STAR TREK: KHITOMER
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CHAPTER ONE — SALVAGE OPERATIONS
Continuation
***
Commander T'Rul was truly scandalized.
She knew that the Romulans in Starfleet had been retrograded. She could understand that. She had spent quite some time among Starfleet officers, first when the Defiant had been equipped with its cloaking device, then later, in 2393, when she had become part of the Strategic Task Force invited to study the new technologies Starfleet wanted to implant on their new, improved Defiant, and share the ones which would be part of the Deletham Class, the "Romulan Defiant".
Of course, Starfleet had taken precautions. Just as the Romulan Tal Shiar had launched a no holds barred investigation, first on their highest ranked officers and officials, then down to the very last hired help in the Army and the Government. Starfleet's job was easier, first because Romulans were easy to spot out, second because there weren't that many.
But what the young woman in front of her, just rescued from one of the escape pods of the Masada, had just told her was absolutely disgusting. She had known her. She had been her Chief Engineer for two years, and now she was — cleaning waste conduits?
"And they beat you up?"
Yirina Sorel raised her eyes and looked at her former Commanding Officer.
"Yes, Commander."
"But why? Hadn't your loyalty been clearly established from the start?"
"I guess it was not enough for them."
"For five years, they have beaten you up because they don't trust you?"
"I think now it's more kind of a habit. A hobby, if you wish."
"And why won't you report that to your superiors?"
"I won't give them the satisfaction of choosing the easy way out. Some day they'll get tired. Then I'll have won."
"But for now they beat you up."
"Yes, Commander."
"You know that I would take you back in an instant, with the rank of Subcommander."
"I appreciate the offer, Commander. But I need to see this through."
"The offer is standing, Yirina. Anytime, that post and rank are yours on my ship."
"Commander, you're needed on the Bridge!"
***
"General, the Militia has confirmed that the 105 ships are now fully deployed between Bajor and the enemy."
"One hundred and five against three hundred Borg ships."
"Plus the Defiants."
"Yes." Kira exclaimed. "Unfortunately, I don't think it will be quite enough to make this an easy fight."
"When did we ever have an easy fight?"
"Let's just say that once in my life, just once, I would have liked to be in one of those. I guess it won't happen now. So, we'll just show those overgrown nanobots that the Bajorans are experts at fighting an enemy superior in number and in technology."
"I'll be aboard the Avenger."
"I'll command the Valiant. May the Prophets be with you, Laren."
"And with you … Nerys."
***
Aboard the Escaut, the joking mood had been replaced by panic and resignation, as the huge Cube was approaching at impulse.
"They're charging weapons."
"What, they're going to destroy us? No assimilation?"
"Maybe it's a tractor beam, I don't know."
As if to answer McKeon, the runabout was violently shaken and a blue light flooded the cabin.
"Tractor beam."
"Do we have any way to …?"
"Whatever power we had left has been drained by that thing. All the air left is what's in here that we haven't breathed yet."
They knew what to expect. They would all be assimilated, they all would become part of the hive, and whatever knowledge they had would be used against the Federation. There was nothing left to do, nothing to hope.
Slowly, they arrived at the entrance of the humongous ship …
***
"Are you without any kind of HONOR?"
The Chancellor of the Klingon High Council was definitely not happy. He had given orders, he had made sure that his intentions were understood, and there it was!
"Who told you to withdraw our defenses around the Khitomer System?"
General Karan was standing up, looking his Leader right in the eyes. He knew that he had erred, but the new Chancellor would have to get used to the fact that he was alone for now. Yes, the High Council would eventually understand that things were changing, and would start really acting the way His Leader wanted — but not today.
"We thought that since Starfleet had a large number of ships, we could refocus our forces on other weak points of our perimeter."
"Well, you thought wrong! Most of the Federation ships are carriers, civilian ships! They are unable to engage the Jem'Hadars! We must protect them until they have built their own defenses!"
"I will recall the ships at once, Chancellor."
"Make it so! And do not reappear in my presence until it's done!"
The General left as quickly as he could. Then, from a shadowy corner of the vast room, a silhouette came to the Chancellor.
"He did what he thought was right."
"I know! But it was obvious that those ships couldn't fight!"
"Obvious to you, my love, because you know every kind of ship Starfleet has used those last forty years."
"He SHOULD know them as well as me."
"But he doesn't. You'll have to teach him."
"I will."
"But first you'll have to calm down, Worf."
The giant turned to her, smiled, opened his arms.
"I could never do it without you, Deanna."
Continuation
***
Commander T'Rul was truly scandalized.
She knew that the Romulans in Starfleet had been retrograded. She could understand that. She had spent quite some time among Starfleet officers, first when the Defiant had been equipped with its cloaking device, then later, in 2393, when she had become part of the Strategic Task Force invited to study the new technologies Starfleet wanted to implant on their new, improved Defiant, and share the ones which would be part of the Deletham Class, the "Romulan Defiant".
Of course, Starfleet had taken precautions. Just as the Romulan Tal Shiar had launched a no holds barred investigation, first on their highest ranked officers and officials, then down to the very last hired help in the Army and the Government. Starfleet's job was easier, first because Romulans were easy to spot out, second because there weren't that many.
But what the young woman in front of her, just rescued from one of the escape pods of the Masada, had just told her was absolutely disgusting. She had known her. She had been her Chief Engineer for two years, and now she was — cleaning waste conduits?
"And they beat you up?"
Yirina Sorel raised her eyes and looked at her former Commanding Officer.
"Yes, Commander."
"But why? Hadn't your loyalty been clearly established from the start?"
"I guess it was not enough for them."
"For five years, they have beaten you up because they don't trust you?"
"I think now it's more kind of a habit. A hobby, if you wish."
"And why won't you report that to your superiors?"
"I won't give them the satisfaction of choosing the easy way out. Some day they'll get tired. Then I'll have won."
"But for now they beat you up."
"Yes, Commander."
"You know that I would take you back in an instant, with the rank of Subcommander."
"I appreciate the offer, Commander. But I need to see this through."
"The offer is standing, Yirina. Anytime, that post and rank are yours on my ship."
"Commander, you're needed on the Bridge!"
***
"General, the Militia has confirmed that the 105 ships are now fully deployed between Bajor and the enemy."
"One hundred and five against three hundred Borg ships."
"Plus the Defiants."
"Yes." Kira exclaimed. "Unfortunately, I don't think it will be quite enough to make this an easy fight."
"When did we ever have an easy fight?"
"Let's just say that once in my life, just once, I would have liked to be in one of those. I guess it won't happen now. So, we'll just show those overgrown nanobots that the Bajorans are experts at fighting an enemy superior in number and in technology."
"I'll be aboard the Avenger."
"I'll command the Valiant. May the Prophets be with you, Laren."
"And with you … Nerys."
***
Aboard the Escaut, the joking mood had been replaced by panic and resignation, as the huge Cube was approaching at impulse.
"They're charging weapons."
"What, they're going to destroy us? No assimilation?"
"Maybe it's a tractor beam, I don't know."
As if to answer McKeon, the runabout was violently shaken and a blue light flooded the cabin.
"Tractor beam."
"Do we have any way to …?"
"Whatever power we had left has been drained by that thing. All the air left is what's in here that we haven't breathed yet."
They knew what to expect. They would all be assimilated, they all would become part of the hive, and whatever knowledge they had would be used against the Federation. There was nothing left to do, nothing to hope.
