Vanessa crouched against a wall, hidden from the search party of Jesavaen militia, and every now and again she cautiously took a look from around the crumbling structure. Her heart was hammering in her ears, her blood a rushing noise, as she made certain her daughter was tucked against her body. How she had managed to avoid capture this long was nothing short of a miracle and it would not have been possible without the assistance of the Vulcan woman who crouched with her, listening in the frigid air for anything that could mean they would have to move. The child was silent, truly a daughter of Silek and of Vulcan, for she was unafraid or, if she was Vanessa had not been able to discern such. The only sign that showed how dependent T'Mila was upon her companions was the small hand that held Vanessa's own in a tight grip.

The group of militia passed where they hid by scant metres, the lights of their lanterns casting black shadows as they went, cutting through the dusk cleanly as a knife, the guttural tones of their voices carrying well through the chill. Vanessa's breath steamed despite the covering over her mouth and nostrils; she was glad she was a creature of Terra's cooler climes and not born of hot Vulcan deserts, for she knew both her daughter and Xeer were finding it harder and harder to function in this fast-setting winter. As the troops moved further away she relaxed, her body's posture a signal to T'Mila that they were safe for the moment, and then she hunkered further down so she could take the child into her arms.

"Mother," T'Mila said in her solemn, little voice, "you are crushing me."

Vanessa stifled a laugh, and tipped the small dark head so she could look into equally dark eyes, then stroked a lock of hair out of the way to tuck it behind perfect Vulcan ears, and rearranged the woollen hat she had found to keep the child warm. "I apologise, my daughter," she replied quietly, soft undertones, placing a mother's gentle kiss on a hot forehead.

"Vanessa," husked the other woman, her voice muffled through the layers of cloth, "we must go from this place as soon as possible. It is too dangerous for any of us to linger."

Frye nodded, all her training as a soldier of Terra was coming to the fore, a position she had trusted she would never be in again. But this was why she and her husband had been selected to go to Jesava, for the skills that had been so long crafted across millennia, that hope thought were dead, were needed in this arena. Thoughts of her husband overwhelmed her for a second and fear for him filled her, fear too for T'Mila, as when she had been a soldier she had had neither a husband nor a child to consider. Soldiering was a selfish occupation, and could not allow for the luxury of loved ones; it made things far too complicated.

"Where do you suggest, Xeer?"

"There is a building with a cellar approximately four hundred metres from here in that area of the plaza – " Xeer pointed towards a dark entry way leading into a covered alley – "and there are indications there is some food still available as well as more clothing that will assist us in keeping warm and maintaining our disguise." The Vulcan woman checked the readings of her instrument again, and showed Vanessa the route it indicated.

Gathering T'Mila close to her, Frye ensured there was no discernible movement, wanting to make certain they would be in the clear and, as soon as she could see that this was so through the gloom of the early evening, she moved out, signalling silently to Xeer with a rapid hand movement. She kept low, as did Xeer and the child, hiding in the rubble and stepping round any obstacles, taking advantage of shadows lengthening as the low winter sun, all ruby fire, set over a stark, maimed landscape.

They finally fell through the open door of the building Xeer had found, scuttling behind it like crabs hiding after the tide has gone out, breathing thankfully that they had not been spotted once again. Taking stock of their surroundings, the adults immediately set about reconnoitring the shell-damaged house, looking for the cellar entrance and any food that might be there. It was a sorry affair. Whatever fresh food they found was spoilt, but there were a few staples the previous occupants had left in their haste and these meagre rations were added to the stash that they shared the burden of. Frye found some dried cereals, and a protein substitute that could be made into a meal, and Xeer found drinking water that had been placed in some containers and concealed in another room that had at one time functioned as a kitchen. Fabrics once adorning the walls of this dwelling were in tatters, their colours muted now, but more than acceptable as a method of conserving heat, and the broken furniture offered the promise of a fire.

