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Chapter 1: Explosive DevelopmentsTop

Location: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, North America, Sol III – Local time: 23:06 hours

“Coffee, black.” commanded Vice Admiral Kathryn Janeway as she stood next to the replicator alcove in her (all things considered) modest office on the grounds of Starfleet Headquarters. As the stainless-Steele mug materialized, Kathryn grasped it within her slender fingers, grateful for the warmth of it's touch. The past few months had made her feel out in the proverbial cold, but tonight's chilled rain made the proverbial feel literal to her.

Walking behind her desk, she looked through the etched glass Federation emblem on the window and out upon the lights of the Golden Gate bridge. Straining her neck, she looked off to the extreme far right and caught a glimpse of one of the guard towers on Alcatraz island. This brought a creeping smile across her lips as she recalled the words of her elder future counterpart . . .

“On a clear morning, you can see Alcatraz from here . . . ” the white-haired woman had said, as she'd indicated Janeway's ready room windows. Though Voyager didn't currently reside on the grounds of the Presidio as she had in the other Admiral Janeway's future, the thought of it someday doing so still touched her.

Her gaze shifting to the night sky above, she struggled to find a familiar glimmer of a star amidst the clouds drenching the city, and felt a pang of emptiness when she could not. Not for her failure to find the stars, but for her desire to be out amongst them, aboard Voyager once more. That was no longer her journey though. Voyager was Chakotay's ship now, and he had become a fine Captain - just as she'd always known he would be.

The chirp of an incoming communiqué from her desktop monitor brought Kathryn back to reality and back down to earth. Immediately, her body language shifted as she cast off her human persona for her stronger, commanding one. Easing back into her chair, she pressed a control upon the desks surface, activating the monitor.

“Security Authorization Required.” stated the computer.

“Authorization, Janeway-Pi-One-One-Alpha.” replied the Admiral.

As the computer cleared her to view the communiqué, the screen shifted as it brought up a Cardassian cargo manifest. A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she entered an alien decryption sequence she'd learned a few months ago. She had expected either a live transmission or a recorded message to be waiting beneath the encoding, but instead found only a simple text message awaiting her.

As soon as Janeway finished with the message, she promptly deleted it and then purged the contents of the inbound transmission records. Though the message contained nothing of true risk or circumstance, Kathryn played it safe when it came to this entire 'Hawk' fiasco. She was glad to have heard from Kira, and likewise, to hear that Captain Riker of the Titan - Goliath - was still with them as well.

They where but two of her more potent allies amidst the stars, allies which included even a Klingon Captain named Klag, a friend of Riker's, who kept his own eyes open for anything suspicious in regards to the Empire. Though with Riker and Kira's combined friendship with former Ambassador Worf of the Enterprise - who just happened to be a blood brother to Chancellor Martok himself - it seemed a bit redundant.

Leaning back in her chair, Kathryn pondered contact Chakotay for his point of view on the situation, but decided against it. Likely all of her outbound transmissions where under some sort of review, and so the less she spoke on subspace about things, the better.

Noticing the time, Kathryn stood from the desk, taking a last mouthful of the near room temperature coffee before depositing the mug within the replicator. There was nothing more she could do from here at the moment, and as The Doctor was fond of reminding her, she needed her rest. Moving to the door to her office, Kathryn was nearly to it when she suddenly felt the ground tremble beneath her feet.

As a Cadet, she'd been witness to one of the rare Earthquakes that still hit this area of the planet, even with the seismic stabilizers. She knew from years of experience though that the tremor she'd felt had not been a natural occurrence. A second after the tremor had ended, Janeway felt herself thrown to the ground as the glass from her windows shattered, shards flying everywhere, wind forcing the rain inside

Pushing herself to her feet, ignoring the fragments of glass cutting into her palms, Kathryn darted for the windows as an orange hue lit the room from outside and another tremor - this one stronger - shook the floor beneath her feet once more. Brushing a fallen strand of hair from her eyes, Kathryn looked for the source of the explosion as the rain pelted her face. She soon found it - an orbital shuttle in the courtyard a few stories below.

Frozen in place by the realization of what was going on, she watched as personnel from the surrounding buildings rushed towards the wreckage in a vain attempt to aid whomever was inside. Kathryn knew though that no one inside the impulse-powered craft had survived either the crash - the first tremor - or the explosion seconds later. She also felt a cold chill run down her spine - not from the chill of the rain that now soaked her upper half, but from the realization of just who had been the unfortunate soul aboard the shuttle . . .

Location: San Francisco, 02:31 hours

“Reports are still unclear as to the cause of the crash and resulting explosion,” said the hollow voice of the reporter on the view screen, “but what is clear at this point is that this was no accident. Starfleet Command has confirmed in a press release just moments ago, that Fleet Admiral Johan Morozov - the C-in-C of Starfleet - was assassinated late last night, along with two of his aides, and a yet unidentified pilot. Seventeen other Starfleet Officers where injured, four of them seriously, in the attack. three of those injured suffering only minor wounds where members of the Admiral's senior staff, including two Admiral's, one of them Vice Admiral Kathryn Janeway, previously commander of the famed Starship Voyager. Starfleet and the Federation Council have already convened an emergency joint-session at this hour to select Admiral Morozov's replacement, meanwhile Security here has been tightened as . . . ”

Kathryn's attention faltered as a sharp pain stung her left palm.

“Hold still,” chastised her holographic friend as he treated her 'minor wounds' which consisted of numerous small cuts, a few bumps and bruises, and the beginnings of a cold courtesy of the chilled rain she'd found herself soaked by. Seated on her couch in her apartment, Janeway tried to stop herself from replaying the events of late last night, but found she couldn't force her mind to focus on anything else.

Earth was a paradise 99% of the time. In recent years though, the world of Humanities origins had come under more and more frequent attack. The declaration of a state-of-emergency had once been an isolated incident, and with the exception of the Borg invasion following the massacre of Wolf 359, hadn't been done in a century prior, since the probe incident of the 2280's. Since then though, it had become a more and more frequent occurrence. The second Borg invasion of 2372, the terrorist bombing at Antwerp and ensuing crisis courtesy of the Leighton Conspiracy in 2373, the Breen attack on Earth of 2375 as the Dominion War drew to an end, not to mention the Borg Contagion outbreak shortly after Voyager's return in 2377, had all marred Earth's 'paradise' persona. This was just another link in the chain.

“Any word from Captain Chakotay?” queried The Doctor, as he ran a dermal regenerator over her left hand.

“Not yet. It's not surprising though, Voyager's current mission has her fairly far out. The news likely hasn't even reached them yet.” Kathryn replied.

“Are you alright?” The Doctor asked.

“Your the Doctor, you tell me.” She replied defensively.

“You know that's not how I mean.” he replied, an undercurrent of caring friendship evident in his voice.

“I've been better,” she replied with a sigh.

“I may not be programmed to be a Counselor, but if a friend will do, I'd be more than happy to listen - if you want to talk about it.” The Doctor offered as he finished tending to her wounds.

“I appreciate that Doctor, but, honestly, I'd rather just get some sleep at the moment. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day tomorrow.” Kathryn replied.

“Of course.” The Doctor replied, standing. “How 'bout breakfast?” he asked.

“That would be lovely.” She replied with an appreciative smile, placing a hand on his shoulder to re-enforce her gratitude to her friend.

“I'll see you at 09:00 then.” The Doctor replied.

“09:00 it is.” she replied, as she escorted him to the door.

A few moments after he had gone, Janeway found herself back on the couch, watching the news report once more. Sleep was calling to her, but her mind couldn't seem to stop running at warp speed.

“Of course, we'll stay with the story . . . just a moment. Alright. We've just learned that a successor to Admiral Morozov has been selected, details are still coming in,” said the reporter on the view screen. Janeway found herself on the edge of her seat for this announcement. Morozov had been a force to contend with, but had fallen short of being an all-out enemy. Whomever replaced him though could be far worse, and force her from the inner circle that allowed her to so closely monitor the Hawks. “Starfleet and the Federation Council have named . . . Admiral Owen Paris, successor to Admiral Morozov.” said the reporter.

Kathryn nearly cheered, but reserved herself to a pleased smile. This would change things, drastically, for the better. She'd known Owen Paris since she was a Junior Lieutenant serving as his Science Officer on the Al-Batani. He'd spearheaded the Pathfinder project which had located Voyager deep in the Delta Quadrant and look for methods of bringing them home. Furthermore, he was the father of one of Janeway's most trusted friends and colleagues, Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris. All of which combined made his appointment and promotion to C-in-C the best possible outcome of a terrible situation.

Morozov may have been misguided, and perhaps even criminal in his conduct, but he certainly hadn't deserved his fate. Out of that terrible act of violence though, hope had found itself shining through for the first time in months. With Owen Paris in command of Starfleet, and herself at his side, they where finally in a position to put an end to this Hawk business once and for all.

---

Chapter 2: Going HomeTop

“What’s his status?”

A baritone voice entered Arthur’s head as lucidity slowly returned to his mind. There wasn’t the luxury of immediate remembrance regarding his disposition. In fact, it was more of a calm awakening, as if the voice that pierced his vale of sleep was an intrusion into a peaceful morning.

‘Whose status?’ Arthur thought, while simultaneously searching his memory for a voice that triggered recognition. Finding none, he dismissed the sound as Janice at the communications console talking to one of her friends. He was about to drift back off to sleep before another more feminine voice answered the previous.

“We’ve healed his wounds, but the coma-inducer hasn’t worn off yet. If you want, we can wake him with a stimulant.”

A soft, blurry light faded into Arthur’s mind as he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air. Sensitivity in his extremities returned with a tingling sensation, and he let out a slow sigh as his barely lucid mind processed the strange conversation. It wasn’t coming from the living room – it was too close. Perhaps in the bedroom?

“No, that’s okay,” the male voice replied. “I’ve no idea how I’m going to write this report. You can’t cover up phasor wounds in a medical record. Commander Carter won’t be pleased at all.”

‘Carter?’ The name stirred a faint memory in the old man’s head. Something about an angry Andorian, a team of marines, and nearly being buried alive in the Cornucopia waste tunnels.

“Damn petticoat . . . ” a hoarse whisper discharged from Arthur’s wrinkled lips. Nearby, a shadow stirred next to him as his vision slowly returned. Turning towards the movement, Arthur Cromwell’s eyes came into focus, revealing the aged face of Chester “Skip” Mannfield, his long time comrade in arms. Skip watched Arthur as he roused from his slumber, smiling at his confused expression.

“Hello, old friend,” Skip said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Arthur said before catching sight of a black-bearded man dressed in a blue Starfleet uniform. He was holding a PADD in one hand, and tending to a man in the next bed who wore operations gold.

“Keep me apprised of Lieutenant McClintock’s condition, nurse.”

Arthur finally put a face to the voice he was hearing in his sleep. The medical officer turned around to look at him, and gave the old man a fatherly grin.

“Well now,” the bearded man beckoned. “How’s our recovering cardiac patient?”

“Who the hell are you?” Arthur answered with bewilderment.

“Doctor Saal Yezbeck. Senior surgeon of the Starship Republic.”

“Starship?” the sixty-something refugee quizzically responded, as memories slowly returned. “Where am I? What happened?”

“Easy there, Artie.” The senior Cromwell turned to find Lindsey Davenport on the other side of the biobed.

“Lins?” Arthur turned to her.

“You’re in Republic’s sickbay,” she continued. “You had a heart attack.”

It was all coming back now. The conversation in the gutted building . . . the Gorn attack . . . the destruction of the mountain range . . . where his wife and daughter escaped. The readouts on the bio-monitors began to fluctuate as Arthur’s stress level increased. Blood pressure, heart rate, and respiration were all accelerated as the realization of his circumstances returned to his mind. With eyes wide in horror, he began gasping again.

“Those bastards!”

“Artie!” Lins pleaded. “Please! Calm down!”

“Nurse!” shouted Doctor Yezbeck. “Tranquilizer! Stat!”

As the nursing staff complied, the doctor pressed a hypospray to Arthur’s neck. In seconds, he laid back down on the biobed, and the bio-monitors returned to normal. Tapping his combadge, Yezbeck called out to a colleague.

“Counselor Harris, you’re needed in sickbay.”

“On my way.”

---

Location: Sub-orbital transit terminal, Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Sol III

The news of Captain Marshall’s death and subsequent loss of the Cestus three colony to the Gorns hit the mainstream media like a thermonuclear explosion, as did the assassination of Fleet Admiral Morozov. Immediately, every interstellar news network jumped on the stories, and the shock and outrage resonated through every citizen of the Federation. The images coming back from the mysterious source in the Cestus system had a ripple effect as those who saw the news firsthand told their friends and family, and those people in turn told their own compatriots. Soon, it was the only item of conversation on the street, and by the time the news reached Doctor Cromwell’s ears, there was not another soul on Earth that didn’t know about how Starfleet violated the Metron Treaty and caused the hand-over of a member planet to a foreign government. The subsequent assassination of a high-level Starfleet official didn’t help the situation.

Shock was an understatement of how Leon felt. Cestus wasn’t only his homeworld and place of birth, it hosted the residence of his immediate family, childhood friends, and virtually everyone he knew before enlisting in Starfleet at age eighteen. When the news came of the catastrophe on the media networks, he was at his guest domicile checking his overnight messages. His immediate reaction caused him to drop his mug of coffee and re-read the headline a dozen times before the reality sank in. It was about then that a communiqué came in from Admiral Krockover. There was no real surprise when she called with news for the doctor’s immediate redeployment to the Republic.

Leon had very little to pack for his trip, as he had been planetside for no more than a week, and the Republic, still gridlocked in controversy at the Cestus system, didn’t have time to send his personal freight to Earth. So, as he strode through Starfleet’s transit terminal, he only carried with him a cylindrical boarding bag slung over his right shoulder, and the usual standard-issue communicator affixed to his ivory turtleneck sweater. The hastily issued orders from Krockover were verbal, and she informed him that the Runabout Tigris was standing by at launch pad 46-A with departure scheduled in less than an hour. Fortunately for Leon, he had little time to dwell on the discouraging news from his homeworld.

As he arrived at the platform, the doctor took note of the anti-grav carts with associated freight baggage being loading into the runabout’s cargo hold. He lifted an eyebrow at the parcels, and shot a quizzical glance towards the attending deck officer who was reviewing the cargo manifest.

“Excuse me,” Leon interrupted the man. “This is supposed to be my flight, but I didn’t have any cargo to be loaded. What is all this stuff?”

For his part, the officer looked away from his PADD with slight vexation at being disturbed from his concentration. He considered Leon momentarily before responding.

“No disrespect intended, sir,” the officer started. “But my list shows three passengers and a pilot for this flight. What was your name?”

“Doctor Cromwell,” Leon grouchily replied, not in the mood for bureaucracy.

“Oh, yes,” the man in operations-gold replied, reviewing his manifest. “You’re the civilian contractor. Yes, you’re correct. I have no cargo listed for you. This freight belongs to a Commander Chen and Lieutenant Roth.”

The deck officer blinked with confusion at his PADD.

“Wait . . . ” Pressing a few more buttons on his handheld contraption, he continued. “My mistake . . . that’s Commander Roth and Lieutenant Chen.”

“Who in blazes are they?” Leon asked rather perplexed. “I thought I was supposed to be alone on this flight.”

“Nope,” the man replied. “I’ve got those two officers plus a classified passenger with flag rank in addition to you.” Looking around at the technicians loading the parcels, he absconded from the conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got work to do.”

“Wait a minute!” Leon shot back. “Have these people showed up yet? Where’s the pilot?”

Looking back at him with obvious conceit, the officer replied, “Lieutenant Chen is probably in the cockpit.” The man, to Leon’s dismay, disappeared to the other side of the vessel. With an air of impatience, the doctor walked up the ramp and into the main cabin of the runabout.

The interior of the vessel was of standard design, with a spacious passenger lounge lined with acceleration chairs at the perimeter, and a large dining table in the center. To the rear of the chamber, a door led to the sleeping compartments and restrooms while access to the control cabin was located to the front. The main cabin appeared empty, and Leon concluded that the other passengers had not arrived yet.

As the doors slid open, the doctor noted an officer in operations gold at the controls. Her long jet-black hair floated down her back as she went over the pre-flight checklist, and since her back was turned to Leon, he politely cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

“Um, hello?

“Just a moment sweetie I'll be right with you,” the officer replied, her voice a throaty purr as her fingers danced over the controls “Did you get all my shoes loaded up yet?”

Leon ground his teeth at this. Shoes?? He was being held up for shoes? “Excuse me?” He responded, his `Command tone' entering into his voice.

The officer straightened in the pilot's seat, then turned to face the good doctor. Eyes of deep sapphire looked him up and down slowly, framed within a face of olive green. Leon's eyes grew wide in surprise as her heritage became evident. An Orion! A green animal woman! Surprised, he almost dropped his carry case still hanging from it's strap from his shoulder.

The Orion's eyes centered at his throat, taking note his lack of rank insignia. She realized that this must be the Republic’s medical officer as noted on the passenger manifest. Lowering her head in apology, she turned her chair to more fully face him.

“My apologies doctor,” She purred again, one hand falling down to land lightly on top of a grey furry ball resting in her lap, gently scritching it with short black nails. “I thought that you were Ensign Morgan, He's supposed to be loading the cargo into the Tigris's holding bays.” Then she broke out into a wide smile, her eyes full of mischief. “He didn't seem too happy when I showed up with my luggage.”

“You are . . . Lieutenant Chen–?” Leon finally managed to get out. This could almost be a historic event. He then saw the rank pips on her collar. Full lieutenant. Amazing.

At the Doctor's question the young Orion's eyes flashed with anger, although her expression didn't change. “No. I am Lieutenant CHAN. Lieutenant CO-Leen CHAN.”

Then Coleen broke out into a wide smile, the whiteness of her teeth bright against her olive green hue to show she wasn't really mad. “Most people get it confused however. Please, feel free to call me Coleen, sweetie.”

“Um . . . ” The doctor looked behind himself, back towards the main door, as if half expecting someone to explain to him that he was on the wrong runabout. As he looked back at the lieutenant, he had a confused expression. “Is there . . . supposed to be . . . others onboard? I thought I was supposed to be alone on this flight.”

“You might have been Sugar,” the young woman blinked with an innocent gesture. “But sometimes orders change in Starfleet and we have to adjust. I have orders from Admiral Kostya’s office to deliver you and two officer's one of Flag rank, to the Republic.”

“Admiral Kostya?” Leon asked, his face hardening. There was something in the doctor’s expression that indicated recognition, but also concern and suspicion.

“Yes,” Coleen returned. “He’ll be joining us on this flight as well as another officer named Commander Roth.”

A furrow developed in Leon’s forehead as he mulled over the information. “Who's is this Roth person?”

“I’m not sure,” Coleen remarked. “I've yet to meet either of them personally myself. But I'm sure we'll both meet them within the next ten minutes.”

“Why the next ten minutes?”

“Because that's when we leave sugar . . . “ Coleen started to say something else, but turned back to her board as it chirped. Her fingers caressed the dark panel lightly as she smiled again. “It seems as if the rest of our gathering has arrived.” Moving the furball in her lap into her arms, Coleen then rose smoothly from her seat, stepping towards the good Doctor, moving more like a dancer than one would think in regulation boots. Kneeling, she deposited the furball, which turned out to be a gray raccoon, into another chair and pointed a stern finger at him. “Now you stay here Mister Locksley, and don't play with anything that flashes!” she warned.

“Come doctor, let's go meet the admiral.” Smiling, Coleen then bounced out of the cockpit.

Leon turned to the side, watching Coleen quizzically as she slid past him into the main compartment. Instead of following, he couldn’t help but to look back at the odd creature she had placed in the copilot’s seat. It stood up on its hind legs, with it’s furry, black-masked face boasting a pair a beady eyes that met the doctors gaze. It chittered at Leon as if saying “Well? Go on!” He took one last uncertain look at the raccoon before leaving the cockpit.

“You have a Raccoon in the cockpit with you?” Leon called after Coleen as he exited.

“He knows the way better than I do,” Coleen called back, “Now hurry up!”

As he re-entered the main cabin, he caught sight of Chan, as well as Admiral Kostya. Next to the Admiral stood a middle-aged woman in command red, and sporting a commander’s rank. Leon assumed that this must be the mysterious Roth. She carried a small parcel in her left hand that appeared to be a translucent animal cage. It contained a tiny mammal resembling a kangaroo with long ears and a tuft tail. Wearing an anxious expression, Roth was stern but quiet as if waiting for the admiral to introduce her.

“Admiral, Commander, it's very nice to meet you.” Chan greeted the three assembled officers, bowing to them with her hands folded before her. “I am Lieutenant Coleen Chan, and I will be your pilot for this journey. Please follow me and I will show you to where you may secure your baggage.” As she turned and led the officers into the passenger lounge, she continued to speak with her eyes holding a look of mischief.

“We will be departing for the Cestus system momentarily, starbase control reports that local travel conditions are free and clear. If you would care to make yourselves comfortable, we have a very fine green tea and biscuits set out, or if any of you prefer a different selection please let me know and I'll see what the replicator has.” With that, Coleen opened the secured compartment for them in the back of the lounge, then stepped to the side, hands folded before her as she tossed her hair back with a flip of her head.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the admiral replied, gesturing to Commander Roth for her to relinquish her animal cage.

“If I may Admiral Sir . . . ” Chan said as she stepped back up, gesturing towards the animal carrier, “A wall safe may not be the most comfortable for the little one. If you like, I can put him back with my own pets.” Coleen smiled prettily as the Admiral thought it over, then took the offered cage from his hands, peeking in as the small animal peeked back.

“Charlie is just going to love to meet you lil one,” Chan murmured as she headed towards the back. “You are just so cute!”

“You have more than just the raccoon?” Leon asked Coleen. Although the veterinary and medical fields merged long ago, the thought of a menagerie in sickbay during an interspecies viral infection flashed through the doctor’s head.

Coleen's head peeked back around the corner as she beamed at the good Doctor.

“You'll see that I'm just full of surprises.”

Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Chan sat in the pilot's seat, Mister Locksley sitting atop the board and watching her.

“Starfleet control this is Runabout Tigris requesting permission for departure, over.” Coleen called over the comm panel, readying the maneuvering thrusters.

“Runabout Tigris this is Starfleet control . . . Chan, is that you?”

“Yes Troy, it's me. Got a deep space assignment finally, guess you're gonna have to find another partner for bridge now.”

”What are we ever gonna do without you Lieutenant?”

“I don't know Sugar . . . ” Chan broke out into a wide grin. “Fall asleep on somebody else's couch? I need to go Troy, have I got permission?”

“Aye Tigris, you have permission to depart. And as it's you behind the controls I've cleared a wide path to the spacelanes. Safe journey.”

Chan simply rolled her eyes. “Luv you too, sugar. Tigris departing.”

With a flare of the thrusters the Runabout rose, heading towards the main hanger doors. Soon the Tigris was at high warp outside the Sol system enroute to Cestus three. Coleen, in her smooth, graceful demeanor, stepped out of the cockpit and joined the three other officers in the main cabin after setting the autopilot. After gathering a cup of tea and taking a seat, Admiral Kostya nodded a silent greeting at her as he cleared his throat to begin speaking.

“Now that we’re underway,” he started. “I’m sure you’ve all got some questions about the situation we’re going into. However, there’s a piece of business we need to take care of first.” Kostya then pushed away from the table saying, “if you will all stand, please.”

Coleen and Leon looked at one another with confusion, but silently acquiesced to the admiral’s request. For her part, Roth appeared nervous as she looked to the floor while standing up. She had the expression of apprehension mixed with anticipation, and silently folded her hands behind her back as the admiral picked up a PADD from the table and began reading.

“Attention to orders,” he announced with a formal, commanding tone. “By order of Starfleet Command: For her continued demonstration of leadership abilities and steadfast experience in commanding a starship, Commander Kimberly Lynn Roth is hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, and effective immediately, ordered to take command of the U.S.S. Republic, NCC-76241. Signed by my hand on this day, stardate 57505.6, in the city of San Francisco, Sol three. Fleet Admiral Johan Morozov.”

Kostya then reached over and pinned a fourth rank pip to Commander Roth’s crimson collar. With a shake of her hand, the admiral added his own words. “Congratulations, captain.”

Doctor Cromwell was surprised to say the least. He did not expect Marshall to be replaced so soon, let alone by Kostya himself. Bad feelings swirled around in his stomach as he came to terms with all the current dealings as well as his own anxiety about the Cestus situation. As everyone sat back down, Leon still could not shake the feeling that Marshall might have lived had he remained on the Republic.

“I hope,” the admiral started again. “That with recent events revealed in the media, you understand the seriousness of our journey to the Republic and the reason of its clandestine nature. Therefore, if you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them at this time.”

“Actually Admiral, I was wondering if I could be briefed as to the current security situation at Cestus three.” Chan asked, folding her hands on the table.

With a slight expression of foreboding, the admiral considered Lieutenant Chan.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” he responded. “I received word from the Federation Council just before we departed that they’ll be making it public today that Cestus three now belongs to the Gorn Hegemony. Apparently, there was a Starfleet Intelligence outpost operating in the system in violation of the Treaty of Metron.”

Both Lieutenant Chan and Doctor Cromwell were visible disturbed by the news.

“The Republic,” the admiral continued, “was responsible for uncovering the operation despite some systemic problems with the ship’s computer.”

Leon raised an eyebrow with this news, as it was Rear Admiral Krockover who concluded that the reason for the computer problem was likely Kostya’s doing. However, the doctor did not want to reveal his contact with Krockover, as it might spoil any advantage he had in the current situation. Still, he could see no reason why Kostya was returning to the Republic on this trip other than to deliver the new commanding officer.

“What about the colonists?” Leon asked straightforwardly. It was clear he was worried about his family.

“They’re being evacuated with permission from the Gorn government,” Kostya revealed. “There doesn’t seem to be much more the Federation can do other than that. I’m sorry doctor, but our hands are tied. As soon as a roster of evacuees is put together, we can confirm the status of your relatives.”

“Well, it seems the best thing we can do now is to simply get to the ship. There isn't much we can do from a tactical standpoint for the Republic from out here . . . ” With that Coleen rose from her seat. “If you will excuse me . . . ” with a nod to the senior officers, Coleen then stepped back towards the cockpit, a dank musty scent following her.

“I’ve had a long day, myself.” Captain Roth spoke for the first time since boarding. She then looked at Leon. “It was a pleasure to meet both you and Lieutenant Chan. I look forward to working with you both. Since it’s a ten hour flight to the Republic, I think I’ll retire.”

As the young Orion officer returned to her station, and the captain went to the aft sleeping compartment, Doctor Cromwell remained at the table, as did the Admiral Kostya. After a moment of silence, the admiral spoke to Leon.

“I suppose you’re wondering why you were evacuated from the Republic a week ago?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, sir.” Although Leon knew perfectly well that he was extracted from the ship due to complications with his father, if he said so, it could reveal his contact with Krockover. So instead, he looked at the table as if it were another poker night with John and Vic, and pretended he knew nothing. “With Captain Marshall dead, I can’t help but wonder if he would have lived had I been there.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Kostya responded. “If I had any say in the matter, you would have stayed on the Republic, Doctor. Unfortunately, there are some admirals in Starfleet who like to play politics when it come to defending the Federation’s interests.”

“So who gave the order to bring me back to Earth?”

“I can’t reveal that,” said the admiral. “But I will promise that if you stick with me, I’ll make sure they won’t pull a stunt like that on you again.”

Leon looked Kostya over with stoic eyes. Although he tried to remain as if he was thinking about what the admiral said, the truth was that the doctor was working to repress his anger. For he knew all too well that it was Kostya who was playing politics, and lives were hanging in the balance. Leon used every ounce of subterfuge in his social arsenal to put on a façade of complacency.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll consider it.”

“Good,” the admiral replied while standing up from the table. “Captain Roth and I have been up since 0300 due to the Morozov assassination, and we both could use some sleep. I think I’ll turn in myself. Good night.”

“Have a good sleep, admiral,” Leon called after him.

Working to sort out his feelings of anxiety and resentment, Leon remained staring at the carafe of tea and biscuits. He sat at the table for a very long time.

---

Chapter 3: The Long and Winding RoadTop

John Carter stared at the empty chair in the ready room of the U.S.S. Republic. He knew that the body of James Marshall was lying in stasis in sickbay, some 10 decks below, but at this moment, Jim Marshall's spirit hung heavily in the room. Carter looked out the plasteel viewport and watched the stars streak by. Republic was headed to Starbase 39 Sierra where debriefing awaited, and John was almost sure that there would Hell to pay . . . but not before he dealt out a little Hell of his own.

Carter looked back down at the PADD he'd been studying for the last fifteen minutes. It was a detailed report from Doctor Saul Yezbeck regarding the “death” and subsequent resurrection of Jason McClintock. It was a series of events in which Carter counted at least seven breaches of Starfleet regulations as well as any number of Federation statutes by Republic's Chief Helm Officer, Nat Hawk. Since he came aboard Republic, Hawk and Carter hadn't exactly seen eye to eye, but through their struggles on Cestus three, Carter had begun to think of Nat Hawk as someone he could trust. Now however, in the wake of losing one of the Federation's most prestigious colonies, John found himself rethinking a lot of things.

Carter rubbed the back of his neck and tossed the PADD onto the desktop. Despite the fact that John Carter was now the commanding officer, he hadn't had the nerve to sit behind the ready room desk. Carter tried to shake his own doubts away when he was interrupted by the door chime. John turned to face the door. “Come.” he said coolly.

The door hissed slightly as Nat Hawk sauntered in, flanked by two security officers in the gold of the Tactical Branch. Hawk gave Carter a quirky grin. “Ya know,” he said, “I know in tha ole days, us pilots didn't navigate - they got somebody else ta do it - but my sense a direction ain't so bad that I wouldn't a'found ma way here by myself.” Nat looked sideways at each of the officers who'd escorted him into the meeting.

Carter looked at each of the tactical officers and gave a quick wave of his hand. “You men can go,” he said easily. “Mister Hawk and I have some things to work out.”

As the security men left, Hawk grinned broadly, knowing from experience where this was headed. “I tell ya, you cookie-cutter Starfleet types never cease to amaze me. Can't go five minutes without quotin' rules and regs and all that-” Hawk said in pre-emptive defense.

Carter cut the helmsman off in mid-sentence. “Talk to him I said!” Carter howled. “What happened inside your spocking brain to make you hear 'shoot him if he doesn't talk!'? What were you thinking?”

“What was I thinkin'?” Nat repeated, “Well, s'pose I was thinkin' we where in one helluva pickle and we needed them command codes back yesterday. S'pose I was also thinkin' that I know McClintok better'n his own Ma and he wheren't gonna give 'um up without some teeth pullin'. S'pose I was thinkin' 'bout gettin' this bucket'a'bolts and the 1,200 plus souls 'board her outta the fryin' pan and the fire.” Hawk replied, the lack of respect in his tone of voice over-flowing, the self-righteous arrogance boiling over.

“All right,” Carter admitted, “you got the computer to unlock. I'll give you that.” Carter felt his hands tense as he tried to keep his temper in check. “But you shot a fellow officer! Crap like that got us in this mess in the first place!”

