Fallout

shevet

"Deployment is complete." There was not even a tremor in the operations officer's voice as she made her report.

Captain Klur nodded, and leaned back in his command chair, his eyes scanning the bridge of the IKS QIb laH'e'. "Bring us to low orbit," he ordered. "Signal the planetary administrator."

A low rumble echoed in the bridge as the carrier's impulse engines sprang to life. With a deep intake of breath, First Officer Talakh rose to his feet.

"Sir," he said, "I formally protest against your orders in this matter. This course of action is -" He took another deep breath. "Sir, you must find an alternative. This action will not be accepted by the Council, it will -"

He got no further. Klur raised his hand, and the disruptor pistol in it spat green light across the bridge. Talakh collapsed on the spot, his chest a smoking ruin.

Klur snarled. "Does anyone else contest my orders?"

Commander Kysang rose from the tactical station. He was the oldest officer on the bridge, and admired by all for his long record of battles in the Empire's service. He spoke, now, with the authority of complete conviction. "This action is without honour."

Klur's disruptor spoke again, the bolt hitting Kysang between the eyes. As the headless body toppled to the deck, Klur shouted, "How many more must die before I am obeyed?"

No one spoke.

Klur holstered his disruptor. "Second Officer Tayaira. You are now First Officer. Have those corpses removed. And where is my comms channel?"

"I have the administrator now!" the comms officer shouted, fear edging his voice.

"On screen," Klur ordered.

The main screen shimmered, and the administrator's image appeared. "I am Administrator Frerv," the Tellarite said. "Say your piece, Klingon, then get off this channel, and haul that wreck of a ship out of my sky."

"I will be brief, then," Klur said. "I demand your immediate surrender, and that your world recognizes the overlordship of the Empire. Resist, and you will be destroyed."

"Empty threats," the Tellarite sneered. "That Fek'lhri carrier of yours might look impressive, but it's one ship, Captain. You can't take on a whole world with one ship. All right, I've heard your ultimatum, now you hear mine. Get out before a Starfleet task force arrives and kicks you out of this system in a million smoking pieces. Clear?"

"Pellucid." Klur smiled. "Very well. I have presented my demands, you have rejected them. The next step is for you to take the inevitable consequences." He turned to the operations officer. "Activate."

The operations officer froze at her post. "Activate what?" Frerv demanded from the screen.

Klur drew his disruptor. "Is your hearing deficient? Activate."

The ops officer swallowed hard. Her hand came down on her console. "Activating," she whispered. She looked down. "Activation... confirmed."

"I offered you the choice of life under Imperial rule," Klur said to the screen. "I do not offer you any alternative, Tellarite. I have seeded the high orbitals with tricobalt cluster munitions, and they are now descending. Some are targeted at your planet's population centres, but the majority will detonate at altitude, creating a coordinated airburst -"

"You're insane!" Frerv interrupted. "An attack like that will irreperably damage the planet's ecosystem!"

"It will sterilize half your planetary surface!" yelled Klur. "And the nuclear winter that follows will finish off all life that remains! That is the death you have chosen, Tellarite, so embrace it! I burn your world as an offering to the Empire!" He turned to the comms officer. "All that is necessary has been said. You may close the channel."

"Wait!" Frerv screamed. "We - we surrender! Call it off! We surrender!"

"I regret," said Klur, "that the mass of the munitions, and my own limited resources - I have only the one ship, as you pointed out yourself - meant that only the most basic command and control interface could be included. The weapons are descending now, and they cannot be recalled or destroyed. You have perhaps three minutes left of life, Administrator Frerv. Enjoy them. Close channel."

shevet

Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere, NCC-92984

Six hundred and fifty million.

It takes less than a second to say. I could take the rest of my life, though, and still not reach a clear understanding of what it means. Six hundred and fifty million. On the screen, above the bar, the newscaster is speaking, words that go unheard, even though the room is otherwise completely silent. Behind him, two images: one of the Tellarite colony world, Bercera IV, as it was... the other, of the same world, as it is now. The first, a fertile class M world with a population of six hundred and fifty million; the second -

Impossibly, a bleary voice beside me says, "What th' hell, 's just Tellarites."

I turn. The drunken human to my right continues, oblivious. "Stupid pig-face losers, goin' on an' on about bein' founders of the Federation - all they ever do is run freighters anyway - bet they'll be all, like, 'oo, Starfleet, come an' save us', an' -"

I pivot on my heel, and my fist comes up of its own volition. I barely feel the impact, but all of a sudden, the human is sitting on the floor, burbling stupidly through smashed lips.

There is a group of Tellarites in the corner of the bar, so I may just have saved his life, at that.

A chirp sounds from my pocket. "That," I say, "will be Starfleet, not waiting to be asked." I fish out my combadge. "I only wish we'd been quicker. Shohl here."

"Vice Admiral." I don't recognize the voice. "Starfleet is going to maximum defensive alert, all planetside leave is cancelled, you are asked to report immediately to Earth Spacedock for a briefing."

"I'm in San Francisco now," I say. "I can see a transporter terminal from where I'm standing, I will be on my way right now."

"Clearing you for direct transporter access," the voice says, and clicks off.

I step over the fallen human, and run for the transporter pad.

---

Spacedock is always humming with activity. The hum is louder and more urgent today, though.

Admiral Semok meets me at the transporter room. "Vice Admiral Shohl. I regret the interruption to your well-earned leave."

"It had barely started, sir. I'd just stopped off for a quiet drink in a bar when - What are our orders, sir?"

The portly Vulcan consults a PADD. "Our experimental engineering group has been called upon to consider possible methods of reprisal." His eyes, normally bland and emotionless, look - anguished. "If the Klingons have stepped up their attacks to include wholesale planetary devastation -"

"We might have to fight fire with fire." I don't feel any happier about it than he does.

"Yes. One matter we have been asked to assess is the practicability of a c-fractional strike on Praxis."

"Praxis? Oh, I see...." The broken moon around the Klingon homeworld isn't the first target you'd think of. But it was shattered once, and if its orbit were destabilized again... the whole thing could come crashing down on Qo'noS, an unstoppable battering ram of destruction.

It's hard to control a planet, even with the resources that Starfleet and the Klingons can command. But it's surprisingly easy to destroy one, or at least to render one uninhabitable. C-fractional strikes - missiles moving at relativistic speeds - are the traditional method, if there are any traditions in this thing. But there are other ways. A single starship, even an old Constitution-class cruiser, can devastate a planet past the point of recovery. A ship like King Estmere could do it without breaking a sweat.

But this sort of war - crosses a line. The war is being fought for a mixture of reasons, but prime among them is control; control of territory, of resources, of the populations of the precious habitable planets of the galaxy. That the Klingons have started the wanton destruction of these resources... is a new, and alarming, development.

"Destroying the Klingon homeworld, though," I say, "is a move that might well backfire. Quite apart from any - humanitarian - considerations... it'd leave the Klingon factions leaderless, most of them thirsting for revenge, and out of control."

"This is my assessment also," says Semok. "I hope that it will be the conclusion reached by calmer heads on the Federation Council, too. However, some strong response is clearly necessary in the face of this atrocity."

We make our way to the stateroom. Normally, this is busy only with lecturers and brown-nosing cadets, but today it is crammed with so many senior officers, you could choke on the pips. Mere Vice-Admirals like me have to stand at the back and breathe in. If we want to breathe... because the holographic image of Bercera IV, floating in the air over the podium, is enough to make anyone choke.

Beneath it, the top brass have gathered. Admiral Yanishev looks as though he is graven in stone; Quinn is visibly distressed. As we enter, though, it's Admiral Routledge of Logistics Command who has the floor.

"A relief effort is under way as we speak," the elderly human says. Routledge was only a few months from mandatory retirement, last I heard. "The odds for survivors are... not good. It's possible, though, that some who've sought shelter in isolated rural areas... may survive the toxic and radiation contamination long enough for a pickup to be made. All available transport ships have been diverted. As for the main cities -" he shakes his head. "Our long range probes confirm. Total devastation."

Admiral Yanishev steps forward. "Fifth, Seventh and Tenth Tactical Wings are committed to cover similar possible targets in the immediate vicinity," he says in a voice like death. "We have a preliminary assessment of - possibles. We will act to protect them. As for an immediate response -"

"That's what we're here to discuss," Quinn says.

Yanishev nods. "Obviously, a major retributive strike is necessary," he says. "The Klingons will expect it, of course - in a way, that makes it even more necessary. If we even look like we're backing down, over this, they will be all over us. Plans for assaults on targets in the Archanis sector have been in evaluation for some time." His face turns grimmer still. "We are activating those plans. First, Second and Fourth fleets will hit strategic Klingon systems within the week. The Klingons' response to that - well, it will tell us something. Conventional warfare would be - in a way - good news. More attacks of this kind, though -"

"Hold on, hold on." A querulous female voice breaks in. The speaker is a Vice Admiral, a skinny human female with several very obvious Borg cybernetic implants. "Look, I'm rolling this around in my head," she says, "and none of it fits. We need to figure out what this means before we go off all guns blazing, right?"

"Vice Admiral Grau," says Yanishev. He doesn't sound pleased.

"Listen," says Grau. "Bercera. Soft target, well behind our front lines, not that lines mean anything much in space combat. So why is it a target? What's at Bercera? Can't be a terror attack, the Klinks aren't fools, they know we won't back down from a show of force, we can't afford to. So what else could it be? Why is J'mpok raising the stakes by burning off an entire world?"

Yanishev looks like he's about to speak, but Grau carries on regardless. "Could be desperation, end-game bravado, last desperate stroke of a dying man - except the Klinks aren't dying, the war is doing their internal economy no particular good, but they're a long way from being beaten yet. So, 'when I am dead, let fire the Earth consume' - no, it doesn't fit, because J'mpok ain't dead yet. But Bercera is a soft target because it's not a significant part of the war effort, right? So why kill it? Unless it's some sort of spook stuff? Were we using Bercera IV for spook stuff? Oh, right, I mean, did Starfleet Intelligence have any major assets on the planet?"

"No," Quinn says, suddenly. "Nothing of the kind."

"Well, there you are, then," says Grau. "Like I said, I'm turning this over in my head, and I can't fit it in with Klink strategy. Got to know the reason for this one. Know the reason, you know how to respond. Sure, sure, kick 'em back, kick 'em hard and low and dirty, so they know they've been kicked - but we need to work out where best to kick them. So we have to know why this happened. It doesn't make any obvious military sense, so it must be spook stuff. If not ours, then theirs. I'm telling you."

"Thank you for your contribution, Vice Admiral," Yanishev says with finality.

"Still," Routledge says, "we do need to study the situation. Someone should go in to support the rescue operation and salvage... as much data as we can."

"If I might make a suggestion," Semok speaks up. "My group has been tasked with researching planet-killing methods - I will not say we are experts in the field, since we have never needed such - but we are to contribute our resources in this area. Further, we have at our disposal a multi-functional carrier vessel which can support the relief effort, serve as a combat-capable craft if need be, and carry out any investigations in the field, as required. Vice Admiral Shohl can be ready to depart in a matter of hours." He glances at me. "I am correct, Vice Admiral Shohl?"

