"Welcome To Basic, Part V"

By Petty Officer 2nd Class Benedict "Max" Maxwell,
NCOIC Emergency Medical Response Team (Current Status: Prisoner #8813-E419M25)
USS Galaxy

Starfleet Basic Training Facility, Great Lakes, Michigan, Earth, October 31st, 2378, 1950 hours

Ten Minutes. Ten more minutes, and Division 281 would have completed yet another day. They were in tight competition with Division 280 for Top Division of Recruit Cycle 3 which included all the Divisions that began in June. Cycle 1 had already completed and left for advanced and on the job training, Cycle 2 just about finished. Division 281 had about four points over 280, who had been 'sabotaged' with a couple of subtle infractions upon inspection in their section of the 'Ship'. Of course no one from 281 would admit to it (gracious me, no!!), but everyone knew the deal.

Today was their first ever Battle Stations exercise. It would be their opportunity to demonstrate thus far what they've learned: General Operations, Damage Control, EVA, Basic Survival Tactics, Basic Combat (close quarters and weapons), First Aid, and of course above all else.....teamwork. Teamwork was a concept that came easy to many, and yet such a foreign concept to others. Max fit into the first category, but only by sheer will. He had always learned as a street Medic to think and act independently, as Medics have done since the twentieth century.

Thankfully, he didn't have to be anywhere near Bonnie O'Healy, as she had only found new ways to exploit the now common knowledge that his mother was none other than Commander Gloria Benoit-Maxwell, a senior instructor at Starfleet Medical - San Francisco. Bonnie had found it necessary to ride Max's case as much as possible, and with the RDC feeling the same way about Max she had pretty much free reign in what she could cause to happen to him. As careful and diligent as he was, there was at least once a week a reason for him to receive a demerit. From a crease on his bed to a near imperceptible smudge on one of his boots, she nailed him to the wall as if he stole something. And Max was pretty much fed up with her.

Battle Stations was a twelve hour exercise that was originally supposed to start at 0500 hours, a problem in the facility they were using caused the exercise to be pushed back to now, much to the delight of RDC Hood. He hadn't done a night time Battle Stations in quite some time, and with the weather getting much colder, he was only happy to expose his recruits to the elements for as long as he could get away with it. He secretly believed that if he could push hard enough, he could shake the weakest link and bounce him out of Great Lakes back to wherever. And he was hoping that it would be Max.

There were four formations on the 'deck', which was an external assembly/drill area right in front of the simulation facility where the exercise was to take place. By now, the Heightline was seamless, perfect. No one was even a millimeter out of place. The RDC nodded at the progress that his Division had made in the past few months. He knew it would be almost over for them, with the January graduation for Cycle 3 looming ahead. Because of how well his Division had been performing (overall), he had control over the evolution of this particular Battle Stations exercise. He intended to ensure that he would have control over the second and last ones as well, which would be a very good mark in his track record of producing the most graduates in every Division that goes in.

RDC Hood was now addressing the four Divisions assembled, his own (281), RDC Colon's 280 (his immediate rival), RDC Muhleche's 277, and RDC Leifler's 269. They were the top four Divisions, which meant that at this point they were the ones to watch for Top Division. The other three RDC's stood just behind Hood, while the rest of the assisting RDC's and trainers where nowhere to be found. Max wondered about that and started to develop a sneaking feeling that they would be involved in whatever mishaps Battle Stations involved. As if to answer his thoughts, an ice brisk wind cut through all of them suddenly. "Recruits," began Hood, "you are the top four Divisions in Cycle 3. Which means you are the first to participate in Battle Stations." He paused to take a sip from some water that Recruit Yeoman Bruu had ready for him. He dismissed the Recruit Yeoman and continued. "Battle Stations is an old Terran Naval training tool to determine the effectiveness of the training received. They only had to do it once. You will do it three times." Another pause. "Before you get too happy, thinking that you'll just memorize what you did before, I can assure each and every one of you that you will not be doing the same thing twice."

There was a barely imperceptible bristle among the ranks assembled, but nothing more. This pleased Hood and he took note of the level of discipline that the recruits were able to maintain. He continued with his briefing. "Divisions 280 and 269, you are dismissed with Recruit Division Commander Colon for your instructions. 281 and 277, stand fast."

Colon stepped out of the Commanders' area and come to about ten feet of the Heightline. "Divisions 280 and 269, fall out and report to Deck 7." As the two formations broke ranks and hustled to one of the lecture rooms, Max began to formulate what this scenario may entail. He started to think about capture the flag, and such scenarios. His attention was snapped back to Hood, who began speaking again.

"...assignments will be given to you in about ten minutes." Again, Hood paused to ensure he had the attention of all the Recruits. "This scenario will be played out over the course of twelve hours. All Battle Stations scenarios are twelve hours long, and not a minute less. Do you get me?"

"Aye-aye, Chief," everyone shouted in unison. Normally, the RDC would make them shout it a few more times until a few people were sure that they tasted blood coming out of their throats, but they managed to put in a team effort and do it right the first time, with as much enthusiasm and volume as they could possibly muster.

"Then, if there are no questions..." It wasn't an invitation to a Q & A, and everyone knew it.

Max made that mistake early on and got jumped on by three RDC's shouting at him in unison.

"Recruits...Battle Stations!" A Red Alert klaxon went off and everyone froze as they didn't know where they were going or what to do. In all the confusion, they didn't notice Hood tapping his Comm Badge and whispering, "Energize."

TBC..................................

"T'Karita, Part 2"

Ariennye (John Davidson)

****
Mount Tar'Hana
Vulcan
The Day Before Launch
****

Jaeih stood at the railing watching the lava swirl about in below. This was where she had first met him, and given her father's demands, it was to be the place where she was to choose another mate; one more worthy, or so her father said.

The years had been long, oh too long for one to wait for their soul mate, but she had waited, and waited and waited. And he hadn't shown up at all. "Elements, guide me." she whispered as she thought about the times she and Ari had shared together in their brief time. Why had he had to go and try and prove himself to her father? Why couldn't he have just accepted her for her? Why?

Glancing down, she noticed that her knuckles had gone white, and released the tight hold she had on the rail. In her angst at the thought of being forced to move on, she had failed to notice her grip on the rail tightening. She took in a deep breath and relaxed slightly.

"Damn you Ariennye! Damn you father! Damn me!"

****
The Wasteland
Vulcan
Two Weeks Before
****

At last, a viable tip, he thought as he began the long climb up the cliff face. The tired adventurer struggled up the rock towards the last resting place of T'Merak, the great explorer of years gone by. His face wore the wrinkles of his tough journey, covered in a mottle of hair. Several scars, reminders of the mission to retrieve the artifact, were visible on his arms and hands. The latest being from a brush with a drunk bum that he had had the unfortunate luck of bumping into a couple of days before.

But he was close now. He could feel it in the air. It was almost over. The longest few years of his life, and they were almost over. He just hoped that she had waited for him. It was a fools thought, but it was the hope that she had that allowed him to continue. For all he knew, she could have met someone and now have two or three children.

After what seemed like hours, he emerged from the cliff face onto a small landing that supposedly lead to T'Merak's tomb. It was becoming dusk, and he pulled a torch and flint from his backpack and struck up a flame. He was going to need light in the tomb.

With cautious steps, he walked into the darkness, his flaming torch flickering in the slight breeze.

It had taken many hours of careful searching, but finally he had found the Orb of T'Karita. Finally he had it in his possession. With his excitement rising at the prospect of seeing Jaeih again, he didn't notice the two Vulcan's standing near the entrance to the tomb. Upon seeing them, he found them to be holding some sort of projectile weapon; aimed at him.

"He sent you didn't he? To stop me?" Ariennye shouted.

One nodded and motioned for him to hand over the Orb while the other just stood there silently.

Ariennye had come too far to let them do this to him and shook his head in protest.

The man raised his weapon threateningly before firing a warning shot at the nearby rock. The explosion of granite from the rock told Ariennye that they were serious. With much regret, he placed the Orb on the ground in front of him and inched back away from it.

The first Vulcan stepped forward and picked it up before calling out to his mate, "Kill him."

Ariennye took off at full tilt into the Tomb. He had no idea if they were going to follow, but he couldn't give up without trying to survive their weapons.

"Let's bring the roof down on him." The first said before firing at the rocks above the cave. The resulting explosions of rock sent a mini landslide down over the entrance, sealing it off and trapping Ariennye inside.

****
Mount Tar'Hana
Vulcan
The Day Before Launch
****

"Daughter!"

Jaeih looked up towards the voice; her father's voice. "Yes father?"

"You must choose. I've put up with your nonsense and delay tactics, but you must choose a mate. I demand it. Now!"

Jaeih shook her head. "There is only one man for me. And you know that."

With a scowl on his face, he marched over to his wayward daughter. "He is gone," Word had come through from his two minions that he was indeed gone, trapped in a tomb. "You must choose another. You disgrace me, and this family, with your failure to heed my demands."

"Disgraced you? It is you who have disgraced this family, father! You sent him away; you sent him to his death. You sent him on a fools' errand. I will do no such thing as choose another. My heart is with him."

"You will pick one of these men now!"

Jaeih sighed. There was no way her father was going to let go of this. And despite her love for Ariennye, he had been gone for over two and a half years without a word, and the strain was getting to be too much. "Just so you know, father, I will bear no children for the chosen mate. I will not give him pleasure, nor will I do anything that will enhance your position."

Her father shrugged. He was getting her to let him go. He could work on the rest later on.

Jaeih looked over the three candidates. All seemed to be outstandingly wealthy individuals, each with their own qualities and strengths. None of them was Ariennye though. So what if they were all from prominent families, none were worthy of her. But she had to choose, and rumor had it that the tall one in the middle was commissioning a new mansion on the banks of the largest river in Vulcan. That might be an alright place to live, she thought. Finally after much thought, she spoke. "I choose..."

"Me!" a voice called out.

Everyone turned. Jaeih, her bodyguard, the three suitors, but the fastest had to be her father. As soon as the voice called out, he had a strange chill running down his spine. He had an inkling of who it might have been. And to his anger, he was right.

Ariennye stood there, clutching the Orb in his hands, fresh cuts on his face and arms. One look at Jaeih and he knew it had been worth it. She was more beautiful than he recalled, and now that he was back, and with the Orb, they could start a life together.

"Here!" he called out to her father as he threw the Orb to him. "Your goons couldn't stop me." Turning, he walked towards Jaeih. He longed to hold her in his arms.

Her father stuttered at the turn of events as he clutched the Orb that his nemesis had returned. "You... You can't have her. She is to wed one of these gentlemen."

"No father." She called back. "You said I had to pick someone here, and I did. I pick Ariennye."

Rage filled her father and he stormed after Ariennye, trying to stop him from wrecking everything he had worked his life to do. To stop him from ruining his chance of marrying his daughter into a wealthy family that could support them.

Reaching Ariennye, he tried to push him away but in so doing, he bumped his daughter , who stumbled on a broken tile and slipped backwards.

Over the railing.

Ariennye's hand, outstretched, barely touched the fingertips of his love's hand before her father pushed him away. All he could do was stumble to the side and watch in very slow motion as Jaeih slipped backwards over the railing and fell into the Lava below in a large explosion of molten magma and rock.

Her dying scream echoed up at everyone on the platform.

"Look at what you've done" her father bellowed.

"Me? You're the one who pushed her you bastard. I had nothing to do with it. You ego knocked her over the rail." Tears filled his eyes, and his vision dimmed in shock at the loss of his true love.

"GUARDS, Arrest him!" her father yelled.

Two nearby royal guards came running.

"You bastard." Ariennye shouted back. "You kill her and then have me arrested!"

"Stop!" One of the suitors called out. "Arrest her father. He's the one that knocked her over the rail."

Sensing that he was of greater standing than the old man, they complied. "I told you you would never have my daughter, commoner!" he called out as he was dragged away in a fit of anger and tears.

Ariennye sank to his knees weeping. He had been so close, but she was gone.

A hand rested upon his shoulder. "I'm sorry young man."

Ariennye nodded solemnly.

The remaining hours of the day found Ariennye sitting in a bar, drinking himself stupid. Everything was gone and there was no going back. She was dead, at her father's hand. Even if it was an accident.

On the next morning, clouded over as it was, Ariennye realized that he couldn't stay. Not here with all the hurt and the pain. There was a ship nearby, taking those that weren't following Surak away. Despite the headache he had, he realized what he had to do.

****
The Bowels of the Ship
TalValen
****

Ariennye stood in a small room. It wasn't on any plans, at least that he knew about anyway. No one knew about it except himself and a couple of drunks he had stumbled onto it with. But as far as he could recall, they were both dead now. Or at least in prison for Elements know what.

Opening the locked case, he gazed upon the contents. These were his most prized possessions. An image of himself and Jaeih together, the brush she used to comb her long flowing hair, an old book she had given to him one day, and the object that had been the bane of his existence ever since he had gone to retrieve it; the Orb of T'Karita.

Shaking with a mixture of pain and excitement, he ran his hand over the orb. He could feel such power from within, despite being just a plain orb. Having spent years coming to terms with everything, he now knew what he needed to do.

He was going to give the orb to the Temple. They aught to have it.

Author's notes: Yeah, should have posted this weeks ago. I know. But I think you'll like getting a taste of onboard strife nonetheless. I hope I'm not out of line for posting this.

"The Promenade March"

By Vennetir (James Corgan)

Location: Main Promenade
Time: 55 years post exile

*****
"The revolution will either thrive or die today." Vennetir, Former Chairman Elect of the Rihannsu Socialist Movement.
*****

The Promenade was quiet for approximately six hours into the day. There were few that went out to enjoy the facilities or bask in the central park. There was a warning somewhere that something big would happen.

It came from the lower decks, the thrums of marched footsteps, the shuffles of turbolifts as it spilled people out with the rapidity of a severed artery. They came from all the entrances from the lower decks, the stairs, the lifts and the transit terminals, until they pooled into a sea of massed Rihannsu, an oceanlike mass that seemed to spring out of nowhere. There were urchins in their rags, workers in their technicians uniforms, factory laborers with greasy faces and weathered hands, smart looking administrators, shopkeepers in prim but cheap uniforms, and in families, couples, generations young and old.

It was the people, the actual people coming up, to pay homage to their hero.

Organizing themselves in their groups, as assigned and cajoled by party leaders, the Rihannsu raised their banners, placards, signs and markers for everyone to see. They brought out the colours of red and green to adorn their bodies and their signs, and some even wore the traditional mourning black. On their signs were the messages of rebellion; their personal political messages, the adolations of the leaders they wanted to follow, the outrage at a system that kept them poor, starving and indentured since they boarded the ship.

The revolution was starting, and it started with a death.

First were the socialists to march, their red and green placards extolling the virtues of their lost leader, the late Tellerie, Chairman Elect of The Rihannsu Socialist movement. He was a popular leader, helping to reform a semblance of order in the lower decks, starting soup kitchens and communal supply gatherings when rations were at their worse, implimenting learning schools and technical colleges when it was found that the colony ship lacked the infrastructure for continued learning for the technicians, and even went so far as to give the people of the lower decks hope that they could govern themselves, and made good on it when the decades brought them more autonomy. He was a passionate, charismatic leader that lead with his heart, which was always aimed towards the common good of his people.