Frye found the entrance to the cellar under the remains of several large pieces of furniture, hidden well, and she and Xeer cleared it carefully, listening all the time for a reason to stop their activity. Cautiously, Xeer went down the narrow steps one at a time, waiting until she could see in the darkness, her eyes adjusting to the deep shades lurking there. But there was nothing, and she gave the signal to Frye that they could come down and be at relative ease. Very little, or the brave few, would be moving about as the night finally came down, the air was full of the promise that snow was a few short hours away and the wind had started to gnaw raw chunks out of any exposed flesh. With the temperature settling well below zero, they moved tattered cushioning, bits of furniture and floor coverings to make a small den inside the cellar, ensuring the wind would not be able reach them, making it as snug as possible.

After a couple of hours of hard labour, a small fire was burning, water was bubbling in an old battered pot, and the food had been prepared, then heated to fill the hole in their bellies. It was no feast, but it would give them the calories they needed to survive, and the little girl could sleep safe with a semblance of comfort, for now.

The Vulcan wrapped herself tightly into a blanket they'd discovered, and put her hands out to catch the heat of the fire. "We must contact the Federation, Vanessa, as soon as possible."

"I know," Frye muttered tersely. "I've been trying to get this fucking transmitter to work but it seems it isn't in the mood to do that." She glared ferociously at the tool in her hand, and contained the urge to hurl it at the wall, then placed it to one side carefully. It wouldn't help matters, though she might feel a little better. Sighing deeply, she ran her hands through her hair, and edged closer to T'Mila, tucking the blankets cocoon like around her, fascinated as always by the half moon of lashes on a dusky cheek and her brows with the hint of arch from her human legacy.

Xeer watched the human woman with some affection, and a small amount of exasperation, though she remained silent on this occasion as the illogic of Vanessa's statement scarcely needed comment. She noted the tenderness Vanessa gave her daughter, and a pang filled her for her own children on Earth – she was so far from them - but she held a kernel of gratitude that they were not here with her. Closing her eyes, she almost regretted she had come to visit her friend when she could have decided to stay in Japan visiting her husband's family.

"They will be coming, Xeer, I know it," Frye said, startling the Vulcan out of her reverie. She held the other woman's eyes and could see Xeer was taken aback by this information and utter conviction. "Silek knew, I'm sure of it." Xeer could only nod, her knowledge of her cousin assuring her of this fact, while Frye assessed her memory of several days ago…

She'd been fluffing her hair out with her fingers, drying it in front of the small mirror on the table and she hadn't heard him enter their apartment, was not aware that he stood beside her until his hand had trailed down her neck and rested on her shoulder. She'd looked up then, into his face, to see his fine mouth drawn thin, and a crease between his brows.

"What troubles you, my husband?"

He had looked down at her, and for a fleeting moment there was warmth in his eyes, only for it to vanish as he thought of what he should say. "I must go to Eroc, my wife, and I have to leave you and our daughter. It is… unavoidable." Silek had paused, his hand on her shoulder had gripped tightly, his fingers leaving small round bruises. "It will not be safe, Vanessa. You must prepare yourself for every eventuality."

The precision of the word and clarity with which he'd spoken it, 'unavoidable', made her still. She'd remained silent, sensing his turmoil through their bond, feeling his concern for her and their child, so she'd placed her hand over his and he'd looked down at her again, and she'd leant into his thigh, resting her head there and feeling his blood thrumming in his veins. They'd stayed like that for some time, until he'd taken her to their bed and made love to her with an urgency she didn't expect from him, as if it were both the first and the last time.

She found the small amount of equipment he'd left for them a day after he had gone to Eroc, and she knew that he'd been preparing for them to get away. She also knew he would have done everything in his power to ensure their safety already; it was just up to her now to get the job done. And she would.

Frye held out her hand to Xeer, and had it grasped gently; the rush of what was theirs warmed them both. Together they were determined they would survive, even if compromises had to be sought then they would do whatever it took to ensure that survival. They owed it to Silek, to themselves and to T'Mila.


"Stand by, Federation Starship."

Picard came to immediate attention as the words filled the bridge. He spun his chair slightly so he could better see the Klingon behind him; a quick gesture from Worf's head assured him the Security Chief was already on it. He caught sight of the turbolift doors opening also, just as he faced the screen again.

"Ah, Commander. You've timed your reappearance well, it would seem."

Riker came down the ramp, a brow raised in question, and met Troi's eyes for a brief second but saw nothing in them but a brief warning. From that he deduced a conversation with her should be forthcoming, though her attention was fixed firmly on the Captain.