"Of course, sir." There's really nothing else I can say.

"Very well," says Routledge. "Vice Admiral Shohl will rendezvous with my rescue fleet and begin investigations. Now, as to the logistics of our armed response -"

---

Afterwards, I head for the docking bays with purpose in my eyes. Before I make it, though, a hand grabs my sleeve. I turn, to see the human-Borg woman, Grau.

"Listen," she says. "You're going out there, right? You keep an open mind."

"I intend to," I say. "We need the facts. You're right about that at least."

"Facts, facts," she says, and looks around, before turning her gaze back to me. The Borg targeting laser covering her left eye scans erratically over my face. "We haven't met, have we? Veronika Grau. Call me Ronnie, everyone does."

"Tylha Shohl," I answer. Then I frown, as I recollect something. "There was a Veronika Grau during the Romulan War, wasn't there? She did - hmm, something impressive, I guess. Were you named after her?"

"No, no," she says, "that was me. Roms, they're not as sneaky as they think they are. Oh, right, yeah, it was a while ago. Time warps. Bane of my life, time warps. Listen. There is something wrong about this whole setup. Watch your back out there. There's spook stuff at the bottom of this, you mark my words. And it's spook stuff that's already eaten a planet, so it won't stop at swallowing a Vice Admiral. If you get my drift."

I grin at her, without humour. "It'll choke on this one. I promise you."

---

King Estmere is ready by the time I get to the bridge; everyone is bustling around doing last-minute checks, but I know they're just a formality. I take my seat in the command chair.

"We have priority clearance to depart when ready, sir," Anthi Vihl says. My exec's tone betrays no emotion, but I can tell from the stiffening of her antennae just how angry she is. "Your orders, sir?"

"Put me on ship-wide address," I say to F'hon Tlaxx, who touches his console and nods to me. "Attention, all hands. This is Vice Admiral Shohl. Our orders are to proceed at best speed to the Bercera system, there to render all possible assistance to the relief effort, and to gather evidence relating to this... atrocity." I pause, and take a deep breath. "It's possible - only possible - that we may run into the Klingon war criminals responsible for this. In which case, we will be ready for combat... and may the Infinite have mercy on their souls, because we will show none to their bodies. Shohl out." I turn to Anthi. "Clear all umbilicals, proceed on thrusters to spacedock exit."

"Confirmed."

King Estmere's deck quivers beneath me, and we are on our way.

shevet

Personal record: Shalo of the house of Sinoom, commanding officer, IKS Garaka

The knock at the door of my room is... unwelcome. It is only since attaining my current rank that I have had the privilege of private quarters when staying at the First City barracks. The privacy, the seclusion, is still a novelty, and one that I value. I do not care to be disturbed.

"Enter," I say.

The bekk does not cross the threshold. "Forgive the intrusion, Lieutenant General," he says, "but you are commanded to appear at a meeting of the High Council. The Chancellor himself has ordered your presence."

"When?"

"Immediately, sir." There is something in his manner, some stress or nervousness. Klingons do not often show nervousness. I frown.

"I will be there directly. Has the Chancellor stated why he requires me?"

"No, sir." The bekk's nervousness increases. "It may be that it has something to do with the news -"

"What news?" I demand.

"You have not heard, sir?"

"I have been... meditating. In seclusion. What news?"

"A world, sir. A whole habitable world... destroyed."

I stiffen as cold anger grips me. "What? Where has the Federation attacked?"

"No, sir," the bekk says, wretchedly, "I have not made my meaning clear. The Feds have not destroyed a world. We have."

---

Murmurs seem to fill the Great Hall, a tide of hushed conversation that rises even to the stone heads of the great statues of Klingon warriors who tower up the roof above us. The Chancellor stands in his usual place on the steps. His face is as stony as the statues'.

One of the Councillors - T'Jeg of the House of Toros - turns as I approach, and asks, "What is this Orion female doing here?"

"I am here at the Chancellor's order," I snap back. One must always assert one's self - one's position, one's rights - when dealing with Klingons. It is fatal to back down, perhaps literally so.

"It is so," J'mpok says, in a voice like stone breaking. He makes a gesture with one hand, and I take the place he indicates, to the side. Near enough to hear all, far enough away that it is clear I am not to be consulted.

More Councillors arrive: I have never yet seen the Great Hall so full. "Are all here?" the Chancellor demands.

An aide replies, "Save for those Councillors who are out-system and unable to respond, yes, Chancellor."

"Then we shall begin," says J'mpok, "with a simple statement of the facts. Forty hours ago, the IKS QIb laH'e', under the command of Captain Klur, son of Durgor, of the house of Mak'teth, was on a deep penetration raiding mission in Federation space. Captain Klur approached the Federation colony world of Bercera IV, demanding its surrender to the Empire. When this was refused, Klur deployed tricobalt devices in a continent-wide strategic pattern, creating a global firestorm -"

"The Jol'qah effect," one of the Councillors says, knowledgeably. "I have never yet heard of it being used in practice."

J'mpok glares at him. "It has been used now," he says, "along with direct strikes at the planet's population centres. Bercera IV is utterly devastated. Casualties exceed half a billion, almost all of them civilians. We now meet in council, to discuss... what must happen next."

The murmuring is stilled, now. Faintly, outside, we can hear the sounds of First City.

Someone speaks: I cannot see who. "Was this... action... authorized?"

"No," the Chancellor says, "it was not. Though whether anyone will believe that... is another matter. Klur submitted his Record of Battle with his after-action report in the normal manner, via subspace radio. In all respects, he acted as if this were a conventional military action."

"Where is Klur now?" asks Councillor Tol'beq of the House of Kador.

"Unknown. His ship did not return to its scheduled patrol pattern." J'mpok glowers. "I have, naturally, ordered the ship back to Qo'noS so that Klur may... answer for his conduct. Equally naturally, he has yet to respond."

"Did none of his crew protest their orders?" asks T'Jeg.

"Two officers spoke against Klur, and were executed in the normal manner."

"Their names?"

"Is it important?" J'mpok turns to an aide, who hands him a datapad. "First Officer Talakh, and Commander Kysang."

"Then those officers bear no responsibility," says T'Jeg. The Chancellor looks at him for a moment, and frowns.

"In any case," he continues, "we are faced, now, with a crisis. The Federation has regaled half the galaxy with fanciful tales of Klingon atrocities since this war began... now, they have an indisputable, real, atrocity they can hold up. The propaganda value alone will be worth a hundred fleets to them. And we must consider their most likely military response, which I anticipate will be soon, and forceful." His expression grows yet bleaker. "There is also the possibility that they will respond to our attack in a similar vein."

"Countervalue strikes on planetary targets?" says Councillor Darg of the House of T'llan. "The Federation has no stomach for such actions. It is run by idealists and pacifists -"

"When have you ever fought them?" J'mpok demands.

"It is true," Ambassador S'taass of the Gorn speaks, for the first time, "that Federation ideals become - tempered with pragmatism - when their lives are at stake. Do not underestimate their will, Councillor, you do so at your peril."

"In any case," Councillor K'tag, an old and experienced warrior, says in a dry, practical tone, "we must consider matters, as the Chancellor says. Do we choose to repudiate this Klur's action?" Shocked eyes turn to him, and he makes an impatient gesture. "Bear in mind, no repudiation we make will be believed. Execute this Klur with dishonour, and the Federation will simply say, 'What great traders these Klingons are! See, they offer the life and honour of a single ship's captain, in exchange for an entire world, and claim it a fair bargain!' So... since we shall have the repercussions of this action to live with, no matter what, shall we not claim it as our own? Our enemies would know fear, to think that we should go so far...."

Incredibly, the Chancellor seems almost to be considering this. "No," he decides, after a worrying pause. "No. The Empire is a defender of the weaker peoples, it is a bulwark against the infiltration of the qa'meH quv, it defends the ancestral rights and the honour of the Klingon people. It does not make war against defenseless civilians. We are warriors, not murderers, and to take this act as our own would... dishonour us. It does not matter what the Federation speaks, if we know the truth in our own hearts."

K'tag nods. "Then I offer another unthinkable thought," he says. "With this act, we have raised the stakes of the war, to a level none would have contemplated. This being so, can we not say that we have gone too far? That it is time to end the war altogether, rather than move into a spiral of retaliation that will leave both empires shattered?"

Again, J'mpok seems to consider. "There is much in that," he says, "but the war cannot end before our territorial rights are... guaranteed. But you show wisdom, K'tag. We must think the unthinkable, now that one of us... has already done it."

"Returning, then, to the merely urgent," K'tag says, "our intelligence analysts must build up a list of likely targets for Federation attack, and ships despatched to those targets without delay. The Federation's military response will not be long in coming, and it will be driven by righteous vengeance and anger. Bercera IV was a Tellarite world, and the Tellarites are not known for pacifism or forgiveness."

"They are traders, not warriors," Darg says with a sneer.

"Again, valued colleague," says K'tag, "you have not fought them. We must also expect a diplomatic and a propaganda attack, and have our answers ready for those."

"And to that end," J'mpok says, "we must fully understand, ourselves, what has been done, and why." He turns his gaze, for the first time, to me. "Lieutenant General Shalo, I will speak with you privately on this matter, afterwards."

---

I enter J'mpok's private office with some trepidation. It is, on occasion, profitable to have the Chancellor's full attention, but it is also, often, perilous.

"Shalo of the House of Sinoom," he says, studying me with those heavy-lidded eyes of his.

"Sir."

"The House of Sinoom is fallen," he says. "Its assets dispersed, its speakers in the councils of the Orions dismissed, its peoples scattered. Yet you cling to that loyalty?"

"I do," I say. "My House's fortunes are currently in eclipse, and yet who can say what the future holds? Besides, loyalty that does not withstand adversity - is not loyalty."

He gives voice to a short, sharp bark of approving laughter. "I like that," he says. "Yes, you speak truly.... When your House... went into eclipse... you, yourself, sought out the KDF, took your place in its ranks. I know your record. You have fought well, and with honour. Like many in your position, you have made yourself more Klingon than the Klingon. And in... certain events, that did not take place... you would have acquitted yourself well, if those events had ever happened."

"Thank you, Chancellor."

"More Klingon than the Klingon," he repeats. "And, yet, not Klingon, and that is important. I doubt Klingon faces will be welcomed in Federation space, and your mission will take you there."

"I live to serve, sir," I reply. "What is my mission?"

J'mpok scowls. "I must know the truth of this matter," he says. "You are to find it. Go to Federation space, if you must - you will be given diplomatic credentials. Find this Klur, and discover the truth. Whatever it may be."

"Am I to bring him back, sir?"

"Bring him back. Or bring back proof of his death. That is important, yes, but it is more important that I must understand. Is he a replicant, one of the qa'meH quv, or worse? Was he perhaps suborned by the Federation themselves, that they might have an atrocity for their propaganda?" Another short, hoarse laugh. "I do not believe that - the Federation is not that pragmatic. But the alternative - that a Klingon warrior is so lost to honour - or that he believes I might think his act an honourable one - I would rather not believe that, either." He looks directly at me. "What I believe does not matter. Find out the truth."

