I pondered the task Gorton had set for me, leery of entering a situation I knew so little about. All sorts of questions came to mind, none of which was the least bit trivial.

What if Brant's kidnapping were not what it seemed? What if, far from being their victim, he had joined these so-called mercenaries of his own volition? Indeed, what if Brant's disappearance had nothing at all to do with Dujonian's long-lost treasure?

With luck, I would have some of the answers before long. Without luck, I would be operating at a considerable disadvantage.

Abruptly, a beeping sound told me there was someone at the door to my ready room. "Come," I said, inviting him or her in.

As the door slid aside, I saw that it was William Riker, my executive officer. He looked curious.

"Something interesting?" he asked, a boyish smile on his face.

"I should say so," I replied. And I described my a.s.signment in as much detail as possible.

After all, I trusted the man implicitly. Given the option, there was nothing I would have considered keeping from him.

Before I had finished briefing him, the boyish smile vanished. After all, Riker was rather businesslike when it came to my welfare, and had been from the time we first met. It's the mother hen in him.

"You're not going alone?" he asked. It wasn't really a question. At least, not in his mind.

"I hadn't really thought about it," I answered.

"I'd go with you," he said, "except one of us should stay on the Enterprise. Just in case."

"Agreed," I told him. It was common sense.

Riker frowned. "You'll need someone tough and adaptable. Someone who's gone undercover before."

There was one obvious choice. I spoke the man's name.

My first officer nodded. "He's the one."

"All right," I said at last. "I'll ask him to come along. But that's it, just the two of us. I don't want to be too conspicuous, Number One."

My first officer sighed good-naturedly. "I'd prefer more, sir. You know that. But Lieutenant Worf is worth several ordinary officers."

I found myself hard-pressed to disagree.

As it was still very early in the morning, I found Worf in the ship's gymnasium, teaching his Mok'bara cla.s.s. As Hompaq can attest, Mok'bara is a ritual Klingon martial-arts form designed to enhance one's agility in hand-to-hand combat.

Though there were no other Klingons on the ship besides Worf, the cla.s.s had become a popular one. On that particular day, I saw my Betazoid ship's counselor and my human chief medical officer among those striving to achieve perfection under my Klingon lieutenant's watchful eye.

When I entered the room, Worf hesitated, his expression one of concern. But with a gesture, I a.s.sured him there was no urgency to my visit. I would stand there and watch while he completed the morning's exercises.

Nor did I mind in the least. Mok'bara was as elegant a discipline as any I had encountered, and I had encountered my share.

That said, I had no desire to take part in it myself. When it came to exercise, my tastes at the time ran more toward horsemanship and fencing. They still do, as you have seen, in part, for yourselves.

When the ritual exercises were over, one of Worf's students a young woman asked him about a particular maneuver. Apparently, it was a method of dealing with an attack from behind.

With a patience he seldom displayed in other circ.u.mstances, the Klingon showed the woman how to turn her attacker's wrist and grip it just so. Then he came around behind her and let her attempt the move on him.

It worked like magic. The woman performed the maneuver as Worf had indicated, turning, twisting and throwing her hip out and the Klingon went spinning to the mat.

Of course, I had to wonder how much of the Klingon's fall was involuntary and how much of it an attempt at encouraging his disciple. Still, it was an impressive display.

The woman thanked Worf and withdrew, enlightened by his lesson. I must say, I was enlightened a bit as well. Even if I was not a pract.i.tioner of Mok'bara, I was intelligent enough to pay attention when there was something valuable to be learned.

Worf's cla.s.s didn't last much longer after that. As his students filed out, muscle-sore but exhilarated, I approached him.

"You do not come down here often," he noted.

"That's true," I said. Lately, I had gotten in the habit of taking my exercise in the holodecks. "And as you seem to have guessed, this isn't just a casual visit. I have need of you, Mr. Worf."

My tactical officer looked at me, his very posture an a.s.surance that he would do whatever I asked of him. Klingons place a premium on loyalty, as Hompaq will confirm and Worf was no exception.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

I hadn't yet told him we would be working undercover. I hadn't even said we'd be disembarking from the Enterprise. He just seemed to know.

