The prisoners returned from their shifts, shuffling into the central area like so many grey ghosts. Beverly searched for a sign—a familiar gait, bald head, profile, anything—hinting at where Jean-Luc was. The lighting was too low, and the prisoners too dirty for her to pick out any details from her vantage point.

Lorn stood over the group of cowering guards, his disrupter rifle pointed at the face of the Hrashellian in charge. The other Klingons circled the group warily, like a pack of wolves eyeing their prey.

Beverly pulled off the damned helmet and looked at Lorn. "Make them tell me where the humans are."

Lorn grinned and stepped closer to the lead guard. The Hrashellian visibly paled and waved his hands in surrender. "She doesn't want your surrender, P'TaQ, she wants the humans."

The Hrashellian's protestations of ignorance were met with a swift kick in the side. The guard shrieked and toppled over, clutching the ribs on his right side. Lorn picked the man up by his collar and bared his teeth less than an inch from the Hrashellian's hairy nose. The guard began gesticulating wildly and Lorn growled in frustration.

Lorn glanced at K'Gresh, his first pick for the extraction team, and spoke in Klingon, "Let's see if losing one of his own men will spark his memory. Kill—"

"No!" Beverly shouted. She switched from Standard to Klingon and said, "There will be no executions of any who surrendered."

She followed Lorn's glance around the chamber. There had to be hundreds of prisoners huddled against the far walls.

"Doq, we don't have time to search each face. They will have learned something is wrong at the mine and will be sending troops to investigate. The Targ will not wait past the appointed time, and I will not wait for you."

Just then a scuffle broke out on Beverly's right where one of more than a dozen mine shafts opened into the central area. She raised her rifle, worried they'd missed a guard, and then lowered it as a man—a human male—stumbled from the cluster clutching his jaw.

He was gaunt, nearly doubled over from hard labor and malnutrition, and completely devoid of color. She took a step toward him and her breath caught in her throat.

The rifle fell from her numb hands as the man looked up and met her eyes. Their gaze locked, and while Beverly remained rooted to the spot, he seemed to transform with every shambling step he took in her direction.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't hear past the thundering in her ears. She refused to blink, afraid he'd disappear in a puff of grey dust. Still, he stepped closer. He stood straighter. His faltering steps grew more sure. In a moment that would haunt her darkest nightmares and yet colour her sweetest dreams, he emerged from the grey and into her world.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered.

He stopped less than a yard from her, his gaze never having left her face. "You're here." His voice was hoarse from dust and disuse.

"I'm here."