The Three Handed Game (story)

shevet

Oh dear. This is going to sound like the voice-over at the start of an American TV show. "Previously, on @shevet's interminable fanfics...."

However. Before starting on the next one, I thought I'd offer up some recaps. I've done quite a number of the literary challenges, and this isn't a complete list. The idea is, though, if you read this lot, it contains sufficient information about who's who and what they've been up to, and you won't start wondering "what are they talking about?" when they mention some stuff that's happened in an earlier story.

Anyway. Here we go:-

Tylha is introduced here

It's just a squib, really, but it gets picked up on by Q.

Tylha takes a trip to the Azure Nebula and runs into a Romulan fanatic.

Tylha runs into a situation, and incidentally a small red-haired Vulcan, here.

Introducing my main Romulan character...
... who works with Tylha on Nimbus III
... and on Risa.

Tylha doesn't like Nausicaans. Here's why.

Tylha runs into a psychovore here.

Nausicaans don't like Tylha. Here's why.

Introducing Veronika Grau. Call her Ronnie, everyone does. (Though Starfleet's personnel division mostly calls her "missing in action").

After this point, we get into my long stand-alone story threads, beginning with Fallout, where Tylha and Ronnie team up with a KDF general to track down a Klingon war criminal...

... and then an ambitious Romulan and a hapless Vulcan archaeologist create a crisis in the Federation heartlands in Heresy.

... and, most recently, Tylha, Ronnie and two of their KDF counterparts run into something powerful and nasty on an apparently peaceful planet, in Claws.

So, if you've read all that lot, you're fully up to speed, and probably heartily sick of my prose style. Never mind!

"And now" (if you can stomach it) "the continuation...."

shevet

The Captain was in a foul mood. It was easy to tell, from the way he flicked the blades of his d'k tahg open, then closed, then open again, scowling at the gleams of red light on the blade. The crew stepped cautiously around him as they went about their tasks.

It was only his Lethean exec who had the forthrightness to ask, "Is all well, Captain?"

"Well enough." The Captain scowled. "These missions! They irk me. Collecting tribute... it is no task for a warrior."

"Warriors must be fed," the Lethean commented. "And tribute from these outlying systems -"

"Yes, it is necessary. Of course it is necessary. But -"

The Lethean's face moved into what might have been a smile. "But it irks you. Sir."

The Captain nodded. "How long to the next one?"

"Entering system space now, sir," the helmsman reported.

The Captain nodded again, more pensively. "What are these ones called?"

"The Siohonin," the Lethean replied. "They were taken under Imperial protection some thirty-seven years ago. Mostly, they supply minerals - dilithium, pergium -"

"I'm not interested," the Captain said shortly. "So long as their cargo fleet is prepared to depart, I don't care what's in it. Science officer?"

"Reading ships on scan, sir." The science officer looked up from her screen. "There is something odd about the formation...."

"On screen." The Captain sat forward in his command chair, studying the image. "Curious. If I did not know better, I would have thought that a combat formation, not a convoy...."

"Scanning." The science officer's eyes widened. "Sir, power levels and mass readings confirm, those are not cargo vessels! Seventeen light warships, frigate-class, and three... I'm not sure of the class, sir. Larger, and with odd power fluctations. But definitely not freighters."

"Threat assessment?"

"Siohonin frigates are lightly armed and flimsy in construction," the science officer said. "They are proscribed by treaty from constructing military-standard ships.... A single frigate is no match for a Kamarag cruiser like ourselves, but in such numbers, they may have a tactical advantage."

"May have." The Captain considered. The science officer was, obviously, reluctant to suggest retreating, in the face of a supposedly inferior enemy - but odds of twenty to one would tell, no matter what the difference in quality. All those light frigates had to do, the Captain thought, was to get lucky once. And then there were the other three ships, the unknown quantity -

"Open a comms channel," he ordered, "and stand ready for warp speed, in case we must withdraw to obtain reinforcements."

"Channel open," the communications officer reported, promptly.

"This is the IKS raD Hol," the Captain announced. There was no visual; the screen was blank. Never mind, the Captain thought, they can see my frown. "We are here to collect the tribute due from your system. Where is your freighter fleet? Explain yourselves!"

For a second, there was no response. Then a voice said, "In the name of Sebreac Tharr... we rebuke you, Klingon."

"Sir!" There was urgency in the science officer's voice. "Massive subspace rupture! Building between those three ships!"

"Evasive maneuvers!"

The raD Hol slewed and jinked, as space nearby boiled and twisted, blue Cherenkov emissions mixing with the mangled light of nearby stars. The Klingon cruiser was fast, but not quite fast enough.

Damage control lights flashed across the bridge, and the ship shuddered. "Report!" snapped the Captain.

"It went right through the shields!" the engineering officer shouted. "Whatever it was - it went through the shields, and hit the starboard nacelle!"

"The frigates are moving," the exec reported. "Approaching on intercept vectors."

The Captain bared his teeth. "What is our status?"

The engineer's face was pale. "Sir... the starboard nacelle is breached. Non-functional."

Silence fell across the bridge, to be broken by the Captain. "Well," he said, in almost conversational tones, "we cannot establish a warp field with one nacelle down. And it seems our friends outside are unlikely to allow us time to make repairs." He actually smiled. "So, tonight we dine in Sto'vo'kor. All power to forward weapons! Let us see how many we can send on ahead to announce us."

shevet

Personal log: T'Pia, officer commanding USS Tapiola, NCC-93480

Sinak looks at me from the viewer with an air of dispassionate disapproval. "Please be brief," I say. "I have duties to attend to."

"Indeed." My father's long, austere face is almost devoid of expression, but I know him well enough to gauge the emotions he is suppressing. "I wish to know what plans you have for these duties to end."

I sit forward a little in the command chair. From the side of the Orb Weaver's bridge, my exec, Commander Dezin, shoots me a brief glance, her black Betazoid eyes showing concern. "Specify," I say.

"Now that an armistice has been declared," Sinak says, "the logic of your decision to join Starfleet no longer holds. I therefore expect that you will be returning to Vulcan to take up a civilian career. It would be useful to know in advance what your plans are, so that accommodations may be made."

He is revisiting this argument. If he were not a Vulcan, and my father, I would suspect him of irrationality on this subject. "You are in error," I say flatly.

"There is no longer war with the Klingons. Your participation in the conflict must, logically, come to an end."

"I did not join Starfleet because of the war with the Klingons," I say. "I anticipated, true, that some such conflict would eventuate, but that was not my principal concern. In any event, the armistice has only been concluded because a new and graver threat has arisen. The need for competent personnel in Starfleet has not diminished. It is my intention to continue to supply that need."

"I see." If he were given to displays of emotion, he would be showing disappointment. "It is held by many of our acquaintances that your behaviour, in serving as a Starfleet officer, is inappropriate, in that it has brought you into conflict with your own people."

Oh, now, this is worse than I had thought. It was an error to receive this call on the bridge: I should have taken it in a private setting. "If you refer to the victims of the katra of Bresar who constituted the self-described Hegemony, then I consider that conflict to have been a regrettable necessity."

"It is the opinion of many of my acquaintances that there was much of value in the teachings of Bresar," says my father. "The extent of the threat posed by the Hegemony is also, I believe, open to question."

I will not show emotion before my father. I will not. "Having participated in the defence of Andoria, I can speak from direct personal knowledge when I say that the threat was not exaggerated. Your acquaintances do not possess such direct personal knowledge. As to the teachings of Bresar, they are presumably of historical and philosophical interest, but it is demonstrably an error to attempt to put his social and political theories into practice."

"I must take account of your personal involvement."

"That is logical."

"However, since you remain set on your current career, we have nothing more to discuss at present. You may now resume your duties." And the screen goes blank.

Twosani Dezin comes over to stand by the command chair. In the soft golden light of the Tholian-designed bridge, her long dark hair frames her pale face, and turns her eyes into two pools of blackness. "That didn't sound good, sir," she murmurs.

A Tholian commander stands in the centre of the bridge, walled off away from their subordinates by a ring of consoles. We have rigged chairs for the bridge crew, but have otherwise preserved the arrangement. It is possible to talk privately, in low tones.... My father did not moderate his voice. "It is not important," I say.

"Sir." Commander Dezin is my executive officer; also, she wishes to be my friend. "I know your people don't show emotion - I also know that doesn't mean you don't feel it. You're not a simple blank, like Pascale -" she shoots a glance in the direction of the impassive green-haired android at the tactical console "- I could sense the emotional radiation coming off you in waves. Sir -"

"Family matters always inspire emotional reactions. My father disapproves of my choice of career. He takes every opportunity to make this plain. I will be sure to take future communications from him in private."

"I'm not sure that will help you, sir."

"It will. It will remove a possible cause for concern - I need not worry about showing emotion before my crew."

"Only before your father." She senses, I think, what a humiliation that would be. "Sir, if he's really a supporter of the Hegemony of Bresar -"

"I do not think he is. I suspect that was a pose, adopted to cause additional weakening of my resolve. It will not succeed."

"That, I don't doubt. You've always been completely single-minded about your career.... Although, sir, why did you join Starfleet? You've never said -" She recollects herself. "If you... don't mind my asking, sir."

"I do not mind. I joined Starfleet because its function is necessary. It requires personnel, and there was no logical reason why I should not supply that need."

She looks a little taken aback. "Is that... all there was?"

"It was a logical decision."

"I... see." She gives a little smile. "I suppose I can't fault your logic, sir."

"Thank you. Regrettably, my father can." She still looks perplexed. "Do you believe there should have been stronger motivation? Why, for example, did you join Starfleet?"

"Me? I -" She takes a deep breath. "I was only a baby during the Dominion occupation of Betazed, but... I grew up with loss. Too many faces in pictures, faces of family that I'd never know - too many ruined buildings on the streets of my childhood. I knew I had to do something... so I joined Starfleet. To try and make sure it never happened again."

"I see." I consider. "In essence, you saw a need, and chose to fill it, just as I did. You were made aware of the need by an emotional process, whereas I reached that same decision by a logical one. The result is the same, merely prompted by different cultural imperatives."

She looks at me strangely. "I never thought of it like that, sir."

"I think my father would prefer it if my decision had been prompted by emotion. He would find it easier to challenge that decision, then. However, it was not. It was a simple rational process. Apparently, that is difficult for some people to accept. They believe that, since the decision was simple, it must also have been frivolous. It was not."

"No, sir. I don't think anyone who knows you would ever think you were frivolous."

"Thank you."

"Still," she adds, "it's not going to make your current job any easier, is it? You're going to be facing people with lots of different motivations -"

"I am not overly concerned. The coming task is not a complex one. That reminds me." I raise my voice, addressing the crop-haired human at the helm. "Mr. Karas. How long now to our destination?"

"We're in Sol System traffic control grid now," Nelson Karas reports. "Estimate one more hour to Spacedock, depending on traffic density."

