STAR TREK - TNG - 39 - Rogue Saucer

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For Mike and Denise Okuda, Rick Sternbach, and all the writers and editors responsible for those
amazing STAR TREK reference books.
Thanks to Penny Peters, John Ordover, Lee Whiteside, John Wheeler, and Dan Duperre for their timely
assistance.
Historian’s Note
This story takes place shortly after the events inPreemptive Strike .
Chapter One
“LONG-RANGEFREIGHTER, PAKLED SIGNATURE,” said Lieutenant Commander Data. The
android studied his readouts at the Ops console as his swift fingers brought up screen after screen. “They
have tripped the primary and secondary buoys and are approaching the Demilitarized Zone at warp one.”
Commander Will Riker rose from the command chair on the bridge of theEnterprise and took a stride
forward. “Helm, lock in course to intercept, maximum warp.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ensign Tate as her slim fingers plied the console. “Course laid in.”
“Engage.” Riker turned to glance at Lieutenant Worf at the tactical station. “Hail them and send an
abstract of the Federation-Cardassian border agreement. Maybe they don’t know they have to be
searched before they can enter the DMZ.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the deep-voiced Klingon.
Data cocked his head. “It would be odd if a Pakled freighter had not heard of the border agreement.
They are the most active traders in this sector.” He added, “The freighter has increased speed.”
“Increasedspeed?” Riker frowned. “Mr. Worf, did they understand our hail?”
The Klingon grumbled, “I believe they understood it all too well.”
Riker stroked his bearded chin and smiled. “Just when I thought this was going to be a slow day. What
is their ETA at the Demilitarized Zone?”
“Three point six minutes,” answered Data.
Riker nodded. “Mr. Worf, ready a photon torpedo, match their course, and detonate it two hundred
thousand kilometers in front of the Demilitarized Zone. Fire when ready. On screen.”
Data punched up a long-range visual, as Worf solemnly reported, “Arming torpedo, targeting, torpedo
away.”
On the main viewer the torpedo was but a streak as it left the speeding ship and quickly attained a
velocity several times greater than either theEnterprise or the Pakled freighter. In the distant starscape
they saw a brilliant flash of light like a star going nova.
Worf smiled with satisfaction. “The Pakled freighter is coming out of warp.”
Data adjusted the viewscreen to reveal a frog-shaped, khaki-colored freighter slowing to impulse
power. It had clashing stripes of light blue and yellow on its boxy stern and was about the ugliest vessel
Riker had ever seen.
“Hail them again.” Riker tapped his comm badge and said, “Bridge to Captain Picard.”
“Picard here,” came a muffled voice.
“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir, but we’ve just intercepted a Pakled freighter that was headed for
the Demilitarized Zone. We’ll scan for weapons in their cargo, but you should know that we had to fire a
torpedo to get them to stop.”
“Use caution,” said the captain, “and keep me informed. Picard out.”
Captain Picard dabbed a napkin to his lips and wiped it briefly under his patrician nose, then he pushed
his chair back. Sitting across from him, Beverly Crusher gave him a concerned look. The attractive
doctor looked a bit haggard this morning, and her normally full red hair was gathered loosely at the nape
of her neck.
“Now, Jean-Luc,” she whispered, “you’re not going to leave a whole plate of Regulan eelbird eggs just
sitting there. Guinan will be upset. She had to trade a case of Andolian brandy for those—they’re too
complex for the replicator.”
“I don’t seeyou eating anything,” observed Picard.
The doctor shifted uneasily in her chair. “Well, I had a late dinner.”
“Late dinner and late hours,” said the captain disapprovingly. “In fact, I get the feeling you haven’t slept
in days, have you?”
Beverly smiled wanly. “Well, I’m three weeks behind on the crew evaluations, I’m writing a paper on
Derebian streptococci, and I’m directing a play.Blood Wedding by Lorca. One thing the evaluations are
showing is that every member of this crew needs a shore leave.”
Picard smiled briefly, then turned gloomy again. “I must admit, I’m not fond of our current assignment.