Slowly, they arrived at the entrance of the humongous ship …
***
"Are you without any kind of HONOR?"
The Chancellor of the Klingon High Council was definitely not happy. He had given orders, he had made sure that his intentions were understood, and there it was!
"Who told you to withdraw our defenses around the Khitomer System?"
General Karan was standing up, looking his Leader right in the eyes. He knew that he had erred, but the new Chancellor would have to get used to the fact that he was alone for now. Yes, the High Council would eventually understand that things were changing, and would start really acting the way His Leader wanted — but not today.
"We thought that since Starfleet had a large number of ships, we could refocus our forces on other weak points of our perimeter."
"Well, you thought wrong! Most of the Federation ships are carriers, civilian ships! They are unable to engage the Jem'Hadars! We must protect them until they have built their own defenses!"
"I will recall the ships at once, Chancellor."
"Make it so! And do not reappear in my presence until it's done!"
The General left as quickly as he could. Then, from a shadowy corner of the vast room, a silhouette came to the Chancellor.
"He did what he thought was right."
"I know! But it was obvious that those ships couldn't fight!"
"Obvious to you, my love, because you know every kind of ship Starfleet has used those last forty years."
"He SHOULD know them as well as me."
"But he doesn't. You'll have to teach him."
"I will."
"But first you'll have to calm down, Worf."
The giant turned to her, smiled, opened his arms.
"I could never do it without you, Deanna."
Wilkins and his group were still debating their next move when the call came in.
"Admiral, the Chameleon is back. Lieutenant Watson in command."
"Watson? What happened to Simmons? Who's Watson, Sam?"
Dvorak checked her records and answered:
"The Assistant Chief of Security, Sir. Lieutenant Junior Grade Sabrina Watson, 24, graduated from Starfleet Academy in 2396 …"
"Lieutenant Junior Grade? And she's in command? On screen!"
The screen turned on. There, trying to act as stoically as she could, but clearly trying to hide her pain and fighting it to stand up, was Sabrina Helena Watson, a very small little thing with sparkles in her left eye, the right one having been charred by a plasma explosion with the rest of the right side of her face. Behind and around her, the Bridge was in shambles, as engineers were working at repairs."
"My respects, Admiral. Lieutenant Watson reporting."
"What happened, Lieutenant? Where is Captain Simmons?"
"All dead, Sir. I'm the highest ranking officer left on board. The stealth device — the Jem'Hadars finally saw through it, Sir."
"Damn! How many losses?"
"About six hundred, Sir. Out of a crew of seven hundred and thirteen. But at least the warp drive held, Sir, or we wouldn't be here to report."
"Where are you right now?"
"We heard that you were at Khitomer. We should reach you in a few hours, Sir. The Chameleon … is in need of …"
The little woman stopped. The pain was too much.
"Lieutenant!"
"Sorry, Sir. The ship will … need extensive repairs. Permission to dock and … see to it before reporting, Sir, please."
"Do you need medical assistance?
"Most of the … survivors are in need of it, Sir. The Doctor and nurses are dead … and the EMH was lost during the first … attack with the Captain and all … the senior crew, three … months ago."
Wilkins looked at the little woman. He decided to treat her the way she deserved.
"And you, Captain? Besides the obvious, how do you cope?"
"Only lost … an eye and … a leg, Sir. The rest is fine. So many more need … so much more help …"
"We're sending a medical ship to meet you, Captain. Don't worry, you're in Klingon space. You're safe."
"Thank you … S … Sir."
"Try to rest, Captain. We'll talk when you have received medical care. Wilkins out."
***
"Fortune favors the bold."
Kira Nerys had never forgotten that lesson given to him years ago by Benjamin Sisko, when he had attacked a Dominion fleet of 1254 ships with little more than 600 on his side. He had won too, thanks to the Klingons, who had arrived just in time to open a huge breach in the enemy lines, like only the Klingons could.
It wasn't that worse, just one against three. Besides, the four Defiants were of the advanced type, the ones specially built with one goal: to fight the Borg.
So, logically, the four ships would be on the first line, firing all the transphasic phasers and torpedoes which had been stuck on them, trying to make each shot count, hoping to break the line enough to give the weaker Bajoran ships a fighting chance to finish the job they would begin.
Yeah, that was a good plan — if the Prophets were on their side.
"Enemy in sight, General."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Ro, Kane, Broderick, you've got them?"
The Captains of the Avenger, the Bayard and the Gallant all acknowledged in turn. The plan was simple: try to punch through and come back, punch through and come back, as many times as needed, as the rest of the fleet would …
"General! The Wormhole! It's opening!"
"What?"
"It's true, Sir. DS9 is relaying a picture."
"On screen!"
And, in front of Kira's horrified eyes, one by one they came out, surrounding the station, Bajor, her fleet, letting them no way of escape from the impending doom they now all felt imminent …
***
"We're gonna be assimilated! You must do something, Lieutenant!" Petri was screaming aboard the Escaut being slowly engulfed by the Cube.
"It's useless, Ensign. There are eight of us in here, and there are thousands of drones in there", Vidal, the Vulcan nurse, answered.
"You damn Vulcan! Don't tell me you're not scared like all the others! I know you have the same feelings we do!"
"Ensign!" McKeon barked. But inside she was not much different, trying to think of a solution, unable to believe that her life was going to end there, with that thing swallowing them whole and her will, her memories, her whole identity being melted in that humongous and sinister pot …
At that moment, the runabout, now in total darkness, was shaken by a violent shock.
"What's happening?" Petri asked, terrorized.
"I assume that we have docked", Vidal answered as calmly as before.
"And our weapons are still not functional?" McKeon asked.
"It seems the dampening effect was not only to the runabout's sensors, but to everything else, including weapons, Sir."
"So that's it. All we have to fight are our hands and feet! Jeez, Lieutenant, why did you have to come this way?"
"We would have been captured earlier."
"Or maybe we would have found a way out!"
"That's enough, Ensign! You will act like a member of Starfleet or …"
"Or what? You'll have me thrown into the brig? Tonight we all sleep in regenerating alcoves, remember? Fuck you! Fuck you all!"
As if to make Petri shut up once and for all, a second, bigger shock shook the runabout. Then, while they were still wondering what had just happened, they felt beamed out of the Escaut and rematerialized in a room where …
"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant McKeon!"
***
In the Samurai's Conference Room, B'Elanna, Karov and Tomalak were waiting for an explanation. Wilkins was enjoying the surprise effect, but he knew he would have to explain.
"The Chameleon is the first of a new class of Stealthy Explorer …"
"You mean a spy ship?" Tomalak cut.
"Well, yes, that's how enemies of the Federation would name it. It's equipped with a series of stealth, not cloaking, devices which not only are supposed to render it undetectable to sensors, but also allow it to assume a preprogrammed set of appearances, including a Jem'Hadar battleship. Obviously, it's not ready."
"What was its mission?" Karov asked.
"Try to find out anything about the Dominion Dreadnoughts, which hurt us — and you too, Admiral — so badly until now. It's equipped with the most advanced sensors to that end. I just hope Lieutenant Watson brought us enough data that six hundred dead officers and crewmen won't have been sacrificed for too little …"
"Admiral, the Chameleon is back. Lieutenant Watson in command."
"Watson? What happened to Simmons? Who's Watson, Sam?"