"Thank you. An hour," I say, and stand up, "will give me ample time to make any final preparations."

Twosani Dezin shakes her head. "I think most people would rather face the Borg than what you're up against."

---

Starfleet Academy is much as I remember it: cool, humid, filled with a clear, clean, white light. I walk down from the air tram terminus, along the corridors, into the main hall, and I see one of the people I am looking for, almost at once.

It is not the blue skin and the antennae that make her stand out; Andorians are common enough here, even though that ice-adapted species must find the environment here trying. But Tylha Shohl is tall, even by the standards of an Andorian shen, and the U-shaped scar on her right cheekbone is distinctive - and, of course, she is not in cadet uniform. She has chosen, as I have, semi-formal black uniform, and the operations pin at her right shoulder gleams as brightly as the science division emblem on mine.

Last time I saw her, her uniform was covered in grime and dust, and she was liberally coated in a foul-smelling tellurium compound. She is much improved, today.

She is standing by the side of the bar, holding a glass of a milky fluid which I believe is the Andorian Dh'syara tunnel wine. She spots me as I approach, and smiles. The smile is a little lopsided, the right side of her face being stiffer and less mobile than the left.

"T'Pia. Good to see you."

"Vice Admiral Shohl," I reply. "Good day."

"I've confirmed all the arrangements," she says. "We have lecture hall two, and - hmm, the time's getting on, isn't it? I suppose we'd better compare notes." She picks a PADD off the bar with her free hand. She looks very composed and unconcerned.

"Everything is well?" I ask, as we make our way to a free table.

"Oh, yes. Thanks. We've all put Tiaza Zephora behind us, at least."

"Indeed. I understand that ecological reconstruction arrangements are under way - a joint Imperial-Federation effort; possibly the first such project since the armistice."

Tylha nods. "I hope we can help those people. I pulled all the strings I could with the disaster relief agencies, but.... Well, I guess it's out of our hands now. What about you?"

"All is going well. Repairs to the USS Kyllikki are nearly completed, but I am considering remaining aboard the Tapiola, nonetheless."

"She's a Tholian Orb Weaver, isn't she? Tholian ships do have some interesting resources." Tylha sips her tunnel wine.

"Indeed. I understand that some of the modifications to the internal systems are based on lessons learned from your King Estmere." Tylha operates from a converted Tholian Recluse carrier.

"I'm glad we can be of some use," she remarks.

I nod. "Besides the engineering details, I suppose I also owe you the name of the ship."

She frowns. "How's that?"

"The naming convention you adopted for your ships. With so many ships under construction, the authorities seized upon any reasonable scheme for naming them."

"I name my ships after compositions by a human musician. Gustav Holst."

"Starfleet's bureaucracy adopted a similar methodology for the vessels under my command. They chose a different musician, though. One Jean Sibelius."

"Ah," says Tylha. "I thought that name was vaguely familiar. He was a contemporary of Holst - heavily influenced by the mythology of his homeland. Tapiola... the land of the forest god."

"As Kyllikki is a spirit of the water - and another composition by Sibelius." I raise one eyebrow at her. "I must confess that I would be interested to learn how an Andorian comes to be so conversant with antique human musicians."

Tylha gives another lopsided smile. "It started, believe it or not, with my linguistics classes at the Academy. I found a reference to Holst, and how he learned an old Earth ancestor language - Sanskrit - just so that he could set its poetry properly to music. You have to respect that sort of dedication."

"Indeed," I say.

"So I started learning more about Holst, and I found that his music... spoke to me, somehow. He's best known for a suite of pieces about the other planets of Sol system. It's all based on their mythology in Earth tradition. The first one, 'Mars, the Bringer of War' illustrates his techniques wonderfully. You know that human martial music is often based on a simple four-beat rhythm?" She drums on the tabletop with her fingers. Her face is more animated; clearly, she is a genuine enthusiast for her subject. "Well, that would have been an obvious choice for a bringer of war, but Holst chose another approach, a five-four beat which still suggests the martial, while being, somehow, more... insistent, more sinister...." Her fingers drum, now, in a more intricate pattern, shifting and sinuous.

"Intriguing," I say.

"Yes. Initially, it seems like a wrong choice, but in fact it's very right. Anyway." She stops drumming. "I listened to a lot of Holst, live performances when I got the chance. It broadened my mind... I think, at the time, my mind needed broadening. I'd never really been exposed to other cultures before."

"This is often the case, at the Academy."

"True.... Anyway, when I took command of the USS Hammersmith during the Vega incursion - well, Holst wrote a 'Hammersmith Suite' among his other pieces. So that started what's become a tradition."

"The USS Hammersmith?" I repeat.

"Yes." Tylha's face turns grim. "Later, attached to your survey group... and destroyed by D'Kalius's isolytic weapon." One of the last casualties of the desperate defence of Andoria against the Hegemony. "She was a good ship... she didn't deserve to go out like that."

A silence falls over the table now. "Returning to the present," I say, deliberately breaking it, "perhaps we should discuss how we intend to proceed." I take a PADD from my tunic and place it next to Tylha's on the table. "I have prepared my presentation, of course, but we should make sure it dovetails with yours, and with the third... when our colleague arrives."

Tylha nods. "I've stuck to, well, pretty much the traditional format," she says. "These presentations are a tradition, really, aren't they? They don't really tell the freshman class anything they don't already know about the three main divisions of Starfleet."

"Still, it is wise to ensure that all basic information is available. As I recall from my own experience, the talks were useful in codifying and presenting this introductory matter. And it is fitting that serving senior officers should present it, rather than Academy staff who may be seen as detached theoreticians."

Tylha grunts. "I suppose I do remember the one I sat through," she says. "Admiral Sterk from Science division, Odil th'Zeph for Tactical, and Wilton T'Shombe for Operations. Th'Zeph did make Tactical sound pretty appealing, actually, but I already knew I was good with my hands - practical engineering, that sort of thing."

"I knew that I had scientific aptitude." And that a career in Science division would be the only one even minimally acceptable to my father... but there is no need to mention this to Tylha Shohl. I compare the texts on the two PADDs, noting down the talk Tylha intends to give. "I am relieved that you are not exhibiting anxiety over this presentation," I tell her.

"Neither are you."

"I see no reason. My executive officer, though, seems to expect it. She is Betazoid, and given to emotion."

"Well," says Tylha, "some people do find standing up in front of an audience... difficult. I suppose there are a lot of ways to look at it. Some people see it as an ordeal, some an honour, some a chore, some an opportunity -"

"I see it as a task which must be performed. I am pleased that you share this practical approach."

"Well." Tylha's lopsided smile is very broad. "I would, normally, be suffering from a bit of performance anxiety, myself... but I know there's no need. You see, no one is even going to notice our bits. It's the section on Tactical division that's going to be... memorable."

philipclayberg

Gee ... I wonder who could possibly be giving the Tactical presentation.

worffan101

Charlie Foxtrot! Charlie Foxtrot incoming!

My brain is ready to be blown, shevet.

antonine3258

Wow, wasn't expecting to see anything new so quickly, and it's a really strong start. Klingon drama, Vulcan personal drama....

Let's see, how many Admirals are there at slightly loose ends with tactical specializations whose experience in Starfleet literally transcends lifetimes?

The funnier question is if this isn't the first time Ronnie's done the division chat.

Wonder what's going on in Klingon space - plenty of interests would rather keep the Empire distracted from the Delta Quadrant, of course, besides all the other plotting the Klingons get up to.

shevet

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Falcon NCC-93057
Datarecord: 2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)

"Aww, come on," I say in wheedling tones. "I need to be down there already. They're expecting me. Come on, I've got impressionable young minds to mould." I follow that one up with my best manic grin.

The big Andorian */*species 4644*/* transporter chief looks completely unimpressed. "All reception pads at the Academy are fully booked," Chief Ch'Shen says. "We don't have clearance to bump any of the incoming visitors to make space for you. Take a number, sir, and wait your turn."

Every so often, this happens. The transporter rooms at the Academy are always fully booked, what with students bunking off and heading back in a hurry, and doting parents looking in to tuck their offspring up in bed, and visiting dignitaries and whatnot.... And, sometimes, the Chief gets all stickler-for-duty and starts enforcing the rules, so you can't charm him into jumping the queue.

*/*whole system is inefficient---
transferring data by direct neural connection obviates need for learning institutions---
family ties are irrelevant---
collective effort and collective knowledge are superior in all respects*/*

Quiet, you. Actually, it's a relief to hear my residual Borg half sounding so normal, spouting stock collective propaganda instead of developing a worrying personality of her own. I don't know what it was about the Tiaza Zephora business that caused that little development, but by gum I'm glad it's over.

I could try pulling rank, I suppose. Problem is, the Chief knows his job and knows his authority, and he is not going to be impressed by that, and with the redesign of Earth Spacedock, the transporter room is uncomfortably close to the boss's office, and Admiral Quinn could very easily hear me if I start shouting. I don't know about this redesign. Everything is clustered together in one big empty space... trouble is, the station took a lot of pounding, lately. They'd only just finished patching it up after Tylha Shohl blew its doors off and set it on fire during the Hegemony thing, and then the Undine attack did a whole lot more damage, and somewhere along the line, the redesign happened. I still haven't found the new version of Club 47, which is bad news when I want a drink.

But if authority won't work, flattery might. "Yes, but," I say, "you don't need to send me to the reception pads, do you? I mean, c'mon, Chief, you could put me down anywhere."

"All incoming traffic to the Academy has to be routed through the Academy's transporter rooms," the Chief says.

"Oh, right, yeah, reasons of health and safety, I know, you don't want people materializing in the middle of a wall, or a cadet. But, c'mon, Chief, that isn't going to happen with you on the controls, right? You're a professional. You're an expert. You learned your trade on the flight deck of a carrier, right?" I'm just guessing, but I'd be surprised if I wasn't right. "Compared to pulling fighter pilots off exploding ships just in the nick of time, this sort of thing is a doddle. I bet you could beam me right into a cadet's uniform without the cadet even noticing."

A reluctant snort of laughter escapes the Chief's nostrils. "All right," he says. "Just to show you I haven't lost my touch... and just to get you out of my hair... all right. This once."

"You're a prince, Chief," I say, and skip onto the transporter pad before he can change his mind.

He makes a great show of checking everything on his console, then says, "Energizing."

Bright light shimmers around me and takes me away... and then stays; bright light reflecting off the walls of the Academy, off the waters of the Bay. I blink my right eye, and the Borg implant that replaces my left clicks and stops its brightness down a notch or two.

Ch'Shen has put me down by one of the memorial plaques - well, that's safe enough, no cadet ever stops to read them more than once. It's startling, sometimes, to think how many of these memorials are to things I was around for - or, worse, missed, because I was frozen in a time-warp in the middle of the Stygmalian Rift. This is the one about the whales. I'd have liked to have seen that business, but, hey, rift.