Patrolling the Demilitarized Zone constantly reminds me that we are engaged in a war of attrition with our
own people—Federation people.”
Beverly shook her head sympathetically. “Jean-Luc, the Maquis aren’t Federation anymore, they’re
renegades. When they chose to fight the Cardassians rather than obey the treaty, they became enemies of
the Federation.”
“I know,” said the captain, his jaw tightening, “but I have a great deal of difficulty thinking of former
comrades as enemies. In my fifty years of service, through war and peace, I don’t believe anything more
disheartening than this has happened. I abhor the whole idea of fighting former comrades and stopping
ships that might be giving them aid and comfort.”
Through the expansive window, Picard surveyed the star-studded blackness of space. “When I was a
lad, I studied the writings of François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld. He said something that I have never
fully understood until now. ‘It is more shameful to distrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them.’ ”
Beverly smiled wistfully, “Ah, Ro Laren?”
“That was the worst one,” admitted Picard, “because I delivered her into their hands.” He pushed the
plate of exotic poached eggs away from him. “Please tell Guinan that I’m sorry, but this matter with the
freighter came up. If Riker has to board her, I should be on the bridge.”
Suddenly a klaxon sounded, piercing the calm of the captain’s quarters. “Red alert!” boomed Riker’s
voice over the comm system. “All command personnel to their stations!”
Picard bolted to his feet and glanced at Beverly, who jumped up and tapped her comm badge. “Crusher
to sickbay!” she called.
The captain strode onto the bridge and was shocked to see Lieutenant Worf standing over his tactical
console, spraying it with heat dampener. All around him sparks sputtered from various consoles, and
acrid smoke drifted through the air.
“Report!”
Riker turned to face Picard. “Sir, after a debate, the Pakled freighter consented to lower her shields and
let us scan her. We’re trying to establish what happened next.”
“Captain, I have a theory,” said Data. “It would appear that they piggybacked a baryon particle beam
onto our return sensor signal. It was a very sophisticated maneuver, requiring planning and a detailed
knowledge of theEnterprise’ s bridge subsystems. Had they succeeded, they would have contaminated
the bridge.”
“Any damage to the rest of the ship?”
“No, sir,” answered the android. “The damage was targeted at the main bridge and was restricted to the
bridge by emergency containment fields. All command functions have been automatically routed to the
battle bridge.”
Picard frowned and looked at the main viewscreen, which was disconcertingly blank. “Where is the
freighter now?”
“It is moving away from our port bow at a speed of Warp 2.1,” the android replied. “This maneuver
could not have been expected to disable theEnterprise for long, merely long enough to allow the
freighter to escape. By now they have reached the Demilitarized Zone.”
“Stand down from red alert,” Picard ordered.
“I am sorry, Captain,” said Data, “but we can issue no commands from the main bridge.”
Picard scowled and tapped his communicator. “Picard to battle bridge.”
“Crusher here,” came the replyof the ship’s doctor.“Is it really as bad up there as my sensors
indicate?”
“Yes! You have command of the ship. Stand down from red alert.” After a moment, the noise and
flashing lights stopped, but Captain Picard still felt like a human red alert. He took a deep breath. “Thank
you, Dr. Crusher. I see it was your turn in the rotation for the battle bridge.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” she answered cheerfully.
“Picard out.” The captain scowled at Riker. “As soon as we get back on our feet, I want to talk to a
representative of the Pakled government.”
“Sir, we can’t be entirely certain they were Pakleds. Although the freighter had a Pakled signature, they
returned our hail on audio only. Plus, I can’t believe the Pakleds knew enough about our ship to do this
to us.”
Data added, “We can analyze their voice record.”
“Make it so.”
The android headed to the turbolift and stopped to look at the captain. “Sir, there appears to be no
point in remaining on the bridge. It is nonfunctional.”
Picard gazed at the mess that was his beloved bridge and heaved a sigh. “Right. Number One, you and
Worf make sure that the bridge is secure, then join us in the battle bridge.”
“Yes, sir.” Riker took a deep breath and vowed, “This will never happen again.”
“I should hope not.” Picard lowered his head and bulled his way toward the turbolift.
