Dr Shyrik was in her office in Sickbay, allowing her on-duty staff outside to waste their time trying to overcome the locked doors and non-responsive comm system. She had no idea what was going on, couldn't affect it and thus didn't care, and instead focused on the unusual readings from the Cheronian Bele. It was a shame that he was apparently the last survivor of his people, it would be good to get a more baseline-
An addition appeared at the bottom of her notes: RESPECTED DOCTOR, COMMISSIONER BELE HAS TAKEN OVER SECURITY AND INJURED LT THYKRILL. HE HAS LOCKED OUT COMMUNICATIONS AND OTHER SYSTEMS THROUGHOUT THE SHIP BUT IS UNAWARE OF OUR INTRATEXT AND PRINTOUT ABILITIES. PLEASE RELAY MY INFORMATION TO THE BRIDGE, WHILE I CONTINUE TO GATHER MORE INTELLIGENCE.
She took a moment to tap an acknowledgement, before storming out of her office. “We need those doors open!”
“I thought that’s what we were doing already,” Chief Nurse Xin quipped.
“Nobody likes a smartass.” She moved to the printout monitor, activating it. Communicating on paper; talk about stone knives and bearskins…
“Doctor?” It was Xin again, approaching now and staring at the unit as if it was some ancient totem. “Are you really going to use this?”
Shyrik cracked the knuckles in her hands. “Given that our normal communications network has been compromised, yes, Jianhong, I am really going to use this. Now give me a moment.” She studied the control panel, an interface that didn’t operate using the standard Starfleet LCARS system, remembering how long it had been since she had undergone her training on this stupid fricking telegraphic system-
Xin’s hand reached out, touching some of the manual controls. “This is how you set the text destination for the Bridge, Doctor. You did want to do that, didn’t you?”
Shyrik glared at him. “You know how to use this?”
“Simplicity itself, Doctor-”
The doctor stepped back, took Xin by the shoulders and manoeuvred him in front of the console. ”Okay, Kid, show some support for an old woman with drooping antennae and failing memory! Type the following to the Bridge…”
*
Giles had let himself get immersed in the minutiae of reading what little he could on his navigational consoles, while also silently teaching his protege, Flight Control Ensign Kenneth Nordstorm, an impossibly-young, freckled, copper-haired Squab whose boots were so fresh they still squeaked, and who chose to stare in wonder at the tricks Giles demonstrated, ones that aren’t taught at the Academy.
But there was more, something he recognised now: a temporary diversion from the wider responsibilities of Second Officer, back to his former, more assured role. Not that he would go back to just being a Flyguy-
An alert, and an exclamation from Crewman Tanaka at Ops, made him stop and turn, as Commander Bellator approached the station in the rear. “What’s happening?”
A hum from a section beneath the station made Tanaka drop to one knee. “A printout! An actual printout from Sickbay! I’d forgotten this still existed!”
“Be thankful others haven’t.” The First Officer stood awaiting the printed page from Taneka, scanning it quickly. “As suspected, Bele has seized control from the Brig. Lt Thykrill has been injured, but Lt Kitirik remains conscious and a hostage, and is secretly transmitting intelligence on our hijacker.”
Giles bolted to his feet. Atiaro, hurt? No. NO-
Then he froze, as Bellator and several others looked up at him from his response. Their First Officer made a sound. “I’m sorry, I cannot provide any more information on Lt Thykrill than what I already have, Mr Arrington.”
He felt himself flush as if on fire from his impulsive action. The Nova Roman knew about his relationship with Atiaro – the pair of them were required by Regulations to declare it, after all – but he shouldn’t have brought undue attention to how this was affecting him. He quickly recovered. “I understand, Commander. Please excuse my outburst.”
“I recall no such outburst. With the limited computing power and your own considerable expertise, what is your ETA for us at the position where we intercepted the shuttle?”
Giles breathed in, feeling his face redden as the attention stayed with him, albeit for a different reason. “Well, um, I think we’ll be there in about 20 minutes, Commander. But that doesn’t mean someone else might be coming for us sooner-”
“One crisis at a time, Mr Arrington. We need to hand deliver this intelligence to the Captain.”
Giles looked back at them again, stepping forward. “I can make my way there through the Jefferies Tubes with my eyes shut, Commander.”
“I have no doubt… but you are needed here- all of us in fact are needed here-”
“I’m not.”
Giles and the others looked to Malala, standing nearby, her grey skin darkening under the scrutiny. Then he saw Bellator’s reaction to the offer, and his senior position made him privy to the reason behind it, as the Nova Roman faced Malala, the officer frowning. “Crewman, given our current crisis status, perhaps now is not the time-”
The diminutive Malurian drew up more formally. “Forgive me, Commander, but with respect I can see we’re in a crisis right now, and that I’m the one here who’s not needed.” She stared back hard. “I can do this. Trust me. Please.”
Bellator took another moment, before nodding and handing over the printout.
*
Shall Clanlands, Mnara Province, Planet Cait - Twenty Five Years Ago:
“C’Rash, get down from there!”
The black-furred six-year-old Caitian female ignored the continued calls from her Mama, ignored the rich sensory temptation of the fruits of the tavaberry tree she was high up within and the soft morning breeze that made the branch rock and made her dig her tiny claws into the soft gnarled wood more tightly, instead focusing on the small party sitting out in the garden: all the clan adults, including the Matriarch, Grandma Ma’Sala, gathered around Aunt Kami and Uncle Rmorra.
And the latest addition to the Clan: Kami and Rmorra’s newborn cub Mirow, though from her current vantage point C’Rash could barely see more than a tiny bundle of swaddling clothes in Kami’s arms, the recipient of all the coos and purrs from the adults. It could have been a double shuris burger Aunt Kami was keeping for herself, for all C’Rash knew.
At the base of her tree, Papa had joined Mama in calling up to her. “C’Rash! Get down here this instant, or I’ll climb up there and smack the fur off your tail!”
You’re too fat to climb the tree, Papa, the cub thought to herself. They didn’t understand. All the grownups were too busy purring and fussing over the stinky new cub, and all the other cubs were down at the beach.
No one was watching out for the Ferasans! C’Rash knew those stinky Rat-tails were out there, waiting to come down and beat everyone up! Grandma Ma’Sala had been out there not that long ago, fighting them! And Aunt Kami and Uncle Rmorra were out there too, with Starfleet, and she bet they were fighting them too! It’d be just like the Rat-tails to try and surprise them now, when everyone was distracted by the stinky new cub. So she looked out and around, sniffing the air and pretending not to hear her parents.
“C’Rash!” Mama repeated sharply, “For the last time-”
“No, M’Niri,” spoke a calmer female voice.
The cub looked down again, as the circle of assembled grownups were now looking up at her with a mix of emotions on their faces and in their scents… but C’Rash focused on the female who had spoken last, the brown-furred female at the centre of the circle, smiling up at the cub in the tree, while her own cub suckled at one of her breasts. “C’Rash is just doing her job, Sister. She’s a Protector, watching out for all of us, keeping us safe from nasty creatures. We should be grateful for what she's doing, for all of us.”
C'Rash smiled broadly, her tail happily smacking against the branch she clung to. Aunt Kami understood! She really understood!
“But I'd feel much safer,” the older female continued aloud, still staring up at C’Rash, “If she was down beside me and my new son, near the food platter, in case any nasty creatures try to steal our snacks-”
The cub was swinging out from the branch where she perched, relishing the cry of shock from her parents as she pivoted away from them and what would be a severe scolding… to land in the waiting arms of the Clan’s Matriarch, Grandma Ma’Sala, the older female with fur the same shade as C’Rash’s, grunting with amusement. “The tavaberries seem to be ripening early this season.” Then she loosened her grip and let C’Rash slide down to the grass to join Aunt Kami and Uncle Rmorra and their new cub, Baby Cousin Mirow, taking in the scent of the newborn cub, before nodding sagely at Aunt Kami, and stood guard near the food platter, her stubby tail twitching, ignoring the urge to grab some shuris strips.
