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Chapter 1: Red Shift, Red EyeTop

Location: Space Station Deep Space Nine, Bajor Sector, Alpha Quadrant

The chirp of the alarm came too soon, again, for Captain Kira's liking. Even after all these years of being the official commander of Deep Space Nine, Nerys had issues with getting up early. That's not to say that she didn't get up, she did. If nothing else, Kira Nerys was disciplined; she just didn't particularly ENJOY getting up at what some Starfleet officers called “Oh-Dark-Thirty.”

A few minutes after stepping out of the refresher, and donning her red duty shirt, Nerys took a moment to slide her traditional Bajoran ear clip in place. As she pulled on her Starfleet Officer's tunic, the comm. alert chirped.

“Ops to Captain Kira.”

Kira rolled her eyes and huffed as she stood, exasperated, with hands on hips. “Matthew!” she called out to the duty officer's disembodied voice, “I'm not even set to be on duty for an hour yet. What could possibly be so important?”

“Sorry ma'am. It's just…”

“Is our orbit decaying?”

“No Ma'am, but…”

“Is the station under attack?”

“Not that I know of, Captain. However…”

“Is there a problem on Bajor?”

“No, Ma'am. Most of the population's still asleep.”

“EXACTLY! So, what is it that can't wait 'til I've at LEAST had my raktajino?”

“He's here, ma'am.”

Kira's head dropped in a universal sign of despair. Then she picked her head back up to look quizzically at the speaker. “Already?”

“Affirmative, Ma'am.”

“So…he's…early?” More than just a question, her voice held genuine surprise.

“Aye, Ma'am.”

“He's NEVER early.”

“He's never late either, Ma'am.”

Kira sighed, shaking her head. “Give me ten minutes.” She ordered, heading for the door. “And keep him out of Ops!” Not waiting for the acknowledgment, Kira made for the turbo lift, keeping a brisk pace.


Location: Main bridge, deck 1, USS Republic
Shiptime: 0643 hours

It had taken a few days, but as he shifted his weight in the center seat (which still felt more than a little odd), Leon Cromwell noted that he was starting to enjoy the relative quiet of the Gamma Shift. Truth to tell, there were times when it reminded Leon of his residency at Cook Medical Center in New Chicago.

When most people thought of medical school, particularly the residency phase, wherein a studying physician was in charge of all admissions or additions in a given department, they thought of Emergency Rooms. Stuffed to the gills with crying children, frustrated adults, and occasionally someone who was just desperate for a little human attention. Leon however remembered the silences, few and far between though they were.

Just as there were few places more frantic than a busy hospital, not just on Earth, Leon knew, but anywhere in the galaxy, when they were quiet, hospitals seemed deathly still. It was times like those, when the silence was nearly perfect, when the weight of what he was doing…what he had committed himself to really sank in. Back then, he was a doctor, sworn to heal the sick, help the afflicted, ease another's suffering, and above all, do no harm.

Leon knew that he'd fallen short of that last promise more than once in his life, but he also knew with absolute certainty, that he'd made everywhere he'd been a better place. In the silence of Republic's bridge, in the middle of the night, he was confident that was still true. He knew that because the silences felt the same, and he was grateful.

As if on cue, there was an alert on the tactical station. Above and behind Leon, Sobek of Vulcan called out his findings. “Long-Range sensor contact, Lieutenant Commander.” His tone was calm and measured. The model of Vulcan efficiency.

Leon leaned forward, his eyes squinting just slightly. “Put it up, please?”

A second later, the view changed to show a small, gray cylinder; six meters long, three meters wide, capped at either end with an impressive array of antennae and receivers.

Sobek continued to relate the information from his sensor readings. “It is a standard Federation…”

“…Navigational Beacon.” Leon finished as he sat back in the chair again.

“Indeed.” The Vulcan added calmly. “Transponders, sensors, and navigational charts are about to synchronize to Federation standard. Am I to allow the up link, Lieutenant Commander?”

Leon let out a heavy breath “Hoo boy,” he sighed. “I guess we'd better. Looks like it's finally time to go home.” Leon nodded. “Begin the transfer, Sobek,” he confirmed. “Note the time in the ship's log please.”

“Acknowledged.”


Location: Operations level, Deep Space Nine
Station Time: 0702 hours

Kira Nerys tugged sharply on the hem of her officer's tunic as she keyed the control to open the door between Ops and the Promenade. She smiled, putting on her best 'shut up and be nice face'. “Good morning, Doctor Virtus,” she offered. “Did I miss an appointment?”

Victor Xavier Virtus took two quick, evenly spaced steps into the nerve center of Deep Space Nine. “I certainly hope not, Captain. It's terribly early.”

Kira looked dumbfounded as the visiting officer strode past her to look over the shoulder of the attending tactical lieutenant, who's job it was to actually do what Virtus was doing now; peering into the long-range sensor display.

“Doctor!” Kira called out, her voice a little more harsh than she was expecting, but not inappropriately so. “I've told you before,” she continued as she moved to stand in front of the console Virtus was checking over. “I don't know WHERE Republic is. No one's seen or heard from them for over six months.”

Virtus reflexively stroked his mustache. “Six months, twenty-eight days, 14 hours and six minutes…Mark.” He said simply. “ I'm well aware of Republic's situation, Captain. That's why I'm here.”

“Doctor, please,” Kira continued, “I've told you that we would do everything we could to help you, and I know that this is the last place Republic was seen, but I think it's time that you accept Republic is gone. Which, by the way is the same thing I was going to tell you a few hours from now.”

Virtus nodded, giving the captain a nearly dismissive wave. “The ship is not gone, captain.”

Nyres tilted her head, deciding to try a different tack. “Doctor Virtus, I'm certainly not a counselor, but I do know what it's like to want something to be true very badly.” She held up a hand, nearly placing it on the former engineer's shoulder. Then, thought better of it. “Holding on to these things too tightly just isn't good for you.”

Virtus turned on a heel, looking at Kira directly. “Irrational behavior isn't good for me.” He commented. “Poly-saturated fats aren't good for me.” His tone was sharpening slightly as he spoke louder. “Getting less than five hours of sleep a night isn't good for me. However, I'm not here because I BELIEVE Republic is out there. I'm here because they're coming back. Today.”

Kira set her jaw. Clearly, the soft approach didn't work. She looked past Virtus to address her Operations Officer. “Matthew, please call security to Ops,” she ordered firmly. “Doctor Virtus is no longer authorized to be here.”

At the long range sensor station, a familiar alarm asserted itself. “Contact from the Gamma Quadrant, captain.”

Seconds later, on the main Ops viewer, the miracle of the Bajoran wormhole repeated itself. For a few moments, a faster than light, faster than warp, connection from one end of the galaxy to another flared into existence. Under her breath, Kira Nyres said a short prayer to the Prophets.

“My sentiments exactly, captain,” Virtus commented as he watched the familiar shape of a Galaxy Class starship emerge from the Gamma Quadrant. “Welcome home.”

The level of “rightness” in the universe snapped back into place. Victor had theorized a quantitative scale of Rightness as a cadet and was still mildly offended that its use had not become more widespread throughout the Federation. The scale was logarithmic from -10 to 10, with zero being ideal. While Republic was goofing off in the Gamma Quadrant the universe was hovering around a six, or roughly a million Virtii units of disharmony with Rightness Equilibrium.

Vic blinked and chided his previous evening's libations. He was still a little foggy and was allowing inaccuracies to creep into his thoughts.

“5.95 or exactly 891,250.938 Virtii of disharmony”, the hungover officer stated firmly as he moved to depart Ops.

Captain Kira paused with disbelief for less than a second before remembering her station and her dignity, and with the tone of authority bred from of generations of leaders squared her shoulders with the receding researcher, “Doctor, how did you know?”

Without turning Vic answered primly, “I apologize captain, but that information is classified.”

“I am the senior officer on this watch Doctor!”

A quiet voice drifted back as the door started to cycle closed, “I am not in your chain of command, sir.” Victor respected and honored the officer corps of the 'Fleet, but something about space station brass always managed to raise his hackles.

Victor hustled anti-clockwise down the Promenade making a mildly painful mental list. Travel, 105s. Shower, 120s. Shave, 44s. Dress, 32s. Republic would be given a priority birth adjacent to Ops on Pylon 2, Travel 166s.

Too long. Adjust schedule to include multi-comm message, 13s.

Victor walked into his humble quarters and addressed the station computer.

“Begin recording priority personal message.”

beep-ep

“Hello old friend. Please disregard the previous messages. I was worried. Victor.”

“Computer, please deliver to John Carter, Leon Cromwell, Shannon Harris, and Maria Pakita aboard the USS Republic as Priority Two, Silver Channel, Epsilon encryption, authorization Victor Xavier Virtus Sampi Digamma Vau one one two three five eight.”

Be-de-beep

“Acknowledged. Routing message to main bridge, USS Republic, as of 0707 hours.”

“Routing message to main bridge, USS Republic, as of 0707 hours.”

“Routing message to Chief Medical Officer's Quarters, USS Republic, as of 0707 hours.”

“Routing message to main sickbay, USS Republic, as of 0707 hours.”

“Routing message to main engineering, USS Republic, as of 0707 hours.”

---

Location: Main engineering, deck 36, USS Republic
Shiptime: 0707 hours

Incoming Priority Message from Starfleet.

Maria sidled down the LCARS and checked the routing information.

“Put it through to this display.”

The message is heavily encrypted and flagged “Eyes Only”.

“Route it through to my office.”

Pakita loved getting mail but loathed the sense of anticipation that accompanied official correspondence, because it always meant paperwork, new regulations, and a disruption of the carefully controlled chaos that was her (and her boss') engineering department. (And soon to be hers exclusively if scuttlebutt were correct.)

“On Screen.”

A very shaggy and bloodshot Lieutenant Commander (detached) greeted her, “Hello old friend. Please disregard the previous messages. I was worried. Victor.

Maria smiled and noted a large collection of dust motes in both eyes. She made a note to check the environmental filters in the ACE office.

“Computer, (beep) save in personal log and re-encrypt.”

The cheered engineer paused as she rose from her seat and cocked her head to one side, a quizzical expression on her face.

“Computer, how many personal message in queue from Victor Virtus.”

You have one hundred thirty-six personal messages from Victor Virtus.

“WHAT?!”

---

Chapter 2: Today's SpecialTop

Location: Brig, deck 38, USS Republic, Gamma Quadrant
Timeframe: Six months prior, one week out from Deep Space Nine

Reia Merrick walked over next to the security desk, looking at Ensign Kuga through the security field. She then turned to the duty officer, “Depach, why don't you take a break for a few minutes. I'll cover for you.”

The gold-clad officer gave Reia a wary look, not sure what to make of what is going on. “Ma'am… I need authorization from Lieutenant Beauvais first.”

Reia returned an easy smile. “Come on, Depach,” she said smoothly. “Where's she gonna go? I mean, it's not like she's hiding a disruptor somewhere, right?”

Narundi straightened up, leaning back to stretch out his stiff spine. “I… suppose you have a point, Reia. Thanks.” Narundi turned and exited the brig.

As the doors closed, Reia tapped her comm badge and looked back over her shoulder at Kuga. “Computer, disable audio and video recording, authorization Merrick theta six omega nine.” The computer beeped to confirm the order.

“So you work for them too?” Naruko asked warily, now wondering how big the organization that 'built' her really was.

“Work for who?” Reia questioned. “Ensign… if you are indeed Ensign Kuga.”

Naruko was surprised. Lieutenant Merrick didn't come across like the others. Most officers she interacted with looked on her with scorn, pity, or contempt; usually a combination of the three. She straightened her posture and pulled her feet up underneath herself, sitting in a classic lotus position on the sleeping ledge of the cell. 'Perhaps she doesn't work for them after all,' she thought. “I… never mind.” She began, but then thought better of it. It would be best that no one on Republic knew why she was here.

“Ensign… I only want to help, so please give me something to work with.” She asked, walking towards the force field.

“Why did you disable the recorder?” Naruko wondered outloud.

“I thought it would be best to have some private time.” Reia offered, hoping that her action would ease tensions between them.

“How do you know that I won't try and escape now, since you disabled the recorder?”

“Because you gave your word to the Captain, and if you are indeed the real Ensign Naruko Kuga, then your word means everything.” Reia said simply. “Now let me give you MY word. If you say anything or nothing at all, I will do my best to protect you.” Naruko sat in silence for a minute before she began to talk.

Reia and Naruko sat face to face, separated by the brig's security screen. Naruko was crying a bit unsure of herself and what to do next. “Don't worry Naruko I'll protect you, but you must have faith in the captain to do the right thing.” Merrick stepped back from the cell entrance, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one would bear witness to her next admission. “I have a few connections in Starfleet.” She admitted. “Old, unofficial connections. I'll put in a call to Admiral Ross and see if he can look into your case a little more… unofficially.”

“Maybe…” Naruko starts wiping the tears away. “I want to give you a gift, it will help you and I down the road.” Naruko glanced at the security controls for the cell, indicating that Merrick should release her.

Though she wasn't sure why, Reia Merrick felt a bond of trust between herself and the imprisoned Ensign. It may have been something as simple as being in the same department, or it may have been more primal. Whatever the case, Merrick reached out and used her department head code to override the security screen. Though the watch officer's desk objected, it was a simple matter for Merrick to walk behind the desk and allow the change in prisoner status.

Stepping out from the newly opened cell, Naruko came to within a few paces of Reia Merrick. The younger officer placed her hand on Reia's cheek. Reia could feel a tingling sensation, which quickly faded as Naruko removed her hand. “Not sure how long it will take effect” she explained. ” In normal humans it takes about a week, since you're half trill could be longer or it may not work at all.“

“What did you… ?” Reia questioned.

“It will help us communicate… The guard will be coming back soon, I think it's time you go now.” Without another word, Kuga stepped back into the cell.

It was a simple matter for Merrick to re-engage the security field and run a simple diagnostic to erase all record of the last few minutes. Then, seconds before Depach Narundi returned to the watch desk, Merrick re-established the normal audio and video recording systems, before bidding the returning officer a good evening.


Location: Reia Merrick's Cabin, deck 8, USS Republic
Timeframe: Months later

Reia awoke in a cold sweat, though her body felt hot as if she had been sitting in a sauna for days. She slowly rose from bed heading over to the sonic shower. It had been three days since last had a good night's sleep. The same dream keeps plaguing her each night. 'Why am I remembering the conversation I had months ago? '

---

Location: Main sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic
Timeframe: One day prior to present day

Reia sat on the bed as Saal Yezbeck finished his scan. “You're body temperature is still higher than normal; must be a bug you picked up.” Yezbeck walked over to a tray, picking out a hypo spray. “This should ease the discomfort”, he said, in his typical easy manner, pressing the hypo to Merrick's neck. “You're about due for a physical.” He commented. “Are you sure you don't want to get that out of the way? There's a chance this could be the start of something bigger. Maybe you should let Doctor Cromwell take a look.”

“No it's ok, besides the good doctor and I don't get along.” Reia explained.

“Oh? I wasn't aware of any problem between you two. Anything you want to talk about?”

Reia shook her head. “No. I'd just as soon forget about it.”

“Suit yourself,” Yezbeck offered, “but you won't be able to hide from him forever.”

“Aye aye” Reia answered. She hopped off of the diagnostic bed and headed down the corridor, back to her cabin for a short while, before her shift.

As Reia entered her cabin she could feel the room begin to spin around her. She rushed for the head, making it just in time to feel her breakfast come back up. The room continued to spin, and Reia could slowly feel that she was starting to lose consciousness as everything went white.

---

Location: Main sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic, Alpha Quadrant
Timeframe: Present day

“How is she doing Doctor?” inquired Captain Roth as she looked over Reia Merrick's unconscious body. The Ops Officer had been found unconscious in her quarters just before the start of Alpha Shift and Republic's official return to Deep Space Nine.

“Well, I'm far from an expert in Trill physiology, but I don't THINK the tumor is life threatening.” Saal Yezbeck walked around the diagnostic bed, and then hit a few buttons to put the information on one of Sickbay's many displays. “Miss Merrick's been in fine health for a non-joined trill. According to her last physical, everything was within species norms.” Yezbeck shook his head as he looked at the graphic again. “I definitely would have seen this during her next physical, but she wasn't due for a few weeks yet. I was surprised about one thing though. A few, come to think of it.”

Roth looked at Republic's senior doctor. “How so?”

Like a senior lecturer, Yezbeck stepped closer to point out some details of the body scan on Merrick. “As you can see here Captain, there's a sizable mass just inside Reia's symbiont cavity. I've never encountered anything like that, and after a quick conference with…”

Showing his usual impeccable timing, Julian Bashir entered Sickbay. He took up a position next to Captain Roth, giving Republic's commander a quick nod.

Saal chuckled, and continued his explanation. “After a quick chat with Doctor Bashir, I decided to dig a little deeper.”

Roth nodded. “What made you so suspicious… Doctors?”

Bashir stepped up slightly. “If I may Captain,” he said smoothly. “I've had a great deal of experience with Trill biology in my years on DS9, and, to put it bluntly, Trill can't get cancer; certainly not in the joining cavity. Their natural defenses make the joining components, including the cavity's cell walls, particularly hearty.”

“Exactly!” Yezbeck added. “So then the question was, if it's not cancerous, then just what is it?” Yezbeck reached up, to enhance the resolution on the area in question. “Recognize those little buggers?” Saal questioned.

Roth felt a vein begin to throb at her temple. “You have GOT to be kidding.”

Under thousands of times of magnification, what looked like an organic mass of malignant cells was in fact a colony of thriving, writhing, and most importantly, multiplying nano-machines that looked all too familiar. “Those are Kuga's nano-machines, aren't they?”

“The very same.” Bashir confirmed. “Nowhere near the levels of Kuga; though they're centered in this abdominal mass rather than spread throughout her body. Don't ask me HOW that happened.” Yezbeck added.

“How could Kuga's nano-machines have gotten inside the lieutenant's body after Kuga has been dead for so long?” inquired Roth. Then a realization hit her. “Good God… they're not all over the ship are they? Is anyone else on board infected?”

Now, Yezbeck's voice was mellow and assuring. “It doesn't work that way. These aren't like Borg nano-probes. These little critters were particular to Kuga. They quite literally can't exist anywhere else, or at least they couldn't, until now.”

Again, Bashir chimed in. ” The most likely cause is that a small…colony if you will, were re-purposed to do SOMETHING for Lieutenant Merrick here, but just what it is…don't ask me.“

“Why don't we ask the lieutenant when she wakes up,” replied Yezbeck.

---

Reia's eyes slowly opened as she returned to the waking world. “Ow… My gut feels like it's on fire.”

Doctor Yezbeck looked down at his newly conscious patient. “That's to be expected. Your body's fighting off a particularly nasty infection. Now that you're awake, I can give you something for the pain.”

“Can you explain how it is you have Ensign Kuga's nanites in your blood, lieutenant?” Roth asked pointedly.

“Nanites…” Confused and disorientated, “What are you talking about… captain?” replied Merrick.

“Kuga's nano-machines have been found in your blood stream.” Roth explained, her frustration coming through her voice. “It was my understanding that the sample you possessed was taken from you by Ensign Jenkins during Kuga's escape. That WAS the case, was it not?”

The accusation was clear. The escape of Naruko Kuga and the revelation of her being part of an enormous conspiracy, bent on starting a new war with the Dominion was still a sore spot for Kim Roth. Even the tragedy of the Thundercrest didn't sting her the way that Kuga's betrayal had. Roth could justify that her destruction of the Thundercrest was a military necessity.

By contrast, her inability to spot and stop Kuga's manipulation of Republic and its crew made Roth feel like a first-year cadet. Now she was faced with the possibility that there was yet another sleeper agent on her ship, willing or not, and Kim Roth didn't like that one bit.

“Of course it was… Captain.” Merrick explained. “I promise you ma'am, I have no idea what's going on. Naru…” Merrick felt her cheeks flush slightly “Ensign Kuga's been dead for months, since before we left the Alpha Quadrant. In fact I haven't even THOUGHT of her since then…” Silence filled the sickbay for a moment as Merrick recalled the rapid onset of her illness.

“I know this is going to sound strange, but ever since, I've started to feel sick. I have been having flashbacks to a conversation I had with Naruko while she was in the brig.” In truth, Reia had reported every aspect of that encounter to the captain after the escape and death of Ensigns Kuga and Jenkins, classified as it was.

As soon as Roth heard Reia's rebuttal, she remembered the report. “The gift that she 'gave' you… But , you also said that particular contact seemed to have no effect at all.” Roth's temper cooled as she crossed her arms over her chest. “What was the point of establishing a connection with you in the first place? And why would the nano-bots assert themselves now?”

“I guess it took some time for the nano-machines to map my brain out” added Reia.

Next to Captain Roth, Julian Bashir nodded. “And it is possible that because of the neural connections that exist in case of joining, the nano-machines simply, well, gathered in the wrong place.” Bashir turned to Yezbeck. “What do you think Saal?”

The elder physician stroked his beard. “With Kuga dead, which means that there's no one to get instructions from, or give them to… I suppose that could be the case, and if the nanites weren't intended for the lieutenant in the first place…” Yezbeck smiled brightly. “I think you're on to something Julian my boy!”

The two doctors exchanged mutually admiring glances and nods before the scowl on Kim Roth's face brought them back to the moment. “If you two could stop congratulating yourselves for a few minutes?”

For a brief moment, Saal Yezbeck hung his head like a chided schoolboy, but the self-satisfied smile didn't quite go away. “Of course captain. Sorry.”

“Doctor Bashir?” Roth turned her attention to the long-visiting physician. “You're the expert in Trill physiology,” she said simply. “Is the lieutenant in any danger?”

Julian looked at Merrick again, striking a contemplative pose. “I'm not entirely sure, captain. Perhaps it would be best to keep the lieutenant under observation.”

Roth turned on a heel, heading toward the door. “Then prepare to transfer your patient to Deep Space Nine, Doctor Bashir.” Kim said coolly. “I'll make the arrangements with Captain Kira.”

With that, the word was given, and Roth was gone, leaving two surprised doctors and one very confused patient in her wake.

Bashir looked at Yezbeck, then at Merrick, who had managed to sit up on the diagnostic bed. “What in the world brought that on?” Bashir looked on quizzically.

Saal Yezbeck held up both hands in front of him in the traditional 'don't shoot' manner. “No idea, but I'm not going to argue with her.”

“Me neither,” Reia Merrick offered, looking at Bashir. “How's the food at Quark's?”

Bashir smiled at the Lieutenant's good nature despite the uncertain news. “When you're able, lieutenant,” he said, his voice now oozing with practiced charm, “I'll treat you to lunch. Quark's plomeek broth is quite good.”

“Excellent Doctor,” she smiled. “Something to look forward to.”

---

Chapter 3: Mixed MessagesTop

Location: Acting Chief Medical Officer's Quarters, deck nine, USS Republic
Shiptime: 0812 hours

Saal spent longer than he had anticipated on his shift in sickbay, but the case with Reia Merrick was much too interesting to simply hand off to Doctor Fernmoore for the next duty shift. While the anomalous colony of advanced nanoprobes growing in Merrick's symbiont cavity was the most intriguing case he had laid eyes on since the Ash'aarian plague patient, it was no longer in his hands. The captain's order was clear, and Merrick was now Bashir's patient, not his.

“Damn shame,” Doctor Yezbeck muttered, entering his quarters, looking forward to some rest after finishing another late-night session on gamma shift. It wouldn't have been so bad except that he had been constantly changing from one shift to another over the past few weeks, trying to coordinate people on all three duty shifts since his recent, albeit temporary, job switch to the CMO position. It left him tired and grouchy, almost as much as the person he was covering for in sickbay.

No sooner did Saal have time to remove his uniform jacket than did the computer voice interrupt him.

“Incoming Priority Message from Starfleet.”

Taking pause, Saal noted that it was the first time in seven months that he had heard the words “Starfleet” and “message” spoken by the computer in the same sentence. Realizing that the ship had finally re-established communications with the Federation communications network after returning to the alpha quadrant, he suddenly found himself eager to learn what he'd been missing since Republic was ordered into radio silence since they left port.

“Put it through to my display,” ordered Saal, diverting his attention to his workdesk.

“The message is heavily encrypted and flagged 'Eyes Only' for Leon Cromwell.”

Saal froze with an aggravated expression. It was both annoying and disappointing that the very first personal message he received from outside the ship in over half a year was a wrong address.

“If it's not for me, why did you send it here?” he questioned the computer, making no effort to hide his sour displeasure.

“Routing instructions for this message indicated delivery to the Chief Medical Officer's Quarters”

“Well then,” Saal exclaimed incredulously. “*RE* route it to the *acting* chief science officer's quarters!”

The computer beeped in compliance, returning silence to the doctor's quarters. As he readied himself for bed, Saal took one last view out the window overlooking the metallic spires of Deep Space Nine. He felt comfort in being back home, and determined to take a long, leisurely stroll on the Promenade after a good eight-hour rest. Settling into his bed, Saal pulled up the covers and began drifting off to sleep when the computer shattered the silence once again.

“Incoming Priority Message from Starfleet.”

“Is it for ME this time??” he growled, flipping back the covers he had pulled over his head just moments ago.

“Affirmative. The audio message is heavily encrypted, and routing instructions indicate delivery to Special Agent Shadow, USS Republic.”

Saal's face went deadpan.

“Let's hear it…”

An instant later, the familiar voice of Doug Forrest reverberated from the computer speakers, bringing back distant memories from a dubious time in Saal's life.

“Hello old friend. I'm not sure if you're receiving any of my messages, but this one is the most urgent that I've ever sent you. You see, Sean and I are in a bit of a jam here on Farius Prime, and I need to ask a favor of you…”

---

Location: Acting chief science officer's quarters, deck eight, USS Republic
Shiptime: 0826 hours

Since their docking at Deep Space Nine a few hours prior, the buzz of excitement aboard Republic spread quickly. Alpha shift had just come on duty and busied themselves with basic port servicing, as Republic had not seen a Federation outpost in over half a year. Those lucky enough to be on beta shift were now waking up to see that they were in the Alpha Quadrant, and had most of the morning and afternoon to themselves before reporting to duty at 1600, allowing a full nights rest to enjoy some off-duty time aboard the station. Then, there were those on gamma shift, who were just getting off the night shift, and needed to sleep before they could disembark and take in some new scenery.

As was Leon Cromwell's disposition.

After being relieved by Nat Hawk, who was about twenty-minutes late to take over bridge watch from him, the doctor was tired and needed to sleep before rediscovering civilization outside Republic. Unlike Hawk, who was so excited about being back at their homeport that he tried to get Lieutenant Snyder to take over his shift on the bridge (thus his tardiness to his work shift), Leon was less than enthusiastic about partaking in the exodus out the main gangway. Taking his leave of the helmsman, who reluctantly took command of the bridge while Carter and Roth disembarked to report in to Captain Kira, Leon was content to head off to bed. But first, the ship's computer had something to say about it.

“Incoming Priority Message from Starfleet.”

No sooner did the door to his quarters slide shut than did the first message of one hundred and twelve reach the top of Leon's personal communications queue. Resigned to listen to the high-precedence communiques before retiring, the doctor sighed and took a seat at his workdesk.

“On screen,” he replied to the computer, and an instant later, a very shaggy and bloodshot Lieutenant Commander greeted Leon.

“Hello old friend. Please disregard the previous messages. I was worried. Victor.”

Leon blinked with confusion. “That's it?” he thought. “There must be something more to what he sent me…”

“Computer, play previous message from Victor Virtus.”

“Hello Leon. I forgot to fill you in on what happened aboard the Freedom Star. John knows about all of what I'm about to tell you, so I won't bother copying him on this message. Anyway, as I mentioned before, I spent three months overhauling the matter/antimatter inducers before we docked at Hellsgate Station, and I…”

“Computer, play the message before this one, please.”

“Hello again, Leon. I know that you haven't been receiving these priority messages, and I can only hope that the Federation comm network will hold them in the buffer long enough until Republic eventually re-establishes contact with a navigational buoy. Kira thinks I'm crazy for spending all my shore leave waiting for you guys to come home, but I don't dare…”

Leon audibly sighed. “Computer, previous priority message, if you please.”

Vic's voice went from calm and rational, to inordinately irate.

“I've had it! Whoever messed with my programming at the Luna Base mainframe did so with such ill intent that…”

“Computer, go back five messages before this one.” Leon was confused as to why Vic would have left so many priority messages while they were gone. Admittedly, the Republic was months overdue from their nebula mapping mission, but usually, the quixotic engineer was a man of few words when getting to the point, usually resulting in a one sentence summary alongside an absurdly accurate time index. However, these particular messages seemed to be a long string of erratic log entries rather than a important set of information requiring Leon's utmost attention. As the computer complied with Leon's last command, Vic's voice became heavily inebriated, causing a surprised look to wash across the doctor's face.

“Sooo, when he wusn't lookin', I drunk down th'last bottle…”

“Forward to mid-message…”

”…and THAT'S when I saw something nasty in the woodshed…“

“Computer, halt playback!”

Leon covered his eyes in frustration. He wasn't keen on listening to every single one of Vic's priority messages, especially since he was low on sleep. But the relative conundrum was that if these messages indeed came from the Republic's former chief engineer, then there HAD to be something 'priority' about them. Otherwise, he would have sent simple routine correspondence. While it occurred to the doctor that he might listen to Vic's most recent message suggesting he ignore all previous, the CMO turned acting science chief was curious to the point of a fault, and simply HAD to get to the bottom of Vic's anxiety.