An hour later the captain sat at the conference table in the observation lounge, surrounded by his senior
officers: Dr. Crusher, Counselor Troi, Commander Riker, Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge,
Lieutenant Commander Data, and Lieutenant Worf. It was time to hear suggestions and assess options.
“Engineering report,” he said to La Forge.
The chief engineer sat forward in his chair and adjusted the VISOR that covered his eyes. “It doesn’t
look good. I’ve made an extensive list of the damage to the bridge, and you can access it on the
computer. The bottom line is this—the baryon contamination of the bridge subsystems is too extensive
for us to repair by ourselves. We have to put in to a starbase for repairs and a baryon sweep. As long as
we’re going to do that, we might as well update the entire bridge module. That will be my
recommendation to Starfleet.”
Picard felt a headache coming on behind his temporal lobe. “How long will that take?”
“Two or three days at best,” said Geordi. “Then we’ll need a few days of test flights. To be safe, we’d
best count on a week. This is a major repair, but at least it’s only to one section of the ship.”
The captain nodded and turned to Data. “Did you analyze the voice records from that freighter?”
“Yes, sir,” said the android. “The person who answered our hail from the freighter was not a
Pakled—he was human. Considering our location, it is conceivable that the Maquis have either stolen or
purchased a Pakled freighter for the purpose of running arms into the Demilitarized Zone. In addition,
they obviously have someone with intimate knowledge of theEnterprise’ s bridge subsystems and
scanning procedures.”
Riker spoke for everyone, “Ro.”
Data nodded. “That is my supposition. Lieutenant Ro recently received advanced tactical training from
Starfleet, and that may have included the use of baryon particle beams for the purpose of sabotage.”
Worf pounded his fist on the table. “We still have warp drive and all our weapons—let us go after
them!”
Picard held up his hand in warning. “If theEnterprise entered the Demilitarized Zone, it could start a war
with the Cardassians. We have to accept that fact that we were bested in this confrontation. That’s the
trouble with fighting the Maquis—they have dozens of former Starfleet officers, and they know us better
than we know ourselves.”
Picard ran his hand over his smooth crown. “It seems we have no alternative but to put in to a starbase
for repairs.”
“Plus rest and relaxation,” said Beverly Crusher. “Everyone on this ship needs a shore leave, so I’m not
disappointed that we have to dock at a starbase for a week. Let’s pick a base with some decent
recreational facilities—like Starbase 211. It’s fairly close, and they have three permanent museums,
including the Kraybon Collection of archeological artifacts.”
That suggestion brought a fleeting smile to Picard’s face. “Ah, yes, I could lose myself quite easily for a
week in the Kraybon Collection. I can certainly check to see if Starbase 211 has adequate repair
facilities. I must admit, a week off from border patrol doesn’t sound too dreadful. Are there any other
suggestions?”
Data nodded. “I will write a new subroutine to check returning scan signals for baryon beams.”
“Make it so,” said the captain. “I’d better get started on my report to Starfleet. I’ll ask about shore
leave. Anything else?”
Worf gritted his teeth. “What are we going to do about Ro Laren?”
The captain shook his head. “Mr. Worf, we don’t know for certain that she was involved. There are
many Maquis with knowledge of Galaxy-class vessels.”
Picard shook off the disturbing thought of Ro Laren sabotaging her own—her former—ship, but she had
chosen her own destiny, and in a way, he had helped shape that destiny. The captain rose to his feet and
said curtly, “Dismissed.”
Timothy Wiley, a handsome young human with a bristling red mustache, stepped upon the transporter
platform of theShufola and looked at the elder Bajoran at the transporter console. He could see Vylor
struggling with the outmoded trim-pot controls, trying to stabilize the settings at a safe level for humans.
Wiley forced himself to the center of the glowing disc, which was humming disconcertingly. He smiled
wanly. “You’re sure you’re not going to turn me into Hungarian goulash?”
“I don’t know what that is,” answered Vylor, “but you will either be on the planet in a few moments, or
you’ll be in the hands of the Prophets.”
The young man cleared his throat. “Do the Prophets like humans?”