“Aw bullshit,” Hawk replied, falling back onto the couch. “You know s'well s'me this is just one more link in a long ass chain a'Intelligence screw ups. Those god damn fools are all arrogant bastards, thinkin' they know what's best for everybody else. Trust me, I know, I've been dealin' with them ma whole damn life. 'Specially these last few years. It's their inner-departmental prime directive - screw with the universe before some alien asshole can, just so we can claim we're in control.” Nat replied, going off on a bit of a tangent.

“Ok look, the bottom line is that I can't cover this up, and what's more, I won't.” Carter leveled his gaze at the brash helmsman. “I'll go to bat for you, because you came through on Cestus three, but only to a point.”

“It dun matter, John boy,” Nat said, dropping even his usual partial-respect usage of last names and/or ranks. “Short of a capitol offense, it dun matter what the frinx I do. I'm the Federation's golden boy against the Orion Syndicate. That's why I'm here in tha first place. Without me, they can't do jack. So just calm yerself.”

“No, damnit!” Carter thundered. “It DOESN'T MATTER how you got here! You're on this ship and you're wearing a Starfleet uniform which means that I expect you to hold yourself to a higher standard.” John tried to calm down. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “Nat, we've already been through Hell, but I will not let this be a ship where the ends justify the means. That's part of why Jim Marshall's dead.”

“Phh,” Hawk snorted, “Marshall's dead cause he was an idiot. Couldn't see past his own uniform and his precious rules and regs. Not ta mention his ego. Nothin' ta do with the ends justifyin' the means. Shootin' McClintok wasn't the only option I had, just the best. The sure thing - not ta mention the fastest. 'Speed is essential' - that's what Professor Tice used ta say back in the Academy, and they're words ta live by.”

John Carter hated what he'd just heard. It was no secret on Republic that Carter had three rules to live by; the first of which was that “Speed was life.” Now, Nat Hawk was using a version of his own words against him. “Mister Hawk”, Carter said firmly. “No one appreciates that more than me, and God knows I've fractured a reg or two in my day.” Carter couldn't help a faint smile. “What bothers me, and what's going to make life on this ship hard for you, is that you're ACTING like a man with nothing to lose wether you are or not, and that makes you dangerous to everyone. Even the people who are supposed to trust you.” John leaned back to rest against the edge of the Ready Room desk. It was as close as he would allow himself to get to the Captain's desk. “Believe me when I tell you Nat, one of these days, you're actually going to need someone else, and expedient or not, if you keep shooting them, they're going to wise up.”

“Ya know, we could argue 'bout this 'til the cows come home and neither of us'll change his mind. So why bother? Like those green-blooded son's-a-bitches are always saying, 'infinite diversity in infinite combinations' ya know? Same with opinions.” Hawk said. “So how is he, anyway? McClintok? He comin' back ta duty 'er what?” Nat asked.

“Actually, McClintock's scheduled to be shipped back home, and he's decided not to press charges.”

“You lil tube grub!” Hawk shouted with a grin. “You go off on me 'bout 'goin to bat' for me and you knew he wasn't even gonna press charges? Devious lil Romulan ya are. Remind me not ta call any 'er yer bluffs at poker.” he said, smiling.

Carter shook his head. “No, you're not off the hook, Nat.” Carter explained. “I have to report this to the JAG corps, and until they give me a ruling, you're off duty.”

“Kickass. The way those JAG boys move I'll have a good couple weeks ta chase the skirts and get wasted.” Hawk replied with a devil-may-care grin as he stood up.

“Nat,” Carter offered. “Think about what I said, ok? Sooner or later, this joyride your on's gonna stop. You might want to think about putting on the brakes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I said though, I'm their golden boy. JAG, SI, Command, even the Federation Council. They all got too much ridin' on me to give a rats ass 'bout some phaser burns, 'specially when the 'victim' per say don't even give a hoot.” Hawk said. “So we done? Nearly happy hour, and considerin' I ain't gotta get up in the mornin' might as well get up tonight. If ya get what I mean.” Hawk said with a wink.

“Do what you want Nat, but remember that the rest of the folks on this ship have jobs to do, and I need them on their toes. I'd appreciate it if you kept your reveling in your quarters.”

“Heh,” Hawk laughed, turning to leave.

“One more thing, Mister Hawk.” Carter said. The helmsman looked over his shoulder at John.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Aw hell, don't go gettin' all sentimental on me John boy. Anytime ya need someone phaser'd, I'm happy to oblige.” he said with a chuckle. Then he left the Ready Room.

Carter looked back at the empty captain's chair. “Damn it. Why couldn't you wait for us? Were you that tired? That fed up?”

“I'm more concerned about you.” came a smooth alto voice. Carter spun toward the voice and saw the bright face of Shannon Harris.

“Shannon?” John sputtered. “I didn't hear you come in.”

The red-haired counselor stepped closer to Republic's acting captain. “Well, you were pretty lost in thought.” Harris held up a PADD. “We just got word from the Gorn `Refugee Assistance Council'.” The quirk of Shannon's eyebrow told John how seriously she took the title the new custodians of Cestus three were using.

“How bad is it?” He asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“Actually, it could be worse.” Shannon explained. “They've let the survivors return to their settlements, except for those who were in `Shadow Force', who they'd like returned to answer for terrorism charges by the way . . . ”

“No way in hell is that going to happen.” Carter shot back. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn't give them back. They've got Federation charges to answer for first . . . ”

“Which can wait,” Harris offered, setting the PADD on the desk next to the one Carter had been reading earlier. “Have you slept yet?” Shannon put a hand on Carter's shoulder.

“I will, but I want to hear from the leader of the Evac Task Force first, and I can't get an answer from Command to confirm that they've gotten my report. I'll take a break soon.” he said.

Harris took a step toward the Ready Room Door. As it hissed open, she turned her head back toward him. “Well, don't keep me waiting long.” she offered with a wink.

John felt a smirk across his face as he watched Shannon leave, but the moment was broken by the chirp of the Comm. system.

“Bridge to Commander Carter.”

“Go ahead Ops.” Carter said to the disembodied voice.

“The Task Force is in communications range sir, and I've got Doctor Cromwell on the line for you.”

“What?!”

---

It was another one of those evenings where Leon stared at the stars zipping past the viewport. Admiral Kostya and Captain Roth had long since retired, sleeping off their fatigue from the early morning wakeup that was the assassination of Fleet Admiral Morozov. Fortunately, Leon had the prior benefit of a full night’s sleep when they went to bed, and spent the next several hours reading through medical journals on the runabout’s library annex. Now, as the doctor chose to attempt sleep in the main cabin, he lowered the lights and settled into an acceleration lounge hoping that slumber would soon follow. It didn’t.

The maelstrom of worry soon washed over him as he closed his eyes; his mind repeatedly clashing with the death of Captain Marshall, the attack on Cestus three, the danger the Republic was in, and the concern for his family on the surface. This, mixed with the wider situation of the hawk versus dove power struggle in Starfleet, robbed Leon of sleep. Only the calm, regular star streaks of warp space seemed to help him focus his thoughts.

With his eyes wide open, the doctor chose to abandon the evening ritual.

“Computer, lights” he beckoned, and the response chirp was followed by the rise of ambient illumination. Walking to the wall mounted food replicator, he ordered a refreshment. “Hot coffee. Five cc’s of sucrose.” Again, the computer obliged, and Leon found himself with a steaming mug of java. With nothing else to do, he cringed at the thought of reading more medical journals, and decided to see what Lieutenant Chan was up to in the cockpit.

As Leon wandered into the front of the runabout, he was greeted by the soft, earthy tones of a flute. Entering the cockpit area, he saw the young Lieutenant Chan relaxing in the pilot's seat, softly playing a carved wooden flute. The melody she played was a slow, haunting lullaby by the sound of it. Sitting in the middle of the deckplates was Mister Locksley, a round silver bell held in his paws. He shook the bell, almost as if he was keeping time with the melody, it's clear chime accompanying.

Coleen glanced up as Leon entered, her deep blue eyes meeting his, but continued to play. Leon quietly slipped into the co-pilots seat, not wanting to disturb, and listened as Coleen drew her song to a close.

“Merry Met and good Eve Sugar,” Coleen finally said, turning her seat about to face him, her feet stretched out before her as she absently toyed with the flute in her hands. “We should be reaching the Republic in roughly ninety minutes if you're interested . . . Having trouble sleeping?” Coleen tilted her head to the side and watched Leon, her deep blue eyes studying him . . .

“Always,” the doctor replied. “I assume your unique species has a different sleep cycle than humans? I’ll bet our diurnal cycles are odd for you to adjust to.”

Coleen's response was her ever present smile. “Actually Hon, like most Starfleet types I don't keep a regular diurnal cycle. I sleep when it's convenient when on missions, and I've been taught several meditative techniques that help out.” Coleen glanced down as Mister Locksley took that moment to climb into her lap. “And my species isn't really that unique . . . just not seen all that often. I'm sure you've heard the rumors and the locker room remarks about Orion Slave girls . . . ”

The young officer made a disgusted face at this . . . long had she had to deal with these rumors, the snide remarks, all her life it seemed.

“I’ve heard tales, yes,” Leon replied. “But they usually came from over-zealous marines whose testosterone levels were way off my medical scanners. Other than the corps, the only time I’ve heard anything regarding Orions has been about the Syndicate.”

Coleen nodded. “The Orion Syndicate is a outgrowth of the old Orion tendency towards piracy. At one time Orion pirates were as highly looked upon by the Orions as Fighter pilots back on Old Earth. However these are also the same people that made a practice of raising the greenie females . . . ” Coleen pointed to her chest, ” . . . Like me, because of their hedonistic culture, and selling them as animal slave women . . . “ Coleen then dropped a hand atop of Locksley's head in her lap, her short black nails scritching his fur. ” . . . Suffice it to say I'm not your typical Animal Slave girl. I was rescued by a Starfleet officer and raised by him and his family on Earth.“

“No kidding?” he responded after talking a sip from his coffee mug. “How long have you lived on Earth?”

“Since I was six actually . . . ” Coleen purred as she casually turned her chair about, looking over the runabout's controls and making minute adjustments.

“Grew up in Southern China in a Shaolin temple with my Grandpa . . . then I went and joined Starfleet after taking the trials of Shao-lin.” With that she turned back to face the Doctor. “What's your story Hon? You seem rather perturbed about where we're going.”

“Well actually, I lived on Cestus until I enlisted in Starfleet when I was eighteen,” Leon replied. “Most of my friends still live on the planet along with my mom, dad, and sister. So, I guess you can see why I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“Yes . . . I can see where that would do it . . . well, one of the things my Grandpa used to say is that God always hears what you tell him, but that he's often very busy. So if needed, I can take his place. It might help to talk Hon . . . ” Coleen gave an impish smile. “One never knows what another would be willing to offer . . . ”

“A new perspective would be nice,” Leon said sourly while looking out the viewport. After realizing what he said might be insulting, he offered an apology. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m not used to talking about my personal problems with people I meet in transit. Before long, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be stuck on the Republic talking to our real counselor. Although,” he looked back at Coleen with a fatherly yet tired smile. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

At that Coleen crossed her arms over her chest, resting under her breasts as she raised an eyebrow at Leon. “And just what makes you think your getting rid of me that easily? Hasn't it occurred to you that just maybe I've been assigned to the Republic as well? Hmmm??? I'll remember this during my first crew evaluation Sugar . . . ”

“You're assigned to the ship?” Leon repeated in surprise. “Why didn't you say so earlier?”

“You didn't ask, now did you?” She replied, grinning at him.

“Then what is your assignment?” Leon was curious now. Since Chan had the rank of lieutenant, she was in a position to fill a department head position. Although he was hoping for a permanent replacement for the ship’s counselor position, allowing him to have Doctor Harris back in his staff, the operations gold uniform did not suggest so.

“I'm the new Chief Tactical/Security Chief . . . seems odd I know but why should the boys have all the fun?” The humor of her voice however didn't quite reach the Orion's blue eyes. She knew the contradictions that implied, a Shao-Lin priestess who was also responsible for firing on enemy vessels . . . perhaps even taking their lives . . . but it was those very lessons in Shao-Lin that let her find the balance needed for this position.

The doctor looked as though a bomb had exploded. ‘Another tac chief?’ he thought to himself. ‘Why can’t anyone stay in that position for more than two weeks?’ He put his empty hand to his forehead with a look of bafflement. Resting his mug on his knee, a moment of silence passed before he responded.

“Tactical? We just GOT a new tactical chief ten days ago. What’s wrong with McClintock?”

Coleen’s expression changed to a serious, almost mournful appearance.

“Didn’t Admiral Kostya tell you?”

Leon shook his head.

Coleen's voice became a soft purr, “The Republic’s logs indicated that Lieutenant McClintock died yesterday evening. I was called in this morning to replace him.”

The doctor sat back in his seat, mulling over everything that she had told him.

“Any report of any other deaths?”

“Not that I was told, hon,” she replied. “Besides, if there was, there would probably be more people on this runabout.”

That seemed reasonable, but didn’t make him feel any better. “Did he give you any details?”

“No, but I’m sure we’ll get them in due time.” She raised an eyebrow after ascertaining his reaction. “I hope I haven’t added to your worries, sugar.”

Laying back in the seat, Leon maintained his long stare out the front viewport. “It’s not your fault,” he consoled. “The bright side is that it can’t get much worse.”

At that Coleen looked to Leon sharply. “Do NOT say that, ever. I happen to know for a fact that the Universe is smartass enough to take that as a challenge.”

Coleen then smiled as she stood, dropping Locksley into the Doctor's lap as she stepped towards the replicator. “And I have no Luck charms with me I'm afraid. Green tea, hot, lightly sweet.”

The doctor looked at the bushy-tailed animal that contented itself with curling up in his lap. “So what’s this little guy’s story?” he asked, scratching it behind the ears. “I thought raccoons were a northern occidental species on Earth. Did you pick him up while at Starfleet or was he an immigrant to China?”

“THAT little thief . . . ” Coleen started as she slid back into the pilot's seat, the hot cup of tea held traditionally by her fingertips, “is a North American Grey Raccoon, and we found each other back at the Academy. He was a gift from Boyfriend . . . Five I believe . . . There's a bit of a story about that, but it's for another time . . . ” Coleen paused in her answer long enough to check over the controls and flight path of the Tigris, then turned to face the Doctor again. “be careful around him, or you'll find your combadge stolen. I even use him in my security drills, makes things interesting for the ensigns,” she smiled as she sipped her tea.

“By the way,” Leon changed the subject. “Boys don’t always have all the fun. I was a researcher aboard a science vessel, the Bremerton, and our tactical chief was also a woman. She took her job quite seriously, always making sure that us scientists always had an escort on an away mission.”

“Sounds like she knew her job,” Coleen agreed. “I've seen you scientist types before, always sticking your noses somewhere it can get bitten off, poking at things better left alone . . . ” her bright smile added humor to her words though. “I swear all of you need keepers at times. Makes my department's job interesting.”

“I think you’ll find the tactical department on the Republic an interesting group of people,” the doctor commented. “Our current executive officer, Commander Carter, was originally assigned as tactical chief when we were first launched several months ago. When he was promoted, we had a very difficult time filling the position. We’ve gone through about five tactical chiefs since then . . . ” He paused in thought for a moment before continuing. “Okay, with McClintock, that makes six.” Shooting a glance to Chan, he added, “I hope you’ll be the exception and stay with us for awhile.”

“So do I sugar, I don't intend to get killed any time soon . . . by any chance do you happen to know who my second in command would be?”

“Well, if McClintock is dead, then the next in the chain of command is Lieutenant Sean McTaggart. He’s a no-nonsense officer who was initially trained into the position by Commander Carter. We lost McTaggart briefly to a Kreltan attack when he was taken prisoner. Our XO led a mission to rescue him as well as other prisoners, and he’s been our assistant security chief ever since. With his combat experience, I think you’ll find him a great asset to your department.”

The two continued to chat for the next hour, talking about previous postings, people they knew, and the Republic in general. Before long however they were interrupted as long range sensors showed a vessel moving towards them at warp speed. The Republic.

“Doctor, if you care to contact the Republic, I'll go and alert our passengers that we have arrived.” Lieutenant Chan said as she rose from her seat.

Moments after Chan left the cockpit to wake the passengers, Doctor Cromwell contacted the Republic’s current commander, John Carter. He guessed that the executive officer would be surprised to hear from him, especially since at their last parting, neither knew when they would see one another again. As the federation logo on the communications console gave way to the clean-shaven face of the Martian Lacrosse champion, the look of shock confirmed Leon’s suspicion, and a wide smile developed below his sandy blonde moustache.

“How are you, John?” he asked.

“Doc? What the sprock are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“You didn’t think I was going to let you get away with not paying me those two bars of latinum from poker night, did you?”

“I thought Chase said you were being reassigned?”

Leon scratched his chin.

“Oh . . . HER,” he said with remembrance. “I ditched her less than a day after leaving the Republic. Got tired of hearing about your exploits on the Devonshire. You remember the Devonshire, don’t you John?”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

The doctor’s disposition turned less light-hearted, and acquired a more serious overtone.

“The truth is,” he said, changing the subject. “My reassignment was temporary until the Cestus three situation was resolved.” He leaned closer to the screen with a furrow developing in his forehead. “About that . . . ”

“I’m guessing you have a lot of questions, doc. But I don’t want to give you the answers over subspace. Let’s wait until you’re aboard.”

There was something in Carter’s voice that Leon did not like. He played poker with the executive officer several times, and cultivated a friendship with him over the past several months. The doctor knew when John was disturbed and didn’t want to tell anyone.

“John . . . please,” he pleaded.

“I can’t Leon. Not now. You’ve waited a week to hear about your family, and I’m asking you to wait fifteen more minutes.”

The doctor was borderline disgusted, and his face showed it. However, he reasoned that if John had a reason to wait until he was onboard, then it probably was a good one. The commander picked up on Leon’s frustration, and changed the subject.

“I’m sure you’ve heard bout Marshall.”

“Yes,” Leon replied, still worried over what had just transpired. “I’m fact, I’m traveling with his replacement.”

“A new captain? Already? That was quick.”

“Not only a new captain, but a new tactical officer as well. We also heard word of McClintock’s death.”

“I’m afraid that was a bit premature. Turns out McClintock was incapacitated to the point where the computer thought he was dead, and it went out in the subspace logs before the truth was revealed. It’s probably for the best, though. He’s scheduled to be shipped home anyway along with Taylor and several others of the crew who were brought aboard during our recent stopover at Starbase 23.”

“What happened?

“It’s a long story, and one we can save for later. Tell me about our new captain. What do you make of him?”

“Her,” the doctor replied. “And not much. She hasn’t said more than two sentences since we left Earth. She’s a bit of a closed book.”

“What’s her name?”

“Roth,” Leon said directly. “Kimberly Roth.”

“Roth . . . Roth . . . I know that name from somewhere, but I can’t quite remember . . . What about our new tac? What do you make of him?”

“Her,” the doctor corrected him again. “And she’s . . . “ He paused to look at the raccoon sitting in the pilot’s seat who looked at him with a pointy muzzle and glassy black eyes. Leon could not shake the feeling that the little critter understood everything he was saying, and was only waiting to get a chance to report back to it’s owner. “She’s . . . ” he tried again, but locked stares with the mammal. “Never mind,” Leon finally said after an uncomfortable moment. This caused the raccoon to purr with disappointment and resume a nap in the chair. “You’ll have to see her yourself. Just keep Lieutenant Hawk away from her.”

“Don’t worry. He’s been a bad boy lately. I don’t suppose you can do anything medically for discipline problems?”

“Don’t look at me,” he returned. “As long as they pass their quarterly physical, there’s nothing I can do. Discipline is your department.”

“Not after you take that bridge officer’s test. As soon as you put on that uniform and take your first shift on the bridge, you’ll have to deal with discipline too.”

Leon frowned in comprehension. “That reminds me. We have more than just officer replacements. We also have an admiral coming aboard.”

“An admiral? Which one?”

“Kostya,” the doctor replied, and as soon as he said that, Carter’s face took a slightly more reddish hue, and looked as if his life just more complicated. At about that time, the door to the cockpit opened, and Lieutenant Chan quietly resumed her seat in the pilot’s chair, displacing Mister Locksley. On the screen, all John saw was Leon look off frame before returning his attention to the executive officer. “We’ll be docking soon. Tell the main shuttlebay to prepare for our arrival. Tigris out.”

---

Chapter 4: Reunions and RevelationsTop

John Carter closed the link with the Tigris, then turned to Tom Sullivan. “Ops,” John said smoothly, “you've got the Conn.” Republic's acting CO turned and strode up the ramp toward the bridge turbolift as Sullivan eased into the center seat. “And prep some quarters for Admiral Kostya.”

“Kost . . . Yes Sir,” Sullivan said, regaining his composure. The last time Admiral Kostya was aboard, Republic, the ship had lost her captain and gained a new one. Sullivan wondered if the Admiral was planning on making that a habit. “I think it's pretty much the way he left it last time he was here.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Carter said, rolling his eyes as he entered the turbolift.

Inside the small car, John took a much needed moment to relax and think to himself. `Of all the damn people to have back!' he cursed silently. John knew that it was Admiral Vladimir Kostya who'd seen to it that Jim Marshall was put back in command of Republic, and Vic had mentioned that a buried order from somewhere in the Admiralty had been responsible for the lock-out that had nearly gotten Carter, Hawk, and the Hazard Team killed because the chain of command had broken down horribly.

Because of Kostya's 'Trojan Horse' order, the 'Rightful' command crew of Republic had nearly committed mutiny in order to facilitate their flight from Cestus. Now, that same admiral was back, with a new Captain in tow, and John couldn't help the feeling that it was another disaster waiting to happen. To make matters worse, John somehow had to find a way to break the news to Leon that, not only was the Doctor's home now lost to the Gorn Hegemony, but Cromwell's immediate family had been vaporized, and his father had admitted, however inadvertently, to war crimes against the Gorn.

John swayed slightly with the motion of the lift car as it continued toward the Republic's main shuttle bay. Starfleet had been in the wrong. John knew that for a fact, and what's worse, the Gorn had known it too. Somehow, someone in the halls of Fleet Command had decided that it was better to risk giving Cestus three away than play by rules that had held fast for nearly 100 years. Now, half of the Federation council was screaming for retribution while the other half was scurrying away from the worst interplanetary news event since the explosion of Praxis. And thanks to his release of the sensor logs showing Jim Marshall's murder to the news nets (John was at least content to call Marshall's death what it was), Republic was caught square in the middle of a great big swirling mess.

Carter shook his head and tapped his comm badge. “Carter to Virtus,” he called.

“Virtus here John. I'll be on the flight deck in one minute, 36 seconds . . . mark.”

“But I haven't even . . . ”

“You forgot about the Virtus Scuttlebutt Principle already?

Vic had a point. Scuttlebutt did seem to travel faster than light. Even if Virtus hadn't been one of the two-dozen smartest men in the galaxy, it wouldn't take a genius to guess that big trouble of one form or another was waiting to board. Carter conceded the argument to his invisible friend and spoke. “Well as Second Officer, that makes you MY XO,” Carter quipped, “so . . . ”

“So, I'll keep the admiral and our new babysitter busy while you take care of Leon and his father.”

“You know I can't ORDER you to do that, right Vic?”

“Understood Commander. You're not ordering me to do this. See you on the deck. Virtus out.”

---

The atmosphere in Republic's main shuttle bay was cool, but tense, and as the hum of Tigris' anti-grav system powered down, the room was eerily still. “Have you talked with Shannon at all about Cromwell the Elder?” Virtus asked.

Carter shook his head. “Haven't had time, but she did say that he was conscious now. Not talking much though, which I take as a very bad sign. The rest of the civilians are holding up well enough though.”

Carter's sentence was punctuated by the soft `whoosh' and then quiet thud of the runabout's doors and ramp engaging. Starfleet protocol dictated that the Admiral had the right to be the first off the runabout, but John was betting that Kostya would make him sweat. Sure enough, the first passenger off the runabout was Doctor Leon Cromwell.

The doctor gave his shipmates a quick nod, but waited by the exit of the runabout as someone else made their exit.

John Carter was rarely at a loss for words. He'd expected the pilot of the runabout to be a conn officer, so the fact that the pilot of the Tigris wore an operations gold collar. That surprise however, was nothing compared to the realization that the pilot was a green-skinned Orion female.

“It appears our new Tac Chief is a bit . . . unusual,” Vic commented.

“Come on Vic,” Carter quipped easily, “there are lots of women in `Fleet.”

Virtus stroked his beard with his thumb and middle finger as the two friends watched the entourage continue to arrive. With the easy grace of a seasoned spacer, the runabout's third occupant stepped onto the flight deck. She was tall and fit with a head of short black hair, and her red collar was marked with four gold dots. Victor regarded the woman as she in turn looked at both the engineer and Carter. Then, Virtus turned to the XO. “Why look at that John, you're right. There's another one.”

Carter showed no reaction, but sarcasm was dripping from his voice. “Quiet,” he cautioned.

John and Victor looked on as a sleek brown creature the size of a small house cat slipped out of the runabout's darkened interior and snaked up the Captain's arm to rest easily on her left shoulder. “That's something you don't see everyday,” Victor observed.

Carter caught himself looking at the new Tac Chief a split-second too long. As far as he knew, he was one of the few members of Starfleet to actually see a legendary Green Orion slave girl. It had been nearly eight years ago, but even now, he could smell the acrid vapors of Ferengi choo'la smoke, and the bad scotch he'd had to choke down, but watching an emerald skinned woman who was quite possibly the universe's perfect specimen was worth the surroundings.

Then a sharp chitter brought Carter back to reality. “What in the galaxy?” he blurted out. Both Carter and Virtus stared in disbelief as another small mammal, larger than the captain's pet managed a clumsy jump into the Tac Chief's arms. “Grozit,” Carter hissed, thankful that only Victor could here him. “Is that a . . . ”

“Yep.”

“And we're not on the holodeck?”

“Nope.”

“Aww Hell.”

“Yep.”

At long last, the runabout's final passenger, Vladimir Kostya stepped onto the flight deck. With the Admiral's emergence, the shuttle passengers stepped forward. The Admiral was the first to speak. “Commander Carter, Lieutenant Commander Virtus, may I present Captain Kimberly Roth, Lieutenant Coleen Chan, and of course you know Doctor Cromwell.”

“Welcome back, Doc.”

Leon simply nodded as if unsure what to say.

I wish this meeting were under better circumstances.” Kostya continued. Carter couldn't help the feeling that Kostya was lying through his teeth, but he called on years of discipline and training to give a regulation response. “Welcome aboard Admiral.” Carter turned his head to regard his new captain. “Ma'am.”

The red collared woman nodded in return, as John continued. “Lieutenant, welcome to Republic. Come by my office when you get a chance and I'll get you squared on the Tactical department.” The Orion lieutenant looked confused, but nodded politely.

“Thank you, sir.”

Kostya cleared his throat to command attention. “These pleasantries can wait Commander,” he commented. “The loss of Cestus three to the Gorns is very serious. Your briefing will . . . ”

“Will wait until my Doctor has examined his latest patient, Admiral.”

“John, wait just one . . . ”

“EXCUSE me . . . Commander?” Kostya's face visibly reddened. Clearly, the flag officer was unaccustomed to being interrupted.

“I'm sorry to cut this short Admiral,” Carter explained, “Given the short notice of your arrival, I'm going to leave you in Mister Virtus' capable hands.”

“Now see here mister,” Kostya thundered, “This woman is your Captain and I . . . ”

“Captain Roth is a guest onboard what is, for the time being, my ship, sir.” he responded coolly, “and until I receive formal orders from Starfleet concerning the chain of command,” Carter turned his head slightly to regard the new arrivals as a whole, “you're welcome to our hospitality.”

Republic's acting CO spun on a heel, clearly considering the matter closed. He took two steps toward the bulkhead door and looked over his right shoulder. “Your patient is waiting doctor.”

Dumbfounded, Leon felt that the best course of action was to get out of the area as soon as possible, and he sprang quickly to catch up to Carter. As the two men entered the corridor, Leon could hear Virtus' bright tenor voice fading as they walked.

“Well now, let's see. Republic is the sixteenth Galaxy Class starship in the fleet. She began life in the Utopia Planetia shipyards on stardate . . . ”

---

“Was that REALLY necessary?” Leon asked as the turbolift shot toward sickbay.

“No,” John answered honestly, “but it felt damn good. Besides, we need to talk.”

“Well, you're right there.” Leon braced himself against the side of the lift car. “What HAPPENED?”

“Leon,” John said calmly, “I need you to listen to me. This is bad.”

“I KNOW that, but . . . ”

“No you don't. Most of the colonists are fine. The Gorn have agreed to repatriate them into the Federation. Anyone wishing to stay on Cestus three is welcome, but if they stay, they'll be expatriates, subjects of the Gorn Hegemony.”

“Just like that?”

“Actually, yes,” Carter hissed. “The Blackshirts broke the treaty, and to make matters worse, Marshall lost in trial by combat. Plus, the Gorn are out for blood.”

“That's outrageous! Why?”

Carter took a moment to observe just how like his father Leon really was. Then he answered the doctor's question. “Because Shadow Force is responsible for nearly three-hundred Gorn casualties.” The lift car stopped, giving added weight to Carter's word.

As the doors opened with a soft hiss, Leon and Carter continued toward sickbay, the two continued. “Good for them, maybe the Gorn will realize that Cestus is too hard to hold. I doubt that the resistance will be easy to . . .

“They're dead, Leon.”

“What?

“With the exception of four civilians, all of whom happen to be in sickbay, there is no resistance. The Gorn atomized the Gordonian mountain shelters shortly after Marshall's death. ”

Leon felt his face go ashen, and had to steady himself on a wall panel. “Dad,” he whispered.

John stopped and placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder. “He's alive.” John assured his friend. “We ran into him and his friends inside Cornucopia.”

Leon looked up, still visibly shaken. He straightened, and the pair walked again, stopping just outside sickbay. “Then Mom and . . . ” His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't bring himself to say his sister's name.

“I don't know Leon, but unless they stayed in a Gorn camp, it . . . Well, we can't be sure.” Carter took one step closer to the door to sickbay. The door sensor registered his approach, and opened.

Through the archway, Leon Cromwell could see faces he thought he'd left far behind. His eyes lingered for long moments on the form of his father. Looking at him now, Leon couldn't recall a time that Arthur Cromwell ever looked so . . . small. The doctor stepped inside while Carter remained in the hall. “Take your time Doc,” he said simply, then made his way to his quarters.

---

Kostya and Roth had been onboard for nearly forty-five minutes. During that time Victor Virtus had offered them every piece of minutia regarding starships in general, and Republic in particular. During that time, John Carter had stayed in his office, content to let the Beta shift continue with their duties. He was trying in vain to contact Starfleet Command when his combadge beeped.

“Virtus to XO.”

“Carter here Vic,” the Martian answered. “Go.”

“I think I've used my last but of charm John. I'd say you've got 15.27 minutes before Kostya orders me to beam you directly to him.”

“Understood Vic. You did better than I thought.”

“Of course I did, Commander.”

“How's our new Captain handling it?”

“Actually, she's keeping the Admiral calm. I'm not sure, but I think she's enjoying watching the old man get rung through hoops.”

“Really?” Carter's surprise was welcome and genuine. “What about the Tac Chief?”

“Well, after tucking in Mister Locksley, she mentioned looking for you.”

“Well that's not so bad. Thanks Vic.”

“Ka-Plowie, Commander. Virtus out.”

