Lt. Jennifer Adams (NPC written by Aaron)

Ens. Rowena London (NPC written by Betred)

<USS Trafalgar, enroute to Vulcan>

Rowena left her mother's quarters greatly relieved that while Bran didn't seem to care for the idea of her daughter dating another woman, she didn't spaz out at the news.

Still a virgin, she wasn't sure what or who she wanted in a relationship. Ro wondered innocently why she so desired to have sex now; it was almost a compulsion. She had been a woman now for a couple of years, and had even dated a few times while she was at the Academy, but she had never had this strong of a desire before.

None of the boys she dated at the Academy had wanted to do anything more than kiss her, and once the word got around that she was half Hydran, the offers for a quick dinner or a game had stopped. Ro hadn't minded this so much; the accelerated program of study brought on by the war left little time for romance.

Ro decided her desires must be linked to her relationship with Jennifer. They had met when Ro reported to the Trafalgar, and Jennifer had always been nice to her. They had spent quite a bit of time together, but it wasn't until recently that had become physical -- and they still had not slept together, only kissed. Jennifer had touched her once in that place---

A shudder of pleasure at that thought almost made Ro stumble. She leaned against the bulkhead to catch her breath. A passing crewman stopped and asked if she was all right. Rowena felt like jumping him right there in the corridor. Nodding, scared to speak, she pushed off the bulkhead continued to her quarters.

Once there, she calmed herself by taking a breathing treatment. Feeling a bit more like herself, she changed uniforms, leaving the dirty jumpsuit behind to be picked up by someone from laundry services -- replicating spare uniforms was a drain on resources the Trafalgar couldn't afford.

Refreshed, Ro made her way to Jennifer's quarters and pressed the call button requesting entry.

Jennifer approached the door, wearing her typical gray shorts and tank top, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. "Oh, hi Ro. Come in," she gestured. "What can I do for you?"

Seeing Jennifer brought back the weak-kneed feeling Ro had experienced in the corridor. She reached out for her friend, pulled her close, and kissed her deeply.

Jennifer was a bit taken back by Ro's aggressiveness, but liked it, as she kissed back equally passionate. Jennifer led Ro to the bedroom.

Rowena couldn't let go of her friend's hand, and pulled Jennifer to a stop just inside the door. "I've never done anything like this before -- with anyone," she whispered.

"I promise to be careful if that what you want. Just go with what you feel," Jennifer whispered back.

Ro kissed Jennifer again, and then admitted, "I'm not sure what I feel. What should I do first?"

Jennifer grinned mischievously. "Remove my clothes."

The younger woman smiled shyly, reaching for the hem of Jennifer's tank top. Slowly, she raised the shirt up over Jennifer's head, finally pulling it free of her long ponytail.

Jennifer slowly kissed Ro as she removed Ro's shirt.

Giving her lover another long, passionate kiss, Rowena hooked her fingers into the waistband of Jennifer's shorts, and as slowly as she pulled of the older woman's shirt, she began to slide the material down past her hips.

Jennifer lay down onto the bed, pulling Ro onto her.

Rowena hesitantly caressed the older girl's body while she responded with another kiss. Uncertain, she loosened Jennifer's hair as she rolled to her side. Looking into her friend's eyes she saw a hunger that frightened and excited her at the same time. Tentatively, she cupped one of Jennifer's breasts in her hand. "I'm not sure what you want, I mean -- I've never done this before."

Jennifer simply smiled as she kissed the younger woman passionately, feeling her breasts in the process.

The younger girl laid back and let her more experienced friend take control, enjoying the Jennifer's warm hands on her body. Ro moaned softly, caressing her partner, enjoying the feel of her long blonde hair as she raked her fingers through it.

Jennifer slowly moved her hand down, beginning to caress Ro's inner thigh, slowly working upwards.

Ro hands moved from her lover's chest to her hips. After a deep kiss, she said, "Wait a minute." Quickly, she unzipped and removed her pants; she was bare underneath. Sliding back underneath Jennifer, she begged, "Please, touch me like you did last time."

"My pleasure," Jennifer replied as she moved her hands back down to Ro's inner thigh.

Rowena arched her back, lifting her hips and forcing Jennifer's fingers up between her legs as she offered her breasts to her lover's lips.

Jennifer pressed her fingers in deeply as she kissed Ro's neck and breasts.

The younger girl's breathing was becoming ragged gasps. Rowena knew what she want, but didn't know how to ask. Putting her hands on Jennifer's shoulders, she pushed gently, hoping to convince her to move her kisses lower, the moist and warm place currently occupied by her lover's hand.

Jennifer did as was directed by the younger woman as she slowly kissed her way down

Ro was frantic. She needed something, not sure what, her pleasure seeming to peak and then ebb, never quite reaching the point of release. She arched her back again, thrusting her hips, and pulled Jennifer face into her with her thighs.

Jennifer happily pleased the younger woman.

With a rush of heat, a wave of pleasure engulfed Rowena and she lost control of her arms and legs; all she could seem to do was continue to grind her pelvis into Jennifer's face as the older woman's tongue darted in and out and around. She couldn't speak and her breathing was accompanied by small whimpers. Ro's insides contracted and the young girl convulsed, her legs flinging out, and she collapsed on the bed, moaning.

Jennifer knelled over the younger woman, smiling, wanting more. She kissed Ro deeply as she grabbed a nearby AI Dildo. The AI components within came to life, activating a program.

According to the operating manual, this device was based on technology originally developed for invasive medical studies. The dildo was equipped with "an internal scanner to monitor a user's physical responses, and be self-adjusting to a degree as far as size, vibratory rate, and so on, in order to maximize the experience for the user by altering those variables to produce the best responses."

Ro took the device as Jennifer handed it to her and looked at it curiously. She wasn't completely sure how it worked as it appear to have more options than her own. She gently ran the phallus up Jennifer's inner thigh, then slid it into her lover, holding it in place.

Jennifer laid back onto the bed, arching her back as the dildo was slid into her. The AI Computer within the device turned on, and began to enlarge

Ro began to move the device in and out of her lover, alternating between fast and shallow penetrations, and slow deep thrusts, as she reached up with one hand to play with her partner's breasts.

Jennifer moaned, arching her back, as she opened her legs wider. She couldn't explain the lustful sex drive she had which seemed to enflame with each second, tightly grabbing the sheets in each hand. Her entire body contracting with each thrust, giving the defined muscles on her body even more definition.

Jennifer's play toy variegated its surface to provide slightly rougher sensations, secreted additional lubricant to compensate, and began alternating a circular motion with rapid piston like motions. Ro was almost as fascinated with the mechanical penis as she was with her girlfriend's thrashing about on the bed, moaning and panting. Not sure what else Jennifer might need, the younger girl whispered in her lover's ear, "Tell me what you want."

Jennifer threw her arms around Ro pulling her close and kissing her deeply as her body convulsed from the device inside her. Jennifer came violently soon afterwards as her body collapsed on the bed, spent with Ro laying on top of her. The device had shut itself off upon registering that Jennifer came.

Rowena snuggled close. She enjoyed holding Jennifer, breathing in her scent, and the warm silky feel of her skin. "I really ought to get one of those," she smiled.

"Yes, they can be rather useful," Jennifer smiled back, running her hand through Ro's hair.

“Nocoxaflopin”

Colonel Branwen London, commanding USS Trafalgar

(the Happiest Ship in the Fleet)

Lieutenant Clemente Sentara, CMO USS Trafalgar (NPC written by Betred)

(follows “Confessions, Part 2”)

<USS Trafalgar, Sickbay>

It’s the smell. Many species rely on smell as a primary sense; they use it to find food, avoid enemies, seek out friends. Humanoid species have a tendency to disregard smell as a primary sense, instead favoring sight and hearing. This disregard is unfortunate, as scents affect many humanoids on an unconscious level.

Does the person sharing your cubical have an offence body odor? You spend more time at the water cooler. That carton of left over kimche? Depending on its age, you salivate or vomit. The opposite sex walks by you in the hall? BO or perfume, and you turn your head one way or the other. Morning sex after a party can be great but best to avoid the kissing before Listerine.

It’s the smell or, more specifically, what you use smell to sense, to perceive. Many humanoids, particularly Terrans, are mad about smells. The Terran cosmetic industry alone spent millions on research and development to find just the right smell odor that would turn heads and turn you on.

Terrans are also fascinated with sex. A routine biological function designed to enhance reproduction. In Victorian times, it was suppressed. Later, the fact that sex could feel good was recognized, but not mentioned in polite society. Still later, the idea that sex SHOULD feel good was accepted, and despite the various diseases that came and went because of increased practice in this fine art, sex was eventually embraced as a hobby, a sport, a means of passing the time, and at its best, the physical sharing of one’s love for another -- and, at worst, a weapon.

The crew of the USS Trafalgar was embracing sex with open arms -- and legs. Currently, a full third of the crew was thinking or acting on thoughts of getting laid. Reports were coming into sickbay from all over the ship of various couples, triples, and one memorable orgy involving almost the entire Stellar Cartography department, engaged in copulations of increasing fervor and aggressiveness. Indeed, the Trafalgar’s medical department had been treating sex related injuries for the past eight hours.

After Ensign London had sent Dr. Sentara the tape of Nina Litterest’s confession of a bio-agent being used against the crew, the medical staff had initiated what quarantine and cohorting procedures it could. While his physicians and nurses treated the injuries symptomatic of aggressive. and in a few cases, unwanted sexual congress, Sentara had secluded himself in his lab to work on an antidote.

His first success, while not a cure, was in determining that the viral infection causing the “addiction” was based on chemicals released by the body during orgasm. It was easy to replicate medication that would produce the same effect but this was a short-term measure only. Dr. Sentara needed an antidote, or the crew would soon be fucking their brains out all over the ship -- again.

His door chirped, interrupting his review of copulins and their emission as pheromones by various species, primarily the Orions. He threw his coffee mug at the door. “What part of Do Not Disturb don’t you idiots understand?? Sentara bellowed.

“Sorry, Doctor, but it’s the Colonel; she’s infected, and so is her daughter.”

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

<Private exam area, Sickbay>

The exams had gone quickly. A few scans and some bloodwork were all that was needed to confirm that Col. London, Biggs Duke and Rowena London were in the second stages of viral infection. Controllable with ever increasing does of endorphins. There was some other interesting news as well.

“Well, Colonel,” began Sentara, “You’re going to live. Only minor tearing easily repaired. But you’ll be sore for awhile. You should stop having sex for about a month, and you’ll need a special dressing for six or seven days, but you’ll soon be better than new. The problem is the virus. I’m not sure we’ll be able to control it for a month without a little help from Mother Nature, and in your case, Col. Duke, but we can try.”

Bran was propped up with some cushions trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. She still hurt all over and was sore as hell. But she tried to focus on what the doctor was saying. “A dressing, down there?” Medical science was further behind then she knew. “Does this mean I have to stay away from all men for a month?” She tried to lighten the mood. “How long till you make an antidote, doctor?”

Sentara chuckled. "Well, ahem, as for a 'dressing down there' we can promote faster healing with higher technology, but until we can find out what this virus actually is and how much it will cost us to produce an antidote, -- medical resources are just not as abundant as they used to be Colonel. As for staying away from ALL men; how many sexual partners have you had in the last two months, Colonel?"

She blushed. This was so not happening, Bran felt like teenager, judged by her elders. “Two.” she had to admit. “We need an antidote tomorrow!” Her voice rose a little and the colonel fought to get her emotions back under control again. “Does this only work if there is some past or present attraction between people? Does they have to be touching?”

"Colonel, if I can come up with an antidote by tomorrow, then you'll have it tomorrow. These things take some time to investigate and develop. It's not like the day begins with a medical emergency and an hour later its solved! We're doing the best we can!" Sentara began to push and prod, feeling Bran's abdomen. "We don't know the exact method of contagion but attraction doesn't seem to be a factor, and at present we do believe that the virus is passed through intimate touch -- fortunately, causal touch like shaking hands and such can not transfer the virus. Sexual contact does speed up the process."

“Glad to see you are wearing gloves, doctor.” She said tartly and then hissed as he hurt her. And for a marine to show pain… “What do you suggest? We can’t put everyone in containment suits 24/7, or segregate men and women.”

Sentara muttered a quick apology when Branwen hissed in pain, but continued his palpations. “The medication we have given you, and the others, simulates the endorphins that are given off during sex. With increasing doses of this, we can hold off the worst of it – but the body adapts quickly, so I imagine increased sexual activity to be the norm, we just want to take the violence out of it. I think segregating the men and the women would just cause a rash of homosexual rapes.” The doctor made an entry in Branwen’s record. “And, I’m not wearing gloves because they aren’t necessary for a simple external palpation of your uterus.”

“Well doctor, you know the risks.” She snapped back. “But if you don’t mind I would rather not add you to the list of men I had sex with today.”

"I understand that Colonel, but I'm afraid you're not my type. And if my hypothesis is correct, I'm better protected by nose plugs than gloves, unless we start exchanging bodily fluids." Sentara walked over to the exam room sink.

“Branwen,” announced Sentara, running his hands under a sonic faucet, “the good news is your pregnant – about three weeks pregnant. Single fetus. The bad news is I’m not sure yet how this virus will impact the fetus – or if it even does. So, can you figure out which of those two men is the father, or do I need to run DNA tests?”

“Come again?” Bran blinked. “That can’t be. I have an implant. My childbearing days are done. I gave birth to six children already.” She swallowed looking around were Duke was. “Will it harm the baby?”

"Implants are only 99% effective; there is always a chance, although there is a possibility this virus may have the side effect of increasing fertility -- but you would have had to been exposed at least three or four week ago for that to be a factor in this case. Unless you've been feeling extremely randy for the entire month, I think this is a case of good, old fashioned reproduction."

Sentara sat on a stool next to Bran's bed. "Branwen, I'm sorry, but we just don't know the effect this virus will have on a fetus -- not yet. We'll need to run some tests, and monitor the pregnancy closely. Unless, that is, you want to abort?"

“Shit I don’t want to go through that again, worrying how a baby is going to come out.” She turned her head away so he could not see her emotions. “But abortion is out of the question. All life is sacred to me.” She had not completely left her old religion behind her.

"I understand," sympathized Sentara. "We'll monitor this pregnancy every step of the way. Do you know who the father is?"

“Yes,” Bran said but she wanted to talk to Duke first before telling the doctor. With difficulty she managed to focus on the duties at hand. “My daughter, I think she is also affected. Would that be an excuse to keep her here? Under guard? I want to keep her safe, Doc.”

The physician's answer was interrupted by one of the nurse's coming in and handing him a PADD. Sentara reviewed the contents and typed in some orders. "Put her in quarantine, and obtain some additional blood samples and send them to my lab -- Level 4 protocols, please." As the nurse left the room, Sentara turned back to his patient.

"Colonel, I don't think keeping Rowena here will be a problem. It seems that Ro may actually be our Patient Zero -- the first one of the crew infected. According to her lab tests, the virus doesn't affect her as strongly as it does humans, but she is a carrier. Based on her interview, it seems she initiated the infection in several crew that she had contact with, although none of that contact was intimate, except with her partner. I'm placing Rowena in quarantine until we have more answers."

“Thank you! You have no idea how happy this makes me.” Bran exhaled slowly. “That is one less worry. I will see that you have all the resources we can find to find the cure as soon as possible. In the mean time what advice do we give the crew? Separating loved ones is going to be hard.”

Sentara had never seen anyone so happy to have a loved one placed in quarantine. Making a mental note to pay particular attention to how the pregnancy and the virus were affecting his commander's hormone levels, Sentara answered, "There is no need to separate current couples -- the medication we're giving the infected crew will keep the edge off their, umm -- lust, but actual sexual release will be required on occasion to satisfy the addiction caused by the virus. The only concern I have with that is that having sex will psychologically and possibly physically strengthen the addiction, but at this point, we just have to strive for a balance. I'll know more when I can get back to my research."

“In my case? I think I should avoid release?” Bran said with a grin. “Is it safe for Colonel Duke and me to spend time together if we do not touch each other ?”

Sentara chuckled. "If you spend time with Col. Duke, even with the medication there will be times that you will feel driven to touch each other. Just keep it nice and easy. At this stage of the pregnancy, no harm can come to the fetus through normal intercourse."

“But you said I could have no intercourse for a month,” she sighed. “I don’t know how I am going to survive a whole month without.”

"I'm sure there are things you can do that don't require penetration," smirked Sentara. "I've got some vids around here somewhere if you need instruction."

If looks could kill the doctor would have been a blistering pile of ashes on his own sickbay floor.

"Colonel," he continued, "there is one other issue I need to make you aware of. The prisoner, Commander Litterest, was raped repeatedly by some of the crew in her cell." Seeing Branwen's reaction, Sentara hastily added, "Col. Duke is aware of the situation -- one of his teams stopped the attack and he ordered the attackers spaced -- some quick action by the XO got them jailed instead. The commander's injuries have been treated. This virus may have contributed to the attack, but it was the news of Earth's destruction that acted as a trigger."

“Nothing excuses rape!” Branwen said. “If we start acting like that we are no better then any of our enemies. Ironic isn’t it, she knew about the virus, and in the end she is the one worst affected by it. I wish we still carried counselors on board, this ship could sure you some and I am way to busy to do it myself. And probably too involved to be effective. How did the commander appear to you?”

"Angry, distraught, depressed. The usual following such an attack. Once Ro showed her what happened to Earth, she seems willing to help us end this for the greater good."

“Smart woman. If you think she should be moved to sickbay, you have my permission. We are not monsters.”

"She is fine where she is, but I'd limit her beatings to those absolutely necessary; also, no chemical interrogations." Sentara was not a fan of the Trafalgar's interrogation techniques.

“If she is cooperating then hopefully there is no more need for more interrogations. Believe me, doctor. I don’t like it either, but it saves lives.”

"We've had this discussion before, Colonel," retorted Sentara. "I think we have to agree to disagree."

“I know, and once I would have been firmly on your side, Doc.” Bran gave him a wan smile. “So is Duke up to seeing me? Or do you need to finish that dressing you mentioned?”

"The nurse can finish the dressing -- you might need a somewhat looser uniform for a while. As for Col. Duke, I'm going to have to keep him overnight. A traumatic fracture of the penis is not something you can use a bone regenerator on. And it doesn't help that every time one of my nurse's walks by he attempts an erection either!"

“Poor dear,” she suppressed a smile. “Men are such delicate creatures; I had more sex then he did and I get to go home. You finished stitching me up down there?”

"Are you certain, my dear?" asked the doctor.

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

Clemente Sentara was back in his lab, continuing his research. Despite Col. London’s objections – she had wanted to spend the night with Duke – he had discharged her with firm instructions to take her medication faithfully as prescribed and to wear her ‘diaper’ dressing at all times except when using the facilities. Privately, he figured Bran would have the diaper off as soon as Duke was discharged, not that Duke would be in any shape to play for at least a week.

He had examined Rowena London personally, despite the pain in the ass conducting a physical exam in an isolation suit was, and was mildly amused when the young woman actually had an orgasm during the gynecological.

Her test results confirmed his hypothesis – Ro was a carrier, and the virus had been slower to manifest in her because of her half Hydran genetic heritage. However, experiments using replicated Hydran DNA based on Ro’s samples were a failure.

Sentara resumed his original research. In the late twentieth centaury Dr. Noam Sobel and his colleagues at Stanford University used functional magnetic resonance imaging to show that the human brain responded to androstadienone even when subjects were unable to smell it, a result confirmed in a later study by Jacob, McClintock and their colleagues. Later findings by Dr. Ivanka Savic an her colleagues at the Karolinska Institute in Sweden reported that androstadienone and estratetraenol affected men and women's brains differently: The former boosted hypothalamic activity only in women, while the latter increased hypothalamic activity only in men. The hypothalamus influences the pituitary gland's release of hormones, so it is in a key position to affect reproductive behavior.

Clemente was convinced that the viral agent was pheromones based. Cross referencing his own findings with research on file on the effects of certain Orions on humanoids, he set his computer on a search of any known bio-warfare applications. Then he went for dinner.

Reviewing the results on his return to the lab, Sentara smile. “Gotcha, you bastard!” he exclaimed to the empty lab. Now, to find the antidote.

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

Pathogen 547-A had been developed by the Terran cosmetic industry in a failed attempt to manufacture a scent that would produce the attractive effects of the so-called Orion slave-girls without any of the unseemly consequences. Clinical trials on animal simulations had shown promise, but actual human experiments resulted in addictive properties. While the company’s bean counters actually considered this a positive side effect as long as they were the sole supplier, the company board of directors was convinced the risk was too high.

Thank the gods for Starfleet Intelligence. SFI stepped in and offered to take over the project, resolving the involved corporation’s expenses for the entire project. The techno-weenies at SFI were in short order able to develop an aerosolized version of Pathogen 547-A, which in due course received the usual asinine nomenclature of “Chemical Inducement, Sexual, Aerosol Based, Formula 547-A, Enhancement 12, for Covert Operations Only.”

The techno-weenies simply called it “Nocoxaflopin.”

"Things That Are... Yet To Be?" Part Two

Colonel/Commandant For'kel Arvelion

Commanding Officer/Strategic Affairs Advisor

188TH SFMC Detachment/AQDF

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

"Some people wonder all their lives if they've made a difference. The Marines don't have that problem." Ronald Reagan

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

Fork began twisting and turning, clenching at something unseen as the events of a 'still' classified (and probably long since forgotten) mission ran through his mind; were it an action movie or 'cinematic experience' as they were often billed, this would be the place for the awesome chase scene complete with heart-pounding music.

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

(Lakarian Advanced Weapons Research Facility- Cardassia Prime: 30 KMs North of Lakarian City)

They moved through the facility with a practiced ease and speed that even the former owners would have envied. The vehicle bay was one of the first parts of the base that had been constructed, so their holographic training sessions were spot on when they needed to know where to go.

The teams moved forward, dropping any unfortunate guerilla who happened to be left standing in their way. The entire path to the vehicle bay had been dotted with skirmishes, Moset's fanatical gunmen unwilling to simply run away. They did their best to slow the Marines down, resulting in a lot of very close quarters engagements. Personal shields crackled, and sparks showered from weapons strikes against the metallic bulkheads of the base. Grenades exploded, the orb like objects hitting grated or thermo-concrete floors with resounding clanks, deafening explosions, shrapnel, and shock-waves pummeling both sides. In the end however, it was the guerillas who were taking the better part of the damage today.

They had given no quarter to the Loyalists who garrisoned the base beforehand, and expected none from the Starfleet Marines. More then once a half-slain, bloody and leathery arm tossed out a last remaining grenade, or took aim with a side-arm... these were highly-skilled fighters, veterans of the war with the Triad and liberators of their home world, and they fought with the tenacity and determination one would expect from that kind of rugged fighter.

The Colonel was at the point however where he expected them to do nothing more than die and be a cheap funeral.

"Tracker two to tracker one, we're at the vehicle depot, where the fuck are you guys?!"

"Tracker one, we're coming up the corridor now!" Fork gave his Marines the hand signal to move up, and the squad burst through the bay door despite a hail of enemy fire coming in. Shimmering images of black-clad Starfleet Marines, the visual effect caused by energy weapons striking the integrated shielding systems in their combat suits absorbed considerable damage by the high-powered impacts. Fork ducked for cover behind a thermo-concrete barrier being used by Tracker two's CO and his combat companion. Leah followed suit, taking the far end of the barrier next to Fork. "Fancy meeting you here, Colonel."

Colonel Peter Shaw looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Something tells me I don't even want to know how the hell you got involved with this one."

"You're probably right." Fork replied before popping up and taking out one of the heavy gunners by the garage door. Streams of red beams and pulses were heading one way, streams of yellow beams were inbound. It was an awesome laser light show if you had the gaul to stick your head up and watch. "Where's tracker three?"

"Dead." Shaw called back, grabbing Fork's arm before the man could even get the idea Pete knew he was going to have. "Don't think about it. We need to get out of here."

"Yeah... we do." Fork muttered. "I set the Self Destruct, we have 15 minutes before this whole base goes up in a low-yield nuclear explosion. We don't have time for a long gun-fight."

"Tell me about it." Shaw replied, loading a photon grenade into the grenade launcher on his rifle and fired. Set to explode on contact, the force of the explosion nearly flipped over one of the lighter hover-vehicles, sending a trio of closely packed Cardassian guerillas. "We're a bit bunched together behind this thing."

"We are." Fork concurred, making a quick change of his rifle's energy clip. "We'll move along the wall, you guys provide suppressing fire. Signal the others on the opposite side of the bay to do the same, we'll catch them in the cross fire."

"Hopefully." Pete muttered before nodding. "On my mark." He and his comrade popped up and sprayed the area in front of them long enough to force the Cardassians down. "Go!"

Fork and Leah made their moves, trotting down the sides of the bay and clearing out each of the suppressed fighting positions one by one. On the other end of the bay Ugahlo and Snap did the same, Crackle and Pop providing suppressing fire for them. Shaw's other men moved down the middle, the three columns quickly clearing the remaining fighters.

"Clear!" Pop yelled after a quick scan through the scope of his TR-116.

"All right, load up in the trucks. Move!"

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

He heard Pete's voice as clear as day, even though late night, many light years away, there was nobody speaking.

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

They piled into a smaller GP vehicle while Shaw's Marines grabbed one of the flat-bed 'lorries'. The two teams broke for the now (renamed) Dumar Memorial Highway. Following it for about twenty minutes would take them to the next possible pick-up point for extraction.

Unfortunately after hearing of the fall of the Lakarian Weapons Facility, Moset put out the call to every able-bodied guerilla remotely loyal to him to show up ready to fight. That twenty minute trip was cutting right through the strongest zone of control he had on Cardassia Prime... it was going to be a bumpy trip.

It was rush-hour, or what passed for rush-hour in the once thriving heart of a once respected and feared Cardassian Empire. Some things hadn't changed... and even now workers were hard at work doing their damndest to reverse to the greatest extent possible the intense damage caused by years of T'Kith'kin occupation. They had no more idea of what was about to happen then the Marines mixed among them.

While Leah concentrated on driving, and Ugahlo, Snap, and Crackle began discussing plans for their triumphant return to the Galaxy, Fork and Pop watched back, a low rumbling back where they'd come from indicating the explosives had done their job.

"Looks like that's i...!" The Angosian super-soldier's jaw firmly fixed before he finished, his steely gaze locked onto approaching vehicles. "Colonel, we have incoming!"

"I see them... damn it." Fork growled. Really he should've seen this coming, nothing had gone right with the mission so far; why would it start now? "Leah..."

"I know, I know... go faster." The Terran called back over her shoulder, blowing a few strands of nearly platinum hair out of her face. "Hang on."

She throttled up on the hovercar, kicking the driving thrusters as hard as she felt she could given the heavy traffic around them. Under ideal circumstances, the GP vehicle had a top speed some 30 percent greater than that of the larger transports now chasing them. However this wasn't a flat out race... the road curved sharply, and the pilfered staff car was unlikely to react well to the uneven terrain of 'off-roading' at any kind of escape speed. Besides, the high walls on the right side, coupled with the guide rails on the left made it virtually impossible to go off-road anyway.

Then there was trying to avoid hitting the civilian traffic ahead of them, while at the same time activating the shields of a military vehicle of an unfamiliar type and configuration without taking her eyes off of the proverbial road. All in a day's work.

Their pursuers however didn't need to worry about the civilians ahead of them. Their sole goal was to catch up to the car ahead of them. Armed men in the back readied themselves in full visibility of the Marines they were chasing. In addition to the usual shields of the trucks, they'd made modifications to add additional armor from what scraps of titanium they could salvage. The three trucks stormed through traffic, forcing anyone ahead of them out of the way. The second truck pulled into the next lane... and they were gaining on the Marines.

"They're trying to box us in!" Ugahlo readied the support weapon he had.

"Leah..."

"I'm going as fast as we can, sir!" She yelled, cutting off a civilian truck as she veered across a lane.

Fork grabbed his rifle, turning in his seat as did Pop. "We'll try and slow them down then. Whatever you do, keep us moving!"

The two Marines opened fire on the cab of the lead pursuing transport, the shields flaring under the combined phaser fire of Fork's grenadier rifle and Pop's carbine. It was probably a bad move, because not only did the shots prove ineffective at anything other than damaging shields, but the sight of phaser fire made their civilian compatriots frightened. They peeled away from the fire fight, leaving plenty of space for the Cardassian pursuers to close in.

Everyone not driving instantly readied their weapons as Cardassian rifles began pointing their way. The two parties exchanged weapons fire at close range. It didn't take much time at all for the myriad of phaser blasts to deplete the shields of both craft. For'kel fired as rapidly as possible, not so much focusing on individual shooters as he was trying to just keep their heads down. Smoking holes in the makeshift armor filled the area with sparks and acrid aroma. Screams on both sides made barely audible by the repeated buzzing and zinging of weapons and shields.

While the two groups slugged it out, Leah did her best to avoid getting shot while driving. Her counterpart glared over at her with a fatalistic look in his eye. He grinned maniacally, raising a phaser pistol and firing.

She'd seen it coming, and sat far enough back into her seat that the hot beam missed, striking the dashboard next to Ugahlo. She pulled her rifle, and resting it on her arm fired back, expending the thin layer of tiled armor protecting the cab. This enraged the driver, who in return veered back to gain distance before driving right for the smaller truck at full ramming speed.

In one of the most incredible strokes of luck (or skill) in a day marked by amazing tales of heroic deeds, Leah had seen it coming, and cut power to the left side anti-grav generators, effectively dipping the GP. When the two craft collided, the larger craft struck at an angle, getting snagged on the corner of smaller. She narrowed her eyes one last time at the malevolent grin before restoring power, in effect throwing the truck off balance and sending it jack-knifing back. It's riders were thrown, the wreck of the truck being stricken head on by the second pursing truck, and flipping that one up and onto it's back, crushing everyone inside. The third truck evaded the wreckage of it's comrades, continuing on in pursuit.

"Good going, Corporal!" Fork yelled out, looking back with a smile just long enough to have missed being hit by a Cardassian phaser beam. The impact instead struck Crackle. The comm system he was carrying dispersed it far enough that the armor could deal with most of it, leaving a fairly minor injury.

"Marine down!" Snap yelled out, grabbing his comrade before he could fall out of the truck.

“You bad?”

“No I’m okay, the LR Comm’s shot to hell though.” Crackle growled, taking the still smoking, notebook sized device off of his back and dropping the still smoldering useless conglomeration of electronics to the floor.

“So much for our connection to command.” Snap grunted, putting a pressure bandage over the burn wound. They didn’t have time to pull out a regenerator, so the antiseptic pad and wrap would have to do for now.

Fork kept his rifle plastered onto the third troop carrier, sending a trio of golden bolts their way. Ugahlo followed suit with the squad support weapon, peppering the driver’s cab with the 24th century equivalent of the machine gun. The Cardassians retaliated with a pair of rifleman aiming not for those firing on them, but rather at the slight, slim blonde target in the driver’s seat. Take her out, and you stopped their escape, or so was the theory of the gun-slingers braving a hail of incoming fire to take their aimed shots. Leah wasn’t an easy target though, shielded by the armored driver-side’s seat, the group of men behind her, and what was left of the little car’s shielding system.

“How far?!” Fork did his best to shout over the whistling sound of wind zooming past them, the intense humming of the anti-grav drives in the vehicles all around them, as well as the shouting and phaser fire. His ears were killing him.

Leah checked their location on the imbedded GPS with her spare hand. “Half-way there Colonel!”

A high-energy phaser beam slammed into the door just off the Colonel’s side, the thin tiles of ERA armor exploding off to deflect the impact after absorbing the radiant phaser energy. How they managed to absorb that high a hit was anyone’s guess.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere!” Fork loaded a photonic rifle grenade into the under-barrel launcher. “Crackle, Snap, Ugahlo, we’ll target the inward side of that truck, aim for the anti-grav emitters. Pop, you’re going to get one shot at this so make it count… you aim for the driver.”

Before he could give the command to go Leah took a sharp turn, trying to shake their pursuers. Unfortunately it had the deleterious effect of knocking the unprepared Marines back down as well, and nearly throwing one particularly brass heavy fellow clear from it.

“Sorry Colonel.”

“Don’t worry about it Leah.” He mumbled… damn that was going to leave a bruise in the morning. Pushing himself from the door and back up to his feet. “Open fire!”

The combined weapons fire of two Type III-B2 Phaser Carbines, a Type III B standard, and one M-3 SSW ripped into the point-defense shielding of the troop transport, cutting it open with the same ferocity a trained pit-bull shows it’s victims. To prevent complete destruction, the automated defense systems on the vehicle channeled all its energy into the shields protecting the anti-grav generators on the stricken side, and compensating for the damage they did take. It left the driver’s cab vulnerable for just under two seconds.

And that was all it took for Pop to send a pin-point accurate armor piercing titanium round through the front screen of the Cardassian transport, exploding the head of the unfortunate driver and rendering the vehicle utterly uncontrollable.

The chaotic, driverless truck swerved against its stricken side. For’kel took careful aim with the grenade launcher, taking the opportunity presented by the tilted, exposed flat-bed to land one in the middle of the hapless squad of soldiers in the back. It exploded, broke apart, and flipped engine over wheel, careening into the pillars supporting the River Overpass.

There was nothing worse than having to kill people. Amongst the ranks of killing people, what had to be the worst was watching them be engulfed in the flames and shattered by the explosions that accompanied a vehicle blowing up. In the heat of ship to ship combat a Starfleet crewman never saw the actual enemies they were slaying. Fighter pilots, zipping along at blinding speed rarely, if ever, got a fleeting glimpse of their adversaries. Marines on the other hand saw them all the time… sometimes as little specks way off in the distance, and sometimes close up, watching their last moments as life drained for them, or if the situation permitted their last second or two of consciousness before falling into a deep enough sleep to be captured. There was a considerable amount of difference between pressing a blinking red button on a tactical screen, pressing down on the firing diode on a joystick, and squeezing the trigger.

It wasn’t something that there was time to dwell on though. There never seemed to be time to take a breath and think.

“Colonel, Cardassian fighters!”

Fork’s eyes followed Snap’s finger to a pair of dull yellow stingray like craft in staggered formation. They lacked the new, multi-tone camouflage of the latest variants of Cardassian fighters, and they were no readable IFF signatures. That could mean only one thing… they were loyal to Moset.

This time it seemed like somehow they’d scorned lady luck, and she was no longer in the mood.

“Fill the sky with fire, keep them off of us! Leah don’t give them a clear shot!”

The two fighters made their first strafing run against a wall of heavy, but sporadic wall of small arms fire coming up at them. Members of the Fourth Order, one of the few formal Cardassian units loyal to the dissident, they were exceedingly well trained, and benefitted from a particular lack of moral imperative in their operations. The fact that it was a civilian causeway, their own people, didn’t matter. They came in weapons blazing, gatling phaser cannons blasting away.

The heat of radiant phaser halos washed over the Marines as blast after blast came dearly close to striking them. They pulled out of their dive, coming around for a second pass.

This time the Marines were far more coordinated in the wall of flak they put up. Rifle grenades, an Isomagnetic Disintegrator, and the high powered phaser rounds combined to disable one of the fighters. It dropped back, allowing the second fighter to assume the attack position.

“Shields down!” Leah screamed to be heard. “Hold on tight!”

Leah cut through two lanes of traffic to take the onramp to the lower level of the bridge, hoping that the structural pillars and interlaced support pylons would provide enough cover from their pursuers to at least hide. It wasn’t happening though, lady luck was being particularly spiteful today.

The two fighters dropped down, the lead one raking the entire lower deck with angry phaser blasts. Violent explosions erupted from the bridge decking and sending sharp shrapnel in all directions. Cars came to a screeching halt, threatening to block the Marines in save for some skillful driving. As they passed the spaces between the pillars the Marines returned fire, concentrating on the wounded second fighter.

They were almost home, almost to relative safety, mid-way over the bridge when a lucky shot clipped the second fighter. In a last ditch effort the pilot drove his wounded ship straight for the Marines.

Fork didn’t remember much about the impact or immediate aftermath. In his mind it was as if he’d jumped maybe a full minute or two into the future. Everything had been gray before turning bright white, the kind of background color one normally got when their eyes were shut and bright light was pouring down. The massive explosion from the kamikaze run had destroyed the center of the bridge, along with several key supporting structures.

The entire world was hazy. Lag, everything was lagging… severe tinnitus making it difficult to even get to his knees, let alone his feet. The air had been sucked clear from his lungs… and everything hurt like hell. Fork squinted, the world slowly coming into focus. He could see their car over-turned a considerable distance away. He could see feet running forward, and when he finally managed to crane his neck he could see Leah shouting, though he couldn’t yet hear precisely what she was saying… as if someone watching the unfolding action movie had hit a mute button.

“What?”

“The bridge is collapsing!” She repeated. “We’ve got to move!”

"Long lost love found"

Captain Alexandra Lee

Alex sat in her command chair aboard the Pegasus as it traveled through the vast ocean of space between systems. The universe was alot more dangerous nowadays. She contemplated on what should be done with the survivors of Earth. There were few places that would be thoroughly safe for them with Cait and Cattusia being among the few. She thought about the Messenger. He seemed to genuiely care for those people and was very polite in the transporter room. She could understand his dislike and distrust of the factions that now existed out there. A new faction or pirate clan seemed to pop up on a weekly basis, not to mention the Hydrans and T'kith'kin threats. She wondered if perhaps he would be interested in a pernament position aboard the ship. Despite being a ship of war, the Pegasus needed a counselor. She would have to ask him later. Alex felt older than what she really was and she could not decide if it was the war, the experience of divorce and losing her only child, responsible for so many lives, or a combination of them all. And through it all, in this universe where death could be in the next system, and despite being among crew she had come to call friends, she felt very alone.

The Operations officer turned in her seat to face the captain. "Captain, sensors are reading a civilian vessel in the nearby Vega System. It appears to be a civilian freighter identified as the S.S. Vienna."

Lee immediately stood from the command chair. "The SS Vienna?"

"Yes ma'am. Its in a slow deacaying orbit due to being situated over a electromagnetic storm on the planet."

"Alter course, and intercept at maximum warp," Lee ordered. "Set alert condition to Yellow."

"Aye, ma'am."

Alert panels immediately burned a soft yellow across the ship. 'Are you truely suicidal, Paul?' Alex thought to herself with crossed arms.

"Isn't the Vienna your ex's..."

"Yes it is, commander," Alex interuppted her first officer.

"Future Tense, Part 2"

or

“I’ll Be There With You”

Captain Alexandra Lee, commanding USS Pegasus

Paul McAllister, former Commander, SFI

Soundtrack: "I'll Keep Your Secrets" – Beethoven's Last Night, Trans-Siberian Orchestra

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Thz05IJryw

(Occurs after "Music Without Sound" and simultaneously with “Dreams No One Can See”)

<SS Vienna, Somewhere in Space>

McAllister returned to the keyboard, hammering out the last bars of the movement. The muses faded, but one remained…

Paul looked into her eyes, raised his hand, and tried to smile.

"Immortal Beloved," he whispered, and slumped over the piano keys, fingers bloody, the music gone.

Music without sound.

I'LL KEEP YOUR SECRETS
I'LL HOLD YOUR GROUND
AND WHEN THE DARKNESS STARTS TO FALL
I'LL BE AROUND THERE WAITING
WHEN DREAMS ARE FADING
AND FRIENDS ARE DISTANT AND FEW

KNOW AT THAT MOMENT I'LL BE THERE WITH YOU

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

Captain Alexandra Lee materialized on board the small, antiquated vessel. The ship was in a tractor beam from the USS Pegasus.

She motioned for a medic to look at Paul's fingers as she rested his body against hers. He had always played wonderful music. She hated how they had drifted apart after the death of his sister. She had tried to help ease his suffering without success. Now she had saved his small ship from the electromagnetic storm that raged on the surface of the planet, below. She had always loved him, despite the hard road they had taken which led to their separation.

Tapping her comm badge after the medic finished healing Paul's hands, =/\=Captain Lee-McAllister to Pegasus, three to transport.=/\=

=/\=Aye, captain, transporting...=/\=

The three dematerialized in a swirl of blue light.

<Sickbay, USS Pegasus>

McAllister woke with a start, reaching for a weapon. He always came to life this way when sleeping alone.

It was too bright. 'Ludwig, you're not in Vienna anymore,' he thought. He sensed a presence by his bedside. The shape was familiar, the uniform wasn't. Turning his head, his eyes widened in surprise.

"Alex? Is that really you?" he croaked.

Alex nodded with crossed arms. "Yes...what were you thinking taking orbit above a Class-A Electromagnetic Storm in that antiquated small ship of yours? Are you suicidal?"

Paul touched his ears. "If you want me to hear you yelling at me, I'll need those damn implants." His voice softened. "And I love you too, Lexi."

Alex had forgotten about the implants and handed them to him. "I asked why you were above a Class-A electromagnetic storm in that old ship of yours."

He certainly couldn't expect a loving response, not after the way he'd treated her. Paul sighed with regret. "I was playing Beethoven, I think. Hard to tell nowadays." He sat up, grimacing. "Class A storm, eh? Wasn't that bad when I got here. Or there. Just where are we?"

"Altair Five," she replied. "You should know that electromagnetic storms are unpredictable and extremely dangerous, especially to small vessels such as yours. Your vessel is currently in our tractor beam and we've taken it out of orbit and the hold the storm had on it." She still loved him and she was glad that he was alright. "I'm also having one of my flight officers take your vessel to the nearest starbase as at the moment, we're on border patrol duty and can't spare the time to take you back to a base ourselves."

Paul swung his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed facing her. "You can't spare the time to take me to a starbase, but you can spare a flight officer to take my ship? What's going on Alex? Why am I here?"

"You're here because we rescued you. I have many flight officers aboard this ship, so I can spare one. As I said, we're on border patrol and there have been several attacks by ships aligned with the Hawk Faction, so we are ordered to remain in the area until further instructed." She decided to change the subject. "Come, lets take a walk," she said more softly.

Paul was about to argue, but something in the tone of Alex's voice made him hold back. "OK, Alex, ok. Let's take a walk." He hopped off the bed and wobbled on his feet.

The two exited the sickbay and down the corridor. "Why did you leave Starfleet? Was it your sister's death? Ever since she died, you haven't been the same man that I first fell in love with all those many years ago."

Paul patted his pockets as he walked beside his estranged wife, trying to buy time to formulate a reply that wouldn't rip the scabs off his heart. Finally finding a cigar in his shirt pocket, he was about to chomp down on it when Alex ripped it from his hand and backed him against the bulkhead. Paul thought about kissing her -- she seemed more beautiful than when they first met, but Alex was giving him THE STARE.

All men know THE STARE. It's that "Don't fuck with me look" that indicates your next answer had better be honest, painful and immediate.

"Damn," he muttered. He couldn't look Alex in the eyes. "Because I failed."

Alex let go of her grip. "Failed at what, Paul? You were a damn fine officer and good at your job. Lord knows we need more of those kind of officers. Now, more than ever. I was always there for you if you needed me."

"BUT I WASN'T THERE FOR YOU!" McAllister screamed, turned, and punched the bulkhead. His outburst caused an incredibly painful feedback whine from his ear implants. "Ow, fuck," he shouted, and turned again, wanting to run but having nowhere to go.

Alex remembered that dreadful day in which the Civil War began with an unsuspecting attack on the USS Bismarck. She had just been appointed as Chief Engineer the day before the attack. The Bismarck had been caught off guard and the second salvo had caused EPS Circuits across Deck Seven to overload, killing Jonathan--their infant son in the process. The loss had nearly killed her, but in the end, it had made her a much stronger woman and officer. Her son was no longer her weakness, but her strength in this devastating war.

"There was nothing you, or anyone else could have done, Paul," she said again in the soft voice, looking him in the eyes. "I never blamed you for anything, and you have no right to feel the least bit guilty."

Paul looked away, down at the hand he had punched into the bulkhead. One of his fingers was dislocated. Taking the finger in his other hand, he gritted his teeth and pulled it back into place with a whimper. Sometimes physical pain kept the mental anguish away. He looked back at Alex, noting her surprise. He reached out, and gently placed his unbroken hand on Alex's abdomen.

"And this Lexi?" Paul used his pet name for her. "Can you forgive me the fact you can no longer have children as well?" he asked her softly.

"Of course...it wasn't your fault, Paul. You need to realize that," she said placing her hand on his. Lets go to my quarters. I have an emergency medical kit that will be able to fix that hand."

Paul just nodded his head. Alex would never understand. In fact, he didn't want her to. Alex would try to make his pain her own, and he couldn't do that to her. Still, her hand on his brought back some pleasant memories to confront the bad, and it felt good to make contact with anyone, especially Alex. He grasped her hand and gently squeezed.

"Alright. Let's go see what a Captain's quarters looks like on this boat. I bet there's a damn swim suit hanging in the lavatory!"

Alex chuckled. "How did you ever know?"

***A few moments later***

The two arrived at Alex's Quarters and entered. The quarters weren't decorated much, save for a few holo-photos and a painting of the USS Pegasus. "Have a seat on the sofa while I grab the medical kit," she gestured.

Paul sat were directed and surveyed the room. It was a damn sight bigger than their first doss, but not near as nice as the home Alex had made them on the Bismarck.

Alex withdrew the small emergency medical kit from a compartment in the bulkhead and sat down next to Paul. Opening the case, she withdrew a micro bone regenerator and began to run the bluish light over Paul's injured hand. "So what have you been up to since you left?" she asked, keeping her attention on healing Paul's hand with the regenerator.

Paul winced a bit as Alex worked on his hand. "I've not being doing much of anything. I've keep in touch with some of my contacts, but have pretty much kept to myself."

Paul reached out and touched Alex's chin, lifting her face so he could see her eyes. "The hand's fine. Something's going on here -- you know I don't believe in coincidence -- that your ship is here means something. What can I do to help?"

Alex missed Paul's touch. "I can't say much...only know that we are going to deliver a crippling blow to the Hawks."

Paul nodded. "You're a good captain with a decent ship. You'll do fine. You didn't really bring me her for a pep talk, did you?"

"I could use your help, Paul. You've always been good with sensors and interpreting readings. I need to know the exact location of the Avalon Shipyards so we can get in and then get out before the Hawks even know what hit them.... and I thought we could get closer." She placed the regenerator down on a nearby table as she leaned in to kiss him.

Paul's body responded before the demons in his brain could deny him the pleasure of his wife's lips on his once again. When he could once again speak, he asked, "Just what are you up to, Alex? What's at the shipyard?"

"They're shipyards that nearly half of the Hawk Fleet uses. Their ability to affect major repairs will be drastically reduced, but the problem is, that it’s cloaked."

Paul leaned back. The demons in his head took hold of the problem, began to dissect it. Functional flow block diagrams began to form, the more obvious failure modes becoming readily apparent.

"If we use standard analysis techniques, the best I can give you is a SWAG.* If I'm wrong, there's a good possibility that the Hawks will find out, and that will make this Avalon even harder to find. You need someone on the inside." Paul laughed.

Seeing Alex's acknowledgement, Paul continued laughing. "You can't mean me! The deaf spy!" Paul's laughter became coughing and tears welled up in his eyes. "Maybe before this," he tentatively touched her abdomen. "Not now, I'm useless." He turned his head away.

She grabbed him and turned his head back towards her. "Look at me, Paul. You are not useless. We have twelve hours until we reach the proposed coordinates of the shipyards at our current speed. I need you."

Paul looked into Alex's eyes and saw the determination etched into her features. With or without him, she was taking her ship into Avalon.

"What's the percentage probability you have the correct coordinates?" he asked, silently accepting her verdict of his abilities, even if he did not agree with her. "And, does it have to be twelve hours or can we extend the arrival to 24?"

