Dark Territory: Shadow Puppets
- Thread starter DarKush
- Start date
Thanks for reading CeJay. Of course everyone's in trouble. It wouldn't be fun otherwise.
*******************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
Commander T’Chaya’s head throbbed, but she reasoned that she was in better shape than either T’Prell or Steen. Neither had regained consciousness, though both were trussed up like her, and propped into vacant chairs along the aft section of the bridge.
Lt. Colonel Vakis was back in the command chair. She cracked her eye open a bit wider and realized that the Shadow-class vessel had not returned to the nebula.
The darksome Tal Shiar agent, her tapered ears twitching, swiveled around to look at T’Chaya. She regarded her prisoner with a half-smile. “Awake so soon?” She asked. The Vulcan didn’t respond. “Perhaps I didn’t apply the nerve pinch accurately. Usually our martial arts methods are more lethal. Though I must admit that I have enjoyed using your tal-shaya technique on occasion.”
“If you would like for me to demonstrate the proper usage of the nerve pinch, please remove my restraints,” T’Chaya remarked, the words as dry as her throat. Vakis laughed.
“Who said your kind no longer had a sense of humor,” the operative remarked. “But we will see how long that lasts in our interrogation chambers.”
“We maintain on a course outside the Scarab Nebula,” T’Chaya stated. She wanted to get as much information as possible about their current whereabouts, in addition to distracting the woman while she worked to unloosen her bonds.
“Yes,” Vakis said. “I know you are aware of the last communiqué I received. We are headed to the space station Pirot Nor, for an extraction.”
“Pirot Nor, that sounds like a Cardassian station?”
“Oh it is,” Vakis nodded.
“A Cardassian station? In Benzite space?”
“Oh yes,” Vakis answered. “Wonders never cease.”
“The probe, you’re going to extract the probe?” The agent scowled.
“I see you were more thorough in deciphering the message than I realized. No matter, perhaps if my superiors allow you to leave long enough, you will see what that probe will do to Starfleet Command.”
“So, you don’t have enough authority to execute us,” T’Chaya said, attempting to rouse the woman to anger, and more importantly, into making a mistake. “Certainly once the truth comes out about how we duped you, it will doubtlessly leave an indelibly negative mark on your record.”
“No one will know what transpired here,” Vakis said. “All they will see is that I have captured three duplicitous and resourceful enemies, single-handedly. My superiors will not deny me lead interrogation duties, and I intend to use them to the fullest extent,” her smile was wolfish. She shivered slightly, “I can’t wait to begin.”
One of the consoles behind T’Chaya beeped, drawing both women’s attention. T’Chaya strained to turn her neck in the direction of the console. “Proximity alert,” Vakis said, more to herself than the Vulcan, her tone curious.
She turned back around in her seat, her fingers flying over an inset console. The ship adjusted slightly as its interior lighting dimmed. “Let’s see what almost hit us.” The starfield shifted on the main viewer, catching the brown-painted side of a shuttle, of pre-Federation design. The smaller vessel streaked on past them, oblivious of the close call.
“Ship recognition logs reveal this beauty is the Tavek,” Vakis said. T’Chaya’s heart seized. The captain had sent someone after them. “No doubt this is a shuttle from your starship?” Vakis looked back at the woman for a few seconds, sniffing with displeasure that T’Chaya didn’t answer. “I wonder if the larger vessel isn’t far behind?”
The commander wished there was some way she could send a warning to that hapless craft. There was no way it could match the Stiletto’s armaments or its pilot’s bellicosity. “Well, I think it’s safe to assume that its one of yours and we must eliminate them to avoid detection. Wouldn’t you agree?” T’Chaya only gave her a stony look, but inside she raged.
*************************************************************
*******************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
Commander T’Chaya’s head throbbed, but she reasoned that she was in better shape than either T’Prell or Steen. Neither had regained consciousness, though both were trussed up like her, and propped into vacant chairs along the aft section of the bridge.
Lt. Colonel Vakis was back in the command chair. She cracked her eye open a bit wider and realized that the Shadow-class vessel had not returned to the nebula.
The darksome Tal Shiar agent, her tapered ears twitching, swiveled around to look at T’Chaya. She regarded her prisoner with a half-smile. “Awake so soon?” She asked. The Vulcan didn’t respond. “Perhaps I didn’t apply the nerve pinch accurately. Usually our martial arts methods are more lethal. Though I must admit that I have enjoyed using your tal-shaya technique on occasion.”
“If you would like for me to demonstrate the proper usage of the nerve pinch, please remove my restraints,” T’Chaya remarked, the words as dry as her throat. Vakis laughed.
“Who said your kind no longer had a sense of humor,” the operative remarked. “But we will see how long that lasts in our interrogation chambers.”
“We maintain on a course outside the Scarab Nebula,” T’Chaya stated. She wanted to get as much information as possible about their current whereabouts, in addition to distracting the woman while she worked to unloosen her bonds.
“Yes,” Vakis said. “I know you are aware of the last communiqué I received. We are headed to the space station Pirot Nor, for an extraction.”
“Pirot Nor, that sounds like a Cardassian station?”
“Oh it is,” Vakis nodded.
“A Cardassian station? In Benzite space?”
“Oh yes,” Vakis answered. “Wonders never cease.”
“The probe, you’re going to extract the probe?” The agent scowled.
“I see you were more thorough in deciphering the message than I realized. No matter, perhaps if my superiors allow you to leave long enough, you will see what that probe will do to Starfleet Command.”
“So, you don’t have enough authority to execute us,” T’Chaya said, attempting to rouse the woman to anger, and more importantly, into making a mistake. “Certainly once the truth comes out about how we duped you, it will doubtlessly leave an indelibly negative mark on your record.”
“No one will know what transpired here,” Vakis said. “All they will see is that I have captured three duplicitous and resourceful enemies, single-handedly. My superiors will not deny me lead interrogation duties, and I intend to use them to the fullest extent,” her smile was wolfish. She shivered slightly, “I can’t wait to begin.”
One of the consoles behind T’Chaya beeped, drawing both women’s attention. T’Chaya strained to turn her neck in the direction of the console. “Proximity alert,” Vakis said, more to herself than the Vulcan, her tone curious.
She turned back around in her seat, her fingers flying over an inset console. The ship adjusted slightly as its interior lighting dimmed. “Let’s see what almost hit us.” The starfield shifted on the main viewer, catching the brown-painted side of a shuttle, of pre-Federation design. The smaller vessel streaked on past them, oblivious of the close call.
“Ship recognition logs reveal this beauty is the Tavek,” Vakis said. T’Chaya’s heart seized. The captain had sent someone after them. “No doubt this is a shuttle from your starship?” Vakis looked back at the woman for a few seconds, sniffing with displeasure that T’Chaya didn’t answer. “I wonder if the larger vessel isn’t far behind?”
The commander wished there was some way she could send a warning to that hapless craft. There was no way it could match the Stiletto’s armaments or its pilot’s bellicosity. “Well, I think it’s safe to assume that its one of yours and we must eliminate them to avoid detection. Wouldn’t you agree?” T’Chaya only gave her a stony look, but inside she raged.
*************************************************************
***************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Ward Room
The war cry penetrated the thick, uridium walls. It was followed by more snarling and stomping of boots. The Jem’Hadar and Reman guards both standing guard at the door looked at each other before glaring at their guests. Their grip tightened on their weapons.
Captain Walker exchanged glances at Admiral Glover and his crew. They all had knowing gleams in their eyes. Whatever had just happened outside those doors portended that these negotiations were over. The captain rose slowly. “Sit back down,” the Jem’Hadar barked. Walker held his ground, holding his hands up to remind them that he was unarmed.
“What’s going on in the operations room?” He asked. The other Starfleet officers also stood up.
“Retake your seats,” hissed the Reman.
“I demand to know what’s going on?” Admiral Glover stepped forward, in front of Walker. The captain didn’t like the man making himself such a target. He didn’t need the death of the venerable Admiral Glover on his head in addition to all of the terrible things he had done over the last several days.
“You demand?” The Jem’Hadar scoffed. “You are nothing more than a prisoner, and you will do as you are told!” He rushed forward, turning the rifle around his hands to use the butt of it as a bludgeon. Glover set his jaw and bent low, preparing to take the scaly warrior on. Walker saw his opening. He pushed the admiral out of the way and brought up a quick knee, catching the cocky Jem’Hadar in the stomach.
His arrogance gushed out of him along with his air. The man doubled over. Walker used clasped his hands together and hit in the nape of the neck with a double-ax handle. The Jem’Hadar feel to one knee, while Walker struggled to take his rifle. The disruptor blast punched through the meat of his shoulder, the pain searing, his vision going white as it flung him backward.
With a cry almost as animalistic as their hosts, Petrov leaped on the conference table, and used it as a springboard to launch at the Reman. He turned his weapon on her, but Astar snuck up behind him. She pushed the man into the engineer’s outstretched boot, and his cheek crumbled upon impact. Petrov kept going, landing with a graceful roll. The Reman was on the ground. Walker was now only an observer, the wound taking the energy out of him, though not all of the fight.
Admiral Glover wrestled with the Jem’Hadar warrior, the rifle sandwiched between them. Both Astar and Petrov were feinting and dodging the knife swings of the Reman, who now brandished a wicked blade. The man’s prized disruptor was at his feet and he was keeping either woman from retrieving it.
Walker tried to use the wall for traction to get back to his feet, but the fire in his shoulder spread across his body, taking away his strength. The best he could do was prop himself up and watch the fight unfold. He tapped his combadge, hoping he could call on the Monarch for help. There was no response. It figured, he thought. Those bastards have cut off communication with his ship. They were alone and they would have to win this fight by themselves.
*************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Bridge
“You will deactivate your weapons and shields and prepare to be boarded!” The Jem’Hadar Second demanded.
“No, I won’t,” Lt. Commander Liyange replied. “Where is First Torak’Clan or Colonel Sorix?”
“I am First now!” The man declared with such pride that Arjuna thought he was going to beat his chest. “And you will obey me!”
“No,” the Sri Lankan acting captain said. “I will not. Where is Captain Walker?”
“He and your other officers are safe,” the Reman Bakin slid into the visual frame. “But there continued safety is contingent upon you complying with our request.”
Sotto voce, Lt. Torkill said, “Jem’Hadar fighters are assuming attack posture and the Jem’Hadar battle cruiser is disembarking.”
“You bought us here under a banner of truce, I thought we were negotiating an alliance,” Liyange said.
“That was the…old regime,” The new Jem’Hadar First replied.
“Yes, the time for negotiation is over. We want nothing more than complete, unqualified liberty,” Bakin said, “And we will achieve it by any means.”
“The plan your predecessors had conceived was going to work,” Liyange replied. “It had the captain’s approval. It had Starfleet backing. Think about this a moment, don’t toss away this chance for your peoples to live in peace, as friends of the Federation.”
“Peace!” The Jem’Hadar spat. “We are warriors. War is all we know, it is our sole reason for being. Peace…peace is the true death.”
“And what of you Lt. Bakin?” Liyange turned to him. “Remans weren’t conceived in vats. Remans have homes, families, and surely dreams, aspirations of better lives for their progeny.”
“The course I have chosen will secure that for us more surely than exiling us in the Badlands,” Bakin said. “Nice try human, but we have chosen the way of blood.”
Liyange shook her head sadly. “That’s unfortunate,” she replied, and truly meant it. She turned from both fuming men and raised her voice. “Red alert! All hands to battle stations!”
**************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Infirmary
“Are you sure you won’t get into trouble for this?” Ousanas Dar asked. Thraex looked around the nearly empty sickbay, his gaze focusing on the closed door to the chief medical officer’s office. Chalandra was inside.
“I could, but it is no concern,” the young Reman said as he placed more salve over Dar’s wounds. Ousanas sighed with relief. He loosened the man’s restraints to slide as much gel over his raw wrists as possible. “Though I trust you uncle, I cannot unlock your restraints.”
The older Romulan dipped his head. “I understand, and thank you. So, you still would like to know more about your mother’s youth?”
“Very much,” Thraex nodded.
“I could tell you more stories, or…” Dar paused. He cocked his head, and looked at his nephew quizzically. “Do you have telepathic ability?”
It took Thraex a few minutes to nod. “Yes, I have been blessed with mind touch.” Though most Romulans were largely bereft of the telepathic capabilities of their Vulcan forebears, many Remans retained the talent, which led to deep seated and at times violent envy among some Romulan quarters. Why should slaves possess something there masters could not? So, touch telepathy, the ‘mind touch’ was stigmatized, with the propaganda networks inflaming the citizenry with tales of widespread Pa’nar Syndrome.
The Remans were seen as the chief source of neural disease, turning their gift into a curse, befitting a cursed people. Dar was darkly amused that even after the Sundering, similar hysteria about Pa’nar Syndrome existed on Vulcan up until its most recent Reformation.
Of course public distress didn’t stop the military from seeking to exploit the Reman psionic talent, with mixed results, from the reports Dar had been privy to over the years. “Nephew,” Ousanas said quietly, “you may initiate mind touch, if you would like.”
The younger man dipped his head respectively. “I would like to do so…very much.”
“Please proceed.” The Reman placed two shaking hands slowly at Dar’s temples, hesitating before he touched the man’s ridged brow. His touch was light, his fingertips electric on Dar’s sweat slicked skin. The Romulan’s breath caught in his throat, and Thraex gulped loudly.
Dar closed his eyes and calmed himself. He had experienced mind melds on several occasions. Though of course he had never melded with a Reman, nor a relative. He cast aside any apprehension over Thraex’s aptitude with melding. In the hands of the inexperienced, the joining of minds could prove fatal. But what did he have to lose anyway, when he thought about it. It was better to die as the result of a inept meld than under his sister’s scalpel. Though Ousanas feared for Thraex’s safety. He wasn’t that much afraid of death anymore, but Thraex had a lot to live for, and he hoped that the young man outlived the hatreds of Dar’s generation.
“My mind…to your mind,” he said awkwardly, in a nervous imitation of the Vulcan incantation, which led Dar to wonder where the man learned it. He wondered how much of the Old Vulcan rituals had passed down to the Remans; though he didn’t want to disturb his nephew’s concentration by asking. “My thoughts…” The man didn’t finish.
Dar heard a cool rush of air that came from the opening of the sickbay’s doors. He cocked open an eye at the heavy sound of multiple footfalls. The Jem’Hadar Fourth, Makla’Gar, Ousanas, remembered, led a group of four of his brethren. “Where is the Romulan?” He demanded.
“I am here,” Dar said stoically, ready to meet his fate.
“Not that one,” Makla’Gar snorted. “The other…the female?”
“Why do you wish to know?” Thraex said, a challenge in his voice. Dar’s worry for the young man grew. He could almost smell the tension in the air. Something bad had happened, and he wished that he was free of his restraints to face whatever was coming standing upright.
“That is not your concern,” the Fourth snarled. He pointed at the closed door. “Check in there.” He ordered. One soldier broke off from the pack. Thraex moved to intercept him.
“Thraex, don’t,” Dar said, and the man paused. Seconds later, the soldier dragged Chalandra from her office. Outside of a ruffled tunic, the woman looked serene.
Makla’Gar stood over her, trying to use his height and size to intimidate her. “Don’t bother denying you sent the message. We traced it to your computer. We have linked it to several others. Who are you working for? And what did you tell them?” The doctor merely looked at them.
Makla’Gar raised his hand to strike her, but then stopped. “It makes no difference.” He said, stepping out of the way. “Execute her immediately.” His soldiers took aim.
“No,” Thraex roared, charging the death squad. They turned their weapons on him. Both Dar and Chalandra cried the young man’s name as multiple disruptor beams impaled him. Seeing his nephew ripped to shreds filled Ousanas with an anguish-fueled rage he hadn’t experienced in years. He twisted and pulled at his restraints, not caring if they cut into his flesh. The slickness of his blood made it easier for him to slip from them.
But it would be too late for him to save Chal. The Jem’Hadar soldiers didn’t blink an eye as Thraex’s corpse fell to the ground. He died without making a sound, a true warrior.
Chalandra’s sob caught in her throat. The Jem’Hadar stopped her from running to catch her dead son. She turned on the first scaly hand that grabbed her, biting his thumb off. The startled man wailed in pain, before backhanding her into the steeled grasp of another. Though it was hopeless, she thrashed on, causing the other Jem’Hadar to laugh. Except for the one missing a digit.
“She is a feisty one. It would be a shame to kill her now.” He said. “She would provide some great sport.”
