"Heat output-"

"Negative, sir."

Picard shared a glance with Riker, then with Troi.

No heat No Me. Probably hadn't been for some time.

The captain rose. "All dead. In the dead zone," Pi card murmured.

Now Riker stood. "The what?"

Dead zone. It was what Folan had called it. And it fit. Phasers, disrupters ... none of their most powerful technology worked there. Not even life support, once batteries had drained. A hole in physics you couldn't drive a starship through.

"How many people ..." Picard began to ask, but the actual number was almost meaningless. One was enough. He almost didn't want to know how many more than one had been lost.

What he did want to know, more than anything, was why.

And the answer sat in the middle of unreachable, dead s.p.a.ce.

Chapter Four.

Federation Starship Exeter Alpha Quadrant Unexplored sector Nineteen days ago "where's that auxiliary power?" Captain James Venes anxiously scratched the back of his neck as he made his way down toward the command chair. "Aux power's not responding. Batteries only, sir." "Is Ortiz in Engineering yet? What's going on down there?" The captain thumbed a b.u.t.ton on the command chair, but did not lower himself into the seat. "Venes to Engineering. We've lost helm control now, people."

"Ortiz, here, sir. I can't explain it. There's no reason -"

"I don't need a reason, Alvaro, I just need power before we lose life support. Batteries won't last long with all these refugees on board."

Venes heard his engineer breathe out a slight sigh. "Aye, sir."

"Hey, if anyone can lick this problem, it's you. Let me know when you have something. Venes out" The small pep talk seemed un inspirational even desperate. The captain knew it, but there just wasn't much to say. His people knew their jobs, and they'd do them for duty, not kudos.

Finally setting himself into the command chair, Venes tried to relax his body, if not his mind. He couldn't. He was getting too old for this, he chided himself. Too old for deep s.p.a.ce and mystery. Too old for refugees and missions away from Jenny. Too old to die because someone forgot to pay his starship's electric bill.

"Send out a log buoy," he ordered finally. "And let's make sure our pa.s.sengers don't panic, but see if we can cram them into some more confined accommodations. Crew, too. Conserve as much energy as possible." He hit the intercom again. At least that was still working. For now. "Engineering."

"Alvaro, what about other sources of battery power on the ship?"

"Other sources, sir?" "Yeah. Batteries from shuttles, runabouts, whatever."

There was a brief pause as Ortiz considered it. "Yes, sir. Will take some doing, but we can rig that up. Won't buy us a lot of time, but some."

"Take the batteries from the escape pods, too, Alvaro."

A much longer pause. Venes thought his engineer might be considering confirming the order.

"We don't even have enough pods, with all the refugees on board. Might as well do all we can to save the ship."

"Aye, sir."

"Venes out."

"Sir?" said the ops officer. "Decks seven and eight have lost all power."

Venes almost sighed, but decided against it. "Understood," he said finally. It was one thing to lose power when under attack, but such a sudden loss of functionality Sure, he told his engineer he didn't care what had caused it, but of course he did care, since that would tell them how to fix it and keep it from happening again. He hoped.

In the back of his mind he remembered something similar happening just a day or two ago. He hadn't read the full report, just skimmed it because he was tired. If the computers were working, he'd simply call it up, but no such luck today. Rubbing his temple thoughtfully, Venes searched his memory a long moment, then recalled a detail or two.

"Enterprise," he murmured, but remembering did him little good. He did seem to recall something about needing two ships to solve the problem, and so he was short one vessel for such work.

The lights dimmed, and the captain thought perhaps he was short more than one ship. Perhaps he needed help from two.

They'd try to come up with some other alternative. They'd do everything possible to find some answer... but something told Venes that there was little to do now but wait... either for help to arrive, or for death.

Personal s.p.a.cecraft R'laga Jacaria system-Romulan s.p.a.ce Orbiting Moon of Jacaria VII "Are you sure?" T'sart asked again. Rarely did he show such an imperfection as shock. But he was shocked, and if Loire saw it... well, he would be the only one T'sart would trust to witness his faults.

"I am sure," Lotre said. "Varnell was a member of the Tal Shiar... and we killed him." The Klingon smoothed the traditional Romulan tunic that stretched over his broad shoulders.

We. Even in these harsh times, Lotre was loyal. The Praetor and the Senate were not. T'sart seethed with hatred, for them and for the dead Tal Shiar spy.