“Computer,” Leon called out again to the omnipresent computer. “Cross-reference all subject matter from all priority messages to me in the last six months from Victor Virtus and determine the most common subject discussed.”

The computer sounded a series of processor chirps and warbles as it analyzed in mere seconds the meaning of every sentence Vic spoke in his messages to Leon over the past thirty weeks.

“Current events.”

“Specify?”

“Political news.”

Leon seemed to accept this revelation, though not entirely sure why a scientist of Vic's caliber would be concerned with trivial politics. “Computer, access Federation news networks, and playback the most recent news program regarding the primary subject of Victor Virtus's encoded priority messages.”

“Accessing… Replaying episode number thirty-four of 'INN Insights with Jack Warner', recorded on stardate 58734.9”.

As the show commenced, Leon moved to his recliner situated next to the glass coffee table. On his way there, he picked up the coronet-shaped bottle of scotch whiskey that Shannon had gifted him two weeks ago and poured himself a drink.

“Welcome to INN Insights. I'm Jack Warner. The presidential race is down to its final few months, and as President Wolack D'lara prepares to step down after the completion of his final term, he has officially endorsed Councilman Tharn of Andoria who currently leads the race over the other candidates. Many have condemned the president for choosing another fellow Andorian as a hand-picked successor, insisting that such behavior is tantamount to a Federation oligarchy by Andoria. Mister D'lara has, of course, denied the suggestion, citing the councilman's positive track record of legislation in the upper house over the past twenty three years. But how positive is that record? INN Insight's newest investigative reporter, Jacqueline Morton-Taylor, tells us…”

Leon listened with detachment to the young lady's edited and pre-recorded piece of political jargon. The fact that the show's anchorman, Jack Warner, was the father of Republic's Director of Public Relations, Leah Warner, was perhaps the only reason the doctor hadn't yet turned off the recording. As his mind wandered, he thought back to Ash'aaria, and the role that Leah played in helping Leon and Nat cure the plague victims. It was Leon's conclusion that if her tenacity and indomitable spirit were inherited from her father, then Jack Warner was a man to be trusted. As he listened to the senior Warner's editorial piece on the flagrant ethics violations that Councilman Tharn was accused of, the doctor could feel a twinge of anger swelling in him, wondering how such a politician could have been voted into the Federation Council in the first place. While Leon wasn't much of a voter, he actually found himself thinking of hitting the polls on election day, just to make sure Tharn could be blocked from obtaining the highest office in the Federation. After all, if Jack Warner questioned the man's integrity, there HAD to be something to it…

“Here's to you, Jack!” Leon raised his glass of scotch in a toast. Allowing the smooth, smokey taste of distilled alcohol to slide slowly down his throat, the doctor laid back in his recliner and continued to listen to the IIN Insights program.

“And so it goes. With allegations such as these against Councilman Tharn, it's no wonder that his poll numbers have been steadily decreasing over the past five weeks, despite his lead over the other candidates. Which begs the question: Just where will his numbers be on election day? And does he truly deserve the honor to serve in the highest office of the president? Of course, the other candidates have their own opinions on the subject, and here with us in the studio today is the next runner up in the polls, Neocractic Federalist Party candidate and former Starfleet Admiral, Valdamir Kosyta. Admiral! Welcome to the program…”

With the utterance of those last words, Leon's eyes bulged out towards the ceiling as he just finished off the glass of whiskey.

---

Location: Corridor, deck 8, USS Republic

Coughing spasmodically from a disturbed balance of 100 year-old alcohol balanced precipitously on his epiglottis, Doctor Cromwell stormed down the hallway while hastily working himself into his uniform jacket. With a flushed red face and wild expression in his eyes, his voice was almost otherworldly as he entered the turbolift.

“Bridge!” he managed to utter through a hoarse cough.

---

Chapter 4: Ups and DownsTop

Location: Main bridge, deck 1, USS Republic
Shiptime: 0832 hours

Seated in the center command chair upon the bridge of the Starship Republic, chief helmsman and second officer Lieutenant Nathan Hawk was well and truly bored out of his mind. When one was so bored, the mind tended to wander and didn't want it to wander into personal issues that had vexed him since their third week on Ash'aaria. In the same breath that he cursed the lack of anything to occupy his time or wandering mind, he was also thankful for the respite from crisis. Those weeks on Ash'aaria, he hadn't had a moment to think; let alone the energy to do so had such a moment come upon him.

It had been a brutal, exhaustive, all-consuming time that he hoped never to repeat. Yet he also held no regrets about. As hard as it had been for him, he knew it had been even more harrowing an experience on his friend Leon Cromwell. He had been naïve to ever believe he himself alone could have done even a tenth of what they had jointly accomplished. The entire heart of the mission had revolved around medicine, and his grand design had involved the utilization of an Emergency Medical Hologram.

The very idea was absurd now in hindsight, and had been rendered so almost immediately upon arrival. As he stroked the neatly trimmed hair of the goatee that presently adorned his chin – a combination souvenir and would-be badge of honor from his excursion to the Ash'aarian wilds – he considered just how foolish the entire escapade would have been had he embarked upon it independently. Thankfully, that had not been the case. Leon's own plan had made far more sense and worked out a hell of a lot better.

As he looked over the status reports from the various departments linked through the command consoles on either arm of the chair, he wondered what the potential fall-out with Starfleet would be over the matter. Even with the steps taken to re-write history by the Captain, with just over a thousand people aboard, the truth was bound to trickle out in rumor. Without facts to back it up, there would never be anything formal out of Starfleet to challenge the official account of things. Hopefully the added protection of people like Admiral Janeway – who herself had run afoul of the letter of the law over the years – would take care of any un-official blow-back.

As he sat strumming his fingers on the right hand arm of the center seat, desperate for something to occupy him, he wondered if anyone would notice if he took the ship out to the nearby Denorios belt for a joy-ride…

Before the idea could progress further, Nat's attention was captured by the arrival – or rather return – of Doctor Leon Cromwell to the bridge. Having been relieved less than a half-hour ago, Nat hadn't expected to see his friend for the next few hours. Still, he was grateful for any distraction at this point.

“Ya miss me already?” Hawk quipped as the acting Science Officer strode purposefully towards him from the port forward turbolift. The remark fell on deaf ears though, as Cromwell came to a halt a few steps before Hawk and looked at him with a shaken expression on his face before moving to sit down in the chair to his immediate left. When he said nothing, instead simply stared off into space for a moment, Nat prompted him. “Leon? Ya'll right?”

“Have you watched the news lately?” Cromwell asked after a beat without even looking at him, almost as if the proverbial wheels spinning in his mind required all of his energy and focus.

“Uhh, nope. Sorta depressin' an all, the news I mean. Why?” Hawk replied, a bit concerned. He knew Leon had issues with post-traumatic stress and the like; so much so that Counselor Tolkath had actually thought a week of total down-time in the brig was beneficial for him. Was he relapsing?

As if trying to wrap his mind around the concept, Leon responded in a quiet, astonished voice. “Vladimir Kostya… is running for President.”

Hawk didn't quite follow. “President uh what?” he questioned.

“Of the-!” Leon began to shout in response, ”-of the Federation!“ he finished in an urgent yet hushed, even conspiratorial tone as he finally turned to look at Hawk. “Kostya is running for President of the United Federation of Planets!” he repeated, as if he needed to state it as much as possible before his brain could believe it.

Immediately, Leon's stressed out condition made a great deal of sense. “That's bad.” Hawk stated simply.

“That's very bad!” Leon replied, still acting a bit deranged. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage that man could do as the President?” he asked, making sure to keep the volume of his voice low without losing any of the force of severity.

“He ain't winnin' though, is he?” Hawk questioned, sharing in Leon's concern. He hadn't been matching wits and wills with Kostya nearly as long as John and Leon had been, but he knew the kind of damage the man could do.

“No, thankfully,” Leon replied, seeming to calm a bit at that fact. “But he's not losing, either. He's in third or so place I think, and most people still haven't made up their minds.” Leon informed him, as the shock of learning all of this began to wear away and the reality of things set in. “He's a manipulative, arrogant, self-righteous ideologue. Supported by a great many likewise manipulative, arrogant, self-righteous ideologues – most of whom will stop at nothing to give their side an edge.”

As much as Hawk shared Leon's profound concerns over this development, he was more concerned over Leon's ability to deal with this added stress. Ash'aaria had pushed him to the edge of tolerances. Since they had returned to Republic, the level of anxiety and stress Cromwell was under had dropped dramatically. This was only going to amp things back up for him.

“Ya told John-boy 'bout this?” Hawk asked, anxious for Carter's opinion – both on Kostya's political ambitions as well as Leon's psyche's ability to handle this.

“He's off-ship with the Captain, I think a meeting with Captain Kira on the station.” Cromwell replied. Belatedly, Hawk realized he should have known this as officer of the watch, but he'd been too busy being bored to check the status displays. It occurred to him then how cruel and fickle a bitch karma or fate or whatever else could be; here he had been lamenting his boredom and the lack of anything going on, only to have something new to stress and worry about pop right up.

“Maybe ya should talk ta Tolkath,” Hawk suggested, about as subtly as a bull in a china shop.

“I think I can manage.” Leon replied dismissively, apparently not eager to give the counselor any more reason to fret over him. After a moment, another thought occurred to him. “Has Leah mentioned anything about this?”

Before Hawk could reply and explain how little he'd spoken to the significant other in his life, a feminine voice chimed in from above and behind them. “About what?”

As Leon turned in his seat, Nat craned his neck to find Lean Warner standing off to the side of the Security and Tactical console that surrounded the command chairs, an inquisitive look on her face. Though such was fairly standard fare for a reporter. Nat once again cursed fate or karma or whatever else, as he recalled the age old phrase 'when it rains, it pours'.

Caught off-guard, and wondering who else might be listening to their conversation, Leon glanced around the bridge once more before answering her. “About Vladimir Kostya running for President.”

Taken aback by the statement, Leah looked downright stunned by the news. “Are you serious?” she asked, crouching down and leaning her head under the port-side of the tactical console to get closer to the conversation.

“I just saw your father conducting in interview with him on the news nets.” Leon affirmed.

Shaking her head from side to side in disbelief, Leah couldn't believe what Cromwell was telling her. “My father hates politics, he hasn't done a story on them since… as long as I can remember.”

As the conversation spontaneously died (as they occasionally do) the awkward silence and tension between Hawk and Warner became almost palpable as Nat realized her presence on the bridge was likely due to a desire to talk with him. Why she would pick this particular time and place made a bit of sense. It was the only time and place she knew for certain he would be, considering how much he had been avoiding her of late. Though in his mind, he preferred to think that he was helping her to avoid him.

“Hey, Leon, ya mind holdin' down tha fort fer a coupla minutes?” he asked his friend.

Having been witness to the obvious tension between the two since it's beginnings on Ash'aaria, and not likely to get any sleep for the immediate future despite how tired he was, Leon nodded in agreement. “Sure thing.”

Standing from the command chair, he looked to Warner and uncertainly motioned towards the observation lounge doors at the back of the bridge as he asked, “Ya wanna talk fer a minute?”

Nodding in reply, equally uncertain of things, Leah agreed. “Yeah, we uhm, we should,” was all she could manage as she moved in that direction.

After another minute of dancing around one another as he first lead the way, then stopped and motioned for her to go first, upon which she suggested he go first, before he insisted she did, the once happy couple finally managed to head off the bridge, the sound of frustrated sigh catching Hawk's ear from the direction of the command chair as the doors closed behind him.

Not eager to say anything first, Hawk paused just inside the threshold of the room and considered the floor. Or more precisely, considered the spot on the floor that had once been stained a deep red, almost black, with well over two liters of his own blood. Nothing marred the carpet in the slightest, but something about being mortally wounded tended to burn specific details into your mind, so much so that Hawk thought he could almost trace the exact outline of the one-time stain if he had to.

Either because of the connection they shared, or due to her latent empathic abilities for her quarter betazoid DNA, Leah seemed to know exactly what thoughts were going through his mind at that moment. It was enough to get her to speak first. “I've already lost you once,” she said softly, “I don't want to lose you again.”

Looking into her dark brown eyes, the love Nat felt for her was enough to overwhelm him. He wanted to hold her close and reassure her that they would always be together, that everything would be alright, and nothing could ever come between them.

But he knew that such simply wasn't the case anymore. It hadn't been for quite a while.

“Nothin's changed fer me, darlin',” he told her, regretfully. Moving closer to her, he brushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face and continued. “Ya want somethin' from life 'at I can't give ya.”

Her emotions surging to the surface, she put her hand to his face as she argued passionately, “What I want isn't something I want right now. It might not even be ten years from now!”

Pulling away, Hawk shook his head gently, “It ain't 'bout when. It ain't somethin' I want, ever. That ain't fair ta ya.”

Growing upset, even angry, Leah shot back. “What isn't fair is that you won't even consider the idea. That you can't ever see what you want changing. How can you be so stubborn? How can you insist you know what you'll want and not want for the rest of your life?” she demanded.

Finding it difficult to look at her and the pain he was causing her, Nat turned away towards the large view ports at the back of the room, and the starry void beyond. “I made up ma mind 'bout this stuff a long time ago. Ya know tha reasons why. That ain't gonna change. Not now, not t'marra… just ain't.”

“You don't know that. You can't know that!” she exclaimed, frustrated and so much more. When Nat didn't reply, she stepped closer and grabbed him, forcing him to turn and face her. “You told me you never thought you could love anyone. That before you met me, the very idea caused you pain. But look at you now. That's changed. The fact that you don't even want to look at me right now proves that. So why can't this change to? Why won't you even let the idea of change exist?”

“B'cause I will not put-!” Nat started to reply, but stopped short, turning away from her again.

“Because you won't what?” Leah asked, knowing she'd struck pay-dirt. “What won't you do?” Again, Hawk refused to answer. “Damnit, you owe me at least that much! At least the truth!”

Angry now - both at himself and at her - Hawk spun on his heel and answered her. “I won't put a kid through what I went through, damnit!”

This revelation changed the game a bit. For a few long moments, neither one of them said anything. Everything simply hung in the air between them. His past. Their relationship. Her hopes for the future. Their future together. It all existed in a state of flux for a few moments.

Finally, Leah spoke. Her anger tempered, her frustration reigned in. “What your parents did… it was the most arrogant and selfish thing I've ever known. I hate them for it. I hate them for the pain and the grief that they've caused you. I hate them for everything they took from you because of their self-righteousness, and their ignorance, and their bravado, and their short-sightedness. And you… you should probably hate them too. I don't know, maybe you do and just can't say it aloud. But you are not your parents, and neither am I.”

Turning to face her, Nat too had tempered his feelings even as others surged within him. Emotions so strong that if ever unleashed, he feared they could easily destroy him. Feelings and thoughts he kept buried so deep down, he himself didn't know what he might find if he were ever forced to face them. “What ma parents did… yer right, twas arrogant n' selfish n' all that. Yer right, you n' me wouldn't prolly ever make them same mistakes. But we could make others. I'm Starfleet, yer a reporter. This universe ain't the safe lil utopia most folks like ta pretend it is. I know that better 'n anybody. Bringin' a child inta this world, knowin' that at any moment, either uh us could make a decision that'd put that kid through even a lil bit uh what I went through… well that's pretty damn selfish too, don't ya think?”

Taking his hands in hers, and pulling him closely, Leah looked deeply into his eyes as she answered him. “Then we walk away from it all. We take desk jobs, on earth – when we're both ready for that part of our life together to begin.”

“And what 'bout tha enemies we made 'n tha mean time, huh? Even if we get Faro, even if he goes away fer good, even if we can take down tha Syndicate, ya think they'll just lemme walk away? Ya don't think somebody out there's gonna want me head fer that?” Nat countered.

Refusing to concede the point, Leah argued further, “Then we run away, we leave it all behind. We go to the ass-end of the Beta Quadrant, or through the wormhole, or anywhere else where no one will ever find us. We make a life for ourselves, together, somewhere.”

“Ya mean that? Ya could give up everthin' n' everyone?” Nat asked, the shields around his argument losing cohesion.

Smiling at him as weeks of doubt and fear over their future together washed away, Leah couldn't help but chuckle a bit, “Sweetie, we both kind of already did. That planet back there, the one we could have spent the rest of our lives on, begins with the letter A and ends with the sound 'aaria'? We both felt so strongly that not helping those people was wrong, that we did give up everything for the hope of changing that. Why wouldn't we be willing to give just as much for a life and a family together?” she asked rhetorically.

Feeling as dumb as a box of rocks, Nat shook his head in the affirmative. “Well ain't I stupid.”

Laughing, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her. “Lucky for you, I love you for your looks and not your mind.” she joked before planting her lips upon his.

“Ya ain't mad at me? I mean, if I'd uh just told ya what we buggin' me weeks ago…” Nat began apologetically, trailing off as Leah put a finger over his lips, telling him to stop.

“If you'd have just told me what was bugging you weeks ago, you wouldn't be the man I feel in love with.” she told him.

“I just feel so… stupid.” he said again, at a loss for a better word to describe it.

“You've lead a very solitary life, for a very long time. Every decision you've ever made for yourself had been the right decision for you in that moment, even if it wasn't. Part of being a couple, part of being more than just an individual, is learning how to think and how to decide things together.” she enlightened him.

“Well I'll be damned,” Nat replied, “an all this time, I thought ya were just 'nother pretty face.” he teased her, sweeping her into another kiss before she could get out a come back.

---

Chapter 5: Tune In TomorrowTop

Location: Main gangway, deck 25, USS Republic

Smoke shifted his weight on Kim Roth's shoulder as she walked briskly down the corridor. Next to Republic's CO, John Carter stutter-stepped to keep pace. “And that's where we stand, Captain.”

Roth shook her head. “We can't make better than warp five?”

Carter double-checked the PADD in his hand that now seemed to be ever-present. He looked gravely at the data. “Pakita would actually prefer that we keep it under four-point five, but she also tends to hedge on the conservative side. The math adds up to warp five, but I wouldn't go much beyond that.”

Roth's face curled into a frown. “I suppose a crawl home is better than the alternative.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The two officers stopped short, taking shorter careful steps between the area governed by the grav-plates of Republic and Deep Space Nine's docking pylon. The gravity was synched and was NEARLY identical. However, despite being extensively re-fitted by Miles O'Brien and his staff, the station was still Cardassian at it's heart, and the bottom line was it was better to be safe than sorry.

As the large, geared door opened to the docking pylon's turbolift shaft, Smoke bleaked with a start as the Republic officers greeted a third man, clad in operations gold.

Victor Virtus beamed, striking a low bow (complete with an unnecessary theatrical flourish. “Greetings and felicitations, Captain Roth.”

“Mister…Virtus I presume?”

“Vic? What the Hell?”

Virtus turned, chiding his friend and fellow officer. “Language, John.” He turned again to address Kim Roth. “Guilty as charged, captain.” Victor cocked his head, regarding the small animal on the captain's shoulder. “Is that an Argelian kitsune?”

Roth turned her head, reaching up to scratch the animal's chin. “Indeed it is, Doctor. This is Smoke.” She tilted her head, back toward Virtus. “Stinker, this is the engineer I keep yelling to you about.”

Virtus seemed to take the remark in stride, stepping forward to give John Carter a handshake that quickly turned into an impromptu hug. “Welcome back to civilization, John,” he offered simply.

John stood back awkwardly. The gesture of kindness, to say nothing of Virtus' presence on the station had taken him by surprise. “It's… good to BE back, Vic,” Republic's First Officer took a step back. “But what are you even DOING here?” he asked, adding, “grozit, Vic, you look terrible. When was the last time you slept?”

“Thirty-six hours, fourteen minutes ago, thank you very much. As for why I'm here, that can wait, though I have been asked by Captain Kira to escort you to Ops.”

Roth took the opportunity to step further into the lift car. Smoke bleeked in expectation. “We'd best not keep the good captain waiting then, gentlemen. Lead the way.”


Location: Station commander's office, ops level, space station Deep Space Nine

The normal beehive of activity that was the nerve center of Deep Space Nine had stabilized to a dull but constant buzz. However, it did give Kira Nerys a moment to sit back in her office and enjoy a well-earned cup of Bajoran herbal tea. She leaned back in her chair a moment, letting out a heavy sigh as she looked at the various mementoes that now decorated an office that she never thought would feel like “hers”.

On the corner of her desk, supported by a simple wooden cradle, there was horsehide orb. Yellowed from use and age, the baseball had been a gift to Nerys from Jake Sisko, after her promotion to station commander. Jake's father, Benjamin, was the commander of Deep Space Nine during some of the most important events in the history of Bajor. He was also a baseball fan, and a fan of that ball in particular, having once vowed to retrieve it, and indeed the station from allied Dominion and Cardassian forces during the Dominion War.

It was an incident that Kira often looked back to, and the fact that Sisko's son gave the ball to her following his father's disappearance felt like a passing of the torch; as if she'd been given permission, not just from Starfleet, but more importantly from Ben Sisko himself to watch over the station that had become home to all of them.

Kira smiled warmly as she picked up the baseball, engaging in the human custom of tossing the ball back and forth in her hands, which no species seemed able to resist.

Then there was a chime at her door.

Spotting the form of Victor Virtus through the door's trans-metal panel, she sighed again. “Finally,” she commented aloud. “I wonder if he'll actually leave now.” She set the ball down and leaned forward. “Come.”

With a soft mechanical grind, the doors to Kira's office split and the three Republic comrades walked in. Nerys stood, awaiting a time-honored tradition.

“Captain Kira Nerys,” said Victor Virtus in the most official tone the Bajoran had ever heard him use, “may I present Captain Kimberly Roth and Commander John Thelonius Carter. Commanding and First Officers of USS Republic respectively.”

Roth stepped forward extending her hand. “Permission to come aboard, Captain Kira?” she asked, as Smoke bleaked.

“Granted, Captain Roth.” Nerys shook the other woman's hand, “And welcome home… officially. Please,” she gestured to the two seats in front of the visiting officers, “have a seat. I'm sure we have a few things to talk about.”

“A few.” Roth added as she sat. Carter did the same.

“First and foremost, you should know, we have a Vorta onboard who's officially requested asylum.”

“You have a what?” Virtus interrupted.

“You have a WHAT?!” Kira commented, somewhat more forcefully.

Roth grimaced slightly. “I know, and I'm sorry I couldn't give any advance notice. I've already spoken with Starfleet Command, and more than a few analysts in intelligence.” Roth took a moment to run her finger along the collar of her uniform. “They've recommended that we turn Eris over to you, given your extensive experience with the Founders and the Dominion.”

Kira nodded. “That makes a lot of sense,” Kira agreed. “I'll make arrangements for the transfer when we're done here.”

“I'd appreciate that, captain,” Roth said. “Thank You.”

After a moment, Kira's face took on a brighter cast. “I hope that Julian didn't cause any trouble for you?”

At that remark, John Carter spoke up. “On the contrary, captain. He came in handy more than once.” Carter and his CO exchanged a knowing glance. “I'm sure that he's as happy to be back as we are though.”

Again, Nerys nodded. “I'm sure,” she said simply. “Thank you for looking after all our other lost sheep as well. I trust your hasty departure was worth it?”

“It worked out as well as could be expected, I'm happy to say.” Roth confirmed.

Kira smiled. “Julian does have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.” DS9's commander took a sip of her tea. “How long will you be staying? My Ops Chief tells me your warp drive has seen better days?”

On the other side of the desk, Virtus leaned forward, looking past Captain Roth to Republic's XO. “What did you DO, John?”

“Nothing, thank you, DOCTOR Virtus. For once, it wasn't me.”

Next to her First Officer, Roth smiled. “Unfortunately, we're only cleared to stay here for a few days. Officially, DS9 is still our home port, but we've been ordered to Earth for debriefing and a crew shuffle.” Roth's head dropped slightly as she pinched her eyes closed for a moment. “I have the feeling new orders are being cut, but if there's one thing I've learned in the last year,” Roth paused for effect. “It's to quit trying to predict PERSCOMM's next move.”

John Carter's combadge chirped.

“Carter, go.”

“Commander Carter, this is Saal Yezbeck. I need to speak with you, sir. Urgently.”

Carter looked quickly to his captain, and then tapped his badge. “Is it a medical emergency, Doctor?”

“No sir, it's personal.”

Carter rose from the chair, looking first to Roth, who nodded, then to Kira. “If I might be excused for a moment?”

Neryes waved her visitor on. “Of course, Commander. I'm sure we can manage.”

As the doors to Kira's office opened, Carter looked back. “Thank you Captain Kira, Captain Roth.” He then tilted his head toward Victor Virtus. “See you in Quark's for a drink, Vic?”

Virtus nodded. “Collect the good Doctor Cromwell, and you've got a deal, John.”

“That's up to him, not me,” Carter indicated as he left the office.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence as Kira Nerys looked at Kim Roth, and then to Victor Virtus, who was by now doing a fantastic impression of a third wheel. The silence continued for a moment, before Kira cleared her throat. “Will there be anything else, Doctor Virtus?”

Vic tilted his head. “No, I'm done here, thank you.” He said flatly.

More silence intervened. “Oh… Oh, right. Of course.” Virtus stood up, brushing the front of his dark uniform tunic, then pivoted toward the door.

“Actually, doctor,” Kim Roth looked at Virtus with a curious eye. “If you wouldn't mind stopping by Republic when you have a moment, I'd like to pick your considerable brain about a few things.”

Victor looked genuinely pleased and also shocked. “Would you?”

“Your reputation precedes you, doctor.”

Victor's countenance brightened noticeably. He smiled stroking his mustache with his thumb and middle finger. “Of course, captain. At your convenience.” He stepped toward the office door and nodded to Kira Nerys. “I appreciate your patience, Captain Kira.” He said simply. “May The Prophets guide you.” Virtus bowed slightly and left the office.

As the door slid shut, Kim Roth let out a heavy sigh. “Captain,” she asked, “do you have any coffee?”

---

Location: Promenade, Deep Space Nine

John Carter walked briskly through the crowded merchant sector of the station's largest common area. He passed a number of vendors, each with a small cart or stand with all manner of goods available for exchange. Some merchants took Federation credit vouchers (the closest thing there was to money in the UFP), but most expected gold pressed latinum in exchange for… whatever.

Carter was looking for Saal Yezbeck who's cryptic summons led to a second, even less illuminating conversation, wherein Yezbeck had asked to meet Republic's resident Martian on an upper observation platform.

“Commander! Commander Carter! Up here, Sir!”

John bounded up the steps, eager to learn the reason for the doctor's communiqué.

“Saal?” He questioned. “What's going on?”

Yezbeck motioned for Carter to join him at a small table with a few chairs, where he'd been looking for the officer. “I'm sorry, Commander. I'm sure this isn't the best time.”

Carter shook his head. “There's never a best time, Saal,” he offered, trying to ease Yezbeck's agitation. “What's wrong?”

Yezbeck leaned forward, propping himself up on his elbows. “I have a family emergency, Sir.” He explained. “I need to take a formal LOA. I know I'm new to the CMO position, but I've got it figured out and the way I see it…”

Carter leaned back and held up his hands. “It's ok, Saal, it's ok. Shannon's more than capable to take over until we get to Earth, Teague's a fine trauma medic, and Leon will still be onboard in case anything really disastrous happens.”

Saal relaxed visibly. “That's pretty close to what I was going to suggest sir. I appreciate your understanding.”

Carter too, relaxed and smiled. “Look, the last few months have been anything but normal, even for us. Go. Take care of your family. Especially now that you've got the chance.”

Saal nodded, genuinely appreciative of the Commander's good nature. “Aye sir.” The senior doctor got up and headed for the stairs that lead back down to the main level of the promenade. Before taking a step down he looked back over his shoulder.

“Be seeing you, Commander.” Saal tipped an invisible hat. Then he descended out of sight.

After a moment, Carter realized that he was actually alone. No meeting, no crisis, no personnel issues. He paused for a moment, scanning the observation deck. Then his eyes settled on a wall-mounted tri-vid monitor, set on the Inter-Stellar News Network.

Jack Warner was commenting on something with fellow a fellow INN reporter; a Bolian John didn't recognize. Carter didn't think much of it until he saw a picture of Valdimir Kostya, displayed in the corner of the monitor. Slowly Carter rose to his feet. “Please tell me he's dead.” He asked the universe quietly. Carter stepped up to the monitor, keying the volume control as he hoped for a miracle.

”…make of it Jack?“

“Well, I'll say this, Morbo,” Warner said to his colleague. “I've covered many political campaigns in my time, and there is something very engaging about Admiral Kostya.”

The Bolian nodded. “He's trailing badly in the polls, Jack.” Morbo commented. “Do you really think he's the next President of the Federation?”

The question hit Carter like a kick to the gut. “No… no, no, no! You have got to be SPROCKING KIDDING ME!” He thundered.

Warner smiled affably. “Oh, that's not up to me, but I think you might be surprised.”

“Well we certainly look forward to the rest of your interview, Jack.”

Warner smiled again. This time there was something more knowing in his expression. “Believe me, Morbo. You haven't seen anything yet.”

Carter felt an unearthly shiver down his back; what his Grandmother used to call 'Someone walking over your grave'.

“I'm sure.” The alien nodded. Morbo turned to address the camera directly. “And that will do it for this special edition of INN's 'In the Moment'. Part two of Jack Warner's profile of UFP presidential candidate Vladimir Kostya, and remember, you can tell us what YOU think, right now on data-stream two…”

Carter didn't hear the rest of the reporter's closing. All he could do was stare blankly at the screen, which continued to stream news and pictures that John could care less about. His mind flashed back to words he'd said to Saal, back when the universe made sense.