When the Blade Guild sent an assassin to kill him, the party's guards were not enough to stop the death. Two survivors remained of an escort, and Tellerie was dead.

His funeral was already held in private, but the real tribute to Tellerie's influence, and a final act of love on behalf of his family and mate, was taking place today.

The RSU was a mass of red and green, flanked by Party Enforcers in their red and black uniforms, with cudgels in their hands made from ship duct piping. There was a sense of mourning and outrage in the protesters ranks, either bowed down with tears to weigh them, or head upraised screaming at their betters from distances the nobles couldn't hear. Many of the tougher ones were wrapped in bandannas and masks, and their outraged screams were in unison. “NO JUSTICE! NO PEACE!” they cried, fists in the air, as some of their own brought crude weapons with them. Their banners echoed their statements, the slogans “One for all”, “Down with the bourgeois”, “They lead you, they fool you, they fight you, they consume for you, we make all!” and “THE REVOLUTION COMES!” were interspersed between pictures of the late Tellerie. In the centre of the main group was a escort of Party Enforcers, stern as they surrounded the main elite of the Socialists. There was a stern faced techician, a young and beautiful woman in technician female's dress, and an old lady that hunched over and cried. They led a coffin with the picture of Tellerie mounted on the front (fake of course, the ceremony days before).

Next was the Democratic Order, out in sympathy for their rivals. Though their views were a lot more capitalistic, they too wanted a piece of the prosperity that the Socialists worked for and the higher levels denied. They too say an opportunity to assert their power, and came out in support of the funeral march. They were in their blues and reds, screaming the same outrages as the socialists. Normally polar opposites of the revolution, they caused no problem with their neighbors.

There were the Anarchists Union, a popular movement in the lowest of the low levels, a movement more violent and troubling than any other. They were in black, more heavily armed and masked than the rest, and spewed their statements with incredible bile. Their banners had dark, scary look to them, promising more than revolution but destruction of the current order. They yelled the loudest, the strongest, the most violent, the most ready to fight. They were also the smallest.

Even with those three main patches of the downtrodden, there was the average person, less organized but just as passionate. All walks of life that meet up to the 'invisible forcefield' that was the upper classes was there, all represented, and soon the rear of the promenade started to fill with their numbers. There was hardly any free space left to breathe, much less to gather and march.

But soon, with the Socialists in lead, their main banner reading “Tellerie, Our Love to You in the Revolution” that stretched from one end of the promenade to the other and held up by party volunteers, was matched forward, the rest of the procession followed.

The march was going smoothly, as planned. It was starting to get the notice of police officers and of those that were, for some odd reason, in the shops despite the rumours. The mass of people moved forward, their footsteps and their ranted slogans a deafening rumble of noise, the thunder in their moving cloud.

At first, it was orderly and peaceful. The police kept their distance, and the protesters kept to their chants and speeches as they marched forward. The presence of police was increasing, hard looking men in riot armour, trudgeons and force shields were coming out. Some were even armed with disruptor rifles, but they all kept their distance. They were outnumbered heavily, and so far none of the protesters took violent action.

The march over the promenade continued unabated.

The end of the march would have taken them all to the main lifts that would take them to the higher levels, to the elites and their homes and places of work. It was where the protest march would go next, to the homes of the nobles, to the institutions that gave them power, and their enforcement, by way of the Blades and Phaser Guilds. It would be the final destination, the unwashed masses going where they weren't welcome, to parade in front of their faces the crimes the people thought they had perpetrated, and to show that they had the numbers to not tolerate their heavy handed rule anymore.

But in between the lifts and the promenade match was the armed forces. They were more heavily armed than the cops, with energy and hard ammo sidearms and barriers to keep the masses out. They interposed themselves between the march and the lifts like a front line, creating their own trenches out of barricades and armoured enforcement vehicles. Turrets traversed towards the protest, guns were raised in a unified 'clack' and forward units rushed, hunched over riot shields as others advanced with weapons in hand.

The protesters kept chanting their slogans, and added their opinions on the authorities that barred their way. But as if there was a forcefield between the two sides, none moved towards each other. They reenforced their frontline, the protesters with their crude weapons and bottles were coming to the front. They could sense the tenseness between the two, knew that a fight was coming, but were both afraid who, or what, would come first.

The Anarchists Union made their first move. One of the protesters sprinted out of the crowd, his bandana covering his noise and eyes, as in his hand, a bottle with a wick of flame trailed its incandescent haze of smoke and orange light. He ran, stopped suddenly, and winding his arm he flung the bottle towards the authorities, the wick of flame a spinning yellow wheel that smashed across the pavement, spreading a slick pool of oil that caught flame and spread with distressing quickness.

A few of the police guard flinched, but did not move from their position. More firebombs, and rocks, started to follow. The thudded uselessly against the riot shields, but the firebombs created slicks and smoking pools that obscured the police's vision.

When one caught fire on an armoured personnel carrier, the police decided it was far from enough. As if under one order, the cops aimed their weapons in the air, and at once fired.

Multiple plumes of sulfurous white smoke spat out of the front row's weapons, creating a trail of smoky arches that fell into the front ranks of the protesters. They then exploded into clouds that spread out with alarming rapidity, enveloping the front of the protest in its noxious fog. Some of the protesters started to panic, most were gagging on the chemical gasses that were raining down on them, but the enterprising protestors were not beat. Many wore their shirts and rags like masks, and others were intelligent enough to pick up the gas cartridges and throw them back at the police ranks. They also responded with more rocks, more firebombs and more people moving forward, their clubs in hand, ready to take on the police line.

But then, one man in the Anarchist ranks broke out, screaming his words to the world as he held a strange satchel in his hand. He spun his body like a hammerthrower, the satchel a crescent blur as he let go. He was meet with rifle fire, his body as if punched by a hundred fists by rubberized bullets, knocked off his feet and clutching his chest with a groan.

The satchel landed at the front of the riot line. A deafening roar, and the police's line split apart as if a fist flattened the entire section. The satchel detonated, the concussive blast the first to knock aside the police, then the fire that consumed them, flipping over their barricades a nearby APC that crumbled like foil. The maimed bodies of riot controllers twitched and groaned, those that were alive. The dead were scattered, blood sprayed and gore over the explosion, a great confusion in their ranks as they tried to register just exactly what went on. Even the protesters had to pause, shielding their eyes from the bright light and plume of flame. There was confusion with the protesters, not sure how to proceed, whether they were in a righteous cause or a murder.

The riot controllers had a more clear cut motivation. The satchel explosion, and the gaping hole in their protective line, left them no doubt about their actions.

They would not hold back anymore.

Moving fast and weaving to avoid the rocks and bombs, the surviving officers fired more tear gas into the crowds, as fast as their canister launchers could fire, with increased urgency, until the smoke and a few of the protester's signs were all they could see. Officers with rifles and energy weapons opened fire, and now without the restriction of non life threatening ordinance, started to scythe into the protesters with sickening efficiency. The carriers trundled forwards, water cannons and rapid fire weapons adding to the din of the screams and explosions.

In the protester's ranks, the bodies were dropping at an alarming rate. In it all, Vennetir saw the protest dengenerate into a massacre.

Bullets and energy beams sliced and lanced into the ranks, each shot adding to the death toll. An anarchist bucked and thrashed as he was hit by multiple bullets, and woman that appeared to be a housewife beside him screamed violently as a disruptor evicerated her with a clean, cauterizing wound. The beam ignited some of the tear gas that was floating around, and caught fire on the arm of one of Vennetir's socialist protesters. He turned to run, but was hit in the back of the head by a tear gas shell, adding more to the fire, consuming the protester's body. Everyone else, choking on gas and trying to keep away from the bullets and beams, were dropping their signs and running for their lives. An ardent few tried to fight, but with firebombs and sticks, they too were easily cut down.

Vennetir was at a loss how it spiralled out of control so easily, so fast. It was not supposed to be this way. The authorities were supposed to be afraid. They were supposed to outnumber and dictate terms. It wasn't supposed to end in a bloodbath.

Instantly, he was starting to regret his role in the fight. He choked on nerve gas, and fumbled for Tellerie's sister Tellan and her elderly mother, but couldn't see through all the smoke, or hear them in the din of the gunfire. He called out to Socialists, protesters, anyone that would rally to him and try to make good an escape out of this chaos.

Fumbling through the area, blind, his eyes stinging and his lungs burning in agony, he tripped over the dead. Even in the smoke he could see their silouettes, twitching in rigor mortis, or slumped and groaning from wounds that would soon overtake them. There were so many bodies, so many of his own, so many like him.

”Not like this...” He weezed, “Tellerie, it wasn't supposed to be like this....”

Even through watering eyes, Vennetir could see the shadow of a tall standing man in riot armour. He raised a weapon to Vennetir's head, aimed, and waited.

Vennetir expected that weapon, at any moment, to finish his life, and when it did fire, he felt the jolts of electricity run through his body. Too much for him, he lost consciousness.

*****

He woke up freezing cold, hanging from manacles, and with a headache he could only attribute to the aching feeling from the back of his head. His whole body felt like it was a mass of bruises and on fire at the same time. The fire was the tear gas; he remembered that it irritated skin as well as the lungs, but the bruises he wasn't so sure about. Trying to move, he felt every place where he got hit. He even felt a sharp pain in his ribs that made him swear violently.

They didn't miss an opportunity to inflict pain on the Socialist. Vennetir theorized he was beaten after he was shocked. From there he could have died, but by some mercy he was allowed to live? Why?

He could think of one perfectly good reason. The march was his idea, spread by him and his Socialists in honour of the loss of his former husband, dead by an assassin. He thought it would spark a revolution, bring a new way for the proletariat to have their fair share.

But it degenerated into chaos, and many died. Vennetir felt that guilt in his heart like dwarf star material in the pit of his stomach.

"Awake?" Said a voice in the dark, scrambled and menacing, holding some familairity to him.

He wanted to speak, felt his teeth broken and green blood on his lips. By the Great Bird, did he ever feel parched! The bright light shone in his face irritated his stung eyes, but he wanted more than escape was a glass of water to allow him to answer the interrogator's questions.

"Yes." He croaked weakly.

"Good." Said the mystery voice, "You are Vennetir, Chief Maintenance Officer of Main Thruster Engine #9. You are a suspected socialist and anti-authoritarian, and a member of the Rihannsu Socialist Movement. Confirm/Deny?"

"Yes." He wheezed, the pain in his ribs jabbing his lungs, "What of it?"

The interrogator was all too glad to answer his question, "As of this day forth, the Rihannsu Socialist Movement, as well as the Anarchist Union and the Democratic Order, among many other orders you lower levels like to invent, are banned by law. Membership or co-operation with said insurgency groups will result in immediate and swift retaliation. Since you are part of the RSM, you are under these laws."

"I was trying to make life better for us." Vennetir meekly protested.

"You were trying to bring chaos to our ship! To question the authority of the houses is to invite dissention and death! Because of this, you are in shackles and your movement is dead."

~"Dead?"~ Vennetir didn't want to believe the interrogator.

"And because of your hand in this... you will spend the rest of your life here, and you will answer every question we ask..."

"Their Own Reality"

Vennetir, Chief Technician, Main Engine #9 (James Corgan)
Sotha, Az Shiber agent (Saul Bental)

****
Talvalen
Lower Decks
55 years after launch
****

The small sack tied to his belt made Sotha tread more heavily, as if the weight of his mission was pulling him down. The travel cloths he was wearing were not unlike those he wore just five years ago. So much has changed in those five years, but here he was, back in the lower bowels of the ship, among those who heard of luxury only in bedtime stories.

This area of the ship was new to Sotha. He was here only several times, all for business purposes. It was considered better than the bad areas where Sotha grew up. True, there was crime and brutality anywhere, but the residents of this section were mostly hardy labourers, who work hard for their meal unlike the beggars and social parasites which surrounded Sotha as a child.

For the leaders of the ship, these people seemed like a harmless horde of farm animals, quiet and obidient. But Sotha knew with certainty that any truly serious uprising will come from here. These sheep weren't witless.

Sotha spent two weeks scouring the regions he did know and getting in touch with all of his contacts and connection, and the conclusion was always the same: whoever set the fire did not come from the areas of the lower decks which Sotha knew well. Assuming that none of the nobles ordered this sabotage, then it must've come from here.

'Here' was a promenade area on the lower deck, a sort of commercial gathering place centred in mass of honeycombed communal living spaces. Most of its ilk was run down, with patches of rust and paint illuminated by tawdry, flickering neon signs. Run down bulwarks and worn out panels were the only embellishment, besides the barred windows and locked doors. In the centre of the mass would be an artificial park, with grasses from Vulcan's northern green belt laying out a plush carpet around a centrepiece artificial waterfall or fountain. Usually these decorations were as dilapitated; the grasses were yellowed while paths were worn in from years of trodding feet and the fountains were always not functioning properly, with part fetid water reflecting rainbows, a sign of broken filtration units.

This promenade area was different. The paint was fresh, and though the area had a worn in appearance, it all appeared to be in good order. The grasses were still plush and green, and the fountain still sprayed a gout of water ever few seconds.

This was a working class neighborhood, working poor, but a proud bunch that cared for their communal grounds. There were plenty of lower end workers bustling in the area, enjoying their miniature park under a starfield to the outside, or shopping at the small kiosks and stores that sold clothing, jewelry, trinkets and foods.

The centre of the park was where the main activity was taking place. There was a sizable gathering of working class and poor individuals in the crowd, a healthy mix that was well within caste, not a single one out of place. They were paying attention to something in the centre of the park intently, excited shouts and hails were peppered in. Some were so engaged that the local street urchins were moving in to pick some unfortunate pockets.

One of those urchins was to pick the pocket of a maintenance worker, when he was spotted and shooed away. The child ran frightfully, but not at full gallop like he would when a police officer arrived. He was told to halt, and as if he was a pet snatching a morsel in its jaw in midair, snagged a coin thrown by their antagonist. The urchin was then told to take his trade elsewhere; to that he didn't argue.

Sotha mindlessly rubbed his back, where a few scars remained from his early days as a pickpocket. When lashes and beatings were the price of failure, you had to have a steep learning curve. It surprised him that the people here were so forgiving toward the urchin, and it even made him feel a little jealous.

He glanced at the man who threw the coin. He was a beefy worker, with large, brutish arms and a scowl of iron. He wore black pants and a maroon shirt. On the side of his belt he wore a pipe, like something that was scavenged from the heating pipes in the lower levels. It had scratches and dents, giving the appearance of more than one use.

It was one of the Rihannsu Socialist Movement Party's Enforcers. There was not only the large man circling outside the crowd, but a posse off his friends, similarily dressed and brandishing their own metal pipes.

When Socialist Enforcers were out in those numbers so brazenly in the open, it meant a Socialist speech was taking place.

Sotha tightened his grip on the sack, and let his feet carry him toward the center of attention. Amongst the Az Shiber, there was an ongoing debate whether the autonomy the lower decks gained in the recent decade was a good thing or a bad one. Sotha claimed that it helped the government save resources, and that it would reduce unrest because the citizens will feel less oppressed. However, the fire made him reconsider his theories.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one who wanted to climb to the top. Maybe someone not unlike himself was manipulating these throngs to rise to power.