Protecting others was serious business…
*
Salem Sector, USS Surefoot-A, Jefferies Tube 4-7-Alpha - Now:
A much older Lt Cmdr C’Rash Shall worked her way through the narrow network of vertical and horizontal accessways lining the inside of her ship… hating every centimetre of the journey. Memories of past instances when she had to navigate through narrow, winding, claustrophobic ducts like this, and elsewhere, and always during situations of high threat: Academy drills supervised by sadistic upperclassmen… the Miradorn terrorists who had invaded her first ship the Cutlass… the Vlathi bastards who boarded the Surefoot and almost killed Misha and Sasha… that So'na space station that had the stolen Bajoran Orb, and had protected it with lethal security measures… then there were the Jem’Hadar who nearly killed her and Spots during the Battle of Khavak...
She took comfort in the scent and sound of her Captain and spouse T’Varik, following behind her, their mindlink always there, a lifeline at times like this, where she could access the Vulcan self-control for support. Yes, she could keep going on.
In the corridor outside of Security, leaving the Jefferies Tube hatch open, T’Varik followed C’Rash’s lead and drew her phaser, even as the Caitian examined the control panel at the side of the door… seeing literally only red. Of course… “Security Override. My codes aren't being accepted. And unlike your Ready Room doors, both of us won’t budge these bastards open.”
“Indeed. The Security Suite is by its very nature one of the most fortified sections of the Surefoot. Commissioner Bele has turned his place of confinement into his stronghold.” She turned, obviously sensing the thoughts of her spouse, and saw the coiled muscles and steely gaze. “You know you will not be able to phaser through the door.”
C’Rash’s tail twitched, and she reluctantly holstered her weapon and forced herself to try and relax. Well, she tried anyway. Composure was overrated... “Or beam through, or use explosives, or access it through the Jefferies network, I know, I know, Mother Damn It! How did he manage to take over locked up in there? He was scanned for devices!”
“I perused the original Enterprise reports, where they mentioned the employment of some form of unverified limited technokinesis, a psychic perception and control over machinery, though the accounts did not describe a degree of control such as we are witnessing here and now. I had underestimated him; this is my fault. I take full responsibility.”
The Caitian hissed; she’d read the accounts as well, and assumed it was just more hyperbole about the Mighty James Kirk. As it happened, she knew that no matter what a Captain might say, any security snafus would really fall on her own furry shoulders. “Mother’s Cubs, if you want a spanking, wait until we’re off-duty! Kit and Thykrill are alone in there with that clown! How are we going to even get his attention from out here?”
T’Varik holstered her phaser. “It will require a method born from logic, resourcefulness and ingenuity.”
Then she stepped up to the door and rapped on it three times with her knuckles.
C'Rash hissed; sometimes, her older partner could still surprise her. “I see where your nephew gets his sense of humour from-”
The doors parted, and C’Rash instinctively pulled T'Varik back and took the point, seeing the light strip around the doorway indicating the security force field was activated, and beyond that, the lean figure of Bele, standing there with his hands behind his back, like the host of a house party greeting the guests at the front door. “Captain, Lieutenant, I’ve been expecting you.”
T’Varik stepped forward again, glancing past him, seeing Kit standing near one of the cells, where Thykrill lay insensate on the bunk. “Lieutenant Kitirik, what is yours and Lt Thykrill’s status?”
The reptoid set aside his PADD. “I am unharmed, Respected Captain, but the Respected Lieutenant has received a neuroleptic shock and is unconscious.”
C’Rash tensed, not from the news about her Assistant Security Chief’s condition, but the elaborate hand gestures Kit made as he spoke, ones Bele did not notice. You fast-learning little bug eater…
And her thoughts must have reached her spouse, as C'Rash felt the Vulcan shift slightly, keeping her focus on Bele… and his focus back on T’Varik. “Commissioner, I must insist that you discontinue this action, release control of my vessel and surrender with immediate effect, or further action will be taken.”
He nodded curtly. “Well done, Captain. You have fulfilled your duty and made the requisite warning required… as empty and impotent as it is. I have seized control of your ship, and unlike the last Starfleet vessel I commandeered a century ago, I have disabled your self-destruct and escape systems already and restricted your movements, and thus your opportunities to oppose me.”
T’Varik recognised the reference; previously, she had been privately critical of Kirk’s actions during the incident, considering them an extreme reaction to the takeover. Now, however…. “So, your account about the Bel-Zon deceiving you was in fact the deception itself, just one aimed at us?”
Bele smirked. “Your mongrel race’s capacity for stating the obvious remains as strong as it had with Spock. We will rendezvous with the Furyk, where your crew will be replaced by those of the Bel-Zon. Then both ships will join in the final assault on Salem One.”
T’Varik’s jaw tightened. “And what will happen to my crew and myself?”
“You will be kept hostage, in exchange for the Federation guaranteeing that they will not attempt to reclaim Salem Sector.” He breathed in, appearing ready to end what he assumed was a pointless exchange. “Captain, it will be best for all concerned not to attempt to retake your ship, or offer any resistance to your capture. Anything other than capitulation in the face of overwhelming odds would be insanity.”
She glanced from the corner of her eye, seeing C’Rash still fixed on Kit, and continued to distract Bele, her voice taking on a softer, more appealing tone. “Commissioner… for longer than many of the civilisations of the Federation have even existed, you have served as an agent of the law on Cheron. Such has been your devotion to justice that you pursued a criminal around the very Galaxy itself, a task that would have proven overwhelming if not impossible for many lesser beings. Regardless of our personal opinions about certain aspects of each other’s political views, we can at least acknowledge and appreciate our mutual dedication to government and authority.
You have allied yourselves with a criminal cartel guilty of murder, piracy, terrorism and many other heinous acts. You have explained your reasons why, but still, I appeal to you, as one proponent of the law to another, to reconsider your present course. It is not too late, and I promise you, on my honour as a Vulcan, that I will persuade Commodore Hrelle to authorise any and all means to assist you in the potential restoration of your people.”
Bele stared hard, before his expression tightened. “Riddle me this, Captain: when you have lived as long as I have, seen all that I have seen, will you be swayed by the pleas of inferior beings? I suggest you take this time to inform your crew and make peace with your future.”
He shut the door on them.
Immediately T’Varik turned to C’Rash. “What did Lt Kitirik tell you?”
The coal-furred Caitian growled now. “He’s secretly communicating with the Doc in Sickbay on his PADD, and I think is working on a plan to- to-” She paused, frowning in thought before growling again. “He’s learned quickly, but the Tactical Sign Language isn’t designed for deep communication. I think he’s working on a way to neutralise Bele’s power. How, I have no fricking clue.”
T’Varik glanced back at the closed doors, as if she could peer through them. “Sickbay is almost as fortified as Security, so they will be trapped inside, but Doctor Shyrik can transmit the required information via the ship’s emergency printout system. I will proceed to the nearest printout station, in Engineering. You will proceed to the Shuttlebay.”
“Shuttlebay? Why?”
T’Varik faced her again. “Our self-destruct system is unavailable to us, but you can achieve a similar effect by simultaneously detonating the warp cores of the three long-range shuttles in our manifest. We will not let our ship and crew fall into the hands of the enemy.”
C’Rash stared back hard, her tail and heart still. Mother’s Cubs, she meant it…
And what was more, T’Varik was right; our duty, as harsh as the consequences were, was clear. “You have a preferred countdown time?”
“Thirty minutes from now. I expect we will be turned over to the Bel-Zon by that stage, and if we are fortunate, we will damage or destroy them as well as ourselves.”
Her spouse hissed. Their duty may be clear, but that didn’t mean she would leap out into the void to embrace the worst case scenario. “Let’s try and be even more fortunate than that, Wife of Mine, and find a way to stop Mr Two-Tone in there.”
