---

ON

Bridge, Deck 1, Saucer Section, USS Republic (Luna Class), in orbit of Nimbus III

It took Leon Cromwell several seconds to compose himself following the outburst of emotion on the bridge after seeing John Carter very much alive despite being listed missing and presumed dead over two years ago. Had it not been for the fact that the rest of the bridge crew were as equally befuddled, it could have impacted his command authority. As it was, no one who had heard of the famous Martian commander, let alone served under him, could have been less distracted and still be able to maintain control of their workstations. As soon as Leon snapped himself out of it, he looked around at his officers ogling the screen where the unkempt form of John Carter looked back at them with an eyepatch and a grizzled, bearded face baring an amused grin.

For his part, John momentarily enjoyed the shocked reactions before noting that Leon was the first to rouse himself from his stupefaction. The doctor looked around the command center at his gawking officers before turning back towards John with an air of measuredness mixed with what his friend suspected was a touch of incertitude.

“Commander,” Leon addressed his long lost comrade in a stately manner, noting that John's smirk faded to a stern glance of concern at Leon's formalness. “I'm glad to see that you've made it back to us in once piece. If you would beam yourself over, perhaps we can have a dialog about your absence as well as our current state of affairs.”

It now became clear to John what was happening: Leon was compartmentalizing his emotions to maintain equanimity for the sake of discipline and order in front of the crew. “I'll be damned,” thought John. The former first officer of the Galaxy Class Republic was impressed that his friend had finally mastered the skill of command temperament, as the person he knew from three years prior would have put on an emotional display so big that it could've disrupted bridge operations.

“Doctor, if I could also come aboard, I'd like to…”

“No,” Leon sharply cut off Doug Forrest, who had stood up and walked up next to Carter on the screen. “Just John for now.”

“It's okay, Forrest.” John reassured the intelligence officer after noting his indignant expression. “Have Saint John synchronize the computer with the Luna Class Republic's mainframe. I'll be back in a few hours.”

John turned back to the viewer and tugged on his grime-filled uniform in an instinctual manner that signified he was about to extend a diplomatic courtesy.

“I'll beam aboard immediately, doctor. Republic out.”

As soon as the channel closed, Leon spun around and tossed Tolkath a sober glance. “You have the bridge, commander,” he ordered as he shifted his eyes forward and walked towards the aft turbolift. “When they synchronize their computer, download their logs and begin analyzing every single place they've been for the past three years.”

“Yes captain,” Reittan replied, noting the earnestness in his voice. He kept his eyes on Leon as he marched past the command chair, concerned for his state of mind. “Is there anything that I can…?”

“Not at this time,” replied the doctor-turned-captain as he kept his eyes transfixed on the turbolift ahead. “If I need your services, I'll call.” With that, the doors parted, Leon entered, and they slid shut once more.

“Aye sir…”

Sickbay, Deck 6, Saucer Section, USS Republic (Luna Class), in orbit of Nimbus III
Timeframe: 1730 hours ship time

The greeting that Leon gave John in the transporter room was short and terse, bringing with him one of the few remaining security officers on board. With little more than a “follow me” in his voice, Leon silently escorted John to the main sickbay, where he gave orders to the accompanying security officer to stand guard outside while John undergoes an exam.

Inside, the doctor gave short introductions to the Republic's default chief medical officer, the Emergency Medical Hologram that Leon had been mentoring to become an active crew member over the past eight months since the ship was launched. While she had exceeded his expectations, it still took John by surprise that Leon wasn't doing the physical exam himself, as the doctor-turned-captain crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby biobed. He watched on silently while the hologram went to work scanning John closely with the diagnostic wand of a medical tricorder linked to the nearby wall-mounted medical computer. Several minutes went by where she poured over every scrap of sensor data that flowed into the handheld device, cross-referencing it with the multiple bio-readouts on the computer monitors around the room.

“It's John Carter, alright” the EMH finally replied as she completed her scan. “Right down to the last nuclide.”

“Mitochondrial sequences?” Leon inculcated.

“A perfect match,” the holographic medico returned with an almost 'how-dare-you-assume-didn't-check' edge to her voice. “Maternal lines are confirmed.”

“Telomere count?” Leon egged her on with an air of authority.