"About seventy-five percent. It’s the best our intel could do. Only the Pegasus was chosen due to her technology level and her ability to get in, make the hit and get out before anyone knows what happens, as well as to not alarm the Hawks with a massive force moving towards their borders. But if the coordinates are wrong, we'll be up to our heads in Hawk Forces. It would be better if it were twelve hours. Did you need more than twelve hours?"

McAllister paused. He was rapidly shifting about failure modes in his head. "Uhm? Oh, 24 hours eliminates three causal arcs, but could drop the anticipated success rate. You say twelve would be better? Ok, then. Has that flight officer of your run off with my ship yet?"

"No, he hasn't. He is scheduled to depart within the hour, however." Part of her didn't want Paul to take this mission as she still cared deeply for him yet he was the best chance they had for this mission to succeed.

"Abort the launch -- I'll need my ship and some of the items on board." Paul noticed Alex's concerned expression. "Don't worry, Alex. The Vienna's got some surprises built into her -- I'm rich, remember? I can afford all the neat toys. She just scans as an antique. Besides, you really don't won't one of your junior officers snooping around -- what if he finds that holo-tape, you remember? The one from our honeymoon?"

Alex's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you still have that?" She immediately tapped her comm badge. =/\=Lee to Ensign Cathers, cancel the launch of the Vienna. The owner will be taking command of the ship soon.=/\=

=/\=Aye, captain. Ensign Cathers, out.=/\=

Alex looked at Paul for a moment. "Just be careful, love," she replied, wishing they had more time together as she took his hand into hers.

Paul pressed her hand to his lips, giving it gentle kiss. "You know, when I first met you, after you dropped your towel -- I had one of those waking fantasies that I would kiss your hand like this. The dream got a little saucier than that, until Abbot and Hardy banged on the door." Paul reached into his pocket and took out an old pocket watch. The spring on the lid had lost its sprung long ago, and he refused to let Alex fix it for him. Opening the lid, he checked the time, and then showed the watch to Alex. Inside the cover was a small holo of Alex, holding Jonathan shortly after he was born. He closed the watch and handed it to Alex.

"This was my father's -- that's why I never let you fix it. The only change I made was having the holo installed. You were never more beautiful to me than on that day -- except maybe for right now." Paul closed Alex's hand around the watch. "There's a couple hours till the preverbal dawn," he said. "Can I spend the night with you?"

Alex fought back tears at seeing her lost son in the holo-photo. She slowly nodded her head as she looked up from the watch. "Of course, Paul," she said softly.

Paul reached into his ears and plucked out his implants and placed them in a pocket. While they allowed him to hear, they were an annoyance and a distraction; with so little time, he didn't want to be distracted from Alex. Silence enveloped him. Wordlessly, he opened his arms to her.

Alex leaned into Paul, kissing him passionately as she wrapped her arms around him.

I'LL BE AROUND
WHEN THERE'S NO REASON LEFT TO CARRY ON
AND EVERY DREAM YOU'VE EVER HAD IS GONE
AND THE DARK IS DEEP AND BLACK WITHOUT A SOUND
AND EVERY STAR HAS BEEN DRAGGED TO THE GROUND
KNOW AT THAT MOMENT I WILL BE AROUND
KNOW AT THAT MOMENT I WILL BE AROUND

“Puzzles in the Dark”

Paul McAllister, former Commander, SFI

Lieutenant at Tactical, NPC

Soundtrack: “For What It’s Worth” -- Buffalo Springfield

There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

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

<USS Pegasus>

McAllister could not sleep. He looked over at the slumbering form of his wife and marveled at what a truly wonderful woman she was.

Alexandra the engineer and Captain, fighting a war of principle in a season of hell that might soon claim them all.

Alex, his friend – a woman who could be so naïve and so bright that she could and did find the good in him that others believed long gone and impossible to regain.

Lexi, his lover, his wife, willing to forgive and offer herself to him, to take his pain as her own even after suffering so much.

It was all wrong. A culture that could produce such a woman just doesn’t give up and die, does it?

Paul’s mind groped with the question as he tried to keep his hands from groping the sleeping woman next to him.

When did this all begin, this Hawk versus Dove business? And who where they, really? Alex’s mission wasn’t very dove-like, and the Hawk’s also claimed that they only fought to preserve the Federation – or what remained of it. So what was the difference; a willingness to engage in pre-emptive strikes?

“Find the root cause, solve the puzzle.” Damn, thought Paul, I wish that dead bitch would get out of my head. The Admiral had one time or another been his friend, his mentor, his commander, his lover, and his betrayer. Since McAllister had visited justice upon her, her voice in his head was one of the strongest. Only thoughts of Alex could shut her out completely.

I wonder if Captain Dallas is still practicing, thought Paul. If I survive this, I’ll need my head shrunk. Paul had shunned counseling in the past many times, but if that’s what it would take to keep Alex by his side, he’d try to exorcise his demons once and for all.

Solve the puzzle – each person, each action is a piece of the whole. Find the root cause – first, brainstorming: throw all the ideas, even the fucked up ones, throw them all on the board and prioritize. Then you ask why, and keeping asking why until everyone on the analysis team wants to shoot you dead. Then ask why again. There were other techniques, but McAllister found the Why Method to be the most effective – given time.

Paul glanced at the chronometer. Unfortunately, it was on Alex’s side of the bed, and the sheet had slipped, partially exposing the nude form of his wife underneath. Paul felt a stirring, and then allowed the dead Admiral Bitch to enter his thoughts again; he didn’t have time for personal fun, all he had time for now were mind games and puzzles in the dark.

McAllister gently got out of the bed and looked about for something to slip on quickly. All he could find was a fuzzy pink robe he had given Alex when she was pregnant; she had been cold natured during that time, always wanting to “snuggle” and “cuddle,” always trying to stay warm.

Paul didn’t mind the first months, after the morning sickness passed. Alex was more often than not ready for a romp, but a pregnant Alex was horny all the time. Nine months of snuggling and cuddling and nearly worn him out, but it was Alex who asked for it, and who was he to deny her anything. Cold hearted, scheming son-of-a-bitch that he could be, he loved her and no one else. She was the only one he had ever actually been himself with – and it had all been an accident.

Paul had never intended on winning Alex as a wife. A mid-term playmate, perhaps; a fuckbuddy, most definitely. He had decided that when she first smiled at him and offered to help repair Polly the Parrot. But when the towel dropped on their first date, he was smitten; when he watched the laughter in her eyes when he first played for her, he was hooked; and when they first talked, really talked, he was in love. “James Bond my ass,” Abbot had said at their wedding, laughing – he had been best man, and Hardy stood up with him too. Where were they now?

McAllister made his way into Alex’s living area, found his pants, and retrieved his implants. After placing them in his ears, he activated the computer terminal and asked for the tactical officer on duty.

“You know who I am,” asked McAllister when the man was online.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, uncertainly, staring at the strange man calling from the Captain’s quarters wearing a woman’s pink and fuzzy.

“I will be uploading a program to your tactical sub-routines.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” responded the young officer. “Such an addition requires the Captain’s authorization, or higher.”

“I have entered my authorization code. Please report confirmation,” ordered McAllister.

The young officer’s eyes glanced away from the view screen and then back, astonished. He had never received such as highly placed identification and authorization code before. His back straightened as he responded, “Confirmed sir.”

“Will you be on duty in two hours?

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Sometime within the next two hours, your Captain will give an order for you to fire on my ship, the Vienna. She will probably tell you to use reduced phasers, to make it look like an attack, but cause no real damage. Carry out her order to the letter. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the puzzled tactical officer.

“After Pegasus attacks the Vienna, a coded message will become available. This message is ‘eyes-only’ for your Captain. You will deliver it to her immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the puzzled and now very curious tactical officer.

“Very well,” replied McAllister. “And Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“We never had this conversation; I was never here.” McAllister closed the commlink.

Paul knew that Alex would try to make his ship look disabled without taking the chance of hurting him. He also knew that such a charade would not be good enough to fool the Hawks. The Vienna needed to sustain a real attack, or there would be little hope for Paul as a prisoner of the Hawk faction. Not after Admiral Bitch. His little program would take care of that.

McAllister checked the chronometer. It was time. Walking back into his wife’s bedroom, he slipped off the pink and fuzzy, and stood and admired Alex’s prone form in the bed for some time. He smiled at a fleeting memory – Alex mad as hell at him for some fool stunt, yelling at him to “Kiss my ass!” And then her laughter when that was just what he did. Seems that you can choose to remember, but you can’t always choose what to remember, thought Paul. He quickly dressed.

Walking back to the bed, he pulled the sheet down exposing the captain’s posterior and gently planted a kiss right at the very base of her spine. Alex began to rouse, but Paul quickly exited her quarters, heading for the Vienna and his last mission.

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

Encrypted message, personal, eyes-only to Captain Alexandra Lee-McAllister:

Lexi, my dearest,

There is so much I want to say to you, but once again I’m forced to act the coward and only leave a message behind. This time, it’s the forces of time that keep me from talking with you about this, not that I’m scared to face you, beloved.

First, as you do doubt have determined, it was I who placed the firing overrides into your ship’s computer. I did this for two reasons – first, to see if I could, and second, because I feared you would not damage the Vienna enough for our little plan to work out of fear of hurting me. I calculate a ten percent increase in our success rate if our actions from this point forward are factual – in other words, for the mission to work, you had to try and kill Vienna. Please don’t worry about me; I’ve taken the necessary precautions to survive the Pegasus’ attack.

If this little program I inserted into your computer worked, you have bigger concerns. The command authorization codes I used were based on algorithms I obtained from the Admiral. Remember McAllister’s Third Rule of Survival in the Field – “Anything I can do, someone else can do better.” Take steps to protect yourself and your ship. If I know you, you’ve already got someone working on it.

I intend to follow the plan we have outlined. Modifications will be necessary on the fly, but we will succeed. We have to. Last night, I realized that I’m not complete without you, so I have all the motivation I need not to fail. Somehow, I will be with you again.

There is, however, a 15% chance of mission success with “agent loss” as we used to say.

By the way, remind me to apologize to Valentina the next time we meet – having a chip in your head isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be.

Agent loss, meaning I’m dead, or missing. In that case, I need you to continue something I’ve been puzzling on.

Quite simply, this shouldn’t be happening. Something is happening here, and it’s wrong. I can’t place it yet, but I intend to find the truth. If I can’t, you should, for all our sakes.

Think of this: Question – why did the Triad win the war? Answer – they shouldn’t have; all failure modes examined indicated heavy Federation losses but an eventual stable truce. Come on, we can fight off the Borg and the Dominion but not deal with a bunch of methane breathers?

Question – why did the Triad attack? Answer – power and glory only allow for 38% of the solution as these assholes can’t use our planets without a vast expenditure of their own resources – most Federation worlds have an oxygen based atmosphere, or have been terraformed for our use; the primary Triad races can’t frackin breathe our air. So, why did they attack? I’m still working on that one, but the key will probably be in the reasons the bugs pulled out of the Triad.

Question – why the destruction of the Earth? The temper tantrum of some spoiled bitch of a girl that desperately needs a good fuck or a spanking? Or both? What was so important a whole planet had to die to keep the secret? There was supposedly nothing of value there; a once great civilization reduced to crimson fire. Yet, Hawks and Doves battled over a useless planet and Shiva killed it.

Question – Why Hawks and Doves? What is the purpose? Who are they really? What are we being distracted from?

I don’t have all the answers – but these questions need to be answered. This shouldn’t be happening – the root causes just don’t fit the actual scenarios.

Alex, find Valentina – start the search there. You may also need to get in touch with that guy Doc Burton hooked up with, what was his name, Dalia, something like that. Get all the data you can before going back to Earth to find out what’s there. Find the answers. We can’t afford to do this to ourselves again.

I realize there is a 23% chance you will be forced by circumstances to disregard this request. Not to be mean, but you alive and ignorant is much better than you wise and dead. Try if you can, but most important, STAY ALIVE. I’ll find you somehow.

Lexi, I love you with all my heart.

-- Paul

“Parting”

Captain Alexandra Lee, commanding USS Pegasus

Paul McAllister, former Commander, SFI

Soundtrack: "In the Steppes of Central Asia" – Borodin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JXhIdguE60Y

<SS Vienna, on the flight deck of the USS Pegasus>

McAllister nodded to the crewman guarding the entrance to his ship, keyed the exterior hatch and entered the airlock when it opened. Since he could not sleep, he might as well make some preparations to survive.

He was sure Alex would be down to see him off and if he spent to much more time with her, he might never leave, and try some alternate plan that kept them together in the short term at the expense of long term success.

Paul purged his thoughts of the analysis he had begun in Alex's quarters – he needed to focus on this mission. He entered his pass codes into the Vienna's computer before exiting the air lock and made a mental note to tighten security; the Pegasus crew should have never been able to make it out of the airlock without being gassed unless they had beamed directly in. Sometimes, the new fangled ways of doing things DID have an advantage over the old fashioned tricks he preferred.

He walked quickly to his quarters, showered, and changed into his old uniform, abet devoid of rank or other insignia. Grabbing his old travel bag from his closet, he tossed in a few items of clothing and some personal items – a PADD containing his ten best books not to be caught on a deserted planet without, another PADD with his favorite holo-vids, holos of Holley.

McAllister activated his computer terminal and reviewed the personal file listing. Reviewing a series of personal logs, all bogus, he selected several entries where he droned on about current affairs, twentieth centaury computer history and a discussion with equally fictional parties about who BOB really was in the old video drama Twin Peaks. The remaining logs he downloaded to a chip, and then wiped them from the computers memory with a three-times security protocol, leaving only his selections behind.

Paul never kept honest personal logs. What was written could be read, and people were always reading other people's mail.

Pulling the chip from the terminal, he went back to his bed and reaching underneath pulled out a battered black Fleet issue security case with optical locks. He opened it and examined the items within, then shook his head. "No Paulie," he said to himself. "You just gotta be you this time around. No 'secret' identities."

He did pull one item out of the case, a small transparent bag containing a large pink and green capsule. The bag was labeled "Ride of the Valkyries." Wagner. "This will do," he said. Placing the capsule in his pocket, he tossed the chip with his bogus logs into the case and resealed it. "Alex will keep this for me."

McAllister touched a small white box that sat on the nightstand beside his bed. Immediately, images sprang into the air, joyful images of Paul and Alex dancing at their wedding, running on the beach, Alex swimming – and the honeymoon sequence. Surprisingly, that had been Alex's idea. "That was another time," said Paul, turning the small projector off. "This is a new time." McAllister placed the white box of happy memories in his travel bag.

Grabbing the case and his bag, McAllister left the small stateroom and set his luggage by the airlock door. Nearby was a closet he opened, finding inside an assortment of weapons of all types. A brief remembrance of Abbot's disappointment in finding that McAllister's trombone case didn't contain Klingon blades flashed through his mind. Bud Abbot would be proud of the contents of this closet. Paul renewed his concentration. "Focus, brother." The memory disappeared.

Smiling, he chose his old favorite, the Walther PPK that Kempach had given him so long ago. McAllister had maintained it lovingly. He checked his ammunition stores and found they were low – he had not been paying enough attention to life to bother with the manual manufacturing process required to keep the small automatic pistol supplied with bullets. Still, he had two clips, plus the one in the gun, and one of the first things they would do when he was captured would be to take it away. "Must keep up appearances," McAllister said. He slipped the weapon, the clips and the silencer into their appropriate places in the holster rig he wore under his jacket. Gabbing a communicator, he placed that in a pocket, then made his way to the tiny control cabin.

McAllister reprogrammed the Vienna's fire suppression routines and checked to make sure the personal restraint system was functional. He wiped the computer's memory of the Pegasus and programmed logs and sensor recordings showing a completely false trail to the drop off point. It would stand medium to high-level scrutiny, but eventually they would find the log to be manufactured. "By then, it will be too late," said Paul.

He was as ready as he could be. He went to the airlock, triggered it open and while it cycled, picked up bags. The travel bag for Alex, the case for storage. When he exited his ship, Alex was at the foot of the ladder, waiting.

Alex worried about Paul in this mission. People used to say her heart was too big and she would gladly help anyone who needed help---that had been a different Alex. Now, she only trusted those whom she knew well which at this point mostly included Paul, herself, and her crew. "Just be careful, won't you, Paul?"

"Always careful, babe," he answered, forgetting the four pips on her uniform. He set his case on the deck and handed his travel bag to Alex. "These are some personal things I'd like for you to hang onto for me, if you would." Paul chuckled. "That honeymoon holo is in there too if you want to refresh your memory."

Alex took the belongings. The honeymoon--it had seemed so long ago. She grinned at the memories. "My memory doesn't need refreshing, Paul." She leaned in and kissed him once again. "See you soon, love."

He took her in his arms, not caring what her crew may think of their Captain in a lip lock with some strange guy they rescued just a day before. When he could feel the characteristic Alex blush begin to appear, he ended the embrace and stepped back. Kicking the black case he said, "That's just storage. Intel weenie stuff." Paul gazed at Alex affectionately. "Love you, wife," he said.

Alex smiled warmly. "Love you, too."

McAllister squared his shoulders, coming to attention. "Permission to disembark, Captain?"

"Permission granted," she said as she watched Paul turn to leave back aboard his ship.

Paul stopped at the open hatchway. He didn't turn around, as he wanted to remember Alex's smile and her words. "Captain, a wise man once said 'Never let your sense of morals get in the way of doing what's right.' You should listen to Wagner more often." He entered the ship, letting the hatch close behind him.

~ Tickling the Dragon's Tail, part 1~

Captain Chris Daniels
Lt. Cmdr. T'Pei
Lt. Cmdr. Jenna De'Dro (Shaw)

============================================
USS Hercules
Bridge

Jenna had improved the engines enough that after only three days, sixteen
hours, and forty-one minutes of maximum warp speed, Vulcan floated quietly
into the Hercules' viewscreen--they had not only kept up the bruising pace,
they had gained half an hour on their estimated arrival.

Compared to many of the planets in what remained of Federation space,
Vulcan had navigated the collapse with some success. As planets fell one by
one to advancing Triad forces, small groups of refuges had worked their
way closer to the center of the Federation, only to find it split into two
opposing forces, both of who wanted soldiers far more than citizens. Bit
by bit, some of the refuges had made their way to Vulcan, only to find
others already there--Denobulans who were sympathetic to the Hawk
cause, Andorians who sided with the Doves, and many more, none entirely
welcome on their home planets.

Living up to their most fundamental philosophy of Infinite Diversity in
Infinite Combinations, the Vulcans welcomed them all. In the past decade,
the planet's population had grown by fifteen percent, almost all due to
immigration, which was beginning to put a strain on its resources. Vulcan
was not prosperous, by any means, but it was a safe haven.

Although Dove and Hawk forces traveled through Vulcan space, both factions
respected its neutrality, leaving the planet unmolested. They knew that if
the Vulcans were ever driven to join the combat in retaliation, their fleet
of vessels and mind power would make them a formidable opponent.

Clearly, neutrality had been the logical choice.

T'Pei watched the planet approach on the viewscreen, running a full sensor
sweep of the area.

"No sign of the Hawk ship, Captain."

Chris sat in his chair as he always did before a fight. Leaning forward,
elbows on the armrests and hands draped loosely between his legs. His face
showed no emotion...if anything, a look of mild irritation seemed to adorn
his usually unbothered expression.

He thought quietly and then exhaled before he spoke. "Yellow alert.
Commence ECM and ECCM patterns 7 and 2. Helm, put us in a high level
equatorial orbit. Ops, Tactical...find that bastard. He's out here
somewhere."

============================================
(Very) Near Vulcan
Viper

"Captain, they're approaching."

"Excellent. Are they aware of our presence yet?"

"No, sir. Should I take us out?"

"No, Lieutenant. Keep current position. Wait until they enter orbit. Then
we'll join the party."

============================================
USS Hercules
Bridge

"Entering standard orbit." T'Pei paused as a blip suddenly appeared on the
sensors. "Captain, I am reading a vessel on the opposite side of the
planet, accelerating from a complete stop. Confirmed to be the Viper, sir."

"Where did they come from?"

"They were hiding in the pole, Captain." Aaron Fugazi swore under his
breath, watching as the Hawk ship moved away from them. That was the oldest
trick in the book, and it had worked. At the poles, the magnetic fields were
such that hiding a giant piece of metal at the right altitude and position
would essentially mask it from sensor returns. A poor man's cloaking
device.

"Shit..." Chris' irritation became almost tangible at the news that the
Hawk ship had snuck around their flank. "Helm, get us over there NOW!
All hands to battle stations!"

"Changing trajectory. Sir, it'll take 2 minutes to get around the planet."
Replied his young helmsman. He was afraid of a rebuke from Daniels, but
was calmed to hear his silence.

"Tactical, prepare a phaser burst to target their weapons and engines.
Once I give the command you are weapons free."

Fugazi nodded. It was standard for operations on the Herk. Daniels called
the play, then he left it up to his officers to execute it.

============================================
Engineering

Often times on starships, the actions in the main engineering room were
utterly isolated from those on the bridge, or anywhere else on the ship for
that matter. The bridge was normally the brains of the operation, the CIC
could fill in if need be, but there was no place on a ship that could fill
in for Engineering... the living, beating, heart and singing soul of a
Starship.

That didn't mean that they were somehow removed from the action however. If
a ship was destroyed, the engineers weren't magically spared. Trying to
orchestrate the needed operations of an engineering staff while coordinating
with requirements coming in from the bridge was an art form that Jenna had
considerable practice in by this point. From the Master Situation Display in
'the fishbowl', a glass partitioned, oval, semi-office to the right and
just behind of the actual warp core, the 38-year-old Stagnorian ran her
thin fingers over the keys in front of her with a practiced efficiency
that even the Vulcan engineers under her command admired and respected.

She organized the damage control teams by zone of control rather than the
standard method of by systems qualification. It was a necessary
evil... after all you didn't want to lose your only power systems engineers
to a lucky torpedo strike. The result was that emergency damage repairs
were somewhat hectic and improvised, but they were sufficient enough under
most circumstances to cope with whatever happened, and in the unlikely
event they weren't, one could always send in extra assistance from a nearby
section to make up for any shortfall.

In addition to specially trained engineers, operations and technically
inclined staff having passed the basic and advanced damage control
qualification course were available for when things got really bad. She
was hoping to be able to avoid calling on them this time though.

She looked over the reports... teams 1, 3, 5 ,7 and 9 were all in position
with gear at the ready, along the port (ish) interior of the ship. Even
numbered teams 2 through 10 were likewise in position along the starboard
side ready to respond to any emergencies there.

The MSD indicated all the systems were within acceptable readiness levels,
save for the somewhat overheated warp engines which were in a definite need
of some TLC and R&R. She could take them off line and perform a needed
tune-up, but one never knew when you had to at least 'try' to get out of
dodge quickly.

Then the tactical alert went off, and any and all plans for needed upkeep
were put on hold. Everyone's attention turned to moving from the
precautionary early stage, to full activation. Jenna adjusted the
power out-put and resource availability rate as required, channeling power
away from secondary systems such as certain elements of environmental
control, science labs, etc. and to things like phaser arrays, torpedo
launchers, and shields.

============================================
Bridge

"All stations report Condition One for combat, sir." Fugazi noted. "All
weapons ready. Shields at 64%---better than normal."

"One minute to weapons range."

Chris briefly looked at his chair's little readout. "Helm, alter course to
bring us in from their aft port quarter. T'Pei, 20 seconds out transmit our
standard cease and desist message. Aaron, if they don't reply within 30
seconds, open fire."

T'Pei and Fugazi nodded and went about their duties. Now that he was in the
thick of things, Chris' expression went blank. He felt nothing as he
swooped in towards the enemy vessel. So many times he had done this, yet
every time the rage boiled inside of him, while looking excessively calm,
calculated and coldhearted on the outside.

In moments like this, Chris transformed from the man he was into the man he
had become.

"The Viper is not responding, Captain," T'Pei directed over her shoulder,
attention on the screen below her. "Entering weapons range...now."

"Do it, Mr. Fugazi."

~ Tickling the Dragon's Tail, part 2~

Captain Chris Daniels
Lt. Cmdr. T'Pei
Lt. Cmdr. Jenna De'Dro (Shaw)

============================================
USS Hercules
Bridge

"The Viper is not responding, Captain," T'Pei directed over her shoulder,
attention on the screen below her. "Entering weapons range...now."

"Do it, Mr. Fugazi."

Aaron pushed the trigger and the Herk's weapons control computer went to
work, transfering plasma to the phaser emitters. Concentrated energy spit
out from 3 different arrays pierced the space between the two vessels and
impacted the Viper's shields. Five salvos left the Hercules and dropped
the Viper's shield levels almost to nothing. Unfortunately, the arrays
that they had used now had no firing solution.

The Viper returned fire. It was a smaller ship and did not have the
firepower of the Herk. It made a few contacts on the shields, however it
had a lot more work to do than the batteries of the Hercules.

"Hard to starboard...180 degree turn. Hit them with our aft batteries in
the turn."

"Captain," T'Pei interjected. "I am detecting higher than normal radiation
levels on the Viper."

"Weapons?"

"The type radiation is consistent with that hypothesis, yes, but the sensor
reading is faint, and there is a large amount of interference. The reading may
be residual radiation, but the device was certainly on board at some point."

Chris sat stoic for moment. He didn't need to debate the issue. The ship
had picked some sort of nuclear devices up and brought them to Vulcan. Be
that as it may, they weren't going to surrender before their mission was
complete, whatever it was.

As he thought, the Herk completed her sweeping turn and brought her main
phaser batteries back to bear on the ship. With a well orchestrated
broadside, the batteries took down what was left of the Viper's shields and
began pounding on selected spots on the Viper's engineering hull. Soon, the
bursts of energy had torn through enough power conduits to shatter their
ability to fire or flee. The Viper had gotten a few potshots off, but the
Herk and her shields stood pat.

============================================
Viper

On the Viper, shields faltered, the hull was breeched, sparks flew and
plasma fires threatened to run out of control, consuming entire sections
of the ever important engineering hull. Those brave enough to face the
flame with extinguishers soon found themselves overrun by pluming green and
blue flame burning so brightly that it's light was visible through the
Viper's viewports from the safety of the Herk. The New Orleans Class
starship was mortally wounded, clawing for altitude above the skies of
Vulcan as it's bridge staff prayed to use the vacuum of space to put out the
flaming compartments and allow damage control teams to get back to
work. It was not to be, however.

The ship shook and rocked violently as secondary explosions near it's aft
torpedo stores pretty much blew the ass end of the ship completely free,
dying nacells falling planetward as the impulse reactors aboard the Viper
quit. Her climb stopped, she began listing... many of the survivors, those
not screaming from severe burns, entirely vaporized, or crying out for any
other kind of assistance ran for the escape pods. Many didn't reach them,
the few that did launched in a panic. It would be a miracle if a third of
the crew survived.

The Captain sat on the bridge, calmly watching his crew die. He hoped that
as many of them as possible could make it to the pods, but he wouldn't be
leaving. This was *his* ship, goddamn it, and if this mission demanded that
she die, then he would go with her.

Never leaving his chair, the man thumbed a small panel, opening a
communications channel that was most certainly not going to be intercepted.
Not like the other messages they had 'accidently' sent to the Hercules, to
lure them here.

=^= Yes? =^= a soft voice asked.

A conduit exploded, a piece of shrapnel impaling his helmsmen through the
chest as he fell onto his back. His mouth opened and closed jerkily, like a
fish, and he looked up at the Captain with wide, scared eyes.

"It is time, Damaris."

click

The connection terminated, and at that moment, the Captain knew that all of
this was worth it. He might not live to see it, but *they* would. And they
would know that even in death, he had won.

So he leaned back and looked out of the viewscreen, peacefully, for his
final ten seconds of life before the Viper blew up.

============================================
USS Hercules
Bridge

Chris was not surprised when the Viper exploded on the viewscreen. All too
often, the eggshell hulls of these battered ships couldn't withstand even
one phaser round anymore.

"Sorry sir." Fugazi sounded almost sincere.

"Don't be." Chris turned around to face his tactical officer. "I would
have ordered it anyways." He pushed the comm button on his chair. "Stand
down from Red Alert. Engineering, damage report."

Jenna's voice came over the intercom clearly and calmly...the lack of
steaming conduits in the background or frenzied screaming a welcomed change
of pace given a combat scenario. =^= Our shields withstood the brunt of the
damage Captain, all systems remain operational. I'd avoid trying to go into
high-warp until we've had a chance to effect some repairs, though =^=

"Very well. Bridge out. T'Pei, how's that radiological signal?"

"Still present in the wreckage, Captain. The reading is fai--" but T'Pei did
not finish, because at that moment, a huge burst of white light and smoke
plumed at least 25 kilometers up from the surface of the planet, directly below
them. The bridge crew fell completely silent, watching the mushroom grow as
the shock wave spread outwards.

Finally, Chris forced words past his dry throat, feeling like he was going
to choke on them. "Where did it happen?"

For a moment, T'Pei could not tear herself away from the viewscreen, but now
she forced her attention back to the console. "The coordinates are for...the
Hawk community Marau, Captain." Her face was stricken as she read the
screen. "Seventy-five thousand, eight hundred and twenty three souls at last
count."

Chris was out of his chair with his arms crossed at this point. He was at a
loss for words. He turned and looked at Cdr. Haight. "Get a medical
response team down to the Planet and start looking for survivors. Get
engineering to send an assessment and repair team down there..." He walked
up next to T'Pei and looked down at her.

"Figure out what the hell just happened."

“If Everyone Cared”

The Messenger

===========

Cargo Bay 3, USS Pegasus.

The scene in Cargo Bay Three was that of absolute chaos; People of all race, species, creed and color were all screaming, bleeding, bludgeoned, broken, and/or dying right and left and not necessarily in that order either.

Well, having one’s planet blown up tended to have that kind of effect on people…

The Messenger surveyed the scene with distain. Those who were able and willing to were practically pulling the ship’s medics in all directions trying to get one form of attention or another. Scuffles broke out all over the place and it looked like the crew of the Pegasus was having a hard time keeping order, even with the security guards pouring in from all over in order to restore some semblance of law and order and allow the medics to perform triage. From the looks of things, the crew was going to be overrun any minute now and anarchy was going to reign supreme.

No one had noticed him yet. And no one noticed him as he vaulted to the top of a stack of cargo containers off to one side. He pulled out one of his plasma shotguns, chambered a round, and fired once into the ceiling. At once, everyone went silent and all eyes were on him.

All of the security officer’s weapons were drawn on him too, but he ignored them.

Calmly reholstering his shotgun, he spread his arms wide. “Brothers and Sisters, I bid you to be at peace. You have been delivered by angels of mercy doing the Lord’s work. Let them do their jobs. Let them help you in what way they can and I promise you all will be seen to.”

“And just who the hell are you!?” one man demanded from the far wall.

The Messenger couldn’t see who called out, but he talked to him regardless. “I am just a servant of the Lord.” He said. “And I will be helping these people help you if you will give them the chance. Yes, I know that we have fallen into terrible times. Yes, I know that we have just had our homes blown into stellar dust. Yes, I know that we have lost all that we have. But do not let your faith or your hope die with Earth.”

“But we’ve lost everything!” one human woman at the front cried out. She was clutching a crying baby to her breast and looked as dirty and haggard that The Messenger felt himself. “What do we do now?”

“We do what humanity has done for all time.” He said, walking down and placing his hand on the baby’s forehead. He muttered a brief prayer for peace and the baby immediately lapsed into a fitful sleep. “We pick ourselves up, we dust ourselves off, and we rebuild. The Greeks rebuilt after the Persians tore through their lands. The Chinese rebuilt after the Mongols ripped their lands to shreds. The Americans rebuilt after the British had themselves an eight year kegger in their backyards and humanity has rebuilt itself after three world wars and a single eugenics purge. We too can do the same.”

The Messenger began to circulate around the crowd, ignoring the security guards who were ready to blow him right back to Mars if he so much as twitched wrong. “If everyone cares enough, then we will be successful in our endeavors. If everyone pitches in, then we can make a new world and even a new federation out of whatever we choose. But that will not happen if we all sit here bickering like schoolyard bullies vying for turf! So I personally ask each and every one of you to do your part. Stop squabbling like scavenger children and buck up. We all have a long haul ahead of us and we all need to make the best of it.” He spread his hands again to indicate the Pegasus crew. “So I ask you again, let these people help you. Let me help you. And we’ll all live to see the light of day again.” He implored the crowd before turning to return to the corridors to try and confer with the medical staff.

“Who are you?” one of the Pegasus crewmembers asked, astonished at the way he’d single-handedly restored order.

“I’m just The Messenger…” he said simply as he walked towards the door, but then got sidetracked by a family of six who looked like they were in need.

OOC-Occurs concurrently to "Tickling the Dragon's Tail 1 & 2"

"Going Critical"

Damaris Toraxx (NPC)

Damaris had arrived to Marau five days earlier, ostensibly to visit a
widowed sister-in-law.

The Hawk community consisted of refuges from all over the Alpha quadrant,
but the Bolian man still stuck out noticeably--Bolarus IX had been destroyed
by one of the first of the Hydran's STAMs, in 2389, and very few of Damaris'
kind had survived. Still, even if anybody noticed that he was a bit out of
the ordinary, they weren't saying anything.

Nowadays, you'd have to be a Borg before someone would even bat an eye. Even
then, it wasn't a sure thing.

Damaris walked about in the small public marketplace, casually taking in the
sights and smells. He passed a Ktarian merchant, selling amulets which were
intended to bring 'peace and long life'. Damaris stopped and smiled wryly.
She had to have done that intentionally, of course, but today, her wording
was doubly amusing. He traded her an Andorian blood garnet for one. Why not?
He was virtually certain it would be the highlight of her day.

A small whir from his pocket alerted him to the incoming transmission.
Damaris didn't look down immediately. He continued walking, calming
retrieving his communicator, stolen from a Denobulan Dove agent eight days
ago.

It was drop point coordinates and a nine digit access code. The Bolian memorized
them and re-pocketed the device, smiling down at a small, dark haired human
child with a stuffed sehlat--'How touchingly multicultural,' he thought--running
ahead of her plainly exasperated mother.

The market ran along the easternmost edge of the community. The next
transport to the city center would leave in ten minutes--the timing would be
close, but Damaris had known it would be. He waited casually at the transit
center, not looking down at his chronometer or acting anxious. It simply
wouldn't do for people to notice him now.

Ten minutes until the bus arrived, nineteen minutes to the city center, six
minutes to the warehouse. Damaris estimated he would have about ten minutes
left before the Captain called. Which would be enough, assuming everything
was where it was supposed to be and went the way it was supposed to go.

Clicking in the access code, the Bolian slipped into the room, taking a
defensive stance as his pupils adjusted to the darkness. It was hot in
here--far too hot for the payload, he suspected, but then, it wouldn't be
here much longer, would it? He ran his hand over the smooth surface,
marveling at its utter plainness. It was ugly, in fact, completely backwards
technologically--a throwback to the dark ages. 'What an inelegant way to
die,' he mused, typing in the commands that armed the device.

Elegance and power were not what they were aiming for, though. No, their
goal was a demonstration that was ugly, violent, and most importantly,
limited in scope. Like many Hawk and Dove-based communities on Vulcan, Marau
was isolated, with the nearest neighboring city just over 100 kilometers
away. That meant that Marau's destruction would not touch any other
communities. Even if the radiation spread, it would not spread far enough to
cause the long, lingering illnesses that Vulcan's doctors, their resources
stretched thin already, simply could not treat on a large scale.

Everyone at ground zero would die, of course, but the end would be fast,
over in days, not years. That had been Damaris' requirement before he agreed
to do this--the mercy of a quick death for the people of Marau.

He wasn't a monster, after all.

Another whir, and he knew that it was the Viper. Right on schedule.

"Yes?" he wondered why he bothered asking, as if there was any question
about what the man was going to say.

=^=It is time, Damaris.=^=

Damaris broke the connection without answering. Now that the moment was
here, protocol just didn't seem so important anymore.

'Peace and long life, indeed,' he thought, and pushed the detonator.

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

Marau collapsed as effortlessly as a house of cards in the face of
hurricane.

82 kilotons worth of super-heated air exploded outwards, decimating everyone
within three kilometers before they realized they were dead.

And then it kept going.

The blast radius was just under fifteen kilometers, giving each person just
long enough to hear and feel the approaching firestorm before the blinding
shock wave arrived and hurled them against the crumbling buildings.

The last census, five months before, had listed Marau as having a population
of seventy-five thousand, eight hundred and twenty three. Since that time,
births and deaths in the city had led to a net increase of sixteen.

And when the pressure wave stopped, and the fires started, there were twelve
thousand and sixty-five left.

"Ghost to Ghost Communication"

Lieutenant Elaithin Aria
"Whippoorwill"
Starfleet Intelligence
USS Miranda

Victor Krieghoff

****

Whippoorwill's message was as short and pointed as always: "Usual table for two is open. How about 6?" The code had become clear over the past several months, ever since she'd tracked him down. She refused to divulge how it happened and never exposed how she continued to find him, saying only that she was her mother's daughter. It might be said, however, that she had the spook thing down even better; Whippoorwill, after all, had a unique fury pushing her on -- a fury born only after one loses half one's soul.

Victor could understand that fury. Considering what he'd done when the assassin, Siebur, had killed Angelienia, it was impossible to say he didn't and not be lying. But he'd discovered in that moment that he had the power to keep his soul intact... and Whippoorwill didn't. Unable to regain what she'd lost she had only the pain and the loss and the fury left to her.

He hoped that she'd discover something else to live for before she became someone that he'd have to let die.

Until one of those things happened, though, she was a good friend, and a useful source... and he needed all of those that he could get these days.

=/\= Change of plan, folks, =/\= he clicked over onto the comm. link, his voice echoing through the converted asteroid. =/\= Everyone did a great job putting Dakano out of business, but there's no rest for the wicked. We've got a course alteration. A little bird just whispered to me. =/\=

---

She first found Victor Krieghoff eleven months ago, just after they lost Connor. She listened to her parent's stories -- they got sentimental and reflective in times of tragedy -- and did a lot of her own research; she also followed her own keen sense of intuition.

The truth of the matter was, Elaithin Aria had always been aware of death; she could sense it, identify it in those who'd had close calls. She supposed it came from having a mother who'd been to the void and back. It was nowhere near as intense as her younger siblings -- Adin and Victoria were born after The Return, as the family always called it, and had about as unique a relationship to the universe as one would expect of children born post-resurrection. Especially Victoria, who Mom loved even more gently and intensely than she'd loved Connor.

But since Connor's death, Aria was always aware of it -- a cold little shiver on the back of her mind. So, in the strange and supernatural universe in which she'd always lived, it made complete sense to her that she was so easily able to track down the man who, in many ways -- perhaps in all ways -- embodied death. For most people, Kreighoff's nature was rumor and conjecture, an attempt to explain the bizarre sensations, the strange fear he brought to others. Aria knew better, just like her mother knew better -- Jordan, as far as she could tell, had always seen Krieghoff for exactly what he was.

Whippoorwill, as her intelligence codename dubbed her, stood silently within the grey, bombed-out building of a once grand city. This planet had been all but destroyed nearly two decades earlier, back at the start of the Triad war. No one had returned to it. Many parts were still uninhabitable.

With her eyes closed, she leaned against the crumbling wall, a tall and lithe figure in black standing out against the grey. Aria had her father's height and presence, her mother's build and grace. If times were different, she would have been a dancer, had loved ballet when she was a child and she excelled in it as well as her twin had excelled in mathematics and analysis (Connor's mind had not been designed for social interaction or too many personal connections, but he was always adept at finding the greatest significance in what might have been the most unnoticeable piece of information).

What would have served her well in peacetime was her one great flaw as an operative; she was a little too noticeable, had never learned how to turn off her father's natural charisma that glowed fiercely behind her wide-set grey-blue eyes and traced over her sculpted features. Sometimes it worked to her advantage, but while her mother could disappear in plain sight, it was almost impossible for anyone to not to be captivated by Aria at first glance.

The chill at the back of her mind intensified and she heard the footsteps across the rubble -- quiet, muffled, perhaps even imaginary. She reveled in the sensation of Krieghoff's presence for a moment. For her, the cold, the dread, the fear, the pain he could inspire was almost comforting. It offered her a space wherein, at least for a time, she was able to feel close to Connor again, she was able to feel almost whole. Perhaps that's why she kept seeking him out, kept giving him the information, kept feeding his quiet, personal war.

She opened her eyes. "It's strange -- you never seem to age," she said.

"It doesn't feel like it some days," Victor replied, halting a meter or so away, his black leathers dusty with the ashes of the burned world, making him appear older and greyer than he was. "Which is also strange, since Angelienia says that I look the same as I always have." He shrugged. "Of course, neither of you are exactly looking at me in the same way that most people do, so that might account for it." He smiled, and tapped the side of his head. "What I see, now that's something else again."

"Maybe," she said, though not quite sure to which part it was meant. "I heard you were looking for some information, asking around to one-time allies, friends..."

He nodded. "I know that there was a battle - a big one - in the Sol System. Bad enough that everyone was killing each other again, but this time... this time, someone went too far - Rebecca, supposedly - and destroyed a planet. Earth, I'm told."

"Isn't she usually the one that goes too far?" Aria asked, raising an eyebrow. "Reason why we're in half the mess we are."

He tilted his head to one side and regarded her for a moment before asking, "So it's good information?"

The Elaithins' eldest daughter nodded. "More or less. Earth's gone. Done. Space dust gathering in a ring around Mars by now. Von Ernst blew it out of the sky and took out several ships on both sides when she did it. We're pretty sure it happened when she learned we'd recovered her... well. Allison von Ernst is currently with us. Supposedly."

"Allison? Allison von Ernst?" Victor stopped, startled. Allison? Perky young Allison who he'd sent back to... but this wasn't her future. This bore no resemblance to the future she'd described... she was here? He closed his eyes and looked out into the green, green depths of space at the stars only he could see... and opened them. "Yes, I can see her now that I know that she's here..."

Aria's nose creased, making her small Bajoran nose ridges somewhat more prominent. "She said she knew you."

"She does... or did," he confirmed. "I knew her back on the Galaxy, about a year before the court-martial. She convinced me that she was from a future time - one where she was the daughter of James Corgan and Rebecca von Ernst. In that future..." he smiled sadly "...in that future, she'd grown up without knowing her father. The closest thing that she'd known was... me. Her 'Uncle Vic.'" Victor frowned at the memories and the feelings they evoked. "I sent her home, though. To her home, not this place. This future has no resemblance to the one that she was from. I wouldn't send anyone here if I could help it, not even someone I hated."

"Apparently, it does now," she replied. "Temporal mechanics, all this wraiths-damned bullshit's never made any sense to me, but my parents have more than enough experience with it, and M'Kantu, too. Daren's pretty sure this is the same girl he recalls -- he more or less said the same things you did though, about her home. From what the parents have said in the past, it's more than probable that Allison's movement back and forth is the wrench that caused all this to transpire in the first place."

Could that have been the reason? Truly? Could he have, in a way, helped make this nightmare possible by... "Temporal mechanics aren't my specialty, but given what little I do know it's not impossible. I know that it didn't' seem possible that James and Rebecca ever got together to conceive her; that was part of why she left. That, and her finding her father to be someone that she didn't want to know. Truth be told, at the time I wasn't even certain that this was really the past she'd been from in the first place. I think..." he thought for a moment. "I think I said as much in a report I filed; that she'd possibly slipped one universe to the side or something when traveling back." Victor shook his head. "But that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it? What is? Is something wrong -- besides Rebecca murdering planets, that is?"

"My major concern? It's that Dad's going to do what he's done before -- gamble and sacrifice everything on the off chance that time will fix itself and this won't happen."

Long ago, she'd started reading through the Miranda's old, encrypted logs from long before. There were more than a few incidences, especially one just before her mother died, where Jii gambled the lives of everyone on the off-chance that time, the universe, would reset, would give them another chance, that this was an alternate future and wasn't the way all was meant to be. Sometimes, she wanted to shake him and smack some sense into him. Sometimes, she wished she could have that kind of blind faith in herself and in the fates that her father possessed, and always had despite his occasional protests to the contrary.

Victor blinked. "That time will fix...? Oh." He looked around at the ashes and dust that surrounded them. "I see; you think that this *is* her future. That we're supposed to be the people that she remembers us to be and that something's gone wrong?"

"Like I said," she replied, "this is not my area of expertise. I don't know what I think. All I know is what I saw from the girl, what I saw from M'Kantu, who definitely seemed to believe it. And while Dad pretended to be cautious, he can be read like a padd -- I could tell by that look he got when M'Kantu suggested what he suggested. Changing the timeline. Sending that girl back to figure out what went wrong. Try to put it all the way it should be, the way she remembers it. Just like Mom said -- if he sees the opportunity to bring Connor back, to give me a different life, to do any of that nonsense, he's going to take it. Everything else damned to the fire caves."

"I've seen it tried before," Victor said slowly after a moment. "Not here though -- in the other place, the one where the part of me your mother doesn't like came from. They tried it... twice I think, there. It didn't work either time... Or perhaps it did, and each of those universes split off from the one that portion of me was in. Hard to say, since both of those were attempts to eliminate me and I'm still here." He shrugged. "I think... I think there was another incident, one on the Galaxy... just after M'Kantu took command. Something..." He frowned, digging deep into his memories, encountering a veil that tried to hide them from his internal gaze. "I don't know that anyone else remembers it, no, that's wrong, Eshe, Eshe remembers it. But no one else is supposed to. I only recall bits and pieces because I'm… what I am." The veil shifted under the pressure, moving enough to let fragmentary glimpses and memories come through. "The ship... crashed...? I... I'll miss that arm? Ella... Ella Grey? Ella... needs me?"

Aria's forehead creased as she listened to the uncertain and confused rambling the situation inspired in the other man. She was used to Victor being... Victor. He wasn't a normal man, that was sure, and that bothered most others. His eccentricities, his strangeness came off as danger; people just didn't know how to relate. Elaithin Aria, on the other hand, found it relatively within the range of normal. But then -- look at the people she came from. Her mother, putting it simply, wasn't very different from Victor, though Aria'd heard it said a few times, back when she was very young, that Oracle was Krieghoff's opposite.

"Victor," she stated softly, reaching forward, touching fingertips to his arm. "I've lost you..."

"No." The single word was enough to indicate that her companion was back in the present with her. Victor pushed the memories away. "None of that matters now, I suppose, does it?" He shook his head, and answered his own question. "No, no it doesn't. That was then and this is now... except that M'Kantu and your father want to change that. That matters, doesn't it?"

"I think it does," she agreed, "but the details, the reasons -- those I don't know. It's just an instinct." Aria glanced at the chronometer on her wrist; it had belonged to her grandmother, one of the few objects she felt sentimentality toward. "If I'm away too long She'll come looking for me again and we all know what that looks like." She glanced toward him. "They're going to need help, will be looking for allies. Don't be surprised if I'm coerced into contacting you about it. I won't expect you to agree, so no hard feelings. I just can't lie to my mother -- say I did when I didn't."

"I don't know what I'll do," he admitted, looking around the wasteland they were the only moving things besides ashes on the wind. "But..." He looked back at her and nodded. "If you call, I'll come. I won't promise more than that, but Angelienia and I will come, and we'll listen... and then we'll decide." He smiled. "Just tell your mother to not try and kill me again, all right? She did that on Romulus, you know, the first time she saw me after she was Created."

"Aw, I'm sure she was just playing around," Aria said with a small smirk. "If the Oracle really wanted you dead, Victor, I'm pretty damn positive you would be, with or without your own voodoo. But I'll relay the message so long as you remember that no matter what they believe? Oracle and my mother are separate entities."

"Really?" Victor asked skeptically. He'd always believed that the Oracle was like he was: one entity with two faces. "You believe that?"

