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By Root 681 0

which part of the compound’s optical data network ran. Having been designed for Chiarosans, the panel was quite high, forcing him to stand on tiptoe, his arms stretched uncomfortably above his head. Alert for the sound of approaching Chiarosans, he worked as quickly as possible, patching the tricorder into the microminiaturized ODN terminal node he had installed four days previously; he’d left it there while ostensibly helping one of the rebel engineers run a diagnostic on the base’s communications system. Forcing contemporary Starfleet hardware to work reliably alongside the Chiarosans’systems-most of which appeared to be analogous to Federation technology from the late twenty-second century-had been a bit of a challenge, despite his extensive training in obsolete technologies. But core technological principles rarely changed much, even after two centuries.

Using the tricorder’s input pads, Zweller navigated through a complicated series of hierarchical icons. This complex command sequence was intended to surreptitiously isolate this particular comm terminal from the rest of the base’s computer system. At the same time, it would attempt to seize control of a portion of the backup comm system using every possible clearance code, running the code sequences at nearly a billion cycles per second. After each attempt, the program in the tricorder would erase all evidence that it had ever tried to jimmy its way inside the facility’s systems.

A tense minute elapsed while the small display on Zweller’s tricorder repeatedly flashed a single word: working. Two minutes passed. A bead of cold sweat crept down the small of his back, chilling him. Three minutes.

Then the display gave way to a cheerful green: COMMUNICATIONS ARRAY: ACCESS APPROVED.

Yes!

Zweller’s hands were now becoming slick with sweat from the effort of holding his body in such an unnatural posture. As carefully as he could, he entered the next sequence of icons, a grouping even more complex than the previous one. The idea behind this particular command set was to get inside the base’s security grid. Were he actually to try to use the base’s transmitter before doing that, he would more than likely trigger a security alarm.

It would take only a few moments to send the Enterprise a burst of data containing a set of detailed instructions, including the coordinates of each of the holding cells relative to the location of the rebels’ subspace transmitter. Assuming that the transmitter could pierce the local static, Johnny and his crew would trace the signal to its source, establish its location, and then apply his coordinate correction data to calculate the positions of each of the imprisoned Starfleet officers. While Zweller was well aware that the transporters aboard the Enterprise could not beam anyone directly off the planet-there was far too much atmospheric ionization to permit that-he was reasonably certain that a low-flying shuttlecraft could pull it off, with a little luck.

He decided that he would preprogram the holding cells’ forcefields to come down in six hours. Six hours would give Picard ample time to get a shuttle close enough to the compound to beam every Starfleet captive to safety. And because even the Chiarosan government probably couldn’t intercept such a brief, tightly focused subspace transmission, the rebel compound’s location would remain beyond the reach of Ruardh’s military machine.

It was a win-win scenario. Zweller grinned at his own cleverness.

WORKING, flashed the tricorder as it continued trying countless security-grid access codes. Another crimson-blinking minute passed. Then two.

Three minutes. More sweat flowed, this time stinging his eyes. He brushed it away with his palm, stifling a curse.

Four minutes. Why the hell was this taking so long?

He heard the deliberate clip-clop of a soldier’s boots. The sound approached, then withdrew, then ceased entirely.

His hands had begun to shake. I’m getting too old for this.

Then, in green: SECURITY GRID: ACCESS APPROVED. The muscles in his calves and shoulders were aching from his awkward,