THE UNTOLD ERA: THESEUS EXTRACTION By Piotr Mierzejewski HISTORIAN’S NOTE The following is occurring early January 2320, five days after The Right Man for the Job. PROLOGUE Despite his tendency to rubbish medical facilities aboard border cutters, Kev wished he had one handy right about now. The accompanying firepower would be handy too, but the Tellarite medic dismissed that line of thought. At least for now. He needed to stay positive. If not for himself, then for the Bolian. “It’s just a scratch, Commodore,” he announced while applying a towel to the shot-up stomach. Dark blue, dirty blood made the towel moist in his hand. “You’ll live.” Commodore Lemed scoffed and pushed the towel away. “Somehow I doubt that, doc,” he countered and coughed, spitting out more blood. Kev eyed the squadron commander thoughtfully, absently thinking that the browns and grays of the civilian attire suited Lemed’s blue. He shook his head. Of course, it was normally much more healthier shade of blue. “You arguing with me, Commodore?” he grumbled, noting the lolling head as the commodore rested against the bulkhead. Wall, corrected Kev, giving the length of the alleyway a wary look. The pair had gone to a small, out of the way colony world that sat smack in the middle of the border with Klingon space. Formerly of human origin, its population was a mix bag of humans, Klingons, Nausicaans, Orions and a few others. It was also rumored to be a base of operations for a squadron of pirates, smugglers and outright opportunists. It was that rumor that Lemed wanted to check up on. Of course, Lemed had to drag his sorry behind along for the ride. Unfortunately, they got more than they bargained. “Me, argue?” the commodore snorted. “With you, no less. Hardly.” “Yeah, yeah.” Kev grumbled. “Save your strength. Safehouse should be near.” Lemed blinked. “Safehouse?” “Yeah, safehouse. Remember?” demanded Kev, eyeing his old captain-turned-commodore carefully. “Organized by Lieutenant Najar, yeah? Cost us a pretty penny. Pissed you off too. Remember now?” Lemed looked straight at him. “The Trill?” he asked, albeit weakly. Kev nodded enthusiastically, anything to have Lemed talking. “Kid might come across as a lazy frakker, but he ain’t stupid,” he said. Syrens sounded off in the distance. Wanting to curse the deities for the predicament they were in, Chief Petty Officer Kev jav Fraam knew this was not the place nor time to be doing so. Not that I’d be anywhere else, he concluded while turning his attention back to Lemed. The commodore was drooling. Better than dead, surmised Kev. The chief had first met Lemed aboard the border cutter Growler, quickly becoming fast friends. Wherever Lemed went, Kev went. Well, almost. As squadron leader, Lemed had no need for a nurse practitioner. “Come on,” urged Kev, helping the commodore to his feet. “By the deities, you’re a fat one.” And with that, they disappeared into the shadows.