Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)

Chapter Sixteen

“. . . and as we thought, Sir, the instrumentation showed that all of the New Columbia colonists within the 5 kilometer range of the beacon were beamed away in the dead of night. The beacon contains a buffer; however, its memory was wiped immediately after the transport, and provided no information on where they were beamed to. Or any residual patterns.”

“Thank you, Mister Bowen, for your report,” Matt said quietly as the junior engineer sat back down. The Captain tapped his stylus on the conference table of the Primary Briefing Room, aft of the bridge. “Miss Biddle?”

Grace remained seated, but she did change the wall and table monitors from the schematic of the beacon to show a series of ship’s logs. “As you suspected, Sir, the logs aboard White Cloud were heavily encrypted, but Crewman Zapata was able to break that encryption. They indicate that the ship and her Orion crew were hired to deliver this beacon to New Columbia—by a being they refer to as Inderi. Neither the race nor gender of this being were revealed in the logs, but they were contracted on Havalis II.”

“Inderi hired White Cloud to deliver the beacon, with instructions to approach New Columbia in the dead of night, colony time. Once in orbit, they were to beam down the device, and leave orbit—then they were to transmit a message via sub-space radio. They were instructed to return after two hours, retrieve the beacon and return to Havalis. No questions asked.”

The Ops officer sighed. “According to his logs, the Orion shipmaster decided to remain in orbit and transmit the sub-space signal. He thought that the device was a weapon being tested—and he wanted to record the evidence in case Star Fleet tracked him down afterwards. We have the bridge recordings of what happened next,” she continued quietly, and pressed another stud.

The monitors showed the crew of the Orion ship going about their stations, and then each was caught in the stream of a transporter beam. They began to scream as their flesh shifted and melted, and Matt could hear Andrea Trincullo gasp, and Amanda Tsien gag.

“Computer monitor off; stop playback,” he said quietly. “Continue, Miss Biddle.”

Grace nodded; her face pale and drawn. “White Cloud was caught in the beam, but not in the range of the beacon. Her crew partially dematerialized, but not fully—and their own movements within the transporter stream literally shredded their patterns. I’ve seen a few examples of this in the records from the earliest days of transporter experimentation, along with a handful of accidents, but nothing on this scale. Every member of that ship’s crew, their pattern was altered, broken—and then the beam ended. And they rematerialized. The lucky ones were already dead, but at least four lived for several hours. And all of the crew remained conscious and fully aware of what was happening during the transport itself.”

“The worst was the ship’s owner—who wasn’t the same as its master. He was in his cabin with the slave girls of his harem; all five of them. They were fused into a single organic being, it was . . .” Grace shook her head and tightened her lips. “Structurally, the ship is sound, and she is carrying goods that are illegal in Federation space.”

“Miss Tsien?” Matt said after Grace went quiet.

The science officer also hit a control and the wall monitor flared back to life projecting the spatial geography of the immediate space surrounding New Columbia. Perched right on the frontier, the colony led to a narrow passage between Romulan and Ferengi space to the Cygnus Sector, with dozens of independent systems interspaced. “Transporters normally leave a minute trace behind that under normal conditions dissipates fairly rapidly. This was not a normal use of the transporter as we understand it. It left a trace that our sensors have been able to identify,” she touched the stud again and a blinking line appeared that stretched out away from New Columbia. “We’ve only been able to resolve the trace out to one light-year, but I’ve configured the lateral sensors and the long-range sensors to detect it, Captain. We will have to keep Warp speeds fairly low—Warp Four, perhaps even Warp Three—in order to back-trace it, but the sensors can handle the task.”

“How long until the trace dissipates, Miss Tsien?” asked Chan.

She shook her head. “Hours? Days? I don’t know for certain, Commander Shrak.”

Pavel stared at the star charts. “The trace isn’t heading towards Havalis II.”

“No, Mister Roshenko, it isn’t,” Matt answered.

“Mister Malik,” he said to the chief engineer. “I want an all hands effort get White Cloud ready for space—including a proper burial for the crew. Lieutenant Bowen. I am appointing you as the executive officer aboard White Cloud, assisting Commander Philips who will be in command. Sean,” he said to the Corps of Engineers officer, “I’m going to assign you some of Mister Beck’s Marines. Your jacket indicates you did two tours with Star Fleet Intelligence, and I want you to take that ship to Havalis II and find this Inderi.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Sean; I’m not going to stick you out on a limb here. I’ll be informing Star Fleet Command of the situation immediately after this briefing—and if they say no, we won’t do this. But from Admiral Parker’s briefing, there aren’t too many starships in this ‘quiet little sector’. I think we are going to have to handle this ourselves.”

“While you are heading to Havalis II, I will take Republic and back-trace the transporter trail; either until we find the planet of origin or it ends.”

“And then, Sir?” asked Commander Philips.

“And then, Commander, I have to decide how to deal with people who abduct twelve thousand citizens of the United Federation of Planets. I think a photon torpedo or four delivered a few kilometers outside their capital will be a good place to begin negotiations from,” he finished with a perfectly straight face.

And the low growl in answer from his own officers showed that they agreed.

********************************************************

“My god,” Josiah Parker said over the secure sub-space channel. “Someone transported away all twelve thousand of the colonists? Everyone?”

Matt just sat there and slowly nodded. “I’ve got a few leads, Admiral Parker, but I felt I needed to send this up the chain just as fast as possible.”

“Yeah,” Josiah said as he sat back, running his hand through his thinning hair; hair that was getting greyer by the day. “We are stretched too thin, Matt. The closest ships I’ve got are Sig Hansen’s security group at Starbase 114.” Josiah frowned. “He’s flying his flag from the Akira-class Blackhawk, and he also has the Defiants Balao and Thunderer, plus the Steamrunners Arrogant and Franklin.”

He concentrated on a monitor off-screen of the small viewer on Matt’s desk, and then he looked up. “Balao can be there in five days—if her drives hold together for that long. Arrogant in seven, but Blackhawk is in the middle of a warp core refit. Franklin and Thunderer are at least ten days out.”

Matt grimaced. “I don’t like pulling all the ships off this section of the border, Admiral. Like I said, I’ve got a couple of leads—and I am putting a prize crew on White Cloud, with Sean Philips as her commander.”

Josiah nodded his approval. “Sean’s overdue for a fourth pip. But those Clippers don’t carry a lot of firepower, and their fragility . . .”

“I’m not planning on sending Sean into combat—I hope. I’ll be sending him to Havalis II to try and track down this Inderi, with a few of my Marines as backup.”

And Josiah winced again. “Technically Havalis II is an independent system, but it is really an outpost for the Ferengi Commerce Authority . . . they will not like a ship crewed by Star Fleet poking our nose into their business there.”

“Consider this a chance to hone your diplomatic skills, Admiral,” Matt said with a wry smile.

“And Republic?”

“I’ll be taking her after whoever beamed away the colonists. We’ve got a transporter trace that might lead us to where they taken. And since we don’t know what we are dealing with here, Admiral, I might need some of that backup,” Matt finished with an unhappy expression on his face.

“Agreed. I’ll also cut orders for Independence to get underway immediately. She can be there in eight days at maximum warp.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “A Sovereign? You are taking this seriously.”

“Matt you are talking about someone who can beam twelve thousand people between star systems. We’ve met a few races, including the Dominion, with interstellar transporter technology, but not on this scale. But that is beside the point. Yes, pursue this matter, and find out where our people are—or if they are even still alive.”

“And if they aren’t, Admiral?” Matt asked softly.

“If it were up to me, I’d . . . damn, Matt," the Chief of Star Fleet Operations said, as he shook his head. "I'm not certain what I'd do. I will need to brief the President.”

"We'll find them, Sir. And we will bring them home." One way or the other, Matt thought.

“Godspeed, Captain Dahlgren—and good hunting.”

Matt leaned back in his chair as the screen blanked and tapped his comm badge.

“Dahlgren to Shrak.”

“Sir.”

“Status on our transfers to White Cloud?”

“Fifteen minutes and she will be ready for departure, Captain Dahlgren.”

“Very well, Mister Shrak; I’ll be on the bridge shortly. Have Miss Montoya lay in a course along the path of the transport trace at the highest warp speed which allows Miss Tsien to detect its course. Engage as soon as the transfers are complete.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“And Mister Shrak?”

“Sir?”

“I want shields up and weapons manned and ready.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Chapter Sixteen (cont.)

Sean Philips watch the view screen as Republic spun around and then quickly accelerated to warp on the trail of the transporter trace. The sparkle and flash of light as she broke the Warp barrier faded from the viewer, and then he turned around to face the handful of crewmen he had assembled on the bridge of White Cloud.

“All right, folks, we’ve a job to do—and that ship and the colonists are depending on us to do it right,” he said. “Mister Bowen; excuse me, Gerald,” Sean said with a smile, “we are going into the heart of darkness; a Ferengi trade world. Collect uniforms from everyone and seal them away in the ship’s vault.”

One of the marines jerked. “This ship has a freaking vault?” she asked.

“Yeah, Sandy,” Sean answered, shaking his head. “With thirty-five kilos of gold-pressed latinum stored inside. Among other things.”

The Marines, Philips engineer’s, and Bowen shook their heads in shock. Crewman Herman Zapata blurted out, “That’s 3,500 hundred bars of latinum!”

“Ah, Skipper,” one of the engineers cut in, “turn in our uniforms? Are we going naked then?”

“Don’t you wish, Will,” muttered Sandy.

Sean shook his head. “No, ladies and gentlemen. Civilian clothes—we aren’t Star Fleet anymore, we are Orion pirates! And speaking of which, I’ll need your comm badges as well.”

He sat down a box of Orion wrist-comms. “Use these instead—I replicated them myself and each has a transporter beacon built in, and all the capabilities of our normal comm badges besides. Marines, there is a fully stocked armory with a hodge-podge of weapons—pick your own, but I don’t want to see Star Fleet phasers on every person; that’s not how the Orions roll.”

“What about medical?” Gerald asked as he dropped his comm badge into the box, took one of the wrist-comms and locked it in place on his arm. “We don’t have a doctor, Commander.”

“No ranks, Gerald. And while we don’t have an actual physician, we do have medical support. Computer,” he said, “activate Emergency Medical Hologram.”

There was a flash of light and a holographic image of a bald headed man dressed in Star Fleet uniform suddenly appeared on the bridge. “What is the nature of your medical emergency?” he asked, and then cocked his head to one side. “Star Fleet? Star Fleet! It’s about time you came to rescue me!”

“An EMH! How the devil did the Orions get an EMH!” Bowen exclaimed.

“They stole it; and this ship has holo-emitters everywhere; the doctor can travel throughout the ship, including the Jefferies tubes.”

The hologram looked around and then his face fell, and he sighed. “I’m not going back to Star Fleet am I?” it asked.

Sean grinned. “You are, but first we are going undercover.”

“I’m a Doctor, damn it, not a spook!”

“There are twelve thousand civilian lives at stake here, Doctor,” Sean answered. “We’ve got to track down Inderi and try and find them.”

“Inderi? I met her the last time she came aboard—treated her for some radiation poisoning back on Havalis II. First time in months I’ve had to treat anything other than sexual transmitted diseases; you wouldn’t believe the things I have had to deal . . .”

“I really don’t need to know this part, Doctor,” Sean said.

“. . . with, being treated like a piece of furniture and not a highly skilled, trained surgeon and physician that I am; and now I get to pretend to be a undercover field agent . . .”

“Computer, end EMH program,” Sean said, as the Doctor looked up at him sharply, and then faded out.

“Annoying bugger, isn’t he?” The engineer shook her head and turned a serious face on his crew. “Get squared away, get changed, and get to your stations. We are moving out in ten minutes for Havalis. And don’t worry about the risk of contamination; your quarters were thoroughly disinfected before your arrival.”

***************************************************

Sean walked through the doors to the spacious and luxuriously appointed ready room, aft of the bridge. He shook his head. The Orions really did like their creature comforts, he thought as he circled the marble desk, his booted feet sinking deep into the plush carpeting of the deck. He sat down in the chair, and jerked as the seat began to conform to precisely to his body—it was unnerving. He shook his head though.

“Computer, activate EMH.”

“Please state the nature of the medical emer . . . oh, it’s you again. Didn’t you get enough of a laugh by shutting me off in mid-sentence once?”

“You said that you met Inderi?”

“Yes. She didn’t talk much, but was in much better health than the original crew of this vessel—even with the radiation poisoning.”

“Tell me about her.”

The holographic doctor frowned. “I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. Medical ethics are a large part of my programming.”

“And how’s your survival instincts, Doctor? I have a crack computer-man sitting out there would love to take a peek at your core programming.”

“Threats? Can’t you solids interacts with holograms in any manner other than threats? You are as bad as the Orions, I have half a mind to rep . . .”

“Doctor? Inderi?”

The hologram sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Race, gender, height, weight—a picture would be good. Your impressions of her—why she was aboard this ship; that sort of thing.”

“Well, she is a she: a female Antaran. Reasonably intelligent, but obviously a criminal who associates with the Orion Syndicates; although I got the impression that she was more of a free-lancer than part and parcel of the Orion mob.”

The Doctor turned the captains monitor around and tapped a few keys, and then spun it back aground again, this time with a picture of an Antaran female on the screen. “That’s her height, weight, skin coloration, eye coloration, and cranial ridge patterns. I cannot, ethically tell any more of her medical condition than she was suffering from low levels of radiation poisoning.”

“Exotic radiations?”

“No, it appeared more to be leakage from her ship—an old Vulcan Warp-shuttle, Shirak-class, I think she said. The impulse engine shielding needs to be replaced, she’s being deluged with beta-particles; in low doses, of course, but over the long-term she will suffer serious medical side effects if she does not repair the engine.”

“Anything else, Doctor?”

“Oh, so you can ask nicely—that’s good to know. I was not privy to any of her conversations with Baron Jowar, or Shipmaster Palin. And she discussed nothing with me in sickbay except for her medical status. Well, we did talk a bit about her needing to make a long-distance flight in the shuttle after the ship returns to Havalis II. I, of course, recommended against such a flight until after the impulse shield has been replaced. But I do not believe she was planning on taking my advice.”

“How long a flight, did she say?”

“Eleven days at warp, she said.”

Sean leaned back, and once again the seat began crawling over his back. He shook his head and stood up, activating his wrist-comm. “Gerald.”

“Sir.”

“Pull up the specs on the old Shirak-class warp shuttle; I want to know all possible destinations within eleven days of Havalis II at her maximum warp capacity. And configure the sensors to detect beta-emissions from a poorly maintained Shirak-class impulse engine.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Thank you Doctor, you have been most helpful.”

“I am so happy that you feel that way, Sir. The chair is not to your liking?”

“No; I’d rather have something a bit more solid.”

The hologram sighed. “Computer, disable automatic metamorphic adaptations in Baron Jowar’s day-office. And now, you may deactivate me if there is not a real medical emergency at hand.”

“Computer, end EMH.”

Sean sat back down slowly, and this time the chair remained solid and firm. I’ll be, he thought.

He keyed his wrist-comm again. “Zapata.”

“Sir?”

“Can you change the EMH’s appearance?”

There was a pause. “I believe so, sir.”

“Good. I’ll send you the physical profile of Baron Jowar—the previous owner of this vessel. Let’s make sure that Inderi gets to meet the good Baron once again."

Chapter Seventeen

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 53753.0, USS Republic. We have been trailing the abduction of the colonists from New Columbia for more than twelve hours now. As predicted by Miss Tsien, the transporter trace is grower weaker and weaker, forcing us to slow to Warp Three in order for our sensors to detect it. I have, of course, had Stellar Cartography plot the track forward to identify any star systems that lie within its path—and there are three that might be the origination point. I cannot, however, discount the possibility that the colonists were beamed aboard a ship of some sort, so we continue our slow progress searching for any evidence we can find.”

“So far, we have not detected any signs that a ship was involved; having no trace of warp drives being in use in this region for the past forty-eight hours. I am tempted to simply bypass following the trace to investigate the systems ahead in more detail, but at the current rate of signature decay, we will only be able to detect the trace for another seven hours. No. On the chance that the colonists were beamed aboard a ship I will continue to follow this trace until it dissipates below the threshold of sensor sensitivity.”

“The current plot draws close to the Romulan border, although it does not—quite—cross into their space. I suspect that our presence here, and the leisurely advance of Republic with every sensor onboard lit up has provoked questions among the border outposts. Although the Star Empire was our ally against the Dominion a short time ago, they remain as vigilant as ever at defending the slightest incursion into their space. Accordingly, I have directed that the crew remain at Condition Two under modified Yellow Alert, rotating on-and-off duty in four hour shifts, while maintaining raised shields and manned weapon stations.”

“Computer, save log entry,” Matt said. He finished the last of a tall glass of iced tea and then he stood and limped over to his private head and relieved himself.

*****************************************************

“Mister Shrak, I have the conn,” Matt announced as he entered the confines of the bridge.

The Andorian stood and he nodded as he stepped aside. “Captain has the conn.”

“Any change?”

“None, Captain Dahlgren; the trace continues to dissipate at the projected rates. No contacts—hostile or friendly—on long- or medium-range sensors. We are collecting a great deal of information on the Romulan border defenses, however—and some of their outposts are attempting to jam our sensors.”

“Attempting?”

“Unsuccessfully, Captain.”

“Very well, Chan; get some rack time. I’ll see you in four . . .”

“CONTACT!” Barked out Pavel Roshenko from Tactical. “Romulan Warbird decloaking! Valdore-class, Captain; she has her shields raised and her weapons are armed. Sir; they are hailing us.”

“Have they crossed the border, Mister Roshenko?”

“No, sir.”

“On screen, Mister Roshenko,” Matt said calmly, as Chan made his way to the Mission Ops console and took station behind it.

The main viewer blanked and then projected the image of a Romulan Commander, seated in front of the Imperial Eagle of the Star Empire.

“I am Commander Borahn, of the Warbird Nei’rrhael.”

“And I am Matthew Dahlgren, Captain of the Federation starship Republic. What can we assist the Star Empire with today, Commander?”

The Romulan folded his hands before him on the screen and adjusted his jaw. “We could not help but notice the . . . stately pace of your advance in parallel to our border, Captain Dahlgren.” And his features hardened. “And your probing of our outposts with your sensors. Both are most unusual for a Federation vessel; particularly here so far away from core systems.”

“Ah, yes. I have decided to stroll through the Corridor, Commander Borahn, rather than sprint.”

“Stroll?”

“Have you ever felt that sometimes the press of duty calls upon us all to rush by and ignore the majestic beauty of space, Commander? I am en route to the Cygnus sector, and have chosen to take a more leisurely speed to admire the stellar formations here.”

“With your shields raised and your weapons armed? Most unusual for a vessel looking at the stars.”

Matt chuckled. “I told you, Mister Shrak, that we couldn’t fool a Romulan.”

“Yes, sir,” the executive officer answered, forcing his antennae to twitch. And the Romulan’s expression changed to one of consternation.

“Some of my officers have proposed that you are spying on the Empire, Captain . . . this is not a laughing matter.”

“Oh, we are not spying on the Star Empire, Commander. We are hoping to attract two rouge Ferengi marauders that have been preying on Federation and neutral shipping.”

The jaw of the Romulan tightened again. “We have had no reports of any such marauders.”

“The Ferengi choose weaker prey, Commander. Do you expect them to cross your border and assault your shipping?”

Commander Borahn sat back, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Your Federation is not weak.”

“No, but we are stretched thin—as is the Star Empire. And we normally do not answer a Ferengi overreach with plasma torpedoes—as does the Star Empire.”

“You speak the truth, Captain. But I fail to see what you hope to achieve . . . your vessel is a relic of times long ago; two marauders with capable Damons will make short work of you.”

“That is quite simple, Commander Borahn—we’re bait.”

The Romulan squinted. “Bait? Bait implies a fisherman; yet you are alone.”

“Perhaps not as alone as you might think, Commander.”

“Captain, our sensors do not lie—your ship is the only Federation vessel in this sector.”

“Did I say that our fishermen were Federation, Commander?”

“No,” the Romulan said with his eyes narrowing, and he made a small gesture to his crew off-screen with one hand, “but I doubt that Martok would send a ship so far.”

“Gowron would not have . . . but Gowron is now dead, Commander Borahn. And Chancellor Martok realizes the debt that the Klingon Empire owes to the Federation.”

“Still, a bird of prey or two will not avail you against . . . just any attacker.”

“Again you make assumptions, Commander. A Bat’lah-class battle cruiser is no mere bird of prey.”

The Romulan leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “A Bat’lah? The Klingons, not even that foolish Martok would send such a powerful ship so far for Ferengi.” He sat back. “I have half a mind to cross the border, and see for myself, Captain, just what your intentions truly are.”

“That would be most unwise, Commander Borahn. Mister Shrak, signal Val’qis and ask Captain Krull to launch his attack run the moment Nei’rrhael crosses into Federation space. Mister Roshenko, arm photon torpedoes and lock our weapons onto the Romulan ship.”

Borahn sat back and folded his hands together again. “I think you are bluffing, Captain.”

“Yes, because the Federation has never confronted the Star Empire with cloaked Klingon battle cruisers in support.”

For several moments neither captain said a word, and then Borahn at last nodded. “Continue your stroll, Captain Dahlgren—but do not stray such much as one micron across our border. We will be watching.”

The screen blanked, replaced by the stars streaking by as the Romulan Warbird cut off their transmission.

“They are altering course on a heading back into the interior of Romulan space, Captain,” Pavel reported.

“Secure torpedoes, Mister Roshenko, and safe the weapons. Mister Shrak,” Matt said with a smile. “Hail ‘Val’qis’ once again and inform Captain Krull he may stand down.”

“With pleasure, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian answered, his antennae aquiver.

********************************************

“Hold still!” the holographic doctor said as ran the dermal knitter across the long and ragged tear in Chief Mayhew’s shin. “How did anyone as clumsy as you ever pass the Star Feet physical in the first place? Stepping into open space because you expected an Orion smuggler to have a personnel lift like Star Fleet engineering does? Hah! This crew made do with ladders. But at least you are not depleting my supply of anti-biotics and anti-virals. I suppose you are going to want pain medication as well?” He finished with his hands on his hips, glaring at the engineering tech.

The doors to the small, well-furnished sick bay slid open and Sean walked in. “How is he?”

“He will be fine; it is just a shallow gash in his right leg and a bump on his head—not to mention the dislocated shoulder where Ensign Park grabbed hold and keep him from falling onto the warp reactor.”

“Sorry, siRAAAAH!” the tech yelped as the Doctor placed his hands on the shoulder joint and popped it back into place.

“There. Now would you like an analgesic to go with that?”

“Did you finish those power conversions I asked you for?” Sean continued, trying to distract the crewman from the pain.

“No, sir. I don’t see how they managed to get a civilian power profile out of the engines! That thing is so over-powered, New Columbia should have spotted them a light-year out . . . and I don’t know how we are going to just sneak in past the Ferengi at Havalis II.”

“Why don’t you use the cloaking device?” the Doctor asked as he placed the tech’s arm into a sling.

Sean’s eyes bulged from his head. “What cloaking device?”

“The cloaking device that the Orions used to get into orbit around New Columbia; one of the Orions mentioned it was an older Klingon model they got second hand,” the Doctor continued as he adjusted the sling. “There. Take two aspirin and don’t call me unless it is an emergency.”

Sean slowly counted to ten. “Doctor. Where is the cloaking device?”

The hologram frowned. “How should I know, I’m a doctor not an engineer. Could you shut me down on your way out? And turn off the lights; waste not, want not, and all of that, you know.”

The Doctor looked from Sean to the tech and back again, puzzled at the expressions on their faces.

“What? Was it something I said?”

************************************************

“It was concealed behind a workstation in engineering, Sir,” Gerald Bowen said, shaking his head in disbelief. “They tore out the tertiary bank of containment field generators for the warp core in order to hide it.”

Sean Philip’s jaw dropped. “Are they insane?”