The Captain hooded his eyes, hiding the deep concern raging in them; it was unsuccessful as the Betazoid sitting by his side was more than aware of his turmoil, and of the quandary the response to the message he'd sent, to Starfleet, had placed him in.

"Incoming message, sir," rumbled Worf.

The bridge crew looked at the main viewer as one entity, and watched the figure of the Jesavaen who had featured so prominently in the earlier missive take form. He was crouching at the front of a building that had no distinguishing features, though it appeared damaged. Picard's mouth tightened; he would have them augment the information so that they could draw some relevant details from the landmarks – if they could. The male was cunning; his body filled out the screen so that he gave no - or very little - information away. This meant that Data's task was all the more difficult and he would have to get whatever was available to him, however he could.

At least we know what our potential enemy looks like, Picard speculated, watching the alien on the screen with no small interest. "Please extrapolate what you can, Mr. Data."

Worf announced from behind, "Another recording, sir."

"Agreed, Captain," Data said. The android flashed his fingers over the surface of his console, then turned to address Picard. "The interference cannot be corrected to allow for greater clarity, sir. However, the message is repeating on a standard loop."

"You got it all, Data?" enquired Riker; narrowed and speculative, his eyes had not left the screen.

"Indeed, Commander."

Picard grunted. "Very well, let's hear what they have to say." He settled back into his chair and crossed his legs.

The alien male huddled into a compact ball, shrinking into the folds of fabric around him, clutching at his cloak. The huge eyes, dark-rimmed, long-lashed and a liquid brown, blinked blindly, and the wide mouth with its flat lips parted to reveal strong yellow teeth. They ground for a moment, his jaw muscles working, tensing and releasing, and again… Then:

"Federation Starship, you will approach Jesava now and present weapons for hostage exchange. We will accept no less than what follows in the next three of your hours. Do not attempt to locate the envoy, or mount a rescue. Do not intervene in any way with the programme we have planned. Make no mistake, we will kill the envoy if you deviate in any manner."

The message ended and began a rerun.

Riker leaned forward, the look on his face incredulous. "Is that it?"

Picard watched the broadcast carefully, looking for anything that could be of help, but saw nothing. The data he'd received from Starfleet was patchy at best and could not be relied upon to help them in this matter. "They are extremely cautious."

"Running scared, more like," the First Officer remarked, his tone showing his irritation.

Picard huffed out a breath, and sent a bland look to the Commander. "They are the ones playing with all the aces, Will."

Riker snorted as the poker reference was extremely apt, and then Worf offered from behind them, "Possible delay tactics, sir? While we wait to find out more about what they intend to do, our hands are tied." The Klingon regarded the screen with some uneasiness, and he shifted uncomfortably. What was proceeding here sat ill with him; it offended his sense of honour, of rightness. "I think also, Captain, that these manoeuvres will allow them to relocate the envoy with impunity."

Picard digested this, remaining quiet, then glanced at the Betazoid sitting beside him. "Deanna…?"

Troi started, she had not been aware of the conversation at a fully conscious level; it had swirled about her like a breeze, unlike the emanations she was now beginning to pick up from the planet. This close, it was possible to see the scars that ravaged and cut across the most highly populated continent. Five major cities burned, and the glow reached beyond the confines of the atmosphere; it was truly hell down there. She dragged herself back onto the bridge of the Enterprise and attended to the question asked of her, aware that they were waiting for her to speak.

"I apologise, Captain," she murmured softly. He waited patiently. "Any information I can give is… well, not much use, sir. It is clear, however, they really don't want us to know who they are or what they intend."

Picard accepted this snippet of information with no change to his demeanour, just as Data announced, "We will reach orbit in thirty minutes, Captain."

The android had been busy analysing the small amount of data they had received from the message, and he now had garnered enough to act on it at one of the science stations. Rising to his feet he paced up the ramp and seated himself before one of the consoles; he ran the message through the equipment, staring carefully at the screen. Behind him a small audience had gathered, including the Captain and First Officer.

"Found anything?" Riker enquired evenly; he put his weight on the back of the chair, spreading it through his palms.

