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  "I agree," Riker said. "Mr. Karo, attach tractor beams to the Voyager. And treat her gently."

  "Aye, sir," the Bolian acknowledged.

  On the screen, three violet beams of focused gravitons reached out to the stricken starship.

  "Any sign of them responding to our hails?" Picard addressed his query to Commander Zefram Sloane, the Enterprise's security officer, who replied from his elevated station at the side of the bridge.

  "I am certain they can hear us, Captain. There is a full crew and activity on the bridge, but there seems to be a problem with their subspace transmitters. I have informed them that we have received their standard ID transmission, so with luck they should be able to patch their communications through that system."

  But Picard didn't believe in relying on luck. "Give them that suggestion, Mr. Sloane, and provide them with the appropriate circuitry diagrams. With almost eighty percent of their crew gone, they might not have a communications officer or engineer left."

  Sloane immediately began to transmit the necessary information. He was a slightly built human who traced his ancestry back to one of the first families to settle the Alpha Centauri II system, and from there to Africa. Sloanes had been at the forefront of interstellar exploration from the days of Cochrane, and Picard was pleased that he was in the unique position to know why that should be so. More than three hundred years ago, he had had the singular pleasure of meeting Commander Sloane's great-great-great-to-the-ninth grandmother.

  "Tractor beams engaged," Karo announced.

  "Take us out of here," Picard ordered. "Warp factor one."

  Instantly, the deep hum of the Enterprise's engines pulsed through the bridge and, while the Voyager held her place in the viewer, the billowing, multicolored plasma storms of the Goldin Discontinuity fell away at the speed of light.

  Picard returned to the center chair, guiltily relieved that this painfully dull assignment had become something vastly more important, though he was also saddened by the cost the Voyager apparently had paid for her journey here. He was mentally composing the historic message he would dispatch to Starfleet Command to advise them of his discovery, when Sloane reported that they were finally receiving a response from the Voyager.

  Even as Picard gave the order to put the transmission onscreen, the haggard face of a Starfleet officer appeared there. He wore an older Starfleet uniform, with a red yoke and lavender shirt. Picard could see that the young man's collar was frayed and his uniform tunic was streaked with dirt.

  "You're Starfleet!" the officer said in wonder.

  Picard felt a wave of compassion as he realized what this officer and his crew must have gone through. The Voyager had once been the pride of Starfleet. Unlike the Defiant class of ships, or even this new Enterprise, Voyager was a vessel whose primary mission had been a return to the Federation's greatest ideals of pure exploration. The commander who had disappeared with her, Captain Kathryn Janeway, had come up through Starfleet's science ranks, not through the more traditional command route. Yet, in the appearance of Voyager's current commander, Picard saw the end of the optimism with which the ship had been launched. Voyager was a dying vessel without even a replicator to provide fresh uniforms. The EMH had told a great deal of their travails, but in the time he had had, he had not been able to describe everything.

  "I am Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise. And it is with heartfelt congratulations that my crew and I welcome you home. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

  The young man's smile was instantaneous, but visibly tinged with exhaustion. "Commander Paris, sir. Tom Paris."

  Mentally reproving himself, Picard nodded. He should have recognized the family resemblance at once. "Of course, Commander. I know your father, Owen. May I ask . . . is Captain Janeway among you?"

  Paris shook his head. "She . . . she didn't make it, sir. Most of the crew . . ."

  Picard interrupted, trying to ease the young man's burden. "We count thirty-two survivors, Commander. We can go into details later."

  "Thank you, sir." Paris looked to the side, listening to a question asked out of range of his bridge audio pickups. He turned back to Picard. "Could you tell us where we are, sir? We're guessing we're somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant, but stellar cartography is completely offline."

  "You are back in the Alpha Quadrant. You emerged from a wormhole in the Goldin Discontinuity, a few hundred lightyears from the Vulcan Colonial Protectorates."

  "The middle of the Federation," Paris said, obviously gratified.

  "More or less," Picard confirmed. "May I ask how you managed to cross the remaining sixty thousand light-years since your EMH made contact with Starfleet?"