“That I don’t know, Sir. They rigged the control panels for the tertiary safeties to duplicate the readouts for the secondaries—which is why we didn’t notice the backups weren’t working. The compartment was lined with monotanium shielding as well; it would have been almost impossible to find on a cursory inspection.”

“And the control circuits?”

“Hidden in the Engineering 2 station. I’d would not recommending using it unless absolutely necessary, however.”

“I doubt that is because of the Treaty of Algeron, Gerald; so what else is wrong with this cloak?”

“It’s a first generation Klingon device, Sir. Like those they installed on the original flight of the Bird of Prey scouts. But the Orions didn’t have the room to properly shield the cloak or the plasma shunt providing it with power; if we take a hit while cloaked, it could cause a resonance in the EPS plasma conduits that could blow out half the engineering hull.”

“They just left out the safeties? Even the Klingons aren’t that crazy!”

“To be fair, the Klingons use cloaking devices in combat—this one isn’t set up for that purpose. It seems to be intended to bypass perimeter sensor arrays and allow the ship to get within transporter range of its destination. In fact, the power drain of this cloak is so high that it would take fifteen seconds to reconfigure the power conduits in order to activate our shields or disruptors—after decloaking.”

Sean winced. “That shouldn’t be a problem; I’m not planning on taking this ship into combat!”

The Orion wrist-comm on Sean’s arm beeped. “Go,” he said as he pressed a stud.

“We’ve got the shuttle on long-range sensors—it’s moving towards us, ETA three minutes.”

“Set General Quarters, I’m on my way to the bridge.”

Sean and Gerald quickly entered the turbolift and then emerged onto the bridge proper. “Take us to impulse, Sykes. Zapata, have you finished those modifications?”

“I believe so, Sir.”

“Computer, activate EMH.”

The hologram sprang to life, taking on the appearance of the former owner of White Cloud.

“Please state the nature of your medi . . . oh. My,” the Doctor stuttered, examining his hands, and then he slowly lifted them and began to feel his face, and the enormous belly that protruded from his abdomen. “What have you done to me?”

“Doctor, we need you to establish contact with Inderi.”

“You altered my basic program! Changed my body matrix—how can I even hold a hypospray with these pudgy digits!” He shrieked, waving ten fat fingers, causing that massive belly to ripple. “I’ll be laughed out of service; how can I lecture the crew on physical health when I’m carrying 187 kilograms of excess body fat!”

Sean frowned. “It is temporary, Doctor. Just make contact with Inderi.”

“And ask her if she wants an examination? I’m a doctor, not . . .”

“You are member of a Star Fleet crew, Doctor!” Sean snapped. “And there are twelve thousand lives at stake here!”

The hologram blinked once, and then twice. “Well. Never let it be said that a hologram didn’t do his duty to the Federation. What should I say?”

Zapata cleared his throat. “It’s all written out on this PAD, Doctor; ah, I mean Baron.”

“Your Grace,” the Doctor said absently as he took the PAD and began reviewing his lines.

“Excuse me?”

“Baron Jowar prefers to be addressed as ‘Your Grace’. Although from what I gather, the title was bestowed on him not for any noble qualities but for his success in criminal endeavors.”

“The shuttle is dropping out of warp, Skipper,” Sykes called out from the helm.

“Hail her, and put it on screen. You’re on, Your Grace.”

On the main viewer an image of Inderi suddenly snapped into focus, and her grey face was pinched. “You are late!”

“And you will address me by my title, Inderi,” the Doctor said pompously.

“What was the delay?”

“I am waiting.”

“Your Grace, what was the delay?”

“Our engines suffered a . . . slight mechanical difficulty. We had to drop out of warp to conduct repairs.”

“Was the delivery made on schedule?”

“Yes.”

“And you retrieved the device?”

“Yes.”

She relaxed. “Good. There is a Federation starship too close for comfort in this sector; and I had feared that you might have been caught.”

“Never fear, Jowar is here,” the Doctor said with a rumbling laugh. “I have never been caught, Inderi—a fact that you should know well.” The Antaran nodded slowly, and then the hologram cocked his head. “Those lesions appear fresh; have you been taking the medications my physician prescribed?”

“Stick to the script!” Sean whispered in a rough voice.

“I’ll live,” the smuggler answered. “You know, Jowar, I half expected that you would be irate that you were used to remove an entire Federation colony.”

“A deal’s a deal, Inderi. I expect to be well compensated for the risks I took.”

Sykes turned around. “We’ve got a lock, Skipper,” he whispered.

“Energize,” said Sean. And a transporter beam reached out from White Cloud and enveloped Inderi, dematerializing her. “Corporal, have we got her?”

“Aye, aye, Sir. She’s in the brig and pretty vocal about being double-crossed.”

“I’ll be down there directly. Gerald, take a couple of the crew across and vacuum out her computers. Search that shuttle stem-to-stern, as well. Zapata, you’re with them.”

“What about me?” the Doctor asked. “I want my body back.”

“Later, Doctor,” Sean said as he moved to the turbolift.

“Later? I can’t do my job like this. You have to res . . .”

“Computer, end EMH program,” Sean said as he stepped into the turbolift.

Chapter Seventeen (cont.)

“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the intercom announced. “Bridge to Captain Dahlgren.”

Matt dragged himself out of a sound sleep, and he hit the key on his bedside comm unit reflexively. “Go ahead,” he said sluggishly, as he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of his slumber.

“Captain,” Chan’s voice continued over the communicator. “Lt. Commander Tsien has located the origination point of the transporter beam; we will arrive at the location in two minutes.”

Matt glanced at the time index on the display set beside his bed. And then he frowned. “The beam originated from deep space?”

“Yes, Sir. According to Miss Tsien.”

“Very well, Chan. Take us out of warp and prepare to launch probes—I want a complete survey of both normal and sub-space in the immediate area. I’ll be on the bridge momentarily.”

Matt slowly sat up, wincing as his leg cramped, and he slowly kneaded the thigh until the muscles relaxed. He picked up his cane and gingerly stood, and then began to walk towards the door out of his quarters. He stopped for a moment before a mirror, combing his hair black down, and straightening his uniform; then he continued out into the corridor of Deck Three and into the turbolift set directly across the corridor.

“Bridge,” Matt said as the doors whistled closed. The turbolift swooshed back along the spine of Republic, and then quickly moved up before the doors opened onto the bridge. The captain limped out and moved over towards his chair, where Chan was standing up.

“I have the conn.”

“Captain has the conn,” Chan intoned in the ritual reply as the ship slowed to impulse power, and Matt sat down.

“All stop, Miss Montoya,” he ordered.

“All stop, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered. “Thrusters at station-keeping.”

“Initiate a full sensor sweep, Miss Tsien—long-, medium-, and short-range arrays, as well as the lateral-sensors. Mister Roshenko, prepare to launch a probe shell.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the two bridge officers answered.

Matt looked down at this own displays, repeating the data streaming into the Science station. The transporter trace did abruptly end, just two hundred kilometers dead ahead. Not dissipate; the trace simply stopped. This had to be the location from which the beam had been engaged.

But the space immediately around Republic was empty, except for a few stray atoms of hydrogen common to the interstellar deeps of this region.

“Warp signatures, Miss Tsien?”

“None, Captain. But I am detecting an ionization trail that is very similar to our impulse drives,” the Science Officer frowned. “But this can’t be correct. The levels of radiated and ionized gas are far larger than a single ship could produce.”

“How much larger, Miss Tsien?”

“Captain,” she started, and then she shook her head. “Sir, it would take a thousand ships with the impulse power of Republic to leave a trail this significant.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, but he only nodded.

“Probes are prepped and ready for launch, Captain,” said Pavel Roshenko.

“Spherical search pattern, Mister Roshenko. Sensor pallets on active scan, with telemetry back to Republic. Miss Montoya, rotate the ship as necessary to the launch the probes on proper vectors.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Isabella answered.

“First pattern is launching,” Pavel said, and Republic quivered as four probes streaked away from the forward launchers.

Chan stepped forward besides Matt’s chair and he leaned down. “The Council will have a cow when they discover how many probes we have deployed, Captain Dahlgren. I really must endeavor to get a copy of the hearing when they find out—some of them might even suffer a stroke from the expense.”

The corner of Matt’s mouth twisted slightly into a smile. “Here’s to Ambassador Mar having the soul of a miser and a weak heart, Chan.”

“We can only hope, Sir.”

“Launching pattern two,” announced Pavel, as Republic shivered a second time. The turbolift doors opened and Yeoman Sinclair walked in with a large ceramic mug on a tray, along with a small glass of water. “Since the Captain did not have time for a proper breakfast, perhaps he would like some hot cocoa?”

Matt chuckled and shook his head, but he took the steaming mug. “Thank you, Nancy.”

“And Doctor Talbot asked that I ensure you take these tablets,” the captain’s self-appointed watchdog said, holding out a small foil package.

Matt took the foil package, popped out two small white tablets and placed them in his mouth, and then took the small glass of water his yeoman held out, washing them down his throat.

“That will be all, Nancy,” Matt said.

“Chief Watannabe should have your real breakfast ready in half an hour, Sir.”

“CONTACT! Probe three, heading 032, mark 004! Range . . . 6.5 light-seconds.”

“Hold off on that breakfast, Miss Sinclair. Mister Roshenko, can you identify?”

“She’s not in our database, Sir. And she’s big.”

“How big?”

“Bloody huge, Sir; with more internal volume than a Borg cube. Visuals are coming through telemetry now.”

Chan shook his head. “If she’s that big, how did we miss her at a range of just six odd light-seconds?”

“Hull composition is monotanium/duranium alloy, Sir,” answered Amanda from the science station. “It is rendering our long- and medium-range sensors ineffective. The probes spotted her only when they closed to a distance of 500,000 kilometers, Commander.”

“On screen,” said Matt.

The main viewer blanked and then showed an elongated cylinder, with a cluster of hundreds of impulse engines at the rear coasting through space. Irregular protrusions covered the hull, along with radiators, sensor arrays, and . . . weapons. A great number of weapons.

“Overall length 7,274 meters, with a beam and a height of 2,744 meters. She is maintaining a sub-light speed of 0.75c; sir, I’m not detecting any signatures consistent with a warp drive and there are no neutrino emissions typical of matter-antimatter reactions.”

Chan jerked, and his antennae shrank slightly. “No warp drives? Are you suggesting that is a generation ship, Lieutenant?”

Before Pavel could answer, Amanda spoke up. “Sir, Science is analyzing the sensor data now—there are over three hundred and fifty thousand separate life forms on board that ship! Including at least ten thousand humans.”

“Weapons?”

Pavel shook his head. “She’s covered with weapon stations, Sir. But they are all lasers and early phase cannons—and she doesn’t have a shield grid. I am detecting a structural integrity field of very high strength, however.”

Matt stared at the ship on screen for a few moments, and then he nodded. “Mister Malik,” he said as he hit a stud on his chair arm. “Have you managed to finish that little project I asked you about?”

“Ready to go on-line at your order, Sir,” the Trill responded.

“Then activate the inhibitor. Mister Shrak, set General Quarters throughout the ship and sound Red Alert—Miss Montoya, plot an interception course at Warp 2, drop us to impulse at six hundred kilometers distance and match course and speed with the alien vessel. Let’s go meet these people, and find out why they thought it a good idea to abduct our citizens.”

“Course plotted, Captain,” Isabella answered.

“Mister Shrak, record and transmit to Star Fleet Command, send a copy to Admiral Hansen, as well the starships Arrogant, Balao, and Independence. We have located what appears to be the origination point of the transporter beam involved in the New Columbia abduction. It is a board a sub-light ship—perhaps a generation ship—that is heavily armed, but only with late-generation lasers and early phase cannons. The vessel does not match any in Republics databanks and may be an example of a civilization heretofore not contacted by the Federation. I am initiating First Contact protocols and will investigate the matter further; coordinates and all technical data gathered by sensors on the vessel to this date will be appended to this transmission. Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS Republic.”

“Recorded and ready for transmission, Captain Dahlgren,” Chan confirmed.

“Send it, Mister Shrak. Mister Roshenko,” the captain continued as Chan transmitted the message and Matt kept staring the sensor data collected by the probe. “Am I wrong or does that vessel mount no missile or torpedo launchers?”

“None that we can detect, Sir.”

Matt frowned and he typed in a few queries into the computer database, and then he looked back up the screen and shook his head. “Take the torpedo launchers off-line and safe the weapons, Mister Roshenko.”

“Sir?”

“Mister Shrak, presume that you are the commanding officer of that vessel; you encounter Republic and a fight ensues. Further presume that you have no experience with photon torpedoes and their resonance when targeted by high-energy weapon systems.”

Chan nodded. “With that interlocking array of short-ranged weaponry, Captain Dahlgren, and presuming no prior knowledge of photonic shockwave detonations, I would possibly use my weapons as point-defense to intercept the torpedo before it managed to complete its run.”

“And the resulting damage from multiple photonic shockwaves at say, fifty thousand kilometers?”

“Without shields? Their structural integrity field would dampen some of the blast, but they would sustain major—perhaps critical—damage to the vessel’s hull, possibly even breaking the spine in half. Depending, of course, on the level of internal reinforcement of the major structural members.”

“Mister Roshenko, if that scenario were to play out, how many of the New Columbia colonists could we beam aboard ship before fuel fires and internal secondary detonations tore her to pieces?”

“Not many, Sir.”

“No, not many, Mister Roshenko. And even if we had the time to beam them all aboard we simply do not have sufficient volume aboard this ship for twelve thousand refugees. Not to mention the three hundred fifty thousand plus other sentient beings that such an event would condemn.”

“Torpedo launchers are now off-line, Captain, and the weapons have been safed.”

“Thank you Mister Roshenko. Miss Montoya, take us to Warp 2 and intercept that vessel.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Republic smoothly made the transition to faster than light speeds, and she rapidly ate up the distance between her previous position and the lumbering alien. And then she slowed once more.

“Holding at six hundred thousand kilometers, Captain.”

“Thank you, Miss Montoya. Mister Shrak, hail the vessel on all sub-space and EM frequencies.”

“Her weapon systems are coming on-line, Captain,” Pavel tersely chimed in from tactical. “And she has polarized her hull plating.”

Matt rotated his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Chan, who slowly nodded. “That matches with her observed weaponry, Captain Dahlgren—but will offer little protection against modern phasers.”

“Is she taking evasive action, Miss Biddle?”

“Negative, Sir. She is continuing on course for New Columbia.”

“At this speed, Miss Biddle, how long until she reaches New Columbia?”

“Seventeen years at her current sub-light velocity, Captain. Give or take a few months.”

Matt nodded slowly. “No response to our hails.”

“Captain Dahlgren,” said Chan, “we are being probed by sensors from the vessel. They are attempting to achieve a transporter lock on our crew.”

“Not exactly the response I had hoped for, Mister Shrak. Is Mister Malik’s inhibitor functioning?”

“Affirmative, Sir. Their transporter system cannot lock onto us at this time.”

“Hail them again.”

Chan pressed a few keys and then the shook his head. “No response. Correction, they have increased transporter power by a factor of six.”

Matt frowned. “Mister Roshenko. Put a full-power one second burst from the starboard dorsal phaser array across their bow—one kilometer separation.”

“Firing phasers, Captain,” the tactical officer called out.

“They have ceased their attempt to acquire a transporter lock, Captain. SIR! They are beaming a warhead into space just outside the inhibitor field off our starboard side!” the XO barked.

“Evasive action, Miss Montoya! All power to starboard and aft shields!”

“Brace for impact!” Chan broadcast as Republic sprinted away from the warhead. And then the ship shook as the device exploded. “Conventional fusion explosive, Captain, highly radioactive, yield in the fifty megaton range,” the executive officer continued in a clipped voice. “Shields are holding at 96%.”

“More transporter traces, Sir,” Pavel called out, “I am detecting another eight warheads bracketing us!”

“Warp speed, Miss Montoya!”

Republic jumped into warp, leaving behind the thermonuclear flares of eight new suns.

“Take her back to impulse power at three million kilometers, Miss Montoya.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt rubbed his dry lips, and only now noticed that he knocked his mug of cocoa across the deck. “Damage reports?”

“There is minor radiation contamination to the secondary hull and nacelles—no physical damage.”

“Is the probe still in sensor range, Mister Roshenko?”

“Yes, sir—and we must be beyond that vessel’s own sensor reach. The probe is showing she is standing down her weapon systems.”

Matt nodded. “Miss Tsien, Mister Roshenko, Mister Shrak. I want a full tactical and science analysis of that vessel from what our own sensors showed during that encounter. Mister Roshenko, I want four stealth probes alongside that ship, giving us real-time telemetry via sub-space. Make it fast, people; department head briefing in two hours—and I want answers by then.”

The Captain stood and he braced his weight on his cane. “Mister Shrak, you have the conn—any detection of a transporter beam and you are authorized to evade or go to warp on your own initiative—don’t wait for my order. I’ll be in my ready room.”

"Aye, aye, sir," the Andorian answered. "Mister Malik, start decontamination procedures. Mister Roshenko, prep the stealth probes for launch."

Chapter Eighteen

Two Marines escorted the shackled Antaran into the small conference room aboard White Cloud. Sean remained seated as they brought her in and sat her down at the opposite end of the table, scrolling through page after page of information recovered from her shuttlecraft.

Finally, he looked up and glared at the furious woman. “You have been busy—Feringil Delon.”

Inderi jerked slightly, and her lips quavered. “Who? My name is Inderi . . .”

“We’ve cracked your computer encryptions, Madam Delon, and DNA doesn’t lie. You are Feringil Delon, also known as Jaspari, also known as Melan Tour, also known as Lindsey Krait, also known as Inderi. There are warrants for your arrest by seventeen Federation member worlds on four dozen separate charges . . . and there will soon be one issued for you role in what occurred at New Columbia.”

Sean closed the monitor screen and he met the eyes of the smuggler and criminal facing him. “There is no escape this time, Madame Delon; you will spend the rest of your natural life span on a penal colony undergoing rehabilitation. Unless . . .”

Inderi’s eyes grew wide and she looked up at that last word. “Unless?” she croaked.

“. . . unless you tell us everything about the people who abducted our colonists from New Columbia.”

The Antaran swallowed. “I want a full and complete pardon for my past crimes.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Inderi. What I will do is this: if your information is truthful and it helps us resolve this crisis, I will let you and your shuttle go. We are not in Federation space, after all. You can continue to live your life on the fringe of civilization, or you can you go to Hell. It makes no difference to me. But that offer is contingent on retrieving the colonists safe and sound, Inderi.”

“You need my information—and your offer is not good enough to pay for it.”

Sean sat back and he snorted. “USS Republic has already found your allies, Inderi; the sub-light generation ship that beamed away the colonists. You value your information too highly, ignoring the fact that it has a very real and very finite duration of viability. Three more starships are on their way, and White Cloud will be joining them. With or without you, Inderi, we will retrieve our colonists. Frankly, my dear, I hope that you reject my offer because the universe will benefit from your incarceration.”

Inderi swallowed. “You are bluffing. You haven’t encountered . . . them.”

Sean nodded and he pressed a stud, and the technical details recovered by Republic flashed into existence onto the wall mounted view screen. Inderi blanched, and her head fell.

“I don’t bluff, Madame Delon. My offer is good for the next sixty seconds. What is your choice?”

***********************************************

“Did she talk, skipper?” asked Gerald as Sean exited the turbolift unto the bridge.

“She sang like a songbird, Gerald. Helm, set course to rendezvous with Republic; make your speed Warp 9.9.”

But Sean’s face was tense and pursed. Gerald moved close and he leaned down to the older engineer. “Was it that bad, skipper?” he softly asked.

“Worse. Much worse. They don’t just want the planet; no these aliens needed the human beings of New Columbia to restore genetic diversity that their own DNA has lost over thousands of years of inbreeding. They plan on disassembling our colonists on the molecular level to develop a treatment for their genetic disorders. They aren’t hostages—they are medicinal supplies. Expendable medicinal supplies.”

“Warp drives on-line, skipper,” the helmsman said.

“Engage.”

***********************************************

“They are called the Nephkyrie. I discovered them . . . yes, I found them three years ago. When all of the might of the Federation and the Romulans and the Klingons and the Cardassians and the Dominion had not; I found them. My shuttle was having engine problems, and . . . there was the matter of a Ferengi ship hounding me. I came out of warp in deep space, far from any system, far from any reason to be there . . . and they were waiting.”

“You are fools if you think them primitive. They are not. No, their home ships do not have warp drive, but they have warp-capable shuttles contained within—shuttles as large as some of your Federation starships. They were never warlike, or violent, but they are old, Commander. Old beyond all meaning. They roamed the stars before the first Vulcans awakened to question the universe; they explored and they learned when humanity huddled in caves and wore dirty hides to stay warm.”

“I was scanned, and taken aboard, and for six days they didn’t even speak with me—as if I were nothing to them. Until, finally, I was told I wasn’t compatible. Yes, they examined me to see if my species could suit their purposes, for their long voyage is finally drawing to a close. Most of their people sleep in stasis; but that only slows the aging and the decay, it does not bring it to a halt. Their genetic structure has progressed to the point where it no longer reliably transfers its chromosomes to the next generation; they have outlived their own bodies.”

“Well, I have always been a trader. I offered to help them find a race that was compatible.”

A question was asked from off-screen, and Inderi shook her head.

“What did I care—my own people aren’t suitable. I have brought them samples of Denobulans, Vulcans, Romulans, Klingons, Cardassians, Ferengi, Bolians, Efrosians, and finally . . . at long last, they discovered that it was human DNA which could restore their own ability to reproduce. Of course, a single human can only provide enough . . . raw material . . . to inoculate perhaps a score of Nephkyrie. They needed more, many, many more.”

“And they needed a new home where they could—and those following after them—could settle.”

More questions, and Inderi laughed.

“They tell me that in the last years of their planet, of their civilization, the Nephkyrie began to construct a fleet such as this galaxy has never before seen. Nearly one hundred of their ponderous vessels were built and millions of their people were loaded on board. Launched one after the other in a stream of refugees through space and time . . . until they found a world that resembled their home of so long ago and so very, very far away.”

“They claimed that world a hundred generations ago, but like the rats of this galaxy have you humans scurried to every world and every system you can find, claiming it and its treasures, leaving other races without. Not this time. I found the compatible race, and I was to be rewarded . . . transformed into a Nephkyrie. I hired the Orions to deliver the beacon, to cleanse New Columbia of your colonists. And you cannot stop them. You do not even know what they are capable of doing.”

Chan Shrak shut down the view screen aboard the Briefing Room of USS Republic. “She refused to speak any further with Commander Philips, and has been returned to her brig cell. White Cloud is en route as we speak and will rendezvous with us here within the next hour; Balao is still at least fourteen hours away, with Arrogant arriving in sixty-two hours, followed by Independence in eighty-four.”

Matt nodded and he tapped his stylus on the table. “Thank you, Mister Shrak. People, we have very little time and I want options; options that will allow us to rescue those colonists alive, if at all possible. I want a full analysis of all data we have so far collected; in addition, I want Science and Medical to go over Inderi’s testimony in detail and try to reverse engineer what these Nephkyrie are trying to accomplish. Mister Malik, have you been able to extend the radius of your transporter inhibitor?”

“Yes, sir. I think we have managed to push it out far enough that those transporter-conveyed warheads won’t be able to damage our shields—but expanding the field has also weakened it. They might be able to punch through.”

“I want Engineering and Tactical to run simulations; take the maximum transporter power they showed us they can produce and increase it by a factor of 10. Mister Roshenko, I want you to do your best to get through the inhibitor—exhaust every possible scenario. The last thing we need is for them to beam a fusion warhead directly aboard this vessel.”

“Mister Shrak, Miss Biddle. I want you two focused on working with the rest of the Science department on finding the weak points of that ship. If we can take out her main power reactors, then she might not have enough reserve generation capacity to pose as great a threat. And figure out precisely how we are going to be able to house that many colonists on just five ships.”