"Poor timing," T'sart said finally as he paced the meager length of the small ship. Four bulkheads, one room, two days on this blasted ship. He was used to a bedroom this large. He hated being confined, and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"Had he had time to fully encrypt his last message to them, we might never have known. I'd say your timing was impeccable, as always." Lotre tucked a padd into a case and put it on the deck as T'sart paced past it. "Knowing that the Tal Shiar will be after you for killing their operative, are you sure you want to follow through with this plan?"

Stopping, a brief smile pa.s.sing his lips, T'sart asked, "Are you afraid of the Tal Shiar?"

Lotre was grim. "I'm afraid that you are not."

"We continue with my plans," T'sart said, "with just a few deviations."

The Klingon of Romulan upbringing waited, and when T'sart said no more, he prodded him. "And those are?"

"Well, the best way for the Tal Shiar to not waste resources on me ... is for them to think me dead."

"But you won't be dead."

"Perish the thought," T'sart said with a smile.

Romulan Homeworld City of Chaladra Two blacks off Tatar Street Seventeen days ago If there was anything T'sart liked less than a blindly loyal Romulan, it was a foolishly disloyal one. That's why he didn't mind if the boy died slowly. He preferred it, even, getting a certain satisfaction from the suffering. Especially considering all the trouble T'sart had had to put up with: an area of the city he would not usually go, the moist heat he hated so much in this province, and the type of people he had to deal with in order to remain generally unseen.

"And now, my youthful friend, die," T'sart whispered as the boy, perhaps all of thirty-five years, withered out of his grip and slid down the stone wall.

"But... I told you and ... you said you-"

T'sart smiled the smile that, after many years of practice, he knew to be both treacherous and gleeful. "Yes, yes, I did. And I lied. I tend to do that, m'boy."

He turned his grin to the small hypospray in his left hand. Another of his ingenious potions. This was better than the one he'd given to the government. He was careful to always keep a slightly more potent concoction for himself. He did that with anything he created for the Empire. His intellect was his own, and he would always see that the benefits of that were his before others'. Considering how he'd been treated recently, that was doubly wise.

As his prey finally perished, with a small puff of air from its lungs and the last of life's tension leaving its muscles, T'sart decided to leave the area quickly. There was a time he might have stayed to see to it that someone else was blamed for his doing. Not tonight. Tonight he had someone else to see... and the quest to conclude.

There he was, just down the hall, in the very simplest of offices. T'sart was careful not to allow his gaze to linger too long, but even if he had, the door opened and closed so quickly he probably would not have been seen.

After a short moment, he determinedly walked in the opposite direction, so as to not raise suspicion. Three days it had taken him to find this man, three days, and a cunning hunt. He had reason to be proud, as even the Tal Shiar had failed at this task, over and over and over again. Tal Shiar, he thought. Simpletons, more concerned with their inner politics than anything of substance and import. I'll not see them take all my power.

Before reaching the entryway that would lead him back to the street, T'sart turned confidently and headed back toward the library, where he'd seen his long sought prey. Why not confront now? All was in place, and he need not wait for the man to be alone. He was only a man. And T'sart could always make him alone, in any case.

Yes, in fact, that would be a very good idea. Let his ultimate prey know the ground rules.

The door was pushed out of T'sart's way with a firm hand and a slight creak. Perhaps the young guard recognized T'sart. Or perhaps duty alone called for him to raise a weapon to anyone who entered. In either case, he was too slow.

The second young Romulan to die this day was relieved of his weapon quickly, with a small but powerful twist to his wrist. The man across the room, the final prey, looked up from some text he was reading. T'sart could not help but smile. It was him.

T'sart looked back toward the guard, who did not yelp in pain, though he should have. There was no expression on the young man's face at all. No surprise, no terror. What trick was this? Why didn't he struggle or cry out?

It stunned T'sart, for just a moment, and he stared too long at the boy in his grip. When he looked up, the final prey was gone.

"No! Fool!" T'sart fired the weapon he'd taken two seconds before, firing point-blank at the boy's head.

The weapon was set to stun, of course, T'sart realized a moment later. Fine. A stun at such proximity and to the head would bring a slow, lingering death. He let the guard fall straight down as he quickly turned toward where the other had been.

"Where are you?" T'sart huffed under his breath. There was no place to hide in here, and no one could have gotten past T'sart to the door through which he'd just entered. There was another door on the other side of the room, but it had neither opened nor closed, and from where he stood he saw it was locked.

