The Seventh Day

[Orbing Master]

“The Seventh Day”
A Star Trek story of the Mirror Universe
By Alex Matthews

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

For over two hundred years, the Terran Empire cast a dark and foreboding shadow over the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Their iron grip stretched out from Earth Prime to encompass all that fell within their path to glory and conquest. Billions were indoctrinated and made client-citizens, millions were resettled to make way for their masters, and thousands were enslaved or killed on a whim.

Because Terrans, born of fire and fight, had clawed their way back from the brink of extinction and were determined to prove they would bow down to no one.

This all changed in 2257, with the disappearance and suspected death of Emperor Phillippa, Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo'noS, and Regina Andor. Her sudden loss, along with the majority of her Imperial Council lead to a power vacuum within the Royal Court. Many undeserving low-ranking members of the nobility were determined to make their mark and secure their legacy by taking her place.

The Imperial Starfleet marched on, claiming more planets in the name of the Empire, as in-fighting among the Lords and Viscounts grew bloodier. For two decades, the Throne remained largely empty, with no one individual proving their strength for longer than several weeks before a usurper would take their place.

Until Spock, Grand Admiral and Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Starfleet, the first alien to ever hold such rank and position, took the throne for himself. No longer would the power and might of the Empire lay in the hands of a chosen, nepotistic few. Now, the Empire would be led by one who had served on the front lines, who had led troops into battle and emerged victorious time and again.

It should have been the beginning of a golden new age for the Terran Empire.

But Emperor Spock had other plans…

Under his rule, change began to happen within the Empire as a whole. No longer would they seek out new worlds and new civilizations to conquer them. Instead, they would focus on the worlds already under their banner, renouncing the old ways of the Empire to make way for the Terran Republic. Freedom and self-determination would be the key principles in this new way forward, as hundreds of formerly-subjugated worlds found themselves out from under the heel of their oppressors.

Words of peace and hope became the death knell of the Terran rule.

In 2295, the Republic, weakened due to the unilateral disarmament implemented by Spock’s government, faced the wrath of the newly-ratified Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. With the cloaking technology of the Klingon Empire combined with the growing might and accelerated ship-building of the Cardassian Union, the Terran Republic’s influence drastically waned as their forces were beaten back.

Terra Nova, Deneva, and the Vega Colonies were blasted to ruins, decimating the populations, damaging ecospheres, and leaving burning rubble behind for the survivors to claw their way out of. The human settlements in the Rigel and Alpha Centauri systems were wiped out, allowing the native races within to reclaim their territory, under the watchful eyes of their new Alliance Intendants. Finally, in the early part of the 24th century, Mars and Earth, the last holdouts of a desperate Imperial remnant, fell to the Alliance onslaught

The beginning of an ever darker chapter for the Alpha and Beta Quadrant commenced.

Planets gifted a brief glimpse of hope and independence had that reality dashed before it even had a chance to grow. Worlds like Vulcan, Andor, Tellar, Betazed, and Delta IV, which had enjoyed at least some autonomy from Terran rule, now bowed in servitude to the might of the Alliance. Others, victimized and brutalized such as Bajor and Alpha Centauri, celebrated as their former masters became something less than second-class citizens in their former dominion, taking every opportunity that presented itself to inflict vengeance.

Some races, such as the Ferengi and Orions, managed to come out of the Collapse relatively unscathed and free to continue to operate as they had been. But the wary eyes of the Alliance were on them at all times, curtailing certain lucrative business operations.

As for the Terrans that survived the Great Purge, they were broken and beaten. Defeated so thoroughly that they became the laughingstock of two quadrants. Something to be pitied. Ignored. Useful only as property. The ‘alien trash of the Galaxy’, as one Cardassian legate once said.

But even in the darkest moments, hope can still come from within. Because Terrans just don’t know when to quit. Those who could, banded together, offering resistance, and causing strife and chaos where they could. Others worked to help their enslaved brothers and sisters to find freedom and relative safety. Working in the shadows and staying out of sight…

This wasn’t always successful.

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

The nightmare started with fire.

On a subliminal, lucid, and aware level, Sara Frost knew she was safe. That she was asleep in her cot, in the private confines of her cabin. But that didn’t stop her from feeling the flames against her skin. The hairs on her arm were scorched off, her skin blistering green from the sheer heat, thanks to her mother’s Vulcan blood.

The sense-memory of this day was something that would haunt her every day until she died, Sara knew. The day she lost everything that mattered. Her home. Her livelihood. Her husband.

As if conjured by the thought, her beloved Leo crawled towards her through the flames. Savage burns marred his lined face, his bright eyes watering from the fumes as their home on Coridan Prime went up in smoke. An architectural antique from bygone years that they’d spent seven years restoring, burning around them.