Makla’Gar stroked his chin. “Perhaps I was hasty with my initial order. Perhaps it’s just that damned Romulan insolence. I had so desired to stand over the smoking ruins of Romulus.”
“One day we will,” The soldier holding Chal promised. “We will get our revenge on all the worlds that allied against us.”
“Yes,” Makla’Gar nodded. “Take her,” he paused, his baleful gaze finding Ousanas. “And that one too.”
************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Room
The operative moved quickly, her suit only slowing her down a microsecond. But the microsecond was enough to save the Jem’Hadar from receiving a larynx cursing shot. Instead her hand shot past his neck. She brought it around quickly to yank out the shunt pumping ketracel white through his system. He grunted perhaps more in shock than pain as the white liquid spurted on them both.
He charged her, swinging his rifle like a club. The operative ducked under his first blow and landed two quick blows to the man’s sides, satisfied that her metallic gloves cracked his ribs. It didn’t slow the warrior down though. He turned quickly, the butt of the rifle crashing down on the back of her helmet with such force that it knocked her to the floor. He then jumped on top of her, nearly out of control as he bashed her faceplate with his rifle. The operative tried to fight back, but she could only get glancing blows, and the man was so enraged that she wondered if nothing would calm him save her blood.
Desperate, she reached into her belt, checking the state of the pilfered data before moving on to a small welding torch. She quickly pressed it against the man’s ear and turned it on. He wailed in pain, staggering off her after almost a minute under the intense flames.
The operative scrambled backwards as the Jem’Hadar, have his face burned off, his skin sliding off in chunks, advanced on her. He was almost upon her when the lights went out.
*******************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Ward Room
The war cry penetrated the thick, uridium walls. It was followed by more snarling and stomping of boots. The Jem’Hadar and Reman guards both standing guard at the door looked at each other before glaring at their guests. Their grip tightened on their weapons.
Captain Walker exchanged glances at Admiral Glover and his crew. They all had knowing gleams in their eyes. Whatever had just happened outside those doors portended that these negotiations were over. The captain rose slowly. “Sit back down,” the Jem’Hadar barked. Walker held his ground, holding his hands up to remind them that he was unarmed.
“What’s going on in the operations room?” He asked. The other Starfleet officers also stood up.
“Retake your seats,” hissed the Reman.
“I demand to know what’s going on?” Admiral Glover stepped forward, in front of Walker. The captain didn’t like the man making himself such a target. He didn’t need the death of the venerable Admiral Glover on his head in addition to all of the terrible things he had done over the last several days.
“You demand?” The Jem’Hadar scoffed. “You are nothing more than a prisoner, and you will do as you are told!” He rushed forward, turning the rifle around his hands to use the butt of it as a bludgeon. Glover set his jaw and bent low, preparing to take the scaly warrior on. Walker saw his opening. He pushed the admiral out of the way and brought up a quick knee, catching the cocky Jem’Hadar in the stomach.
His arrogance gushed out of him along with his air. The man doubled over. Walker used clasped his hands together and hit in the nape of the neck with a double-ax handle. The Jem’Hadar feel to one knee, while Walker struggled to take his rifle. The disruptor blast punched through the meat of his shoulder, the pain searing, his vision going white as it flung him backward.
With a cry almost as animalistic as their hosts, Petrov leaped on the conference table, and used it as a springboard to launch at the Reman. He turned his weapon on her, but Astar snuck up behind him. She pushed the man into the engineer’s outstretched boot, and his cheek crumbled upon impact. Petrov kept going, landing with a graceful roll. The Reman was on the ground. Walker was now only an observer, the wound taking the energy out of him, though not all of the fight.
Admiral Glover wrestled with the Jem’Hadar warrior, the rifle sandwiched between them. Both Astar and Petrov were feinting and dodging the knife swings of the Reman, who now brandished a wicked blade. The man’s prized disruptor was at his feet and he was keeping either woman from retrieving it.
Walker tried to use the wall for traction to get back to his feet, but the fire in his shoulder spread across his body, taking away his strength. The best he could do was prop himself up and watch the fight unfold. He tapped his combadge, hoping he could call on the Monarch for help. There was no response. It figured, he thought. Those bastards have cut off communication with his ship. They were alone and they would have to win this fight by themselves.
*************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Bridge
“You will deactivate your weapons and shields and prepare to be boarded!” The Jem’Hadar Second demanded.
“No, I won’t,” Lt. Commander Liyange replied. “Where is First Torak’Clan or Colonel Sorix?”
“I am First now!” The man declared with such pride that Arjuna thought he was going to beat his chest. “And you will obey me!”
“No,” the Sri Lankan acting captain said. “I will not. Where is Captain Walker?”
“He and your other officers are safe,” the Reman Bakin slid into the visual frame. “But there continued safety is contingent upon you complying with our request.”
Sotto voce, Lt. Torkill said, “Jem’Hadar fighters are assuming attack posture and the Jem’Hadar battle cruiser is disembarking.”
“You bought us here under a banner of truce, I thought we were negotiating an alliance,” Liyange said.
“That was the…old regime,” The new Jem’Hadar First replied.
“Yes, the time for negotiation is over. We want nothing more than complete, unqualified liberty,” Bakin said, “And we will achieve it by any means.”
“The plan your predecessors had conceived was going to work,” Liyange replied. “It had the captain’s approval. It had Starfleet backing. Think about this a moment, don’t toss away this chance for your peoples to live in peace, as friends of the Federation.”
“Peace!” The Jem’Hadar spat. “We are warriors. War is all we know, it is our sole reason for being. Peace…peace is the true death.”
“And what of you Lt. Bakin?” Liyange turned to him. “Remans weren’t conceived in vats. Remans have homes, families, and surely dreams, aspirations of better lives for their progeny.”
“The course I have chosen will secure that for us more surely than exiling us in the Badlands,” Bakin said. “Nice try human, but we have chosen the way of blood.”
Liyange shook her head sadly. “That’s unfortunate,” she replied, and truly meant it. She turned from both fuming men and raised her voice. “Red alert! All hands to battle stations!”
**************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Infirmary
“Are you sure you won’t get into trouble for this?” Ousanas Dar asked. Thraex looked around the nearly empty sickbay, his gaze focusing on the closed door to the chief medical officer’s office. Chalandra was inside.
“I could, but it is no concern,” the young Reman said as he placed more salve over Dar’s wounds. Ousanas sighed with relief. He loosened the man’s restraints to slide as much gel over his raw wrists as possible. “Though I trust you uncle, I cannot unlock your restraints.”
The older Romulan dipped his head. “I understand, and thank you. So, you still would like to know more about your mother’s youth?”
“Very much,” Thraex nodded.
“I could tell you more stories, or…” Dar paused. He cocked his head, and looked at his nephew quizzically. “Do you have telepathic ability?”
It took Thraex a few minutes to nod. “Yes, I have been blessed with mind touch.” Though most Romulans were largely bereft of the telepathic capabilities of their Vulcan forebears, many Remans retained the talent, which led to deep seated and at times violent envy among some Romulan quarters. Why should slaves possess something there masters could not? So, touch telepathy, the ‘mind touch’ was stigmatized, with the propaganda networks inflaming the citizenry with tales of widespread Pa’nar Syndrome.
The Remans were seen as the chief source of neural disease, turning their gift into a curse, befitting a cursed people. Dar was darkly amused that even after the Sundering, similar hysteria about Pa’nar Syndrome existed on Vulcan up until its most recent Reformation.
Of course public distress didn’t stop the military from seeking to exploit the Reman psionic talent, with mixed results, from the reports Dar had been privy to over the years. “Nephew,” Ousanas said quietly, “you may initiate mind touch, if you would like.”
The younger man dipped his head respectively. “I would like to do so…very much.”
“Please proceed.” The Reman placed two shaking hands slowly at Dar’s temples, hesitating before he touched the man’s ridged brow. His touch was light, his fingertips electric on Dar’s sweat slicked skin. The Romulan’s breath caught in his throat, and Thraex gulped loudly.
Dar closed his eyes and calmed himself. He had experienced mind melds on several occasions. Though of course he had never melded with a Reman, nor a relative. He cast aside any apprehension over Thraex’s aptitude with melding. In the hands of the inexperienced, the joining of minds could prove fatal. But what did he have to lose anyway, when he thought about it. It was better to die as the result of a inept meld than under his sister’s scalpel. Though Ousanas feared for Thraex’s safety. He wasn’t that much afraid of death anymore, but Thraex had a lot to live for, and he hoped that the young man outlived the hatreds of Dar’s generation.
“My mind…to your mind,” he said awkwardly, in a nervous imitation of the Vulcan incantation, which led Dar to wonder where the man learned it. He wondered how much of the Old Vulcan rituals had passed down to the Remans; though he didn’t want to disturb his nephew’s concentration by asking. “My thoughts…” The man didn’t finish.
Dar heard a cool rush of air that came from the opening of the sickbay’s doors. He cocked open an eye at the heavy sound of multiple footfalls. The Jem’Hadar Fourth, Makla’Gar, Ousanas, remembered, led a group of four of his brethren. “Where is the Romulan?” He demanded.
“I am here,” Dar said stoically, ready to meet his fate.
“Not that one,” Makla’Gar snorted. “The other…the female?”
“Why do you wish to know?” Thraex said, a challenge in his voice. Dar’s worry for the young man grew. He could almost smell the tension in the air. Something bad had happened, and he wished that he was free of his restraints to face whatever was coming standing upright.
“That is not your concern,” the Fourth snarled. He pointed at the closed door. “Check in there.” He ordered. One soldier broke off from the pack. Thraex moved to intercept him.
“Thraex, don’t,” Dar said, and the man paused. Seconds later, the soldier dragged Chalandra from her office. Outside of a ruffled tunic, the woman looked serene.
Makla’Gar stood over her, trying to use his height and size to intimidate her. “Don’t bother denying you sent the message. We traced it to your computer. We have linked it to several others. Who are you working for? And what did you tell them?” The doctor merely looked at them.
Makla’Gar raised his hand to strike her, but then stopped. “It makes no difference.” He said, stepping out of the way. “Execute her immediately.” His soldiers took aim.
“No,” Thraex roared, charging the death squad. They turned their weapons on him. Both Dar and Chalandra cried the young man’s name as multiple disruptor beams impaled him. Seeing his nephew ripped to shreds filled Ousanas with an anguish-fueled rage he hadn’t experienced in years. He twisted and pulled at his restraints, not caring if they cut into his flesh. The slickness of his blood made it easier for him to slip from them.
But it would be too late for him to save Chal. The Jem’Hadar soldiers didn’t blink an eye as Thraex’s corpse fell to the ground. He died without making a sound, a true warrior.
Chalandra’s sob caught in her throat. The Jem’Hadar stopped her from running to catch her dead son. She turned on the first scaly hand that grabbed her, biting his thumb off. The startled man wailed in pain, before backhanding her into the steeled grasp of another. Though it was hopeless, she thrashed on, causing the other Jem’Hadar to laugh. Except for the one missing a digit.
“She is a feisty one. It would be a shame to kill her now.” He said. “She would provide some great sport.”
Makla’Gar stroked his chin. “Perhaps I was hasty with my initial order. Perhaps it’s just that damned Romulan insolence. I had so desired to stand over the smoking ruins of Romulus.”
“One day we will,” The soldier holding Chal promised. “We will get our revenge on all the worlds that allied against us.”
“Yes,” Makla’Gar nodded. “Take her,” he paused, his baleful gaze finding Ousanas. “And that one too.”
************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Room
The operative moved quickly, her suit only slowing her down a microsecond. But the microsecond was enough to save the Jem’Hadar from receiving a larynx cursing shot. Instead her hand shot past his neck. She brought it around quickly to yank out the shunt pumping ketracel white through his system. He grunted perhaps more in shock than pain as the white liquid spurted on them both.
He charged her, swinging his rifle like a club. The operative ducked under his first blow and landed two quick blows to the man’s sides, satisfied that her metallic gloves cracked his ribs. It didn’t slow the warrior down though. He turned quickly, the butt of the rifle crashing down on the back of her helmet with such force that it knocked her to the floor. He then jumped on top of her, nearly out of control as he bashed her faceplate with his rifle. The operative tried to fight back, but she could only get glancing blows, and the man was so enraged that she wondered if nothing would calm him save her blood.
Desperate, she reached into her belt, checking the state of the pilfered data before moving on to a small welding torch. She quickly pressed it against the man’s ear and turned it on. He wailed in pain, staggering off her after almost a minute under the intense flames.
The operative scrambled backwards as the Jem’Hadar, have his face burned off, his skin sliding off in chunks, advanced on her. He was almost upon her when the lights went out.
*******************************************************************
*******************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Ward Room
Captain Walker’s heart stopped in his chest at the sound and flash of the rifle’s discharge between the still struggling men. Admiral Glover groaned and his Jem’Hadar adversary grunted. The older human fell off the reptilian, and Benjamin’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. “Oh no,” he muttered, willing himself to stand. “Admiral Glover?”
The Jem’Hadar struggled to stand, his legs wobbly. He shakily turned toward Walker, and the captain saw the ragged hole in the man’s chest. The Jem’Hadar followed his gaze down to his torso and then looked up, an almost comical expression on his face. He took a step toward the still Admiral before crumpling over, landing on the downed human with a loud, sickening slap. The racket distracted the Reman. Before he could recover, Walker watched Petrov move in for the kill, with Astar backing her. The engineer went low, punching the man’s crotch, while Astar went high. The Reman’s natural reaction to bend over was halted when the Trill roughly grabbed him around the neck, in a sleeper hold. The Reman thrashed against her, but his Exec held on.
Petrov went for the man’s knife, ripping it from his hands. She turned it around, its glint reflecting the murderous gleam in her eye. Walker weakly held up a hand, “Sofia, no,” he croaked, but it was too late. She had driven the knife into the Reman’s chest. Her hands were already coated with black blood.
In shock, Astar dropped him. “Commander Petrov, why did you do that?” The engineer ignored her. Instead she ran over to Benjamin. She quickly scanned his wound and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“It’s going to be okay Benjamin,” she whispered. “Shot went clean through and even cauterized the wound.”
“Shouldn’t we all be…so lucky,” he mumbled, finding it hard to speak again. “Admiral…”
“He’s going to be okay sir,” Astar said. The Trill was crouching down by the older human. She removed her hands from his neck. “His vitals are strong.” She pushed the dead Jem’Hadar off him. “It appears that the concussive recoil from the rifle knocked him temporarily unconscious.” The admiral’s twitching muscles were a sign that he was already returning to wakefulness.
“Wha-what…” Admiral Glover struggled to speak. Astar rapped a hand around his, and gazed down at him sympathetically. “Try not to speak sir,” she said, her voice soft. “It appears that our negotiations are over.”
“Yeah, and how do we get off this death trap?” Petrov asked.
“The good..thing…” Walker swallowed in vain to wet his arid throat. “No other guards.”
“Yes, so far no other guards were alerted to our commotion,” Commander Astar noted. “That gives us at least a few seconds.”
“The interface,” Petrov said. She ran to the far concern of the room. She hit a light along the way, brightening the room and alerting Walker to what the engineer was attempting to do. Her fingers ran along the inset paneling of the wall mounted display monitor.
“Trying to access the station’s central computer through that console,” Astar stated. “You looking for a way to drop the station’s shielding so Monarch can beam us out?” Petrov nodded.
“And not having a good go of it,” Sofia remarked, “This system is extremely slow. If I didn’t know any better I would think…” At that moment they were blanketed in darkness. After a few heartbeats, Petrov meekly finished, “the system was compromised.”
******************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Ward Room
Captain Walker’s heart stopped in his chest at the sound and flash of the rifle’s discharge between the still struggling men. Admiral Glover groaned and his Jem’Hadar adversary grunted. The older human fell off the reptilian, and Benjamin’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. “Oh no,” he muttered, willing himself to stand. “Admiral Glover?”
The Jem’Hadar struggled to stand, his legs wobbly. He shakily turned toward Walker, and the captain saw the ragged hole in the man’s chest. The Jem’Hadar followed his gaze down to his torso and then looked up, an almost comical expression on his face. He took a step toward the still Admiral before crumpling over, landing on the downed human with a loud, sickening slap. The racket distracted the Reman. Before he could recover, Walker watched Petrov move in for the kill, with Astar backing her. The engineer went low, punching the man’s crotch, while Astar went high. The Reman’s natural reaction to bend over was halted when the Trill roughly grabbed him around the neck, in a sleeper hold. The Reman thrashed against her, but his Exec held on.
