STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION
 "SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT"
 by Mark D. Shuchat

 Guardian Station hovered in geostationary orbit above the blue-green
vastness of Beta Omicron IV. Shrouded in secrecy and closed off from the
rest of the Federation, the exact location of Guardian was known to only a
few people at the highest pinnacle of Starfleet and those who worked on the
station.
 And those who passed through it, of course.
 Michael Curran, formerly Lieutenant Michael Curran of Starfleet
Intelligence, waited in his holding cell in the bowels of Guardian. He got
up and went through the motions of pacing the cell. Three meters by two
meters. Three paces one way, two the other. Curran was about to lose his
mind from the sheer boredom.
 "Assume the position," a voice echoed around the cell's metal walls.
 With a sigh, Curran stood atop a circle painted in red against the wall
directly opposite from the door. There was a click, and the hair on the
back of his neck lifted up as a force field barely a meter in diameter
activated, closing him in. As the static charge faded, Curran remembered
one time when he had refused to stand on the circle. The results were
electrifying, to say the least. An electric charge had been shot through
the floor, causing him to jump a foot into the air and practically fly onto
the insulated red circle.
 The cell door opened, admitting a tall woman dressed in a Starfleet
Commodore's uniform, backed up by two security guards who, despite the
force field, kept their phasers pointed at Curran. "To what do I owe the
pleasure of your visit, Commodore?" Curran asked snidely.
 "Shut up, Curran," said Commodore Louise Byrne. "Seeing you isn't much of
a pleasure." She took a deep breath. "The Federation Council is offering
you parole and reinstatement in Starfleet for special assignment."
 Curran blinked. "Do they know who I am?"
 "They do," said Byrne with a definite expression of disgust. "Found guilty
of murdering four people, including your captain and first officer. Also
convicted of attempted mutiny and attempted murder for wounding the
officers who survived your wholesale massacre of the senior command of your
ship, the Magellan."
 "Commodore, I know what I did," snapped Curran. "That's why I'm here."
 "The Council is offering you a deal, Curran," said Byrne. "Take it and get
out of my jurisdiction."
 "What if I don't take it?"
 "If you don't take it, you'll be sent down to the surface immediately."
 Curran twitched. While in transit to this orbiting junkyard, he had heard
some rather horrifying rumors about conditions on Beta Omicron IV,
popularly known, among those who knew at all, as Hell.
 Hell was the Federation penal colony, and the secret of its exact location
was one of the Federation's biggest. Only the worst went there: killers,
slavers, psychopaths, mutineers.
 There were no guards on Hell, nor had any non-prisoner actually gone to
the planet surface in decades. None were needed. Upon arriving at Guardian
Station, a new prisoner was given the choice of either a painless execution
or transport to Hell.
 There were also no rules on Hell, barring one: once you went down, you
stayed. There was no parole from Hell, nor probation.
 Curran, a bit paler now, looked Byrne in the eye. "And if I take this
job?"
 "Parole and, when you're done, possibly a transfer to a regular prison."
 Curran thought it over for a moment. "What do I have to do?"

 Captain's Log, Stardate 45264.6:
 The Enterprise's diplomatic mission to Phi Lupus has been canceled; the
Yorktown is being sent there instead. We have been ordered to Starbase 533,
for a briefing with Admiral Karla Rainer of Starfleet Intelligence.

 Counselor Deanna Troi sneezed and groaned in misery. She could hear the
medical lectures from Dr. Beverly Crusher even as she reached for yet
another tissue from the dispenser by her bed. She promptly put it to good
use and wiped her nose, which was by now running like a marathon racer.
 "Computer," she gasped stuffily, "play something by Mozart."
 The computer buzzed. "Last communication not understandable," it said.
"Please repeat."
 "Mozart," she repeated slowly and clearly. "Play something by Mozart."
 Damn cold even had her talking funny.
 The computer beeped in response and, to her horror, the wailing
lamentations of the Requiem Mass filled the cabin. The Requiem, thought
Troi, is exactly the wrong piece of music to listen to when you're sick.
"Computer, cancel!" she snapped, and the dreadfully inappropriate music cut
off in mid-note. She wondered if such coincidences were really random, or
whether some malevolent computer genius back at Starfleet had actually
programmed it that way.
 Just when Troi couldn't take any more, the door chime sounded.
 "Come in," she said almost incoherently.
 Commander William Riker entered, carrying a steaming cup of something in
his hands and a puzzled look on his face. "Did I just hear the Requiem
coming from in here?"
 "Don't ask." She looked closely at the steaming cup. "What's that?"
 Riker blinked. "You can't smell, either?"
 "You've never had a cold, have you?"
 Riker made a big show of rubbing his beard thoughtfully until she was
about to slug him. "Not in this life."
 "A piece of advice, Will. Don't get one."
 He nodded as he sat down on the bed. "I know. Beverly's treating this as a
rare medical event; she says that nobody catches cold anymore."
 She glared at him. "Nobody?"
 "Oh, all right. Almost nobody."
 Troi sighed and leaned back in bed against the pillows. "Commander, did
you come here just to torture me?"
 Riker smiled and shook his head. "Not at all, Counselor. Try this." He
handed the cup to her and, after a bit of effort, she managed to swallow
some of it. Whatever it was, it was utterly delicious and actually helped
to clear her head a little.
 Troi sighed, this time happily. "This is wonderful! Did you get it from
the replicator?"
 Riker was scandalized. "Absolutely not. It's an old family recipe, one
which I wouldn't trust to that electronic mangler."
 "What is it?"
 "Real home-made chicken soup," explained Riker. "I had a grandmother who
once called it 'Jewish penicillin.'"
 Troi looked blankly at him. "Jewish what?"
 "Oh, some centuries-old antibiotic. How is it?"
 "It's great!" She paused to drink more of the soup. "This stuff could
really cure people?"
 Riker smiled. "My grandmother thought so. Whenever I sneezed, she would
immediately pour some of this down my throat."
 "What does Beverly think?"
 He snorted. "She said it tasted good. Drink up."
 Troi finished the soup and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "I just stopped
by to see how you were doing," said Riker as he got to his feet. "I have to
get back to the bridge."
 She waved the empty cup at him. "I hope there's more of this."
 He grinned. "Absolutely," he said as he went out the door.

