"Saul Bental and the Holy Grail"

Ensign Saul Bental

Intelligence Officer

Excerpt from the UFP Historic Terran comedy and parody database

Circa 2000 A.D.

"People try to hide our grail away. We're on a quest to find it anyway We reach a castle, you'll tell by the stench All of the people inside, they are French Hearing demands for a rockery These are the knights, the knights who say—"

* * * *

Eventually, Saul found himself near the Galaxy.

The Milky Way Galaxy, all spiral and stars and nebulas which is not very good for you if you're allergic to dust.

In the darkness of space, the whirling Galaxy is the strongest source of light. Saul glanced upwards – was it up actually? – then got a little sick from the justified vertigo. He should really come inside before he either throws up or starts coughing like a madman because of the Nebulas.

He stepped toward the Galactic core, where a portal suddenly appeared. The doors sled open, much like a Turbolift, and he entered the core.

"Welcome aboard Ensign Bental."

He found himself on the Galaxy's bridge, naturally – it WAS the core of the Galaxy after all.

The bridge appeared just like he remembered from his last visit, even the same crew – of course, with the addition of the cute blonde and pretty red-head in Bikini swimsuits. Both of them sat on the lap of the Galaxy's executive officer now occupying the Captain's chair. The red-head caressed his chest whereas the blonde massaged his temples.

A career in Starfleet does have its reward, Saul reckoned.

"Thank you sir.", he replied. "Why was I summoned to the bridge?"

"We're about to enter battle." Cass said seriously, and both chicks on his lap suddenly seemed concerned and even sad. "I need you to take the ship's rear."

"Aye sir." Saul said firmly, and then moved near the Tactical panel. "Where's the rear?"

"Right here." Said a cheerful Alto voice. Saul spun around, almost bumping into a fat lady in Starfleet uniforms which barely contained her humongous ass.

"Wow… cellulites…" Saul murmured to himself.

"You're supposed to man me." She explained, making his blush against his will. "It's not very difficult."

"I bet…"

"Saul." He heard Cass from behind him, his voice barely heard between the girls' giggles. "Look at the viewscreen, here is our enemy."

Once more Saul spun on his heels, getting a little dizzy while he's at it. On the Viewscreen his saw a swarm of T'Kith'Kin fighters in many different colors, converging upon them.

"The Enemy stopped approximately one light minute away from our current position.", proclaimed the Operations officer.

"On Screen."

The fighters seemed to arrange themselves in a weird formation. There were two rectangles. The left rectangle had a blue square of fighters on its upper right corner, which was dotted with white fighters. The fighters in the rest of the rectangle were arranged in horizontal strips – a strip of white fighters, then a strip of red, and so forth. The other rectangle was divided to three vertical rectangles – the fighters on the left and right were read, and in the middle they were white except for some red fighters which created a… leaf?... of some sort?

"What are they doing?" Cassius Henderson asked the thin air. The two groups began to shoot at each other with spatial flamethrowers.

"All right, into the fray." Cassius said boldly. "Mr. Bental, time to kick ass!"

Saul turned toward the rear-of-the-ship-lady, drew a deep breath, and kicked her in the butt.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The Galactic core rattled back and forth like an old man with Parkinson disease. Saul managed to hold on for ten complete seconds before he was flung to the other side of the bridge. He barely managed to land before he found himself airborne again, this time landing on Cassius' lap, scattering frightened chicks in swimsuits to all directions.

Saul moaned with pain.

"I think you broke your uncle." The Executive officer said calmly.

"My ankle does hurt, but I don't think I broke it."

"No, you did." Cassius gestured. On the ground, Saul saw some shards, like someone shattered a mirror. In some of the shards he could identify body parts.

A shard containing lips and some chin spoke, in Saul's uncle's voice. "Hello Sauly. Can you please take me to sickbay? I'm unable to walk at the moment."

"Uncle Paul! You're broken!"

Cassius glared at Saul. "Get yourself and your broken uncle off my bridge."

"Yessir." Saul quickly gathered the shards into a nearby bag, lifted it over his shoulder, and hurried toward the turbolift.

"Sickbay."

Moments later, he was already in the darkened corridors, running. The lights around him flickered, and he could feel the weapons outside pulverizing the Galaxy.

He darted around several corners until finally he was blocked by a group of men, dressed in bright gray armor with full helmets covering their heads. Some of them were holding swords, the others short lances resembling the Hydran Hellebore weapon.

They weren't men, of course, they were—

"Halt! We are the Breen who say Jii!"

"No! Not the Breen who say 'Jii'!" Saul blurted out in despair.

"The same!" the Breen leader replied.

"Who are they?", asked Saul's broken uncle from the bag.

"We are the keepers of the sacred words: 'Jii', 'Piage'', and 'Mk-antu'!", explained the leader.

"Those who hear them seldom live to tell the tale.", Saul sagged.

The Breen slowly paced forword, uttering 'Jii!', 'Jii!' in high-pitched voices.

"Stop, stop!" Saul shouted. He could feel their icy breath through the sealed helmets.

"The Breen who say 'Jii' demand a sacrifice!"

"Breen of Jii, we are but simple Starfleet Officers who seek the Doctor who lives beyond these corridors."

"Jii!"

"Jii! Jii! Jii! Jii!"

"Ow! Argh!"

"We shall say 'Jii' again to you if you do not appease us." The head Breen gloated at Saul's yelping.

"What is it that you want?" Saul asked desperately.

"A Bradbury!"

"What??"

"Jii! Jii! Jii! Jii! Jii! Jii!!"

"Please! Please! No more! We will find you a Bradbury!", Saul's voice carried over the Breen's

"You must return here with a Bradbury, or else, you will never pass through this corridor... alive."

"O Breen of Jii, you are just and fair, and we will return with a Bradbury.", Saul swore.

"One that reads nice."

"Of course."

"And not too expensive."

"Yes."

"Now... go!", the Breen leader folded his arms.

Saul returned to the previous corridor, and went from door to door until he found what he was looking for. He entered the familiar room. The bricks were still dark-green, and there were still shelves and oval table. Only this time, instead of a stout Sakarian, the person behind the counter was Nara.

"Excuse me, Naranda, I would like to buy 'Fahrenheit 451' by Ray Bradbury."

Nara didn't look as though she recognized him. "Fifteen strips of Latinum."

"But that's expensive!!" Saul protested. "Surely you can sell it for five and still make a good profit…"

"Are you exploiting Sakaria?!" Nara's face reddened and she drew a Disruptor mini-cannon from behind the counter.

"Umm, no, here you go." Saul reached reluctantly to his bag. A hand came out of one of his uncle's shards, giving him the strips, and a second later he was the proud owner of a soft-cover Fahrenheit 451, 200th anniversary edition.

He hurried back to the Breen who say Jii, resisting an urge to make a cling-clang noise with his tongue.

"Oh Breen of Jii!" he exclaimed as he approached the group, "We have brought you a Bradbury. May we go now?"

He handed the book over to the leader for examination

"It is a good Bradbury. I like the Martian chronicles particularly,... but there is one small problem."

"What is that?", Saul inquired.

"We are now... no longer the Breen who Say 'Jii'."

There was some commotion behind the leader as his men began to get used to the new idea, and shushed each other.

"Shh! We are now the Breen Who Say 'Ecky- ecky- ecky- ecky- Picard!"

"Jii! ", some grunt Breen said behind the leader, confused.

"Therefore, we must give you a test."

Saul shrugged his shoulders. This was getting nowhere. "What is this test, O Breen of-- Breen who till recently said 'Jii'?

"Firstly, you must find... another Bradbury!"

"Not another Bradbury!"

Then, when you have found the Bradbury, you must place it here beside this Bradbury, only with slightly more pages so you get the two-level effect with a little path running down the middle."

The Breen nodded behind their leader. "A path! A path! A path! Jii! Shh! Jii! Jii! Jii! Shh! Shh!...

Then, when you have found the Bradbury, you must smash down the highest panel in the corridor... with... a herring!"

That was as much as Saul could take. "I'm Dutch! I love Herring! We shall do no such thing!"

"Oh, please!", the Breen rolled his eyes. Or at least, Saul thought he did that behind the helmet.

"Smash a console with a herring? It can't be done. Can I use a trout instead?"

The Breen turned around for group consultation. Then, the leader drew a trout from his armor's pocket and handed it over to Saul.

Which immediately slapped him around the face with a large Trout.

Time seemed to freeze as Saul jumped into the midst of the Breen, slashing and whipping the Trout at the surprised enemy. Heads, arms and other organs were amputated, and Breen blood soon covered the carpet.

The frenzy was disrupted as someone tapped Saul's shoulder. It was a Starfleet officer, with golden collar. Saul thought he recognized the man – his name was Kreighoff, or some similar German. He had horns. Behind him was a detachment of Security Officers holding tridents.

"You are all arrested for disturbing the peace and ruining a perfectly good carpet." He stated with deep accent, and handcuffed Saul.

The Intelligence officer closed his eyes as he heard the cuffs close in a click…

And opened them again. This time the view was of his temporal quarters in Starbase 212. On the far wall, he could see the Trideo 'Monthy Python and the Holy Grail – 2363 remake' still running. It was the scene with the cow and the catapult, quite a knocker.

Saul wanted to say 'Christ', but then he reminded himself that he's Jewish, and that he believes that Jesus was just a Jew with good intentions and some nutty followers.

He turned the Trideo off, then closed his eyes shut again, quietly mumbling 'Jii' before falling back to sleep.

"Stress Test"

Principal Characters

Captain Daren M'Kantu
Lieutenant Jeremy Savoie

****

USS Galaxy-B
Deck xx
Main Shuttlebay

It had been said that Time could do many things, from healing wounds of the heart and soul to revealing the most convoluted of truths, but after an absence of months Jeremy Savoie discovered firsthand that Time could be rendered impotent with one footstep. The noise and bustle of the Galaxy's cavernous main shuttle bay was more than simply familiar; it was the sound of home. A home he never even realized had meant anything to him.

As the quiet and usually sullen lieutenant stepped from the shuttle hatch onto the artificially firm deck, he was immediately aware of how much this ship had come to mean to him. Despite the harsh scrutiny of Captain Bhrode, the myriad flaws and inconveniences of Dr. Quick's design, the personal frustrations of a romantic relationship, and even the inevitable friction with other officers, this ship had been Jeremy's saving grace and source of stability. Returning to it now was not only unexpectedly comforting, it seemed to give meaning to an all-too-incomprehensible universe. The past few months on Earth as a key witness in his former XO's very complicated court martial proceedings had demonstrated the uncertain and unforgiving side of life in Starfleet. It was a side of that existence he had hoped he would never see again after witnessing so much of that it as the son of two career fleet non-comms.

In a few relatively short moments, Jeremy had crossed the shuttle deck, ready to leave behind the shuttle that had brought him here and the unpleasant experience it had brought him from. "Lieutenant Jeremy Savoie, reporting for duty," he stated with no nuance of tone to the flight deck chief on duty.

"Welcome back, sir. It's good to see you again."

Savoie immediately doubted the other man's sincerity. He knew he hadn't really won over any friends here. Why would this guy suddenly seem to care? But before Jeremy could decide how to respond, the man continued.

"Got an order from the Captain, sir. You're to report to him directly upon coming aboard."

The captain wished to see him? Never a good sign, at least in his experience, Jeremy thought to himself. M'kantu hadn't been in command of the Galaxy for very long when Jeremy was recalled to Earth. As far as the chief helmsman knew, he seemed like a decent enough guy. Or maybe it was now *former* chief helmsman. Whatever.

Without another word to the deck chief, Jeremy strode through the sliding doors and into the corridor, a dismal funk already beginning to settle over him.

****

USS Galaxy-B
Secondary Hull
Deck 8
Temporary Captain's Ready Room

It was a good thing, Daren supposed, that his XO was away on his quest to locate an AWOL officer. That way, at least, they were not trying to share the space assigned to the XO's Office in the secondary Hull while the Primary was cleaned out and towed away and their new saucer installed. It did mean, though, that things were never where *he* would have put them, and it was a constant struggle to avoid rearranging Henderson's office to suit himself during the wait.

The LCARS panel chirped for his attention and drew him back from his contemplation of just why Henderson felt the need to store his extra PADD styli in the left hand drawer of his desk instead of the obviously superior position in the central top drawer. His former Chief Flight Officer was back aboard after a lengthy trip back to Earth for a court martial.