Dvorak checked her records and answered:
"The Assistant Chief of Security, Sir. Lieutenant Junior Grade Sabrina Watson, 24, graduated from Starfleet Academy in 2396 …"
"Lieutenant Junior Grade? And she's in command? On screen!"
The screen turned on. There, trying to act as stoically as she could, but clearly trying to hide her pain and fighting it to stand up, was Sabrina Helena Watson, a very small little thing with sparkles in her left eye, the right one having been charred by a plasma explosion with the rest of the right side of her face. Behind and around her, the Bridge was in shambles, as engineers were working at repairs."
"My respects, Admiral. Lieutenant Watson reporting."
"What happened, Lieutenant? Where is Captain Simmons?"
"All dead, Sir. I'm the highest ranking officer left on board. The stealth device — the Jem'Hadars finally saw through it, Sir."
"Damn! How many losses?"
"About six hundred, Sir. Out of a crew of seven hundred and thirteen. But at least the warp drive held, Sir, or we wouldn't be here to report."
"Where are you right now?"
"We heard that you were at Khitomer. We should reach you in a few hours, Sir. The Chameleon … is in need of …"
The little woman stopped. The pain was too much.
"Lieutenant!"
"Sorry, Sir. The ship will … need extensive repairs. Permission to dock and … see to it before reporting, Sir, please."
"Do you need medical assistance?
"Most of the … survivors are in need of it, Sir. The Doctor and nurses are dead … and the EMH was lost during the first … attack with the Captain and all … the senior crew, three … months ago."
Wilkins looked at the little woman. He decided to treat her the way she deserved.
"And you, Captain? Besides the obvious, how do you cope?"
"Only lost … an eye and … a leg, Sir. The rest is fine. So many more need … so much more help …"
"We're sending a medical ship to meet you, Captain. Don't worry, you're in Klingon space. You're safe."
"Thank you … S … Sir."
"Try to rest, Captain. We'll talk when you have received medical care. Wilkins out."
***
"Fortune favors the bold."
Kira Nerys had never forgotten that lesson given to him years ago by Benjamin Sisko, when he had attacked a Dominion fleet of 1254 ships with little more than 600 on his side. He had won too, thanks to the Klingons, who had arrived just in time to open a huge breach in the enemy lines, like only the Klingons could.
It wasn't that worse, just one against three. Besides, the four Defiants were of the advanced type, the ones specially built with one goal: to fight the Borg.
So, logically, the four ships would be on the first line, firing all the transphasic phasers and torpedoes which had been stuck on them, trying to make each shot count, hoping to break the line enough to give the weaker Bajoran ships a fighting chance to finish the job they would begin.
Yeah, that was a good plan — if the Prophets were on their side.
"Enemy in sight, General."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Ro, Kane, Broderick, you've got them?"
The Captains of the Avenger, the Bayard and the Gallant all acknowledged in turn. The plan was simple: try to punch through and come back, punch through and come back, as many times as needed, as the rest of the fleet would …
"General! The Wormhole! It's opening!"
"What?"
"It's true, Sir. DS9 is relaying a picture."
"On screen!"
And, in front of Kira's horrified eyes, one by one they came out, surrounding the station, Bajor, her fleet, letting them no way of escape from the impending doom they now all felt imminent …
***
"We're gonna be assimilated! You must do something, Lieutenant!" Petri was screaming aboard the Escaut being slowly engulfed by the Cube.
"It's useless, Ensign. There are eight of us in here, and there are thousands of drones in there", Vidal, the Vulcan nurse, answered.
"You damn Vulcan! Don't tell me you're not scared like all the others! I know you have the same feelings we do!"
"Ensign!" McKeon barked. But inside she was not much different, trying to think of a solution, unable to believe that her life was going to end there, with that thing swallowing them whole and her will, her memories, her whole identity being melted in that humongous and sinister pot …
At that moment, the runabout, now in total darkness, was shaken by a violent shock.
"What's happening?" Petri asked, terrorized.
"I assume that we have docked", Vidal answered as calmly as before.
"And our weapons are still not functional?" McKeon asked.
"It seems the dampening effect was not only to the runabout's sensors, but to everything else, including weapons, Sir."
"So that's it. All we have to fight are our hands and feet! Jeez, Lieutenant, why did you have to come this way?"
"We would have been captured earlier."
"Or maybe we would have found a way out!"
"That's enough, Ensign! You will act like a member of Starfleet or …"
"Or what? You'll have me thrown into the brig? Tonight we all sleep in regenerating alcoves, remember? Fuck you! Fuck you all!"
As if to make Petri shut up once and for all, a second, bigger shock shook the runabout. Then, while they were still wondering what had just happened, they felt beamed out of the Escaut and rematerialized in a room where …
"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant McKeon!"
***
In the Samurai's Conference Room, B'Elanna, Karov and Tomalak were waiting for an explanation. Wilkins was enjoying the surprise effect, but he knew he would have to explain.
"The Chameleon is the first of a new class of Stealthy Explorer …"
"You mean a spy ship?" Tomalak cut.
"Well, yes, that's how enemies of the Federation would name it. It's equipped with a series of stealth, not cloaking, devices which not only are supposed to render it undetectable to sensors, but also allow it to assume a preprogrammed set of appearances, including a Jem'Hadar battleship. Obviously, it's not ready."
"What was its mission?" Karov asked.
"Try to find out anything about the Dominion Dreadnoughts, which hurt us — and you too, Admiral — so badly until now. It's equipped with the most advanced sensors to that end. I just hope Lieutenant Watson brought us enough data that six hundred dead officers and crewmen won't have been sacrificed for too little …"
Last part for 2005.
***
Around Bajor, the consternation was total.
"I'm counting about 2800 ships, General."
"What the hell are they doing?"
"I don't know, but one thing's for sure: The Borg have stopped."
Right at the time when Kira and her fleet were getting ready to attack the Borg fleet, right at that time the Wormhole had opened, and from it had emerged a Dominion Dreadnought. It was a monster of a battleship: 4800 meters long, 3235 meters wide, 1393 meters high, equipped with Heavy Duty polaron cannons, phased polaron beam emitters and oodles of photon torpedo tubes, it came with a most impressive firepower, similar to any of the Advanced Defiants Kira could count on.
Only it was not alone. Another one came out, and another one, and another one … After a few minutes, the skies were full of them, and they kept coming out, surrounding the station, Bajor, finally the fleet defending it.
Tora Nayeel, the Bajoran Lieutenant affected to Tactical on the Valiant, was right: there were exactly 2820 Dreadnoughts now, taking an aggressive posture all around the Bajoran sector, weapons charged and locked on the intruder.
And then it happened.
The leading Cube turned around and left.
In a few minutes, the rest of the Borg ships followed it, as they were leaving, going back to their base on Cardassia.
Kira looked all around, trying to make sense of the situation, as clearly the Dominion fleet was assuming position, not to surround the Bajoran System, but clearly to defend it against invaders — which of course meant a blockade.
"What the hell just happened here?"
"Colonel Ro is hailing us, General."
"On screen."
"General, your orders?"
"My orders? Those ships are clearly deploying to protect us. Somehow the Prophets have found a way to use them in our defense. I'll have to talk with the Kai, but for now there's nothing to do. Let's go home, what else?"
"It seems you got your wish today, General."
Kira smiled. Yes, the Prophets must have heard her wishing for an easy one. Maybe she had been a good girl after all …
***
"What's happening?"
