Part 17 (2/2)

”Of course not!” Deanna said.

”No, no.” Riker ran his hand through his hair. ”But I am going to have Mr. Data disable your vessel.”

”You ... why?” The Romulan's brows knitted together in confusion.

”Because ...” How could Riker explain this? ”Look, it will only be enough to keep you here for a few days. Life support will be fine. Your cloak will be fine. But you won't be able to maneuver or use communications. You'll be able to repair the systems you need, but probably won't finish until we're out of Romulan s.p.a.ce.”

Tobin frowned. He wasn't a moron. He understood. He was just incredulous. ”You're going to intentionally damage my vessel.”

”I... I'm sorry, Mr. Tobin.” Riker looked at Deanna again. She was the empath, but he knew she felt sorry for him.

”I suppose I understand.” The Romulan said slowly. ”I have ... perhaps strangely, enjoyed this encounter, nevertheless.”

One thing was certain, Tobin knew how to lay on the guilt.

Romulan Warbird Makluan Klingon/Romulan border Sectors ”Why?” Folan kept asking herself. Why would T'sart defect to the Federation? What reason could take him from his relatively high degree of prestige and power?

She'd been acting on anger until now and not using her best a.s.set-her intellect. T'sart had always used his mind to his advantage. Folan had to do the same.

If she could know what he and Picard were doing, she might also figure out the why and the how. Then she would know what she had to do to stop them.

She bounded from the command chair and up to Medric's station. ”How complete was T'sart's deletion of his files from our databanks?”

Medric stared at her blankly for a moment, then finally said, ”I don't know. I've not looked.”

Folan felt a tightness in her chest. ”Then look.” It didn't seem that Medric was going to make any of this easy for her.

He glowered at his computer screen a few long moments as she stood waiting. ”Personal files are gone,” he said. ”Wiped. Not even fragments left. But we still have logs of computer usage. Those can't be erased.”

Folan was almost surprised T'sart hadn't figured out a way. ”If we look at these, what might they tell us?”

”They won't tell you anything,” Medric said, and she noted he'd said ”you” and not ”us.”

”They wouldn't exist if they didn't tell us something.”

”Fine. They won't tell you much: Periods of computer use. Databases accessed. Files open, closed, saved, deleted... standard actions.”

Folan nodded, her mind already churning on the possibilities. ”Transfer those logs to this station.” She pointed at her old station. She was careful not to refer to it that way, though. ”I want to see them all.”

”Fine.” Medric tapped the appropriate keys on his console.

The tension was thick. Folan hated it, but would endure. She must. She'd started this and swore she'd see it to its end.

She slid into the science station seat and began poring over the download. At first the logs were just a jumble of dates and times, file names and deletions. She couldn't make much of it. How could she hunt an animal that floated above the ground and left no tracks? Folan was no hunter.

But she was a scientist. She could look for a pattern. Any pattern.

First dates, then common file names. Then databases he used. And reused. And what sort of information each database held.

After more than an hour she raised her head from the console. ”I have something,” she said, her throat dry.

No one paid her any mind.

”Medric,” she said in a commanding tone, ”come here.”

He rose, stepped over, and stood at her side. ”Yes, SubCommander,” he said, his tone bland.

She pointed toward one of the monitors. ”Look.”

He leaned down. ”What am I supposed to see?”

Folan wanted to hit him, like she had her younger brothers when they'd annoyed her beyond imagination. ”On three separate occasions, T'sart requested patrol information for sectors 18 through 50.”

Medric grunted. ”He's been nowhere near that sector. And we weren't going to be.”

She nodded somewhat excitedly. ”Exactly.”

”So?” He shrugged. ”There's nothing in that area anyway. A few outward colonies. Nothing important. It's too far out.”

”Yes. But T'sart was interested.”

He breathed out through his nose and leaned down closer to the console, this time with intent ”He wants something out there, or wanted to travel out that way.”

Folan nodded. ”Yes. The question is 'what'?” She tapped at her board and a list of files flashed on another screen. ”The only thing of even mild interest in this area is a subs.p.a.ce relay station.”

”Only he would know,” Medric said, but his tone was much less bored now.

”That's not all I've found. Our sensor logs show a subs.p.a.ce burst from the Enterprise when they were still in Romulan s.p.a.ce. Here, look.” She pointed to yet another monitor graphing a list of sensor anomalies. ”A warp vessel,” she said. ”A small one.”

”Perhaps,” Medric was suddenly slower to agree, ”were we able to alert the fleet-”

”We're not.” Folan snapped.

”So, what does this do for us?” Medric asked.

”I'm not sure of that part,” she admitted. ”But the only thing I can see of importance in this area is a relay hub that processes communications and computer database updates throughout these sectors. At first, I thought perhaps he needed some information from it.”

”What kind of information?”

”No, listen, I rethought that. Relay stations like that are also used for emergency supply stores. There's an element they might be looking for there. They could add it to their warp intermix or plasma conduits and mask their warp signature to look like that of a warbird's.”

Medric shook his head and frowned deeply. ”That is not possible.”

”It is,” Folan corrected him. ”I submitted a report to the Senate two years ago on this, but it was ignored. My specialty is power and energy systems, remember?”

Nodding slowly, Medric rubbed his forehead thoughtfully and leaned slightly on the lip of the science station. ”Then why are T'sart and the Enterprise now in Klingon s.p.a.ce?”

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