“In case anything really disastrous happens.”

---

Chapter 6: Reputations and PrecedenceTop

Location: Main shuttlebay, deck 4, USS Republic

“Sir, I'm sorry,” offered a young petty officer with straw-colored hair, and wearing a command-red enlisted uniform. “This request is highly irregular. Shuttlecraft are for official use only, and I can't let you have one without authorization from the captain or Commander Carter.”

As the youthful shuttlebay dispatcher stood at his control console, Doctor Saal Yezbeck, dressed in civilian attire, stood void of his uniform, and carried a bulky, cylindrical suitcase slung over his shoulder. His face was strewn with frustration at the dwindling hope of obtaining a Republic shuttlecraft for his leave of absence, and he could only silently while the petty officer second class continued to rattle off a list of concerns.

“No destination orders… No encoded flight plan… How am I supposed to explain to the captain where one of her shuttles disappeared to when she asks?”

“Look,” Saal started. “Petty Officer… O'Leary, isn't it? I'm not trying to make your job difficult, I just need a shuttlecraft for a week or two. That's all I'm asking. This is very important to me.”

“Ensign Harding from the navigation department is our assigned deck officer for alpha shift,” explained the dispatcher with nervousness. “She reports directly to the chief helmsman, and I could lose my stripes if I issue an auxiliary craft without an authorized routing dispatch.”

Saal felt the pressure of being put in a difficult spot, and he didn't want to press the flustered enlisted crewman any further. He was about to give up and head to the adjoining space station when the gruff, seasoned frame of a Starfleet Master Chief Petty Officer approached. It was none other than Republic's Chief of the Boat, Bradford Rainier, and after witnessing the impasse between the two individuals, decided it was time to intervene.

“Is there a problem here?” he slipped in between sentences using his calm, to-the-point demeanor.

Turning to face his senior non-commissioned officer, the dispatcher explained the predicament. “The doctor here has been granted a personal leave of absence from Commander Carter, but he wants to take a shuttle with him.”

“What?” Brad turned to Saal with a touch of amusement. “A commercial liner isn't good enough? I'm sure there's one at the station that'll take you where you want to go.” Cracking a smile, he added, “I saw a Delmarian space liner docked at one of the lower pylons, and I can tell you with personal experience that their buffets are *fantastic*.”

Saal sighed with anxiety. He didn't have time for this. “This is a personal emergency, chief,” he pleaded. “Please… I really need a shuttle, and for privacy reasons, I can't provide a flight plan.”

Raising an eyebrow, Brad cast Saal a more serious glance. “Doctor, you ARE aware of ships policy regarding the use of warp-capable auxiliary craft without clearance from the captain?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as Saal digested the COB's reminder of the regulation.

“Yes,” he replied, realizing his prospect of obtaining a shuttle was quickly slipping away.

The two bearded, seasoned Starfleet veterans considered one another stoically, attempting to decipher the motivations of the other. Brad didn't know Saal personally, but as the captain's most senior enlisted man, he was privy to the inner workings of every department on the ship, as well as the recipient of every bit of scuttlebutt, gossip, rumor, and innuendo that the crew could generate. Basically, he knew Saal by reputation in addition to his standing with the captain and executive officer. The chief's 40-year fleet experience knew that reputation was the one true test of an officer's character, and without further dissection of the issue, knew in his gut that there could only be one course of action in the current situation.

“Petty officer,” the Chief-of-the-Boat addressed the dispatcher in a subdued tone. “Why don't you take a break for about five or ten minutes?”

”…Chief?“

“It's okay,” Brad reassured him. “Log out of your workstation and grab a cup of raktajino. If Ensign Harding questions you, have her come talk to me.”

“Um… okay, chief.”

Dialing his sign-off sequence into the control pedestal, the young NCO cast both Saal and Brad a quizzical glance before proceeding to the adjoining break room in the neighboring hull compartment. As soon as the petty officer exited through the door, Chief Rainier turned his attention to the vacated station and entered his own logon sequence before accessing the shuttle requisition manifest.

“Take the Heinz,” the chief offered without looking up at the doctor. “Bay eleven on the flight line. She's only a type 8 shuttle, but she's been uprated to the diplomatic version, so it'll be a comfortable enough ride… to wherever you're going.” Only with those last words did Republic's senior enlisted crewman look towards Saal with a wary expression.

“Thanks, chief,” Saal exhaled to great relief. “I owe you one.”

“You'll bring her back in one piece, right?” the chief beckoned as the doctor began walking across the flight deck to the shuttle stenciled with the numbers 'NCC-76241/11'. Brad knew that he could slip a dispatch authorization past the captain or Commander Carter, having them sign it based solely on his own integrity. However, that trust could end up in jeopardy if something happened to the shuttle while it was in the doctor's hands.

“I'll bring her back,” Saal responded sheepishly, unable to personally commit to more than that.

For his part, Chief Rainier shook his head, hoping that he wouldn't regret sticking his neck out for the acting chief medical officer.

With a soft hiss, the door to the Shuttlecraft Heinz sealed shut while the antigravity platform slid the vessel from its parking bay into launch position. Following the automated maneuver, a two-toned alert siren echoed across the expansive bay at regular intervals, signaling to all personnel on deck of the upcoming hazard of a departing auxiliary craft. Meanwhile, from the control pedestal, Chief Rainier activated the atmospheric containment field, creating a blue luminescent border along the perimeter of the huge segmented shuttlebay doors. With a low-pitched, resonating mechanical grunt, the 100-meter wide door crawled upward, revealing the yawning spectacle of deep space beyond the confines of Republic. With engines coming online, the Heinz rose a few meters above the deck and activated its locator strobe, which flickered once every two seconds with a bright, blinding flash to signal to other vessels in the vicinity that an independent craft was about to depart the Galaxy-class starship. Before long, the type-8 shuttle had slid clear of Republic, and thirty seconds later, the bay doors had once again locked closed, returning the main shuttlebay to normal operations.

“Chief Rainier!” a high-pitched feminine voice thundered across the shuttlebay with a direct and formal tone, followed by the cadence of a single pair of fleet-issue uniform boots marching along the deck. “How did that shuttlecraft get clearance to leave? It was authorized with YOUR name on the flight dispatch!”

“Ensign Harding I presume?” Brad returned with a raised eyebrow towards the blonde ensign in command red stomping towards him.

“ALL flight dispatches for warp-capable shuttles must be authorized by either the captain or executive officer ONLY, and dispatches MUST be cleared through the deck officer on duty! That happens to be ME!”

“Yes Ma'am, I'm aware of that. You'll have the authorization on your desk in a few hours for your approval.”

“I'm supposed to clear dispatches BEFORE shuttles leave the ship! Not AFTER!”

“My apologies, ma'am,” offered the Chief of the Boat, using his experience-honed professional subterfuge to placate the callow junior officer. “That part of the ship's policy wasn't clear to me.”

In truth, Brad knew the policy to the letter, and there was no expressed requirement that a shuttle flight be cleared by the deck officer before launch, as long as proper authorization was eventually received in an “expedient and timely fashion”. He knew this because he was the one who actually helped Commander Carter draft the policy, intentionally leaving ambiguous the flight authorization precedence for cases such as these. It was obvious that Ensign Harding was attempting to subvert his position, either out of a selfish need to display dominance, or a vain attempt to impress her cohorts in the navigation department.

“Cob,” she addressed him coldly. “You DO realize that I can report you to my superiors for this?”

Like he did with Saal, Brad looked her over, recalling every bit of unofficial information he had heard about this officer through the enlisted grapevine. This was her first rotation on an active duty vessel, and the chief realized that the young ensign had not yet shaken the pretentious attitude of an academy midshipman. It was a career-slowing move for a budding officer to look down upon the lower ranks from a privileged perspective. While the enlisted were, by regulation, required to show professional respect to anyone in uniform of officer rank, they were the workhorses of the fleet; the ones who actually performed the basic tasks and menial duties that kept Starfleet humming along. The moment any crewman or petty officer detected a twinge of arrogance or indifference from a superior officer, that officer instantly lost the respect of the former, short-circuiting their future influence and leadership capabilities aboard the vessel. Officers who found themselves in such a self-defeating position might as well request re-assignment, for there was little room for redemption once the've lost the esteem of the lower ranks.

“You go ahead and do that, ma'am,” Chief Rainier replied, making sure to maintain the required etiquette while making no effort to hide his indifference. “I'm sure that Lieutenant Hawk will suitably reprimand me at his earliest possible convenience.”

Out of respect for the uniform - and the uniform ONLY - he suppressed the urge to add, “if he actually gave a rat's ass about you and your complaint.”

---

Chapter 7: Chance EncountersTop

Location: Turbolift, USS Republic

Leon left the bridge despondent after Nat came back to relieve him. The weight of Kostya's bid for the Federation presidency weighed heavily on his mind, along with the repercussions it could have throughout the Alpha Quadrants and beyond. If someone like Vladamir Kostya were able to swindle both the media and the common populace into believing that he was a responsible leader, then something was very wrong with the collective intelligence of the universe. As he stood in the turbolift, pondering the situation, he found himself becoming more and more riled at the prospect of a megalomanic at the helm of United Federation of Planets, and as tired as he was, sleep was becoming less and less an option.

As the doors parted onto deck eight, Leon exited into the corridor en route to his quarters. As he turned a corner he found himself face to face with a group of the ship's civilian scientists walking from the opposite direction.

Among them was Susan Hayworth, the ship's oceanographer.

Though Leon and Susan were technically dating, his recent two and a half month renegade trek to the Ash'aarian homeworld obviously put a strain on their relationship. While the two-week trip back to Deep Space Nine should have been enough time to renew their bond, the two were on separate work shifts, and had not seen much of one another except during department meetings of the onboard science contingent.

“Leon!” Susan looked surprised to see the doctor, and by Leon's expression, the feeling was reciprocal.

“I thought you were on beta shift?” Leon replied as a return greeting.

Feeling a bit awkward, Susan looked at her colleagues and said, “you all go ahead. I'll catch up to you on the station.”

While the request seemed ordinary to Doctor Cromwell, what happened next was peculiar from his point of view. As they walked past him, each scientist in the group extended their hand for a handshake, and offered what seemed to be a parting salutation.

“It was an honor, Doctor Cromwell,” said one civilian scientist. “Good working with you, Leon,” said another. “Hope to see you again someday, sir,” came another.

One after another, the civilians politely said what seemed to be their goodbyes to the good doctor, and as the last of the group rounded the corner, they entered the turbolift and subsequently disappeared. Leon and Susan then found themselves alone in the corridor.

“What was that all about?” Leon asked, a bit on the confused side.

“We've received new orders,” Susan replied with a touch of disappointment. “All of us non-Starfleet folk have been reassigned. From the rumors I've heard, just about every person not wearing a uniform were ordered off the ship by 1200 hours.”

“What?” Leon exclaimed with a horrified expression. “Almost the entire science department are civilians! What's Republic supposed to do without them?”

From the sound of it, Susan surmised that Leon didn't see the most obvious repercussion.

“Leon,” she started with regret. “That means me too. I've got orders to report to Starbase 213 in one week, and my transport leaves this afternoon.”

The doctor's shocked expression didn't subside.

“Susan…” he whispered, trying to find the right words. He looked with regret into her cobalt blue eyes at the realization that they were about to part ways. “I'm… I'm sorry…”

Deep down inside, Leon was apologizing for more than just sympathy at the sudden change in assignment. He was apologizing for not working hard enough to maintain their relationship. He knew that it was mostly his own fault by focusing more on his work, as well as his half-baked, ill-planned excursion to save the Ash'aarians from an alien plague. All of which served only to sideline Susan from his life.

“It's okay, Leon,” she replied in a softened tone. The two reached out to touch one another. Susan, gently placing her hand on the doctor's chest, and Leon, touching the smooth, glistening, dark brown skin of her face.

“You've become a different man than the one I first met on the Bremerton,” she explained to him. “Back then, you were less worried about the fate of the galaxy, and more worried about what others thought of you. You've matured, and though I don't know for what, you seemed to have found a purpose in life.”

The two stood silently, looking at one another with both longing and regret. With a sigh, Susan looked down away from his eyes, and focused on his chest. Tugging on his waistband to smooth out the wrinkles on his shirt, she added, “the uniform looks good on you…”

“When will I see you again?” he couldn't help but ask.

Susan smiled in response, returning her gaze upon his amber irises. “We found each other after the Bremerton,” she explained with confidence. “We'll find each other again.”

With a hug, the oceanographer kissed him on the cheek before releasing their embrace and headed towards the turbolift. For his part, Leon stared after her as the doors shut, trying to figure out how he yet again allowed a beautiful and intelligent woman to walk out of his life.

---

Though he tried, sleep still eluded the doctor, and after an hour of tossing and turning, knew that this would be one of those days where he would plough through the day with only coffee and excess baggage under his eyes.

“Computer, lights,” he announced, causing the darkness within his cabin to turn into day, followed by a sleepy Leon rousing from his bunk. After a yawn and a snort, he got up and walked into the head, took a brief shower, and donned a fresh uniform before ordering a cup of java from the food replicator. He stood in the center of the room taking quiet sips from the mug before deciding what to do for the rest of the day, during which was supposed to be his normal sleep cycle.

“Computer, location of John Carter.”

“Commander Carter is not aboard the Republic.”

“Extend location request to adjoining space station,” Leon redirected his inquiry before taking another sip of coffee.

“Commander Carter is located on the Promenade, section twelve.”

---

Location: Main gangway airlock, deck 25, USS Republic

The airlock leading to Deep Space Nine was awash with a sea of bodies making their way out of the Galaxy Class vessel in a mass exodus of warp-weary Gamma Quadrant travelers. While a few uniforms could be seen in the crowd, it was composed mostly of non-Starfleet personnel carrying bulky suitcases and baggage, confirming Susan Hayworth's notion that a large portion of Republic's civilian crew had been re-assigned.

As he made his way through the crowd, Leon looked around and recognized most of the faces, as they had been to sickbay at one time or another since they left port seven months prior. Most nodded at him in greeting, and a few friendly, verbal gestures were made, but for the most part, each member of the crowd were lost among their own thoughts. Most were in the mindset of seeing family again, harboring anxiety about their new orders, or jubilant about finally disembarking after a half-year in space.

Crossing through the spoked, circular door, Leon took note of the decor change from the pristine bright walls of Republic's corridors to the darker, more subdued shades of khaki and dark green, reminiscent the station's original Cardassian design. Without warning, Leon nearly fell flat on his face as a blonde, furry blur flew past his feet, followed by two more in quick succession. It so startled the doctor that he audibly yelped, just in time to hear a dog barking behind him.

“Reggie! Mannie! Billie!” a young boy of about ten years old shouted from behind. “Get back here!” The youngster wore a blue and white striped shirt and ball cap, and ran past Leon with an adult Labrador Retriever following in tow. The boy collected the three blonde “blurs”, which happened to be a trio of tiny puppies no more than a month old.

“Sorry, Doctor Cromwell!” the pre-adolescent apologized.

“That's okay, Jimmy,” Leon offered, recognizing the boy as none other than Jimmy Tapscott, son of Ensign Tapscott from engineering. “Don't tell me that you're leaving Republic, too?”

“Yeah,” the boy sounded glum as he held tight the puppies who were eager to explore the bustling crowd around them. “Mom and dad are packing up our quarters while I take Louie here for a walk on the Promenade.” As he explained, the adult dog obediently sat down next to him with its tongue wagging off to one side.

“Do you know where you're going next?”

“Dad said something about Benecia Colony,” Jimmy replied. “But I was hoping for another Starfleet ship.”

“Don't worry,” Leon smiled. “I'm sure that you'll get a chance to be on another ship soon. Besides, I'll bet all the other kids on Benecia will be jealous that you were on a Galaxy Class starship!”

“I never thought of that!” Jimmy's eyes lit up. “Do you think any of them will like puppies?”

“I have no doubt,” Leon concluded.

About that time, one of the puppies wiggled free from the boy's grasp and trotted down the gangway towards the station.

“Reggie!” he exclaimed before turning back towards Leon. “Sorry doc! Gotta go!” Before the doctor could reply, the boy was off running again through the crowd, chasing the rouge puppy, and followed by a barking dog.

Watching Jimmy disappear into the sea of bodies, Leon reflected upon the loss of the civilian populace on Republic. The design of the Galaxy Class was to allow Starfleet crew to bring family along on deep space missions so they wouldn't have to be separated for extended periods. As a social experiment, it was a resounding success, but often left captains reconsidering certain mission objectives over safety of the ship's compliment. Having children onboard meant forgoing special risks, some of which may have been acceptable were it a Starfleet-only crew.

Still, from Leon's point of view, less children aboard meant more uniforms, beckoning back to a time when Starfleet was at war, and forbade civilian crew on fleet vessels. In the back of his mind, he worried that a “uniform-only” crew would sterilize the family-oriented feel that had manifested on Republic over the past seven months. In truth, Leon liked the diversity of clothing and age groups as he walked the halls of the ship, as it brought about a feeling of peace and tranquility. As he resumed his walk towards the habitation ring of the station, Leon mused on whether Republic would be able to retain that ambiance in the months to come.

---

Location: Promenade, habitation ring, space station Deep Space 9

Like the gangway on Republic, the station's Promenade was awash in an undulating sea of bobbing heads shuffling every which way to unknown destinations. It was a larger crowd than Leon remembered from seven months ago, but considering the arrival of a starship with a thousand-plus extra personnel aboard itching for shore leave after half a year in the Gamma Quadrant, the size was not without warrant. The inner and outer ring of the Promenade housed alcoves in which various shops, bars, and entertainment venues resided, and while the crowd conglomerated in some, others were either closed or hosted only a small number of patrons.

As Leon walked past each alcove, the sound of either conversation, bartering, or cheers from a winning dabo streak echoed into the Promenade. Perusing the venues, he took note of the lack of variety compared to that of Starbase 39-Sierra when Republic was assigned there over eight months prior. However, due to the fact that Deep Space Nine was magnitudes smaller and more remote, the comparison was as futile as the one between Malus domestica and Citrus ​sinensis.

Finally, the doctor arrived at his destination: Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade. Or, known by the locales as simply “Quarks”. It was rumored to be one of the most lucrative venues on the station, as it was the only piece of real estate onboard that didn't belong to the Federation. As sovereign Ferengi territory, Quarks was the one single establishment within thirty light-years that traded goods and services for gold-pressed latinum rather than the Federation's credit-based system of economics.

It was here where the station's computer located John Carter, but before he could make it all the way through the door, a Starfleet officer in medical blues nearly knocked Leon over on his way out. It was none other that Julian Bashir.

“Cromwell!” the DS9 physician greeted him with surprise. “I wasn't sure if I'd get a chance to see you again before Republic sets off again.”

“I don't think we've got orders to set sail quite yet,” Leon regarded Julian in return. “I trust that you're getting back into the swing of things here on the station?”

“More than you can imagine,” he huffed. “I have three bed cases that my temporary replacement left me, not to mention a transfer patient whose condition I have yet to fully understand. If it weren't for my time on Republic, I would have…”

“Julian!” a pretentious voice interrupted him. The admonishment came from a Ferengi clearing off a nearby empty table. “Don't stand in my doorway unless you're planning to come back inside and order another drink!”

Doctor Bashir looked genuinely hurt. “I've been gone for over half a year, Quark,” he returned, almost with a whine. “I think I deserve some loitering time.”

“Fine. You can loiter upstairs in front of Vic's. Just stop blocking my customers from coming in!” The Ferengi relented as he turned around with a tray-ful of empty glasses and headed back to the bar area.

“Vic's?” asked Leon after the bartender left.

“It's a holographic reproduction of a twentieth-century night club in one of Quarks holo-suites,” explained Julian.

Looking confused, Leon replied. “Let me get this straight. He's got a holographic bar… inside his bar?” The thought caused an eyebrow to raise on the Republic officer's face. “Isn't that a bit redundant?”

“I suppose,” Julian admitted. “But several of the station's crew have become quite attached to Vic's over the years, so there's sentimental value.”

“Now THAT I understand,” Leon acknowledged, recalling John Carter's sentient Jim Kirk holodeck program back on Republic.

“I'm sorry, but I'm in a bit of a hurry,” Doctor Bashir apologized for his perfunctory change of subject. “I have a meeting with Captain Kira in less then five minutes.” He looked as if he was about to run off, but paused to regard Leon as if for the last time. “If I don't see you again… it's been good getting to know you, doctor.” Julian extended his hand in a parting gesture, and Leon accepted the handshake, looking Julian in the eye.

“I still don't like you, Bashir,” Leon admitted, but with a grudgingly respectful tone. “Probably because you're a better doctor than me.”

“Thank you… I think.”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

With a playful tilt of his face, the chief medical officer of Deep Space Nine replied in his casual British accent, “never!” With that, he walked out of the establishment and into the bustling flow of patrons on the Promenade.

“Come in! Come in!” the Ferengi at the bar beckoned to Leon. “Any friend of Julian is a friend of mine. Welcome to Quarks, stranger! The official Ferengi Embassy to Bajor!”

“Um, thank you…” Leon said with uncertainty. “I don't think I've ever been in here before.”

“Well then, let me be the first to welcome you,” the short alien offered in a salesman-like tone. “My name is Quark, the Ferengi ambassador, and here you'll find all the food and entertainment you'll ever need during your stay here on Deep Space Nine.”

“I'm sure…” Leon raised an eyebrow at the Ferengi. He had no doubt that Quark's was the leisure mecca of the Bajor Sector, and since it was buzzing with conversation, gameplay, and drinking, appeared to be the most profitable business on the entire Promenade.

“Perhaps you'd like to start off with a refreshment?” Quark offered. “We have the finest collection of Xarantine Spice Wine this side of the Typhon Expanse.”

As the stout Ferengi addressed Leon, the doctor looked past the ambassador's shoulder and spotted a man standing about ten meters away looking at him with an amused smile. He was a tall, slender man wearing a Starfleet officer's uniform with gold piping, and boasted a lieutenant commander's rank on his collar. Recognizing the black hair and fu-manchu mustache - which bore the unmistakable face of a renowned Malthean from the Starfleet Corps of Engineers - Leon's eyes lit up at the appearance of his old friend, Doctor Victor Xavier Virtus.

“Vic!” Leon exclaimed with an unusual bout of exuberance.

“Upstairs!” Quark piped up with satisfaction, happy that the stranger had chosen to visit the vintage holographic program. “Third holosuite to the left. You're not a regular, but because you know Julian, I'll only charge you half the standard cover charge…”

“Um… excuse me,” Leon hurriedly dismissed the confused Ferengi ambassador, sliding past him in a bee line to Virtus further up the bar.

“How the hell are you?” a smiling Doctor Cromwell grasped Vic's hand, giving him a quick shoulder hug. “I got your messages, but I had no idea you were HERE!”

“Good to see you too, Leon,” the engineer replied warmly. Like Susan back on Republic, Vic's attention was drawn to Doctor Cromwell's attire. “The uniform looks good on you.”

“So I've been told,” came the sheepish response. “How long have you been in town?”

“As of this moment, nine weeks, six days, twenty two hours, and four minutes.”

“What??”

“When I heard about Kostya, I had extra shore leave to spend, so I came straight to Deep Space Nine looking for my favorite Galaxy Class starship.” Vic rolled his eyes every so subtly. “Only you weren't here. Case in point, the Starfleet navigational database had sporadic and conflicting waypoint logs on you. If I had to guess, someone in fleet was working to scramble your actual location.”

“You're avoiding the subject!” Leon looked flabbergasted. “You've been waiting for us for NINE WEEKS??”

“As I said,” Vic continued. “When I discovered that Vlad-the-Impaler was performing feats of mass indoctrination through the media networks, not to mention vying for the most powerful position in the Known Galaxy, the relative rightness of the universe shifted to approximately 8.87, or 741,310,241.30 Virtii of disharmony, which, as you know, is pretty unstable. Fortunately, with Republic's arrival back in the Alpha quadrant, the disharmony factor has subsided by about 2 orders of magnitude, but is still well beyond any other recorded event of my years of record-keeping.”

“Um… okay,” a befuddled Leon replied. “That's bad, isn't it?”

“Does a vox ultra-frequency carrier require a visual signal confirmation?”

“Right,” Leon concluded without any idea of what Vic was talking about. “I'll take that as a yes.” Giving his friend another shoulder hug, he added, “it's still great to see you ,Vic.”

“Likewise, Leon.”

“The computer said John was here,” the doctor finally remarked.

“Yes,” the Malthean responded, pointing to a table in the corner of Quarks.

Indeed, John Carter was present, but Leon could tell right away that there was something terribly wrong. The commander was silent and despondent, sitting back in his chair, and with his hand covering his mouth as if in deep thought. His eyes were glazed over as if he had been handed the news that Mars colony was about to implode in the next thirty seconds, and there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever the real news was, John was not taking it well, and must have been one of the factors adding to Vic's calculation of the universe's disharmony.

“I take it he heard about Kostya?”

“Without question.”

“How many drinks has he had?” Leon asked.

“Just one,” Vic replied. “He's still on duty.”

As if responding to the time-honored obligation to give aid to an ailing comrade, Vic and Leon approached John's table, and took a seat themselves. Over the next hour, the three friends ordered food and drink from a tending waitress, mulling over the events of recent months, and attempting to find both comfort and solace in each other's company despite the chilling political circumstances that brought them together again after months of separation.

---

Chapter 8: Tipping the ScalesTop

Location: Starfleet Command, San Francisco, North America, Sol III
Stardate: 58763.7

The scents of fresh cut grass mixed with salty ocean mist tinged the air as the gentle breeze rolled in off San Francisco bay. Try as he might, the Admiral could not distract himself with the simplicity and beauty of nature this close to the realization of a goal he and so many others had worked towards for decades now. Nothing else but the weight of that reality could hold his focus for more than a fleeting moment. He was not a patient man by nature, and he had not become one over time by simple force. He had however learned to conceal his impatience from all but the most keen observers. So even though he showed little sign of his impatience outwardly, the anxiety and preoccupation that gripped his mind was still ever present. For this particular goal however, he had been kept waiting far too long by the universe at large.

It was a goal that had been shared by many other men and women across the centuries, yet had never before been feasible to achieve until the fairly recent.

As the unseasonably warm sun light beat down upon his weathered face, he closed his eyes and tried to remember exactly how long he had been dancing with the devil to this particular tune. In the end, as with many things, it all depended on how you looked at it. Months? Years? Decades? For this specific phase of things, it had been a scant seven months. Seven months since the Starship Republic had vanished into the realm of space known as the Gamma Quadrant. A desperate failsafe plan set to safeguard one young man's life. That young man, twenty-nine years old now, had been caught up in this dance with death since he was only nine. Two-thirds of his life. A life he had been charged with protecting for just as long.

If all went according to plan though, today would be the beginning of the end of that. Today would see the scales of justice finally begin to tip in the right balance.

The phase before this had begun one year, four months prior to that, when the same young man had been forced into the most unique form of 'protective custody' anyone had ever envisioned; active duty aboard a Galaxy-Class starship. Such had only been possible due to the young man's former Starfleet career, a career that had been branded by the fire of the Dominion war and for which the Admiral felt more than a little responsible for. He had tried to remedy that mistake by ending his career and surreptitiously urging the young man into a less dangerous way of life. Had he known now where that particular path would lead, he would never have done so. The past could not be changed though, and could it be, he had far greater sins to rectify.

He had hid behind the rules of professional behavior when Starfleet Intelligence had approached the young man whose life he had sworn to protect. In doing so, he had broken a sacred promise to two dear departed friends. An oath he had made twenty years prior, when this had all really began as far as he was concerned. When he had allowed two of his friends, two colleagues to whom he owed his life to, to convince him to go along with the most dangerous and unethical plan he had ever heard proposed. A plan that involved breaking more than just regulations, or even the laws of the federation. One that required the breaking of the laws of nature by risking the lives of three innocent children so that their parents could pursue what they had argued was the 'agenda of justice'. It had been a foolish, downright stupid risk. An arrogant mistake that could never be undone.

A risk that had been too great, and had taken two of those innocent lives along with their parents. Leaving only the young man whose future was now in the balance.

Pacing back and forth along the cement rail of the balcony outside his office at Starfleet Command, the Admiral began to wonder if something had gone awry with the operation. Apprehending Keevan Faro in the wake of his believed legal victory two weeks earlier had been rather easy. The arrogant old bastard had been foolishly celebrating the dismissal of charges against him when the order had come through from the Federation Security Council to arrest him. The special prosecutor on the case, Thomas Aidan Dorian, had been confused by such after having his case thrown out, but more than willing to get another chance. Dorian was somewhat of a legend when it came to legal prosecutions against the Orion Syndicate; he was the only jurist in the Federation to have successfully convicted more than one member of the Syndicate and survive.

If all went well, he would soon be the prosecutor responsible for dismantling the entire criminal enterprise.

A sudden shadow flickered across the Admiral's vision, the sun blotted out for a fraction of a second as something passed closely above him. He had seen a number of seagulls flittering about, but knew the fairly diminutive bird wouldn't have cast such a long shadow. As he searched the sky for what species of foul might be responsible for such, the swooshing sound of his office doors parting brought him back down to earth, so to speak. As he turned, his attaché stepped quickly out onto the balcony to join him, a satisfied look gracing the Lieutenant's sharp Asian features. He knew before she spoke that things had gone as planned.