Sotha slipped between two elderly women, made sure that his pockets are protected, and watched the improvised stage.

To the stage came an group of redshirt clad people, circled by an escort of the same balaclava wearing redshirts with pipes. The centre of the group was taken up by a quintuplet of people, two women and two men. One woman was elderly, and she wore the colours of mourning with her red shirt and peasant's longskirt, the woad partially hid her wrinkled face. She walked slowly with the support of the other female and a cane in her other hand. The second female was a young woman, beautiful even for a peasant, dressed like the older woman but presented more tightly and boldly, powerful feminimity that dared to challenge anyone that thought her as just a woman.

The two men were in front, one a younger lad that was almost as large as the party enforcers. In fact, he was dressed as a party enforcer, but without the balaclava. He held a sullen, hangdog expression.

But the most pronounced of them all was the man in the lead. A strong looking man, his arms weathered and muscled as he wore a clean, maybe even new worker's overalls and shirt. He had a pipe to his waist, and a dark blue cap on his head that signified him as a technician, and it served to only hide some of his salt and pepper hair. Though he looked to be a mid to older aged gentleman, he had the strength and certainty of a leader, his strided confident and purposeful, his face hiding something deeper and more passionate.

He took to the podium, leaving the other three to stand behind him. He raised his hands up in silence, and the crowd murmured in confusion. Some even called the words 'Tellerie', and to that the man at the podium begged for silence.

When it was sufficiently quiet, he began to speak in a booming voice. "Tellerie, our beloved leader, is dead."

Immediatly, Sotha activated the small recording device hidden within his cloths.

The speaker had charisma, influence and support which was beyond anything Sotha ever saw on the lower deck sections he usually prowled as an agent. He knew he had his man.

"Tellerie is dead." Said the man at the podium his upraised arms lowered to grip and rest on his podium, eyes piercing the crowd as he held a stern, silent composure that didn't speak his speech, but made the crowd feel his speech, its mood, what he felt. It was a mixture of grief, anguish, and a cold hatred.

"Tellerie is dead." He repeated to a silent crowd, "Tellerie is dead! Our leader, our admired, cherished leader is dead. The man who helped out the lower levels, helped create the programs that made sure our families were feed properly during hard times is dead. The man who cleaned up the lower levels so that we could be proud to live in them is dead. The man who made our unbearable lives bearable is dead."

Sotha quickly drew a crayon from his bag, and wrote 'Tellerie' on his wrist. The man might be dead, but his name seemed to have a huge impact on the crowds around him. The teen who stood next to Sotha actually began to sob at the news.

The speaker slipped off his technician's cap and held it tightly to his chest in a half salute, half clinging to a memory. His eyes scrunched as he looked down at the floor, but no amount of hiding could disguise the tears in his eyes. "He knew an honest, brutal truth about our situation on this ship. Most others did not want to admit it, and hoped for the best in our journey. We knew it would be tough. We knew that there would be hardship. But Tellerie... he set himself apart by understanding an irrefutable truth about our situation. He knew the truth. He knew that though we left our planet, we did not escape our fundamental flaws. We did not escape greed, lust, hatred. No, and those flaws would transfer over to those who started the ships, those who commanded, those who had the power. He knew the truth... that this ship is no different than the struggles of our world. There would be upper and lower levels, and those on top would have control and keep it. He knew that to keep it, they would do anything to keep the majority under their control and keep themselves comfortable. It meant years of atrocities, the downtrodding of the lower levels. HE KNEW!"

The crowds were moved by the presenter's words. Some would call 'Vennetir!' to the podium, but the man at the podium would only be lost in his own grief, that grief having a purpose he didn't want to stray from.

"He knew that the establishment would be the same, my dear comrades. He knew, and we would not have a better life. He knew even if we found our new home, it would be the same. Upper and lower class. We have the means and production, they have the control. He knew the system and its reality. He knew...."

Then he boomed up in a deep, baritone voice, "AND HE DECLARED THAT HE DID NOT ACCEPT THEIR REALITY, AND HE WOULD SUBSTITUTE IT WITH OUR OWN!!!!!"

Sotha narrowed his eyes. Does this man realize what he was saying? What would've happened to him if another agent, not Sotha, was present to hear this speech? He wouldn't last a day.

Vennetir hushed under the cheers that rolled like a wave of thunder, and when it died down sufficiently he continued, "And so... I say to you people, he wanted a system that was fair to all. Equal distribution. Equal prosperity. All would be provided for and made happy by the collective will! None would be judged and all would be free! He knew what system he wanted and he dedicated his life to make it so, as your Chairman Elect of the Rihannsu Socialist Movement!"

"But..." He halted the crowd warningly, "They knew what he wanted to establish, and it threatened their order. They knew, and so in a cowardly attack using an assassin of the Guild of Blades, Tellerie was struck down and slain, as well as dispatching the lives of three of our bravest comrades from the redshirt enforcers. Tellerie saved my life when it should have been the opposite, and it was only myself and the actions of brave Selkir that kept us alive to tell you this atrocity."

It was then that the mood of the crowd changed, from mourning in droves to a mass of anger. There were yipped shouts, ephitaphs to the murderers, fists raised and screams for blood vengeance. The crowd was growing restless, the demands for blood impatient.

"My friends... that is why in three days time, we shall give our beloved leader and his guards a funeral fit for their martyred status." Vennetir raised a fist in the air, and slammed it to the table, "A procession, from one end of the main promenade to the next, for all too see! Nobles! Scuts! Everyone in between will see the funeral of a great man, and those who did it will know our collective anger, our collective indignation, and those once not on our side will join us together in mourning, and show the establishment that they have done QUITE ENOUGH! We will force them to answer for this injustice! They... will... pay!!!"

In the crowd, a single figure turned away and began to leave. Sotha understood the anger of the throng, felt it multiplied many times within him as he grew up among those that even the people here would patronize. Yes... they would cheer for equality and freedom, but they would scoff at shaft urchins and turn to them only when they needed someone small enough or weak enough to perform their errands.

Sotha did not know if the speaker's rightous anger was genuine or not; Nor did he care. He was going to use it to his own ends, whether it was to build strength through this Rihannsu Socialist Movement - or to climb up the rank ladder over their ruins.

Vennetir and his entourage stepped down from the podium amidst the cheers of the crowd. There were chants of 'Freedom' and 'Venne', their worker's hats thrown in the air to shower themselves and their popular leader. The women in the entourage held their heads higher; even in mourning they felt their hearts lighten, while the men soldiered through the crowd, to make their way out.

The younger woman turned to Vennetir, to shout over the crowd to him. "Thank you, Uncle Venne. My brother would be proud."

He replied, "I've had fifty years a marriage with him and he deserves no less than a martyr's sendoff. Just get prepared. Meanwhile, I have to find a way to stay low for a few days."

"Maybe I can help with that."

Sotha was fortunate to stick around for a little while longer; And as opportunity presented itself, he pounced.

"Sauta." He presented himself with a bow. "I'm from the aft section; We've got many places where people could lay low for a while without interruption, and after what I heard today I would love to help."

The large young man approached Sotha, his hand on his pipe, and responded sternly, "Are you a card carrying?"

Sauta measured the man in front of him. "No. I'm only carrying what's in this bag."

"Get lost." The guard snarled. "We would be stupid to take sanctuary from a stranger."

Vennetir halted his younger protege, "Now hold on, Selkir." He placed a hand on the guard's shoulder, serving the calm the young man and release his grip on the pipe he carried. He then addressed Sotha, "Do not mind him. He is now the head of the Party's Enforcers, and it is his business to be paranoid. However, he does raise a good point. Why should I take any help from someone I do not trust?"

Sotha shrugged. "I'm just offering a hand, man. I like what you say. Don't know if you ever been to the aft section, but you people live in luxury compared to what we've got. And it doesn't have to be that way. That's why I moved here. And now I see someone who can make a difference - and I've gotta tell you, if you're as decent as the folks here think you are, I'd hide you in my own chamber even if the entire ship's security's on our tail."

Through his confused speech Sotha let the lower decks accent take over his voice. Himself, he had an impecable diction thanks to his early life education and his refusal to be carried away by the lower decks attitude. But he heard it enough to be able to imitate it well enough for the sharpest pointy ear to miss.

"So figured maybe I could help a little. Take it or leave it."

Tellan was about to beg for Vennetir to use sense, but one glare silenced her.

"They would be a fool to make another martyr at this point. Take me there, my friend."

"Digital End, Part 1"

By Vennetir (James Corgan)

Location: Prison
Time: 75 years post exile

The unwanted sliver of light that violated the gloom of his cell came to him as a surprise.

It wasn't very often that Vennetir had his cell open. He could remember each time it happened; he had time enough to kill on mundane details such as noting every time he had a sliver of freedom. The light came out to stab his eyes. It hurt him a little, if only for a second. He was used to darker conditions, imposed on him by his captors when they found out years ago that he was using the light to help him write his beliefs.

Was it another interrogation? The first few years of his confinement had a lot of interrogations, with stern, loud, authoritarian men demanding so many answers to their questions. Who was he? Who was he affiliated with? How many in the group? Were they plotting to overthrow the ship? Sometimes it was real, or it had beatings and electricity, or sometimes it was a bribery such as a proper prison ration or to have his lights switched on again. Sometimes it involved drugs. They would question him for minutes, hours, or even days. When it was most benefitial to them, for it was never right to make the interrogations predictable, they would threaten the death of his loved ones or even show him, or they would give him his promised day of execution, lead him to the gallows, and at the last second while the rope went around his neck, or the needle would go into his vein or the click of the disruptor's trigger being pulled by the masked executioner, they would stop, and send him back to his cell. Over time, these visits became less intense, less frequent, until they just stopped.

He felt so old, and even though he lost track of his time in prison, he knew it had been decades long when even his information was old and outdated. So it couldn't be another visit from the authorities.

Could it be a visit? He wasn't allowed visitors... ever. His crime was so serious, and once the interrogations found his true rank with the Socialists, he was never allowed outside contact. But sometimes a guard could get a message across. Sometimes it was intercepted and he was punished. Sometimes not. Some of them had to get through. Even as long as he had been in and forgotten by most, he could still get a message outside and some news of his kin. However, he also knew that these visits were timely, during each meal. Years in isolation helped him intuit time, even if he couldn't judge years. It was hardly dinner time.

It was possible that the open door could be weekly court exercises. He would visit some of the other political prisoners and the real criminals, if only so that the extended isolation wouldn't drive him to self destruction or murder. They knew him, though the youngers ones knew him less as a real figure and more of a legend of distant past. There were some that joked about his 'marriage' to a male, and thought prison would be a paradise for one of his orientation. He had to always correct those ignorant buffoons, first lightly to remind them that his sexuality hardly made him a walking horomone around men, then forcefully if they made an issue of it with a fist. He did it last week to a rough looking prisoner, and the guards didn't bother to punish him. Thankfully such issues were fewer in his old age. He jokingly admitted that he was losing his sex appeal, leaving him with more time to enjoy a game of Kal-To or a session on the weight machine.

He had exercised yesterday. Today wasn't court day.

If it wasn't a useless torture session, or a visitor, or a meal or exercise, what was it? He swept up his papers, waste tissues he used for his pages, and groped for the needle that he used to prick himself for ink. The improvised pen made its presence known with a poke. He pocketed it in his pants and gathered the tissues, hiding them under his mattress.

If it was a contraband raid, he would be caught and punished. He was most certain what it was.

But the odd thing about his stint in prison, the decades in which he lost count of the years inside, was that in his infirmed age, his well being hardly mattered. The authorities broke every part of him they could find, some he didn't know he had. He betrayed friends and mates to the party, knew full well they would take secret identities but told anyways, because if he did not then the person he became while in deep pain would. The years taught him that no man, including himself, can stand up to such tortures alone.

With all that out of the way years ago, with nothing left to take (as far as he knew), he was less afraid of what would come next.

Two shadowy bodies rushed into the room, giving him a second's reprieve from the bright light until he was snatched and dragged completely into the light. It at first stung his eyes, and while he adjusted coloured spots danced in his vision. He saw his weathered and wrinkled hands and felt the creaks and groans of old age in his limbs. He remembered that he used to be a younger and more virile man, an engine worker's job demanded someone that was not just smart but strong. Now he was shrunken compared to his captors, whom he could guess was as big as him in his prime. They were certainly stronger; natural vitality was no substitute for being well fed.

The guards threw a black hood over his head. He felt his feet being dragged on the floor as they hefted him along.

When it was time to take the mask off, they had travelled for five minutes through hallways and turbolifts. He was forcibly thrown onto a slanted table and shackled him by his wrists and ankles. When they removed the mask, he found that he wasn't in the interrogation room that he had been accustomed to years ago. This room was cleaner. It was painted white instead of green, and the furnishing were metal instead of ruined. While the interrogation room was run down and spartan, this room had monitoring equipment and medical supplies. The interrogation room was meant to inspire fear to those inside, but this was an antiseptic, almost calming environment. It was an actual medical lab. Vennetir didn't remember the last time he was taken to one of these. It had to be before his incarceration.

The guards left to flank the door and watch over Vennetir. He could hardly be a threat as he saw himself in the mirror. A withered, liver spotted face, his hair platinum white and balding into a widow's peak. His hands shook involuntarily from his arthritis and his prisoner's jumpsuit hung over him like a dinnercloth on a table.

~"Have I been in prison this long?"~ Vennetir had to ask himself.

He heard footsteps, then the clack of a keyboard to his right. He had to bend until it hurt to see who was beside him, and caught a glimpse of a labcoat and the man in it. Younger by half his age, but showing the salt and pepper of an older man, the doctor was physically unspectacular, but had the face of a scholar. He might have been as old as when Vennetir thought he was incarcerated, maybe a teenager or child, maybe even a protester during Tellerie's funeral massacre, hot blooded, angry, foolish to believe he could take on the system with a brick or a firebomb.

How he felt guilty for those days, his hot blood leading to a decision that caused so much death. How sorry he was to associate Tellerie's life to so much death. He said so so many times under pain.

~"How I miss you Tellerie."~ A solitary tear weeped out of his eye at the thought of his long dead husband.

The man in the labcoat walked to Vennetir, edging his spectacles over his nose as he looked at a spreadsheet. His pen marked at the paper with dispassionate speed. He looked over his patient, made more notes, and put down the paper.

"Good day, prisoner Vennetir of the now defunct Rihannsu Socialist Movement." Said the doctor, "And how are you doing this morning?"

Vennetir answered raspily, "Fine, all things considering. I am getting old... that doesn't get easier, but fine. It is morning?"

"Yes it is." The doctor leaned over to him, opening up his eyelids to shine a penlight down. Even with the third inner eye, Vennetir's retinas stung. "But all things considering, you are in good condition for a man of your age and your length in prison. I can only hope I can age as gracefully as you."

Vennetir wanted to laugh. The doctor was probably trying to be empathetic, but he had interrogators do the same thing. "I am flattered. Now what was this about the RSM being defunct. I heard rumours that the police cracked down on members and the nobles outlawed the organization, but that was years ago."

The doctor scribbled an additional note onto his paper. "The more they change. Can you believe it? Other ships caught word of democracy and socialism on their sublight communicators. Our ship wasn't the only one to have demonstrations, you see, and now there is even talk about actual elected Senates... with limited powers, of course. We cannot start change so fast, you see."

