Zero Hour (story)

shevet · July 2017

Ghostly streamers of multi-coloured light curled around the forward edge of the USS Cumberland's saucer section as the science cruiser probed into the nebula. On the bridge, Admiral Storok watched the readouts from the main science station, his face typically impassive.

"Fascinating," he murmured at one point.

"Maintaining course, one quarter impulse," Flag Captain Stulat reported. He and Storok were two of a kind; tall, dark-haired, elegant and urbane. They had worked together for over twenty years in Starfleet's science division. While wars and political convulsions had racked the Federation, the two had, by and large, remained aloof, continued on missions of exploration and discovery. Storok, especially, had become almost a symbol of the science division - an expression, in Vulcan flesh and blood, of Starfleet's peaceful mission.

"The nebular material," Storok observed now, "is almost certainly organizing itself into proto-organic molecules. Intriguing. I can recall only two previous similar instances. Perhaps we should consult the data libraries for related literature."

"Sir." The voice was that of Lieutenant Commander Thalev; the Andorian looked hesitant, almost apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to remind you -"

"Ah, yes. The countdown." Storok considered for a moment. "Open a subspace channel to Starbase 446. If there are any untoward events, they will become aware of them and act accordingly."

"Aye, aye, sir." Thalev went to the communications console. Storok turned his attention back to the data stream.

"Unusually high metallicity for nebular material," he observed.

"There are records of recent supernovae in the immediate stellar vicinity which might account for that," said Stulat. "Touching on another matter - is there any reason for concern over this countdown?"

"I do not believe so," said Storok. "It seems a trivial matter - a prank, or an amusement. Perhaps it is leading up to some anniversary which I have forgotten." He frowned, briefly. "It is puzzling that we have not been able to isolate the source of the data stream which carries it. One wonders what sort of mentality would go to so much trouble to anonymize the data, merely for the sake of an amusement. However, we shall know in a minute or so. And, once we have found out, we will return to our normal duties."

The ship shuddered slightly - once, then again. It was as if some vast hand was stroking the Nebula-class cruiser, softly, like a pet.

"I see no significant changes in the density of the nebular material," Storok said. "That vibration must have another cause."

"I will check the settings on the inertial dampers." Stulat went back to his command chair and called up a display on his console. "Curious. There is widespread fluctuation in the EPS grid." He turned to the engineering station. "Lieutenant Nabarro. Compensate and stabilize."

"I'm trying to, sir." Nabarro was human, young, fair-haired, and both his face and his voice were showing strain. "Standard control protocols aren't working - I'm trying emergency measures now -"

Storok tapped his combadge. "Main engineering," he said. There was no reply.

Under Nabarro's hands, the engineering console flashed suddenly red. "I'm locked out of the command structures!" the lieutenant cried out. "Nothing's responding!"

Stulat rose to his feet. "I will go to main engineering in person and direct recovery procedures."

"First, eject a recorder marker," said Storok. "We must leave a record of the ship's status in the event of unforeseen calamity."

"That is logical," said Stulat. His fingers danced briefly across the command interface. "Recorder marker ejected. I will proceed now to main engineering."

He strode across the bridge, to the turbolift doors. Long habit betrayed him - he maintained his calm, measured stride, even as the doors remained shut. The ship shivered again as he walked straight into them, and he fell sprawling on the deck, his face - just for a moment - registering the emotion of surprise.

"The entire grid is going out of phase!" Nabarro called out in despairing tones.

"Main computer," said Storok, while his flag captain scrambled to his feet. "Emergency override, my authority. Identify on my voiceprint, Storok Alpha One. Reconnect all communications. Set alert status to red. Open administrative access to all functions from the bridge engineering station. Implement immediate virus scan and purge. Activate emergency safety measures -"

He was still reciting instructions, in his impeccably unemotional voice, when the warp core destabilized and blew the Cumberland into white-hot trash.

Fast couriers from Starbase 446 were on the scene within hours. They recovered no survivors, only the Cumberland's recorder marker - and even that had failed. It contained no data, except for a single small file - a file whose contents read 00:00:00:00.

---

"Ignore it." Admiral Trosek marched into the RRW Khuaenen's transporter room, brushing aside a harried-looking centurion as he went.

"Sir, with respect -" The centurion was young, and inexperienced, but it was quite clear she was also determined. Trosek turned to look at her. He was tall, athletically built, his black hair touched a little with grey. He looked powerful, confident, and authoritative.

"I receive death threats and practical jokes on a daily basis, Centurion," he said. "My inbox is full of them. You will note, however, that I am still alive. This particular piece of nonsense is not important. My meeting with Admiral Kererek, though, is." He turned to the transporter operator. "Are we prepared?"

"Yes, Admiral. I have confirmation from transporter room seven-A of the flagship. You may beam to the flotilla when ready."

"Thank you. I am ready now." He strode onto the pad.

"Sir, a little delay, a few minutes, that can make no difference!" the centurion protested. "It would be wiser, sir -"

"If there were a genuine threat, Centurion, you would be right," said Trosek. "But this - this nonsense - is hardly a genuine threat. Have you evidence that the Khuaenen's security has been compromised? Or the flotilla's?"

"No, sir, but -"

"No. That is all, Centurion." He turned back towards the transporter operator. "Energize."

"Yes, sir." The transporter pad began to glow. The centurion made an exasperated gesture as Trosek shimmered with green light and faded away.

"Well," said the operator, "he's the flotilla's security problem now." The centurion shook her head.

A shrill tone sounded from the transporter console. The operator frowned as he touched a switch. "Khuaenen transport."

"This is transporter room seven-A," a voice said. "What are you playing at? We have a spike in the ACB! Rematerialization is negative!"

The operator swore under his breath. His hands moved rapidly on the controls. "Calm down, seven-A. Engaging recall circuits and reversing transit now." Then his eyes widened. "Boost signal strength! I'm getting fade and interference patterns in the matter stream!"

"We're already at standard max," the voice of the other operator said. "Going to emergency max now. Can you get him? Our confinement is flatlined, we've no hope of materializing -"

"I'm snagging... something." A bead of sweat stood out on the operator's brow. "Cutting in signal filters, boosting ACB to absolute max - Elements!" Red lights were flashing on the console. The operator's hand smashed down on a row of switches. "Emergency reform and restructure now, or we'll lose him for certain -"

"We have no signal, no signal," the voice from the other transporter room was crying. On the pad, green light began to glow. The air shimmered, thickened -

The operator stepped back from the console, his face paper-white. The centurion cursed.

The column of twisted flesh on the pad bore only the vaguest resemblance to a Romulan. Prongs of naked bone stuck out of the contorted torso, covered only with a thin greenish coating of blood. The thing grasped spasmodically at the air with something that might once have been a hand, then toppled over and burst open, wetly.

The operator hit his communications panel. "Medical to transporter room," he said loudly, over the sound of the centurion's vomiting. "Scramble case." He looked at the shambles on the pad and added, "No need to hurry."

Unnoticed at the time, a data subchannel was showing a message on the console, a string of digits blinking on and off: 00:00:00:00.

---

Khlar advanced, silently, his boots sliding noiseless on the ancient stonework, his bat'leth held out across his chest.

There was little light, but he did not need light. He knew these catacombs, knew them intimately. He had explored them, hunted in them, time after time, as a child growing up on the estate, as a young warrior practicing his skills.... He even had a holo-program with a complete simulation, so that he could visit this place of his boyhood, on the holodeck, while on ship duty.

He knew every twist and turn of the old stone labyrinth. It gave him an advantage... in the hunt.

He could hear his own breathing, even his own pulse. He could hear the faint sighs of the wind in the passages, the slow drip of water as it leaked through the stonework. Somewhere, there was another breath, another pulse. He would find it. And he would end it.

He turned another corner, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a mirthless grin. He knew this particular spot, too... if one stood by a certain curving section of wall, and placed one's head just so...

"Challenger." His voice echoed back from the stonework, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Khlar was convinced that the designers of the labyrinth had planned things that way. "This is my home. My place. You cannot win. Come to me, and I will show you the mercy of a quick death."

He did not wait for an answer, but moved, down the next tunnel, his blade extended out before him like the probing antenna of an insect. His eyes flickered from side to side, watching the familiar shadows, searching for anything new, out of place -

There.

A sound, of boot leather on stone; a shadow, where no shadow ought to be. Khlar snarled. If he was right - and of course he was - his opponent was standing in a little niche, just around the next bend, positioned for an ambush. Perfectly positioned to ambush anyone who did not know about the niche.

But Khlar did know. He sprang forwards, swung his blade around, aiming so that the point should go straight into his enemy's face.

Instead, there was a clash and shock of metal on metal, and a dark figure moved forward to confront Khlar, a mek'leth gleaming in one hand. The figure was humanoid, masked. Khlar roared in rage. He had been masked from the start, this challenger, this upstart, from the first time he had appeared on the viewscreen with his challenge and his damned countdown.

He stamped and roared, his bat'leth a blur in his hands, spinning and slashing in a rapid sequence of manoeuvres. Again and again the blades clashed. The masked opponent was strong, fast and clever - but the mek'leth was an inferior weapon in any case, and he, Khlar, he was a master of the blade -

The two fighters crashed together, then sprang apart. Khlar flourished his blade. He was tired, but he would not show weakness.

"Nicely done." The masked man spoke for the first time; his voice, too, was masked, anonymous behind an electronic filter. "Seriously, Dahar Master, I'm impressed. This is turning out to be a classic battle. What a pity, though, I have a deadline."

He raised his left hand, palm outwards. For one appalled moment, Khlar thought it was a gesture of surrender.

Then blue-white light glared from the man's palm, bolts of light that slammed into Khlar, breaking his bones, knocking him against the old stone wall, knocking the breath from his body.

The light blazed again, and the ancient stones cracked and fell, raining down on him, adding their bruising force to the power of the man's weapon. A Tuterian repulsor device, some dispassionate part of Khlar noted professionally, while the rest of him hurt.

He had dropped his bat'leth. He reached for it, and blue-white light fell on his hand, crushing and battering it against the stone floor.

"Yes," said the filtered voice. "Yes, that will be enough, even for a Klingon. But you've died well, Dahar Master. Go to Sto'vo'kor, now, with your weapon in your hand." The figure stooped, picked up Khlar's bat'leth, placed it almost gently in his hand.

Khlar snarled and tried to grasp it, but his hand was nothing more than a bag of broken bones. His sight was dimming as his shattered body failed him. He heard something fall to the floor, heard his opponent walk away... heard nothing more.

The fallen object turned out to be a cheap commercial datapad, mass-produced and effectively untraceable. It had a very limited storage capacity, but that hardly mattered, since all it had to do was display 00:00:00:00.

shevet · July 2017

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

"These things were way over-engineered." Dyssa D'jheph, my chief engineer, slides out of the Jeffries tube and looks thoughtfully at her tricorder.

"All the better for us," I say.

Dyssa looks around, at the Jeffries tube, at the simple clean lines of a twenty-third century starship's interior. "You could channel a pulse through the main deflector that could stop an asteroid in its tracks," she says.

"I think the Enterprise tried that, one time, but the engines couldn't take the load. But with the gear we're putting in this spaceframe, pretty much anything's possible."

"Maybe." Dyssa scratches the base of one antenna, her broad homely face thoughtful. "You're still planning on putting that quantum phase gear in this beast, then?"

"I think it's the best match for the existing technology. We can tune the SI field significantly higher and still maintain full synchronization with the warp coils." I hold up the PADD in my hand. "Desynchronization was the main problem with the... original... build, after all."

A software upgrade package, delivered via a Temporal Investigations agent, enabled Ronnie Grau's Harrier to take on and beat a Na'kuhl battlecruiser, back in the twenty-third century. Unfortunately, it didn't last - the complex interactions between the supercharged components nearly shook the Harrier to pieces as they came out of step with each other. But I've learned from that near-disaster, and I'm ready, now, to put the lessons into practice.

"Can we get back to the bridge and see how all this hangs together from the command stations?" Dyssa asks.

I nod. "Sounds like a plan."

We stroll off down the corridor. It's very plain, by modern standards; the few pieces of ship's machinery that are visible in the wall panels are painted in bright colours, presumably to stand out. "You're not planning on changing the interiors?" Dyssa asks.

"It's just cosmetic. I don't want to waste time on appearances, not when we've got so much real work to do."

Dyssa smiles wryly. "Admiral Semok is going to throw a fit," she observes.

"He might even raise both eyebrows at me," I say. My boss, the head of the Experimental Engineering group, expects to build the next generation of Starfleet ships soon... and he's had words, before, about my fondness for tried and tested designs. But sometimes the old methods are the ones that work....

"He might have a point," says Dyssa. "The amount of special tuning we're going to have to do... I don't see any way we could mass-produce ships like this. Each one's going to have to be custom-built, and that'll take a lot of time and effort."

"True, but even a few ships like this one will count." We reach the end of the corridor, and the turbolift doors hiss open.

Dyssa tuts. "The tubes are powered down while the EPS is finalized. We're travelling on the capsule's own backup power... this will take a while." She grasps a projecting handle and says, "Bridge." Then, as the capsule starts to move, she leans against the wall and grins at me. "Gives us time to catch up on important stuff, yeah? How'd it go?"

"What?"

Dyssa's grin gets broader. "You know what. Your date."

"Oh." I can't help it, I feel a faint cobalt blush on my face. "Well, you know... Koneph's a nice guy, he's... fun, he's...." I'm lost for words. Am I dating? I feel like I'm not supposed to be... but it seems Osrin Corodrev and his chan-partner Koneph Phoral have other ideas.

Dyssa laughs. "I swear, you're the most uptight shen I know. Listen, if you don't have a use for those guys, you can pass them both over to me, 'cause I think they're yummy."

Gender roles among Andorians are... complicated. The alpha-female shen gender is traditionally forthright, and Dyssa is a prime example - a lot more so than I am. Nonetheless, it's easy enough for me to answer back, "Hands off, Commander. Rank hath its privileges, and those two are mine." I frown. "Besides, you're not going to get the chance. They're both off to Vel Tarsus right now, helping with the relief effort. All the disaster relief agencies are scrambling there, now the Actionists are getting involved."

"Actionists?"

"That new political party. You know."

Dyssa sniffs. "I never bother with politics."

"You should. Politics sets Starfleet's agenda. Determines what we do, and what resources we have to do it with."

"From what I can see," says Dyssa, "Starfleet's agenda for the past ten years has been set by a bunch of manipulative Iconians. And we don't get to vote for them. Besides, you're getting off the subject, sir. When's the wedding going to be, then?"

"Oh, come on," I protest. "Sure, they're both nice guys - nicer than you'd expect, given their background - but, well, it's early days still. Besides, aren't you forgetting something? You need four people for a wedding, and there isn't a zhen on the horizon."

Dyssa shoots me a rather peculiar sidelong glance. The turbolift doors hiss open.

"Admiral on the bridge." My ever-faithful exec, Anthi Vihl, announces me with military punctilio. She hands me another PADD as I step out of the capsule. "Admin details, sir," she says, "if we want to commission this one formally."

I glance at the space where the dedication plaque should go. "Definitely," I say. "This is going to be a fine ship, believe me. She deserves a name, and a place in the fleet."

Anthi smiles slightly. "No argument, sir. If you notice, Starfleet has released some old NCC numbers - if you want to give her a registry number that's, well, in period." She glances around at the colourful panels and rectilinear lines of the antique bridge.

"Hmm. That's a good thought." I scan down the list on the PADD. "1874, no, that's still active.... 1934, that'll do. Get on to the bureaucrats and stake a claim on NCC-1934. It'll fit the name."

Anthi looks puzzled. "You have a name in mind, sir?"

"Oh, hell, yes," I say.

shevet · July 2017

- wow, the Vaadwaur really are into antiques, see those little spools going round? Like actual tape spools, show's it's recording - oh, right, yeah. Um. Pexlini recording, officer commanding prize vessel VSV Topkapi, you know the drill, right?

The bridge of the captured Astika-class artillery vessel is pretty grim. Vaadwaur design aesthetics, well, kinda aren't very aesthetic, much. Lots of gloom, lots of slanting support columns, lots of exposed metalwork clanging under my mining boots. Hal Welti follows me about as I stroll around. I swear he's getting more worry lines on his dark-skinned, aged face.

"You are never going to convince anyone you're a down-on-your luck dilithium trader in this thing," he says. "The Hazari destroyer was bad enough, but this -"

"So, OK," I say cheerfully, "we have to think up a better cover, yeah? We can do that. We can be something badder and butcher - mercenaries, maybe. You think you could be a mercenary, Hal?"

"Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war," Hal mutters. He's into quotations. "Anyway, it'll depend if Starfleet Intelligence even thinks you're ready to be fed back into the Delta Quadrant, yes?"

As a Talaxian, one of very few in Starfleet - at least before the Iconian gates gave us quick access to that part of the galaxy - I was kind of a natural choice to be played in the Delta Quadrant as an undercover agent. Unfortunately, a few events, mostly relating to an intelligence leak, a psychotic Vaadwaur commander and a very dangerous Hazari invention, made me, well, slightly sneak out from under my cover. People notice if you're around when all the explosions are happening, even if you're trying to look inoffensive. So I was pulled back to the Federation's side of the galaxy, at least for a while... which turned out not to be entirely restful, either, but never mind. Still. I figure, well, I know the Delta Quadrant - as much as anyone can know a quarter of the galaxy - I can be the most use over there.

And in a Vaadwaur ship.... I stroll back along the raised section of the bridge. We had enough opportunities to look down the nasty ends of these things, when the war was at its height. Now, when I get the chance to command one... I can do some serious damage in this thing.

"I'll keep the bosses sweet. Let's face it, by now, they'll be glad to get rid of me, right? Back to the Delta Quadrant... I could stop off at New Talax, say hello to my peeps...."

"Better warn them in advance what you're flying," Hal says. He frowns. Well, he's usually frowning, but this time he's frowning some more. "Too many people shoot first when they see a Vaadwaur ship."

"Sensible people run when they see a Vaadwaur ship," I reassure him, although it's maybe not so very reassuring, because the Delta Quadrant is full of people who aren't even a bit sensible. It's why I fit in so well.

I'm about to do some more reassuring when my combadge bleeps at me. "Pex," I say.

"Admiral Pexlini?" I don't recognize the voice. It's calm and measured, maybe too calm and measured - Vulcan, probably. "This is Admiral Zorik." Nailed it. "It is necessary to discuss some matters with you. I would be obliged if you would meet me in room 182 of level 467 of Earth Spacedock. Please bring your Intelligence verification PADD so that you can confirm my clearances."

"OK, when?" Zorik? I don't know the name. Of course, when you're working in Intelligence, you don't know any more than you're supposed to.

"Your earliest convenience would be appreciated. I am at that location now."

I raise an eyebrow. Practice, for talking to a Vulcan. "On my way, then. Pex out." I glance at Hal. "Well, you're in charge. Try and look tough."

Hal sighs.

---

Earth Spacedock is huge. Even my new ship is lost inside its docking bays. Level 467 is quite a way from the docking bays, though, and it's a very quiet, almost disused, section of the station. There isn't another person in sight, even, when I reach room 182. OK, so Zorik wants to see me somewhere quiet and out of the way. There could be many reasons for that, I guess.

I touch the access panel, and it bleeps, and Zorik's voice says, "Come in," so in I come.