“Degradation consistent with two years, two months, thirteen days, eight hours, and forty-three minutes of time,” she explained verbosely, turning to glare at her commanding officer. “Aside from a few mutations consistent with prolonged exposure to a harsh desert-like environment, his DNA has no deviations from his last medical scan by Doctor Sarah Chambers at the Mars Starfleet Medical Center on Syria Plenum on stardate 59888.1.” She loudly snapped shut the tricorder, signifying that she had completed her identification exam to the last molecule, and was refusing to pursue the issue any further. “Would you like me to tell you what he had for breakfast this morning?”

Leon's face softened, receiving the non-verbal warning from his chief medical officer to avoid second-guessing her conclusions a third time.

“No,” he relented. “That's all. Thank you, doctor.”

For her part, the holographic facsimile of an elderly Katherine Pulaski nodded her head and excused herself from the exam area, returning to her office nook around the corner.

“She's a spitfire,” John exclaimed with a smile. “You gonna let her talk to you like that?”

“Yes,” Leon replied, maintaining a serious expression as John slid to his feet from the exam table. “She's the one person on this ship with more medical knowledge than me, so I gave her permission to keep me on my toes.”

“Now you know how I felt back on Planet Styx,” John reminded Leon of their shared experience on a demon class planet almost five years ago, hoping to jog Leon's memory.

“Ah yes,” the doctor recalled. “That was back when you first told me that you and Mir Tana served together on the Valiant II.” Leon leveled his eyes at John, standing up from his leaning stance to face him head-on, but keeping his arms folded. “You know? That time you explained to me how your ship discovered a wormhole in a pocket of heavy-space?”

Even though he could only level one eye at him in return due to his eyepatch, John could tell that Leon was testing him. It was starting to make sense: Even with the EMH confirming a 100% DNA match, his friend still wasn't completely convinced that John was John. Whatever had happened to Leon during the intervening three years since they last saw each other, he apparently had developed a streak of distrustfulness. Not a bad trait considering the political environment, nor even that of a starship captain dealing with time-travel shenanigans, but it didn't suit Leon's characteristic pneuma of openness and clarity when dealing with those he knew well. John was willing to play along only so far.

“We didn't encounter a wormhole,” John corrected his friend with rising annoyance in his voice. “I explained to you that we were accidentally thrown into transwarp after the ship was dragged down by a quantum anchor.”

“That's right,” Leon nodded, becoming a bit more relaxed, but still hiding behind a veil of faux complacency. “Vic came up with that hypothesis after mistaking it for a Cosmic String.”

“Vic didn't come up with it,” John firmly corrected him again. “You know full well it was Mir Tana. She was our science officer on the Valiant II.”

For the first time since he laid eyes on him on the bridge, John saw a relieved smile come across Leon's face. He'd finally gotten through to the doctor.

“By God, it IS you…”

Dropping their personal defences, the two friends hugged each other in a platonic embrace, patting one another behind their shoulders like old war buddies meeting for the first time since their last battle together. In truth, Leon hadn't seen John for nearly a year before his disappearance, as the doctor had been on a special mission aboard the USS Archimedes when John's shuttle was lost. The guilt and grief – as misplaced as it was – overwhelmed the doctor for a time after the memorial service, always wondering if it were not for his absence whether John would have been lost at all.

Leon surmised that if HE had been the one to perform John's fit rep two years ago on Mars instead of Sarah Chambers, he could have easily kept John cleared for flight status instead of forcing him to accept planet-side duty. As it was, the resulting medical report began a tumultuous time in John's career that led him to accept a posting on a museum ship, and subsequently to pilot an SW7 class shuttlecraft that was ultimately lost and presumed destroyed during a short trip to Luna Colony. This guilt was carried by Leon for a full two years, and forced tears to well in his eyes when he finally convinced himself that John was actually alive and well and sitting in his sickbay.

“Christ,” Leon finally released John from the embrace. He wiped a tear from his eye and he went into an explanation. “Vic told me that you were still alive, but I was never sure if he was actually on to something, or just starting to lose his grip on reality.”

“Where IS Vic?” John pressed. “Forrest and Yezbeck told me they had no idea.”

“Deep Space Nine,” Leon said straightforwardly. “He got there about two months ago. Captain Kira granted him political asylum since he was being chased by Kostya's minions. I'm telling you, John, the whole galaxy has gone to hell in a hand basket. Kostya's president… I'M a war criminal… and the Federation went to war with the Gorns. Even Kim Roth went off her rocker and sided with Kostya on everything.”