At least, Daren decided with a sigh as he stood to get more coffee, Savoie had broken with tradition and not been the *subject* of the court martial. That was something of a record for a Galaxy crewman.

With any luck, he'd have calmed down a bit - and his return would improve the mood of the 10-Forward manager. The woman had been getting positively surly of late.

He'd returned to his seat when the buzz from his door announced Savoie's arrival. "Enter."

Heeding the command, Jeremy walked into the room, taking in what he could of it in a couple seconds. He had heard a little of the ship's most recent mission, but he was still dying to know the details. "You wished to see me, sir?" he stated, his stance a little more rigid than normal but not quite at full attention. Wondering about the man behind the desk, Savoie wasn't sure what the nature of this meeting would be.

"Welcome back. Mr. Savoie," Daren nodded. "At ease - this isn't a formal meeting."

Still not sure what the captain really wanted, Jeremy relaxed a little but said nothing.

"I imagine that you've noticed that we're making a few changes," Daren continued. "Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes not - there are all kinds of change. In reading the reports on your time back on Earth, I see that you're making some changes too. I don't know about the Galaxy's changes yet, but I believe that the ones you're making are for the better... which is why I requested you be transferred back here."

Until that moment, it had never crossed Jeremy's mind that he might not go back to the Galaxy. He had regarded his time away as a necessary but very temporary assignment. But it was true -- M'Kantu could have refused to have him back, and it wouldn't have been the first time a captain reacted that way.

As for any personal changes, Savoie hadn't thought a lot about those either. He did get on well with the other officers involved in the proceedings on Earth, many of whom he hadn't seen in years. There were no "incidents", no personality clashes or threats from higher-ranking officers; indeed, Jeremy had seemed to have checked his attitude at the door and had provided a clear and consistent recollection of the events during his time on the Lexington. And he had won over a few of his detractors in the process. Perhaps this was the "news" M'Kantu had gotten wind of.

"I did my duty, sir, honestly and completely. Nothing more, nothing less," he answered civilly.

Daren nodded. "Under circumstances that would, at best, be considered emotionally charged, and in the face of memories and stresses that would kindly be characterized as 'trying.'" He sipped at his coffee. "I like my officers to keep their cool under stress, Mr. Savoie.

Was this a test? Still unsure about what M'Kantu was up to, Jeremy felt like the captain's unclear maneuvering was a purposeful attempt to see how he'd react.

"With all due respect sir, I don't believe there's ever been a time when I haven't kept my cool while piloting this ship," Jeremy replied, starting to feel like his abilities as a helmsman were being questioned.

"No, I can't say that you have, Mr. Savoie," Daren agreed, eyes on the younger man. "But this is a stressful profession that the two of us have chosen for ourselves - and not all of that stress comes while we are on duty..."

"Are you planning to watch me when I'm off duty too, sir?" the helmsman replied, the stress M'Kantu referred to already building within him.

"Mr. Savoie, let me be frank - your technical performance of the duties assigned to you is excellent, it always has been, all the way back to the Academy; I've served with few that were better. Your past difficulties have all been directly related to one issue: your problems in relating to the other members of the crew, to include the members of the Command Staff, on the ships that you've been assigned to, in a non-confrontational manner." He paused. "Accepted?"

"Accepted . . . sir."

Daren nodded. "There were signs that you'd begun to have the same sorts of difficulties here aboard the Galaxy before you left to testify, Mr. Savoie. Not many compared to previous duty stations, but signs. That's why I was pleased to see that you'd completed your testimony in a professional and competent manner. If you can do so given the stress and accusations of defense counsel at a court martial, you can continue to do so here. Agreed?"

Jeremy unflinchingly held the captain's gaze. The meeting confirmed what he'd learned before his reassignment to Earth: this man wasn't John Q. Bhrode, though he was no less tough. M'Kantu's style was firm yet fair, and Savoie instinctively knew that if he showed some respect and didn't underestimate him, the captain would reciprocate. "Agreed . . . sir." It seemed they had reached a mutual understanding.

"Good." M'Kantu took a sip from his coffee and glanced down at the PADD-littered desk in front of him. "They've installed some new systems on our new saucer section. I'll need you to be up to speed on them by the time we're operational - especially the secondary warp systems they claim will improve saucer survivability. Do you think that's going to be a problem?"

"Secondary warp systems?" Jeremy echoed, trying not to sound too impressed. "Shouldn't be a problem at all." ~As long as they weren't designed by Jebediah Quick,~ he thought to himself.

"I didn't think so, either," the Captain nodded. "Oh, one other thing... you *did* call Ms. Friel while you were away, didn't you? She's been remarkably... testy... the last few weeks...."

"Um . . . I'll speak with her, sir." As if becoming familiar with a whole new saucer section wasn't going to be difficult enough.

"You don't report for duty for 48 hours Mr. Savoie. With luck, that will give you time to catch up on things." Daren eyed the younger man for a moment. "We've had several transfers into your department since you left," he handed Jeremy a PADD seemingly drawn at random from the litter atop the desk. "Their information is here, along with the specifications on the new saucer section and the revamping of the Galaxy's warp system with the loss of the third nacelle."

"Finally convinced them to get rid of that thing?" Jeremy remarked, accepting the PADD and scanned the Galaxy's new design schematics for a moment. "Should be more stable, more balanced." Then he looked over to M'Kantu again and smiled broadly. "And as beautiful as she was intended to be. Can't wait to fly her, sir."

"I'm not certain if it was that or the expense at reinstalling it after it was shot away, but in any case it's gone and we're not getting a new one," Daren nodded. "As of right now you're on leave for 48 hours, Mr. Savoie - make the most of them, because you're going to be busy when they're up."

A voice interrupted M'Kantu. =/\= "Sir, incoming transmission from Starfleet. Something about a Klingon Imperial Envoy arriving." =/\=

M'Kantu sighed. "Be certain that this chair is what you want, Mr. Savoie. I promise you, the stress does nothing but climb from where you are. Is there anything else?"

Somewhere deep under it all, a part of Jeremy wanted to say "thank you", although he wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps being treated with a little respect required getting used to. "No, sir. I still have to get settled in."

Daren nodded and offered Jeremy his hand, "Then welcome back aboard, Mr. Savoie." After they'd shaken, he tapped his combadge. =/\= "M'Kantu to Comm Officer. Rout the call to my screen." =/\=

As Jeremy turned to go, Daren looked up. "Oh, and Mr. Savoie... when you have that talk with Ms. Friel, I suggest flowers. Quite a lot of them."

"Empty-handed"

Principal Characters

Lt (JG) Victor Krieghoff
Ensign Indigo Renkert

****

USS Galaxy-A
Deck 10
Ella Grey and Indigo Renkert's Quarters

The lights were out.

Victor considered that for a moment, and then discarded it. There were so many relays blown and so many damaged systems that it would take weeks to fix them all. So many, in fact, that Starfleet had decided to simply replace the saucer section with another one and tow the Galaxy-A's away to let the engineers play with her back at Utopia Planetia.

Grey would like that. She liked to fix things. It would be a good job for her.

But she wasn't here.

No one was here.

No one but him, sitting in the dark, smelling her.

Which was how Indigo Renkert found him.

Her response was not completely unexpected.

"Get out! Get out!" Indy cried, running to hit him over the head with the first object that came to hand - a computer PADD. Victor even let her for a moment before self preservation overrode and he grabbed her wrist. Indy cried out and struggled for a bit but then collapsed and ended up sobbing on his arm.

Victor frowned and shifted her slightly so she didn't press against the dermal regeneration dressing that the doctors had put on him after the transplant surgery to replace the tissues and repair the damage the Hydran fusion beam had done to him.

She'd gotten it together enough to change her hair black for Bill's funeral. Probably overly dramatic but Bill would have laughed. And then after the funeral she had remembered Ella.

"They're gone." She said quietly.

"No, they're not here," he agreed.

His simple statement made the tears well up again. "It doesn't seem real, does it? Even with me watching Bill die, it doesn't seem real. And Ella...." Indigo sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her arm. "Are you even sad, Krieghoff?"

"I don't know," he replied slowly. "Should I be?"

"She's dead." Indy said numbly.

"Everything dies," Victor answered quietly, with certainty. "Plants die, animals die, people die, planets die, stars die, galaxies die, and even universes die. Being sad over something that can't be changed is... senseless." He looked at her for a moment. "There's no point to feeling sad for Grey, anyway."

"Why's that?"

"Because Grey isn't dead."

"Krieghoff," Indy began and then looked at him curiously. "How do you know?"

His answer was simple and delivered with a conviction that seemed unshakable. "Because I haven't told her that she could be."

"You don't have control of something like that." She told him, having heard of the now infamous command he had given that Adijah woman. "You weren't even there."

Victor looked at her as if she'd just said something so absurd that it was beyond even laughter.

"It's not pointless to be sad over someone you love dying." Indigo said suddenly. "It's showing you cared, Krieghoff. If you were to die, Ella would have cried over you."

"Grey does many things I wouldn't - or can't," he said softly, his voice clean of emotional context. "I've told her that I'm not a good friend, but she keeps trying to be mine despite that."

"Yeah, I don't get it either." Indy said and then blushed.

He frowned and looked around the room again. "It's empty without her here," he offered without warning. "I can still smell her, and if I close my eyes it's almost like she's here... but she isn't."

"Well, that's something at least." Indigo said. She pulled on her the ends of her newly black hair in an unconscious mimic of Ella. "Do you really think she's still alive?"

"Yes. She's just not here."

"I'm sorry I hit you."

Victor shook his head. "No, you're not; embarrassed maybe, but not sorry. You didn't mean it anyway. If you had, I would have hit back."

Indy grunted and shook her head. "I can see how you annoy her." She pushed herself away from Krieghoff and stood, looking over the disaster of a room. "Well, would you like to help me gather up her things? I need to get our stuff out of her so the crews can come clean up debris and repair."

"Not repair," Victor said with a frown as he looked around. "Replace. We're getting a new saucer section. It needs to be stored."

"Oh. I'll put it someplace safe until she comes back." Indigo said. "If she comes back."

"When." His inflection left no room for doubt. "My storage limit is mostly unused. It can go there."

"I..." Indigo began and looked hard at Krieghoff. He still looked like the boogeyman, he was still giving her the heebie-jeebies, but he had given her some kind of hope.

Go figure.

"I'd like that, thanks." Indigo said.

Victor nodded and stood up abruptly. "I'll make arrangements." He looked around the room, frowned, and picked a single item up off the floor - Grey's almost-complete model of the Voyager, one nacelle now bent from being tossed about in the battle - and added, "Someone will be by tomorrow," as he started for the door.

Indy smiled wanly. She would have to tell Ella about him snagging a memento of her if she got back.

When, Indy said to herself. When she got back.

Benediction of the Sword

by Abaddon

Abaddon stood on Mikael's Spear, the most famous peak on his homeworld, facing a skyline so very different than the one he remembered. Below the vista in a snow-shrouded valley, the small central social complex (aka "city") of the Consensus glowed with beautiful golden haze and shimmering purple. Low-intensity climatological modification fields reduced the chill and kept the humidity constant as the City thrummed with the thoughts and actions of two-thousand Consensual Beings. And from there the distant Membership maintained contact through the Core-Link, spreading another six-thousand of his brothers and sisters all over the Galaxy.

Though even here, in the distant solitude he had sought following his years on assignment with the Federation, the golden glow of the Link embraced him. He had shut it down to the least level, had reduced his enhancing fields and life support to minimal settings and climbed to the summit, some eleven-thousand feet above the distant city.

Here he had come and here he had stayed, meditating in the frigidity and solitude, preparing for whatever duty Jezu was preparing for him. And now, after seventeen days of fasting, eating only the snow that fell and seeing only the snowfall and shrieking bahnsidhe of the winds, he saw the vision below.

And was reminded, given a benediction and a renewal of spirit, of the ideals for which he laboured. And through it his mind opened to the Link and a crescendo of Song, the distant melodies and the complex harmonies of celestial harmony, embracing and carrying the Mind to the Realm of Spirit.

He knew not how much longer he sat, entranced by the Vision and Song, experiencing his people's love and support in its purest form. But he felt the tug of responsibility, the needs of his body, the damage he had done in his quest for enlightenment and spiritualism. Negligeably he tended to them as he slowly refocused on the body that housed the spirit of Abaddon, bringing with him a piece of the Light and a snatch of the Song, to warm the Abyss within him.