Petrov went for the man’s knife, ripping it from his hands. She turned it around, its glint reflecting the murderous gleam in her eye. Walker weakly held up a hand, “Sofia, no,” he croaked, but it was too late. She had driven the knife into the Reman’s chest. Her hands were already coated with black blood.
In shock, Astar dropped him. “Commander Petrov, why did you do that?” The engineer ignored her. Instead she ran over to Benjamin. She quickly scanned his wound and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“It’s going to be okay Benjamin,” she whispered. “Shot went clean through and even cauterized the wound.”
“Shouldn’t we all be…so lucky,” he mumbled, finding it hard to speak again. “Admiral…”
“He’s going to be okay sir,” Astar said. The Trill was crouching down by the older human. She removed her hands from his neck. “His vitals are strong.” She pushed the dead Jem’Hadar off him. “It appears that the concussive recoil from the rifle knocked him temporarily unconscious.” The admiral’s twitching muscles were a sign that he was already returning to wakefulness.
“Wha-what…” Admiral Glover struggled to speak. Astar rapped a hand around his, and gazed down at him sympathetically. “Try not to speak sir,” she said, her voice soft. “It appears that our negotiations are over.”
“Yeah, and how do we get off this death trap?” Petrov asked.
“The good..thing…” Walker swallowed in vain to wet his arid throat. “No other guards.”
“Yes, so far no other guards were alerted to our commotion,” Commander Astar noted. “That gives us at least a few seconds.”
“The interface,” Petrov said. She ran to the far concern of the room. She hit a light along the way, brightening the room and alerting Walker to what the engineer was attempting to do. Her fingers ran along the inset paneling of the wall mounted display monitor.
“Trying to access the station’s central computer through that console,” Astar stated. “You looking for a way to drop the station’s shielding so Monarch can beam us out?” Petrov nodded.
“And not having a good go of it,” Sofia remarked, “This system is extremely slow. If I didn’t know any better I would think…” At that moment they were blanketed in darkness. After a few heartbeats, Petrov meekly finished, “the system was compromised.”
******************************************************************
Well, things are getting slightly better, at least for Glover and the others. Though, there is a long way to go before they are anywhere near safe.
I really liked you explanation of the Romulan persecution of the Remans because of their mental powers. It makes perfect sense.
I really liked you explanation of the Romulan persecution of the Remans because of their mental powers. It makes perfect sense.
Dnoth, Cejay, thanks for your comments. It's been a while since my last entry due to vacation and computer problems, not to mention the January Challenge story and "Blooded", so I hope will continuing enjoying what comes next.
******************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Detention Center
Fear and worry burrowed like serpent worms in Daneeka’s stomach. She was concerned about both Admiral Glover and Commander Dar. Both had been gone a long time and both at the mercy of Dar’s twisted sister. What made her even more anxious was that the Jem’Hadar hadn’t grabbed her for one of their training sessions for a long time. In fact, they had left everyone in the cell unmolested for hours. That told Daneeka that something big was in the offing, and that didn’t bode well for their already scant chances for survival. But she kept a brave face for the newcomers.
In the interval, she had conversed with the Shuttleworth survivors, all trading vital information. The Bolian had saw no need to keep up pretense as to her, or her colleagues not being Starfleet, though she had not revealed to them the nature of their mission. Captain Bouchet was smart enough to know not to push her.
The deck plates trembled. “What was that?” The human female, Eppard, asked.
“Sounds like the station just took a hit,” Shakingbush replied, cradling his right arm in a makeshift sling. Chalandra had roughly knit the cracked bone back together, but had done nothing to provide the man a sling or painkiller. He had torn off the right sleeve of his uniform to make do. The grumblings among the prisoners stopped after a furious succession of hits.
“Lt. Daneeka,” Captain Bouchet asked, “Any things about what’s going on outside?” The Bolian chucked a thumb at the lone Jem’Hadar guard standing outside the forcefield barrier.
“Don’t know, maybe we can ask him?” Shakingbush chuckled. She liked him.
“It appears that the station is under attack,” Bouchet surmised, answering his own question, “but I wonder if the attackers are making much headway. So far there have been no alerts or announcements about hull breaches or coolant leaks.”
“I wonder who could be the assailants?” Eppard asked hopefully, “Could it be Starfleet?”
“You’re guess is as good as mine,” Daneeka said flippantly, not wanting to express a similar hope in fear that it would be squelched.
“I guess we will have to wait and see,” Bouchet said soberly. “But we should be ready to take advantage of any opportunity that arises,” he told the others, and they nodded in grim understanding.
“Opportunity knocks,” Daneeka said, sotto voice. She pointed at the entrance and the captain turned around to see several Jem’Hadar guards dragging a protesting Chalandra and a stoic Ousanas Dar.
“Lower the field,” barked the Jem’Hadar Fourth in charge of the unit. The field crackled off at once. The guards shoved both Dars into the cell. Chalandra pivoted quickly, turning back toward the Fourth, her fingers curled like daggers, her lips turned into a snarl. “Raise field,” the Fourth said, nonplussed. Nothing happened. More annoyed than anything, the Fourth turned toward the Jem’Hadar guard. “I said-”
Chalandra slashed at the man’s neck, cutting off his words. Her sharp nails drew blood as she found the tube pumping ketracel white into the man’s body. She ripped it out as the Fourth staggered back, stunned. The other Jem’Hadar guards were similarly surprised.
“Attack!” The word ripped from Daneeka’s lips as she bounded through the opening, her injuries forgotten. She barreled into the Jem’Hadar soldier that was attempting to separate the Fourth and the frenzied Chalandra.
She heard the thunderous charge of the Shuttlesworth’s crew behind her just seconds before they were all blanketed in darkness.
**************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Room
The half-second of hesitation was fatal. For the Jem’Hadar. The operative had been expecting the power outage and she took full advantage of the man’s momentary bewilderment. She stepped back further, to get as much space between as possible, before turning both of her hands towards him, and activating the maneuvering repulsors inset in each palm.
She turned them on full power and twin flames shot from her hands, with a painful brilliance that seared through the darkness as surely as they crisped the Jem’Hadar’s leathery hide.
The man’s wails would haunt the operative for the rest of her days but she poured on the energy until the Jem’Hadar was a hunk of charred memories. Dialing down the power, she sagged against the wall, her breath ragged.
She blinked away the thick after image spots as she composed herself. The fight had taken more out of her than she anticipated. “I’m getting too old for this,” she wheezed. The thought had been creeping into her consciousness with increasing rapidity as of late. And it was getting harder to ignore, though ignore it she must. After this mission, she had another lined up, and after that she knew there would be another.
The operative was old enough to know that none of it meant anything anymore, that it wasn’t making anyone safer, but she soldiered on because she didn’t know what else to do, and she also realized that she was in so deep that the only way out was an unpleasant dispatching. The only retirement party her employers threw was not the kind that gave out mementos. Instead, they made you into a memento, a lamented one at that.
Standing up, and using the night vision provided by her helmet, she glanced around the area. Unless they were shrouded, there were no other Jem’Hadar present. No one appeared to have heard the soldier’s anguished death howl.
“Time to blow this party,” she muttered, as she took a small square package from her belt. She attached it to a section of the station’s wall. “One hull breach, coming up.”
*******************************************************************
******************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Detention Center
Fear and worry burrowed like serpent worms in Daneeka’s stomach. She was concerned about both Admiral Glover and Commander Dar. Both had been gone a long time and both at the mercy of Dar’s twisted sister. What made her even more anxious was that the Jem’Hadar hadn’t grabbed her for one of their training sessions for a long time. In fact, they had left everyone in the cell unmolested for hours. That told Daneeka that something big was in the offing, and that didn’t bode well for their already scant chances for survival. But she kept a brave face for the newcomers.
In the interval, she had conversed with the Shuttleworth survivors, all trading vital information. The Bolian had saw no need to keep up pretense as to her, or her colleagues not being Starfleet, though she had not revealed to them the nature of their mission. Captain Bouchet was smart enough to know not to push her.
The deck plates trembled. “What was that?” The human female, Eppard, asked.
“Sounds like the station just took a hit,” Shakingbush replied, cradling his right arm in a makeshift sling. Chalandra had roughly knit the cracked bone back together, but had done nothing to provide the man a sling or painkiller. He had torn off the right sleeve of his uniform to make do. The grumblings among the prisoners stopped after a furious succession of hits.
“Lt. Daneeka,” Captain Bouchet asked, “Any things about what’s going on outside?” The Bolian chucked a thumb at the lone Jem’Hadar guard standing outside the forcefield barrier.
“Don’t know, maybe we can ask him?” Shakingbush chuckled. She liked him.
“It appears that the station is under attack,” Bouchet surmised, answering his own question, “but I wonder if the attackers are making much headway. So far there have been no alerts or announcements about hull breaches or coolant leaks.”
“I wonder who could be the assailants?” Eppard asked hopefully, “Could it be Starfleet?”
“You’re guess is as good as mine,” Daneeka said flippantly, not wanting to express a similar hope in fear that it would be squelched.
“I guess we will have to wait and see,” Bouchet said soberly. “But we should be ready to take advantage of any opportunity that arises,” he told the others, and they nodded in grim understanding.
“Opportunity knocks,” Daneeka said, sotto voice. She pointed at the entrance and the captain turned around to see several Jem’Hadar guards dragging a protesting Chalandra and a stoic Ousanas Dar.
“Lower the field,” barked the Jem’Hadar Fourth in charge of the unit. The field crackled off at once. The guards shoved both Dars into the cell. Chalandra pivoted quickly, turning back toward the Fourth, her fingers curled like daggers, her lips turned into a snarl. “Raise field,” the Fourth said, nonplussed. Nothing happened. More annoyed than anything, the Fourth turned toward the Jem’Hadar guard. “I said-”
Chalandra slashed at the man’s neck, cutting off his words. Her sharp nails drew blood as she found the tube pumping ketracel white into the man’s body. She ripped it out as the Fourth staggered back, stunned. The other Jem’Hadar guards were similarly surprised.
“Attack!” The word ripped from Daneeka’s lips as she bounded through the opening, her injuries forgotten. She barreled into the Jem’Hadar soldier that was attempting to separate the Fourth and the frenzied Chalandra.
She heard the thunderous charge of the Shuttlesworth’s crew behind her just seconds before they were all blanketed in darkness.
**************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Room
The half-second of hesitation was fatal. For the Jem’Hadar. The operative had been expecting the power outage and she took full advantage of the man’s momentary bewilderment. She stepped back further, to get as much space between as possible, before turning both of her hands towards him, and activating the maneuvering repulsors inset in each palm.
She turned them on full power and twin flames shot from her hands, with a painful brilliance that seared through the darkness as surely as they crisped the Jem’Hadar’s leathery hide.
The man’s wails would haunt the operative for the rest of her days but she poured on the energy until the Jem’Hadar was a hunk of charred memories. Dialing down the power, she sagged against the wall, her breath ragged.
She blinked away the thick after image spots as she composed herself. The fight had taken more out of her than she anticipated. “I’m getting too old for this,” she wheezed. The thought had been creeping into her consciousness with increasing rapidity as of late. And it was getting harder to ignore, though ignore it she must. After this mission, she had another lined up, and after that she knew there would be another.
The operative was old enough to know that none of it meant anything anymore, that it wasn’t making anyone safer, but she soldiered on because she didn’t know what else to do, and she also realized that she was in so deep that the only way out was an unpleasant dispatching. The only retirement party her employers threw was not the kind that gave out mementos. Instead, they made you into a memento, a lamented one at that.
Standing up, and using the night vision provided by her helmet, she glanced around the area. Unless they were shrouded, there were no other Jem’Hadar present. No one appeared to have heard the soldier’s anguished death howl.
“Time to blow this party,” she muttered, as she took a small square package from her belt. She attached it to a section of the station’s wall. “One hull breach, coming up.”
*******************************************************************
Ah, now I've got a good idea who this operative is. And if I'm right that would make for a pleasant surprise for Samson.
Looks like the tide is turning for the Starfleet prisoners. Is this the beginning of the end of this ill-advised alliance between Remans and Jem'Hadar?
Looking forward to more.
Looks like the tide is turning for the Starfleet prisoners. Is this the beginning of the end of this ill-advised alliance between Remans and Jem'Hadar?
Looking forward to more.
Is this what Jasmine has been working on in the dark for all this time?
Thanks for reading and commenting, always. I hope you are pleasantly surprised by the revelation of the operative's identity, when it happens.
*******************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Bridge
The Jem’Hadar fighters swooped in on another strafing run. Lt. Commander Liyange held tight in the captain’s chair, confident in Monarch’s ability to withstand another withering barrage. The warbugs weren’t that much of a threat to the Sovereign-class ship, but coupled with the Jem’Hadar battle cruiser and the Reman ships, they didn’t stand a chance in a sustained battle. So far the battle cruiser was waiting in the wings, allowing the smaller vessels to soften up Monarch before it came in for the kill.
Liyange could run away, but she didn’t want to leave the ship’s senior officers in enemy hands. She knew that Walker would disagree. She knew the captain would demand that she abandon them, but he wasn’t here, and Liyange was in command. She wasn’t going to leave anybody behind. They all made it home or none of them did, she silently vowed. The ship’s frame trembled under the assault. “Mr. Torkill, have you disabled the station’s shield generators?” Bringing down that shield was the only way they could teleport their officers and then warp away.
“The horn heads are pretty smart,” the Kobheerian grumbled, “They know what we want to do and their attack patterns are preventing us from getting close.”
“Damn,” Liyange replied, “Keep at it. Ensign Jonda, evasive maneuvers, your discretion, just prevent them from scoring as many hits as you can until we can knock out the station’s shields.”
“You got sir,” the Catullan was more than happy to oblige. The acting captain regretted her decision as soon as she said it because the pink-haired pilot immediately drove the Monarch on a rampart-screeching dive, cutting underneath an oncoming wave of fighters. Arjuna’s stomach dropped with the steep dive and she dug into armrests even harder. The bulkheads and struts whined in protest, but Jonda merely chortled.
Liyange was pleased to hear the soft rumble of the aft phaser banks. “Multiple hits,” Torkill said with pleasure. But they had little time to celebrate. The Jem’Hadar battle cruiser loomed in front of them.
“Jem’Hadar battle cruiser charging weapons,” Lt. Leya dryly reported. The Caldonian, occupying Liyange’s usual seat, appeared completely unruffled. Arjuna was envious. She was doing her very best to keep a command presence. But the sounds and fury of combat were resurrecting old ghosts of the Dominion War.
Before joining the Monarch’s crew she had survived the destruction of the Metacomet during Operation Return. Even though she still was working through survivor guilt, Arjuna felt even worse for the relief she felt when she had been tapped for a position aboard Monarch, knowing that the Sovereigns were deployed sparingly to the front.
Liyange had undergone counseling to deal with her guilt and shame for taking the Monarch position, but forgiving herself was an ongoing process, and replaying the Dominion conflict wasn’t the most therapeutic response. “Helm, bring us hard about so we can hit that cruiser,” she said through clenched teeth. She held on again as the ship made a sharp turn to face the Jem’Hadar cruiser. “Quantum torpedoes, everything we’ve got in the chutes,” she ordered without hesitation, “Full spread.”
Torkill loosed the weapons and they crashed into the Jem’Hadar cruiser’s shields. The egg shell shield splashing against the barrage shuttered off. “Their shields are down,” the Kobheerian replied. “Should I,” he began.
“Destroy them,” she ordered. The bridge rocked as the warbugs attacked en masse, no doubt attempting to give the cruiser time to recover. She was going to alleviate them of that burden and then alleviate the remaining Jem’Hadar of their lives.
“Aye,” Torkill replied, briskly tapping commands into his console. Several phaser beam shafts hit the ailing ship’s propulsion system with surgical precision.
“Move us back, Ensign,” Liyange called, but the cruiser blew apart faster than expected, belching flames, gases, and debris. Several warbugs were consumed in the shockwave nanoseconds before the fireball hit Monarch with such force that it almost threw Liyange from her seat. Consoles erupted, spreading sparks and smoke throughout the bridge. Arjuna, her chest heaving as her lungs sucked in smoke, wiped tears away from her eyes. She felt a deep rumble beneath her feet, and heard a series of intense popping beneath her.
“What’s happening?” She said, punctuating it with a cough. It was taking too long for the fire suppressant system to suck up all the smoke, though it had already begun dousing the fires that had sprouted across the bridge.