“Wait, you're a WAR CRIMINAL?” John exclaimed with incredulity in his one visible eye. “What the sprock??”

“Long story,” Leon explained. “Suffice it to say, I was about to be executed by a psychotic Marine when Nat and the Republic crew pulled off a near miracle that put us on renegade status. We escaped the Gorn battlefront and made it to Nimbus Three a few weeks ago. We've been here ever since trying to stay low.”

“SPROCK me!” exclaimed John as he paced the exam room in a circle, holding a hand to his forehead in disbelief. “Where's Nat Hawk now??” he stopped suddenly to toss Leon an expectant glance.

“I'm not sure, but he fled in his Peregrine fighter after ordering me to take command and get the ship and its crew to Deep Space Nine by any means possible. We're down about a hundred crew, as Roth and her loyalists have… disembarked.”

“'Disembarked'?” John sleuthed. “Exactly how did THAT happen?”

“That's an even longer story, but the upshot is that we lost our mission pod in the process, and have been working to try and rebuild it here in orbit of Nimbus Three the past few weeks. I didn't want to risk taking Republic through Federation space with reduced armament since the mission pod housed two of our three quantum torpedo launchers. Without them, we can't outgun anything much bigger than spaceliner.”

“Sounds like you've got your mission cut out for you,” John replied. “Maybe we showed up just in time?”

“Maybe,” Leon still mused on how they could have shown up coincidentally in exactly the same spot in the universe. “But I'd like to hear more about YOUR journey. Though, it can wait until we get you cleaned up and back into a proper uniform.”

“Proper uniform?” John replied. “Look, Leon, I've been out of it for over two years, and since Starfleet thinks I'm dead, I'm inclined to stay that way for the moment until I get my bearings.”

“The hell you are,” Leon informed him. “Too much is going on right now to have you sit on the sidelines. To quote someone who gave me similar advice long ago: too many are alive today because you were in the right place at the right time. We need you in the here and now… Holding the line against corruption, murder, and genocide. As of now, your MIA status is hereby revoked and you're medically cleared for active duty.”

“Nice try,” John scoffed. “But only a captain with support of their chief medical officer can do that…”

“And I'm both,” Leon interrupted him, though John had already realized it after he spoke. “You never left Starfleet of your own accord, therefore, you're still on the clock. Further, I won't have ANY active duty officer on this ship out of uniform. So get with it, mister!”

Leon maintained an impish grin as he turned to exit the sickbay, causing John to stare after him with insolence. The role reversal was not lost on him, remembering full well when he all but forced Leon back into uniform after completing his bridge officer's exam many years ago. Apparently, Leon was – both figuratively and literally – giving John a taste of his own medicine.

---

Location: Paradise City, Nimbus III

Romulans were everywhere. It made sense. The climate of Nimbus Three was much more comfortable to descendants of Vulcan blood, with hot dry winds and sandy topography triggering the deep-seated pleasure centers of species from arid planets. Still, as he walked the streets of the nefarious capital of the Planet of Galactic Peace, Doug Forrest felt more at home with the plethora of different alien species that made up the general populace, despite the number of pointed ears he could spy hiding beneath hooded desert attire.

Like the Klingons, he had plenty of cohorts embedded in the Romulan Empire, but not many of these brush contacts would have made Nimbus their uncle, or home base. Odds were that the Tal Shiar had operatives around every corner, but it didn't bother him. Forrest was well versed in their methods of reconnoitering, and as long as there were enough humanoids to blend in with the ebb and flow of the crowds, he was confident he could go gray and remain unnoticed. It was second nature to blend himself in using the similar faded, rag-tag clothing of the local populace, and by smudging himself with the grime and toil that so many of the natives trudged themselves through each day to scrape together a living, he could pass as a sheep and avoid ghost surveillance.

He needed to be in the gap, and to do so required several cover stops to do some dry cleaning before finding his target. After beaming down to a discreet alleyway, he passed through a number of busy bars and marketplaces, pedaling a quatloo here and there for useless trinkets that could pass for wallet litter; anything to avoid foreign birdwatchers and prevent from becoming a rabbit. Finally, he located the public communications terminal where we could use his one-time pad and make contact. Like the privacy booths of Maltabra City on Farius Prime, the similar-styled civilian subspace terminal was a faded, glitchy mechanical contraption mounted to the booth wall. It had interface nodes and input panels simple enough for anyone to use, but available for access only through monetary exchange.