As a Sword, there was little enough light within.

::The Federation has asked that you serve again:: came the voice of Jezu, their leader and the son of the Progenitor, Hugh. ::I also, ask that you serve::

::What is your will?:: the Sword asked the Light.

::A ship, a powerful symbol, is being remade as one of the Shields of the Federation:: Jezu, the Light of the Consensus, murmured deep in the darkest parts of his mind. Revelant symbology was sent to him, the scope of his duties were displayed. ::There is a certain symmetry::

::The Light brings Irony to the Sword:: Abaddon quipped lightly, making a pun from his acceptance. ::I remember the Galaxy- my presence alters the interstices even more:: he observed.

::It serves::

::As will I::

::See with the Light:: Jezu intoned the Blessing ::Hear always the Song:: Abaddon rose to kneel as he accepted the benediction and stood as the sensation of hands laid gently upon his head had been lifted.

::I go:: Abaddon advised formally and at a silent signal, shimmered out of view and truly, out of that reality.

"The Devil You Know"

Principal Characters

Captain Daren M'Kantu
Imperial Attendant K'vala Mahask

****

Starbase 212
Imperial Shuttle cha'bIp
On Approach to USS Galaxy

It was odd, K'vala reflected, how the simple removal of the third nacelle transformed the Galaxy from a blunt instrument, as subtle as a brick through a store window, into a sleeker, deadlier instrument - without robbing it of a hint of the power it possessed. It was much like the difference between the Captain he had met before, Bhrode, and one she would meet now, M'Kantu. One was a Targ trained for pit fighting, and the other a Grishnar Cat, bred to hunt the burning plains. Both deadly in their own way, but nothing like each other in method.

The shuttle looped around the shipyard once according to her instructions, recording the damage to the Galaxy's Secondary Hull and Primary Saucer in their respective, but adjoining, bays. If the reports of the battle that had been waged in Breen space were true, even in part, then the ship had performed beyond the expectations of the analysts who had studied her for the Empire. Some of that could be accounted for by crew performance, but not enough to save the careers of several who had said the design was so flawed that it would collapse under the slightest of pressures.

The Galaxy had been reported to suffer heavy damage in several engagements prior to this last one, including, unbelievably, a disablement at the hands of a pack of disorganized rock miners. The question she had been tasked to answer as an adjunct to her main mission was simple: How could the performance the ship had demonstrated against the Breen and their allies be explained in the light of those past debacles?

A smile crossed her face as the shuttle lined up on the Secondary Hull's primary landing bay. That answer was, of course, obvious: it had all been a lie. The damage received in those other fights had been a smokescreen, a camouflage field set up by Starfleet to hide the true strength and power of the vessel, a brilliantly-executed plan to make their enemies underestimate the ship until it was too late to save themselves from it.

And the Breen, along with the Hydrans and the T'Kith'Kin, had fallen for it - and paid with their lives, ships, and the ruination and revelation of their plans.

It was a move worthy of the greatest Klingon strategists, and would, no doubt, be studied and argued for years to come at the Academy. That the supposedly open and free Federation had managed to pull it off was even more impressive, and something that made them even more worthy of study.

Study, she reminded herself, that she had no time for. Her mission was not to study the Federation this time, but to assist it - and the Empire. The Princess had been clear in her desire to have this be a joint operation, no matter what K'vala had wished. She had, at least, allowed K'vala to select the individuals with which she would work on the assignment, and had shown little surprise when informed that they would be from the Galaxy. After all, those were the Federation officers that K'vala knew best.

~What was the human saying?~ she mused silently as the shuttle slipped into the bay. ~'Better the devil you know?'~

****

USS Galaxy
Secondary Hull
Deck 8
Temporary Captain's Offices

Daren looked down at his borrowed desk and wondered for the millionth time how Jean Luc Picard managed to keep his office so damned clean and uncluttered. In the middle of a complete refit and total personnel transfer you could eat your dinner off the man's desk instead of a plate if you wanted to. It wasn't human; no one could be that obsessive-compulsive and not self-destruct. However he did it, Daren envied him. At least Picard could tell you what color his desk's surface was at any given instant. Daren wasn't sure that his hadn't been replaced with something in a nice mauve at the moment.

=/\= "Klingon Diplomatic shuttle arriving now, sir." =/\=

Allah only knew what the Klingons wanted now, Daren sighed to himself. Starfleet had been insistent that he do whatever was within his power to assist Princess DeV'oraH's representative, especially with the threat of hostilities with the Hydrans and T'Kith'Kin looming large on the event horizon. He glanced at the LCARS screen where he'd been reviewing the last contact the Galaxy's crew had made with the Klingons and winced again at the charred image of the Klingon General, Kragg, on the screen.

The man had been a murderer and a traitor, but even knowing that it was still impossible not to feel a tinge of pity for him given how and who he'd been apprehended by. Not much, grant you, but a tinge. Still, if anyone from this universe the ship had encountered had deserved their encounter with Lieutenant Krieghoff, it had been Kragg.

He blanked the screen and tapped his combadge. =/\= "M'Kantu to Transporter Room Four. Site-to-Site transport to Main Shuttle Bay." =/\=

=/\= "Aye, sir." =/\=

As the transporter beam washed over him, Daren reflected that Picard probably never needed to be transported like this - he would have already been there in a freshly-pressed uniform, waiting for the Imperial Envoy, ready to invite them back to eat off his perfect, immaculate desk. He simply wasn't human. Maybe he was really a Q - that would explain a lot.

****

USS Galaxy
Secondary Hull
Deck 39
Main Shuttle Bay

M'Kantu had not dressed up for the occasion, and had apparently come straight from his office. He was tall, lean, and had the look of the Grishnar Cat she'd compared him to earlier, one that was old enough to know when it was necessary to chase his prey and when it was wiser to let it come to him. A man to respect for what he knew as well as what he could do; a man that might well have done the things that Starfleet's records suggested he had.

A man that right now looked like he was tired enough to know it, but not so tired that he was willing to let it slow him down.

His Klingonaase greeting was obviously practiced and somewhat better than the norm - but his file had said that it would be. The file had also suggested that he would meet her without escort, which he had, choosing to establish himself as an equal and not try and impress her as a superior with a flock of toadies surrounding him. That was also refreshing after so many meetings with her own people - and, unlike many of them, she was not one to misinterpret his action as a sign of weakness.

The trip back to his office - more correctly, his temporary office - was enlightening. M'Kantu had chosen to occupy the space reserved for the ship's XO during the refit, rather than remain aboard the old saucer section and then transfer to the new one currently under tow to the yards here for replacement. That decision placed him aboard the portion of the vessel which would remain his, as well as kept him in the midst of the work to repair and refit it. An interesting choice for a man of peace in Starfleet's service.

A warrior's choice.

The office was cluttered - not dirty, but cluttered. PADDS filled the desk, hiding the surface from view with their ordered stacks. Small structural material samples lined one wall, some bearing the scars of combat, each with a physical tag attached to it. In the far corner a structural support was welded into place as a temporary brace for a buckling section of ceiling that had yet to be repaired.

It wasn't the normal Federation officer's office, where everything was too clean and empty for one to believe that it was used for anything other than show. This was a space where someone worked.

M'Kantu offered her refreshment, nodded when she declined, and came straight to the point without any of the drawn-out preliminaries that most Starfleet officers - and many Klingons - would have insisted on. "What can I do for you, Attendant?"

It was such a pleasure to deal with someone that understood the way things worked again.

****

USS Galaxy
Secondary Hull
Deck 8
Temporary Captain's Office

The Imperial Envoy wasn't who - or what - Daren had expected.

She was a Klingon certainly, even one that had interacted with the crew of the Galaxy before, if the records were correct. She wore the requisite amount of black leather, carried herself with the seemingly genetic arrogance of a Klingon, and spoke in the clipped, impatient tones that he was used to hearing from the Klingon officials he'd dealt with over the years.

What she wasn't, however, was male, as most diplomats he'd dealt with had been. She was neither excessively boastful, nor sly and manipulative - she simply said what she meant and that was enough. Her clothing, while form-fitting enough to draw a few glances from work crews on their way back to his temporary office, was missing what he'd always privately thought of as the traditional 'display panel' cutout on her chest. Her hair, although long, was maintained neatly and without the ragged ends he was used to seeing from warriors that simply hacked it off when it reached an annoying length.

Even her weapons - a slim disruptor pistol and a mekleth - were obviously built for performance rather than show. Most diplomats indulged themselves in weapons that were decorated with inlay and the like. They were still functional of course, they were Klingons, diplomats or no, but the Envoy - Imperial Attendant, really - saw no need in that. Interesting. "What can I do for you Attendant?"

The Attendant nodded once, crisply, and began to speak. "The Princess spends a great deal of time being approached by individuals that wish to sell her information that they feel will be useful - or valuable - to her and the Empire, Captain. Sometimes she purchases it, but more often she does not, simply because there is no way to verify it as accurate without spending yet more money and running the risk of bleeding the good blood out with the bad. You understand?"

"I do." Was that what this was about, information that someone had sold the Princess?

"Other times," the Attendant continued, "she purchases it because it supports or confirms things that she already knows or suspects. All basic intelligence work, and nothing that your own officers don't do, whether or not they file reports about it."

Daren nodded silently.

"Recently it has come to the Princess' attention through several sources that there is a trade in arms going on through the Triangle that moves in an unexpected direction: *into* the Federation instead of out of it."

Daren's eyes narrowed as the realization of what she meant hit him.

"You see why this interested her, of course. It is not in the Empire's best interest to see the Federation destabilized and torn apart by internal conflicts - especially when the trade in question appears to originate within the Empire's borders."

"No, that would not be a good thing," Daren agreed with dry understatement. "Not a good thing at all. Someone would be certain to leap to the conclusion that the Empire had, at the least, tacitly approved of the trade for just that reason."

The attendant smiled predatorily. "Of course they would - and neither of our people wishes something like that to happen. Especially not with the Hydrans and the T'Kith'Kin testing you, and by extension, us, in order to make their plans of conquest easier." She leaned forward. "What the Princess wants is simple, Captain: your assistance in mounting an undercover operation to trace the arms pipeline through the Triangle and back to those of our people that were foolish enough to begin it."

"And then?"

"And then, Captain, you get what you want: the arms flow to these insurgent groups stopped; and the Princess gets what she wants: the heads of those stupid enough to endanger the Empire for their own personal gain. Everyone wins." Her smiled widened. "Except, of course, the fools responsible for this."

"And the Princess quells any rumors that the Empire turned a blind eye to this in the process," Daren observed quietly.

The Attendant laughed throatily. "Of course, Captain. The preservation of the Empire is the preeminent reason for her actions. It just so happens that in the process of doing that, we can also do you this favor."

"What do you require?"

The Attendant shrugged. "Not so much as you might think, Captain. A ship without ties to Starfleet or the Empire - easily done with all the damaged and wrecked vessels in your shipyard's graveyard outside. Some technical support, mostly such listening and tracking devices as your Intelligence Officer will authorize you to release." She paused. "Oh, and one of your officers to accompany me."

"One of my officers... to accompany you." Daren had expected that she would be on the mission, but hadn't thought that she would only want one officer. "No support team?"

""No, no," the Attendant shook her head. "They'd just be in the way - and besides, the people we will be dealing with can smell a Starfleet officer a parsec away. Better to just take the one with me."

"All right." Daren nodded slowly. "I'll have my Intelligence Officer draw up a list of names for you to choose from and..."

"No, no lists."

Daren blinked. "Excuse me?"

"No lists, Captain. I already know who I want." She reached into a pouch at her belt and drew out a small printed image. She laid it on the table. "This man."

Daren stared at the image, and idly wondered if Picard had days like this while he was eating off his immaculate desk. Probably not, Picard would've bounced the man off the Big E faster than his XO changed girlfriends. "You can't be serious," he protested. "He's not trained for this sort of thing... and he's..."

"...perfect for the job," the Attendant finished.

"Attendant," Daren winced. "I know that you had some contact with him on your previous visit, but..."

"Captain, I care only for three things. He is an unpleasant man, but this is an unpleasant task, and one he is well suited to. To ease your mind, though, I will tell you what they are, and ask if you believe he can fulfill those requirements. If you answer any of the three with the sincere belief that he cannot, then I will consider this list of yours - agreed?"

Daren hesitated, but finally nodded. This was a bad idea, but there was little else he could do but agree. "All right, Attendant."