Data continued busily for a few more minutes, crosschecking the details, enlarging the view of a small section of the recording that showed something written. "The main building of the Wiczcynk'm'aer, Commander. This is where the terrorist was standing."

"Good work," Picard approved. "Conference."

Picard was leisurely, almost, as they entered the observation lounge, though a keen observer would have seen the revealing signs of tension in his body language, something he concealed well. He stood staring out at the star field before taking his seat at the head of the table, and continued in his contemplation until he was brought to the present by the atypical restlessness of his senior officers. They were unused to having their commanding officer so distracted. He spoke at last.

"As you are well aware," he began, "we've been instructed to remove all remaining personnel on Jesava in order that the Embassy may be closed." Looking anything but comfortable, he leaned over the table, clasped his hands together and passed his gaze over each of them carefully. "There is… more at stake than we at first thought. It seems we must attempt to find Special Envoy Silek and his family or we will have an incident on our hands that could cause serious repercussions throughout this sector."

Riker stifled a response, stealing a quick glance at Troi. Was this what she had been trying to tell him? Surely not… If it had been he felt certain the Captain would have briefed him already, but the woman's face gave nothing away, it was closed as she studied the Captain in turn, assessing the gravity that sat there, so he asked instead the question they all wanted the answer to, "What repercussions, sir?"

Picard's mouth was grim. "Three of the neighbouring systems have been drawn into this dispute because of trade, and an essential mineral, used as a catalyst in certain refining techniques, found only, and mined only, on Jesava. Silek was in the process of negotiating, as an independent arbiter, a trade agreement, which would benefit all four systems. However, the site on which the mineral is found also happens to straddle ground sacred to two of the less well known factions on Jesava. As they're minorities, lesser castes, Silek was not informed, and neither were they. The conjecture is that this is the reason for the start of what was, initially, a localised squabble, which has now reached international levels. Silek's capture was tied to this in some way, presumably as a bargaining piece against the Federation and the major factions. Command believes also that these smaller groups have thrown in their lot with Silek's captors." He let them chew this over briefly. "As to why they want weapons? That, I think, speaks for itself."

Before anyone could say a thing, the Captain added in hard tones, "Silek is the only means of preventing this –" he spat the next word out like a poisoned dart, disgust in his voice – "war spreading to those neighbours, as well as being the only mediator the ruling faction on Jesava, and all other parties, will deal with."

"And the expectation is that we risk ourselves," Riker stated clearly, receiving a brusque agreement from his Captain; his face acquired the same hard lines evident on Picard's face. "How long do we have?"

"Little more than a week."

"Sir!" Worf protested, driven to make a remark. "We have no way of scanning for the Special Envoy, nor is it by any means certain that we will be able to locate him." He growled the next comment, his hand clenching into a fist. "It would seem they set before us an insurmountable task."

"Agreed, Mr. Worf," Picard murmured. "But deal with it we must; I like it no more than you. Therefore, I want an away team assembled and sent planet side as soon as we have had a further communiqué from The Favoured."

"Aye, sir." Worf responded, somewhat chastened, and then he glanced up, thinking rapidly. "I believe we will need at least six of my officers with any away team, sir, and they must be suitably armed. This is an extremely hazardous situation."

Picard gave a curt nod. "I believe I can leave the details to your judgement, Lieutenant. Apprise me of anything you feel may need addressing in particular." The Klingon rose from his seat, dismissed, and made his way out of the observation lounge, so Picard addressed Riker, "Number One, pick out whom you'll need to take with you, and ensure there're no more than necessary."

"Yes, sir." Riker followed the Security Chief out of the doors.

"Data, you may return to your post. Counselor... Please stay." Picard was silent for a moment as he waited for Data to go, and then he turned to face the woman. "Deanna, I do not want to ask this of you, but I feel your presence on the away team to be essential… it is imperative that you go." His grey-green eyes searched her face, seeking the understanding he knew was there. "I realise this could be distressing for you but, you're our only hope of getting to grip with the situation, these people, and understanding even a small part of their motivation."

Troi gave a mute nod of agreement, and looked up into Picard's face; her eyes were darker than usual, troubled, and haunted. "I understand, Captain. I will do what I can."

He reached over the table, and patted her hand gently. "Thank you."


