("I'm saying...I don't want *us* to end this way. Ever since that business with McDuff--")
(Please, Will. I'd rather not dredge that up again. We agreed that is was a mistake...")
("No! Laren...I'm trying to tell you that it wasn't a mistake. Not for me, anyway...and I don't think it was for you, either.")
("Oh, Will...I wish--I wish--")
("You wish that it changed things? Maybe it can.")
("I can't go back with you! I'd be looking at a court-martial for what I've done! Do you think Captain Picard is going to just forget all this because...because...")
("Because I'm in love with you?")
("Do you know what you're saying?")
("Oh, I know exactly what I'm saying. I love you, Ro Laren, and I want to be with you. I don't care if it's on the *Enterprise* or some godforsaken outpost in the Zone. I'm not going to just let you transport out of my life.")
(Will, please--you can't do this...")
("You're going to have to stun me to stop me. I don't think you're going to--because I know you love me as much as I love you.")
("That's not the point! I can't let you throw away your career just like that!")
("You're wasting time arguing. I'm coming with you, and that's final--")
Like the transporter effect, the world snapped back into focus.
*--Will?--*
Then, as memory came flooding back, Ro felt chagrined for even dreaming of such a thing. Besides, even if she had had a chance with him before, Will Riker was forever beyond her reach now. She was Marquis and he was Starfleet, and that was that.
Which left-- Ro realized that she was staring up at an exquisitely tiled ceiling, the intricate designs of blue and gold seeming to flow before her eyes. With a start, she sat up, suddenly aware of where she was. What she saw was quite obviously a sickbay, lined with beds indentical to the one on which she was sitting. The room was dimly lit, as if to conserve power with only one patient. Still, it all looked *wrong* somehow, and it took her a few moments of puzzling to figure out that the room wasn'
t curved, as was every single cabin aboard Federation starships. Instead, it looked very much like the trauma center on Rish'illa, the one that had patched her up after her last encounter with that Cardassian spy Griska.
There was a faint whining noise behind her, audible only because Ro's breathing was virtually the only other sound in the room. By this time she was emotionally drained; she reacted with almost idle curiosity, turning to find the display above her bed quite active, reading out her condition in an intriguing mix of *Fehron* and modern Bajoran. Ro studied the strange panels for a time, stymied by the hybrid language. "So," she asked the wall caustically, "does this mean I'm o.k.?"
<In a strict physical sense, you are well,> a voice came from within her, and this time Ro *did* react, skittering clear off the bed. Deanna Troi would have been perfectly comfortable with this, but Ro had never experienced direct mental contact in her life.
<Your emotional well-being, however, is in question-->
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!" she screamed, and before she had the words out a large screen at the head of the room lit up with the message:
<Neural-net interlink command path interrupted
Voice command link override established>
"You have suffered serious psychological trauma," the voice continued, now from all-around speakers. "Recommended course of treatment is suspension from active duty, followed by a period of rest and therapy."
Ro sat back down on the edge of the bed and crossed her arms. Characteristically, her shock was already being displaced by irritation. "Well, that's just great," she remarked. "except for the fact that I'm not *on* active duty. I'm stranded on this--this ghost ship, all alone except for my dear friend, the Automated Command and Control Integrated System!"
In fact, Ro was so irritated that for a long moment she missed the significance of what she'd just said. Then, as realization hit her, she hopped down and started pacing the floor--much like Jean-Luc Picard might do. "Wait a minute," she muttered to herself. "How did I know what that thing was called?"
And that was when she discovered something, the first discovery she'd made since the Cardassians had first shown up that filled her heart, not with terror or trepidation, but simple, overwhelming wonder.
She discovered that she just *knew.*
And she knew everything, or at least it seemed that way. She was in Sickbay 2, where default protocols dictated that emergency trauma patients be transported. From its location in the Forward-Starboard quadrant of Deck 32, a mere thought took her spiraling outward, through the secondary medical labs and replicator facilities, into the related biolabs, the various support labs, then broadening like a wave to encompass neighboring decks, soon engulfing the entire central pod, then moving out to touch each
of the six attached warp pods in succession, feeling like a hearth the warmth of the six separate warp cores, each far larger than any known to the Federation. *Total energy potential thirty-seven-point-two times that of a standard starbase,* the thought rose idly in her mind, *four hundred ninety-one-point-eight times that of a Galaxy-class starship.*
Then, Ro learned that she could cut off the flow of data, as easily as cutting a relay. "Computer? How do I know all this?" she demanded, already subconsciously adapting to the situation.