 Several hours later, as the Enterprise orbited the planet upon which stood
Starbase 533, Riker sat at the table in the bridge conference room and
watched as Admiral Karla Rainer, who headed Starfleet Intelligence,
prepared to make her presentation.
 "I'm sorry to disrupt your mission like this, Captain," said Rainer.
 "It's no bother, Admiral," replied Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
 Rainer took a deep breath and began. "Several months ago, the Starfleet
research vessel Shackelton disappeared while on a survey mission in neutral
space but about twenty light-years from the Cardassian border. Last week, a
highly-placed source on Cardassia Prime told us that the Shackelton's crew
are being held in a prison on Omicrus, deep in Cardassian territory."
 "A survey ship?" asked Riker. "Why would the Cardassians worry about a
survey ship?"
 "What was the Shackelton surveying?" asked Lieutenant Commander Data.
 "That's classified," said Rainer.
 The Enterprise officers looked at each other uneasily. If the Shackelton
had been on a spy mission, the Federation would look very bad.
 "What do you need the Enterprise for?" asked Picard.
 "We don't need the Enterprise per se," said Rainer, "but we do need
several of you to go to Omicrus and verify that the Shackelton's crew are
indeed being held there. If possible, you are to retrieve them as well."
 "Just like that?" rumbled Lieutenant Worf.
 "No, there will be someone else with you. A Starfleet Intelligence officer
on special assignment."
 "Who is he?" asked Picard.
 "Lieutenant Michael Curran."
 There was a shocked silence, then everyone began to complain at once.
 "No," said Picard firmly. "Absolutely not."
 "The man's a killer," exclaimed Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.
 "And a mutineer," put in Riker.
 Rainer did her best to look patient. "Captain, I'm afraid you have no say
in the matter. Lieutenant Curran will be assigned to the Enterprise for the
duration of this mission."
 "Why Curran?" said Picard. "There must be someone else."
 "Captain," said Rainer, "there are only three Federation citizens who have
been imprisoned on Omicrus and have lived to talk about it. One is in deep
space aboard the Hatteras; it would take her almost four months to return."
 "What about the other one?" asked Riker.
 "After he was returned to the Federation, he suffered a nervous breakdown
and resigned from Starfleet." Rainer sighed. "I contacted him myself at his
home on New Boston Colony and asked him to go. After he finished swearing
at me, he wanted to know just how insensitive I was to even think of asking
him."
 She paused and looked at the Enterprise officers. "Curran is the only
possibility. He was imprisoned there with the others. He knows the layout
and the security." She looked at Worf. "I know he will be a significant
security problem, but I have faith in you."
 "A significant security problem is putting it mildly," said Picard. "It
would take an unacceptably high portion of the Enterprise's security staff
to keep an eye on him."
 Rainer, utterly unperturbed, replied, "If you need more people, I'll have
as many as you need reassigned from the Starbase."
 "How are we going to get to Omicrus?" asked Data, changing the subject.
 "The Federation," said a slightly relieved Rainer, "has obtained a Klingon
cruiser on loan from the Empire. You will rendezvous with the Victorious at
these coordinates." She handed a data padd to Picard and continued. "Your
team will then travel, on the Victorious and under cloak, to Omicrus."
 "Where is he now?" asked Riker.
 Rainer did not have to ask to whom Riker was referring. "He's on the
Starbase. Are you ready to have him transported aboard?"
 Picard tapped his combadge. "Security to the bridge observation lounge
immediately." Barely a minute later, three security guards entered with
suspicious expressions and what looked like itchy trigger fingers. He
nodded at Rainer. "Go ahead, Admiral."
 Rainer tapped her own combadge. "Rainer to Starbase Security."
 "Security here," said a voice through the badge.
 "Transport Lieutenant Curran to these coordinates."
 The air shimmered and Lieutenant Michael Curran materialized, wearing a
Starfleet uniform. Everyone was immediately struck by the fact that he
looked so - ordinary. Not the bloodthirsty killer image that had grown up
around him.
 Curran nodded in greeting as the security people - and Worf - closed in
around him. "Captain." He was totally at ease.
 Probably used to being surrounded by security people, thought Geordi.
 "Lieutenant," began Picard, his voice glacial, "have you been fully
briefed on the particulars of this mission?"
 "I have, sir," said Curran politely.
 "Let me fill you in on the security matters." Picard glanced over at
Rainer; she nodded imperceptibly. "You will have no freedom on this ship.
All sections of the Enterprise except for a few designated areas will be
off-limits. There will be at least two security guards with you at all
times."
 Curran simply nodded, as if he expected it all.
 "You will be fitted with a subcutaneous transponder to keep track of your
movements," continued Picard. "Finally, if there is any indication that you
are even thinking of harming my ship or my crew, I will abort the whole
operation and ship you back to your prison cell. Understood?"
 "Understood, sir."
 "Good." Picard nodded at the security people, who quickly escorted Curran
off the bridge and down to his quarters.
 "Captain," said Rainer, "may I have a moment?"
 "Of course, Admiral." Picard turned to his staff. "Excuse us, please." The
others left obligingly, leaving Picard and Rainer alone in the conference
room.
 "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" hissed Rainer. "Threatening
him like that, you could wreck the whole operation!"
 "Admiral," said Picard coldly, "he may wear a Starfleet uniform, but he is
still a killer. I am not going to put my ship or my crew in harm's way."
 "The safe recovery of the Shackelton's crew takes top priority," said
Rainer. "I'm not interested in your problems."
 "What will make you interested?" demanded Picard. "When he kills someone?
Do you really want a repeat of what happened on the Magellan?"
 "Of course not," said Rainer in dismissal. "But I don't want this entire
mission compromised by his fear."
 "He's got nothing to lose!" snapped Picard. "His only choice is between
rotting away in a regular prison or fending for himself on Hell."
 Rainer stepped up to Picard until they were virtually toe-to-toe. "Captain
Picard, I am ordering you to do nothing that will jeopardize this
assignment."
 "Including letting someone die?"
 "If need be, yes."
 Picard was so shocked that he couldn't think of an answer.
 "I have my orders, Captain," said Rainer as she turned to go, "and you
have yours." With a swish of the doors, she was gone.
 Picard let out a long, deep breath. "Merde."

