Planet Cheron, 50,000 Years Ago:
Akos glanced up at his superior officer, looking shocked. “I’m not, Sir! There are reports coming from all over Cheron! People are exhibiting strange… abilities! Rapid recovery from injuries, energy projection, psychic powers-”
Bele scowled, especially as others on his team seemed to be leaning in over Akos’ shoulder to view the drivel; science fiction was for the simple-minded. “Return to the carrier! I’ll have you reassigned to Racial Purity Records! GO! And if the rest of you don’t want to join him, I suggest you check your weapons and body armour! Luja, Moric, you’ll take the first floor! Sarolt, Vida, the second! Haras, Polc, the third! I’ll deal with the rabble on the roof! We move in on my mark!”
Bele turned back to stare at their target, a rundown tenement in the filthy dilapidated Half-White ghetto where they kept this loathsome sub-breed away from the civilised parts of the city, while behind him, his men complied with his orders – while also not trying too hard to keep their feelings about him to themselves, managing just a few barely-audible mutterings.
He knew he wasn’t popular among them, or indeed the rest of the Commission, that he was seen as humourless and zealous and ambitious, keeping his private life hidden from them. He was an enigma to his colleagues – hence their secret nickname for him, the one they thought he didn’t know about: the Riddler.
He didn’t care. The truth was that he didn’t speak about his private life because he had none. No wife, no children, no hobbies, no interests apart from attending Veneration every Povaday like any good Cheronian would.
His job was his life, his life was his job. And he was not content to remain a lowly Inspector and deal with this genetic trash until retirement. No, he would climb the government service ladder until he finally made Commissioner. And he would do it, even if it took him an eternity.
He activated his neurobaton. “MOVE!”
The raid proceeded smoothly; the most disagreeable part of it for Bele was the smell of these animals’ homes, their cooking, their squalor. It was something he never grew accustomed to, no matter how many times he had to perform this unpleasant but necessary task, and he knew he would have to take a long, relaxing exfoliation afterwards.
He heard the cries of the residents on the lower floors as his men burst into their apartments below, breaking furniture and breaking skulls of any who dared resist their superiors. He had no pity for them: they were ignorant animals that his people had tried to raise up, to civilise. But they were parasites, lazy, shiftless parasites whose very genes were suffused with a propensity for crime and chaos, and they had taken the generosity that Bele’s race provided and turned it against their benefactors. Culminating, in at least the occupants here, of aiding and abetting a known agitator, an incendiary anarchist.
He reached the roof, finding a half-dozen of them, young instigators, hidden from the street patrols and using the illumination from the astronomic display above to embody their sedition on protest signs: END SEGREGATION, EQUAL RIGHTS FOR HALF-WHITES, FREE ALL POLITICAL PRISONERS, POWER TO THE PEOPLE.
Animals.
Ungrateful animals!
They began panicking, trying to get past him to the stairs behind him, the only egress from the roof. Bele struck out at them, sending them sprawling to the rooftop as the neurobaton delivered agonising shocks. This was the part of the job he loved most: delivering justice. He never felt so alive-
He also felt the hand on his arm, turning him around.
Bele stared hard into the face of his quarry, the terrorist Lokai: saw the vicious, unwarranted rage in the young Half-White’s face, the animal bloodlust, knowing nothing but violence.
Bele raised the neurobaton, turning the level up to Maximum to inflict a lethal charge.
Lokai was quicker – shoving him hard over the edge of the roof.
Bele twisted in the air, at a loss for words and action, watching as he tumbled through the cool dark evening air, rapidly approaching the cracked, dirty pavement, certain that his helmet and his body armour will not protec-
He reached up and touched his skull, finding… no injuries. No. It couldn't be. He should have died, far beyond the abilities of medical science to heal him.
An unaccustomed confusion, and fear, overtook him, and he swung his legs out to stand up, just as the curtain surrounding his immediate area parted, and his associate Luja stepped in, his eyes wide with a naked astonishment. “Inspector! You’re alive, and awake!”
“Of course I am! What happened to the terrorist Lokai?”
“Never mind him! You fell over eighty cubits to the ground, and you not only survived, you healed! They’re right! The Miracle’s real!”
“Miracle? What are you talking about?” He looked around. He was in what looked like the Emergency Ward of a local hospital, but everyone – doctors, nurses, patients – was running around as if the place was on fire. “What’s going on?”
Luja’s mouth widened into a grin. “Something wonderful has happened, Inspector! To all of us! Those reports that Akos was reading about were true! The meteors have brought with them a Miracle! Gifts for all of us! The Sovereign has been on a global broadcast, declaring it real! He calls it God’s Rain!”
Bele glanced around again. He saw strange red energy, coruscating around people, like they were on fire, without being harmed. Others were touching medical equipment, and making them short out. He was as devout as the next Cheronian, truly believing that they were God’s People, something the degenerate Half-Whites could barely comprehend, let alone emulate. But still, a miracle?
On a wallscreen, the image of the Sovereign was talking, as a generated simulation of the planet rotated beside him, still bombarded by the meteors – or was it being called God’s Rain now?
“How do you feel, Inspector?” Luja asked.
Bele breathed in. He felt… strong. Powerful. Like he would live forever.
Perhaps he would, if the reports were true. And if he could live forever, work forever…
He could become Commissioner. He could deal with the threat of the Half-Whites, once and for all.
Starting with Lokai. Bele would track him down and bring him to justice.
No matter how long it took.
*
Present Day:
“USS Surefoot-A, Captain’s Log, Stardate 78048.4, Captain T’Varik, Recording: we have succeeded our sister ship, the USS Prospero, in the ongoing mission set by Commodore Hrelle, ostensibly to offer security to the new Ballista Facility established by Zorin Interstellar in Salem Sector, but in fact to secretly study the device which has been claimed to soon revolutionise interstellar travel-
You’re off the clock, Marmalade, now get that tongue of yours over here and put it to some good use for a change-”
T’Varik switched off her logbook and turned in her chair. “Do you know how many times I have had to edit my work because of your insatiable libido?”