I turn around, and catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface on the mess hall. It's not pretty. I have spruced myself up a bit, black dress tunic, shiny boots, combed my hair and polished my implants... but the face that looks back at me is thin and pale and old, scarred and violated by Borg technology. How the hell did I get old? I don't remember getting old.

I shake my head. Forget it, Ronnie. It's just being surrounded by all these fresh-faced young cadets that makes you feel ancient.

*/*inaccurate---
chronological age in excess of 280 Earth years---
physiological age in excess of*/*

I don't want to know. You're as old as you feel. I feel ancient. Never mind.

I walk round to the entrance of the mess hall, and I can see the two of them sitting at a table. Comparing notes, no doubt. One tall lanky scarred Andorian, one small neat red-haired Vulcan */*species 3259*/*, just what the doctor ordered. "Yo!" I yell at them.

"Ronnie," says Tylha. "Hello."

"Vice Admiral Grau." Well, from a Vulcan, that's a warm greeting.

I take a seat at their table. "You guys ready for this shindig, then?" I ask.

"We were in the process of comparing notes," says T'Pia.

"Oh, right," I say, "notes. Knew I was forgetting something. Well, I guess I'll just have to wing it."

T'Pia raises her eyebrow at me. "That is not a procedure to be recommended."

"If I were a cynic," says Tylha, "I would say that Ronnie has already rehearsed what she's going to say, down to the last detail, has it all stored in Two of Twelve's eidetic memory circuits, and can recite it word-perfect at the drop of a hat. If I were a cynic." She's getting to know me too well, that's the problem.

"Then it will not be feasible for us to compare our presentations with yours, Vice Admiral Grau," says T'Pia. "That is unfortunate."

"Oh, call me Ronnie, everyone does. Anyway, I'm not planning any surprises. This is all just, well, a ritual, isn't it? And our names turned up because someone noticed the Tiaza Zephora foul-up. Well, I suppose that's us justly punished."

"I do not see this as a punishment," says T'Pia. "Nor could I characterize the outcome of the Tiaza Zephora incident as a... foul-up."

"We did break the planetary ecosystem a bit," I point out.

"In the process of liberating the Klingon colonists from the Rift entity, and putting an end to whatever threat that entity represented. I do not think that 'foul-up' is an adequate summary." T'Pia picks up her PADD and stands. I think I like her. Not only is she very Vulcan, she's even shorter than I am, and I don't often get to loom over people.

Tylha stands up too. She can loom like anything. "Well," she says, "it's about time... let's do this. Lecture hall two."

"Lead on." Lecture hall two is... since my time. Actually, the whole place is since my time. Starting to feel old again. Stop it, Ronnie.

I troop dutifully off behind Tylha and T'Pia, trying to look businesslike and military and not worried. Tylha is right, of course, I've been rehearsing for ages, and my Borg neural circuitry... doesn't let me forget stuff. Sometimes I wish it did.

The lecture hall is like a lecture hall. Raised dais at one end, facing rows and rows of benches, soon to be filled with eager little faces waiting for our pearls of wisdom. Or hung-over students wishing they, or we, were dead. We're a little bit early - an instructor's supposed to be along soon to introduce us. In the meantime, we take our seats on the dais, and Tylha and T'Pia re-check their PADDs. And I sit back and watch the cadets filter in.

There are quite a few of them already, and they come in all shapes and sizes, to put it mildly. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, indeed. Two of Twelve is eating her assimilatory little heart out, trying to classify and species-number them all...

*/*species 5618--- 5618--- 3259--- 4780--- 5618 correction 5292--- 5618 correction 5292--- */*

waitaminute, what?

*/*species 5618 correction 5292*/*

So I take a little look at that one... and some of his mates sitting by him. To my right eye, they look just like some ordinary male human cadets, maybe slightly less pimply than most. But the Borg implant is telling me a different story...

"Guys," I murmur quietly, "we got trouble."

T'Pia quirks her eyebrow. "What kind?" Tylha asks, equally quietly.

"Three rows back from the front, on the right, group of human cadets... only according to my implants, they're not human. Holographic disguises. Two of Twelve says, species 5292. Nausicaan. Anybody upset any Nausicaans?"

"Plenty." Tylha looks disgusted.

"Whoo boy. OK, so we know they're up to no good, what've we got to stop them with? Security will take time to get here, maybe too much...."

"I have standard ground equipment in my transporter buffer," says T'Pia. She, too, is talking in an undertone. Catches on quick. I like it.

"Me, too," says Tylha.

"OK, great," I say. Transporter buffers are a neat idea; equipment suspended in transit, called up as you need it - they don't hold too much, of course, but they can hold enough. I have a bunch of fun toys in mine -

*/*inaccurate---
experimental proton beam rifle is not a toy---
unsuitable for immature members of any species*/*

Oh, can it, you. It's playtime. I stand up. "If I could have everyone's attention," I shout, "I'm sure the Nausicaan hit squad in the third row would feel much more comfortable if they took their holo-emitters off. Everyone else, take cover!"

Tylha and T'Pia are already moving as the rifle materializes in my hands. The phony cadets are springing into action, too - I can't see their guns, but I'm damn sure they've got them. T'Pia, being a science officer, is fiddling with her tricorder -

There is a piercing whine and a burst of light. T'Pia has rigged the tricorder to release a tachyon harmonic; a cone of dazzling light shoots out towards the Nausicaans, and their holographic disguises flicker, distort, and wink out. The tachyon harmonic, more usefully, rips through their personal shields, exposing them to, well -

The proton rifle makes a noise like an asthmatic wolfhound, and a bolt of blue light snaps out towards one Nausicaan. I have it set on heavy stun, and he drops, poleaxed, to the floor. I move, fast, ducking out of the way of a flash of disruptor fire from his friends. The wall behind me bursts into flames; they haven't set heavy stun. Didn't really expect them to.

There's a pop and a hiss and a sudden cloud of white fog; T'Pia has thrown an anesthezine gas grenade. Useful, but some of the Nausicaans are wearing breath masks, and others have the sense to hold their breath. There is a sudden chatter of phaser fire. Tylha has had time to rig a turret on the dais, and it is spitting more heavy-stun at the standing Nausicaans. Cadets are shouting and running for cover in all directions. I send another proton bolt at a breath-masked Nausicaan, watch him fall.

T'Pia has a gun out, now, a nasty-looking sonic AP rifle. Even on stun, it's not something I'd like to get hit with, and she is fast and accurate with it. As for Tylha, she has popped a support drone from her buffer, and is holding one of those MACO pulsewave guns, very handy in a close-quarters fight. Golden bursts of phaser light, and scarlet lines of sonic AP fire, slam into the Nausicaans. Two more of them drop.

But there's one big one, and he's wearing a breath mask, and the beams are just bouncing off his heavy-duty shield. He has a disruptor rifle in his hands, and is spraying full-auto fire in our general direction, tearing holes in the floor and the walls. He needs taking down, and fast. So I charge him.

He looks taken aback. Let's face it, if you look at me, I look more suited to asking people for spare change on a street corner than to single combat with an armoured Nausicaan pirate. But looks are deceiving, as he finds out when I kick him with my full Borg-augmented strength.

He staggers back, shields flickering, and stumbles over a bench behind him. The disruptor rifle drops from his hands. Fine by me. He screams pure rage through his breath mask, and draws a nasty-looking Tegolar sword. Less fine. He comes at me with murder in his eyes -

"Ronnie!" Tylha's voice. "Down!"

Oh, God. That MACO pulsewave thing comes with a grenade launcher as backup. Never give an Andorian a grenade launcher if you don't want her to use it.

So I dive behind the nearest bench, and the concussion is ear-splitting, but the bench stops it from being actually Ronnie-splitting, and anyway the biggest part of the blast goes straight where it's meant to, into the enemy's body. About six gallons of pureed Nausicaan flies through the air above me. Pureed Nausicaan. Best kind.

I stand up, head still ringing. The rest of the Nausicaans are down... actually, one of them - a game lad, I'll give him that - is trying to stand up. T'Pia walks up to him and pinches his neck, neatly and efficiently, and he goes down and stays down.

"Hope you were paying attention, class," I remark to the world at large, "because there may be a test later. The basic lesson is, Science evaluates and assesses the threat, Engineering deploys resources to counter it, and Tactical kicks seven different kinds of butt. And where the hell were you guys?" A security team is making its way into the lecture hall. "Off on a tea break?"

"Sir." The security lieutenant looks nonplussed, as well he might. "We came as soon as...."

"Take them into custody," Tylha snaps. "But first -" She goes up to one of the Nausicaans, who is groggily regaining consciousness. "The war is over," she snarls.

The Nausicaan glares up at her. "Governor Gvochkorr sends his regards, Shohl," he says.

Tylha's face sags; for a moment, she looks as old as I do. "Yes," she mutters, "I thought it would be something like that." She gestures to the security team. "Take them away."

---

Well, of course it's not that simple, it never is. Long hours of incident reports and depositions follow, and by the time Security actually lets the three of us go, we get to watch a fine Earth sunset over the bay.

"So who's Gvochkorr?" I ask Tylha.

"Military governor of Gimel Vessaris." She kicks moodily at a pebble. "Or was, until we took it back. My home planet," she adds.

"The war, as you say, is over," says T'Pia. "This Nausicaan is behaving irrationally."

"Well," says Tylha, "they do that. Warrior culture... sometimes pride overrides their rationality. I know," she adds, with some feeling.

"A diplomatic protest will no doubt be made," says T'Pia.

"Don't know how much good it'll do," mutters Tylha. She gazes out, over the bay, at the dying light of the day.

Then the light suddenly, briefly, gets much brighter, and there is a sharp hissing noise.

"Whoo!" says Q. "Finally, I get all three of you together."

antonine3258

Nice action round! Or live demonstration, perhaps.

I like how Tylha's started to pick up that Ronnie isn't quite as crazy as she acts.

Note I did not say as crazy as she seems

shevet

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

Q. Q is never good news. She stands there in the hot sultry Earth dusk, beaming at us.

It's the... apparently... female Q, the one I've met before, the one who spoke to Ronnie at Tiaza Zephora. She looks like a female human, blonde and bubbly. Right now, she is wearing a short dress, splashed with many bright colours, and there are paper streamers in her hair, and a near-empty cocktail glass in her hand.

"Right, now," she says. "Firs' thing is, this lecture of yours? Y'need t'be very careful... very, very careful... very, very, very, very -" She hiccups. "Sorry. Nausicaans. Nausicaans disguised as cadets. Y'need to, y'know, watch out for 'em. Very, very careful."

Ronnie and I exchange glances, while T'Pia just stares. "That was hours ago," says Ronnie.

"Rubbish!" cries Q. "You mortals've got no idea 'bout time... I mean, OK, I'm a bit later than I was gonna be. Was at a party." She waves the glass at us. "Di'n't wanna be rude an' leave early, did I? Jus' stayed on for 'nother Mojave or so." She peers into the glass. "Not Mojave. Movember? Mojito, thass th'one. Jus' another mojito. Or two. Or three." She looks up at the dim evening sky. "Wow, it gets dark early, this time o'year."

"If you have anything useful to say," says Ronnie, "say it. Otherwise, just get out of our hair."

"Temper!" says Q. "You're not th'one to talk, Miss Stygmalian Rift. 'S still going on, y'know. Still all about you."

"You said that before," says Ronnie. "And you were wrong, weren't you? It all came down to Tylha and her cat buddy. Not me. And besides, the Stygmalian Rift is closed. Gone."

There is another flash. Q is still there, but her clothes have changed; she is wearing a loose vest with floral patterns, a number of bead necklaces, denim trousers which flare out enormously to hide her feet, and spectacles with heart-shaped pink lenses. Her hair, too, has changed, to a lank waist-length fall. The cocktail glass is gone. She wags a finger at Ronnie.

"The thing you squares gotta get your heads round," she says, "is that the Rift is, like, an extra-temporal phenomenon, so, being, like, outside time, it is always there, and always gone, at the same, like, time, being eternal and acausal. Like, cosmic, man. Far out. Whoa." She tosses back her head, apparently to look up at the stars, and falls backwards onto the grass.

"I am trying very hard to bear in mind," says T'Pia, "that this is a super-being of almost limitless abilities."

"Better believe it, baby," says Q from the ground. "I'm amazing."

I walk over to her, and look down. "You have some reason for being here," I say. "You don't do things without a reason."

"Everyone's gotta be somewhere, babe." Q smiles beatifically up at me. "'Cept you, maybe. Maybe you need to be somewhere where you can be and not be at the same time."

"What the hell's wrong with her?" Ronnie asks. "She's making less sense than I do, and I don't need the competition."

Something clicks in the back of my mind. "Wait. That might actually make sense."

"It might?" Ronnie sounds incredulous. "How? Without smoking whatever she's been smoking."

"T'Pia, do you remember the business at Delta Gracilis?" I ask.

"Naturally," says T'Pia. "I concur. That might well be the situation to which Q refers."

"Delta where?" Ronnie demands.

"Research facility. A scientist there built a device that superimposed multiple quantum states. Jumbled realities."

"Sounds alarming," says Ronnie. "How did it work?"

"Badly. There were casualties - lots of them."

"To the best of my recollection," T'Pia says, "the facility was shut down after its evacuation. It was impossible to tell how much of its structural integrity was compromised."

Q says nothing. She just lies there, her eyes closed, smiling broadly. I resist the impulse to kick her. "Is that it?" I demand. "Delta Gracilis? Is that where we need to be?"

"We all got needs, baby," murmurs Q, without opening her eyes. Then there is a flash, and she is gone.

---

The small conference room on Earth Spacedock is crowded with top brass. There are the three of us, of course... and then, there are our bosses.

Admiral Semok, my superior, reads the report with a dubious look on his normally placid face. Admiral Gref of Sixth Fleet, nominally Ronnie's CO, glowers in a traditionally Tellarite way. T'Pia's boss is Admiral Stroffa of Stellar Survey, a matronly Denobulan woman with kindly eyes.

All six of us look worried.

"This is nonsense," Gref mutters. "And probably dangerous nonsense, too."

"I must respectfully disagree," says Semok. Gref snorts and rolls his eyes. My Vulcan boss never could handle Tellarites properly. "The Q entity invariably has some purpose to her - or his - actions. It is rarely apparent, though, what that purpose is, except in hindsight."

"Too right," mutters Ronnie.

"Q seems interested in you," Stroffa says to Ronnie, "but... she has directly intervened in Vice Admiral Shohl's life before. To your benefit." She's looking at me, now. "Is it possible, do you think, that Q has some... affection for you?"

I shake my head, decisively. "I don't think Q has any affection for anybody," I say. "Not on our level of being, anyway. No, if Q saved my life, it was for some reason of her own."

"Nausicaans," Gref grumbles. "We can send a firm protest to J'mpok about the Nausicaans, anyway. For whatever good it might do."

"That is not our primary concern, though," says Semok.

"Might be Shohl's," says Gref.

"No," I say. "I can handle the Nausicaans. But whatever Q is talking about - that has to be our main worry."

"I have conjectured," says T'Pia, "that the Q entity's behaviour might have been artificially impaired, in some way."

"Someone got Q drunk?" Ronnie raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Or affected Q in an analogous manner." T'Pia is unruffled.

"An interesting possibility," says Stroffa. Gref stands up and stumps around, irritably.

"I don't like any of this," I say, "but can we afford not to pass up a hint from Q? However... oddly delivered?"

Gref stands facing the wall for a moment, then turns around suddenly. "No," he says, "I don't suppose we can. Pity. I could use Grau for our next set of tactical exercises." He glares at Ronnie. "And a touch of military discipline would do you good." Ronnie - thankfully - doesn't reply.

"What resources will you require?" Semok asks.

"Q mentioned the three of us," I say. "So... ourselves, and our ships. I suppose it makes a kind of sense. T'Pia and I are familiar with Delta Gracilis, and we have Q's word that Ronnie - uh, Vice Admiral Grau - is involved, somehow."

"Oh, call her Ronnie," says Gref, "everyone does." He sighs noisily. "The Undine, the Iconians, now Q. Life was simpler when we were just shooting Klingons."

"Noisier, though," says Ronnie. "So, we gonna do this, or what?"

"Go to Delta Gracilis," I muse, "find out what's happened to it since it was shut down... take some scans, see if we can find points of similarity with the Stygmalian Rift... and then, go from there. Wherever it takes us."

"Sounds like a plan," says Ronnie. "Not much of a plan, but hey, better than nothing."

Gref sighs again, hard enough to ruffle his beard. "Go on, then," he says. "Consider yourself on detached duty. As usual."

"Normal conditions will apply," says Semok, "with regard to reporting whatever may occur, and how your vessel might be modified to cope with it." Which is, basically, the arrangement I have with the Experimental Engineering group - they design stuff, I push it to the point where it breaks.

Stroffa says, very simply, "Good luck, all of you."

I have a feeling we're going to need it.

philipclayberg

Which is, basically, the arrangement I have with the Experimental Engineering group - they design stuff, I push it to the point where it breaks.

That sounds like Q (Desmond Llewellan, not John de Lancie) and James Bond (any of them).

malkarris

philipclayberg wrote: »

That sounds like Q (Desmond Llewellan, not John de Lancie) and James Bond (any of them).

Except that I bet Shohl can probably fix it as well. Looking forward to another great story.

worffan101

Showed this to my friend DEA, she had this to say:

[12:07] <DontEvenAsk> whatwhatwhat SHEVET WROTE A THING???
[12:07] <DontEvenAsk> give it to me
[12:07] <GroundPetrel> Yes, DEA...
[12:07] <DontEvenAsk> gIVE IT TO ME OR I WILL BURN YOUR SOUL AND EAT YOUR HEART
[12:07] <GroundPetrel> http://sto-forum.perfectworld.com/showthread.php?t=1231161
[12:07] <DontEvenAsk> thank you
*debate over Loki's hotness as compared to Q and Mr. Sulu*
[12:27] <DontEvenAsk> "Whoo!" says Q. "Finally, I get all three of you together." OH DEARIE GOODNESS OH BOTHER OH GOODNESS GRACIOUS MY OH
*debate over the Twelfth Doctor's quality*
*general dissing of Stephen Moffat*
*I have to leave the chat because schoolwork*

Your fans are hungry. :cool:

shevet

The night was warm and balmy, so after supper Daniella Quar climbed out through the skylight, onto the flat roof, to sit for a while beneath the stars.

"Hi, Dani." Daniella smiled. Maury Lansing had had the same idea. He was lying full-length on the roof, visible in the starlight. She sat down cross-legged beside him. Maury was, like her, a third-generation descendent of the original colonists of Farnon's World. The slightly lower gravity of the planet had made its children tall, lithe and willowy; the brilliant F8 sun had given them skin of a dark coffee-colour; she and Maury were much of a type, physically, though he lacked her trained dancer's grace. Daniella had always been fond of Maury, so much so that she had felt a pang - though only a brief one - of jealousy when he had begun dating her twin brother instead of her.

Now, there was a sound from the skylight, and Daniella's brother Thom put his head through. "Thought you guys would be up her," he said. He clambered awkwardly through the skylight, awkward because of the burden in his left hand. "Brought a bottle of the good stuff." And a stack of beakers, too; Thom was the practical one, Daniella thought.

She accepted a glass of the firewine, and the three of them sat, sipping, in companionable silence. Below them, the lights of Einsteingrad, the planetary capital, a planned community in the best Federation tradition; above them, the stars. At this time of year, the night sky was dominated by the huge nearby star cluster that the first colonists, for reasons of their own, had called the Dandelion. Daniella knew that this was some old Earth plant, but the star cluster never looked like a plant to her; it was more like a fireworks display, a starshell burst frozen in time at the moment of its explosion. It was beautiful.

"So, guys," said Thom, after a while, "you got any thoughts yet?"

Careers. Farnon's World was a Federation colony, a fully developed planet; there was no need for the hard labour that had tamed and terraformed the world in its early years. Everyone's basic needs could be met, by replicated food and materials... but who wanted to be a drone, living off a basic dole, when you could accomplish something with your life? For Daniella, at least, her choice was clear. "Cygni Dance Academy took my application already," she said. "If they like my holo-tapes for the audition, I'm in. Then, maybe, I get a shot at a scholarship on Andoria. OK, it'll be cold, but it'd be worth it. Maury? Still interspecies law?"

"Yeah," said Maury. "Got my applications out to the big ones, Harvard, ShiKahr, Xellan-Kaur. I'm gonna get in, I just know it. So that leaves you, big guy. What are your plans?" He reached up to ruffle Thom's hair.

Thom was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I was thinking, maybe, of trying for Starfleet Academy."

"Starfleet?" Maury raised himself up on one elbow, and Daniella could see his eyes widen in the starlight. "Seriously? Facing down the Klingons with a phaser in your fist? Seriously?"

"I know what you're thinking," said Thom, "but hear me out, will you? The war with the Klingons is over, guys, it was a stupid mistake, it should never have started in the first place, now it's stopped."

"And it's been replaced by a worse one," said Daniella soberly.

"I don't know about that," said Thom. "Yeah, the Undine are scary, and there's something worse behind them... but, c'mon, guys, we've got the Federation, the Klingon Empire, and the Romulan Republic, now, all on the same team. You can't tell me the Undine, or the Borg, or anybody will stand up to that for long. They'll find a way, you just watch. The war will end, and Starfleet will go back to being what it was always meant to be. Scientists, explorers... going into the galaxy for the sake of peace." His eyes were on the stars now, utterly entranced. "That's what I'd like to be part of."

"It's a beautiful dream, brother," said Daniella. Thom was the practical one... if anyone could make it happen, she thought, he could.

"I'll drink to that," said Maury.