"Basic schematic and technical data, and standard ship procedures, were implanted at inception of neural-net interlink. Detailed information requires active command link."
Ro considered. "You mean, all this...stuff...is just in my head?"
"Correct. Unused memory potential has been allocated for efficient data storage and improved interface mechanisms."
Much, much later Ro would think: *It was there from the beginning. I just missed it.*
For the moment, though, she was more concerned with other things. "So, who do I see about getting out of here? I don't seem to have that little tidbit running around up here."
"Under normal operating conditions, medical personnel make determinations as to fitness for duty," the computer voice responded readily. "However, at this time there are no medical personnel on board. Under emergency conditions, the ship's Commander may declare injured persons fit for duty."
Ro snorted derisively. "Right. And who exactly is supposed to be in command around here?" she muttered. The question was not quite directed toward the computer, but it chose to answer anyway:
"You are."
*That* one stopped Ro dead in her tracks. "What?"
"Neural-net interlink has been established. Command paths have been initiated. You are in command."
Ro put up her hands defensively and began backing up towards the nearest door. "No, I think you've made a mistake here," she managed to get out.
"All command paths are functioning normally," the computer contradicted her. "You are in command."
"You don't understand," she stammered. She was getting that terrible, trapped feeling again. "I *can't* be in command! I'm just a pilot--I don't know anything about running a starship!"
The voice did not answer, but on the large screen before her words shimmered into existence--not in *Fehron* or modern Bajoran, but in *T'kechien,* the classical form which had been used unchanged for eons by Bajoran philosophers and poets. It read:
*The greatest obstacle one faces in command is ignorance of command ability.
Once it is realized that command is necessary, command is possible.
--Akan Echan, B3Y 68417*
Ro was struck dumb by the words, so much so that she actually reversed course, peering with a childlike wonderment at the screen. Akan had been one of the greatest philosophers Bajor had ever known; all but a score of her treatises had been lost to time and war. Virtually nothing of her later writings from the 684th century had been seen for a thousand generations. "Akan said that?" she whispered, almost reverently.
"The thought is from *Chaotic Flows of Power and Force,* Akan Echan's two hundred eleventh work. The complete body of Akan's writings is available on file."
"Prophets..." Ro breathed. She searched her memory--without quite knowing how--and found lists of libraries, names that were revered in Bajoran society, and names that were only legend. Jeben Lef, Taril Uron, Kel Venra...and Nezha Kor, Prophets Almighty, *Nezha,* the founder of Bajor's First Golden Age, whose entire written legacy was one word carved on a worn titanium plaque, and whose Proclamations had survived only paraphrased by historians through the ages. She checked closer, as easily as keying o
pen a file, and discovered, not only his actual words, but holographic representations of the writings themselves. And the Proclamations were only the beginning; she found works that had been lost altogether, and some that were only rumored to have existed. There were literally millions of documents, all of Bajor's lost history, all here, together on this one ship...
Ro felt giddy and lightheaded again, overcome by a tremendous wash of emotion. She held the sides of her head as if to keep it from splitting apart, while her legs gave way and she sank to her knees. "How?" she croaked, barely able to form the words. "How is this possible?"
But there was no need for a reply, for the images were suddenly right there in her head: the crew, on their third mission, finding a nebulous reference to a lost treasure trove; following a trail of clues spread across the quadrant; finally finding a long-abandoned First Age colony, and discovering the quarter-million-year-old repository on its moon, untouched by the ravages of time; the incredible joy of revelation; transporting tons of specimens up to the cargo holds, and downloading terabyte upon tera
byte of data into the memory banks; and--
And nothing more.
Ro cried aloud at the cessation of images. "Computer!" she shrieked desperately. "What happened?!"
"Logs unavailable," the computer replied, more tonelessly than before--or was that just her imagination? "Retrieval system failure. All information from requested time period has been destroyed."
"NO!" Ro managed to rise to her feet. "Recover data, by any means necessary!!"
"Recovery not possible. Fatal retrieval error."
Ro sat heavily on the edge of the nearest bed, trying to force herself to think rationally. "Computer, analyze all systems. Devise method of reconstructing destroyed data."
"Analyzing." Five seconds passed. Then ten. Fifteen. "Analysis complete. No method found to reconstruct requested data using conventional means."
Ro leapt upon the caveat frantically. "What about using unconventional means?"