"I will, Chancellor. But - why me? There are other officers -"

He makes a sweeping gesture. "Reasons. You are Orion, which may smooth your path, as I have said. Your ship is a Kar'fi carrier, the equal of his in combat. And - you are of the House of Sinoom."

I frown. "How is that relevant, Chancellor?"

"Others of your House entered service with the KDF. One such is aboard the QIb laH'e'. Her name is Tayaira, and if Klur's transmission can be trusted, she is now his First Officer. It may help you. It may not. For now, go, and be about your business. And may fortune attend you." Yet again, he laughs. "We will require much from fortune, before we are done."

shevet

(I threatened to start something longer, in a Literary Challenge thread, a little while back. So this is me, starting something longer. With luck it'll get finished.)

philipclayberg

I really want to see how it develops, so don't you dare suddenly abandon it or end it early. This sounds like it will be a long, involved, complicated story (and based on what I've already read, I will expect no less). Give it all the room it needs to breathe, develop, and honorably attack its enemies with a bat'leth.

starkaos

Might want to put a RP or story tag on this one because you got my hopes up about information about a new Fallout game like Fallout 4 or a Fallout MMO.

ambassadormolari

Excellent stuff so far, shevet. I like the interactions between Tylha and Grau, and further like the introduction to Shalo and your own take on the Orion perspective (what is it with the regular LC contributors and their fascination with Orions? :P) But above all else, I am eager to find out what Klur's story is. Please continue.

knightraider6

starkaos wrote: »

Might want to put a RP or story tag on this one because you got my hopes up about information about a new Fallout game like Fallout 4 or a Fallout MMO.

Well it is about war..and war never changes. Excellent story, more!

shevet

The Orion woman with the close-cropped dark hair strode with military efficiency along the corridors of the QIb laH'e'. They were dark, almost deserted. So many of the crew were... not sulking, exactly, she thought... but withdrawn, sullen, fearful.

She reached the door, took a deep breath, held it for a count of three, exhaled. She touched a panel, and a buzzer sounded.

For a moment, there was no response. Then a muffled voice said, "Who is it?"

"Captain," she answered, "it is First Officer Tayaira." No intercom. He was on the other side of the solid door, and she hoped he could hear her. "We are at the coordinates you ordered. We have been phased and under strict sensor and radio silence for two hours. Your crew awaits your further orders, sir."

The door hissed open. Klur was standing there, just inside the room, his dark hair tangled and unkempt. Behind him, his quarters were in almost total darkness, just one fitful flame burning in an ornate holder - some religious trinket, she remembered, from a conquered world; he had kept it as a memento. He stared at her, and his gaze seemed unsteady.

"Orders," he said, "yes." With a sinking feeling, Tayaira realized that she could smell alcohol on his breath. How drunk was he? And how bad were things -?

"Come in," he said, and turned, blundering his way to a desk console. He hit switches, blinked as the lights came on, rummaged on the desk for a datapad. "Here. We're to proceed to -" his finger came down on the pad "- these coordinates, now, at warp. Nebula, emission nebula - mask our warp signature -" He heaved a sigh. "The Feds will be looking for us, hard."

"They are not alone, sir," Tayaira said. "We are receiving orders, repeatedly, from Fleet Command. They order us to return to Qo'noS. Sir, they are becoming increasingly forceful and urgent."

"Figures," said Klur. "No response. Maintain subspace silence. Can't return to Qo'noS if Starfleet gets us, can we?"

"No, sir. And your plan to mask our warp signature is a sound one. But, sir -"

He scowled at her. "What?"

"Sir." She screwed up her courage. "If I am to be your First Officer, I must know something of what is in your mind. Simply enough to - to be effective. It is necessary, sir."

His scowl faded, slightly. "Necessary, yes." He stumbled towards the bed, sat down on it heavily. "All right, ask."

"Sir... what is to become of us? Are we - are we renegades? Have we acted outside the High Council's wishes?"

He laughed. "Yes and no. Politics. High Council's full of politicians. 'm waiting for a word... to show they've made their minds up. They will. They will back me. I have promises."

"Promises." Her spirits plummeted. Promises. A Klingon's word was inviolable, a promise bound up his honour with his truth... except when it didn't. Was Klur really so foolish as to trust a politician's promises?

"They jus' need time," he said, "time t' get their heads around it. What we've done. They can't take it back, so they have to... to own it. Make it their own. Got t'be the way. Jus' need a little more time t'make the decision... then we go back t' Qo'noS as heroes. Besides. They owe me. Did 'em a favour."

"A favour, sir? Destroying the planet... was a favour to someone on the High Council?"

"That? No." He laughed. "That wasn't the favour."

shevet

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Virtue NCC-92780
Datarecord: 2/12 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)

Tallasa has that look again.

I'm sitting comfortably in the centre seat of the Virtue, and my Andorian */*species 4464*/* first officer is being all brisk and efficient */*efficiency 56%---suboptimal---introduce cybersystems, cerebral cortex, visual sensorium---optimize*/*

Oh, do shut up, Two of Twelve.

Anyway. Yes. Brisk and efficient and thoroughly Starfleet like she always is, and she has that look she always gets, the look that says you are my commanding officer and I am your loyal crew and it is not my place to criticize, but, boy, do you need some criticism right now.

"We have eighteen hours before we rendezvous with Admiral Gref and the rest of Sixth Fleet," she says, in her oh-so-reasonable soft Andorian tones. "Sir, shouldn't you get some rest?"

"I'll rest when I'm dead," I snap at her, and then say, "Sorry." But I'm not. Andorians don't even have a fixed sleep cycle, where does she get off criticizing mine? Blue meanies. */*species designation not recognized*/*

In fairness to her, the Virtue does seem to be humming along pretty nicely. She's a good ship, possibly better than I deserve, what with her being an ultra-modern Chimera class heavy destroyer, and me being a time-displaced ex-cyborg with a list of negative psych evaluations that makes War and Peace look like a bus ticket. I'm good in a scrap, though. Don't let anybody ever tell you Ronnie Grau isn't good in a scrap.

Fighting is one thing, though. */*tactical functions offline*/* Spook stuff is another, and this situation is fraught with spook stuff. Spooky, spooky spook stuff.... I see Tallasa and her sister Jhemyl exchange meaningful glances. "Aw, cripes, was that my out-loud voice again?"

"I really think you should rest, sir," says Tallasa.

"Yes," I say. "No. Maybe. I'm fretting, I don't mind admitting it. Fretting. Whole damn situation doesn't add up right. Don't expect me to sleep when I'm fretting, little Ronnie would have bad dreams." Bad dreams is right. Little Ronnie has two heads, one inside the other, and both of them are full of bad wiring, and right now the sparks are flying.

*/*---inaccurate---no electronic/electromechanical failures detected*/*

"There's nothing you can do about it at the moment," says Tallasa in soothing tones. She's right, of course. I'm lucky to have her - her, and Jhemyl, and the rest of my loyal crew, amazes me how loyal they are, sometimes, I'm pretty sure I don't deserve it. Loyal, but on this occasion, wrong.

Tallasa has stopped exchanging glances with Jhemyl, and has started sharing them with Saval, instead, my Vulcan */*species 3259*/* science officer. Last time they exchanged those sorts of glances, I woke up in sickbay twelve hours later. Saval, who is actually no slouch at the science stuff, had rigged up some sort of cortical suppression field, turned me right off like a TV set. It shut Two of Twelve up for days, so I guess I ought to be thankful. Of course, what he doesn't realize is, she adapted. She does that.

I look around the bridge. "You. On comms. Face-ache." It's a new ensign, and he looks flustered. "Get me a subspace channel, band delta, frequency 23861.2." He looks more flustered, but he starts tapping away at the console.

Tallasa is frowning. "I don't recognize that frequency, sir, and band delta hasn't been used by Starfleet in years."

"Decades, probably," I say. I beam at her. It makes my mouth hurt. "Before your time. It's the frequency for the phase two space navigation grid, whole lot of subspace beacons chatting to each other. Obsolete now, but it's still there as a backup in Sirius and Alpha Centauri space. Has a whole lot of spare bandwidth, too, and we used to use it for, you know, back-channel chat. Like ham radio."

"What do you expect to find on it now, sir?" Tallasa asks. You daft old bat, she doesn't add, but her body language speaks volumes.

"Not a lot. But if we're dealing with spooky spooky spook stuff, I want more information. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data." Since Tallasa only reads slushy Andorian romances about tragic love pentangles and such, that literary reference flies over her head like the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Never mind. "Know what else is obsolete, but still working? The duotronic computer core at Memory Alpha. They still use that for backup, and it's got a subspace linkup we can reach through that back channel." I pull over my armrest console, and start tapping away. "Oh, how it all comes flooding back."

"We can query Memory Alpha through regular channels," Tallasa says.

"Yeah, but this way's more fun," I say. "Besides, queries only get back answers if you know what to ask. This way, I can get in and root around for a bit, follow up links, maybe get a peek at stuff they wouldn't release through regular channels."

"It is illogical to assume," says Saval, politely, "that you will be able actually to access the content of the duotronic core. You would need appropriate user permissions."

"Oh, but inappropriate ones are so much nicer. Did I ever mention I was there when they put that duotronic core in? Did I ever mention I saw the systems admin choose a password for it?"

OK, Two of Twelve, says I to myself... to my other self. Time to earn your keep.

*/*organic memory---local storage---long term---accessing
---building heuristic index
----18%
----34%
----67%
----93%
----complete
---adaptive mnemonic enhancement engaged
----7%
----15%
----26%
----57%
----73%
----95%
----complete
---converting sensory to symbolic memory

---

24%

---

68%

---

complete
---retrieval completed*/*

I type in the access code while Saval is still bleating about biometric ID. "They set up a text-only code to bypass the biometrics," I tell him. "In case they ever needed remote access in a hurry. A back door to the back door, which we reached through another back door. Now, then. I've got root level access to Memory Alpha, shall I format it, or are you going to let me browse in peace?"

They shut up. I start looking at the data structures as they come through on the console screen. The thing about old-fashioned backup devices is, people never expect to have to look at them. So they're perfect for putting stuff on, when you don't want people coming looking for it. You'd be amazed what you can find in archives, sometimes.

"I'll get some rest," I say, and actually I do feel easier in my mind, somehow. "The old lady's going to get her head down, don't you worry. Just want some bedtime stories before I nod off, that's all."

There are intelligence digests, here, that I'm pretty sure will repay closer investigation. Bedtime stories, yes. And maybe a side order of Boris Savinkov to go with it.

shevet

Tylha

Cool air blasts into my helmet as the respirator steps up a notch. The suit's readouts are all in the green - which you would expect, since the crystalline nanofiber EV suit is rated for combat on Nukara Prime, and I'm on what used to be a class M world.