And the three of them laughed, and drank, together, in the warm night, beneath the peaceful stars.

shevet

The Chancellor was in a foul mood. The Yan-Isleth guards stood rigid and perfect at attention, all around the big audience chamber; the political and military aides moved, if not fearfully, at least quietly and cautiously, around the burly figure.

J'mpok scowled up at the tall figure in bladed armour who stood before him. The Nausicaan envoy was good; he stood his ground, without trembling.

"I have received," he said, "a diplomatic protest. An attack, by a Nausicaan commando squad, on Starfleet Academy, aimed apparently at one Vice Admiral Shohl.... Shohl," he repeated. "I know that name. Where have I heard that name?"

"I have Shohl's record," said an aide, hastily. "She cooperated with your agent in the investigation of the Bercera IV matter."

"Ah." J'mpok grunted. "I knew I had heard the name. So. A reasonably competent officer. Our allies, Starfleet, need competent officers." He skewered the Nausicaan with a glare. "We have declared an armistice with the Federation. We fight with them together, now, against the qameH' Quv and their demon puppet masters. We have declared peace with the Federation, and the Klingon Empire keeps its word."

"Chancellor, we -" The Nausicaan took a deep breath. "We are at fault," he ground out, as if each word were being forced from him with painstiks.

"Not good enough," J'mpok snarled.

The Nausicaan replied, slowly and reluctantly, "What does the Empire require?"

The scowl deepened on J'mpok's scarred face. "I must go in to negotiate with the Federation over questions of boundaries," he said. "There are many such questions, and the Empire's interests must be defended - even in time of peace. Every incident like this hands the Federation negotiators another weapon with which to fight me. They are diplomats, the negotiation table is their preferred battleground. They have advantages already, they do not need more. I do not need additional handicaps." He raised his voice. "If the Federation demands the extradition of this fool Gvochkorr, will your government acquiesce? Or will they hand the Federation another rod for my back, instead?"

"Sir." Light glinted on the Nausicaan's armour as he squared his shoulders. "I have reviewed the - the background."

"And?"

"Former Governor Gvochkorr acted on his own initiative in hiring a mercenary assault team. He did not have the permission or support of our government. We will not protect him. Sir -"

"What?"

"We are a warrior people," said the Nausicaan. "We know how to fight - and how to accept the fortunes of battle. Sir... this Shohl and our people fought, and Shohl won. That is all there is to know. There is no claim of - of honour, of clan-rights - to make against her. Gvochkorr had no just cause for his action." The Nausicaan's eyes gleamed. "Sir, you may tell the Federation that if they do not want his extradition, we will deal with him."

There was a moment's silence. "Acceptable," said J'mpok. "Barely acceptable. I want no more such incidents, no more such complications. The situation is complicated enough."

"Yes, Chancellor," said the Nausicaan. He inclined his head, the nearest his own pride would let him come to a bow. "I will so inform my government."

"See that you do." J'mpok rose. "I have a meeting with the Federation's representatives," he said. "It will last a long time. They always do. Before I go, are there any other matters requiring my attention?"

"Chancellor." An aide in general's uniform stepped forwards, a datapad in his hand. "An incident in a frontier system - Dolsulca, home to the Siohonin species."

"Yes?"

"The IKS raD Hol, despatched on a tribute collection mission, has failed to return from that system. We should investigate -"

J'mpok waved aside the proffered datapad. "Deal with it," he growled, and stalked out of the room.

antonine3258

Interesting pair - I liked the view of the more 'ordinary' people in the Federation.

And J'mpok seriously has the worst job in the Klingon Empire.

sander233

I really love the way you write the Nausicaans. It seems your head-canon is more-or-less aligned with mine.

Also: IKS raD Hol ("force talk" or "forceful language") - excellent name for a ship with such a mission.

worffan101

Doom cometh...

I presume?



Do continue!

shevet

To human eyes, it might have seemed a gathering of devils.

The Siohonin were humanoid, similar in most details to a human being... except for their slit-pupilled eyes, and the harsh, exaggerated, angular look of their faces, and of course the horns. All the Siohonin had a pair of horns growing from their foreheads; the style varied from individual to individual, as did hair and beard. All the Siohonin in the triangular Council Hall were male, and wore beards.

The hall illustrated the tripartite nature of Siohonin government. On one side sat the military, in sober ranks of field-grey and bronze uniforms. On another were those administrative and mercantile caste, severe in garments of black and white. The last side of the triangle was a riot of colour, with the representatives of the religious caste, each one in the raiment of his particular sect. Between them all lay a wide expanse of marble floor, illuminated by the great windows high in the ceiling, through which the lowering polluted sky of the homeworld could be seen.

A single man stepped forward onto the expanse of empty floor, a man of medium height, with neatly groomed dark hair and horns filed down to two small black nubs. His clothes were entirely white. From somewhere at the sides of the hall, an usher intoned in a high falsetto voice, "The Council heeds the words of the High Magister, Sivetalin Aun."

Aun paced to the exact centre of the floor, and stopped. When he spoke, his voice was mild, almost diffident. "There is only one matter which concerns us this day," he said. "We have, it seems, thrown down a gauntlet to the Klingon Empire. We must determine how best to proceed."

A faint frown crossed his brow. "I, myself, have always taken the long view of our situation. I would be content to wait, to bide our time until galactic politics should loosen the grasp of the Klingons on this region of space. We know that theirs is an unstable, destructive society, so unlike our own. It seems, to me, reasonable to wait for it to collapse of its own inefficiencies. However, it appears that others disagree. I now call," he raised his voice slightly, "on the Grand Marshal to inform us of the exact military situation." He stepped back, one pace, then two, then three, and looked towards the military's side.

The man who stepped forward was massively build, his hair and beard iron grey, his horns capped with steel spikes. While most of the military wore tunics with bronze-coloured front panels, his uniform was the real thing, his chest covered by fine bronze chainmail links. "The Council heeds the words of the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var."

"First, the facts." The Grand Marshal's voice was a deep bass growl. "Our forces, comprising the Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron, two observer ships, and three special vessels, intercepted the Klingon's tax vessel on its approach to the system. The squadron was under the direct command of the Second Marshal Amenalet Durn. As the Klingon cruiser approached, the special vessels, under the direction of their religious advisers, engaged their experimental systems." He grimaced. "The cruiser was damaged, its warp drive rendered inoperable. Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron engaged and destroyed it. However, in the process, we lost seven ships from the squadron, and five more suffered irreparable damage. In addition, the two observers and two of the special vessels were destroyed. Second Marshal Durn was aboard one of the observers, and perished with it."

"It seems a high price to pay," Aun observed in his mild voice. "The Klingons have many cruisers."

"And we will, no doubt, be seeing them," Var said. "In my opinion, this adventure of Durn's was... ill-judged. If he were not beyond our judgment now, he would answer to me for it. We must expect a Klingon punitive task force, and soon. We would be unwise, in my opinion, to offer resistance." His face fell, and he looked down at the stone floor. "There will be heavy penalties to pay," he muttered, "but we may be able to pass it off as the unauthorized act of a rogue commander...."

"And if we cannot?" a new voice demanded.

"The Council hears the opinions of the Second Marshal Gamariden Tal," the falsetto usher intoned. Var turned around to glower at his subordinate. The freshly promoted Second Marshal stood his ground. He was a younger man, with sleek black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and horns of polished ivory.

"We took losses," Tal said, "heavy losses. I mourn the deaths of my gallant comrades and my late commander. However, the important thing is, the special weapons work. We have replicator facilities, we have the mineral resources for which the Klingons tax us. We can build, even in the short time before a task force arrives, a hundred vessels to replace each one lost. We can refine the special weapons and our tactics for employing them. If it comes to a fight, we do not need to lose."

"To destroy one tax vessel - amends might be made for that," said Var. "But what you suggest, Second Marshal, would be rebellion against the Empire. We would need to be very sure we could survive that, if we were to attempt it. War with the Klingons, on the basis of one arguably successful skirmish?" He shook his head, decisively.

"The matter seems to hinge," said Aun, "on the - forgive me, I am no military man - but it seems to me that the issue is the efficacy of these special weapons, no? I understand they were developed with the help of the religious caste? It seems strange to me, but perhaps the First Pontiff may enlighten us...."

"The Council heeds the words of the First Pontiff Glavelecun Dir."

Portly and resplendent in his rainbow-coloured robes, the jewelled staff of office clutched in his right hand, his elaborately carved horns almost blending into his ornate high headdress, the leader of the religious caste took only one step forward. "The priesthood as a whole," he said, "was not party to this. The priesthood as a whole defers to the military in all, well, military matters. But the cult of Sebreac Tharr, now, I understand, is involved, deeply involved, in the project... and I call upon its High Priest to inform this Council."

"The Council hears the opinions of the High Priest of Sebreac Tharr, Enteskilen Mur."

The man who stepped forward now was old, thin and gaunt, his grey hair and beard wild, his horns overgrown, cracked and seamed and unpolished. While most of the religious leaders wore rich and colourful robes, Enteskilen Mur wore a simple floor-length tabard, in vertical stripes of red, white and black, decorated on the chest with a stylized golden flame. A similar device tipped the slender gold wand he carried in his right hand. He advanced onto the floor, and glared from under bushy brows with the eyes of a fanatic.

"The military came to Sebreac Tharr for aid," he said, and his voice was strong and deep and powerful despite his age, "and the god answered them. Second Marshal Durn desired weapons capable of destroying the Klingons. With the god's aid, we provided one. We can provide more... and the god will ensure that all our enemies will fall to their might. To his might. I have communed with the god Sebreac Tharr in my soul, and I know his power. No mere temporal agency can withstand it. With our faith and our god, we will overcome all that oppose us. No more need be said."

"A great deal more need be said," said Var. "Before deploying forces, I need an exact military assessment of the relative weapon strengths of our troops and the Klingons. So far, the Klingon military might is - overwhelming. Convince me that your weapons will tip the balance."

"Conviction is to be found only in the soul," said Mur.

"I need more than platitudes if we are to fight the Klingons!" snapped Var.

"While of course we respect your religious beliefs," said Aun smoothly, "you must understand that, to those of us who do not share them - who worship, for example, other members of the Great Pantheon than Sebreac Tharr - something more is needed -"

"No more is needed!" Mur's voice rang across the chamber. "Sebreac Tharr is a true god, and I who am his servant speak truly! Put your trust in Sebreac Tharr, and you will certainly conquer!"

"And the special weapons do work," Second Marshal Tal added, much more quietly.

"Even if they do," Var turned on his subordinate, "how can we field enough of them to matter? Oh, yes, we have the industrial replicators, we have the mines to feed them - but where will you find enough men to serve the fleet we would need, to fight the Empire?"

"Use drabs," said Tal, shortly.

"What?" Var was aghast. A murmur of disapproval ran around the outer ranks of the assembly.

