Cloak and Dagger

WARNING: PROFANITY AND SCENES OF VIOLENCE AND GRUESOME IMAGERY

Saddleworth, England, Earth – 52 years ago:

The ancient Emperor lay sprawled on the bed, wrinkled and feeble, staring up through rapidly-weakening eyes at his killers, the life quickly ebbing from him, but still desperate to speak.

His poisoners, his wife Agrippinilla, and her son and his stepson Nero, crowded him, Nero frowning in frustration. “What’s he saying? Why isn’t he dead yet? When do I get to be Emperor?”

“Quiet!” his mother scolded. “These could be the old fool’s final words!”

The ancient Emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus – more colloquially known as just Claudius – raised a hand and declared, “Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud… hatch out.”

Then he dropped his hand, and died.

Nero looked to his mother in confusion. “What does that mean? What?”

In the theatre audience, rapt to the intense death scene onstage, a twelve-year-old boy named Ian Trenagen wondered the same thing… though of course unlike Nero, he did not dare ask his own mother, who was sitting silently beside him. Being his mother’s son, he was well-versed in Terran history, but she had not told him that they would be travelling into the village to attend the play, so he had no time to prepare, and she had confiscated his Pocket PADD so he couldn’t cheat and access the Cynet to read up on it.

The village Theatre’s production of I, Claudius had been lengthy, a marathon of plots and counterplots, of deception and ambition, of lust and murder. Much murder. But despite the proliferation of killings, Ian struggled to stay alert, knowing of what was to follow once they left the theatre.

*

The winter night was cold and wet as the audience poured out, opening umbrellas as they made their way out to the tram stops and the autotaxi depot. Mother and he had their own private autocar, parked nearby, and she led her son along the dark, winding main street of the village, flanked by closed storefronts.

Lieutenant Commander Margaret Thatcher Trenagen was a tall, imposing woman with a burr of snow-white hair and an aquiline nose, reminding Ian of Claudius’ grandmother Livia as depicted in the play: always watching, always judging, always seeking weakness, advantage. She was a veteran instructor at Starfleet Academy in San Francisco, only occasionally returning home, these times rarely coinciding with Ian’s returns from boarding school. She held her umbrella truculently, as if vexed that the British weather chose to pour down upon her and make her as drenched as the hoi polloi, and her cultured British accent was clear over the sound of the rain. “Identify the protagonist of the play.”

Ian breathed in, clutching his own umbrella and keeping far enough from his mother’s side to prevent water from running down onto him. In the few instances where he had met her cadets and colleagues, he had received the impression that among them, Margaret Trenagen was a cold and humourless taskmaster, always formal and challenging. It gave Ian some small comfort to know that she didn’t treat him differently to anyone else. “Claudius is the apparent protagonist, Ma’am, being the main character, the narrator of the story. It is through his eyes that we see the Imperial Family through four Emperors, ending with himself. But Claudius remains passive for most of the play, surviving by playing the fool, and allowing family and friends to die.

Livia, in contrast, is more active. Though she lies, cheats, conspires against and murders anyone who is an obstacle to her ambitions, even to the point of poisoning her husband Augustus, she does what she does to keep in place a more stable and prosperous government than the Republic that Claudius desired.”

Mother offered no visible reaction to his answer; she never did, unless the reaction was in the negative. “You believe a repressive Empire that offers stability and prosperity is preferable to a totally open and free representative government?”

Ian repressed a smile as he recognised a particular turn of phrase she used. “There is no such thing as a totally open and free representative government, where all its citizens are accountable to the same laws; as noted by Professor John Gill in his 2258 paper on the Democratic Paradox, it can only exist as an ideal. Every government requires an internal security framework unaccountable to the laws that control the rest of its population.”

“The Federation has existed for over 150 years. It seems to have survived without such a framework.”

He was relieved as they walked through a side alley and entered the carpark, where their autocar awaited to take them to their home outside of the village. “Professor Gill’s paper also noted that such a framework does not have to be visible, or even officially acknowledged. In fact, the security framework would work better if the population was not aware of its existence, and so as not to be creative and careful about avoiding its attention. As Sir Francis Bacon wrote, ‘Scientia Potentia Est: Knowledge is Power’.”

Mother walked them to the autocar and stood outside it, making no attempt to unlock the doors and let them climb inside and get out of the rain. “And what was the significance of the line, ‘Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud, hatch out’?”

Ian looked up at her, seeing her face haloed in mist and rain and streetlamp light like some spectre. “Claudius had spent his life detailing a truthful account, as he saw it at least, of the activities of Livia, Augustus, Caligula and other members of his family who had underestimated him, saw him as a stumbling fool.

Agrippinilla and Nero burned the scrolls to hide the truth, but Claudius had prepared a back-up copy, hidden and destined to be found centuries later. Long after he and everyone else was dead, this information would be released, and he would have some revenge.”

He looked up at her, smiling and waiting for her to acknowledge his response in the affirmative.

Instead, she countered with, “Hobbes.”

He blinked. “Ma’am?”

Mother’s expression tightened; there was the negative. “While ‘Scientia Potentia Est’ is commonly attributed to Sir Francis Bacon, there is no known occurrence of this precise phrase in either his English or Latin writings. The exact phrase was written for the first time in the 1668 version of Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes. The error was obvious to anyone with intelligence.”

She took his umbrella from him, shook the rain off it, folded it up and tucked it under her arm, before doing the same with her own, and then opening the autocar door – just her own. “You disappoint me.”

He stood there in disbelief, rain beating down unchecked onto his head. “But- Sir Francis Bacon said something very similar- I’m certain I read-”

“Excuses are for the weak, not for our family. And remove that distasteful hurt expression from your face. Learn to accept defeat with decorum.”

He stiffened, and stopped wiping the rain from his face.  Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Yes, Ma’am. I won’t make that mistake again.”

She climbed into the autocar. “The house security system will activate at midnight. I suggest you don’t tarry, and use the time to reflect on your failings.”

Ian watched as the autocar door slid closed, and it drove away and left him behind.

He flipped the collar of his coat up, before beginning to follow the familiar ten kilometre route home, hoping the rain would end soon.

*

USS Surefoot-A, Deck 3 Fore – Arboretum – Present Day:

Agony shot through Sakuth’s skull like a phaser beam, sending her hurling backwards onto the floor. There was a high-pitched sound, cutting mercilessly into her very being, ripping away her discipline, her mental and emotional stability. Some sonic weapon employed by Hrelle-

No. he lay there, unconscious, as did his son. And there was no one else here except-

She winced and gritted her teeth as Sreen screamed again, the frequency affecting the discipline of the Vulcan agent.

Unprecedented levels of terror and rage swept through Sakuth, unchecked.

Even Hrelle’s bastard cubs were a threat.

A threat to Sakuth.

A threat to her mission.

A threat to the Federation.

Take whatever steps are necessary, Trenagen had ordered.

They all had to be eliminated.

Without hesitation, she drew the hidden miniature phaser from her jacket, rolled the power bar to a lethal setting, and fired it at the still-screaming cub in the chair.

The chair given to her by her grandmother, Fleet Captain Ma’Sala Shall.

The Head of the Mother’s Claws, the Caitian Secret Service.

Within the chair, hidden sensors detected the energy beam, and erected a force field bubble, absorbing the energy to strengthen its own power, even as other mechanisms within began broadcasting a distress signal on all channels...

*

T’Varik entered the Bridge, with Jonas Ostrow in tow, as she moved up to the Security station. “Computer: locate Captain Sakuth.”

C’Rash looked to Sasha at the centre seat, and then frowned at her partner as the computer replied, “Captain Sakuth is in the Shuttlebay.”

The Vulcan’s expression furrowed. “Computer: run Priority Internal Sensor Scan, Authorisation T’Varik Alpha One, locate all traces of invidium.”

“Working.”

“What’s going on?” C’Rash queried.

“Jonas has confirmed that the Shiprot infestation was faked, most likely by Sakuth. I believe she has also faked her continued presence in the Shuttlebay.”

“Then why are you scanning for-”

“Invidium is a substance employed by certain intelligence agencies as a biological container for cybernetic implants, because it’s rare and not easily detected by starship internal sensors. Recently, however, I had Chief Grev make modifications to the sensor algorithms to locate-”

“Invidium has been detected in the Arboretum,” the computer replied.

Sasha rose to her feet, looking alarmed. “Dad’s there, with the cubs!”

T’Varik stiffened. “Bridge to Captain Hrelle, respond immediately.”

He didn’t.

Suddenly the ship snapped to Red Alert. Sasha joined C’Rash at the latter’s station, checking, Sasha reporting, “Phaser fire in the Arboretum! And we’re getting a distress signal in there on a Caitian frequency from...” She looked up, eyes saucered. “Sreen?”

C’Rash moved to the doors, Sasha following. T’Varik followed as well, looking back at Jonas. “You have the Conn! Send Security to the Arboretum!”

*

Kami rushed up as soon as the transporter beam finished coalescing, embracing her mother and taking in her scent once more. “Mama! I’ve missed you! Missed you so much! Thank you! Thank you so much for coming for us!”

The older Caitian female with the dark fur greying along the sides hugged back, purring and sniffing too. “I will always be there for my family, Daughter of Mine. Always.” She drew back, still clinging to Kami, her smile broad. “And all of you are alright? The cubs? Esek, C’Rash and her Vulcan mate?”

Kami slipped an arm around hers and led her out into the corridor. “All fine. Esek just came back from that awful space station with twenty children that had been abducted. Got himself wounded in the process, of course, but I can’t stay mad at the fat bastard for too long. He gives me those big bronze eyes of his, and tells me about the cubs he rescued, their ordeal, and how he had to help them...”

Ma’Sala chuckled, shaking her head. “I remember a few times of you getting hurt falling out of trees, and then telling your fathers about the baby flutterbirds you were supposedly helping to feed up in the high branches. Speaking of which, I have some marvellous news from home-”

Then they stopped, as the ship went to Red Alert… and an alarm flashed on Ma’Sala’s wrist communicator.

And Kami stepped back instinctively as she saw her Mama’s entire demeanour change, from warm and relaxed, to something sharper, dangerous, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. “WHERE’S SREEN?”

*

Sakuth stopped firing, watching the force bubble around the infant’s chair continue to glow from the absorbed phaser energy, leaving only the Red Alert klaxon sounding overhead.

In the padded safety of the chair, Sreen tried screaming again, but she was hyperventilating now, barely able to catch her breath, and possibly even in danger of a cardiac arrest. The infant was no longer a threat.

She returned to Hrelle, prepared to take him somewhere else to finish her work-

-Until the Arboretum doors opened, and she turned and fired again.

Walls and plants sparked and burned, as Ma’Sala and Kami dove for cover, the former drawing a Caitian blaster pistol from her holster. “DROP YOUR WEAPON! NOW!”

Sakuth moved behind a tree, firing again. In her chair, Sreen caught the scent of her mother, and began screaming in panic for her.

The cry cut into Kami, every instinct exploding within her, driving her to emerge and retrieve her daughter before Ma’Sala could stop her.

Sakuth took the opportunity to fire at Kami, catching her thigh and making her cry out, spin and drop to the floor in pain, her leg and uniform smouldering. Still, she continued to crawl towards Sreen, until Sakuth fired at her again, burning the bulkhead in front of the Caitian, Kami barely crawling away from the blasts.

“STOP THAT!” Ma’Sala roared. “OR I WILL EAT YOU ALIVE!”

Sakuth was gathering her emotional and mental discipline once more, and took the opportunity to begin preparing her other weapons and equipment. “Fleet Captain, inform the Bridge that they will turn over command of this ship to me, or I will execute your family!”

“What? Who the frick are you anyway?”

From her meagre cover now behind a Betazoid thorn rose bush, Kami caught her breath, fought down her pain, and called out, “She’s Captain Sakuth- She’s one of Trenagen’s Section 31 people-”

Ma’Sala growled. “Trenagen?” She bared her teeth. “Enough! Stand down, and I’ll speak with the Bridge! Stop firing! Let my family leave unharmed!”

Sakuth ignored the offer, never expecting her own to be taken seriously anyway, activating a hidden control… and vanishing.

Kami watched, gasping. “She’s transported away!”

Ma’Sala scented and listened. “No! It’s a personal cloak! Stay where you are!”

“My cubs- my husband-”

“I said stay where you are!”

Then the Arboretum doors opened, and T’Varik, C’Rash and Sasha entered.

“Lock that door!” Ma’Sala barked at them. “Sakuth’s in here! Cloaked!”

T’Varik slapped her combadge. “Computer: Security Lockdown on Arboretum-”

A phaser pulse of lethal strength appeared from nowhere, racing towards T’Varik’s chest.

C’Rash tackled her partner to the ground, letting the beam strike the wall behind them and burn the protective coating. Overhead, the environmental systems kicked in, pumping strong compensating blasts of cool air into the open area, making the taller plants sway as if caught in a strong wind.

Sasha dove in the opposite direction, reaching for a short Deltan pufferball tree, ripping it out of its planted place.

C’Rash looked over at her. “Cousin! What the frick are you doing? Stay down!”

Sasha ignored her, grabbing the tree by its wet, gnarled roots and smacking its body against the vent, freeing thousands of tiny feather-like seedheads into the airwaves and creating a swarm of fluffy, sticky plant parts that spread quickly outward...

...Many collecting against a transparent humanoid outline on the Arboretum path.

Clever Cub, Ma’Sala thought, shouting, “There!” She aimed and fired, C’Rash following.

Energy struck the outline, overloading Sakuth’s cloak with feedback and breaking it. She took burning wounds to her chest and legs but dodged the resulting fire, limping away.

T’Varik tapped her combadge again. “Bridge! Emergency Medical Transport for the Captain, the Counselor and the cubs!”

Jonas’ voice responded. “We can’t, Commander! There’s some sort of transporter inhibitor present!”

Sakuth dropped down behind cover again, reaching into her jacket and drawing out a small cylinder, keying in the activation code and hurling it in the direction of the new arrivals.

Ma’Sala saw it arcing upwards. “TAKE COVER!”

The cylinder detonated a neuroleptic pulse, Sasha catching the worst of it, flooding her nervous systems with energy and sending her into spasms as she collapsed into a pile of compost.

Ma’Sala called out in Old Caitian, “C’Rash! Follow my lead! Charge and fire!”

The other Caitian grabbed her phaser and rose along with the Fleet Captain, both of them staying low but moving quickly through the brush on either side, firing at Sakuth to cover each other.

Sakuth stayed her ground, ignoring the huge burned chunk of her left thigh, reaching into her right boot and withdrawing a set of tiny brass spheres, holding them in her hand in the direction of the faster C’Rash and murmuring a command in Vulcan.

