NOTE: This story takes place roughly one month after the events of Treacherous Waters.
March 12, 2377
Atmosphere Siphon Station Eight
In low orbit of Planet Acheron
Barisa System
Delins Grafton inched along the narrow strut, careful to keep his magnetic boots in contact with the beam at all times as he moved towards the malfunctioning maintenance drone. Clad in a radiation-hardened EVA suit, Grafton's margin for safety could be measured in minutes, so powerful was the storm of radiation emitted here in the upper reaches of Acheron's atmosphere.
The siphon station itself was nothing more than a glorified pumping facility hanging in the upper reaches of Acheron's gaseous skies. A system of powerful anti-gravity generators held the station in place as an interlocking web of force fields and gravitic siphons drew heavier, denser gasses up from farther down in Acheron's layered atmosphere. These gasses were stored in giant reservoir tanks that were eventually off loaded to the bulky trains of tug-propelled holding cylinders that transported the raw gasses to the refinery complexes farther out in orbit of the monstrous world.
The drone in question had been the last functioning remote assigned to Siphon Station Eight. The cheap credit-pinching, bean-counting bastards at corporate had slowly choked off funds and resources for routine maintenance and upkeep as the company poured every available resource into the new particle fountain. The fountain was the great shining hope of the corporation's CEO, a dream that promised to rake in massive profits while leaving Grafton and his fellow bottom-tier employees out of a job.
In the here and now, though, it simply meant that instead of sending out another drone to collect the first one, Grafton had been forced to undertake the dangerous task himself.
He was well over halfway to the torso-sized machine when he felt the first jolt. For the briefest of moments, Grafton thought he'd slipped somehow and his hands grasped for purchase on the surrounding lattice-work of girders. Barely three seconds later and completely without warning, the entire siphon station plummeted into the clouds. Grafton screamed inside his helmet, immune to the panicked voices from the team in the siphon's control center that echoed in his headphones.
Grafton was plunged into darkness as the siphon station continued its fall into the pitch black clouds. He was held in place only by his magnetic boots and the paralysis of his own overwhelming fear. Light-headed, Grafton stopped screaming just long enough to catch his breath, and suddenly noticed that the falling sensation had ceased. Only then did he recognize the confused mix of garbled comms chatter in his ears as various people vied for control of a few operational channels to voice their shock and consternation.
Grafton immediately pivoted around, grasped his tether line, and began to pull himself back towards the airlock as quickly as his magnetic boots would allow. He was so focused on this task that he almost missed the chiming alarm that was accompanied by a flashing radiation icon superimposed onto his faceplate. Grafton glanced down at the heads-up display in his helmet and his stomach lurched as he saw that he had already exceeded the suit's radiation tolerances.
'The fall,' he realized with sudden dread. 'More radiation at this altitude... oh God... I'm going to die out here!' The faces of his young wife and newborn son flashed in his mind's eye as he continued towards the elusive airlock door which appeared so tantalizingly close. His vision began to swim and he felt his chest tightening. Grafton's skin began to tingle and his legs felt exceedingly heavy, almost as if his boots were malfunctioning. 'So close,' he cried internally, 'Not now... I'm so close!'
It was with dying eyes that Delins Grafton saw the small red cloud pass through the side of the siphon station, near the fading promise of the airlock hatch. He mused idly that it was such a strange thing, very pretty, even if weirdly out of place.
It was the last thought he would ever have.
*****
March 12, 2377
USS Gibraltar
Docked at Starbase Deep Space Nine
“… I really am very sorry, Captain, but this was an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up.” Manuele Atoa certainly appeared appropriately regretful, and to be honest, Donald Sandhurst really couldn’t bring himself to fault the earnest young man. It had seemed a rare stroke of luck when Atoa tendered his application in the first place. Starfleet was rife with newly minted starships just out of drydock, and the fact that someone as capable as Lt. Commander Atoa would be interested in serving aboard a century old escort was nearly too good to be true. Now, it appeared that had been exactly the case. Still, holding the young man’s feet to the flames because something better had come along would serve no one.