Carter smiled at the inside joke as the channel closed, and was about to return to his quest, when the door chime sounded. “Come.”

Coleen paused as the door slid open, taking a moment to study the Executive Officer as he worked at his desk. Then she entered with gliding steps, moving gracefully across the room to stand before his desk, her hands held lightly behind her back. “Lieutenant Coleen Chan reporting for duty Sir,” She purred throatily.

Carter pulled his eyes, thankfully from his paperwork, as his new Tactical Officer glided into the room. “Hello Lieutenant,” he offered. “Sorry that I had to keep things in the shuttle bay so short. Did you find your quarters all right?” Mentally, John kept reminding himself not to stare. As diverse as Starfleet was, a green Orion female was the LAST thing he expected in his office.

Coleen nodded slowly, blue eyes watching the Commander as she slowly started to smile. “Yes Sir, they were right where they were supposed to be . . . I'm sure that Locksley is finding all sorts of things to get into there. And please Sir, call me Coleen. I prefer it. as for the shuttlebay I understand. Having a Flag Officer onboard can be quite unsettling to one's routine.”

Carter took a moment to lean back in his chair. “I'll be honest with you Cha . . . Coleen,” he said, careful to get the lieutenant's name right, “the last few days have been difficult for us, and for the Tactical Department in particular. We still have to head to 39 Sierra for debriefing.” Carter squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose, “We run a standard three shift schedule, but since we're under escort, I won't need the duty rotation for a couple days. Plenty of time for you to meet the ones who are staying.” John waited to see Chan's reactions to his words.

Coleen continued to stand in front of the desk with her hands behind her, a half smile lighting up her face. “Actually Sir,” she purred, tilting her head a bit to the side as she spoke, her long hair falling about her shoulder, “I was thinking of at least looking the duty rotation over to fill any holes if needed. The current rotation however should work at least until we reach Sierra. I had also already planned on holding a tactical staff meeting to meet those under me, then looking over the tactical systems to see how they came out of all of this.” Coleen then straightened her head, looking the Commander full on again.

“Pretty well, all things considered.” Carter regarded the officer carefully. “Forgive me if this is out of line, Coleen,” the name still sounded strange to John, but he did his best to push that thought aside, “but given your . . . unique status, have you had any problems elsewhere in the fleet?” The XO steepled his fingers in front of him. “It's just that scuttlebutt and reality are very different. Not everyone gets that.”

“Actually Lieutenants in Security / Tactical are pretty common in `Fleet Sir.” Coleen quipped, her smile spreading at that.

Carter felt a smile creep across his face. “That's not exactly what I meant, but thanks.” Carter looked at his desk's view screen and continued. “I figured you could handle yourself ok. Nice to know some things around here are breaking our way.”

“I've had no choice but to learn how to handle myself Sir,” Coleen murmured, tilting her head to the side again. “As you say, some don't understand that scuttlebutt and reality are different. but if one chooses to listen they often can find the truth.”

Carter nodded, pleased at the sign of reason and philosophy from the attractive officer. “That's very true. Is that a Vulcan saying?”

The young Orion shook her head, her dark hair flowing about her shoulders. “No Sir, it's Chinese. But then again, so am I . . . ”

Carter blinked, momentarily letting his poker face slip. “Oh, I hadn't realized. I have to say Coleen, you're the last thing I expected to find on the deck when I got up today, but If there's one thing that serving on Republic will teach you, it's how to cope with the unexpected. The more inventive you can be, either on the bridge or on an away team, the better.” Carter pushed his chair away from the desk and straightened up, letting the Carter family 'Old Man Noise' slip. “I haven't spent any time with Captain Roth yet, but you'll be in on the next staff meeting.” Carter moved toward the door and stood beside the young officer. “Two things you should know.”

Coleen shifted her stance, turning on the balls of her feet in order to face Commander Carter, her eyes meeting his. “Yes Sir?”

The XO propped himself against the hatch, cocking his a bit. “First, Department Heads all have a standing invitation for poker. In my quarters, Friday nights, 1900.”

Coleen simply raised a eyebrow at this.” Alright Sir . . . I Suppose I could learn how to play by then . . . ”

John laughed out loud, for the first time in what seemed like months. “Oh, is Vic going to love you!” Carter shook his head though the smile remained. “Second, I owe you one for looking after the Doc. Thanks for that.” Carter extended his hand.

At that Coleen smiled. “That was my pleasure Sir, he seemed to need it and he seems a nice person. The next several months will be hard on him however I'm afraid.” As she spoke she took Carter's hand, turning it over instead of shaking it, her alien hands hot to the touch. “How Pretty!” she exclaimed, looking at a ring Carter wore.

John felt himself flush as the young lieutenant took his hand. He looked down to see what had gained her attention. “The ring's been in the family a while.” he explained. “I'm told that an ancestor of mine graduated from the pre-unification Naval Academy. The stone's a Martian opal.” He gently slipped his hand free of Coleen's grasp. “By the way, when you meet Lieutenant Hawk, feel free to slap him, as hard as you like.” Though Carter said the words with a smirk, something told Chan the XO wasn't exactly kidding.

Slowly she nodded “I'll be sure to do that Sir. May I be excused now?” As the Commander nodded, Coleen turned and exited with surprising energy and grace.

“Now THAT's a hell of a thing.” Carter said, to no one in particular.

---

Chapter 5: Action and ReactionTop

In every man’s life, there are awkward moments. Moments that seem to bring time to a standstill, thus forcing the soul to agonize over the situation and fight back the instinct to abscond to a dark corner. The heat of the spotlight can stifling, and as Leon stood in the center of the main ward staring at his father, the world around him seemed to grind to a halt.

“Well, well,” the surly voice of the senior Cromwell cut the tension in the room like a knife. The sixty-something man slipped off the biobed and stood up, as he wrung his hands before cracking his knuckles. Skip, Lins, and Wey were on either side of the medical bunk with Doctor Shannon Harris looking towards Leon with a look of shock and surprise. However, it was the elderly father of the chief medical officer that held control of the conversation, as he looked Leon in the eye while walking up to him.

“Looks like the cavalry showed up after all.” Everyone in the room was puzzled by the apparently cold dialog emanating from Arthur Cromwell. Everyone that is, except for Leon, whose long-standing chasm between him and his father had not lost its edge over the years.

“Too bad the battle’s all over,” Arthur chided while Leon stood stoically silent. “I guess even Starfleet doctors can’t heal everything.”

The older man continued to walk past Leon and exited through the main doors of sickbay, but not before giving his son a look of discord. The gloom that descended upon the room after his exit was felt most by Doctor Cromwell, whose parental reprimand reached deep into his engrained submissive instinct towards his childhood patriarch. Even as an adult, Leon’s father could still shatter his self-confidence to this day.

As the silence continued for a few seconds more, Skip, without a word, followed after Arthur with an expression of disapproval towards his Shadowforce comrade. The doors to sickbay opened and closed again as he left, and conversation between those left in the main ward broke the tense moment.

“Doctor Cromwell!” Shannon spoke up finally. “I thought you were reassigned off the ship!”

Lins stepped forward with a smile on her face, and gave Leon a warm embrace. The doctor likewise reciprocated the attention.

“It’s great to see you again, Leon” the middle-aged woman greeted him. “You’ve definitely grown up over the years.”

“I’m glad to see someone noticed,” he replied with melancholy as they finished hugging. “It’s good to see you again too.”

“Hey Leon,” Wey stepped forward with an outstretched hand. “How’ve you been?”

Doctor Cromwell grasped the pudgy hand of the obese construction worker, and gave a firm handshake.

“Busy,” Leon replied. “Too busy. I don’t suppose you know of a place where I could get away for a little while?”

“Nope,” Wey said in a rather apathetic manner. “Not anymore.” Although he did not refer to it directly, Leon knew he was hinting at his anger towards the Federation Council for handing over Cestus three to the Gorns. Leon pursed his lips with regret, and was about to respond when two individuals walked briskly into the main ward from the surgical ward. The leading individual was a balding and black-bearded lieutenant commander in medical blue, and the other was a shorter gray-haired woman of the same rank and departmental color. It was none other that Doctors Saal Yezbeck and Eliza Fernmoore.

“God bless it!” Yezbeck shouted with delight while walking up to Leon. “Here I thought I’d gotten rid of you.”

“How are you, Saal?” Leon greeted him with a tired smile.

“Damn tired to be doing your job,” he replied crassly. “It sure is good to see you back.”

“Good to be back,” the doctor said sheepishly. “I just wish the circumstances were better. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“We do,” Yezbeck replied, understanding what Leon was hinting at.

“Where’s Captain Marshall’s body?”

“In the morgue.” Yezbeck stuck his thumb out and pointed towards the aft side of the ward towards the stasis room. “I’ll send a full report of what happened to your terminal.”

“Good,” Leon replied. “Arrange a staff meeting for when we arrive at Starbase 39 Sierra. Until then, you’re still in charge. I’ve got some personal business to take care of before we arrive.”

“Understood.”

Leon began walking towards his office, but when he turned around, he saw that several nurses and enlisted medical technicians had gathered silently behind him. They all wore jubilant expressions on their face, and the doctor recognized the closest one.

“Teague!” the doctor said with a smile to the young medical technician who was stranded with him on Planet Styx over a month ago. Although he never acknowledged it, Leon credited the youngster for saving his life after he was mortally wounded from a phasor shot to his kidney by a Kreltan spy. “How the heck are you?”

“Good to see you back, sir,” he remarked before Leon took notice of the rank insignia on his collar. Memory told the doctor that the last time he saw Teague, that no insignia was on his collar as on the Republic, crewman first class and below presented their rank with thin cuff stripes instead. As Leon focused on the collar, he realized that the medic had been promoted while he was gone.

“Petty officer third-class?” Leon remarked. “You’re moving up, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Teague replied. “Thank you for your recommendation. We had the promotion party at the Hill earlier this week. I’m sorry you weren’t able to be there.”

“So am I,” came Leon’s response with a hint of regret. “Still, I’m glad to see you got what you deserved. Next time I see you in Ten-Forward, I’ll buy you a drink. How’s that sound?”

“I look forward to it.”

Leon patted the young man on the shoulder as he made his way past the gathered sickbay staff and into his office. As the door slid shut, the heavy weight of his personal life wore on him like a yoke of lead. With an audible sigh, he scanned the small office, noticing it had been left relatively undisturbed. A mug he had been using the day he had called his sister still remained on his desk, albeit stained with evaporated coffee. The blue physicians jacket he wore for duty shifts was right where he normally kept it on the back of the chair. Apparently, Saal had not the gumption to take up residence when Captain Marshall put him in charge.

Rubbing his forehead, Leon searched his desk for his favorite non-medicinal remedy for stress and hypertension. He opened the lower right drawer to find an empty bottle of Rigellian Cordial.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, and collapsed into his chair. He laid his head down on the desk and emitted another heavy sigh. “I should have picked up another bottle while I was at Sol.”

Although he was not seeking real alcohol for the sake of becoming inebriated, he did want something to sooth his frayed nerves, and synthehol would simply not do. With the status of his sister and mother unknown, a bitter father who refused to give him the time of day, and a long lost great aunt who was systems away working incognito, Leon felt lonelier than ever. He needed people around him, and not in the work setting. Immediately getting up from the desk, he left the office, left the sickbay, and proceeded to deck ten with his destination being The Hill.

---

Tom Sullivan stood at ease as Vladimir Kostya looked over Republic's main conference room. As Chief Operations officer (usually shortened to “Ops.”) Tom was more or less a jack-of-all-trades. His position required that he know a little about everything on board a starship. This unfortunately meant that he usually got stuck with menial, almost clerical tasks, and not all were pleasant. This was one of those times.

Tom shifted his weight and looked to his right, to regard the woman who would be his new captain. As soon as the arrival of Kostya and his party hit the scuttlebutt circuit, Tom had looked up Kimberly Roth's Starfleet record. By all accounts, the dark-haired woman had the makings of not only a first-rate officer, but also an outstanding captain. Roth was one a rarity in `Fleet, because her career track had not been the traditional Conn. or Tactical departments that made up the bulk of `Fleet Captains. Instead, Roth had been a scientist, and a good one too. Her specialty had been theoretical astro-physics, which, according to the officers she'd served with, gave her an interesting perspective. As a true scientist, Roth was equal parts investigator and puzzle-solver; not as grounded in results as an Engineer, or competitive as a Tactical specialist. Sullivan supposed that particular combination of discipline and curiosity would make for an unusual officer, but onboard Republic, the unusual was almost commonplace.

“This will do, Mister Sullivan, thank you.” Admiral Kostya offered.

Tom nodded. “Very good Sir, Ma'am.” Then, the model of quiet efficiency, Tom Sullivan left the room.

“At least one officer on this damned ship knows his place.” Kostya spat. The flag officer sat at the head of the conference table and scowled, as though he were picturing officers around the room that he'd decided he didn't care for. “I swear to you Kim, Carter's going to be the ruin of this ship.”

Next to the Admiral, Roth looked thoughtful. “I don't know that to be true, sir” she said. “I read the records on the flight over, and apart from mister Sullivan, Carter's the only bridge officer who hasn't been re-assigned at least once, and from what I heard Doctor Cromwell tell Chan about him, most of the crew thinks that Carter got them this far.”

Kostya grumbled, then addressed his hand-picked companion. “Well Chan's a separate problem. I can't have someone like that giving Carter more room to wander off the reservation. He needs to be controlled, and I'm counting on you to haul him, and his band of pirates in line.”

Roth listened intently. She was grateful that Kostya had gotten her away from her dead-end posting, and she also knew full-well that Kostya expected his faith in her to be repaid with loyalty to whatever Kostya had in mind, but Roth also felt a certain mania in the Admiral's behavior, one that she couldn't quite justify.

“I'm sure that Carter will appreciate you giving him the benefit of the doubt,” Kostya continued, “but he's already lost me one good officer, and a whole system! I'm telling you right now . . . ”

The door chime sounded, interrupting the Admiral.

“Speak of the Devil,” he whispered. “Come,” he offered to the door.

Fresh from his meeting with Lieutenant Chan, feeling that, for once the Tactical Department might be squared away, John Carter's spirits were high. Even when face to face with an admiral he couldn't stand, and a Captain he had no reason to trust. Carter stood at the foot of the table and waited to be addressed.

Admiral Kostya remained seated, while Captain Roth nodded at Carter's arrival. After a long minute, Kostya broke the silence in the room. “At ease, Mister Carter.”

Republic's XO stood easy, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Thank you, Admiral.” He said in a short, clipped, tone. “The Admiral will be pleased to know that I received conformation of Captain Roth's assignment from PERSCOM twenty minutes ago.” Carter turned his head slightly to address his new CO. “Welcome aboard Republic ma'am.

“Thank you, Mister Carter,” she offered. “And please, address me as Captain from now on.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kostya couldn't help but roll his eyes as he heard Carter follow the letter of Starfleet procedure. His contempt for the Martian officer was growing by the minute. “Enough of the dog and pony show, commander,” Kostya barked. “You've landed us in quite the predicament here. I hope you're proud of yourself, mister.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Admiral.” Carter said, honestly not seeing what part of the Cestus three disaster might have been his fault.

Kostya shot to his feet. “You killed your Captain and lost one of the Federation's oldest colonies! You want to explain how that happened son ?”

John leveled his gaze at the white-haired officer across from him. `Hmm,' Carter thought, `that's one angry, short man.' he said inwardly. “All of the duty personnel have filed reports sir,” Carter explained. “I take it you have some questions about them?”

“Yes, dammit! Explain yourself!”

“Permission to speak freely sir?”

Kostya settled back into his chair. “Oh . . . PLEASE” he said with an icy tone.

Carter came out of his easy stance and placed his hands down on the table top, leaning forward slightly. “Captain Marshall is dead because he was put in an impossible situation. He was obsessed with proving himself, and made stupid decisions.”

Carter's words were cold, and detached, but Roth was surprised how honest the XO seemed to be. “Why weren't you onboard Republic, commander?” Roth asked. “As XO, your first job is to keep your Captain from making just that kind of mistake.”

“Agreed, Captain. But Captain Marshall ordered me and a tactical team to investigate the presence of Starfleet Intelligence assets on Cestus three. Before I left, Captain Marshall told me he was going to negotiate with the Gorn Pack-leader. I had no idea he was going to let things get so out of hand.”

“So instead you give his death to the news feeds! That's disgraceful!”

Carter shot a look back at the Admiral. “No sir,” he answered, “what's disgraceful is Starfleet conducting an illegal Intel operation, which is what invalidated the treaty in the first place.”

“You have a responsibility to protect Starfleet's interests.”

“The same way that SOMEONE'S secret lock-out code was supposed to protect my ship?” Carter could feel his face redden as his temperature began to rise.

“What are you getting at, Mister?”

“Even if I HAD been here, it wouldn't have made any difference. The only officers the computer recognized were too junior for the job. My Engineer had to pull a minor miracle out of his six to get us back in control so we could even break orbit!”

“So, it wasn't your fault. Is that what you're saying Carter?” Kostya quipped. “Typical.”

“My Captain didn't follow procedure, and some damned Black Box disrupted the rightful chain of command. I did what any Starfleet officer would have done,” he explained, careful to watch Roth's expression as he finished. “I made the best out of a lousy sprocking situation.”

Kostya leaned back and regarded the fiery officer. “Let's say you're correct, commander. That some unknown third party interfered with the ship's computer. Who can verify this?”

“Chief Engineer Virtus and Commander Forrest have filed reports , sir.”

“Then I'll take them back to Earth with me. Along with Captain Marshall's body, Lieutenant Chan, and that young Lieutenant Sullivan – As an orderly subordinate, he could shed some light on what happened here. Arthur Cromwell and the rest of your departing crew will leave when Republic arrives at 39 Sierra.”

“You'll WHAT?” Carter blurted.

“You heard me Carter,” Kostya.

John stepped forward. “Now wait just one damn minute! My people know their jobs, but we can't be expected to be effective when no one stays put! It takes time to develop a good command team! Sullivan especially! There's no other qualified officers in operations!”

“Well then Commander,” Kostya remained calm, almost triumphant. “You'll have plenty of time to watch and learn.” Kostya stood calmly and put every ounce of seriousness into his words. “You may be able to justify your actions, and for what it's worth, Starfleet agrees with you.”

The Admiral stepped toward the door, then turned back to Carter. “Fortunately, your release of the footage of Marshall's death will allow us to save face, and you wisely kept the existence of the duckblind from the public, bit I won't let you off that easy. I intend to make sure that the rest of Starfleet knows what a danger you are, so, you will stay here. On Republic, until your as dead as your career.”

The door hissed open as Kostya continued.

“Jim Marshall was a friend of mine. You didn't deserve him, and he sure as HELL didn't deserve what you pushed him to.” Kostya nodded at Roth. “Do what this woman says, and you may get to off this ship one day. But step over the line again, and respect won't be the only thing you lose. I'll be leaving in 48 hours.”

With that, Kostya left the room. Carter felt his jaw clench and only remembered that Roth was still in the room when the Captain cleared her throat. Cater spun on a heel and looked, wide-eyed at Kim Roth. “I swear to you Captain, I . . . I didn't know . . . ”

“Ease down, Mister Carter,” she said, trying to calm the XO's obviously frayed nerves. “For what it's worth, I've been in your shoes.” she explained.

“I know.” Carter offered as his tactician's mind was quickly and methodically reviewing his situation. “When Leon mentioned your name, I looked up your service jacket.”

“Then you know about the Thundercrest?”

“Yes, Captain,” he said calmly. “Tough call.”

“Won't be the last.” she commented. “There's no hurry to 39 Sierra. Take some time and decide what you want to do.”

“Captain?”

Roth stood easy with her arms folded across her chest. “The way I see it you have two choices. You can stay here, and try to soldier through, or . . . ” her gaze shifted out the way Kostya had gone. “Or, you can give Kostya what he wants, and leave Fleet.”

“Oh, like hell.” Carter hissed.

“Good answer.” Roth said with an easy chuckle. “Welcome to my world, Carter.”

Roth then exited the conference room, leaving Carter alone. “Griffe . . . can it get any worse?”

---

Chapter 6: A Father's DilemmaTop

Location: corridor, deck 12, USS Republic

With a stubborn air surrounding him, and a stoic expression with a bare hint of a scowl, Arthur marched down the corridor ignoring the occasional looks of curiosity by passing Starfleet crewmen. His course led him steadily away from sickbay, and was by himself for no more than half a minute before Skip jogged up to him from behind.

“What the hell was that all about?” Skip scolded the elder Cromwell while pointing back the way he came.

“I can't stand hospitals. You know that,” he responded without turning to his friend.

“That's not what I mean!” Skip shot back while grabbing Arthur's shoulder to bring him to a stop. “That was you son back there! A son you haven't seen in God knows how long, and has a missing mother and sister!”

“He left that family long ago to join this band of ignorant turncoats,” Arthur continues. “And instead of coming back to help this family in it's time of greatest need, he stays with these bastards and watches from the safety of a doctors office while his birthplace is conquered by an alien race. As far as I'm concerned, he's no son of mine.”

“Do I need to remind you that if we hadn't fought back against the Rexes that the resistance might have lived?”

The thought of his closest friend turning on him at this moment in time caused Arthur to stare with burning rage into Skip's eyes.

“You joined Shadowforce to protect the colony while Fleet broke the Metron treaty. We fought to get the Rexes off our planet. It was the only control we had while these bastards,” Arthur motioned to the ship around him. “Gave our homes away. I'll never forgive Fleet for this, and if my son is any way associated with these no-good petticoats, then he's no better than the bastards who killed the resistance.”

Walking up to the side of the corridor, Arthur looked over the smooth, black surface of the personnel interface.

“How the hell does this thing work?” he muttered with confusion in his voice. With ambiguity in his motions, he carefully touched the surface with his hand. Immediately, an amber schematic appeared on the shiny, ebony surface.

“Please state destination.”

“I want to get to a subspace communications console,” Arthur said grouchily.

“The nearest subspace communications facility for non-Starfleet personnel is located on deck ten, section twelve. Follow the lighted arrows to the nearest turbolift.”

A yellow tracer light appeared on the bottom edge of the corridor panel, and continued on down the deck, pointing the way for Arthur. He took one last look at Skip and said, “if that man in sickbay is really my son, he'd be doing what I'm doing, and figuring out whether the rest of his family is still alive.” With that, Arthur turned away and followed the lighted arrows. Skip looked after him with disapproval before following him.

---

Location: Subspace com-center 6, deck 10, USS Republic

” . . . I'm sorry Mister Cromwell, but all ships have reported in, and there's no listing of your wife or daughter among the refugees.”

“What about the ex-patriots?” Arthur asked in desperation. He was seated at a desk in a small room with Skip standing behind him. The communications screen was the main source of illumination in the chamber as it highlighted the two mens' faces.

“Those who remained on the surface are now under the jurisdiction of the Gorn Hegemony. Although our census of the ex-patriots was hastily put together when we left the Cestus system, we couldn't find any trace of your family in the records. I'm sorry sir, but chances are that they're both dead.”

Arthur put his face in his hands and began to breathe irregularly, indicating he was starting to weep. Skip reached over from behind him and touched the communications console.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Skip replied to the officer on the other end. “We appreciate your assistance.”

Closing the channel, the screen went blank, and the room went quiet with the exception of Arthur's quiet sobbing. Skip remained silent for the next few minutes, allowing his friend to grieve. As his painful mourning began to subside, Arthur wiped the tears out of his bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his leather jacket. Skip put a tender hand on Arthur's shoulder.

“You still have one family member left,” Skip said soothingly. “I think he'd rather hear the news from you instead of from a some inhumane Starfleet manifest. Don't you?”

---

Chapter 7: Holding StationTop

Kimberly Roth sat at her desk staring blankly into the coffee cup that had been empty since she began duty at 0800 hours. She shook her head and cleared her throat. “Computer,” she called to the ship's ubiquitous disembodied voice, “resume personal log entry.”

“Acknowledged.”

The voice that called back was not the cool neutral alto that Roth had always assumed to be uniform on Starfleet vessels. The captain of the U.S.S. Republic was taken aback when her command was met with a stern baritone. Roth sat and pondered a moment. Had she heard the barest hint of an accent from that voice? “Note to self” she muttered, not loud enough for the computer to hear, “Tell the Chief Engineer to fix that new voice.” The captain paused and shook her head again, “As soon as I GET a Chief Engineer.”

Roth lowered the fastening on her over tunic slightly, continued her log entry while looking over notes and orders on several PADDs scattered about her desk. “Captain's log, continued. While Smoke seems to love this post, I remain a bit pensive. I took this position because I saw it as a way to get back into `Fleet's good graces…not to mention get back to civilization, but as I survey the state of Republic, I'm not so sure.”

“We've been docked at Starbase 39 Sierra for three days now. The ship itself is undergoing major repair and refit operations. We've had the AI protocols upgraded, and our primary warp coils are in the process of being replaced, to say nothing of a number of ODN relays, isolinear modules, and according to my Ops Chief before he left, one kitchen sink.”

In the far corner of Roth's room, a sound somewhere between a purr and a hiss came from a coiled brown mass, marked by two bright red eyes.

“Oh, is that right stinker?” Roth chided her pet. “You keep that up and I'll ship you back to Earth with Mister Locksley!”

The dark creature tilted its head and blinked in a rather unimpressed fashion, then went back to preening it's shiny coat.

The Captain initialed one of the PADDs she'd been holding, then continued to speak. “With the departure of Chief Engineer Virtus, the repairs are being overseen by former science chief, Ensign Pakita. After formally reassigning her to engineering, I've sent a request to PERSCOM that she be stepped up to lieutenant junior grade. I would have liked to meet mister Virtus. He's got a pretty colorful rep with the rest of the brain trust back home, but `Fleet doesn't seem to know what to do with him.”

As Roth continued the log entry, she tuned on her desk's computer interface, looking over the files of her senior staff as she commented on them.

“Lieutenant Hawk hasn't crossed me yet, but I'm sure that's just a matter of time. His record's so black it makes the stars look dim. That might be part of the reason that Carter has him on limited duty. Well that, and the small matter of what happened on Cestus three.”

“On the subject of Cestus three, I still haven't submitted my self to Doctor Cromwell's Chamber of Horrors.”

Roth smiled as she heard Smoke bleek a response. She wagged her finger at the brown-furred creature. “Quiet!” Roth scolded, “there's a vet onboard too you know.”

Smoke continued to preen his coat as if Roth's words were less than annoying. The Captain meanwhile, turned her attention back to her log.

“The Doctor is still keeping mum about the relationship between him and his father, and I must admit that the Elder Cromwell is a piece of work. I can see where the Doctor gets his stubbornness from though. The funny thing is, almost everything I know about Doctor Cromwell I had to get from the Counselor.”

Smoke bleeked again to correct the Captain. Roth rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I'm sorry. ACTING Counselor.”

Roth tapped a few keys, then stared at the blank screen on her computer terminal. “Damnedist thing though, Doctor Harris' file doesn't seem to come up in the computer at all. Not even a missing file report. Must be a problem with the AI records node. Yet another thing for the Chief Engineer to look at.”

“Still no word from Admiral Kostya as to what our orders might be, but after years on a backwater station I have to say it just doesn't matter. I'll take anywhere, so long as it's interesting.”

Roth gathered her thoughts as she paged through Republic's crew roster, finally settling on the service jacket of John Carter, the ship's XO, and as far as she could determine, Admiral Vladimir Kostya's LEAST favorite person.

“Despite the Admiral's vow to ruin Commander Carter's career, I think that my XO is up to proving him wrong. Carter's got the stuff, I just need to rein him in a bit. Either that . . . ” Roth paused and looked out to the busy dockyard of Starbase 39 Sierra, “Either that, or I risk ending up like Republic's last Captain.”

Roth stood bent over her desk, content to watch Smoke complete his daily ritual. “End Log.”

“Acknowledged.”

Roth chuckled. “Now I KNOW that's not `Fleet issue!”

---

Chapter 8: An Unlikely ReunionTop

“She's what?!” John Carter rubbed the back of his neck; both a sign of stress and concentration. His question was directed at Yeoman David Lucas, a member of the logistics staff on 39 Sierra who had just delivered some very surprising news to Republic's executive officer, caught in a corridor on his way to a turbolift .

Dave Lucas was a rarity in Starfleet, in that he actually was as young as he looked. A round face, crowned by an Academy-issue haircut was marked by bright green eyes that still held a spark of enthusiasm, if not awe at being onboard a Galaxy Class starship. As one of the lowest ranking officers in the Operations Department on 39 Sierra, Lucas often got saddled with what most fleet personnel liked to call `Tribble Work'. Something that was neither necessary nor useful. However, the unexpected arrival of a very irate Starfleet Commander had made his day much more interesting than he had thought it would be. Lucas had been asked personally by 39 Sierra's CO, the much respected, though misunderstood Commodore Friedrich “Fritz” Heizler, to try and solve a very vocal problem.

That meant finding Republic's XO.

The young crewman shrugged his shoulders. “Commander Taylor is in Officer's Conference Room three on the station sir,” he explained. “She's asking for you specifically.”

`I'll just bet she is' Carter thought silently.

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

The Yeoman tilted his head. “No sir,” he answered. “Should I have?”

Carter waved his hand, dismissing the ensigns concerns. “Not at all. Commander Taylor's a former member of Republic's crew. I'd just as soon keep this in house.”

“Very well, Sir.” The fresh-faced ensign turned and walked down the corridor, back the way he'd came.

Standing near the turbolift door, John tapped his comm. badge. “XO to Captain Roth.”

“Roth here, what is it Number One?”

“There's a little wrinkle I need to look into on the base Captain. Commodore Heizler seems to think I'm . . . uniquely qualified.”

“Very well, Mister Carter. Best not to keep our hosts waiting.”

“Thanks Skipper,” Carter answered informally. “Shouldn't take too long.” The channel closed and John Carter rolled his eyes. `I hope . . . '

---

Lana Taylor was the very picture of excitement. After months of tests, resting, and more tests, she was finally back in space, and the flutter in her chest told her that with each passing second, she was closer to putting her family back together.

Lana took a moment to gaze out the armour-plast window that afforded her a view of the Starbase's docking berths. Ships of all sizes and classes, both military and commercial were being tended to by a veritable army of worker bees and hard-suited engineers, but Lana Taylor couldn't take her eyes off of the blue-grey hull of the U.S.S. Republic. Her ship, and more importantly, his ship. Lana smiled broadly. “See you soon Jim.”

---

Flux-chillers hummed and the rapid pulse of a model 47 warp core reverberated through hull of the U.S.S. Emerson. The sound was higher pitched than normal, and made Chief Engineer Anthony Rizzo wince. He glanced down at his status display and shook his head, then looked over his left shoulder toward his captain, who was seated, rather tensely he thought, in Emerson's command chair. Rizzo cleared his throat. “Captain, I think . . . ”

The Captain waved a hand up to dismiss the engineer's comment as a silky soprano answered back. “I have every confidence you'll hold her together Mister Rizzo.” She paused a bit, then murmured to herself. “We've got a crewman to look after. And I never leave a man behind.”

The young Commanding Officer of the Emerson fixed her gaze on the navigational plot on the forward viewer. “ETA to 39 Sierra, Mister Honeycutt?”

The red-headed lieutenant in the Con position answered back without missing a beat. “One hour, 27 minutes, present speed, Sir.”