 Captain's Log, Supplemental:
 The Enterprise is warping to rendezvous with the Klingon ship Victorious,
which will then transport the mission team, including Lieutenant Curran, to
its objective on Omicrus. Despite Admiral Rainer's warnings, I am still
nervous about Curran's presence on board.

 "Mr. Data," asked Picard on the bridge, "how long until we rendezvous with
the Victorious?"
 "Exactly thirty-seven minutes sooner since the last time you asked that
question, Captain," said Data innocently.
 "Mr. Data," said Picard a touch coolly.
 "Twenty-six hours and forty-two minutes, sir."
 Picard turned to Riker. "What's Counselor Troi's medical condition?"
 "She's almost better," said Riker. "She should be able to go back to work
in a few hours."
 "Good. We need her."
 Worf's combadge beeped. "March to Worf."
 "Go ahead, Ensign."
 "Sir," said the voice of the security guard, "Lieutenant Curran wants to
visit Ten-Forward."
 Worf took a moment to check his control board. "Move him on my command."
After taking a minute to inform other guards to stand by, Worf again tapped
his badge. "Now."
 "Aye, sir."

 Curran looked up at the two security guards glowering at him in his
quarters. "May we go now?" he asked sardonically.
 "Yes," said Ensign Steven March. He and his fellow guard stepped to either
side of the door, allowing Curran to step between them. When the door
opened, there were two other guards waiting outside. As they began to walk
down the corridor (cleared of all non-crewmen for security reasons), the
guards fell into a diamond formation around Curran, hemming him in.
 "Nice scenery," he muttered, bringing no response from the guards.
 Upon reaching the turbolift, the guards parted to let Curran in alone. The
doors slid shut and the lift began to move. Unable to resist, Curran said,
"Computer; deck thirty-four."
 No response. The audio controls inside the lift had been disconnected. He
tried punching a button on the control panel next to the doors, with even
fewer results. He sighed.
 The doors slid open on deck ten to reveal four other guards there, waiting
for him. As he left the lift, they fell into the same formation surrounding
him.
 Ten-Forward was almost deserted. Ship's security had compelled all
non-crewmen to leave for the moment, while most of the Starfleet personnel
had already heard about who was coming by for a drink and decided to hang
out elsewhere else.
 Guinan was still there, as always. The hostess mopped down the bar with a
rag and smiled a bit as Curran entered with his entourage. "What'll you
have?" she asked nonchalantly.
 "What's good?" responded Curran as he sidled up to the bar, the four
security guards never more than ten feet away.
 "Pretty much everything."
 "Synthehol."
 "Coming right up." Guinan retrieved a glass of the Ferengi-made alcohol
substitute from the dispenser and put it in front of him.
 Curran took a swig of the pseudo-liquor and smacked the plasti-glass down
on the bar, hard, hoping to make her flinch. He needed to make someone
flinch. He was disappointed by her lack of reaction, although the security
guards stepped forward menacingly.
 "Was I supposed to scream?" asked Guinan bemusedly.
 Curran looked at her thoughtfully. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
 "Should I be?"
 "Everyone else is."
 "I've never been one for going along with everyone else."
 "Do you know who I am?"
 "Of course. You murdered four of your superior officers on the Magellan."
 Curran blinked.
 "Look at it from my perspective," said Guinan. "There are four security
guards here right now. What have I got to be afraid of?"
 He smiled. It was a horrible smile, sadistic and cruel. "You'll learn." He
tossed back the rest of his drink and gently placed the glass back on the
bar. "Thanks for the drink." Smiling broadly, he turned to the security
guards. "I'm ready when you are."

 "Lieutenant Curran has returned to his quarters, sir," reported Worf.
 Riker sighed in relief. "Thank God. Having that man around other people is
a menace."
 "Commander Riker, please report to my ready room," came Picard's voice
over the ship's intercom.
 "The Voice of God," muttered Riker as he stood up from the captain's chair
and headed for the ready room. "Mr. Data, you have the bridge."
 Data half-turned from his seat at the Ops station. "Aye, sir."

 Picard looked up as Riker entered his office. "Yes, Captain?"
 "Number One, I'd like you to head the away team to Omicrus."
 Riker nodded as he sat down. He had expected this. He certainly wouldn't
expect the captain to head a potentially dangerous mission like this. "I
want a list of whom you want to take with you," Picard continued.
 "I've already thought about it, sir," said Riker. "Data, Geordi, Worf and
Dr. Crusher. Also Lieutenant Curran and four security guards to watch him."
 "Ten altogether," said Picard thoughtfully. "Don't you think that's a
little too many on a mission of this type?"
 "With Curran to worry about?" answered Riker. "No way. I'm not taking that
man along unguarded."
 "Agreed." Picard paused for a moment. "What do you think of the morale?"
 "It's very tense. For more than that, you need Deanna."
 "What a good idea." Picard tapped his communicator. "Picard to Troi."
 "Here, sir," said Troi clearly over the comm channel.
 "Are you able to return to work?"
 "I am, sir."
 "Good. Please report to my ready room."
 "On my way."
 Picard turned back to Riker. "How do you think Curran will perform in a
real crisis?"
 Riker shrugged. "There's no way to tell. It could be a great success or an
unqualified disaster. We're taking a big risk depending on him."
 "Unfortunately, Starfleet disagrees," said Picard grimly. The door chime
sounded. "Come."
 Troi entered, apparently restored to full health. As she sat down in the
other chair, she poked Riker in the side. "I want that recipe."
 "Recipe?" asked Picard, puzzled.
 "I'll tell you later, sir," said Riker.
 Getting down to business, Picard asked Troi, "What's your impression of
Lieutenant Curran?"
 Troi also put on her serious face. "Very angry and bitter, sir. He has one
of the darkest personalities I've ever encountered."
 "What else can you tell us?" said Riker.
 "He delights in making people afraid of him. This could be because of his
current status on the Enterprise. Did you hear about what happened in
Ten-Forward?"
 Picard nodded. "I did. From what Guinan said, he was apparently trying to
see how far he could go without provoking a reaction."
 "Captain," said Troi firmly, "that man has the potential to be extremely
dangerous."
 "Yes, but is he actually a threat, here and now?" asked Picard.
 "Not here and now," said Troi, "but in a crisis, everything could fall
apart very easily."
 Picard leaned back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Are you absolutely
certain? If you are, I could abort the entire operation."
 "I wish I were, Captain," the counselor responded in her musical accent.
 "Starfleet would have your head, sir," Riker pointed out.
 "But you're not positive?" pressed Picard.
 "No, sir," she admitted.
 "Damn," sighed Picard. "It would have been a good way out of this." He
looked at two of his most senior officers. "Commander, Counselor, if you
get any serious indication that he could put us in danger in any way, I'll
cancel the whole thing. But you can't leave any margin."
 Riker and Troi glanced at each other. "We can't promise that, sir,"
allowed Riker.
 "All right," said Picard, accepting the inevitable. "Number One, begin
your preparations for the mission."
 Riker stood. "Aye, sir." He turned and left the ready room.
 "Counselor," said Picard as he turned to Troi, "I want you to maintain a
constant empathic watch on Curran. If he's going to be dangerous, I need to
know beforehand."
 Troi nodded. "Understood, sir."
 "Dismissed."
 Troi left the ready room as Picard considered all the various forms of
catastrophe that this mission could end in. It was a depressingly long
list.