"I don't see why not." Vennetir countered, "But you hardly brought me in for a discussion on politics."

The doctor nodded his head, "No, I did not, but you must understand that you are a legend on this ship. The nobles clamped down more control after The Promenade Massacre, but that brought more protests. Little by little the nobles brought reforms. Relaxed some rules, gave the workers a fairer share, stuck to less nepotism. It wasn't perfect, but it was better. I would have never become a doctor otherwise... and I can thank you for that. If it wasn't for your predecessor's work and your one action to call attention to our plight... we would have never seen change. You have to understand that 'Uncle Venne', there from the beginning, helped inspire the movement and stood up the the authorities until the last, until the bullets and the stunners and the gas overwhelmed you, you stood at the front of the riot and defied the nobles. You were a brave man, an influence on us all.."

Vennetir was confused. The incident he felt guilt over for years, and he was a hero? This was his most bizarre interrogation yet. "And who would spread a wild story like that?"

The doctor shrugged, "Well, you know how I said the RSM was defunct? It was... it went through some name changes, but the cause was the same, and all along we were told stories by Chairwoman Tellan. She taught how your example helped her to rise as a community leader and eventually negotiate a better deal with the nobles."

The story was wild, but did he dare to hope it to be true? Vennetir had to smile at the possibility. Tellan was always as smart and passionate as her brother, and her forceful personality transcended even her gender. If she was a leader, it spoke well the beliefs of the movement, teaching that all were equal as long as they were fit to lead. Tellerie's life work, thereby making it his life work, was being carried out by his sister and the next generation.

His heart felt lifted.

"So, why tell me this? And why all... this?" Vennetir indicated to the medical equipment.

The doctor explained, "Vennetir, despite it all you still have a life sentence to carry out. That your friends could not reverse, I'm afraid. You will be in jail until you die, and from what I saw of your medical history you have very few years left. You might be out if you are seriously ill to see your loved ones, but we may not have the time. When I had the opportunity to use you, I took it. I think... I have a proposal that you may be interested in."

"I am listening." Vennetir answered.

"I have been doing studies into the Rihannsu consciousness... we don't use the word Vulcan anymore, not even as a formality. I am a neurosurgeon, you see, and I have studied not only our dwindling psychic potential, but also our potential for our conscious minds to detatch from the body and live on. It has been recorded in pre-exile times, and we think it may be of some use to us."

Vennetir tried to process the idea, but it sounded like a pie-in-the-sky scheme. Still, he wanted to hear more. This was the most eventful visit in years. "So we can make ghosts. How can that be useful?"

"Not ghosts, Vennetir, but spirits can live on forever if kept in a proper vessel." The doctor hovered over him, wrapping a velcro device over his wrist. He felt the device tighten around him, then let loose as if pinpricked, the air hissing out. "We know that the existence of the Kata is true. It is a great discovery for us. It could cut the usage of space on this ship by transporting souls and bodies in limited vessels rather than use an entire colony ship. Even the prison system would benefit, saving up on space, but we are decades away from making it practical."

"And why is that?" Vennetir asked.

"What do we do with the body?" He answered matter of factly, "We would still need a body for that soul. If we kept the old one around, we might as well cryogenically freeze everyone onboard, it would be just as well off and less complex. No, the real advancements have to be made in cloning, and that is not my field."

"Oh.... now... what about me? How am I involved?"

"Let us be honest. You are a condemned criminal, and even after all these years the nobles would rather chew off their left arm than to see you free and risk starting off another wave of anti-authoritarian riots. Even in this day and age politics are tenuous at best. They got what they wanted out of you, but if they killed you the nobles would have to deal with a martyr. So you are in limbo. Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay. Can't be killed, but can't be allowed to live."

Oddly, the doctor was making sense. Vennetir was starting to believe the earnest young doctor's face. He didn't seem to be lying, and his logic told of the common sense upbringings of the middle class. He found himself liking this doctor.

"You want to remove my Kata?" Vennetir ventured, with some withheld dread. He didn't like the idea of his soul being taken out of his body. It was death, but the more he thought, the more he came to think that he was already dead. The doctor was right, he was dead, but left to die slowly in jail. He would have rather been executed to be a martyr to the cause, but was left to be forgotten. It if wasn't for Tellan, if the doctor was right, this indignity would have already happened.

The doctor replied, "Yes. We are hoping to at least use it for an emergency someday, as sort of a record of the crew, but in person. If disaster ever hits the ship, we can download everyone's consiousness into computer, essentially storing katas in data banks. So far, we don't know how much memory or power requirements it would take... so it comes down to you. You're a legend to us, and your treatment is ill befitting a man of your status and legacy. I had to pull strings to get you, to give you this chance, and it was at great risk to myself. They don't know that my motivations are to give you a chance to not die, to stay as a legend."

Vennetir had a hard time to process it all. Were computers so advanced they could store souls? What did he really miss in his time in jail? But that was the point, he was dead for all intents and purposes. The kata transfer was a chance to live forever.

"It would be the same as jail." Vennetir countered.

"It would also give you a chance to come back." The doctor said, "You are in jail for the rest of your life, and you will die... with nothing to show for it. You spent all those years in jail, and I know you spent a lot of time writing. You could have ended your life. I've seen the interrogation records. They even gave you the means once or twice and you never took it. You kept on living. Well, you can keep on living. From what I have seen in our studies, the kata doesn't experience the passage of time unless it is in contact with an organic body. You would have a chance to live again. Do you want to live forever?"

Vennetir replied, "Son, do you know the difference between waiting to die and wanting to die?"

The doctor paused in thought. "Maybe, but I suppose you'll tell me."

His limbs creaking in old age, Vennetir spoke in a croak, "All these years I expected to die sometime. I thought it would happen sooner. But you know, I always held onto hope, maybe thinking my friends would get me out and I would wake up to see a new order. If what you said is true, then I did my work, and I can trust the younger generations to do the rest. Maybe we'll have our senate on our new home from exile... I certainly hope so. I would like to see it, more than anything else. I was even content to just write my thoughts and send them off. That kept me busy, but hope kept me alive. I wanted to see what new world would happen. With your... crazy plan... I might actually be able to make that dream come true. In jail, I would languish... write my thoughts but not do much else. It sounds to me like your crazy plan might let me do more some other day."

He then said, "Can I write to my loved ones before I go?"

The doctor answered, "Certainly. I'll deliver it myself."

"Vennetir's End"

By Vennetir AND Commander James Lionel Corgan

Location: Inside James's head, USS Galaxy

His last memory had to deal with all the equipment attached to him.

Monitoring equipment. Vital sign readers. Electrodes, and finally the apparatus that would extract his Kata from his body. Other than underwear, he was clothed in sensor pads and wires.

He hadn't expected a journey to the afterlife to look exactly like this.

Back on Vulcan, the afterlife and spirituality were big issues, devoted to my scientists, priests and madmen the whole desertplanet over. The fanatics that followed Surak were especially keen on the afterlife and the kata, if ever there was a contradiction between rational, logical thinking and wild eyed religion. They were inventive when it came to the spirt, even going as far as developing weapons that attacked the soul itself. In a way, without spiritual research, Surak's followers wouldn't have even won the war.

Even though Vennetir subscribed to the religious beliefs of the one creator known as The Great Bird, and could count himself as one of the Raptor's Wing, the idea of religion as a weapon felt to him rather ghoulish.

So too did the idea of yanking his soul and shoving it into a computer using what was, as the explained while he was hooked up, research that dated back to the last pre-exile days.

~"Cannot walk away now."~ Vennetir reminded himself, ~"You volunteered for this."~

It was true, when the idea presented itself, Vennetir barely hesitated. He was a condemned criminal on the last years of his life, and even the idea of his soul being stored didn't scare him as much.There was his political beliefs, which were not only important to him to preserve, but also reasoned that this sacrifice could one day benefit the entire whole.

He would also be the first to live forever. Why not? Tellerie always said he should aspire to be more.

He didn't have time to feel the switch pull and his kata become transferred to the machine. He didn't have time to register the scientist giving the order to turn on the machine.

But what he did feel was blinding pain going through the core of his being. Icy hands wanted and grabbed for his heart, without care or consideration. He felt the knife edge pangs of pain drive deep into his eyes and through the back of his skull, the vibrations setting his head afire like a seismic quake set off at the base of his spine. His body shook and rumbled, dull pain minced with scything stabs, and all the while he felt he was being pulled from his heart, lifted from the table but kept down by restraints, a tug of war for his soul.

Then... oblivion.

It was dark where he ended up, but in moments his eyes adjusted to the lack of illumination. Light came as a pinprick, a star in the blackness. Another would come up, winking into existence to its brother. Another would follow, and with alarming speed the others would come. It only took a minute for an entire starfield to appear, cut in a neat line by the level of Vennetir's feet.

He had a moment to look over himself, curious as to what his Kata looked like in the afterlife. What else could it be, he reasoned, for the scientist explained that the Kata would not feel the passage of time unless a biological body came in contact with the spirit. It didn't look like he was in a new body, he looked over himself and saw that it was indeed him. His hands were not wrinkled, but slightly weathered and nimble from all the years he spent working with electronics and machinery. Running his hands over his hair, it felt full and lively, and a tiny tug and he brought a few strands of hair to his sight. It was black! His hand went over his face; no wrinkles! His body was back in its prime!

He felt his body, and silken cloths slid over his palms. He knew that feel! It was his wedding robe on the day he married Tellerie! They both had the same groom black suit, cut from one of the best tailors on the ship. It was embroidered with the blessings of The Great Bird, to have a prosperous and joyful union together, and even after all those years he could remember the feel of that silk on his skin and how it slid off the same night. His joyful reunion with Tellerie...

Then the sadness welled into his heart. Was this the afterlife? Did the experiment fail? Where was Tellerie? What kind of afterlife would it be without reuniting with his love?

There was nothing but the uncaring stars.

"What is this?" He quivered with trepidation, the feelings of an uncaring universe silent to his pleas slowly crushing his heart.

From the distance, the echo of footsteps on a smoothly polished floor clack-clacked ever closer. Some of the stars were broken up by the silouette of the approaching... man as he could make out.

"Hello?" He called out desperately.

Waiting a moment, the silouette answered back. The response came out as gibberish, single syllable he couldn't understand, and was heavily accented from a region Vennetir never heard before. There was something alien in the voice, not Vulcan, exile or otherwise. It called out again in a lengthier sentence in his accented, foreign garble that had a straightforwardness of a working class man, but was spoken with the eloquence of an artist.

He could admire the alien voice all he wanted, but it was more frustrated by the fact that he didn't understand a word this... thing said.

As it got closer, Vennetir saw just how alien it really was.

He heard, as a child, the rumours of other sentient life out in the universe, and in the voyage some was found, but he never thought he would see alien life in the afterlife. He expected the Archons of Gol or the tormenters of the eternal plane of suffering, to reward him or punish him as they saw fit. He even heard from fanatics what they looked like; beings with cloven hooves or six wings and the anthropomorphic shapes of animals, typical religious tripe.

He never imagined it to be so familiar and so alien at the same time.

The man that approached him, so he guessed by his thinner but leaner physique and confident, military lockstep stride, was not a Vulcan or an Rihannsu exile. He was taller, paler than the average exile on the Talaven, muscled like a machine well maintained but shunned the excess an ox's build would bring. His eyes were the colour of ice, something Vennetir never saw until he saw the effects on a canteen of hidden homebrew alcohol that was jokingly strung outside the ship to 'cool'. The most alien part of this man was the hair, the colour of a sand dune and cut short in a utilitarian style. He never knew of any Vulcan with desert flax hair. The uniform was unfamiliar, obviously military by the cut of the cloth. It was a uniform, black pants, polished black shoes, a dark jacket with gray shoulders and a mustard coloured collar. On his collar were three shining brass pins, and on his chest was a symbol that looked to be a broach. The symbol on top of the oval shaped broach was a curve that reminded Vennetir of a smooth version of the Surakian symbol for IDIC, Infinit Diversity through Infinite Combinations.

Vennetir wanted to take a step back. Surak's followers nuked his planet and turned his home into an intolerant backwater. He would sooner be damned to torment than to acknowledge that Surak's teachings were right!

The alien spoke to him again in his gibberish. It didn't seem to be hostile, but friendly, emotionally friendly. It held some caution, but by the way it approached the alien seemed more curious.

It switched to some more garble, but it was confused. One word was familiar, Vulcan, but spoken as if the full word was clipped.

Then he tried another tongue, and the pieces fell together perfectly.

"Who... the..." The expletive the alien added shattered the illusion of him being a graceful creature of the afterlife, "...are you? And wait a second... my ancient Vulcan..." the alien explained his lack of experience with an analogy that would have made Vennetir and Tellerie blush if they ever attempted what he described in the privacy of their own bedroom, "...how am I talking to you?"

Vennetir answered, "I do not know. Ancient Vulcan? I am just speaking common tongue. What did you just try to speak to me in?"

The alien explained, "Well... Vulcan! Then Romulan... you looked Romulan, but then I remembered some classes, and... I heard you speaking the language. Be patient. I do not know that much."

"You seem to be doing fine." Vennetir complimented.

"Thank you. Not even in class did I speak this well, and I had a Vulcan professor." Nodded the flax haired alien, "I wasn't very good but... I was watching... living... some guy's life like a holodeck program and... oh my fornicating Great Bird... it's you!"

"It's me? It's me what?" Vennetir stammered.

"Holy... sanctified excrement! I was in your shoes!" The alien piped up, astonished.

"My shoes? They are on my feet! And why would the Great Bird fornicate?"

"I... sorry, it's an expression that translates badly from my language to yours. I just watched your life! Your political career, prison... every time you had gay sex with your husband. I watched the good and the bad whether I liked it or not! So it is you after all this time... amazing. But seriously, did you have to make me watch you and your husband...." Vennetir's eyes lit up in astonishment as the crudities the alien mentioned a three syllable word involving an analogy that had to do with a large harpoon stabbing repeatedly into a certain posterior body part nearly offended all his sensibilities.

"Tari K'hala! Am I trapped with a bigot?! Is this my hell?!" Vennetir protested.

"Huh?" The alien grunted, "Oh... sorry. When you grow up in space and you're part of a military family, you learn some pretty colourful language. No... I have nothing against homosexuals, but keep in mind that I am a heterosexual and your life was the first time I not only saw but felt what gay sex was life. It still... scares the living sh*t out of me. The fact that I was you, and felt everything made it stranger."

"Yes... Tellerie was good." Vennetir blushed.

"I know. That's the scary part. You liked it. Therefore I felt like I liked it. It was like I had no choice. Do you understand?"

"Oh... I understand." Vennetir said, "But why is that the first thing you mention? It is not as if I lived your life... I just meet you."

"Odd, isn't it? I felt like I just meet you even though I lived your life." Said the alien back, "I don't know what to make of it. I really don't. The other stuff I can understand, and in some ways I've had worse. The gay thing was new and raw... challenged my perceptions more than the rest of your life."

Vennetir sighed, "Figures. My life, and the only thing you would remember the most is that I made love to men. How purile."

