"Then the other shoe fell...."



With Admiral Robert E. Lee Price, former commanding officer of the USS GALAXY, current chief of Starfleet operations. Also included Admiral Marta Batanides, Director of Starfleet Intelligence


Time: While the USS Galaxy is currently dealing with the 'phase effect'.
Location: Starfleet Headquarters, Earth



*********************************************************************************************

"In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons." - Herodotos

*********************************************************************************************



Admiral Price sat in his hover chair on the balcony of his office on the forty-third floor of Starfleet's headquarters enjoying a light lunch under the August sun. The waning days of summer seemed to leave a humid haze in the air that made San Francisco below him appear to shimmer like the countless anomalies he had investigated as Captain of the USS GALAXY.


The man often referred to as "The General" never thought he would ever get used to a real climate.


It was a problem most Star fleet captains had when the time came that they found themselves no longer in the center chair. After spending nearly his entire adult life soaring the stars, he had grown so accustomed to a stable ship's temperature that even a casual summer day felt ruthlessly oppressive to him.


It was just one of the dozens of adjustments he was forced to make in his life since returning to Earth after a Breen attack fused his spinal column leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. He had come a long way since the debilitating injury - both physically and mentally. He knew that as much as he longed to return to the stars commanding a crew of a star ship, it was a chapter of his life that was past him.


His life was filled with simpler pleasures now.


Ice clinked softly in the glass pitcher of iced tea on his table as it melted.


He was reaching for the pitcher when his comm badge chirped.


=/\= Batanides to Price =/\=


"Marta. Always a pleasure." he responded refilling his glass with what he was sure was the nectar of the gods.


=/\= I'm on my way up. Buzz me in and pour me a drink." =/\=


Price smiled reaching for a second glass.


Admiral Batanides wasn't the most social member of Star fleet.


Since the death of her husband and her ascension to the position of Director of Star fleet Intelligence, the trim brunette opted to fully immerse herself in her work. Price had done a similar thing after his injury and out of that similarity, understanding and sympathy had grown into a wonderful friendship.


He pressed the buzzer on his hover chair and unlocked his office door. Within moments, Marta walked briskly through the thin, emerald curtains and onto the balcony.


With less effort then it had taken months ago, Price rose to his feet and shuffle stepped over and drew out a chair for her across from his own.


"Ever the gentleman, Bob." she said letting him take her hand and help her to her seat. "You are moving around better and better each time that I see you."


"That's because you only drop by once a month." he said with a wink, taking his seat once more, grateful to be off his feet but proud that he was able to move without falling again.


"Something tells me that you haven't come by just for a sip of tea." he said, his Australian accent drawing a smile from his companion.


"No but I definitely won't pass some up." she said taking a long sip from her glass and licking her pips slightly.


"It's bad this time, Bob. Real bad." Marta said, getting down to business, activating the padd she had been carrying and swiveling its screen so Price could see.


"Thirty six hours ago, a Bolian freighter picked up a battered escape pod. There were three bodies inside. It appears that they had been starved and beaten so badly that they just weren't physically able to withstand the rigors of space travel in such conditions."


Price frowning as he gazed at the images of the emaciated condition of the three corpses.


"They look like....." the General started before he understood exactly what he was looking at.


"Prisoners of war."


"Intelligence examined the escape pod and was able to discern that it came from Deep Space Three." she said.


Admiral Price found himself feeling a chill in his bones that the summer heat wasn't able to soothe.


"Deep Space Three was destroyed by the Breen when they invaded Corvallis months ago."


"To be more specific, the Breen not only destroyed the station, they towed it to the surface of the planet itself." Marta said grimly. "That escape capsule and those people came from Corvallis. Our next step was to investigate ourselves. We dropped a sensor probe onto the planet and discovered a nightmare. Bob, Corvallis has become a prisoner of war colony. We're talking literally thousands of federation citizens if our sensor scans are just half accurate."


"My god. How could this have happened?" Price whispered as the full horror of what was being revealed to him sunk in.


"We just let them have Corvallis. We never even tried to defend the position."


A long silence fell upon them like the afternoon shadows. The sounds of the city below seemed to startle a small group of birds and they took flight and sailed across the waters of the bay.


"Does Murdock know about this?"


"He does. An emergency meeting of the Federation counsel has been called. Early scuttlebutt has both the hawks and doves in agreement that something has to be done and fast." Marta said, then the other shoe fell.


"It gets worse. We identified the victims. Two were Star fleet Marines." she said calling up their files on the padd for the Admiral to see. They were two fine soldiers. Decorated for bravery many times over.


"The third?" he asked.


"A civilian physician." Admiral Batanides said bringing up a picture of a faintly familiar looking, middle aged man.


"His name.......is Joseph. Joseph Bhrode."


Price went ashen as Marta continued.


"He was Admiral Bhrode's son."

"The Hunt for Fay McAllister "

Starring:

Senior Marshal Bin Hux

Deputy Marshal Melissa Daughtery

Chief Melendez

If you thought about it, it was a strange place to begin a criminal investigation.

The monastery was a quaint collection of Lacquered Bamboo huts that were cunningly arranged in and amongst the flowering greenery.

Tiny little paths trailed hither and yon across the gardens crossing humble wooden bridges complete with babbling little streams and sparkling Koi ponds.

The monks themselves were coming and going in their own little relaxed shuffle that seemed to convey both intensity and tranquility at the same time.

'Intently' tranquil, was the phrase that popped into Senior Marshal Bin Hux's mind.

It was a show almost. Hidden amongst their rural paradise, the monks seemed to work hard at doing nothing, perhaps feeling the all too human urge to live up to their reputation.

They were supposed to be peaceful and enlightened, so doggone it ....they were gonna go all out in their

elightened-ness.

Take for example the skinny little fellow bowing before him now...silly grin plastered on his face that at once conveyed everything ......and nothing.

Hux had interviewed too many suspects over the years.....met too many people with something to hide to be fooled by a shit eating grin no matter how enlightened it was.

"Welcome to our sanctuary Marshal." the little fellow was saying. "Normally we prefer not to have dealings with the outside world, but...."

"....but yall are still Federation citizens and this is a criminal investigation, so you had no choice. Right?"

Bin didn't give people credit for compliance when they didn't have a choice in the matter.

"How perceptive Mr. Hux." the monk replied with a faltering smile. "Of course we are at your service."

The Marshal ran his fingers along a smooth hand carved railing that spanned a tiny foot path. "Exactly. to start off with I suppose you could explain how for a group of guys interested in peace and lollipops... what yall were doing harboring a convicted mass murderer?"

"Murderer?" the word almost choked the little skinny monk, his grin fading at once into a babbling of denials and assurances that they would do no such thing.......

....until Hux pulled out a holo-print and slapped down on the happy little railing.

"Oh.....her." the monk was suddenly quiet. "It's like this….."

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

"That was a bit harsh Bin." Deputy Marshal Melissa Daughtery remarked as the Federal Cruiser pulled back into higher

orbit. "These guys try to operate their little sanctuary and live in peace with all things, and you gotta go wave blood splattered photos in front of their eyes."

"Object lesson Mel." Hux leaned back in the worn leather seat, watching the atmosphere fall away into blackness.

"Get too confident in being a sheep and one day the wolf is gonna come knocking. Besides I didn't feel like dicking around dragging info out of a weenie that spends his days apologizing to the rocks for stepping on them."

"Its cute." Mel replied taking her hands off the controls long enough to tap a long skinny cigarette out of its pack and balance it delicately between her thin lips. "The whole bald head and orange togas thing is kinda kinky."

"Gonna have to go through anti-cancer treatments again you keep that up." Hux frowned at his young partner. "Almost bought yourself a new lung last time Mel."

"Says the Angosian super soldier who can snort Mustard Gas with out breaking stride." Mel countered testily. Taking long deep drag of pale blue smoke, the thin blond sighed. "We humans have a saying...if God hadn't meant us to smoke he wouldn't have invented Organ bio-cloning."

For long moments there was only the whining of the slightly out of tune sublight engines. "This is a shit case Bin...a real cluster."

"Yup. Aint no shit Mel."

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

Two weeks earlier, Bin Hux looked up annoyed when the first bloody photograph skittered across his cluttered desk.

Pushing aside the half empty box of doughnuts and the Styrofoam coffee cup, the Marshal examined the pics.

"Fuck Chief. Somebody take to finger-painting with body parts?"

"Knew you'd be interested Bin." Chief Marshal Melendez grated. "You always did have an eye for the sick fucks. Where's that partner of yours?"

"Where else...Mel's out on smoke break."

"Shit...that lady's gonn abuy herself another lung."

Nodding, the big Angosian was already examining the holos, frowning deeply at the carnage therein.

"Prisoner escape?

This is the second one this year. whats up with the boys over at Bureaus of Corrections.?"

Melendez lowered himself into a chair across from Hux. "Almost a year to the day...which reminds me....How is our old Buddy Manslaughter doing? Still doing underwater basket weaving classes in the bighouse?"

Marshal Hux frowned. Sleitor Mann....the man no known as Manslaughter was on old war buddy of his. Together they had slugged the mud and blood of the Angosian Wars, which made the fact that Hux had been forced to hunt down and almost kill him a tender subject.

"He aint killed torn anybody else's head off if that's what you mean." Hux chewed on a soggy old toothpick as he studied the photos.

"That cyborg chick on the Galaxy did a real number on him...apparently he's taken to writing love letters to her on almost a weekly basis....Bureau of Corrections intercepts them of course."

"Of course." the Chief watched his best officer study.

"Who did this? Another crazed vet?"

Another photo slid across the desk.

Hux let out a low whistle as he picked it up. "Cute. Nice legs....you kidding right?"

Melendez merely sat.

Hux looked closer..."Wait a minute...Fuck. Golden eyes. Chameloid?"

A thick chart joined the photos on the cluttered desk.

"Faylin McAlister...late of Starfleet Command. USS Galaxy....you may have met her once during the Manslaughter affair."

"Which is why you want me and Mel."

The old Chief nodded.

"Two reasons big guy...First your familiarity with the Galaxy and her crew. Second....your familiarity with bloodthirsty loons."

Hux was already flipping through the chart. "Who's the brunette? Zamora?"

"Yeah...." Melendez frowned. "Apparently instead of making good her escape, McAlister has been burning up the airways making threats and taunting this Zamaora lady. She's a lawyer who was instrumental in her trial but...."

"But it doesn't make sense." Hux completed the thought. "Looks like there were a half dozen attorneys on the case...arresting officers....witness's....You want me to find out why she's singling out this Zamora character right?"

The chief smiled. You always were a bright boy." He handed over one final surprise. "Here's another hot tip.....This Layer lady....she's in the market for a bounty hunter....wants em to hunt down and get this....kill McAlister."

"Kill?" Hux examined the file. "Sounds like she knows exactly why this psycho is after her."

Melendez smiled. "Looks like you and Blondie are going undercover."

"A Break From the Monotony "

LtJG Felix Serloma
Combat Control Officer

PO2 Anastasia Dufaud
Tactical Sensor Specialist

Crewmen Derek Clyne
Tactical Sensor Apprentice

Deck 11
Combat Information Center
===================

Duty in the CIC when on an exploration mission in orbit of a planet well within the boundaries of the Federation could be summed up in one word.

Boring. Totally, utterly, and thoroughly boring.

The CIC was still one of the ship's operational nerve centers. Not much could happen without some sort of input from the dark, octagon shaped room buried deep in the center of the Saucer section. There was always something for the sensor weenies and the Figher Wing and Marine coordinators to be doing, but for the rest of the CIC, a mission like this was more or less a few weeks off from the constant stress of being on large battlecruiser in wartime.

Which is why the 1 officer and 2 enlisted graced with the duty of sitting Combat Control were making the most out of their time, to improve their poker games.

In a battle, Combat Control was the epicenter of everything. They were responsible for feeding the information to the bridge, recommending moves and trying to find the best firing solution on the enemy. During a fight, it would be the CIC Controller/Combat Control Officer who would be directly miked to the bridge, giving his or her inputs to the Captain and Tactical arch. It was why there were more seats at Combat Control, six, than any other station in the CIC. It was also why their boss, Lieutenant Daniels, a former Combat Control Officer himself on the vaunted Miranda, stressed excellence in the position moreso than any other in the Tactical Department.

Not that the whole deparment didn't have to get used to the exceptionally high expectations and standards of their new, and incredibly young, department head. Some of the old hats said he was just trying to erase the name Von Ernst from the Galaxy's lexicon. Others saw a hard worker who put in as many if not more hours than a lot of his charges. Whatever the case was, the Tactical Department was running at it's finest, and most proud, since any of them could remember.

But, today, cards were the order of the day.

LtJG Felix Serloma, a Trill officer who was one of the up and comers in the department, a recent transfer from the Resolute, threw his hand down in disgust. Either one of his enlisted was fixing the deck, or he had really bad luck...4 out of 5 crap hands just didn't happen.

PO2 Anastasia Dufaud, a human from the outskirts of Paris, tried to contain her anticipation. The 5 year veteran of the ship had a flush going so long as the last card dropped her way. She looked across at her lone opponent and threw her bet in. Before she could get the satisfaction of watching him foolheartedly throw his bet in, they were interrupted by a beep from the console. "Nasti," as she was known around the department, lowered her cards and checked the screen. She had hoped for some sort of excitment...maybe the Zeus returning from wherever the hell she had went with their Marines? But instead she frowned in disappointment.

"All yours rookie." She deadpanned, picking back up her cards.

Crewman Derek Clyne, a Tauron 4 born human, felt like he was set with his full house, sighed and dropped his cards to the console. He was new to the ship, fresh out of Enlisted Basic and and Tactical Technical Training, having arrived at the ship only a month ago. As the resident new guy on the Combat Control team, he got a lot of the shit details, and this was one of them, all in the name of training.

He picked up the communication headseat and held the microphone near his mouth. "Bridge, Combat. Shuttle 4 is returning Code 1." In other words, the support shuttle they had sent down to the planet was returning and reported no maintenance issues. Which meant the maintenance guys would go over it with a fine toothed comb to find something wrong.

"Roger, CIC" came the uninterested reply from the Ops station on the bridge.

"Why do we even have to be here when there's no combat threat?" Clyne asked his superiors.

"Well, because Lieutenant Daniels said so first of all." The snarky reply came from Nasti.

"That and as you'll quickly learn, Mr. Clyne, is that things can happen very quickly on a starship, and there is no such thing as 'no combat threat'."

Nasti nodded. "Even though we're not front line right now, doesn't mean Fleet HQ couldn't alert us to move out within a few minutes. If we just sat at home, we'd have no time to train you're rookie ass."

"Point taken I guess." Clyne dropped his head and picked up his cards. "I guess that means I'll have plenty of time to start a family then."

"Sweetheart, if you can find the time for that out here, I'd be impressed." Nasti eyed the young 19 year old in an altogether inappropriate way. As he'd learn over the coming months, her nickname was more than just a play on her given name..."Besides, sometimes in war---" her upcoming pearl of wisdom was cutoff by the oppressive blurting of an alert message and the borders of their console screens flashing red.

All three, including the inexperienced rookie, dropped their cards and turned to the console. These notifications appeared any time some sort of alert situation was broadcast to the fleet. What told them it was the real thing and not a drill was that the Combat Communications panel across the way had lit up too, startling the young Ensign manning it, causing her to send a trashy paperback novel flying as a response.

"Picking up multiple Federation ELTs broadcasts." Nasti was the first one to open the traffic.

"Looks like it's coming from the vicinty of AS-128." The Ensign at Comm used her instruments to triangulate where the message was coming from.

"ELT?" Of course, Clyne knew very little about what was going on.

"Emergency Locator Transmitter." Serloma turned and explained to him. Nasti had it under control for a moment. "Every ship in the Federation has one. When it is in distress or something bad happens, it turns on. It's a beacon that allows us to locate them. This many beacons is indicative of a lifeboat launch."

"Isn't AS-128 where we sent the Marines?"

Felix nodded. "Yeah, long way away."

"And we can pick that up?"

"These things are designed to override almost every other Federation comm signal until told otherwise. There's reports that you can pick one up on Earth from the border of the Neutral Zone." Felix turned. "Talk to me Nasti."

"I've got over a hundred ELT signals...closely grouped...no distress signals sent yet. Can't track anything from that far with any reliability though."

Felix nodded and picked up his headset. "Bridge, Combat, we just started picking up ELT signals from the vicinity of the planet where we deployed our Marines."

~Acknowledged Combat, Captain wants you to get the full duty crew ready just in case and get what information you can.~

"Roger Bridge, Combat out."

"Clyne, start waking up the new duty shifters. Nasti, you and Ensign Tragia try to figure out what damage was done out there if you can. I'm going to go tell the Lieutenant."

Clyne nodded. "So much for no excitement." Before he walked off, he dealt the last card and then flipped over Nasti's hand.

"Bitch." He muttered as he went to go wake everyone up.

Lt. JG Artim Shivar - Lost Kid

------------------------------
<<Somewhere in the Jungle>>

As the adorable little birds chirped blissfully to themselves from their nearby perch the interesting thing they had awoken had managed to stumble a bit away from the river. Even better its head was no longer oozing a red fluid as it had managed to tie a white piece of cloth around its head. It was beginning to get dark though and soon all manner of beasts would start emerging from their lairs. Artim Shivar was still in quite a spot and it wasn't going to get better any time soon.

Allright, you've been through this before. Just need to stay put and they'll find me. They have to be looking for me. Need...a fire. That's it. , the words ran through Artim's brain along with a million other things. He knew he'd have to stay focused if he was going to get through this. However the concussion was making that extremely difficult as was the fact that he could barely walk on account of something being wrong with his left knee. Finding enough wood for a fire wasn't a problem but finding tinder to light, that was tricky.

"So they left you here to die. Sounds fitting."

The words seemingly came out of nowhere and caused Artim to snap his head around. He hadn't heard anyone coming...and he didn't see anyone. Must be the wind. OK, tinder. Hmm...that could work. Allright, good. Now to build a fire.

"Oh come on Artie. You really think that's going to save you!", it was the same voice. What was strange now is that it sounded somehow...familiar. Artim knew he'd heard this voice before somewhere. But it wasn't one of his crewmates...was it? Still seeing nothing Artim started on the fire. However he couldn't help but look around nervously as he stacked the fallen twigs and such into a haphazard pile. Artim knew it should be in a more organized fashion but it was too hard to focus.

After a few moments the fire was build and lit. A big sigh of releif escaped his tired lips.

I can get through this. Once I'm through the night then, they have to come looking for me. They have to find me. They wouldn't leave me would they?

"Of course they would Artie. You did. You left me." It was the same voice and it was getting louder.

"What?" Artim couldn't help but respond out loud as he looked around. Someone was out there...or were they?

off: These posts will be running about the same time as the current
mission; this first one is about the time that Victor warns his family
about Faylin. Ella is on a leave of absence after almost dying in the
events of "Final Lesson."

"How Ella Got Her Groove Back" - Part One

Lt. Ella Grey
& Guests (!)

****

Suryaya Bay, Risa
The Plaza Hotel

In her dreams she was on fire.

Or at least it felt that way. It was hard to tell with dreams and she
rarely had the same one twice. But it felt like fire and the sensation
wasn't pleasant. She woke up sweating, afraid.

It was quickly becoming the norm for how she began each day.

Ella kicked off her blanket and let the air chill her body. There were
still several hours until dawn and nothing she could do that didn't
involve a lot of questions about why she was so miserable. Risa was
supposed to make you happy, or at least leave you in such a sexual
stupor that you forgot all your worries; Ella didn't know if happiness
was even an option anymore.

She closed her eyes and breathed in and out through her nose. Therapy
over the years had been mostly a joke but meditation did seem to help
now and then. She tried to imagine all the things in her life that had
brought her joy, or at least less sorrow, and when that didn't work
her thoughts turned towards the trips she had taken recently to Earth
and the planet Haven. They had been overall pleasant, just not the
soul-mending experience that she had been hoping for.

It occurred to Ella that she might not remember how to take a
vacation, wasn't sure if she could rest and relax. A whole universe to
explore and there was nothing she really wanted to do except throw the
covers over her head and sleep for a few years.

She made an irritated noise and tried to focus again. She tried to
picture the universe as an all encompassing security blanket - one of
Counselor Mavis' personal favorites - and tried to think of being warm
and comforted. She tried to reach out for that comfort …

… and was surprised at the sudden image of a flushed Corran Rex, with
an equally flushed blonde wrapped around his waist, which flashed in
her head. Startled, the Trill jumped up, dumping the woman on the
floor, and looked around the room calling out Ella's name.

Ella opened her eyes.

Whoops.

****

She waited until a reasonable hour and then, even though it felt a bit
desperate, made the phone call. She and Victor were friends now,
right?

"Hi," Ella said with a shy, slightly forced smile.

Ar'resh smiled in her warm way. "Ella! What a lovely..."

"...surprise! We haven't heard..." Rexa added, sticking her head in
from one side of the pickup.

"...from you in ages. How are you..."

"...doing? Nothing's wrong is there?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could help me..." Ella started.

"Help you?" Rexa asked. "Of course..."

"...Ella dear, we'd be glad to! Who do..."

"...you need us to speak to? Or is this a..."

"...'have someone worked over' sort of thing?" Ar'resh finished.

"No, nothing like that," Ella replied with a quirk of her lips. "I
have some time off and I was wondering if you knew any good places for
vacation. I've tried some of the usual stuff, Risa and such, but it's
pretty boring. I knew you two would know somewhere really great."

And while you're at it, Ella thought, could you undo the past, erase
my mistakes or at the very least make it so I can't psychicly peak at
my ex-boyfriend?

"Vacation?" The two women's sky blue faces lit up with brilliant
smiles as they chorused the word in one voice, and then began to fire
off alternating questions.

"Where have you been recently?"

"How much time do you have?"

"What do you like to do?"

"How much can you afford spend?"

"Can you swim?"

"Fly?"

"Ride a Draxnollian Sand Spider?"

"Do the hokey pokey?"

"Play chess - three-dimensional or otherwise?"

"Cliff dive?"

"Re-entry surf?"

They paused, and looked at her, awaiting an answer.

"Uh," Ella drew out as she tried to process all their questions.
"Risa, Haven, and Earth, the usual tourist traps. I have two more
weeks. Money is no object. I can swim. I'm a little burned out with
flying. I'm more than a little dubious of anything called a spider.
I'm better at the waltz. Chess is not really my thing. Cliff diving
and re-entry surfing are okay." She then smiled. "You did ask."

"We did," Ar'resh nodded. "But you…"

"…didn't answer the one about…"

"…what you liked to do…"

"…in there, Ella," Rexa finished.

Ella almost smirked. "I was hoping you missed that one." Then she
sighed. "To be honest, I really don't know what I like to do anymore."

"Ahhh," Rexa nodded.

"Oh," Ar'resh said.

The sisters looked at each other.

"So what you're really…"

"…saying," Rexa offered, "is that…"

"…all the things that you normally do…"

"…aren't doing it for you any more?"

"Something like that," Ella admitted. "And I knew you both would have
some good, possibly crazy ideas." And she knew that they would; it
just wasn't why she had called.

The two Andorians thought for a moment, looking at each other and Ella
with alternating swivels of heir heads. In the background, a young
human woman with thick blonde hair in a braid whom Ella recognized as
Victor's cousin Greta, moved past the screen's pickup with a bulky
garment bag over one shoulder and a PADD in her free hand.

"Well," Ar'resh finally said thoughtfully, "would you rather…"

"…do something that was primarily…"

"…alone, or would you prefer to be around other…"

"…people?" Rexa concluded with a tilt of one antenna.

Her instinct was to say alone but she knew that it wasn't really
healthy to isolate herself too much. She was lonely but didn't want
people to know the state she was in, one of her counselor's favorite
topics - the viscious cycle. "I think people, although maybe not too
many rowdy ones. My nerves are a little shot these days."

"Do you gamble?" Ar'resh asked. "With money, I mean, not…"

"…with anything that's really important? There's a new…"

"…orbital casino that's opened up in the Nuevo Monaco system that's…"

"…– very stylish and has a very wide base of clientele – the only requirements…"

"…are that you have the money to pay your bets, and that…"

"…you not make trouble for the other guests. Plus, it has…"

"…a stunning view of the course for the Star Yacht races…"

"…through the Crystal Asteroid Sea?" Rexa suggested.

"A casino?" Ella hadn't really been to one of those before and her
father had been very generous with her spending money. It was
possible, even if she couldn't say her interest was completely there.
"That could be fun. I could probably read up on how to play the games
on my trip over. That's a good idea, thank you."

"Good," Ar'resh beamed. "We can't use our invitations…"

"…to the Yacht Races, because of the assassin thing…"

"but we'll contact them and tell them to transfer them to you…"

"…that way you can invite a guest if you want," Rexa nodded.

"Uh," Ella said. "What assassin thing?"

"Oh," Ar'resh waved a hand, "some insane woman…"

"…that's killing people all over the Federation…"

"…trying to get to the Galaxy to kill…"

"…a JAG officer or something," Rexa sighed. "She's a…"

"…Chamelioid or something – the assassin that is…"

"…and not the JAG officer. We think that Heinrich is…"

"…overreacting," Ar'resh continued, "but he's made us agree to go…"

"…someplace where no one can get at us until it's over," Rexa admitted.

"He was very insistent," Ar'resh nodded. "He even got…"

"Greta, Klaus, and Dominica to agree to go with us."

Ella frowned. "Maybe this isn't the time for me to take a vacation
then. Maybe I should go back." She did have some experience, after
all, having lived as one and killed another.

The women looked at each other. "If you feel like you need…"

"…to do that, Ella dear, then it isn't as if we can…"

"…forbid you or anything," Rexa observed. "But our Heinrich…"

"…isn't prone to flights of panic that we've ever noticed…"

"…so if he's making us go to ground so this McAsster woman…"

"…can't reach us, then it might be wise for you to…"

"…do the same as well," Rexa finished.

"Perhaps," Ella replied slowly. She could definitely go awhile without
killing or almost being killed. And Victor could call her if he needed
her. Not that he would.

"Well, I'll definitely check out the casino." She said, thinking that
the chances were fifty-fifty at the moment. "Thanks again."

****

That night Corran stopped by for a visit.

The sky was an interesting shade of purple that flickered silver. Ella
thought that they might be on Trill but it was hard to tell with
dreams and she rarely had the same one twice.

"You're keeping me up," He accused but his voice was concerned.

"Sorry," Ella said. In the dream her voice wasn't mechanical but it
wasn't her real voice either so she wasn't concerned.

Her ex shrugged and sat beside her, although outside the circle that
she sat inside.

"I think it's supposed to be metaphorical," Ella theorized as she
looked down at the circle.

"Tell me what's wrong," Corran countered.

Ella shook her head. "I do think sometimes my life is very circular.
Cyclic, repetitive ..."

Corran shook his head. "What happened to Daro?"

Instantly, Ella awoke.

"Shit," She said covered her head with her pillow.

Maybe she would try that casino after all.

"First Meals, Last Calls, Part II"
By Ensign T'risia, USS Galaxy

The slim vulcan woman, dressed in her flowing green tunic, and close fitting black leggings, regarded the Galaxy's lounge on Deck 10 with interest. The area was certainly large, and well appointed for a variety of social functions, not least of which being the taking of mourishing meals. Since that was her purpose, she made her way efficiently to the replicator suite, looking at the diversity of off duty crewmen present. She was far from the only Vulcan on board, and as she looked about, she saw that Galaxy's crew was indeed diverse, involving Trill, Betazoids, Bolians....and of course, the ever fascinating Terrans.