---

Outside the conference room on 39 Sierra, John Carter tapped nervously at his comm badge. “Come on damn it,” he cursed. “Carter to Doctor Cromwell . . . ”

In the cool dispassionate tones that Carter barely acknowledged anymore, the base computer answered back. “Doctor Cromwell is not onboard the starbase.”

“Great,” Carter huffed. “Of all the times to be off the clock.” Running a hand through his hair, John squared his shoulders, and stepped into the room. On the other side, he saw Commander Lana Taylor, the former XO of Republic, and an old friend of Captain Marshall's.

Commander Taylor had left the ship under less than ideal circumstances following a problem pregnancy that was only resolved with the use of Borg technology from the Delta Quadrant. Republic's Medical and Science teams had worked a near miracle to deliver the child, but that wasn't the reason for her leaving the ship. Before the rescue of the Zurich, most of the ship's senior staff had seen Commander Taylor and Captain Marshall share a less than regulation moment, and the conflict of interest was resolved when Lana's pregnancy provided an excuse. Carter had always wondered if that particular chicken might come home to roost. Apparently, it had.

Looking at her now, Carter could see that time away from the Republic had suited Commander Taylor. Her face was bright and cheery, with no sign of the stress or fatigue that Carter had last seen. Indeed, the officer seemed almost . . . giddy.

“You wanted to see me Commander Taylor?” John said, stepping into the room.

“Oh please John,” the other officer's tone was positively joyful, “there's no need to be so formal. After all, you're Jim's right hand man.” Taylor spun suddenly, as if overcome by a sudden need to dance. “I always knew you two would work out your problems eventually.”

There were few times in his life that John Carter had been rendered speechless. Now, as he heard the way Taylor seemed to be referring to her friend in the present tense, John felt his jaw clench. `Sprock ME!' he thought. `How can she NOT know? Everybody knows!'

Swallowing hard, John made a motion for the commander to sit down, which he quickly followed. “Lana,” he said calmly, “you look well. How's the baby?”

Lana's face retained its ever-more disturbing cheerfulness. “Little Jay is fine.” She answered calmly. “It's sweet of you to ask really, but I'm sure that Jim's talked your ear off already.”

“No,” John answered cautiously. “Not as much as you'd think.” John shook his head slightly and felt his jaw tense as he asked a question to which he didn't really want the answer. “When was the last time you spoke with the . . . with Captain Marshall, Lana.”

“He placed a subspace call last week, but I've been on assignment with the Belleraphon for nearly six months.” Taylor let out a heavy sigh, “You know how it is in `Fleet.”

Carter felt another rush of concern as he listened to his former comrade. He'd already been concerned about what sort of mood Lana might be in when she arrived, but now he feared for her sanity.

According to the last deployment update from Starfleet Command, Belleraphon had been lost with all hands during a mission to observe the collapse of a binary star in the Draconus sector. Lana Taylor was never on Belleraphon, and the more John thought about it, the more he began to suspect that she hadn't spoken to Captain Marshall since the last time she'd been aboard Republic. “Lana, I'm sorry,” he explained, “but Captain Marshall's unavailable right now.”

“Unavailable?” The look of crushing disappointment crossed the female commander's face. “But, Republic is here. I had to pull . . . a lot of strings to find that out, you know.” Then there was an unsettling tilt to Lana's head as she continued. “Republic is Jim's ship, so he has to be here, right?” She seemed to furrow her brow, as if willing the universe to conform to her wishes. “Right?”

---

Starbase offices are a flurry of activity. Sometimes at a low buzz, sometimes at a fever-pitch, but there was always something going on. On this particular day, the docking berths of Starbase 39 Sierra were nearly full. And the number was about to increase by one. The low hum of voices and activity was broken by an incoming sub-space message. The call was answered by Ensign Olivia Peters, a small, dark-haired woman who excelled at organizational skills, and made a mean Jovian sunspot if you asked nicely. “39 Sierra Approach Control to . . . ” Peters glanced at her transponder records, “NCC-47812. Come in Emerson.”

“USS Emerson to 39 Sierra control. This is Captain Rachel Blake. Apologies for the unexpected visit, but we're traveling under code Alpha-Niner.”

“Alpha Nine?” Peters echoed softly. `But why would an Akira class starship be flying under a ceremonial bereavement flag?' she wondered. `And why here?' Peters cleared her throat. “Stand by Emerson, we'll see if we can squeeze you in. Come to course Zero-three-six mark one-four, and hold station please.”

“Understood Control. Emerson, standing by.”

---

“LIAR!” Lana Taylor screamed. “You filthy LIAR!” The distraught officer struggled as John Carter fought to keep her hands restrained.

“Commander, please! You need to listen to me!”

In a fit of rage-enhanced strength, Lana twisted a hand free and tensed her fingers in a vicious claw. Before Carter could react to her movement, the enraged officer raked her nails across Carter's face, creating four distinct rivulets of blood. “You don't know what I need! The Doctor's didn't know . . . NO BODY KNOWS!”

John pushed hard against his former colleague's chest, driving her back against the large room's conference table. He dabbed a hand against his now inflamed face and blinked. Across the room, he could see Lana Taylor crouched like a predatory animal

“You did it, didn't you Carter! You hated Jim! Hated him because he was twice the man you'd ever be!” She tensed again, preparing for another lunge. “You killed him, and I'll kill you!”

Carter backed away toward the door and tapped his combadge. “Carter to Republic, Hell . . . ANYBODY! Emergency! Station Conference Room three!”

---

Chapter 9: Keeping an Eye OutTop

Location: Recreation Room 2, Republic docking berth level, Starbase 39 Sierra

Sweat poured down Ensign Depach Narudi's forehead as his eyes were transfixed in deep concentration. With the Republic in port, there was very little for the security department to do on the ship, so most were provided a light duty schedule to either relax or catch up on some tactical training. Depach, however, was given another very important task by the acting department head. With a 3-D chess board sitting in front of him, the young South American-born ensign looked across the table at his opponent: Lieutenant Sean McTaggart, acting security chief.

Around them, the room was packed with onlookers as the two Republic officers were engaged in an intense, 7-hour session of 3D Chess. With the five bars of latinum lying next to the chess board, the stakes were high and the competition fierce. The crowd of spectators only added to the tense atmosphere in the room as Ensign Narundi carefully, but nervously picked up a white pawn and moved it to another level.

“P-pawn to rook level two,” he nervously said.

A few whispers of interest were shared among the watchers and McTaggart displayed a half-grin causing Narundi to close his eyes in the sudden realization he had made a bad move.

“Bishop to king's level one,” Sean said smartly.

“Checkm . . . ”

“Harris to McTaggart! Emergency!

Immediately, the two security officers had dismissed the match and focused their attention to the ominous message.

“McTaggart here. Go ahead,” Sean replied.

“The Republic just got a message for Commander Carter in the berthing platform conference room three! He's says he's being attacked!”

The two officers were on their feet and making their way through the crowd to the door as McTaggart responded.

“On our way. McTaggart out.”

---

Location: Corridor 12, section A, deck 16, Starbase 39 Sierra

Sean McTaggart struggled to keep up as Depach Narundi and one other member of Republic's Tactical Department raced down 39 Sierra's busy corridors. “I don't get it Depach,” McTaggart shouted, “Who in the world would want to hurt the XO? Especially in the middle of a Starbase? And why didn't he just call base security?”

Sean watched as Narundi turned his head slightly. “You've never read the Commander's file, have you?” he asked.

“Well no, but . . . ”

“Commander Carter has a singular talent for making impressions.” Narundi commented. “Seems like you either love him or hate him in the first five minutes.”

“Huh,” McTaggart considered. “I'll buy that I guess.” Sean centered his purpose as the impromptu rescue party rounded the curve of the central corridor in the docking berth.

“Where the hell is station security?”

At Depach's query, McTaggart tapped his combadge. “Lieutenant McTaggart to Station Ops.”

“Sierra Ops. Go ahead.”

“Is the tactical team en route to Conference Room three?”

“Confirmed Lieutenant. ETA two minutes.”

“Belay that!” McTaggart said sternly as Depach shifted his weight and the lift doors obediently closed. “We're closer, but have a medical team ready in the infirmary.”

“Understood Lieutenant.”

Inwardly, Depach Narundi smiled `Hmmm, there might be an officer in there after all', he mused. Then he looked at Sean McTaggart directly. “What's the plan, Chief?”

---

John Carter rocked his shoulders, trying to present as small a target as possible to the enraged Lana Taylor. “Commander!” he shouted, “I can help you, but you have to . . . ”

Before Republic's XO could finish, the frantic woman lunged again, this time aiming for Carter's mid-section. Carter tried to spin out of the woman's grip, but only managed to turn his body back toward the conference table as Lana attacked.

“MURDERER!” she shouted as her shoulders made contact with Carter's torso, her arms wrapped around his waist. She smiled as she heard a satisfying huff from her target and the air escaped his lungs.

The world seemed to spin as all of John Carter's breath left him. Through a reddened haze, he could barely make out Lana's tangled curls as she moved to pin him to the floor. “Puh . . . please . . . ”

Lana smiled sweetly as she straddled Carter's chest, using her knees to pin his arms to the floor. “Fah! And to think I used to be afraid of you! For what?” she asked, as she pulled her combadge from her chest. The light glinted off one the points of the insignia's familiar `flying delta'. “You're just a frail little man who wouldn't know REAL greatness if it bit you!” Then, with a sudden change of countenance, Taylor tilted her head. “You know,” she said playfully, “I never used to like these new badges . . . too angular for me, but now, I have to admit . . . they might be just the thing!”

Taylor held her comm. badge inches from Carter's throat, then raised her hand. “Good bye, traitor.” Taylor whispered.

Then Carter's own communicator chirped.

“John, it's Shannon. Where are you? What's going on?”

A guttural rumble came from Lana Taylor as she clutched Carter's badge and tore it from his uniform. “Shut up, just SHUT UP!” Taylor screamed.

---

Tense seconds ticked by as the ersatz rescue party made their way to the doors of Conference Room three. “Ok,” McTaggart said, “Here's how we play it. Station sensors haven't picked up any weapons or transporter traces, so our first objective is to secure the commander.” The rest of the party nodded as McTaggart's comm chirped to life.

“Republic Ops to Tac Chief. We just lost the XO's bio- sign!”

“Oh, HELL no!” McTaggart yelled back. “Confirm that Ops.?” he questioned, even as his fingers flew across the controls to open the door to the conference room. There was a sharp clang followed by the whine of servos as the door opened.

---

Lana Taylor turned her head swiftly as she heard the doors to the room open. Meanwhile, his lungs still aching for air, John Carter writhed beneath his former comrade in a desperate struggle to break free. “NO!” Taylor cursed. “You're too late!” With all the power her madness could summon, Lana Taylor drove her improvised weapon down into her target.

Depach Narundi felt his blood turn cold as he heard a painful cry from the conference room. “No.” He whispered softly.

Depach took three quick steps, cocking his fist back as he charged into the room. He threw all of his strength and momentum behind his clenched fist, meeting squarely with the attacker's jaw.

Lana Taylor's head flew sideways as she turned at the approaching noises. “No!” She shouted, “You're too la . . . ”

Depach's punch cut the commander off in mid-sentence. The only sounds after that were the heavy thud of Taylor's head hitting the edge of the conference table, and John Carter's labored breathing.

“Oh my God . . . ” Depach whispered.

---

Rachel Blake stood impatiently at the Emerson's main gangway, as a few of her officers assembled around her. She nodded in approval as she say Lieutenant Commander Jeff Burns and Chief Petty Officer Lisa Houlihan round out her very important detail. “All right people,” she said firmly. “Let's bring him home.”

Seven officers in all exited from the docking assembly holding the U.S.S. Emerson, and onto the outer hall of the station's main level. There were several questioning looks as the new arrivals saw that the station's alert tracers were active in the hallway. “What the Hell?” she questioned.

---

“Is she out?” Sean McTaggart asked.

Depach Narundi nodded as he pulled his fingers from Lana Taylor's still pulsing corroded artery. “She'll live.” he commented.

Sean McTaggart was bent over the body of John Carter trying to check his First Officer for any other injuries.

“There's a lot of blood, but I think he'll be ok.” Sean worked through the gruesome sight in front of him and grasped Carter's shoulder. “You just hang in there, XO. Doc'll have you up to spec in no time.” Then he tapped his combadge. “McTaggart to Sierra Ops. Emergency! Two to beam directly to the infirmary!”

In a wash of light and sound, McTaggart and Carter vanished, leaving only the stains of Carter's blood as a reminder of their presence. Depach Narundi Stood, and took hold of the limp form of Commander Lana Taylor as the 39 Sierra's Tactical Detail finally arrived. He ignored the commotion and spoke to his unconscious charge. “You're lucky he'll live,” he whispered. “I always knew you'd be trouble.”

---

Location: Infirmary, Exam 1, Starbase 39 Sierra

Doctor Sarah Chambers was blessed with keen insight, a graceful air, and natural charisma. But at this moment . . .

“I told you I'm FINE blast it! Now get me out of this torture chamber!”

She was grateful for a near boundless supply of patience. She looked down softly at the gruff, older man on the bio-bed and smiled. “I'd never torture you Mister Cromwell,” she offered with a wink. “For all I know, you might enjoy it.”

The old man flushed and stammered. “Now see here young lady! I'll . . . ”

“Enough, Dad,” came the firm baritone voice of Doctor Leon Cromwell. He turned to look at Doctor Chambers, noting how well her dark brown skin brought out the green in her eyes. “What's the prognosis?”

“Well, aside from your father's charming disposition, I'd say his heart will make a full recovery.”

“Can you please stop talking about me like I'm not even here!” The Elder Cromwell protested.

“But you must know that, Doctor. After all, you could have run these tests yourself on board the Republic.”

Leon smiled sheepishly. “Honestly, Doctor, I did. I just wanted to make it a point to get a second opinion.”

Chambers smiled and patted Leon's shoulder. “Any time Doctor.” Then she looked down at her long-suffering patient. “You can go now, Mister Cromwell,” she added with a slight smile in her voice as she headed for the ward's main hall.

“Yeah,” the old man complained. “Thanks for nothing.”

Leon extended a hand to his father. “Come on Dad, Lins and the rest are waiting for us on the prom . . . ”

Leon's thoughts were broken by the unmistakable whine of a transporter followed by several raised voices.

” . . . ocular trauma . . . “

” . . . 30 ccs of primagen, Stat! . . . “

” . . . Cancel! Patient is non-responsive to re-gen. Damned Martians . . . “

Leon walked around the corner to see what all the fuss might be. He felt his jaw slacken as he saw the battered form of Commander John Carter. The officer's face was streaked with blood, and there was a Starfleet issue communicator protruding from his left eye socket.

Nearby, Sean McTaggart spied his ship's surgeon. “Doc?”

Leon bolted over to Carter's bedside, pushing through the mass of assembled caretakers. “Sweet Mercy!” he hissed.

Barely aware of his surroundings, John Carter heard the whispered words of his friend. “Leon?” he managed weakly.

Cromwell regained his professional composure and spoke. “Right here John, don't talk. You'll be ok.”

“Should have . . . known . . . ” Carter coughed. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Doctor Chambers, if I may?”

The starbase medical head opened her hands with a nod. “By all means, doctor. My facilities are at your disposal.” She stood back, pointing to two nearby nurses. “Help Doctor Cromwell and get him whatever he needs.”

Immediately, the two blue-uniformed officers huddled around the diagnostic table with Leon.

“I need 100 cc’s of neochlorine and an autosuture,” he rattled off quickly. “Activate intravenous infusion system and plasma generator. Oxygenation factor 0.21.” He looked down at Commander Carter who was looking up at him in a haze. “I’m going to put you under now, John. But, I’ll be right here the whole time, okay?”

The XO weakly nodded his head as Leon dialed a few buttons on the surgical module.

“Can I get some gloves and a smock, please?” Leon turned around, and pulled off his ivory turtleneck to reveal a black undershirt with sweat-stained armpits. Immediately, a medtech arrived with the Starfleet issue red surgical overgarment and helped Doctor Cromwell into it.

“Is there anything I can do?” Doctor Chambers asked. Arthur Cromwell slid off the biobed next to her a watched the drama unfolding before him with a concerned scowl.

“Can you get me a class-one micro-occular prism?” he asked as a nurse tied a mask over his mouth.

Doctor Chambers looked confused. “Well, sure. But . . . wouldn’t you rather use a bionic implant? There’s several very good models available . . . ”

Leon smiled under his mask.

“John made me promise to never ‘cyber-jack’ him,” he replied. “I’ll put a prism in his other eye so his depth perception will be restored and can function normally. But as for an optical implant . . . that will have to be his choice after he recovers.” With that, Leon turned to back to Commander Carter.

“Hemostats,” he ordered as a nurse promptly handed him a surgical tool. “Can we increase the level of the capillary restrictors? I’m still getting a little bleeding here.”

“Yes doctor.”

“Suction, on my mark.”

“Ready sir.”

“Mark . . . ”

Leon reached into John’s bloody eye socket and plucked the communicator from its invasive incision. He held it up in front of him with curiosity as the light twinkled off its gold surface streaked with crimson.

“This is a new one . . . ” he remarked before depositing the device into a nearby tray with a metallic chime.

“Let’s get that auto-suture going on the trachea,” Leon ordered. “Be sure to apply muscle-relaxant on those vocal chords.”

Arthur Cromwell continued to watch the surgery from afar as Doctor Chambers strode past him with a small tray. He had never seen his son at work like this before. Although the elder Cromwell and Commander Carter had engaged in several arguments on Cestus three, he had secretly harbored a certain respect for the Republic’s XO. There’s nothing Arthur liked more than good exchange of diatribes, and Carter had given him the best he’d had in years.

‘Too bad Leon never figured that out,’ he thought with regret. During Doctor Cromwell’s upbringing, he was more passive and quiet than argumentative with his father. Instead, the younger Cromwell saved his discord for others he encountered in life. But never with his father. That, on top of being associated with Starfleet, vexed Arthur to no ends. The chasm between the two only grew over the years, and as the elder watched his son at work, he realized just how far apart they were.

---

Location: Recovery suite 18, main medical center, Starbase 39 Sierra

With lucidity slowly dawning upon him like an early morning fog lifting to reveal the sun, John found himself staring into the soft, ambient light fixture on the ceiling. He groggily and slowly sat up in bed and looked around him. He was in a small room with a two chairs and a table underneath a viewport overlooking a starscape outside. His bed was the only one in the room, and to the other side of chamber, two doors existed with one leading to a small bathroom, and another that offered egress from the suite.

Suddenly, the Republic’s XO remembered what had happened. His hands, after searching his in-patient smock for his communicator, went to his throat to check the gaping wound that Lana had dealt him. It was gone, and the skin was smooth, and unscathed. Moving from his throat to his left eye, John felt the presence of a soft, velvet-like material covering the socket, and as he traced the edges of the wrap, realized he was wearing an eyepatch. Just as that happened, the door to the suite slid open.

Leon strolled through the door carrying a small transparent case in his hand. He wore his usual turtleneck sweater and looked at John with a relieved smile.

“Well, look who’s awake!” he remarked. The doctor placed the small case down on the end table next to the bed, and John saw that it contained a Starfleet-issue communicator.

“Thought you might like a souvenir,” Leon said.

---

Location: Captain's ready room, main bridge, USS Republic

“Why do I get the feeling that you know something about this?”

In the back of the room, Smoke bleeked expectantly.

As he tried to avoid eye contact with Captain Roth, a very worried Ensign Depach Narundi lowed his head in shame. “I a . . . I just hit a superior officer ma'am” he answered as he glanced at the Captain.

Kimberly Roth raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” The Captain looked back at Commodore Heizler on the desk-mounted viewscreen. “Was it someone on the station?”

“In a manner of speaking, Commander Taylor was on the station, but she's not one of my people.”

“Then who's `person' was she?” Roth questioned, as she looked back at Narundi. “And why did you hit her? That's serious Ensign, and damned irresponsible.”

“But it was in self-defense.” Narundi protested. “She was about to kill Commander Carter, and if I hadn't struck, Commander Carter would have died.” Depach's reply was short, clipped, and he hadn't realized that he was standing at attention.

Captain Roth held up her hands in confusion. “Hold on just one second! Who was that woman, and what does she have to do with Carter?”

“Commander Lana Taylor was the first XO of Republic, when Jim Marshall was first appointed.”

“But, I assumed she was re-assigned. What's she doing here?”

“That's where it gets complicated. Commander Taylor's in the station brig right now, and she's . . . well frankly she's raving. Seems she's not in the service at all. Following her transfer off Republic, she and her child were transferred to Serenity One.”

“Serenity? But that's . . . ”

“A psychological re-hab colony, yes.”

In the midst of the explanation, Smoke tilted his head up from the stalk of celery he had been busily munching. The small, dark creature moved with a silent, fluid grace off of his perch, wriggling under Roth's desk, only to appear expectantly with is forward paws poised on the polished black desktop.

Almost silently, Roth moved her right hand near Smoke's nose and made a faint `snap.' Eagerly, the small mammal bounded up to the desktop and padded up the Captain's arm, finally finding a new home on Roth's shoulder, his tail wrapped loosely around the CO's neck for balance. The small creature bleeked again.

“I'm with you, Stinker,” Roth commented. “This doesn't make any sense.”

On the other end of the channel, Heizler couldn't help the barest hint of a smile.

“When she arrived at the base this morning, she insisted on seeing Commander Carter. I feel I should apologize Captain, I set up the meeting between Taylor and Carter in the first place.”

“And that's where Narundi comes in?”

“In a manner of speaking. Commander Taylor had a difficult pregnancy, and despite the efforts of Republic's crew, the child didn't survive.”

“I had no idea.” Roth commented as she reached up to stroke Smoke's nose.

“No reason why you should really. At any rate, according to Serenity's case files, the loss of her child took quite a toll on Commander Taylor.”

“Just how long ago was this?” Roth asked.

“The child died six months after arrival at Starfleet Medical. Commander Taylor was transferred to Serenity soon after that. She made excellent progress, but then . . . ”

“She found out about Captain Marshall?” Roth offered, putting two and two together.

“Precisely. She managed to escape from Serenity One, and made her way to Republic. I had no idea she was so dangerous. The alert for her didn't arrive until the security alert was sounded.”

“So, she attacked my XO. Where's Taylor now? Where's Carter?”

“Taylor's in the brig, Carter's in the Infirmary. Seems your people were all in the right place at the right time. I'm sorry we couldn't get the information to you in time Captain. Truly.”

Roth nodded, silently approving of how her crew seemed to rally around one of their own. She knew that comradary of that sort was crucial to the effective running of a Starship. “Thank you Commodore,” Roth offered to the senior officer. “I'll be in the infirmary shortly. Can we take a short meeting when I'm on board?”

“Of course Captain. At your convenience.”

“Thank you, Sir. Republic out.”

In front of her desk, Roth realized that Ensign Narundi was still at attention. The young Security Officer hadn't moved throughout his Captain's conversation. “I will accept any punishment you give me Captain” looking a little surprised at the Captain who appeared to be giving off a kind motherly smile though trying to look stern toward Depach.

Smoke bleeked again, as if sensing his companion's approval. “I will have to mark the incident on your record Narundi,” the Captain explained, “but near as I ca tell, Taylor's commission shouldn't have been active. You didn't hit a superior officer,” Roth said simply, “But you did save the XO's life. Let me know what it's like to have Carter owe you one.” Roth smiled as she saw her words sink in. “You did good today Ensign. On your way.”

A smile spread across Debauch's face while he answered his Captain. “Yes Captain Roth ma'am, right away ma'am!” With that Narundi turned to the door and exited quickly so he could get back to the chess match he abandoned with McTaggart.

Roth tilted her gaze at the warm, dark lump purring on her shoulder. “Come on Stinker, Let's go check in on the XO.”

The bleek that followed gave Kimberly Roth a much needed laugh out loud.

---

Chapter 10: Moral OmissionsTop

Location: Starbase 39 Sierra, Promenade Level

In his fifteen years of life - Nat never counted the first 12 years, before he'd discovered the joys of life like sex, women, and rock n'roll - he had heard or been too every type of bar the greater Alpha Quadrant had to offer. For that matter, most of the Beta Quadrant as well. Yet somehow this place - the Old American Tavern - had eluded him. It was perhaps the most authentic old-earth style bar he had ever come across. The floors where covered with actual saw dust, the air stank of stale beer and a type of once-legal drug known as tobacco, and the music played from an antique juke-box in the corner. The clientele was almost entirely human in origin as far as he could tell, and for some reason - maybe the fact he recognized half of them - it felt as if everyone in here had run afoul of the law before.

All in all, it was exactly the type of place Nat could envision spending the next . . . however many days or weeks the Republic would be in these parts.

“Nat Hawk! You sorry son-of-a-bitch!” shouted a half-drunk patron sporting a beer-soaked goatee. It took Hawk a few seconds to put a name to the tall, balding man's face.

“Russ Callahan, ya stupid drunk!” Hawk replied, grinning as the half-drunk lumberjack of a man embraced him, picking him up off the bar stool.

“What the frinx are you doing here?” Callahan asked as he released Hawk, stumbling back a step. “Ain't you still wanted by the Romulans or some pointy-ears?”

“Nice of ya ta broadcast that, dumbass,” Hawk replied with a chuckle, even though that particular matter had been cleared up courtesy of his black-shirt guardians.

“Aww, you know me, I can't keep a secret when I'm drunk!” Callahan exclaimed, slobbering another mouthful of beer that smelled almost as foul as he did.

“Yer always drunk!” Hawk exclaimed laughing, as his own beer arrived and he inhaled a mouthful.

“I know!” Callahan replied, laughing, then slapping Nat on the back, causing him to spill a fine amount of his drink on his silk shirt.

“Aww, damnit! You oaf!” Hawk shouted.

Callahan only laughed, “Aww, sorry there Mister fancy-britches,” Callahan mockingly-apologized, “Forgot how much of a tight-ass you where about how you look.”

“Ya could learn a thing 'er two from me on that front, considering ya look more n'more like a Klingon with each passin' year.” Hawk replied. “Not ta mention smell like one.”

Callahan's only response was to belt out a belly-laugh that sounded more like a Ferengi death-rattle than anything else. It was perhaps the most irritating trait the man had, though he had quite a few as Nat recalled. Which was half the reason he hadn't kept in touch, as it where. The other half of the reason of course being the bounty the size of a small moon on his head. Even a 'friend' like Callahan couldn't resist that kind of latinum. Hell, Hawk had been half-tempted to turn himself in to the syndicate for it. At least until he realized he not only wouldn't be alive long enough to use it, but anyone he'd want to leave it to would likely be killed simply for knowing him. Though he had given limited thought to leaving that bounty to everyone he'd ever had a run-in with just for that reason . . .

“Hot damn, this is your lucky day Hawk, I swear,” Callahan said as he chugged down the remaining contents of his drink. “I just came into possession of a gnarled old hunk-of-junk I know you'll be itching to get your hands on,” he said, fumbling around in the pockets of his jacket for something.

“Thanks Rusty, but I seen yer wife and she ain't ma type.” Hawk replied, taking a swig of his own drink. Callahan's only response was another belly-laugh.

“Here, take a look at this,” he said, dropping an isolinear chip down on the bar in front of Hawk.

“Yeah, cause I just happen ta have a chip reader handy . . . ” Nat replied.

“Hell man, when you see what I've got for you, you'll be asking to kiss my boots!” Callahan said, moving behind the bar as if he owned the place.

“Day I kiss yer boots is tha day I'm elected President of the Federation.”

“Well then lemme change the juke-box to 'hail to the chief' Mister President,” Callahan replied with a chuckle as he handed a chip reader, already containing the chip, over to Hawk.

Setting down his almost-finished drink, Nat took the bulky device that looked about as old as Hawk himself and turned it's plexi-aluminum face to his own. The image on the screen looked like it had been taken with a first-generation holo-imager, but there was no mistaking the object of the photos attention.

“Sweet Jesus' Ass . . . ” Hawk uttered, looking at his personal holy grail - battered and broken as it was.

“Now then, about them boots?” Callahan replied with a grin, putting one foot up on the bar.

“Get yer dirty-ass boots off the bar,” Hawk replied, shoving the foot away, to which Callahan busted out in laughter again. “My god, where'n hell did ya find 'er?”

“You ever heard of the Battle of Rashanar?” Callahan queried, bringing out a bottle of Whiskey from the bar and pouring two glasses.

“Most folks have,” Hawk replied. The infamous battle was the only one of the Dominion War of which neither side had won - or survived. Both sides had simply continued fighting until everyone was dead for reasons that until a few years ago had been unknown. The entire Rashanar system had been a scavenger's dream - and nightmare - for a good two years after the war's end, until the Enterprise-E had shed some light on everything. Though it had cost the legendary starship and her crew a pinch of her prestige in the process. “What 'n tha hell was she doin' there, though?” Hawk asked.

“Well, near as I can tell, fighting like everybody else, right up until the end.”

“Rusty, if this things an honest-ta-god Mark-1 Peregrine-Class Prototype . . . the friggin' Model-T fer tha whole class . . . then she'd've been a good half-century out-a-date for Rashanar.” Hawk replied, confused.

Callahan shrugged, taking a sip of his whiskey, “All I can tell you is she came from Rashanar. How and why, damned if I know. Damned if the scrappers who pulled 'er out know either. They sold 'er to me for just that purpose, scrap. I knew from hanging around you too long that she wasn't a total hunk-of-junk though.” Callahan explained.

“Damn straight,” Hawk replied, eyeing the blurry-image. “Where's she?” he asked.

Location: Cargo bay 29-Beta, Starbase 39 Sierra

Ten minutes and half a bottle of whiskey later, Hawk and Callahan stood in one of the starbase's cargo bays, looking up at what most would regard as a giant piece of scrap metal. The forward landing struts had been sheered clean off so her front end rested on cargo-containers, and the ship itself was full of pot-marks, dents, scorch-marks and such, but she was still beautiful to Nathan Hawk. Whether she was the real-deal or not depended on checking one thing though.

Climbing on to the hull, Hawk moved to the cock-pit. The transparent-aluminum was shattered and broken, and the hatch sounded worse than Callahan's belly-laugh, but it didn't really matter to Nat. As soon as he saw the out-of-date joy-stick control in the center of the cock-pit, he knew without a doubt he was dealing with the real deal. It was like finding a Model-T Ford, or 2036 Toyota Sparrow - the first commercial hover-car.

“Ya know Rusty, I've actually had dreams 'bout this moment.” Hawk said, awe apparent in his voice.

“Long as they weren't sexually-oriented . . . ” Callahan teased.

“Pervert,” Hawk replied with a laugh. “So how much?” he asked, wanting to get to business quickly.

“Hrmm . . . well, that's a good question. When you factor in my finders fee, what I paid for it, storage costs . . . ” Rusty prattled off.

“Just gimme a price you dipshit before the nostalgia and awe factor wares off and I try to negotiate.” Hawk snapped.

Callahan laughed - again. Hawk cringed at the sound - again. Then Callahan said something about as unusual and unexpected as could be said - ever.

“Take her.” he said.

“Wha?” Hawk asked.

“She's yours. No charge.” Callahan re-iterated.

“What tha hell're ya pullin' Rusty?” Hawk asked.

“I ain't pulling nothing, swear on my 2031 bottle of Jack Daniels,” Callahan replied.