"Hey! It really was that different!" The alien protested, "But to be honest, the most interesting part was your socialism. It is so similar to the United Federation of Planets that it's amazing. A bit too close to old style Communism, but I can see the similarities. Who would have thought you were so ahead of your time? You even protested for Great Bird's sake. You're like a Romulan Che Guevara."

"Who?"

"A revolutionary character in my planet's history. Look, we can talk all we want in my head about all this and compare notes, but you really have to tell me. What the f**k are you doing in my head? You're too vivid to be a dream and if my dreams don't involve me getting butched by Borg then they aren't dreams. Don't tell me you're an actual ghost..."

"A Kata..." Vennetir tumbled the words over his tongue, "My Kata was transferred. They said the passage of time wouldn't happen until I came in contact with a biological body. You are not the afterlife? You are alive? Then who are you, and how did you come across me?"

"The last I checked, pally, I was alive, though who knows... maybe this is the afterlife. I was just talking to my girlfriend when all the sudden I started living your life, and then here I am talking with you. Don't ask me how. I was just in the turbolift. I heard we found a wrecked ship though... maybe it was yours. Who knows... I didn't get to see it, but it would make sense."

"Oh..." Vennetir yawned. There it was, the universe, life, existence, and it wasn't the great afterlife. It wasn't living forever in a machine, the immortal soul, to reunite with his love or at least share the wisdom of the past, to let the glories of the greater good be preached and passed down.

He was in the head of a foul mouthed alien who was just as confused as he was about their predicament. If this was the afterlife, the Great Bird had an odd sense of humour.

"By the way, you wanted to know my name?" Said the alien. Vennetir nodded his head, and the alien introduced himself with military florish, "Commander James Lionel Corgan, chief of security of the United Federation of Planets Starship the USS Galaxy. Welcome aboard my head... mind the nightmares... I've had a life almost as interesting as yours..."

The body of James Lionel Corgan disappeared, and so the stars fell one by one until a shower of lights blended and coalesed into a merged picture. It became one light, the dark floor disappearing as Vennetir's perception changes into first person, his hands, his wedding robe gone. All he felt was the light up above him, bright as a supernova, his eyes wincing.

He had to blink to adjust his eyes, which came as a surprise since the inner eyelid did all the blinking for him. Then he felt his body shift and lift itself up painfully as if done by its own will, a puppet while he had to watch it move. The colours started to come into focus, bringing in a world of beige walls and black paneling with multicoloured symbols and buttons. It was as if his world turned into a fancy livingroom.

His hands, as he could see them, were pale. He felt spectacles on his nose, primitive even in his time, and he saw the black of his clothes. A uniform, with that bastardized IDIC broach.

"I'm YOU NOW?!?" Vennetir panicked.

The alien stepped back, waving his hands frantically, "That wasn't a dream?!?!?! You're actually in my head?!? Oh f**k... hold on. I was with my girlfriend. I wonder how she is doing. We'll talk later!"

"Good." Vennetir said with confusion, "Because I am as lost as you are. Can't I at least have some control? Your glasses are itching me."

"Not now." Snapped James, "I don't know how long I was out! If i'm still in the turbolift, that means I wasn't helped. I might not be the only one..." James tried to walk to the door, a lurch in his stomach and his head spun so both souls could feel his body churn. Both wanted to be sick. "...it could be an emergency.... hold on. Where is Mika? I hope she is ok..."

The body looked down on the floor, and saw a huddled mass in the corner. Vennetir almost mistaken the body on the floor for a teenage girl until he saw the more mature look of her face. But oddly, the face was blue. The rest of her that wasn't covered by her simple dress and knit fibre sweater was blue, and as far as Vennetir guessed it wasn't body paint. She was short, tiny even by any species standards, curled and short snow white hair ringed around her cheeks, ears and... antennae!? Vennetir swallowed a lump of fear as he saw the graceful, champagne flute antennae extend from her foreheads waiver blissfully in as she emerged from sleep.

'That is... your girlfriend?" Vennetir asked cautiously. "Is she.... outside both our species? And she is your... mate? How is that possible?"

"Yeah, to both your questions." James thought, matter of factly, "You have sex with guys and you're questioning my dating habits? Wait until I tell you about my sexual encounters with your kind... both kinds."

"Both?" Vennetir was too astonished to think of any retort.

"Vulcans and Romulans. My god, you really are a proto-Romulan. You have alot of catching up to do. But look, I know you are curious, but now is not a good time. Mika looks like she took a good hit to the head falling down. I have to take her to sickbay. Just... watch for awhile. We'll sort this all out later, ok?"

Though Vennetir was dying to quench his curiousity, time in his own military taught him the importance of responding to an emergency. "Alright. Let me know if I can help." He said, conceding control and the silence of the alien's own thoughts to himself. He watched in silence as the alien tenderly picked up the blue skinned female with all the care of a wilted desert flower needing water, and take her through the foreign corridors of his ship.

There were others just as alien as James waking up around him. Overhearing them, James wasn't the only one to have had an encounter with a Kata like himself. Everyone passing by seemed to be out of a deep slumber, complaining of the lives they had to share, lost but returning back to their duties. What lives did they live? Did any of them know the last moments of his loved ones? Did someone have Tellerie's soul or did it only work on trapped Katas? And what would have caused all the Katas to be trapped and rereleased into the bodies of these aliens?

Vennetir was dying for answers, and from the emotions he felt from the alien, he could tell James was curious too, though his focus was more on the slowly reviving female.

Both had the same thought. "What happened?"

"Three's a Crowd" - part two

Sotha, Az Shiber second in command (Saul Bental)
Eela, Assassin (Ella Grey)

***
Ocean of Valen, Water Planet
90 years after launch
***

Sotha stood face to face with the driver of the speedboat who was sent to kill him, clutching her mask with his hand. She was older, wrinkled and skinny, but there was no mistake.

"T'Nyo.", He said.

"Who is that?" Eela said.

"My best childhood friend." Sotha bent forward, pulling a hidden knife from T'Nyo's boot. "Ever heard of the masked merchant?"

"No," Eela said, liking this less and less. She noticed that Sotha seemed slightly offended by her answer.

"My successor doesn't know, does she?" T'Nyo spoke. Her voice was completly different. Age left its footsteps on her more than it did on Sotha or Eela.

"He found out, so he hired you." Sotha stated. T'Nyo still gazed at him with Rihanssu boldness and pride, but at those words she lowered her chin just a little.

"If you know, how come I'm alive?" T'Nyo demanded.

Eela frowned at both of them. "If we're going to have this heart to heart - and I do want explanations, Sotha - I suggest we try to find a place a little less open to attack."

"Actually, we're going back. We're going to use the speedboat to tow our boat back to the platform. T'Nyo is going to drive it for us, while we stay out of sight and zap her if she does something foolish."

"He was right." T'Nyo scowled. "You became totally government. Stuffed and corrupt."

Sotha tied the rope, keeping his eyes on T'Nyo. "I'm not the one who sold out their friends. Don't you realize that exposing the Masked Merchant would boost my reputation?"

"Not if the masked merchant rats on you."

"Not if she's dead."

"I should have stayed on the ship," Eela muttered.

***

"I want answers," She said pulling Sotha aside. "Now."

Sotha scowled. They were halfway back to the landing base platform, and up until now he managed to maintain a delicate balance of silence. Both the boats were small, and there was no way to get out of earshot. He also didn't want to keep too much distance from T'Nyo, in case his 'friend' tried any tricks.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." He grumbled.

Eela raised a cold eyebrow. She turned, looked around the ship until she found a pen and paper, wrote her questions (and other scathing comments), and then shoved them under Sotha's nose. If he didn't want her to ask, fine. She was the master of not talking - even if it had been decades since she'd worked at her art.

Sotha handed her the ray gun, and sped-read through the note. He hated being left in the dark, and Eela was no different. But he couldn't tell her everything quite yet.

He wrote :

'T'Nyo - childhood friends, 50 years until I was drafted.
Masked Merchant - leader of lower deck trade organization.
True identity hidden behind mask. Actually is T'Nyo for last 40 years.
Who wants us dead - we'll get to the platform and then see.'

He handed back the paper and pen, and shouted at T'Nyo to keep her hands on the stick.

"You're not telling me something," Eela said. "And if you want my help in the next five minutes I suggest you get in a conversation-type of mood."

"We - have - a - contract." Sotha said, infuriated.

"And in four minutes we won't," The assassin snapped.

He snatched the note from her hands. He couldn't see T'Nyo's face, but he knew what expression she wore - the same she had whenever Sotha went on one of his foolish journeys to stalk on Sakonna or on the assassin.

'Guess who was the masked merchant before T'Nyo.' He wrote, and tossed the paper back to her.

Eela read the paper and then gave him a look. "Is *that* all? Stupid man and your secrets." She tossed aside the note and pulled out her gun. "Ready?"

Sotha smirked, nodded his acknowledge, and both kneeled. The two boats gracefully cruised toward the dock, with only one person visible from the platform.

"Triggered Trap"

Sotha, Az Shiber second in command (Saul Bental)

***
Ocean of Valen, Water Planet
90 years after launch
***

Sotha watched the platform intently. At one time, the crates on the back of his and Eela's boat obscured them from the platform completely. That was exactly what Sotha waited for.

He drew Eela's attention by pulling her sleeve, pointed at the water and then at the platform. The landing base rose above them, its arched cranes reflecting the sunlight and making it look like a crown hovering above the sea. One of the sturdy columns which were the base of the crown was within diving distance.

Eela understood. He could see it in her eyes. Sotha hoped that their weapons were waterproof (he never had a chance to test that on the ship, where the largest available body of water was the filthy stream at the botanic gardens). He closed his eyes, leaned over the railing, and dove backwards into the water.

A second later he could see another body penetrate the water's surface. Eela. Already, his lungs begged for air, and all of the sudden the distance to the column seemed impossible. Sotha wasn't the young shaft urchin he used to be; Age gnawed at him every year, every day. Perhaps he won't make it, and will have to come up for air. Doing that, he knew, will be his death sentence. And Eela's.

He strained his muscles, and thanked the elements that he bothered to study how to swim. Slowly but surely, he made his way toward the safety of the foundation column.

He had no idea what Eela was thinking right now. She obviously trusted him, and probably deducted that they were avoiding a trap - in fact, she probably assumed that a trap was waiting for them back at the platform anyway. What she couldn't possibly know is that Sotha knew exactly what kind of trap to expect, since he knew who arranged this setup.

You can't teach an old sandwyvern new tricks.

He intentionally didn't tell T'Nyo to which dock she should stir the ship. Leaving the choice in her hands would mean that she could give indications to those waiting for her on the platform that something was wrong. Sotha imagined to himself the orders T'Nyo was given. 'Go to dock 5 if he's dead, to dock 6 if he got away, to dock 7 if the ship was compromised...'

***
Talvalen
Promenade
55 years after launch
***

"Go to Speck's bar if he's there, to the robe-washer if he's not there, or to S'ia's jewlery and ornaments if he's suspecting you."

Sotha and director Semeck stood in the back room of a shop at the promenade. The director was briefing his youngest team leader toward the upcoming operation, and 'He' was Vennetir.

During the last several days, Sotha brought back more information on the socialists than all of the Az Shiber's efforts in the decade beforehand combined. The new leader of this underground movement, Vennetir, was laying low at a hideout provided to him by none other than Sotha himself. The hideout was bugged in the most sophisticated ways at their disposal (acoustic air vents, allowing the Az Shiber to place the microphones away from the room so that they won't be detected), and Sotha himself dropped by often to 'ensure that his guest is OK'. He was eye-witness to several very interesting meetings, including the one where the protest march was set.

Sotha proposed that they will end this quietly. Arrest Vennetir and his movement's inner circle, and keep the resistance from raising its ugly head. The director thought otherwise, claiming that even if Vennetir is caught someone else would replace him. They had to make an example, to quell the throngs in a way that will remove their will to fight for years to come.

An uneasy night passed. At one time, Sotha almost went to Vennetir to confess and stop the bloodshed, but when the artificial morning came he resolved to remain part of the Az Shiber. The resistance will be crushed, but he will see to it that no harm comes to Vennetir. And with Vennetir out of the picture, the underground movement will plead for new dominant figures to lead it in destruction's wake.

Enter Sotha.

And so it was that when the masses began to feel the promenade, Sotha could be found close to the leader he supposedly hid from the authorities. The strong man seemed determined, unmovable. Like a stone in a dry river, standing still as the spring floods approach with all their might.

"Is it really the time?" Sotha asked when he got close enough. If Vennetir heard him, he made no sign. Instead, his guard - the one who wanted Sotha to get lost merely a week ago - patted Sotha's back.

"You've done a great thing, my friend. Your courage is appreciated... but now it is time for ours."

"Good luck." The words seemed dry on Sotha's tongue. He turned away, and headed to speck's bar. High above him, a security camera picked his image and transmitted it to the Az Shiber mobile operation command center, two decks away. They in turn notified the armed forces that the man they needed to capture was present in the crowd.

It was just a matter of time before the massacre began.

***
Talvalen
Prison
55 years after launch
***

Sotha stood in the warden's office, waiting for the director. The warden, not having the security level to see who the director was, left several minutes ago and Sotha was now sitting on his chair with his legs on the desk.

He removed his legs and stood up when Semeck opened the door.

"You seem to have something to say.", The director began.

"I'm satisfied that all went as plan, minus the extra killings."

"Are you, Sota?" The director folded his arms. "The killings were necessary. The armed forces couldn't just approach the crowd and extract Vennetir."

Sotha shrugged. "What sank in sand, sank in sand." He recited.

"Indeed. But some cliffs rise from the sands, with the passage of time. Some faster than others. The results of your work impressed some members of the commonwealth."

Director Semeck was referring to the intelligence community, of course. He didn't do flattery, so even this subtle compliment wasn't taken lightly by Sotha who bowed.

The director paused until Sotha straightened up, and then told him of his reward for the successful undercover effort to capture Vennetir. It was the first time on the Talvalen that a recruit to the intelligence community became assistant agency director within just five years.

***
Ocean of Valen, Water Planet
90 years after launch
***

Sotha's head bobbed and he gasped for air. To his left, Eela emerged, appearently much less exahusted than he was.

The two boats were docked at dock clamp six. From their hidden outlook behind the column, the agent and the assassin watched as men appeared out of nowhere and boarded the boats with drawn vessels. T'Nyo spun around, Sotha saw, and her mouth moved. She must've been certain that Sotha and Eela were there all the time. Sotha recognized two of the other figures. They were Az Shiber agents, assigned to the area of the lower decks where Sotha originally came from.

"Surprise surprise." Eela muttered.

"Let's get out of here." Sotha took her arm. "We need to get back to the Talvalen."

“And the cat came back (Again…)”

Lieutenant Le’on Khatowren, Sniper Kitty Extraordinaire
Ensign Emily Fellbaum, JAG Advocate

**********
The Lounge, Deep Space Five.

Le'on was in his favorite place in any given space vessel or installation... A Bar.

The Galaxy had yet to return to port, which was fine by Le'on. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd be recieved by his former crewmates or if any number of them were still around. The mini caitain took a sip of his favorite drink (a white russian) as he gazed out to the starbases' docking ports. The sight of the massive ships moored there was a spectacular sight to behold in his opinion. So when he wasn't voulenteering for security duty with the station's department, he was here, drowning his sorrows in liquor. Even after one hard drink, he was swaing lightly, not giving a care in the world.