As she stepped up to the suite of replicators, she took the time to program the device manually, as was her habit. The efficient Vulcan did not approve of the illogical sound pollution of the auditory clutter produced by verbal programming. She worked quickly, and in a few moments, had a tray with her meal prepared. T'risia nodded in approval of the fare, and turned, holding her portion. Sighting a table for two, with no one sitting at it, near the center of the lounge, she made her way to it, and sat.

Seeing the recreational controls, she realized that the table itself had holoemitters capable of playing many forms of board game. Engaging in one of her Terran pastimes, she programmed the device to play Tri D Chess, allowing the board to spring into existence on the small table, with a computer opponent. As she made an opening move, T'risia considered what part of her meal she would eat first...

"Is this seat taken?"

T'risia looked up to the speaker's voice, seeing Ensign Walker, the sandy haired Terran who had directed her here. Regarding him with a level gaze, she replied, "If the seat were taken, would there not be someone sitting in it?"

"Not necessarily," began the young man, "Your guest could be getting something to eat from the replicators."

"True, however, you saw me enter alone. Further, you also know that I did not know my way here, making it clear that I could not have prearranged a meeting. Thusly, logic dictates that I must be dining alone."

The Ensign smiled, seeming somewhat pleased. "You have me there. Inescapable logic. Since the seat isn't taken, I assume that I can sit in it?"

T'risia arched her eyebrow, as she dismissed the holo chessboard. "There would be no logical reason that you could not. That is, unless there is someone already sitting in it, outside the visual spectrums of both of our species. That would cause a social problem of some small volume."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," said Walker as he sat down. "I brought you this." The gentleman pushed forth a glass, with a clear, carbonated liquid, and some sort of green fruit slice within it..

"A beverage."

He smiled again. "A gin and tonic. A long standing naval tradition on Earth. The tonic water has quinine, used to treat malaria, which was common among explorers, and the lime slice has vitamins that prevent the gum disease known as scurvy, which made your teeth rot out."

T'risia regarded the drink and the man with interest. "Are you stating that you believe I have some form of denatl problem?"

"No! No..." Walker backpedaled as he turned red in the face. "We're on a ship, we're explorers, it seemed culturally appropriate...."

"Ah. Symbolism."

"Um...yeah. Symbolism. Sure...um....returning to an earlier question...what's your name?"

"I am called T'risia. My full name is unpronounceable to Terrans."

Once again, the young man smiled. "T'risia. That's pretty. Like you." His light colored eyes danced, having confidence in his ability to flirt.

T'risia merely looked at him, with her usual serene, implacable facial expression. Her vulcan training and discipline did not tell her a logical way to respond to the "flirting", although Terran romance novels offered many possible scenarios. She contemplated them, calculating behavioral variables at length, as the moment stretched...and stretched...and stretched.

"Um...yeah. So," said Walker as he looked at her plate, "I thought most Vulcans were vegetarians."

"Most are."

"And youre going to eat that?" He gestured to the tray, which she had replicated according to her vegetarian beliefs, and Terran cuisine. She had a bowl of Ramen Noodles with soy flavoring, and two twinkies (a terran pastry).

Without changing expression, the grave looking Vulcan woman nodded. "Of course. As I understand it, there are no animal products, or for that matter, very few natural products at all within these foods. It is most efficient."

"Office Politics"

Colonel For'kel Arvelion
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
===========================================

("The Alamo"- Alpha KS-128)

In an age where holovision news broadcasts demonstrated how starships could melt a planet's crust clear to the mantle, flatten any structures based on land by orbital bombardment, or otherwise contaminate or vaporize a planet's atmosphere, the question of why a dedicated combat force focused on the infantry was still funded by the UFP was one that was tossed around routinely, particularly when Starfleet budgetary constraints were imposed. The infantryman was a relic of a bygone error in which large armies assaulted each other in massed formations. Sure, a few light and extremely mobile troops might be necessary for policing and special missions, but regular forces engaged in terrestrial combat would never again be as important as it once was.

That's what they said with the invention of the cannon.

That's what they said with the advent of aircraft.

That's what they said with the development of tanks and combat vehicles.

That's what they said with the creation of machine guns and automatic weapons... bombs and nuclear missiles, robots and smart weapons, starships and directed energy weapons...

And yet, every time the infantryman found himself cornered by technology, by 'modernization', he or she had always managed to find a way to reinvent his or herself. As much as things changed, as many capabilities as were now available, the need to be able to ultimately project power up close and personal, in the form of highly skilled and highly competent dedicated combat forces... the need to be able to capture, seize, control, and defend key terrain and strategic assets, never changed. Whether it was during the days of Rome, the Napoleonic era of battles, the World Wars of the 20th Century, the battle against terrorism and 'localized' Conflicts that marked the 21st Century, or modern day conflicts like the war with Romulus, the War with the Klingons, the War with the Dominion, and now the Triad War... the ability to land troops, capture territory, and then defend against an enemy strike had been the concept that dominated military conflicts.

The Starfleet-Marine divide was merely the latest incarnation of the conflict that could be broadly declared the 'Modernist vs. Traditionalist' clash in military doctrine. The more 'idealist' officers in the fleet, who liked to think of combat as a secondary function behind Starfleet's benign primary mission of peaceful exploration and discovery, frequently cited Starfleet Security's role in defending planetary installations, starbases, and starships from enemy attack, as well as Starfleet Tactical's role in engaging enemy targets from the safety of ships, as justification for either scaling back resources devoted to the Marine Corps, or to fold the Corps wholesale into Starfleet's Security or Tactical bureaus. A move that neither of the departments particularly disliked. Prestige was important to those at the top.

But history begged to differ. The Marines had proven over and over again, on battlefields as far flung as Setlik III, AR-558, Deep Space 9, Ajilon Prime, and as close to home as Earth itself, that a flexible infantry force was as necessary now as it had ever been. Enemy fleets needed to be supported and supplied, asymmetrical combat required special tactics, captured territory needed to be secured and resistance movements needed to be maintained against enemy operations. For every action that a starship could take, there was a stream of counter-options available to the smart Marine. Some planets had crusts so thick, or composed of materials so dense, that no starship had sufficient firepower to penetrate it completely, or the material 'absorbed' the energy being used and defrayed it harmlessly. The power of planetary based shields and weapons, dozens of times stronger than the spaceborne facilities on a starship because of the additional power they could draw on, made orbital bombardments tricky when an enemy had fortified it. And atmospheres could always be artificially created through atmospheric generators, and chemicals or biological contaminants removed.

That is why Starfleet maintained a comparatively small, elite, Marine Corps.

But even that rationale was being tested. The founding of Hazard teams by Starfleet Proper had been considered as a slight by Marines, an attempt to grab their territory. Limitations with the small teams versus the flexibility a larger unit (such as a platoon or company level Marine unit) meant that a true 'takeover' of Marine duties by Starfleet personnel wasn't likely. Starship Captains hated losing their best and most talented crew, potentially in the midst of combat, so that they could go ashore.

Then Starfleet Intelligence tried getting into the act. Special 'field operatives' started carrying out 'black operations' during the later parts of the Dominion War and into present day. Officials at Intelligence and the more 'Hawkish' politicians were quick to point out that these operatives enjoyed several advantages over the Marines. First they were free of the weight of political oversight, most of their operations so clandestine as to be completely deniable. Second, Intel operatives had the ability to incapacitate enemy facilities through sabotage and destruction much the same as Marines, however they were often times already in position to do so, and didn't need the 'prep' time a Marine unit did. They were also capable of the kind of... unsavory... missions that the Marines, barred by tradition, an outmoded sense of 'jus ad bellum' and regulations, were unable to.

However such operations threatened their cover, and often times given the nature of Intelligence missions, agents were better off where they were rather than engaging in such activities. Likewise there was an inherent trust issue when it came to training and equipping foreign forces that the Marines, being professional soldiers and often viewed as a neutral party, often did not have.

For an organization who's existence was perennially on the line, the Marines were doing okay.

It had been a few hours since the surviving members of the hopper meandered their way to the hidden Starfleet outpost that marked Alpha KS-128, a planet where the bureaucratic wrangling matches were the furthest from anyone's minds they could possibly be. Not that they were ever particularly close... Fork was the highest ranking officer in the room and he only peripherally recognized some kind of policy disagreement.

What mattered after all was said and done, were the people on this rock, and the ideals and people they were protecting by being here... Semper Fidelis.
=====================================================

For'kel stirred when he felt something move next to him. He was normally a lighter kind of sleeper, but as of late he slept more lightly than usual. Chalk it up to the rush of adrenaline, or the endlessly perpetual stress that ongoing combat operations brought given the 188TH's current operating tempo... or maybe even something far more personal and less scientifically attributable, but for whatever reason Fork simply hadn't been able to get comfortable, period.

Between his cot and the cot of that strange woman he picked up was a Vulcan man in medical blues, and a Tellerite female (or what could be described as such) also in medical blues. From their discussion, the Colonel deduced the Vulcan was some kind of surgeon, while the Tellerite's expertise apparently ran in the field of anesthesia. At least that's what he was able to piece together from his amateurish understanding of modern medicine.

"My apologies, Colonel." The Vulcan, every bit as perceptive as his people were made out to be, turned around to apologize for the disturbance. "We did not intend on waking you."

For'kel nodded, needing a moment to gather himself before he would trust his voice. "Is she going to be okay?"

"We believe she will recover in time." The doctor didn't feel particularly compelled to tell the Colonel about the Chameloid signatures detected in her genome. After all, he knew that a good many people of those on Alpha KS-128 had secrets they were in their own ways trying to atone for. So long as she wasn't a Hydran, T'Kith'kin, or Breen agent in disguise, there really wasn't a whole hell of a lot of need for concern.

"Who is she?" Fork, not being nearly as accustomed to just accepting having found a strange woman lying in the middle of a minefield, pressed on.

The doctor gave him a classical Vulcan 'irritated but won't give you the honor of admitting it' glares. "She is likely part of the volunteer group. You will have plenty of opportunity to debrief her once she is treated, Colonel."

"Colonel, I'd like to volunteer to... uhhh... debrief her, sir." Private Ughalo grinned, getting a few cheesy responses from the majority of the male sentients in the room, including the ever infamous Beavis style 'heh heh, he said debrief, heh.'

Fork didn't quite understand it, but it was hardly the first time he was 'lights out' on an innuendo. The Stagnorian gave a dismissive wave. "Not now, Ughalo. What do you mean by 'likely' part of the volunteer group?"

One could almost have heard the Vulcan sigh. "The Volunteer Group is not a regular Starfleet formation, Colonel. Because of the less than legitimate source of many of the 'volunteers', certain aspects of personnel profiles are absent. Individual squad leaders are tasked with remaining accurate personnel listings and informing their superiors, however the quality of records varies greatly by squad. It is not a rare event to have biographies missing entirely and soldiers unaccounted for as may be the case with this young woman."

It took a moment for that to sink in. "How the 'hell' do you run a unit under those circumstances?"

The Vulcan didn't reply, it was well beyond his area of expertise. It didn't take long for Fork to realize no answer to his question was forthcoming either. "Never mind, are we cleared yet?"

The Tellerite fielded this one. "As of 15 minutes ago, Colonel. You'll be happy to know there are no cloned spies, mind-controlled double-agents, or wolves in sheep clothing in your little unit."

"I'm ecstatic to hear that doctor, thank you." Ahh sarcasm, the life's blood of coping mechanisms. "Who's in charge here?"

"That would be Major General Yotz. She actually requested your presence once you were cleared and awake. Nurse McLaughlin can show you the way. She's right over there."

His eyes followed the furry finger to it's target, a red headed woman whom was speaking to her current patient in a thinly veiled, but barely noticeable accent. "Thank you doctors."

He got up and checked his standard issue watch. 02:20 hours local... it was probably best to let the Marines that 'were' sleeping sleep. The others could go grab something to eat or a shower or whatever... at least that's what Fork told Ughalo on his way over to the nurse.

"Nurse McLaughlin?"

The blue eyed red-head looked up and smiled in a fashion worthy of traditional Irish hospitality. "Yes, can I help you sir?"

"Colonel Arvelion. The doctor said you would be able to take me to the Major General... Yotz?"

"The old 'take me to your leader' routine, Colonel Arvelion?" She laughed and gave his offered hand a gentle shake. "I'd be happy to. Right this way."
============================================

The 'war room' as one might call it was deep in the bowels of the underground base. Above it, quite literally, a mountain sat. It was at the heart of the labyrinth of rooms and tunnels that made up the Alamo's structure, which went as deep as 50 meters below the surface and spread over a kilometer in diameter. Ensign Cheryl McLaughlin, his tour guide, was all too happy to impart all her knowledge on the base to him in the ten minutes of passing check-points and changing lifts. Initial construction had actually begun prior to the invasion, and the base had originally been intended merely as a listening post to monitor traffic along the sub-space highway and serve as one of several cold-weather combat training centers for the Corps and the SFFC. After the attack, when it had become apparent that the twin systems of Alpha KS-128 and KS-129 were going to be one of the focal points of Triad operations, the combat engineering battalions attached to the 4TH and 5TH Marine Divisions, and subsequently the engineer battalion of the SVG and Marine engineers on the planet drastically expanded it to it's present size.

When they got to the main office, Cheryl passed him off to some yeoman (who in Fork's judgment might have better served as an extra rifleman in one of the platoons) who in turn brought him to the General's office.

Around a holographic projection table, a quartet of Lieutenant Colonels, a singular Colonel, and a Lieutenant who also would've been better used on the front were flanking the General.

"Ahh, Colonel Arvelion. Your arrival is fortuitous." The middle aged Bolian woman gave him a business style nod of recognition. "We were just discussing strategy. I'm sure you've met Colonel Sanders?"

"From the Brigade Combat Team on Langley?" For'kel held out his hand.

"The same." The big Terran man, who had five years, five inches, and probably fifty pounds on For'kel nodded when he took the Stagnorian's hand. "Good to see you made it out of your hopper alive Colonel, Brigadier Tesk wasn't so fortunate."

"Damn, sorry for her loss." Brigadier Tesk, a Cordian woman of some forty years in age, had the reputation of a smart strategist. Her loss was going to hurt no doubt. "How many actually made it?"

"We're fortunate, the fleeters did their job 'mostly' well. We've lost about 700 Marines on those transports, but we've got confirmed reports of at least some of that number getting off ship before their transports were destroyed. We've been getting small groups like yours pretty steadily, though I think yours was the last."

The General saw fit to intervene. "And on that note Colonel Arvelion, what's the status of your unit?"

"We came down 165 strong. I've lost some casualties, most of which were evacuated here straight from the battlefield so you'd know their condition better than I ma'am, but I can put 150 Marines in the field ready to go. We've also brought needed equipment and power supplies."

"Good, then we can put your troops to immediate use then. Satellite telemetry has detected this..." General Yotz's slender blue finger struck an area of interest on the map. There was a zoom-in effect as a holographic display of what looked like the preliminary construction stages of a camp emerged. Purplish mesh fencing which seemed to grow out of the ground, greenish-metalic structures half-completed rising out of the ground, and hints of multiple access points to underground passage ways. Sensor scans had indicated there were no less than two dozen APCs and fighting vehicles outside of the fencing in a separate vehicle pool. One could make out hellbore emplacements being constructed, and thermal imaging sensors detected huge energy plumes indicating that a main power generator of large size was being readied for operational use. There were other sections of the camp, uncompleted, possibly intended as supply dumps or landing pads... they could've been anything really.

"While our battle buddies in the fleet were slugging it out in orbit, and the fighter jocks were fighting it out with their Hydran counterparts, the Breen and the Hydrans successfully landed a large force on the planet. They've had guerillas here for a while, but now it seems that they're concentrating for an assault on our base. We shot a few of their landing craft out of the sky, but judging by the numbers we detected their current forces probably number over 20,000 at this point."

Colonel Sanders kicked in the conclusion. "The bulk of their forces seem to be staging from a valley several kilometers away from this base. We need to know why this base is being built... more precisely what they're going to use it for. Take some of your Marines, reconnoiter the base, and tell us what you see."

"Will do." Fork slung his rifle over his shoulder. "We'll be on our way tonight."

Internally For'kel was sighing. He made the biggest mistake anyone could in the setting of office politics... he'd volunteered.

"Pretty In Pink" Or "Pinky and the Brain"

Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment

Various NPCs
==============================================
("The Alamo"- Garage and Vehicle Workshop)

With the advent of modern industrial replicators that were fairly small and could fabricate fairly complex components almost immediately on a mass scale, the battlefield had been drastically changed. Where as shuttle craft were once constructed at special fabrication facilities where they were assembled, thoroughly tested, and perfected before being issued to the fleet, a process which could take a month or more for a single shuttle and required starships to return to starbases for craft replenishment, it was now possible for starship crews to customize their own shuttle and fighter wings, building such craft from stores and replicator stock as was necessary.

The same held true for the Marines. Hoppers were always an extraordinarily utilitarian craft with a wide range of customization possible, but now most vehicles could be built on an as need basis... even in the most remote areas like The Alamo.

And so that lead to the development of two prototype takes on the Argo buggies. Fork needed a longer-range vehicle with better off-road performance, more endurance, a greater payload capacity, and more firepower than that which came with the standard, vanilla buggy designed for rapid transportation of Starfleet personnel under transporter conditions. Therefore, with the help of about half a dozen engineering and operations folk, he took the creative leeway in recycling some of the components of crashed Hoppers and fighters to try and get just that.

"What do you guys think?"

Ughalo took it upon himself to state the obvious. "It's pink."

"Courtesy of a terran named Lord Mountbatten. On Earth it was determined that pink was practically invisible at night, absorbing even more of the ambient light than black." Fork tried explaining. "They were practically invisible, and used extensively in desert settings, specifically by a unit known as the Special Air Service."

"I kind of like it." Leah smiled. "I look pretty in pink."

"They have cartoon characters on the side." Ughalo grunted.

"That's my doing." Tech Sergeant Ilal chuckled as he wiped down his hands. "From a cartoon I came across a few months back in the historical database. Since they were going to be pink, and have different roles, it seemed appropriate."

"The first one, 'Pinky', is the gun carrier of the group. The second one, 'Brain', is the command vehicle. A little less firepower, but more electronic surveilance equipment. We've incorporated a lot of stealth technology into both models, and from what we know about Breen and Hydran technology both should be invisible until we open fire." For'kel handed over PADDs with specifications to the two PFC's. "Congratulations Owen, Ughalo, you've both volunteered to learn how to drive these things."

"You said pink works best at night Colonel, what about the day?" To Leah it seemed like a perfectly reasonable question.

Ilal, all too eager to show off his technical prowess, keyed in a command from the front-passanger's side dashboard. In an instant the pink shell shimmered away, replaced by a matt black finish. "Photo-emitting diodes were integrated with the armor plating. We have a few pre-installed camouflage settings, including jungle 'tiger' patterns, littoral and marine patterns, urban warfare patterns, pine forest, desert tan... whatever you like."

"It's still pink otherwise." Ughalo couldn't believe he was being asked to drive a pink utility truck.

"What's the matter Ughalo, not secure enough to handle a pink truck?" Leah smirked.

She was rewarded with a glare.

"There were other improvements." The Colonel was wishing desperately that Ughalo would drop the whole 'It's Pink' deal. "Her suspension system was upgraded using inertial dampening technology, she can be equipped with modular armor and equipment packages... you'll notice she's longer and a little wider than the standard Argo's... their armarments are also much heavier. Pinky has twin heavy phaser pulse-cannon mounted on the passenger's side on a swivel mount. Aft facing we have the same twin cannons with an iso-magnetic disintegrator installed under barrel... the same system which is located on a swivel mount in the center of the vehicle along the gun rack." As he spoke, the Colonel made a trip around the vehicle. "The cannons that are mounted with the iso's come from a downed starfighter, so they're going to have serious punch at the higher spectrum of their settings, but keep in mind there's only so many places we could put S-K batteries on this thing so don't burn all your power up at once. The rack on 'Brain' replaces the gun turret with recon and intel gathering equipment, standard and sub-space radio interception antennaes, long range sensor nodes, data up-links to provide and receive telemetry from other sources, the works."

"We've also upgraded the shield generator, and the standard armor package has been reinforced, face hardened, and shaped to deflect explosions." Ilal scratched the back of his neck. "And we added a section in the middle and extended the rear cab which is why it's longer. All your systems have automated low-power features to minimize energy signatures, and power sources are incased in dolemite shielding to prevent sensor detection. Line of sight direct comms, very low-probability of intercept tactical data links..."

Getting the feeling Ilal was repeating himself, Fork cut him off. "The short of it is it's a very big improvement in capability over what we have now."

"I take it we didn't get called here just to look at them, sir?" Leah ran her fingers over the back compartment of one of the cars.

"No you didn't. We actually have a mission we'll be heading out on in two hours. You and Ughalo here have that much time to familiarize yourselves with these vehicles before we head out. Ughalo, you and Sergeant Ilal will be up front on 'Pinky', Owen you're with me in 'Brain'. Our comrades will be here in about an hour, they're likely gearing up as we speak. Let's get to the road test."

"The Zamora Identity"

Lt. JG Ophelia Zamora
JAG

Location: Zamora's Office
================

The small device cradled in her hands. Black, no smaller than a deck of cards, it represented scrambling technology that was extremely new to the universe. Her manicured fingernails lightly caressed the small unit before plugging it into the auxiliary jack in her console.

Glancing over her shoulder, she gave a cursory glance to her office surroundings before sighing and opening a scrambled communication channel.

She shivered outright as his 'face' appeared on the screen. There was always something about the mechanical look of the Breen that sent the willies down her spine. Clearing her throat, she spoke.

"Is she dead yet?"

"No ma'am. We.............well.............we don't know."

"We don't know? What kind of bullshit is that? Either she is, or she's not." Zamora spat.

"The transmitter. It had been destroyed within her body. We stopped receiving signals a few days ago."

"A few days ago? You stopped receiving signals a few days ago....and I find this out now????" Her anger started to bubble just below the calm exterior.

"We can't risk contacting you on the ship Ma'am."

"No, I don't suppose you can." Lia sighed, a complicated look etched itself on her facial features. "What was the last data you had concerning her condition?"

"Her bones are calcifying at a .5 percent rate per twenty four hours. The blood is clotting, basically her system is hardening into that of a typical Terran's body structure. Every time she shifts, it causes her greater pain."

"Good, that bitch needs all the pain she can get."

'Revenge....especially with the enemy's assistance was a thing sweeter than honey.' Zamora thought to herself.

Scratching her chin for a moment, she regarded the being on the screen. "So, if and when she gets on board, she will be easier to kill."

"If she's not dead already."

"That I doubt honey. She's a chameloid. We have both had experience with that race....they are shifty little buggers."

"Yes. Ma'am, if I may ask...."

Lia nodded. "I will have someone on her tail soon enough. It will distract most of the attention away from me at this moment in time. So, everything is going according to plan. Zamora out."

She paused, leaning back slightly in her chair. Yeah, so the whole story would come out soon enough. Lia mused to herself. For now however, those around her were on a need to know basis. And, they didn't need to know....just yet.

"Sons of Capella" Pt. 4


Admiral Leonard James Akaar (NPC)

Captain Man'darr Maivia

Jenna Lee; Civilian Attorney (NPC)

Various other NPCs....




The court room was a low rustle as attending officers and enlisted personnel finished taking their seats in the gallery, whom had an interest in the case. Majority of such held Staff Officer ranks or that of a Senior Staff NCO. The room itself was the standard modern court room with a large viewing monitor to next to the judge's bench. Two flags were staffed in the two corners of the courtroom--one being the Flag of the Federation and the other being that the Flag of Starfleet. Opposite side of the viewing monitor and judge's bench sat the witness stand and then facing the judge's bench and witness stand were the prosecution and defendant tables. Admiral Akaar entered, taking the front bench behind the Defendant table. Man'darr and Jenna follwed behind taking their places at the table as did the Prosecutor.

A Security Officer stepped forward out of a door next to the judges chambers, taking his place next to the bench. As the people in the Gallery finished taking their seats and the Prosecution and Defense took their positions, the Security Officer stepped to the center of the room. "All rise. The honorable Captain Richard Garner presiding."

Everyone within the courtroom stood as a moment later a Man wearing a Captain's uniform and a neatly trimmed brown beard took his seat at the bench. "You may be seated," Captain Garner. Case File Zero-One-One-Seven-Seven has come to order. The case is The Federation Marine Corps versus Captain Man'darr Maivia. Mrs. Lee," he greeted, looking at the civilian attorney, "how does your client plead?"

"Not guilty, your honor."

"Very well. We will continue with the proceedings. Prosecution, you may begin with opening statements."

The prosecutor, bearing the rank of Marine Corps Captain stood up from his desk. "Thank you, your honor. Your honor, I will make this simple and blunt. Captain Maivia is a nuisance to Starfleet and the Federation. I has repeatedly allowed his anger to get the better of him. Two of these instances have resulted in his fellow shipmates aboard the USS Galaxy and one was a Klingon Ambassador. Starfleet cannot allow such a disruptive and undisciplined officer such as Captain Maivia to remain within its service. I intend to prove that conclusion in the following proceeding. That is all, your honor," the prosecutor turned and sat back down at his desk.

Mrs. Lee immediately stood and walked around the table in a clam, methodical manner. "Your honor. I shall prove that Captain Maivia has repeatedly been insulted throughout his career and that the Federation and Starfleet needs officers and soldiers such as Captain Maivia. Now, more than ever. I shall allow my evidence to speak for itself. That is all, your honor," Jenna returned to her desk as well.

Captain Garner nodded. Both attourneys had short, brief, and to the point opening statements. He hoped this trial would not last too long. "Very well. Mrs. Lee, you may present your case."

Lee stood and nodded. "Thank you, your honor." She then stood and stepped around the desk, grabbing a PADD off the desk in the process. She tapped a few commands, brining up the necessary information. "On this PADD, I have Federation Certified records of several instances in which Captain Maivia was insulted by not only his wife, who was on record as purposely provoking him, knowing full well that calling Captain a Maivia a coward would enrage him, but his very own Marine Detachment Commanding Officer as well. Can I agree with Captain Maivia's actions? As a human, no...but as a Capellan...as a member of a proud and fierce warrior race? Yes. Starfleet enlisted crewmen undergo a four week course in Exo-communications and officers udergo an entire semester worth. There, cadets and recruits are taught about alien cultures and tolerances of those cultures. According to the service records of both 1st Lt. Branwen London and Colonel For'kel Avelion, both officers attended these classes and both willfully disregarded those teachings. Let us hope that neither officer is in a first contact situation."

The prosecution immediately stood up. "Objection. Hearsay, your honor."

"Your honor these records are certified and go toward Captain Maivia's history."

"I'll allow it. Please continue, Mrs. Lee."

"Thank you, your honor. What reaction would any average person expect from calling say, a Klingon, a coward? The offended Klingon would feel the need to kill the person who insulted him. His sense of honor and duty would demand it. The Capellans have a similar system and code of honor. In addition, Captain Maivia is not guilty for striking his CO because" she picked up another PADD off of her desk and held it up, "I have obtained Medical Records showing that Captain Maivia was under the influence of a device which was implanted while he was a prisoner of the Hydrans. It is against Capellan culture for a Capellan to strike another person unless that person has offended the said Capellan in some way. What did Captain Maivia's CO do after the incident? He threw Captain Maivia into a makeshift cell, which according to Lt. Drodi, a Starfleet Counselor, whom is Betazoid reported as being extrememly stressful and detrimental to Captain Maivia's already stressed state. In fact, I would like to call Lt. Drodi to the stand as an Expert Witness."

Captain Garner nodded, "Proceed."