"Analyzing." The computer was gone for two full minutes this time, leaving Ro on pins and needles. "Analysis complete. Possible method found of partially reconstructing missing data by scanning secondary sensor logs and off-line recording devices. Probability of success: six-point-one percent."
"Do it," Ro commanded, rising with new-found determination. "And since you say I'm in command, I am declaring myself fit for duty."
"That action is not advisable," the computer protested. "You have suffered additional emotional stress--"
"Command Override, code FH-217," Ro snapped, pulling the codes from deep inside her.
"Override acknowledged."
"Good!" She was both surprised and pleased with herself, bringing her hands together in another unconscious imitation of Picard. "Transport, Bridge."
Instantly the Sickbay shimmered and dissolved away. In its place appeared a control center larger that the Ops Center at Starfleet HQ. There were more than a hundred stations (108, the unconscious thought presented itself), dominated by a huge center screen.
As Ro watched the starfield on the screen, she was struck painfully by the thought that she had been dallying around here for who knows how long, and the Cardassians--Prophets, the Cardassians could be showing up any minute!
*I have to get this ship back to Bajor. No, not Bajor. I have to hide her somewhere safe, until crew can be trained to fly her. But how many will we need, and how long will it take?* Her mind reeled with questions. She looked inside for the answers, but they weren't in the bundle of information she had.
"Computer, what is the normal compliment of this ship?" she asked.
"Standard running crew is 10,421. Depending on mission requirements, actual crew compliment may range from 10,500 to 12,000."
That sounded about right, from what she could tell from the procedural specs she had. But Bajor couldn't afford to give up ten thousand space-worthy people from its military. She wasn't even sure Bajor's fragile military establishment had ten thousand space-worthy people. And even if they did and could, there would be no way to keep it a secret. Everyone from the Cardassians to the Romulans would come running--they would either split the ship up between them or fight a war over her, and either way Baj
or would end up with nothing. Ro was determined not to let that happen again.
So, they would just have to begin with a skeleton crew, and slowly work their way up to a full compliment. With any luck at all, they wouldn't need more than a thousand people to start with. "What is the minimum number of crewpersons necessary to run this ship?"
"One."
Ro frowned. Obviously she hadn't phrased the question right. "Computer," she said, carefully choosing each word, "specify minimum number of persons necessary to successfully control and operate this vessel under all conditions, inlcluding during battle."
A pause, barely noticeable. Then: "One."
Ro's frown deepened. She was no longer shocked; she simply didn't believe what she was hearing. "Are you really trying to tell me that one person--alone--can fly this ship? Even into battle?"
"One sentient being with Bajoran or compatible brain chemistry is required to establish neural-net interlink. All command functions are available through direct command paths."
"Interlink...you mean *I* can run this ship? All by myself?"
"Command in all conditions requires direct command path. Loss of efficiency associated with voice command path would render ship unmanageable under combat conditions."
Ro thought about that for a bit, and decided to set it aside for future consideration. "Well, we're not under combat conditions, so for right now...just plot a course out of this asteroid belt."
"Course plotted."
"Engage at one-half speed."
"Subwarp engines engaged." The starfield began to shift, chunks of rock appearing and sliding by as the great ship either navigated around them or let them smash into the deflectors. In less than a minute the computer announced, "The ship has cleared the asteroid field. Awaiting further instructions."
Ro was mulling over where she could hide the ship--the Badlands looked good, if she could get in there safely--when a whistle interrupted her thoughts. "Incoming traffic, bearing two-eight-eight mark five-five, closing at warp seven."
She immediately felt her nerves go taut. "Identify," she ordered sharply.
"Configuration does not match any vessel currently in memory. Conducting full scan for reference."
"Display." The starfield was replaced by multiple dynamic views of a starship. A starship with a very familiar, very unwelcome shape. "Damn."
"Enter identification for reference."
"Cardassian," Ro said grimly. "Galor class, Type one." Part of the Fourth Order, probably. "How many of them are there?"
"Three. Intercept in two minutes, eleven seconds."
"Computer, these ships are hostile. Advise on all possible options."
A half-second pause. "Option one: engage cloaking shield. Scan information indicates that these vessels lack the capability to detect this ship while cloaked.
"Option two: set a course away from the incoming ships and engage at warp nine-point-nine. Pursuit would be unsuccessful due to hostile vessels' inferior engine potential.
"Option three: combat. Probability of successfully destroying enemy ships is ninety-nine point nine-plus percent."