  Paris sank back in his command chair, as if now was the first time in the past five years that he had been able to relax. "It's a long story, Captain. It might be a good idea to stabilize Voyager first, get medical attention for the crew. A hot meal and a shower would certainly be appreciated."

  "It would be our pleasure," Picard said. "Your ship is safely in our tractor beams. We're ready to beam your entire crew aboard if you'd like."

  "That would be . . . wonderful." Paris stood up. "We're ready to go, eager to go, any time. There are . . . a great many bad memories here."

  "I understand," Picard said. "Have your people stand by for immediate transport."

  "Paris, out." The viewer flickered back to show the Voyager, now in a stable orientation. The Goldin Discontinuity was taking on the appearance of a folded sheet of interstellar gas. The flight of the Enterprise was smooth, with no untoward vibrations.

  "Mr. Data," Picard said, "arrange with transporter control to bring the commander's entire crew over. I'll want them all to have individual guest quarters, and unlimited replicator access with the captain's compliments. Inform Commander La Forge that I would like him to ascertain the status of the ship from her crew, and . . . apprise Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher of our new arrivals. I imagine medical care and some counseling sessions might be in order."

  Data began preparations at once.

  "In addition to being a momentous rescue mission, sir," Riker said to Picard, "this could also validate the theories that had Starfleet investigating regions of plasma storms in the first place."

  Picard wasn't quite sure what Riker meant.

  "What if Voyager fell into a wormhole which reached from the Delta Quadrant to the Goldin Discontinuity? Depending on where they started from, this might rank as a discovery as valuable as the Bajoran wormhole."

  "An interesting hypothesis," Picard agreed. "Mr. Data, is there any way to determine the extent of Voyager's travels within a wormhole? How far? How long?"

  Data took an unusually long time to respond. "Not really, sir. The deeper the meta-analysis of the ship's structural deformities goes, the more it seems I'm picking up interference in its structural-integrity field alone, and not actual physical damage at all."

  Picard found that curious. He got up to read Data's science screens himself. "Are you suggesting the ship has been damaged only by faulty control settings?"

  "That's one possibility," Data said, though he didn't sound convinced.

  Picard read the details of the Voyager's condition over the android's shoulder. If not for the visual appearance of Voyager, he would almost think he was looking at simulated battle damage from a Starfleet war-game scenario. "Is there any other indication that the damage is simulated, not physical?"

  "No, sir. Unless . . ."

  Picard had no patience for equivocation. Any ship of the complexity of the Enterprise ran by consensus, but that was impossible if any of her crew held back information, or even an opinion. "Mr. Data . . . ?"

  Data sounded reluctant, but he continued. "Sir, I did take the liberty of analyzing their life-support systems. And even though sensors confirm only thirty-two humans on board, the levels of carbon dioxide, food, and heat waste handled by life-support indicate a larger crew complement."

  Riker had joined Picard and Data. "How much larger?"
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  "If I had to guess, sir . . ."

  "Consider it an order," Picard said.

  "Two hundred. In addition to the thirty-two individuals that the sensors confirm being on board."

  Riker rubbed at his beard in thought. "Is there any indication that life-support is one of the systems repaired with alien technology?"

  "There are a great number of engineering anomalies in almost every system in the ship," Data said. "But not all of them are clearly alien. Some appear to be repairs made with . . . I would have to characterize it as less advanced human technology."

  Picard thought there was an easy answer for that. "Is there any indication that Voyager has traveled in time? Perhaps to an earlier era where they had to adapt primitive materials?"

  "An interesting proposal," Data responded. As the android realigned the sensors to determine an answer to Picard's question, La Forge announced that Commander Paris and the first of the Voyager crew had been beamed aboard.

  "Escort them to the bridge before giving them quarters," Picard said. To Riker he added, "No doubt the commander will be able to answer a great many of our questions."

  Riker looked concerned. "Sir . . . I wonder if we should consider mutiny as a cause of Voyager's apparent condition?"