“Shields are down,” Torkill grumbled. “So are our main phaser banks. The shrapnel has pierced our main shield generator and shorted out our forward phaser array.”
“What about the backups?”
“Offline.”
“Get them back on line,” the acting captain snapped. Turning around to glare at him.
“Aye,” the man said, already at the task.
“Jem’Hadar and Reman ships are rallying,” Leya remarked, an unexpected tremor in her voice. “They are on an attack vector.” The tremor unsettled Liyange more than the ships screaming towards them.
“Evasive maneuvers,” she commanded. But the ship was too slow. The Jem’Hadar fighters came in first, stitching the ship with strafing runs, followed by the Reman ships, whose heavier weaponry sliced gashes into the already stressed hull.
“Multiple hull breaches,” Leya reported. “Primary hull.”
“If they get any closer, they might take out the bridge,” Jona remarked.
“Prevent them from doing that,” Liyange ordered as she tried to formulate a strategy. “Turn us around and use our aft phaser banks,” she said. The ship turned, the screen shifting to keep her abreast of the fighters now behind them.
Liyange felt every pummel from the enemy vessels, and she couldn’t wait to repay them. “We have come about,” Jona remarked seconds later.
“Fire, full spread,” Liyange said with ferocity she didn’t know she possessed. The Jem’Hadar fighters weaved through the fusillade, but the slower, bulkier Reman vessels weren’t so lucky. Arjuna couldn’t celebrate. The warbugs, not to mention the station, still were obstacles, obstacles with enough firepower to kill them. Even in the absence of firepower, the images of the kamikaze attack on the Odyssey shortly after first contact with the Dominion was made, were seared into her brain from the vid files she saw. Just one warbug destroyed a Galaxy-class vessel.
“What’s our status?” She asked Torkill.
“Still working on it,” he replied, his impatience stanching her own.
“Lt. Leya, help him,” Liyange said. “I’ll reroute operations functions to this console,” she replied.
“Yes sir,” the Caldonian said, “I’ll switch my terminal functions to the shield generator network.”
“Excellent,” Arjuna said, looking back to Torkill. The Kobheerian nodded tersely.
“Jem’Hadar ships regrouping,” Jona warned ominously.
“Keep picking off as many as you can,” Liyange commanded.
“Jem’Hadar ships on collision course, picking up speed,” Jona replied.
“Evasive, evasive!” Arjuna ordered. The ship moved to disperse the ships which had formed an arrowhead pointed at Monarch’s bow. The maneuvers might buy them a few minutes at least, if the Catullan could keep outflying their pursuers.
“Warships firing,” Torkill called as a fan of disruptor energy caught the Monarch, hitting it whatever way they tried to turn, slicing through the unprotected skin of the ship.
The captain hated to think it, but she checked the status of the propulsion system. They still had warp. She opened an intraship channel.
“Engineering,” the ragged voice was unfamiliar. Liyange could only imagine what was going on in the engine room. They really needed Petrov back aboard.
“Are we capable of warp speed?”
“Yes,” the engineer replied after a moment.
“Prepare us for maximum warp, on my mark.”
“Aye.”
Arjuna toggled off the link. She sat back in her seat, and centered herself. “Helm,” she said, relaying a new course. “On my mark, we’re jumping to warp.”
“Leaving the captain behind sir?” Jona asked. There was no accusation in the question, but Liyange felt it all the same. She could only nod. Her throat had closed up, preventing her from speaking.
“Wait,” Torkill said. Liyange turned back toward him.
“What is it?”
“There has been a massive explosion in the station’s central core,” the Kobheerian reported.
“Switch viewer,” Liyange said reluctantly, not wanting to take her eyes off the Jem’Hadar ships. However, there tight formation had already started to break apart, perhaps in response to this rare bit of good fortune. The station was now listing, gas and debris flowing like life blood from the puncture in Pirot Nor’s side.
“The station’s shields…,” Torkill was briefly overcome by disbelief. He looked up her, the shock evident on his scaly face. “Pirot Nor’s shields are down.”
“Beam out our people now!” Liyange cried.
“Captain, I’ve discovered multiple human life signs, and others consistent with Federation citizens,” Torkill replied.
“Swoop them all up and let’s get the hell out of here!”
*****************************************************
*******************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Bridge
The Jem’Hadar fighters swooped in on another strafing run. Lt. Commander Liyange held tight in the captain’s chair, confident in Monarch’s ability to withstand another withering barrage. The warbugs weren’t that much of a threat to the Sovereign-class ship, but coupled with the Jem’Hadar battle cruiser and the Reman ships, they didn’t stand a chance in a sustained battle. So far the battle cruiser was waiting in the wings, allowing the smaller vessels to soften up Monarch before it came in for the kill.
Liyange could run away, but she didn’t want to leave the ship’s senior officers in enemy hands. She knew that Walker would disagree. She knew the captain would demand that she abandon them, but he wasn’t here, and Liyange was in command. She wasn’t going to leave anybody behind. They all made it home or none of them did, she silently vowed. The ship’s frame trembled under the assault. “Mr. Torkill, have you disabled the station’s shield generators?” Bringing down that shield was the only way they could teleport their officers and then warp away.
“The horn heads are pretty smart,” the Kobheerian grumbled, “They know what we want to do and their attack patterns are preventing us from getting close.”
“Damn,” Liyange replied, “Keep at it. Ensign Jonda, evasive maneuvers, your discretion, just prevent them from scoring as many hits as you can until we can knock out the station’s shields.”
“You got sir,” the Catullan was more than happy to oblige. The acting captain regretted her decision as soon as she said it because the pink-haired pilot immediately drove the Monarch on a rampart-screeching dive, cutting underneath an oncoming wave of fighters. Arjuna’s stomach dropped with the steep dive and she dug into armrests even harder. The bulkheads and struts whined in protest, but Jonda merely chortled.
Liyange was pleased to hear the soft rumble of the aft phaser banks. “Multiple hits,” Torkill said with pleasure. But they had little time to celebrate. The Jem’Hadar battle cruiser loomed in front of them.
“Jem’Hadar battle cruiser charging weapons,” Lt. Leya dryly reported. The Caldonian, occupying Liyange’s usual seat, appeared completely unruffled. Arjuna was envious. She was doing her very best to keep a command presence. But the sounds and fury of combat were resurrecting old ghosts of the Dominion War.
Before joining the Monarch’s crew she had survived the destruction of the Metacomet during Operation Return. Even though she still was working through survivor guilt, Arjuna felt even worse for the relief she felt when she had been tapped for a position aboard Monarch, knowing that the Sovereigns were deployed sparingly to the front.
Liyange had undergone counseling to deal with her guilt and shame for taking the Monarch position, but forgiving herself was an ongoing process, and replaying the Dominion conflict wasn’t the most therapeutic response. “Helm, bring us hard about so we can hit that cruiser,” she said through clenched teeth. She held on again as the ship made a sharp turn to face the Jem’Hadar cruiser. “Quantum torpedoes, everything we’ve got in the chutes,” she ordered without hesitation, “Full spread.”
Torkill loosed the weapons and they crashed into the Jem’Hadar cruiser’s shields. The egg shell shield splashing against the barrage shuttered off. “Their shields are down,” the Kobheerian replied. “Should I,” he began.
“Destroy them,” she ordered. The bridge rocked as the warbugs attacked en masse, no doubt attempting to give the cruiser time to recover. She was going to alleviate them of that burden and then alleviate the remaining Jem’Hadar of their lives.
“Aye,” Torkill replied, briskly tapping commands into his console. Several phaser beam shafts hit the ailing ship’s propulsion system with surgical precision.
“Move us back, Ensign,” Liyange called, but the cruiser blew apart faster than expected, belching flames, gases, and debris. Several warbugs were consumed in the shockwave nanoseconds before the fireball hit Monarch with such force that it almost threw Liyange from her seat. Consoles erupted, spreading sparks and smoke throughout the bridge. Arjuna, her chest heaving as her lungs sucked in smoke, wiped tears away from her eyes. She felt a deep rumble beneath her feet, and heard a series of intense popping beneath her.
“What’s happening?” She said, punctuating it with a cough. It was taking too long for the fire suppressant system to suck up all the smoke, though it had already begun dousing the fires that had sprouted across the bridge.
“Shields are down,” Torkill grumbled. “So are our main phaser banks. The shrapnel has pierced our main shield generator and shorted out our forward phaser array.”
“What about the backups?”
“Offline.”
“Get them back on line,” the acting captain snapped. Turning around to glare at him.
“Aye,” the man said, already at the task.
“Jem’Hadar and Reman ships are rallying,” Leya remarked, an unexpected tremor in her voice. “They are on an attack vector.” The tremor unsettled Liyange more than the ships screaming towards them.
“Evasive maneuvers,” she commanded. But the ship was too slow. The Jem’Hadar fighters came in first, stitching the ship with strafing runs, followed by the Reman ships, whose heavier weaponry sliced gashes into the already stressed hull.
“Multiple hull breaches,” Leya reported. “Primary hull.”
“If they get any closer, they might take out the bridge,” Jona remarked.
“Prevent them from doing that,” Liyange ordered as she tried to formulate a strategy. “Turn us around and use our aft phaser banks,” she said. The ship turned, the screen shifting to keep her abreast of the fighters now behind them.
Liyange felt every pummel from the enemy vessels, and she couldn’t wait to repay them. “We have come about,” Jona remarked seconds later.
“Fire, full spread,” Liyange said with ferocity she didn’t know she possessed. The Jem’Hadar fighters weaved through the fusillade, but the slower, bulkier Reman vessels weren’t so lucky. Arjuna couldn’t celebrate. The warbugs, not to mention the station, still were obstacles, obstacles with enough firepower to kill them. Even in the absence of firepower, the images of the kamikaze attack on the Odyssey shortly after first contact with the Dominion was made, were seared into her brain from the vid files she saw. Just one warbug destroyed a Galaxy-class vessel.
“What’s our status?” She asked Torkill.
“Still working on it,” he replied, his impatience stanching her own.
“Lt. Leya, help him,” Liyange said. “I’ll reroute operations functions to this console,” she replied.
“Yes sir,” the Caldonian said, “I’ll switch my terminal functions to the shield generator network.”
“Excellent,” Arjuna said, looking back to Torkill. The Kobheerian nodded tersely.
“Jem’Hadar ships regrouping,” Jona warned ominously.
“Keep picking off as many as you can,” Liyange commanded.
“Jem’Hadar ships on collision course, picking up speed,” Jona replied.
“Evasive, evasive!” Arjuna ordered. The ship moved to disperse the ships which had formed an arrowhead pointed at Monarch’s bow. The maneuvers might buy them a few minutes at least, if the Catullan could keep outflying their pursuers.
“Warships firing,” Torkill called as a fan of disruptor energy caught the Monarch, hitting it whatever way they tried to turn, slicing through the unprotected skin of the ship.
The captain hated to think it, but she checked the status of the propulsion system. They still had warp. She opened an intraship channel.
“Engineering,” the ragged voice was unfamiliar. Liyange could only imagine what was going on in the engine room. They really needed Petrov back aboard.
“Are we capable of warp speed?”
“Yes,” the engineer replied after a moment.
“Prepare us for maximum warp, on my mark.”
“Aye.”
Arjuna toggled off the link. She sat back in her seat, and centered herself. “Helm,” she said, relaying a new course. “On my mark, we’re jumping to warp.”
“Leaving the captain behind sir?” Jona asked. There was no accusation in the question, but Liyange felt it all the same. She could only nod. Her throat had closed up, preventing her from speaking.
“Wait,” Torkill said. Liyange turned back toward him.
“What is it?”
“There has been a massive explosion in the station’s central core,” the Kobheerian reported.
“Switch viewer,” Liyange said reluctantly, not wanting to take her eyes off the Jem’Hadar ships. However, there tight formation had already started to break apart, perhaps in response to this rare bit of good fortune. The station was now listing, gas and debris flowing like life blood from the puncture in Pirot Nor’s side.
“The station’s shields…,” Torkill was briefly overcome by disbelief. He looked up her, the shock evident on his scaly face. “Pirot Nor’s shields are down.”
“Beam out our people now!” Liyange cried.
“Captain, I’ve discovered multiple human life signs, and others consistent with Federation citizens,” Torkill replied.
“Swoop them all up and let’s get the hell out of here!”
*****************************************************
******************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
Lt. Skell’s expression was dour. “Captain, I am detecting an unusual concentration of tetyron particles, off our starboard bow.” He paused, “And the tetryon cloud is moving…in our direction.”
“Shields,” Zorek called out. “Evasive maneuvers.” He had spent enough time fighting alongside the Romulans and Klingons to know the indicators of a cloaking device. “Arm phasers.”
Space twisted around the incoming ship, its disruptors spewing even before it fully resolved. The bolts smashed into Tavek’s portside, sending the shuttle into a tailspin. Once Zorek righted the vessel, he initiated his own damage report, rapidly scanning the list marked in a dreadful blood green.
“Sir,” Lt. Telik, who no doubt had also scanned the ship’s systems, began.
“I am aware of how dire our situation is,” he cut her off. His major focus now was on survival. “Do your best to maintain propulsion and shields.”
From the first strike, Zorek knew that that his adversary outmatched him in the weapon’s department. The best they could hope for was to use the Scarab Nebula to escape, but they had to get back to the nebula first and without warp that would be nearly impossible.
He brought the shuttle about. He wanted to see what they were facing. Skell grunted, for him a shocking display of emotion. Zorek’s brow wrinkled. The ship had the predatory look and green finish of a Romulan warship, but it was a class he had never seen before.
“Hail them,” he instructed Telik.
“No response,” the Science Officer replied.
“Ship is powering its deflector shield,” Skell’s voice held a note of curiosity. “Not its disruptors.”
“That’s odd,” Telik said, “They certainly have the means to destroy us without charging the deflector.”
“What do they have in mind?” Skell wondered.
“Do you really want to find out?” Zorek said, angling the ship quickly back toward the nebula’s direction. He hit his console’s ignition stud.
********************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
Lt. Colonel Vakis was a little disappointed. She had hoped to test the ship’s psychonic generator. It was best fired through the ship’s deflector dish. It was purported to be able to pierce an enemy vessel’s shields and kill the crew within. Unfortunately it took too long for the generator to power up. And now the Vulcan shuttle was racing back towards what they surely thought was the safety of the Scarab Nebula.
“No matter,” she said, turning to her prisoners. She flashed a radiant smile, “The hunt begins.”
*********************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
Lt. Skell’s expression was dour. “Captain, I am detecting an unusual concentration of tetyron particles, off our starboard bow.” He paused, “And the tetryon cloud is moving…in our direction.”
“Shields,” Zorek called out. “Evasive maneuvers.” He had spent enough time fighting alongside the Romulans and Klingons to know the indicators of a cloaking device. “Arm phasers.”
Space twisted around the incoming ship, its disruptors spewing even before it fully resolved. The bolts smashed into Tavek’s portside, sending the shuttle into a tailspin. Once Zorek righted the vessel, he initiated his own damage report, rapidly scanning the list marked in a dreadful blood green.
“Sir,” Lt. Telik, who no doubt had also scanned the ship’s systems, began.
“I am aware of how dire our situation is,” he cut her off. His major focus now was on survival. “Do your best to maintain propulsion and shields.”
From the first strike, Zorek knew that that his adversary outmatched him in the weapon’s department. The best they could hope for was to use the Scarab Nebula to escape, but they had to get back to the nebula first and without warp that would be nearly impossible.
He brought the shuttle about. He wanted to see what they were facing. Skell grunted, for him a shocking display of emotion. Zorek’s brow wrinkled. The ship had the predatory look and green finish of a Romulan warship, but it was a class he had never seen before.
“Hail them,” he instructed Telik.
“No response,” the Science Officer replied.
“Ship is powering its deflector shield,” Skell’s voice held a note of curiosity. “Not its disruptors.”
“That’s odd,” Telik said, “They certainly have the means to destroy us without charging the deflector.”
“What do they have in mind?” Skell wondered.
“Do you really want to find out?” Zorek said, angling the ship quickly back toward the nebula’s direction. He hit his console’s ignition stud.
********************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
Lt. Colonel Vakis was a little disappointed. She had hoped to test the ship’s psychonic generator. It was best fired through the ship’s deflector dish. It was purported to be able to pierce an enemy vessel’s shields and kill the crew within. Unfortunately it took too long for the generator to power up. And now the Vulcan shuttle was racing back towards what they surely thought was the safety of the Scarab Nebula.