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Clearly your nethers have a selective memory, given the frequency your own paws visit down there.”
Lt Cmdr C’Rash Shall purred. “You owe me, Marmalade, for allowing your nephew to live with us.”
T’Varik felt the purrs reach her, with a concurrent stimulation on the psychic level thanks to the bond they shared. “I believe I have already repaid that debt. Thoroughly in fact, to the point of injuring my back during our shore leave on Nepenthe last month.” Then she set aside her logbook and rose, slipping out of her jacket as she approached her spouse. “Still, it would be logical to retire early and prepare the mission briefing tomorrow-”
C’Rash shot out an arm, the forefinger on her paw pressed against TVarik’s lips, her purrs now travelling palpably as she murmured, “What did I tell you about putting that tongue to good use? Now, shut up and come to bed.”
T’Varik felt her arousal stir within her. She was still recovering from the side effects of helping her nephew Srithik overcome his first, highly-hormonal adolescent pon farr through a supportive mind mend. Meditation would assist in helping quell her now-heightened telepathy… and her equally-heightened libido.
On the proverbial other hand, however, sex with C'Rash would also afford her some cardio.
She followed her train of logic, and her wife’s orders, and her wife, to its logical, and satisfying, conclusion.
*
Deck 2 Fore - Bridge:
Lt Giles Arrington stood by the Tactical station at the rear of the Bridge, hoping he looked like he was acting professionally as the ship’s Second Officer, as he studied the board next to the ship’s Assistant Security Chief… and keeping his hands to himself.
In contrast, Lt Atiaro Thykrill was as cool as her people’s homeworld, the azure-skinned, white haired Andorian’s antennae and attention focused on the scans of the Ballista facility. “The data gathered by the Prospero is barely adequate. They made no effort to more clearly identify the nature of those energy generators surrounding the central column. They might be weapons.”
Giles smirked. “Given our orders to observe and not interfere, they could hardly have gone up to the facility and strong-arm them into giving us the answers.”
Thykrill grunted, sticking out her chin. “Captain Hrelle would have ordered a surprise health and safety inspection of it. His promotion to Commodore is our loss.”
Now his smirk blossomed into a smile. “Nice to see your own promotion hasn’t softened that tongue of yours. Hope you can hold onto both if our current Captain hears you bad mouthing her command style.”
“I am not,” she denied archly. “My compliments regarding Commodore Hrelle is no reflection on T’Varik. In fact, she would probably agree with me, with no recriminations.”
He nodded. “No, she would leave the recriminations for Bellator.” After a pause, he offered, in a whisper, “Breakfast after our shift ends?”
Her antennae rose. Still pretending to be engrossed at the tactical readings, she asked, “In the Mess Hall, or your quarters... again?”
“I'm easy.”
“That much is obvious.”
Giles almost broke into a laugh, but stifled it… and risked a breach of regulations about Public Displays of Affection by reaching out and stroking her hand, a gesture she allowed, even as she glanced around to ensure no one on the Bridge noticed.
Giles, and for that matter Atiaro, hadn’t expected this development in their relationship of late, but in retrospect it seemed natural, given how well they had worked together when they were cadets. Even when he had still been in a relationship with Sasha, he could appreciate Ati's sharp wit and courage, and later, as he grew to know her better, see her warmer, more vulnerable side.
After the War, when T’Varik had been promoted to Captain permanently and the Surefoot was assigned to the Salem Sector, they had somehow evolved beyond being just colleagues and friends, and he was glad that Ati had been promoted as well, or there may have been conflict issues with his role as Second Officer.
He didn't know where this would take him. But then, he was experienced enough to have accepted that in life, only the Navigator knew where we were all going. And sometimes, not even then…
*
Deck 4 Mid - Science Suite:
The music – songs from the latest album by Sonny Clemons – was soothing and uplifting. Kit had had the opportunity to meet the artist, a 21st Century Terran cryogenically frozen and revived in more recent times, when Clemons had been among the civilian survivors the Surefoot had rescued during the Dominion War. Afterwards, Kit subscribed to his fanbase, ensuring he received all the subsequent releases-
“Ssstrewth.”
Kit started, the hologram stopping as well. “Good Friend Kevin! This is a surprise! What brings you here this late in the evening?”
“Well, it’ss not for the bloody music, that’ss for damn sssure.” Crewman Kevin O’Neill entered, carrying a tray in his clawed reptoid hands. He was a Gorn, the Australian accent in his sibilant voice and his habit of wearing casual civilian clothes illustrating his unique heritage of having been raised on Earth after being abandoned by his people as a hatchling. “Sssoundss like a dingo with itss nutss caught in a tractor beam.”
Kit wheezed with laughter as he switched off the music, unoffended by his friend’s comments, reminding him so much of his other friend Neraxis. “Terran Country Music. It is an acquired taste.” He noticed the tray, with a bowl of replicated Bajoran locusts and a glass of nectar. “Is that for me, Good Friend Kevin?”
The other reptoid set the tray down on an adjacent workspace. “I hope ssso, no other bugger onboard hass a tasste for thiss crap.”
Kit drew closer, his mouth watering and his stomach grumbling at the fat-looking insects sitting there, practically chirping EAT ME! to him. “But why?”
“You didn’t ssshow up in the Mess Hall tonight, ssso I knew you would ssstill be in here, doing… whatever the Bloody Hell thiss iss.”
Kit indicated the holographic figure, before switching it off as well. “Starfleet Security has reintroduced a system of sign language for its personnel, a covert, nonverbal means of tactical communication that does not require electronic conveyance and would not be explicated by an enemy's Universal Translator, and Lt Cmdr Shall has been instructing her team.”
“But you're Science, not Sssecurity.”
“No, but it would be useful for non-Security to learn for Away Team missions.”
Kevin leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. “And the sssubject gave you a Nerd Boner, too, I bet.”