"They have questions to ask of you, and they want to be sure that you will answer as truthfully as a filthy Romulan can."
"Wh … What?"
Monica had come forward and slapped her.
"I have to go now. I'm replacing you as the propulsion specialist."
"What? You can't do that! You don't …"
She had slapped her again, with her fist this time.
"Don't tell me that I can't do something, Rommie", she had told her angrily. "I'm at least as smart as you. That's why I'm standing up and you're tied down."
"Monica! Monica!"
And now there she was, wearing a Romulan uniform, surrounded by several Romulan soldiers.
"Welcome aboard the Romulan Attack Fighter Deletham, Lieutenant." Yirina said sternly.
"The … Deletham?"
"Yes. We attacked the Cube which was swallowing you, and beamed you aboard just before it exploded."
"Isn't it the ship where …?"
Yirina sneered.
"You remember, Lieutenant. I'm touched. Yes, this is the very ship on which I served as Chief Engineer, with the rank of Centurion, the equivalent of a Starfleet Lieutenant. Commander T'Rul granted me the privilege of welcoming our Starfleet friends on board. Imagine my surprise when I recognized you in the third group we salvage today."
"Yirina …"
The young Romulan gave her a look so cold it stopped her right there and then from trying to add a single syllable.
"Those soldiers will accompany you to the Infirmary first, then to your quarters. They are not as comfortable as on a Federation starship, of course, but I'm certain you will feel much better than on your runabout. Jolan'tru, Lieutenant."
And, having said, Yirina turned around and left.
***
January 10, 2400
The Mogai, another Deletham-like advanced Romulan ship equipped with the new shields which seemed impenetrable to the Borg, had detected and salvaged almost three hundred survivors of Dalton's fleet, among them Jethro Watson and his hooligan followers and about fifty others from the Masada itself. All were now resting in a docking bay converted in Sickbay by the medical personnel they had rescued the very first day.
Commander Teroth had taken on herself to talk to the giant, who looked much more humble than on the Masada, especially when he took his fun punching Yirina's sometimes naked torso, avoiding the face because she couldn't hide her face and for some reason she refused to complain about Jethro's petting, while two or more of his accomplices held her steady. But Teroth, if she had a sense of humor, was also perceptive enough to know that this character was not worthy of it. Still, she had questions to ask, and he was the highest ranking officer in that last group.
"You are from the Masada, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
"That's Commander, actually. Have you any idea of the number of survivors from the Masada?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Have you any idea of what happened to Admiral Dalton?"
"No, Ma'am."
Teroth sighed in herself. Her opinion of the humans in general was not very high already, but that one looked dumber than even a Klingon.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll question the other members of your group. You may rest."
I really hope there's a Romulan in that group. Even a Vulcan would be an improvement on that dimwit!
***
"What do you think, Chief?"
"Chief" O'Brien was still looking at the list of repairs for the USS Chameleon. It was incredible.
"I've never seen a ship in such a bad shape making such a long trip and finding its way back home. Even Voyager looked better when it finally made it back to Earth. And yet they say that the Lieutenant commanding it was in an even worse shape. They still fear for her life."
"You think it can be salvaged? The ship, I mean?"
O'Brien took another good look, then dropped the PADD and looked at the man. He was a Bolian looking fifty, with sparks in his eyes and tools in his hands, at his belt, everywhere, looking ready to drown himself in the work waiting for him at Dry Dock One.
"As long as it's in one piece, it can be salvaged, Hars. And as long as our replicators are able to deliver liters of coffee — Jamaican blend, double strong, double sweet, of course, we'll be the ones doing it."
"Of course, Sir."
O'Brien looked at the man and gave him "the look" — once again.
"How many times will I have to tell you, Hars?"
The Bolian took a sad face to answer:
"Sorry, Lieutenant."
The "Chief" smiled to reassure the Bolian.
"No, not that either. I like it when you call me 'Chief'. In fact, it's a great honor for me, that you address me the same way you addressed my father. But I'm too cute to be called 'Sir'. To you, it's 'Chief' or 'Molly'."
***
Around Bajor, the consternation was total.
"I'm counting about 2800 ships, General."
"What the hell are they doing?"
"I don't know, but one thing's for sure: The Borg have stopped."
Right at the time when Kira and her fleet were getting ready to attack the Borg fleet, right at that time the Wormhole had opened, and from it had emerged a Dominion Dreadnought. It was a monster of a battleship: 4800 meters long, 3235 meters wide, 1393 meters high, equipped with Heavy Duty polaron cannons, phased polaron beam emitters and oodles of photon torpedo tubes, it came with a most impressive firepower, similar to any of the Advanced Defiants Kira could count on.
Only it was not alone. Another one came out, and another one, and another one … After a few minutes, the skies were full of them, and they kept coming out, surrounding the station, Bajor, finally the fleet defending it.
Tora Nayeel, the Bajoran Lieutenant affected to Tactical on the Valiant, was right: there were exactly 2820 Dreadnoughts now, taking an aggressive posture all around the Bajoran sector, weapons charged and locked on the intruder.
And then it happened.
The leading Cube turned around and left.
In a few minutes, the rest of the Borg ships followed it, as they were leaving, going back to their base on Cardassia.
Kira looked all around, trying to make sense of the situation, as clearly the Dominion fleet was assuming position, not to surround the Bajoran System, but clearly to defend it against invaders — which of course meant a blockade.
"What the hell just happened here?"
"Colonel Ro is hailing us, General."
"On screen."
"General, your orders?"
"My orders? Those ships are clearly deploying to protect us. Somehow the Prophets have found a way to use them in our defense. I'll have to talk with the Kai, but for now there's nothing to do. Let's go home, what else?"
"It seems you got your wish today, General."
Kira smiled. Yes, the Prophets must have heard her wishing for an easy one. Maybe she had been a good girl after all …
***
"What's happening?"
"They have questions to ask of you, and they want to be sure that you will answer as truthfully as a filthy Romulan can."
"Wh … What?"
Monica had come forward and slapped her.
"I have to go now. I'm replacing you as the propulsion specialist."
"What? You can't do that! You don't …"
She had slapped her again, with her fist this time.
"Don't tell me that I can't do something, Rommie", she had told her angrily. "I'm at least as smart as you. That's why I'm standing up and you're tied down."
"Monica! Monica!"
And now there she was, wearing a Romulan uniform, surrounded by several Romulan soldiers.
"Welcome aboard the Romulan Attack Fighter Deletham, Lieutenant." Yirina said sternly.
"The … Deletham?"
"Yes. We attacked the Cube which was swallowing you, and beamed you aboard just before it exploded."
"Isn't it the ship where …?"
Yirina sneered.
"You remember, Lieutenant. I'm touched. Yes, this is the very ship on which I served as Chief Engineer, with the rank of Centurion, the equivalent of a Starfleet Lieutenant. Commander T'Rul granted me the privilege of welcoming our Starfleet friends on board. Imagine my surprise when I recognized you in the third group we salvage today."
"Yirina …"
The young Romulan gave her a look so cold it stopped her right there and then from trying to add a single syllable.
"Those soldiers will accompany you to the Infirmary first, then to your quarters. They are not as comfortable as on a Federation starship, of course, but I'm certain you will feel much better than on your runabout. Jolan'tru, Lieutenant."
And, having said, Yirina turned around and left.
