"You're wearing a groove. I hope you don't tip your hand so easily during those poker games the counselor was telling me about."

"This isn't a game. Remember, we have no way of knowing if your little stunt will work. Or exactly when it's supposed to happen."

Zweller stroked the white stubble on his chin. "I'll grant you the first point. But not the second. I suggest you be ready to move in exactly four minutes and forty-two seconds."

Riker's eyebrows rose skyward. Even Deanna looked surprised.

"Where have you been hiding your timepiece, Mr. Zweller?" Troi said.

The older man smiled enigmatically, gently tapping his skull with his index finger. Then he nodded toward the guard who was standing in the corridor, his back toward the cell. "Don't distract me. I'm counting down."

"In your head," Riker said, still incredulous.

"Yes. In my head."

"And what are we supposed to do at the end of your countdown?" Troi asked.

Riker grinned. "I can think of something."

He laced his fingers together and popped his knuckles loudly.

Hawk almost couldn't believe his good luck. Not only had he persuaded Captain Picard to bring him along on the mission, but he had also been allowed to participate in the ground rescue itself. He might never get a better opportunity to unravel the mystery surrounding the death of Aubin Tabor-and to learn what Section 31 really expected to accomplish by helping the Romulans take possession of Chiaros IV.

Hawk clutched the stock of the phaser rifle tightly as the Kepler's transporter engulfed and disassembled him, bringing on a feeling of vertigo. He felt as though he was dropping over the edge of an endless, iridescent waterfall, tumbling an impossible distance. The sensation brought to mind Reg Barclay's tales of similar experiences, until he reminded himself that this was no ordinary beam-down; the heavily ionized Chiarosan atmosphere was probably complicating the transport process.

Suddenly, Hawk was whole once again. He found himself standing beside Admiral Batanides in a rough-hewn, curving stone corridor. The place appeared to have been excavated from the planet's very bedrock and was surprisingly well lit, thanks to row upon row of ceiling-mounted light panels. Hawk could hear distant shouts echoing up and down the hallway, though no one was visible besides themselves. For a moment he wished they had brought a larger contingent with them from the Enterprise. But if they had, there would have been little room aboard the Kepler for the rescuees.

He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. If the team's assumptions had been correct-based upon Commander Zweller's brief subspace transmission-then the security forcefields in the detention area were due to fail in exactly four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

The admiral opened her tricorder and studied it for a few moments. Then she nodded, indicating that she had found her bearings-if, Hawk reflected again, Zweller's message and its coordinate data could be trusted.

Hawk took the point, staying several paces ahead of Batanides. Cautiously, the lieutenant peered around a corner. He heard the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls and saw a flurry of motion at one of the corridor's far ends. He ducked back the way he had come, flattening against one of the rough stone walls. The admiral did likewise. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hawk watched as a half-dozen very large Chiarosans, some armed with blades, others carrying disruptor-type weapons, and still others holding Starfleet-issue phasers, ran quickly past. Hawk was struck by how quiet and graceful such large beings could be.

What was their hurry? Were they being mobilized to attack the Kepler?

Peering around the corner once more, Hawk established that it was safe to move, at least for the moment. They crept forward cautiously. Two corridor-turnings later, they entered a chamber filled with what appeared to be security holding cells, none of which were occupied. Unfortunately, their entrance surprised a lone Chiarosan guard, who immediately drew a pair of serrated blades and was on top of Hawk almost before he realized what was happening. The lieutenant brought his phaser rifle upward just barely in time to ward off the soldier's initial blow. Sparks struck as the gleaming swords skipped off the phaser's tough duranium casing.

Then the Chiarosan stepped quickly backward; with an impossibly limber motion, he delivered a spinning kick to Hawk's shoulder, knocking him to the stone floor. The wind rushed from the lieutenant's lungs. His fall was considerably more painful than he expected, no doubt because of the planet's intense gravitational field. Compared to the point-three-eight Earth-normal gravity he'd grown up with in Bradbury City, the pull of Chiaros was downright brutal. Hawk rolled, hugging his rifle, barely avoiding being eviscerated by one of the guard's swords. A second blade sang past his ear and clanged deafeningly against the stone floor.

Compared to this guy, Ranul's holodeck pirates are pushovers.