Kit wheezed again. “Perhaps in spirit, if not in actuality.” He leaned forward and shot his long, ribbon-like tongue out, catching a locust and pulling it into his mouth.
Kevin shook his head. “I never get tired of ssseeing that.“
Kit swallowed, washing it down with a sip of nectar before replying. “You are among a select few I have known outside of my own people who do not find my diet disquieting.”
Kit wheezed again as well, indeed knowing and enjoying his friend’s ribald sense of humour, before having another locust. He remembered a time years ago, before his graduation from the Academy, when he was filled with dread at the prospect of he and his Best Friends moving on with their lives in Starfleet, drifting apart like planets knocked out of their orbits. He feared being alone and friendless, certain that his luck in finding people like Best Friends Sasha, Giles, Eydiir, Jonas, Neraxis and the Departed Best Friend Rrori could never be repeated.
He had been wrong. He had forged a new lifepath, made new friends… and never lost his old ones, some of them even still working onboard!
He continued eating, giving in to his hunger, as Kevin straddled an empty armless chair, resting his arms on the back, his silvery faceted eyes fixed on Kit. “Ssso, when you’re not learning hand gessturess, what elsse do you do for fun?”
“I have many hobbies, Good Friend Kevin: juggling, tobogganing, stand-up comedy, fizzbin, fencing-”
“What about ssshagging?” the reptoid hissed.
“Mmm? Ahh, I understand the term.” Kit blinked, pausing to sip before continuing; Kevin’s libidinous reputation onboard reminded him so much of the Late Good Friend Rrori. “My people’s sexual organs are similar in appearance and function to most other races, but we do not feel sexual desire or pleasure. We have coitus only when we are ready to procreate.”
The Gorn drew back. “Ohh, ssshit, I’m sssorry, mate, I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that-”
Kit shook his head. “No embarrassment has been inflicted, Good Friend Kevin. As it happens, I have had intimate relations with others for recreational purposes; at the time, I was curious as to what the act was like, given that I am not likely to meet another member of my race in the near future. Also, regardless of the lack of visceral pleasure, I still enjoyed the intimacy, the bonding, and in pleasuring Intimate Friend Hafsa. She seemed most satisfied, especially given our mutual lack of practical experience.”
Kevin made a sound. “‘Ssshe’, huh? Does that mean you favour the Sssheilass?”
Kit considered the question… and the obvious motivation behind it. “For non-procreative sex, I have no innate preference or distinction, and it would be interesting to compare and contrast coitus with another male. I have simply not met any who has offered to assist me in sating my intellectual curiosity.”
Kevin hissed again. “Well, I am part of the Sssupport Crew, here to help expand the boundariess of ssscience. No matter how many timess and posssitionss we’ll have to do it.”
*
Deck 3 Fore - Gymnasium:
Commander Sextilis Magna Bellator fought. They were used to fighting. As a citizen of Nova Roma, a Terran colony formed centuries before by Terrans who embraced the positive aspects of ancient Imperial Rome, Bellator had been taught to fight: by hand, by sword and pike and other gladiatorial weapons. Later, after leaving their world to join Starfleet, they saw combat against the Dominion, fully confident that their skills, both in combat and in language, communication and decryption, would let them triumph.
They had been wrong. A moment of fear had turned their life inside out. ByY all rights, they should have reacted to their court martial and demotion by resigning and returning to their homeworld in disgrace. They had told themselves that it was duty that keep them there.
It hadn’t been. It had been more fear, and shame.
But Fortuna had smiled down upon them, in the form of a Vulcan female officer named T’Varik, who, with the support of her superior officer, the Caitian male Esek Hrelle, had offered the young non-binary Nova Roman a second chance to redeem themselves.
And Bellator took it, and fought to prove they had as much faith in themself that others had shown.
Tonight, they fought again, against a force even more fundamental than fear and guilt and phaser: gravity. Specifically, the gravity bars that pressed down on them, again and again, increasing in power at their verbal command, until the muscles in their limbs and back ached and demanded that the exercise and the day finally ended.
Bellator ignored them for the longest time, focused on the last medical report from the CMO on their fitness, and how they had let this slide in recent months to focus on their duties as First Officer of the Surefoot. They preferred to exercise on the late shift, when the Gym was near-empty, and the equipment was free.
Finally, they gave up for the night, obtaining a replicated bottle of ice-cold water and indulgin, still gritting their teeth as they strode out and down the corridor towards their quarter, running an aching hand through their shock of purple-black hair, hating the sweat caking their exercise clothes, looking forward to a long sonic shower-
A banging drew their attention, stopping them in their tracks, focusing behind them to the Jefferies Tube access in the corridor, finally kneeling beside the hatch and removing it, the banging growing louder, more insistent… and not mechanical. “Who is there?”
The banging had stopped, replaced by a rapid breathing that echoed within the confines of the Tube, and he stuck his head inside, recognising the source of the sounds. “Crewman Jain?”
A metre away, the figure of Crewman Malala Jain was on her belly, the hairless, grey-skinned Malurian female rising and falling quickly as she neared hyperventilation, but she looked up at them with her wide bright eyes, recognising them but unable to catch her breath to do more than try, “Comm- Command- Commander-”
“Don’t speak.” Bellator drew further inside, taking her gently under her arms, guiding her out into the corridor and sitting her down on the floor with her back to a wall, before retrieving the water bottle, kneeling and offering it to her, patiently awaiting for their colleague, onboard as one of the Support Crew handling an eclectic range of tasks, to recover, before speaking again. “Crewman Jain, what happened? What were you doing in there?”
She held the bottle in the tips of her fingers as she drank, staring ahead at nothing in the room. “I… I saw on the morning schedule a crawling inspection of the ODN conduits in the Tubes…” She reached down and patted the Engineering recorder attached to the belt on her utility jumpsuit for illustration. “Thought I’d get a head start on it.”
And she had, hence her presence onboard the current Surefoot, where Bellator conceded that her hard work and eagerness to serve proved most valuable and welcome, albeit sometimes also irritating to one or two, at least before their morning coffees.