“Then what's the deal? What's the catch? She rigged with explosives?” Hawk asked, jumping down from the hull.

“Naw, she's payment of the debt I owe you.” Rusty replied.

“What debt? I always collect my debts, Rusty. If you owed my half-a-slip of latinum I'd have been on you like stink on a Klingon.” Hawk said.

“Heh, not a debt of latinum. Debt of life, my friend. Or did you forget about how you sabotaged my engines before I could make that smuggling run to Altair IV?” Callahan asked.

“What?” Hawk asked, confused as all hell.

“About two years back, I had a smuggling run to Altair IV to run, and ended up stranded in orbit with no warp drive. Turns out my warp drive had been rigged to blow me to hell and back as soon as I engaged warp two. You, as I recall, where the only person in the engine room between my last diagnostic and the morning I left. It took me a while to put two-and-two together, but . . . seems I owe you more than latinum for that.”

Hawk didn't know what to say. He had been in the engine room that evening as he recalled. But he sure as hell hadn't sabotaged the warp drive, or for that matter known about it being rigged to explode. His first instinct was to tell Callahan this truth, but his better instincts quickly suppressed his built-in morality. How often did you find yourself in this type of situation, after all? One of your life's obsessions at your finger tips, free to take, and all you had to do was omit the truth?

“Well hey,” Hawk said, “what're friends for?”

Callahan laughed in response, and any doubt Nat had about his choice in this matter vanished.

---

Chapter 11: A Knock at the DoorTop

Starbase 39 Sierra was well-equipped facility, with 52 transitory starship docking ports, 24 minor repair drydocks, and 12 major refit berthing complexes. The latter contained facilities to house a ship’s entire crew for extended periods while their ship is in port, and in addition to the thousands of other amenities available in the main station, contains several recreation suites, conference facilities, and specialized engineering offices to oversee refit operations. In effect, a starship’s crew need never leave their ship’s berthing complex during their stopover at the starbase.

However, for the Republic, the ship was in relatively good shape, and did not require a complete evacuation while undergoing refit. Since her launch less than a year prior, this was Republic’s second major refit, the first being the replacement of the stardrive section during the Kreltan conflict. After that, the crew complained of several major problems with the new interconnect, as matching a new stardrive with an old saucer was like putting the warp drive of a class two shuttlecraft onto a much older class one; there were bound to be ongoing problems. That, and with technological developments outpacing the rate of starship construction, required an overhaul of many of Republic’s main system. She would be there for a while, especially since her chief engineer was no longer present to expedite the operation.

It was a short walk for Captain Roth across the gangway plank into the multi-story berthing complex for the Republic. She smiled and nodded to the passing crewmen as she strolled through the main corridor with Smoke draped over her shoulder in a relaxed catnap. As she passed though the egress threshold and into the main station, the personnel traffic increased in the widened hallway. Stores and shops lined the walls, and islands of plant stands and fountains were situated down the center of the hall. Although her destination was the medical complex, Roth could not help but to stop and window-shop along the way. Soon, she crossed over into the restaurant promenade, where hundreds of different eateries from many worlds in the Federation were open for business. One of such, was a Betazoid culinary alcove, complete with trellises overflowing with flowering vines. It was here were the Captain stopped for a beverage to go, as she was very fond of Betazoid refreshments.

As Roth ordered a Gremelian Fruit Spritzer, she handed a credit to Smoke, who dutifully accepted the currency, and climbed off the Captains shoulder before offering it to the cashier. Amused, the vendor smiled and rang the order up as the small creature returned to the Captain’s shoulder. Taking a sip from the colorful straw, she strolled back out into the corridor where she saw about half a dozen Starfleet officers standing outside and staring directly at her. Feeling uncomfortable, she stared back for a moment before walking up to the ranking individual of the group. Raising an eyebrow at the Lieutenant Commander in operations gold, she asked, “is there something I can do for you?”

“You’re Kim Roth, aren’t you?” he replied back with cold edge to his voice.

“And you are?” Roth continued.

“Commander Kilman,” he paused before saying his next words with a distinct tone of disgust. “ . . . of the U.S.S. Shren.”

“I’m sorry,” the captain said with confusion. “I don’t believe I know anyone from that ship.”

A few of the group chuckled as the commander looked back towards his comrades with a poisonous half-smile.

“You hear that?” he said with spite. “She’s not familiar with us!” Turning back to face her, but still talking to his friends. “She doesn’t remember the ship that hauled 341 dead crewmembers back to Deep Space Nine after first contact with the Breen!”

Kim closed her eyes and took a breath. ‘Not again,’ she thought.

“I guess thinking of others isn’t in her best interest, is it . . . captain.” The rank sprung from his mouth dripping with contempt.

“If there’s something you have to say, commander,” Roth replied coolly. “You’d better just say it.”

“Okay,” the commander said with a smile and taking a step towards her. His swagger and bloodshot eyes betrayed his inebriated state. “I will.” One more step and he was face to face with the Republic’s captain, his height hovering over six inches above her. “Not only did nine-tenths of our crew die that day, but my brother on the Potempkin also got blasted to hell.” He leaned close to her, the smell of his breath wafting over Roth’s nostrils forcing her to wince in disgust. “How do you sleep at night . . . captain?”

Smoke started to growl as Roth replied. “I’m sure you know what happened at the court martial. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Tell that to my brother,” the drunk officer shot back. “Oh, wait!” he remarked with sarcasm. ‘”You can’t! You know why? Because he’s DEAD!” The shout began to draw the attention of the passing crowd. “And it’s YOUR fault!” He stuck his finger out and emphasized his point by pushing forcefully into her chest. Before Roth could respond, her aggressor yelped angrily with pain as Smoke took a bloody chunk out of the man’s finger.

The captain dropped her drink, and it crashed to the floor as the officer shot daggers at the small animal.

“Why you little piece of . . . ”

“Is there a problem here?” a gruff voice interrupted. Both the captain and the drunk officer looked towards the voice to find a short Master Chief Petty Officer in command red staring at the commander with a stiff jaw and squinted eyes. Although the man’s height was not intimidating, his large, muscular frame and short, pepper gray hair sported a middle-aged bearded face of a person who has seen his share of personal combat. “Or should I call station security and see if we can sort this out before this gets REALLY ugly?”

The drunk looked at the newcomer while nursing his bleeding appendage. He looked around, noticing the watching crowd that had gathered, and the stone-cold face of Captain Roth staring back at him.

“Come on, Jack,” one of the man’s friends said from behind. “Let’s go. I guess Starfleet Command forgot was justice was by promoting this piece of crap.” The group of officers walked away, shooting a scathing glance towards Roth over their shoulder’s as they left.

“Thanks,” Roth offered the chief. “I appreciate that. But I could have taken them.”

“No problem, ma’am,” he responded. “Just doing my job.”

“I wish I could repay you somehow.”

The chief just smiled and said, “you’ll have lot’s of chances, don’t worry.”

“What do you mean?” the captain replied in confusion.

“I suppose I should introduce myself.” The man extended his hand to shake hers. “Bradford Rainier,” he introduced himself. “I’m your new chief-of-the-boat.”

Startled, Roth raised her eyebrows. “Well . . . ” she paused. “Your timing was excellent. Good to meet you chief.” She accepted his handshake as they two stood in the hallway. “I was just on my way to see our XO in the infirmary. You may accompany me if you wish.”

He nodded his head as the two began walking. “What happened?” the chief asked.

“He was attacked by former crewmate who escaped from a psych-colony. Fortunately, our security people were in the right place at the right time.”

“Hmm,” the chief replied. “Sounds like a normal day for the Republic crew.”

Roth turned to him and said, “Been reading out logs, have we?”

“Why else would I have requested the transfer?” he replied with a smile.

---

Location: Recovery suite 18, main medical complex, Starbase 39 Sierra

Sporting his new eye-patch, John Carter was sitting on the edge of his bed pulling his duty tunic down over his head. While Doctor Cromwell stood against the wall shaking his head.

“I still can’t believe it,” Leon said to himself. “Lana Taylor. I had no idea she was committed. It wasn’t all that long ago I delivered her baby.”

“Well, I guess there was more to her than either of us knew,” Carter replied. “Although I can’t say that I’m surprised. As a Starfleet Commander, she should have known about the rules regarding relationships with senior officers. I guess she was more than infatuated with Marshall. It was more like . . . obsessed.”

With a frown, Leon looked at John. “You know, I’d rather have you stay here overnight for observation . . . ”

“Easy for you to say,” John said sarcastically while standing up to button up his red and black duty jacket. “You’ve got two eyes.”

“Well, I’ve given you your choices,” the doctor replied. “It’s either the eye-patch or a bionic implant. I can’t do regen on something as complicated as a mammalian optical organ. It’s not as simple as a frontal lobe or spinal cord. Besides, with your Martian mutant genome, your body would probably reject it.”

“Watch it Leon,” Carter said warningly.

At that moment, the door to the suite slid open, and Captain Roth walked in with a older man behind her. Leon and Carter immediately stood up to a more formal standing position.

“Captain,” Carter replied.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Roth replied. “I’ve just come to check up on my Number One. How’s his condition, doctor?”

“He’s at a hundred percent, ma’am. But, as usual, he won’t stay overnight for observation.”

John gave a sheepish grin as the captain chuckled. “I’m not sure I’d want to stay overnight in a hospital either, doctor.”

‘Oh great,’ Leon thought. ‘She’s one of THOSE.’

“Republic to Doctor Cromwell.”

Leon tapped his combadge. “Cromwell here.”

“Sir, the Starfleet Coroner has arrived and is waiting for you to sign over Captain Marshall’s body.”

“On my way,” the doctor replied. “Captain, Commander, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Roth replied as he walked out of the room.

John Carter gave his captain a quick glance, still amazed at how Leon's ocular prism seemed to make up for Carter's new lack of binocular vision. In many ways, John had always thought that he'd rather lose an arm or leg than an eye. As a small craft pilot, depth perception was all important. John chuckled to himself and mused that he probably wouldn't be scoring many goals on the lacrosse pitch either, if he couldn't judge distance to the goal. Thanks to Cromwell's quick thinking, John would still be able to fly, shoot a phaser accurately, and maybe even win a game or two. “Captain Roth,” Carter offered almost sheepishly, “Thanks for coming down to see me, but . . . ”

“Easy Number One,” she countered. Raising her hand, indicating that Carter was in no kind of trouble. “This isn't an official visit, but I would like to introduce you to our newest addition.” Carter tilted his body to look past Roth to the rugged looking master chief petty officer standing at ease behind his captain as Roth continued. “I'd like to introduce . . . ”

“Brad Rainier! I don't believe it!”

“Okay,” Roth commented in a curious mix of amused and annoyed, “Never mind then.”

Carter hopped off the diagnostic bed, then stopped short as sore muscles reminded him of his confrontation with Lana Taylor.

“Easy there, sonny.” Rainier said. “You sure you're up to spec?”

Rubbing his side, Carter waved off Rainier's concern. “Just the past coming back to bite me in the ass is all. Besides, the Doc says I'm fine.”

“Yeah, and you always listen to your doctor.”

Carter rolled his eyes and smiled. “Only when they're right. Besides, Leon kept his word, so . . . ” Carter straightened up and rubbed his sore ribs again, “I'll do as I'm told for now.” John tilted his head at Brad Rainier who looked, for all the world, like a walking fireplug. “Speaking of Doctors, how's that quack brother of yours?”

Rainier made a sour face. “Listen here Lieutenant,” Brad commented, getting the XO's rank wrong on purpose. “That wasn't funny when you were a newbie, and it ain't much funnier now. Tommy Raynor ain't no brother of mine. Not nearly French enough.”

Carter laughed out loud. “Now THAT's funny.”

Location: Deuterium tank 6, deck 29, USS Republic

Lieutenant Pakita ran her tricorder over the newly repaired secondary relays, grunted lightly to herself, and hung the box on her belt. Turning to replace the panel's cooling shield, she blinked, smirked, and swept her gaze across the pristine tank. In her mind she could still see the chairs, dangling wires and jury-rigged induction routers. A chuckle escaped as she imagined the look on the mutinous crewmen's faces when the Saratoga's computer refused to follow orders.

A cough over her shoulder brought her back to reality.

“Yes Ensign Kohal?”

“Begging your pardon Lieutenant, but . . . what happened in here?”

The dark haired engineer considered her options carefully before responding. The senior officers would not be thrilled if the story got out of how a handful of officers took over a Galaxy-class in under three hours, with personal effects and shuttle pod spares, from a hydrogen storage tank, under the noses of the “legitimate” chain-of-command.

“A small group of very intelligent and determined beings saved a number of lives from here. The details are classified of course, but I assure you that someday, the actions of the last few weeks will be written of in Academy essays as hypothetical textbook examples of Do's and Don'ts, and fourth-year cadets will say, 'That could never happen.'”

” . . . oh.“

“Something very important is about to happen Wythe, and nothing's going to be the same afterward . . . ”

“Keeta! Did you here what happened to the Warlord?”

“Mister Rehido! Need I remind you that Starfleet communicators are for official business only! . . . And if the XO hears you calling him 'The Warlord' you'll be lucky to get leave before the heat death of the universe.”

“But! . . . The Cap's ex- an' ex-ex-oh just . . . ”

“That will be enough Mister Rehido!”

” . . . half an'Oedipus . . . “

“Pakita Out!”

A long, uncomfortable silence engulfed the tank.

“As I was saying, something big is in the works. I can feel it. Carry on Ensign.”

The petite New Zealander brushed past the confused Ensign into the Jefferies Tube and began climbing.

Ensign Darren Kohal looked around the empty tank for a few minutes and tried to decrypt the bits of message he'd overheard.

“The Captain is X.N.X.X.O? Half N'Eddapiss? I wish someone would just issue a memo, explaining the last seven months.”

---

Chapter 12: Resting in PeaceTop

Location: Main egress to Sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic

Rachel Blake tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for someone to tell her what was going on. It had been whole minutes since she'd left word with Republic's Ops Department that she needed to speak with Captain Roth. Normally, something as complex as a starship ran amazingly well. After all, that's what the academy was for. It engendered good order and discipline and all that. Unfortunately, it also meant that if discipline, or the chain of command broke down at all, then . . . well, Ensign Burns put it best.

“What in God's name is wrong with these people?”

Captain Blake “huffed” a lock of hair out of her face. “Easy Jeff,” she cautioned. “You saw the state this boat was in. I'm surprised there's anyone on board at all, really.” Emerson's commanding officer cast a sharp eye across Republic's sickbay. “Let's just take this easy, all right?”

Before the words were out of her mouth, Burns and CPO Lisa Houlihan were striding across the sickbay, making a b-line for the disturbingly serene corpse of Captain James Marshall, the former CO of Republic. Both Burns and Houlihan stopped short as they reached the bio-bed, which stood out from the rest of sickbay thanks to the glowing stasis field.

Lisa Houlihan was career Starfleet, but unlike the rest of her crew mates, she'd come up through the ranks. She was decades older than most people who would give her orders, but, like any other self-respecting non-commissioned officer, she rested secure in the knowledge that nothing on her ship would run right without her. She'd been from one side of the Alpha Quadrant to the other; from Alpha Centauri to Zeguma Beach. She'd buried friends, enemies, lovers, even children, and she carried every memory in the lines on her face, because no matter how many times it happened, burying someone before their time never seemed to hurt any less.

CPO Houlihan wiped a tear from her eye as she looked down at the pale form of Jim Marshall. “Oh God, Jimmy”, she whispered. “Just look at ye.” She stretched her fingers out to feel the buzz of the stasis field against her skin. “We'll take ye home so you can rest son.” Another tear fell from her face and made a soft sizzle against the isolation field. The noise covered Captain Rachel Blake's approach.

“How does he . . . oh . . . ”

The question trailed off as blonde, female trill in medical blues made her way to the back of the crowd. She cleared her throat politely. “Excuse me?” she interjected. “Which one of you is Doctor Cromwell?” Then her gaze fell onto Rachel Blake. “Oh, I'm sorry,” the trill commented, “You must be Captain Roth?”

“Blake actually. We're here to take our man home.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” the trill visitor commented.

Just inside the doors to sickbay, Leon Cromwell's baritone voice rang out. “Neither do I. Who the devil are you people?”

The question had rough edge to it, indicating the group surrounding the bio-bed were unwelcome. As the doctor walked into sickbay, he was followed by another man in medical blues; none other than Doctor Yezbeck, Republic’s senior surgeon. Both came to a stop next to a centralized diagnostic bed.

“I’m Captain Blake of the U.S.S. Emerson,” Rachael answered. “This is Ensign Burns and Chief Petty Officer Houlihan,” she motioned to her two shipmates.

“I had Marshall’s body moved from the morgue in preparation for the Starfleet Coroner,” Leon boomed gruffly. “Not some damned public viewing. So, unless you're immediate family, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside.”

“We’ve BEEN waiting outside!” Burns shot back. “For twenty minutes! Just who the hell do you people think you are?”

“At ease, ensign!” Captain Blake cut in.

“A starship in the middle of a crew rotation and major refurbishing.” The doctor said, responding to Burns.

“Umm . . . ” the blonde haired Trill chimed in. “Which one of you is Doctor Cromwell?” Her confused yet innocent facial expression looked at both Leon and the bald and black bearded lieutenant commander next to him.

“I am,” Leon spoke up. “Since you’re not one of my medical staff can I assume that you’re the Starfleet Coroner?”

“Lieutenant Jahyra,” she replied. “I’m here to take possession of Captain Marshall’s body.”

Rachael’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “Hold on!” she shouted. “We’re here to claim his body! We’re taking him back home for a decent burial!”

“Captain,” the Trill said defensively. “I’m under orders from Starfleet Operations to bring this cadaver to Starbase 327 for cold storage. It is at the heart a major interstellar incident and Starfleet must put it under lock and key for evidence.”

“Cadaver? Is that what you see him as?” The anger was now rising in the captain’s voice.

“I’m just doing my duty ma’am. At 2130 hours, I’m to depart this station with this body.”

“You are NOT!” Blake responded.

“HOLD IT!” Leon screamed. “This body is going NOWHERE until I’ve had a chance to do an autopsy with the coroner! The last I saw of this man he was alive, and I want to find out why he’s now lying dead in my sickbay!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ensign Burns remarked. “He was in a fight with a Gorn! Half the Federation saw it on their vid-screens!”

“Maybe that’s good enough for you, ensign,” Leon replied coldly. “But for those of us in the medical profession, we need a little more than that.” He then turned to Doctor Yezbeck and said, “prep exam two for postmortem analysis.” Looking back at the trio of Emerson personnel, he made a compromise.

“Captain Blake, this autopsy will take approximately one hour. You have until then to straighten this out.”

---

Location: First Officer's Quarters, USS Republic

John Carter felt the remnants of a headache trying to re-assert themselves in his skull. Thankfully however, John had discovered that Kentucky Bourbon did wonders for his sense of well-being. Republic's XO lay on his bunk, arms behind his head, with the lights low. Mellow jazz from the late 20th century wafted in on concealed speakers as Carter reflected on his current state.

Images that he'd thought best forgotten came out of the darkness in Carter's mind. The destruction of the Valiant. A ship that hadn't been designed or built yet. A wedding; HIS wedding, Carter had to remind himself, presided over by Jim Marshall, who was dead now (Carter didn't have to remind himself of that). And punctuating it all, the strangely familiar voice of Victor Virtus.

“She's your ex-wife John.”

John thought for a moment on those words. `Something's messed up' John thought to himself. `The future's not the future any more . . . if it ever was.'

Carter's trance was broken by the door chime. Rather than call for the computer to open the door to his quarters, Carter swung his feet over the side of the bed, then straightened up and took a few slow steps toward the door as the chime rang out again.

“All right, all right!” Carter blustered. “Keep your sprocking shirt on”. John keyed in the command to open the door, and held a hand to shield his good eye as the door slid open. A wince crossed his face and it took him a second to recognize Doctor Shannon Harris on the other side of the door.

Without saying a word, she rushed into the darkened room and wrapped her arms around the Martian XO. After a long moment, punctuated by a few sobs, Harris spoke, with her cheek still tight against Carter's chest. “I'm sorry John,” she whispered. “I didn't know. I came as soon as I heard.”

For months, Carter and Harris had danced around each other, afraid to be too close or too far away from one another. It was clear to most of the crew that something was going on between them, but until the moment when he felt the doctor's warmth against him, John himself wasn't sure. He gently stroked a few wayward strands of red hair from Shannon's face and spoke softly. “Shh,” he offered. “Don't worry. I'm fine.”

“No, your not John. Good God, your eye . . . and she could have . . . ” Harris stopped talking and hugged him tighter.

“But she didn't. And Leon was right there.” He pushed Shannon a few inches away, then put a knuckle under her chin to bring her eyes up, meeting his own. “What are you sorry for?”

Freely falling tears made glowing tracks on Shannon's face in the room's half light. “I couldn't go to you John.” she said. “I wanted to as soon as we lost your life sign, but . . . I just couldn't. One minute I was finishing up Lieutenant Muller's check-up, then we got the word, but you were on the starbase, and I just couldn't . . . I'm so sorry, John.”

“Shannon, please, don't do this. It's ok.” Carter said, pulling the doctor close to him again. He suddenly found that he missed it when she wasn't there. “If anything, I should be sorry. I was too slow. Didn't see it coming.”

“But you couldn't have known. How did she even get on the base?”

Reluctantly, Carter let Shannon go and stepped back toward his bedroom. “I have no idea, and right now, I don't care.” Carter turned again, pleased to see that Shannon had followed him farther into the comforting darkness of his room. He even noticed her trying to conceal a smile as John made the `Old Man Noise' as he sat back on the edge of his bed. Silently, Harris took up a space next to him. “It makes sense in a way. Taylor coming back here. She was right about one thing . . . Marshall's body is still onboard.”

“What do you mean?”

Carter shook his head. “I don't know Shannon, but ever since we got back from Cestus three, it's like Marshall's been laughing at me from beyond the grave.”

“John, don't be morbid,” she said, placing a hand on Carter's knee.

“I'm not.” he commented firmly. “You remember the first thing you ever said to me?”

Shannon shook her head. “I told you the ship was haunted, I know,” she smiled. “But it was a joke John.”

“You still had a point whether you meant it or not. I mean, I can't seem to hold the command staff together, and look at what's happened in the last few weeks. First we get the heat for losing Cestus three, then Admiral Kostya promises to ruin my career because I “killed” his friend. He puts a new CO in place that NO ONE but me seems to like, and now, Lana Taylor comes out of nowhere and tries to kill me.” John let his head fall low as he let his shoulders drop. “Grozit, Shannon. I'm tired. I'm just so tired.”

Harris pressed lightly on John's shoulder, easing the XO down onto his bed. “I know John,” she said softly, stroking his black hair as she watched him relax, his remaining eye finally closing. “I could get used to the patch you know. It gives you a certain roguish quality. Not that you needed it.”

Carter lay back, holding his hand out. He whispered, “Shannon, don't go. Please.”

Harris looked down at the proud, weary man she'd gotten to know, thinking now how different this John Carter was compared to the cocky fighter jock who she'd met rescuing the Zurich. She decided that she liked who he was, and also who he was becoming, and she damned sure wasn't going to miss anything if she could help it.

In the dark calm of John's quarters, Shannon smiled as she felt Carter shift himself over to make room for her in his bed. As she slipped in beside him, she whispered. “I'm right here John, and I'm not going anywhere.”

---

Location: Exam room two, main sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic

The huddled faces of Doctors Cromwell and Yezbeck looked down into the face of the deceased Captain Marshall as they scrolled handheld diagnostic wands above the body.

“Your report said something about a toxin with asynchronous isomerism,” Leon remarked.

“Yes,” Yezbeck replied. “And a real nasty one too. It moved through his system very fast, and killed every living cell it came in contact with.”

“How many permutations?”

“I stopped counting at fifty two.”

“Fifty two?” gasped Leon. “The most I’ve ever run into is twelve! How the heck did the Gorns make this stuff?”

“The toxicology database found no pattern to the configurations either. It just kept changing every few seconds. I’ve never seen so many isomers come from one molecule.”

Leon’s handheld wand began a high-pitched beeping.

“There. I’ve isolated zero point zero two three nano-moles of a foreign substance. I think we found the end product.”

“Okay,” replied Doctor Yezbeck with sarcasm. He glanced briefly away to a viewscreen on the wall. “Make that fifty three permutations.”

Pressing a few buttons on his PADD, Leon shook his head.

“Without baseline NMR resonance frequencies, there’s no way you could have synthesized an antitoxin in time.”

“Insidious, isn’t it?” Yezbeck remarked. “It kills before you have a chance to fully identify it.”

“Well, this one should blow some circuits at Starfleet Medical, shouldn’t it? Let’s get a fluid sample and put it in stasis.”

Retrieving a syringe-like mechanism with an attached pistol grip and sample jar, Leon extended a needle and injected it near the wound site on Marshall’s shoulder. It hummed as it slowly extracted a sample.

“So what do you think? Klingon?” Yezbeck asked while the device did its work.

“Not this time,” Leon replied.

“Andorian?”

“Nah, too spicy.”

“How about Centaurian?”

“Soup and sandwich?”

“Salad.”

The blonde haired Trill, who was watching a nearby medical monitor, walked over and joined the two doctors in a huddle around Marshall’s body.

“How can you think of food during an autopsy?” she asked unobtrusively.

“Well,” answered Leon. “I don’t know what your plans were for tonight, but Doctor Yezbeck and I were headed to the restaurant district for dinner. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“Sorry about my timing,” the lieutenant apologized sheepishly. “No rest for the dead, I guess. If I didn’t have to head back to Starbase 327 tonight, I would have joined you all.”

The sampling device signaled its completion as Leon pulled out the syringe.

“All postmortem scans are complete,” Doctor Yezbeck said with assurance. “He’s all yours, Lieutenant.”

“That is,” Doctor Cromwell added. “If Captain Blake will let you.”

Location: CMO’s office, main sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic

Shortly after the autopsy, Captain Blake and her entourage returned to sickbay to reiterate their claim to Marshall’s body. As they all gathered in Doctor Cromwell’s office, they were joined by Doctor Yezbeck and Lieutenant Jayrah, the latter of whom contacted her superiors on Starbase 327 and whose immediate commander was linked to the conversation via subspace visual transmissions. Everyone listened as Leon read the PADD that Captain Blake handed him.

“To Chief Medical Officer, USS Republic. From Admiral Vladimir Kristoff Kostya, Starfleet Command Headquarters. You are hereby ordered to relinquish the body of Captain James Marshall to the commander of the USS Emerson effective immediately. This order supersedes any and all previous orders or arrangements.”

“Preposterous!”

The gruff Tellarite commander on the far end of the transmission was the first to protest the order.

“This cadaver is evidence in an ongoing investigation! You can’t do this!”

“On the contrary, commander,” Blake replied poignantly. “We have authorization from the highest level in Starfleet. We can, and we will, take Captain Marshall home.”

“Doctor Cromwell! There’s got to be something you can do to stop this!”

“I’m sorry,” Leon replied mournfully. “My hands are tied. Admiral Kostya’s orders are confirmed. Rest assured, I will make sure that the proper authorities are contacted as well as my captain and exec.”

“If there’s no further business,” Blake concluded. “We’ll be on our way.”

With a concerned nod of Leon’s head, the Emerson trio exited the office. Doctor Yezbeck and Lieutenant Jahyra looked on helplessly as the Tellarite beheld a deep scowl. He looked at his Trill subordinate with irritation and animosity.

“Lieutenant Jahyra, I’m holding you personally responsible for this. Starbase 327 out.”

“He can’t hold you responsible!” Doctor Yezbeck said with shock. “You had nothing to do with Kostya’s orders!”

“Yes, he can,” the lieutenant said somberly. “Ever since I was assigned to Starbase 327 after the war, the commander has held me in contempt.”

“But why?”

“Well, it’s only a guess, but his wife died in the war.”

“So?”

“His wife was Trill.”

“Hmmmm . . . .”

Leon was detached from the conversation, looking up to the ceiling in thought.

“I wonder why Kostya keeps sticking his nose into Republic’s business?” he said with curiosity.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jayrah replied with a shake of her head. “They’ve got the body now, and I have to go back to base empty handed.” She sighed gloomily. “I guess it’s time to put in for that transfer.”

“Where would you go?” Yezbeck asked. “There can’t be too many places in Starfleet that need a coroner.”

“True,” she responded. “But I became a coroner during the war. Starfleet pulled me out of the medical academy due to the rising need for casualty registration.”

“Oh, I see. You were supposed to be an MD.”

Jayrah shook her head. “No. I was studying psychology. I wanted to be a ship’s counselor.”

Doctor Yezbeck and Leon stopped their immediate thoughts with sudden comprehension. Slowly, they looked at one another, with confident smiles creeping across their faces.

---

Chapter 13: An Uncomfortable SituationTop

Location: Café Kalnomi, restaurant district, Starbase 39 Sierra

In the dim light of night time tropical décor, the occasional clanking of dishware mixed with the casual voices of patrons filled the air as a humanoid waiter in a flowery dress shirt walked by a table. He held aloft a pineapple-like cup with colored straws protruding from the surface, and placed it in front of Captain Kimberly Roth who was dining on a small plate of dates. She wore a confused yet concerned expression on her face as she talked with Doctors Cromwell and Yezbeck sitting across the table from her.

“Now let me get this straight, gentlemen.” Her tone was that of a mother trying to sate her giddy children in a department store. “You want me to approve the transfer of a mortician to the position of ship’s counselor on the Republic?”

“Coroner,” Leon corrected her. “Not mortician.”

“Yes,” Yezbeck jumped in agreeing with his CMO. “There’s a very big difference.”

“Isn’t that a little . . . ” She cut short her sentence to swallow, as if suppressing her urge to grimace. “ . . . morbid?”

“It’s perfect!” Leon said, trying to hide his jubilation. “Starfleet hasn’t been able to send us a fully qualified counselor since the B’Rell incident, and I was forced to move my senior pediatrician into the position.”

Saal Yezbeck continued with the issue, feeding off of Leon’s thought process. “Right now, we’ve got an ensign-level RN filling that medical slot, and this is an opportunity to get Harris back into sickbay.”

“I don’t know,” Roth said with skepticism. “I’ll have to go over it with Mister Carter as well as Doctor Harris. For all I know, she likes the counselor position and may want the transfer to become permanent.”

Leon nodded in agreement, secretly hiding his assuredness that he could talk John into the prospect.

“I understand,” he replied thoughtfully. “All we ask is that you seriously consider it. Now, about Admiral Kostya confiscating Captain Marshall’s body . . . ”

The captain held up her hand and closed her eyes in annoyance.

“Doctor, we’ve already been over this. The admiral is part of the C-in-C’s staff, and any orders coming from that high up is priority one and not subject to dispute. They give the orders, we do the work. Is that clear?”

Slightly irritated, Leon sighed with vexation, promising himself to talk to Carter about this alone and without the company of their new captain.

“If that’s all gentlemen, I bid you good evening.”

As Kim stood up and casually walked out of the café, she wondered silently about exactly what Kostya was up to. If it were not for him, she’d still be a commander at the waste transfer station. With that fact, she felt justified in protecting the orders he gave Doctor Cromwell. However, as she thought about the upcoming classified mission with the Tholians, and the fact Kostya gave no start date opting instead to put the Republic in stand-by mode, it gave her an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

‘My trust in him better be damned worth it,’ she thought, as she headed back to the Republic’s berthing complex.