  Picard remembered that that had been one of the theories advanced to account for the ship's loss, but that the EMH had firmly ruled it out. True, Tom Paris had been a member of the Maquis, and Voyager had been on a mission to capture a Maquis cell when she had vanished, but the EMH had claimed that all earlier animosity between the two opposing crews had vanished. Indeed, Picard—and most of Starfleet Command—had been startled to learn that Janeway had even invited a Borg to join her crew. The very idea raised the hair on the back of Picard's neck.

  "Paris is wearing a Starfleet uniform," Picard noted. "But I shall keep in mind the possibility of trouble involving the crew." He looked back at the sensor displays. "Any progress, Mr. Data?"

  "The effects of wormhole travel must be more complex than current theory suggests," the android said. "According to my preliminary temporal scans, more than ninety-three percent of the components on Voyager are less than eighteen months old."

  "But, Voyager was at least a year old when she vanished," Riker said. "The hull plates alone would have been fabricated a year before that."

  "As I said," Data repeated, "these readings are not in accordance to theory. It might be possible that the ship was subjected to an intense chroniton burst, though I doubt any member of her crew could have survived such an assault."

  Riker looked meaningfully at Picard. "Captain, given the circumstances, I think it might be a wise precaution to keep our guests under observation."

  Picard nodded. "I agree." He looked around for Commander Sloane, but Riker had more to say.

  "And I don't think we should allow any of the Voyager crew on the bridge, or near any critical control facility."

  "That seems rather harsh," Picard said, "but according to the EMH's description of life on board the ship, I suspect the crew will be more interested in any case in our food and recreation facilities. Commander Sloane, prepare a security detail—very discreet—to . . ." Picard stopped speaking as the starboard turbolift doors puffed open and Geordi La Forge appeared, accompanied by Tom Paris and five bedraggled Starfleet officers in old uniforms. Paris smiled broadly as he gazed around the expansive bridge.

  "Your ship, Captain Picard, she's a wonder."

  Picard leaned closer to Riker. "Will, see to the security detail," he said in a low voice. Then he approached Paris and the others from the Voyager.

  "Welcome aboard, Commander. I hope you will treat the Enterprise as your new home."

  Paris did something with his arm, as if flicking an object from his tunic's sleeve. "Don't worry, Captain, we intend to."

  And then Picard saw in the young man's hand what could only be a weapon.

  Riker moved forward at once to put himself between Paris and Picard. But Picard held up his hand. "It's all right, Will. Evidently, Commander Paris hasn't done his homework." He regarded the officer sternly. "The Enterprise computer will not allow a weapon to be fired on board this ship without command override. Mr. Sloane, prepare to fire on Commander Paris, heavy stun."

  Paris crouched and spun, firing at Sloane before the security officer could rise from his chair. Picard heard a rush of air, but saw no energy beam leave the weapon.

  Yet Sloane gasped and crashed back against his station as if he'd been blasted by disruptor fire.

  The bridge crew were frozen in place, awaiting their orders, as all the others from the Voyager suddenly held similar weapons. One jammed her weapon against La Forge's temple.

  "We have done our homework, Captain." Paris angled his weapon so Picard could better judge it. Constructed of a dark gray material, the device was no larger than a hand phaser, with no status lights apparent. "Mechanical springs that fire composite darts. Each tip coated with a Klingon nerve toxin. No high technology for your computer to suppress." He aimed once more at Sloane's unconscious form. "And two darts are fatal."

  Data stood up. "Fortunately, I am not an organic being."

  Paris swung his weapon around to Picard, as did four others of his crew. "But your captain is. If you think you can take us all out before we manage to hit him twice, feel free to try."

  Data hesitated.

  But Picard knew there was no need. Thirty-two humans were no match for the android. And the Enterprise always came first. "Computer," Picard said. "Emergency lockout! Picard Alpha One! Mr. Data—they are not to have this ship!"

  That was all Data needed to hear, but as the android sprang forward with superhuman speed, Picard felt the first sting of a dart in his left shoulder.