She held up a finger in a human gesture that seemed exotic coming from her. "One. Will he follow orders?"

There was no hesitation to that answer, even though it left a bad taste in Daren's mouth. "Yes."

She raised a second finger. "Two. Will he do whatever needs to be done to accomplish the mission?"

A brief flash of the images Daren had seen displayed on the screen during the battle ran through his head, followed by sections of Jii's lengthy report on the hostage situation on Breen, and, finally, the memory of the charred corpse of General Kragg that had disturbed him so earlier. "He will," Daren sighed.

The third and final finger rose. "Three. Will anyone - anyone at all - believe, for even an instant, that he is a Starfleet Officer?"

Daren's sigh was louder than he'd intended as he nodded reluctantly. "No. no one will believe that." He made a face. "I'm still not certain that I do, and he's part of my crew."

"There, you see?" She smiled again, a lioness confronting her cornered prey. "He's perfect."

"Attendant, I..." Daren surrendered. "If she made the request formally, he'd have no choice and they both knew it. "I'll need to check with Medical, but if they clear him, he's yours."

The Attendant frowned. "Is he dead?"

"No, just injured in the recent battle." Daren privately thought the man ought to be dead after the injuries he'd received, but he had the Devil's own luck.

"Then he'll do. He can heal up on the trip to the Triangle." The Attendant leaned forward. "Are we agreed then?"

Daren looked at her for a moment, and then nodded once, knowing that this was going to come back to bite him at a later point but unable to refuse. "Agreed. If you'll give me the information to pass on to my Intelligence Officer, I'll start things moving."

She dropped a single isolinear chip on the desk between them, obscuring the image she'd previously laid there. "Done."

With a shake of his head, Daren reached for the com. "M'Kantu to Krieghoff. Report to my office immediately." Somewhere, someone was going to be very unhappy about this - and the best he could hope for was that it was the gunrunners.

"Enlistment....."

Lieutenant JG Stel Ikmar Jonran,
Security/Tactical Officer

Ensign Jennai Angelique
Flight Controller

Flight Officer Pikarr Ekrayn,
Flight Officer/Rogue Two (PCC)

Stil Jonran, Civilian (PCC)

****

The Pub,
Deck 131,
Starbase 212

Stel's run in with death didn't seem to shake him at first, but now....it reminded him of the last time he touched death.

He seemed to......hurt in places he shouldn't have. The spots where he was wounded, they still hurt. Phantom pains. He could still smell the T'Kith'kin blood, his own blood. His brother-at-arms Nak Labron had gone on personal leave, probably to his homeworld. He hadn't seen Edon since he last left the tertiary hull, but knew he survived. Shinta was also off, god knows where.

Even Brooke was nowhere to be seen. Stel was alone in this bar. He did, however, recognize one person. Jennai Angelique had just wa! lked in, and was preoccupied with something. There was another Starfleeter in the bar. She bore the "bomber jacket" and white collar of a Starfighter pilot.

Suddenly, he felt a hand land on his shoulder. It felt......wrong. Stel sprung up and grabbed the unknown by the throat, his other hand reared back for punch. The unknown raised his blue hands in fear, smiling, all eight canines sticking out in particular.

"Stil?" Stel let go of his brother's throat and barehugged him with all of his might.

"Bloody'ell Stel, did you almost die AGAIN?" Stil managed to get out with a strained and constricted voice. Stel let go, nodding.

Over at the bar, Jennai noticed the flash of blue as Stel lifted another blue person off the ground. When it seemed like they knew each other, she shrugged, and went back to her reading.

Pikarr Ekrayn was contemplating her newfound feeling of... well... ballsiness. ! There really wasn't much more too it. She'd gone out, nearly been ripped to shreds, and had returned the stronger for it. The fact that she'd gone out and gotten drunk with Hammond a few nights previously, which she'd never done before, was proof enough.

So she was hanging out in the imaginatively named 'The Pub' on Starbase 212, wondering what to do with herself now that she was on shore leave, stuck with a miraculously functional surplus Rogue IV.

"You're a soldier, and while you appear fearless, every time you brush with death, you can't let if go. I remember when you came home ripped apart and walking with a cane. You wanted to die then."

"Yes, Stil, yes I did. It's hard. So many of my fellows in security fell that terrible day. At least Nak made it out alright, But it's hirkling [great/awesome] to see you again. They hold you up on Earth did they?"

"Nice planet, but I would not want to live there......everyone is.......Diurnal. The day on that planet is overated." Stil's face turned to one of great concern. He spoke but one word. "Hran."

Stel's face when from joy to the same shade of concern as Stil, but with an added guilty. "I suppose this is bad news."

Stil's next word's stunned Stel. "It will be if we don't act."

Ekrayn's ears perked up. She knew that Kless officer's native land was currently in the midst of some political upheaval. Perhaps the adventure she was currently longing for was to be found there. She still was surprised by her sudden change of heart, but was willing to go with it.

(and reactions to the conversation to yourselves..)

"I doubt such a mission will be authorized by Starfleet."

Stil's voice turned a little devious. "It doesn't have to be, I came here on the Wayfarer."

Stel perked up. "What? Cousin Shik's ship? H! e's the only one who had the skill to fly it!"

"Thats part of the help I need from you....we need a pilot."

Stel looked at Stil strangely. "You came here alone? Who piloted the Wayfarer?"

"I did. Nearly killed myself in it several times. The throttle is over-sensitive, controls over-sensitive. It's like you have to be an expert pilot to control it, a fighter pilot even!" Stil thought for a moment. "Doesn't the Miranda have a fighter squadron? You cold ask one of them! Yea!"

Stel waved his hand. "No......No, the squadron suffered heavy losses in the battle of Havras. I doubt any of them would want to go off on some fool's quest so soon after nearly getting killed........beside, I didn't even know the ones that fell, let along the survivors......" A thought sprung into his head.......looking around the room at a feverish pace. "Jennai! Jennai!!" Stel bolted over, waving a couple of fingers on his right hand.

Stil approached himself, "My my. Very Attractive, for a human."

Stel turned back with a scolding look. "Shut up Stil!"

"Hey Lieutenant," Ekrayn said, bringing up her best Wes Hammond impression, "You need a pilot? Try a real Rogue. We're the best in the fleet. Something like Havras isn't enough to phase us." The mousy Bajoran walked over to where Stel and Stil were about to accost Ensign Angelique. "The name's Rayn. I'll fly your ship."

Stil quickly examined her. "You're....Bay......Bay....Bajoran right?"

RE

"Well.....in all probability, I think we'll need all the help we can muster. If you would like to come, that is good. You're in. But I the Offer still stands Jenai."

~This is good.....very good.~

"Sounds great."

Stil gave warning in a very diplomatic manner, forged from many years as a public speaker. "I warn you though. Our Cou! sin Shik was one of the best fighter pilots the Royal Starfighter Corps had to offer. Even he couldn't control the Wayfarer completely. Do yo believe you are up for the task?"

Smiling, she grinned as she cracked her knuckles, spinning a chair around backwards and straddling it, "I have been flying fighter jets or starships for about 400 years now. I can kick Shik's butt easily. Just remeber to bring a long some puke bags coz you will need them."

Stil stared at Jenai with disbelief, there is no way a human could live 400 years. He had heard of the El Aurians, but she clearly wasn't one. "What?"

"Stil, just take her word for it. Jenai is more than she appears to be."

"That really is not something one can just accept! That statement is absurd!! Not even the Maker's race was that long lived!!"

"Fine! Don't believe her! But I've heard of the skills she has as a pilot. I am certain the Wayfarer will.....how do yo humans put it.....ah yes, Fit like a glove."

Stil mumbled under his breath, going up in volume.... "I still think it's absurd..."

"I was born in 1652 near Marseilles. Pass me a knife and I will show you. Just give it a few hours."

Stel sternly stood by what he had heard. "That will not be neccessary. I have heard of your......abilities, from very reliable sources. Just something that cannot be explained. What about you Rayn?"

"The Lord of the Ring!"

(Or "Stash's way to entertain the troops until the next mission kicks off!")

Chapter 1...The Shire

Starring Ensign Zeke Wikkins (Security)
and an NPC that I am sure you all can see coming a mile away.
Also appearing for the first time: Gandolfini Gray (No relation to that Ella chick!)

Our adventure kicks off shortly after the USS GALAXY and the USS MIRANDA were towed into Starbase 212. The location.....The Shire!

Let us begin...

Deep in the dank, dark bowels of Starbase 212, past the docking ports where skilled technicians toiled and labored to rebuild starships, beyond the colorful promenade that was currently crawling with members of Starfleet on shore leave seeking interesting curios and souvenirs, just a stones throw from the lower level living quarters, home to many rouges and other ilk of ill repute looking to lay low, down an alleyway that even the rats refused to tread, and inside what was quite possibly the seediest nude dance dive the quadrent had ever seen, Leo Streely sat pole side and stared at the gentle swaying of the three breasts that were currently being thrust in his face by the dancer on the stage. (Wow. Now that was a mouthful.)

"You like?" she chirped in broken basic while her antenna twitched.

"Babe, you're raising more than the ridges on that guy's head, I tell ya that, OK?" he said cocking a thumb at the Klingon next to him. The dancer turned around and gazed through her legs at Leo.

"OH MY GOD!! HOW IN THE BLUE HELL DO YOU PIERCE THAT?!?!" he cried clutching the burly Klingon's arm. "Not that I don't know how to pierce one of those. I am the 'Big Hoss' after all, but geez. Don't things kinda...cling on at times when you..you know."

"No offense with the cling on thing, by the way." Leo said to the burly alien next to him.

The Klingon just growled.

The little man's attention shifted when a thin man dressed in a gray velvet leisure suit walked into the club and stopped, resting both hands on his walking stick.

"Your late." Streely said.

"A man like myself is never late. Nor am I ever early. I arrive precisely when I want to." the bearded man said with a frown that moments later split into a wide grin. "Leo..you never change."

"Gandalfini Gray, it's wonderful to see you too!" Leo said, embracing the older man. "What brings you to this neck of the woods? Jeez, last time I saw you was when Raven and I opened the pleasure planet of mine."

The old man lit a long pipe and took a deep drag, exhaling blue smoke. He looked about the room and satisfied that nobody was watching them anymore closer than was usual in the establishment, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"Hold out your hand." Gandolfini said, once more casting a glance over his shoulders to make sure that nobody knew what secret was being passed between the duo.

Leo, remembering that the first rule in a nude dance club is to never hold out your hand when another man asks you to, was somewhat reluctant.

"It's quite cool." the man in the grey velvet leisure suit said, dropping the ring in Streely's palm, then returning to his pipe smoking.

Leo patted himself down and then finding what he wanted, he plunged his hands deeply into his pocket and pulled out a jeweler's loop and wedged it into his eye socket, then examined the ring carefully.

"It's a ring."

"That is no ordinary ring, Leo. That is a nipple ring." Gandolfini said as he absentmindedly twisted the medallion that hung from a chain around his neck. Leo paused, licked the ring, bit it, then examined it once more.

"Seems to be genuine. There are also some sort of strange markings. Markings and what looks like stains from breast sweat."

The bearded man nodded sagely.

"The language is that of the Vulcans, from the ancient village of Morehors, long ago settled by an offshoot of Vulcan who believed that Sarak's path of enlightenment runs through the bed of women. An amazing concept for the time. I kind of admire their ways." Gandolfinin said, then pointed to the jewel that Leo held.

"That is the One Nipple Ring. Forged by the dark skinned lady Sorefromman, high priestess of Morehors. It was said that she amassed great riches while running the brothels, until one day the Vulcans officially uncovered that Sorefromman was not a Vulcan but a Romulan. That was the beginning of the end." he said, pausing to contemplate the swirling smoke.

Leo sat with his mouth partially open. "So Sorefromman was destroyed?"

"Destroyed? What sort of over the top shit is that? Leo you've been through too much drama. It's twisted your mind. Not everything is complicated and Machiavellian. Sorefromman simply returned to Romulus where she later died."

"Was she assassinated? Maybe a rouge Cardassian or even a Sanguinarian?!"

"Nah. Syphilis I think. Even though she was gone, her spirit and her riches endure. She locked them in two towers and that nipple ring in your hand is somehow the key."

Leo blinked.

"And you expect me to go out and discover this treasure."

Gandolfini leaned foreword and whispered.