“No matter,” she said, turning to her prisoners. She flashed a radiant smile, “The hunt begins.”
*********************************************************
**********************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Section
The operative fell through the hole. Her personal shield had protected her from the blast, but she knew the chain reaction she started would quickly overwhelm her suit’s systems. She had completed her assignment so there was no need to dawdle on Pirot Nor. She could enjoy her handiwork from the cockpit of her ship.
Tumbling away from the station, using her repulsors to avoid passing debris as best she could, the operative activated her portable transporter.
*************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Cargo Bay
Daneeka’s hands clutched air. “What the fark?” She asked, looking around, confused. Just seconds before she had the knobby neck of a Jem’Hadar soldier in her hands, and now…nothing.
The din that had been pounding her ears suddenly ebbed, and the prisoners looked just as bewildered as she was. She glanced around the bright, clean cargo hold of Starfleet design.
“We’ve been rescued?” A cracked voice Captain Bouchet asked, cautiously optimistic.
“No!” Chalandra wailed, sinking to her knees, her head in her hands. Dar kneeled beside her, trying to console the frantic woman.
“How? Who?” Shakingbush took the words out of Daneeka’s mouth.
“This…is my ship,” she heard a man wheeze out. The Bolian turned toward the voice, and her heart lifted. The speaker was being propped up by Admiral Glover. Actually both men appeared to be supporting each other. Behind them was a tall, disheveled Trill female. She was wildly looking around.
“Admiral,” she called out, forgetting the mission. She had thought he was dead, but he was alive. Somehow, they all were.
“Who are you? What ship is this?” Bouchet’s bass command voice had returned.
The other man replied, “Benjamin Walker, Monarch.”
“Emil Bouchet, Shuttlesworth,” the Border Service captain replied, reaching out a hand. Walker gingerly shook it.
“How did you get here?” They asked, almost simultaneously. Before either man could speak the cargo bay doors opened and a security detachment poured in. It was led by a swarthy human woman in Operations Division gold.
“Commander Liyange?” Walker turned to her. “Ship’s status?”
“Captain, Lt. Commander Petrov,” she said, her face a mask of grief.
“Excuse me?” He asked, his joy draining from his face.
“We weren’t able to lock on to her,” Liyange said.
“Did you try again?” The Trill asked. Now Daneeka figured out who the Trill must have been searching for, a missing crewmate.
“We did, but she doesn’t appear to even be on the station,” Liyange said, completely baffled.
“That’s, that’s impossible,” Walker remarked.
“We’ve got to go back sir,” the Trill replied. “We’ve got to find her.”
“Leza,” the man said gently, “I don’t know if that’s feasible. What’s our status?” Liyange gave him the rundown. The Trill’s insistence ebbed. She lowered her head and turned away.
“We…we have to let her go,” the Monarch captain said after a few beats, “I can’t risk this ship, the rest of the crew…”
“I know sir,” the Trill said quietly. “It’s just…”
“I understand,” Walker remarked, moving away from the admiral. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I know.”
“We’ve lost so much,” the Trill replied, her head still down.
“Sofia was…,” Walker paused as his voice started to crack, “A patriot.” Astar turned back to face them all, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy.
“I know that sir,” she paused, her voice hitching, “And that’s why we can’t leave her. Not to the Jem’Hadar or the Remans!”
“If she’s alive, she won’t want to be if they catch her,” Daneeka’s quip came unbidden, drawing cold stares from all around her. The Bolian didn’t care. What she said was true.
“She’s right,” the Trill replied, jabbing her finger in Daneeka’s direction. “We can’t give up on her, not now!”
“I don’t see how we have a choice,” Walker said, his voice as haggard as his appearance. The man’s skin had taken on a gray pallor. “We don’t know what could be awaiting us back there. Sofia is a Starfleet officer. Like the rest of us, she knew the risks.”
The Trill shook off his hand. “I’m sorry,” Walker added, but the woman refused to be consoled. She turned her back to him, and Walker sagely decided to give her space.
“What about the Jem’Hadar?” Admiral Glover gently interjected after a moment of silence. “The Remans?” Liyange looked askance.
“This is Admiral Samson Glover,” Walker replied. The woman’s demeanor became steely professional.
“I don’t know sir,” she replied, “When we warped away the station was experiencing a series of internal explosions. It’s possibly space slag right now.”
“One can only hope,” Daneeka huffed.
************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Operations Center
First Omara’Son slashed into thin air. He attacked with such force that he lost balance, tumbling to the unforgiving deck. The pain in his knees merely fueled his rage. He sprang back to his feet, searching the darkness, his nostrils flaring as he sought alien scents.
Only the dust coated odor of the Remans filled his nose. “Where?” Darkness had descended on them like a blanket, deactivating the ops center’s system. And then they had been attacked by the Monarch crew and Admiral Glover, wisely taking advantage of the momentary glitch. Before he could lead a counterattack, he had been momentarily blinded by the sparkle of transporter beams.
He was hoping the Monarch crew was sending in soldiers, more people for him to kill.
“They are gone,” Lt. Bakin said. The Remans could see more easily in the dark.
“The cowards ran,” Omara’Son snorted. “No matter. They can’t escape us. We will see them soon enough.”
“Perhaps not,” one of the Reman’s said, right before the deck trembled before their feet. “Can’t you hear that?”
“What?” Omara’Son asked. The Remans also had enhanced hearing. Now even Bakin had stiffened.
“The central core,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. The distant rumbling grew closer. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Contact the Battle Cruiser 115,” Omara’Son said, wondering why the battleship hadn’t contacted them yet. The main viewer was opaque.
“Our systems are still offline,” a Jem’Hadar warrior replied.
“Get them online!” Omara’Son barked. Through the darkness, he heard Bakin chortle. “What is it?” He asked, confused by the Reman’s bemusement.
“It’s too late,” he simply replied. “Now, if victory is life, then what is defeat?”
Perplexed, Omara’Son wrapped his head around the curious, oddly timed question. Before he could response the floor opened up below him, dropping him into the inferno rushing up to claim him.
**********************************************************
Unidentified Vessel
Attached to Starship Monarch’s Hull
As soon as the transporter beam released her, the operative unlatched her helmet and pulled it off her head. It came off with a noticeable pop. She threw it in a corner and sucked in the air. It was recycled too, but still was more refreshing than the air in her confined suit. She shook her dark hair loose and wiped the sweet from her brow as she made her way to the cockpit.
She wasn’t surprised to see it occupied. “Changed the script?” She asked, trying her best to hide her annoyance.
Sofia Petrov turned around and smiled at her. “Good to see you again too,” she said. “Now, where are we headed?”
**********************************************************
Pirot Nor
Computer Access Section
The operative fell through the hole. Her personal shield had protected her from the blast, but she knew the chain reaction she started would quickly overwhelm her suit’s systems. She had completed her assignment so there was no need to dawdle on Pirot Nor. She could enjoy her handiwork from the cockpit of her ship.
Tumbling away from the station, using her repulsors to avoid passing debris as best she could, the operative activated her portable transporter.
*************************************************************
USS Monarch
Main Cargo Bay
Daneeka’s hands clutched air. “What the fark?” She asked, looking around, confused. Just seconds before she had the knobby neck of a Jem’Hadar soldier in her hands, and now…nothing.
The din that had been pounding her ears suddenly ebbed, and the prisoners looked just as bewildered as she was. She glanced around the bright, clean cargo hold of Starfleet design.
“We’ve been rescued?” A cracked voice Captain Bouchet asked, cautiously optimistic.
“No!” Chalandra wailed, sinking to her knees, her head in her hands. Dar kneeled beside her, trying to console the frantic woman.
“How? Who?” Shakingbush took the words out of Daneeka’s mouth.
“This…is my ship,” she heard a man wheeze out. The Bolian turned toward the voice, and her heart lifted. The speaker was being propped up by Admiral Glover. Actually both men appeared to be supporting each other. Behind them was a tall, disheveled Trill female. She was wildly looking around.
“Admiral,” she called out, forgetting the mission. She had thought he was dead, but he was alive. Somehow, they all were.
“Who are you? What ship is this?” Bouchet’s bass command voice had returned.
The other man replied, “Benjamin Walker, Monarch.”
“Emil Bouchet, Shuttlesworth,” the Border Service captain replied, reaching out a hand. Walker gingerly shook it.
“How did you get here?” They asked, almost simultaneously. Before either man could speak the cargo bay doors opened and a security detachment poured in. It was led by a swarthy human woman in Operations Division gold.
“Commander Liyange?” Walker turned to her. “Ship’s status?”
“Captain, Lt. Commander Petrov,” she said, her face a mask of grief.
“Excuse me?” He asked, his joy draining from his face.
“We weren’t able to lock on to her,” Liyange said.
“Did you try again?” The Trill asked. Now Daneeka figured out who the Trill must have been searching for, a missing crewmate.
“We did, but she doesn’t appear to even be on the station,” Liyange said, completely baffled.
“That’s, that’s impossible,” Walker remarked.
“We’ve got to go back sir,” the Trill replied. “We’ve got to find her.”
“Leza,” the man said gently, “I don’t know if that’s feasible. What’s our status?” Liyange gave him the rundown. The Trill’s insistence ebbed. She lowered her head and turned away.
“We…we have to let her go,” the Monarch captain said after a few beats, “I can’t risk this ship, the rest of the crew…”
“I know sir,” the Trill said quietly. “It’s just…”
“I understand,” Walker remarked, moving away from the admiral. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I know.”
“We’ve lost so much,” the Trill replied, her head still down.
“Sofia was…,” Walker paused as his voice started to crack, “A patriot.” Astar turned back to face them all, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy.
“I know that sir,” she paused, her voice hitching, “And that’s why we can’t leave her. Not to the Jem’Hadar or the Remans!”
“If she’s alive, she won’t want to be if they catch her,” Daneeka’s quip came unbidden, drawing cold stares from all around her. The Bolian didn’t care. What she said was true.
“She’s right,” the Trill replied, jabbing her finger in Daneeka’s direction. “We can’t give up on her, not now!”
“I don’t see how we have a choice,” Walker said, his voice as haggard as his appearance. The man’s skin had taken on a gray pallor. “We don’t know what could be awaiting us back there. Sofia is a Starfleet officer. Like the rest of us, she knew the risks.”
The Trill shook off his hand. “I’m sorry,” Walker added, but the woman refused to be consoled. She turned her back to him, and Walker sagely decided to give her space.
“What about the Jem’Hadar?” Admiral Glover gently interjected after a moment of silence. “The Remans?” Liyange looked askance.
“This is Admiral Samson Glover,” Walker replied. The woman’s demeanor became steely professional.
“I don’t know sir,” she replied, “When we warped away the station was experiencing a series of internal explosions. It’s possibly space slag right now.”
“One can only hope,” Daneeka huffed.
************************************************************
Pirot Nor
Operations Center
First Omara’Son slashed into thin air. He attacked with such force that he lost balance, tumbling to the unforgiving deck. The pain in his knees merely fueled his rage. He sprang back to his feet, searching the darkness, his nostrils flaring as he sought alien scents.
Only the dust coated odor of the Remans filled his nose. “Where?” Darkness had descended on them like a blanket, deactivating the ops center’s system. And then they had been attacked by the Monarch crew and Admiral Glover, wisely taking advantage of the momentary glitch. Before he could lead a counterattack, he had been momentarily blinded by the sparkle of transporter beams.
He was hoping the Monarch crew was sending in soldiers, more people for him to kill.
“They are gone,” Lt. Bakin said. The Remans could see more easily in the dark.
“The cowards ran,” Omara’Son snorted. “No matter. They can’t escape us. We will see them soon enough.”
“Perhaps not,” one of the Reman’s said, right before the deck trembled before their feet. “Can’t you hear that?”
“What?” Omara’Son asked. The Remans also had enhanced hearing. Now even Bakin had stiffened.
“The central core,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. The distant rumbling grew closer. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Contact the Battle Cruiser 115,” Omara’Son said, wondering why the battleship hadn’t contacted them yet. The main viewer was opaque.
“Our systems are still offline,” a Jem’Hadar warrior replied.
“Get them online!” Omara’Son barked. Through the darkness, he heard Bakin chortle. “What is it?” He asked, confused by the Reman’s bemusement.
“It’s too late,” he simply replied. “Now, if victory is life, then what is defeat?”
Perplexed, Omara’Son wrapped his head around the curious, oddly timed question. Before he could response the floor opened up below him, dropping him into the inferno rushing up to claim him.
**********************************************************
Unidentified Vessel
Attached to Starship Monarch’s Hull
As soon as the transporter beam released her, the operative unlatched her helmet and pulled it off her head. It came off with a noticeable pop. She threw it in a corner and sucked in the air. It was recycled too, but still was more refreshing than the air in her confined suit. She shook her dark hair loose and wiped the sweet from her brow as she made her way to the cockpit.
She wasn’t surprised to see it occupied. “Changed the script?” She asked, trying her best to hide her annoyance.
Sofia Petrov turned around and smiled at her. “Good to see you again too,” she said. “Now, where are we headed?”
**********************************************************
**************************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
The shuttle was rocked by another volley. “We can’t take much more of this,” Lt. Telik replied.
“Our pursuer is toying with us,” Captain Zorek responded. “They could’ve overtaken us by now, absent that their weapons have longer-reach and more lethality.” He glanced out of the forward port. The roiling barrier to the nebula was less than a minute away. He doubted the Romulan ship would allow them to survive that long though. Briefly he thought of his family, but then cleared his mind. He would not meet death with sentimentality.
“Might I propose that we shorten our lifespan?” Lt. Skell replied.
“Why would you propose that?” Telik asked.
“By reversing course and fighting the Romulan ship, instead of racing to the nebula. Perhaps it is unseemly, but I would rather die fighting than in running.”
“We’re not running, we’re attempting to evade the unnecessary destruction of this vessel and the forfeiture of our lives,” Telik replied.
“Both of you are accurate,” Zorek said, “but I concur with Lt. Skell. Lt Telik I would like you to take as much sensor data as possible of that vessel and send out a probe, programmed with Nagasaki’s last known coordinates.”
“I see,” Telik said, not betraying any disappointment. “We might die, but we can also supply Nagasaki and Starfleet with vital data about this new Romulan warship. It is imminently logical.”
“Of course it is,” Zorek said, with a ghost of a smile. He swung the Tavek around. The Romulan vessel immediately came to a full stop.
“Receiving a hail from the Romulan warship,” Telik said, prompting an arched eyebrow from the captain. He hadn’t expected this response.
“Answer it.” The screen on small monitor set atop his terminal switched from the laurel leaf Federation background to a beautiful, dark skinned Romulan woman. Her expression was a mix of boredom and curiosity.
“Have you grown tired of our game?” She asked.
“With whom am I speaking?” Zorek asked.
“Does it matter?” His adversary sighed. “Lt. Colonel Vakis of the Tal Shiar.” Zorek dipped his head in respect.
“I am Captain Zorek of the Starship Nagasaki,” he replied, “Why have you attacked my vessel?” The woman rolled her eyes.
“Why are you in Romulan space?”
“The Benzite system is part of Federation territory,” he amiably corrected her.
“The Federation’s authority was voided by the Dominion,” Vakis retorted, “and it will be nothing more than a distant memory after the referendum. We patrol this sector now and you are trespassing.”
“Then I request that you escort us back to Federation space,” Zorek replied gamely. The woman turned around in her seat, speaking to someone off camera.
“Can you imagine the gall?” She asked, laughing. Seconds later the laugh was cut off abruptly. Zorek saw a shadow appear across the screen and then he saw the woman’s body jerking, writhing in agony, her arms flailing in desperation. He didn’t know what was going on. His initial reaction was of concern. Someone was murdering the woman right before them and he couldn’t do anything about it. He looked at Skell and Telik. They looked just as perplexed as he did.
“Should we render assistance sir?” Telik asked.
“The shields are still up, we can’t beam over,” Skell added. “Perhaps we should take advantage of this opportunity.” Though there was a part of him that wanted to help the woman, that abhorred being a mute witness to her murder, he had to wonder if this was not a fortuitous turn of events. If Tavek hung around to see the outcome, might they wind up facing an even worse adversary?
“Telik finish your scan,” Zorek said, “so we can leave Colonel Vakis to her fate.” ****************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
T’Prell shuddered as cold tendril latched onto her mind, sinking into her brain matter. Something was touching her, probing, reaching deeply within her mind, seeking…
Instead of recoiling the operative brought in it, attempting to understand this alien probe, to impede its search. She was disrupted by T’Chaya’s anguished cry. “T’Chaya?”