With that motion, Lieutenant Drodi approached the stand and placed her hand on a nearby panel attached to the arm rest of the witness stand. "Lieutenant Shania Drodi. Species: Betazoid. Starfleet Officer. Assignment, Starfleet Command; Social Services," the computer announced.

Jenna approached the witness stand. "Lieutenant Drodi, please tell us your findings on the result of your interview with Captain Maivia."

"I found Captain Maivia to be stressed and on edge."

"What could cause such emotions?"

"It appears to have been caused by Captain Maivia's capture followed by the stress of dealing with his wife and his CO."

"What about his wife?"

"Captain Maivia's wife seems to have been genetically changed to a Hydran/Human hybrid and impregnated by the Hydrans. Both of these instances are an extreme insult to a Capellan."

"I see...and what would placing someone who was a prisoner of war immediately back into confinement without a medical checkup?" Jenna questioned.

"Such actions can be extremely dangerous as the subject can have relapses or flashbacks to their time in captivity, causing violent outbursts at times."

"And as a Betazoid, what did you sense from Captain Maivia during your interview of him?"

"I sensed alot of frustration, with some sadness and regret. He does not completely remember what happened aboard the rescue ship in which he attacked his CO. I've also sensed that Captain Maivia is seemingly under alot of stress."

"And who wouldn't be? Thank you counselor," Jenna replied turning and heading for her desk. "No more questions, your honor."

Garner nodded. "Very well. Captain Garrett, you may cross examine the witness."

The prosecutor stood and walked around the desk. "Thank you, your honor." He then addressed Lieutenant Drodi. "Lieutenant, you mentioned that you sensed frustration from Captain Maivia. Now, did you sense any anger with that frustration?"

Drodi nodded. "Yes, anger is often associated with frustration."

"I see...so do you, as a counselor believe that Captain Maivia is capable of controlling his emotions?"

"I cannot answer that for sure. Captain Maivia has been under tremendous stress lately. In such conditions, anything could possibly cause Captain Maivia to lose control."

Captain Garrett grinned. "Thank you, counselor. I have no more questions for Lieutenant Drodi, your honor."

Captain Garner turned and looked at Drodi. "You're dismissed, lieutenant."

"Aye, sir," Drodi said, standing and taking her seat directly behind Jenna's desk. She in fact felt for Man'darr. He was indeed a troubled soul and hoped his career would survive this hearing.

Jenna stood. "I would like to call Doctor William Anders to the stand as an Expert Witness, your honor."

"Proceed."

A man dressed in a Starfleet medical uniform bearing the rank of Lieutenant Commander apprached the Witness Stand and sat down."

"Doctor William Thomas Anders. Starfleet Officer. Rank: Lieutenant Commander. Chief Neuro-surgerist. Assignment: Starfleet Command," the computer identified.

"Doctor Anders. The device which was retrieved from Captain Maivia, where was it located?"

"The device had been located behind Captain Maivia's right ear, close to the base of his skull."

"Interesting. And what was this device designed to do?"

"The device seemed to inhibit electrical impulses in the neurons in Captain Maivia's brain. This in return affected Captain Maivia's ability to think and control his actions. Its a remarkable piece of technology, really."

"I'm sure it is, doctor. When was this device last active?"

"I believe the device was last active on Stardate 50807.02."

"So the device was last active on the day Captain Maivia allegedly assaulted his CO?" Jenna questioned with a raised eyebrow, already knowing the answer.

"That is correct."

"I have no further questions, your honor," Jenna said with a grin, turning to take her seat at her desk again.

Marine Captain Garrett stood. "I have just one question, your honor."

"Proceed," Captain Garner replied.

"Doctor Anders, how long had the device been active prior to Captain Maivia's alleged assault of his CO on Stardate 50807.02?"

"I believe the device had not been active more than thirty minutes prior to the alleged assault."

"Thank you, doctor," Captain Garrett said, sitting back down at his seat.

Captain Garner turned back to Jenna. "Mrs. Lee, do you have anymore witnesses you wish to call to the stand?"

Jenna knew that placing Man'darr on the stand would be a big risk--a risk in which many defense attourneys would not dare chance. She knew the Prosecutor would do everything in his power to get Man'darr angry to prove his point, but she had to place him on the stand due to the fact the Federation was in the middle of a war with the Hydrans would help Man'darr's cause. "Yes, your honor. I would like to call my client, Marine Captain Man'darr Maivia to the stand."

Man'darr stood and moved towards the witness stand and took a seat before the computer began its identification announcement. "Captain Man'darr Maivia. Rank: Starfleet Marine Captain. Assignment: Executive Officer of the Marine Datachment aboad the USS Galaxy."

Jenna nodded, yet not completely satisfied. "Computer, list all accomodations of Marine Captain Man'darr Maivia."

"Objection, revelence," captain Garrett quickly said standing from his chair.

"It goes towards Captain Maivia's past and the type of person he is," Jenna explained.

"I'll allow it," Captain Garner replied after a moment. "Continue with previous command, computer."

"Marine Captain Man'darr Maivia has been awarded Breen Cluster, Battle of Earth, Dominion Cluster, Dominion Campaign, Battle for Deep Space Five, Combat Action, Starfleet Cross, Purple Heart, Prisoner of War, Presidential Unit Citation, Expert Marksman, Special Forces Training, and Bridge Officer Certification."

"That is quite impressive, captain," Jenna commented. "You have seen alot of combat, correct, captain?"

"Yes," Man'darr replied simply.

"Are you scared when you go into combat?"

"No," he replied without hesitation.

"And why not? Most other officers and crewmne in Starfleet would most likely be scared."

"Because I am Capellan. Capellans do not fear combat nor death. It is also my duty."

"Because you are a Capellan, and it is your duty," Jenna repeated. "Have you taken measures to control your anger, Captain Maivia?"

"Yes. I have attended regular counseling sesions to deal with my...anger issues."

"Very well," Jenna grinned. "I have no more questions, your honor."

Captain Garret immediately rose and stepped around the table, approaching the witness stand in a brisk pace. "Captain Maivia, is it or is it not true that you struck a Klingon Ambassador?"

"That was a long time..."

"A yes or no answer will be fine, captain," Garret interupted.

The interuption aggrivated Man'darr. Taking a deep breath he continued. "Yes."

Garrett nodded and continued. "Did you or did you not assault your wife? Yes or no only."

Anger began to build within Man'darr and he knew that was exactly what this man wanted. "Yes."

"And did you or did you not assult your commanding officer as well as several Marines?"

"I was under the.."

"A yes or no answer, captain," Garrett insisted sternly.

Man'darr exhaled loudly as he fought the urge to lunge at the man. "Yes," he replied through gritted teeth.

Satisfied, Garret grinned and turned to Captain Garner. however he hadn't wanted to push his luck any faurther in the event Captain Maivia did decide to attack him. It never was a good idea to push somebody who was ten times your strength and nearly twice your size. "No further questions, your honor."

"Have you any further evidence or witnesses to call or submit, Mrs. Lee?" Garner asked.

Jenna stood before replying. "No, your honor. The defense rests."

Garner then looked over towards Garrett. "Does the Prosecution have anything to add?"

Garrett stood as well. "No, your honor, the prosecution rests." Garrett sat back down, satisfied that he had proven his poitn that Captain Maivia could not control his emotions in order to remain in Starfleet.

Garner nodded and turned back to Jenna. "Mrs. Lee, you may present your closing statement."

"Thank you, your honor," Jenna replied, standing and making her way around the table. "Captain Maivia is a Capellan--a fierce and proud warrior with a code of honor in which we may view as odd. A code in which the majorty of us could not follow. Yet, Captain Maivia has constantly been criticized for his beliefs. Criticized by his commanding officer, his wife, and fellow crewmates. A man who has time, time, and time again placed his life in the line of fire. A man who has risked his life to protect Federation Values. A Federation which is supposed to embrace diversity. But instead, does nothing while his beliefs are criticized by those with whom he serves with. Should we simply toss such a fierce warrior out of Starfleet because of his beliefs, especially in the time of war against an enemy such as the Hydrans? I answer no. We need men such as Captain Maivia. The Federation needs men such as Captain Maivia. Starfleet and the federation cannot afford to lose someone in which they have spent some much time and effort into training. Captain Maivia is not at fault for striking his commanding officer and several other Marines. He was under the influence of a device planted within him the the Hydrans. Personally, I thnk we should all thank Captain Maivia for the bravery he has shown and for his service to the Federation. That is all, your honor." Jenna then moved back to her desk and sat.

Captain Garrett stood at this time. "Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court, Captain Maivia is out of control. He has on several occasions lost control of his emotions, lashing out at those around him, even his own wife. This is inexcusable. Yes, we have classes in Exo-Communication to effectively deal with other species. But if a member of that species is a member of Starfleet, then they are held accountable for their actions, as they must abide by Starfleet Rules and Regulations. There is no room in Starfleet for someone who so easily loses control of their anger. We need disciplined officers and NCOs, not those who are emotionally unstable. That is all, your honor."

"Very well," Captain Garner replied. "Court is in a ten minute recess while I go over the proceedings."

"All rise," the court security officer announced as Captain Garner stood and entered the judge's chambers located behind the bench.

Those in the gallery began to file out of the court room to talk among each other about what they have heard in court or to go to the nearest restroom.

Jenna, Man'darr, and Akaar stayed behind. "What do you think, Mrs. Lee?" Akaar asked.

"I'm not sure. I'd say its a fifty-fifty chance," Jenna replied, crossing her arms. Her thoughts went towards retirement, yet she knew that she would always be in some way linked to the law. It had always fascinated her. She remembered back fondly of those early years in which she was a young, 'go-get 'em' prosecutor. Yet, that had been the easy job. Defense was much more challenging in her mind--a challenge she had enjoyed.

A few minutes later, Captain Garner re-entered the chmabers as everyone had re-entered the court room from their break. "All rise," the security officer ordered.

"Please be seated," Garner said quickly after as he sat down at the bench. "I have done a great deal of consideration on this case taking into account Captain Maivia's record of violence as well as his outstanding bravery and service to Starfleet. Both the Prosecution and the Defense presented their side well." Garner then looked at Man'darr. "Captain Maivia, please rise for the verdict."

Man'darr and Jenna stood as his gaze held firm with Captain Garner.

"Captain Maivia, I can find no fault with you in assaulting your commanding officer. However, for assualting your wife, you were not under the influence of the Hydran Device and even though she had insulted you, you are still a Starfleet Officer. Therefore I find you guilty for assaulting another officer. Your punishment will be demotion in rank to First Lieutenant and to further avoid anymore confrontation between yourself and your CO aboard the Galaxy, I am submitting a request that you be transferred from Starfleet Marine Corps to Starfleet Security and Tactical Services. Also, due to serving time as a Hydran Prisoner of War, I will not sentence you to any Brig time. Court is adjourned."

Jenna grinned. She was happy the proceedings were over and now she could go and visit her daughter after so many years.

Man'darr faced Jenna. "Thank you, Mrs. Lee," he said, sincerely.

"Its just a part of my job," she replied casually.

"First Impressions, Part 1 of 2"

Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Lt. Shelley O'Rourke
Ensign T'risia

*****

The slender Vulcan woman, T'risia, found her quarters simply enough, and
the young crewmen were certainly helpful in delivering her collection to
the cabin.

She found the cabin to be of respectable size, certainly as compared to
Academy quarters. Knowing that the collection would take a good length
of time to unpack, she instead busied herself to the environmental
controls, raising the average temperature, dimming the light levels, and
increasing the local gravity to slightly closer to Vulcan standard, for
comfort's sake. Vulcan stoicism was one thing, but enduring
uncomfortable conditions for no reason was simply illogical.

That task done, T'risia felt that she should, in fact, check in with her
supervisors and inform them of her arrival. The arrival of a single
security ensign was a trivial matter, but there were protocols to be
observed. Humans especially seemed to derive a serious meaning from the
rituals of bureaucracy, comforting them in the order of events. Without
changing from her flowing Vulcan tunic and close fitting black pants,
she strode outward into the corridor. "Computer. I require direction to
the Security Headquarters."

The soft tones of the ship's computer, universally the same throughout
Starfleet responded. "Please follow the blue markers on the bulkhead
panels."

The Vulcan woman did not thank the computer, as that would be a waste of
effort, and illogical . As an automaton, it had simply performed its
designed function, and adequately. As she walked along, her garment
flowing about her, she passed many of the ship's crew about their
business. A diverse lot, many of whom seemed confused by her "happy
head" badge. Her piercing green eyes took them in with detached
interest. T'risia made a note to attempt to study their social habit
carefully.

Arriving at the indicated doorway, it opened for her. Striding in, she
looked about with interest, her arms draped casually behind her back.
To the first crewman she saw, she said, simply, "I am Ensign T'risia. I
have been assigned to the Security detail, and wish to meet with the
being who performs orientations."

The rating blinked once, looked over his shoulder at an open office door
in the position that T'risia's research had told her the Security
Second's office would be, and said, "Ahhh.. yes ma'am. The Orientation
Being is..." He started to point to the open office.

"Tied up at the moment," a crisp feminine voice interrupted from their
left. An attractive human woman in her late 20's, red hair pulled back
loosely behind her neck with a silver clasp, and Lieutenant's dots on
her uniform collar walked up, still speaking. "I think he's being
threatened again by the Chamelioid terrorist that *you* are supposed to
be installing additional scanners at the airlocks to detect, Crewman."

The rating gulped, nodded, and stammered, "Yessir, Lieutenant. On my way
Lieutenant." he threw a salute and took off with a tool kit in hand.

"Can I help you?" the Lieutenant asked T'risia, after the doors had
closed behind the rating. "You said something about orientation,
correct? Would you be..." her eyes spotted the smiley face badge and she
skipped a beat in her measured cadence of words before continuing,
"...Ensign T'risia?"

The Vulcan woman nodded her head once. Her face the typical impassive
mask that Vulcans present, she spoke in an even tone. "You are indeed
correct, Lieutenant. I am newly arrived on board this vessel, and as yet
unassigned any tasks, nor aware of any specific protocols here. For
that matter, I am additionally unaware of any missions that might be in
progress, that I may be asked to support. In short, I require an
orientation briefing to get...how do you say on Earth? Up to speed."
T'risia was satisfied with herself for using a culturally relevant human
expression, despite her lack of understanding of its etymological roots.

The redhead nodded, and smiled in20the way that humans did at first
meetings. "Welcome aboard the Galaxy, Ensign. I'm Shelley O'Rourke, and
we're all a bit busy at the moment, so I need to apologize beforehand
since this is going to be an abbreviated summary. Will that be adequate
for the moment?"

The dark haired Vulcan woman, T'risia, tilts her head slightly to one
side. "In the absence of any information, even the smallest gain in
data is an increase of undefined proportions. Thus, logically, I would
have to be content with a summation, and indeed, no apology would be
necessary or appropriate." Her expression is the same emotionless mask
as all Vulcans affect, perhaps an arched brow of puzzlement.

"Good," O'Rourke nodded. "The first thing that you need to know is that
the Department is undergoing a period of... adjustment... at the moment,
as our long-term Department Head, Commander James Corgan, is away on
indefinite family medical leave on Vulcan. His second, Lt. Victor
Krieghoff, has been designated as the Acting Security Chief in James'
absence, which is not a popular choice in some circles within the
department."

T'risia is genuinely confused by this. "Why is this an unpopular
choice? As a logical choice, the command chain should be obeyed in the
event of a crisis. As second, clearly he was both the logical and
expected choice. This should surprise no one, and in fact, the absence
of deviation from predictable protocol should in fact be seen as a move
toward stability."

O'Rourke nodded. "Under normal conditions, that would be true - but
conditions are not... normal." From further back in Security Main
several snorts and at least one whispered 'Damn right they're not'
reached T'risia's ears after that statement. "Belay that," O'Rourke
warned over her shoulder without looking to see who had spoken.

T'risia, for her part, is unfazed, predictably. Her posture stiff and
formal, her hands behind her back, in her flowing green Vulcan tunic,
she is a virtual bastion of serenity amidst such banter. "I am
inexperienced in judging the responses of emotional beings, and
certainly Terrans, but I can infer from such dialogue that there is
evidence of a serious morale problem. Might I inquire as to the roots
of that problem?" The question is quite innocently asked.

"The problem is Lieutenant Krieghoff," the redhead explained. "Not his
qualifications, but the Lieutenant himself, physically; most of the
department find being closer than two or three meters to him to be
unsettling at best, and outright disturbing or terrifying at worst. The
intensity of the effect varies from person to person. Based on past
evidence, as a Vulcan, you should not experience or notice any effects -
the other Vulcans in the department do not - so you will need to observe
the non-Vulcan members to confirm this for yourself."

T'risia nods her head once, quite grave as always. "I will take your
advice. I am actually most interested in observing Non-Vulcans, to
study their habits in general. It will be most simple to add the odd
responses to the Acting Chief to my observational parameters." She
tilts her head. "Is this a matter that Lieutenant Krieghoff produces
voluntarily?"

"No, it isn't something that he appears to do consciously - it just is
always there. He can apparently, if he wants, make the effect worse, but
he rarely seems to feel the need to do that; what most people that
interact with him appear to feel is evidently the lowest range of the
effect that he can produce. I suggest that you speak to other members of
the department to determine what they individually feel when near him,
but the most common effects seem to be simple fear expressed on an
atavistic level, a sense of wrongness that makes the individual
uncomfortable, or, rarely, the equally atavistic feeling that one is
about to be attacked and an overwhelming need to defend oneself
immediately against the perceived threat he represents."

The Vulcan woman takes a moment, the upward glance of her eyes the only
evidence of her mind rapidly forming a hypothesis. "If it would help to
move the department along more efficiently, would it not be a logical
course of action to assign a liaison between the highly offensive
Lieutenant and the remainder of the Security detail? As a Vulcan, I
should be immune, and in theory, could perform the function of relaying
material without causing any of the adverse... emotional reactions. It
is just an assertion, of course."

O'Rourke looked at her for a moment without responding, before replying
carefully, "It would seem to be logical, yes. Once you're settled in and
things are less frantic, we'll see what we can do about that idea." She
glanced past T'risia's head, said 'Excuse me for a second" and pointed
to the left before speaking to someone behind the ensign. "Put that over
there, please; So'ka will be looking for it once his shift starts." A
pair of ratings moved past the two women with boxes of data chips and
padds, heading for the Duty Officer's Desk.

"Sorry about that," O'Rourke apologized. "Okay, besides the problems the
department ha with the Lieutenant, there are only three immediate issues
that I need to cover, and then we'll get you introduced to him and start
you on the great paperwork adventure. The first is this: the ship's JAG
Officer is being stalked by a former member of the Galaxy crew who
turned out to be an insane Chamelioid assassin with connections to some
sort of criminal group. Maybe she was Section 31, maybe some other group
of nutjobs, no one's sure; but the woman - or whatever you call
Chamelioids - is dangerous, deadly, and psychotic... and she's coming
here to kill the JAG Officer, her family, and anyone else that looks at
her wrong in the hallway. She's started making calls to Victor to
threaten and taunt him - which is not helping his mood."

T'risia nods her head, in acknowledgment. "I have heard that the threat
of impending death unsettles emotional humanoids. Fascinating, really,
since logically, we are all dying from the moment that we are born."
The serious, dark haired Vulcan pauses in her philosophical musings.
"Rooting out a shapeshifter is, as you know, primarily a problem in
logic. In order to commit the crime against the JAG Officer, this
person would have to first gain access to the Officer or their quarters.
Changing shape makes that easier, but not impossible, as I assume you
know." She turns and looks about the area for a moment.

O'Rourke shook her head. "He's not afraid of her - he's just irritated
by her constant calls and threats. She isn't anything he'd be afraid
of."

"First Impressions, Part 2 of 2"

Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Lt. Shelley O'Rourke
Ensign T'risia

*****

T'risia glanced at the open door, and continued, "If the areas that the
JAG Officer accesses are restricted, then of course, it becomes far
easier to inspect those areas for lethal devices, as well as those
people entering those common areas. If the JAG Officer is never left
unattended, by at least two security personnel, then at least one of
them would always be one of our people.

In fact, if officers are required to move in groups of two, with the
exception of the JAG Officer, the level of protection would never be
reduced, and the ability of this chamelioid to change shape would be
limited. Simply put, they would always be seen changing shape, or be the
sole person alone." She stops her speech. Her green eyes are alert,
but she seems detached, almost uninterested if her solution is used.
"Simple logic."

Agreed," O'Rourke nodded. "Victor has already assigned security
personnel to Lieutenant Zamora, but she is finding adapting to an
omnipresent security detail... difficult. Somewhat silly given the
situation, but people aren't always rational under stress."

T'risia simply nods, her face as grave as ever, and says in her calm
tones, "I have noticed this about Terrans and other humanoids. Despite
the logical alternative, the measures have an impact that is
incomprehensible." She simply lets the comment stand, wondering if this
is something she will ever grasp.

"The second thing that you need to know is that we're currently mixed up
in a planetary survey mission trying to determine the cause of crash and
disposition of any potential survivors from a lost early Federation
test-bed ship that dates back to the Daedalus Class era. There are a lot
of Away Teams out, and everyone's a bit on edge since we don't seem to
be finding anything - no bodies, no DNA, nothing."

The Vulcan woman thinks for a long moment. "As a logician, and not a
scientist, I have only limited insight. However, nothing in the
universe simply 'disappears' without a trace. Given the Laws of
Conservation, logically, the crew must be somewhere albeit, somewhere
unknown to us. My apologies, but this is all the insight logic gives,
and I have no doubt that your crew has already reached such a
conclusion. I will endeavor to help as you see fit."

"I didn't expect anything else," O'Rourke assured her. "The third thing
is more of a general issue: the Galaxy is adjusting to a new Captain.
Our long term CO, Captain M'Kantu, was injured by a Hydran agent who had
suborned the body of a Gorn officer - Lt. Commander Th'Khiss K'aa - via
some method we haven't determined yet. Commander K'aa's personality is
currently aboard in a human body, which is weird all by itself. In any
event, Captain T'Vara was assigned to the Galaxy when Captain M'Kantu
rotated off on medical leave to recuperate, and she's only been aboard a
few weeks, so things are a bit unsettled regarding, oh, everything,
because of that."

T'risia considers this information, her piercing eyes analyzing various
elements of the abbreviated narrative. "A stable apex to the chain of
command, in any organization, is essential to the orderly operation of
that entity. A starship is no different." She pauses, and although her
expression is unchanged, she seems a bit wary. "You say that a Gorn
officer's body was...suborned. Do such elements of possession take
place often on board?"

"Not normally, no," O'Rourke returned. "But still more often than seems
strictly necessary. In our defense, I should point out that whatever
happened to him, happened before Commander K'aa - either one - was
assigned to the Galaxy." O'Rourke made a face. "Of course, we have, in
my tour aboard, had psychic parasites taking over the crew in large
numbers, androids that exude sexually-arousing pheromones running amok,
starships possessed by..." she glanced at the open door to Lt.
Krieghoff's office "...alien horrors from another universe, and a total
possession the crew by the communal katra of a Vulcan colony ship from
the Romulan Diaspora era, so you may want to take that into account."

The Vulcan woman does not have an emotional response to this, but does
take on a posture that could be considered wary. T'risia composes her
thoughts for a moment, and nods her head. "That is significantly
greater a frequency of such events than is within the statistical norm
for a Galaxy class vessel. I will, of course, make a note of it, and
attend to a more flexible logic, to encompass variables that are by
their nature, fully unpredictable."

T'risia looks over the other woman, and makes a crisp gesture of
acknowledgment with her head. "What then, is the first order of
business? And, as a person who has been here for some time, do you have
any wisdom to share that will logically make orders of business proceed
more smoothly?"

"An alteration of the laws of probability would be a good start,"
O'Rourke sighed. "But since we're not going to get that, I think the
best thing to do is get you introduced to Victor, and then let you meet
some of the others while I get you slotted into the schedule. Do you
have a preference for a specific shift - Alpha, Beta, or Gamma? I'll do
my best to accommodate you, but I can't offer a guarantee."

"I am unconcerned with shift times. With no friends on board, obviously
I have no social schedule to work with. Thusly, any shift would be of
equal appropriateness." She paused for a moment, a frequent
conversational habit. "My review of the manifest shows that the
department is primarily Terran. Given your earlier statements about Mr.
Krieghoff's unique social aura, it would be most logical to schedule me
upon the same shift. That should increase productivity."

"That would be Alpha Shift," O'Rourke nodded slowly, looking at her
intently. "And we need a smart, capable person on that shift while the
Captain's on duty; Victor instituted a Bridge Shift so that there's a
Security Officer on the Bridge at all times after what happened with
Captain M'Kantu. You'll need to pass a certification test, but that
shouldn't be difficult for you. I'll get Walter Marsh to go over things
with you before the test so you're up to speed on the personnel you'll
be working with and interacting with on the Bridge. Interested?"

T'risia nodded her head, her green eyes alert, and expression as
impassive as ever. "That would be most satisfactory. Certification
tests, of course, are no problem with adequate study materials,
training, and time allotted to preparation. I will endeavor to consult
with this Walter Marsh as soon as possible."

O'Rourke nodded. "Excellent. Let's get your introductions to Victor
made, and then we can get things started." She beckoned T'risia to
follow her and started for the open door people in the department were
always looking at. Pausing at the door, she peered inside carefully. "Is
she finished for now?"

"Let's hope," a male voice replied. "Just when I think she's run out of
ideas, she comes up with something more disturbing than the last one to
'punch things up a notch.' What's up? Is something else going wrong?"

"No," O'Rourke shook her head. "Just a new crewman you need to meet."

There was a pause, and then the voice responded, "Well, send them on in
- unless I need to just wave from the doorway or something."

"No need, she's not going to be bothered," O'Rourke assured him. She
moved aside to let T'risia pass by. "Victor, this is Ensign T'risia;
Ensign, this is Lieutenant Victor Krieghoff, our department head."

The Lieutenant hadn't moved from the Assistant Department Head's office,
but the office decor was more well-appointed than normal. There was a
plant stand to the right as one came in the door - some of the plants
looking less happy to be there than others - a different, more
comfortable couch and chair to the left than were normally issued, and
several pictures on the walls. And a line was painted neatly across the
floor two meters out from the front of the desk, making it three meters
from the tall dark-haired man that was standing up from behind the desk.
"Ensign," he offered with a nod. "Welcome to the Galaxy."

Raising her hand in the Vulcan salute, T'risia nodded her head once.
"Peace and long life, Lieutenant. I foresee that working with you
should be an intriguing experience." Her keen eyes took in the pictures
on the bulkheads, and casually took a glance over to O'Rourke,
interested in the effect that Krieghoff was supposed to have on Terrans.

To one side, still in the doorway and well back from the line on the
floor, O'Rourke shivered slightly as she stood there, watching her
superior officer.

"Interesting is certainly one way to put it, yes," he agreed. "Not to
make a paranoid moment out of this, but I don't suppose that you've been
scanned to make sure you're not a Chamelioid, have you?"

O'Rourke started and a panicked look flashed across her face. "Oh God, I
didn't think..." She scrabbled for something at the small of her back -
either a phaser or a scanner, T'risia couldn't tell which.

T'risia had a bland expression on her face, her Vulcan discipline
unperturbed by the sudden reaching for a phaser. She was well aware of
the sudden, often illogical reactions of Terrans, and simply raised an
eyebrow. "A fascinating assertion. However, Ms. O'Rourke, more
familiar with the stalker profile than myself, should have been able to
deduce for herself, somewhat earlier, that a psychotic Chamelioid would
be both unable to maintain the facade of Vulcan mannerisms through a
protracted conversation. Further, such a being would not be able to
remain composed this close to its target, given their own instability,
and your unique attributes, Lieutenant." For her, the exchange was
little more than a thought experiment in pure logic. "A chamelioid
assassin would also not spend time reasoning out a logical structure
that would impede their movements, as we did outside."