Matt paused and he looked carefully over his officers. And then he firmly nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get to work.”

Chapter Eighteen (cont.)

“Mister Philips, welcome back,” Matt said as he stood to welcome the Starfleet engineer back aboard ship. “Enjoying your first command?”

Sean grimaced. “She’s not exactly the sort of ship I was expecting, Captain. Still, I think Intelligence will want to go over her in detail—seems the Orions have been busy at acquiring proprietary technology again.”

“No doubt, Commander,” Matt answered as he led Sean out of the transporter room and to the closest turbo-lift. “Deck 6.”

The engineer shook his head. “Deck 6? Not the briefing room?”

“No, Doctor Talbot has some questions for your EMH; Mister Malik has set up a telemetry link to White Cloud so that he can be activated in Holodeck 1. I thought it would be best to get your impressions at the same time.”

“Ah, Captain, you should know . . .” Sean began as the turbolift came to a halt and the doors opened. “The EMH is rather annoyed.”

“Yes, the Mk I tends to come across as rather abrasive, don’t worry about that, Commander.”

“No, sir. I mean annoyed at me.”

Matt turned around to look at Sean as the turbolift came to a half. “Oh?”

“We had to adjust his appearance to fool Inderi. He didn’t like that.”

Now the Captain frowned. “I don’t imagine that he did. No one cares to have their body altered. And I would imagine that he told you that.”

“Yes, sir. Repeatedly.”

Matt tapped his cane against the deck, and then he turned and continued limping towards the Holodeck. The doors slid aside at his approach and he, followed by Sean, stepped within. Rather than the black plating with yellow girds of an inactive Holodeck, Dr. Talbot already had the basic program running—a duplicate of the Chief Medical Officer’s office.

“Doctor.”

“Captain, Commander.”

“Doctor.”

Matt tapped his comm badge. “Mister Malik, we are ready when you are.”

“Activating the system,” the chief engineer said over the link.

The holographic doctor suddenly materialized. “Please state the nature of the med . . . this is different,” he finished in a surprised voice. And then he sighed and held up his massive pudgy hands. “And I am still an obese Orion crime lord.”

Matt frowned, and he turned to glare at Sean. “You didn’t restore his original programming?”

“We haven’t exactly had the time, Sir. I was planning . . .”

“Dahlgren to Crewman Zapata.”

“Zapata here.”

“Mister Zapata, how long exactly will it take you to restore the Emergency Medical Hologram to its original parameters—while preserving its accumulated memory?”

“An hour, perhaps less.”

“You have thirty minutes, Mister Zapata,” Matt said curtly and then he directed his gaze at Sean once again. “You could not spare an hour, Mister Philips?”

“Captain Dahlgren, it’s only a hologram—not something that has feelings.”

“Mister Philips, the Emergency Medical Hologram is an extremely advanced piece of technology. I have read the classified reports Star Fleet Command has intermittently received from Voyager, and I can tell you that this hologram is far more than its creators ever intended for it to be. He is a member of the ship’s crew—a Star Fleet officer that deserves to be treated with respect and common decency.”

Matt turned to the program. “You have my apologies, Doctor, for the . . . inconveniences you have suffered.”

The hologram swallowed. “Apologies accepted, Captain Dahlgren. Am I no longer aboard the White Cloud?”

“Welcome aboard USS Republic, Doctor,” the corner of Matt’s mouth twisted and then he smiled a crooked smile. “There are many doctors aboard my ship—what is your name?”

“Name? I haven’t’ been assigned one.”

“We will correct that then, Doctor . . . who? Let me think,” Matt said as he rubbed his sore leg.

“You are not get . . .” Quincy began, at the same time as the hologram asked “Is there an actual medi . . .” and then both stopped and looked at each other.

“He’s my patient,” Quincy growled.

“I was only asking, Doctor . . .”

“Talbot. Quincy Talbot, chief medical officer.”

“Ah, yes. I read your paper on neurosurgical restoration of Trill symbiotic nervous tissue resulting from improperly balanced transporter fields. It was a brilliant, if unorthodox solution that you arrived at. Might we discuss that in detail at some future time, Doctor Talbot?”

“Of course.”

Matt grinned. “How does Dr. Robert Woolsey grab you, Doctor?”

The hologram frowned. “I am not familiar with a historical medical figure by that name.”

“He delivered my three daughters, and was my family physician until his retirement last year.”

“Ah,” the hologram said, before he looked down at the deck and began to pace. “Woolsey . . . Robert Woolsey. Rob. Robby. Bob. Bobby. No. Robert. Robert Woolsey, medical hologram, at your service, Captain Dahlgren,” the hologram finished as he completed his thought and came to a halt.

Sean shook his head. “Captain we don’t have time for this.”

“Mister Philips. We have ample time to greet this ship’s newest crew member.”

Quincy jerked up. “Now wait just a damn minute . . .”

“Stow it Quincy. You were telling me last week how much Republic needs a third board-certified surgeon in case we get into combat again. Star Fleet won’t assign a third surgeon; not aboard a ship this size—and you know it. Doctor Woolsey here, he is available and he is now your third-shift on-call trauma specialist.”

“The ship isn’t set up to handle an EMH!” Sean blurted out. And Matt turned back to him and glared.

“Then it is a really good thing we still have your engineers. I want sickbay outfitted with holoprojectors, in addition to all of the medical labs and department offices, main engineering, the bridge, and the brig. And once that installation is complete, I want his program transferred aboard. In addition, I want Dr. Woolsey given control of his own deactivation command—I will not have him turned on and off like a piece of equipment. You are capable of undertaking this task, are you not, Mister Philips?”

“I am,” the engineer replied through a clenched jaw.

“Good. However,” the captain continued as he turned back to the hologram. “It may be a while before we can do this, Doctor Woolsey. Right now, Doctor Talbot needs to ask you some questions about Inderi and anything she may have revealed concerning the Nephkyrie. And aboard this ship Doctor, you will be treated properly.”

“Thank you, Captain. It will be an honor to serve under a real Star Fleet officer, one who is a gentleman as well. I can’t recall her mentioning the . . . Nephkyrie by name. What exactly are the Nephkyrie?”

“An alien race—the one that abducted the New Columbia colonists. Doctor Talbot will fill in all of the details.”

“Ah. She did ask me to run an analysis on a tissue sample collected in a tricorder—a sample that does not match any known species.”

“Is it still in the memory banks of the White Cloud?” Quincy asked sharply.

“Yes. Of course,” Woolsey said as he looked pained at the idea that he would have simply deleted the information.

Matt smiled as the older doctor inhaled. “In that case, Doctors, I’ll let you both get to work. Commander Philips, Mister Shrak has a detailed briefing for you. That second-hand Klingon cloak might just come in handy.”

***********************************************

Matt taped his stylus against the table and frowned. “Are you telling me that we ignored another race’s claim on New Columbia, Miss Tsien?”

Looks of shock went around the table following the science officer’s statement and the Captain’s question, but Amanda shook her head.

“Not exactly, Sir. I had Lieutenant Shalmut, the head of my Social Sciences Division, go back over every record we have of the initial exploration and colonization efforts at New Columbia. USS Constellation surveyed the system back in 2337 and her report indicates that three probes of alien origin were discovered in orbit around the planet we eventually settled as New Columbia. Or rather, that she discovered the remains of three probes. The devices were very old and had no power, but were in a stable geo-synchronous orbit over the planet.”

“No evidence was uncovered to suggest that the planet had indeed been claimed by another race—until after the initial colony settlement in 2344. Two years later, the colonists discovered an obelisk some eighty kilometers from the initial colony site. The obelisk displayed the same technology as the probes found in orbit, but the language on the obelisk proved to be undecipherable. The Science Council did dispatch a team to New Columbia to investigate the matter further, but were unable to discover any additional artifacts—and they concluded that due to the age and lack of further evidence that whatever race had left them behind did not intend on colonizing the planet.”

“Our analysis of the beacon recovered from the colony confirms that the Nephkyrie are indeed the race that launched the probes and landed the obelisk.”

Matt nodded. “Legal claims on the system aside, there is still the not-so-small matter of our colonists. Thank you, Miss Tsien. Doctor Talbot?”

“The tissue samples gathered by Inderi have been thoroughly analyzed by Medical, Captain. We have identified what is causing their chromosomal decay—and why they think that human DNA can restore it. The Delphi-3,4 protein string of Chromosome 17 has suf . . .”

“Simple English, Doctor,” Matt said dryly, causing nervous chuckles from around the table.

Quincy looked up, with a stern expression on his face. “Small words are for small minds, Captain, sir. Basically, the Nephkyrie are a genetically engineered race; probably their own doing and not outside interference. They have used a very sophisticated technique to eliminate the negative physiological aspects from their chromosomal memory, leaving only the positive traits. Greater physical strength, higher bone density, increased sensory perception, enhanced reaction times—and their brains have been overclocked, to borrow an engineering phrase, allowing them multi-task on several cognitive problems simultaneously, as well as conscious control of some of their normally involuntary reflexes."

The surgeon shook his head. “It is an incredible accomplish, far beyond what the scientists behind the Eugenics Wars attempted. And the Nephkyrie were successful. But they missed something. The engineering rendered them extremely infertile as a race, a problem that they attempted to solve via cloning. And for a time, that solution was successful. However, like a . . . oh, an old magnetic tape that is has been played over and over again; the structure of their chromosomes has simply worn out. The protein strands no longer attach when they attempt to produce a new generation . . . they are a dying species.”

“And how will using our colonists help them to repair the damage, Doctor Talbot?” asked Chan.

Quincy rubbed his lower jaw and shook his head. “I don’t know exactly, Commander. Our best guess—and it is only a guess—is that they intend to splice the human DNA, after it has been suitably altered to match the existing protein strands, in an attempt to restore their natural fertility. Physically, on the DNA level, they are very close to humanity as a species—far closer to us than the Vulcans or Andorians or Klingons. Or they were before they began altering themselves. But that will only be a temporary solution; the dominant traits that are locked into their chromosomes will eventually overwrite the new DNA and force them to start over again with fresh human DNA.”

“Can they be aware of this?” asked Grace Biddle.

“I don’t see how they could miss it. Their survival as a species will literally depend on having access to vast numbers of humans—farmed or otherwise.”

Absolute silence hovered over the briefing room.

“Can we offer an alternative means of restoring their species ability to reproduce, Doctor?” asked Matt.

“Maybe. It’ll need some study, and the Nephkyrie might not like the option.”

“Explain.”

“After discussing this with some of Amanda’s Biological Sciences people, and with Doctors Donato and Woolsey, we think it might be possible to reverse engineer the chromosomal damage—to restore the species DNA to its original configuration and remove all of the genetic engineering. They would have to clone their next generation, but afterwards, the species would once again be able to evolve at their own natural pace.”

“At the expense of their engineered abilities,” Matt mused.

“Yes. If it works, and it might not.”

“Mister Malik?”

“We’ve finished installing a second transporter inhibitor aboard the White Cloud, sir. And I have personally seen to the repair of Inderi’s shuttle. We’re ready.”

Chan’s antennae lowered and he stared at the Captain. “I must renew my protest, Captain Dahlgren. Regulations are quite specific on this issue—as you are well aware.”

“I’ve already logged your objections, Mister Malik. But if we can manage to resolve this peacefully, it is worth the risk. We have to establish contact with the Nephkyrie, and since they already have spoken Inderi—and she is supposed to be rejoining them, I will pilot her shuttle and begin a dialogue.”

Matt looked sternly down the table. “White Cloud will be nearby in cloak and ready to assist if I need it. However, if I am taken by the Nephkyrie—or killed—I expect this ship and every being on her to do their duty. Regardless of how unpleasant that duty might be.”

Each officer at the table nodded, and Matt joined them. “Assume your stations. If I am not back in twelve hours . . . there are sealed orders prepared that you will have to carry out. Dismissed.”

Matt’s senior staff rose and filed out of the briefing room, leaving only Matt and Chan seated at the table.

“I don’t want command this badly, Matthew,” Chan whispered. “One fusion warhead and that shuttle is gone.”

“Nat’s installed a transporter inhibitor in the shuttle, Chan. If they get frisky, I’ll activate it and run to warp. But if I don’t come back and the colonists can’t be saved . . .”

“Oh, yes. I am quite capable of doing what must be done, Matthew,” the Andorian’s antennae contracted. “Balao is only eight hours out. We can wait, you know.”

“Every hour means it is likely that more and more colonists are being processed, Chan. We can’t wait. And I have to take this chance, if either of us are to ever sleep peacefully again—we can’t just exterminate them without trying to convince them to alter their plans.”

The Andorian let out a deep breath, and then both of his antennae bent slightly in a sign of acquiescence. And then Chan stood. “Permission to escort you to Shuttle Bay 1, Captain Dahlgren,” he asked.

“Granted, Mister Shrak.”

Chapter Eighteen (cont.)

The doors to Shuttle Bay 1 slid open with a hiss and Matt limped around to the hatch on the side of the old Vulcan shuttlecraft that filled the bay’s interior. The thing was so large that two of the four Star Fleet shuttles normally stored here had been moved to Shuttle Bay 2 to make room. Several engineers were closing up access hatches on the outer skin of the shuttle, gathering up their tools and equipment, and slowly leaving the bay; each nodded to Matt and the XO, one even giving them a thumbs-up.

The pair came around to the side of the shuttlecraft, and Matt suddenly came to a halt. “What are you doing here?”

Quincy Talbot looked up from where he was sitting down on the ramp leading up into the shuttle’s interior. “Waiting for you, Captain Dahlgren, Sir.”

“Quincy, I don’t have time for another lecture on the leg . . .”

“Oh, you have plenty of time because you aren’t flying this mission, Captain.”

Matt glared at his chief medical officer. “Excuse me, Doctor?”

“Beaming down to Hak’ta-thor was necessary. I understand. Getting almost no sleep so that your leg can heal, in order to get this ship motivated and worthy for the Fleet was necessary. I don’t like it, but I understand. But this?” Quincy shook his head. “You aren’t some twenty-two year old space cadet, Captain. You have officers whose duties encompass missions just like this, good officers.”

“Quincy, I have to talk to them . . .”

“That’s what sub-space radio is for, Sir. Your officer assigned to this mission will contact the Nephkyrie, and he will patch you through to them. Putting yourself out on the ledge isn’t part of your job description anymore, Captain—and it damn sure ain’t necessary.”

“Thank you for that opinion, Doctor. Now step aside,” Matt growled.

“No. Matt,” the Doctor said as he stood. “I’ll declare you medically unfit for command if you so much as place a single one of those six eleven boots in that shuttle.”

Matt started to snarl, and then he saw the seriousness with which Quincy was stating his position. Instead the Captain turned to Chan.

“The two of you think this up together, Mister Shrak?”

Before the Andorian could answer, a fourth being cleared his throat from inside the shuttlecraft. Natantael Malik descended the ramp. “Actually, I called him, Skipper,” the Trill admitted. “You don’t need to be doing this, Sir.”

“And while I was willing to let you go, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian added, “I can’t say that I am sad to see the good Doctor here and prepared to stop you.”

Matt started to open his mouth, and Quincy shook his head. “I will do it, Matt. Don’t force me to.”

The Captain let out a long breath, and he nodded. “If my executive officer, my second officer, and my ship’s surgeon are in agreement then fine; we will do this your way. I trust you gentlemen are happy now?”

“Happy?” Quincy replied. “Nope. Because that blue-skinned, ice-water in his veins executive officer of yours should have already knocked some damn sense into your head; instead of me having to come into this hanger to pull out the big guns. And you, Captain, Sir, should have more sense than to think the two of you could get away with this.”

“I think he is happy, Mister Shrak,” Matt said. “Remember for when you get your own ship: if the chief medical officer isn’t whining he isn’t happy.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Sir,” the Andorian answered.

“Whining? Whining? Why I’ll . . .”

“You’ve made your point, Quincy—don’t push it,” Matt warned. “Mister Malik, I presume that since you and the doctor have grounded me, you have arranged for a pilot?”

“I have,” the Trill beamed.

“In that case, gentlemen; let’s get this show on the road.”

***********************************************

The old shuttlecraft decelerated out of warp and immediately the threat receivers in the cockpit lit up.

“They know that we are here,” muttered Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, the sole Antaran currently assigned to Republic, as he adjusted his controls.

“Chin up, Ciyan,” Sean’s voice came over the sub-space communicator. “If they decide to open fire with that many guns, the odds are you will be dead long before your brain can say ouch.”

“Thank you, Sir, for providing me with that most motivating and fear-alleviating pep talk. Remind me never to ask you calm my jitters again, Commander. And to never volunteer on conducting repairs on an underway starship.”

“Fear is a good motivator, Ciyan. Just hold it together.”

Ciyan looked down at his instruments. “They are scanning me.”

“We see it.”

“And now they are hailing the shuttle,” the engineer finished. He grimaced and flicked the communications switch.

“We feared that you had been compromised; already we have had an encounter with the dominant species in this region—the species that you assured us were nothing more than vermin, loathed by all others.” The guttural voice paused, and turned cold. “Vermin do not build such starships, Inderi. What else have you lied to us about, we wonder?”

“I am not Inderi. I am Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, of the United Federation of Planets, and I wish to establish a dialogue between my commander and your leaders.”

“Foolish and incompetent. The Solidarity is best served without her presence. You are not the species that Inderi termed human; you are Antaran, as was she.”

“Yes. The Federation consists of one hundred and fifty four member worlds, each of which has chosen to voluntarily request admission for their species.”

“A multi-species polity? How . . . unusual. And these humans? Are they members?”

“They are one of our founding members. Who am I speaking with?”

“Ah. Not vermin, indeed. You are speaking with the Solidarity of Nephkyrie. Are these humans still a force within your Federation?”

“They are a major species within the Federation, yes.”

“And their settlements on our world were authorized by your Federation?”

“We had no knowledge of your claim on New Columbia. Perhaps you can speak with my commander . . .”

“Lies. We know our marker was landed; we know it was removed. And now we know the true threat we face.”

Ciyan heard the hum of a transporter beam, and he began to twist as an object started to materialize—when White Cloud’s own transporter beamed him out and away from the shuttlecraft, micro-seconds before the fusion warhead detonated.

Chapter Nineteen

Matt leaned forward, and he rubbed his thigh with one hand. “Thank you, Mister Philips,” he replied to the image of Sean on the main viewer. “White Cloud is to proceed to New Columbia; I want you to take up a position in orbit above the settlement—and if you receive any indication that the Nephkyrie are activating that transporter beacon, I want you to destroy it. You are authorized for a photon torpedo strike from orbit, Mister Philips—I will provide that order in writing if you so desire.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” Sean answered. “I understand the stakes; if they can reverse the beam and transport to the planet, then removing them will be far more difficult.”

“You’re going to have a minimum crew aboard, Sean—I’m pulling all of my Marines back, and the majority of your engineers. And just so she doesn’t’ decide to try anything, we are transferring Inderi into our brig as well; that should be one less headache for you to worry about.”

“Understood,” the engineer said as the Matt cut off the transmission and turned to face his chief engineer. “Mister Malik.”

“Sir.”

“Time for Plan B. How long will it take to reset the inhibitor field? I want it to conform with our shield bubble for maximum strength.”

“Thirty minutes, Captain.”

“How much will that increase the field strength?”

“Enough that I will guarantee they can’t beam anything aboard, Sir. However, we will be vulnerable to proximity warheads.”

“Not for long, Mister Malik, get to work. Miss Biddle,” he addressed the Operations officer. “Plot us a course behind the Nephkyrie vessel, maintaining a distance of at least three million kilometers. Miss Montoya, let’s make our way there and match that ship’s vector and velocity. Once we are in position, I will need a plot at Warp speed to bring us out very close to their ship; Miss Montoya I want Republic oriented so that our belly is facing their hull.” Matt pulled up a schematic of the Nephkyrie vessel on the main viewer and he highlighted a small section of their hull. “Put us here, Miss Montoya.”

“How close do you want her, Sir?” Grace asked.

“Our shield bubble extends fifteen meters beneath the keel; I want us to come out of Warp with no more than thirty meters of separation between our shields and their hull.”

Everyone on the bridge, including Chan, turned to stare at Matt. Isabella’s jaw gapped opened in shock, as her face drained of blood. Grace merely blinked. “Did you say thirty meters of separation? Sir?”

“No more than thirty meters, Miss Biddle. Ideally I don’t want five meters of separation. Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to get in as close as a tick on a hound so that they cannot use their transporter delivered nukes without gutting their own ship in the process. Mister Roshenko,” he continued as he swiveled the command chair to face his tactical officer. “We’ve got four phaser arrays on the ventral surface, plus the two nacelle strut arrays—I want every weapon emplacement that can bear on us destroyed the instant we come out of warp,” dozens of different gun mounts began to flash on the display. “I do not want over penetrating shots if you can avoid it, Mister Roshenko. We will have bare seconds—at best—before they bring those seventy-six emplacements on-line and to bear; you will have to be accurate and fast.”

Matt sat back and he rotated his seat forward. “Once we are on station, and their local weapon systems are disabled, the Nephkyrie will have a choice—begin a dialogue or continue to stonewall.”

Chan cleared his throat. “And if they continue to stonewall? Sir.”

Matt pressed a stud on his chair. “Mister Beck.”

“Sir.”

“You have been listening as I requested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want all Marines outfitted with Phaser Rifles and field armor. Additionally, Mister Shrak will be sending you a list of crewmen that will flesh out your boarding parties. Can you outfit another hundred and twenty personnel gleaned from our crew and Philip’s engineers?”

“I don’t have enough armor, but I’ve got plenty of phasers. And grenades; I’ve assembled a good supply of those since you installed that replicator, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mister Beck. If they continue to refuse to talk, ladies and gentlemen, then we will board them; we will find our colonists; we will recover our colonists; and we will destroy their transporter system. And if we can’t; if the colonists are dead and they continue to refuse to even speak with us, then I’ll blow them out of space.”

Matt looked steadily ahead at the view-screen, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Any officer or crewman who feels that they cannot participate in such an action may report to Mister Shrak for transfer to White Cloud. Miss Montoya, this is all contingent on you getting us that close. Can you do it?”

The young Lieutenant stared at the Captain for a moment and then she nodded her head slowly. She licked her dry lips. “Y-yes, Sir. I can get us that close.”

“Get your departments prepared; Mister Shrak assemble a list of personnel to augment the Marines and have them report to Lieutenant Beck. We have thirty minutes until Mister Malik finishes his adjustments. You have that length of time to get ready for this. Mister Shrak, you have the conn; I need to inform Admiral Hanson at Starbase 114 in case something goes wrong.”

Matt stood, and he turned around and cocked his head at the Andorian. “I have the conn, Sir,” Chan answered; but then he stepped up close. “And they say I am the crazy one, pink-skin,” he whispered.

“Just get the ship ready, Chan.”

“On one condition, Captain,” the XO continued.

“Condition? You are setting conditions?”

“Yes, sir. You will not be boarding that ship, but sitting in that command chair, Sir. That is my only condition.”

“Agreed. Now get her ready, Mister Shrak.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

*****************************************************

“Miss Biddle, is our warp jump plotted?”

“Yes, sir,” the Operations officer replied as she made a final adjustment to her controls, a thin bead of sweat dripping down her nose. “Warp drive will be engaged at Warp Factor 2, for .9732 seconds on computer control.”

“Very well,” Matt answered calmly, as he secured the safety straps across his waist. “Mister Shrak, set General Quarters throughout the ship, and sound Red Alert in all compartments.”

The bridge lighting dimmed, replacing the normal bright illumination with a harsh red glow. “All stations report manned and secured for Battle Stations, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian answered, as the klaxon screamed its alert throughout the ship.

“Initiate the warp jump, Miss Montoya.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Warp speed in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . ENGAGED!”

Republic surged forward, crossing over the boundaries into warp, and then almost immediately dropped back into normal space. Matt could hear the thrum of the phasers firing even before Isabella could report. “We are at the designated coordinates, Sir; six meters, forty-two centimeters of separation between the keel and the Nephkyrie vessel!”