A hidden door? A transporter? Technically it could be either, but transporter beams were not widely used for intra planetary purposes on the homeworld, and the energy surge would be noticed and draw suspicion.

The other door, T'sart decided, was his only choice.

Through it was another hallway with many tributaries. T'sart gnashed his teeth as he made his way slowly down the hallway, listening. Had he thought to bring a tricorder he would know where the man was now. But tricorders on average townspeople was questionable in itself, and he'd thought better of taking that risk.

There were no footsteps to be heard, and no breath save his own. Where could his prey have gone? Where?

Frustration trickled sweat down T'sart's neck. He d.a.m.ned himself for looking too long at the guard's expressionless face. Why had the guard not called out in pain or anger? Was he being taught, or was it a planned contrivance to confuse for just that moment?

Up one corridor and down the next, T'sart saw no sign of his final prey. None. And no doors that he could further check. If he had come this far only to lose the man ... No. T'sart would not accept that. He's here. Somewhere. Find him, before he finds you' Cease Turn slowly."

Too late.

"Very well." T'sart felt the disrupter that was now lightly pressed against his back, heard its soft, powerful hum. After a moment the pressure was gone. His prey had found him, announced his presence and advantage, then stepped out of striking distance. Smart, T'sart thought as he nodded, smiled thinly, and slowly turned toward his captor.

The man with the disrupter took T'sart's weapon and glanced over him, probably wondering what other devices should be found and confiscated.

T'sart smiled. "It would seem you have the advantage, Mister... do you have a name you'd prefer me to use?"

His captor raised one brow. "Subterfuge at this point seems futile. You know who I am."

T'sart nodded. "Yes, Spock. Yes, I do. Or shall I call you Amba.s.sador? Or do you yearn for the days when you were Captain Spock?"

The Vulcan did not move, did not show surprise, did not show anything on that d.a.m.ned expressionless face.

"Why are you here?" Spock asked.

"To speak with you, of course."

Again, no expression. No irritation. Just Spock's bland tone. "My question required a more specific answer."

T'sart smiled. He hated Vulcans, but loved toying with them, and he'd been given only a few occasions over the years to do just that. So, fine, Spock showed no frustration. T'sart was surely being frustrating nevertheless. "Of course," he said finally, masking his tension with a false smile.

"Move down the corridor. Take the first turn on the left and then the door at the end of that hall," Spock ordered, but did not motion with his weapon hand.

With deliberate, perhaps almost Vulcan grace, T'sart did as he was ordered. Once in the room, he noticed the man he'd stunned just a few minutes before was gone. Spock had seen to him already, gotten him help, and still had time to turn the tables on T'sart.

Vulcans, T'sart thought bitterly.

"Sit."

Fine. The Romulan sat in a chair in front of what was presumably Spock's desk.

"State your purpose in contacting me."

T'sart paused, then finally began in what he hoped was an almost pleasant tone. "My business is urgent, but not so much that we must forget civilities. Allow me to savor the meeting, Spock. You have no idea how many people I've had to kill to gain your trail."

"Twelve, if young Polnor lives. State your purpose."

Suddenly T'sart's smile faded. He'd hoped the death toll would be thirteen soon, and had he not needed Spock so badly he would've liked the Vulcan to be the fourteenth victim.

"You're very intelligent," T'sart admitted. "Almost as intelligent as your reputation."

Spock kept his weapon aimed evenly. "I'm sure the reverse is true. Your purpose, T'sart."

It was the first time Spock had used T'sart's name, and for some reason it startled the Romulan a bit.

T'sart couldn't help then but notice that the Vulcan's Romulan accent was near perfect. He would've pa.s.sed easily as a native. Obviously had.

"I want to defect to the Federation," T'sart said finally. "And I want you to help me."

Silently, Spock seemed to consider the veracity of T'sart's confession.

"You don't need to believe me, Spock. Either way, your task would be finished on this planet, if I chose it. You don't know how many people besides myself know of your presence here. Not just here on the homeworld, but specifically here in this town, on this street, in this building, in this room, standing in that spot."

Spock nodded. "Perhaps."

d.a.m.ned smug Vulcans. "Perhaps" killing you would be exquisite. "Perhaps indeed. Put down your weapon," T'sart ordered. "We have much to discuss."