***
Station Salem One, Operations:
Captain Kate Sternhagen looked over once more at the partition separating the Commodore’s Office from the greater work area, and frowned once more. The upper half of the partition normally stayed transparent, a demonstration of Hrelle’s personal policy of openness and availability (and probably also keeping an eye out on what was happening out here). Papa Cat only ever tinted the partition if he had some important classified meeting or communication ongoing. But he had neither, and since the encounter with that prick Zorin, he’s become more withdrawn.
Of all the personnel on the Station, she had actually known Hrelle the longest, even longer than his new wife. When he had been reassigned back here, the site of his first wife’s death and his enslavement, only now with him in a command position, and he had approached Sternhagen to also return as the Station Master and Chief of Operations, she had questioned him about his readiness to be back here in general.
At the time, he had admitted, albeit with his usual casual insouciance, “The last time I felt I was fully prepared for something was just before I changed my first diaper. The toxic stench of that experience burned away such notions of confidence.”
Now, however, Sternhagen felt the tension around him. And it had grown worse since his personal encounter with Zorin.
She wondered if she should consult the Counselor or his daughter about it… but Kami was still recovering, and Sasha was still mopping up from what sounded like a shitstorm rescuing Lt Dassene’s family and the crew and passengers of the Calvera from the Orions.
Then another alert from the Ops drew back her attention: the Ulyanov was tracking several elusive Kzinti ships at the border, but they could easily get in over their heads. They needed backup, and the closest possible help was the Katana, currently still in the Hangar Bay several decks below completing its repairs. She needed to light a fire under that little gnome Weynik to get his bony ass out to assist-
“Captain!” It was Commander James Somerset, the station’s new Intelligence Officer and Chief of Strategic Operations, the normally-unflappable British male offering a layer of anxiety to his accent. “It’s the al-Razi! Captain Arrington reports having arrived at the Zorin Facility, but there‘s no sign of the Surefoot! They should have returned to their assigned point after rescuing the Cheronian!”
*
She can do this. She can do this. She can do this. She can do-
Malala stopped crawling, getting to get her bearings once more within the Jefferies… and to somehow stop her heart from bursting through her chest. Okay, okay, she was in Tube 4-12, moving aftward, towards the Security Suite. It wasn’t that far away, really. Just a few metres.
She can do this. She can do this. She can do this. She can do-
There was a thunderous pounding in the Tube, that she realised was her own breathing.
Stop it! STOP! Commander Bellator, everyone onboard needed her! But she couldn’t stop sweating and shaking!
She started at sounds just ahead of her, at a juncture with a vertical shaft. It was the Alien! It had to be! He had fled Security, killed Captain T’Varik and Lieutenant Commander Shall! Because Malala had been too slow, too cowardly- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-
A head suddenly popped up from the shaft leading downwards. A familiar reptoid head. “Malala? Ssstrewth, what the Bloody Hell are you doing in here?”
She gasped, the breath catching in her throat. “KEVIN? Is that- is that really you?”
The Gorn hissed. “‘Coursse it bloody iss! What’ss going on?”
She swallowed. “I have to get to Security! We’ve been taken over, Lt Thykrill and Kit are being held hostage-”
“Kit?” He bared twin rows of sharp teeth. “Come on, girl, follow me, and I’ll make sssure you get where you need to go!”
*
“Respected Commissioner? Another question, please?”
Bele sat at the Brig’s Control Station, reclining back with his boots on the edge of the panel, fingers steepled together contemplatively on his chest. HIs mind reached out, ensuring the control he had over the machinery of this vessel was maintained: Excellent. Without looking over at the reptoid, sitting on the bench placidly near the cell holding the Andorian, he replied, “Your scientific curiosity must be surely sated by now, Lieutenant?”
“Not at all, Respected Sir. The quest for knowledge is a driving force in my life, as far back as I can recall! I daresay it would keep me going even if I lived as long as you!”
Pathetic alien. He sighed. “Indulge yourself, in the time you have left. What is your question?”
“How are you not consumed by loneliness?”
He glanced up now, frowning. “Excuse me?”
The reptoid stared back. “We are both singular, isolated on many levels from our respective peoples. I am an exile from my own world, and because of my actions unable to return at this time, and in all these years I have only encountered a handful of my people out here. But I still have hope to one day return when the situation improves, someday. And in the interim I have friends here, good friends, who counsel, support and comfort me.
But your situation is far, far worse: the last of your race, unique for centuries, millennia, with your nemesis the only living connection to your past, until you killed him, too. And there is no guarantee that the Bel-Zon can assist you in reviving your people… assuming they are being truthful at all. You will have seen examples of their perfidy with others. Why would they be honest with you now, once your usefulness has been exhausted?
How are you not already overwhelmed with despair?”
“I…” The Cheronian frowned. What was he saying?
“What is more, you were once a respected official for a mighty race. Now you are their last survivor, forced to act as a menial for beings you clearly consider inferior-”
Bele sat up straight, his face tightening. “I am NOT a menial!”
“If you insist, Respected Commissioner. You obviously have a capacity for self-denial that has served you well over the many centuries.”
Bele stiffened, refusing to speak any further, staring ahead.
Meanwhile, Kit kept calm – secretly holding the tricorder sensor wand concealed in his webbed hands trained on the Cheronian, taking in the readings of the reaction generated by Kit’s psychological attack.
*
Back in Sickbay, Shyrik had mobilised her team trapped in here with her to action, as the new data arrived. “Yes, you clever little bug eater! The interphasic energy patterns are definitely fluctuating! Jianhong, run the multispectral analysis on that signature! Corbin, get that emitter taken apart!”
“Doctor, I don’t have all the proper tools here! We usually send these down to Engineering for any modifications-”
“Well, we don’t have time to go crawling around the ship to get to the Gearheads, even assuming that their doors aren’t as screwed as ours! Come on, all of you, we get this done, and all of your next Performance Reviews will look like your mothers had written them! I’ve got to relay this uptop!”
*
On the Bridge, Bellator half-knelt by the printout, studying the text even as it was appearing before them on the paper scroll, never thinking that they would be conducting Starfleet operations via this medium. What was next, sensor sweeps by candlelight?
Then they read enough, rising back to their feet and turning to the crew at the various stations. “Mr Arrington, you will attempt to change course. Mr Madison, you will attempt to shut down the engines. Ms Byxis, you will attempt to send a distress signal to Salem One.” To them, and the others present, they elucidated, “Our hijacker’s control over our systems is apparently psychic in nature, dependent upon willpower and mental discipline… and our Chief Science Officer is employing psychological warfare to erode both.” they turned back to the rest of the Bridge. “Report!”
Giles stayed fixed on his station. “I can’t effect a change of navigation, Commander… but I have some partial control over the subspace field harmonics. I can deliberately alter them to produce an imbalance that will slow us down considerably, maybe even kick us out of warp.”
“Do it. Mr Madison?”
The burly Chief Engineer glanced up now. “Still locked out, Commander… but taking a cue from Giles, I looked at the secondary and tertiary systems to see if they’re more malleable.I can trigger a network isolation normally reserved for drydock baryon sweeps, that’ll allow our manual overrides to actually work.”
“Make it so. Ms Bixys?”
The Bolian woman turned to Bellator, her hairless azure skin darkening. “Commander, I can’t get a signal out… but I can launch the recorder marker!”
“Update the marker and launch, with all due haste.” Bellator let the crew perform. As they recalled a quote, allegedly from a Greek mathematician (although it seemed more akin to a Nova Roman): "Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world". Hopefully, they have both sufficient lever and fulcrum now to move their particular world…
*
As he sat at the Brig station, allowing the reptoid mongrel Kitirik continue to bleat away near the unconscious Andorian, Bele suddenly recalled a moment during his pursuit of Lokai, millennia before their return to the Alpha Quadrant and the encounter with the Enterprise. The chase had taken Bele close to the Galactic Core, and the Great Barrier surrounding it, and as any spacefaring race knew, the Barrier - a wavefront of exotic, violent, coruscating pastel energies - was as great a danger to starships as it was a navigational beacon. Still, Bele considered it a worthwhile risk, if approaching it meant gaining on his quarry.