But her past still touched her present, chiefly manifesting in claustrophobia, and Captain T’Varik had been understanding and accommodating towards this, and Bellator had followed suit. “We have amended the Support Crew’s duty roster so that others could work in the Jefferies Tubes instead of you.”
The young woman nodded weakly. “Yes, Commander. But that's not fair to them! Why should they have to make up for my weakness?”
“No one has ever complained… nor would anyone consider a perfectly understandable phobia to be a ‘weakness’.”
“Well, I do! So I've been attending sessions with Counselor Auger, who’s been helping me face my fears. He’s told me how I can build up my resistance, little by little, and thus build up control over how it affects me.”
Bellator nodded. “And did he recommend you face your fears unsupervised, late at night?”
Malala's slate-grey skin darkened, and she took the opportunity to drink again without answering.
Bellator regarded her, seeing her reluctance to make public her embarrassment over her perceived vulnerabilities. “I did not think so. Nor did you notify Engineering beforehand that you would be entering the Tubes, I expect.” They tapped their combadge. “Cmdr Bellator to Bridge: you may have received an alert as to unauthorised access in the Jefferies Network on Deck 3 Fore. Please disregard.”
Seconds later, the voice of Lt Cmdr Arrington responded. “Something wrong down there, Commander? I thought you were off-duty.”
Bellator saw Malala begin to speak, until they raised a finger to their mouth in a gesture of silence, before replying, “I am, Mr Arrington, but I had a sudden urge to check the ODN relays nearby, and forgot to alert the Bridge first.”
Giles’ voice was laced with amusement. “Well, I’ll not report you to the Captain this time, but consider this your only warning. Bridge out.”
Bellator made a sound – the Second Officer performed well, but at times could be a little too jocular for their tastes – as Malala stared at them, bemused. “I don’t understand. Why would you take the blame, Commander?”
“I appreciate the strength it took to try and manage your fears. I understand those demons.” They held out a hand and helped her back to her feet, adding, “However, should you repeat this unauthorised activity, I promise you I will initiate disciplinary proceedings.”
Malala’s skin darkened, her expression crestfallen. “I understand, Commander.”
Bellator raised their chin. “Not that I expect you to repeat this, as your record has been exemplary. In the meantime, I will arrange for some authorised, short-term duty assignments for you involving the Jefferies Tube network in the near future… and I am ordering you to be honest should you have second thoughts and feel you cannot go through with or complete the work.”
The Malurian brightened once more at the mention of the opportunity, her eyes widening. “Thank you, Commander! I won’t let you down again!”
Bellator softened their own demeanour. Nova Romans favoured stoicism, discipline, almost to the level of Vulcans. It did sometimes leave them feeling isolated among the crew, however… and the look on the younger woman's face reminded Bellator of how they had felt, the day they transferred from their previous assignment, and had been harassed by their fellow crewmembers for being a Flinch - a Coward - before the intervention of T’Varik and then-Captain Hrelle. They did not look at Bellator and see a Flinch, or a traitor, or anything unworthy. They showed compassion, empathy, generosity.
Bellator could do no less. “You have not let me down in the first place, Crewman. Try to remember that you – we – are not alone on this vessel. We count on each other, and we are here for each other.”
*
T’Varik steepled her fingers as she studied the image of the Caitian female onscreen, aware of C’Rash’s proximity directly behind her, her fur tickling T’Varik’s cheek. “It is pleasing to see you alive and awake.”
“Mother’s Cubs, Aunt Kami!” C’Rash hissed. “T’Varik nearly pissed the bed when we got the report you’d been shot! She’s been climbing the walls like a spider, swearing her pointed ears off!”
Kami smirked from her hospital bed on Salem One. “Yes, I’m sure she has. Well, I’m fine, as you can see, so you can holster that eyebrow of yours, T’Varik.”
The Vulcan took a heartbeat to recognise that she had, indeed, raised an eyebrow, consciously lowering it again. “And the source of the incident remains unconnected to the Bel-Zon?”
C’Rash growled now. “If I’d been there, he wouldn’t have had a face at all! I’m surprised Uncle Esek left him in one piece!”
Kami frowned. “If it helps quell your bloodlust, Niece of Mine, Misha beat him to it. Cadet Boladede barely escaped alive.”
T’Varik matched the concern she felt; as grateful as she was for her godson’s intervention in saving his mother’s life, she regretted the circumstances that had required that gentle, loving cub to take such violent actions. “I trust Misha is coping with what he was forced to do?”
“Yes, he is… maybe too well. As a matter of fact, if I’m unable to get a consultation from Jhessie back on Cait about him, I was wondering if you might be persuaded to conduct a mindmeld with him? To get a sense of his internal emotional state?”
T’Varik nodded, recognising the level of anxious regard from Kami to make such a request. “I would… should he be willing as well. My recent experience in helping Srithik manage his own… issues… has been rewarding for him.”
Now Kami offered a slight sly smile. “And you get a more peaceful night.”
C’Rash slipped an arm around her wife. “Not with me around, she doesn’t.”
T’Varik raised an eyebrow again, keeping her gaze on the Counselor. “You should rest, and we should commence our shift. Recover soon, and give our love to Esek, Sasha and the cubs.”
“I will. Give my love to Srithik and everyone there, and stay safe.”
The viewscreen darkened, and T’Varik rose to her feet, feeling the twinges in her back from the night before. “Come, my nephew is awaiting the opportunity to practise his humour, now his cyclic urges have waned.”
C’Rash laughed. “Yeah, Srithik’s taken to Kit’s comedy lessons like fleas on a shuris! Don’t know what’s worse, the Pon Farr noises or the bad jokes.”
T'Varik made a sound as she reached for her jacket. “The jokes, unquestionably. Pon Farr only occurs once every seven years.”
*
The Vulcan adolescent male continued to spoon into the grapefruit as he spoke. “I performed within satisfactory measures on my latest Subspace Phenomena Exams, Aunt. It was fascinating to learn more about Soliton Waves, Tachyon Eddies, Null Space… but most especially the Sehlatweigh.”