But although the Chiarosan was strong and fast, Hawk wasn't out of moves just yet. Tripping the release on the rifle's strap, Hawk swept the weapon beneath the warrior's feet, bringing him to the ground with a heavy thump. Hawk rose, then slammed the rifle's stock up under the Chiarosan's jaw as the guard scrambled to recover his footing. Hawk hastened to deliver another smashing blow, stunning his adversary and knocking him down once more. But the guard didn't appear injured-he looked annoyed, and again rose to confront Hawk.

A phaser beam suddenly hit the Chiarosan squarely in the chest, instantly incinerating most of his body cavity. He was dead before his massive body struck the stone floor. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the corridor, making Hawk's gorge rise.

Incredulous, Hawk turned toward the admiral, whose phaser was still raised. At that moment, he couldn't help wondering how Section 31 could really be any worse than the Federation's so-called "legitimate" intelligence agency.

Hawk spoke haltingly as he recovered his breath. "Was... that... really... necessary?"

The admiral's eyes were steel. "Stunning these people only makes them mad," she said. "And I'm through wasting time." Calmly, she holstered her weapon and resumed making tricorder scans. "There are no lifesigns in this part of the detention area. They must have moved the prisoners."

Hawk's throat clenched involuntarily. "Or killed them."

Batanides adjusted the tricorder and her expression brightened. "No. I'm picking up human lifesigns, about a hundred meters that way." She gestured toward a "T" intersection about twenty meters down the corridor, and they began quietly walking in that direction. Hawk stayed in front, controlling his breathing, keeping his rifle at the ready.

"The tricorder says there's a Tellarite among the humans," she said.

"That would be the Slayton's CMO," Hawk said, nodding. "Dr. Gomp."

"You know him?"

Hawk shook his head. "I took a look at the Slayton's crew manifest last night."

"Sounds more like you memorized it."

He shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. Though he rarely showed off his eidetic memory gratuitously, he couldn't deny that it often came in handy.

The admiral returned her attention to the tricorder, then suddenly stopped walking. Hawk followed suit when he turned and saw the look of alarm on her face.

"What's wrong?" Hawk said. He thought he could hear distant shouting.

"A whole bunch of Chiarosan life-form signatures are approaching, fast," she said. "And they're getting between us and the prisoners."

He gripped the phaser rifle tightly. "I guess we're not going to make that first rendezvous at the beam-up coordinates after all."

She tucked the tricorder away and took up her phaser. "Then we'll have to switch to Plan B," she said, gesturing toward his rifle. Its stock was slick with sweat. "Lieutenant, this time you'd better remember that that thing is not a club."

Then she bolted ahead of Hawk in the direction of the oncoming din. He was surprised at her speed, and sprinted to keep up.

Picard took the Kepler into a steep dive until the dark ground seemed to be getting close enough to touch. Then he barrel-rolled to gain some altitude, temporarily evading the pursuing Chiarosan vessels.

Crusher studied an intermittently functioning sensor display. "There are five of them now, as far as I can tell," she said gravely. "And none of them is answering my hails."

"Phasers are armed," Picard said. Such weapons were not ordinarily standard on most shuttlecraft, but it would have been sheer folly to embark on a mission like this without them.

"The shields are still off-line," Crusher warned.

"Fine. Then theirs probably aren't working either." He tried locking onto the nearest target, but the computer refused to accept the command. The atmospheric ionization was playing hell with the automatic phaser-lock.

Picard activated the manual targeting controls. Using the tactical screen, he displayed his manual-acquisition targets. A split-second later, a Chiarosan disruptor beam lanced out in their direction, barely missing the shuttle's unprotected hull.

Picard returned fire just as his target drifted out of his makeshift sights. A clean miss. A second ship's beam rocked the shuttle with a glancing blow. Luckily, the Kepler's hull held together. But he knew their luck couldn't last.

The battle reminded Picard of an exercise he had conducted decades ago, at the Academy. The cadets had been expected to cope with glitches and malfunctions of all sorts; one such test had involved the unexpected failure of a simulated starship's computerized phaser target-lock. Picard had very quickly dispatched a pair of Tzenkethi raider ships using what Corey Zweller had admiringly called "dead reckoning." For weeks afterward-and for reasons he still couldn't fathom-Batanides had referred to him as "the Pinball Wizard."

Just as he had in that simulation, Picard allowed his instincts to take over. A Chiarosan ship dropped into the path of his drifting manual target-lock, and he fired at it. The bright orange beam contacted the unshielded alien ship squarely, blowing it apart. He swung the manual target-lock to his far right and just as quickly dispatched another before resuming his rolling, swooping evasive maneuvers. The three remaining Chiarosan ships continued to buzz about undeterred, trying to encircle him.

