Dark Territory: Dearest Blood

[DarKush]

Author's note: The last of the "Shadow Puppets" related stories. This is another revised story, previously featured on the United Trek website.

*****

DARK TERRITORY:
DEAREST BLOOD

Deep Space Nine
Quark’s Bar
December 2376


“Back again Terrence?” Admiral Monica Covey said over the din. Normally Monica preferred a balcony seat, but Quark’s was packed to the gills tonight. The oily Ferengi was able to secure a reasonably secluded table off in one of the corners, which still gave her a good view of the patrons. Though her rank and her role as station commander created a necessary, and needed distance, among her and everyone else onboard DS9, Covey still liked to mingle. Glover tersely nodded as he took the empty chair she offered him. A waiter appeared seconds later. Glover made an order and then regarded the admiral.

“Drinking alone Admiral?”

“Not anymore,” she said, “Now that you’re here. I don’t need to ask what brings you back to DS9.” She looked around Glover to spy the hunched back of a retreating Yridian shuffling out of the bar.

Glover’s expression turned even sourer. “I’d rather not discuss it if it’s all the same to you.”

Covey shrugged. She knew that Glover had taken an extended leave of absence to track down his missing father. Even after Admiral Glover’s role in stopping the Romulans from engineering Benzar’s secession from the Federation in late August had been exposed when the ‘confession’ of Lt. Daneeka, DS9’s former Security Chief, and one of Samson’s compatriots had been placed on subspace by her Romulan captors.

The ultimate fate of Ousanas Dar, another former DS9 senior officer, and Admiral Glover hadn’t been revealed. But Monica knew enough about the Romulans and their treatment of prisoners not to hold out much hope. Terrence, however, was far more hopeful, or obsessed, depending on a person’s point of view. Covey knew she couldn’t be too judgmental. If her father had vanished, she wouldn’t rest either until she saw him again, alive or not.

“Okay, let’s talk about something less inflammatory,” she said, nodding at one of several large viewscreens that Quark had set up so that his patrons could observe the Federation Presidential election results.

She knew that Quark’s seeming civic mindedness was driven by a betting pool on how badly Norah Satie was going to clobber President Santiago. Lt. Faltyne, who had succeeded Daneeka as security head, had informed her about the Ferengi’s scheme, but Covey had told him to hold off on putting a stop to it.

With her days quickly winding down on DS9 she had decided to give Quark a break, at least once. As far as she was concerned Quark was her temporary successor’s problem now, and would soon be Colonel Kira’s again. The tough Bajoran was almost back up to full speed after nearly six months of rehabilitation.

Glover winced. “You really know how to lighten the mood Admiral,” he said. “This election was an exercise in futility.” The waiter returned holding a large frosted mug. Glover paid the waiter and took a sip.

“Some might’ve said that about Santiago’s last year in office,” she quipped. “And I’m off duty,” she said, gesturing at her sky blue Tholian silk blouse, “calling me Monica is perfectly acceptable.” Terrence was also dressed in civilian clothes, all black, and form fitting. Monica softly sucked a tooth in appraisal of the man’s toned physique. It had been far too long since she had enjoyed the company of an organic man not taking orders from her…at least not military ones. Holograms were poor substitutes for live bedmates.

“Santiago wasn’t that bad,” Glover said, warming up both to the subject and the admiral a little bit. “He did lead us through the war.”

“Yeah, but the peace was a killer for him,” Covey remarked. Glover replied with an exasperated look. Her candor was unsettling him, Monica realized. She liked that. “He was just overwhelmed, and with all the crap that came our way this year, I don’t think anyone could’ve come through it smelling like a rose.” As if she had conjured the man, the media coverage switched to Santiago campaign headquarters.

The President, a tall, dapper man stood solemnly at a podium, his Bolian wife nervously clutching his arm. Over the picture, a Federation News Service reporter was summarizing the list of tragedies that had befallen Santiago, the latest being the freak death of his Chief of Staff Garth Logan in a transporter accident almost three weeks ago. The report stopped abruptly and cut right to the president.

Martin Santiago had never looked so winded and broken. He made little eye contact as he conceded the election and quickly left the stage. FNS quickly switched coverage to the raucous Satie camp. Covey took stock of the news of Santiago’s defeat among the crowd at Quark’s. Covey was surprised to see very little enthusiasm among the patrons. For the ones not overly concerned about dabo, the holosuites, or their drinks, there was a general feeling of uncertainty as the smiling President-elect took the stage. Covey’s eyes were drawn to her entourage. “Isn’t that Lt. Commander Cherenkov?”

Glover squinted at the nearest screen. “Yes.” He didn’t add anything else and Monica didn’t press him. She had learned about Ivan Cherenkov due to his actions on DS9, before Covey assumed command. Cherenkov had stolen the Defiant’s cloaking device in order to enter Cardassian space undetected to rescue Glover from Cardassian militants.

Ivan and most of Glover’s senior staff had been sentenced to Jaros II as punishment. Glover had opted to share in that punishment. Unfortunately, their starship, the Aegis had been destroyed by another group of Cardassian insurgents, during their incarceration, and now Glover’s crew was scattered. She felt sorry for the man. In many ways, his terrible year was symbolic of the ordeal the entire Federation seemed mired in. It almost made her wonder if they had really won the war or not? After all, does anyone really ‘win’ a war?

The uneasy hush that fell over Quark’s was broken by the arrival of a troupe of Klingons. Three of the fearsome warriors, two males and a female shoved their way through the crowd, eliciting a few dirty stares but no vocal protests.

Glover remarked. “Admiral…Monica…I’ve appreciated the company, but I have to go,” he downed the rest of his drink and chucked his thumb at the Klingons. “There’s my ride.”
*****

 

[DarKush]

*****

IKS Dorna
Bajoran System


“Yridians aren’t any more honorable than Ferengi,” Captain Pragh sneered. “Are you sure you can trust this one?”

“Not really,” Captain Terrence Glover responded. “However, the data on this optical rod passed muster. Believe me if Yix was lying to me, I’ve made him aware of the consequences.”

Pragh laughed. “Save a little for me,” he said, clapping Glover hard on the back. “Though I’ve heard Yridian limbs are stringy.”

Glover winced. “I didn’t know Yridians were edible.”

“Ha, got you again,” Pragh said. “I wouldn’t sully my tongue on Yridian flesh even if dined on such exotic cuisine. I was just, how do you humans say, pulling your leg.”

“Your sense of humor is as sharp as your command skills,” Glover grinned. Pragh scowled.

“What do you mean by that?” He flexed his massive shoulders, and cracked his knuckles.

“I got you that time,” Glover replied, wagging a finger. Pragh wrinkled his brow as if trying to discern if Glover was lying. After a few seconds he began laughing again. Cuffing Terrence on the back several times, the burly Klingon led him from the stateroom onto the main bridge.

“B’Kota, you are relieved!” Pragh bellowed. The young warrior at the helm swiveled around, fear and wariness in his expression.

“Have I done something to dishonor you sir?”