“We have to go,” he told her, just as he had on the fateful day, as he helped her stand on unsteady legs. “We don’t have much time before we lose power.”

As he pulled her by the hand, dodging the flames that ate through the dining room and led her into their private study, Sara knew what was coming. What she desperately didn’t want to witness again. But try as she might, she couldn’t force words out of her mouth, couldn’t catch her breath thanks to the smoke, couldn’t hear Leo’s words as a shrill beeping grew louder and louder–

–until it pulled Sara from the grip of her tumultuous slumber, and she opened bleary eyes with confusion as she awoke.

It took a moment for the brain to catch up with the body, as she blinked in momentary confusion. Where..? Her quarters, that’s where she was, on her ship, the Kyi’i. Just another day on the calendar. Four long years since she’d fled the Alliance attack on her home, surviving by the skin of her teeth.

The source of the ever-increasing volume of the noise that had woke her was the antiquated desktop computer across from the room. Shaking off the last vestiges of the cobwebs in her brain, Sara rolled off the bed, crossing the small compartment in a single stride to activate it. Doing her damnedest to dispel the latent feelings of heartache and despair that the nightmare of the worst day of her life left her with.

The old monitor, a scavenged remnant of Imperial tech long outdated but still functional and useful, slowly routed the incoming transmission to her. Sara took that time to repeat her favorite mantra from ‘The Teachings of Surak’, the forbidden lore that her mother had taught her. Not just to help embrace her Vulcan heritage, but to also acknowledge and work with the fraught emotions that came from both her human and Vulcan biology. To not just purge them as it was believed Surak had taught, but to control them, to understand them. Accept them.

Something that was oh-so-much easier in theory than it was in practice.

As she finished, the square screen finally came to life with a series of encrypted pictograms displayed. Their appearance immediately made Sara sit straighter. This comms channel was coming to her directly, through a private subspace frequency, which meant only one thing - someone had a job for her and her crew.

Decrypting the pictograms was an easy task, as was pinging the sender of the message once Sara had made sure to double-secure her side of the transmission. After a few more moments of each of their systems confirming and re-checking their status, the screen image shifted to a familiar and only slightly-unwelcome sight.

Jaicyn Norvin smiled in that smarmy, arrogant way that Sara loathed, [Catch you at a bad time, Sara?]

Sara kept her expression cool and collected, as she replied “No more than usual.” She ignored his characteristic leer as he enjoyed the sight of her in nothing but her undergarments. Refusing to allow him to get a rise out of her.

Dealing with the lecherous El-Aurian was one of the many arduous tasks she’d learned to tolerate as part of everyday life, as much as she seethed privately that she needed to stay in his good books. As the most preeminent black market broker across six sectors, dealing with him was a necessary evil, if someone wanted to keep the latinum coming.

Knowing that he wouldn’t have contacted her with the coded message without good reason, Sara got straight to the point, “What’s the job?”

As Norvin began outlining things, Sara began taking notes, calling up intel on the area of space he was sending them to, and putting a call up to Bhrash in the cockpit to alter course. Multi-tasking was simple enough, and it felt good to have something else to focus on besides the nightmare.

In the first few months after she’d fled Coridan, as she dealt with the survivors’ guilt and was plagued by the ‘what-ifs’, the nightmare had been a constant companion. Even a delta-wave inducer wouldn’t free her from its grip. Only with contemplative and self-guided therapeutic meditation had she been able to move past those feelings. Putting them to rest, knowing that they would always be with her, but with time, would ease. Slowly, she had returned to a semblance of a normal sleep pattern, not having had a nightmare for over 2 years.

So… why had it come back now?

* * *

 

[Orbing Master]

There was no going back now.

The dilapidated Ferengi-made shuttlepod had seen better days. It hung in the depths of space, the occasional burst from attitude thrusters keeping it in a relatively-fixed position. Most internal systems powered down as its solitary occupant waited within a cabin that was only several degrees above freezing. It was the only way to ration what little power the overworked and outdated spacecraft had left.

But the Andorian chan was used to cold temperatures. Jhisinsher ch’Lene had grown up in the frozen tundra of the Lake Thalassa Resettlement Zone, one of the less hospitable encampments across the icy wastelands of Andor’s surface. The sight of his breath misting in front of his face reminded him of home, of days around the communal firepit sharing stories with the rest of their large expanded family.

It was more pleasant to focus on those distant memories of years past than those of more recent times. But that didn’t stop the occasional errant and intrusive flash of the weeks he’d spent on the burned-out and barely-liveable surface of Terra Prime, the former capital of the late Terran Republic. Taking advantage of a cover as a newly-arrived research assistant, he had gained valuable actionable intel in regards to a secret project, whispers of which had reached the Resistance.