Dragon plugged the computerized credit voucher into the terminal slot, which remitted a certain number of quatloos in exchange for a limited subspace communication feed. The viewing screen came alive with numbers from five different alien species, and as they flashed across the screen, Forrest carefully viewed them all, inputting each into his Ferengi hand tabulator that converted them to a usable cipher. A red border briefly flashed around the perimeter of the screen, signifying that he had successfully sanitized his comm-feed, and activated his clean SIGINT credentials through the numbers station. With a momentary blip, a face appeared on the screen, and he didn't need a recognition phrase to know that the elderly man on the other end of the communications console was his contact.

“Dragon… I was wondering when you'd be checking in. You've been back in the Alpha Quadrant for over three hours. What took so long?”

“It was complicated,” Forrest replied cryptically. “You didn't mention anything about the Luna Class Republic being in the vicinity of Nimbus Three when you returned my signal.”

“Yes, well, there was a narrow bandwidth on the itinerant pulsar you used in the Delta Quadrant. The MIDAS array barely picked it up, and I had less than a minute to respond. You're lucky I was able to send you anything at all.”

“I didn't have much choice. I didn't want the rest of the team to know that you and I were communicating, let alone that it was you who suggested Nimbus Three. Any port in a storm, eh?”

“Something like that. At least Carter and Saint John took the bait. Did you bring the Delta X central processor node?”

Doug produced a computer chip from the right sleeve pocket of his black uniform, holding it in front of the screen for his gray-haired superior to see before plugging it into a secondary interface slot on the civilian pay-for-use subspace transceiver. As a few computerized chirps registered a positive transmit/receive cycle, the old man nodded his head at the readouts on his own monitor.

“Very good. I knew you'd come through. Nice work on Gamma Serpentis, too. Every communications buoy in the Gamma Quadrant picked up the subspace compression wave of the explosion. Though… You could've been a little more discreet…”

“Actually, that one wasn't my idea, though I fully endorsed it,” Forrest admitted. “It was Saint John's idea. I doubt that most of the fleet even knew what had happened, let alone that it was linked to the Organization. Tying up that final loose end was worth it.”

“That it was… And with that, a promise is a promise… You're back on the books, Commander Forrest. I just restored your lifeline. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Doug felt a rush of both adrenaline and relief as he realized his ordeal with being an outcast in the intelligence community was now over. He took in a breath and allowed his chest to swell with pride.

“Don't get too comfortable. You did such a bang up job that I need you and Task Force Trident to pivot to another mission.”

“Hold on,” Forrest called out the change in direction. “Saint John's team was burned by Kostya too, and I don't think they'd be happy about the idea of working for you again. You represent the president in their mind, even if I might know better.”

“Then you'll just have to convince them. Besides, the intelligence comnet has them listed as KIA, so they aren't being tracked. That will give them an advantage.”

“Without credentials?” admonished the newly-resurrected agent. “I doubt it.”

“Relax, Dragon. I'll make sure they have cover IDs with ICC credit lines. They've earned at least that.”

“What about Saal?”

“You can leave Shadow and the Exocomp behind with Cromwell and Carter. Neither of them are on Kostya's hot list, and aren't in any danger. You and Saint John's team, however, need to pack your bags and high-tail it away from the Republics as soon as you can. I can't have Kostya getting any sniff of what's to come next, nor your involvement in it.”

“Why?” Forrest asked, knowing full well he wasn't going to get a straight answer. “What's the plan?”

“You know better than to ask that, Dragon. Let's just say that the data you gave me about Gamma Serpentis base is… beyond damning. That, and there'll soon be a spotlight on Carter and Cromwell so bright that you, Saint John, and anyone else from Team Trident won't want to hang around when heads start rolling.”

“Okay, fine,” agreed Doug. “But I'm not leaving Carter and the Republics without getting them some extra help. They've barely got a skeleton crew between the two ships, and they're painfully understaffed. I need you to divert some… resources…”

“What did you have in mind?”