The spheres flew out like a tiny swarm on their own power, striking C’Rash in the chest and abdomen, flattening into discs and sending an electrical charge through her, dropping her like a neutronium weight.

Ma’Sala doubled her speed, claws bared as she leapt onto Sakuth-

And passed through her, slamming into the half-blasted tree behind her.

She twisted around, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, growling and swiping out repeatedly, her hand passing through Sakuth again and again as if the Vulcan was a ghost.

Sakuth responded by striking back, her hand apparently more than solid, cracking the Caitian’s muzzle viciously, and then again, breaking her collarbone.

Ma’Sala crouched back, teeth bared in pain and rage. “Molecular Phase Shifter-”

Sakuth stayed focused on her opponent, ignoring her own many bleeding, burning wounds. “Indeed, Fleet Captain, allowing me to make parts of myself intangible, or as dense as tritanium. You can do nothing to me in response.”

Ma’Sala stopped, clutching her broken paw as if in defeat... and smiled through a bleeding mouth. “Yes, I can, kussik... I can distract you.”

Sakuth’s brow furrowed, too late sensing that T’Varik had moved up from behind, her fingertips on either side of Sakuth’s head, her proximity allowing her to force a mindlink and temporarily paralyse her without having to physically touch her. Sakuth’s eyes widened, mentally fighting against the psychic attack.

T’Varik spasmed in pain. “Ca-Can’t- Can’t hold- she’s- fighting-”

“Then I’ll take the fight out of her,” Ma’Sala promised, drawing a multiphasic knife from a scabbard on her belt.

And drove it deep into the place on Vulcans where they keep their heart, the knife’s mechanisms finding and matching Sakuth’s phased frequency.

T’Varik released Sakuth as Sakuth dropped her weapons and other devices and clutched her wound, pea-green blood seeping heavily through her paling fingers as she staggered back, stumbling to the floor of the Arboretum… but still reaching into her jacket with her free hand for something else.

“She’s still armed!” T’Varik warned.

Ma’Sala drew out her blaster and fired again, striking the Vulcan’s free arm at the elbow… and sending the lower half of the limb burning and flying to the ground, leaving a smouldering stump.

“Now she’s only half-armed,” Ma’Sala growled, sheathing her weapons, her eyes still on Sakuth as the latter finally collapsed beside her excised limb. “Check on the others.”

T’Varik moved quickly to check on Misha and Hrelle, while Kami finished crawling to Sreen, reaching up for her. “It’s okay, Sweetheart...” She looked up. “T’Varik! My boys-”

“Esek and Misha are both alive.” T’Varik smacked her combadge. “Bridge! Drop the Security Lockdown! We need multiple Emergency Medical Teams in the Arboretum, now!”

There was a sound behind her, and T’Varik turned back to see Ma’Sala place a disc onto Sakuth, before the injured Vulcan and her various pieces vanished in a Caitian transporter beam.

T’Varik looked up at Ma’Sala. “She needs to be treated, and arrested!”

“I promise I’ll take care of her… after we take care of my family.”

*

Starfleet Academy, Earth – 40 Years Ago:

“Hey, you! Stringbean!”

Lieutenant Ian Trenagen turned in place, staring with a frown at the direction of the young, slight groundskeeper with the shovel in his hands. “Are you addressing me, Sir?”

The gaunt, prematurely-balding man replied in a tone which sounded like it was mocking Ian’s British accent. “Yes, I’m addressing you, Sir! There’s a reason I put up all those signs around telling people to stay off the damn grass!”

Ian raised her chin, and was about to respond, when a new voice with a gravely Russian accent intervened. “Please excuse him, Mr Boothby. He’s not from around these parts.”

“Obviously,” Boothby grunted and turned his back to them, sinking his shovel blade into an adjacent clump of compost.

Ian looked over at the path, where Admiral Pavel Chekov stood, grinning and beckoning for him to return. Ian did. “The warnings I’d received about the lack of manners on this side of the Atlantic appear to be true.”

Chekov chuckled; in contrast to Ian’s tall, thin, pale features, he was a shorter and stockier, his hair ash and his face a wrinkled, amused portrait. “You must excuse them; Etiquette was a Russian invention.”

Ian held back his initial retort – Philip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfied, in fact compiled the first comprehensive guide to modern etiquette in 1774 – well aware of the Admiral’s idiosyncrasy, as he stepped onto the pathway again. “May I help you, Sir?”

“Yes: walk with me a while.” As they proceeded to stroll, he added, “And indulge an old man’s insistence on helping a promising young officer at the start of his career...”

Ian rolled his eyes, the closest he would indulge in showing emotion. In the weeks since he had arrived to take a position as Academy instructor, carrying on the legacy of his late mother, Admiral Chekov had approached him several times, with a view to enlist him in Starfleet intelligence, of which Chekov was the current Head. “Admiral, as honoured as I am that I would even be considered, I must once more respectfully decline. I will be quite content remaining on these hallowed grounds.”

Chekov stared ahead, his gaze growing distant, his voice sharp. “These ‘hallowed grounds’ as you put it are here only because others ensure that any threats to them, to everything we hold dear, are dealt with! Brave men and women, out there, risking their lives, losing them-” He calmed down again. “Forgive me, Lieutenant, I am somewhat distracted. Today is the fortieth anniversary of the death of the Greatest Of Us: Admiral James T Kirk.”

Ian paused, nodding; no one could study here, graduate from here, without knowing that name. “I’m sorry, Sir. I know of your long association with Admiral Kirk.”

Chekov nodded. “He was my first Commanding Officer when I was just a Squab fresh from the Academy. He inspired me. He inspired many of us. Even his death was fitting: it was during the inaugural flight of the Enterprise-B, saving hundreds of civilian lives threatened by a strange, destructive ribbon of energy. And because of that, we became alerted to the danger of that phenomenon, and have instituted general alerts for vessels to avoid it at all costs, no doubt saving countless more lives.”

He looked to Ian. “You could do that, Lieutenant. We need smart, vibrant young men like you out there, not hiding behind a podium lecturing bored cadets on Cicero and Herodotus and other famous Russian historians.”

Ian eyed the older man, seeing the twinkle of mischief in his grey eyes. “It is a family tradition, Sir, to impart the wisdom of the past, to the denizens of the future.”

Now Chekov stopped and faced him. “I knew your mother, Lieutenant. I knew how… demanding she could be, to her cadets, to her colleagues… and I have no doubt to you, too. Tradition is all well and good… but not at the expense of the waste of potential. I look at you, and I see someone destined for more than just a quiet, safe life here. Especially in this uniform; as Admiral Kirk was so fond of saying, ‘Risk is our business’.”

Ian was prepared to argue further with the well-meaning old man.

Except his arguments appeared to be hidden somewhere, as if still packed away with his belongings in his new quarters.

In the weeks he had settled into this assignment, he had felt himself almost… overwhelmed. Not by the work, but by the prospect of doing it for years… decades… maybe occasionally moving onto related subjects, or writing the odd paper for the Starfleet Historical Journal.

It felt… wicked… just contemplating denying his late mother’s desires for him.

It was that which drove him to not deny Chekov once again, and instead argue, “Sir, I’m trained in History and English Literature, not Command or Engineering or the Sciences. What could I do outside of a classroom?”

Chekov smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, that’s the beauty of working for Starfleet Intelligence. It’s a branch of the Service that embraces people with all manner of skills and backgrounds and temperaments. It’s not all gunfights, shuttle chases and trysts with buxom women-”

Ian smiled. “I would certainly hope not about that last one, Sir.”

The Admiral kept a hold on the younger man. “Come, let’s go to my office, and talk more privately about where you could end up when you’re my age...”

*

USS Surefoot-A – Present Day:

“First Officer’s Personal Log, Supplemental: The victims of Captain Sakuth’s assault are in various stages of recovery. Captain Hrelle remains unconscious, but the Hrelle family and my partner Lieutenant Shall are awake and healed, with no significant after-effects.

After Captain Sakuth was… disabled by Fleet Captain Shall, the Starfleet officer was beamed over to the Mother’s Fury. I will of course make the requisite requests for her return to face a Starfleet Court Martial; the efficacy of such a request, however, is not certain. In the absence of contact as yet with Admiral Tattok or Starfleet Command, I am relying on the next-best source of wisdom...”

*

On the viewscreen, Weynik leaned back in his chair and folded his hands onto his stomach, his black eyestalks wavering slightly. “Well, that’s the last you or anyone else will see of Sakuth. She’ll be in whatever passes for Hell for Vulcans before long. And Trenagen will follow soon, too, no doubt. Good riddance to both.”

T’Varik sat behind Captain Hrelle’s desk in his Ready Room, the better to hold this encrypted conversation. “Regardless of her actions, and of her commanding officer’s possible involvement, I am not entirely comfortable with allowing that to happen.”

“But what exactly can you do about it? What can I? Ma’Sala did you a favour by taking Sakuth to a place you have no oversight or jurisdiction over; if Sakuth was still on your ship, or mine, we both know she would never face an actual trial.

This is bigger than both of us, and from what I’ve gathered from my father, this private little war of spymasters really started years ago. I’ve watched Trenagen and Shall interact, and I’ve personally heard her directly threaten his life if he interfered with her family again. Today’s events are sure as Hemra going to count as that. And knowing how Caitians get when their families are in danger…

Listen, I understand, Sakuth’s a fellow Vulcan-”

T’Varik’s face hardened. “Captain Sakuth has meant far more than that to me… in the past. Today she attempted to openly murder my godchildren; our racial connection and shared past means nothing to me now. But there is no proof regarding Admiral Trenagen’s involvement, just hearsay.”

Weynik nodded back. “And that’s what it will always be, though we all know better. Don’t expect there to be any open legal proceedings about this, or any uncovering of Section 31, or the Mother’s Claws.

So, this is what you should do: you’ll officially file your request to the Caitians for Sakuth’s extradition, as per Regulations. They will come back with a lie about her escaping, or dying in custody. Evidence will pop up from nowhere later that she was in fact a Dominion or Romulan spy, or some nonsense like that.

And Trenagen? His shuttle will mysteriously explode in some terrible accident, or he’ll have a heart attack in bed. Or he’ll just vanish, becoming another mystery.

It won’t be legal, or truthful. But it might be just.

We have another day in Silent Running until we get back to the Fleet, so in the absence of orders from Starfleet Command, follow the book. Give my best to Wide Load and the family. I’ll come over for a visit later tonight.”

T’Varik nodded again. “Thank you again, Captain.” She ended the transmission, staring at the black screen. She had once been intimate with Sakuth, had even planned on marriage with her. Sakuth’s long association with Starfleet Intelligence, and from there, Section 31, in the decades since that time, had obviously eroded Sakuth’s integrity profoundly.

In another reality, had T’Varik accepted the offer of joining SI and both of them marrying, could that have tempered Sakuth’s ruthlessness and zeal? Or could T’Varik have ended up just as amoral as her former lover?

She chose to cease further pointless introspection. 2.23 seconds of it was far too much of an indulgence.

*

Hrelle stirred, his nose catching the scent of his whole family around him, and the scents of Sickbay beyond them. He purred.

“Papa!” Misha cried, moving in and grabbing his forearm. “Wake up, Lazy Lump! I fight the Bad Lady!”

Mention of that dragged Hrelle from his sedated state, and he bolted upright, ignoring the obvious pain that action produced. “Sakuth! Where is she-”

Kami moved in, pressing her paws on his shoulders. “She’s been taken care of, so relax. You’ve been through a psychic attack, your psilosynine and other neurotransmitters are through the roof, and you’re not ready to get out of bed.”

Now he frowned, looking around again. “What happened?”

Squirming in Sasha’s arms, Sreen cried out, demanding, “Papa! Papa!”

“Little Howler!” He looked to her, reaching up to tickle under her muzzle, but focused on Kami, his voice soft but insistent. “What happened?”

Kami stared back, equally insistent, but replied, “Sasha, please take the cubs to our quarters. Papa has to sleep.”

“No!” Misha protested. “I wanna stay with Papa!”

Kami looked to Sasha now. “With our return to the Fleet only a day away, I think we can spare the replicator credits for some tavaberry ice cream for them.”

Misha reached out and took Sasha’s hand, tugging her to the doors. “Papa has to sleep.”

Sasha looked between the couple, ending with, “Glad you’re still with us, Dad.”

“Me too, Runt of the Litter. Talk to you later.”

As the cubs departed, leaving them alone in their corner of Sickbay, Kami tightened her hold on Hrelle’s shoulder, her voice soft. “Sakuth neck-pinched you, assaulted Misha, and tried to shoot Sreen with a phaser.”

“What?” Teeth bared, he pushed past her and jumped to his feet.

And immediately regretted it, as he collapsed to his knees.

Medical staff keeping a discreet distance saw and started to help, but Kami waved them back, helping him back onto the biobed. “I told you that you weren’t ready to get out of bed. Ass.”

He grunted, adjusting his rear to free his tail, before swallowing, recovering and replying, “Continue.”

Kami nodded. “That chair that Mama gave us for Sreen had a few safety features she didn’t tell us about, like shields and Red Alerts. Mama, T’Varik, C’Rash, Sasha and myself entered, and fought Sakuth. Some of us were wounded, but we’ve recovered. Mama stabbed Sakuth, and then had her beamed to her ship.”

Hrelle looked staggered from the news. “But… But everyone is okay now?”

“Yes… Esek, do you remember what Sakuth was doing in your head? What she wanted?”

He nodded, swallowing. “It was about Ma’Sala… Sakuth wanted information on her… and...”

“And?” Kami echoed, prompting.

“And… Sakuth was trying to place subconscious commands in my brain, to… to kill Ma’Sala, and then myself. Trenagen wants her dead.” He stared upwards, shocked. “I wouldn’t hurt her- you know I wouldn’t-”

Kami nodded, bending down and rubbing the side of her muzzle against his. “Give yourself a couple of hours here to recover-”

“No- I’ve got to warn Ma’Sala-”

His wife rested her paws on him, keeping him from rising again. “She’s debriefing T’Varik. I’m going to see her now. You rest, we’ll manage.” She looked over at Doc Masterson, who was standing nearby trying not to listen. “Zeke, he’s on Medical Leave for the rest of the day. If he tries to get up, sedate him. Got it?”

The human tipped an imaginary hat. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Kami turned back, smiling as she rubbed her muzzle against Hrelle’s. “Rest. I’ll be back in a bit.”

*

Kami found Ma’Sala in the Ready Room, recovered from her own injuries and talking with T’Varik. “-There is no body left, Commander. There appeared to be a self-destruct mechanism inside her, that disintegrated her upon her death, presumably to eliminate any evidence.”

T’Varik nodded, though her expression told more, looking to Kami as the latter entered without preamble. “Then... I will make a note of it in my report. Admiral Tattok may have further questions for you, however.”