"To use members of the labouring caste," said Aun, "in a military role - it would be, well, it would be an unprecedented break with the traditions of our forefathers -"

"They would push buttons," said Tal, "and carry out basic menial shipboard duties, under the direction of a military caste commander. Is that such an affront to tradition? If it gives us victory and freedom? Perhaps we should consult the drabs' representative."

"Perhaps we should," said Aun. "Let him be brought forward."

"The Council deigns to hear the representative of the labouring caste, Homorochol Nin."

He wore clothing of dull beige, and his horns were filed down to flat discs on his forehead. In accordance with tradition, he came no closer than the outermost edge of the floor, and looked down, making no eye contact with any of his superiors. "What do you say to the Second Marshal's proposal?" Aun asked.

"We will serve as we are directed," Nin answered in a low voice. "If the Second Marshal directs us to serve on ships - I do not deny, many of us would love to know... even a little bit... to know the privileges of the higher castes. But we serve. We serve as our masters direct us, always."

"Prime military material," sneered Var.

"They can carry out the necessary functions," said Tal. "It is wise to use every resource we have."

"If it comes to a fight," said Var, "we may need such desperate measures. But it is my belief that an open conflict can yet be avoided."

"It can be won," said Mur, unexpectedly, "if you but trust in the god Sebreac Tharr."

"It is possible, sir," said Tal.

"There would seem," observed Aun, "to be a division in the opinions of the military on this matter."

"No!" shouted Tal. "I - present the options, nothing more. I am subject to the Grand Marshal's orders, and I will serve as he sees fit."

"Very well," said Var. "I believe a war with the Klingons is not winnable at this point. My recommendation to this Council is that we stand ready to make what amends we must."

---

The Council hall was surrounded by a veritable warren of suites and offices and private chambers. Gamariden Tal made his way, slowly and uncertainly, along a corridor, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor that twisted and turned, until he came to a sliding door marked with a stylized flame. He took a deep breath, and knocked.

The door slid open. "So," said Enteskilen Mur, "you found us. Come in."

Tal stepped through the door. "I am not so familiar with the offices of the religious caste," he said.

The room within was small and sparsely furnished. There were three chairs, and one was already occupied, by a thin, sandy-haired man in the red, white and black of Sebreac Tharr. Mur took a chair himself, and waved the Second Marshal to the last one.

"So," he said, "the Grand Marshal flinches from the thought of war."

Tal bridled at this. "He is my superior officer," he snapped. "And any sane man would flinch from the Klingons."

"Commendably loyal," said Mur. "But, nonetheless, you would act differently, in his position."

"Perhaps," said Tal. "But I have studied the battle reports from our surviving ships. The subspace disruption effect was too slow, too loosely focused. A Klingon Bird of Prey might evade it completely - a larger vessel might well weather the blow. It is not enough to be effective."

"With the god's help," said Mur, "it can be made so. I, too, have studied those reports." He raised one eyebrow at the Second Marshal's startled look. "I have my sources. There are true believers among the military. My associate, here, has been hard at work -"

The sandy-haired man held out a datapad. Tal took it, even as his gaze searched the other's face. "You," he said, his back suddenly stiffening, "I know you - you are -"

"Nyredalit Amm," said the sandy-haired man.

"The apostate," said Tal.

"An over-dramatic term," Amm replied with a chuckle. "The military simply did not offer enough opportunities for a man of science... so I discovered a vocation for the religious life."

Tal's stiffness relaxed, a little. "It is true that the science division has fallen from favour in the military...."

"For understandable reason," said Mur. "I am old enough to remember when the military developed the warp drive. They promised us the stars, unlimited room for our population to expand. We were all, naturally, disappointed when they brought us Klingon taxation instead."

"They could hardly have known that local space was under the control of a militaristic empire!" said Tal.

"No, true," said Mur, "it was not their fault, but they were blamed anyway.... So, military research languishes, and my friend here sought the aid of my church... my true god. See, now, how he has used his fine mind to develop and express the wishes of Sebreac Tharr."

"In practical terms," said Amm, "a new version of the weapon, with replicator-ready schematics for units capable of being installed on a single standard frigate. In addition, a secondary weapon, perhaps more potent for the sort of dog-fighting that Birds of Prey imply... and a defensive system whose possibilities may intrigue you."

"Replicator ready?" Tal frowned. "I am concerned over that... my people still do not have a clear idea of how the special weapon works - how it generates its effects."

"Do they need one?" Mur asked.

"If something should go wrong," said Tal, "with this - this black-box technology - then we would be helpless to repair it, without understanding its principles."

"Have faith in the god," said Mur. "I know, you think I am reciting a mere rote phrase... but I am not. Sebreac Tharr is a true god, Second Marshal. I have communed with him in my soul, and I know. Have faith in him. He will bring you victory."

Tal swallowed hard. There was a long moment's silence.

"Touching on other matters," said Amm. "The god's help is bought with faith alone, but other offerings would be acceptable in his service." He held out another datapad.

Tal took it, and read with widening eyes. "That is... a substantial sum," he said, after a while.

"In the service of the god," said Mur. He gestured at the bare walls of the small room. "We do not ask for our own material comfort. But the god has his ends, and wealth may serve them."

"My personal estates could not cover so much refined dilithium and pergium," said Tal.

"We do not ask it of you," said Amm. "The discretionary budget for military projects could cover it many times over... and it is, sadly, needed. Some people will not act for love of the god alone."

"I do not have such control over military budgets," said Tal.

"No," said Mur, "but, were the Grand Marshal to - retire, for example - you would naturally take his place, would you not?"

"I am next in line for promotion," said Tal. "But the Grand Marshal shows no signs of retiring."

"So it seems," said Mur. "He will not fight the Klingons, he will not fund our projects, he will not accept the weapons the god brings to him...." He picked up the slender gold rod, tipped with the stylized flame. "It seems to me that the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var is... an obstacle. And for that, in the name of Sebreac Tharr - I rebuke him."

---

Suhanaluk Var sat behind his desk at Command Headquarters, and swore under his breath.

First Durn, now Tal... some people needed to stop listening to priests, and concentrate on the military. He was not going to let some unbalanced cultist lead them into war with the greatest military power in space - nor would he countenance Tal's absurd idea of conscripting the drabs. Military power lay with the military caste, and always would, while he, Suhanaluk Var, had breath in his body....

Breath. He tugged at his collar. The air in the office seemed hot and close, all of a sudden. Irritably, he stabbed a finger at his intercom. "Orderly," he growled.

The door of the office slid open. "Sir?" the orderly asked.

"Air conditioning," said Var, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. "Something's wrong with it. Fix it, will you?"

The orderly crossed the floor to a wall console, studied it, frowned. "The thermostat seems normal, sir," he said. "I can run a diagnostic -" He turned towards the Grand Marshal, and stared, open-mouthed.

Var was clutching at his throat with both hands, his face congested and purple. As the orderly gaped, he saw wisps of smoke rising from the Grand Marshal's hair and beard - and then Var gave a single immense scream, and burst into flame.

By the time the firefighters arrived at the office, there was very little left of the Grand Marshal, save a blackened skeleton. The bronze chainmail of his uniform was now oxidised, and fused to his bare ribs by the heat.

antonine3258

Okay, that's definitely going to be an effective religious recruitment pitch.


Subspace weaponry, complete with replicator patterns set up and additional industrial tech. A whole species being oriented and dedication to the disruption of another. The overthrow of moderate voices and rapid militarization, including arming unusual demographics.

My suspicion is Tal Shiar, this feels like their sort of operation.

worffan101

My bet:

It's the other Rift entity, probably powered by some sort of dimensional congruence technobabble, the same stuff that's causing Q's issues. Isolytic subspace weapons and whatever it's giving these aliens are beneficial to its goals, so it's using what power it has to get this religious nut power, so that it can do Evul Stuff in this dimension.

Which of course means that Ronnie Grau is destined to defeat it with dramatic insanity.

Do continue!

philipclayberg

worffan101 wrote: »

Which of course means that Ronnie Grau is destined to defeat it with dramatic insanity.

Do continue!

What Shevet story would be complete *without* Ronnie (and 2 of 12)?

Q: "The tactics of insanity are lacking in drama. We need a diva to throw everything into a mental tailspin. Who is available for the job?"

Rift Entity: "Grau seems like a good candidate. If she is available."

Q: "And you think I would know if she were?"

Rift Entity: "You are more than minimally informed of every individual and every occurrence in the universe, or so I have heard."

Q: "I hope that wasn't sarcasm."

Rift Entity: "I would not stoop to using it on you."

Q: "Hrmph. You and that imp Guinan. Not sure if I can trust either of you any further than I could transport you."

Rift Entity: "Would you rather converse with her instead?"

Q: "Absolutely not! I will inquire of Grau. One moment." (appears in female form, sitting at a table near Grau) "I trust you don't have any current plans, Admiral?"

Grau: "Only ones that don't involve you."

Q: "Then you are available? Excellent." (they disappear, and reappear elsewhere, standing before the Rift Entity) "Your volunteer awaits your commands. I have other business to take care of. Ta ta." (disappears)

Grau: "Not you again. I've had enough of you to last me several lifetimes."

Rift Entity: "I am not as difficult to deal with as Q is."

Grau: "That's debatable. What are you up to and why does it have to include me?"

(I'm not as good an author as Shevet. Obviously.)

shevet

T'Pia

With Admiral Stroffa's approval, I have detached two frigate groups from the Stellar Survey section to accompany our force. I do not know how effective they will be, since we have no idea what awaits us at Delta Gracilis.

Tapiola has neither the King Estmere's subtranswarp engines, nor the Falcon's advanced transwarp capacity. Our speed to Delta Gracilis, therefore, is restricted to that of my ship. If the others object to this, at least they do not say so openly.

At least, during the journey, we have time to confer. We meet aboard the Falcon, to take advantage of its more standard Starfleet conference facilities. It is helpful to review the data we have, concerning both the Delta Gracilis incident and the Stygmalian Rift.

"The Rift," says Ronnie Grau. "Ah, yes. My own personal white whale, from hell's heart I stab at thee, yadda yadda. What do you need to know?"

"Background, I suppose," says Tylha. "I mean, the data is on file, but... that doesn't give your personal impressions."

"What is the origin of the name, for instance?" I ask.

"Oh, right," says Ronnie. "Well, you know stellar nomenclature, basically it's an unholy mess. We've got a mix of native names for places, names given by explorers, names based on old star charts from all the Federation founding worlds, names made up by people who felt they couldn't do without constellations and invented new ones for the planets they landed on... hmm, we're going to one of those now, aren't we? Delta Gracilis? Fourth brightest star in the constellation of, umm, the Graceful One, as seen from some planet who the hell knows where. Gets confusing."

"This is true," I say. "I prefer to refer to stars by the catalogue numbering devised by the Academy of Sciences."

"Yeah, well, great," says Ronnie. "So where are we going by that reckoning, then?"

"Our destination is one dash four comma two seven eight sub one six four seven three," I inform her.