Zorik is a short-ish male Vulcan with black hair in a pudding-basin crop, and quite the blankest face I have ever seen on anyone, even a Vulcan. He's sitting behind a desk which is bare except for a single PADD. "Admiral Pexlini," he says in a voice so level you could play snooker on it. "Thank you for your prompt compliance with my request."

There's a seat across the desk from him: I slide into it. "OK, so what's it all about, and how can I help?"

"Please review my clearance codes before we proceed," says Zorik. "You should be aware that I have authority to ask the questions which I will ask."

OK, fair enough. I fish my confidential PADD out of my cargo pocket, and go through the little rigmarole of activating my own command clearances. All of a sudden, my PADD is talking to Zorik's along a set of comms channels most people don't know ESD has, and they are confirming that I am me, and Zorik is Zorik, and his clearance codes are -

Oh. He only has one clearance code, and it just reads Unrestricted. I'm not Vulcan, but I raise an eyebrow at that. There's only one person I know of who's meant to have completely unrestricted access to classified information... and Zorik doesn't look like the Federation President.

"So, um," I say, "looks like you can ask whatever you want. Ask away. Sir."

"There is no necessity for formality," says Zorik. "Please explain, in your own words, how you came into possession of the artifact known as the Mask of Dhalselapur."

Damn, I thought I was finished with that particular foul-up. "Um. We had a situation in the Delta Quadrant, we figured - well, OK, mostly I figured - we needed some kind of leverage on a Hazari captain to sort it out. So we trawled the public data channels until we had a picture of his business, and we found out he had a contract to guard this Mask thing for a private owner. So, we - that's, um, me and Admiral M'eioi, science division - we roughed out a plan, staged a break-in, stole the Mask. We figured we could trade it back to the Hazari captain in exchange for the information we needed. OK, it was kind of, um, not exactly above board, but Delta Command's communications were compromised, we couldn't get authorization or use diplomatic channels -"

"These facts have been noted," says Zorik. "What became of the artifact?"

"Um." I try to get the story straight in my head. "Turned out the Hazari, N'Drask, was more involved in the situation than we thought. So I decided to hang on to the Mask in case we needed to put more pressure on him. Just insurance, yanno? Only, well, while it was still on my ship, we got jumped by a renegade Vaadwaur commander. We beat him - somehow - but in the process my quarters took a direct hit, secure storage was breached - hell, when I got down there, the whole bulkhead was gone - so, bottom line, no Mask."

"Could the artifact have survived the damage done by the Vaadwaur?"

I have to think about that. "I don't know. Doesn't seem likely. I suppose it's just about possible - the thing was in a secure safe, and it was still in an impact-gel protective package itself. But, well, even if it survived, it'd be lost, right? Thrown out into space on a random trajectory. Precious little way to tell it from all the other debris, and that was scattered over a wide area -"

"You made no attempt to trace or recover the artifact?"

That one gets my goat, a bit. "We'd just fought off a ship about four times our size! We had massive damage and crew casualties, I think virtually everyone on the damn ship was injured! And we still had the Hazari and the Vaadwaur commander's partner to worry about! We did not have time to go searching for souvenirs!"

"I see." Zorik's glacial calm is... infuriating. His eyes are little chips of grey glass. "Did you take detailed scans of the artifact at any point?"

I take a deep breath. "We confirmed its identity when we brought it aboard. Comparison with public records, again, just to make sure we hadn't been sold a dummy. I don't think we did anything more than those basic checks, though, unless the guys in the science lab did some testing I don't know about, and I think they had plenty of other stuff to keep them busy."

"I see." Zorik hasn't taken any notes, hasn't consulted a PADD, hasn't even moved the whole time. Now he says, "Thank you for your time, Admiral Pexlini. This interview is now concluded."

"Sir, what is all this about?" I ask, though I know damn well I shouldn't.

"Possibly nothing. Thank you for your time. You are dismissed."

---

I fume all the way down ESD, in the turbolift to my guest quarters. What the hell was that about? OK, pinching an ancient artifact, maybe that wasn't in the best traditions of Federation diplomacy - and losing the damn thing, well, that wasn't the best move either. But -

At this point, my various Intelligence instincts start to leak through my annoyance, and ask some serious questions like: what was all that about? Evidently, someone has been making a noise about the Mask of Dhalselapur, but who and why? The owner, the guy I stole it from, was a big cheese on his homeworld in the Delta Quadrant, but there's no way he could put pressure on the Federation. The Hazari, N'Drask, got sort of assimilated by the Borg and then killed, so he's in no position to be making waves.

But someone is... and the waves are wavy enough to attract the attention of someone very high up the Starfleet Intelligence food chain. Intelligence tends to be compartmentalized, on a need-to-know basis... if Zorik has unrestricted clearance, then that means he needs, or might need, to know everything. Who needs that level of clearance?

I reach my quarters, slump into a convenient chair, and stare out of the viewport at the blue curve of the Earth while I think. And my thoughts aren't comfortable ones.

Investigators. The JAG's office can get unrestricted clearance, and Starfleet Intelligence has its own internal audit and compliance procedures... this Zorik might be the head of our internal affairs division. Which would explain why I've never heard of him. Because you never would hear about someone like that... until it was too late.

The Mask. Does he think I've done something with the Mask? Hidden it, or made a duplicate, for sale later? Silly thought. I'm a Federation citizen, the Federation is a post-scarcity economy, people don't need money....

I frown. Except, some people still want money. Sure, everyone gets the necessities of life for free - but lots of people want more than just the necessities, some of them a whole lot more. An Admiral's nominal salary has always been more than enough for me, but... does Zorik see things that way?

Just for the hell of it, I decide to do a very basic check. Suppose Zorik thinks I've sold, or am selling, the Mask. What would I do with the money? How would I take payment? I don't have a pile of dilithium crystals or a bottle of latinum in a vault somewhere, and he can probably check that himself... probably. Or would he think I might hide it in plain sight? So I call up my personal accounts on the room's console, and ask for a statement of my energy credit balance.

The console pauses a bit as it verifies my identity, and then displays my current balance.

It reads 500, 022, 367 energy credits.

I think I have a problem.

shevet · July 2017

Personal log: Heizis, officer commanding RRW Saraswati

The featureless ferroconcrete sides of the warehouse tower up like a fortress towards a dark and cloudy sky. No stars, not on this night. All is blackness, except for the islands of brilliance cast by antique halogen lights on tall metal poles. Beyond those patches of light, all is blackness. For most species, terrifying blackness. For my kind, welcoming blackness.

I bare my teeth, behind the Omega Force helmet. Yes, other species should be terrified. Because I am moving through this blackness.

"Assault teams are in position." The voice of Bi'or, my Klingon exec, sounds in my ear.

"Detection?" I ask.

"Sensor spoofing is active. We will know how successful it is, when we start to move." Well, I should expect nothing else.

There are six security troopers between me and the nearest entrance. The nearest is a hundred and fifty metres away. If our sensor jamming is adequate, I should be able to cover that distance without being noticed. But operations - especially of this kind - never go to plan.

"Pass the word," I say. "Activate."

And I move, running over the concrete apron that surrounds the warehouse. There is no cover, except the night, so I must rely on speed. Little dots on my helmet's HUD confirm that the rest of my forces are in motion. If all goes well, this will be clean and fast -

"Halt!"

The amplified voice is accompanied by a green stab of disruptor light. So much for our sensor spoofing. I dive into a forward roll, and touch my wrist controls, engaging the Omega Force suit's distortion field. For a few precious seconds, I am invisible. I use those seconds, identifying the shooter, aiming my sniper rifle. When I shimmer back into visibility, I answer his fire with a single hypersonic tritanium slug. It is enough.

More disruptor fire is flashing around me, though. Tortured concrete snarls beneath my feet. They have not hit me, yet, and I do not think an individual bolt is enough to penetrate my heavy-duty personal shield. But I am not inclined to take the chance. I jink and swerve as I run, trying to throw off their aim, and I fire the sniper rifle. It is suppressing fire, meant only to harass them and make them duck for cover - but I am gratified to see one more of the guards fall, clutching at a shoulder wound. Incapacitated, but he will probably survive for questioning. Gratifying, indeed.

Blue-green plasma bolts sear through the night behind me, and the remaining guards turn to confront this new threat. One of the assault teams is coming up to support me. I turn on the distortion field again, move fast, pick off another two guards as the field fades out. Plasma fire from the assault team brings down the remaining pair. I reach the wall of the warehouse, and operate my transporter buffer - swapping the sniper rifle for a compact Omega carbine, and bringing out a spatial charge, which I affix to the secured door.

A shiver runs through the concrete beneath me, and I hear Bi'or snarl over the comms, "Shuttle launch. Confirm trilithium signature -"

I switch channels. "Flight Feoh. Shuttle launching. Intercept and terminate."

I can see the shuttle myself, as I move. A demilitarized KDF Toron-class, I think. It rises steeply into the sky -

Flight Feoh decloaks and opens fire at point-blank range, plasma bolts illuminating the undersides of the clouds with blue-green lightning. Two of the shuttle's stubby winglets are torn away, flames blossom along its fuselage. It draws a fiery spiral across the air as it loses height and crashes to the ground. The Scorpion fighters howl overhead and fade back into the night.

I scowl. Too easy. I hit the remote detonator on the spatial charge. The security door vomits flame and fragments into the night. Before the pieces have stopped jangling, I have engaged my distortion field and am running, invisible, through the doorway.

Inside, there are armed men, disruptor rifles pointed expectantly at the doorway. I rush past them, turn, and spray them with fire as I become visible again. The interior of the warehouse is one vast open space, almost empty. Our intelligence was correct - they were dismantling the facility, they were ready to move. A few knots of people cluster around the remaining equipment, taking what cover they can. Dull crumps of explosions indicate more breaching charges from more of my assault teams.

And in the middle of the empty floor, a ramp, leading down... to a basement area, and a tunnel, a tunnel through the concrete and out to safety.

The cargo hauler is a standard tractor-trailer rig, almost too big to fit in the tunnel, so its driver is approaching slowly and carefully. I switch the autocarbine from heavy stun to destructive force. The tractor has three pairs of wheels, each with run-flat tyres that must be a metre and a half in diameter. I spray them with fire, long, sustained bursts, ripping away the synthetic rubber and scattering burning fragments across the area.

The tractor slews. I keep up the fire, though the carbine is growing hot in my hands, and an occasional disruptor beam sizzles against my shields. The wheels are burned down to the bare metal, and the tractor lurches to one side and crashes into the concrete pillar at the tunnel entrance. The long trailer jack-knifes behind it, totters on the brink of overturning, then slams back down. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

The assault teams have broken through. All remaining resistance is being quickly eliminated. I race down the ramp, blast the door at the back of the trailer, pull it open and level my carbine.

Inside are a few bewildered and severely shaken technicians - human or humanoid, these people seem to be mostly human - and a long, elegant, deadly shape. I aim my carbine at the technicians. Fortunately the Low charge and Thermal overload warnings are only visible on my HUD.

Footsteps behind me - my HUD shows them as friendlies. Bi'or charges down the ramp to meet me. "The shuttle," she says, clearly out of breath, "the shuttle was a decoy -"

"I know," I say. "But this is not." I indicate the missile with a jerk of my head. "Scan for trilithium, but you know you will find it. This is a textbook example... if your textbook was written by Dr. Tolian Soran."

The technicians are stumbling out of the trailer, hands raised in token of surrender. I lower my weapon. One of them, perhaps bolder than the rest, turns to speak to me. "Omega Force?" she says. "Kralon II is a neutral world... Starfleet and the KDF have no jurisdiction...."

"How very true." I pull off the helmet and bare my fangs at her. "And how magnificently irrelevant." My telepathy is modest at best, but it is enough to taste her fear. "Do you wish to know where you stand under Reman law? I warn you, it is governed by three main principles - survival, expedience, and revenge."

She quails. "We've - we've done you no harm -"

"Sometimes, we anticipate. And we are concerned, over devices such as this. We Remans love the dark, true, but we do not fear the light so much that we desire to extinguish the suns. Why did you build this weapon? Who were you taking it to?" I lean closer, to gaze into her eyes. "We will have answers. All in due time.... Take them away."

There is much to be done. The techs, the surviving guards, any actual leaders will have to be closely questioned... and, for all my bravado, such questioning will at least have to be compliant with Imperial law. And we have the material evidence to sift and catalogue... not to mention intercepting the smugglers who were expecting to take delivery of this monstrosity.

I grin without mirth at the thought of those criminals, expecting to receive a super-weapon, finding themselves looking down the barrels of the Saraswati's plasma arrays instead.

"Sir." Another voice, behind me: I turn. Subcommander N'aina from the engineering team is there, holding a datapad... and her expression is unusually troubled.

"What is it?" I ask.

"We've found some documentation already... including the name. The name of the project." She swallows.

"All projects have names. What is so disturbing about this one?"

She shakes her head. "The name - I recognize the derivation, it's from some Earth root language, it just means 'sun-killer'. But the number...." She holds out the datapad.

"The number?" I am baffled. But not for long, because I can read the title on the pad, and the number - yes, that is cause for concern.

The name of this project, it seems, was Solarcide 2.

shevet · July 2017

The young woman looked out across San Francisco Bay with a rueful expression that gradually hardened. Eventually, she turned away, slipped a pair of sunglasses over her brown eyes, and walked briskly down the pedestrian mall.

There were few people around on this bright California morning. The young woman attracted no particular attention, though. She was medium tall, brown-haired, brown-skinned, dressed in a conservative grey jacket and knee-length skirt - there was nothing about her to make her stand out, in this cosmopolitan city.

No one paid attention to her as she descended the ramp down to the sub-level mall. Here, the air was cooler, conditioned, and the indirect lighting gave everything a faint bluish tint. She removed her sunglasses, and walked past the shops and the galleries.

She reached a service door between two shops, and stopped. For an instant, she seemed to hesitate. Then she pressed her fingertip decisively to the access panel. It beeped softly and flashed green; the door slid open, and she went inside.

She descended a tight spiral staircase, while the door shut and locked itself behind her. At the foot of the staircase was a narrow corridor, lit by dull yellow maintenance lights. She walked along the corridor briskly, reached another door, went through.

She found herself in a small space filled with quietly humming machinery - a relay station for the city's EPS grid, she thought. That was not important. What was important was that she was not alone.

The other person in the room was humanoid, dressed in plain brown coveralls... but his face was a leathery demon mask in which red eyes glinted.

"I'm Angelica Moreno," the young woman said.

"I know." The Lethean's face twitched in what might have been a smile. "If you had been anyone else... well, let's just say it's lucky that you're not."

Angelica swallowed, but her voice was steady as she said, "So, you're serious, then?"

"Absolutely." The Lethean stepped towards her, held out his hand. After a moment's confusion, she shook it. "My name is Tharval. Welcome to our... little movement."

Angelica frowned. "Not so little, surely? The Actionists are -"

"Oh, Lyle Anson has plenty of supporters, true enough. But there are only a few of us who are prepared to... make things happen. Votes and slogans are all very well, but - well. Welcome to direct Actionism."

Bitterness tinged her voice. "I don't see how you think an Academy washout is going to make things happen."

"We know why you were dismissed from the Academy," said Tharval. "We know, and we sympathize, we agree with you. The new Starfleet, once we reorganize it, will need people like you, people who aren't fettered by the Prime Directive -"

"The Prime Directive is nothing but hypocrisy!" Angelica said hotly. "It's an excuse, that's all, an excuse for letting people die, letting whole cultures die! We should be doing everything in our power to help in this galaxy -"

Tharval raised his hands. "You'll get no argument from me on that score. But it's quite clear why you could never be useful to Starfleet as it's currently constituted... and why you should help us to change that."

"I still don't see what I -"

"Everyone is valuable. You have skills, I believe? Rated expert in metallurgy - they even sent you on that specialist course to Magamba, did they not? And then they threw all that talent and education away. Such a waste." Tharval's red eyes glinted. "But, besides that, you have the right attitude. Remember, I can see that for myself. You aren't content to be a mere observer, constrained by Starfleet's outmoded rules and regulations. You want to make a difference."

"I -" She looked away, then back at him. "Yes. Yes, I guess I do. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes - even if it does breach that stupid Prime Directive -"

"Of course you are." Tharval took her arm. "So come with us, Angelica. Because we're going to change the world."

dalolorn · July 2017

I sense the involvement of a certain 'Orion'...

shevet · July 2017

Tylha

I'm browsing through a list of quotations, trying to find an inspirational quote for the new ship's dedication plaque, when my ready room console shrills an urgent alert at me. I hit the comms channel. "Shohl," I say.

An unfamiliar face appears on the screen; human, light-skinned, dark-haired, rather narrow and sly-looking. "Admiral Shohl? I'm Captain Per Bengtsson, from the Diplomatic Corps... I'm a liaison officer to the Ferengi Alliance." Well, that explains the slyness. "We have a situation, and I think you might be the only person who can help me."

Sounds peculiar, but then there are so many different emergencies. "I'll do whatever I can, of course. What's the problem, Captain?"

"We have a joint research programme with the Alliance at a deep space research station, Alpha Two Twenty-Seven - I'm transmitting coordinates on your data subchannel now. A senior researcher, DaiMon Trelt, is asking for urgent assistance - he claims to be facing some sort of threat. The thing is, he can't - or won't - say what kind of threat it is, and he's insistent that there's a strict time limit."

Things start to fall into place. "I see. You need a ship out there, quickly, and it's got to be ready for any possible contingency. Which means you need a powerful, multi-role vessel... and there's only one around that's also fast enough."

Bengtsson gives me a rueful smile. "You catch on quickly, Admiral."

"It's happened before. All right. Send me whatever details you can along the data channel, and I'll get King Estmere under way."

---

King Estmere hurtles between the stars, her drive eating up the parsecs. In the briefing room, Bulpli Yulan, my security chief, calls up a holo-display; a bulbous, globular shape with a ring beside it.

"It's a very standard commercial station design," Bulpli says, her black Betazoid eyes intent on the data. "The particle accelerator ring is for high-energy research, which is consistent with what we've got on this DaiMon Trelt. From a security point of view - this is a commercial design, with no defensive capability worth speaking of. If it comes under attack, we'd have to do the work of keeping it safe. I've roughed out a possible plan using the Mesh Weaver frigates to support the station - but there are too many possibilities, I guess, for us to come up with anything definite."

I nod. "We've no idea how the station might be attacked, if there's even going to be an attack at all. Klerupiru, what else have you been able to find out about DaiMon Trelt?"

My Ferengi data-warfare expert tugs fretfully at her uniform collar. "Serious academic expert, and I mean serious," she says. "Plenty of credibility... and at least one real motive for making him a target. A paper released about a year ago suggests, well, if his current line of high energy research pans out... it could make it possible to replicate latinum, commercially."

"Oh." In theory, anything you can put through a transporter, you can make in a replicator. In practice, a transporter signal is holographic in form, self-encoding and almost self-deciphering; identifying the complex interrelations of coding molecules like DNA within it, or the intricate interlocking crystalline structure of dilithium, is almost impossible, so some substances are either non-replicateable, or too complex to replicate in commercial quantity. Latinum, a dense and mildly toxic superfluid amalgam, is unusual enough that a standard commercial replicator can't even approximate its physical properties, so the Ferengi use it as backing for their currency. But if it becomes possible to replicate latinum.... "Yes, I can see that having the potential to destroy the Ferengi economy might make him some enemies. How do you think they'd go for him?"