“Asking me questions instead of following my orders,” Pragh riposted. Glover started to intervene on the young man’s behalf, but then checked himself. This was Pragh’s ship, and Klingons had a distinctly different style of command. “Captain Glover once piloted this vessel, and led us to great glory. For the remainder of his stay aboard the Dorna, he shall steer her again.”

The fear in B’Kota’s eyes quickly morphed into hostility. He glared at Glover, but stiffly vacated his seat. “Really Captain Pragh, I have no desire to interrupt the duty schedule or your crew’s routines.”

“Warriors must be adaptable, wouldn’t you agree?” Pragh said, as he took his command seat. He gestured for Glover to take the empty helm chair.

“I agree,” Terrence said. He hadn’t moved. “However, I don’t wish to bring dishonor on any of your brave warriors.”

“And you won’t,” Pragh said, his tone growing annoyed. “You are more in danger of dishonoring me by not acceding to my wishes.” Glover glanced at Commander Krastil, who had vacated the command chair as soon as Pragh had stepped on the bridge. His former lover subtly gestured for him to take the seat.

Glover bit his tongue, Pragh’s imperious tone not setting too well with him. Once again he had to remind himself that this was Pragh’s ship and his arrogant behavior was typical for a Klingon commander. In a backhanded way, Pragh was actually complimenting him. Something that Glover never would have imagined could have happened when he first served aboard the Dorna as an exchange officer nine years ago.

Pragh had been the executive officer of the ship then. He had opposed Glover’s placement aboard the vessel, and he had done his best to make Terrence’s stay unpleasant. The man had only started to soften when Glover’s piloting skills had helped bring the Ferengi privateer Daimon Drux to heel and the Dorna crew had made off with the Ferengi’s looted wealth.

Sliding into the helm officer’s chair and retaking the K’Vort cruiser’s controls felt better than Terrence could’ve imagined. For far too long his life had been out of his control, and it felt good to be in a driver’s seat again in some capacity.

“Helmsman, lay in a course for the Romulan Neutral Zone,” Pragh ordered.
********

IKS Dorna
Training Room

“You know I can’t do that,” Glover said. Krastil had beaten back his assault, and had used her bat’leth to disarm him. The fearsome Klingon woman had then pushed him against the wall of the training room, pressing her firm, muscled body against his. The smell of her sweat and female scent was almost overwhelming.

“Your body says otherwise Terrence,” Krastil grinned, running a long tongue over her full lips. She reached down and grabbed his manhood. “It seems like you’re ready for seloh to me.”

“No, no I’m not,” he said, squirming away from the wall. He pulled Krastil’s hand away from his privates. “I’m a married man.”

“Your foolish mate wants a divorce,” Krastil countered. “She is unworthy of you.”

“She’s my wife,” he snapped. “And you’d best remember that and respect her.” The Klingon tersely nodded.

“As you wish,” she said. “You are still an honorable man Glover. I’m glad you honor your vow to your wife. If you had not…” she made a low sweeping gesture with the bat’leth. Involuntarily, Glover closed his legs.

“I get the picture,” he drolly replied.

“It is good to see you again,” Krastil said, “even if the circumstances are so dire.”

“Hopefully they aren’t that bad,” Terrence replied.

“That Yridian gave you information that placed your father on Rator III near the Neutral Zone. He has been presumed missing, dead, or captured for months. And now he surfaces on Rator III.”

“What are you implying?” Glover asked, his voice brimming with menace.

“Something you have, but are afraid to admit,” Krastil was undaunted. “That Admiral Glover has gone rogue.”

“That’s impossible,” Terrence said. “My father would never do that. I’m sure that he’s trying to rescue Lt. Daneeka from the Romulans.”

“Without help from you or any of his other contacts?” Krastil asked. “He hasn’t contacted you, and you told me he hasn’t contacted any of his other confidantes either.”

“My father is not a traitor,” Glover snarled with such ferocity that Krastil stepped back. “End of discussion! There’s some reason he’s on Rator III, and I’m going to find out and bring him home.”

“Terrence, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Krastil said. “I-I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“Hope is all I have right now Krastil, don’t take it from me,” he replied.

“I would never do that,” she said. “I have stood by your side in times past and am proud to do so again.”

“You don’t know how much that means to me,” Glover said, and he meant it.
*****

 

[DarKush]

********
IKS Dorna
Guest Chamber

“Tattoo looks good on you Captain,” Lt. Tai Donar said. Glover touched the striped band running from the corner of his left eye.

“I’m glad it meets with your approval. So, I look like an authentic Angosian huh?”

“Yes sir. And the name and cover information I sent to you should suffice. Roran Dyre was a great soldier. MIA during the Tarsian Wars. Honor his name sir.”

“I will do that,” Glover replied. “How are you and Juanita faring?”

Tai’s mouth stretched into a closed lipped smile. “Juanita still isn’t too happy about not going on this mission with you. And to be frank, neither am I.”

“You guys were a big help to me, but I don’t want to hold back your careers any longer,” the captain said. “I’ve turned down two commands already, and I know you’ve both let a few choice opportunities pass you by. The additional training you both are undergoing at the Academy will leapfrog your careers, especially with the lack of talent after the war.”

“Juanita wants to serve with you again, and so do I,” Donar rumbled.

Glover sighed. “I just can’t push you guys out of the nest can I?”

“Do you really want to do that sir?” The Angosian asked.

The captain shook his head. “Well…no, I guess. I mean our time on the Aegis was so short. She would’ve been a great ship.”

“There will be other ships sir,” Tai replied.

“I hope so,” the captain remarked. “But first I must find my father.”

“And you think this lead on Rator III is good?”

“It better be,” the captain warned. “Or there will be blood drawn.”
*********

IKS Dorna
Main Bridge
Three Days Later….

“Entering Romulan Neutral Zone,” the female Sensors Officer said. At the helm, Glover waited for some dimming of lights or a red alert klaxon notifying the violation of the border into Romulan space. There was none. But of course, Klingons didn’t care about treaties or boundaries as much as the Federation.

“Any Romulan warbirds in the vicinity?” An expectant Pragh asked.

“If there is any sir, they are cloaked,” the Sensors Officer replied.

“Employ our anti-cloaking measures,” he told the woman, prompting a raised eyebrow from Terrence.

“Anti-cloaking measures?” Glover innocently asked.

“State secret,” Pragh laughed. “Helm, best time to Rator III?” Glover looked at his instrumentation.

“We’ll arrive within twelve hours sir.”

“Excellent, time to go over our plan then.”
********

 

[DarKush]

********

IKS Dorna
Moon around Rator III….

The Toron-class shuttle dropped from the hold. Glover ran the plan through his mind again. The IKS Dorna had decloaked behind Rator III’s moon, hopefully shielding it from any satellites or detection devices on the planet.

The plan was to have the Klingon ship chase the shuttle, and disengage once the shuttle reached Rator III. They hoped that the Ratorans would be so rattled by the appearance of a Klingon warship they would ignore the shuttle. Also, Dorna’s appearance would doubtless force any cloaked Romulan warships to appear.