“Understood.” Ma’Sala turned to her daughter. “How is Esek?”

Kami glared at her, responding with, “T’Varik, may I have a word alone and undisturbed with the Fleet Captain, please?”

The Vulcan looked between the two Caitians, nodding in seeming comprehension. “Take all the time you need; I will be on the Bridge.”

Once the woman departed and the door closed, Ma’Sala drew closer. “Kami, I’m-”

Kami growled at her to stop in her tracks.

Ma’Sala drew back. “Daughter-”

“Don’t call me that,” Kami snapped coldly, her claws bared, her tail twitching with barely-contained rage. “I’m not here to speak with my Mama, or the Fleet Captain of the Caitian Planetary Navy.

I’m here to speak to the Head of the Mother’s Claws.

The organisation that doesn’t officially exist. The shadow organisation that is supposed to protect our people from harm.

The one you’ve run since I was born. The one which has touched my life, in ways you think I don’t know about.

But I do. I’ve known for a long time.”

Ma’Sala’s breath quickened. “Kami...”

Her daughter began pacing around, as if her anger and anxiety was galvanising her limbs. “When I was Sreen’s age, and you were still nursing me onboard your ship, Ferasan terrorists launched a poison gas attack that nearly killed me… I learned much, much later that you tracked down the Ferasans responsible. You didn’t have them arrested, did you?”

Ma’Sala approached again. “Kami-”

Kami backed away. “Did you?”

Her mother paused. “No. Kami, please-”

“When I was a Lieutenant in Starfleet,” Kami continued, pacing again. “I was abducted by Cardassian soldiers, wanting to obtain the secrets of some of my high-ranking Counseling patients. Before Starfleet could rescue me, however… you and your people did. You didn’t turn the Cardassians over to Starfleet Security. Did you?”

“Kami-”

“Did you?”

The older Caitian was taken aback by the rising level of emotion from her daughter. “No.”

Kami was bristling now. “My first husband Rmorra was shot in the back and killed on a nameless little planetoid by some smugglers looking for archaeological treasures. When I returned to duty later after burying him and comforting our son Mirow, I asked about the Starfleet investigation towards apprehending them. I was told the smugglers had vanished from the Galaxy, with absolutely no trace whatsoever.” She stopped and stared at her. “Are you responsible for that, too?”

“Yes.”

Kami nodded at that, and continued pacing again. “And last, but assuredly not least, four years ago, the Bel-Zon allied with the Skarosians and sent Vlathi assassins to this ship to kill us. Obviously they failed, but not before almost killing Misha. After that, there was a report that the Bel-Zon and the Skarosian Imperium Palace had been destroyed… by a tactical nuclear device. Allegedly it was Skarosian rebels.” She nodded again. “You again, obviously. Are there other instances, Ma’Sala? Ones I haven’t mentioned, ones I’m not even aware of, and never will?”

Ma’Sala stared back. “Yes. I’ve tried to protect you, all of you, whenever I could. When I couldn’t… I’ve avenged you. My authority with the Mother’s Claws has given me access to intelligence, to resources and opportunities that few others possess. I’ve dealt with threats to you, to Esek, to Sasha and the other cubs-”

Kami stabbed a clawed finger at her. “But today is different. Esek could have been left brain damaged today. My son too. I was wounded, Sasha was wounded, C’Rash, T’Varik. My beautiful baby girl was almost shot! Not because of some external threat, but because of some... feud... between you and Trenagen.”

Her finger, her whole arm shook with venom. “You brought this down onto us today. We became pawns in whatever Shadow Game you two are playing.”

“Kam-”

Kami bared her teeth. “I’m not done speaking. I have no doubt that you’re ready to assure me that you’ll take care of all this, like you always do.

What I’m telling you now, is that whatever you have planned… is not enough.

Not final enough.

Not bloody enough.

You will end this.

You will make those responsible suffer.

You will make those responsible know why they are suffering.

You will make sure that everyone who might even consider threatening, let alone harming your family, in the future, knows about this, and thinks twice, and twice again.

I want you to teach them all a lesson that will still be talked about when your grandcubs are grandparents.

And if you ever want to see those grandcubs, or me, again… you’ll do this.

Do you understand me, Ma’Sala?”

Ma’Sala stood there, stunned by the outburst.

“I asked you if you understood me,” Kami growled.

The older Caitian glared back, feeling more beaten, more angry, more mortified, than she could remember feeling in a long, long time. “Yes.”

Kami lowered her arm. “Don’t contact me again until it’s done.”

Then she turned and departed.

Ma’Sala stood there, alone, struggling to keep control.

Then she raised her wrist communicator to her muzzle, fighting to keep her voice clear, calm. “Commander Ksara, beam me back. And prepare for us to move out.”

The female’s voice filled the air. “Move out, Ma’am? We’re still a day away from the Thirteenth Fleet.”

“We’re out of danger of the Dominion forces. The Ajax can escort them the rest of the way. Ready the Slipstream Drive, and set a course for the Antares Maelstrom.”

“The Maelstrom? That’s not on our flightpath back to Cait, Ma’Sala. This is highly irregular-”

“I’m declaring a Mother’s War.”

There was a pause, and then Ksara responded with, “Course set, all weapons will be armed and ready, Ma’am.”

*

Narenda III – 31 Years Ago:

Captain Ian Trenagen, Starfleet Intelligence, moved quickly over the rubble, ignoring the bodies, leaving it for the Starfleet and Klingon teams to manage. The clouds moved swiftly overhead; there was a strong, steady breeze, and he was glad that it was carrying the smoke… and the scents of death… away from him.

On more secure ground, nearer the part of the city that had suffered less damage in the attack, they were stacking the Klingon bodies like cordwood. He didn’t judge them for that apparent callousness; he knew Klingons had no reverence for their dead.

Of more interest was the lack of hostility he sensed between the Klingons and the Starfleet officers assisting them in the recovery of survivors of the Romulan attack. It was unprecedented, in his experience; although open hostilities had ceased almost eighty years ago with the Organian intervention, and the start of the Khitomer Accords, there was still much lingering resentment, on both sides.

But now? Now there was almost respect between them.

And all it took was a starship and her crew: the Enterprise-C, under the command of Captain Rachel Garrett, who had responded to the distress call from the Klingons on Narenda III to the Romulan attack. It had cost them all their lives, but it had bought the Klingons time, time to bring in reinforcements and drive the Romulans back-

“You there!”

He stopped and turned, his hand resting on the strap of the medical shoulder bag he was carrying since beaming down from the Wyoming, one of the first of the relief ships to arrive. As he approached, he recognised her as the Wyoming’s First Officer, speaking with several of the Science personnel assisting in the rescue operation. “Commander?”

Silva LaForge eyed him, her walnut-coloured skin glistening with sweat from the humidity, her gaze critical. “Is there a reason you’re wandering off on your own, Doctor…?”

“Lehnsherr, Ma’am,” he replied instantly to the prompt, fully immersed in his cover identity. “Erik Lehnsherr, on loan to the USS Victory from the Darwin Genetic Research Station on Gagarin IV, as part of the Starfleet Medical-”

“I didn’t ask for your bio, Doctor Lehnsherr,” she interrupted curtly. “Just where you thought you were going.”

He nodded. “Of course, Ma’am. I was called to assist a team who have detected lifesigns trapped in a subsection of the local Klingon Hall of Justice.”

“Lifesigns?” one of LaForge’s team echoed. “The whole area is filled with irregular pockets of temporal energy, affecting our scans! How are they managing to detect anything?”

“For that matter, why is there temporal energy around here in the first place?” another asked.

“We’re down here to save lives,” LaForge snapped at them. “Not write a physics paper.” She glared at Ian again. “Well? Better get going, Doctor.”

Ian nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.” He turned and briskly walked away, concerned about the science officer’s comments about temporal energy…

He found the hidden access, a vertical hatch that had obviously been covered in debris, but from the fresh phaser burn marks around it, had since been cleared. He glanced around, ensuring no one could see him enter and descend, entering darkness and thick, musty air.

He emerged into a dark corridor, the cybernetic implants in his eyes adjusting to the darkness, as he reached for his communicator, flipping the top open and indulging in a smile. “Sorry, Sport. I beat you to it.” He waited for a response; when none was forthcoming, he asked, “Léon?”

Then he saw the lights up ahead, and pocketed his communicator and quickened his pace.

He entered a windowless computer records room, its décor as stark and functional as anything else Ian had seen among Klingons… and a muscular, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man sitting with his boots up on a console, hands folded together on his stomach, grinning, his accent with a smooth French spice to it. “Looks like I beat you to it.”

Ian glared at him. “Protocol is to inform your mission partner when you acquired the target.”

Captain Léon Landry looked hurt beneath the comma of sable hair hanging down over his forehead, and indicated the Starfleet data extraction devices they had brought, and were now connected to the Klingon terminals. “I was busy. Besides, the look on your face when you realised I got here first was priceless.”

“You weren’t present. How would you know?”

Landry stood up, rolling his neck and shoulders as if he had performed the Labours of Hercules himself to get here. “I know you, My Paladin.” He drew in, beaming. “All too well...”

Ian stepped around him, setting down his case and opening up his disguised equipment. “We need to hurry. Starfleet’s detected temporal energy residue planetside as well as in space. At present they’ll most likely attribute it to the weapons fire in orbit, rather than a side effect of the experiments being conducted here, but I’d rather not tarry and be caught.”

Landry stopped the banter and joined in, assisting in removing and planting the gravitic charges around the room, that they would set off after they got what they came for, and forever hide what was down here. “Data Extraction is at 45%, We’ll be out of here before you can say Tea and Crumpets.”

“Tea and Crumpets,” Ian muttered.

After a moment, Landry clarified, “Okay, so maybe not that quick.”

Ian allowed himself a smile. He had worked with Léon for three years now… and enjoyed every moment of it. He was intelligent, funny, strong, supportive… immensely handsome… a true professional. He was a rock.

But now, as they finalised the work, he showed a few cracks as he checked the extraction. “52 Percent.”

Ian looked to him. “What is it?”

The French man stared ahead. “The recently-closed temporal rifts in orbit… the residual energy here on Narenda III… they were all caused by the experiments conducted the Klingons conducted here?”

Ian nodded. “Undoubtedly, though we can never know the full effects of what they did until we examine this data.”

“We knew the Klingons were experimenting with time here. And apparently, so did the Romulans, hence their attack on Narenda.”

Ian nodded again, less readily now. He had learned long ago that every government conducted experiments that no one admitted to, but which everyone knew about. It was all part of the Game. Still, he offered an ambiguous, “That… might be true. Romulans can be frustratingly inscrutable.”

“Perhaps.” Landry straightened up. “But the point is that we knew. And that Starfleet Intelligence ordered the Enterprise to respond to the Klingons’ distress signal and assist them… at all costs. And it did cost: seven hundred men and women on that ship.”

Ian regarded him. “What are you asking, Léon?”

“Did they die to defend the Klingon civilians here? Or to keep the Romulans from stealing the data, so that we could steal it instead?”

Ian breathed in, taking his hand; his lover could be charmingly guileless at times, given his profession… “The families of Captain Garrett and her crew will be informed that they died valiantly, to save innocent lives. It is not a falsehood. That we will also benefit from the work in temporal weapons research that the Klingons conducted here does not alter that fact.” He indicated the computers. “If all this was not here, those seven hundred valiant men and women would still be heroes. Their sacrifices will still mean something.

And though few will ever know what we’re acquiring here, or appreciate its benefits, I think we’re already beginning to see something from the sacrifice of the Enterprise blossom up on the surface: Klingons and the Federation, working together to a common goal. Who knows what might be harvested from that?”

Landry took in his words, before finally smiling back. “Such a silver tongue on you, My Paladin.”

Ian smiled now. “Wasted on words.” He moved in to his lover’s lips, pausing only to check on the Data Extraction process: 58%. Good. Enough time to remind himself that man did not live on bread alone...

*

Caitian Flagship Mother’s Fury – Present Day:

Sakuth felt the pain shooting through her skull. She tried to use her Vulcan discipline, her years of training, to suppress it, control it. But it ran through her, unchecked.

And with that pain, came fear. She tried to use those same disciplines, that same training, to suppress it, control it. It still ran through her, unchecked.

She tried to move, but couldn’t feel her limbs. There was a sound of medical equipment, the smell of chemicals… and musk. Animal musk.

She opened her eyes into a burning bright light centimetres from her face overhead.

She swallowed, but it hurt. She tried to speak, but it sounded rough, raspy, barely audible even to her own ears. “F-Fleet Captain…”

The light was moved away. Ma’Sala Shall came into view, glaring down at her. “I’m here.”

Sakuth ground her teeth. “Release me… I demand it- Leaving-”

Ma’Sala shook her head. “I promise you, you’re in no condition to demand anything, let alone leave. I have questions for you. Trenagen keeps a secret, unregistered starship near the Antares Maelstrom, one he uses as a mobile base of operations for Section 31. How do we track it?”

Sakuth felt numbed, presumably from whatever drugs had been administered to her by the Caitian’s lackeys. But she reached within, seeking her cybernetic communicator… but not finding it. Obviously the Caitian bitch had neutralised it.

She forced herself to calculate the odds of her escape or rescue.

It proved… incalculable.

So be it. She had been prepared for the possibility of dying in defence of the Federation for 28.754 years. She had no family to leave behind, no friends, no one worthy of her attention. Not even that pathetic, weak-willed T’Varik, who now chooses to couple with animals like Ma’Sala.

Without a second thought, she looked up at Ma’Sala and announced in an obscure dialect of High Vulcan, “Heh ni i tev-tor.”

Ma’Sala offered no reaction.

Sakuth blinked, not feeling the expected response to her verbal trigger. “Heh ni i tev-tor.”

The Caitian waited patiently.

Sakuth’s heart quickened. “Heh ni i tev-tor! HEH NI I TEV-TOR!”

Finally Ma’Sala responded, crossing her arms. “In addition to stripping you of all those marvellous little spy toys, we neutralised the suicide implant in your brain. And the subspace communications device. And the transponder. Quite a lot of hardware rattling around up there, Vulcan. I’m amazed you had room for thoughts of trying to murder infants.”

And unaccustomed fear raced through her. “N-No- I never- an accident- hormonal upset- misfire-”

“Liar. My granddaughter’s chair contains more than shields and alert devices; it contains recorders and sensors. I saw you. I saw you deliberately aiming and firing at her with a lethal phaser charge. And I saw with my own eyes what you tried to do to the others, and to me.”

She leaned in closer. “Count the last hours of your life on the fingers of one paw. Before that, though, you will tell me everything I want to know.”