'Besides,' Sandhurst chided himself silently, 'how could anyone want to be Gibraltar's new XO right after you just killed the last one?'
Sandhurst put on his most sympathetic expression and replied, “I understand completely, Commander. Very few people are accepted to the Advanced Tactical program, and from a career standpoint, it’s a big step in the right direction.”
Gratitude and relief seemed to wash over the New Kauaian’s broad face as Sandhurst let him off the hook more effortlessly than Atoa had dared hope. “Thank you, sir. You’re making this easier than I deserve, under the circumstances.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Mr. Atoa. With this course on your résumé you’ll be an even better candidate for first officer than you are now. You’re going to make some other captain an outstanding XO when you graduate.”
“Thank you again, Captain.” Manuele struggled to find something else to say to salve his conscience, but was stymied. “Atoa, out.”
Sandhurst reached forward to toggle off his desktop data terminal, then sank back into his chair as a resigned sigh escaped him. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments, lost in thought. Finally he tapped his compin, “Lieutenant Juneau, Chief Dunleavy, please join me in my ready room.”
He was already well into reviewing his third application when Juneau chimed the door and Sandhurst granted his acting executive officer access. “Something wrong, Captain?” she inquired as she crossed the threshold.
Without looking up, Sandhurst answered, “Atoa just backed out at the last minute after being offered the last available spot on the roster for this year’s Advanced Tactical School.”
Juneau appeared torn, and offered, “Well, good for him, but damn… that puts us back to square one. You think we’ll be able to find another candidate before we make it back from Barisa?”
“I’d sure hope so. It’s a long trip out there.” Sandhurst looked up suddenly and inquired, “Where’s Saihra?”
Juneau's demeanor immediately downshifted and grew noticeably somber. “Cargo bay three. She’s standing the beta watch honor guard over Captain Ramirez.”
“…Oh.” Sandhurst was mortified that he’d allowed that fact to slip his mind. He rubbed his jaw line idly with one hand as he stared out the viewport behind his desk. After a moment, he mused quietly, "This position may end up being harder to fill than I anticipated."
Juneau looked uncomfortable as she struggled to assess her captain's state of mind. "Sir, I realize I'm speaking out of turn, but I think you really should still be talking to someone about--"
“No,” he interceded and cut her off gently but insistently. “I’m fine.” He gestured to the seat facing his desk and turned the data terminal so that both of them could read it. “Let’s get started.”
*****
The torpedo casing lay in state atop a pedestal in the center of the otherwise empty cargo bay. Draped with a Federation flag, the coffin served as the focal point to what had become a makeshift memorial to the Gibraltar’s former first officer, Liana Ramirez. Pictures of her from throughout her Starfleet career were mounted on the bulkheads, competing with holo’s and detailed presentations on some of the highlights of her time in the service.
Members of the crew had manned an honor guard that stood constant watch over her casket and would continue to do so until she had been delivered home to her family in the distant Barisa system. This night, Specialist Sharpe and newly promoted Chief Petty Officer Saihra Dunleavy carried the detail, standing at opposite ends of the casing. Clad in their dress uniforms they held their phaser rifles at port arms, remaining perfectly still and silent for hours on end.
It had been a dangerous search and rescue mission, and it had gone horribly wrong. On a remote planet in the Gamma Quadrant, Ramirez had sacrificed herself to save the rest of the team and complete the mission. It had been a hero’s death, a noble end for as fierce a soul as Liana, yet it had come well before her time.
She had been on the cusp of promotion to captain and only weeks away from assuming command of her own ship. That fact only added to the sense of loss and regret that seemed to permeate the entire ship. Gibraltar had thus been transformed into a funerary barge. Captain Sandhurst had received special dispensation to convey Ramirez’s remains home to the remote Barisa system, which straddled the border between Federation space and the Tzenkethi Hegemony. There, the crew hoped, Liana Ramirez might at last find some semblance of peace.
*****
Sandhurst stared at the desktop viewer, his expression torn between disbelief and outright disgust. “You can’t be serious, Admiral?”