Although ch’Lene understand little of what he’d learned, he was confident that his handlers would be able to put it to good use. That the restless nights he’d slept with a dagger under his pillow and a phaser hidden in a bedside draw meant something. Still, that had been nothing compared to the humiliation and degradation he’d witnessed, the inhumane treatment he’d seen dozens of Terran slaves put through at the hands of Cardassian guards.

He had no personal love for Terrans as a race and knew from history books that they had been ruthless and cruel during their reign of terror. But was that truly reason enough for generations of their descendants to be treated in the ways he’d watched silently? Once, ch’Lene may have thought nothing of it, but now, there was enough doubt in his mind to make him question that nonchalance. For now, like many other non-Terrans and non-Vulcans that had joined the Resistance, their goals and objectives aligned with his own.

Out through the viewport, space rippled and the bloated green shape of an Orion trade barge dropped from warp. Ch’Lene’s next visible breath was one of cautious relief. Was this the ship he’d been waiting for? By Uzaveh, I hope so…

Bringing the basic laser-link system online, ch’Lene sent the coded signal. To any other ship, it would have appeared to be random gibberish from a malfunctioning system. Only the ship that he was supposed to meet, which had been arranged by his handler within the Resistance, would send the correct response.

The reply came back within seconds, followed by the dazzling emerald light of the docking tractor beam, which ensnared the much smaller craft and gently pulled it into the opening maw of a hanger deck.

Once the shuttle was safely down on the landing pad and systems were shut down, ch’Lene exited the craft and his antenna tingled from the rush of fresher recirculated air as he opened the hatch. Gratefully stepping down onto the deck, taking a moment to adjust to the slightly heavier artificial gravity compared to what the shuttle had provided, ch’Lene was impressed with what he saw.

The multi-level hanger deck was practically cavernous, in comparison to the shuttlepod he’d been cooped up in for the past few days, and it felt good to figuratively and literally stretch his legs. To be given a reminder of what freedom was supposed to be like after weeks in that hellhole.

But whatever good feelings ch’Lene was nursing was not going to last for very long. The main egress hatch opened and a squad of goons marched in. Though the group was a mix of races, each was male, well-muscled, shirtless, and armed with a phaser rifle. Antenna laying flat against his short white hair, ch’Lene cursed the involuntary display of his growing unnerved anxiety. This isn’t the standard protocol…

With bated breath and afraid to move, ch’Lene watched as the group parted with almost military precision and flowed around him. Surrounding him, as two Orion women entered, escorted by a younger man, this one a tad more modestly dressed than the others, while still showing off an impressive physique. The younger woman he recognized as R’Nara, the Resistence’s main point of contact with the Syndicate and the daughter of the First Matriarch of Clan Kellinnin, and the man was Varrak-Sar, her brother.

“Welcome aboard the Ka’Gaaran,” the older woman said. Although he’d never met her, ch’Lene grew wary as he realized just who she was: D’Nell, one of the most feared and respected leaders of the Orion Syndicate, who commanded almost a dozen cartels and was one of the largest suppliers of arms and materiel for the Terran Resistance.

Her voice was soft like like Tholian silk, with a teasing lilt to it. But ch’Lene felt his skin crawl under the dark intensity in her eyes. They danced with sadistic humor, like a Capellan power-cat toying with its prey… before landing the killing blow.

The neural truncheon that struck ch’Lene squarely in the back sent a shock coursing through his spinal column. So powerful that his antenna burned with convulsive spasms, his body arching as he was robbed of breath, frozen in agony before the young Andorian collapsed to the decking. He lay there, insensate and quivering, eyes open and staring upwards blankly as his overtaken nervous system tried to deal with the onslaught of pain.

D’Nell, her heeled shoes clicking across the metal service with a staccato rhythm, looked down at her ‘guest’, her smile both provocative and malicious, “You have no idea how pleasing it is to see that you made it here in one piece.”

Under her instruction, several of her private guardsmen, D’Nell watched with barely contained delight as ch’Lene was bound in restraints and dragged away. “This will do nicely. Those scale-faced Alliance bufoons will pay handsomely to have that little spy back in their clutches.” She beamed at her son and daughter with almost-manic glee, “Especially if this little project of theirs is as hush-hush as my sources say.”

Striding away, D’Nell was oblivious to the brief exchange of worried and disturbed glances between her children before they followed after her. This was a dangerous game their mother was playing. They both knew that.

With a calm and gentle pandering she had long learned to contrive, in order to play along with her mother’s self-deluded fantasies, R’Nara asked, “Is it wise to break our agreement with the Terrans? They have already paid upfront.”

D’Nell sneered with disgust, “Oh, please! A deal with the Terrans isn’t worth the PADD it’s written on, my darling.” She made a dismissive gesture as they made their way to her private parlor, where her Vulcan handmaids were already preparing her bath, “Besides, this so-called Rebellion does not have long left, anyway.”