Her chest was rising rapidly now, as was her anxiety. She tried to move her head, to seek a weapon, escape, communications, but she couldn’t even do that. “I… I will not talk… M-Mental d-disciplines...”

The Caitian reached out and grasped the Vulcan’s chin between humb and forefinger. “Yes, you’ll talk… since we were in your head already, we made a few modifications. The part of your brain that handles all those tricky little mental disciplines… the one that controls pain… and the one governing emotional control, too. You’re feeling pain, and fear, right now. But it’s only just the beginning for you.”

Sakuth gritted her teeth, struggling to overcome the paralysing agents to her limbs. “N-No… I… I am in… in control… in control...”

“Maybe,” Ma’Sala admitted, not sounding too convinced, letting go of her hold on Sakuth’s chin. “And maybe not.”

She reached for something-

AGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONY-

Sakuth couldn’t remember how long she had been screaming, or when she had stopped. Swept up in the aftermath of the torrent of extreme sensation, she could barely remember herself.

But distantly, she heard Ma’Sala informed her calmly, “That was a ten-second stimulation of your pain centres. Here it is at twenty seconds-

AGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONYAGONY-

She drowned. She drowned in excruciating sensation, the likes of which she couldn’t have imagined before.

And Ma’Sala continued to stand there, and demonstrate the device at thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty.

At sixty, Sakuth had a stroke, before the flanking machines revived her.

After a ninety second demonstration, Sakuth talked. And talked.

And Ma’Sala calmly listened, and sent the appropriate orders to her Bridge crew.

And Sakuth continued to look up at the Caitian, the pain now eclipsed by defiant rage, her voice a rough slurred scrape of exposed bone as she spat, “I’ll… I’ll kill you… your family… your whole wretched planet of animals… I swear I’ll do it...”

Ma’Sala leaned in closer, fixing an unwavering gaze on the Vulcan. “Oh, I think you’ll find that to be too much of a challenge, in your current physical state.”

Then she stepped back, activating another control.

Overhead, a holographic mirror came to life.

And displayed to Sakuth in terrifying clarity exactly what Ma’Sala meant: the Vulcan’s naked body, or what was left of it, lay there, her arms and legs partly or completely amputated, the stumps cauterised with surgical phasers, and with dozens of life support and cybernetic cables inserted into what remained of her head and torso like some hideous Borg construct.

And that was when her sanity broke.

*

In a holographic realm that didn’t exist outside of subspace quanta, a number of individuals appeared from different points throughout the Alpha Quadrant, each an isomorphic projection of themselves from various secret locations, the links maintained through ancient technology unknown to the rest of the Galaxy.

The realm took the form of a medieval stone hall of intricate arches, plain black banners hanging down from infinite heights, and flickering fire torches on the walls.

Each individual appeared, looking around, barely acknowledging the others, staying quiet as expected.

Until the latest arrived: a short, elderly male Ferengi in an expensive grey suit and leaning on a latinum-topped cane glanced around, declaring loudly, “Well? Where’s the food? Who’s responsible for the catering at these shindigs? When I attend a secret meeting I expect at least some chilled grub worms!” He cackled to himself.

Senator Nitik, current head of the Tal’Shiar, looked at him with a mix of suspicion and disdain. “What is a Ferengi doing here?”

Nearby, Minister Satok of the V’Shar, the Vulcan Security Bureau, looked at his racial cousin with equal disdain. “This is Comptroller Bang, of the Ferengi Hidden Securities Commission, newly admitted to the Shadow Council. Your recent predecessor agreed to his inclusion, given the changing political structure of the Quadrant, and should have made you aware of it. Clearly Romulan administrative practices remain as efficient as ever.”

“Your opinion is never welcome, Vulcan.”

General Korolah, the fat, scarred Klingon leader of the Imperial Qib’leth, grunted. “So, who ordered this Emergency Session? I have better things to do than listen to you pointed-eared petaQs argue once again.”

“We all have better things to do, Klingon,” clarified Legate Yajac, the head of the Cardassian Obsidian Order, pacing now.

Standing near Satok, Prince Jougguh Sur, of the Orion Syndicate Overlords, sneered, his green hairless face brightening. “Like bootlicking to your new Dominion masters?”

Yajac sneered back. “The Order is not responsible for the perfidious actions of our current government. Had our own power and influence not been diminished significantly after the Battle of Orias-”

“The Massacre of Orias, you mean,” Korolah corrected, grunting again. “How did you manage to keep your head after that debacle? Whose boots did you lick?”

“Mind your own business, Klingon!”

“I believe we can all agree,” Satok cut in, before the rest of the Council contributed to the petty bickering. “That we are all extremely busy. Who summoned us? And where is Admiral Trenagen and Fleet Captain Shall?”

“Maybe they eloped?” Korolah quipped.

Standing apart, the projection of Bang chuckled. “Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting this Ma’Sala Shall. A furry female cat… with a tail… oh, the possibilities...” He chuckled as he reached up and stroked one of his ears.

The others looked to him, Nitik grunting, “Yes, I can clearly see his worth to this assembly now.”

Then another projection joined them: Ma’Sala. She looked around them. “I’ll keep this brief: The Shadow Covenant we have lived by for over a century states, among other things, that the families of those who stand here are sacrosanct, off-limits, untouchable by each other. No targeting them. Not for surveillance, not for recruitment. And especially not for assassination.

Ian Trenagen of Section 31 broke that Covenant.

My daughter... my kin-son... my grandcubs… nearly died because of him.

The price you pay for trying to harm my family is… I collect your fucking head.”

Her projection reached out of view, bringing back the battered, separated head of Sakuth, holding it by the sable, blood-matted hair, and ensuring everyone present had a good, hard look at it. “Just like this fucker here. Trenagen will soon follow… along with anyone here – anyone – who helps him.

“Now,” she roared, “If any of you sons of bitches have got anything to say, NOW’S THE FUCKING TIME!”

No one spoke.

She threw the head out of view. “I didn’t think so.”

Then she vanished.

The remaining Shadow Council members looked to each other.

Bang’s ears twitched as he breathed out and announced, “On second thought, she might be a little too aggressive for my tastes...”

*

Starfleet Academy, Earth – 28 Years Ago:

“Hey, you! Stringbean!”

Captain Trenagen turned, seeing Boothby trimming a brightly-coloured rosebush, looking no different than when he last saw the groundskeeper twelve years before. “May I assist you?”

“Yes! You can still stay off the grass!”

Trenagen looked and walked away without comment, remaining focused on his reason for being there, just after dawn, before classes or morning exercises. He hadn’t been back on Earth for long, had left Léon asleep in their quarters in San Francisco. The Academy felt a strange, unwelcoming place, which was ironic, given how close he had come to making this his permanent place of residence-

“Captain.”

Trenagen turned, straightening up formally at the approach of the older Admiral, the current Chief of Starfleet Intelligence: a gaunt elderly human male with a trimmed greying hair and beard, a man with the tongue-twisting surname of Matuschanskayasky, which prompted those who associated with him to refer to him by a more diminutive moniker: M. Trenagen, however, remained as formal as ever. “Admiral, thank you for coming at this ungodly hour.”

M drew up, offering a hand. “I rarely sleep; I hate those little slices of Death.” As they shook, he noted, “Congratulations on your assignment on Setlik III. Excellent work, especially under such trying circumstances at the end.”

Trenagen nodded. ‘Trying circumstances’… It had been a long month there, with Léon posing as a communications engineer providing upgrades to the outpost, and Ian as his partner, getting to know the families and colleagues on that little world, while they waited for a double agent to deliver them the latest decrypter from the Cardassian Central Command. Ian had grown bored with the assignment, maintaining a banal domestic facade, becoming familiar with the other occupants of the outpost, waiting for the damned double agent to finally arrive and show himself.

Well, the agent came… quickly followed by a Cardassian militia, ruthlessly seeking to retrieve the decrypter. It had been a brutal, intense firefight, lasting days, and towards the end, Ian half-feared that they wouldn’t make it. Fortunately, the Rutledge had already been on its way, the Captain’s family being stationed there. Starfleet managed to drive the Cardassians back, though over a hundred innocent lives were lost… including the Captain’s family.

But Trenagen considered that a small price to pay. “Thank you, Sir. I assume the decrypter has remained classified?”

M nodded. “The official story is that the Cardassians mistakenly believed that we were going to launch an assault into their space from Setlik III; certainly the Cardassians aren’t going to publicly mention the decrypter.” He gauged the Captain’s expression, before nodding to a more remote area of the grounds. As they strolled together, he continued, “So, what has prompted my best operative to request a meeting outside of official channels?”

Trenagen paused, as much to channel his own courage as to feign care about ensuring discretion. He had been planing this for some months now, was almost completely certain that he was taking the right action. But it didn’t lessen his apprehension at how M would react. Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Sir, of late I have been conducting my own investigation into certain actions that have occurred within Federation space. Certain suspicious actions.”

M nodded as they moved along towards an older clump of trees that would be ideal for offering shade on hot afternoons, but which now only provided chills. “Indeed? And what specific sort of ‘actions’ are you referring to, Captain?”

Trenagen breathed in. In for a penny… “On Stardate 24566.82, a set of four decommissioned Soyuz-class border ships – the Kalispell, the Billings, the Havre and the Missoula – were being delivered to the Qualor II Surplus Depot for disposition. They disappeared at Ivor Prime near the Typhon Expanse. Six weeks later, the Depot reported the ships had been there all along. The skelton crews assigned to ferry them later appeared on the crew manifest for the USS Nenavis.”

“A minor administrative oversight,” M countered mildly. “You could always contact the personnel on the Nenavis to fill in the details.”

“I would – if the Nenavis existed as anything but data in the Starfleet Starship Registry. It’s listed as patrolling the area bordering the Typhon Expanse, but tertiary searches I have made of maintenance schedules, retrofit schedules, patrol recordings and personnel updates of the Nenavis are contradictory in many places.”

M stared ahead, asking, “Well, I will certainly run an investigation into this phantom starship of yours, Captain-”

“Forgive me, Sir, but I have much more to say. I found other names on the Nenavis crew manifest, including scientists whose identities I recognise from a prior assignment you gave me, involving Klingon research into temporal weapons research.”

“A coincidence, perhaps?” M offered.

“Then there’s the Weapons Decommission Facility on Barisa Prime. On Stardate 25101.44, it was evacuated for five days following unusually strong solar storms, storms not predicted by the local solar probes. There were also eyewitness accounts of four unidentified Miranda-class starships involved in the evacuation, without actually taking any Facility staff onboard.

On the return of the evacuees, the Facility Director reported 350 isotons of subspace isolytic warheads destined for dismantling were missing; subspace isolytic elements were also noted as employed in the Klingon temporal weapons research. The report was later redacted as an administrative error on the Facility’s part. Then there was the unexplained failure of subspace security stations between Barisa Prime and the Expanse at the same time as the alleged solar storms.”

“Such things happen, Captain,” M replied neutrally.

“And finally, there were alerts sent by the colony on Archer IV, again near the Expanse, on Stardate 25684.12, about an alleged fleet of Romulan warships deep in the Expanse heading towards Federation space. Those reports, like the reports of the warhead theft and the missing Miranda-class starships, were later redacted as false images caused by outpost sensor malfunction.”

M stopped in his tracks, facing Trenagen, his hands behind him. “And what do all of these random minor mistakes and mysteries indicate to you, Captain?”

“That the Romulan invasion had been real, but that the threat had been neutralised utilising an unofficial small fleet of vessels employing temporal weapons banned by the Third Khitomer Accords. Exploration of the Typhon Expanse was scheduled next month by the USS Aries, but this has been changed at the last minute, and put on hold for the foreseeable future, for reasons unknown.

In fact, the reasons were to prevent an official discovery of the battle before efforts could be made to either clear away the evidence, or allow natural forces to remove it.”

M regarded him for a moment, before asking, “Are you suggesting Starfleet conducted an illegal operation to defend the Federation?”

“No, Sir. I’m saying an unofficial agency did so. An internal security framework that is not officially recognised, and which employs... extralegal methods to achieve its ends. This hypothetical organisation – let’s call it, say, Section 31 – became aware of the invasion beforehand and took action.”

M raised his chin, smiling. “I’m rather surprised at you, Captain. Section 31 is a myth going back to before the birth of the Federation, the name supposedly based on the original Starfleet Charter, Article 14, Section 31, which allowed for extraordinary measures to be taken in times of extreme threat.

A branch of Starfleet Intelligence did adopt the name for a short time during the First Federation-Klingon War almost a hundred years ago, to capitalise on the mystique that had built up over the idea of Section 31 in the previous century. They even designed an insignia for it, a solid black version of the Starfleet arrowhead. But that ended quickly, due to public dissatisfaction.”

Trenagen smiled back. “This is of course only a theory, Sir. And admittedly not a perfect one, as two questions remain: why wasn’t Starfleet made aware of the threat and allowed to take open action, and where did the original intelligence about the invasion came from, with the Romulans having closed their borders to the rest of the Galaxy for the last 36 years.”

M continue to stare, glancing around here and there before finally conjecturing, “Perhaps… an official acknowledgement of the threat could have led to a public demand for a military response, possibly even a new War, one we are not prepared to fight, now that we are currently engaged with hostilities from the Cardassians and the Tholians.”

He glanced up at some birds that had chosen to land on a nearby tree branch and declare their presence to the world. “As for the source of the intelligence… I would conjecture that, though there are no official lines of communication open between the Federation and the Romulans, there are still lines between their respective intelligence agencies. Perhaps the Tal’Shiar provided that intelligence to this hypothetical Section 31 of yours?”

Trenagen’s forehead furrowed. “Why would the intelligence agencies of opposing powers collaborate in such a fashion?”

M smiled. “Historically, such agencies can possess an agenda greater than blindly following whatever regime is in place. Perhaps the Tal’Shiar believed such a War now would be the ultimate undoing of their Empire? Or perhaps they wanted the invasion to be defeated, and the Praetor who initiated the invasion would be removed from power, and replaced by one more amenable to the Tal’Shiar’s interests?”

Trenagen stepped back. In his research on Section 31, he had expected to find an organisation that was willing to take extraordinary measures to protect the Federation from its enemies… not that they were also cooperating with their opposite numbers among the enemies.

And M seemed to read his mind. “The Shadow Agencies may have more in common with each other than they do with their mercurial governments. In fact, they may even meet remotely in neutral cybernetic territory over secure communication lines to discuss matters of mutual interest, along with smaller but long-standing internal intelligence agencies, such as the Vulcan V’Shar, the Tellarite Ghleshlig, the Caitian Mother’s Claws, and others. But Section 31 is one of the few that is not officially acknowledged,

If it existed, of course.”

Trenagen kept his gaze fixed on his superior. He had already dove head first into the black waters, he may as well keep swimming. “If it existed, it would do better for itself if it was more careful, as demonstrated by my investigative efforts.”