Picard glanced at Crusher, whose somber expression reminded him that this was no simulation. People were dead, by his hand-and it would never be a thing he would take pride in. Without speaking, he looped back toward the coordinates of the invisible rebel base, hoping for an opportunity to beam the captives aboard and outrun his pursuers.

But the three Chiarosan fighters were quickly gaining ground.

Will Riker watched as Zweller held up four fingers, then three, then two, then one.

A split-second later, the orange forcefield that barred the cell's only doorway crackled and vanished. The guard turned toward the silence and Riker leaped on the man, surprising him and knocking him to the stone floor. As they landed, Riker drove both of his knees into the Chiarosan's stomach, then rolled onto his shoulder and sprang back onto his feet. The guard was already getting up, but he was winded and startled. Riker knew that he would be dead very soon if he failed to press that very slim advantage.

One of the soldier's huge hands grasped a sword pommel just as Riker sent a flying kick toward the Chiarosan's head. Wincing as his bootheel connected sharply with the other man's skull, Riker almost fell over when he landed, his hip stitched with pain. The guard sprawled onto the floor heavily, and Riker landed a two-handed hammer-blow at the base of his skull.

The alien wheezed, then lay still.

A moment later, Troi and Zweller were standing in the corridor beside Riker as he panted with exertion. Ignoring the agony in his hip, Riker knelt beside the unconscious guard, taking his swords and removing a large, pistol-shaped beam-weapon from the Chiarosan's belt. He rose and handed one of the swords to Zweller, who hefted the weapon appraisingly. Riker gave the pistol to Troi.

"All right," Troi said, examining the weapon's controls. "We're out of our cell. What's our next move?"

"We find the rest of the hostages," Zweller said, pointing his sword down the stone corridor. "Then we fight our way to the hangar and take one of the rebels' flyers."

"Oh," Troi said laconically. "Is that all?"

Riker raised his sword before him, as though it were an anbo-jytsu staff. He was grateful for the chance to finally do something to end their confinement-even if it did seem to be a lost cause.

"If you've got a better plan, Deanna, I'm all ears."

Troi nodded, conceding his point. "Lead on, Commander," she said to Zweller, spinning her weapon by its trigger guard, in the manner of a gunfighter from the ancient American West.

As they made their way down the empty corridor, Riker could hear shouts and the sounds of a struggle. He saw Troi frowning at her pistol's electronic controls.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"I can't find the stun setting."

"Chiarosans don't believe in nonlethal weapons," Zweller said, then led them around a corner.

They entered a wide chamber that contained five empty holding cells. In front of the cells, four Starfleet officers-who had evidently also made a bid for freedom once the forcefields had dropped-were grappling hand-to-hand with a pair of hulking Chiarosans. An officer, a human male, lay on the stone floor, either dead or unconscious. One of the Chiarosans sent a human woman sprawling with a single backhanded slap.

The second guard raised a heavy sword and prepared to skewer a very angry Tellarite. Instead of fleeing the blow, the Tellarite leaped forward, sinking his tusklike teeth deeply into the soldier's bare forearm.

With surprising adroitness, Zweller hurled himself into the melee, striking from behind and hacking at the first guard's hamstrings. Roaring in pain, the Chiarosan fell to one impossibly flexible knee, twisting his torso almost backward to engage Zweller with two curved, scimitar-like blades. Riker rushed the second guard, parrying a downward sword-thrust aimed at the Tellarite's thick neck. The Chiarosan shrugged the Tellarite off of him, sending him flying, gobbets of gray flesh trailing through the air behind him. Seemingly unaware of his wound, the soldier turned toward Riker, a death's-head grin fixed upon his face. The guard rushed him, his blades twirling like the propellers of an ancient terrestrial aircraft.

Riker moved as fast as he could, sidestepping and parrying with his sword. But his hip, which was bone-bruised if not sprained, was slowing him. Sparks flew as metal hit metal with a deafening clangor. Something nicked Riker's scalp, and he felt a liquid warmth soaking into his beard and surging down his neck. The warrior paused, laughing in triumph.

"A little help here, Deanna!" Riker shouted.

The Chiarosan raised his blade, advancing with preternatural speed. Then his eyes went wide in shock and he flung his blades to the floor. Riker saw that the weapons had suddenly changed in color from silvery-gray to bright red. The blades of the guard Zweller had slashed struck the stone floor a moment later, and both warriors stopped moving, startled by their burned hands but bearing their pain stoically. For a moment, the room fell silent.