“I know this comes as an unwelcome surprise, Sandhurst, but you really can’t have believed that as thinly spread as Starfleet is at the moment that we could detach Gibraltar for a full seven weeks in order to convey Captain Ramirez home?” Vice Admiral Coburn looked maudlin, but determined. “We’re still cleaning up from this mess with the Talarians, plus the loss of the diplomatic mission to the Gamma Quadrant, not to mention the ongoing Cardassian insurgency and the new Maquis uprising. I haven’t ships to spare for honor guard missions, no matter how beloved or deserving the fallen officer in question.” Coburn’s expression softened, “However, the Acheron Heavy Element Extraction Project is an important resource for the Federation, and as the company has been in the Ramirez family for two generations, this assignment allows us to both accomplish our goals simultaneously.”
“We’re bringing the man’s daughter home in a casket, and you want us sniffing around his operation for… what? Intelligence? Industrial espionage?” Sandhurst fidgeted and wrung his hands unconsciously in discomfort at the idea of tarnishing Ramirez’s memory with such a callous façade.
Coburn leaned in towards the screen, the crags and crow’s feet that lined his face gave stark testament to the rigors of flag command during and after the war. “The zero point initiators in the warheads of our quantum torpedoes utilize an especially rare, non-replicatable gaseous component. Acheron is one of only four gas mining consortiums capable of extracting and refining the element. The other three together produce barely one third of Acheron’s output. Add to that fact that Ramirez’s company is an extra-Federation corporate entity that’s heavily in debt to its creditors. If the Bank of Bolias or the Lissepian Central Bank were to assume ownership because of loan defaults, they’d likely break up the company’s assets and sell them off to the highest bidders. That could leave a significant contributor to Federation defense in the hands of the Ferengi, the Chrysalians, or gods forbid, the Orion Trade Guild front for the Syndicate.”
Sandhurst appeared perplexed and asked, “I thought the Federation had at least two colonies in the Barisa system?”
“We do, but the Ramirez family established ownership rights over the gas giant Acheron and its moons twenty years before the Federation settled Barisa Prime.”
“Fine, good.” Sandhurst sat back slightly, arms folded across his chest. “And where do we fit into all this, sir?”
Coburn smiled wolfishly, “I’m glad you asked, Captain.” He touched a control on his interface, and the screen split into a dual display, Coburn’s visage flanked by a technical schematic that Sandhurst immediately recognized, to his regret. “Aldo Ramirez, Liana’s father, is attempting to construct a particle fountain rig that, if successful, promises to increase the mine’s output by nearly sixty percent while cutting their overhead by almost seventy-five percent. It could very well breathe new life into his operation.”
Sandhurst frowned, “Sir, that’s a dry well, and Starfleet knows it. We proved that in the Tyra system over a decade ago, and then again at Carema and Brundies-Nal. There’s just no way to produce sufficient—“
Coburn held up a hand and butted in, “I’m sure you realize the war prompted many advancements in deflector and shield technology, Captain. As an engineer, I know you can appreciate this fact more than most. The same advances that allowed us to overcome the Jem’Hadar poleron beams and Breen energy dampers have been adapted to increase the power and control of the impeller matrix aboard the particle fountain.” The cutaway graphic alongside the admiral changed to display the improvements to the original design. “Besides, they’re not extracting ore from a solid body, they’re siphoning heavy elements from a gas giant. That changes the equation significantly.”
Sandhurst cursed silently to himself, unable to refute the truth of the admiral’s words. As the engineer in him did the math, the starship captain within him chaffed at the duplicity of Coburn’s plan. “La Forge is the real expert in this technology. It was his findings after Tyra and Brundies-Nal that convinced the SCE to bury this line of research.”
“You conferred with him on those findings, if memory serves,” Coburn replied evenly, his eyes twinkling as he cut the legs out from under Sandhurst’s argument. “Sending the Enterprise out there would be like shooting up a flare, announcing the Federation’s interest in the whole operation and making our enemies wonder what’s out there that’s so valuable to us. You're going to assist Ramirez's build-team in making sure the particle fountain is ready to go, Captain, though as far as anyone is going to know, you’re just bringing his daughter home.”