The ship rocked as a half-dozen Nephkyrie laser cannons struck her forward shields, but then the batteries on the alien vessel fell silent.

Pavel Roshenko looked up. “Weapon emplacements neutralized, Captain. No hull penetrations.”

“Forward shields holding at 98%, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian added, and then his antennae quivered. “We are being hailed.”

“On screen.”

The main viewer blanked and for the first time, Matt and his crew could see the Nephkyrie with their own eyes. The man on the screen was humanoid, his smooth skin a darkened bronze, offset by the coal-black well groomed hair that covered his head. Except for the strange skin color and the eyes—eyes with a vertical cat’s slit and an iris of purple—he could easily have passed as a human.

“You will remove your vessel at once. You are not welcome here among the Solidarity,” he said.

Matt nodded. “We will be depart as soon as our people have been returned to their home; the Federation does not desire conflict with the Solidarity, and we are prepared to greet you in peace. If they are not returned, however, then we shall meet you with war.”

“War? You would go to war over such a small number of your people? For which my species has a need? You would condemn thirty-five million to death for twelve thousand of your own kind, and see an entire species destroyed?”

“If it proves necessary, then yes. I am Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer of the Federation Starship Republic. And we do not allow any race to steal away twelve thousand of our own people—not without suffering the consequences of that action.”

The Nephkyrie on the screen met Matt’s stern gaze evenly, and then he nodded. “I am Typhias, and I am Speaker for the Solidarity. Your people were interlopers and intruders upon a planet which our race had claimed long ago as its own.”

“Your claim was one which the Federation was unaware of until just recently, Speaker Typhias. However, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I promise that we will evacuate our colonists and leave you the planet. That offer is contingent, of course, on the colonists being returned to us safe and sound.”

Chan cleared his throat and Matt swiveled his chair to face his executive officer.

“They are attempting to gain a transporter lock on us, Captain Dahlgren. The inhibitor is blocking their attempts—for now.”

Matt turned back to the main viewer. “I would advise you to cease those attempts, Speaker Typhias; they might easily be interpreted as hostile. You have seen the power of my weapons; I would hate to turn them onto your vessel in earnest.”

The Speaker turned to someone off-screen and spoke rapidly in a language that the universal translator did not recognize, making a slashing motion with one hand—a hand with four elongated fingers and two opposing thumbs.

“Transporter lock-on attempts have ceased, Captain Dahlgren,” Chan reported.

“Thank you, Speaker Typhias. I would like to begin discussing on when we can expect our people to be returned.”

Typhias’s mouth twisted and he leaned forward. “Your weapons are impressive. As is your ability to block our transport beams; but I have heard nothing that would compel me to relinquish the specimens we have retrieved. The survival of my race is at stake, human, and I shall not let a mere twelve thousand lives of another species stand between our survival and extinction. You would do the same, would you not?”

“No. We would find another way. We will offer to your race our collected medical resources in an attempt to restore your DNA to it original configuration; my scientists and medical professionals have already determined that it might be possible to alleviate your own damage through means that do not require the death of thousands—millions—of my own people.”

“And your solution has been tested and proven?”

“Not yet, but we can work toget-. . .”

“Then it is useless. The Solidarity must be assured of survival, human. And if survival requires that we harvest your species, than that is what we shall do. I order you again to depart, and trouble us no further; failure to comply will result in your own deaths.”

Matt frowned. “We are too close to your own vessel for you to risk your transporter bombs, Speaker Typhias. Do not force me into the position where I have to board you and recover our people through force.”

“Board us?” the Nephkyrie began to laugh. “Ah, you are indeed amusing, human. You shall not step one foot upon the decks of this ancient vessel—but we will seize yours.”

The screen blanked, and Matt swiveled his chair as he heard the hum of a transporter beam—several transporter beams.

Nephkyrie troops, wearing thick heavy cuirasses of armor plating and combat helmets appeared onboard the bridge of Republic with drawn weapons, but the Marine security guards and the bridge crew already had their own in hand. Phaser and beams of unknown energy began to criss-cross the bridge as Republic’s crew fought the intruders.

Matt unclipped his safety belt and rolled out of his chair, just an instant before a high-energy beam burnt a hole through the back panel, and he tapped his comm badge. “Intruder Alert!” he barked. “All hands repel boarders!” Wincing with the pain, Matt knelt on his injured leg and drew his own Type I phaser, firing a long burst into one of the intruders.

The Operations console exploded under the fire of another Nephkyrie, and Grace Biddle was slammed to the deck, bleeding and burnt. Matt twisted and he fired two short beams into the alien who stood over Grace, joined by a third beam from Isabella.

And then the shrill sounds of phasers stopped; the Nephkyrie intruders were down, along with nearly half of Matt’s bridge crew. Chan pulled himself back up to his feet, and he leaned on his Mission Ops station, holding a useless arm tight against his side in pain. “Intruders reported on Decks 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8. Mister Malik reports Main Engineering is secure, but he is requesting immediate reinforcements; Mister Beck is deploying Marine reaction teams and crewmen prepped for boarding operations against the Nephkyrie.”

“How the Hell did they get through the in . . . no, don’t answer that, Chan!” Matt snarled. “Miss Montoya—set course to rendezvous with Balao, maximum Warp. Mister Roshenko, take out any transporter emitters on their hull!”

The turbolift doors opened and a pair of marines and two medics emerged.

“Transporter emitters destroyed, Captain,” Pavel answered calmly. “That will only slow them, however—and they rolling their ship!”

“Now, Miss Montoya!”

And Republic surged forward, into Warp and away from the Nephkyrie ship.

Chapter Nineteen (cont.)

Corporal Alvin Thiesman held up one hand as he heard the pounding of feet on the deck past the T-junction directly in front of his team. He knelt and raised his Type III/f phaser rifle, knowing the two Marines with him had his back. He pulled the weapon in tight against his shoulder and he took a deep, slow breathe; and then a gaggle of Nephkyrie burst into sight, shooting over their shoulders as they RAN.

Thiesman exhaled and pressed the firing stud repeatedly, sending one high-powered phaser stun beam into each of the alien troopers in front of him before they could respond. But he remained where he was as he heard an incoherent scream of rage and more thundering impacts of boots. And then a hyperventilating Lt. Pok came running up, shouting Tellarite imprecations at the stunned Nephkyrie.

The Marine lowered his weapon, but the ship’s quartermaster saw the motion and he spun, raising his own phaser pistol. “STAR FLEET MARINES!” Thiesman yelled, and he raised the rifle again. “SAFE THAT WEAPON, LIEUTENANT!”

Pok squinted and then he squealed as he lowered the phaser. “Didn’t . . . see . . . you,” he gasped, out of breath from the running. “I was chasing these cretins. Absolute morons,” the Tellarite said as he kicked one of unconscious soldiers. “They broke a vase from the Vasana Dynasty of Janus VII! Shattered it!” the Quartermaster wailed. “It was a priceless treasure, irreplacable, and they ruined it.”

“You were chasing them? Alone?” Thiesman asked in an amused voice.

“Of course, I am not alone! My assistants are right behind me . . .,” Pok turned and noticed that the corridor behind him was empty. He frowned. “They had best be stunned or they will be doing workouts with your Marines three times each day!”

“Lieutenant, why don’t you come with us; there are more of them on the lower decks.”

Pok nodded, then he grunted, and then he pointed the phaser at the unconscious Nephkyrie and shot each of them of them again. “They just knocked the vase right off the pedestal; as if they had no appreciation for its value.”

“Let’s go, Mister Pok,” the Marine said as he struggled not to laugh.

“Lead the way; we Tellarites aren’t that stealthy.” And he fired one final stun beam into the unconscious aliens as he followed the three Marines to the Jefferies tube.

*****************************************************

“They managed to breach the inhibitor field by a combination of factors, Captain,” the Trill engineer reported as he shook his head. “First, they massively increased their transporter power—far beyond the amount we had previously witnessed. The good news is that their entire vessels power reserves dropped precipitously when they did this, and based on their observed rate of power regeneration, it isn’t something they can do quickly or often.”

“Second, they showed a capacity for using an extremely high frequency of sub-space; a frequency that our inhibitor did not fully cover. Sensor logs from their transport indicate their transporter was refocused into the tau-bands.”

Chan shook his head in disbelief. “Didn’t the Federation abandon research into tau-band transporter frequencies because of cellular degradation?”

“Yes, and the surviving Nephkyrie boarders are showing some signs of cellular disruption; their armor incorporates a miniaturized pattern enhancer that alleviated the worst of effect, reinforcing their pattern and minimizing the damage. Still, multiple transports in the tau-band will be as fatal for them as it would be for us.”

“And finally,” Nat continued, “they made no attempt to gain a transporter lock. The boarding party they beamed across was a blind transport into open compartments their sensors had already identified. Of the one hundred and forty-four Nephkyrie beamed aboard ship, thirty-seven materialized either partially or fully within a deck, overhead, bulkhead, or piece of equipment.”

Several of Matt’s senior officers winced at the thought, but the captain only nodded his understanding. “Mister Malik, how soon can they regenerate their power reserves from this previous attempt?”

“They will have to spend at least an hour restoring their energy, Captain; that estimate is based only on the power production capability we have so far witnessed. If they have an additional means to produce the power, they might restore it faster.”

“Mister Beck?”

“We have all of the surviving Nephkyrie contained in Cargo Four, Sir. Our automated anti-intruder defenses, combined with the rapid reaction teams managed to neutralize their boarding party in short order. From our examination of their small arms, they lack the technology for hand phasers; however, their weapons are an early from of sonic disruptor that includes a stun setting. For the most part, they used the weapons on stun, perhaps in an attempt to gain more human subjects, but there were a few casualties among the crew. Their armor is lightweight and capable of absorbing and dissipating kinetic, laser, disruptor, and—to a limited extent—phaser energy. Tactically, their troops were well-trained in a basic manner, but appeared to lack actual combat experience. That may be due to their cramped conditions aboard that ship—but we shouldn’t underestimate them.”

“Individually, they are stronger, faster, and tougher than the majority of our personnel. It was their lack of experience in combat situations that allowed us to quickly overcome them. I don’t think they were prepared for our level of resistance, and they had no contingency plans and failed to coordinate their activities across the ship. If I am reading their insignia correctly, their senior officer materialized within a bulkhead on Deck Four, depriving them of leadership at a crucial moment.”

“Dr. Talbot?”

“The crew suffered numerous casualties in the engagement; thankfully, most of those are bruises and minor cuts, as well as hangovers from the stun weapons. We had a number of more severe injuries, but none—including Miss Biddle—are life-threatening. Dr. Tsien and I have been studying the Nephkyrie physiology based on our prisioners and we, along with Dr. Woolsey and the Biological Sciences division believe that given a few days we might well be able to fabricate a treatment option. We will have to test the serum to see if it is effective, however.”

Pavel Roshenko shook his head. “Why don’t they just clone the human DNA in vats; why do they need living, breathing humans?”

Quincy frowned. “In the short term, that might work. But it is their own cloning and genetic engineering techniques that have led to this problem. And since the majority of their population is in stasis—and according to the sensor scans conducted by Amanda, so are our colonists—they might not have the capacity in their medical labs to clone so much different tissue. I am guessing here, but I’d say, based on what I have seen of their ship’s internal layout, that much of their equipment is stored, to be unpacked when they reach New Columbia.”

“And their current numbers of crew are not nearly as overwhelming as we first estimated, Captain Dahlgren,” Amanda Tsien added. “Three hundred and forty eight thousand of the Nephkyrie are in stasis, along with all of our colonists, leaving around two thousand of them active aboard that ship. Well, about eighteen hundred now,” she finished with a sad smile.

“Miss Tsien, did our scans detect any anomalies in the colonists? Could they have started processing them within the stasis pods?” Matt asked as he tapped his stylus on the table.

“I managed to get a good look at the colonists, Sir. No. Their life signs matched what the records show; they are in a form of cyro-stasis with their bio-signs within the expected range—and apparently they did not want to provoke the other species of the Federation, sir. The two thousand colonists who were not human are also in stasis and their life signs are heartening.”

Matt nodded. “Doctors,” he said to Quincy and Amanda. “I want you full efforts on finding a treatment for the Nephkyrie—you are authorized to test your serum upon the prisoners. Consider that an order, Doctor Talbot!” Matt barked, cutting off Quincy as he began to snarl. “We have to know if it works. Mister Malik, make your repairs quickly and remove those fused Nephkyrie from my ship.”

The intercom whistled. “Bridge to Captain Dahlgren. Bridge to Captain Dahlgren.”

Matt tapped his comm badge. “Dahlgren.”

“Sir. Balao has just dropped out of warp and is moving to rendezvous with us at impulse power.”

“Acknowledge, Miss Montoya. I will be on the bridge momentarily. Hail Captain Carmichael and ask her if she would beam aboard so that I might brief her personally,” Matt turned back to the staff seated at the briefing table. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We got lucky here; these prisioners might give us the means of resolving this situation without any further violence—but only if you can come up with a treatment that works. I have confidence that you are capable of doing so; but I need not remind that time is not our ally in this circumstance. You are dismissed.”

*****************************************************

The door to Matt’s ready room slid open and Chan walked in, his arm in a sling. Behind him walked a dark-haired human woman who wore the three pips of a Commander on her collar. She beamed a smile as Matt stood.

“Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian said, “may I present Commander Samantha Carmichael, the commanding officer of USS Balao.”

Matt shook his head and he smiled as well. “You may, Mister Shrak. Commander, it is good to see you again; both of you take a seat,” he continued as he sat back down. “Care for a drink?”

“No thank you, Sir. I had lunch aboard Balao before we arrived. I see that we missed some excitement.”

“You could say that,” Matt answered with a sad chuckle. “But we learned a few things about these Nephkyrie—and we’ve got a few captives aboard as well.”

“More than few,” Chan chimed in, “we have them packed into Cargo Bay 4 like cattle, Commander Carmichael.”

“So they gave you Balao? I knew you would get a command, but I didn’t think they would give you such a . . . little ship.”

“It’s not the size of the waves, but the motion of the ocean, Sir,” the commander of Balao answered with a bright grin. “She’s got heart and she packs a wallop. On a good day, she can take any ship in the Fleet.”

“I have no doubt, Miss Carmichael,” Matt finished as he considered his former second officer—his Operations officer—from the old Kearsage.

“So how are the kids?” she asked.

“Cass starts Julliard this fall, if you can believe it. Amanda, she doesn’t like being called Amy anymore she declared in her last letter, has a crush on a young boy in her freshman class and is hoping he asks her to her first dance this fall. And Sarah is as rambunctious as ever.”

“And Melody?” Sam asked, her smile fading.

“We talk. Infrequently. I don’t blame her. It was my own fault for being away for so long; she deserved better.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but she didn’t have to leave you when you fighting for your life in the hospital.”

“Water under the bridge. The marriage was over long before I was beached. And she’s found someone who can be there for her, all the time; the way I wasn’t when she needed me.”

“At least they got you back into space, Sir,” Sam quickly changed the subject. “Even if they had to drag the Reprobate here off the scrap pile.”

“Watch it, Commander. Republic may be an old girl, but she blew the pants off of McHale and Rick Kessler.”

“I heard. And I’ve also heard some rumors over sub-space about the Cauldron and a mysterious ion storm.”

“If I told you the story, Sam, I’d have to have Chan jettison you out of an airlock. So stop fishing.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. What are we facing here?”

“The Nephkyrie are not quite like anything I’ve ever met. They have some highly advanced technology, and yet they have only the most basic weapons and warp drive. Chan has a full briefing already laid out for you and your people, but they are full of surprises. Our number one priority is to recover the New Columbia colonists, and I hope that can figure out a means to do that without having to blow that ship to hell. We are working on possible sol . . .”

The door chime beeped and Matt frowned. “Come!” he barked. The door parted and a grim-faced Quincy stormed in, trailed by Amanda. Quincy nodded curtly at Sam, and then he turned his glare on Matt.

“What’s the matter, Doctor?”

“We’ve just discovered something about these Nephkyrie that you need to know right now, Captain.”

Matt sat back and picked up his battered stylus and tapped it against the desk. “And that might be?”

“The prisioners—all of the prisioners, Captain—are children.”

“Excuse me?”

“Matt, they are clones. And they have been in stasis for god knows how long. They are children—the last children of the Nephkyrie race, put into stasis and sent thousands of light years to found a new home. Children whose bodies grew up slowly in the stasis tubes, but whose minds are still those of teenagers and goddamn prepubescent children!”

The ship’s surgeon shook his head, and ran a hand through his grey hair. “They have had all of the Nephkyrie knowledge taught to them in stasis, their minds being impressed with the data of how to operate those ships, but emotionally? Developmentally? Every last one of them is still a child.”

“And right now, those children, despite the fact that they stand as tall you as you and Chan, are scared. They are frightened, Captain, and they are huddled together and crying in confinement in that bare cold cargo bay. Damn whoever thought it was a good idea to turn them into soldiers, Captain, but they are traumatized! We can’t go back there and kill an entire ship full of children, Matt. We can’t!” the doctor thundered.

“And we won’t, Quincy. We will find another way,” Matt answered at last. “Computer, adjust temperature and light levels in Cargo Bay 4 to match those scanned on the interior of the Nephkyrie vessel—and play Brahms’s Lullaby on the speakers in that compartment.”

“Acknowledged.”

Matt sadly smiled. "It always calmed my kids, at least."

“Dahlgren to Counselor Trincullo,” Matt said tapping his comm badge.

“Sir?” Andrea Truncullo’s voice piped up.

“How are you with children, Counselor?”

“Sir?” her voice pitched up in question.

“Miss Trincullo . . .” and Matt shook his head. “Just meet me in Cargo Bay 4.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt stood, followed by Chan and Sam. “This is where you earn those Captain’s pips, Sam. I want you and Chan to go over every bit of our tactical data—and you two find me a way out of this that doesn’t involve killing three hundred and fifty thousand children. Doctors,” the captain continued as he picked up his cane and limped around his desk. “You two are with me.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” a chorus of voices answered.

Chapter Nineteen (cont.)

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 53753.3, USS Republic. The revelation on the nature of the mental and emotional maturity of the Nephkyrie has complicated matters considerably. Through the efforts of Counselor Trincullo and the crew, assisted by personnel from the Balao, we have managed to calm these . . . children taken prisoner. In regards, their mental state has worked to our advantage, as they have provided far more information on the Nephkyrie race and their technology than an adult in a similar position would have. Of particular interest is that not all of their elders are gone: Speaker Typhias and his inner circle are adult members of their race, amounting to less than one hundred aboard this ship alone. According to our POW children, there were over fifty thousand adults aboard when these ships departed from their home system long ago.”

“Where have those adults gone? Typhias has never told the children how they died, or why; but our scans of the vessel did not detect any signs of a previous confrontation. No external damage, no weapons scoring of the hull, nothing. We do know that Typhias was not a senior member of the Nephkyrie ruling class when this migration began—but he is now the leader of his entire race; and the children have no knowledge of how this came to pass.”

“Perhaps it is my own suspicious mind at work, but I believe that Typhias removed the other adults as they lay sleeping in stasis. I cannot prove it, but I have a nagging feeling in my gut that he murdered them. That would explain how a ship packed with refugees had enough vacant stasis pods to house the New Columbia colonists. But as disturbing as the mass murder of tens of thousands of his own peers might be, for now, I am beset with the problem of retrieving the colonists while keeping as many of these children alive as I can. Through subtle questioning, we have a basic idea of the intervals at which this fleet was dispatched. And that information provides us with an opportunity.”

“USS Arrogant arrived three hours ago, under the command of Captain William Myers. Bill has advocated a full-scale attack on the alien ship by our vessels and Independence when she comes out of warp in twenty-three hours. Fortunately, I have seniority over Bill and have overruled his proposal. That is not the case with Captain Salok aboard the Independence; and although Vulcans deplore violence, their adherence to logic may lead him into another confrontation with tragic consequences.”

“Commanders Shrak and Carmichael, along with Lieutenant Beck, have finalized plans for an assault boarding of the Nephkyrie vessel in the event that we are once again forced into action. However, this time we will endeavor to avoid the Nephkyrie children and strike instead for the head of this serpent: Typhias. Perhaps it is my sub-conscious desires projecting onto him, but his attitude, his arrogance, his . . . malevolence lead me to the conclusion that he, and not these immature Nephkyrie, is the villain in this piece.”

“Computer, save log.”

“Log saved.”

Chapter Twenty

Matt took one step into sickbay, and then stopped as he heard the raised voices of the two doctors.

“No, you bloodless, inhuman, piece of technology,” Quincy snarled, “the key is the Xi-227 protein chain! That single segment on chromosome 7 is what locked the changes!”

“You are mistaken, Doctor,” the holograph answered with a pained look on his face. “Xi-227 is inverted, making it a mirror copy of the Chi-083 chain on chromosome 10! We can’t treat Xi-227/7 without first correcting the engineering to Chi-083/10.”

Matt shook his head and then he spotted Amanda Tsien sitting on a biobed watching the argument intensely. The captain limped over to her side, and he whispered, “How long has this been going on?”

“Hours, Captain. I am barely following their arguments, but it is like watching Quincy argue with himself: it’s a train wreck and I can’t myself look away,” she whispered back, her eyes locked on the two medical professionals and their waving arms and pointing fingers.

Suddenly the noise level abated, as the scans of the Nephkyrie soldier ensconced in another biobed updated. “Hmmmmmm?” went both Doctors at the same time.

Matt cleared his throat, and the two doctors—one human and one holographic—looked up.

“When did you come in, Matt?” asked Quincy.

“We can call him Matt now?” the hologram interjected.

“No, you collection of assembled photon particles, we can’t call him that: I can call him that!”

“There is no reason to be rude,” the hologram replied. “Although considering your lack of social graces and overall good manners, I should have expected it.”

“Why you . . .”

“Doctors!” Matt snapped, causing both of the physicians to turn around and face him. “What is the status of your research?”

“We have . . .” Quincy began, as the hologram uttered at the same time, “There has . . .”

Both stopped and glared at each other.

“One at a time, gentlemen,” the captain said gently. “Quincy?”

“It’s going to take time, Matt. The engineered changes are extremely subtle in many cases and we have to go through and find those changes before we make any recommendations on a treatment.”

“Having a living Nephkyrie to examine, Captain,” Dr. Woolsey continued, “has only opened more questions. If we try to remove the modifications without examining all of the implications, it might have the effect of causing wide-spread genetic mutation—possibly fatal levels of mutation.”

“I concur,” Quincy snarled. “And no, Matt, we won’t have an answer before Independence arrives, not without the actual medical data on exactly how the Nephkyrie made these modifications and an example of the pre-modified genetic coding.”

“We can infer the species original genetic coding through the modification markers, Doctor,” the hologram added, “but it will take time to do an examination of each individual protein chain—the order of modification is more difficult to interpolate and remains quite open to interpretation.”

Quincy glared at the hologram, but then he at last nodded. “The protein chains are a like a lock, Matt; we can pick it, but without a key it might suffer damage.”

“How long?” Matt asked.

“Days? Weeks?” answered Quincy with a shrug.

“Months? Years?” Woolsey glumly whispered.

Matt nodded and he limped over to the intercom on the wall, pressing a stud. “Bridge, Dahlgren.”

“Go ahead, Sir,” Chan answered.

“Plan C, Mister Shrak. Inform Arrogant that she is to accompany us. And patch me through to Balao.”

“Carmichael.”

“Commander, we can’t count on the medical treatment; so we are going to try the third option. I want you and Balao to remain here on station. Use the probes to keep that vessel under observation and inform me at once if there are any changes.”

“Understood, Sir. Good hunting.”

Matt released the comm stud and he turned back around to face to the Doctors. “Gentlemen, continue your research; perhaps we will get lucky. Miss Tsien, we will need you on the bridge.”

And with that Matt limped out, trailed by the Science Officer.

