and when Ehrehin would finally figure out that he’d disabled the ship’s receiver to prevent the reception of any hails from their pursuer, which would certainly reveal the identity of the vessel that nipped at their heels.

“We don’t know for certain that the ship on our tail is one of Valdore’s,” Trip said.