Ro had already discarded the idea of fighting. But despite herself, she was intrigued by the computer's estimate. "Why so high?" She felt herself becoming detached, as if this were just another Academy lecture.
"Comprehensive scan shows enemy ships' weapons systems will have negligible effect upon primary shielding. Additionally, enemy shields will prove minimally effective against this ship's weapons. However, command under combat conditions requires direct command link to be engaged."
Ro was about to chuck the idea and tell the computer to engage the cloaking device and take evasive action--but then something happened. A parade of faces marched through her head, the faces of the dead. Starting with her father, and all the people she'd seen die in the camps, and all of the Marquis who had fallen--Macias, Lina, Collin--and finally Neira and the others in the scoutship. All of them she saw, in agonizing detail.
And the gleam in her eye turned ice cold.
"All right," she declared. "Let's do it."
At once the voice reappeared inside her head. <Voice command path terminated. Neural-net interlink command path confirmed. All command procedures available.>
Ro still struggled, but the overall effect was calmer somehow, and she felt herself growing more comfortable as her fighting instincts took over. <Relax,> the voice soothed. Insider her head it seemed less like a machine, almost...intimate. She felt around the combat protocols, looking for a scenario that looked familiar. *Scan blockers in place/shields up/all weapons arm,* she thought.
<Scan blockers active/shields raised/all weapons systems online/armed/ready>
*Time?*
<Intercept in one hundred two seconds/photon torpedo range in sixty-nine seconds/phaser range in sixty-two seconds>
*Tactical data dump.*
And in a nanosecond, in a thoughtsbreadth, she knew more than the Federation ever had about Galor-1 cruisers. More than the *Cardassians* knew about them. She knew *everything*--complete internal layouts, schematic breakdowns and precise power readings for every system from the warp engines to the replicators, redundancies, strong points, weak points, design flaws, bug fixes--it was all there, at her mental fingertips.
And at once she saw why the computer had been so confident. The three cruisers together didn't have a fraction of the power it would take to crumple *Glory*'s shields, and the Cardassians own shields were tremendously overmatched by her disruptors and phasers. The slime-crawling *Chik'raxts* didn't have a chance.
<Phaser range in sixty seconds>
*Simultaneous target lock on all enemy ships/disruptors and phasers at full power.*
<Disruptors locked/phasers locked/firing range in fifty-nine seconds/performing tap and dump of enemy computer cores for reference>
*Time to completion of core dump?*
<Twenty-two seconds estimated/firing range in fifty-eight seconds>
Ro stood against a nearby handrail, unmoving, occupying her time by skimming the data from the Cardassians' computers as it flowed past. Apparently the Cardassian computers were so stupid that they didn't even know that all of their data was being stolen.
<Incoming hail/firing range in forty-four seconds>
*No response/advise completing core dump.*
<Core dump complete in seven seconds>
Ro did lightning calculations in her head; a tiny part of her was still amazed at her new-found abilities. *Upon completion of core dump initiate a 2.1-second burst at full sublight.* That would sweep Glory right into the Cardassians' midst.
<Acknowledged/sublight engines ready/core dump complete in six seconds>
Ro tensed in spite of herself, gripping the rail tightly. If anything went wrong, if anything on this ancient ship wasn't working properly...
<Core dump complete/engaging sublight engines>
The starfield shifted suddenly and the three Cardassian cruisers zoomed into view. *Re-establish firing lock on all enemy ships/fire disruptors and phasers.*
<Retargeting/firing lock established/firing>
And three beams of harsh violet lashed out, engulfing the Cardassian cruisers, destabilizing their shields and shredding them into energy fragments. A half-second later the warp-powered phasers fired, creating three simultaneous, identical explosions. And just like that, the Cardassians were gone. The entire fight had taken less than two seconds, and the cruisers had more than likely never even seen their destruction coming.
<All enemy targets destroyed. Do you wish to re-establish voice command link?>
*No.* Ro was completely comfortable with the mindlink now; she suddenly found the idea of voice command to be horribly cumbersome. *Display enemy data dump, indexed form.* She skipped quickly through the terabytes of data, noting and marking various things of interest until she came across what she was looking for: a starmap of the Alpha Quadrant, with a sizable lumpy sectioned marked out in gold. With a thought she copied the map to *Glory*'s own database, then reached inside to illuminate a single
star near the mass's center. *Define enemy power.*
<Definition complete. Identify enemy power for reference.>
Had she spoken, her voice would have been as cold as space. Even the thought dripped venom as she inserted the single word into *Glory*'s memory banks:
