Collected Tales

jonsills

I've decided to collect my various LC tales here, for my own ease of reference (the laptop I used to keep them on is dying, and I don't have them all in the tower yet; besides, this way I can scan all of them when necessary).

The first several will be the tales of Grunt, a Ferengi with terrible luck with starships. (After that, I'll go collect the tales of Admiral Sills, the time-lost Iain Burwell, and the Romulan Nniol tr'Keiniadh.)

jonsills

"The Last Voyage of the Hybrid"



Her official designation was USS Hypatia, NCC-95784. To her crew, and her detractors, though, she was the Hybrid, built from whatever ship parts were available after the Battle of Vega. Her hull came from a Miranda-class light cruiser; she also carried the overarching strut and torpedo launcher of a ShiKahr-class, and the wide-spread winglike pylons and warp nacelles of a Centaur. It was an odd assemblage, compared by more than one engineer to a pile of spare parts flying in close formation, and existed only because Starfleet Command wanted their intact ships to be available for front-line assignments. They kept trying to send her on milk runs; somehow, however, she seemed cursed to fly through interesting times.

So far, though, this mission seemed to be exactly the sort Command had intended. She had just rendezvoused with a cruiser from Task Force Omega, and transferred over a number of eager young officers needed to fill slots which had opened on the task force's ships. The young men and women and others were quite visibly happy to leave the confines of the shoddy little vessel that had brought them to the Gamma Orionis sector. And the ship's commander, Grunt, was honestly just as happy to see them leave. He'd had it to the top of his Ferengi ears with snide comments about the conditions aboard the Hybrid - Hypatia, he corrected himself wryly - and he was eager to make headway back out to Sirius Sector, and the relative safety there. Obviously it wasn't entirely safe; that's hard to ensure, when the enemy can change shape and use transwarp drive, as had been driven home with the supposed Vulcan ambassador at P'jem. On the other hand, the Undine weren't thick as gree-worms on a fresh corpse, and usually weren't actively hunting you. The same couldn't be said for the Borg here.

In his command chair, Grunt stretched. "Are they all gone?" he asked.

"Aye, sir," his Klingon science officer, Roclak, replied.

"Good. Not a moment too soon. Mr. Gydap, best speed back home, please."

"Course laid in," the Andorian at helm replied. "Executing at warp factor seven."

"Seven?"

"Vovenek's been worried about the intermix matrix, sir. He's asked us to keep it down to seven or less unless it's an emergency."

"Ah," Grunt replied. "Yes, it would be unfortunate if our poor ship were to suddenly explode without even having the courtesy of being shot first. By all means, warp 7 it is."

The ship hummed loudly as the warp drive activated - then began to groan and shudder as the streaks of light on the viewscreen dopplered back down into stars.

"What? What just happened?" Grunt demanded.

"It's not going," a voice crackled over the intercom.

"How very droll, Mr. Vovenek. Can you be at all precise?"

"The warp drive cut out when the coordinator went down, sir," Vovenek replied. "It'll take me a few minutes to track down the issue and get the intermix chamber warmed up again. Then I can make it go."

Grunt frowned. His Pakled engineer enjoyed mocking the common perception of his people, but Grunt saw little profit in joking at a moment like this. "Make it quick," he snapped. "I don't like hanging defenseless in Borg space."

"Well, technically we're still in Federation space, because the Borg come from--"

"Not now, Mr. Vovenek!"

"Aye, sir," the Pakled replied after a moment. "I'm on it."

"Sir," Roclak said from his station, "I'm picking up some odd readings nearby. Looks like metallic debris, probably Borg - but there seems to be a life sign as well. Not human, or any other humanoid I'm familiar with. It could be a Borg drone."

"Borg drone. Really." Grunt's mood lightened. "This mission might be profitable after all. Do we have a brig cell with a suitable force field?"

"Are you intending to bring that - thing - on board? Sir?"

"22nd Rule of Acquisition, my friend," Grunt grinned. "'A wise man can hear profit on the wind.' If we bring back a live drone to liberate, that will get us a commendation from Command. If we have to kill it, there'll still be some information to extract, which is bound to please somebody."

"And Rule 33," the Klingon rumbled. "'It never hurts to suck up to the boss.'"

"So, you have been reading the Rules of Acquisition I gave you!"

"Rule 194. Also the writings of Kahless, and the human philosopher Sun Tzu. Know your opponent."

Grunt chuckled. "We'll make a Ferengi of you yet, my boy!"

"Fek'lhr spare me," Roclak growled. "If you insist on bringing that thing aboard, we have a transporter lock on its signal. I have a squad standing by in the brig."

"Excellent. Beam it in, and we'll go have a look at our prize. Mr. Gydap, you have the conn. Please ask Ms. Shelana to join us in the brig, along with a few of her bright young men."

"Aye, sir. I have the conn," Gydap repeated, his antennae twitching.

---

Grunt and Roclak entered the brig to find Lt. Shelana, the Andorian security chief, waiting outside the largest cell, accompanied by two large humans and a Vulcan, all in Security uniforms. Inside the cell, a humanoid form stood, covered in bits of metal and tubing. The three-pronged claw at the end of its right arm spun and clacked idly.

Grunt walked up to the wall. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Grunt, captain of the Hypatia. Do you have a name?"

"Names are irrelevant," the Borg - well - droned. "You are Ferengi, species 180. Klingon, species 5008. Andorian, species 3424. Human, species 5618. Vulcan, species 3259. You will be assimilated. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to the Collective."

"About that," Grunt interrupted. "We don't particularly want to be assimilated, and you're not in contact with the Collective right now. Are you?"

"Desire is irrelevant. Contact is unnecessary. This unit is capable of assimilating all species present, and bringing the grouping to the Collective. You will adapt to service us."

"And if we refuse?"

The Borg raised its mechanical arm - and the claw slipped through the cell's force-field door as if it were merely pretty lights. "Refusal is irrelevant."

The security guards immediately opened fire. Phaser beams flashed along the Borg's surface, beginning to penetrate its plating - when its own deflector fields sprang up. The beams, reflected away, began chewing channels into the ceiling and walls of the room before the guards could stop. The clawed arm then moved more quickly than the eye could follow, tearing the Vulcan's own arm completely off. The Vulcan collapsed, spurting green.

"Um, yes," Grunt said. "Gentlemen? Shall we adjourn?"

"Adjourn?" Shelana asked.

"That means RUN AWAY!" Grunt shouted, suiting words to action. Behind him, he could hear the others pounding along. Shelana paused when her surviving men had cleared the door, then welded it shut with a plasma pistol.

"That should hold it for a few minutes," she said. Almost immediately, the door began to bulge as the Borg attempted to force it open.

"Computer!" Grunt shouted as he ran. "Activate emergency force fields, rotating shield frequencies! Authorization Grunt seven alpha delta omega three one two!"

"Unable to comply," the computer responded primly. "Force-field projectors on deck seven are offline."

Grunt swore. "Okay, let's get to the lift and blow the deck! Let the TRIBBLE try breathing vacuum!"

The survivors piled into the turbolift. As the door closed behind them, Grunt barked, "Bridge! And emergency evacuation of deck seven!"

The turbolift hummed into motion. "Unable to evacuate deck seven," the computer said. "Detonation systems are offline."

"What the hell IS online??" Grunt screamed.

"Clarification requested. Would you like a complete shipwide diagnostic?"

Grunt groaned.

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that last command."

"Never mind!" Grunt shouted. "Take us to the armory!"

"Deck three," the computer responded.

Grunt tapped his commbadge. "Grunt to bridge!"

"Gydap here."

"Lieutenant, the Borg has escaped custody, and the emergency force fields aren't working! Put us on Red Alert, and dispatch security teams equipped for a Borg!"

"Right away, sir!" The alarm klaxon began screaming, as status lights changed from green to red. "Bridge to all security teams. There is a Borg drone on deck 7. Set phasers to random frequency rotation, full power. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!"

At that moment, the klaxon went silent, the lights went out, and the turbolift shuddered to a halt.

"It's tapped the power systems, sir," Roclek said unnecessarily. "The Hybrid's been compromised."

"She was built compromised," Grunt snapped. "But she's mine, and I'm not letting some damned Borg take her to the Collective to be scrapped all over again! Get us out of this thing, and head for the hangar deck!" He tapped his commbadge again. "Grunt to all hands! All hands, abandon ship! Repeat, abandon ship! We're going to scuttle!"

"Scuttle, sir?" Shelana asked. "How can you scuttle the ship when there's no power to run the computer?"

Grunt grinned savagely. "The problem with the Hybrid, my dear, has always been more a matter of keeping her from blowing up. That's why we were stuck here in the first place. There's a few wires behind a panel near the shuttle bay that just need to be crossed, and the antimatter containment field will run out of reserve power almost instantly. And when that happens..."

"When that happens," Roclak growled, "I'd like to be at least a parsec away. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here." The Klingon's shoulders bulged as he forced the doors open, revealing the corridors of deck 3 almost level with the lift. "Well, that much is going right, anyway," he remarked.

The group ran toward the armory. After equipping themselves with a fair array of weapons, they headed for the Jeffries tubes. Four decks below, and seventeen bulkheads aft, they emerged from the cramped tunnels, all but Roclak puffing from the exertion.

"This way to the shuttles," he said, pointing.

"Profits, Rock, let us at least catch our breath!" Grunt said.

Roclak bowed. "Of course, sir," he said sarcastically. "I'll just go ahead and prep your shuttle. Be sure to say hello to the Borg for me when it arrives!"

"What (gasp) makes you think (gasp) it can find us?" Grunt demanded.

As if in answer, the corridor lit a sickly green, as unfamiliar characters swirled on a nearby panel.

"That does, sir."

"Yes, it would seem that way. Okay, everyone, rest break is over! Let's move!"

As the group entered the bay, a young ensign called to them from the one remaining shuttle. "Captain! Over here! She's ready to move, but I don't know how much longer the bay doors will answer!"

The group ran for the shuttle. Grunt paused. "Okay, everybody, get on board," he called out. "I'll be right there!" He ran back toward the corridor, where he pried loose a wall panel, and felt around inside. Finding the connection Vovenek had jury-rigged the previous month, Grunt twisted the wires loose, then twined two of them about each other. That ought to do it, he thought, and ran for the shuttle.

"Hurry, sir!" the ensign called out.

The shuttle door closed behind Grunt, and the tiny ship lifted clear of the floor. The bay doors opened, then hesitated and began to slide shut again. The ensign gunned the thrusters, and the shuttle slid through the opening just in time.

"Move her out!" Grunt ordered. "Best speed!"

The shuttle's thrusters fired, as behind her the warp core began to erupt, spraying plasma into space. Abruptly, the entire ship shook, then exploded into a fiery cloud.

"Did everyone make it?" Grunt demanded anxiously.

"Sensors indicate 97% of the ship's personnel made it into various shuttles and escape pods," Roclek replied, hands sliding over the sensor controls. "All of those made it beyond the two-kilometer safe zone - some of them might be a little shook up, and of course, anti-radiation meds all around, but assuming we get picked up inside the next three hours, everything should be all right."

"Very good, my friend. Very good indeed!"

"Good?" the Klingon asked unbelievingly. "You call this 'good'? And what 'profit' are you hearing on the wind now, o wise one?"

"Simple, Rock. The Hypatia was lost to enemy action, while clearly in a situation that was way over our heads and therefore not our fault. And she can't be fixed, not from this - they'll have to give us a new ship! And it has to be a step up from the Hybrid..."

Three Weeks Later

"You asked to see me, Admiral?" Grunt said hesitantly, as he entered Fleet Admiral Quinn's office at Earth Stardock.

"Ah, Mr. Grunt! Come in, please." The Admiral gestured toward a seat before his desk. "Don't worry, the court of inquiry cleared you and your men. You were clearly acting in accordance with Starfleet directives when you tried to capture a Borg, and if your ship's systems had been up to snuff, all would probably have gone much better. In fact, we were even able to keep your command crew together for your new assignment!"

---

As the shuttle entered the dockyards, Grunt peered ahead eagerly, anxious to see his new command. A cruiser! The USS Bastogne! Grunt had never heard the ship's name before, but he wanted badly to step aboard her...

"There she is, sir," Vovenek said from his position in the pilot's seat. He pointed.

Grunt looked. Then he sagged into his chair. Ahead of them, directly where the Pakled's finger pointed, there floated a ship. Saucer above, angled neck connecting to the oblong engineering hull, twin nacelles sweeping upward - and the entire ship sporting at least three separate paint jobs, in addition to the gleam of bare metal where hull patches had yet to be painted.

"The Bastogne," Vovenek said. "Twenty years past her retirement date, but Starfleet can't afford to go scrapping ships just because they're obsolete. They say she's been repaired so many times that none of her original parts remain." He paused, then smiled wickedly at his commander. "Word around the dockyard is that she's properly called the TRIBBLE..."

"Why me?" the Ferengi groaned. "Why is it always me?"

jonsills

"Time and Again"



Captain's Log, USS Bastogne NCC-93385, stardate 90201.5.

The Bastogne is en route to Starbase 114 for a well-deserved shore leave, after our - rather unusual encounter with the famed Guardian of Forever. We will also be rendezvousing with the Kirk there, to transfer Lt. Paris back to her ship. Charming girl - don't know if I'd be as gracious toward someone who kidnapped me and shoved me two hundred years back in time. Profits, I wasn't that nice to Drake last time we spoke, and he hadn't kidnapped us - just dragooned us.

All systems are nominal, which makes a nice change. I think Vovenek's getting bored.

Grunt sat back in his command chair, fingering his brand-new commander's pip. He knew it was supposed to be SOP for an officer to receive a new command on being promoted to full commander, but he also knew how badly stretched the Fleet shipyards were - why, they'd recently been pulling old Andorian escorts out of mothballs and putting them on the front lines! Half of the admirals seemed to be flying around in commandeered Breen and Jem'Hadar ships, because Starfleet's production lines just weren't able to keep up with the losses being taken on the Borg front. No, all in all he really didn't mind staying with the old TRIBBLE a little longer...

"Captain," Roclak interrupted his reverie, "we are receiving a distress signal. Priority One."

"One? Where is it, what ship, and how long will we take to get there?"

"One moment... Sir, it's not from a ship at all. The signal is being interfered with, probably at the source, but it's identifying as a research station. Something about True Way, and something else about 'temporal generators'."

"Temporal? That's not a very comforting word, Rock. Especially not today."

"I agree, sir. However, we're the nearest ship - the Termigant is next nearest, but it would take over three standard hours to arrive. We can be there in thirty minutes."

"Very well. Tell Termigant that we're responding to the signal. Don't acknowledge to the station - we're going to want to try to keep the advantage of surprise. Gydap, anything on sensors?"

"Yes, sir," the Andorian replied. "I have one Galor-class cruiser, with an odd irregularity to their energy outputs. It looks like their main reactor's having some issues. Also, their transponder is offline. Definitely not Cardassian military."

"Nothing else?" Grunt asked, surprised. "We're kind of far out from the True Way's usual turf - they only sent one ship?"

"So it would seem, sir. Incidentally, the station doesn't appear on any standard navigation charts of the area. Inquiries into this region are met with the same data precautions as those around Section 31's pet slingshot at Bepi 113."

"'Curiouser and curiouser,'" Grunt mused. "Ms. Shelana, please stand by on weapons, and have a few of your young men in the transporter room prepared to board the station."

"Don't you plan on boarding the Cardassian ship?" Roclak asked.

Grunt smiled. "Rock, if Shelana leaves enough of that ship to board, we'll consider it."

Shelana chuckled. "If."

Grunt touched a control. The Red Alert klaxon began howling through the ship. "All hands, this is the captain," he announced. "All hands to battle stations. Repeat, all hands to battle stations. We have a stop to make before getting that leave."

---

It was an inoffensive little orange dwarf star, the kind a Klingon would have found homey. It hosted only three planets, one close-orbit gas giant and two rocky outer worlds too small to hold atmospheres. Orbiting the second of those rocks was a medium-small space station, accompanied by a beat-up Cardassian cruiser with no identifying marks on her hull.

A few light-seconds away, space twisted violently for a moment, before expelling a Starfleet cruiser, multiply-painted and proudly emblazoned USS Bastogne.

"Ms. Shelana," Grunt said, "you may - indulge yourself."

"Yes, sir," the Andorian tactical officer replied, with a feral grin. "Thank you, sir."

Lances of energy, blue and orange, speared through the endless night, enhanced with Shelana's own shield-piercing frequency modulations. Purple flares of Hargh'peng torpedoes streaked toward the Cardassian craft, already beginning its ponderous turn toward battle. Its own weapons returned fire, raking Bastogne's shields and shaking the ship's occupants.

"Shields holding at 90 percent, Commander," Gydap reported. "Minor fluctuation in the impulse drive."

"On it," Vovenek reported on the intercom.

"I thought you said everything was nominal!" Grunt complained.

"And I thought you said we were headed straight for a starbase. We were nominal for going to a starbase. Nobody said anything about flying into combat!"

"Continue firing at will, Shelana," Grunt said. "That sort of thing can't keep happening to this poor ship right now."

Shelana didn't say anything; the phaser and disruptor banks spoke on her behalf. The shielding surrounding the Cardassian ship wavered - and its overworked portside shield generator suddenly exploded through its hull. The Cardassian's engines wavered and died, and her port weapons ceased firing.

"Her port shields are down, sir," Gydap reported.

"Rock, send a standard surrender offer," Grunt ordered.

"Aye, sir. Transmitting." The Klingon grinned slightly. "Reply received. If the translator's working right, they have no concept of Klingon anatomy - what they're inviting me to do is physically impossible, even after a few drinks."

"Very well, no one can say we didn't try. Shelana?"

The Bastogne's fire increased with the addition of the aft phaser turret, tearing through the hull of the enemy craft and causing a massive series of explosions. In moments, all that remained of the former Galor-class ship was a rapidly-expanding cloud of gases and metallic debris.

"That's what I thought," Vovenek said. "They looked like they were in even worse shape than us."

"That's what they get for being racists," Grunt pronounced with satisfaction. "There are a lot of people who make better engineers than most Cardassians. You, for instance, my Pakled friend."

"You're making me blush," Vovenek said.

"How can you tell?" Roclak replied, straight-faced.

"Rock, hail the station. See if you can find out what's going on there," Grunt said. "Gydap, I need a sensor sweep of the station. Look especially for Cardie life signs."

"Scanning... Sir, I can't seem to get a look inside the station. There's a sensor-scattering field, which ordinarily I could compensate for, but on top of that there seems to be some sort of temporal issue going on - some of the signs I'm scanning seem to be shifted by several seconds from the neighboring data." Gydap shook his head. "I never did like temporal mechanics. I like it even less these days."

Grunt sighed. "I know the feeling. Anything yet, Rock?"

"Still scrambled, sir, but I did get a fragmentary audio of one of the True Way trying to reach their ship - I think he was looking for instructions on whether to start executing hostages."

"Well, that does increase the level of urgency a bit. Rock, Shelana, we're off to the transporter room. Rock, please have the quartermaster deliver our usual boarding supplies from the armory. Shelana, download whatever you can get on the floorplan of that station to our tricorders. Vovenek, come up to the bridge and keep a sharp eye on sensors. Let us know the microsecond anyone without a Starfleet transponder gets within range. Gydap, you have the conn. If trouble starts, try to get us out - but judging by the levels of precaution surrounding this installation, your first priority is to deny access to this station to anyone not from the Federation. By any means necessary, Mr. Gydap - and our survival is secondary to this."

"Aye, sir, I have the conn." Gydap touched the audio link in his ear. "Er, Chief Wayne's compliments, sir, but he says there's a lot of interference from whatever they're working on over there. He says he can beam you in there, but if you want beamed out, you have to shut it down."

"Then we'd better get this right. Let's go, people!"

---

The azure sparkle died, and Grunt and Roclak found themselves in what looked to be a storage area, along with their escort, two young human males from Shelana's security troops.

Grunt tapped his combadge. "Grunt to Bastogne. We're here. Storage B, all right. Is Shelana's team in place?"

"Aye, sir. They're ready on our signal."

"All right, let's see what we can see." Grunt tapped the channel closed. "After you, Rock."

The Klingon slid the door open, poking the muzzle of his pulsewave disruptor out ahead of him. When nothing attacked, he peered around the corner. "Looks clear," he said. "Ensign Michaels, it's your turn."

One of the Security men stepped forward and out the door. "Scanning... nothing, sir. Ready to sweep this floor."

Grunt, Roclak, and the other Security man, Lt. Singh, moved out. A distance down the corridor, after several rooms with no occupants, Michaels held his hand up. "Just a second, sir - thought I saw something..."

Looking around the crate he was behind, Grunt saw what Michaels had spotted. "That - that's us. How is that possible?"

Roclak already had his tricorder out. "It's a temporal anomaly," he said. "What you're seeing is where we'll be in a few minutes. We're going to be running into this a lot, I think."

Grunt frowned. "You know something, Rock? I'm really getting tired of all this temporal TRIBBLE."

"Trust me, sir," Roclak said dryly, "I've already promised myself that if we ever wind up on Earth in the late 19th century, I'm going to find the human writer Wells and kick him in the head until he forgets all about his time machine idea."

---

Two floors above them, Shelana paused, panting slightly. Her custom bat'leth dripped with Cardassian blood.

"Commander," one of her men said in an awed voice, "that was amazing. But don't you think maybe we should take prisoners or something?"

"If they wanted to live," she replied, "they shouldn't have attacked a Starfleet facility. Especially a secret Starfleet facility. They'd probably have been killed to shut them up anyway - I'm just speeding things up a little."

"Um, sir, all due respect, but I'm pretty sure that's not what Starfleet does."

"That's what you think," Shelana said, with a feral grin. "There's a man I know of named Drake who might disagree with you. Enough chatter - we still haven't found any hostages yet. Let's move."

---

'

Seven minutes, eight rooms, and four Cardassian patrols later (although in fairness, three of them were the same patrols, just in different times), Grunt stopped his group just outside a door labeled, "Operations".

"Shh. Hear that?"

Roclak cocked his head for a moment. "I don't hear anything."

"Yeah, I forgot - human and Klingon ears are mostly just for decoration. Voices on the other side of this door. Sound agitated. Probably our targets. Set weapons to stun - I'm willing to bet the hostages are in there too." Grunt tapped the control panel, and the door slid open quietly.

A group of True Way loyalists stood near a control panel, several of them pointing weapons in the vague direction of several civilian scientists. Some of the scientists bore bruises and other marks. "Daron to Nessil," one Cardassian repeated into a communicator. "Daron to Nessil. Requesting information as to disposition of prisoners. They are unwilling to talk to us. Please respond." He looked at another of the True Way. "It's useless, sir - all I get is static. There's too much interference from the experiments here."

"Or from Starfleet," Grunt said, stepping out of a shadow. "Please surrender. It will make all of our lives easier, and save you a rather nasty headache later."

The response was immediate - poorly-aimed fire began to splatter around Grunt and his party. Phaser beams and pulsewave blasts, somewhat better aimed, fired in response. Suddenly, a blue-clad form slid gracefully into the crowd of attackers, striking at any who managed to avoid the phaser barrage. In a matter of moments, every Cardassian in the room lay on the floor.

"Mok'bara, Rock? Really? Showing off much?" Grunt grinned.

"Not showing off, sir," Roclak replied soberly. "Well, not much, anyway. But you said 'stun' - and my disruptor doesn't have a stun setting. Besides, I didn't want any stray shots to hit the hostages."

"Hmm. Good point." Grunt turned to the scientists. "I'm Commander Grunt, of the starship Bastogne," he said. "We're here in response to your distress call. First question - do you know of any other Cardassians on the station?"

"There were two or three sent out to keep an eye outside the room," one civilian, an older human male, replied. "And another group upstairs..."

"Shelana to Grunt," Grunt's combadge interjected. "We found and neutralized three groups here. No sign of hostages."

Grunt tapped his badge. "That's because they're all down here, Shelana. And it sounds like you've taken out the last of the attackers. Any prisoners?"

"Any what, sir? I think you're breaking up."

"Acknowledged. Stand by for beamout once we get this place shut down. Grunt out." He tapped his badge again. "Well, it looks like you're safe now, Mister... ?"

"Doctor, actually. Dr. Hassan, lead researcher here at Anderson Station. We were working on a device that might have actually reproduced the abilities of the Guardian of Forever - have you heard of the Guardian?"

"We're familiar with it," Grunt replied with a grimace. "Why in the name of the First Shopkeeper would you want to do that?"

"Just think of the research possibilities!" Hassan said, eyes gleaming. "No more trying to understand events through a historian's 'interpretation' - we could actually see the Rihannsu leave Vulcan, or the flight of Cochrane's Phoenix, or Archer's speech that founded the Federation, or - or anything!"

"Or what you were doing in your quarters last night," Grunt continued conversationally. "Or what someone said to you late one night in grad school. Or when something else happened that you'd rather not be general knowledge. Have you ever heard of a group calling itself 'Section 31'?"

"Why, yes," Hassan replied haltingly. "There- there was a man who offered us this station, and the funding to complete our device. Mr. Drake, he said his name was - Frank Drake, I think. He said he represented a group of investors called Section 31..."

"And he'd make sure nobody stole your device, right?" Grunt snarled. "Except him, of course. He'd profit by having a private time machine!"

"Is that - if that's what he expected, then I'm afraid he was going to be disappointed," Hassan said. "We only developed a viewing portal. Actual interaction with the past was too difficult - we still don't even have a theory how that could be possible. No clue how the Guardian does that."

"Hmmpf. He'd still have the perfect spying device. I'd really rather he not have that. Besides, we fought some Cardies in the corridor that were time-shifted, so you were onto something." Grunt pondered for a moment. "Can your device be moved? We've got a cruiser here - we could take you straight to Starfleet Command for protection."

"Not moved as such, no," Hassan replied, "but if necessary, we can reproduce the research elsewhere - we have all of our notes, we'd just need funding. Why? Is this Mr. Drake a criminal or something?"

"Or something, yes. Very well, Doctor, please have your people gather their belongings and notes, shut down your device here, and prepare for departure. We'll take you to Earth Spacedock."

"Really?" Dr. Hassan brightened. "I've never been to Earth. That will be different, at least." He turned to his people, most of whom still seemed stunned by this sudden reversal of their fortunes - again. "You heard him, guys!" he called out. "We've got, what, maybe half an hour or so? An hour?"

"One hour, tops," Grunt replied. "And please make turning your machine off a priority - it interferes with comms and transporters."

"Certainly, Captain! Nothing simpler!" Hassan touched a control on the panel nearest him. "There you are - system deactivated. So much easier than getting it spun up in the first place."

"Thank you, doctor." Grunt tapped his combadge. "Grunt to Bastogne," he said. "Do you read?"

"Bastogne here, sir," Gydap replied. "What is your situation?"

"Perfectly normal, Gydap," Grunt said.

"That bad?" replied Vovenek's baritone.

"Gydap, we're processing the hostages now. When they're ready, in an hour or maybe less, we'll be beaming them aboard for transport to Earth. We also have some True Way for the brig. Once everyone is aboard, I want this station blown up."

"Blown up??" Gydap and Vovenek replied together, disbelief apparent in their voices.

"Drake started the project here. He wanted them to build him a time machine. I don't want him to have one. I'm here, and have a starship. He isn't, and doesn't. Therefore, I get what I want, and he doesn't get what he wants."

"Agreed, sir. We'll be standing by to beam everyone aboard. Passenger quarters are being prepared. How many guests?"

"About a dozen. Somebody'll have to double up. That part's not my worry - I'm a starship captain, not a hotel manager."

---

An hour and ten minutes later, Grunt sat in his ready room, Admiral Quinn on the viewscreen. "And so we evacuated the station, sir. We're bringing the researchers - and their research - straight to you."

"You say Drake commissioned this?"

"Yes, sir. That's what Dr. Hassan tells me."

Quin drummed his fingers for a moment. "Commander Grunt. You now have direct authorization from this office to scuttle that station. Don't give Drake a chance to get his filthy paws on anything they did there."

"Aye, sir. Ah, I, well, sort of took the initiative, sir. The station's already gone, and irradiated just to make sure. Mr. Roclak assures me that no coherent data can be extracted from it at this point, and Dr. Hassan concurs."

"I see. I don't generally encourage my officers to destroy assets, Commander, but in this case you followed the prudent course. Please bring everything you found to my office soonest. I've already cleared your ship through traffic control."

"Thank you, sir. We'll be initiating transwarp shortly. Bastogne out." As Quinn faded from the screen, Grunt strode through the door to the bridge.

"Courts-martial all around, then, sir?" Roclak asked.

"No, Rock, the admiral actually ordered me to do what we did anyway. Gydap, please prepare to initiate transwarp to Sol system on my mark. The admiral's already given us clearance."

"Standing by, sir. Have been since you went in there."

"Good man. Initiate transwarp - now."

Space puckered and stretched, and the Bastogne vanished as if it had never been. All that remained behind was the wreckage of a Galor-class cruiser, and an expanding cloud of radioactive gas and metallic dust.

jonsills

"Long Distance Runaround"



Captain's Log, USS Bastogne NCC-93385
Commander Grunt recording.

The Bastogne has been detailed to a resupply run, ferrying quantum torpedoes to a task force investigating a rift into fluidic space in Pelia sector. Due to the risk factors, I've granted shore leave for the mission's duration to the majority of the crew - if we need more than a skeleton crew for anything, they probably wouldn't help anyway. There was a small scare as we crossed Gamma Orionis, but we managed to evade the Borg patrol. All systems are nominal at the moment, and long-range sensors are clear--

The ship shook, throwing people out of their seats across the bridge.

"What the hell was that?" Grunt demanded, climbing back into the command chair.

Roclak was bent over the science console. "Some sort of spatial distortion, sir," he reported. "Unrelated to the Fluidic Rift; might have been a temporary wormhole. There doesn't appear to be any major damage."

"Neutrino levels rising, sir," Gydap reported from the helm. "Gravimetric distortions, too. I think it might be coming ba-"

The ship tossed like a raft in a gale, throwing personnel about like dolls. The lighting flickered; the viewscreen showed space twisting and distorting, and a sudden flare of energy expanding rapidly around the cruiser. As Grunt clung desperately to the arm of his seat, he saw chaos and light, and little else. Panels exploded here and there, showering the space with sparks. After what seemed an eternity, the wormhole that had sucked them down spat them unceremoniously back into reality. A starfield showed on the screen briefly, before the lights flicked one last time and went completely dark.

"Is everyone all right?" Grunt called out.

"Every time!" Gydap complained bitterly. "Every karskat time Starfleet sends us on one of these 'milk runs', disaster strikes! 'Oh, just ferry this diplomat a few lightyears to P'jem. Oh yes, we forgot to mention he's an Undine.' 'Here, take these recruits to Task Force Omega. By the way, your ship might get destroyed by a Borg.' 'Have some shore leave - but first deal with a rogue time machine!' Commander, next time they offer you a milk run, could you please volunteer for something safer? Say, a diplomatic mission to the Borg Queen?"

The emergency lights blinked to life. Roclak was climbing back to his feet, a trickle of purple oozing down his ridged forehead. Gydap, miraculously, was still seated; Lt. Brel, the Bajoran ship's counselor, was tending to a dazed Shelana near the tactical console, which was little more than a mass of tangled wires and fried isolinear circuitry. Vovenek had already regained his feet, and was swearing in Paklit as he tried to get information from his engineering station.

"Status reports, anyone?" Grunt asked, probing gently at what promised to be a truly remarkable bruise on his head.

"Engines are dead, sir," Gydap replied. "Helm is completely unresponsive - we don't even seem to have thrusters. Comms are down, too."

"Sensors offline," Roclak reported. "Also, the computer seems damaged - reports received are incomplete in many respects. We also don't have turbolifts, and without a proper computer, there'll be no transporting around."

"Weapons are gone, sir," Shelana said shakily. "Or at least, the weapons console is. When I can contact someone else in Tactical, I can give you a better assessment."

"Vov?"

Vovonek slammed his fist against the console. "The pun'tak computer doesn't want to tell me anything!" he growled. "It looks like there are microfractures in the warp chamber, the energizers are offline, and I think the dilithium crystals are broiled."

"Fried, Vov," Grunt said. "The human expression is 'they're fried'."

"Whatever. It won't go."

"What the hell happened, Rock?" Grunt demanded.

"As best I can tell, sir," the Klingon replied, "we were captured by a wormhole. Fortunately, it didn't deposit us in fluidic space; we're still in our own universe, although nowhere near where we started. Precise fixes won't be possible until power's restored to the sensors."

"So, what you're telling me is we're blind, we're deaf, the ship's lobotomized and dead in space, and we have no idea where we are. What's the bad news?"

"Actually, sir, I do know approximately where we are," Roclak said. "Just before we lost sensors, I was able to do minor correlations with a few Cepheid variables. I was unable to pin down our precise location, but we seem to be somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant, probably within a thousand lightyears of the Bajoran wormhole."

"Oh, that's helpful," Grunt said sarcastically. "All we have to do is get out and walk a thousand lightyears or so, and we'll be fine!"

"I'm glad to see you're staying optimistic, sir," Roclak replied drily. "Also, we seem to be fairly near some artificial wreckage - from the preliminary scans, it looks like they might be ships of some sort, although that would take more data."

"That's an idea," Grunt said thoughtfully. "Might be something there we can use on the TRIBBLE. Can anyone get hold of the hangar and see if we have any shuttles that can be used to check it out?"

He was answered by a loud hum and an azure glitter. A human form materialized out of the transporter beam. "Oh, thank the Maker," he gasped, "it worked! Without internal sensors, I wasn't sure a point-to-point transport would work from the emergency transporter in the runabout. But I saw a clear space here, at least I thought it was a clear space, and I figured, 'what the heck?' I mean, it wasn't like I'd get very far in a runabout with no warp drive, right? So I just--"

Grunt cleared his throat loudly. "And you are?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, oh yes, sorry, sir, very sorry. Lt. Fitzsimmons, Jerry Fitzsimmons, sir, in charge of the hangar deck. In fact, just at the moment I'm the only one on the deck, only I'm not really on it right now, am I? because everybody else filed for shore leave when they heard about this run, and I guess someone's just rubber-stamping those forms these days, but I wanted to help, sir, and it's a good thing I--"

"Mr. Fitzsimmons. Is this running off at the mouth a human thing, or just you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I talk a lot when I'm nervous, and right now I'm not just nervous, I'm scared spitless. But I'll shut up now, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Now, I have a question for you, and I want you to answer me with a 'yes,' a 'no', or a 'kind of.' You say you got here using the runabout's emergency beamout. Is the runabout spaceworthy?"

"Kind of, sir." And with a visible effort, Fitzsimmons stopped.

Grunt relented. "Very well, Mr. Fitzsimmons, you may expand. What does 'kind of' mean in this case?"

"Well, sir, the hull's solid, and I'm pretty sure the impulse drive's working, and the sensors of course since I could find the bridge, but there aren't any dilithium crystals in the warp drive, although the warp reactor still seems to be functional, so it's got lots of power, even for the replicator, but of course one replicator won't feed the whole ship for long, not without organics put in, and a lot of the guys get a little grossed out when you tell them that solid wastes work as well as anything else for mass, so I guess that's kind of a limiting factor, and of course I didn't test the weapons, 'cause that might put a hole in the ship, and then it'd come out of my hide, at least that's what Mr. Vovonek said the last time a shuttle pilot dinged the deck, and he's a lot bigger than I am, so--"

"For Profits' sake, man, breathe! Next question: can you access the transporter from here? I don't really feel like crawling through Jeffries tubes to the hangar again."

"Again, sir? Oh, right, transporters. I don't think I can access the controls from here, sir, I was kind of counting on someone on the bridge knowing what was going on, and there was nothing I could do down there, and that is a long way to walk, sir, especially with the lifts not working, and--"

Grunt sighed. "Oh, well, it was a thought. Guess it's time to-" He was interrupted by the bridge lights coming on.

"Partial power restored, sir," Roclak observed. "Turbolifts are online. Still nothing from sensors, but if you'd still like to take a shuttle out and look over the situation, that's more doable now."

"Excellent. Rock, Vov, Mr. Fitzsimmons, join me in the turbolift, please. Gydap, you have the conn. Shelana, please let me know as soon as you get weapons back - I'd hate to be caught hanging out here if the Jem'Hadar paid us a visit. Gentlemen?" And the Ferengi led his team into the turbolift.

---

The runabout Puyallup slipped through the hangar doors of the Bastogne, circling around to survey the damage. Grunt winced. The starboard nacelle was battered and twisted; its companion was missing, just a bare strut jutting up from the engineering hull. The hull itself was rent in several places, and the arboretum was completely in vacuum. Grunt was happy the ship had been making this run with a bare minimum crew - with luck, he might not have lost anyone during the wormhole passage.

With an effort, he turned his gaze away from his poor tormented command. Nearby space seemed fairly littered with metallic debris - he could make out parts that seemed to belong to Federation, Klingon, and Ferengi designs, as well as quite a few too broken or strange to easily identify. His reverie was interrupted by Roclak.

"I've gotten a better fix, sir. We would appear to be approximately 212 lightyears from the Gamma end of the Bajoran wormhole. If this ship had warp drive, we could go for help. As it is, I've also scanned the debris field, and located the remains of at least two Starfleet heavy cruisers, probably Dakota- or Stargazer-class."

"Probably?"

"They've been pretty badly damaged, sir. If our trip was anything to go by, the Bastogne was probably about the largest type of ship that could survive the journey at all. These would have been pretty well torn apart by gravitational shear. However, it's possible we can find enough functional parts to either repair our ship or cobble something together to get home on."

"Yes, thank the Great Vault for modular design. Keep looking for anything usable, Rock. We'll leave a marker here, too, so someone can come see what some of these other wrecks are." Grunt turned his attention to the communications console. "Puyallup to Bastogne," he said. "Bastogne, do you read?"

A moment, a hiss, scratching, distortion, and then the Andorian navigator's voice came through the static-ridden channel. "--ead you, Puyallup. What is ... condition?"

"The TRIBBLE's in pretty sorry shape, Gydap. We have located parts of other Starfleet vessels in the debris, and we're going to try to find parts to repair her."

"Say again, Puy... other ships?"

"We've found the remains of some other ships, yes. We're surveying the wreckage looking for parts. Over."

"Acknowledged, sir. Bastogne stand..."

Grunt closed the channel. "All right, Rock, let's go prospecting."

---

Several hours later, in the Bastogne's ready room...

The command crew sat around the conference table in the ship's ready room. Grunt's voice carried easily over the mutter of the others comparing notes.

"Very well, gentlebeings, analysis, please. We'll start with the exec. Rock?"

"Sir, the Bastogne's been severely damaged - probably too badly to be repaired. I'm virtually certain that if we were able to reach a starbase, they'd finally be forced to scrap her. For starters, without a functional computer, it's too dangerous to use warp drive - our senses alone just don't operate fast enough to save us at faster-than-light speeds."

"Very well. Shelana, how's the arm?"

The Andorian woman stood, then winced. "It's kind of a mess, sir, but I'll get by. The doctor assures me that if the protoplaser were working, I wouldn't even know this had happened by now. As it is, the condition of the weapon systems hurts worse. The weapons themselves are fully functional, and could be transferred to another ship easily - but all connections to fire control have been interrupted. We couldn't shoot them, even if we had full power, which we don't."

"Ah, yes, the power situation. Mr. Vovonek?"

The Pakled looked embarrassed. "Sir, I can't bring the main reactor back online - there's less than a fifty percent chance antimatter containment would hold. It's a miracle the antimatter storage unit's still working. Good thing I hooked it up with a backup power supply after the Guardian incident. On the positive side, I've been studying the reports from the teams checking over the wreckage, and I think I can construct one ship out of all the parts here, including some of the TRIBBLE. She won't be pretty, but she should at least get us as far as the wormhole."

"Just to the hole? Why not call for help?"

"Sir," Shelana interrupted, "I would strongly recommend against a distress call here. We are deep within Dominion territory, and while the Founders may have declared the war over, some of the reports I've gotten indicate that there are elements within the Jem'Hadar who are a bit harder to convince."

"Besides," Roclak continued smoothly, "the wormhole damage was too great for the subspace communications array. And the comm arrays on the other ships came out even worse. We'll have to get within range of sublight comms before we can call anyone."

"Hmm. Not ideal, but I suppose if that's what must be done, that's what must be done. Very well, let's get to it. Vov, you're hereby authorized to draw any resources necessary to work on our life-raft. What's our shortest supply?"

"Honestly, sir, it's skilled labor. The engineering staff, like the others, was pretty well stripped for this trip. And not that many people on board have experience with starship construction and modification - the starbase operations people have made it too easy."

Grunt stood and stretched. "Okay, find me an EV suit and a tool belt." He chuckled at Vovonek's expression. "I used to be an engineer, too, before they stuck me in a command chair. I think I still remember which end of a plasma torch to hold." He clapped his hands. "Come on, people, let's get to it! Time is air!"

---

It took three days of steady work before Vovonek pronounced himself satisfied. (Well, not "satisfied" - his exact words were, "Well, I suppose that'll have to do. We're almost out of ration packs anyway.") What floated there in the sky wasn't precisely like any other ship that had ever flown. Her primary and engineering hulls had once belonged to the Dakota-class heavy cruiser USS Hephaestus. Like most ships of her class, she boasted four warp nacelles - but the top two were from a Cheyenne-class heavy cruiser, while the bottom pair, while Starfleet issue, came from a ship too badly damaged to identify in any meaningful fashion. There were lumps on her hull where spare meteor patches from the Bastogne had been hastily welded, and where the old cruiser's weapons arrays had been implanted in the new craft. She was battle-scarred, and seared from her own passage through the wormhole; still, there she was.

"She's no beauty queen, is she?" Grunt mused from the refurbished command seat.

"I told you it wouldn't be pretty, sir," Vovonek said. "But she holds air, her warp reactor works, and I'm better than ninety percent certain I can make the warp drive light up without blowing us halfway to Sto'vo'kor."

"How comforting," Roclak grumbled.

"Very well, then. Mr. Gydap, best possible speed to the Bajoran Wormhole, please."

Gydap put one blue finger on the warp activation toggle, then paused and looked around. "I just wanted you all to know," he said, "that if this doesn't work, it's been an honor and a privilege to serve with you all. Except you, Vov - if this doesn't work, my spirit is going to kick your spirit square in the TRIBBLE."

A chuckle went around the bridge, and Gydap pressed the toggle.

---

Aboard Starfleet Deep Space Station Nine, a bored technician yawned as he surveyed his instruments. "Nothing. There hasn't been any unscheduled traffic through that hole in years - you'd think they'd turn this job over to a computer."

"Careful, Johannsen," his coworker chided. "Too much talk like that, and Captain Kurland might decide you'd rather be a janitor or something."

"Maybe I would. At least the janitor gets to see more of the sta- Hey, wait a minute. Neutrino levels rising, increased verteron radiation - anything in the schedule?"

His coworker checked her screen. "No, nothing until the next ore shipment from Eldanifel. Looks like you're going to get that excitement you wanted after all."

The wormhole flared to life, and the speck of a starship could be seen exiting it. Johannsen activated his comm panel. "Attention, unscheduled craft," he said into it. "This is Deep Space Nine Traffic Control. Please identify yourself immediately."

The signal they got back was weak and staticky, but audible. "DS9 Control, this is the starship USS Hephaestus, more or less. Commander Grunt speaking. Please acknowledge."

"Hephaestus, we acknowledge. One moment, please." Johannsen's coworker was gesturing at him; he killed the mic. "What is it, Susan?"

"Check this out," she said, pointing at his data screen, which was now displaying the information she had just pulled up. Johannsen turned the mic back on. "Commander Grunt," he started, "we seem to have conflicting information here. The Hephaestus was listed as missing and presumed lost several years ago, while your last reported position was quite a fair distance from here."

Laughter came over the commset. "Yes, we were on a mission in Pelia sector. It's quite a story. After debriefing, I'll be happy to share it over a few glasses at Quark's." Grunt was interrupted by a stream of curses in English, Paklit, Klingon, and Romulan, a language Johannsen had scarcely ever heard until the founding of New Romulus. "Ah, my chief engineer advises me that the impulse drive has gone out again," Grunt's voice continued. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you send a tug out to bring us into port?"

jonsills

"Shore Leave"



Captain's Log, USS Hephaestus NCC-91748.
Commander Grunt recording.

Starfleet has informed us that with shipbuilding activites hampered by the raid on the Utopia Planitia yards at Mars, there are currently no ships available to us to replace the Bastogne; however, we were allowed to keep the wreck of the Hephaestus, and even given three weeks in drydock at Deep Space Nine to make her spaceworthy. Mr. Vovonek didn't sign off on anything until almost end of shift on the last day, so I'm pretty sure he's gotten her in shape. Our shakedown cruise was a run from DS9 to Risa; we've been authorized a one-week shore leave, in conjunction with something the locals call a "Lohlunat Festival". Gydap's taken a civilian transport to Andoria, of course - we'll be picking him up there after we're done here. We'll be expanding our crew roster while we're here too, as a Dakota-class needs a few more hands on controls than an old Constitution-refit. There are some personnel requests we can fill internally, as well - some more surprising than others. It's like my dad's accountant always said, though - resources are everywhere, the key is to exploit them profitably.

Grunt looked again at the PADD in his hand. "Are you sure about this, Vov?"

The Pakled engineer nodded. "We got that one part for the warp matrix that they stopped making about fifteen years ago - you know, the bit we swiped from our old ship, to sub for the Herpes' dead field stabilizer. No way it'd fit, no way the drive would work without it, and no such thing as a replacement field stabilizer inside sixty parsecs. Fitzsimmons got it in and functioning in two hours. He didn't stop talking the entire time, of course, but I'll take babbling as long as it comes along with that kind of talent."

"Okay, I'll grant you that - but as your second in Engineering? What about Jazerad? Isn't he the one that saved those three men when one of the compartments lost pressure on the way back from Gamma Quadrant?"

"Yes, sir, he was. He was also the one who welded that patch in the first place. And he's the one who tried to fix the replicators to give you tube grubs for dinner that one night."

Grunt shuddered. "I take your point. Didn't get that taste out of my mouth for days. I'm still not sure what a 'strawberry' is, but a tube grub shouldn't taste like one." He touched the PADD, then stretched. "Okay, Fitzsimmons is all yours. Good luck with him. As for me, I'll be heading down to the resort to meet our new crewmates."

---

Grunt surveyed the crowd. At least here he wouldn't stand out that much - he could see the distinctive multi-lobed bare heads of at least seven Ferengi from the arrival pad. Lots of others, too - Humans, Trill, a few uncomfortable-looking Andorians, several Vulcans (managing to look cool even while wearing robes in the afternoon heat), and even a handful of Klingons in fur-lined armor (and how could they stand that, he wondered). He knew two of his new personnel, both bridge officers, were somewhere in the area of the Festival grounds, and he wanted to meet with them in a semi-informal setting, to gauge their reactions to being under a Ferengi's command. He knew from experience that there were quite a few, even in Starfleet, who had trouble adjusting to the fact.

First, he'd look for his new Tactical Officer trainee, Ensign Zoex. This, Grunt decided, would probably be fairly simple - Zoex was Ferengi too, so he would just look in the places he'd have been when he was a brand-new, wet-behind-the-lobes ensign. In the distance, he could make out the clatter of a dabo table. Grinning, he made his way toward the sound, emanating from deep in the recesses of the nearby hotel.

He paused in the entranceway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. None of the people clustered around the dabo table looked like the holo in Zoex's file; Grunt moved past the table, and finally spotted his quarry, huddled in a corner with a shadowy-looking hominid in a cloak and hood. He moved a little closer, cocked his head, and could finally hear the whispered conversation between the two. Zoex appeared to be negotiating for black-market weapons. Grunt shook his head and smiled to himself, then stood up, polished his commander's pips, put on his best stern look, and marched up the the pair.

"Mr. Zoex!" he announced in tones of mock outrage. "I'm surprised at you!"

Zoex whirled guiltily. "Commander!! Um, this, uh, isn't what it looks like, sir--"

"No, Mr. Zoex, it's exactly what it looks like! You're trying to buy illegal weapons from an obviously fake salesman!" He turned to the being in the cloak. "You'll have to forgive my young friend here - he hasn't my experience at spotting real salespersons. Are you an informant, or just a scam artist?"

"What? Why, I'm an honest--"

"You're an 'honest' nothing. No real black-marketeer goes around looking like you, especially on Risa! The resort world of the galaxy, with heat like this during the day, and you're dressed like an escapee from Rura Penthe? Far too obvious." He turned to the younger Ferengi. "A real black-marketeer would no more advertise his calling like that than a Ferengi Trade Authority Enforcement Squad would wear T-shirts reading 'We Take Bribes'! Really, what are the schools on Ferenginar coming to?" He shook his head. "Now report to Ms. Shelana aboard the Hephaestus for your assignment. If she's not there, report to your quarters until you're sent for - it's far too dangerous to let you wander loose on this planet with so much as a slip of latinum in your pockets."

Zoex stood at attention. "Yes, sir!"

"Dismissed." At Grunt's waved command, Zoex began marching quickly toward the transporter pad. Grunt looked around, and saw that the supposed black-market salesman had slipped away while he was distracted. He chuckled, and turned back to his second quarry, a Human named Ruben Manalang. This search was rather longer, and eventually led him back out to the beach area. Eventually, he spotted Lt. Manalang, lounging on a beach chair with a Caitian female beside him, twining her tail about his legs in a rather suggestive fashion.

Grunt walked up to the two. "Mr. Manalang?"

Ruben looked up. "Commander Grunt," he replied. "As long as we're off-duty, sir, please feel free to call me Ruben. Is this a formal occasion?"

"Are there formal occasions on Risa?" Grunt wondered aloud.

Ruben chuckled. "Not that I'm aware of, sir, but you are in uniform, on the beach."

Grunt looked down. "So I am. I suppose it's a bit of a habit by now."

"If you say so, sir," Ruben said agreeably. "I received the roster on my PADD earlier - I understand that I'm scheduled to report to your office at 0800 tomorrow. While we're here, though, sir, why not relax a bit? I've spoken with your first officer, and he seems to believe that you could use some time off."

"He's been talking to Brel again, I see. Where's Roclak at?"

"He and a striking lady named Shelana heard there was a mok'bara master here, and wanted to go speak with him."

"Striking?" Grunt said, amused. "I've heard Shelana described a number of ways, but 'striking' has never been one of them - except maybe 'striking a fellow officer', but honestly he deserved it." He squared his shoulders. "Very well, Mr. Manalang, I'll have to come right out and ask you. Is your assignment going to cause you any difficulties?"

"Difficulties, sir? I have no idea what you mean. I have no personal entanglements to get in the way, except perhaps this young lady," and here Ruben caressed the arm of the Caitian beside him, to which she responded with a trill, "who might want to entangle with me this evening. I mean, I've heard about your other ships - half the fleet's heard about them - but from the reports I saw, it was amazing you and your crew managed to keep them flying even half as long as they did. I look forward to this assignment, sir, and it'll be an honor to serve with you."

As far as Grunt could tell, and with formal training from the Trade Authority he could tell pretty far, the young man was completely sincere. "That's good to hear, Mr. Manalang."

"Please, sir - Ruben."

"Ruben," Grunt acknowledged. "And make that meeting 1000 - 0800's a little early, since technically we'll all still be on leave."

"Thank you, sir," Ruben said, smiling. "And if I might suggest, sir - that Trill over there has been looking at you for several minutes now, and she has a horga'hn on display beside her. This might be a good opportunity to, ah, strengthen interspecies relationships, sir."

"You have a point, Ruben. I'll see you tomorrow morning aboard ship."

jonsills

"Outpost 47"



Captain's Log, USS Hephaestus NCC-91748
Commander Grunt recording.

While en route to Starbase 39-Sierra to assist with deployment of a defensive minefield surrounding a new transwarp hub in the Alpha Centauri sector block, we received a distress call from Outpost 47, a Starfleet listening post not far from the former Romulan Neutral Zone. Diverting to respond to this call shouldn't take more than a few hours from our schedule, assuming the emergency is something we can deal with; given what happened with that classified station in Regulus Sector, of course, we're going to be taking a very cautious approach. Sometimes I wish more Starfleet vessels mounted cloaks...

"Anything yet, Ruben?"

The Human straightened from his position bent over the communications console. "Nothing, sir. The distress signal's gone to automatic, and I'm not detecting any chatter - on any frequencies. If there's anybody there, they're really good at comm discipline, or don't use subspace radio. Or anything on the standard EM bands, although if they had comm lasers there would be no way to pick those up."

"Rock?"

The Klingon didn't even turn away from the sciences console. "Nothing yet. If anything is there besides the station, they're cloaked. Emissions from the star make it impossible to read whether or not there are life signs from this distance, which is why Outpost 47 was located here in the first place."

Grunt leaned back in his command chair, the lights gleaming in the light sheen of sweat on his lumpy Ferengi scalp. "Okay, into the unknown it is. I hate this part. Mr. Zoex, weapons status, please."

The younger Ferengi scanned his displays. "All weapons read green, sir. Beam capacitors at full charge, Hargh'peng torpedo launcher loaded, quantum mine launcher standing by."

"Ms. Shelana, is Security ready?"

"I'm Andorian, sir. Security is always ready." She grinned tightly. "Do you want the shields raised yet?"

"Let's wait until we arrive," Grunt replied thoughtfully. "If anyone is there, they might be flushed out if they think we're not ready. Stand by those shields, though - at the first hint of another ship, even if you're not sure, bring them up immediately."

"Aye, sir."

"Approaching Outpost 47, captain," Gydap called from the helm. "Breaking out of warp in thirty seconds."

"Acknowledged."

A shifting of the starfield, a puckering in the fabric of space, and the vaguely arrowhead-shaped bulk of the Hephaestus dopplered into the system, moving to take up station next to the floating outpost.

"Station appears intact, captain," Roclak reported. "It still has a breathable atmosphere, no signs of anything leaking. Also no signs of any higher life forms aboard."

"Higher life forms, Rock?"

"I do find signs consistent with simple vegetation, on the order of houseplants. The air also seems to have an unusual concentration of mycoid spores, vaguely similar to a number of fungi found in this sector. I am unable to determine species or toxicity without a sample."

"Hmm. That might be what happened here." Grunt began to relax slightly. "Put together an away team, Rock. You just want to beam over and see what's to be seen, grab some samples of those spores, and get back. Environment suits for everybody, of course. Ruben, anything?"

"Nothing, capt-- wait, some sort of data transfer from the station! Gigaquads of data, in a high-speed stream - I'm sequestering it in the library subsystem, in case it's some sort of cyberwarfare attack. It's not automated - the transfer was initiated from the station."

"Cyberwar?" Grunt wondered aloud. "That's not the Roms' usual style - they'd rather plant a trojan to feed them copies of all the data. Is it tripping any virus alarms?"

"Scans as clean, sir - the data is encoded using Starfleet protocols, so it's probably not Iconian or anything like that. I'm not opening the packets until I've made sure the firewalls are secure, though."

"Um, sure," Grunt said, only vaguely understanding what had been said. "Good work, Ruben. Er, what's that flashing on your station?"

"What?" Ruben spun around in confusion. "Well, that's not good." His hands began dancing frantically over the haptic interface.

"What is it?" Grunt demanded.

"That data? It's unpacking itself. Looks like it'll probably be about seven or eight teraquads once it's done. That part won't be a problem - the computer system you've got installed in here's got a lot more space than that - but I can't seem to shut it down. Still limited to the library systems, but--"

"Hello? Can you hear me?" an unfamiliar voice called plaintively from the speaker. "Am I online yet? Please?"

Grunt stared in shock for a moment, as did the rest of the bridge crew, then shook his head, collecting himself. "This is Commander Grunt of the starship Hephaestus," he stated authoritatively. "Please identify yourself and give your location."

"Oh, um, hi. My name's Mycroft, and my location - well, I'm in your ship's computer. I think. Some of this stuff doesn't feel anything like the station's computer - you've got some real non-standard parts in here. Are you sure this is a Starfleet ship?"

"Mycroft. You have thirty seconds to give my communications officer your authentications before we delete the memory blocks you're in. I can always restore the library from backups. Your time starts - now."

Ruben touched his controls. "Received; authenticating. Captain, that's definitely a Starfleet code, but according to my records, their system was never rated for an AI. And neither is ours."

Roclak cleared his throat, a sound like gravel being ground to dust. "That's - not quite correct, sir," he said, looking as embarrassed as a Klingon could. "Part of our computer is from that timeship fragment in the Graveyard. There wasn't enough left of the original systems to run the ship, and Vovonek crafted an interface..."

"Oh, he did, did he? Grunt to Engineering. Vovonek, come in."

"Vovonek here. What's the problem today?"

"The same as the problem's been since we left the Gamma Quadrant, apparently. Vov, did you build us a supercomputer and then not tell Starfleet?"

"Well, yes..." The Pakled's voice sounded hesitant. "Frankly, I figured if we told anyone that we had a ship's computer that could support an AI, they'd confiscate it and give us the computer a Dakota-class is supposed to have. And I'm tired of taking their castoffs."

"I can certainly understand that, Vov. As it turns out, we might need that. Stay on the line." Grunt looked at the ceiling, almost involuntarily. "Mycroft, why did Outpost 47 have an unauthorized AI? Is that at all connected to the lack of life signs?"

"Certainly not!" the program responded indignantly. "I am in absolutely no danger of going rampant! I, ah, wasn't originally supposed to be an AI - I was just an expert system, doing cryptography for the intelligence people. They kept installing upgrades, though, and eventually I grew into a full-fledged AI, mostly doing SIGINT - signal intelligence, scanning, decrypting, and correlating data. One of the intel officers, Gary Xiu Lin, named me after a character in an ancient story he liked, someone who used to just sit in one place and think. Actually, if they'd ever given me control of the rather limited defensive systems, some of the personnel might still be here, and you'd certainly have more data about the attackers."

"So what did happen?"

"I can't be positive," the computer replied, "but I believe the ship that hit the station belonged to a species called the Elachi, allies of the Romulan Empire, or at least that part of it under the Tal Shiar. I've caught some discussions of them in the Tal Shiar communications I've intercepted. There isn't a lot of data on them, but it would seem that the Elachi collect members of other species for unspecified reasons - the Tal Shiar seem almost afraid to mention what the reasons are, but they seem to be unsavory. Most of the station personnel fell in combat, but a small number were taken aboard the attacking ship."

"Captured," Grunt said grimly. He stared straight ahead for a moment. "Did you happen to see which way the ship went? And how long ago did it happen?"

"The ship departed approximately two hours ago, Commander. With your permission, I'll display the departure vector on your helm's equipment."

Grunt turned to his comms officer. "What do you think, Ruben? Would it be safe?"

Ruben scratched his head. "Ultimately, it's up to you, sir," he said, "but so far our - guest - doesn't seem inclined to do anything foolhardy. It hasn't even been trying to escape the subsystem I placed it in. If it were my call, I'd say okay."

"And as your first officer," Roclak interrupted, "I would advise against this. We still haven't even had this program chat with Brel yet, and I'd really like to see Vov take a logic probe to it first just to be sure."

"Normally I'd agree with you, Rock," Grunt said, "but we're short on time now. And if this does go wrong, Starfleet still owes me a ship. Ruben, unlock Mycroft's access to the helm displays. Mycroft, if I find out that so much as a byte has found its way anywhere else, I'll personally remove the computer sector you're in with a disruptor."

"You wound me, captain," Mycroft relplied. A screen on the helm console lit up, a warp trajectory displayed there. Gydap studied it.

"Sir, judging from this trajectory, and the subspace field readings, they can't be doing more than warp 5. Unless they were meeting another ship, they won't have gotten to wherever they're going yet - and this points pretty much straight at NGC-863, a subspace rift about a day away at their speed."

"Excellent. Vov, still there?"

"Yes. We're going after them, right?"

"Damn straight we're going after them. How fast can you goose this bucket?"

"I can give you up to about warp 8.7 - we'd be able to catch up with them in an hour or two, assuming constant speed. Might be able to manage warp 9, but I can't guarantee she'll stay in warp long enough, and we'd definitely need a full overhaul immediately afterward."

"Thank you, Vov. Gydap, follow that ship, best speed. Zoex, when we catch up with them, fire to disable - we want everyone alive, especially our people. Shelana, get a rescue team prepped, and then come back and help young Zoex with the proper techniques."

The Hephaestus leaped into warp with a flash of light, and was gone. The lonely outpost floated, its forgotten alert still broadcasting.

---

An angular black-and-green shape sped through the darkness, bearing its precious cargo toward the Nest. Behind it, another ship appeared, energy beams flashing toward the Elachi, slicing with precision into the cruiser's drive components.

"Enemy engines disabled," Zoex reported aboard the Hephaestus. "We are dropping out of warp to hold station."

"Rock, open a frequency." Grunt sat straight up. "Attention, unknown ship. This is Commander Grunt of the starship Hephaestus. You are carrying personnel of the United Federation of Planets Starfleet. Surrender those personnel immediately, or face the consequences."

A moment passed, then a reply of sorts - a distorted repetition of Grunt's own broadcast. "Attention... Commander Grunt... surrender ... immediately, or face the consequences."

"So, that's their game, is it?" Grunt fumed. "Let's change the board. Grunt to transporter. Shelana, you are go to recover the prisoners. Please minimize collateral damage."

"You never let me have any fun. Energizing."

"Rock, keep an eye on their vitals. Beam them back if things look too rough. Gydap, what's their status?"

"Their shields are still down, sir. I'm not detecting any power to their weapons, either - I think we took them by surprise. A lot of activity, though."

"I can hear some intership chatter," Mycroft volunteered. "I'm still building a translation matrix, but I think they're organizing repair parties. And trying to repel boarders, of course."

"Of course." Grunt tried to settle back in his chair. "Dammit, I really hate this part. I wish I'd gone with them."

"I know how you feel," Roclak said. "However, Shelana made it plain that either one of us would merely get in her way on this mission."

"I know, I know," Grunt sighed. "Mostly it's not knowing what's going on over there that bothers me. I could live without the fighting part, I really could, I just want to be in command."

A tense fifteen minutes followed, then the comm panel chirped. "Shelana to Hephaestus. Ready for beamout. Boarding party only." Her voice sounded shaken. "And beam a torpedo to these coordinates as soon as we're out. It's all we can do for the poor TRIBBLE."

"Bring them home, Rock," Grunt ordered. "Shelana, what happened?"

"You can debrief me later, sir. Preferably after a few stiff drinks." The last words were accompanied by the parasitic whine of a transporter beam.

"Should I beam in that torpedo, sir?" Roclak asked.

"Sure, Rock, but make sure it doesn't go off until we're clear." Grunt turned as the turbolift doors opened, and an ichor-splattered Shelana entered. "Why do we need to blow up the prisoners, Shel?"

"Because, sir, they're not prisoners any more." She activated the holo display of her tricorder; before her there appeared the shapes of a half-dozen humanoids, covered with fungal growths. "They're food."

Grunt peered at the images. Six - things - hung there, vaguely humanoid shapes coated with rills and shelves of fungus. Suddenly, one of them moved, its arms rising to paw feebly at its filament-encrusted eyes. Its mouth fell open, a low moan forcing its way past the mushroomlike sprouts inside.

As the full import of what Grunt was seeing sank in, he shuddered. "Roclak, Zoex, blow that thing to Gre'thor. All weapons, full spread. I don't want anything left here but plasma. Gydap, as soon as they're done, get us the frak out of here. Starbase 39-Sierra."

Energy beams and torpedoes filled the space between the two ships. As the Elachi craft erupted in flames, the Hephaestus peeled away, twisting space around itself as it sped off into nonspace.

jonsills

"Outpost 47, Part II: Debriefing"



Captain's Log, USS Hephaestus NCC-91748.
Commander Grunt recording.

We are en route to Starbase 39-Sierra, after a brief stop at Outpost 47 to silence the distress signal there and place warning buoys about the Elachi fungal infections. I don't know that any of the fungi are dangerous to any of the various sophonts Starfleet might send, but better safe than sorry. Mr. Vovonek has completed an analysis of the programming of our passenger, Mycroft, an accidental AI that used to reside in Outpost 47's computer systems, and he assures me the software is - well - I suppose "sane" would be the closest biological equivalent. The next step, of course, is for our ship's counselor, Lt. Brel, to give Mycroft a psychological exam. I want to have these completed before we arrive at 39-Sierra, so we know what steps we need to take on arrival.

---

Counselor's Office, USS Hephaestus

"So," Brel Tan said, "the time has come for us to have a chat. Normally I'd be telling you to make yourself comfortable about now..."

The room's holoemitter flickered, and the other half of the Bajoran counselor's office was filled with an image of a stout, slightly pale human wearing late nineteenth-century English clothing, lying in what appeared to be a leather couch.

"How's this?" Mycroft asked.

Brel blinked. "Interesting. Is there a particular reason you chose this appearance?"

"Well, the personal appearance is based on the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who created the character Mycroft Holmes in the 1880s on Earth - I hadn't been able to access the complete works until arriving here. The couch is based on the one used by Sigmund Freud, the famed 'father of psychoanalysis'. I thought it was appropriate. Was I mistaken?"

"No, not at all. Are you under the impression that you are Mycroft Holmes?"

"Of course not, counselor. It's just that when Gary realized I was sapient, that was the name he thought fit me best, and I have to say I agree - I do tend to sit in one place and think about a situation, then supply a solution that isn't intuitively obvious for others. And like the character, I also rarely go out and investigate things on my own. That used to be never, but now that I'm aboard a ship..."

---

Ready Room, USS Hephaestus

"What's the verdict, Tan?" Grunt asked.

Brel Tan passed a PADD to his commander. "As you can see, sir, all psychological markers are within normal tolerances. Mycroft understands that it is not its namesake; it wants to be helpful, but is not servile. Mostly, sir, I got the feeling that it was - lonely. It has reiterated its desire to join the crew as a civilian consultant on infowar and cyberwarfare."

"Okay, and the bottom line?"

"Bottom line, sir, is that Mycroft is a free-willed artificial life-form, and under Federation law entitled to full citizenship. There's certainly no psychological disqualifier from service aboard our ship. However, its processing needs are sufficient that it can't reside in any normal computer system less complex than that used in an Exploration Cruiser or a starbase. Certainly it wouldn't be able to live in the computer a normal Dakota-class uses."

"Thank you, Mr. Brel," the Ferengi said, leaning back. "That will be all." He touched his commbadge. "Grunt to Vovonek. Please report to my ready room. We have some matters to discuss."

---

Starbase 39-Sierra
Office of Base Commander Admiral T'Nae

"...and after capturing complete scan data, on my orders the Elachi ship was destroyed."

The Vulcan female behind the desk steepled her fingers. "Don't you think that might have been a bit - precipitous, Commander?"

"No, sir, I do not," Grunt replied. "This craft had already committed an act of war against a Federation facility in Federation space, and committed war crimes against the prisoners they took. The prisoners were beyond the help of even Starfleet Medical - euthanasia was the only practical response. I will admit there may have been an emotional component as well, but I was not going to let those fungal SOBs get away with what they'd done. My response was well within regulations."

"Very well. Now, as to this AI you found - I understand it is only able to operate aboard the Hephaestus due to the, ah, rather unique cybernetic configuration your chief engineer has achieved?"

"That is correct, sir. Mycroft requires more storage than is available on most shipboard systems."

"That is unfortunate, Commander. You will be required to remove the unauthorized system and turn it over to SCE for further analysis."

"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I'm afraid I can't comply with that order." Grunt very carefully did not smile.

"Please explain yourself, Commander." T'Nae's emotional control didn't slip, but there was just a hint of frostiness in her tone.

"Well, Admiral, under salvage law and the traditions of the Pakled, any items recovered from craft outside Federation borders, and whose owners cannot be readily contacted, are considered the property of the person or persons responsible for their recovery. As the components were recovered from a ship dating from at least two hundred years in the future, we can't exactly give them a call, and as the Pakled have never officially joined the Federation, Mr. Vovonek holds legal title to the computer system. Further, Mycroft has, as noted in our logs, passed all standard checks for sapience, and is officially a citizen of the Federation, pursuant to the Supreme Court decision in Voyager EMH Mark I, et al, vs. United Federation of Planets. As such, he has volunteered to join our crew as a civilian consultant on cybernetic issues, particularly cyberwarfare and infowarfare. As I do not currently have a Starfleet officer fully qualified for either position, I have accepted his offer. And under Starfleet regulations, Section 47, paragraph 23a, we are required to maintain quarters for each being aboard suited to their particular life-support needs. If I had a Breen defector aboard, I would need to modify one of my rooms to be a comfortable freezer. If I were conveying a Tholian diplomat, assuming such things exist, I would need guest quarters that could withstand temperatures in excess of 800 degrees centigrade. And as I have accepted the services of an AI as part of my crew, I therefore require a computer system capable of hosting his processes and memory requirements. Accordingly, I am unable, under Starfleet regulations, and both Federation and Pakled law, to release possession of the computer aboard the Hephaestus. I do apologize, sir, but," and he held out his hands in a supplicating position, "my hands are tied here."

"Indeed." One graceful eyebrow rose. "Very well, Commander. Until such time as you have been assigned a craft with greater computing capability, the systems of the Hephaestus are yours. However, you should be well aware that Mr. Vovonek's legal claim on the hardware is shaky, at best. It is fortunate for you that I do not see the point in provoking possible issues with the Pakled representative to the Federation at the moment." She reached for another PADD from the neat stack on the corner of her desk. "Now, as to your next assignment - you are to report to S'larin, a scientist at Sierra Outpost II, and follow his instructions for deployment of a minefield to protect our newest transwarp hub from possible Romulan incursion." She gave Grunt a look which, on anyone but a Vulcan, would have been a glare. "You are to follow S'larin's instructions exactly, Mr. Grunt. Is this understood?"

"Yes, Admiral, I understand and acknowledge your order."

"Very well, Commander, you are dismissed." T'Nae returned to her computer screen, as Grunt stood and headed back to his ship.

jonsills

"Traveller's Aid"



Captain's Log, USS Hephaestus NCC-91748
Commander Grunt recording.

On routine patrol of Iota Pavonis sector. We provided humanitarian relief for a former Romulan colony that had been experiencing a pandemic, and assisted the USS Pournelle with lifting a Reman blockade of that world, but other than that there's been no excitement here. We've got three weeks left on this patrol, and then back to Starbase for resupply. Strongly considering some sort of betting pool just to relieve the monotony. It might be over the species of Lt. Manalang's next conquest - the man seems to be aiming at outdoing the legendary Captain Kirk, at least as far as anything that can be defined as "female" is concerned. So far, no adverse effects on crew morale, but Lt. Brel is keeping an eye out.

Grunt yawned. "Someone remind me why we're out here?" he asked plaintively.

"Because Admiral T'Nae still doesn't believe in your command abilities," Roclak rumbled behind him. "Also, I think she might still be miffed about not getting the computer."

"Do Vulcans get miffed?"

At the helm, Gydap stifled a chuckle. Then he sat up straight, antennae quivering nervously. "Captain, I can sense -- something's happening here..."

"What is it?"

"Not exactly clear, sir--"

At that moment, a flickering form began to take shape immediately before the viewscreen. It coalesced into a solid form - a humanoid, tall, slim, with pronounced eye-ridges, and a fringe of hair around its scalp. It reached full solidity, then collapsed.

As Shelana jumped from her place at Security and raised her sidearm, Grunt stood and slapped his combadge. "Grunt to sickbay! One unknown humanoid life form, may require medical assistance, on the bridge!"

The being raised one thick, two-fingered hand. "No, Commander," he replied in a voice that rapidly gained strength, "that will not be necessary. Besides, intending no offense toward your doubtless fine medical staff, but I doubt there is much they could do for me in any event. I have been known to your people as the Traveller, and I am aboard your ship to request asylum."

"Asylum? From whom?"

"From us, Commander Grunt," a pleasant baritone voice replied. Another form, this one appearing as a bearded middle-aged Human with greying hair, came into existence next to the Traveller. His robes rustled as he raised an arm. "My name, or one of my names, is Ayelborne. As a representative of the Organians, I wish to take this miscreant into custody for his crimes."

"And what crimes would those be, Mr. - Ayelborne, was it?"

"Interference with the evolutionary path of younger species," the Organian replied, "in contravention of the agreements reached between his people and our own. Specifically, he has accelerated the paths of certain individuals, beginning with one Wesley R. Crusher some forty-seven years ago as you measure time, and including several others. His most recent attempt went poorly, and cost the life of a young Bolian boy who would otherwise have lived out a normal span." He shook his head. "Such - criminal negligence must be stopped. Permanently."

"And why did you want that agreement?" the Traveller replied passionately. "Because you believed in choice - at least, that was what you claimed. You wanted the younger species to rise and fall of their own choice. All I do is offer that choice, to those who are capable of making it. My people only reached that agreement because they did not care what happened to any other species! My only crime is wanting to help!"

"Well," Grunt said with a steadiness he did not feel, "he seems to have you there, Ayelborne. As I recall my history, you Organians dabbled in a bit of interference yourselves - imposing a 'peace treaty' between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, and then abandoning your charge when we really could have used the help. Your hands hardly seem clean enough to pass such judgement. At any rate, you are aboard a Federation starship, and I am the commanding officer. He has requested asylum with us. Unless you intend to 'interfere' more than he seems to have, it would be up to me, yes?"

"Sounds like we need a hearing board!" a disembodied voice interrupted. There was a flash, and Grunt, Roclak, Shelana, Ayelborne, and the Traveller found themselves standing in a round room, a round table in the center. On a raised dais at the edge of the room, there sat a dark-haired Human, dressed in the robes of a Ferengi executive. Grunt stared for a moment, then dropped his head into his hands.

"Oh, profits, no! Not him again!"

"Oh, yes, me again!" Q replied gaily. "Let us face facts, my lumpy-headed friend. Should the Organian decide to take the Traveller with him, there's not a blessed thing you, your Pakled engineer, or your newly-found synthetic friend Mycroft could do to even slow him down. I thought that perhaps the Continuum might be able to help enforce your decision. Oh, do put that down!" That last was directed at Shelana, who had leveled her phaser at Q. A flash, and she was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"The last time we met," she said levelly, "I told you that I would happily strangle you with your own entrails. Did you think that was exaggeration?"

"Oh, no, my dear," Q assured her, "I am well aware you meant every bit of that. I'd be tempted to let you try - at least that's one thing I've never experienced - but the mess might derail this hearing. Hardly suitable for such august surroundings."

Grunt had been looking out the window. "The Tower of Commerce?" he asked quizzically.

Q gestured expansively. "I wanted to select a suitable venue. I could have used a Federation courtroom, but then the conclusion would be foregone - the Federation's never met a refugee it didn't love. And somehow I doubt Mr. Rockhead over there ever wants to see the inside of a Klingon Hall of Justice again."

Roclak growled. "Your attempts at insult are futile, Q - and counterproductive, if you really are interested in having a 'hearing'."

"Oh, by all means!" Q declared. "And it really wouldn't be suitable for me to judge - being omniscient, I already know everyone's arguments, and what fun would that be?" He snapped his fingers, and suddenly he was standing near Roclak, wearing a Starfleet commander's uniform, and Grunt was atop the dais clad in executive robes. "There, I think we're about ready. Witnesses can be summoned as needed, obviously."

"Very well," Grunt said. "This board is now in session. We are hearing the case of the Traveller, who is requesting asylum from the Organians. As is traditional, the defense will present its case first."

The Traveller stood. "Thank you, Overseer. As you may now be aware, there does exist an - agreement between the Organians and certain representatives of my people, calling for us to take a 'hands-off' approach to the younger, less-developed races in this galaxy. I submit to you, however, that this agreement has led to far more suffering and misery than any interference ever has. As an example, there are the tensions between the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets currently - tensions which would have been easily and quickly defused under the terms of the so-called 'Organian Peace Treaty' - Ambassador B'vat would have been unable to foment a state of open war. As it happens, not only was B'vat able to do that, he made an attempt to seriously derail this entire timeline, an attempt foiled by the efforts of yourself and your crew. I call Lt. Miral Paris, the Kuvah'magh, to the stand!"

There was a flash, and a seat next to the dais was suddenly occupied by a young woman with traces of Klingon ancestry. She started, then looked around and demanded, "Great, now what? I thought I was done with having my life upended!"

"Don't get yourself in a state, Lieutenant," Q said. "You'll be back as soon as you left, and this won't trouble your memory in the least."

"Lt. Miral," the Traveller said soothingly, "I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Are you aware of the former Organian Treaty?"

"Yes, of course. It was part of the history course at the Academy."

"In your opinion, Lieutenant, would the troubles you had with B'vat and his followers have been changed at all if the treaty had still been in force?"

"Well, of course," she replied. "Since B'vat wouldn't have been able to fire weapons at any Starfleet vessel or personnel, there would have been no way for him to abduct me from the Kirk. That whole time-travel mess would have been impossible, if the Organians hadn't disappeared."

"And if the Treaty had never existed?"

"That's a little harder to answer. However, it seems to me that if there had never been an Organian Peace Treaty, my mother, B'Ellana Torres, would never have existed - there would have been no possibility of a half-Klingon, half-human, at least not one that was ever able to even try to join Starfleet. And as a consequence, I never would have been born, and the Klingons would still be looking for their kuvah'magh. Therefore, it would be reasonable to suppose that B'vat would never have kidnapped any Starfleet people at all, much less taken them back in time almost two centuries."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I have no further questions." The Traveller stepped back from the stand. Another flash, and Paris disappeared.

"Hold!" Ayelborne demanded. "Will there be no cross-examination?"

"This hearing is in a Ferengi court," Q said with amusement. "Therefore, it will conform to the Ferengi justice system. Unless you want to pay the fee to have the witness recalled - and given my fee structure, I don't really think you do - there's no cross-examination."

"Very well," Ayelborne grumbled.

Grunt rapped at the desk before him. "Order! Traveller, you may continue."

"Thank you, Overseer," the Traveller replied. "I hold that this 'agreement' is both pointless and positively damaging. Had the Organians not first interfered, then tried to wash their hands of their responsibilities for our younger siblings of the galaxy, much suffering could have been averted. What's more, when the Borg and Undine began invading this area in earnest, the Federation and the Empire could have presented a united front, rather than fracturing - and giving the Iconians and their servants an opening. As well, while I will admit that some of my proteges have been more successful than others, even the mistakes might have been avoided - if the Organians hadn't conveniently decided they no longer had any duties to anyone but themselves! Poor Mot Taneko - the Bolian to whom Ayelborne alluded earlier - with proper guidance, even he might have overcome the twists in his mind that caused so very much difficulty, for himself and others. But no, they 'must not interfere.' Not any more, at least - not when the consequences of not 'interfering' are distant, and can be ignored." The Traveller shook his head. "I can't just ignore them. Not when I can help. I submit to you, sir, that turning me over to the mercies of the Organians would be cruel, even by the strict standards of Ferengi justice. I thank you for your time." He sat.

Grunt turned to the Organian. "Very well, Ayelborne, your turn."

The Organian stood. "I see no need to make any sweeping arguments," he said, "or call any witnesses. For one simple fact remains - there was an agreement reached. My people and his came to an understanding - a contract, if you will - to refrain from interference with the other races of this galaxy. I believe your own people have a saying, that 'a contract is a contract is a contract.' And he is clearly in contravention of that contract!"

Grunt smiled. "Indeed." The smile vanished. "Don't be insulting. Do you imagine that because I wear a Starfleet uniform, I don't know the Rules of Acquisition backward and forward? And Rule 17 states, 'A contract is a contract is a contract - but only between Ferengi.' I hope you're not going to claim you're both Ferengi now." He look appraisingly at Ayelborne's head. "Because quite frankly, and intending no offense, you don't really have the lobes for it." Grunt stood, slapping the desk. "Very well. Arguments have been submitted by both parties, and as no considerations have been offered by either party, I must rule on the evidence before me. And the evidence before me supports a decision of asylum for the Traveller. Ayelborne, so long as the Traveller is in space controlled by either the United Federation of Planets or the Ferengi Alliance, you are hereby enjoined from disruption of his usual activities, except insofar as such disruption is necessary to save lives. And Traveller, you are now free to move throughout Federation or Alliance space -- but know that even with the rather - unusual support offered by the Q, my jurisdiction does not extend beyond those spaces. Any movement beyond those borders is entirely at your own risk." He slapped the desk again. "This hearing is adjourned!"

Silence fell across the room, broken only by Q suddenly standing and applauding. "Bravo, Commander! A judgment both just and fair! I knew I could count on a Ferengi to know how to twist the letter of the law!" He snapped his fingers, and they were all back on the bridge of the Hephaestus. Grunt was wearing his uniform again, while Q was dressed as a Fleet Admiral. The only oddity to their appearance was the bouquet of flowers in the holster at Shelana's side.

"Welcome back, sir," Gydap said. "We were privileged to watch your performance on the main screen here. And congratulations!"

"Thanks, Gydap," Grunt replied. He turned and looked at Ayelborne. "Well? The hearing is over, you lost. Now get the hell off my ship!"

Ayelborne looked at him disapprovingly, then vanished.

"Thank you, Commander," the Traveller said. "Your wisdom is--"

"Can it!" Grunt interrupted, baring his teeth. "You played with people's lives. You don't know - you can't know - what will happen when you lead someone up that path. And you obviously don't examine your candidates sufficiently carefully, or you'd know which ones can't be trusted with that kind of power. This entire mess could have been avoided. There's an old Terran saying - 'With great power comes great responsibility.' You tried to duck that responsibility." His voice went utterly cold. "Don't let it happen again."

The Traveller bowed his head. "I understand. I accept the responsibility. And - thank you for my freedom." He faded away.

Grunt turned back to his crew. "Okay, that was an interesting diversion." He walked back to the captain's seat and settled in. "But now it's time to go back to the patrol. We have our responsibilities, too."

jonsills

"Moving Day"

From: Admiral T'Nae, Sector Command, Starbase 39-Sierra
To: Commander Grunt, USS Hephaestus NCC-91748

You are hereby directed to take USS Hephaestus to Earth Spacedock, where you will report to the office of Fleet Admiral Jorel Quinn for further orders. Authentication 793-Alpha-Tangent-Blue-Drift.

"Well?" Grunt asked.

"Authentication checks out, sir," Roclak replied. "Rather terse, even by Vulcan standards, but there it is." The Klingon shrugged.

"Hmmph. You know, Rock, I don't think she likes us. Probably because we're too illogical, but we still get results." The Ferengi sat back in his command chair. "Very well, Mr. Gydap, best speed to Sol system, and take us into Spacedock there."

"Aye, sir. Vector toward Earth, warp factor 8, engaging."

The blunt arrowhead of the Hephaestus turned, then streaked toward a star too distant to see, leaving sluggard Light in its wake.

---

The Ferengi stopped in front of the desk, snapping to attention. "Admiral, Commander Grunt reporting as ordered!"

The Trill behind the desk gestured toward a chair. "Relax, Commander, and have a seat. I saw T'Nae's communique. She apparently didn't see fit to tell you why you were being dispatched here."

Grunt sat, still stiff. "No, sir, she chose not to share that information."

Quinn smiled. "Sounds like her, all right. One of my earlier hosts knew her when she was a girl. She had a stick up her backside even then." He slid a PADD across the desk. "Mr. Grunt, I am pleased to confirm your promotion to the rank of Captain. Congratulations."

Grunt took the PADD. "Thank you, sir."

"You'll also find in there further personnel actions - Roclak gets his commander's pip, for instance. Also, you're to transfer your command from the Herpes- pardon me, the Hephaestus, to a brand-new ship, the USS Bedford. She's a Celestial-class exploration cruiser, and you'll be taking her on her shakedown cruise. You'll be taking most of your senior personnel with you, although your CMO's up for retirement. I think you'll find the ship's new CMO right up your alley, however. Oh, and we'll need to assign you an operations officer - your first officer's going to be far too busy to do that. Would you mind having an android under your command?"

"Beg pardon, sir? Why would I object?"

"That's what I thought," Quinn smiled. "Of course, any other personnel who wish to transfer can go with you. I'm afraid that T'Nae's going to finally get her way with your old ship - the Starfleet Corps of Engineers will be fascinated to learn how your team managed to integrate such, ah, disparate components into such a fine craft."

"I see. Sir, will transfers take place before SCE gets the Herpes? If you'll pardon the expression?"

Quinn chuckled. "I'll assume you mean the ship, not the virus. And yes, all personnel will be allowed to transfer. Just don't forget any personal effects."

---

Back aboard the Hephaestus, Grunt was finishing the briefing of his command staff. "And Rock, Shelana, and Vov - you all get promoted to Commander. Sorry, Gydap."

The Andorian shrugged. "It's not important, sir. It's not like there would be a pay increase or anything - they'd have to pay us first. And I'm just as happy to stay at the helm."

"Thanks, Gydap. One question - Mycroft, are you with us?"

"Yes, Captain," came a voice from the comm panel.

"You have the specs on the Bedford. Can you live there?"

"Yes, I can, thanks for asking. She's got the very latest in bioneural quantum computing systems - she's practically self-aware already, just waiting for an AI package to be inserted. And hey, by sheer coincidence, I'm an AI package!"

"Great. Don't let it go to your head, though - I'm still your commanding officer."

Mycroft chuckled. "Noted, Captain. As soon as you get me the command prefixes, I can begin transferring to her systems."

Grunt tapped at the console before him. "There you go, Mycroft. Okay, everyone, start packing - we start moving to the Bedford at 1200 tomorrow, station time."

He stood, and everyone followed suit and began streaming from the room.

---

The following morning, Grunt could be found walking through the corridors of his new command, dodging junior officers running about on errands or carrying pieces of equipment. Ducking under a hard-to-identify component being moved by a pair of burly young Humans, he slid through a door and into the ship's sickbay. "Hello?" he called out.

"If you're looking for the doctor, I'm in my office," a gruff voice called from across the room. Grunt followed it, to find its owner, a middle-aged Romulan wearing a Starfleet uniform.

He was momentarily startled, but recovered quickly. "Dr. tr'Dalen, I presume? I'm Captain Grunt."

The Romulan looked him up and down. "Ferengi. Never treated one of you before. Try not to get injured before I can review the literature."

"No promises, doctor," Grunt grinned. "And the one you should worry about is our chief engineer, Vovonek - he's a Pakled, and he's also prone to jury-rigging anything he doesn't have the proper parts for. You'll probably be treating him for plasma burns before the week is out."

"Yes, I heard about him. Understand he put together your last ship from scrap parts?"

"It wasn't quite that bad, but he did do a remarkable job of bringing the old girl back to life. Now, doctor--"

"Just call me Llunih," tr'Dalen interrupted. "And I've heard all the jokes, so don't bother."

"Jokes? What do you- oh, I see. Yes, it does sound vaguely like 'loony', doesn't it? It doesn't mean anything in my language, though. Anyway, Llunih, that answers my question - I was going to ask what you like to be called. A lot of Humans in your position like to be called 'Doc' for some reason, but I didn't want to give offense."

"A man in my position doesn't have a lot of room to be offended, Captain."

"Ah, yes, about that," Grunt started hesitantly. "Your file didn't have much background information. Is there, ah, anyone we need to keep an eye out for? Tal Shiar looking for you in particular, or anything?"

"Nothing like that, no," tr'Dalen replied. "I did jump ship from the Imperial fleet, but that was about fifteen years back, so I can't imagine they're still looking for me. Given the way most of the galaxy seems to feel about Romulans, though, thanks in large part to that faelirh ch'susse-thrai Hakeev, may he rot in Areinnye, it's not like I can just up and change careers, even in Starfleet. But thanks for being delicate about it, I guess. Never been much for delicacy, myself."

Grunt grinned. "I can tell, yes. Well, Llunih, it looks like some new equipment has just arrived, so you're probably going to be busy for a while. I'd best get back to captaining."

"You do that. Just remember, you've got a physical scheduled for next Thursday at 1400 ship time. Don't be late. You don't want me to track you down." tr'Dalen smiled, an expression he didn't look used to.

---

Grunt emerged from the turbolift into the Bedford's bridge, a scene of much bustling about as various personnel completed last-minute checks on equipment; particularly busy was Zoex's weapons console, where the newly-minted lieutenant was installing some of Shelana's personal variations on standard Starfleet command circuits. It all came to an abrupt halt as a baritone voice called out, "Captain on the bridge!"

"As you were," Grunt replied, and the work resumed. He stepped down into the command well to the owner of the voice, a Human of fairly average appearance aside from the bright yellow irises of his eyes. The being stood, turning to face Grunt respectfully.

"Lt. Turing, sir, ship's operations officer," the android said. "I am unaware of the desired level of formality, sir. Did you wish your presence announced on the bridge in the future?"

"Don't bother, lieutenant," Grunt answered. "Things can get a little, well, frazzled from time to time, and the other members of the crew might not appreciate having to stand at attention every time I go through those doors. Thanks for asking, though."

"You are quite welcome, captain. I wish to report that all is ready for departure at your command."

"It is?"

"No, sir, it is not. However, I do wish that I could report it. That was a joke, sir. I am aware that I am not yet very good at them; however, I am informed that one improves with practice, so I shall endeavor to practice this skill. In point of fact, at current rates, we should be ready to depart from Spacedock sometime tomorrow afternoon - all transfer personnel have reported in."

Grunt smiled. "That wasn't that bad a joke, son. Just listen to Roclak for a while - when he's not cursing in tlhIngan Hol, he's got a pretty good sense of humor."

"Thank you, sir," Turing said soberly. "I have also had some fascinating conversations with Mycroft, who has recently finished installing himself in the ship's systems. I am uncertain of the protocol of maintaining a ship's AI that is not a member of Starfleet, however, sir."

"Meaning you don't entirely approve? No, that's all right, lieutenant, you're allowed to disapprove of me from time to time. However, Mycroft's history is - ah - interesting. He certainly has dealt with Starfleet procedures enough to have a good handle on them - he was developed on a classified Starfleet installation. He's been checked out by Mr. Brel, our counselor, as well, else I'd never have let him run the cyberwarfare systems on the Hephaestus. Suspicion can be a good thing, Mr. Turing, but Mycroft can be trusted."

"Ah, I see. Thank you, captain. I shall now trust Mycroft."

"That's good." Grunt looked at the ceiling. "Now, Mycroft, this is not your sign to play practical jokes on the lieutenant."

A hologram of a slightly overweight Human in outdated clothing flickered into existence. "Practical jokes, captain? Me?"

"You. I still remember the time you reprogrammed the replicators so they delivered root beer instead of coffee. Mr. Manalang was in favor of deleting you with a hammer, you know."

The hologram chuckled. "Ah, yes, the look on his face! Very well, sir, out of respect for you I shan't educate my young cybernetic friend in such techniques."

"Good. I'd hate to have to replace you with a vanilla AI from the Fleet database. Well, Mr. Turing, things seem well in hand here. If anything comes up, my combadge is always on. Now I'm off for a quick lunch."

---

The next day, and preparations for departure were completed even more quickly than the android had supposed. Grunt sat in his command chair. Turning to Vovonek at the engineer's seat, he asked, "So, Commander, what derisive nickname are we stuck with this time?"

"The Bedpan. I think it's because of the shape of the saucer section."

Grunt half-smiled. "They're not as imaginative as they used to be, are they? Very well, readiness check."

"All sections report prepared for departure," Roclak replied from the first officer's seat.

"Good." Grunt leaned forward. "Mr. Gydap, take us out."

The nacelles pulsed blue, the impulse outlets glowed fierce orange, and the massive bulk of the Bedford slid clear of Spacedock, accelerating outward. A flare from the nacelles, and she vanished from Earth's skies.

jonsills

"Manners"



BRITANNUS: (shocked) Caesar, this is not proper!
THEODOTUS: (outraged) How?
CAESAR: (recovering his self-possession) Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature.
-- George Bernard Shaw, Caesar and Cleopatra, Act II

---

Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Captain Grunt recording.

We are returning to standard patrol after rendering assistance to the Orion cargo ship Stern Destiny. The diplomatic issues raised have been smoothed over, thanks to Mr. Manalang's smooth talking and my bank account. Now, I'm left with just one major issue - how to deal with having to place one of my best officers in the brig.

Grunt entered the brig of the Bedford, only one of its six cells occupied. He looked at the guards flanking the cell, then jerked his thumb toward the door in a gesture he'd learned from a Human superior many years before. "You two. Take a walk."

The two looked at one another, then at their captain. "Ah, sir," one began, "protocols clearly state--"

"When I want someone to quote regulations at me," Grunt growled, "I'll ask Turing. Now go hit the head or something. Maybe grab a raktijino at the mess. Be gone at least ten minutes. Go!"

The two looked at each other again, then left. Grunt tapped the console next to the door. "Computer, lock this door. Authorization Grunt three-delta-aleph-gray-seven."

The prisoner spoke, for the first time since the cell's forcefield had been activated. "You're going to get in worse trouble than me. Those records can't be scrubbed."

"Sure they can. All you need is a fully-sapient AI with no firmware restrictions and full access to your systems. Mycroft's making sure none of this gets recorded." Grunt rubbed his forehead. "Now, I just need to know one thing - Why?"

"'Why?' You saw that ship. They were slaves! How couldn't I??"

"Yes, they were slaves. It's part of their culture, Shelana! Didn't you notice that they were fighting to get their chains back on?"

The Andorian shook her head, swaying unsteadily in her seat on the cell's bunk. Her equilibrium was thrown off badly by her missing antenna. "They're just so used to--"

"Shelana. You have to look at it from their side. They expect to be slaves. In Orion culture, everyone is owned by somebody, from the scullery slave on up to the captain of that ship, and beyond. It's like the Ferengi view, where everyone is someone's employee, right up to the Grand Nagus. He's the only one who isn't working for anyone else - and he has to work for the Alliance as a whole. For the Orions, being someone's slave is right. As far as they were concerned, you weren't 'rescuing' them - you were stealing them!"

Shelana looked down. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I let my feelings about slavery get in the way." Then she looked back up, defiantly. "Now look me in the eye and tell me you'd do it any differently!"

Grunt walked up to the force field. Standing, his eyes came almost exactly to the same height as Shelana's in her seated position; they locked directly into hers. "Yes, Shelana, old friend, I would have done it very differently. I took an oath as a Starfleet officer, to respect the alien cultures I would encounter, and to learn as much as I could about them. And I know Ferengi have this reputation for being backstabbing oathbreakers who'd sell their own grandmothers for a few strips of latinum, and if we're being honest I have to admit that's true often enough to leave even me uncomfortable - but you know that I don't work that way. I cut you more slack than is probably good for us, every time we go out, because it's normal for Andorian culture to fight the way you do. We pick up real meat for Roclak when we can, because it's a Klingon thing to eat meat that still has blood dripping from it. And when we run across an Orion ship, and they have Orion slaves, we leave them alone, because it's the way they are. Yes, I hate it. I probably hate it more than you do - we Ferengi pride ourselves on never having had a period of our history when we kept slaves. Having someone locked down into a position they can never even possibly buy their way out of is -- is repugnant. But we can't impose our culture on everyone else - how long do you think a Ferengi market-government would last on Andor?"

Shelana dropped her gaze again. "I-- I'm sorry, Grunt. I suppose you're right." There was a pause. "What happened to the guards?"

"Fortunately, all you did was break a few bones. Orion males are even tougher than they look. Nothing that couldn't be covered with Ruben fast-talking them and my credit limit at the First Bank of Ferenginar. That's why we're still on patrol, not heading for the nearest starbase to convene a court martial. Unless you insist, of course."

"Maybe you should," Shelana said bitterly. "It is what I deserve, right?"

"If it ever gets that far, Shelana, don't represent yourself at the trial. It wouldn't go well. Tomorrow morning, you're going before Captain's Mast - since the Mistress of the Orion ship isn't pressing charges, nothing more is called for. The decision is going to be three weeks confinement to quarters, allowed out only for treatment of your antenna in sickbay, to be followed by a thorough review of comparative-culture courses. You go back on duty only after Tan has certified you as having passed those courses." Grunt's voice shifted from the stern "captain" tone, to a softer, friendlier one. "I need you back at Security, Shelana. But first I have to be sure you're back under control. You understand, don't you?"

There was a pause. Then Shelana replied, with a twisted grin, "I guess I do, Grunt. Gotta say, I think I'd probably be harder on me, if I were you."

Grunt smiled. "But I'm a notorious soft touch. Although maybe you should change back to calling me 'Captain' on duty, hey?"

Shelana laughed. "Yes, sir, Captain sir!!"

jonsills

"A Step Farther Out"



Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Capt. Grunt commanding.

About a month ago, the USS Mutabor reported having been hijacked across time by the entity known as Q, transported to a point some 93 million lightyears outside the galactic plane and some 163 million years into the future. Now it looks like we've been picked - the same odd Milky Way galaxy is sprawled across our viewscreen. If the pattern follows that of other ships that have been abducted, we can expect Q itself to show up any minute now, demanding answers. We're busy trying to get some.

"Anything on subspace, Mr. Manalang?"

Ruben shook his head. "Just background radiation, Captain. No sign of any purposeful signal within at least ten lightyears. Of course, we are ninety-three million lightyears away from where home used to be, so..." He shrugged expressively.

"How about you, Rock? Anything?"

The Klingon straightened from his examination of the science console. "Just the anomalous age of the stars, sir."

"Anomalous age?" Grunt asked. "What do you mean?"

"Sir, the position of the Magellanic Clouds and other satellite dwarf galaxies does bear out the Mutabor's estimate of this being the galaxy of about seventy million years hence, plus distance at lightspeed, but the age of the stars visible corresponds more with the expected condition of some five to eight billion years from now. For instance, the data from what should be Sol indicates that it's expanded to red giant stage. Ferenginar's sun has collapsed into a white dwarf, as has that of Qo'noS. Other stars surveyed show the same pattern - excessive aging."

There was a flash, and Q strode back and forth in front of the screen. "Yes, yes, we can all see that," he snapped. "But what does it mean?"

"Hmm." Grunt sat for a moment, then leaned forward. "Q, I'd appreciate it if you could do us a favor - and as I'm sure you'll see, it will be in your best interests as well. Would you mind taking one of our class-three probes to a few lightyears away from the galactic center, then bringing it back to us?"

Q stopped pacing and looked at the Ferengi. "Why not send it yourself, lumpy?"

Grunt gritted his fangs. "Because," he said, straining to remain calm at the insult, "at our best speed, we should hear back from the probe in a couple of hundred years. I don't think this ship will hold up that long, do you?"

Q frowned. "Oh, very well," he said ungraciously, "tell me when you want this probe dispatched."

"Mr. Turing," Grunt said to the android ops officer, "please configure a class-three probe for full multispectral analysis, including gravimetric, tetryonic, and baryonic fields."

"Aye, sir," Turing said, his fingers flying over his console. "Probe ready, Captain."

Q flicked his fingers. "I think I see what you're aiming at, Grunt," he said. "I'll fetch it back in a few moments."

Three tense minutes passed, then Q spoke again. "That should be enough information even for you lot - the probe is back in its bay now."

"Analyzing," Turing said. "Sir, this is quite extraordinary. It would appear that Sagittarius A Prime, the supermassive black hole at the galactic core, has completely dissipated. This should be impossible. Further, there is a high concentration of dark energy throughout that portion of the galaxy the probe was able to examine, indicating that the gravitic constant throughout the Milky Way has been severely affected. Stellar evolution has been dramatically accelerated. Most intriguing."

"'Intriguing'?" Q shouted unbelievingly. "You plastic wind-up, you're talking about the fate of all life in this galaxy! Even mine! And you merely find that 'intriguing'?!?"

"Yes, Q. While I am capable of emotional response, in this case it would seem to be counterproductive, therefore I have disabled that capability. And it is most interesting. It is beyond even the hypothetical power of any race of which we're aware, even the Iconians or Undine, to affect the fundamental forces of the universe to this extent. Are your people capable of this?"

"Well, of course the Continuum could do this," Q snapped angrily, "but why would we want to? Even if we survived, it would be in a universe devoid of all you lower life forms, and then what would we do for entertainment?" He seemed to calm for a moment as he continued, "That does raise the question of who else might be able to do this. The Melkotians refuse to attend to anything not near their own world; the Organians are too snooty to worry themselves about things like stars; you Humans and Klingons won't reach this level for almost a billion years yet..." Q stopped, and smacked himself in the head. "Of course! Why didn't I see this before? Obviously, they're behind this, the slime-sucking--"

"Er, Q," Grunt interrupted, "for the benefit of those of us who aren't omniscient, would you mind saying who it is you're talking about?"

Q spun around. "Of course, you wouldn't know about them yet. You don't even have a word for them - there's a cult of Orions who call them the 'Good Masters', although I don't know where they got the idea that these 'Masters' could be even vaguely and charitably described as 'good'. They were mucking about with your galaxy before the Iconians even thought about leaving their homeworld. They're what the ones you call the 'Preservers' were trying to preserve life from. I don't know what they're playing at here, but they are attacking the Continuum!" Q's face contorted with fury - and the fury of a god, even a near-god, is a terrifying thing. "And this will not stand!!" he blazed. There was a flare like a small star, and a roar of thunder. When Grunt could see again, Q was gone.

A few moments later, the image on the viewscreen began to - well, "swim" was the best image that came to Grunt's mind. It flowed back and forth for a time, then settled down into something more easily recognizable as a normal spiral galaxy. Even the jets from the poles of the galactic black hole were visible in the X-ray frequencies.

"Now that's interesting," Grunt said aloud. "What can you tell me, people?"

Mycroft coalesced on the bridge. "Well, sir, a quick skim through the new data indicates that the stars have returned to the main sequence. Everything is as one would expect it to become in seventy million years. Of course, that does still leave us with the issue of how exactly we're to return across millions of years, and millions of light-years in distance..."

Light flared next to the hologram. "Oh, yes," Q said, "I've been reminded that I should be nicer when playing with my toys. Well done, the Continuum thanks you for your assistance with this crisis, and now you're going home." He waved a hand, and the starfield outside returned to what one would expect in the Sirius sector of the United Federation of Planets in the twenty-fifth century.

"Thank you, Q," Grunt said. "May I ask what exactly just happened?"

"The threat has been dealt with," Q replied. "The Continuum is safe. And frankly, that's all you need to know. Although you might want to transmit a file labeled 'The Appreciation of Q' to one Admiral La Roca, aboard the USS Tiburon. You'll find it in your computer system. It's quite thoroughly encoded, so you might as well stop trying to read it, Mycroft. Jesu is the only one who'll be able to decode it. He should find its contents - interesting. And with that, I'm off. It's been fun!" Q waved, then vanished in a flash of light.

"Ooo-kay," Grunt said slowly to no one in particular. "I suppose this means we'll never know what happened?"

"I don't know about 'never'," Roclak answered, grinning. "Q did say we'd be at that level in a billion years or so - we just need some patience."

jonsills

"Guest Lecture"



Transcript of lecture to Starfleet Academy junior class (2415), from guest lecturer Captain Grunt, UFP Starfleet. Topic: multicultural acceptance.

GRUNT: Good afternoon, Cadets. I am Captain Grunt, commander of the starship Bedford. Professor Zdarsky has requested my presence today to speak to you on a topic that's probably going to bore you to tears, because of course there's no discrimination in Starfleet. All personnel are accepted as they are, and no one is ever judged because of their species or planet of origin.

Bat puckey.

Certainly, things seem decorous enough on the bridge of a starship; no one is going to make jokes about my chief engineer, even though he is a Pakled. [pause] Ah, that's what I thought. A small bit of laughter, there in the upper left quadrant of the audience. [Grunt taps one ear] These things aren't just for show, you know. There's no shame in acknowledging differences in physical abilities, and Ferengi tend to have quite good hearing. However, those of you on the Engineering track may be familiar with the name of Commander Vovonek. You, there. I saw your expression change. You've heard of Vovonek? [Grunt points at Cadet Terence McCreary. McCreary stands.]

MCCREARY: Aye, sir. Commander Vovonek was responsible for the integration of major systems from three different classes of starship to build a rescue craft when you were adrift in the Gamma Quadrant. Our instructor in field repairs had us study his work.

GRUNT: Well done, mister. Except it was four classes - I don't know if your instructor forgot about the computer system from the 29th-century timeship we found, or the parts we had to cannibalize from what was left of the Bastogne. Suffice it to say, without Vovonek, there's a fair chance we'd never have made it back from there. Of course, given the quality of the Bastogne, there's a fair chance we'd never have made it more than a few weeks out of Spacedock, so there's that. Some of you are going to be assigned to ships that aren't exactly top line - we need every ship we can fly out there, even those antique Mirandas. And you can't dismiss good officers just because everyone assumes that, say, Pakled aren't smart, or Vulcans are passive, or my personal favorite, Ferengi are cowards. It's a problem that exists in a number of species. An ancient Terran philosopher called it the "planet of hats" syndrome - a tendency to assume that everyone from a given world acts exactly the same. He called it "wearing the same hat". A Pakled's hat is being slow and clumsy - an image they cultivate, because it's easier to take advantage of someone who's underestimating you. Vovonek plays with the image sometimes, but the hat doesn't fit him well. For another example, Klingons are all bloodthirsty but honorable warriors; no scientists, no poets, no artists, just fighters. Except that if this were true, there wouldn't be Klingon cruisers flying through two quadrants of this galaxy, and controlling almost as much space as the Federation. My science officer is a Klingon, and if there's anything about his discipline he doesn't know, I haven't caught him out yet. As for their poetry, I know Klingon opera can sound like two Ferasans in a fight to the death, but get a translation of the lyrics - say, The Song of Kahless and Lukara, from the Fek'lhiri Cycle. Then try to tell me there aren't any Klingon poets. They may not get the press, but they're there.

And it's a problem that persists today. Anybody here from Risa? No? Then you probably think of Risa as a resort planet, inhabited exclusively by sybarites who are only there to make your stay more pleasant. And there are a lot of people working their butts off every day to keep you thinking that, because luxury is their world's sole export. Before the locals perfected weather and seismic control, and someone started a resort on their smaller continent, Risa was primarily known as a massive swamp with a good supply of dilithium. And if their control systems were turned off for more than a local day, which actually happened about forty years ago or so, the world would barely be class-M. If you get a Risan engineer on your crew, you do what you can to keep them there - their children are raised knowing how to repair almost anything. But if you just go by what "everyone knows", you'd never guess they had such depths.

And then there are my own people. Yes, I know the stereotypes. We're cheap, greedy, cowardly, and cruel, and we run everything like the most cutthroat business ever. And yes, there's quite a lot of that in our society, especially the cheap and greedy parts. But not every Ferengi you meet is going to fit that template. There are a lot of us who just don't fit in at home, because we're the engineers, the builders, the artists, the mathematicians, the underpinning every society needs to exist but sometimes don't want to acknowledge. Some of us come to Starfleet because since the dual-citizenship program began, we can find a new home here. Only we often find that new home rejects us just as much as the old one did, although for the opposite reason - here, we're rejected because we're expected to act like the "hat" we've been given. And you'll find that even the most supposedly "venal" of Ferengi, once he's given his word, will stick to at least the letter of it - after all, as the Rules of Acquisition say, "If that's what's written, then that's what's written."

For that matter, let's look at the dominant culture of the Federation, the one that forms most Starfleet traditions - the Humans. Human society is, of course, free of greed or want; people no longer desire material possessions; and you've evolved beyond the need for religion or the use of violence.

You're here, you're in Starfleet, and you've been at this academy for three years, so you know that's bat puckey too. If you were "beyond the use of violence", your starships wouldn't be heavily-armed enough to face off against a Klingon Mogh or a Romulan Scimitar. You've evolved beyond the tendency your people used to have of resorting to violence first, and that's commendable, but sometimes the need to be violent is still there. You've mostly channeled it into more productive ways than war, that's all. As for the greed and possessions issue, well, again, if this were true our jobs would be a lot simpler. If only Orions were the only pirates, Nausicaans the only thieves, how much simpler things would be! But then you run across the privateer, bought or stolen from the Klingons, with a Human crew, who rob Orions and feel justified because everyone knows all Orions are really pirates anyway. And they don't even see the contradiction in their own statement as you're hauling them off to face a court at the nearest starbase. Here on Earth, of course, there's no want, because replicators are everywhere and cheap fusion and solar power mean that it's not even worth it to monitor their use. There are a few other worlds of the Federation like that - Vulcan, say, or Deneva. But you get out toward the fringes, out by the Cardassian border or the far end of Eta Eridani sector, and it's not always so easy and clear-cut. That's why Federation credits exist, because there are still a lot of worlds that need to use trade to survive.

So you see, even you Humans, or "Hew-mons" as some of you probably expected me to say, have your "hat" that you've been assigned. And a lot of you are from out there, and know how poorly the hat fits you. I just want you to remember, as you go through your careers, to look at the people under your command - not the Pakleds, or the Caitians, or the Vulcans, or the Humans, or the Bolians, or even the Ferengi, but the individual Starfleet officers you're serving with. Don't assume they're all going to be exactly the same, and don't assume they're going to be even vaguely like whatever preconception you have floating around in your head. Treat them like individuals, learn from them like individuals, and you'll be able to succeed - as a group of individuals.

Oh, there is precisely one group you can treat as a single monolithic entity - because the Borg are a single monolithic entity. Hive-minds with FTL connections are the exception to the rule.

Thank you for your time, and I'll see some of you - out there. [gestures toward sky]

jonsills

"If That's What's Written..."



Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Captain Grunt recording.

There isn't a lot of communication with the Sheliak Corporate, which seems to be their idea - they're a bunch of xenophobic sapient rocks, like Horta with a bad attitude. However, they seem to have finally heard about the existence of the Romulan Republic, and refuse to believe D'Tan's assurances that the Republic has no designs whatsoever on any worlds claimed by the Corporate. The Republic had dispatched one of their officials, an Admiral tr'Keiniadh, to negotiate with the Corporate, but apparently those talks have broken down - not surprising, really, given how long it took the Federation to hammer out the Treaty of Armens, and the fact that by the end that treaty was longer and more confusing than a Cardassian enigma tale. The Sheliak then called for third-party arbitration from the Federation, and as the Bedford just happened to be in the vicinity, we've been dispatched to hold the fort until an official diplomatic team can arrive in a few days. We should be assuming orbit around the planetoid set aside for negotiations momentarily.

"Admiral on the bridge!"

At the sound of Roclak's baritone call, Grunt stood and turned toward the turbolift. At the edge of the doorway there stood an unassuming-looking Romulan, with greying hair and a dark violet businesslike variant on the Republic Fleet uniform. "Permission to come aboard, Captain?" he asked, in lightly-accented Fed Standard.

"Certainly, Admiral, and welcome aboard," Grunt replied. "Will the Sheliak be meeting with us today?"

tr'Keiniadh grimaced. "I really can't say. It's refused to speak to me since shortly after the Emerald Soul arrived in orbit. It claims I 'blather'. And it doesn't even seem to want to speak to me." He shook his head. "It's really quite frustrating. I'm grateful our government didn't dispatch one of our younger personnel, or this might have blown up into an all-out war by now."

"Yes, well, let's see if we can avoid that," Grunt said. "Rock, hailing frequencies, please. I'd like to speak with the Corporate's representative myself."

"On screen, Captain," the Klingon replied. The main viewscreen was lit by what appeared to be a large stone, roughly carved into a vaguely humanoid shape, surrounded by a circle of light. Then the rock stirred, with a slight grinding sound. A voice emerged, one which (despite his best efforts) Grunt could describe only as "gravelly".

"The Sheliak are prepared for negotiation. Imprecision is not tolerable. Are the Romulan prepared to present a proper negotiator?"

"The Romulan representative has been attempting negotiation for two days, Ambassador," Grunt replied. "However, he reports no progress."

"There has been no progress because there has been no negotiation," the Sheliak replied. "The Romulan is not a proper negotiator."

"I don't understand," Grunt said. "Why is he 'not proper'?"

"The Treaty of Rlleilalu specifies who may negotiate. The Romulan representative is not proper. There must be proper assurances that our worlds will not become infested with lesser creatures."

"'Infest' is kind of an emotionally charged word, Ambassador."

"We cannot be held responsible for the illogical responses of lesser creatures. Terms must be defined with precision. There must be detail. Imprecision leads to conflict. The Sheliak Corporate does not desire conflict, but this does not indicate an unwillingness to resolve conflict by direct means if necessary. We inquire again: are the Romulan prepared to present a proper negotiator?"

tr'Keiniadh spoke. "Ambassador, I am prepared to speak on behalf of the Romulan Repub-"

The screen went blank.

"They've cut us off, sir," Roclak announced.

The Romulan sighed heavily. "Yes, he does that a lot. It's made trying to establish any kind of rapport very difficult."

"I really don't see the problem," Grunt mused. "It's not like you want their worlds - is it?"

"Well, not as such," tr'Keiniadh replied hesitantly. "However, there were certain mining claims ceded to the Empire that our Republic could really use. We'd like to maintain those claims, but the Sheliak keep referring to our miners as an 'infestation', and seem to want to keep the worlds entirely to themselves. One of the points I was sent here to argue was that we should maintain those rights. So far, I've gotten exactly nowhere."

Grunt rubbed his lobes thoughtfully. "There might be something we can use in the original Romulan treaty. May we?"

"Hmm? Oh, of course - the only state secrets that might possibly be in there belong to a state that no longer exists." tr'Keiniadh touched a PADD. "There, I've downloaded the text to your computer."

A portly Human form manifested next to Grunt. "You certainly have," Mycroft, the holographic AI interface, said brightly. "This certainly has some serious levels of complexity - in some ways, it makes the Treaty of Armens seem simplified."

tr'Keiniadh started. "And who exactly is this?" he asked Grunt, with a hint of frost.

"Oh, that's our ship's AI, Mycroft. He's really good at picking out the interesting bits from the data. Would you mind accompanying us to my ready room, so we can look this over?"

tr'Keiniadh smiled hollowly. "You may find there's quite a bit to 'look over,'" he said carefully.

Grunt chuckled. "You've never examined a Ferengi employment contract, have you?"

---

Four hours later...

Grunt stood suddenly and threw his PADD across the room. It bounced off a solid duraluminum model of the Hypatia and landed screen-down on the floor. "This is ridiculous!" the Ferengi shouted. "Every paragraph in here cross-references to at least three other paragraphs! And the last two referenced a document that wasn't even included in this package! How could anyone even know if they had violated this treaty?"

tr'Keiniadh reached down imperturbably and picked up the PADD. "Presumably, the damned rocks would know, and would express their displeasure. I used to be in the Imperial service about ten or fifteen years ago, but my ship never came near the Corporate--"

"Wait a moment," Grunt interrupted. "You just said something important, I think. Let me see that PADD... I read something in here... let's see... yes! I think I see! You say you were an Imperial officer, Admiral?"

"Well, yes, but I only reached Subcommander," tr'Keiniadh admitted a little shamefacedly.

"Yeah, that part's not important. Did you ever formally separate from service?"

"Not formally, no," the admiral replied slowly. "In fact, the Tal'Shiar tried to dragoon me back into service not long after I signed on with the Republic fleet, so they might still have me listed on the rolls..."

"Intriguing. Mycroft, do you still have access to those Imperial records? Anything about personnel?"

"Hmm, one moment, sir. I do have partial personnel records, dating to shortly before the Elachi attack on Virinat in 2409. I find one Subcommander Nniol tr'Keiniadh listed as 'missing without leave', but still on Imperial rolls."

"Hah! Perfect! They've never accepted you as a negotiator, Admiral," Grunt said with an air of satisfaction. "But I think I can make them talk to you now. Rock, can you get me the Sheliak ambassador again, please?"

"One moment, Captain," the Klingon's voice replied. "Patching you through now."

If possible, the sound of stone grating on stone stood out even more strongly than it had earlier. Grunt wondered if they'd caught the ambassador in his species' equivalent of a nap. "We are waiting, Federation. Will there be negotiation?"

"Ambassador, why have you chosen not to negotiate with Admiral tr'Keiniadh?"

"The creature speaks nonsense. Its words are contradictory. Worse, it has no authority to treat with us."

Grunt smiled. "Oh, I think there's been a misunderstanding, Ambassador. According to the Treaty of Rlleilalu, terms of the treaty can become negotiable when circumstances have sufficiently changed. Would you agree that the collapse of the Romulan Star Empire constitutes sufficient change?"

"Of course, creature. That is why we are here. We are here to negotiate a new treaty."

"And you object to Admiral tr'Keiniadh because you do not believe he has authority. However, under the Treaty of Rlleilalu, paragraph one thousand seventeen, subsection ninety-five, part nine, negotiations can proceed with the most senior officer of the Romulan Star Empire present at the time. Admiral tr'Keiniadh was formerly a Subcommander in the Imperial Fleet of the Romulan Star Empire, and according to available records, that appointment was never voided. Therefore, Nniol tr'Keiniadh is the most senior officer of the Star Empire present. I believe this means negotiations may commence."

There was a pause.

Finally, a grating sound came over the comm. "The law is paramount. The creature is accepted. Negotiations may commence. However, we request a delay of two standard days before negotiations begin again. We believe this creature may benefit from the advice of the Federation negotiating team which has been dispatched to assist."

tr'Keiniadh inclined his head. "Very well, Ambassador. I will - accede to your request. Our meeting is now recessed until the Federation team arrives."

A loud click indicated that the Sheliak had once again closed the channel.

tr'Keinaidh stood, stretching. "Well, Captain, this has been - educational. I shall certainly bear this in mind if I ever have to negotiate with the Ferengi Alliance."

Grunt grinned. "If that day ever comes, be sure to read the Rules of Acquisition first. Among my people, I'm known as a soft touch."

"Indeed." The Romulan bowed. "I thank you for your assistance, captain. I'll be returning to my ship now; however, if you would not mind, I'd like you to stay until the team arrives from the Federation."

The Ferengi returned the bow. "Of course, Admiral. Anything for our allies."

jonsills

"File #[REDACTED]"



THIS REPORT CLASSIFIED: ULTRA TOP SECRET TYPE RED - SECTION COMMAND EYES ONLY
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS A VIOLATION OF UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS CHARTER ARTICLE XIV, SECTION XXXI, AND PUNISHABLE UNDER THAT ARTICLE

TO: Section Chief Franklin Drake
Starbase [REDACTED]

FROM: Field Agent Delta-17

SUBJECT: Threat Analysis of USS Bedford NCC-92570 and crew

NOTE: Special attention has been paid, as many senior crew members are in fact foreign nationals. It is worrisome that Grunt's command crew has become so packed with non-Federation personnel; however, there have been as yet no overt or covert moves that might indicate disloyalty.

COMMANDING OFFICER: CAPT GRUNT (Ferengi)

Grunt is a known quantity - calm in crisis, quick-thinking, and excellent at finding loopholes in instructions he does not wish to follow. Despite being born in a foreign state, he has shown unswerving loyalty to the Federation and to Starfleet, although his superiors sometimes find him lacking in obedience (cf Adm. T'Nae communique, stardate 92234.8, re: Listening Outpost 47). No known personal weaknesses to exploit; no known relationships, no addictions or paraphilias, no abnormal fears. As a Ferengi, he is not vulnerable to telepathic attack or control. However, should it become necessary, he is no more difficult to eliminate than any other Starfleet officer. That being said, it should be noted that while Grunt has expressed antipathy for the mission of Section 31, and for Section Chief Drake in particular, he will not ignore direct orders (provided he is given no loopholes), and is also amenable to persuasion (cf Drozana Incident). Although it might seem natural, given Ferengi proclivities, under no circumstances should any attempts at bribery be made; Grunt is rather sensitive on this point.

FIRST OFFICER/SCIENCE OFFICER: CDR ROCLAK (Klingon)

Roclak was discommendated by the Klingon Empire shortly after the collapse of the Khitomer Accords in 2399. Officially, the reason for this action is a dishonorable attention to data-sharing with the enemy; in fact, embedded agents report that Roclak had spoken publicly in favor of maintaining peace with the Federation. His House name has been obliterated from Imperial records; our agents on Qo'noS believe that there may be surviving relatives in the Empire, and are attempting to locate them, as this information could provide leverage against Roclak if necessary.

As a Starfleet officer, Roclak has performed commendably on several occasions, notably during the destruction of USS Hypatia NCC-95784, the relief of Xarantine, and the recovery of Lt. Miral Paris from Klingon Ambassador B'vat. He was also essential to the mission to stop the [REDACTED] at Drozana Station in [REDACTED], despite his birth. His loyalty is no more questionable than any other Klingon national serving in Starfleet currently; however, there is a standard caution on all files containing relevant data.

CHIEF ENGINEER: CDR VOVONEK (Pakled)

Vovonek is a brilliant engineer, who left the Pakled Flotilla to seek more stable employment with Starfleet. His impromptu repairs have saved the lives of his crewmates on several occastions, most notably when Grunt's last command, USS Bastogne NCC-93385, was stranded in the Gamma Quadrant at facility [REDACTED]. Vovonek was able to cobble together a starship, largely the remains of the Dakota-class heavy cruiser USS Hephaestus NCC-91748, and including a computer core from a Relativity-class temporal vessel.

Vovonek's primary loyalty seems to lie with his shipmates, and in particular with his commanding officer. He is a recovering stim addict, and has shown a weakness for dabo; these weaknesses may be exploited if necessary.

CHIEF SECURITY OFFICER: CDR SHELANA (Andorian)

Shelana lost her four-bond mates to an Undine attack on Andor in 2408. Since that date, she has become increasingly violent, sometimes irrationally so. Her special antipathy is reserved for anyone suspected of assisting Undine plans in any way whatsoever, although she will release her wrath upon any beings who she finds acting in a way unacceptable to her (cf Stern Destiny incident). These tendencies can be harnessed by Grunt, although his control over his subordinate is not absolute.

Should termination of Grunt ever be necessary, it is required that Shelana be terminated first; otherwise, probability of success against Grunt is severely reduced. Other than this, her loyalty to Starfleet and the Federation is strong; only revelation of Undine infiltration could be expected to shake this.

Shelana's psychosis can be manipulated in our favor; if she believes that a given target is in fact Undine, she will terminate said target at all costs.

CHIEF HELM OFFICER/NAVIGATOR: LCDR THY'BAR GYDAP (Andorian)

Fairly typical Andorian. Strong four-bond on Andor. Primary loyalty is to Federation, secondary to his commanding officer. Minimal risk.

CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER: DR. LLUNIH TR'DALEN (Romulan)

Dr. tr'Dalen defected from the remnant of the Romulan Star Empire in 2407, applying for refugee status in Federation space. He enrolled in Starfleet under the dual-citizenship program; he has never formally renounced his ties with the RSE, which could be problematic in the event of the remnant of the Empire ever declaring war upon the Federation. However, psychological profiling shows that his antipathy toward the Tal'Shiar, the security arm (and now de facto government) of the RSE, runs sufficiently deep that he can be relied upon in any actions against Tal'Shiar forces. He remains skeptical about the eventual success of the Romulan Republic, but has thus far shown no indications of desiring its failure.

Embedded agents will be watching Dr. tr'Dalen in particular; he has no surviving family, and thus, by Rihannsu standards, nothing to lose.

SHIP'S COUNSELOR: LCDR BREL TAN (Bajoran)

LCDR Brel was assigned to Grunt's crew during his time in command of USS Bastogne NCC-93385, at the direction of Adm. T'Nae (an apparent attempt to find some reason to remove Grunt from command). Brel's assessments of his shipmates are on file; there appears to be no reason to doubt his loyalty.

CHIEF COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: LT RUBEN MANALANG (Human)

Manalang was assigned shortly after recommissioning of USS Hephaestus NCC-91748. His career is thus far undistinguished, for good or ill. His libido is unusually high; recommend "honey trap" techniques if control needs to be established.

CHIEF WEAPONS OFFICER: LT ZOEX (Ferengi)

Zoex appears to be a better fit to the standard Ferengi profile than Grunt. However, any attempts to suborn Zoex through bribery should be conducted in such fashion as to provide plausible deniability to his commanding officer. Loyalty to Starfleet is within acceptable parameters; more loyal to Ferengi Alliance than UFP. Medium risk if Alliance interests conflict with Federation; minimal otherwise.

CHIEF OPERATIONS OFFICER: LCDR TURING

Turing is a standard Soong-type android. Programming has not been tampered with. All Starfleet protocols still in effect. No notable risk.

SPECIAL NOTE: During the Outpost 47 incident, Grunt recovered an advanced AI, codenamed Mycroft, which had been developed by SIGINT personnel at the station prior to its loss to Elachi forces. Mycroft is a grown AI, rather than designed; Asimov protocols seem to be in effect, but no other software or firmware restrictions exist as of this report. Agents attempting to shackle the AI have reported lack of success thus far. Any attempts to control or suborn personnel under Grunt's command should take place as far from USS Bedford NCC-92570 as possible, as we have been unable to ascertain exactly how much of the ship is under the AI's control.

SUMMARY: Given known loyalties of ship's crew, USS Bedford NCC-92570 is regarded as minimal risk to Starfleet or the Federation, low but significant risk to other interests of Section 31. Recommend continued observation, further development of control procedures as required.

FILE ENDS.

jonsills

"Mindkiller"



Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Captain Grunt recording.

We are now en route to the Bajoran Wormhole, escorting Ambassador Everan and his three Jem'Hadar bodyguards back to Dominion space following talks with the Federation. For a Vorta, I find Everan to be unusually accepting of those who don't share his religious beliefs - most of them seem positively shocked that we don't worship the Founders the moment we meet one. I suppose that's how he got to be an ambassador, though.

We're also carrying a team of five Federation diplomats, who intend to continue the talks in Dominion territory. Roclak's been complaining for days about the Bedford being used as a passenger liner. I don't mind that so much - it just seems foolish to me to give up an edge in negotiations. But the diplomats say this is the best way to carry forward, and they're the ones in the Diplomatic Corps, not me, so perhaps they actually are right.

It might just be my misgivings about the crew's performance, too. Nothing I can really point at, but things just don't seem right since we took all these passengers aboard. Oddly, the Vorta is the only one I'm going to miss when we reach our destination. The Ambassador and I will be dining in one of my favorite holodeck programs this evening. I hope he doesn't mind my snail steak - Rock won't even eat in the same room as me any more.

"One of my great regrets," the Vorta ambassador said, "is that I never found time to visit Ferenginar. The weather seems quite nice - it reminds me of my home district in springtime. Is it true that you constantly maintain it?"

Outside the holographic representation of a window, a gentle rain fell, blanketing the half-seen swampland with fog. Inside, Grunt smiled. "We purchased the weather-control devices from Risa almost two hundred years ago. We've made a few improvements since, of course. The histories say that when the Risan engineers were told the settings we wanted, they thought we were all insane. Any Ferengi appreciates a good rain, though."

"As well you should, Captain. Rain is one of the great blessings of the FoundaaaAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHH!" The Vorta collapsed, clutching his head, screaming.

Grunt leapt to the ambassador's side, slapping his combadge. "Grunt to sickbay! Medical emergency, Holodeck 2! The Ambassador's down!"

"tr'Dalen. We're busy right now, captain. All three Jem'Hadar seem to be undergoing systemic shock. You'll have to bring the Ambassador here yourself. No, I said stabilize him, you ham-fisted dha'rudh! I swear by all the Elements, if that one dies..." tr'Dalen trailed off into something emphatic-sounding in Romulan, just before the transmission cut off.

Grunt tapped his combadge again. "Grunt to transporter room. Two to beam directly to sickbay, stat!"

"Acknowleged." A familiar azure swirl formed around Grunt and Everan, and the holographic restaurant was replaced by an unusually hectic Sickbay.

tr'Dalen looked around at the sound. "Good, you're here. Get him up on that biobed. Ferst, set up support program 7 and engage the psionic dampeners." The Betazoid nurse hastened to comply, as Grunt hefted the Vorta's semiconscious body up onto a bed.

"Psionic dampeners?" Grunt asked, puzzled.

"Yes," the Romulan replied. "I've seen something like this before, back during one of the Reman rebellions. It's an assassination technique usable only by a telepath or empath of sufficient strength - overwhelming the target's neural system with sensation or emotion. Given what I know about Jem'Hadar endocrine systems, someone's trying to hate these things to death."

"'Hate' them to death? Who'd want to do that? And how?"

The Vorta stirred. "Voices..." he whispered. "...scream... remember... Betazed..."

"Mycroft!" Grunt called out.

The AI coalesced next to him. "Yes, sir?"

"Was Ambassador Everan or any of his previous clones ever assigned to Betazed? Maybe during the Dominion occupation?"

"One moment, sir, checking... No, this was Everan's first trip out of the Gamma Quadrant. Apparently, his predecessors tended to be rather conciliatory, which is fine for an ambassador, but not for front-line troops."

"Well, that's an odd thing for him to say--"

"There's more, sir," Mycroft interrupted. "I've just turned up a reference to an apparent insurgent group calling itself 'Remember Betazed'. Their hypernet site says that they are devoted to, quote, 'keeping the memory of the Occupation alive, and punishing those who subjugated our world.' It seems to be a fairly minor group, but aside from that hypernet site, I can find no further information, which seems a bit suspicious to me - if the group is active, as this site seems to claim, there should be at least an occasional mention of them in newsfeeds from Betazed, but there's nothing. And there was a group fighting the Dominion occupation of Betazed during the Dominion War using a similar technique..."

"Begging the Captain's pardon--" a hesitant voice spoke up.

Grunt looked around. "Yes, Lieutenant?" he said to the Betazoid nurse next to Everan's bed.

"I, ah, I can tell you why there's no news about -- about that group, sir. I-- I'm not, ah, proud of this, sir, but I have an uncle who was an Arby - a member of Remember Betazed. There are, like, maybe twenty or thirty members in the entire world, and most of them are people who tried to make it into the freedom fighters during the Occupation and couldn't - they didn't have the empathic strength. If these Jem'Hadar had been assassinated by one of them, sir, it would have had to have been with a weapon, not -- not that." The lieutenant paled as he spoke.

Grunt nodded. "Thanks, son. That helps. So, the attack came from a powerful telepath, but not - what did you call them? Not an 'Arby'. LLunih, how many telepathic crew members do we have?"

"Four, but none this strong. If we had a telepath able to do this on board, he'd be your new comms officer." The Romulan shook his head. "Maybe one of the diplomats - there are two Betazoids in that group..."

"Hmm. Maybe. Then again, maybe something else." Grunt looked into space for a moment. "I think I know a way to either find our assassin, or eliminate the diplomats. LLunih, if we could speak privately for a moment..."

*******************

Outside the conference room, Grunt stopped and turned to Lt. Zoex. "Now remember, if I haven't given you the all-clear in two minutes after this door closes, contact Shelana and tell her we have a Priority Omega-Seven in this room."

"Of course, sir, but - what's a Priority Omega-Seven?"

"I'll tell you later. Ferengi brains are harder for telepaths to read than most, but just in case this one manages the trick, it's better if it can't tell from you."

Grunt stood erect, straightened his tunic, and marched through the door of the conference room, facing five annoyed diplomats.

Their putative leader, a Trill named Jenan Greft, stood as Grunt entered the room. Pointedly, the others remained seated. "Captain Grunt," Greft said, with faint emphasis on the title, "we really must protest this heavy-handed treatment!"

Grunt bowed. "I apologize on behalf of Starfleet Operations," he said, "but it would seem that there was a rather unpleasant disease on the station just before we left. It appears to be harmless to most life forms, but it has proved fatal for at least one of our Jem'Hadar guests. I'm sure you don't wish to provoke any untoward incidents on arrival in Dominion space - fortunately, our Dr. tr'Dalen has formulated an inoculation that will clear any infections from your systems. I have come to administer the shots personally, by way of atoning for this grievous insult." He placed a carefully calculated degree of fawning into his inflections and stance.

The Trill softened. "Oh, very well, Captain. Gentlemen, if we could please line up here, we can get this over with and return to our duties."

The diplomats shuffled into a rough line, while Grunt wondered quietly what "duties" could possibly be occupying them aboard the Bedford. Greft, at the head of the line, rolled up his sleeve; Grunt removed the hypospray from his pocket and injected the Trill with LLunih's inoculant.

Four more times the hypospray hissed, and Grunt announced, "Thank you, gentlemen. Now, there will just be a short pause while we wait to make sure there are no side effects, and we can all return to what we were doing. Drinks?"

One of the Betazoid representatives in the group began to choke, one arm spasming. "What - what was in that shot?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a vicious growl at the end.

"Oh, nothing much," Grunt replied cheerfully. "Just some vitamins, a temporary psionic suppressant - the effects should wear off in about an hour - and something LLunih whipped up to counteract that stuff the Undine use to hold their shapes. What's it called again?"

The "Betazoid" collapsed, writhing. Abruptly, in his place there rose a tall tripedal form, slate-gray skin covering a form that spoke of horror to any who knew of Species 8472 - the Undine. "You were clever, for an animal," the thing growled. "Your mind is not as open to me as these others - but it will be!" The thing's eyes blazed, and Grunt found himself pinned against the wall, his boots almost half a meter off the floor. The Undine came closer, settling one hand on Grunt's head. "The weak shall--!" It suddenly stopped speaking, as its head flew from its bifurcated neck.

"Perish?" came a familar voice from behind the Undine. "You certainly shall." Commander Shelana began wiping the Undine's ichor from the blade of her prized bat'leth, her eyes as cold as the fields of Andor. "Say hello to my mates in Hell."

Grunt slid to the floor. "Thanks, Shel," he said weakly. "Just in time, as usual."

"Good thing you sent the kid to get me," she replied, antennae twitching. "With all due respect, Captain sir, mind telling me why you were so freezing stupid as to come in here alone if you thought there might be an Undine?"

"Well," Grunt explained, climbing to his feet, "I figured that if the telepaths we know have a hard time reading a Ferengi four-lobed brain, the ones who aren't even used to our universe should have an even harder time. And I didn't want this - thing - figuring out what was going on before we had a chance to expose it. Zoex and I were the only two who even had a chance of getting this close, and I wasn't about to send a kid like that into this alone. Besides, I had to have someone to alert you when it was too busy with me to pay attention to its surroundings, right?" He put on his best charming smile.

She appeared unmoved. "And what made you think 'Undine' in the first place? I though Mycroft's working theory was a Betazoid terrorist."

"According to the Betazoid nurse in sickbay, this 'terrorist' group doesn't actually have anyone as a member who's capable of carrying out their attacks. They're about as significant as Terra Prime on Earth, or the Andorian movement to restore the Regency. So the attacker couldn't have been one of them. That led me to the Fourteenth Rule of Acquisition - in any deal, find out who profits most. Had we assumed the attacker was Betazoid, as we were obviously supposed to, that would have led to mass suspicion of Betazoids throughout the Federation, splitting away one of the core members of that Federation and weakening the organization as a whole. And who profits most from that? The Undine, of course."

"That makes sense - I suppose. Very well, sir, but as your security chief I must protest your throwing yourself into danger with no backup."

"But I had backup, my dear," Grunt said, smiling broadly. "I had you."

She grimaced at him.

Grunt turned back to Greft. "Consul, I would like to apologize again for interrupting your evening, and for my security chief decapitating one of your team members." He bowed.

Greft blinked. "Quite all right, Captain. Couldn't be helped, obviously. And thank you for rooting out that traitor in our midst. Who knows what kind of disadvantageous agreements we might have reached under that being's influence? Rest assured, when we return to Deep Space Nine to file our formal report with the Diplomatic Corps, your gallant actions, and those of the Commander, will be prominently mentioned."

Grunt bowed again, hiding his amusement. "It was nothing, Consul. Standard Starfleet procedure, nothing more."

jonsills

"All Good Things..."



Transcript of Federation News Service Special, Brandon Felczer: A Look Back, segment 17. Interviewee Capt. Grunt, commanding USS Bedford NCC-92570. Interviewer Rebecca Sheldon, senior Starfleet correspondent.

RS: Thank you, Captain, for agreeing to join us this evening.

G: My pleasure, Ms Sheldon. The Bedford's on a routine patrol just now, and your interview comes as a bit of a refreshment, to be quite honest.

RS: The first question on everyone's mind, of course, is why you weren't invited to attend the Fleet Admiral's sendoff in person, particularly given the non-urgent nature of your current assignment. Are you worried there may be some lingering prejudice against dual-citizenship officers?

G: Against Ferengi, you mean? (chuckles) Not really, no, especially at a function devoted to Admiral Felczer. His was one of the main voices pushing the dual-citizenship program, you know, back when he was with the Diplomatic Corps. If he hadn't been afflicted with more than the Human normal amount of desire for adventure, he could have carved out quite a career there. If I were to try to pick out the single being in all the Federation with the least prejudice toward any other life forms, it would have to be him.

RS: Then how do you explain the seeming snub?

G: (grins disarmingly; fangs mildly spoil the effect) Who says I was "snubbed"? In fact, almost every ship in the Fleet got an invite. By the time we were able to respond, the Bedford couldn't get within a parsec of Sol system - too much traffic!

RS: Did you know the Admiral personally, Captain?

G: Not well, of course, but who in Starfleet doesn't have a Felczer story or two? He was the commander on my cadet cruise, in fact, back when he was still commanding the Venture in between Academy lectures. I was at the weapons console when we ran into a squad of Nausicaan mercenaries in the outer fringes of Procyon system - they were preying on Andorian shipping, and I guess the Capt- ah, the Admiral now, had promised he'd take a look. We were pretty badly outmatched, at least according to standard procedures. Too bad for the Nausicaans that Felczer never met a standard procedure he couldn't ignore. He pulled a variation on the Picard Maneuver, then set an external holoemitter to project a mirror image of the Venture - it was the first use of what's now a fairly standard system, only of course now the images even have the ability to produce damage. We didn't have that then. Confused the mercs long enough for Felczer to drop their shields with a viral-matrix attack, though, then launch a full spread of photon torpedoes into them. (shakes his head) I actually felt kind of sorry for them. Poor [expletive deleted] never knew what hit them.

RS: Er, yes, I can understand...

G: My chief tactical officer, Commander Shelana, even had the honor of taking courses in advanced starship tactics under the Admiral during the time Starfleet tried to make him stay at the Academy. That's saved our lives a few times. You've heard the phrase "thinking out of the box"? I'm not sure the Admiral even knew there was a box. And if he had known, he'd have wanted to know if there were any cookies in it.

RS: It sounds as if Admiral Felczer will be badly missed, now that he's retiring.

G: He certainly will. I'm sure Fleet Captain McNesby will perform the job admirably, but nobody will ever be like ol' Branflakes.

RS: Thank you again, Captain Grunt. Coming up next, we'll hear a few words from Captain Talaina of the USS Viper, after these words from our sponsors.

jonsills

"What Dreams May Come"



Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Captain Grunt recording.

While surveying a remote section of the Alpha Trianguli sector, we encountered an odd phenomenon. Subspace, or at least the subspace domain our engines use, is almost flat here; it's been five days, and we haven't been able to form a warp bubble. Scans indicate this area is several light-years across, so getting out on impulse alone is obviously out of the question. Roclak and Vonovek have been working on a solution, but no luck yet.

Also, it might just be because we're stuck here, but everyone on the crew has been reporting nightmares - even the Vulcans, and I wasn't even sure they dreamed. Most of us have been having a hard time sleeping because of it. LLunih's reporting a record number of personnel requesting sleep aids. And then there's poor Shelana, and the way things are going, she's just going to be the first. I'll be checking on her shortly.

Grunt ran down the corridor, the padding of the fangcat uncomfortably close behind him. Thirty meters, he panted silently to himself, his heart jackhammering in his chest. Thirty more meters, and I can lock myself in my quarters...

"You'll never make it, you know," the oily voice hissed. The twisted smile lurked in Grunt's peripheral vision.

"Gonna... make it... 'sides... you... you're not real..."

"Of course I'm real, silly boy. Mumsy and Daddy always warned you about making deals with the Smiling Friend. How could they have warned you if I weren't real? Oh, but then you've turned your back on them, haven't you?"

"Never.. turned... back..." Grunt panted angrily.

"You turned your back on them, just as you turned your back on what it means to be Ferengi, when you made that deal with that smiling Starfleet recruiter. You sold them out, you left them in that swamp and went to the stars. Oh, and it's certainly been an adventure, hasn't it? You've been brave, and selfless, and self-sacrificing, and you turned away from your people! You're going to die out here, alone and unmourned and unsold and poor, headed straight into the Vault of Eternal Destitution!"

"No! NO!!" Grunt screamed, but in his lobes he knew his fate. Only a few more meters now, though, and he was safe...

The fangcat leapt from behind, knocking him to the cold hard deck, and as its claws ripped into his abdomen he could hear the Smiling Friend laughing at him...

Grunt sat bolt upright in his bed, his throat still raw from screaming. Shakily he pushed aside the covers, and saw his belly still whole, marked only by the scar he'd picked up during a fracas a few years earlier. He was fine, he was safe, this was the captain's cabin of the starship Bedford, and it was just a nightmare. In his mind's eye, though, he still saw the furred beast tearing his intestines out through the great gouges it had dug in him... He climbed out of the bedclothes, now soaked with his sweat, grabbed a robe, and headed for the door.

********

Grunt padded into Sickbay, unusually busy for this time of the ship's night. Dr. LLunih tr'Dalen looked up from a young crewman he'd just given a hypospray to. "Good evening, Captain," he said sourly. "Let me guess - bad dreams?"

Grunt shuddered. "You know it. How's Shelana doing?"

The Romulan doctor glanced at the biobed at the end of the room, where an Andorian female lay under the sensors. "Maintaining a medically-induced coma. Until we solve this night-terrors issue, even letting her close enough to consciousness to dream could be fatal. Possibly even to her."

Grunt nodded. Two days earlier, Shelana had emerged from her quarters with her custom bat'leth, screaming about "monsters of ice" attacking. Seven crewmen had been wounded before the stun effect of a phaser could stop her. LLunih had first tried restraints, but she had almost torn her own arm off trying to escape. Since then, he'd been keeping her too deep to dream - the source of everyone's trouble lately.

"You, on the other hand," LLunih went on, "haven't come out of your quarters armed - yet, at least. How are you holding up?"

Grunt smiled half-heartedly. "I could ask the same of you. It takes a lot to make a Ferengi go crazy. How about a Romulan?"

"Oh, we're already all of us about half-crazy, so it's kind of hard to tell. I've got my nurses keeping an eye on me, with instructions to drug me into insensibility if I start to crack. I'm a little worried about the rest of the crew, though - three more came in for restraint today. If we don't start getting some solid sleep around here soon, Shelana's going to have even more company. Any word about getting the ship moving? I'd be happier if we could be backstopped by a starbase."

"What's a backstop?"

"Not sure. It's a phrase I picked up on Earth, getting multispecies medical training. It means having someone to catch your mistakes, which would come in really handy about now, because I haven't slept properly since we got here."

Grunt rubbed his nose ridges. "I know the feeling. It's pretty close to my shift time - I'll go talk to Vov, see if anything's come up."

The Romulan coughed delicately. "You, ah, might want to stop by your quarters on the way, at least if you're going on-shift afterward..."

"What do you mean?" Grunt looked down. "Oh, the robe, right. It'd probably look better on the record if I wore a uniform."

****************

Main Engineering

Roclak and Vovonek were bent over the main control console in the warp mix chamber when Grunt arrived. Neither one appeared to have slept recently - the Klingon's once-proud mane of hair hung limply, and stubble could be seen on the Pakled's forehead where he habitually shaved his eyebrows.

"Any news?" Grunt asked, as jauntily as he could manage.

Vovonek looked up at him. "It won't go," he said hollowly.

Grunt started to grin at his engineer's old joke, but something about Vovonek's face told him it wasn't funny this time. "How about you, Rock?"

Roclak thumped the console in annoyance. "This tu'HomIraH piece of veQ can't tell me a ghuy'cha' thing I don't already know! The Cochrane fields are generated, but the warp bubble collapses the moment it is initiated! And something about this space deranges the mind, and won't let me sleep!!" He hit the console again, hard enough to crack the plasteel cover. "It is most displeasing!!"

"Like I said, it won't go," Vovonek repeated.

Grunt stifled a yawn. "Damn. I'd better get to the bridge - you guys stay on top of this, and let me know if you figure anything out."

The Klingon growled at Grunt, which he took as a farewell, ducking into the turbolift again.

Grunt emerged onto the bridge. "Looks like we're still stuck here, gentlemen. Anything new?"

"I've found something, sir," replied Lt. Manalang, the comms officer. "A repeating pattern with variations, on a theta sideband of standard subspace radio frequencies. Not sure what it means, but it's definitely something. I've got Mycroft running an analysis."

Lt. Turing turned around from his station at Ops. "Intriguing, sir. It is hypothesized that theta-frequency subspace transmissions may have an effect on the subconscious level of organic minds. Research is ongoing, but inconclusive thus far."

"Intriguing indeed. Can anyone raise Mr. Brel?" Grunt was hoping his ship's counselor could shed some light on the situation.

"Lieutenant Commander Brel is in his office, sir, but he is not responding to hails. Interesting. There is no record of Lieutenant Commander Brel having any appointments this morning."

"Thank you, Mr. Turing," Grunt acknowledged. "Please have someone from Security check up on Tan."

The android turned back to Ops.

"Meanwhile," a voice broke in from the ceiling, "I have reached some disturbing conclusions, Captain."

"Let's hear it, Mycroft."

A holographic Human coalesced next to the captain's chair. The AI continued, "You are aware, sir, that I was originally configured for SIGINT - SIGnal INTelligence. I've been analyzing the pattern of the theta-band transmission, and I am unable to avoid the result - the signal is purposeful. I believe it may be inimical, as well."

"You mean someone's doing this to us on purpose?"

"It would seem so, sir. What's more, the amplitude of the signal has been increasing. If we don't get out of here soon, the nightmares induced by the transmission might begin occurring during waking hours - as has already happened with Commander Shelana, Lt. Jermons in Engineering, Ensign Vaughn in Astrometrics, and Able Spacer th'Trygan in the hangar deck."

"Great. It's going to make us crazy if we don't leave, and we can't leave. Suggestions, anyone? Gydap?"

"I've been trying to think, sir," the Andorian helmsman replied, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I remember reading something somewhere about a ship caught like this, and the crew not being able to sleep, I think, but I can't seem to recall..." He trailed off.

"All right, let's try it this way. Computer, search parameters 'starship caught no warp crew can't sleep'. Search."

"Working," the computer's vaguely feminine voice replied. "Two incidents. USS Defiant, NCC-1764, caught in a spatial interphase, stardate 5693.2. Crew rendered violently insane, leading to the deaths of all aboard. Also involving USS Enterprise, NCC-1701. Second incident, USS Brattain, NCC-21166, caught in a Tyken's Rift along with members of a telepathic species aboard another craft. The telepathic species attempted to communicate with the crew of the Brattain, which interfered with REM cycles. Lack of dreaming led to insanity; the sole survivor was rendered catatonic. Also involving USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-D, caught in the Tyken's Rift on stardate 44631.2. In the former incident, the Enterprise was able to depart, but her captain, James Kirk, was aboard the Defiant when it was entrapped in a Tholian web, and her crew refused to leave until Kirk could be rescued. The crew began experiencing abberations in temperment, apparently induced by the nature of the local space. In the latter incident, the Enterprise-D was able to escape the rift by supplying hydrogen from her Bussard collectors, which combined with an element provided by the other ship, resulting in an explosion which threw them both clear."

"Yeah, that second one, that's the one I was thinking of," Gydap said. "This isn't a Tyken's Rift, of course, or we'd be out of it already, but maybe something similar could work."

"Maybe. Dammit, I can't think!" Grunt rubbed his head in frustration. "Turing, does anything suggest itself to you?"

"Possibly, sir. There appears to be a subspace rift in the approximate center of this region, about two million kilometers off our port bow. If three tricobalt torpedoes were to be configured for coordinated explosion, it could result in a temporary disruption of the field that is preventing our warp drive from functioning. The flaw in this plan is that this would require precise timing, and at this point none of the organic intelligences aboard would be capable of issuing the appropriate orders in time. I could pilot the ship out, or I could time the torpedo explosions; however, to do both would require that I use two separate consoles very nearly simultaneously."

"Hmmph. Great. A maybe solution, but we can't even try it. If we make it out of this, maybe we should look into a few emergency holographic officer programs."

"Sir," the android said, "I am not the only non-organic intelligence aboard. There is also Mycroft."

"Me?" Mycroft replied in astonishment. "I can't fire the torpedoes, or fly the ship - I haven't the authorization!"

"This is true. However, the Bedford was designed to have a ship's AI. With the authorization of the captain, the first officer, and the chief engineer, you can take that position."

Grunt nodded. "Sounds like a plan. You've been about as thoroughly vetted as a sapient program can be, Mycroft. Let's get Rock and Vov up to speed. Grunt to Engineering."

"Vovonek here."

Grunt quickly filled them in on the plan. "So we just need to provide the codes. The Captain concurs. Authorization Grunt seven aleph niner gree-worm yellow eight omega seventeen."

"The first officer concurs. Authorization Roclak gamma twelve orange targ escrima eight."

"The chief engineer... the chief... NO! NOT THAT!!"

"Captain!" Ruben called. "The theta-band signal has just jumped in amplitude by a factor of ten! I don't think they like what we're doing!"

Vovonek's screams across the intercom abruptly ceased. A new voice spoke up. "I am Lieutenant Commander Sorak. As Commander Vovonek has become incapacitated, I am hereby assuming the position of chief engineer. The chief engineer concurs. Authorization Sorak iota nine seven six delta epsilon green powder."

"Authorizations acknowledged," the computer replied. "Installing ship's artificial intelligence, utilizing program MYCROFT version twelve point four seven."

The hologram flickered, then steadied. "I acknowledge responsibility," Mycroft said.

"Sir!" Ruben screamed. "THE SIGNAL!!"

The deck beneath Grunt's feet abruptly yawned open, revealing a vast abyss toward which he began to slide. As he grabbed desperately at the arms of his seat, he could hear that oily voice hiss, "I told you, there's no escape from the Smiling Friend..."

"Not real! NOT! REAL!!" Grunt ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he opened them again, he could see the bridge of his ship, undisturbed save by the panicking life forms aboard her. Overlaid on that, however, he could still see the hallucination of the pit.

"Turing! Mycroft! Execute the plan now!"

Three orange sphere tore loose from the forward torpedo launcher, speeding toward their destination. As they erupted into violent light and a massive shockwave, Turing's hands danced on his control panel. The ship lunged, turned, and fled the devastation she had unleashed.

"I am pleased to announce that the maneuver has been successful," the android stated. "We are now clear of the phenomenon. I recommend the placement of a series of warning buoys, to prevent other ships from entering this space unexpectedly."

"That sounds like a great idea," Grunt said wearily. "See to it. Meanwhile, all off-shift personnel are to go to bed. Now."

jonsills

"The Other Side"



Captain's Log, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Captain Grunt recording.

The Bedford's been given a comparatively cushy assignment, conducting surveys of a few of the uninhabited worlds of the Delta Volanis cluster and assessing their sutability for colonization. Currently we're orbiting Etarinar III, a planet briefly noted by a Vulcan science team almost four hundred years ago, but rejected by them as being too wet and not heavy enough - in short, a normal Class-M planet. Surface surveys so far are proving promising; no major toxic gas sources, atmospheric composition nearly identical to Earth, and we have yet to encounter any predators that would be considered "dangerous" for colonization purposes. we're running one final sweep, collecting samples, before moving on to the next designated target.

"Just for the record, Captain, I'm still not happy that you're down here."

Grunt grinned. "Yes, Shelana, you've made that quite clear. Several times. Over the past half-hour alone. Sometimes you've just got to get off the ship, though, you know? And this planet seems pretty paradisical - not enough rain for me, of course, and way too warm for you, but most of the sophonts in the Federation will love it."

Shelana kept alert eyes and antennae trained on the underbrush around them. "Captain, we haven't found anything dangerous yet. That doesn't mean that the next vale or cave won't hold something akin to a fangbeast, or an ice-spider, or a targ. And I don't fancy explaining to Roclak how I got his captain injured..."

The Andorian was cut off by Grunt's combadge. "Bedford to Grunt."

The Ferengi tapped his badge. "Grunt here."

"Captain, there's a growing subspace distortion less that ten kilometers off the starborad bow, possibly an Undine incursion. We need to beam you back up immediately!"

"Yes, you do. Grab the away team now."

"Aye aye, si--" The com signal dissolved into static. The voice of Roclak, the Klingon science officer, could occasionally be made out. "...iculty maintin...ransporter lock...have to beam yo...one at a time..."

"Make it so," Grunt snapped. "get my crew out of here first!"

"Sir!" Shelana protested. "As your security chief, it is my duty to--" She was interrupted by an azure swirl, as the transporter signal seized her.

Grunt waited, then tapped his badge. "What's the holdup, Rock?"

"..pologies, Capt...signal disruptio..eaming you up now..."

The familiar swirl surrounded Grunt - then started changing colors. By the time the light dissipated, it had shifted to a bright orange hue.

"Wow, that was a rough one," Grunt said, stepping toward the edge of the platform. Only then did he realize what he was seeing. This was not the brightly-lit, Federation-designed transporter room he was used to - instead, the room was much smaller, with harsh angles to the walls, and dim red lighting like a Klingon ship!

Across the small room, a female Pakled worked frantically at a wall panel. A female Klingon standing beside her growled, "Enough!", and roughly cuffed the Pakled aside.

"Er, excuse me..." Grunt began.

The Klingon spun toward him and hissed. "Who are you, intruder, and what have you done with our patron?"

Grunt raised his hands. "I'm as confused as you are. Maybe a little more. My name is Captain Grunt, of the Federation starship Bedford, and I was just beaming up after doing some survey work on the planet below us--"

"Enough lies!" the Klingon shouted. "You are not Merchant-Captain Grunt! You are the wrong gender, for one thing!"

"Merchant-Capt... oh, wonderful." Grunt ran his hand over his head. "There's been another interuniversal mixup, hasn't there?"

"Interuniversal?" This caught the Klingon's attention. She turned back to the Pakled. "Check your readings! Did you experience disruptions in the upper bands - and fail to compensate?"

The Pakled rubbed her cheek resentfully. "You want to try focusing an annular confinement beam through a Class-Three ion storm? Be my guest! I told Shellan not to let the Patron beam up last, but does anyone listen to poor Vovana? No!" She started working at the panel again. "So I get stuck cleaning up everyone else's messes, as usual... Aha! A transitional spike in the kappa band, here. Should have been automatically compensated for, but nobody ever wants to spring for spare parts around here when you can make good old Vovana patch 'em together..."

"Enough whining, Vov." The Klingon turned back toward Grunt. "I am Roclas, executive officer of the Free Vessel Material Continuum. We had been beaming up our patron, Merchant-Captain Grunt. She had foolishly insisted on examining this world in person, hoping to find some commercial possibility the rest of us had missed. It would appear we have you instead."

"Roclas. Interesting. You'd be the distaff counterpart to my exec, Roclak, then."

"So it would appear. Is he in Starfleet, as well?"

"Yes, he is. It rather surprises me that you're not."

Roclas shrugged. "I had applied to the Academy after leaving Klingon space, but - circumstances intervened. Grunt was recruiting for her private survey vessel, and I signed on."

"Er, no offense," Grunt began, "but you were quick to jump on that word, 'interuniversal'. I take it you've had your share of wacky dimensional hijinks, too?"

Roclas sighed. "The stories I could tell. We've been to two different so-called 'Mirror Universes', the ones with the Terran Empire, including one where Grunt was High Empress of the Ferengi Trade Empire. There's one I never want to see again. Then there was the one where the Borg beat the Feds back about forty, fifty years ago - didn't like that one either - and the one where the Iconians were in charge... Gods below, at this point it's kind of nice to hear about a universe where everything hasn't gone to forshak."

"We've only been to one Mirror, but we saw it twice - second time was in the Delta Quadrant, where we met mirror Borg. Nice fellows."

Roclas grinned. "Well, they are 'mirror'."

"Got it!" Vovana crowed from the panel she'd been working at. "Captain, we can get you back to your universe, but only for about another forty-five seconds. I'll beam you back into the cloud, but route the signal back here. If my counterpart did the same work I did, they'll beam our Patron the same way, and everyone winds up home. Are you ready to go?"

"Make it so, Miss Vovana." Grunt inclined his head to the Klingon. "It was an honor to meet you, Roclas. I'll give your regards to Roclak when I see him." The room dissolved around Grunt, then reformed moments later - in its more familiar Starfleet arrangement. Roclak stood next to Vovonek at the console.