Location: CMO's office, main sickbay, deck 12, USS Republic

With the Republic in berth at Starbase 39 Sierra, the elaborate medical facilities of the station put Doctor Cromwell's sickbay out of business for the time being. All personnel were on light duty and no one was required to be at their duty station for longer than four hours a day. It almost gave the feeling of shore leave if it were not for the fact that Republic's stand-by orders disallowed anyone to leave the starbase.

As Leon sat back in his chair, going over the training manuals for his bridge-officers training, he took in a deep breath and looked to the ceiling. After a moment of stillness, he reached for the computer console and tapped a button.

“Chief Medical Officer's log, stardate 57656.2. Extended cross-training with the life-sciences department for the medical staff is proceeding as planned. three enlisted science technicians have passed their dual-specialization tests and are now fully qualified corpsmen should their skills ever be needed by sickbay. Six others are in preparation for the same test, and the ship's botanist is even applying for the Starfleet Registered Nurse Corps. In contrast, I have four corpsmen and our senior non-commissioned officer, Chief Oberstad, pursuing various science curriculums to include biochemistry and genetics. Should the Republic ever be deployed for an extended science mission, sickbay will be able to contribute some of it's staff.

“As for myself, the holodeck schedule that the academy outreach center has provided is proceeding well. I have completed the basic astrogation and navigation portion of the curriculum, as well as basic astrometrics and sensor operations. The chapter exams for those portions were completed with passing marks, and I am currently working through the Federation history and law portion.

“However, the most difficult parts of this study plan are yet to come. Basic starship operations is going to be lengthy, but I am fortunate that I am assigned to a starship for hands-on study. I expect that basic warp theory will give me some trouble as my knowledge of engineering is limited. If Lieutenant Commander Virtus was still aboard, I might have approached him for tutor sessions. Unfortunately, the most difficult course is yet to come: basic starship strategy and tactics. I never have had to employ critical analysis of starship combat before, and it is so unlike the simple infantry maneuvers taught in the basic ground forces course I took during the Dominion war. Commanding a starship is a daunting task to say the least. Commander Carter says it's not a skill you learn from a book, and that only through years of practical experience can one expect to feel comfortable in the position. I'd like to believe him, but when that final, comprehensive bridge officers test is before me I won't have the benefit of such experience.

“On a personal note, my father and his friends from Cestus three have been confined to this station as Starfleet dispatches a civilian judge advocate to compose a hearing on their role in the loss of my homeworld to the Gorns. I've succeeded in persuading him to commit to a full physical by Doctor Chambers on the station. He has grudgingly accepted that his cardiovascular system is in need of arterial protein-polysaccharide regeneration. Unfortunately, I'm the most qualified regen specialist on this base, which leaves me in the uncomfortable position of getting him on my operating table before the legal hearing. I'm afraid that if we wait until afterwards, an irreversible thrombosis will occur due to the stresses of possible criminal charges.”

Leon pausing in thought, placing a finger on his chin.

“End log” came the command as the computer chirped obediently. Without another word, the doctor reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a glass bottle of an amber liquid, pouring himself a drink. He stood up, looked straight ahead, and downed it in one gulp. As the tingling sensation faded from his esophagus, he closed his eyes before mumbling to himself.

“No time like the present.”

With that, he briskly walked out the door.

---

Striding down the corridor with a padd in hand, Nathan Hawk couldn't help but think just how much he looked like a banana. With spots of grime and streaks of grease marking his garment, he looked rather ripe as well. Considering the tone of Starfleet decor concerning uniforms over two decades - a heavy emphasis on black - he found it laughable that they hadn't designed a more 'regulation' Engineering Jumpsuit.

“Fer frinx sake,” Hawk said, stopping in his tracks and talking to himself, “did I just wish fer somethin' ta be more regulation?”

Shuddering at the thought, he resumed walking at a rather brisk pace for him, until he arrived at his destination. He wasn't really keen on speaking with Carter at all at the moment, let alone while he was recuperating from some sort of assault, but he also wasn't keen on waiting either. So he pressed the button to announce his presence. After a moment, the doors parted and he found not Carter on the other side, but Counselor Harris.

“Counselor?” he said questioningly, “did I make a wrong turn 'er somethin'? I was lookin' fer C'mander Carter's cabin.”

For a moment, Shannon felt her cheeks flush. Around anyone else in the crew she might have tried to play this incident off as an honest mistake on the other's part, but this was Nat Hawk, a man who was known for landing in his share of dives, gutters, or strange places for the night. While Shannon certainly wasn't equating the XO's cabin with any of those places, she also knew she shouldn't bother lying to Republic's resident scoundrel.

“You've got the right door Mister Hawk, ” Shannon said calmly as she adjusted the collar of her uniform. “John . . . that is, the Commander had a bit of a rough night.”

“Oh?” Hawk replied, grinning as he put two-and-two together. He reminded himself that if the chance ever came up, he should really play Poker with Harris, if for nothing else than the easy money.

Shannon smiled as she stepped past the lieutenant. “Nothing to worry about though,” she cautioned. “Hardly worth mentioning really.”

As the counselor stepped down the corridor, Hawk turned to watch her go - and enjoyed the sight of watching her leave. “Glad he's alright,” he said as he eyes wandered.

“You and me both, Lieutenant. Carry on.” Harris said, and with that rounded the corridor out of sight.

“Mmm, now that's what call a 'house call',” Hawk said from the open doorway before entering Carter's cabin and allowing the doors to close.

“Forget something?” John called out from his bathroom. He was looking over his face in the mirror, trying to decided if he actually liked the look of the eye patch Leon had provided him with. He'd pretty much decided that it suited him when he caught Nat's crooked smile in the corner of the mirror. “What the hell are you doing here?” Carter questioned as he spun to face Hawk.

“Just makin' sure yer still alive'n kickin',” Hawk answered.

“Thanks for the concern Hawk.” Carter quipped. “Much as I appreciate the visit, something tells me you didn't come down here just to check up on me.” Carter stepped past the grease stained lieutenant and took a fresh uniform tunic out of his closet. He winced a bit as he no-longer-present left eye tried to adjust to the changing light level. “What's on your mind, Hawk?” Carter asked as he pulled on a fresh under tunic.

“Well, seems an ole friend a'mine found me a diamond n'the rough, so-ta-speak,” Hawk said as he flopped back into a rather comfortable chair. “An old - an I do mean old - Peregrine-Class fighter. Not just any one of 'em at that, neither. She's a glorified mark-1 prototype, circa 2365, b'fore they went inta production.”

“No kidding? God, I haven't see one of those since my last visit to the academy. There's one on static display near the flight line. It's in pretty good shape too.” Carter looked over Hawk's unusual costume as he fastened into his dark uniform coat. “Looks like you've been putting your off time to good use. That's good to know.”

“Well, like I said, she's a diamond n'the rough. Battered n'broken like nothin' I ever seen. Gonna take me months ta put'er back t'gether 'gain.” he replied. ”'Siderin' I still ain't been put back on duty, though, ain't like I got myself much else ta do. Only so much sex n'booze even I can handle.” Hawk said with a sly grin. “Speakin' of, what's the damn hold up anywho? Either 'rest me fer all the good it'll do considerin' I'm Intell's golden boy an Jace ain't pressin' charges, or lemme get back ta flyin' already, b'fore I get all old n'stale at it like you.” he said.

“It's not that simple.” Carter explained, ignoring the playful insult. “I'm sure the Captain will give you a chance, God knows she's been on the other side of a JAG inquiry once or twice, but until they send someone aboard you're stuck here.” Carter put his hands on his hips, obviously frustrated. “Hell,” Carter spit harshly, “We don't even have any sort of orders yet. To tell you the truth, I'm a little surprised that 'Fleet decided to refit us . . . again . . . anyway.”

Carter shook his head again as he stepped into the forward area of his cabin that doubled as his office for official ship's business. Though they often had as much to do as their captain's, (Indeed, between personnel assignments, crew evaluations, and the reading of reports from every department on board ship; then having to prepare briefings not only for PERSCOM, but for said captains, they probably had more) First Officers were not afforded the luxury of a ready room or separate office. John paused to look at the large picture of Mars that adorned his cabin's north wall and brushed aside a brief wave of homesickness. “I'm surprised you're still here actually,” Carter admitted. “I figured by now you would have called in a favor to one of your Black Shirt friends and found some other billet to fill.”

“I ain't got no black shirt friends,” Hawk said, a bit defensively, “just gottem over a barrel s'all.” Hawk said, grinning. ”'Sides, I kinda like it 'round here. Dunno why, really. Maybe cause there ain't much spit n'polish 'round here. Things seem ta go wrong a lot, just like n'real life. This ship don't feel so stiff an' stupid as most. Not ta mention if I did leave I'd have trouble gettin' the stench of all that happened on Cestus three off me anywho, so might s'well ride that storm out where the only baggage I's gots is ma own.” Hawk explained.

“See, that's the thing about Captain Roth.” Carter explained. “I think she might be just what this ship needed. She's got a bad rep with some, solid with others. Same as us really,” Carter shook his head slightly. “Hell, we're starting to attract people because they figure wherever Republic goes is going to get 'interesting' sooner than later. The only thing I'm not crazy about is that Kostya got her this post.” John ran a hand through his hair and finished his thought. “He hates me and she owes him, which I admit doesn't sound good at all . . . ”

“Well then I guess me stickin' round is good fer ya,” Hawk said, “nothin' like havin' a crazy rebel no-good star witness 'round incase ya step n'the shit agin.” Hawk grinned. “Plus from tha sound a'things, ya could use somebody ta watch yer back so no more broads whup up on ya.” he added with a chuckle.

“I did not get 'whupped' by a girl!” Carter spat back. “The dead captain's crazy ex-girlfriend tried to kill me with a comm-badge!” Carter felt the beginnings of a headache come on as his pulse began to rise.

“Ya say that like it ain't never happened b'fore.” Hawk commented with a cocky smile as he reached inside his jumpsuit and pulled out his flask, opening it up and taking a swig.

“Shut up.” John said quickly. He wasn't actually annoyed with Hawk's remark. At the moment it struck him more like the comfortable banter he shared with his old squadron-mates, or other friends. It wasn't the same sort of fatherly 'I told you so' that he frequently got from Leon. Hawk's words were closer to the friendly jab that Victor Virtus might offer to keep John from taking himself to seriously. Something, the XO had to admit, that he was dangerously close to doing since Lana Taylor's attack. That realization surprised him a bit. Carter cracked a small grin as he looked back at Hawk. “Think of it as a mistake coming back to bite me in the ass.” Carter explained. “You've gotta know what that's like, huh?”

“Yeah, ya could say that . . . ” Hawk said, trailing off a moment. “ . . . Been happenin' ta me since I was a kid. More times n'I can count, really. Usually with somebody else gettin' killed in the process.” Hawk said, somberly, as he took another swig from his flask.

“Listen, are you sure you wouldn't rather talk to Sha . . . ” Carter coughed to cover his slip of professionalism, “Counselor Harris about this?”

“Talk 'bout what?” Hawk asked, not understanding for a moment. “Aww, hell no,” Hawk replied, realizing he'd nearly gone into some story of his past. “'Sides, I wouldn't wanna horn in on yer action. Personally, I think it's the patch finally clenched it fer ya.” he added with a sly smile and a wink.

“Shut up, Hawk.” Carter said with a smile. John stepped over to the hatch to his quarters and keyed the door open. “ And get out of my office, you smell worse than a den of targs during the rainy season.”

“Oh, sure, bend ma ear fer a while then kick me out when yer done.” Hawk said, standing, and moving to the door. “Ya do that to Harris she's liable ta get a comm-badge a her own an take yer other eye out. Then again she might just wanna take somethin' lil more important outta action, if ya get what I mean. Hell hath no fury like a broad scorned.” he said with a laugh. “Aww, frinx,” he said, turning around and retrieving his padd from the chair. “Here, sign this, will ya?” he asked, tossing Carter the padd as he took another swig from his flask before putting it away.

“What is it?” Carter asked, looking the device over.

“Request fer work space 'board ship, Cargo Bay somethin'er other, dun remember which. Just one a them 'Fleet formalities. She's already 'board ship, anywho, so dun bother checkin' ta make sure we got the space, cause we do. Least we do now.” Hawk said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Carter queried.

“Aww hell,” Hawk said, grabbing Carter's hand and placing his thumb on the padd before the XO had any clue what was going on. “Thanks, Cyclops.” he said with a chuckle as he exited the cabin and set off down the corridor.

Back in his cabin, John shook his head slightly as Hawk left. “I cannot wait for that man to meet our new C-O-B.”

---

Chapter 14: A Not So Great StartTop

Location: Docking port F, Starbase 39 Sierra

Naruko stepped out of the docking catwalk and onto the port area of the Starbase, the port was buzzing with actively as crews from several vessels which had just arrived, and were unloading their passengers. She approached the nearest terminal only to be shoved out of the way by a man dressed as a civilian.

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe I was here first.” commented Naruko who felt a bit mad, that she was nearly knocked over by him.

“Buzz off; there is another terminal a few meters that way.” Nodded the man to the down the hall.

Naruko watched as the terminal the man pointed out a few seconds ago, was raided by others within nanoseconds. Naruko sighed knowing it would be hopeless, so she decided to wait for the man do finish his business at the terminal.

The civilian noticed that Naruko was standing behind him; he turned and looked at Naruko, “Didn’t I tell you to buzz off… Miss Starfleet.” Looking disgusted at Naruko’s presents

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m waiting for you to finish your business at the terminal.” said Naruko trying to stay calm since the man was obviously outraged about something.

A Starfleet Security Officer noticed the argument brewing between Naruko, and the enraged man. “Excuse Sir, is there a problem here?” asked the security officer

“Yes, yes there is, this Starfleet Ensign has been harassing me ever since I got to this terminal, and threatening me that if I don’t move from this terminal, that she would break my arms. I’m only trying to find a place to stay for my family and myself.“ said the man trying to sound like he is the victim of Federation brutally.

Naruko looking disgusted and shocked at the man’s comments.

“Sir, then you don’t mind if I have a look at the terminal, to confirm you actuations?” inquired the security officer.

“Not at all.” stated the man with confidence.

Naruko sighed, thinking what a waste of time, just to find out where the Republic is docked at.

The security officer analyzed the terminal for a minute, and then motioned for a second security officer to come over. “Sir, if you could please allow this gentleman to follow you to your family, so that you may notify them where you at, and make arrangements to meet them somewhere on the station, he will then escort you to the security office”

“I don’t see why I have to be escorted around the station, I did no wrong doing.” Stated the man

“Sir, if you please cooperate, the sooner this will be over with…” the security officer looked at Naruko, “Ensign if could please follow me to the security office, so that we may file your statement.”

Naruko not sure if she should believe what is going on, or thinking she is having some sort of nightmare.

Location: Station security office 6, Starbase 39 Sierra – several hours later

“So that is your story then?” asked Lieutenant Moore

“Yes sir, as I said before, the man shoved me out of the way from the terminal, and began to take his anger out on me, when I was simply waiting for him to leave.” said Naruko, beginning to get irritated over the situation.

The lieutenant started to skim through Naruko’s Starfleet record. “So Ensign Kuga it says here you have been thrown in the brig for breaking a few Academy rules, and a comment that you have a behavior problem from a Commander Isaac Belhan.”

Naruko sat in silence, knowing this was going no where fast.

“I’m sorry Ensign, but from your record at the Academy, I’m going have to put you into the brig and charge you with disorderly conduct, until an official from the Republic notifies me what to do with you.” Commented Lieutenant Moore as he looked at one of his security officers. “…Ensign please put Miss Kuga in cell twelve-c, and have her baggage placed in locker two-a, until we get an acknowledgment from the Republic”

The security officer picked up Naruko’s bags, and stood ready to escort her to her cell.

Naruko sat up, and followed the security officer to the brig, feeling outraged and worried that her new captain and shipmates would see her as a trouble maker.

---

Location: Captain's ready room, main bridge, USS Republic

It was not often than Captain Roth carried a scowl on her face. In fact, in light of her recent transfer from the waste transfer station, things had been looking up. However, as she sat at her desk with hands folded, she looked very sternly at the individual standing before her.

A tall human male in operations gold wore a similar scowl, except that his was laced more with a more indignant overtone rather than the captain's austere gaze. His black hair was less than groomed, as an occasional tuft protruded from the scalp on top and in back. Standing at attention, the lieutenant junior-grade seemed highly irritated.

“Ma'am,” he addressed her respectfully. “I have been in my position since the launch of this vessel eight months ago. With Lieutenant Sullivan's reassignment, and the shortage of officers in ops, I am the ranking officer in the department.”

“Mister Klaus,” Roth addressed him with annoyance. “I have a right to place whomever I wish in the position of operations department head. Your behavior during the B'Rell incident has left a black mark on your record, and I'm not ready to place you in a position of authority. Captain Marshall was ready to send you and several other junior officers to the stockade, but he chose to keep you aboard.”

Roth was referring to the Kreltan incursion incident six months ago when a shapechanger infiltrated the chain of command, and placed junior officers in department head positions. Although it assisted the spy by empowering young officers who wouldn't question his orders, it left the Republic's departmental leadership in chaos. Lieutenant Klaus was put in charge of the operations department and unwittingly assisted the shapechanger who took the form of the saucer-section's commanding officer. Klaus was demoted to Lieutenant Junior-Grade and removed from the promotion list for an indeterminate amount of time.

“With all due respect, ma'am,” he stated. “I'm the sole senior officer in the department. And might I add, placing a lower ranking officer in a position above me is not only a breach of protocol, it was insulting.”

Roth stood to her feet, coming eye-to-eye with the subordinate. “YOU have no place questioning my decisions, mister! I can place a Petty Officer Second Class into the ops department head if I so choose! And YOU would have nothing to say about it!”

The scowl on Klaus' face became more pronounced at the captain's outburst.

“Further more,” Roth added. “Your recent service aboard this vessel is less than appealing to me. When you start showing respect to your crewmates and begin placing the mission before your own personal endeavors, then I may consider you for a leadership position. Until then, you can either remain where you are, or request a transfer. However, I don't expect you to be able to find a decent posting with your record. So what will it be? Stay and attempt to redeem yourself, or try your luck with the black marks you have against you?”

Klaus was clearly not happy with his commanding officer. He stood uncomfortably before her, shifting his weight for a moment before replying.

“I'll stay, ma'am . . . ” he said somberly.

“Then you better get with it, mister,” Roth sat back down in her seat. “Dismissed.”

Without a another word, the lieutenant spun around and left the room, passing Master Chief Petty Officer Rainier on the couch, who was quietly observing the whole incident. A momentary silence filled the room before he spoke.

“Got a real attitude problem, doesn't he?”

The captain let out a sigh of exasperation. “That officer is going to bring me to my limit, but I'll be damned if he leads anytime within the next year.”

“So why don't you just give him the boot?”

“It's not that easy, Brad,” she replied. “I've got major officer shortages in all departments, and although I refuse to put him in charge, he DOES have the experience of being in the department. As much as I distrust him, I actually need him.”

“Well, I can vouch for the enlisted in the ops department. I reviewed them myself yesterday morning with Chief Drumlin. They're all set for anything you throw at them.”

“I know, but ops NEEDS more officers.” The captain picked up the PADD on her desk and reviewed the roster one more time. She looked at it quizzically before her scowl disappeared, replaced by a small grin.

“What is it?” Rainier asked.

“Starfleet just assigned us another ops officer,” she said with relief. An Ensign Naruko Kuga.“

“She's just another junior officer,” the chief interjected. “Doesn't sound like department head material.”

“Doesn't matter.” The captain began dialing the new ensign's duty position into the computer. “Anyone is better than Klaus, and there's a certain loyalty with fresh academy graduates that I like, especially for a department like ops.”

Finishing with the transfer, she stood up as Rainier followed suit.

“You're likely to enrage Klaus again,” he stated.

“I don't give a damn,” Captain Roth replied as the two exited the ready room.

Not a second passed before a blinking icon appeared next to Ensign Kugo's name on the duty roster PADD on the desk. Pulsating on and off in a deep crimson, it read “INCARCERATED.”

Location: Weapons range 43, Starbase 39 Sierra

The darkness of the hologrid echoed with the steady, high-pitched chug-chug-chug of the colored phaser target flowing across the wall in a very random fashion. An explosive burst of weapons fire zeroed in on the small icon, causing it to disappear with a flash and the computer acknowledging the hit with a positive warble.

“Ha!” Ensign Narundi's voice shouted. “That's five for five! You can't beat that!”

“We'll see,” McTaggart replied sourly. As he did so, another colored target began to glow and twitter along the black walls. The lieutenant charged his phaser rifle and carefully aimed before pulling the trigger. A split second later, the negative chirp signaled that Sean had missed.

“Hmph,” he grunted as Narundi chuckled with glee. “Damn kids . . . ”

“Station Security to McTaggart.”

Sean was happy for the interruption of a losing phaser match.

“McTaggart here,” he responded as he touched his combadge. “Go ahead.”

“One of your people has been arrested and sent to the brig.”

The lieutenant and ensign looked at one another with surprise. “Who is it?” asked Sean.

“Ensign Kuga”

Confused, the acting security chief frowned. “There's no one with that name on the duty roster.”

“They've just been assigned. A civilian passenger claimed they were accosted. Should I inform your XO?”

“Heck of a way to start a new assignment,” Narundi commented. McTaggart thought for a moment about how many times he had seen Commander Carter's bad side, and felt a twinge of sympathy for the newcomer.

“Negative,” said Sean responding to the call. “I'll take care of it. McTaggart out.”

“Hey!” Narundi said. “What about our match?”

“We'll have to do it another time,” the lieutenant smiled before walking out the door.

“Figures,” he replied with disappointment. “Just when I almost beat him . . . ”

Location: Detention block 1-13 alpha, operations level, Starbase 39 Sierra

With a yawn, the officer at the watch desk sat back in his chair while reviewing the security monitors in the trading district 50 levels up. It was the most likely place for a crime to occur on the station, as merchants and shoppers alike formed a crowd that easily obscured any shady activity. He really didn't need to survey the scene, as other security officers maintained that duty, but if something really interesting happened, then this would be the place where it would occur. 'Anything to relieve the boredom,' thought the officer.

As the regular sound of footsteps in the entrance hallway echoed off the walls, the watch officer became a little more attentive as the newcomer approached. Lieutenant McTaggart turned the corner to arrive at the desk and addressed the guard.

“I'm Lieutenant McTaggart from the Republic. You've got one of my officers?”

“Oh,” the watch officer exclaimed while shuffling through the stack of detainment records. “Yes. Ensign Kuga, cell 327.”

“I'm here to take custody of him.”

“Right,” the attendant replied. “Please place your hand on the palm scanner for security authorization.” Sean complied, and as a glowing red genetic reader sorted through his nuclides, the computer sounded a positive signal:

“McTaggart. Sean P. Lieutenant. Acting Security Chief. Starship Republic.”

“You're good,” the watch officer confirmed. “Right down the cell block on your right.”

Sean proceeded down the hallway, and past several empty cells on either side of him. The off-white surfaces were not unlike the Republic's brig, and the usual energy barrier veiled over the entrance to each holding room. Finally he came to one where a small, Asian woman in operations gold sat on the bunk looking rather dejected. McTaggart paused to see if he reached the correct cell. With the assault charge, Sean had assumed the officer to be a large burly sumo-wrestler, especially with the east-Asian name. However, as he looked at young ensign sitting in the cell, he realized he couldn't have been more wrong.

'How could a person like that assault anyone?' Sean thought to himself before addressing the occupant of the cell.

“Ensign Kuga?” he addressed her. As the young lady looked up, he introduced himself. “I'm Lieutenant McTaggart. Republic's security chief. I've come to spring you.”

---

Location: Deck 25, USS Republic

Naruko and Chief McTaggart walked down the corridor of the Republic towards the tubrolift, Naruko hadn’t really said anything since they left the Detention area on Starbase, she wasn’t to sure what kind of trouble she was in after the supposed assault, Lieutenant.

“Do you mind if I ask you how you got those charges at the Starbase?” asked Sean a little curious on how a young women, could beat up a guy twice her size.

Naruko sighed; she knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Well sir, I didn’t really know it was a crime to wait at a terminal.” she commented.

Sean looked puzzled as the two headed for the tubrolift, “Wait, you’re saying you didn’t touch the guy?”

“Yes sir, I was charged with verb assault; however all I did was really keep my mouth shut, and waited for the guy to leave.” she said, recalling the events that happened a few hours ago. “He really seemed to be upset over something. I guess, I was just the unlucky one he took his anger out on.”

“And the station’s security officers didn’t believe you.” said Sean still a little confused over all the details.

“Well sir, I have a record back at the Academy.” commented Naruko hating the fact that her Academy record might keep from ever getting into a good position on a ship someday.

“Ah I see, Well I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Why don’t we find where your quarters are at, and who you need to report to for duty.” said Sean

Naruko gave a nod as the two entered the turbolift.

“Computer, what deck is Ensign Naruko Kuga’s quarters located on?” asked Sean

“Ensign Naruko Kuga’s quarters are located on Deck eight.” stated the computer

“Deck eight…” a small shift in weight could be felt as the turbolift began its upward motion towards the saucer section of the Republic “…Do you know what your posting is?” he asked

“Operations.” said Naruko

“Ah, yeah I’m not sure who is the current chief of operations, we’ve been bouncing officers on and off that position lately. Computer who is currently the chief of operations on board?” asked Sean

“Ensign Naruko Kuga.” stated the computer

Naruko’s eyes widen in shock as the computer said her name for a senior officer position.

Sean, whom was a little surprised himself at the computer’s statement “Well, Congratulations I think is order.” he said with a smile.

Naruko wasn’t sure at all what to say, she went from one minute thinking she was going to scrub the jeffery tubes with a tooth bush until she would retire from Starfleet, to being Chief of Operations almost right out of the Academy.

The doors slide open, and a blinking arrow could be seen on the wall panels.

“Just follow the arrows to your quarters, I wish I could help you out further, but I have things to attend to.” Said Sean

“Thank you, for getting me out of that mess. sir” she said.

“No problem Ensign” said Sean as the doors slide shut in front of him.

Naruko looked down the corridor and began to follow the yellow brick road towards her cabin.

---

Chapter 15: The Jagged EdgeTop

Location: New Orleans, North America, Sol III

Lieutenant Chase Meridian sipped at her latte, skimming over the details from her latest `diplomatic assignment.' The sun was high in a clear spring sky, casting golden glints off of the storefront window of the Lafayette café. Here, in what humans still called `The Big Easy', Meridian was surrounded by some of the most renowned cooking in the galaxy, and Chase wished she could actually smell. Unfortunately, like a few other things she was born with, she'd sacrificed her olfactory senses for what she honestly believed, or at least had been trained to believe, was the greater good.

As she read, a shadow fell over her shoulder. Meridian continued to look at the PADD, but spoke to the person to whom she believed the shadow belonged. “You're in my light.”

“I'd care, if you actually needed it Lieutenant.” The disembodied voice let out a sigh and the shadow moved again to the other side of the table. Chase barely cared that she'd guessed the identity of her visitor correctly.

He had a square face marked by lines around his mouth and on his forehead. A large amount of grey had crept into his temples, but he still sported a `Fleet regulation haircut.

“Honestly, Chase,” he commented, “I don't know why you bother to read. Wouldn't it just be faster to . . . ”

Meridian looked up at the middle-aged man who was taking a seat across from her. “I read, because I can. Besides I find it relaxing.”

“Well,” the visitor said with a lewd smile on his face, “I'm glad there's still some need for that.” The man looked over his shoulder at the storefront. “Any sign of the target?”

“Not a thing.” Chase answered. “The old man comes to work everyday, sets out the tables, starts on the morning jambalaya, and then sets out a cup of raktagino that he knows won't get tasted. I'm telling you . . . he's not going to show up.”

The man nodded in contemplation. “You might be right,” he admitted. “What about the boy?”

Chase shook her head. “Nope. I got a piece of some subspace traffic yesterday though. I think he's on Betazed.” After a long moment, Chase cocked an eyebrow at her guest. “You could have asked me this any time you wanted to. What are you doing here?”

The man produced an isolinear chip from a pocket. “A friend of mine needs a favor,” the visitor tossed the chip to Chase, and smiled as she caught it. “And it concerns a friend of yours. Indirectly at least.”


Location: Starfleet JAG office, San Francisco, North America, Sol III

In the fourth office on the left, on the twelfth floor of the Aaron Satee building was an office that seemed like any other in Starfleet. It was modestly appointed, marked by very few decorations, save the symbol of the Grand Alliance, flanked by the flags of both the united Federation of Planets and Starfleet Command.

The central feature of the office was a large, dark wood desk, and Vice Admiral Triss, the Starfleet Judge Advocate General, wanted nothing more than to drive his forehead against the desk, again and again, until his problems went away. At present however, he was on subspace with Owen Paris , the Starfleet CnC, who would likely not take kindly to watching an Andorian commit suicide.

“Are you listening to me Triss?” Came the call from Paris' jowled face. “I asked for your assessment the Republic case.”

Triss' antennae pitched forward, indicating that he was less than pleased. “Which one, Admiral? Do you mean the treason case for the losing of Cestus three, or the sedition case for the release of sensitive information by SOMEONE on the command staff?”

Triss slammed his clenched blue fist on the desktop. “Not to mention the attempted murder of the ship's security chief, or the seizure of Republic herself! Granted, it was by the command staff, which I STILL don't understand, but still.”

Paris squinted, no longer content to let Triss rail against his unfair lot in life. “The office of Judge Advocate General exists to uphold the laws of Starfleet wherever our ships may be.” Paris commented. “How you get it done is of no concern to me, Triss.”

“Admiral Paris, perhaps you don't understand.” Triss cleared his throat and straightened his uniform collar while his antennae rocked back to their neutral position. “First off, the Treason case isn't a Starfleet matter. It concerns a civilian named Arthur Cromwell, so we technically have no jurisdiction. The presence of Starfleet intelligence personnel on Cestus three is a matter for the JAG office, but I don't know that you want those circumstances revealed in open court.”

Paris nodded. In this matter at least, he recognized the need for discretion. Meanwhile, Triss continued to outline his position. “The seizure, or re-seizure of Republic, depending on how you look at it, stems from an illegal order that Kostya should never have given, and according to at least one PERSCOM report, `Nathaniel Hawk' doesn't exist! His personnel jacket's so black I doubt light could escape!” After a few seconds, Triss again regained his composure. “I don't think I have the personnel to assign to ANY of these cases. They all seem to involve Admirals, Rear Admirals, Fleet Admirals. They are quite literally beyond the scope of my office, sir.”

“I agree that the legal issues around Republic and her crew are somewhat . . . problematic, Triss, but . . . ”

“PROBLEMATIC!?! it's insane! Honestly, how much trouble can one ship be?”

“You've never read the Kirk file, have you?”

“I'm sorry?” Triss answered.

“Never mind.” Paris dismissed the Andorian's query with wave. “I was anticipating you might have these problems. I've just come from meeting with the Federation Council's legal affairs office. They agree with you that these . . . many issues should be taken care of as quietly as possible. With that in mind, they would like to invoke Article 527 of the Federation charter and appoint a special prosecutor who's authority comes directly from the office of the President.”

For a moment, Triss' antennae arched forward, the slumped till they almost touched his forehead. “What about the UCMJ? Who will represent the officers of Republic? Should I make counsel available to them?”