 Curran got up from the reclining chair in his quarters and stretched
luxuriously after the hours of just sitting and reading. Ensign March and
the other guard watched him warily.
 Curran hated them. It wasn't just that they were watching him, it was also
that he didn't have even the illusion of privacy. In his cell on Guardian
Station, there was an audio/video pickup in his cell, but at least he
didn't see it. Here, there were always these damned guards watching his
every move right out in the open. The only time when they weren't watching
him was when he was in the bathroom. They even watched him when he slept.
 He wandered around the room, feeling like he was back in his cell. Only
this cell was larger and better furnished. He even felt the tendrils of
desperation creeping into his mind.
 Something had to happen soon.
 It had to.



 "The Klingon bird of prey Victorious is de-cloaking off our starboard
bow," reported Worf. "Captain Ga'takh is hailing us."
 Picard stood up from his command chair and pulled down the front of his
uniform. "On screen, Mr. Worf."
 The screen blinked over to the image of the Klingon captain. "Captain
Picard," he said, "I am Captain Ga'takh."
 Picard was about to reply when he caught a look from Troi. "Greetings,
Captain," he said after a tiny pause. "The Federation wishes to thank you
and your crew for this mission."
 "If we only knew what it was all about," Ga'takh said a touch sourly,
"those thanks would be better appreciated."
 "I'm sorry," said Picard as sincerely as he could manage. "It's a
classified matter."
 "Then I am not willing to put my ship at risk."
 Picard stepped between Ops and Navigation, then snarled something
nasty-sounding in Klingonese.
 Ga'takh actually looked startled for a moment, then he laughed. "Your use
of threats would make you an excellent Klingon, Captain!"
 "Then there is no problem?" asked Picard.
 "None whatsoever. Please notify us when your team is ready to transport
over. Victorious out." Ga'takh's image disappeared to be replaced by that
of the Klingon ship hanging in space.
 "Captain," said Riker, "what did you say to him?"
 "Nothing much," said Picard with a smile. "Just that the High Council
would have him devoured by live serpent worms if he refused."
 "Ever the diplomat, sir."
 "I try, Number One."

 Curran arrived in Transporter Room Two with the four security guards who
would be accompanying him on the Victorious to find the rest of the team
waiting. He rubbed the spot on his arm where the transponder had been
implanted; it itched like crazy.
 "Lieutenant," said Riker sternly, "you - and your escort - will transport
over first. The Klingons will put you in a nicely secured room until we
reach Omicrus."
 Curran merely nodded, a sardonic smile on his face, and climbed the steps
to the transporter platform.
 "Energize," ordered Riker. Curran and the four guards were snatched away
by the transporter beam, then Riker tapped his combadge. "Riker to Picard."
 "Picard here."
 "He just beamed over, sir. You can relax now."
 Riker distinctly heard a sigh of relief from the other end. "About time.
Good hunting, Number One."
 "Thank you, Captain." He stepped onto the platform along with Worf, Data,
La Forge and Dr. Beverly Crusher. "We're ready, Chief."
 Chief O'Brien nodded. "Aye, sir. Energizing now."

 Captain Ga'takh watched as the shapes of the five remaining Starfleet
officers rematerialized on the Victorious' transport platform. "Captain,"
said Riker formally.
 "Commander," replied Ga'takh, equally formally. He chucked a thumb over at
Curran, surrounded by his guards. "Who is this and why does he have four
Starfleet security guards around him?"
 "He is Lieutenant Curran," said Riker mildly.
 The captain's eyes widened for a moment as he turned to the reinstated
officer. "So you are Curran. You act almost like a Klingon."
 Curran smiled. It was the same smile he had given to Guinan earlier. Then
he leaned forward and spit in Ga'takh's face.
 "Get him out of here!" snapped Riker. "Now!"
 Curran, still smiling, was dragged away by the guards in the general
direction of a detention cell. This cell was built along the assumption
that Starfleet's escape-proof cells were in fact ridiculously weak.
 Ga'takh wiped away the spittle. "He has as much fire as I've heard," he
said mildly.
 "I'm sorry, Captain," Riker began.
 "You should not be sorry, Commander," Ga'takh interrupted. "He should be
sorry. And he will be sorry if he does not stay in line. Am I correct?"
 "Very, sir."
 "Good." The captain shouted out a stream of orders in Klingonese.
"Commander, I hope Starfleet knows what it is doing."
 "So do I," replied Riker.

 "The Victorious has re-cloaked, Captain," reported Ensign Marsha
Ruzhnikov.
 "Thank you, Ensign," said Picard as he sank back into his chair. "Hold
this position."
 Ruzhnikov turned slightly in her seat. "For how long, sir?"
 "Quite frankly, Ensign, I don't know," Picard said. "For as long as it
takes."