He had been at it for many hours, many days, before he acknowledged that the whispers he heard in the back of his head were not his thoughts, but another’s, reaching into him...
Yes… come closer…
Bele had snapped to alertness, as the voice, a booming masculine voice, continued, as clear as if it were in the cockpit of his ship instead of in his head.
Yes, my child… your starship… bring it to me…
The Voice… was it-
Yes, my child. It is I, your All Father. The One who shaped your people from dust and made you the Master Race you were always meant to be. The One who hears the prayers and lamentations of your people. I AM… THE ONE!
And then, in the back of his head, Bele saw the Face that produced the Voice: aged, paternal, supremely strong, supremely wise, the left side of His face a shining white like a thousand suns, the right side of His face an endless ebon pool!
Bele couldn’t believe it, though his heart told him it was true. The All Father of his people, the God who brought the Rain to them to grant them immortality, to grant them powers to finally defeat the inferior breed as represented by the detestable Lokai, was speaking to him! Calling him to approach…
Yes, my child. Your God awaits you. You… and your starship…
And as Bele reached out to change direction towards the Barrier, he found that he must have already done it. He was on his way already! His vessel was driving, not around the Great Barrier, but straight into it…
An eternity I've been imprisoned in this place! Your ship. I must have your ship! Now… give me what I want!
And Bele frowned. Riddle Me This: What does God need with a starship?
Answer: He wouldn’t. Not the All-Father of Bele’s race.
And then Bele veered off, back on his original pursuit vector, even as the Voice, the Imposter God’s Voice, wailed away in the back of his mind for hours afterwards, commanding, then pleading to be rescued, before finally dying away, never to return. Bele didn’t know what that Imposter was, but it was clear the Great Barrier wasn’t there to keep outsiders from entering, but to keep the Imposter from departing.
Why did that one incident, from long, long ago, return to him now?
Because once more, he felt that sense that he was being lulled into a trap.
He bolted to his feet, hunched over the Security console, focusing…
*
Nearby, Kit had been distracted by Thykrill, stirring sluggishly back to consciousness on the brig bed, and drew closer to her, checking her fibridic artery and reassuring her quietly, “Do not attempt to move too quickly, Good Friend Atiaro.”
The Andorian, her skin a paler-than-usual blue, shifted, gritting her teeth as she ignored his advice and rose to her elbows, regaining her bearings, before looking out at Bele, her own voice low and wary. “What has happened?”
“Our former captive has secured the Brig and taken mental control of our ship’s systems, but I have been working towards shaking his concentration-”
“YOUR WORK IS AT AN END, REPTILE!”
Both young Starfleet officers looked up in alarm at Bele, facing them, his bisected face twisted in rage, his hands clasped into fists challengingly, glowing crimson now, as he scowled, teeth clenched. “I have seen through your shallow efforts, you misbegotten mongrel! And you will pay - you and the rest of this ship and crew will follow!”
Then he turned towards the door to the Brig.
Kit took a second to send another alert on his PADD, even as he called out, “Respected Commissioner, wait- please-”
*
T'Varik remained standing outside the Brig doors, a part of her mind calculating the time it would take for C'Rash to reach the Shuttlebay and set the shuttlecraft for detonation, allowing for a variable for the unexpected - though of course how can one truly quantify the unquantifiable? - before settling on a careful 22.4 minutes left.
She considered, for a selfish .879 seconds, returning to her quarters, to Srithik, the young man alone, incognisant of his imminent demise. She had promised to protect him as well as instruct and support him, and she wanted to express her regrets that she did not leave him on Salem One, where he would be safer. Well, relatively-
This was pointless and maudlin, T’Varik. You and your nephew had mind-melded more than once to assist him with his pon farr, and you had passed to him more than just emotional strength. You gave him memories: memories of your time in Starfleet, after leaving your duties at the Academy to take a shipboard assignment, a more hazardous direction in her career, but one which repeatedly acquainted her with the fragility of life, and in response, not to hide from it, but to embrace it fully, while it lasts-
A noise from the open Jefferies Tube hatch behind her caught her attention, and she turned to face it, the sounds from within confirming that it wasn’t C’Rash returning- “Crewman O’Neill?”
The elongated, dinosauroid head of Kevin popped out, hissing through clenched teeth as he slithered out of what was for him a narrow aperture. “Captain? Sssorry to intrude, but-”
“Crewman, you should have returned to your Assembly Point for the Red Alert.”
“Tell me about it.” He manoeuvred his way out entirely, twisting in place as if to dive back in again, instead reaching in and helping to guide out someone else.
T’Varik rushed over and assisted as she saw who it was: a trembling, almost-hyperventilating Malala Jain. “Crewman Jain, you have no business being in there, given your condition and the current situation.”
The diminutive, grey-skinned figure nodded, never looking up but holding out a clutch of papers before her as she continued to breathe rapidly, leaving Kevin to explain, “Ssshe sssayss ssshe’ss brought a messsage from the Bridge!”
“Take care of her,” she ordered, accepting the papers, smoothing them out as she rose back to her feet, unfurling the folds as she quickly perused the text, gaining greater knowledge behind Lt Kitirik’s earlier gestural communication. You strengthen my regard for you, Kit. “Thank you for supplying this, Crewman. Mr O’Neill, are you able to navigate your way to Engineering and deliver these instructions, should they not be monitoring their own Teletype?”
Malala, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, glanced up now, looking depleted but still defiant. “Ma’am, I can- I can go-”
"Negative, Crewman." T'Varik's tone brooked no argument as she continued scanning the papers, her eyes moving rapidly across Kit's precise handwriting. "You have performed admirably under extreme duress, but you are in no condition to continue. Mr O'Neill, take this there and move with all due haste."
Kevin hissed as he accepted the paperwork. “I’m on it, Captain.” Then he dove back into the Jefferies Tube opening.
Now T’Varik returned to Malala, her voice and expression softening as she knelt down beside her. “Crewman… should the opportunity not arise later, I wanted to let you know that it has been a privilege serving with you onboard our ship. Your presence, and your service, have enriched us.” She offered a slightly raised eyebrow. “Except of course for your predilection for serving me pastries, which has only enriched my waistline.”
She smiled at that, though her eyes reflected the confusion carried with her response. “Thank you, Captain, I appreciate you saying that, and it’s certainly been an honour and privilege to serve onboard with you and everyone else, but… why do you sound like we’re on some sort of countdown to Doom?”
The Vulcan sobered. “Because that is precisely what we are on, Malala. If we are unsuccessful in neutralising Commissioner Bele’s abilities, we must not let our ship and crew fall into enemy hands. You may have lived a longer life by choosing a path other than Starfleet-”
“No, Captain,” the young Malurian declared resolutely, even managing a slight smile. “I have no regrets. I may do nothing more than run maintenance or clean corridors - or serve you fattening pastries - but I know I’m a part of a greater effort-”
Suddenly the Brig doors parted, and Bele emerged, his body aglow crimson with his bioelectric energy, his face contorted in rage.
Immediately T’Varik twisted and rose back to her feet, chagrin towards him, calculating the possibility of her piercing his protective barriers and delivering a nerve pinch, or even penetrate his mind with her psychic abilities, as anathema as she found the concept-
The Vulcan confirmed the odds were insurmountable as Bele grasped her, flooding her body with paralysing energy and sending her into oblivion.
Bele flung her unconscious body against the wall, stopping to regard Malala, the small Malurian figure curled up in a ball on the floor, shuddering, pleading incoherently, “Don’t hurt me don’t hurt me don’t hurt me don’t hurt me-”
“Insignificant little bug!” he snarled, “You’re not worth my energy! You’ll be dead soon enough, along with all the other mongrels on this wretched vessel, once I rip open your warp core!”