"No need to worry, Shelley," Victor assured her, picking a modified
scanner up from his desk and scanning T'risia. "It's a bit early for her
to have made it to the ship yet..." he checked the readout "...and she
hasn't."

O'Rourke relaxed at the words, her hand reappearing.

"At least, not as the Ensign here, anyway," Victor finished as he shook
his head at T'risia. "Like I said - 'interesting' is one way to describe
things."

"I am told that an ancient Terran curse speaks of living in interesting
times, Lieutenant." She arched her brow once more, studying the man
with her piercing green eyes, and regarding him with an analytic look.
"Given all that I had heard, I had thought you would be taller." She
once again draped her hands behind her back, her flowing green Vulcan
tunic moving flatteringly with her precise motion, the only thing
marking her as not serenely standing in the desert sands of her
homeworld being the happy head badge she wore.

"Size isn't everything," Victor replied quietly as he set the scanner
back down. "Germs have killed more sentients in the course of history
than any weapon ever will, and they're too small to see with the naked
eye." He met her eyes. "And I've killed more sentients than anyone has a
right to, Ensign. Just because I don't bathe in their blood and wear
their heads for hats, doesn't mean that I couldn't if I wanted to - or
that I haven't, depending on who you speak to. First lesson aboard
Galaxy: nothing is what you expect."

He nodded towards the button. "Your button is a good example. No one
expects a Vulcan in a smiley-face button, because no one expects a
Vulcan to have a sense of humor that broad and open. Likewise, everyone
hearing my reputation expects me to be ten feet tall and..."

"...breathing fire?..." O'Rourke offered from the doorway.

"...breathing fire," he continued. "Instead, I'm what you see. Most of
the time, anyway." His mouth twitched slightly into a sideways grin.
"Especially when my fire-breathing suit is at the cleaners."

The slender Vulcan arched an eyebrow at this. "I assure you sir, that I
do not have any sense of humor." She says this dryly, and without wit.
"The happy head is a fascinating artifact of Terran culture, which
intrigues me. I understand very little of it, despite its prevalence in
the quadrant. Even now, I am attempting to unravel the mystery of the
fabled 'Beanie Baby'."

"Good luck with that, I've never made sense of it myself," he admitted.

She smoothed her flowing green tunic again, and continued. "Certainly,
breathing fire would be of limited advantage. It would make simple
communication something of a chore, as your exhalations would constantly
be bursting into combustible clouds. I am most satisfied that you do
not, in fact do this, as I feel that it will streamline our working
relationship."

Behind her, O'Rourke made a muffled snort that indicated amusement in
humans.

Draping her hands behind her back once more, she added, "Your maxim,
'nothing is what you expect', is most logical. With a potential
shapeshifting assassin, one would be remiss in assuming a continuity of
identity among their peers. I believe, that despite the others...
reaction to you, we will work together most smoothly. Despite your
prevalent use of colorful speech, your logic is incredibly sound. At
least, to my observance at this point, which is limited to this
exchange."

"I normally don't have problems with Vulcans and they normally don't
have issues with me, but we'll see how that assessment holds up over
time," he acknowledged. "Now, do you have any questions? That," he
clarified, "seem relevant at the moment, that is?"

T'risia, ever logical, took a moment to consider the inquiry. After
deliberating, she decided upon the simplest course. "No, sir, I find
that I have no particularly relevant inquiries at this time, save for
the time that I should report to duty. Without that knowledge, it will
be a matter of statistical accident if I were to report on time."

Victor glanced over at O'Rourke, "Shelley?"

"If I can get her together with Walter today, I'll start her on Alpha
Shift tomorrow," the redhead replied.

"I don't think that will be a problem; I'm sure that Walter will be glad
to help her," Victor nodded, and then turned back to T'risia. "Sounds
like you're on Alpha Shift with us tomorrow morning, Ensign.

The slim woman arched her brow, ever the logical skeptic. "Indeed, it
does sound that way. It would be illogical to assume anything without
further proof, however. I will endeavor to make your prediction a
certainty, given the variables set before me."

"The Nick Of Time"

Cmdr Jaal Jaxom
Lt. (jg) Michael McDowell - Engineering
Ensign Riley McKenna - Engineering NPC
PO2 Benedict "Max" Maxwell, Paramedic

== NX-19 (Aiolos), Main Engineering==

=/\=Krieghoff to all Away Team members.=/\= The sudden incoming
message sounded like thunder as their commbadges transmitted it,
making the Acting

Security Chief's voice sound more menacing than usual. =/\=Be advised
that there has been an Away Team fatality due to action by the local
predator life-form. Said fatality occurred from well-executed ambush
in open terrain when the individual was separated from the rest of
their team by no more than five meters. No general recall is announced
at this time, but all Away Teams are instructed to tighten their
perimeters and exercise extreme caution. If surrounded, or under
attack, then beam out at the first opportunity. Krieghoff out.=/\=

Jaal bowed his head silently a moment. One of the worst things to deal
with was losing a crewmember during what was supposed to be a routine
fact-finding mission.

~Well, #$*(%!! <some barbaric words>, and this mission started out so
nice. Can't we have a 'normal' mission for once?~ The last connection
was made after Michael fused two of the waveguides together. In his
haste he burned two fingers of his left hand. "Ah, shit, that hurts!"
Like a child he put the two fingers in his mouth, just for a few
moments.

He got up to his two feet and looked down at the console. "Right, this
better works or else we've come for nothing." He tapped on a square
looking area on the console and waited.

Nothing...

"Oh no, this is not going to happen. You damn old piece of...!" His
hand smashed down on the console. It vibrated under the force of the
blow and there was a sound of something cracking under the voilence,
but Michael dismissed that.

Then, one flicker of light illuminated the tripolymer overlay, second
one, and then finally the console sprang to life, but only barely. The
power it received was just enough to keep it going. Question was how
long it would hold. Not for hours if Michael had to give an educated
guess. But, so what, they didn't have hours anyway.

"Now, that's more like it." A brief smile crossed Michael's face. In
one swift move he took his Engineering Tricorder out of its holster.
"Lets see what we can pry out of this console." He put the Tricorder
on the console and let it make of sweep of all the known Interface
Protocols of the Federation to see which one could be used to connect
to the console. "How much time do we have left before the 'natives'
arrive?"

As if to accentuate the question, Max's tricorder screen changed from
amber to reddish-orange and would have emitted a proximity chime if it
weren't muted. "You've got about five to seven minutes before it's in
this actual chamber," he finally replied. "It's within twenty meters,
now."

Jaxom tapped his commbadge, "Jaxom to transporter room three, prepare
to beam us back on my mark."

="Aye sir, just give the word when you're ready."=

"We're not waiting around to see what's coming for dinner," he told
the rest of the away team, "Get what you can get so we can get out of
here."

Even while Maxwell spoke a cold feeling came over Michael, despite the
high temperature and humidity in the room. He didn't do anything else
but nod in reaction to the information the man had given, something
the Paramedic couldn't see because of the darkness. Michael pushed
himself to try and operate the console faster but failed to do so
because of the unfamiliar layout and symbols. Even the Tricorder
wasn't of much help when it came to making sense of that.

"I'll be working as fast as I can. Ensign McKenna, make one or more
scans of the warp engine that powered this ship. It's of a very
strange design, one I never have seen in my life. It should be to the
right of you. We can analyze the results later on the ship." Michael's
voice carried a slight undertone of the nervousness that he felt
within. Now that a 'meet and greet' with one, or more, of the top
predators of this planet seemed imminent, he found it more and more
difficult to totally keep that particular emotion inside.

"Dinner bell," Max whispered for no apparent reason. As if in a
trance, he unholstered his Starfleet Standard Issue hand phaser.
Adjusting to the highest stun setting, he slowly advanced towards the
last place he heard the roar, which was near what appeared to be a
cracked hatch on the far side of the chamber. "Now would be a good
time to finish up and get ready to beam out," Max advised.

Riley nodded, "Done." That was the only word to leave her mouth as
they prepared to transport out. She didn't realize that the creature
had managed to scratch her pretty darn good aside from spraining her
ankle. Sooner or later Riley would pass out completely.

"Looks like there's a crawlspace that leads into this chamber...and
this predator is about to do a meet and greet," Max advised. The
screen has now changed to crimson and the UNK icon began flashing
rapidly.

"Is it that smart?" Michael asked in surprise. Before he got an answer
the Tricorder started beeping, and indication it had found a
compatible transfer protocol. "Got it! I have access." He said. "I'll
make the Tricorder download whatever it comes across. It's the best I
can do now."

"Get it done!" Jaal told him, "And fast!"

The machines went as fast as they were able as the rest of the team
waited anxiously. The pounding noises made by the predators on the
other side of the crawlspace door grew in frequency and loudness.

Jaal took up a position next to Max as they both trained their phasers
on the smallish door. They watched nervously as dents began to appear
in the metal. What ever was behind that door was very motivated to get
through it.

"How much longer?" Jaal asked.

"Soon," Micheal replied.

"How soon?" Jaal asked.

"Real soon," Micheal replied again.

Jaal's hand hovered over his commbadge as, amazingly, cracks began to
appear in the crawlspace door.

"If you're not done in five seconds we're leaving without it," Jaal
said authoritatively, "We can come back…"

"Got it!" Micheal exclaimed triumphantly.

"Transporter room three, beam us back," Jaal ordered immediately.

They were gone with a familiar blue swirl of light.

None too soon either… Just as the last bit of sound and light
dissipated, the hungry carnivores broke through the door sniffing
around the broken engineering section eagerly. Howls of sorrow over a
dinner lost echoed through out the wreckage.

"Get Well Soon"

Cmdr Jaal Jaxom
Cmdr Arel Smith

***

USS Galaxy
Sickbay

Arel reached for a knife that wasn't there, cursed loudly as she
remembered where she was, and glared up at her visitor. "You woke me
up."

Jaal just rolled his eyes, "It's not the first time and I doubt it
will be the last," he told her. "What happened down there?" he asked
getting to business quickly. The doctors said she needed her rest so
he only wanted to bother her long enough to get some details for the
after mission report.

"Want the truth?" She asked as she attempted to scoot into a seated position.

Jaal offered her a withering expression that simply said, 'Yes' and
'You know me better than to ask that, dumbass'.

She chose to ignore his insolent look, deciding that she'd kick his
ass later. "I picked a fight."

Jaal blinked and shook his head. "Why am I not surprised."

"I don't know," Arel shot back. "Why aren't you?"

Jaal pinched his nose in an attempt to stave off a headache. Why did
she have to be this way? The answer, of course, was Arel was just
trying to annoy him. It was best to ignore it. He let go of his nose
and answered, "Because picking fights just comes natural to
Starfleet's premier Klingon wannabe I guess."

"You know I hate that wannabe shit, Jaal," She replied. "Don't make me
have to kill you."

He ignored her taunt and explained plainly, "Someday you're going to
have to learn that picking a fight isn't the answer to everything."

Arel offered him a withering expression that simply said 'blow me.'

Jaal ignored that and plodded on. "I need the details of what happened
for the after mission report." His tone of voice gave the order even
though he didn't specify that verbally. The time for sparring was over
and now it was back to business for the time being.

"I went down to the planet with the intent of engaging in combat with
one of those animals so that we would know how to defend ourselves if
they attacked again," Arel said flatly.

"Phasers had no effect?" Jaal asked knowing Arel preferred fighting
with bladed weapons.

"None. I had to kill it with my knives."

"I see," Jaal answered sounding unimpressed, "Did any mission specific
objectives get accomplished?"

"Yeah, Jaal, the fucker is dead."

Jaal took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was starting to get
annoyed which was really something he didn't want Arel to know... at
least not just yet. "I know that. Now I have to collect information so
I can send Upchurch's parents a decent account of what happened to
their son and why he's coming home in a coffin."

Arel looked away. "We were examining a graveyard that we found near
the ship. Upchurch moved out of my line of sight - the rest of us were
discussing why we could find no remains in the graves - and those
things grabbed him. I heard a noise and turned but he was already
gone. I saw a blood trail and then about five of the creatures about
to atttack the rest of the team. I told everyone to run to the ship. I
ordered an emergency beam out ... his comm was still attached to what
was left of his body to beam out too."

Jaal shook his head slowly. "That's rough." He slowly took notes on
the PADD he held in his hands. When he finished he looked up to Arel
once more. "Apparently the science folks found something really
interesting about the planet's environment that explains why there are
no human remains, anywhere, of the crew. When that was discovered the
rest of the away teams were recalled. I don't think anyone else will
be going down there."

"I heard some crew members are missing. What about them?"

"All I've heard is they're still being looked for at the moment," Jaal admitted.

"You tell the doctor to let me out of here and I'll help with the
search," Arel said with a smile.

Jaal exhaled, "I'm not sure I can bust ya out of here this time. Plus, I
don't think the captain is inclined to let anyone else go down there,"
he answered knowing she'd scoff at what he said.

Arel made a face. "Your loss."

"Only when you're dead," the Trill deadpanned with a wry smile.

"Well, if you're not going to bust me out then get going and let me
get some sleep."

Echoes of Another Place

Lt. JG Artim Shivar - Lost Kid

===============================
<<Somewhere in the jungle>>

"Hmm, getting dark isn't it now. Gonna be all sorts of things lurking around soon. At least you got me to keep you company."

Artim still couldn't quite place the voice he was hearing, but he was beginning to narrow it down. It wasn't a shipmate. It definitely was familiar. But from where.

"Who....who are...where are you?", Artim couldn't help but ask out loud as he scanned the area around what was serving as a camp.

"Oh come now, I know its been a couple centuries but how could you forget! We spent soooo much time together. And what did I get for it hmm?", it was much clearer now. A male voice...not very old sounding. Not his father...wait a moment...no, it couldn't be. He was dead...long dead...wasn't he?

Artim tried to ignore the voice. Had to be a hallucination or something. He did have what felt like a pretty nasty concussion. That could cause all sorts of things like this, especially with all this anxiety. It was all just a figment of his imagination, wasn't it?

"Oh COME ON Artie. Its me. Liam. You know, best friend forever, met after we both escaped from that mean old nasty kid. Stuck together through thick and thin. Left me to die in the middle of the woods when you said you were going off to get wood and food? Any of that ring a bell in there or has all these years made you shove me in the back of your thick little skull? " The voice was crystal clear at this point, as if it was right behind him. Artim turned his neck slowly and was quite shocked to see the form of a 6 year old boy sitting right on a nearby log. However there was something...wrong...he was injured...badly. His clothes were torn to shreds and were intermixed with the familiar crimson of fresh blood. Artim jumped back with a start blinking rapidly.

"Must be a dream. Must be a hallucination...or something. Can't be real. Must stay focused. Food. That's what I need!", he grabbed for one of his few ration packs and started tearing into it though his hands were shaking and sweaty making it hard for him to get a grip. The shrinks had always told Artim that someday all the horrors in his life were going to catch up to him. So much trauma for such a relatively young mind couldn't be suppressed forever. Avoiding it would only drive him mad, or worse.
The voice was right though, Liam had been a friend. One whose death Artim had always been guilty about. Back home, about halfway through the hell that was Artim's life there both he and Liam were prisoners of an older child who only called himself the Big Man. He was pretty much your garden variety thug who liked to demonstrate his power by torturing and even killing the smaller kids. After awhile Artim and a couple others including Liam outsmarted him and escaped back into the woods. They formed their own little band and gathered more kids over time. Eventually things turned badly and many of them died or fell victim to the ultimate fate that came to all those infected back then.

Liam was the last of Artim's little clan. They'd taken refuge in a forest not far from where Artim had once lived. Liam was younger but was quite clever whereas Artim was slightly older but mentally much more mature. Artim had gone off to gather food and such but moments after he'd left their camp, there were screams. And howls. And the gnashing of teeth. He knew he should go back. He promised he always would go back. But...he didn't. He ran.

After a couple minutes Artim managed to get the ration pack open and started scarfing down the contents. It didn't help. Liam's form still sat on the log staring back at him, a grim smile on his face.

"They'll never find you. The way you never found me. Deep down you know it. Oh sure you might manage to make it for awhile but something, eventually will come for you. And you deserve it. You should have died there with me or at least made some fleeting chance. But you ran. You're a coward Artie! A big freaking coward!"

All Artim could do was look down at the ground. A pained look came across his face as he realized Liam might be right.

And right then another sound...not to far away. A rumbling noise...and it was getting closer.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking? [Pt. 2]

Cmdr. Brian Elessidil
Corporal Cianan Tierney
J. Andrus Suder

[In our last episode...]

"Like how-?" Cianan regretted the question and his eyes opened wide.
"Comm-, Coun-, Brian, are you?" The marine couldn't deny the ever
increasing affinity for the Betazoid. Call it transference, the lure
of power, or simply being mesmerized, Cianan was at the point he could
admit feelings for the Counselor. "I'm not sure you mean this."

Brian smiled. Fueled by their physical closeness and the stirring of
the Cianan's feelings, he stared directly into his eyes. "Mean what,
Cianan? That I think the heat might be getting to me? That I need
your help? Or that having you nearby makes me feel better already?
Believe me, I mean every bit of it." He edged his face ever so closer
to Cianan's, the emotional tension between them building by the
millisecond....

Then suddenly, Brian stopped. The strange voices intruded once again
into his mind, a little stronger this time. He closed his eyes and
shook his head as if trying to ward off a cloud of gnats. "What the-"

For the first time, the thought occurred to him that maybe it wasn't
merely the heat getting to him. Opening his eyes, he looked at Cianan
again. "Something's...not right..." Brian suggested, sounding
somewhat dazed as his thoughts remained stuck between alarm over the
voices and his infatuation with Tierney.

[And now the continuation...]

"What?" Cianan reopened the tricorder. "Your vitals are showing signs
of slight stress, but nothing out of the ordinary." The medic's mind
was raising with potential diagnoses - and hypothetical diagnoses.

Cianan was waiting for orders. He was a good soldier, he followed them
beyond the best of his ability. On Angosia Brian might have been one
of the casualties left behind. He was showing weakness, inability to
perform his duties. Cianan wasn't an Angosian soldier anymore.

"Perhaps we should request assistance from sickbay?"

"If it's not the heat then I don't think there's much sickbay can do
for us," Brian replied as he returned to his feet. He tried to
concentrate for a moment, but the voices did not return. "I'm
starting to think there may be some kind of telepathic phenomenon at
work here," he said, checking his tricorder again. "But I don't see
any kind of source registering in the vicinity." It wouldn't have
been the first time a source of telepathic activity didn't show up on
a tricorder scan, so the reading was of little help. "Let's take a
further look at these ruins and see if we notice anything. You will
stay close, won't you?" he added, smiling at Cianan as any sense of
urgency faded again.

The medic was wary, he wasn't afraid just attempting to be cautious.
It was something that Brian seemed to bring out in him. Odd emotions
and feelings. "I'll be right here," the Angosian said at an attempt of
reassurance. "You were able to recognize the changes and react to them
before..." He stopped. "That is promising." His lip curled into a half
smile.

The two walked further along the ruins and came upon a carcass of what
appeared to be an arachnid approximately the size of a large cat.
Cianan bent down to examine them with the tricorder. "There are traces
of an organic acidic compound on the remains." The marine looked up.
"I'd guess it was eaten." The creature was fairly large, at least what
was left of it, which signaled either a larger carnivore or scavenger.

"Scary place," Brian noted, only half focused on the situation. His
attention was back on Cianan again. "You're not afraid, are you?" he
asked coyly.

From anyone else Cianan might have taken it as an insult. The marine
grinned, "of a dead bug?" He chuckled. Now it was his turn to feel
warm inside.

"There's no shame in it if you are," the counselor added, edging just
a little closer.

Cianan swallowed carefully. "I think you might be affected ag..." He
was cut off. Cursing under his breath Cianan found himself guilty of
letting down his guard - he should have heard Suder approaching but
didn't. Was there something wrong with him? Was Cianan being affected
as well?

"Hey, you won't believe what ..." Andrus trailed off as he took in the
scene before him. You didn't have to be a Betazoid to read the sexual
tension between the two men - their bodies close together, the
slightly guilty looks, and the overwhelming lust that was no doubt the
result of Brian's illness - but as he was, it was a long moment before

Andrus could separate his emotions from theirs. And even then they
were mixed. A bit of jealously, certainly, and a bit of hurt but it
wasn't as if he and Brian were committed to each other. Mostly, he
just felt angry that Brian had agreed to this away team when he
obviously wasn't well.

"I found an altar of sorts if you're interested," Andy said in a cool
tone. He thought distancing his emotions would be the best for the
moment; all they needed was Brian absorbing Andy's anger and having it
blow up at them at a critical moment.

"We found a dead bug," Cianan said with a straight face.

"Hate it when that happens," Andrus replied easily, turning on his
heel and heading back toward the site.

What may have been an awkward moment under normal circumstances was
for Elessidil something of a turn-on now. It was after all Andy's
fault that he was feeling...this way...at the moment. Cianan was a
pleasant focus of Brian's feelings at the moment, and now they were
joined by the source. "Andy," he began, picking up on his boyfriend's
obviously forced coolness, "don't go. We might need some...help." He
put a hand on Suder's shoulder. "Maybe he's right. Maybe it is just
a dead bug, but who knows what kind of other things are lurking around
here. Of course, if your altar seems important, we could go there
instead." Brian couldn't believe how warm he felt right now, and it
wasn't the weather. This kind of heat he was enjoying.

Andy wasn't enjoying it so much. Under normal circumstances, a horny
Brian was a damned good thing. Here on the hottest, creepiest planet
in the universe, with Cianan looking on ... well, he was definitely
taking a long, cold shower when he got back on Galaxy. He carefully
shrugged his shoulder free of Brian's hand. "Then examine the damn
thing so we can get back to the group."

Already, Brian was beginning to absorb some of Andy's mood. "Okay,"
he began, the romantic edge slipping a little, "we can do that, if you
want to be all business-like about it." He turned and focused on the
thing, getting no telepathic impressions whatsoever. "Looks like a
bug. It's dead." He looked to Cianan, "if you want to study it and
whatever else is around here some more, be my guest. In the meantime,
I think I'll study Andy and his altar," he said, a devilish smirk
returning as he regarded Suder again.

~Cute~ Andy projected flatly at the other man. ~Knock it off or I'll
tell them to send you back to the ship.~~

Cianan felt uncomfortable in many different ways. "I'm not sure we
should separate, looks like there's more to this planet than we
anticipated."

=/\=Krieghoff to all Away Team members.=/\= The sudden incoming
message sounded like thunder as their combadges transmitted it, making
the Acting Security Chief's voice sound more menacing than usual.
=/\=Be advised that there has been an Away Team fatality due to action
by the local predator life-form. Said fatality occurred from
well-executed ambush in open terrain when the individual was separated
from the rest of their team by no more than five meters. No general
recall is announced at this time, but all Away Teams are instructed to
tighten their perimeters and exercise extreme caution. If surrounded,
or under attack, then beam out at the first opportunity. Krieghoff
out.=/\=

It was as though a voice from above vilified Cianan's caution. "See."
He pointed up.

"Alright," Brian curtly replied. Cianan's caution and Andy's coolness
were quickly taking the wind out of his sails, and the announcement
from the Galaxy didn't help either. ~Happy?~ he sent to Andy. A
breath away from tossing some kind of acerbic retort Andy's way, the
counselor suddenly grimaced as the cacophony of voices intruded once
again on his mind. "Do you sense that?" he managed out loud to Andy
before they disappeared again.

Andrus frowned. "They're ... chaotic. Fear, paranoia, some insanity. I
don't think they can't be our team."

"No, they're not our people," Elessidil concurred as the voices faded
away once again. "It's been coming and going since we got here.
Maybe you didn't notice where you were."

Cianan was glad Andrus could reaffirm Brian's experiences. "Are they
sentient beings?" The Angosian was at a loss, he wasn't telepathic. He
opened a tricorder.

"I don't think there's any way to know just yet," Brian replied.
"They've been too intermittent and too chaotic to try to communicate
with. All I get is a jumble of voices, nothing really clear enough to
make any sense of." Suddenly, he stiffened as the onslaught returned,
this time even stronger. ~Who are you....can you hear me?~ he tried
sending into the chaos, but there was no sense of comprehension or
response. Instead, Elessidil felt himself becoming overwhelmed with
telepathic confusion. Instead of fading away this time, the voices
seemed to continue stronger and it was becoming increasingly difficult
to tell what was in his mind and what was outside it.

"Brian?" Andy got out just as the the relay of thoughts and emotions
hit him. He was unprepared for the intensity (whether it was natural
or some kind of magnification due to Brian's illness wasn't clear and
probably didn't even matter at this point) and grabbed his head in
pain. There was no filter, no psychic block, or even vague shielding
that he was accustomed to around people who kept their secrets close
to themselves; there was only raw emotion fueling thoughts which
collided together incoherently.

Andy's voice didn't even register for the counselor as everything
seemed to be blotted out by the intensity of the voices in his head.
A few moments later, things started to return to normal...but not quite.

"Wetworks: The Hunt for Faylin McAllister pt 2 "


Marshal Bin Hux
Marshal Melissa Daughtery




(San Francisco)


Deputy Marshal Melissa Daughtery had heard stories about the beef slaughterhouses of the olden days. Places where cattle were lead to their bloody demise in an industrialized methodology of sharp blades and assembly line slaughter.

All in the name of a tasty hamburger at the end of the day.

Looking at the hotel bedroom and bathroom before her, she could easily see the bloody parralels in the scientific...almost artistic approach to the crimson stains that decorated wall and floor alike.

An expert had worked here.

No that wasn't it....... It wasn't work. An expert had 'played' here enjoying every single moment of the slaughter.

The snapping flash of the spectrographic holocam jolted the tall blond back into the present and she squated carefully around the central pool of dried blood.

Mel Daughtery was a thin blond haired woman just shy of 30. Dancers muscles and coordination gave her a lithe grace that belied the bloody reality that was her business.

Mindful to not let the full length black leather trenchcoat that marked her as a Federation Marshal get wet, she probed gently at the stained linoleum with a sterile pair of tweezers.

"Tissue impregnated slashmarks in the tile indicate through and through penetrating trauma of supine victims body." she intoned for the ever present recording drone hovering at her side, " Bi-directional nature of cuts indicative of either an ambidextrous killer or multiple killers working form various angles."

Still squatting, balancing easily on her booted heels, she scanned the room, flinching a bit as the flash strobes continued to pop off.

The technician was going from room to room memorializing the crime scene with the latest in spectrographic holography....essentially scanning in multiple spectrums and with a zoom-resolution approaching the molecular.

Mel pried a limp sliver of skin from the wedge like cuts in the floor. The killer had been strong....strong enough to penetrated the body and imbed stray scraps in the linoleum itself.

She popped the sliver into a handy disposable DNA analyzer and shook it to activate the reagents within. "Tissue residue recovered from floor markings....preliminary DNA scans to be completed....." Mel paused to check her chrono, "to be completed in 15 minutes. We should have a victim ID by then."

The Marshals already knew of course who had rented out the room. That particular transaction had been easy enough to trace at the front desk, and the prelim tricorder scan had revealed a blood type matching one Steven Johnson, security agent.

The DNA profile was merely procedure.

A few more pops of the flashbulbs, and the spectrographic recording of the room was complete.

"All done here Ma'am" the tech announced as he packed up his equipment, "Rooms preserved."