***
January 10, 2400
The Mogai, another Deletham-like advanced Romulan ship equipped with the new shields which seemed impenetrable to the Borg, had detected and salvaged almost three hundred survivors of Dalton's fleet, among them Jethro Watson and his hooligan followers and about fifty others from the Masada itself. All were now resting in a docking bay converted in Sickbay by the medical personnel they had rescued the very first day.
Commander Teroth had taken on herself to talk to the giant, who looked much more humble than on the Masada, especially when he took his fun punching Yirina's sometimes naked torso, avoiding the face because she couldn't hide her face and for some reason she refused to complain about Jethro's petting, while two or more of his accomplices held her steady. But Teroth, if she had a sense of humor, was also perceptive enough to know that this character was not worthy of it. Still, she had questions to ask, and he was the highest ranking officer in that last group.
"You are from the Masada, right?"
"Yes, Captain."
"That's Commander, actually. Have you any idea of the number of survivors from the Masada?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Have you any idea of what happened to Admiral Dalton?"
"No, Ma'am."
Teroth sighed in herself. Her opinion of the humans in general was not very high already, but that one looked dumber than even a Klingon.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll question the other members of your group. You may rest."
I really hope there's a Romulan in that group. Even a Vulcan would be an improvement on that dimwit!
***
"What do you think, Chief?"
"Chief" O'Brien was still looking at the list of repairs for the USS Chameleon. It was incredible.
"I've never seen a ship in such a bad shape making such a long trip and finding its way back home. Even Voyager looked better when it finally made it back to Earth. And yet they say that the Lieutenant commanding it was in an even worse shape. They still fear for her life."
"You think it can be salvaged? The ship, I mean?"
O'Brien took another good look, then dropped the PADD and looked at the man. He was a Bolian looking fifty, with sparks in his eyes and tools in his hands, at his belt, everywhere, looking ready to drown himself in the work waiting for him at Dry Dock One.
"As long as it's in one piece, it can be salvaged, Hars. And as long as our replicators are able to deliver liters of coffee — Jamaican blend, double strong, double sweet, of course, we'll be the ones doing it."
"Of course, Sir."
O'Brien looked at the man and gave him "the look" — once again.
"How many times will I have to tell you, Hars?"
The Bolian took a sad face to answer:
"Sorry, Lieutenant."
The "Chief" smiled to reassure the Bolian.
"No, not that either. I like it when you call me 'Chief'. In fact, it's a great honor for me, that you address me the same way you addressed my father. But I'm too cute to be called 'Sir'. To you, it's 'Chief' or 'Molly'."
You're mixing the genres well 47, and I like how this is building. Nice touch adding Molly as well. 
Jeez, I'm blushing ...
Zman1, I haven't decided yet. But Miles was born in 2328, so if he is still alive he's 72.
Thanks, ET. Introducing some members of the NNG (New Next Generation) was an idea I wanted to pursue in that story. I also reintroduced Worf, Deanna, Kira, Ro and B'Elanna because, well, I like them, and it would be strange that ALL members of the ONG would have disappeared just like that. But I don't want to introduce too many of those. I want this story to be more about those new characters, especially those damn kids who may eventually rewrite History itself ...
Zman1, I haven't decided yet. But Miles was born in 2328, so if he is still alive he's 72.
Thanks, ET. Introducing some members of the NNG (New Next Generation) was an idea I wanted to pursue in that story. I also reintroduced Worf, Deanna, Kira, Ro and B'Elanna because, well, I like them, and it would be strange that ALL members of the ONG would have disappeared just like that. But I don't want to introduce too many of those. I want this story to be more about those new characters, especially those damn kids who may eventually rewrite History itself ...
CHAPTER TWO — THE NEW DEALS
January 16, 2400
The room was small, but very luxurious. That was one of the perks of Worf's new job, and he intended to use all of them fully, as he still was not quite happy of having been "forced" to take it. But for a private conversation with Admiral Wilkins, it was the ideal place.
Worf liked the guy. He talked like a true Klingon, he ate like a true Klingon, he drank, he swore, and he fought like a true Klingon. Yet he was maybe the most loved of all Starfleet Admirals. Loved and dreaded. An ideal combination, exactly what Worf was going for: loved by the people, feared by his enemies, especially those filthy p'tahks in the High Council who would press for a non-aggression treaty with the Dominion.
"Starbases?"
"Yes, Chancellor. We would first build a huge starbase in the Khitomer System, which would among other things serve as an experimental shipyard to build a warship quite different from the most advanced warships we presently own."
"Like the Defiant-II."
"Yes, Chancellor. But it wouldn't be just a Defiant-III."
"This starbase would be used by Starfleet, and would be in Klingon space. Already many members of the High Council disagreed with my decision to welcome you in the Khitomer System. They won't like a starbase at all."
Wilkins knew that Worf was not well-liked as the new Chancellor, that in fact many had accused him of playing on Martok's old age to extort the nomination from him. Still, no candidate — and they had been many — had half the credentials Worf had reluctantly thrown in the balance.
"We could make it the same kind of deal we have on Deep Space Nine. The station is and remains Klingon property, with a Starfleet-Klingon staff. But the Commanding Officer would be Starfleet."
"Starfleet would be — what, leasing the place?"
"We would build it, maintain it, everything, and the Klingon Empire would own it."
Worf looked at the man. He knew it was everything he would get. Wilkins could not offer more.
"Very well. I will propose this arrangement to the Council."
"How long do you think …?"
"Start building it as soon as you can. I'll make them approve it, if I have to make a few heads roll on the floor."
***
Kira could not believe her eyes and ears. Ten days after "the thing", as she still called it in her heart, first there had been that public announcement, broadcasted from what was probably the flagship of the Dominion Fleet protecting, but still effectively blockading the Bajoran System.
The Founder had appeared on every Bajoran screen.
"I bring you the greetings of the Dominion.
For many years now, we have been at war with the United Federation of Planets, of which Bajor is a part. But since the beginning, we have been very careful to leave you alone. The reason for this was simple: Your Prophets had asked us to do so when we had asked them the authorization to cross the Celestial Temple.
A few weeks ago, they came to us and asked us to offer protection to Bajor against an implacable enemy which would forever destroy your way of life. We agreed on the condition that we could also make sure that the Celestial Temple could not be crossed any longer by our enemies.
That is the current situation. The Dominion will NOT, at any time, perform any act of aggression against the Bajoran System, but will prevent its enemies from communicating with it. For the next thirty days, anyone wishing to leave the System — and that includes the occupants of Terok Nor — is free to do so. They will be peacefully escorted as far as possible to avoid any unwanted attack by any of our ships, or any ship of our Reman allies. After those thirty days, anyone remaining will be considered as having embraced the Peace of the Dominion. Although you will keep your culture, way of life, etc., you will be treated as if you were subjects of the Dominion in any matter for which you would require assistance.
A detailed document will soon be sent to all your leaders, detailing our future relationship. Thank you for your time."
And now, that lengthy document, which essentially was a pact of non-aggression and a list of all kinds of supplies and help available without charge from the Dominion just for the asking …
"They're trying to bribe us!" Ro said angrily.
"That much is sure. They need the Wormhole, and they'll do anything to keep it open exclusively to their ships. They haven't forgotten what the Prophets did to them last time they tried to attack Bajor."
"Here they come."
"Fire on my command. Steady, people. Make every shot count."
"Benjamin."
"They've cloaked."
"I'm not picking up any neutrino emissions …"
"Then where did they go?"