"Oh, the poetry of it, it sings to my soul," says Ronnie. I believe this to be the human sociolinguistic construct known as sarcasm. "Anyway," she continues, "some bright spark with time on his hands - and oh, did you have time on your hands, back in the days when you could only get to warp four with luck and a following wind - sorry, I'm rambling - anyway. Some guy was naming stellar features after the labours of Hercules. Only the names got garbled in transmission back to Earth. 'Stygmalian' really ought to be 'Stymphalian'. I think. Maybe."

"But you said it was a Tellarite who alerted you to it?" I ask.

"Right. Yeah. The Tellarite name translates loosely as 'stay the hell away from this, something weird is going on'. But they put that name on a lot of anomalies anyway. The Rift was part of the old Tellarite Commercial Preference Zone, you see."

"The what?" says Tylha.

"Well, you know," says Ronnie. "Founding of the Federation, mutual ideals, high-minded union of civilization, all that... only, behind the public appearances and the pledges of eternal brotherhood and suchlike guff, a hell of a lot of horse-trading went on. Technology exchanges, mutual defence treaties, commercial agreements.... The Tellarite mercantile interests wanted a region where they'd have guaranteed preferential trading rights. The Denobulans backed them quid pro quo for something, I forget what, it doesn't matter now, the Andorians and the Vulcans had no particular interests in that area, the human commercial traders just had to suck that one up."

She takes a deep breath. Clearly, the memories have some emotional resonance for her - I suppose this should not be surprising. "But, it turned out that the CPZ contained this - patch of space - where sensor readings went all skew-whiff. If you'll excuse the technical jargon. We know, now, that some of the sensor pings they sent into this area didn't ping back until roughly a hundred years in the future. At the time, no one had a clue. So muggins here went in to investigate."

"Repeatedly," Tylha observes.

"I wanted to know," says Ronnie. "First I wanted to know what it was... then, I wanted to know how to fix it. Which we did, in the end. Saval's chronometric beam... rotated the rift, so that it was still, well, a tunnel in space-time, but instead of leading a century or so through time, it became a wormhole leading about thirty thousand light years through space. Into the Delta Quadrant. Into, as it turned out, a bit of a rough neighbourhood in the Delta Quadrant."

"And you concluded, after that, that the Rift was destroyed?" I ask.

"It acted like a normal wormhole," says Ronnie, "subject to the normal, well, wormhole decay that all wormholes get, if they're not stabilized somehow, like the Bajoran one. Of course, the Bajoran wormhole has the help of the Prophets... and, well, it turns out the Rift had its own prophets, or at least one prophet-like entity."

"Possibly two," says Tylha, softly, "if Martin Hudson's last words mean anything."

"Maybe," says Ronnie. "In any case, the records from the Merlin's saucer section seem to indicate that the wormhole underwent typical... wormhole decay... and collapsed on schedule. I didn't see it myself, of course. I was kind of busy."

"I have asked for a science team to be diverted to the vicinity of the Rift," I say, "to observe and report if there have been new developments."

"Mmm," says Ronnie, doubtfully. "I suspect I would have heard if there'd been any new activity there - I do try and keep my ear to the ground where the Rift's concerned. Mind you, after so long on the charts as a major navigational hazard... people sort of got into the habit of avoiding it."

"I can confirm that it is not a heavily trafficked region of space," I say.

"Even so," says Ronnie, "if it was active again... I'd know. I mean, I'd have heard." Her gaze seems to be focused on something very distant. "Anyway," she says, "that's one thing. What about the other? Delta Gracilis, the mad scientist and his infernal machine? What's your story?"

"Dr. Tamik's device was a quantum-state superpositioner on a large scale," I say, "created with the intention of temporarily imposing abnormal quantum signatures on macroscale objects."

"Essentially," Tylha adds, as Ronnie takes a deep breath to say something, "it put things into a temporary state of unreality, phased out of the normal universe and normal timelines. Anything affected by Tamik's device could move through normal spacetime unseen and undetected, because it literally wasn't there any more. Until Tamik turned the field off, and it came back."

"The problem was unanticipated interactions in the altered quantum state," I continue, "leading to fractally branching event structures in a multiplicity of quantum-fractional substrata."

"Things in the altered state were affected by stuff in the alternate reality they were now a part of," says Tylha, "and the results of that couldn't be predicted, and fed back into the overall area of Tamik's device, to create an out-of-control proliferation of realities and subrealities."

"Thank God I've got an Andorian to translate for me," said Ronnie. "So what went wrong?"

"Tamik's hypothesis was that a superordinate meta-causality structure would enable him to retain control of the overlapping quantum realities," I explain. "This hypothesis was not borne out in practice."

"He thought he could control it, but he couldn't," said Tylha. "We ended up with multiple overlapping realities in the station - in the course of which, a whole bunch of the station's staff got injured or killed when something that might have happened, did happen - for them. When I pulled the plug on Tamik's machine, the different quantum realities all merged back into the real world." She shakes her head. "Or, at least, into this world. Sometimes, I still wonder if I actually succeeded or not - if this is the real universe, or just one sub-reality that spun off from my actions. I don't know for sure if I'm real or not."

"Well, welcome to my world," says Ronnie. "I feel that way most days. What's it got to do with the Rift, though?"

"Beats me," says Tylha.

"Unknown at this time," I say. "We will need to make a careful investigation of the records left by Dr. Tamik, and compare those with your own data recordings of the Stygmalian Rift. Perhaps a correlation will then become apparent."

"Sounds like lots of work for the science division," says Ronnie, "which I will unhesitatingly leave in your highly capable hands. What's the catch, though?"

"We can't be sure what state the station's in," Tylha says. "When the realities merged, bits of it came back with all sorts of exotic damage. The computers crashed from multiple conflicting inputs... basically, we evacuated the surviving staff and got out as fast as we could. So we'll have to go back in... very slowly and cautiously."

"And that sounds like work for the highly skilled and redoubtable engineering division," says Ronnie, "which means you, kiddo. So, what's in it for me?"

Tylha and I exchange glances. "The facility is currently abandoned," I say, "so we do not expect any tactical challenges."

Ronnie nods pensively. "So tactical division stands around and gets bored," she says. "You know what? I like the sound of that. It's always a good day when tactical division is bored."

worffan101

NO RONNIE DOWN THAT PATH LIES MADNESS!!!

A bored Ronnie is a Ronnie around whom things explode. Keep her engaged in something, ANYTHING.

Do continue!

jonsills

worffan101 wrote: »

NO RONNIE DOWN THAT PATH LIES MADNESS!!!

A bored Ronnie is a Ronnie around whom things explode. Keep her engaged in something, ANYTHING.

Do continue!

Don't worry - in my experience, Tactical is never bored for long...

worffan101

jonsills wrote: »

Don't worry - in my experience, Tactical is never bored for long...

True that...ask Worf, LOL. :P

antonine3258

Probably a good thing they've got all this Tholian equipment they're bringing along on a potential alternate universe mission.

Though with the whole quantum displacement, I hope they only have one extra rift entity to deal with.

T'Pia's real interesting, I like how you write Vulcans

shevet

There was a scream from the challenge floor, drowned out immediately by a roar of triumph. No one in the First City bar, apart from the spectators already at the balcony, paid any attention.

The tall Gorn walked through the crowd at the bar as if they did not exist, and did so with such assurance that no one thought to challenge him. His scales were a deep blue-black, his draconian eyes a brilliant yellow-green. Behind him stalked another figure, a Ferasan warrior, his face dramatically marked with clan tattoos. The Gorn wore anonymous civilian leathers, and carried no weapons save a ceremonial knife at his belt... but he moved in a way which assured onlookers that he himself was a weapon.

He found a vacant table and seated himself. The Ferasan stood beside his left shoulder, teeth bared and whiskers bristling. The Gorn accepted a mug of raktajino from a waiter, and sat in silence, sipping occasionally, the gaze of his brilliant eyes roving over the other patrons; scantily clad Orions of both sexes, Klingon warriors drinking and brawling, a group of Ferengi clustered at one table and cringing out of the way of everyone....

"General Ssurt. Greetings."

The speaker wore leather clothing every bit as undistinguished as the Gorn's, and his face, too, was a leather mask in which red eyes smouldered. The Lethean pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. Ssurt inclined his head slightly.

"I am glad to see that I have your interest," the Lethean said smoothly. He put a datapad down on the table. Ssurt glanced at it, but made no move to pick it up.

"You are an intermediary," the tall Gorn said.

"Of course," said the Lethean. "My principals wish to remain discreet. It is, I think, in everyone's interests that they should not be identified." Some expression crossed his mask-like face; it might have been anger. "There is really no need, nor point, in your bringing another telepath to this meeting. Your Ferasan will not be able to glean anything of value. I do assure you of that."

"R'kirr is here to protect my mind," said Ssurt, "not to probe yours. Your principals have an interesting proposition, I will grant that."

"You have, of course, verified their financial status?"

"I have. A princely sum. It commands my interest... but not, as yet, my cooperation."

"Payment would be in dilithium and pergium ore. Not only princely, but effectively untraceable."

"So I notice. Who has such quantities on hand, though? It is a question I must ask myself." The Gorn leaned forward in his seat; one clawed hand came down on the datapad. "As a matter of simple self-preservation, it is best for me to understand the situation fully before I commit myself."

The Lethean sighed noisily. "As a matter of self-preservation, General, there are areas where you should cherish a deliberate ignorance. The mission is one which, technically speaking, violates the armistice - and my principals are, technically speaking, at odds with the Empire to some extent. The nature of the mission, you must know; the nature of your employers, it is best not to."

"I doubt very much," said Ssurt, "if your employers have sufficient dilithium and pergium to pay me to act against Imperial interests."

The Lethean made a dismissive gesture. "Today's interests are one thing," he said, "tomorrow's could be quite another. Besides, do the interests of the Empire and the Gorn Hegemony... entirely coincide? Take my offer, General, and the Hegemony could earn itself a powerful friend. Through you. The gratitude of King Slathis might be worth a whole system full of pergium."

"I am a loyal servant of King Slathis and the Empire," said Ssurt.

"Of course. Who could doubt it?" The Lethean made to rise. "I take it that this interview is concluded, then?"

He reached for the datapad, but Ssurt's hand still rested on it. "The sum is... substantial, though," said the Gorn.

The Lethean settled back down into his seat. "Then may I, at least, outline the nature of the task?"

Ssurt gave a minimal nod.

"It is simple in concept. My principals desire the companionship of a particular Starfleet officer. You are to obtain her for them. We imagine she might object, hence the necessity to... quash her objections."

"And that requires the services of my full battle group?" said Ssurt.

"Your resources should be more than equal to any contingency," said the Lethean. "My principals merely wish to be... entirely sure... of success. They desire her company most urgently. Most urgently indeed."

"And they offer money," said Ssurt.