"As soon as I can make arrangements," I replied. "It all depends on when we can find a ship headed for the Caliabris sector."

His brow furrowed. "Why the Caliabris sector?"

"Allow me to explain," I said.

In the next few minutes, I briefed him on our mission, and he absorbed the data dutifully. But the particulars mattered less to him than the fact that there was a mission.

"I will be ready," he told me.

And of course, when the time came, he was.

With the help of Starfleet Command, Worf and I obtained pa.s.sage on a Thriidian freighter bound for the Caliabris sector.

As far as the Thriidians were concerned, my companion and I were just two of the many characters who spent their lives drifting from one end of known s.p.a.ce to the other, taking work where they could get it. The fact that Worf was a Klingon drew a few extra stares, but I had antic.i.p.ated that and accepted the risk before we set out.

Certainly, there were those in the galaxy who harbored a burning hatred for Worf's people. However, we didn't run into any of them on the freighter. In the end, we reached our destination on time and without incident.

Soon we found ourselves in orbit around Mila.s.sos IV, a backwater planet on the fringe of the Caliabris sector. Our informant, an Ethnasian named Torlith, was there to meet us at our prearranged beam-down site a clearing in the fragrant, blue-green forest that surrounded that world's largest city.

Ethnasians were broad, slow, and ruddy-skinned, with black eyes and a collection of equally black spines projecting from their lumpy skulls. Torlith was even broader and slower than most of his species, but his wits were quick and to Starfleet Command, whom he served as an invaluable conduit of information, his wits were all that mattered.

"Captain Picard?" said Torlith, his eyes gleaming darkly in the light of three full moons, the shadowy foliage an eerie backdrop behind him.

"I'm Picard," I confirmed. I indicated my security chief with a tilt of my head. "And this is Lieutenant Worf."

The Ethnasian regarded the Klingon and nodded. Then he turned back to me. "You know," he said, "as long as I've worked with Starfleet, I've never met a starship captain."

"Well," I replied, not much interested in his a.s.sessment, "you've met one now. Shall we go?"

Torlith chuckled at my eagerness. "Of course. I've got a hovercar parked less than a kilometer away. And I've booked some lodgings for you, as I was instructed. If they're not to your liking"

"They'll be fine," I a.s.sured him. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to go straight to the tavern."

The Ethnasian dismissed the notion with a wave of his pudgy hand. "The one I spoke of won't be there until later. A couple of hours, at least."

"That's all right," I told him. "I want to get the feel of the place before she arrives."

Torlith may not have thought that was necessary, but he acquiesced quickly enough. "The tavern it is," he said, and led Worf and myself in the direction of his hovercar.

The Ethnasian was true to his word. His vehicle was less than a kilometer's walk from our beam-down site, concealed from the casual observer by a thicket of leafy branches.

Looking around, however, I saw no freshly cut stumps, no sign of phaser burns on the surrounding flora. By that sign, I decided Torlith had used this place for his business dealings before and I didn't imagine all of them had been on behalf of Starfleet.

His hovercar was efficient, if noisy. It took us out of the forest and into the city if one could call it a city. More accurately, it was a maze of haphazardly erected edifices, altogether without reason or focus. None of the buildings was remarkable in any way, either by virtue of its size, its shape, or its appearance.

My first officer would no doubt have called the place "a dive." However, it was the logical and seemingly unavoidable starting point of our search for Richard Brant and, if the legends were true, for a good deal more.

Landing his vehicle in an open lot designated for such a use, the Ethnasian led us through the city's winding streets. They started out deserted but became increasingly more populated as we went on.

Most of the faces we encountered were those of the native Mila.s.soi, a towering but pale and ultimately fragile-looking species who wore dark robes and hoods. However, there were at least half a dozen other s.p.a.cefaring races present as well, humans sprinkled among them.

Finally, we came to the tavern in question. Torlith led us inside, making his way through the crowd until he found an empty table in the back. Then he sat and gestured for Worf and myself to do the same.