“We've received confirmation, sir. The 'eagle has landed'.” she stated, quoting a code phrase with great historical significance and to his mind, even greater present-day importance.

From high above them, a sharp screech echoed out from a large brown majestic bird with red tail feathers. It was the one that had cast a shadow across the balcony a few moments earlier, the Admiral deduced. A creature he could now identify. Neither the irony nor the symbolism escaped him.

“Not an eagle… a hawk.” the Admiral said to himself with a wry smile.

“Sir?”

Turning back to his aid, the Admiral smiled and had to resist the unprofessional urge to embrace the young woman. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

With a nod, the younger subordinate turned on her heel and exited back through the Admiral's office to her own desk just beyond. Taking another glance skyward at the circling bird, the Admiral then stepped back into his office as well and moved directly for his desk. Interfacing with the built-in LCARS panel there, he called up a program sequence he had been waiting for the day to initiate, and did so. It was a simple task, yet it left him feeling immensely satisfied.


Location: Main bridge, deck 1, USS Republic

It was an action in the pursuit of futility, and junior Lieutenant Hayden Kroeger would be stuck in that pursuit for the better part of the next 7 hours and 32 minutes. As third-shift Helmsman, he was used to his time on duty being fairly routine and often sedate. Such was normally just as he liked it, as it allowed him time to become proficient without the pressure of split-second decisions. More often than not it was his job to keep the ships course steady and true through the night while the majority of the crew slept. He was good at that job, and found it satisfactory and even professionally fulfilling. He had never been much for the intense side of life. Never played 'Kirk and the Klingons' as a kid like so many others had. So his unhappiness by his current assignment had nothing to do with a desire for a more action-packed existence. Rather, he simply couldn't fathom the need for his particular skills.

When a starship was physically docked with a starbase, her propulsion systems were set to stand-by mode. There were no adjustments in course to be made, no orbital flight path to be maintained, no need to keep an eye on the long-range sensors for potential hazards. There was literally nothing to be done as far as the flight controls were concerned. The ship was not, after all, in flight. It wasn't even having to maintain a stationary position. It was as close to immobile as a starship could be, in his opinion. So why was he (or anyone for that matter) required to waste so much time sitting impotently at this bridge station, doing nothing but the most rudimentary systems checks and low-level diagnostics? Even the obvious rationale of 'in case of emergency' rang hollow in his opinion, as there were others present on the bridge attending to other routine tasks that could just as easily be at the ready should such an emergency arise.

Sadly, as a junior Lieutenant, his opinions were not regarded highly by the powers that be; whether they be local or stationed at Starfleet Command. Considering his reclusive nature which tended to preclude a sudden burst in rank or stature, such wasn't likely to change anytime in the near future either. In short, he was stuck here for the remainder of his shift at the least. Glancing quickly around the bridge in as casual a manner as he could, he realized that with the exception of Commander Carter seated in the center chair, he couldn't fathom the names of anyone else on duty at the moment. Then again, he rarely made much of an effort in getting to know people. Not because he didn't wish to, rather, because his preferred duty assignment usually prevented such. Life on the nightshift was fairly awkward when it came to attending to social matters unless it was with other people likewise on said shift.

With little else to do, Hayden set about the repetitive and fairly boring tasks called for such as routine low-level diagnostics and system status monitoring. Running through the first series of diagnostics with the expected level of ease and tedium, he didn't notice at first when the propulsion and navigation system monitors winked out from his console display. It was only when he came to running the navigational system diagnostic did he find such unavailable to him - due to a command-level lock-out.

“Commander?” Kroeger prompted as he turned in his seat to half-face the Republic first officer, “did you re-route control of the propulsion and nav-con systems?”

Immersed in the contents of a PADD, John Carter didn't look up at first as he answered the helm officer's query in the negative. Only as the denial response tones continued to emanate from the Conn did he glance up as a memory archived in the back of his mind came to the surface. Rising from the center seat, the XO bounded over to the flight controls and looked over the junior lieutenant's read-outs.

“This doesn't make any sense,” Kroeger remarked to himself as he tried to locate to which station the controls had been re-routed, “how can the primary flight control station be locked out of these systems without command override?” he asked rhetorically.

All things considered, it wouldn't be the first time that the Republic crew had found themselves not in direct control of their own ship. For once though, John Carter wasn't alarmed by such so much as he was anxious over the implications should things be as they seemed. “Computer, restore control of systems to flight operations, authorization Carter-Sigma-Alpha-Seven-One.”

“Access denied.” came the curt reply of the ship's computer.

This raised a number of eyebrows amongst the bridge crew, most of whom hadn't previously been paying direct attention to anything but their own duties. For the ship's executive officer to be denied access to a basic vital system was downright peculiar. Having expected such a response though, John wasn't nearly as phased by such. “Computer, on whose authority was control of flight operations denied?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Access denied by order of Captain James Marshall, stardate 57426.9.”

This statement put an immediate halt to virtually all other activity on the bridge, which was quickly ensconced in hushed murmurs of disbelief and confusion. For John Carter though, it simply confirmed his suspicions and set his next actions on the course he had been told to follow sixteen months earlier. “Clear the bridge.”

Without objection, the few officers on duty logged off of their respective consoles - operations, security/tactical, engineering, mission ops - and proceeded to the nearest turbolifts, continuing their hushed conversations as they did so. As the doors sealed behind them, John took a moment for himself to consider the implications and ramifications of what was about to occur, for the ship, the crew, and most of all for the ship's second officer. “Computer, locate Captain Kimberly Roth, Lieutenant Nathan Hawk, and Doctor Leon Cromwell. Have them report to the bridge. Priority one.”

“Acknowledged.”


Location: Turbolift, en-route to the Main Bridge, USS Republic

Hawk was pissed. He was also out of breath from his jog through the promenade and a multitude of identical looking and poorly labeled corridors of Deep Space 9. Having been on duty all of alpha shift, most of which had been uneventful after the early morning drama, he had finally been able to take advantage of a little down time and stroll the shops of the promenade with Leah. Much needed quality time as far as relationship maintenance was concerned. Just as they had sat down for an early diner at the Bajoran restaurant though, an emergency recall order had come through from the ship's computer of all things. If not for it's priority one status, he would have just as soon ignored it and taken any consequences for such. That said, something marked priority one always meant serious business - which only served to piss Nat off even more at the realization the few hours down-time he'd had was likely to be all he would be getting.

As the lift slowed to a stop well premature of how long it took to get to the bridge, Nat considered over-riding the default lift settings which he technically could do under the circumstances, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. It would take just as long to do so as it would to stop and tell whomever it was they'd have to catch the next one. As the doors split to either side though, Nat couldn't help but grin at the sight before him. His friend Leon Cromwell, sporting some fairly funky bed hair, a uniform that had clearly been crumpled up either in a heap on the floor or by being slept in, and to top the look off, dark circles the size of strips of latinum beneath his eyes. In short, he looked like crap. In fairly unusual fashion, the Doctor said nothing as he boarded the lift save for a single word command to the computer controls: “Resume.”

As they stood side-by-side in their ascent to the command center of Republic, Hawk couldn't help but poke the bear with a stick, so to speak. “Ya get much sleep?”

Casting a side-long glare in Hawk's direction. “28 whole minutes,” the Doctor grumbled in response, adding after a beat that, “this had better be legitimate, or someone's getting an old fashion stress-test next physical.”

Before much else could be said, the lift slowed once more, this time at their destination. The scene before them was not what either man expected.

With the exceptions of Captain Kimberly Roth and Command John Carter, the main bridge was completely clear of personnel. Unusual as that was, the serious looks upon both of the ship's senior-most officers added volumes. Whatever the emergency was, it was indeed legitimate. Which after the past few months, was the last thing Nat Hawk wanted – or that Leon Cromwell needed.

After exchanging acknowledgments of one another, Hawk was the one who got down to the point, never one to beat around the bush. “This ain't gonna be good news, is it?”

Exchanging looks between themselves, it was Carter who spoke first of the pair. “That depends…”

“Twelve minutes ago, all access to ship's propulsion and navigation systems were locked out by the ship's computer,” Roth stated. “on the order of Captain James Marshall.”

Leon, whose mind was still fuzzy with sleep (or lack there of), looked slightly shocked and but mostly confused by the announcement.

Hawk meanwhile looked like someone had just shot him point blank with a phaser on heavy stun.

Seeing the expression on Nat's face, the tense shift in body language, Cromwell grew concerned through his confusion. “I'm sorry, maybe it's the lack of sleep… but I'm lost.”

“Everyone cleared to command the bridge got a memo, about an encoded order that would lock-out propulsion and navigation. You got yours the morning after you passed the bridge officers exam.” Carter stated, hoping to jog his friend's memory.

A light flickered behind Leon's eyes as the sudden realization hit him, the full weight of what was occurring pushing him passed his sleep deprivation in an instant.

“The lockout requires both the authorization of the commanding officer, as well as the chief helmsman to disengage. I've already entered mine. It's your turn, Lieutenant.” Roth stated, the last words clearly having more meaning than the literal.

Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Hawk turned and stepped towards the Helm, a position he sat at every day. Today was not every day, though. Taking careful steps towards the console as if it were something dangerous, Hawk slowly put his hand to the console and pressed the indicator control sequence, readying the computer for his input. “Computer, disengage lock-out. Authorization Hawk-Eight-Four-Sigma-Zulu.”

“Authorization acknowledged. Access granted: command lock-out disengaged.” stated the disembodied voice of the ship's computer. On the forward view screen, the scene shifted from that of local space to the Federation emblem, which then dissolved and replaced by the logo for Starfleet Command. It to was then replaced by a large star chart on one half of the screen, a set of spatial coordinates at the bottom, and a block of text on the other half which the computer promptly read the beginning of aloud.

“This is a priority one order from Starfleet Command, department of operations. All other orders are hereby voided or rescinded. All non-essential personnel are to disembark at the nearest Federation facility en-route to the attached coordinates. No non-essential personnel are permitted aboard ship for the duration of this mission by order of Starfleet Security. Upon completion of disembarkation, all authorized personnel will proceed to the coordinates indicated at maximum warp. Observe radio silence at all times until arrival at the designated coordinates. You will receive further instructions at that time.”

Looking at the block of text to the side of the screen, Hawk saw now that the bulk of it was a manifest of Republic crew. Abnormally, his name was at the top of the list, above even the captain's. In total there were 127 names listed. The star chart on the other side contained coordinates that as far as Hawk could tell, were quite literally the middle of nowhere. Nothing but stars and space dust, not even a basic ball of rock D-Class planet, for a dozen sectors in every direction. No nearby shipping lanes, colonies, outposts, or sites of strategic or mineral value.

For a few moments, no one said anything. Before any of them could, the computer chimed in once more.

“Addendum: message from the office of Admiral Henry Toddman, director of Starfleet Security. Message reads: 'The Scales have Tipped'. End of addendum.”

Turning from the view screen, the look on Hawk's face had changed from shock and anger, to one of grim determination. “I'm ready.”

Offering her helmsman a small but proud smile as she put her hand on his shoulder supportively, Captain Roth turned to her XO. “Lets get to it, Commander. We've got a few hundred people to get off this ship on minimal notice. Fortunately we're already docked at an appropriate facility, and we've just off-loaded our civilian compliment, so our work is half done. I want everyone else to gather the base essentials and be off-ship within the next two hours.”

“Yes ma'am,” Carter replied, moving quickly to his command console and setting about kicking most of the crew off the ship.

Turning to Cromwell, Roth continued. “Doctor, my apologies, but your nap will have to wait a bit longer.”

“Of course.”

“Your hereby re-instated as Chief Medical Officer. I need Sickbay empty of all patients. Get to it.”

“Aye, Captain.” affirmed the Doctor, who stopped briefly to give a supportive nod to his friend Nat before departing the bridge.

Standing next to his station, Hawk continued to stare at the view screen. The list of names included a handful who were no longer even serving aboard ship. Douglas Forest. Victor Virtus. It also included some whom had come aboard some time since the original encoded orders had been downloaded. One of them was Leah Warner. Subtracting the names of those who were no longer with them, the roster was down to 107.

“It was his idea, you know.” Roth stated from a few steps behind him, her voice quiet. Turning to face his captain, Hawk said nothing, simply questioned her with his eyes. “Admiral Toddman. I served under him, a long time ago. He's the one who proposed the nano-probe resurrection. Consulted Bashir on it's feasibility to duplicate. He knew the Syndicate would find you eventually, especially after the situation at Cestus III.” she informed him. “I'm fairly sure Cha'rik was most likely one of his as well, though he didn't include me in that one.” she added, her tone laced with a degree of irritation.

Hawk considered the information he had just been given. On some level, he had known that for some time. Henry Toddman was the closest thing he had left to family in some ways. The man had briefly served as his guardian in the wake of his Aunt and Uncle's untimely deaths. It had been an ultimatum and a challenge delivered by him that had lead Hawk to join Starfleet. The two had never been close, but Nat knew there was more to his concern for his well being than the obligations of friendship with his parents. They had never spoken of it, but Nat knew somewhere in the depths of his being that what really drove Henry Toddman to protect and care for him over the years was a burden of guilt. At some level, at some point, Toddman had been directly involved in the operation that had left him an orphan.

“He's a good man,” Hawk told Roth finally, the words genuine but also somewhat hollow.

Rather than press the matter, Roth simply nodded in agreement. “Take the next few days off, Lieutenant. You're going to need them.”

“If it's all the same to ya cap'n, I'd rather be at ma post,” he replied quickly, as the turbolift doors opened and admitted a handful of officers returning to their posts on the bridge, “I've bin thinkin' 'bout this day fer nineteen years, last thing I needs more time fer that.”

“Alright.” Roth acquiesced as she stepped aside to allow a young ensign to resume her post at ops. “For right now though, take a little time for yourself? I'll call for you when we're ready to get underway.”

Not wanting to push his luck, and knowing he needed to talk with Leah, he relented as well, and stepped away from the Helm as Lieutenant Kroeger stepped up to resume the post. As he departed the bridge, he considered what he would do when he was finally face to face once more with the man responsible for so much misery and loss in his life. The first and only thought that came to mind was not that of a Starfleet Officer, but of a son and a brother. For nineteen years, he had waited for the day when he would finally be able to avenge all that he had lost. Now it was finally at hand. The question was, which part of him would win and make the final decision; the Starfleet officer or the ten year old orphan?

---

Chapter 9: Libra FallingTop

Location: Executive Guest Quarters, Room 17 off corridor H-12-A, space station Deep Space Nine

Reflexes are funny things. Muscle memory causes certain actions to become second nature. Catching a ball, blocking a punch, humans extending their eyelids before sneezing. The chime of an incoming message so soon after retiring for the evening caused Victor to reflexively check the station's local time against his internal chronometer. Despite relativistic physics, warp travel, two trips thought a wormhole, brushing the event horizon of a quantum singularity, and desperately gambling on a high-risk, last minute trans-warp theory to escape a spacial anomaly, Vic's sense of the passing of time was as accurate at an atomic clock and less prone to damage by passing neutrinos.

He'd been asleep for seventeen minutes and nine seconds. The universe was out to get him. Rising to stand parallel to the viewscreen, Vic rubbed his eyes and brushed his slightly-longer-than-regulation hair back from his forehead.

“Computer. Why?”

Query not understood. Incoming priority message from Utopia Planetia Shipyard, Encrypted “All Lacrosse Champion”

“Computer, display message, authorization Carter-Alpha-Rho-Epsilon-Sigma-Seven-Times.”

The screen flashed through three layers of decryption and finishing in a muted sepia, shot through with shadows of gray and blackest black, showing an upside-down humanoid silhouette. A heavily synthesized voice whispered from the recessed speakers.

“Mercury in Libra Descending.”

The weary engineer snapped wide awake and shook his head to clear it.

“Computer, replay message.”

Unable to comply

Before the startled Malthusian could delve into that tidbit of irregularity, the 'message' continued, “You heard me correctly. It's started.”

Victor rolled backwards across his bed and produced from his civilian-issue scientific PADD a decidedly non-civilian and highly-illegal three shot phaser one. He took a knee, set his back to the corner and covered the door.

“Good reflexes, but they are not here. Mercury is going there.”

“If you're at Utopia Planetia then you are sixty-three point four four light years away, and we are NOT having this conversation.”

“Ergo, I am not on Utopia Planetia.”

“I'll provisionally accept that possibility under Occam's Razor, but reserve judgment until more facts are made apparent. How can you be sure?”

“Republic just went into security lock-out on navigation, and the ancillary crew departed the bridge.”

An eternity of seconds passed as Victor allowed those two statements to percolate. When he continued speaking, his voice came from light-years away.

“This could not come at a worse time.”

“I know, but he's a friend, and also, important to the cause.”

“I don't have time to go larking off. The Impaler is within the margin of error and GAINING. I'm needed back at Starbase One, and so are Mercury, Mars, Juno and Apollo.”

“That situation may be out of our hands.”

“Dammit D… Pluto, he's dirty! He's corrupt, venal, and heartless. He did not care about the lives of his subordinates in the 'Fleet, and he's not going to care about the lives of his constituents in the Federation!”

“I know, but that is up to the people to decide, not just us.”

“They don't know the facts.”

“The truth is out there. We've done all we can. You're needed on the ship.”

Victor seethed with barely checked fury, and replaced his hold-out phaser in his PADD.

“Pakita can take care of things just as well as I can, and has more experience in this area as well. My highest priority is preventing a monster from becoming the President of the United Federation of Planets.”

“She's not on the list. She has a brother on Earth. He's-”

”…a war hero from Wolf Three Five Nine. I know. That doesn't make her ineligible.“

“No, but it makes her a risk.”

“Tough. Where are you?”

“That's classified.”

“You're in the sensor shadow under the matter/anti-matter intermix chamber. You're there because I told you about it during the silliness with Lieutenant Jacobs, and you've disabled MY sensors that I put in pace specifically to prevent people from hiding there.”

There was a long pause before the digitized voice said, “I can neither confirm nor deny that assertion, but I can induce that such a space would be extremely cramped after several hours. Also, the sensors are functional, they will just fail to report the presence of you, me, Mars, Juno, or Apollo.”

“This may be important to you Pluto, but not as important as the future of the civilized galaxy is to me. And I believe Mars and Apollo will back me up.”

“Don't make me beg.”

“I don't care what you have to say. This is a documentary, not a negotiation.”

“You owe me a favor from-”

”-call in that marker and not only will I deliberately sabotage Mercury's mission, I will hate you forever.“

“It's up to you Saturn.”

“Computer, end message.” be-beep

Wide awake and heart pounding, the reluctant field agent of Starfleet's least well-liked branch of security struggled between his commitment to the people of the Federation, his sense of integrity toward repaying an enormous debt of honor, and his duty to Starfleet.

Mathematics is a pure science. Cold and unyielding. It's conclusions are based on sound principles, flawless reason, and the weight of thousands of years of exploration, theorization, and raw experimentation.

Morality is fluid, subjective, and difficult to quantify in terms of numbers and equations.

Difficult… but not impossible. The determined researcher collected his personal belongings and set his path toward the Promenade.

His mind was made. His course was locked in.

It was time to engage.

---

Location: Counselor's Office, USS Republic

Reittan had just said his last good-bye to his friend a little over three hours ago when he got the news that most of the ship was to be evacuated. He had been in session shortly after receiving the news with Ensign Troy Ni, whose first experience aboard the Republic had been, to say the least, atypical of a first year ensign. His anxiety had skyrocketed, performance had deteriorated, and he was concerned that he was soon to be dismissed from service in Starfleet; a most inopportune time to tell him that he would be reassigned from the Republic.

Many people aboard the starship were enjoying the luxuries of leaving the ship for long periods of time. While the counselor and his department had tried to convince their clients to take advantage of what the star base had to offer, many felt their psyche was too fragile to take the coveted leave.

The counselor looked at the list of 107 people that the captain had handed him in exasperation. The only remaining person from his department was him. Trying to look on the bright side of things he reasoned his work load would be reduced substantially. Still a little disgruntled, Tolkath reminded himself that it was part of being a Starfleet officer, to have directives and commands changed at the last minute though he still didn't like it.

The captain had been tight lipped when she personally visited the counselor and delivered the manifest to him. He could sense the tension building within her.

“Is there anything I can do to assist further?” Tolkath probed.

The captain studied the counselor's face. She had come to appreciate Reittan over the past months. Though at times his ability unsettled her, she felt that he had been trained well to carry that burden. Kim Roth had once been unofficially told that you could watch the way a counselor interacted with the crew and be able to tell how they are doing behind the counseling department's closed doors. She had watched him and knew from those interactions that his ability to do his job was more than ample. He and his department had kept the crew, for the most part, stable enough to perform their duties after each chaotic encounter; many times the unsung heroes.

“Just assist in getting this ship evacuated as quickly and smoothly as possible counselor,” she replied.

“Yes, captain.”

“And Tolkath, I will let you know when you can be of further assistance.”

“May I ask what the new orders are?” Tolkath enquired.

“Currently, I am not able to discuss the matter,” the Captain answered.

“Thank you captain, I will assist with the evacuation immediately.”

“Counselor, get as much rest as you can before we depart; it's going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Aye, captain.”

Roth left the Counselor's office to continue her duties, leaving the Counselor with the perplexing equation of how much rest vs. how much assisting he should do. As he mused over the question, he began looking over his list of clients and picked out the most vulnerable to start the evacuation with. With a tap of his combadge he directed the rest of the department to do the same for their most severe clients for as long as they could before personally preparing to leave the ship.

The Lieutenant Commander took a deep breath and thought to himself, “And once again we take the plunge.”

---

Chapter 10: CrossroadsTop

Location: Unknown Timeframe: Present day

Much to the anticipated future detriment of Chief Rainier's reputation with Captain Roth, in less than four hours, Saal Yezbeck was able to transform a pristine Starfleet-issue shuttlecraft into a dilapidated hulk that appeared to be on its last set of thrusters. Completely gone was the hull registry, scoured clean by mechanical means along with regimented stenciling of any sort. Point in fact, the shuttle's exterior was littered with phaser burns, metal fatigue, and pock marks giving it the facade that it had been through numerous hostile encounters with other vessels. Once more, after an unshielded aerobraking maneuver through the upper atmosphere of a nearby gas giant, the entire outer casing was coated in a wispy, gradient sheen of heated, oxidized metal, almost as if the vessel had been singed by a giant plasma torch. If it weren't for the blue and red warp nacelles and streamlined aeronautical shape, no one would have been able to tell that it was once a standard Type-8 Starfleet shuttlecraft.

Without warning, an angry lance of bright orange energy seared yet another black scar onto the tortured hull of the Republic shuttle. In reaction to the attack, a small rupture formed along the surface where the bolt landed, emitting a puff of wispy steam.

“Damn it!” Saal's muffled curse sounded nearby. “I keep hitting that stupid oxygen line!” Wielding a type-II phaser and situated about ten meters away, the doctor was wearing a newly-purchased, slightly-used drab brown miner's spacesuit, desperately trying to keep from flipping end-over end in the micro-gravity environment after each phaser shot.

After his departure from Republic and Deep Space Nine, it took Saal an hour of haggling with a Ferengi freighter to sell off every piece of fleet-issue equipment inside the Shuttlecraft Heinz that wasn't bolted down. Space suits, field gear, emergency equipment. Everything that had a Starfleet micro-tagged serial number had to go. Fortunately, he got a decent price on most items, and quickly turned around his purse full of gold-pressed latinum for non-fleet analogs of the hocked supplies at the nearest mining colony. Much of what he purchased were commercially-available equipment that could normally be found aboard most merchant shuttles or mining survey vessels throughout the space lanes. About the only thing he couldn't sell were the four type-II hand phasers in the landing party gear, and he wasn't about to let those get onto the black market. So, his limited skill with an electro-arc pen would have to suffice to erase the serial numbers and remove the micro-tags.

After placing a pressurized hull-patch over the oxygen leak on the shuttle, Saal looked over his work. The patches were of Coridan design, and were commercially marketed as a temporary fix for minor hull breaches. However, they were sturdy enough to be fairly common on low-budget ore freighters who haven't the resources for the full expense of a civilian repair berth, and instead, solder the patches to the hull plating as permanent fixtures while transiting between star systems.

“When in Rome,” Saal muttered while inspecting his welding job on the fourteen different patches scattered across the hull in a seemingly random fashion. With his “repairs” complete, Saal re-boarded the shuttlecraft through the dorsal airlock. After stowing the miner's suit in the EVA locker, he took a seat in the pilot's chair, dialing several commands into the portside engineering panel.

“Computer,” he called out to the shuttle's AI. “Open the engineering subsystem files, and access the warp drive parameters.”

Beep-beep

“Adjust the warp coil plasma resonance frequency to seven-point-zero-seven terahertz, and alter the intermix ratio to two-zero-nine of nominal.”

“Unable to comply. Requested engine parameters are outside Starfleet specifications.”

“Yes,” nodded Saal emphatically. “I know. That's the whole point. Override standard protocol, authorization Yezbeck-seven-two-alpha.”

“Unable to comply. Only the Republic command staff, chief helmsman, or chief engineer are authorized to exceed normal operating parameters of shuttlecraft warp systems.”

With a sigh, Saal closed his eyes and shook his head. Time was of the essence, and he already wasted the past day haggling with Ferengi and strategically defacing Starfleet property. He didn't have the patience to try and negotiate with an obstinate computer system as well. Reaching for his cylindrical suitcase, the doctor produced a small, communicator-sized isolinear chip vaguely reminiscent of a Cardassian design. Following that, he crawled down onto the floor and pulled open an access panel directly beneath the computer control console. After considering the complex rows of electronic components, he focused on one component in particular, and firmly wrenched it from it's socket. After a small burst of sparks, the hum of the computer console wavered, and the computer itself protested with the sounding of an alert horn.

“Warning: Primary processor node failure. Re-routing functions to secondary nodes.”

“As you should,” muttered Saal, still engrossed in his tampering of the computer's electronic innards. Using his foreign isolinear chip, he crammed the small object into the recently vacated component socket, producing yet another brief round of sparks, and which caused the cabin lights of the shuttle to flicker, as well as the lighted control consoles to fade in and out. Satisfied that his work was complete, Saal shut the access panel and returned to the pilot's chair, waiting patiently for an expected computer drama to unfold.

“W-Warning: Unauthorized sub-routine accessing hierarchical programming matrix. Re-routing processor functions to tertiary nodes.”

“You can run, but you can't hide,” Saal whispered as the monotone feminine voice sounded with a seemingly frantic edge. The lighted panels continued to flicker as Saal's isolinear chip worked it's way into the Starfleet-designed hardware.

“Warning: Unauthorized sub-routine assuming control of higher processor functions. Unable to maintain control of primary flight systems.”

“Stop fighting it,” Saal whispered again, feeling a little guilty that he was essentially hijacking computer control of the shuttlecraft away from the panicked Starfleet AI.

“W-Warning: Control and telemetry systems disengaged. Error… error… Unable to maintain processor control… Unable to maintain processor…”

The digitized sentence was cutoff as a few more random chirps and warbles sounded from the shuttlecraft's computer before the control panels and lighting returned to normal. As the hum of the flight systems re-initialized, a deep, male, Cardassian-sounding voice emanated from the same speakers that the Starfleet AI was utilizing just moments earlier.

“Hierarchical processor functions initiated… Primary flight sub-routines re-enabled… Standing by to resume normal operations.”

“That's better,” Saal relaxed. “Is the original computer control program still intact?”

“Affirmative.”

“Secure the program into an encapsulated archive for later retrieval,” ordered Saal. “Encryption authorization Shadow-gamma-one-one-three-omicron.” The way he saw it, he might as well save the Starfleet AI for eventual re-initialization should he return safely to Republic.

“Acknowledged. Archive complete.”

“Now for the test,” the doctor muttered to himself before giving another command to the zombified computer. “Set the warp coil plasma resonance frequency to seven-point-zero-seven terahertz, and the intermix ratio to two-zero-nine of nominal.”

“Acknowledged. Engineering parameters initiated.”

Outside, the glowing warp nacelles, which normally maintained a luminescent cobalt blue, faded to a violet-purple hue before taking on a yellowish-green, and the normally bright red forward end of the nacelles turned pale orange as the engines adjusted to their new intermix settings. The final die had been cast in transforming the virtually new Type-8 Starfleet shuttle into a gritty, space-worn cargo shuttle with a Klingon warp-signature, a merchant-class Cardassian computer transponder signal, and a nine-year old Ferengi Alliance flight registration log.

Inside the cockpit, Saal smiled and clapped his hands together with a rubbing motion. “Good! Now let's find Dragon. Computer, open a Federation network link to subspace relay station Sigma Three.”

“Acknowledged. Link established.”

“Excellent. Now, access the Starfleet Intelligence database level two, authorization Shadow-zero-niner-three-epsilon.”

“Database standing by.”

“Locate current position of Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest.”

“Unable to comply. Record locator error.”

Saal blinked in surprise.

“Okay,” he tried again. “Access database level three, authorization Shadow-five-one-two-zeta. Repeat location request.”

“Unable to comply. Record locator error.”

With a deadpan stare of complete confusion, Saal shook his head. “What is the source of the locator error?” he asked.

“Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest does not exist in the Starfleet Intelligence database.”

“What?” he bellowed outloud to no one in particular. “That's impossible!” Taking a moment to think over his next plan of attack, he decided to do some parallel thinking, and re-directed his computer request. “Computer, access standard Starfleet personnel locator database. Tell me the location of Lieutenant Sean McTaggart.”