Robert Woolsey pursed his lips. “He should really consider a prosthetic if the leg is bothering him that much. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and have the procedure?”

Quincy frowned and he shook his head. “He’s stubborn, Robert. And he wants to keep his natural limb, as irrational as that is when it’s been damaged this severely. We’ve tried every conventional treatment and nothing works: damn the Jem’Hadar and their polaron radiation weapons.”

The hologram nodded. “Have you considered an inverse replication transplant?”

Quincy stopped in his tracks and he turned around to face the hologram. “That only works on Klingons with their redundant internal physiology.”

“He has two legs, Doctor. From a certain point of view, he has—in this case—redundant internal physiology.”

Quincy slowly nodded, and then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss this later, Robert. For now, I want to map out Chromosome 12. Are you okay, son?” the doctor asked his Nephkyrie patient nee guinea pig.

“This is boring,” the child in a man’s body answered.

“If you are lucky, son,, then life is boring,” the doctor answered, as he looked around the sickbay and then took a lollipop out of his coat pocket and handed it to the Nephkyrie. “I haven’t been so lucky. Start new mapping routine, computer, Chromosome 12.”

“Acknowledged.”

*********************************************************

“Care for a cup of tea?” Andrea Trincullo asked the nervous Operations Officer sitting in a couch in her office.

Grace shook her head. “Look, Doctor Talbot has already cleared me for duty, Andrea . . . so why I am here?”

Andrea picked up her hot steaming saucer and cup and she walked back across the office and sat down on in a comfortable chair opposite Grace. She took a sip of the drink, heavily sweetened with honey, and then she set down the china cup.

“You know why you are here, Grace.”

Grace’s face turned red, and she shook head. “Look, I froze, okay? I was surprised and I froze: is that so hard to understand? It won’t happen again.”

“Are you certain?” the counselor asked. “Was it because the Nephkyrie surprised you—and the rest of the ship, or was it because of what happened on Delta Pavonis II?” The operations officer flinched, but Andrea pressed on. “Isn’t that incident what is really bothering you, Grace?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grace whispered, as the color slowly faded from her skin, and beads of cold sweat started to appear on her forehead.

“Of course you don’t. No one wants to talk out things like this, Grace. But whether you choose to talk about it or not, you are still waking up in the middle of the night gasping as your nightmares relive time and time again, aren’t you?”

Grace trembled, but she directed her best command glare at Andrea—a glare that the counselor ignored completely.

“I thought so,” Andrea continued. “And no, no one has spied on your quarters, Grace. I have dealt with other officers going through what you are right now; so I know.”

“You know? You know? When have you fought the Jem’Hadar, Doctor?” Grace spat bitterly.

“I haven’t. And I haven’t got your experiences to further complicate the situation, Grace. But I read your file, and I know how troubled you are over this—how it is tearing you up inside. And, if problems in dealing with this are interfering in the operations of this ship, then it is my job to make certain you are ready to return to duty.”

Andrea picked back up the cup and took another sip. She sat it back down in the saucer and wiped her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”

Grace lowered her head and rubbed her forehead with a thumb and two fingers, and then she at last nodded. “Two sugars and cream. Thank you.”

Andrea stood and walked over to the replicator and punched in the order, and a fresh cup materialized. She brought the cup of tea back over and set it down in front of Grace, before she sat once again and crossed her legs.

“The caffeine helps with the headaches, right? And it keeps you awake until you are too tired to remember your dreams—but you still dream. Talk to me, Grace.”

The blond-haired woman took a sip, and then she sat back, still looking at the floor.

“I almost resigned, you know,” she whispered. “I had just finished filling out my papers when a friend at Headquarters commed to let me know that I had been selected for this slot here, on Republic. I figured it was karma, the garbage ship of the Fleet for the officers suited only for the trash-bin. I didn’t expect that we would be assigned anything important. I didn’t think we would be out here with a Captain demanding our best—I took this assignment because I thought it was the end of the road, Andrea.”

The counselor nodded her head, but didn’t say a word.

“I never thought I would have to pick up a phaser again,” Grace whispered as her voice trailed away.

For several minutes, the two women just sat there, sipping their tea, neither saying a word.

“It was supposed to a rescue mission,” Grace said bleakly. “Exeter had orders to evacuate a science station that was in the line of the Dominion and Cardassian offensive. All we had to do was get there, beam up the research team, and leave . . . but the Jem’Hadar got there first.”

“I was part of the away team, and we got into a fire-fight with their ground forces—we didn’t know the scientists were already dead. I’ve always been good with weapons, Andrea; I was on the Academy Marksmanship Team, you know.”

“I know,” the counselor answered. “And you took the Bronze at the Summer Olympics back in ’68 for competitive shooting. Which makes your current aversion to weapons . . . peculiar, to say the least.”

Grace shivered. “I hated them, Andrea. I hated the Jem’Hadar for all the death and destruction they caused; I hated them and the Founders and the Vorta and the Cardassians for unleashing this senseless, bloody war on us. So my phaser was locked on maximum. Because I didn’t want Jem’Hadar prisioners, I wanted them dead,” she said flatly.

“We were in cover, exchanging fire with the Jem’Hadar. And I got a shot at their leader—my adrenaline was high, and I was in the zone, tuning out everything else but my weapon and my target, and I remember, oh God, I remember my feeling of absolute certitude as I pressed the trigger.”

Grace drew in a deep breath, a tear crawling down her cheek. Andrea didn’t say a word.

“I didn’t even see Lieutenant Rasgon, Andrea. I was so fixated on my target, I never saw Paul get up and move into my line of fire until it was too late. My phaser beam caught him in the shoulder, and I watched him dissolve away into nothing! My shot killed him. Not the Vorta, not the Founders, not the Jem’Hadar; it was my shot that robbed him of his life! And I heard him scream as he was vaporized.”

Andrea stood up and she crossed over to the couch where Grace sat, and she sat down, rubbing the Operations Officer on the shoulder and back, and hugging her tight.

“I don’t remember the rest of the fight,” Grace whispered as the tears fell like rain. “Someone hauled me back aboard, and I came to in sickbay as Exeter was leaving the system.” Grace looked up at the counselor, and her lips twisted. “Did you know that you were sharing a couch with a murderer, Andrea?” she asked bitterly.

“It was an accident, Grace,” the counselor said soothingly. “You didn’t mean to shoot Lieutenant Rasgon, and you aren’t the only one who did hateful things in this war. What we have to do now, is get you to pull yourself together. You can’t change what you did on Delta Pavonis II, Grace. We can’t go back in time and take a mulligan on our actions—we’re only human. No, what we have to do is get you to a point where you can live with yourself, and accept that your past actions aren’t a prophecy for your future.”

Grace let out her breath, and she sobbed. “In a psych ward at Starfleet Medical, right?”

“Do you think that you are the only member of this crew carrying baggage from the war, Grace? The Captain alone has many, many dark secrets in his past—and he’s the one who suggested that I have a talk with you.”

“The Captain?”

“Yes, the Captain. He said to me,” and Andrea sat up straight, cleared her throat, and made a reasonably good impersonation of Matt Dahlgren’s tenor Southern drawl, “Counselor, she’s going through a bad time and she thinks she’s alone. Don’t judge, don’t tell her she should have done things differently; combat veterans don’t want to hear that from head-shrinkers. Just listen to her, and help her recover her own balance. Let her know she’s not alone—that we all did things that we regret, and that we can’t change.”

Grace burst out with a combination of a sob and a laugh. “That sounds just like him!”

“Well, while you were training for the Olympics, I was on the Drama Team at the Academy,” Andrea answered with a smile. “And you are not alone, Grace. We are going to get you to the point where you can live with yourself again, where you won’t freeze when you in a situation like the one on the bridge.”

Grace nodded sadly. “I’ll brief my assistant to take over the department and we’ll get . . .” she began, but Andrea cut her off.

“Absolutely not. Lieutenant Commander Grace Biddle, you will be resuming your duties on board this ship. We will be meeting twice a week—more if you need to talk—and we will work through this, together. But you aren’t getting off easy with a vacation in your cabin while the rest of us have to work for a living!”

Andrea extended a box of tissues, and Grace took one and wiped her face. “Thank you, Andrea,” she whispered. “I didn’t really want to leave.”

“I know,” the counselor said. “And we don’t want you to.”

Grace stood and she adjusted her uniform. “In that case, Counselor, perhaps I had best report for duty.” She paused, and then she turned back around. “About the Captain? What does he regret?”

Andrea shook her head. “His confidences are as sacred as yours,” she answered. Or they would be if he had opened up even once to me, she thought sourly.

The operations officer nodded. “Okay. Do I need to set up an appointment with you?”

“Check your schedule—it’s already there. And if you need to talk, Grace, at any time just come by.”

Grace nodded and then she exited the counselor’s office.

Chapter Twenty (cont.)

Matt finished signing off on the final piece of paperwork in the PADD that Yeoman Sinclair had given him as the turbolift doors opened and Grace Biddle walked onto the bridge. She walked across to stand in front of Matt.

“Permission to return to duty, Sir?” she asked.

Matt nodded crisply. “Permission granted, Miss Biddle. It’s good to have you back on the bridge—assume your station.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered, walking briskly over to the newly repaired Operations console and sitting down.

“Captain, we are being hailed by Arrogant,” Chan called out. “Captain Myers is asking to speak with you in private.”

“On screen, Mister Shrak.”

The Andorian shrugged and he adjusted a few controls, and then the image of Captain William Myers appeared on the main viewing screen. The Starfleet officer frowned as he saw the bridge behind Matt on his own display.

“Captain Dahlgren, may we speak privately?” he asked.

“Captain Myers, we will be heading out in a few moments. I don’t have time to waste, not if we are to make contact another Nephkyrie vessel before the arrival of Independence. If you have something personal to discuss, we can do so later. Otherwise spit it out.”

Bill frowned and he sat back in his command chair. “Captain Dahlgren, I wish to log a formal protest of your orders. As difficult as the Nephkyrie ships are to detect and the sheer volume of space that we must search . . . well there is little hope of finding another vessel. Furthermore, even if we do manage to locate one, what makes you think that they will respond any differently than the first one did? Right now, we have a face only eighteen hundred awake Nephkyrie—a difficult situation but one that we can handle once Independence arrives in twenty-one hours. We risk this second ship—if we locate it—providing reinforcements to this vessel, which will change the equation from something we are equipped to deal with to being gravely outnumbered.”

“Your protest is officially logged, Captain Myers. My orders, however, still stand. Is Arrogant prepared to move out?”

“We are, but I have an additional . . . request, Captain Dahlgren.”

“Go ahead.”

William leaned forward, his expression pained. “I would rather discuss this private, Captain Dahlgren.”

“Captain Myers, either this can wait or it cannot. Which is it?”

The Captain of the Arrogant sighed and he sat back. “I want you to relinquish tactical command.”

Matt sat perfectly still, and then tapped one finger on the arm of his command chair. “For what possible reason would I do that, Captain Myers?”

“Republic might be a cruiser, but she is almost obsolete, whereas Arrogant, while smaller, is a modern vessel. You have only four months seniority over me, Matt. Four months. And almost a year of that seniority you spent in hospital wards and running a desk at Starfleet Headquarters, not sitting in the commander’s chair. You aren’t physically in any condition to deal with the stress of command, and your ship . . .” William Myers paused and he grimaced. “Matt, the only reason Republic is even in service is that they hope you might pull off some miracle of turning that garbage scow into a Starfleet Starship! Between your crew, that relic, and your physical lack of well-being, I submit that you aren’t up to making the hard choices anymore. Hell, Admiral Parker sent you on a two-month trip to the Cygnus Sector, Matt! Admiral Hall doesn’t need more ships out there; he did it to get you and that mutinous rust-heap out of the way!”

“Are you done, Captain Myers?” Matt asked in a soft voice that made even Chan Shrak shiver with the chill he conveyed.

“I did ask to say my piece in private, Captain Dahlgren. You forced my hand on this, however.”

“I will log your statement for the record, Captain Myers, but your request is denied.”

“Matt, just think about this for a . . .”

“Captain Myers!” Matt snapped. “You will address me as Captain Dahlgren, or Sir! Is that understood?”

“It is,” William replied through clenched teeth. “Sir.”

“Whether my seniority over you is a matter of four minutes, four days, four weeks, four months, four years, or four decades, Captain Myers, it remains that I am, in fact, senior to you; and the senior officer on this station. Despite her age, Republic is a cruiser, and carries a heavier armament than your own ship. Is that not correct, Captain Myers?”

“It is, Sir.”

“As I have been cleared by Star Fleet Medical, Star Fleet Command, and this ship’s surgeon for duty, my physical health and well-being is none of your concern, Captain. I will note your objections and your statement in my log, but just so we are clear on this issue, Captain Myers, do you intend to follow my orders or must I order your executive officer to relieve you of command and place you in confinement within your own brig?”

William inhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t dare . . .”

“Don’t think that for one second, Captain Myers,” Matt interrupted. “You and I are both aware that Captain Salok can recite verbatim the exact text of the regulations you are on the verge of breaking, without once resorting to reading the information from a PADD. You know that he will endorse my relief of you—for cause, Captain Myers!—and he will recommend you stand a general court-martial.”

Arrogant’s captain sat heavily back, but he finally nodded. “I hoped to convince you, for the good of the service, Captain Dahlgren. I will, of course, follow regulations and obey your orders until the arrival of your senior officer, Captain Salok.”

“Good. Is there anything else you need, Captain Myers?”

“No, Sir.”

“Very well. Let me make one additional thing crystal clear to you. If you ever refer to this ship and her crew in those terms again, either in public or in private, then by god, Sir, I will see you broken out of the service, then I will track you down to a system where dueling is still legal, and then God as my witness, I will put either a foot of cold steel or a slug through your heart. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”

“Yes, Sir,” William whispered in a cold fury as he stared at the screen.

“Good. Then let us put this . . . conversation behind us, Captain Myers. Have you received the coordinates my helmsman transmitted?”

“We have, Captain Dahlgren. Why aren’t we splitting up to search for the Nephkyrie ship—and why are we starting so close? Those coordinates are just over a third of a light-year away?”

“Because we have already located the second Nephkyrie ship, Captain Myers; or did you forget that Republic deployed over two dozen high-speed probes over the past few days?”

The other captain sat sharply upright. “You didn’t tell me you located them!” he barked.

Matt stared at the screen in cold contempt until William finally relaxed and uttered one more word. “Sir.”

“The probes detected the second ship less than fifteen minutes ago, Captain Myers. Right where the children we have prisoner stated it would be, if it were launched four months after the first according to the schedule as they understood it.”

“But we don’t even know their relative measure of hours or days; how did you . . .”

“We talked to them, Captain Myers. And we found out how long their hours were, approximately, and how many of their hours were in a day, and how many of their days in a week; in short we used our brains and our humanity to gently ask questions instead of interrogating them as if they were Jem’Hadar shock troops.”

“I want you to hold Arrogant at two million kilometers, Captain Myers. From there, you will act as my reserve in the event these Nephkyrie prove as hostile and intractable as those of the first ship. Republic will make contact and attempt to initiate a discussion. You are to take NO hostile action, regardless of provocation, unless I order you to do so, I am incapacitated, or Republic has been destroyed. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”

“Yes, Sir,” William answered sourly.

“Very well. We warp out in two minutes, Captain. Get your ship ready and bring your inhibitor on-line.” Matt didn’t wait for a reply and he cut the transmission from his own panel on the arm of his command chair. And then he frowned. He rotated his command chair to look at Chan.

“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”

Chan’s antennae quivered. “I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren,” he answered with a sly smile. “All-ship broadcast is now terminated.”

“Thank you, Mister Shrak,” the Captain said as he rotated his command chair back forward.

“Miss Montoya, is our course plotted?”

“Yes, Sir, and the engines are ready.”

“Mister Malik, set transporter inhibitor to full-strength.”

“Full strength, aye, aye, Sir.”

“Mister Shrak. Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship.”

“Sounding General Quarters . . . all compartments report secure for action.”

Matt sat back in his seat. “We will show that son-of-a-bitch just how much difference there is between our Republic and a rusting out garbage scow of mutineers,” he whispered just loud enough that the bridge crew could pretend that they hadn’t heard him utter the words—but Matt saw the wide grins on their faces.

“Engage, Miss Montoya.”

*************************************************

“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”

“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”

And with that, the ship’s intercom cut out down in Deflector Control. Chris turned his chair around and looked over the men and women of his section, and then he stared at Chief Bronson, who was chuckling and shaking his head.

“Damn,” the burly NCO said. “I thought that the Old Man was tough on us! Guess he meant what he said about going to bat for us—and we aren’t going to let him down are we?”

“No, Chief,” came back a chorus of voices. To which Chris added his own.

The Red Alert klaxon sounded, and the lights in the compartment automatically dimmed. Chris turned back to his station. “Bring the main deflector on-line, deflection set to automatic, secondary and tertiary systems engaged,” he ordered sharply.

The replies came fast and furious and Chief Bronson took his seat beside the Ensign. He examined his panel and touched a series of controls. “Dish is on-line and ready, Mister Roberts. Warp engines are warming up.”

“Mister Roberts?” one of the techs called out from his station.

“Yes, Thompson?”

“Mister Roberts, we aren’t going to let Arrogant get away with saying those things about the ship, right, Sir?”

Chris glanced over at the Chief, who was struggling to control his own laughter and shaking his head. “Warp engines are on-line, bring the deflector to standard power,” the Ensign said as Republic began to surge forward, and then she shot past light-speed.

The Ensign watched the readings settle down and he nodded.

“Thompson,” he said, “rest assured that Arrogant and Jupiter Station both will get what they deserve.” Chris smiled. “I heard a rumor that Senior Chief Callaghan has been working on getting back at the Jupiters; I imagine that his fiendish mind went into overdriving upon hearing that broadcast.”

“Damn,” the deflector tech whispered. “Loosing the Senior Chief on them? Man, it almost makes you feel sorry for them. Almost.”

“Atrias, watch that intercooler temperature—it spiked last time we had to go to Warp in a hurry,” Chris cut in, bringing his crew back to their jobs.

“On it, Sir.”

************************************************************

“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”

“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”

“Well, he really isn’t fit for duty,” Robert Woolsey said as he worked at the medical research station opposite of Quincy.

“Star Fleet Medical says he is, and I say he is. Does he need a good leg to sit in a damn chair?”

“Well no, but he can’t pass the physical in his current condition. So technically, he should be relieved and reassigned . . .”

“Robert, there are times when we go by the book and there are times when we use our own judgment. This is one of the latter. As long as he sits down, he can do his job. Would you rather than SOB Myers in charge? I mean you are now part of this ship—from a certain point of view, he called you a piece of garbage.”

The hologram looked up in alarm. “Perhaps I should report him for insulting a fellow Starfleet officer. Doctor Talbot, if they scuttle the ship—will they remove me first?”

“Matt won’t let that happen.”

“He’s only a Captain! He’s doesn’t get to decide these things.”

“He won’t let that happen.”

“Tell me again, why are we preparing this solution of Golian Fireseed Extract?” the hologram asked. “Ninety-nine point seven percent of the races in the Federation have a mild allergic reaction to this substance; and it has no medical use. In fact, it can cause severe skin irritation and itching if even a minute effect is ingested.”

“It’s a special project for Senior Chief Callaghan.”

“Oh,” the hologram replied. And then he stopped and looked up again. “What does he need this solution for?”

“Trust me, Doctor Woolsey,” the ship’s surgeon answered with broad grin, “you don’t want to know.”

************************************************************

“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”

“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”

Gustaf Vasa reclined back in his comfortable seat, and he twisted the hairs of his thick blonde mustache. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Computer, load the physical profile for Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS Republic.”

“Loaded.”

Vasa, Lieutenant and Crown Prince of a small Nordic political province on Earth, tapped the console and brought up data patterns on a variety of different instruments. Selecting one he added it to the physical profile of the Captain.

“Computer, adjust specifications on Replicator Program Vasa 8934-Tau to ergonomically match the physical profile of Matthew Dahlgren. Adjust length, mass, width, and grip to conform to his profile.”

“Adjusting . . . complete.”

Vasa smiled and he sat up and began typing in additional data. No, this ship wasn’t boring by any means, and if his Captain, if Gustaf Vasa’s Captain, was going to threaten to fight another Starfleet officer in a duel, then Gustaf Vasa would make certain that the Captain had a sword fit for a King.

“Computer, commence replication.”

“Replication underway . . . seventeen minutes will required to complete the program.”

Gustaf leaned back in his chair and he smiled. A sword fit for a King.

Chapter Twenty (cont.)

Republic came out of warp some six hundred thousand kilometers distant from the second of the Nephkyrie ships, her hull barely showing as a small dot in the depths of the view screen.

“Magnify,” Matt said, as he secured his restraining safety belt. The screen flashed, and the sleeper ship grew much larger.

“Miss Montoya, match velocity and vector with that ship.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

The Starfleet cruiser altered her heading and began to parallel the ancient vessel.

“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan said from his station, “we are being scanned. Their weapons are off-line.”

“Hail them, Mister Shrak.”

The Andorian pressed a few controls and then he shook his head. “No response.”

“Very well. Miss Montoya, take us in to a range of 400,000 kilometers—slowly and smartly.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt rotated his command chair, to face his science officer. “Miss Tsien. Scan that vessel, stem to stern, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. I have altered the sensor beam modulations based on the data from our first encounters; we should be able to get a clearer picture with this one. Configuration identical to the first ship, weapon systems identical, hull composition identical . . . sir, I am detecting close to five hundred thousand life-forms, but all of them appear to be in stasis.” Amanda frowned. “Make that one hundred and fifty thousand adult life-forms and three hundred and fifty thousand juveniles—physical juveniles, Sir! There are no signs of them aging in stasis. The majority of interior compartments are in vacuum, with no power and no life support.” She paused. “Correction, the ship is diverting power and life support to a cluster of compartments—and I am now detecting several dozen active life signs.”

Matt nodded and he rotated his seat back to face the main viewer. “Let’s give them a moment to wake up, shall we. Miss Montoya, what is the range to that ship?”

“484,000 kilometers, Sir.”

“Hold position.”

“Aye, sir; holding position relative to the Nephkyrie vessel.”

For two long minutes, there was absolute silence on the bridge, other than the hum of the instrumentation. And then Chan looked up.

“Captain Dahlgren, we are being hailed.”

“On screen.”

The viewer flickered and then the image of a Nephkyrie appeared. “Greetings. I am Shipmaster Voltanis, representing the Nephkyrie Solidarity.”

Matt unbuckled his belt and he stood. “And I am Matthew Dahlgren, commander of the Federation Starship Republic.”

Voltanis bowed his head. “Forgive me for asking, Matthew Dahlgren, but my sensors indicate that this ship remains in deep space . . . how did you manage to locate us?”

“Yours is not the first Nephkyrie vessel which we have encountered, Shipmaster Voltanis. And that first contact was . . . a difficult one which we wish to ask your assistance in resolving.”

“Difficult, Matthew Dahlgren?”

“Your Speaker, Typhias, has not been willing to . . .”

The Nephkyrie jerked on the screen. “Typhias is not Speaker! He is a clerk to the Speaker!”

Matt waited and then he nodded. “Regardless, he claims to be Speaker of the Nephkyrie Solidarity. The government of races that I represent—the Federation—did not understand your markers, Shipmaster Voltanis, and we placed a colony upon the world which your ships are travelling to, a world we call New Columbia. My ship discovered that Typhias abducted all twelve thousand of our citizens, beaming them aboard his ship, and placing them in stasis.”

“Has he gone mad?” A second Nephkyrie voice came across through the viewer, and a regally attired being stepped forward. “How may I address you, Matthew Dahlgren? I am Belagon, and I Speak for the Solidarity upon Ark Two.”

“My proper title is Captain Dahlgren, or simply Captain, mister Speaker,” Matt said with a bow of his own.

“What you say cannot be true, Typhias’s action would never be permitted by those chosen to lead Ark Prime.”