"There's any number of ways. Hired assassins, obvious, but still possible. And those computer systems on that station are wide open for subversion attacks - oh, sure, they have standard commercial-grade security, but what's that worth? And Trelt himself spends hours chatting on video links, they tell me." Klerupiru mutters something under her breath. "Data subchannels could be pouring whole teraquads of viruses into that system.... One thing occurs to me, we ought to rig some way of shutting down that accelerator ring in a hurry. Breach data security on that, you could make it blow up real big, real quick."

"A high-density tetryon pulse through the main deflector should be easy enough to set up," says Dyssa. "I'll program it in as a contingency thing."

"Do that. What about this thing Trelt is worried about? This countdown?"

"That's... kind of interesting," says Klerupiru. "Near as I can make out, there has to be some kind of adaptive software agent running in the cloud. I mean, the big cloud - the quadrant-wide data net. Every second or so, it rents a minuscule time-slice on some random data-transfer system and sends a subspace ping at Trelt, carrying a small data packet - a number. A steadily reducing number."

"Psychological warfare," says Bulpli. "Wearing him down."

"But he seems convinced something will happen when it reaches zero," I say. I frown. "Are we going to get to the station before the countdown runs out?"

"It'll be close, but I think so," says Klerupiru. She tugs at her collar again. "But what happens when it hits zero, I don't know."

---

"Coming out of warp," says Anthi Vihl. On the main screen, the streaking stars slow to points of light.

"Hailing the station now," says Cordul, the heavy-set Trill at the ops station. "Got them. Patching you through."

I clear my throat. "This is Admiral Tylha Shohl aboard the USS King Estmere," I announce. "We're responding to your request for assistance. As a first precaution, we're going to deploy our auxiliaries to support you. Please do not be alarmed."

"Launching Alpha," says Anthi. "Launching Bravo." Twin shudders as the first two Mesh Weaver frigates leave the launch bays. "No other traffic on scan."

"Get some tachyon detection going, in case of cloaked ships," I order. I have to think about every possibility... but the station, floating before me in deep space, looks peaceful enough right now.

"Aye, aye, sir. Launching Charlie. Launching Delta."

"Station admin has acknowledged, sir," says Cordul, "and I have a direct link to DaiMon Trelt."

"On screen."

Trelt is an ageing Ferengi, his face sagging with wrinkles. His ears are enormous. He's sitting in some kind of command chair with a high, flaring headrest - a lot more imposing than my command chair - and, behind him, there is a riot of coloured light, flickering horizontal lines behind some translucent barrier. His voice is high-pitched and indignant.

"There are only minutes left! Seconds!" he cries. "What sort of support do you call this?"

Gratitude. You have to love it. "We're here now, sir. My ship is more than adequate to cope with any threat - you couldn't be better defended by the USS Enterprise, I assure you. We can transport you aboard whenever you wish -"

"No!" Trelt yells. "I know what happened to Trosek when his timer ran out! And your Admiral Storok! I'm not trusting to your starship, Admiral! I'm staying here, where I know I'm safe!"

"And 'here' would be -?"

"The control cabin for the accelerator ring! I know every force, every energy that can be unleashed here, Admiral, and they all answer to me! I intend to stay right here until that timer has run out, and then -" He stops. He has obviously not thought past that point. "And then - we can decide what to do!" he finishes lamely.

"DaiMon Trelt -"

"Professor Trelt! I am a full Professor at the University of Taralcore! I have tenure! I earned my qualifications!"

I repress a sigh. "Professor Trelt, then. We should go over all the possible sources of threat, and see what King Estmere can do to counter each one. We're already defended against attack from space -"

"Trivial!" Trelt shouts. "The attack, when it comes, will come from some completely unexpected quarter!"

"Well," I say, trying to stay reasonable, "we need to go through the possibilities, so that it isn't unexpected. Sir -"

"We are in the final seconds!" Trelt screeches. "What possibilities can you think of -?"

"Data subversion and virus attacks, for a start. How secure are your systems?"

"They are -" Trelt begins. But he never finishes.

Behind him, the glowing lights grow brighter, and brighter, colours merging into a featureless glare. The Ferengi's chair is silhouetted against it - and then the glare breaks through, a brilliant light shining through Trelt's body, like a star suddenly bursting out on his chest. Trelt screams once, and falls silent. The image vanishes in a blast of static an instant later.

"Tetryon pulse!" I yell.

Dyssa is already hitting the engineering console. There is a grunt and a hum as King Estmere's power cycles shift, pouring energy into the main deflector. Someone has switched the channel on the viewscreen, and I can see the station, and the flames spitting from its wounded side. The accelerator ring is broken, is drifting away from the body of the station, spraying chunks of white-hot metal.

"Field established," says Dyssa. "The accelerator ring is neutralized... there's damage to the station, but it's containable." She turns towards me, and her face is ashen. "Containment failure on that accelerator ring," she says. "Like a tiny crack in the casing, but a beam came through -"

"Software intrusion," says Klerupiru. "Gotta be."

"Evacuate the station staff, and send in security teams to secure the computers. We'll prove that," I say.

"We damn near couldn't," says Dyssa. "That beam, it was aimed precisely. Through Trelt's comms console - and at the station's antimatter core. It was maybe half a second away from breaching antimatter confinement."

A gap in the accelerator's shielding - a narrow, white-hot needle of pure destruction emerging from it. It burned through Trelt in an instant, through the station's hull in a few instants more... and if it had reached the antimatter, the resultant explosion would have left nothing to investigate.

Someone is playing for keeps.

---

Hours pass, while the station's shaken crew is evacuated, while Klerupiru and Bulpli begin their forensic investigations - and I make my preliminary report to Starfleet Command.

I don't expect a quick response, but I get one. I'm in my quarters, about to go to bed, when the comms console bleeps for my attention.

The face on the screen is one I know; dark-skinned, white-haired, human - Admiral Paul Hengest, of Starfleet Intelligence. "Your report rang all sorts of bells in my department," he says, without preamble.

"Sorry," I say. "What am I not supposed to know about, then?"

"The other countdowns," he says. "You must have heard about Admiral Storok -"

"Some sort of accident, the reports said?"

"Still might be. But he had a countdown, and it ran out exactly the same time his accident destroyed the USS Cumberland. We are trying to keep a lid on this. To avoid panic. As are the Republic, with the death of Admiral Trosek due to transporter failure. And the Klingons, with General Khlar found dead in his own ancestral estate." He draws in a ragged breath.

"And now we have a prominent Ferengi scientist dead, too?" I say.

"Also," says Paul, "Legate Enem Jerak, commander of the Cardassian Third Order, apparently assassinated by True Way fanatics in his home earlier today. And a high-up in the Breen Confederacy, Thot Sef - I don't have all the details on that one, yet, but somebody or something took out him and his Chel Boalg cruiser too."

"All with anonymous countdowns running?"

Paul nods. "The only thing I can think," he says, "is that somebody is sending a message. That they can reach out and get at us, reach right through our security and kill our people... and there's nothing we can do about it."

"We may be able to salvage something from the research station's computers," I say.

"That might be the first stroke of luck we've had so far," says Paul. "Otherwise, we have next to nothing to go on. Damn it, I don't need this. Not on top of everything else we've been through - and our other problems." His gaze sharpens suddenly. "Have you heard from Admiral Pexlini recently?"

"Not lately. She's officially off my hands, since we reassigned that Vaadwaur prize ship to her. I understood she was on her way back to the Delta Quadrant?"

"That was the plan, yes. Until the Mask of Dhalselapur turned up on the black market, with an astronomical price tag attached. We've got some questions for Pexlini over that business."

I stare at him, and try to marshal my thoughts. "Pex struck me as many things," I say, "but crooked wasn't one of them."

"I agree," says Paul, "but, well, the first rule of being a successful crook is not to look like one. And Pex is a successful crook, that's pretty much the definition of a good field operative. But with a security question already hanging over her, from that business with Kalevar Thrang, and now this.... Well. We'll just have to see what happens."

antonine3258 · July 2017

Hmm, something on the style feels like everyone's least favorite Augment, here, but I have to wonder. It's got Thrang's sense of showmanship, and he's got a reason for Pex, but he's burnt a lot of reserve, lately.

shevet · July 2017

Pexlini

"So how's it going?" asks Gressis Zont. "You under arrest yet?"

Gress gets to ask things like that. He runs a small Tarkalean freighter, like his father used to before him, and one of the cargoes his dad carried, once upon a time, was a certain family of homeless Talaxians on the run from Ferengi Alliance space before they got nickel-and-dimed to death. So Gress and I kinda go a long way back. He taught me how to cheat at tongo, which I guess might have led on to my questionably stellar career in Intelligence.

I shrug my shoulders at him. "I'm not under arrest. I'm not even under investigation, officially, as far as I know. It's just, well, my deployment orders are pending review, so I can't take my ship out... and every time I ask the transporter rooms to beam me Earth-side, they come back with a polite request to re-allocate my departure slot for more urgent traffic. So I'm not anything, I'm just stuck on Earth Spacedock. In limbo. Limbo-ized. Limboficated. Limbosticized." I take a pull on my drink. "Those aren't even words."

We're not in Club 47, we're in a smaller bar down near ESD's small-ish commercial docking ports. Gress can't get clearance for the military side of the station, which is most of it. I'm kinda worried that I can get clearance for the civilian bit. Smacks of Admiral Zorik giving me rope and hoping I'll hang myself.

Which, I suspect, is what I am about to do.

"Well," says Gress, "you just sit tight and relax, right? You haven't done anything wrong, and Starfleet's reasonably thorough and competent, yeah? So you stay put, let them investigate, wait for them to clear you, get back to work with a clear conscience, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say. "Eventually. Maybe. Assuming they don't foul up. And they don't downgrade my security clearance on general principles and put me to work in an office somewhere."

"It's still the sensible thing to do." Gress sighs. He scratches his brow ridges. "I guess you're not talking to me because you want to be sensible."

"I'm being set up. I wanna know who's doing it, and why, and I wanna drag them back to Intelligence's HQ and make them explain it. Maybe it isn't sensible, but it's what I wanna do."

"Well, I can understand that." Gress picks up his drink, takes a sip, pulls a face. "I'd help if I could. Point is, though, your bosses will know you're talking to someone, right now, with experience in moving hot Talaxians. That ain't gonna make things easy."

"No way I could just walk on board your ship," I say. "Assuming I'm not going to be sensible, and of course I am, really."

"Of course you are," says Gress. "No choice. I couldn't break through ESD's transporter interdiction and beam you out, anyway. Even if I wanted to wind up on a Federation blacklist and lose my docking privileges at every station in the quadrant."

"It'd take a lot to make that risk worth while," I say. I write something down on a piece of paper. Paper is good. PADDs leave a trace, in the computer systems. Paper is a lot less traceable. Harder to come by, I guess, since PADDs became ubiquitous, but still handy. "My assets haven't officially been frozen. I just can't transfer credit. Well, not more than twenty credits at a time." I pass Gress the piece of paper.

"Twenty credits won't get you an escape route off ESD," says Gress. "Not even for old times' sake."

His hand hovers over the piece of paper, hesitating, before he takes it.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to stay right here like a good girl," I say. "Unless I can figure some way off the station before you leave in - what is it? Twenty-two hours time?"

"About that, yeah," says Gress. "You'd have to be really smart and really lucky. I mean, you're talking about getting away from under your bosses' noses, right? And they know everything you know. I mean, they've got your record, they know what your resources are, they know the way you think. They're the guys with all the aces."

"Yeah, but they don't necessarily know how I'm gonna use my resources." I lift my glass, clink it against his. "I'll work something out." I smile. "You can't keep lightning in a bottle."

Except, of course, you can.

---

Twenty-one hours and an uncomfortable number of minutes later, I'm fumbling with an access panel up on ESD's level 927, and worrying that Zorik and his pals are monitoring my personal transporter buffer, because if they notice what I've just pulled out of it, they are going to get some ideas, and my life is apt to become very interesting, very quickly.

What I've pulled out is my Nukara-rated EV suit, and the zipline gadget we used for infiltrating Vaadwaur underground bases during the late unpleasantness in the Delta Quadrant. The use of the EV suit is fairly obvious, the zipline maybe less so. What I'm also hoping they haven't noticed is that, with my late connection to Tylha Shohl and the Experimental Engineering group, I still get cc'ed in on routine movement orders for the Exp-Engy mob.

The access panel pops open, and I thump in an override code. Fortunately, the people who built the panel knew it'd be used by people in spacesuits, with gloved hand, so the numbers are nice and big. Equally fortunately, this panel does not do any scans for biometric ID, on account of biometrics are kind of hard to read through a spacesuit. Technically, I'm not supposed to know this override code, but I've been hanging out with ESD engineers and I'm a noticing kind of person, so I learned it. Never know what's going to be useful.

The doorway slides open. I squeeze myself into the wardrobe-sized auxiliary airlock and hit the CYCLE switch. One door closes, all external sound goes away, the other door opens. I push myself through it, and immediately I'm weightless. Artificial gravity is cancelled inside the docking bay.

And that's where I am, inside the docking bay. So far, I'm not technically breaching the terms of my unofficial house arrest. I think. I'm inside the docking bay, but still, technically, inside Earth Spacedock, and not going outside any time soon, since the big external bay doors are sealed shut. I can't pick the locks on those doors, and I can't exactly jemmy them open, either.

This is where those movement orders come in. Because I know when someone is going to open them.

I glance around. There are always spectators in the galleries around the docking bay, but I'm just one more anonymous figure in a spacesuit, and there are plenty of those around too. I get my bearings and tense myself. The suit's thrusters could handle this next bit, but I need to save them for the final step of the plan....

The half-assembled frame of the Constitution-class cruiser is already drifting towards me, towed by work bees, the saucer completed, the secondary hull and the nacelles a latticework of naked structural members. I aim the zipline and fire. The grapple locks on to a stanchion near the port Bussard collector. The ship is moving at a fair clip already, the jolt nearly dislocates my shoulder as I'm pulled along.... I reel in the line quickly, clamber into the half-built engine, settle down where I'm less likely to be spotted.

I have no idea what Tylha wants this antique for - I've learned not to question a moody Andorian when she goes screwdriver-happy - but, right now, it's my ticket out of here. I rest my back against a warp coil and watch the sights of ESD drift by. Starships, mostly... I can see the big blunt shape of the Topkapi, somewhere below me, and I feel a bit of a lump in my throat, wondering what will happen to that one, now....

Then something else starts to drift by, a big slanting line that cuts across the view like the universe's largest punctuation mark; the edge of the spacedock door. Tylha is having this thing moved to an external docking cradle for the final assembly and testing stages, and that's why I get a free ride out of here.... The doorway slips on past, and on the other side of it there are stars, free and shining in the endless night. ESD is over Earth's night side at the moment, and beneath me - far, far beneath me - the dark oceans are rimmed with the jewel-bright lights of cities.

I tense myself. I disengage the zipline, because I may need it, and anyway things are neater this way. The cruiser is still under intermittent acceleration, nudges from the work bees as they guide it to its new home. I feel one nudge, and I let it nudge me off my resting place and into the night.

This is where the thrusters come in.

I twist myself about, falling freely through space, and I call the flight path up on my suit HUD. It's a long way... but that shouldn't be a problem. I line myself up on the flight line and fire the thrusters.

Acceleration. A feeling of weight comes back. Bizarrely, it feels like I'm rising, though my eyes tell me I'm moving down, parallel to the long axis of ESD, towards the stem of that kilometres-long mushroom. Both are illusions, really, there's no up or down in free fall. The two illusions meet somewhere in my middle ear and try to make me spacesick. I ignore them.

This is the risky bit. Well, the most risky bit. OK, there's plenty of guys in EV suits floating around the outside of ESD, too, but not many moving in my sort of direction, at my sort of speed... and space traffic control, too, necessarily tries to keep tabs on spacewalkers....

But there's nothing I can do about that, except keep accelerating and keep my eyes peeled. Any moment now, a transporter beam could lock on, and this flight could end in a very undignified way, sprawling across the pad while Zorik and his minions look down at me. I bet he's got minions. He looks the type.

Motion ahead of me - beneath me - whichever direction I'm facing, anyway. The shining stars are occulted, hidden behind something grey and blocky with a faintly glowing impulse drive. I check my HUD. I'm a little off. Rather than correct with the thrusters, though, I take aim with the zipline again, and fire it at the point of closest approach. Another punishing jolt through my arms and my shoulders -

And I'm flying along, pulled in the wake of a stubby G-class transporter like a fisherman who's snagged a way too big catch. I hand-over-hand along the zipline, dragging myself up towards the boxy hull. The impulse drive is idling, which is kind of Gress, I guess. I reach the hull, pull myself from handhold to handhold until I reach an airlock. The controls respond to my gloved fumbling, and I'm in.

Safe. For the moment, at least. I feel, more than hear, a dim murmur as the engines step up to full power. I pop my helmet, take a deep breath, and transfer the suit back into my transporter buffer.

The interior of the freighter is dimly lit and basic - lots of bare metal, exposed piping, and a smell of machine oil and imperfectly recycled organics. Smells like home. I make my way down a narrow corridor, and into the mess hall.

Gress is there, looking faintly relieved. The other things are there, too. "No security alerts," Gress says. "No questions. We're at full impulse now, heading for our assigned warp-out point in Jupiter orbit. I think we got away with it."

"Looks like it." Or Zorik has decided to hand me some more rope. I'll know when I run into the knot with a violent jerk, I guess. I reach out and touch one of the things by Gress. They're shaped like urns, only they're solid, cased in metal-ceramic, and humming gently. Each one is nearly as tall as me. There are five of them.

"I'm keeping one of those," says Gress.

"Fair enough." I shrug. It's a reasonable price, in the circumstances. Gress is taking a big risk, he deserves a big payout. And it comes courtesy of whoever's framing me.

Money's a way of rationing resources, and different cultures use different things for the ration tokens. The Ferengi use stuff that's hard to replicate, that they figure carries intrinsic value. The Klingon darsek is backed by the honour of the Great Houses of the Empire, and how you calculate the intrinsic value of that, well, it beats me. The Federation takes a different view. With replicators and holodecks and so on, the Federation is a post-scarcity economy, and they figure the only thing that holds value... is the power to make those replicators run. The Federation energy credit, then, is literally backed by energy - each credit value is good for some number of kilowatt-hours. And you can transmit energy, and store it.

I'm not allowed to access my dubious funds. It took a bit of finagling, though, but I managed to get the sequestered funds stored, in containers full of highly charged electroplasma. It took a lot more finagling to arrange for those containers to be picked up for transfer to another location. They'll get there. They might be a lot more empty when they finally arrive, though. And I know ways to get charged electroplasma converted to a harder currency....

I stroke the curved side of one container. You can too keep lightning in a bottle.

"So," says Gress. "They'll catch up pretty quickly, you know. You can't stay here."