  As he fell back, stumbling against Mr. Karo, Picard saw Riker go down as well, clutching at a dart in his side. And even as Data smashed his fists into the third of Paris's crew, Picard saw La Forge drop with three darts in him, and felt another hit himself just below his sternum.

  Picard collapsed to the deck, slumped against Mr. Karo's chair. The Bolian was already stretched out before him.

  It was difficult to breathe, but Picard knew the risk had been worth it. Paris and all five of his accomplices were down, and Data was unharmed. Even as the bridge began to spin around him, Picard knew the Enterprise had been saved. In the end, that was all that mattered.

  And then the port turbolift doors opened and Picard knew he was wrong.

  Six more attackers stormed the bridge. Three Klingons. Three Cardassians. And whatever weapon they now fired at Data hurled the android into the engineering station in an explosion of transtator sparks.

  Picard gazed up, unable to speak, unable to even focus his eyes as he saw the blurred image of a Cardassian female loom over him.

  "Your Starfleet used the same weapons-override system for this ship that they used for Voyager," she said, in a voice that was drawn out and distorted. "An extremely shortsighted design flaw, wouldn't you agree?"

  Using every bit of self-control he still possessed, Picard managed to gasp out, "Get off . . . my ship. . . ."

  "There's just one problem, Picard. The Enterprise . . . she isn't yours anymore." The Cardassian bared her teeth at Picard as her image slowly dissolved into a featureless void of black. "She's mine."

  Then the emptiness of space reached out for Picard, to separate him forever from his ship . . . and his life.

  FIVE

  Kirk tumbled downward through a tunnel of shimmering light, constantly aware of Janeway's firm, muscled body pressing closely against him. What at first had felt like a simple transport—a process that should have taken a few seconds at most—became drawn out and disorienting.

  He tried to count the number of times he thought he felt solid ground materializing under his feet, only to be lost again. But each materialization seemed to bring a different gravity field whose effect served only to keep his balance unstable and his concentration distracted.

  Finall
y, just as a section of solid flooring appeared beneath him and he tensed, waiting for it to dissolve again, Janeway suddenly shoved him forward.

  Kirk reflexively spread out his arms, to absorb the impact of his fall.

  But the impact didn't come.

  He was falling forward toward the floor. But very slowly.

  Before his fall ended, he had time to look around to see that he was in a small, metal-walled room, lit by sputtering light tubes, littered with garbage, reeking of sweat and something rotting, and then he hit the slick, wet floor. Gently.

  Effortlessly, Kirk straightened up, and that was enough to bring him back to his feet. He dried his hands on the edge of his Vulcan surplice as he slowly turned around, being careful to keep his feet in contact with the floor at all times.

  He had felt this weakened gravitational field before, and he knew exactly where he was. His kidnapper had displayed an impressive technological feat, even for the twenty-fourth century.

  Kirk faced Janeway, who remained on the portable transporter pad, raised a few feet above floor level. Her head was barely clear of the low, metal-ribbed ceiling plates.

  She kept her small phaser trained on Kirk and pulled off her tuxedo jacket as if it were a constricting disguise. "I know all about you, Kirk. One wrong move, and you're a dead man."

  But Kirk merely folded his hands behind his back, a reflection of the sudden sense of control he felt. His kidnapper had just revealed to him that he was not a random target. That meant someone wanted something from him. And that meant what had begun as a kidnapping now could play out as a negotiation.

  "If you had wanted me dead, why go to all the trouble of a multiple-relay transport to get me to the moon?" Kirk asked, claiming the initial move in their exchange. After almost thirty years in the center chair of a starship, he was ready to pit his negotiating skills against any comers.

  Janeway pulled at the waist of her black trousers and the loose garment broke apart, obviously intended to be quickly shed. Beneath her server's costume, she wore a sleek, black, one-piece combat suit. Kirk didn't recognize the design, but judging from the raised circuitry patterns that were woven through the garment, he presumed it would have phaser armor, as well as weaponry and communications capabilities built in.