Then he raced down the corridor, using his technokinetic control to open hatchways and depart.
On his departure, Malala stopped her act - yes, she had been afraid, but she was also smart enough to know she couldn’t do anything to stop him, and she would be of more use staying alive and conscious - and rushed over to T’Varik’s body, checking her pulse, having learned enough during her duties in Sickbay to know normal Vulcan readings.
“Who’s out there?”
The Malurian glanced up; the Brig doors were still open? She rose and raced inside, finding Lieutenants Kitirik and Thykrill alive but locked inside one of the cells “Lieutenants! Captain T’Varik’s been knocked out by that alien. How can I get you out of there?”
The Andorian stepped forward, until the force field door crackled a warning. “You won’t have biometric clearance, but there is an alphanumeric equivalent. Type the following code into the control console…”
***
C’Rash had been completing the work on the Shuttlecraft when she felt the flash in her head – T’Varik, her mind reaching out with images, sounds – and for a second, C’Rash was inside her wife’s head, seeing Bele emerge, felt the Vulcan prepare to try and resist the inevitable neuroleptic shock from the Cheronian, unless she can strike back, but fails, pain suffusing her body as she fell…but her ears still functioned, and as the link dissolved, she heard Bele threaten someone with the imminent destruction of the ship, via the Warp Core…
C’Rash forced down her instinctive rage at her wife being hurt – oh, I’ll be dealing with you shortly, you filthy two-tone kussik – as she aborted the self-destruct sequences here, needing to deal with the more immediate destruction of the ship. She signalled to two Security crewmen who had been trapped here when Bele first took control. “Follow me! Through the Tubes to Engineering, and don’t dawdle!”
***
"Doctor, have you ever hated someone?" Srithik asked, fingers pressed together in a precise arch. His dark eyes didn’t blink.
Alexander Auger leaned back in his chair, the artificial leather sighing under his weight. He had been undergoing a Counseling session with the young Vulcan, but then the ship underwent a Red Alert just as it finished, and they were trapped in here, allowing them the opportunity to catch up with homework and casework, respectively. But the silence wasn’t complete, broken by random questions from the young man. Which Auger enjoyed; it made a change from trying to pry information from reluctant crewmembers. He chose his reply carefully. "Hate’s a strong word, but yeah. I have."
The boy’s eyebrow twitched—almost imperceptible, but Auger caught it. Vulcans didn’t do anything imperceptible unless something was wrong, and of course there were allowances for his age. "I am attempting to reconcile an illogical reaction. There is an individual aboard this vessel whose presence provokes... discomfort."
Auger tapped his stylus against his PADD. "Discomfort how?"
The air recyclers hummed in the pause that followed. Srithik’s gaze flicked to the bulkhead, as if calculating the distance to the door. "Their ideology is flawed," he said at last. "They believe their species is inherently superior to others. They have practiced organised racial apartheid against a minority of their world, for what appears to be a very minor difference."
Auger’s fingers tightened around the stylus. "Bele."
Srithik nodded once.
The doctor exhaled through his nose. Auger had read about the Cheronian, of course, from a psychological viewpoint. "Alright," Auger said. "So you’re telling me you, a Vulcan, are sitting here admitting you feel something about this guy."
Srithik’s jaw tightened. "Emotional discipline is a lifelong practice."
"Uh-huh. And you are asking me because..."
"Because you are human," Srithik said. "And humans are familiar with irrational prejudice."
Auger snorted. "Understatement of the Century, as my ancestors will tell you."
“And in my research in humour, I have found examples of many cultures who have employed jokes based on perceived racial stereotypes, but no amount of research I apply can find the humour inherent in them.”
“Well, maybe you have to be a bigot to appreciate them, so consider yourself lucky not to find them funny.” He set aside his PADD and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "But let’s be clear – you don’t hate Bele. His existence contradicts everything Vulcans believe about logic. And that pisses you off."
Srithik blinked.
"Am I wrong?" Auger pressed.
The boy’s fingers flexed, then stilled. "No, if I understand the term.."
Auger grinned. "There you go. Now we’re getting somewhere." Auger swiveled his chair toward the replicator. "You want tea? I’m getting tea."
Srithik watched him. "That would be... acceptable."
The replicator whirred. Auger handed him a cup, steam curling between them. "So," he said. "You wanna talk about why bigotry’s stupid, because that can be the longest or the shortest conversation we’ll ever have, or you wanna figure out why you care?"
Srithik’s fingers warmed against the ceramic. "The latter," he said quietly.
Auger took a sip. "Good choice."
The tea was too hot—Auger could see Srithik’s fingers adjusting their grip by millimeters, avoiding discomfort without acknowledging it. Vulcans.
"So," Auger said, blowing steam off his own cup, "Tell me what happens when you think about Bele. Not what you think you should feel. What actually happens."
Srithik’s eyes darkened slightly, pupils contracting as if bracing against a glare. "My pulse accelerates by 12%. Respiration deepens. There is an... impulse to recalibrate my stance, as though he is about to enter the room."
Auger whistled low. "That’s revulsion."
The boy’s nostrils flared—almost imperceptibly. Almost. "Revulsion is illogical."
"When faced with someone like him? Seems perfectly logical to me." Auger set his tea down with a click. "His views go against everything we believe in. None of us are perfect – we all have personal biases – but that’s different to the level of hate that characters like Bele espouse. He’s toxic."
Srithik’s gaze flicked to the Starfleet insignia on Auger’s collar. "You are suggesting my reaction is... protective?"
"Bingo." Auger grinned. "Just be aware of your reaction, and set it aside. There’s nothing wrong with the feeling to… ‘recalibrate your stance’... just remind yourself that Bele is in the Brig, and won’t just be walking through you door-”
The door to Auger’s office slid open, and Bele stood there, his face contorted in rage, glaring at the two of them. “WHERE IS ENGINEERING?”
Auger kept still, hoping Srithik would do the same; he may be a Vulcan, but adolescent males are much the same all over, especially when they have older relatives in Starfleet they feel they must aspire to be like. “Deck 9, Fore, straight down, just past the Corbormite Storage Units.” He pointed out the doorway. “There’s a vertical access shaft down the hall and to the right the Engineering crewman like to use as a shortcut-”
Bele grunted and departed.
Auger bolted to his feet, opening his desk drawer and withdrawing a phaser, as Srithik rose as well. “Doctor, there is no Deck 9, and I have not heard of Corbormite, and the vertical access shaft-”
The Counselor moved to the doorway and peered out, setting the phaser on heavy Stun as per procedure. “-Leads to the Waste Tanks, I know, kid. Hope he can take a joke…”
***
In Sickbay, Jianhong held up the emitter, beaming. “We’ve done it, Doctor! Following Lieutenant Kitirik’s specifications-”
Dr Shyrik stood up. “Yes, but have you managed to get that door cranked open?”
“Well, uh, no, we’ve been focused on-”
The Andorian doctor snatched the device from him. “Well, now you can focus on getting those dam doors open! Kit’s just texted us saying Bele’s going to Engineering to blow up the ship!”
***
Thykrill opened up the weapons locker, grabbing a phaser compression rifle. “Kit, see to the Captain, there’s an emergency medical kit beneath the console! Secure the Brig for when I bring Bele back!”
Kit was about to protest, but thought better of it; Good Friend Atiaro knew what she was doing.
He hoped.
***
He had found Engineering, despite the efforts of that black-skinned human mongrel to send him elsewhere. He saw the Warp Core, rising up like an idol, glowing like a sun.
A sun he was about to extinguish. Yes, his own life would end with it, but in truth, he had nothing, no reason to carry on. His people were gone, his title meant nothing, and the Galaxy was filled with these inferiors. Destroying this ship and taking a few of these inferiors with him would be a fitting end.
