Shelter From the Storm - Part 1

USS Triton, Thirteenth Fleet Headquarters

Stardate 51183.45:

Tattok sat behind his desk, staring hard at the image on his desk monitor, grateful that the one on the other side wasn’t here in the flesh. “And that’s it, Admiral? No apologies, no regrets, no excuses?”

The image of Admiral Ian Trenagen was sitting in his own office in the London annex of Starfleet Intelligence, sipping tea from a delicate-looking china cup, as if he was visiting one of his nation’s former royalty. His swept-back, snow-white hair was immaculate, and a raised eyebrow shifted his normally-impassive hangdog expression. “Would any of that bring back the dead, Admiral?”

Nearby, Tattok’s son, Captain Weynik, stood up, his already-angry expression at being present for this meeting deepening. “No, but maybe they still deserve an explanation for your office’s piss-poor performance, Trenagen.”

Tattok made the minimum amount of effort to silently cut off Weynik’s rebuke of a superior officer, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen. “Admiral, every commander in Starfleet relies on your office for accurate intelligence, especially prior to a combat engagement. The intelligence you provided us before Khavak came nowhere close to being accurate. I believe the living deserve that explanation, if not the dead.”

Trenagen sipped from his cup again, setting it down at his leisure before responding. “Since the annexation of the Cardassian Union into the Dominion, the latter has been brutally effective in identifying my office’s operatives and informants in their territory, and in some instances feeding them misinformation.” He sighed as he reached for a biscuit. “I realise that you and I have hardly seen eye-to-eye over the years, Tattok. But you must believe that the loss of so many lives has affected me as much as you.”

Tattok nodded; privately he wouldn’t trust Trenagen to tell him that water was wet, but he chose not to antagonise matters further at this time. “Shall we proceed to the reason for this communication? The Surefoot is still missing behind enemy lines, incommunicado. My son is preparing to launch the Ajax to search for her along the most probable route. This involves two entire sectors of space, over fourteen systems. From a previous briefing you informed me of a Klingon Task Force in one of those systems preparing to attack. Any information you can provide us now, from the Klingons or any other sources, on that sector, would be valuable.”

Beside him, Weynik made a noise, but otherwise offered no other comment.

Trenagen leaned back in his chair. “I will examine our latest intelligence. However, we lost contact with the Klingon Task Force two days ago, and the sector in question has no inhabited worlds, no colonies or outposts or facilities of any kind. In the meantime, I offer your stalwart son my very best wishes on a successful location and rescue of the intrepid Captain Hrelle.”

Weynik crossed his arms and replied, “Stick your very best wishes up your ass.”

Tattok tensed, sparing Weynik a dirty glance, before looking back at Trenagen. “Please excuse Captain Weynik, Admiral. He’s worried about the fate of the Surefoot, and the hundreds of survivors it is carrying.”

Trenagen nodded, folding his hands before him… and his contempt clear on his aged face “A worry we all share, Admiral, I can assure you. Captain Hrelle is very fortunate to have someone like Captain Weynik watching out for him… just as Captain Weynik is very fortunate to have someone like you watching out for him.”

Tattok leaned forward. “What do you mean by that, Ian?”

The Englishman raised an eyebrow. “Merely that youth carries with it many positive qualities… but prudence is rarely one of them. But with good fortune, they do develop such traits… before they reach a position in their lives when no amount of influential patronage from their parents will protect them from the consequences of their actions.”

Tattok gripped the edge of his desk. “Ian… I hope for your sake that you haven’t just threatened my son. I really hope for your sake.”

Trenagen remained unmoved, however. “And Tattok, I really hope for your sake that you understand what an effect this War will have on the dynamics of Starfleet and all who serve in it. Even one with your position and influence. Especially after Khavak. It is a poor workman who blames his tools… and frankly, I fear for your continued role with the Thirteenth Fleet.”

He terminated the communication without further ado.

Weynik uncrossed his arms. “Charming prick.”

“Shut up.” Tattok forced himself to calm down, before turning in his chair to face his son. “Are you determined to ruin your career by antagonising him? Have I not made it clear how much power he actually holds, however unofficially? He has connections!”

Weynik grunted. “How many connections? 31?”

Tattok stood up. “Section 31 doesn’t exist; you know it, I know it.”

“And?”

“And why would you want to antagonise the bloody head of it? I won’t be around forever.”

Weynik continued to stare at the darkened screen. “Neither will he, at least to judge from what I’ve seen between him and Ma’Sala Shall.”

“Ma’Sala? When did you meet her?”

“I haven’t yet, in the flesh, just communicated with her and Trenagen after that business with Sasha and the Ferasans.” He straightened up. “Right, we’ve wasted enough time! The Ajax is ready to head out and find the Fat Cat! What other Fleet ships are coming?”

“None.”

“Excuse me?”

“None.” He paused as a message appeared on his PADD; he read it, and rose to his feet. “Oh, I’ve received many volunteers: the Minotaur, the Argonaut, the Essex, and others. But I can’t spare them; they’re needed here to protect the Fleet vessels still under repair and recovery.”

“Fine, I’ll go alone!”

“No.” He walked to the windows of his Ready Room. “You’re not. The aforementioned Fleet Captain Shall is imminent, to assist with her own vessel, the Mother’s Fury.”

Weynik was taken aback as he joined his father. “The Caitian Planetary Navy’s own flagship is coming here?”

“No. It is here.” He nodded outwards.

Weynik’s jaw dropped at the sight of the Mother’s Fury: a cobalt-blue vessel, more resembling some ancient sea-faring battleship than a starship, longer than a Galaxy- or even a Sovereign-class Starfleet ship, and sporting sharp, swept-forward radiator and atmospheric fins and multiple banks of wicked-looking disruptor cannons and missile launchers, came into view… passing the Fleet completely and heading in the direction of the Khavak Sector.

Bloody Hemra, that monster looks almost as tough as the woman commanding it… He knew that the many member worlds of the Federation all had their own local defence organisations to varying degrees depending upon their cultures and histories, from the, well, the non-existent forces of the pacifist Halkans, to the tough, scrappy Andorian Guard ships. But this? The Caitians really knew how to pack heat, as they used to say in the old Terran gangster videos. “She’s not wasting time.”

“If it were my family out there, I wouldn’t either,” Tattok suggested. “Get going, Son. Get them home.”

*

“USS Surefoot-A, Personal Log, Cadet – sorry, I mean, Ensign – Zir Dassene, Stardate 51183.45: We remain behind enemy lines, hiding as best we can, moving as best we can… surviving as best we can. We have shortages of food and other resources, there have malfunctions, fights among the survivors as well as between them and our crew, and we’re working shorter shifts to avoid burnout. But we’ll survive.

I’m… I’m waiting to feel horrible.

I’m mean, just a couple of days ago, I killed a couple of Cardassians. I killed with a phaser and a knife. I had their blood on me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve killed. Years ago, I had to kill the Orion shipmaster I had hired to get me into Federation space, but who’d betrayed me… who’d brutalised me. But that was purely in self-defence, before I had even dreamed of entering Starfleet Academy. I fought, I killed, as a member of Starfleet, a citizen of the Federation, in defence of my shipmates, my… people.

I had a talk with Counselor Hrelle. She warned me the impact will hit me. Or it won’t, she added. As enigmatic as ever, at least at the time. But I’m understanding it more now. I’m hoping that, when it does hit me, we won’t be in the middle of a clusterfrick...”

*

Deck 3 Fore – Officers’ Mess Hall:

As she stood in line with her squadmates, Zir realised that now, at the time when they had earned the right to come here for food instead of going to the Enlisted/Cadets’ Mess, everyone was coming here, including those survivors scheduled now for their morning meals.

Ahead of her, the massive frame of their Security Officer, Urad Kaldron, blocked the view of the replicators, until he turned around, the grey pachydermoid appearing unusually apprehensive. “Please, Comrades, I will only attract resentment among the survivors if others see how much I am consuming at this time compared to everyone else. I should go-”

Beside him, their Medical Officer Peter Boone grabbed him by his huge arm, though the tall, thin blonde human male had no real chance of stopping him if Urad wanted to leave. “Hold it, buddy! It’s not like you’re being greedy! Your Hroch physiology needs more food, more often, than most humanoids. You can’t just cut down! Remember what happened in Sickbay 3 yesterday?”

At their feet, the lump of fibrous brown rock that was their Science Officer Stalac rumbled. “I certainly do.”

