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The quiet was enraging.

Still, Worf forced himself not to be lulled into complacency. He stood guard until almost midnight before pressing the private signal in his subcutaneous transponder.

Across the courtyard, the other transponder, embedded in Grant’s forearm, would be vibrating softly. Come now.

Those minutes waiting for Grant to arrive were far worse than Worf expected. Was he losing control of himself? Was he becoming too personally involved in this mission? Was he rushing things in order to hurry back to the ship and take over as Alexander’s mentor?

“Hey! I’m here.” Grant appeared at the end of the corridor, speaking in a quick whisper. “Can I …” He pointed to the suite door.

Worf nodded, keeping his gaze on the corridor beyond Grant as his partner hurried toward him. Quickly he unlocked the door and let Grant inside. “The computer terminal is in the kitchenette. Work quietly. There may be listening devices inside.”

“Right,” Grant murmured, his eyes wide. He was tense as a cable. “This is our big chance. No more picking up bits by hacking from outside. Everything’s got to be on her private—”

“Go, Grant, go.” Worf shoved him in and pulled the door shut again.

Now the fire was lit. If anyone came, there would be no getting Grant out in time.

He scanned and scanned the corridor, his head constantly swiveling. Imitation candles in sconces cast a softening glow upon the corridor, offering the eerie sensation of a castle in twilight, and casting shadows that seemed sometimes to move. He wished he could be like Data, divorcing himself from his emotional core and his imagination.

What was that?

Had he heard something? Had the outside door just creaked?

He took a step to his right, toward the lobby.

Before his second step he swung around and froze, listening. Voices? Was someone coming from the stairway? Or the elevator? Mrs. Khanty?

His spine felt as if it were twisting. There seemed to be nothing to fear from this single, small woman—how was she so effective? How did she control Klingon warriors? What kind of enemy was this?

His hands were cold, his fingers aching. He flexed them fitfully, and thought of those who no longer had fingers. Or lives.

He listened, watched, turned, listened again, but no one came. The corridors were still as rocks. He hoped Grant could make good use of the time on the private terminal. Something, anything, to end this mission.

Worf chided himself for such feelings. This mission could not be rushed. Then he angrily reminded himself that Klingons were not Vulcans, and his feelings were valuable possessions that could drive his resolve. He was a Klingon, raised as a Klingon, but by humans, and he had found his adoptive parents’ interpretation of being Klingon to be sketchy and not always serviceable. Sometimes he was too Klingon, sometimes too human, and sometimes, other things.

Troubled, Worf tried to shake off his worries, to tell himself that he was isolated, and this was why he felt so troubled. Things were much clearer on board a starship, his duties delineated, and his role as Alexander’s father somewhat easier. Somehow, that job got harder whenever he was separated from Alexander. What kind of man would his son become, living with a foot in two cultures so unlike each other?

The corridor whispered back at him, its lemony sconces passively imitating gaslights, though without the sense of warmth. Worf found himself chilled, but from within. He was trying not to focus on problems insurmountable from the hallway, when the silence was abruptly ruptured by the thunderous howl of an alarm. The red emergency lights were flashing!

Bolting away from the doorway, he stared for that first uncontrolled instant at a looping red light above the door to the governor’s chamber. The alarm was deafening, furious, like the exaggerated barking of a terrorized seal.

Before Worf could so much as flex a leg, two distant doors flew open and the entrance to a stairway thundered with pounding feet; suddenly, the corridor was filled with medical personnel. And four Rogues! Ugulan, Mortash,