"Down here," the civilian disaster relief worker says over my headset. He's an Andorian, a chan named Koneph Phoral, and I can't shake an odd feeling I've met him before, although I can't think where. Now, bulky and ungainly in his hazard suit, he leads the way down a narrow flight of concrete stairs, into the survival bunker on Bercera IV.

The power is gone. The only light in the narrow stairway comes from our helmet lamps. And, although the readings inside my suit are all green, on the outside, it's a different matter. We are thirty kilometres from the centre of Bercera IV's planetary capital - and that's as close as we can get, even in these EV suits. The tricobalt penetrator warhead actually cracked the crust of the planet at its impact point. A hundred years from now, the crater will be a truly impressive shield volcano; right now, it's a raw wound spewing white-hot magma. Heat, toxic gas, and radioactive fallout all combine to make this place uninhabitable. But people should have been safe, in the survival shelters....

"Here," Phoral says. He uses a hydraulic wheel in the wall to open a heavy blast door. I lean forward, let my lamp shine into the room beyond. Lying on the floor are several short, stubby, humanoid forms. Tellarites, and lying very still.

"Some of them made it to the shelters?"

"Yes." Phoral's face is long and humourous, marked at mouth and eyes by laughter lines, but there is no laughter about him now. "They had about two or three minutes' warning, but for the few who were close enough, and fast enough, they should have been safe. But there was something else in the mix."

I kneel down beside one of the bodies. "What was it? Radiation?"

"The tricobalt is fierce enough, but no. This was something else, something I've never seen before. An isotopic gadolinium clathrate. Looks like it was designed to get through micro-fractures in the concrete walls. And the stuff's -" Phoral swallows. "It's strongly hygroscopic, but in contact with a wet surface, it undergoes a rapid chemical change. The gadolinium precipitates out."

I frown. "Gadolinium... is it rapidly toxic?"

"Not especially, in that form. But the precipitate is crystallized, thousands and thousands of microscopic, needle-sharp crystals. You can imagine what it does to the lining of the lungs." He gestures with one gloved hand. "Well, you don't need to imagine. You can see."

I gaze down at the contorted features of one of the victims, at the bloody foam already dried on the nostrils and mouth. "This stuff - how much of it was there?"

"Several hundred tonnes. We figure it was deployed in containers that followed the warheads down, and were ruptured in the initial blast wave... then, it just fell. Sank through the atmosphere, into the ground... and through the walls."

"You have detailed forensic scans?"

"Oh, yes. All fully documented. I just... I just felt you needed to see."

"Yes," I say, softly. "Yes, I think I understand."

We know something of what has happened, by now. While King Estmere was travelling to the Bercera system, the data was already coming in; communications records from satellite buoys, visuals from the few ships that made it off the planet in time. We have a name, a ship's name, some idea of the perpetrator of this monstrous crime. But to - to understand it - you have to see, for yourself. I reach out with one gloved hand and close the Tellarite's eyes. Then I turn to Phoral. "This was planned," I say. "Premeditated. There's no doubt about that."

"Yes," he says. "That carrier came into orbit already loaded with planet-wrecking weaponry. No question about that. They even anticipated the countermeasures, and took advantage of those. Roughly a third of the tricobalt warheads were intercepted on the way down by Bercera's anti-meteor defences. So, now, there are thick clouds of pulverized tricobalt in the upper atmosphere."

"What can we do about that?"

"Very little, even with the resources of your ship. A wide-area tuned disruption field could disintegrate the tricobalt, it's what we'd often do with a fissile material leak - but there is so much of it, so spread out, and so damn energy-dense, that disintegrating it would release enough energy into the atmosphere to trigger another firestorm. The initial bombardment took the oxygen content down from twenty-one to seventeen per cent." The warheads, though devastating in themselves, couldn't do that much damage to a planetary ecosystem... but they were spaced, carefully positioned, so that the shock waves from the blasts united to generate a firestorm, an eruption of burning air that covered most of a continent before it burned itself out. "If we let the stuff settle, though, it will sink deep, and probably permeate down into the deep oceans... and the pelagic depths are the only place that hasn't yet suffered massive devastation. Either way, we're talking another killer blow to the planetary ecology." His eyes are bleak, and I can see his antennae drooping. "We're doing everything we can... but it's not going to be enough. In a couple of centuries, once the worst of the radioisotopes are gone, this planet should be fit for terraforming back to class M status. But for now...."

The oxygen content has been reduced... and it will not be restored, not with half the planet's vegetation already in ashes, and the rest dying as the sun is cut off by choking clouds of volcanic dust. With the oxygen content gone, animal life will perish, everywhere. Some single-celled anaerobic life might survive, in the ocean depths, or beneath the planetary ice caps. But the restoration of Bercera IV will take generations of work, work that can't even begin until I'm dead and gone.

"How much tricobalt did they use?" I ask.

"Hard to say, exactly. Kilotons. I don't mean in explosive yield, I mean actual mass of material. Thousands of tonnes. How many thousands, we don't know yet."

I shake my head. "It's all of a piece," I say. "A single ship, even a big one like that Kar'fi carrier, couldn't manufacture tricobalt in that sort of - industrial - quantity. You need specialist replicators and transmuters even for small amounts of it. I used to use tricobalt torpedoes, aboard the old Sita. It's frightful stuff."

"Isn't it, though?" Phoral says, dryly. "Let's get back to the shuttle." With so much radioactive dust in the tormented atmosphere, we can't use the transporters safely. I let him lead the way, back up the stairs. I turn the handle of the door, though, to seal the Tellarites into their tomb.

"By the way," I say, as we trudge along the ruined, blackened streets, back to the shuttle, "I keep thinking you look familiar - have we met before?"

"Sort of." He turns and shoots a glance at me, and I can see his expression lighten, briefly, behind his faceplate. "We were both a bit out of it, at the time. You'd just donated a lot of blood, and I was coming out of long-term cryostasis."

I stop dead in my tracks. "You're one of Corodrev's augments?"

"Well," he says, "don't hold it against me. I took the same deal as everyone else - immunity, in return for full details of every operation the damn Nausicaans sent us on - and then I decided to do something constructive with my life. Disaster relief seemed... constructive."

"I see your point. Colonizing Gimel Vessaris didn't appeal, then?"

"It did, to most of us.... Blame Big Daddy Corodrev, though. My genetic augmentation runs to an enhanced immune system - I can take most biological agents, and a lot of chemical toxins, in my stride. But it doesn't quite work properly, and I get some fierce allergies as a result. Some of the organic chemical compounds in Gimel Vessaris vegetation fall into my sensitivity range. I could live there, but I'd never be comfortable."

"I'm sorry," I say.

He shrugs, the gesture almost invisible in the hazard suit. "It's like you said to Oz, the genetic augmentation thing never really pans out properly."

"Oz? Osrin Corodrev?"

"My thaan-partner. He's about somewhere; he decided to work with me."

"Oh," I say. Osrin Corodrev, scion of his xenophobic father's genetic experiments, raised as a living weapon and used over many decades by the Nausicaans... I'd never expected him to form part of a normal Andorian quad-marriage. "Well. Tell him his great-grand-niece sends her regards, then. And your wives?"

"We've not found a shen and a zhen who'll put up with us, yet." He smiles. "We've just got an understanding - that the two of us come as a job lot." Binary-gender species never seem to understand that the two "males" in a quad-marriage are every bit as married to each other as they are to the "females". But, thinking about it... I'm rather happy, all told, that these two damaged people have found some love in their lives.

We reach the shuttle, and begin the laborious process of decontamination; the damn suits have plenty of nooks and crannies to carry toxic dust. By the time we're through, the red disk of the sun is descending, half visible through the clouds, dimmer still than the fires on the horizon where the volcano rages.

Aboard the shuttle, I pop my helmet and stretch out my cramped antennae. I have a brief moment of relaxation, and then the comms console chirps. "Shohl here."

Anthi's face forms on the screen. "Some news from the Federation Council, sir," she says. "They've framed their diplomatic protest... and they've found a pretty big gun to deliver it."

Unknown

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philipclayberg

patrickngo wrote: »

This is getting good.

Correction: It was already very good. Now it's heading straight up to excellent.

Don't stop, Shevet! More! Please!

cmdrscarlet

[Short posts = easy to read and keep up with to me <thumbs up!> ]

shevet

Shalo

Above me, in orbit, the Garaka is being readied for departure. Meanwhile, I am preparing for my mission. To the unobservant, it would appear that I am sitting in a First City bar, sipping a hot raktajino. The unobservant do not understand how preparations are made.

The Klingon who approaches me is tall and heavily built, wearing a handsome military-style tunic and carrying fine weapons, with no sign of wear. "Lieutenant General Shalo?" he says. "I am Lukar of the House of D'garl."

"Greetings to you."

"I understand that you have the ear of the Chancellor. My House is engaged in the manufacture of various sensor and recording devices, of the highest quality, suitable for use on the field of battle. We lack only the influence required to see our products taken up by the KDF. Honour and glory would accrue to us, were this to happen."

"Naturally."

"A word in the Chancellor's ear might sway the balance between us and our unworthy competitors. Whoever spoke that word would gain honour and glory in proportion to ours. More material rewards are nothing, of course, but they would follow, nonetheless."

A time waster. "I regret that you misunderstand," I tell him. "I do not have the Chancellor's ear. He has mine, to hear and obey his commands. I am to carry out an investigation on his orders. If the quality of your House's wares becomes relevant to that investigation... it will be mentioned. But I tell you, in all frankness, I do not see how that could reasonably be arranged."

He turns and departs with a snarl. I think I have just earned the enmity of a House of minor electronics manufacturers. Somehow, I cannot find it in me to quail at the prospect.

"May I join you?" The Lethean in nondescript leathers does not wait for my answer, but seats himself at the table beside me. "Depressing, is it not, how some Klingons scrabble for advantage...."

"I am not downcast," I say. This one seems a more likely prospect. "How may I assist you?"

"Perhaps, by disclosing the secret of your enviable poise and calm. Many officers, charged with a mission of importance at a time of crisis, would be engaged in the most frantic of preparations...."

"My crew is competent. I see no reason to fuss and chivvy them. My ship will break orbit at its appointed time."

"To pursue the renegade Captain Klur," the Lethean says. "And what then?"

"I will carry out the Chancellor's instructions," I say, "which you will not expect me to discuss."

"Of course not. Still, any being of even average curiosity must speculate."

"One may speculate freely, but one may not always speak freely. Especially in matters of military security."

"I would expect nothing else," the Lethean says, "from one of your reputation. Still, one must wonder at the events that have taken place - at whose interests are served, whose adversely affected...."

"Whose interests do you serve?" I ask, directly.

"Lethean interests are most ably advocated by the House of Terrath."

An idiot might take that as an answer. Letheans... they are hard to read; their facial expressions are so limited, because they rely on other methods of non-verbal communication. And, of course, they find us easy to read. I reach out, and knock my still-steaming raktajino into his lap.

He jumps to his feet, hissing and cursing. "My apologies for my clumsiness," I say.

He mutters something under his breath. "I was not reading your mind," he says.

"So I see, now. If you had been, you would have saved yourself a scalding. What did you have to say to me?"