Paris shook his head. “That won't be necessary Admiral. I've already made arrangements for Republic's officers to receive representation. Involving your office in the prosecution of a civilian would make for too many questions. For the purposes of these proceedings, the officers of Republic will be treated as private citizens of the UFP.”

“Well, that's a relief.” Triss said with a sigh.

“I should think so. Don't worry Admiral. This isn't your problem anymore.”

Triss nodded back at Paris' image and smiled. “I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear that, Admiral.”

Paris returned the grin, pleased that his conversation had achieved the desired result.

“Say,” he offered casually, “I'll be over your way on Tuesday, shall we have lunch?”

“I'll have my Yeoman set something up. Thank you, Admiral.”

“That should be fine. `Til then, Admiral. Paris out.”

The screen went dark and was swiftly replaced with the seal of the Starfleet JAG Corps. Triss squinted and looked sourly at his distorted reflection on the terminal's surface. “Another victory for expediency over justice.” he commented bitterly. Triss grimaced again, pushed himself away from his desk, and walked over to the simple metal stand that took up the back corner of his office.

The stand was a lattice work of bare, unpolished, metal. The interlacing struts made for diamond shaped cradles, which just happened to be the perfect size for holding the ornate bottles that Andorian distilleries were accustomed to producing. Triss held out a finger and drew it down, as if keeping track of his private stores. His fingers came to rest on a bottle halfway down the middle column. It was typical Andorian design. Ornate frosted glass, holding luminescent blue liquid. Triss pulled the bottle from it's holder, hefted its weight, and then held the bottle up to the light. Illuminated from behind by the recessed lamps of his office, the liquid seemed to glow, and Triss smiled approvingly. “Oh yes,” he said sweetly to the bottle. “I'd say that performance definitely earned me a glass or two. But first . . . ”

Triss set the bottle on his desk, circled back to where he'd been sitting, and took a seat behind his desk once more. From small drawer on the face of the desk he produced one round drinking glass. The Andorian place the glass next to the bottle on his desk, careful that both were out of view of the communications system. Then Triss tapped the control to open a channel. “Computer,” he ordered. “Record message for delivery in twenty minutes.”

“Command acknowledged. Standing by.”

“From, Admiral Jardin Triss, Starfleet Judge Advocate General, to Admiral Pamela Krockover, SFC. Pam, sorry this is late, but I finally got that bottle of wine you wanted so badly. The one you said was from the family's favorite vintage? Anyway. Expect it to arrive on 31, September. You're welcome.” Triss waited a few anxious seconds, then spoke to the computer again. “End recording and execute orders.” The computer beeped in reply. Satisfied that he had done all he could, Triss pored himself a glass of his nearby blue drink and waited for things to get interesting for the U.S.S. Republic.


Location: Main gangway, Starbase 39 Sierra

Then thin man dressed in dark, civilian attire checked his chronometer again and ran a pinky over his left eyebrow as he waited to be welcomed aboard The U.S.S. Republic. In one hand he carried an old-fashioned Terran briefcase, made of genuine steer leather, marked with still-functional mechanical locks. In the other hand, he clasped a PADD tightly. The small electronic device contained detailed orders for Republic's newly-appointed CO, who, the visitor was all but convinced, was not going to be thrilled with his arrival. Still, he was confident that if Kimberly Roth was certain of anything, it was her duty. After all. Wasn't that why they were all here in the first place?

A few more seconds went by. Then the visitor noticed a tall man, a Starfleet Commander, judging by his collar. Oddly, the commander was wearing an older, red duty jacket, which was, to the visitor's recollection a privilege reserved for Commanding Officers. The puzzlement lasted a few seconds more, until the man caught notice of the round, fabric patch covering the place where the commander's left eye should have been. “Ah,” the visitor let out. “You must me the infamous John Carter.” The visitor shuffled the PADD from his left had to his right so that he could greet Republic's First Officer. “I've heard a lot about you,” the man continued, extending his free hand.

Carter cast a weary eye on the man who stood across from him. He was in many ways, unremarkable; not too tall, shorter than Carter himself anyway, and not too thin either. His cheekbones were a bit pronounced, and there seemed to be an air of comfort around the man. In fact, the only thing Carter seemed to take any notice of at all was the fact that not a single hair on the man's head was out of place. Every part of his outward appearance, from his neatly coifed, brown hair, to his dark, business suit seemed to reinforce that he was not important at all. Yet, if that were the case . . .

John pushed the thought aside and extended his hand to meet the visitor. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, mister . . . ”

“Cole,” the visitor offered easily. “Call me Cole. Now, if you please Commander Carter, I'd like to see the Captain right away.”

Carter stepped aside to let Sloan past him as they both stepped down the gangway into the main concourse of the U.S.S. Republic. “The Captain's expecting you sir, but she was wondering if you could explain . . . ”

“All in good time, Commander,” Cole answered as he continued to walk deftly down the hall. “All you need to know right now is that I'm here to solve a problem or two. I should think you'd be glad for some help.”

Carter looked on at the unassuming Cole as the two navigated Republic's halls. It was clear to John that this man had been on a starship before, but he wasn't satisfied with the visitor's vague answers. In a few quick steps he was side to side with Cole again. “Mister Cole,” Carter offered. “I'm afraid I don't understand. Why did JAG send a civilian here? I was expecting . . . ”

Without breaking stride or turning to face Carter directly, Cole cut the commander off. “I'm not from JAG, Commander. I'm here on the authority of the President of the United Federation of Planets.”

That admission stopped Carter in his tracks, mere feet from the entrance to the deck ten conference room.

Somewhat amused, Cole looked back at Republic's XO. “As I said, Commander Carter, I've heard a lot about you.” Cole took a few steps forward, entering into the conference room. He swiftly set the PADD on one end of the conference table, then took a seat, and rested his briefcase beside him. “In fact,” Cole offered, somewhat ominously, “I'd very much like to hear more.”

---

Chapter 16: Only The Strong RemainTop

Location: Residential level 1138, south complex 72B, Starbase 39 Sierra

It was quite a distance from Republic’s berthing complex to the other side of the base towards the permanent residential district. However, Leon was in no hurry. After stopping for lunch at a Zakdorn eatery, it took three different transit tubes just to reach the correct hemisphere. He casually wandered through the huge ecodome, where four square kilometers were devoted to recreating several different Terran biomes, to include desert, temperate forest, coastal, and tropical jungle. The base was a mastery of engineering from the doctor’s point of view, and as he traveled through this bustling citadel, there were so many wondrous distractions that he found it difficult to stay focused on his current mission.

But there was no delaying the inevitable. Walking down a wide corridor lined with potted plants and lit by bright, diffuse solar lamps, he searched for the abode assigned to the four survivors of the Cestus Three disaster that accompanied the Republic back to port. The brilliant white walls contained occasional rectangular recesses that marked the entry to living quarters. As he searched for the correct apartment, he finally reflected on the long trip he made to come here, and realized why he had been putting off this visit.

“A man can lose himself here,” Doctor Cromwell mumbled as he approached an entryway. Pressing the announcement buzzer, it took nearly a minute before the door unlatched and slid open with a mechanical grid. Greeting him at the door was the long, black haired forty-something resistance fighter who had once been a close friend of his family many years ago.

“Leon!” she exclaimed, embracing the Republic’s doctor with a tight hug.

“Hey Lins,” he replied, returning the affection. “Sorry I waited so long to check up on you all.”

“Well you should be!” she jokingly scolded him. “Your ship’s been here for two and a half weeks, and none of us have seen you since we got here.” Lins led the doctor into the living quarters, closing the door behind her with a touch of the wall control.

In the corridor the voices of the two echoed off the wall as they spoke.

“How have they been treating you?” Leon asked.

“No bad,” Lins stated. “Considering that we’re under house arrest so to speak. The place is rather comfortable.”

As the two entered the great room, two other individuals stood up from their seats to welcome the newcomer. One was a gray-haired, nearly bald man in his sixties, and the other was heavy set, and had a crop of red hair with a face that sported a poorly groomed scarlet beard.

“Well I’ll be damned!” the balding man said. “It’s about time you showed up! Fleet keeping you busy?”

“No more than usual,” Leon fibbed, knowing all too well that his schedule had been so light the past few weeks that he was bored out of his skull. “How’s it going, Skip?”

“I’m full of piss and vinegar!” he squawked. “The damned station security follows us anytime we leave this place, and I’m aching to get out of here and help with the relocation efforts.”

“Would you like a drink, Leon?” The bulky man asked walking over to the wet bar.

“Maybe later, Wey. I don’t think I want to put it off any longer. Where is he?”

A moment of silence passed where Skip and Lins looked somber while Wey poured himself a glass of synthehol.

“He’s in the back den,” Lins finally answered. “He’s been spending a lot of time there by himself lately. Only comes out to get food or to go to his bedroom. We can’t even get him to come out to a restaurant with us.”

“Have any of you tried to talk with him?

“Everyday,” Lins spoke up. “But he barely acknowledges us. He just keeps staring out the viewport when I go in there, so I’ve pretty much given up.”

Letting out a sigh, Leon looked towards the hallway leading to the den.

“Have that drink waiting for me when I come out, Wey.”

“You got it, kid.”

---

Just as Lins explained, Arthur Cromwell was standing in the dark room, with only the light of the viewport lighting the area. It was a quiet sight; with the distant sun giving off a blue-white hue, and the speckled backdrop of space beyond. Occasionally, a freighter or some other small vessel could be seen departing in the distance, and Arthur would follow it until it went into warp. His face was stoic, and the uncompromising hazel eyes yielded no hint of the private thoughts within his mind. As he took a sip from a nearby whisky glass, the door to the room quietly opened with Leon stepping inside.

Moments passed after the door closed where neither of them spoke. Leon slipped into a chair as his father continued to stare out the window.

“How’s your friend?” Arthur spoke finally, the deep gravelly words coming forth casually from his lips.

“Who?” Leon asked in confusion.

“That petticoat you call Carter.”

“Oh,” the doctor replied with realization. “John’s fine. He was out of the infirmary less than a day after he went in.” It suddenly dawned on Leon how long ago that had been.

Another moment of uneasiness passed without any spoken words.

“I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time here lately,” Leon finally said.

“And what about it?” There was a rough edge to Arthur’s voice, as if warning Leon that he was already treading on thin ice.

“It might help if you talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” the elder Cromwell snapped. “It’s done. My home is lost, and my family is dead. There’s not much left to say.” The clatter of ice cubes sounded as the man took another sip of his drink.

“You make it sound like I’m dead too,” Leon replied calmly.

“I lost you long ago,” Arthur mumbled with regret.

“*MY* home. *MY* family. You act like you’re the only one who’s suffering here.”

“And what the hell have you been doing?” Arthur shot at his son. “I haven’t heard a damn thing from you since the news came. You’re probably so damn used to this kind of stuff by now that it’s just another piece of business to you!”

“My mother and sister are dead!” Leon erupted. “You think that hasn’t affected me?”

“You’ve been gone so long that you probably forgot what they looked like. If you cared about them that much, you wouldn’t have taken off and joined Fleet. The least you could have done was visit every now and then. They talked about you a lot.”

“I only stayed away because of you!” Leon spat with clenched fists and a lump forming in his throat. “And for your information, I’ve spent a lot of the past few nights awake crying over them. You have no right to say that they didn’t mean anything to me!”

“Oh, you poor boy,” Arthur taunted. “Would you like me to get you a handkerchief?”

Leon took a deep breath. “Dad, we can’t keep fighting like this!”

“Then why the hell did you come here?”

“We’ve got business to talk about,” Leon’s tone became a little more professional. “Starfleet has sent for a civilian judge advocate to arrange for a hearing on the station.”

“A hearing?” Arthur said grouchily. “A hearing for what?”

“To see if Shadowforce should be prosecuted for the lives lost on Cestus.”

Arthur’s eyes grew wide with incredulity. “Son of a . . . they’ve GOT to be kidding! We were fighting for our homes!”

“I know,” Leon interjected. “And I don’t blame you for that. But there’s some in Fleet who feel that you angered the Gorns by fighting back, and that’s why they began bombarding the planet.”

“If Fleet hadn’t let our defenses go to hell, they never would have invaded!” Arthur turned around and slammed his fists down on the table. “What did they expect us to do? Throw up our hands and surrender?”

“I don’t agree either, dad, but whether or not we do, there’s going to be a hearing, and we’ve got a lot to do before that happens.”

“What’s this ‘we’ crap?” the elder Cromwell asked harshly.

“Your heart, dad,” Leon explained. “You can’t go through the stress of a trial in your current condition. I have to operate on you to prevent an irreversible thrombosis. You could die if I don’t”

“I’ll be damned if I let you cut me up,” he grumbled. “If I’m going to die, then let me die. At least I’ll be with your mom and sister.” Arthur took another sip of whiskey.

“Dad,” Leon pleaded, turning his head to hide the tears that were welling within his eyes. “Don’t do this.” He knew that once his father took a position on something, it was next to impossible to get him to change his mind.

“Since when do you give a damn about me?” Arthur asked.

“Because you’re all that I’ve got left.”

---

When Leon emerged from the observation den, he was alone. His reddened eyes indicated that he was quite upset, but he was determined to regain his composure. As he walked back into the great room, Skip, Wey, and Lins were concerned by his condition.

“What happened?” Skip asked.

“I’ll take that drink now, Wey,” Leon said, ignoring Skip’s question and walking to the wet bar.

---

Chapter 17: Objects In MotionTop

Location: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Sol III

Starfleet is dedicated to many things. Some might say peace, the pure pursuit of knowledge, or perhaps the thrill of vaulting into the unknown. In truth, the purpose of Starfleet rested in each of its officers, all of whom had their own reasons for contributing to the whole. For Kathryn Janeway, Starfleet was all about certainty. In many ways, certainty was what held the universe together. One had to have certainty that a device as scientifically outrageous as the transporter would work in order to get anywhere in the Federation. Onboard a starship, a crew had to be certain that their captain had the crew's best interests at heart. Even the exploration of space was about measuring, quantifying, and cataloguing the unknown, thereby asserting the universally understood certainty of science to an otherwise chaotic universe.

Kathryn thrived on certainty, craved it, and as a flag officer in the largest formal organization humanity had ever known, depended on it to make her existence possible. For seven years, she'd kept her crew together through the stubborn application of her will, born of the certainty - Not hope- certainty, that one day she would get home. She had been assisted, to a largely unknown degree, by Admiral Owen Paris; estranged father to her one-time helmsman Tom, who had doggedly spearheaded Project: Pathfinder.

Through Owen Paris' efforts, a journey that should have taken decades had taken a handful of years, and upon her return to the Alpha Quadrant, Kathryn had come to look on Owen Paris as a man of integrity and drive whom she felt, with comfortable certainty, would always do the right thing.

That was before she'd gotten word from Pam Krockover barely an hour ago.

Now Kathryn again felt the fire of absolute dedication in her being, but this time, she was determined to find out how she could have judged a man so incorrectly. As she stormed her way down Starfleet Command's art deco halls, Janeway took scant notice of all the junior officers who gave her the polite nods that served as a `Fleet salute. She rounded a final corner, barely missing a direct collision with a Bolian ensign who couldn't save his own data PADDS from Kathryn's focused wake.

Janeway stopped briefly as she entered the foyer to Admiral Paris' office. “Where is he?” she asked a shocked ensign who wasn't at all prepared for the force of the Admiral's clipped alto voice.

Striving to regain some composure, the ensign looked down briefly to verify Paris' daily schedule. “I'm sorry ma'am, but . . . ”

The break in eye-contact was all that Janeway needed. Moving in powerful strides, she crossed to the large, antique wooden doors that marked the Starfleet CnC's office. “He's in there?” she asked again, her voice losing none of it's fury.

The ensign did her best to remain calm and perform her duty above all else. “I'm sorry ma'am,” she answered coolly, but you can't . . . ”

“Hold his calls!” Janeway said angrily as she stormed through the doors to Owen Paris' office.

Sitting behind a richly polished black steel and glass desk, Owen Paris was the picture of calm, his fingers steeped in front of him. “I would have saved you an appointment, Kathryn.” he said calmly. The CnC pressed a control on his desktop. “Janet, hold my appointments please, this may take a while.”

“Very good, Admiral.”

Janeway slammed her palms on the desktop. “Owen! Is it true? You okayed the appointment of a Presidential Special Investigator?”

Owen nodded. “It's true, but the writing was on the wall. The President's advisor's had their minds made up. What I might or might not have wanted didn't really enter into it.”

“So you just sold out the crew of the Republic?”

Matter-of-factly, Paris responded. “Yes.”

Kathryn threw up her hands. “I don't believe you, Owen. That's all you have to say? Yes? You won't even explain it to me?”

“With all due respect Kathryn, I don't think you want me to.”

“You'll understand if I respectfully disagree . . . Admiral.” Janeway commented. She paced back toward the doors, putting more distance between herself and the admiral. “I thought I knew you better.”

Paris' face was a bit more flushed following that. “You better be careful how harshly you judge me, Kathryn. You haven't been an admiral that long.”

Janeway spun on her heel, looking straight into the older man's eyes. “I'd like to think I can keep my principles.”

Owen nodded thoughtfully. “Mmm hmm. See how that answer changes when you have a family. Not a crew or an officer's responsibilities, but a family.”

Kathryn crossed her arms in front of her. “Just what are you getting at, Owen?”

Owen Paris squinted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It's the price I had to pay Kathryn. I'm sorry that the officers on Republic are getting the worst end of it, but given the same choices, there's not a thing I'd do differently.” Paris sat back and waited as Janeway's scientific mind went to work.

Across from the older officer, Janeway tilted her head. “Price? Owen, what are you talking about? What choices? You said you were with us.”

“Always.” he said, waiting patiently.

As she thought of the possible things Owen Paris might mean, the former Voyager captain did what any other scientist would do; she reviewed the facts. Owen Paris was a well-decorated officer, starship commander during the Cardassian Wars, and foremost in Kathryn's mind, the father of a man with whom she had trusted her life more times than she could remember. As she compared all that she knew of Owen Paris with the current power struggle between the Hawks and Doves, as the two Starfleet factions had come to be known, she kept coming back to that most personal of connections.

Tom Paris had been brought aboard U.S.S. Voyager because of his knowledge of `The Badlands'. Father and son had been estranged for some years before Voyager's stranding in the Delta Quadrant, but during the long journey back, Janeway had been more than pleased to see the man and officer that Tom had become, and was even more astonished when she, and the rest of Voyager's crew learned of the existence of Project: Pathfinder.

Pathfinder was an amazing, cutting-edge effort to regain contact with Voyager and above all, let them know that they were not alone. An impressive number of scientists, engineers, and god-only-knew how many man hours were assembled and administered by Admiral Owen Paris in an attempt to not only live up to the finest of Starfleet traditions, but to bring his son home.

The realization took less than a second.

“Oh no, Owen, no.” Janeway gasped.

With a look of practiced resignation, Paris nodded. “Pathfinder.” he said simply.

“But how could anyone . . . blackmail you like this?” Janeway asked. “It's criminal.”

“It's politics, Kathryn. Starfleet loses a handful of ships every year. Sometimes it's negligence, or some cosmic collision. Sometimes ships just disappear. `Fleet doesn't even look for most of them.” Paris placed his hands on both sides of his head and gently rubbed his temples. “Command wanted the plug pulled on Pathfinder after eighteen months. It took everything I had. Every favor, every promise, everything I could think of to keep it alive.”

“And this is what? Payback?”

“In a way.” Paris explained. “Before we finally perfected the trans-subspace network we used to contact you, we'd been faced with one failure after another, but I knew how close we were to a breakthrough. I had to buy time. So, I made a deal with an admiral in research and development.”

“Kostya.” Janeway hissed.

“All he wanted was a favor to be named later. And this was it.”

Now that understanding had cooled Janeway's temper she stepped closer to Paris, relieved that she had not misjudged him too badly. Kathryn Janeway knew all about difficult choices. In her own quest to get her ship and crew home, she found herself agreeing to things she thought she never would. She'd learned to tell herself that she wouldn't do anything differently, and now, she was hearing Owen Paris say the same thing. In his place, she likely would have made the deal as well.

Turning her thoughts to the present, she put a hand on the admiral's shoulder. “There has to be something we can do. We can't just leave those officers alone.”

Paris shook his head. “No, `we' can't. But I'm off the board. But there might be something a stubborn, willful . . .

“All right, you've made your point, Admiral.” Janeway said with the hint of a smile. “You'll excuse me, sir, but I need to place a call,” she said, headed toward the doors.

“Not at all Kathryn,” Owen smiled back. “Drop in any time.”

---

Location: Starbase 39 Sierra

There was a bright flash against the deep black of the local space around 39 Sierra. A squat, craft, resembling an elongated pyramid with forward-swept, downward sloping wings along the fuselage made the transition to normal space, and inside Sierra Approach Control, the comm. system came to life.

“Delta Flyer to 39 Sierra Approach control, requesting clearance.”

“Delta what?” came the curious reply from the control officer. He tapped the reply control. “Sierra control to Delta Flyer. You aren't on our arrival sheet. Please identify yourselves at once.”

After a moment of silence, an easy tenor voice came over the comms. “This is Commander Tom Paris. Sorry for the short notice Sierra Control. We're transmitting orders now.”

In the Sierra control room, the assembled crew looked on as encrypted data spilled across the network. “I'll be damned,” said one verbose ensign. “They've either got powerful friends, or powerful enemies, that's for sure.” A moment later, the starbase computer confirmed the legitimacy of the Delta Flyer's orders. “Confirmed Delta Flyer,” the control officer replied. You're cleared for docking in bay six.”

---

Tom Paris sat back in is custom-fitted acceleration couch as his flight controls were supplanted by the starbase computers. He turned his head, addressing the flyer's other occupant. “I don't know about you, Commander,” he said wryly, “but I wouldn't want to be the guys who needed your help.”

“Your concern is justified, Commander,” came the passenger's solid baritone. “Though I sense your comment is not entirely serious.”

Tom smiled, waiting for the Flyer to complete it's docking procedure. “Can't put anything past you Tuvok.” Paris quipped.

---

Location: Captain's ready room, USS Republic

Captain Roth continued to stare at the data displayed before her. The Republic was nearly ready for departure, personnel were being assigned to stations and many of her concerns were being dealt with. The Starfleet had to throw another hydro-spanner into the warp coil.

The file on her newest officer was impressive, yet even she could see that most of it lacked any real information. Roth wondered why Starfleet even bothered to try and deny the facts when anyone with a brain could figure out all the double talk. But it did give her an experienced officer with both command and bridge experience.

“Carter is going to be upset,” she thought out loud.


Location: Docking port B, Starbase 39 Sierra

Douglas Forrest stepped out of the docking ring, a small travel pack thrown over his shoulder. He looked around the docking area and watched the throng of people go about their business. Forrest ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pleased that Doc Hy'Vall had been able to re-grow it after the plasma accident. Not that he was vain; it's really difficult to remain inconspicuous when half your head is bald.

Forrest was glad to be assigned back to a ship, even if it was the Republic. According to his briefing, the new Captain was ready for the job and a lot better suited than the last skipper.

“Hell,” thought Forrest, “Even Carter was a better choice.”

Forrest understood the basic distrust most `Fleet officers had for Intel, a good deal of it was justified. No commander wanted to be reminded that `Fleet didn't trust them with all the secrets. `Fleet trained it's officers to be independent, self-confidant, trustworthy and honorable. The Intel told them to stuff all that. Yeah, Forrest fully understood.

At least his orders this time did include bringing the Captain and XO up to speed on the situation. So maybe this time they could get of to a better start.

Forrest found himself at the appropriate Transporter Pad and waited patiently for his queue. Time to get it all underway.

Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest to USS Republic. Requesting permission to beam aboard.

---

Chapter 18: Objects at RestTop

Location: Aft torpedo bay, deck 35, USS Republic

The gentle hum of the powered down engines gave the darkened room a sense of peace. It was one of the few places that a person could go for alone time, for a sense of privacy. It was a secret place Crewman First Class Jerrick Moore went when he needed to get away from the hectic pace of the crew quarters or the general buzz of his engineering duty station. He secretly wished he could spend more time here but his shift schedule and training classes only allowed him his secret sanctuary for only a few hours a week. It was here that he felt he could change his life.

Crewman Moore was startled from his silent revelry by the hushed sound of voices talking. Carefully staying hidden under the Photon Launch rack, Moore tried to make out what the voices were saying.

“So the personnel are in position,” asked the first voice.

“Yes sir,” responded the second voice, a strange lyrical quality the only real distinguishing factor. “Appropriate personnel have been reassigned to the key areas. It took some doing and some questions were raised, but nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Good. For this to work we are going to need to be ready to go at a moments notice when the signal is given. They don't pay this kind of money for mistakes or almost.”

Crewman Moore peered from his hiding place, trying to spot the two intruders, but with little success. He hoped he could make out a department or service color, but the dimmed lighting left no clear view.

“Return to standby,” the first speaker stated, dismissal in his tone.

The two figures exited the area leaving a startled, confused and slightly scared crewman behind. Moore had no clue what was going on or who he could trust.

---

Location: Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, North America, Sol III

Earth was just as Miles O'Brien remembered it—he couldn't ask for a more idyllic place to work—for instance, today the middle coast was the way he liked it: fine, mild and mostly sunny. And it would have been worth savoring had Chief O'Brien not been pressed to get to the Jefferies Building before the end of the school day.

Situated near the old gun batteries of the coastal bluffs, the Jefferies Building was a sprawling structure on old Fort Winfield Scott, adjoining the old parade fields.

O'Brien was nearly out of breath after making his way up from the foreshore. As he came into the clearing he saw flocks of cadets already leaving class and he worried he was too late. He tacked himself every way to advance through the crowd, and bounding up the stairs, entered the Jefferies Building.

He was relieved to see the subject of his errand was still on the rostrum, Doctor Bruce Burke. The chief descended from the back of the auditorium, brushing his face with his sleeve.

Bruce Burke switched off the board and was gathering isolinear memory cards into one hand when he became aware of O'Brien standing at the foot of the rostrum.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you, sir.”

“I'm right, O'Brien. What ya up to?”

“I heard from Captain Voss that you plan on making a jailbreak this afternoon.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Vossie.”

“Look, Bruce, if you're planning on leaving the Academy, I came to talk you out of it.”

“Ah, Brinho, that's sweet of you. But you know how Vossie keeps getting pressure to field more engineers? Yeah well, the little voice of reason in my head was starting to sound like ol' Vossie. What-do- yer reckon?”

“Sir, with all due respect, maybe you should listen to your heart, not the voices in your head.”

“Bless you mate, you're a good pom and not at all stuck-up.”

O'Brien feigned a raised voice, “I am not a pom.”

Bruce crossed his arms and feigned moroseness. “I am not a criminal.”

The two friends laughed, but then fell into an awkward silence.

“Well, I'll write you.”

“You'd better.”

“Maybe when the Republic swings by the system we can go to that restaurant you were always trying to get me to.”

“It's a pub, . . . you still can't say it, can you?”

Burke suddenly leaned forward with his arms around O'Brien. “I gotta go bro.”

O'Brien hugged him back. “You'd better write.”

“I will.”

“You'd better.”

---

“Personal Log, Lieutenant Commander Bruce Burke”

“I've boarded the high-warp courier U.S.S. Perpetua (NCC-73204) en route for Starbase 39 Sierra and to my new post aboard the U.S.S. Republic (NCC-75421). I'm going to have a squeeze around engineering, and see what I can scrounge up to do, because as much as I hate to do this to them, someone has to do something about these torque buffers, they're out of alignment, and the noise is driving me mad. Sort of a high-pitched rattle. Crikey, these ships are small! Fair Dinkum! Crook equipment. Dodgy maintenance. Shared quarters. You wander how the poor captain keeps going!

“And one more thing, . . . someone on board must breath methane because this place smells ripe. Either that or they have a backed-up lavo. Only a day of this and I'm home free.”

---

Chapter 19: Two PairTop

Within the United Federation of Planets, the celebrity of any individual or group of individuals was rare and required considerable and continued accomplishment to maintain. It was also not sought after as it had once been in the history of nearly every member world, indeed now being seen by most as more a side-effect or even a hindrance. Despite all of this however, if you where one of the few accomplished enough to obtain such revered status amongst the massive 982 billion population of the Federation, it was almost guaranteed that you would be unable to find a single person amongst them that did not recognize you.

This was the case for Commander Tuvok, instructor at Starfleet Academy and personal adjunct to Rear Admiral Kathryn Janeway, and Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris, Executive Officer and former Helmsman of the now-legendary Starship Voyager - not to mention son of the newly selected Commander-in-Chief of the whole of Starfleet. As the pair moved through the unfamiliar corridors of the tarnished Starship Republic, the fact of their celebrity was re-enforced by the side-long glances, whispered comments of wonder and admiration, and awe-struck smiles.

For Tom Paris, even after two years back home, it was still amusing and refreshing. He was, after all, not exactly the model of what a Starfleet Officer should be. He had made his fair share of mistakes, mistakes which had lead to death and prison, not to mention a fair dose of disgrace for not only himself, but his family. After seven years in the great unknown depths of the Delta Quadrant though, he had been redeemed, forged in fire and proven to be, though unorthodox, one of the best and brightest. Still, it was something Tom couldn't quite accept or get passed. To be looked upon not with scorn or shame, but with pride and respect.

So it was that the First Officer of Voyager made the additional effort towards those who admired him. A smile here, a wave there, any simple gesture that let people know he was approachable and appreciative. Tuvok, on the other hand, always seemed irritated - at least, as irritated as he could get - at such things. And even more so at Paris when he made his 'additional efforts'.

“Mister Paris,” Tuvok remarked, drawing a deep breath in what Tom knew from experience to be a gesture of annoyance. “If you are finished 'shmoozing', we do have an assignment to attend to.”

“Oh, come on Tuvok, lighten up,” Paris replied, as he smiled at a pair of Ensigns huddled together in hushed conversation as they looked on at the duo from Voyager. “It wouldn't kill you to just smile and nod. Think of it as 'public relations' or something.” Paris quipped.

“Mister Paris-” Tuvok began, his tone indicative that a chastising speech was forthcoming.

“Save the speech, Tuvok,” Paris cut him off. “I get your point. Lets find the bridge and report to the Captain.”

“A turbolift would be helpful.” Tuvok replied, as the duo began once again to move down the corridor, this time with purpose as they searched the unfamiliar corridors.

“We could always ask somebody,” Paris suggested, trying to hide a smile at the suggestion he knew the Vulcan would shoot down. Tuvok once more drew in a deep in the equivalent of a sigh - for a Vulcan, that is.

“Computer,” he stated, his voice raised to signal the internal audio sensors, “direct us to the nearest turbolift.” he commanded. To their left, the LCARS panels along the wall lit up as a small light activated and began to run along the length of the screen.

“Turbolift D-7 is exactly two-point-six meters forward and to your left.” the Computer stated. Sure enough less than a few steps away was a set of doors clearly labeled 'Turbolift'.

“Well, that was easy enough.” Paris remarked.

“Indeed.” remarked Tuvok as he turned the bend in the corridor and pressed the call button for the lift. After a few moments, the lift arrived and the doors parted. The lift however was not vacant, but had a sole occupant. A blond-haired Starfleet Lieutenant in command red, dressed from the waist-down in an engineering jumpsuit, the top portion pulled down and tied around his waist.