"I know." I sigh. "First, the trading station at Shamira Gamma. I'm gonna take a heck of a loss on the exchange rate, but what the heck, it's not my money anyway, right? Then on to the Neutral Zone. OK, the former Neutral Zone, but there's still some shady corners, I got some contacts." Despite everything, I chuckle. "One of 'em just loves shady corners."

shevet · July 2017

The atmosphere of Vel Tarsus was an extraordinary sight. Variegated clouds of many different colours bloomed in the sunlight, and the colours were undimmed on the night side - clouds of almost organic shapes, like the sponges and corals of an undersea reef, with the constant thunderstorms flashing like silvery fishes among them

It had been a perfect storm of disasters, Osrin Corodrev thought wearily. The tectonic convulsions had been bad enough - but they had liberated uncounted kilotons of rare heavy metals into the atmosphere, and those had interacted with the planet's other major disaster, a major solar storm coinciding with a weakened planetary magnetic field as Vel Tarsus's magnetosphere began a pole shift. Now, energized particles were throwing out auroral displays, re-energizing the charged power-metal dust, creating a light show all across the planet - which was, at the same time, disrupting communications, blocking vital natural light from crops, and distributing low-grade toxins throughout the ecosphere.

All they needed, on top of this, was a global thermonuclear war. And the remnants of Vel Tarsus's three antagonistic superpowers were still ready to provide that.

"I think we're getting pinged." Koneph Phoral sounded as tired as Osrin felt.

"Let me see." Osrin went over to the ops console, put his hand on his chan-partner's shoulder, peered at the display.

He winced. The electromagnetic wavebands were riven with interference, but that certainly looked like a maser targeting pulse. Any combat starship could outrun or dodge a Tarsian weapon without breaking a sweat... but the disaster relief vessel was anything but a combat starship; it was a modified Tuffli space freighter with surplus mission pods from a Nebula-class science vessel attached amidships. It was big, slow, and an obvious target.

"Something else coming through," Koneph said. "Audio channel." He pulled a face. "I'd guess this is another stand-and-deliver."

Osrin sighed. He went back to the command station, called up the main control interface.

"Coming through now," said Koneph. He hit a switch.

A new voice sounded on the bridge, harsh and rattling with static. "Alien vessel. You are directed to stand down and prepare to transfer your cargo at our landing docks. Comply or you will be fired upon."

"Ground station, this is Osrin Corodrev aboard IDRA 2." He was desperately tired, but he refused to let it show in his voice. "We are in transit as part of the relief effort, as agreed with your provisional coalition. Our destination is the refugee facility at station ES-1. We are not in a position to divert to another location, and we're not landing-capable in any case. We are continuing on our assigned course -"

"That's a damned Esteddi station!" the voice interrupted. "We're not part of any damned coalition, and we will blow you out of the sky before we let you deliver supplies to our enemies!"

Osrin pulled a face. His hands moved rapidly across the command console. "We are proceeding on our assigned course. If you have urgent needs, make yourselves known to the provisional coalition, or to the disaster relief agencies, or direct to Starfleet if you like. We'll provide -"

"You'll provide your ship and your cargo, right now!" the voice yelled back. "We've got a kinetic launch site here and we'll use it if we have to!"

"I know," said Osrin. "I've got your base locked up on scan right now."

"Scan away," the voice sneered. "Scan all you like - scan my missiles from your unarmed freighter, and then do the sensible thing."

"My name is Osrin Corodrev. Of Andoria. Know anything about Andorians?"

"All I need to."

"I doubt that. We've got the Andorian cultural exemption on this ship. Normally, disaster relief vessels aren't armed - but Andorian ships traditionally always carry weapons, so, well, we're allowed to." Osrin smiled a grim, humourless smile. "A lot of Andorian captains make do with some token laser array or something. We, however, don't go in for tokens. We have a Mark XIV omnidirectional antiproton array locked on to you right now, and a bio-neural launch tube to back it up. If you even look like you're aiming those missiles in my direction, all it will take is one touch on a button, and your facility will be a hole half a mile deep."

There was a brief, static-hissing pause. "You wouldn't do that," the voice said. "You wouldn't dare... there are people here, you're supposed to be humanitarians, you -"

"There's about a hundred people at your base. There's close on thirty thousand refugees on that station, who'll die if they don't get medical aid, food, air supplies. I can do the math. I will sacrifice a hundred lives to save thirty thousand, and I won't even lose sleep over it. Your call."

Another long, static-filled pause. Osrin's finger was poised over the fire control.

"All right," said the voice. "All right. I'm deactivating my targeting lock. You can see that, can't you?"

Osrin glanced at Koneph, who nodded. "Good decision. If you need help, your best bet is to fall in with the provisional coalition. Doesn't matter what your differences used to be, right now they are just trying to survive. Join them, maybe you can too."

"We'll think about it." The channel shut off with a decisive pop. Osrin sighed. He closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.

"Remember what we used to say, back when we were working for my dear old dad? About it being a good day, if we didn't have to kill anyone?"

"I remember." Koneph's voice was suddenly grim. "Got a bogey on scan. Sorry, partner, I don't think today's going to be a good day."

"What is it -?" Osrin checked his own console, and cursed. "You're right. Damn Svanakh fanatics - try to raise them, see if they'll listen to reason -"

Small chance of that, he knew. Of the three major nations who had made up the bulk of Tarsian civilization, the Esteddi and the Kalakrim loathed each other, but could be persuaded, ultimately, to cooperate. The third nation, the Svanakh, though, were xenophobic, hostile to everyone and everything. And the small dot on his screen, now, was almost certainly a Svanakh fusion-powered scout craft. There were few of those left, and the number was decreasing steadily, for the worst possible reason.

"I'm getting a hail," said Koneph. "It'll be the usual -" He switched in the audio.

"- defilers of the sacred soil of Svanakh, we offer you only cleansing fire and death." It was shocking, Osrin thought, how young the voice sounded. "To the memory of our glorious leader, and to the immortal cause, I dedicate my destruction and yours. Death to the defilers!"

"Svanakh vessel," said Osrin, "this is IDRA 2, we are a freighter on a relief mission. We have no quarrel with you, but we are equipped to defend ourselves, and we will respond with appropriate force if attacked. We -"

"No compromise! You come from the stars to take our broken world, but we will defy you! Death to the defilers!" The channel shut off.

"He's doing it," said Koneph in a dismal voice. "Intercept vector, ramming speed. We can't evade unless we go to warp, and that -"

Warping out, in the chaos of Vel Tarsus's exosphere, would set up a cascade reaction of energies that might spread a rain of fire across a continent. The freighter's impulse drive was more powerful than the Svanakh ship's, but the freighter itself was much larger and less manoeuvrable. Bleakly, Osrin realized that they had no choice.

"Targeting lock acquired." His fingers drummed on the tactical interface. "Programming bio-neural. Launching."

The AI torpedo shot out from its launch tube, rolled, and arced away from the IDRA ship. In its own way, Osrin thought, the torpedo was the same as the Svanakh pilot - a fanatic, an engine of destruction, dedicated to seeking its own death at the instant of its enemy's. Except the torpedo was only a mechanism, but the Svanakh was a person....

The scout craft launched counter-missiles. The bio-neural torpedo spotted them, picked them off with its point-defense system with insolent ease. The Svanakh ship tried, at the last moment, to evade -

Fire blossomed in the sky as two fanatics consummated their mutual hatred.

"Infinite preserve us from many more of those," muttered Osrin.

"We'll be at the station inside an hour," said Koneph. "And there's military backup on call - IKS Skaldak is running interference in this sector."

"General Rrueo's ship?"

Koneph nodded. "That is one pussycat I do not want to tangle with."

"Pity those KDF battlewagons aren't better configured for our line of work," muttered Osrin. Then he groaned. "Another sensor contact."

"Let's see." Koneph bent his head over the ops board. "Could be OK, I'm getting a Federation ID transponder... oh, hell's teeth." He touched a control. "On screen."

The main viewscreen lit up, displaying a dark-haired, pale-skinned human male in a formal civilian suit. "IDRA 2, this is Blue Angel Seven. Just to let you know, we've been monitoring your Prime Directive violations, so you might find it helpful to submit your logs for verification purposes to our office at the conclusion of your current run. Thanks in advance for your cooperation."

"Oh, damn it," said Osrin. "We are representing a non-governmental organization, we are here at the formal request of the planetary authorities -"

"I think you'll find that not everyone recognizes the provisional coalition -"

"The planetary authorities recognized by the Federation Council," Osrin continued, his voice rising, "we have acted only in self-defence, we are not in violation of Federation law in general or the Prime Directive in particular, so back off."

"We're only concerned that everyone should get to put their side of the story," said the human. "Including you."

"Concern." Koneph spoke, his voice dripping scorn. "If the Actionist Party is so concerned about the situation here, why isn't it doing something to help?"

"We are helping. Action Blue is monitoring the situation - as is Action Red for the KDF, and Action Green for the Republic."

"Tell me how nitpicking Prime Directive rules is helping?" snapped Koneph.

"You don't get the picture," said the human. "This isn't about us tracking where you break the Prime Directive. This is about seeing where the Prime Directive gets in your way."

shevet · July 2017

"Suppose," said Tharval, "that Admiral Shohl were to become the enemy."

Angelica stared at him, then back at the console. The engineering lab was a large, sparsely furnished space inside the domed base - Angelica thought it was on some icy moon of an outer planet in the Sol system, but she was not entirely sure. The console controlled an engineering simulation computer; at the moment, it was displaying a holo-image of a Recluse-class carrier.

"Admiral Shohl is a respected senior officer," she said doubtfully.

"And thus," said Tharval, "quite likely to become the enemy. A representative of Starfleet's old guard, a member of the establishment that we are here to change. Do you think they will not resist that? With force of arms, when they become desperate?"

"I... suppose so," said Angelica.

"Make no mistake, Angelica," said Tharval. "You have made your choice. You have chosen to be on the side of the future... and that means you will need to fight the past." His red eyes glittered, and his mouth moved in what she was learning to recognize as a smile. "I know it is difficult. You must overcome ingrained habits of thought - it is so easy, isn't it, to fall back into the trap of thinking of Starfleet as the good guys? But they are not, not for us. You should think about that reality, Angelica, and about the other realities you will have to embrace."

Angelica said nothing.

Tharval pointed to the holo-image. "The USS King Estmere," he said. "Taken from the Tholians, now in the forefront of Starfleet. In this ship, Admiral Shohl led the hunt for the war criminal Klur; in this ship, she withstood the anger of Sebreac Tharr at the Stygmalian Rift. It is her signature vessel, her chosen flagship." He leaned closer to Angelica. "It has been extensively modified, not least with Jolciot polystable alloys in the structural material. These specialist alloys compensate for the heating problems often found on retrofitted Tholian ships. I do not know the details, Angelica, but you studied on the Jolciot homeworld of Magamba, you are well acquainted with this metallurgy. Find me a weakness in it. So that, if we face the King Estmere in battle, we will win."

"I could...." Angelica bit her lip. "In theory, you can calculate a resonance frequency that would make the primary structural composites delaminate... if you could put that into the SI field, somehow, it'd set up a negative feedback loop. The SI force fields would actually push the separated layers further apart... it'd create massive stress, probably explosive structural failure."

"Good," said Tharval. "This is exactly what I wanted to hear."

"But it would never work," Angelica protested. "You'd need precise details of the ship's configuration, right down to micrometer level, to calculate the frequencies. OK, the King Estmere's been extensively documented, maybe someone could dig all those figures out of the engineering papers - but even then, you'd need to back-door into the SI system somehow. You wouldn't be able to do that, not even with command-level access from the main engineering console on the ship itself - there are too many safeties. You'd need full control over the ship's computers, and for that you'd need a full set of prefix codes. You won't find those in the engineering journals."

"Probably not," said Tharval. "But we have our sources. Other sources."

He turned to go. Angelica said, "Who's we, anyway?"

Tharval turned back. "Pardon?"

"Who's we? I don't think I've seen a living soul here apart from you. You said you were part of an organization -"

"So I am. As are you." Tharval's expression was... unreadable. "This staging facility is being abandoned - it's too close to Earth, and it's not mobile. Since you were coming to us from Earth, I thought we would use it, one last time, for your induction. Action Black, obviously, is distributed over a vast area... you will meet more members than myself, though."

"When?"

"I cannot give you a precise time scale. Our... leader... is away at present, obtaining something suitable for use as a mobile headquarters. Have patience, Angelica. When he returns, you will meet him face to face." The enigmatic Lethean smile reappeared on his face. "He takes a strong interest in all our volunteers."

shevet · July 2017

Heizis

General Xerek is immensely tall and thin; he wears a tight-fitting, floor-length leather coat that accentuates his thinness. His long-eared, hairless, wrinkled head perches atop his shoulders as if it belongs to someone else. The long silver-handled cane in his right hand makes a tiny clicking sound every time it touches the ancient deck plates of the Vault.

Xerek himself seems almost as old as the giant space station. There was a time when there was no such thing as an old Reman - the unforgiving mines, or the wars, took them as soon as their strength began to fail. Xerek, who fought alongside Shinzon and the Viceroy, remembers that time.

Now we stride out along a catwalk, across the great gloomy hall that is now Intelligence Central Processing. Below us, hundreds of Remans are working, their console screens carefully angled so that I cannot see what they are working on. There is a low roar of conversation in the air, like distant surf. Xerek, however, remains silent. He does not speak until we have reached the end of the catwalk, have entered his small private office. He settles himself behind his matte-black oval desk, and finally he says, "The authorities on Kralon II are not happy."

"Let them weep," I reply. Xerek makes a sound that might be a laugh.

"You say that, but there are practicalities to be considered. There always are. D'Tan wishes to show the face of friendship across the quadrant...." He opens his mouth, displays his fangs. "Ours is not the face of friendship."

"Friends do not let other friends build star-destroying weapons," I say.

"True. Perhaps." Xerek snorts. "You succeeded in stopping that arms transfer, at any rate. Success excuses much. Even an unhappy planetary government. I hope, though, you do not plan to make a habit of that."

"Not more than once more, I hope."

"Ah. Yes. The project's name, Solarcide 2. I understand the implications."

"They concern me. If this second weapon was ready for delivery, we must assume that Solarcide 1 is still further advanced. Stopping it would seem a matter of urgency."

"Possibly," says Xerek. "Possibly. Though you must also consider whether this first project, this pilot project, perhaps, has already failed, or was merely a... a technology demonstrator."

"Those are reassuring possibilities. Our plans, however, should take account of the possibilities that are not reassuring."

"Quite." The gaze of Xerek's hooded eyes seems to sharpen as it focuses on me. "So. In your opinion, how should we proceed?"

I shake my head. "There is precious little to go on. We stumbled upon this project by the merest chance - a detection sweep, run by my ship, which registered a trilithium signature; a research facility which could offer no explanation of that signature -"

"Many commanders would have dismissed that as a sensor error," says Xerek.

"That would have been the reassuring conclusion. I elected not to be reassured."

"Quite." Xerek's expression is sour. He leans back a little in his chair. There is only one chair; like all his visitors, I must stand before his desk, in this little cave-like room. "So. How do you intend to replicate your good fortune?"

"Trilithium has a distinctive signature, and our agents should be alerted to search for it. Beyond that -" I shake my head. "The freighter that was supposed to take the weapon from Kralon II never arrived. We are unable, therefore, to follow up that link in the chain. And the records from the warehouse... they are bizarre. Requisitions, instructions, detailed blueprints simply appear in their comms records, as if they came out of nowhere." I narrow my eyes. "I am concerned over this, too."

"You suspect infiltration of the data networks."

"I do. On a low but pervasive level. The freighter was warned off, and I do not know how. And these transmissions of data from nowhere - they call to mind something else, too -"

"Yes." Xerek shifts in his chair. "The countdowns. The late lamented Admiral Trosek, and others." He exhales, a sharp rasping sigh. "Something is hiding in the shadows. Well. The shadows are our people's friends, and it will learn that in due course. In the meantime...."

He leans forward. "The weapons makers were paid, and that money cannot appear out of nowhere. Backtrack it. You will have the full resources of our forensic accountancy division, and they can out-think even the Ferengi. And I will implement your suggestion, of placing trilithium scans at the forefront of our agents' attention. It seems insufficient, but until we can shed some light into the shadows, it is all we can do. You may begin."

I salute. "As you order, General." And I turn on my heel, and march out of the office. Behind me, I hear Xerek make a vague grumbling sound.

I cross the catwalk, my mind occupied with thoughts, few of them cheerful. Xerek is right, the payments to the illicit weapons dealers were real, and currency transfers can be traced - given time, and tedious effort. Well. I cannot be afraid of tedious effort.

But someone is still out there, with a weapon that can destroy a sun. And someone reached through the heart of Republic security and killed one of ours, a senior officer... and left no trace except a mocking message.

I make my way through the corridors of the Vault, the vast space station that has been a refuge for the Reman people for... too long, now. Normally, I would feel secure here, in the heart of the Reman Underground's war machine - but if this shadow-dweller can strike at a Republic Admiral, is even this place safe?

I am brooding on this question, and others, when I reach the door of my quarters and stop. The door... the door is not as I left it. It is not a sliding door, but a substantial metal hatch... and, in this comfortable dimness, I can see that it is, ever so slightly, ajar.

My hand drops to my waist, to my plasma pistol in its holster.

There is no way to open that door discreetly, so I do not try - I grasp the handle, pull hard, and move quickly inside. The light is no brighter inside than it was in the corridor. But that is no problem, for a Reman.

I draw the pistol. "If you think to hide in darkness, you should be aware, you will not succeed."

The figure reclining on my couch stirs. I snarl. The shabby mining uniform, the heavy boots, the scruffy topknot of hair, the reticulated patterns on the skin - I know them all.

"Yeah, figured as much," says Pexlini. "Listen. I need a favour."

---

I slide the pistol back into its holster. Pexlini relaxes, her heavy mining boots doing untold damage to my upholstery. "A favour," I say. "What you need is shooting. Tell me why I should not oblige you."

"Too much paperwork," says Pexlini. "Anyway, you can always shoot me after I've said my piece, so why not wait a bit?"

There are things strewn across the floor by the couch - a solid-looking secure case, a large box, a stack of datapads. I ignore her, walk over to the replicator, turn it on. "Water, four degrees Celsius, one glass." I shoot a glare in her direction. "You want me to say something like 'very well, then, talk'. But I know you, you will talk whether I encourage you or not."

"OK, so listen," says Pexlini. "I don't know how much you know - on the one hand, Starfleet Intelligence ain't in a hurry to advertise its embarrassments, but on the other, you guys are no slouches when it comes to picking up rumours, yeah? So let me tell you how it looks to me."

"Do I need something stronger than water?" I ask.

"Up to you. I stole and lost an artifact called the Mask of Dhalselapur as part of a Delta Quadrant operation. Said artifact has now turned up for sale, and half a billion credits appeared in my personal account. Intelligence has drawn obvious conclusions, and here I am, sort of not officially."

"The Vault is known as a safe haven for the desperate," I say. I turn back to the replicator. "Earth coffee, standard temperature, one cup."

"So I figure I have been set up. Kinda obvious. Question is, who by? Answer is, someone who doesn't like me - OK, that doesn't narrow the field - but also someone with resources. Big resources. Like not just enough to sling a humongous bribe into my account, but also enough to find the Mask or make a convincing duplicate. Someone with a lot of money and a lot of skills, who doesn't like me. So what name springs to mind?"

I pass her the coffee. "Now you want me to say Kalevar Thrang. Well, there. I have said Kalevar Thrang."