“Mister Speaker, he did beam aboard our entire colony—claiming that my species was compatible with the Nephkyrie and could serve as a means to cure your genetic damage. Unlike this vessel, there are only a few hundred adult members of your race aboard his ship—and they had sufficient stasis pods to place my people in hibernation sleep.”

Belagon’s shoulders slumped. “Compatible?! He follows the teachings of the Harvesting then.”

“The Harvesting? He used a very similar phrase when we spoke, mister Speaker.”

“Long ago, Captain Dahlgren, when our race discovered that our genetic diversity had been lost and the damage to our chromosomes proved too wide spread to treat, a small cabal of the Solidarity refused to wait on the advances of science to find a cure. They called themselves the Harvesting, and they took samples from all of the species that surrounded our dying sun. They altered them and they distilled them, and they found a way to negate—for a time—our damage. But then the Solidarity learned of their methods in finding this treatment, and they were tried as criminals of the first order. We thought them long dead and gone from our society. Your vessel carries at least as many crew as you claim Typhias has, Captain Dahlgren. And of multiple species, no less. Impressive. Why have you not recovered your colonists from him? Why have you sought out the Solidarity, risking that we would be like him?”

“His crew consists of only a few hundred adults, it is true. But there are many hundreds of other Nephkyrie awake aboard the ship.” Matt paused. “Your stasis pods appear to stop the physical aging process; are they the same as the ones installed aboard your Ark Prime?”

“Yes. He has waked the children? They children are not mature—surely you can handle them?”

“Mister Speaker,” Matt paused . . . there was no easy way to say this. “He has, to the best of our knowledge, altered the pods so that those within still age. Your children on Ark Prime are physically mature—and he is arming and training them as soldiers.”

“You lie!” Voltanis snapped. “Not even a Harvester would dare do such a thing! It . . . it . . . it is an abomination!”

“I am sorry that I must be the one to convey this information, Shipmaster, mister Speaker. But we have one hundred and seven of your children—mature in body, but not in mind—that Typhias trained, armed, and sent aboard my ship to capture it. You are welcome to speak with them.”

The Nephkyrie Shipmaster began to speak, but Belagon touched his shoulder and shook his head. “I will beam aboard your ship, then, Captain. I will see for myself what horrors Typhias has committed; and I will hear the truth of the words spoken by these children.”

Matt shook his head. “We are well aware that your race can deliver fusion warheads via the transporters; however, I will allow you to beam aboard one of our shuttles, which will then carry you back to this vessel.”

“That is a reasonable precaution, Captain Dahlgren. I shall await your shuttle then.”

The screen blanked, and Matt let out a deep breath, and sat back down, wincing as his leg sent a deep stabbing pain into his thigh. He rotated the seat and faced his executive officer.

“Mister Shrak. Launch a shuttle and prepare to receive Speaker Belagon. Have a Marine detail standing by to render full Presidential honors.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Dahlgren.”

Matt punched a stud on his chair. “Doctor Talbot, meet me in my ready room,” he said. He stood up, and took his cane. “Miss Biddle. You have the conn.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered as Matt limped across the bridge.

Chapter Twenty One

Belagon’s face twisted as he stepped into the cargo hold and saw the mass of Nephkyrie children assembled there. The noise of talk and games died down as one by one, the prisioners spotted their elder and each slowly came to his feet, or turned around, their eyes wide.

“Second Speaker?” one whispered, taking a step forward. “You are dead, Second Speaker . . . the Speaker told us.”

“Who are you, child?” Belagon softly asked.

“Talondra Dal, Second Speaker. I . . . I remember you—but you haven’t aged.”

Belagon swayed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Talondra. I remember you, child. You were barely post adolescence, and your father was assigned as Shipmaster Prime.”

The prisoner nodded. “He was killed in the attack that destroyed the rest of the Fleet . . . but you are here? How?”

“There was no attack on the Fleet, Talondra. The rest of the Arks are intact. And Typhias . . . Typhias has much for which to answer.”

“But . . . but,” Talondra stammered, and he too began to cry. “If there wasn’t an attack, then why is Father dead?”

Belagon’s only answer was to step forward and hold the weeping adult-sized child tightly in his arms.

******************************************************

Voltanis shook his head. “I never believed that I would use my knowledge of the Arks to aid someone in attacking them, Second Speaker,” he sadly stated. “But in this case, I believe that you are correct.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster laid a device on the table in Republic’s briefing room and he touched one side, causing a holographic display to spring into life over the device, rotating to show all surfaces of the Ark ships.

“There are five separate transporter emitters on the outer surface of the hull of Ark Prime,” he continued as five blinking dots appeared. “Eliminate these and the primary transporters—the most powerful transporter units—will be disabled until repairs can be made. It was by combining all five of these emitters that Typhias was able to beam his boarding party across through your shields and inhibitor field. In addition, there are twenty-two secondary transporter emitters which are capable of delivering fusion warheads outside your shields.” And more blinking dots appeared. “Once the transporter emitters have been removed, you should be able to eliminate the weapons batteries that bear and close until your own transporters are within range. The central command compartment is located here,” he touched another section of the surface and the image transformed into an internal schematic and zoomed in to display a series of connected compartment deep within the ship’s hull.

“From this compartment, the ship can be controlled; it is the nerve center through which all commands are passed. There is an auxiliary control center here,” and the image moved quickly towards the stern, “which duplicates the controls of the central command compartment; it too must you take to gain control of Ark Prime.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster shook his head. “And you must be fast. All of our Arks, you see, are outfitted with scuttling charges in the event that they were overrun by a hostile race. The Second Speaker has the overrides, but once they are activated you will have only three minutes to enter the codes before the charges detonate.”

Matt nodded and he looked at his senior officers seated around the table. Captain Myers cleared his throat, and then he spoke up as the staff and their guests turned around to look at him. “How powerful are the charges, Shipmaster?”

“Taken all together, seventeen point four of the units of explosive force you refer to as gigatons,” the Shipmaster said with a wry smile. “We did not want our technology to be looted and these were to serve as our parting gift to any who fought their way to victory over us.”

For a moment there was only utter silence at the table, and then Chan shook his head. “That sounds simple enough. Three minutes should be more than sufficient time if Typhias’s children soldiers are representative of your ground combat technology.”

Voltanis snorted, and Belagon shook his head. “Those were civilian arms and armor, meant only for self-defense that Typhias supplied to our children. Our military weapons, Commander Shrak, are far more deadly.”

“To start,” interjected Voltanis, “each of our actual soldiers are clad from head to toe in true combat armor that is designed to resist energy weapons fire by absorbing the energy, dissipating its effect. Having seen a demonstration of your weapons, I can assure you that our military grade armor will resist a single hit from your highest settings—once. It will take multiple strikes to disable or kill a single one of our soldiers.”

“In addition to carrying a hand weapon similar to that our children used against you, our soldier’s main weapon was a derivative of our transporter technology. It projects a beam that disperses the material composition of the target, literally beaming away into nothing the object that the beam strikes. Rather part of the object or target; it only affects approximately one-half of your cubic feet at a time. Further, our military armor contains an integral inhibitor field meshed to the frequency of our weapons, as well as a pattern enhancer that allows our transporters to beam through shielded areas. Because of that, the weapon contains a secondary system that projects a disruption beam, that will cause molecular disentigration at close range.”

“Lovely,” muttered Lieutenant Beck. “So they can beam away our arms, legs, torsos, or heads, or hit us with the Klingon disruptor rifles.”

Belagon nodded. “Which is why I have already ordered Ark Two to wake our complement of soldiers—Typhias is our problem, and our soldiers deal with his crimes, Captain Dahlgren.”

Matt tapped his stylus against the table. “From what I have learned from my conversation with the Shipmaster here, your complement of actual soldiers is very small—not more than fifty per ship. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“In which case, I must insist that you let us augment your assault force with our own personnel; the fate of the Federation colonists is my problem, Second Speaker.”

Myers shifted in his seat, but he kept his mouth closed, as Chan glared at him.

“If we are unsuccessful, Captain Dahlgren, your Federation will hold our race responsible for those deaths—and those of your crews. I beg of you, let us prove our worth in this instance.”

“Second Speaker, the United Federation of Planets does not hold the crimes of an individual, or a small group of individuals, against an entire race. Speaking on behalf of the Federation, I can assure you that regardless of the outcome, we will remove our colonists from New Columbia so that you may have your new home. And the Federation will offer to extend to you their hand in friendship and provide any assistance that you may need—our doctors and scientists aboard this ship are already working on finding a treatment for your genetic damage.”

Voltanis sat back, barely breathing in surprise. But Belagon only met Matt’s eyes, and then he nodded. “Agreed. We have years in which my people will sleep before we reach the planet; so that discussion can be held later. But I am honored that you would treat with us fairly, after what Typhias has wrought.”

Matt stood, and he winced with pain before he regained his composure. The two guests and the remaining Starfleet officers stood in response. “Second Speaker, Starfleet’s mission is to seek out new life, and new civilizations; to make peaceful contact and begin a dialogue between our different peoples. It is we who are honored to make First Contact with your civilization. Contact that I hope will be ongoing once you establish your colony.”

Belagon bowed his head. “The Shipmaster and I will return to Ark Two, to prepare our men. It should not take more than hour.”

“We will expect your return.”

And with that, the two Nephkyrie exited the briefing room, escorted away by an honor Guard of Beck's Marines.

Bill Myers turned around and laid both his hands on the table. “Captain Dahlgren, you can’t promise that—that is for the Council to decide!”

“I can and I have. They laid claim to the planet first, Captain Myers. Would you rather we fight them?”

“Of course not, but we can find them another planet! And this haphazard assault can go terribly wrong, Captain Dahlgren, Sir. People, our people, will die. We can wait for Independence, she’s just sixteen hours out!”

“And if Typhias starts to process, to distill, our people in the meantime, Captain Myers? No. We aren’t waiting. Thank you for your suggestions.”

Bill opened his mouth again, and Matt interrupted him. “You are dismissed, Captain Myers. Make certain Arrogant is prepared.”

“Assume your stations, people,” Matt finished, and his officers, along with the CO of USS Arrogant, filed out.

*************************************************

“End program,” snarled Erwin Beck, and the computer in Holodeck One obediently reverted back to its normal configuration. “This isn’t a game, Marines!” he snapped. “We have the exact deck plans of the target; we have a perfect simulation of the environment; we have better intelligence on the capabilities of these Nephkyrie than we ever had on the Jem’Hadar; and you people are still moving too slowly! One hundred and fifty seconds from the moment we beam in is all the time we can count on, Marines. Because one second after that we are all dead! The colonists are dead! Those Nephkyrie children press-ganged into soldiers are dead! The three hundred and forty-eight thousand innocent Nephkyrie still in stasis are dead!”

Erwin ran his hand through the thinning hair atop of his head. “We have to cut our way to the command consoles where the deactivation codes can be entered—and those codes have to be entered to stop the count-down. That means if Parker or Karalis get hit, one of you has to take their place! Why do you think I gave each of you the code? Winning the fire-fight is for after we stop that bloody bombs from going off, Marines! Do you get me?”

“WE GET YOU, SIR!” a ragged chorus of voices answered.

“And you Starfleet Security personnel had best get your act together! I know that your training included close-quarters combat drills, so get the lead out of your pants and move!”

One of Arrogant’s security officers muttered something, and Beck briskly walked across the deck until he was nose to nose with the officer.

“You have something to add, Jenkins? What was that that you said?”

“We’re doing our best, Lieutenant; that’s what I said! We’ve never trained for this Marine sh- . . . stuff.”

“God, I hope not; because if that is your best, Jenkins, then we are totally screwed and twelve thousand Federation colonists will lose their lives!”

Erwin took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “It isn’t fair that the Old Man pulled your asses off of Arrogant and Balao; it isn’t fair that you are beaming aboard a deathtrap to stop a maniac from killing himself and more than three hundred and sixty thousand innocent people! It isn’t fair that your training means in this instance you are quite likely to die! Get over that! The universe isn’t fair! No, this isn’t your normal away mission, and this isn’t about protecting a Starfleet vessel from hostile boarders; this is about saving the lives of people who can’t defend themselves! And if you think that is something only for Starfleet Marines, Jenkins, then you are a sorry excuse for a crewman and perhaps you need to rethink your career choice!”

“Run it again, and get it right this time! Computer, run Ark Prime Assault from the top!” Beck shouted as he exited the Holodeck and reentered the adjacent compartment where he was observing the drill.

*******************************************************

Matt flinched as Quincy gentled probed the swollen flesh. The surgeon frowned and he ran a tricorder over the inflamed thigh and shook his head. “I was afraid of this, Matt,” he said quietly. “The bone is infected again. Luckily, we caught it early this time.”

“Just give me the shot, Quincy,” Matt said through clenched teeth. “I’ve got to get back on the bridge.”

“Matt, the Ladoculkaine VII is what’s causing this; it stopped the pain, but it has also suppressed your immune system, which is why the infection has flared up so quickly. I can’t risk giving you another dose. It’s one of the known side-effects of the drug, but only in about eleven percent of cases; I’d hoped we would get lucky and avoid this complication.”

“So what are our options, Doctor?” Matt growled.

“We fight the infection—and you’ve got to face reality here, Matt. We are approaching the point where that leg has to come off,” Quincy’s voice trailed off, and then he grimaced. “Or we try something radical and unproven.”

The surgeon pressed a hypospray against the thigh and it hissed as he injected the tissue with a powerful compound to fight the infection. Matt flinched.

“How radical?”

“Dr. Woolsey has suggested that we attempt a Klingon procedure known as an inverse replication transplant. Basically, we scan your good leg, invert it to match your bad leg, and replicate the tissue. And then we go in and cut away the bad and attach the good. The problem is that it has never been performed on a human subject, Matt. It works on Klingons because of their redundant physiology, but has never been used on their limbs. It is used to restore damaged internal organs, primarily.”

“How long would it take?”

“It’s major surgery, Matt. We are talking twelve hours for the actual procedure, and you will be in bed for three or four more days afterwards, if not a week. If it works. If it doesn’t, then the leg will have to removed completely, and we will have to look at a prosthetic or an organic replacement.”

“Quincy, I can’t spare that kind of time at this moment!”

“I know. We’ve got a few days for you to make up your mind, Matt, but the pain is going to get worse. I’ll put this off until after you deal with the Nephkyrie, but then I want you on my table, Captain. And if the infection spreads, it won’t matter how busy you are or how much you are needed; I’ll relieve you and haul your ass down to sickbay for the procedure.”

“I can live with that.”

“You can die with that if the bone turns septic, Captain. I can give you one of your old pain meds, but . . .”

“But, they cloud my thinking. I’ll manage, Quincy.”

The surgeon nodded and he closed his medical bag. “I’m sorry, Matt. I thought the Ladoculkaine VII would give you time to heal.”

“Not your fault, Quincy. Help me up, would you?”

The old doctor bent down, and Matt placed an arm around his shoulder, and together the two men got the Captain back to his feet. “And before you tell me, I am planning on staying in my chair.”

“Glory hallelujah. He does have some common sense, after all,” the doctor snorted as Matt pulled up his trousers and fastened them.

“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the intercom announced.

“Go ahead,” Matt said as he tapped his comm badge, then took his cane from Quincy.

“Sir, all ships report ready; we can bring the operation upon your command,” Chan said.

“Very well, Mister Shrak. Sound Red Alert; I am on my way to the bridge. Dahlgren out.”

Matt took two limping steps to the door and then he turned around. “And you best get to sickbay, Quincy.”

“Hah. After I escort you to the bridge, Matt. Don’t want you to fall over in the turbolift and have to call for assistance in getting back up.”

Chapter Twenty-One (cont.)

“Mister Shrak,” Matt asked as he took his seat on the bridge. “Is the ship prepared for action?”

“She is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Arrogant and Balao are standing by as well.”

“Very good. Inform Captains Carmichael and Myers that we will execute the operation in one minute from . . . mark.”

Matt pressed a stud on the arm of his chair and a count-down timer appeared over the main viewing screen. He took a moment to rotate his chair and look over each of the men and women who manned his bridge, Republic’s bridge. They were a far cry from the demoralized and unhappy officers and crew who had first boarded the ship not too many months before. He nodded with approval as each went through their duties with quiet confidence; calm and collected with the own sense of worth.

He completed his rotation and faced the main viewer once more, as the timer slowly ticked down towards zero.

“Miss Montoya . . . EXECUTE!” he snapped.

Republic raced forward, crossing the light-speed barrier and she soared through space before she dropped to sub-light speeds once more, her phasers immediately spitting golden beams of energy at Ark Prime.

Explosions racked the surface of the Nephkyrie vessel as the transporter emitters on the outer hull erupted in balls of fire; Arrogant and Balao adding their own fury. Ark Prime’s weapons came on-line, and pulses of red-shifted lasers and bright blue-white phase cannon bolts tore through space to strike home against the shields of all three ships.

“Primary and secondary emitter arrays are disabled, Captain Dahlgren,” Shrak called out.

Matt opened a comm channel. “Mister Malik, drop the inhibitor field. Mister Beck, you may begin boarding operations. Shield status, Mister Shrak?”

“Eighty-three percent; numerous hits.”

“Mister Roshenko, eliminate those weapon batteries.”

Isabella corkscrewed the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers, and more phaser beams ripped out from Republic’s arrays, each one connecting against a laser or phase cannon emplacement.

*****************************************************************

Erwin materialized in the depths of the Nephkyrie Ark amid a raging firefight of phaser beams, transporter weapons, and disruptor blasts. He dove for cover and armed a stun grenade, then hurled it in the direction of the heavily armored Nephkyrie shock troopers. Erwin winced as one of his Marines took a direct hit from the transporter beam weapons, his scream of agony cut off as his upper chest and throat dissolved, before the corpse collapsed to the deck, its feet twitching, and hot blood gushed out to cover the deck plates.

Well-trained troops, confident in their armor’s ability to dissipate the energy, would have ignored the grenade and continued firing: Typhias’s minions were not well-trained. They dove for the deck as the grenade detonated, sending a pulse of stun energy harmlessly cascading across their armor.

But Beck’s Marines and Voltanis’s security personnel were already moving in, firing pulse after pulse of disruptor and phaser energy into the prone targets. Private Karalis was at the central command facilities control panel and he entered the long code that Belagon had given him.

“Auxiliary control secured,” a Marine reported over Erwin’s comm. “The kids are counter-attacking, LT!”

“Understood. Hold your position,” Erwin answered. “Stun settings only.”

The Efrosian Private completed entering the final sequence and he pressed the acceptance button, but the machine just beeped twice, and Nephkyrie numerals continued to scroll across the screen. One the Nephkyrie security personnel cursed. “Typhias has altered the command codes!”

“Beck to Republic,” Erwin snapped as he hit his comm badge, fresh beams of energy coming into the control room as the Nephkyrie children began attacking here as well. “We’ve got a problem.”

*****************************************************************

“Time to detonation, Mister Shrak?” Matt asked with a chill running down his spine.

“Two minutes, fourteen seconds, mark,” the Andorian answered. Matt nodded. “Open all-ship’s all-hand’s frequency. Initiate emergency action plan—all transporters beam those scuttling charges out of the ship. Don’t waste time getting locks, just beam them out and disperse them!”

“Captain!” Pavel Roshenko called out. “One of their shuttlecraft—five hundred and fifty meters overall length—has exited Ark Prime; it just entered Warp on a heading to New Columbia.”

“Typhias,” Matt growled. “We’ll deal with him later, concentrate on getting those . . .”

“GELAK COR!” yelled Chan from Mission Ops, then he shook his head and turned to look down at Matt, who startled at the sudden explosion of Andorian curses had rotated his chair. “Arrogant just went into pursuit, Captain Dahlgren. She beamed her security people back aboard and has now entered Warp.”

“Hail them!” Matt snapped, and he turned back around to the main viewer as Captain Myers appeared on screen. “Return to station immediately, Captain!’

“And let this criminal go? No, Captain Dahlgren. You and Republic have managed to get enough of our people killed today; I will capture the man who began this, so that he may answer for his crimes.”

The screen cut off, and Matt started to swear; he stopped, clenched a fist, and slammed it against the arm of his command chair. “Status on those charges?”

“One hundred and forty-five removed, Captain,” answered Amanda from the science station, “two hundred and sixteen remaining.”

“Time to detonation?”

“One minute, ten seconds, mark,” answered Chan.

Matt pressed the stud that opened that opened the ship’s intercom. “Activate the transporters aboard the shuttles and gigs; tie them into the bridge Science stations for control." Matt cut the intercom and rotated back to Shrak. “Mister Shrak, order Balao . . .”

“Both of Balao’s shuttles have begun transport, along with all twelve of Republic’s shuttles and the gig, Captain Dahlgren.”

Matt nodded, and he made himself sit back and appear calm. “Status?” he asked after a few moments.

“Sixty-five seconds mark; one hundred and eight charges remaining.”

Matt closed his eyes; he could hear Amanda Tsien, Grace Biddle, Pavel Roshenko, and Chan Shrak issuing orders as they assigned transporters on the spot to each charge after the next. He pulled up the schematics of Ark Prime on his arm-mounted display, and he saw the blinking strobes of the explosive charges vanishing rapidly; Republic' transporters moving towards the stern, and Balaos moving forward.

“Time?”

“Eight seconds, fifteen charges remaining, mark.”

“Last one!” shouted Amanda, as the timer display over the view ticked down to zero. “It’s in the matter stream!”

But she was a micro-second too late, as the high-yield fusion device had already begun to detonate when it was captured by the transporter system. Republic shuddered as the warhead poured its energy into the matter stream, and then the dim red lighting flickered, and the ship stablized as though it had avoided the worst. Then Republic lurched as her control panels exploded with the backlash of energy that the plasma conduits had never been designed to contain. A tidal wave of energy cascaded through the Republic's power distribution network, overwhelming the buffers and the safeties and exploding in fury wherever the energy overloaded a piece of equipment.

Matt started to bark a command, and then there was a flash of light and a wave of heat burst out of the deck at the captain's feet—he screamed in agony as his leg was twisted by the explosion that flipped his chair end over end. And then all went dark.

************************************************************

Chris grunted as Republic bucked violently beneath him. The instrumentation and control panels in Deflector Control were sparking and smoking as the young Ensign worked desperately to rearrange the isolinar chips. “Chief, link the primary, second, and tertiary systems together—they have to handle the power!”

They have to, Chris thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He slid the last chip back into place, and the deflector controls switched from red to green. “We’re up!” he shouted.

Chief Bronson grunted in answer as he punched in commands into his own control unit, ducking as another station exploded with the barely contained fury of the cascading energy ripping through the ship’s plasma power conduits. “Main Deflector now configured for firing, Mister Roberts! I hope you know what you are doing, Sir!”

Chris swallowed; he had read about the tactic that Enterprise used in their attempt to stop the Borg before Wolf-359, but although he had gone over the steps of how it could be done in exercises, he had before actually done it. He licked his dry lips. “On three, Chief Bronson, trigger the pulse—and maintain it until the system goes down or the power levels drop to within safety limits. One.” Chris wiped away the sweat again as Republic rocked under another internal explosion. “Two.” Oh God, let this work, he quickly prayed. “THREE!” He yelled as he slapped the panel controls to life.

Bronson triggered the Deflector Dish, and the ship began to shudder and shiver and shake as an extremely loud hum filled the compartment. Chris looked up and out of the armored glass panel and he squinted in pain as a searing blue-white beam of incredible energy shot forward, extending deep into empty space.

“Power levels are dropping rapidly, Mister Roberts! Five hundred eighteen percent maximum load; three hundred forty-four percent; one seventeen; eighty-four!”

“Shut it down!” Chris yelled as he ripped out the control chip and the energy beam died away.

Smoke rose from all of the instrumentation, and the young officer could taste the ozone of the burnt polymers and alloy plates. He turned around, and he looked at the older Chief Petty Officer, who was slowly nodding. “Plasma relay systems holding at fifty-two percent of rated capacity, Mister Roberts. We managed to dump the excess energy, Sir.”