M nodded. “Assuming, of course, that measures weren’t already in place to detect the curious. That Andorian friend of yours at Memory Alpha you consulted, for instance, may already be a Section 31 agent, intentionally feeding you intelligence to test how much you might uncover.”

Trenagen struggled to maintain a controlled expression…. but couldn’t keep a stab of apprehension from reaching within him. That he had been as careful as he could be, but they were still onto him from the very start, both impressed and intimidated him. Rein it in, show nothing, nothing…

Fortunately M continued without expecting a reaction from him. “Ian, I have been your commanding officer for over ten years since Admiral Chekov died, and have access to your psychiatric profile; I know you even better than your lover. You brought this to me not to expose a covert organisation… but to join it.

But you need to understand what it really means. Its operatives are burdened by the secrecy that gives it its strength. Few will know what they do, who they are. They get no medals, no recognition, no promotion. They are as much Shadow as their agency.

But they still exist. And they make a difference.”

M unhooked the clasp holding the front of his brick-red uniform jacket… revealing a solid black Starfleet arrowhead emblem inside the lining.

Then he hid it again.

Ian stared in disbelief… it was true.

The years he had spent in Starfleet Intelligence, he had bent the rules, even broken them… but still, yearning to do more, to do what he was doing now, but without the burden of official accountability. . . “Yes.”

M looked to him. “Yes, what?”

“You have made me an offer… my answer is Yes.”

M looked at him. “Before we begin to enlighten you further, we should talk about Captain Landry.”

Trenagen brightened. “He’ll be more than willing to join as well, Sir, I know it-”

“This profession of ours,” M interrupted gently. “Is not merciful to personal relationships. For a profession that cannot even be acknowledged publicly, that cruelty is augmented exponentially. Consider that, Ian.”

Trenagen nodded politely. The thought had occurred to him, over the years. What if Léon, or he, were forced into a situation where either were in danger, where the needs of the mission took precedence?

Then he dismissed it. Everything would work out for the best.

*

USS Imperator - Present Day:

Trenagen sat behind his desk, his tea ignored and growing cold, staring at the blank screen, as if half-expecting the problem to solve itself.

His intercom chirped for attention. He breathed in deeply before responding with, “Talk to me.”

“Admiral, we’ve been unable to achieve a trajector lock on Captain Sakuth’s transponder. It most likely has been neutralised. Should we continue?”

Trenagen’s brow furrowed, and he steepled his fingers. “No. Maintain Red Alert, continue on course.”

“Aye, Sir.”

His Ready Room was quiet once more, leaving him to his thoughts. Sakuth had been one of his longest-serving, most promising agents: zealous, tenacious, talented, pragmatic. Another few years, and he might have groomed her to take his place leading Section 31.

She was now undoubtedly dead, because of Ma’Sala Shall. He no longer had a contact on the Surefoot, but he was certain that she on her way, in her flagship, prepared to bring about the Day of Reckoning with him, after all these years.

He was not prepared to see that Day too soon.

He turned in his chair, looking up at the main viewscreen. “Computer: Open Secure Channels, Emergency Priority, to the following: Minister Satok, Legate Rajac, Prince Jougguh Sur, and General Korolah.”

He waited, mentally gauging his choice of contacts, those most willing to assist him at this time, for various reasons. The rest of the Shadow Council will be less helpful or useful-

“Secure Channels Connected.”

Trenagen breathed in again. “Onscreen.”

The viewscreen split into four sections, revealing a familiar Vulcan, Klingon, Cardassian and Orion, staring back… and from the expressions on at least some of them, he could see that they already knew the reason for his call. But he also knew he still had to proceed regardless. “Thank you for responding so quickly. I take it you are aware of the threat we now face from our Caitian associate-”

The Orion Jougguh grunted. “What do you mean ‘we’, White Man? I heard her threaten you.”

“She was as brusque as always,” the Cardassian Rajac noted. “And as clear in her intent. At least, that’s what the severed head of your Vulcan lackey she had in her hands told us.”

“She,” Trenagen continued, setting aside that revelation. “Her entire race in fact, represents a clear and present internal threat to the Alpha Quadrant-”

“Save your lies for others, Admiral,” the Klingon Korolah sneered. “This has never been about any threat. Except to your own personal safety.”

“Ma’Sala claimed you broke the Shadow Covenant,” the Vulcan Satok informed him. “And attacked her family. Is it true?”

Trenagen looked to Satok, gauging how much of a lie to employ to people he had known and worked with for years. “My operative may have been… overly eager about how far she should have pursued her mission to obtain vital information Fleet Captain Shall has been withholding, for her own selfish reasons-”

“Do not speak to us about selfish reasons,” Jougguh declared sharply. “You have made this cat come hunting for you.”

“Perhaps,” Trenagen conceded. “But the fact remains, her quest for vengeance will upset the balance we have forged here.”

“We are not some Brotherhood of Spies, Admiral,” Korolah declared with a sneer,“We meet on occasion to discuss matters of mutual interest; the rest of the time, we are lying to, spying on and stealing from each other. As for you, better for you to face death with some shred of honour… or at least, as much honour as an attempted baby killer can scrape together.”

Korolah ended his side of the transmission.

Trenagen turned to the others. “If an appeal to your sense of stability is falling on deaf ears, perhaps a more selfish motive might sway you? In return to any assistance you might be able to provide me, I will offer a consignment of transwarp coils my office obtained from an ancient wreckage of a cube-shaped vessel we discovered, as well as other technologies, classified information… I can even arrange for the reassignment of key Federation territories to your governments-”

“Save it,” Rajac told him. “The Obsidian Order is struggling to rebuild our infrastructure in the wake of the Dominion takeover; we do not have the resources to assist you, let alone take advantage of whatever you might offer. It was a pleasure to work with you, Admiral.”

Rajac ended his side of the transmission.

Jougguh Sur frowned. “I, on the other hand, have the resources to assist you. But I will not.”

Trenagen frowned back. “You have allowed yourself to be intimidated by the Caitian female. How disappointing; I expected better of you.”

The Orion laughed, “Taunt me like a schoolboy all you like, for all the good it’ll do you! I have looked into the eyes of the female after your blood. You could not pay me enough to add myself to her death list.” He leaned in closer to the screen. “Also… I never liked you, Ian. You were always a stuck-up, superior arsehole.”

Jougguh Sur ended his side of the transmission.

Trenagen was left with Satok, the human’s expression softening more as he looked at his last hope. “Minister… Satok… how long have we known each other?”

“27.134 years, Ian.”

“Yes. Satok… I admit that I might have miscalculated in my actions towards the Caitian. That my concern for the threat she and her race presents-”

“Ian… let us not waste each other’s time. I have known you, and Fleet Captain Shall, both long enough to get the measure of both of you. She is undoubtedly independent and impulsive by nature, like much of her race, and on occasion has taken the initiative… but she and the Caitians have never really been a threat to the Federation.

No, your mutual animosity was driven by emotional factors; neither of you has ever liked the other. And any possibility of rapprochement was destroyed following the tragic incident with Captain Landry.”

Trenagen flinched at the sound of the name, and glared back. “You’re not going to assist me, are you?”

The Vulcan’s expression softened, almost appearing regretful. “Unfortunately, my responsibilities with the V’Shar preclude me from doing so.

Ian, I have always appreciated our collaborative efforts in the defence of the Federation, and you have demonstrated a rational, insightful mind… at least, for the most part. I presume the infrastructure of Section 31 is prepared for what is to come?”

Trenagen reached for his teacup, more for something to do than to sate his thirst. “Yes, everything is in place for my replacement… should it become necessary.”

Satok nodded, looking as emotional as any Vulcan could be in the presence of offworlders. “You can only be succeeded, Ian, not replaced. And... perhaps you might prove to be triumphant in your inevitable confrontation?” He held up his hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Admiral.”

The screen went blank.

Trenagen stared at nothing. He had half-expected this response from them; at least they had the decency to return his calls, and offer their farewells… in their own singular fashions.

He considered Satok’s words. Yes, the discord between Ma’Sala and he stemmed from far more than a difference in politics. And yes, he could possibly win in the coming conflict… but his outlook on life did not lend him to much optimism.

He grimaced in pain, before tapping the black combadge on the collar of his undershirt. “Bridge: prepare for battle.”

*

Starfleet Intelligence HQ, Earth – 20 Years Ago:

Admiral Trenagen picked at the plate of hors d’oeuvres Léon had proffered him, amazed that how substandard the food was even in the upper echelons of power. One of his colleagues referred to these meetings as ‘The Rubber Chicken Festival’. Trenagen had begun to see the reasoning behind it-

“Ian?”

He turned, setting aside the plate at the approach of the very man who had coined the phrase. “Gregory, a pleasure as always.”

Admiral Gregory Quinn drew up. A senior officer in Starfleet Operational Support Services, he was an older human, though both men shared the same snow-white hair and hangdog expression that always triggered remarks about their always appearing miserable. “Ian, has there been any more news about the Stargazer attack?”

Trenagen folded his hands behind him; following the recovery of the crew of that ship in the Maxia Sector, there had been than one person who had asked him about the incident. “We are still collating the intelligence from the survivors.”

Quinn frowned. “What, no idea about who attacked them?”

“The tactical data retrieved from the escape pods on the attacking vessel was limited, but it does appear to have been the victim of an unidentified vessel.” He paused and enquired, “May I ask your interest in the details?”

The other man glared back, before relaxing his expression. “My son. He’s in his final year in the Academy, and he’ll be graduating into a Galaxy where we’ve had conflict with the Cardassians, the Talarians and Tholians, where the Klingons and Romulans are tearing into each other, and now there’s a potential new threat. Maybe even that legendary race of cyborgs we keep hearing are out there...” He shook his head, smirking. “We seemed to have had a more peaceful, optimistic time in the years since we were Squabs, eh, Ian?”

Trenagen controlled his expression, recalling the exposed infiltration of Utopia Planitia by Martian Separatists, the machinations of the Cosmostrator, the incursion by extradimensional aliens from Folded Space, the suppression of a terrorist attack from Omega Glory, the Second Planet Killer, and others. Events that almost occurred in the past three decades, events secretly countered by Section 31 under his control, and would utterly demolish Gregory Quinn’s guileless attitude about this ‘peaceful, optimistic time’. “Indeed. If you’ll excuse me?”

He moved away, focusing on a small collective of Caitians in the red and black uniforms of their Planetary Navy, speaking with Admiral Alynna Nechayev, a young, slim, blonde woman, who had made a name for herself dealing with the Cardassians, and was fairly explicit about her ambitions… something Trenagen could appreciate. “Admiral Trenagen, have you met Fleet Captain Ma’Sala Shall, and her entourage?”

Trenagen turned to the coal-furred Caitian female. He was in fact already acquainted with her, having met her in infrequent virtual Shadow Conferences over the years, but of course that was completely unofficial. The Conference isomorphic projections were limited in their fidelity; here and now and in the flesh, her musk, her tense stance, her dark imperious eyes looking down in judgement at him… made him even more irritated. He put on his best mask of cordiality. “No, I have not had the pleasure. Welcome to Starfleet Intelligence Headquarters, Fleet Captain. Is this your first visit to Earth?”

The Caitian faced him, her paws resting on the wide black belt of her uniform, near a sheathed blaster and knife, and from her response was equally willing to keep their Shadow relationship secret. “No, Admiral, I was here ten years ago, at the graduation of my daughter. She’s in Starfleet.”

“Indeed?” Trenagen responded politely, already knowing of Shall’s daughter, a Counselor, married with a young male offspring… including the incident a year ago, when a Cardassian Militia unit abducted and held her for several days, attempting to glean secrets from her. The Fleet Captain broke protocol and sent her own forces in to rescue her – and take bloody vengeance upon the unit – without clearing the matter with Trenagen.

And the female remained completely unapologetic about it, and frankly arrogant in her lack of deference to him as the head of the Shadow Agency watching over the whole of the Federation. “I also understand that your forces have driven back the latest Ferasan incursion on Cait’s outer colonies; congratulations are in order. Perhaps now your people will be free to fulfil your obligations as a Federation member world and redirect some of your considerable Navy resources to supplement Starfleet?”

Shall bristled, her tail twitching. “I’m certain we’ll do that… when the Federation Council decides to do more than send official condemnations to the Ferasan Patriarchy every time those kussiks decide to invade Caitian territory?”

From the corner of his eye, Trenagen noted the reaction from Nechayev regarding the two of them, but ignored it. “Well, ‘Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die’...”

She frowned. “That’s an idiotic philosophy.”

He frowned back. “It’s from a very famous poem, by a very renowned Terran, reminding us that we are creatures of duty… something someone in your position must understand?”

“There’s duty, and then there’s self-inflicted ignorance,” Ma’Sala replied curtly. “I choose not to be ignorant. The Ferasans have invaded Caitian space four times in the last half-century; at none of those times did the Federation Council authorise Starfleet assistance to us. They’ve always treated each war like some minor catfight. And you expect us to assist you in fighting enemies that have nothing to do with our people? Kiss my furry ass.”

The Caitian and the human stared at each other.

Then Nechayev spoke up, looking hesitant to break the pregnant pause. “Fleet Captain, Commander Kenney of the USS Victory has asked to meet you, to thank you for the Counseling services your daughter has provided to members of his crew recovering from the Cardassian War.”

Ma’Sala offered a final glare at Trenagen, before turning to Nechayev. “Lead away, Admiral.”

She and her entourage of equally arrogant-looking female Caitian officers walked away without any further acknowledgement of Trenagen.

Trenagen watched their departure.

“Ian?”

Trenagen turned as Léon drew up, ignoring propriety to slip an arm around his. “Was that the Caitian you told me about? She seems formidable.”

“She’s a threat,” Trenagen announced simply. “Do not underestimate her.”

*

Antares Maelstrom – Present Day:

The angry coruscating swirls of red and orange energy clashed and fought on the viewscreen of the Bridge of the Mother’s Fury. In comparison with the round and oval designs of Starfleet Bridges, this one was more rectangular, narrowing towards the viewscreen, with officers lining stations on either side, with the Fleet Captain’s chair towards the rear, buffered from behind by her First and Second Officers’ stations.

Ma’Sala sat as still as she could, staring ahead, taking in the reports from her people.

“Ionic interference from the Maelstrom is significant… compensating shield frequencies...”

“Attuning disruptor cannons, wave guns-”

“Arming quantum missiles, fighters on full alert-”

“There’s a power drop in the Slipstream Drive, possibly from the ionic interference-”

“Focus the sensors on the Maelstrom, they’ll use the interference as cover-”

“No,” Ma’Sala said suddenly, rising to her feet, her tail still, never taking her eyes off the viewscreen, and capturing everyone’s attention. “Let me see the debris field.”