Aria shrugged slightly as she pushed herself away from the wall. "I have to," she said. "Or I would go crazy. I've seen what She can do and it doesn't fit with how I see, how I know my mother."

This was a little strange, honestly -- it wasn't something she'd ever really spoken about with anyone, a topic that was more or less off-limits within the family. For a long time, it was what it was; Toryl was the only one of the children who remembered Jordan as she was before she died, but Aria, Connor, Adin and Victoria grew up knowing Oracle as well as they knew anything else. As Oracle became stronger, more integrated, a bigger part of who her mother was, as they grew further together...

"I mean -- how do you reconcile the idea that your mother was resurrected months after her death, after her body was burned, scattered on the wind? How do you reconcile the idea that she returned part God, or part fallen angel, or part trans-dimensional non-temporal alien?" Her wide eyes studied him. "Honestly, I... one mere mortal soul to one... more of Oracle's standing -- how do you do that?"

"The best I can offer is to accept it and move on," Victor offered after a moment. "That's not easy, I grant you, but it's the only way. Your mother is here, she loves you, cares for you... the rest of it isn't important to that." He inclined his head acknowledgingly. "That might be impossible for you though, given you and your sibling's connection to your mother." His eyes reflected the inner sadness connected to his next words. "Angelienia and I could never have children, so that wasn't something I've had to help my own children work through. At least your mother should be here, and was sent to help people - I shouldn't be here, and came to destroy everything." Victor smiled sadly. "Perhaps it was for the best that we didn't have children after all. Who wants to explain to his son or daughter something like that?"

She reached forward and brushed his upper arm again with sympathy. "Never underestimate children's ability to understand their parents, even if something isn't explicitly said, especially when something is so... out of the ordinary as this. Don't get me wrong, I love her, she's a fantastic mother and gives us more than we can ask for. But Victor, don't... sanctify her. My dad does it enough. When Mom's mom, I can sometimes believe she's worthy of it, but don't fool yourself -- Oracle is selfish, egomaniacal and destructive. She does what she wants when she wants to and she does it under the cover of Fate's divine plan. Don't sanctify that. She's the experimental product of the Prophet's boredom." Aria cleared her throat, rubbed her nose ridges anxiously. "I should get back. Don't wait by the horn, but don't be surprised when I chirp at you in the near future. Stay within travel range, if you could."

Victor nodded. "I'll try, but we're going to have to head back home and offload some things first. Which reminds me, you can scratch Dakano, the slaver and arms dealer who was feeding weapons to those Hawk-backed insurgency groups off your to-do list. He's already done." Victor smiled drily. "Extra-crispy when I last saw him."

"Good. That's really helpful," she said. "You probably already know, but I took out Hust Clor and Cha T'val," she said. "Got lucky a few weeks back; they were in the same place at the same time, up to the same nefarious activity. Sometimes they make it too easy. I think I'm going to be kept fairly close to the nest the next couple weeks though, but if you hear anything..."

Victor nodded again, then started to turn and walk away, but paused. "Oh, and if you don't mind my asking, did you see us when you came in-system and checked for anyone? I'm trying something old that's new again to keep my transport ship from getting shot out of the sky like happened over Hestia III."

"Don't know how you did it, but my sensors didn't see anything," Aria said. "Of course, I still found you -- brought my sister along." She smiled slightly. "And you know how Vee can be."

"I remember," he agreed. "If that's what it took, then we're probably as close to invisible as I'm going to get without getting a Talosian to ride along." Which, the way things were going, might not be a bad idea. Victor reminded himself to look into that again. "What's Vee doing out with you, though? She's normally close to home if I remember right."

Aria shrugged. "She wanted to get off the ship. I can hardly blame her for that; Mom doesn't let it happen very often. Anyway. Keep your nose clean, Victor; I'm sure we'll talk soon."

"I'll be looking forward to it." He paused, nodded once, and turned to go as the wind picked up. "I'm afraid," his voice came back to her through the wind, seemingly from all around her and no place in particular, "that none of have clean noses any more, though, Aria."

"You're telling me," she murmured less to him than to herself.

She watched him leave, disappearing in the whipping wind dusted grey with the soot and ash of this barren, destroyed world. She brushed her dark hair from her face, holding there a minute, drawing a deep breath and holding it until her lungs felt about to burst. Then, the young intelligence office hit the comm. badge tucked in the inside sleeve of her black uniform.

"Whippoorwill to Plymouth -- one to beam up."

“The way things should have been…”

Cheyenne, Mercenary. Delta Flyer “Interceptor”

Marcus, Informant. Raven Class “Fox”

==========

Delta Flyer “Interceptor”, en route to Shiva rendezvous point.

Somewhere between Sol Sector and Vulcan Sector

“Heya beautiful, what’cha need this time?” Marcus asked from his starship that had pulled up alongside of her and was now matching her course and speed.

“Info as usual. I’m heading to a meeting with a client and I’m going to need security codes in order to make my target.” Cheyenne replied.

“Ahh. The usual smash and grab for my pretty little collections agent.” Marcus said, booting up his database of information. “So…” he asked, taking a sip of coffee from his mug nearby. “Who you going after this time?” he asked. “I hear the Pegasus picked up a bunch of people off of Earth. I also know that the Boomer Fleet is on the move again. So what’s your pleasure this time babe?”

“How current is your information on the Miranda? I need the shield command codes to get in.”

Marcus gagged and spewed coffee all over his communications panel. Cheyenne saw his astonished look through the translucent brown sludge. “You’re going after the fucking Miranda!?” he asked. “Are you insane!?”

Cheyenne shrugged. “It’s been argued before.” She said, checking one of her auxiliary monitors. “I’ve already got a track on her and a decent idea of her destination. But I need a guarantee to get in and last I heard you were at least in the location of the Miranda recently.”

“That was months ago!” Marcus protested. “Besides, if I give you what command codes I have for Miranda, do you have any gorram idea what the hell Jii would do to me!?”

Cheyenne glared at him and pressed a button. A phaser beam shot out and grazed the nose of his ship, causing it to shudder. “What do you think I’m going to do to you if you don’t give me the codes? Focus on me here.” She said coldly. “Give me what I want or the next one hits your engines and you can drift to the next habitable star system. Should take you a few centuries to make it…”

“Fine fine…” Marcus grumbled as he accessed the information. “Why do you have it in for Jii all of a sudden? Didn’t you make your start on his ship back in the day?”

“That was a long time ago and another lifetime away.” Cheyenne said, thinking briefly back to her teenage days when she first set foot upon the USS Miranda as an academy applicant and then later a cadet in Security. She hoped that the deck layout hadn’t changed too much over the years. She pulled up the last set of schematics that she’d been able to obtain the last time she took a job from Jii. “There’s just the job now.”

“You know…” Marcus said, regarding her now. “Your dad wouldn’t have wanted you to turn out this way…” he said.

“What the fuck do you know about what my dad may or may not have wanted you lousy piece of filth?” she demanded. “I don’t think for a minute that any of this was supposed to turn out this way. But it did, and now we have to deal with what we got.” Cheyenne yelled at him. She noticed that the transfer was complete. “Goodbye Marcus.” She said and kicked the Interceptor back into high warp.

She slumped back in her chair. She couldn’t believe the nerve of that little pipsqueak; telling her what her father would’ve wanted. He had no clue. Hell, she barely had a clue herself. Her father once confided in her that she’, or at least a future version of herself, had defied Starfleet Orders and went back in time in order to warn him of an impending attack on President Bacco when he was in command of the USS Bainbridge. He’d told her that she would have a role to play in time, in history, in the future.

Well where the fuck was that bright future at now? Huh?

Captain Jeremiah Leger of the USS Bainbridge did indeed stop the assassination attempt on Nan Bacco during a peace conference. He ended up getting his honors and commendations as well as a place of honor to escort the President to New Texas. And it was at New Texas where he had met his downfall.

Cheyenne could still remember his words from the battle recorder that she salvaged on the bridge. “This wasn’t supposed to happen…” he’d said in terror as he faced off against an entire armada of Hawk Starships. And then he was killed along with Cheyenne’s mother and the rest of the crew of the Bainbridge as they fought to defend the Federation that they knew and loved. Cheyenne herself had been planetside in one of the Templar Battlesuits that was assigned to watch over Nan Bacco.

She’d failed to protect the president as she was shredded by phaser and disruptor fire from multiple directions. She’d failed while her father was dying in orbit above her head.

That would be the last time she ever failed at anything.

The woman once known as Aline Leger-Stephenson vowed such when she became Cheyenne. She was still alive while all others that she’d known and loved had been stripped away from her.

She would not fail again.

"Wagner"

Paul McAllister, former Commander, SFI

Various Bad People (NPCs)

Soundtrack: “Ride of the Valkyries” – Wagner, Die Walkure

<SS Vienna, somewhere in space>

The Vienna had taken heavy damage. The Pegasus, under the command of McAllister’s wife Alexandra, had fired on the Vienna after Paul had declined to be boarded, instead leading the larger and more powerful starship on a merry chase more than less in circles.

McAllister had tried almost every trick he knew to evade the Pegasus to no avail. He zigged when he should have zagged, and Pegasus had Vienna in a tractor beam.

That’s when Paul detonated a small tactical nuke, overwhelming his own shields and irradiating his hull. Pegasus, deciding that a glow-in-the-dark space yacht was not something they wanted in their shuttlebay, ceased tractoring forthwith.

Sometimes old-fashioned toys DID have an advantage over the new.

At full impulse, McAllister headed to a spot his navigation computer told him to avoid at all costs, for there be sub-space anomalies here. Paul wasn’t planning on verifying the computer’s prediction of dire destruction, he just needed to be protected for a couple of moments longer from any transporter beams from the Pegasus seeking to suck him out of his ship a molecule at a time.

McAllister activated a preprogrammed set of orders. The Vienna’s computer balked, possibly realizing that her idiot master was about to blow up his own ship. Paul entered the proper over-ride codes. The computer grumbled, said its electronic prayers to its silicon gods and decided it would blow up better than any irradiated space yacht had blown up before.

Paul fired off a variety of probes designed to emulate all manner of electronic signatures, up to and including a THE PROBE that had visited Earth so many years ago looking for really big fish. Then he staggered, crawled, and finally dragged himself to the escape pods.

The Vienna was equipped with two escape pods should a rapid exit under dire circumstance be required. The door to one pod was painted green. This pod would broadcast “Come save my ass” messages in all known languages until its power source was exhausted.

The other pod door was painted red. This pod wouldn’t say a damn thing to anyone; in fact, it was designed to emulate a piece of space debris. Normally, with his ship breaking apart around him, McAllister would have chosen the green pod.

Paul climbed into the red pod, sealed the hatches, and prayed.

Shortly afterwards, the Vienna’s computer, still grumbling, launched both pods along with a month’s worth of assorted garbage and all remaining probes, missiles, torpedoes, and last, but not least, a Steinway Concert Grand piano.

The little ship exploded.

The Pegasus banked gracefully away from the mess McAllister had made, and moved on to bigger and better things.

Granted, her commander wasn’t searching all that hard for her presumably estranged husband.

If she found him, that would ruin everything.

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

<Escape Pod Red Door, floating in space>

McAllister was busy injecting himself with all manner of medicines. Green ones for radiation poisoning, blue ones for organ damage, and red ones because he was a musician and all musicians like reds. They make the pain go away. Far, far away.

The final bit of medicine Paul ingested was the capsule from the pouch labeled Wagner. This he swallowed with some water and hoped that it wouldn’t digest too slowly, or too fast. Too fast, and the cavalry showed up before the indians. Too slow, and he’d shit the damn thing out before it would do him any good.

McAllister passed out.

(Later)

“What do you mean, it’s just the right size?”

“Oh, Paul, just go to sleep, will you? I’ve got 14 manifolds I have to adjust in the morning.”

(Later)

“He hates ‘cyborgs’”

“Too bad. Technically, he is one now.”

(Later)

“I look like a whale,” she sobbed.

“No, you look like a goddess.”

(Later)

“Damn, you cut my hand off!”

“I said I hadn’t earned a bat’leth yet – didn’t say I didn’t know how to use one.”

(Lastly)

“It’s a boy – let’s name him Jonathan.”

“Lexi, I love you.”

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

<Hawk Territory, somewhere in space>

“Where was he found?”

“Damn near dead in an escape pod just outside our sensor range. Captain Ortega on the St. Louis found it coming in for repairs. Found him inside, muttering something about a Dr. No.”

“Are you sure it’s McAllister?”

“Yeah, one and the same. What’s going to happen to him?”

“Pain.”

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

<A Really Dark Room>

McAllister was curled up on the floor, in the corner. He had no choice, he couldn’t straighten his legs. They had been expertly broken. Many times. He wasn’t sure where he was – they had disconnected his eyes and removed his hearing aids. They only gave him back his implants when they wanted to taunt him, or ask silly questions about when the next offensive would take place or where the Dove headquarters really was.

Like anyone would actually have told Paul any of this in the first place.

It was a pretense. Paul David McAllister had entered the home of one of their leaders and shot the woman dead before blowing up her apartment. A little pain was only part of the price he would have to pay.

They said that tomorrow they were going after the chip in his head.

McAllister laughed.

He couldn’t cry.

They’d disconnected his eyes.

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

His captors had opted for long-term pain. Hence, the broken bones and second degree burns. Punches to the stomach were for short-term effect, and most interrogators prefer not to get ralphed on.

So, the capsule from the Wagner pouch sat in McAllister’s stomach, taking advantage of all the churning and bubbling within. And slowly dissolved, as it was designed to do.

Since his captors were not even remotely interested in his health and well being, they had performed only a perfunctory med-scan on him when he was brought to wherever he was. McAllister was fairly certain they had not scanned him since.

That would change if they went for the chip.

The capsule dissolved, and at a certain point, when the acid in McAllister’s stomach came in contact with tiny computer embedded in the capsule, Paul’s stomach began to sing.

Well, not sing exactly. It played a merry little tune, and broadcast it on as many frequencies as it could find. The chip in his head took notice of this and figured, what the hell. It joined the chorus, reaching out to all the transmission sources it could find.

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

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s music, sir.”

“Well turn it off damn it – it’s broadcasting our position!”

“I can’t turn it off, sir.”

“What is that god-awful noise?”

McAllister, lying on the floor, curled in the corner, could have told them if they asked.

Ride of the Valkyries.

Wagner.

"Emily Pirate's Guide to Fashion"

Sam Widdlestein

***

The Black Pearl
Sam's Quarters

****

Sam looked down at her striped knee socks and grimaced.

She'd known from past experience not to wear anything in Engineering
that she didn't want ruined but the pink and black socks had been so
gorram cute that she hadn't been been able to help herself. And now
they were mostly black and full of holes.

"That's what I get for being a slave to fashion," Sam grumbled as she
kicked off her boots. She peeled off the damaged socks and regarded
them for a moment before tossing them into the corner where other good
clothing had fallen along the way. The rest of her clothes - smokey
but more or less intact - went into the dirty clothes hamper for Long
John John (along with a tiny ingot of latinum thrown in to prevent any
laundry accidents) and then she went into the bathroom to scrub the
grime from her body with a wash cloth, a basin of water, and a gritty
bar of soap that was supposed to smell like gardenias. Having lived
all of her life on space ships, she wasn't sure exactly what a
gardenia smelled like and now probably never would.

"Crazy bitch," Sam muttered. She finished up, dried off with her
favorite skull and cross bones towel, and then slipped into an old
bathrobe she'd swiped a few lootings back from an abandoned carrier.
Captain T'risia wasn't expecting her for at least half an hour so she
sat carefully on her hammock, leaned her head back, and took a deep
breath for what felt like the first time in a few hours. Keeping the
Black Pearl in the sky was hard enough without the added excitement of
battle, not to mention that she was practically its XO, morale
officer, and pirate etiquette officer to boot.

There was a knock on the door and Bloody Evil Fitz entered carrying a
plate of food. Fitz had wanted to be called Redbeard on account of
his, well, red beard but Sam had told him that it was an obvious
choice and had dubbed him Bloody Fitz instead. He had wailed about it
until she had threatened to rename him Firecrotch and then they had
haggled until he had gotten to add in the 'evil' bit and she had
gotten a plate of cookies. Fitz could work wonders with the
replicators, and was a pretty decent chef when they came across real
food as well, but he always made Sam eat her vegetables with every
meal.

Passive aggressive pthak, Sam thought as she looked down at a plate
nearly overrun with green. "What be this crap?"

"Some kind o' Bajoran squash," Bloody Evil Fitz said with a gleam of
malice in his eyes. "And tha' thar is cabbage an' potatoes."

"Looks disgusting," She said flatly.

"Just might be," Fitz replied with a hint of a smile.

It was a game that they played almost every day and one that Sam
always lost because of her weakness for dessert.

Sam scowled. "I could just order you to walk the plank, you smug bastard."

"Got real chocolate truffles tonight," He replied with an all out grin.

"Arrrgh," She cried. "Your a heartless wench, Fitz!"

"Eat your vegetables."

Sam leered at him. "I could do something else."

Fitz's ears nearly turned pink and a few seconds later Sam was shaking
her head at his retreating backside. One of the constants in her life
seemed to be that her boyfriends - Lysander, Tae'ben, Krang, those
Bajoran twins, and now Fitz - all refused to realize that they were
her boyfriends unless she practically clubbed them over the head with
the knowledge. Maybe she should just make him a button saying
'property of Sam' or 'Sam's my pirate princess' so that he would take
the hint.

She ignored the veggies, shoveled down most of the potatoes, and then
hopped off the hammock to get dressed. This time she dressed in tight
black pants, a striped blue and white midriff bearing shirt, and boots
that laced up to her knees. She braided back her red hair, strapped on
the leg sheath with her old Hirogen stiletto, and belted on the low
riding holster that held her pistol-phaser.

Another knock and Four Fingered Harry peeked his head through the
door. "Captain's ready for you, Sam."

"Okay. What kind of mood is she in?"

Harry shrugged. "A Vulcan one? Oh, and you're going to looove what
Smitty's wearing today."

"Oh God," Sam groaned. Smitty was their newest pirate and constantly
in need of correction. "Not another sexy pirate skirt."

"Even better," Harry smiled. "Think more ... disco."

Sam hung her head. Sometime's a girl's job was never done.

"All right, Harry," She sighed. "Let's go remind Smitty about the
dress code. Again."

"The Island, Part 5"

Captain Jaal Jaxom
USS Panther

& Others

==The Island==

Captains Harris and Marinsic were brought up to the main medical ward to watch the feed from Olivaw's USS Eldridge. By now, what was once known as Earth had totally broken apart. Not one piece was bigger than the former planet's moon.

"This can't be real," Marinsic denied what the screen showed.

"I can assure you it is," Captain Olivaw's voice could be heard over the small speaker above the screen. "After rearranging the rubble and burning off the atmosphere she launched a some sort of planet busting missile into the core. A little over a half hour later everything came apart at the seams."

Harris hadn't said a word yet. His eyes were glued to the screen. If one listened close enough, they could hear his teeth grinding together.

"Jaal, I have to cut the comm now and get back to keeping my ship together. We'll see you in a day or so depending on the warp drive."

"I'll see you when you get here Dany," Jaal replied and cut the connection.

"And this is the person you two chose to follow," Jaal told them in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Now wait a frakkin minute," Marinsic started his sentence hot, "You've been accused of some pretty serious crimes…"

"By who?" Jaal raised his own voice now. "Who had the authority to decide who's a criminal in this and who's not?"

'This' was the civil war between the Hawks and Doves. Since the Trill never officially chose sides he was considered Dove by the Hawks. The Dove side didn't know what to make of him. The one person who did know, kept that bit of opinion to himself for the time being.

Since things had gotten tight for any former Starfleet ship, Jaal had taken to doing anything possible to secure supplies, spare parts, weapons and whatever else could be of use. He dealt with mostly the Dove side but occasionally a trade or two with a sympathetic Hawk captain wasn't out of the question. The main reason he was a wanted criminal by Hawks though, was that he would deal with anyone, including pirates, 'free traders', and anyone else who wanted to make a deal.

It was survival of the fittest and Jaal Jaxom intended to survive.

"What have I done that so bad?" he asked before Marinsic could make any case, "What have I done that I deserve to get bombed out of existence by the likes of you?"

Marinsic cast a steeled gaze at the taller Trill. He was about to speak when Captain Stock spoke up, "Not to mention the Hawk leader just committed one of the worst war crimes in the history of interstellar travel. That woman is a monster!" Stock's tone grew agitated with each word, "Our home is gone now. Not just mine, not just yours, but humanities! What have you got to say to that?"

Whatever fire welled up in Marinsic's belly fell back to smoldering embers.

Captain Harris, who had been up to this point, silent, finally said his piece. He had a pained expression on his face, like he wasn't exactly sure what to say. He was dealing with a great conflict of ideologies in his mind. "Captain Jaxom… I'm sorry."

Jaal took his attention from Marinsic and turned to Harris now with arms folded behind his back. He was ready to listen.

"You've been made out to be…" Harris stumbled for the right words, "… a LOT worse than you've been. But I think that's mostly because you've been so secretive about your operation."

"Really?" Jaal asked not willing to be taken in by a few kind words.

"You've got to admit… you have." Harris told him patiently, "You've barely had any communication with either Hawks or Doves since this whole thing began."

"So you're trying to tell me," Jaal was trying to follow the logic being presented, "That just because I didn't talk to anyone about what I'm doing… that makes me wrong? So wrong that someone wanted to blow me and our little camp into atoms?"

"I wasn't going to," Harris admitted.

Now Jaal tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. This was getting screwier by the minute.

"You weren't?" Marinsic asked failing to hide being stunned by Harris' admission.

"Then what?" Jaxom asked.

Harris chewed on his lower lip for a moment before explaining. "Yeah, I was suppose to… but after seeing what you were actually doing these past few weeks… the more I saw, the more it made sense. That's why I didn't plant the explosives where I was suppose to."

"What about you?" Jaal asked Marinsic.

His expression was hardened. When he didn't say anything right away, Harris provided the rest of the plan. "Should I have failed, he was suppose to be the backup."

"Really?" Jaal asked again.

"He's telling the truth," Mesta spoke up from a darkened corner of the room. "I've been sensing it since we arrived. There's been a fundamental change in his feelings since the last time he was here."

"What is she? Betazoid?" Marinsic asked incredulously. A feeble attempt at changing the subject.

Jaal looked at the shorter, red-haired man with angry, narrow eyes. "You mean… you couldn't tell?"

"It's always so dark here," Marinsic explained falling for the bait, "You'd never know because you can't see the color of anyone's…" then he realized what he was saying was, in fact, the truth. "…eyes." Betazoids had black irises, which were difficult to discern in darkened rooms.

Jaal shook his head slowly. "The question remains." He spoke while taking a few steps to the opposite side of the room. "What do we do with you two?"

The Doc, holding a syringe up answered, "I say we give the leader of the lollipop guild there an old fashion heart attack." He eyed the little man menacingly, "You little shit!"

"Could always let him escape from the brig," Stock suggested.

"We can't let him go," White spoke up, "they'd be back and blow this place to smithereens."

"But this is a hospital, more or less," the Doc countered, "and 'barely' a supply depot. Hell, it's 'barely' a hospital most days too."

"What about his ship? I'm sure they'll be calling if we keep him here much longer," Mesta, ever the voice of concern and reason chimed in.

Jaal was listening to the argument while rubbing his chin in thought.

When the others realized Jaal was the only one who hadn't voiced an opinion a sudden silence fell. Tupuk was the first to speak then, "What do you think sir?"

Jaal walked slowly back to stand in front of Marinsic. He scrutinized the man folding his hands behind his back once more. "What do you think we should do?" he asked at last.

Marinsic looked around as if he didn't entirely understand the question. "Who? Me?"

"Yes. You."

Marinsic looked around again at the others. The expressions on their faces told him what they'd like to do, except Tupuk, one could nearly never tell what went through a Vulcan's mind.

Jaal waited for a measure and then pressed on in an even, calm voice. "You've seen what we're doing. You know why we're doing it. You know we don't wantonly shoot at Hawks or Doves. You can see we're working for the greater good… and now, we're going to work to keep more habitable planets in one piece. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong to want peace? And look at what Von Ernst has done! Look at what she's destroyed! Is that someone you want to associate with? Honestly?"

Marinsic's face contorted with emotional turmoil. This wasn't what was suppose to happen. Everything went wrong and now he was being convinced to give up? To switch sides? But what side were these people really on? Shit.

"What if I don't agree?" Marinsic asked tentatively.

One of Jaal's eyebrows rose. "Then we let you go."

A round of protests erupted from the others. Jaal held his hands up asking them to calm down and hear him out.

They did so, grudgingly.

"We let you go," Jaal continued once everyone had quieted down, "And we move this place somewhere else where it won't be found and we continue what we're doing. It's that simple. You can't stop us."

Marinsic's expression softened a degree. It wasn't the answer he was expecting. In fact, it was far, far less than he imagined. Now he could see they really did want peace. He took a deep breath and gave his answer. "All right. Look, I can't just abandon my the other captains who I've sworn to fight with… but I won't do anything to give this place away either. I won't be 'after' you anymore. A Truce… between us. It's the best I can offer right now. Is… is that acceptable?"

Standing behind Marinsic, Mesta nodded her head ever so slightly. The man was telling the truth.

Jaal stepped forward and offered his hand, "A truce it is Captain Marinsic. You are free to go. Be forewarned, we'll be keeping an eye on you. If you change your mind any further, let me know."

White spoke up sounding rather unconvinced, "What makes you so sure that he won't come back with a fleet and finish the job he started?"

Jaal's eyes never left Marinsic, "Because we still hold Starfleet's ideals in high regard. He wasn't tortured or killed, he wasn't mistreated, and he can see that we still need to work together to fight the real war, not the civil war, if anything like the Federation is to be restored." Now the Trill turned his head to Captain White, "He'll tell two friends and hopefully they'll tell two friends and so on and so on."

"Let's be a little more realistic Jaxom," Marinsic spoke up. "I can't make any guarantees right now. Let's face it, I'm rather low on the Hawk totem pole. I don't hold much sway in the ways things go."

"Nonetheless, I think you believe in what we're doing. Do the best you can," Jaal told him, "That's all I ask."

The shorter captain shook hands with the Trill. Mesta could feel the change in Marinsic's mind. She felt he wouldn't trouble them any longer. It was a good feeling.

There might be some hope after all…

"Compound Factions"

Red Crest Shipyards, S'sgarnon Prime
============================

“The prototype isss ready for the final configuration, Lord K’aa.”

Looking away from his most recent calculations, Th’Khiss K’aa nodded
and quickly rose from his kneeling dais and felt adrenaline surge in
his limbs. The conclusion of a half decade’s worth of hard work was
about to finally mature, and The Lord of the Red Crest was eager to
taste its marrow. The true test of the design would still be weeks
away, but the chance to see the final configuration sent his hearts
racing.

The view of the main Operations Center was still dominated by the
strange, long, thin weapon that had confounded his Starfleet guests.
Now, five of six Sleee’stak light cruisers were attached around the
‘gravity ring’ towards the wider base of the structure, giving it the
semblance of a small star-base. The last ship, the GDF Slessh, was
making its last maneuvering by thruster, and gracefully lowered
herself to join her sisters.

K’aa had always been impressed with the Federation concept of
starships having multiple hulls, but had always thought the idea too
small for siege warfare – then, when he had read the tactical logs of
the USS Voyager he had stumbled on then Lieutenant Tuvok’s notes on
Species 8472. The aliens and their compound were capable of
destroying Borg structures in a single shot, and while the Gorn could
not explore the biological nature of their weaponry, the potential
yield of arranging the reactors of six starships to a single weapon
was too tempting to ignore.

When the Slessh was finally in place and the reactors coupled, the
weapons conduit of the gigantic needle came online, pulsing with a
deep emerald green. The Ops Center filled with a contented hissing
from K’aa’s staff, but there was only one growl of annoyance, and he
knew who had made it.

“Don’t you like your new weapon, my friend?”, K’aa rhumbled.

Lord Slessh, the only black-clad Gorn in the facility, leaned heavily
on his double-edged pole-arm, the sharp bottom blade cutting thin
curls of titanium alloy deck plating. “I grow tired of your
secretsss, Th’Khiss. Thissss project… it reekssss too much of….
hrrrrsssss… alien science”, he snarled. “What race wasss the
sssource of the primary weapon?”

“Racesss”, K’aa corrected, keeping a close eye on the older Gorn’s
feet. “The primary function of the cannon issss a Borg desssign,
bolssstered by Rohansssu warp-field mechanicssss. The resssult…”

“YOU’VE USSSED ROMULAN TECHNOLOGY ON OUR SHIPSSSS?” Slessh’s roar was
accented with a low-frequency rhumble that said that he was more than
willing to pursue violence for his needs. ‘THAT ISSSS UNACCEPTABLE”.

“That isss perhapsss the most powerful weapon in the Alpha and Beta
quadrantsss”, K’aa growled. “And you don’t like what it lookssss like
or where we got the desssign? Hrrr… who’sss the egg now?”

Slessh’s response was typically predictable, and when K’aa saw the
Lord of the Black Crest shift the weight on his feet we went into
action. The younger Gorn made no direct attempt to defend himself,
only hurling a human-sized chair to where Slessh’s feet struck the
deck plate. The older Gorn stumbled and attempted to roll back to his
feet, but suddenly found a clawed foot on his throat and his war-staff
torn from his grasp.

“Don’t be predictable”, K’aa hissed as he lowered the point of one of
the blades to just below one of his opponent’s large, silvery eyes.
“You have a choice to make Lord Slessh… accept that what you have come
to know of exissstence hasss changed, and I will prove to you that it
isss for the better of our people. I sssswear to you, learning from
other peoplessss – both their triumphsss and their defeatssss – isss
enriching, and valuable beyond wordssss.” He raised the blade’s tip
and pointed it towards the compound-dreadnought not leaving its
moorings by thrusters.

“That ship isss capable of thingsss unheard of in warfare”, K’aa
snarled. “You have the unpredictability to make it a hunter without
rival, you jussst need the imagination to take the brey with your
claws.”

“Hrrrrssssrrrr…”, Slessh struggled to free himself, but found the
pressure on his windpipe only increased.” … and the… other choice?”

“Maintain your traditional waysss…. and die with them”. With that,
K’aa removed his foot from Slessh’s throat.

The older reptilian sprung to his feet and to his surprise found his
bladed staff being offered to him by his rival, who had was now bowed
before him. Slessh quickly snatched the weapon away, twirled it
behind him, and brought it quickly under K’aa’s own eye with a snarl
and flash of fangs. “I will NOT be toyed with, ssstripling”, he
hissed. “I have ssseeen over a century’sss worth of warfare, and bear
the scarsss of great battlessss – what makesss you think that your way
isss any better?”

Slowly, K’aa rose to meet Shessh gaze. “And you have never left your
own frontier, alwaysss facing the sssame enemiesss we have alwaysss
faced. I saw more in my firssst five yearssss in Stafleet than you in
your firssst fifty. I have battled racesss you have never even heard
of, and I have learned from battles and skirmishessss beyond your
imagination. Every experience, every lesson I have forged into that
ship – and mossst importantly, the tactical training that goesss with
it. In the right clawssss, it will create warfare the likessss of
which no sssun has ever witnessed – but in traditional handsss,
it’ssss merely a large ship made of sssmaller onesss. Do you have to
courage to imagine ssssomething elsssse?”

Slesssh’s anger fought with his reason, and the blade in his hand
quivered under K’aa’s brow. He snarled at the Lord of the Red Crest
and flicked the blade’s thin fore edge up through K’aa’s scaled brow.
Black blood spurt , then trickled down the side of the younger Gorn’s
face as his men surged forward, but with a waive of his hand he held
them back.

“Your warshipsss await, Lord Slesssh?”, K’aa hissed, bowing once more.

2402: "Dark Magus" - Prologue: Black and Red

* * * * *

In the 25th century...

Stardate 79366.3 (Gregorian date: Tuesday, May 14, 2402)
Decaying transitory orbit, Cait, Beta Lyncis Sector (Dove space)

War.

Every war had its heroes and its villains, its redemptions and its condemnations—its miracles and its atrocities. A balance was forged: an implacable ledger was kept by an adamant Accountant, transcribing the credits and the debits, the advances and the retreats—the inspired and the insane. The Accountant's quill was unequivocal, ruthless: every transaction, every exchange was forever rendered in black and red.

Black.

And red.

For the Hawks, the Battle of Cait in 2386 was a critical advance—a bold stroke of black—severing the peace-willed Doves from one of their grandest planetary holdfasts. Gone were the incalescent Duranium foundries that provided sinew and skin for their leviathan starships. Gone were the immaculate laboratories and Hypermatter cores producing purified Dilithium for their voracious warp drives. Gone were the medical research and treatment centers that had perfected bio-regeneration, nano-cyberization, and sub-quantum surgery for their ailing and injured populations.

Gone were the hopes and dreams of an entire people—the peaceful Caitians.

Most of them watched, fleeing in abject horror aboard massive transports, as their beloved Cait—Fer’rr,asa in their mellifluous natural tongue—was scorched and poisoned by Hawk munitions, transforming their Great Mother into a roiling, superheated monstrosity that throttled the Seraphic orb with grotesque fingers of storm and rage, smoke and fire.

Black.

And red.

Crippled and virtually immobilized by the monumental loss—a cardinal cross of red—the Doves retreated to the Federation’s core—Sector 001 and its Earth bastion—leaving the depopulated and ruinous Cait carelessly unguarded against the denizens of galactic scum and villainy. The fulmic ash-clouds that encompassed the planet’s troposphere provided a perfect, illicit cloak: highly-ionized and spectrally-opaque, the necrotic shroud prevented all but the most powerful sensors and transporters from reaching the planet’s surface. What had once been a haven—an Eden, vibrant and rich—was now a husk: Sodom shelled.

Black and red.

Black.

And red.

And the fires burnt on…

"Pain Is Bliss"

Captain Chris Daniels

CO's Quarters, USS Hercules
Currently Orbiting Vulcan
======================

1, 2, 3...

Sometimes, you can win a battle and still lose.

And there's nothing you can do to change that fact.

Sure, you can try to rationalize it, reason it away, do any number of things to try to make sense of why you have just been dealt such a shitty hand.

And then, sometimes, you just have to blow off steam and move on.

Which is precisely why, while the Herk orbits over the ruined Hawk city of Marau, I'm in here by myself doing pushups...

7, 8, 9...

The single, solitary, barechested male form putting himself through a physical hell in the middle of his quarters found no odd motivation in this particular practice. Ever since he had been gone to the Wolf 359 tactical school so many years ago, this had been an almost daily routine. It had first started because he didn't have time to go to the gym, and years of war keeping him busy had caused his once-fit body to degenerate into something not so impressive. So after 18 months of doing insane amounts of calisthenics, he returned to Fleet Service looking as ripped as he ever had. And the routine had just sort of followed him through the intervening years.

In addition to his daily self-abuse, pushups had become his way of forgetting about things. Pissed off? Depressed? Unmotivated? Just do a few hundred pushups and it all seemed to go away.

In the last seven years, he had stopped counting the number of aggression pushups he had done.

14, 15, 16...

There's nothing we could have done...

It must have been remote triggered. If they got in trouble it would blow.

But why?...

Why would they attack a Hawk settlement?? Wipe out 75,000 other humans?

How could...how could they know we were there? Was it a setup?

22, 23, 24...

All of this trying to figure out people's motives shit had really started to grate on Chris' nerves in the last year. In his mind, his drive was pretty simplistic. He was going to kill Rebecca von Ernst, and everyone else who stood on her side and got in his way was just a roadblock to be dealt with. And, much to his own mental anguish at times, he had become entirely too good at extinguishing members of his own race.

Truth be told, he never really understood the whole fight between the Hawks and Doves. He was what a lot of Doves referred to as a fringe follower....only allied because of a common cause and the fact that it provided him a slightly better supply chain than going it alone. Most of his crew felt the same.

His father probably would have never approved of his stance, but sometimes, it was necessary to turn your back on your loved one's beliefs to uphold them.

34, 35, 36

They hid...waited...for us to get here..

Did they...unnnngh...know they were going to die

Did...did they...want me to kill them?

Make it look like....like...unnnnnggh...we did it?

41, 42, 43

Unfortunately, beliefs were all about anyone had left to live for.

Because doing pushups in a browned out cabin with a broken door, thinning sheets and a stack of never to be completed repair requests was not how Chris wanted to grow old.

Granted, it was a simple enough life...kill Rebecca and then hopefully all this insanity would end.

But, was that any way to live?

Chris had known war since he joined Starfleet. He was a child of the Dominion War...his whole life had revolved around it, and the older he got, the more he wondered what he had missed along the way.

62, 63, 64

Cause dissent..make Doves look bad

Get Vulcan with the Hawks?

79, 80, 81

The muscles in Chris' chest, arms and abdomen were starting to burn as the anaerobic process began to kick in. He would feel the lactic acid soreness tomorrow, but for now, it was a feeling that he cherished.

It made him feel alive. For as the world fell apart around him, he could still, for a few precious minutes a day, control this.

A bead of sweat formed at his scalp and then ran in a line down to the tip of the nose. He crossed his eyes and watched it...a symbol of his issues leaving him and falling to the floor.

Simple as that. All his worries fell to the floor and were left there in a puddle.

88, 89, 90

Are they changing the rules?

Do...nnnnnngggg...we...need to run?

93. 94, 95

Chris' pace slowed as his muscle began to rebel against the constant working. Despite years of doing it, this many pushups at once was still a challenge.

98

How am I gonna get us out of this?

99

The beads of sweat were dripping down faster now, a drop every few seconds as his body glistened with salinated water.

100

Or am I totally wrong??

With that, he bent his knees under him and came off his arms, panting heavily and sweating quite a bit. For a few moments, he simply sat there, cherishing the contradicting feelings: pain and euphoria, dry mouth and wet body, burning muscles and cool air.

In just moments after stopping, he felt better already. It had worked again.

Once he felt the need to move, he positioned himself against a wall and allowed for a few moments of quiet. He wasn't sure how long had passed before there was a knock at his door.

He panted a few times and lolled his head towards the door before finally granting entry.

The young Lieutenant at the door was not surprised to see the Captain like this. It was fairly well known about his masochistic workout regimen.

"Sir, we've picked up some comm traffic you might want to see from the Sol Sector."

"Anything vital?"

"Information on the Shiva, sir. We think she may be adrift outside of the solar system."

Chris paused a moment.

"I'll be right there."

"Finding Nemo - part 1."

Prisoncolony IOC532

Inmate Hermes
Inmate Jon Ryan

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

He awoke with a groan, or at least he thought so. At least
it was a noise and considering the mindnumbing headache he
had, it made sense if it was a groan.
Gradually his body informed him of other areas that were in
pain. Serious pain. Ribs, thighs, arms, hands, feet, back,
gut. Pretty much everything hurt. A lot.
Now he was definately groaning. He lay on still on whatever
surface that was beneath him. It was the only thing he could
do.

"Oh man. The guards really did a number on you, didn't
they?" a rough voice suddenly said to him. Shuffling of
feet. Hands grabbing him. Someone screaming in pain. It took
him a second to realize the screaming came from himself.

"God.. " He tried to speak but his voice couldn't raise
above a low rasp whisper. He swallowed a few times, or at
least tried to. His tongue felt like an elephant in his
mouth. A hand closed gently around his chin, prying his
mouth open. A few drops of water fell into his
mouth.

"Slowly.. or it'll be even worse." the same voice ordered
him. It carried weight that voice.

A commanding voice. He wasn't sure why his brain registred
that fact. Things were confusing is it was.

Again he tried to swallow, this time with more success. He
took a couple of shallow breaths.

The deep one he had tried earlier had nearly mad ehim faint
from the pain. "Where.. where am I?"

Voices around him chuckled, giggled and laughed. "You're now
a guest at the penal colony Five Three Two, but we call it
Tartarus."

Oh god.. oh god almighty.. FiveThreeTwo.. he had heard of
that place. What was he doing there? He was no criminal! The
same voice interrupted him again.

"Welcome to Hell."

It was both easy and hard to describe Five Three Two. A pit
of murderers, traitors, rapists, thieves, sociopaths and
psyhopaths would be one, a fairly apt one. But the problem
with that was that it oncly described the people running it.

Maybe Tartarus wasn't such a bad description after all?

He called himself Hermes. The Messenger. No one really knew
why, but he did. Tartarus had been his home for more than
ten years. He knew the rules, he knew the beat. It was a
place where sinners ruled and the innocent perished. Maybe
that was why he had lent the frail newcomer a hand.

Had he known this was the place he was being sent he
probably would have resisted more. This place was a thing
childhood nightmares were made up, where monsters lurked in
the shadows and waited to devour you at within a moments
notice. The only problem was the new comer to this hell had
never felt so isolated from everything he knew in all his
life.

Looking around he could almost feel all the eyes from the
shadows looking upon him. The hairs on the back of his neck
raised with alarm as he folded his arms over his torso and
moved toward one least darkest corners of this nightmare
world.

The concrete walls had seen better days. Strange patterns
went from side to side, up and down. Cracks mixed with
blood, sweat, tags and some other substances that normally
resided inside heads. Hermes took his battered tin cup and
walked over to the newcomer he had taken under his wing.
"Feeling better?" he asked while sliding down until he sat
next to the
cowering man.

"Can one feel good being in a place like this?" He responded
to the stranger. The new comer wasn't sure it was a good
idea even talking to anyone here, there wasn't good thing
about this place and he doubted the man wanted to be
friends.

The man seemed to give the words some thought. "In here you
learn to appriciate the small things.. An extra mouthful of
food - water.." he held out the battered cup "which someone
hasn't pissed in.. a good shiv to protect yourself with..
words to keep you from going

fruitloops."

Looking at the cup for a moment, he then reached out and
took it in his hands and brought it to his mouth. God the
water here even tasted rancid, but at least it was wet.
Looking to the other man he had to ask, "Why do you care
what happens to me?" He asked him.

Hermes shrugged. "I've not decided if I do, so I'll be
honest with you. But humans are rare here.. so keeping you
alive makes for company."

"Sobering thought." The new comer replied as he took another
mouthful of the grity water. "I'm Jon.. Jon Ryan." He said
as he looked at the man. Jon wasn't sure that he liked being
an extinct item here and from what the stranger said
humanity didn't exsist here any longer.

A surprisingly strong hand clasped Jon's. "I'm Hermes.. So
Jon Ryan.. who were you before you crossed the River Styxx?"

"Just another face in a fastly decressing crowd. I was
someone who believed in something that died a long time
ago." Jon said as he looked at him. "So, Hermes, what
message do you bring me from the Gods?" He asked as he
handed back the dinted cup.

The man tossed his head back and laughed roughly. "A man of
knowledge! Who would have guessed in such a despressing
location!"

"Empowerment comes from knowledge, and from that
enlightenment." Jon said as he leaned back against the stone
wall behind him. His guard remained stiff and ready, as his
eyes watched the shadow moments all around him.

Hermes chuckled. It had been a while since he had held a
conversation where every third word wasn't a curse.
"Normally knowledge aquired in here comes with a pricetag,
but this I share free of cost." he glanced down the corridor
where the doors to the cell was open. The massive gates
leading to the mines hadn't been closed for eight years.
"Learn who is who, make
yourself useful but do not make fools of men.. While it may
earn you a pat on the back, it will earn you a shiv next to
the pat."

"Are you speaking in general or is there one Alpha Male
among the monsters of the dark?" Jon asked him as he glaned
down the same way Hermes had glanced.

"Oh there are many Alphas here.. all of them yapping and
barking and eventually biting your head off. There are
territories to piss.. and none of them belonging to humans.
Here we are the dirt on which other tread." Several truly
mean looking Klingon males exited from a cell almost at the
end of the corridor, heading for the huge gates. "But our
esteemed host has a rather interesting method for dealing
with the pack."

Jon realized then that Hermes considered himself part of
humanity, but he said nothing about it instead he questioned
he man about the man he had mentioned as host. "Who would
our host be?" Jon asked.

"Our host is many. Our host is the Breen. Our host is the
Hydran. Our host is the greed for wealth, power and survival
of the Warden. Tartarus produces ore, the ore is refined.
Trouble amongst the peons would be troublesome. "

Jon remained quiet as he listened to the older man, maybe he
wasn't so old though. Maybe Tartarus had made him look older
then he was, life here would certainly do that. Thinking
about what Hermes said he sat there mulling over the idea of
living out the rest of his life in this God forsaken pit of
hell and it turned his stomach. Though a portion of that was
from the scent of human and alien waste. Looking back to
Hermes, "Sounds like every spends most of their time playing
yes servant to everyone else."

Hermes nodded gravely. An observant young man. In a few
minutes he had understood more than some did in a year.
Maybe this one would survive. Then again. Maybe not. "Most
of us, yes.. that's because the alternative, Hydran
spareparts, is less appealing than playing the good
servant."

"Finding Nemo - part 2."

Prisoncolony IOC532

Inmate Hermes
Inmate Jon Ryan

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

"Why are you here, Hermes?" Jon asked, he had to know. He
wasn't sure why he needed to know but everything he knew
about this place was advantage he didn't have before.

"Why is anyone here, you think?" he replied with a sly look
in his eyes.

Sitting there Jon decided Hermes was elusive. He sat there
for a minute then looked over at at Hermes. "One could be
here for simple mistakes." He replied then looked back down
the corridor watching the door where the Klingons had
exited. Something about the doorway made him curious about
what was inside.

"It's all a big mistake us being here.. we're all
innocent.." Hermes chuckled and then got up on his feet. "I
think its about to begin.. come."

Standing up he looked around briefly and then followed a few
steps behind Hermes. He didn't trust Hermes totally, but so
far he was only one to seem halfway normal in this place.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked quietly as he watched
the shadows.

"A most interesting venue.. I fear it passes as amusement
and entertainment here.. There's a scarce lack of showgirls
if you look careful." the man said with the same sly look in
his eyes. "I warn you though.. it can be a little..
intense."

Jon followed Hermes into the room, soon as he walked in
though his ears was met with a thunderous sound of cheering
and berating. Though he wasn't sure why, that was until he
saw a circular fenced in pit, moving through the crowd there
with Hermes they finally got to a place where they could
look down in the pit. "What is this, Hermes?" He asked
loudly over the noise.

"This, my wideeyed fearful friend, is what the Warden of
this place likes to call The Ring of Trials. The somewhat
bombastious name has for some reason, " he grinned widely ,
"never gained any popularity. Here it is simple called the
Ring. Nothing more."

"And the rules of this ridiculas sideshow?" Jon asked as he
glanced over at Hermes. "Or is there any rules at all?"

Hermes eyes looked at the spectacle. It was hard to tell if
he liked or disliked it. "Rules.. not so many. Objectives
and rewards.. a lot more.."

He turned to Jon. "There are plenty of places on this
godforsaken rock where you don't want to be.. and by
entering there you get a chance to get away from those
places. The winners get to pick where they want to work,
they get extra rations, better clothes.. so you see.. it is
not easy to stay out of the ring when you have been here for
a while."

Before Jon could ask if Hermes had been in the ring though
there was sound as if a hammer hitting wood. Then there was
a voice came over the speakers that seemed to cut through
the crowd.

"Poor Mister Neroc... he was unable to live up to the high
expectations that I had placed upon him. Who will dare to
enter the ring... the ring of life, the person who beats
Malek will be in my favor." the Warden said.

Jon looked up and saw a woman standing in a window, she
wasn't his cup of tea but for someone she probably was. She
looked cold, almost frigged in the face, looking to Hermes
he then looked back to the woman since it came to him she
was probably the one who just made the announcement over the
PA system.