That was too much for Sandhurst to stomach. He leaned forward, practically snarling, “I take great exception to anyone who would sully Liana Ramirez’s memory. Defense strategy and quantum torpedoes be damned!”
Coburn was unmoved. “I understand that you don’t like your orders. That's tough. Liana’s dead, Sandhurst, and she’s not coming back. Nothing anyone can do will alter that fact. We both know that no trace of Ramirez survived. That casket contains nothing more than a few personal mementos and her last transporter trace on an isolinear chip, so I'm really going out on a limb here to allow you to conduct her 'remains' to Barisa in the first place." Coburn donned his most reasonable mien, "If you can take her home and lend a hand to a project that is helping safeguard the Federation’s security at the same time, than that’s what you’re going to do.”
The admiral’s voice was tinged with iron resolve, and Sandhurst knew immediately the battle’s outcome had already been decided. “A great officer has been lost. I truly regret that, Donald. Nonetheless, she’s going to perform one more duty for the uniform before she’s laid to rest, and you’re going to help her. Are we clear on this, Captain?”
Sandhurst sat upright in his chair. His eyes blazed as he forced out his reply, “Very clear, sir.”
“Good,” Coburn returned. He took no joy from Sandhurst’s submission. “You’re expected at Barisa in three weeks.”
“Aye, sir.” Sandhurst acknowledged as he reached out and terminated the transmission. He moved to tap his compin, only to realize that the three people he had automatically sought to summon to discuss their new mission orders were no longer aboard. Liana was dead, Pell had requested reassignment and he had cast Pava Lar'ragos off the ship. Instead he called the bridge, "Exec, recall all personnel from the station and prepare to depart DS9 in one hour. Then set course for the Barisa system, best cruising speed."
*****
Gibraltar
“Gravity”
Gravity is the ballast of the soul which keeps the mind steady. - Thomas Fuller
“Gravity”
Gravity is the ballast of the soul which keeps the mind steady. - Thomas Fuller
March 12, 2377
Atmosphere Siphon Station Eight
In low orbit of Planet Acheron
Barisa System
Delins Grafton inched along the narrow strut, careful to keep his magnetic boots in contact with the beam at all times as he moved towards the malfunctioning maintenance drone. Clad in a radiation-hardened EVA suit, Grafton's margin for safety could be measured in minutes, so powerful was the storm of radiation emitted here in the upper reaches of Acheron's atmosphere.
The siphon station itself was nothing more than a glorified pumping facility hanging in the upper reaches of Acheron's gaseous skies. A system of powerful anti-gravity generators held the station in place as an interlocking web of force fields and gravitic siphons drew heavier, denser gasses up from farther down in Acheron's layered atmosphere. These gasses were stored in giant reservoir tanks that were eventually off loaded to the bulky trains of tug-propelled holding cylinders that transported the raw gasses to the refinery complexes farther out in orbit of the monstrous world.
The drone in question had been the last functioning remote assigned to Siphon Station Eight. The cheap credit-pinching, bean-counting bastards at corporate had slowly choked off funds and resources for routine maintenance and upkeep as the company poured every available resource into the new particle fountain. The fountain was the great shining hope of the corporation's CEO, a dream that promised to rake in massive profits while leaving Grafton and his fellow bottom-tier employees out of a job.
In the here and now, though, it simply meant that instead of sending out another drone to collect the first one, Grafton had been forced to undertake the dangerous task himself.
He was well over halfway to the torso-sized machine when he felt the first jolt. For the briefest of moments, Grafton thought he'd slipped somehow and his hands grasped for purchase on the surrounding lattice-work of girders. Barely three seconds later and completely without warning, the entire siphon station plummeted into the clouds. Grafton screamed inside his helmet, immune to the panicked voices from the team in the siphon's control center that echoed in his headphones.