Urad glanced down at him, his hippo-like head expressing remorse. “Please. Comrade Friend, I have never passed out before! I didn’t mean to land on you!”

But the Horta just rumbled with amusement, accentuated by the tone in his voder unit bolted to his side beside his Starfleet combadge. “Quite alright, my friend. It wasn’t the first cave-in I’d experienced… just the first Carbon Based Lifeform cave-in.”

“You’re going to accept your allotted rations, Ensign Kaldron,” Zir announced, finishing the conversation. “And we’re going to watch you eat every bite. You’re needed. We’re all needed. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Comrade Squad Leader.”

Behind Zir, her Squad’s Flight Ops Officer, Astrid Michel rocked in place, occasionally resting her hands on Zir’s shoulders as if for support, murmuring, “Ensign Astrid Michel... Ensign Astrid Michel…”

Zir glanced over her shoulder, the Orion girl looking up at the dark-skinned human. “Pull it together, we’re all sleep deprived...”

“I’m not, Fearless Leader. I’m just seeing how it sounds. ‘Excellent piloting, Ensign Astrid Michel’… ‘Please accept the thanks of a grateful Federation, Ensign Astrid Michel’-”

Behind Astrid, their Engineering Officer Tori Emoto, the shorter girl invisible behind the taller Astrid, muttered, “ ‘And the Starfleet Medal for Modesty goes to… anyone but Ensign Astrid ‘My Head Is Bigger Than The Andromeda Galaxy’ Michel.”

Astrid looked behind her and winked. “I could still win it, Gearhead.”

“You, Flygirl? You’re about as modest as a fricking Klingon sex toy.”

Peter turned to exchange glances with Zir. Of them all, both of them had been worried most about Tori, following the attack on her by the Cardassian invaders in Engineering days ago. Peter had been providing his Counseling services to her, and keeping Zir updated. She sounded more like her old self now, but Peter had warned her that, like the rest of them, the effects may yet to be seen.

The lines to the replicators moved quickly; it helped that with rationing, choices were very limited, and there was less reason to sit around for lengthy conversations.

Stalac had moved up with Urad, the latter able to reach the asking, “Your usual Granite and Copper Casserole, Comrade?”

Stalac rotated, as if looking around despite having no conventional eyes, before replying, “Actually, I just realised I have some preparations to make before we continue our study of the Jem’Hadar, to find a treatment for their Ketracel White addiction.”

Peter knelt down beside him, reaching out. “Buddy, I’m sure you can take five minutes to grab a bite-”

But Stalac rumbled backwards. “I’ll come back when it’s less busy, friends, I promise!” Then he departed, side-sliding around the lines of people waiting their turn.

Peter rose again. “I’ve been checking the replicator logs. He hasn’t eaten since he recovered from his injuries.”

“Are you sure?” Zir asked. “He says he’s had, even if he hasn’t eaten with us.”

“He’s the only one onboard with his dietary requirements. No one has ordered anything mineral-based.”

Zir selected a plate of eggs and sprinkles of bacon and an orange juice, asking Peter, “And what about Counseling him on experiences killing those Jem’Hadar?”

The tall blonde human took his oatmeal and honey to an unoccupied table. “A couple of times. He insists he can’t recall anything.”

“You don’t believe that. You need to press him on it.”

“I have.”

She sat down beside him, waiting for him to continue, and when he didn’t, prompted, “And?”

“And... it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

Everyone else looked up at him, Tori offering, “Really?”

Before he could respond further, someone Zir didn’t recognise at a neighbouring table rose to her feet, coughing, her face quickly reddening, before clutching her throat, eyes wide, as people flanking her rose, first to help her… but then to begin acting identically.

Peter rose immediately to help, Zir following, before seeing others at other tables coughing and choking. She looked to her squadmates. “Don’t eat!” Louder now, she called to everyone. “STOP EATING!” She smacked her combadge. “Medical Emergency in the Officers’ Mess Hall! Bridge! Shut down all food replicators!”

*

Deck 2 Fore – Main Shuttlebay:

“Are you really a Klingon?” the little human boy asked.

Doctor Kline grunted as he finished suturing the gash on the leg. “I am indeed. Does that frighten you?”

The boy stuck out his chin. “No! I’m not afraid of nothing and nobody!”

He chuckled. “Good for you.” He returned his autosuture to his kit. “But perhaps you should be afraid of jumping off the tops of the shuttlecraft in here-”

“You!”

He turned and rose at the challenging voice, tensing as he watched three senior Starfleet officers approach: two humans and an Andorian. The rank on one of the humans told him it was one of the Captains of the ships they had rescued, some petaQ who thought his rank still meant something now. Kline straightened up. “Do you require medical assistance, Captain? Perhaps something for your constipation?”

The man stopped in his tracks. “I beg your pardon?”

Kline bared his jagged, yellowed teeth. “No need for begging, Captain…?”

“Price, Nathan Price, of the Lynx-”

“Don’t you mean former Captain? Or do you still command its wreckage?”

The Andorian standing at Price’s side stepped forward now, his antennae dipping in anger. “You need to remember you’re speaking to a superior officer, Mister-”

“It’s Doctor,” Kline corrected, thoroughly unimpressed. In his time working with Starfleet as part of the Medical Exchange Program, he had learned how to treat those around him, and had learned to respect those he worked with. These whiny targs they saved, however, were another case altogether, one he had little patience in indulging. “And you need to remember that I’m a civilian serving on this ship. If you wish to lodge a complaint against me, I will direct you to the Chief Medical Officer, or the Captain. I am certain either could do with a laugh in these hard times.”

“Stow that insolence,” Price snapped angrily. “What’s going on? Why has Hrelle stopped people from getting food? Keeping it all for himself?”

“I understand there is a problem with the replicators.” He leaned in slightly closer to Price. “And in any shortage of food, Captain Hrelle will always be the last to indulge… appearances to the contrary.”

“We’ve had power outages, drops in temperature, and now the replicators aren’t working! I’ve been more than patient with Hrelle, but enough is enough!”

Kline drew back, smiling and nodding, announcing with deliberate volume, “Excellent! You intend to challenge him for command! To fight with him to the death and take his place!”

Price blanched, aware of people turning their attentions on him. “Fight? To the death? What are you talking about?”

“It is the Klingon Way! Or do you intend to adopt the Romulan Way, and assassinate him instead?”

“Are you insane? We’re not Klingons or Romulans! We’re Starfleet! We don’t fight or assassinate for leadership!”

“No. You don’t.” Kline bared his teeth, his raised voice laced with contempt, knowing he had the immediate area’s attention. “And you don’t skulk and whine like a pack of smacked targ pups because it gets cold or dark and your meals aren’t there when you want them! You show discipline and resolve!” He looked around him. “And you show respect and regard to the man who sits in the centre chair on the Bridge! The Caitian Warrior who has saved us, time and again! Because he has earned it, from all of you!” He gave Price a sneer. “Regardless of rank. Summon me when you’re ready for treatment for that haemorrhage under your nose, Captain.”

Nearby, Captain Sakuth, Starfleet Intelligence operative, former commanding officer of the James Fenimore Cooper, sat alone in one of the Surefoot’s remaining shuttles, a place of respite from the assembled survivors of the Battle of Khavak outside, and a place to secure the intelligence data she had gathered from the battle. She had listened in on the encounter, confirming that Price was an inconsequential pawn in her dealings on this benighted vessel.

She used the shuttle’s computers and her own advanced equipment to access the Surefoot’s main systems, confirming what she had been told by Hrelle about their current status; it appeared the Caitian had been completely upfront to her about their circumstances… an honesty she certainly wouldn’t have employed if the situation had been reversed-

She felt a familiar buzzing in the back of her skull. She sat up, triggering the biofeedback response to indicate she could receive the secured transmission. A man’s voice with a Terran British accent reverberated through her. “Captain Sakuth.”

The Vulcan breathed in, confident that the Surefoot’s security systems would not pick up the subspace signals. “Admiral, I had hoped to hear from you sooner.”

The icy barb in his tone was clear, even across many light years. “I was otherwise engaged in clearing the mess you left with the surviving crew of the Cooper. According to the reports of the Bridge officers, during the battle you froze, refusing to acknowledge the crisis around you or respond to the recommendations of your crew, necessitating Admiral Arrington’s son Giles to take over.”

Sakuth stiffened, having hoped the other Bridge crew had been killed while evacuating their vessel so as not to reveal the more unsavoury aspects of that incident. “They are mistaken. I was otherwise engaged in the security of vital data at the time, and trusted Lt Arrington to manage the minor-”

“Of course,” Trenagen cut in impatiently. “This is precisely how I ordered the eyewitnesses to remember the incident… and trust such behaviour will not be repeated from you. Ever. Report.”