He sits down again, somewhat gingerly. "You are to discover the truth behind Captain Klur's action," he says. "I speculate, here, but we both know that I speak correctly."

"Conceivably so."

"And, yet, philosophers down the ages have pondered the question - what is truth?" He leans a little forward. "We speculate as to what truth you will offer the Chancellor in your report. We do not impugn your honour by suggesting that you will speak less than the truth... but you will speak no more, we know that."

"What more is there to speak?" I ask - disingenuously.

"Whatever truths you speak may bring down great houses, blast lives... or exonerate others. You have a kinswoman aboard the renegade's ship, Lieutenant General; this much is known. Will your truth save her from execution, or damn her to Grethor with Captain Klur?"

"I do not see how that last can now be avoided," I say. "True... I might wish it were otherwise. But my kinswoman has chosen her allegiance, and must now accept the consequences."

"If matters could be arranged otherwise?"

I shake my head. "There is no way."

"A truth might be found that would permit it."

In the end, I conclude, he is just another time waster. "I am a soldier, not a philosopher," I say, and I rise from the table. "Your multiplicity of truths would complicate my mission."

"You might benefit from the study of philosophy."

"No doubt. Well, I close no doors, Lethean. But so far you have brought me only fresh questions, and I am already over-supplied with those. If you come to me again, bring answers, and we might speak." And I turn to go.

---

I return to the barracks, go to my private quarters, and close the door.

The Garaka departs within the hour. I need that time to think.

I sit cross-legged on the floor and close my eyes. Multiplicity of truths... indeed.

The truth is, Bercera IV has been destroyed. The first of my many questions: who benefits from that?

The loss of one world to the Federation is a blow; it is at least balanced by the swing in public opinion against the Empire. Star systems that would have been our allies might now become our enemies; on the other hand, systems that might have revolted against us may now be cowed into obedience. Too many imponderables to sort through.

But the fundamental outcome is as K'tag suggested. Either the war will intensify, or the backlash will cause it to abate. Who desires which outcome, and how likely is it that they will attain their desires?

Darg spoke for the war hawks: a simple creature, Darg, an armchair patriot who despises enemies he has never seen. There are many of his opinion, who thirst for Federation blood and will happily spill the blood of others to gain their ends. Is this Klur one of that faction?

K'tag's other possibility... that the outrage might end the war... must be considered. Are there pacifists and idealists who would burn a whole world to gain peace? Why, yes; there are idealists who would burn down all creation to gain their ends. An ideal is barely worthy of the name if no one is prepared to kill for it... and pacifism is an ideal.

Who desires an end to the war? Pacifists, idealists... merchants who would prosper through trade with the Federation... militarists who would fight on other fronts... and any mother who has buried her children after a battle. Who desires its prolongation? Other militarists... merchants who grow fat on military contracts... anyone who desires the curbing of Federation influence in the quadrant... and enemies of both empires, who would watch them destroy each other.

Which of these commands the loyalty of Captain Klur? One does not attain command of a starship by being stupid; Klur must have known that his action would have dire consequences. So, he would need either a pressing reason for it, or to be sure he would be shielded from those consequences.

And it would take a great deal of influence to shield him - influence that could only come from a member of the High Council. Someone, I suspect, who was at the meeting - an absence might be seen as suspicious, nor would an absent member be able to guide the discussion away from sensitive topics. It might even have been one of those who spoke there. Darg? His motivations were obvious and unsubtle. K'tag? He presented the alternatives, equivocating nicely between them - his counsel was a hall of mirrors, and who is to say where his real thoughts were concealed? Or one of the others.... The Chancellor himself? But I do not see any way in which J'mpok would gain from this.

How was Klur convinced? Straightforward bribes are possible, but I deem them unlikely. Money is not enough to purchase a Klingon - usually. And yet, a Klingon's honour may be bought very cheaply, if he does not understand that he is selling it....

I open my eyes, and rise to my feet. This speculation is fruitless. Like the Lethean, it brings me no answers, only more questions. I must find this Klur, to discover with what coin he was bought.

---

My footsteps ring on the solid metal deck of the Garaka, as the time for our departure approaches. My First Officer, K'Gan, turns his hawk-featured face to me as I approach. "All is ready, sir," he says with a salute. K'Gan is truly more of a Klingon even than I.

I take my seat in the command chair. Beneath me, the mighty Kar'fi carrier is coming to life, its Fek'lhri engines already emitting that unsettling vibration, the dull notes as of a monstrous gong that accompany us everywhere we travel. "Confirm our departure vector and stand ready."

"Confirmed." K'Gan frowns. "We have priority clearance - but we must adjust our planned trajectory. There is a class one diplomatic convoy entering Qo'noS space."

"Compensate as required. And put that convoy on the screen."

The main viewscreen shimmers, displaying the ships. The design is instantly recognizable. "So," I say, "the Federation is making its representations at the very highest level. Well, it does not concern us now. Engines ahead full, and set course for Federation space."

philipclayberg

(gleefully rubs hands together) I like, I like!

Your tapestry is coming together nicely. There are loose threads, but they aren't being dealt with overly quickly. Steven Moffatt of DW once said (I'm quoting him as accurately I can), "Eventually you have to give an answer to a question ... but the answer must be as troubling as the question." The context for this quote was the mystery about River Song's identity and the revealing of it in Series 6, Episode 7, "A Good Man Goes to War".

shevet

The Yann-Isleth, the Chancellor's personal guard, gleaming in their parade armour, stood rigid at present arms in two ranks all down the length of the Great Hall. Between them walked a slight figure in brown robes, the sound of his footsteps the loudest noise in the hall, as he approached the steps where the Chancellor stood.

Grim-faced, J'mpok descended the steps to greet his visitor.

"Proconsul D'Tan. Welcome."

The Romulan bowed, gravely. "Thank you, Chancellor. You know why I am here."

J'mpok nodded brusquely. "Say what must be said."

"I have been asked, as the representative of a neutral power, to communicate a protest from the Federation Council regarding the destruction of the planet Bercera IV." D'Tan spoke in quiet, measured tones. "President Okeg wishes to condemn, in the most unequivocal terms, this deployment of weapons of mass destruction against civilians. He expresses his gravest concern regarding this new development in the war, he deplores the wanton devastation of a class M environment, and he warns you that Starfleet will now operate without restrictions to counter this form of warfare.

"President Okeg retains, however, even in the face of this enormity, the hope and desire for peace. To this end, he wishes to arrange a summit conference between the highest ranking representatives of both Federation and Empire, to be held at the earliest convenience for both sides. He suggests the planet Khitomer as an appropriate venue.

"President Okeg wishes, however, to have concrete assurances that the Empire has decisively turned away from this path of reckless destruction. These assurances should take the form of strategic military and economic concessions on the Empire's part." A murmuring began to arise among the Klingon notables inside the great hall, packed in behind the ranks of guards. D'Tan tapped at his wrist communicator. "I am now transmitting the Federation's suggestions for concessions along your secure diplomatic channel. In brief, President Okeg requires the release from Imperial governance of the Thidasian, Yll-Torican and Valtothi species, the withdrawal of the Klingon Defense Force from Sigma Capricornii, Tiafa, Zeta Comae and the Dialosa Corridor, the abandonment of military bases at Tol Mogra, Aznetkur and Dasus Prime -"

The murmuring became a roar of disapproval. J'mpok raised his head and raked the audience with a glare of fury. "We will hear the Proconsul!" he shouted. Silence fell, abruptly.

"And a moratorium on unauthorized privateering actions such as commerce raids in the Pi Canis sectors," D'Tan concluded, unruffled. "That completes the message from President Okeg and the Federation Council. I would, however, like to speak on my own behalf. Chancellor - why have you done this thing?"

"Would you believe that I have not? That this was the rogue atrocity of a lone captain, acting far beyond his authorization?"

"The Federation is unlikely to accept that. And you and I both know, Chancellor, that we bear ultimate responsibility for the acts of our subordinates. Command responsibility - a doctrine also familiar to the Federation."

"I know." J'mpok seemed to shrink inside his robes. "We must accept the responsibility. And we know that there must be a price to pay. The Federation demands much, though."

"You know that I will convey your reply back to the Federation Council. Faithfully, as I have brought their words to you."

"The High Council will meet and formulate a response within the next two days. In the meantime, Proconsul... I would speak with you. Privately."

D'Tan bowed. "I would be honoured, Chancellor."

---

The door closed on the Chancellor's private office, an austere room buried deep in the bowels of the Great Hall. J'mpok subsided into a chair behind a desk, his shoulders hunched, his face dour. D'Tan took a seat opposite, and for a time neither man spoke.

D'Tan broke the silence. "What happened?" he asked, almost kindly.

J'mpok snarled. "A plot," he spat, "a conspiracy of some kind. I do not yet know the details, but I am certain there is a plot."

D'Tan nodded. "The act did seem... out of character." He sighed. "We have accomplished so much, on Mol'Rihan, with the aid of both your people and the Federation. And the truce has held - for the most part - across Tau Dewa. I had hoped, personally, that the peace might spread."

J'mpok merely grunted.

"My people are under orders to prevent clashes between Starfleet and KDF units," D'Tan added. "We were only just learning to cooperate and trust you... now we must watch you closely again. The Federation is angry, J'mpok. I wonder if even you realize just how angry."

"I have never underestimated the Federation," J'mpok said. "Let me tell you something, D'Tan. I fear the Federation. I fear the way it spreads, it subsumes -"

"Their non-interference directive -"

"Is window dressing! If they do not interfere with cultural development, how is it that every Federation world looks the same? I fear, one day, we will awaken, and find the Federation has swallowed us all. That our biological and technological distinctiveness has been added to their own... and resistance was futile."

"There," said D'Tan softly, "you touch on a real threat. There are powers out there who would consume all our peoples while we squabble...."

"The Borg," said J'mpok, "and the undeclared war with the Iconians and their tools, and our... difficulties... with the Fek'lhri. Oh, I know, I know, there are worse enemies out there than the Federation... looked at objectively." He snorted. "I am an old warrior and a Klingon. Objectivity I leave to the Vulcans."

"You know that I aspire to reunification with the Vulcans," D'Tan said, "to the healing of the Sundering between their people and mine. If that is ever to happen... it will mean changes, on both sides. Vulcans and Romulans will need to become... something new. We cannot fear change. It is bound to come upon us."

J'mpok remained silent for a minute or so. "Turning to practicalities," he said, eventually.

"Yes?"

"Aennik Okeg is an honourless serpent, but he is not a fool. He knows he asks more than we will give. The High Council will prepare a counter-offer, along less grandiose lines."

D'Tan smiled. "President Okeg expects as much. Your preliminary thoughts?"

"We know the Federation has been funnelling arms to the Valtothi rebels for months. Little harm in surrendering what they will shortly win in any case. The loss of the Thidasians and Yll-Toricans will hurt... but it is perhaps a price we must pay. Of the systems you mention... the Dialosa Corridor is out of the question, it would strangle our trade with a hundred non-aligned systems. And three major military bases? Why not ask for Ganalda also, or Qo'noS itself? Dasus Prime, possibly - the other two, never."