Glover was worried if the old ship could withstand a firefight with a D’deridex, or even a souped up Cormorant, but Pragh had brushed aside his concerns. He promised Glover that the Dorna would be at the scheduled rendezvous point. And to ensure that the shuttle made it, he had given him a miniature cloaking device. Despite Glover’s protest, Krastil had volunteered to join him. He was happy to have the formidable warrior along, even though he tried not to show it.

The alluring Klingon was dressed in a form fitting black uniform, her intricate forehead ridges masked by cosmetic surgery. Her sharpened, jagged teeth had also been straightened, cleaned, and dulled to give the commander a less fierce countenance. She had thoroughly threatened the ship’s medic with vivisection if he couldn’t restore her natural appearance once they returned. She also wore an Angosian tattoo. Their cover story was they were Angosian bounty hunters and Samson was their bounty.

Rator III was a nominal member of the Romulan Star Empire. Existing on the edge of Romulan space, what the Romulans referred to as the “Outmarches,” Rator III served as a hub for travel into and out of the Empire. As long as Imperial coffers were filled on Romulus, the Senate had turned a blind eye to much of the extralegal activity on Rator III, maintaining a supposedly light military presence on the planet.

Glover commed the Dorna. “We are ready to proceed.” He said, glancing over the shuttle’s ships once more. “Don’t hurt us too bad.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Pragh leered. “Sometimes I can get carried away with my acting.”

“The captain is correct,” Krastil deadpanned. “You should’ve seen his rendition of Khamlet at the Qu’Vat Opera House.”

“Ha,” Pragh guffawed. “I got good markings for that performance.”

“So you say sir,” Krastil piled on, drawing more laughter from the Klingon captain.

“I…uh…hate to cut this short,” Glover began.

“Of course, of course,” Pragh bellowed. “You were never this impatient before. Good hunting captain.” He said, shutting off the link. The Toron-class shuttle moved away from the moon, with Dorna right on its heels.
*********
Rator III

Surprisingly, the plan had gone off without a hitch. There had been a Cormorant D-7 battle cruiser cloaked in orbit, and it had given chase to the Dorna, allowing the shuttle to merge into the frenzied orbital traffic around the planet. Glover took the shuttle to the planetary capital.

Glover had quickly found a spaceport for the shuttle, and he and Krastil had quickly disembarked. Yix’s information had last placed Samson at a drinking hole called Better Days.

The captain had allowed Krastil to use some of her feminine charms to find out where the bar was. Almost a dozen broken bones and sprained wrists later, the two arrived at Better Days.

“These guys should be sued for false advertising,” Glover quipped. It was a ratty, seedy place on the far side of the capital. He stepped through the trash strewn at the entrance and pushed on the creaking wooden door. Krastil followed close behind, her hand on the handle of her disruptor.

The pub was brimming with aliens from various species, and surprisingly from several Federation worlds. Glover tried not to make eye contact as he waded through the crowd. Elbowing a spot at the bar, he gruffly called for the barkeep. He ordered two mugs of Romulan ale from the four-armed Terellian bartender. Krastil forced her way beside Glover, eliciting a sharp hiss from the U’tani she displaced. The Klingon snarled in return. The reptilian backed down, making room for her.

Once the Terellian had returned, Glover motioned him to come closer. Though he hated shouting, he knew the man wouldn’t be able to hear him above the din. “Have you seen this human?” He said, showing him a picture of Samson.

The Terellian barked, “Why do you want to know?”

“He’s a wanted criminal,” Krastil said.

The bartender shrugged. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“The bounty on him is quite substantial,” she added.

“Again, what has that got to do with me?” Krastil reached across the bar, grabbing the labels of the man’s shirt and dragging his head down to the spirits-soaked bar. She leaned over, shouting directly into his ear. The man squirmed, but couldn’t break free, despite using his four arms to try to push away from the bar. Glover was both awed and frightened by Krastil’s strength.

“We don’t have time for games, tell us what we wish to know and you will be compensated for your troubles.”

“Well, now, since you put it that way,” he said. Krastil released the man, and he stood back up. Smoothing his twisted shirt collar, he held out two hands, “Tormesh is my name.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Krastil snapped. “Do you know this human?”

“Not personally, no,” Tormesh replied, taking the picture from Glover and holding it close to his face. “But he has been in here several times, always looking for hired muscle from what I’ve heard. The fool wants to break someone out of prison, on Tullianum if you can believe that.”

“Why would that be so impossible to believe?” Krastil asked. Tormesh smiled, looking at both of them with an incredulous glance. It faded once he realized they weren’t joking.

“Tullianum is the main penal colony in the Outmarches. There hasn’t been a successful breakout from there in decades.”

“I see,” Glover said. “So, did he have any takers?”

“The only thing he received was derision,” Tormesh said. “Though I must admit he was a good tipper.”

“Remember anything else?” Krastil asked. The man flinched.

“No, that’s all.” Glover reached into one of the pockets in his heavy jacket and tossed a strip of gold-pressed latinum on the bar. The man eyed it hungrily.

“Thanks for your trouble,” the captain remarked. “Let’s go.”
********

 

[DarKush]

********
Outside the Final Round….

“So, what do we do now Terrence?” Krastil asked once they had left The Final Round, the tenth bar they had gone into in half as many days. Glover pulled the jacket close around him, though the wind continued to knife at him.

“I don’t know,” he said forlornly. “I’m not sure what to do now. I guess we hit every low-life place we can until we cough up more leads.”

*********
Seven Days Later

“Halt you two!” An imperious voice called. The crowd milling about seemed to vanish, leaving only Terrence and Krastil out in the open. The Klingon reached for her weapon, but Glover whispered for her not to. “Turn around slowly,” the voice commanded. They complied.

Two Romulans, in civilian garb, were standing behind them, with disruptor rifles at the ready. A third was sitting in the cabin of wheezing air van. Despite their dress, they all had a noticeable military bearing. “Come with us!” The shortest Romulan demanded. Krastil looked at Glover, the desire for combat gleaming in her eyes. But Glover gestured for her to stay her hand. He wanted to see how this played out.

“Of course we’ll come with you,” Glover said, “We don’t want to cause any problems. We are law officers of a sort as well. Please lead the way.”

**********
Industrial District

The further they glided away from civilization, the more Glover’s hopes grew. Whoever these guys were, they weren’t official authorities. They had already bypassed the capital’s police station, and now the van was gliding toward a darkened warehouse district. Krastil, however was growing antsy. The Rommies had searched them and taken their weapons. The short one was admiring her disruptor.

“This is an authentic Defense Force disruptor,” he replied with appreciation. “How did you get your hands on this?”

“It came from one of our bounties,” Glover answered quickly, prompting a growl from Krastil, “a renegade Klingon warrior.”

“Aren’t they all renegades,” a bulkier Romulan replied. “Or should I say brigands.” Krastil’s face darkened with rage. Glover nudged her in an effort to remind the warrior to maintain her composure. The rest of the trip was thankfully silent.

Once they landed outside of a large warehouse, Glover finally asked. “Where have you taken us?”

“You’ll find out shortly,” the Romulan holding Krastil’s weapon said. He waved it at them. “Get out.” Once again, they followed him. “Now, go into the warehouse.”

“No,” Glover said.