~~About fucking time.~~ Mel thought already fishing in her trenchcoats inner pocket for her pack of smokes. The delicate nature of spectrographic photography precluded the presence of any outside atmospheric contaminants, and waiting for it to be complete constituted the longest fifteen minutes of Mel's day.

Right about now she could really use some atmospheric contaminants in her system.

Exhaling the blue smoke in a stress relieving sigh, the young Marshal looked at the scene with new eyes.

She always thought better after a drag.

Not that this one was hard to figure out.

Condoms on the table.....shoes kicked off into the corner.....wine chilling in a hastily replicated ice bucket.

~~Somebody got more of an evening than they were hoping for.~~ she mused, brows furrowed in newfound concentration.

It wasn't that Marshal Daughtery was squeamish...far from it. Her four years as Deputy Marshal had her running across a new nightmare every day.

Indeed Melissa was considered by some as one of the rising stars of the Marshal Corps....selected almost right out of the Academy as partner to the legendary Bin Hux.... a tough as nails lawman who had initiated her into his secret world of hardnosed investigation techniques.

And asskicking techniques. As an Ex-Angosian supersoldier, Marshal Hux was in that elite handful of some of the biggest bad-asses in the galaxy. It may have sounded cliché...the rugged cop and his blond bombshell partner, but anybody who underestimated Mel's baby blue eyes was in for a quite an ass kicking.

Trained from childhood as a classical dancer, the girl from Louisiana discovered that her artistic training morphed very easily into the martial arts.

As she liked to say....'not only can I kick your ass as good as Hux....I can do it with style and choreographed to music.'

Shaking her head, Daughtery stood back to her black booted heels and backed out into the hall, trailing a whisp of smoke.

"All done inside Bin." she stabbed out her butt, and dug her hands deep into her coats pockets....."no surprises."

Hux was out there huddled with a technician studying a glowing screen intently.

"Date night slasher?" he grated without even looking up from whatever he was looking at.

"Date night slasher." she nodded with a sigh. "Looks like a quickie wham bam thank ya ma'am

setup.....probably picked her up at the bar or something and fixed things up in a hurry."

She jerked her head back at the obedient drone hovering behind her. "I'm done dictating.....looks like a post mortem chop job on the bathroom floor. We're probably looking for something in the plastic baggie department if we're trying to figure out where he is now."

Hux nodded slowly. Why in a world with disintegrators and phasers did people bother to chop up bodies and conceal them?

The answer was disturbing.....it was fun.

"Well it was Faylin no doubt....and she wanted us to know it." he sid finally, still watching the tiny screen.

Mel frowned, not that she doubted Hux's theory for one minute, but there wasnt much in the way of evidence pointing specifically towards their escaped killer.......

....until her partner swiveled around the monitor showing a recorded feed from the hotel security camera.

Faylin McAllister....blood spattered and stained......standing cutely just in front of the lens and blowing her pursuers a big bloody kiss.....just to say hi.

"Wake Wake"

Flight Officer Aristi Ferguson
Fighter Pilot and Anthropologist Extraordinare

*****

pound

pound

pound

thump

pound thump

pound

scritch scritch

pound scritch

thump

pound

groan

scritch?

rustle

pound

scritch thump

swish

And then nothing.

What...

What? Where? Who...?

What...happened? Where am...who did this...what?

Thoughts came slowly, far too slowly, as the woman regained consciousness and tried to drag her thoughts back to the present. What happened? What...happened? The question repeated itself in her jumbled mind as she struggled to focus on it.

The ruins...excavating...the pit in the house...large cache of pottery covered in geometric patterns. Almost Terran Native American? No no, the angles were all wrong...and that made no sense. And underneath them...old tech? She'd slid out of the pit, called out to Petty Officer Tombs...

swish thump

That was something nearby. Something big. Her thoughts, silent as they were inside her mind, froze anyway, and she concentrated on remaining as still as she could, keeping her breathing slow and deep so whatever it was would think that she was still asleep. But what was it...

scritch scritch thump scritch...swish

...called out to Petty Officer Tombs. ~Find Cadet Sullivan for me; I need her opinion on something.~ The expected ~aye, sir~ was barely heard as she focused her attentions on the piece of what her brain classified as 'old tech'. No no, it wasn't old tech...I mean it was old but not that old, maybe a few hundred years but no wait, the stamped characters on the back were...Standard? It was...or was it...God in Heaven why was it so hard to think all of a sudden? Like her brain was stuffed with cotton or tribbles or--

Tribbles?

What were tribbles? Fluffy I think--

And the thing was big and bulky but wow it was suddenly so hot and she wiped at her brow with a dusty, grimy hand, pushing still more brown dirt into her ordinarily luscious violet-black hair. But it didn't matter because she'd found something that shouldn't have been there, something that if she didn't know better she would swear was something dropped from that wrecked ship but why was it so deep in this pit maybe it had fallen or been dropped or had just washed away and where was Cadet Sullivan? Or Petty Officer Tombs? Or--

~Krieghoff to all away team members. Be advised~ SCREECH ~be be be advisedddd~

~Petty Officer Tombs? Cadet Sullivan? Mister Suder?~

And then something thumped nearby, or something thudded against the ground, and she pulled herself toward the sloping edge of the pit and dropped the old-style tricorder and scrabbled up the dirty embankment ~Tombs? Sullivan? Suder?~ and something sharp dug into her knee but she didn't care because ~lo-loc-local pre-re-redator life formmmm~ why was the message so garbled and why did her head hurt so much it felt like pounding and splitting and noise noise noise and something was happening with the light. She got to her feet and moved through the piles of half-destroyed bricks and rubble, a hand automatically reaching up to her face as she somehow realized that somehow something was interfering with electronics because Krieghoff's voice was stuck in an endless loop of ~nder atta nder atta nder atta~ and all the light on the right side of her head was going insane with colors and bricks sliding wildly to the left before disappearing completely which meant that something was going wrong with her ocular implant and--

There was loud grunting and a lot of it.

She froze in what was left of the doorway of the ruined brick house but it was too late, they had heard the choked squeak of a way too girly reaction to the sight of four burly savages standing over the convulsing form of her teammate Tombs who was clutching hands to chest and sputtering uselessly, feet kicking around in the dirt of this strange alien world. Which meant that the four savages turned toward the sound of the squeak and saw her, which meant that she ran, which meant that they followed, which meant that she would of course fall prey to the peril afflicting every damsel in distress throughout the history of her world (well, her adopted world, there was no record of anything like that ever happening on Cardassia), which meant that naturally, as if there was nothing to it at all, she tripped and fell.

And then they descended and something heavy hit the back of her head just as the stench of them filled her nose and everything went black.

And now everything was still black because she was afraid to open her eyes to see what had been making the thump thump scritch scritch swissssh that was now absent but could come back at any moment she thought, and her head would not stop pound pound pounding as the pain from the back of her skull radiated around and towards her face. And she knew there was going to be a knot there and she couldn't help but want to prod it to see how big and squishy and painful it was. So she reached a hand up.

And that was when she felt the tension and pressure of something cutting into her wrists and couldn't help but wonder if that was whatever it felt like.

And then she forced opened her eyes at last and realized that it felt like what it was, that her wrists were bound together with a thick knot of rope and anchored to the ground on a long metal stake.

And then she realized that something felt strange, or that something was different about the way she was looking at things, not because she was on her side on a dirt floor but things from down below looked different. So she closed her eyes again, really squeezed the lids shut so they exerted some pressure on the eyeballs.

And then she realized why it felt so weird on her right side, but that somehow she remembered from years and years ago what it felt like to have an empty eye socket. And her heartbeat suddenly quickened as her memories flashed back to the four savages and the blow to the head and the blackness and then nothing before she woke up here in the darkness on a cool dirt floor and then she could think only one thing, over and over and over.

They.

Took.

My.

Eye.

My eye. My eye, my eye, damnit they took my eye.

But why would they want it? And who, who are they?

And then she opened her eyes (no wait, eye) again and squeaked once more as she tried in vain to recoil in surprise or fear or horror or something else entirely. For during her momentary freak-out which couldn't have lasted more than a second or two but was clearly longer than she may have thought it was, she'd totally missed the latest swish scritch scritch sound of someone entering what she now guessed was a tent and shuffling a few steps forward and kneeling down to stare at her.

And she couldn't help but stare back at the woman with the well-tanned almost brown face smeared (or decorated?) around the edges with the same color of brown dirt, her long brown hair falling in thick braids around her shoulders, her torso wrapped with an even darker swatch of brown leather that was unevenly cut along one edge. She was leaning forward, her brown eyes sparkling as she smiled widely, exposing a set of teeth that were mostly brown, though remarkably straight.

"Wake wake," the Brown Woman said, one arm now moving towards Aristi. And drawn by the movement out of the corner of her one remaining eye Aristi looked down and watched the hand moving towards her face, eye widening in surprise or fear or maybe even horror. And she wasn't too terribly surprised when her jumbled mind finally put things together and realized that the shiny silvery thing at the end of the woman's hand wasn't a ring, or a bracelet, or anything innocuous for that matter. "Wake wake, bake bake," the woman repeated, as if nothing was the matter at all and that savages looming over poor captured Starfleet officers was the natural way of the universe.

And as the curved, deadly sharp edge of the knife drew closer the only words Aristi Ferguson could make her mouth produce were "Oh dear."

"Staying Alive"

Lieutenant Victor Krieghoff

****

USS Galaxy
Deck 12
Gymnasium 3

Victor didn't like changing a schedule once he'd gotten one worked out
to his satisfaction. The time it took to get his work schedule balanced
with time for his workouts, time for classwork on whatever remote
learning program he was working through at the time, time to spend with
Angelienia, and time for other necessities like sleep and dining was not
inconsiderable. Once he found a schedule that worked for all of that -
or as much as it was possible to work for - he'd potentially invested
weeks of trying different times for this or that.

Over the last year, though, it had seemed as if someone was watching him
and, as soon as they discerned that he was settling into a comfortable
schedule, they would then change something that would invalidate the
schedule so they could watch him scurry around like a rat in a maze,
looking for a new schedule. In the last six months it had gotten so bad
that he'd started to feel like a child's toy, swinging back and forth.

First it had been his movement from Gamma Shift to Beta Shift in
Security Main. Then Angelienia's 'on deck' shift on the Flight Deck had
been changed. Then, with Commander Smith's arrival as Liaison, he was
back on Gamma Shift. Then, it had been his promotion to Security Second,
and the required time needed to do the work the promotion had added on
to his daily load. Finally, most recently, it had been Commander
Corgan's departure on Medical Leave, necessitating Victor's move to
Alpha Shift to fill James' normal spot.

Fortunately, this last shift had had the unexpected side-effect of
allowing him a luxury that he hadn't had in over two years: the
privilege of using the quietest and least-utilized gymnasium on the ship
at its lowest peak hour; Gym Three, between 0300 and 0500.

The lack of utilization wasn't due to the earliness of the hour; the
Galaxy ran 24 hours a day out of necessity and design, and she had
literally hundreds of people awake and active at that time, going about
the routine of running the ship and living their daily lives. Even if
the number of people needing to work out at that time was low due to
sleep requirements - everyone couldn't comfortably get by on four or
five hours of sleep a night the way Victor did - there still should have
been more of the crew using it.

Gymnasium Three wasn't underequipped, without facilities, or lacking in
amenities, any one of which might have also explained its lack of
popularity with the crew. It wasn't normally restricted to officers, or
visiting diplomats, or any other segment of the crew, which would also
have explained the under utilization of the facility.

Instead, it was something simple, that hadn't made much sense to Victor
when he'd figured it out; and still didn't years later: you couldn't
work out there without being watched.

Not watched with admiring or disbelieving or jealous eyes, like you
might in any of the other exercise facilities aboard ship. Instead, in
Gym Three, you were watched with wide, staring, unblinking, inhuman
ones.

Stationed next to the Gymnasium was the Cetacean Ops Lab, and the
designers, obviously feeling that the sight of the sweaty, muscular
humanoid form at exercise was something so sexy that it transcended
species - and even genus and phylum - to become something every sentient
would want to see, had thoughtfully placed a series of transparent
aluminum panels in the walls to allow the ship's cetacean and dolphin
crew members a panoramic view of the gymnasium. The aquatic crewmen, in
turn, seemed to agree with the room's designers, and would gather to
stare with large (and small) eyes at the mammals working out whenever
someone was using the gym.

Privately, Victor had always thought that it was amusement, as opposed
to lust, that prompted the watchers vigil, but whichever it was, the
majority of the crew seemed discomfited by the unblinking gaze of the
whales and dolphins. Victor, however, found their gaze preferable to
that of the majority of his fellow crewmen while he was working out, and
preferred to use Gymnasium Three whenever possible.

Like this morning.

Victor paused inside the doors, his arrival earlier than normal, since
he couldn't find a way to completely relax and go to sleep - which was
not normal for him. Normally sleep was only a few minutes away once he
closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, as he did every night that
he didn't dream of Angelienia or Sakonna, to images of green, lush
jungles and a dance that made the universe shudder with fear and weep
with joy.

But not tonight; tonight the jungle and the dance would not come to him.

Tonight, he was worried. Worried over the missing crewmen, over the
deaths of the Away Team members, over the results of the autopsy T'Pei
had conducted on the beast that had fought Arel Smith and what they
could mean if the T'Kith'Kin got their greedy appendages on them, over
his performance as Acting Security Chief, over his capacity to protect
Ophelia Zamora and her son from the Chamelioid stalking them, over...
over more things than he'd ever worried about at once before.

Nothing he'd done had seemed to ease the worries. He'd organized teams
to be ready on a moments notice to beam down to the planet and retrieve
the missing crewmen once the secret of their vanishing was determined.
He'd laid his plans for how to distract the predators while that was
going on. He'd recorded the first death messages that he'd ever had to
send for transmission to Upchurch and the other's families. He'd
convinced the Captain to classify the autopsy reports to the highest
classification he could talk her into - Sigma-9 - placing them on a
level with the worst mutagenic virii known to the Federation. He'd
assigned security to Zamora and set up contingencies and procedures for
every eventuality that he could.

He'd done all of that - and he'd been unable to sleep.

He'd talked to his family and gotten them moved to safety, and that
hadn't helped. He'd danced with Angelienia in a holosuite - they were
learning Andorian courting dances this month - until she was staggering
from exhaustion, and that hadn't helped. He'd had dinner with her, and
then they'd gone back to his quarters and then danced a completely
different dance that had left her equally exhausted and sleeping like a
child... and that hadn't helped either.

He was unable to sleep.

He'd known what the true problem was all the while, even when he'd lost
himself in Angelienia's arms while dancing - both vertically and
horizontally. While he'd been able to forget for a time, once the dances
were done, and there was nothing else pushing the knowledge away, it
returned, revealed for what it was with all distractions removed:

His people were in danger and he couldn't reach them.

He had to keep distracting himself until he could reach them - he knew
that - had to keep finding things to do which would push that knowledge
away for a time until he had the power to affect that problem and act to
correct the situation

Which was why he was in Gymnasium Three at 0341, dressed in a t-shirt
and shorts and carrying a bag with his clothing for the day, twenty
minutes before his normal arrival time, waving at a whale while the
computer played some horrifying song that he'd only heard once before at
a party organized by Leo Streeley.

A languid lift of a pectoral fin acknowledged his wave, and the crewman
drifted closer to the wall as if to get a better view. In the gloom of
the waters - the cetaceans maintained a standard day-night cycle - a
pair of smaller shapes moved in response to some sound Victor hadn't
heard through the water and the transparent wall, and two of the
delphinic crewmen swam into view slowly, moving in a manner that
suggested that they were just awakening.

Victor waved at them as well, receiving a head bob in return from the
smaller and a flip of the fluke from the larger, and moved to set his
bag down and stretch. He'd never been certain that the effect that he
had on the majority of the crew - and other sentients that interacted
with - carried over to the cetaceans, and had never felt like walking
right up to one just to see what they'd do in order to find out. He had
enough issues with others without deliberately making it worse for
someone.

Whether they were bothered, amused, attracted, or simply indifferent,
the cetaceans always seemed glad to see him, though that could be his
writing motivation that didn't exist into their impassive faces. In any
event, they always waved fins or flukes in return when he entered or
departed, and never seemed to get bored with watching him test himself
against the exercise machines.

Today was a 'hard' day, when he worked with resistance weights and
trained strength, not one of the alternating 'soft' days when he trained
for endurance and flexibility. The hard days didn't seem to be as
interesting to the observers as the soft ones, something Victor had
always attributed to the fact that he wasn't moving around much. To an
aquatic creature, the sight of someone walking and running - activities
they couldn't perform - was almost certainly far more interesting that
that of someone sitting and moving weights with their arms. Or, at
least, Victor had always thought that was the case. They could just as
easily been waiting for him to trip and fall like one of those
Pre-Atomic Earth comedians that were always doing that in early silent
films, their silent waters taking the place of the theatres the films
had been shown in.

He realized that his body had mechanically finished his warm-up while
the computer's next choice in music for the day - another choice from
what the computer's calm voice announced as 'The Streeley Play List,' a
chorus of falsetto male voices singing about 'staying alive' in between
staccato vowels in rapid repetition - while he thought, paused to take a
drink of water, and moved to the first of his stations. He'd started the
program he currently used years ago under Captain Brhode's orders,
adding the Marine standard exercise program it to the one he'd always
used instead of replacing it, in effect making his workouts twice as
long. Victor knew that worked out more than most in the department - and
the ship for that matter - but he had better reason than most as well:

He had no one to depend on to save him from trouble but himself.

Even now, with Angelienia and his new-found or newly-realized friends
around him, he knew that. He was not someone that people would run to
help in a fight, or to save in time of disaster. He had to be strong
enough to save himself, because he couldn't depend on anyone else to do
it for him. Others depended on him, not the other way around.

He closed his eyes as he started to move through the steps required by
the machine and thought of Angelienia and the contented, peaceful smile
on her face as she lay sleeping in his bed when he'd slipped away to
come here, and marveled at how such a simple expression could warm him
so inside.

He thought of Sakonna, and the similar smile he'd seen on her face when
Chulak had woken in the middle of the night aboard Talvalen, and felt
the familiar aching pain at the knowledge that he'd never see it again,
indeed that, in a sense, he'd never really seen it at all.

He thought, as he occasionally did now, of friends aboard the ship and
off it. Of the list of people he'd known and wished well, and the
shorter list of those that he wished would drop dead in the instant of
his thinking their name. Of his family, safe in the Xellos System behind
parsecs of space and a minefield large enough to stop a small fleet, far
from the knives of Faylin McAllister. Of the department, his department,
and the people that depended on him to make good decisions and thus keep
them safe. Of....

8-Ball.

8-Ball was screaming.

The words unfolded in his mind, his shipmate's voice hoarse with terror
and exhaustion, as clear as if she'd been sitting beside him, screaming
into his ear.

HELP ME!

Those two words told him everything. She was terrified. She was in
danger. She was alone. She thought that no one would hear her. That no
one would find her. That no one would ever know what had happened to
her. That... she was going to die.

Victor didn't recall standing, didn't recall the weight machine's press
bar shearing away from the body of the device in his hands, didn't
remember the dolphins skating away in terror and the whale backing away
from the window, didn't know that his presence was shoving them away
just as it did the rest of the crew, didn't realize that anything had,
indeed, happened at all.

He just knew in that moment, in the instant of her scream, as he drank
it in and absorbed it, feeding on her fear and terror, using it as fuel
to reach out to her in return, he mentally shouted back in a voice as
loud as a star, replying to a frightened woman that was his friend, and
who had once, under the influence of a possessing Diparthu, melded their
minds into one:

STAY ALIVE!

YOU DON'T HAVE PERMISSION TO DIE!

"Souvenirs"

*****

John Smithwick felt infinitely better after a shower.

Wrapping a towel around his thin waist the young medic grabbed a second towel. Tapping the door control with one hand he began to dry his sandy brown hair with the other as he stepped out of the small bathroom and back into the quarters he shared with his three roommates.

All of which were gone at the moment, thankfully. After suffering through the planet's heat and humidity through two full away missions, the only thing John felt like doing now was sleeping for about a million years. Maybe a million and a half if he got lucky.

Stopping halfway betwen bathroom and bunk, John reached down to retrieve the pieces of his field uniform he'd discarded a few minutes ago on the way to the shower, and sniffed them experimentally. His nose wrinkled and he made a face like he was offended by the garments. Like the clothes he'd been wearing on the first away mission, these would definitely need to be laundered as well. Balling them up in his hands, he lobbed them towards the small laundry hamper hiding just inside the bathroom door. His aim was true and the ball arced lazily across the small room towards the rectangular container. But just before the clothes ball landed, something shiny popped free and turned end over end until it impacted the floor with a short clink.

Cocking his head to the side with a curious look, John went to retrieve it. He found the object on the floor just inside the bathroom, its partially tarnished surface still gleaming slightly in the light.

"Oh yeah," John whispered as he recognized the shape of the object. He hadn't really been thinking about it when he'd pocketed the thing, figuring that it wasn't that important of a find that close to a huge graveyard, but he'd still wanted to show it to someone who was a little more knowledgeable about these things than either he or John Redshirt were. But then, in the rush to evacuate once things had gone crazy and away teams had been attacked by some big scary predator, John had completely forgotten about it.

And now here it was on his floor. Being such a new recruit to the Galaxy and Starfleet in general, John wasn't quite sure what he should-- or could-- do about it now. Should he tell his supervisor, and risk possible disciplinary action? Or should he just keep it, or even discard it? Frowning, he finally bent down and picked it up, rubbing a finger over its surface to dislodge a piece of dirt obscuring the engraved letters.

"Archer." That was the only word engraved on either side of the flat, bone-shaped metal piece. The thing was obviously a name tag for a pet, probably a dog...but whose dog had he been? John couldn't help but wonder. "Who were you, Archer?"

*****

Jessa Greentree hated it when people saw her cry.

Having grown up with five brothers and no sisters in Canada's Northwest Territories, Jessa had naturally grown up tough. Her family hadn't had much of anything except for each other, and so at a very young age she'd learned to be strong-willed and self-sufficient, and had grown a skin as thick and impermeable as old boot leather.

But when she was eight years old her youngest brother Joseph had been killed in a skiing accident. Jessa had been devastated, and it had seemed like she would never stop mourning his death. As fate would have it Nancy Goodman, the local school bully, caught wind of this, and had proceeded to mercilessly taunt Jessa about her constant crying. The taunting worked, though perhaps not the way Nancy had intended. Instead of caving in, crying even harder, and giving Nancy exactly the satisfaction she wanted, Jessa instead pushed the feelings inside, putting on a mask to hide her true feelings from the rest of the world. After all, if people couldn't see her feelings, they couldn't use them against her, right?

Since that time she'd lost countless others in her life: four grandparents, two uncles, two more brothers, her father, and many more friends and relatives along the way. And each time she'd barely allowed herself tears in the privacy of her own home. Each time it happened she couldn't help but feel terrible, and couldn't help but think back to Nancy Goodman's hurtful words.

Which is why now, sitting in the dirt and heat and humidity of this far-off alien world, Jessa was trying so hard to force back the tears that threatened to burst forth at any moment.

Every other loss she'd endured in her life had affected her, but she'd been able to compartmentalize them easily. This was a totally different scenario. Here she was, a survivor of a shipwreck on a strange planet far from home. Nearly a third of the crew had been killed during the crash; more still were dying every moment. The ship was all but destroyed, and even though they'd activated the distress beacon there was no guarantee anyone would ever hear it. All her family and all her friends back home might never find out what happened to her, or any of them.

Before, each loss she'd endured had been individual, discrete. She'd been able to compartmentalize easily. Now...now, it almost seemed like too much.

Choking back a sob Jessa looked up, out of the small grove of trees in which she had taken refuge. In the distance, the massive bulk of the NX-19 loomed out of the ground, the carcass still hissing and smoking from the impact and everything that had been torn apart, ruptured, or otherwise destroyed. Between here and there, dozens of crewmen milled about, some moving purposefully, others simply stumbling around as if they had no idea what they should be doing. Many had unzipped the top halves of their blue uniforms; some had even shed the black undershirts and were either walking around either in tank tops or nothing at all. Jessa wondered how long it would take for them to get a sunburn.

Most of the shirtless ones were engaged in the unfortunate task of removing the dead, preparing them for burial, and actually burying them in the makeshift graveyard. Having been needed in Main Engineering (or at least what was left of it), Jessa had been spared that unsavory task, although now that she and her team had salvaged everything they could from the ruined warp drive, she almost wished she had been assigned to the burial teams. Still having something to do might have calmed her mind.

"I require more...'headstones'." Carried on the slight wind, the voice drifted lazily towards Jessa. The phrasing, and the unfamiliarity of the word 'headstone' meant that the speaker was one of the few Vulcans on board. Jessa squinted, searching around until she saw the owner of the voice. As expected it had come from Ensign Spork, one of her subordinates in Engineering. Spork was a fine officer, but he had quite possibly the most unfortunate name in the history of the Vulcan species. He insisted it was a common name in his family and a somewhat popular one on Vulcan as a whole, but Jessa could only wonder how long the name would stay in favor given its meaning in English.

Jessa watched quietly as another young ensign she didn't recognize made his way over to Spork, depositing a small pile of identical rectangular metal plates beside the Vulcan. Aiolos was not salvageable, so it made sense for them to use undamaged pieces of the hull plating to mark the graves of their deceased crewmates, and to give them a burial that involved something more than dumping bodies in holes. After all, they were Starfleet officers, not savages.

Which is why she had come here, to this secluded grove, to perform a last rite of her own.

Looking down, Jessa smiled sadly, patting the small mound of freshly turned dirt before her with one hand. "Archer," she whispered, reading the six awkward letters she'd made from broken twigs and pressed into the soft ground.

She'd had Archer for just over a year, but in that time she'd grown more attached to him than she had with any other animal in her life. Archer had been a gift from her eldest brother Jonas, a sort of celebratory present when she'd reached the rank of Lieutenant Commander. He was a mixed breed of unknown parentage and was still small enough to be a lap dog, yet not so small to get underfoot and cause problems. He was a little bit older, well trained, and above all else extremely friendly and loving. And like so many other pets of the 2360s, of course he'd been named after the legendary captain of the NX-01.

Not surprisingly, the first time Jessa had brought him along on an informal inspection of the Aiolos spaceframe, Archer had quickly become enamored of many of the crew, and thereafter had become the unofficial mascot of the Aiolos project. And of course, that meant he'd been allowed to take part in the ship's maiden voyage. His first and last spaceflight.

Once she'd cut open the door to her quarters and found him, Jessa didn't need Doctor Voras to tell her what she already knew: during the impact most everything in the ship that wasn't nailed down had been thrown against one or more walls, people...and dogs...included. Archer was just one of many casualties of the landing.

"Archer," she repeated. She traced a finger along one side of the crooked A. It was pretty poor work for a Starfleet engineer. Amazing how in a couple hours she'd gone from being on the bridge of the most technologically advanced ship ever built, to scratching in the dirt with sticks. She tried to chuckle at that, but the sound quickly turned into a harsh sob.

This time, Nancy Goodman be damned, she let the tears come.

*****

"Jessa."

Her eyes fluttered slowly open. It was much hotter now, and there was a hand on her shoulder.

"Jessa," the voice repeated.

"Hm?"

JP Levesque smiled and crouched down next to the huddled form of his Chief Engineer. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," he told her with a smile.

"Not funny JP," she murmured, pushing against the moist ground with a hand. She didn't remember falling asleep in the grove, but somehow it had happened. The shadows between the trees were almost nonexistent now, which meant it was close to this planet's version of high noon. Given that she'd come out here just after dawn, that meant she'd been asleep for several hours.