"And the summit conference?"

"The reptile may have his summit. Not Khitomer, though. The place is a magnet for assassins and fanatics, I swear they must breed in its crevices."

"Yes," said D'Tan quietly, "yes, I remember."

"Would you host it yourself? At New Romulus?"

"Gladly. Though security is still an issue, with the Tal Shiar and the Tholians...."

"I do not fear those. I will meet Okeg at your new capital. Perhaps I will have answers for him by then - I have despatched an agent to seek out this Klur and wring the truth from him."

"I would not be in this Klur's shoes for any inducement," said D'Tan wryly. "Hunted both by Federation and Empire.... Your agent should probably contact the Starfleet officer investigating Bercera IV. Vice Admiral Shohl, I know her slightly from her work on Mol'Rihan." He smiled. "At one point, she gave a positive but ill-considered interview to the press, and became known as the Pirate Queen of the Vastam Peaks." His tone turned serious again. "Speaking of piracy -"

"There can be no moratorium on privateering. Too many of the peripheral Houses depend on it for income, now. To enforce the ban, I would have to commit too much of the KDF to internal police work. And to pronounce the ban and fail to enforce it would be fatal to my authority."

"It is a thorn in all our sides, though. Not just the Federation's.... It stifles legitimate trade."

"It cannot be helped, while we are at war. It is the Klingon way."

"And when the war ends?"

J'mpok shook his head. "I am bound up, in the minds of many, with this war," he said, heavily. "It is widely held that, when it ends, I end. And I tell you, I am not ready to end."

"A way might be found. And should."

"We will explore the ways at the summit conference. The reptile and I."

"As you wish." D'Tan paused for a moment, then said, "You may need to reconsider your position in regard to Aznetkur. The Federation Sixth Fleet is operating in that vicinity, under Admiral Gref. The Tellarites do not shrink from conflict even at the best of times, and this is not the best of times."

"We may lose Aznetkur in any case? I will consider that." J'mpok rose to his feet. "A feast has been arranged in your honour, with a traditional Klingon opera to follow. Can you tolerate it?"

D'Tan smiled. "For the sake of diplomacy, I will endure much."

philipclayberg

One tiny typo: it's "dispatched" not "despatched" (and even this one little misspelling can't take away one single bit from your excellent writing). Also, feel free to make your chapters as long as you like. Just keep writing them.

(signed) Unashamedly Addicted to "Fallout" Reader

shevet

It's a slightly archaic variant spelling that's more common in British English than American. What can I say? I'm British and slightly archaic.

ambassadormolari

There are times, shevet, when I am envious of your writing ability. This is one of those times.

Please continue, things are getting better and better. Incidentally, I really like J'mpok's (arguably appropriate) comparison of the Federation to the Borg.

philipclayberg

shevet wrote: »

It's a slightly archaic variant spelling that's more common in British English than American. What can I say? I'm British and slightly archaic.

From the spelling of some words (one ended in "-tre" instead of the "-ter" I'm more familiar with) in your story, I figured you were either Canadian, Irish, Northern Irish, Scottish, Welsh, British, Australian, New Zealander, or South African. Well, I got one of those guesses right.

American English has been said to be more archaic than British English (since the two deviated from one another in the 1600s and each evolved in their own way), though some have said that the inverse is true.

I'm American (born in US Army hospital in Munich, Germany) and my ancestry, as far as I know it is: Irish, Scottish, Welsh, British, Dutch, German, Danish, Swedish, with possible bits of French (Huguenot), Swiss, and Cherokee. Or, as someone once said, "Mutt". I've been called "precocious", "eclectic" and "eccentric" (and "genius", but I don't really agree with it).

Enough babbling. Your audience is impatient. Where's the next chapter?

shevet

Ronnie

*/*---audio input above threshold level---consciousness to waking mode---somatic response[y/n]n---audio on*/*

"I think she's still asleep," Tallasa says. "What in the name of the Infinite is this stuff?"

"I do not recognize these file headers." Saval's voice. "The text file, though - a novel, early Earth twentieth century, entitled 'Pale Horse'. Do you recognize it?"

"A horse is an Earth riding animal," Tallasa says doubtfully. "It seems a strange subject, even for the Admiral."

*/*somatic response[y/n]y*/*

My eye opens. "Oh, for crying out loud, you two," I say, "it's relevant. Though this be madness, yet there's method in't."

"Sir," says Saval. "We did not realize you were awake."

"Never realize," I say. "When you realize, you make a real out of... I and zee... hang on, that doesn't work. Never mind." I swing my legs off the ready room couch and stand up. Do I have pants on? Yes, I do. Today will be a good day.

"'Pale Horse'. Know who rode a pale horse? Death. Death, in the Book of Revelations. And Hell followed close behind. Boris Savinkov," I owe them a lecture, "the author of this little drollery, was a political fanatic during the upheavals in the country known as Russia, after Earth's first world war. The winners of that struggle established one of Earth's nastier dictatorships. Savinkov was one of the losers... and, when you learn a little about him, you realize - oops, sorry - that that was actually a good thing."

"How is he relevant, sir?" Tallasa asks.

"Because he was a terrorist. A believer in the theory and practice of terror for the furtherance of political ends. In case you haven't worked it out yet, that's the kind of person we're dealing with. Terrorists are prepared to do unthinkable things, my friends, not for the sake of the things themselves, but for the response they get."

"I believe I understand," says Saval.

"It's the key to understanding what our man's after. We need to work out what response he wants from us - from Starfleet, from the Federation as a whole. Then we need to not give it to him. Does he want us to take revenge? Then we extend olive branches until everyone's sick of olives. Does he want us to run scared? Then we come out fighting."

"Question, sir," says Tallasa.

"Fire away."

"What makes you sure it's us he wants a reaction from? Why not the Klingon Empire? I'm assuming you think this was the work of a rogue operative - why can't he be aiming at the Klingon hierarchy? To cause an upheaval there?"

Damn. There's an actual brain at work under those two blue coathooks. I mean, I hadn't thought of that wrinkle. "Never assume," I say. "When you assume, you make - oh, the heck with it. Yes, you might be right. And there's no way to dictate which way the Klinks will jump... so, if you are right, well, there's not much we can do about it."

Tallasa nods, soberly, thoughtfully.

"So let's do Starfleet stuff," I say. "We all happily linked up with Sixth Fleet now?"

"Holding station at defense grid marker buoy epsilon 473," says Tallasa. "The fleet is almost at full strength, with only the Yukoku and the Warspite to report in. Admiral Gref has ordered you to report aboard the flagship Taras Bulba at 1530 hours, to attend the preliminary strategic briefing."

"Joy of joys," I mutter. "What time is it now?" */*0937*/* "Twenty to ten, never mind. Plenty of time. Oh, hi there, face-ache, what the hell do you want?" This last, to the communications ensign, who's standing at the ready room door with his mouth hanging open. I double-check; yes, I was right, I'm wearing pants.

"Sir," he says, "there's a communication for you - um, it's got a Starfleet priority - but, um, there's no origin code, we don't know who's sending it -"

"Spooky spooky spook stuff!" I carol happily. "Put it through. Let's have a seance, talk to the spook. Stick around, kid, you may learn something. On screen."

The desk console lights up, revealing a human */*species 5618*/* face, with a scar across one cheek that looks like it was done by Dr. Frankenstein, in the dark, while drunk. "Frankie, baby!"

"Vice Admiral Grau," says Franklin Drake. "I think you ought to know that your access rights to some comms channels... lapsed, some time around the year 2300."

"Oh, don't come that tone with me, Frankie. I remember you. I used to dandle you on my knee when you were a kid." He looks sceptical. "All right, it might have been some other kid. There was definitely dandling involved, though."

*/*species 5618---specific unit designated---Franklin Drake---priority for assimilation and memory retrieval due to specialist knowledge---*/*

Put a sock in it, Two of Twelve. "Anyway, yeah, you can help me out. When did the IKS Shara'nga change its name?"

Drake narrows his eyes. "Ronnie," he says, "don't meddle. You won't do any good if you meddle, and you could do a considerable amount of harm."

"Shara'nga," I say, "is a perfectly good Klink name, some Klingon general probably named it after his favourite targ, or mistress, or both. But, five months ago, according to those handy intelligence digests you keep in the dusty corners of Memory Alpha, the name was changed, to the QIb laH'e'. That's a cool name. Translates roughly to 'Heart of Darkness', doesn't it? Very Joseph Conrad."

"I'd prefer 'Heart of Shadow'," says Drake.

"I bet you do. Anyway. It's a Klink thing, isn't it? Ships with appropriate names. My ship doesn't have an appropriate name, but then I'm not a Klink. The IKS Heart of Darkness... as if it's getting ready for a deed of darkness. Am I right? I don't have to be, there's more. Planet wrecking munitions, who carries that much ordnance normally? Again, your intelligence digests have lots of good stuff about movements of industrial technology in the Empire. And who's this Commander Kysang, when he's at home?"

"Kysang is dead."

"Mistah Kysang - he dead. Right." I lean forward and narrow my organic eye at the screen. "There's a terrorist rogue agent at work in the Klink hierarchy, and it's someone a lot higher up than one carrier commander. Right? Look, you don't have to tell me anything, I'm out here on the front lines. But the girl on the spot is that psycho-smurf Shohl, and she probably needs to know about some of this, at least. So are you going to tell her, or shall I? Tylha Shohl, do you know her?"

"I know everybody," says Drake. "And you shouldn't worry about Tylha. She's already reached some of the same conclusions you have, and without breaking in the back door of Memory Alpha. Her preliminary reports make that clear. And she has additional resources that you don't know about... actually, that she doesn't know about. Yet." He smiles, a sly untrustworthy smile. "Don't worry about Tylha," he repeats.

"Frankie says relax, huh? Better be right, Drake. Too many people dead already, and with this much firepower gathering out here, there's gonna be more. When all the shooting's over... I'd hate to think the people who started it got away scot free."

"I wish I could promise that won't happen," Drake says. "But this is the real world, Ronnie, and we have to live with its imperfections. Bear that in mind." And the screen goes dark.

shevet

"Security alert!"

Klur's head snapped round. "Disruptor fire... one shot only, so far... officers' quarters, deck six, corridor nine," the security officer reported.

"First Officer. With me. Bring weapons. Ops, you have the conn." And Klur left the bridge at a run. Tayaira paused long enough to draw a disruptor rifle from the rack, then followed.

The dark corridors of the carrier rang with their urgent footsteps. They paused, panting, at the door to the officers' quarters. Tayaira checked the charge on the disruptor rifle as Klur keyed the intercom. "Report. Any more shots?"

"No, sir," the security officer replied.

Klur glanced at Tayaira. "On the count of three," he said, "inside. Weapons ready." His disruptor was in his hand. "One. Two. Three!"

The door slid open and they burst through. Tayaira levelled her rifle - and stopped. There was no one in the room.

But there was something on the floor, by one of the bunk beds - Tayaira's eyes widened.