“What did you just say?” The short Romulan asked.

“We’ve been pretty cooperative thus far,” Terrence replied. “But I’m not going into a potential ambush, without some answers.”

“This is the only answer you’re going to get,” the Romulan slammed his elbow hard into Terrence’s stomach. The captain fell to his knees. Krastil erupted. She threw the short Romulan into his bulky counterpart, and twirled to face the third Romulan now rushing out of the air van.

A disruptor blast sizzled past the woman’s ear. “That’s enough!” Glover looked up, his pain receding.

“Dad!”

“Terrence is that you?” A figure ambled through the darkness. “Oh my God, it is you!” Samson Glover said, joy and concern warring on his lined face. Despite the man’s oddly tapered ears and penciled eyebrows, giving him a Vulcanoid appearance, Terrence would know his father anywhere. Glover stood up and both men embraced.

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” Glover said after a few minutes, with tears in his eyes. “I thought you had been captured by the Romulans, or worse.”

“I had been captured,” he replied. “It’s a long story. Come inside and I’ll catch you up.”
*********
Industrial District

“I owe my freedom to Major Nerack,” Samson said, nodding at the short Romulan that had captured Terrence and Krastil. “He and his confederates were in league with Senator Tal’aura.”

“What has any of that got to do with you?” Terrence was totally confused.

“It’s all about Benzar,” Samson replied, “The Federation couldn’t take the chance of losing the referendum that might allow the Benzites to secede and join the Star Empire. So, I-I rigged the election.”

“You what?” Glover asked, mortified. “How, how could you do such a thing?”

“The Empire has always felt that democracy, as you humans view it, was overrated anyway,” Krastil snorted. “Plus, if it prevented the Romulans from gaining a toehold into Federation space, all the better.” The warrior ignored the frosty glares from Nerack and his friends.

“Your friend is right,” Samson said, regarding her with a cool eye. “So, Terrence, how is Jasmine?”

“Now that’s truly a long story,” he said. Glover would wait until they were alone to tell his father about Jasmine’s desire to divorce him.

“Okay,” the former admiral said, “Exactly how long have you been friends with…” he gestured toward Krastil.

“Jota,” Terrence said quickly. “We’ve been acquaintances for a long time.” Samson looked like he wanted to press the issue, but he returned to retelling what had happened to him over the past several months.

“Starfleet Intelligence, with help from Senator Tal’aura planned to subvert the elections, keeping Benzar in the Federation. In return for her assistance, President Santiago had agreed to relocate the Remans to an uninhabited world in the Benzar system, solving a growing social and political problem for them.”

“And it would’ve strengthened Tal’aura’s hand against Senator Hiren in the struggle to succeed Praetor Neral,” another Romulan interjected, drawing the icy glances away from Krastil. The willowy Romulan female bore the angry stares with a Vulcan-like grace.

“How so?” Terrence asked.

“Tal’aura supports Reman relocation, whereas Hiren wants to hold on to the old ways. He wanted to keep soldiers on Benzar and annex it, with or without a referendum. Ta’laura had hoped to weaken his position and prove herself the more able diplomat. Ta’laura fared badly when Admiral Glover’s plot was exposed.”

“Yes,” Nerack didn’t attempt to mask the bitterness in his voice. “Many officers who had ties to Tal’aura were driven from the service. And now that Hiren is Proconsul, we are likely to never serve again.”

“What is your role in all of this,” Terrence asked the Romulan woman.

“My name is T’Neri; I am a member of the Underground.”

“Ambassador Spock’s underground?” Glover asked, for clarity’s sake. T’Neri frowned.

“For lack of a better description, yes,” she replied.

“I thought Vulcans were pacifists,” Krastil snorted. “And whatever this band is, they certainly aren’t pacifists,” she declared, looking around the heavily-armed crowd in the room. The rest of the motley crew surrounding Samson was composed of non-Romulans: two Barolians and even a Sarthongian. “These are the mercenaries you’ve been procuring I see?” Terrence asked.

“Yes,” Samson admitted.

“And what are you going to do with them?”

“Lt. Daneeka is being held on Tullianum. I plan to liberate her.”

“Are you crazy?” Terrence exploded. “From what I heard you’d need an armada to get into that place.”

“This group will have to do,” Samson replied.

“I won’t let you risk your life any longer,” Terrence snapped.

“You don’t have a choice,” Samson fired back. “I owe Daneeka. I got her and Ousanas into this. And I’m going to get her out.”

“What happened to Commander Dar?” Terrence had been avoiding the question, but felt it was appropriate now to bring it up. Perhaps being reminded of what the Romulans had likely done to Dar would bring his father back to his senses.

Terrence regretted asking the question as soon as he saw the crestfallen look on the admiral’s face. Samson turned away from his son, his voice growing tiny. “I-I…shot…him. It was a mistake. An accident, but I…killed him.”

“Dad, no,” Terrence said softly. He gently tugged on the older man’s shoulders, attempting to hug him, but Samson shoved him away. Tears flowed down the admiral’s cheeks.

“You see…I owe Daneeka this. I-I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, the condemnation. I will never be anything now but a murderer to her, but at-at least I won’t be a coward too.”

“Dad, whatever happened, I’m sure it was a mistake,” Terrence said gently.

“That doesn’t bring Ousanas back,” Samson snapped.

“You getting slaughtered won’t bring him back either,” Terrence replied, not backing down.

“Well, if that happens, at least the nightmares might stop.” Samson pulled completely away from Terrence. With his back to Terrence, Samson said, “I could really use your help on this son.”

“You don’t even need to ask,” Glover replied with more assurance than he felt.
********

 

[DarKush]

********
Toron-class shuttle
En Route to Tullianum

“The cloak on this shuttle definitely made my breakout plan much easier,” Samson said with a weary grin. He and Nerack sat in the cramped seating behind Terrence and Krastil.

“Glad to help you,” Terrence replied. “But even with this shuttle’s cloak and weapons, it’s going to be hard getting Daneeka out of there, and everyone else in one piece.” The rest of Samson’s crew was in a Barolian freighter behind them. One of the Barolians had been able to switch places with another freighter that regularly made supply runs to the prison planet. Terrence had no real desire to know the details behind the substitution.

Samson nodded, his expression grim. “I just hope that things turn out in our favor for once.”

“Amen,” Terrence said. Nerack coughed softly.

“I hate to disappoint you,” the Romulan said, brandishing his weapon. Before anyone could react, he shot Krastil. She slumped across the console, thick violet blood seeping into the circuit board, causing it to spark. The shuttle’s proximity alarm blared. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a massive distortion forming on the forward viewer. With a sinking feeling Terrence knew what the shape was turning into. But he couldn’t worry about that now. Glover had more immediate concerns.

Terrence reached for his weapon, but a long, orange tendril appeared from behind Samson’s back. “Dad, look out!” He yelled, before the tendril flew past the admiral, striking Terrence in the neck. His vision immediately began to dim. He tried to reach forward, to fight the tendrils that were now engulfing his father. But Nerack cuffed him across the head with the butt of his disruptor. Terrence didn’t even feel himself hitting the deck.
*********

Terrence awoke slowly. A Romulan wearing a white smock hovered over him. “He’s awake commander.” The man said. Glover opened his eyes, then immediately closed them against the stabbing white light.

