He silently cursed his immobility. He wanted to leap up and run to the shuttlebay, but he knew that this wasn't an option while his chest cavity was clamped open beneath the sterile surgical field. "I need to see them as soon as they're aboard. Particularly Commander Zweller."

"What you need," Crusher said sternly, "is to sit absolutely still for the next few minutes so I can repair the damage you did to your artificial heart."

Picard sighed with frustration, then relented. "Fine. But after that-"

"No promises," she said, interrupting him. It occurred to him that Crusher was probably the only person on the entire ship to whom he allowed that privilege. "After the operation, we'll see."

His dry throat made his next words come out in a sandpapery rasp. "Doctor, I'll be damned if I'm going to let you confine me to sickbay."

"I don't negotiate, Jean-Luc," she said, holding up a hypospray admonishingly. "Why are you in such a hurry, anyway?"

"Beverly, Corey Zweller and I once took a foolish risk by fighting a trio of very hostile Nausicaans. That's why there's an artificial heart in my chest today. Forty years later, Zweller is still running foolish risks. Only now, he's gambling with the lives of his colleagues. Whole sectors of space. An entire civilization. Had the Romulans succeeded in keeping that subspace singularity, his political gamesmanship might even have jeopardized the entire universe.

"But no more. It ends today. And I have to be in the shuttlebay when he arrives so I can tell him that."

Crusher looked at him for a moment before nodding her assent. "All right, Jean-Luc. I think I can have you good as new-and out of here-in maybe an hour."

He smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Bev-"

"If," she said, once again interrupting and pointing the hypospray at him, "you will promise to swear off taking any more foolish risks yourself for at least a week."

Picard managed a smile as Crusher gently applied the hypospray to his neck. "Cross my heart," he whispered, and then slept.

The shuttlecraft Herschel vaulted away from the Chiarosan asteroid. Zweller watched as the battered, rocky worldlet dwindled on the viewscreen. He sincerely hoped never to look upon its meteor-scarred face again.

The cockpit had been devoid of conversation during the minute or so since their departure from the planetoid. In fact, neither Zweller nor Batanides had uttered a word to each other since the meeting with Koval had concluded. Zweller supposed it was because neither of them was overly eager to contact the Enterprise-and to hear from Will Riker that the Romulans had killed their oldest friend.

As she adjusted the small spacecraft's course for its rendezvous with the Enterprise, the admiral broke the uncomfortable silence. "Was it worth it, Corey?"

The question struck Zweller as a peculiar non sequitur. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the Romulans have what they wanted: the Geminus Gulf."

He was willing to concede that to her. Although the referendum votes would still be gathered for about the next five minutes, most of the voting districts had already reported their results. The few that had yet to transmit their tallies couldn't possibly alter the overall result-which was the official ouster of the Federation from the Chiaros system, and thereby from the entirety of the Geminus Gulf.

"The Romulans have what they said they wanted," Zweller said. "Who can ask for more?"

"And you have what you came here for: a list of Romulan spies for your dirty little rogue bureau. So, was all the blood that was spilled here worth it?"

He knew she was talking about Johnny as much as Tabor. Anger sparked within him, for both men had been his friends, too. "My 'dirty little rogue bureau' has saved the Federation more times than I can count."

She looked unconvinced. "How about a recent 'for instance'?"

"All right. Are you familiar with an intelligent, proto-warp-era carnivore species called the Nizak?"

"It's a big galaxy," she said, shaking her head. "Should I have heard of them?"

"I admit, they're probably obscure, even to most intelligence officers. But you'd remember them if you ever ran into them. Big, scaly, conquest-bent, and mean as all get out."

"That sounds like a fairly subjective appraisal."

"You might not think so if any friends of yours had ever been on their dinner menu. Their own history shows the Nizak to be conquerors and predators by nature. Our exosociology branch concluded a long time ago that the Nizak constitute a clear and present danger to over a dozen nearby Federation systems."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought you said these people were 'proto-warp-era.'"

"They are," Zweller said, a mischievous smile involuntarily creasing his face. "For the moment. Unfortunately for these fine folk, their most brilliant scientists and engineers can't seem to keep their prototype warp ships from blowing up on the launch pad."

She raised her eyebrows incredulously. "Section 31 is monkey-wrenching the Nizak's warp experiments. Trampling on the Prime Directive."