"Come.. let's get some seats.. " Hermes motioned while
gliding effortlessly through the roaring crowd. It was as if
he knew exactly where and how to move in order to avoid
elbows and shoves. Jon was not as lucky. "I doubt any of the
matches will be to the death today.. "

Nodding to the older looking man, Jon moved with him to sit
down. Frowning, being jostled around and shoved from one
thug to another, he finally found some free seats that
didn't look taken and sat down. "Who's the woman in the
window?" Jon asked as he gestured with a nod to the dark
haired woman in a black jumpsuit.

The smile from Hermes' face faded. "The ruler of Tartarus is
Hecate.. that would be her.. Don't ever make her cross.. Her
imagination could have taught the once so fear Tal'Shiar a
thing or two.. Profits is her lover and credits is her drug.
We simply call her Warden."

"You been in the ring, Hermes?" Jon asked.

"Once or twice.. I've never developed a taste for it.. I'm
more of an observer." his voice didn't betray the outcome of
those visits. But despite a relctuance to the ring it would
be wrong to interpret it as weakness. One didn't survive in
Tartarus by being weak.

Jon sat there for a moment. "Tell me, you think I need to go
in that ring?" Jon asked him as he looked around for a
second before looking back to Hermes. "Being new here,
shouldn't I think about making sure people don't think I'm
some they can manhandle?"

He looked at Jon from top to bottom. "My friend, why don't
you watch and see if it is something you think you can
handle? It is not as if there's a doctor to patch you up
afterwards.." Hermes turned his attention back to the ring.

Standing up to get a better view he folded his arms and
watched the scene before him, once Klingon moved he sat back
down. Jon followed the fight intently.

It was a gruelling two hours for Jon. The blood, the
violence, the pain and the anger he saw, heard and felt was
overwhelming. War was one thing, shooting at each other in
spaceships, marines defending and attacking on the ground.
But in the ring it was different.

Primal.

Desperate.

The crowd cheered, all of them shouting at the fighters in
the ring. Jon had first believed it would be duels, but that
wasn't the case. Duels would have been too.. easy, Hermes
explained to him. Instead at least forty prisoners were sent
into the ring and the mayhem assumed. Blood made the floor
slippery, injuries made the fighters tired, some even too
tired to defend themselves. There would be no rounds, no
bell, no rest. From the last man standing and to the first
man falling. That was the way the work was divided.

He could see Hermes shake his head in disgust, as did a few
others, most of them older members of various species. But
they were easily counted. The rest allowed themselves to get
swept away by the spectacle. It was hard not to throw up. He
had never smelled a worse stench than he did now. Blood,
piss and guts from a whole range of different species.

Hermes looked at the human. He was as white as a sheet. "I'm
sorry, kid.. It was the best way to make you understand just
how bad this place really is." He tried to comfort Jon,
patting him softly on the back. "You'll get used to it..
unfortunately." Without much effort he pulled Jon back on
his feet. There was a lot worse to come. "I think that's
enough for today.. You'll have three weeks to process it
until its time again. Now I have an urge to get drunk. Try
not to get yourself killed while I'm away."

"Shipyard Down"

Captain Alexandra Lee

Alex cursed at herself and at Paul McAllister silently for resetting her tactical controls to cause real damage to his vessel. She was glad though, that he had seemed to survive the attack as the SS Vienna crossed into Hawk Territory--it would give her a chance to kill him later. She paced slowly about her ready room, as she awaited the signal from Paul that would indicate the exact location of the shipyards. The chime sounded.

"Enter."

The tall Native American officer she knew as her First Officer entered the room. "Yes, commander?"

"Captain, should we truly be undertaking this mission with civilians aboard?"

Alex wondered if Picard thought the same thing when the Enterprise-D first faced a crisis that placed the ship's civilians in harm's way. However, Picard had been lucky as the Enterprise-D could separate, leaving the civilians out of harm's way--the Pegasus had no separation capabilities. "We don't have a choice, commander...we have our orders. The shipyards must be destroyed while a majority of the Dove Fleet creates a diversion near the Sirius System."

"I know...but I believe it is unwise to take with civilians aboard."

"As do I, but there are many more people counting on us to complete this mission. We will hit the yards as hard as we can, beam out Mr. McAllister and then haul tail out of Hawk Space before they realize what has happened."

"I only hope the shipyards are not that well armed."

"As do I, commander."

Alex's comm badge soon jumped to life with a chirp. =/\=Lieutenant T'ral to Captain Lee. We are receiving the signal from Mr. McAllister.=/\= the stern voice of the andorian officer came through.

"Engage the cloak and set a course for those coordinates at maximum warp. Set condition to Red."

=/\=Aye, captain. Lieutenant T'ral, out.=/\=

The alarm sounded throughout the ship as crew rushed to their designated stations. Alex and her first officer stepped onto the bridge together. Alex sat down in the command chair as her first officer took his place to her right. "When we are within fifty-thousand kilometers of the signal, drop the cloak and fire, full weapons. Get a lock onto that signal and transport Mr. McAllister aboard as soon as possible."

"Aye, captain," Lt. T'ral replied from the tactical station. "Weapons are ready and in the green." Shield generators are in standby mode until we drop the cloak." His antennae were twitching back and forth in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

Alex nodded. Lieutenant T'ral was one of the finest tactical officers she had ever met. His attention to detail was nearly vulcan-like. Though she would never tell him that.

The Pegasus crossed into Hawk Space, making a bead-line towards the signal as the Pegasus' engines pushed the ship to it maximum speed of Warp 9.9977.

"Approaching fifty-thousand kilometers of the signal, captain," Ensign Cathers reported from the Helm.

"Disengage warp drive and drop the cloak. Target the signal and fire!" Alex ordered.

The image of the Pegasus shimmered into view as the cloaking device was brought offline. The lieutenant monitoring the sensor readouts of the surrounding space had only enough time to realize that the minor sub-space disturbance was the USS Pegasus, a Dove battle cruiser. "Shi--" was all the lieutenant was able to utter as phasers from the Pegasus ripped into the control center, causing the shipyard's cloaking field to become unstable and cease to function.

"Lock onto Mr. McAllister and transport him aboard! Continue to fire at will!" Alex ordered.

"We have McAllister aboard!" the Operation Officer announced.

Alex simply nodded. "Continue to fire!"

The Pegasus over flew the "ribs" of the Shipyard as phasers and torpedoes lashed out, causing the "ribs" to break apart and explode. Defense platforms had now come online and targeted the Pegasus with their weapons and firing.

The Pegasus shook violently. "Shields down to eighty percent!" T'ral reported as his hands worked the phaser and torpedo controls at each new target that came into range of the Pegasus' weapons.

"Full power to shields. Continue to fire! Focus on the shipyards!" Alex ordered.

"Aye, captain."

The Pegasus banked as it passed by another shipyard, with phasers firing. The now shielded shipyards took more hits to drop the shields as a volley of torpedoes ripped into the shipyard's power core and exploded, ripping apart the second shipyard. The Pegasus banked again as its weapons focused on the third and final shipyard.

"Shields down to twenty percent!" T'ral announced. The Pegasus continued to unleash its firepower upon the weaker shields of the remaining shipyard, as the shields finally gave way to the pounding, allowing phasers and torpedoes to rip through the structure, causing it to break apart and explode just as the Pegasus was hit by several vollies of weapons fire from the defense platforms, causing the ship to shake violently as the Pegasus' ablative armor did its best to protect the hull of the Pegasus and its crew.

"Get us out of here, Mr. Cathers! Maximum warp! Engage the cloak!" Alex ordered after being tossed from her command chair from the recent onslaught.

"Aye, captain!"

The Pegasus jumped to warp just as several torpedoes straked by where the ship had been less than a second ago, engaging its cloak to disquise its retreat.

Smoke filled the bridge from the recent surge of overloaded consoles as the environmental system worked to clean the smoke from the breathable air. "Good job, everyone. That should set the Hawks back in ship production and repairs. Set a course for the Tau Ceti System and inform command that the mission was a success."

"Aye, captain," Cathers replied from the Helm Console.

"I'll be in Sickbay, overseeing Mr. McAllister's condition if I am needed," Alex said as she made her way to the rear turbolift. She was extrememly happy that Paul had survived and that the mission had been a success. She was certain that the Hawks would be gunning for her vessel in revenge and most likely even try to hire Mercenaries or Pirates to come after her.

"Messenger Revealed"

Captain Alexandra Lee
The Messenger

**********
Captain Alexandra Lee walked into the bustling area that had been Cargo Bay Three. Some people who did not receive quarters began to make do with what shelters they had. Engineers had done the best they could with creating barriers to offer them some privacy. The efforts had put a strain on their systems. Though she could overhear some complaining still to the medics or engineers or the security guards, most seemed complacent with their situation. She spotted the figure of the man who had called himself the Messenger and began to approach. "I see that most are beginning to adapt to their current living situation."

The Messenger grimaced at the term 'adapt', but took it in the spirit that it was intended. "People are resilient creatures. Sometimes they just need a little… nudge… in the right direction." He said, glancing back over his shoulder up at the scorch mark that his shotgun had left in the ceiling. "Uhm… sorry about the roof of your cargo bay…" he said sheepishly. "I really do hope that you're not here to talk to me about that."

Alex glanced up at the ceiling. "The engineers will fix it. Just try not to shoot anymore bulkheads. I wanted to thank you for the great job you have done at getting these people to calm down. In fact...I was wondering if you wanted to stay aboard the Pegasus...as a dedicated counselor."

"As in rejoin Starfleet?" he asked in disbelief. "I always figured that they'd find a way to drag me back. Somehow I figured that more kicking and screaming would be involved."

Alex cocked an eyebrow. "You were in Starfleet? May I ask why you left?"

The Messenger snorted at that question. "Ahhh… where to begin on that one." He said. He then glanced around. "But not here." He said sweeping his hand toward the door. "Mind if we take a walk on that one?"

Alex's curiosity was at its peak now. "Of course."

He sighed as they walked into the corridor. "It was many years ago. The war with the Triad went from bad to worse and the missions that we were being ordered on kept on getting more and more dangerous not to mention more and more ridiculous. The beauty of my position and posting is that it allowed me and my entire crew to disappear without even being missed."

"So you were in Intel?"

The Messenger smiled. "Ever hear of a division of Starfleet Intelligence called 'Third Echelon', Captain?" he asked.

"Hmmm...I believe I may have heard my ex husband say something about a Third Echelon...he was with Starfleet Intelligence as well."

"We were the ultra black ops of Starfleet Intel. We did things that would make Hawks cringe and that the Federation will never, ever, admit to. Even if Admirals Bhrode, Janeway, Neyechev, and Nolotai were all on their collective death beds and desperately needed Last Rights, they'd all sooner go to hell rather than admit to us." He said casually. "What they made us do… was unspeakable. My entire crew and I grew weary of it. So we all decided to take ourselves out of the picture for good. By this time, we were fighting our own people for no good reason. So we faked our destruction, cloaked, and returned to Earth in an attempt to save those who were getting caught in the crossfire. We landed in the Rocky Mountains and with the help of a few friends, both legit through the Church and non-legit through certain honorable crime families, we established Sanctuary with the sole purpose of shielding the innocents from the wars raging around them." He explained.

"That is...some story," Alex replied thoughtfully, wondering if this man was indeed who he claimed to be. Yet, she could understand that the war would get to people. The war had gotten to many people by now...it seemed that was all she did nowadays or worried about. It aged people faster then normal. It caused children to mature faster through the lost of family, and that loss often caused hatred for those on the opposite side. Her crew had not had a good long leave in over a year. It was always one battle, patrol, or escort mission after another. But she had managed to keep morale up with a dedicated holodeck adventure in which most of the crew participated or a sports game. Parisis Squares, Soccer, and baseball were among the favorites of the crew. Boxing events were often arranged to settle personal disputes among the crew. If that person had a problem or issue with another crewmember, it was taken to and left in a boxing ring.

"I'm sure that my files are still in the database somewhere…" The Messenger commented. "If you're interested, I can unlock the files for you to view. Then you can see if I'm worthy of joining your crew Captain." He said with all sincerity. "I have lifetimes of atonement to do and only so long to do it. If you'll have me after reading my file, then I would feel privileged continue the Lord's work as your counselor-slash-chaplain." He said, bowing his head slightly towards her. He then looked at his attire. "I just hope that you're a bit lax on the uniform policy…"

"As this is my ship, I will not require you to rejoin Starfleet. You may stay on as a civilian, if that is your wish as your position would not require you to be in active service. I will look over your file but your actions and attitude does appear to be honorable."

"I thank you for your generosity, Captain." He said, pressing his hands together and bowing towards her slightly. "I am then indeed blessed to have come into your service it seems." With their walk through the corridor, he had let them right to the Intelligence Operations Center of the ship. He went in without another word and strode over to an unused terminal and sat down. "Computer, Identify." He commanded, pressing his palm down onto the required space.

"Working…" the computer promptly replied. "Identity Confirmed."

"Release all personnel files relating to the USS Astalder, NCC dash Seven Six Three Five One dash Alpha. Commanding Officer only. Authorization Clayton Beta Two Two Five One Tango Echo." He said. He then stepped aside and offered the chair to Alex.

FILE ARCHIVE: STARFLEET INTELLIGENCE, THIRD ECHELON DIVISION

****EYES ONLY, MAJESTIC CLEARANCE****

NAME: CLAYTON, ALEXANDER GABRIEL

RANK: CAPTAIN, STARFLEET

POSITION: COMMANDING OFFICER USS ASTALDER NCC-76351-A

AGE: 151 (Temporally Displaced)

BORN: 2251

FORMER POSTINGS:

USS MONITOR, CONSTITUTION CLASS

USS BOZEMAN, SOYUZ CLASS

STARBASE 212

USS ENTERPRISE-E, SOVEREIGN CLASS

USS MIDWAY, NEW ORLEANS CLASS

USS INDIANAPOLIS, CHARLESTON CLASS

USS INCURSION, DEFIANT-INCURSION CLASS

USS MIRANDA-B, PATHFINDER CLASS

USS BAINBRIDGE, DEFIANT CLASS

USS ASTALDER-A, INTREPID CLASS

CURRENT STATUS: MISSING IN ACTION, PRESUMED DEAD.

The file went on and on to hit the highlights of the man's career and operations done while he was in the service of Starfleet Intelligence; assassinations on personnel considered both Hawk and Dove, assassinations on key political figures in the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Quadrants, use of weapons of mass destruction during the Dominion War and the Triad War, attacks on starships from multiple political governments including the Klingon Empire, the Romulan Star Empire, the Tholian Assembly, the Thallonian Protectorate, the Cardassian Republic, the Ferengi Alliance, the members of the Triad…

And the Untied Federation of Planets…

"You've attacked Federation Starships? You appear more of a fraking mercenary than Intelligence..."

By the time Alex looked up again, the Messenger was gone…

Alex looked back at the monitor to see that one of the attacks the Messenger, or Captain Clayton had been on was the USS Bismarck.

She tapped her comm badge. =/\=Captain Lee to Security. Keep an eye out for the man calling himself the Messenger. When you find him, detain him and inform me immediately, as I wish to speak with him. Captain Lee, out. =/\=

Alex then rushed out into the corridor. She wanted answers and she wanted them now.

OOC: Occurs simultaneously with Confessions, Part 1.

"The First Signs Of Trouble"

Lt. Colonel Wayne "Biggs" Duke (NPC written by Betred)
USS Trafalgar

Lt. Commander Michael McDowell - Chief Engineer
USS Trafalgar

*** USS Trafalgar, Deck 12, Viewing Lounge 1 ***

It had become routine. Every morning McDowell walked around the ship using a
pattern that brought him to every key system of the ship. Ten or twenty
years back that would'nt have been necesarry. At that time the Trafalgar was
still considered a state-of-the-art ship. But those times were long gone. He
had to keep tabs on every critical system. It was like constantly 'listening
to her pulse' as it were to assure that the Trafalgar was still functioning
as she should be. Constant battle had made her weary. He could even feel it
through the deckplates as he walked into Viewing Lounge 1.

"Coffee, black. Hot this time, not cold."

The replicator sprang to live. Seconds later it produced a hot steaming cup
of coffee in the small alcove. A small sip of the black stuff told Michael
it really was coffee. Good. Another "key system" that worked as it should.
At least when it came to coffee.

The doors opened at Lt. Col. "Biggs" Duke strode in with a bemused
expression on his face. Noticing McDowell, he waved in the engineer's
direction and went to the replicator, ordering the same brew. He
alternating muttering something sotto voice and listening to the com bud in
his ear as he approached. Tapping his badge to silence his private
communication, he raised his streaming mug in salute to the man now in front
of him.

"Thanks for making it hot this time, Mac! Cold coffee, ughhh," said Biggs.

"Don't mention it. Comes with the job." Michael grabbed a chair which stood
nearby and sat down. He hadn't completed his round yet but that could wait
for a few more minutes. "Besides, this ship practically runs on coffee and
raktajino. It had to be fixed."

Biggs sat as well. "Mac, you wouldn't believe the day I'm having. So, how's
she holding up? Should the salvage crews be looking for anything in
particular on Liberty, anything you need?"

"She's seen better days, Biggs. If I tell you what I need, then we'd be
sitting here for the next hour or two. It's three pages long, minimum."
Michael saw Biggs frown. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Don't worry,
she's still space worthy and I intent to keep it that way."

"Send the list over to XO -- he's organizing the salvage teams. Maybe we
can knock it a page." Biggs was interuppted when two crewman flung
themselves into the room in a savage embrace. Neither crewman's hands could
be seen; her's were in his pants, his were in her shirt. Biggs took another
swig of coffee. Gesturing at the now copulating couple, he asked, "Think we
should sell tickets?"

Michael almost choked in his coffee. "What the...!?" He said utterly
surprised, inbetween coughing. He looked as the two crewmembers really got
into it. Seconds later they were naked to the bone. For some reason it was
not that easy to take his eyes off them, but Michael forced himself.
"Tickets??" he said as he looked to Biggs. "You're joking, right?"

Biggs was watching the show with a glazed look in his eye. Then he heard
the Chief Engineer's words and came back to himself. Shaking his head to
clear his thoughts, he stood and marched over to the oblivious couple.
Grabbing the one on top, Biggs heaved and bounced the woman off the aft
bulkhead. "Just what the frack is going on here?" he roared.

The man jumped to his feet, looked at Biggs, then Mac, then at the woman he
had been humping, then back to Biggs. Most of him came to attention in
front of the marine forces commander. The woman, a slim and quite
unattractive brunett with no curves to speak of squeeked, grabbed her
clothing, and ran from the room.

"Mac," asked Biggs, "did you just see what I think is saw?"

Michael nodded. "I sure did. The coffee?" He brought his cup of coffee to
his nose and sniffed.

Biggs returned his gaze to Mac. "Not the coffee."

"Well, it has to be something 'cause people just don't go nuts like that in
public." Michael placed his half empty cup of coffee back in the replicator,
just to be on the safe side. He watched it as it quickly dematerialised. "I
never seen anything like this in my life. Not even in the days when I was
still on the Galaxy."

Biggs pointed at the naked crewman again, then hooked his thumb at the door.
The man wasted no time in gathering his things and running from the room.
"Mac, I've been seeing weird stuff like that all morning. First, my umm
girlfriend is all fired up this morning, then there was this naked teenager,
now this. And when they came in here, I just wanted to watch. You sure
this is the first odd thing you've seen today?"

The Engineer arched his left eyebrow when Bigss told him of his girlfriend
and the teenager. He never knew him to be this open. After a few seconds of
digging in his memory he said, "To be honest, no I didn't see anything weird
today. I've been constantly working my ass off to get things fixed. But...I
do remember hearing some noises in the Jefferies tube this morning while I
checked an EPS conduit for micro fractures. You know, noises as in 'noises'.
I thought I was daydreaming or hallucinating or whatever. But now I'm not so
sure anymore."

"Jefferies tubes? Not really a romantic kinda place. You report anything
to security?"

"No, I didn't. Like I said, I thought I imagined it. But if this has been
going on all morning then that's reason enough for me to dig a little
deeper." Biggs was a man who Michael had come to trust. He'd never caught
the man telling a lie. "The environmental system might be a good place to
start."

"Need any help," asked Biggs. "I've got some grunts with nothing to do.
Just tell them what to look for."

"I was actually thinking about running a level 2 diagnostic of the whole
environmental system and doing an analysis of the air we're breathing on the
ship. I don't think your men can be of much help there. But I appreciate the
offer. Maybe there's another way they can help though. How about having them
walk around the ship? Just to make sure we're not crazy?"

"Not a bad idea; although what might twig the crazy threshold with some of
my men remains to be seen. I'll have them patrol the ship with their combat
recorders on -- then we'll have some ideas of what people are actually up
to. You'll let me know if you find anything?"

The 53 year old Chief Engineer nodded. "Will do. But personally I hope that
won't be necessary and that this is all a rare coincidence."

[ooc: takes place just before "Changes" -- sorry for slight back-posting]

"Habit"

Admiral Elaithin Jii
Jordan Elaithin
Cmdr. Arel Smith

****

Admiral's Ready Room, USS Miranda

****

Spengler, naturally, had waited until the last minute to announce that he would come with her. Arel had shrugged and that had been it.

The Klingon freighter had dropped them off at Denobula and then they rode the rest of way via Dove shuttle. She learned two things during the trip - Jii hadn't been pleased with her for "sneaking off" to Rura'Penthe and Spengler snored loud enough to wake the dead.

It had been a long trip.

Arel waited while Jii was informed of their arrival, thankful that Spengler had decided to stay in his new quarters. This wasn't going to be an easy sell and he'd probably make it worse just by breathing in the same room as Elaithin.

Arel turned her attention to Jii when he entered. "Sir."

"Arel," he stated with a nod. He stopped beside his long-time friend and folded his arms, studying her -- the bruises had clearly been gone over with a regenerator, but not with any patience, and they still decorated her skin in purplish welts. His jaw tensed as he bit back the words he really wanted to say, not having the heart or energy.

"What is he doing on my ship." It was a growled statement, not a question, and the irritation and anger at this event though not explicit, was certainly implied strongly.

"I asked him to come."

"You asked him to come. You asked him... You have done some out of your head shit over the years, but this... Never mind how you left, I can understand that in some way. But to bring him here? The error in judgment... You keep him in line and away from Jordan, Arel," he stated, voice stern. "She'll frakin' kill him and Prophets know, that is nothing I need to deal with right now!"

"Okay," she replied. "I will."

He wished that was enough, tried to convince himself to let it stand at that, but his confidence in Arel's ability to control her... friend... was doubtful at best. She clung desperately to the reputation she'd cultivated, tried to be the person she'd always been, but she couldn't do it anymore. The events of the past decade and a half ate away at her, left her a skeleton of that person.

"I need you to explain this," Jii said. "And don't give me any of that same old bullshit you tried before you left. If I'm going to turn away from here and pretend that this is okay? I need some better explanation than any of that."

She exhaled. "Don't know if I can give you one."

"Try."

There had been a time when Spengler had been the only one able to bring her back from ... well, a stronger path of self-destruction and despair. And it was always possible that he would perform the Hegh'bat if the Gods ever answered her prayers and let her body just give up. But in all honesty, she didn't know why she'd set him free.

"Maybe I need to need someone," she said. "I don't know, Jii. It was instinctive."

"It was instinctive," he repeated. "Instinctive to leave your station, to take a shuttle, to kill your father, and to bring his prisoner back here. After years." Jii's expression softened slightly. "Arel. You have people here." He reached forward, resting his hand on her upper arm and giving a small squeeze -- friendship, kinship, understanding maybe, certainly colleagues in arms for longer than either would like to admit. "Especially--"

He'd felt Jordan coming -- heard the doors open, saw her appearance reflected slightly in Arel's face. He hadn't quite expected what came next. Neither did Arel it seemed.

Jordan's approach was quick, only the matter of a few steps that, for a smaller person, indicated her mood rather well. The wind-up was even faster and her right-hook connected to Arel's face with a cringe-worthy thud.

"Why would you do that?!" Jordan exclaimed, struggling against her husband who had grabbed her before she fell over with the force of the punch. Her eyes danced angrily, but not without a little bit of frantic fear. "Why would you leave like that, risk something like that you selfish, qu'vatlh veQnuj!"

Jii winced.

Surprisingly, so did Arel. "Your Klingon is terrible when you're pissed."

"My Klingon is always horrible! It's a horrible language!" Jordan shouted, her cheeks flushing out of the anger. She let herself drop, allowed her husband to set her on her feet though his hands still clasped her at her shoulders. "And fuck you. For leaving and for not telling me about it! For not giving me the chance to--"

"Look," Arel interrupted as she absently rubbed her face. "I apologize for leaving the way I did. I wanted to go before I changed my mind. And I appreciate your concern for me. As for Spengler, if you won't let him stay, he'll go."

Again, Jii winced as Jordan drew a sharp intake of breath. "Of course he is not going to stay," she stated. "That man cannot be trusted and I'm not going to have him on this ship to do whatever it is that's he's already started to plot. And the fact you," she directed her hard gaze to her husband, "are currently allowing him on the ship without a security escort is beyond me."

"Kit," Jii stated with a low voice.

Arel ignored Jordan's splutters and focused on Jii. "I'll stay even if he leaves. I promised."

"I'm not going to turn him out," Jii said. "But you keep an eye on him, Arel, I don't trust him either. And if he gets out of line, you're the one who's going to have to deal with it."

"Okay," Arel said. She sat back and regarded the two for a moment. "I hear Von Ernst destroyed Earth."

The Elaithins exchanged glances and then confirmed with solemn nods. Jordan, fury not forgotten but simmering peacefully now, settled on the other sofa in the admiral's ready room.

"Shock wave took out several ships from both sides," Jii said. "We've sent a few passes through, but most of the survivors have already been retrieved by the Martians. And you know how they are about their treaties."

The admiral sighed, rubbing his hand over his face as he tried to think what else his chief of security and second officer needed to know -- he'd tried to convince her to be XO, but Arel wouldn't have it. Especially since she lost Korvin. The loss of her son affected her in a way completely opposite how it affected Jordan; while his wife's fire and fight was reignited in wake of Connor's death, Arel's was all but wiped away save for actions she took more out of habit than anything else.

"We lost the Galaxy. Thankfully, all hands were recovered before she blew. They got damn lucky. Daren's due in not too long for a debriefing."

"Security can use the extra personnel," Arel said. "By the way, K'aa's got a new toy that he wants to try out on the Breen. The Klingons are probably going to give him passage through their space in exchange for the weapon specs."

"K'aa," Jordan said under her breath, the distaste clear in her expression though she tried to hold it back. She brushed her fingers unconsciously over the Oracle's eye around her neck and muttered almost inaudibly in ancient Bajoran, though Arel could really catch only one word -- loosely translated, 'messenger.'

"I think you'll have to fight Atrim for the personnel," Jii said, ignoring his wife's behavior -- her argument with K'aa was two decades old at this point -- "but we'll see what we can do. We haven't sorted that all out yet. As for K'aa, we should get in contact with him; things're going to be getting even uglier than normal in the coming days, we could use some additional allies if he'd be willing."

"I'm not sure we need that kind of ally," Jordan stated, shaking her head. "Bad things happen when we're near each other."

"Then don't go near him," Jii stated, nudging her with an elbow, attempting a grin to diffuse the tension such memories brought up.

"Don't go near him," Jordan repeated with a distasteful expression. "Gee. That's helpful."

"I don't suppose your friend predicts my retirement anytime soon," Arel said, interrupting the banter.

Jordan looked at her, forehead furrowing as she deciphered the question. "That's not the sort of information we have access to," she stated, "besides. Things have been relatively quiet on that front."

"Pity," Arel said.

"Guess that depends on your point of view," Jordan replied with a slight smirk. "The silence is kinder to my head."

"And mine," Jii agreed.

"Naturally. Is there anything else Admiral?" Arel asked.

"No," Jii said, standing, Arel following suit. Jordan stayed where she was, her gaze following her long-time friend with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable. "It's good to see you back, Arel, but let's try not to do that again, okay? We're running short on good people these days, we need you 'round here."

"Thank you," Arel replied quietly and without enthusiasm.

They watched her depart quickly and without ceremony, the door sliding closed on her heels.

Jordan sighed softly, her shoulders slumping a little. "I don't know how much longer she's going to be able to hang-on, Jii," she said softly. "She's just living out of habit."

"I know," Jii replied, voice low as he stared at the closed door, then looked at his wife. "But I don't think we're the ones who can help her."

"No... I don't think so either."

"Ghosts of the Past"

Captain Alexandra Lee

The Messenger (AKA: Captain Alexander Clayton)

**********

The Messenger left Captain Lee to absorb the information. He calmly walked back out into the corridor without another word or sound. He already knew his destination; he walked straight to the brig.

When he arrived he smiled at the guard on duty there. "Hello son." He said, calmly taking the two plasma shotguns and two katanas off of his pack and handed them to the confused guard. "You will need these." He said. He then took off his backpack and handed that over as well. "As well as this…" He then took out the two daggers out of his boots. "And these…" he said. He then walked over to the confinement cell, pressed the button to raise the force field once he was inside. The Messenger was all smiles the entire time. He knew that he'd be arrested once the Captain read his file. And in all honesty, he wouldn't blame the woman one bit if she arranged a firing squad for him.

At least it'd be quick if she did…

The guard was looking confused. "Uhm… Sir?" he asked hesitantly at the man who'd just placed himself under arrest as he looked from the weapons back to the mysterious man in black. "Just what is this about?"

=/\=Captain Lee to Security. Keep an eye out for the man calling himself The Messenger. When you find him, detain him and inform me immediately, as I wish to speak with him. Captain Lee, out. =/\=

"That would be it" The Messenger said, pointing up at the intercom. "Think of this as your big moment handed to you on a silver plate. I'd suggest you take it."

"Uhm... yeah… ok…" he said, pressing his comm. badge. "Uhm… Brig to Captain Lee… We… uh… already have this Messenger guy in custody."

=/\=I'm on my way. Captain Lee, out.=/\= Alex walked briskly to the Brig. She could not quite understand the man...a man who had a part in the attack that had killed her only son. A minute later, she entered the Brig. "Report," she demanded in a stern voice with her hands placed on her hips, as her gaze locked onto the man in the cell. A part of her wanted to shove him out the nearest airlock...yet another part of her wanted to try and understand this man.

"Well Captain…" the young man said, scratching the back of his head. "He… uh… sorta arrested himself. Came down here, turned in his weapons and walked into the cell bay himself."

"You're all dismissed." She waited until the two guards exited the brig before speaking again. "So...Captain Clayton. Why did you attack Federation Vessels? Did you know that I was the Chief Engineer aboard one of those vessels? The Bismarck?"

"Half the crew dead or dying, the other half fighting to save the ship if I recall correctly." He said simply. "It honestly doesn't surprise me. I figured long ago that one my 'missions' would come back to haunt me." He sighed and leaned back against the bulkhead. "As to why I attacked Federation ships? That was part of our orders at the time." He caught her disdainful look. "Oh don't look at me like that Captain, Federation Starships have traded blows for one reason or another back before Admiral Kirk's time." He said. "As far as the Bismarck is concerned, that would've been what? Five? Ten years ago? Back before the Federation collapsed?"

"Yes, about ten years," she said emotionless. Yet inside, her anger grew at the man before her.

"Starfleet Intel caught word of a couple of rouge agents working off of the Bismarck. Supposedly they had been turned by the Triad and had been leaking information to them. We were ordered to sterilize the entire department by Third Echelon in order to prevent the possibility of others who might've been turned by the double agents although Starfleet Intel gave us the name of one agent who was still legit." He started rolling his hand around as if he was trying to remember something. "McCain… McComb… McSomething was the name…"

"McAllister?" Alex offered with a raised eyebrow.

The Messenger snapped his fingers at the reminder. "Yeah, McAllister, that's it. Mr. Double Oh Seven." He said. He caught Lee's hurtful look, paused with sympathy, and then went on. He sighed again. "That was the beginning of the end for us and the beginning of the hostilities between Hawk and Dove factions. We'd had enough at that point in time. Unrest grew on my crew with every atrocity that we were ordered to commit. At the start of it all, we thought that we were doing what was best for the Federation in the interest of security. It was only afterwards that we saw that we were doing it just to keep some petty people in power."

"How does a fraking five year old little boy a threat to your organization! Instead of trying to weed out the operatives, you outright attack a ship with innocent families!" Alex screamed at the man. "I lost my only son in that attack, you miserable son of a bitch!" It was the first time Alex had ever encountered someone who had a direct result of the attack on the Bismarck.

"I'm not trying to justify what I did and I'm not trying to defend what I did in the name of Starfleet. All I can do is try to make amends and make atonement. You've seen my file; you know what I've done. I've probably destroyed countless homes and families over the course of my career. That is why I left. How many out there can say the same? This is, after all, war."

"This may be war, but I do not and will not attack targets with civilian populations. There are always alternatives."

"If you wish to kill me, my weapons are right over there. I won't stop you nor will I blame you in the least little bit." He said, opening up his hands, palms up. "Hell, if anything, you can have me summarily executed under UCMJ Article One, Subsection Ten, Paragraph 885.85, Line 3; Desertion during time of war shall be punished by death. I believe its one of the few that can be done without trial."

Alex glanced at the weapon on the nearby table and then back at Clayton, taking a few deep breaths in the process to attempt to calm herself down.. She did want to kill him, but that would not bring her child back to her, and she would not kill an unarmed man who seemed to now care about such innocents. "Kill you? And what? Let you get off easy? Oh no, Mister Clayton," Alex took a step towards the field. of the Brig. "Your punishment will be serving the crew of this ship, knowing what you have done to its captain in the past." She tapped a nearby button, dropping the forcefield. "Besides, those people in Cargo Bay Three seem to trust you the most."

"As you wish Captain…" he said standing up. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry for your loss. Not that you probably care at this point in time, but I've lost loved ones over the years as well. So please don't think that you have a monopoly on grief and anger at others here."

"Get out of my sight, before I change my mind," she sneered, as she fought back tears.

The Messenger picked up his things and went for the door. "By all means, change your mind." He said evenly. "I've been praying for death ever since I came forward in time with the only family that I really ever knew on the USS Bozeman." He said on his way out the door. "The same ship and, for the most part, crew that you toasted right before you picked me up." With that, he disappeared into the corridors allowing the doors to close behind him.

“Bran Muffins”

Colonel Branwen London, commanding USS Trafalgar

Lt. Col. Wayne “Biggs” Duke (NPC)

Ens. Rowena London (NPC*)

* NPC by Betred

<USS Trafalgar, still enroute to Vulcan>

The Colonel felt embarrassed as hell when she realized what the dressing was and didn’t make life easy for the young female nurse that had to put it on. She made a mental note to take it off as soon as she got home. A marine was not going to be wearing a damned diaper!

But for now her focus was on Duke and how much it had made her chuckle earlier that he had to stay. Now she was worried about him. Male egos could be so fragile. They had put him in a private room due to his rank and she peeked her head around the door. “I promise not to touch. How are you feeling, stud?”

"I've had better days," he growled. Duke's pride hurt worse than his actual injury -- he was not looking forward to jokes his fellow officers would soon be tossing his way once they found out what really happened. In a gentler tone he asked, "How do you feel?"

“I am fine.” She lied. “They are letting me go home.” Bran did not sit down next to his bed because that was still difficult. “Are you up to talking or would you rather I came back tomorrow?"

"I think in can manage a chat," Duke replied. "But don't hold anything I say against me, babe. The Doc gave me some painkillers and they're starting to kick in. Pull up a chair an cop a squat."

“I would rather stand.” She grinned. “It’s kinda sore down there.” The hard hospital chairs were not to her liking today.

Duke's grin matched her own. "What's on your mind?"

“The doc had some news for me.” She looked at Duke. “We are three weeks pregnant.”

Duke shook his head. He could have sworn his lover had just told him she was pregnant. "Uh, say again?"

“Pregnant, baby, you and me.” She repeated slowly.

Dazed, Duke looked at his stomach. "Man, that's one frackin weird virus!"

“It has nothing to do with the virus, Duke. I am three weeks pregnant, my implant screwed up and we didn’t use any other protection. Abortion is not an option for me.” She told him straight.

Duke was poking himself in the stomach when Bran's words finally made sense to him. BRANWEN was pregnant, and the child was his. The shock of the news cleared part of the fog from his brain. "Abortion? Who said anything about abortion?"

‘I won’t do it, Duke. Whatever happens between us, I can’t do that. I know you are mad at me because of Dar. But I love you.”

At the mention of Branwen's ex-husband, Duke's anger flared, did combat with the pain medication flowing through his system, and lost. "Ach, Bran -- why did you have to go to him alone? Once you were there, the virus gave you no choice, but you didn't have to go, Bran, you didn't," Duke was mumbling.

“Honey, I didn’t know about the virus. It is tough; he is still the father of my children, which makes it complicated. But I love you now, I want to be with you forever.” She edged closer but did not dare touch him.

Duke was giggling. "Bet mine is bigger than his!" he bragged, then looked down at the tent like structure that encased his genitals. Looking up into Bran's face, he giggled again. "You broke it! Now you have to buy it!"

“Yes love.” Bran had to suppress her own giggle; it was cute to see him this way. “I will gladly buy it, honey. Will you marry me?”

Duke was humming the SFMC anthem when a med-tech knocked and came into the room. She was Vulcan, seemingly unaffected by the craziness going on. She made note that Duke's vitals were all in the normal range for a human, and with a curt nod, left again. Duke whistled at her firm posterior as she exited.

"Can I marry her too?" His eyes roved up and down the body of his lover, settling on Bran's own posterior. "You're not allowed on top anymore," he announced, pointing at Bran's bottom. "That's a dangerous weapon!"

Another giggle from her. “Hon, behave! You are not to touch the nurses while you are here. I have half a mind to take you home with me tonight. But from tomorrow I will play nurse for you. Latex gloves and all.”

Duke smiled. "Latex? I remember that night -- you wore that latex nurse's uniform, you know the one's with the holes cut out...HEY! Did you just ask me to marry you? What happened to the other half?"

Bran made sure none of the nursing staff were within hearing distance this was a bit embarrassing. “Yeah sweet, I could dust off that uniform for you. What do you mean, other half?”

"Why, the other half of your mind, of course," he answered. Bran had just proposed to a man who was now loudly singing: "Gang Bang Lulu, gang bang Lulu, who we gonna gang bang, now that Lulu's gone."

“Honey, hush.” Bran said. “I think it is time you went to sleep for a while, alright. You are going to hate yourself in the morning.”

"Lulu had a puppy, Lulu had a duck; put 'em in the bathtub to see if they would---OHH! Gang Bang Lulu, gang; come on Bran Muffins, sing with me!"

“Nurse!” Bran called out. “I need something to know the colonel out. He needs to sleep!”

Duke reached out and grabbed Bran, pulling her almost on top of him. "Don't need sleep, I need my Bran Muffins!" He aimed a kiss for her mouth and stuck his tongue in her eye. "Whoops!"

Duke laughed, and patted Bran on the ass with less of a smack then he was used to feeling. "Wow, you've gotten mushy, lover. But I'll marry you any way, what the hell. Two-year contact? Five? Life-time? But you have to guarantee sex at least once per week and a minimum of one blow job a month, or the deal's off!" With a final squeeze of her mushy ass, Duke passed out.

Bran had to take a deep breath. Even in her state Duke turned her on. But with difficulty she managed to break away and leave him alone to sleep.

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

<Sickbay Quarantine>

Rowena London was pissed. She had pulled off the coup of a lifetime -- convincing an enemy intel officer to defect -- and now SHE was the one locked up? She held a breather to her face and inhaled deeply as she paced back and forth behind the Level 4 force field that sealed her off from the rest of the Trafalgar's sickbay. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed movement; although the sparkling golden energy barrier distorted the image, she recognized the form of her mother walking towards her.

“How are you feeling, Hon?” Bran asked concerned. Seeing Ro with a breather was not a good sign.

"Mum, how could you let them do this to me?" Ro exclaimed. "It's not my fault!"

“Of course it is not your fault, honey. But this is for your own good. The doctor thinks that the infection got started through contact with you. Not your fault.” She added quickly. “But they need to study you and I am taking no risks with your health!”

"I'm not a guinea pig!" screamed Ro. Realizing she was setting herself up for another seizure, she buried her face in the breather mask and inhaled deeply for a few moments while Bran looked on, helpless to comfort her daughter.

When she could speak calmly again, she asked, "I realize that the Doc thinks I'm this 'Patient Zero' because I'm the only one that has had contact with the worse cases -- you, Duke, Nina. But how was I exposed?"

“That is what he is trying to find out. Hon, I am going to come in as I have been exposed already, I want to hold you.” The colonel walked to the control panel.

"Mum, you better not. I may trigger a reaction -- and I'm not as well equipped as Duke to take care of it," Ro added with a sly smile. "I'll be alright. It's just, well, boring in here."

“Rowena Dhanista! Dare you imply….” Bran turned red hot, but did not try to come in anymore. “I would just like to hold and comfort my little girl. I don’t like to see you having to resort to the breather.”

"Aww, Mummy -- I'm not a little girl anymore, and the treatments aren’t that big of a deal." Ro stepped closer to the energy barrier. "Mum, I'll be fine, really. I think you're the one that wants to be held. Duke will be OK too, Mum. Hey, was that him I heard singing?"

“Yes, they doped him up so bad that he is totally out of his head.” She smiled. “He is such a dear.”

"Interesting song, uh, Bran Muffins," Rowena laughed.

“Please.” Her mum rolled her eyes. “Don’t ever repeat that. Now can I get you something to help pass the time?”

Ro immediately thought of Jennifer, then of Jennifer's new toy. Blushing, she didn't think her Mum should be the one to get either of those things for her. "Maybe a change of clothes from my quarters? I can download the book I was reading from here, that should keep me occupied for a bit."

“Coming right up. And what about your girlfriend? Or do you still want to keep her a secret for me?”

"I've already talked with her. She said she would come by as soon as the medics checked her out. Mum, you're looking a little haggard -- why not grab a nap. Besides, Duke will need you when he wakes up." Ro snickered.

“I will not lurk to try and find out who your girlfriend is. I am fine love, need to get back to work. And that man needs to rest, I doubt he will want to see me when he wakes up.”

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

<The next morning, Col. Duke's quarters>

Branwen was wrong. Biggs Duke very much wanted to see her when he woke from his drug induced sleep. His fuzzy memory recalled three things about the evening before that he needed clarified, and right frackin now, damn it!

Unfortunately, Col. London was busy doing Col. London stuff, so Biggs had shuffled off to his quarters alone, angry at Doc Sentara for the week of light duty he had been assigned, starting tomorrow, and confused as to just what in the hell was going on.

Of the three items he could recall from the night before, two involved Bran in a big way -- he was sure of that much. There was something to do with singing; and did she actually say something about marriage? Another memory, visually recalled as a firm ass attached to a pair of pointed ears, was something Biggs was fairly certain did not involve Bran, and should not be mentioned.

When he was settled at home his com chirped and the tired voice of his commanding officer sounded. “Just wanted to check if you will be alright on your own, or if I should send you a male nursemaid?”

Duke chuckled. He did feel better, and not quite as loopy as when they talked previously. "What makes you think I'd be any safer with a male nurse, eh?" He cleared his throat. "Seriously Boss, when you've got a minute, I'd like to speak with you in private."

“You don’t strike me as interested in men, but I might be wrong,” she chuckled. “I could come over during my lunch break if you promise to be a good boy and rest until then.”

"You're actually going to make me wait till lunch?" Duke whined.

“Rest!” She ordered and then cut the connection.

Over two hours later Branwen entered his quarters. She moved about softly in case he was asleep.

Duke was using his down time to catch up paperwork. When Bran came in, he smiled. "Hiya, Babe -- how you feeling?"

“Sore but better. Didn’t they tell you no work at all for today?” She asked making sure not to come too close or touch him.

Duke laughed. "It's not my eyes that are sore."

She smirked. “Sorry for breaking it, honey. So how much do you remember from last night?”

"I remember singing. I remember you saying some stuff that I'm not really sure you said. Maybe

we should have the whole conversation over again?"

“I was afraid of that,” sighed Bran. “So you missed the whole thing about me being pregnant, did you?” She watched for the look on his face.

"You're preggers! How did that happen?"

“Did your mum skip the talk about the bird and the bees?” She began lighthearted but couldn’t keep it up. “My implant malfunctioned and we didn’t use anything else. I am way too old for another toddler running around.”

Duke grimaced, knowing there was no delicate way to ask, "Bran, are you sure it's mine?"

“I am three weeks pregnant according to the doc, and there were no others in my life so yes, I am 100% sure it is yours! So, how do you feel about it? I gather it is your first.”

"Well, at least the first I know about." Duke seriously pondered Bran's question. "I honestly don't know, Bran. Ask me when your belly is big or when the little one is crawling around shitin on everything. I know that its a responsibility, and that I'll stick with you regardless. What do you want to do?"

“Get married?” she asked seriously. “Because I want to keep it.” There was no doubt in her mind. “I think that together we can do it. Maybe we can resign from the madhouse and just settle down together.”

"Get married? Resign? You can't resign in the middle of a war. That would be out of character for you." Duke punched his pillows. "Come on, sit at the edge of the bed -- I just had my shot so you're safe. This marriage thing -- it didn't work out so well for you the first time; how you gonna fix that so if we get hitched the same thing won't happen to us?"

“I know. I am just hoping that this madness will be over, Duke. I mean, I know there is a virus going around but rape! My crew raping a prisoner.” She shook her head. “They will be punished severely. This cannot be tolerated.” She sat down on the bed. “You and I are on the same side in the war and I think we talk better then Dar and I did especially in the end. I am older and wiser.”

"Bran, you know I can be a son-of-a-bitch at times; hell most of the time. I'm not that different then Man'Darr really. You sure you want to put yourself through the marriage ringer again -- living with someone full time, dirty drawers on the floor, morning breath, all that other stuff?"

“I love you and I believe in you. And I am old-fashioned; I like kids to grow up with a mum and dad. It hurts my kids that they never see their dad. And Ro never had a dad.”

Duke looked into his lover’s eyes. He’d never before considered marriage but he never before had met anyone like Branwen either.

“Well dear, you’re not really selling the idea. If you’re proposing, where’s the ring? The gourmet meal with candle light? The bended knee and all that stuff? How am I supposed to say yes to ‘Get married?’ Or, are you making this an order, Ms. Colonel, Ma’am?”

She smiled and couldn’t help but touch him. This moment was too precious not to. “I thought that was a guy thing, Colonel? How about that dinner tonight then, and I will get a ring from somewhere.” Her eyes twinkled. “I don’t think we are going to make it for a month, virus or no virus.”

Duke grabbed her hand and gave the palm a little kiss before letting go. "I'll handle the dinner arrangements. Say about 1800? And please, for once, dress like a woman? I don't want to feel like I'm proposing to one of my troopers!"

She smiled at him again. “Not a problem, colonel dear. But don’t do too much, you hear? I don’t want the doc on my heels.”

"With everything going one around here, I don't think it's your heels he'd be on," snickered Duke.

“Duke!” she giggled. “The thought, please! He is so not my type.”

Duke laughed with her for a moment. Then he gestured to the PADD he had been reading. "I've got three men and a woman up on charges for what happened to Litterest. How do you want to handle that one, Colonel?"

“A courts-martial, and I will not be going easy on them. It’s the end of their career and they will be facing jail sentences as well.” She hoped he would not disagree.

"You should just let me toss them out the airlock!"

“No love. We are not hawks; we will not act like them. I think the Doc was right, I have been operating too close to the edge myself. I kept telling myself that we were saving lives and it didn’t matter. But no more.”

"All right then, a court. But let's wait till we get to Vulcan, and see if one of those logic eaters can sit on the panel with us -- we may need someone impartial. Anything else before I start planning this romantic dinner?"

“Good idea. We can dump them there; they are bound to have a prison. And hopefully we can offload the other prisoners as well. I think that is about it, love.”

