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“Cordracite excrement!” howled the G’aha, clapping his hand to his wound. His eyes were enormous with anger. “And to think I once believed that peace with your people would be a worthwhile goal. The Sakari area of space is ours-and if we have to take thousands of your worthless lives to claim it, then so be it!”

The Cordracite made a rasping sound in his throat “You took the words out of my mouth,” he said.

Picard shook his head. His worst fear had come to pass. Despite his best efforts, it seemed, there would be war.

There was no more fighting after that. The two delegations simply turned away from each other and marched out of the hall. The other species represented in the council chamber muttered and exchanged glances, no doubt mulling their options.

Some seemed to stream after the Melacron. Others appeared to follow the Cordracites. Before long, none of the delegates remained.

Only a few lost souls still stood there in the mammoth chamber, looking shell-shocked and perplexed: Picard, Ben Zoma, Gerrid Thul, Cabrid Culunnh, and a few of his Benniari attendants. The place seemed to ring with ghostly cries and threats even after those who had uttered them were gone.

“It will destroy us,” Culunnh said softly.

Picard didn’t have the wherewithal to argue with the Benniari, though he wished it were otherwise.

“At first,” the First Minister went on, “it will only be a conflict between the Melacron and the Cordracites. But one by one, the other species in the sector will choose sides.”

“Perhaps …” Jilokh began.

Culunnh held up a hand. “No… don’t hold out false hope, Jilokh.” He eyed the captain, Ben Zoma and then Thul. “You have all seen the beginning of it today. Caught in the middle, as always, the Benniari will be the victims.” He shook his head. “We have failed. I am ashamed.”

“You did everything you could,” Picard assured him. “You kept both sides talking far longer than anyone had any right to expect. I would not consider that a failure.”

“It does not matter what went before,” said Culunnh. “The Cordracites and the Melacron have left with the heat of war in their hearts.”

“Which may yet cool,” the Thallonian put in.

The First Minister smiled wanly at him. “I did not know Thallonians were such optimists.”

“Not optimists, no,” Thul conceded. “But the first virtue among my people is courage, my friend. And that means more than how well you conduct yourself in a fight.”

“Once the first official attack begins,” said Culunnh, “courage will be needed by all of us. I pray that we find it”

Picard sighed. He had hoped to make an optimistic report to Starfleet Command. He had hoped there would be some good news. It didn’t appear that that was a possibility anymore.

Commander Jack Crusher had once had a headache more painful than this one. But only once.

He was young back then, only twenty-two, attending a bachelor party for a fellow cadet. There were women and dancing and loud music, and some remarkably smooth Romulan ale that had been smuggled to Earth somehow.

Crusher had drunk too much and danced too much and his friends had tried to convince him that he had done other things as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t remember any of them. What he did remember, and would never forget, was the exquisite torture of a hangover that had all the force of a Klingon disruptor barrage behind it.

This headache was a close second.

He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, and it was only then that he realized his hands had been tied behind his back. He winced as pain awakened unexpectedly in his face.

His nose hurt worst of all. It felt flattened so badly he probably could have given Old Scowly a ran for his money in the ugly department. Then again, he doubted it was anything Greyhorse couldn’t fix in his sickbay.

Unfortunately, the commander wasn’t in Greyhorse’s sickbay. He looked around the room he was in, trying to ignore the bruises and the dried blood and the stiffness in his limbs. The place was small, cold and dingy, he observed. There were no windows and only a single door.

A silhouette