The woman was thrashing against her bonds. “Get it out, get it away!” She wailed, her emotional walls completely demolished. “Abomination!”
T’Prell turned to Steen and saw the man smiling. A shadow fell across her face and she heard swift slicing through the air. Steen’s constraints slipped to the floor. He stood up fully, stretching his joints and rubbing his wrists. “Good work,” he said. T’Prell looked around, trying to figure out who he was speaking to, and then she recalled where they were and who held them.
“Vakis?” She whispered, looking toward the center seat. She saw the woman slumped over, her neck at an unnatural angle. “How?” She glanced up at Steen, but now the man’s face was contorted in rage.
“Kill them,” he ordered. “Kill them both.”
“What are you talking about?” T’Prell began struggling against her bonds. “Who are you?”
“The more important question is,” the air spoke to her, taking form, resolving into a lanky, black clad figure. “Who are we?”
Standing behind the creature, T’Prell saw the astonished look on the fake Vulcan’s face. Even he was expecting this creature to reveal itself. The shadow pulled a long, vibrating sword from behind his back. He moved quickly, bringing the sword down before T’Prell could protest.
Her bonds fell to the floor. T’Chaya cried out as another creature unshrouded and released her. “What are you doing? You were supposed to follow my orders!” He declared.
“The Herald wishes to speak with you,” T’Prell’s liberator said, turning back to him. Steen began to back away, but the shadow advanced on him, until he blocked her view, and then both men were gone. She looked back at T’Chaya and saw that her liberator had vanished too.
“Dear Gods,” she muttered as she ran over to the woman. T’Chaya had fallen from her chair and was curled in the fetal positions, still quivering.
T’Prell sought to calm the woman, by touching her mind. She shrank back, the darkness overwhelming her. The cold, alien presence had only brushed T’Prell’s mind, but it had gripped T’Chaya’s. “What have they done to you?” She asked.
“The Void,” T’Chaya whispered, now sounding half-lucid. “The Void is coming.”
****************************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
Scarab Nebula
“We’re being hailed sir,” Telik informed them. “It’s the Romulan ship.”
“Don’t answer it,” Skell said. “The Romulans are probably trying to locate our coordinates.”
“Maintain radio silence,” Zorek said.
“Aye,” Telik said. Though a few minutes later, she said, “Sir, I think you might want to break our silence.”
“Why?”
“The message is a Starfleet code,” Telik said, “Code One Alpha Zero.” A distress call.
“Let’s hear it,” Zorek said with reluctance. Both of his eyebrows shot up when he heard T’Prell’s voice. “T’Prell, send me your coordinates and we will rendezvous.” The grateful woman quickly complied.
“This could still be a trap,” Skell informed them.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Zorek retorted as he altered course.
********************************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
The shuttle was rocked by another volley. “We can’t take much more of this,” Lt. Telik replied.
“Our pursuer is toying with us,” Captain Zorek responded. “They could’ve overtaken us by now, absent that their weapons have longer-reach and more lethality.” He glanced out of the forward port. The roiling barrier to the nebula was less than a minute away. He doubted the Romulan ship would allow them to survive that long though. Briefly he thought of his family, but then cleared his mind. He would not meet death with sentimentality.
“Might I propose that we shorten our lifespan?” Lt. Skell replied.
“Why would you propose that?” Telik asked.
“By reversing course and fighting the Romulan ship, instead of racing to the nebula. Perhaps it is unseemly, but I would rather die fighting than in running.”
“We’re not running, we’re attempting to evade the unnecessary destruction of this vessel and the forfeiture of our lives,” Telik replied.
“Both of you are accurate,” Zorek said, “but I concur with Lt. Skell. Lt Telik I would like you to take as much sensor data as possible of that vessel and send out a probe, programmed with Nagasaki’s last known coordinates.”
“I see,” Telik said, not betraying any disappointment. “We might die, but we can also supply Nagasaki and Starfleet with vital data about this new Romulan warship. It is imminently logical.”
“Of course it is,” Zorek said, with a ghost of a smile. He swung the Tavek around. The Romulan vessel immediately came to a full stop.
“Receiving a hail from the Romulan warship,” Telik said, prompting an arched eyebrow from the captain. He hadn’t expected this response.
“Answer it.” The screen on small monitor set atop his terminal switched from the laurel leaf Federation background to a beautiful, dark skinned Romulan woman. Her expression was a mix of boredom and curiosity.
“Have you grown tired of our game?” She asked.
“With whom am I speaking?” Zorek asked.
“Does it matter?” His adversary sighed. “Lt. Colonel Vakis of the Tal Shiar.” Zorek dipped his head in respect.
“I am Captain Zorek of the Starship Nagasaki,” he replied, “Why have you attacked my vessel?” The woman rolled her eyes.
“Why are you in Romulan space?”
“The Benzite system is part of Federation territory,” he amiably corrected her.
“The Federation’s authority was voided by the Dominion,” Vakis retorted, “and it will be nothing more than a distant memory after the referendum. We patrol this sector now and you are trespassing.”
“Then I request that you escort us back to Federation space,” Zorek replied gamely. The woman turned around in her seat, speaking to someone off camera.
“Can you imagine the gall?” She asked, laughing. Seconds later the laugh was cut off abruptly. Zorek saw a shadow appear across the screen and then he saw the woman’s body jerking, writhing in agony, her arms flailing in desperation. He didn’t know what was going on. His initial reaction was of concern. Someone was murdering the woman right before them and he couldn’t do anything about it. He looked at Skell and Telik. They looked just as perplexed as he did.
“Should we render assistance sir?” Telik asked.
“The shields are still up, we can’t beam over,” Skell added. “Perhaps we should take advantage of this opportunity.” Though there was a part of him that wanted to help the woman, that abhorred being a mute witness to her murder, he had to wonder if this was not a fortuitous turn of events. If Tavek hung around to see the outcome, might they wind up facing an even worse adversary?
“Telik finish your scan,” Zorek said, “so we can leave Colonel Vakis to her fate.” ****************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Cruiser Stiletto
Shadow-Class
T’Prell shuddered as cold tendril latched onto her mind, sinking into her brain matter. Something was touching her, probing, reaching deeply within her mind, seeking…
Instead of recoiling the operative brought in it, attempting to understand this alien probe, to impede its search. She was disrupted by T’Chaya’s anguished cry. “T’Chaya?”
The woman was thrashing against her bonds. “Get it out, get it away!” She wailed, her emotional walls completely demolished. “Abomination!”
T’Prell turned to Steen and saw the man smiling. A shadow fell across her face and she heard swift slicing through the air. Steen’s constraints slipped to the floor. He stood up fully, stretching his joints and rubbing his wrists. “Good work,” he said. T’Prell looked around, trying to figure out who he was speaking to, and then she recalled where they were and who held them.
“Vakis?” She whispered, looking toward the center seat. She saw the woman slumped over, her neck at an unnatural angle. “How?” She glanced up at Steen, but now the man’s face was contorted in rage.
“Kill them,” he ordered. “Kill them both.”
“What are you talking about?” T’Prell began struggling against her bonds. “Who are you?”
“The more important question is,” the air spoke to her, taking form, resolving into a lanky, black clad figure. “Who are we?”
Standing behind the creature, T’Prell saw the astonished look on the fake Vulcan’s face. Even he was expecting this creature to reveal itself. The shadow pulled a long, vibrating sword from behind his back. He moved quickly, bringing the sword down before T’Prell could protest.
Her bonds fell to the floor. T’Chaya cried out as another creature unshrouded and released her. “What are you doing? You were supposed to follow my orders!” He declared.
“The Herald wishes to speak with you,” T’Prell’s liberator said, turning back to him. Steen began to back away, but the shadow advanced on him, until he blocked her view, and then both men were gone. She looked back at T’Chaya and saw that her liberator had vanished too.
“Dear Gods,” she muttered as she ran over to the woman. T’Chaya had fallen from her chair and was curled in the fetal positions, still quivering.
T’Prell sought to calm the woman, by touching her mind. She shrank back, the darkness overwhelming her. The cold, alien presence had only brushed T’Prell’s mind, but it had gripped T’Chaya’s. “What have they done to you?” She asked.
“The Void,” T’Chaya whispered, now sounding half-lucid. “The Void is coming.”
****************************************************************
Shuttlecraft Tavek
Scarab Nebula
“We’re being hailed sir,” Telik informed them. “It’s the Romulan ship.”
“Don’t answer it,” Skell said. “The Romulans are probably trying to locate our coordinates.”
“Maintain radio silence,” Zorek said.
“Aye,” Telik said. Though a few minutes later, she said, “Sir, I think you might want to break our silence.”
“Why?”
“The message is a Starfleet code,” Telik said, “Code One Alpha Zero.” A distress call.
“Let’s hear it,” Zorek said with reluctance. Both of his eyebrows shot up when he heard T’Prell’s voice. “T’Prell, send me your coordinates and we will rendezvous.” The grateful woman quickly complied.
“This could still be a trap,” Skell informed them.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Zorek retorted as he altered course.
********************************************************************
Well now, things are starting to be tied up.
I'm looking forward to finding out who the operative is, though I think I have an idea...
Sofia should be dead, but she'll get her comeuppance.
And nice introduction to the Void.
Loving this story. Can't to see how you tie it all up at the end.
I'm looking forward to finding out who the operative is, though I think I have an idea...
Sofia should be dead, but she'll get her comeuppance.
And nice introduction to the Void.
Loving this story. Can't to see how you tie it all up at the end.
BB,
Glad you're enjoying how this one is wrapping up. I want to thank you for the use of your characters. They've been great fun to play with.
********************************************************************
Somewhere in the Benzite System…
“About time,” Commander Patrin Volok smiled tightly as his escape pod shuddered. He glanced out the window, as light from the green tractor beam washed over his tiny vessel. He sat back as he was pulled into the cavernous shuttle bay of the warbird.
He closed his eyes as the beam brought him down with a harsh clang onto the deck. Seared into his mind was the cataclysmic explosion caused by the Avengeance. It had been so intense that he had been forced to cover his eyes. The feedback had shorted his monitor screen and all he had been able to see in Avengeance’s wake were ripples in the ion storm. But no sign of either ship or the probe.
He patted the chip secreted into a pocket near his heart. The mission hadn’t been a total failure. He would divine the secrets of the Iconian device and use that knowledge to exact his revenge. Volok was certain of that now.
He realized he had no choice in the matter. With the beings he had just escaped from, the Empire needed the Iconian probe at its disposal in order to survive any future encounters.
With a grunt, he stood up. Volok stretched his tired, bruised muscles. The explosion had tossed the escape pod wildly about and he had felt every jolt. He was going to have to talk to someone about improving the inertial dampening system for the pods, especially for the commanding officers.
He released the hatch lever and heard a pleasing hiss. The ramp extended from the bottom of the shuttle as the door lifted up. Volok squinted in the bright light as he stepped onto the ramp. A detachment of Romulan soldiers ringed the pod; they all had disruptor rifles trained on him.
“Put away your weapons,” he said, miffed that they didn’t immediately comply. “Don’t you see my rank insignia?” He snapped. “Do as I command!” He sought out the team’s leader, looking at the upper curve of the circle. His anger evaporated. “You,” he snarled, before his voice faltered.
The woman smiled at him, her serpentine gaze glittering. Her hair was whiter and she appeared frailer than the last time he had seen her. Helanor’s clothes were now more functional than resplendent, but her arrogance hadn’t dimmed an ounce. “You remember me? How flattering,” Spuria Helanor replied.
The former Tal Shiar Chairwoman clapped her hands, before commanding, “Escort Commander Volok to my stateroom.” Her stateroom? This was her ship? She was dressed in an unadorned gray, broad-shouldered tunic, with matching pants. There was no sash or other sign of rank. Helanor had traded in military service for Tal Shiar skullduggery decades ago, so how did she take command of this vessel? He wondered as he stepped onto the deck, at the urging of the guards, waving their weapons impatiently at him.
It had behooved him after his release from prison to keep tabs on the woman who had put him there, as part of her ruthless dismantling of his Tal Arcani. She was on his vengeance list.
But last he had heard Helanor had retired to live the remainder of her days with Quintus Javel, Praetor Neral’s predecessor. It was almost unheard of for a Praetor, and especially a Tal Shiar head to self-retire, and to be alive after said retirement. However, both had pulled it off.
Volok squelched his hatred of the woman in order to find out why. When Helanor held out her hand, he smoothly took it, his mask back on. It appeared the wheel had turned yet again for him. Not only did he possess the most powerful weapon in the quadrant, one of his greatest enemies had been delivered up to him.
“You’re smile is almost genuine,” Helanor whispered, a surprised tone in her voice. “If I didn’t know you better one would think you really were happy to see me.”
“Oh Spuria my dear, you have no idea.”
***************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Warbird Chogan
Stateroom
The sturdy, high-backed chair was not a boon for Volok’s aching muscles, but he would never show discomfort around Helanor. The woman was like a ter’ak, with a nose and appetite for the weak.
Helanor occupied the seat across from him. She gestured to the picture and two wineglasses on a tray on the right edge of her desk; they were the only items on its polished wooden surface. “Care for some Calanistan nectar,” she pointed to the tempting, golden liquid. “I know you’ve just had a long journey and must be parched.”
Volok demurred, prompting a half-smile from the woman. “How about I pour myself a drink as well?” Helanor offered.
“Only if we switch glasses,” Volok finally relented. Helanor chortled.
“Very well,” she said, before rising half out of her seat. She bent over her desk to pour them both cups of the nectar. They exchanged cups. Before he drew the glass to his lips, Volok paused. Helanor sighed before downing her drink.
Volok placed his glasses back on the tray and grabbed hers. “I think I will take that drink now,” he said, pouring it himself.
“When did you become such a paranoiac?” Helanor asked, a bit exasperated.
“Since you destroyed the Tal Arcani and threw me in jail,” he said, pausing to take a sip. He savored the sweet taste a moment before continuing, “You do remember that, don’t you?”
“It’s obvious you haven’t forgotten it,” Helanor replied, without a glimmer of regret or self-consciousness. “That was always one of your problems Patrin, an inability to let go of the past. Everything is so personal with you.”
“And our rivalry, the Tal Arcani pitted against the Tal Shiar, wasn’t personal to you?” Volok scoffed.
“I grew beyond that,” Helanor shook her head, “a long while ago. Then again, you are a bit younger than me, and have quite some maturing left to go I see.”
“What do you want?” Volok cut to the point, hoping to knock the woman off balance with his bluntness.
“Spoken like a true Klingon,” the woman needled, reminding Volok that the phrase was typically the stand-in for a greeting among those uncivilized brutes. It rankled him that she would ever compare a gentleman of his stature to those beasts. A tense vein throbbed along his jaw line.
“Before I tell you that, I want you to know that it wasn’t personal between you and I,” Helanor replied. “I was working in the best interest of the Empire.”
Volok snorted, “Which conveniently coincided with your organization gaining greater prestige at the expense of mine.”
“That was not the end goal of my actions against you,” the woman stated. “Though admittedly, I did derive some personal benefit. My chief concern was the Changelings.”
“The Founders from the Dominion?” He asked, incredulously.
“Correct, I feared that the Changelings had infiltrated our government at some of the highest levels and I thought it best to consolidate many of its intelligence various arms under one umbrella to keep a better eye on them. In essence, I wanted all the nei’rrh in the same pit.”
Volok grunted at the turn of phrase. “So my agency and my life became collateral in this crackpot theory of yours. There was no major Changeling infiltration on Romulus.”
The woman’s bottom lip twitched, the first crack in her façade. His eyebrows knit together and he leaned forward. “What happened?” He whispered, in spite of himself. He hadn’t been in the loop since he had been released from prison and sent to the Imperial Navy to fight at the front. But in all honesty, Volok had to admit, to himself at least, that he hadn’t been in the know far longer. If he had been aware, Helanor never would’ve gotten the jump on him.
“The infiltration, the betrayal,” Helanor paused, her lip quivering again, “was much closer to home, than even I realized.”
“Who?” Curiosity rumbled in his stomach like hunger pangs.
“Quintus,” she said soberly, “Praetor Javel…was a shape-shifter.”
“Impossible,” Volok breathed, “How? When?”