"I'm not sure they'll allow us to dump our garbage on them, but they may have some addition ideas we can play with," responded Duke.

“And we need to find that traitor.” The colonel said firmly. ‘I hate traitors.”

“That should keep your Lt. Adams busy,” agreed Duke. “See you at 18?”

“Rover Odyssey”
Another Epic of Poor Judgment
Starring James Lionel Corgan, T'lan, and a host of NPC's

Location: Boomer Fleet 7, on the Federation/Romulan Star Republic Border (formerly The Neutral Zone)

*****
Interlude, Earth
*****

Frightened, The Mika Machine laid helpless in her open metal tomb, powerless to stop her body from dying.

Just as she yanked the traveler out of her anchored timeline, she felt her mind disconnect from her body. She experienced paralysis, losing contact with the parts that gave her purpose. The temporal device was the first to disconnect, as a safety measure against other temporal incursions, then as a physical break when her diagnostics confirmed the temporal machinery was literally damaged by weapons fire. There was no pain, but the discomfort, as if a limb in normal body had gone limp and lost all feeling, was enough to send the machine in a scrambling panic to reroute her systems.

The facility shook as it was hit by another bombardment. Her MA/AM reactor was down. She switched to an emergency fusion generator to keep her systems running.

The closest approximation to emotion the machine was capable of was concern. She had done her job, taking the traveler out of her timeline, but the damage to her systems prevented her from continuing her purpose; monitoring her anchored timeline and its alternate threads, sending and receiving the traveler, and thinking for and running the machine that made it all possible. Without properly repaired systems she could not fulfill her purpose. She'd never thought to ask why her systems disconnected or who was doing it. Her intelligence was simplistic, her mind barely sentient. All it was was confused.

She vocalized her discontent while giving binary voice orders to reestablish links to her vital systems.
As the traveler was taken away by unknown neutral designation combat units wearing Starfleet Marine Standard reflec armour and carrying Type 3 Mark XII phaser rifles and Hawksley Industries combat tricorders with full hud sensor suites. The humanoid combat units didn't endanger Mika directly; she had no cause to activate her automated weaponry nor the power to spirit them away to an unknown timeline. Her IFF systems had no cause to be hostile. She went back to work repairing herself.

Only it was a frustrating job. Where were the assigned technicians? Mika was incapable of repairing subsystems outside of her sarcophagus. She had no automated drones to summon. Her short range sensors, one of the few systems left connected, scanned the room and found only a few humanoids living. The neutral combat units, the traveler, and her caretaker.

The small biological parts of her brain allowed herself to feel something akin to relief. A woman dragged herself to The Mika Machine, leaving a trail of green/red blood, messing her white labcoat in the process. She held her stomach, leaking her vital fluids, as her one free arm pulled herself up and over. Mika looked curiously at the caretaker, read her functions like a tricorder, saw that she was dying, and thought plans for her own survival.

The caretaker was one of the Sad Man's people. She'd always taken care of Mika, made sure she ran properly. Without her... what could Mika do? The machine worried, for without the caretaker she wouldn't get her body to work again.

“Listen carefully.” The caretaker spoke over waves of pain and nausea, Mika's voice recognition scans heard heavy Romulan inflections running through a human influenced throat, “The machine is down. We couldn't complete the connections, and we never will. I am sorry, but we must keep you safe. You'll be going into the secure facility.”

Mika wanted to refuse! Going into the secure facility meant total disconnection, being blind and paralyzed at the same time. Her first time was in her birth at the Alpha Centauri Temporalwerks, and it was for short stints that were uncomfortable for the newfound life. The other was her long transit from Alpha Centauri to Earth, locked in her central sarcophagus, devoid of all sensor stimuli, assured by the caretaker that her new body would be waiting for her on the safest planet in the Federation. She had never been more afraid during the days of total blackness, trapped in her own frightened mind.

But she could see the caretaker's concern and the increase of radiation and photon bombardments. One of those shots might hit Mika herself. She was the processor for the whole system. She had to stay alive, even if she had to disconnect from the rest of her body.

Begrudgingly, Mika didn't fight the caretaker's access codes, giving into her commands. Cables broke open and blasted apart as emergency release protocols activated. Mika felt her senses leave her. senses, defenses, digestion, her world shrank from the most complex machine from Hawksley Industries to a small tritanium life support box housing a biological CPU.

Under a rain of steel and fire as the facility was hit by weapons fire, an hover trolley scooped up the sarcophagus. Mika's dulled eyes saw bits and flashes of light. She couldn't extrapolate that it was the atmosphere being detonated.

The trolley twisted and turned into tunnels, until it was loaded on a turbolift and sped at mach speeds underground. It came to rest in an armored tunnel, connecting The Mika Machine into new systems.

Sensors recalibrated in nanoseconds, giving her a view of space, the fleets of neutral targets firing at each other for reasons beyond her. A large target had already started breaking the earth apart. Her body felt shockwaves rattle it senseless. Connecting quickly to a new powerplant, Mika found her new systems. Defenses were beefed up. Shields, subspace shifting apparatus, transporters and an inertial dampner system that just might have absorbed a direct attack.

Her body was weak compared to the last, but it would do. She activated the defense systems, shifting full power to ride out the shockwaves. Every part of her body, most of all the biological component, felt the discomfort of being tossed by destruction, like a ship in a vast and angry ocean.

The inertial dampeners would not be enough. Ramming raw power into countering force, even for dampeners rated to handle warp speeds, couldn't ride out a planet falling apart.

A free thought floated in her head. She could sing.

Her communications suite was small but sophisticated, similar to a runabout's subspace transmitter. It was used to transmitting data in the sub ether to Fednet. It was similar to shifting a solid object at warp, but without the warp speeds.

She would sing a subspace bubble.

Her voice rising to the sonorous hum of an angel's retinue, she joined her voice to the choir of subspace harmonics generators. She felt her body shift into subspace, transmitting her mind and her voice to anyone within hailing distance, the eerie echo of an angelic ghost.

“HHYYYnnnnnnnyyyyyyaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....”

A final crack split her chunk of the continent apart, hurling the astroid into the depths of space. The shockwave rumbled, tumbling the object with the force more deadly than the weapons that killed Earth. The subspace bubble, in another layer of reality, never felt the impact, but the field flickered in and out of reality, and so it was ridden by unstoppable forces that could still tear the bunker apart.

It was her biology that gave out, and with it the hoarse voice that was saving her life....

*****
Near the Romulan Star Republic/Federation border
*****

~”Christ, what a headache.”~

In conference with the major captains of the boomer fleet, James wasted an entire afternoon dickering, and still no consensus on what to do. So far, the only unanimous opinion was that they all needed to meet and voice their opinion.

There were those, like Captain Crese, who didn't want to be within a parsec of the Civil War. Humanitarian actions were well out of the question, as was anything else. It was the opinion of the fat, pompous Orion that the boomer fleet head back into Romulan Republic space where it was space. “We cannot help our kin. The planet is dead and our people are at war with each other! Let the Earthworms fight over their dying empire. We're alive and free, and I want to keep it that way. Lets leave now!”

Then there was Captain Andreas of the S.S. Samoa, whom felt every boomer in the fleet had to arm their ships and hunt down whatever destroyed planet Earth, and those that disagreed with him were out of touch with reality. It was planet Earth, home to half the fleet, and it was a disgrace to leave it unavenged, according to the fiery civilian that hadn't shot a hostile weapon in his life. “We have to avenge our cradle! They've done more than destroy a planet, they destroyed our identity! We can't let our kin squabble any longer! We must avenge Earth and make them pay for their stupid war!

Then there was Fleet Mayor Skylar, juggling the whole mess, wanting to find answers but having the risks of the entire fleet to worry about, and frozen between the two. As a civilian leader he was a great organizer; that was why James voted for him, but during a crisis he always tried to find a middle ground, and sometimes it didn't work. His middle ground today, sending a small rescue fleet, was being shouted down by both sides. “We don't have answers and people are dead and dying while we argue. Stop this at once. We have to organize and go from there!”

Finally, James had enough and shouted everyone down. “HOLD IT! HOLD IT! HOLD IT!” James' pretense demanded everyone's attention, “Thank you. Rather hard to get a point across when nobody will shut up.”

Captain Crese sputtered, “Who are you to say we need to shut up? You've been on this fleet for only a year and you already act like you're the cock of the walk!”

“Human witticisms aside, to which you suck at.” James snapped back, “The reason I'm here is because I have more combat experience than all of you combined, even if a lot of our fleet has veterans. Trust me when I say that the boomer fleet can't handle a confrontation with either the Hawks or the Doves, no matter what our intentions. We would be delayed, waylaid, whatever they can do to halt us. The Hawks would call us insurgents, and the Doves would marginalize us to 'protect' us. So I'm sorry, even a taskforce wouldn't help at this time.”

The Fleet Mayor looked deflated. Crese was smug. “So you agree with me?”

“Fuck no!” James snorted, “I'm not going to ignore the suffering of my own people. What are you, a coldhearted dickhead?”

“I'll not tolerate these insults!”

“Tolerate them. We can't ignore what's going on anymore. At the same time we can't send the Boomer fleet in. Therefore I have a proposal.”

“And what is that?” Captain Andreas asked.

“I'll go in myself.”

All the captains had confused looks on their faces.

James explained, “Just one ship. Mine. Loaded with humanitarian supplies to make a trail. I'll spot out ship movements, find routes that can hide us, and locate refugee movements. Then we can send more ships while keeping the main fleet away from the action.”

“It figures.” Captain Andreas spat, “You, the big war hero, would take all the glory...”

“That's enough.” Fleet Mayor Skylar chimed in, “James, you can't belittle the captains like it was Starfleet, but you're right. One ship to forge the way. You know the Federation as well as anyone... maybe a little better. When you find what you can, give us the word and additional ships will be prepared to make the same route. But you know, this isn't Starfleet. You won't have a replacement vessel waiting for you. You'll be without a home if you lose her, and I'd shed a tear if you lost a ship as fine as the Stolen Heart.”

James said, “But I won't. I shed them all when I lost my family on Earth.”

Fleet Mayor Skylar reminded, “You're not the only one, Mr. Corgan. Remember that. Do what you have to do. Is there anything you need?”

“Now that you mention it... I could use some volunteers to round out my crew. Not everyone on my ship will agree with me and I am understaffed.”

“We'll see what we can do. Over and out.”

With that, the conference ended, James course was set.

The next three hours were spent preparing for the Voyage. T'lan brought final reports on the ship's status, including every system, and he found it to his liking. The ship, flaws and all, was more than ready to take a dangerous voyage at high warp into a battlezone. She would be fast and she would be strong. It was the best protection he could hope for.

The mood of the crew was a different, but surprising matter. James found the crew was eager to go on his trip. He hadn't found a single man member of his crew that didn't want to go.

T'lan sent him his final reports, as his cargo bay was filled with stacks of humanitarian supplies. “Sir, we have the latest volunteer rosters from the boomer fleet.”

James was prepared to hear some bad news. “And?”

“And sir... there might be a problem.”

“A problem, love?”

T'lan glanced back at her PADD, “You see sir... we can't accommodate all the volunteers.”

“Say what?”

“What do you want me to say to you?”

James joked, “Tell me why we can't take all the volunteers.”

T'lan replied, “Sir, there are too many of them. Over half the fleet wanted to go.”

“Hoi....” James sighed, underestimating the boomer's burning desire to find out what was going on, “Then send new communications. Tell each ship to send their best and brightest. That ought to narrow the list to a few hundred. Then... narrow it some more. You're a good judge of character. Then I'll look at the list personally.”

“James.” T'lan asked, “We are really doing it?”

James said, “Hell yes. I know I went over your head... but I can't ignore it. Has to be done. Besides, we got our own questions to ask. Now stop getting misty eyed over me, you mushy little trolip. You have your orders. Carry on.”

T'lan saluted, “Yes Sir... I mean... James. Yes.”

James smiled, “Is that.. admiration? Damn girl... you're spoiling me today.”

“Don't get used to it.” Her voice trailed off as she went into the turbolift.

To that, James chuckled. He wanted all the excuses he could to laugh, lest they run out in the trials ahead.

"Ten Years Gone"

Commander John Walker


What he had were not flashbacks. They were . . . very peristent memories, vivid pieces of the past that came to him at random points of the day. He was never so lost in them that he forgot where he was entirely. He just . . . he simply had daydreams. Grim, awful, little daydreams.

"What are you humming?" Kaylee asked him, as he made something for supper. What he was making, he wasn't entirely sure. Beyond spaghetti and sandwiches, he usually just threw stuff together.

It was mostly edible.

"Led Zeppelin," John answered, picking up the hunk of metal that he used as a ladle. He'd had the same song stuck in his head all day. He couldn't seem to shake it.

"Lead what?"

"Led Zeppelin. It's a band. It's a very, very old band."

Kaylee shrugged her shoulders and went back to reading. If something was more than five years old, she usually lost interest. John had once been like that, too. Mercedes was the one to interest him in classical music.

"Classical music? Honey, music from the 23rd century is classical music. Music from the 1900's? That ain't classic, it's ancient."

"Classic means it's beautiful beyond time, fucknuts. And you call me honey again, and I'll break your fucking balls for you."

John smiled wistfully to himself. He missed that Mercedes.

She was the first person he had seen, when he had woken up in the camps on Betazed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, unconscious and broken and feverish. His memory was a bit hazy---he remembered very little about the away mission, nothing at all about crashing, and a small amount about being discovered. (Rescued, of course, was not the correct term, not when your "rescuers" were Breen thugs who gave you a broken hand along with the injuries you already had. They had dragged him, quite literally, from his crash site to the camps, and as he'd already snapped his collarbone in the crash, the trip was somewhat less than pleasant.)

He had been out of his mind with pain and delirium for a long, long time.

The first thing he remembered being aware of was the sound of a woman's voice, clear, not perfectly in tune, but singing something that sounded beautiful regardless. He latched onto it, like a drug, because he needed a few good drugs right about then, and he wouldn't be getting any of them, so the sound of her voice became his opiate. His shoulder felt like it was on fire; actually, his whole skin seemed to be burning, and he tried to focus on the words (and if I say to you tomorrow, take my hand, child, come with me) so that he wouldn't go insane.

"Hey," John whispered.

The singing stopped very abruptly. "Well, hey," the woman said. "Look who decided to finally fucking wake up."

"Am I awake?"

"More than you have been. In fact, that's the most coherent fucking thing you've said in a weeks." The woman's words were rougher than her tone implied, like she was geniunely concerned about him. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. Not that he was terribly interested in thinking, at the moment. "You wanna open your eyes for me, kid?"

"No . . ."

"And why the fuck not?"

John couldn't think of a clever answer to that, other than the fact that opening his eyes seemed to require more energy than he had. But protesting that he didn't have the energy would take more energy than opening his eyes to begin with, so he did, very briefly, and got a flash of dark hair and brown skin before closing them again.

"That's it? Man, that was fucking weak. My dead abuela could open her eyes longer than that. Come on, kid, you gotta look at me."

"Mmmm . . ."

"Look at me!"

John, reluctantly, opened his eyes again. This time, he focused long enough to see the woman kneeling above him. She was young, younger than him, maybe 24 or 25. Hispanic. Pretty. Nose just a little too small for her face. "There, now," she said. "There's a fucking boy. Look at them big blue eyes. Girl could go fuckcrazy, over eyes like that."

Fuckcrazy? "You say fuck a lot," John murmured.

The woman laughed at that. "Well, don't get no fucking ideas," she said. "I'm not all that easy, and this ain't exactly my idea of a first date." She leaned over him then, checking his broken collarbone with one hand, and the world went white on him, swallowed up in heat and pain. "Hey," she said faintly---her voice seemed suddenly very far, far away. "Hey, hey, kid. Stay with me. Stay with me."

John didn't exactly stay with her, but he didn't pass out entirely, either. When he was able to open his eyes again, she was still there, watching over him. She smiled when he opened his eyes, but it was a tight smile, more like a grimace. "What's your name, kid?" she asked him.

"Not a kid," he told her. To his annoyance, and the woman's apparent amusement, John sounded just like a petulant child right then. He didn't help himself by adding, "I'm older than you," as his eyes fluttered closed again.

"All right, then, you fucking geezer. What's your name, old man?"

"John," John said. "John Walker."

And the woman's expression was nothing short of priceless. She cocked her head just slightly to the side and raised one eyebrow---she was 8-ball, just for one moment. "Johnny fucking Walker," the woman said. "Man, your mom must have hated you."

John laughed a little at that, not too much, though; it hurt to laugh. It hurt to breathe; it hurt to think. He was pretty sure he'd pass out again, and soon. "What's your name?" he asked the woman. She was starting to look fuzzy again.

"Mercedes," the fuzzy-woman said.

"Mmmm. That's nice," John said and was grateful to pass out again.

When he woke back up, it was was sometime later---how long, John had no idea. Mercedes was singing again, something different this time. He wasn't sure where she was, but he could hear her voice, clear as day.

"Changes fill my time - baby, that's alright with me. In the midst I think of you and how it used to be"

"Not the song you were singing before," John said.

The singing cut off and a few minutes later Mercedes walked into view and kneeled next to him. "No," she said. "It's not. This one's Ten Years Gone. The one before was What Is, and What Shall Never Be. Why? What's it to you, old man?"

"Nothing,"John said. He felt just a little bit better . . . which was to say, still in immense pain and a little nauseous but not quite as out of it as before. "You know, you just said, like, five sentences without the word fuck anywhere in em."

And then, because he was confident in his minimal progress, John decided to be an idiot and attempt to sit up.

Eventually, he was with it enough to discover that Mercedes really did enjoy the word 'fuck', and she was quite creative with its usage, insulting his parentage, sexual proclivities, intelligence, and general appearance in one go. "That's not very nice," John murmured.

"Fuck you, cocksucker."

How could John not smile at endearments like that? "Water?" he asked, suddenly thirsty.

"Oh, like there's so much to go around." But then Mercedes was holding a small, cracked cup of water in her hands, giving it to him in small, gentle sips so he wouldn't choke. John knew that this was probably the only water Mercedes got in a day, but he was too damn thirsty to care much right then.

After he swallowed, John mentioned that he'd never heard those songs she had been singing. Mercedes told him that it was an old Earth group. "Led Zeppelin," she said. "Classical music."

John knew nothing about classical music. "When were they around?"

"Late twentieth century."

John couldn't help but laugh at that. "Classical music?" he asked. "Honey, music from the 23rd century is classical music. Music from the 1900's? That ain't classic, its ancient."

Mercedes glared down at him. "Classic means it's beautiful beyond time, fucknuts. And you call me honey again, and I'll break your fucking balls for you."

"You have anger issues, don't you?"

"Bite me, fuckface," Mercedes said. She glanced up, suddenly, and her face transformed into a scowl that was both frightening and weirdly adorable. "Great," she said. "Bad guys a'coming." And John responded by trying to sit up again to look. Apparently, he really wasn't that bright. By the time he was back with the world, Mercedes was being dragged away by two heavily armed Breen guards. "I'll be back," she yelled to him. After she got slapped in the face for talking, she added, "Try not to move around too much, you fucking moron."

Mercedes got slapped again, and John wanted to yell something back to her, something either clever or rallying--but nothing came to him. His body was fucked and he might have been dying and he had no way of getting out of this camp. The USS: Phantom wouldn't come for him, not if he was on Betazed, even if they knew he had survived. He was the only one who had---they probably assumed he was dead. Kaylee would be safe, at least . . . she was back on Earth, with John's mother. Mom would be able to take care of her . . .

. . . but she was his, dammit. Kaylee was his little girl.

And he wanted her back so badly he could almost feel her in his arms.

When he started to cry, John was far too tired to be ashamed.

Mercedes didn't come back for hours. John drifted in the meantime, dreaming of his 2 year old daughter, excitedly showing him things in her grandmother's house. Mercedes coughing woke him up again, and he opened his eyes to see her staggering towards him. There was a deep cut in the left of her forehead, and she was bleeding freely from her side.

She really looked like shit.

"You look like shit," he told her.

Mercedes laughed. John laughed too, although tears slid down his face as he did so. He knew, without doubt, that he would die here, in this shitty little camp. His daughter would live, back on Earth, and he would die here and never see her again.

Mercedes collapsed next to him and rolled onto her back. She was pale and sweating and bloody, but somehow she also looked confident. "It's okay, old man," she told him. "I'm working on our rescue mission. Got it all figured out."

This only made John laugh harder. His body bucked painfully as he did so, and the tears continue to slide unabated down his unshaven cheeks. "I've got a daughter," he said, as if that changed anything.

Mercedes looked at him as if it actually did.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay. Well, I'll better stop fucking around then, huh?"

And she rolled to her feet and started moving again, like she'd never been hurt at all.

"Dad?"

John blinked and glanced up at Kaylee, who was sitting on the couch. Kaylee was watching him with some amusement, more concern. "You done with your flashback yet?" she asked.

John scowled at her. "I do not have flashbacks," he said. "I was . . . thinking."

"Yeah, you've been thinking and stirring for twenty minutes."

John glanced down and realized this was true. Whatever had once been in the bowl was now pureed. He raised a lofty eyebrow at her. "It's hard work," he told her. "Takes concentration."

Kaylee rolled her eyes and dropped her book on the couch. She walked over to the counter, glancing at the various . . . ingredients. "You have no idea what you're making, do you?"

"No," John admitted. "But surprise is a beautiful thing."

"Dad, surprises are presents or vacations or new hair. The words 'surprise' and 'food' should never go together."

"Does that mean you want to help?"

"God, yes," Kaylee said. "I want to live."

John smiled and kissed his daughter on the head. He stepped back to allow her room to work.

In this universe, on this ship, John thought, wanting to live's a big fucking thing.

"Consolation"

Benedict "Max" Maxwell, MD
Lt. Commander, CO
USS Osler, NCC-77109

Lieutenant JG Victory
Chief Medical Officer
USS Osler NCC-77109

The ship was moving at high impulse, it had changed course. She could feel it. After so many years serving aboard the Osler Victory had come to know exactly how the ship was flying just by the feel of the deck vibrations and the shift in sounds from the drive that she could detect with her heightened sense of hearing.

The lack of any notice of incoming wounded also piqued her curiosity. Stepping to her main terminal she pulled up the ships situational data.

"Is everything ok, Doctor?" her deputy, Ensign Dr. Dan Holland, the Osler's assistant chief medical officer. He too had been promoted to his assignment after the same incident that had killed the previous Chief had also killed the rest of the staff in charge.

Victory bit her lower lip as she coencidered the screen. "Not sure. It looks like we're pulling out of the battlefield" She crossed her arms and glanced at the other Doctor. "Keep an eye on things here, I am going up stairs"

Holland nodded as Victory departed from the medical bay and cought the first lift to the bridge. She leaned against the turbo lift car bulkhead and ran her hands through her crimson hair, and drew her hands away as the left one locked up. Holding the hand out she watched as its fingers twitched and tried to move. A frown crossed her face as she placed her right over it and forced the fingers to unlock and work properly. She let out a sigh as she got the malfunctioning hand under control as the lift arrived.

Stepping out into the bridge she noted imediatly that Max was not there. Master Chief Porter glanced back to see who had arrived on the lift and offered a very weak smile to the Doctor as she came to a stop at the side railing by the command chair. The look in his eyes though, told her everything she needed to know, and the highlighted name on list of ships in the receeding battlefield shown on the main viewers tactical display confirmed it,

"He's in his ready room" Porter said and she nodded. The small talk and chatter that had filled the bridge in the Captain's absence had silenced as soon as Victory had set foot in the command center.

"Thank you, Mr. Porter" Victory replied, than walked over to the ready room hatch and pressed chime.

Max heard the door chime, but wouldn't budge from where he was hunched over. He had a feeling that it may have been Victory, but at the moment did not want to talk to, deal with, or see anyone. So he let the door go unanswered as another wave of nausea racked his aging body and sent him into another fit of dry heaving.

Victory frowned as the door remained unanswered. A twinge of frustration and hurt ebbed at the back of her mind, but she quickly pushed it away. She knew he was upset to ignore someone at his ready room door. Trying the chime once more she considered using her override. As Chief Medical Officer she had the authorization to override just about any lock in the ship, including the ready room in case of medical emergency.

He refused or couldn't budge. The emotions roiling through him threatened his very sanity as he stood hunched over in the empty office. He was barely aware that his Conn officer took the scenic route, with Jupiter looming outside his ready room viewport. It was highly appropriate, however. The gas giant with its famous perpetual storm was a real and almost timeless allegory to what Max was feeling right then and there.

A part railed for him to turn the ship around and ram it right up von Ernst's skinny little decrepit ass. He giggled at the thought, then retched again. Yep, you're just about cooked, son, a small but firm voice mocked from the back of his psyche. And still he ignored the door chime and whoever was on the other side of it.

Victory sighed, biting her lower lip in frustration as she cycled through her visual spectrum. He was indeed inside the compartment, his all to familiar heat signature was visible in infrared mode.

"Computer, override lock, authorization Victory-four-seven-echo-tango" She kept her voice quiet. She didn't need te broadcast that she was about to forceably enter the ready room to the rest of the bridge crew.

There was a series of soft clicks as the lock released and a chirp from the computer. Than the door hissed open and Victory stepped in, letting the door close quickly behind her. She spotted Max hunched over.

Without a word she was at his side, her arms around him in a gentle embrace. She didn't need to be a counselor to see the amount of anguish he was in.

For a long while, Max just let her hold him. There was sincere comfort in that embrace, and not because of their relationship, as tumultuous as it had been at times over the years. Finally he looked at her sidewise and said without any trace of humor, "I should fire you for that."

"Maybe" Victory said after a long moment, her voice soft. "But you won't." She looked into his eyes. "You need me too much. Just as I need you"

Now it was his turn to hold her in a strong embrace. "I can't tell you how much I love you for everything, for being there when I needed you the most." He finaly let her go, but not before kissing her on her forehead. Then he moved to his viewport and gazed out into the blackness that was space. In the distance, he could make out the faint form of Neptune. Indeed, Porter was taking the scenic route away from his antagonist.

"She's here. In the Sol system, Vic."

"I know" Victory said after a moment. "I saw her ships name on the tactical display when I got to the bridge" she moved next to him, looking out into space with him. She knew the pain just the thought of that woman brought to Max. His mother had been killed when she had burned Earth. Victory let her eyes drop to the deck. She remembered his mother, they had only met a few times but had gotten along well. Glancing back up, she watched the expression on Max's face as he looked out onto the stars

"I wish I had a fighting ship to give her the end that she deserves," he said finally. "But right now, we all have a job to do. We need to get help to those who need it, and get our guests over to their new home." Max was of course referring to the refugees that were aboard.

Victory nodded slowly. She too had felt that way at times. Knowing what that woman had done, how many people she had killed was enough to crack her own usually pacafist views. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked eventually, breaking the silence that had filled the cabin.

"I think I'll be okay, Vic," he answered after another pause. He stared out of the viewport for a little while longer, then turned and approached the woman he cared for more than anyone else alive. He kissed her softly on her lips, then wordlessly walked out onto the Bridge.

She watched him leave, remaining behind as he returned to the bridge, letting the doors hiss closed as she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She knew how hard it was for Max, for everyone who had lost someone on Earth, to know that woman was right here, in system with them.

Opening her eyes again, she pushed a lock of her red hair away from her eyes and stepped out onto the bridge. She had to get back to sickbay.

"Finding Nemo - part 3."

Prisoncolony IOC532

Inmate Hermes
Inmate Jon Ryan

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

Days passed and Jon began to learn the rules of the prison.
So far he had been beaten up twice, been pulled out of three
others. He learned the species didn't mix a lot. Humans kept
with humans, Klingons with Klingons, Andorrians with their
kind and so on. Anything else was considered treason.

Hermes had saved him. He realised that. Without the strange
man he would never have understood, never known how to
survive. The other humans respected him as well, and while
he wasn't a leader, nor seemed to aspire to be one, his
advice was often heeded. But despite his newly found
insights one more had come to him much stronger and brighter
than the others. Tartarus would be his death. Starfleet had
never prepared him for anything like this. While he had
never been top of his class, he had never been at the bottom
of it either. He had seen plenty of combat, killed enemies,
but Tartarus... Tartarus was different. Darker. More.. evil.
He never got rid of the feeling he was being watched. It
made him restless. Staying in one place for a longer period
of time made his skin crawl.

Driven by the demons that slowly was getting a foothold in
his mind he left the cell. Most of the inmates ignored him.
He was low on the foodchain, but it seemed that being under
Hermes protection did have its advantages. He walked out
through the huge gates again and the smell from the arena
hit him without mercy. Jon had to stop for a second to stop
from gagging. Trying to ignore the smell he walked past the
arena and into the vast system of tunnels. That had been his
second lesson. The tunnels were sealed off by forcefields
during the night. At first he had believed the fields were
there to keep the prisoners from escaping. Then Hermes had
told him the fields were there to protect the prison and the
prisoners from creatures living deep down in the caverns. It
seemed that the beasts had taken a liking to prisoner flesh.

But daytime was safe. Relatively speaking anyway. It seemed
that a geothermal cycle awoke the beasts during the night,
or at least what passed for night in the prison. For all he
knew it could be daylight. Hermes worked a click away from
the prison, still inside the forcefield. Only the truly
unwanted worked outside. It took him ten minutes to walk the
distance and into the main cavern where the ore machines
received maintainence. He found Hermes standing near one of
the exits, speaking to a truly dirty man. He had long
unkempt hair which probably hadn't been washed in a few
years and a beard which had been allowed free reign for the
same amount of time. If not longer. His shoulders were
broader than Hermes', but any other detail was hidden by the
filthy duster he wore. When Jon came closer the man left
Hermes and walked into the tunnel leading to the deepest
miningsites. Jon had never been there, but he had heard a
thing or two about them already. He had no real desire to go
there. At all.

"Hey Hermes." he called out and the man in question turned
around with the sly smile on his face that Jon had gotten
used to see.

"I see you managed not to get stabbed during your beauty
sleep. Not bad, kid.."

He shrugged, not sure if Hermes joked or not. "I'm a lucky
bastard, me.. Who was that?" he nodded towards the figure
which was almost out of sight.

Hermes smiled faded and he put a hand on Jon's shoulder.
"That is someone you should stay well clear of."

Jon frowned, not really understanding considering the entire
place was full of people he should stay away from, but this
was the first Hermes had actually warned him of. "Why?" It
was probably bad to ask, but he couldn't stop himself.
Survival was in the details. Hermes had told so himself.

His saviour and friend shook his head, knowing why Jon had
asked him that question. "That's one advice that came back
and bit me in the ass... " he sighed. "Just remember I
warned you..
He came here about four years ago. Calls himself Bob.. I
know.. wierd name.. even the Warden calls him Bob.. Everyone
leaves him alone and lets him do whatever it is that he does
down there.."

"Down there?"

"Yes, down there.." he nodded down the tunnel Bob had walked
in. "As deep as you can come.. I've been there once, years
ago. It's freezing cold there and the beasts literally
thrives in the darkness. I still have nightmares about the
place." his voice trembled when he spoke. "He lives there
and only comes back up when he's either out of food or is
going in the ring."

Jon didn't see the man again until it was time to assign
work again. Hermes had gotten them good seats again, which
was both good and bad. A good view of the ring, but that was
also the bad thing. A good view. Then Jon saw him. "He's
here."

"I know."

"Does he loose?"

"More times than he wins." Hermes didn't want to elaborate
on the subject.

The ring started to fill with the unlucky bastards dumb or
desperate enough to enter. Jon saw the man Hermes had called
Bob pull his hair back and tie a leatherstrap around it,
pulling it back from his face. Then he saw something totally
unexpected. The man wore dark goggles. THe kind used for
welding. The next second a large Klingon tackled Bob to the
ground. Guess the goggles made him miss that one.

Bob could sure take a beating. He had managed to pound the
softer spots on the Klingon until the pain got too much to
bear even for something as painresistant as a Klingon. But
that was about it. He definately took more punches than he
delivered, some of them downright brutal.
In the end he went down as the ninth person left after a
viscious blow to the back of his head by the same klingon he
pounded himself a few minutes earlier.

"Guess he does go down.. why are you so afraid of him?" Jon
asked confused.

Hermes looked at him. Jon could see irritation form in them.
"You have been here less than a month.. I've been here for a
decade... Do you know how long prisoners survives down in
that place?"

Jon didn't answer. He had a feeling that any figure he could
give would be considered arrogant.

"Nine days. That's all. And the last of those is spent
bleeding to death. You see, some of the beasts got a taste
for warm blood, so they poke holes in you.. but first they
crush your legs so you can't run.. then they nibble tiny
bits from you.. appetizers.. then, just before you die, they
crack your skull open and have a brain feast.. " he let the
words sink in. People around them was looking at them.
Hermes voice had a hypnotizing quality at times, especially
when he spoke passionetly, without thinking.

He leaned closer to Jon. "Bob lives down there.. among the
cursed beasts.. They're afraid of him.. Why is that do you
think? Why is it that they don't mind throwing themselves on
the forcefields until they're nice and crispy, but refuses
to attack Bob on their hometurf? You have no idea how well
these bastards can see in the dark and its dark down there..
darker than you can understand.."

Jon stood there and looked at the entrance to the cave
network. He realized then Bob went down there cause no one
else was there, a man who valued his privacy. He was someone
who probably trusted no one. "Sounds like a complex man." He
said quietly.

"Like I said kid.. leave him alone."

"Finding Nemo - part 4."

Prisoncolony IOC532

Inmate Hermes
Inmate Jon Ryan
Inmate Bob

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

Three weeks had passed, during that time Hermes again echoed
his earlier statement of staying away from the man named
Bob. Jon found it funny that that his his name was Bob, he
looked more like a Bear or Bull. Sitting there around the
ring once more, it was another night for the blood sport
they called entertainment on this hell hole.

The scene was almost identical to the last time he had seen
Bob fight. It was as if the man went down by choice rather
than exhaustion. He could fight, that much was clear. The
way he had slipped out of the Klingon's hold while on the
ground had revealed that much. Hermes had refused to say
anything else on the matter.

He couldn't be human. The amount of punishment he recieved
without being permanently incapacitated or crippled was just
too much. Again Bob got up on his feet by his own accord and
wiped some blood off his lips and spat on the floor. He
undid the knot which held his hair back and let it hide his
face again.

Jon sat there and watched, part of him actually felt guilty
cause he wanted Bob to win. When had did it change, when did
this blood bath become entertainment to him? Turning his
eyes away for a moment, he only turned back when he heard
the crowd cheer.

Looking to see if Bob was down, or if Bob had delievered the
final blow. He couldn't help but notice how the man was
fighting, he had seen moments like that before. Slowly he
stood up, as he watched in aw. This man was special, this
man had special ops training. Cause he had seen the martial
art style before on the battle field.

Hermes could see the interest glow like beacons in Jon's
eyes. He had warned the kid. Now it was Jon's problem. Not
his.

Bob dropped the backpack on the table and began to fill it
with his share of the winnings. Just as usual no one had
contested his area. No one was that dumb.

It was over and like usual, Bob won. "I'll catch up with you
later, Hermie.." Jon said as he stepped down from where he
was sitting and made his way through the crowd to where Bob
was at the table collecting his credits. "Interesting
fighting style..." He said as he stood on the other side of
the table facing Bob.

Bob held up a steel rod, inspecting it, then putting it back
on the table, ignoring the man in front of him completely.

"Special Ops.." Jon said looking at Bob. "What if I pay you
to train me?" He said, made sense if he didn't know how to
fight good then you get the best to teach you.

The long hair and beard hid any reaction Bob might have had
from the words. The only visible reaction was the
millisecond he hesitated before shoving the rations into the
backpack. "Your mind ain't working proper.. Should let
someone fix it before it ain't working at all." he growled
in irritation.

Jon looked around and knew probably should listen to the
urges that Hermes seemed to be sending over to him with his
eyes. He turned back to Bob, "You could help me get off this
planet... I'm not an not like everyone else here. I have a
life I need to get back to." Jon said, "you have been in
special ops, I've seen the fighting style before."

Bob's hand moved faster than Jon's eyes could track it. It
grabbed grabbed him by the collar, lifted him in the air and
slammed him hard against the rock behind him. Bob's face was
less than an inch from his when his eyes regained focus. The
dark goggles looked at him. "You got here.. you leave on
your own.. I don't give a fuck about you or your life.."
Around them everyone did their best not to look at what was
going on. Not even the guards. The Warden had already left
her seat. "You best leave me be, Starfleet.." he whispered
angrily. That was a thing he had not even told Hermes.

"Then you are special ops, cause Hermes don't even know I'm
part of Starfleet." Jon said.

Bob's teeth shone remarkably white through the dirty and
unkempt beard. "It's because you still stink of it.. the
holier than fucking thou minds you bastards got.. Doves and
Hawkes fucking bullshit..Go burn down the galaxy or
something.. just leave me the fuck alone.. I'll say this
once and real slow so even you can understand, Dorothy.. F u
c k o f f... Go burn down the galaxy or something.. just
leave me the fuck alone.."
His hand let go off Jon as fast as it had grabbed him. Jon
dropped to the ground. He had been a good five inches off
the ground when Bob had held him up against the wall. When
he looked up again Bob was no where to be seen. Hermes just
shook his head and left him alone.

Jon sat there on the ground for a moment, then sighed out of
flustration. He would get Bob to help, or he would make the
man's life hell. It was clear Bob didn't want others to know
what he was, so that meant if he didn't get help he would
use it as leverage to force him to help or Jon could tell
the other prisoners.

It had taken Hermes almost two weeks to let go of his
irritation towards Jon. But the problem was Jon's. No one
elses. And yet.. Hermes had been there for far too long not
to notice that Jon was up to something. Dark clouds were
gathering on the horizon.

Jon had pretty much kept to himself since the incident with
Bob, he needed time to think and plan out his next move.
Plus he needed wait and watch Bob and wait for the
oppertunity, sitting down he closed his eyes and thought
about his life outside of this hell.
That was why he was going to do all this, he had to think of
a reason cause he couldn't live with the thought that he
might actually have become a true bastard in the time he had
been here. Bastard that enjoyed the fights, and the stench
didn't even bother him anymore. What was he becoming, how
could he stop the changes happening other than getting off
this rock?

The last days dragged themselves along ever so slowly but
eventually it was time again. The allocation of work and
food. There was something in the air, something Hermes could
only read as bad. Very bad. Looking at some of the others he
knew he could see he wasn't the only one sensing it.

Bob showed up when he always did. Just as the fight was
supposed to start. As always he removed the duster, took the
worn leatherstrap from his pocket and tied the hair back.
The longsleeved sweater he wore still had the bloodstains on
it from the last fight. It looked as if he had worn the same
sweater for three weeks. A fight broke out among the
prisoners which made the Warden hold off the start of the
fight a little longer.

Jon made his way past Hermes, and moved toward Bob. Dodging
other prisoners he came up to Bob as he man was tying his
hair back. "You speak in the way of only saying things once,
train me or I will sell you out to every prisoner that'll
listen here.... if you aren't with me then your against me.
I'm sure others here would like knowing what you are." Jon
said quietly as he looked at Bob.

Bob didn't look at him, but decided not to ignore him
completely. The fool was too dangerous for that. "There are
only seven letters in Fuck off.. which ones made you
confused as to what I meant?"

"Enjoy your fight then... cause sure the Warden will love
knowing what prize she's really got." Jon said as he turned
and headed for one of he guards.

A hand shot out and caught Jon's arm. It nearly snapped the
bone in half. "Don't Sally.. you have no idea the shitstorm
you're about to walk into.. " Bob's voice was both warning
and void of expression at the same time.

"Then help me for godsake, I have nothing to loose... I
either die here or I buy my way out." Jon stated.

"You know why I never make it to more than ninth?" he asked
Jon, ignoring his demand for now. Maybe he could still get
the fool to see it his way.

Jon looked at him. "Why is that?"

"Because that gives me all the food I need and no one pays
me any attention.. It's a deal I can live with.. " He let
go of Jon's arm. "I'm not going to help you.. suck it up
like everyone else.. I don't help Starfleet.. but you do as
you feel needed to do.. and remember.. the outcome is on
your head.."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that's not good enough..
I need to get out of here and you're my ticket off this
hole." His bicep throbbed where Bob had grabbed him.
Definately not human.

Hermes watched Bob's reaction closely and was a little
surprised. He had half expected Bob to attack Jon without
any warning. Instead he just lowered his head a little,
shook it and took a deep breath. After that breath he opened
the gate leading into the ring and stepped inside. He could
see that Jon had begun to talk to both guards and inmates.
Ripples on a pond, he thought to himself when he saw the
whispering that began among the prisoners, whispers that
grew louder and louder until it turned into shouts.
"Starfleet whore!"

"Butcher!"

"Rapist!"

"Kill him!"

A man turned to Hermes, his eyes burning feverishly. "Did
you hear? Good ol' Bob is from Starfleet.. they say he's an
agent of some kind!"

He closed his eyes, shaking his head in dismay. He wasn't
surprised. Tartarus took away sense and compassion. Some
lost their minds. Had he not asked himself often enough not
if he was insane, but how deeply his insanity ran? Hermes
looked back to where Bob was standing. He was crouching,
head lowered. Hermes could swear it looked like he was
praying. Looking at the faces of the ones about to enter the
ring a prayer was probably a good thing.

"Employee Termination"

Colonel Nathan Everett
181st Fighter Wing, USS Akagi
===

"Sir, we lost more than a quarter of our pilots back in Sol!"
protested Major Blair, the XO of 181st, and, as far as Nathan was
concerned, a major pain in the ass. "How are we going to make up for
those losses?"

"We'll make do. We always do," Nathan growled as he stalked down the
corridor, trailed by Blair and Lieutenant Devereaux, a squadron leader
and the wing's new Second Officer following the recent deaths of the
five other pilots who'd been ahead of her. "In the meantime, Major, Ah
want you to get what's left of 'em ready for the next fight. The
Akagi'll be down for repairs for a few more days, that oughta be
plenty of time."

"That's just it, Colonel," Blair answered. "We don't have nearly
enough people to run any sufficient training exercises." He tried to
pick up his pace to keep up with his taller CO, but Everett seemed
determined to stay ahead of him.

Devereaux, who had just been following the two men and trying to keep
quiet, finally pitched in. "Maybe Colonel Bowman could spare some
men?" she suggested meekly. Everett had a reputation throughout the
Hawk fleet, and few knew it better than the pilots who flew with him
in the 181st. This was the closest she'd been to the CAG since she
joined the wing a few months ago, and she didn't want to risk putting
herself on his bad side.

Outlaw answered that with a short, derisive laugh. "That incompetent
crybaby? He can't even train his damn pilots right. Puttin' that
limp-wristed son of a bitch in a cockpit oughta be considered a war
crime." He shook his head and rounded a corner, turning into the
corridor leading into the Akagi's battered hangar deck. "Shoulda
tucked his tail in and gone runnin' back home like the rest of those
snivelin' little cowards on Vega."

Blair repressed a frustrated sigh and fell back until he was walking
side-by-side with Devereaux. They both watched as Nathan strode
briskly on ahead.

"Is he always like this?" Devereaux whispered.

"Only on the good days," Blair murmured.

"Ah heard that," Nathan said over his shoulder.

Devereaux stopped, then, her face a pale mask of terror, but Blair
shook his head and jogged ahead to catch up with Nathan.

"Then hear this, sir," he began, looking up at his CO with grim
determination. "Your pilots are falling apart. Our casualty numbers
are the highest in the fleet. We're not going to survive the war at
this rate."

"At this rate, Blair, nobody is."

"Then maybe it's time for you to do something about it, sir," Blair
pressed on. "The 181st need their commander. You never spend any time
with the men, and when we're out on a sortie, you fly as if you don't
give a damn whether any of us live or die!"

Nathan stopped just outside of the hangar. He was silent for a very long moment.

"Are you tellin' me how to do my job, Major?" His voice had become
dangerously quiet.

Blair stood his ground. He refused to be intimidated. "I think it's
time someone di--urk!"

Astonishingly fast, Nathan's arm shot out and his hand wrapped around
Blair's neck. He lifted the smaller man up with inhuman ease and
carried him across the corridor, slamming him bodily against a
bulkhead.

"Now, you listen to me, you annoyin' little twit!" Nathan snarled. "Ah
haven't spent the last fifteen years watchin' everyone Ah care about
die just to listen to you bitch and moan!"

His fingers squeezed around Blair's throat, and his XO's face turned a
blotchy red as he gasped for air. He beat and kicked at Nathan,
struggling in vain to free himself.

"We're tryin' to win a war here, goddammit!" Outlaw hollered, his icy
eyes wide with rage as he pressed Blair harder against the bulkhead.
"There's no room here for men who spend their time pussy-footin'
around and not doin' their jobs. If yer not gonna follow mah orders,
then Ah've got no further use fer you!"

There was a sickening crunch, and Blair's arms slackened, his motions
ceasing. Nathan's eyes narrowed, and he finally loosened his grip. His
former XO's body crumpled to the deck, his head slumping at an
unnatural angle.

"Oh my God!" Devereaux rushed over and dropped to a knee beside Blair.
"He's...he's dead! You broke his neck!" She looked up at the Colonel,
horrified.

Nathan wiped his hand off on his flight jacket. "What's yer point, Lieutenant?"

"You just murdered your executive officer!"

"Not the first time Ah've had to do that," Everett muttered. It was
hard to find good help these days.

Devereaux flinched in disbelief. She looked around the corridor,
hoping someone would help, but everyone just walked past the scene as
if nothing had happened. Worse, they seemed accustomed to such
incidents. What in God's name was going on here?

Nathan crouched down and ripped Blair's rank pip off of his collar.
"Here," he said to Devereaux as he tossed it to her. "Yer a Major,
now. Congratulations on yer promotion."

She fumbled the pip a couple of times before finally catching it, and
stared blankly up at Outlaw as he stood to his full height.

"Ah've been ordered off the ship," he informed his new XO. "Ah should
be back in a couple of days. Ah'm countin' on you to get our pilots
ready to fight again, Major Devereaux."

Devereaux blinked. "Y-yes, sir," she mumbled. What else could she have said?

Nathan nodded. "Good." He turned on his heel and stepped into the
hangar. A few minutes later, his shuttle lifted off and disappeared
into the darkness.

"Finding Nemo - end."

Prisoncolony IOC532

Inmate Hermes
Inmate Jon Ryan
Inmate Bob

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

Bob's P.O.V.

I kiss her necklace. I've carried it with me ever since I
killed her. Its probably the only thing I value. The duster
I wear drops to the ground. Might as well ditch it. It's
ruined enough as it is. Shame. It was a good duster. Its
kept me dry for years.

There's anger and hate in the air. There's always anger and
hate in the air here, but now its directed at me. All of it.
Some people think anger and hate are nice smells. Let me
tell you it's not. If I could cry it would make my eyes
water. I can hear them enter the ring. Its not like they're
trying to be subtle about it. I get back up on my feet and I
roll my shoulders. Not sure why I do that.. I've always done
it before I fight. They're starting to surround me. Man they
look mad... this is going to hurt me as much as them..

It's frustrating.. I've hid from the fuckers for so many
years.. gone through so much shit, just to stay away from
them. I came here to hide and now a shit for brains Fleeter
is doing what no one has been able to do for nine years. But
I can't hide now. That is done and over with. I look at them
and the drums begin to sound again for the first time in
nine years.

End Bob's P.O.V.

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

He didn't want to watch. Didn't want to witness the pack
going in for the kill, but deep down he knew that he was
just as depraved as the rest of the animals. This wouldn't
be a fight. The ring around Bob was a Great White shark and
blood was in the water.

The noise was absolutely deafening, a mad chorus of violent
shouts and screams.