At least until he heard the exclamation of a female voice behind him: "Awww how cute!"

Le'on swore under his breath and glared over his shoulder. Lo and behold, there was one of his former crew now; Ensign Emily Fellbaum who was one of the many people to confuse him with aregular cat. Le'on narrrowed his eyes, flattened his ears, and hissed at her.

Emily smiled. "Just kidding Le'on, I knew it was you." she said in a jovial manner as she slipped into the chair across from him (Le'on had a habit of sitting on the table instead of in a chair). "How've you been? And what brings you back out here?"

"Transfer back to Galaxy." Le'on said, relaxing a bit. "De Captain requested transfer as soon as he heard of the entire reassignment of Miranda personnel." he explained, taking another sip.

"The Miranda?" Emily frowned and cocked her head slightly "You were on the Incursion last I heard."

"Was only short mission they needed me for" Le'on said casually, although he still had yet to forgive Sinjin Kirk for that Plunger Incident. "How about you?" he aksed, changing the subject quickly. "You still with De Galaxy?"

"Yeah, but I had to be here for a couple of cases while the ship went out on mission." she said irritably. "I'm sure I'll hear all about another rousing tale of daring-do or something exciting like that that I've missed out on yet again." she said with an irritable flip of the hand. "But since work's over with, all I have to do is sit around and wait."

Le'on chuckled. "Believe me, I know feeling." He raised up his glass in salute, the thing bing almost as tall as he was. "Here's to bordem then, may it last long enough until we get our seven seconds of screaming terror." he said before tipping the glass back and chugging this time.

"The Approach"

Sub-Commander Hanaj, Commander, Long-Range Sensor Observation Group #3
Sub-Centurion Maekh, Technician, Infrared Sensor Array

****
Talvalen
Auxiliary Bridge #2
Approximately 140 years after launch
****

Time dragged on, never changing.

And not just in the sense that things never changed from day to day or from duty shift to duty shift. No, as Hanaj had realized a long time ago, no matter what the time frame, things never changed.

The middle-aged Vulcanoid officer had been doing this exact same job for over fifty standard years now. He supposed he should be grateful; as a member of a family with little political clout he had been destined to fulfill unimportant middle management roles for the rest of his career. But as fate would have it, fifty or so years ago his superiors had seen some sort of potential within him, and had promoted him to his current position.

No doubt it had something to do with the discovery of that watery planet they had visited so long ago. The few memories he had of the planet were beginning to fade, but the day it had been discovered was still etched sharply in his mind. No, not the day it had been discovered-- the day he had discovered it. For it was Hanaj who had first reported the existence of a habitable planet within their path of travel. Hanaj, barely out of his adolescence, the unimportant son of an unimportant family, had been the one lucky enough to be assigned to the task of collecting long-range infrared sensor output that day, and had been sharp enough to recognize what the cryptic data was telling him. He'd recognized those signs of life way out there, life which had ultimately bought the members of the clan Talvalen the time they had needed to save themselves.

Thanks to the food and supplies obtained from that planet, the clan had been able to survive, had been able to pick up the pieces and rebuild after the fire which had devastated their agricultural production and had nearly starved them all. As the one who had made the initial report, Hanaj had been quickly promoted, he and his family raised to an important level within the nobility. He'd been showered with awards, fame...even marriage proposals. That one singular event had altered the path of his life in more ways than he would ever realize.

In retrospect, Hanaj almost wished he'd had nothing to do with the discovery.

After the initial excitement had died down and Talvalen had continued on its way, the endless monotony of life had returned. He'd been promoted to a supervisory position within the Sensor Operations department aboard the ship, and placed in command of the crew who manned the long-range sensors during the overnight shift. The new position had of course excited him...until he realized that now, instead of staring at a sensor sweep for upwards of ten hours a day, he would be staring at other people staring at sensor sweeps for upwards of ten hours a day.

It had taken him precisely two weeks to tire of his new job, that realization having come very early one morning (which meant it was fairly late into his shift, of course) as he recited the details. In fact, if he thought about it for more than a few seconds, he could also recall the details of that day quite clearly. He sometimes found that a bit strange, since between that day and the current day stretched nearly a half century of long, interminably boring days, marching one after the other down the path of his life, all of them identical to that one pivotal day when he realized that, like so many others aboard this ship, he hated his job.

And now, at a mere eighty years of age, Sub-Commander Hanaj, once the hero of all passengers aboard the Talvalen, wanted only one thing out of life. He wanted to look out there one day and see the new home of their people looming out of the star-studded darkness. He wanted to take his first steps on a real planetary surface. He wanted to smell fresh, unrecycled air. He wanted to taste food that had grown of its own volition and not because a small army of farmers had willed it into being. Most of all, he wanted to leave this ship behind, and like everyone aboard he wanted to start a new life. He wanted a home.

"Pardon me, sir..." The voice was somewhere to his left, the direction and timbre of the voice telling him even before he opened his eyes that it belonged to Maekh, the technician currently manning the infrared sensor data feeds. Maekh was the youngest of their group, a Sub-Centurion who had only been assigned to them last week. His situation reminded Hanaj of his own past, of those uncertain early days of his career so long ago. Hanaj opened his eyes slowly, deliberately, and turned to look at the young man.

"Report."

"Sir, I am picking up some unusual readings in a sector we recently scanned. I'm not quite sure what to make of them..."

Could a report be more indirect and vague, Hanaj wondered? He resisted the urge to frown and instead continued, "Explain. Briefly, please."

"There seems to be a large source of radiation in a nearby solar system...but..."

"That would be a star, Sub-Centurion," Hanaj replied with no small amount of sarcasm. Already he was dreading the additional time he would have to put in with the man to properly train him to read a sensor report. Did the Academy teach nothing these days?

"Please forgive me, sir, but it is not the system's star. This is a second source of radiation, one that did not appear on our first scans of the sector. It is rather large, and appears to be orbiting the system's star. Almost like..."

Hanaj already knew what he was going to say. "A planet," he finished for the younger man. When Maekh nodded slowly, he continued. "Continue to monitor the system. Alert me if there is any change in the readings. I will notify the captain and request a change in course heading."

Maekh's quick "Aye, sir" barely registered in Hanaj's thoughts. The gears of his mind were already turning. Would this planet be habitable? Would it become their new home? And as the one who discovered it, was Maekh destined to become the new hero of the Talvalen?

He certainly hoped so.

"Funny Meeting You Here"

Erastus Ampete
Jaal Jaxom
Arel Smith

==Deep Space 5==

Jaal and Erastus had just docked the shuttle they'd used to come from their shortened vacation on Trill. It was another, somewhat quiet journey. Jaal had silently fumed about his sudden transfer from one ship to another in such a short time. While he understood the reasoning it still made him suspicious.

Era's mind kept combing her old quarters aboard the Miranda, trying to remember if she'd missed any nook when they'd briefly stopped so she could gather her things. She had been resisting a change of venue, even though it had meant staying with Jaal, and now the decision was stolen from her. She didn't entirely understand why the transfer had occurred, either. She'd gone from an assistant chief on the Miranda down to a simple officer on DS5. While far calmer after the vacation, she could not help but feel a reprimand lurked somewhere behind it all. As they stepped through the docking bay doors, Era wondered if Lieutenant Mark hadn't said something to the captain.

The couple stood and looked around at the variety of kiosks and shops.

Suddenly, Jaal heard a familiar voice calling their names.

"It's all overpriced and shitty quality," Arel said as she approached them. "How was your trip?"

Jaal smiled at the woman he'd served on the Miranda with for the last six years. "Well it was going just great until they cut our vacation short. What are 'you' doin' here?"

"Reassigned," She said shortly. Then Arel smirked. "They didn't tell you."

"As usual," Jaal replied derisively, "Complete information about everything has been scarce."

"I'm your XO," Arel replied.

Jaal's mouth hung open a moment. He looked at Erastus, then he looked back at Arel. "Really?"

Arel nodded. "Really. And you forget all that friendly liason to the Captain bullshit. I'm not here to be anyone's best friend."

The corner of Era's mouth twitched at that. She'd never had call to get to know the woman while they both served aboard the Miranda, but she was certainly living up to her reputation thus far.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," the Trill chuckled. "I can't wait to whip the crew into shape. Have you checked out the ship yet? We," he motioned to himself and Erastus, "just got here. We don't even know 'where' the ship is yet."

"I haven't seen it yet either," The security officer said. Truthfully, she didn't care what it looked like; it was just another ship. "Supposed to be decent enough."

"The only thing I know is that's it's an Interceptor Class," Jaal explained, "I read through some of the specs on the way here. It should be a good ride. I just wish I knew who the rest of the senior staff was."

Era shifted from one foot to the other. Unlike the other two, she'd been assigned directly the station. As such, she had little interest in the Carthage itself. Her concern rested on the fact that the ship could call DS5 home for now.

"Have you seen anyone else from Miranda here?" the Trill asked.

The tall blond looked over at Jaal. "How many people were siphoned off?" It was news to her that any more had been transfered from the Miranda. Jaal hadn't spoken at too much length about why he'd been reassigned, and Era hadn't dared press to hard to find out the reason behind her change of venue.

Jaal looked to Erastus shaking his head. "I don't even know." Then to Arel, "Besides Era, and now you, I wasn't aware of anyone else getting moved of Miranda unless they were going to Atlantis."

"I haven't heard anything either," Arel said. She shrugged. "Maybe they're just picking personnel in some kind of lottery. I can't imagine who would volunteer to be within ten feet of that ... woman."

"Hopefully we'll have as little contact with her as possible," Jaal replied. Admiral Proctor had a certain reputation for being an 'icy bitch'. Most normal people stayed as far from her as possible. "All I keep hearing is how much our defenses need to be shored up in this sector. It's scary that she'll be in charge of it all."

"Agreed," His new XO replied.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished Part Six: “The Distress Call”

Captain Darren M’Kantu – Captain of the USS Galaxy
Lieutenant Kimberly Burton – Chief Medical Officer
1st Lieutenant Branwen London – Furies Psychologist
Lieutenant Dhanishta Eshe – Chief Engineer
Ms Livana Ulani – FCO Internal Investigations Rep

***USS Galaxy, Conference Room 3***

M’Kantu nodded. “Then relate to me, in your own words, the events leading up to your contact with the New Rheans, and what happened afterwards.” He nodded to Dhanishta and Branwen. “Once Dr. Burton is done, I’ll have you go next, Lt. Eshe, and then you Lt. London. Take your time, there’s no rush and no time limits here.” He turned back to Kimberley. “You may start when ready, Doctor.”

“Thank you sir.” Pausing a moment to gather her scattered thoughts she focussed on the Captain, trying her best to ignore the new face in the room. An FCO official was not the sort of person you really wanted analysing a screw up, she’d have much preferred just talking to the Captain. ~ It could be worse; ~ she thought as she took a deep breath to start, ~ could be the DTI again. ~

At the back of the room Livana glanced down at her wrist watch and grimaced. With a small barley noticeable sigh she retuned her attentions to the padd in her hand, occasionally glancing up throughout Kimberly’s narrative.

“Several months ago I entered into the annual Starship race hosted by the Rey. My shuttle met the entry criteria, so I decided to take some time off and run the race since the Rey home world was within her flight range. Lieutenants Eshe and London had been invited along both as my friends and flight crew for the race. Two weeks ago we took some leave and departed from the Galaxy while they were on a routine survey mission. En-route,” pausing briefly, she had a momentary memory of all the other times she had taken the little shuttle out, was it possible someone had jinxed her ship? There was certainly never a dull moment when it hit space, “En-route, we encountered the New Rheans. Suffice to say, we didn’t make it to the race.”

Dhanishta smiled slightly at that. The entire trip had been interesting despite the fact that they hadn’t made it and the outcome was less than desired. For a moment she contemplated how things would have gone if they had made it to the race…

“Less than a day out from the galaxy, we picked up a distress call,” Kimberly continued, oblivious to Dhani’s almost unnoticeable mirth, “It wasn’t on any standard frequencies, but the universal translator identified it as a probable distress call, so, as per Starfleet regulations we altered course to investigate. The signal was weak, so we forwarded it to the nearest Starfleet vessel, the USS Nilani. They replied while we were en-route and advised us they could join us if needed in about nine hours.”

~I wonder if the KittyKat would have won~ Dhani mused to herself. ~We could be sitting in Ten Forward right about now bragging about our great victory, Michael would listen intently as I told him about all the in-flight procedures I hade to do – he would be the only one that would appreciate them. Bran would be glowing, best of buds with Kimberly – once more things would be on an even keel with them. We might have even got to understand each other better and ….~

Wishing she could sit, Kimberly shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other, she ‘hated’ having to stand around when perfectly comfortable chairs were just before her. “We arrived at the source of the signal about two hours after picking it up. When we dropped out of warp Lieutenant Eshe scanned it and it didn’t take us long to figure out we were dealing with a potential first contact. The ship was, by our standards, pretty old. The design I mean, and it had a few problems, one of which was their warp drive. Lieutenant Eshe did a detailed scan and figured out what the problem was; a pretty serious design flaw in their warp core.”

Returning to the conversation at hand, Dhanishta shifted forward slightly, even though the Captain had decreed that each of them were to tell their own version of events in turn, she was the engineer and frankly she didn’t see any point in rehashing the same details thrice over, besides which she couldn’t recall them with as much articulation as Kimberly was displaying. And in turn Kimberly couldn’t detail the problems with the warp drive as well as Dhani could, taking her queue from Kimberly she spoke up, “The New Rhean’s ship was basic in design, one cylindrical hull with two simple nacelles attached and no artificial gravity.” she began in a slightly disinterested tone.

“They had tried to augment their warp drive with Dilithium,” Dhani said, this time without the disgusted look on her face, “and had failed to do so correctly. Their own safety systems had kicked in and shut down their engines to prevent a breach. They couldn’t restart their engines without correcting the alignment first or they would have destroyed themselves. The resolution was simple to correct, for me.” Dhani added, as the New Rhean’s didn’t possess the technology or the know how to do such a thing.

“However the Prime Directive forbids giving advanced technology to other species, so I wasn’t able to correct the design flaw, only patch up the drive and jury rig it so they could get home. I did however point out the flaw in using Dilithium and explained that with this design the problem would arise every time and advised them to go back to the drawing board.” ~We would have won that race, without a doubt.~ Dhani huffed silently.

Livana looked up, staring intently at Dhanishta. Slowly, pointedly, she made a note in her file, making sure she had got the Lieutenants attention as she did so.

Rolling her eyes Dhani shuffled back into line and kept her eyes down, boy did she hate telepaths!

Nodding as Dhani talked, Kimberly found herself grateful for the interruption, this was going to take long enough as it was, and if they had to go over it three times. Starting to talk again she resumed her recitation, “While we were discussing the situation, the crew of the ship hailed us,” Looking a little embarrassed she didn’t really need to see the look on M’Kantu’s face. One of the first things they should have done when dropping out of warp was to hail the ship in distress, instead they had debated, and then the ship in distress had hailed them. ~ Nice going girl, way to follow the regs. ~ she reminded herself. “It didn’t take us long to realise they weren’t in any immediate danger, they had managed to shut down the faulty systems, but they couldn’t fix them. Things were also made a little easier when we discovered the crew were Human. We found out their story a little later, but I’ll come to that in a bit.”