"It could make you a king among men, Leo. This is the opportunity of a lifetime that I am offering you, but you need to make a decision now. I hear that something is stirring in Morehor. Rumblings of something dark and sinister looking for the treasure." Gray said. "The ring has awakened. It yearns to return to the breast of it's mistress. Now, I can't go there myself. I have other business ventures to oversee, but you Leo... you can return the ring , unlock the treasure, and then bring me 50% of what you find."

"OH JEZUS!! DON'T I EVEN GET A DRINK BEFORE YOU TRY TO SCREW ME OVER HERE?!?! I'LL GO 10."

"25."

"Deal!" said Leo, snatching the ring and slipping it in his pocket. "Where do I go?"

"It's no longer safe aboard the station. You must hurry to the planet below. In the city of D'pree. I'll be waiting for you at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. I'll guide you from there." Gandolfini said standing up and taking another pull on his pipe.

"What do I do if I don't see you?"

"Trust me Leo, you'll know what to do." he said grabbing the smaller man by the shoulders. "My dear Streely, you are about to change your life. This will be quite the epic...." he said then paused, noticing a shadow falling. He turned around slowly and saw Ensign Zeke Wikkins looming behind him. He began to cough furiously.

"Shit..ain't..my.. ganja, man!" he said whipping the pipe across the room. "What did you hear?"

Zeke shrugged. "Nothing really. Just something about riches, and rings and the planet below. Fortunately I am merely here because Father M'Kantu asked me to watch over Brother Streely while he is on shore leave. Said Leo has a habit of getting himself into situations that are...unnatural." Zeke said averting his gaze from the three breasted woman.

"Perfect" Gandolfini Gray said, ushering Zeke along. "Go now. And hurry. I sense the Nicegurls are approaching. Keep off the roads and travel only during the day."

"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA!!! I LIKE NICE GIRLS!!!! I'M READY! I EVEN HAVE FRESH BOXERS ON TODAY!!!"

"Go!" Gandolfini cried, as Leo and Zeke dashed out of the Shire.

To be continued.....

"So Much for Flowers"

Lt. Jeremy Savoie
Chief Helmsman

Erin Friel
Ten Forward Manager

[In the doorway of Erin's quarters . . .]

The green eyes that glared back from the other side of the doorway did not look especially friendly. Menacing might have been a more appopriate description.

"Uh, I brought flowers," Jeremy said, revealing a bouquet of some species resembling orchids in an attempt to salvage the moment.

"They're lovely, but a few weeks late," Erin snarled, her tone making up for her slight figure and more than adequately preventing him from coming any closer.

Jeremy knew he was in trouble. Hell, even the captain knew he was in trouble. The entire ship probably knew the kind of reception he was going to get when he finally returned. He decided to try using charm.

"Aw, c'mon . . . you know you're glad to see me," he purred, the accompanying smile somewhere between childlike and smarmy.

"You were gone how long . . . oh, let's see . . . THREE months?! And in that time I think I heard from you THREE times??!"

Jeremy resisted the urge to say something about how attractive Erin was when playing the fiery redhead. The remark would probably have cost him an arm, or an eye, or something even more precious. And he knew she was just warming up.

"Glad to see you? It's amazing I even recognize you!"

He really wanted to defuse the scene before she went into full Righteous Bitch mode. "I know I should've been in touch more, but I did miss you." Instinctively, he gently moved his hand toward her hair in what was meant to be a calming gesture.

"Touch me, and the stump that was your hand will be redder than your uniform," Erin warned through clenched teeth.

Obviously, the gentle approach wasn't going to work. Jeremy then went for the tough guy angle.

"You know what," he began, his voice slightly raised, "I'm sorry I didn't contact you more but things were pretty intense. I was under constant scrutiny, being grilled every day and primed and coached every evening. I barely had time to think of anything other than the damn proceedings and didn't have one decent night's sleep the entire time. You'd think you might cut me some slack and just be glad that I'm back on the Galaxy. I could have been transferred somewhere else, you know!"

"Grilled and coached, huh?" The deadly calm of Erin's voice belied the steely rage that was building underneath. "Hardly slept, eh?" Her cadence and volume increased with each syllable. "We were in battle. Half the ship was pretty much destroyed. I got pressed into helping out with triage in sickbay and got to see more dead and injured than I ever care to see again. So what the HELL do I care about your 'vacation' back on Earth or whether you're here or somewhere else?!!! You can take your goddamn flowers and shove them so far up your ass that your eyes turn purple!!" With that, she ripped the flowers out of Jeremy's hand and hurled them several feet down the corridor. Then she turned back into her quarters, the door closing behind her. The only consolation to her silenced paramour was that she couldn't slam it.

"That's the last time you get flowers from me!" he yelled through the closed door. Turning down the corridor, he snatched up the rejected bouquet, shoved it into the nearest waste chute, and stormed off.

~Bad Trip, Part V~

"Hot Sun, Heated Tempers"

Lieutenant Cutter Ka'ranin
Lieutenant Corran Rex
Lieutenant Curtis Geluf
Lieutenant Ella Grey

"Cutter, wait up, please," Rex exhaled as he spent energy he no longer had climbing over the stony boulders after the avian science officer. Cutter, as expected didn't slow down or even acknowledge Rex's plea. The Trill was getting rather tired of that, though he began to have some suspicions. None of them were acting normal - he and Curtis were just the most obviously affected. Ella was behaving as though she'd had about six triple-sweet raktajinos, and Cutter, like someone had run over every small, cuddly pet he'd ever seen with a steamroller. "Lieutenant! That's an order!"

This caught him, Cutter stopped and turned to face Rex on the slope. Cutter was on higher ground, that, coupled with his already large stature and the very angry look on his face, made Rex regret for a split second his decision to issue orders. Sure Rex. Piss the guy off who could beat you to death by using his wings. "Do not presume to issue me orders, Lieutenant," Cutter said flatly as Rex climbed up.

Rex stood to face the avian, who, once level, was actually three inches shorter. "I may not out rank you, Cutter, but I do have seniority." he tried to explain in a patient tone.

"Having the voice of four hundred year old man chatting with you in your head doesn't count."

"I'm not counting them! I, Corran, have seniority over you, too. Besides, they're gone now anyways," Rex said, remembering back to the recrystalization of his mind earlier that day. The immediate and sudden curing of his Trex's syndrome was indeed quite disorienting, and besides the amazement he had felt at that moment, he hadn't been able to think about it. "So, I'm going to keep giving orders if you're going to keep behaving as a child--"

"A child!? I'm the only person on this failed away mission that's actively seeking shelter! The rest of you would rather sit out here and bake, fine, I'll go off on my own! If I am to die on this planet, I'd rather do it in the relative comfort of shade. So, for all the worth they have here, let me issue an order of my own, climb faster." Then he turned and with a momentary burst of energy dashed forward twenty meters or so, renewing the gap between them.

Okay, that was enough of that. "Listen, wings." the pilot finally snapped back, all his fatigue and irritation showing through. "You're looking for shade - yeah. But you're doing it at the expense of your crewmates. You'd leave the rest of us behind to die, just because we aren't capable right now of the pace your setting. That's not like you."

"Just because it isn't like you, that doesn't mean it isn't like me, groundwalker." the Frunalian sneered in reply, and took the lead once more.

============

~~Common' Professor.~~ Ella signed at her friend's unconscious form. ~~Time to wake up now.~~ She wiped the sweat from his brow, sighed, and than sat back to fidget with her fingers. She hoped they'd be back sooner rather than later. She was going to go nuts just sitting like this and waiting.

============

"Cutter, we all want to find shade. But we can't continue at your pace. I need to rest or I'll die now," Rex explained, catching up once more.

"I know, that's why I suggested Ella should go with me and you stay with Curtis."

"She would have hardly gone with you after you snapped at her like you did," he said, remembering back. Cutter had suggested, ordered really, that Ella and he scout ahead, leaving Curtis and Rex behind, then immediately yelled at Ella for signing language. "Why did you snap, anyways? She didn't do anything."

"She signed at me, rather challengingly."

"No she didn't," Rex said, trying to think back. "Not until after you yelled at her."

"You're wrong, she did it before and then again afterwards."

"What? That doesn't make any sense. Why would she challenge you like that before you yelled at her? I clearly remember that you snapped first--"

"I clearly remember that I didn't!" Cutter said, stopping, "But it doesn't matter, what I said is right. Neither you or I can understand her, so maybe she should stop being voluntarily mute."

"Maybe its not voluntary anymore," Rex suggested, thankful for the rest, however brief, despite Cutter's arguing.

"What?"

"She hasn't spoken a word in so long, in years. Maybe she can't anymore, maybe she's actually mute." Corran observed. "Muscles atrophy without use - who's to say that doesn't go for the ones we use to talk?"

Cutter sighed and rolled his eyes. It appeared as if he had something insulting to add but had thought better of it. Instead, he silently continued forward. The rest was over, apparently, so Rex took out another loan on energy and began to follow. Suddenly, Cutter's head whipped back, "Would you watch where you're going!"

"Wha?" Rex began, but on his next step, his boot landed on a small stone that rolled out from under him and he crashed down onto the sandy stone. "Oww!"

Cutter simply shook his head and continued on.

They continued that way, slowly and silently, Cutter in the lead moving at a steady pace, Rex lagging furthur and further behind. Suddenly, Cutter stopped and stood in place. It took a few moments for Rex to catch up, but when he did, he saw the reason for the pause.

===========

The sun was slowly setting, Curtis was still asleep, and Ella was anything but asleep. She'd tried pacing, she'd tried jumping jacks, she'd handstands, but to no avail. She just couldnt stop moving it seemed. At least it was getting cooler now.

Suddenly there was a sound, a small pebble skipping across rock. Ella's head whipped around and she saw that Cutter and Rex had returned. Her hands were a flurry of questions. Had they found the cave? Was it there? How long would it take to get there? Could they move now? Should they chance moving Curtis?

Cutter stood silently, his eyes staring into nothing up and over Ella's head, waiting for her to stop trying to communicate. Rex, however, decided to step in, interrupting her. "We found a cave," he said, and Ella's face beamed, "There's a tight passage, but then it opens up into a fairly long chamber. Plenty of room for all of us. And the best part: its nice and cool inside."

Ella appeared to bounce around for a minute in excitement, then began to sign more questions. Of course, niether Rex or Cutter could understand her. "Its about half a mile hike that way," Cutter pointed.

Ella looked back at Curtis's unconscious body, drawing the gaze of the other two. Cutter sighed in aggrivation and Rex said, "We'll have to carry him, I guess. At least its fairly close."

Ella moved first, followed, surprisingly, by Cutter. Together, they lifted the Kerelian, throwing his arms over thier shoulders and began to hike. Shade and shelter, Ella thought. They wouldn't bake! They now had a fighting chance.

"Searching for Lost Sheep"

by
Flight Officer Jasmine "Jazz" Heloi
Vanguard Squadron Acting CO
Pilot Tyten
& mention of Vanguard Squadron

[Space, following bread crumbs...]

Jasmine grunted as her fingers drifted over the controls, expertly manipulating the sensors as she searched for the proverbial 'needle in the kotir root system.' Space, contrary to what many people assumed, was actually alive with signals. Pulsars and Quasars emitted signals that could confuse starships, black holes emitted signals from the matter that they consumed; even the smallest particle of dust emitted a signal that in the end resulted in a cacophony of interference. Separating one emission source, especially since there was no guarantee that it was from Corran's ship, was delicate work. Here she skirted over the radio broadcast from a pulsar, here she dismissed the interference of a black hole located over fifty light years away, there she ignored the vibrations from a nebula until she came upon the signal itself. Using the signal, which was now locked into the computer's memory, she ordered the sensors to trace the path towards its origin.

Unlike the last twenty breadcrumbs the Vanguard Squadron had traced in their quest for their errant leader, this one appeared more promising. The Adair system, closer to the core Federation worlds, had a emission source that seemed to reflect one of the Galaxy's shuttlecraft - specifically the one that Corran had taken out during the Havras battle. Jasmine still held to the scant hope that Corran and his compatriots on the shuttlecraft were still alive somewhere, despite the wake held by Wes Hammond and the Rogue squadron crew for the deceased and mission fighter squadron members.

She could not quite understand why she felt the way she did, especially since it seemed illogical to continue searching with the Vanguard. She would give it at least two more days before she turned the fighter squadron around and made back for the Starbase. She was due, after all, to meet Wes there for vacation. Jazz just had to know. The empty casket bearing Corran's name haunted her thoughts. Hopefully she would be able to put that thought to rest with finding him alive, or dead as the case may be. At least they would have proof.