The Vulcan swallowed. “The data from the Cooper is secure. The vessel is proceeding along a circuitous route to avoid an increased number of Jem’Hadar patrols. There are 218 survivors onboard; resources are being rationed. We have just made an encounter with an extradimensional vessel, with entities reported in historical Intelligence reports; Hrelle has classified the details of the encounter, but I have secretly gained access to his ship’s computer, and have copied these, along with the personal logs of all his crew.

Despite his efforts, there is discontent among the survivors, especially after the actions Captain Hrelle took to hide us from the Cardassians using the bodies of the dead onboard. This is discontent I have been secretly exacerbating through selective sabotage, albeit nothing sufficient to impede our progress to safety.”

“Cease further such activities; you must focus on your primary mission. Have you managed to arrange to be alone with Hrelle yet?”

“No. The ongoing crisis and lack of trust on the part of the senior officers for me has proven difficult.”

“You must overcome that difficulty. Tattok has sent his son to find the Surefoot; and I have just learned that Ma’Sala Shall is accompanying him with her flagship.”

Sakuth raised an eyebrow. “Her arrival will complicate matters.”

“Or simplify them, if you obtain the required information, and plant the Judas Press in his mind, before her arrival. Then his subsequent actions could be judged as the result of Post Traumatic Disorder.”

Sakuth nodded in agreement to herself. “I must contrive a means of gaining his trust.” She paused and asked, “We will be passing the Skrysa system. Is Agar’s organisation still present there?”

“Yes, at least at the last report; he cut off all contact with the rest of the Galaxy at the commencement of the War.”

“He may still be useful, if I can arrange for a need to contact them, and arrange for a way to be vital to our immediate survival, before offering a moment of vulnerability alone with him. Hrelle has a predilection for mercy, an exploitable weakness.”

Trenagen paused, before responding. “Do not underestimate him, or any of the Caitians. As a people and a Federation member world, they have historically proven to be too independent and feral to be completely trustworthy. Take whatever steps are necessary to complete your mission.”

Sakuth raised an eyebrow. “Any steps, Admiral? Does this mean-”

“My meaning is explicit. Trenagen out.”

Sakuth rose, looking through the shuttle cockpit window to see Giles Arrington approach, and she shut down the interfaces. The young human’s usefulness to her had reached an end, and recent actions confirmed what she expected he was coming to see her about, having avoided Sakuth as much as possible since their arrival.

The shuttle gull wing door rose, and Giles entered, staying at the doorway, keeping his distance, his expression ambivalent. “Captain, Captain Hrelle asked me to relay his request that you attend a status meeting at 0900 Hours in the Conference Room.”

She folded her hands behind her back and nodded formally. “I have been restricted to the Shuttlebay. Do I now have the freedom of the ship?”

“No, an escort will come for you, Ma’am. If you’ll excuse me-”

“Mr Arrington,” she started, waiting for him to stop and turn back to face her. She affected her most sincere and regretful facade. “I am cognisant of your understandable reaction to my alteration of your memory. I must assure you that it was necessary. You had inadvertently became aware of information far above your security levels-”

“Captain Sakuth,” he interrupted, looking stressed. “I understand completely. I don’t have a problem with that.”

She raised an eyebrow, studying his predictable reactions. “Then perhaps your disquieted state lies with the story I told your colleagues, about your panicking during the battle. That dishonesty was lamentable, but required to dissuade them from further interference. You behaved gallantly, and saved not only myself and yourself, but the gathered intelligence. I will ensure my report is clear about your commendable actions… and as per Starfleet Intelligence Regulations, we will not be working together again.” She allowed a deliberate pause before adding, “I understand if you find comfort in that.”

He failed to keep himself from displaying relief over that information. “Thank you for your understanding, Captain. If you’ll excuse me, Ma’am, I’m on duty on the Bridge in half an hour.”

“Of course.” She offered another pause. “Before you depart: are you... enjoying being back at the Helm again, Giles?”

He reacted to her unaccustomed use of his first name, and made a show of considering the answer, though he seemed to know the answer almost from the start. “Yes, Ma’am. It’s...” Now he paused.

“It’s free of subterfuge, of duplicity?” she offered. “It is an enviable candour. Perhaps, while you continue to serve Captain Hrelle in your former role, you might consider whether you would prefer to remain in Starfleet Intelligence. Not that you cannot perform your duties in this capacity in an exemplary manner… but there is more to life than efficiency at work. There is also personal satisfaction. I would not wish to do anything more in life than what I am doing now. You, on the other hand, might feel differently. And should you require any assistance from me towards achieving that, you have but to ask.”

Giles now appeared nonplussed by her words, but he managed another nod and a, “Thank you, Captain. I should go.”

“Proceed, Lieutenant.”

He departed.

Sakuth mentally prepared her next moves.

*

Deck 3 Mid – Starboard Corridor:

“NOMIE NOMO NOMA WOOWOOWA!”

Sreen was singing again, a melodic babble of her own creation. And for an infant, she had quite a set of lungs on her. She wore a training exoframe, to get her used to having the real thing on in a few weeks’ time, and sat in her harness on Hrelle’s back as he made his way to Sickbay, the infant looking out at the Universe from over her father’s right shoulder, singing to everyone they passed.

He smiled, despite his lack of sleep – between the current crisis, and the cub’s tendency to wake up in the middle of night for an impromptu aria, he felt like every other breath he took manifested as a yawn – and their current predicament, as he entered Sickbay 1. He put on his professional face as he took in the activity: survivors standing by or lying on biobeds being treated by medical staff… one of them, the CMO, striding up to him. “Morning, Captain.” He drew up to Sreen, reaching up and tickling under her muzzle. “Morning, ‘Lil Critter!”

“GOOBA GOOBA GOOBA DEEE!”

She ended with a note that made Hrelle wince, and even Masterson shook his head. “Whoa, that one went right through me like a cold chill! I don’t remember your boy hitting notes like that!”

Hrelle nodded, pulling a pacifier from his pocket and sticking it in Sreen’s muzzle. “Female infant cubs talk sooner, and have a capacity for higher pitches than their male counterparts… as she’s proven the last couple of nights. What happened? Eydiir said it was poisoning?”

Masterson looked around at the others. “Everyone here ingested small amounts of decapricoxin, a potent agent that induces anaphylactic reactions: skin reactions, constricted airways, nausea, dizziness-”

“Lethal dosages?”

“Not for most of them, though some have suffered more extreme reactions than others, and without immediate medical attention… well, lucky for them Ensign Dassene acted when she did and prevented more people from being affected.”

He looked to his left, seeing the young Orion woman at the far end, with his First Officer and Chief of Security. “Thanks, Zeke. I’ll let you get back to your work.” He walked over to the three females. “Report, Commander.”

T’Varik straightened up. “The replicator algorithms in the Officer’s Mess were altered, to add the poison into random orders of food and drink at a predetermined time. All replicators, food and non-food, are offline until Lt Ostrow and his Engineering team finishes inspecting them. He has already cleared the medical replicators in the Sickbays, but estimates another six hours to do the rest.”

“There’ll be a delay to getting people fed again, but it can’t be helped.” He growled. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Beside T’Varik, her partner Lt C’Rash Shall crossed her arms, the black-furred Caitian’s tail swishing strongly behind her. “Definitely not. Whoever did it bypassed the security firewalls at some point in the last seventy-two hours.”

Hrelle tensed; behind him, Sreen sensed his change of mood and growled at nothing between suckling. “The same type of breach that caused the power outages in the Shuttlebay and Auxiliary Engineering yesterday?” He had hoped that his people had been mistaken about that. “Take us to Security Level 5; I don’t want a repeat of this.”

His niece looked to him. “The evacuees who have been taking some of the workload off of our crew aren’t cleared for that, they’ll be limited to what they can do-”

“I want them limited. And I want our people running the checks.” He looked to T’Varik. “Are you able to return to duty, Commander?”

The Vulcan nodded. “Doctor Masterson repaired the injuries to my brain, Sir, and has released me.”

“Good.” Then he focused on Zir, offering a warm paternal smile. “As for you, Ensign: everything you do makes me all the more confident in my decision to promote you and the others.”

Zir flushed dark olive. “Thank you, Sir. What do you want us to do now?”

