"Incredible." Riker laughed. "She really had you at swordpoint?"

"Popped my comlink straight off my jacket. I hadn't been that scared since Laplace."

Troi shook her head. "I still don't like this. She's substituted one lie with another."

"Yes, but we're closer to the truth. She admits to her identity, to her rank in Starfleet. You have to admit that's a good beginning. I have every confidence she'll tell me more tomorrow, with her safe journey so close at hand."

"I don't doubt you, captain," Riker said. "But I do wish you would take a security detail."

"No. I've gained her trust only a little, and I'm not going to lose it now."

"At the very least, have your comlink hot to Worf."

"That, I will do. Always good to know you've a Klingon listening in."


Pim was ready when Picard came to escort her to dinner. She was dressed just as he was. Pants, a plain shirt, a casual jacket. Nothing to call attention to themselves. Picard's comlink was hidden discretely in his jacket pocket, already live and transmitting to Worf.

"I have a transport waiting. I'll pilot it myself."

Pim nodded. Their journey through the hallways was quiet. Once they were in the shuttle and clear of the Enterprise, Pim relaxed slightly, letting her shoulders droop.

Picard saw the gesture through the corner of his eyes. "So, Lieutenant, would you like to take the helm?"

She looked at him, surprised. "Yes?" It was almost a question. Picard transferred the control to her panel, and she let her hands slide across the interface, effortlessly. She piloted the shuttle out of the docking bay seamlessly.

"You're a good pilot," Picard said.

"When you're a Metachloid, you have to be. Transporters kill us. All that polarized energy – it's just not made for oil-based beings."

"Yet Metachloids look remarkably human."

"Yes, and there's some interesting theology there."

She parked the shuttle against the landing bay on Istalindir. The shuttle doors hissed open.

"Theology?"

Pim shook her head. "It's not important."

Picard felt that a moment had passed. She had opened up to him, for those few brief moments while she held control of the shuttle. It was gone now, gone as surely as if she had shut a door in his face.

"Shall we eat?" Picard led her towards the only restaurant on this station. They sat at synthetic tables and the waiters brought them traditional finger bowls. Pim rinsed her finger tips and then pressed them against her cheeks. Picard copied the gesture. "Would you be kind enough to order for me?" he asked, gently. Pim nodded and spoke in a rapid, rolling tongue to the waiters. He smiled, nodded, and left.

Picard glanced around the eatery. As was the case with neutral zones in a war, there were Metachloids and Exxans alike. Picard had had a few dealing with Exxans before, and recognized them by their pronounced brow ridges, dark gray skin, and heavy lidded purple eyes. Pim looked nervous, and kept her eyes squarely on the table. There was enough chatter around them to have a private conversation, Picard thought. This is as good a moment as any. He reached inside his jacket.

Pim jumped to her feet, toppling her chair and causing everyone in the room to turn to look. Picard, surprised and alarmed, held out the credit chip that had been in his jacket. "This is just a credit chip. For the transport."

Pim righted her chair and sat down. "Oh."

"Pim, Milanna," Picard struggled with which name to adress her by. "I have been completely honest with you." He slid the credit chip over to her. "I think it's time you were honest with me. I can help you."

Pim glanced over his shoulder. A group of Exxans were staring at her, puzzled. Pim hurried to drop her gaze. "You have. Helped me, that is. I need to leave, please don't follow." She took the credit chip, stood, and began to walk away.

"Pim!" Picard stood. She didn't stop. "Lieutenant Toren!" She increased her pace. Picard began to stride after her. "Millana!" She broke into a run.

He caught up to her in the dimly lit hallway, grabbing her arm and swinging her around to face him. "Who are you running from?" he demanded.

Picard felt the sudden cold of a phaser pressed against the back of his neck.

"She's running from us."