Another silent exchange was shared between the siblings. Both R’Nara and Varrak had heard the rumors and seen the propaganda-led newscasts of what had been going on in the Bajoran sector. Word among the cartels and clan of the Syndicate was that doing business with either side could lead to some difficulty if they weren’t careful.

“Varrak, my darling boy,” D’Nell purred as she allowed her handmaidens to remove her clothing and place her bathing robe on, “Have that Lethean of yours find out what he can from the Andorian.”

Varrak-Sar kept his features stoic and deadpan, playing the subservient role as he always had. Never once letting his true loathing for Mother to show. “Of course, Mother.”

R’Nara couldn’t keep her own disgust hidden, but thankfully, D’Nell was too distracted by sinking into the milky water of her bath, imported directly from the Caves of Mak’ala from Trillius Prime. She continued, unawares, “Have the hanger master see if that wreck of a shuttle has anything useful. Then dump it and leave it to drift.”

As D’Nell sunk lower into the bathing waters, both of her children recognized the implied dismissal. Once they were in the corridor, Varrak dropped his facade. Cold eyes filled with suppressed hatred, “She’s gone too far this time.”

“I know,” R’Nara replied, her mind already running through options and strategies. When Mother had taken her under her wing and taught her everything about ruling over the cartels, and how to keep the clan chiefs and their lieutenants in line, R’Nara doubted D’Nell ever expected her to have it used against her.

But that was what looked like needed to be done.

As Varrak went to undertake his assigned task, with a promise to his sister to make sure Vevozk, his loyal telepathic aide, did his best not to leave any lasting damage on the Andorian, R’Nara headed to her own private and secure cabin.

Although nowhere as ostentatious as her mother’s rooms, R’Nara had taken advantage of the space and made it her own. Including a hidden and totally secure private commlink hidden within the vanity. A palmprint brought up the access panel and the retina scan and breath analyzer opened up the system.

She tapped in the private and encrypted frequency by heart, waiting for the confirmation that she was all-clear to send a signal.

“StarWhisperer calling Crackshot. We have a situation…”

* * *

Just one day, Jessica Kingsley pleaded to whatever higher beings might be listening, one day with any situations, issues, or problems. Is that too much to ask?

The victory of the Bajoran cell, led by Smiley O’Brien, should have been a day to remember. The dawn of a new beginning for Terrans in their fight to reclaim freedom and autonomy from the Alliance. A turning point.

How wrong they had been.

Kingsley was a practical woman. You didn’t grow up, survive and make a name for yourself as a Free Terran without knowing how the universe worked. How to make it work in your favor. She’d killed, deceived, and betrayed when needed. All for the greater good. For the benefit of Terrans everywhere. But she had done those things with a sense of honor and loyalty. Head held high and proud, wrestling with her guilt and conscience in private.

But right now, all those sacrifices that had eaten away little by little at her soul felt like they had been an utter waste. Right now, she had to put her unease and worry aside as she tried to reestablish some semblance of order in the Grand Meeting Plaza within the remains of the Babel Diplomatic Forum.

The barrage of overlapping voices resonated throughout the large room, but Jessica hadn’t gotten to where she was today without picking up a few tricks. “Everybody, SHUT UP!!”

It took a moment, but her words had the desired effect as the volume greatly decreased before dropping to relative silence. Only the straining of the antiquated air scrubbers keeping their atmosphere clean could be heard as Jessica reclaimed control of the meeting.

“Thank you.” She looked around at the assembled senior members of the Resistance cell that operated out of the ruins of the late Terran Republic’s failed attempt to create a diplomatic safe haven. She looked at the attractive, deceptively waif-like, woman at her side, “Kestra, please continue.”

Kestra Troi, their liaison with the Betazoid government-in-exile, nodded with gratitude before turning her dark eyes back to those assembled. She leaned heavily on the inactive old-style duotronic interface of the tactical situation table, “All ships within 3 light-years should divert course and offer what assistance they can. We have people in desperate need, not just of relocation, but emergency aid, and relief.”

“Ships we cannot spare!” At the far end of the situation table, Graav slammed his right hoof down hard enough that the display flickered for several moments. The Tellarite carried on without a care, sneering around his large tusks, “They are needed to keep patrolling and watch for any further Alliance attacks.”

Suvek, the Vulcan supply coordination manager, turned his dispassionate gaze toward the other man, “So you would ignore the plight of current victims while wasting resources ‘watching’ for attacks that are certain to come one way or another?” He arched a grey/white eyebrow, “Resources and manpower that would be needlessly wasted by engaging enemy forces they have no hope of defeating, given their limited number and armament.”