Coughing slightly, Kimberly cleared her throat before continuing, she didn’t usually talk this much, well, okay maybe she rambled now and again, but usually she wasn’t feeling like she was the one under the microscope. “After talking to their Captain, we beamed over to help as best we could. This was their first flight into deep space; they’d had warp drive for a few years but had never really been that interested in exploring. But then they started picking up subspace signals as their technology got better, so curiosity got the better of them and they launched their first warp ship.”

Continuing, she tried to keep her face impassive and her mind on the report she was delivering. “Once Lieutenant Eshe had patched their warp drive we offered to follow them, to make sure they got home in one piece. It was only five light years so it shouldn’t have taken long. I contacted the Nilani and told them we wouldn’t require their assistance but that we did have a first contact on our hands. They sent us an FCO diplomatic data package to pass on and said they’d forward our logs and reports.”

Coming to the point in her recitation where she wished she had simply said ‘There you go, safe trip, see you soon, bye.’ And flown away to do the race, Kimberly sighed softly, sometimes doing the right thing was a real pain in the ass.

“We jumped to warp and got them back to their home system about a day later, we were going to be polite, say our goodbyes at that point and send over the data pack – then we were hailed. Turns out the crew had been singing our praises all the way home over subspace, and the local government, a hereditary theocracy we later found out, invited us to land and join them.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, Kimberly bit her lip for a second before continuing, “It was a little embarrassing really, they were very nice, and also very grateful. We tried to explain we weren’t a diplomatic ship, nor were we really prepared for a first contact, but the local ruler wouldn’t hear any of it. He simply said he wanted to say a proper thank-you for our timely help, ask a little about the universe outside their star system and then invited us to dinner.”

Shrugging, Kimberly felt her embarrassment fade slightly, at that point, she shoulda said, ~ Sorry, can’t, bye. ~ and warped away, diplomatic consequences be damned. But noooo, she had to be nice and accept. ~ Next time, ~ she warned her brain, ~ we let the feet make the decisions. Running away ‘was’ a good idea! ~

TBC…

"Welcome To Basic, Part VI"

By Petty Officer 2nd Class Benedict "Max" Maxwell,
NCOIC Emergency Medical Response Team (Current Status: Prisoner #8813-E419M25)
USS Galaxy

Starfleet Basic Training Facility, Great Lakes, Michigan, Earth, October 31st, 2378, 2000 hours

As Division 281 materialized, they realized quickly they were on an actual ship. A cargo bay, to be exact. The lights were dimmed to red, indicating alert status. The ARDC that was waiting for them was a woman in her forties who looked like she could fight bare knuckle with a Narsican and live to tell the story. She had a light tan going, standing tall and proud at five foot ten, muscular arms and a very unwelcoming disposition. Her most striking feature however were the eyes...those dark, cold gray eyes. They looked as if they could cut dilithium with Vulcan precision.

"My name is Staff Sergeant Helen Carson," she introduced herself. Max noted for the first time that she was wearing a Marine's uniform. "I will be observing you as you progress through this evolution. Within twelve hours, you will have experienced and operational tempo of the likes you have not yet experienced." She walked over to a CommPanel and tapped a command into it. "Ready," she simply said.

"Ready in all sections," a male voice replied. "Proceed after briefing."

SSgt Carson returned to the group and continued. "Your task is simple. You are assigned to damage control and first aid. Utilizing the skills that you have learned up to this point, you will proceed to wherever you are directed to. If an ARDC taps you and says you're dead, you are to sit down and not move until the end of the evolution. That means staying awake." She looked the Heightline over to ensure that the information sunk in. It didn't really matter to her if it didn't. They'd soon find out. "The following recruits are assigned to damage control: O'Healy, Soniet, Carter, Bogh, Welch..."

Max had lost interest and waited for the first aid teams to be assembled when he was jarred from his reverie.

"Maxwell, wake the fuck up!" He was suddenly face to face with SSgt Carson, who didn't look pleased even in the least. "Is there something more interesting than what I have to say?" The question was one part anger at Max's day dreaming, one part dare to tell her that something else was indeed more interesting. He learned his lesson the last time he was goaded into something.

"No, Staff Sergeant," he replied.

"Then you were ignoring me?"

Careful, Max told himself in warning. This was the infamous Catch-22 trap that Drill instructors have caught recruits in for centuries. If he says yes, then he's in for a world of hurt. If he says no, then she'll accuse him of lying. So he told the truth.

"Staff Sergeant, the Recruit was thinking ahead." "Thinking ahead to what?"

"Thinking ahead to perform the most optimal task for whichever team I was chosen for." Well not exactly the truth, but it was creative.

"Recruits, that's how Starfleet wants you to get out of a situation," she explained, nodding approval to Maxwell. "Without actually lying, and most certainly without insulting the other person, you talk your way out of a situation as best as possible. Well done, Maxwell. Just for that, you get to perform an EVA and repair a section of Hull that was damaged. Suit up!"

TBC......................

"Meanwhile... On The Carthage..."

Captain Jaal Jaxom
CO, USS Carthage

==Bridge, USS Carthage, Interceptor Class, Currently docked at DS5==

Jaal stood on the bridge of his ship, yeah, that's right, 'his' ship.

He looked around inspecting the different consoles laid out in typical Starfleet fashion. The helm and operations were in front of the captain's chair slightly angled to that whoever was in charge could easily take a glimpse at what was going on. Directly behind the captain's chair were the engineering and tactical stations. Along the port wall was the science area. Across from that on the starboard wall was communications and security.

The newly minted captain stopped in front of his chair admiring it for a moment before gingerly sitting down.

"Ahhhh," the Trill thought. He never thought this day would get here.

He'd been passed over for his own ship twice since he became the Miranda's first officer, he'd refused command of his old assignment once, after that, Jaal thought he'd never hear about a command assignment again.

"What are you doing in the captain's chair?" A sudden, gruff voice was heard.

Jaal was a bit surprised as he thought he was the only person on the bridge. Judging from the voice alone it was female… possibly a Klingon. "I'm sitting in it," he answered matter of factly.

He then slowly spun the chair around to show himself to his visitor. "What are you doing on my bridge?" he asked with a half smirk showing on his lips.

She was, in fact, a Klingon and she seemed a touch taken back by the question. "I am the operations manager of his ship. Lieutenant Vam'wa."

She scrutinized Captain Jaxom as he stood up and walked towards her. "I'm Jaal Jaxom your new CO. Pleased to meet you." He offered his hand to shake in the Terran fashion.

Vam'wa took it in her firm grip, which Jaal was ready for. "Pleased to meet you as well. I'm sure this fine vessel will serve you well during your time here."

"I'm sure it will too," Jaal replied with the corners of his lips rising into a tight smile. "Tell me," he glanced around the bridge, "Where's everyone else?"

"Net'wa and Sodok are checking the portside RCS thrusters. Maureen is on DS5 securing some medical supplies. The rest of the staff has yet to come aboard. Would you happen to know any of them?"

"I know the first officer," Jaal answered non-comittedly, "but that's about it at this time. How long have you been aboard?"

"Since this ship left Avalon Fleetyards," Vam'wa replied proudly.

"Then I can expect you to know the most about the ship then," Jaal asked expectantly.

"Sodok and I have been on this ship the same amount of time. He is the chief engineer," she replied. "My sister joined us shortly after we arrived at Deep Space Five."

"Your sister?" Jaal asked curiously. "Who is she?"

"Net'wa, she is my twin," Vam'wa answered with pride, "She is the chief flight controller."

"This is going to be interesting ride then," Jaal quipped. "Being Klingon you'll get along well with our first officer."

Vam'wa looked interested, "They are Klingon also?"

"No," Jaal answered with a chuckle, "But she thinks she is."

ooc: Baile's off the ship in this one. Don't ask me how. I just found him there...

"Free fall pt 1"

Lt Jebidiah Baile
CO 1st Platoon
USS Galaxy

Location - a shady place. Pick one.

-------------------------

As far as bars went the universe was filled with good ones and bad ones. The bar in this tale was without a doubt one of the latter. "Sinews and Osmosis" had existed for nearly a hundred a fifty years. Wars, fights and deaths had passed over and literally through it but still it refused to shut down. The bar had changed owners at least twenty times since it opened its doors to customers all those years ago. Two or three of them had tried to raise the standards to acceptable levels, or at least a level where the paint on the walls didn't threaten to leave the building due to poor conditions. The new furniture and various decoriations usually lasted about a day once business resumed as usual. An evening without at least two major fights was a slow night at "Sinews and Osmosis". The lifespan of furniture in the bar was about the same as that of a politician telling the truth.

The current owner was Surasas, a man of highly suspicious character and background. He had won the bar in a highstake cardgame eleven years ago and was the owner that had lasted the longest in the history of the bar.

The bar itself catered to those that didn't like the public eye or wanted a place where the long arm of the law had trouble reaching in. That and a hundred other reasons. The alcohol wasn't remarkable nor was the food or rather what Surasas tried to pass as food to the customers. Most of the regulars knew it was a truly bad idea to eat anything that Surasas worthless chef made. There had been some customers over the last eleven years that had ended up with braindamage from simply ordering from the meny, much less eating the food itself. What did make the bar successful was the illegal gambling going on there.

Any kind of gambling.

The waitresses didn't belong to the kind of long legged slim creatures one would expect to find in a bar, waiting tables. The waitresses of "Sinews and Osmosis" had probably never expected to find themselves working for a truly viscious and mean spirited man in a place like "Sinews and Osmosis". It was hard to imagine there being anyone wanting to work there at all. At least waiting tables. Knowing how difficult it was to find loyal workers Surasas had found an easy solution to the problem. Zone-implants. Small cybernetic implants attached directly to the brain and cortex. Loyalty had never been so cheap. Free will was a thing of the past for the waitresses. All of the seven waitresses used drugs in one way or the other, all of them introduced to it by Surasas who also supplied them with the drugs they wanted. Another method to make it very hard for them to betray him or just leave. Cruel as it was - it worked. If a customer wanted to bed one of them, the women couldn't resist. Couldn't say no. He owned them. Body and soul.

Predan had worked in the bar longer than he cared to remember. He had worked there through fights, fires, shootings, wars, strikes and owners a plenty. His hands had polished the worn surface of the bar until the wood was almost gone. Once he had tried to calculate how many drinks he had poured but that had just resulted in a bad heachache. Guests had aimed guns at him, tried to beat him up, tried to rob him but the old sod didn't go down easy. If the opposite of a pushover ever needed an image it would be Predan. He wasn't totally without a heart as he stood behind the bar and served cheap booze to people who had been drinking way too much in their lives. He felt for the girls that served the drunken bastards in the bar. But feeling for them wasn't the same as being the knight in shiny armor. He put the glasses and bottles down on the tray and told the nearest of the waitresses to get her ass moving and serve the guests before they died of old age. He turned his attention back to the bar and the guests sitting there. It was a slow night, maybe fifty guests all in all and three of them sitting by the bar. Give it three hours, he thought to himself and the place would be packed. It always was.

/tbc

"Free fall pt 2"

Lt Jebidiah Baile
CO 1st Platoon
USS Galaxy

"One more.. " the man sitting in the middle said and held up the empty glass for emphasis. Predan wobbled over, grabbing the bottle. How many had he served the human since he had sat down? Ten? He wasn't sure. The clear liquid filled the glass and the human raised it to his lips and tossed it back. The human grimaced, held his breath and exhaled slowly. He nodded towards the glass again. Predan looked at the bottle to see if he had grabbed the wrong one. Carefully he sniffed the top of the bottle and felt his eyes cross. Volan Rootsling alright. Vile, cheap and horribly strong. Ten shots of that thing was what the most resistant Nausicaan could handle before passing out. Ten shots would make one hell of a incendiary grenade as well. He gave a mental shrug. If the idiot wanted to drink himself braindead who was he to say different? The cash he had paid upfront was more than enough.

The glass was refilled again and emptied once more. The bald human pointed at the tiny glass for a refill. Predan obeyed, but nodded towards the guards at the door. He had seen trouble walk in and out of the bar for years. Trouble in all shapes and sizes and this man was definitely potential trouble. A brawl would no doubt break out in the next two hours but some primitive instinct told the bartender it would be better if the man was not a part of it. "What brings you here?" he asked the human when he filled the glass yet again.

"This.." the man replied and dangled the glass between his thumb and index finger. The man wore a sleeveless black shirt with some kind of tiny insignia on the chest. Dark tattoos covered most of his arms and part of the neck. There was something about the man that made the alien bartender shiver. Something.. unnatural.

"Plenty more where that came from." Predan replied and picked up a towel to continue polishing the glassware.

"Just keep it coming."

He refilled the glass again for the.. he had lost track. The man should have been sleeping or dead considering how much he had been drinking since he had sat down - and at which pace he had been doing it. But so far the man did nothing else but stare at the glass for a minute through the dark goggles he wore and then he'd toss the drink back, grimace and slowly exhale and order a new one.

He tossed back another of the vile shots. It smelled even worse than it tasted. The stench of alcohol would probably have made his eyes water if it had been possible. But instead of tears all he felt was the dull pain that he always felt from the alien eyes. Like grains of sand rubbing under the eyelids. He had tried virtually every painkiller there was, but nothing helped. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe not. He had tried antibiotics in case there was an infection - the result had been a physical pain he tried hard to forget. His body had done nothing to shield him that time. Baile shook his head and motioned to the bartender for a refill.

They left him alone which suited him fine. As long as he paid they'd keep the booze coming and right now he wanted very much to get really and utterly ape-shit drunk. The kind of drunken haze where a Klingon warband could gangbang him and he wouldn't remember a damn thing. So he drank. And drank. And drank even more.

But nothing. Not a damn thing. He should have been blind by now from the moonshine they tried to pass as the real thing. That and roaring drunk. He had even tried pills but not even that helped. Nothing helped. His head was filled with memories of events and places he had never been to or seen. Voices he had never heard called him by different names but he knew it was him they were talking to, pleading and begging for their lives. Faces he had never met looked at him in fear, loyalty, friendship, hatred.. the list was long, but he knew almost none of them. He saw Dhani's face as his hand smashed her nose to bits. He saw her face as she or what ever the hell it had been down on Romulus tried to kill him. He saw the face of Karyn Dallas as he nearly killed her when he woke up from the coma. He saw a lot of things.

Everyone comes to crossroads in their lives at one point or another and now he was standing at one of them. It wasn't the first time he had been at one but for the first time all of the roads leading on were dark. Black paths leading into.. nothing? The bartender refilled the glass. Baile emptied it out of reflex and closed his hand over the small glass and looked at the back of his hand. His latest tattoo. Eight black arrows pointing in all directions surrounded by a thin black circle.

Chaos.

"Ain't that the fucking truth... " he mumbled to himself. What were his options? Stay in the marines? He wasn't doing a bangup job there, now was he? Skillwise he was better than ever but there was more to being a marine than skills. People counted on him. Whether they liked him or not was beside the point but they counted on him to have his ass in gear. Leave Starfleet? Maybe. He could get a contract with any of the established mercs in the blink of an eye. But he despised mercs more than anything. Thugs for hire. No, signing up in some mercenary unit was out of the question. But if he left where would he go? Colonel Smith would give him his share of the... bounty if he asked for it, but could he stay away from conflicts? Baile doubted it. Dhani had shown his as much.