The image on the viewscreen shifted as ordered, from the fiery, chaotic Maelstrom, to the cold, serene field of rubble and dust, the remnants of a solar system that had been ripped apart aeons ago by the astronomical phenomenon.

“Full scans,” Her First Officer Ksara reported. “Nothing, Ma’am. The field density is too thick for them to approach us from that direction-”

“The Vulcan told me they possess a phasing cloaking device,” Ma’Sala informed them. “Allowing them to stay invisible, as well as pass through solid matter without disturbing it. They’ll think we’ll be focusing on trying to track them from the direction of the Maelstrom.”

She said nothing more. She didn’t need to say anything more.

“Running antiproton scans towards the debris field,” Ksara reported. “Nothing… nothing...”

Ma’Sala didn’t reply. She knew her prey well, knew his tactics, knew his attitude.

Knew the hate that had grown between them over the years would finally end today.

Guilt washed over her as she recalled her daughter’s words, saw and smelled her entirely-justified anger at her mother, for allowing Ma’Sala’s Shadow life to affect her personal life so profoundly. She knew how close it had come to losing Esek or Kami, or Misha or Sreen, or Sasha or T’Varik… because she hadn’t done this sooner.

Now was her chance to make amends. Even if it killed her.

Which it still could; like most of the Shadow agencies, Section 31 possessed exotic technology from various sources, technology far in advance of conventional forces, but limited not just in order to maintain a tactical advantage, but because of scarcity of required materials. The Mother’s Fury possessed some tricks of her own, but would it be enough to-

Ksara’s shout snapped her from her thoughts. “Chroniton surge wave detected, one-one-nine-Mark-three!”

Suddenly explosions close to the starboard side of the hull sent the ship reeling. Her Bridge crew relied on their seatbelts; Ma’Sala relied on her grip. Over the sound of their Emergency klaxon, she shouted, “Evasive Pattern 4-7! Raise shields, parashift frequency pattern!”

The ship lurched again, and the lights flickered, as Ksara reported, “Starboard Wave Guns 1 to 4 damaged! Hull breaches on Decks 14 Fore and Mid!”

Ma’Sala looked behind her. “Are there more chroniton surges?”

Ksara glanced down at her station. “Yes, but what does-”

“They have temporal-based weapons! Torpedoes projected several seconds into the future to our projected locations, untrackable by normal sensors! Shields can’t keep them out! Helm! Randomise our movements!”

“Ma’Sala!” Ksara snapped, “How in the Seven Hells are we supposed to find an enemy whose invisible, intangible, and fires weapons we can’t-” She paused as another explosion rocked them sharply. “Port Wave Guns 6-9 down! Ma’Sala-”

Ma’Sala didn’t let her First Officer finish, knowing and agreeing with her. “Computer: Arm Paraphasic Flux Warheads, Authorisation Shall-One! Tactical: Subspace Echogram Sweep, find the general location of that ship! Launch Warheads and feed sweep data for Quadrangulation! NOW!”

*

From the prow of the Mother’s Fury, a pack of four missiles launched, sweeping sharply together around towards the debris field and spreading out, their arrays emanating flux waves over transphasic frequencies, seeking anomalies, patterns within the apparent chaos… finding… focusing… before detonating and temporarily transforming small parts of normal space into low-level Chaotic Space, neutralising cloaks, phasing devices, even temporal warheads.

A ship came into view: black as onyx, with the standard Starfleet design of four swept-back nacelles mounted onto a secondary hull, with a sharp, pointed primary hull.

And then it broke apart.

*

On the Mother’s Fury Bridge, a junior officer looked up and asked, “Did we damage them?”

“No,” Ma’Sala replied simply, recognising the design: Prometheus-class, the latest offering from Starfleet, a pure combat vessel with multi-vector capability, able to split into three independent sections, each section possessing formidable firepower… and that wasn’t even counting whatever other classified toys Trenagen might have equipped it with. Louder now, she ordered, “Get all weapons back online! Ready the backup generators for the shields! We’re going to need them!”

All right, you withered old kussik, let’s dance…

*

USS Potemkin, Orthanc Sector – 13 Years Ago:

It was all Admiral Trenagen could do to not to lose his temper. He had to maintain control, show no emotion. Such displays were for weaker men. Instead, he remained at the rear of the Bridge and patiently announced, “We require more speed, Captain.”

In the centre seat before him, Captain Amanda Chen had to raise her voice to be heard over the protesting whine of her ship’s engines running at Maximum Warp, violating the laws of space and time to intensities that made the Universe threaten retribution. “You know we’re already going as fast as we can, Admiral.”

Yes, he knew. He had been out performing his duties as Chief of Starfleet Intelligence when the alert came, and bereft of his own private transport, he commandeered the services of the Potemkin to get him into the next sector as quickly as possible. Yes, he knew the limitations of the vessel compared to his own, and that it, Chen and her crew were doing everything they can.

Still, he insisted, “Override the safeties, Captain. Consider that a direct order, if it helps you find the courage to take the risk.”

The Bridge crew looked in his direction, while trying not to be seen to do so. Chen, on the other hand, rose from her chair and strode up to face him, her demeanour taut but controlled, her authority belying her short stature and round, guileless-seeming face. “With respect, Sir, I don’t need the buffer of an order from a superior officer to find courage. Lieutenant, ETA to Isengard?”

Nearby at Ops, Lieutenant Will Riker, a fresh-faced young officer with intense, dynamic eyes and swept-back hair, glanced at his station. “1.6 hours at present speed, Ma’am… but we will not be able to maintain present speed for that long. Engineering reports the warp coils are reaching the point of catastrophic failure, and we’ll end up dropping to sublight and waiting for replacements.” He keyed in some figures and added, “If we reduce speed to Warp 9.1, however, we’ll reach Isengard in 5.3 hours.”

Trenagen glared at him. “That is not acceptable, Lieutenant.”

Chen moved to stand more between the two men, making an effort to keep herself the focus of Trenagen’s ire. “You’ll have to learn to accept it, Admiral. The Isengard crew are fortunate that there were vessels passing the system when they sent out their alert, and that one of them was able to respond to the request for an evacuation. We’ll get there in plenty of time to collect the survivors from them.” She paused, and then offered, “Unless there’s something more we need to know about the observation post, Admiral? Something outside of the mission brief you gave us?”

Trenagen stared back; he knew Chen’s history, of course, knew she was a decorated veteran of the Cardassian War, knew she was not naive, and that there had to be more to Isengard than just what was in the official records.

But that didn’t mean he was about to admit to anything. “You have all the information you need to do your job, Captain.”

Chen glowered, before turning to her Science Officer. “Mr Xiragg, have our sensors told us anything more about this… phenomenon?”

The Bolian’s bald blue head darkened and creased with concentration as he hunched over his station. “It’s a growing field of polaric radiation and nucleonic particles reacting to natural pockets of null space in the system to create… fractures in time. The fractures are joining up like cracks in ice, producing instability that is affecting the normal fabric of space. The cause is… uncertain. The potential is disturbing, especially to the inhabited planet in the system.”

Chen turned back to Trenagen, her expression tightening further. “Admiral, I’m going to ask you directly, for the record: is there any connection between activities on Isengard and the time fractures?”

Trenagen drew up, silently admiring her for her courage in standing up to him… and in covering herself and her crew by confronting him publicly. Of course, he couldn’t tell her the truth: that Isengard did function as an offworld observation post studying a pre-Warp civilisation… in part. The rest secretly furthered the Klingon temporal weapons research, taking advantage of the natural pockets of null space in the system to hide the evidence from the Orthanc natives… and from Starfleet and the Federation.

So he looked her straight in the eye and responded, “No, Captain. No connection whatsoever.”

Riker spoke up again. “Captain, we’re getting a signal from Isengard- no, two signals, one audio/visual, the other encrypted- I’m working on decryption-”

“Belay that, Lieutenant,” Trenagen snapped, his stomach twisting, looking back at Chen. “You will store the encrypted message in your computer until further notice, and make no attempt to decrypt it. Is that understood, Captain?”

Chen stared back at him, her face speaking volumes, before responding, “You heard our orders, Mr Riker. Let’s see the other message.”

On the main viewscreen, the image of the starfield dilated to almost impossible extremes was replaced by a large Operations Centre, with smoke and alarms in the background that seemed to complement the interference in the signal… but still clearly displayed one man, a dark-haired, bronze-skinned human male in a Starfleet uniform, looking haggard but relieved to receive the transmission. “Potemkin, this is Captain Léon Landry, in command of the Isengard Observation Post.”

Trenagen contained his emotions on seeing his partner again; he had sent Léon here a month before, to wrap up the weapons part of the research, reassign the relevant staff and remove all traces, before meeting up with Trenagen for some long-overdue shore leave on Risa. It should have been a straightforward operation. Should have been… “Léon, what the Devil are you doing there still?”

“I had to stay behind – the Security protocols required my presence to get them sent to you. You should still be receiving the data transmission.”

Beside Trenagen, Chen moved to call up an additional screen, providing images of the outside of the station: built into a huge egg-shaped lump of rock, with various extensions, ports and arrays sticking out of it at various angles… but behind it, rivulets of blue-white vortex energy were reaching out towards the rock like some hungry predator.

Trenagen’s heart quickened. “We’re receiving it! Now get to the rescue ship!”

But Landry’s sober mien preceded his words. “It just left; if it had stayed any longer, it would have been caught in the gravimetric grip of that monstrosity out there.”

Trenagen glanced at Chen. “Raise the vessel! Now!”

Chen nodded to her crew to follow the orders, as Landry frowned. “Admiral, no- it’s too dangerous for them to come back- I knew the risks when I stayed behind-”

Trenagen ignored him, still fixed on Chen. “What ship left one of our people behind?”

“A Caitian Shikari-class escort, the Broken Paw, part of the security for a small colony convoy just outside the system- they were the only vessels close enough-”

Caitians… Trenagen forced down his distaste to order, “Raise them! NOW!”

Chen stared with wide eyes at him, before complying.

Still onscreen, Landry looked to his partner. “Admiral, they tried to convince me to follow, but I insisted on staying-”

Trenagen looked to him, forcing the terror down. “And I’ll insist they return.”

“I have Captain S’Nesint of the Broken Paw,” Chen announced.

A second later, the external image of Isengard and the phenomenon currently eating it was replaced by a small Bridge, and a sepia-furred uniformed Caitian male. “Yes, Potemkin?”

Chen began to reply, but Trenagen stepped forward. “Captain, one of our people is still behind! You have to return for him!”

“Admiral...” Landry pleaded.

“We know, Potemkin,” S’Nesint responded reluctantly. “But we can’t go back now. We’re overloaded with evacuees from the asteroid! The spatial and subspatial interference is playing havoc with our systems, we can’t even warp away, we have to crawl away at Impulse! If we went back now, we’d never escape!”

“You can return close enough to beam him onboard! You can do that much!”

“No, we can’t! I’m sorry, but I have over a hundred evacuees from the station to think about- scientists, civilians, families- I can’t risk their lives to save one!”

Trenagen leaned forward, gripping the Bridge rail, all thoughts of maintaining decorum, self-control, had fled from him at transwarp speeds. No, this would not happen. He was the most powerful man in the Quadrant, in command of an organisation with ineffable power, authority and autonomy, even if it could never be acknowledged! “Captain S’Nesint, on my authority as the Head of Starfleet Intelligence, I’m giving you a direct order to return!”

“Again, I’m sorry, Admiral, but I will not endanger those onboard for the sake of one man.”

“You have no comprehension of what I can do to you!” Trenagen threatened, shouting now. “To your career! Your family!”

“Excuse me?” the Caitian exclaimed.

“Admiral-” Chen warned, drawing nearer to him.

“Ian, that’s enough!” Landry interjected.

Then Lt Riker spoke up. “Captain, there’s an additional signal coming in from the Caitian convoy- their lead escort, demanding to speak with us!”

“Put them through,” Chen replied, still staring in disbelief at Trenagen, who ignored her.

S’Nesint’s part of the viewscreen was replaced by a black-furred Caitian female in a Navy uniform of high rank… one Trenagen knew all too well. She fixed her steely gaze on Trenagen, but spoke to Chen. “Potemkin, this is Fleet Captain Ma’Sala Shall of the Mother’s Fury, escorting the Caitian Colony Convoy outside the system.

We had received the distress signal from your observation post, and I had ordered the Broken Paw to enter the system and rescue your personnel. They will not put at risk the lives they have just saved, or their own crew, to try and save one man who willingly chose to remain behind.” She paused and added, teeth bared, “And there will be no more threats made, to Captain S’Nesint, or any other Caitian, while I’m present. I strongly hope that’s understood.”

Chen looked between the viewscreen and Trenagen and back again, before responding, “This is Captain Chen of the Potemkin. I’m certain no threat was intended, Fleet Captain. Is there anything you or the other ships can do to assist Captain Landry?”

The Caitian female drew back. “Unfortunately not… and the situation is in fact worsening. That phenomenon is continuing to grow, and I understand there is an inhabited pre-Warp civilisation nearby. Am I correct?”

“There is,” Chen confirmed, frowning. “You believe they are under threat by this?”

“My own Science officers believe so. But they also believe a large enough explosion now could seal the breaches before the planet is caught in this. The Broken Paw is still close enough and equipped enough to launch a missile strike.”

“Are your missile warheads’ yields strong enough to seal the breach?” Chen asked.

“No… but if they targeted Isengard’s power core-”

“No...” Trenagen whispered. This wasn’t happening. “You’re lying...”

Onscreen still, Landry swallowed and nodded, though ionic interference was affecting the transmission. “No, Ian. She’s not. It’s consistent with what we learned about this phenomenon… and if I have to choose a way to go, a quick, painless way is preferable to what awaits me in the maw of that monster out there. Fleet Captain Shall, you have my eternal gratitude for your assistance in this matter.” He offered a slight smile. “Until my dying day, at least.”

“No!” Trenagen cried out. “Léon, don’t do this!” He looked to the Caitian on the viewscreen. “Ma’Sala! You can’t let him die! Please! You have access to technology that I don’t have on hand-”

“None of which will assist him now,” the Caitian female replied, sounding regretful. “We need to take immediate action. I am authorising Captain S’Nesint to launch the strike.” She glanced at something off-screen. “You have thirty seconds. We’ll boost the signal from the asteroid to you for as long as it lasts. Mother’s Fury out.”

She vanished, leaving only Landry on the screen, looking at Trenagen. “Well, Ian, this is a bit of a blessing, really, given how much we both hate long goodbyes-”

Trenagen’s heart cracked, and he still couldn’t accept that this was happening, so quickly. Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Léon...”