“Lieutenant McTaggart exited the Starfleet personnel tracking grid on stardate 58081.4 at Space Station Deep Space Nine. No further information is available.”

“Almost eight months ago,” he calculated in defeat. “That's when they left Republic to find Kuga.”

Saal took a moment to collect his thoughts. If Forrest wasn't in the standard intelligence network, then there was only one other information stream he would have been able to use to find him. Throughout the infinite subspace web of communications chatter across the Federation, layers upon layers of extra-dimensional frequencies were multiplexed together using a dizzying array of complex algorithms to parse the airwaves for each particular comm traffic user. Deep within the fragmented pathways of these subspace signals, older frequencies used solely for digital communications between computers and AI systems in centuries past lay mostly unused by modern subspace transceivers.

Known colloquially as “the sewer” in intelligence lingo, this jumbled flow of junk chatter between antiquated machines was largely buried by all the other comm traffic, and was relegated as a tertiary backup frequency by some of the most mundane systems imaginable, ranging from an old lady's 150 year old secret recipe PADD that's only pulled out for special holidays on Alpha Centauri, to a child's broken down set of anti-grav skates laying useless in a toybox on Delta Four. It was rudimentary enough to be considered completely useless by modern society, yet spread out far and wide to make an effective, low-yield communications stream for unsavory criminals working illegal deals on the black market. Starfleet had long ago discovered and deciphered the encrypted data stream, but never shut it down due to the two-fold benefit of both passive observation of low-level crime rings, and also as a backup communications mechanism for operatives in the field. It was this unorthodox messaging system that became Saal's tool of last resort to locate his friend.

Switching from vocal commands to tactile input, Saal reached for a personal PADD within his cylindrical suitcase. Linking it with the shuttle's communication uplink, the doctor found himself surfing a dizzying matrix of seemingly nondescript streams of numbers and letters, most of which made absolutely no sense. Occasionally, a sentence fragment could be discerned, but the meanings were downright odd, displaying fragments like “wearing a hovercraft sandwich to the asteroid grapefruit” or “peppermint the candy-apple onion ring with lasagna over Chicago.” This was not surprising to Saal, who was well versed in the intricacies of “the sewer”. Unfortunately, as time went by, his hopes faded in trying to locate his friend.

While he worked, one of the smaller screens on the communications console came to life, quietly displaying the silhouette of a mysterious man with silver-gray hair and bushy eyebrows. His aged face bore a calm, stoic expression before addressing Saal in a low, gravelly voice.

“What are you up to, Shadow?”

For his part, the Republic surgeon stopped what he was doing in mid stride. He recognized the voice so well, that he didn't bother turning to face the screen. “I should have known you'd be looking over my shoulder,” he said expectantly.

“You made two different inquiries within an intelligence database that doesn't officially exist. After that, you took the extreme measure of opening one of our sewer caps. That's hard for me overlook. Again, what are you up to?”

Saal briefly toyed with the idea of feigning ignorance, but knew it would have been pointless, so he stated his purpose in as few words as possible.

“Dragon is missing. I can't find his lifeline.”

“You won't. He's not in the sewer, nor anywhere else on the intel grid.”

Finally turning to face the mysterious man, Saal rebuffed, “what do you mean?”

“I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Dragon's record was scrubbed well over six months ago. His lifeline was cut loose.”

Saal Yezbeck's face collapsed into utter astonishment. “Cut?” he stammered. “But why?”

“Hard to say, really. It came from the top… a parting blow from Kostya to Republic before he left the fleet. It's just a guess, but he probably wanted to exact some revenge on some of Carter's old friends for the Cestus debacle.”

The doctor's look of astonishment did not subside. “Dragon was in the middle of an operation on Farius Prime, of all places!” he exclaimed with incredulity. “How could you cut him off in the field like that??”

“Shadow, you of all people should know that when an Omega-clearance directive comes down from the C-in-C, our hands are tied. The order was to blacklist Forrest. Case closed. No questions.”

“And what about that Kafarian affair you talked to me about at Starbase Thirty-Nine Sierra?” Saal recalled, still reverberating the shock of a friend abandoned in the field by his command. “You remember? That Gorn poison that killed Marshall?” He could have added the extra tidbit about the same poison nearly killing Nat Hawk, but he wasn't sure how much the mysterious man knew about the lieutenant, and wasn't willing to divulge for fear of compromising the Republic helmsman.

“Ten months ago, our calculations indicated that Republic should have been at Deep Space Nine within four months to intercept a Kafarian freighter bound for Orion space. Unfortunately, Republic never showed up… and you missed that boat. If Dragon found links to the Gorn poison by himself, then he's probably already dead.”

“He's NOT dead,” Saal said with grim determination. “If he knew he was going to die, he would have tried to signal me.”

“Your loyalty to Dragon is admirable, but if he was exposed to the toxin, he wouldn't have had the time to call you.”

“He's NOT DEAD!” shouted the doctor, facing down the viewscreen. “And if YOU hadn't abandoned him in the field, I might still be able to HELP him!”

The man was unmoved by Saal's display of anger.

“Sorry, Shadow. I wish I had better news.”

With a sigh, Saal closed his eyes, and his face collapsed into his hand. He knew from years of dealing with the figure on the viewscreen that he was only a middle-man between field operatives like Douglas Forrest and the top brass of Starfleet. There was a reason Saal gave up that life for a career in the medical field. Still, there were some loyalties that transcend vocation or political affiliations, and since he and Forrest had skirted death together on countless occasions in the distant past, he was honor bound to come to his aid.

“You're not going to track me, are you?” Saal asked at last.

“Are you kidding? We've got an entire Roman Pantheon in near-open rebellion right now, and I haven't got time to play cat and mouse with you. Besides, as you're so fond of pointing out, you don't work for us anymore.”

“Thanks,” Saal replied, taking solace in the knowledge that if he didn't return from his quest, that at least someone would have known what happened to him.

“Good luck, Shadow.”

With a digitized warble, the communique ceased, and Saal Yezbeck found himself alone in the silence of the shuttlecraft. Mulling over his options, he figured that his best bet was to sneak into the lion's den at the last whereabouts of Forrest and McTaggart, and attempt to pick up their trail.

“Computer,” he beckoned.

Beep-beep

“Set course for Farius Prime. Warp five.”

---

Chapter 11: Signs and PortentsTop

Location: Planet Garsol, somewhere in the Delta Quadrant

Zharon cursed as he quickly sucked his newly singed finger into his mouth. “Gah! Seven Hells! You'd think I'd learn! He was bent over an open access panel to a much larger machine that took up the entire back wall of the cave he'd claimed as his 'workshop'.

“I think we all know better than that, Zharon,” came a comment from over the scientist's shoulder. The younger man, and new arrival, gave his one-time mentor a bemused smile. “Dadjinn will slit your belly herself if she finds out that you're tinkering again.”

The older man's face screwed into a sour frown. “I'm not TINKERING, Bah-Ki. I'm DISCOVERING.” He shook his head again, turning his attention back to his work. “You used to believe in science,” he scolded the observer. “You used to believe in the work.” Zharon picked up a set of small metallic probes and began to test his connections again, looking for the fault that had so painfully announced itself.

Behind the inventor, Bah-Ki shook his head. In the days before the invasion of the fliers, he'd been Zharon's pupil in Garsol's capital city. There, inside Illall's Congress of Contemplation, Bah-Ki had proven to be a master of the Natural Theoretical Sciences; the collection of disciplines that the educated elite among Garsol's tribes used to explain the world around them. Bah-ki had always been fascinated by the connection that all Garsol understood to exist between the Gods (Mother and Father, respectively) and their understanding of the universe itself. To a native of Garsol, it was only common sense that, since all of existence had come from the spirits the people venerated, the science that allowed the understanding of that existence would also be divinely inspired. It was therefore common practice for a Natural Philosopher on Garsol, no matter his age, to pray for guidance and understanding. Looking back, Bah-Ki suspected that it was his faith in Mother and Father that had inspired him to learn. Not a love of the sciences themselves; much to his teacher's dismay.

Unlike his prize student, Zharon had considered himself a man of reason. He was more concerned with the intricacies of the process than he was the larger picture. He prayed to Mother and Father. Everyone did, at least to cover his or her bets, but Zharon had been unsure whether he actually BELIEVED or not. That was, until his night of revelation.

---

It had begun as a dream, Zharon knew that much, but in an instant, he'd become aware that he was awake, and he was not alone in his sleeping chamber. The tall earthen structure had windows for observation and ventilation, but no shades or covers to allow for the night's breezes to flow in. In Zharon's chamber there was a light well. During the day, it allowed the light of the sun to be focused and directed to allow for light to the lower levels of the tower. At night, it also allowed for a stellar view. Literally. Inside the man's simple quarters, he sat bolt upright on his reed sleeping mat. “Who's there? Bah-Ki? Leejhin? Is that you?”

Across from Zharon, a form stepped out of the shadows that the night threw across the room. Zharon blinked. The form seemed strangely androgynous, at once male and female, supple yet strong, with pale green skin and large, lidless black eyes. The body of the visitor was in other ways similar to Garsolan's: bilaterally symmetrical, two arms, two legs, though there was no hair on its body, and it wore no coverings of any kind. “Greetings, philosopher,” the visitor said, though Zharon wasn't sure that it's mouth had actually moved.

Despite his shock at seeing the visitor's odd and uncovered appearance, the scientist in Zharon took over as he fought to make sense of the situation. “Who…what are you? You're no Garsolan.”

The being shook it's head, taking a step closer to the astute scientist. “Indeed we are not. Not directly at least, though we have watched you for some time.”

Zharon tilted his head. “Watched…” he whispered, looking up to the stars through the hole in the roof. “By the Mother…”

”…and Father.” The visitor completed. “It is good that you begin to guess,” the being offered, “but not too much just yet.”

Zharon stood, self-consciously adjusting his own thin sleeping clothes, suddenly feeling quite modest. “You're telling me that you are Mother? The Goddess that gave life to Garsol?”

The visitor nodded. “So you believe,” it confirmed, yet strangely not.

Zharon nodded, his hands clasped in front of him in a classic pose of prayer, but he did not lower his eyes as tradition would have demanded. “What do you want of me?” he asked. “Why are you here? Why me?”

The stranger stepped forward. As it moved form patches of shadow to pools of moonlight Zharon blinked. The visitor's form shifted from that of male Garlolan to female, never seeming to settle on one. When it stopped moving it was mere inches from where Zharon stood, again assuming what Zharon would guess was it's native, alien form. “Too much time.” It said to Zharon, again, it's mouth not moving. “Too much, and not enough.”

Despite his curiosity, Zharon felt his pulse quicken, as the alien reached out to clasp his wrist in it's three-fingered hand. “No! Wait!” Zharon had meant to yell more, but his powers of speech had left him. Instead, he heard the alien's voice in his own mind, and his brain felt as though it were on fire with an assault of frightful images.

“Soon,” the stranger warned, “Garsol will fall. The swarm will come and lay the weak to waste, but you must have faith.”

Images of flying beasts with deadly sharp claws and hungry, jagged maws filled the air, snatching children, fruits, beasts of burden, whatever they could find.

“Go to the canyons and call to us. Then he will come. You must not lose heart.”

Hundreds of tired and scarred survivors, refugees from their once proud cities, scrapped and scrounged against the red rock walls, wailing and calling for aid.

“Hold fast and tame the soul of your world. Fear not, for he will come in a shower of metal and fire. His vengeance will be swift, his war, one to shake the heavens”

The attacks of the monsters continued until the sun seemed to flare, and falling from the sky, a man…like a Garsolan, but pale red, not dusky blue. His eye flashed with a rich red fire, and where he looked, his enemies withered and fell from the skies.

“Call, and your Warlord will come. We will send him.”

There was a flood of figures and theories in Zharon's brain now. All scenes of destruction were lost as he was adrift in a sea of numbers, letters and scribbles; storm-tossed on a sea of science. Then everything went black.

When he awoke, Zharon's head pounded. He was soaked in sweat. There was no sign of the visitor from the previous night, but there were things of which Zharon was certain. His Gods had visited him, shown him dark prophecy and terrible hope.

Zharon walked out onto the small terrace that ringed his chamber to clear his head. He looked up, holding his hand above his eyes to shield them from the glare of the early morning sun. Then he saw a dark shape dart across the surface of the sun. Then another…and another, and another. In the crisp light of a new day, Zharon knew it was too late.

---

In the cramped quarters of the deep cave that was now his workshop, (a far cry form the open, airy above ground towers he missed) Zharon looked back at his one-time apprentice. “Eh? What's that?” He blinked away the memory that had seemed to steal his concentration.

Bah-Ki put his head on the older man's shoulder. “I said, what does it do?” he explained. “Another beacon to the Gods?”

Zharon shook his head. “No. Something more, practical.” Zharon clapped the thin metallic covering closed, then stepped back from the device he'd been 'discovering' with. Bah-Ki knew enough to step back as well. “I have solved the power problem though. Core taps are too inefficient. I'm using the motion of the crust and the planet's electro-magnetic field.”

Bah-Ki blinked. “Your piezo-electrical theory works?” the former natural philosopher noted the heavy, spun wires that seemed to lead from Zharon's odd machine, directly into the cave floor.

Zharon huffed indignantly. “You're here. You must want to find out.”

Bah-Ki shook his head. “I'm just hiding from Dadjinn. She's looking for something else to kill.”

“Mmm… typical. She's as savage as they are.”

Bah-Ki tilted his head. “She's had to be,” he commented. “She HAS kept us alive so far.”

Zharon grumbled, walking over to what Bah-Ki could only guess was the large machine's activation switch. “She needs help.” Zharon replied. “More than you, more than me. I've been TRYING to give it to her, but she doesn't see that.” Zharon threw the switch, and a low hum filled the cave.

“She knows what her sword can do, Zharon.” Bah-Ki offered. “She has no idea what you're doing.” He blinked as the cave seemed to grow brighter, the sound louder. “What are you doing?”

Zharon smiled. After so many failures, he was somehow renewed each time her tried a new device. “I'm praying my boy…for a miracle!”

In a blinding flash and a thunderous boom, the machine began to smoke and seemed to wind down. In the center of the cave, just in front of where Zharon and Bah-Ki stood, was an odd object that neither of them recognized. It was a small metallic cylinder with odd extensions and protrusions.

“What is it?” Bah-Ki asked. “Is this what you were hoping for?”

Zharon shook his head. “No, but it's a step.”

Bah-Ki shook his head again. “If you say so.” The young man clapped his mentor on the shoulder, then turned and walked toward the surface. He didn't know what the object was, didn't know that it had crossed an amazing gulf of interstellar space, and didn't know that the strange glyphs on it's metal surface were actually the letters U, F, and P.

---

Chapter 12: Sleep is for the WeakTop

It was an amazing feat of controlled chaos to relocate roughly nine-hundred crew off a forty-two deck Galaxy Class starship within the space of only a few hours. While about four hundred of the civilian compliment of Republic had already been moving their belongings from the starship to quarters on Deep Space Nine, the flow of traffic on the main gangway nearly doubled in the space of thirty minutes when Captain Roth gave the order for eighty percent of the remaining crew to disembark. Add to that the backlog of personal luggage that needed to go too, and the entire operation turned into the proverbial beehive.

In the middle of things was Counselor Tolkath, using his social and administrative skills to execute the mass relocation at a pace on par with an emergency saucer separation. Because the main gangway was located on the secondary hull, and most of the personnel quarters were in the primary hull, the turbolifts quickly became overloaded, and traffic backed up on decks three through eight. Eventually, the residual traffic was re-routed to the transporter complex, fulfilling the captain's debarkation order within only minutes of her deadline.

As for Leon Cromwell, he spent the exodus at the deck five science offices, ensuring that all science personnel secured their stations and equipment before they left, and closed out all their experiments and data analysis files. Considering that there would be virtually no scientific contingent left on board due to the Republic's classified orders, it was important that all research labs and materials be closed out and powered down for the remainder of the upcoming mission. For that, Leon was required by ship's policy to review and sign off on each and every working group in the science department before turning out the lights.

By the time he was done, Leon was unaware that Republic had already departed the space station. When he stepped out into the corridor on deck five, he passively noticed the lack of activity, but considering that this particular deck wasn't known for a high level of traffic, it wasn't abnormal. In fact, it wasn't until the doctor rode the turbolift to deck twelve that he began to feel uneasy about his surroundings. Not only did the elevator ride slide through the turboshaft seamlessly without encountering any slows or turns signifying a passing car, but when the doors parted to reveal the deck it was vacant.

Completely empty.

What was known officially as the “main deck” aboard Republic, which usually hosted much of the on and off-duty activity not associated with engineering or the bridge, was a complete ghost town. No bodies coming or going in the hallway, no crewmen nodding a “hello” or offing a smile in greeting. No children playing in the corridors, no frantic parents beckoning them to get out of the way. No conversation, no interaction, no activity at all.

Although Leon was an introvert, the company of other people still put him at ease as long as they weren't too annoying. However, as he walked past the closed barber shop and ship commissary, the darkness emanating from their open archways was unsettling. A stop by the main gymnasium didn't help either, as there was *always* at least a few people in the expansive room, running on the antigrav treadmill or swimming laps in the adjoining pool. As it was, the lights were on, but not a single soul could be found utilizing any of the health equipment. Whether it was because he had gone over twenty-four hours without sleep, or because of the eerie, vacant feeling of being totally alone in his current predicament, the hair stood up on the back of his neck causing Leon to quicken his pace to sickbay.

Unfortunately, as he entered the medical center, the empty feeling was only accentuated. Like the gym, the lights were on, but nobody was around. Doctor Cromwell went from room to room, each time passing back through the main ward at a quicker and quicker pace, almost on the verge of panic at the lack of any staff whatsoever. Finally, in a fit of strife after his seventh pass through the main ward, he stopped dead center of the room and slapped his combadge with barely controlled anxiety.

“Cromwell to Harris! Where the hell are you?”

A moment of fear passed where the sleep-deprived Leon actually thought he had been transported to an alternate dimension where he was the only living soul aboard the ship. Fortunately, the moment was fleeting as he didn't have to wait long for a response.

“Harris here. I'm in the stardrive infirmary with Teague and Chief Oberstad. We're just finishing up our inventory and were about to shut it down. What's wrong? You're sounding anxious…”

“Who's all left in the medical department?”

“Besides us three, just you and Nurse Copenhagen, and she's on deck thirty treating a back strain right now. Why?”

“Five people??” Leon exclaimed. “We've only got five people left in medical??”

“Well… There's only about ten percent of the crew left on board. Fully staffed, the medical department has about fifty people. So, ten percent of fifty is five, isn't it?”

The doctor thought about the facts for a moment before responding. “You're sounding more like Virtus everyday, doctor,” rebuffed Leon. “When you're done in the infirmary, head back to sickbay. I don't want it left unattended for the remainder of the mission. If you need me, I'll be actually trying to sleep for the first time since yesterday morning. Cromwell out.”

---

In truth, the combined stress of a breakup with his girlfriend, a megalomaniac running for president, a set of mysterious orders for the Republic's immediate departure for God knows where, and the sudden off-ship reassignment of almost ninety percent of his ersatz family should have been enough to exhaust Leon to the point of collapse. However, his mind was running a mile a minute, and the only remedy was either a tranquilizer or a change of environment that didn't involve the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders, as Susan so eloquently put it yesterday morning. He concluded that a walk through the arboretum might help clear his head.

As he entered the turbolift, Leon waited for the doors to close before announcing his destination to the computer.

“Deck seven,” he mumbled.

“Unable to comply. Life support on deck seven has been reduced to minimum consumption levels per power conservation protocols.”

Leon rolled his eyes. He forgot from his bridge officer's course that a reduced crew compliment was usually followed by reduced power to life support in order to conserve fuel and battery power should the ship encounter a need for either in the near future. Considering that the ship was set on an unknown classfied heading, and they had no clue what they were going to face en route, it was a wise move. Still, it irritated Leon as he chose an alternate destination, that being the officer's mess hall on deck three. The way he saw it, a full stomach might help him sleep, and he might actually run into someone else on the ship to have a conversation with.

“Fine then,” he grumbled back to the computer. “Deck three.”

“Unable to comply. Life support on deck three has been deactivated per power conservation protocols.”

“Oh, come on!” shouted Leon, stretched to his limit. He held back the urge to slam his fist into the wall console, as he knew from experience that it would simply result in a set of bloody knuckles. Instead, he paced a circle around the turbolift cab to walk off his rising anger. He concluded that he would have to resort to his last option for sleep this evening: a tranquilizer. Of course, the doctor's version of a tranquilizer in this particular case didn't involve going back to sickbay.

“Is deck ten still habitable??”

The computer, as if reacting to Leon's rudeness with a snub, simply replied with a beep and activated the maglift engine en route to the requested destination.

---

Location: “The Hill”, deck ten, forward, USS Republic

As the doors parted to the Republic's version of Quark's Bar, Leon could see right away that it would not provide the same social ambiance. Like the sickbay, like the gym, and like every other compartment on the ship he had been to over the past five hours, The Hill was also empty of people. A despondent Leon strolled into the lounge looking all the like a man without a friend in the world. Walking up to the viewport, the doctor made his way past rows of empty chairs and tables, and looked out upon the sea of starlines with tired eyes. Watching as individual points of light zipped past the ship, he found himself sliding into a dreamy state, signifying his level of exhaustion. Turning around, he resolved to find a good stiff drink at the bar before heading back to his quarters when a voice spoke that nearly made Leon jump out of his boots.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Gah!” Startled, Leon nearly lost his footing while stumbling backwards.

The voice came from Master Chief Petty Officer Brad Rainier, Republic's Chief-of-the-Boat. He was standing behind the bar in an obscure corner furthest from the door, out of immediate sight when one first walks into the room. With a Saurian Brandy bottle to one side, and a half-empty cup to the other, the chief was not inebriated, but it was clear from his glassy eyes that this was not his first drink of the evening.

“Sorry doctor,” he offered. “I didn't mean to give you a heart attack.”

“Chief!” Leon gasped between breaths. “What are you doing here?”

Rainier seemed to think about the question, turning his head for a moment before looking back towards Leon.

“You know, I've been asking myself that same question since my shore leave on Bajor got cancelled last night.” Brad offered a hand towards an empty stool across the bar from him. “Care to join me for a drink?”

His pulse returning to normal, Leon nodded his head and accepted the COB's invitation. Considering it was the first soul he had seen in six hours, he was happy to have the company.

“You know, this ship is a lot bigger when there aren't so many people on board,” Leon commented as the chief produced second cup from underneath the bar-top. Brad popped the top off the brandy bottle and poured the doctor a full glass before returning the stopper. “Cheers…” The two men clinked glasses before each took a sip.

“So,” Leon started. “You say your leave's been cancelled?”

“It's the damnedest thing,” Brad nodded. “I was all geared up to visit the in-laws, and the captain grabs my leash and tells me to get back here without explanation. With only about two dozen enlisted on board, I don't exactly have a job right now outside of damage control on the bridge.”

“Hmmm,” Leon seemed to consider this before looking back at the chief quizzically. “What IS your normal job, anyway?”

Brad chuckled before shaking his head. “You don't know how many times I've heard that question!” Swallowing the last swig of his brandy, he poured himself another glass while explaining his job to the doctor. “Most fleet ships don't need a Chief-of-the-Boat, mainly because they've got less than a hundred enlisted on board. That's a small enough number for everyone to report to the first officer directly. But on a ship this big, there's over three hundred enlisted, and someone needs to keep them in line and off the back of the command staff.”

“So you're Carter's right-hand man?”

“No, I'm the CAPTAIN'S right-hand man,” he explained. “Carter has his own problems keeping all you gold-collars in line.” His smile held no malice, and was plainly in jest.

“I see what you mean,” Leon said with an amused half-smirk. He wasn't sure if the chief was alluding to the doctor's recent two and a half month stint as a fugitive on Ash'aaria, but due to the uncomfortable nature of that particular conversation, he didn't want to re-visit those events at the moment, so he opted to change the subject. “So who's all left onboard? Including me, I've got five in sickbay, and no one left in sciences.”

“Mostly ops and engineering,” Rainier replied. “And to a smaller extent, security.”

“Were we able to get the warp drive repaired while in port?” Leon still wasn't entirely clear on how it got damaged in the first place, but he knew for certain it had something to do with a Dominion ex-patriot.

“Our engine damage took the DS9 people by surprise, that's for sure,” smiled the chief. “Most of the repair parts were available on the station, and the boys in engineering got a hold of them in the nick of time. Repairs are being done on our way to who-knows-where…”

The two men drank in silence for about a half a minute, pondering the possible reasons why they were clandestinely headed to a seemingly empty set of coordinates, and why Nat Hawk appeared to have something to do with it. It was then that Leon put two and two together.

“Maybe it has something to do with former Admiral Kostya running for president?”

Rainier scoffed. “I remember that snot-nose when he was a commander back in the Cardassian Border Conflict,” he recalled. “I was serving aboard the Potemkin at the time, and our captain managed to ambush a Cardassian raiding force with the help of the North Hampton and the Arizona. Kostya was first officer on the Arizona and took credit for the whole damned thing back at fleet HQ. Got himself promoted to captain when it was all over.” Brad finished off yet another glass of brandy after seething about the situation. “Besides, why Kostya would have anything to do with our resident nav chief is beyond me.”

“How many people are left in the navigation department?” Leon asked, changing the subject again after noting the chief's disdain for the presidential candidate.

“Navigation has Hawk, a backup helmsman, one flight deck officer, and a Medusan navigator,” recalled the COB. “I think there's also a chief petty officer running around between shuttle bay two and three.”

“Medusans,” Leon stated. “The only species among the crew that has never stepped foot in sickbay.”

“That's because they don't have any FEET,” snickered Brad, pouring his sixth glass of brandy. The bottle was getting visibly empty as both Leon and Brad were showing signs of inebriation.

“I can't imagine what it must be like living as a non-corporeal,” commented the doctor, looking slightly detached with an underlying twinge of regret. “Holed up in a sealed room… away from everyone else on the ship. Sounds lonely…” Due to the alcohol, his recent emotional state was percolating through to his conscious mind, and it seemed as if, whether through exhaustion or drunkenness, he was finally coming to terms with recent events.

Chief Rainier took note.

“Alright, what's up?” While he had definitely had more than the doctor, his tolerance for real alcohol was higher, and his faculties were still sharp. “You can tell your bartender…”

“Sorry chief,” Leon apologized. “I don't usually dump my problems on others.”

“It's fine if you do,” shrugged Brad. “Why do you think all the enlisted come to me first instead of their senior officers? They're more willing to come to a non-comm with their problems instead of bothering the captain or Carter. Besides, we're both off duty, and like I said from the beginning, I've got nothing to do at the moment.”

“Alright, fine,” Leon finished off his drink while Brad poured yet another one for him. “Just before we left port, my girlfriend broke up with me.”

“Hmm,” Brad considered the revelation, topping off his own glass before restoring the stopper. “Tough break. Anyone I know?”

“Susan Hayworth from planetary sciences.”

“Definitely a tough break.” Brad didn't allude as to why it was tough, as his experience told him that anyone suffering from heartbreak could take just about any comment the wrong way. Fortunately, it didn't seem to sway Leon, as he looked dejectedly into his drink. “It might have been for the best, though,” the chief continued. “After all, she was technically under your direct command. That's never a good situation.”

Strangely, the observation produced a smile from Leon. “Too bad you weren't around when Marshall was the captain,” he remarked. “You might have been able to tell him that kissing his executive officer in front of the entire crew was bad for morale.”

The expression on the chief's face betrayed no particular emotion, save that of confusion. His eyes rolled upwards for a second, as if trying to picture a particular image, then looked back at the doctor saying, “I take it he didn't know that Carter was dating our holographic doctor?”

For the first time in many months, Leon broke out in a loud, deep-seated, whole-hearted belly laugh. It lasted well over ten seconds, and even caused the chief to break out into a chuckle as he wondered what was so funny.

“Care to share the joke?” he asked. “Or do I have to ask Ensign Scuttlebutt?”

Leon took a few more moments to wipe the tears from his eyes, allowing a few more spurts of laughter to work their way out before regaining his composure.

“I needed that, chief!” he exclaimed before tossing back the half-glass of brandy, finishing the concoction in one swallow. “Thank you!”

“You're welcome. That'll cost you one explanation.”

“Absolutely!” Leon remarked with a flushed cheeks and an amused grin, firmly setting his empty glass back down on the bar-top. “But you'll owe me change in the form of another sniff of that brandy!”

Brad shook his head with an amused expression before carefully uncorking the near-empty bottle, concentrating to make sure he didn't spill any in his tipsy state.

“W-We keep this up,” hiccuped Brad. “And we'll both end up in sickbay for detox!”

---

Chapter 13: Making the RoundsTop

Location: Holodeck one, deck ten, USS Republic

“John, John, John…” The holographic James T. Kirk, peered over his reading glasses as he pulled his head out of the heavy volume he was reading. The book was dark, and although the script on it's cover had long worn away, Kirk had long given up on the idea that he'd ever know just what 'Great Expectations' meant.

“You never call, you never write.”

Across from his holographic mentor, Carter stood at parade rest, more out of habit than actual necessity. “No, sir, I don't. Sorry, captain.”

Kirk closed the book and set it on the reading table near his chair. “How many times do I have to tell you, son?” Kirk stood up, grimacing a little as he stood. ” He stepped closer to his one-time protégé extending a hand. “Call me Jim.”