"Seems reasonable, yeah? Bears a grudge, throws resources around.... But Thrang ain't stupid, and I don't believe for one minute he's going to all that trouble and expense just to nobble me. Gotta be part of a larger plan. With me so far?" She takes a sip of coffee. "Yeeps. What is this, a sixth-generation copy of the replicator pattern?"

"The logical assumption," I say, "is that Starfleet Intelligence will divert resources towards investigating your innocence... and Thrang wants those resources diverted. Away from whatever he is doing."

"My thoughts precisely."

"You will now, of course, be diverting even more Intelligence resources, since you are now a wanted fugitive -"

"Oh, rubbish. Everyone knows perfectly well I'm not gonna sit in Spacedock and wait patiently to be cleared. Zorik is probably letting me run so's he can see where I run to and what rocks I turn over along the way. Guy ain't stupid." She grimaces at another swallow of coffee. "So. What doesn't Thrang want people to look at?"

"There have been several incidents demanding our attention," I say reluctantly.

"OK, like what?"

"Incidents that I should not discuss with a Starfleet renegade whose security clearance, by now, has been reduced to the point where she is not allowed to read kindergarten picture books." I sigh, and sit down on a chair, facing her.

"Your supposition is improbable in the highest degree," I say. "Even if you are innocent.... It would be neat, it would be elegant, for all our misfortunes to have one common root. Real life in general, and intelligence work in particular, are neither neat nor elegant."

"Yeah, true enough."

"Your people, and mine, have a dozen powerful, ingenious and resourceful enemies."

"Including whoever programmed this coffee. So where else you gonna start?"

I glower at her. The truth is, given orders to shine a light into shadows and see what lurks there, I have nothing definite to follow. Kalevar Thrang... the augment renegade is devious, clever, and he has resources whose depths are not known. At any rate, he has a name and a face. It is a starting point... and, as Pexlini knows, such starting points are not easy to come by.

"It is a possibility. Worth pursuing. For me." My glare intensifies. "I see no way in which you could assist me. You are a refugee, now, without resources -"

"Well, now," says Pexlini, "that ain't strictly true." She lifts one boot off the couch and kicks at the metal case. "I got my humongous bribe outta the Federation, which is kinda another reason why I think they're letting me run. Got skinned to death on the conversion, and buying my way in here wasn't cheap, but what the heck, it's all Thrang's money, I reckon. And there's still enough left to get me a decent set of wheels."

"Wheels?"

"Yanno, transport. There's a stack of gold-pressed latinum in the big case, the data pads have a bunch of negotiable securities on them, and there's enough beetle snuff in the smaller box to put half Ferenginar into orbit. So that's the favour I came to ask." Pexlini settles herself back on my couch. "Take that lot, and go buy me a starship."

antonine3258 · July 2017

Pex really pulls off the most stylish escapades. Using Thyla's pet project to get free to sneak into a Reman operative's quarters to commission her to buy a starship on Pex's behalf is elegant by those standards.

Stohl as an example of 'old guard' is probably not something that should be repeated near her, but the weaving of multiple information strands makes me wonder: Thrang is good but ran everything himself because of ego. This level of cutouts - is this the M-5 nightmare scenario here, of some artificial intelligence, born not even under organic control and without organic morality?

shevet · July 2017

"Mr. Anson. Please take a seat."

"Mr. President. It's an honour, sir."

The tall human seated himself, facing the Federation President across his desk in the Palais de la Concorde. Lyle Anson had a smooth, self-assured look; his head was bullet-shaped, with a wide square jaw and a high, domed, bald cranium; his broad mouth was accented above by a carefully-trimmed pencil-line moustache. He smiled at Aennik Okeg, a practised politician's smile.

The dapper Saurian smiled back, a slight movement of his near-lipless mouth. "Your political movement seems to be growing in leaps and bounds," he said. "Approval ratings up five points in the latest surveys. I envy you, Mr. Anson."

"Thank you, sir. Though we both know, don't we, that there's only one kind of poll which actually counts!"

"True. Still, you represent a growing body of opinion." Okeg's voice was smooth and calm. "And you have concerns. I'd be failing in my duty, I think, if I didn't at least listen to those concerns."

"Mr. President," said Anson, "nobody could possibly accuse you of failing in your duty. Your leadership, sir, in crisis after crisis, has been... exemplary. I can't think of anyone who could have done better. Your spirit, sir, your courage, your principles... they stand as an example to us all."

"Now, that is surely flattery," said Okeg.

"Not at all, sir. You've done everything possible to safeguard the Federation." Anson leaned a little forward in his chair. "Which is where the Actionist movement comes in, of course."

"How so, Mr. Anson?"

"You've done everything possible, sir, within the existing framework of the Federation. Our goal, sir, is to extend those possibilities."

Okeg's lambent eyes widened by a millimetre or so. "That seems rather a tall order. How would you go about it?"

"Mr. President." Anson took a deep breath. "You've presided over the war with the Klingons - and over the end of that war. It was a mistake, sir, one that we and the Empire made, one that could and should have been prevented. If we had worked together, sir, from the outset."

"A choice that was not entirely in our hands," Okeg murmured.

"But we have the choice now, sir. As do the Romulans - the Republic was founded by a Unificationist, sir, that opportunity has got to be taken. We won out against the Iconians' manipulation, in the end, by standing united, sir. We in the Actionist Party - and our counterparts in the Empire, the Republic, and elsewhere - believe the time has come to bring us all closer together. To make the loose alliance into something solid."

Okeg nodded, slowly. "It's a grand ambition, Mr. Anson. A laudable one, in many ways. But there are obstacles in the way." His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, as he drifted off in thought. "So many obstacles...."

"We know it will be difficult, sir. What we're proposing is, in effect, the creation of a new political entity. It will need a lot of effort, and a lot of changes in existing systems, to bring it about. We'd need radical reform of the Empire, and the Republic -" Anson paused, and shot a hard look at the President. "And, sir, the Federation."

"Ah," said Okeg. "Well. It is only to be expected, I suppose. What form would you expect these... changes... to take?"

Anson took another deep breath. "Sir, we're called the Actionists because we believe in action, and to take action, we need to be free to act. The Prime Directive, sir, is a well-intentioned relic of more idealistic times. We've seen it time and again - the Undine infiltrate, the Iconians manipulate, they shape planetary cultures to their own ends, and we do nothing, because the Prime Directive demands we cannot intervene."

Okeg said nothing.

"Even in small things, sir, it gets in the way. The situation at Vel Tarsus, now - we're trying to help those people, sir, but we have to pick our way through the contesting claims of the competing governments, we have to stand back and keep our distance - we're respecting their cultural integrity, sir, but we're letting them die while we do it. That ought to change, sir. That has to change."

"Yes,"said Okeg. His voice was soft, distant. "Yes, I understand how you must feel."

"And there are other things. One hears, well, rumours - I know not to put too much stock in rumours, sir, but sometimes one just has to wonder. Stories about assassinations, about rogue operatives in Starfleet Intelligence - sir, with respect, our intelligence services need a shake-up from time to time, just to stop them from becoming a law unto themselves. I know not to give credit to those tales about Section 31, but still -"

"I ought to reassure you," said Okeg, "that our oversight of the intelligence services remains complete - they don't get the chance to act unethically, even if they would want to. Of course, I don't know how concrete I can make my reassurances -"

"Your word, sir, is good enough for me. Even so, there are so many missed opportunities - ourselves, Imperial Intelligence, the Republic, all working at cross purposes...." Anson shook his head.

"It's another area where there would be friction, in a unified government," said Okeg. "Our ethical standards and Imperial Intelligence's are... not the same."

"We could work something out, sir. Sooner or later, we'll have to. The movement I represent, sir, thinks it should be sooner, rather than later."

"Well," said Okeg, "if the polls continue to swing in your favour, you may soon have the chance to try." He looked soberly at the other man. "I don't think you will find much support, though, for abandoning the Prime Directive. Too many mistakes were made, in the past."

"We can learn from mistakes, sir. And I hope we will."

"It's easy to see, with hindsight, where we went wrong," Okeg said, almost to himself. "Easy to spot where we might have intervened and made things better, or where we should have refrained. But hindsight is one thing. To pick the right choice, in the middle of a crisis, requires... great clarity of vision. More than I can lay claim to, at any rate."

"Sir, with the other great cultures of the galaxy on our side, I'm sure we can find that clarity."

"Perhaps," said Okeg, "perhaps." Then his tone became lighter, brisker. "Well. Thank you, at least, for your forthrightness, Mr. Anson. It's been a most illuminating meeting. I wish we could talk longer, but, alas -"

"Of course, Mr. President." Anson rose to his feet. "I know there are many demands on your time. It's been an honour and a privilege, sir."

They shook hands. Anson's handshake was brisk and firm. If Okeg's cool, scaly fingers caused him any discomfort, he did not show it.

At the door, as he left, he turned one last time, smiled, and said, "Don't worry, Mr. President. It's not our intention to add to your burdens."

And he was gone. The door hissed shut. Okeg waited a few seconds before he muttered to himself, "That's exactly what I'm worried about."

---

Thomas Harriman started to rise to his feet as Okeg entered the conference room. The President waved him down, and Harriman let his hundred and thirty kilogramme bulk subside back into his chair.

Okeg took a seat. "I gather you've reviewed the record of my... meeting," he said. "I'd like to hear your conclusions."

Besides Okeg and Harriman, there were two others in the room; a blankly impassive Vulcan in Starfleet uniform, and a dumpy female Tellarite in civilian clothes. Harriman waved a fat hand at the Tellarite. "I'll let Professor Sturla do the talking," he said. "She's the expert."

"I don't believe we've met," Okeg said.

"Sturla glasch Drem," the Tellarite said shortly. "Professor of Semiotic Warfare at Cygni University, and the fat man's right, if you want to understand arguments, go to a Tellarite." She snorted. "It's what we're good at. Apparently."

"Well, thank you for coming," said Okeg. "So, what's your professional assessment of Lyle Anson?"

"Professionally, and academically," Sturla said, "he's what we'd technically call a huge phony."

Okeg laughed. "He's a politician. Aren't we all -?"

"If you want to waste your time with sophomore cynicism," said Sturla, "fine, but don't waste mine. I mean his responses, his body language, his vocabulary choices - his entire semiotic output - is fake. Trained. Manufactured. I looked up his biography. Born Waldemar Laukaitis, changed name, also personal grooming - nothing so overt as plastic surgery - modified all his phonological and syntactic markers, his personal idiolect, conforming to a standard that's designed to appeal to a broad subset of core Earth-humans. Politically active Earth-humans. And he's got a whole set of markers that identify him as typically human to a range of non-humans -"

"Such as what?" Harriman asked.

"You want the full details, they're on a PADD. But he comes across as stereotypically human. You know. Bouncy, optimistic, casually arrogant, pushy." She glared at Harriman. "Hey, you asked."

"Not very positive characteristics," Okeg observed.

"But very stereotypical characteristics. Comfortable, even. You know where you are with a human like that." She glowered at Okeg. "He is way too good to be true. He has got to be a front. Trained, maybe even hypnotically conditioned."

Okeg sighed. "I don't doubt your analysis -"

"You damn well shouldn't!"

"But it's too inchoate to use," Okeg continued. "Unless we can discover who he's a front for, all we have is... a politician who's taken elocution lessons, and has good advisers and a good speech-writer. You could say the same about me."

"If you'd ever stick to a script," muttered Harriman. "Sir."

"So," said Okeg, "who is he fronting for? He's the main spokesperson for the Actionists in the Federation - he seems to be first among equals among the Actionists as a whole, if I understand things correctly?"

"Pretty much," said Harriman. "The Action Party is a legitimately registered political organization within the Federation, and as such it's got advantages over its Imperial and Republic counterparts. Action Red - the Klingon part - is currently a loose group of High Councillors centred on a Dahar Master T'Lor; he's respected, but he's in no position to mount a serious challenge to J'mpok. The Republic's representation system is still largely provisional, and in practice power defaults to D'Tan and his deputies... Action Green is headed up by Sarellius i-Maro tr'Bochdal, who calls himself - well, the Rihannsu title translates to 'Tribune'."

"Which is kind of interesting," Sturla added. "The Tribune was a representative of the populace, to speak up on behalf of the common folks to the people in power... and they were sacrosanct. Ceremonially inviolate. It was a crime to lay hands on one. If Sarellius is choosing this title... it implies he's trying to speak truth to power, and that he needs formal protection to do it. It's a subtle criticism of D'Tan's leadership."

"Action Gold is a legal entity in Ferengi Alliance space, owned by a consortium headed by a DaiMon Steg," Harriman went on. "Its market capitalization is pretty limited, so far, so it doesn't have any official standing with the FCA. Action Amber is a registered political organization in the Cardassian Union, but doesn't have representation on the Detapa Council. At least, not yet. The spokesman is an Anem Marcass, and I don't have much information about him, though he might have connections with the True Way. Action White appears to be just one modified Sarr Theln, running political broadcasts, under the command of a Thot Frek. I don't know if the Confederacy considers them a viable political force, or just a - a pirate radio station. We don't know nearly enough about the workings of the Breen political system."

"Is that it?" Sturla demanded. "No Action Shiny for the Tholians? Or Action Naugahyde for the Tzenkethi?"

"I imagine it's a practicality thing," said Harriman. "The Tholians are difficult to deal with for all sorts of reasons, and the Tzenkethi are mad dogs. Hard to organize."

"So," Okeg said, "we seem to have the largest and most advanced set of Actionists, here in the Federation. Lucky us. Well, we have some idea what they want... now, how do they propose to get it? Tom, what can you tell me about the Vel Tarsus situation?"

Harriman spread his hands wide. "What can I say? It's a God-awful foul-up, but we're doing all we can. We can't make people accept help at gunpoint, after all. You could make a case for all sorts of Prime Directive violations going on... the legal status of the provisional government is pretty dubious, and our people have had to act in self-defence many times.... Most of the relief work is being done by NGOs and other autonomous entities, not by Starfleet, but there's only so far the legalisms will stretch, there. If someone wanted to prosecute a relief agency for a Prime Directive violation, well, they could make a case, but why would they?"

"To make the Prime Directive look officious, stupid and heartless," Sturla said promptly.

Okeg nodded. "We need to keep an eye on that situation," he said. "I do, of course, have some authority to issue Presidential pardons... but that, in itself, is a political act, open to interpretation." His lambent eyes turned towards the Vulcan. "In any case... tell us about the rumours, Admiral Zorik."

Zorik's voice was as deadpan as his face. "Assuming Mr. Anson to be correctly informed - which assumption I rate at a plus-ninety percent confidence level - it seems most likely he is referring to the presumed peculation and defection of Admiral Pexlini. The status of that issue is, as yet, unresolved."

"Presumed?" said Okeg.

"My assessment is that there is a ninety-seven point three percent probability that Admiral Pexlini is innocent and has been placed in an invidious position by a hostile agent," Zorik said. "This being the case, I have decided to allow her a level of freedom of action."

"Why not simply ignore it, whatever it is?" Sturla demanded.

"In the case of an operative with Admiral Pexlini's level of access and resources, a two point seven percent possibility of corruption is still too high. She would be in a position to disrupt our operations in the Delta Quadrant to a significant extent. However. Her actions since absconding from Earth Spacedock have been interesting. She has sought sanctuary and assistance at the Vault, with a Reman officer with whom she collaborated in the incident of the Rehanissen Archive. My belief, then, is that she believes the hostile agent to be the human augment who orchestrated that incident."

"Kalevar Thrang," said Okeg.

"If this assessment is correct," said Zorik, "then it suggests that Thrang is deliberately implicating Admiral Pexlini as part of some process of misdirection. I am, therefore, devoting only minimal resources to tracking and monitoring Admiral Pexlini. We know where she is; if necessary, we can lay hands on her. Otherwise, I propose to allow her to continue her own investigations. She is highly motivated, resourceful, and disruptive. If she is innocent, she will set out to prove this, and will generate much valuable data in the process. Of course, none of us can reveal anything of this matter to the general public - even to so influential a member of the public as Mr. Anson."

"So, there is a plot at work in Starfleet Intelligence, and I can't give Anson any answers about it." Okeg sighed. "Well. What about the other matter? The assassinations?"

"That," said Zorik, "is cause for concern. To date, six dignitaries in six major galactic powers have received these countdown transmissions - and, when the countdown ran out, so did their lives. We are attempting to discover who else may be receiving anonymous transmissions of this kind. It is a delicate task, since we must avoid causing general alarm. Even so, some rumours - as Mr. Anson has demonstrated - are spreading. The deaths of prominent individuals - accompanied, in some cases, by extravagant collateral damage - cannot be entirely concealed."

"Do we have any idea who's doing it?" Okeg asked.

"Not at this time. The countdown signals are anonymized to a very high standard. Admiral Shohl of the Experimental Engineering division was present at one incident and managed to limit the collateral damage. She and her data-warfare team are studying the forensic material. It is to be hoped that she will generate some leads."

"It certainly is," said Okeg. "So... these are the things Anson and his Actionists are holding against us. Possible corruption in Intelligence, and an assassination project that we can't handle. Yes, these would be good ways to make this administration look weak and incompetent." There was sudden steel in his mild voice. "Mr. Anson seems very well informed, besides being well trained. I think we need to know a great deal more about Mr. Anson."

jonsills · July 2017

An... interesting choice for the "stereotypical Human". Rather flattering, really - I can think of worse people to represent humanity.

antonine3258 · July 2017

I wonder if the sort of 'generic' broad appeal' applies to the other representatives.

Action Naugahyde amused me more than it perhaps should.

shevet · August 2017

Tylha

"There's bits missing." Klerupiru looks terrible. She's sitting in the middle of a scattered drift of PADDs and isolinear chips, with six different holo-displays projecting pages of machine code into the air around her; her eyes are hollow, and she has spent so long tugging at her collar that her rank pips are hanging askew. She waves a hand at one of the displays. "Here, for instance."

"You need to get some sleep," I tell her.

She just grunts. "There's a whole other system woven through the computer core. Like, a shadow OS, underlying the main one. It's - it's amazingly complicated. Like -" She frowns. Then her eyelids droop, and she shakes her head.

"Sleep," I repeat. "I'll make it an order if I have to. Come on, you know you can't do good work in this state, surely?"

"Yeah, but...." She shakes her head again. "This system, it could organize itself, maybe, download modules and subroutines from subspace channels... but there had to be a source, a seed that it grew from, if you like, and this stuff is so low-level, it's practically at chip architecture level.... There had to be a, a physical source. Had to."

"What," I say, doubtfully, "you mean like a virus file, manually inserted?"

She shakes her head. "Architecture level. Has to be. A specialist chip with the seed on it... inserted into the services net at some point... then the shadow OS grew from there...."

"That... doesn't make our life any easier," I say. "Isolinear chips are designed to be hot-swappable. You'd have to trace, I don't know -"

"I do," says Klerupiru glumly. "Every chip, every single one that's ever been put in a reader socket anywhere on the research station's internal network. And it needn't have been there more than a second or two, either. And it's nearly impossible to track every chip, especially as the shadow OS will have been covering its tracks. It does that. It's very thorough."

"Get some rest," I tell her. She nods, and slowly gets to her feet.

"'nother thing," she mutters. "There's a, a key."

"A what?"