Graav’s ire and stubbornness gave way to reluctant understanding, at least partially. “Yes, our ships on the fringe are no match for anything the Alliance might through at us. But those people are willing to lay down their lives to buy time for the remainder to evacuate.”

“Commendable, indeed,” Suvek allowed, relaxing his own stance minutely, “But hardly logical.”

Before Graav could make a retort, Kingsley interceded, asking a question of the willow Andorian zhen next to Graav. “What about the extra ships you were hoping to mobilize, Luz?”

Analuzian ‘Luz’ zh’Lene frowned with regret, “We scavenged the Qualor II depot, but most of it is just so ill-maintained and outdated.” She did have one piece of good news, “There were a couple of old Daedalus-class cruisers, leftovers from the Imperial Corps of Engineers. Barely any weapons, but they can hold warp 7 and have massive cargo space.”

Kingsley sagged with some relief. Though no help in their fight against the Alliance, ships like that could help greatly with the relocation efforts currently underway. God knows we have hundreds of people that need pulling out of the line of fire.

The disappearance and supposed capture of the Regent by the Bajoran cell had spurned a massive pushback against any and all cells of the widespread Terran Resistance. Thanks to their state-of-the-art Imperial-designed warship, O’Brien and his forces could hold their own against that level of retaliation. Kingsley and her people, and the dozens of other cells she communicated infrequently that were closer to the former core of the late Republic, were not so fortunate.

From what her contacts had told her, Kingsley was already aware of Terran resettlement camps that had been savaged by Klingon forces to vent their impotent frustrations. Terra Nova, Cygnet XIV, and Inferna Prime were the ones most heavily hit recently, with refugees fleeing core-ward in a vain attempt to find safety.

“At least we have some breathing room right now,” she reminded them. With the shift in power within the Alliance, reports had come from scouts of being witness to skirmishes between Cardassian and Klingon squadrons. It was well known that the Cardies had long taken issue with the political clout the Foreheads wielded, despite the fact that the Alliance’s military strength came from the Union’s fast-paced shipbuilding capability. The increasing uptick in this infighting was at least a small reprieve from Alliance assaults on Terran holdings. “Focus on getting noncombatants out of the way. Understood?”

With that heated topic finally tabled, Kingsley ended the meeting with alacrity. As the other senior members exited the Grand Meeting Room, Kingsley stepped back from the situation table and took a calming breath.

From the shadows, out of the way, and having been silent during the discussions, Alexis Matthias stepped forward. “I thought I had a difficult job.”

Kingsley smirked at the pale-skinned, red-haired Terran woman who served their cell as Intelligence Officer, “Believe me, you’ve got it easy.”

Matthias approached the situation table, wishing she didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news. But she had immense respect for Kingsley, so cut right to the chase, “There’s been a development.”

Kingsley grimaced. More bad news. Great.

Matthias touched a control on the situation table, and a hologram of the old Imperial Starfleet seal wavered into being. “Before extraction, Jhish sent out a final data packet. Along with other intel, we’ve confirmed that whatever secret project the Cardassians are working on, they’re using old Imperial files as the basis of their research. The original codename for the project is unknown, but its current name is Operation Wavefront.”

As the hologram shifted to a familiar Andorian face, Matthias kept her emotions under control, her face composed and schooled to not give away just how worried about Jhish she was. “He was scheduled to rendezvous with the Orion merchant ship we arranged to meet with him two hours ago.”

Kingsley didn’t wait for the other shoe to drop. “He never made it, did he?”

Matthias felt her face flush, not with embarrassment at being taken for a ride, but sheer anger at her friend being used as a bargaining chip by some green-skinned, drug-addled harlot. “He’s alive. But D’Nell has decided that doing continued business with us is not to her advantage any longer.”

Kingsley remained silent just long enough for Alexis to explain what her informant had relayed to her, before letting loose. “Dammit!” In a rare outburst, Kingsley grabbed an isolinear rod and threw it across the chamber, where it clattered and rolled into a break in the stone floor. “That no-good bitch!”

Matthias stayed silent, allowing the cell leader a moment to collect herself. After a moment, Kingsley let out a ragged breath as she stood up, setting her shoulders, “This is on me. I should have sent someone to keep an eye on her.”

“More than likely,” Matthias reasoned calmly and gently, “D’Nell would have simply detained or killed anyone we sent.” She then offered Kingsley the data-slate she’d been holding tightly, “There’s something else you need to be aware of from Jhish’s message. He confirms several of the lead scientists of the project. One name, in particular, stood out.”

As she read the file, Kingsley felt her heart drop into her stomach. It can’t be… But there it was, a name she hadn’t expected to see, along with a holoscan image.

“We have to let her know.”