T'Varik, instantly recognising the inevitable destination of the anecdote, raised an eyebrow and did not take the proverbial bait, pretending to be engrossed in the contents of her coffee cup, leaving it to C'Rash to carry the conversation. “What's a Sehlatweigh?”
Without pause, Srithik turned to the Caitian, amusement behind his eyes as he replied, “Adult sehlats weigh on average 400 kilograms, although adult male sehlats can often weigh up to 650 kilograms, particularly during the cooler seasons on Vulcan when they are prone to store fat for potential hibernation.”
He then returned to his breakfast, remaining deadpan throughout.
Neither female responded, except to glance at each other.
C’Rash hissed at him. “Don’t encourage him, Doc!”
Now Srithik looked up again. “Was it not performed within acceptable measures for the humour?”
T’Varik read the concern in his question, assessed it to be at an expected emotional level for one of his age, and set down her coffee. “The structure of the joke maintained its internal logic while providing the requisite twist, and the delivery was impeccable, however your punchline was lengthier than required to achieve its purposes. ‘Brevity is the soul of wit.’”
He nodded on recognising the reference. “Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2. Yes, I had considered that, Aunt, however, I expressed a desire to not only amuse and enertain, but instruct.”
“Well, one out of three ain’t bad,” C’Rash quipped.
“Captain,” a new voice joined them, Cmdr Bellator approaching, the First Officer’s dress and manner as formal as one would expect for a Nova Roman, their short-cropped hair as sharp and crisp as their accent. “Forgive the interruption of your family breakfast, but I have spent the evening examining the last three months’ of communications traffic to and from the Zorin Ballista Facility-”
“Commander,” Auger interrupted, his voice laced with mild reproval. “You’re not on duty until 1600 Hours. You should be enjoying yourself in your downtime.”
They glanced at him momentarily. “This is me enjoying myself, Doctor; I relish solving cryptographic mysteries and linguistic riddles.” They returned to T’Varik. “I have discovered a number of covert encrypted transmissions that have been redirected through an unnecessarily-circuitous route through the subspace communications network, in order to disguise their origin point.”
T’Varik set her cutlery onto her tray. “Then we shall repair to my Ready Room prior to relieving Mr Arrington and the rest of Gamma Shift.”
“Repair?” Srithik spoke up. “I was not aware that your Ready Room was malfunctioning, Aunt.”
C’Rash and Auger snickered at that, T’Varik remained deadpan, but Bellator turned to the Vulcan child. “The word ‘repair’ in this instance is defined as ‘to go to’, derived from the Terran Latin ‘repatriare’, meaning ‘to return to one’s own country’.”
“I think he knows that, Sextilis,” C’Rash noted, rising as well. “It’s a joke… and a better one than the first… though that’s not saying much.”
Bellator frowned. “I was not aware that Vulcans had an interest in humour… or in encouraging it in their young.”
“Vulcans possess humour,” T’Varik informed her First Officer. “Albeit when developed, it tends to be as dry as our planet’s climate.”
“Except when under the influence of non-Vulcans,” Auger added as an aside, seemingly to himself, smiling as he lifted up his coffee mug. “Not naming names, of course.”
T’Varik ignored him. “It also serves as an intellectual tool, for better communication with other races and their own forms of humour. Lt Kitirik has been instructing him… and our Science Officer has always had a predilection for puns and other wordplay.”
Srithik faced Bellator once again. “Given your redoubtable decryption skills, perhaps you would prefer a riddle, Lieutenant Commander? ‘What is black and white and red all over?’”
T’Varik caught C’Rash rolling her eyes, but before anyone could respond, the Red Alert klaxon sounded, bringing all present in the Mess Hall to their feet. The Captain glanced over her shoulder at the windows, seeing the Zorin Ballista Facility sitting there, but otherwise appearing unchanged and unthreatened. She tapped her combadge. “Bridge: Report.”
Giles’ voice responded, “Captain, we’ve picked up a distress signal on a Starfleet channel, 2.3 light years from our present location!”
“Set a course, engage when ready, we are on our way.” She closed the channel, looking to her nephew. “Quarters.”
Srrithik, to his credit, had ceased making the argument for accompanying her the way he had under previous similar circumstances, and simply nodded and departed.
T’Varik led the rest of them out… frowning as she noticed Auger joining them, almost beside her in fact. Without stopping or slowing down, she noted, “Your presence is not required on the Bridge, Doctor.”
He kept pace. “You’re overdue for a Mandatory Group Observation, to see how well the Bridge crew performs during an unexpected crisis.”
She felt her indignation rise, despite acknowledging that he had a right to such an activity. “It is not convenient; if the unexpected occurs in the future, I will give you ample warning beforehand.”
“Beforeh- Surely you can’t be serious?”
“I am always serious… and do not call me Shirley.”
*
T’Varik remained still as she focused on the warp-dilated starfield on the main viewscreen, allowing her crew to perform their duties around her. Unlike other Captains of note, she did not believe in micromanaging, as she had seen the insidious effect it could have on the confidence of those under her, particularly the younger members.
Mr Arrington, having taken a position at Ops rather than end his shift, reported, “Vessel coming into visual range, Captain: Type 6 shuttlecraft, power and life support at a minimum, weapons offline, some damage detected-”
“Tactical scan of the surrounding area,” C’Rash added crisply next to him, her paws moving over her station swiftly, her tail snapping with alertness behind her. “No other vessels. Maintaining shield and weapons status regardless.”
“As you should,” T’Varik capped, her eyes still on the screen, as if she could personally visualise the potential threats as they approached the tiny box-shaped shuttle; as her former commanding officer liked to remind her: there can be things in the tall grass even your snout can’t pick up. “Lifesigns, Mr Arrington?”