The Security Chief entered the shuttle finally, satisfied at last with the instructions he had left with his second but not in the least reassured with having to leave the ship in his hands. It was not that the man was incapable – he was more than efficient! – it was simply that Worf felt the Enterprise's safety was his responsibility alone, and needed him there to oversee everything. Including the safety of the Captain and crew.

Riker watched the Klingon take the seat beside him at the helm, recognising all the patent signs of disquiet, mixed with that peculiarly Klingon joy of going into a battle situation – or a possible battle situation, he amended silently, hopefully. He could also sense impatience – on this occasion he didn't need to be an empath – as Worf rarely had any patience when he was uncertain of a situation, particularly a blind one. The First Officer sympathised with his friend; he was bloody certain he felt like it too. He was jumpier than that damn scalded cat on the proverbial tin roof. But whatever he felt would change sweet fuck all, and he fancied the Security Chief felt much the same. A done deal was a done deal.

Further discourse with Troi had not yielded anything of use either. All she had told him was that the Captain was severely shaken by the information from Starfleet Command - not that the further message from the Jesavaen militia had helped much either. A curt missive indicating they would be met at a designated spot inside the capitol was all they had had.

"He's not giving, Will," the Betazoid had said to him in an aside as they arrived at the shuttlecraft bay. She had glanced up at him with dark, worried eyes. "He's retaining it all, and there's scarcely a trickle out of him – very tightly controlled… It's as if he's been forced to make us go, but has no choice, and hasn't been allowed to ask any questions about the why's and wherefores."

Riker had regarded the Counselor consideringly. He was still perturbed by this information or, rather, the lack of it and his mind was in a state of conjecture about all the possibilities.

"We are ready to launch, Commander," Worf rumbled, bringing him abruptly to the present.

"Let's go, Lieutenant."

No further encouragement was required, and the shuttle rose to head out of the bay doors to the accompanying dirge of the alarm system. The little craft banked away from Enterprise, arcing beyond her, and her passengers watched as the sun of Jesava gilded the flanks of the great ship with fire, radiant against the midnight of space. Enterprise hung like a great swan, watching her cygnet swim into unknown waters, while ahead loomed the planet like a child's plaything; a ball of blue, white and green smudged with dark, grimy streaks. A pall of thick, grey smoke was filling the atmosphere, sure evidence of the bitter conflict.

They headed steadily for the planet's atmosphere, making for the spaceport of the city of Eroc, the capitol of Goysla, the major continent. Originally a seaport of enormous importance, Eroc had been the main trading route in past times, having many harbours and docks, and it had borne its thousand-year history well, having much ancient architecture showing the great aesthetics the Jesavaen's had. A grandeur that was not now in evidence as the city wore her battle scars none too well, and her fabled beauty was nothing but a faded shadow. The city reared from the ground like a rejected mistress, the blackened bones of her fingers beseeching her lover to come back, that all was forgiven.

Worf and Riker brought the craft neatly into land, easing back on the throttle and the engines whined to a halt. As the door-hatch hissed open, the away team arose to wait for the entrance to reveal the spaceport of Eroc. There was a haze on the city, and Worf, with two of his officers, moved to scan beyond the door opening, peering out into the vista. The Klingon grimaced slightly, then turned back to the rest of the away team, addressing Commander Riker.

"There is no one here to welcome us," he stated. He suspected treachery, knew these aliens could not be trusted.

Riker came and stood at his shoulder, feeling very much the same way, and took a long look out at the spaceport. If he was honest, he hadn't really expected there to be a guide, or committee, or whatever the hell it was they were going to decide to offer them. He wasn't sure, either, what he did expect. "Not surprised," he grunted.

He continued to regard the view with calculating eyes, measuring the distance between buildings, looking for safe ways forward; he scrutinized them all carefully. There were a few buildings standing on the periphery of the spaceport and beyond them they could see the city with its fires, and the distinct, sweet odour of decay was brought to them on the edge of the wind. Also could be heard was the hum of weapon fire or the rattle of projectiles, slicing the silence the city sat in, highlighting the lack of movement, of bustle, or commerce, keenly.

The Commander turned back to the interior of the shuttlecraft and moved to where Troi sat. Her face was white, and he could see the strain livid there also; her mouth was a scarlet slash, like blood. "Deanna," he said gently, "what can you sense?"