A rasping cough came from the other end of the compartment, and Crewman Thompson spoke up. “The dish is off-line, Mister Roberts. We’ve got warning lights on all the systems; we’re dead in the water.”

Chris nodded, and then an alert siren began to blare, and a strobing red light began to flash. “Hull breach! Evacuate the compartment, Chief give me a head count!”

He could hear a whistling noise that was growing louder, and Chris hurriedly glanced beneath consoles and under debris, making certain that his men and women got out; then he saw the seam of the hull plating start to split open—and the black of space behind it. Oh shit, he thought, and he closed his eyes expecting to be pulled out through the fracture into the vacuum beyond.

But then a strong hand clamped on his forearm, and Chief Bronson haulted him towards the exit, his other hand firmly clasped by two of the crewmen; who in turn had their free hands secured by the rest of the his section. Together, they fought the growing gale of winds that threatened to suck them all into space, until at last Chris crossed the threshold and Bronson slapped the manual override control on the door, dropping the blast shield into place and sealing off the breach from the rest of the ship.

Two crewmen ran down the corridor towards them, carrying medical equipment and emergency tools. They passed around an oxygen bottle to each of Chris’s people, and the Ensign slowly gave them a thumbs-up as he panted and tried to regain his breath.

Someone passed him a bottle and he took a long pull of the oxygen, and slowly his heart began to wind down its frantic race. Chris shook his head and started to grin as he handed the tank to another of member of his team. “Well that’s two hull breaches in Deflector Control on this tour, Chief. If we have a third do we get a prize?”

“If we get a third, Mister Roberts, I’m putting in my retirement papers,” Isaac Bronson slowly answered as he held an O2 mask in his hand.

********************************************************

“Sir, we are being by hailed by Independence. Captain Salok is asking to speak with the Captain.”

“On screen, Miss Biddle,” Chan Shrak answered calmly.

The main viewer flickered, it filled with static, and then it cleared to reveal the regal Vulcan seated in his command chair.

“Commander Shrak? I asked to speak with Captain Dahlgren.”

“Sir, Captain Dahlgren is in surgery at the moment,” the Andorian answered.

Salok arched an eyebrow in response. “Surgery? Why wasn’t I notified?”

“Captain Salok, we knew that your ship was making her best time already; you could not have arrived any sooner if we had hailed you. Twelve hours ago, we secured the Nephkyrie vessel in a joint assault from Republic, Balao, Arrogant, and a contingent of Nephkyrie troops from Ark Two. Typhias had altered the command codes of Ark Prime, however, and we were forced into beaming away from Ark Prime the individual scuttling charges—a task made more difficult by Arrogant breaking away to pursue Typhias.”

“I am aware of those facts, Commander Shrak; Commander Carmichael kept me informed of the situation while Independence was en route. Why was I not so informed of Captain Dahlgren’s medical emergency?”

“You have my apologies, Captain Salok; I had assumed that Commander Carmichael would have, as senior officer on station, informed you. Captain Dahlgren was injured when we beamed away the final charge—a charge already initiating detonation. The transport absorbed the energy of that fusion explosion directly into the matter stream, and proved far too intense for the buffer to contain. The feedback overloaded every plasma power conduit on the ship, sparking internal explosions and two separate hull breaches. Captain Dahlgren suffered a concussion and additional damage to his already wounded leg.”

Salok nodded. “Very well. When will Captain Dahlgren’s surgery be complete?”

“We do not yet know, Captain Salok. He has been in surgery for over eleven hours so far.”

“And you have assumed command of Republic, Commander Shrak?”

“Temporary command, yes Sir.”

“Your status?”

“Warp engines remain off-line, along with impulse engines. We were on emergency reserve power until two hours ago when Commander Malik managed to get a single generator up and running. Our casualties include seventeen dead and forty-four seriously wounded—including the Captain. Structural integrity field is off-line, shields are down, weapons are inoperative, our sensors are inoperative, and the main Deflector Dish is damaged beyond the repair of onboard spare parts. Long-range communications are down as well, but all decks now have gravity and life support restored.”

“I see. I notice that Arrogant is not appearing on my long-range scans, Commander Shrak. Has she not returned?”

“No, Sir. And neither we nor Balao have received any answer to our hails.”

“Odd,” the Vulcan mused as he folded his hands together. “Independence will arrive on station in fourteen minutes, Commander Shrak. Does Republic require assistance?”

Chan grimaced, and his antennae shrunk, but then he slowly nodded his head. “We would be grateful, Sir.”

“And the situation on Ark Prime?”

“Speaker Belagon has arranged a cease-fire with the Nephkyrie children that are not in stasis. His . . . presence has been a stabilizing factor that put an end to the hostilities very quickly. However, Ark Prime suffered heavy damage in our assault; inadvertent damage resulting in beaming away the charges and the surrounding sections of the vessel without a proper transporter lock. They are losing power and will have to evacuate the ship within the next three days. Detachments from Republic and Balao are assisting the Speaker and Shipmaster Voltanis in powering up the eleven shuttles,” and Chan chuckled, shaking his head at that word.

“Is something humorous, Commander?” the Vulcan asked.

“Captain Salok, Ark Prime—each of their Arks—carries a dozen shuttlecraft each the size of a Nebula-class starship. They are capable of reaching speeds of up to Warp 6 for limited periods of time; but even with all eleven remaining and our own shuttles, it will require two round trips for them to evacuate all of the Nephkyrie children and our own colonists in stasis. The cargo carried will require an additional ten round trips.”

“So they are warp-capable then; the Prime Directive was not violated, as Captain Myer’s reports suggested.”

“I haven’t seen those reports, Captain Salok, so I cannot comment upon them,” Chan answered in a clipped manner.

“Why then weren’t their Arks equipped with warp drives of their own? Why generational sleeper ships?”

Chan nodded. “That is a question that we asked Voltanis and Belagon ourselves; the answer being dilithium, Captain Salok. Or rather a lack thereof. Their home system and none of the systems they had explored contained dilithium reserves; so their warp drives are more primitive, energy intensive, and slower systems that rapidly deplete their onboard supplies of fuel. If their ships had been Warp capable with their current technology, they would have run out of fuel and power less than a third of the way into the voyage.”

“That explains the matter,” the Vulcan calmly answered. “I will presume that you and Commander Carmichael are planning on moving the Nephkyrie and our own colonists from this vessel to New Columbia?”

“We are. It is the closest class-M planet, well within the limited range of their Warp drives. Close enough, in fact, that the . . . shuttles,” and Chan’s antennae twitched, “will be able to make at least a dozen round trips to retrieve needed pre-fabricated buildings and essential supplies from Ark Prime’s cargo holds. Shipmaster Voltanis has already sent a message to Ark Two and Ark Three, each of which are preparing to launch their own shuttles to join the children of Ark Prime on New Columbia; those shuttles will have Nephkyrie adults aboard to handle the assimilation of the Ark Prime children back into Nephkyrie society.”

The Vulcan nodded once. “Starfleet Command will be dispatching a transport capable of evacuating the New Columbia colonists; although there are several members of the Federation Council who wish to have a word with Captain Dahlgren over his . . . usurpation of their authority in this matter.”

“Actually, Captain Salok, it might be not necessary to evacuate New Columbia. Speaker Belagon and Shipmaster Voltanis have indicated that they intend to settle a different continental land-mass. They have agreed to allow the colonists to remain in place; and Speaker Belagon wishes to send an Emissary to meet with the Federation Council. He hopes that through the collaboration of our scientists and medical professionals that together we can find a successful treatment for the genetic damage his people are suffering from.”

The Vulcan raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. Given your own—quite heavy—damage to Republic, I believe that I will request that USS Portsmouth be diverted to New Columbia. Unless, of course, that you object to having a yard-ship on hand to assist in your repairs, Commander?”

“No objections, Captain Salok. Not a single one,” answered Chan with a smile.

“Very good, Commander Shrak; we shall arrive on station in . . . twelve minutes, Commander. I will beam aboard Republic upon my arrival to survey the damage and speak with both you and Commander Carmichael in person. And then we can begin the talks with Speaker Belagon and the Nephkyrie people. Continue your preparations on readying those shuttlecraft for space, Commander. Independence out.”

The screen flickered and then died. Chan put both his hands behind his back and he turned to face Amanda Tsien, seated behind him at her science station—one of the few that hadn’t exploded.

“Any word on the Captain, Miss Tsien?” he asked softly. And she shook her head. Chan nodded. “I will be in my office should there be an emergency, Miss Tsien. You have the conn,” he finished as his antennae twitched once more. What’s left of it, he thought.

Chapter Twenty-two

Matt heard a low whisper of voices, and he shook off the fog of his sleep, forcing his eyes open . . . and then he remembered. He sat up suddenly, but he wasn’t on the bridge; he was in sickbay.

“Ah, the sleeper wakes,” Dr. Woolsey said pleasantly as the hologram walked across the ward and placed a realistic feeling hand on the Captain’s forehead. “And here I thought you were going to just keep sleeping, Captain Dahlgren. No fever, that’s good.”

Matt started to speak, but his dry throat caused him to cough instead and Robert Woolsey picked up a covered cup with a straw and held it Matt’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. “Slowly . . . easy . . . that’s enough.”

He sat down the cup and glared down at the Captain. “Are we feeling better, now?”

Matt coughed. “The ship?”

“Is fine. Well, not exactly fine, but doing well. For a given definition of well. If you consider having no shields, no weapons, no sensors, no impulse drive, and no warp drive well. We do have internal life support, gravity, and power for the sick bay, so we are better than we could be.”

Matt threw back the sheets, and looked down at his bare legs peeking out from beneath a green hospital gown. “Where are my clothes, Doctor? I need to get to the bridge.”

Robert shook his head and pulled the sheets back up. “The situation is well in hand and I want to keep you here under observation for a while longer.”

Matt pushed them off again and swung his legs over the side of the bed. But then he stopped. His leg didn’t hurt. He pulled up the gown and examined the bare thigh beneath it—no scar tissue.

“You and Quincy both are knife-hungry sadists,” he snarled. “I said after we dealt with the Nephkyrie!”

Quincy’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Didn’t have a choice, Matt. The bone shattered when your chair flipped after that explosion on the bridge. Gave you one hell of a concussion and it twisted your leg until the bone gave way under the strain. At least you were unconscious and unable to argue,” the chief medical officer finished with a shrug.

“I need to get . . .”

“Well, Captain. You need to get well. However, I think that the inverse replication transplant suggested by my colleague here has taken off quite well. That and the seventy-two hours I’ve kept you unconscious.”

“SEVENTY-TWO HOURS!” Matt thundered at he jumped onto his feet, and swayed with a brief spell of dizziness. Robert caught him, however, and helped him back into the bed.

“I did warn you,” Robert said to Quincy as he pulled up the sheets again. “I said that he would not like being kept unconscious; although it did give him a chance to recover without stress and strain.”

“You did, but it is a prerogative of the chief medical officer of starship. Whose medical opinion overrides the orders of said starship’s commanding officer,” Quincy said as he unfolded his arms, walked over, and examined the sensor readings from the diagnostics bed. “Everything looks good, Matt. We just have a few tests to run and then you will be released.”

“Quincy, I need to speak with Chan and Captain Salok should already here and . . .”

“Both of them are on the way to Sickbay, Matt. So shut up, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and say AAH. While Robert here goes ahead and takes a blood sample.”

*********************************************************

“. . . and so we should have partial impulse power restored within the hour, Captain Dahlgren, along with shields and the structural integrity field generators. Independence will tow us into New Columbia orbit and will remain as we complete the repairs we are able to accomplish for ourselves. Portsmouth is scheduled to arrive in twelve days, and she will perform the tasks for which we are not equipped,” Chan finished.

“And the Nephkyrie? What have you decided to do with them, Captain Salok?” Matt asked from the where he lay on the diagnostic bed.

“Speaker Belagon and I have had quite fruitful discussions. I have assured him that the Federation will not abandon his people and will assist his own medical specialists and scientists in searching for a treatment for their genetic disorders. The colonists from New Columbia are . . . they are taking the entire matter far better than I would have expected, given their racial makeup. For the most part, they were beamed directly into stasis by Typhias and were not even aware of having been abducted or of the passage of time. Their leaders, however, have agreed to share the planet with the Nephkyrie. The location of the colony on a sub-continental island land mass leaves quite a bit of the planet untouched for the Nephkyrie to establish their own colony.”

The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. “The Federation is sending an Ambassador to conclude a formal agreement with Speaker Belagon, however. And that delegation has expressed a wish to speak with you as well, Captain Dahlgren; a small matter of the preogatives of the Council and headstrong Star Fleet officers who make promises on their behalf. They will not be arriving for at least two months, though, so you should have ample time to complete your repairs once Portsmouth arrives on station.”

“And Captain Myers? His actions directly led to Republic’s current condition, Captain Salok.”

The Vulcan paused, and Chan’s antennae shrank slightly. “We located the remains of Arrogant yesterday, Captain Dahlgren. The emergency buoy ejected just before the ship was destroyed. The bridge recorder indicates that Captain Myers did intercept Typhias and that he forced him out of warp. He then prepared to beam aboard his own security forces and secure the vessel; upon dropping his inhibitor field, Typhias transporter several warheads aboard Arrogant—there were no survivors. The Nephkyrie shuttle is comprised of the same hull material as their Arks, making long-range sensors useless in detecting his vessel. As a precaution, I have dispatched Balao to New Columbia in the event that Typhias decides upon a scorched earth policy in regards to the colony. In addition, I have kept Commander Philips and White Cloud on station to assist the Nephkyrie in assembling their housing and making repairs on Republic.”

Matt nodded slowly. “I see. And his reports? I am aware that he filed several with you . . . indicating his displeasure with my actions.”

Salok’s expression did not change. “For the most part, his complaints were petty and emotional biased; you perhaps did not realize that two of his siblings and their families had settled on Omicron Cygnii II.”

Matt winced.

“It was nothing personal, I am certain, Captain Dahlgren,” the Vulcan continued calmly. “Any officer commanding this starship, with its history and . . . involvement in the destruction of that colony, would have provoked much the same reaction, I believe. His more serious charges, that you violated the Prime Directive by initiating contact with Ark Two were baseless. Not only do the Nephkyrie on that vessel possess warp technology, but they provided the information that allowed you to retrieve the colonists without losing one of their number. It is my intention, at this time, to fully endorse your actions. I have already submitted a preliminary report to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command and Admiral Hansen at Starbase 114.”

“Both concur with my assessment. Of course, politics being what they are in today’s Starfleet,” and the Vulcan’s mouth twisted in a rare showing of mild distaste. “Command has decided that the details of the loss of Arrogant would be counter-productive to the morale of Starfleet and the Federation. Accordingly, she was—officially—destroyed while assisting you and Balao in beaming out the suicide charges from Ark Prime. Captain Myers reports have been sealed and filed away.”

Dr. Talbot walked back into the ward where Chan and Salok stood beside Matt’s bed. “The final test results came back, Captain Dahlgren. I hereby pronounce you well enough. You are cleared to resume duty; light duty, for now, if you please, Sir. Don’t make me ask Captain Salok to make it an order,” Quincy said with a smile.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “And I most certainly would order it if your surgeon requested, Captain Dahlgren.”

“I surrender, gentlemen. Light duty it is. Thank you, Captain Salok.”

“Gratitude is not necessary, Captain Dahlgren. I only did my duty according to my oath of commission. From the evidence available to me, not only of your actions here with the Nephkyrie but from the incident in the Cauldron, I can only conclude that duty was what drove you as well.”

“Captain Dahlgren, Commander Shrak,” he continued. “I will leave several work parties from Independence aboard this ship until your repairs are complete—or I am forced by other duties to leave this sector. Good day, gentlemen.”

And with that, the Vulcan turned on his heel and exited the sickbay.

Matt pulled off the sheet and he stood up from the bed. “Okay, Quincy. So where are my pants?”

“You do realize that we had to cut your pants off of you, Captain?” the doctor said with a smirk. “But I have already informed Yeoman Sinclair and she is . . . here,” he finished as the doors opened the Captains yeoman walked in carrying a neatly folded uniform, a set of underwear, a pair of socks, and freshly polished boots.

Chapter Twenty-Two (cont.)

“Come!” Matt snarled as the chime rang. He remained facing the mirror set over the sink in the lavatory adjacent to his main cabin as he heard the door slide open. Finally, the clasp in the collar of his dress white shirt slid into place. Matt smoothed it down and he walked out into the cabin, to find his senior officers standing there, alongside of one additional Lieutenant. Like the Captain, each of the department heads were also clad in their dress uniform; although all of them (unlike the Captain) were completely dressed.

“Mister Shrak. I take it there is a reason that my staff has assembled here?” Matt asked.

The Andorian’s antennae leaned forward. “There is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. On behalf of the officers and crew, Sir, we would like to present to you a gift.”

“A gift? For working you until you were ready to drop? For pushing you to your limits? Gentlemen, ladies; that was a gift in and of itself.”

“For making us stand tall, Captain Dahlgren; for forcing us to remember why we joined Starfleet in the first place,” said the Counselor. “You made us better than we were, Sir. You made us—and this ship—proud once more.”

Matt said nothing, but then he slowly nodded.

“Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren,” Chan continued, “please accept from your assembled officers this gift. May it serve you well in the future. And if I am truly blessed, perhaps I will be able to see it used,” he finished with a quiver of his antennae. “Lieutenant Vasa?”

The stocky, solidly-built, blonde officer stepped forward and he clicked his heels together and bowed slightly before presenting Matt with a polished ebony case more than a meter and half in length.

Matt took the case, surprised at the weight and he laid it on the table. Two clasps secured the front and he pressed them, upon which signal the case top raised up to reveal a velvet lined interior in royal blue. And a slender curving basket hilted sword, along with a scabbard covered in polished brilliant blue enamel, chased with gleaming platinum with a brilliant sapphire set amidst the gleaming metalwork, attached to a supple leather belt.

Matt whistled softly and he lifted the sword, feeling the grip match his own hand perfectly; the balance was superb. The wire hilt was adorned with small gemstones set within the intertwinning cage of polished metal that bore the emblem of a majestic eagle's head. He turned the sword and stared at the engraved blade. "To Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren", it read, "Master and Commander of the United Federation of Planets Starship Republic (NCC-51497). May your voyages never end." And on the reverse, the image of Republic amid streaking stars was proudly etched.

The Captain placed the sword back in the case, and he shook his head, flinching slightly as he nicked his thumb along the edge.

“Perhaps I should have warned that it is extremely sharp, Captain,” the Lieutenant said in apology as he took a cleaning cloth and wiped the blade free. Quincy just opened his medical case and took out a dermal knitter and restored the minor cut without a single word—his broad grin said more than enough.

“I am . . . I am . . ." Matt swallowed heavily, " . . . thank you,” hefinally said. “If I may ask, gentlemen, ladies; why a sword?”

“Ah,” the Swedish replicator officer spoke up. “You did threaten Captain Myers with a duel, Sir. His choice of blade or slug-thrower. I thought that you might need an appropriate weapon. Mister Pok donated the precious gems and metals which adorn it, Mister Malik handled the engraving, Miss Tsien hand-drew the image of Republic, and Mister Roshenko contributed the ebony for the case. Mister Beck personally enameled the scabbard, and Mister Shrak declared that royal blue was indeed your favorite color.” Gustaf Vasa frowned. "Dr. Talbot merely gave advice amidst his hysterical laughter, but Miss Biddle suggested the waist-band sash and insisted the belt be able to accomdate a phaser pistol; Miss Montoya hand-sewed the tassels, and Mister Bowen replicated the two large sapphires without a single flaw."

Matt blinked once, and then twice. “Very . . . considerate of you, Mister Vasa. Ladies, gentlemen, I am touched and honored by the gift; I will meet you on the bridge for the ceremony. Mister Shrak, would you stay?”

The senior staff filed out, leaving only Matt and Chan standing there in Matt’s quarters. “Chan, you didn’t tell them that I have never, not once, in my entire life, so much as lifted a sword in my hand before today?”

The antennae of the executive officer quivered again. “The Lieutenant had already crafted the sword—and such a work of art it is indeed. Mister Pok provided him with the gemstones adorning the pommel and hilt, as well as the gold, silver, and platinum that form the wire wrapped, leather covered grip and the basket hilt. By the time I discovered what they had planned, everyone had contributed; I didn't want to disappoint them that you were only bluffing. I fear that it would have broken Lieutenant Vasa’s heart. They even made sure it hangs on your right side, since you are left-handed, my Captain.”

“What the hell am I going to do with a sword? A real, live, sharper than a serpent’s tooth sword?”

“Hang it on your wall? Wear it with your dress uniform?” Chan answered as his antennae continued to twitch. “I do have some excellent swordsmanship Holodeck programs in case you actually want to learn how to use it.”

“A sword,” repeated Matt as he shook his head. “Remind me to watch what I say in the future, Chan.”

“I always do, and you say that was different. And then you ask me, again, to remind you in the future to watch what you say.”

The Andorian reached down and he lifted up the sword and then the scabbard; he slid the weapon into its sheath. He sat down the weapon and took out a long deep blue sash, which he wrapped four times around the Captains waist, and then with a curt command of, “Hold this, Sir,” he once again picked up the sword and belt and he fastened it tightly about Matt’s waist, over the sash. He picked up Matt's white coat held it as the Captain slid his arms into the sleeves and gave the short jacket a stiff tug to properly seat the shoulders.

“There,” the Andorian laughed and shook his head. “You do look perfectly ridiculous, but it would be good for the crew’s morale if you wore it.”

Matt walked back over to his mirror and he took a long hard look, turning left and then right, his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword that peeked out from beneath the edge of his jacket.

“Yeoman Sinclair will have a fit; the jacket isn’t tailored for this style and it will wrinkle. Still, it does look dashing, does it not?”

“If you were a pirate captain, then it might, Captain Dahlgren.”

“And you usually like such things, Chan.”

“Oh, I do, I do indeed, Captain, Sir. I’m just wondering how you plan on sitting while wearing that piece of finely forged steel?”

Matt frowned. And then he shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mister Shrak. Now, I believe we have a ceremony to attend.”

“That we do, Sir. That we do.”

******************************************************

Chris began to step out of the turbolift onto the bridge, but he stopped in mid-step. Every one of the ship’s senior officers were present; all of them standing, facing the turbolift, and wearing their dress uniforms. And the Captain! The Captain was in their midst, and he was wearing a sword! An honest-to-God sword in a belt at his side. The young man swallowed, wondering if he had missed reading a memo.

“Mister Roberts,” the Captain said in strict and somber voice. “Why are you standing on my bridge? What are you doing on my ship when you are not in proper uniform?”

Chris swallowed and he took a step forward, allowing the turbolift doors to whisper shut. “I-I-I was told to report to the bridge, Captain, Sir.”

“I see. That does not explain why you are out of uniform, Mister Roberts. I believe that, by now, the crew and officers of this ship are well aware of my thoughts on the proper dress code.”

“No excuse, Sir. I-I will change into my dress uniform at once, if I may be dismissed!”

The executive officer stepped forward, his pale blue skin and white hair the perfect complement to his dress whites. “Captain Dahlgren, if I may?” he asked. "I believe that I can correct the problem with Mister Robert's uniform."

“Very well, Mister Shrak. Mister Roberts . . . STAND AT ATTENTION!” Matt barked. “Miss Tsien, open the all-hands channel, please.”

“All hands is now open, Sir,” she said as the whistle of the all-hands alert sounded throughout the corridors and compartments of Republic.