"Come on, Jessa. We need to get moving." He tugged at her arm, helping her into a sitting position.

"Right. Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it. You needed the rest." JP paused, looking at the small mound of dirt near them, and the tiny twigs pushed into the top of it. He squeezed her arm slightly and asked, "You OK?"

She nodded once, slowly. JP continued almost tentatively, "I can have Spork make another headstone if you'd like..."

"No, no this is fine. Spork's done more than enough." They both got to their feet, JP helping Jessa to brush off the bits of dirt and dead leaves that clung to her uniform. "How many did we lose?"

"Too many." JP looked down at the ground again, then back through the trees at what remained of the crew, many of whom were now paying their last respects in the impromptu burial ground. "Too many."

"I'm sorry, Captain...JP," she amended, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Nothing you could have done," he replied softly, still looking away. "Were you able to salvage any of the warp drive?"

Jessa nodded, automatically slipping back into a more professional demeanor as she sensed the time for mourning was coming to an end. This was the second day since they'd crashed; soon they would need to start thinking about the future, and the long term. "Several of the crystal arrays were damaged beyond repair, but many experienced only minor damage or no damage at all. We also have nearly 95% of our original tritium fuel stores remaining."

"Good. And you believe the array can be rigged to generate power outside of the confines of the ship?"

She nodded again. "It may not be pretty, and it may not be the safest thing in the world, but I think it can work."

JP scratched his chin. "Amber's scouting party found ruins of a city about twenty kilometers to the north. We may be able to use them. I don't want to stay in the ship any longer than possible; it's familiar to us, but it's no longer safe." He finally looked back at her. "Can the crystal array be moved?"

"I think so, yes. You want to set it up as a power source in this city?"

"Yeah." He was silent for a long moment, then sighed loudly. "Come on, 'Commander. We've got work to do."

"Aye, sir." As they moved back towards the ship Jessa paused, looking back one last time at the tiny burial mound with 21 twigs pushed into it. "Goodbye, buddy," she whispered. "Someday we'll meet again."

OOC-occurs immediately following "Know Your Enemy"

"The Necropsy"

Lt. JG T'Pei, Operations (temporarily reassigned to Sciences)

T'Pei suppressed a violent shiver. While generally, the stasis locks prevented cellular degradation in the Exobiology lab's specimens, they would, by necessity, be removed from the table in front of her before she began the necropsy. Thus, the temperature controls in the Exobiology lab were currently set well below normal levels for the rest of the ship.

And the normal levels on the rest of the ship were not exactly designed for Vulcan comfort.

As an exobiologist, this was a problem with which T'Pei was well acquainted. And as a Vulcan, she had, of course, found the most efficient and sensible solution, fine-tuned during countless necropsies over the past thirty years.

"Computer, scan specimen for all known pathogens."

As the computer began to run through every bacterium or virus which could pose a threat to the crew of the Galaxy, T'Pei closed her eyes and concentrated on her heart. She focused on her heart beat, reached, and felt her mind join it, pulsing at 236 beats per minute.

The Vulcan's body stilled completely as she harnessed psionic energy from the furthest recesses of her brain. Now in the deepest of meditations, T'Pei directed that energy to settle over the sympathetic nerves of her adrenal gland, smothering their electrical discharge like a blanket stealing oxygen from a fire. Gradually, her parasympathetic nerves responded, releasing acetylcholine, and her pulse slowed, settling calmly at just over 200 beats per minute. Soon, her dampened heart rate would raise her core temperature by a couple of degrees, but only as long as she continued to direct a small amount of energy towards controlling it.

Like a diver decompressing on they way the surface, T'Pei very gradually ascended to consciousness, reserving some psionic energy to maintain her current pulse, but releasing enough that her conscious abilities would not be compromised. It was a delicate process.

Minutes later, breaching the edge of consciousness, T'Pei opened her eyes smoothly to the harsh overhead lighting of Sciences Lab Four. Her body was already almost half a degree warmer. The Vulcan focused her rapidly dilating pupils on the creature that Arel had killed. Not including the left-lateral flank, which was facing down towards the examination table, she counted four jagged slashes, from which grayish-blue fluid had oozed down to puddle on the stainless steel surface.

'Fascinating,' she thought. 'The blood is not iron-based.'

"Scan negative," the computer intoned. "Specimen is not a carrier of any pathogens in the Starfleet Medical Database."

Satisfied, T'Pei stepped towards the table. "Disengage stasis locks on dissection table two, and raise steri-field."

The field shimmered around the table as the Vulcan woman stepped through it, completely sterilizing the outside of her suit, gloves and mask.

"Computer, begin recording." Although advanced technological capabilities had rendered auditory recordings of things such as measurements, weights and test results obsolete, the benefits of a living brain prioritizing and connecting information from the various scans had ensured the survival of the traditional autopsy recording, even into the 24th century.

"Star date 50809.01, 2230 hours. Lieutenant Junior Grade T'Pei, beginning necropsy of unknown alien specimen from planet HD 189625 d."

After ordering the computer to conduct a full external scan, T'Pei glided around the table slowly, using a holo-imager to record the creature from all angles. The smoothness of her movements, combined with her safety gear, made her look less like an exobiologist and more like a pale blue ninja.

"Specimen was beamed from the planet's surface following a hostile encounter with Commander Arel Smith. Previous hostile contact with Crewman Upchurch possible, pending analysis of stomach contents."

Finished holo-imaging the creature's head, the Vulcan placed both hands securely on the knife wedged in its throat and yanked straight up. Freed from the sharp implement, the head lolled to the side, and rolled to the edge of the table, where a gloved hand shot out to stop its fall. The owner of the hand continued, even more dryly than before.

"Cause of death appears to be decapitation."

By now, the results of the computer's scan began to appear on a screen on the far wall of the lab, as the computer's feminine voice breathed "Specimen weighs 155.6 kilos, projected length with head attached is 3.17 meters long. Standing height to shoulder is 1.25 meters."

T'Pei ignored the body for the moment. She studied the computer's generated diagrams of the creature's muscle and bone structure, mindful of Krieghoff's request for information that would be useful in a combat.

"Specimen is quadripedal, although the advanced development of muscles of the hind legs should allow it to support its complete weight for brief periods of time. Foot structure suggests it bears weight only on the pads of its feet. Forelegs are tetradactyl while hind legs are tridactyl." T'Pei paused, studying the creature's claws. "The presence of a fourth digit on the forelegs may serve a predatory 'tearing' function—its alignment is perpendicular to the other three.

"The creature's skin contains large quantities of Pheomelanin, causing the red shade, and is on average 5.31 mm thick, ranging from 6.11 mm on the dorsal portion of the neck and shoulders to 3.42 mm in the abdominal area. These areas lack the bony shielding and are points of vulnerability, as Commander Smith is no doubt aware," T'Pei added in a neutral tone. Vengeance was illogical; it could not undo the damage already caused, and in addition endangered the avenger, an irresponsible act which showed a lack of respect for life and in this case, a dereliction of duty.

"A bony plate covers the creature's head, as well as its neck, forelegs and haunches. Composition is..." Returning to the corpse, T'Pei held a medical scanner over the severed head. "Curious." T'Pei's brow furrowed, forming the inverse of the most stereotypical expression of her species. The plates were composed of silicon dioxide. Removing a sample for later analysis, T'Pei suppressed her curiosity and moved on to an external investigation of the head. Efficiency was paramount, for the safety of the crew still trapped on the surface. There would be time to examine the bone sample later.

Beginning from the point at which the neck should have attached to the body, T'Pei used an exoscalpel to cut a long incision. Next, she sliced a line between the forelegs, perpendicular to her previous cut. Separating the outer skin and fat from the muscle below, the Vulcan folded back the flaps, revealing the rib cage.

Slicing out the animal's breast plate was followed by another battery of holoimaging, and then T'Pei began the process of removing each organ for individual analysis.

"Specimen has a single, six-chambered heart, comprising only 0.9% of its total body mass. This relatively small size, along with well developed hind leg muscles, are consistent with short distance sprinting instead of long distance running—a common trait in predatory species." Extracting a sample of the grayish blood from the larger of two pulmonary veins, T'Pei crossed the lab and placed the sample into a phoretic analyzer, which would break it down into its basic chemical components.

"Stomach contents support my previous assessment that these creatures are carnivorous." Here, T'Pei paused. Contrary to ignorant popular belief, there are some things that are at least mildly disconcerting to even the most composed of Vulcans.

Being face to face with the partially digested remains of a crew mate is one of these things.

Reflecting on the benefits of her vegetarianism, the short Vulcan woman selected a sample of the animal's stomach contents, as well as one of its heart tissue, inserting the first into an electron resonance scanner. This test would be relatively fast, as the ship had genetic records on all crew members, and T'Pei could limit the computer's search space to two people. Three minutes later, she had two answers—both positives.

"It would appear that this is, indeed, the animal that attacked Crewman Upchurch, as his DNA is present in the stomach contents along with Commander Smith's."

Now, T'Pei inserted the second tissue sample into the scanner, taken from the heart to avoid contamination by human DNA found in the digestive tract. This test would take several hours—developing a genetic blueprint was a far more intricate task than simple DNA matching.

T'Pei exited the steri-field, the pale shimmer cleansing her garments and tools one last time. She would use the next few hours to analyze the data she had gathered thus far, which would determine the next logical direction of her investigation.

"Computer, re-engage stasis locks on dissection table two, and transfer data to main Sciences, work station six."

Back in the staging room, T'Pei deposited the blue safety gear in the biohazard chute, where it would undergo decontamination before being recycled. Then, just over three hours after dampening it, turned her mind inward and finally allowed her heart rate to increase.

"Sleeping with the Fishes"

Lt. JG Ophelia Zamora JAG -

Senior Marshal Bin Hux (undercover)

Location: Ophelia's Personal Quarters

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

Her eyes drifted slowly over to Callahan. Yet again, he snoozed soundly on her couch, spread eagle and snoring like a saw cutting through timber. Blinking twice, Lia sighed. Stripped of her duties by the Captain, she really had nothing now. The scene replayed in her mind as her assistant had readily taken over her duties. Ayana. The woman was grace personified in and out of the office. Ophelia knew that the woman would take the reins of the department and run it with an efficient and easy style. That information did not ease her much though.

Swallowing the saliva that had pooled in her mouth, Zamora swiveled in her chair and opened a communication channel to Earth. The red head met her with concern.

"Elaine.....Hey...."

"Lia. I've heard about what is going on. I wish I could help. Perhaps, back in my day's on board the Galaxy....I could cause some serious damage. Now, the only damage I cause is the destruction of marriages. What can I do for you?"

"Well..." Lia paused. "I need a favor."

"Sure...name it."

"I need a bounty hunter." Zamora's plain speaking perked O'Hare's interest. "I don't care the cost, I can cover it."

"What type Lia. Ball busting, or sneaky? We are talking about finding a Chameloid. That's about as tough as it gets. I have a name....but he's rather....um, unique."

"That'll work."

"Alright then, I'll send his information right to you. I'll give him a ring and let him know your coming. Lia, I hope that you are safe babe."

"Thanks Elaine, I appreciate it."

"Zamora, know that you have many people that have your back. I'm one of them.....O'Hare out."

The screen went blank for a moment before the promised information scrolled across the screen. Taking note, Lia took a small satisfaction in the fact that she was being proactive instead of reactive. Her eyes darted over to Callahan, wondering for a moment if what she was doing would piss him off.

------------------A few hours later--------------------

Unexpectedly, her console beeped with an incoming communication. Lia froze, praying that it was not one Faylin McAlister. The button pressed, a male popped up onto her screen.

"Yes?"

"Zamora?" the man began without preamble, almost a statement more than a question

"Yes."

"I'm Hux." The man was big. More than six feet and decidedly grumpy looking. Word is you needed somebody to find an associate of yours?"

"Ex associate Mr. Hux."

The man on the other end of the screen sighed and rubbed at a perpetual five 'o clock shadow. Monosyllabic answers irritated him. "I'm not part of you protective detail Lady. You contacted me, What the hell do you want?"

"I want her dead. Simply stated." Ophelia mused out loud.

"Dead?" the man repeated the word for clarity, "You aint hiring a Bounty hunter Lady, you're putting a hit out on this lady." he seemed to consider this for long moments before continuing.

"Things like this have rules Lady." Hux leaned closer to the screen. "Rule one is don't bullshit me. You don't level with me, I cant help you."

"Fine."

Again with the monosyllabic answers….did this chick want help or not.....or was she hiding something? "Second of all....why you? What the hell did you do to piss off such a bigass scumbag like McCalister?"

"I set her up Marshall. She killed my uncle and my ex husband and I brought her down legally. She did not like that too much I suppose, escaped, I believe killed my mother and is coming for me and my son."

Hux leaned back. "You took her out legally and now you want me to do it illegally….and more permanent like huh?" he paused, "So she doesn't like you after you screwed her……why your Husband? Why your uncle…..how did this all get started, and remember what I said about yanking my chain. I don't like having to drag crap out of people.

"She threatens me and my son, kills my mother, uncle, and ex husband. So...yeah." Lia paused her eyebrows furrowing in anger. "My uncle was a diplomat for Starfleet, I don't know why she did what she did...I just know that she did it and I want revenge that the 'law' can not give me. There are things that even the law can't handle...and McAlister believes she is above the law....so I will operate above the law."

Ophelia glanced down, noticing one of Jack's wrapped cigars. Unwrapping it, clipping it and lighting it, she returned her half gaze to the Marshall as she took a long draw on the thing. Puffing the smoke out into the air, she inwardly now understood why Callahan liked these. They could get addicting.

Onscreen the bounty hunter was studying Ophelia carefully, weighing his options carefully before asking.

"What are you offering me to execute this revenge…to kill her?"

"Track her down. That's it for now. I'll handle the rest."

"Fine, I'll track her down lady. Just don't double cross me, or we'll find out how good a hunter I really am got it?"
Lia's smirk cemented on her delicate features. 'What ever.' She thought before switching the screen off.

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

Half universe away, after the connection closed down, Marshal Bin Hux leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh.

"Fuck." This case had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.

Sitting just off camera, Melissa Daughtery puffed slightly on her ever present cigarette. "She's lying Bin." she stated simply.

"No shit Mel. Ya think?" Hux leaned forward to pick up his copy of Zamora's service record scanning it once again for anything he might have missed. "Who the fuck are you lady and what did you do to piss McAllister off?" he asked the empty air.

"Still," Mel added stabbing out her butt. "Its obvious she knows something that's got her scared enough for the threat to be real. This isn't just some two bit lawyer getting death threats from some con they put away….She did something to Faylin and she knows it. This is personal."

"Right." The big Marshal was still flipping through file settling on Zamora's family references. "Allright, we go back to the beginning. Check out this ex-husband of hers…If she wont tell us why McAllister suddenly got so interested, we'll do the digging ourselves."

"And it never goes well when we have to do the digging right? " The thin blond was smiling wryly.

"Nope…" he held up the photograph to the light, "No, because there's always something they don't expect that we unearth…..always.

"The Danger of Mixing Weapons and Science"

Lt Chris Daniels, CTO

Lt. Cutter Kara'nin, CSO

Lt. JG T'Pei, Operations

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

Lieutenant Chris Daniels entered the large lab in search of the Fruna'lin chief of science. Chris had never really been that terribly interested in science, and so therefore didn't really know what to expect. Bubbling test tubes, blinking computers, glowing rocks and maybe the odd stray bolt of electricity arcing through the air from some fantastic machine, perhaps. Instead, he had walked into what looked like the community study area of the Academy campus library. One side of the room was lined with computer terminals, the other lined with sofas and end tables. In the middle were several small conference tables, and on the far side was a holographic black board. The room was filled with scientific underlings scattered around, crunching numbers on personal computers. It was clearly some front room. The labs were tucked away in the back.

Cutter, himself, had just emerged from some concealed corridor on the opposite of the room as Chris entered. He was met by a slightly smaller human man with glasses and messy brown hair. "This, um, this, this configuration is, uh, the closest, um, that we've come to, um, to, uh, you know, uh, matching the field we, uh, observe on the planet," the man stuttered.

Cutter looked over the PADD the man passed to him and hummed in consideration. "Try increasing the scale of the cochrane unit in direction six," he said.

"Why?"

"I don't remember," the avian shrugged. "Something in Boyer's scans, I think, suggested some local over expansion in that dimension. Run it by him," he suggested, to which the man nodded and then left. "Thanks, Daniel."

Chris saw his opportunity and walked over the winged man. "Hey Cutter," he called out.

Cutter turned and gave him a mostly neutral, yet still slightly judgemental gaze, as Chris walked across the room. "Yes, Chris?"

"How's the 8-Ball hunt going? Any progress yet?"

"We're trying to replicate the environment on the planet in order to test certain hypotheses," the scientist answered, which was a round about way of saying no.

Chris looked around for a moment. "I was thinking. You said on the bridge that the phasing thing was probably being caused by some interaction with the subspace field on the surface, right? Well, the long range tactical sensors that we use to detect ships at warp are basically subspace sonar. They detect and track the disruptions in subspace caused by ships using their warp drives. Obviously they're tuned for pretty large disruptions, but if we refined them we may be able to use them to find Lieutenant Hunter and the others who've disappeared."

"And why do you think that," the avian asked, professorially, as he turned and activated the holographic black board.

He shrugged. "Well, I've been mulling it over for more than an hour and it seems to make sense. If it's a subspace problem, might as well use what we have available to try and find it. You'll need an engineer to figure out how to solve the acutal problem, but I've got your best resource for finding them. Plus I had to devote my energies elsewhere. Our missile tests are on hold for the time being and with the Marines away and us sitting here on the Rear End of the line, there's not much to do in the CIC. And despite the rumors going around that I'm a cold-hearted bastard, I do actually care about getting a few of our own back."

Cutter turned and stared at Chris for a moment before saying, "You have very good timing, Chris."

"And why's that?" Chris said almost defensively.

"Well, had you have come in here half an hour ago with that idea, I would have had you kicked out of my lab," Cutter said, "But after the scans we've run, I've been moving towards that idea myself."

"Well how about that...the professor beat the killer to the hypothesis." Chris smirked. He couldn't help it. After Cutter's quips on the bridge, it just seemed like turnabout was fairplay.

It was not obvious to Cutter if Chris was being sarcastic or not. Either way, he considered the comment to be true. "Yes," he said, "I did."

Chris just shook his head softly. It was quite apparent that Cutter had missed the whole vibe. The man truly seemed to be that engrossed in his own glory. "So what do you propose we do about it?"

"Well, as I said, we're setting things up to model the environment down there. Once it's up, then we test these scanning techniques."

"Tell ya what. We're not making any headway like this. You guys figure out what parameters we need to be looking for and forward them down the CIC. I'll have a couple of my sensor techs ready to fine tune the LRTS system and then we'll use it to find all our lost sheep. Deal?"

"No," Cutter said, which caught Chris off guard. "While your idea to scan for subspace disruptions is fundamentally sound, your assumptions about its implementation are false. You cannot take sensors which are geared towards detecting massive, high speed disruptions caused by multi-million ton high-warp space vessels and use them to detect small, slow disruptions caused by 50 kilogram woman moving at four kilometers per hour that are constantly decreasing in magnitude as she slowly realigns with the alternate dimensional configuration, now matter how much fine tuning you perform."

"These aren't your brand of single purpose scanners, Cutter. You don't have the monopoly of fancy scanners onboard. LRTS is designed to pick up masses as small as a mine up to a light year away. They won't have any issues picking up someone roughly the size of a torpedo casing from a few hundred clicks above the surface. You just have to take out the filter that would register her as debris."

Cutter raised a blue feathered brow. "Lieutenant, I am well aware of all the scanning capabilities on this ship, and I'm very familiar with your long range tactical scanners. I've worked with the woman who designed them. You're not aware of all the mathematics. We don't have the technology that will be capable of the needed level of detection from orbit. We will need to modify existing technology to function on the ground. It will probably have extremely limited range and will therefore have to be manned."

Chris was starting to lose his patience. Cutter wasn't listening. "So you want to talk about the technology needed, design and program new stuff, and then send it back down the planet with people who will probably get shifted themselves while they're looking for her with a much smaller volume of surveillance capability? All the while, you have a perfectly capable platform which, with a couple quick tweaks, can scan a much wider swath of land faster with less risk to the crew?"

The avian rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said, to the first question.

"And do you have a way to keep the lucky scanners who will have to go down there safe?"

"I don't know how to prevent further dimensional realign--" he began, but when he saw Chris' eyes glaze over, switched to, "further phasings. But, as I said earlier, you have good timing. Lieutenant T'Pei has reported interesting findings that may be relevant to that question. She is supposed to come here to discuss her research in about ten minutes. If you would like to listen in, you may stay."

Chris just stared at Cutter in disbelief. "Thank you, oh generous Chief of Science, for permitting me to stay." He said as sarcastically as he could. "But I think I'll pass. As much fun as it is sitting here and watching you all run a science experiment at the expense of 8-Ball's potential well-being, I'm not quite ok with that. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try and get one of your science officers back." He decided to leave off the part about how if he ever talked down to him again in front of the Captain that he'd shove some of his feathers where they wouldn't help him fly, and then turned and started to walk back towards the door.

"Two science officers," Cutter called out, as Chris was leaving. "Lieutenant Shivar is missing, as well."

"How Thyago Finally Gets a Job, Part II"

Thyago Carneiro
Captain T'Vara

and a couple blasts from the USS Cheyenne past (including Pat. Yay!)

He was dead.

Few people aspired to be dead. Death had obvious drawbacks. No more food. No more breathing. No more wardrobe changes. No more cake. Not even carrot. No more sex. For most dead people, at least.

Those he was aware of, but he had never thought being dead would come with *these* problems. Who would? No one ever really worried about all the difficulties one would have being dead. It was inevitable, after all. Best not to fret.

But, being dead? That also meant no more money. No more savings accounts. No more debit accounts. No more buying drinks at the bar. He wasn't aware of that one. That was how he found out he was dead. Being dead also meant you had to deal with grumpy bartenders who wanted their money or there would be hell to pay. He wasn't aware of that one either.

Although, if one were dead and in hell, it might not have been that much of a problem.

Being dead also meant no more phone calls. So, he couldn't call anyone to tell them that he was, in fact, *not* dead. Which was silly. What's the reason for restricting a dead man of his communications priveleges? If he was really dead, then he didn't need them. But, if he wasn't dead, then they became really important. It was bad protocol, through and through.

If you were dead, it was really hard to become not.

So, help off ship couldn't be reached. Help on ship? That also seemed unreachable.

Dead men got little respect.

He told Nathan of his plight. Nathan could barely stop laughing to breathe.

He told Arel of his plight. Arel looked at him skeptically and said she wouldn't sleep with him again. That conversation was a let down in two ways.

He told Shi of his plight. Shi was very sorry, and wanted to help, but didn't know what she could do, and was very sorry some more, but she had an away team mission to participate in, and hoped everything would work out.

He tried to tell Jaal, but couldn't get in to see him. Which was just as well, because Jaal hated him because of his (entirely reasonable, Thyago thought) fear of getting shot and would probably say something smug like serves you right, or I'm not going to sleep with you again.

He didn't know who else to turn to. For as long as he had been on the Galaxy, sleeping on Nathan's couch, he knew few people of import. He knew lots of girls, but he didn't really want to go to them about this. Being dead was not very attractive. To most women, anyway.

So, that left him with only one alternative. Standing in the hall, waiting for the one person whose primary responsibility was to take care of and look after every person on the ship. She was his last hope.

Unfortunately, she was a Vulcan.

And, according to gossip, unshakable in her faith and devotion to rules and regulations.

He just hoped she wouldn't stick him in a torpedo tube and launch him out into space.

"Captain!" Thyago shouted, running up to the woman. "Captain TV!"

T'Vara paused, taking in his appearance, wondering just why an apparent civilian would be needing to speak with her for any reason. After all, civilian concerns were generally handled by the ship's Liaison to the Civilian Population, or in certain circumstances, the Executive Officer. Clearly this man was not aware of established protocols.

Or perhaps he was a recently arrived diplomat of some sort, she reasoned; it would possibly explain his enthusiastic demeanor, lack of apprehension in approaching the ship's Commanding Officer...and his slightly offbeat attire. Realizing that she had not been notified of any diplomatic arrivals T'Vara frowned slightly, and made a second mental note to reprimand Lieutenant Commander Tarin for once again failing to inform her of the presence of important personages aboard ship.

All of this, of course, took less than a tenth of a second to process in her mind, and before he or anyone else in the immediate area noticed anything was amiss, T'Vara had returned to the present and the matter at hand.

"I am T'Vara," the Vulcan woman corrected, seemingly without missing a beat.

"Oh, uh... sorry. I have something very, very important to tell you. You must listen to me," he said. He grabbed her shoulders and braced himself, and her, for what he was about to say. "I'm not dead."

T'Vara did her best to maintain control, to not recoil in distaste at his touch. The man certainly appeared human, but perhaps his strange admission (and need to grab her arms so tightly, she amended) was a custom unique to his particular planet of origin...wherever that was. Still, being so close to the man was unnerving, especially because now her nose could pick up a variety of scents coming from him and she was all but certain that one of them was alcohol. Her gaze flicked left, then right, as she scanned the gently curving hallway in search of a friendly, or possibly sympathetic, or at the very least helpful, person to provide her the most efficient exit from this encounter. Seeing none, she suppressed the need to command the man to unhand her, and instead asked in as level a voice as possible, "What is your name, sir?"

"Oh, right, that would probably be useful, sim?" the Brazilian smiled awkwardly. "My name is Thyago Carneiro."

"Thyago...Carneiro?" T'Vara repeated deliberately, rolling the words around in her mouth, almost stumbling on the second one though it felt oddly familiar to her ears. She looked at the man again, really stopped and looked at him this time, and between the dancing look in his eyes and the almost silly expression on his face, saw a collection of features that she thought (or possibly hoped) she would never see again. And suddenly, a wave of memory that she was powerless to stop washed over her.

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

"Lieutenant Carneiro, according to the most recent status report, this shuttle is awaiting repairs. Is that no longer the case?" Ensign T'Vara asked, realizing the designation of the vessel in which they were traveling for the first time since they left the planet's surface.

"Dude, mina, I hate being called by my rank, entende? I only ever hear it from Vicky when he's yelling at me. Why can't you just call me Ori like everyone else does? Or Oreias. Or at the very least Dominic," the Brazilian pilot snapped. It wasn't the first time he had told her this, and he knew it wasn't going to be the last.

Dominic Oreias Aquilla Carneiro and T'Vara sat quietly in the shuttle as the human gave the request a moment to attempt to settle in. The USS Cheyenne hung in the distance.

"And not anymore. I fixed it," he said at last, answering her initial question.

"I was not aware that officers outside of Engineering were allowed to perform that type of maintenance," she countered, for once making a solid effort to not end the statement with the word 'Lieutenant'.

He scoffed. "If I had to wait on Murray to do every little thing, I'd have nothing to fly. She likes to keep me angry, sabe? It turns her on when we fight," he smiled, savoring a memory. "You know what I'm talking about."

T'Vara looked at him, resisting the almost compulsive urge to raise one eyebrow questioningly. She had no desire to be subjected to a lengthy description of the man's extracurricular activities.

"Or, right, you don't know what I'm talking about," Oreias rolled his eyes awkwardly. "At any rate, I fix the shuttles all the time. It was just the fusion drive. I used to fix the giant fusion lamps on Saturn before the Academy, these engines are noth--"

His bragging was cut off by one of the engines exploding.