“Dr. Fraus, how long will it take for his eyes to adjust?” asked a second man, whom he presumed was the commander.

“It shouldn’t take long at all,” interjected a third man, whose voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“Who?” Glover weakly asked, his mouth dry, his throat raw. It felt like he had been walking through a Kolaran desert for days. His head throbbed and his empty stomach rumbled. He chanced opening his eyes again. “Where…father….Kras…”

“Commander Krastil?” The commander asked, looking down on him with disdain. Terrence had seen the man, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite remember where or when. “The Klingon masquerading as an Angosian bounty hunter? Her tremendous regenerative powers have already returned her to passable health and she is currently assisting the Remans in processing dilithium for the glory of the Star Empire.”

“No,” Terrence shook his head. “She-she would never submit. Sh-she would die first.”

“Corillan acid has a strange effect on one’s willpower,” the commander said. “In fact, she has proven quite pliable.” The commander’s voice was closer. Glover could smell him.

“You bastard!” Terrence jumped out of the seat, in an attempt to choke the commander. The man pulled back, and Glover’s stiff, weakened legs betrayed him. He fell in a tangle at the general’s feet. Electric fire ripped through his body, and he flopped around the floor like a fish out of water. The general placed a well oiled boot on Terrence’s neck, and slowly pressed down.

“Look at me Captain Glover!” He snapped. Terrence opened his eyes. He angrily looked up into the barrel of the commander’s disruptor. “Nice deception.” The general replied. His white-haired, patrician face looked vaguely familiar.

“I…know you?” Terrence asked through gritted teeth.

“Not personally no,” the general said. “However, I was well acquainted with both of your parents. My name is Patrin Volok.”

“Volok,” Glover whispered, remembering the name. “Commander? I thought you were a general? Not doing too well in the promotion department eh?” Volok had once held a general’s rank as head of the now defunct Tal Arcani, the Romulan military police. A mission into Romulan space decades ago had brought Samson and Deitra, Terrence’s mother, together. But it had resulted in the death of Volok’s lover. According to Samson, Volok had vowed vengeance. Volok glowered at Glover’s joke. He looked up and away from Glover, and another specter from his past hovered into view. The man aimed a taser at the captain and fired. More charged electric current struck Glover. The pain was so intense that Terrence soiled himself.

The specter’s nostrils curled with displeasure. He held a handkerchief to his long, pointed nose as he spoke, “I believe that should end your attempts at humor.” He had rolled over onto his back, trying his best to ignore the foul smelling squishiness in his pants.

“You…Colonel....,” Glover fought to maintain his dignity and rein in his anger. Glover attempted to rise, but stopped when the taser and Volok’s disruptor were saved in his face. “Back to finish the job you couldn’t last year.” The lanky Romulan had taken Glover from the True Way militants that had kidnapped him and placed him on trial for war crimes against the Cardassian people during the Dominion War. The colonel had begun conducting experiments on him, some type of conditioning that was fortunately interrupted by the timely arrival of Glover’s ship the Aegis.

“Actually you are correct Captain Glover, welcome to the Warbird Erebos,” the man replied with a smirk. “And this time I promise you there will be no unseemly interruptions.”

“What did you do with my father?” Glover shivered as he remembered the tendrils covering Samson. Volok stepped forward again, his disruptor aimed at Glover.

“I wish I could do something to your father, that I could fulfill my vow to Turi,” Volok replied, with palpable wistfulness. “But Koval has proven one step ahead of me once again,” the wistfulness turned bitter. “So, if I can’t destroy the man, I can destroy his legacy, and now I have his son.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t caught on yet have you?” Volok asked, his voice now filled with mirth. “Neyjar come forward.”

An orange-skinned alien slithered forward. It had a lamp-shaped head, four large bulbous yellow eyes and six tentacles. “Never seen a Vendorian before?” Viredis asked. Terrence shook his head. “That’s understandable. The Federation placed a quarantine around Vendor over a hundred years ago, due to their alliance with us.”

“What did you do to my father?” Terrence asked the creature. It blinked, but didn’t respond. “Where is my father?” The captain’s voice frayed with anger.

“You still don’t get it do you? A demonstration Neyjar.” Before Glover’s startled eyes, the orange alien morphed into a likeness his father with a soft flash of light.

“How is that possible? What’s going on?” Terrence failed to keep the hysteria out of his voice.

“The Vendorians are shape shifters. They can rearrange their molecular structures at will. I used Neyjar to flush you out.”

“How did you know I would come?”

“Yix saw to that.”

“I’ll kill him,” Glover remarked through clenched teeth.

“Leave that to me,” T’Neri strolled into the room. As the slender Romulan walked, her face rippled. By the time the thing Terrence had thought was the dissident T’Neri now bore his own darksome face. The faux-Glover even wore a replica of his Starfleet uniform. “He’ll be the first person I visit. After that, perhaps…Jasmine.”

“You’re dead!” Terrence roared. He kicked the Vendorian, knocking the thing back. While the others were stunned, the captain acted. He punched Viredis in the knee cap, shattering his own hand, but satisfied with the crunch of bone he heard. Without stopping, Glover turned and bit into Volok’s ankle, his mouth filling with coppery green blood. Volok grunted. The Romulan commander attempted to fire at Glover, but the shot scorched empty ground. Glover was already on his feet. He stiffened his good hand and drove it into Volok’s throat. The man rasped, clutching his crushed trachea. He fell, and Glover turned to the Vendorians.

They slithered around him, their tentacles swinging and striking at him as they tried to maneuver him into a corner. Unfortunately, it was working. Glover wished he had grabbed Volok’s weapon.

“Don’t kill him!” Dr. Fraus shrieked. The medic was hiding behind a desk. “Only incapacitate him. We still need him for information!”

Cursing softly, Glover charged the Vendorians. He bowled over one of them, and tried to jump free from it, but two of its tendrils grabbed a leg and arm, pulling him down on top of it. The other Vendorian slithered on top of Glover and they covered him in a fleshly cocoon, striking him repeatedly with their barbed tendrils until Glover was beyond pain.
*******

 

[DarKush]

*******
Warbird Erebos
(Science Lab)

“You want to know what happened to the last doctor that was working with the colonel when he tangled with me?” Glover asked. He futilely strained against the restraints shackling him to the biobed.

“Not particularly, no,” Dr. Fraus replied. The spindly Romulan, with an uncharacteristic mop of unruly brown hair hovered over Glover, tapping absently into a padd. “Our biometric scans are almost complete. The alien DNA in your system has been identified as Bajoran antibodies and platelets.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Glover asked, trying to lull the medic into making a mistake.

“The colonel has ordered that I develop a more effective interrogation method,” Fraus replied absently. “You have proven resistant to both the commander and colonel’s techniques thus far.”

“I’m not as easy to break as they thought huh?” Terrence smirked. “Bring on your worst. I’ll never break.” The doctor put the padd aside, and stared at Glover for almost a minute. The captain grew uneasy as the silence grew.