“One,” he responded, his tone suggesting elaboration, which he subsequently provided. “Undefined, beyond it being humanoid, either due to failing lifesigns, or because it's not a common race in our database-”
“Captain!” Bellator, sitting beside T’Varik, cut in. “I’ve identified the shuttle registration: the Sikorsky, NCC 56778/4, originally assigned to… the USS Furyk?”
T’Varik rose to her feet, eyes still fixed on the image of the shuttle rapidly filling up the screen, as she reinforced her emotional control. “Confirm that, Mx Bellator.”
A pause, and then her First Officer responded, “Confirmed, Captain.”
Now she turned and faced Giles and Shall, both of them, alone among the newer members of the Bridge crew, recognising the significance of the ship’s name.
Something lost on Counselor Auger, still standing in the background, observing. “Why do I feel like I need footnotes for this?”
T’Varik looked at him, offering a response not just to him but the others present. “The Furyk was the Starfleet vessel assigned to this sector – and commanded by then-Captain Esek Hrelle. The Bel-Zon had attacked the vessel in 2362, killing everyone onboard by radiation poisoning and taking Captain Hrelle into slavery. The vessel, and its auxiliary craft, were meant to be decontaminated and decommissioned.”
The heavy-set human shrugged. “It could have been cleaned and reassigned to make up for the ship losses after the War.”
“Then it would have an updated record on our Registry. I do not believe in oversights.” She returned to Bellator. “Send a Priority One Message to Starfleet Logistics, I want to know the status of the Furyk and all of its shuttles.”
Now she turned to C’Rash. “Maintain shields, but coordinate with Chief Nader to time the transporter beam for the .015 second window in our shield cyclic rate, which he will use to lock onto that lifeform and beam them into Cargo Bay 6.” To Bellator she added, “Have a Security and Medical Team on standby outside, but not to enter.”
As her officers moved to comply, Auger stepped forward now, his deep expression and deep voice laced with concern. “You’re only giving your Chief less than a second to beam someone over? And not even beaming them into Sickbay, but a Cargo Bay?”
She faced him again, having taken an interminable 1.34 seconds to debate on whether or not to address him, before deciding that it would be just as beneficial for the surrounding crew to hear her reasoning. “The time is sufficient for the process, Doctor, and… mostly safe for the one being transported, while still allowing us to maintain our shields. And we do not yet know what we are beaming over. Cargo Bay 6 is currently empty, has reinforced shielding for specialist and hazardous cargo, and in a relatively-isolated section of our ship, but is still not that far from Sickbay. I do not believe in recklessness, either.”
“Cargo Bay 6 is ready, Captain,” Bellator reported. “Dr Shyrik has an Emergency Medical Team there with her, and Lt Thykrill is onsite with a Security Team as well. The transport is scheduled for 1.4 minutes.”
“Good. I will proceed there to command the situation; you will take the conn. Lt Cmdr Shall, you have my authorisation to disregard Rules of Engagement should any surprises appear.”
T'Varik started briskly for the doors, before Auger stepped in front of her. “Captain, don’t you think your First Officer should be the one who goes-”
She didn't bother to respond, or even stop, stepping around him and out into the corridor.
She didn't believe in procrastination.
*
She received the report that the transport was successful as she reached Deck 3 Aft, seeing the teams awaiting her, stepping back. She left the combadge link open as she announced, “We are ready. What is the status within Cargo Bay 6?”
“The shuttle occupant arrived safely, and is currently on their feet, 2.3 metres from the door. Their motion is slow, erratic. They might be suffering from hypoxia, given the minimal life support readings detected on the shuttle.”
“Lock a tractor beam on the Sikorsky, scan it thoroughly, and then bring it into the Shuttlebay for a full Security inspection. Stand by, I am about to open the Cargo Bay doors.” To Thykrill she added, “Phasers on Stun.” As the young Andorian complied, she turned and unlocked the doors, stepping back and adopting a pose allowing her the optimum manoeuvrability for fight or flight.
A cool wave of air flowed out, partially blocked by a tall, gaunt humanoid male with receding sepia hair, wearing a skintight, oatmeal-beige jumpsuit with gold embroidery around the collar, an outfit completely covering him up to his head.
A head vertically bisected, with chalk-white skin on his left side, and licorice-black skin on his right.
He swayed, his voice dry and catching. “Help- You must- protect me- the Bel-Zon-”
He collapsed, T’Varik catching him and easing his fall to the deck.
*
In Sickbay, the Surefoot’s CMO Dr Shyrik let loose some Andorian curses at Kit, who had been getting in the way approaching the biobed where their new arrival lay unconscious. “Lt Kitirik is talented, Doctor, but I doubt if he can physically fulfil the more graphic sections of your wishes. Still, Lieutenant, if you would allow the medical team to continue to work unimpeded?”
The reptoid turned and approached, his eyes wide with fascination. “Respected Captain, forgive me, but this is a most remarkable experience! I wrote an archaeological monograph on the Cheronians following the discovery of the remains of one of their ancient probes last year, and the historical reports of the one and only encounter with living representatives of their people.”
Standing nearby, arms crossed and tail twitching against the Sickbay wall, C’Rash grunted. “The name Cheron sounds familiar from History courses, but I think I would have remembered hearing about a race of Black and White Mimes before.”
Kit turned to her, still animated. “There was the Battle of Cheron in 2160, which ended the Earth-Romulan War, Respected Security Chief, but the name is coincidental. The relevant Cheron, located in the southern elliptic of the Alpha Quadrant near the Coal Sack Nebula, has been known since pre-Federation times only as a pulsar navigational reference. And it was on Stardate 5730.2 when two living Cheronians crossed paths with Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise.”
Shyrik snorted as she passed another sensor wand over the still figure. “Did anyone beside Kirk do anything in the 23rd Century?”
“He did appear to have a greater than usual number of notable adventures, Respected Doctor. Regarding the Cheronians, the race’s unique skin arrangements are apparently a natural condition as you see here, with the majority of the population sporting black skin on the right side of their bodies, and the minority white on the right side. The Cheronian majority practised what was by all accounts a harsh apartheid system over the minority for millennia, considering them inferior because of the reversal in their pigment arrangement.”