The shuttle jerked forward as the thrust increased out of control, the lights dimmed to the red emergency lights and all the alerts on the control panel lit up. Oreias quietly cursed, "Caralho." Beside him, T'Vara observed, "This is not wholly unexpected."

Moments later, as the shuttle tumbled to a crashing halt upside down on the floor of the Cheyenne's shuttle bay, T'Vara unfastened her restraints and fell from her inverted chair, quickly making it to her feet and brushing smooth the front of her uniform. "Perhaps, in the future, engine repairs should be left to Engineering?" she suggested, watching detachedly as Oreias attempted to right himself as well.

"Hey," Oreias smiled proudly, "at least we're not dead."

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

"They are gaining on us," T'Vara pointed out as Oreias, ahead of her, pushed aside a branch and continued to move forward at a respectable, but ultimately too slow a pace.

They were being chased by Klingons, who were armed with disruptor pistols and their version of a machete. Oreias and T'Vara, on the other hand, only had one small Type I hand phaser between them.

"Po! TV, I know! I'm fleeing as fast as I can. This forest is thick," Oreias said, knocking aside more branches with his forearms.

T'Vara glanced down at her tricorder and the tiny map displayed on its screen. "There is a river to the east. Perhaps-- Oh!" she cried, in as much as a Vulcan could give a cry of surprise. Oreias had suddenly jerked her arm, redirecting their path sharply to the left. "Where--?"

"I see a cave, mina. We hide." Indeed, there was a fairly obvious opening into the ground ahead of them, a hole in a rocky outcropping, overgrown with shrubbery.

"Lieutenant, this cave is easily observable from the path we were taking. Our pursuers will almost certainly spot it and check it," she protested, but nonetheless continued to let herself be guided forward by the human pilot.

"It's a cave. It's dark. We can get the jump on them, or something, sacou?" Oreias began to defend, but then stopped and simply said, "Trust me, I gotta hunch."

T'Vara frowned; human hunches were nonsense on which illogical decisions were based. "This course of action is dangerous, Lieutenant," she insisted. "Escape is the option most likely to ensure our survival. We should not remain here."

They entered the cave and continued forward until they were sufficiently far from the opening that they couldn't be easily seen from the outside. "Stay here," Oreias said suddenly, and then disappeared into the dark just as quickly.

Seeing no other options at the moment, T'Vara took their one phaser and crouched down against the wall of the cave, readying herself. Outside of the cave, she could hear the rustling of approaching hunters, then a barely linguistic grunt. The Klingons had spotted the cave, of course. Silently, she watched them walk up to the opening. They were illuminated by the sun, she was shielded by shadow, but if they entered she would be easily spotted. Keeping her breaths slow and even, T'Vara prepared herself for the moment when she would have to act. If she fired, she could incapacitate one, but the other would just as quickly shoot her. She had limited options.

She did not expect Oreias to provide another. "Aaaagghhh!" he shrieked, as he bolted from out of the darkness and past the Klingons, roughly grabbing T'Vara along the way and dragging her right past the group. "Corre!"

The Klingons were clearly not expecting such a strategy. They looked at each other for a moment, confused. But before they could react, T'Vara heard a loud roar emanate from the cave. So too did the Klingons. The hunters turned back to the opening, only to be met with the salivating jaws, razor-sharp claws, and massive bulk of an alien bear.

Not unexpectedly, the Klingons were quickly routed.

"See, told you we could get the jump on them," Oreias said, braggingly, trying a bit too hard to make the world forget how shrill and terrified his recent scream really was.

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

The narrow double doors to Crew Lounge 7 slid open with a soft swish, revealing a small room measuring roughly four by four meters that contained a pair of round tables, eight standard issue chairs, four walls with sound-dampening paneling, and no windows.

T'Vara nodded once and stepped inside. It had taken a great deal of searching, but at last she believed she had found a satisfactory room for musical practice aboard the USS Cheyenne. It was a bit too large, the presence of extraneous furniture could cause acoustic problems, and the dampening properties of the walls had yet to be tested. However, it was far enough away from major activity centers within the ship that any sound bleed-through would cause minimal disruption, and very few crewmen used this lounge so she was likely to remain undisturbed. The room was far from perfect, but it was as close to perfect as she was going to find aboard this vessel. Only time would tell if this room would serve her needs as well as she hoped.

Setting the small case she carried on one of the tables, T'Vara unfastened the clasps and withdrew the small instrument from its protective interior. The flute was carved from a single piece of wood having a deep, luminous golden-red hue, with nine diamond-shaped holes carved into it at regular intervals. Unlike many replicas of the ancient Vulcan veri-thoth (particularly those made available to tourists), this instrument had no fancy scrollwork or inlays of colored wood, metals, or other aesthetically pleasing materials. It had been created for purely practical uses.

Shutting the case softly T'Vara cradled the instrument in one hand, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing as she stepped slowly, almost idly, toward one corner of the room. Meditation was a key component of her musical sessions, and every step in this process had been carefully developed and refined over the years to have the maximum benefit. She would first slow her breathing, the pace of her heartbeat automatically following suit. After several minutes of focus she would begin, slowly warming the instrument and her facial muscles with a series of long tones. And then, when both she and the instrument were ready, they would begin. Any deviation from the norm would cause dissatisfaction with the music that poured forth from the polyphonic instrument, a less than perfect meditative session, or both.

Somewhere nearby there was a quiet beeping; elsewhere there was a series of loud thumps followed by what sounded almost like laughter. T'Vara inhaled, then exhaled, the simple act of breathing pushing any extraneous sensory input to the back of her mind, until there remained only her breathing, her hands, and the instrument within them. She inhaled one final time and brought the instrument to her mouth, the smooth wood settling into its familiar spot as she pursed her lips and began.

A split second later something heavy impacted the doors of the lounge, the sound immediately followed by the soft swish of the doors opening automatically and then the sound of the same something impacting the floor just inside.

This was followed by loud, boisterous laughter.

Her concentration broken, T'Vara lowered the instrument and turned reluctantly toward the source of the interruption. "Less than perfect," she murmured, looking down at the all too familiar form of Lieutenant Carneiro half-crumpled at her feet. Not unexpectedly he was out of uniform, and the fabric of his shirt seemed to have a large dark spot on it. In one hand he was clutching some sort of brightly colored item; his other hand was clutching his stomach as he continued to laugh.

T'Vara stepped over and frowned down at him. "Lieutenant Carneiro, are you in need of assistance?"

It took several seconds before Oreias realized there was someone standing over him. When he saw who it was, his smile faded only slightly. "Um...oh...um, oi Teev," he started, looking around the room. Except for the two of them, it was empty. He looked back up at T'Vara. "Tudo bem? What are you up to?"

"Meditation," she responded quietly, already moving back towards the table and the flute's case. It was obvious she wasn't going to get any peace in here, not now at least. Snapping the case closed over the flute she turned back to face him and cocked her head to the left. "What is that instrument you are carrying?"

Oreias gave her a strange look as he sat up on the floor, then looked down at the small toy gun in his hands. "This? A water pistol," he said, holding it so she could see it a little better. "Some of the engineers organized a game of Assassin while we're docked. I'm dead, obviously," he finished, pointing at the dark spot on his chest.

Her eyes widened. "'Assassin'? Is this safe?"

"It's a game. A several hundred years old gringo game," he repeated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You should play! It's fun!"

"T'Vara frowned again as she moved towards the door, stepping around his splayed-out legs. "No thank you. I wish to meditate, not to play...games."

"TV, are you sure *you're* not dead?" he asked, crossing his arms across his dampened chest.

T'Vara looked back at him, then blinked once. Slowly she brought a hand to her neck and pressed two fingers into the soft flesh. "Cursory physical examination reveals a steady and strong heartbeat; contrary to your assumption it appears I am very much alive, Lieutenant."

He grinned mischievously, and held out the pistol. Suddenly, he let loose a long stream of water, which arched across the room and landed directly on her chest.

"How about now?"

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

"Minister, I assure ye, I've got top men on the case," Victor Murdock assured the statesman as they walked through the corridor. "We'll find yuir wife."

Ensign T'Vara walked alongside, yet slightly behind the pair of older men as they strode down the long, elegantly furnished palace hallway. She and the captain were trying to console the colony leader, although at the moment their efforts were proving ineffective. The man's wife had turned up missing during Cheyenne's visit to the world, while the ship was delivering new engine manufacturing equipment. She had disappeared three days ago under mysterious circumstances. Two days ago, they had found a ransom note.

Kidnappings of this sort never worked out well.

The woman was feared dead.

"Do you have any leads, Captain? Who would have taken her? Our world has no enemies."

Murdock looked at the prime minister solemnly, but chose to say nothing. They had no leads. The woman had just vanished. Even the ransom note was extremely vague, yielding no clues. It had been delivered privately to the palace, unmarked, and simply asked for a sum of money. A not unreasonable amount, considering the prosperity of the colony and the personal fortune of the minister himself.

"Every avenue of investigation will be followed, Prime Minister," T'Vara added, filling the silence Murdock had left.

At the moment Murdock and T'Vara were escorting the colony leader back to his personal chambers, their three sets of footfalls echoing sharply against the smooth walls and floors of the labyrinthine hallways. In unison they turned one last corner, continuing down another hallway that terminated in a single set of doors. As they approached the large hardwood doors, T'Vara moved forward and reached out to push against an ornate silver handle. The doors parted silently before them, the rapidly fading sound of footfalls replaced with an equally rhythmic, yet completely unexpected set of sounds. Moaning sighs of passion.

And unexpected sights. Two people, a man and a woman, in the minister's bed.

"Lieutenant Carneiro?" T'Vara asked, though the tone of her voice indicated it wasn't so much a question as it was a statement of fact. Having spent more time with the man than she cared to remember, T'Vara had no trouble recognizing the shape of his form, even though right now it looked slightly different without several layers of uniform on top. And despite his apparent carelessness towards everything else in his life, the Vulcan couldn't help but observe that, at the very least, Carneiro took very good care of his body.

"Oreias?" Murdock exclaimed.

The two thrusting figures stopped and looked up at the new company for a moment, before scurrying to cover up. "Oh, uh, ola, guys," Oreias offered, clearly caught with his pants down. He looked down at his bed mate and asked, "I thought this was your room."

"It is," she said quietly.

"H- Honey?" the prime minister questioned, stepping into the room.

Oreias' eyes shot wide as he did a double take to the prime minister, then back to the woman. Catching on last, Oreias suddenly gave an awkward and embarrassed laugh and sheepishly said, "Hey, look! I, uh, I found your missing wife."

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

"They are firing!" T'Vara announced loudly, barely making herself heard over the sparking short circuits and the hissing CO2 scrubbers.

"I know!" Oreias shouted from the shuttle cockpit. He yanked the throttle back and jammed his foot down on the floor pedals while co-opting thrust from the VTO throttle, sending the shuttle into a backwards spin and sideways roll. Their forward momentum was cut, but they had made a sudden, and very hard, right turn.

Unable to find a hand hold in time, T'Vara slid sideways off her chair and bounced against the shuttle's wall. Quickly, she pulled herself back onto her chair. "They missed," she announced.

"I know!" the Brazilian shouted back once more. He sent the shuttle into another hard roll and taxed the forward thrusters, launching T'Vara back against the opposite wall, the change in g forces causing her to stick there for a moment before she slid once more to the floor. Resonating through the hull, she could hear the shuttle's phasers charge up and quickly discharge, followed by Oreias' cursing, "Foda! Caralho!"

T'Vara pulled herself to her feet as quickly as she was able to and began moving across the shuttle back to her position when Oreias sent the craft into a nose dive. After bouncing off the ceiling, the force of the impact knocking the air from her lungs, she landed right next to where she had been trying to go. She was firmly back in her seat when disruptor fire rocked the hull. Her panels flickered and sparked, and the hum of one of the two engines began to sputter.

"Why didn't you tell me our shields were down?" Oreias cried.

She frowned. Had she not been repeatedly thrown from her seat, rendering her unable to man her station effectively, she might have been able to alert him. "I will attempt to bring them back online," she stated.

In her periphery, she could see Oreias' head jerk around the cockpit, scanning nearby space. He seemed to find something, and yawed the shuttle right. This time she anticipated the action and grabbed a nearby handle to stabilize herself. The enemy disruptors struck once more and the sputtering engine died, but at least the latest sudden motion hadn't thrown her from her chair. "The starboard thruster is lost," she announced, tapping the screen to clear the warning message.

"Okay, hold on," Oreias called out. He pulled back on the thruster, and spun the shuttle around, so that it was flying in reverse. Through the cockpit window, T'Vara could see the small enemy vessel gaining on them. Her eyes widened slightly as its forward cannons began to glow. Not for the first time her thoughts went back to the incident with the bear in the cave and the Klingon hunting party, and she hoped for both her sake and his that, if Carneiro was planning to attempt some sort of miracle, the result was a bit more favorable than it had been the last time.

"Lieutenant," she said, her voice tinged with a bit of concern.

But Oreias gave no response. He was counting. "Quatro. Tres. Dois e um."

Suddenly, the shuttle shot forward. Predictably, T'Vara was launched backwards and hit the wall, her head impacting the unforgiving paneling with a sickening thud. As she fell yet again to the floor she reached a hand up, and was not surprised to feel a warm trickle of blood exiting the new head wound. Several feet away, Oreias was yelling triumphantly. Slowly, she forced herself to her feet and moved forward focusing on her breathing in an attempt to calm herself and quell the violent urges threatening to wriggle free from some deep, primordial place in her brain. "Given your sudden change in demeanor I assume our attacker has been neutralized," she asked as she returned...once again...to her seat.

"Yeah, he has! Hah!" Oreias laughed. Through the forward porthole, T'Vara could see the attacking craft floating still in space, its external lights flickering one final time before dying entirely. In stark contrast to the past several minutes Oreias smoothly flew their shuttle forward and angled it so that she could see the enemy cockpit. It had been smashed in; a brown asteroid less than a meter across had wrenched itself into the metal frame. "I made him hit a rock!" Oreias bragged, than began to laugh once more at his victory.

Suddenly, their other engine died, and the shuttle's interior lights flashed to the red emergency lanterns. T'Vara tapped at her console, although she did not need a computer to confirm what logic had already concluded. "The shuttle engines have been significantly over taxed," she reported with a barely repressed sigh, clearly indicating he was at fault. "With the exception of life support and emergency lighting, all systems are down."

He looked up at her and shrugged, "Hey, TV, at least we ain't dead!"

T'Vara looked back at him, her expression as neutral as ever. "My name, Lieutenant, is T'Vara."

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

"Ola? Hello, Captain Tivo?" Thyago Leandro Domenico Carneiro said, pulling T'Vara abruptly from the visions of her past. Blinking once she looked at the man before her, her eyes narrowing slightly as she compared the sight before her to the information stored in her memory. The hair was longer, the nose a bit thinner, the voice slightly higher, but he was strikingly similar to the man she knew. The man who, logically, was either his father or uncle.

"You have to help me. I'm not dead." And they clearly shared the same penchant for getting into trouble, she noted.

"Carneiro?" T'Vara repeated. "You are related to Dominic Oreias Aquilla Carneiro, perhaps?" she asked, although she was almost certain his answer would be in the affirmative.

He pulled back and smiled, pleasantly surprised at the smallness of the galaxy. "You know tio Nico?"

"I do," she responded with a slight sigh that indicated it probably wasn't the smoothest professional relationship she'd experienced. Over forty years had passed since there had been a Carneiro in her life, and she wasn't completely sure she was ready to deal with another one just yet. But, she reasoned, if this Carneiro shared physical traits with his uncle, as well as mannerisms and an uncanny talent for attracting trouble, perhaps they shared other traits as well.

And if Thyago Carneiro had even half the talent his uncle Dominic had tried so hard to cover up, he could be a valuable addition to this crew. Molding him into an officer of satisfactory quality would be quite the challenge and would likely not be entirely without incident, but there was a high degree of probability that the benefits would outweigh the costs. Eventually.

Tilting her head slightly to one side, T'Vara considered him for another moment before concluding at last, "I will assist you. Follow me."

"Thanks, Tea Water, I knew you'd help!"

"It is T'Vara."

"Right. Sorry."

"Time For Some Pool"

Lieutenant Branwen London - Hydran Gestation Chamber
Doctor Felicia Khatroweena, Commander - Specialist

Starfleet Intelligence Research and Development Station: "The Facility"

"Is anything going to happen around here? Like letting me go!" Branwen shouted. It had been a few hours since she had seen anybody, and she was still stuck to the bed in the middle of the labatory. Even for relieving herself there was totally no privacy. Animals in the zoo had it better than that. Bran was damned if she was going to give the then cry about it. They probably had cameras installed so they could watch her from a distance every moment.

Cat had been on the other side of the doors to the lab, when she heard the muffled exclaimation of frustration through the doors - she had been very surprised that Branwen was in the Bio-Assay Lab, considering that the tests had been scheduled five hours before - Branwen should've been back in her room.

The double doors swished open and Cat moved in, she frowned as she saw Branwen sitting on the table and no one else around. "Where's the operator," she asked.

"How the hell should I know, as if anybody tells me anything around here." Shouting definitely made her feel better, she should have tried that years ago, instead of being shy and swallowing her emotions always.

Cat stayed her desires to retaliate on the frustration being aimed her way, because the woman had every right to be angry - Cat herself was livid. From what she could see here, the only thing this facility existed for was the rehabilitation of Branwen London and of course for SFI to gain information. But two days had gone by since she had arrived and while they were small incidences, nothing that she could report on, she had noticed that most of the 'Intelligence' Officers seemed to feel that it was beneath them to do the work that orderlys and the like would do and would avoid doing the work as best as they could.

"I'll get you back to your ward, Branwen," Cat returned. Grabbing a gurney, she maneuvered the floating gurney next to the diagnostics table. "Lie back on to the table and lift your back."

"Yummy! Back to the watching nurses. As if that is so much fun, at least here I was alone. And don't treat me like I can't even get from one bed to another on my own steam. I'm pregnant, not incapacitated. I need exercise!"

Cat sighed, "Branwen - what else would you have me do. I am doing something that I thought would have been done, but obviously not. Fighting me, just trying to help you is not going to achieve anything. Now lie back and lift your back."

Finally with Branwen on the table, Cat kept her shoulders supported, "Now twist your legs onto the gurney."

After a few seconds of moving Branwen to the gurney, Cat called out to the room, "Computer - I want Souza."

" Lieutenant Commander de Souza is unavailable at the moment," returned the familiar pleasant, but neutral female voice computer voice.

That didn't surprise Cat, in the last twenty four hours or so, it seemed de Souza had disappeared. Not quite true, she did see him with a trail of engineering officers and Aewyn - and de Souza seemed more harrased than she had seen the day before.

"Are the rats abandoning the sinking ship?" The marine Lieutenant inquired sweetly. "Maybe I can go home as well than."

"It be nice..." Cat commented more to herself rather than to Branwen.

Moments later Cat moved the gurney through the corridors and with a slight look surprise Branwen saw the entrance to the ward she was stationed in go past.

"Excuse me, but we are not going right way, my three star apartment is to the right." Branwen mentioned as the doctor continued to push the gurney.

Cat gave a slight smile to herself, "Yes I know. But you talked about exercise and it might be a good idea to help you get out some of the frustration. We are heading to the physiotherapist pool."

Cat pushed the gurney through the double doors into the pool area and leaving it near one of the doors to a change room cubicle, "Start getting undressed - I'll get you a swimsuit."

"A pool! How am I going to manage that was my breather? I don't want to drown or choke to death, thank you very much!"

"You won't drown - the breather has self contained tanks, so if you do decide to duck your head into the water, just hold your breath. If your worried, just stay near the shallow end of the pool. Besides, the pool is pure water, continually circulated there is nothing to react with the methane nor will it have any chance of poisoning you."

"All right then." With a little difficulty she managed to get off the gurney and into the small cubicle. "Couldn't they make these things a little bigger, they are not equipped for pregnant women you know." A little later a swimsuit was handed to her over the door. With a little difficulty Bran managed to get it on, and to her surprise it actually fit pretty well and wasn't uncomfortable.

She waddled outside towards the pool to see Cat sitting there leisurely on a bench. "Aren't you going in with me? Or don't you like water on your fur." She vividly remembered the cats at home when they got wet, not a good combination. "You are going to come in after me when I drown, aren't you?"

Cat gave a smirk and shook her head, "Of course if something happens I'll jump in, but I don't expect there to be any problems. The railings and the steps will ensure that you won't fall while you get into the water. While you are in the water, most of your weight is supported. So my worry about injury is lessened and you get exercise."

"Besides," Cat added as she got up from the bench as Branwen entered the water, and moved around to another location, still on the side of the pool. "I can be very malicious when I want to be. I know that if I was even to got through one tenth of what you've gone through here at this place, you'd count any small situation that you got one over the doctors here as a victory, and getting me wet would be so easy to do. I'm not going to make it that easy."

Branwen smiled slightly. "What makes you think I want to take my vengeance out on you, Doctor?"

"Because I'm a soft target, to use a military term. If there was a situation where you needed to be a starfleet marine - I'd trust you with my life. But here, there is no life threatening situations of any type. While getting wet would only be an annoyance in the Scheme of the Fates - it's not something that I want to happen right now."

It was clear the young Marine was not going to let it go so easily, getting the Caitian wet suddenly seemed a very appealing thought as she made her way into the water. "So what was your great news anyway?"

Cat nodded, as a hand came up and scratched a cheek for a few moments, "We are unable to transfer the children to a gestation chamber - the pregnancy has gone too far. The level of vascualisation has become to high for us to confidently move them. Good news to that, is that a sequence of code has been identified, that has shown to have an effect of to increase in speed of development of the fetuses. We estimate about three to five months, when they will be ready for delivery."

"Five months!" She nearly missed a step. "Like hell I'm going to stay here another five months, I'd rather mutiny." Branwen turned around. "I am just not going to do it, forget about it!"

"Three to five months, Branwen, three to five months and where would you go?" asked Cat.

"Home to the Galaxy. To my friends. And maybe try to save my marriage as well." She added more softly as she immersed herself in the water. Bran was not going to give the doc the satisfaction of knowing how great this felt.

"So, is the ol' Gal still the flying asylum it was when I was stationed on it?" asked Cat. "Fates - to think I watched a certain Ensign Eliathin Jii, be a fresh newbie on the Galaxy - now look at him." Cat shook her head out of her reverie to see a studying look in Branwen's eyes, "So who are the more interesting inmates on the ship, these days?"

"You served on my ship?" she saw the doctor in another light now. "I didn't know that." Tentatively Branwen lifted her feet and started to float. That felt good!

"I don't know if you know any of my friends, Victor maybe? He's been there for ages, he is such a darling. I don't know what I would do without him." She chatted.

Cat smiled to herself as the woman talked, some of the anger and frustration was slowly leeching away. Cat knew it wouldn't take long for all the frustrations and anger that the woman felt to return. But at least for a while, the peace here should help.

Cat shook her head at the name of Victor - "Sorry Branwen - don't know of any Victor, been a few years since I was the ACMO on the Galaxy." Cat paused for a while - "Do the medical staff still practice the gunfighter draw for the hypospray? You know that San Fransisco almost made that a requirement for Medical officers," Cat laughed.

"I don't really know." It was as if for now Branwen was talking to a friend and not a doctor. As if her brain had shut that down realising she needed friends. "I try to stay out of sickbay as much as possible, because I don't trust doctors. I'm not afraid of them, I just don't trust them. They say they have this oath, and yet they betray you at the drop of a hat."

"I know of another woman, exactly like you. Well, she was exactly like you. It took some time, a long time - but finally she was able to walk into Sickbay without being a nervous wreck."

"Betray you - what doctor betrayed you? What did they do?" asked Cat, she hunched forward on the seat. Yes, Branwen was a very familiar patient, not in her self - but another woman came to mind - another friend from the Miranda. At that moment, Cat wondered where Navarre Shinta was now and hopefully life was going well for her.

"Long story, long time ago." Bran said. "I won't bore you with it. Just never have been able to trust your kind. And don't ever think I am afraid of you or Sickbays. Hell I am not afraid of the pain you deal out there. Distrust and fear are not the same thing, I ain't NO coward." Nobody called her that.

"So as a counselor - what do you think of that?" asked Cat.

Branwen was slow today. "What do you mean, think about what?" She asked the doctor.

"You tell me - You thought I called you a coward and you didn't like it. So how am I supposed to feel - that you've just called me untrustworthy and that I only deal out pain - like some dominatrix. You barely know me and yet you have painted me as some monster - and an oath that I take very seriously, you say is something that I would ignore, when ever I feel like it. I would like to know what had happened that would have you taint all doctors with such a brush? And I would like you to tell me how am I supposed to respond with that?" Cat asked her voice very level.

It made the other woman silent for a little while. "I am sorry if I offended you. It's just that my experiences with healers have been pretty bad. I have known several that did break that oath, and it didn't seem at all important to them. And now recently research seems more important than my health and that of my babies. How do you suppose that makes me feel, being a test subject?" She looked at Cat.

"Pretty damn crappy Branwen - being a lab experiment is pretty damn crappy." Cat leant her head back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. Her thoughts drifted of the Khamina her own daughter and wondered how she was going - this was the longest that 'mummy' hadn't been around. After a few moments, she turned her attention back to Branwen. "So what now?" asked Cat.

"I don't really know. My goal is to get out of here as soon as possible, get myself fixed and back on duty. How I'm going to do that?" She couldn't shrug in the water otherwise she would have. "I really don't know, any ideas?"

"Well, the first thing is - stop trying to control a situation that you have no control over, stop fighting it because you aren't helping yourself in any way at all. Second thing - stop being a bloody Marine and a Starfleet Officer - stop being so obstinate. You talk about your duty and getting back to the ship, that was the first priority wasn't it?" Cat asked.

"I am always a marine first!" She exclaimed. "Starfleet has always been my family and the thing that kept me going!" Bran flared up.

"But what about your duty to yourself and the children that you carry. What about them? Are they less important?"

"No, of course not. I am just not used to that. Thinking about more then one person, you know. Not being alone." She said softer.

Cat didn't mean to let her frustration about Branwen's obstinacy or reticence to talk and her hostility to all come venting out like that. She knew sometimes that letting other people see your own frustrations, that you are exactly like them works, but it was not considered a very safe option. A lot of times, hostility was met with hostility. But here, it seemed to have touched something inside Branwen.

"Well, you are going to have to think about it a lot more. Yes, Branwen - right now, you are a lab experiment - a bloody Hydran butcher did that - but all that anger and frustration you have is pointing at the doctors here and what they want to do is help you! Sure the 'spooks' have got this all closed up and none of us know where we are. Have you considered I'm as much a prisoner as you. I have a home to go to as well, I have a daughter who I would like very much to be with. But my duty is to heal you and make sure that your children are healthy."

"The fastest way to get you back to your ship, to your life is let me do my duty and my duty is you, your children and the wellbeing of all of you. I am not one of those doctors who did whatever they did to had hurt you. I am not one of those doctors that broke their Medical Oath. And I am offended by being classed as the same as them. I am offended that you consider that my concern is only research."

"So Branwen London - if you want to be a marine...then channel that anger that you have. Channel it to something bloody useful...getting yourself better. If as a marine and duty is your prime concern, then let the doctors here do their duty. And with your desire to be treated as a sophont - then remember, we are all sophonts here. We all want to be treated properly. We all want to be treated as individuals who are worth something."

Branwen thought for a while and looked at Cat. "You don't know were you are either? You have a daughter?" Another pause. "How old is she? Did they give you a choice in coming here?"