Engineering's main doors had been easy enough to open with a little focus. There were humanoids with phasers, firing immediately. To their credit, they stood their ground, increasing the power levels of their weapons until even Bele began to feel their effects - at least, until he got a good grasp of them both and sent them into unconsciousness.
A young ensign lunged at him with a plasma torch, swinging wildly. Bele caught the man's wrist and squeezed until bones cracked, then flung him into a bank of consoles. Sparks erupted where the body hit.
He continued forward, the warp core still in his sights-
He was roughly tackled from behind, tumbling towards a vertical display of the ship. Bele twisted into a crouch and looked up at her attacker: a large, tailed dinosauroid in a modified Starfleet crewman’s jumpsuit, glassy black eyes fixed on Bele as it hissed, “Oi! Wanker! Did you hurt my mate Kit?”
Bele frowned. “Kit? You mean that insignificant, obsequious reptoid?” He smiled cruelly now. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I grew so tired of his incessant, insipid liberal bleating that I pulled that tongue of his out of his mouth until he died from blood loss-“
The dinosauroid charged with a roar, elongated mouth open to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. Bele returned to his feet and charged to meet him, confident that he could disable this dull hulking creature like the others-
Bele let the animal grasp him, while Bele directed waves of neuroleptic energy into him, expecting him to drop like a sack of rocks.
Yes, he’ll drop.
Any second now.
The creature grappled with Bele, for much longer than any of the others, forcing Bele to exert more and more of his reserves of energy. He had to fall- he had to fall- he couldn’t stand up to the Last Son of Cheron! HE COULDN’T!
Finally, the dinosauroid crumpled, his body twitching as if still being assaulted with energy.
Something struck Bele from behind. He spun, to see that blue-skinned, antennaed bitch from the Brig, holding a phaser rifle on him. “You! I thought you’d learn the meaning of Futility.”
Thykrill raised the phaser rifle again, adjusting the frequency using the random frequency shifter fitted for countering Borg shield adaptability. “I was never good with Words, I prefer Actions.” She fired again.
Bele felt that this time; pain shot through his system, as he focused to increase his personal shielding, charging towards the Andorian, roaring as she fired again and again, pointing the rifle upwards - no doubt had she risked using a higher power setting, he might have been brought down or even killed, but of course she didn’t dare risk that so close to their Warp Core - as he gripped her by the throat, sending his neuroleptic charge through her system.
He tossed her aside like a doll. Around him, alarms wailed, lights strobed, but the warp core's containment chamber remained waiting. That wouldn't last. He flexed his fingers, feeling the buildup of energy in his palms once more. One concentrated blast would weaken the magnetic seals enough for him to tear them apart manually. He raised his hands—
A shadow dropped from the overhead conduits, landing between him and the Core in a crouch. Black fur bristled, tail lashing, as Lieutenant Commander C'Rash Shall rose smoothly to her full height. Her claws gleamed under the emergency lighting, already extended.
"First and last warning," she growled. "Surrender, Kussik."
Bele's lips peeled back in something too jagged to be called a smile. "You should have stayed in the vents licking yourself, Cat." He lunged, his energy field flaring crimson as he swiped at her face.
C'Rash twisted sideways, feeling the static charge singe the tips of her fur. She countered with a slash across his ribs—her claws screeched against his energy shield and cut through, drawing a thin line of iridescent blood. Bele snarled, backhanding her hard enough to send her skidding across the deck. She rolled into the impact, tail whipping for balance, just as he charged again.
This time she let him come. At the last second, she dropped onto her back and kicked upward with both feet, boots slamming into his gut. The force lifted him off the ground—but he twisted midair, landing in a crouch, and retaliated by slamming both fists down where she'd been. The deck plating buckled under the blow. C'Rash barely scrambled clear before he yanked a chunk of duranium free and hurled it at her head. She ducked, hearing it strike the bulkhead behind her with a metallic groan.
His strength was unreal. But speed? That was hers.
She feinted left, then darted right, raking her claws down his thigh. His roar of pain was cut short as she sprang onto his back, wrapping her legs around his torso. One arm hooked under his chin, the other poised to drive claws into his temple—but his energy field pulsed violently, sending searing jolts through her muscles. Her body locked up for one terrible second, and that was all he needed. He reached back, gripping her by the scruff, and flung her like a rejected toy against a wall labelled EXOSUIT STORAGE.
Metal crumpled. Sparks rained down. C'Rash tasted blood—hers, this time—but forced herself onto her hands and knees. Across the room, Bele was already turning toward the warp core, his hands glowing with gathered energy.
She wouldn't reach him in time.
As it turned out, she didn't try. Instead, she snatched a fallen phaser from one of her comrades, took half a second to aim, and fired – directly into the overhead plasma conduit above Bele's head.
The explosion knocked him sideways, superheated gas raining down. His energy field absorbed most of the blast, but the distraction was enough – C'Rash was on him before he recovered, slamming him into the deck with her full weight. They rolled, a tangle of claws and crackling energy, Bele's fingers scrabbling for her throat while her fangs sank into the meat of his shoulder. He howled, his free hand clamping around her wrist-
Then his body went rigid.
C'Rash recoiled, panting, as Bele convulsed once before collapsing. Behind him, Dr Shyrik stood, trembling, her antennae dipped but her expression resolute, some sort of emitter beam in her hands still glowing faintly. "Well, looks like we owe Lt Kitirik some honey-coated locusts for his efforts.”
C'Rash wiped blood from her muzzle with the back of her paw. "Later.” She tapped at her combadge, welcoming the response chirp. “Shall to Bridge: Bele is down, check our controls, and get an Emergency Medical Team down to Engineering and the Brig-”
Suddenly the Red Alert klaxon sounded, and the ship rocked.
***
Bellator gripped the arms of the Captain’s Chair. “Mr Arrington, evasive! Tactical, report!”
As the ship banked sharply to port, the voice behind Bellator replied, “It’s the Furyk! Phasers online, still working on photon torpedoes, shields holding at 80%!”
Bellator nodded to themself. “Mr Madison, focus on rerouting power to our shields, Ms Ravixx, aft phasers, random pattern bursts, keep them guessing and unable to lock onto us. Can we get a distress signal out now?”
From Ops, Toodles called out, “Communications are back online, but the Furyk’s pumping out interference on all local subspace channels!”
Bellator gritted her teeth, one ear listening to the turbolift doors, waiting for T’Varik or C’Rash to appear, take over and save the day. But if they weren’t here by now, it’s because they couldn’t be, and Bellator didn’t have time to find out why.
The Steamrunner-class Furyk outgunned the Surefoot, and that didn’t even take into account whatever illegal upgrades the Bel-Zon added to the ship. “Mr Arrington, I am aware that you are busy keeping us alive, but you are still Second Officer, and your suggestions are always welcome at this time.”
Giles barely shifted from his hands moving over the Helm controls, or his eyes from the screen, but he did arch his head slightly towards one shoulder. “Vent the excess tetryon plasma from the aft exhausts, it should affect targeting sensors from ships of that era-”
“Mr Madison, make it so!” Fortuna, smile upon us today…
***
On the Furyk, Kazan leaned forward, watching the reaction of the Surefoot to their initial attack. Not what he expected from a ship captained by Hrelle’s former First Officer; maybe Bele managed to inflict some damage within? Spaseeba, Commissioner; in exchange, I will provide you with a quick death. “Helm, arc us around that plasma discharge. Tactical, arm the tricobalt warhead, let’s finish them off and join the others in the assault on Salem One-”
“Captain Kazan!” The Rigellian at Tactical snapped. “Incoming Sabre-class vessels!”
Kazan glanced back, his interest piqueing. “Is one of them the Katana?”
“Negative, Sir, it’s the Al-Razi and Prospero!”