"Shadow OS takes orders. There's a key sequence it responds to, or would respond to. Know what it is, it's hard-coded at the machine code level. Quaternion array. Looks like encoded vector ratios."

"What?" I try to keep up with computer technology, but I'm not an expert, Klerupiru is.

"Quaternions are great for encoding three-dimensional structures," she says. "This thing, it's like a shape, a solid object, that you can view at any distance, at any angle, but if you see it, the system will respond."

"So? Great," I say. "Feed this shape in, and let's see how the shadow OS responds."

"That's the problem," Klerupiru says. "Feed it in where, and how? We've got the quaternion array, but it needs to come in on a specific data channel, and I don't know how the shadow OS maps its inputs onto its channels. Like having the key to a lock, but I don't know where the keyhole is." She waves a hand at her main desk console, and the holo-displays wink out. "Got to get some rest," she says, and shambles out of the lab.

I sit on the edge of her desk, and look at one of the PADDs. I'm trying to read it upside down, but I don't think I would do any better if it was right way up. I'm not the expert, here. I should get some rest myself.

My combadge chirps at me. I slap at it irritably. "Shohl."

"Sir." Cordul's voice. "I have a secure transmission from Republic space, with an authorization from Admiral Hengest."

"I'm in computer lab one. Put it through on the screen here," I say. Whatever it is, it can't be good news.

The screen flashes, and a face appears; a grey scowling gargoyle face, with brooding eyes in blackened sockets. "Commander, um, Heizis. What can I do for you?"

"Routine intelligence digest transfer indicates that you are looking at a case of computer infiltration, source unknown." The Reman is all business. Well, mostly business, with some surliness. "I have come across a similar issue. It is possible they are related, in which case we might be wise to pool our efforts."

"Anything's possible," I say. "But, well, I don't see any reason to be at cross purposes with you over this. What's your situation?"

"Someone has assembled the parts and plans for a sun-killer weapon. A trilithium warhead. We intercepted one before it could be delivered, but we believe there is another one out there somewhere. And the parts - the blueprints, the specialist materials orders - come from sources that cannot be traced. As if they arose out of the data cloud itself."

"Like the countdown transmissions," I say.

"Yes. I am acquainted with the countdowns. The Republic lost one senior officer, if you recall."

"Any idea how?"

"Our best guess is that someone sent a drone through the flotilla's security screen to interfere with Admiral Trosek's transport. Obviously, this should not be possible. And they would have had to know Trosek's schedules, too, down to the minute. Those should not have been accessible, either."

"But with some ghost in the computer systems, anything's possible." I sigh.

"Quite. And I, for one, do not believe in multiple ghosts. All our difficulties must have one author." Heizis shifts, uneasily, and her expression turns more sour than usual. "In this connection... I have a visitor, who has suggested a name."

"A visitor?"

"Your former colleague. Pexlini. Ex-Admiral Pexlini, I should imagine, by this point."

"Pexlini? She's with you?"

"She came to me for help. I suppose I should feel flattered. In any case, she is here at the Vault, and therefore well outside Starfleet's reach." I could take issue with that, but I hold my peace; there's no need to antagonize the Remans. "She is volubly protesting her innocence, as you might expect, and she believes her misfortunes all spring from one source. Kalevar Thrang."

I inhale, sharply, and my antennae stiffen. Kalevar Thrang. The man who tried to start a war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire... and who tried to fix it so that I would fire the opening shots. "Do you think that's likely?" I ask, carefully keeping my voice neutral.

"It is - possible. If Thrang is active again, he could be attempting to frame Pexlini as part of a wider plan to confuse and distract Starfleet Intelligence. As I say, it is possible. It would be neat and elegant." She looks as if she is about to spit. "I distrust neatness. However -"

Something is making her reluctant. "You've found another connection. Something else that's neat."

"References to a mask," Heizis says. "Passing mentions, no more - an anonymized voice on a secure channel says that it will use the mask to find information; a courier is instructed to use the mask to access funds. That is all, just those two words, the mask. But since we already know of one mask that is causing problems... I cannot help but wonder if this is related."

"I guess it might be. Though what the Mask of Dhalselapur is supposed to do -" I sigh. "All right. Let's set up some dedicated secure data channels for pooling this information. It can't hurt."

"Assuming anything can be regarded as secure," mutters Heizis.

---

It takes a while. Afterwards, I stand up, stretch, and decide to head for my quarters. I've been awake a long time, and sleep is calling me.

Then I change my mind. I still have my other project on hand - I can spare an hour, I think, to beam over to ESD and check the progress on the experimental ship.

The station is bustling as ever - ESD never sleeps. I'm weaving my way through the crowds towards the main turbolifts when a voice behind me says, "Ah, Tylha."

It's Paul Hengest. He's got a PADD in one hand, and he looks as tired as I feel. "I was wanting to catch up with you," he says. "Any serious progress?"

"My data warfare analyst's report should be in by morning. She had to get some sleep."

"I know how she feels," says Paul. He waves the PADD vaguely in my direction. "Still trying to trace people with countdowns running. Difficult, since so many people just junk anonymous messages like that... and so many people get threats. You should see the President's death threat inbox... or maybe you shouldn't, it's depressing."

"Does Okeg have a countdown running?"

"No, or at least not that we can find. So far, we only have one confirmed active, and it's a weird one. It's not directed at a person - it's being sent to the ecological management agency on Planet T."

"Planet what?"

Paul shrugs. "There was a fad, one time, for giving marginal human colony worlds a code letter instead of a proper name. It didn't last long... twenty-six cases, I think, obviously enough. But Planet T's automated systems, apparently, are getting a death threat. How that's going to work, I can't imagine. We'll find out in about five days, it looks like."

"Maybe we should alert the disaster relief people, just in case," I say. It's got to the point, actually, where I'd genuinely like to have an excuse to talk to Osrin or Koneph... but I'm not telling Paul that.

"They're aware. Though the Vel Tarsus fiasco is taking up a lot of their resources.... Oh, well. I'll read your officer's report as soon as it comes in, I think." Paul sighs. "I'm getting too old for all these late nights. I envy you Andorians, sometimes. Not being tied down to a regular sleep cycle must be very convenient."

"Well, we have to sleep sometime. Sure, we can stay awake a long time in a crisis, but all that metabolic activity's got to be paid for." I stifle a yawn. "And, if you'll excuse me, I think my bill is due."

Paul laughs. "So's mine. I'll see you in the morning -" Then the PADD in his hand gives off a soft bleep. He looks down at it, and his expression changes. To one of disbelief, then shock, then fear.

"Tylha," he says, and his voice is actually shaking, "I think it'd be good - I mean, you'd be doing me a favour - if we could make some serious progress on this business. Umm, soon. Within about the next two weeks, for preference."

He turns the PADD towards me. I don't realize what I'm looking for, at first, and then I spot it, the numbers in the corner of the screen, the numbers that, when I see them, read 13:23:59:49.

shevet · August 2017

Pexlini

The Nausicaan mercenary is called Nurnos. He's about forty centimetres taller than me, and big-built with it; he's dressed in KDF-surplus combat armour, and right now he's making a pretty creditable attempt to knock my head off.

He comes towards me now in a fighting crouch, clawed hands extended. If he gets a grip, his superior weight and strength are going to finish me off pretty quick. So, don't let him get a grip, Pex, I tell myself. I feint to the left, dodge to the right, trip over some random piece of junk on the cargo bay floor, and somehow convert the stumble into a shoulder roll that leaves me out of his reach for a scant few seconds.

Nurnos gnashes his tusks, scoops up the thing I tripped on - looks like an empty packing container - and throws it at my head. I duck, but it still catches me a glancing blow on the scalp. I dodge his next rush and throw my elbow into his kidney as I pass. No luck there, though, his armour is too solid. I already tried kicking him in the knees, same problem.

If this was some cheesy martial arts movie, I would use Master Blah's Astounding Leaping Flamingo technique to kick him in the head right now and finish it. Sadly, in the real world, a move like that will more likely leave me flat on my back with an angry Nausicaan standing over me, which is kinda not the sort of place I most want to be. There are no magic one-shot moves that will take him down....

Although -

I find a fraction of a second to think while he sidles around, trying to get on my flank. He's wearing Klingon body armour... and Klingon armour doesn't quite fit Nausicaan bodies. I remember, dimly, a combat instructor at the Academy, droning on about that back plating and how it could dig into some nerve cluster at the base of the spine.

Well, it's worth a shot.

So, the next time he darts forward to get me in grappling range, I let him - and, as his arms close around me, I reach around his torso with my arm, find the lacing for that row of plates down the back, and give it a sharp tug downwards.

He screeches in my ear and relaxes his grip. He's only startled and pained, but it gives me enough of an opening to slam my elbow into his jaw, then follow up with a punch to the throat.

He goes down. I roll away, come back up in a crouch. Nurnos is on his hands and knees, coughing and retching. He turns his head towards me, and there is pure murder in his eyes.

Then those eyes glaze over, and he shivers, and subsides gracelessly onto the floor. It's as if the strength has been suddenly drained out of his body - which, as it happens, it has.

"Enough." Heizis unfolds herself from her perch high up on one wall, and drops lithely down onto the deck. Her eyes remained fixed on Nurnos, ready to put another Reman psychic whammy on him if she needs to. Nurnos makes some incoherent mumbling noises, then says in a hoarse voice, "Yes, enough." He gets back to his feet. I'm sorta pleased to see it takes him a couple of tries.

Heizis hands him a datapad. He turns towards me, and his mouth and tusks contort in something that I realize, after a second or so, is meant to be a smile. "You fight dirty," he says. "I like that, in an employer."

"Glad to hear it," I say. I'd say something wittier, but I'm trying not to look out of breath.

Nurnos's horny thumb comes down on the datapad. "Congratulations," Heizis says, "you have a first officer." She stalks off towards the cargo bay door. "Let me introduce you to some more of your new team," she says over her shoulder.

I follow her. Behind me, Nurnos picks up his gun, one of those Nausicaan things with the blades that look like the Grand High Chieftain of the Can-Opener Clan. Normally, having a Nausicaan mercenary behind me with one of those things would make me worry... but Nausicaans are sticklers for their contracts, and I have this guy's contract, so right now having a Nausicaan merc at my back just means I have a very well-guarded back. It's enough to cheer me up, a bit.

Heizis leads us through several corridors and docking latches, to another semi-autonomous capsule, one of many in the tangled Medusa coils of the Suliban cell ship. Two figures stand up as we come through a door.

The first one - My eyes widen at the sight of her. Heavy, drab clothing; grey mottled skin, conical skull, eyes of a smoky orange colour... you really don't see many Kobali this side of the galaxy.

"My name is Nyesenia," she says. "Engineering officer." Surprise must be showing in my face, since she adds, "I hope you're not one of those people who have problems with the post-mortal."

I'm tempted to say hey, I get on fine with the undead, just ask Heizis, but with Heizis standing right beside me, that would be kind of tactless. Besides, I'm not sure the ghoulish Reman counts as a friend, exactly, just as someone who takes me seriously enough not to hand me back to Starfleet. "Just wondering what you're doing this side of the Iconian gates, is all," I manage to say.

"I could ask you the same," she replies tartly, and then she smiles. "I suppose we will have time to get to know each other. This," she adds, pointing to the other person in the room, "is your science officer, Rozilai."

Rozilai is tall and slim, wearing a simple blue dress. Her skin is so dark it's hard to make our her Trill spots, and, as I look closer, one side of her face seems to be scarred, or wrinkled, or even withered. Old radiation burn, maybe? It doesn't seem to bother her. "I have heard a great deal about you from Commander Heizis," she says, holding out a hand.

I shake it. "And you're not running?" I ask.

She laughs. "Commander Heizis speaks highly of your talents." I turn to Heizis and quirk a quizzical eyebrow at her. She just glowers.

"Well," I say, "I'm sure you're all talented, too. In fact, you better be, since as far as I can see we've got some pretty serious challenges. Like, for instance, we're gonna have to walk everywhere...."

Heizis sighs. "You asked for transport. I have provided transport." She walks across the room, to a transparent aluminium porthole. She points. "There."

I join her, and squint to see where she's pointing. The cell ship is floating free in one of the vast interior hangars of the Vault; the ancient space station is big enough to make Earth Spacedock look like a potting shed.

The thing Heizis is pointing at is a stubby cylinder, like a can of condensed milk or something. Except it's a can with serious Goth pretensions; it's black, it's got a module on top that looks like a big pointy hat, its warp nacelles are sheathed in sharply angled protective covers that look like capes. A Goth vampire wizard condensed milk can. Or, in conventional language, a Hirogen hunter escort.

"Yep, OK," I say. "I guess I can do some damage in that. Keep the change."

"I did," says Heizis. She frowns. Well, she frowns worse. "I had hoped to obtain something larger - there were rumours that an Apex battlecruiser was coming onto the market. But those rumours came to nothing." She glares at me. "No doubt you believe that was Kalevar Thrang's fault, too."

shevet · August 2017

The black, armoured shapes of the Hirogen stood aside as the man walked towards the mess table. He was a tall, athletically built human - but, by some margin, the smallest being in the mess hall.

The man threw the object he was carrying onto the mess table. It rolled a short distance, then came to a halt. It was a standard helmet from a suit of Hirogen battle armour, but it was heavier than normal. Its owner's head was still inside it.

"There," said the man. Absolute silence greeted him.

"Your Alpha rose to the challenge," the man continued, "but, as you see, he didn't rise high enough." Behind him, a gigantic hulking Beta touched the wrist controls of his battle armour, and faded into invisibility. "So, unless there is another challenge -"

The man didn't finish the sentence. He moved.

One foot lashed out, connected with thin air; an armoured leg flickered into visibility, and there was a grunt of pain. "Predictable," the man commented, as he ducked. Something passed by his head, close enough to ruffle his dark hair. He reached and grabbed at a briefly visible arm, and used it to vault over his opponent's shoulder - catching the Beta's thick neck in the crook of his arm as he moved.

He landed squarely on his feet, with the Beta's head caught firmly against his chest. He grasped his right wrist with his left hand, twisted, and pulled. There was a grisly snapping sound.

The man released his hold. The Beta's body fell, limp, to the deck.

"So," the man said. "Unless there's another challenge... I take command." His gaze raked the tall armoured figures around him. "Understand this, hunters," he said softly. "You know how to stalk your prey, how to wait, how to take the best chance. Well, your best chance is now. I'm tired, I'm a little bruised, even... you will never get a better chance to take me. Know that." He turned in a slow circle, meeting the eyes of each Hirogen in turn. "Is there another challenge?" he asked again.

The Hirogen did not cringe, exactly, but there was a shift in their body language; they shuffled, and looked... sheepish, almost. The man nodded. Pack mentality. The Hirogen were intelligent beings, but their social hierarchies were ingrained in them; each one knew his place, knew who was above him... and would keep in his place, beneath a leader who had proved himself.

"Very well," he said. "Good. I need this ship, I can always get a crew... but it would be wasteful to kill all of you. Now. Navigation officer. I have business to attend to in the Alpha Peluria system. Set a course."

A massive arm was raised in salute. "At your order, Alpha Thrang!"

Kalevar Thrang smiled.

antonine3258 · August 2017

This may be the first time we see Heizis not being paranoid enough I think.

dalolorn · August 2017

Called it!

shevet · August 2017

"Tribune Sarellius. Welcome."

The tall, imposing Romulan bowed gravely to the smaller, unassuming, grey-haired figure behind the desk. "Proconsul."

D'Tan gestured. "Please, take a seat. There is no need for formalities, is there?"

"I would hope not." Sarellius sat down opposite D'Tan, relaxing in the chair, crossing his legs casually. "Though I should perhaps remind you of one formality -"

"Your person is inviolate," said D'Tan in cool tones. "Quite. As it happens, your person is inviolate, since you are a law-abiding citizen of the Republic, and I have neither the authority nor the desire to harm you." He favoured Sarellius with a thin-lipped smile. "An agent of the Tal Shiar once stood in this office, very near to where you are sitting now. She gave me her message, and departed unharmed. I told her," he added, "to call again during office hours."

"And did she?" asked Sarellius.

"No. But that was her choice."

Sarellius nodded, thoughtfully. "I suppose it is necessary to readjust our thinking. We are not, as a people, accustomed to having a leader who is responsible, moderate, and approachable. So, we seek protections, still, perhaps through titles -"

"If you think the title of Tribune would have protected you in a clash with Sela, say, or Donatra," said D'Tan, "I am sure they would have been glad to disillusion you. However, you are speaking to me, now, and you may speak your mind freely. Will you speak your mind, Tribune Sarellius?"

"Gladly. And I hope that you and I are of one mind on this. Reunification."

"That has been my goal for all my adult life," said D'Tan softly.

"We of the Actionists believe it is now attainable. Proconsul, the barriers between us and the Vulcans - between us and the other interstellar civilizations - are wasteful. None knows this better than you. You have seen how our enemies play on our divisions. To break down those barriers, to unify the galactic powers - this is the goal of the Actionist movement. And our people, especially, need to see those barriers fall."

"You have no opposition from me," said D'Tan, "in principle."

Sarellius narrowed his eyes. "Only in principle?"

D'Tan sighed. "One of the things I know better than most," he said, "is how much work is involved in keeping a government running. It is dull, for the most part, but necessary. To declare that the Republic is one with the Federation would be the work of an instant, true... but harmonizing the currency, making the regulation of trade and industry consistent between the two powers, reconciling the legal systems, agreeing mutual defense arrangements... these things take time, and much effort. And we would still have the social and historical conditioning to contend with. We have fought wars against our Vulcan brethren... can we be sure, in the face of that, of a fraternal welcome?" He shook his head. "I believe in Reunification, true enough. But I have no illusions about how far apart our culture and the Vulcans have grown. To bridge that gap - that is not the work of an instant."

"We are Romulans," said Sarellius. "We are not defeated. We will accomplish whatever we set out to accomplish."

"I do not deny it," said D'Tan. "I point out, only, that the way is long and hard."

"The more reason to set out on it now," said Sarellius. "Even now, we are working at cross purposes with those who should be our allies and partners. We face threats from an unknown quarter, and Reman intelligence is blundering in the dark, chasing ghosts. A unified Alpha Quadrant intelligence agency -"

"Would be a fearsome thing," D'Tan interrupted. "Who would run it? K'men? Ethan Burgess? Chakotay? None of our proposed partners would trust a Romulan or a Reman in such a role, you may be sure of that. Or, there are worse alternatives still. Have you heard of Franklin Drake?"

"They might yet be effective," said Sarellius. "That is of paramount importance, when it comes to intelligence."

"Effectiveness is not the only important quality," said D'Tan. "In their way, the Tal Shiar and the Obsidian Order were effective. Intelligence agencies need to be... morally constrained. Even if it reduces their efficiency. And reaching agreement on that - well, it would be complex. And that is only one area of complexity."

"But you say you agree with us, in principle."

"In principle, yes. I ask only that you do not ignore realities for the sake of your principles."

Sarellius rose. His expression was hostile. "The realities, at present, are that the major powers of this galaxy are fragmented and quarrelsome. That the Republic is only one smaller power, not even fully representative of the Romulan people... and that you may prefer it that way. Because the Republic is under your control."

D'Tan said nothing.

"You may be content to be absolute master of a small domain. We may feel that our people deserve better."

D'Tan remained silent.

"I remind you of the inviolacy of my person."