It was nothing like the Captain's Table. The place was dark, rough-hewn, almost cavelike in its appearance, with vials full of Veridian glow-beetles providing the only real illumination.

On the other hand, none of its patrons seemed daunted by the lack of artifice. In fact, they seemed to like it just fine.

A moment after we sat down, a serving maid approached us and asked for our preferences in libations. It took only a couple of minutes for her to bring the order to the bar and return with our drinks.

As I sampled my synthehol, I took quick stock of those around us. The crowd was what one might find in a great many other "watering holes" I had encountered noisy and full of furtive glances, but basically harmless.

"I see no particular danger," Worf confirmed.

"Nor do I," I returned. "Still, the evening is young."

Suddenly, Torlith grabbed my arm. "It's her," he said. And he jerked his spiny head in the direction of the bar.

I peered at the crowd, but didn't see whom he was talking about. "Where is she?" I asked.

The Ethnasian jerked his head again. "Keep looking. She's on the other side of that Moqausite."

A moment later, the Moqausite moved and I saw her. At first, it was only her back I spotted, with her red hair cascading down it. Then she turned around and I got a glimpse of her face.

Her eyes were a languid blue, her lips full and expressive, and she had a spray of girlish freckles across the bridge of her chiseled nose. It was the visage of a poetess, perhaps, or a dreamer. She didn't at all look the part of a veteran transport captain.

"That's our woman?" I asked our informant, unable to quite keep the incredulity out of my voice. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," said Torlith.

Worf scowled. "You said she would not arrive until later."

"She doesn't," said the Ethnasian, "usually."

I watched her move among the other denizens of the tavern, all of whom were male. She was slender and graceful, yet st.u.r.dy in a way. After a while, she joined a longhaired Orion and a wiry-looking human a man with a scar across the bridge of his nose.

Part of her crew? I wondered. They didn't seem to show any particular deference to her.

"What's her name?" I asked.

"They call her Red Abby," Torlith told us. "If she's got another name, she doesn't use it."

Worf leaned closer to the Ethnasian. "And she was your source with regard to Brant's kidnapping?"

Torlith nodded. "Of course, she didn't say how she knew, but she seemed pretty certain of it. She's put out a call for experienced hands so she can follow in what she says are Brant's footsteps."

Interesting, I thought, continuing my observation of the woman's interactions at the bar. Interesting indeed.

"And where do these footsteps lead?" the Klingon demanded.

"How should I know?" Torlith replied in an attempt at humor. "Red Abby's the one who's shipping out, not me."

It was fairly obvious the woman was seeking the same treasure as Brant's abductors. I said as much. "Why else go after him?"

"As you say," our informant agreed, "it seems pretty obvious. In any case, you've got a golden opportunity on your hands."

"What's that?" Worf asked.

"Just say you've heard she's looking for a crew. If you're lucky, Red Abby will sign you up and take you right to Brant and maybe the h.o.a.rd of Dujonian, to boot."

My companion eyed Torlith. "If we're lucky," he echoed.

The Ethnasian nodded again. "Yes."

"And why are you not offering to sign up yourself?" Worf inquired. "Are you not eager to make yourself rich?"

Torlith laughed. "Because, if you must know, Klingon, I don't believe in the h.o.a.rd. I think it's a one-eyed sailor's tale, made of wind and weather and not much else."

"Of course," I interjected, "none of that really matters at least with regard to our mission. The important thing is that we find Brant and extricate him from his captivity."

"If he is a captive," Worf reminded me.

"Yes," I said. "If."

"Of course," Torlith agreed. "Brant's your objective." His black eyes slid slyly in my direction. "But be honest, Picard. In the back of your mind, where you're more man than officer, aren't you hoping Red Abby's got a line on the h.o.a.rd after all? And maybe, just maybe, you'll have a chance to lay your eyes on all that treasure?"

I was honest, as he'd asked. "I don't deny it. But my mission remains the same, treasure or no treasure." I glanced at Worf. "Let's get going. We've a new captain to meet."

My officer grunted at the irony and got to his feet. I did the same. Together, we made our way to the bar. We hadn't gotten more than halfway before Red Abby noticed our approach.