Landry held up a hand. “I love you, Ian. I always will.”

Trenagen raised his own, as he died inside. “I love you too, Léon. I always will.”

Landry smiled wistfully. “See? Just enough ti-”

The signal turned to static… and then snapped back to the starfield at warp.

The Bridge was silent, apart from the background noises of the oblivious machines at work, continuing to carry them forth towards the system.

Trenagen dropped his hand, but continued to stare ahead.

In the distance, the Science Officer reported, “Temporal fractures are sealing up now… no trace of the station...”

Chen drew closer to Trenagen again. “Admiral, please accept my condolences-”

He straightened up, tugging down the sleeves of his jacket, his demeanour all business once more. “Captain, you may reduce your speed to whatever level you consider most appropriate and safe. The urgency to reach Isengard has now ended, but we shall continue to proceed in order to collect the rescued station personnel and their families from our Caitian allies.” He glanced around. “My compliments on the performance of you and your crew. If you’ll excuse me, I will return to my quarters and begin my reports on this incident.”

Chen looked ready to respond, but instead nodded and replied, “Yes, Admiral.”

He held it together. He held it together until he reached his VIP quarters. And then he sat down at the desk, and held it together still. And he was determined to continue holding it together, for the rest of his life.

It was some time later when his intercom chimed, and a voice announced, “Admiral, there is a private message for you from the Mother’s Fury.”

Trenagen nodded to himself, breathing in deeply, calming himself. Amazing himself with his level of composure- and then dismissing his amazement. He was of superior stock, unflappable. Unbreakable. Of course he could manage. “Put it through, please.”

The expected face of Ma’Sala Shall filled the desk screen, looking as contrite as he had ever seen it. “Ian… I’m calling to express my regrets that we could not save your partner. I know how much you loved each other.”

Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Thank you, Fleet Captain, but I must confess my ignorance as to what you mean. Captain Landry was a colleague, nothing more. His loss will be felt... by my office.”

Ma’Sala’s furred brow furrowed. “Ian, I could see it, scent it, whenever I was in the presence of you both. I know we have never been the best of friends… and probably never will… but I know how it feels to lose a loved one. Earlier this year, my bond-son Rmorra, my daughter’s husband, was killed. He was a Security officer for the Federation Archaeology Bureau. He was a charming, gentle, loving male to my daughter and their son.”

She swallowed. “Such loss cuts into us, leaves open wounds that never quite heal. You and I share a burden that few others can appreciate. Should you ever wish to speak, I will be available to you.”

Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Thank you once more, Fleet Captain, but it is entirely unnecessary. If there’s nothing else...”

“There is, actually. I want it understood between us that Captain S’Nesint was obeying my orders, both to protect the crew of the Isengard station – half of whom will be innocent, and no doubt not be aware of Section 31’s illegal temporal weapons experiments in the system – as well as the innocent inhabitants of the planet being studied.”

Trenagen steepled his fingers together. Rein it in, show nothing, nothing… “Of course, Fleet Captain. Such is the nature of the Shadows in which we operate. Farewell.”

He ended the transmission before she could respond further.

He sat still, staring at the dark screen. He considered her words, her attempt at some form of empathy by recounting her own loss.

As if a fucking animal like her could truly understand.

He focused his meditative skills on achieving inner peace.

And found them missing. There was only the facade of calm composure. Not the reality.

And the reality was that within, he was a Supernova, a rip in time and space, like the temporal fractures that had consumed Léon, and Isengard.

He considered the many, many years he would now travel alone. In pain. In despair.

And he wondered why Ma’Sala, the architect of that path, shouldn’t be made to do the same.

And he decided that… she should.

And he decided that he was in a perfect position to ensure that she suffered, too.

But he knew that he couldn’t act hastily, so as to draw attention to himself. He would wait. It might take years, but he would find vengeance.

A full and sweet measure of vengeance.

*

Antares Maelstrom – Present Day:

The three sections of the Imperator veered around every angle of the Mother’s Fury, firing phasers and ion torpedoes, making the space around them flare with fury against the Caitian flagship’s metaphasic shields.

Inside the latter vessel, Ma’Sala’s Bridge crew scrambled to get the damaged weapons back online, reinforce the shields and find a means to counter the Section 31 ship’s multivector assault mode. Ksara barked orders, keeping things as much under control as she could.

Ma’Sala studied the enemy: their weapons, their defences, their capabilities, the comparison with their own resources. Ian’s ship was an impressive design: fast and well-armed, and she could see a few things her own Navy could incorporate into-

She rose, risking getting knocked onto her ass from another sharp manoeuvre. “Target the upper secondary hull section! Ignore the primary and ventral secondary hulls, focus on the connecting midsection! Damage it so it can’t reassemble! Ronosh, keep our metaphasic shielding to Maximum, it’ll keep out their more exotic weaponry! Solanj! Arm the Duonetic Mines!”

Her crew obeyed, as they lurched once more under the persistent fire, despite their shielding. Ian, if any of my crew die because of you, I will feast on your fucking liver while you watch-

“Mines armed, Ma’am!” Solanj reported with a squeak.

Ma’Sala suppressed a smile at the cub’s high-pitched voice when he got stressed. “Fire!”

*

Outside, a half-dozen balls of coruscating red light streaked out, split into three teams of two each, targeting the three sections of the Imperator, striking the hulls and latching onto them, generating duonetic fields that disrupted and inhibited the Starfleet technology onboard.

Ma’Sala watched the pieces struggle to continue their flight and attack.

“It worked!” Solanj squeaked again.

“A pitch lower, Mr Solanj,” Ma’Sala quipped, louder now barking, “Ready an Assault Team!” She cracked her knuckles. “I’ll lead them.”

*

On the Bridge of the Imperator, humanoid figures in Starfleet uniforms, all sporting solid black arrowhead insignias, sat calmly at the stations, reporting with unflinching composure at the battle. “Damage to Ventral Engineering Section Port Nacelle, compensating...” “Enemy Shields holding at 64%, focusing on higher band energy bursts...” “Systems access achieved, decryption in process, accessing database...” “Ion torpedo complement at 23%...”

Trenagen sat in the Captain’s chair, gripping the arms, fighting back the pains in his chest. They had lost the initial advantage; better if they had achieved an all-out strike on the Caitian vessel before they had regained their footing and launched their counter-offensive. Still, it was all working as expected-

“Weapons launched from Mother’s Fury,” reported the one at Tactical. “With energy disruption properties-”

A new alert, and then the lights and power around the Bridge flickered and protested… as did Trenagen’s crew. Some fell over, others staggered.

Trenagen breathed in.

This was the End… she would arrive, soon.

*

Saddleworth Moors, England, Earth – 5 Years Ago:

The wind howled across the desolate terrain, making even the blanket of slate-grey clouds above race across the sky as if in terror at what horrors might lay hidden below, ready to strike at the unwary.

In an isolated cottage, made to appear from the outside an ancient and abandoned domicile, a single occupant sat alone, as he always did at this time, working to finish off the bottle of 100-year-old Dunlivin whiskey, from a particular stock he had acquired decades before. He had initially purchased it to share with Léon on their wedding anniversary, here in Trenagen’s family home. Now he indulged alone, commemorating another anniversary.

He sat before a smouldering, dying coal fire in the hearth, with a greater illumination afforded him from the adjacent computer screen, the outstanding duties ignored. He was on leave today.

Not that this would stop him from being interrupted, as the communications flash reminded him. His voice was husky from alcohol and grief as he responded, “Yes?”

The screen came to life, along with numerous measures to secure the transmission, with the image of a stern, olive-skinned Vulcan woman. “Admiral.”

He set aside the whiskey tumbler, not allowing his subordinate to see it. “Captain Sakuth. You have news?”

“I have completed a search of all available medical databases throughout the Quadrant, consulted all available sources outside of it. There is nothing regarding a cure for Darnay’s Disease.” She paused, and added, “Please accept my condolences, Sir. If there is anything further I can do...”

He eyed her. “Restrain these bursts of maudlin sentimental tripe, Captain. They are ill-becoming.”

“Of course, Sir. If it of any comfort, I am fully prepared to take over your position with immediate effect.”

“Thank you,” he smirked, appreciating her naked ambition, even veiled in the equally-appreciated Vulcan predilection for composure. In the years since he had recruited her, he had been impressed by her acute zeal in fulfilling her duties, both as an operative of Starfleet Intelligence and of Section 31. The consistency of her lack of obsequious decorum was refreshing in these uncertain times. “But I have a few years left before my brain degenerates to the point where a replacement will be necessary… and my successor will be chosen by others.”

“I see.” She made little effort to hide her disappointment, before noting, “Sir, as the commander of Section 31, you could assemble teams of scientists and experts to work on a cure-”

He held up a hand to cut her off. “There are no commanders of Section 31, just custodians. It exists to serve the Federation, not my own selfish interests. When Death does come for me, I will look it in the eye with the dignity and poise expected of one of my standing. Now, shall we proceed with official business?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“The court martial of Erik Pressman for his involvement in the Pegasus affair is about to commence. He has been instructed to plead guilty and accept the sentence of incarceration on Elba II. You will be assigned to transport him to that distant penal colony… but in fact an android has been fashioned to take his place. You will convey the real Pressman to our facilities at the Black Forge Shipyards, where he will reside and take over management of the Imperator Project.”

She frowned. “I was meant to take command there, Sir.”

“You are meant for greater things. With the destruction of the USS Odyssey, the Dominion joins the growing list of credible threats against the Federation. There is a push for new weapons of mass destruction, both officially and unofficially. I am assembling teams of scientists and technicians in various fields – subspace physicists, temporal physicists, biogenic engineers, cyberneticists, biological warfare specialists and others – to form think tanks to devise potential weapons. You will be in charge of the security arrangements: vetting, elimination of possible risks and so on.”

She nodded. “This is well within my considerable abilities, Admiral.”

“I agree. Some will be official Starfleet Intelligence projects; others won’t. Particularly the ones involving illegal substances such as protomatter and isolytic elements.”

“Of course. Is that all?”

“No. I believe I asked you to look into Fleet Captain Shall’s daughter?”

Sakuth nodded… though her expression offered mild bemusement. “Counselor Kami Hrelle gave birth to a son, Misha Hrelle, on Stardate 47430.08. She remains onboard the USS Surefoot-A, with her husband, Captain Esek Hrelle. He continues his fleet tender duties near the Cardassian border.”

He breathed in. “There is more.” It was more an invitation than a question.

And the Vulcan accepted it. “The Surefoot also serves as a training vessel for gifted Academy cadets. His First Officer also serves as as Academy Liaison: Commander T’Varik.”

He raised an eyebrow in imitation of a Vulcan. “Your former partner?”

“Yes.”

“As I recall, I tried to recruit her at the same time as I recruited you, but she refused.”

“Yes… to our ultimate advantage. She was always a woman of limited intellect, jejune principles and arrested ambition.”

“Undoubtedly. Her husband, Captain Hrelle, had been sold into Orion slavery by the Bel-Zon following the deaths of the crew of Hrelle’s former command, the Furyk. After his escape, Starfleet Intelligence attempted to recruit Hrelle to serve as an operative into both the Bel-Zon and the Orion Syndicate. He refused, on more than one occasion, choosing an inconsequential post. He then married the daughter of the Caitian Planetary Navy’s highest-ranking officer.”

She frowned. “You suspect his loyalty, Sir? I understand Admiral Arrington’s office investigated him following his escape from captivity, and cleared him?”

“One of the cadets onboard the Surefoot happens to be Bill Arrington’s son Giles. And Captain Hrelle allegedly saved Master Giles’ life in some incident involving Nausicaan slave traffickers. Coincidentally, Admiral Arrington dropped any further investigations soon after.”

Sakuth frowned. “You do not trust the Caitian.”

He matched her pose. “I do not trust any Caitian. Nor should you. Beyond their bestial nature, they have a lengthy history of self-serving autonomy, happy to reap the benefits of Federation membership while abnegating the inherent responsibilities that come with it. Bear in mind that some worlds are accepted for their system’s strategic value rather than any contribution that they might make to the Federation.”

“Understood, Sir. Is there anything else?”

“No. I will back on duty tomorrow.” He ended the transmission, and reached for his drink, downing it, and then reaching for a refill.

In another life, this would have been a home, not a refuge. Léon and he would have shared their shore leave here, walked across the Moors, Léon complaining about the lack of warmth and amenities and the quality of the beer in the local pub… but appreciating the huge, warm bed. Perhaps they would even have talked about children.

He was certain Ma’Sala Shall talked about children. And grandchildren. He was certain she was most happy and content with her life, having long forgotten what she had done to him eight years ago.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He turned and opened a series of communications, bounced through several false sources and identities. It took time, but he had plenty of that.

Finally a new image filled the screen: a bearded human male in a dark sober suit. The image frowned, and spoke with a cultured European accent. “Whoever you are… you have the advantage of me. May I ask who is behind the scramblers?”

“My name is irrelevant, Mr Giger,” Trenagen replied, breathing in, a small part of him questioning this course of action. A part he quickly crushed. “What I have to offer you, on the other hand, is.”

Giger leaned back in his seat. “I’m not in the mood for games. You clearly have no idea who you’re dealing with-”

“I have every idea: you’re Simon Giger, head of the criminal organisation Bel-Zon, currently based on the non-aligned planet of Skaros. And by ‘based’, I mean ‘confined’, with Starfleet vessels outside of the system preventing you from exporting the Vraxoin narcotics you are growing on one of Skaros’ moons, or indeed conducting any business. Your coffers are slowly but steadily depleting, and many of your operatives not trapped on Skaros have deserted you to work on their own, or competitors like the Orion Syndicate or the Moonfleet.”

Giger bristled. “You definitely have the advantage of me, Sir. And what have you to offer me besides an unnecessary recap of my organisation’s status?”

Trenagen leaned forward. “A set of ten Klingon cloaking devices for your ships. Ones that will allow you to continue your transactions with impunity under Starfleet’s proverbial noses. They can be delivered to Skaros and installed on your vessels. You can continue your business, and enjoy the benefits of Starfleet protection.”

Giger reacted- and then did his best to hide his reaction. “A very generous offer.”

“You haven’t heard my price.”

Giger leaned back, steepling his fingers in a manner reminiscent to Trenagen of himself. “I’m listening.”

“I wish to facilitate a contract against a previous target of the Bel-Zon’s: Starfleet Captain Esek Hrelle of the USS Surefoot. You had turned him over to the Orions, but he escaped. Only I want his family included as well: his wife, his children. Any Caitians onboard, in fact.”

Giger stared hard from his end of the transmission, and for a moment, Trenagen almost checked to see if the signal had frozen. Then the man moved and responded, “There are some Skarosians here who would be ideal for the contract. However, there is still the problem of getting them out of the system, past the Starfleet blockade.”