"Wherever they went, I don't think they're coming back."
Ro looked at Kira. They both were thinking the same thing, but Ro was the first to actually say it.
"You think the government will fall for it?"
***
"How is she, Doctor?"
Wilkins had tried to read Sabrina's medical record. He had stopped after three lines, horrified. Now he wanted to meet the little woman before she died, as the doctors still had no idea if she would survive her wounds. And there she was, heavily sedated, still horribly scarred on her right side from all the temporary grafts of skin performed on her. She had been stripped naked and placed in suspension in a regenerating gel. She had several tubes inserted into her only arm — as the dead stump remaining from her right arm had been amputated —, more in her only leg left, more in her chest and back, and yet more in her abdomen. Those last ones were excruciatingly painful and she could hardly find sleep, despite the analgesics constantly pumped into her.
She wasn’t fed, but one of the tubes in her abdomen and one in her chest brought her the fluids and nutrients she needed to survive. The others served several purposes: monitoring her vital signs, stimulating her muscles and organs, regulating the temperature of her vital parts, etc. She was alone most of the time, shivering with fear, sobbing from the pain which made even breathing difficult.
Marcus Fillmore looked at Wilkins and began, shaking his head:
"I don't understand how she could do everything she did for so long, Sir. It was much worse than just having lost an eye and a leg. In fact, she was by far the most injured of all the survivors of the Chameleon."
"What happened, Doctor?"
"She was on the Bridge when it happened. A violent plasma explosion on her right side threw a metallic panel which tore her right leg off her. As she was still standing up, the intense heat wave from the explosion charred the whole right side of her body, which kept cooking, if you wish, for a time, until finally someone came in and started treating her. Now, with her right leg off, the heat wave also hit her crotch and the inside of her left leg, cooking it from the groin to the foot."
Wilkins winced at the thought.
"But … The reports say that she went from one end of the ship to the other, organizing, encouraging, supervising! And when she hailed us, she was standing up!"
"Yes, Admiral. Obviously every second she stood up caused her an excruciating pain, from the sole of her foot up to her groin. Walking was even worse, since she had to rely on the support of one of her companions …"
"Ensign Fox, mostly."
"That's what I heard. Now, every time she put her arm around the ensign's shoulder, it tore some of the wounds in the process of healing. I heard the ensign had the good idea to bare her shoulders and put gaze on it, and convinced the Lieutenant to wear only her tank top. She did well, because it would only have been worse. Still, she had to change the bandages several times a day, because blood and other fluids oozed from the Lieutenant's arm and side."
"But she was wearing a full uniform when she hailed us."
"I'm not surprised any more by anything you can tell me about her, Sir."
"How long to regenerate her skin completely?"
"Regenerate, Sir? That skin will never regenerate. All we do right now is slowing down the decay. But we'll have to graft a synthetic skin on all burned parts in the next few days, or it will be too late for her. Unfortunately, with that skin she won't be able to feel anything ever again …"
January 16, 2400
The room was small, but very luxurious. That was one of the perks of Worf's new job, and he intended to use all of them fully, as he still was not quite happy of having been "forced" to take it. But for a private conversation with Admiral Wilkins, it was the ideal place.
Worf liked the guy. He talked like a true Klingon, he ate like a true Klingon, he drank, he swore, and he fought like a true Klingon. Yet he was maybe the most loved of all Starfleet Admirals. Loved and dreaded. An ideal combination, exactly what Worf was going for: loved by the people, feared by his enemies, especially those filthy p'tahks in the High Council who would press for a non-aggression treaty with the Dominion.
"Starbases?"
"Yes, Chancellor. We would first build a huge starbase in the Khitomer System, which would among other things serve as an experimental shipyard to build a warship quite different from the most advanced warships we presently own."
"Like the Defiant-II."
"Yes, Chancellor. But it wouldn't be just a Defiant-III."
"This starbase would be used by Starfleet, and would be in Klingon space. Already many members of the High Council disagreed with my decision to welcome you in the Khitomer System. They won't like a starbase at all."
Wilkins knew that Worf was not well-liked as the new Chancellor, that in fact many had accused him of playing on Martok's old age to extort the nomination from him. Still, no candidate — and they had been many — had half the credentials Worf had reluctantly thrown in the balance.
"We could make it the same kind of deal we have on Deep Space Nine. The station is and remains Klingon property, with a Starfleet-Klingon staff. But the Commanding Officer would be Starfleet."
"Starfleet would be — what, leasing the place?"
"We would build it, maintain it, everything, and the Klingon Empire would own it."
Worf looked at the man. He knew it was everything he would get. Wilkins could not offer more.
"Very well. I will propose this arrangement to the Council."
"How long do you think …?"
"Start building it as soon as you can. I'll make them approve it, if I have to make a few heads roll on the floor."
***
Kira could not believe her eyes and ears. Ten days after "the thing", as she still called it in her heart, first there had been that public announcement, broadcasted from what was probably the flagship of the Dominion Fleet protecting, but still effectively blockading the Bajoran System.
The Founder had appeared on every Bajoran screen.
"I bring you the greetings of the Dominion.
For many years now, we have been at war with the United Federation of Planets, of which Bajor is a part. But since the beginning, we have been very careful to leave you alone. The reason for this was simple: Your Prophets had asked us to do so when we had asked them the authorization to cross the Celestial Temple.
A few weeks ago, they came to us and asked us to offer protection to Bajor against an implacable enemy which would forever destroy your way of life. We agreed on the condition that we could also make sure that the Celestial Temple could not be crossed any longer by our enemies.
That is the current situation. The Dominion will NOT, at any time, perform any act of aggression against the Bajoran System, but will prevent its enemies from communicating with it. For the next thirty days, anyone wishing to leave the System — and that includes the occupants of Terok Nor — is free to do so. They will be peacefully escorted as far as possible to avoid any unwanted attack by any of our ships, or any ship of our Reman allies. After those thirty days, anyone remaining will be considered as having embraced the Peace of the Dominion. Although you will keep your culture, way of life, etc., you will be treated as if you were subjects of the Dominion in any matter for which you would require assistance.
A detailed document will soon be sent to all your leaders, detailing our future relationship. Thank you for your time."
And now, that lengthy document, which essentially was a pact of non-aggression and a list of all kinds of supplies and help available without charge from the Dominion just for the asking …
"They're trying to bribe us!" Ro said angrily.
"That much is sure. They need the Wormhole, and they'll do anything to keep it open exclusively to their ships. They haven't forgotten what the Prophets did to them last time they tried to attack Bajor."
"Here they come."
"Fire on my command. Steady, people. Make every shot count."
"Benjamin."
"They've cloaked."
"I'm not picking up any neutrino emissions …"
"Then where did they go?"
"Wherever they went, I don't think they're coming back."
Ro looked at Kira. They both were thinking the same thing, but Ro was the first to actually say it.
"You think the government will fall for it?"
***
"How is she, Doctor?"
Wilkins had tried to read Sabrina's medical record. He had stopped after three lines, horrified. Now he wanted to meet the little woman before she died, as the doctors still had no idea if she would survive her wounds. And there she was, heavily sedated, still horribly scarred on her right side from all the temporary grafts of skin performed on her. She had been stripped naked and placed in suspension in a regenerating gel. She had several tubes inserted into her only arm — as the dead stump remaining from her right arm had been amputated —, more in her only leg left, more in her chest and back, and yet more in her abdomen. Those last ones were excruciatingly painful and she could hardly find sleep, despite the analgesics constantly pumped into her.