Kazan’s hairless brow furrowed in disappointment, eager for a rematch with Weynik. The Al-Razi was captained by Lucille Arrington, and the Prospero by Sonia Godleski, both highly experienced officers. They’ll give T’Varik on the Surefoot time to gather her resources. As much as he would normally appreciate the attentions of three females… “Helm, get us out of here, Maximum Warp, and launch some Blinds to cover our tracks!”
Another time, Weynik…
***
“USS Surefoot, Captain’s Log, Supplemental: Thanks to the timely arrival of our sister ships, we have survived the opportunistic attack from the commandeered Furyk, and are undergoing repairs and treatment of our casualties. Commendations to my crew, in particular Lieutenant Kitirik, for his work in employing psychological tactics to test Commissioner Bele’s technokinetic hold over our vessel, and developing a means of neutralising his power.”
***
Crewman Kevin O’Neill stirred, cursed to himself, and then tried to rise, but couldn’t. “What the bloody hell-” He began struggling.
Kit stepped forward, resting a webbed hand on the Gorn’s shoulder. “Wait, Good Friend Kevin, you were strapped down while unconscious because your tail was knocking over equipment!- allow me-” He released the invisible field surrounding the crewman, allowing Kevin to sit up, before holding the sides of his head. “My head’ss pounding like a ssshagged clock…” Then he looked at Kit. “Are you alright, mate? Did that basstard hurt you? He wass boassting that he had, and he got me riled up.”
“No, Good Friend Kevin, though you should be more concerned with your own health.”
He chuckled. “Not me, mate, I’m built like a brick ssshithousse. Am I guessing that Mr Mime’ss had his bollockss handed to him?”
Kit wheezed in amusement. “Not literally, of course, but he is confined, and his powers neutralised. But still, you are in Support, not Security, and you should not have risked your life out of any concern for my welfare.”
Kevin shrugged. “From the way that basstard wass moving towards the Warp Core, I figured my number would be up the sesame ass you and everyone elsse onboard. But even if it wassn’t, I’m not letting any wanker ssspew talk trassh about my Little Buddy - and I don’t mean my dick!”
Kit wheezed again. “I will accept your argument, if you will accept my gratitude.”
Kevin hissed. “Matess don’t owe matess anything… but I wouldn’t mind a ssshag, jusst to make sssure all my partss are ssstill in good working order…”
**
Thykrill stripped the phaser rifle apart for the twentieth time, her hands moving from muscle memory more than intent, her antennae dipped and her expression dark.
“Ah, there you are,” Giles noted, stepping into the Brig’s Weapons Room. “You might need your Universal Translator recalibrated, so you’ll know what ‘Medical Leave’ means.”
“I know what it means,” she declared sourly, not looking up. She had removed her combadge, not wanting to be tracked easily or lectured to, but clearly there was no stopping Giles. “I know what it means: rest and recuperation. Consider this therapy.”
“I could counter by asking Dr Shyrik for confirmation on that-”
“Or you could not, and just leave. I want to be alone.”
“I know.” He sat down beside her at the assembly table. “That’s why I’ve joined you.”
She grunted. As relentless as he is trying to get into my pants… “If you are looking to get some action for your Pinkskin piece tonight, think again.”
Giles reached out and took the power pack for the rifle out of her hands and set it down. “I’m not here in my capacity as your lover, but as the Second Officer of this vessel. Your letter of resignation was received by your immediate supervisor, Lieutenant Commander C’Rash Shall, who, as she is currently engaged in Security updates to Commodore Hrelle, has asked me to forward her reply.” He paused and concluded, “‘Kiss my furry ass’.”
Atiaro ground her teeth, her antennae curving upward. She expected something like this, but had prepared her reply. “I failed. I allowed a prisoner to break loose, disable me, and use myself and a fellow officer as hostages while he threatened the rest of the ship, potentially jeopardising security on Station Salem One-”
“-Which could have resulted in the fall of the Federation, tipping the balance of power in the Alpha Quadrant, setting the entire Galaxy on a collision course that will ultimately topple the Universe into multidimensional chaos-”
“You’re being typically facetious,” she accused, reaching out for the power pack.
Giles kept it from her. “And you’re being typically overdramatic. Bele’s power was greater than the descriptions about him in the old Enterprise logs described, and no one’s done a proper study of him until he came onboard. He surprised us all, Atiaro. And no one, from Commodore Hrelle down to Captain T’Varik down to Commander Bellator all the way down to little old me, would expect you, would expect any of us, to be perfect.”
She stopped pretending to be busy, stared at the pieces in her azure hands. Seeing her failures instead. They seemed so many, accumulating, like Andorian iceflies swarming around the husk of a fallen cavesnake. “I still failed-”
“Actually, you contributed significantly. Kit confirmed that the trick of using the anti-Borg modification chip to randomise the resonance frequencies on your phaser rifle apparently worked on Bele, sapped a lot of his strength, made him vulnerable to Lt Shall’s attack. Without your contribution, we wouldn’t have had time to neutralise him.
So, our Chief of Security intends to recommend including the modification chip as part of Security protocols against future encounters with energy manipulators. But her Assistant Chief of Security has to write up the report to be sent to Starfleet Security. And you can’t do that if you throw around resignations like a stroppy little cub with its tail in a kink.” He paused and clarified. “Lt Shall’s words, not mine.”
Atiaro leaned back in her chair, finally looking up at him… liking this assertive side of him. “And did she leave any instructions? Should I continue to act like a… ‘stroppy little cub’?”
His skin flushed salmon-pink, in that cute/unnerving way that Terrans with his skin tone did. “Actually… she did also say that if all else fails, I’m supposed to take you to bed and ‘do whatever it takes to make your antennae curl’.” He held out his hands. “So, what shall it be? You want to keep sitting here or-”
“No. We’ll go to my quarters.”
He grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Yes… I prefer to work on my Security report on my own console. You can keep the coffee coming.”
***
Bele’s head felt as if it had turned inside out. He struggled to get back onto his feet, noting that his previous clothing, shredded in the battle with that furred Caitian mongrel, was now replaced with a Starfleet-issue utilitarian jumpsuit in a garish pastel colour.
Then he focused on his immediate surroundings: back in one of the Surefoot Brig cells. Well, he would soon be free from here again-
Then he focused on… emptiness. Not an external emptiness, but an internal one. Now he felt like he was missing a limb, or a sensory organ.
Finally, he focused on the individuals standing on the other side of the invisible brig door, rising to his feet, arms crossed. “Release me, and I will consider sparing your miserable lives.”
T’Varik, Kit and C’Rash stood observing him, the Vulcan responding first. “You will find that you are no longer in a position to make such demands, Commissioner. You no longer possess your many physical and psychic abilities.”
Bele’s jaw tightened, as he focused on harnessing his inner power, his Gift- it- it-
Where was it?
His eyes widened as he lowered his arms. “What have you done to me?”
Kit lifted his jaw towards him. “That will be my undoing, Respected Prisoner. I was able to identify the parasite that had infected you, and eliminate it.”
He stepped closer, until he felt the waring proximity crackle of the force field. “Parasite? What are you talking about?”
“An interphasic parasite,” Kit elaborated. “The phenomenon which your people have referred to as ‘God’s Gift’ was in fact a collective of parasites that lay dormant within the meteors that by chance bombarded Cheron over 50,000 years ago, reviving on entering your atmosphere, and finding ideal hosts within your people.”
He held up a PADD in his webbed hands towards him, displaying a cross-section of a humanoid head, with highlighted areas around the base of the brain. “You and your people absorbed them through respiration, and the organisms collect and nest within the brain.
The parasites subsisted on norepinephrine and other neurotransmitters that peak during feelings of hostility, bigotry, rage, and absorbed these through osmotic tendrils tapping directly into the brain matter-”
“No…” Bele murmured, staring coldly at the display. Parasites? All of his power, all of his purpose, all of what he considered innately Cheronian was the result of an infestation? “Our scientists would have detected them-”
“No, Respected Prisoner. The organisms existed in an interphasic state that rendered them invisible and intangible, unless illuminated using an interphasic scanner. They could not be physically removed, and were unaffected by electromagnetic radiation, subspace fields, or thermal protons.