Grafton was plunged into darkness as the siphon station continued its fall into the pitch black clouds. He was held in place only by his magnetic boots and the paralysis of his own overwhelming fear. Light-headed, Grafton stopped screaming just long enough to catch his breath, and suddenly noticed that the falling sensation had ceased. Only then did he recognize the confused mix of garbled comms chatter in his ears as various people vied for control of a few operational channels to voice their shock and consternation.
Grafton immediately pivoted around, grasped his tether line, and began to pull himself back towards the airlock as quickly as his magnetic boots would allow. He was so focused on this task that he almost missed the chiming alarm that was accompanied by a flashing radiation icon superimposed onto his faceplate. Grafton glanced down at the heads-up display in his helmet and his stomach lurched as he saw that he had already exceeded the suit's radiation tolerances.
'The fall,' he realized with sudden dread. 'More radiation at this altitude... oh God... I'm going to die out here!' The faces of his young wife and newborn son flashed in his mind's eye as he continued towards the elusive airlock door which appeared so tantalizingly close. His vision began to swim and he felt his chest tightening. Grafton's skin began to tingle and his legs felt exceedingly heavy, almost as if his boots were malfunctioning. 'So close,' he cried internally, 'Not now... I'm so close!'
It was with dying eyes that Delins Grafton saw the small red cloud pass through the side of the siphon station, near the fading promise of the airlock hatch. He mused idly that it was such a strange thing, very pretty, even if weirdly out of place.
It was the last thought he would ever have.
*****
March 12, 2377
USS Gibraltar
Docked at Starbase Deep Space Nine
“… I really am very sorry, Captain, but this was an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up.” Manuele Atoa certainly appeared appropriately regretful, and to be honest, Donald Sandhurst really couldn’t bring himself to fault the earnest young man. It had seemed a rare stroke of luck when Atoa tendered his application in the first place. Starfleet was rife with newly minted starships just out of drydock, and the fact that someone as capable as Lt. Commander Atoa would be interested in serving aboard a century old escort was nearly too good to be true. Now, it appeared that had been exactly the case. Still, holding the young man’s feet to the flames because something better had come along would serve no one.
'Besides,' Sandhurst chided himself silently, 'how could anyone want to be Gibraltar's new XO right after you just killed the last one?'
Sandhurst put on his most sympathetic expression and replied, “I understand completely, Commander. Very few people are accepted to the Advanced Tactical program, and from a career standpoint, it’s a big step in the right direction.”
Gratitude and relief seemed to wash over the New Kauaian’s broad face as Sandhurst let him off the hook more effortlessly than Atoa had dared hope. “Thank you, sir. You’re making this easier than I deserve, under the circumstances.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Mr. Atoa. With this course on your résumé you’ll be an even better candidate for first officer than you are now. You’re going to make some other captain an outstanding XO when you graduate.”
“Thank you again, Captain.” Manuele struggled to find something else to say to salve his conscience, but was stymied. “Atoa, out.”
Sandhurst reached forward to toggle off his desktop data terminal, then sank back into his chair as a resigned sigh escaped him. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments, lost in thought. Finally he tapped his compin, “Lieutenant Juneau, Chief Dunleavy, please join me in my ready room.”
He was already well into reviewing his third application when Juneau chimed the door and Sandhurst granted his acting executive officer access. “Something wrong, Captain?” she inquired as she crossed the threshold.
Without looking up, Sandhurst answered, “Atoa just backed out at the last minute after being offered the last available spot on the roster for this year’s Advanced Tactical School.”
Juneau appeared torn, and offered, “Well, good for him, but damn… that puts us back to square one. You think we’ll be able to find another candidate before we make it back from Barisa?”
“I’d sure hope so. It’s a long trip out there.” Sandhurst looked up suddenly and inquired, “Where’s Saihra?”
Juneau's demeanor immediately downshifted and grew noticeably somber. “Cargo bay three. She’s standing the beta watch honor guard over Captain Ramirez.”