/tbc

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished Part Seven: “Girls will be Girls”

Captain Darren M’Kantu – Captain of the USS Galaxy
Lieutenant Kimberly Burton – Chief Medical Officer
1st Lieutenant Branwen London – Furies Psychologist
Lieutenant Dhanishta Eshe – Chief Engineer
Ms Livana Ulani – FCO Internal Investigations Rep

***USS Galaxy, Conference Room 3***

Shrugging, Kimberly felt her embarrassment fade slightly, at that point, she shoulda said, ~ Sorry, can’t, bye. ~ and warped away, diplomatic consequences be damned. But noooo, she had to be nice and accept. ~ Next time, ~ she warned her brain, ~ we let the feet make the decisions. Running away ‘was’ a good idea! ~

“So,” she continued, glossing over one or two ‘minor’ details, partly anxious to get this over with, and also not really wanting to get into too much detail right now about a certain royal prince, there was enough to say about ‘him’ later. ~ Royal pain in the Mivonks! ~ she corrected herself silently. “We landed and were escorted to see some of the ruling council. Apparently we were to meet the local Pope, who was also the planetary leader at the dinner they were preparing. We spoke for several hours with members of the government, passed on the FCO package, and then we were offered the freedom of the city. We were told that the Pope was looking forward to meeting us, but would have to wait until dinner, so until then we were allowed to explore their capital city for the afternoon….”

~*** The Holy City, New Rhea ***~

Looking around, Kimberly watched the comings and goings of the people around them. The scene before her could be one from any number of worlds she had visited in her time in the Fleet, the day to day bustle of a busy city. The only things that seemed out of place to her was that everyone she saw was Human, something that had struck her for a little while, almost any planet she had ever visited had a medley of peoples living there, to be on a planet with only one species was, odd.

The other thing that drew her attention was the massive armoured knights who occasionally wandered by in pairs. Though no-one else seemed bothered by the thump-thump of their weighty feet or the slight whine of their servo-motors as they walked, the occasional sounds just served to remind her of the oddity they represented. Who were they protecting everyone from?

Taking a sip of the ersatz coffee substitute the locals drank she made a face. The taste wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and the ever so slight minty aftertaste wasn’t a problem either, but the texture left a little to be desired. It was like drinking liquid sandpaper. Putting the cup down she looked to the other two.

“Well, I don’t know about you two,” she offered, breaking the moment of stunned silence that had descended after they had all taken their first sip of the drink, “but I’m full. Anyone else ready to move on?” she asked hopefully.

"I could watch this for hours." Branwen said impressed. So far she liked the society; she had grown up dreaming about knights. And although this was entirely different, it did appeal to her.

Raktajino was an acquired taste, many Terrans disliked it intensely. Klingon coffee was strong, ‘go-go juice’ as Dhani and her sister had nick-named it in their youth. But this coffee went that little bit further. If Dhani had been partially asleep she wasn’t now! Coughing slightly she placed the cup back down on the saucer and nodded politely. “Do you think they have any water?” she questioned hoarsely her hand coming to rest on her throat as if that would stop the burning sensation that continued throughout her oesophagus and into the pit of her stomach.

Looking over to their guide who had politely sat at a nearby table to give them some privacy Kimberly indicted that they were ready to move on. Watching him drain his cup she shuddered slightly. The tricorder had said it was safe to drink, but right now she was contemplating an upgrade to the biosensors on the small device, something to check not only for toxins, but unpleasant foodstuffs as well.

Getting up she picked up her bag and looked to Dhani and Bran. “Any particular things you’d like to look for?” she asked.

"Clothes and weapons." Branwen said. The attire of the women appealed to her. And she collected old weapons. This would be a very good opportunity for priceless items.

Glancing down at her tricorder Dhani pulled a face of indecision, shrugging slightly she looked back up at her friends. “I’d suggest while we are here we catalogue the local culture. I’m sure Starfleet will be interested to see how a minor fraction of their descendants have evolved since settling.”

"Of course." Branwen didn't mind doing that. She was secretly pleased how easy it was for her now to walk amongst these strangers. Adjusting to people from different cultures and with different believes was getting easier for her.

“This is all very familiar.” Dhani remarked as they moved off, “The structures are similar to many on Earth, in fact it’s almost like a replica of the Vatican City.” she pointed to the structures around them, the light grey buildings reeked of grandeur, the detail upon the mouldings were striking and everything had an aged effect added to it. From her calculations the buildings themselves were built out of a local stone, approximately 500 years old, however they appeared to be thousands.

"The Holy City?" Branwen said awed. "You think they are Christians?"

“I’d say that’s a fair assessment.” Kimberly agreed, remembering the fleeting glimpse she’d got of the massive hall where they were to have dinner later. Though she’d never been to the Sistine Chapel and seen first hand the work of Michelangelo, she had a feeling that if she compared the two, there’d be definite similarities. Add to that the emblems that decorated the armoured knights who walked around and she had a feeling that Branwen was pretty close to the mark. ~ Oh Joy. ~

Angling her own tricorder slightly to let it scan a plant as they passed it she eyed the flora with disdain, noting the hallucinogenic qualities in its petals. Pausing before a shop she looked at the wares displayed inside. A medley of art and jewellery that had caught her eye. “I have to say though,” she said, noting one necklace that caught her eye, “they have some talented artisans among them. Some beautiful work here.” Letting her eye follow the lines of the delicate chain and intertwined gems she smiled.

Dhanishta turned her head downward from where she had been admiring the local architecture. Stepping forward she looked over Kimberly’s shoulder and upon the item she was admiring. She hummed in agreement, “Not bad.” was all she offered as her attention turned towards the bustle in the local market down a side street.

She smiled slightly; all her life she had wished to be serving on a ship in space, but for a moment as she gazed lazily down the cobbled street where the market was set, watching the comings and goings of the local inhabitants she reflected upon the joy of having both feet firmly on the ground. Knowing in part that you were safe, no anomalies that your home could get swept up into, no Hydran Hellbore cannons to breach the hull and suck out all your positions or destroy your home in a bloody battle. There were still down sides to being planet side. No where was safe in the Galaxy, but for a moment, nostalgia settled into her bones and she longed for home. She laughed scathingly at herself; which ‘home’ would that be? A voice inside mocked.

“Oh my!” Dhanishta exclaimed as her eyes refocused. Reaching out she took hold of Branwens arm and directed her gaze with a raised index finger to a shop just to the right of the ally, “Look at those shoes!” she gorped.

High heels, kitten heels, flats, pink, blues, reds, purples; thousands of them in a variety of colours clashing and complementary, sleek and chic, weird and wonderful! “I have never had a shoe fetish,” Dhani informed Bran as she linked her arm in hers and began to walk across the street mesmerized by the sight before her, “but I could be persuaded to start! Would you just look at these!”

Branwen was more taken with the dress shop next door. "These though we can get local currency, Dhani. I really have to get some of these dresses. They are gorgeous." She took a closer look at the shoes. "And if I do my calculations right, I think everything here is dirt cheap."

Still staring at the necklace that had caught her eye, Kimberly sighed. Looking at the price tag on it she had to agree with Branwen, the prices all seemed very low, strange considering the obvious quality of the work. The Councillor they had been introduced to when they had first arrived, a newly appointed position to deal with the sudden appearance of offworlders, had generously offered them all a staggeringly huge sum of local cash with which to enjoy themselves. Starfleet rules though annoyingly prevented them from accepting, so, they had offered to exchange some Latinum she had on board. Something was telling her the exchange rate he had proposed was a little on the generous side.

Shaking her head she gave the beautiful jewellery one last glance and turned away, looking for her two companions. Smiling at Prospero, their guide, who always seemed to be close at hand she stepped away from the window and spied her friends nearby ogling a shoe shop. Walking over to join them she scanned the impressive display before them. “Wow.” Was about all she could manage.

"I want those purple ones. And the dress next door to match them." Branwen was saying. "Shall we go inside to fit something?"

“Girls, this isn’t really a shopping expedition,” Kimberly reminded them, sounding a little upset at the thought herself, “Starfleet is going to want us to give them as much as we can on the people, their culture, anything really,” she reminded them, “to say nothing of the questions the FCO is gonna ask us. Though,” pausing as she got a better look at the shoe shop, “those boots do look good,” she added absently, eyeing a pair of high boots in black.

"Shoes are part of the culture." Branwen reminded her. "Very important pieces of evidence."

Watching the two of them step inside the shoe shop Kimberly smiled. Giving the boots in the window one last fond look she followed them in, ~ This is gonna be a long day, ~ she thought happily.

~***~

“The City was very similar to the Vatican City on Earth,” Dhani interjected with a brief summary, “There ancestors had been abducted from the Sol System in the early 12th Century, we later found out. Since settling on New Rhea they had built a community and obviously grown. Their belief system was based on the Christian Bible and thus everything was in accordance with the first translation of the text.” Her distain for the religion was not easy to hide, especially from the busy-body in the corner. Dhani had never been particularly bothered by religion of any sort, but this side trip had left her with a slight, yet noticeable, loathing towards it.

Dhanishta cast a look between Bran and Kimberly before continuing, “We ‘explored’ the City.” she said breezing over the details of their shopping expedition. Whilst in part it had been a highlight, it wasn’t really something that they wanted to focus on. “We catalogued as much as we could regarding the history and culture, spoke with the locals and I have to say we did enjoy ourselves. Everything was fine until the dinner...” Dhanishta paused at this point and shifted where she stood, suddenly feeling very much on trial.

Coughing slightly she began, as diplomatically as possible. “The New Rhea’s also had a Royal family.” she bit her lip wondering how best to proceed in explaining the events that followed. She could feel the emotions emanating from Kimberly from annoyance, embarrassment to anger. Clearing her throat she took the bull by the horns and just spat it out; “Prince Peter James Michael Pious XIV, the son of the Pope; Pious XIVII who just happened to be the Planetary Ruler, took a shine to our Kim,” Dhani coughed to cover up her informality, in part she found this all to be quite amusing – but only in part, “Lieutenant Burton.” she corrected her transgression.

“If I may,” Kimberly interrupted, “I’ll come back to that shortly, it’ll be easier to explain after I’ve told you a little more…” Casting Dhani a ‘shut up and let me talk’ look she focussed her attention back on the silent form of her Captain, his enigmatic look, neither amused or angry was beginning to unsettle her a little.

“Could you perhaps explain now please, just what does Lieutenant Eshe mean when she said the Prince ‘took a shine’ to you?” Livana asked, PADD at the ready and an inquisitive look on her face as she leaned forward in her seat.

“Well,” Sounding extremely hesitant and embarrassed Kimberly looked to Dhani and Branwen for some support, “When we got back my room was packed with gifts, anything I’d seen throughout the day and expressed an interest in was packed and wrapped neatly waiting for me. I can only assume, Sir, that our guide had been keeping his eyes open and reporting back somehow, and someone had followed long and purchased everything as we moved on. It was unexpected.” She added in a now highly embarrassed tone.

TBC…

"Welcome To Basic, The Conclusion (Part VII)"

By Petty Officer 2nd Class Benedict "Max" Maxwell,
NCOIC Emergency Medical Response Team (Current Status: Prisoner #8813-E419M25)
USS Galaxy

Starfleet Basic Training Facility, Great Lakes, Michigan, Earth, January 8th, 2379, 1340 hours

The final two Battle Stations exercise went much better than the first for the entire Division. They didn't quite have the teamwork mentality down when it came down to it, as much as they thought they did. In fact, Division 280 took the lead over them, as well as Division 277 because they scored so low. But things changed after that. Bonnie O'Healy was removed as RCPO when it was finally revealed that she wasn't acting in the best interests of the Division. That honor went to a shy young girl named Elisa Moore, a seventeen year old from Gary, Indiana.

In fact, Bonnie almost washed out of their Cycle a couple of times. But that was all water under the proverbial bridge at this point. Today was graduation day, and they were to pass i review in front of the brass. Max was seeing to the final touches on his Dress/Parade uniform, ensuring his devices were on correctly. He earned the respect of even the RDC in his ability to not only keep up with, but surpass every expectation set for him. It seems that being the son of a Starfleet Commander didn't mean he was a true Mama's Boy. Speaking of which...

"Hey Mama's boy," called out his nemesis, who approached him, this time without an entourage. It would seem that they had parted ways a while back. Max turned to face her and steeled himself for the verbal confrontation he expected.

"Yes, Bonnie," he replied.

"I, um..." she stammered, obviously unsure of how to proceed. "I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time, Maxwell." Max blinked in spite of himself. He didn't expect an apology for anything from O'Healy, not in a thousand years.

"Well, um...I don't know what to say except don't worry about it. We're all on the same side, right?" Bonnie made a small smile and nodded. Then abruptly she turned away and returned to her own preparations.

That was odd, Max thought to himself. Guess she finally learned that she wasn't the center of the universe.

1400 hours...

Recruit Division Commander Hood stood proudly starboard and ahead of his Division, who bore the banner of Top Division, as they stood ready to begin the parade. Everyone looked very sharp, uniforms crisp, boots so shiny they could blind any onlookers. The expressions worn by everyone was of a serious member of the Enlisted Ratings of Starfleet. They were the best, and they have proven it. Now they'll prove again as they were about to march in full Cycle formation. Cycle 3 had been very successful in producing the most graduates with excellent marks.

A slight breeze did nothing to ease the cold of the Great Lakes as the winter pressed on in the 34 degree moist air. The cold of course did nothing to Max, in fact he rather liked it. He focused his eyes ahead as the band signaled that they were ready. The drumbeat began and the cadence was set.

"Division, TEN-HUT!" commanded Hood. His command was echoed by other the other RDC's to their divisions. "Forward, MARCH!" BOOM, BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. The deep bass of the drum matched the pace of their march.

Max couldn't help but hide a smile as his Division passed the bandstand. His mother was in attendance and she gave him a wink as they passed her position. Max afforded a quick smile, hoping that no one would notice. They completed their circuit and formed a huge Heightline by Division in the middle of the field. The cadence beat ended, and the Commandant began her speech. Max didn't really pay attention to it. He was happy to have gotten past basic, and looked forward to Equivalency Training. There were a few people going with him, the rest were headed to Security, Navigational, Tactical, and Engineering. Strangely enough, no Sciences in their Division.

Max's attention snapped back to the present as the Commandant finished her speech. "Recruit Division Commanders, dismiss your crews," she commanded.

RDC Hood did a sharp about-face and looked upon his Division with a broad smile. He was definitely proud of them. Besides, they made him look good yet again.

"Division," he commanded, "DISMISSED!" There were cheers all around as everyone gave each other hugs and high-fives all around. Max shook a few hands and prepared to get his belongings packed up, when Hood suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Chief," Max said in greeting.

"Maxwell," he said, "I have to say I'm actually glad you're on your way. I had you pegged for a misfit, but you turned out just fine. Just don't fuck up out there. I'd like to keep my reputation intact of producing quality Rates, understand?"

"Understood, Chief." Hood proffered his hand and Max happily shook it. With a nod, Max took his leave and made his way back to the 'Ship'. San Francisco, here I come, he thought happily.

Fin.

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