“I believe the Bel-Zon’s logistics are still being managed by Bastien Dumont, operating from the New Paris Colonies in Omega Aurigae. Contact him, and inform him that we will make available one of our cloaked vessels, as a demonstration of our capabilities. After a successful completion of the contract, we will provide Mr Dumont with the cloaks.”

Giger regarded him, as if he could see past the visual and audio scramblers, before replying, “And who should I tell Mr Dumont to expect to hear from?”

Trenagen reached for his whiskey. “Tiberius Claudius.”

*

USS Imperator, Antares Maelstrom – Present Day:

Ma’Sala dropped to a crouch as she and her Assault Team beamed into the curved, darkened corridor, raising their blasters at the movements in the shadows: lurching figures drawing towards them from either direction like creatures from a horror vivid. “Fire to stun!”

She and the others fired, the figures collapsing over each other. She sniffed the air as she drew closer, reaching out; they looked human, and she had no desire to raise collateral damage in her quest for vengeance against Trenagen- “Androids! They’re androids!”

Her Chief of Security Commander H’Murin, a cream-furred, broad-shouldered, stub-muzzled male, crouched beside her, his tail and ears twitching. “Androids? I thought there was only one in Starfleet-”

“These aren’t the same,” she replied. “More primitive. They’re being affected by the duonetic mines.” She pulled one up by its jacket, noting how it was still semi-functioning. “You! Where’s Trenagen? Where’s he hiding?”

The android looked up at her with unblinking eyes. “I am not programmed to respond in that area.”

Ma’Sala released him and rose. “He’ll be on the Bridge. Watch out for traps, anyone living among the crew. Leave Trenagen to me.”

They found the rest of this section of the Imperator in an identical state, up until they reached the Bridge, where Ma’Sala saw a familiar-looking figure stating next to the main viewscreen, staring out at the Mother’s Fury and the remaining sections of Trenagen’s ship. He stood with his hands folded behind him, never deigning to even look in her direction. “My compliments to you on the performance of your ship and crew, Madame.”

Ma’Sala stood there, feeling her team spread out, checking the disabled androids around them, allowing her to focus on her prey. And now, now that she finally faced him, the oath she’d made days before to her daughter, the memories of seeing her grandcubs, her daughter and kin-son lying in the Surefoot’s Arboretum, wounded, because of this man, flooded back to her.

She growled.

Now he turned to face her, his expression resolute. “No, Madame. Vengeance will not be yours today.”

*

In the battlefield, the combatant vessels or vessel sections hung, as if licking their wounds following the engagement.

Then the primary hull of the Imperator erupted from within, its warp core breaching. Seconds later, the dorsal and ventral engineering hulls followed suit, three miniature novae whose remains would soon be swallowed up by the edges of the Maelstrom.

Lost in the aftermath of the explosion, a small cloaked runabout slipped away, heading away from the sector.

Onboard, a single occupant allowed the onboard holographic doctor to administer treatments, while the computer piloted and navigated and sent a coded message outward. Trenagen reclined in the chair, closed his eyes and allowed the drugs to work their way through him, stabilising his condition. He knew he was only prolonging the inevitable. But then, wasn’t that what one could say about life in general?

“Nice try, Ian.”

He opened his eyes, staring upwards. “You survived my feint. My compliments, Madame.”

“It almost worked,” she admitted. “The android duplicate of you was good. It even emitted a scent almost like yours.”

He sat up slowly, weakly, glancing up through the cockpit window to see the Mother’s Fury racing alongside the runabout, before turning to see the Caitian standing at the rear of the runabout, claws bared. “Almost? The organic replicators reproducing my pheromones should have been of sufficient fidelity to deceive you.”

“It would have been,” she admitted, stepping closer. “But the scent was pure, baseline. Your scent has changed in the last year with whatever illness is wracking your body now.”

Trenagen took in her words, nodding as he rose to his feet and faced her, wincing but struggling to maintain his composure. “I have perhaps another year to live, and it will not be a year without pain. I am prepared to disappear, have no more involvement with Starfleet or Section 31.”

“No.”

“I will no longer threaten your family,” he promised.

She drew closer. “Oh, I know you won’t.” She bared her teeth at him. “Sakuth tried to murder my grandcub! My family! WHY?”

He raised his chin to her. “Léon-”

“Léon was one of us!” she roared, “Part of the Shadow Game! He knew the risks! We all do! And he was willing to die, to save the lives on that planet, in that ship! Uncounted numbers threatened because of dangerous illegal experiments conducted in that system! Why have Sakuth target my family?”

He glared at her now. “‘Mourn not for the Dead, for their pain is brief / Mourn for the Living, and their prison of grief.’” He paused, swallowed. “For thirteen years, I have lived in my prison. It seemed only fair that you should spend some time in one of your own before you died.”

The Caitian narrowed her gaze. “Yours was a prison you chose to live in. You could have moved on. Léon would have wanted you to move on. But now it’s too late for all that.”

Trenagen stepped closer to her.

He was ready. “Well? How long must I wait-”

Her right fist shot out, striking him in the stomach, making him double over.

She roared as she grabbed him, lifting him up and flinging him against the nearest wall of the runabout cabin, and then again to the other side, hearing bones break, leaving blood stains on the bulkhead.

When he rolled onto the floor, she was crouching upon him, ripping into his belly through his uniform, tearing into the soft skin and digging deep into his entrails, his stomach and intestines and kidneys and liver, flinging the organs aside until her rage subsided and she was gasping for breath, eyes wide, staring down at Trenagen’s body-

Trenagen opened his eyes, coughing and spitting up copious amounts of blood in the process. She watched blankly, astounded that he was still alive, as he looked up at her, his eyes wide, glaring, somehow still clinging onto life despite most of his insides now on the outside. “Ian...”

He lifted his head up, still spitting blood as he gurgled, “L-Let… Let all the p-poisons… that lurk in… in the m-mud… hatch out...”

His head dropped again.

Ma’Sala finally caught her breath, rising, her nostrils thick with the stench of her prey, her uniform caked in it, and wishing her heart would slow down. She looked down at the body of the human she had known longer than many others in her life. Wishing it hadn’t ended this way.

Then she reached for her communicator. “Ksara, prepare to destroy this shuttle… preferably after you beam me back. And then set a course for home.

This Mother’s War is over.”

*

“USS Surefoot-A, Captain’s Log, Stardate 52507.81, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: Captain Weynik and the Ajax has successfully escorted us back to the Thirteenth Fleet. The survivors have been moved to the Samaritan for further medical checks and disposition, I and my senior officers have been debriefed and we have submitted our reports, repairs are being scheduled and shore leave is being planned.

Admiral Tattok has informed me that I’ll be receiving the Legion of Honour for my actions at Khavak… an award I have tried to decline, unsuccessfully. Apparently I have a responsibility to inspire others. Because there will be many other opportunities in this War for us all to face death.

Before that happens, I have another, more personal duty to attend to with my crew… my family. Which I think has become one and the same.”

*

Deck 3 Fore – Arboretum:

The crew stood in a line facing one corner of the room, where a thick, vibrant collection of deep red poppies carpeted the area, hiding projectors that conjured a steady, unwavering ball of white light hanging a metre overhead.

Next to it, Hrelle stood, clad in his dress uniform, looking out as he spoke.

“‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old / Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn / At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will remember them.’ These are words from a Terran poem, to commemorate those who had fallen in battle, in a war almost 500 years ago.

And these flowers, this memorial, is here now to commemorate those who have fallen in battle, in war this year. Not just the members of our crew – Chief Glaason Grev, Ensign Nancy Yeager, Ensign Brian Gorman, Ensign Glenqom Orogg – but those we sought to save and bring home safely, but couldn’t.

On Earth, these flowers symbolise not just the casualties of war, but also sleep, and peace, and the hope that those we have lost can rest. And the light that shines over them symbolises the eternal spirit that keeps them alive in our hearts and minds.

This corner of the Arboretum will always be set aside for this purpose, for those of us who live on, to remember them, and the sacrifice they made. Keep the dead in your hearts and minds… but even more importantly, keep the living in there too. Treasure and cherish those around us, while they’re still with us. Crew: Attention!”

The crew, including Kami, cradling Sreen, Misha and Sasha on one side, and Jhess, T’Varik, C’Rash and the rest, came to attention, as the boatswain’s whistle played overhead.

Then he dismissed them, drawing up to his family and taking Sreen from his wife. “I hope that was okay.”

Kami smiled, rubbing her muzzle against his. “It was lovely, Esek. And the Memorial was a lovely idea, too.”

“Well spoken, Esek,” Jhess added, smiling. “And it’s good that this will always be here.”

“Indeed, Sir,” T’Varik agreed. “It was most moving. When do you intend to commence shore leave?”

“There’s a few more things to take care of with Tattok… and what do you mean, ‘you’? What about your shore leave, Commander?”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “I intend to remain with the ship and monitor the repairs and see about crew replace-”

He pointed a finger at her. “No. You’re taking shore leave too. With the rest of your family.”

C’Rash slipped an arm around her partner’s. “You hear that, Marmalade? Captain’s Orders.”

Then Kami started at a chirp on her combadge. “Counselor, there is a Priority Holocommunicator signal for you from Fleet Captain Shall.”

Kami looked to her husband, her tail swishing rapidly with excitement as she responded, “Patch it through to the Captain’s Ready Room.” She looked to her husband.

He shooed her off, cuddling Sreen. “Go! Give her our love!”

“I wanna go!” Misha protested. “I wanna see Gramma!”

“Another time, Cube of Mine,” his father told him as Kami departed. “Your Mama needs some Private Time with her Mama...”

*

Kami dodged and swerved around the people in the corridor to get to the Ready Room, having hardly ate or slept since her fight with Ma’Sala. She had hated herself ever since she’d given her mother that ultimatum. What the Seven Hells was she thinking? Emotionally blackmailing Ma’Sala into punishing Trenagen, killing him, risking her own life? She could have been killed, needlessly! And it had only truly struck her as she listened to Esek’s speech about those they had lost…

She was barely inside the Ready Room when she barked, “Computer: Open Awaiting Channel!”

The holocommunicator cameras on the floor conjured up the image of Ma’Sala, as Kami rushed up to it, almost entering the projection field in an instinctive urge to embrace her. “Mama! I’m sorry! Are you okay? You weren’t hurt, were you? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I treated you like that! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t, I swear, please forgive me, don’t be angry-”

Ma’Sala’s image held up a gentle furred hand to cut her daughter off. “Calm down, Daughter of Mine, calm down. It’s okay, I’m not hurt, I’m not angry, I understand. Everything you said to me was true and honest, and I would have said worse to my mother under the same circumstances.” She breathed out and lowered her hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry, for letting all of you get into danger.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault, you’re not here to police all of the potential dangers to us in the Universe!” She swallowed, looking deep into Ma’Sala’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

The older Caitian nodded. “Yes, Kami. I am. And the problem has been dealt with.”

Kami stared at her, wanting to know more, not wanting to know more, settling for asking, “Why? What went on between you two?”

Ma’Sala’s shoulders and tail drooped. “At first? Nothing more than two people who just didn’t like each other, and never really would. Then there was an incident, years ago, where he lost someone he loved, and blamed me for it. And he let that fester and grow in him like a cancer. And in later years, he was dying. And his bitterness grew worse. And... he had no one else to turn to.”

Kami breathed in. “He’s dead?”

Ma’Sala breathed in. “Esek, my grandcubs, are they alright? Have they recovered?”

Kami regarded the evasion, before replying, “Yes… and I’m sorry I drove you away before you spent any time with them. But we’re hoping to get back to Cait for our shore leave, once Esek and T’Varik finish up all their duties.”

Ma’Sala nodded, before brightening up again, smiling. “Mother’s Cubs, I forgot the news!”

“News?”

“Yes! Before the attack in your Arboretum, I was going to give you the good news! Mirow and Ptera are expecting!”

Kami’s eyes widened at the mention of her firstborn son and his wife. “Expecting? When?”

“Around the end of Coldwane. And it’s going to be a female.”

Kami’s smile blossomed into a grin. “This is wonderful news! Oh, I can’t wait to see them! Thank you, Mama!”

Ma’Sala smiled back. “Welcome to the Grandmother’s Club...”

*

Four hundred and some light years distant, at an outpost near the borders of the Ferasan Patriarchy, a nameless ash-furred Ferasan male sat at a console, bored out of his mind. He was designated ThirdSon of Svaavow of the Pride of the Black Pelt, and he was the runt of his litter, never able to match the physical achievements of his brothers.

So instead, he focused on his other talents. He proved adept at computers, communications, at signal interpretation, decryption. No, it would not be as loudly lauded as the accomplishments of his brothers in their raids against the Klingons and especially their hated cousins the Caitians, but he enjoyed the challenge and mystery of deciphering messages and relaying the information to his Pride’s ships.

Still, despite his assistance, the Pridemaster, the entire Pride, barely acknowledged him, leaving him out here floating around in this metal can, isolated. Sometimes he thought he would pull out his own sabreteeth from madness. He would die out here. He would die without a name, without a mate and offspring and probably his Pride will even forget to come and collect his remains.

And maybe a thousand, thousand years from now, some alien archaeologists would find his mummified remains, and maybe build up a mythology around who he was. Maybe they’ll even give him a name. Which is more than his Pride ever will-

A signal on his board made his ears twitch and make him sit up straight, his thin, hairless tail swishing behind him through the hole in the back of his seat as he examined the data. It wasn’t a detected transmission between Starfleet or other vessels, but rather one directed towards the Ferasans’ space… a huge data package, gigaquads of it… what in the Patriarch’s name?

His fingers moved quickly over his keyboard, isolating the data, scanning for viruses and other traps, before opening it up and breaking it all down…

Maps. Vessel specifications. Shield and weapons details. Patrol assignments.

Numbers.

Strengths.

Weaknesses.

And all about the Caitian Planetary Navy.

ThirdSon’s jaw dropped open.

It was all classified military data on their ancient adversaries, the ones who had somehow beaten them back time and again over the generations.

It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

He ran audit checks, collating it with existing information already gathered about the Caitians’ defences. He saw matches, time and again. By the Patriarch… this was like a gift from the Gods...they could swarm in and overrun the Caitians in a day!

Why? Who would send this to them?

He searched the package for an origin signature. There was no name, no location or coordinates.

Just a strange phrase: Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud… hatch out.

He swallowed, sliding over to the transmitters, sending an urgent message to his Pridemaster. This was it. For this, their Pride would rise immeasurably closer to the Patriarchy Council. ThirdSon would finally get a name.

And the Ferasans will finally have their day…

THE ADVENTURES OF THE SUREFOOT WILL CONTINUE...