“Of course. The Emissary is a human.” Vylor peered at his instruments and shrugged. “This is as
accurate as it’s going to get. No wonder the Pakleds sold us this craft so cheaply. I still wish there was
some other way.”
Wiley shook his head. “We can’t risk breaking radio silence, and I mustsee the Architect. Besides,
we’ve already gotten our money’s worth out of this freighter, even if I don’t come back.”
“We will return for you tomorrow at the appointed time,” the white-haired Bajoran assured him. “Give
my best to the Architect.”
“I will, and you keep working on that tractor beam. We need to be able to tow a ship at warp speeds.”
“It’s almost ready.”
Wiley squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Energize.”
Then he screwed his eyes shut, not anxious to meet the Prophets, Saint Peter, or whoever greeted those
unlucky enough to be using an old Pakled transporter. He felt a stinging along his skin that was much
more intense than the polite tingling that accompanied a Federation transporter. With huge relief, he felt
shifting rubble under his feet and smelled an obnoxious odor redolent of burning rubber. Then he opened
his eyes upon a scene that was worthy of Dante’sInferno , and he wondered briefly whether he had gone
by mistake to the home of lost souls.
It was night on this part of New Hope, in a ruined city that had been burning nonstop for years, ever
since the final Cardassian attack before the first treaty took effect. The black buildings, or what was left
of them, were constructed from a pitchlike substance extracted from the swamps and trees that covered
most of New Hope. The pitch was naturally flame-resistant, except when subjected to thermoactive
weapons, which was exactly what the Cardassians had used on the city. Now the black towers and
spires that had once housed half a million people burned in perpetuity—a dead city of smoldering torches
rising hundreds of meters into the sky. It reminded Timothy Wiley of the smokestack cities of
twentieth-century Earth that he had seen in old video logs.
He coughed, momentarily overcome by the dreadful fumes, and staggered off the rubble. The young man
patted the small pouch strapped to his waist to make sure that he still had his precious cargo, then he
stopped to get his bearings. A charred, grinning skeleton lay on the ground a few meters away, its right
hand outstretched in what looked like a haphazard manner. Wiley knew it was not haphazard at all, and
he carefully picked his way through the debris in the direction the dead man was pointing.
Flames licking the sky provided plenty of light, and he had no problem finding the next signpost—a
decrepit subway entrance. Once made of gleaming metal, the entrance and stairs had melted into a
grotesque crater with crude symbols painted all over it. Wiley spotted the painted heart with an arrow
through it, and he turned in the direction of the arrow. By now, he was skirting perilously close to a
burning building, and he could feel the intense heat from the fire prickling his skin, then drenching him with
sweat. The ground was littered with pebbles of melted glass that crunched under his feet.
Finally, he saw an old electric car that was also little more than a misshapen lump of metal. But the door
hung on its hinges, still functional. He opened the door as he had been instructed, squeezed inside, and
sat on the threadbare seat of the vehicle. Musty smells were almost overpowering, and Wiley held his
breath as he pushed the panel that once turned on the lights. Immediately, the seat began to lower into the
ground, and another seat slid into place above him.
There were more musty smells but little to see in the tube that brought him several stories beneath the
planet’s surface. He finally stopped, and a metal door opened at his side. Wiley stepped out to see an
armed woman who was wearing a cold-weather mask and holding a phaser rifle.
“Name?” asked the woman.
“Blue Moon,” answered Timothy Wiley.
The woman nodded and finally smiled. “You were successful?”
“Yes.” Wiley grinned and patted the pouch on his hip.
“Good. Architect is waiting to see you.” The woman stepped aside and motioned him down a narrow
corridor.
Wiley walked quickly, because he was very anxious to meet the Architect, a new addition from Starfleet
who had enormous knowledge of Starfleet procedures. In a short time, she had revolutionized the
random operations of dozens of disconnected cells, making the Maquis’ forays bolder and more
successful. This latest triumph was a good example of her genius, and so was the fact that she had turned
a devastated planet into her command post. New Hope was surely the last place the Cardassian death
squads would look for a Maquis cell.