"Not much choice, I had orders - from an spook admiral who I never heard of before. But the orders were genuine and so I ended up here. The shuttles had no accessable windows for passengers and we weren't allowed any external views and no personal communication or positional devices. It took over two days to get here, with most of it being cramped and dark."

Cat stopped for a split second and she looked directly into Branwen's eyes, "Khammie?, she is just under three, and this is the longest I've been away from her. I'm a doctor and a proud one, but since my Khamina - I'm also a mother and that makes me even prouder."

"I guess.... I guess I do appreciate it that you are here...Cat."

The barometer of Cat's feelings, her tail had relaxed as she gave a small closed mouth smile. Her ears flickered slightly as she breathed out the remnants of her frustration - "Thank you Branwen."

"If you want to talk about it, Cat." Bran looked at her from the water. "I am a counselor and it would make me feel usefull. It must be tough to be away from your child. Shall.. Shall I ask them to let you go?"

"And would you be so easily transferred from a warzone where you had been stationed, when there was unfinished business?" asked Cat mildly.

"No, but you have a toddler at home. That is important to me as well." Bran said.

"I appreciate the concern and for Khammie - but I'm also a Starfleet Officer. That means at times - my brain can be hardcoded into the 'stupid' condition of putting my duty and responsibilities over anything and everything else - just like everyone else who joined up."

"Which means that you have to put your brain into the 'smart' condition, and concentrate on yourself - not me, eh?" Cat finished.

"But it is scary thinking about what can happen to me. And I can't do that the whole day long it drives me crazy and it is boring. I need somthing more to do, Cat, please."

"If you are so used to action or doing something, it's hard to be in a position of just healing. But, that is what you have to do, concentrate on healing."

Cat watched as Branwen frowned, and saw a familiar look in her face. One she saw regularly when she told a crewman that they were stuck in Sickbay for the next few days. Giving a slight chuckle, "You'll not going to be happy until you get me onto the couch are you?" she asked.

"Nope." Bran kept a straight face.

"Then what about tomorrow, eh?"

"I think I have an opening for you tomorrow." Bran grinned and relaxed in the water. "Thank you, Cat."

"Piece of Work"

Samantha Widdlestein,
Morale Officer Extraordinaire

*****

USS Galaxy

All the world's a stage, blah blah blah blah. As far as you are
concerned, you're the lead in life's little drama and you write far,
far better than Shakespeare.

What? You never claimed you didn't have an ego.

People don't understand you and you suppose it's not entirely their
fault. You've always been precocious, an old soul, or whatever else
they want to say when they're trying to be polite.

You've always been intelligent, ahead of the class, and have never
been afraid to let others know it because your Mummy always told you
to take pride in yourself.

Besides it's fun when people pull that slightly pained expression at
your "antics" - the face that looks as if they've sucked on a lemon
wrapped in wet Targ.

But you're not all about your brilliance - even if you *are*
excessively bright. You do care about people.

You think about the people on their away teams and hope for their safe
return, especially now with some ten foot tall, razor sharp toothed
beastie hunting them. You've been hunted in your day and it's no
picnic. And to completely disappear? Talk about a nightmare.

You want people on the ship to be happy, even that new Vulcan chick
who stole your button idea and if she thinks she's going to become the
ship's new morale officer she's got a sharp Hirogen stiletto coming
...

Hmm, that would make an excellent button.

And even though Sickbay assured you that she'd be fine, you sit by
Arel while she sleeps because you need to hear her growl at you to be
sure that she really is okay.

Plus you just have to give her some shit about never being able to
catch a man with just one breast.

But it's hard to show this gooey side of yourself because you find it
hard to show weakness; you learned that a long time before Arel even
entered the picture. You're ambitious, you're going to be the best at
whatever you choose to do with your life - Starship Captain, Starfleet
President, Klingon warrior princess, whatever - and who gets to the
very top by being sweet and soft?

So you can handle being misunderstood; you figure that it's a small
price. But people better understand that you're going to continue to
do things your way.

"Hey!" You yell after the man currently trying to run away from you.
"It's just ONE box of cookies and it's for a good cause! The Galaxy
Junior Scholars will benefit from your gracious dona ... DON'T THINK I
WON'T FOLLOW YOU INTO THAT BATHROOM, MISTER! "

Mummy has always said to be diligent.

"Time Out"

Lt. 8-ball Hunter


She felt vaguely weightless, as if her body was floating in water.

She'd always liked the water. She used to love to swim back on Earth. She'd never been a strong swimmer, but she wasn't out to win medals---she preferred floating there, on her back, letting the gentle, warm waves bouy her up and carry her where they may. Tanning was good, too---there was nothing like a little nap under the summer heat---and if there just happened to be some boy around with a helpful bottle of sunblock in hand . . . well, that was pretty okay too.

She'd had many men rub lotion into her back before. Their fingers were firm but gentle, smoothing slow circles into her skin.

There were fingers on her back now, but they were anything but gentle.

8-ball's eyes fluttered open, and she saw nothing but a dark haze. It took several minutes for her vision to clear, and by the time it did she had long stopped caring about what was happening to her. There were faces all around her, under her, upside down and hideous. Their hands lifted her up, carried her somewhere, somewhere else.

She knew she should care about where they were taking her, but she couldn't seem to muster up the energy to. It was hard to concentrate on anything at all, what with her head being split open and her brains leaking out.

She couldn't see her brains leaking out, but she was pretty sure that was the only possible conclusion. Which meant she would be dead soon, because it was hard to live without brains.

She should care about that, too. She knew she was supposed to care. Somebody wanted her to care, somebody, something saying . . . no permission, didn't have permission . . .

She couldn't think about that right now. She just needed to sleep.

She was floating on a sea of fingers, and she let them carry her away.

*

The next time she woke up, she was lying on the ground in a small dark room that had been modified from a normal brig to a creepier and much more unsanitary brig. There were no forcefields activated, of course, as the ship had no power; instead, someone had built a fourth wall with a locked door and a little slot, presumably for food. Just for kicks, someone had decided to attach these huge spikes to the other three walls, so she'd have to remember not to lean up against them if she wasn't in the mood for some extreme acupuncture.

Extreme acupuncture. That was kind of clever.

8-ball passed out again.

*

Somebody was touching her hair. She didn't know who it was. They were moving strands of it out of her face, which was a little pointless, really--since she'd chopped it off during her rehabilitation, there really wasn't much left to mess around with. But somebody seemed determined to get it off her cheeks, and she figured she'd let them. There didn't seem to be any harm in it.

Not to mention she couldn't even open her eyes, much less fend off whoever was molesting her hair.

Her head still hurt like a sonofabitch, though. Her brains still appeared to be oozing out the side of her skull, and while it was certainly impressive that she was still alive with all that going on, she should probably make some kind of half-assed effort to push her gray matter back inwards. With a groan, she managed to lift her arm clumsily and pat vaguely at her head.

Somebody caught her hand. "You're awake," he said.

8-ball wasn't entirely sure that this was the best way to describe it, so she said something that sounded a lot like, "Nuhhhh."

She heard a tired laugh from above her. "You don't say."

"Mmmm."

8-ball licked her lips . . . god, her mouth felt dry . . . and she attempted to open her eyes. It was quite the valiant struggle, going on for . . . well, she really didn't know how long for. Time was a sticky, abstract concept that she couldn't quite get a handle on just yet. Eventually, however, her eyes opened, maybe seconds or hours after those fingers had first brushed her hair. Lieutenant Johnny Walker and his identical twin brother were sitting nearby, looking down at her.

The entire room smelled like blood and vomit.

"Ugh . . . puke . . ."

Johnny Walker and Johnny Walker's twin frowned. "You're going to be sick again?" they asked. They started to lean down to lift her up, but she gave them a half-hearted wave to stop. She blinked a few times.

"Again?" she asked.

The brothers nodded at her. "You were sick before. You don't remember?"

"Mmm. Nah. No, don't think so." 8-ball blinked at the darkness around them. "Where are we?"

Johnny Walker and his twin answered, but 8-ball's attention had wandered by then. She looked at the gigantic spikes on the walls. Not exactly Starfleet regulation, those. She felt like she should be sitting up. It was important that she was sitting up. She could barely wriggle her body at this point. She looked at the twins. "Up," she said.

"Huh?"

"Up. Want up." She reached for Johnny Walker's hand and expected to connect with flesh, but instead her fingers just went through his skin, as if it wasn't there at all. She frowned at it.

Suddenly, she felt fingers around her wrist--Walker's fingers, or his brother's. He could connect with her apparently, just not the other way around. "Not sure you should be sitting up. You got quite the knock to the head."

8-ball just frowned harder at that. "Up," she said, more insistently. She'd deal with complete sentences later, when her head didn't feel like it would explode.

The twins shook their heads and she was gently pulled into a sitting position. The change in position left her dizzy, and she would have fallen over if someone hadn't gripped her shoulders. She glanced up to see Johnny Walker there, and his twin, holding her up. She was having trouble focusing on them. They almost seemed . . . conjoined, in some way.

They couldn't be conjoined twins. Surely, she would have noticed that before.

There was a simple solution for all of this. It was beyond her, right now, but it was there.

She reached out and tried to touch one of the brother's hands again. Again, she missed, and she couldn't figure out what the hell was keeping her from touching him. "Phasing, maybe," she murmured, barely aware that she was speaking out loud. Lt. Gonzalez had seemed blurry to her, but . . . no, that wasn't right. Maybe they were both hallucinations. That'd make sense . . . Johnny Walker's twin brother had been curiously absent before.

Maybe she was actually alone here, talking to herself, holding herself up.

"Not real," she murmured. "Are you?"

"What?"

"Real? Are you real?"

The twins nodded, very slowly. They wore identical concerned expressions. Could they could be concerned and a hallucination at the same time? If a tree fell in the forest, did it make a sound? Or, or, something like that.

"It's okay, 8-ball," the Walkers said. "I'm real. You're real. It's okay."

"Doesn't feel okay."

"That's cause you hurt your head. But it'll be okay, 8-ball, I swear."

8-ball doubted the sincerity of this, but she didn't feel up to arguing. Something else was trying to get her attention, something in the back of her mind that had been there for awhile, something with . . . arms. Lots of arms. Something . . .

STAY ALIVE . . .

Yeah, that was a good idea, Sparky. Staying alive was usually at the top of her agenda. But it was hard when you hit your head and you were surrounded by hallucinations and spikes and god knows what else . . .

Christ, she was tired.

STAY ALIVE. YOU DON'T HAVE PERMISSION TO DIE.

8-ball was quickly losing track of what she could see--everything was going in and out of focus, darkening at the edges, fading out--but in her head she could see a figure, blue, a blue man with four arms. She knew this man, saw the not-blue, two-armed version of him all the time. Was almost as scary, though, even without the Hindu mythology wraparound.

"Shiva-Vic," she murmured to herself. "Long time, no see."

8-ball heard Johnny Walker say something, but she wasn't really listening. Somehow, Victor had heard her cry for help and sent back a message of his own. She'd almost forgotten the mind meld that had been forced upon them, linking their heads as one. It had been so very long ago . . . but it wasn't the kind of thing one forgot entirely.

Shiva-Vic was in her head now, telling her to stay here, stay alive.

Victor was coming for her. That was comforting.

It was creepy that it was comforting.

But it was. She could rest now . . .

"No, 8-ball, wake up. Wake up. You can't go to sleep."

She didn't think she had much choice in that. She could barely see anything anymore. "Sorry," she whispered. "Tired."

"Dammit," the Walker-hallucinations said. "8-ball, you can't go to sleep. If you go to sleep, you could die."

8-ball smiled a little at that. "No," she said, yawning. "No, it's okay. I don't have permission to die."

She fell asleep again.

========
"Cruel Fates"
========

========
Lieutenant Branwen London - Hydran Gestation Chamber
Doctor Felicia Khatroweena, Commander - Specialist
Doctor Krystof Frost, Civilian OB/GYN
Dr. Nora Martin, Lieutenant, Starfleet OB/GYN

Starfleet Intelligence Research and Development Station: "The Facility"
========

Branwen was feeling tired and the warm water lapping around her as she floated was starting to have a narcotic effect on her. She just rested and it seemed so much effort to do anything. Her anger and frustration that had fuelled her temper had been drained and her overworked body no longer under such harsh masters began to rebel and slowly Branwen's body began to relax.

Slowly and quietly, Cat moved over to the controls of the pool and adjusted the grav plates under the pool, to ensure that Branwen didn't move beneath the surface. This wasn't the first time that Cat had 'created' a real water bed for a reluctant patient and it was nice to know that it still worked. She ensured that the water's temperature and chemical balance were in sync with Branwen's body. One of the things she hated was the wrinkly look after being in a bath for too long and a second check on the salt levels in the pool removed that minor concern for Cat.

Cat sighed, she was resigned to be sitting around here for a good hour or so, that was how long the whole effect seemed to last - like some afternoon nap.

Laying there with her eyes closed was the happiest Branwen London had felt in a very long time. There was peace here, and she even trusted the big cat to keep her safe. As long as she thought of the other woman as anything else but a doctor.

Suddenly she let out a tiny gasp as something contracted in her stomach. May be something she ate, it made Branwen open her eyes and lose her balance.

Cat had her eyes closed, but her sensitive ears heard the slight splash as Branwen was jerked out of her 'sleep.' Sitting up from her half sat up position in the chair, she looked at Branwen with concern - "What is it?"

"Nothing." The young Marine was used to pain, and besides Cat was now using her doctor hat, and immediately the distrust was back. "I will be..." she started to say, but then a much sharper pain wrecked her gut, drawing her under the water as she lost her balance completely. Branwen started to struggle to stay afloat.

Cat was already diving into the pool as Branwen cried out, she didn't need to hear Branwen's cry to know that the woman was in pain, the greenish red blood that was the monstrous joining of Hydran and Human metabolisms that kept Branwen alive was spreading through out the water.

Surfacing next to Branwen, was dangerous, the woman was in pain and failing about - it was only the grav plates that kept her from sinking under, but Branwen didn't know that. Grabbing the woman under her arms, Cat called out, "It's safe Branwen. I've got you."

She called out, "Computer, emergency transport to Medical Bay - have full units of the modified synthblood ready, large bore IV..."

Cat and Branwen were in the transporter foyer for the Medical bay as some of the water that was caught in the ACB suddenly splashed to the floor, even before Cat had finished speaking.

'Thank the fates for the Medical Computer,' Cat thought to herself, as she watched as a couple of nurses raced in. "Give me a pain blocker, we can't rely on the meds," Cat called out to a nurse.

Taking the pain blocker, she applied it to the back of Branwen's neck. Almost instantly, the crying screaming woman seemed to calm and Cat could see that with the pain gone, the anger and fear and frustration that she so recently had been dismissed were back with a vengeance.

"I can't waste time here Branwen, your body is rejecting one or all of the foetuses. Get her into Xeno-Surgery now," Cat ordered as they transferred Branwen to a gurney and took her to a surgery unit.

Cat moved into the preparation area and began to suit up for the surgery, now it was going to be Cat wearing the mask, not Branwen as she readied to do surgery in a specially modified unit that was full of methane.

Dr. Nora Martin, like the rest of the medical team, was alerted the moment the emergency transport was ordered. A quick review of the incoming data confirmed the need for a crash C-section, but even if that information wasn't available, the sight of the blood would be enough to signal to doctors of their years of experience that Branwen's womb was no longer conducive to the babies' well-being and that London's life was in danger.

Khatroweena had managed to gain Branwen's trust, if temporarily, so Martin busied herself by making sure the OR and the team was prepped and ready. With three babies to care for and a mother in distress, Frost and Cat would be focused on the babies while Martin kept an eye on Branwen's vitals.

As she moved through the double doored airlock, and waited for the atmosphere to be exchanged, Cat watched as Branwen was being prepared. Cat hoped that the fates would be with her for this.

"My babies! Cat." Branwen was seeking the doctor's eyes. Not sure if she could trust the Caitian but the other woman was the only thing approaching a friend she had here. "Save my babies, promise me you will save my babies." She cried out. "They are more important than me, promise me."

Cat placed a hand on Branwen's head, "I promise Branwen - I swear on the Fates themselves, I will."

She clutched Cat's arm. "If I don't make it, find them good homes. Promise me, I don't want them used as test subjects, they are babies!"

Cat nodded, "I will - I will." The doctor part of Cat was berating herself - you never made promises like that, never. She'd been a doctor long enough to know that sometimes the Fates would be cruel and ignore everything what people would hope for.

Another device was placed on Branwen's forehead and her eyes were wide with fear. Cat tried to give a reassuring smile and turned to the suited nurse and just nodded.

The nurse touched another control on a console to the side and then the device started it's programming and soon, Branwen was unconscious, in a light coma. Now it was the Fates themselves that would decide who would live and die - and Cat was there to make sure that The Fates would be sorely disappointed if they wanted to take any of her charges.

======

Time passed. It was inevitable.

While Cat was certainly a trained and highly experienced physician, it was another who had the primary hand during the delivery, with Nora keeping a close eye on Branwen and handing each infant off to the leader of each baby's respective NICU teams. Exiting the airlock into the ward moments following Branwen's submersion into unconsciousness, Dr. Krystof Frost had smiled sadly as he directed the others in their combined efforts. In 30 years he'd performed more than 60 cesarean deliveries, half of them multiples. Between Nora and himself, they had 50 years and over 100 C-sections between them. This one he treated no differently, no less reverently than those deliveries - all life was precious, regardless of how they squandered themselves. All life was born inherently innocent.

All life should get as much of a fighting chance as it possibly could.

Despite the nature of the children and the bastardized combination of human and hydran in the mother's biology, the delivery went almost textbook in Frost's mind. ICU chambers had been prepared for just such an occasion, though everyone had hoped that they wouldn't see use. One by one the babies were slid from Branwen's distended belly, cleaned of the amniotic fluid, and placed in their own individual bed. Two males and a female, if the apparent genitalia was any indication. Unfortunately, there was a problem. One of the males was half the size of his siblings, and the monitors built into his ICU constantly warbled warnings. He was stable, but critical.

"I don't think he'll make it," Frost said softly to Cat as he, Nora and Cat carefully closed Branwen's abdomen. "I just hope she'll have a chance to see him before he goes."

Cat nodded, "I hope so, but there is nothing that can be done. Poor thing."

"She's got two others to live for," Martin replied softly as she stitched. "She needs to stay strong."

"We can only hope that she realises that," returned Cat quietly.

================
More time passes
================

Branwen was back in her '3 star accommodation' when the sedation wore off. While the general looks of things hadn't changed, there were some notable touches evident. A small nightstand stood next to her bed, upon which were a number of cards (treated so as not to degrade in either methane or oxygen atmospheres,) a boquet of flowers (obviously fake, but the feelings implied were still easily evident,) and a PADD.

But more importantly and most evident would be the physical changes evident in her body - her belly was flat once again (with a small roundness to it thanks to her now empty uterus), the three babies no longer residing with her.

The message on it asked that she ring the nurse call button when she was awake - the triad stationed "on guard" behind the window were conspicuously absent. It also informed her that her babies were alive -all three.

Bran slowly came awake and then before doing anything else briefly touched her flatter stomach. Her babies, they were gone. Oh god make them be allright.

After seeing the note she pushed the call button as she had been instructed.

Krystof entered through the airlock, a rebreather on his face. He had a twinkle in his eyes, though it wasn't as sparkly as he'd wished it would have been. "Good morning Branwen. How are you feeling?"

"My babies!" She called out. "What have you done with my babies, they were not ready yet. Were are they, I want to see them." Came out in almost one breath.

"Your babies are alive," he said as he sat next to her bed. "We were able to get them into ICU modules in time. I have a few things to tell you; some good, some not so good. First, the not so good. You and your babies suffered from 'Exo-Immunity Sensitivity Syndrome.' Basically what happened is the differences between your body and your babies was far too great for you to keep them any longer. Your womb began to reject them."

She bit her lip listening intently. "What does that mean? Can I see them now, hold them?" Bran asked in a small voice.

Krystof's smile was small, but there. "You have given birth to two boys and a girl, only two of which we can expect to survive. One of the boys has a number of genetic flaws. Because they are a unique hybrid we won't be able to alter his genome to more closely resemble his siblings. He'll die in a few days, but at least he'll be able to see and be held by his mother before that time comes."

"No." Bran wiped her eyes. "No, you have to do something. You have to save him. You guys can do so much and all the doctors are here with all your knowledge. Please save my baby." The marine pleaded.

"I'm sorry Branwen," Krystof said, and the pain at having to deliver such terrible news was clearly evident both in his voice and on his face. "Even with stasis technology as it is today we can only prolong the inevitable. We just don't have the time. All we can promise is that he'll spend as much time in your company as we can manage. You're his mother, after all, and every little boy should know his mother."

It was hard to take in, even while he said the other two would be all right. "Can, can I see them now?" She managed to get out.

Frost nodded, his smile a little brighter. A wheel chair was produced to which was affixed her respirator with a suitably long hose for her to stand and walk a little ways. "After a C-section I recommend all of my patients at least consent to being wheeled about over longer distances, even with today's medical technology."

Bran could understand that and didn't struggle.

========
ICU Ward
========

The clicking and humming of life support systems was muted, yet evident. Ambient noises played in the background, mimicing the sounds the three would have heard should Bran's body still carry them. The room was another Methane chamber, just in case something went wrong. Three compartments were set into low-built counter-tops, and within each were Branwen's babies. Through the airlock and into the room she was wheeled by the doctor, and Cat was there as well, tending to the trio. Krystof's first stop was next to the chamber which held Baby Boy #1 -the one that wouldn't make it. "And here he is. He's a fighter for sure, Branwen. We'll help him keep on fighting until the last." A pair of holes were embedded in the wall of the ICU Unit, through which Bran would be able to physically reach in and hold her baby.

Bran teared up again looking at him. "He is so beautiful." She said with awe. "My baby." Then she looked up at Cat. "Please, Cat, save my son. Don't let him slip away."

"I could Branwen - but you would hate me, if I did," returned Cat. Cat looked at Branwen and wished so much that she hadn't made that promise. Yes she could create protocols for the young child to live - but at what cost... Yes he would be living, but he wouldn't be alive. There was more to being alive than just a beating heart, breathing and some brain activity. Those simple things that all added up to make a person 'alive' would be denied him.

"Why would I hate you? Don't play games with me. If you can save him then save him!" She desperately tried to stay calm for her babies. "I want to hold them!" Bran demanded.

"That part we can do, to an extent," Krystof said gently, standing behind her chair. "Just reach in through the ports in the side. A light sterile field is engaged, so you can actually touch them, hold them even. We just can't take them out of their chambers, or they will die regardless. These units are their new womb, where they'll have to stay until they are strong enough to live without support."

Bran waited till they set everything up. Her body was aching and tired but she knew she would not go back to her own room but stay here and bond with her babies. And somehow with her willpower keep her little son alive.

Frost looked down, then back up into Branwen's eyes. "Cat can tell you more in detail later, if you'd like." He gazed into the chamber at the serene looking form of the little baby, asleep.

"His body doesn't know if it should breath methane, oxygen, both, or neither. Mental development, so far as we can measure, is less than an eighth of his siblings." Krystof's voice was quiet, near a whisper even, as if speaking louder would offend some vengeful spirit. "His diet is being carefully monitored, as is his metabolism. While the other two are a relatively perfect blend of two opposing biologies, this fellow got the short end of the stick. His body is trying to do both at the same time, at the cost of his development and general health. Though we're not certain we can, the good doctor believes she may be able to save him. But at what cost? Short of a divine miracle he will never be able to leave an ICU unit. His perception of the world will be minimal, if he develops self awareness, and even then he'll probably progress no farther than a toddler."

He sighed, placing a gentle hand on London 's right shoulder. "I'm sorry he turned out this way Branwen, but there isn't anything we can do to alter his biology in one direction or the other." Slowly he pushed her chair up to the chamber, the circular ports for her hands shimmering softly with the sterilization field, her baby now within easy reach.

"But maybe when you find out more, you will find a way to help them. You just said there was not enough time to save him now. Maybe in the future you could." Very gently she reached out to her tiny son. "He is so beautiful, we have to fight for him, all of us. And you have to believe, God will help." Her eyes were moist.

Krystof nodded, tears in his own eyes for similar and different reasons. "Some things we can help with, but others .... genetic manipulation is strictly prohibited by Federation Law," he said, unnecessarily. "We've been granted a special dispensation in your case as you were born Human and these changes forced on you against your will. Your children on the other hand, will be much more difficult to fight for. I'm afraid that by the time we can expect any favorable reactions it will be too late for your son."

"I am not going to let him go. God will not be that cruel, enough is enough." Branwen was focused on her tiny son. Very gently her hand stroked the delicate skull, and he even seemed to react to her. "You do it, and get the authorization later. I will take responsibility, as it is my son." The young woman said with conviction.

The little boy slowly opened his eyes, piercing green orbs blinked at the soft lighting before alighting upon Branwen's face. He cooed as he recognized his mother's voice, there was little else he knew. A tiny hand reached out, grasping the tip of one of Branwen's fingers in a surprisingly strong grasp, and a little smile creased his lips. The moment was priceless: the first intimate bonding between Mother and Son. The universe was kind enough to grant Branwen that. Kodak would have been proud.

God ripped that moment away with the brutal grace of a barbarian swinging a club.

He coughed. It would have been the most adorable sight and sound to be heard if it wasn't for the inky green blood that dripped from the corner of his mouth. A cry pierced the emergency sirens as his eyes closed and didn't reopen. A shudder wracked his frail form even as Krystof and Cat moved with urgency. The aged doctor was grateful that Branwen remained silent as they worked to stabilize the baby. The teeny diaper wrapped snug about his hips darkened, and with one final spasm of motion he lay still. The single tone whining from the ICU monitor rang for several agonizing seconds before Krystof reached up and reverently shut the ICU down, replacing the life preserving system with a stasis field. He gently tugged down a privacy screen, breaking off the sight of the little life that was no more.

The room was silent save for the bleeping of the other two ICU modules and the whisper of the ventilation system. "I'm sorry Branwen," Krystof said, his quiet voice audible even through his breather.

"No!" It was one thing to much for Branwen, during this whole nightmare ordeal. She broke down clutching the side of the incubator that held her dead baby. "I hate you, God." She cried out. "I hate you, you are not fair, and I have had enough. Why punish a baby this small? He did nothing wrong, he was beautiful and smiling. It was not a monster, but a tiny little being with a future." Dead tired she barely had the energy to grip the glass, but it didn't seem as if she was going to let go any time soon.

Cat knelt down next to Branwen, "I'm sorry Branwen. Don't hate God -not for the blessing that he gave the boy. It would've been a living hell for him here."

"How can you! How can you call that a blessing, he didn't even get the chance at life, or baptism for that matter. Didn't you see, he knew me, he smiled at me." She was getting close to losing it.

"Do you really understand what life would have been for him? He is at peace now."

"In hell? He wasn't baptised, there was no priest." Branwen was really upset now. "I call that a cruel God. And I renounce him!"

Krystof felt her pain, he couldn't have tuned it out after the past 30 years. He'd seen too many lives that "hadn't had a chance" and something like this was as devastating to the medical community as it was to the mother. "I think God will take exception to this one," he finally said.

"Don't!" Branwen warned him. "I am not in the mood to forgive. This time God has gone too far."

He looked over to Cat, helpless. His own beliefs held that all were born innocent, and such innocence remained until one could comprehend the difference between right and wrong.

Cat looked at Krystof and Martin, her own look of helplessness on her face. "I think we need to bring in Dallas," she said quietly. She looked at Branwen who had returned her gaze to the dead child. A look of hate on her face and on it was also a thousand yard stare. Cat could not begin to imagine Branwen's thoughts. "Karyn will know what to do."

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