Hermes blinked when he saw Bob move to the side when the
first man charged. The blow Bob delivered to the side of the
man's head didn't look hard, but Hermes had no trouble
seeing how the eyes rolled up in their sockets before the
man crashed to the ground. He had never seen Bob fight the
way he did. It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't graceful. It was
just brutal. With uncanny precision his blows landed where
the damage would be the greatest. The blows from the
opponents that he didn't manage to avoid he shrugged off.

Ever so slowly the cheers and shouts began to fade. For the
first time FiveThreeTwo earned the name the prisoners had
given it. Tartarus. Hecate would no doubt be smiling
tonight, Hermes thought sadly. The attackers grew more and
more hesitant. Seven of their friends lay slain on the
ground, a few others had internal injuries that would no
doubt claim their lives soon enough if treatment was not
administered. Guards looked at the Warden for instructions,
but none were given. Inside the ring Bob sank to one knee,
breathing heavily. Slowly he raised his arms and pulled off
the goggles that had hidden his eyes for all the years
Hermes had seen him.

The silvery color of mercury looked at the people around
him. Some took a step back. Some just swallowed. Sitting
down on one knee he glared at them, challenging them to
continue. Challenging all of them, fighters, spectators,
guards and Warden alike. Desperation or anger, it was hard
to tell which it was that propelled the Klingon towards Bob.
It was equally hard to tell if it was the Klingon or Bob
that growled when the Klingon was thrown onto the ground,
one of his arms held in a most painful direction before it
snapped completely. Bob hammered down on the Klingon's
ribcage hard enough for a dull crack to echo in the chamber
which held the ring. Whent he Klingon went limp in his grip
he let it go. The arm he had been holding dropped to the
ground with a thud. Panting heavily Bob wiped away
blooddrenched strands of hair from his face and looked
around. "Is this what you want?" he growled. Slowly he got
back up. The effort seemed to take the last reserves of
energy from him. "Has your taste for blood been satisfied?!"

On the stands Hermes swallowed, tried to make sense of what
was happening.

"If thirst still plauges you, my friends.." he opened his
arms in a welcoming gesture. "Then by all means.. let me
fill your cups.." His hand closed and it struck the klingon
on the ground. This time there was no doubt. The ribcage
collapsed and blood gushed from the mouth of the dying
Klingon.

"No? This is my offer to all of you.. Last rites.." He took
a step towards a group of prisoners who in turn took a step
backwards.

Bob pounded his chest with his hands. "I'm right here.. all
for the taking.. a murderer.. STRIKE ME DOWN! WHAT THE FUCK
ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!" Slowly Bob's roar faded. Only Bob's
ragged breathing was heard. Everyone else had gone silent.
"NO?! WHAT ABOUT YOU?" he pointed to one of the people he
had been fighting earlier. "Why will you not to strike me
down? Take revenge for something I am not guilty of?"

Slowly he spun around, looking at the many headed crowd
which looked back at him in return. "I am all of those
things.. " his voice sounded tired. A long pause followed.
It was long enough to make people very uncomfortable. The
Warden whispered instructions to the closest guard and rose
from her seat. Right then he looked up, straight into her
eyes and held them. Something touched her deep inside. A
primal fear. Her reptile brain shrieking at the top of its
lungs. Get out. Get away. Don't look at him!

The furnaces of

"I" His roar was filled with a fury Hermes had never heard
in any man before.

"AM" The Warden couldn't take her eyes away from him.

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

'The Ulysses'
Independant tradeship
In transit warp 4.

The ship would take him to his next destination. He was
tired of travelling, tired of most things. He didn't have
the energy and burning conviction the others had. Not any
more. He wasn't sure when it had changed or.. he did if he
had allowed himself to think about it. But doubts would not
be met with understanding. Ever. He sighed, poured himself
another drink, hoping to get drunk before he fell asleep.
Doubt had long since both filled him and overwhelmed him,
but what was there for him to do? Doves? Hawkes? Both sides
made him laugh. Literally. Broken. That's how he felt. There
had to be more than this? More than warfare, more than
martial skills, to it all.

Oh hell. Who was he kidding? He'd go out with a gun in each
hand. Men like him didn't die of old age. Or happy bliss.

The galaxy was on fire. Whooptido. He grabbed the bottle to
refill the glass on the table.

The bottle slipped out of his hand and smashed against the
deck. It had been years, lord knew how many, since he had
last sensed it. He stood up, turning around until instincts
told him which way was the right one.

"Baile."

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

"THE KING.." from one of his pockets he took out what looked
like a short pen like object.

"OF.." People watched him with a mix of fear and
fascination. This was Bob. The man who said twenty words in
a year. The man who kept to himself. The man who the Beasts
wouldn't touch. His thumb flipped a tiny lid open on the top
of the pen he was holding.

"KILLERS.." he pressed the small button on the top and a
faint tremble could be felt in the floor. Again everything
went completely silent. A second later then silence was
shatted by a loud warning signal.

"AND TONIGHT.." he lowered his arm.

"What the hell?" someone said, confused.

"YOU'RE ALL MY GUESTS.." Baile finished, still looking at
the Warden.

Hermes was one of the first to recognise the signal.
Evacuation to the main complex. The forcefields in the
tunnels were down. The Beasts would come through.

A guard took the Warden's arm and pulled her with him. She
saw nothing but death in his eyes when their eyecontact
finally broke.

A shriek loud enough to make some hold their hands over
their ears pierced the arena.

Someone shouted. "The forcefields are down! The fucking
beasts are coming!"

That got everyones attention. Everyone knew what that meant.

Run like hell.

A few minutes later Baile stood in the middle of the empty
arena. All around him the beasts from deep down still
searched for something to eat. Several mauled bodies served
as a testimony to their bloodthirst. All of them gave Baile
a wide birth as he started walking towards the ledge where
the Warden had been standing. He hadn't felt the pull from
the others in over nine. It was as if he had been blind and
could now see again. Tempting. Very tempting.

He looked around. He would actually miss the place. It
hadn't been that bad. Most of the time he had been left
alone. Just like he wanted. He picked up the goggles and
wiped them clean on his now ruined sweater. It was time to
leave this place, into a war he found loathsome, two sides
fighting for a prize they had long since forgot what it was.
Brothers and sisters would be looking for him, each wanting
to take him back. Humanity. What a pitiful bunch of
fuckups.. and the rest of the clowns for following them. Now
he would have to walk among them all again. The thought made
him depressed.

"It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)"

Commander John Walker


Communications blew a gasket on the Perdon's path to Denobula. So by the time John heard, Earth had already been dead two days.

*

8-ball is sitting on the arm rest of the purple sofa in her quarters. She has disregarded her uniform in favor of sweat pants and a stretchy black tank top. John rests his hands on her belly; she puts her hands over his. Her stomach is a round, wonderful thing, like a little globe under her shirt.

"You're saying I'm as big as a planet?" And 8-ball slaps him, almost amiably.

*

Kaylee took the news better than he had expected her to. Not that this should have been surprising--Kaylee had only lived on Earth for about three years. She told John that she remembered nothing of her time there, of Gramma Beth, and after. She had been so young, after all. She shouldn't have remembered.

He didn't want her to.

But when John told her about what happened, Kaylee looked away for a moment, and she smiled this quick, horrible little smile, a smile of relief, and of vengenance. It was the smile of a survivor, of someone who made it out.

"Okay," Kaylee said, but what she really meant was good.

*

8-ball puts her face in her hands. "We already talked about this," she complains.

"And we're going to talk about it again. You---"

"---will not be complicit in the act of torturing my child, thank you."

John rolls his eyes. "Oh, could you be a little more overdramatic?" He sees her eyes light up and doesn't allow her the time to say 'yes'. "It's just a name, 8-ball---"

"Albert."

"--and I'm not even talking first name. Middle name, that's it."

"Albert!"

John sighs. "It's a family name, 8-ball."

"Johnny, I don't care if everyone in your family has been named Albert for the last twentyfuckingfive generations. We are not naming our child that!"

"Middle name!"

"As a first or middle name! You know what happens to kids named Albert, Johnny? They get beat up and shoved out of airlocks! I am not damaging my kid that way." 8-ball laughs. "It's bad enough it's got us as parents."

John doesn't respond to that. "You're the one who wanted to name him 9-ball," he says.

8-ball glances at him contemptuously. "Okay, 9-ball is way fucking cooler than Albert."

John lets his head fall back against the couch. He's tired of arguing. "Why not just name him Pool Cue while you're at it?"

" . . .hmmm . . ."

"8-ball!"

*

When he'd been a child, John's grandmother had died. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but then, you never expect the hits, even when you know they're coming. John knew that she was sick, knew because he had visited her in the hospital every Monday and Friday with his mother, but he was still a little boy and death was still something that happened to other people.

One Friday, his father picked him up from school, which was unusual. John's father told him that his grandmother had passed earlier that morning. Understanding that death could touch the ones he loved, touch him, was hard enough. But what really drove John crazy was the fact he hadn't known. His grandmother had died around 9:35 am. What exactly had John been doing, at 9:35? That was math class---had he been taking the test? Or had he already finished the test; was he staring at the clock, trying to make it go by faster with his eyes? Hours had gone by, whole hours, where John's life had changed forever and he hadn't even known it.

It bothered him, that not-knowledge, almost as much as the grief. He'd felt the same way when his father had died (fifteen hours, before being notified while serving on the Galaxy). When his brother had died (four hours), when his sisters had died (six days), when his mother had been blown to Hell (ten months, two weeks, and four days). All this time he had been living, going on, doing his routine, and the others, they weren't doing anything---they were dead.

And he was still here.

It was like he'd taken it for granted that they would always be there, or worse, forgotten that they really existed, apart from him. Like their existence depended on his. Like he was the center of the godamned universe.

Had he been crying or pissing or bleeding, when his mother exploded and scattered across the Kansas plains?

"It's a devastating loss," Mercedes said to the crew, when she broke the news about Earth. And the crew, the crew who wept, while their Captain looked ahead, didn't blink, didn't tremble. "We want to mourn; we want to grieve, but there is no time for that. Take a moment, for your sorrow. But only a moment."

"The universe goes on."

John took more than a moment. He took 28 of them, sobbing in his piece of shit shower while Kaylee attended their useless excuse for a "school." John cried because the Earth, his home, had died two whole days ago, sometime between scraping something creative together for dinner and fixing a few blown out conduits on the bridge.

*

"What about a compromise?" 8-ball proposes. John raises a skeptical eyebrow; 8-ball's compromises notoriously suck. They somehow always seem to skew ever so slightly in her favor. 8-ball is nibbling on something disgusting. John isn't quite sure what it is, but he's a little terrified of it. He would rather eat fresh targ drenched in mayonnaise than whatever the hell is in her hand. "You name the kid if it's a girl," 8-ball suggests, "and I'll name it if it's a boy."

John raises his other skeptical eyebrow. "You could still name the kid Rock Star, or something," he says.

8-ball purses her lips as she thinks about that. "Hmm," she says. "Rock Star Hunter. It's got a ring to it, until you inevitably shorten it to Rock Hunter. Then the kid's fucking destined to be a godamned geologist or something. Might as well name him Gynecologist Hunter. Heh. That's bad."

Good God, John thinks. "8-ball---"

"Oh, don't start, Johnny. Anyway, I already have the perfect name. In fact, I hope this kid's a boy simply because my name is so awesome."

John puts his head in his hands. "It's Eptgac Jr, isn't it?"

"Oh, ye, of little faith." 8-ball turns to him, excited. John tries not to look at the thing in her hands . . . is it moving? Christ. "Okay, get this," 8-ball says. "Jack. Fucking. Daniels. Fucking not included, of course. Jack Daniels Hunter. Huh? Tell me that's not awesome."

John pulls his head away from his hands, looks at her, and desperately tries to think of some reason that her name choice is not awesome. He can't do it. Dammit. She's going to be insufferable now. 8-ball sees the resignation in his face. "Ha!" she yells. "Yeah! Beat that, Johnny Fucking Walker. You get me a girl name as cool as that!"

John tries, but he knows that he's just not clever on an empty stomach. He'd have eaten something by now, if 8-ball's snack wasn't making him nauseous. "Kaylee?" John tries, because it's a nice name and he's always liked it.

8-ball sniffs at this suggestion. "Well," she says, "it's not Albert, anyway."

*

John was halfway to sleep when Kaylee climbed into his bed. As a little girl, she had done this often, but as she got older, it happened much more infrequently. John wrapped his arms around his child and felt the teddy bear in her hands. He frowned. Kaylee usually only slept with Eptgac when she was really upset.

"You okay, sweetie?" he asked her. Kaylee didn't say anything, so John just held her tighter and rocked her gently, as he had once done. He had almost fallen back asleep again when Kaylee said, "Tell me about Mom."

John sighed. "Tell Me About Mom" had always been Kaylee's favorite bedtime story, since she was old enough to wonder why she didn't have one. She dreamed about her mother---John knew, because Kaylee always told him---but she was disturbingly faceless, an apparition. She'd seen photographs, but they couldn't fill the void.

John tried to give her something new, some little detail everytime she asked. "Your mother," John said, "always used bad horror movies to cheer people up. I remember this one time I went on this atrocious date, and she made me watch Blind Date 3: The She-Bitch is Back . . . Again. She said it would serve as a reminder that my love life could always be worse."

Kaylee giggled at this. Kaylee, like 8-ball, loved watching bad films, although she preferred cheap romances that she could mock mercilessly. "Tell me about the time Mom outwitted the Statue God."

John nodded. "Okay," he said, and began telling her the story. He wasn't sure just how accurate it was---it was something that had happened to 8-ball before he really knew her, and it came off more like a myth or a fairy tale than a real event. But John believed that it was real. 8-ball had told him about her experience a little after his father had died, and they had stayed up late, talking about gods and fears.

He was just getting to the part where the statues had drawn their swords and taken a step towards 8-ball when Kaylee touched his face. "I'm sorry about Earth, Dad. I know it was your home."

John smiled as he kissed his little girl on the forehead.

"You're my home," he told her. "You're my home."


*

In his dreams which are partly memory and mostly something else, John sits with 8-ball in her quarters, watching the Earth burn through the window. They stay up late and talk about names and pregnancy cravings and what will come next, and John wishes that he could draw the curtains and substitute the future he wants for the one he's watching. "Twelve hours," he tells 8-ball. "That's how long you were dead and I didn't know."

8-ball kisses him on the forehead.

"The universe goes on," she says. "Even when no one else does."

"What Must be Done"

Commodore Artim Shivar - LNWV Resolved

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

<<Ready Room, LNWV Resolved>>

"Admiral, how much clearer do I have to make it. Von Earnst DESTROYED Earth. She didn't attack the fleet, she didn't merely bombard military targets. She blew the Earth apart. Literally. Shipmaster Nibbletoe can have our footage blown up into a full holographic show in an hour if you like."

Even though he'd mellowed out in the years since he was one of the terrors of the science department on the Galaxy Artim could still get agitated when he needed to. In the time since the destruction of Earth he'd been communicating with several of the leaders of the League of Non-Aligned Worlds to try and encourage them to side with the Doves. While the Miran and Benzite Ambassadors weren't hard to convince the Antedean Admiral Quinal was being alot more difficult.

"I can't beleive that. Even Shiva doesn't have that kind of firepower. And...and the Admiral wouldn't slaughter several billion people on a whim or for some petty revenge..."" the Admiral was clearly scared and it was more as if he didn't WANT to beleive what he was hearing. That's what Artim had expected from the fisheheads to be honest, but it was still unacceptable.

"As the humans would say, Cleopatra isn't the only queen of denial. Sir, while I can't pretend to understand why Von Earnst turned Earth into an asteroid field. But it happened. We've sat on the fence long enough and we need to stand up to her. Now, before she starts destroying planets left and right."

Artim's voice was unusually firm and yet calm. His face showed a grit that displayed his true age as opposed to his youthful appearance. Not many people could say that they've seen two worlds die in their life time. It was something that Artim wasn't exactly proud of

The fisheaded Admiral looked about nervously for a moment and then replied,

"Commodore, I'm ordering you to return to Pacifica and await further instructions. This...this matter needs to be discussed. We can't risk our ships in this matter...you must leave."

"Admiral, I already have the blessing of half the council. I'm going with Captain M'Kantu and Calladavar is going with me. If he's right...", Artim couldn't finish his sentence before the Admiral jumped in.

"His plan is crazy! You're smart, you should realize that. And you really think the Hawks are going to let you go that easily. If you go with him...she...she could come after us next! Its better you stay out of all of it."

Artim simply shook his head. " Sir, I know Captain M'kantu. I served with him. He wouldn't go off on a fools errand. He has a knack for defying the odds and pulling things off. I'm going. If there's any chance what he's trying to do can succeed, we have to try. It is what must be done! Now, unless you're going to wish me luck sir, there's not much reason to keep this channel open."

The Admiral released what for an Antedean must have passed for a sigh. "Good luck then. Tell Admiral Jii we're with him. I'll try and scare up a few ships to send along and help but, well, I doubt it. Do try and keep the Resolved in one piece."

For the first time all day Artim gave a slight smile. "I'll do my darndest. Resolved out."

End of Hope ... and the End of the Beginning ...

Valentina "Eve" Kyznetsova
Director, DOA

Recommended listening: "I just want you" by Ozzy and/or "Crawling" by Linkin Park
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Earth exploded in a brilliant display of madness, ending the life of a tortured planet. A thousand points of light, standing watch for all eternity. A thousand points of light, that no one can see.

As Earth exploded a second time, Valentina wept. All the hopes. All the dreams. Every possibility of resurrecting Earth, restoring Terra Firma to the life sustaining ecosystem she had once boasted for uncounted millennium.

Gone.

Critical mass .... Violet eyes saw red, and as the planet was destroyed a fourth time she fell to her knees, one hand reaching in futility towards the holographic playback of Earthdeath, the tortured agony of shattered hopes and dreams making their presence known in a heart wrenching scream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been more than two days since DOA: Primus had received the news of Earth's destruction, and only now did Valentina finally emerge from her private quarters. Despite her absence, business had occurred mostly as usual, though there was a noticeably somber and melancholy air when it came to the humans, and those with a close connection to Earth. No one had tried to disturb the Director during her seclusion; they all had their private moments of mourning for the lost Homeworld, and it was recognized that her loss was the worst of all. Such lofty dreams of restoration, never to be realized.

No one said a word as she entered Primus Central Operations and headed for the central Command Pit. Her uniform was impeccable - the black of Starfleet Intelligence, with the two full gold pips of a Lieutenant. "Give me all hands," she whispered, and it was done. "This is the Director. I don't need to remind anyone of what has happened. I apologize for my absence in this, our darkest hour, and you have all done me proud. they say it's always hardest just before it gets any easier, but I fear this universe will never be easy for anyone but our descendants. It's our job to safeguard their Future.

"In that light, I issue the following orders: no Hawk vessels are to be serviced by DOA facilities from this point forward. They are to be considered hostile and free targets upon entering DOA Sovereign Territories. Furthermore, any and all information relating to the location and/or disposition of the Drej will be rewarded commensurate with the value of imparted information. Carry on" She looked up to the Ops Officer and nodded, and the line was cut. "Officer of the watch: I want all possible resources diverted to Project Federation immediately."

"Ma'am, you do realize .... " the man let his statement trail off as he beheld the rage and hate and pain in her eyes. She knew full well, but it was his job to make sure she remembered. "Just do it," Valentina replied without venom. "We'll need her sooner than I projected. Even after 10 years, I'm still crap at Information Analasys." There were a few chuckles around the room. What Val considered crap was better than many of the brighter minds of the Federation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drej. it was an acronym, actually: Destroy Rebbecca for Earth's Justice. Even now the word was being spread throughout DOA: Primus, and outwards: traders, merchants, her own Service Support Vessels, and most importantly the Information Super Highway to DOA: Centrix. Drej had initially been intended for Rebbecca alone, but with the numbers following her, even after the destruction of Earth, any human Hawk, and Hawks in general, were being called such.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If there was anyone who could keep a really big secret amongst those who were left, Eve was one of them. Within the starbase that encompassed the Central Ops facility was a single dry-dock facility that only a select few knew about. A certain allotment of material went in, and never came out. It was listed on manifests and schematics as a supply storage facility, but the truth was far more interesting. Cradled within construction equipment and the spider-legs of support structures rested a starship. At 915 meters in length, 121 tall and 394 wide, she was one of the largest Federation Starship ever constructed. Only SHIVA rivaled her in size, but that was it. Valentina had taken the original blueprints with her when the Corp of Engineers had sided with SFI Tech Ops, and then proceeded to make many modifications to the original superstructure.

Gone were the fighter bays in the two outrigger hulls that flanked the secondary hull. Gone were the small craft support facilities. In their place were two bright and shiny warp cores, giving the vessel the power of three. In the nose of the two outrigger hulls, where there would normally have been fighter launch bays, were a pair of massive weaponss which made the phaser cannons of the Galaxy-X and Galaxy III looks like pop-guns - each would draw from the core within it's respective hull for charging power. Val had named them "SHIVA NOVA" based upon the fact that their technological predecessor, the Shiva Star, operated along the same scientific basis. They were huge particle projection cannon, designed to crash through shields and shatter hulls. There were no peaceful applications available for devices such as these.

Three warp cores; One for shields, one for weapons, and one to power the rest of the ship.
Two SHIVA NOVA PPC's
20 Torpedo launchers scattered around the vessel
2 heavy plasma torpedo launchers at the fore end of the central secondary hull
An array of phaser strips of Type 9, 10, and 12 power with a full coverage of the 'sky' in all possible quadrants.
A selection of disruptor cannon, mainly for anti-fighter and anti-missile defense.
100CM thick Ablative Armor.
Triple layer shield system with regenerative properties (taken from reverse engineering Borg technology)

Despite the fact that there was no hull separation system, there were still four names inscribed upon the plating of the massive construction, which was nearing completion.

The Starboard Outrigger Pod shone with the Name and Registry of the USS Galaxy - F.
The Port-side Outrigger Pod shone with the Name and Registry of the USS Miranda - F
The Secondary Hull was emblazoned with the Name and Registry of the USS Enterprise - F

The Primary hull had the Name and registry of the vessel Herself. USS Federation - NCC 001

She was a ship made for war, designed in a period of time when small craft were favored and the inevitability of conflict on a grand scale shone the Galaxy in the eye. Valentina had never figured out just how she intended to use this vessel. There had never been any clear message or purpose behind the (modified) Scabbard class USS Federation, save for that it would have to be a grand purpose. Something worth fighting for. The Federation had to be worth fighting for.

The Future was worth fighting for.

Valentina sighed softly as she settled into the command chair on the bridge of this massive vessel. She was empty save for the construction teams, and the bridge had already been completed. "Time to get in touch with Jii and Daren. And I wonder what Victory is up to these days .... " She drifted off into thought as she began to mentally compose her messages.

"Who Killed Planet Earth?"

(Occurs before 'Ghost to Ghost Communication'

Starring:

Victor Krieghoff
Angelienia Krieghoff
'Mother' (Ebon Hawks' support tech)
Aiella (Comm Girl on Xellos IV)
James Lionel Corgan
T'lan

*****
I.S.S. Stolen Heart, Somewhere deep in Federation Space
*****

Organizing a private run relief effort was an arduous ordeal, as done in
the confines of one Federation wide battlezone.

As the vanguard of Boomer Fleet 7, the I.S.S. Stolen Heart navigated
through once well traveled and safe spaceways as hastily as possible, in
convoluted pathways not thought possible but risked by necessity, the
backbones of Federation expansion and rule were no longer reliable. He
had to dodge pirate bands in ships onced used to champion peace and
freedom. His ship passed by advancing or retreating armies of Hawks and
Doves alike, his sensors a keen eye that kept unwanted attention out of
long range scanning distances. He passed by civilized worlds touched by
the torches of burning cities, floated through debris fields, jerked and
stopped through subspace tears that would have been on charter star maps
in more civilized times. The ship never stopped, its celestial voyage no
longer holding any beauty, but urgency and fear.

It was like driving a hovervehicle through the rough neighborhoods of
coreworld cities; speed by the devastation, look straight ahead, hope
for no detours and always keep your windows rolled down and your doors
locked.

All this time, James Corgan's ships was one of few eyes and ears for the
space age Gypsies known as Boomers. It was on their behalf, and at his
urging, that the Stolen Heart brought with it medical supplies, food and
berths. It was not nearly enough for the projected refugees of a planet
who's inhabitants numbered in the billions, but if James didn't find a
safe route to Sector 001 the Boomer Fleets would be less likely to help.

And it was already feared that this one ship really was all they needed.

It was no time for pessimism. James had a job, and once again he was
needed to lead others by the hand, show by example how it was done. He
was risking all that was his. His life, his love, his livlihood, in the
hope that someone had the answers, tied up to one tidy questions.

Who killed planet Earth?

Ordering the Stolen Heart to steer itself into a nebula inhabited
system, he used a local mini-Argus Array. An older system and forgotten
by both sides and still accepting his old command codes, it boosted a
signal, disguised as a subspace probe, and opened a communication to an
old friend.

"Come on Victor." James gritted his teeth after an hour's waiting, his
coffee silent and cold in the cup holder of his chair, "Answer the
phone."

James' best contact for anything Federation was Victor Krieghoff. Former
shipmates, fellow lifetakers, there were few James knew that could
understand him quite like Victor. They both shared the same mud, the
same blood. Both took lives and gave them back. They were the
Federation's footsoldiers long before Victor became a brigant, and James
a freelancer. Though James disagreed with Victor's participation in the
Civil War (to which James not so politely bowed out), James was the kind
of person that didn't let political differences get in the way of a good
friendship.

Before James knew it, he was patched into Victor's communications
network.

"James!" T'lan called from her science console, retracting the eyepiece
and taking her place at the first officer's chair, "A communications
link has been established. Standby."

"Then you better get over here." James called to his first officer and
wife, "We're partners in crime, you and I. Best let Victor know it."

"Yes James." T'lan hesitated, "But Sir... he has always... unnerved me."

James stroked T'lan's hand and pecked her on the cheek, "Don't worry
honey. You know he's legit, even if he's as questionable as ever. The
fact is we need him and we're at his mercy, so put your best face
forward." James broke open a award winning smile, "Don't want him to
think that we don't like him, do we?"

T'lan join his smile, "I would be careful."

"Ain't I always? Wait... stupid question. Don't answer."

****

ICV Faith
Outer Hull
Sector Seven

=/\= Ah... Incoming message for you, sir. =/\=

Mother's voice was a bit strained, Victor noted. Not surprising, since
she was speaking to him, and not to Elrin or one of the other Ebon Hawks
she'd adopted, but that could be marked down to a lack of familiarity
with his presence. Or maybe the fact that he was standing on the outer
surface of the asteroid ship, watching the stars zip past in warp
without an environment suit. That always unnerved people the first few
dozen times they saw him do it.

=/\= From home? =/\= he asked, glad for the miniaturized com implants
that they'd recovered form a Hawk research facility two years back, and
that the Comm Girls had modified. He could stand here and watch the
stars all he wanted, but talking required an atmosphere that he didn't
have.

=/\= Yes sir. The girls say that you'll need to use Channel D. =/\=

It was important then - important enough that he'd need to come inside
and use the com pod to prevent a trace. =/\= All right, Mother, I'm on
my way in. Tell them three minutes. =/\= He started to move to the
concealed hatch to his left as he spoke. =/\= Any idea what it's about?
=/\=

=/\= They said it was another old friend calling, =/\= she paused,
reviewing the com signal, =/\= ...James Corgan? Isn't he the Commodore
that quit the Hawks years back? The guy that... =/\=

=/\= Yes, that's him. In that case, have Angelienia meet me at the pod -
she'll want to see him too, =/\= Victor responded as the hatchway opened
and he stepped into the micro-lift shaft, dropping into the interior of
the ship. =/\= See you in one. =/\=

At the three-minute mark, the door to the com pod closed, and the voice
of Aiella, the Trill commo tech filled the pod. =/\= Starting in ten -
and you're really going to like this one, boss - I know it - six...
five... four... three... two... one... =/\=

At her mark, the dark interior of the pod vanished, and Victor and
Angelienia were standing in a crystal hall filled with dancers from a
thousand worlds, all whirling to a Viennese Waltz. Formally-dressed
Vulcans swirled by austerely, followed by a Tellarite couple dancing
with more enthusiasm, as a tuxedo-clad waiter walked up, held out a
silver tray, and the com screen appeared in the air over it.

"I do like this one," Angelienia whispered, slipping her arm around
Victor's.

"They're getting better every time," he agreed, smiling at her. He let
the smile fade as the screen started to shift to display mode. "I don't
know what James needs, but I hope he's calling to tell me that he's on
his way with the package we talked about a few months ago."

Angelienia's eyes widened. "You don't think that..."

=/\= Connecting now, sir, =/\= Aiella's voice interrupted.

The viewscreen cleared, revealing James and T'lan standing side-by-side
on the bridge of a ship. "James," Victor nodded. "I hope it's good to
see you."

Part of the communication warbled as nebula interference distorted the
transmission. As it cleared up, James walked out of his captain's chair,
crossing his arms over his white turtleneck. "As always, my good friend,
though I wish the circumstances were different." He lightened the
atmosphere with a jokingly offhanded comment, "I see you're still trying
to look like a decadent yob while pissing the Hawks off. Still going on
with the Captain Harlock routine?"

Victor smiled and shook his head. "I'm leaving the skull and crossbones
to other people, James, but yes, I'm still fighting my private little
war." He glanced at the dancing couples behind him. "And if I look like
a decadent yob... well... it's a tough job but someone has to do it."

"If not you, who else? I'm glad you're going fine with it." James said
in a gravely voice, "I might not agree with your methods or motivations,
but I certainly understand them and I do know the alternative. If the
Hawks didn't agitate the Doves into firing the first shots I would have
even joined you, but as it stands both sides don't have the moral high
ground these days."

"James." T'lan said, "Political insights aside, I do think we should get
to the matter at hand."

"Aye." James nodded, a peck on the cheek for his wife, "I'm afraid she's
right. Lovely as hades and she makes sure my mind doesn't wander. We
better get to business."

"All right," Victor nodded. "What can we do for you?"

James grumbled, telling Victor his story, "I'm here on behalf of my
Space Boomer caravan community. We just got back from the Romulan Star
Republic's borders when we heard about Earth. I've got a civilian fleet
that's scared out of their minds trying to find some answers. Victor...
who killed planet Earth?"

The question wasn't unexpected, Victor had hoped that wasn't the reason
for the call but hadn't allowed himself to truly believe it. "Rebecca
von Ernst," he said without build-up.

James' arms dropped. Rendered speechless, his lip quivered, a flush of
red covered his face.

T'lan, first to pick up what was happening from the hair that bristled
on his neck, intervened, "James... calm down."

James' voice was cold. "I'm calm. Tell me how she did it."

"James..."

"Tell me." He hissed, "Now."

Victor complied, "She ordered an orbital bombardment from the Shiva
after losing control of a package - I don't know what it was yet - to
Jii; scorched everything that she didn't bomb to atoms clean with phaser
fire, and then torched off the atmosphere. That, however, wasn't enough
for her, and she deployed something else, a tectonic weapon of some
kind, and blew the planet apart. It's dust now, a new asteroid belt in
the making."

James wanted to refuse to believe it, pacing his bridge like a trapped
wild beast. "Christ... you're shitting me. Please say you're shitting
me."

"No," Victor replied quietly. "I can't. It woke me from a sound sleep
half a galaxy away. It's gone."

"GODDAMMIT THEY WERE STILL ON EARTH!!!!!!"

Angelienia's hands tightened on Victor's arm as they both confronted the
thought they'd hoped wasn't true. "They?" Angelienia asked shakily,
knowing that Victor wouldn't and still hoping that her fears were wrong.

"My family! Courtney, my sister! Damien and Diana, my niece and nephew!
We were going to get them out soon and pick up the package! The goddamn
package! Both of them! They were still on Earth!" James blew up, a
crescendo of unrestrained panic, "The Mika Machine was being transferred
by Hawksley Industries to a secure bunker on Earth! Hawksley! As in
REBECCA'S GODDAMN COMPANY! Christ! I thought the package was safe as
houses and Earth would be the last place anyone would want to destroy!
SHIT! I screwed up royally."

"Oh gods, I'm sorry, James," Angelienia blurted out, tears coming to her
eyes. "I'm so sorry...."

"James, you couldn't have known this would happen." T'lan reassured, but
tersely reminded, "You will not be able to finish your mission if you
wallow in self pity. Not again."

"I should have known, T'lan. I should have." James muttered, "If I
had..."

"Then you would be God, James," Victor interrupted, his voice firm. "And
you're not. Neither of us is." True, one of them was slightly closer to
that infinite position than the other, but not close enough to foresee,
much less stop, something like this. Which was, Victor knew, a good
thing; he wasn't suited for absolute power - he was perfectly
comfortable with what he had. "That won't make the pain go away, or the
rage burn less hot... but stabbing yourself with them won't help
anything."

James snarled like a seething beast, "Victor... I couldn't hurt any
worse. I was in bad shape when they turned my beloved Mika into a
fucking computer chip! I've seen the bottom before. Hell... I thought I
hit the bottom so many times for so many years... but here we are, once
again proving I need a phaser drill to chip through the bedrock to find
it. No... after a bit you just... feel... angry, and a little guilty for
not seeing it coming." He muttered, "I have to keep trying, even if I
fail. I apologize for my outburst. I'll keep heading to Earth, see what
I can find. Maybe... there's a slim chance. But goddammit... I can't
ignore reality. There's a good chance everything's lost."

Better than good, Victor knew, since he couldn't sense James' family at
all now that the Earth was gone. Even if he'd known in advance to try,
there wouldn't likely have been enough left of them physically for him
to hold them here. As it was... they were gone, completely gone, before
he could stop them. "I understand," he said quietly. "I'd go too, even
knowing, just in case I was wrong."

"But what the hell am I going to do about Rebecca?" James clenched his
fists until his nails dug in, drawing blood, "I can't ignore her
anymore. If I'd paid more attention to her over the years I assure you
this would have never happened. I would have been there to help her
before she became unhinged. Hindsight's 20/20, I guess. Can you keep me
posted on her movements? I might have to deal with her personally."

"I imagine that there are a lot of people with that same thought right
now, James." That was an understatement if Victor had ever made one. "I
don't know where she is - not yet - but when I do... I'll let you know,
and put you in touch with anyone else I know of that's got the same
idea. I promise."

"And Victor... another thing. It's about Allison, my daughter. You know
when I told you about how she was sent in the past. The Mika Machine was
unique. It didn't just work on time but it also monitored related
alternate dimensions based on a DNA lock of a related creature. That was
her. We could use another biological source and rebuild the machine, but
there's no guarantee that we could even find the same alternate time
thread, much less get Allison back. She's marooned... thought it might
be for the better, but I hate the idea of not being able to contact her.
We'll have no way of knowing whether or not she's safe."

"I remember, but I don't know where she is...." Victor closed his eyes
as Angelienia tightened her grip on his arm to steady him and looked out
into the green, green universe, hoping that the girl he recalled wasn't
in this one. "She's not lost, James," he said after a moment, surprised
at the sadness he felt in the discovery. "She's here, in this universe.
I can see her."

"Excuse me?" James doubted Victor's claim, not fully understanding
Krieghoff's abilities. He'd seen Victor do strange things before, but he
was starting to wonder if all his interests and run ins with the
paranormal left Victor delusional. His benevolence always came with a
risk of being sucked into his organization, part jihad with a little bit
of personality cult sprinkled into the mix. James was never comfortable
with this. "You can sense my daughter?"

"She was mine, back on the Galaxy, all those years ago, James," Victor
reminded him. "I always remember the ones that were mine, now. I can
sense them, out there, in the stars. That's how I do what I do when they
are at death's door."

"Sensing is one thing. An actual location with co-ordinates without
using sensors and I'll start saying om mani padme hum in your name. If
you find anything substantial, about Allison or Rebecca, let me know.
I'll keep you posted about what I find on Earth." James added, "Any
other business that we need to bring up?"

Victor looked down at Angelienia, who nodded at him, and then back up at
James. "Just the usual, James. You don't have permission to die. Not
you, and not T'lan." He smiled. "And you're invited to dinner when we
see you next."

"Then I bid you adieu, old friend. And for god sakes... stop going
native like Benjamin Sisko. If you'd remember, his gods shoved him into
a wormhole."

"There's the difference," Victor replied. "I don't have any gods to
blame for what I am, James. I'm a self-made man. Fly safe."

Laughing, James resigned himself to the fact that Victor would never
change. "Take care. And relax. If anyone's going to perish on this
trip... it'll be on my terms. Corgan out."

“Beams, Screens and Mika Machines”

By James Lionel Corgan

Captain, Civilian Charter Vessel I.S.S. Stolen Heart

Location: Deep in Federation Space, Sector 001

James was getting a better picture of what happened to Earth. Communications blackouts and censorship on both sides prevented him from knowing the whole truth, but there were other sources that completed his picture, and it was all the same. Earth was destroyed.

STAM. A Protocol 34 developed weapon system. James, being an opponent of Protocol 34, knew all about the weapon. Nothing would be left alive. The atmosphere would have been ignited. Shockwaves would have pulverized manmade and biological creations. The crust would have been cauterized by magma and pulled apart, brittle as a glass jar. What was left would be lifeless rock drifting in the evernight.

And all he could think about was the family back on Earth. Nuhir, his daughter from Atole Tekri, the temporal specialist. A daughter he didn't raise but always looked out for. James brought her into Starfleet, then took her out before the war began, safely bargaining a position for her at Hawksley Industries. What had become of her? Was she alive?

A sister and her family were also on Earth. Did they get out in time? Did he arrange for their departure too late? Could he have done differently? Or was he caught off guard by the suddenness of the war arriving on Earth?

And what of The Mika Machine, the biggest prize, a temporal and alternate dimension manipulator so powerful it could strangle timelines with a thought? Did it get destroyed with Earth?

And what of his daughter Allison? Did his actions and the destruction of Earth maroon her in another timeline? Or did she end up in a greater hell, the here and now?

The answers were straight ahead, in Sector 001.

The I.S.S. Stolen Heart passed by the ruins of Jupiter Station, entire segments phasered clean off while photon torpedo bombardment shattered the rest. The once research station and center of Starfleet super science was a gutted tritanium skeleton of an incomplete cremation, its pieces eventually would burn up in Jupiter's atmosphere.

The Mars Defense Perimeter was next, but there was no more perimeter to defend. Drones and starships alike drifted in pieces, in death their guns were silenced.

Utopia Planetia shipyards, and the colonies of Mars were next. It was one of the biggest industrial complexes in the entire Federation. It was now in ruin, a last ditch effort to activate the incomplete hulls and use them as a defensive measure made a slaughterhouse for both sides. Networks of dry docks, repair yards and space stations were in disrepair, spindly beams that once tethered starships twisted and blackened. The remains of starships and dock facilities littered the red Martian soil.

And then there was Earth, or a lack of it.

Earth was a asteroid debris field. There was something perversely alien about seeing chunks of great cities floating in the void, their skyscrapers windowless skulls, never to admit their workers again. It was odd seeing oceans and lakes, those that weren't vaporized by the heat, conglomerating into globules the size of his starship or bigger, or form shrouds of mist when combined with whatever atmosphere was left to disperse. Green lush rocks, the last of Earth's forests and fields not burned by magma floes, showed the first signs of withering as they were preserved in vacuum. Some pieces fought to retain their warmth, like the pieces of the Earth's core, but it was a losing battle, for they too would die as the last of their heat exhausted itself. All amongst it was the debris of an advanced civilization; dead starships, satellites and buildings mingled with the corpse of a dead planet.

Earth was dead.

The crew of the Stolen Heart reeled back in shock as they saw the former seat of the Federation. To the Boomers it was their cradle. Long ago they left Earth's skies for the infinite black and didn't regret leaving home, yet there were always ties. Earth was comfort. Earth was safe. Earth was a land of ancestors and culture.

And now it was gone.

To the Andorians that made a sizable contribution to James' crew, it was the seat of Empire. Like Rome, Earth was terra aeterna, thought to never fall. To see it dead gave them a cold reminder that it could have been their world, also a founding member, and that nothing was certain anymore.

Cal, the communications officer, let a tear slide down his cheek.

“My daughter...” Cal Machitty broke.

T'lan remained emotionless, at the edge of her fragile control. She hadn't needed to use her Vulcan disciplines for well over a decade; experience with emotions allowed her to cope with loss. To see Earth like this, completely dead, was more than she could take. She repeated the mantras in her head and tried to shut down the welling panic that was in her throat.

James, who wanted more than ever to break down, kept himself under control. He said to his bridge crew, “Stay frosty, ladies and gentlemen. We got a job to do. Helm, scan for lifesigns, wide spread, mark the areas, and transmit via Fednet and private channels to the Boomer fleet. They'll need to know who to save.”

A young Tellerite boomer, barely past his 20th birthday, stammered, “Aye sir. Marking targets. Nothing on Earth so far... Luna Colony is completely destroyed, no survivors. There's still some pockets at Mars... transmitting. Sent sir.”

“Good work. One task down.” James waved his hand to the screen, “Bring us closer to the Terran ruins.”

“Aye sir. Closing in now.”

“And watch for patrols, son.” James rested a hand on the helmsman's shoulder, “Keep a close eye. The debris can hide them just as easily as it hides us.”

“Sir! Sensors have detected a ship! A big one!” The helmsman reached for an alarm button.

James halted his hand, “Easy, easy. Relax. It may not be hostile. Just assume it's hostile. Yellow alert. Shields up. Approach the vessel with caution.”

“Aye sir.” The young man gazed down at his console, “Sorry sir.”

“Relax kid. Pre-combat jitters.” James patted the young man's shoulder, “I wouldn't have let you on if Captain Spalding didn't speak highly of you. Just take it easy. Approach.”

“Aye sir. We're within visual range.”

“On screen.”

The viewscreen displayed, in the chunks of debris, a large, dual crescent, amber hulled ship investigated a large, metalwork gouged asteroid. The ship was activated, sensor scans detected a full crew, and none of its defensive systems were online. It was just still, not drifting, holding place intent on a task.

“Well I'll be damned.” James breathed, “A Ferengi D'Kora class ship.”

“James', we should go to red alert.” T'lan bolted to the tactical console, “A D'Kora has as much firepower as an early Galaxy class vessel. We would be outgunned in a one on one engagement.”

“Relax.” James beckoned, “A Ferengi's only dangerous if you don't see him coming. The little bastards are here to loot. If we leave them alone they'll leave us alone.”

“We're going to let them loot?!” T'lan said, astounded.

“Not quite. Get a target lock. Lets see how greedy they are.”

“Aye sir.” T'lan's fingers danced on the console, “Target locked.”

Cal at Communications adjusted his earpiece, “Sir! Incoming message from the Marauder.”

“See?” James said, “Congenial. On screen.”

As the Stolen Heart's bridge crew held their breath, a Ferengi ship captain wearing resplendent business clothes and carrying the wrinkles of middle age appeared on the viewscreen. He wore the trappings of a rich merchant, from his gold pressed latinum brooch to the finest Tholian silk headdress. From the look of his reddening lobes and his bared, needlelike fangs that he was somewhat annoyed, but not really hostile.

He had the petulent wheedling of a shopkeep watching a customer paw his merchandise without any intent of paying. “What? What do you want? I'll have you know that we are here on a sanctioned enterprise. So if you'll so kindly lower your weapons, hewwwmon, you could come over to my ship, have a few drinks and share platitudes....”

“Well, I'm not here on a sanctioned enterprise, Mr. Ferengi, so we can cut the crap maybe you can reassure me that you're not here to loot a dead planet so I can be on my way. Identify yourself.”

The Ferengi stomped closer to the viewscreen, back straight and speaking with confidence and authority, if but a little pushy, “This is the Quark's Treasure. And I am...”

“Quark?” James sarcastically asked.

Quark gritted, offended by the condescension, “Yes. That would be me. You mind telling me who you are and what you want?”

“You first, or I get an itchy trigger finger. Ten seconds....”

“Wait!” The Ferengi nattered, “I am an official envoy....”

“Five....”

“...Of the Grand Negus of the Ferengi Alliance!”

“Oh?” James whistled, motioning T'lan to keep her finger away from the fire button, “Is that a fact? Lets see some credentials.”

“Oh! You want some credentials, do you? I can give you credentials!” Storming out of view, Quark didn't come back until a moment later, when he had in his hands a staff wrapped in cloth. He unwound the cloth, revealing shining gold and polished wood, and when it was fully unwrapped, it revealed a staff with a golden Ferengi's head. Feeling like he won a victory, Quark smugly announced, “This is the Staff of the Negus. How's THAT for credentials, hewwwmon?”

James grinned, he chuckled happily, confusing his bridge crew.

“Heh... so you are the Negus' brother. Well... I'd say your credentials are more than enough.”

“Sir?” T'lan yelped.

“Relax, T'lan. It's cool. Quark, what are you doing here?”

Quark went into a convincing spiel, like a salesman doing a pitch, “I'm here on behalf of the Ferengi Alliance and my brother, the Grand Negus Rom. You see, we're rendering humanitarian aid to Earth refugees. You can understand in this time of crisis that the races of the galaxy must pull together for a common benefit.”

“What's in it for you? Salvage rights?”

Quark hummed, “If it's legal salvage. I assure you I won't loot the dead.”

“Right...” James muttered, “And I'm sure any refugees you've rescued are not going to the Orion slave pens.”

“Why... how offensive, hewmon! My brother Rom has banned the practice! You are not up to date on our progressive reforms now, are you?”

“Alright, alright.” James waved it off, “Sorry. Just gotta razz you to test you. I'm here on behalf of the Space Boomers and we're trying to find refugees too. Looks like you beat us to the punch. Any luck?”

Quark nodded his head, “No. The hewmon commander that destroyed your planet was thorough. We found a few derelicts and sent the crews to Mars. Check the records if you don't believe me.”

“No problem.” James said, not wanting to be bogged down by details, “It's fine. If you can give me some more information on refugee movements I can have my associates help you and and I can be on my merry way.”

Quark heard a whisper from one of his crew. Nodding, he sent the crewmember on his way, “The Captain of the ship did, however, took care of some survivors. We have a few in our medical bay. Unfortunately not everyone survived... but we found them in a most peculiar way.”

“Oh? And how's that?”

Quark explained, “Well... we mapped the particular chunk of asteroid originating from the western part of the North American continent. It was deep too, almost rode out the destruction if its inertial dampeners didn't overload. Very heavy duty measures for a protective bunker... but that wasn't the odd part. You see, we were attracted to the site by heavy chronoton readings...”

~”Jesus.”~ James part whispered under his breath. Earth was a favorite time traveler's destination, but even he could narrow down the possibilities to its source. The description matched a standard protective bunker, heavily armoured, deep underground and set up with shields and inertial dampners to withstand bombardments. It was a setup only Starfleet and the richest corporations could afford.

Just like Hawksley Industries.

He had to hope, or he had to imagine that the chronoton source was dust by now. It was fleeting hope, but one he wanted to grab. Containing his excitement and worry showed herculean restraint. “You don't suppose it was the source, do you?” He asked, attempting to throw Quark a false lead.

“Oh no... no.” Quark nodded his big lobes, “It was too concentrated and localized. My brother Rom talked to me about the reading and what I find, and he assures and the Ferenginar Institute of Technology assures me it's no weapon... not in the conventional sense.” Quark waved dismissively, “Something about its concentration. Trust me. Rom's an idiot, but he's a savant with anything involving a circuit board, so I'd say he's right. My guess is a timetravel gone wrong.”

~”Allison.”~ James choked back a lump in his throat, then said to Quark, “What did you find?”

“Oddest thing... there were some dead in the bunker, but two survivors. We beamed them both to our medical bay. The first one was a Romulan... might have been half hewmon, but she died in minutes I'm afraid.”