Troi stood a few meters away from the fracas, holding the pistol before her in a two-handed grip. "I won't be aiming at your weapons next time, gentlemen," she said icily. "Please don't force me to fire again."

It would have been easy for one or both of the guards to charge her, given their obvious strength and agility. But their muscles slackened and they backed away from her, apparently utterly convinced of her sincerity. Riker smirked, wondering for a moment if this was some new combat application of her empathic talents.

Zweller and one of the freed Starfleet officers-a man who wore a commander's pips-began helping the injured to their feet. Brushing blood away from his ear, Riker was relieved to note that no one appeared to have suffered any serious injuries.

Zweller and the Tellarite disarmed the guards and escorted them into one of the holding cells, whose forcefields by now had become functional again. Zweller then began distributing the remainder of the Chiarosans' weapons-swords, disruptors, and even a pair of Starfleet-issue phasers-among his crewmates.

"Commander Roget, one of those guards is cut up pretty badly," the Tellarite told his superior. "He needs medical attention."

"All right, Doctor," Roget said. "But make it fast."

Zweller spoke up. "Commander, the guard's pride is the only thing that got hurt."

"How would you know?" the Tellarite asked Zweller truculently. Riker assumed that the doctor was unaware of the commander's alliance with the rebels.

"We have to get out of sight," one of Slayton's other officers said.

Roget looked convinced. Hefting a thick-bladed sword, he said, "Okay, then. We leave now."

"Exactly how are we supposed to get off this base?" snorted the Tellarite. His piglike eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on Riker and Troi. "And who are our new friends?"

Riker and Troi stepped forward and exchanged brief introductions with the Slayton's officers.

Looking impatient, Zweller handed a newly confiscated particle weapon to Roget and gave a second one to Riker. "With all due respect, let's save the pleasantries for the debriefing. Right now, I need everybody to follow me to the hangar."

Roget turned toward the Tellarite. "Gomp, stay up front with Commander Zweller. If you smell anyone coming, give us a shout."

Gomp nodded, his porcine nose twitching as he sampled the dank subterranean air. Then he inhaled sharply and issued a very loud, very moist sneeze. Someone behind Riker said "Gesundheit."

Zweller and Gomp took the point, and Riker fell into step a few paces behind them, his disruptor pistol ready. Farther back, Troi helped support an injured but ambulatory woman-Xenoanthropologist Kurlan-while Tuohy, the planetary scientist, assisted Engineer Hearn, who was moving with a very noticeable limp. Roget watched for trouble from the rear.

"Hold it," Gomp hissed, his flat nose snuffling loudly. Everyone stopped. "I think I smell-"

About ten meters ahead, a broad intersection suddenly began filling up with Chiarosans, some carrying blades, others clutching disruptors and phasers.

Riker saw that Grelun was standing at the forefront, a curved sword in each of his massive hands. The scowl on the Chiarosan leader's dark, saturnine face seemed to lower the room's temperature by five full degrees.

"-trouble," Gomp finished, almost inaudibly.

The hull of the Kepler banged and shuddered. Picard half-expected to be blown out of the cockpit and into the ionized darkness, but the shuttle somehow remained in one piece.

The tactical display fluttered, but not because of the atmospheric static. The system itself had apparently taken damage and was beginning to fail. Despite that, he could still make out the intermittent image of three Chiarosan attack ships. The pursuing vessels continued firing while Picard coaxed the Kepler into evasive loops that threatened to tear the small craft apart.

"Why aren't we returning fire?" Crusher said, her voice carrying a carefully controlled edge of fear.

He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the turbulent atmosphere and the discharge of the Chiarosan weapons. "We can't spare the power. We need it for the transporter and the structural integrity field." If the latter system were to fail, the shuttle would quickly become thousands of dinnerplate-size pieces, spread across hundreds of square kilometers of the frigid Nightside.

"We're going to abandon ship?" Crusher asked.

"There's no other choice. We've taken too much damage to outrun our attackers. And we'll never reach orbit in this condition."

The doctor calmly eyed a readout on her console. "Jean-Luc, at these power levels, we'll never be able to transport together. Only one at a time."

Picard nodded curtly. "The rebel base is in transporter range again. Beam yourself down first. I'll join you as soon as I can. And no arguments."