The Counselor shuddered briefly, and closed her eyes against the overwhelming sensations, carefully filtering them down to a single point so she could manage them, and speak of them. She had been prepared, she was certain, but it had swept her aside as if her defenses were nothing but paper, ripping them apart so all her concentration was fixed on their repair. "There are lies, Will, and hidden things." She wished she could show him the other things she could feel, the horrors lurking. "So much agony…"

Riker laid a hand on her arm, comforting her. "What else?"

"The xenophobia is so… extreme, Commander. There is much hate; anger and bitterness they direct towards each other that I can only wonder how they achieved warp capability." She looked at him, her gaze sharp this time. "Make no mistake, Will, they hate us more than they hate each other."

The First Officer ran a hand through his hair, and drew in a deep breath, to let it out sharply. "Pretty much what I thought. But, is there any chance you can possibly sense where that guide has got to?" He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Is that who you're sensing the lies from?"

Deanna nodded. Her eyes darkened momentarily as a fleeting sensation whirled over her, leaving an impression, clarity of purpose, in its wake. "They are out there… more out there, Will, and they are planning something."

Riker nodded slowly, and squeezed her arm, then he moved back to where the Klingon stood, his outline clear against the exit. As he told the Security Chief about what Troi had said, Worf's posture changed, and he turned to face the human officer, a deeply forbidding look on his face.

"I do not like this, sir."

"Nor do I," said Riker sharply. "I was hoping to leave Deanna here with a couple of your men, but now we have no choice but to take her with us." His eyes glittered dangerously, anger evident in them, mirrored by the Klingon. "This situation is untenable."

Worf's jaw muscles clenched. "I would also question the wisdom of leaving the shuttlecraft."

Riker punched the wall of the craft in frustration. "I know, Worf, but what the hell can we do? We can sit here and wait, or we are proactive and go take a look. And I vote for moving out rather than being sitting ducks, because every moment we are here means the envoy's life is more compromised." He shook his head angrily. "Fucking bastards got us by the short hairs, my friend."

Worf snorted, and gave a reluctant nod, then proceeded to deactivate and render the shuttlecraft unusable in case somebody decided they could do with a handy Federation shuttle. Removing a number of chips from the machine's control panels was not difficult and he made other adjustments of a less discernible nature – enough to give that possible someone an unpleasant surprise, he hoped. Rising to his feet, he cleaned off his hands on his trousers and approached the shuttle's entrance. As he did so, he placed the chips very carefully in a pouch that he secreted behind his sash.

"Keep close," he growled and signalled that they should draw their phasers.

He ducked out of the doors onto the tarmac, and spared a few looks to gain his bearings, then gesturing at the away team to follow, he headed off towards the nearest outlying building. The cratered surface of the runway made things difficult, and movement was slower than he would have liked. He would trust the Commander to watch over Troi, and the instructions he had given his officers had been most explicit. The gods had better be on their side if they forgot those orders!

They gained the interior of the building as quickly as they could and as three of the security guards went to scout it, Troi grasped Riker's arm forcefully.

"What's the matter?"

"They're close… very close." She frowned fractionally. "Somebody is watching us."

The Commander called over to the Security Chief. "Worf, the Counselor says there is someone watching us. See if you can find out who."

Worf crossed to where they both leaned against a wall, a tricorder in his hand, and he slipped the phaser into its sheath before reading the instrument carefully. His gaze flickered slowly and cautiously around the room they stood in; it was enormous, and empty so far as the tool in his hand was concerned, apart from themselves. He could hear the sounds of the guards' feet as they moved furtively around the building, echoing faintly, in its cavernous interior.

He addressed the Counselor. "Do you have any idea where they might be?"

In answer, she gave him a shrug. "No, I don't." She could see that this did not satisfy him, and exchanged a disturbed look with him; Worf thinned his mouth in dissatisfaction. "They are here, Worf." Her tone was insistent.

The Klingon gave a mental sigh, and grunted in response. He appreciated the information even if it was inadequate.