There was no doubt in James mind. Blood rushed out of his head, rendering him pale like a bedsheet, ~”Nuhir... Atole was right...”~ He shut out the dread, keeping to business, “And the other?”

“The oddest thing of all.” Quark grinned, “An Andorian, half dead, preserved by some life support equipment and implanted with more cybernetic wetware than a Borg.”

T'lan spared James the embarrassment of losing his bargaining position by gasping first. If there was doubt to the Ferengi's find none was left. James had thought it was gone forever, taken away in one cruel swipe of Rebecca's whims, but what James forgot was this find's remarkable resilience and his incredible luck.

It was still alive, and one request away from being in his possession.

Quark's perception, galaxy renown for finding good opportunities, didn't miss the slip. “I see I have your attention.”

James asked politely, “May we inspect your find and take it off your hands? I'd also like to look over the dead and give them a proper burial.”

“Sure.” Quark's ears twitched, sensing profit, “But a person strapped to that many life support systems and modified to that extent isn't just an entombed humanoid. She's worth something to you hewmons, even I can see that. The dead you can have, but the sarcophagus isn't mine or yours. It'll have to be investigated by the Ferengi Institute...”

“Three bars of gold pressed latinum.” James stated matter of factly, “And consider it a favour from me to you.”

“Seven bars, and it's a favour from ME to YOU.”

“Five bars and I'll take you up on that drink offer.”

“Sold, but only if you tell me what kind of black ops conspiracy trouble you've dragged me into.”

James growled, “It's normally need to know, but since I'm not an officer of an armed forces that doesn't even exist anymore dealing with an item that's by all rights private property... I don't suppose you could keep it under your hat?”

“Only if its worth my while.”

“An extra bar for your troubles and it's off the accounting books.”

“Done, and may I say Mr. Corgan that you have a Ferengi's gift for negotiation.”

“Thank you. Expect my party to beam over in five minutes.”

Quark pointed an accusing finger at T'lan, “If she's coming along, she better be unclothed. Ferengi law.”

James grinned devilishly, “I'll have to take it up with her. Honey, you mind coming with me to Quark's ship naked?”

“Most certainly not!”

“Zut alors... you heard the lady, and don't try to stop her.”

Quark grinned, his needle teeth resting on his gums, “I wouldn't dream of it. Women... can't live with them. Over and out.”

T'lan pounced on James as soon as the viewscreen cut out. “James! We are not seriously buying Mika from a Ferengi scoundrel, are we?!”

James hushed, “It's cool, babe. Quark might be a scoundrel, and god knows he waters his drinks when he owned that bar at that shit bucket space station by the Bajoran wormhole, but he's honest by Ferengi standards, and he's under the command of an uncommonly benevolent Grand Negus Rom. We can trust him. Better, we can trust him more when we dangle easily earned gold pressed latinum in his face. Don't worry.”

T'lan said matter of factly, “I do worry. Everything you do worries me.”

“That's my girl. Then I assume you've already hit the panic button to our armory and told our cabin boy to get our phasers pistols?”

T'lan snorted, “Of course. It was a logical course of action.”

James winked, “You're too good for me.”

“I know. Lets try to get Mika off that ship alive... somewhat.”

"Quark's Little Treasure"

By James Lionel Corgan

Captain, Civilian Charter Vessel I.S.S. Stolen Heart

Location: Quark's Treasure, in Sector 001

*****

The Cargo Bay of the Quark's Treasure

*****

“So you're going to tell me what this is about?” Asked an insistent, and now nervous Quark.

James, Quark and T'lan inspected the row of linen covered dead bodies that lined the center edge of the Ferengi ship's cargo bay. Seeing the bodies and finding their identities, he found they were mostly Hawksley Industries workers, mostly from the Temporalwerks, though their ID's used the cute but nebulous moniker of 'Linear Manipulations Department'. A final confirmation proved it was part of The Mika Machine project crew, transfers to the new Earth facility before James and company would plan on spiriting The Mika Machine away. All plans were too late. All the bodies suffered from inertial impacts, thrown around like broken toys or exposed to space vacuum as the underground facility was blown through space and exposed to inertia no dampeners or flesh could handle. It was a wonder that any survived at all.

The last body in the row, messed with dried green blood, mussed hair and bruises, was the face of Nuhir Tekri. Young by Romulan and Human standards, without the bodily harm she was a lovely creature, showing off her exotic Romulan beauty in the form of sharp eyebrows and green/gold hued skin and emerald eyes, but sharing also her free wheeling human heritage, nut brown hair and mirthsome mouth.

James missed most of her childhood and regretted it, but it was Nuhir as a teenager, then an adult, that brought the father and daughter close, sharing a relationship more like comradely and mutual respect. Nuhir had her mother's cloying personality and wonderful charm, James Corgan's abundant energy and drive, and a book smarts that couldn't quite be attributed to either parent. How she stood out was her firm belief in the search for knowledge and exploration of the unknown, practiced instead of preached in a way unseen for decades.

It was hard to accept that weeks ago James, Nuhir, Victor and T'lan plotted The Mika Machine's theft, and that now she was dead.

T'lan at his side showing a wordless empathy for his grief and loss, James closed Nuhir's eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, before closing the sheet over her body.

“Was she something special to you?” Quark asked.

James replied, “Yeah. She was my daughter.”

“I see...” Quark showed an understanding that breached his race's stereotype, “I can understand what it's like losing family. My nephew Nog... he was the first Ferengi in Starfleet. He died years ago at the Battle of the Heavenly Gates.”

James understood. “I heard of him. He was the Captain of the USS Republic. Risked his life and his ship to beam out the crew of a dying vessel. Bravest son of a bitch I know.”

“Yes.” Quark said with a tone of mourning, “He was a loss for all of us. And it was all for what? A hewmon war? For ideals the hewmons never followed. Tell me Mr. Corgan, if hewmons were so high and mighty about peace and progress, why was it so easy for them to start civil wars and destroy their own planet?” He paced, overlooking the dead bodies, “I've known hewmons for years, they are quick to trumpet their strengths while reminding us Ferengi about our shortcomings. We're greedy... we're moneygrubbers. I heard it all. But hewmons... and they can surprise you at times, but just as they introduce me to compassion, loyalty, bravery and self sacrifice they then show me a perfect example of hypocrisy. Evolved? Then how do you explain those dead bodies over there? How do you explain a destroyed planet?”

James said, “And before the Dominion War I would have told you the party line. We were evolved. We were peaceful. Now... like fuck we are. We evolved socially to cover over the fact that we're crude, paranoid omnivores. We sought peace because we know for a fact that we're capable of committing genocide despite any guilt we have of causing it. We sought knowledge to distract ourselves from making empires out of the bodies of the fallen. We're savage, we're warlike, and we've spent centuries trying to make peace despite our better instincts. We just failed... that's all. Our efforts to go against our nature just weren't enough. But goddammit we tried, even if we had to fool ourselves into thinking we weren't such a terrible race, and it was almost enough. What can I say? Sorry? For an entire race's idiocy? I wish I could, but I can only speak for myself, and I would say sorry if it meant anything.”

Quark replied, “That was the most honest thing I've ever heard from a hewmon.”

James snorted, “I don't delude myself. Can we carry on? I have a funeral to plan and a live person to take.”

“Yes. Right this way. And I'll be glad that you're taking it off my hands for such a generous offer. That... person if you can call it that won't shut up, and its creeping my crew out.”

Quark lead James to The Mika Machine. Without the temporal equipment that took an entire large room of ductwork, wires, relays and computer equipment, the part that made Mika itself was contained in a tattered, silver sarcophagus, wire sprouting out like roots from a tree stump torn out of the earth, the tomb of a long dead but now sleeping princess.

Mika itself was ok. Withered, dessicated, light blue flesh sunk in cavities around her face, letting her resemble a waifish, almost skeletal cadaver, covered by a head of white, trimmed hair and a hospital gown that gave the machine person modesty. Patched with wires and cables running all over her body in plugs, she looked like she was sleeping on a bed of metal snakes. Vacant white eyes, covered by cataracts, blindly sought the noises its antennae and ears tuned and artificial sensing systems scanned. Dried, cracked lips murmured quietly an nonsensical poem, the voice carrying a sadness in unlife and a dryness of an accountant reading financial records.

The destruction of Earth couldn't kill it. Extra inertial protections, combined with the system's autonomic protections, safeguarded Mika's health while shielding and absorbing the Earth's punishment.

T'lan and James respectfully approached the sarcophagus, removing their hats and paying respect to the woman they once loved, their hearts aching from opened wound seeing their former quadmate enslaved by technology, her vibrant and loving life perverted for the purpose of turning her into the processing unit and temporal anchor for a time and alternate dimensions manipulations machine, a dual purpose of spite and pain. The old Mika personality was long dead, not a trace of her remained but the shell, yet the way it talked and gibbered indicated a new presence, a simple mind with a sole purpose and rudimentary understanding of the people around it.

The Mika Machine rasped, “Saaadddd... mmmaaannnnn....”

James had heard The Mika Machine call him Sad Man before in his numerous visits, knowing she had no understanding, but knowing it was her that made him sad. The innocent new life form had only known pity without understanding.

“And this is...” Quark, missing the importance if not T'lan and James solemnness, broke the silence.

“A biological CPU.” James told a half truth, sparing Quark the dangers that would come of even knowing the true intent of The Mika Machine, “Inspired but not based on Borg technology. Take a dead person, use what's left of their grey matter, and you get the equivalent of a hundred bio-neural gelpacks. The chronotons... that's an aftereffect of using her as a quantum computer, generating numbers so large you have to reach into time and alternate dimensions just to access them.”

Quark looked disgusted, “You use your dead as computer chips? Then how does she get to the Divine Treasury?”

James uttered, “I don't think she can.” He added with a lie, “It was considered unethical and abandoned, but it was also unethical to kill her. She was stored.”

Quark asked, “And how do you know this?”

James replied, “The joys of being a former Commodore in Starfleet. I get to know all sorts of crazy black ops shit. Listen... you don't want to be caught with this. Immunity or not, the Hawks will rip your head off and shit down your neck if they find she's here. She's a hot potato. Let me take her and get as far away from you as I can.” He gave Quark a PADD, “Thumbprint here. That'll transfer the latinum to your account. And this...” He withdrew from his jacket and presed into Quark's hand a bar of gold pressed latinum, “Is your silence. Guard it with your life.”

Quark understood, nodding his head.

James said, “I'd take you up on that drink, but I think we ought to go.”

Quark stammered, “Yes. You better go. My lobes hear trouble and it's all over you, hewmon, and the reason I survived this long is because I know when to listen to my lobes. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck, Quark. And give the Grand Negus my regards.” James tapped his badge, “Stolen Heart, two to beam up, as well as one cargo box and twenty dead, all to our cargo bay. Execute.”

To the relief of Quark, James, T'lan and their cargo left his ship.

“Not a moment too soon.” Quark sighed, more than happy to leave the hewmons to their strange ways.

"Just What is our Course, Cap'n"

Cap'n T'risia

Sam Widdlestein

***

The Black Pearl

***

There were some people who could say 'arrrr' with heart or malice -

and Sam liked to think she excelled at both - but the pirates of the

Black Pearl usually made it sound, at best, like they were clearing

their throat. She was therefore pretty lax about the 'arrr' - who

really wanted to hear that ruckus - but got in their faces if they

forgot the dress code.

"Wha tha bleedin' hell i'this, Smitty?" Sam bellowed at the would be

pirate before her. "Wha kind o fearrr you gunna strike en tha hearrts

a tha massess wearin' BELLBOTTOMS?"

They both looked down at the offending pants.

"And seriously, did you brush your hair this morning?" Sam asked,

dropping the pirate tongue in her incredulity. "And your teeth? I'm

all for dental hygeine, dude, but haven't you ever heard of makeup?

Fake stains and false teeth? How is anyone going to take you seriously

with pearly whites?"

"But I'm wearing an eyepatch," The woman protested. "That's piratey, right?"

"Dumbass," Sam said with a growl. "Tha's prob'ly tha worse o'ffense.

How ya gunna bloody pilot tha ship wi' one eyeee? FIFTY lashes!"

As they dragged off the weeping new recruit, Scurvy Don approached

with a raised eyebrow. "Fifty lashes?"

Sam grinned. "I like to scare the newbies. It's always fun to see

their fashion choices the next day. The Cap'n in?"

Scurvy Don knocked on the door and heard the 'arrrr' bellowed loudly

from within. "Yup."

"Nice tooth by the way. Although if we aren't able to pay the rent,

you know it's getting yanked, right?"

She entered the ready room, the door closing on Scurvy Don tonguing

his gold pressed latinum tooth with concern. "You wanted to see me,

Cap'n?"

The slender vulcan woman stood as Ms. Widdlestein entered, nodding in

the affirmative. Her long frock coat was draped over the back of her

large chair, and the desk cluttered with research, star charts, and

calculations of some kind, seemingly probability. She was not wearing

her hat, either, and she reached for her cane as she made her way

forward. "Arrr. Indeed, I did. How go the repairs to the Black

Pearl?"

"Relatively well," The redhead answered. She sat on one of the

mismatching chairs and swung a leg over the arm. "We got the cloak

working again, thank whatever gods ye will, but she's going to need a

hell of a lot more than a few patches if you want to still keep her

afloat. You should put 'er to port, Cap'n."

T'risia nodded at this, and turned her green eyes to look at the

large, hand drawn star map, with the ancient course, as much was known

of it, drawn on in various colors, denoting warp speeds, hazards,

stops, and so on. She leaned forward on her cane, thinking, taking

time with the information.

"Aye. We will need to stop in a friendly port. Are relations still

well with Mr. Krieghoff? The last I heard whispered, he and his lady

friend had some sort of independent fortress, arrr?" Her eyebrow

raised, inquiring.

"Aye, I think it that's still the case," Sam said.

"Perhaps we should set in there, to repair the Pearl, then, arrrr?"

T'risia was legitimately seeking the other woman's counsel, a bit

unsure of the best course of action, with respect to the ship, and the

mission. She knew that Krieghoff would have the skill to access the

kind of data that she wanted from the computer cores, which was

paramount to her.

"We could ask reeeal nicely," Sam said with a grin. She didn't really

think it would be a problem and if it was, well, not even Victor had

made it through the torture that was 'ninety-nine bottles of grog on

the wall.'

T'risia, failing to notice or understand Terran humor, despite her

affection for the culture, simply nodded, continuing to look at her

wall based chart, as if searching for something that she had missed,

some piece on the cosmic chessboard in an unnoticed position. Despite

her continued scrutiny, nothing leapt forth, and she finally turned

her head from it. "Arr. Indeed. We will approach with all caution,

and share the ships stores of loot. I assume that we have a diversity

of other technological bounty to trade, beside the cores themselves?"

"A bit o' this, a bit o' that."

The Captain paced slightly, her cane banging loudly on the wood

paneled deck plates. She took a moment to consider the map once more,

distracted by her own, driving mission, and nodded her head. "Surely,

we can make good parley with that. Arrr." Her green eyes seemed

distant, lost in thought.

Sam's smile dimmed somewhat. "I was wondering ... what is our mission,

Cap'n? You've been holding this tankard of ale rather close to the

gullet, aye?"

T'risia's attention snapped to Sam Widdlestein, appraising her with a

keen eye. It was as if she were her older self, sharp, strategic,

logical without the eccentricity having gone too far. She walked to

her desk, sat down, and pured out some rum for herself. Offering a

second glass of rum to Sam, she indicated the wall. "A logical

appraisal of the course plotted on the wall, and the star positions,

showing the relative changes in the past hundred years, would indicate

that to be the path of a Constitution class vessel. We are searching

for a classified location, deemed too hazardous by Starfleet for

disclosure. It is called the Ellison Research Base."

Sam frowned at the map. "Never heard of it."

T'risia drank her rum rapidly. "We seek less the base, than what they

are there to study. We cannot loot it, sadly, although the motive has

nothing to do with the war that engulfs the spaceways. Arr. To be

sure, I seek my own proverbial White Whale...and to be fair, I had

thought both the quest for the base, and my motives, to be obvious.

Arr." Even in trying to be forthright, the emotionless woman had

trouble expressing...feelings.

Sam rubbed her temple. "Cap'n, this doesn't have anything to do with

8-ball, right?"

T'risia arched a brow, and refilled her rum. Her green eyes glittered

as she said simply, "Lt. Hunter died some time ago, Ms. Widdlestein.

Logic dictates that the past is immutable. I hope to find answers at

the Ellison Base, to solve the riddle of her death." She paused, and

took a stiff drink of the rum, trusting to her Vulcan constitution, as

usual. "Like any riddle, it can be solved, often in variable

fashions, satisfying different premises, based upon the perspective of

the logician." The last statement was enigmatic, lost in thought, as

if considering the possible paths that might occur at the Ellison

Base. As if there were more to the matter than a simple mystery

solved.

The other woman sighed. Sam had lost people during both wars - her

parents, Tae'ben, little Korvin - but she had moved on with her life.

She often found it odd, and - to be honest - at times annoying, that

the Vulcan had not. "Crew might need more insentive to visit a place

they can't loot, T'risia."

Coming back o the moment at that, she tilted her head. "Arrr? Can

not loot? Perhaps I had not considered the matter from the right

crow's nest. There will be technology there....technology not

available to space at large...indeed, lost to the Federation itself,

except at the highest levels, almost since its discovery. In that

isolation..." her brow arched once more, as she jammed her hat down

on her head, "With what is said to be there, by the half factual tales

that thread the spaceways, ther should be something that we can return

with. A pearl of great price. I simply do not know what it might

be...at least for them."

"S'pose we'll make due," Sam said with false cheer. And if they

couldn't ... well, the pirate life was pretty damned flexible. She

could always find another ship to set sail, so to speak. "If you don't

mind, Cap'n, I'd like to go remind Smitty about the evils of

complementary colors. Girl seems to think we're in a gorram pagent."

T'risia nodded her head, sagely. "Of course. We would not want to

become lax in the vital disciplines of the ship. Along that track of

logical discourse...have all the crew begun to carry the new

sidearms?" The hand phasers on board had been cosmetically redesigned

a week ago by the Vulcan Captain, in order to resemble a large,

awkward flintlock pistol. The functionality, of course, had not been

changed.

They were a pain in the ass, Sam thought, but they did look kinda

cool. "Arrr, Cap'n."

Again, T'risia was pleased enough with the goings on. Things would

fall into place, and quickly enough. If she were human, she would say

that she had an intuition about her new data haul, and that the looted

computers would provide a needed lead. "What of the monkey? Is anyone

looking for a way to reverse the assimilation process in the beast?"

That was a mystery in itself....the ship had somehow gotten a monkey

on board, and it had become the ship's mascot, for lack of a better

term. Equally mysteriously, it had been assimilated by borg nano

probles, theoretically from some item brought on ship.

No one had every discovered the item, and further, it was not know if

it had been sold, or was still on board in the hold, or a crewman's

locker, since no one knew what item it was. At least the assimilation

process had been halted in the monkey. Interestingly, the monkey was

no more odd in behavior than before assimilation.

"Four Fingered Harry is looking into it," The redhead said grumpily.

Personally, she'd be happy if someone shot the damned thing out a

torpedo tube. It kept crapping in front of her quarters.

T'risia arched a brow. The pirate name was important, but seemed

woefully illogical. "Four Fingered Harry? Do not all Terrans have

four fingers to a hand? The thumb is not defined as a finger." The

vulcan did not ever lose her temper, of course, but logical problems

like this made her difficult to deal with.

Sam smiled. "It sounds better than Thumbless Harry. Trust me"

“Through Earth and Back, Part 1”
By James Lionel Corgan & T'lan, ISS Stolen Heart

Location: Sector 001, in the Earth asteroid field.

Soundtrack:
”Love is All Around” by The Troggs (in Mika we mourn)

Quark's Treasure, the Ferengi D'Kora class cruiser acting as head of the Ferengi Alliance's relief effort/salvage operation, left Earth at a quarter impulse and made way for Mars. This left the Stolen Heart alone at Earth's graveyard, taking on additional cargo and leaving it to take on its own mission.

Upon placing The Mika Machine in his safest, most heavily guarded cargo bay, James Corgan left his bridge crew to scan for additional survivors, went back to the cargo bay, and watched her slumber. An hour he spent, watching the cadaverous Mika behind a tomb of phaser resistant polymers and duranium casings, on a bed of metal snakes that went in and out of her body, silent in contrast to an hour ago, where her frightened gibbering couldn't be quieted until James held her lukewarm, withering hand until she fell asleep. She wouldn't stay asleep until James brought his acoustic guitar and soothed her disquieted soul with a twangy lullaby. Like an attentive father, he listened to her quite murmurings, remembering from Nuhir that at rest Mika mumbled advanced mathematical equations, her latent processing power always kept busy.

T'lan came into the cargo bay, to see James' vigil. He stopped his song.

“I was wondering when you would come back.” T'lan sashayed towards James, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind.

Intensely, James focused on The Mika Machine. Taking T'lan's hand, he kissed her on the back of the hand, “Sorry babe.” He glanced up at T'lan, love in his eyes and an apology on his lips, “I just... whenever I see her... it takes me back to better times. I feel better thinking about those days, and I don't want to leave her sight or I'll lose that feeling. I love her, T'lan, and I always will. Even if she's dead, if the people I've known have perverted her, even if seeing her like this breaks my heart in ways even I can't fully explain... I just can't help see her, and feel both smitten and heartbroken.” James rose, “You must think I'm being unfaithful pining for her like this. You must be ready to drop me at any moment.”

“What I am ready to do,” T'lan reciprocated with a kiss on the lips, “Is to tell you to get some sleep. You are tired, stressed and your emotions are rubbed raw by tragedy. You're hurting yourself looking at her like this. Besides... this isn't her. This is a shell. Her katra is long gone.”

“I suppose you're right. It isn't her anymore. There's been too much modification, so much technology jammed into her, her head exposed to raw data that would render most people insane. Before she was a puppet. Now? I can't call her that. She has thoughts, she dreams in her sleep, she even gives me a name... the Sad Man. The closest thing I can gather is she's a child... and she needs us.” James set his guitar down, giving The Mika Machine another look, “Still, there's a certain comfort to be had by being near her. When she was alive, there was no person more loving. She had an infinite well of it. Don't know where she got it or how it never ran dry, but made you feel like there was no depth to her compassion, that being with her was the safest state of mind.

T'lan agreed, “Yes. We all loved her for it. I loved her as you loved her. When I lost my emotion control, she never saw me as a freak. She was there for me, for all of us.”

“Love is the condition where the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”

“Pardon?”

“Robert Heinlein. I quote it, but when she was alive she lived it. Big difference. But just as she loved us... I'll love you. I'd forgotten that lesson for so long that I have to make it up to you, but I'll never stop loving her.”

“Nobody does after they meet her, James.”

“No, and even the machine, for all they've done to torment her, has a little bit of Mika left. The Mika we know might be dead, but this Mika doesn't know what's going on. She's a new person. She's a child. She's innocent. Whatever her past she's here now and she needs us. It's up to us now to protect her.”

“I agree.” T'lan hummed. She walked around The Mika Machine's exterior, stroking the cold metal surface, “James, I have my misgivings about Victor. If we hand her to Victor, what will he do with her?”

“He says he'll keep her safe.” James said, with a caveat, “But I'm not so sure. He's hardly what we'd call neutral, and it wouldn't be the first time we had to keep Mika away from people that would use her. Starfleet tried to use her as a Protocol 34 temporal weapon. Victor... he could use her against the Hawks. I won't let it happen. She gets to stay safe, even if it means turning my back on Victor.”

“But do you think he'll use her?”

“For now... no. But in the future and if we're not making sure Mika stays neutral... without a doubt. He fights for a divine cause now... himself. It's that sort of justification that can make a man do some very atrocious things. If worse comes to worse, we'll do what we always do. Whatever we can, by whatever means.”

“Then keep your word. Protect Mika at all costs.”

“That I will. I won't lose her again.”

James picked up the guitar and started to sing. He played an old Earth love song, something obscure, pulled from the wreckage of a wartorn 21st century ruin. The song conveyed his love, heavy with the burden of guilt but ending it with hope. What it lacked was regret, the fact that he loved wasn't in doubt, but how he dealt with that love.

The red alert sirens came on as James sang, “...you know I love you, I always will.... what the hell?”

T'lan was quickest with the comm badge, “Bridge! Report!”

Comm officer Machitty warbled, =/\=“Ma'am, you better get yourself and the Captain over here. We have a squadron of Starfleet raiders on an intercept course. ETA in five minutes.”=/\=

“What side?”

=/\=“Unknown. They're designated as 125th interdiction squadron.”

“Jesus! That puts them under Admiral Kotobuki, and he's such a Hawk he shits talons. Hold station. We got nothing to hide, but prepare to bolt if they get frisky. Corgan out.” James placed the guitar beside The Mika Machine, giving Mika a last glance, “Don't worry Meeks. We won't be long. 'Lan, we better make an appearance. Who knows if we're dealing with the honest kind of Hawk.”

T'lan answered with Vulcan austerity, “The odds of a these Vessels confiscating ours is 76.59 percent by Sokar's sociological predictions formula.”

“Babe, let's pray for that 24.41 percent.” He rushed himself and T'lan into the turbolift, shutting the cargo bay lights, “Bridge! Tout suite!”

*****
The Bridge of the ISS Stolen Heart
*****

“Report!”

An Andorian officer read from his tactical display, “Sir! Four Peregrine Class Couriers have taken position around our ship. They all have shields up and have locked ons. Three more are on their way. ETA 3 minutes.”

T'lan ran to the science console, hunching over the small eye display. James, in a moment of mirth, snorted derisively, “Marquis Raiders vessels? Those hunks of crap are barely space worthy. They must be desperate.”

T'lan called out, “They may be barely spaceworthy, but they are fast and well armed for a ship their size. A formation in this position could damage us. And if they find out we have The Mika Machine they'll definitely think we're graverobbing!”

“Yeah.... if those ships don't know a black ops project, bet your ass their superiors will. They'll have us hanged. Ain't that a bitch.” James fretted. Scouts like this would have been more widespread, and their first encounter he hoped would have been one vessel. The fact that a whole squad was responding told him a few things. One, his ship was spotted , and long enough for a group to be gathered. The other was that a group of small vessels this big meant there were not many big ships left in the system, much less any big vessels willing to brave the asteroid field. A third thought was that his ship was considered enough of a threat, or enough of a prize, to gather whatever scratch forces crazy enough to risk a fight in an asteroid field.

He didn't think he was being pulled over for being in Sector 001. That would be a convenient excuse.

“Sir!” Machitty announced, “The lead vessel is hailing us!”

“Motherfucker...” James muttered under his breath, “On screen.”

His screen showed a young male human captain in a cramped bridge. He wore a Starfleet Uniform, his badges designated him as a Hawk, just as James guessed. He spoke authoritatively, =/\=“Civilian Vessel, this is the 125th Interdiction Group, under the authority of Admiral Kotobuki. You are in a disaster area. Prepare to be boarded and your cargo inspected on grounds of anti-looting intervention.”=/\=

~”Shit. That confirms it. They're a Hawk unit. We'll have to bolt.”~ James rolled his eyes, “And if you don't like what you find?”

=/\=”We will impound your vessel and use it for a... worthy cause.”=/\=

T'lan had a pleading look to her, as with the rest of his bridge crew, like children caught with their hand in the snack jar. For all intents and purposes, they were caught. In the middle of a warzone surrounded by warships, a Civilian charter like his didn't have special protection. The Hawks had the perfect excuse to do what they wanted to him.

A fight, or a theft, was inevitable.

Looting.

Theft...

~”Ahhh... so you think we're looting?”~ James gears worked hard in his head. An idea started to formulate, not much of one, but as he thought closer it became more insane, risky, and ought right dangerous. If he had even thought it had a chance in hell of working it would have been a cold day in hell. If he didn't pull it off a squadron of raiders would needle his precious ship half to death before stripping him and his crew and taking his ship. At worse... the ship would also smack into an asteroid and crumple itself into the size of a hood ornament.

So it had to work!

“Standby, lead vessel. We are prepared to take you aboard. Prepare for docking procedures.”

=/\=“Wait! You can't do that! We will beam aboard.”=/\=

“Negative!” James bluffed a bold faced lie because he contradicted it for a fact hours ago, “We are... experiencing interference from... the remains of the Earth's core. Magnetic interference. It's played havok on our transporters and it'll do the same to you. Prepare for docking procedures.”

=/\=”You will halt right this instant or we'll open fire!”=/\=

“Prepare for docking procedures. Dock at section five. Over and out.”

=/\=”You better not hang up on...”=/\=

The viewscreen winked out. James gave immediate orders, “Let's not disappoint them. Helm, port thrusters to quarter impulse and prepare a tractor beam target lock for vessel #2, now. Prepare to use the tractor beam and punch those same thrusters to full impulse on my mark. Tactical... standby for shields and aft weapons, activate the same time as we punch the engines.”

“James!” T'lan said in alarm, understanding what was happening, “You have an... unconventional method of running away. We're going to collide into the Hawk vessel!”

“I know. Don't worry, I'll time it.”

“Sir...” Quavered the helmsman, a teenage boy barely old enough to man the helm, “Are you sure?”

“Trust me kid. I'm a Captain.”

“They're hailing again.” Said Machitty.

“Well, aren't I popular today. Onscreen.”

=/\=”Last warning or we will transport marines and open fire!”=/\=

“You'll have to drop your shields to do that lad. Relax. I'm not trying anything. Trust me. I'm a Captain. Prepare for docking procedures. Corgan out.”

=/\=”You have your tractor beam locked on another vessel and you're closing in on us! What kind of docking procedure is that?”=/\=

“Oh... sorry! I got a new helmsman on the job. A simple mistake. Wave to the nice Starfleet boys, ensign.”

The Helmsman waved meekly, then went back to his controls.

“We'll get the targeting sorted out and I'll meet you at the docking tube. Corgan out.”

=/\=”Stay on the line you son of a...”=/\=

“James!” T'lan yelled urgently, “We're closing in fast. This better be a cunning plan of yours.”

“Trust me, it is. Remember Tomek V?”

T'lans eyes lit up in instant recognition, “You're kidding. You realize we can't flee at warp until we're out of the system. And that's if we evade the squadron inside an asteroid field, assuming the first part of your plan works and you fool them in the first three seconds. They won't fall for it.”

“Sure they will. That snotnosed brat's probably got a two week tactical crash course. He won't see this coming. Is the 'docking procedure' ready?”

T'lan replied, “All ready. Power is allocated, all crews to battlestations and all chaplains notified to prepare last rites.”

“That's my girl! Helm, I hope you can handle this.”

The helmsman, or helmsboy was more proper, tapped away at his console, calling up controls, “Boss, I could fly through an ion storm without even a scratch. But this ship's big. The raiders will have an easier time of it.”

“Gotta love teenage confidence. You fly, I'll think of a way to make it easier for us. Alrighty then... docking procedure in three... two... one... GO GO GO!”

The Corgan docking procedure went as followed. Drifting at one quarter impulse in a starboard direction, the ship then bolted to full impulse in the same direction, straight towards one of the flanking vessels. A move like that was an open invitation to a starship on starship collision at that speed, and as such the Peregrin's warning klaxons were screaming at the crew to move right away. They were starting to kick their own impulse thrusters and turn to starboard.

“Computer... hailing frequencies. To all Hawk ships... catch me if you can, assholes!”

"Through Earth and Back, Part 2”
or
"The Corgan Docking Procedure"

By James Lionel Corgan & T'lan, ISS Stolen Heart

Location: Sector 001, in the Earth asteroid field.

Soundtrack:
-”Tornado” by Mindless Self Indulgence (The big starship chase scene... what? You expected banjoes?)

“To all Hawk ships... catch me if you can, assholes!”

That was when the Stolen Heart's shields activated. Shields activated in a bubble a distance away from the ship. Timed perfectly by James, the shield bubble popped up at the right moment, and hurled at the right velocity, to slam into the Raider's shields. Considering the mass difference, it was like a sumo wrestler open hand slapping a five year old child. A crackling of shield energy and the Raider was sent flying, one of its wings cracked by an oncoming asteroid. The Raider was for all intents and purposes disabled.

The tractor beam, purposely mishandled and targeted at the wrong vessel, latched onto the port side Raider and tugged the smaller vessel like the same child trying to take a bolting pitbull for a walk. Controlling the tractor beam so that the Raider was pushed to an angle, it couldn't get a proper weapons lock on the Stolen Heart.

And in the shock of finding one vessel disabled and the other being dragged helplessly off, the other two found the nerve to hit their fire buttons. Red phaser beams lanced the Stolen Heart's shields, rattling the vessel.

James flinched as a shower of sparks crackled near him.

Tactical screamed, “Shields down to eighty percent! Target lock achieved.”

“Aft phasers, fire at will! Helm, full impulse foward! Show me some of that fancy flying, kid!” He looked at the viewscreen, at the ship in his tractor beam, “And for god sakes, get that barnacle off my hull. He's causing us to drag.”

“Aye sir!”

Their 'barnacle' was released, but not before bashing a few asteroids against its shields until it became disabled. Cleared of obstacles, the Stolen Heart found a somewhat clear corridor, long enough to gain some high sublight speed, and fled. The two Raiders, angry as hornets, followed, their phasers doggedly chipping away at the Stolen Heart's shields. While Stolen Heart thundered in a straight line, the Raiders danced around rocks.

“James!” T'lan yelled for attention, holding on as the ship rocked, “They think we're looters. Why don't we indulge them?”

James smirked, “I was thinking the same thing. Vent the 'special cargo bays'. Both of them.”

“Aye sir! Venting now!”

“Trigger on my mark.... mark!”

One of James' favorite tricks with a Civilian vessel were its cargo bays. Two 'special cargo bays' were rigged with sensor jamming, then a more subtle sensor ghost emission device, to give an impression that there was contraband on board. Thought it was true some of his cargo was questionable, the two special cargo bays had a different sort.

The crates that vented out of the cargo bays and into space were empty, save the projectors. It was just that the projectors were not trying to hide contraband.

Each debris field had a cluster of photon torpedoes rigged to proximity triggers. Old fashioned mines waiting for ships to blunder in.

The Raiders blundered in perfectly. Dodging the plumes of exploding anti-matter, the two raider vessels couldn't maneuver enough. Raider number three took a mine in its underbelly, skipping three times on the hull before it exploded (not all triggers were working perfectly), and drifted helplessly in space. The fourths shields were down. A contemptuous phaser beam swatted the final Raider out of the way, disabling the vessel.

“Good work boys! It looks like we're out of the...”

“SIR!” T'lan announced, “Those three backup Raiders we told you about? They're here!”

“Oh buggernuts.”

The three new Raiders announced their presence by giving the Stolen Heart a bracing fusillade of phaser fire along it's starboard side. On the bridge, T'lan ducked at the console next to her blew out. One of the engineering assistants was hurled over the tactical arch, and James and the rest held on so as not to be thrown off.

Tactical announced, “Shields down to sixty four percent!”

T'lan added, “Damage to the computer core. Engineering is rerouting to backup processing systems.”

James was worried this time. He was out of dirty tricks. “Helm, run like hell! Try to lose them in the debris!”

The young helmsman wasn't kidding about his prowess with a directional console. Nimbly darting through two drifting asteroids, the Stolen Heart kept ahead of the pursuing Raiders while scattering their formation. Like speedboats wrestling with the wake of a battleship, the Raiders kept pursuing, kept firing their little phasers. The Stolen Heart's larger armament was having a hard time fending them off.

Flying down low and even scaring James, the young helmsman dipped the starship towards an exceptionally large asteroid that still held a chunk of former human cohabitation. They zipped past the ruins of old burned out skyscrapers and hive style habitation complexes, rotating their axis as the asteroid spun, using the spiking spires as cover. One tower was in the way, an ornate but spindly spire of iron beams. Moving too fast to turn out of the way, it was phasered to bits to make the Stolen Heart run through unobstructed. Pieces of the tower pinged off the Stolen Heart's hull, including a tourist sign marked 'Tokyo Tower'.

The Stolen Heart drifted at blinding speeds thought the sprawling remains of downtown Tokyo. A flickering neon kanji sign hung on a twisted beam over a tall building. One of the Raiders shot the sign, the helmsman's fast moves prevented it from plunging into the ship. “We're not doing ourselves any favours being here.”

James ordered, “Take it through those tunnels over there.”

T'lan barked, “Are you nuts?!?!”

“Aye aye, Cap!” The helmsman hooted. He dropped the ship into a churning mess of partially ground up underground caverns and spiraling space debris. The computer had trouble tracking the various pieces and their trajectory, but it was the kid that dived, looped, spun and rolled his way through the debris field effortlessly. The ruined urban scenes were a blur.

And the Raiders still came, firing weapons. Half their hits took out chunks of asteroids, the rest were draining the Stolen Heart's shields.

James saw the end of the tunnel. “Target the outer edges with aft torpedoes and prepare to fire on my mark. Ready... MARK!”

The Stolen Heart shot out of the narrow starship tunnels and into somewhat open space, a half dozen torpedoes leaving her aft launchers. They exploded the tunnel like a ring of fire, showering the exit with rocks as big as houses. Two Raiders darted out of the fire, a third was hit amidship by a large rock, cartwheeling, trailing a bright flaring fire out its impulse engine.

“Two more...” James grinned.

The ship shuttered some more.

“Shields at twenty five percent!” Tactical warned.

James saw on the viewscreen a large metal object. It looked like they were speeding towards another ruin, until James squinted, thinking the object was familiar. He had an onion dome like shape, and it looked like it had the refined lines of a hull, but it was growing a lot bigger than any starship he'd ever known. There were no lights on and the object looked like it had be savaged by large and brutal teeth, giving it the appearance of a torn up metal can with angel hair for torn ligaments. Then he smacked himself in the head.

“McKinley Station!” James exclaimed, “Of course! Take us in!”

“Sir... into a dead space station?” Cal Machitty doubted, “That Raider's on our ass. It's not like we can hide in there.”

“No... but we can get enough room in its internal bays to fight. Find the door. Kick it in if you have to. We're going in!”

Helm set a course for the remains of McKinley Station, what was formerly Starfleet's largest Earth based space station. Asteroids transitioned into metal debris of the station and starships too slow or damaged to escape before the battle. They found that thankfully the main entrance to the spacestation was still open, if forced open by phaser fire and photon torpedoes as seen by the scoring on the sides. The Stolen Heart scraped shields to worm itself in.

Inside was an enclosed dome, devoid of light but for the Stolen Heart's navigational lights and nacelle glow. A dead New Orleans Class Starship that might have still been spaceworthy laid unmanned in drydock. Bits and pieces of space station, shuttlecrafts and auxiliary vessels floated inside like a suspended snowglobe. Running at a high velocity and well outside the station's peacetime safety regulations, the Stolen Heart used the large dome like a circular racetrack, running around and around while it waited for the Raider to come inside.

Just James' luck, both Raiders sped in for a look, expecting to find a wounded Excelsior trapped in a narrow docking point.

What they didn't expect was the Stolen Heart to have already made a full circle and barrel right towards them.

James could almost imagine what kind of panic 250,000 tons of oncoming starship and an alpha strike would inspire. “Forward phasers! DISABLE THOSE SHIPS!”

The Stolen Heart answered with all phasers, striking the remaining two raiders with a fury worthy of a Valhallan, raining red thunder from the heavens onto two very mortal ships. Their shields buckled almost instantly; it was their last minute actions that twisted their limber bodies away from a rampaging Excelsior.

Aft phasers cut off all plans of escape, surgically striking their impulse engines. Adrift, they had thrusters as their only escape out in the open, and the open was where they could use warp. As of now, warp was useless. They were dead in the water.

On the Stolen Heart's next pass, it locked tractor beams on both vessels.

James, smug in his victory, leaned back on his captain's chair, savouring the smell of burned out circuitry and the sound of sparking consoles.

“Good work everyone. Especially you, kid.” James patted his young and very satisfied helmsman on the shoulder, “T'lan... get the deckhands armed.” James ordered, “Have them assemble teams at the transporter rooms and the cargo bay.”

“But James... why?” T'lan asked, “Their vessels are disabled, all seven of them. We can leave at any time.”

“I know.” James crossed his arms and let a smile go from cheek to cheek, “But I'm feeling ironic today. Lets bring in their crews. All of them. I want to have a little chat.”

*****

It was like an early morning muster at Starfleet Academy.

If Starfleet Academy hadn't passed by Stolen Heart's screen an hour ago.

And if the 'cadets' were thirty angry and defeated hawks, sitting cross legged with ropes tying their hands behind their back, with armed cargo bay workers waving second hand phaser rifles at the whole group with orders to go 'hawk hunting' if anyone twitched. T'lan eagerly waited, her tried and true Jem'Hadar polaron rifle set to rapid fire mode.

For that matter, it wasn't even morning according to the universal time standard.

Then again, who wanted to spoil James' moment?

He paced back and forth for a full half hour, indifferent to the scowls, the glares and the scorn. He looked down at his captured Hawks with a contempt close to arrogance, but it was his allowance. He won. He was going to remind these people, if not until doomsday since it already happened, but until the end of their natural lives.

If he had the luxury of time. As it stood he was expecting Hawk reinforcements at any time. Therefore he let the prisoners seethe, and then he spoke.

“You have attacked my vessel!” James declared, thundering like a Norse god on a mountain, “You've used force on my people. You've tried to trespass on my private property and you threatened to impound my vessel. For that... I cannot let it stand. I had to take actions necessary to defend myself and my own.”

This brought a firestorm of complains from the prisoners. “It was a lawful arrest!”, “You can't do this to us! We're the authorities!” and “You'll be hunted throughout Federation space for this, pirate!” were some of the most common. “You're breaking the law.”, “Try to act big when the Shiva comes back.” and some creative uses for common energy weaponry involving his anus were some of his favorites.

James beckoned silence. When he didn't get it, he drew his phaser and fired it into the air, then aimed it at the prisoners, setting it to wide spread. That got everyone's attention.

“Thank you.” James continued, “Now, as you know I've committed no illegal acts... unless you've thought up of some new laws. But since the Shiva blew the Federation Supreme Court to bits, and the fact that you attacked my ship and tried to jack it for no reason I'd like... I'd say the rule of law no longer applies to this situation. After all, it takes two consenting parties to follow the law, and you didn't. Therefore I can't either. That also means as the winning party I get to determine the punishment.”

“You can't do that to us!” One of the Hawks screamed indignantly.

“Ummmm... I just did, and you don't know what I'm going to do to you. Now sit down and shut up before I shove my phaser up your ass and give your brainpan a much needed cleaning.” James said with all calmness. The hawk captain shut up and sat down, “Thank you. Now, you're probably thinking I would humiliate you, leave you on a derelict to be picked up by your Hawk superiors. But that would be cruel and you'd give away our position too soon.”

James pointed to the huge stacks of crates, “You see that over there? Those are humanitarian supplies, destined for the refugees of the planet your rogue little kitty hawk just FUCKED UP!”

Another stream of protests came out of the prisoner group, constructing flimsy excuses as to why they didn't destroy the Earth. Some were denying they had anything to do with Earth's demise, others were just following orders. It was such a tangled mess of blame passing that James heard enough. He fired his phaser in the air once again, his gavel in his impromptu court.

“Thank you once again for the semblance of civility. Sure, you were under orders. Sure, you didn't pull the trigger. But guess what? You all played a part. You participated in a Civil War that brought misery and death to every corner of the Federation. You allowed bloodthirsty psychopaths to command your armies. You could have spoken up when Earth was destroyed, abandoned their ranks and left this war. But you DIDN'T! You had your chance to grow a conscience. Too fucking late. And now you have to answer to the people who's lives you made a fucking hell!!! ON YOUR FEET, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!”

The prisoners raggedly got up on their feet. “Fuck! It's like discipline went out of style here. UP! NOW!” Corgan barked, “Now I suppose you're wondering what those crates have to do with you, the people who's very actions created the supply's very purpose. Well, I was going to do it myself, but then I got to thinking that because of douchbags like you all, I wouldn't be here. SO guess what? You get to clean up your own mess, and before you complain just know that if it wasn't you I would have done this to some other Hawks... or Doves if they shot at me. So suck it up, princesses. I can't take your generals so you're the next best thing. You all are a matter of convenience. It's a sad, cruel universe. Tough shit.”

He continued, neutralizing another wave of protests with a wag of his phaser, “Those crates behind you are now yours. All yours. You all have been tasked with distributing my humanitarian supplies to the refugees on Mars Colony, on behalf of the Space Boomer fleets. Congrats, you're doing good work out there. I hope you'll enjoy doing something good for people for a change.”

“No way! You can't make us!”

“I sure as hell can, because I've taken your identification, your communicators and your credits. You'll be sent right in the center of the refugee camp. The camp coordinator has been notified and he's under the impression that you're my people, so he's given the announcement to three million people already.”

“Make us!”

“I don't have to. You see... you could contact your superiors and you could get out of there. Verification will take awhile since your ID is with me, but eventually they'll get you back. However...” James loved this part, he'd chuckled gleefully as he thought it up on his way to the cargo bay, but kept a straight and stern face now, “...since the camp knows you're coming and expect you to be there you can't back down. If you tell them you're Starfleet, no matter what side at this point... you're going to have at least one half of the crowd wanting to tear you to pieces. Remember, you blew up their home. They're not happy with you. So try to play along as a refugee supply distributor. That way you might stay alive long enough for your superiors to pick you up. Trust me when I say this is best for all of us. You made this mess... clean it up! That is all.”

James then said with a wolfish grin, “Now who's first?”

He had never seen a more shellshocked group of Starfleet officers in his long career. Nobody answers. Everyone was too afraid to.

“Ok... so all of you at once. Have a nice trip.”

"Four, Three, Two, One...Earth Below Us"

by Cap'n T'risia

The slender Vulcan woman sat in the large plush leather chair in her Ready Room, elaborately furnished with antique human furniture of a nautical theme, books lining the walls, and the massive study produced in her search for the Ellison Base, The fabled Ellison Base, that place where all the answers she sought would be found. Where all this looting was designed to lead her....

Her hat was on the desk in front of her, battered and horribly burned in places. Her long dark hair held back with a ratty bandanna, she looked at the map she had drawn, painstakingly over the years, tracking the course of Kirk's Enterprise...the classified sections of the voyage represented as red sections, where the course line stopped, only to resume outside those areas. Huge amounts of space, and somewhere in them...

She took another large drink of Rum, straight from the bottle. She had finally hinted to Sam Widdlestein, the closest thing that she had to a friend, at the end of their mission...and Widdlestein seemed skeptical. Sam had followed her into ridiculous odds, improbable maneuvers, ever the trusted right hand...and she seemed to think that there was a problem. T'risia had initially considered this, and dismissed it. Despite the enormity of what they had just seen, the total destruction of the Earth itself...T'risia had been confident that she could salvage that, the mission.

The areas of space were huge. Huge red splotches, parsecs wide. Searching them in the Pearl for the one world...would take too long. Too long for her to succeed, even in a Vulcan's lifetime. As she stared at them, holding the bottle, she could almost percieve the scope of the problem in a tangible fashion. She could almost touch the void of space, and its hugeness.

The hugeness...the need to pinpoint...it was how the idea came to her. Starfleet knew where the planet was...they had discovered it during Kirk's time, and used it. They had installed the science base, Ellison, near it. Wisely, they had classified its location, given the vast danger that it represented. All she needed was enough access to Starfleet records. In the collapse of the Federation, records were lost, destroyed...she had decided that ships themselves would be one of the best sources of data. All she needed was personell records....