 "Captain," said Riker, "how secure is Curran's cell?"
 "Quite secure," said Ga'takh curtly. "If you are worried about that man
escaping and causing havoc, I assure you that I will not let it happen."
 "Captain," said the Klingon tactical officer, "we are receiving a
scrambled transmission on a Starfleet frequency."
 "From where?" asked Ga'takh.
 "From Cardassia Prime."
 Ga'takh glanced over at Riker, who nodded. "Put it on screen," the captain
said.
 The screen fuzzed into static, then cleared to show a Cardassian officer
looking around him furtively. "Commander Riker," he said by way of
greetings.
 "Gul Itaar," replied Riker.
 "I have obtained a rough diagram of the prison on Omicrus," Itaar said.
 "How rough?"
 "It shows the general outline of the facility, but I'm afraid it's rather
sketchy on details," replied the Gul.
 "That's it?"
 "I'm afraid so, Commander," replied the Cardassian. "My access has been
restricted."
 "So we'll still need Curran," Riker said glumly. "As far as I'm concerned,
the less that man has to do with this mission, the better."
 "I apologize for the shortcomings of some of my information," said Itaar,
"but it is all I can get to you."
 "Thank you," said Riker. "I know what a risk you're taking."
 "I do have one request for you."
 "What is it?"
 "Take me with you." Itaar leaned forward urgently. "It is no longer safe
for me here."
 "I can't promise that," said Riker after a long pause.
 The Cardassian seemed to deflate. "I understand, Commander. I will now
transmit the diagram." His image blinked out as the tactical officer
signaled that they were indeed receiving the transmission.

 Itaar sighed as he looked in the mirror in his quarters. He had done so
much to strengthen the Federation hand against Cardassia Prime. But that
did nothing to assuage the ache in his soul.
 He had betrayed his own people.
 It was only a matter of time before the secret police traced the
transmission and burst down the door to haul him off to prison, possibly
even to Omicrus and its hellish punishment cells.
 He reached under his desk to click open a hidden compartment, removing a
tiny tablet. It looks so harmless, he thought as he gazed at it. Then his
head snapped around as there came a pounding on the door.
 "Open up!" ordered a voice from the other side. "Security police!"
 Swiftly, Itaar popped the capsule into his mouth and bit down, hard.
 They found him sprawled on the floor.

 "Now entering orbit of Omicrus," The tactical officer reported.
 "Status," said Ga'takh.
 "We are cloaked and invisible to Cardassian scanners."
 "Excellent." The captain turned to Riker. "We are ready, Commander."
 "Mr. Data," said Riker, "please bring up Gul Itaar's diagram of the
Omicrus prison and scan the facility itself."
 "If we use an active scan," said Ga'takh darkly, "they'll know that we are
here."
 "Belay that order, Mr. Data," Riker amended.
 "Aye, sir," said Data.
 He turned to Worf. "Get Curran up here."
 A minute passed before Curran entered the Victorious' bridge, flanked by
his usual entourage of guards. "Here's where you earn your keep,
Lieutenant," said Riker coldly. "Interpret this for us."
 Curran studied the diagram closely. "What exactly am I looking for?"
 "Where would the Shackleton's crew be?"
 Curran pointed to a corridor. "This is the most likely area. The
Cardassians use it for prisoners of war, politicals, and so on."
 "What else can you tell us?" asked Geordi.
 "Guard stations here, here and here," said Curran as he pointed out the
relevant areas. "Power station, infirmary, armory, barracks."
 "How," asked Worf suspiciously, "do you know where everything is?"
 "Before I was released," Curran explained, "I took one or two unauthorized
tours around the prison."
 "Unauthorized?" asked Geordi.
 "I was in Starfleet Intelligence, you know," said Curran mildly.
 "Why did you not take advantage of the opportunity to escape?" said Data.
 "To where?" replied Curran.
 "You said that this is the most likely area," said Riker, indicating the
point on the crude map. "Are you sure?"
 "No, Commander, I'm not sure," Curran said, annoyance in his voice.
 "But you're reasonably certain."
 "Yes, Commander, I'm reasonably certain."
 "Good enough." Riker straightened up. "Everybody suit up. We're going down
in one hour to these coordinates here." He jabbed a finger down on the
point Curran had marked.

 "We have received a coded transmission from Commander Riker, sir,"
reported Lieutenant Matthew Ainsworth, the acting Security Chief in Worf's
absence.
 "What does it say?" asked Picard.
 Ainsworth blinked at his screen. "It says, 'the chickens have come home to
roost.'"
 Picard nodded. "They're in position."

 Ten forms shimmered into existence in the gleaming metallic corridors of
Omicrus. Dressed in black commando uniforms, the Starfleet team looked less
like explorers than avenging angels, having arrived to punish someone for
some injustice they had once committed.
 As the others whipped out their hand phasers (except for Curran, who for
obvious reasons didn't have one), Crusher scanned the area with her
tricorder. "Anything, Doctor?" asked Riker.
 "I think I'm picking up human life signs," said Crusher thoughtfully.
 "Where?"
 "This way." She led them off down a corridor, with Worf and Riker leading
and Curran well surrounded by his guards.
 That was as far as they got; they turned the corner to face many
Cardassian soldiers, and they were all aiming their disruptors at the
Starfleet officers.
 "Drop your weapons," ordered one of them.
 A security ensign ignored them and fired. He managed to get one of the
soldiers before the others cut him down in a barrage of weapons fire.
 Riker looked behind his team to see other Cardassians there as well,
holding an equally impressive array of weaponry. They were boxed in.
 He tossed down his phaser, followed by the others.
 The Cardassian leader nodded to the other soldiers, and they all turned
off a unit on their belts.
 "I'm picking them up on my tricorder now," said Crusher quietly.
 "A portable scanning screen," said Geordi.
 "Brand new," said the Cardassian leader. "Allow me to welcome you to
Omicrus, Commander Riker. I am Gul Nortak."
 Curran took advantage of the moment of silence to step forward. "Gul."
 Nortak smiled. "Welcome back, Lieutenant."
 Curran smiled back and nodded. "It's good to be back, sir."
 The Starfleet officers gaped at Curran. "You son of a bitch," growled
Riker with feeling. "You sold us out."
 "I thought you would appreciate his intelligence work, Commander," said
Nortak. "Take them away."
 "No," said Curran. "Not yet." He walked slowly up to Riker and smiled that
horrible smile. "This is for all the shit I had to put up with on the
Enterprise."
 He kicked Riker in the gut. Hard. As the commander doubled over in pain,
Curran turned away insultingly. "Now you can take them away."