Ahead, the room terminated into a series of corridors, each posted with a number of signs in the different native languages, all designating the areas visitors would require. Across the walls were the gaudy exhortations of advertising, appealing now to an empty auditorium, for all manner of goods, plying trade to the consumer – from the practical to the purely frivolous. Clothing, food, insurance, housing, vehicles… it was all there. Pictures that represented the state of a country's economic well being, showing the epitome of a wealthy and prosperous nation and its happy, well fed, contented citizens. The sorrowful truth was not in evidence – and the hidden remained silent, as they always had and always would.

"Which way, Worf?" Riker spoke quietly.

The Klingon swept his tricorder across the many corridors and their entrances, scowling in annoyance at the inconsistency of the readings – Damn magnetic clutter, he thought scathingly - then jabbed his forefinger towards the corridor furthest from them. "There."

The short passage finished round a sharp left hand turn, opening into a foyer. At the end closest to them were several desks with computer terminals in situ, though they appeared damaged, and splinters of glass from smashed bandit screens were strewn over the carpeted floor. There was refuse and filth littering the place also, and blood spattered the walls; it had dried in places to a muddy brown, testimony to slaughter, and in some areas there was evidence that a body had lain there before being dragged away.

Troi gripped her phaser until her knuckles were white, and stared about her. An emotional discharge seemed to hang in this building, charging her sensitivity into a full on gallop, rushing at her until she could almost see the devastation that had reigned down on this place. The deaths were startlingly real to her, and she felt sick to her stomach, bile rising in her throat.

Along one long wall a slogan had been smeared in the blood of the fallen, across the haughty gaze of a regal looking male as he looked down from a glowing logo, exhorting the people to greater perseverance in the name of the Mec'hyM Poyr.

Riker, Worf and the security officers ignored all of this as so much unpleasant window dressing, and they herded out of the building with Troi closely guarded by them. The Klingon shook his massive head as the readings on the tricorder were still registering complete nonsense, with occasional hints at certainty, even though he had adjusted it.

"I am unable to get an accurate reading, Commander, of a regulated body such as we were led to expect to meet us. However, there is random movement, though I would expect this to be consistent with the populace of the city." He hooded his eyes, expressing the thought uppermost in his mind. "They appear to be playing a game with us."

Riker grimaced. "Hide and seek."

Worf snorted, but declined to comment; he headed towards the open street cautiously, the others following closely, phasers in hands. He sent some of his men on in front, only coming to a halt when they reached a pile of rubble. He crouched, and as Riker joined him, signalled to the other guards to follow his lead. The Commander watched the street with him.

The three officers reappeared some minutes later, Clarkson joining the others quickly, and Lt. Mayso squatted down beside them to make his report. He jerked his head towards the street. "There's a ground vehicle that appears to be waiting for us. We've checked it out, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it, but there's still no sign of the guide or welcoming committee."

Riker and Worf both nodded at this information and Riker was grateful for the suspicion Worf had managed to instil in his staff. It was a healthy attitude to take with you into an unknown situation like this.

"So no sign of anyone, just the vehicle," he mused out loud. He asked, then, "You saw nothing else?"

Dubois shook his dark head in a quick negative. "No, sir. Nothing that we would regard as a threat."

Troi stared at him. "But you did see something, didn't you?"

Both men shifted uncomfortably, troubled and unhappy.

"Report," Worf snarled, his eyes boring into them.

"Corpses, sir," Mayso muttered shortly. "Piles of the dead on funeral pyres…"

Dubois hung his head, the images burnt on his retina. "They are smouldering, sir – " he glanced up, a sickened look on his face, revolted to his core – "and there are kids out there."

The others digested this information, steeling themselves for what was to come, hating the expediency and that they had to ignore what they saw.

Riker shook himself into command mode again. "This vehicle – " he insisted, back on track now, his eyes narrowed to a thin line – "no one present at all?" At Mayso's quick affirmative, he grimaced slightly, sucking in a breath through his teeth, and continued, "I don't like this, Worf."

The twitch in the Klingon's jaw said it all, and he continued to stare out towards the street.

The Commander gave a sigh of frustration and perched precariously on a rock, as he mulled over the issue – no The Favoured, no promised guide, nothing! So they despised aliens, but how the fuck did you deal with someone who insisted on remaining invisible. It was ridiculous. If you wanted to parley, share a discourse, then there had to be someone to work with; you couldn't possibly work with shadows. Diplomacy, his hairy ass! This smacked of everything he hated about diplomacy.