The Vulcan woman stood, and limped to the chart, holding her compass, with its smaller representation of the chart within. From her other hand, she took another heavy swig of Rum. Personell records. Someone still alive had worked at the Ellison Base. She only needed to find such a person, from records, and she could extract its location from that person. Either by threat, or mind meld. This logic had suggested attacking and looting ships of their data...literal Computer Piracy. As a result, the Black pearl was salvaged, and created, along with all of the actions and protocols observed by Pirates....to achieve the one goal.

Of which Sam was unsure. Uneasy. And she did not know it fully...the depth of its scope.

What if she did?

T'risia smoothed her leather vest, a battered garment, over her still youthful and fit form. Except the leg, of course. She turned, and looked out the viewport. She had reached out to Krieghoff, for port to repair the badly damaged Pearl, but in this moment, when she could feel the closeness of the knowledge she needed, Krieghoff did not answer. His contact had been automated, and came too late after she had committed course. Without Krieghoff's help, would the mission even have a chance of succeeding? She had calculated the probabilities over and over...

And came back to Sam's doubt.

The Pearl needed to go home. To put to port, and be repaired. Logic dictated this. It's damage was too great.

T'risia, too, needed some sort of homecoming.

She opened the compass, and looked at the images within. The Chart. 8-Ball Hunter.

T'risia set down her now empty bottle of rum, and retrieved her cane. She left her hat, and coat, at her desk. The hat and coat...they were symbolic of something that she did not percieve right now. Something intangible, a perfect aesthetic that had been failed.

She limped over the clutter, and ducked under the Optical Data cables that dangled, always. The door swooshed open before her, to the Bridge, stopping halfway. T'risia squeezed through it, and said simply, "Helm..."

Sensing the awkward pause, the new helmsman said, "Arrr?"

"Set course for Vulcan. Best speed. Arrrr."

"The Island Part 6"

Captain Jaal Jaxom

& others

==USS Panther, Ready Room==

"I don't understand," Mesta told Jaal.

The Trill captain was looking out the ready room's sole viewport at the stars flitting past. "Understand what?" he asked as if the answer to her question should be obvious.

Mesta took a step towards him, her dark eyes reflecting the starlight that shone through the window. "How… can you be so… sure?"

Jaal tilted his head looking at her. His familiar, sly, half-grin showing on his lips now, it was the closest thing she'd seen to a smile in weeks. "You're the mind reader… you tell me."

Mesta folded her arms across her chest indignantly. "Sometimes I think that's the only reason you keep me around," she answered defiantly. "That and the sex."

Jaal's expression softened. "Now you know that's not true." He turned to peer out at space again.

Mesta took another step closer. "Do I?" She took another step, "We all know war can make us do things we wouldn't normally consider."

Jaal turned his body to face her, as well as his head. "Mesta… " he stopped because he knew she had him. It was true. War, and the desperation that goes with it, often times causes people to do things that are normally out of their character. "All right," he conceded, but continued to argue, "… while that's true, it's not true in avery aspect of one's life. It's not true of where you are concerned. You know that."

Now Mesta's expression softened. Deep down she could see he was not lying in the least to her. He never did. Perhaps that was how he gained his reputation over the years. Jaal Jaxom was many things, a schemer, a bluffer, a forward thinker, but never a liar.

"Yes, I do know that," she said softly. "So, now that that is settled," she came close to him now and embraced him, "What was the big conversation you had with Einstein and the others before we left the Island?"

Jaal's arms slowly wrapped around Mesta as he kissed her forehead. "There's a lot happening… and it's happening very fast. We're running out of time and I'm… worried."

She could sense it too. It was more than the usual burden the Trill she'd come to know and love carried on his shoulders. This worry had a sense of urgency she hadn't detected before. She knew better than to ask him directly about it. He hated it when she went into 'counselor' mode. "You worrying is nothing new… and that doesn't answer my question." she simply stated a fact and let him take it from there.

Jaal's infamous sly grin turned up the corners of his mouth. "There is, however, a shred of hope… if Einstein's calculations are correct."

"Calculations?" Mesta asked with one eyebrow rising.

The door chime sounded.

Jaal and Mesta retreated to a respectable distance before Sojor was admitted.

"Captain, 'Commander," the Andorian greeted his shipmates, "There's a couple of things on the subspace you will want to know about… and we've managed to track at least two comets on long range with the composition the professor specified."

Jaxom nodded with the corners of his mouth turned up for a change. Tapping his commbadge he said, 'Chief, Einstein, Tupuk, meet in the lounge in ten minutes."

Jaal wriggled his eyebrows up and down at Mesta, "You should be there too."

Mesta was skeptical; she knew when the captain's eyebrows wriggled in that manner, some really weird and dangerous shit was ahead.

==USS Panther, Main Meeting Lounge==

Amid the cacophony of protests and counter protests Jaal leaned back at the head of the table with his hands behind his head listening to what his senior staff did best.

Einstein and Tupuk argued it would work. Sojor and the Chief were convinced there was no way the ship could deal with it.

Back and forth they argued about power consumption, power distribution, structural integrity, warp field mechanics, power to weight ratio, inertia dampening and everything else that would be affected.

Mesta wasn't convinced either. She thought they were absolutely nuts for even thinking about it. When it came to be her turn to speak again she asked, "Just where did this idea come from?"

Einstein rubbed his hands together like an evil scientist bent on the taking over the whole world. "Years ago," the old science officer began, "Our esteemed captain served on the USS Galaxy, yes?" He looked at Jaxom for confirmation.

"Yes." Jaal confirmed knowing exactly where the story was leading.

"Their mission was to evacuate the population of Vered Alpha, I don't remember the reason," Einstein waved his hands dismissively. "Look it up, anyway, naturally there were several groups of people who didn't want to go. They got belligerant and caused a whole lot of problems. Well, one of the things they did was try to sneak a nuclear weapon aboard the Galaxy. It didn't work though, did it?" Again, he looked at Jaal for confirmation.

Jaal nodded, "The Hydrans were advancing. Starfleet didn't have the resources to adequately defend the sector so it was decided to move all the civilians out. I remember the thing went off when it was about a kilometer or so away from the ship. They were trying to sneak it into the shuttle bay onboard a shuttle."

"And do you remember how they were sneaking it aboard?" Einstein pressed home.

Jaal now looked at the professor somewhat suspiciously especially since Mesta's face turned pale.

"I don't believe we ever found out exactly how," Jaal replied with a furrowed brow.

Looking somewhat shameful, Einstein admitted, "The bomb was in the shuttle's transporter buffer. You see, it was to be kept in the buffer until the shuttle could land. Then they were to reconstitute it and set it off once they landed."

"It would have destroyed the entire ship!" Mesta was horrified. She wasn't the only one judging by the looks on everyone else's face in the room.

Jaal was leaning forward now paying close attention to the professor. "And how did you come to find this out? May I ask?" His eyes were narrowed. Einstein's idea made a lot of sense but now Jaxom wasn't so sure he wanted to go through with it.

Einstein spoke slowly and quietly. "I was a Vered Alpha refuggee…" Before anyone could toss any other accusations his way he went on quickly, "I was also asked about the plot. I did a few calculations on a napkin for someone in a club. That's all! Other people took the idea and ran with it. I had no idea they were actually serious! I didn't even know they could obtain the necessary materials to build a nuclear device!"

The room was quiet for many moments.

One by one, everyone's gaze turned to the Trill at the head of the table.

Jaal cleared his throat. "Well…" he began, "We're not using a nuclear weapon… and we're not trying to blow up a starship, or a colony, or anything else for that matter… we're just trying to stop one… 'and' it just happens to be the starship responsible for destroying the Earth."

Jaal looked around the room measuring everyone's reaction. "Anyone have a problem with that?"

That started the whole argument over again….

"Things That Are... Yet To Be?" Part 3

For'kel

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

(Continuing...)

Fork grabbed his rifle and forced himself up to his feet to follow her. The entire world seeming to shake and shiver around him. She hauled herself up on a slab of concrete, apparently once belonging to the upper level, and he followed. Behind them, he managed to catch a momentary glimpse, the place they had been just seconds before sunk down and fell, crashing into the water nearly two-hundred meters below them. He scarcely had time to claw his way up the slanting slab before it too fell into the water.

They managed to make it to a more stable platform, a portion of the top level sunk only slightly from its former height. A good defensive position, and none too late… trucks full of 4th Order warriors and Moset’s guerillas pulled up, supported by the remaining fighter and a hopper full of the best soldiers available to them.

The odds weren’t looking too good.

“Firing line, firing line! Let’s go, move it!” Fork started shouting as he took his place amongst the Marines in the makeshift trench-line. He armed his last rifle grenade and took out a parked truck in hopes of putting a barrier between them and the approaching light battalion’s worth of Cardassians.

Ugahlo fired the last shot they had in the Iso, knocking the hopper out of the sky. “Christ, they’re everywhere!”

“Simplifies the problem!” Fork yelled. “We need some damn support!”

“Working on it!” Crackle shouted, doing his best to salvage what he could from the remains of the long range comm system. "Shit, I'm going to need a few minutes."

"We'll do what we can, but no promises." Fork fired off a couple of wide angled blasts, taking out the first wave of those foolish enough to venture forward. "Ugahlo, Pop, take the flanks. Snap, give crackle a hand. Leah and I will take the center and watch over you. Don't stop firing!"

The Marines fanned out. The tactical plan was simple, set up multiple interlocking fields of fire and simply survive long enough to call in reinforcements. Execution of the plan was beginning to look like something from amateur Improv night at the Apollo however. Numerous Cardassian beams rained in as the militants decided to use their numbers to the utmost advantage. Every gunslinger who could crowded in to get a fix on one of the Marines, who in turn offered as slight a target picture as possible, bopping up and down in the ultimate life and death game of whack-a-mole.

The few moments that it took seemed to last an eternity to all of those involved. As was a constant as time wore on in these kinds of skirmishes, the ability to communicate effectively was rapidly lost, and coordination threatened to become impossible. It would have been the textbook perfect example as to why despite all the technology and capabilities available to the modern warfighter, why Esprit de Corps was a value that could not be automated, substituted, or replaced. The Marines came into their own, having been working with each other since the hottest days of the Triad War allowed them to know instinctively what each other was doing. It was as close to telepathy as most would ever get.

Pop's TR-116 continued to send crack after crack in the direction of the Cardassians, there being no lack of open targets when he got a clear shot. Granted it wasn't the optimal use of a sniper of his caliber, but it sure as hell was effective. The burning hulks of ruined vehicles, military and civilian, forced the militants into kill zones, and a single titanium round could cut through several serpentine bodies at once.

Ugahlo's support weapon sent wave after rapid wave of phased energy at the crowds, neutralizing anything it hit that wasn't already down for the count. It hummed loudly as the cooling units struggled to keep up with the demand being placed on them.

Snap and Crackle feverishly toyed with a repair kit, the comm system, and spare parts gathered from their tricorders . The fact that the Cardassians had done a pretty decent job employing transporter blockers and communications jamming made their work that much harder.

And in the middle of it all, The Colonel and Corporal Leah Owen fought like hell to keep everyone together, and handle the currant of bodies and blood rushing their way from the opposite side. Some of which had definitely gotten too close for comfort before being beaten back.

"Changing clip." Leah called out, ducking under a blast.

Fork pulled his type II and with rifle in one hand and side arm in the other tried making up momentarily for her short fall. It wasn't any desire to be 'Rambo' that brought it on, but more the realization he needed to make up for the shortfall in outgoing fire as much as possible to keep the Cardassians down.

"What I wouldn't give for a tank right now." Leah murmured as she snapped the power casing to her rifle shut and popped up to take a few blasts.

The Colonel could relate, although rather than for the appearance of a tank he was wishing he was back on the Galaxy, taking Koren on a holodeck camping trip, maybe making smores over the camp fire. Then again, it could've been the radiant heat from weapons halos and the burning vehicles which could've made him think of campfires. Yeah... getting shot at was no fun. He put his type II down in front of him on the chest of a dead Cardassian

Especially when those infamous words followed a zing you could tell was too close.

"MAN DOWN!" Crackle screamed.

"Leah..."

"On it!"

"Colonel, enemy troops advancing on the right!" Ugahlo shouted.

"Keep Firing!"

Then the worst words one could hear, all too often accompanying the aforementioned plea for help. "He's dead, sir."

Then there were just the five of them.

There was no time to stop for mourning, though they all said their own silent prayers of sorts in memorial of a brave and trusted colleague. The funeral could wait, right now they needed to get out with their lives.

There was more shouting, though Fork couldn't remember it all that clearly. Just as well, it wasn't really aimed at him. Not at least until he heard an unmistakable scream from his right. "They're breaking through!"

"They're getting too close!"

"Crackle!"

Fork didn't hear a response to his shout, and turned back fearing the worst. Fortunately the young man was still alive, if a bit stunned by everything that was happening around him... the body of a recently departed brother in arms and close friend not likely doing anything supportive for the man's psyche.

"Crackle! I need that link, now!"

The man snapped back to reality and looked over at the Colonel. It was a rude awakening... the reality that this wasn't just some really bad dream because of funky mushrooms on the pizza he last ate settled in. "Almost... got it! We're transmitting on emergency broadband."

"Callsign tracker one to any Federation craft in range, please respond!"

Fork's call was answered after the requisite dramatic period of silence. "This is Captain William Riker of the Titan. You had us a little worried, Colonel. What's your status?"

It was as of Atlas had finally come back for the world of burden he left squarely on Fork's shoulders when Captain Riker's voice came over, albeit immersed in static. "I have a man down, we're under heavy fire and cut off from rally point. We need emergency pick-up, now!"

Another, painful break in communications.

"Negative Colonel, we're still twenty minutes from Cardassia Prime, and the Cardassian fleet is too bogged down to render assistance. We'll be there as soon as we can, and we'll work on finding you support. Titan out."

"Damnit!"

"FEDERATION MARINES, SURRENDER NOW AND YOU MAY BE SPARED!" A Cardassian voice boomed over a loud speaker.

He wasn't fooling anyone. For'kel knew they would never keep such a promise... they couldn't keep such a promise. The Marines were left with no place to run. The Cardassians were left with no way to gain an easy victory. This was going to be a scratch and claw fight for existence. On his right, the Cardassians were very nearly over-running them. In his left and center, they'd gained volume superiority of fire, even if the Marines still held effective fire superiority.

Fork's response summed up the universal feeling among the combatants.

"FIX BAYONETTES!"

No quarter was to be expected, and for once none was to be given. There was no such thing as a non-combatant around them, the lack of possible collateral damage freed Fork up considerably with regards to the options available to him. Already he was doing the rough calculations in the back of his mind... if he were alive when the Titan got here, he'd bring the wrath of a God down upon Moset. If his Marines weren't allowed to leave, NOBODY was getting out of this alive.

In the distance, a rumbling of shouting voices, a scream of "For Cardassia!" echoed throughout the landscape.

"Semper Fi..." Leah muttered as she and every other Marine fixed their knives on the mag-lock of their weapons.

"Do or die." Crackle followed up, taking a place on the line.

And that was exactly what happened.

The two sides absolutely brutalized each other. Red beams going one way, yellow beams another. Wave after wave of Cardassians charged, and shot after shot exchanged. Moset's men knew they were running out of time, and the Marines knew help was getting closer every second.

A clear line in the sand had been drawn.

The fighting was horrific. A few Cardassians made it all the way to the Marines' fighting positions before being laid low. They pushed the 'Spoonheads' back on the right. They forced them down in the left and center. They expended all their grenades, all their defensive mines, all their explosives and anything that could be rigged to explode, all in the sake of causing as much hell as was physically possible for as long as it could be held up.

Fork parried, slashed, and then stabbed a young Cardassian fighter at blade point, putting a blast dead in his chest after the bayonnette had done it's work. Blood spurted freely, exploding really from the limp body as it dropped to the floor. The others faired little better, the Marines being driven into a smaller, and smaller pocket.

And then it just stopped. Inexplicably stopped.

His knuckles were cut and bleeding, his palms and back of his hands filthy from his and other blood, dirt, sweat, and grime. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. He was wounded, a Cardassian phaser blast coming close enough to his leg to be a real scorcher despite the Hazard armor. They all had wounds, they were all sweating, bloodied, battered, and bruised. How they managed to hold on this long was anyone's guess.

Leah had run through a particularly crafty Cardassian that was about to stab Ugahlo in the side before retaking her spot on the line. She was breathing hard, panting, her face drenched and scratched, her eyes dim but defiantly determined. "They... stopped? What could they be waiting fo..."

The actual cease in fighting was nothing more than the Cardassians regrouping. They'd been severely beaten, their large numbers actually working against them in the end. But the main reason they'd fallen back for soon appeared.

It took the form of the surviving Cardassian fighter, loaded down with weapons, and aiming directly at the Marines. Nobody even had time to scream, they all ran for cover under a torrential hail of gatling phasers and merculite rockets.

Yet another explosion knocked the Colonel clean out.

"Whatcha Know Bout Me?"

Professor Ayanna Hinanat Streely

Various NPCs

Location: Betazed
---------------------------

The scene unfolded before her mocking her with it's utter devastating destruction. The yellow laser grid marked the protective line that kept her away from what had been her career home for the last unreliable amount of years. Acid smell rose from the rubble, that mixed with the dryness of smoke caused Ayanna to stuff down another cough she felt rise in her throat. She had to appear strong, at least that's what she told herself as she felt and heard the emergency hovercrafts arrive.

Pausing in an attempt to clear her mind of the fog that swirled around it, Streely looked up focusing her attention on the white floating vehicles marked with the large red crosses. For a millisecond, she was able to shut out all the noise. Not that there was much noise to contend with. She was surrounded by mostly Betazoids who, in time of crises, were eerily silent as they communicated their worries in a telepathic manner. The faces around her said enough emotionally speaking. Here she stood, arms crossed and silent as what was her office bowed at her feet. Her eyes darted across the scrap, resting on a picture of her and Leo on their wedding day. She was incessant in that she wanted a hard paper copy for her office. Now it laid a short distance from her feet with the edges scared with black.

"Where is she?"

His panicked voice, she recognized in an instant. Turning slightly around, the crowd parted as he forced his way through the taller people.

"Where's my wife????" His voice raised as his pitch did.

Her eyes softened slightly as he came into her view. Slightly raising her hand, she tucked it back into her opposite arm as she turned her attention back onto her devastation.

"Your okay! Okay! Are you okay?" The rapid fire questions were met with a silent nod and soft response.

"I'm fine Leo...."

He nodded, instantly recognizing when Ayanna was in one of her 'thinking' moods and knew to back off.

"I'll be here if you...."

Her hand raised again, smiling in almost a matronly manner. "Thank you..."

"Ayanna." The deep baritone voice was met with a knowing gaze.

"Professor..."

The department head of the political science department came along side Ayanna, surveying the damage with initial recluse.

"Your opinion?"

"Not Hawk....or Dove I believe. The boldness of the attack resembles an independent faction at work here. The only one that I know that is in the immediate area are the Eagles."

"Why?"

"That, my dear, is the universal question at this point." He rested his hand on her shoulder, offering her a rather sympathetically simple gaze. "If you need anything, let me know."

"I will."

"Ayanna, you need to be careful now. Your involved in something that's much bigger than just you. This attack, it will not be the first and you know that."

Another nod as she pivoted her body slight noticing now the sudden onslaught of paramedics and firefighters sorting through what was the law department of the University. She half expected the Dean to show up, if he was not here already comforting the student body that survived the attack.

There were times in her life that she knew what she got involved in and how she got involved in was for the greater good of the Deltans as a whole. No one but her knew the secrets that she kept locked close to her heart.

"The Hunt for The Red Witch"





DEEP SPACE




"Anything?"

"Nyet Captain."

"Are you sure we're in the right place then?"

"Da Captain, sporadic sensor contacts have plotted a direct pursuit course across this sector. The Shiva is on her way. It seems Admiral Elaithin was correct."

Captain Gregoriy Alesandrovitch Rubechev sighed heavily and glanced around the tiny bridge. The red shadows of the muted emergency lighting creating strange ghosts out of her crew hunched over tactical displays.

"So it seems Misha. He must have done something very naughty to have irritated the Red Witch this bad."

"Irritated Captain?"

The word seemed pathetically impotent in the light of events that had just transpired in the Sol system. While the USS Sovremmeny was not a part of the recent battle over Earth , the news of the tragedy thereafter had spread across the quadrant like wildfire.

Earth....

Gone....

While none of The Sovremenney's primarily Russian crew had actually visited their ancestral homeland in years...(Earth being somewhat of a crappy place to live)....the fact that the most notorious of Hawk warships had actually blown the place up still was something of a horrible shock.

"I hope its worth it." Rubechev noted. "Tweaking the tigers tail like that. "

Tapping the plotting screen in front of him young Misha shrugged. Having grown up after the fall of civilization, the young Tactical officer had no real attachment to a world he had never set foot on. For him Earth was a place mentioned in History Books, his true home being amongst the stars. "Perhaps Captain. But still we have a pretty good trace on her. Makes for an easy intercept and ambush da?"

Captain Rubachev snorted and clapped the young man on the shoulder. "Nothing is easy where she is concerned. We'll be tangling with the Red Witch when she's in one of her moods....Again I hope Admiral Elaithin's mission is worth the risk."

Miranda was Fleeing Rimward with its captive young Allison in tow, but Rebecca wasnt about to give up her daughter that easily.

Spread in a rough semicircle across the sector, covering the retreat of the Miranda, was a small flotilla of medium sized Dove warships of which the Sovremmeny was one.

Warned of the SHIVA's approach by a number of intermittent sensor contacts, the task groups objective was primarily to provide time and space for the Dove flagship to make good its escape, and (hopefully) extract some revenge on the murdering bitch in the process.

Its wasnt going to be easy.

In the years since the demise of Starfleet, technology had become a strange mix of old and new requiring a total rethinking of standard fleet tactics.

Cloaking devices....a technology over 200 years old had become ubiquitous across the quadrant, however the sensitive sensor circuitry used to pierce these cloaks had become temperamental at best.

The result evolved into an interstellar game of 'Blind Man's Bluff' where invisible ships slipped silently through the void probing carefully for any telltale sign of their elusive foes.

This too was a hit or miss proposition.

Theoretically Sovremmeny could use its powerful active sensor palettes, tachyon grids or reflective pulse beacons to scan for the SHIVA, but more often than not this only served to alert the prey that it was being hunted.

When dealing with the Red Witch it was usually wisest to keep your options open, and hope not to be noticed.
"Contact Captain." Misha said suddenly, leaning deep over his neon scanning monitor. "Possible cloaked contact bearing two two seven."

Rubachev did the math in his head. "That'll place it along the lines of SHIVA's last reported position...heading this way."

"Da Captain. Confirmed contact now...scattered background spectrum...intermittent warp signature...." the tactical officer twiddled a dial. "Faint engine churn indicating she's making about Warp 6 or 7." he shrugged. More precise readings were not possible yet.

Even as they watched the contact dimmed and faded back into the background radiation...the constant faint buzz of the universe.
"Contact fading...fading....gone comrade Captain." Misha sighed. "She must have passed in front of a background star or something for us to pick up a spectrum shift. "We've lost her again."

Rubachev was already stroking his neat little goatee, deep in thought. "Warp 6 or 7 you say? The Shiva should be capable of twice that speed da?"

The tactical officer shrugged. "Nominally yes...perhaps she sustained some sort of damage in earth orbit?"

"One would hope. Or perhaps she knows we're here looking for her, and she's laying a trap of her own. Do not be underestimating your opponent young Misha. Especially the Witch."

"Still...it could represent an opportunity for us Captain. Catch her unaware and battle damaged," There was eagerness in theyoung officers eyes.

Rubachev managed a wry smile. He recognized the headstrong foolishness from his own encounters with von Ernst. How many Dove Captains in the past had plotted endlessly in hopes of bagging the quadrants most dangerous prey.

They almost done it several times. Once the famed Picard even managing to force her to abandon her Battlecruiser the ZEUS, and the fleet celebrated prematurely thinking her dead.

SHIVA had come off the slipways 6 months later however and the witch was back bigger than ever.

"Da Misha. Perhaps. One can never tell. Start your track if you please and inform the crew." Rubachev stroked his beard thoughtfully, "Tell them we are on the hunt."

“The Hiram Davis Experience”

Paul McAllister, Commander SFI, USS Pegasus

Ronnie “Jazz” Patterson, former Lieutenant, SFI (NPC)

(occurs after “Confrontations”)

<Sickbay Isolation Ward, THEN>

Clinical Record – Patient 86-325031-SFI007-Z, McAllister, Paul David, Commander, Starfleet Intelligence Directorate.

Patient is a 52 year old while male Terran with cybernetic implants admitted after stabilizing care provided by the emergency medical team of the USS Pegasus following exposure to physical and chemically induced torture.

Patient presents with severe organ damage to both the liver and kidneys, moderate dehydration, mild radiation poisoning, and extensive fractures including several ribs, bilateral humorous, and crushing injuries to the phalanges of both hands, right femur, and bilateral lower extremities. Patient is also infected with MRSA, and a variety of STDs that appear to be the beginnings of an extended torture regimen, as patient’s sexual history does not account for infectious causes.

Patient also presents with cybernetic implant malfunction. A (redacted by order of SFI) chip imbedded in the brain was overloaded and is currently non-functional. (Redacted) reports that this chip overload was induced by the patient using an electronic device ingested prior to being exposed to torture. Additionally, the patient’s artificial eye implants have been disconnected; patient uses external audio implants that have been lost – caregivers are on notice that patient is essentially blind and deaf until such implants can be reconnected.

History – patient history obtained from ex-spouse, Captain Alexandra Lee on admission. To summarize more recent clinical events:

2399 – Suffered extreme cranial trauma and third-degree burns to his hands during an attack while posted to the USS Bismarck. Cranial reconstruction required. (Redacted) chip and optical implants provided and installed at SFI clinic. Note – informed consent not obtained for this procedure; legal consent for surgery based on contractual clauses in commission documents.

Patient scheduled for additional internal implants to correct trauma induced deafness but on regaining consciousness, declined the procedure. Eyesight artificially restored to full Terran norms without known enhancements. Skin grafting successful in restoring dermal tissues to hands and lower arms – tissue will remain sensitive and fragile.

2400 – Required to attend counseling for post-traumatic stress disorder and memory loss. Counseling only moderately successful.

2401 – Treated for penetration trauma of the heart and lungs while engaged in (redacted).

(Later)

Prognosis: Patient is on broad-spectrum anti-biotics for infectious disease. Pharmacological surgery was required to replace one destroyed kidney and portions of the liver; anti-regeneratives seem to be working well. Non-invasive orthopedic surgery was able to correct the damage to patient’s lower legs, femur and fingers. Replacement of the right humorous with a synthetic construct was necessary. Patient’s optical implants were reconnected and appear to be functioning normally. The neurological implant cannot be repaired or removed at this facility; however, aside from a mild form of dyslexia does not appear to be having additional adverse effects. Patient will require extensive physical therapy to regain full use of his right arm. The medical attention received on the Pegasus so quickly after injury significantly reduced the long-term effects of the patient’s injuries and will allow him to recuperate much faster.

End of summary.

(Sickbay, USS Pegasus – NOW)

“Dude – you look like shit!”

McAllister opened his eyes to see who was again stating the obvious. His face, still sore and tender, broke into a wide grin. “Jazz, my man – first time I’ve seen you in what? Three years now and this is what you say to me? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”

McAllister extended his hand and it was swallowed in return by the huge hand of Ronnie “Jazz” Patterson, former lieutenant, Starfleet Intelligence. More importantly to Paul, Jazz was a sax-master extraordinaire, former member of the Hiram Davis Experience, and current friend.

Jazz laughed. “Speaking of horses, who was that fine young filly that sent your message? I actually came to see her; the hell with you, old man.”

“Careful, Jazz – that lady is spoken for.”

“No foolin? That’s Alex? Damn, how’d you manage that? Thought you guys was history”

“It’s a long story, Jazz. Alex forgave me and then showed me how to forgive myself; ta’Soh?”

“’Bout damn time,” said Jazz. “None of what happened---“

McAllister waved him off. “Split milk, dude. So, what are you up to these days?”

Jazz pulled over a chair and sat next to the bed. From McAllister’s point of view, he could still be standing – the man was that big. “Just trying to find a gig in a place that won’t get the shit blown out of it before intermission. This war of yours – it’s messing with the music, ya know?”

Paul knew. “That’s why I called. It’s not my war, man. I wear the uniform, been recommissioned, but something ain’t right with all of this. It shouldn’t be happening.”

Jazz tried to look into McAllister’s eyes. In the old days, he could always tell when Paul was on to something; the truth was in his eyes. Shaking his head, he looked away. “Those eyes, dude. They’re just weird looking, ya know?”

McAllister blinked. “Yeah, I know,” he said somberly. “I don’t know how Alex manages to –“

This time, Jazz interrupted. “Love, man. Love. She doesn’t see them, she sees inside them, inside you. Know what I mean? Don’t be bust’in your ass on shit that ain’t there.”

Paul smiled. “Understood, man, understood.”

Jazz leaned forward. “So what’s this about the war shouldn’t be happening?”

For the next hour or so, McAllister and his friend discussed Paul’s thoughts on the beginnings of the war and the utter futility of the current conflict between Hawks and Doves. “So, what’s that got to do with me?” asked Jazz.

“I want to put the group back together, Jazz. I want us to find out the truth.”

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

The Hiram Davis Experience. One of the intel directorate’s silly ideas that actually bore fruit. Take a group of musically talented weenies fresh from the academy, turn them into a band, and then send them out USO style to boldly go and collect information from places more normal spies aren’t exactly welcome – but hey, everyone likes music, right?

Paul “Conductor” McAllister – keyboards, brass, percussion, had been recruited first. That’s why they all called him the “old man.” Paul and that damn parrot. Wrote some damn fine songs, and used his connections to get their first vid together, despite the Fleeties help.

Dumach aka “Boom-Boom” – drums and general mayhem. Man, that Klingon could make the skins talk. Saved Jazz’s life once by shoving a drumstick in the ear of some mean ass Romulan and pulling it out the other side of his head. Cleaned it off, used it on the gig that night, ditching the evidence by tossing it to a crowd of screaming fans. Could spell your name with shaped charges, given time and the proper motivation.

Boom-Boom had recommended the next two victims – Greg “Doc” Johnson, rhythm guitar and medical specialist, and a wizard at mixing potions for those quick backstage interrogations.

On lead guitar was Alicia Johnson – “Pick.” Doc’s wife; the only thing she loved more than her husband was being to reach out and touch someone with her sniper rifle. Doc was ugly as sin, but Alicia had cleavage men would kill for. A more unlikely couple you would not meet.

Jazz had been recruited next. No specialized skills for Jazz – he was their streetwise con with a connection – and a woman (sometimes two, three, four) in every port. You needed it, he would find it. A better man for the reeds hadn’t been born yet.

They had the music; they needed the lyrics. That’s when they found Bonnie. Bonnie was never given a com sign; Bonnie was always “Control.” You didn’t put a voice like hers in the thick of things unless you absolutely had too – the young Betazoid’s voice had a range that could shatter glass and was smooth as silk – or as husky as a wet dream if the tune called for it. Bonnie’s talent was a complete and utter lack of ethics. If she could read you, she would, and would haul your psyche out on the table for discussion if she felt your karma needed a cleansing. At least she didn’t believe in mind-fucking her friends.

The Hiram Davis Experience – a man who wore personas like others donned shoes, the mad bomber, the medic, the sniper, the con, and the one woman that held them all together by sheer force of will and some well placed lov’in.

On their leader’s behalf, Jazz sent out the call. It was a short message.

“Time for a reunion tour.”

They’d come if they could.

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

<A City Rooftop>

Pick was sighted in and ready. All she needed was the target to show as her contact had predicted. She scanned the area quickly, and then rechecked – for the tenth time – that her TR-116 sniper rifle was locked into the kill zone. She wanted a good clean head shot this time; it’s what the client had paid for.

A light came on in the target’s window. Pick sighted and prepared for the shot with slow steady breathing. She kept her finger off the rifle’s trigger to avoid a premature shot. Her TR-116 had a trigger pull like breaking the tip off an icicle. If she flubbed this, there wouldn’t be time for a second chance.

Two figures appeared in her sight, locked in an embrace and desperately trying to disrobe one another. Damn – Pick would have to choose her moment carefully; she was a professional who strived to avoid collateral damage.

Slowly, she exhaled and then stopped breathing. The couple in her sights spun around, and the male picked up his partner and placed her on the window ledge.

Perfect shot. Pick finger found the rifle’s trigger and slowly pulled. The tip of the icicle broke and the weapon bucked slightly against her shoulder.

“Target neutralized,” she said into her throat mike. “Pull me out.” Pick didn’t bother to wait for a reply, quickly collapsing the TR-116 and casing it. A second later, she vanished in gold sparkles of a transporter beam.

“One dead cheating wife,” announced Pick, stepping off the pad. Her husband, Greg smiled in relief at seeing his wife safe aboard their small shuttle. Alicia “Pick” Johnson gave her husband a peck on the cheek before hurrying to the lavatory. These days, a successful job always resulted in some stomach upset.

Greg ignored the sounds of vomiting drifting into the cabin. “We’ve got another job, if you want it. Might not pay as well, but there are fringe benefits.”

“Oh? What’s the gig?” asked Alicia, coming back into the main cabin, drying her face with a towel.

“Funny you should put it that way – Jazz called. The old man wants to put the band on tour.”

Alicia smiled and hugged her husband. It would be nice to do a job for something other than credits.

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

<A Brothel>

The Vulgar Shelat was not your typical whorehouse, and Madame T’Lise was not your typical Vulcan. None of her patrons knew how a Vulcan woman of indeterminate age came to be the madam, but the ‘Shelat was the logical place to go for decent drink, safe food and safer sex, all at a fair price. The “Legs and Eggs” special was a favorite of the night shift after a hard night in the mines.

Boomer (it had been years since anyone had used his real name or called him “Boom-Boom”) had started on the first floor as a doorman, collecting the weapons of callers coming in and making sure the ejected stayed ejected. T’Lise knew talent when she saw it, and soon moved him to the second floor, where the pole dancers wore less, and for an above average tip could be convinced share a lap and a drink or two with the patrons. Boomer guarded the steps to the third floor, where the girls fulfilled whatever fantasy you might have if the price was right and no harm would be done.

At Table 12, Josie seemed to be having some trouble with a young miner who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. At the ‘Shelat, if you wanted to touch, you paid for the third floor. Boomer nodded to Willie, who left his post at the bar and walked over to where Josie was now struggling with Mr. Touchy-Feely.

“Sir, you can’t touch,” began Willie when Touchy jumped from his chair, dumping Josie on her ass, and pulled a shank from his sleeve.

“I’ll carve you like a pig!” Touchy shouted, waving his weapon at Willie.

“No, you won’t,” said Boomer, picking Touchy up by his long, greasy hair and a firm grip between the miner’s legs. Boomer had come from behind while Willie’s approach to the table had distracted Touchy. Boomer’s squeeze and twist on Touchy’s testicals insured protection from the homemade knife that had been dropped in surprise. “Madame T’Lise doesn’t allow bad clichés.”

Boomer carried the miner to the window, and tossed him outside. T’Lise had long since deduced that it was more logical to pay for the small force window than have to continuously replace the glass.

“Boomer, there’s a call for you at the bar,” said Willie.

He acknowledged with a nod. “Go tell Joe to be more careful with who he’s letting in here – that’s the third one this week,” Boomer growled. He walked over to the bar, keeping his eye on Touchy’s tablemates, who were now placing large sums on the table to keep Josie’s attention.

At the bar, Belin’aa told him, “This guy left a message for you. Told him you were busy. Least, I think it’s for you – guy called you ‘Boom-Boom.’ Said the band was getting together, made me write down these coordinates.” She handed Boomer some numbers written on a dirty napkin. “That mean anything to you?” she asked.

Boomer looked the napkin and grinned. “Yes. Tell T’Lise I am taking a vacation.” Tearing the napkin into shreds, he stuffed the confetti into a half full mug of ale and left the Vulgar Shelat without another word.

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

<San Francisco, Earth, at the time of “Earthdeath”>

Bonnie never received Jazz’s summons. When Frankie had found out she was pregnant, he’d kept her around until she got too big to satisfy him anymore, and then kicked her ass out onto the street. Now due, she was seeking shelter in the ruins if the old Academy compound.

The bleeding had started with the contractions. Bonnie found a building that appeared intact and that she sensed was empty. Crawling up the stairs between contractions, she finally could go no further and collapsed after dragging herself into a room with a window frame – the only glass that remained were scattered shards on the floor.

Bonnie died giving birth to a baby boy. The child died as Shiva gave birth to Armageddon.

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

<USS Pegasus>

Jazz and Paul were seated in the ship’s lounge, waiting for Alex to finish up with some ship’s business so she could join them for dinner. A crewman approached their table, handing McAllister a message PADD.

Paul scanned the message, and then handed the device to Jazz.

The Hiram Davis Experience Reunion Tour was going to be short one member.

"Oh, the Irony"


Thyago
And Friends*



Her heels clicked and clacked as she strode down the paved sidewalk. The wind caught her hair as she looked up at the sky. It was black, with perhaps a golden hue, if black could be hued any other color at all, and framed by tall buildings. And it was starless, the little white specs blinded out by the light pollution of the city. She hadn't been in a city in a long time. At least not one that was still standing. And not one that was built on a planet. She had visited a few starbases and asteroid colonies that had become self sufficient cities - urbanization trapped in a bubble, struggling for space in their bottle when they were surrounded by lightyears of it.

But, this city was built under open sky. It was flat. And it had wind and rain. It was alive. Sick, like everything else in the galaxy, these days, but it was still alive. She turned, and eyed the police vehicle as it roared by with sirens blaring. It was the second one in under two blocks. She looked up again, and heard shouting from an open window. Angry shouting, with an air of liquor, and it was soon followed by a feminine whelp. The hum a hovercraft sidled up to her side, and a middle aged man in a suit leaned to look at her through the window.

"Do you have the time?" he asked with a lecherous stare.

"No," she said quickly and kept walking. He frowned, and the car pulled away from the curb, only to stop a few dozen feet ahead on the other side of the street, where two girls in short skirts and tight shirts leaned against the window. She frowned at the scene and popped the collar of her jacket. The city was alive, but it was sick, and she didn't want to catch her death.

She continued walking for another two blocks, eyeing the street numbers as she passed. There were footsteps behind her, and they had been there since the last intersection. Heavy steps, arrogant. It was a man, a large man, she could tell. But, she couldn't tell if he was simply walking her same path, enjoying the view that happened to be in front of him, or if he was stalking behind her. The stoplight ahead turned red, and there was enough traffic that she had to wait at the cross walk. It wasn't long before the man caught up and stepped beside her. He leered obviously, and she couldn't help but glance back for a brief evaluation. He was smaller than she expected. Lithe, like a dancer, or a swimmer, or maybe a junkie, though his clothes looked too nice for that. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and he was smiling a goofy grin. She looked away without acknowledging him, back to the street and the crosswalk light.

When it turned, she launched forward quickly. The man continued forwards as well, a foot or two behind her and to her side. She concluded he was harmless, because he was slowly falling behind her increased pace. But, then she was suddenly shoved into an alley between two buildings. She crashed into the wall and felt a hand grab her wrist. She turned, partly of her own power and partly because a hand was pushing her waist. Her free hand was caught as it lashed out in a disoriented attack, and was brought up to her other, where it was deposited into the same grip. There was metal in that second hand, she realized quickly, and in a second, she felt the same metal on her neck.

"Hey," he whispered coarsely. "I saw you eyeing me back there. You want me," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"No, let me go," she said quietly, a bit more fearful than she would have liked.

"Yeah you do, I can tell," he said, lowering her arms nearer to her head, and leaning against them heavily so that any struggling forced her skin to scrape against brick. "I like you, too. What's your name?"

"HELP!" she shrieked suddenly.

He forced the knife against her neck, and she could feel the sting as it began to slice through her skin. "Come on, that's not nice. I'm just trying to have a conversation with you. I'm just trying to ask your name. Besides, don't you know that people run away when you cry for help? It's funny. They only come when you scream fire."

"Let me go! Please!"

He smiled and pulled the knife away from her neck and traced its tip up to her face. "What's your name, pretty girl?" he asked again, holding the knife in a way that allowed her to see her own reflection out of the corner of her eye. She tried to free one of her hands, but his grip was too tight. Nor could she effectively kick at him with her legs. She didn't know how to get out of this. But, then she saw something in the knife. A shadow approach from behind.

Suddenly, the man lurched forward, and his head smashed into the brick. His hand loosened and she was able to pull free, shoving the man away as she stumbled to her side. "The lady asked you to let her go, brocha!" the shadow said, and pushed the man into the wall a second time. She could hear metal clang against concrete as he dropped his knife, then a small snap as his arm was twisted behind his back.

She backed away a few feet to safety and looked at who had rescued her. Another man, wearing a t-shirt and khakis, with short brown hair, and looking very much like when she had last seen him. "Thyago?" she asked between pants.

He turned and jerked his head in a greeting. "Oi, Sparky. Tudo bem?" he asked with a wide grin. Her attacker tried to twist out of the hold, but Thyago simply smashed his head into the wall once more, signaling him to calm down. "Hey, puta, you know you just tried to hurt an old friend of mine, yeah? You're under arrest, ta me entendendo?"

As Thyago pulled out a pair of hand cuffs, she asked, "You're a cop?"

"Yep!" he smiled proudly, like an eight year old. "But, look at you! You grew up, boneca! Are you still in the fleet? Don't tell me voce e um rameira?"

"What? No, I'm still in the fleet. Lieutenant Aina Mason," she said proudly, "at your service."

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "If I were you, I wouldn't be caught dead here."

"I'm looking for you."

"Aww, fun! I love visitors!" he said. "Tell you what, down the block and around the corner, there's a cafe, Swansong. I gotta take care of this sacana, first, but I'll meet you there in an hour?"

"Okay," she nodded. She was clearly still a little shaken up.

"Hey, Sparky, while your waiting, try a slice of their cake. It's to die for, se ligou?"

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

"Hey, let me go, man, I didn't do nothin'," the man said as Thyago pushed him forward down the street.

"Wow. What are you? Retarded?" Thyago asked, giving the man a hard shove, "I just caught you trying to do I don't know what to an old friend of mine and you're gonna try and play innocent. If I were really a cop, I'd just pop one right into your head, sacou?"

"W-- what?" he asked, his voice immediately more cautious.

"I said, if I were a cop, I'd shoot you," Thyago repeated, pulling the man closer by his cuffed hands and speaking into his ear.

"You-- you're not a cop? Oomph!" the man asked before Thyago pushed him into a light post.

Thyago unlocked one of the cuffs and pushed the man forward again, grabbing his arm and pulling it back around the lightpost, and then relocking the cuffs. He circled around in front of the man, now that he was bound and couldn't run. "No. Well, kinda. I gotta badge," Thyago explained with a shrug and pulled out a little leather wallet. It flipped open revealing a police badge. John Simms. "Took it off some fat cop in a bar the other day. It was pretty funny, you shoulda been there. He got cold-cocked by this big greasy goombah, spun around like a ballerina. Straight to the floor."

The man wasn't listening, he was tugging at the light post as if it were going to bend. "What are you gonna do to me, man?" he asked, a noticeable quiver in his voice.

Thyago smiled, a dark, twisted smile illuminated by shining white teeth. Then, he punched the man in the face. The force knocked his head back hard against the metal post, and the two blows forced him to lose his footing. He slumped down to the ground. "Are you in a gang?"

"Whuh, what?" he asked, his lip already swelling.

"Yeah, no. If you were in a gang, you would have hit up my friend with, like, five other guys. Gang bangers, man, they can't even go to the restroom by themselves, you know? They're like women," Thyago laughed. Then, his body jerked in excitement. "You wanna be in gang?" he asked excitedly.

"No, man, look, I'm sor--" he started before Thyago punched him again, this time near the eye.

"Yeah you do," Thyago pleaded, "Come on. It'll be fun. Gang members, you know, they're always dressing up in pretty colors. Bandanas and handkerchiefs, sabe? I think red would look good on you, what do you think?" he asked, as he pulled out two red handkerchiefs from his pocket.

"The hell's the matter with you, freak?"

Thyago looked up, and bounced his fingers against his forehead, playing as if he were stupid. "Of course, yellow is much more your style. I don't know what I was thinking," he said, before kicking the man in the thigh twice. As he man cried out in pain, Thyago casually stuffed the red cloth back in his pocket and pulled out two strips of yellow. "Besides, you're right, this is F Street Crew territory. You wear any color but yellow, you're in trouble, se ligou?"

Thyago knelt down to tie one of the bandanas around the man's head. When he began to struggle, Thyago punched him twice more, once in the face, once in the stomach, and found the man kept his head much more relaxed while he was gasping for breath. The second band went around the man's arm. Then, Thyago moved around in front and ripped open the shirt underneath the man's open jacket.

"What the hell're you doing?" he tried to shout, although it was more of a whimper.

Thyago smiled again and pulled out tube of lipstick. He waited, holding it out until the man noticed. A different type of fear flashed in his eyes, and Thyago laughed at the predictability. "You have a purty mouth," he quoted in the best Southern American accent he could muster. Though, try as he might over the years, he was never able to develop a good impression of Cowboy. The man struggled, but with his free hand, Thyago held the man's head still and his mouth shut by placing his fist against the jaw and pressing up. Carefully, he applied the stick to the man's lips and then stepped back to admire his work.

"Let me go, fucking faggot pervert!" the man shouted and struggled with new energy to stand back up. Thyago let him get part way up before he kneed him in the chest and then kicked his legs out from under him. The man collapsed back down to the ground and Thyago took the opportunity to use the lipstick to write on the man's exposed chest. F Street Crew = Grade F Hos. Hearts of Black Rule!

By now, the man had more or less given up. "Why are you doing this to me, man?"

"'Cause it's gonna be awesome! Don't you see? It's gonna be hilarious!" Thyago said, standing. "See, this is Crew territory. In fact, they're gonna come rolling down this street as soon as the bars close. They're gonna stop and see you, in their colors, all beat up and humiliated by the Blackhearts. That's an insult, sabia? That's a grave offense. That calls for retaliation. They'll gather up and drive over there and shoot the place up, sabe? Then the Blackhearts will find out who attacked them and then they'll retaliate. And then, you know, there's a whole war! And I don't know if you know this, but the cops are all tied up in this war with the Pancatta Mafia, so they ain't gonna come in and settle things down. The whole city's gonna explode!" Thyago explained. He was practically laughing with delight.

"But, you know what the funniest part is? It's the irony, sabe? The Crew, they're gonna know you're not one of them. They're gonna think you were impersonating one of-- Agh!" Thyago grunted as he stumbled back and fell to the floor. The man, in a last act of defiance, tangled his feet up in Thyago's. "Fucking floor," Thyago cursed as he laid flat on his back. "All the time, I end up on the fucking floor. I'm so sick of this stupid, cheap gag!" he shouted. Then, he lifted his head and snarled at the man tied to the light post. With his foot, he kicked the man in the face, again and again, as hard as he could, each kick force the man's head back into the light post, causing it to ring like a chime. Thwang, thwang, thwang.

Thyago stood up and dusted himself off. He noticed that the man was slumped over, unconscious. "Caralho," he spat, as he knelt to check the man's pulse. There was none. Losing his temper for a second time, Thyago screamed and kicked the man in the torso over and over and over, until he calmed down. Panting, he said, "You just had to die and ruin the joke, didn't you? The whole point of the thing was the irony. They're gonna think you were impersonating them. They were gonna go avenge your beating by attacking the Blackhearts and then they were gonna come back and kill you for impersonating them and starting the gang war. But, no! NO! You had to go and die before they even found you."

He kicked the corpse once more and then walked away with his hands in his pockets. "I hate this city," he pouted to himself. "Just once. I want a joke to work just once!"

"I wonder if Sparky tried that cake? Hmmm... cake."

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