---

Observation Lounge, deck 1, Saucer Section, USS Republic (Luna Class), in orbit of Nimbus III
Timeframe: 2100 hours ship time

John was back. At least physically. Truth be told, after exiting sickbay with Leon, who dragged him on an impromptu tour of the new Luna Class Republic, John was overwhelmed by the constant spotlight as he walked through the corridors. A large number of the ship's crew had served under him on the original Galaxy Class Republic before the Remnant attacks, and although he was not present during the christening and commissioning of this vessel, the crew he encountered were smiling and shaking his hand, many of them in disbelief of his sudden arrival.

“Welcome back, Carter!” he heard everywhere he went, followed by a chorus of “welcome back… welcome back… welcome back” each time Leon introduced him to a new group of people. Throughout the tour, John explained to Leon what had happened to him in the intervening years; the shuttle accident, the crash, the befriending of the Garsolans, not to mention the fliers, the attacks, and the counterattacks using a single antiquated hand phaser. He explained to his friend how he had given up on ever returning to the Alpha Quadrant until a few days ago when – out of nowhere – Forrest and Yezbeck show up with team of intelligence operatives and a Galaxy Class starship with the name “Republic” on the hull: a re-christened vessel known as the USS Asgard in a former life, and held by Kostya assets in the Gamma Quadrant until Forrest managed to liberate it before coming to find him. It was a fantastic story that Leon ate up with every word, until he realized that John was becoming fatigued, finally leading him away to an unassigned officer's quarters for a shower and brief respite before a late evening briefing on the observation deck.

For the first time in over two years, John Carter felt like he was clean again, and it was disconcerting. He had grown so accustom to his austere desert surroundings on Garsol that he had forgotten what it was like to maintain personal grooming in a technologically advanced society. While a sharp knife, bowl of spice water, and Dadjinn's nimble fingers allowed for a modicum of ablution, a sonic shower and holosuite-generated coiffeur made short work of his long braided tresses, not to mention trimming short his ragged beard back to within Starfleet nautical regulations. Replacing his drab, frayed, and dirt-laden uniform of yesteryear was the clean and recently-replicated command red tunic with a black over-jacket and gray ribbed shoulder padding. Seated at the front of the conference table, John – as the honored guest – was looking down at his folded hands, eyepatch notwithstanding, seemingly detached from the conversation. As the highest ranking officer around the table, he listened to the information that each of the other officers voiced, yet only one thought repeated in his mind:

“What have you gotten me into, Leon…”

The officers gathered around the table were a mix from the Luna Republic and Republic nee Asgard. Present were Leon Cromwell; Reittan Tolkath; and Cail Jarin, the Bajoran Operations chief. On the other side of the table were two from the Republic nee Asgard, that being Lieutenant Commanders Blake Saint John and Doug Forrest, the latter fresh from his recent outing in Paradise City. They were engaged in a conversation about personnel reassignments, attempting to balance crew compliment between their two vessels, as the combined number of needed crew exceeded a thousand trained officers and enlisted.

“We could reassign about a hundred crew from Luna Republic,” Cail Jain was explaining. “But that's about it. It leaves a big hole in our staffing plan, but I see no way that Republic nee Asgard could operate in a tactical environment without them.”

“Agreed,” came the reply from Reittan. “Without our long range subspace array, we have to rely on an uplink to the Galaxy-class Republic, and that will take more people on both ships, leaving many stations unmanned.”

“Is it enough to get us to Deep Space Nine, Cail?” Leon asked.

“I think we can still make the journey,” he replied. “Though Republic nee Asgard's weapons are a little antiquated.”

“You could take some more time to update them here at Nimbus Three,” piped in Saint John. “You have that fancy CFI replicator.”

“Regardless,” Leon added. “It seems clear that we've got major gaps in some extremely vital areas. For example… Medical?” He raised an eyebrow at Forrest.

“I've talked to Saal,” the resurrected intelligence officer replied. “He's agreed to join Republic nee Asgard as her chief medical officer as long as he can maintain civilian status.”

“Still,” Cromwell interjected. “I can only give him a couple of medtechs to help; that's about all I can spare. As for security… I'm REALLY hurting here on the Luna class Republic. I think you're more than covered with Saint John and his team on nee Asgard. Would you be willing to spare anyone?”

Both Forrest and Saint John glanced at one another with uncertain expressions, as if subconsciously asking the other 'are YOU going to tell him?'.

“Myself, Saint John, and the rest of the team all have to depart,” Forrest explained calmly to the rising tension in the room. Even Carter roused from his wistful thoughts of missing Dadjinn to show an expression of surprise and concern.