“You and the others will proceed to Cargo Bay 3 and load up an antigrav with all the pre-replicated ration packs you can, and deliver them to the Shuttlebay; children and civilians have priority. And if you’re asked, just say it’s a replicator malfunction, nothing more. Dismissed.”

“Aye, Sir.”

As the young women departed, Hrelle turned to T’Varik and C’Rash. “I wish I could say that’s the only bad news today...”

T’Varik raised an eyebrow. “What else has happened?”

“When I woke up I studied the tactical logs from the Night Shift, the movements of enemy ships in the area, and I want both your opinions on it.” He turned his head to look at Sreen. “And maybe Princess here will be ready for that nap now, huh?”

“DOY BI BI COO COO WEEEEE!” Then Sreen hit another high note in punctuation.

T’Varik flinched, as did C’Rash, cursing under her breath.

Hrelle grunted, getting used to it even when the Little Howler was right up against his ear. “Come on...”

*

Deck 2 Fore – Bridge:

Giles emerged, expecting to see Captain Hrelle awaiting him… instead finding Sasha in the centre seat. He approached, keeping formal as he announced, “Reporting for duty, Lieutenant.”

Sasha had been perusing the PADD in her hand, but now she rose and set the PADD on the seat. “Lieutenant Arrington, you’re early. Good: something’s come up I need to brief you on.” She indicated the door to the Captain’s Ready Room.

He nodded and preceded her. Ever since they had returned to the Surefoot during Khavak, she had been in turns distant and abrasive to him, which he put down to his earlier behaviour when they last met, and he had ideas that they could get back together again. And certainly after that business earlier with the dead graverobbers on that weird black ship, her attitude had accentuated. But he was determined to remain professional... because as much as she hated to admit it, Captain Sakuth had been correct: he was enjoying being back at the Helm. So he’d put up with just about anything to continue doing it.

As they entered the Ready Room and the door slid shut, he turned to her. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Sasha shifted in place, her strawberry blonde hair ponytailed back, her expression one of uncharacteristic reluctance, vulnerability. “I… want to apologise to you, Giles. I’ve not been behaving as either a superior officer, or a friend to you.”

Her gaze fixed now, unwavering, as if the start of this catharsis gave her the strength to face him and continue. “The last year has been the most stressful time in my life… and I haven’t had the chance to heal before the next hurt comes along. And I think I wanted to make sure you didn’t get the idea that I wanted to resume what we had, and that I was now outranking you as Second Officer, so I overcompensated for both of those...” She shook her head. “That’s not an excuse… just an explanation. I hope you can forgive me.”

And with that, he felt a tremendous load drop from his shoulders too. Relieved at her gesture, Giles relaxed his posture. “Of course, Sash. I’m- I’m sorry you’ve had to shoulder all of that yourself… especially if I’ve been adding to it.”

“Not intentionally, Giles. You’ve been amazing! Especially after what the bitch Sakuth put you through-”

He felt the need to refute that, after what the Vulcan had said to him before, but he was aware from Eydiir of Sakuth’s prior actions on the Surefoot, and instead offered, “Tell you what: let’s just agree to watch out for each other, huh? To be there if we need each other.”

Sasha smiled with relief. “Definitely.” She moved towards them, but stopped herself. “You think we can hug without it getting weird?”

Giles chuckled. “I think the last five years since I first boarded a Surefoot have been weird.”

She laughed. They hugged.

The door on the other side of the Ready Room slid open, and Hrelle, T’Varik and C’Rash entered, stopping as the young couple parted. Hrelle regarded them and quipped, “Commander, see about getting a cub-proof lock on these doors.”

*

Deck 3 Mid – Counselor’s Office:

Kami Hrelle nodded to the rest of the medical professionals, fellow Counselors from among the survivors of Khavak, who have volunteered to pool their resources and offer an organised relief effort to those still reeling from the trauma of the battle and the losses they had all suffered. And despite the situation, she enjoyed interacting with people in her own field. “...And while I don’t normally advocate pharmaceuticals, if there’s any among you whom you think might benefit in the short term, please let me know.” She set aside her PADD. “Any last questions?”

“Any news we can pass on about getting back with the Fleet?” one of them asked.

Kami kept her neutral face, remembering the reaction she saw on her husband this morning when he studied some reports from the last shift while the family was having breakfast. She knew she had to be truthful to them, even if they ended up diluting that truth to their people. “There have been some Jem’Hadar patrols spotted in the area, requiring us to reduce our speed and take a less-direct route to safety.”

Her mention of the Jem’Hadar triggered a change in the scents of those around her, prompting her to continue, “We think they may have been alerted to the encounter we just had with an unidentified vessel from… an unusual location.”

“A vessel?” Another of them echoed. “What vessel? From where? Who?”

Kami suppressed a shudder; how to explain Bodysnatchers from Another Dimension, flying balls and shrunken zombies without sounding like she’d been in the sun too long? “It’s classified now. What matters is that it’ll take a little longer than expected… but our priority is to get home safe, not fast.”

“What about the food situation?” Ensign Shirley Vinh, the young Counselor from the Vancouver who had been saved, along with a group of children from that ship, by the heroic efforts of the late Meow Rrori, asked. “Why has it been stopped?”

“It’s been postponed, not stopped, and there’s some sort of malfunction with the replicators, but we’re breaking out the pre-replicated ration packs. The children and the civilians will remain on High Priority, of course.” She looked around, trying to remain cheerful. “A good time for those of us who need to lose a few kilos before our next reviews.” She patted her belly for punctuation, triggering chuckles from some of the others.

Outside her office, a familiar voice declared, “NO! STAY BACK!”

Kami controlled her reaction, looking around. “Sounds like that’s our cue to end this.” She moved around to step outside first. “Cub of Mine?”

Misha was in front of her office door, as he had chosen to be since she started this meeting, and his claws were bared and his arms outstretched, facing one of the nurses who had volunteered among the survivors to assist with the Surefoot medical teams. The nurse, a young Vulcan male with a broad face and olive complexion, was typically composed, if confused about the reception he was receiving. “Your belligerent attitude is counterproductive, young man. I need to use the medical replicator past you. Stand aside.”

The nurse continued his approach, until Misha growled, raised his claws and bared his teeth., his tail snapping like a whip behind him.

“Misha!” Kami scolded. “That’s more than enough! Apologise!” She looked down at her son, who stood there, arms crossed, scowling. “Well?”

“Sorry,” he grumbled, relaxing his stance and retracting his claws. “You may pass.”

She grunted and looked up at the nurse again. “I apologise, Lieutenant. This won’t happen again.” She grasped Misha by the collar of his jacket and moved him out of the way of the nurse, guiding him in the direction of Counselor Vinh. “Shirley. you’ll be returning to Jhess and the children. Take Scrappy here with you, and make sure he doesn’t finish the day without laughing and playing on at least three separate occasions.”

Shirley smiled. “Understood, Kami.” She set a guiding hand on Misha’s shoulder. “Come on, Misha, Jhess has got a project going in the Arboretum today with the other kids!”

The cub growled, slipping out of Shirley’s touch to take her hand instead and lead her. “No, you come, I show you where.”

*

Deck 8, Secondary Antimatter Storage:

Chief Helga Maryk crawled backwards out of the access conduit into the Antimatter Containment Pods, shouting back down, “Jri govno i zdohni!”

Standing up, the broad-framed Lt Jim Madison looked down in amusement. “That didn’t translate, but I expect that whatever you’re cursing, its ears are burning.”

“If only,” she muttered, tapping her combadge. “Chief Maryk to Lt Ostrow!”

Immediately she tried to amend her command, but not before the computer helpfully responded, “Please specify communications recipient.”

“Zasranic! It’s Lt Jonas Ostrow! The Chief Engineer! It’s always going to be the Chief Engineer! I won’t want to speak with his wife unless I want the govnosos computer on this ship arrested for being an idiot!” She leaned back against the wall beside the conduit. “Bad enough they’ve upped the security protocols so now I have to get authorisation before I can scratch my rear end… I swear I’ll rip out every circuit, eat them and shit them out!”

Then her combadge replied, with a young man’s amused voice, “That won’t improve them, Chief.”

Maryk sat up. “Mr Ostrow! Get down here now, with Engineering tricorders, isolation sweeps, molecular sealants-”

Madison straightened up. “What’s going on, Helga?”

Jonas echoed the sentiment. “What is it, Chief?”

“You’ve got Shiprot onboard!”

“Are you sure? It’s not easy to pick up on tricorders-”

“I know the damn signs of it! It’s all over the bloody Antimatter Containment Pods on Deck 8!”