“I fear that you’re going to come to regret your boast,” was all Fraus said before he left the lab.
********
Warbird Erebos
(Holodeck)

Terrence Glover was on his knees on the bed, his tears flowing freely. His wife Jasmine stood apart from him, her back turned towards him. She quickly slid into a slinky red dress.

“Don’t leave me Jazz, please, not again,” he pleaded.

“This was a mistake,” Jasmine replied coldly, her light brown eyes flashing. “I don’t love you anymore Terrence.” She turned around to glare at him.

“Don’t say that,” he reached for her, but she flinched.

“You’re pathetic!” She bellowed, “Nothing but a Corillan junkie!” She threw the empty vial onto the bed.

“No, it’s not my fault,” he said, scrambling for an excuse.

“Whose fault is it then?” Her voice was mocking.

“The Romulans, those Rommie bastards did this to me!” He protested.

“It’s been six months since you escaped,” Jasmine said. “Six months and I can’t believe I left the Meharry for this. I thought you could be man enough to overcome this and I could help you, but it was such a waste of my time. You broke yourself, no one could do that.”

He looked away from her, “I know,” he said, his voice tinny. “I’m…so…”

“Disgusted,” she finished the thought. “You should be.”
*******

 

[DarKush]

*******
Warbird Erebos
(Stateroom)

“What is the purpose of this little fiction?” Colonel Castra Viredis said with obvious displeasure.

“Men should enjoy their work,” Commander Volok grinned in response. “Not even the True Way could do what we have done: broken the once proud Captain Terrence Glover.”

“I could care less about that,” Viredis remarked. “The Vendorians have learned what they need to in order to imitate both Glovers effectively. I say stuff the good captain into your nearest air lock and be done with it.”

“You don’t give orders here!” Volok’s smile was quickly consumed by a snarl. “This is my ship. You don’t sow fear here like you did on the Dromorn, and its best you remember it.” Viredis glowered at the man. Volok’s smile widened. “I haven’t forgotten that it was you that ‘arrested’ me, one of your many errands for Chairman Helanor. And what did all of your loyalty to the old harridan get you? Now you run errands for Koval, her last favorite, your chance to head the Tal Shiar a mere fantasy until I resurfaced.”

“Don’t you mean after you were released from prison?” Viredis now smirked, “Or perhaps after your demotion.” The skin around the commander’s eyes crinkled and his lips quickly drew into a straight line. “Bad memories eh Volok?”

Volok shook his head slowly. “The Tal Shiar will pay for what it did to me.”

“That’s not part of our agreement,” Viredis warned.

“Oh but it is,” Volok’s smile returned. “I can think of no better punishment for the Tal Shiar than to have a venal aggrandizer like you at its helm.” Viredis started in his chair, opening his mouth ready to rebuke Volok’s assertion. He stopped himself, his own smile returning.

“That’s one perspective, I’m sure,” the colonel said. “But it is one I can live with.”

“Shall I proceed?” Volok asked, turning back to the monitor.

“At your leisure,” Viredis looked at the screen, but his mind was elsewhere.
********
Tal Shiar Headquarters
Romulus

Chairman Koval usually hated being disturbed, but this was a message he had been waiting for. His operative on the Erebos informed him of the progress of the Vendorian plot. Once they finished, Koval thanked them, something he rarely did, before ending the communication.

“So, the old syrinx is trying to trump me,” Koval grinned in the empty darkness. “We’ll just see about that.”

********
Warbird Erebos
(Detention Center)

Glover was huddled in a corner of the room, shivering more from the acid than the frigidness of the cell. He wanted to break free of the grip of the Corillan acid, but the Romulans kept feeding it to him, dropping vials of the green death into the slot of his cell door sometimes instead of food. At other times they would leave it with his food, but the food would go untouched as he gorged on the narcotic.

All Terrence wanted to do was escape, but he felt so powerless and useless. It had never been this way before; he had always found a way to overcome any obstacle before him. Even when he couldn’t, Glover had always been able to rely on his friends. But the only friend who might even have an inkling of where he was, Krastil, was just as lost as he was, her life enthralled to the acid too.

He remembered how the drug had warped his former protégé Sito Jaxa, and how the once bright, happy young Bajoran woman had been forever scarred. He didn’t want that for himself, but he didn’t see how or if he would ever be able to kick his addiction. Even now his body burned with craving, every nerve ending on fire.

Unable to stop himself, he rushed to the door and pounded on it. “I need….I need a hit….” He screamed, disgusted with himself, “I need a hit!”

The door slid open and Glover staggered back as the bright light stabbed his eyes. One of the Vendorians hovered in the door way. It held out one tendril. “Come with me,” it commanded. Terrence took another step back.

“No,” he said. The Vendorian shifted, another tendril appeared. This one held a vial filled with a green liquid. Terrence’s eyes widened, and his mouth watered.

“Come with me now,” the creature glided back from the door. The small part of Terrence demanding that he hold his ground was drowned out by his need. He cautiously stepped forward. “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

When Glover stepped into the hallway, he immediately noticed the guard slumped against the wall. His neck was broken. “Grab his disruptor. You will need it,” the Vendorian said.

“What is going on? Is this some type of trick?”

“No,” the alien said, pointing at the gun with another tendril. Terrence reluctantly took the weapon. He checked its power cell.

“This is fully charged,” he said, aiming the weapon at the Vendorian. “Now, I want some answers.” The alien waved the acid in his face. Glover’s knees slightly buckled.

“You sure you don’t want this,” it said. “It was tailored to your brain chemistry after all.”

Terrence shook his head, his eyes misting. “No…I want answers…right now,” he demanded.

“There isn’t much time,” the Vendorian said. Glover pointed the gun at him. The alien approximated a human shrug. “Fine, your father has been executed.”

“What?” Glover asked, falling backward against the door to his cell. “No…that can’t be. When?”

“This morning,” the Vendorian said. “It was broadcast on the Romulan comnet this afternoon. The Federation should receive word of it shortly.”

“No,” Terrence gasped. “Damn it, no.” He turned his head to the Vendorian, not wanting the alien to see the tears in his eyes.

“There is no time for grief,” the Vendorian’s voice was surprisingly tender. Horrifically familiar. Glover turned, and Samson stood before him. “Listen, with the admiral’s death, Commander Volok has very little use for me. If I help you escape you can help me seek asylum in the Federation.”

Glover aimed the rifle at the Vendorian. “Change back now,” his voice was cold, but not as frigid as his insides. Before the Vendorian could reply, Terrence shot him. The Vendorian dissolved in a barrage of green fire.

Terrence quickly found the nearest computer wall display. With a rudimentary understanding of Romulan, Glover pieced together the location of the massive ship’s shuttle bay.

The captain resolved to get to the bottom of this when he had escaped. He didn’t want to believe what the Vendorian said about his father being dead. Terrence was sure it was another trick. For all he knew this was one of the holodeck games his captors delighted in using against him, making him question reality and his sanity even on occasion. Well even if it was a game, and if the Romulans were once again testing how he would respond in a given situation, Terrence would play it like it were real, and he would play to win.
********

 

[DarKush]

********
Warbird Erebos

Captain Glover felt more powerful and confident than he had a right to with the Corillan acid coursing through his veins. Fortunately, the Vendorian had dropped the vial while it was being disintegrated. Terrence had ingested it before dragging the dead guard into his cell and setting out for the shuttle bay, armed with the disruptor pistol and a blade he had pilfered from the soldier’s corpse.