A severed hand, still oozing Klingon blood, lay on the deck, next to a bloodied d'k tahg blade, and a datapad. Nearby, the deck plates were scorched, as by a sudden energy release. Klur holstered his disruptor. He stepped forward, stooped, picked up the datapad.

"'I go now to Gre'thor'," he read out, "'but I will not take with me the hand that murdered a world. D'Elara, daughter of Skor, operations officer, IKS QIb laH'e''." He shook his head. "Stupid. Stupid."

Tayaira lowered her rifle. "She cut off her own hand," she said, "and then shot herself?"

"So it would appear." Klur touched his communicator. "This is Captain Klur. Stand down security alert."

"She cut off her own hand," Tayaira repeated.

"It took courage, and strength of will," Klur said. He spat. "And these things were wasted. Such foolishness...."

"Sir," said Tayaira, "we need to talk. Morale is bad, sir, and this - this -" She shook her head. She could find no words for what had happened. "Sir, this will worsen things yet further. We are listening on the channels you designated, but there are no transmissions. We must -" She stopped. She had no idea, any more, what they could do.

"We remain concealed and silent," said Klur, "until there is word that we may return to Qo'noS safely. It will come. Starfleet will never find us here."

"What does that matter," Tayaira snapped, "if we start to kill ourselves?"

Klur turned on her with a warning glare. She glared back. "We must do something," she said, "to prove to the crew that there is hope."

"What do you suggest?" Klur demanded.

She thought. "My House had contacts in the Federation. Perhaps we can seek out someone who can provide us with more information.... It is the waiting, sir, for a message that never comes, that weighs most heavily on our minds."

"The message will come," said Klur.

"You have confidence, sir, but the crew must be convinced."

"We cannot break communications silence ourselves, and we cannot safely leave this asteroid field. What, then, do you propose?"

"Perhaps, if we sent out an auxiliary vessel - your Chariot, sir, for instance - it might not be recognized, and might reach a non-aligned world nearby...."

Klur nodded. "It is a possibility. I will consider it." He looked round, as a shadow filled the doorway. "Yes?"

The Nausicaan warrior stood gaping at the scene. "I," he said, and gulped. "These are my quarters, and Lieutenant D'Elara's...."

"Yes," said Klur. "Jikkur, is it not? Lieutenant D'Elara is dead. You are now elevated to her rank and responsibilities. Serve well and bravely."

For one brief instant, the Nausicaan hesitated, and a strange look came into his red eyes. Then he raised his fist in salute. "Yes, sir!"

"Arrange for this place to be cleaned," said Klur. He still held the datapad in his hand; now, he dropped it to the floor. "We shall return to the bridge." He strode off down the corridor, and Tayaira followed.

As soon as they were out of earshot of Jikkur, Tayaira said, "Sir, did you see him? He hesitated when you gave your command."

Klur nodded shortly. "I saw. I cannot currently afford to dispose of any crew members - not while I cannot receive replacements. But watch that one. Watch him closely."

philipclayberg

What can I say that I haven't already said? If you'll keep writing, I'll keep reading. I promise.

Addicted reader's polite request: Would it be all right if I save a copy of your story/chapters to my PC, so that I can reread it/them when I'm offline? I'll add "Copyright 2013, by Shevet" at the top of each chapter.

shevet

Feel free. These things are posted on the forum, and in accordance with the board's TOS anyway, of course.

shevet

Tylha

King Estmere's needle-pointed prow is turned towards the planet, aimed straight at the roiling masses of grey and white clouds that - mercifully - cover most of the land surface. I stare moodily into the viewscreen.

The bridge is more densely populated than usual. The Orion renegade, Kluthli, is standing by chief science officer Zazaru as they work through the final details. Nearby, Anthi and the Reman scientist Temerix are working on another holo-display. This one shows the evidence we have gathered; the path of the IKS QIb laH'e' around the planet, the devices it deployed, their trajectories into Bercera IV's atmosphere... all annotated, with links to sensor recordings and communications logs. If Captain Klur ever comes to trial, the display is a neat summary of the case against him.

Also on the bridge, staring at the screen, are two civilians: Koneph Phoral and Osrin Corodrev. I turn to them, now. "We're ready to proceed. Is this... the best way forwards?"

Corodrev nods. "It's the best chance for the planet as a whole," he says. His voice is resonant, commanding - well, it would be, his genetic augmentation makes him the perfect image of the noble, manly Andorian thaan. His father thought in those sorts of stereotypes. Beside him, Phoral nods agreement. To some extent, I think, Phoral is a stereotypical chan, too, the witty, wisecracking wingman, the charming second fiddle to the thaan hero. No doubt there should be a pushy aggressive shen and a dependable, nurturing zhen somewhere in the equation, too....

"Recorders are running, sir," Anthi Vihl reports.

"Satellites deployed and in position," Kluthli says. Beside her, Zazaru just looks at the screen with sad brown eyes. Sometimes I worry that my science officer is too sensitive for our sort of work. But, then, we are all of us too sensitive for this.

I look towards Corodrev once again. "Are you sure there are no more survivors? I could pull back my auxiliary craft and do another sweep...."

"If anyone's still down there," Phoral says, "then they're somewhere we can't find them... and they'll be dying already from chemical or radiation toxicity." The toxins released into the planet's atmosphere, both from the initial bombardment and the subsequent vulcanism, have made it a nauseous chemical soup in a staggeringly short time.

"It's... kinder... this way, I think," Corodrev adds. I nod. I take in a deep, reluctant breath.

"Synchronize all disruptors and fire when ready," I order.

My android science officer, Amiga, handles the weapons controls with her machine precision. If she is troubled by what is happening, it doesn't show. "Energizing now," she says, flatly.

King Estmere seems to shudder as the disruptors cut loose. They are devastating enough weapons in normal combat; now, their energies are being aligned with the main deflector, channelled into a force-field web strung between the satellites we've positioned. They will create, not localized bursts of destruction, but a planet-wide field, tuned to a very specific setting.

The verdict from the science teams was in; the suspended tricobalt dust in the atmosphere would poison what remained of the planet's ecosystem as it settled. The only solution - to burn it off, now. The disruptor field affects tricobalt, and only tricobalt, making the atoms of that frightful substance undergo spontaneous decomposition, turning it into relatively harmless fission byproducts. The catch, of course, is that as this happens, the tricobalt gives up all its stored energy.

So, my ship's weapons fire, and for the second time, Bercera IV's atmosphere burns.

It is necessary, to preserve the remnants of life in the deep oceanic trenches. But it is the coup de grace for the rest of the planet; it is death to anything that breathes.

From this high up, it looks uneventful, at first. Perhaps the clouds roil a little on the sunlit side of the planet; perhaps there is a faint stippling of dots of ruddy light on the night side. Closer to, we would see the infernos that have suddenly sprung to life, hear the concussive blasts of the terrific explosions among the clouds.

Then - "What's that?" Anthi says.

"The aurora," Phoral replies, quietly.

Energised particles, striking the planet's magnetosphere. Normally, they come from space, in the form of the solar wind; this time, they are striking up from below, released by the fury of the tricobalt disruption. Ghostly greenish-blue light ripples across the upper atmosphere, wrapping the dead world in an eerie glowing shroud.

"Tricobalt reaction confirmed," says Amiga. We watch in silence, otherwise, until the lights die away.

"So," I say, heavily, at the end. "We've done all we can, here, then." I try to make my voice brisk. "What's the status of the survivors?"

"All the serious cases have been transferred to our hospital ships," says Corodrev. "There's a few left in your sickbay, awaiting transport - your Dr. Beresford's been a huge help, by the way. Thank you for that."

"We'd better finish up those transfers, then," I say. "The patients will be glad to be off a military vessel, I'm sure... and I can take King Estmere off on the hunt for the Klingons."

"We'll get going and arrange the final transports," says Corodrev, and then frowns. "Ah. If someone could show us, again, where your sickbay is...."

"Oh, yes," I say, "it took us a while to get used to the layout of a Tholian ship. Come on, great-grand-uncle, I'll take you myself."

As we walk towards sickbay, Corodrev says, "I wish you wouldn't call me that. It makes me feel ancient. Besides, my father edited my genome so much... genetically, I have barely anything in common with you. We're the same species, and that's all."

"Oh?" I say. "I'd have thought he'd be keen to preserve his bloodline, or something."

"Preserve and improve," says Corodrev. "Have you ever seen pictures of my father?"

"I looked him up," I say. "I must admit, he didn't look much."

"He was a runt," says Corodrev. "Small, sickly and feeble. It's one of those - psychological things. He hated his own weaknesses, and he projected that hatred onto the things he thought were making Andoria weak. In his mind, the Federation."

"I'm surprised he let you develop that level of insight," I say. "What with trying to raise you as an augmented elite...."

"He was a lot better genetic engineer than he was a practical psychologist," says Phoral. "Besides, by the time we'd grown to adolescence - and were really into the rebellious, questioning-authority, stage - he had pretty much lost his grip. Of course, then the Nausicaans took us over... that wasn't fun."

"Can't have been. Well," I say, "I guess I can sympathize, in a way. I'm sure I'd be a disappointment to my thaan-father, too."

"Disappointed in a Starfleet officer?" says Corodrev.

"He wasn't into the military," I say. "He helped set up the original Gimel Vessaris colony - it was supposed to be a post-industrial, post-military, eco-friendly and socially harmonious place. Fine ideals. Unfortunately, they didn't count for much when the Nausicaans came and kicked the place over. So, as soon as my head healed up... I decided I'd join the outfit that stood between the idealists and the Nausicaans."

"Oh," says Corodrev. "Funny, I'd always thought of you as military through-and-through. The old Andorian way."

"That's Anthi, not me. My exec. She's old Imperial Guard to the core."

"You said your head healed up," says Phoral. "Is that where you got -?" He touches his right cheek, where the scars run on mine.

"Yes."

He smiles at me. "Maybe you should get that fixed."

"This is fixed, I'm afraid. As fixed as it gets."

He looks as if he has more questions. But he never asks them, because right then the alarms go off.

"Admiral," Anthi's voice says on the intercom, over the clamour, "we have a sensor contact at the fringe of the system. Definitely Klingon, and looks like a Kar'fi carrier."

I swear, and hit my combadge. "Anthi. Get us moving, schedule a rendezvous point with the fighters." All King Estmere's auxiliary ships are out scouring the Bercera system for traces of the QIb laH'e''s warp signature. "Maximum combat readiness."

"Acknowledged," says Anthi's professional voice. I hit the combadge again. "Engineering. How soon to reconfigure the disruptors for normal firing?"

"We address the matter with the utmost expedition!" Commander Thirethequ's voice comes back. "Our efforts, paltry though they are, will be crowned with success after no more than fifteen minutes have elapsed!"

Corodrev is looking puzzled. "Jolciots," I explain. "They're good people, but they're strong on the flowery language. Well, I think this is where we say goodbye. Get those civilians off the ship and head for safety. If that's Captain Klur returning to the scene of the crime, I'm damned if I'm letting him take another crack at them."

Corodrev opens his mouth, but Phoral tugs at his sleeve. "Let's not argue with the nice lady, Oz," he says, "I don't think she's in the mood."