 Riker continued to gasp for breath as Crusher ran her tricorder over his
midsection. "Four broken ribs, a torn diaphragm and a damaged spleen," she
said. "He really did a number on you."
 "Son of a bitch," grated Riker. He managed to clear his mind long enough
to look around his cell. Three meters by two meters, the metal walls shined
enthusiastically at him. No doubt polished for their arrival.
 "This should help with the pain," said the doctor. She pressed a hypospray
to his neck and triggered it. After hearing the slight hiss of its
activation, Riker immediately began to feel better. He sat up on his bunk.
"Take it easy," Crusher told him.
 "Later, Doctor," said Riker curtly. "How are the others?"
 "They're all in separate cells," said Crusher. "As far as I know, they're
all unharmed."
 "Good." Riker stood and began to pace the cell. "I can't believe that
bastard Curran. How could he be working for the Cardassians and still get
by all those security protocols?"
 Crusher shrugged. "I don't know, Will. If I had a chance to scan him, I
could tell if anything's been done to him."
 "Didn't you scan him when he came on the Enterprise?"
 "No," she admitted. "I just implanted the transponder. In any case, I
don't think he'd submit willingly."
 "That's his problem." Riker walked over to the cell door and banged on it.
"Hey! I want to talk to Curran!"
 A Cardassian guard who was so burly he made Worf look like a string bean
lumbered over. "Shut up," he suggested.
 "I want to talk to Curran," Riker repeated.
 "I want you to shut up," retorted the guard.
 "You can't deny us access," shot back Riker. "Treaty of Khasir, Section
563, Sub-Paragraph 3."
 The guard thought that over for a moment, then grunted and plodded away.
 Crusher looked at Riker with surprise. "What's the Treaty of Khasir?"
 "Beats me."
 The door creaked open, revealing Curran aiming a large and nasty-looking
disruptor at them, backed up by several guards. He entered, never allowing
the weapon to move an inch. He looked at the prisoners thoughtfully for a
moment, then turned slighty to face the guards. "Get out."
 "But, sir..."
 "I said get out."
 The guards glanced at each other and got, closing the door as they did so
and leaving Curran alone with Riker and Crusher.
 "Why are you doing this?" began Riker.
 "I like this side better," said Curran.
 As unobtrusively as possible, Crusher aimed her medical scanner at Curran
and began to examine him.
 "Where is the Shackelton's crew?" asked Riker.
 "Already dead. You can forget about them."
 "It's not too late, you know. You can come back with us."
 Curran snorted. "Why would I want to do that?"
 "I can get you leniency," tried Riker. "I can fix it so that you don't
have to go to Hell."
 "I've already fixed it," shot back Curran.
 "In that case," sighed Riker, "I'd like to get permission for Dr. Crusher
to examine the other prisoners in a minute."
 Curran thought for a moment and nodded. "All right. Two more minutes." He
stepped to the cell door and rapped on it, the muzzle of his disruptor
never leaving the Starfleet officers. The door swung open and closed, with
Curran safely on the other side.
 With Curran gone, Crusher started to poke at her tricorder. "What have you
got, Beverly?" asked Riker.
 "There are definite signs of genetic drift," she muttered thoughtfully.
 "Which means?"
 "He's a clone."
 "A clone?" asked Geordi in amazement. "Are you sure?"
 Crusher nodded as she went through the motions of examining the chief
engineer. "Yup. He's definitely a xerox."
 "Where do you think the original Curran is?"
 "Probably dead," said Crusher grimly. "Once the Cardassians duplicated
him, they had no more use for him."
 "Curran was here over two years ago," said Geordi in wonder. "And this
clone has been taking his place ever since."
 "I've never seen a clone like him, though," Crusher said. "Not only was
Curran's body duplicated, but it also looks like his memory and personality
were also copied - with a few unpleasant changes and the programming for
his actions."
 "Rainer did say he seemed like a different person after he got back from
here," said Geordi thoughtfully, "but she put it down to traumatic stress."
 Crusher looked up with a sudden expression of concern. "Geordi - there
were two other Starfleet officers here at the same time Curran was."
 "You think they may have been cloned as well," Geordi said, instantly
catching on. "I get your drift, Doctor. But one of them is out of
Starfleet."
 Crusher breathed deeply. "Maybe they didn't plan for that. But in any
event, that can't help us now."
 "You mentioned genetic drift," said Geordi. "His body is disintegrating?"
 "Very slowly," confirmed Crusher. "That's the problem with cloning; the
results aren't permanent. To keep a clone in one piece for two years is one
hell of an achievement."
 "How long has he got?"
 "A few more weeks. Maybe a couple of months. He'll think he's just getting
sick."
 "And the Cardassians will just let him die."
 "Sounds like it," said Crusher. "He's done his job."
 "And what about us?" asked Geordi. "Why all the trouble to get us here?"
 Crusher went pale. "Maybe they want to replace us as well."
 "Send in the clones," said Geordi bitterly.

 The clone of Michael Curran was walking down a hallway when it hit. His
innards clenched into a spasm as he sagged against a wall. It passed within
seconds, yet left him gasping for breath. It had never been this bad; he
had always been able to hide any symptoms before now. Straightening up and
wiping the sudden cold sweat off his forehead, he headed for the infirmary.

 "I cannot be cloned, Doctor," said Data.
 "I know," replied Crusher as she made her "rounds." "That's why I'm most
worried about you."
 "If what probably happened to Lieutenant Curran is any example," Data
pointed out, "you will all share the same fate as I will."
 "I know," Crusher repeated, "but they won't even bother keeping you
around."