There was a pause, and then, “The team is on its way. How bad is it? Can we divert the antimatter to the reserve pods?”

“The pod fields are all still at 100%, but the Shiprot might be in the interlinking compartments and the ejector systems, so you can’t move or remove it just now. And it looks worse the further down towards the outer layers of the hull.”

“The dorsal hull connectors will be the most likely origin point, all the impacts the ship went through, flying through the debris in the battlezone, and maybe that business with the Graverobbers. Can you or Mr Madison supervise the team when they arrive?”

“I’ll do it. Goliath here couldn’t even get his big toe into the rathole-sized conduits on this damn ship. Maryk out.” She rubbed her eyes.

Madison dropped into a squat beside her. “Shiprot… I’ve heard horror stories about that stuff, Chief. Think you caught it in time?”

The Russian shrugged. “Hopefully. Personally I’d rather not stay too long on a ship where metal-eating bacteria are centimetres away from causing an antimatter containment breach. Boshe moi, I wish I was back on the Ajax. At least there the worst I had to deal with was our Gnome of a Captain sneaking up on me and sticking his Baba Yaga nose in my business...”

*

Deck 3 Mid – Security Suite Brig:

Lt Neraxis Ostrow stood near the console, seeing the deterioration in the self-control of the Jem’Hadar together in the cell, and hoping her disquiet didn’t show to everyone around her. They orbited around the tight perimeter of the enclosure, growling and snapping when they bumped into each other. It reminded her of ancient videos of when wild animals were kept in zoos, in tiny cages, where they would circle and circle and circle and slowly go mad.

“Disturbing, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

The Bolian turned to the other Brig, where the Cardassian Prisoners of War had separated. Their Glinn, a dickhead named Drurocc, was standing at the edge, not too close to make the force field react to his proximity, his arms crossed and his pewter-grey face as smug as ever. “To see them in the latter stages of Ketracel White withdrawal? The mighty warriors of the dreaded Dominion, descending into mindless animals?”

“Shut up.”

“And yet, you’re still trying to find some treatment for them,” he continued, unabated, the admiration in his voice as false as his concern. “It’s clear Starfleet’s reputation for selfless gallantry is well deserved. Or is it mindless gallantry? Because at this point euthanasia seems more merciful-”

Neraxis faced him. “Do you want a smack in the mouth? Because you still flapping your gums after I tell you to shut up is a good way to get one!”

Drurocc sneered at her. “I’ve gotten the measure of you in our time together, Bolian. You talk tough, but you’ve yet to back up your threats with action.” His head tilted. “You prefer to have that murderous mountain of flesh, Ensign Kaldron, come in to try and intimidate us.”

“What do you mean, ‘try’? The last time he was here, I had to arrange to get your trousers laundered.” She ignored him and approached the Jem’Hadars’ cell. “Listen, if you’re concerned about your comrade, don’t be. Our Medical and Science teams are trying to find a way to help all of you with this problem-”

One of the confined Jem’Hadar suddenly launched himself at her, making the force field erupt and crackle against him. The others immediately joined him on the assault, the energy flaring up around them, the noise filling the air.

Neraxis stood her ground, even as Thykrill and Pamela Travers entered from the adjacent Armoury where they had been working, phasers drawn. Neraxis didn’t reach for her own weapon, knowing the force field would hold them. Not much else would, though; a previous attempt to sedate them with neurozine worked, but for much less time than expected, and didn’t work at all when it was repeated. In the end, they had to beam out one of them to the Science Lab to examine their dependency.

She hoped her bug-eating buddy Kit would come up with something soon, before the Jem’Hadar killed each other. Or were forced to be killed.

“I hate to say ‘I told you so’-” Drurocc started.

“Then don’t!” Neraxis snapped back.

*

Deck 4 Mid – Sickbay 3:

In the absence of a medical emergency, they had managed to clear the Sickbay and secure it, its Isochamber modified with a secure biobed, and a member of Security on hand to ensure the Jem’Hadar beamed in from the Brig… cooperated.

Ensign Kitirik, Acting Science Officer for the Surefoot, watched as the Jem’Hadar continued to struggle against the forcebeams pinning him down, reluctantly accepted this definition of ‘cooperation’. The debate about whether or not to study the Jem’Hadars’ reliance on Ketracel White had been vocal and varied, with some refusing on ethical grounds or a general unwillingness to help the enemy, and others pointing out the Jem’Hadars’ present mental state leaving them unable to refuse… and reminding the others of the tactical advantage of learning more about the enemy, including their weaknesses.

Kit, for his part, understood all sides of the debate… and was grateful that the Most Respected Captain Hrelle had the authority to make the final call, and order them to learn what they could. He was less grateful that he also ordered Kit to take charge. He had worked as part of several science teams on the Iberia, but never commanding one, and he had privately voiced his concerns to the Most Respected Captain.

And the Caitian’s response was… typically inarguable: No one’s born commanding, Kit, you have to start somewhere, and I have faith that you can rise to the challenge. Of course, you could continue to argue against my decision… but then that would be incredibly insulting and hurtful to me. And you wouldn’t want to be incredibly insulting and hurtful. Would you?

And then he made his muzzle wobble as if ready to cry.

The Most Respected Captain was very persuasive.

He stood near the Master Systems Display, which provided multiple detailed scans of the Jerm’Hadar being studied. “The bicantizine and sonambutril combination appears to be the most successful to date. It seems to stabilise the Jem’Hadar metabolism almost as well as the Ketracel White.”

“Only in the very short term, Ensign,” the Emergency Medical Hologram noted, the image of the balding human male in the Medical Blue uniform looking bored by the proceedings. “It misses out on the concentrated nutritional benefits that Ketracel White also provides to them.”

Beside him, one of the Surefoot’s doctors, an Andorian female named Shyrik, grunted. “He’s right. Once the existing nutritional potency in their bloodstream drops below a certain level, it triggers hormonal changes which would override the stabilising effects of the bicantizine-sonambutril combination. And so far, any other concentrated nutrient supplements we can provide can’t be assimilated by them before being rejected.”

Lt Cmdr Henry Bradley, formerly of the Lynx, and one of the only members of the survivors who agreed to assist, after they learned the subject of their research, was leaning against one of the spare biobeds, stroking his greying beard and moustache. “Because their bodies are designed to treat anything entering their system other than Ketracel White as a poison, to be overcome. It hardly seems an efficient system, though; what if they genuinely needed treatment for some condition, and their systems reject the medication?”

“Then they die,” Chief Nurse Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas replied simply, the tall, dark-skinned Capellan female standing near Ensign Urad Kaldron, the massive Security officer assigned to watch over the Jem’Hadar subject. “There is no individual value with them, Mr Bradley. The Dominion clone these creatures in the hundreds of thousands. They wouldn’t waste time or resources if one became defective.”

On the floor, the Horta Ensign Stalac had part of his body attached to the interface to the Surefoot’s various databases, his silicon brain accessing the data far more quickly than the carbon-based lifeforms around him. “There is a report filed by a Doctor Bashir prior to the commencement of the War, which confirmed the possibility of genetic anomalies in individual Jem’Hadar producing a lack of dependency. But the Jem’Hadar DNA structure samples we have here are proving remarkably resistant to genetic manipulation.”

“So a biogenic-based treatment would not be effective here,” Kit concluded.

“No, it wouldn’t. The resistance stems chiefly from the Dominion use of temporal RNA sequencing, in order to artificially accelerate the clones to quickly reach a certain age. The temporal RNA needs to be activated before a certain point, or the clone would begin to experience a breakdown of the cellular structure, eventually resulting in death.”

“Is that something we can use?” Bradley asked.

“As a treatment, Respected Colleague?” Kit enquired. “Forgive me, but we just confirmed-”

“I mean as a weapon.” As eyes turned to him, he continued, his expression brightening as he considered the possibility. “Not a treatment. A biogenic weapon keyed to their temporal RNA, harmless to us but one which would be deadly to them. We could wipe out their entire race! Do you know what that means?”

“Yes,” the EMH replied. “I believe that is the definition of the word ‘genocide’.”

“You can’t commit genocide against a manufactured race!” Bradley declared, ignoring the hologram to look to the others. “They’re no different to a collection of genetically-engineered pathogens in a container!”

“Except for the part where they’re sentient,” Shyrik pointed out. “And appear to have a distinct culture, rituals, individual names-”

“The collected data I have been perusing,” Stalac added. “Confirms that though there has been extensive modification by the Dominion over the centuries to refine the Jem’Hadars’ strengths, as well as their dependency on Ketracel White, they did originate as a natural sentient species.”