Whether it was proof of life, or proof of death, that remained to be seen.

Heloi keyed her commlink to speak to her wingman, "Hey Blue, I'm squirting you the next coordinates on our wild goose chase. They're getting filtered to the rest of the squadron as we speak."

"Copy that, Jazz. It's coming in now," Tyten replied as he watched the information filter over his display. He held back a comment that when she had used the term "squirting" it had made him think of an unfortunate run in he had had in the galley the other night with a bad piece of Bollian spiced meat.

"You think we're doing any good here?" he asked honestly.

Jasmine stared out into space as she keyed in the proper coordinates for their next destination. 'Were they doing any good out there?' she silently repeated the question to herself. How could she answer that? "I don't know, Tyten. I just have a gut feeling that he's out here somewhere...alive or dead, I don't know, but I strongly suspect alive. I just...his empty casket haunts me, Blue. I just have to know."

"Funny how that works. So do I," he replied simply. If there was one thing in Tyten's life that he had had enough of, it was those nagging unsolved mysteries. If they could help one less in the universe, so much the better.

"See? That's why we get along so well," Jasmine replied, smiling into the darkness of her cockpit, "Ready?"

Though he knew Jasmine probably couldn't see him, he gave the thumbs up sign and said, "Ready!"

With another smile, Jasmine keyed the all call, "Vanguard, go to warp on my mark. Mark!" A second later only the fading rainbow of Cherenkov radiation marked the spot where Vanguard Squadron had once been.

"A Last Chancer's Ghost!"

By
Lieutenant Commander James Lionel Corgan
Chief of Security,
USS Galaxy

Location: Security Office (or remains thereof)

Soundtrack: "Her Ghost In The Fog" By Cradle of Filth (recall memory scene)

James was in his office.

More precisely, the last remains of his office, for the refit crews were not yet refitting the blasted ruins of the central security station. The Galaxy, and her companion ship Miranda, made haste for the deepest parts of the federation space because… it was the only place for these ruined ships to stay safe while being repaired!

Their last scrap destroyed Corgan's efficient security station, killed many of his meticulously trained security personnel (funerals were the norm all throughout the week, which didn't help the combat acquainted security chief's sour disposition), mucked about a well run system and made a hell of a mess for everyone involved. It also killed more than double the amount of Breen elites, trashed dozens more of the enemy's ships, vaporized an entire Tr'Kith'kin/Hydran hybrid space station, ended an alien regime lasting centuries and almost tossing four major space faring powers into a great war rivalling the Dominion conflict. And on top of all that, an assassination attempt on a foreign dignitary, one Savar Tr'Kehellain, thwarted in the middle of the crisis.

One would quip that it was "all in a day's work", but the loss of many of Corgan's deputies, a hijacked shuttlecraft and a potentially dangerous assassin on the loose (one he devirginized, to the chagrin of his captain and his ward) SOMEHOW overshadowed his accomplishments.

Then Starfleet Security wanted to have a talk with him.

Today. This Stardate.

Corgan was less than thrilled.

He was working at his desk, after spending countless minutes brushing soot off the seat and desk surfaces. The Breen destroyed his security station with a photonic charge, and the damage still showed. The engineers at the shipyards didn't fix his security central station yet, jabbering on about "priority" assignments, overlooking the simple fact that security kept unwanted elements out so that they could do their work without disturbance. But James didn't let such things bother him. Departmental rivalry was childish bullsh*t to him.

In his ruined office, the remnants of a once framed antique Basement Jaxx poster hung in broken tatters, his battle flag now a ruin among fire licked walls and busted consoles. A bookshelf of paperbacks, all antiques, were now ruined and irreplaceable. His 'Rolling Stones' coffee mug, the parts that were still somewhat intact, jutted skyward like jagged dragon teeth. He installed a working LCARS input unit in the ruined office, fully aware that it would be more convenient to work in his quarters or a temporary office while the last one underwent renovations, but with the incoming call from Starfleet, James wanted to make a point, a very big point. Soot, blasted windows, destroyed personal items, and Corgan, immaculate in his freshly replicated uniform and stern faced, standing in front of the decay in which he always seemed cursed to witness, wanted to drive the point that he had a rotten week, and did not want to hear any more bad news from Starfleet itself. He had a ruined office, dead officers, a lost criminal and a serious deficiency of respect on his ship. What more could they do? Worse, what could they possibly punish him with that would make him stop his wraith?

Lets see them deal with THAT!

The predictable bleep of the computer, and the matronly voice of the computer cried, =/\="Incoming Message from Starfleet Security Command, Lieutenant Commander Sean McMasters."=/\=

"Oh?" Corgan's curiosity was not piqued, "By all means, patch him through."

~"Haven't heard that name in a long time."~ Corgan thought to his surprise, ~"A very long time... since when could he make Lieutenant Commander?"~

To hear that Sean McMasters was a Lieutenant Commander was a surprise in itself, thought the intermediary role between Starfleet Security and James fit the Lt. Cmdr. perfectly. James remembered the once before Lieutenant from a distant past. One James didn't think much of, for it wasn't as high of a point as his run in with the Borg, or his time on the Galaxy that he considered a second renaissance. Sean McMasters, born on a former coalmining island in the North American continent, was one of those people of little merit or note in Corgan's life, as was most of the people that ended up with the 108th Last Chancers regiment on the USS Thunderchild.

The regiment was full of military criminals, degenerates, insubordinate rebels, glory hounds, and psychologically unfit soldiers. Normally, such people would be unfit for Starfleet duty, and would be drummed out, told to find a civilian job, and given a 'have a nice day' as their superior officer's foot helped launch them out the door. But this was the Dominion War, and Starfleet needed cannon fodder. Hence the 'Last Chancers'.

Lieutenant Sean McMasters was Corgan's platoon leader. What James recalled of the snotty little prick was not flattering. Arrogant to a fault, not very brave though he liked to talk a big fight, and always looking to get people killed in what he called 'charges'. And yes, all these suicidal actions were necessary. How James survived that year in the war was no thanks to Lieutenant Sean McMasters.

How he came to be in the Last Chancers? Nobody knew, for his record was spotless. James suspected, though he recalled only spending a few seconds on speculation, was that Lieutenant McMasters was given the assignment because of his uptight regiment (then called 'disciplined') and lack of real brains. Starfleet had to put their perfect soldier somewhere!

Now he was in the administrative wing of Starfleet Security, handing out disciplinary hearing results. A job best fitted for a weasel. Perhaps James underestimated Sean McMasters. It took a special kind of brains and a command of the Starfleet Rules and Regulations Manual (he was the 'instructor' of protocol to the mostly undisciplined ranks of the Last Chancers) to become the man he was today.

The screen did activate to show the Lieutenant's grinning, foxlike face. It would have otherwise been handsome if it wasn't for the blatant baldness that showed itself like a polished globe. Black hair ran like a Ferengi's headscarf across the back of his head, as twinkling blue eyes looked down, tag teaming with a sneer asking for a fist to fill it.

~"I see he has shaped up a little."~ Corgan sighed, regretfully, ~"Only a little..."~

"Good day, Lieutenant Commander Corgan. Do you remember me?" McMasters asked, fully aware of who Corgan was, and letting him know in the most arrogant way possible without speaking.

"I'm afraid not, Lieutenant Commander." Corgan said, straight faced. He wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction of being important enough to stay in memory.

This, of course, vexed the ego driven Lieutenant Commander on the other side of the line, though he dare not say. "Jesus Christ, Commander Corgan, what the hell happened to your office?"

"What do you think? The Breen happened! Don't you read the reports?" Corgan chided.

"I sure do, and I also read that you've slept with the enemy, arrested her, and let the Romulan slut go, so if you don't mind..." McMasters made an effort of fake shuffling PADDS, "...I have work to do, and so I want to make a few things clear in a short amount of time. Understood, Ensign?"

James kept his temper in check, though imagined quite vividly owning the ability to shoot his hand through any screen to the other side, just so he could choke the life out of poor Sean McMasters. "Understood, Lieutenant Commander."

"Sir will do. I'm technically your superior in rank since I co-ordinate the security personnel of fleets 5 to 10, and handle any disciplinary issues and reassignments to the higher ranks in said fleets. Please do not forget this fact before you go into another one of your tourette syndrome inspired rants. Thank you..."

~"Why you motherf..."~

"Understood... sir." The words rolled off like an oily taint, violating his ears.

"Ahhh! good! Worry not, James old boy. I know about your accomplishments too. Those articles to Janes Defense Weekly were quite informative, if just a little bit dry, and you have turned your security force into a professional outfit when we purposely gave your flunkies."

~"Hey! What the f**k?!?~ Corgan nearly raised out of his seat, beet red and ready to kill. Nobody insulted his department, but the fact that he was sent flunkies was news to him.

Did BUPERS lie to him? James was going to have to share cross words with them when the conversation was over. McMasters continued to downplay his successes, "Though rebellious and prone to taking action without the consent of your superiors, mostly blamed on the influence of Captain John Q. Brhode, you have still managed to take on superior numbers with superior casualties on their end. And your Hazard Team, though inexperienced, has proved to be... adequate. Your best accomplishment. That is what I want to talk to you about."

James nodded, "Now you have me at curious. Why are you concerned about my Hazard Team?"

"We have received your requests for additional personnel, more specifically other soldiers from our special forces branches. We weren't able to find any more so far, but we have the next best thing."

"Oh, and what will that be?"

"Well, guess what you people will be doing while your ship is being fixed?"

James did not know, but dreaded to guess.

"As of now, you and the Hazard Team, as well as any other volunteers from the USS Galaxy who wants to participate, are to be temporarily assigned to our training centre at Moose Jaw. By the way, do you like the cold?"

"No, I dislike the Earth climate in general. Why?"

McMasters exploited James admittance, "Good. I hear central Canada can be miserable in the fall. But that is where your men will train."

"And women... this is the 24th century you know."

McMasters strained, "and women, Ensign."

"Lieutenant Commander, sir. I've risen up as of late."

"Lieutenant Commander. If you don't mind..."

"Actually, I do mind! I haven't requested this additional training for myself and my Hazard Team. I planned on using the holodeck facilities on this ship, and if failing to do so, will use the ones on Utopia Planetia. I fail to see why you have to drag us down to Earth when we have the facilities to train nearby. Besides that, I requested for some training time on MARS, not EARTH! If this is another slip in the cogs of Starfleet security, then I'll personally blame you. And lets not forget that it was you who admitted BUPERS gave me misfits! I'm going to personally make you people pay for that!"

McMasters wagged a finger, turning stern and unafraid. "Mr. Corgan, with all due respect, you can't call the shots even if you wanted to. We sent 'misfits' as you call them for a reason. We knew your experience with me as a Last Chancer would give you the ability to mould a fighting force out of a rabble. But that is not the issue right now. We have reviewed your Hazard Team, and now we regret sending only semi professionals to your detatchment."

"Now wait here! I will not tolerate such insults to my department!"

"Tolerate them!!! We're telling the truth! They are not good enough as is. We want to send you and your motley crew to Moose Jaw so that we can personally oversee your Hazard Team's training! This could very well influence our judgement about your conduct as of late, whether or not you are actually a decent leader. We don't want to waste experienced officers, believe it or not, that's why you were sent to the Last Chancers during the war, and that's why we're sending you and your team to Moose Jaw now. So, we have your career by the ballsack. Co-operate or I'll squeeze 'till they pop. Is that clear?!"

Surrendering, James said, "Yes sir."

"Good... you and your team will report to Earth in three days. Oh, and clean up your office."

McMasters smug face vanished off Corgan's screen, assured of his victory over an old subordinate.

And the man James didn't care about made his presense felt strongly.

James wanted to hit something, but settled for leaving his office. He had to pack.

OOC: And that kicks off the Hazard Team field trip.

We're going to Moose Jaw, more famous for it's NATO air force training base than anything else. Expect fall prairie weather (cold, windy, miserable, with the occasional 'indian summer' kind of day). I'd pick somewhere else, like Indiana or Kenya, but I'm not familiar with those surroundings.

Those coming along with this adventure can join the training regiment. It'll be very strict, very difficult. Special Forces Grade with a little bit of SWAT (i'll have to do some research!).

There will be plenty of vacation time too. Go visit family on Earth, check out the locales, or kick back at the base's bar and have some brews with the soldiers. Have fun with it!