“I don’t know,” Helanor replied, and Volok could feel the truth in her bitterness. “But I intend to find that out, in addition to figuring out how much damage the creature caused our empire. Someone has offered to help me with that quest and now those benefactors have enjoined me to make a similar offer to you.”
“Excuse me?” Volok craned his neck back, blinking in confusion and surprise. This mystery had just deepened significantly.
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” Helanor replied. “Chogan picked up the other escape pod from your vessel. The passengers have been thoroughly questioned. I know about the probe and I know you have the data about it.”
“I will not hand it over to you,” Volok declared, “I would rather die first.”
“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve atomized your pod. I don’t have a need to have my victims see my face or hear my voice before their demise,” Helanor’s smile was frosty. “I told you before, it’s never personal.” She paused, her smile fading, “Except with the Founders.”
“I see,” Volok said, actually empathizing with the woman. She and Javel had been much more than colleagues he surmised; and the Founders had taken him away from her. She wanted retribution. It was clearly in her gaze, painful, ugly, and beautiful. “I will…share this data with you.” Even though he still intended to kill the woman he could use the resources she seemed to have at her disposal until then.
“No,” she shook her head, “Not me.”
“I don’t understand.” He genuinely didn’t.
“I am not alone,” Helanor said, her smile warming, “I am one of them now, and it is to you that we extend the offer of fellowship.”
“I don’t follow,” he admitted.
“Are you familiar with the Aehallh Terrh?”
“‘The Ghosts in the Night’?” Volok said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am not amused by myths.” He had never been able to confirm the existence of the Ghosts, a group supposedly more clandestine than either the Tal Arcani or the Tal Shiar. He had always considered them the ravings of conspiracy theorists. Perhaps what was truly shocking here was his discovery that Helanor trucked with such nonsense. It was the second weakness she had revealed today.
“I can see you need proof,” she sighed.
“Wouldn’t you?” He retorted, causing her to laugh.
“Of course,” she said, “So, I shall show you proof.”
“I’m waiting,” he replied haughtily, crossing his arms across his chest. The flippant remark didn’t get a rise out of Helanor. She merely leaned back in her seat and regarded him coolly.
“We’re in route to them now,” she said. “I suggest in the meantime you get some rest and prepare yourself. Because once you meet them your universe will never be the same.”
*******************************************************************
Writer's Note: The characters Spuria Helanor and Quintus Javel first appeared in my story "The Needs of the One", which you can find on the United Trek website. The Ghosts of the Night are a creation of BrotherBenny.
Glad you're enjoying how this one is wrapping up. I want to thank you for the use of your characters. They've been great fun to play with.
********************************************************************
Somewhere in the Benzite System…
“About time,” Commander Patrin Volok smiled tightly as his escape pod shuddered. He glanced out the window, as light from the green tractor beam washed over his tiny vessel. He sat back as he was pulled into the cavernous shuttle bay of the warbird.
He closed his eyes as the beam brought him down with a harsh clang onto the deck. Seared into his mind was the cataclysmic explosion caused by the Avengeance. It had been so intense that he had been forced to cover his eyes. The feedback had shorted his monitor screen and all he had been able to see in Avengeance’s wake were ripples in the ion storm. But no sign of either ship or the probe.
He patted the chip secreted into a pocket near his heart. The mission hadn’t been a total failure. He would divine the secrets of the Iconian device and use that knowledge to exact his revenge. Volok was certain of that now.
He realized he had no choice in the matter. With the beings he had just escaped from, the Empire needed the Iconian probe at its disposal in order to survive any future encounters.
With a grunt, he stood up. Volok stretched his tired, bruised muscles. The explosion had tossed the escape pod wildly about and he had felt every jolt. He was going to have to talk to someone about improving the inertial dampening system for the pods, especially for the commanding officers.
He released the hatch lever and heard a pleasing hiss. The ramp extended from the bottom of the shuttle as the door lifted up. Volok squinted in the bright light as he stepped onto the ramp. A detachment of Romulan soldiers ringed the pod; they all had disruptor rifles trained on him.
“Put away your weapons,” he said, miffed that they didn’t immediately comply. “Don’t you see my rank insignia?” He snapped. “Do as I command!” He sought out the team’s leader, looking at the upper curve of the circle. His anger evaporated. “You,” he snarled, before his voice faltered.
The woman smiled at him, her serpentine gaze glittering. Her hair was whiter and she appeared frailer than the last time he had seen her. Helanor’s clothes were now more functional than resplendent, but her arrogance hadn’t dimmed an ounce. “You remember me? How flattering,” Spuria Helanor replied.
The former Tal Shiar Chairwoman clapped her hands, before commanding, “Escort Commander Volok to my stateroom.” Her stateroom? This was her ship? She was dressed in an unadorned gray, broad-shouldered tunic, with matching pants. There was no sash or other sign of rank. Helanor had traded in military service for Tal Shiar skullduggery decades ago, so how did she take command of this vessel? He wondered as he stepped onto the deck, at the urging of the guards, waving their weapons impatiently at him.
It had behooved him after his release from prison to keep tabs on the woman who had put him there, as part of her ruthless dismantling of his Tal Arcani. She was on his vengeance list.
But last he had heard Helanor had retired to live the remainder of her days with Quintus Javel, Praetor Neral’s predecessor. It was almost unheard of for a Praetor, and especially a Tal Shiar head to self-retire, and to be alive after said retirement. However, both had pulled it off.
Volok squelched his hatred of the woman in order to find out why. When Helanor held out her hand, he smoothly took it, his mask back on. It appeared the wheel had turned yet again for him. Not only did he possess the most powerful weapon in the quadrant, one of his greatest enemies had been delivered up to him.
“You’re smile is almost genuine,” Helanor whispered, a surprised tone in her voice. “If I didn’t know you better one would think you really were happy to see me.”
“Oh Spuria my dear, you have no idea.”
***************************************************************
Imperial Romulan Warbird Chogan
Stateroom
The sturdy, high-backed chair was not a boon for Volok’s aching muscles, but he would never show discomfort around Helanor. The woman was like a ter’ak, with a nose and appetite for the weak.
Helanor occupied the seat across from him. She gestured to the picture and two wineglasses on a tray on the right edge of her desk; they were the only items on its polished wooden surface. “Care for some Calanistan nectar,” she pointed to the tempting, golden liquid. “I know you’ve just had a long journey and must be parched.”
Volok demurred, prompting a half-smile from the woman. “How about I pour myself a drink as well?” Helanor offered.
“Only if we switch glasses,” Volok finally relented. Helanor chortled.
“Very well,” she said, before rising half out of her seat. She bent over her desk to pour them both cups of the nectar. They exchanged cups. Before he drew the glass to his lips, Volok paused. Helanor sighed before downing her drink.
Volok placed his glasses back on the tray and grabbed hers. “I think I will take that drink now,” he said, pouring it himself.
“When did you become such a paranoiac?” Helanor asked, a bit exasperated.
“Since you destroyed the Tal Arcani and threw me in jail,” he said, pausing to take a sip. He savored the sweet taste a moment before continuing, “You do remember that, don’t you?”
“It’s obvious you haven’t forgotten it,” Helanor replied, without a glimmer of regret or self-consciousness. “That was always one of your problems Patrin, an inability to let go of the past. Everything is so personal with you.”
“And our rivalry, the Tal Arcani pitted against the Tal Shiar, wasn’t personal to you?” Volok scoffed.
“I grew beyond that,” Helanor shook her head, “a long while ago. Then again, you are a bit younger than me, and have quite some maturing left to go I see.”
“What do you want?” Volok cut to the point, hoping to knock the woman off balance with his bluntness.
“Spoken like a true Klingon,” the woman needled, reminding Volok that the phrase was typically the stand-in for a greeting among those uncivilized brutes. It rankled him that she would ever compare a gentleman of his stature to those beasts. A tense vein throbbed along his jaw line.
“Before I tell you that, I want you to know that it wasn’t personal between you and I,” Helanor replied. “I was working in the best interest of the Empire.”
Volok snorted, “Which conveniently coincided with your organization gaining greater prestige at the expense of mine.”
“That was not the end goal of my actions against you,” the woman stated. “Though admittedly, I did derive some personal benefit. My chief concern was the Changelings.”
“The Founders from the Dominion?” He asked, incredulously.
“Correct, I feared that the Changelings had infiltrated our government at some of the highest levels and I thought it best to consolidate many of its intelligence various arms under one umbrella to keep a better eye on them. In essence, I wanted all the nei’rrh in the same pit.”
Volok grunted at the turn of phrase. “So my agency and my life became collateral in this crackpot theory of yours. There was no major Changeling infiltration on Romulus.”
The woman’s bottom lip twitched, the first crack in her façade. His eyebrows knit together and he leaned forward. “What happened?” He whispered, in spite of himself. He hadn’t been in the loop since he had been released from prison and sent to the Imperial Navy to fight at the front. But in all honesty, Volok had to admit, to himself at least, that he hadn’t been in the know far longer. If he had been aware, Helanor never would’ve gotten the jump on him.
“The infiltration, the betrayal,” Helanor paused, her lip quivering again, “was much closer to home, than even I realized.”
“Who?” Curiosity rumbled in his stomach like hunger pangs.
“Quintus,” she said soberly, “Praetor Javel…was a shape-shifter.”
“Impossible,” Volok breathed, “How? When?”
“I don’t know,” Helanor replied, and Volok could feel the truth in her bitterness. “But I intend to find that out, in addition to figuring out how much damage the creature caused our empire. Someone has offered to help me with that quest and now those benefactors have enjoined me to make a similar offer to you.”
“Excuse me?” Volok craned his neck back, blinking in confusion and surprise. This mystery had just deepened significantly.
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” Helanor replied. “Chogan picked up the other escape pod from your vessel. The passengers have been thoroughly questioned. I know about the probe and I know you have the data about it.”
“I will not hand it over to you,” Volok declared, “I would rather die first.”
“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve atomized your pod. I don’t have a need to have my victims see my face or hear my voice before their demise,” Helanor’s smile was frosty. “I told you before, it’s never personal.” She paused, her smile fading, “Except with the Founders.”
“I see,” Volok said, actually empathizing with the woman. She and Javel had been much more than colleagues he surmised; and the Founders had taken him away from her. She wanted retribution. It was clearly in her gaze, painful, ugly, and beautiful. “I will…share this data with you.” Even though he still intended to kill the woman he could use the resources she seemed to have at her disposal until then.
“No,” she shook her head, “Not me.”
“I don’t understand.” He genuinely didn’t.
“I am not alone,” Helanor said, her smile warming, “I am one of them now, and it is to you that we extend the offer of fellowship.”
“I don’t follow,” he admitted.
“Are you familiar with the Aehallh Terrh?”
“‘The Ghosts in the Night’?” Volok said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am not amused by myths.” He had never been able to confirm the existence of the Ghosts, a group supposedly more clandestine than either the Tal Arcani or the Tal Shiar. He had always considered them the ravings of conspiracy theorists. Perhaps what was truly shocking here was his discovery that Helanor trucked with such nonsense. It was the second weakness she had revealed today.
“I can see you need proof,” she sighed.
“Wouldn’t you?” He retorted, causing her to laugh.
“Of course,” she said, “So, I shall show you proof.”
“I’m waiting,” he replied haughtily, crossing his arms across his chest. The flippant remark didn’t get a rise out of Helanor. She merely leaned back in her seat and regarded him coolly.
“We’re in route to them now,” she said. “I suggest in the meantime you get some rest and prepare yourself. Because once you meet them your universe will never be the same.”
*******************************************************************
Writer's Note: The characters Spuria Helanor and Quintus Javel first appeared in my story "The Needs of the One", which you can find on the United Trek website. The Ghosts of the Night are a creation of BrotherBenny.
Last edited:
Nice work, DarKush. I wondered how you were going to tie my little group in with this. I await the outcome with interest.
I wasn't quite on the right track with my idea for the secret operative. I think I have a better idea now and I'm curious to find out if I'm right.
I ain't got much love for Section 31 but this time it looks like they were the heroes. Timely rescues all around. But to be honest I was hoping for a bit of a more ... I dunno ... cruel fate for Petrov. Well the story isn't over yet, is it?
I ain't got much love for Section 31 but this time it looks like they were the heroes. Timely rescues all around. But to be honest I was hoping for a bit of a more ... I dunno ... cruel fate for Petrov. Well the story isn't over yet, is it?
CeJay,
The story ain't over yet
.
*******************************************************************
USS Monarch
Starbase 336
Two Weeks Later
Commander Leza Astar’s fingers were bent over her keyboard but she couldn’t command them to type. Instead all she could do was stare at the name in the communiqué’s send line: Denise Nash-Bridges. The only relative he had left, and now the only member of his family. Demetrius’s older sister was a science officer aboard the Shenlong.
Though this mission had been classified, Astar knew how information could leak. What could she say to her? How could she confirm any of the rumors Denise was bound to hear that her brother was a traitor? That he worked with the Romulans? Denise would find out and she would come to Leza for the truth. Astar thought it best to get ahead of the woman.
The Trill had told herself that it would be better coming from her, that she might be able to cushion the blow. But now that she had been able to come up from air after days of interrogations masked as debriefings, she didn’t know what to say. No, she knew what to say, she just didn’t want to say it.
So she sat there, stretching her rebellious fingers, and let the time pass by. Leza didn’t know how long she had been parked at her desk when she heard her door chime. “Enter,” she said absently, realizing how scratchy her voice sounded, and how dry her throat had become. She turned around to see Dr. Zammit glide into the room.
The Bzzit Khaht looked around furtively, his yellow eyes narrow. “Who are you communicating with?” He asked, nodding at her desk.
“What business is it of yours?” She said, his suspicious behavior putting her on alert. The petite alien backpedaled, holding up his hands in supplication.
“I’m sorry Commander,” he said. “It’s just, sometimes you don’t know who you can trust.” The statement reminded her of Demetrius. Leza felt a sharp pain in her chest.
“What do you want?” She asked, not wanting to be rude, but really not in the mood to entertain guests, especially paranoid ones.
“Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks as the humans say,” Zammit replied, becoming deathly serious. “I’m here to talk to you about what really happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The truth?”
“What truth are you referring to?” The bronze-hued alien was really fraying her nerves. “If you’ve got something to say, get on with it!”
Zammit muttered under his breath before saying, “I know that Demetrius was not working with the Romulans. He was framed.”
Leza gasped, wanting to believe it, but not wanting to get her hopes up. “How?” was all she could ask.
Zammit grabbed a chair from her dining area and dragged it over to her desk. He placed a small cone-shaped device, a kind she had never seen before on her desk. He twisted the bottom and it clicked. “That should scramble any listening devices for approximately one minute.”
Leza was truly dumbfounded, “Listening devices?”
“We don’t have much time,” Zammit whispered as he sat beside her. “Have you ever heard of Section 31?”
“No,” she shook her head. “What the hell is all this about Zam?”
“I don’t have time to get into specifics, but they had at least one operative on this ship, and that operative framed Demetrius.”
“Who?” Leza demanded. “Why?”
“Commander Astar, by just telling you as much as I have, I have not only endangered my life, but yours as well,” Zammit replied.
“When, since the cat’s out the bag,” she replied. “You might as well tell me everything.”
“Section 31 is a rogue intelligence agency, bent on protecting the Federation at all cost. They have many agents, spread throughout the Federation like weeds.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because there are groups opposed to what Section 31 is trying to turn the Federation into,” the doctor replied. “I am a member of one of those groups.”
“What does any of this have to do with Demetrius? Was he a part of your group? Or this Section 31?”
“No,” the Bzzit Khaht strongly shook his head. “Demetrius was an unfortunate victim, who more than likely died after discovering who the actual operative was.”
“And that would be?”
“It’s not obvious?” The medic asked, with disbelief. Leza frowned, and the man sighed, “It was Commander Petrov.”
**********************************************************
Starbase 336
Ward Room
“I still don’t understand how you were able to obtain a weapon of this magnitude Admiral,” Captain Jarod Singleton said, pacing the floor, his arms locked behind his back. The room was empty except for the two of them. Singleton had just raked Captain Walker over the coals again, perhaps as a warm up for him. Singleton enjoyed repeating the various accounts of what occurred in the Benzite system ad nauseam in an attempt to catch those recounting in falsehoods.
Daneeka had to be restrained more than once during her questionings. He wished he had been there to see the Bolian almost take the arrogant man’s head off. He smiled at the thought. The balding man pitted Samson with a doleful stare, but Glover was not intimidated.