"As they've given us such a generous invitation," he said, sarcasm lacing his words, "I suppose we'd better take it as there seem to be no better offers." He gave the nod to Worf, who grimly agreed and needed no further instruction, so with the security officers grouped protectively about them, they headed in the direction Clarkson, Mayso and Dubois had taken.

What greeted them beyond was carnage. The funeral pyres were scattered throughout the ruins, and the sad remnants of ordinary lives smashed into a thousand pieces was unmistakable everywhere. Here and there a few sorry figures stumbled through the streets, wrapping themselves against the cold, scrabbling through the wreckage in an effort to make a living or be forced to leave their home. Many already had left, heading towards the countryside in an effort to reach safety, to ensure they might live rather than be caught in this savage garden, preferring the uncertain status of refugee.

As they drew closer to one of the pyres, clouds of insects rose in an obscene mockery of beauty, their hard bodies flashing with iridescence in the rays of the low winter sun, their wings buzzing as they settled again to their feast. The sad bones of a small child showed from under the rubble of a building, the flesh torn from them by the scavengers and opportunistic beasts that were now part of the landscape.

Troi sensed rather than saw, the efforts the ragged people took to conceal themselves from these potentially dangerous strangers. Awareness of their difference was recognised also, and with that recognition came the stark smell of fear, intense and thick as fog, and beneath that the hatred. Then, beyond, looming like a squat beetle, hugging the ground with its low, sleek body was the vehicle.

It was very much as had been described, and they all fitted with reasonable comfort into the interior. As the engine activated, a small screen burst into life with the familiar features of the male who had thus far delivered all the previous messages. It was merely a repeat of what they had heard before and Riker's reaction to this was a noise of disgust. It tied into the universal translator, and he waited, hoping there would be more. There was, and he heard a grunt of satisfaction from Worf who had sat beside him, and watched as the Klingon's large forefinger traced the route on the map that was now showing on the screen.

"Better than nothing," Riker remarked, and shifted slightly so that Troi could sit between them both.

"This takes us through the part of Eroc most troubled by guerrilla activity." Worf was more than aware of the small female sitting beside him when he added, "I believe this is highly dangerous and the Counselor is at risk. I recommend that she and Clarkson – "

"We need her," Riker said starkly; he was unhappy about this too.

"I can look after myself," she said, annoyed with them both, her voice quietly forceful. "I don't need either of you to make decisions for me"

Worf looked as if he was about to protest, but she held up her hand, effectively cutting him off. "I'll be fine." She locked onto the Klingon's eyes, knowing he was the one who needed the most convincing. "You may not like it, Lieutenant, but you do need me. There's no way you'll be able to deal with them unless I'm there."

"I am not convinced of that, Counselor," he stated unequivocally, and returned the glare she gave him measure for measure.

Riker folded his arms over his chest, and his eyes acquired an unfocussed look, deeply calculating. "I don't think you are indispensable either, Deanna, and Worf does have a fair point. I think you could do the same job from the shuttle, and at least we'd know – "

Troi snorted derisively. "Oh, spare me the platitudes, please." Her face settled into hard lines. "I'm the one who's got the most essential information on the Jesavaen's, Will." She glanced from one to the other of them, unconsciously putting across her own very charismatic appeal. "You need me to tell you when they are lying, and they will not hesitate to lie. You know how these people are… c'mon, think… they distrust every other race to the point of paranoia, and at least with me present you'll know if they are telling the truth."

Riker listened to this little speech, admiring her stones, and quirking a brow at her; he allowed a small smile to twist his mouth. "I'm convinced, Deanna."

Worf shifted irritably, but backed down in the face of what he could not argue with, mentally appointing himself her guardian. He knew that they would all keep watch over her, but even so… He was unable to prevent himself from being concerned over her presence on the team and, even though he knew she was courageous, she was a weak link. Weak links had a tendency to be snapped and he didn't want to think of that.

"I'll be fine." Deanna insisted, her tone more than a little impatient, sensing easily what was troubling him. She scanned both their faces intently, and gave them a wry smile. "So let's go, gentlemen, and find out what these bastards want."