“Royal Audience”

Colonel Omar’s metal boots echoed against the marble floor.

He was inside the imperial palace – one of the grandest buildings on Romulus. Although the Empress on the throne now was technically just a figurehead, she had considerable political influence, and it was a great honour to have an audience with her.

The colonel knelt before ‘her imperial grace.’

“Your majesty,” he said, by way of greeting.

The middle-aged empress stood out of her chair, emphasising the position of the kneeling colonel.

“I hear wonderful news,” she said lightly. “That you have dealt with the traitor for me? Is that so?”

Omar smiled to himself. “Yes, that is true your majesty. I recently sent an operative, out of my own initiative, to the Starfleet vessel where that coward was hiding.”

“And the mission was successful?”

“Oh yes, your majesty.” Despite being on his knees, Omar positively grinned. “He was badly wounded, and the Federation physicians were unable to revive him.”

“And, this operative in question?” The empress asked with interest.

“She has returned to Romulus, your imperial grace, and is being debriefed.”

“Very well. Rise, colonel.” The empress commanded, and Omar stood.

The monarch smiled at him. “Excellent work, colonel. That traitor worries me no more – I might just recommend you for a promotion to general. Now, leave, and keep using that initiative of yours.”

“Yes, your majesty.” The colonel turned and briskly walked away, his metal boots making that same noise against the ornate floor.

Atole Tekri had returned to Romulus in triumph. Colonel Omar had seen to that – since he had taken most of the credit. However, she had received an honorary medal and a promotion to the rank of Captain of the Tal Shiar. Any assignment she wanted would be hers.

And yet, she knew, she would trade all that just to be with James Corgan.

"Committee against dining alone"

by
Turan Trelar -
juvenile Quentite ambassador, wannabe engineer, former boy scout and founder of ...

Turan sat at a table in 10-4 eating one of his replicator favorites - rice with a sweet peaches sauce. Although both, rice and peaches were artificially made there wasn't any taste reminding him at engine oil or similar ingredients.

Probably it was a advantage of his heritage he didn't even know the taste of real tree-grown peaches.

Probably the artificial copy was good enough he wouldn't even taste a difference if he knew.

Actually the taste wasn't very different from 'veota with malo fruit sauce', a meal his father often cooked.

As usual, Turan sat there alone. Times were few when a crew mate dared to sit at the same table. First the giant Quentite found his crew mates behavior irritating. At home on his parents farm there where seldom less than ten persons sharing the meal. There was a lot of laughing, chatting about every day topics and the sound of a dozen spoons stirring soup.

Many of the Galaxy's crew members seemed to share the same fear against lifeforms who where strange to them. Sure, there was a multicolored mixture of species, but most of them where similar in size, weight and strength.Only a few 'lifeforms' - something inside Turan hesitated to see himself as an alien lifeform - like the giant lizard-like Gorn engineer seemed to share his fate.

Turan looked around. Few of the tables which obviously were designed for four to six men were fully occupied. Most of the tables were manned by two or just a single person. Was it really the fear of the strange and unknown?

Or did that habit of occupying an empty table base on innate behavior to conquer a territory and protect it from rivals and enemies.

Turan decided to start a field study. He put his plate back onto his tablet got up and searched for a 'victim'. The female with pointy ear lobes who poked around in a plate full of raw vegetables seemed to be right. The young Quentite 'ambassador' walked over to her, cleared his throat and waited until the Vulcan officer looked up to him.

"Excuse me, ma'am", Turan explained, "I am Turan, founding member of the committee against dining alone. Our expert - that's me - came to the conclusion that dining alone leads to anonymity, social deprivation, boredom and a lack of communication. I'm here to help you out of that misery. May I have a seat at your table?"

Before the Officer was able to answer, Turan added: "And honestly - I promise not to steal your food."

"For Want Of A Ship" Part 1 of 2

(Begins Immediately after 'The Devil You Know')

Principal Characters

Lt (JG) Victor Krieghoff
Imperial Attendant K'vala Mahask

Secondary Characters

Captain Daren M'Kantu
Lt. Commander Rexa Idrani-Krieghoff
Lt. Commander Ar'resh Idrani-Krieghoff
Shipyard Chief Engineer Haskins

****

USS Galaxy
Secondary Hull
Deck 8
Temporary Captain's Office

"Are we clear on that, Mr. Krieghoff?"

Victor actually had understood the mission and his position within it - at least to the level that Captain M'Kantu appeared to - the first time it had been explained, much less the third. It wasn't that difficult. There were Klingons doing something they shouldn't be, and he was supposed to go and help find out who they were, and then kill them.

That last part hadn't been explicitly stated, but it never was. No one requested that Victor go on a Landing Party or Away Team unless they knew that someone was going to need killing once they got where they were going. The fact that it was Attendant K'vala - who wanted to kill Victor herself - doing the requesting made no difference. She knew what he was better than most of the Galaxy's crew, and that's why she'd asked for him specifically. She'd wait until he was no longer useful to challenge him.

"Understood, sir." Victor hoped that this was the last time M'Kantu would explain things. He knew what he did to people - M'Kantu included - and the repetition of orders was a normal reaction to that. It didn't make it any less tiresome, just understandable.

"Good." M'Kantu seemed to be satisfied with that. "I've checked with Medical and they say that as long as you keep the regeneration dressing on, they'll clear you for the mission.

That meant it was coming off thirty seconds after he left the ship - which made the mission worth going on just for that alone. If it was supposed to stay on as long as the doctors had said it should, M'Kantu would have told him that. "Understood, sir."

"How much time will you need to get things in order, Lieutenant?"

"None, sir."

M'Kantu raised an eyebrow. "None?"

"None, sir," Victor repeated. That was another symptom that his presence caused in people - the inability to understand simple, direct answers to questions. "I've never unpacked from Battle Status. Everything that doesn't go with me can go into storage for transfer to the new saucer section and my quarters there."

M'Kantu looked like he was going to ask a question for a second, but contented himself with a nod. "Then you're cleared for detached duty as of right now, Mr. Krieghoff. We're just waiting on the shipyard to arrange suitable transport for the mission and Intelligence to get some equipment together for you."

"Yes, sir." Victor nodded and turned to the Klingon woman who had stood silently by and watched as M'Kantu spoke. "Attendant K'vala."

"Lieutenant."

Her voice had the same scornful tone he remembered from before, as he remembered it being on every occasion that they'd met - except the first time, when she'd kissed him in the dark corridor, thinking he was a Klingon, and then tried to kill him an instant later when she realized he wasn't. "Instructions?"

She eyed him for a moment, disdain flaring in her gaze. "Get your things, Lieutenant. We will await your Intelligence officers and the Shipyard officials in the Hangar Bay at my shuttle."

Victor nodded once, turned to M'Kantu and said, "Sir," and then spun on his heel and departed.

****

USS Galaxy
Secondary Hull
Deck 39
Main Hangar Bay
Imperial Shuttle cha'bIp

Victor thought that the people from Intelligence had been pleasant enough considering they'd been both speaking to him in an enclosed area and demonstrating Starfleet Intelligence equipment to a Klingon. He'd been uncertain which bothered them more.

The listening devices and tracking equipment they'd demonstrated were interesting, but Victor doubted that they'd be used. They were too complicated; there were too many things to go wrong, and too many unpleasant questions to answer if they were caught with, or using, the devices. Better to stick to the simple things that always worked.

The attendant had paid close attention to the Intelligence briefing, more, in truth, than Victor had, but that was to be expected. She was, among other things, a spy, after all. Even knowing that she wouldn't be shown the best equipment that the Federation had, there was always the chance that she would learn something that her people didn't already know in the briefing. He didn't know that she had, but she seemed pleased with herself - more so than usual, anyway - when it was over and the Intelligence personnel had departed.

She eyed the array of devices on the table between them, and then looked up at him. "Such wonderful toys they give you to play with."

"I don't play with toys."

She laughed, making even that throaty sound scornful. "Do they not trust you with them?"

This was going to be a long assignment. "No."

"Why then?" She leaned forward and studied him intently.

"No one sends me on a mission that requires toys. That's not what I do, what I am."

Her eyes narrowed. "And what are you, Lieutenant?"

There wasn't any point to this, but if she needed to be reminded, so be it. "You know what I am, Attendant. That's why you asked for me." Victor smiled, the one he saved for greater predators - she deserved nothing less. "If you don't remember, ask Dargha or General Kragg - they'll tell you."

The Attendant shivered and took a half step back before she mastered herself. Eyes flashing in anger at her reaction, she started to speak, but was cut off by the sound of a fist pounding on the compartment door. "The men from the shipyard are here," growled the pilot.

"Very well, pilot," she snapped. With a sweep of her hand, she tumbled the Intelligence devices into the bag provided for them and closed it. "Let's see what they have for us, Lieutenant. Perhaps there will be something useful."

****

Starbase 212
Ship Graveyard Yard
Runabout Charleston

"...and over there we have a few older-model runabouts salvaged from the battle to reclaim Betazed," the yard's Chief Engineer continued. "Three of them are in good enough shape that I can let you have one with 12-hour's work on the warp core to reactivate it."

"I don't think that you understand," the Attendant began in the same voice that she'd been using for the last four offers, the one that made it clear to everyone in the runabout *except* the Chief Engineer that she thought he was a complete idiot. "What we need is..."

"Not here," Victor interrupted, the first words he'd spoken since the tour of the ship graveyard began. This was pointless, and the more time they wasted on it, the greater the chance someone would figure out what they were doing and sell the information off to the Orions - or some other information-gathering network - and then they'd be shot down before they'd even taken off.

"What do you mean, 'not here?'" the Chief Engineer protested. "This is the largest collection of..."

"I said," Victor repeated, as he stepped forward from the back of the runabout's cabin where he'd remained since they'd boarded so as to not trap the Engineer and make the process of selecting the ship more difficult than it needed to be, "'not here' because everything you've shown us is Starfleet issue. Do you have anything intact within the parameters you were given that isn't? Something Cardassian, perhaps?"

The man's eyes widened and he jerked as the force of Victor's presence hit him. "I...I.... no, Lieutenant. No Cardy ships."

Victor frowned, which did nothing to help the engineer's reaction. "Do you have *anything* that isn't Starfleet issue at all?"

"Ahhh... th-three ships."

"What are they?"

The engineer looked over at the Attendant for a moment, a silent plea for assistance that went ignored, and then stammered, "A K-Klingon B'rel scout ship, a Pak-Pakled freighter, and a a..." He jerked his head around and pointed. "One of those!"

Victor looked, blinked at the unmistakable shape of the vessel, wondered how it had gotten all the way out here to float serenely in the ship's graveyard at Starbase 212, and then shook his head. "A Bird of Prey, circa 2270," he said quietly. "No, that won't do. Too many decks, too slow, too many crew needed - and too many other problems explaining where we got it. The Pakled freighter is out - no one would use one of those *but* a Pakled. Show us the B'rel - assuming it isn't an antique either."

The engineer spun to the controls sent the runabout in a fast orbit around a series of partial hulls and pointed. "T-there."

The B'rel was reasonably new, the hull intact, but the weapons mounts were universally empty, wiring and cables exposed to space where they had been removed.

"Unacceptable," the Attendant snapped. "How long to restore the weapons and make her ready?"

"Ummm..." the Engineer stammered. "Do you have replacement weapons available?"

"Take us back to the Starbase," Victor interrupted. "There's nothing here for us."

The Attendant turned on him angrily. "We have to have a ship! If not here, then where will we get one that will pass muster?"

"I know where," Victor replied, colorless eyes never leaving hers.

"You?" she spat scornfully.

Victor looked at her for a moment. "Your plan didn't work, Attendant," he replied quietly. "Mine will."

From the look in her eyes, even if she hadn't been ready to before, the Attendant was willing to murder him now.

"For Want Of A Ship" Part 2 of 2

(Begins immediately after 'The Devil You Know')

Principal Characters

Lt (JG) Victor Krieghoff
Imperial Attendant K'vala Mahask

Secondary Characters

Captain Daren M'Kantu
Lt. Commander Rexa Idrani-Krieghoff
Lt. Commander Ar'resh Idrani-Krieghoff
Shipyard Chief Engineer Haskins

****

Starbase 212
Administrative Level Beta
Communications Room 5

"Why are we here again?" The Attendant's humor hadn't improved in the time it had taken to return to Starbase 212, be transported to one of the base's secured communications rooms, and watch Victor set up a scrambled line.