“Well, so what? My ancestors lived in trees and picked fleas from each other’s pelts! What matters is what they are now, and the threat they face!”

“Respected Colleague,” Kit interrupted, sensing that now was a proper time to redirect the conversation. “I understand your… enthusiasm over this possibility, but we are assembled to discuss a means of keeping our prisoners alive-”

“Oh, so you understand, do you, Ensign Kitirik? How many of your crewmates and friends did you lose when those animals attacked the Iberia?”

“That is uncalled for, Lieutenant Commander,” Eydiir intervened, turning to face him. “We are not-”

Kit raised a hand towards her, cutting her off. “Thank you, Good Friend Eydiir, but that is unnecessary.” Then he focused on Bradley. “To answer your question, Respected Colleague: I do not know. Perhaps many. But we are not a War Crimes Tribunal, here to decide upon the fates of those responsible for their deaths, or the deaths of any others. We are a scientific team, here to try and find a solution to a medical issue affecting the lives of prisoners… who are in our care. That is the focus that we as professionals must maintain.”

Bradley’s expression tightened. “I don’t need a lecture from some Squab barely out of the Academy about professionalism!”

“The evidence suggests otherwise,” Shyrik quipped.

He ignored her, drawing up closer to Kit… stopping when he saw Eydiir still moving closer, as if to intercept him. “Hrelle hasn’t exactly made himself many friends with this little exercise in misplaced mercy to the enemy.”

“Perhaps not, Respected Colleague,” Kit replied, adding an edge to his normally placid tones as he looked up at the taller human. “However, in my experience serving under the Most Respected Captain Hrelle, I can state with certainty that he places a higher regard towards maintaining his ideals over garnering personal popularity.”

“Is that so-”

Kit raised a webbed hand to cut him off. “Forgive me, Lieutenant Commander, but I am not done speaking. Your experience and knowledge is highly valued with this team, and you are more than free to forward your recommendations about a potential biogenic weapon to your own superiors. For now, however, I prefer to keep our focus on the task at hand. If you are no longer able or willing to contribute, I will arrange for your escort back to the Shuttlebay.” He folded his webbed hands behind him. “May I please ask for your response?”

Bradley glanced around uncomfortably, before finally nodding, “I… would very much like to remain, Ensign-” Then he frowned and looked up at the display. “Wait- What if we introduced a pathogen or chemical agent with immune-suppressant properties first, reducing their bodies’ ability to fight the stabilising elements and alternate nutrient supplements?”

“That is a most intriguing notion. Ensign Stalac, Respected Hologram, please examine the databases for suitable pathogens or chemicals.”

The Horta grumbled with satisfaction. “Yes, Ensign.”

“Yes, Ensign.” The EMH tilted his head, though being what he was, he could just stand still and access his own database directly.

Kit turned to face the display, allowing himself a smile, a flush of pink in his throat wattles and moment of selfish pleasure at how he handled the confrontation. He could grow accustomed to command.

*

Deck 2 Fore – Starboard Corridor:

Sakuth walked quietly ahead of the guards escorting them to the Conference Room, allowing Captain Price to note them. “Hrelle makes us feel so welcome, doesn’t he?”

Sakuth measured her responses. “I believe you’ll find they’re here more for me than you, Captain.”

He grunted at that, and in a lowered voice voice offered, “Just say the word, and I’ll back you in any move you need to make. You can count on it.”

She doubted that; such was his malleability she could almost imagine he was a shapeshifter in disguise. Still, he might prove worthwhile as a potential object of blame. “That is appreciated, Captain.”

They entered the Conference Room, which had been modified since her last meeting here, with Hrelle and several of his senior officers standing around a wall display offering a tactical overview of the sector she knew they were currently passing through. The Caitian looked up at the new arrivals, beckoning to them. “Thank you for coming. If you would, please…?”

Sakuth kept a measured pace, not moving to the front or lagging to the rear, confirming that what she had already learned from secretly monitoring the Surefoot’s sensor logs, allowing Hrelle to explain for the others, pointing to areas on the display. “We’ve been moving along this course, avoiding the Jem’Hadar patrols, but lately we’ve been having to make course corrections, to account for seemingly random changes in the patrol movements.”

“They are not random,” Sakuth offered.

Hrelle glanced at her, still looking suspicious of her but too wrapped up in the current crisis to do more. “No. Our computer, and my First Officer and Chief of Security, have all confirmed that there is an overall pattern to these changes, creating a narrower and narrower latitude for us.”

Price nodded, staring at the display. “They’ve detected us.”

“Or suspect they have,” Commander Zirangi, former Chief Engineer of the Iberia and that ship’s surviving senior ranking officer, noted. “They’re testing the waters, trying to confirm our existence.”

“Or they’ve already done it,” Hrelle added, “And are keeping us in line until reinforcements arrive.”

“Why don’t they just attack us outright?” Price asked. “They’re not exactly reluctant warriors.”

“But they are cunning,” Sakuth indicated. “And aware that somehow, we’ve survived the battle, and those who boarded us, despite being a non-combat vessel. Part of their motivation for boarding the Surefoot and attacking face to face rather than blowing us away involved intelligence gathering.”

“We have a further complication,” Hrelle noted, growling slightly. “We need to stop and make repairs. Our ventral hull has been contaminated with Shiprot.”

Price looked to him with disdain. “You let your ship get infected with that pestilence?”

Hrelle looked back, his hackles rising. “It wasn’t exactly on my To-Do List for today, Captain.”

“So why do we have to stop to deal with it?”

Zirangi grunted. “If you’re willing to climb out onto the hull of a starship at warp speed to run decontamination protocols, Captain, be my guest. And if it’s anywhere near any of this ship’s antimatter containment units, the sooner it’s dealt with, the better.”

Hrelle nodded. “Thank you, Commander. We’ll be as quick as we can, but there’s still the issue of the Jem’Hadar patrols. We have to find a safe haven, an area of sensor blinds or-”

“Captain, if I may, please?” Sakuth drew up, sensing his increased tension at her approach, but she ignored his reaction to indicate a point on the map. “There is a cloaked facility here, at the outskirts of the Skrysa system. A Regula-type station.”

The others started, leaving Hrelle to echo, “A cloaked facility? What is it, a classified Starfleet Intelligence station? Or maybe some other, illegal organisation?”

Sakuth perceived the barb behind his last question, and ignored it. “The latter. It is a private station, owned and operated by a Terran smuggler named John Agar. He specialised in trafficking across the Romulan border, the usual contraband goods: ale, weapons, artificial quantum singularities. SI allowed him to continue his criminal activities, in exchange for intelligence gathering within the territory of the Empire, fleet movements and so forth.”

“We’re far from the Romulan borders,” Hrelle pointed out suspiciously. “Too far for this Agar guy to have a base of operations here.”

“This is not his former base of operations, Captain. This is his refuge. Agar differs from other criminals in that he conducted his illegal activities in order to fund his survivalist plans.”

“Survivalist?” Zirangi asked. “What’s that mean?”

The Vulcan turned to her. “A survivalist mentality operates on the belief in the possibility of the imminent collapse of civilisation, whether on a planetary or galactic level, either from internal or external forces such as natural disasters, economic instability… or war. The responses to this belief can vary, from managing a financial portfolio dependent on multiple unconnected sources, to, in Agar’s case, constructing a concealed, self-sustaining shelter in a remote location.

He chose this location because of its lack of any inhabited worlds, outposts or other features that could attract attention, and because he obtained a Romulan cloak designed to hide his station. At the outbreak of hostilities, and the reported initial devastating losses by the Federation, Agar and his selected group withdrew to this station.”

Hrelle nodded to all this – but Sakuth could see the dubiety in his eyes. “Survivalists tend towards the suspicious, the territorial. He’s not likely to open up his doors to us in our hour of need.”

“You are correct, Captain… but he may be willing to trade his assistance for goods.”

“What goods?” Price asked. “We’re short on everything onboard but bad luck!”

“Quantum torpedoes.” She looked to Hrelle again. “Agar’s station is designed to be self-sustaining, as well as fortified… but my impression of him in our past dealings is that he would appreciate additional arms. Paranoia is also typical of such personalities.”

“And you think giving away Starfleet arms to criminals is a good thing?” Price asked, looking aghast.

“Not giving them away,” Hrelle corrected, still staring hard at Sakuth. “Bartering with them, to save our lives. Still, despite my motivations, something like that could land me in front of a court martial.”