"That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," he said with a shrug. "But no one else from Starfleet can prove that without making extensive contact... and risking committing violations of the Prime Directive themselves."

A frosty expression clouded the admiral's features. "You're saying that Section 31 is in the business of... neutralizing entire civilizations?"

"We only do what's necessary to protect the Federation. No more, and no less."

"And exactly how far does 'what's necessary' go, Corey?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Zweller lied.

Her eyes narrowed. "I mean this: Starfleet has encountered hundreds of intelligent species over the past couple of centuries. I can think of at least a few that haven't been heard from since shortly after we made first contact with them. Your bureau wouldn't have anything to do with that, would it?"

He looked away from her penetrating gaze and stared instead at the forward viewer. After a brief pause, he replied, "It's like I already said, Marta. We do whatever's necessary to fend off threats to the Federation. No more, and no less."

When he looked back toward her he saw that she was studying him grimly, her jaw clenching rhythmically. "What's happened to you, Corey? The Federation has never sanctioned these kinds of actions."

He'd heard this argument often, and had long since grown weary of hearing it. "Of course it doesn't, Marta. It won't. But the Federation exists in a universe that often means it harm. I know it's no fun facing that fact, but it's the cold, hard truth. Surely, as an intelligence operative, you understand that."

"Corey, I understand that without the rule of law, the universe is even more dangerous than any adversary even the most paranoid Section 31 agent could ever imagine."

She fell silent then, staring hard at him for what seemed like an eternity. Then he saw the anger in her eyes slowly draining away, to be replaced by something else entirely. Was it pity?

The thought rankled him. He glanced away from her under the pretext of monitoring the helm panel. A glance at the chronometer reminded him that he might as well call the Enterprise-and finally learn whatever fate had befallen Johnny's captured Romulan scoutship.

Batanides evidently had just had the same thought. "Do you think Jean-Luc made it?"

Zweller wanted to say something hopeful, though he truly didn't feel that way. It wasn't that he lacked faith in Picard's abilities; it was simply that he knew very well that when Koval wanted someone dead, that was the way that person usually ended up.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out," he said, then touched a control, opening a channel to the Enterprise.

He was surprised and pleased to see Picard's face appear on the viewscreen. Zweller noted that his old classmate looked haggard and tired. He was dressed in a robe and appeared to be speaking to them from his quarters.

"You've looked better, Johnny," Batanides said, grinning slightly.

Picard smiled weakly in response. "A lingering aftereffect of winning a brawl against a subspace singularity. It'll pass. How did your mission go?"

Zweller held up the data chip, displaying it triumphantly. "The only downside, in case you haven't heard already, is that all Federation personnel are now considered personae non grata anywhere in the Geminus Gulf."

Picard hesitated for a moment before answering. "I'm already well aware of that," he said finally. "But I don't think the Romulans have any cause for celebration, either. Without the subspace singularity, they no longer have any rationale for being here."

As Picard signed off and the craft approached the aft shuttlebay, Zweller smiled. Everything was going to work out well after all-despite the fact that the singularity's destruction could be as big a loss to the Federation as it was to the Romulans. But with the singularity gone, the Romulans would probably abandon the Geminus Gulf of their own accord soon enough, and Section 31 would be waiting patiently. By that time, the Chiarosan people would surely see the Romulans for the devious manipulators they were, and would welcome the Federation with open, triple-jointed arms. A full investigation of Ruardh's pogroms would almost certainly result in her ouster, if that result wasn't imminent already. Peace might come to Chiaros IV at last.

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 Herschel onto 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 did find 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 Hagrate, 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 beat-up looking Chiarosan spacecraft, each of them about the size of a Starfleet runabout, appeared on the viewer. They were approaching the Enterprise at 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 low-powered 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.

Why bother keeping the Romulan diplomatic corps around when the military can simply take over? Picard thought, struggling to keep his expression carefully neutral. To Curince, he said, "It would seem that the balance of power has shifted somewhat today, Madame Senator."

She bared her teeth, perhaps in a smile, or perhaps not. "I shall not play games with you, Picard," she said, purring the words as if she were some great predatory cat. "Grelun must come with us."

"He has asked for political asylum," Picard said. "And until and unless he withdraws that request, he will have our protection. I cannot allow First Protector Ruardh to execute him."