Weapons smuggling was only the beginning. They had plans, much bigger plans.
At the end of the corridor, Wiley found a simple wooden door, and he pushed it open to enter a
cramped office full of computer equipment and sensors. A slim woman with short-cropped dark hair was
hunched over a terminal, entering data. She turned to face him, and he was surprised to see that she
wasn’t wearing a mask to hide her identity. Furthermore, the notches on the bridge of her nose revealed
her to be a Bajoran. He hadn’t realized that a Bajoran could rise that far in Starfleet.
He also noticed that she was very attractive in an intense sort of way.
“Architect?” he asked.
She nodded curtly. “You made it through?”
He grinned and smoothed back his mustache with pride. “We certainly did. The baryon particles on the
return scan worked exactly as you said they would. Not only did we get through, the ship we crippled
was none other than theEnterprise!”
She lowered her chin, and he could see unmistakable sadness in her lovely brown eyes. “Were there
casualties?”
“None on our part, but we didn’t stick around long enough to find out ifthey had any. At least now we
know we can get through the blockade.”
Architect shook her head glumly. “No, we can never use that trick again. The crew of theEnterprise is
the best there is. They undoubtedly know exactly what we did, and every ship in Starfleet will be
prepared for it next time. It was unfortunate that you met theEnterprise —I was hoping you’d run up
against a small cruiser full of ensigns fresh out of the Academy.”
She stood up and held out her hand. “Do you have a sample?”
“Yes!” He opened up his pouch and took out a Klingon disruptor pistol, which he dropped into her
palm. She studied the sleek weapon with its molded grip and phase-disruption chambers.
“No ‘stun’ settings on this baby,” said Wiley. “Armed with these disruptors, we can go up against
Cardassians, Starfleet . . .”
“No!” she said sharply. “These weapons are never to be used against Starfleet. The Federation is not
our enemy.”
“Well, they sure as hell aren’t our friends,” countered Wiley, taken aback by her attitude. “Theydid fire
at us.”
The slim Bajoran narrowed her eyes at him. “If theEnterprise had fired at you, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Well,” he admitted, “they fired past us in order to get us to stop.”
“Standard procedure,” she said. “What about the rest of our plan? Is Peacock in place?”
“Yes. I got the word before we left Klingon space. Peacock has gotten his new assignment and is right
where he’s supposed to be, just waiting for the proper set of circumstances. TheShufola will make her
deliveries and come back to get me tomorrow. Then we’re on our way to bring back the Big Prize!”
Wiley grinned with anticipation.
To his surprise, Architect glared at him. “Remember one thing—no Starfleet personnel are to be injured
on this mission. The Maquis spent a long time setting up this plan, and it was designed to go without a
hitch and without a single casualty. I want your word on this—you won’t hurt any Starfleet personnel.”
Wiley lifted his hands helplessly. “I’ll try. But I don’t know why you’re so concerned about the
Federation. They desertedus .”
“They’re still part of us, and we’re still part of them. They thought they were buying peace by drawing
up new boundaries, but you can’t buy peace from creatures like the Cardassians. They made a terrible
mistake, and we have to prove it to them. The long-range plan is to drive the Cardassians out, return
people to their homes, and rejoin the Federation. Never lose sight of that.”
“Okay,” said Wiley. “I guess someday you want to go back to Starfleet, huh.”
The young Bajoran shook her head sadly. “It’s too late for that, too late for me. Starfleet doesn’t know
most of the members of the Maquis, but they know their former officers. There’s no going back for me.
In fact, sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever leave this planet alive.”
Wiley felt a pang in his heart for this beautiful young woman. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and
assure her that there would be a happy ending to their trials, but he didn’t know if that was truly the case.
Before joining the Maquis, Wiley had been a navigator on commercial freighters, and Starfleet hardly
knew he was alive. He could conceivably go back to his former career when this was all over, with
Starfleet none the wiser; but it was different for the Architect. She must have been a highly trusted officer
to have learned all she knew about Starfleet, he realized, and she had given it all up for a bunch of
displaced colonists.