“…Oh.” Sandhurst was mortified that he’d allowed that fact to slip his mind. He rubbed his jaw line idly with one hand as he stared out the viewport behind his desk. After a moment, he mused quietly, "This position may end up being harder to fill than I anticipated."
Juneau looked uncomfortable as she struggled to assess her captain's state of mind. "Sir, I realize I'm speaking out of turn, but I think you really should still be talking to someone about--"
“No,” he interceded and cut her off gently but insistently. “I’m fine.” He gestured to the seat facing his desk and turned the data terminal so that both of them could read it. “Let’s get started.”
*****
The torpedo casing lay in state atop a pedestal in the center of the otherwise empty cargo bay. Draped with a Federation flag, the coffin served as the focal point to what had become a makeshift memorial to the Gibraltar’s former first officer, Liana Ramirez. Pictures of her from throughout her Starfleet career were mounted on the bulkheads, competing with holo’s and detailed presentations on some of the highlights of her time in the service.
Members of the crew had manned an honor guard that stood constant watch over her casket and would continue to do so until she had been delivered home to her family in the distant Barisa system. This night, Specialist Sharpe and newly promoted Chief Petty Officer Saihra Dunleavy carried the detail, standing at opposite ends of the casing. Clad in their dress uniforms they held their phaser rifles at port arms, remaining perfectly still and silent for hours on end.
It had been a dangerous search and rescue mission, and it had gone horribly wrong. On a remote planet in the Gamma Quadrant, Ramirez had sacrificed herself to save the rest of the team and complete the mission. It had been a hero’s death, a noble end for as fierce a soul as Liana, yet it had come well before her time.
She had been on the cusp of promotion to captain and only weeks away from assuming command of her own ship. That fact only added to the sense of loss and regret that seemed to permeate the entire ship. Gibraltar had thus been transformed into a funerary barge. Captain Sandhurst had received special dispensation to convey Ramirez’s remains home to the remote Barisa system, which straddled the border between Federation space and the Tzenkethi Hegemony. There, the crew hoped, Liana Ramirez might at last find some semblance of peace.
*****
Sandhurst stared at the desktop viewer, his expression torn between disbelief and outright disgust. “You can’t be serious, Admiral?”
“I know this comes as an unwelcome surprise, Sandhurst, but you really can’t have believed that as thinly spread as Starfleet is at the moment that we could detach Gibraltar for a full seven weeks in order to convey Captain Ramirez home?” Vice Admiral Coburn looked maudlin, but determined. “We’re still cleaning up from this mess with the Talarians, plus the loss of the diplomatic mission to the Gamma Quadrant, not to mention the ongoing Cardassian insurgency and the new Maquis uprising. I haven’t ships to spare for honor guard missions, no matter how beloved or deserving the fallen officer in question.” Coburn’s expression softened, “However, the Acheron Heavy Element Extraction Project is an important resource for the Federation, and as the company has been in the Ramirez family for two generations, this assignment allows us to both accomplish our goals simultaneously.”
“We’re bringing the man’s daughter home in a casket, and you want us sniffing around his operation for… what? Intelligence? Industrial espionage?” Sandhurst fidgeted and wrung his hands unconsciously in discomfort at the idea of tarnishing Ramirez’s memory with such a callous façade.
Coburn leaned in towards the screen, the crags and crow’s feet that lined his face gave stark testament to the rigors of flag command during and after the war. “The zero point initiators in the warheads of our quantum torpedoes utilize an especially rare, non-replicatable gaseous component. Acheron is one of only four gas mining consortiums capable of extracting and refining the element. The other three together produce barely one third of Acheron’s output. Add to that fact that Ramirez’s company is an extra-Federation corporate entity that’s heavily in debt to its creditors. If the Bank of Bolias or the Lissepian Central Bank were to assume ownership because of loan defaults, they’d likely break up the company’s assets and sell them off to the highest bidders. That could leave a significant contributor to Federation defense in the hands of the Ferengi, the Chrysalians, or gods forbid, the Orion Trade Guild front for the Syndicate.”