She folded her hands behind her. “In the unlikely event you do, Captain, I will be standing alongside you as an accomplice; I am the one who has made the suggestion, after all, and I am offering to make the initial contact. He will remember me, and will acknowledge that we have kept his presence out here a secret so far, and will continue to do so.”

Hrelle’s expression creased in thought.

“For what it’s worth, Captain,” Zirangi proposed. “You’ll have my official support on any deal you make with this guy.”

“And mine,” Price added finally, resignedly joining with the rest. “Do whatever it takes to get us to safety.”

Sakuth regarded Hrelle, mentally calculating he would require another 1.64 minutes of consideration before he-

He straightened up. “We’ll do it. Captain Price, Commander Zirangi, please return to the survivors and update them on our current circumstances – minus the details about Agar. Captain Sakuth, accompany me to the Bridge.”

*

Deck 3 Fore – Arboretum:

The smell of fresh earth filled the air, as the line of children knelt, working with tools to dig out holes in the square before them, before transplanting the selected flowers, all under Shirley Vinh’s supervision.

Except for Misha, who chose to lean against a tree nearby, arms crossed, glowering at the other children.

Jhess, preparing the watering cans and plant feed, nodded silently to Shirley before rising and approaching the Captain’s son. “Misha-”

“Don’t want to do stupid flower stuff,” the cub declared, his golden-brown fur mussed up. “It’s for stinky little cubs.”

The tall, skinny, spotted-furred Caitian stopped and smiled. “Oh, I wasn’t coming over to make you do anything like that. I just wanted to thank you.”

Misha looked up, suspicious “Why you thank me?”

Jhess indicated the nearby children. “Well, you’re keeping an eye on them. Making sure they’re safe. Making sure we’re all safe.” He squatted down, his tail brushing against a Betazoid rosebush behind him. “I know how hard that can be. You’ve seen me protecting you and your Mama and Sreen.”

Now Misha looked to him, nodding enthusiastically. “We do good. We protect.”

Jhess nodded. “Yes. We do good. We protect.” He looked down, saw a Betazoid Megalon beetle crawling through the lime-green grass between Misha and him. He cupped his paw open and allowed the beetle to crawl onto it, holding it up and turning his hand to allow it to continue to crawl, deliberately taking care not to harm it. “I wish we didn’t, though. It’s too scary.”

“What? You no get scared!”

The nanny took Misha’s hand, and let the beetle crawl onto it, watching the cub’s reaction to the tiny legs moving along his furred skin. “Misha, I get scared all the time. Every time I have to fight, or think I have to fight. Even if I don’t end up fighting, I’m scared. Scared of hurting someone, or of being hurt. It gives me nightmares. It makes me cry sometimes.”

He guided Misha’s hand to the rose bush, prompting him to let the insect move safely onto it. “And you know what? That’s okay. It’s perfectly okay and healthy to feel all of that, now that the danger is past and I don’t have to be brave.”

Misha watched the beetle move along a gnarled branch of the bush, reaching out to tentatively touch its spotted back. “Don’t wanna be scared.”

“I know.” Jhess reached up and put a hand around the cub’s neck… letting his purrs reach into Misha, on an inaudible, reassuring level. “But you know what? Being scared is like being hungry or tired or hurt: it’s your body’s way telling you that you have to do something about it. If you’re hungry, you have to eat. If you’re tired, you have to sleep. If you’re hurt, you have to get fixed up. And if you’re scared… you have to let yourself be scared… and know that there’s people around you who love you, and know how you feel, and are here to help you. Okay?”

Misha nodded… his muzzle quivering and his eyes welling up with tears. He made a whimpering sound, and Jhess drew him into a warm embrace.

*

Deck 2 Fore – Ready Room:

The door chimed, and Sreen looked up from her chair, responding with, “GOOBA GOOBA GOOBA DEE!”

Hrelle smiled from behind his desk. “The word you’re looking for, Little Howler, is ‘Come’.”

The door slid open, and Kit entered, approaching and taking a formal stance. “Most Respected Captain, I hope I am not disturbing you, or the Most Adorable Cub?” He let his long, bright pink tongue shoot out in the infant’s direction, making her laugh.

Hrelle’s smile became a grin. “Never, Kit. You have a recommendation about the Jem’Hadar?”

The reptoid adopted a more sober expression now, setting down the PADD in his webbed hand onto the desk. “Yes, Respected Sir: a phaser beam on Level 14, will be quicker and more efficacious than any lethal toxins I could recommend.”

The Captain leaned back in his chair, his own face matching the younger officer’s demeanour. “You couldn’t find even a temporary measure to reduce their pain and keep them nourished?”

Kit folded his hands behind him. “Unfortunately not, Respected Sir. The Dominion have had centuries to perfect not just the Jem’Hadar’s strengths, but their endemic dependency on Ketracel White. There may be a means of circumventing the various genetic and biochemical failsafes planted in their physiologies, but it will take far more time and resources than we currently possess.

The prisoners do not have that long, and all of your Stasis units are currently occupied by our own critically wounded, so suspended animation is not an option.”

“But disintegrating them is?”

Kit raised his head, his throat wattles flushing red-purple with emotion. “I have had time to study not just their bodies, but their minds. Their preferred option would be to die in battle, with weapons in hand, though I understand of course that we could not risk any of our people further in such a venture. I am aware that the pain they are experiencing will exacerbate as the deprivation of Ketracel White overloads their neural pathways… and they will feel like every one of their cells is on fire. It is little wonder that insanity precedes death from catastrophic organ failure.

Respected Sir, I have no particular love for these beings, given their past deeds and the threat they offer the Federation… but I have no desire to see them suffer either, hence my recommendation. My report also contains supportive recommendations from my team. I apologise for our failure.”

Hrelle kept his eyes on the young officer as he lifted up the PADD and scanned the cover page. “Thank you, Ensign, but there’s no need for you to apologise. It was a long, long, long shot that you could find even a temporary measure to help them, based on the Intelligence reports I’ve read about them. I suppose I was foolish to even suggest trying.”

“If I may quote one of your own sayings, Respected Sir? ‘If you don’t fish, you don’t catch’.”

He looked up again, affording himself a slight smile. “Well, I’m glad some of my Old Cat Babble sunk in with you Squabs, Back in the Day.” He set aside the PADD and regarded him. “Kit… do you have any thoughts about where you want to go once we return to the Fleet?”

Kit’s big bronze eyes blinked. “None, Respected Sir; I will go where Starfleet says I am needed, of course. I do have hopes… but only that the replicators at my next assignment have a wider range of insects available than the Iberia possessed. May I ask why?”

Hrelle leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his belly. “Well, in the aftermath of the Battle of Khavak, I fast-promoted our present cadets to Full Ensign status… an act which was met with less resistance from Commander T’Varik than I expected, though she pointed out that many of the Science, Medical and Engineering cadets still need to complete their technical qualifications, but can do so while serving onboard, preferably with direct supervision from an already-certified officer of those respective fields. I have people here for the Medical and Engineering fields, but none from Science.

In addition, I’ve had some promising feedback from your colleagues about how well you’ve managed the team researching the Jem’Hadar problem, and I haven’t forgotten how you’ve pitched in previously on Away Team missions when we were still fighting the Klingons-” He paused, smiling. “This is my tail-chasing way of asking you if you would like to be the Surefoot’s Chief Science Officer permanently?”

Kit started at the offer. “Me, Respected Sir? But I thought the Most Respected Counselor filled that role already?”

“Only as a very provisional measure; her qualifications, and preferences, lie elsewhere. Now, I can’t guarantee that you’ll get as rich and varied a set of duties as you might on a science vessel or survey ship, but then at present those are being diverted to assist in the War effort anyway.

Oh, and I should also point out that with the role comes a promotion to Lieutenant, Junior Grade, and all the responsibilities that come with the position and the rank.” He smiled. “If you need time to consider it, go right ahead.”

Kit’s mouth opened, but it took a moment before he actually responded. “No time is required, Respected Sir. When did you wish me to adopt this most unexpected and… most acutely appreciated role?”

Hrelle rose, opening a small velvet box on his desk and producing from it appropriate pips, walking around to stand before him. “There’s no time like the present, I say.” He reached up to the young officer’s collar, removing the Ensign’s pips and replacing them, before stepping back, looking proud as he offered a huge furred hand. “Welcome onboard, Lieutenant Kitirik.”