Next to Shyrik, Chief Nurse Xin Jianhong stopped, looked up and frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Bigotry never makes sense, Friend Jianhong. One of the minority, a political activist called Lokai, had escaped Cheron over 50,000 years ago, seeking allies in the Galaxy to assist in the overthrow of the apartheid system oppressing his people. He was pursued by a government official named Bele, before their chase brought them to the Enterprise-”
“Wait, wait, wait,” C’Rash interrupted, her snout wrinkling. “Did you say fifty thousand years? They were running around for that long? Are they immortal or something?”
“Very likely,” Shyrik answered. “If this one is typical of his people, they generate some sort of bioenergy field that allows for a continual cellular regeneration; even an indefinite exposure to space would probably just put him into a form of stasis until surrounding conditions improved. This field seems to have interphasic properties- I’ll be spending days studying it.”
Kit looked over at her, eyes shining with interest. “Please, Respected Doctor, may I share in your data analysis?”
“Sure, if you include my name on your next paper.”
“But of course; I will link my PADD to yours.” He turned back to the senior officers. “The interphasic energy would also explain the reports of the Cheronians on the Enterprise generating personal force fields and projecting bursts of destructive energy.”
“Mother’s Cubs…” C’Rash breathed, “But if they’re that powerful, how come they’re not major players in the Galaxy?”
“When the Enterprise eventually delivered the two Cheronians back to their homeworld, they found their respective populations had destroyed themselves in internal conflict at some point in the distant past. Commissioner Bele and Lokai beamed down to the planet, presumably to continue the conflict, and Captain Kirk ordered the planet to be quarantined, due to the remarkable abilities both Cheronians displayed, and because of the inherent threat they posed to outside forces.”
T’Varik regarded the arrival again. “Given your description of the physical differences, could this be the aforementioned Bele? Or perhaps another hitherto-unknown Cheronian?”
“I am Bele,” the figure declared, suddenly sitting up, making Shyrik and her nurse step back and C’Rash draw her phaser. He ignored them, focusing on T’Varik. “Former Chief Officer of the Commission on Political Traitors for Cheron. The last of my people. And I am here to save your people.”
*
“Alone,” T’Varik echoed. “What happened to your fellow survivor Lokai?”
A look of grim satisfaction appeared on him, his teeth gritted and his voice taut and twisting with bitterness. “Destroyed. Finally, after over fifty thousand years of relentless pursuit around the Galaxy, that miserable, misbegotten malcontent Lokai finally faced Cheronian justice. And now all of his verminous, genetically inferior mongrel breed have been forever consigned to the trash heap of history.”
“As have yours,” Bellator pointed out.
Bele winced at that, but quickly recovered. “As long as one of us lives, there is hope for the eventual restoration of my race. And the Bel-Zon had promised to make that hope a reality, in exchange for my assistance in acquiring allies in their imminent assault on this sector of space. Specifically, several of the more prominent Prides of the Kzinti, those willing to set aside their differences and work together for a common goal: the conquest of Station Salem One in general… and the destruction of your Commodore Hrelle in particular.”
T’Varik glanced at Bellator and C’Rash, before taking the lead again. “The situation in which we encountered you suggests that your association with the Bel-Zon had since soured. Perhaps if you had approached the Federation instead, we might have assisted you in the restoration of your people. We have a more secure reputation for philanthropic enterprises than a criminal organisation, and ask for nothing in return.”
Bele regarded her with disdain. “Enterprises… you remind me of another Vulcan I once met. His name was… Spock, I believe.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I will consider that a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t. He was also a self-righteous, sanctimonious idealist insufferably fond of the sound of his own voice.”
C’Rash leaned forward and growled. “Watch the mouth, Clown Boy, or we’ll put you back in that shuttle and flush you out!”
Now Bele focused on the Surefoot’s Security Chief. “And you remind me of a felinoid I worked with more recently: a Ferasan thug the Bel-Zon had recruited as well, a mindless animal who calls herself Jet Jaguar.” He grunted. “Clearly Evolution has no sense of standards.”
“At the risk of triggering another judgemental tirade,” T’Varik spoke again dryly, cutting off C’Rash’s threatening hiss towards the Cheronian. “You did not come here just to insult us. What happened between you and the Bel-Zon?”
Bele seemed reluctant to stop sneering at C’Rash as he focused on the Vulcan again. “They claimed to have located a genetic storehouse on Cheron that could revive my people, but I learned that this was a deception. I confronted their leader, a human named Bastien Dumont. In response he attempted to have me killed; I barely escaped with my life. The rest, you already know.”
T’Varik reacted to Dumont’s name, as did C’Rash, but the Vulcan continued. “The shuttlecraft Sikorsky. Where did you obtain it?”
“It was one of several onboard a larger starship, designated the Furyk. I understand it was once one of your own Starfleet ships, and that it holds some personal significance to your Sector Commander, Hrelle. The Bel-Zon located and stole it, had it decontaminated and enhanced; it is now commanded by another of their operatives, a former Starfleet Captain named Kazan. I believe he has already attacked one of your ships recently from another ship, but you destroyed it.”
As Bellator began accessing the ship’s database through their PADD, C’Rash noted, “Captain Weynik’s ship the Katana faced a Defiant-class vessel last month, the USS Dallas, one that had been reported destroyed during the Dominion War; Weynik suspected it was Bel-Zon in origin. My team examined the computers on the Sikorsky: they’ve been wiped clean, leaving nothing to support your claims.”
“What is there to support?” Bele countered with indignation. “Riddle me this, Lieutenant Commander: why else would I be here, if what I have told you isn’t true?”
T’Varik chose not to respond, instead turning to Bellator, who reported, “There was a Starfleet Captain named Arkady Kazan, a Terran who commanded the Soyuz-class vessel USS Fort Wayne, serving with distinction during the Federation-Cardassian War. He was recorded as killed in action in 2359… but Starfleet intelligence reports this was faked, and cites his later involvement with the Orsini Cartel on Inferna Prime.”