She wasn’t fed, but one of the tubes in her abdomen and one in her chest brought her the fluids and nutrients she needed to survive. The others served several purposes: monitoring her vital signs, stimulating her muscles and organs, regulating the temperature of her vital parts, etc. She was alone most of the time, shivering with fear, sobbing from the pain which made even breathing difficult.
Marcus Fillmore looked at Wilkins and began, shaking his head:
"I don't understand how she could do everything she did for so long, Sir. It was much worse than just having lost an eye and a leg. In fact, she was by far the most injured of all the survivors of the Chameleon."
"What happened, Doctor?"
"She was on the Bridge when it happened. A violent plasma explosion on her right side threw a metallic panel which tore her right leg off her. As she was still standing up, the intense heat wave from the explosion charred the whole right side of her body, which kept cooking, if you wish, for a time, until finally someone came in and started treating her. Now, with her right leg off, the heat wave also hit her crotch and the inside of her left leg, cooking it from the groin to the foot."
Wilkins winced at the thought.
"But … The reports say that she went from one end of the ship to the other, organizing, encouraging, supervising! And when she hailed us, she was standing up!"
"Yes, Admiral. Obviously every second she stood up caused her an excruciating pain, from the sole of her foot up to her groin. Walking was even worse, since she had to rely on the support of one of her companions …"
"Ensign Fox, mostly."
"That's what I heard. Now, every time she put her arm around the ensign's shoulder, it tore some of the wounds in the process of healing. I heard the ensign had the good idea to bare her shoulders and put gaze on it, and convinced the Lieutenant to wear only her tank top. She did well, because it would only have been worse. Still, she had to change the bandages several times a day, because blood and other fluids oozed from the Lieutenant's arm and side."
"But she was wearing a full uniform when she hailed us."
"I'm not surprised any more by anything you can tell me about her, Sir."
"How long to regenerate her skin completely?"
"Regenerate, Sir? That skin will never regenerate. All we do right now is slowing down the decay. But we'll have to graft a synthetic skin on all burned parts in the next few days, or it will be too late for her. Unfortunately, with that skin she won't be able to feel anything ever again …"
USS Masada, January 8, 2395
Lieutenant Jethro Aloysius Watson (nicknamed JAW by the very select few who were entitled to joke with him, and that was not only a reference to his initials) was not a chatty man. That was not, never had been his specialty. When he really needed to make himself understood, all he had to do was to stand very straight and as wide as he could. At 2.10 meters of altitude, and wider than many doors on the Masada, he was already quite impressive. But the face he did when he was not in a good mood — giving him more or less the allure of the Frankenstein Monster having been assimilated by the Borg — had already made even some of his superiors jerk backward the first time they had met him.
Facing him, all tied up and stripped to the waist, her face, arms and shoulders already black and blue from the punches he had thrown her with the anvils he used as fists, so small, so tiny, Crewman Yirina Sorel, whose crime was being a Romulan two days after Cestus IV. The poor girl was desperately trying to stay conscious. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of fainting again.
She still didn't understand how Watson could treat her that way, and her attempts at asking what was happening had brought here a few more punches and several spits in the face. The slobbers already running from her forehead to her chin, through her almost closed eyes and her bloody, swollen, slit lips, disgusted her, making her feel like retching even more than the belly punches the monster had given her.
But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction …
***
RAF Deletham, January 16, 2400
"Are you sure that it's what you want, Yirina?"
Yirina Sorel looked at the woman in front of her. At 62, T'Rul was old enough to be her mother, and right now that's exactly what she looked like: a concerned, loving mother trying to stop her daughter from making a terrible mistake. But Yirina's mind was made.
"Yes, Commander. I'm going back to Starfleet. I'm going back to Lieutenant Watson's team."
"You're going back to the beatings, you're going back to the waste conduits scrubbing, you're going back to the no-rank drudge, when here you might be my second in command."
"I won't give them the satisfaction, Commander."
"There's such thing as too much pride, you know."
"It's not only that, Commander. I believe that some day, not only will they get tired of beating me, but also they will realize that the vast majority of us are actually loyal friends of the Federation. If I leave now, I won't be able to help them understand that."
"Do you think they ever will?"
"I know one already has."
"Yirina?"
"What?"
"Before I … disembark, I … I wish to … ask you to … please forgive me?"
"Are those tears real?"
"I should never have doubted you. I should have taken your defense. I should have — called Security, or done something. But I was so scared, and — I'm so sorry, Yirina!"
Yirina had looked at the crying woman in front of her. Yes, her regrets seemed sincere.
"I forgive you, Monica. Those times were weird enough to make anyone lose their mind for a moment. I forgive you on one condition."
"Anything!"
"Don't ever, ever mention this to anyone, not even me. Do I have your word?"
Monica McKeon had given her word and left for the Edinburgh, where her services were required. So yes, the others would understand, eventually. Yirina would take everything they'd dish at her for as long as it would take. After all, maybe this was the way she would finally be freed from her own ghosts …
***
"The Admiral has arrived!"
"Are we ready for inspection?"
"No problem. We all know what he's gonna inspect first!"
Yes, "the Admiral" had arrived. The one man every engineer, Starfleet or not, feared. The one man who could with a word make or break a career, any career in the Starfleet Engineer Corps, had just landed his small escort vessel on the tarmac of the Salan shipyards, around the small planet of the same name, orbiting around Qo'noS twin suns.
For several days now they knew that he was going to visit the shipyards. Everyone, but everyone had scrambled to make their working spaces acceptable to his merciless judgment. For they all knew that if ONE single bolt, ONE single nut was even slightly out of alignment, he would find out. If ONE single blueprint, ONE single log was not absolutely up to date, he would find out. He was the Terror of all Engineers, their Living Nightmare.
"I want to see it now."
No need for him to say what "it" was. It could only be one thing. It could only be the ship.
"Please understand, Sir, that we haven't had a lot of time to start working", Commander Simmons, a reasonably competent engineer, but much more gifted administrator, was trying to make him understand as he walked quite briskly for a man of his age, "and it was in terrible shape when it came in …"
"Young man", the Admiral replied, "once a Vorta defined a Starfleet engineer as someone who can turn rocks into replicators. Are you telling me now that he was wrong?"
"No, Sir, of course! I'd never …"
"I certainly hope so. So who's in charge of that pig sty?" he cut sternly, as they arrived on a dry dock seemingly in a most complete disarray.
"It's … Lieutenant O'Brien. There she is."
"Lieutenant O'Brien, huh? Tell me, Lieutenant, is this how you have been taught to work at Starfleet Academy?"
"No, Sir."
"So how come this place is such a pigpen, huh?"
"That's how you taught me, Daddy!"
***
"Damn! It's official!"
"So they now hold most major powers!"
"They still haven't taken the Ferengis, the Sheliaks, the Gorns, the Talarians and the Tholians."
Karov grunted angrily. Forsythe sighed.
"I know, General. The Ferengis will probably escape assimilation, since their technology isn't worth shit. So logically, the Sheliaks are their next victims."
"The Sheliaks are not as strong as the Breens, and the Breens fell in less than two weeks!"
"But the Borg probably wanted to seat their stronghold on the Federation once and for all, and for that Breen space was the logical way to go, for it essentially isolates the Sheliaks and the others from the rest of the quadrant. Now, they'll probably settle, which should take a couple of years at least."