"You have no need for concern." D'Tan was not looking at Sarellius; he seemed to be staring at nothing at all. "You feel you have spoken truth to power. It is your right, Tribune Sarellius. We must all do as we think best, for our people." His gaze sharpened and focused on the other man. "I take it, then, that this interview is concluded?"

"For the present." Sarellius drew in a deep breath. "We will speak again, Proconsul. Depend on it."

---

The Gorn was massive, naked to the waist, gigantic muscles clearly moving under his grey-green hide. He gazed down at J'mpok from his full, towering height. "Chancellor," he hissed. "I am Prince Xrallos."

J'mpok grunted. "If you were not, I would have words with my appointments secretary," he said. "So. How may I assist the court of King Slathis?"

"I do not come from the court, nor do I speak for his Majesty," said Xrallos.

"No," said J'mpok, "no, you come from the court of Dahar Master T'Lor. This I know. Was the Dahar Master otherwise engaged? Too busy to come himself?"

"We felt that it was more appropriate that I should attend you," said Xrallos. "To demonstrate the advantages of cooperation. You know the Gorn Hegemony has been a loyal ally to the Empire."

"Neither you nor T'Lor need tell me what I already know."

"Cooperation, Chancellor. Without the Empire's - assistance - we would never have appreciated the threat from the Undine. They were already positioned at the very highest level of our government, and it took a war for you to demonstrate that to us." Xrallos's massive head tilted slightly to one side. "The Dahar Master and I merely feel that cooperation can be achieved - should be achieved - with rather less bloodshed."

J'mpok grunted. "I am aware of the Actionist Movement," he said.

"Some consider us traitors. We are not."

"If I thought you were a traitor," said J'mpok, "you and I would be negotiating with blades, not words. No. You Actionists are not traitors - as far as I know. What are you, then?"

"Citizens and allies of the Empire, with - certain concerns."

"And certain suggestions." J'mpok shifted uneasily.

"Our enemies - our mutual enemies - attempted to divide and rule the powers of this part of the galaxy," said Xrallos. "Our objective, then, is not to be divided, and to rule ourselves."

"Your objective," J'mpok almost spat, "sounds very well, but in practice it amounts to one thing. The unification of the major galactic powers under one banner. Whose banner?"

"Is it important? What matters is the effectiveness of the organization."

"Such an organization would be effective only if it left a maximum of internal government in place among its constituent parts," said J'mpok. "Any other arrangement would be too unwieldy to function. So. It would be an alliance which guaranteed the individual liberties of its components, which pledged non-interference in the affairs of its subordinate governments. Tell me, which galactic power might best manage that? Which galactic power already operates on that basis?"

"The Federation -"

"Precisely." J'mpok cut the Gorn short. "Your objective sounds well, but the practical outcome is obvious. The incorporation of the Empire - and, I presume, the Romulan Republic - into the Federation. King Slathis and I would take our places - oh, with all due courtesy, no doubt - on the Federation Council." His lips pulled back from his teeth in an ugly snarl. "I have come to respect Aennik Okeg, to a degree - first as an adversary, then as an ally. But I do not yet respect him enough to call him my President."

"Alternative constitutional arrangements could be made. The honour of the Empire need not be compromised. The actual formalities -"

"Formalities?" J'mpok was shouting. "The honour of the Empire is not a formality! You seek to take away our independence, and cloak it in a form of words! I have been a politician long enough to recognize forms of words when I see them!"

"Yes," said Xrallos, "you have been a politician... long enough."

J'mpok stared at him, the snarl still on his lips. "That almost sounded like a threat," he said softly.

"It is a fact. You have done much service to the Empire, and to the galaxy as a whole," said Xrallos. "But times change, Chancellor, and the glorious past must sometimes give way to the practical future. History is not on your side."

"I have stood against stronger tides than your history," spat J'mpok. He rose to his feet. "Are you here to give history a helping hand? I am ready."

"I am here to talk," said Xrallos, "nothing more. And I see there is little point in my saying anything else." He turned. As he lowered his massive head to go through the doorway, he glanced back and said, "History is on our side, Chancellor, so we need do nothing more than wait."

And he left. J'mpok stared at the closed door for a long while, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

shevet · August 2017

Heizis

"We have a sensor contact." E'Maon turns his vulpine face towards me; the Reman intelligence officer is wearing a puzzled frown. "It's not on our pursuit vector...."

"Trilithium signatures?" I ask. I call up the tactical display on my chair console. Saraswati is hurtling through space at high warp speed, in a relatively empty sector of the Beta Quadrant... but E'Maon is right, there is a blip at the edge of sensor range, a blip that looks... distinctly unusual.

"Negative for trilithium," says E'Maon. "But the output from that bogey is... different. I'm not finding an immediate match to anything in the database."

"I think we're going to know what it is soon," Kaxath interrupts from the comms station. "I'm getting a signal - we're being hailed."

I sit up straight on the command chair. "On screen."

The viewscreen flickers, and a nightmare appears on it. I try to project a fierce impression myself, but this - Dead metal-filmed eyes stare from a too-pale face with blackened veins showing through the skin. A crescent of metal plating covers the outer orbit of the right eye, and from it a very prominent neural cable arches round to the back of the head, where I know it plunges into an occipital implant. If it were not for the dusting of stubble on the scalp, one might think this was a fully assimilated Borg drone. The thin, bloodless lips writhe, and a voice speaks.

"Four of Six, independent control adjunct to the Romulan Republic, aboard the dreadnought ARW Zacatzontli," the grating voice says. "Appropriate non-meaningful phatic remarks made in greeting to Commander Heizis."

Four of Six has been disconnected from the Collective, but has retained most of her Borg habits of thought. Of course, when one considers who she used to be - something I know, which others need not - the Borg identity might seem preferable. I bare my teeth. I will not be outdone, when it comes to looking fearsome.

"Four of Six. Greetings. How can we assist you?"

"Drone is not in need of assistance. Drone queries your presence in this patrol sector. Drone was not informed of any mission requiring your attention. Drone is of course not informed of everything. Nonetheless, presence of Khopesh-class warbird travelling in relatively quiet sector suggests unexpected military developments. Drone stands ready to assist."

It seems we are treading on Four's toes... or she is bored with a routine patrol mission and hopes for some action. I have her transponder data, now; the Zacatzontli is a Paradox-class dreadnought, one of those relics from an abortive future timeline deposited in this century by the recent temporal incursions. A highly potent and highly desirable relic, in fact.

One which I can use. "A routine sensor sweep picked up a freighter with trilithium signatures heading into this sector," I say. "I was alerted, because we have reason to believe someone has developed a trilithium weapon - a sun-killer. I am moving in pursuit of this freighter." I smile. "A single freighter would be unlikely to offer resistance to my ship... with yours in support, well...."

"Drone counsels caution when intercepting smugglers of megadeath weapons. They often have armed support for their criminal endeavours. Drone will match her course to yours. Drone believes her ship constitutes armed support in itself."

She is not wrong about that, and her assistance is welcome. "Let us not be obvious, though. Maintain a reasonable separation," I advise her, "and stand ready to offer support if the need arises."

"Drone concurs. Transmitting course data along your subchannels now." And the screen goes blank. Four of Six does not stand on ceremony.

"What of our quarry?" I ask.

"Still on course," says E'Maon. "The warp contrail is faint - I think they are making efforts to mask it - but it is still there."

"Projected destination?"

"None, as yet. Either they intend a course change, or they have a rendezvous plotted with another vessel in deep space. Or both."

I shift uneasily in my command chair. By now, something should have happened. The freighter should have taken some action - moved into an emission nebula, for example, to try and hide its warp contrail, or made a dash for some nearby port, where it could conceal and offload its cargo. Never mind that they do not, necessarily, know we are tracing them... these are normal precautions, precautions I would take.

I contemplate the screen in moody silence. The icon for the Zacatzontli cheers me a little.... Four's ship is tucked into my subspace wake, partly hidden from casual scanning. I am grateful for the offer of help -

I frown. "What was that?"

"What?" asks E'Maon.

"Something on the scan. Bearing three seven mark two, range... perhaps thirteen hundred...." Not even a flash or a flicker, just a brief discontinuity in the readings. E'Maon hunches over his console.

"Reading... nothing there now." He straightens up and looks at me. "Reading not enough there, now. Sensors are blanked out, not even picking up normal background emissions."

"Signal Four on the data subchannel. Go to red alert. Prep the fighters for immediate launch." The alarm siren begins to sound.

Four's face reappears on the main screen. The transmission is harsh, grainy - she must be using heavy encryption. "Dense sensor suppression near to your course vector," she says. "Near certainty of cloaked ships waiting in ambush."

"Yes," I say. "Maintain your separation, conceal yourself as long as you can. We will turn and attack at minimum range."

"Agreed." Four closes the channel again. I watch the screen as we sail into the trap. We know it is there, but walking blithely into it.... My nails rasp on the command chair's armrests. The Saraswati seems to crawl towards the marker on the screen -

And we are there. "Steer two hundred mark zero. Launch fighters. Shields up, all batteries fire as they bear!"

Saraswati swings around in as tight a turn as the vast dreadnought can manage. I can see Four's ship tracking our movements, buying a few more precious seconds of concealment, as the fighters scream out of my launch bays, and ahead of us -

"Elements!" E'Maon's voice, raised in shock.

Orion ships. Heavy ones. Three Marauder battleships clustered around the monstrous bulk of a Warbarge dreadnought, all now spitting out fighters of their own as their stealth fields drop. If I were still commanding my old ship, the Palatine, I would stand no chance. Even as it is, the odds are not in my favour.

Though they are not as bad as they might be. I grin as one Marauder surges forwards at flank speed, curving round, trying to get behind me -

- and the Zacatzontli comes surging out, weapons blazing with exotic energies, Aeon timeships hurtling from her launch bays. The Marauder's shields glimmer in a riot of colours, then explode into nothingness, and flaming gashes open up along the bulbous hull. Four of Six closes in for the kill, blasting remorselessly away -

But there are still three others left for me, and the screen is filled with the tracks of auxiliaries. My fighters are engaging - they are superior, in themselves, but pitifully outnumbered. And beams are stabbing at my shields -

"Uruz flight away," says Kaxath. "Sir, they're using tachyon drones - our shields are down thirty per cent already."

"All batteries to independent fire. Clear those auxiliaries!" But, while we swat the fighters and drones out of the sky, the mother ships have time to fire their disruptor barrages. Sick green beams bite through the Saraswati's weakened shields, to savage our hull. Warning lights speckle my control console, and there is a flash-bang of a transient overload on the bridge.

"Torpedo spread, concentrate on the capital ships!"

Two Marauders and the Warbarge are grouped close together - I dislike using the thalaron armament, but a blast from that could kill or cripple all three. I open that section of the command console - and I curse as I see the flashing amber lights.

"Containment instability in the thalaron room." That must be fixed - and fixed quickly, before the volatile radiation source goes out of control. I glance at the engineering station, where N'aina is feverishly working at damage control. I should not distract her, when I have another resource to hand - however much I dislike it.

I touch another control, and air shimmers into a glow, a glow that resolves itself into a humanoid form.

"Hello! You look like you're trying to - stabilize a runaway thalaron reaction! Would you like to - get some help with that, or - carry on working by yourself?"

I glare at N'aina. "I told you to fix this thing!"

She can spare me a glance. "All the other interfaces were worse!"

I turn back to the emergency engineering hologram. "Fix that thalaron leak! Quickly! And quietly!"

"OK!" And the hologram freezes in place, its subroutines no longer animating the interface, its processing power now devoted to managing the thalaron systems. I have no thalaron armament. I must do without, then.

The first Marauder, pounded unmercifully by Four of Six's chroniton and antiproton weapons, disintegrates in a blaze of white light. The Zacatzontli wheels around, and an evil radiance spills from her pointed snout. Some wide-area disruption effect. I do not recognize it, but I can see what it is doing; pulses of disturbed space-time ripple across the sky, sending the Orion auxiliaries spinning out of control.

My fighters - and Four's timeships - are quick to take advantage, wreaking devastation on the battered Orions. And it buys me a few precious seconds to mark out one Marauder, and -

"All batteries, all tubes, coordinate and fire!"

The full power of Saraswati's armament blazes across space and smashes into the Orion battleship. Its screens fail in an instant, and the space around it fills with a blazing fog of vaporized armour burning in escaping air. The Marauder reels and swings around, trying to put an undamaged shield facing between itself and my weapons.

And then the Saraswati rocks and trembles as the Warbarge unleashes its heaviest barrage yet. The lights on the bridge waver, fail, come back red, and there is a sickening feeling as the gravity plating wavers. Sparks and smoke spit from overloaded conduits. The tactical display dissolves into static for a moment, then comes back, grainy and flickering.

"Hard about!" I must put my own undamaged shields between myself and that barrage, or I am dead. Saraswati's whole structure groans as the ship turns. On the screen, I see the Zacatzontli blasting at the Warbarge with her exotic armaments - it may be enough to save us.

I look over my instruments, assess my resources. We are sadly damaged, but still operational - and we still have the overspill power from the singularity core, building up in the storage capacitors. Time to use that.

"Helm." I sketch out a course on the tactical repeater. "This."

Bi'or is at the helm; she gives me a troubled look, but she is Klingon, she will not protest or disobey. Saraswati groans as the impulse engines go to full power, hurling us directly at the Warbarge.

On the screen, the second Marauder goes up in the brilliant blast of a core breach. "Signal Four," I snarl, "tell her we need to take one of these ships reasonably intact. And reinforce forward shields!"

Though that last command is futile, in the face of the constant blazing fire from the Warbarge. I can feel each shot as it punches deep into the structure of my ship... but I am almost in position, almost close enough -

Now.

I punch the controls, and the stored singularity power is released, blasting out in an explosion of superheated plasma. The Orion fighters and drones around me shatter and burn; the Warbarge's shields flare brilliantly under the impact, and go down, letting the plasma blast wash over the dreadnought's hull.

Saraswati, trailing fire and debris from a dozen hull breaches, swoops over the burning superstructure of the Warbarge.

"Aft arrays! Target their engines and fire!"

Ribbons of burning green light reach out from my aft weapons, clawing at the Orion's engines, burning, tearing deeper -

The visual display whites out. I curse, freely. A second or two later, Saraswati rocks in the wash of expanding gases that is all that remains of the Warbarge. A core breach. I did not even want a core breach -

The last Marauder is turning to flee. Four of Six is chasing it - and then she is veering off, as it, too, dies in a burst of white flame.

The image on the screen vanishes, to be replaced by Four's face. "Drone was targeting their engines," she says. "Drone appreciates the need to gather intelligence. Drone believes others did, too."

"You are right," I say, slowly. "That last one - that was not from your weapons. Scuttling charges. Deliberate core breaches, to make sure none of those ships was captured." I sigh. "Organize search and rescue. Recover any escape pods and surviving enemy auxiliaries. We must find someone to interrogate." But the information that I need, almost certainly, would only be contained in the now-vanished computer cores of the destroyed ships.

"Drone concurs. Drone will also dispatch engineering support teams to your vessel. You need it." And she is gone again. Gone before I could raise any protest.... I look around at my battered bridge. I would raise no protest. I need all the help she can offer.

"Thalaron reaction is locked down!" The engineering hologram did not go offline. A pity.

"Sir," says Bi'or, "if Four of Six had not been there to help -"

"Standard tactical doctrine," I say, "would have been to use a thalaron pulse. A natural reaction, with those big, heavily armoured targets all bunched together. And if I had done so - the thalaron array would have failed, explosively, and we would all be dead." I rise to my feet. "Someone knew. Computer subversion, to set up the leak, and a mercenary task force lying in wait to take us down. There was never a freighter with trilithium weapons. We were set up, from the start." My voice is shaking. "When I find out who did it, their blood will burn. Depend on it."

hfmudd · August 2017

( Interesting, and coincidental, choice of name! I used Saraswati for my science captain's new Brigid-class MME, guessing that the naming convention there would be for non-Greco-Roman goddesses of wisdom, knowledge, etc (the original run of Vestas having emptied that well). )

dalolorn · August 2017

Yay, Four is here!

antonine3258 · August 2017

A spare Paradox is never unappreciated. I'm amazed Four integrated so well into the serious story.

dalolorn · August 2017

antonine3258 wrote: »

I'm amazed Four integrated so well into the serious story.

I'm almost disappointed by it.

shevet · August 2017

An acrid smell came in with the acid rain as Osrin entered the dome. He closed the door and walked over to the desk, rubbing the back of his neck as he went. He sighed.

"Bad day?" said Koneph.

"Not quite." Osrin sat down and began to shuffle through the PADDs on the desktop. "Got jumped by a couple of scavengers on the way back from the distribution point... but they're not dead, they'll just have sore heads when they wake up." He sighed again. "We're falling behind. Half the people in this damn city are still not getting minimum daily calories -"

"Things are about to get worse," said Koneph. He put his hand on the comms unit. "Just had a message. They're pulling out IDRA 1."

"What -?" Osrin bit down on an obscenity. "That's our only landing capable ship! Why the hell-?"

"Another disaster," said Koneph. "Planet T, marginal world in Federation space. Its atmosphere shield failed. It's got a class B primary, so the ozone layer went in a couple of hours, and, well -"

"Casualties?"

"Some humans with very bad sunburn - you can call 'em pinkskins with a clear conscience - but that's not the problem. Every food crop on the planet wilted within a day. So the relief effort's all about providing food replicators, some medical relief - and rebuilding the atmosphere shield, and reseeding the plant life."

"And IDRA 1 has the botanical labs. I see." Osrin stretched out in his chair, wincing as his joints popped. The rain rattled on the panels of the geodesic dome, over his head. "How'd they lose the atmosphere shield?"

"Unknown." Koneph frowned. "Could have been deliberate sabotage. There's been a lot of weird rumours going around - computer attacks, that sort of thing. Starfleet Intelligence has been chasing its tail over something. So they say."

"Hell's teeth," said Osrin. "Starfleet's got too much on its plate. As usual." He shook his head. "I wish Tylha was here."

"So she could give us the inside dope on Starfleet?"

"That, too." Osrin smiled. "She may seem uptight, but she's all shen under that Starfleet uniform."

"That I'd like to see." Koneph grinned.

"So are you making any progress with -?"

"I don't know. Military conditioning... hard to break through the proprieties, sometimes. Getting people to say what obviously needs to be said...."

"Well, maybe Tylha will say something. You never know." Osrin closed his eyes. "She's spent a long time married to her job. You know the type - proving herself. Well, she's a full Admiral with enough medals to patch the holes in her starship, now... maybe we can persuade her she's proved herself enough, it's time to settle down and enjoy the benefits."

"We'd have a hard time getting her to slow down," Koneph said.

"I know. Wouldn't have it any other way." Osrin's voice was growing quieter, and the lines of his face seemed to soften; Koneph watched, with a slight smile, as his thaan-partner started to drift off to sleep -

Then the dome rang with the sound of a violent impact, and suddenly Osrin was wide awake, and on his feet, with a phaser clutched in one hand. "What the hell-?"

Koneph swore under his breath as he checked the sensor arrays. "Just a rock. Big one, but just a rock. Someone threw it and ran. Showing movement, range fifty metres and increasing -"

Osrin holstered his phaser with an irritated gesture. "Not worth chasing them, is it?"