"To make a call." Victor doubted that she'd like the answer, but that wasn't his problem - getting a ship for them was.

K'vala's no-doubt scathing retort was cut off but the 'click' of the call going through and the screen lighting up.

Privately, as the image cleared, Victor thought to himself that if the Attendant had been irritated before, the people that he was going to be talking to weren't likely to make the situation any better.

"Heinrich! Why haven't you called? We've..."

"...been so worried since we heard the news!"

"I'm fine Rexa, Ar'resh. Nothing serious."

The two blue faces that filled the screen frowned as one.

"Nothing serious?" Rexa began. "We saw the reports, Heinrich, the ship was..."

"...shot to pieces, and the casualty reports show your Ella as ..."

"...Missing In Action - that's hardly 'nothing serious!'"

'She's not 'my' anything, Rexa. Grey's a friend, that's all. I knew everyone that went missing in that runabout. I didn't call because we're under a gag order, which both of you know about, or you'd have called me before now. Right?"

"Well..." Rexa sighed, "...yes. But that doesn't mean that..."

"...you couldn't have called us, Heinrich," Ar'resh finished.

"There's nothing to say," Victor answered quietly. Irrationally, he wished that they were here and not on a screen, light-years away on the Venture. He always felt different when they were present. Maybe that feeling would make the one that he felt not knowing what had happened to Grey go away for a time.

Behind him, Victor heard the Attendant stir, and both his aunts looked up and past him.

"Heinrich," Ar'resh began slowly, "you do know that there's..."

"...a Klingon woman in the room with you," Rexa finished. "Don't you?"

"I know."

"She doesn't look very happy, Heinrich," Rexa observed. "Is there..."

"...something wrong?" Ar'resh added. "Is she in some sort of trouble?"

Victor shook his head. "No, she just doesn't like me very much, that's all. This is Imperial Attendant K'vala Mahask, ladies. Attendant, these are my Aunts, Rexa and Ar'resh."

Ar'resh nodded in greeting, "Attendant," and Rexa barked out something in Klingon that Victor assumed was a greeting. The Attendant answered, and there was a brisk exchange for a moment before Rexa changed back to Standard, saying, "...rude to keep speaking the Warrior's Tongue like this when Ar'resh and Heinrich don't understand it."

"Agreed," K'vala nodded.

"I just explained to the Attendant how we were related, Heinrich. She was a bit skeptical about our really being your aunts given the difference in species and all," Rexa explained.

Victor nodded. It was, he thought, the longest speech he'd ever heard one of his aunts give without the other filling in part of the conversation. "The Attendant and I have to get into the Triangle," he explained.

His aunts looked at each other, and then back at the screen.

"An assignment?" Ar'resh asked "or something a..."

"...bit less... official?" Rexa continued.

"An undercover assignment," Victor confirmed, ignoring the squawk from K'vala behind him at his admission.

Rexa nodded. "What can we do to help, then? That is..."

"...why you called, isn't it, Heinrich?" Ar'resh leaned closer to the screen, as if to defeat eavesdroppers.

"I need a ship. The ones they're trying to give us here are all too easily identified as Fleet salvage or inactive issue - using one of these is going to get us killed."

"Well, we certainly don't want that, Heinrich," Rexa nodded. "Do you think that..."

"...one of the ships we're holding in trust for you might do?" Ar'resh completed.

Victor sighed. "One of *your* ships, yes," he nodded, not wanting to start the same old argument over again. He always lost it, anyway. Now that he thought of it, he'd never won any argument with his aunts.

"Don't be silly, Heinrich," Ar'resh corrected, ignoring the plea to not start the argument again Victor was silently sending. "You know perfectly well whose ships they are, we..."

"...must have told you a hundred times by now." Rexa nodded in agreement. "We're just holding them in trust for you until you decide to take over things."

Victor held up a hand to forestall any further discussion. "We can argue over who owns them later, right now I just need a ship to get the Attendant and myself into the Triangle so we can find the people we're after, do what we have to do, and then get us out again without marking us as spies for our respective governments." He ignored another sound of protest from the Attendant, and added, "Is there one that will do?"

His aunts looked at each other for a moment.

"The Empress?"

"No, too large," Rexa frowned. "There's just the two of them.

"The Ice Bear, then?" Ar'resh offered.

"No, she's got that problem with the warp coil when she goes above Warp Three that's never been fixed."

"I always forget that," Ar'resh nodded. "Well then, how about Thallick's old ship, the..."

"...Shabradnigdo!" Rexa beamed. "Yes, she'd be perfect. Small, fast, and she was never..."

"...well known in smuggling circles, especially so far away. No one there would..."

"...recognize her." Rexa turned back and smiled. "Use the Shabradnigdo, dear one. She's perfect for what you need."

Victor frowned. "She's the reworked Chameleon Class, right? The one with the black hull?"

"That's her," Ar'resh beamed. "Now do you remember how to get..."

"...there and the access codes? We haven't changed them since the last time..."

"...we were all there together after the War." Ar'resh added.

"I remember - but are they still in any kind of shape to be used?" Victor asked. "They've just been sitting there since..." he hesitated, but there really wasn't any kinder way to say it, "...since 2373."

"Oh, they're in fine shape, Heinrich," Rexa assured him, only a faint hint in her eyes of the memories the topic brought up. "We were there just a few months ago, and ran tests on everything.

"All right," Victor nodded. "Do you need anything while I'm there? Or in the Triangle?"

"Well..." Ar'resh began, "I could use some..."

"No, nothing," Rexa said as she laid a hand on her sister's arm. "Just come back alive."

Ar'resh blinked, and then nodded in agreement. "Yes, just do that, Heinrich."

"Is there anything else you need?" Rexa asked. "Funds, perhaps? Or maybe some..."

"...names of people to see once you're there?" her sister offered. "We still remember some people that would..."

"...help you if you needed it," Rexa concluded.

"Funds are no problem," Victor assured them. Even if the Attendant didn't have enough, he certainly did. "But the names might be useful if it won't cause problems."

"We'll get them together and have them waiting," Ar'resh promised. "Just call after you get the Shabradnigdo, and we'll..."

"...have everything taken care of." Rexa smiled past Victor. "Don't worry about a thing..."

"...Attendant, our Heinrich will take care of everything. You'll be perfectly safe..."

"...with him in charge," Rexa agreed. "Just listen to him and he'll get you through this."

Victor suppressed a grimace. He'd be paying for that one all the way to the Triangle, or he'd sadly misjudged the Attendant. "All right," he said hurriedly, before his aunts could add anything else to make things worse. "I'll contact you after I pick up the ship. You two take care."

"We will," they chorused in unison.

As he started to stand, Ar'resh blinked and added, "Oh, and Heinrich, don't let Dal Halvalek try and soak you for any..."

"...more latinum when you see him - he's already been paid for this year."

"I'll remember." Victor looked at them for a moment, and then added, "If you hear anything about Grey or the others while I'm gone, leave me a message at the usual drop point. I'll be careful - no need to tell Mama, Papa, or Greta anything. They'll just worry too much."

"We will," the Andorian women nodded, just before the screen blanked out, leaving Victor wondering just what part of that they had agreed to.

He blinked once, cleared the communications board, and stood, his words cutting the attendant's off before she could do more than inhale to start speaking. "Your shuttle stays here, Attendant. We'll take one of the decommissioned runabouts to pick up the ship, so have your things ready to move in ten hours, we leave in twelve."

K'vala growled in mingled anger and frustration and took a step towards him. "You...."

"Can get us to the Triangle," Victor replied tonelessly, "which is more important than your anger, or your frustration, or your desire to kill me. If you were stupid, like Dargha, you'd let your anger overrun you. But you're not. You'll swallow it, and bury it until I'm no longer useful and *then* you'll let it out. Not before." He took a step forward and added, "Save us both the time, Attendant. We'll both know when you're going to try and kill me... and this isn't it."

Before she could speak, before she could react at all, he tapped his combadge. =/\= "Krieghoff to Transporter Room Four. Two to beam to Galaxy Main Shuttle Bay." =/\=

The white light of the transporter effect washed over them, forestalling any further response from the Attendant until another time and place, one where Victor was no longer necessary and she could give vent to the anger he saw in her eyes each time they spoke.

ooc: takes place right after crew finds out about the away team being dead.

"Eight Minutes of Denial"

Ensign 8-ball Hunter

8-ball sat numbly down on her bed and didn't move for eight minutes.

It would have been quite an accomplishment for her, sitting still for so long, if she had been in the position to notice the extraordinary achievement. As it was, 8-ball felt too disconnected to remember that people generally didn't fold up and stare at nothingness as a regular pasttime.

She felt a strange sort of sorrow, but a distant sorrow, as if she couldn't quite remember what it was she was supposed to be feeling sad about. She did remember, though: the words circled around in her brain like big neon signs, trying to find some sort of emotion to connect with. Ella. Dead. Dead Ella. Dead dead dead.

Nothing connected.

She would not accept it as real.

8-ball knew all the stages, the cycles of pain, of how a person reacted when 'a loved one has gone'. You learned all about that in school, not to mention through years of personal experience. Tears and anger and more tears would come but the first stage was denial.

Ella dead. Ella. Dead. Can't can't can't.

~Somehow~, 8-ball thought in her detached way, ~knowing that I'm in denial. . .you'd think it would break it. Think the knowledge would make you accept, make you cry, make you realize it's real.~

It should have but it didn't, and 8-ball didn't feel real at all.

Hearing a voice in her head didn't help to re-establish any form of reality. ~T'Pol, you are being foolish. Grieving has no logical repercussions. It is not a tribute to your father's memory to go on in such a selfish manner. You are being indulgent to human emotion."

"Aw, fuck off, Mom," 8-ball said tiredly to the empty room, though years ago, when her mother had really said those words, 8-ball had screamed at her that she was human and would never be Vulcan and cold and robotic and disgusting like her mother. Right now, that kind of anger needed energy that she didn't have a sufficient amount of. Or any, for that matter.

8-ball hadn't thought about her mother in some time. Of course, she wouldn't spend time trying to picture her dear old mum unless she was a masochistic lunatic intent on throwing herself into an utter state of despair before throwing herself over a cliff, but also she'd been busy. Attacks here, attractive men there. . .8-ball's life since she moved to the Galaxy had been adventurous, if somewhat lonely, and when she made time to brood about her past, she spent it on the people who made her happy in life before they were taken away from her. Dad. Big Man. Now Ella.

Ella Dead. Dead Ella.

Can't be real.

But 8-ball didn't think much about her mother, her dear, sweet, disgustingly Vulcan mother, who had left her when she was little in her father's loving arms only to take her in cold ones when her father died so many years ago. The years she spent with her mother were the unhappiest in her life. Constant badgering to let go of her emotions. Constant admonishing to reflect on the all the wonderful things she had in life. There are children in distant quadrants who don't even have replicator systems, and blah blah blah. 8-ball didn't like a whole hell of a lot of people but she hated her mother, more than anyone she could think of. More than the drunk idiot who had killed Big Man, more than that stupid ensign last week who called her fat, even more than that sonofabitch Curran. If 8-ball's mother died, 8-ball wouldn't be sad. She didn't know if she'd rejoice but she certainly wouldn't be reduced to this numb, disconnected feeling.

~But Mom didn't die. Dad died and Big Man died and Ella. . .anyone you get close to. . .those are the ones who die. Never people like Mom. Never people like Mom.~

Awhile ago, she had finally met Victor, Ella's studmuffin, and he had told her that everyone got what they deserved. That was his job, to enforce it.

~Wonder what he thinks now,~ 8-ball thought and briefly wondered how Victor was handling Ella's death.

Doesn't matter. Ella's dead. Dead Ella.

She wanted to accept it, to cry and throw something, maybe tear up her beloved Eptgac teddy bear, who was probably wondering why the Dragon Lady hadn't attempted to maim it yet today. She wanted to get through her stages of grief quickly, preferably before lunchtime, and be able to move on to that point where she was in a "healthy and harmonious coping stage", where she was still sad but had realized that her friend had, "moved on to a better place", and that life was worth living and all that happy horseshit. She wanted all that but couldn't have it, at least, not yet, because she couldn't accept Ella's death as real.

Not yet.

8-ball shifted position from her bed to the floor and curled herself up into a ball where she sat, unmoving, for another eight minutes, thinking of Ella and her mom and the nobody around her to hold her hand.

1860