"I hope you're right. Where is the Admiral?"
"The Admiral and Commander Dvorak are on Qo'noS, visiting your Chancellor first …"
"About the stations?"
"Yes. Then he planned to visit the field hospital in the Capitol City, especially that little lieutenant who brought the Chameleon back at the price of her face and leg."
"Yes, we all know that the Admiral cares for his troops." Karov sneered.
"You disagree."
"I just wonder if the Admiral would be so enthusiastic if the lieutenant was older, or a male for that matter."
"He lost his nieces in a very dramatic situation, General. He can't help caring, sometimes too much, I agree, for young females under his command. But he's an honest man."
"I wouldn't respect a cradle robber, as you call them, Admiral."
Lieutenant Jethro Aloysius Watson (nicknamed JAW by the very select few who were entitled to joke with him, and that was not only a reference to his initials) was not a chatty man. That was not, never had been his specialty. When he really needed to make himself understood, all he had to do was to stand very straight and as wide as he could. At 2.10 meters of altitude, and wider than many doors on the Masada, he was already quite impressive. But the face he did when he was not in a good mood — giving him more or less the allure of the Frankenstein Monster having been assimilated by the Borg — had already made even some of his superiors jerk backward the first time they had met him.
Facing him, all tied up and stripped to the waist, her face, arms and shoulders already black and blue from the punches he had thrown her with the anvils he used as fists, so small, so tiny, Crewman Yirina Sorel, whose crime was being a Romulan two days after Cestus IV. The poor girl was desperately trying to stay conscious. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of fainting again.
She still didn't understand how Watson could treat her that way, and her attempts at asking what was happening had brought here a few more punches and several spits in the face. The slobbers already running from her forehead to her chin, through her almost closed eyes and her bloody, swollen, slit lips, disgusted her, making her feel like retching even more than the belly punches the monster had given her.
But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction …
***
RAF Deletham, January 16, 2400
"Are you sure that it's what you want, Yirina?"
Yirina Sorel looked at the woman in front of her. At 62, T'Rul was old enough to be her mother, and right now that's exactly what she looked like: a concerned, loving mother trying to stop her daughter from making a terrible mistake. But Yirina's mind was made.
"Yes, Commander. I'm going back to Starfleet. I'm going back to Lieutenant Watson's team."
"You're going back to the beatings, you're going back to the waste conduits scrubbing, you're going back to the no-rank drudge, when here you might be my second in command."
"I won't give them the satisfaction, Commander."
"There's such thing as too much pride, you know."
"It's not only that, Commander. I believe that some day, not only will they get tired of beating me, but also they will realize that the vast majority of us are actually loyal friends of the Federation. If I leave now, I won't be able to help them understand that."
"Do you think they ever will?"
"I know one already has."
"Yirina?"
"What?"
"Before I … disembark, I … I wish to … ask you to … please forgive me?"
"Are those tears real?"
"I should never have doubted you. I should have taken your defense. I should have — called Security, or done something. But I was so scared, and — I'm so sorry, Yirina!"
Yirina had looked at the crying woman in front of her. Yes, her regrets seemed sincere.
"I forgive you, Monica. Those times were weird enough to make anyone lose their mind for a moment. I forgive you on one condition."
"Anything!"
"Don't ever, ever mention this to anyone, not even me. Do I have your word?"
Monica McKeon had given her word and left for the Edinburgh, where her services were required. So yes, the others would understand, eventually. Yirina would take everything they'd dish at her for as long as it would take. After all, maybe this was the way she would finally be freed from her own ghosts …
***
"The Admiral has arrived!"
"Are we ready for inspection?"
"No problem. We all know what he's gonna inspect first!"
Yes, "the Admiral" had arrived. The one man every engineer, Starfleet or not, feared. The one man who could with a word make or break a career, any career in the Starfleet Engineer Corps, had just landed his small escort vessel on the tarmac of the Salan shipyards, around the small planet of the same name, orbiting around Qo'noS twin suns.
For several days now they knew that he was going to visit the shipyards. Everyone, but everyone had scrambled to make their working spaces acceptable to his merciless judgment. For they all knew that if ONE single bolt, ONE single nut was even slightly out of alignment, he would find out. If ONE single blueprint, ONE single log was not absolutely up to date, he would find out. He was the Terror of all Engineers, their Living Nightmare.
"I want to see it now."
No need for him to say what "it" was. It could only be one thing. It could only be the ship.
"Please understand, Sir, that we haven't had a lot of time to start working", Commander Simmons, a reasonably competent engineer, but much more gifted administrator, was trying to make him understand as he walked quite briskly for a man of his age, "and it was in terrible shape when it came in …"
"Young man", the Admiral replied, "once a Vorta defined a Starfleet engineer as someone who can turn rocks into replicators. Are you telling me now that he was wrong?"
"No, Sir, of course! I'd never …"
"I certainly hope so. So who's in charge of that pig sty?" he cut sternly, as they arrived on a dry dock seemingly in a most complete disarray.
"It's … Lieutenant O'Brien. There she is."
"Lieutenant O'Brien, huh? Tell me, Lieutenant, is this how you have been taught to work at Starfleet Academy?"
"No, Sir."
"So how come this place is such a pigpen, huh?"
"That's how you taught me, Daddy!"
***
"Damn! It's official!"
"So they now hold most major powers!"
"They still haven't taken the Ferengis, the Sheliaks, the Gorns, the Talarians and the Tholians."
Karov grunted angrily. Forsythe sighed.
"I know, General. The Ferengis will probably escape assimilation, since their technology isn't worth shit. So logically, the Sheliaks are their next victims."
"The Sheliaks are not as strong as the Breens, and the Breens fell in less than two weeks!"
"But the Borg probably wanted to seat their stronghold on the Federation once and for all, and for that Breen space was the logical way to go, for it essentially isolates the Sheliaks and the others from the rest of the quadrant. Now, they'll probably settle, which should take a couple of years at least."
"I hope you're right. Where is the Admiral?"
"The Admiral and Commander Dvorak are on Qo'noS, visiting your Chancellor first …"
"About the stations?"
"Yes. Then he planned to visit the field hospital in the Capitol City, especially that little lieutenant who brought the Chameleon back at the price of her face and leg."
"Yes, we all know that the Admiral cares for his troops." Karov sneered.
"You disagree."
"I just wonder if the Admiral would be so enthusiastic if the lieutenant was older, or a male for that matter."
"He lost his nieces in a very dramatic situation, General. He can't help caring, sometimes too much, I agree, for young females under his command. But he's an honest man."
"I wouldn't respect a cradle robber, as you call them, Admiral."
What, don't you like the nice MASH on Qo'noS where my little Sabrina is being taken care of? All starships normally come with a sickbay. The Chameleon was very badly hurt almost immediately -- it's a prototype, remember? -- and its sickbay, medical staff and EMH were gone, along with 75 % of the bridge and all the senior staff. It shouldn't even have been able to come back.
Believe you me that right now, Starfleet will be more busy to try to design the next Dauntless than a new Pasteur ...
Believe you me that right now, Starfleet will be more busy to try to design the next Dauntless than a new Pasteur ...
Still pretty good. Cool to see O'Brien, though don't really buy him as an Admiral. They don't give out honorary Admiralships to noncoms now do they? If so, sign me up for the new Starfleet! 
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