Kingsley met Matthias’s gaze. “Are we absolutely certain, though, Alexis?” She shook her head, conflicted, wondering if this was someone she had loved and lost, what it would mean to be given this kind of opportunity.

Alexis maintained her level gaze. If it were me, she considered privately, I’d move heaven and earth. “We owe it to her, Jessica. For everything she sacrificed, what she thought she’d lost.” At least, from a pragmatic view, it could very well be the lure they needed to bring someone back into the fold.

Kingsley found herself nodding. Then, the realization hit her, and she rolled her eyes, “You already knew I would agree, didn’t you?”

Matthias’s coy smile was answer enough. “The Deliverance is already being prepped for departure as soon as you give the all-clear.”

“Consider it given,” she responded. Given the bad news that had been coming in waves lately, it felt good to have something go their way. Even just a little.

She hoped it was going to last…

* * *

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Quite intense and intricate. I've never been a fan of Mirror Universe stories, but you might have sold me on this one...

Thanks!! rbs

 

[admiralelm11]

The USS Courageous crew's Mirror Universe counterparts... I like it. I would read more if there was more available.

 

[Bynar0110]

I always been fascinated with the mirror universe. Excellent read.

 

[Orbing Master]

The USS Courageous crew's Mirror Universe counterparts... I like it. I would read more if there was more available.

More is coming! Hoping to have it finished in time, but we'll see

 

[admiralelm11]

I'm patient, sir. Take your time. I should try and get some writing done myself.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Be sure to post the link to this story in the thread for the challenge. There's no rule that requires the story to be complete and the opening is competitive as presented.

 

[Orbing Master]

As the Kyi’i took an abrupt nose-dive under her careful yet steadfast control, Sara Frost ignored the churning of her stomach as the inertial dampers failed to keep up with her evasive manoeuvres. I should have know our sudden good luck wasn’t going to last…

The emerald glare of Kzinti disruptors tore through space, grazing the forward shields of the Vulcan Solkar-class courier. The power grid handled the sudden assault with admirable ease, with only a 2% drop in efficiency for less than 10 seconds.

Unfortunately, their first lucky shot minutes earlier had taken out their warp drive and left them with a plasma leak in the annular warp ring. Which meant they were stuck in a fight they had no way of winning. “Status?”

“Shields are holding at 78%,” responded the lithe, dark-skinned Betazoid manning the co-pilot station. She turned dark eyes to glare wryly at Sara, “The Kzinti are gaining. How did you piss these guys off?”

“Why is it always my fault?” Sara shot back with a sardonic grin. Normally, Nyia Lanjar would be ensconced in the small medical bay she maintained in a pristine condition, but in emergency situations, the small crew pitched in wherever they could. She and Sara manned the bridge, while the rest of the crew followed whatever orders the very stubborn and resilient Bolian she’d been lucky enough to snag as an engineer might bark at them in the engine room.

Come on, old girl, keep it together… The ship may be close to a century old, but the engines and defensive systems were the best money could buy, tended to and cared for. Still, as the ship shook from the impact, Frost opened a comm line to the engine room to address that very same individual, “Bhrash, I need warp drive back on-line! Now!”

[Doing what I can, Boss!] The sounds of straining systems and escaping gasses almost drowned out Hroviin Bhrash’s harried reply, [Wasn’t this supposed to be easy money?!]

Frost smirked mirthlessly. That’s what Norvin had told them. For three days, they’d skulked around the dusty ruins of Delta IV, a planet long-since wrecked and unable to support life, back during the darkest misadventures of the Terran Empire. Waiting for an Alliance freighter to pass through the system, on its way to deliver a large sum of latinum bricks, ill-gotten gains being funnelled as tribute to the Intendant of Tellar.

It should have been a simple snatch-and-grab operation. One of several ‘extralegal’ jobs that Sara and her crew had undertaken over the past few years. It wasn’t her favorite way to make money, but it had the distinction of being a way to stock up on money to pay the bills and keep the ship running, while also sticking it to and pissing off the Alliance.

After what they had taken from her, Frost didn’t mind resorting to this kind of activity every once in a while. As long as it was an easy enough task.

This time, their luck had run out. As the freighter had passed through the outer edges of the Delta IV dust cloud, Frost and her crew had sprung their trap - only to find that they themselves were the ones falling into one.

Three advanced Kzinti destroyers had come out of nowhere so fast, that Frost suspected that they’d been equipped with cloaking devices. The Kyi’i had decent sensor systems, sure, but cloaking tech was now prolific, shared among the Alliance, as well as races like the Breen and Romulans. Each of them having modified it for their own usage and needs, so it could be damn near impossible to keep ahead of the curve in ways to pierce the invisibility screens.