“Forrest,” Leon admonished. “We could really use your help here. Now's not the time to go shuffling back into your hide-away somewhere.”

“Believe me, that's not the plan,” the annoyed intelligence commander returned. “If you follow through with your plans to promote Pakita and Narundi to full lieutenant, you can reassign them to Republic nee Asgard as chief engineer and chief tactical officer, respectively. That will fill the hole.”

“We could assign Vehns as Luna Republic's chief engineer,” Reittan Tolkath added, turning to Leon. “Pakita agrees that he's ready to be promoted to Senior Chief Petty Officer, and knows this ship as well as she does.”

“I don't like this idea at all of you leaving,” Leon continued his rebuke. “Both ships are so short handed, we've got less than a skeleton crew between us. Besides, if we transfer Narundi to the Galaxy Republic, I'll have NO one heading up tactical…”

“I've arranged for some extra help,” Forrest revealed to the room, causing it to fall silent.

“Careful…” warned John Carter to Leon as he sat up straight while crossing his arms, knowing full well his favorite Black Shirt had something up his sleeve.

“A Kobheerian spaceliner with roughly fifty ready-reservists are on their way here,” revealed Doug Forrest. “Their re-assignment is a 'gift' from the intelligence agencies of Vulcan, Tellar, and Andor. They've been handed re-activation orders from their planetary governments, and should be here reporting for duty in about a week.”

“Are you MAD??” Leon started the back-and-forth of arguments, counter-arguments, and diatribes of mistrust due to the sensitive nature of their location here at Nimbus Three. It took almost a full minute for the room to settle down, with Forrest attempting to appease the fuming officers. Only he and Saint John remained calm throughout the calamity.

“These are planetary intelligence agencies, and not Starfleet,” Forrest forcefully established by standing and hammering his finger into the table for emphasis. “Your position here at Nimbus Three is classified by each government and NOT subject to scrutiny by Fleet Headquarters. Even most of their own government officials know nothing about these orders.”

“Who are we talking about here?” Reittan Tolkath asked with concern after much contemplation. “How can we trust these 'reservists' to not betray us to Kostya's commanders?”

“The reservists are a mix of their planets' intelligence cadets,” informed Saint John. “As well as former Starfleet personnel who resigned due to the Gorn war. They were working for their respective planetary governments before activation, and are concerned about the direction that Starfleet is headed. They're mostly security personnel, but some are operations and technical crew.”

“And they can operate aboard a starship?” Cail Jarin asked, wondering of the competency of the individuals.

“Each were Starfleet certified and among the best in their trainee classes,” Forrest informed them. “None of them know precisely where they're going or who they're going to be working for, but they're sworn to secrecy, and volunteered to work under clandestine orders with provisional ranks.”

“You mean NONE of them know what's going on?” John asked with skepticism and suspicion. “There's got to be someone among them who's the leader. A bunch of Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellarite ready-reservists don't board a Kobheerian spaceliner without SOMEONE keeping watch on them.”

Forrest was caught red-handed. There indeed was a catch, and he knew Carter wouldn't like it.

“The officer in charge is an Andorian lieutenant commander…” Forrest started.

“No…” Carter titled his head and leveled a protrusive eye at Forrest with incredulity. “Don't say it…”

“…Anathon…”

“NO!” shouted John, standing up from the table. “No WAY I'm working with that guy! The man tried to KILL me!”

“You don't HAVE to work with him,” Forrest leveled his eyes back at John. The two men were the only ones standing, and the faceoff made the air in the room go stale. “He volunteered to be Cromwell's chief of security. He was drummed out of Starfleet by Kostya after the Republic Eight trial due to his testimony, and ended up working at the Andorian Intelligence Service. Whether you like him or not, he's on your side.”

“Anathon's NOT joining us,” John glared at Forrest.

“You have no choice,” Forrest glared back.

It was then that the intercom interrupted the stalemate between the two officers.

“Bridge to observation deck.”

Carter and Forrest remained deadlocked, but the concern in Maria Pakita's voice was palpable enough to draw a scowl of concern from Leon.

“Cromwell here,” Leon pressed the intercom button on the table in front of him. “What's wrong?”

“I think you'd better get out here… there's a newsfeed coming in from the Alpha Centauri system…”

<tag = Carter>

OFF

LTCR Leon Cromwell, MD, PhD
Commanding Officer
USS Republic, NCC-81371