Koneph shook his head. "Just someone - venting, I guess. The Infinite knows we're not exactly popular."

They were there to help... but they were still resented; aliens in a time of trouble, distrusted, sometimes feared... and the help they could bring was too often not enough. They were both used, by now, to the occasional rock, or shouts of abuse, or obscene graffiti scrawled on the outside of the dome. The acid rain took care of that last, in any case.

Osrin went over to one of the windows, peered through the transparent triangular panel. There was nothing to see; only the empty street stretching away, lit dimly by the security lights from the dome - the city's street lighting had long since failed. The rain cut across his vision in slashing silver streaks.

"I'll set up the security field anyway," Koneph said. "Repulsors'll take care of any more rocks. Get some sleep, that's my advice." He yawned himself. "We're gonna need it."

shevet · September 2017

Angelica was beginning to think she had made a huge mistake.

The shuttle had picked up her and Tharval, had taken them from the base to... a ship. A Hirogen ship, with many of the giant hunters still aboard. She had learned how to deal with them, how not to appear as prey... it had been surprisingly easy. The Hirogen seemed cowed.

And, once she went to the bridge and met the leader, it was easy enough to see why.

"Angelica." Thrang smiled at her with those too-full lips on that too-small mouth; something about him made her skin crawl. "I'm delighted to have you with us. We're going to need creative minds."

She looked up at him; he was a tall man, though nowhere near as tall as the Hirogen. "I haven't been asked to do anything much creative, so far," she said.

She thought he might be angry, but he only laughed. "We need to destroy, sometimes, in order to create. We need to clear the way, as it were. Action Black is... a regrettable necessity. Direct action is always a little messy."

"And you're in charge of Action Black?"

"I have that honour."

"Who gave it to you?" she asked. "Lyle Anson?"

Thrang laughed. "Mr. Anson has his role in life. And I have mine. No, I'm... self appointed." His slanting eyes glinted. "I'm sure you understand the necessity. Action Blue can constitute itself as a proper political party. We don't have that luxury. We're a military unit, Angelica - not a formal one, I grant you, but we must operate under the same discipline. You're a Starfleet cadet, you will understand that discipline."

"Former Starfleet cadet," she muttered.

"And will return to Starfleet in a much more significant role, once it's properly reorganized," said Thrang. "We need talented people, Angelica. I can't emphasize that too much."

She took a deep breath. "What for, exactly?" she asked.

Thrang's eyes were very bright, all of a sudden, and there was a calculating look about him. "Well, now," he said, "there's a question."

"I'm in this thing," said Angelica. "I know that. I accept that. But I want to be sure I know where it's leading."

"Good," said Thrang. "Good. Always know where you stand. I like that." He paused. His gaze raked over her again. "The Actionist movements in the various galactic powers are all working to the same end. Unification. The creation of a single interstellar government - one with the power, the ability, to bring long-lasting peace and prosperity to the galaxy as a whole. We can't afford all these silly internecine squabbles. You know that."

"And we can't afford Federation moralism, either," said Angelica.

"Precisely." Thrang beamed at her. "But we have a mountain to climb, don't we? Entrenched attitudes. Established political classes. We need to create an incentive, to make people put aside their old habits. That's what Action Black is for, Angelica. To create problems - problems that the existing order can't solve. Then, when the other Actionists propose solutions - that's when people will start to listen." He grinned. "Because their solutions will work. We know that."

"Because we're the ones causing the trouble," said Angelica slowly, "so we can stop it whenever we want."

"Exactly. The whole situation will look chaotic, on the outside. But from the inside, where we are -" Thrang's grin was very broad, now "- everything will be precisely under control."

---

She would have more confidence, she thought, if her fellow - revolutionaries - inspired it.

There were several ex-Starfleet people aboard the Hirogen ship. They tended to clump together, met and socialized in a small mess hall near the ship's bow. They were not, Angelica thought, what you might call the best and brightest.

"All setbacks yield to the disciplined mind." Turet was a Vulcan and a Bresarist, a follower of the ancient warlord whose attempts at subversion had taken Vulcan perilously close to leaving the Federation. After their cataclysmic failure, and the massive loss of life, the few remaining Bresarists were not exactly popular in Vulcan society. "The defeat of our candidates in the latest round of local elections can only be attributed to insufficient discipline. It is not sufficient for us to do our work; Action Blue must redouble its efforts."

Druzga made an obscene suggestion. All Tellarites loved to argue; Angelica remembered Druzga from the Academy... where she had loved nothing else. Druzga had joined the Academy two years before Angelica, but had been held back, repeatedly, on academic probation. She was something well beyond ordinary Tellarite grouchiness - she was a pure nihilist, Angelica thought, always willing to take the least popular position, simply because it was the least popular. She was good with computers, though. It made sense; computers had no opinions, could not be argued with.

"We need more resources," said Tom Tallidge. He was a few years older than any of them; he had graduated, and reached the rank of lieutenant, before being court-martialled for an offence most of them found almost incomprehensible; purloining ship's stores. He had made plentiful amounts of latinum and exotic crystals - and then the USS Ecliptic had suddenly found herself disabled in unsurveyed space, her stores of non-replicateable spares depleted... and Lieutenant Tallidge had found himself on trial before a board of frankly incredulous senior officers. In the Federation's post-scarcity economy, his crime was a throwback to past centuries. Even now, he seemed obsessed with money, with wealth.... He dreamed, Angelica knew, of a high position in the new government's economics ministry. It seemed exactly the wrong place to put him.

"Resources are not an issue," Turet said. "The Federation imposes strict limits on the financial expenditures of candidates for advertising and publicity. Action Blue has operated within those constraints."

"There are ways around them," said Tom. "There are always ways around them, if you know where to look. Get our candidates' names in the public eye for some other reason, give them a claim to fame -"

"Half of 'em aren't fit to be looked at," Druzga growled. "Public eye, my -"

"It would be preferable to attract a higher calibre of activist," said Turet. "Lyle Anson is impressive, but many of his followers are decidedly not. A recruitment drive, focusing on talented individuals -"

This was what Action Black was for, Angelica thought. To make the mainstream Actionists look appealing, to create situations where they looked their best. Unobtrusively, she sidled out of the mess hall. She was new, the others were engrossed in their own, long-standing, arguments - she found it easy to be overlooked.

She thought about going back to her cabin, to read up on some of the new journals that had come in. None of them, just now, had any definite assigned duties.... She decided, instead, to go and look for Tharval. Or Thrang.

It was some down-time in the Hirogens' activity cycle; there were few of them about, and those that she saw ignored her. She made her way up two decks and back a little, and was passing a doorway when she heard Tharval's voice. She stopped.

"I have arranged the last leg of the transport," the Lethean was saying. His voice sounded tinny and distorted; Angelica glanced at the symbols on the door. She had learned to interpret a little of the Hirogen signage, and she could make out the symbols for Communications Room. So... Tharval was reporting in, from some distance away?

"We'll start the clock running, then, as soon as our current countdown hits zero." Thrang's voice was clear enough; he was right there, in the room. Angelica shrank against the wall, making no sound, hardly even breathing.

"I want you to be quite certain in your mind about this, Thrang," said Tharval's voice. "This is -"

"This is a demonstration," Thrang interrupted him. "Granted, a big demonstration, but that's all it is."

"A demonstration too big to ignore. Thrang, if we fail -"

"We won't fail. And, even if we did... it doesn't matter too much. It's not as if they'll be missed." Thrang laughed. "Now, if the second missile hadn't been lost.... That target would have mattered. I'd still like to hit it, in fact. Eliminating the Amaya system would remove a whole host of potential troublemakers. I suppose there's no chance -?"

"The Remans are on the alert for the movement of trilithium, and they have doubtless informed the other intelligence agencies, too. Commander Heizis -"

"Commander Heizis is an old friend. And not a terribly effective one, especially with our ally keeping her in check. I'm much more interested in her old partner. I want Admiral Pexlini. I like her."

"You have made her life notably difficult. I doubt she reciprocates the feeling."

"She's a realist. Once I stop up every other avenue of escape, she will come running to me." Thrang laughed. "Have some faith, Tharval."

"I will have faith, once everything goes to plan," said Tharval's voice. "We can not afford any more missteps. Both Starfleet and the Remans are aware of our methods -"

"Awareness is one thing. Being able to stop us is quite another." Thrang's laugh was quieter, and it sent a chill along Angelica's spine. "As poor Admiral Hengest will shortly find out."

shevet · September 2017

Tylha

"I still think this is a mistake," I say glumly.

Paul Hengest looks even more miserable, behind the faint glimmer of the force shield. "You might be right," he says, "but, well, our strategists thought this was the best option." His voice sounds dull and flat, filtered as it is by the shield.

I eye him narrowly. "You don't agree with them," I say.

"I'm... not sure. I wanted to be somewhere isolated. An island, say, on Earth, where I could be a long way away from any other people - I could breathe fresh air, I wouldn't be dependent on environmental controls, and we could establish a perimeter and track anything or anyone that looked like it might breach it. But Intel Strategy thought there were too many variables that might not be controllable. So -"

"There are too many damn variables here," I mutter.

Paul raises his hand, starts to tick off points on his fingers. "Earth Spacedock has gone to full defensive alert and will stay that way for the next eight hours. The network is being swept, constantly, for data intrusion attempts - and, with respect, Tylha, our people are even better than your data-warfare experts. I've been medically scanned, within an inch of my life, for delayed action toxins and bio-agents. And this suite is going to be sealed, it's got its own force shield generators and environmental controls, and the units have been checked and double-checked - we can be as sure as humanly possible that they're not compromised. As soon as I close this door, I'm going to be sealed in, in a self-contained secure area, inside Earth Spacedock - which, itself, is as secure a location as you could find in the Federation." He manages a smile. "All I need, now, is for you to go away, so I can close the door. I'll see you in eight hours' time." His voice drops a little. "Seriously, Tylha, there's no point changing our plans at this late stage. Go. I'll be fine."

"I hope so." His countdown has four hours to run. We're allowing a certain amount of leeway... but, so far, the countdowns have been alarmingly punctual. But he's right - at this point, there's nothing more I can do. "All right, Paul. Good luck. I'll see you in the morning."

He smiles again, and reaches up to something on the wall before him, a control that I can't see. A solid tritanium plate slides across the doorway, just behind the force shield - which doesn't cut off. After a moment, another solid metal plate hisses out on the other side of the shield. It would take me less than four hours to cut through it with a hand phaser - but security would be alerted, would be on the scene within minutes, if I tried.

Paul Hengest is as safe as we can make him. I wish that were safe enough.

I walk away from the suite, passing three security checkpoints as I do, only one of which is visible. Starfleet Intelligence has tried to anticipate everything - psi influence, impersonation or mental control of friends and family, temporal portals opening, absolutely every dirty trick they could imagine, and they can imagine a fair few. But I'm still worried. The shadow OS is a dangerous, subtle, insidious tool... but whoever's using it has been anything but subtle; they've been happy to inflict massive amounts of collateral damage just to take out a single target. It adds up to a situation where all it takes is one TRIBBLE in our armour... and wholesale destruction could follow.

I make my way down the levels of ESD, to the engineering control decks. I spare some time to check up on the construction of the new ship - everything seems to be on schedule there, at least, and she will be quite something when she's finally ready. Then I move on, to the main ops control room, where I look out over serried ranks of consoles and holo-displays, all showing the vast station ticking over in its usual routine. Everything seems normal. I go to a replicator and get a cup of katheka; I don't plan to sleep for the next few hours.

The technicians ignore me, all engrossed as they are in their own work. I head for a comms console and call the King Estmere. It doesn't take long to get in touch with Klerupiru; she isn't sleeping, either.

"No signs of the shadow OS," she says. "Of course, I don't have any sort of access to ESD's systems - not now, not with everything locked down -"

"Intelligence isn't telling you anything?"

"They ask me stuff. But they don't tell me anything, no. Need-to-know, I guess."

I nod, pensively. On the screen, Klerupiru looks hollow-eyed and ragged; Ferengi need regular sleep patterns, unlike Andorians, and Klerupiru's been pulling a lot of late shifts, recently. "Everything seems quiet enough right now. What about remote sensors? Anything?"

"Usual circum-Terra traffic. Which is to say, busy. Nothing seems to be moving outside assigned courses, though. What are you looking for?"

"I wish I knew. Kamikaze ships coming out of warp to hit ESD? C-fractional strike from the edge of the system? I just don't know."

"Anything that big would be tripping alarms already," Klerupiru points out.

"I don't know. If I knew Paul's exact position, and had the full parameters for all ESD's shields, maybe I could rig a long-range transporter to send a diffuse charge of antimatter through the shield and into his secure suite -"

"Shield frequencies are rotating on a random basis - same infinite-remodulation trick we use against the Borg," Klerupiru comes back promptly, "and the internal shielding on that security suite is rigged the same way. Besides, if you tried to punch an ACB through all the shields and sensors around here, now, you'd light up a whole bunch of alarms - there'd be countermeasures in place before you could try to materialize anything. Trust me. I've had the Caitians run sims -" King Estmere's Caitian flight deck crew are the best transporter operators in the Federation, I know; if they say they can't beat this security, then it can't be beaten.

"OK. I just wish -" I take a swallow of the cooling katheka. "How long is it now?"

"Countdown's got just over three minutes to run." Klerupiru looks away, at something out of my line of vision. "My screens are all clear. Everything's in the green."

I look at the techs, all seated at their consoles, and at the big display boards showing current status. "Everything looks calm enough here, too." The only thing that isn't calm, I think, is me.

I wonder what Paul's doing right now.

"Still nothing on scans," says Klerupiru. "Anthi's got King Estmere at red alert status. If anything happens, anything at all, we're ready to hit it with everything we've got."

The status boards are green. But I'm still jumpy, twitchy. My antennae are twitching -

"Hold on." My antennae are twitching. I try to concentrate on the sensation, isolate it. There are so many surges and flows of energy, here, washing across the periphery of my senses... but something here feels different, wrong, urgent -

I leave the console, look around the big room, find the officer of the watch - a short, dark-skinned human male, I don't know his name. I head towards him. "I'm Admiral Shohl. You know about our security situation?"

"Sir." He looks puzzled.

"There's something building up somewhere close. Might be an ionization charge. I know it's not on the status boards, but I can feel -" I gesture at my antennae.

He nods. "I've worked with Andorian engineers, sir." His hands tap out a series of commands on his console. "Beginning a priority diagnostic on the EPS grid."

"Better make it quick." The countdown must be in its dying seconds now. "There might be a computer virus -"

Then, suddenly, the world is full of noise and blackness. A dull rumble, like thunder, rolls through the structure of the station - and the lights fail, leaving us for a moment in absolute dark - and a rush of sensation hits my antennae, a jangling cacophony of stimuli that becomes a physical pain - I am sick, and giddy, and falling - no, I'm not falling, I'm weightless, the gravity plating has failed -

Light and weight come back; the light is red, emergency lighting, but the gravity is strong enough to suck me back to the deck and make me staggers. The console is flashing with static and gibberish - all the consoles and the boards are flooded with interference - and the rumbling has diminished, but not stopped, and there are other sounds: alarms, and the dreadful voiceless shriek of an atmosphere leak.

The officer of the watch is swearing as he slams priority overrides into the console. My comms link must have broken - I hit my combadge. "Shohl to King Estmere! Report!"

Anthi Vihl's voice answers me. "Sir, are you all right?"

"I'm fine! Report!"

"We're reading an explosion inside the station." Anthi's voice relaxes back into its cool, professional tone. "Hull breaches, minor, emergency force fields are sealing. But there's considerable energy release over several sections and decks. We're trying to process it now and get a picture of the damage -"

"Intercooler flare-out," the officer of the watch says hoarsely. "Inside the station. Sudden overload on the main EPS trunk at level two hundred, and the manifold there failed. Disaster protocols are coming into effect -" He stares, ashen-faced, at the screens.

Earth Spacedock's internal power stations are several times the size of a starship's warp core; the main trunk handles gigawatts of power in superheated electroplasma that has to be carefully contained. On a starship, an intercooler flare-out would disable a nacelle, and send a spectacular jet of plasma kilometres out into space. Here, the plasma flame has nowhere to go - it becomes a raging inferno inside the hull of the station itself.

There are safety mechanisms to prevent this, to shunt a plasma overload to a safe external vent, to shut down the power generators themselves if the need arises. Somehow, those safety mechanisms were all overridden. And the plasma explosion - I know exactly where it went.

"King Estmere, coordinate with disaster control on ESD. Prep sickbay to accept casualties. Ready engineering teams to support ESD's disaster relief operations." The commands come automatically to my lips. "Deploy auxiliaries to assist in evacuating the damaged sections. Coordinate with flight control to divert civilian traffic -"

The consoles are showing real information, now; disaster response is working. The shrieking of the atmosphere leaks has died away, leaving only the clamour of alarms and the drumming of running feet on the decks. The station will survive. It's already survived worse than this. But, right now, there is a gigantic molten hole where several decks used to be... and Paul Hengest's security suite is right in the middle of it.

---

Admiral Quinn looks like I feel. "Two hundred and twelve confirmed dead," I tell him, "and over twelve hundred injured."

"We got off lightly," he mutters. I can't disagree. Emergency response functioned magnificently - the damage was contained, the main EPS grid shut down and backups took over smoothly, the firefighters and damage control teams held the disaster at bay. The vast station is even back to limited operations, already.

"We still got hit, sir, where it counts the most." Quinn's eyes lock with mine, and he nods, slowly, once.

"Paul Hengest was a good man," he says quietly.

"Starfleet Intelligence is already getting to work on the computer forensics," I say. "I've put my team at their disposal, of course. Admiral Semok asked me to tell you that if there's anything else Experimental Engineering Division can do, just say."

"Of course," says Quinn, "of course." He shifts uneasily in his big chair.

"If there's anything -"

"We haven't been idle," Quinn says. "Station security has been running its own investigations. There's going to be a coordinating meeting with Intelligence at fourteen hundred hours. I want you in on it, too." He picks up one PADD from among the many on his desk. "You were involved in that business with the Rehanissen Archive... and I know you've got contacts in the KDF, you must have heard about their recent - adventures - in the Eridani sector." He hands me the PADD. There's an image on it. "You take a personal interest. I can't blame you for that."

The image is clearly a capture from a security camera - somewhere in the civilian section, from the nondescript look of the people in the crowded concourse. I touch an icon, and the image springs to life - a short loop, no more than ten seconds, in which people move, and meet, and talk....

And, in the background, near the top of the screen, one human male moves to a console on a wall, does something to it, turns, and leaves. But not before he looks around, and the camera gets a clear view of his face.

"I can't be sure -" My voice is shaking. "I never met the man - and he was disguised as an Orion during the Rehanissen business - but -"

"We have only that one image," says Quinn. "We have no idea how he might have got aboard the station - or how he might have left it. But, well, we know to keep a very sharp eye out for -"

For the man who tried to drag the Federation into war, with me as the immediate cause of it. For the rogue genetic augment with the will, and just possibly the means, to conquer the galaxy. For the man who, impossibly, was here on Earth Spacedock, just a few hours before something punched through our best security and took out more than two hundred of our people, including the one man we wanted to keep safe.

The image is too small, really, to make out an expression on the face. It's only my imagination that's telling me Kalevar Thrang is mocking me.

Zero Hour (story)

Comments