"And, General, with the armistice, your raids into Federation territory must be curtailed. I offer a replacement source of income."

"A substantial sum," said Ssurt, "but, when reckoned against the operating expenses of my entire flotilla... not perhaps as substantial as one might think, at first glance."

The Lethean sighed. "I have some authority to negotiate," he said.

"You have named a sum," said Ssurt. "Double it, and that may prove... acceptable. Subject to my review of your target, of course."

The Lethean winced. "It will be - difficult," he said. "My principals' resources are not inexhaustible."

"But they desire this officer most urgently," said Ssurt. "How urgent is their desire, compared to their resources?"

"It... may be possible," said the Lethean. "I will seek my principals' approval."

"Do that," said Ssurt. "I will be interested to know who the target is. Admiral Quinn himself?"

"My principals do not aim so high," said the Lethean. He stood. "Also, Quinn is not, I believe, a female."

"Ah, quite," said Ssurt. "They desire her companionship. I am intrigued, I will admit it. For the sum you mentioned, they could have bought whole continents full of Orion slave females...."

"I do not believe desires of that kind figure in my principals' considerations." The Lethean shook his head. "I will obtain approval from them. If the price is acceptable, I will transmit in the agreed code, on the agreed frequencies. You can then signal your acceptance - or refusal - in the same manner. I hope you will accept, General."

"I will consider the matter carefully." Ssurt plucked the datapad off the table, and turned his yellow eyes towards it. The Lethean waited a moment, then turned and walked away.

"Scum," said R'kirr.

"Naturally," said Ssurt. "Did he try anything? And, if so, did he succeed?"

"Of course," said the Ferasan, "and of course not. Your mind is safe from his prying, General."

"Good," said Ssurt. He turned his head slightly, looking towards the group of Ferengi. One of them caught his gaze, and made a sketchy gesture with one hand.

Ssurt made a satisfied noise. No Lethean telepath could read a Ferengi mind... and the Ferengi had succeeded in planting a tracking device. Telepaths, thought Ssurt. They are so confident in their own skills... they forget, or they disdain, the simple physical arts of espionage.

If R'kirr read the thought in his master's mind, he did not speak to contradict it.

"So," Ssurt said aloud, "soon, we shall be better informed. That is good. It is always best to know exactly who the players are, in any game."

He turned his gaze back to the datapad, to the image of a human female's face. A pale, gaunt face, with one eye covered by a Borg implant.

worffan101

Rift entity/alien god wants Ronnie...

This will NOT end well.

Do continue!

shevet

General Klin scowled. "There is an error in this data digest," he said.

Klextlan, his Nausicaan flag captain, turned his head. "If that is the figure for the system's population," he said, "it is, though unbelievable, correct."

"Six hundred and fifty billion?"

"At the last census. It is their social structure. There is an aristocratic class, ruling over a vast mass of labourers. The labourers have few outlets for recreation, save... reproduction. It does not help, I suppose, that the Siohonin females lack reproductive rights. Or, indeed, any rights."

Klin settled back in the command chair of the IKS MupwI ta', feeling the comforting power of the Negh'Var warship's engines rumbling beneath him. "How do they live, with such a mass of them in one system?"

"The third planet is their homeworld," said Klextlan. The Nausicaan was precise in his speech, punctilious and well-informed, an intellectual by his people's standards. "It is class M, though it has suffered some ecological degradation. However, planets one, two and four in the system are rich in minerals - especially planet four, which approaches the Horta homeworld of Janus VI for its supply of heavy metals. With plentiful materials to hand, the Siohonin have constructed many orbital habitats, and have even made terraforming experiments on the moons of their gas giants, planets five, six and seven in the system. The bulk of the population, now, lives in orbital cylinder colonies. Spaceborne arcologies."

"It still seems incredible," said Klin.

"They have benefited from contact with the Empire," said Klextlan. "We have introduced many modern techniques - mantle convection engines to improve the yield of their mines, modern terraforming devices and replicators - the taxation which the Empire imposes is quite modest, for the benefits it brings them in return. Their population has more than doubled since they were brought into the Imperial fold."

"And yet they are unhappy with us," said Klin thoughtfully.

"Efforts have been made at integration," said Klextlan. "The sheer size of the population makes for difficulties, though, as does the rigid social structure. The labouring caste is not permitted any changes to its circumstances. The aristocrats are divided into civilian administrators, a self-described military, and a quite baroque religious priesthood, devoted to a huge range of mythical gods. The civil administrators are of little use to us, the priests none at all. An attempt was made to include Siohonin military officers into KDF training. It did not end well. The Siohonin had a high opinion of themselves, were reluctant to take orders from other species... would not accept orders from females at all...."

Klin frowned. "Are Siohonin females unintelligent, then?"

"No more so than the males, " said Klextlan drily. "It appears to be an ingrained cultural prejudice. In my opinion, it handicaps them."

"They seem to have a number of cultural handicaps," growled Klin. "Well, we are not required to address them."

"They are capable of recognizing realities," said Klextlan.

And the MupwI ta' and her battle group constituted quite a significant reality, Klin mused. The Negh'Var warship was accompanied by three Vor'cha battle cruisers, each of those flanked by two raptors and two wings of Birds of Prey. It was a substantial force, substantial enough to show the Empire's power... substantial enough to become a very real punitive expedition, if the need were to arise.

Still... six hundred and fifty billion, Klin thought. Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man... but how long and how far would a man have to run, to deal with so many?

He turned his attention back to the datapad. At least the opposition, however numerous, would be of poor quality.... Siohonin frigates were spindly things, a slender cylindrical body carrying deflector, armaments and warp drive, while the crew accommodations were in a ring encirling it. The design evidently dated back to the days before grav generators, when the ships would be spun to create an illusion of gravity in the living quarters. Feeble things.... But they have killed one cruiser with these feeble things, Klin reminded himself. Never underestimate one's opponent.

"Coming out of warp, sir," the helmsman announced. Klin looked up.

The warship shuddered briefly as she dropped back into normal space-time; the flying streaks on the viewscreen shrank and slowed back into stars. A single brilliant point of light glared in the centre of the screen. Klin's gaze dropped to the tactical display on his command console.

"It seems we have a reception committee," he said.

"Confirmed," said Klextlan. "We are reading... some seventy-five Siohonin frigates, and... one other vessel."

"Do we have a visual?"

"Coming up... and patching through scan data."

The starfield in the viewer blurred, shifted, steadied again. In the centre now was a ship, a massive cylinder flanked by four warp engine nacelles in an unusual cruciform arrangement. The front of the ship - a full quarter of its overall length, in fact - consisted of a huge domed structure with a shallow depression at its centre. A hugely oversized deflector dish? Klin looked at the raw data feed on his console.

"Power utilization curves... deflector field densities... that thing is a warship, no question of it," he said. "And that is a clear treaty violation. So. All ships to battle stations!"

Alarms shrilled across the bridge. "I have the Siohonin on hailing frequencies," the communications officer announced.

Klin bared his teeth. "So, then, we will hear what they have to say... before we chastise them. On screen."

A face appeared on the viewer; horned, bearded, with a worrying smile on the thin lips. "I am Klin, son of Turogh, of the House of Turogh," Klin announced before the other could speak. "I am here to require that treaty provisions are honoured. Explain yourself, Siohonin."

"I am the Grand Marshal Gamariden Tal." The thin-lipped smile widened. "We no longer recognize the provisions of the treaty which your Empire forced on us, Klingon. You are ordered to depart this system, immediately - or face the wrath of the Siohonin people, and the true god Sebreac Tharr, whose devotee I am."

"You challenge us, then." Klin found his pulse racing at the closeness of battle.

"Challenge you?" said Tal. "In the name of Sebreac Tharr, we rebuke you."

On the tactical display, the closest wing of Birds of Prey to the Siohonin fleet... winked out, their icons replaced after a fraction of a second with the symbols for debris and explosions.

Klin cursed. "Close channel! All ships, evasion pattern seven! Battle cloak and return fire!"

The MupwI ta' slewed around, unleashing a volley of torpedoes from her launchers. Birds of Prey and raptors scattered and vanished into cloak.

Damage warning symbols were sparking around one of the Vor'cha cruisers. The tac board was not displaying whatever was hitting that ship - "Get me Captain Kh'tal on comms!" Klin shouted.

The cruiser captain's face appeared on screen, image riven with interference, fires burning on the bridge behind him. "They have some kind of pure kinetic lance," he snarled. "It went right through our shields - I am cycling shield frequencies, they will not catch us like that again -"

The image dissolved into static, then blankness. On the tac board, the cruiser's icon blinked out.

"Engage from battle cloak, interdiction pattern nine," Klin ordered. "Strafe those frigates from all directions until they are out of my sky!" It was a risk - as the Birds of Prey and the raptors fired, they would reveal their positions, and attract return fire from those kinetic lances. But the Siohonin ships were individually weak and flimsy, and with suppressing fire from MupwI ta' and her surviving cruiser consorts, the Klingon ships would show their superiority -

Then Klin saw three Siohonin frigates move together on the screen, holding a steady triangular formation... and something came out of the centre of the triangle, something that showed on the scans only as a line of sparkling interference.

And, when it had passed, one of Klin's remaining cruisers was gone, without even debris icons to mark its passing.

"Harass and interdict those frigates!" Klin shouted with a curse. "Prevent them from taking that formation!"

But that made it hopeless, he realized in horror. His few ships were trying to do too many things at once - oh, yes, if one slipped out of cloak and fired, it most likely blew a Siohonin ship to flinders - but the return fire from the enemy's consorts turned his ships to wreckage. He was trading almost equally, vessel for vessel, in deaths with the Siohonin... and the enemy had more ships to start with.

There was only one chance. "Cut off the head and the body dies," Klin snarled. "Helmsman! Weapons officer! Bring me in close to that flagship! We will give Grand Marshal Tal a taste of Klingon firepower!"

His pulse was pounding hard in his temples, now, as his ship turned to face the enemy. "Close as you can! All weapons to maximum power!"

"Firing solution locked," the weapons officer reported. "Ready at your command."

The Siohonin warship loomed large, filling the viewscreen.

"Fire!"

The MupwI ta' shivered as her weapons discharged... and then the bridge was filled, for just an instant, with an intolerable burning brightness that destroyed all it fell upon. Klin did not even have time to be astonished, before he died.

worffan101

Sounds like it's time for Rrueo, Shalo, and RJ Blake to show up and kill these outdated fools.

Crush 'em underfoot, forcibly enslave the higher castes to the lower castes, bring in a few monitors to ensure that idiot priest spends the rest of his life in excruciating pain...I can totally see Shalo, at least, doing something like that.

antonine3258

Well, if I were to pick a system with the industrial base to hold off an Empire that sounds about right. I suspect this is one of those times Starfleet's utilization of those pesky science vessels may have more effect in determining what is going on.

And of course, culturally, the Klingon reluctance to cut losses is an issue as well.

That Lethean gets around.

Still really enjoying.