“This is the Captain speaking. Attention to orders! Let it known, that on Stardate 53753.4, when engaged in action against the Nephkyrie vessel known as Ark Prime, that Ensign Christopher Jonah Roberts, did, upon his own initiative reconfigure the main deflector dish of USS Republic, redirecting and expelling energy absorbed from the detonation of a Nephkyrie fusion scuttling charge contained in a transporter matter stream. The backlash of energy throughout USS Republic exceeded the capacity of internal power relays to contain, and it was only through the quick-thinking and independent action of Ensign Roberts that the ship remained intact. Therefore, by the authority of Starfleet Command, as of Stardate 53753.9, let it published that Christopher Jonah Roberts is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade. May God have mercy upon his soul.”

Chris stared as Chan stepped forward and removed his collar insignia, replacing them with the twin pips of a Lieutenant, j.g. The executive officer then stepped back and saluted; a salute that Chris quickly returned.

“Lieutenant Roberts,” the Captain said, “you should also be aware that Lt. Commander Biddle, Commander Shrak, Commander Carmichael, Captain Salok, and myself have all written letters of commendation which will be added to your permanent file. I have also recommended to Starfleet Command that you be officially honored for your valor, your initiative, and your courage for those actions in Deflector Control by receiving the Starfleet Medal of Valor. Captain Salok has endorsed that recommendation. Regardless of how Starfleet Command makes its final decision on the Medal of Valor, Mister Roberts, the ship and crew have an award of their own they wish to make. Miss Biddle?”

The Operations Officer stepped forward, holding a ribbon suspended between her two hands; a round disk hanging from its lower edge. Chris bowed his head and she placed the ribbon around his neck; then she smoothed out the dark purple and grey swath of silk. “Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Christopher Jonah Roberts; the officers and crew of USS Republic do hereby present to you the Order of the Ts’kaba. An award made to remind you, young Lieutenant, that prior bad acts and indiscretions, as well as accidents of clumsiness, do not serve as an appropriate judge of an individual’s worth or character. Congratulations, Mister Roberts.”

Chris blushed fiercely, and then the Captain stepped forward—without a limp!—and he took Chris’s hand and shook it. “Well done, Mister Roberts. Well done indeed.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Captain’s Log; Stardate 53756.7, USS Republic. With the assistance of the crews of Portsmouth, Independence, and Balao, as well as Mister Philips engineers, Republic has finally managed to complete all of our needed repairs. Seven weeks of near constant work in orbit over New Columbia has managed to restore this ship to operational status once again. I must say, however, that both Captain Salok and Captain Terrance (of the Portsmouth) were taken aback by my insistence on installing ablative armor panels on the outer hull, as well as the internal bulkheads and decks surrounding the warp core and anti-matter pods. Salok was concerned that such an ‘unauthorized’ alteration of the ship might have unforeseen consequences with our sensor coverage; whereas Denise Terrance feared that the additional plating might overstress our hull. Computer simulations—exhaustive simulations—convinced both of them that the installation would not result in either increased strain and stress or decreased sensor resolution. While pleased that they did sign off on the improvements, I was prepared to simply add the plating after their ships depart New Columbia. The added protection is more than worth any discomfort they or others might feel as being ‘overly militaristic’ in nature.”

“The evacuation of Ark Prime has been successfully completed as well, with the Nephkyrie children and a selection of adults from Ark Two establishing their colony on the continental mainland to the west of New Columbia. We have worked to assist the Nephkyrie in constructing their first city, which they have named Lethtran; their word for ‘New Beginnings’. The transfer of their colony supplies and equipment from Ark Prime impressed all of us Starfleet officers; the sheer magnitude of the equipment and stores which they managed to outfit this colonial expedition with boggles most belief. We should have expected it, for the Nephkyrie never developed replication technology; an oversight which should be corrected before long given the closeness with which we are working with them.”

“With full access to the Nephkyrie medical databanks, rapid progress has been made on finding a treatment for the genetic damage suffered by this race. Even the most pessimistic of the Starfleet medical personnel now believes that we will have a perfected treatment within a matter of months at the most. Our own engineers and scientists have finally had the opportunity to examine in detail the Nephkyrie transporter technology, a technology that has the potential to revolutionize modern Federation life. Commander Malik was discussing this issue with Captain Salok only last night, at my farewell dinner for my fellow Captain, debating on how far this technology will change us. The Nephkyrie transporters are capable, if we understand the system correctly, of beaming an individual at distances of up to 25 light-years—provided that they have a target beacon at the intended destination. Imagine living on Earth and beaming to work on Vulcan, or Andor, or Denobula each day, returning home in the evening. With the proper placement of beacons and strategically placed long-range transporter units, it might be possible to beam from the two most distant points in the entire Federation in just a few hours time.”

“There remains one final task to accomplish before Captain Salok departs the New Columbia system with Independence. Inderi. Commander Philips promised that she would go free—a promise that he made on my behalf. I must support him, and yet I am keenly aware that without her willing assistance, the Nephkyrie would not have abducted the colonists in the first place. I believe that my officers and I have come up with an equitable solution in the matter, however.”

“Typhias has vanished into the depths of space. Probes and patrols conducted by Balao and Independence have revealed no clue of his current whereabouts. The children aboard Ark Prime informed us that the shuttle Typhias took was outfitted with additional fuel reserves; he could anywhere within a region of ten Sectors by now. Admiral Hansen, in light of this villain remaining at large, has ordered that Captain Carmichael and her Balao remain here in the New Columbia system—at least until the Nephkyrie defenses begin to come on line later this year. Portsmouth is also overhauling and strengthening the shields, weaponry, and sensor net for our own New Columbia colonists. Combined with the two dozen Nephkyrie shuttles in orbit, all of which are armed, this should be more than adequate if Typhias comes calling.”

“The fast transport Vancouver will be arriving tomorrow as well, with the delegation from the Federation council. After speaking with them, perhaps Republic can depart from here and continue on to the Cygnus Sector. We shall see.”

“Computer, save log.”

“Log saved.”

********************************************************

Inderi was escorted into Matt’s ready room by two of Beck’ Marines. Matt looked up from the monitor on his desk and glowered over the reading glasses at the Antaran woman—the criminal—standing there before him.

“Commander Philips made a deal with you, Miss Delon,” he said sourly. “It is a deal that I am loath to keep, but he made it in my name. You are free to go.”

“Just like that? I’m free to go? Go where?” the smuggler spat. “You destroyed my ship, along with all of my belongings. I have nothing! Starfleet owes me compensation, you owe me . . .”

“Nothing. We owe you nothing, Feringil Delon. But since your shuttle was destroyed by the Nephkyrie, I am having you transferred about White Cloud. Baron Jowar owned two Orion shuttles that he stored in his hangers on that ship—pick one and take it. And Miss Delon? This is your one free pass. Don’t let me catch you in Federation space again,” Matt warned, and he turned back to the monitor screen. “Get her off my ship, Marines.”

***********************************************************

“I’ll take this one,” Inderi said sourly. “You people cost me several thousand strips of latinum I had hidden on my old shuttle—and this piece of Orion crap is the best that you can do?”

Sean Philips pursed his lips. “That Orion Scorpion is only two years old, Inderi. It is faster, more maneuverable, and longer-ranged than your old Shirak. And it doesn’t have inadequate reactor shielding. It is warp capable, it is armed, and it has shields, not to mention a two-person transporter and a replicator. I think you are getting a better deal out of this than you deserve.”

“Like I care what you think,” the Antaran spat. “I was all set to retire into luxury, and now I have start all over!”

“Be grateful that you are still alive, Inderi,” Sean answered. “Typhias would have killed you to cover his trail, you know.”

The woman didn’t answer; she was still frowning at the shuttle. Finally, she turned and looked directly at Sean. “Jowar had a fortune aboard this ship, stored in his vault. The least you can do is replace what I lost—four thousand, three hundred, and eighty-seven strips of latinum. It’s only fair.”

“Life isn’t fair—and I think the value of this ship is worth the difference. This is your last chance, Inderi; try and avoid Star Fleet in the future.”

Inderi didn’t argue any further. She walked up the ramp and pressed the control to raise it, buttoning up the small vessel. Sean and the two Marines from Republic walked out of the shuttle bay and entered the hanger control room.

“Depressurize bay and open doors; spot the shuttle for launch,” the engineer ordered one of his men. Slowly the twin doors at the stern of the ship slid open and a tractor beam lifted the shuttle from its berth and placed it on the center of the flight deck.

A blow glow began to appear in the small vessel’s nacelles, and then it lifted up, hovered for a moment, and then exited the bay. Sean pressed a switch on the control panel. “Philips to Republic. She’s free and clear, Sir.”

“Thank you, Mister Philips,” Matt’s voice instantly responded. “Resume your preparations for the return to Earth. Republic out.”

***********************************************************

Inderi sat back in the pilot’s seat and smiled as the auto-pilot took her smoothly away from the planet. She turned and walked back towards the passenger/cargo section, before coming to a halt before one non-descript panel that repeated the engineer status. Picking up a tool that she had taken from the shuttle’s engineering kit earlier, she pried the panel loose, revealing a small safe buried into the hull. In seconds she had it cracked open, and was gazing with eyes of avarice upon the pile of gold-plated latinum bars Jowar had stored here: his rainy day fund as he had called it.

Those idiots, she thought. They didn’t even search the shuttle, at least not properly! She made herself ignore the treasure and reached in to extract a small, elegant, and utterly lethal weapon—a Varon-T disruptor; the last original Varon-T still in existence. She buckled the holster and gun-belt around her waist and then returned to her seat.

She sat and plotted a course to Havalis II, smiling again at her freedom from the inept and utterly clueless Federation. The course plotted, she engaged the Warp engines, and the shuttle shook—just as all of her systems went off-line and the power flow from everything but her batteries died.

***********************************************************

“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan spoke up from his console. “The Orion shuttlecraft given to Inderi has lost all power; she’s drifting on emergency reserve batteries with thirty-two minutes of life support remaining.”

Matt rotated his command and smiled at Chan. “Now how could that have happened? Perhaps she should have conducted a pre-flight inspection?”

“Indeed, Captain Dahlgren,” his XO answered gamely. “Those Orion ships are veritable death-traps, as poorly maintained as they often are.”

Matt turned back around and faced the main viewer. “In that case, she is clearly a disabled vessel in distress, ladies and gentlemen. We have no choice but to provide assistance, as we are the closest ship.”

“Ah, Captain?” spoke up Grace as she turned around to face Matt, her eyes dancing as she tried to maintain a straight face. “Actually we are not the closest ship; Independence is.”

“Thank you, Miss Biddle. Mister Shrak, would you hail Captain Salok, please?”

The main viewer blanked and then the Vulcan officer appeared on the screen. “Captain Dahlgren. We were preparing to warp out but our sensors have detected a vessel in distress. An Orion shuttlecraft.”

“Yes, Captain Salok. We detected it as well. Your ship is the closest, and I believe that regulations require you to go to her assistance.”

“They do indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Has a customs inspection been given this vessel previously?”

“It has not, Captain Salok,” Matt answered. Philip’s crew did go over the shuttle with a fine-tooth tricorder, but technically, there had not been an actual ‘customs’ inspection.

Salok raised an eyebrow, and he started to speak . . . but then closed his mouth. He nodded, and then he spoke again. “Is that not the same class of shuttle that you provided to the criminal Feringil Delon?”

“The same class, the same shuttle, Captain Salok. Perhaps it has a defect that the Orions missed.”

“A defect. I see,” the Vulcan answered. “You should be aware, Captain Dahlgren, that neither I nor my ship were bound by your promise to Feringil Delon. She does have several outstanding warrants for her arrest.”

“Captain Salok, I agreed to let her depart—but both Commander Philips and I warned her to avoid future contact with Starfleet vessels. A warning that she has chosen to ignore.”

“Then we shall render assistance to the vessel in question. And conduct a proper inspection. Independence out.”

Matt sat back. And he folded his hands together, his fingers tapping against each other, as he smiled. I promised you that I would let you go, Inderi; now try talking your way out of your crimes and possession of an illegal Varon-T disruptor with a Vulcan.

Epilogue

“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the speaker announced. Matt frowned and he sat back in his chair in his ready room and tapped his comm badge. “Go ahead, Mister Shrak.”

“Captain, Vancouver has transported the Council Delegation to the surface—with one exception. Ambassador Delena Mar has transported to the ship. She is demanding a private meeting with you.”

Matt sighed, “Escort her to my ready room, Mister Shrak.”

The Captain stood, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform as the chime sounded.

“Come.”

The door slid open and the Ambassador, her aide, and Chan entered Matt’s office. “Captain Dahlgren, may I pre . . .”

“He knows who I am,” the Ambassador snapped. “You are excused.”

“Madame Ambassador, welcome aboard Republic. Commander Shrak, would you care to join us—please everyone take a seat.”

Mar glared at Matt. “I said he was excused; my business is with you.”

“Unfortunately, Madame Ambassador, you are not in command here,” Matt answered as he took his seat without waiting for the Councilwoman. “I am.”

Chan’s antennae quivered as the Argellian’s skin flushed red and her aide had a pained look on his face. “Captain Dahlgren, if you would excuse me, I am supervising the transfer of the final load of stores from Portsmouth to our cargo holds.”

“Of course, Mister Shrak. I will join you shortly on the bridge.”

The Andorian nodded his head, smartly turned on his heel, and exited the ready room, antennae still twitching.

Matt took off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk in front of him. He sat back and folded his hands in front of him. “And what may I do for the Federation Council today, Madame Ambassador?”

Mar took her seat, her aide still standing off to one side behind her. “You can resign,” she hissed.

“Request denied,” Matt answered with a small twitch of his lips.

“I’ve read the reports on the Lorsham affair, Captain Dahlgren. I am fully aware that despite that charade of a court-martial, you are guilty of breaking the Prime Directive. You do not deserve to wear that uniform and this ship does not deserve to remain on active duty.”

“And yet, here we both are, Madame Ambassador. I do hope that you did not travel for more than seven standard weeks to New Columbia in order simply to ask me to resign; you could have easily have gotten my answer over sub-space radio.”

“No, Captain, I intend to fully participate in the Council Inquiry into exactly what happened here at New Columbia. You are an anachronism, a throw-back to the bad old times, a myrmidon who relishes in the power at your fingertips in the form of phasers and torpedoes. You are consumed with violence, and it is always your first answer—and that Captain is an abomination to the Federation. And I will uncover the Truth of your activities out here, no matter how deeply your Starfleet buries it.” The Ambassador straightened her spine and she sniffed. “I had hoped that some small portion of your intelligence might remain that has not been overcome by your naked aggression; that you would see the sense in what I ask and resign to spare yourself—and others—the shame of what is to come.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Madame Ambassador; what precisely is to come?”

“Sooner or later, Captain, you will cross the line. This ship will reveal its true dishonor to the entire galaxy. And when that day arrives, I intend to see that you get everything you so richly deserve.”

Matt frowned, and he rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment. “Madame Ambassador, I fear that you will have a long wait.”

“Really? This coming from a Starfleet Captain who threatened a fellow officer with murder. A Captain who condones the theft of weapons of mass destruction. A Captain who ignores the regulations when they do not suit him. No, Captain Dahlgren, your history indicates that you will go too far one day, and one that day, I will be waiting.”

“But not today, Madame Ambassador,” Matt replied.

Delena Mar smiled cruelly. “No, not today, Captain Dahlgren. Today you are a hero of the Federation, a brave Captain whose actions resulted in the loss of an entire starship and her crew; but you did save the colonists of New Columbia and establish peaceful contact with the Nephkyrie. Of course, you did abduct a being in neutral space, you lied to our Romulan allies, you took it upon yourself to decide Federation policy in lieu of the Council—so I thought that you appreciate reading our preliminary report.”

She extended her hand and her aide placed a PADD in it. She set the PADD on the desk and slid it across to Matt. Matt picked up his reading glasses and placed them in position and he scrolled through the document; he read it again and then he sat the PADD down and removed the eyewear, folding its legs and placing them atop of the electronic device.

“I see that the art of fiction writing is still alive and well, Madame Ambassador. It was kind of you to at least mention Republic in that dispatch where you give credit to Captains Myers and Salok, as well as Commander Carmichael and Philips for resolving the situation. Although, your mention implies that were it not for Republic there would not have been a situation to resolve in the first place.”

“That part is true, Captain Dahlgren. Without your ship arriving here unscheduled, it would have been another Starfleet vessel—a more reputable and honored Starfleet vessel—that would have dealt with the Nephkyrie. And with your penchant for issuing threats—threats that could be considered conduct unbecoming a Starfleet officer—it is for the best that your role here be . . . understated.”

“Madame Ambassador, whatever your problems with me,” Matt said slowly, “this crew deserves for their valor to be acknowledged.”

“Captain Dahlgren, I don’t give a damn about this crew or this ship. Or you, for that matter. All of you are guilty of crimes against the Federation—and you will suffer for that. Today, you get yet another chance to postpone the reckoning. I will be the next President of the United Federation of Planets, Captain Dahlgren. In two years time, I will become the Chief Executive; it is . . . arranged. Which means that Captains and ships alike that displease me will find themselves without support. Why do you not just spare yourself the shame and humiliation of what will happen when that day arrives, Captain Dahlgren: resign. It will also spare your family.”

Matt sat upright, and he coldly stared at Mar. “What was that, Ambassador?”

Delena Mar very sadly nodded her head. “Your conviction, and there will be a conviction, Captain; they are oh-so-closely associated with you. Their future careers will suffer for your decisions of today. I will spread the word that the office of the President will be most displeased with anyone who employees your children, your ex-wife, your friends. And as a society,” she sighed. “Well, we have not yet to totally eliminate violence. And your daughters are so very, very young . . . so very, very vulnerable.”

Matt licked his lips and he forced himself to unclench his hand and sit back in his chair once more. “Madame Ambassador, I cannot quite decide whether you are an idiot or a fool.” She jerked and opened her mouth, but Matt drove on. “Computer. Replay Ambassador Mar’s last comments.”

But only silence greeted his command, and Mar laughed. “Your computer is not recording this meeting, Captain. I have taken precautions, you see.”

Matt saw red, and he nodded. “No, madame Ambassador, you are neither an idiot nor a fool. I stand corrected.”

She stood. “I will be watching you closely, Captain Dahlgren. You and your ship. I will be counting votes in the Council very carefully as well; so tread lightly and please consider my request for your resignation. If your family actual means anything to you, that is, my dear Captain. Or get yourself killed on the frontier—that would make my job so much simpler.”

Matt stood as well. “If you harm them in any way, then I swear to God, Madame Ambassador, I will kill you.”

“And in attempting to do so, Captain Dahlgren, you will complete the journey into dishonor and contempt which you and this ship have already begun. You have no evidence, nothing to support your claims against me. Meanwhile, my agents are invisible and in place, and are prepared to offer you a harsh lesson in civility.”

She smiled a cold smile. “It is a lot to digest, Captain Dahlgren. You have a year to make your choice. Fight me and watch your family suffer, or allow the true order of things to come to pass. I so hope that you make the right choice, my dear Captain.”

And without another word, the Ambassador and her aide turned and left Matt’s ready room.

Matt stood there motionless for several moments, and then he sat down heavily. He turned in his chair and he opened a small cabinet, taking out a dark green bottle and four crystal glasses. He the bottle on the desk and tapped his comm badge. “Dr. Talbot, Mister Shrak, Commander Carmichael; join me in my ready room immediately.”

***********************************************************

Quincy blinked once, then twice. Chan just sat as still as a rock. Sam’s jaw dropped. And Matt took a sip of his smooth whiskey as he watched them process what he had just related.

“Is she insane?” the physician whispered.

“Irrelevant,” said Chan. “The only question is what do we do now?”

Matt grimaced. “I should inform Admiral Parker and the President immediately,” he said.

“Agreed,” added Sam. “She can’t become President.”

“BUT,” the Captain continued with a pained look, “she’s from Argellius II. They never take physical action of this nature themselves—and that means she has people on Earth. People who can get to Cass and Amy and Sarah and Melody; people that are perfectly capable of the physical violence she isn’t. She isn’t dumb—she’s the Councilwoman for her system. She may already have orders in the system for her people to act if she goes down.”

“Damn,” whispered Sam. “Admiral Parker can put your family in protection, though.”

“For how long, Sam? Right now, we’ve got time. She’s threatened my family and we must presume that she has the means of carrying out that threat. Time to find the goods on her and her supporters.”

“Until she decides she wants something else, Matt,” Chan added. “This is no balance of terror; she has threatened you, this ship, and your family.”

“None of which we can prove,” Quincy snarled. “Of course, the computer is recording us right now—and it shows a big blank spot while she was aboard. That alone should raise some eyebrows.”

“It won’t prove anything, however,” Sam said sourly. “And if we level an accusation like this against a member of the Federation Council, we need hard evidence.”

Matt nodded. “And we are going to get that evidence. I have a few friends on Earth that I can trust . . . without question. We will find out who she’s using—and make certain they can’t pull this off. And once we do that, my friends, Delena Mar will discover that Starfleet officers don’t always play by her rules.”

Chan sighed. “It is a shame that we Andorians no longer have an assassin caste. Still, crushing her dreams and shattering her political career should prove almost as satisfying; almost.”

Matt nodded and he took another sip. “For now, my friends, we wait. Until we know that my family is safe and we gather hard evidence on her activities.”

“And when that happens?” asked Quincy.

“Then she learns why you don’t threaten a man’s family, Quincy,” Matt growled.

**************************************************************

“We are clear of Portsmouth, Sir,” Isabella called out from her station. “Course heading Two-Two-Seven Mark Forty.”

“Increase to half-impulse, Miss Montoya,” Matt said quietly. “When we clear Balao’s perimeter patrol take us to Warp 9. Next stop, the Cygnus Sector.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered sharply. “Accelerating to Warp Factor 9.”

And Republic surged forward and shot past the light-speed barrier.

**************************************************************

Delena Mar watched as the streak of light Republic left in her wake faded. She turned away from her window of her cabin aboard Vancouver and walked back over to the table her aide and two other men were sitting at.

“We can try to convince the rest of the delegation that he is a loose cannon,” he aide said. “We have his threats to Myers and his actions on McKinley Station; those in the Cauldron as well; surely that will be enough . . .”

“No, Jas,” Delena answered as she took her seat and picked up a cup of tea. “I cannot afford to expend the political capital over this matter just yet; not if I intend become President in two short years. But then, perhaps we do not have to deal with Dahlgren and his ship ourselves. Isn’t that correct, Lord Mak’vegh?”

“That p’tahk cost my House dearly; he destroyed the plans of many years. Yes, Ambassador, he has many enemies, and I shall be the one who drinks of his blood,” the Klingon answered.

“Chancellor Martok has declared you a renegade, Lord Mak’vegh; you understand that I cannot and will not come to your defense?” Mar asked.

“Martok’s end draws nigh, Ambassador. I may well be in exile, but I retain more than enough strength to pay Dahlgren for what he cost me. What a pair we shall make—Chancellor and President, ushering in a new era for the Federation and Empire.”

Mar smiled and she took a sip of her tea. “After you remove Dahlgren and his ship from play, Mak’vegh, we can discuss how our future realm shall be arranged. For now, pay attention to the present. I believe that Jas here has those schematics you requested—complete plans for Republic, including her command codes.”

The Klingon barked out a laugh and he took the data-card Jas held out to him. “Your thorn will soon be no more, Madame President.”

She lifted her cup of tea in a salute, and Mak’vegh drank deep of his blood-wine. But then the fourth member of the cabal leaned forward into the light.

“Regardless of the fate of Dahlgren and his ship,” the being hissed, “his family must suffer in full for the price of his blasphemy. Such is the will of Ordan, my brethren,” the Lorsham priest said gravely. “He desecrated our Temple and destroyed our Relics, but he knows Ordan not—and he suspects not that Ordan still lives within us. And while we hear the Voice of Ordan, we know that he cannot destroy our faith—but our faith can destroy him and all that he loves. Rest assured, the Day of Vengeance against Dahlgren and Republic fast approaches.”

The three converts to Ordan around the table nodded in agreement, and the priest smiled, as he spoke the ritual invocation. “Blessed be Ordan.”

“Blessed be Ordan,” Mak’vegh, Mar, and her aide answered in unison.