He did a good job avoiding the occasional patrol or errant soldier. Two corridors away from the shuttle bay, he heard a guard sauntering coming the hallway seconds before the man would’ve spotted him. As soon as the young man passed, Glover pounced on him. Unable to control himself, seeing Volok’ s and Viredis’s faces superimposed on the hapless soldier’s, Terrence stabbed the man repeatedly, until his hands were thick with green blood. He continued stabbing the corpse, even through a rain of tears.

He stuffed the body as best he could behind the bulkhead. Moving more quickly now, Glover reached the shuttle bay. Strange enough it was unguarded. Terrence ran in.

His doppelganger stood calmly behind the Toron-class shuttle. “You’re late,” he said. “Too bad about Neyjar I suppose.”

“Too bad?” Glover asked, confused. But not so befuddled that he didn’t raise the disruptor at the Vendorian. “Care to tell me what’s going on here?”

“I knew you wouldn’t give Neyjar the chance to tell you everything,” the replica said. “Of course Neyjar didn’t know that. But he was never you. Not like me,” the creature smiled, stepping forward. It squealed in pain when a disruptor blast sliced through its knee. The alien fell on the deck, its body working frantically to rearrange its molecules around the missing limb. It morphed back to its original state while doing so.

Glover stepped forward. “Care to tell me the rest?” He asked, looking around.

“The Romulans are quite the master planners, very intricate, very detailed,” the alien said, looking up at him with its bulbous, baleful eyes. “When even one thing goes awry, they tend to shut down the entire project and wipe out all traces. That’s what happened with the clones. And neither Neyjar nor I found death or the dilithium mines desirable.”

“Clones?” Terrence asked. “What are you talking about? Don’t tell me they cloned me too?”

“Not you,” the Vendorian replied. “But your father…yes.”

“Is that thing here too?” Glover asked.

“No, it was disposed of…years ago,” the Vendorian answered with less strain. Glover looked down to see that the creature was reforming rapidly. “None are left I believe.”

“Don’t tell me you’re really going to help me?” Terrence asked with marked skepticism.

“I don’t have a choice,” the Vendorian said. “May I stand up now?” The captain backed away slightly before nodding his assent. The Vendorian easily resumed its footing. It glided away from him to one of the sleek, vicious looking shuttle craft beside the Toron-class shuttle. “Are you familiar with the Scorpion-class fighter?”

“No,” Terrence couldn’t help but admire the sleek black lines of the ship. “The Romulans haven’t been too eager to share their technology with us. Even during the war.”

“I’ve already programmed this fighter for you to easily pilot,” the Vendorian said.

“I prefer the horse I rode in on,” Glover made his way to the Toron-class shuttle. The Vendorian glided in front of him.

“I’ve rigged the shuttle with a trilithium resin explosive,” the alien said. “I activated the timer as soon as Neyjar left to retrieve you.”

“How much time?”

“Less than ten minutes,” the Vendorian replied.

“Let’s get to the shuttle, I’m taking the cockpit,” Terrence said, noticing that the Scorpion was a two-seater.

“I have my own fighter,” the alien said, slithering towards an adjacent Scorpion.

“Wait a minute,” Terrence said. “This sounds like a con to me.”

“What it sounds like to me is giving the Erebos two agile targets instead of one,” the Vendorian retorted. Though he wanted to, Glover couldn’t fault the creature’s logic.

“Fine,” Glover said. “But at the first sign of treachery, you’re toast.” The Vendorian made an awkward head nod with its long, lamp shaped head. “And in the spirit of amity, I’ll take your Scorpion.”

“You can’t read Romulan,” the alien protested.

“I’m full of surprises,” Terrence stepped toward the fighter, but stumbled back as the deckplates rumbled. Klaxons blared across the shuttle bay and the lighting grew dim.

“Battle stations!” Commander Volok’s voice sounded across the intercom. “Battle stations!”

“Let’s go,” Glover said, climbing into the cockpit of the Vendorian’s Scorpion. The alien did likewise. Settling in, Terrence quickly attempted to decipher the ship’s controls. He noticed a tiny green light blinking. Looking up at the Vendorian, he saw the creature nod. Glover pressed the button. The Vendorian’s voice came through a hidden speaker.

“Have you acquainted yourself with the Scorpion’s controls?” It asked.

“Good enough,” he replied.

“Excellent,” the Vendorian said. “I will now activate the shuttle bay’s doors.” Seconds later the dull green doors opened. The stars beckoned. But so did several large, predatory looking starships.

“What are those?” Glover gasped, admiring their deadly design.

“Norexan-class warbirds. The future of the Imperial Navy,” the Vendorian answered.

“The future is definitely looking darker these days,” the captain remarked as he watched the fast, graceful ships fly through space, strafing the Erebos.

“You’re just figuring that out,” the Vendorian was using Terrence’s voice again. Angrily, the captain looked out of the canopy to see his reflection. The faux-Glover winked at him before lifting off into space. Terrence Glover followed.
********
Starbase 23
(Interrogation Room)
January 2377

“Care to repeat that story one more time Mr. Glover,” Captain Jarod Singleton of Starfleet Intelligence smugly asked.

“No I don’t,” Terrence hotly retorted. “And that’s Captain Glover to you.”

“Not for long,” Singleton shot back. “That honor isn’t reserved for addicts!” The force of the blow knocked the SI agent to the floor. His nearly bald head smacked the wall, and blood gushed from his nose. The man got up slowly. His smile was bloody. “You’re finished Glover.”

“That’s enough,” Admiral Shanthi remarked with her customary reserve. “You’re excused Mr. Singleton.” The agent balked, but Shanthi held her ground. As soon as the man left, Glover rounded on her.

“Why did you just sit there and allow that man to insult me?” Glover asked, hurt and incredulous. “To accuse me of being a traitor? To call me a junkie?” The tall, graying woman looked Terrence in the eye.

“I had to be sure it was you,” she said. “No one can fake your foolish pride,” she smiled. “No matter how much they might practice.” She paused, the smile disappearing. “I’m sorry to hear about Samson. I blame myself for this whole sorry affair. I should’ve been more vocal about my doubts.”

“No, it didn’t matter,” Terrence said. Though he wanted to blame someone, anyone for what happened to his father, no was to blame except the Romulans, especially Commander Volok and Colonel Viredis. He didn’t know if they had survived the attack on the Erebos, but if they did, they and every other pointy-eared bastard associated with them would pay for what they had done both to him and his father. “My father was as much a patriot as you. He would’ve taken on that mission regardless because he believed it would help the Federation.”

Shanthi nodded in agreement. “Even though you’ve broken countless laws with this latest jaunt of yours, you did bring back valuable intelligence and a Scorpion fighter to boot.”

“I do my best,” Glover sarcastically remarked. Shanthi frowned.