He would never reveal Logan’s involvement, or Shanthi’s. Plus, he was certain that Logan had covered his tracks thoroughly. “No one authorized it, and at present no one at Starfleet Intelligence knew the device was gone, until it was unleashed at Merias III.”
“I think the most important thing we have to concern ourselves with Captain,” he emphasized the man’s lower rank, “is the very good probability that the probe is still out there. We have recover it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Singleton sniffed. “We have agents on that.”
“Then why have you brought me back here, instead of allowing me to help with the search.”
Singleton smiled coldly, “My orders are to detain you until further notice.”
“I guess the repeated inquisition is just your innovation?” Samson huffed. Singleton laughed.
“Quite the defiant attitude,” Singleton shook his head with displeasure, “for a man of your station.”
“A station that outranks yours,” Samson snapped. He stood up, prompting a surprise reaction from the intelligence agent.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Glover rejoined. “I’m leaving. This talk is over.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Singleton declared.
“Stop me,” Samson replied. He turned toward the door. He moved without thinking when the man clamped down on his shoulder. His elbow plowed into the man’s midsection. Without turning, the admiral felt a satisfying groan and felt a gush of air. He glanced back to see Singleton on his knees, clutching his stomach. “Now file that in your next report.”
****************************************************************
The story ain't over yet
. *******************************************************************
USS Monarch
Starbase 336
Two Weeks Later
Commander Leza Astar’s fingers were bent over her keyboard but she couldn’t command them to type. Instead all she could do was stare at the name in the communiqué’s send line: Denise Nash-Bridges. The only relative he had left, and now the only member of his family. Demetrius’s older sister was a science officer aboard the Shenlong.
Though this mission had been classified, Astar knew how information could leak. What could she say to her? How could she confirm any of the rumors Denise was bound to hear that her brother was a traitor? That he worked with the Romulans? Denise would find out and she would come to Leza for the truth. Astar thought it best to get ahead of the woman.
The Trill had told herself that it would be better coming from her, that she might be able to cushion the blow. But now that she had been able to come up from air after days of interrogations masked as debriefings, she didn’t know what to say. No, she knew what to say, she just didn’t want to say it.
So she sat there, stretching her rebellious fingers, and let the time pass by. Leza didn’t know how long she had been parked at her desk when she heard her door chime. “Enter,” she said absently, realizing how scratchy her voice sounded, and how dry her throat had become. She turned around to see Dr. Zammit glide into the room.
The Bzzit Khaht looked around furtively, his yellow eyes narrow. “Who are you communicating with?” He asked, nodding at her desk.
“What business is it of yours?” She said, his suspicious behavior putting her on alert. The petite alien backpedaled, holding up his hands in supplication.
“I’m sorry Commander,” he said. “It’s just, sometimes you don’t know who you can trust.” The statement reminded her of Demetrius. Leza felt a sharp pain in her chest.
“What do you want?” She asked, not wanting to be rude, but really not in the mood to entertain guests, especially paranoid ones.
“Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks as the humans say,” Zammit replied, becoming deathly serious. “I’m here to talk to you about what really happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The truth?”
“What truth are you referring to?” The bronze-hued alien was really fraying her nerves. “If you’ve got something to say, get on with it!”
Zammit muttered under his breath before saying, “I know that Demetrius was not working with the Romulans. He was framed.”
Leza gasped, wanting to believe it, but not wanting to get her hopes up. “How?” was all she could ask.
Zammit grabbed a chair from her dining area and dragged it over to her desk. He placed a small cone-shaped device, a kind she had never seen before on her desk. He twisted the bottom and it clicked. “That should scramble any listening devices for approximately one minute.”
Leza was truly dumbfounded, “Listening devices?”
“We don’t have much time,” Zammit whispered as he sat beside her. “Have you ever heard of Section 31?”
“No,” she shook her head. “What the hell is all this about Zam?”
“I don’t have time to get into specifics, but they had at least one operative on this ship, and that operative framed Demetrius.”
“Who?” Leza demanded. “Why?”
“Commander Astar, by just telling you as much as I have, I have not only endangered my life, but yours as well,” Zammit replied.
“When, since the cat’s out the bag,” she replied. “You might as well tell me everything.”
“Section 31 is a rogue intelligence agency, bent on protecting the Federation at all cost. They have many agents, spread throughout the Federation like weeds.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because there are groups opposed to what Section 31 is trying to turn the Federation into,” the doctor replied. “I am a member of one of those groups.”
“What does any of this have to do with Demetrius? Was he a part of your group? Or this Section 31?”
“No,” the Bzzit Khaht strongly shook his head. “Demetrius was an unfortunate victim, who more than likely died after discovering who the actual operative was.”
“And that would be?”
“It’s not obvious?” The medic asked, with disbelief. Leza frowned, and the man sighed, “It was Commander Petrov.”
**********************************************************
Starbase 336
Ward Room
“I still don’t understand how you were able to obtain a weapon of this magnitude Admiral,” Captain Jarod Singleton said, pacing the floor, his arms locked behind his back. The room was empty except for the two of them. Singleton had just raked Captain Walker over the coals again, perhaps as a warm up for him. Singleton enjoyed repeating the various accounts of what occurred in the Benzite system ad nauseam in an attempt to catch those recounting in falsehoods.
Daneeka had to be restrained more than once during her questionings. He wished he had been there to see the Bolian almost take the arrogant man’s head off. He smiled at the thought. The balding man pitted Samson with a doleful stare, but Glover was not intimidated.
He would never reveal Logan’s involvement, or Shanthi’s. Plus, he was certain that Logan had covered his tracks thoroughly. “No one authorized it, and at present no one at Starfleet Intelligence knew the device was gone, until it was unleashed at Merias III.”
“I think the most important thing we have to concern ourselves with Captain,” he emphasized the man’s lower rank, “is the very good probability that the probe is still out there. We have recover it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Singleton sniffed. “We have agents on that.”
“Then why have you brought me back here, instead of allowing me to help with the search.”
Singleton smiled coldly, “My orders are to detain you until further notice.”
“I guess the repeated inquisition is just your innovation?” Samson huffed. Singleton laughed.
“Quite the defiant attitude,” Singleton shook his head with displeasure, “for a man of your station.”
“A station that outranks yours,” Samson snapped. He stood up, prompting a surprise reaction from the intelligence agent.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Glover rejoined. “I’m leaving. This talk is over.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Singleton declared.
“Stop me,” Samson replied. He turned toward the door. He moved without thinking when the man clamped down on his shoulder. His elbow plowed into the man’s midsection. Without turning, the admiral felt a satisfying groan and felt a gush of air. He glanced back to see Singleton on his knees, clutching his stomach. “Now file that in your next report.”
****************************************************************
Is his name Singleton or Simpleton?
Laying a hand on a Glover is like asking a Klingon to eat your heart, while you're still alive.
Laying a hand on a Glover is like asking a Klingon to eat your heart, while you're still alive.
**************************************************************
USS Monarch
Private Quarters
“How’s the shoulder sir?” Commander Astar asked, the pinched expression on the captain’s face drawing her concern. He rolled the shoulder that had been injured on Pirot Nor around, absently.
“Oh, it’s fine,” he said. “Why you ask?”
“You’re grimacing sir,” Leza didn’t know how else to say it. Walker mirthlessly laughed.
“That has nothing to do with the phaser wound. Doctor Zammit was expert as always in patching me up. If I’m looking cross, it’s courtesy of the good Captain Singleton.” The Trill shared the captain’s eye rolling.
“He has been quite aggressive in his questioning,” she observed.
“More annoying than anything else,” Walker said, sighing loudly. “But I didn’t come here to commiserate about that. May I come in?”
“Of course sir,” Leza said, abashed that she hadn’t automatically let the man in. If anything she had been standing in the doorframe, as if blocking his entrance. She hoped the reaction didn’t set off any alarms from Walker.
Dr. Zammit had told her some fantastical stories, backed up by data he had hacked Petrov’s system for. Astar was still reeling from his revelations about Sofia, a woman she thought she knew, a person she had once considered a friend, but the captain’s involvement in Sofia’s schemes had floored her.
Her mind was still grappling with Walker’s betrayal. She had sought solace from the Astar symbiont but it had been unable to provide sufficient examples from its previous hosts on how to deal with such a violation. So she had been facing the awful truth, the horrendous lie she had been living, on her own. What made it even worse was that she knew she had stay above Walker’s suspicion.
She didn’t know how deeply involved he was with this Section 31. It hurt her deeply that the one man she would normally turn to deal with something of this magnitude was the one person that partly responsible for it.
“Care for something to drink?” She asked, pushing down the lump in her throat. Oblivious to her awkwardness, Walker replied as he ambled over to her couch and sat down. Astar went to the alcove housing her replicator and programmed in the code for a Scotch, neat. She programmed an Altair water for herself. The Trill didn’t want to be in the same room with the man, much less drink with him, but she needed to play her role. And the squeak caused by her dry, scratchy throat would soon draw his attention.
She placed the drink gently down by him and took the chair adjoining the couch. Walker grabbed the glass and took a sip. He exhaled before leaning back into the couch. “I’m really sorry Leza,” he said, looking deeply at her. The bleary, mournful gaze looked genuine.
“About what sir?” She asked, after taking a cool drink.
“Everything,” he said, shaking his head before taking a longer drink. He winced before continuing, “About Demetrius, about Sofia, about all the others lost, and for what…” He polished off the alcohol and set the glass gently on the table.
“Care for another?”
“No,” he smiled regretfully, “Don’t want to start another bad habit.”
“Sir,” she worked up the courage to ask, “About Demetrius?”
“He died in the line of duty,” Walker replied. “End of discussion.”
“Sir,” Astar found herself falling right back into her role as his stickler XO, to her chagrin, “But the allegations, the evidence made against him…”
“What evidence?” Walker shrugged, “What witness? As we both know, Commander Petrov isn’t here to back up her claims. What good would it do to drag Nash’s name through the mud, to upset his sister so? What’s done is done…I think it would be best if we all just moved on. Don’t you think?”
“Well sir,” Astar struggled to hold in her emotions. She saw that Walker was struggling mightily to do the same. She might have been wrong about Petrov, she might have been fooled by her, but Leza didn’t believe she was that bad a judge of character to not see the guilt and torment etched on the captain’s face. He was a man down in a pit, with a very steep climb ahead of him. But the Trill felt she Benjamin wanted to make that climb.
“Sir,” she said gently, “about the reports Sofia submitted, I submitted…”
“I’ve already deleted them,” Walker shook his head, his eyes clearing, “I won’t let Singleton piss on their graves.” Or implicate you, the thought was unbidden, but its venom stung her, bringing her back to reality.
The captain was dangerous and needed to be humored, but kept at arms’ length. At least until she could sort this all out. “Thank you sir,” Astar managed to say, “Thank you for doing this for Demetrius.”
“He didn’t deserve…” Walker paused, his lips working, but no more sound coming out. His eyes shifted downward. He clapped the sides of his thighs. “I should be going.” He stood up. “You’ve been doing a heck of a job overseeing our repairs and I think it’s about time I shared some of that burden.”
Leza debated whether she should press him about his what he felt Demetrius didn’t deserve, but then stopped herself. Her investigation would take time, patience. She couldn’t operate purely on emotion.
Unlike humans or most other humanoids, joined Trills had an elongated view of time. She could wait months, decades, years even if it meant truly clearing Demetrius’s name and bringing Section 31 to light.
“Captain,” she called lightly after him, but the man jerked as if her voice had been a thunderclap. He turned around slowly, the guilt still contorting his face. “If you need…to talk,” she ventured.
He merely nodded, and Astar could see a lump forming in his throat. He loudly cleared his throat before heading out the door. The Trill wanted the closed seam for a long time.
*************************************************************
USS Monarch
Private Quarters
“How’s the shoulder sir?” Commander Astar asked, the pinched expression on the captain’s face drawing her concern. He rolled the shoulder that had been injured on Pirot Nor around, absently.
“Oh, it’s fine,” he said. “Why you ask?”
“You’re grimacing sir,” Leza didn’t know how else to say it. Walker mirthlessly laughed.
“That has nothing to do with the phaser wound. Doctor Zammit was expert as always in patching me up. If I’m looking cross, it’s courtesy of the good Captain Singleton.” The Trill shared the captain’s eye rolling.
“He has been quite aggressive in his questioning,” she observed.
“More annoying than anything else,” Walker said, sighing loudly. “But I didn’t come here to commiserate about that. May I come in?”
“Of course sir,” Leza said, abashed that she hadn’t automatically let the man in. If anything she had been standing in the doorframe, as if blocking his entrance. She hoped the reaction didn’t set off any alarms from Walker.
Dr. Zammit had told her some fantastical stories, backed up by data he had hacked Petrov’s system for. Astar was still reeling from his revelations about Sofia, a woman she thought she knew, a person she had once considered a friend, but the captain’s involvement in Sofia’s schemes had floored her.
Her mind was still grappling with Walker’s betrayal. She had sought solace from the Astar symbiont but it had been unable to provide sufficient examples from its previous hosts on how to deal with such a violation. So she had been facing the awful truth, the horrendous lie she had been living, on her own. What made it even worse was that she knew she had stay above Walker’s suspicion.
She didn’t know how deeply involved he was with this Section 31. It hurt her deeply that the one man she would normally turn to deal with something of this magnitude was the one person that partly responsible for it.
“Care for something to drink?” She asked, pushing down the lump in her throat. Oblivious to her awkwardness, Walker replied as he ambled over to her couch and sat down. Astar went to the alcove housing her replicator and programmed in the code for a Scotch, neat. She programmed an Altair water for herself. The Trill didn’t want to be in the same room with the man, much less drink with him, but she needed to play her role. And the squeak caused by her dry, scratchy throat would soon draw his attention.
She placed the drink gently down by him and took the chair adjoining the couch. Walker grabbed the glass and took a sip. He exhaled before leaning back into the couch. “I’m really sorry Leza,” he said, looking deeply at her. The bleary, mournful gaze looked genuine.
“About what sir?” She asked, after taking a cool drink.
“Everything,” he said, shaking his head before taking a longer drink. He winced before continuing, “About Demetrius, about Sofia, about all the others lost, and for what…” He polished off the alcohol and set the glass gently on the table.
“Care for another?”
“No,” he smiled regretfully, “Don’t want to start another bad habit.”
“Sir,” she worked up the courage to ask, “About Demetrius?”
“He died in the line of duty,” Walker replied. “End of discussion.”
“Sir,” Astar found herself falling right back into her role as his stickler XO, to her chagrin, “But the allegations, the evidence made against him…”
“What evidence?” Walker shrugged, “What witness? As we both know, Commander Petrov isn’t here to back up her claims. What good would it do to drag Nash’s name through the mud, to upset his sister so? What’s done is done…I think it would be best if we all just moved on. Don’t you think?”
“Well sir,” Astar struggled to hold in her emotions. She saw that Walker was struggling mightily to do the same. She might have been wrong about Petrov, she might have been fooled by her, but Leza didn’t believe she was that bad a judge of character to not see the guilt and torment etched on the captain’s face. He was a man down in a pit, with a very steep climb ahead of him. But the Trill felt she Benjamin wanted to make that climb.
“Sir,” she said gently, “about the reports Sofia submitted, I submitted…”
“I’ve already deleted them,” Walker shook his head, his eyes clearing, “I won’t let Singleton piss on their graves.” Or implicate you, the thought was unbidden, but its venom stung her, bringing her back to reality.
The captain was dangerous and needed to be humored, but kept at arms’ length. At least until she could sort this all out. “Thank you sir,” Astar managed to say, “Thank you for doing this for Demetrius.”
“He didn’t deserve…” Walker paused, his lips working, but no more sound coming out. His eyes shifted downward. He clapped the sides of his thighs. “I should be going.” He stood up. “You’ve been doing a heck of a job overseeing our repairs and I think it’s about time I shared some of that burden.”
Leza debated whether she should press him about his what he felt Demetrius didn’t deserve, but then stopped herself. Her investigation would take time, patience. She couldn’t operate purely on emotion.
Unlike humans or most other humanoids, joined Trills had an elongated view of time. She could wait months, decades, years even if it meant truly clearing Demetrius’s name and bringing Section 31 to light.
“Captain,” she called lightly after him, but the man jerked as if her voice had been a thunderclap. He turned around slowly, the guilt still contorting his face. “If you need…to talk,” she ventured.
He merely nodded, and Astar could see a lump forming in his throat. He loudly cleared his throat before heading out the door. The Trill wanted the closed seam for a long time.
*************************************************************