“Tell me ya brought the Delta Flyer,” he said without introduction of hesitation. The statement caught both Paris and Tuvok off-guard.

“Uh, do I know you?” Paris asked, a bit confused.

“Nope, never met ya a day in ma life. But ya did design one helluva little ship, an I've been itchin' ta get ma hands on the controls fer a couple years now, so tell me: did ya bring the Delta Flyer?” he asked again.

“Lieutenant?” Tuvok queried, prompting him for his name.

“Hawk, Nathan Hawk, but ma friends call me Nat. Pilots though, they call me either Wild Card 'er Death Wish.” Hawk replied, shaking Paris' hand and fairly ignoring Tuvok. “So, how 'bout it, did ya bring 'er?”

“Uh, actually, yeah, we did.” Paris managed to reply.

“Lieutenant Nathan Hawk, you are the ship's Helmsman, correct?” Tuvok asked.

“Kinda, sorta. Not really sure ta tell ya the truth. Relieved a duty at the moment,” he replied. “So it true you found a way to supe-up thrusters and cross-circuit them with impulse systems?” he asked of Paris.

“Actually, they're more of toned-down impulse engines than actual thrusters, but . . . ” Paris, suddenly something clicked in Paris' head. “Wait a minute, Wild Card, was that a call sign?” he queried.

“Yep,” Hawk replied, “I was the Wild Card outta the Flying Aces 85th Attack Squadron, 2373 ta 2376. Best damn batch a pilots I ever flew with.”

“Yeah, the 85th, I heard about you all. When we got home, I mean. Heard of you to, of Wild Card anyway. Is it true you ran four kamikaze missions?” Paris questioned.

“Well, ain't exactly kamikaze if ya don't get blown ta hell, but yeah, that'd be me. One time my XO damn near threw me out an airlock fer doin' it, too.” Hawk said with a grin, which Paris mirrored.

“Mister Paris, Mister Hawk,” Tuvok interrupted, “we have pressing matters to attend to. The fate of not only the Starfleet careers of yourself, but a number of your shipmates, as well as you personal freedoms are at stake.”

“Aw, I ain't worried 'bout that legal bullshit,” Hawk replied, “it'll all get worked out fine. Trust me.”

“I find it curious that you show so little concern in light of the grave charges made against you and your shipmates. Conviction on the attempted murder or treason charges would result in not only a dishonorable discharge, but likely considerable time in the stockade.” Tuvok replied.

“Vulcans,” Hawk remarked, “Can't live with um, I sure as hell can live without um.”

“Lieutenant-” Tuvok began.

“How 'bout this, you hop on in the lift here and go on up and talk with the Cap'n an good ole Cyclops about all this legal mumbo-jumbo, and I'll have Tommy-boy show me that pretty lil ship a his while ya do.” Hawk suggested.

“The legal 'mumbo-jumbo' does directly involve you, Lieutenant. You should be present at any discussions involving the case against you.” Tuvok replied.

“Aww, horse pucky. I don't give a hoot 'bout that sort a shit and I bet Tommy-boy doesn't either. We're pilots, men a action, not sittin' round talkin' 'bout legalisms.” Hawk stated. ”'Sides, if yer ma lawyer, don't make much difference if I'm there 'er not. Right? Right. So you go chat up the brass an we'll go take that pretty lil ship fer a spin and ya can fill me in later, alright?” Hawk said.

“Great.” Hawk concluded, without waiting for Tuvok to reply. Putting his arm around Paris' shoulder and leading him away down the corridor, he didn't give the Vulcan a second thought. “Ya know, I always thought diametric tail-fins woulda looked great on the Flyer,” he said.

“So did I,” Paris remarked, glancing back at Tuvok as the two pilots walked away.

---

Location: Deck 10, USS Republic

The soft “thunk” of the conference room door came as a welcome relief to John Carter who'd had all he could stand of the man known only as Cole. This visitor had come, allegedly at the behest of the President of the United Federation of Planets, to function as an Independent Prosecutor, and sort out whatever might pass for “justice” in the wake of the Cestus three incident. For the last few minutes, John had endured many questions, most of which he'd answered with the phrase `It's all in the report'.

When he'd been ordered to receive the visitor by Captain Roth, Carter had assumed that he would play things close to the vest. In truth that was usually the safest course of action anyway, but over the course of his months on Republic, John had learned that it was sometimes hard to know who to trust. Cole was a stranger, more than likely a spy (though for whom John couldn't say), but he also came onboard with the authority of the President, which meant that John was required to answer his questions. This, or course, Carter had done; following the letter, if not the spirit of his orders with regard to Cole.

Cole's questions were followed by John's strict, by the book reply for the better part of fifteen minutes. Carter had begun to suspect that Cole was getting tired of hearing the same answer over and over again. In truth Carter was tiring of it as well, but he was expecting the arrival of a number of officers, including (at least provisionally) someone to serve as Republic's Tactical Chief, and as First Officer, It was Carter's responsibility to make sure that all the Department Heads were accounted for. In short, he had much better things he could be doing. Thankfully, a well timed comm signal from Ops had pulled Carter away from Cole's impromptu interrogation before his frustration got the better of him, and Carter took the opportunity to excuse himself to take the call from Ops.

As he strode through the corridors of Republic's main deck, Carter tapped his combadge. “Carter to Ops. What have you got?”

“Sullivan here sir. Quite a few things actually.”

Carter rubbed his temples as he waited for a turbolift to arrive. “It's never simple is it Ops?”

“Wouldn't know sir. We Ops folks don't really do `simple'.”

“Not on this ship anyway,” Carter quipped.

“Didn't copy that XO?”

“Nothing,” Carter answered with a shake of the head. “Give me the official stuff first.”

“Ok. The good news is the new Ops chief is out of the brig.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Some problem with a civie on the station, but McTaggart sprung her . . . Legitimately”

A wry smile crossed Carter's face as he weighed being both pleased and chagrined by the need to add the word `legitimately' to the sentence. “Fine then, I'll consider that taken care of. Next?” Carter stepped forward into the car as it finally arrived. “Deck four”, he called out to the computer.

“We just got some VIP's aboard.”

“What, more? Who?”

“Not sure. They came to the station under flag. I think they checked in with the captain directly.”

“Sprocking admirals.” Carter cursed. “How much worse does it get?”

“I've got Lieutenant Commander Virtus on the line for you.”

“I don't know whether that's good or bad.” The XO commented.

“Understood sir, where do you want it?”

“Tell him to hang on. I'll take it in my quarters in two minutes. And Ops? Where's the Doc?”

“He's still on the station sir. Said it was family business. Should I . . . ”

Out of habit, Carter waved his hand, despite being nowhere near the Ops officer. “No need Ops. I'll catch up to him later. Thanks for the heads up. Carter out.”


Location: Counselor's quarters, deck 8, USS Republic

Shannon Harris looked briefly into the mirror in her quarters, checking the side of her face. She trailed a finger down the side of her cheek. `Not a single wrinkle', she thought. `Good.' She'd never been particularly vain, but after the close call that John had received, and after the two of them had finally acted on feelings that had been percolating for months, she found herself feeling more conscious of her appearance. John hadn't said anything of course; Shannon doubted that he would, but it seemed to matter to her.

Although they hadn't spent another night together since the first, she and John had enjoyed a few dinners on The Hill, and Shannon thought that it might be nice to do something different for their next `date'. Shannon smiled, happy to think of their relationship in those terms. As Shannon pondered a change in her appearance, she twisted a finger playfully into a falling lock of her red hair. `I've kept it up for the last bit,' she thought. `Might be nice to let it down, or maybe I should cut it short'.

As Shannon completed the thought, she gave her head a shake to let the rest of her hair fall. She opened her eyes and felt her jaw slack at the sight that looked back at her in the mirror. It was her face. Same eyes, same nose (she could thank her mother for that), and her hair was the right color, but as she stared, she saw that her head was topped by a close-cropped style, barely a quarter of an inch in length. Slowly, curiously, she reached up to feel her new cut, watching her actions in the mirror, as if making sure it was real. She lightly patted her head, feeling her hair underneath her fingers, then the brought the tips back, feeling along her skull. She felt every bit; knew that it was her hand, her hair, her head. What she didn't know was how such a thing was possible.

Shannon closed her eyes and let her head drop, cradling her face in her hands. After a long moment, she opened her eyes, and looked back up into the mirror. Everything was as it should be. Same face, same nose, and her hair was the length she had expected it to be. Shannon looked on for a long moment and a disturbing thought entered her mind.

'What if the Counselor needs a counselor?'


Location: First officer's quarters, deck 8, USS Republic

John Carter leaned over his desk not bothering to sit down as he keyed in the commands to accept the message from Victor Virtus. Thanks to Republic's relative proximity to earth, and the improvements to the trans-subspace network, John and Vic could enjoy an all too rare conversation in real-time. Carter smiled as Vic's face came into view.

“Hey Vic. How are the Black Shirts treating you?”

Ever the realist, and a firm believer that one should never reveal too much emotion (certainly over sub-space; after all, who knew where else the signal would end up), Victor Virtus was careful to hide his shock upon seeing his friend's newly monocular appearance. However, even Victor Virtus wasn't perfect, and he couldn't help but reach up and stroke the sides of his mustache, a nervous habit he'd never been able to kick. “Better than you it seems,” he said affably. “Which one was it?”

“Left, obviously.”

Victor stifled a sigh at Carter's repartee. “Well that's a relief. At least it wasn't Doctor Harris.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Our favorite Counselor is left-handed,” Victor quipped. “Really John, I should think you'd noticed that by now.”

“Yes . . . Doctor, I DO know that. And for the record, whatever else I do, or do not know about Shannon is officially none of your business.”

“Certainly not, John. But as SHANNON,” Victor said with the barest of emphasis, “is left-handed, her natural instinct would have been to attack across her body, meaning that whomever you . . . ran afoul of . . . was right-handed. Let me guess, Casey Tanaka tracked you down?”

“Casey?” John shook his head. I haven't seen her since . . . “

“Since the Devonshire, yes, yes John I know. She was on the Yorktown for a while, in case you're curious.”

“I'm really not.”

“Well I KNOW it wasn't Chase. She would have taken something a bit more . . . ”

“Thank you, Vic. What can I do for you?”

I wanted to tell you about your new Chief Engineer. Quite talented, really. I ran into him before he left the Academy and thought I'd put in a good word for him. I'd be obliged if you could show him around.”

“I suppose Vic, but I've got a pretty full plate right now.”

“No doubt,” Victor commented wryly. “Have you talked to Forrest yet?”

Carter felt his temperature rise. “No . . . ” he said cautiously. “Why would I?”

“He and I had a chat with a mutual friend last week. I assumed they'd be headed your way next.”

“Yeah, the gang's all here, so to speak.” John shook his head, then felt his face turn in a sour expression. “Wait, did you just say `assume'? Since when do you assume anything?”

Victor let a smile through his facade. “Well, technically, I didn't assume, but I thought that the math would bore you. Think of it as an attempt to lighten up.”

Carter smiled. “Well, I do appreciate the thought Vic. Wish you were here, we could use a fair hand at poker. Not that we've played since you left.”

“Well, perhaps you can talk Doctor Burke into it.”

“Who?”

“Bruce Burke. The new Chief Engineer. His shuttle should be arriving momentarily.”

“Well, thanks for the notice. Don't worry, I'll give him a warm welcome.”

“Thanks John. Take care of yourself. My best to the Doctor . . . um . . . s, I suppose. Both of them. See you soon.”

“Time will tell Vic. Carter out.”

---

Location: Junior officer's quarters, deck 3, USS Republic

There's always an equal amount of joy and dread floating around as someone waits to meet a new superior officer. Maria had met . . . she counted on her fingers, . . . five if you count Victor twice, since being assigned to the Republic. Hopefully this new COE preferred three eight hour shifts to four sixes. Far be it from her to criticize what worked best for a certain humorless, workaholic, time-obsessed officer, but she believed there was a subtle design in the way the universe functioned, and that time should be divided into easily manageable thirds of work-time, play-time and sleep-time. Plus it had been her job to synchronize the engineering department's first, second, third and four shift, with the rest of the ship's Alpha, Beta and Gamma shifts. Nothing like getting off shift at 0600, only to make an interdepartmental meeting at 0830. Plus the excitement of trying to cram eight hours worth of diagnostics, maintenance, and PADDwork into every six hour shift.

“Computer. What is current station time?”

Eighteen fifty-seven hours.

“Assistant Chief Engineer's Personal Log. Without Victor around I check the time about three time's per hour, as opposed to the ten I did when he was in charge. A few more standard months, and I might be able to enjoy an entire day without caring if I was going to be late for something. End Recording.”

Lieutenant Pakita tucked a lock of hair behind her left ear and scrolled down the public files on Lieutenant Commander Bruce Burke. She stared for a long moment at his picture before deciding his hair was nice, but his eyes were nicer. Skimming his accreditations and the title of his thesis, she paused at a paper he had published in his senior year at Monash, 'Geomagnetic wave fluctuations as a function of solar activity on M-class planets'.

'Hmmmm . . . ', the slim woman thought to herself, it seems the Commander and I have something in common. A fascination with Magnetic Field Theories.“

“Computer. What is current station t . . . . belay request. Computer, lights to nine percent, play ocean waves on sand for twenty minutes, then off, set alarm for oh six hundred.”

“Acknowledged.”

Maria lay back and listened to the digitally reproduced sounds of her childhood, and pictured the sun setting on the horizon, her mother cooking lobster and her father strumming his battered guitar singing about when life was simple. A lone tear formed, and with a rueful smile Maria Grizelle Pakita drifted off to sleep.

---

Chapter 20: Special DeliveryTop

Location: USS Perpetua, en route to Starbase 39 Sierra

Somewhere within the Perpetua, a very tired Bruce Burke was cupping water from a washroom basin and splashing his face. He hadn't slept at all. Maybe it was the excitement of being in space again. Maybe it was nervousness. It was probably a little of both. Or maybe it was the misaligned torque transducers and sensors behind the wall, only centimeters from his pillow. It seemed at first to sing pianississimo, but by the end of the trip he was convinced it was forte. The crescendo of metal on metal, peeling and grating, clamoring and clanking, until it seemed the very wall was vibrating.

As he mussed his hair before the mirror, the sonic shower began to hum behind him, sending yet another hum through the compartment as one of his many bunkmates prepared for duty. It had been a long time since he'd had a roommate, but the courier provided him three. And not one of them could hear a thing.

Burke made a final pluck at the white lent on his black suit and quipped, “Knackered. Really Knackered. No way to start a first day.”

“Knackered?” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

“Very tired.” Bruce saw in the mirror his two roommates were dressed, and unwilling to wait their turn, were shaving over his shoulder. They were the ship's second and third officers respectively. (The first officer was the third roommate, and he was the one in the shower and he had started to sing something).

“Well you were up all night.” one roommate quipped.

“We'd better not hear about this in staff meeting.” said the other.

The two fresh-faced young lieutenants turned their heads and lifted their chins as they shaved, occasionally looking at Burke askance. “I can hear it now, `Burke was on the ship one week and fixed the IDF anomaly,' I can just hear it. I've been trying to trace that gap in the IDF field for almost a month.” The lieutenant turned off his razor and placed his hand on Burke's shoulder, giving it a grateful squeeze. “I owe you one.”

“Not at all, safety is everyone's concern. I was just glad to have something to do.”

The singing from the man in the shower became exceptionally loud. Actually, not so much loud as bad. The third officer laughed, “Oh man! You were right about the IDF sub-harmonics . . . listen to how he's gone tone deaf.”

Burke grinned, “If they can't sing well they'll sing loud. Well, I better get going mates.” He rapped on the sonic shower door and coyly whispered, “Yeah mate, sing on the inside. The inside.”

The first officer, having been properly, though deservedly scolded, stopped singing. But the door popped open just enough for him to extend his hand. “We all owe you, Brucie.”

“Hey, thanks for the ride.”

---

Outside the airlock, John Carter waited as the courier's gangway hatch opened. He couldn't help a smile as a large man with a barreled chest and a full, round face accented by a well-trimmed beard. His head was crowned by wavy, white hair. This was the visage of Commander Charlie Swan, Captain of Perpetua, and his countenance, combined with his red uniform collar mad the large man look positively jolly.

Commander Swan lumbered down the gangplank, followed closely by a Lieutenant in Operations gold. Republic's XO stepped forward to greet the pair. “Welcome to Republic gentlemen.” he offered. Charlie Swan gave a quick nod. “Permission to come aboard Commander?”

“Granted, commander?”

“Swan sir,” the elder man said, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“John Carter. Pleased to meet you too, Mister Swan.” Carter tilted his head, looking past Swan to check over Perpetua's sleek hull once more. “She's pretty.” he offered.

Swan smiled, giving Burke a sidelong glance. “She's outdated, but she's mine, and that's nice of you to say. But you have Mister Burke here to thank for getting us here in one piece.” John turned to look over the operations officer. “Nothing too serious I hope?”

Swan smiled again, the warm grin seeming almost infectious. “Not at all. Just sorry to see this man go.”

With that, Bruce Burke stepped forward. “Lieutenant Commander Burke, reporting for duty, sir.”

Carter took the new arrival's hand. “Welcome aboard, Commander. You come highly recommended.”

Burke tilted his head slightly. “Oh, right? Who was it that recommended me?”

“Victor Virtus is a good friend of mine. He asked me to show you around a bit.”

Burke's expression lightened as he put two and two together. “Rightio mate.” he chuckled. “He's a good engineer, that one.”

John smiled. “Yeah, Vic's something, that's for sure.” Quickly, Carter turned his head to address Commander Swan. “I don't suppose you have anything else for us, Commander?”

Swan dug a meaty hand into a small pocket inside his duty tunic, producing a small data chip. He held the small artifact up to the light, then handed it to Carter. “Just this I'm afraid. Doesn't look like much I know, but I was instructed to deliver it to either you or Captain Roth in person.”

Carter felt his expression sour. A hand delivered message was never good news. Normally, ship deployments were handled over coded subspace channels or in some cases, an isolated PADD. If Republic's new orders were on that simple isolinear chip, then it meant that the greatest care was being taken to keep the orders from even LOOKING like orders.

“Merry Christmas.” the Martian officer said, sarcastically.

Swan gave the XO a quick wink. “Sorry I couldn't bring you something nicer Commander,” he offered warmly. “Maybe next time.” Swan gave Burke a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Thanks again lad.” he said. “I'll let you get to work.” With that, Commander Swan turned and made his way back to Perpetua.

“Tell you what, Burke.” Carter said, turning to exit the shuttle bay. “I'll let you get settled into your quarters, and if you like, you can meet me in The Hill for a quick bite. Most of the crew is there at one time or another, so if you want to get to know the ship, that's the best place to do it.”

“The Hill?” Burke asked suspiciously.

“Our crew lounge, deck ten, forward.” Carter explained. “The name just kind of stuck.”

Burke nodded. “Ah mate, waddya recon, but I don't drink.”

John nodded. “Okay, in that case, the Officer's Mess will do.” he commented as he walked out of the bay into the hall. “See you in a bit Mister Burke.”




Location: Main sensor room, deck 15, USS Republic

Despite all the analysis and dissemination of sensor information to the ship's various subsystems and crew, it is often overlooked how the data is actually collected. There are several types of sensor arrays that make up the eyes and ears of the Republic: long range, short range, active, passive, internal, external, etcetera. However, none of this equipment sends transmissions directly to the receiving end (usually an individual). All of the raw data is first fed to main sensor room where computers and technicians splice, compare, integrate, and filter the information prior to being routed to the Republic's main computer and monitoring station. This is done more as a precautionary measure rather than to increase speed and efficiency of the ship's sensors. After all, in the uncertainty of space travel, only an experienced technician would be able to anticipate whether an unknown object or phenomena would overload the sensors or be laced with some alien signal that takes control of the main computer.

These technicians, although trained and dedicated, still have their emotional side to deal with, and when boredom and monotony falls upon them during their duty shift, the creative side of their personalities take over.

“Did you hear?” a young crewman in operations gold asked softly to a nearby petty officer third class. The room was currently full of operations crew upgrading the sensor systems.

“What?” the addressee replied. “I haven't heard anything of interest since Chief Rainier came aboard.” He nudged his head towards the chief of the boat across the room who was inspecting a piece of equipment with the senior enlisted operations supervisor.

“Captain Roth assigned us a new operations officer. Sullivan won't be with us on our next mission.”

“So? We all knew that Sullivan was being reassigned. In fact most of the officers in operations have left. All except for Klaus.” The last sentence he spoke was laced with animosity.

“That's just it,” the younger technician added. “Our new boss is an ensign fresh out of the academy.”

The petty officer slowly displayed a wide smile. “Oh boy! A greenback! Those types of officers are SO fun to mess with! Before long, we'll be having them handing out four-day passes like they were candy.”

“I wouldn't mess with this greenback,” the crewman shook his head with widened eyes. “Her name is Kuga, and Thompson told me she was thrown in the station brig for beating up a couple of Klingons on the docking level.”

A frown developed on the petty officer's face. “Where did you hear that?”

“Johansson down in security told me when Lieutenant McTaggart went to go get her released.”

“Sounds like this Ensign Kuga should be the tactical chief, not the operations chief.”

A chuckle from behind the two technicians brought them out of their conversation. Chief of the Boat, Brad Rainier, was now standing a few feet behind them and overheard their conversation.

“You boys better check out your sources,” he said with amusement. Turning around toward the turbolift door, Chief Rainier made his way across the room while calling out to a subordinate chief petty officer in operations gold manning the sensor distribution console.

“Thanks for the tour, chief. I'll be on the bridge.” With that, the chief of the boat left the room.

The two enlisted gentlemen, now slightly embarrassed, allowed their adrenaline to wear off from the sudden encounter with a senior non-commissioned officer. A few moments later, the young petty officer asked another crewman at a control station about four meters away.

“Lambert,” he beckoned.

“Did you hear about our new Ops Chief beating up two Klingons on the docking level?”

“Yeah, I heard it,” the third crewman replied. “Except that there were three of them, and they weren't Klingon. They were Naussican!”

The technician turned back to his friend with a concerned expression. “You're right. I don't think I want to mess with her . . .”


Location: Surgical suite 12, main medical complex, operations level, Starbase 39 Sierra

The brilliant white walls were more than a conformation of the operating room's antiseptic conditions. They reflected the lights in such a way that nothing in the room was veiled in darkness. In addition to the low-level ultraviolet LED's situated along the ceiling in a half-meter grid, the soft hum of the sterilization field was music to the ears of a surgeon who constantly concerned themselves with invasive bacteria.

Two such doctors occupied the suite and hovered over an operating table, with a third observer standing near by. Their blood-red Starfleet-issue surgical garments were a stark contrast to the pearlescent walls, as were the masks and caps that shielded the identity of the individuals. However, the unconscious face of Arthur Cromwell on the surgical bed gave little doubt to who at least one the attending physicians were.

“You know, Skip,” Leon said while both hands were sunk deep into his father's flesh. “That was a mean trick you pulled on him.”

There was very little blood present, as the surgical module that encapsulated Arthur's body contained many useful options for a surgeon to include a capillary restriction grid that, when activated, stops all blood vessels surrounding the incision area.

“It was either that or having him croak in front of a jury,” Skip retorted, revealing who the standing observer was. “Besides, it was no different than what I had to do at a wedding party we attended two years ago. He can sure be obnoxious when he's drunk.”

“You don't seem too upset about this hearing,” Doctor Cromwell changed the subject. Turning to the attending nurse, he asked for an instrument. “Arterial retractor.”

Skip replied nonchalantly. “I'm pretty sure it's just a formality. They can't blame us for protecting our homes.”

“I wouldn't give Starfleet that much credit,” Leon said with slight irritation.

“You're starting to sound like your dad,” Skip smiled through his mask. “No, I don't trust them either, but it's just common sense.”

“I didn't realize how close his cardiovascular system was to collapse.” The doctor was in awe at the amount of trauma Arthur's blood vessels had undergone. “All plasticity in the arterial walls is gone. He would have had more than a thrombosis; his entire circulatory system would have clotted up before too long. There's no way a full physical could have missed this. He must not have been going to the geriatric clinic for his regular checkups.”

Skip shook his head. “The older you get, the less you want to be in a doctor's office. You'll get there some day yourself and see.”

Leon stopped what he was doing for a moment to give the elder observer a stern look before turning his attention to the nurse.

“How's our Aortic regen coming along?”

“Still scanning the nuclides at ten-to-the-ninth base-pairs per second, doctor.”

“All this,” Leon rolled his eyes to look at the room around him. “And you people can't come up with a faster base-pair sequencer?”

“Sorry sir,” the nurse replied.

“Anyway,” Doctor Cromwell turned back to Skip. “You might want to put some more serious thought into your defense. If Fleet intelligence has their hands in this, they're not likely to go easy on any of you.”

---

Location: Executive docking port 31-C, VIP level, Starbase 39 Sierra

The courier shuttle softly inserted its locking ring with the portal, docking into place with a metallic thump followed by a pneumatic hiss of the interlocks securing the vessel to the station. An overhead light changed from red to green, and a computer voice sounded.

“Airlock pressurization sequence complete.”

A mechanical grind was the next chorus, as the hatch rolled open revealing two individuals standing inside the airlock. Both wore civilian clothes, but the age difference between the two was clear to see.

The younger wore a beige suit, with the stylistic, folded-up collar with a V cut at the throat. His hair was jet black, straight, and combed back with slick flare to it. With dark brown eyes, he was in conversation with the older man. This latter individual was slightly shorter than his junior counterpart, with a similar suit except more gray than beige, and a black overcoat as an accessory. The face bore the expression of a person who had seen evil itself, and did not flinch. His eyes were calm, and held the hue of faded blue with shoulder-length, wavy grayish-brown hair to complement it. Looking back and forth, the older was detached from the one-sided conversation spoken his compatriot, and settled his eyes on a Starfleet lieutenant standing just outside the airlock.

“Judge Wade,” the lieutenant greeted the duo. “Welcome aboard Starbase thirty-nine sierra.”

“Thank you,” the senior arrival replied while walking out of the airlock. His companion followed quietly.

“I'm Lieutenant Hanson,” the officer shook the hand of Judge Wade. “I've been instructed to be your JAG liaison for the Cestus Three hearing.”

“Excellent.” Turning to the younger man in the beige suit, Wade presented him to the lieutenant. “This is Robert Purves, my paralegal assistant.”

Purves reached out to shake Hanson's hand.

“Glad to meet you, lieutenant.”

“Likewise, Mister Purves,” the JAG liaison replied. Returning his attention to the judge, the lieutenant continued. “We have quarters and a study ready for you a few levels up. If you'll follow me?”

The three walked away from the docking port and proceeded down a hallway.

“First off, lieutenant,” the Judge changed the subject. “There's a few ground rules. I'm not sure how Starfleet does it, but I allow no media in my court.”

“Of course, your honor,” Hanson replied. “Neither does Starfleet.”

“Second, please let both counsel's know that I prefer clear facts over circumstantial evidence. We'll do our best to sort this out, but I don't want any underhanded attempts to spin the facts in either favor.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“I've had a meeting with an Admiral Kostya who gave me background on this case, and the reasons why it was transferred to the civilian court system. I do NOT want any of the defendants who are in Starfleet to wear their uniforms. This is now a civilian case, and if any individuals are to be put on trial, they will be treated as citizens of the Federation. No more, no less. Understand?”

“Completely, your honor.”

The three entered a turbolift and the lieutenant beckoned to the computer.

“Executive suites, section five-alpha.”

As the doors began to shut, Judge Wade made one last order.

“Assuming no obstacles, the hearing will commence in forty-eight hours. Inform both the prosecution and the defense.”

“Right away, your honor.”

---

Location: Recovery suite 25, main medical complex, operations level, Starbase 39 Sierra

Aside from his usual grouchy appearance, Arthur Cromwell displayed a slight touch of confusion mixed with annoyance on his face as he lay back on the biobed. His inpatient smock did not help his attitude, as it served more to embarrass him whenever a nurse came in to check on him. Although the silver blanket of the biobed assisted with maintaining his dignity, but not to the level he would have preferred.

“Can you explain to me, Mister Cromwell, in detail, exactly what occurred on stardate 57494.2?”

The question came from a man sitting in a nearby chair. His dress was that of a business man, but the quaint leather briefcase on his lap and the PADD he held in his hand indicated that he was not making a sales call. In fact, the brown-haired man's questions seemed more judicial in nature, giving him the aura of a lawyer.

“Well, I was just sitting there,” replied Arthur sarcastically. “Minding my own business when a little lizard told me that the Big Bad Wolf was coming to get me.”

“Mister Cromwell,” the visitor exclaimed. “This interview is for your benefit. A clear statement by you could work more in your favor at the hearing.”

“Okay!” Arthur held up his hands, and feigned an innocent expression. “I admit it! You caught me!”

“Caught you at what, Mister Cromwell?”

Arthur's expression turned to that of a stoic prisoner being interrogated, and if it were not for the obvious overtone of mockery, it would almost be convincing.

“I'm part of an elite terrorism team sent by the Romulan High Command to take over the Federation. We're known as Task Force Tomalok!”

The questioner displayed a look of offense, annoyance, and failure, all in one expression. He lowered his head, blinked twice, and formulated a plan that included the phrase 'let's take it from the top.'

However, the visitor did not get the chance to speak his mind as the door to the recovery suite slid open, and two individuals stepped inside. One was Doctor Leon Cromwell, and the other was a Starfleet Commander in command red.

“Actually, I'm glad you're here, Mister Cole,” Arthur said sourly to the civilian attendee while looking to his son. “I'd like to report an infanticide.”

Leon rolled his eyes as the dark-skinned Vulcan commander stepped forward and addressed Arthur's interviewer.

“Investigator Cole,” the deep, monotone voice addressed him. “It is improper for you to interview a defendant without counsel present.”

“Not at all,” the lawyer replied without concern. “Mister Cromwell did not ask for counsel, and in fact, may have just hurt his case by not providing me with appropriate answers to my questions.”

“You are to leave until this man has had a chance to prepare a defense.”

“That's fine,” Cole said, placing the PADD back into his briefcase and snapping the lid shut. He stood up and looked the commander in the eye. “I was done here anyway.” Without another word, Cole walked out of the room.

As the door shut behind the investigator, Doctor Cromwell and the commander turned back to Arthur.

“Who's your petticoat friend?” Arthur asked Leon, but it was the Vulcan who answered.

“My name is Commander Tuvok,” came the reply as the tall officer looked at Arthur stoically. “And at the request of a friend, I am . . .” he paused momentarily to raise an eyebrow as if to show slight disdain towards finishing the sentence. ”. . . your defense attorney.“

---

Chapter 21: Legal ManeuversTop

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Chapter 22: RumorsTop

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Chapter 23: Calm Before The StormTop

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Chapter 24: Jack, Queen and a Pair of DeucesTop

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Chapter 25: RequiemTop

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Chapter 26: Worried DoctorsTop

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Chapter 27: Opening ArgumentsTop

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Chapter 28: The Shadow KnowsTop

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Chapter 29: From Tour Guide to Guided TourTop

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Chapter 30: Delta Flyer to the RescueTop

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Chapter 31: A Father's GuiltTop

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Chapter 32: Trials and TribulationsTop

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Chapter 33: Case ClosedTop

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Chapter 34: Hail and FarewellsTop