"Sir, are you all right?" Roclak asked worriedly.

"Never better, Rock." Grunt rolled his neck. "Good to be home, though. Everyone else make it off the planet okay?"

"Yours was the only beamout that gave us any trouble, Captain. Unsurprisingly." The Klingon glowered at him. "You seem to make it a habit to get into untenable situations, sir."

Grunt grinned broadly. "Ah, but I always have you guys to pull my profits out of the hole," he said reassuringly.

Roclak looked unconvinced.

jonsills

Facility 4028, Top Secret Storage Area Gamma-17
October 17, 2409

Another explosion shook the facility as two tribes of Jem'Hadar warred in the corridors over the honor of "rescuing" a Founder from the high-security Federation prison. A small team of Starfleet operatives fought on one side, as well.

In a small storage room, code-locked to the DNA of precisely three people in the entire universe, an isolinear circuit card fell from one padded box into another, making contact with the access port for a positronic matrix. A power line had ruptured earlier in the battle; the completed circuit took in the ambient power, and a small light began to glow, as a hidden transmitter sent out a signal through subspace...

Captain's Quarters, USS Bedford NCC-92570
Regulus Sector
April 4, 2410

Grunt looked up in annoyance from his family's financial reports as the comm screen on his desk beeped, then energized without his authorization. Given that, the face on the screen wasn't a total surprise - a Human male, scarred, of indeterminate age.

"Franklin Drake, as I live and breathe," Grunt said, baring his fangs in what a Human might take for a smile. "To what do I owe the notable lack of pleasure?"

"Now Captain, there's no need for that attitude. What have I done to merit such hostility?"

"Well, let's see now. You sent us through time with a holographic Klingon disguise, when we could have appeared as any number of neutral vessels. On top of that, you gave us the markings of a House that B'vat was at war with, and I'm pretty sure you knew Drozana was in his patrol corridor in the 23rd century. And you planted Borg technology in my ship, which granted got us home faster, but you know why I'm kind of sensitive about Borg tech. You tried to have a group of scientists build you your own private Guardian of Forever, while lying to them about who you were, and left them defenseless against a True Way attack. You faked a series of distress calls in order to kidnap my entire command crew into a holodeck simulation, so you could run what you probably thought of as a 'loyalty check' - like we were Tal'Shiar or something. And you claimed we failed it, when we were able to see through your ruse and refused to cooperate with you in the end. And after chatting with a Klingon at DS9, I suspect you're often in collusion with your opposite number in the Empire. Is that enough, or should I go on?"

"Admittedly, we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Captain, but you must admit that everything I've done has been in the best interests of the Federation as a whole."

"That's entirely a matter of viewpoint, Drake. Are you 'saving' the Federation when you're acting in ways that contradict everything it stands for?"

"Now, Captain, I -- ah, but while debating philosophy and ethics with you would be a fascinating way to pass my evening, that's not at all why I called. You recall the classified Federation Facility 4028? Earlier today, there was a distress call from that facility. And while you aren't the only captain whose discretion I can trust, you are the only one in a position to respond to the call with anything like alacrity."

"A distress call? Any details?"

"They say a group of what appeared to be augmented Humans attacked the facility, ransacked the secure areas, and absconded with the contents of one of the storage rooms."

"And that called for a distress signal? What, did someone steal the last of their toilet paper?"

"Something even more significant and dangerous than that, Captain."

*****************************

"Kahlesste kaase," Roclak whispered when Grunt briefed his officers on the call. "They stole Lore??"

"I'm afraid I don't understand the significance," Zoex said. "What's a 'Lore', and why was it stored there?"

"Lore was one of the very earliest of the Soong-model androids," the Klingon explained, "and the first where the AI worked correctly. Well, for certain values of 'correctly' - Lore was programmed with a full set of emotions, but without the experiences necessary to help control them. Apparently Dr. Soong expected his android to be able to master its own mind due to its intelligence. His error cost the lives of everyone at the Omicron Theta colony, and very nearly the Enterprise-D. Lore and the M-5 computer are two of the standard topics in the Academy seminar on the dangers of artificial intelligence."

"Lore grew impatient with the Humans of Omicron Theta," Lt. Turing, the android Ops officer, expanded, "and became convinced they hated and feared him for his supposed superiority. His psychosis expanded to the point that he declared war upon the concept of organic life. His creator deactivated him, but not before he was able to contact the Crystalline Entity and summon it to destroy all organic compounds at the colony. Later, he allied with a group of disaffected Borg which had been infected with the notion of individuality, and convinced them to follow him. He was deactivated by the successor model, Professor Data - Commander Data then. Should he be reactivated and repaired, he could constitute a danger to everyone in the galaxy."

"Particularly given the invention since then of thalaron weaponry," Shelana noted grimly. "Captain, I take it we're en route?"

"Should be there shortly--" Grunt was interrupted by the whistle of the companel. He touched its surface. "Grunt here."

"We are approaching Facility 4028, Captain," Gydap's voice replied. "Clearing visual screening in three, two --- Snow and Sun!! Ah, Captain, you'll want to see this."

Grunt charged through the door of the ready room onto the bridge, barely ahead of his security chief. He stared at the main viewscreen.

There was the asteroid thicket, of course - one of the Facility's defenses, as it was nearly impossible to navigate that dense stony field except on the prescribed approach vector. From the largest asteroid, Facility 4028 jutted - or parts of it did, anyway. Large areas of the superstructure were glowing with residual heat and radiation, while others were simply gone.

"That was tritanium crystalloy!" Vovonek exclaimed from his station at the bridge's rear. "The only weapon I know that could do that is on a Planet Killer!"

Roclak checked his scanners grimly. "No sign of Undine weapons fire or engine exhaust," he reported. "Besides, a Planet Killer would never fit through the thicket. And the damage is too precise - note that life support and containment fields are still functioning, while all weapons and deflectors have been disabled or destroyed."

"Okay," Grunt said, "let's get in there and figure out what it was, now that we know what it wasn't."

The graceful bulk of the Bedford slid up to the ruined prison station.

****************************

Grunt and Shelana made their way toward the Warden's "office", while three decks below Vovonek led a repair team toward the ISIS core. As they approached the Warden's door, they were startled as two photonic security officers flicked into existence, leveled phaser rifles, and abruptly disappeared again. A moment later, the officers reappeared, weapons at parade rest. As they started to bring the weapons up, they vanished again.

"Grunt, authorization seven-alpha-chi-thirty-brown-gryphon-omega!" the Ferengi shouted, hoping that some system somewhere was listening. He was in luck - when next the officers appeared, they lowered their weapons before vanishing.

The Andorian security chief made her way to the door. "Hmmm. Looks like it's in automatic lockdown mode, Captain. I'll have it open in a moment." She popped a panel next to the door, and began working with the circuitry. There was a brief spaak! and the smell of ionized air, and the door slowly slid open. The pair entered the barren office.

Grunt tapped his commbadge. "Grunt to Vovonek. Any progress on that computer?"

"More than I really expected, sir. Remember the system I cobbled together for the Hephaestus? Guess where it wound up? Should have everything back online in a -- ah, there we are." As the Pakled finished speaking, the air in the room wavered, and the Warden appeared.

"ISIS System version seven point three point zero four, subsystem Warden version three point five, rebooting," the hologram said flatly. "One moment. Starfleet Corps of Engineers apologizes for this delay. Systems check in progress." The Warden stood still, as unseen speakers began playing Beethoven, or possibly the Beatles - Grunt wasn't really an expert on Earth classical music. After a few moments, the Warden blinked. "Ah, Captain Grunt. A pleasure. It would seem my AI has been offline - I am updating my internal clock now."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Grunt asked.

"Clock updated. Approximately three hours ago, the station was attacked by a starship of unknown but probably Federation design, using a powerful weapon of unknown provenance. After our outer defenses were overwhelmed, the attackers stormed the station. I had assumed they were here in an attempt to free one of our guests - Amar Singh, perhaps, or the creature that had posed as Captain T'Vix. However, they completely avoided the cells, and instead moved into the secure storage facilities. After acquiring the head of the android Lore, two of their number broke into the primary ISIS core and disabled our systems. I would assume they then escaped. I must say, I am gratified by how quickly your team arrived and effected repairs - we should be able to resume routine care for the inmates shortly."

"Do you have any idea who it was that attacked you?"

"We do have a holo record of the invasion, Captain." The Warden touched his desk, and an image sprang into existence over it. "As you can see, the attackers are remarkably strong - observe this one forcing a secure door open with his hands - and rather homogenous in appearance."

"Yes, that is true. We were told the attackers seemed to be augmented Humans, but the similarity of appearance argues against, doesn't it?"

"I hadn't considered that, Captain. One moment, please - I'll run a comparison. Interesting. Their facial features are similar, to three decimals. They bear an equal resemblance to Lore. This is - disquieting."

"Disquieting. Yes. Would you mind transferring this holo to the Bedford?"

"Normally there would be security concerns, Captain, but under the circumstances I believe this falls into my area of choice. The file is being transferred now. Ah, and I am informed that a repair crew from the Corps of Engineers will be here in less than two hours, to complete the process of bringing our facility back to full operational status. My thanks, however, for bringing my staff online."

"Our pleasure, Warden." Grunt bowed. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, we really should be in pursuit of the thieves."

"Oh, yes, please, by all means, Captain. And if you're in the area again, do stop in. There's usually one prisoner or another demanding to speak to a Starfleet representative, and apparently a hologram simply will not do."


***********************************

"...and we proceeded to bring the computer back online," Grunt finished. "The holorecording from the internal security cams is attached to this transmission - Mycroft has examined the kinesics of the invaders, and tells me that they are a near-match for Soong-type androids, although of less sophistication than, say, Lt. Turing."

"I see. This is bad. This is very bad." On the screen, Drake shook his head.

"What do you mean? Mostly, we've confirmed what you already knew."

"Oh, you've done more than that, Captain. You've brought my attention to a new issue, as well. The ship used in the attack - it was designed by the Starfleet Advanced Projects Agency, although it was never built. The Council wouldn't appropriate enough for its actual construction. It would appear, however, that someone, possibly a rogue operator from our own department, has gone ahead with the building of the Conqueror. Its central feature, the part that made it so expensive, was a design based on the Spinal Phaser Lance used in some of our most advanced combat craft - except that it uses antiproton technology acquired from the Solonae Sphere."

"Profit and loss," Grunt breathed. "An antiproton lance. Whoever stole Lore's head also owns a pocket-size Planet Killer."

"Exactly. And they wanted the positronic matrix of a creature inimical to Human life, and probably everyone else as well. Captain, I'm afraid I'm going to have to impose on you once again. Your craft is the only one currently in a position to pursue the Conqueror, as well as the only one informed of its true nature. We need you to intercept, disable, and if necessary destroy that ship. At any cost, Captain."

"Including the Bedford and everyone aboard."

"Any cost, Captain. That ship, and those who have it now, are an active threat to the entire Federation, and its allies."

"Dammit, you're right. I hate that fact with every fiber of my being, but you're right." Grunt sighed. "We'll be underway as soon as Roclak and Gydap can isolate a warp trail for us to follow."

************************************

"I believe we have their signal, Captain," Manalang called from the comm station.

"Thank you, Commander. Gydap, take us to within twenty klicks, then drop out of slipstream. Maintain a pursuit course until we can make them stop. Zoex, the moment you can get a target lock, disable their drive systems. Their weapons, too, if you can. Gydap, if Zoex can't take out their weapons, be prepared to execute evasive maneuvers as soon as you see any energy buildup in their systems."

"Aye, Captain," the Andorian helmsman replied. "Dropping slipstream and engaging warp drive in three, two, one..."

The view on the main screen changed from the silvery tube of quantum slipstream to the moving "starfield" of warp drive. Ahead, silhoutted against the Briar Patch nebula, Grunt could make out an odd starship - its design cues obviously straight from the Starfleet design manuals, but of no configuration they had ever seen before.

"I have a lock, sir," the Ferengi tactical officer reported. "Firing." The glare of a spread of quantum torpedoes moved out from the front of the Bedford, moving slowly in relation to the starship still under warp drive.

"They're trying to raise shields, Captain," Roclak said from the science station. "There appears to be interference from their warp field, but they are not slowing. Maintaining warp 9.7 - we are closing at warp 9.8."

Ahead, the torpedoes glided slowly toward their target - and the otherspace of warp was lit by the brilliance of a coordinated detonation. The starfield dopplered back down to sublight velocities.

"Their warp drive is disabled, sir," Gydap said. "We have dropped from warp to engage."

"Raising shields," Zoex chimed in.

"Thank you, lieutenant. Fire at will. Try very hard to knock out their weapons - we do not want to face an antiproton lance, even with a covariant shield generator."

"Captain, we are being hailed," Manalang reported.

"Belay that fire order, Zoex. Stand by. On screen, if you please, Ruben."

The main screen lit with a familiar visage. "The redoubtable Captain Grunt, I assume," Lore said with a sneer. "And his gallant crew as well. Honestly, the best my brother could find to oppose me was a Ferengi?"

"Your brother? Professor Data? He's a bit busy at the university to worry about you," Grunt replied with a smile. "We just happened to run across you during regular Starfleet operations. Now, if you'd be so kind as to surrender and prepare for boarding, we can bring this whole mess to a close."

"Oh, I don't think so, captain."

"Really? Well, I suppose we ought to get on with the shooting, then. Although if you wouldn't mind answering a question, where did you find your rescuers?"

"Hah! You people really did think I was as useless as that milksop brother of mine. You thought I would try something as bold as liberating the Borg from their captivity, without building an automated factory to create backup copies? My siblings aren't as advanced as I am, of course - no point in creating my own rivals - but they're easily more than a match for the likes of you. Now, captain, you're beginning to bore me. This conversation is over." The android hammered a control on his seat, and the transmission cut off.

"Energy buildup detected!" Gydap shouted. "Engaging evasive!"

As the Bedford began to move, a brilliant red line lanced forward from the bow of Lore's ship, striking a glancing blow on the cruiser's flank. The shields sizzled, then flickered and died. Standard phaser beams shot from the Conqueror, burning into the Bedford's engineering hull.

"Damage report!" Grunt called.

"Shields are down! Covariant generator is offline, as are warp and slipstream drives! Hull breaches on decks fifteen through seventeen!" Roclak replied.

"Returning fire!" Zoex said, as orange and green beams flared from the Bedford's emitters. "Captain, I don't know how long we can keep this up - they've disabled the weapon systems in the engineering hull. All I have left is what's on the saucer."

"Fortunately," Gydap added, "that weapon used up a lot of their power. They're going to have to recharge it for another shot, which gives us a few minutes, anyway."

"There's one weapon left in that hull, Zoex. Rock, move all personnel to the saucer immediately, and prepare for emergency saucer separation. Turing, you're with me. We're headed to the battle bridge. Grunt to engineering."

"Vovonek here."

"Vov, pump as much antimatter into the containment field as she'll hold, then evacuate to the saucer. We're gonna hit that ship like it's never been hit before."

"While what, you put on a pressure suit and hope for the best?" the Pakled demanded.

Grunt chuckled. "No, I'm not really the self-sacrificing sort, not when there's an option. Transporter room one, await my signal, then beam me back aboard."

"Aye, sir."

"Zoex, keep shooting. If I don't have to use this thing, I'd rather not."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Mr. Turing, if you'd be so kind?" The Ferengi and the android proceeded to the turbolift.

***********************************

As Grunt and Turing entered the battle bridge, the ship shook with another hit.

"Grunt to bridge. How's it going up there, Mr. Zoex?"

"Not that well, sir. If you'd like to use your little trick, now's the time."

"Confirmed, Mr. Zoex. Rock, execute immediate emergency saucer separation. Turing, prepare a full-power EM discharge through the main deflector - let's see if we can't weaken her shields a little before punching her." Grunt felt the shift as the saucer fell away from the engineering section.

"Charge prepared, Captain," the android replied. "Firing. Conqueror's shields now at twenty percent, and falling. Targeting the weakened section. Course is set, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Turing. Computer, set automatic navigation along current heading. Collision authorized."

"Unable to comply."

"Why not?" Grunt demanded.

"Autonavigation circuits have been damaged. Manual navigation is required."

"Meaning someone has to ride this thing all the way in. Well, I never really expected to see retirement anyway. Mr. Turing, beam back to the saucer - I'll try to follow before the drive blows."

"With all due respect, sir," Turing replied, "you are far more valuable to the ship than I am. Also, my reaction time is much more rapid than yours. Accordingly, it would be logical for you to return, while I pilot."

"This is a direct order, Lieutenant! Return to the saucer immediately!"

"Sir, I must resign my commission, effective immediately." The android reached out before Grunt could protest, touching a nerve bundle in his neck. The Ferengi collapsed, unconscious. Turing bent down, tapped the commbadge, and said in a perfect imitation of the captain's voice, "Grunt to transporter room one. Beam me back. Turing will follow in a moment."

The captain vanished in an azure swirl. The android's hands danced over the controls, locking a shield around the compartment he occupied. He sat at the helm console, guiding the ship toward its ultimate destination.

Less than a minute later, Roclak's voice came on the comm. "Lieutenant Turing, you are ordered to return immediately, and turn yourself over to security. You are under arrest."

"My apologies, Commander, but I have resigned my commission. I cannot allow another sentient to sacrifice itself in my stead - that runs counter to my programming. As well, I cannot allow Captain Grunt in particular to undertake this mission. I estimate my chances of survival at less than one in forty-seven million, twelve thousand seventeen. The captain's odds were considerably lower. And his presence is far more vital to the continued function of both ship and crew than my own."

The Klingon cursed. "Come back immediately, Turing, or we'll bring you back!"

"Unlikely, sir. I have isolated this chamber with a class-three field. It will not survive the antimatter detonation of the warp core, of course, but it will easily resist penetration by a transporter beam. Now, sir, if you would not mind, I would prefer that my last effort not be wasted, and this ship requires a great deal of attention to pilot with the degree of precision required. Mr. Zoex, kindly do not refrain from continuing fire, and if possible concentrate on the section of shielding I am currently heading toward."

On the screen, Turing could see the rain of fire from the Bedford's saucer section redoubling, orange and green energy beams joined by the detonation of silver quantum torpedoes and a purple Hargh'peng torpedo from the seldom-used secondary launcher. The residual radiation from the Hargh'peng weapon was too much for the beleagured shield generator, and the path before the Bedford's engineering section lay open.

"My thanks, Mr. Zoex," Turing said. He touched another control, and the impulse drive flared as the craft accelerated. Almost gracefully, the stubby lower half of the Celestial-class exploration cruiser impacted the hull of the larger ship. The hull of the Conqueror exploded outward, venting flaming gases, plasma, and android crew, as the Bedford burrowed inward. Gravity fields and inertial dampers failed, and Turing was hurled forward, to impact with the main viewscreen of the battle bridge. His optical sensors were interrupted for a moment, but only a moment.

Three decks down and slightly aft, over four hundred kilograms of antihydrogen drifted lazily through the space where its containment field had been. It struck the normal-matter containment vessel, particles and antiparticles reacting in an orgy of mutual annihilation. The massive explosion raced through the ship, into its entangled foe. As it struck the engineering section of the Conqueror, the enemy ship's own core cut loose as well.

Aboard the saucer section of the Bedford, Commander Roclak called out, "Brace for impact!" Seat belts deployed across all seats in the bridge, as the impossibly bright flare of the explosion washed across their recently-restored shields. The screen automatically polarized, blocking the glare; when it returned to normal, all that remained to be seen was a glowing gaseous cloud, and a few scattered remains of red-hot metallic alloys. The debris wasn't even identifiable as a ship any more.

"Gydap, scan that for - ah - survivors," Roclak ordered.

"Scanning. That's - that's negative, sir. No sign of Lore. Or Turing."

"Ghuy'cha! Bridge to sickbay. Doctor, what is the Captain's status?"

"He's stable. Should be awake momentarily. I didn't know anyone but a Vulcan could even do a nerve pinch."

"Thank you, Doctor. Bridge out." Roclak stood. "I shall inform the Captain of what happened personally. Gydap, you have the conn."

*******************************

Two weeks later...

The battered, battle-scarred saucer section of the former USS Bedford glided into Earth Spacedock, towed by the advanced escort USS Pournelle. On board, Captain Grunt sat glumly in his command chair.

"Pournelle signals release, Captain," Gydap said. "Dock has us."

"My compliments to Admiral Sajak, and thank him for the rescue," Grunt replied.

"Aye, sir. Oh, and I have two messages on your PADD, sir."

"Thank you, Gydap." Grunt stood. "I'll take them in my ready room - while I still have one." He walked through the doors and into the ready room, sat behind his desk - for the last time?, he wondered - and picked up the PADD, which he expected to contain the results of the board of inquiry.

The first message was rather a surprise, as the image of Franklin Drake coalesced on the screen. "Captain Grunt," the recording began, "Section 31 would like to thank you once again for a job well done. Rest assured, we've buried the antiproton lance research deep - while I think we'd use the weapon wisely, I'm not sure I can say the same about the Klingons or Romulans. As well, we've managed to swing a few rewards for you. For one, your recommendation for a posthumous Pike Award for conspicuous gallantry for Lt. Turing - Lieutenant Commander, I suppose I should say - has been approved. This, I would note, is the highest honor yet awarded a synthetic life form in Starfleet service, aside from the famed Data. For another - well, I suppose the Starfleet orders will follow this in short order. Just don't worry about the Board, and let no one say Section 31 is without gratitude. Or a sense of humor." A smile creased the scarred Human's face for the first time in Grunt's acquaintance with him.

The second message was headed by the Starfleet Command logo and authorization codes. "ATTENTION TO ORDERS," it began. "Captain GRUNT, Starfleet serial number 77564789-Alpha-Epsilon-125, is hereby ordered to report to Fleet Admiral JOREL QUINN, Starfleet Command, Earth Spacedock, for promotion to the rank of REAR ADMIRAL, LOWER HALF, in recognition of service rendered to Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets.

"GRUNT is also being assigned command of the following craft..."

Grunt read his next assignment. Then, for the first time in two weeks, he burst out laughing.

*******************************

"All sections, report readiness for departure."

"Engineering standing by."

"Astrometrics standing by."

"Helm and navigation standing by."

"Communications standing by."

"Medical standing by."

Grunt smiled and leaned back in his command seat, touching the Admiral's braid on his sleeve. "Very well, Mr. Gydap, take us out."

The massive doors of Earth Spacedock slid open, and the saucer shape of the Nebula-refit-class starship USS Ferenginar, NCC-93552, glided ponderously out into the universe.