Kit shook it back, his grin as enthusiastic as his shake. “I am most supremely honoured, Respected Sir! And I will do everything in my power to convince you of the correctness of this offer!”

He sent an appropriate signal to Ops on teh Bridge. “I have no doubt on that. Report to the Second Officer for your duty roster and billeting assignment.” He indicated the closer door to the Bridge.

Still beaming, Kit nodded and proceeded, Hrelle following not wishing to miss out as the doors parted-

And Sasha, standing near T’Varik, C’Rash and Sakuth at Ops and Tactical, straightened up and announced loudly, “NEW LIEUTENANT ON THE BRIDGE!”

The rest of the Bridge crew rose from their stations, turned to face Kit, and gave three traditional Starfleet cheers.

Kit looked ready to cry with joy.

Hrelle stepped back and let the doors slide shut, looking to his second daughter, who watched and listened curiously from her chair by the window. “Awww, did you see his face? And if I know your big sister Sasha, she’ll be planning a monster of a celebratory party when we get back to the Fleet and get these people to safety.”

“ASHA!” Sreen replied.

Hrelle gasped, drawing up to her and kneeling down. “Did you just try and say ‘Sasha’? Are you ready for your first word? Great Mother! To be here for your First Word!” He tickled under her muzzle. “Come on, say it again! ‘Sasha’! ‘Sasha’! ‘Sasha’!”

Sreen drew in a big breath… and let out a screech and made his ears curl.

*

Deck 2 Fore – Bridge:

The Skrysa system was like 99% of the systems in the Galaxy, at least as far as Hrelle could discern: binary stars, some uninhabited planetoids, a belt of debris left over from its early creation. Nothing remarkable, nothing worthy of attention.

In other words, he thought, a perfect hiding spot. “Well, Captain?”

Sakuth stood near the Tactical station… and Hrelle noted the remaining tension in the scents of T’Varik and C’Rash , flanking her, a continued tension as they followed Hrelle’s orders and brought the ship to the coordinates Sakuth had given.. “Come to a stop dead ahead. They have hidden tracking stations surrounding his location, and will be monitoring us. Allow me to open a hailing frequency to them.”

Hrelle nodded to Giles at the Helm. “What do you know of this shelter of Agar’s?”

The Vulcan folded her hands behind her back. “We believe it is designed to hold approximately 120, with a small fleet of armed shuttles, phaser and disruptor banks, and complete self-sufficiency through power generation, aeroponic gardens and parts fabrications for at least 30 years.”

“Fricking cowards,” C’Rash muttered. “Hiding out while the rest of us carry on the fight against the Dominion.”

“Mr Agar’s perception is that our efforts are doomed, Lieutenant,” Sakuth replied, never looking back at the Caitian. “And it is the height of hubris to assume that we are inviolable and eternal. Galactic History is inundated with governments and powers who could not accept their own vulnerability to extinction.”

“You have known of his location all this time,” T’Varik noted coldly. “And yet made no effort to have him arrested?”

“For what reason, Commander? His operation here has not violated any Federation law in and of itself.”

“No, but his actions to fund this operation did, as is his use of a cloaking device. As usual, Starfleet Intelligence turns a proverbial blind eye.”

Sakuth turned to her now. “To serve a greater good. Which, for today, includes us.” She looked to Hrelle. “Captain?”

The Caitian looked to Ops. “Lieutenant? Open a channel.”

“Subspace Frequency 47, Lieutenant,” Sakuth added. “It was one employed by Agar in his communications with SI.”

Hrelle nodded. Sasha complied. “Hailing frequencies open, Subspace Frequency 47.”

The Vulcan straightened up. “Mr Agar, this is Captain Sakuth; we have worked together previously in my capacity as a Starfleet Intelligence operative. I am speaking on behalf of the Captain and crew of this vessel, whom I led to your location.

As you will no doubt be monitoring communications in this sector, you will be aware of the battle which took place in the nearby Khavak earlier this week. You will also be aware of the Jem’Hadar and Cardassian patrols in this area, seeking us. We have repairs to make on our vessel, and need a place of safety to do so. In return for your assistance, we are prepared to barter. Please respond.”

Silence.

“Mr Agar,” she added. “We have no desire to intrude upon your privacy. Nor do we wish to attract attention to you. We merely wish to take advantage of your cloaked state.”

Silence.

Hrelle rose up from the centre of the Bridge to join his senior officers at Tactical, looking to C’Rash. “Access Ma’Sala’s data she shared with us on cloaking technology.”

Sakuth followed his approach. “Captain?”

He ignored her, calling up scrolls of data. “The requirements to keep a Regula-type station cloaked indefinitely using contemporary Romulan technology...”

C’Rash and T’Varik joined him at neighbouring stations, the latter noting, “A Romulan Dha’kre-class industrial cloak would suffice, such as Romulans would use for orbital and ground-based installations.”

C’Rash nodded. “Which at last report were vulnerable to antiproton beams… programming to emit from the navigational deflector-”

“Captain, I must ask again what you intend to do,” Sakuth insisted.

Hrelle turned to her, but ordered Sasha, “Open a channel.” When she complied, he continued. “Mr Agar, this is Captain Hrelle of the Surefoot. We’re in desperate need of your assistance, and we’ve been told you might be interested in additional arms such as quantum torpedoes, in exchange.”

Silence.

“Captain,” Sakuth started. “I believe I should proceed to negotiate-”

“We also have information,” Hrelle continued, ignoring her. “There are flaws in your cloak, discovered by recent improvements to cloaking detection technology. We can show you how to counteract this.”

Silence.

“Lieutenant Shall, fire the beam.”

All eyes turned to the viewscreen, as a broad orange beam erupted from the Surefoot’s deflector dish towards one side of the screen, moving across the screen, sweeping up and down-

Until it connected, making a ghost image of a cylindrical station with platform extensions for docking and maintenance ports, and sensor and weapons pods.

The beam cut off, and the station vanished again.

Hrelle turned to Sakuth. “You weren’t sweetening the pot enough.”

The Vulcan’s brow furrowed. “Captain, you should prepare for the possibility that Agar might react violently-”

He leaned in closer to her. “I’m always prepared for that, Captain. From every potential enemy. Never forget that.”

Then a beep from Ops, as Sasha reported, “Audio signal from… somewhere just ahead, Sir.”

He nodded. “Put it through.”

Seconds later, a man’s gruff voice, which he assumed was Agar, filled the air. “One hundred quantum torpedoes, and the improvements to the cloaking device.”

Hrelle drew up. “We’re an ambulance vessel that’s just fled a battle. We have...” He glanced at C’Rash, who silently mouthed the answer. “Twenty-two torpedoes. Plus the improvements. We don’t have much of anything else, except enemy ships looking for us. And the longer we hang about, talking to empty space, the more likely we’re to arouse their suspicion about this location. Something neither of us wants, I think.”

There was a pause, and then Agar responded. “Proceed 120 kilometres forward, at one-tenth Impulse, then stop; you’ll be within our cloak. You can connect with Docking Port 1, which will be indicated to you once you see us. Keep your shields and weapons offline. Then I want to meet you, Captain Hrelle. Unarmed, and alone.”

“Agreed. Just send us the transport coordinates.”

“No transporters will be operative. I’ll have someone meet you at the airlock. Station out.”

Hrelle breathed in, glancing around. “Anyone want to protest against my going alone? No? Good.” He pointed to T’Varik. “You’re in command until I return.” He spared a glance at Sakuth before adding, “Needless to say, the chain of command stays within our own ranks. Understood?”

“Of course, Sir.”

He spared a final look at Sakuth. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain. Please remain on the Bridge in an advisory capacity.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Entering cloaking field,” C’Rash announced.

Hrelle faced forward in time to see the starfield shimmer, and the viewscreen become dominated by Agar’s station, with a beacon towards a docking part on the station’s starboard side.

“They’ve raised dampening fields,” Sasha detailed. “Blocking sensors, communications and transporters!”

“They have weapons locked on us!” C’Rash added with a snarl. “This is so many shades of crazy!”

“Calm your tails,” Hrelle told her. “Make no aggressive moves, give them no reason to open fire. As soon as we’re docked, I want Jonas and a team in exosuits out there repairing the Shiprot damage, at warp speed. And get the torpedoes ready for transfer on the antigrav trolleys… minus their antimatter yields and guidance systems.”

“You intend to cheat Mr Agar?” Sakuth asked, as the others moved to comply with his orders.

Hrelle smirked at her reaction. “Yes. I know it’s unethical, but I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that...”

TO BE CONTINUED IN...  PART 2