Carter relaxed his posture, managing to smile as he shook the legend's hand. “I'm not sure I'll EVER be able to do that, sir.”

Kirk grumbled, then turned to walk over to the bar that sat under the windows of his apartment. Holographic or not, the room had a fantastic view of San Francisco Bay. The former Captain of the Enterprise looked at the sun, burning off the last of the early morning fog. “Do you suppose it's too early for a drink?”

Carter smiled. “Not at all, sir. You go right ahead.”

As he unstopped a decanter of Saurian brandy, Kirk looked back at his visitor. “You're not joining me?”

Carter shook his head. “Can't.” He said simply. “We're underway to… somewhere… with a skeleton crew. I'm just doing a walk-through, to make sure we didn't miss anything. Or anyone.”

Kirk sipped a bit of the iridescent green liquid from his small, crystal glass. “Hmm…” he commented. “Sounds like someone's in trouble.” Kirk replaced the stopper on the brandy, setting the decanter back in it's place. “Are you sure it's not you… again?” Kirk winked as he turned from the bar to lean up against the window overlooking the bay.

Carter nodded. “Reasonably, Sir. Though… the day is young.”

Kirk let out a laugh. “Good answer.” He looked back out the window for a moment. “So, what can I do for you?” Before Carter could answer, Kirk spoke again. “And, how did that doctor friend of yours make out? Lionel, was it?”

“Leon, sir.” Carter corrected gently. “He did very well, though he wasn't happy about it at the time.”

“Yes, well,” Kirk sipped his brandy again. “Take it from me. Ship's Surgeons are never happy for long. Don't take it personally.”

Carter's head dipped in a half-hearted shake. “No, sir.” The younger officer took a few steps to join his mentor, looking out over the bay. “Actually, there's someone I'd like you to meet, captain.”

“Oh?” Kirk said, smiling, almost like an appreciative grandfather.

“Shannon?” Carter called out to the holodeck. “If you're not busy, could you join me here for a second?”

The computer beeped, then there was a whirl of photons and the whine of a forming holo-matrix. In a fraction of a second, Shannon Harris appeared in Jim Kirk's apartment, dressed in the medical blues that the day's duties required.

“What is it John?” She asked, stepping toward Republic's XO. “Nothing serious I hope? The stardrive infirmary is secured, by the way…”

As Shannon walked over to Carter, Jim Kirk looked on. “Oh… my.” Then, he downed the rest of his brandy in one over-sized gulp. “Now I see why he doesn't come around anymore.” Kirk set down the glass, then brushed the front of his red and black vest, attempting to make himself more presentable as the couple turned to face him.

“Captain James Tiberius Kirk, may I present Doctor Shannon Harris.” He turned to look at Republic's pediatrician. “Shannon this is…”

“Wow. Uh… I mean… well… yes, captain, sir.” Shannon stammered as she extended a hand in greeting. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Kirk shook his head. “I really wish that wouldn't happen,” he said softly, then put on his best 'make nice with the new Admiral face.' “A pleasure Doctor Harris,” he said, bending down to kiss her hand.

Despite herself, Shannon grinned like a schoolgirl meeting a crush. “Please, call me Shannon.”

Kirk cocked his head to the side. “Only if you call me Jim.”

Shannon smiled “Of course, Jim.” She took a moment to look over the recreation of Kirk's last official residence during his time with Starfleet. “What a beautiful view!”

“Do you like it? You should see the sunsets, they're delightful.”

“Are they?”

“Oh yes,” Kirk answered. “Best in the hemisphere, frankly. Would you like a drink?”

“You know?” Shannon looked back at Carter who, she suspected had just realized the mistake he'd made. ”…I think I would.“

---

Heavy servos moaned as the hatch to Holodeck One closed.

“Well that was LOVELY!”

John chuckled as he extended his arm. Thankfully, Shannon took it. “Are you sure that's not the three Jovian sunspots talking?”

“Very funny, John.” She chided. “You know I can't actually get drunk… though for that man.” Shannon looked back at the closed holodeck hatch playfully.

“All right, all right. Easy there…”

Shannon chuckled as the two of them continued to walk. “Thank you for introducing us, John.”

“Sure,” Carter commented. “I know this sounds odd, but he's… important to me. I wouldn't have made it through third year if it weren't for him.”

“Well I think he's sweet. He must have been something in his prime.”

“Must have been.” Carter said, somewhat wistfully. “Anyway, I thought it was past time you got to meet the Captain.”

As they walked, Shannon rested her head on John's shoulder. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“Where's the rest of your family?” She knew the answer, or at the very least could have found out nearly instantly, but she wanted John to tell her. Here, in the quiet of a near empty ship, they finally had a chance to talk.

“Well, my Father died when I was cruising with Captain Peck.”

“When you were in the Merchant Marine?”

“Yeah. There wasn't any way for me to get back. I was half a quadrant away when I got the call from Mom.”

Shannon squeezed Carter's arm. “And where's she?”

“She's semi-retired on New Zanzibar.”

Shannon stopped short and looked up at John with a start. “You let your MOTHER live on New Zanzibar? What is she? A Pirate?”

John chuckled. “Zanzibar's not that bad, Shannon.” He defended. “It's not like she lives on Zeguma Beach.”

“Ugh.” Shannon shivered.

“Besides, no one LETS my mother live anywhere. Connelly women can be a bit…”

“Willfull?”

“I was going to say suborn, but, six of one.”

“I like my word better.”

Carter nodded as the two of them started walking again. “So would she.” Carter sighed as they made the turn along the outer corridor of Republic's main deck.

“What is it?”

“It's quiet.”

“Too quiet…” Shannon added, her voice shaking in mock theatricality.

“Reminds me of the day we met, actually.” He commented. ”'Like a house, with all the children gone'.“

“That's pretty. Who said that?”

“Captain Kirk, actually. It's from a log entry, after he lost his best friend.”

“Very poetic,” Shannon offered. “Now I know I like him.” Then she giggled for effect.

“Still,” Carter continued, “I don't like it when the ship is this…still. Doesn't feel right.”

Shannon dropped her head back onto the Martian officer's shoulder. “No worries John. Republic was a ghost ship once. Something tells me you won't let it happen again.”

“I hope you're right.”

In another few steps, John and Shannon found themselves standing in front of the frosted glass door that led to The Hill. They could hear laughing on the other side.

“Sounds like we're missing the fun.” Shannon said.

“Can't have that.” Carter offered simply as walked forward, causing the door's sensors to trip. As the glass-accented doors parted, John and Shannon could see Doctor Cromwell in a rather animated discussion with Chief-of-the Boat Brad Rainier.

Shannon and John stepped closer, listening in on the conversation for a moment.

”…said to him, 'what do you want ME to do about it? I'm a doctor, not a damn philatelist!'“

Cromwell and Rainier both broke into guffaws; what Carter assumed were just the latest of many. “What's a philatelist?” Harris asked.

“Stamp collector, I think,” Carter explained. “But don't ask me why it's so damned funny.”

As his laughing died down, Brad Rainier looked up, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, Doc…if that isn't the best I've ever…”

He immediately straightened up “Uh oh.”

With a trailing laugh, Leon looked over his shoulder. “What is it now, Chief?” he asked. “You look like you've seen a gho…”

There was a beat of silence before Shannon broke the tension. “Hi boys.” She said smoothly.

Rainier immediately slid out of the booth and snapped to. “Evening, Sir.”

Choosing the better part of valor, Leon stayed where he was.

Carter shook his head, then waved a hand, indicating the Chief should relax. “At ease, Chief. Didn't mean to interrupt the story.”

Leon blinked then swallowed hard, somewhat relieved that Carter wasn't in a spit and polish mood.

“Sorry sir,” the Chief offered as he dropped to an easy stance. “Looks like we lost track of time.”

“No big deal Chief. There's hardly anyone onboard, and even if we needed to do something else, there's no changing where we're going.”

Shannon stepped up to Rainier's side of the booth. “May I?”

Rainier nodded, then Shannon slipped into the booth, opposite Leon.

The gruff physician turned scientist spoke up again. “And where exactly is that?”

Carter shook his head. “I don't have any idea Leon, straight up.”

“Probably another damned Black Op.” Cromwell added sourly.

“Not likely,” Carter commented. “We've been gone too long. No way anyone in OPSCOMM would trust us with anything sensitive until after debriefing.”

Leon nodded.

“May I?”

Leon slid over, to make room for Carter in the booth. “Where's Vic?” the Doctor asked.

“Said he had to check on an experiment, though he did have a short meeting with the captain before heading back to DS9.”

“Hrrm.”

“Yeah.”

Shannon Harris rolled her eyes as a decidedly gloomy mood descended on the table. “Oh for crying out loud! Will you two lighten up? Kostya's not even THIRD in the polls, right?”

Rainier smiled, pouring the last of his brandy into his and Leon's glasses. “I'm with the Doctor.” He said cheerfully.

Leon looked up, quizzically.

“Not you,” Brad said, “the PRETTY one.” “Thanks.” Cromwell muttered.

“Thank you, Chief.” Shannon smiled

“You're welcome Doctor,” he offered. Then he looked at Carter. “Drink, XO?”

John shook his head. “No thanks Chief.”

“Hmm…” Rainier said, switching tactics. “Then, would you answer a question for me?”

“Sure, what's on your mind, Chief?”

“Well, Doctor Cromwell was a little fuzzy on the details, but…just how many people in Starfleet have actually tried to kill you?”

The answer took many minutes, and many drinks, and like all good stories, led to several others. All told, a welcome diversion from the deadly serious work that always seemed to be before Republic and her crew.

---

Chapter 14: Alpha AnankeTop

Location: Unknown
Stardate: 58787.3

Ananke Alpha was quite simply unlike any other facility that existed within the realm of influence that was the United Federation of Planets. For that matter, it was quite likely unlike any other facility that existed for a thousand light years beyond their borders in every direction. It's simplistic spherical form was more reminiscent of a steam-lined Borg construct than anything else. This bold simplicity was the antithesis of standard Federation design and something that many people found off-putting. This in spite of the obvious overtones of Federation influence that clearly adorned her exterior, such as the light-toned gray and blue exterior bulkhead panels, or the handful of Federation emblems and Starfleet insignia.

What was most noticeable about the station was what it lacked in the more traditional or obvious elements of design. There was no raised command center set atop the structure. No monstrous hatches or bays designed to engulf whole starships. No antennae or sensor arrays jutting out from it's dorsal or ventral surface. No extruding docking ports or pylons meant to provide direct access. And last but not least, absolutely no view ports of any kind. Simply put, it was an anomaly of design wrapped in a mystery of purpose for anyone whom didn't know what it was. All things considered though, very few individuals had ever seen the structure without prior knowledge of it's purpose.

Her eccentricities were not only skin deep. Beneath her outer hull plates that gave the facility some semblance of recognition as Federation in origin lay even more enigmas. Most structures were constructed of composite alloys of primarily duranium. In one form or another, the element had been the foundation of Starfleet ship construction for centuries. Not to mention the dozens of other races. Ananke Alpha however boasted an kelbonite alloy inner hull. This distinction proved quite difficult for the majority of sensors and matter-energy transporters to penetrate.

Beyond her outer construction abnormalities were layout issues. On a starship, there were methods of navigation common to almost every species. Labels along corridor junctions, on hatch-way doors, computer guidance consoles and layout schematics. Ananke Alpha lacked all such elements to the point of absurdity. Each corridor was as unremarkable and unmarked as the next. Even the floor plan, which by simple logic should have followed a circular path around a central core with intermittent straight segments to conjoin those rings was lacking in defiance of expectations. Instead her layout meandered and stopped suddenly at varying intervals, sowing further confusion and chaos into even the smartest and most eidetic minds and memories.

Beyond all of these numerous foundational quirks were the conundrums of her systems. Auto-regenerative transitional force-fields. Closed-circuit visual security systems. An intricate network of over-lapping transport inhibitors and sensor disruptors. Redundant networked internal sensor grids. Finely-tuned independently operated environmental controls. Mounted protruding phaser turrets from the walls, floors, and ceilings. In comparison to all of those oddities was the final 'quirk' about Ananke Alpha. The simple fact that with the exception of officer accommodations and waste extraction facilities, no one was ever truly alone.

Not ever.

Every station had a minimum of two personnel assigned to it. Every officer moving between locations had a subordinate in tow. In point of fact, nearly half of the facilities personnel was tasked primarily with the ambiguous and yet critical function of serving as an escort. To a colleague, subordinate or superior, and at least two such individuals for every one 'guest' – whether they had come aboard of their own free will or otherwise. These 'shadows' as the position had come to be dubbed early on by any and all who worked at this unique installation were perhaps the most omni-present reminder of just how strange a place this was.

The singular purpose which required the Ananke Alpha's existence was one many in the Federation thought had long ago been negated. Rehabilitation had become the normal response to any criminal behavior, even in the rare event of an actual murder. Such crimes no longer occurred out of greed or jealousy, but only sparingly out of an un-remedied psychological illness or defect. When encountered, such was corrected and the individual in question was confined not to a hardened facility teaming with the dregs of society, but to an almost palatial resort-like facility to be re-acclimated to life and society. As such, the Federation no longer required places like Earth's infamous Alcatraz island, or the Klingon asteroid of Rura Penthe.

However, occasionally in a galaxy whose population was conservatively estimated in the tens of trillions, one individual out of a billion was incapable of such rehabilitation and re-acclimation. These rare individuals could not be classified simply as 'criminals' or even as 'murderers' for their deeds dwarfed such distinctions. These individuals were the modern day equivalents to Adolf Hitler, Khan Noonien singh, and Colonel Green. Had the one-time Cardassian dictator Skrain Dukat been tried and convicted for his participation in the Dominion war, he would have served his time here. As it was his Dominion superior, a being known officially only as the 'Female Founder' was herself so incarcerated at Ananke Alpha.

In layman's terms, Ananke Alpha was a prison. A super-maximum security, beyond state-of-the-art Starfleet operated prison the likes of which the galaxy has never fathomed to exist. A storehouse for the worst of the worst the Federation was faced with. The war criminals and genocidal maniacs. The despots and tyrants. The king-pins and crime-bosses. It was a place that any intelligent citizen must know exists on some level, and yet no one ever spoke of or asked for any specifics about. For it was the dark little secret that those who knew about it refused to admit, and those who did not know about it refused to question.

Even in an open and free society like the Federation, it was quite simply too taboo a thing to think of, let alone discuss or question.

And yet, if not for it's shadowy existence buried deep in the shades of gray, the utopia enjoyed by over 975 billion Federation citizens would not be possible.

This was to where Starfleet had removed one of the senior-most members of the Orion Syndicate, a man named Keevan Faro, following his apprehension on New Sydney.

This was to where the Starship Republic had been brought by long encrypted orders…


Location: Main bridge, deck 1, USS Republic

Nine days of uninterrupted sustained high warp flight aboard a Galaxy-Class starship wasn't the most uncommon thing to experience. The void of space was after all, vast beyond the dreams of man or gods. Aboard a ship such as Republic though, there was typically an abundance of activity to keep one's self occupied. From the day to day tasks associated with such a tour of duty, to social events and recreational time, to side projects and so on. These past nine days however had been nothing of that sort though. The mighty hulk of the mammoth starship was an empty shell on this particular voyage. Just a decimal point above ten percent of her crew aboard. The time had not passed by easily, what with little to occupy those aboard. Little to do but watch the clock and to wait.

Time, like a watched pot, often seemed to refuse to boil.

So it was that on the morning of October 15, 2381 at a little before 0930 hours ship time that the senior officers of the Republic had gathered on the bridge to discover what awaited them at the end of their latest trek together. The bridge had been silent as each individual arrived in their own time. No salutations had been exchanged. No progress reports asked for. No business attended to. No formal decision made by the group to be here, now. Yet somehow each person had known the rest would be present, and felt obliged to do likewise. Lieutenant Nathan Hawk had been the last to arrive and the most withdrawn. Avoiding his normal station unlike the rest, he instead stood just a few steps from the turbolift alcove at the back of the command center, holding the hand of the woman he loved.

As the tear-streaks of stars at superluminal velocity returned to their customary diamond pin-pricks, the collective crew awaited the report of the ships acting Chief Operations Officer, Cail Jarin. The dark-skinned Bajoran has take over the duties as Chief, what with the medical leave of his department supervisor Reia Merrick back on DS9.

“Commencing standard sensor sweep of local space,” informed the former Bajoran militia officer as he entered command sequences into his console and studied the readouts returned. “This is strange…” Cail murmured to himself under his breath, his brow furrowing, ”…Captain, I'm not reading anything.“

Leaning forward in her command chair, already tense due to the situation at hand, Roth asked, “Could you be a little more specific, Ensign?”

Shaking his head from side to side quickly but gently, Cail clarified his meaning if not his sensor results. “That's just it ma'am, I'm literally not receiving anything in response to my scans. I'm not reading anything: at all. Not space dust, normal background radiation… nothing.” the acting Ops chief stated, as he turned in his chair to face the Captain. “Not even a jamming or scattering field which would at least go so far as to explain the lack of any other specific readings. It's as if I'm scanning a literal void versus… well, the normal energy and material that clutters 'the void' of space.”

Before anyone else could offer their thoughts or explanations, Republic's Chief of Security Zoe Beauvais interjected from above the command area. “Well I am getting something,” she reported, as she confirmed her tactical sensors analysis, “we're being scanned from somewhere. Extremely focused narrow beams, but all incredibly diffuse and low-powered…” the lithe blond Lieutenant relayed.

“Can you identify the source?” asked Commander John Carter, as he rose to his feet to better address Beauvais behind him.

Perplexed, the Security Chief shook her head in the negative as well, reporting, “it doesn't seem to be coming from a singular source, but rather dozens or more individual sources at varying points all around up ahead of us. More like a sensor network, I'd guess, but not like any configuration I've ever even heard theorized.”

On her feet now as well, Roth considered this information for a moment before deciding on their course of action. Noting the continued presence of Lieutenant Hayden Kroeger at the conn, Kim Roth quickly glanced about and noted the presence of her Chief Helmsman. Just as quickly, she repressed her normal instinct to have him take his station and put her attention back to Kroeger. “Ahead full, Mister Kroeger.”

The bridge descended into silence for the next few minutes as Republic coasted forward in the general bearing of the mysterious sensor scans ahead. Slowly but surely, one of the tiny twinkling lights on the main viewer began to grow in scope. Intuiting his captain's orders, Kroeger altered their heading by a dozen degrees to starboard to head more directly towards the object they were quickly drawing nearer to. At first only a vague spherical shape was visible, but from their distance it was too ambiguous to identify. As they continued to advance though, their query refused to alter in shape or dimension, nor to offer any finer details.

“I thought this region of space didn't have any planets?” Leon Cromwell chimed in from the bridge science station, recalling the star chart that had been displayed when the encrypted orders had been unsealed just over a week earlier. As the still acting science chief in addition to his medical duties, he'd done a review of the region they were bound for. What had come up according to their cartographic records was that the entire region of space was as mundane and bland as could be for dozens of light years. No planets, few stars, and a whole lot of empty space. That seemed at odds though with the obvious conclusion based on the visual information available now.

“We would have read a gravitational field of considerable magnitude if it were a planet, sensors or not. The inertial dampers would have perceived such no matter how muddied the other sensors are.” remarked Ensign Cail from Ops.

“It could be a small moon?” Counselor Tolkath suggested from the executive seat to the captain's left.

Magnifying the image on the screen and gauging it's approximate size based on their forward velocity and the rate at which the objects proportions increased, Cail was satisfied with making a deduction. “That's no moon, it's a space station.”

“A spherical space station?” questioned Chief Rainer, somewhat incredulous at the idea of such a thing being of Federation design.

“It is one of the most efficient forms known to nature.” pointed out John Carter, though he himself was not yet convinced of anything.

“Ananke Alpha…” murmured Beauvais reverently from tactical, a spontaneous connection between synapses dredging up a long-dormant memory. As everyone turned their attention towards her, the somewhat awe-struck security chief offered the assembled crew the story she herself had heard in her academy days. “It's… Alcatraz prison. The Federation equivalent to Rura Penthe. A super maximum security prison, designed to hold only the worst of the worst. People incapable of rehabilitation. If a place like this had existed one-hundred-fifteen years ago, Khan Singh would have been sent to it. The Female shape-shifter, the one who oversaw the Dominion war? This is where she's rumored to be held for her crimes. It's… beyond classified. I don't even think it officially exists.” Beauvais informed the assembled officers and crew.

The bridge fell into silence for a few moments as the theory presented was absorbed and processed. Finally, it was Chief Rainer who asked the first question. “Why would 'Fleet order us here? To a prison?”

At first, no one answered.

“Prolly 'cause it's the only place 'n the 'verse outta the Orion Syndicate's reach.” offered Republic's helmsman, Nathan Hawk, who up until that moment hadn't spoken a word since arriving on the bridge. This new piece of information only sewed further confusion amongst the bridge crew, with the exceptions of Roth, Carter and Cromwell.

“The Orion Syndicate? What do they have to do with this?” asked Rainer, alarmed by the mention of the notorious criminal enterprise.

For the past fourteen months, Nathan Hawk had kept a secret from the officers with whom he served. There had been rumor and speculation, but never anything definitive beyond what little he had told to John Carter and Leon Cromwell, both of whom he considered friends, and to Leah Warner, the first woman he had ever allowed himself to feel for. It was finally time to lift that particular veil of secrecy though. To end one chapter, and begin another. Turning his attention across the bridge to his captain, the Southerner asked her consent with a look. Consent she granted with an affirmative nod.

“I dunno where ta begin,” Hawk stated. At his side, Leah Warner squeezed his hand tightly in a supportive gesture. “I could tell ya all ma life story… but it ain't a happy one, not even close. It's a long 'n complicated mess that ya dun need ta trouble yerselves with. Important thing, reason we're all here… s'cause I'm the Federation's 'star' witness 'gainst one uh the top Syndicate bosses. Nasty old sonuvabitch named Keevan Faro. Some of ya might know the name, cause few months b'fore I came aboard, he skipped out on charges. Ya might also know, witnesses 'gainst the Syndicate don't tend ta live awful long. So somebody came up with a whole new idea. Stash 'em somewhere mobile, somewhere protected. Some place like a starship.”

Letting his revelation sink in, Hawk waited for a few moments before continuing. “Now, ya might be sayin' ta yerself, whys any uh this matter ta ya? Thing 'bout this trial, me testifyin' 'n such… if we convict Faro? It ain't just convictin' one leader uh the Syndicate. Faro's paranoid, total lunatic, real psychopath. Was a rumor goin' round that he had dirt on just 'bout everybody else in the Syndicate. Back 'bout shy uh two years ago, I went undercover. Got close ta Faro. Found proof this rumor ain't just a rumor, ta say the least. So we put him in uh corner? Sonuvabitch'll cave. Federation'll have 'nough ta go after the whole lot of 'um. Whole damn thing'll fold like a deck uh cards.”

With this information, various pieces fell into place for a number of individuals with long-standing questions. How Hawk had been re-instated after a psych discharge in the wake of the Dominion war, for one thing. It also offered the first viable explanation of why Hawk had been murdered during their mission in the Gamma Quadrant, and likewise gave explanation for how and why such an advanced medical treatment had been ready to be utilized to resurrect him. Most importantly, it explained why a Galaxy-Class ship had been stripped of her crew and ordered here, to a prison that may or may not officially exist. Escorting a witness in of itself was a menial task for a vessel of such resources; but protecting the key witness in a trial that could dismantle the Orion Syndicate? That was another story.

A moderate tone sounded from the tactical console in front of Beauvais, breaking the tense silence that had engulfed the bridge for a few moments. Tending to it, Beauvais directed herself to the captain. “We're being hailed… ” Zoe began, pausing for a moment at the unusual signal, ”…on old-style radio, ma'am.“

Despite her curiosity, Roth didn't question the abnormal type of communication; she had a sinking feeling abnormal was shortly to become standard operating procedure for the duration of things. “On screen, Lieutenant.”

The spherical form which was now much closer, and seemed indeed to be a space station or some sort based on it's dimensions alone, was replaced in an instant by an austere looking Vulcan female. It was evident from her silver hair and the creases around her eyes and mouth that she was certainly of the higher end of age range for a Vulcan, most certainly over one-hundred-fifty standard years. Everything about the woman was fairly plain, from her pale complexion to her dull gray eyes. Dressed in the variant uniform of a member of the admiralty, another distinction stood out: her collar was adorned with a single gold pip bracketed by a gold edged-square on either side. She was a commodore, one of the rarest ranks seen in Starfleet for the past century.

“I am Administrator T'Lau, director of the Ananke Alpha facility. You are currently being forwarded an encrypted data packet containing written orders of compliance with this facilities procedures, as well as copies of all of our procedures which are to be distributed amongst your crew without delay. You will manually deactivate your warp core, as well as your long-range subspace transceiver for the remainder of your time here. Any and all communications beyond our perimeter will be handled by this facility, at my discretion. Any persons whom wish to embark will leave any and all scanning equipment, recording devices, and weapons of any kind aboard Republic. Is this understood?”

Taken aback by the forth-right and stern visage before her, Kimberly Roth paused momentarily before offering her response as diplomatically as she could. “Indeed, Administrator, I think we understand quite well, however-”

Roth stopped mid-sentence as the image of the T'Lau disappeared from the screen without warning. “What the hell just happened?” she questioned.

“Transmission terminated at the source, Captain,” replied Beauvais, equal parts disbelief and annoyance ebbing into her voice.

Her eyes wide with astonishment, Roth looked to her XO for his take on the brief and abrupt conversation. For his part, John Carter could only shake his head and shrug, unsure what to make of it for himself. Biting the inside of her lower lip, annoyed to say the least, Roth turned back to the view screen as she addressed Beauvais once more. “Re-establish communications, Lieutenant.”

Entering the appropriate sequence into her console, Beauvais attempted to do as requested three times before reporting back to the Captain: “No response from Ananke Alpha, ma'am.”

It was Leon Cromwell whom finally asked, “So now what?”

Though hesitant to draw any misdirected ire from his captain, John Carter did as his position required. “The administrator did say something about an encrypted data packet, with procedures to be distributed…? Perhaps-”

This time, it was Carter whom was cut off. By Roth. “Yes, Commander, see to the… distribution, please.”

Moving to the upper aft level of the bridge, the XO leaned against the tactical station and worked with Beauvais on decrypting the data and routing copies of an information text packet marked 'Ananke Alpha Protocols and Procedures' to the personal terminals of everyone left aboard. He then transferred a copy to a PADD, which he offered to his commanding officer upon his return to the central portion of the bridge. Accepting the data display, Roth queued the text and skimmed across it as she retook her place in the command chair. As she did, the majority of the assembled bridge crew likewise brought up copies of the protocols on their own displays.

First amongst the information was that Ananke Alpha utilized a networked transporter protocol that made unauthorized transport impossible. The station operated on cycle of two, twelve-hour transporter windows each day. Exceptions were not made without the direct consent of the facility administrator. Anyone visiting the facility for more than two consecutive days was advised to utilize station guest accommodations, though such was not strictly required. Virtually nothing outside of the clothes being worn and a standard communicator was permitted to be brought aboard. Any such item to be detected in transport would not be rematerialized. The protocols also explained that any and all visitors were to be assigned a 'shadow' escort, whom they were not to separate from under any circumstances, less they face station confinement and a formal investigation.

Suffice of to say, it was an intimidating and sobering reality that faced them.

Identifying that the transport windows occurred at equivalent to 0900 ship time, and that they had thus missed today's transport window unless they planned to spend the night aboard the station, it became clear that they would have at least an additional day to wait before paying their first visit to Ananke Alpha.

Finished with her preliminary review of the document, Roth turned her attention back to her first officer. “Commander, see to it that Lieutenant Pakita complies with the Administrator's… requests… concerning our warp drive and transceiver.” With a simple nod in acknowledgment, Carter set about doing precisely that. Rising from the command chair, Roth looked for and located Hawk, still standing at the back of the bridge, out of the way. “In the mean time, Mister Hawk, if you'd join me in my ready room…”

---

Chapter 15: Scorpio RisingTop

Location: Promenade, space station Deep Space Nine
Timeframe: Present day

The Starfleet lieutenant in operations gold casually strolled down the Promenade, maintaining his pace congruent with the flowing crowd. While it appeared to the normal observer that he was simply enjoying some off-duty time to peruse the shops and restaurants on the station, his purpose was much more business-related than anyone else knew. Pausing to look around to see who was watching, the officer spied a vacant subspace communications booth, and entered it while no one else was looking.

Inside the booth, only the light of the display illuminated the cramped compartment. Accessing the comm-net, he dialed a set of subspace transceiver coordinates which opened a channel to a distant, unknown communications console. On the display screen, a mysterious man with an aged, wrinkled face and bushy grey eyebrows peered back at the young lieutenant. Without an ounce of emotion in his voice, the man addressed the officer.

“Hello Scorpio. Or should I say, Pluto?”

“It's confirmed,” the lieutenant said direct and to the point. “Saturn is headed to Luna. I tried to get him to stay onboard, but he wouldn't go for it.”

“Does he suspect we're monitoring him?”

“Not likely,” returned the lieutenant. “I transmitted from the sensor blind he built below Republic's warp core before she left port. Only Saturn, Pluto, and I know about it.”

“I'll be more specific… Does he suspect YOU?”

“He and I haven't talked since his reassignment to SCoE over a year ago,” the lieutenant explained. “He definitely thought I was Pluto when we talked over the encrypted channel. I'm sure of it.”