Sandhurst appeared perplexed and asked, “I thought the Federation had at least two colonies in the Barisa system?”
“We do, but the Ramirez family established ownership rights over the gas giant Acheron and its moons twenty years before the Federation settled Barisa Prime.”
“Fine, good.” Sandhurst sat back slightly, arms folded across his chest. “And where do we fit into all this, sir?”
Coburn smiled wolfishly, “I’m glad you asked, Captain.” He touched a control on his interface, and the screen split into a dual display, Coburn’s visage flanked by a technical schematic that Sandhurst immediately recognized, to his regret. “Aldo Ramirez, Liana’s father, is attempting to construct a particle fountain rig that, if successful, promises to increase the mine’s output by nearly sixty percent while cutting their overhead by almost seventy-five percent. It could very well breathe new life into his operation.”
Sandhurst frowned, “Sir, that’s a dry well, and Starfleet knows it. We proved that in the Tyra system over a decade ago, and then again at Carema and Brundies-Nal. There’s just no way to produce sufficient—“
Coburn held up a hand and butted in, “I’m sure you realize the war prompted many advancements in deflector and shield technology, Captain. As an engineer, I know you can appreciate this fact more than most. The same advances that allowed us to overcome the Jem’Hadar poleron beams and Breen energy dampers have been adapted to increase the power and control of the impeller matrix aboard the particle fountain.” The cutaway graphic alongside the admiral changed to display the improvements to the original design. “Besides, they’re not extracting ore from a solid body, they’re siphoning heavy elements from a gas giant. That changes the equation significantly.”
Sandhurst cursed silently to himself, unable to refute the truth of the admiral’s words. As the engineer in him did the math, the starship captain within him chaffed at the duplicity of Coburn’s plan. “La Forge is the real expert in this technology. It was his findings after Tyra and Brundies-Nal that convinced the SCE to bury this line of research.”
“You conferred with him on those findings, if memory serves,” Coburn replied evenly, his eyes twinkling as he cut the legs out from under Sandhurst’s argument. “Sending the Enterprise out there would be like shooting up a flare, announcing the Federation’s interest in the whole operation and making our enemies wonder what’s out there that’s so valuable to us. You're going to assist Ramirez's build-team in making sure the particle fountain is ready to go, Captain, though as far as anyone is going to know, you’re just bringing his daughter home.”
That was too much for Sandhurst to stomach. He leaned forward, practically snarling, “I take great exception to anyone who would sully Liana Ramirez’s memory. Defense strategy and quantum torpedoes be damned!”
Coburn was unmoved. “I understand that you don’t like your orders. That's tough. Liana’s dead, Sandhurst, and she’s not coming back. Nothing anyone can do will alter that fact. We both know that no trace of Ramirez survived. That casket contains nothing more than a few personal mementos and her last transporter trace on an isolinear chip, so I'm really going out on a limb here to allow you to conduct her 'remains' to Barisa in the first place." Coburn donned his most reasonable mien, "If you can take her home and lend a hand to a project that is helping safeguard the Federation’s security at the same time, than that’s what you’re going to do.”
The admiral’s voice was tinged with iron resolve, and Sandhurst knew immediately the battle’s outcome had already been decided. “A great officer has been lost. I truly regret that, Donald. Nonetheless, she’s going to perform one more duty for the uniform before she’s laid to rest, and you’re going to help her. Are we clear on this, Captain?”
Sandhurst sat upright in his chair. His eyes blazed as he forced out his reply, “Very clear, sir.”
“Good,” Coburn returned. He took no joy from Sandhurst’s submission. “You’re expected at Barisa in three weeks.”
“Aye, sir.” Sandhurst acknowledged as he reached out and terminated the transmission. He moved to tap his compin, only to realize that the three people he had automatically sought to summon to discuss their new mission orders were no longer aboard. Liana was dead, Pell had requested reassignment and he had cast Pava Lar'ragos off the ship. Instead he called the bridge, "Exec, recall all personnel from the station and prepare to depart DS9 in one hour. Then set course for the Barisa system, best cruising speed."
*****
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