The reputation of the Patriarchy, once the laughing stock of the quadrant after their defeat and conquest at the hands of Empress Sato the First, had greatly improved in the wake of the Collapse. But they were still small fish in a big pond, so it made sense they’d come after the Kyi’i and her crew, in order to cash in on one of the many warrants put out against the crew by the Alliance.

They went to all this trouble. I guess we should be flattered…

The cockpit shook with the impact of weapons discharge, this one a lot more forceful. The status displays on the viewport HUD flickered, then shifted from the usual blue to an alarming red.

The panic and outrage in Bhrash’s voice over the intercom filled the compartment, [Boss, that shot just took out the starboard EPS conduit! We’re barely keeping it together down here!]

Before she can reply, Nyia called out, panic-stricken, “Shields are down to 19%!”

Oh, shit… Sara tried to push all those pesky emotions out of the way, but her own fear and uncertainty was threatening to overwhelm her. It cannot end like this..!

Any thoughts about another death-defying last-minute acrobatic manoeuvre went out of her mind as the daunting sight of the lead Kzinti destroyer rose up from directly ahead. Its forward disruptor ports were glowing with sickly verdant energy. Both women looked out at the image of death hanging in front of them before the chirp of an incoming signal diverted Nyia’s attention.

After a moment, she looked back over at Sara, pale and sick to her stomach, “They’re hailing. Demanding our unconditional surrender or they’ll destroy us.”

Fighting the rising bile in her throat, Sara felt her heart skip a beat. It wasn’t as easy a choice as it sounded. The Kzinti were not exactly known for hospitality, for prisoners in general, and women in particular. But if the bounties on the heads of Sara and her crew were high enough, it might mean they had at least a chance of staying alive long enough to come up with some kind of rescue or escape plan.

Slowly she nodded, “Alright.” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Signal our su--”

A kaleidoscope of colour assaulted their eyes as a dazzling barrage of explosions rocked the Kzinti destroyer. Sara’s mouth fell agape as she saw their shield bubble visibly fluctuate under the intense assault, before it collapsed completely, pieces of jagged, melted metal torn from the hull and tossed out into space.

“What in the Sam Hill..?!”

A trio of Terran impulse-fighters, no bigger than a shuttle but armed with as much ordinance as they could be equipped with, blazed past the charred Kzinti vessel. Phasers impacting onto the ship’s hull and striking deep where the volley of photon torpedoes had already made their mark.

“Sacred Chalice,” Nyia whispered in awe, before pointing out another ship as it approached. “Look, there!”

It had started life as an older model, burnt-red Tellarite freighter. Late 23rd century, it looked to be. But heavily modified. The forward portion now bristled with extra armaments, while the port and starboard cargo access hatches had been expanded and converted into a massive hanger bay. From that bay, 3 more fighters launched to join their brethren, bringing their own firepower into play, taking the fight to the Kzinti.

The Kzinti put up a decent fight - for all of 2 minutes. As heavy-handed as they had been in their pursuit of the Kyi’i, the Patriarchy was just an overgrown bully. Taking on a lightly-armed courier was easy, but facing down a squadron of Terran fighters backed by an assault ship was not in their game plan.

As a tractor beam lanced out to snag their wounded pride-mate, Sara was mildly surprised that they even bothered. Weakness and defeat were not something the Patriarchy tolerated. She watched as the two intact ships secured their hold on the other ship before vanishing in the jump to warp, finally unclenching her fists as the heat of battle - the resignation she had felt at the assuredness of their defeat only moments ago - began to wane.

The comm system chirped once again, as the former freighter closed the distance, growing large enough in view that Sara spotted some familiar markings on the hull. As she studied them, a memory being jogged loose, Nyia frowned at her screens. “They’re sending some kind of encrypted code. I don’t recognize it.”

Pulling up the transmission on her own display, Sara grimaced. I do. Instead of responding, she opened up the intercom back down to the engine room, “Bhrash, how bad is it?”

[Not gonna lie, Boss,] the engineer answered miserably. Like many half-decent engineers and mechanics, the Bolian took any damage personally, [it’s not going to be an easy fix. The industrial replicator got fried by the power overload and any patching I do won’t last long.]

That left them little choice. Thanking Bhrash for his assessment, Sara opened up a hailing frequency, responding with the appropriate match-code. The HUD blinked and a holoimage of someone she really didn’t want to talk to, let alone see, appeared, “Hello, Jessica.”

Jessica Kingsley didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the other woman’s monotone. Instead, she offered a polite smile, with a hint of genuine warmth… and a shadow of guilt. [Hello, Sara.]

The familiarity immediately put Sara on the defensive, “Cut the pleasantries.” Hearing the heat and pain in her voice, she forced herself to remain stoic, glacial. “I suppose I should thank you for the save. How did you…?”