“Good. The less he knows about what happened to the real Doug Forrest, the better. Thanks to you, we can monitor Saturn's activities now, for as long as we have a stand-in for Pluto.”

“He's going to find out eventually,” warned the lieutenant.

“I know. And whenever that happens, we'll have to decide whether or not to arrest him. After the election, I'll brief whoever the new C-in-C is, and he or she can review the case and determine if the Pantheon is a threat. Right now, we're not even sure of their intentions.”

“From everything I can tell, they're just disgruntled doves.”

“We don't know that for sure. After the level of infiltration during the Dominion War, no one here is willing to take that risk. Which reminds me, have you figured out who Mars and Apollo are yet?”

“No,” he replied flatly. “The only identity I know for sure is Mercury. After that, I ran out of time. The ship went into lockdown before I was ordered off Republic.”

“It doesn't matter. We got this far into the Pantheon's inner circle, and that's better than we've been able to do before. Good work. Report back to headquarters by stardate 58900.”

“Understood.”

With that, the conversation ended in a computerized warble, followed by the wreathed Federation logo replacing the image of the mysterious man. The lieutenant was about to leave the communications booth when his combadge beeped.

“Ops to Lieutenant Jacobs.”

“Yes?” the officer paused, tapping his combadge.

“You have a personal encrypted communique coming in on civilian channel three-eight-two-seven.”

“Understood. I'll take in down here on the Promenade. Jacobs out.”

Turning back to the console, Jacobs accessed the civilian communications network, and found the active comm-net channel awaiting his personal key. After dialing it in, the encrypted channel opened, and a disquieting image of pale man with an oily complexion appeared on the screen. His black curly hair accentuated his penetrating sable eyes, and his chin revealed a mutton-chop beard minus a mustache. Recognizing the lieutenant, his greeting was succinct.

“Report.”

“It's set,” Jacobs replied, obviously expecting the request. “Your contact is an officer named Klaus. He'll be in position when he receives your signal.”

“How do you know he'll be there?”

“I only paid him half. You'll have to fork over the other half when you meet him.”

“And you're sure they're headed to Sol?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Probably within the month. They've been away from the Alpha Quadrant for more than half a year without a debriefing, and they're running with a skeleton crew. Klaus included.”

“Perfect. Stop by our spot at Paradise City, and someone will meet you to discuss the usual compensation.”

“Agreed.”

As sudden as it arrived, the communication terminated, filling the screen with the wreathed Federation logo.

Jacobs couldn't help but smile. He had been stranded in the Gamma Quadrant without communications for seven months, putting all of his clandestine activities on hold. It was frustrating to be bottled up on a starship; alone with no contacts, and completely dependent on the whims of an unpredictable Starfleet captain. Truth be told, Jacobs missed the cloak-and-dagger business of a double-agent, as there was a certain adrenaline rush associated with living on the edge. Except for Starfleet, he worried about losing all his other clients, but fortunately, they each were patient people, the Orions especially. As he made his way down the Promenade, he looked forward to a victory drink at Quarks, where he would privately celebrate his renewed independence.

---

Chapter 16: First ImpressionsTop

It had been less than an hour after their initial contact with Ananke Alpha's brusque Administrator T'Lau that Republic had again received communications from the eccentric top-secret facility, informing them that special arrangements had indeed been made to accommodate their arrival outside of the normal transporter windows. Considering why they were here and how critical the testimony of Lieutenant Hawk was to the pending case, such made obvious sense. The accommodations had been made, however, in the form of a brief shuttle sojourn between the two locales in order to avoid overriding the stations multi-layered network of transport inhibitor systems. Though inconvenient, it did make a degree of practical sense, and so Roth had complied with such. That she had little recourse otherwise didn't make much difference.

As the bulbous type seven approached one of the few small hatches providing physical ingress to the facility, Captain Kimberly Roth continued to chafe at the pronounced absence of professional courtesy thus far extended by T'Lau as she as well and a number of her senior crew traversed the minimal distance in relative silence. Though Vulcans in general were not known for their warm receptions, it was strange to encounter such an ungracious individual at such a distinguished rank. Then again, social graces were likely fairly low on the totem pole of required skill sets required to administrate a facility such as this. Indeed, brusque efficiency and strict compliance with protocol were talents more suited for such a commander. Never the less, to Roth's mind, it simply added an undo layer of tension to an already overwrought situation.

As the shuttle passed through the confines of the exterior hatch, Roth took note of the fact that they had not passed through a customary atmospheric force-field. Rather, the narrow shuttle bay in which they were currently ensconced was decompressed and exposed to hard vacuum; another abnormality, but one that again made a degree of sense for a hardened facility such as this. As the boxy shuttle set down upon the deck with a silent but reverberatory thud, the passengers - Captain Roth, Commander Carter, Doctor Cromwell, Lieutenant Hawk and Leah Warner - rose from their seats in anticipation of a prompt departure. Instead, the assemblage of Republic natives waited for what felt like an ever increasing span of time as the airlock seal indicator continued to blink a cautionary red. Though a shuttle bay such as this would take a greater length of time to recompress into a habitable environment, such didn't account for the near ten minutes they waited.

Just as the Captain was about to lose patience with the situation, the shuttle vibrated once again with what felt to the experienced officer like the attachment of a docking collar. Indeed, the airlock indicator quickly turned to a cautionary blinking yellow before it finally solidified green. Stepping through the hatchway as the door receded, Roth was uncomforted if not surprised to find a phalanx of heavily armed security personnel awaiting them just inside the docking collar. Not a single one was the same species as the other, and some of those Roth could not even identify. Clad in a variant uniform that resembled a cross-breed of modern style with the body-armor and helmets standard to security personnel of the late 2280s, each member of the team hefted a different type of Starfleet phaser rifle. They ranged from the standard issue type-3, to the large-stock MKX style, to the original compression variety and it's 2379 successor with tactical sight. Each weapon also appeared to be physically locked onto it's holder through a unique harness that interlaced with the owners body-armor.

As the menagerie of a security team stood at relative ease along the walls of the airlock, a seventh individual stepped up to the Ananke Alpha opening. Towering more than 2 meters tall with a muscular build and a neck the same thickness as his skull, the man had to duck to avoid impacting his forehead on the doorframe. Though Roth could not say for certain at first, her instincts and the assortment of genetic compositions of the other security personnel told her the individual was something other than human, and upon citing an angled tri-sided blade attached to his hip that she was able to identify, she deduced his species as Capellan. Clad in a standard operations yellow duty uniform, he wore the rank insignia of a full commander. Turning his attention to Roth, he finally spoke, his deep voice echoing off the airlock walls. “I am Commander Akeen, head of security aboard Ananke Alpha. Welcome to our facility.”

Taking a single step forward, Roth nodded simply in recognition as she replied, “Thank you, Commander. I'm Captain Kimberly Roth, commanding officer of the Republic.”

Returning the nod, Akeen increased the volume of his voice despite the lack of need to, and addressed the entire party. “As you are already aware, this facility does not officially exist. Any mention of such recorded in any logs, personal, professional, medical or otherwise is strictly forbidden by Starfleet security directive 1221-alpha, dually authorized and ordered by the Federation Security Council. While you are aboard this facility, you will adhere to all procedures and protocols outlined in the encrypted document transmitted to you earlier by Administrator T'Lau. Your completed review of this document has already acted as a retinal signature of compliance and comprehension. Is this understood?”

As most of the Republic team nodded in acknowledgement, Roth stated such on their behalf, “Understood, commander.”

Accepting this, Akeen turned on his heal and gestured with a nod towards the airlock hatchway he had been blocking, “If you'll all follow me to our security check-point, we'll conduct your base-line scans.”

Beginning forward somewhat tentatively, Roth lead her people in pursuit of Akeen as he made his way down a short, wide corridor, preceded himself by a pair of standard dressed security officers, sporting holstered type-2 hand phasers. Mid-way through the groups departure from the airlock, a trio of the heavily armed and armored security officers that had lined the airlock injected themselves between the Republic officers – or so it seemed at first. In point of fact, as Roth noticed the swiftly executed maneuver, they were in fact dividing Lieutenant Hawk and Leah Warner from Roth herself as well as Carter and Cromwell, the remaining trio of armed and armored security taking up flank behind the couple. Though Hawk himself noticed this as well, he made no signs of surprise nor objection. Warner for her part looked a bit startled by the apparent special attention.

Arriving at the end of the bland and featureless corridor and stopping at a single set of heavy blast doors, Commander Akeen entered a manual security code into a semi-transparent holographic console, before providing a retinal scan as well as a voice authorization code. The whole process thus far struck Roth as well beyond paranoid and excessive, and she prayed that such procedures were only taken initially or in the event of a manual boarding versus being transported aboard. Leading them through the blast doors and up to an enclosed security booth, Akeen gestured towards a collection of tall and thin stalls with semi-circular walls, each roughly the size of a standard transporter diode.

Stepping up to the first of the set, Roth waited a moment as each of her people positioned themselves inside an alcove before doing likewise. With a silent nod towards the two latest personnel contained behind the transpara-steele half-wall of the security booth, Akeen ordered their activation. A low electronic hum quickly emanated from each scanner stall, as brightly-lit security scanners activated within either side, slowly descending from top to bottom. The scans themselves were relatively quick and not obviously invasive, and within a few seconds, Akeen was signaled with a thumbs-up from the officers operating the devices within the booth. Gesturing towards the same set of doors they had entered the room through, Akeen waited as the Republic team gathered - in addition to the team of six armored security officers whom positioned themselves around Hawk and Warner once again.

As the same blast doors parted once again, Roth wondered where they were to be lead, having not seen any other doors on their brief walk here. Instead of finding the same corridor that lead back to the airlock and their shuttle, however, an entirely different corridor was now in it's place much to everyone of the visitors unspoken confusion. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Leon Cromwell mouth the word 'holograms' to Carter in question, to which the XO simply shrugged and raised his eyebrows, equally uncertain. For his part, Akeen offered no forthcoming explanation and Roth seriously doubted she would get an acceptable response should she question such.

Unlike the earlier corridor, which had been straight and almost sterile in appearance, the new one they currently traversed offered curves and sharp random turns and at least a bit of design aesthetic - even if minimally so. Simple support struts at uniform distances and dull gray traction carpeting were still a slight improvement though. What struck Roth was the lack of indicator labels or markers along any of the walls, junctions, or even doorways. No visible control surfaces and tactile interfaces presented themselves either as they made abrupt turns in seemingly random intervals.

Finally Akeen came to a halt at a large set of more standardized doors which parted at his arrival to reveal a turbolift car nearly twice the size of any Roth had seen in her entire Starfleet career. Waiting by the door, he extended his hand in towards the waiting lift. After Roth, her people, and the protective deal engulfing Lieutenant Hawk had all entered, Akeen followed and kept his back to the door as it sealed shut behind him. Though no one aboard gave any command, verbal or physical, the lift promptly began to move - or so Roth inferred from the familiar audible servo-pneumatic whirr that filled the area. Either because of a sensitive inertial dampening system, or because of the lack of indicator lights along the shaft, it was impossible to tell in which direction (or combination of) the lift was heading.

In the first instance of comparable normalcy to the rest of Starfleet, their journey via turbolift lasted a fairly customary duration of time. As Commander Akeen lead the party out into a new corridor which, save physical arrangement, appeared identical to the one they had just come from, Roth began to question her senses and contemplate the rather paranoid thought that perhaps they hadn't really even gone anywhere in the lift. Perhaps the time spent in such had simply been necessary to re-arrange the corridor in similar fashion to earlier. Just as quickly as the thought occurred to her, the seasoned Starfleet officer dismissed it with the realization that analyzing the psychology and motives that went into the design and function of this place were likely to cause her a greater headache than should she attempt to make sense of some temporal paradox.

After what had thus far felt like a jaunt down the rabbit hole into a land of insanity, Akeen came to a swift halt outside of a set of double-wide doors. Nodding to the throng of security personnel apparently assigned to Lieutenant Hawk, the detail took up positions along the corridors in each of three directions available. Moving forward once more, the doors parted at his approach to reveal a reasonably large size room that was clearly a courtroom in design and function. As the Capellan security officer lead them through the few sparse rows of gallery seats to the half-wall divider that separated the spectator section from the court proper itself, Roth took note of the rooms apparent sole occupant: an older humanoid male roughly one-point-seven-five meters in height and of the larger side of medium build.

Half standing, half sitting atop the table reserved for the prosecutor, his reddish-blond hair was tinged with gray mostly at the temples, and his weathered yet handsome face gave the impression of both confidence and charm. Dressed simply in the modern day equivalent of a dark-toned business suit, a garment which had long ago abandoned the adornment of a neck-tie, his strong squared shoulders and easy stance belayed his age which Roth placed at mid-60s based on visual evidence. With modern times and medicine however, that could make his actual age anywhere from the obvious to the late 90s. None of which was truly relevant to the matter at hand to Roth who had to admit, even if only to herself, that he was a pleasant enough fellow to look at.

“Captain Kimberly Roth, this is Federation Special Prosecutor Thomas Aidan Dorian.” Akeen stated, making the introductions.

Standing up fully now, Dorian moved closer the few steps needed and extended his hand towards Roth who accepted and returned the customary gesture. “A pleasure, Captain.” offered Dorian with a small but warm and sincere smile.

His bold blue eyes lingering on Roth for perhaps a split second longer than ordinary, Dorian quickly turned his attention to the others from Republic, quickly focusing in on the somewhat scruffy blond-haired Lieutenant towards the back. “And you must be the dead witness that nearly caused me to have a stroke last month.” Dorian inferred, his natural charm softening the statement significantly.

For his part, the recently-turned unflinchingly somber Hawk showed a spark of light in his eyes as he replied, “Only if yer the prosecutor that couldn't even muster gettin' remand on a high-level Syndicate boss like any first-year law student.”

The retort had a chilling effect on the room for a brief moment until Dorian chuckled aloud, diffusing the tension. “In my defense, that particular magistrate was hip-deep into the Syndicate's pocket.” Dorian offered in light-hearted defense.

“And in mine, I sure didn't intend ta get maself dead, but bein' both stabbed and poisoned at tha same times kinda uh bitch that way.” quipped Hawk once more.

Nodding his head in silent surrender of the point, Dorian turned his attention to the entire group for a moment, “Captain Roth, Commander Carter, Doctor Cromwell, Miss Warner; I need to speak with all of you in due time individually. For the moment though, I really need to spend some one-on-one time with my star witness.” Dorian informed them. Turning his attention to Akeen for a moment, he suggested, “Akeen, perhaps you can show our guests what you natives laughingly consider amenities here on Ananke?”

Nodding stoically, Akeen gestured back the way they had just come, “If you'll all come with me, please.”

As the trio of Republic officers trailed the large security chief back towards the entryway, Leah Warner lingered a moment. “You'll be alright?” she asked of Hawk, her hand resting on his arm.

Smiling at the woman he loved, even if his mood didn't quite fit the expression, Nathan Hawk nodded in the affirmative. “Ain't that my line?” he asked her playfully. Nodding his head towards his colleagues, Hawk encouraged her, “Go on, I'll be right here. 'Sides, I need ya ta keep Leon outta trouble fer me.” he teased.

With a quick kiss, Warner followed suit with the others from Republic and headed out, leaving Dorian and Hawk alone in the courtroom. Tom Dorian wasted little time in the wake of their departure. “I'm sorry if my joke upset you, or your lady friend.” he apologized, sounding genuine.

Waving his hand dismissively, Hawk shook his head from side to side, “Naw, I shouldn't uh snapped like that,” the southerner offered, “ma fuse is a bit short lately.”

“It's understandable,” Dorian replied graciously, stepping back over towards the prosecutors table which was home to a dozen PADDs as well as an old-fashion satchel that appeared to be made out of black denim with sterling silver buckle and latch. “You've had a rough 18 months or so, to say the least. Going under-cover inside the Syndicate, having to fake your own death there to get back out. Then just as we secure an indictment against Faro, the son of a bitch flies the coop, leaving you in a pretty dangerous state of limbo. So you get thrown back into Starfleet in lieu of all the other failed standard witness protections programs, in the distant hope we can track the bastard down before he finds out you're still breathing and comes after you. To top it all off, the frakker not only finds out you're alive, he actually succeeds in killing you, and the only reason you're here listening to me tell your own recent life story is some hair-brained semi-ethical Borg-enhanced Frankenstein treatment that I'm not sure the courts even going to believe.”

After a moments stony silence shared between the two men, neither could endure it any longer. Both began to laugh hysterically in what surely would have been quite a confusing sight had anyone but them been there to witness it. Finding it difficult to breath, Hawk fell back into one of the gallery chairs with a thud as Dorian wiped a tear from his eye, both men struggling to control their shared case of the giggles. “Well… when ya put it that way…” Hawk struggled to say through shortened breath.

As the laughter subsided, Hawk looked Dorian in the eyes, his tone turning a bit serious as he asked, “Did ya know Faro was the one?”

Letting the smile fade away naturally, Dorian shook his head in the affirmative in response. “If I'd told you, you'd have killed him the moment you met him.”

Putting his head in his hands, Hawk rubbed his eyes for a moment before looking back at Dorian. The two men had, in truth, known each other for years. Though Dorian was old enough to be Hawk's father, they had become acquaintances and eventually friends through Admiral Henry Toddman, Hawk's one-time legal guardian in the wake of his Aunt and Uncle's deaths when he was 16. Dorian, a friend of Toddman's whom had also known Hawk's parents, had ironed out the legal issues of both the guardianship as well as the legal troubles the teenage Hawk had gotten himself into at the same time. Said legal troubles also played a part in Hawk following in his parents and Toddman's footsteps into Starfleet.

It had been a little over a year and a half ago when Dorian had been the one to suggest Hawk to Starfleet Intelligence for the undercover operation he had shortly there after undertaken. The operation that had lead to Hawk become 'Nathaniel Hawthorne' and to infiltrating Faro's gang of thugs, as well as finding enough evidence to not only get Faro charged and indicted, but hopefully also convicted. It hadn't been until after his extraction that Hawk had learned the dark secret that had been hidden from him: that Keevan Faro was the man responsible for so much of the pain and misery in his short life. Though he had long suspected Dorian of knowing such well in advance, he hadn't been able to communicate with him at all since the whole thing had begun, nor since his time on Republic.

Part of Hawk was still angry with Dorian for having kept such a significant detail from him. Indeed, when he had first found out in the wake of his extraction from cover and the 'tragic' circumstances of the demise of 'Nathaniel Hawthorne' he had been prepared to beat the hell out of the older man when they finally did cross paths again. In the past 14 months aboard Republic though, he'd come to realize why Dorian had kept that key detail from him, and his anger had tapered off into an annoying resentment instead. Of all the pseudo-father figures Nathan Hawk had had since his actual father's death though, Tom Dorian was the one who'd understood him and what drove him better than any of the others.

“Yer a bastard, ya know that?” Hawk finally asked the older man.

“Guilty as charged.” Dorian conceded.

Glancing around the courtroom, Hawk asked the only other question on his mind. “So what now, boss?”

Leaning in close to Hawk, Dorian replied through a satisfied grin, “Now we nail that piece of shit for everything he's ever done.”

---

Chapter 17: Games of Thought and WordTop

It had taken the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon for Nathan Hawk and Tom Dorian to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Both men had been preparing for this day in some fashion for so long though that it was almost unnecessary. Still, with so much at stake neither wanted to see things derailed due to lack of preparation. The case against Faro was as near to air-tight as an airlock. In addition to his testimony, Hawk had already provided corroborating data evidence when he had been extracted from the assignment. Neither the data nor his testimony stood on their own merits without the other; only in tandem did they prove Faro's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

The likely schedule of events for the next few days was the only thing still somewhat vague, as trials tended to be, with the only thing set in stone being that things would kick off the next day at 0930 hours. Everything else was fairly well up in the air, though Dorian didn't expect the trial to last more than a few days at most. Tom had wanted to add charges of murder, attempted murder, and witness tampering to those already levied against Faro for the attack aboard Republic, but with the assassin deceased and the individual responsible for that death an apparent black-ops agent that herself was no longer available, there was nothing definitive linking the incident directly to Faro.

At just after 1400 hours, the prosecutor and his star witness completed their business for the day and parted ways, Dorian summoning Captain Roth through the com-net in order to go over her testimony. Based on the brief spark of chemistry he had witnessed between the two earlier, Nat could only presume his old friend Tom Dorian would find some manner of excuse to pursue a less professional agenda as well. All he could hope for as he exited into the corridor and found himself once again found himself flanked by a security detachment was that Dorian wouldn't lose interest too quickly as he tended to do. Noting that his detail had been reduced from the squadron of six to a much more reasonable two, he considered who had been assigned to him.

The first of his 'shadows' was a tall and bulky Lurian male whose thick skull was adorned by golden locks of hair pulled back into a simple pony-tail. Nearly half a meter taller than him and twice the weight, Hawk doubted much besides a photon grenade could take the hulking alien down easily. The other of Hawk's assigned escorts appeared to be a Human of large build at first glance - except for a small tattoo directly next to his left eye. Though tattoos were not uncommon amongst humans, they rarely tended to be placed at such a prominent location unless or tribal or religious reasons; neither of which struck Hawk as the case with the stern-looking broad-shouldered individual in question.

“Thought I might get some lunch and catch up with ma colleagues,” he informed his escorts, having no idea where to go on his own even if he had been allowed to.

“This way, sir,” replied the Human-looking security officer, the senior officer of the duo who wore the rank of a junior lieutenant - his Lurian colleague wearing the insignia of an ensign.

Following in his escorts wake, Hawk tried to place the context of the tattoo as they made their way through the indistinguishable corridors of Ananke Alpha. Spending the past few hours in the company of an old friend like Tom Dorian had helped to alleviate the somber sense of foreboding that had been following him around like a dark cloud since Republic had first received the encoded orders that had brought the vessel and a tenth of her crew here. Though he knew the events of the next few days held a great importance for not only himself, but the whole of the Federation as well as anyone whose life was touched by the Orion Syndicate, the reality that this moment was finally at hand seemed to be lifting an awful weight from his shoulders.

He knew that tomorrow would be a different story, though. That if anything this momentary relief was little more than the calm before the storm. Tomorrow, for first time in his life, he would come face to face with the man responsible for so much pain and death since he had found out whom that individual was. He couldn't help but think back to his time spent undercover, much of which had been in Faro's company. It made him sick to realize he had laughed with the man, shared drinks with him, even done his bidding. He remembered how stupid he had felt after his extraction, that he hadn't somehow sensed the evil that lurked within Keevan Faro. He knew it would be a challenge to present himself as a proper witness. 'Hell,' he thought to himself, 'it'll be a challenge not ta try an beat the son of a bitch ta death with ma bare hands.'

Coming to a halt at a turbolift alcove, he once again studied the colored tattoo adorning one of his shadows. Knowing he wasn't going to be able to piece together it's context without a little more information, he went fishing. “So the two uh ya gonna be ma 'shadows' fer whenever I'm here, 'er do ya swap out t'marrow?”

Though he had been looking at the tattooed senior officer of the duo, it was the lumbering nearly neck-less ensign who offered a response. “Escorts are typically assigned to an individual for the duration, sir. Substitutions are frowned upon unless deemed absolutely necessary. It complicates a number of our procedures.”

As the turbolift arrived and the junior lieutenant lead the way inside, Hawk remembered how talkative Lurians could be, and found himself astonished and significantly lucky to have received such a brief response. He also realized he'd made a strategic error by leaving his question open-ended as to whom he had been addressing. His next question though, should provide him with at least a crumb of additional information to go on. “So do I get ta know yer names, 'er is that against 'procedure'?” he asked as the lift began to move. He knew that even if the Lurian was the one to reply, he would still gain a bit of insight more into his other shadow's genetic heritage.

“I'm Ensign Nort, sir, and this is Lieutenant Ragnar.” replied the Lurian - Nort - as he gestured to his colleague. The aliens bulbous head and limited range of motion required him to turn slightly at the waist to accomplish the simple gesture.

“Alright then,” Hawk offered simply in reply before asking, “Guessin' ya'll ready know ma name?”

“We've been fully briefed, sir.” Nort replied succinctly.

Something about the way the alien ensign had said those words, something in his tone combined by the setting of their location - aboard Ananke Alpha - didn't sit well with Nat Hawk. In truth, the entire facility gave him the creeps as he was sure it did the rest of his Republic brethren. While he couldn't argue with a need for a facility like this to exist, the harsh reality of experiencing such personally was far removed from such a place simply being a theoretical. Everything here was simply to well thought out. To well prepared for. Nothing was taken for granted or left to chance in a place like this, and nothing was random or done without a complex reason.

“Whad'ya mean when ya say ya bin 'fully briefed'?” the Helmsman finally asked, his curiosity piqued.

Exchanging looks between themselves, the more talkative subordinate was not the one to offer a response this time. Rather such came from the tattooed junior lieutenant Ragnar. “Escorts are assigned based upon a number of criteria.”

No doubt hoping the response would be sufficient, Ragnar left it at that. Hawk did not.

“Such as?” he queried as the lift came to a halt, and Ragnar lead the way out into the featureless corridor beyond. Hawk couldn't help but wonder how much information he could get before he was shut down with some typically lame bureaucratic bullshit excuse such as something being 'need to know' or some other damn thing.

“In the case of a fellow officer, the background information that's used to judge whom on staff would be… complimentary… is usually reserved to service record, genetic heritage, psychiatric profile. Protocol only allows us to dig deeper if an individual has any history of disciplinary incidents, non-standard training or extra-starfleet experience. Things of that nature.” Ragnar offered, trying and failing to sound as if he wasn't annoyed with the question.

As the trio rounded a sharp bend, Hawk voiced what had come to mind as Ragnar had been speaking. “In other words, non-cookie cutter folks like maself…”

As they came to a halt outside a large pair of double-wide doors, Ragnar turned and stood toe-to-toe with the Republic helmsman for a long moment. Though Hawk wasn't certain, it seemed as if Ragnar was hoping and intending his physical stature to be imposing or intimidating. Finally, he offered a chilly but simple reply. “Yes sir. Individuals exactly like yourself.”

Neither he nor Hawk broke eye contact as Ragnar interacted with a semi-transparent holo-keypad near the door frame, entering a quick sequence that parted the doors down the middle. Clearly practiced at hiding his emotions, Ragnar never the less let seep through just enough to make a statement without actually doing so. Had it been a game of poker, Hawk would have read the alien as bluffing.

It wasn't poker though.

Never having been one to back down, Hawk played the only card he could (loath as he was to do it) and the only one Ragnar seemed likely to respect. He played the rank card given to him by his grade increase over the other man. “Ya got a problem with me, lieutenant?”

Pausing just long enough to make it clear that what he felt and what he said were total opposites, the thinnest wisp of a smile permeated Ragnar's features as he replied simply. “No sir, Lieutenant.”

Taking a deliberate step closer, Hawk sensed Ragnar raise his guard instinctively, almost as if anticipating attack. Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he leaned in even closer to the alien lieutenant as he said, “Whatever ya think ya know 'bout me, all ya really know is what ya think.”

Hearing the evidence of group chatter coming from within the open doorway, and feeling the ebb of unease coming from the Lurian ensign Nort whom obviously didn't want to be caught in the middle of whatever beef his partner-superior had with his protectee-superior, Hawk opted to let the matter settle. He didn't know what, specifically, was at the heart of Ragnar's dislike of him, nor did he particularly care. He had known this type of officer before, though. Pain in the ass though he would be to have to deal with over the next few days, he would first and foremost due his duty. Even if that was in conflict with his personal feelings.

Turning his back to Ragnar in a single quick motion that let the other man know just how little he was threatened by him, Hawk moved forward into the mess hall.

To his surprise, Nat found himself entering a rather comfortable looking split-level facility that looked totally out of place within the bounds of Ananke Alpha. Though the walls and decking continued to be rather drab in their basic tones and textures, they were thankfully augmented by at least a half-dozen large holo-screen projections showing different spatial vistas in lieu of actual view ports. The center of the room seemed relegated for dining at fairly regulation tables and chairs, but the outer perimeter of the room offered much more relaxed circumstances. Plush couches and comfortable arm chairs set around coffee tables, potted plants and flowers, and even some gaming tables including dabo, table-top pareses squares, pool, and dom-jot surrounded them.

“Hot damn,” he exclaimed, “how come we ain't got a mess hall like this?” he asked rhetorically.

“Would you really trade fully equipped holodecks and the arboretum for a couple of game tables and extra couches?” asked a familiar voice from behind him - that of Doctor Leon Cromwell.

Turning towards his friend, Hawk looked upon him with disbelief, “Yer tellin' me they ain't even got holodecks?”

Leon shrugged his shoulders as he took a sip from a half-empty glass of something green, “Not decent ones, from what I've been told. They've got a half-dozen holosuites, but they mainly only feature generic and specifically approved nature scenes with an emphasis on safety protocols, for the 'residents' of Ananke Alpha to get humanitarian-mandated exercise time.”

Hawk couldn't help but roll his eyes at the very prospect of such a sterile and lack-luster holographic experience. “Remind me never ta request a transfer ta this place, will ya?”

“Oh I wouldn't worry about that,” Leon replied, nodding at different groups of uniformed officers around the room and their near identical uniform divisionary colors, “from what I've been told, seventy-five percent of the personnel here are security, twenty percent are engineers, and a whopping five percent medical.”

Never the best at math, Hawk still wasn't that bad. “An the other five percent?”