 Curran managed to walk into the prison infirmary under his own power.
"Medic," he said a touch weakly, "help me." He slumped against a diagnostic
bed.
 The medtech stiffened. "I cannot do anything."
 "What do you mean?" said Curran, the snarl returning to his lips.
 "Direct orders from Gul Nortak. You are not to be treated."
 "Direct orders?" said Curran in disbelief. "We'll see about that." He
stormed out, the adrenaline borne by his anger giving him extra strength.
 Muttering to himself in his outrage, he made a beeline for Nortak's
office. The Gul's personal bodyguard, an enormous mass of trained fighting
flesh, surged to his feet. "You can't go in there," he rumbled.
 Curran's answer was to draw his disruptor and shoot him down.
 Stepping over the guard's unconscious form, Curran strode into the office,
his face a picture of rage.
 "My dear Lieutenant," said Nortak politely. "What can I do for you?"
 "I'm sick," said Curran curtly, "and I hear you gave orders for the
medtech not to treat me."
 "That's true. So what?"
 Curran gaped at Nortak. "So I want to know why."
 Nortak smiled, a cruel expression that made Curran's earlier smile to
Guinan look positively benign by comparison. "You've done your job. You've
done the job you were created for. Why should I waste my resources on
keeping you alive?"
 The clone looked at the Cardassian curiously. "What do you mean, created?"
 "You are not Curran."
 Curran laughed at that. "Can't you think of anything better?"
 "Feeling sick, are you?"
 Curran stopped laughing.
 "Muscle spasms?" Nortak went on. "Feelings of dizziness and nausea.
Neurological disorders starting to pop up?"
 The clone leaned forward over Nortak's desk and grabbed his collar. "What
did you do to me?" he shouted.
 Guards exploded through the door and grabbed Curran, hauling him away from
the Gul.
 "You're a clone," spat Nortak as he straightened his uniform. "A very very
good clone."
 "I don't believe you."
 "You're a clone programmed to behave as we want you to behave." Nortak
circled his desk and thrust his face into Curran's. "You are our creation."
 Curran spit in Nortak's face.
 The Gul simply wiped it off and continued. "Unfortunately, the cloning
process is still far from complete. Every clone we've ever made -
especially those such as yourself, where personality and memory are also
duplicated - has suffered complete genetic dissolution at some point or
another. And we don't know why." Insanely, he sounded like an Academy
lecturer.
 He smiled that awful smile again. "Your DNA is coming unglued. But it had
to come eventually. One clone lasted only four days before dying. Another
lasted for almost a year. And they all died in excruciating agony." Nortak
gave Curran a mocking salute. "You've lasted more than two years. You hold
the record, Lieutenant."
 "I'll have your rotting corpse at my feet before I die," Curran
threatened.
 Nortak was not impressed. "Take him away. Throw him into a nice quiet cell
and let him fall apart." He turned his back as the guards dragged Curran
out."

 The door to Crusher's cell was thrown open; before the doctor could react,
Curran was unceremoniously tossed in and the door slammed shut again.
 As he began to double over, hit by another agonizing spasm, she whipped
out a hypospray and slapped him on the neck with it. Within seconds, the
pain faded to a point where he could think again.
 "Bastard," he muttered as he sat up against the wall.
 "Is that any way to speak to your doctor?" Crusher replied with a touch of
gallows humor.
 "Not you. Nortak." He looked at her, still breathing heavily. "Apparently,
I'm a clone of the real Michael Curran."
 "I know."
 Curran blinked. "How?"
 "I scanned you earlier when you were talking with Commander Riker."
 Despite the pain, he actually smiled. "Very clever. You belong in
Intelligence."
 "I like Medical just fine, thank you."
 Curran stopped smiling. "How long have I got?"
 "Not long. Frankly, I'm amazed that your genetic structure has survived
this far."
 "Yeah. Me too." He got up and began to pace the cell. "We've got to get
out of here. Is there anything in your medikit that we could make into a
weapon; a biological one we could use against the Cardassians?"
 Crusher thought for a moment. "Maybe. It's very unethical, though."
 "I'd rather be unethical than dead - or cloned - any day."
 "Good point." She set to work.

 Nortak looked over the array of cloning equipment. A three-meter-long
cylinder next to a three-meter-long table, with an incredible assortment of
gadgetry. Damned if he knew just how it worked. But it worked.
 For a while, anyway.
 "Get Riker in here," he ordered a guard. "He's first."

 "Done," said Crusher.
 Curran looked at the hypospray she was carrying. "What have you got?"
 "It's a gas that corrodes the lining of Cardassian lungs. They'll
suffocate." She looked miserable, as if she couldn't believe she had
actually made such a thing.
 Curran read her thoughts. "I understand, Doctor," he said gently. "But we
don't have a choice. Get ready."

 Riker gasped and did his best not to cry out; the pain was agonizing.
"Quiet," said a guard, though Riker did not hear him.
 The array of equipment strapped to his head electronically fingered the
synapses of his brain, took note of every memory, every aspect of his
personality, and copied it all into the thing that was already growing
inside the cylinder.
 It was not the pain that was the worst part of it. The Cardassian
technicians had brusquely told him that the procedure required him to be
awake and conscious. Besides, they had pumped him so full of stimulants
that he couldn't pass out even if he wanted to.
 The worst part of it was watching every moment of his life flash before
his eyes and knowing that it was becoming part of this unholy duplicate of
himself.
 A crackle of energy seared its way along his cerebral cortex, and he
screamed.