Kingsley shrugged, maintaining her own diplomatic façade of relative indifference, [Our intelligence network heard mutterings about the Patriarchy having some kind of sting in the works.] She allowed herself a momentary smirk, [When we realized you were also out on a job in the area, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.]

The perils of being popular, I guess, Sara privately groused, as a nagging, niggling uneasiness blossomed in her stomach. “So what brings you out this far from the beaten track?”

Kingsley’s good humour faded, as she checked a display on her end, ignoring the query, [You’ve taken a fair beating, so once our fighters dock, we’ll take you in tow and help get you berthed at Freeport Charlie. Deliverance out.]

The channel closing, Sara drummed her fingers against the console. While the rest of the crew celebrated another close call, and began doing what repairs and fixes they could for now, she sat in her seat, lost in thought.

Something was off.

As much as she didn’t want to look the proverbial gift-horse in the mouth, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Kingsley wasn’t here just out of the kindness of her heart. That there was more to this act of happenstance and good fortune.

Okay, maybe she was being paranoid. But that was why she’d lived as long as she had…

* * *

Leo is alive..?

All ambient sound vanished as those words echoed around Sara Frost’s mind. She stared, glassy-eyed and disbelieving at the holographic display in front of her.

The quality wasn’t crystal-clear and had occasional static ruin it, but she knew that face well. There were a few extra worry lines, and he’d lost far too much weight, but it was unmistakably her husband. The man she had mourned, whose death once again haunted her dreams.

“This is the only footage our operative was able to capture.” Kingsley’s voice drew Sara back to the here and now. The resistance leader could see just how shaken this news had left the other woman and had remained silent for a few minutes. “But it confirmed the initial intel.”

Sara nodded mutely. She had been dismissive as Kingsley had explained the ‘project’ that the Alliance was apparently working on, unsure as to why it had anything to do with her. Now, she understood. Oh my God, Leo. What are they making you do?

Kingsley studied the face of the half-Vulcan woman. Long ago, there was a time they had called each other friends. Although Terrans would always be known for their fierceness, resilience and rigid determination, loyalty had always been seen as a failing. A weakness in a world where you had to constantly be ready for the next knife in your back, lest someone take advantage of inattention for themselves.

She could see just how much Sara was hurting, despite her Vulcan mien. How much this news had rocked her to the core. But she could also see that little spark of hope and joy buried deep inside under all that self-control.

“He’s not there by choice.”

Sara’s resolve was like iron. She knew her husband, body and soul, had touched his mind and knew the kind of man he was. He embodied all of the strength and determination of Terrans, but none of the negative qualities that were their legacy and tainted heritage. “Whatever nightmare of a project they’ve made him be a part of, he’s not doing it willingly.”

Matthias, who had been quiet this entire time, standing out of the way while watching and listening intently to the two other women, finally spoke up. “We haven’t been able to confirm that one way or–”

Sara pounced to her feet, almost cat-like, as she leaned towards the red-head. Her hard tone brokered no argument, “I’m telling you. That’s your confirmation.”

“Either way,” Kingsley quickly interjected, “This is a situation we cannot afford to ignore or act blasé about.”

“What do you need from me?” Fixing an ice-cold glare on Kingsley, Frost’s voice was as hard as neutronium, “You didn’t bring me this just out of some old-time nostalgia or loyalty, Jess.”

Kingsley’s own façade didn’t flinch, even though the words cut her to the quick, despite their accuracy. “Our operative, he ran into a problem during his extraction.”

Frost listened patiently as Kingsley explained, finally frowning in confusion, “It doesn’t sound like D’Nell to go back on a deal. Granted, she’s as slippery and treacherous as a Denebian slime devil, but reneging on a contract goes against the Trader’s Code.” She’d had a few delicate run-ins with the Orion clan matriarch in her recent years of ‘independent operation’.

Kingsley grimaced, “There have been rumours, whispers that she’s not well.” She shook her head, unable to suppress a twinge of guilt, despite the futility of self-recrimination, “We took a chance, as she’s always been a reliable outsource for us.”

Sara snorted in disbelief. She’d heard those same rumours, but hadn’t put much stock in them. Shows what I know. In the past, Sara had valued the amicable, if tenuous, business relationship she’d formed with D’Nell and her clan, but she’d never trusted her. “Only as long as it suited her.”

Even in the current day and age, Sara tried to subscribe to a sense of personal loyalty. When it came to her crew, or people she conducted business and agreements with, she stuck to her word. Even that creep Norvin understood that. D’Nell, though, only cared about herself and how things would profit her.

Normally, Frost would stay out of the way, and let whatever trouble was due to that jade harpy come her way. But right now, D’Nell was an obstacle in the way to Leo that she needed to overcome.

Come hell or high water, that’s exactly what she planned to do.

I’m coming, baby. I swear…

* * *