“It’s unfortunate that the Vendorian didn’t survive the escape,” the admiral shook her head. “He would’ve been an incredible fount of intelligence for us. First it could’ve provided us conclusive proof that the Romulans have broken their treaty with the Federation, regarding the use of Vendorian spies.” Terrence nodded, as he wracked his brain for the reference. His memory was so fried now that it was hard concentrating, must less remembering arcane treaties.

Shanthi seemed to understand. The older woman paused and smiled sympathetically. “The treaty was signed over a century ago, and to our knowledge broken only once before, on Stardate 5143.3. Of course the Romulans blamed it on rogue factions that were promptly executed afterwards, wrapping things up in a nice, neat bow,” The admiral gave a cynical laugh.

“More relevant is what that Vendorian might have been able to tell us about current events. There are a lot of things going on behind the Star Empire’s iron curtain these days: their post-war reconstruction, the struggle of many subject races, particularly the Remans, for increased status, the growing dissident movement, and the continual power games among the political elite. Even with our undercover agents, we only receive the scantest of information. The Vendorian could’ve at least provided us with information about those elites perhaps, and the various plans of their intelligence counterparts.”

“Perhaps,” Terrence said quietly, remembering how one of the Norexan warbirds had broken off from the attack on the Erebos and given chase to them, of the shocked look on the Vendorian’s, actually it was still wearing his face, as his console exploded when the warbird pounced on him like a hawk. Before Glover activated the fighter’s warp engine, he saw the Vendorian’s Scorpion spinning into the darkness. The admiral patiently let Glover have his moment of reflection.

“Now, about the other matter,” she said slowly.

“My…condition….” Terrence grimly replied. The admiral nodded.

“There is a procedure, but there might be some short-term memory loss involved,” the admiral said.

“Go on,” the captain prodded.

“The Corillan acid this Commander Volok developed was attuned to your brain chemistry. Starfleet Medical believes that by making a few adjustments to your brain chemistry, it will neutralize the effect of the drug in your system. However, it will require that you muster the will power to stay away from attempting to ingest higher dosages of the narcotic, or any narcotic, until your endorphins have returned to normal, stable levels.”

“What about the memory loss?”

“Corillan acid affects the parts of brain receptors that deal with pleasure and pain. Intense memories associated with those receptors might be altered, or lost when your brain is rewired. The medics have informed me that the memory loss might go back as far as the last several weeks.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Glover admitted. “This has definitely been a time in my life that I would like to forget.”


THE END

 

[mirandafave]

You do complicated and with all of your stories, you have lots of background and in-story canon to feed upon. I like how you tie in the many different aspects here. From Covey to Glover's time in the exchange programme. Very good. You draw upon a reach tapestry to fuel this story and it all the richer for it. Indeed, I can say that it is all the harder hitting for it. To see Terrence become drug addicted to Corrilian Acid is such a shock to me. I wonder whether his recovery from it will be as easy as so far made out. Will a simple re-adjustment of his brain chemistry be enough. And given that, I wonder how far reaching the memory loss will be.

There's a lot jammed into this story. An awful lot. And I admit to being lost to some of the developments - but that is to my lack of readings stories and parts and not the fault of the writing here. All along, I kept being kept off balance by the turns and twists and it is truly an effective piece of writing. Again, great writing, lots of complications and Glover has more thrown at him than I thought possible. For a guy who a lot of people want to smack in the face, he keeps proving himself, keeps pushing, keeps fighting.

 

[DarKush]

My apologies if it was confusing to you. I did pull together a lot of different strands, mostly started in "The Needs of the One", but built on in "The Valley of Peace" and "Under the Shadows of Swords", plus the vignettes. I thought it would be cool to also revisit the crew from "The Heart of the Matter" as well. This was a nice little reunion type piece that I wanted to use to close out 2376 and open the gates for 2377.

It probably works best if you're familiar with all of those previous works, plus "Shadow Puppets" I guess now. I guess I was attempting to bring one chapter to a close (I wrote the original story a couple years back), while preparing for the next, but then I sidetracked myself with a lot of pre-2376 stories. I wanted to flesh out Glover's service on the Renegade and the Cuffe more fully, and play around with the Klingon War and the Dominion War. To be honest, I wound up becoming pretty attached to the Cuffe and sort of wish I hadn't destroyed it. Though Aegis looked cool, I never warmed to that ship.

Back to "Dearest Blood"...The Covey-Glover meeting had originally been attached to a story "Aftershocks" the bulk of which took place in 2377, and I just wanted to include it to show what Glover was up to. I decided to add it to "Dearest Blood" because it made more sense to do so. I also wanted to give a hint to Covey leaving DS9, and to put her more in play for the Alshain stories I'm thinking of.

This story might be a victim of my attempt (at that time) to write shorter stories. I would like to revisit doing that, because I have a tendency to write these mega stories that take forever and sometimes get too convoluted, as in the aborted "Pandora's Jar". In fact, "Shadow Puppets" spawned out of just one of the many subplots from "PJ". I actually plan on breaking apart the rest of that story and spreading it out for some additional 2377 stories and perhaps one reach back to the Dominion War.

The Corillan acid (thanks DavidFalkayn for creating it) angle was a shock to me as well, but I decided to go with it. There's not much that can break Terrence's spirit, but an addiction to that stuff might (emphasis on the word 'might'), and its a different kind of struggle for him. It presages a different, darker Terrence Glover in 2377. Be forewarned, I intend for it to get a little bleak for TG in '77.

 

[BrotherBenny]

^Like he's had a peachy time so far...

 

[mirandafave]

My apologies if it was confusing to you. I did pull together a lot of different strands, mostly started in "The Needs of the One", but built on in "The Valley of Peace" and "Under the Shadows of Swords", plus the vignettes. I thought it would be cool to also revisit the crew from "The Heart of the Matter" as well. This was a nice little reunion type piece that I wanted to use to close out 2376 and open the gates for 2377.

Nope! As I said, I've missed out some stories by accident [and because of the sheer volume of your work - lol] and I'm still trying to catch upw ith Shaow Puppets itself. So the writing itself is not confusing. That's all on me.

I LOVE the fact that you tie in different plot threads. I love that you utilise all that you have at your disposal in terms of the rich history of Glover and that you use elements from past stories and the wider UT universe.

 

[CeJay]

Events in Hero of the Federation made me curious to re-read Terrence's ordeal. Turns out the consequences he suffered from his forced addiction to the Acid are far worse than were previously assumed, considering the poor guy has trouble even remembering his friends. I hope you get a chance to focus on this further in future DT stories. His road to rehabilitation, if indeed there is going to be one, would make for a fascinating read.

 

[DarKush]

CeJay,

I'm glad you decided to check Dearest Blood back out. I hope it helps explain why Glover's closest friends are willing to give his change in behavior the benefit of the doubt and are being patient with him. He's been through a lot.

I never replied to Mirandafave's comment, and all I can say is I appreciate the comments. One of the great things about writing in a collective like United Trek is that it provides this wonderful backdrop and provides a lot of things you can sprinkle into your stories and it just adds a weight to what you're writing IMO.