He started to reach for her, and she drew back. With a hoarse voice, she said, “Go now. My assistant
will get you something to eat and find you a place to sleep. You have done very well and have brought us
closer to our goals.”
With that summary dismissal, she sat at her desk and again hunched over her instruments. When she
continued to ignore him, Timothy Wiley pushed open the door and walked out. He glanced back at the
young woman, thinking he would never be as alone as she was.
Chapter Two
CAPTAINPICARD WASBEAMINGas he shoved the computer padd under Beverly Crusher’s nose.
“Look at this,” he said excitedly, “the Kraybon Collection contains the only known example of a Fire
Scepter from the ruins of Iconia Primus. It’s nonfunctional, of course, but it’s still a remarkable artifact.
The Demons, as they called themselves, could supposedly travel between planets without the need for
spacecraft.”
Beverly smiled agreeably. “I remember the legends quite well, Jean-Luc.” A server passed their table in
the Ten-Forward lounge, and Beverly held out her cup. “Could I please have some more decaffeinated
cocoa?”
“Certainly,” said the young man, taking her cup and rushing off.
“Decaffeinated cocoa?” asked Picard. “I should think you would want something more . . . more
stimulating. We’re going on shore leave . . . though I can hardly imagine it.”
“I can,” said the doctor, “but I intend to sleep for about the first twenty-four hours. After that, I’ll be
happy to tour the Kraybon Collection with you, although I’m personally more interested in the traveling
exhibit from the Hermitage Museum. Twentieth-century Impressionists, that’s more my idea of a good
time.”
“Absolutely!” agreed Picard, taking her hands in his. “Beverly, coming here was an excellent idea. Not
only do they have a first-class repair facility, but the prospect of all these museums is marvelous.”
She gazed back at him with velvety green eyes. “I haven’t seen you so happy in a long time. Maybe we
should get our bridge blown up more often.”
The captain looked pained. “I think that’s a rather drastic way to get shore leave, but it did seem to
work. I just hope nobody is going to send me a bill.”
Their young server appeared with Beverly’s refill of cocoa, and Picard released Beverly’s hands. “Is
there anything else?” asked the server. “We’re shutting down in a few minutes to prepare to disembark.”
“No, we’re fine,” the captain answered cheerfully. “What are you going to do on your shore leave,
Bartlett?”
“I’m catching a transport to Tau Ceti III,” said the young man. “I haven’t seen my parents in two years,
and I don’t know when I’ll get another leave.”
Picard nodded approvingly. “Very commendable.”
Bartlett frowned for a moment. “Do you really think the repairs will take a week?”
“That is Commander La Forge’s best estimate, and he’s seldom wrong about such things.”
“By the way,” said Beverly, looking around the tasteful saloon, “where is Guinan?”
Bartlett smiled. “She’s still packing. Can’t decide which hats to bring.”
Picard chuckled and waved the young man off. “Don’t let us delay you. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The captain glanced out the nearest window, and his smile got even wider as he saw Starbase 211
looming into view. It resembled a vast DNA model lit up with Christmas tree lights. Virtually everything
the Federation had to offer its space-faring members was available at 211, from a thriving artistic
community to a repair facility that was second to none. Its relative proximity to Cardassian-controlled
space gave 211 a considerable Starfleet presence. As they drew closer to the spidery city in space, he
could see starships hanging from its appendages like flies caught in a glimmering web.
Picard’s comm badge chirped, and a familiar voice said, “Battle bridge to Captain Picard.”
He tapped it and answered, “Yes, Number One.”
“Captain, we have been cleared to proceed to docking bay 27. We anticipate opening the
airlocks in three minutes.”
“Take her in, Number One.”
摘要：

ForMikeandDeniseOkuda,RickSternbach,andallthewritersandeditorsresponsibleforthoseamazingSTARTREKreferencebooks.ThankstoPennyPeters,JohnOrdover,LeeWhiteside,JohnWheeler,andDanDuperrefortheirtimelyassistance.Historian’sNoteThisstorytakesplaceshortlyaftertheeventsinPreemptiveStrike.ChapterOne“LONG-RANG...

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