I'm already sprinting back towards the bridge.

philipclayberg

Shevet: I've numbered the posts you've already made as "CHAPTER ONE --" through "CHAPTER ELEVEN --" (with three to four chapters per text file), copyrighted by you at the top of each chapter. The directory name on the hard drive even includes "copied with permission by Shevet". Credit where credit is due.

If this were a TV series, I'd be practically glued to the screen, frustrated that each episode couldn't be written, filmed, edited, and broadcast quickly enough. I'm so spoiled that you post more than once a week, and sometimes even twice a day. Heavenly!

I'm also trying to imagine what it would be like if I were able to collaborate on an STO story with you ... but my self-confidence keeps telling me that I'm just not good enough. I'll just have to continue being a happy audience member instead.

shevet

Shalo

"We approach the target system," K'Gan reports.

"Excellent." We have made good time - especially considering our circuitous path through Federation space. "Drop out of warp. Are our diplomatic credentials still in order?"

"Broadcasting our ambassadorial status on all channels," Ch'gren reports from the ops console Like K'Gan, he is Klingon - possibly too Klingon, sometimes. It is clear he is nervous about having no more protection than a diplomatic status code. If the truth be told, I am a little concerned myself.

Truth.... "Tell me," I say. "Suppose you were part of a gathering, and you had guilty knowledge of something that others did not. Would you speak at this gathering, or remain silent?"

K'Gan frowns. "Guilty knowledge of what?"

"It is not important. I ask for your... general... feeling."

K'Gan's frown deepens. "An honest man speaks freely, from the heart," he says, eventually. "If I were guilty of something, dishonour would seal my lips."

"Those who conceal something in their hearts would fear to let it slip," Ch'gren agrees.

"So, the honest man would speak, and the dishonest would keep silent. I see. Interesting."

They are Klingons, honest, and plain soldiers. I exchange glances with Sano, the science officer, an Orion woman like myself. We both know the conclusion that inevitably follows; that the man who wishes to appear innocent will speak freely. So, how am I to judge between the honest speakers and the dissemblers?

A problem for another time. "I have a sensor contact," Sano announces. "Correction. Multiple contacts. But, I think, only one that matters."

"Explain."

"Several low-powered vessels in orbit around the planet - my judgment is, they are civilian craft associated with a relief effort. But one is moving, and that one reads high in mass and energy. Very high...." A frown of puzzlement crosses her face. "It does not appear to be a Starfleet configuration...."

"Well," I say, "we ourselves would appear to be the despicable Fek'lhri, at first glance. Cross-reference with all available data files - and, Ch'gren, try the obvious; see if you can get a transponder code."

"More contacts," Sano says. "Scattered, at various points throughout the outer system... low mass, now moving at very high speed."

"Ah," I say, "that will simplify your search. The large ship is clearly a carrier, and it has dispersed its fighters to search for traces of the QIb laH'e'. See if the configuration of the fighters yields any clues."

Sano bites her lip. "This is.... Sir, the fighters are Romulan Scorpions, of that I have no doubt. But the carrier... the closest match is a Tholian Recluse, but the screen frequencies and the power distribution curves are wrong."

"I have it!" Ch'gren exclaims. "It is a Starfleet vessel, whatever the Orion says." Should I be offended, or gratified, that he apparently does not consider his commander an Orion? Or just amused? "Code is for the USS King Estmere, NCC-92984."

"What is known of this vessel?"

"Retrieving intelligence digests," says K'Gan. A pause, and then he laughs. "You are both right," he says. "The King Estmere is a Tholian carrier modified and converted by Starfleet's Experimental Engineering division. Known to be using shields and weapons derived from technology exchanges with the Romulans and Remans...." His smile fades away. "Participated in the action at Gimel Vessaris, when Starfleet recaptured that system from the Nausicaans. Data readouts from there give it a high threat level. Commanding officer of record is an Andorian, Tylha Shohl, Starfleet Vice Admiral. Sir, combat with this vessel would bring much honour and glory, but it might also significantly impede our overall mission."

Which is as close as he can come to saying don't pick a fight with this one. "I do not anticipate combat," I say. "This is a Starfleet ship; this Shohl will doubtless recognize our diplomatic status."

"Should we not deploy fighters, in case of hostility?" K'Gan suggests.

"No. S'kul fighters are... not diplomatic."

"I have a transmission from the carrier on Starfleet frequencies," Ch'gren says.

"Then let us be diplomatic. On screen."

The image forms on the viewscreen; a Tholian bridge, with Starfleet additions. The woman - I think a shen, the Andorian intermediate-female sex - in the centre seat is tall and spare, with a severe-looking blue face, too severe to be attractive even if one discounted the curving scar on her right cheek. "Klingon vessel," she says, with that faint whine Andorians have, when they try to sound aggressive. "You are trespassing in Federation territory. Identify yourselves."

"Vice Admiral Shohl? You should by now have received our diplomatic status codes." I make a show of examining the opalescent film on my fingernails. "We are here on a mission from the High Council, and I suspect it... dovetails... with your own. Forgive me," I smile sweetly at the screen, hoping to get her antennae in a knot. "This is the IKS Garaka, and I am Lieutenant General Shalo."

She narrows her eyes. She is about to speak, when another voice sounds from behind her. "Shalo?"

philipclayberg

This is one addiction I don't want to be cured of. Ever.

More, please?

shevet

Tylha

I turn, astonished. Kluthli has risen from the science console, her eyes wide, her statuesque body almost shuddering with anger.

On the screen, the other Orion woman's eyes suddenly widen in response. "Kluthli?" And she stops examining her nails like some haughty debutante, so that's a mercy at least.

"Shalo," Kluthli spits. "So you've come to this, working for the people who ruined us!"

"At least I remained true to my people!" Shalo screeches. I look rapidly from one to the other. I can't see the family resemblance - both green, and supernaturally good-looking, but that's about it. Evidently they're family, though.

"You sit there wearing a KDF uniform and claim to be true to your people?" Kluthli's voice drips with scorn. Shalo appears to be wearing some cold-weather variant of the Klingon uniform, all white leather and bits of fur. I guess Kluthli's entitled to stretch a point, though. I can almost feel the anger coming off her, in waves.

So can others, it seems. Amiga stands up. "Commander Kluthli," she says, "I fear you may be losing control of your pheromone emissions - it is affecting the organic crew members."

Kluthli blinks. "Oh," she says. "Yes. I'm sorry, sir," she says to me, and draws in a deep breath. She shoots another poisonous glare at the Klingon commander.

"Well," I say, "I hate to break up a family reunion, but I'd like some answers from you... Lieutenant General."

Shalo seems to be regaining control of herself. "Of course, Vice Admiral," she says.

"F'hon," I turn to my comms officer, "do those diplomatic codes of hers check out?" The Bolian nods. "Well, then," I say, turning back to the screen, "it looks like I'll have to wait for you to make a hostile move before I blow you out of space. How long will you make me wait?"

"I am not your enemy," Shalo says, "for today, at least. My instructions are to track down the rogue Captain Klur and... require an explanation from him. I imagine Starfleet is also anxious to hear him account for himself."

"So that's the line the High Council is taking, is it? It won't wash. How much tricobalt do you have aboard your ship?"

Shalo has clearly got herself back under control. "I do not favour the use of tricobalt explosives, myself, although this vessel is designed for them. However, I appreciate your point. Part of my mission, therefore, is to ascertain how Klur acquired his plentiful stock of destructive munitions. Vice Admiral, you must realize that the destruction of this world was not a policy decision of the High Council -"

"Someone decided it," I say.

"This is one of the reasons why Captain Klur must explain himself."

"I think you'll find," I say, "that the Federation is perfectly capable of getting an explanation from Captain Klur."

"And you will find," Shalo replies, "that I can assist you very considerably in the search for him. Vice Admiral, I have all the technical data on Klur's ship - warp signature, emissions profile, transponder codes, everything. With that information, I am in a better position to track him down than you are, sifting through subspace contrails at the fringe of this system."

"So transmit that information," I snap at her, "and we'll take it from there."

She examines her fingernails again. I have the feeling I'm going to lose patience with that trick. "And render myself unnecessary? I think not. But consider, Vice Admiral, that my search will progress much faster if I am accompanied by a Starfleet vessel - and, you will be in a position to see that Captain Klur is properly dealt with."

"By which you mean, taken into custody and submitted to a Federation court for trial, of course."

"We can discuss that when the time comes," Shalo says. Those fingernails must be fascinating. "By way of a gift, and to prove my good intentions, I will provide you with another piece of information. That creature on your bridge is not the only renegade from the House of Sinoom involved in this. Our mutual cousin Tayaira is Captain Klur's First Officer. I mention this for whatever good it may do you."

I shoot a quick look at Kluthli. She looks stunned.

"I'm going to consult with my officers," I say. "You - hold station. If you make any move that I even think is violating your diplomatic status... you'll find out exactly what this ship can do."

---

"We can't possibly trust her," Kluthli says. She still seems agitated.

"The KDF must have sent her because of the family connection," Anthi says. "With this - Tayaira, I mean. There's no way they could have known we'd have a relative of theirs on board... is there?"

"I don't see how," I say. "Just one of those freaky coincidences, I guess."

"It's not too unlikely," says Kluthli. Her composure is coming back. "The Houses of the Orions... they're not quite like Klingon Great Houses or Andorian clans... they're as much a business enterprise as a, a genetic grouping. When the militarist faction crushed the House of Sinoom, a lot of us had to make choices about what to do next. And no small number chose the Federation." She looks ready to spit. "I would never choose as she did. She threw in her lot with the people who destroyed us!"

I gaze, pensively, at the image of Shalo's ship on my console. The Kar'fi carrier is ugly even by Klingon standards, with its ungainly shape and its many protruding fins. I remember seeing a fish, in the aquarium at Starfleet Academy, a brightly coloured thing the humans called a lionfish. The Kar'fi looks like one of those fishes, except blackened and gaunt and dead. A cooked lionfish.

One of those ships killed Bercera IV. The Klingons no doubt thought it was fitting to send an evenly matched ship to - confront - Klur. But with King Estmere along for the ride, the odds would definitely be on Shalo's side... if it came to a fight.

If it came to a fight with Klur.... I'm reasonably confident we could take one Kar'fi in a straight fight. I'd be a lot less sanguine about two. But what would that accomplish, for the Empire? Taking out my ship wouldn't make a dent in the forces now being marshalled against Klingon space....

"The High Council," I say, "at the very least wants us to think that Klur's gone rogue. So, Shalo is bound to act... in support of that idea. I know, you're right, we can't possibly trust her. But there is just the possibility we may be able to use her."

"Sir," says Kluthli, in bleak tones, "the chances are good that that's exactly what she's saying right now."

philipclayberg

I don't know how you can keep exceeding your previous chapters, but you do.

So -- the Orions also have dysfunctional families. Makes one wonder what one of their family reunions would be like ... provided they don't try to kill each other on sight first, that is. And that winter outfit sounds like something that would keep an Orion warm ... even on Rura Penthe.