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Thul sighed. He had not done right by the boy as a child; he knew that. He recalled showing up for a visit at his humble home every so often, handing Mendan’s mother a small pouch full of latinum and regarding the fruit of their reckless union with patrician distaste.

Whose fault had it been, then, that Abbis had grown up with a chip on his shoulder-with a sense of inferiority and a need to prove himself at every opportunity? Whose fault but that of his father?

But that was over, the governor promised himself. He’d given the boy a chance and Mendan Abbis, bastard, had seized it better than any privileged Thallonian whelp ever could have.

Thul himself had been snubbed by his Emperor because he wasn’t high-born enough to marry Mella Cwan. The governor would never make that mistake when he sat on a throne. His Empire would be based on merit, on skill and talent, not on accidents of birth.

As for Mendan Abbis… he would get what his father had promised him: a seat on Thul’s right hand, the time-honored place of the Emperor’s rightful heir. And why not?

The boy had earned it.

The commander and his Vulcan companion stumbled into the heart of the dance hall, clad in the filthy, smelly garb of their guards, which they had liberally sprinkled with alcoholic beverages.

Crusher hoped no one noticed how poorly Tuvok’s clothes fit-an unfortunate but unavoidable problem given the differences between the ensign’s spare physique and that of Old Scowly’s look-alike. With luck, any potential observer would be more interested in Grace, who walked between the Starfleet officers with her arms linked through theirs.

There was a Pandrilite on the stage and the loud music that accompanied her gyrations thundered in the commander’s bones, more primal than the subtle, sultry sound of the flute to which Grace had danced. The place was significantly more crowded as well, though Crusher wouldn’t have believed such a thing was possible.

He laughed and pretended to fall in his drunkenness, then called something to one of the other dancing girls. But that was only what would have been expected of him. And Grace held her head high, saying without words that she had two customers who wanted her favors tonight, and wasn’t she just glorious enough to deserve it.

Thus they walked unnoticed and unchallenged to the private quarters where more intimate business was transacted, and Grace closed the door. Inside were a few beds covered with rank-smelling linens, and a couple of candles that represented a pathetic attempt at ambiance.

Grace’s feral face shone in the yellow light. “No one suspected anything,” she told the commander.

He nodded. “Excellent.”

“Indeed,” Tuvok added.

Grace went to the room’s only window and opened it with an effort. The soft sounds and hard, pungent smells of the night wafted to them on cool, moist drafts of air.

“If you have access to this room and this window,” asked Crusher, “why haven’t you run away before now?” He found he was a little suspicious at how easy their progress had been to this point.

The slave girl gestured to her shackles. “I have these on all the time, except when I dance. And this,” she said, pointing to a tiny box that flashed red and blue and was suspended from the shackles, “will not permit me to leave the building.”

The commander decided that he believed her. Wordlessly, he drew the energy weapon formerly owned by Mendan Abbis. Understanding his intent, Grace held out her hands and stood still.

Crusher’s objective was to destroy the control box without hurting Grace-not as easy as it sounded with an unfamiliar weapon in his hand. His eyes met hers and she nodded trustingly, clenching her jaw.

The human took a breath to steady himself. Then he placed the weapon’s nose within six centimeters of the box and pressed the trigger. The weapon spit out a dark blue stream of energy.

Grace gritted her teeth against the heat. Sparks flew haphazardly. But after a few seconds, there was a satisfying