And the modifications they made to your race - your cellular homeostasis granting extreme long life while stunting reproduction, your bioneuroleptic energy generation, your technokinesis - were designed to not only maintain you as hosts and sources of food for millennia, but also keep you constantly warring amongst yourselves, thus keeping you from developing further and potentially discovering the infection.”
Bele glared at him, utterly confused. “No… No, you’re lying-”
“He is not,” T’Varik continued. “The evidence we have gathered from the scans taken of you, both before and after you were recaptured, supports this. Recognition of interphasic lifeforms is a relatively recent scientific development within the Federation, but it has offered solutions to numerous enigmas. Including, now, how your people acquired your formidable abilities.”
“Well, formerly formidable,” C’Rash quipped, still figuratively nursing her wounds from earlier. “Now you’re just a two-toned dickhead running around shouting like the worst mime ever.”
“The USS Enterprise-D was infected with a similar species of interphasic lifeform eight years ago,” Kit elaborated. “They cured themselves using a high-frequency interphasic pulse; I identified the specific frequency to neutralise your infection.” An expression of pity creased his reptoid face. “I expect that this change to your body after so long will produce profound psychological trauma, as you learn to adjust. I strongly advise that you accept Counseling to help you cope.”
But Bele was barely listening now. He stared at his white left hand and black right hand, both feeling like they were no longer his anymore. No power, no purity, no feeling of superiority. No God’s Gift.
And all those centuries, those millennia of conflict between his people and Lokai’s, all that death and destruction, was driven by… parasites? Spectral parasites buried in their brains? Their power, their immortality, just tools by microscopic creatures to accentuate their feeding grounds?
He could almost feel his body begin to decay, cell by cell, necrosis creeping into his flesh like a winter chill. “You’ve… you’ve violated me…”
“We neutralised a threat to our lives and our ship,” T’Varik responded coolly. “A threat who had been given repeated opportunities to cease his hostilities and accept support from the Federation, more support than many might believe he deserved, given his attitude and his actions to date.” She paused, before continuing. “That offer of support stands.”
Bele looked up from the proverbial pit of his thoughts. “What are you blathering about, Vulcan?”
“Watch the tone, kussik,” C’Rash hissed, her tail twitching behind her. “Your Master Race bullshit isn’t gonna slick the fur for you anymore.”
“I am ‘blathering’ about an offer,” T’Varik continued. “You will still face prosecution for your actions as an operative of the Bel-Zon, and will serve whatever punitive measures are decided, but your cooperation now will alleviate this. And during your incarceration, our Science Officer will continue his research into your people.”
Bele ground his teeth, sinking further. “Go to my world soon while you can, Reptoid, before it finally spins into our sun, or out into space. It is dead. As my people are.”
“Not necessarily, Respected Prisoner.” Kit tapped at his PADD. “My research indicated that Cheronians had an era of space exploration prior to the arrival of the parasites and the biological augmentation – and societal stagnation – that they induced. This, plus archaeological records kept by contemporary governments such as the Kalandan and the First Federation support the possibility that a colony of Cheronians was established at some point in the distant past. And they may still survive.”
Bele lifted his head up once more. Was it possible? It seemed so long ago – all he seemed to remember now was the hate, the hate for Lokai and the rest of his filthy breed – but he did also remember the interplanetary vessels they had developed, like the one that Lokai stole, and the one that Bele appropriated to pursue him.
Could it be? “But… you cannot be certain… this could be a deception on your part.”
Kit then produced more images from his PADD, images of other Cheronians, presenting them to Bele. “A number of different individuals have been recorded at various times and places in the last hundred years, throughout the Alpha Quadrant: at Starbase 25, Tellar Prime, Space Station Baraam, Parliament, Nimbus III. None have been recorded as possessing the abilities that you had, thus supporting the idea of an independent Cheronian colony, unaffected by the parasites, and thus not among the casualties when your race destroyed itself on Charon in 2266.”
He stared at the reptoid. Could it be true? Could his race still exist, somewhere? He had never entertained the possibility, having been obsessed with Lokai’s destruction, and being out of touch with the rest of the Galaxy since his return to his planet.
And if it was true, and he did seek them out, find them, what then? They may look like him, but they would have lived vastly different lives than Bele. What if they were liberal do-gooders like the Federation, had Half-Whites like Lokai in their society, but treated them differently? As… equals? Could he persuade them of the wrongness of their actions?
“Commissioner Bele,” T’Varik continued. “In all of your encounters with members of Starfleet, can you name any examples where you have been deceived by them? Consider my offer. We must return to the Zorin Facility.”
He looked away, staring at the wall, hearing the three aliens turn to depart.
Until he called out, “It doesn’t work.”
He turned back to face them once more as they stopped and regarded him, T’Varik asking, “What doesn’t?”
He stood up, feeling alive, more alive than he had in a long time, and it was a vitality not born from filthy interphasic parasites. “Zorin’s warp catapult, the innovation that he is lauding to the Galaxy. I heard mention of it being fundamentally flawed, causing accumulated molecular degradation in objects it propels.”
The three officers looked at each other, before T’Varik asked, “Why would he risk releasing such a flawed product to the public?”
“The flaw is not immediately apparent, and his minions have buried the evidence sufficiently well that the system is expected to be widely purchased before it is ‘discovered’.”
“It would not be without precedent, Respected Captain,” Kit pointed out, “Given what we learned about Zorin Interstellar’s Alkemy Project. If this is standard business practice for the company, this might necessitate an examination of present and past ventures for them.”
“You have more immediate concerns, Starfleet,” Bele warned gravely. “Your Commodore Hrelle has been infected with a virus, one tailored to his specific DNA by the criminal geneticist Doctor Orlok… and he is unleashing a band of Chaos Bringers onto your station. He calls them his Nightmare Crew…”
***
In Salem One’s Operations Centre, Captain Sternhagen and everyone else jumped at the sound of a chair flung through one of the partitions on Commodore Hrelle’s office, and the massive shape of… something… leaping through and barrelling out the door.
On all fours…
At that moment, one of the Airlocks on Deck Seven was opening, as Station Security Crewman Niles Abberline stood, PADD in hand, hoping to get this one last task on his shift schedule over and done with, and get to the Starjammers Cafe for a long-awaited plate of salt-and-pepper spare ribs and French fries, before preparing to visit the new club that opened up, to replace the notorious Tarot, open for all of one night-
The figure that stepped out from the newly-arrived ship caught his attention: humanoid, possibly male, wrapped in dark, old-fashioned clothes, even a top hat of all things, the lower half of their face covered in a blood-red scarf, offering eyes as black as shark eyes
A chill ran through Niles as the visitor approached, but he quickly forced such atavistic reactions down; the Galaxy was full of completely innocent beings whose only crime was giving him the heebie-jeebies, and the Security measures in the airlock detected no weapons or other potential problems. He had a job to do. “Good evening, and welcome to Station Salem One. May I ask your name?”
The tophatted figure seemed to glide to a stop before him, the voice masculine, sibilant, almost disembodied. “Qhaanad.”
Niles frowned, scanning the passenger manifest transmitted by the ship prior to its arrival. “I… don’t seem to see your name here, Sir-”
“Try Licaell.”
Niles did, never looking up. “Um, not that name either.”
“Scringurs Krul,” the visitor offered now, his voice rising in volume and pace as he continued, not waiting for Niles to check his PADD again. “Mhalged.
Edward Teach.
Simon Girty.
Baratis.
Kesla.
Jack.
Red Jack.
Redjac.
REDJAC
REDJAC
REDJAC REDJAC REDJAC AHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!”
Niles looked up in time to see the long, gleaming blade appear in the visitor’s hand, swinging it out to slice Niles’ throat open….
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TO BE CONTINUED IN... THE NIGHTMARE CREW