 "Hey! Help us!" A guard heard the cry come from one of the cells, the one
the female and the clone had been tossed into.
 "All right," he muttered and roused himself, "I'm coming." He lurched
along the corridor until he was able to look in the tiny window.
 The clone was stretched out on the floor of the cell, jerking with
paroxysms of agony. A low and constant cry came from his clenched teeth.
 "He's convulsing!" cried the female. "Help me get him up!"
 The guard did not move and Crusher held her breath for a moment. "If he
dies," she warned, "Gul Nortak will have your head."
 That got the guard moving. He bent down by the clone's side and got ready
to move him...
 And he reeled back choking as the gas attacked the lining of his lungs.
Unable to breathe, he collapsed on the cell floor.
 Curran pulled the gas injector back and jumped to his feet, apparently
having made a remarkable recovery. "Good work, Doctor."
 Crusher merely looked at the guard.
 "It was him or us," Curran said quietly. "We have to get the others out."
 Crusher nodded curtly and they ran out of the cell, Curran pausing long
enough only to grab the late guard's disruptor.
 Working his way up to another guard who conveniently had his back turned,
Curran clubbed him enough to disorient him, then jammed the disruptor
against his head. "Don't move," the clone advised him.
 The guard didn't move.
 "Unlock the cells the Starfleet people are in."
 The guard groped for the controls and the cell doors slid open, allowing
the Enterprise team to run out into the corridor from their respective
cells.
 But someone was missing. "Where's Riker?" growled Curran.
 "In the cloning room," the guard gasped.
 "Shit," Curran said quietly. "They've started already." He grabbed two of
the Starfleet combadges from the guard station desk and tossed one to
Crusher. "The rest of you get back up to the ship," he ordered. "I'll get
Riker."
 Crusher nodded and activated the combadge. "Crusher to Victorious."
 "Victorious here."
 "Eight to transport up."
 As the Starfleet personnel were snatched away by the Klingon transporter
beam, the doctor smiled at the cloned lieutenant.
 Curran smiled back, then jabbed the guard again. "Take me to the cloning
room."

 "Transporter activity, sir!" exclaimed a Cardassian soldier.
 Gul Nortak bent over the console. "Where?"
 "The southern wing."
 "The Enterprise people," Nortak growled. "How many?"
 "Eight people were beamed up."
 "One more besides Riker. Where did they go?"
 "Unknown, sir," said the soldier. "There could be a cloaked ship in
orbit."
 "Send the fourth order flagship to those coordinates," Nortak snapped. "If
they find anything, destroy it."
 "Yes, sir!"
 Nortak grabbed a disruptor and ran out of his office.

 Curran paused outside the cloning room to stun the guard, then flipped the
power setting to "kill."
 Blasting open the doors, he rushed inside and picked off the Cardassian
technician who lived long enough only to look up in surprise. Curran darted
over to the console and turned everything off.
 Riker's muscles slumped in relaxation, finally free from the torment.
 "We're going," Curran said as he helped Riker to his feet. Leaving Riker
holding on to the table for a moment, he walked over to the cloning
cylinder and looked inside. "Jesus."
 "Kill it," croaked Riker.
 Curran complied instantly, firing several times into the cylinder. There
was a hint of a cry from the proto-clone of Riker, then it was gone.
 Riker sighed in relief. "Let's go."
 Curran nodded, then his eyes widened and he aimed his disruptor at Riker.
 "Lieutenant, no!" shouted Riker.
 Curran fired.

 "Cardassian warship approaching," alerted the Klingon tactical officer.
"They cannot detect us."
 "Wait for it," said Captain Ga'takh slowly. "Give them a few more seconds
down there."

 The disruptor blast sailed past Riker's ear and blasted Gul Nortak out of
existence. "Sorry, sir," Curran said a touch lamely. "I didn't have time to
warn you."
 "Apology accepted, Lieutenant," breathed Riker.
 Curran tapped his combadge. "Curran to Victorious. Two to beam up."

 "We've got them!" exclaimed the Klingon tactical officer.
 "Get us out of orbit," snapped Ga'takh.
 Still cloaked, the Victorious gracefully angled away from Omicrus and
jumped into warp space, leaving the Cardassians far behind and making a
beeline out of Cardassian space and for the rendezvous point with the
Enterprise.

 Captain's Log, Stardate 45288.0:
 With the safe return of Commander Riker and his team, the Enterprise is
returning to Starbase 533 for de-briefing with Admiral Rainer.

 "A communication from Captain Taylor of the Hatteras," said Picard grimly
as Riker entered his ready room.
 "What did it say?"
 "You will recall that Lieutenant Commander Melissa Rogarth was one of the
Starfleet officers imprisoned on Omicrus, along with Lieutenant Curran."
 Riker nodded in assent.
 "Commander Rogarth is dead," said Picard flatly. "She went into cardiac
arrest and died four days ago." He looked Riker straight in the eye. "Her
DNA showed severe genetic drift."
 "Another clone," Riker said as he sat down.
 "Yes, another clone."
 "What about the third officer, the one on New Boston Colony?"
 "The minute you told me about Curran and Rogarth, I contacted the colony
and told them to conduct a genetic scan on him. He shows no signs of
genetic drift."
 "Perhaps," mused Riker, "the Cardassians recognized the danger signs of
his impending breakdown and decided the risk was too great."
 "Perhaps," Picard agreed.
 "Crusher to Picard," the intercom sounded.
 "Here, Doctor."
 "Captain, will you and Commander Riker meet me at Lieutenant Curran's
quarters?" Crusher's voice was carefully neutral.
 Picard and Riker looked at each other and headed for the door.

 "I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," said Crusher. "There was nothing I could do."
 The body of Michael Curran was slumped in the bathroom, a jagged piece of
the plasti-glass mirror in his clenched fist. The piece was dark with
encrusted blood - blood which matched the blood still dripping from the
clone's slashed jugular vein.
 "He cut his own throat," said Riker quietly. "He knew he was dying."
 "I'm sorry, sir," said a flustered Ensign March. "We don't follow him into
the bathroom, and there was just silence from in there."
 Picard looked at Curran's body, barely hearing March's words.
 "He practically begged me to cure him," Crusher said, her voice catching.
"He seemed so crushed when I told him that I couldn't." She ran her
tricorder over the body. "Genetic drift is in the most advanced stages. He
would have only lived for two or three more weeks."
 "You told him he would be in extreme pain, Doctor?" asked Picard softly.
 "Yes."
 "He found a way out and took it," said Riker bitterly. "He couldn't face
the thought of what he was made for and what was happening to him."
 "He finally redeemed himself," said Picard almost to himself as he turned
and began to walk out of Curran's quarters.
 He made his way to the nearest empty observation lounge and sank into a
chair, staring out at the warp-smudged stars.
 He stayed for a long time.

 THE END