Taking another sip of his drink, Leon glanced from side to side in an almost suspicious manner then lowered his voice as he answered. “Honestly? No one will say, and the more I think about it, the less I want to know.”

His own volume lowered to match, Hawk proffered, “SI? Black-shirts?”

Shrugging once again, Leon shook his head ambiguously, “Like I said, the more I think on it, the less I want to know.”

Knowing that Captain Roth was currently meeting with Dorian, and spotting John Carter engaged in discussion with Commander Akeen, Nat found the person he had most expected to find here was the only one not present. “Where's Leah?” he questioned.

“Your girlfriend must have some friends in high places,” remarked the Doctor, finishing off the last of his beverage, “despite everything else, our location, the total com-blackout this place seems to exist within, she's somehow arranged for a life conference call with her dear old dad.”

Surprised to say the least, Hawk also found himself uncomfortable with the idea of Leah off somewhere on her own on this warped and twisted house of paranoia, away from either himself or one of the Republic crew he trusted. “How long she bin gone?”

Nodding in thanks as he deposited his empty glass onto the accepting tray of a crewmen assigned to galley staff, Leon answered, “Only about twenty minutes or so.”

Knowing how much her father's affiliation with Vladimir Kostya had been weighing on her, despite her efforts to keep such from him in order to be supportive, Nat resisted his impulse to rush off and find her. She had more than kept her head in the most dire of moments on Ash'aaria, had spent time 'in the trenches' during the Dominion war. She was more than capable of taking care of herself aboard a Starfleet installation, no matter how 'black-bag' it may be. Realizing he would likely be spending the better part of the rest of the day here and still feeling a bit more relaxed than he had in quite a while, Nat decided to make himself at home. Eyeing the pool table like a predator eyes prey, he set off in that direction, wondering aloud, “Anybody wanna lose some latinum?”

---

Chapter 18: Messages From EarthTop

Location: Guest quarters, deck 8, USS Republic

Leah Warner paced back and forth in front of the combination desk and work station that she couldn't see a use for just now. With Republic's return to the Alpha Quadrant, there were some things that the IIN reporter had expected to do. There were also things she was technically contractually OBLIGATED to do. However, since nearly all those things involved using sub-space to talk to other people, she couldn't do any of them, thanks to the nearly impenetrable comms blackout around Ananke Alpha.

In her mind, Leah knew the reason for all the security. It was a near miracle that any non-Starfleet personnel, to say nothing of a reporter, had been allowed to learn of the Federation's “supermax” prison, much less be allowed inside, but Leah Warner was nothing if not lucky, and this was her chance to cover a truly historic moment.

Leah had resigned herself to taking copious notes and recording everything about the trial of Kevan Faro, and it had already been made crystal clear to her by Minister T'Lau that any and all mention of the particulars regarding Ananke Alpha would be left out of her dispatches to her editors back on Earth. Leah rolled her eyes as she contemplated the idea of her reporting being reviewed, redacted, and reduced to useless by someone who probably knew for certain they were doing 'The Right Thing' in keeping secrets from the wider Federation public. The more she paced, the madder Leah Warner got. The madder she got, the more confused she became regarding her urgent summons back to Republic. About the only thing she was glad of at the moment was to be off the secret, spherical station, and away from her 'shadows'. Still, with the trial currently bogged down in legal necessities and paperwork that didn't require her attention, she was happy for the reprieve.

Leah shuddered as she thought of the guards which had become her closest companions, literally, since stepping onboard Ananke Alpha. She ran her fingers through her hair as she found herself asking questions about them. She was sure they had names and families and lives of their own, but unlike some of the more gregarious members of Republic's crew, her boyfriend included, she had no real desire to know what the details of those lives might be. Especially if she couldn't tell anyone about any of it.

Leah slapped her hand against the dark panel of the desktop. “What the frinx am I even doing here?” She wondered allowed. She was there to document a story that, no matter what it's significance, she would likely never be able to share.

The reporter's shoulders slumped as she huffed again in frustration. “Dad wouldn't stand for this.” She commented to no one. “He'd find a way. He'd get the story out, but how?”

Leah added that question to the list that was quickly overflowing her brain. She was fast approaching the conclusion that it was all too much, that she was in over her head, when the comm. system beeped.

“Operations to Miss Warner.”

Leah tilted her head in surprise at hearing Cail Jarin's voice.

“I'm here as instructed, Lieutenant.” She explained. “Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“Afraid not, Ma'am. Minister T'Lau has authorized a twelve minute conversation over subspace. She's also asked me to inform you that you WILL be monitored. The other party also knows this.”

Leah braced herself against the desktop, looking down at the Starfleet symbol blazing on the now active display panel. “Who's the other party?”

“Unknown, Ma'am. Transmission is being routed through the station. Twelve minutes begins now.”

An instant later the Starfleet symbol was replaced with the IIN logo, and Leah Warner smiled as she thought of all the things she COULD tell her editor. “Oh, Max, thank God!” She began before she even looked to see who was actually on the other end of the call. “I wanted to check in before we got Shanghaied, but I wasn't sure of the message even made it to…”

Her voice trailed off as she saw the face of the legendary Jack Warner, who also had the singular distinction of being the attractive reporter's father.

“Daddy!”

“Well hi, Lemon Drop.” Jack answered with a practiced smile on his face. “I was hoping to give you a welcome home, but if you'd rather talk to your editor instead of the old man…”

Leah smiled and shook her head. “No, no, that's not it at all, it just…I thought this was a business call, or an emergency. Are you all right?”

Jack nodded. “Fine, honey. Just fine, but when you hadn't checked in, I was a bit concerned. We'd heard from Fleet sources that Republic was back in civilization, so when you didn't call, well, let's just say I pulled a few strings.”

“Trust you to work an angle, Daddy.” She said warmly. “You know we're being monitored, right?”

“They told me, yes. Just wanted to make sure you were ok.” Jack held up his hands. “Guilty as charged, I guess, but hey, I'm a father first, right?”

“I guess.” Leah said somewhat flatly. “It's…it's good to see you Dad.” She said, her expression softening a little. “Sorry, but, I was having enough trouble figuring out what a COULD and COULDN'T tell Max. You've kind of caught me with my guard down.”

Jack Warner looked at his daughter with an appraising eye. “Come on, Leah,” Jack offered. “I taught you better than that.”

Leah shook her head wearily. “Do as I say, not as I do, huh?”

Jack's eyes widened in legitimate surprise. He hadn't expected nearly so much exhaustion or venom from his daughter. It was clear to him that what he thought was going to be a happy reunion, subspace not withstanding, was going to turn out to be something else entirely. Quickly, he regained his composure. “What's THAT supposed to mean?”

Leah folded her arms across her chest, to accent the hurt she could feel bubbling up to the surface. “Saw the last set of numbers. Your boy's doing pretty well. Better and better every week.”

“My…” Now it was making sense, and Jack allowed a brief nod before his performer's composure returned. “You want to talk about the campaign? Now?”

Leah threw up her arms in frustration. “Well it's not like we can talk about what's going on HERE!”

“Honey, calm down. I know I retired, but the network asked me to do a series, and I don't get to do a lot of in-depth stuff anymore so…”

“He's a monster, Dad! The man's a fascist, racist sonofabitch, and YOU'RE helping him!”

Jack's face was a mask of professional stoicism. Part of him new this day might come. After all, his daughter was no fool. However, she was also prone to romantic notions; not unlike her mother, now that Jack thought of it, and that meant that she sometimes let her emotions run a little too close to the surface for his taste. He had to tread carefully, especially on a channel he had no control over.

“I don't think I like what you're implying, Leah.”

“I'm not 'IMPLYING' anything!” Leah's voice was a full throated roar now. “I saw the candidate profiles! You might have the public eating out of your hand, but…”

She paused, letting her hands rest on her hips, a non-verbal cue that she believed she had the upper hand in the exchange. “Are you forgetting that I produce media for a living?” She asked, not waiting for an answer. “They were good, Dad, I'll give you that. Especially the camera trick with Councilman Dohltari, but don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining!”

Jack sat back in his chair, content to let his daughter's emotional storm pass. 'Better to let her do the work than try and get her to calm down'. He thought. 'Let her rant and rave. That gives me the high ground'. He heard his opening in the quaint turn of phrase she'd just used.

“Piss down your…” He nodded, grimly. “Ah. I get it now.” He said knowingly.

“Get WHAT?” Leah shot back.

“You're too involved with them.” He explained. “Sounds to me like you've 'gone native'.”

Leah blinked for a moment, not sure what had just happened.

Jack Warner shook his head. “I have to say I'm a little surprised.” He offered. Then her scratched at his chin in a gesture of contemplation. “You shouldn't fall for a source, Leah.”

Leah blinked again. “Fall for…” Then she shook her head. “Oh no…no, no. This is NOT about me. I'm not the one compromising a lifetime of work for a little political pull!”

“No,” Jack answered dispassionately. “If you're not careful, you wont even get that far.”

Leah fought back tears as she heard the disappointment in her father's voice. She knew what she'd seen. She knew she was right, and she knew that she trusted Nat Hawk's word, regardless of his roguish bravado. If Nat said Kostya was bad news, then he was. She trusted Nat's word, the same way she'd once trusted her father's, and it hurt like Hell that she could feel herself making a choice.

Leah Warner knew what her father was doing. Knew that he was sacrificing principles he'd once told her HIMSELF were inviolate. Yet, somehow, the idea of her father disapproving of her conduct made her want to take it all back, at least for an instant. Could she have read too much into what she'd seen? Was she too quick to take Nate's side, just because he was Nate?. 'God help me,' she thought. 'Is he right'?

Jack simply shook his head. He'd seen it countless times. A beautiful, ambitious woman willing to take risks and rise to the top of her profession. Only to throw it all away because she let her hormones override common sense. How many one-time greats had he seen go down to scandal or ridicule, simply because they couldn't keep their focus? Keep their emotions in check? There was a time when he'd thought his daughter was above all that. Clearly, he was mistaken. He was just like the rest of them. Just like…her.

“Hmph.” Jack grumbled aloud. Then his thoughts continued to race. Emotions. That had to be it. Which meant there was only one soul in the universe to blame for the current state his daughter was in.

“Leah, I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you. This is all my fault.” He said, his words consoling but patronizing at the same time.

'Her mother!' Jack thought. 'This is because of her! Damn degenerate genes, that's what it is. That's what it has to be.'

“Just tell me why, Dad? I want to understand, that's all.”

Jack shook his head disapprovingly. “There's nothing to tell, Leah.” He explained. “Except that I'm worried you've lost focus. You've got a story, or so Max says. Just don't go looking for one that isn't there.”

Leah couldn't hold the tears back any longer. They streamed down her face as though they were burning hot scars into her cheeks. “Daddy…please.” She begged, not even sure why she was doing it.

Jack leaned forward, placing his elbows on his own desk. “I doubt I'll be able to talk to you again, until you're done with…whatever you're doing,” he said smoothly. “But if you can, I think you should call your mother. She'd like to hear from you.”

Then the channel went dead.

Leah Warner stood sobbing at the desk. How had it come to this? How had things turned to clay so fast? She'd been so certain, but now…even she had to admit that she was a mess, and perhaps her father was right. She couldn't maintain objectivity while she was sleeping with a source. Inwardly, she cursed herself for what any journalism student could see was a rookie mistake. That did not, however, make her father's rebuke hurt any less.

---

In the shadows of his office, now made more intense with the view screen off, Jack Warner leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and scowled. The veteran newsman felt his stomach turn as he thought of how far his daughter had fallen. To Jack Warner, his only child had represented the best thing he'd ever done. He realized now however that he'd been fooling himself. Despite his best efforts he'd been unable to overcome the girl's innate flaws.

There was no denying it any longer. His daughter, even with all his nurturing, the education HE'D provided and all the work he'd done was nothing more than an alien who couldn't see how good she'd had it. She was an alien, like her mother, and now, she was reverting to type.

“Typical”. Warner said to the empty room. “They're all the same”. Then he stopped for a moment. In his mind, he hadn't told his daughter anything that wasn't true. Her loss of perspective WAS her mother's doing. However, the original sin was Jack's. In a moment of weakness, years ago, Jack had let a scheming, manipulating alien whore turn his head. “This is all my fault.”

Jack had hoped that, since Leah's mother wasn't fully Betazoid, her human genes would win out, certainly with the right encouragement. Now, however, he could see that there was no middle ground. Even the slightest hint of alien corruption was too much, and that made them more dangerous than ever.

Out of habit, Jack continued talking to the darkness. “Don't worry Lemon Drop. In spite of everything, I love you, and I'm going to give you a future. Even if you don't deserve it.”

---

Location: First officer's quarters, deck 8, USS Republic

There were times when John Carter hated Starfleet regulations. There were other times when it worked in his favor. Despite the amazing level of security that existed around Ananke Alpha, and Administrator T'Lau's insistence that no on leave the station for the duration of Republic's stay, Kim Roth had been adamant that the few officers she had left under her command, would faithfully execute their duties.

This was clearly not the way the Administrator normally operated, and as John had expected for a Vulcan, the woman made her case with indisputable logic and common sense.

Kim Roth, however, had Starfleet regulations on her side.

The negotiations had been swift. With the concession that anyone specifically called to testify during Kevan Faro's trial would not leave Ananke Alpha until the matter was concluded, Captain Roth had pointed out that her ship would be left without a flag officer on board, unless at least one member of her Command Staff was allowed to take command of alpha shift. The ship would not maneuver. The ship would make no transmissions… but a senior officer must be allowed to maintain what Roth had called 'good order and discipline'. Carter had also noted that if Roth could out-argue a Vulcan, she was more formidable than even HE already knew.

It was a bit of a stretch to be sure, but the Administrator had agreed nonetheless. Practically, it also meant that only John Carter would be allowed to transit back and forth, as he was the senior most officer on Republic not involved in the death and resurrection of Nat Hawk.

Roth had organized it.

Leon had certified Nat dead.

Hawk had BEEN dead.

They would all be testifying in some way, shape, or form. Only Carter had been left, deliberately, out of the loop.

Now, he was on his way to the bridge, to sit on the bridge, and watch nothing happen. Still, he was glad to be back on board.

John straightened the fit of his uniform over-tunic on his shoulders when the comm. system chirped to life.

“Operations to Commander Carter.”

“Mister Jarin?” Carter called to the disembodied voice, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Umm, sorry to bother you Sir, but we just got a personal communication addressed to you. The Administrator has cleared it…”

“But?” Carter asked, as he set his hands on his hips.

“But it didn't come through Fleet channels, Sir. it's got a Romulan authentication prefix.”

“Romulan?” He asked, pleased that Jarin hadn't actually confirmed the previous statement. A personal message from a Romu… “Aww Hell.” He cursed. “Put it through. Carter out.”

John didn't wait for the Ops Chief to acknowledge the order. An instant later, his screen filled with the image of a Romulan, dressed in civilian clothing. A rough scar ran across his chiseled face, giving him a permanent, angry scowl. His hair was gray and a lot longer than would be expected of a Romulan. The lights behind him were dim, enough to see that he was not alone but not enough to reveal details.

It took Carter a few minutes to recognize the face; the last time he had seen it was when he'd been serving aboard the Valiant II. The Romulan looked pretty good for someone who'd had had a ship fly through his drive singularity.

“Centurion…?”

The Romulan shook his head. “It's just Tomaleth now.” He corrected. Then he tried his best to smile. “Greetings Commander Carter. It is good to see you well. You appear to be hail and healthy, none the worse for wear after all these years.”

“Well,” Carter commented, “That's not entirely true, but it's nice of you to say.”

“Not at all, Commander. You see, I've spent a great deal of time following your career, at least when I have been able to find mention of you. For a moment I had thought your famous luck may have finally run out. All that unfortunate Gorn business, but I see that, once more, you were able to fly your way out of trouble.”

“I'm at a bit of a loss, Tomaleth,” Carter admitted. “I can't admit to being nearly so interested in you.” The Romulan winced as Carter continued. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory?”

Tometh paused, letting his mask of stability slip back into place. “Your, bravado, got you out of our last meeting, but left me, how shall I say, with a permanent mark, on my career. It did take to long before I was forced to resign my commission. Fortunately I had some influence and was able to avoid any major repercussions.”

A bit more comfortable now, Carter let his posture shift, folding his arms across his chest. “There's no denying you wear it well,” he commented, “but if you'll excuse me, I'm sure I have something important to do, if you wouldn't mind?”

On the other side of the screen, Tomaleth smiled. This was the arrogant man he'd been hoping to see again, and he was determined not to be taken for a fool again. He reminded himself to keep his considerable temper in check. Despite the Martian's bating, he continued. “I also had a few friends, John, may I call you John?”

Carter nodded.

“Friends, by the way, that YOU helped make my staunchest supporters.”

“You're…welcome?”

“You see John, your actions killed 362 good crewmen. None of them had a chance. I barely survived myself. My Sub-Commander gave his life to get me into an escape pod. Only twelve of us survived – twelve John. They're with me now. As is someone you might know.”

“Look,” Carter offered, not showing the same patience his Romulan counterpart had. “I think you've made a mistake, if you think I in any way feel bad about doing my job.”

Rather than answer, Tomaleth moved away from the screen. The lights in the room slowly increased in intensity, revealing Sean McTaggart. The former Republic crewman was strapped to a rather insidious looking chair. It was also clear that Sean had not been treated at all politely. A nasty cut on his scalp still dripped blood slowly.

“As I said John I've watched you. I paid the right people and learned as much as I could about you. Imagine my surprise when I discovered one of your crewmen wandering around in some rather dark shadows. I knew that this was the perfect time to reach out and reconnect.”

“Holding a Federation citizen is an act of war. Hurting him? That's just plain stupid.” Carter spat at the screen. “If you know me as well as you think you do, then ask yourself…do you really think blackmail is the way to go?”

Seemingly unmoved, Tomaleth walked slowly towards the barely conscious McTaggart, and produced an odd looking device from just off screen.

“I borrowed this from a Breen associate.” The Romulan explained. “It's so elegant in it's design. It causes the neurons in the brain to react as if something were trying to tear them to shreds.”

Despite his almost primal urge to reach through the screen and free Sean McTaggart, John gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breath, trying to remain calm. “You've clearly been misinformed, Tomaleth,” John offered. “I'm afraid I don't know that man.”

With a small smile, the Romulan pressed the device against McTaggart's arm. Immediately the security officer's entire body convulsed and a ragged scream tore from his throat. There was no doubt he was now fully conscious.

Despite the pain, Sean managed to choke out a few words. “Commander…sir? Don…it's…tra…” The last words trailed off as Sean slipped back into unconsciousness.

“Lying is beneath you, John,” the Romulan commented, pulling the Breen device from McTaggart's skin. “That looks extremely painful. Nonetheless, I will continue to do that to your crewman, every hour. Until you arrive at the following co-ordinates. If you show up to late, no doubt he will die.”

Carter huffed, his temper flaring despite the fact that his mind was racing to find something, ANYTHING to work with. The last he knew, McTaggart had been in the company of Douglas Forrest, so one of two things had happened. Either Forrest was dead, something John was loathe to admit, or he was alive. If the Blackshirt WAS alive, then he had a plan, which meant John had to swallow his pride and trust a man he didn't really like. In any case, he wasn't willing to give Tomaleth anything more than he already had.

John squinted at the screen as the Romulan's coordinates were displayed in the corner of the screen. The Martian shook his head. “I'll drink to his memory then,” Carter said as coldly as he could manage, “because there's NO WAY I can make it to that sector of space in under sixteen hours.”

Inwardly, Carter was screaming. 'Something, you scarred freak! Give me something!'

“If that's the case, John, then perhaps I will find others you care about? Your doctor friends, Cromwell or Harris? Or perhaps I could pay Mr. Virtus a visit.”

It was all Carter could do not to smirk as the Romulan over-played his hand. In a flash, John replayed what his enemy had just said. It would have to be up to Forrest to save Sean if anyone was going to. As for the others Tomaleth had mentioned? Leon was locked up tight inside Ananke Alpha, no need to worry there.

Victor? John knew the Malthusian always had a plan. If there was ANYONE who could take care of himself, it was the First Lord of Engines.

No. Tomaleth had mentioned Shannon, and to Carter, that meant the Romulan truly had erred. He didn't know what she was. That gave Carter the edge. “Nice try, Centurion!” John thundered, his temper working to help sell his deception. “But there's no way I'm letting you get to Shannon!”

Tomaleth looked up at the screen in genuine surprise. “Shannon, is it?” The Vulcanoid sneered. “I see.”

“No! No, wait!”

The Romulan shook his head. “I believe you've decided John,” he advised. “Say good-bye to Shannon now.”

Tomaleth looked directly at the vid-receptor as the screen went black.

“No.” Carter smiled as he looked at the blank screen. “PLEASE don't throw me in that briar patch.”

---

Chapter 19: Criss-crossTop

Location: Farius Prime

Because Saal changed the intermix settings on the Shuttlecraft Heinz to beyond Starfleet specifications, he was able to coax the engines to operate at a speed of warp 5. This was well beyond the design rating of warp 3, and while good for speed, it substantially decreased the life expectancy of the engine system overall, increasing the chance of becoming stranded in deep space. Fortunately, as he entered the Farius system, the super-heated nacelles remained intact, and their temperatures dropped back to within a nominal range as the communications system crackled to life.

“Farius traffic control to Transport Shuttle Galavant. Respond please.”

Saal smiled as he realized the Cardassian transponder signal was operating as designed.

“Galavant here. Go ahead.”

“Your transponder signal reads as a non-trade guild registry. State your intentions in this system.”

“I just finished a year-long courier contract on Ferenginar. I can transmit my waypoint logs to confirm. I'm here seeking new clientele, and request landing clearance.”

A moment passed where Saal assumed the controller reviewed the waypoint logs. The doctor fidgeted nervously, hoping they were up to specs. About thirty seconds later, the positive response was transmitted.

“Galavant: Your registry has been cleared through approach control. Landing rights have been granted for docking bay thirty-six at the south spaceport in Maltabra City. You're to proceed through customs upon your arrival.”

“Acknowledged. Galavant out.”

As the Republic shuttle-in-disguise maneuvered into the proper airspace, the dirty, drab streets of Maltabra City splayed out below while the craft made a straight-in approach to the required docking bay. It took seven bars of latinum to get a promise from the dockmaster's assistant that the shuttle would be secured properly, and not tampered with during it's stay. On top of that, another three bars went to bribing the customs officials, who might have put him in jail if they had found the type-II hand phaser in his luggage. Fortunately, about the only other thing on Farius Prime that got customs in a rage was the illicit trade in red ice, and since Saal was neither user nor dealer of the illegal narcotic, it was easier for him to steer clear of that trouble. After transferring another portion of his gold-pressed latinum into paper currency at the exchange, the doctor exited the spaceport on foot to continue his quest to find Doug Forrest.

Before long, Saal found himself wandering through the Maltabra City's famous bazaar district, intermingled with a sea of nondescript faces. It was exactly what he had hoped for: anonymity. No one knew him, nor did they care he was there. All they cared about was the money in his pocket as the merchants hocked their wares, offering him everything from a new suit, to a chess set made of Praxian feldspar. He wanted nothing from these barterers, and ignored them in search of the one place he knew he friend would have visited: The Galldean Roost.

As a local saloon, it wasn't as prominent as many of the other gin-joints in the city, but it's one unique quality was what led Saal to it's doors: The front was in the shape of a giant fruit resembling a pineapple. In their early days as intelligence cadets, Doug and Saal had a game of who could find the most obnoxious looking bar-front in the town closest to their training center (they attended at least a dozen throughout their academy career). As it happened, such a place was usually associated with a local fruit. Whether it was the Cherry Bar in Mannheim, the Kumquat Retreat in Tanzania, or the Plomeek Sunset on Vulcan, they all possessed a gaudy facade that eventually caused the two young cadets to temporarily declare it as their new hangout until they were eventually reassigned, in which case their game would start all over again.

Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the game ended when Saal quit intelligence and entered the medical field, never to be assigned again with his comrade Dragon. As he stood before the Galldean Roost, he sighed with nostalgia remembering the old memories, and hoping that his hunch of picking up Forrest's trail here would show color. Entering the establishment, the cliche scene of hushed conversation coming to an abrupt halt washed over the crowd as they turned to look at the newcomer. For his part, Saal warily considered them before pulling up the collar on his leather jacket, and began making his way to the bar.

The doctor strolled up to the counter amid stares and whispers, which eventually gave way to the humdrum conversation once again when the patrons realized he wasn't there to make trouble… yet. The Dopterian bartender cast Saal a wary eye as he wiped up a spilled drink on the countertop.

“Something I can get you, stranger?” the hoarse alien asked.

“I'm hoping you can provide some information,” Saal replied.

“Information ain't for free in this town, human. You'll have to make it worth my while.”

Sliding a small wad of Farian cash onto the bartop, the bearded surgeon looked around, making sure no one was noticing how much money he was carrying. The alien across the counter looked down at the offering before meeting his benefactor's gaze.

“For that little amount, I can give a directions to the nearest whore-house, and that's about it.”

His irritation rising, Saal slapped a bar of latinum on top of the cash wad, hoping it would stir a positive response.

“Better,” the alien scrutinized the ante. “If you buy a couple of drinks on top of that, we might be able to do business.”

His face going deadpan, Saal pushed his tongue into his cheek before revealing only a touch of indignation. Slapping down a few Farian coins, he muttered through gritted teeth, “Lorian Ale, on the rocks.”

“Hmm,” the server grunted, marginally dissastified with Saal's attitude. After pouring the requested elixir, he sat the cup down in front of the doctor and leaned over to close the distance for privacy. “You have my undivided attention,” he added with a touch of sarcasm.

Producing a small PADD from his belt, Saal showed the bartender a picture of Doug Forrest. “Have you seen this man?”

The alien's normally rusty skin tones turned a sepia after glancing at the picture. Several times he looked between Saal and the computerized image, his eyes growing more nervous as the gears in his head were turning ever faster. Saal could clearly see that he knew exactly who the image was.

“Where?” pressed the Republic surgeon. “When did you see him? How long ago?”

“I… I can't help you, stranger,” he pushed away from the counter.

Saal Yezbeck had had enough. Putting the PADD back into his belt, he inhaled deeply with exasperation before grabbing the barkeep by the collar, and pulling him forcefully over the counter. Flipping him over onto his back, he slammed the individual onto the floor, pulled out his type-II phaser, and pointed it at the alien's head. For his part, the server froze upon sighting down the muzzle. With the conversation in the saloon coming to a halt, all eyes were on the two individuals.

“Now that I truly DO have your undivided attention,” seethed Saal while maintaining a target-lock on the the bartender. “Let's hear the RIGHT answer. Again… WHERE and WHEN did you see this man?”

Before an answer came, Saal felt a swift leg kick into his gut from an unknown assailant, and before he knew what was happening, his knees fell out from under him in a carefully maneuvered leg sweep. In a moment's flash, he was on the floor himself, looking upwards into the face of a young Bajoran woman in a martial arts stance over him. Quickly, he tried to aim his phaser at the woman, but to no avail. Her skills were much more refined, and in an instant, he was disarmed, and pushed back to the ground in an arm lock.

“You want me to take this piece of trash outside, Brannon?” the woman asked the bartender, who was picking himself up off the floor.

“Definitely!” came the reply. “But take him out back. I don't want to scare the customers out front.”

Letting Saal go, the woman brought his phaser to bear, motioning for him to move towards the door. Embarrassed, and sporting a bloody lip, the doctor was forced to walk out into the back alley, where the Bajoran woman sized him up after closing the door.

“Either you're REALLY stupid, or REALLY desperate,” she said with intimidation while forcefully pointing the phaser at the Republic surgeon. “Who do you work for?”

“What's it to you?”

Without hesitation, she turned to shoot a nearby trash can, causing it to vaporize almost instantly.

“How about your life?”

“If you wanted me dead,” Saal suggested, “You would have done it by now.”

“What's your name?” she tersely changed the subject, not acknowledging the doctor's observation.

Saal paused, trying to play the part of the hesitant criminal. If he gave away who he was now, he may actually end up dead in the next few minutes.

“Sam,” he offered hesitantly, using one of his aliases from long ago. “Sam Yanovich.”

For her part, an expression of recognition washed across her face as she slowly lowered the weapon.

“No you're not,” the Bajoran woman corrected him, confident in her identification of the balding and bearded medical officer. “Your name's Shadow.” The declaration brought forth a deer-in-the-headlights look from Saal. “And you're over three months late…”

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Chapter 20: Saratoga's Final Hour Top

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Chapter 21: Threads of ConsciousnessTop

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Chapter 22: FormalitiesTop

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Chapter 23: Primum non nocereTop

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Chapter 24: The Best Laid PlansTop

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Chapter 25: Burden of CommandTop

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Chapter 26: Blood on the ScalesTop

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Chapter 27: Humpty DumptyTop

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Chapter 28: AftershocksTop

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Chapter 29: DownfallTop

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Chapter 30: The Eighth ContagionTop

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Chapter 31: NumbTop

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Chapter 32: The Die is CastTop

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Chapter 33: Friends in High PlacesTop

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Chapter 34: Back From Outer SpaceTop

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Chapter 35: Friends in Low PlacesTop

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Chapter 36: Dark HorizonTop

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Chapter 37: Hunting High and LowTop

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Chapter 38: TwilightTop

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Chapter 39: The Stroke of MidnightTop

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Chapter 40: New DawnTop

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Chapter 41: EpilogueTop