“Yes,” Bele affirmed. “He appears dangerously obsessed with revenge for his earlier defeat at the hands of your Captain Weynik… almost as obsessed as Max Zorin is for your Commodore.”
C’Rash grunted. “Well, for a guy who apparently chased one of his own people around the Galaxy for a gazillion years, you’d know all about dangerous obsessions.”
“Lokai was NOT one of-” The Cheronian bit back the rest of his protest, before he regained composure, his jaw tight as he focused on T’Varik again, sounding contrite though not without adding what an honour it must be for others to receive such contrition. “Captain… please forgive my earlier remarks, I meant no disrespect, and I am of course grateful for your timely rescue. Let me cut to the proverbial chase: I wish to return to my world unimpeded and leave the rest of the Galaxy and all of its chaos behind once again, and will need the assistance of your Starfleet to do so. In exchange, I will provide you with all the intelligence I have obtained on the Bel-Zon, its operatives, objectives, bases and resources. I believe you will find this a mutually-profitable trade.”
The three Starfleet officers looked at each other, before T’Varik finally replied, “I do not have the requisite authority to agree to such an arrangement; that will be in the proverbial paws of Commodore Hrelle. You will be delivered to meet with him on Salem One to discuss this. In the interim, you will remain in our Brig, under guard.”
Bele reacted indignantly. “Your… Brig? I offer you the opportunity to save your lives, and you repay this by treating me like a common criminal?”
The Vulcan folded her hands onto the table. “You travelled around the Galaxy for over fifty millennia, you reportedly possess extraordinary abilities, in your last recorded encounter, you single-handedly seized control of the Enterprise, and you have just confessed to us your current involvement in inciting invasion and terrorist actions against the Federation.
So, no, we are certainly not treating you like a common criminal.
Your status may change, however, depending upon Commodore Hrelle’s discretion, and your cooperation – especially if you can implicate Max Zorin with the criminal activities of the Bel-Zon. I advise patience; a being of your enhanced lifespan should possess at least some of that.”
His jaw tightened. “And if I choose not to accept this?”
“Then we can always return you to the barely-functioning shuttle where we found you, and leave you to be captured by the Bel-Zon. Assuming you survive.”
Bele made a show of taking a long, deep breath, before finally nodding. “Then… I choose to accept, Captain.”
“I am pleased to hear it. We have much to learn from you, not just in terms of immediate strategic intelligence, but of past events that an individual as singular as yourself will have witnessed. And I was sincere with my offer of potentially assisting you. You may scoff at our idealism… but it is an outlook that has allowed the Federation to survive, and thrive where other powers have fallen. It is better to offer an open hand than a closed fist.”
The Cheronian regarded the three females one more time. “We shall see.”
*
Bele remained silent as he allowed himself to be led to the Brig, and into an open cell, with Lt Thykrill controlling the force field over the doorway, running the requisite scans for weapons and other potentially dangerous items, detecting none.
He stood there next to the bunk extension, facing outward, his hands behind him, his expression neutral, as C’Rash continued briefing him. “The force field in the doorway is designed to allow for light and sound to pass through but is otherwise impenetrable to everything else, and will react proportionately to any kinetic or energy-based attacks upon it, so I would avoid it if I were you. In the event of a critical situation, you will be escorted to an escape pod, under guard.
There is a hygiene station built into the wall to your left, accessible by touching the coded panel above it. There will be meals provided at appropriate intervals; Dr Shyrik has confirmed you eat what most of us eat, but if you have any dietary or cultural preferences-”
“I have none.”
The Caitian nodded. “You can dim the lights to a limited degree using the panel to your right should you wish to sleep, but there will always be a guard outside, should you require anything else. However, if what you require involves causing trouble, bear in mind that this is the most secure area of the ship.”
“That is good to know.”
“Also, our Chief Science Officer Lt Kitirik has requested an audience with you, to ask you a few questions – well, it’s probably a few thousand questions – about your people, your history, that sort of thing. You don’t have to accept, of course-”
“I would be pleased to do so, Lieutenant Commander. I believe there have been some negative misconceptions about myself and my race, that I would like to set straight for the record. I believe you will learn that we have more in common than you might imagine.”
C’Rash looked ready to reply, before choosing instead to just grunt, turn and depart.
Bele continued to stand there, watching her converse with Thykrill, before he turned around, examining the dimensions of the cell, its features, the areas that would best serve him.
He chose to lie down on his back on the bunk, his right side facing away from the doorway, removing his glove to reveal his coal-black hand. He flexed his fingers, spreading them out as his fingertips touched the adjacent wall, as he entered a required state of mind. It had been at least a century since he had to employ certain abilities of his, when he took over the major systems of the Enterprise, but he could feel them returning to him. And the Bel-Zon had provided him with the schematics of this class of starship, to find the systems he needed.
These genetic mongrels had no idea of what was to befall them.
*
“Commander Bellator has just confirmed it from Starfleet Logistics: a visual inspection of the site at Surplus Depot Z47 where the Furyk was stored confirmed it is missing, despite the records indicating otherwise.”
Hrelle grunted. “Just like the USS Dallas, that the Bel-Zon had repurposed and used against Weynik. Are you detecting any signs of other vessels?”
“None, Sir.”
“Keep your nose peeled just the same; the Bel-Zon had equipped the Dallas with a cloaking device, and they could do the same with the Furyk.” He paused, and then asked, “You studied the shuttle from the Furyk?”
“Its software version and memory is consistent for a vessel of its type from 2362, its more recent navigation log confirms its evasion from the vicinity of the Kzinti Patriarchy Border. The damage inflicted on the shuttle’s hull is what one would expect from the Type VIII phaser arrays employed by Steamrunner-class ships such as the Furyk. If it has been fabricated to appear genuine, then it is convincing.”
“And what is your impression of this Bele?”
“On a personal level? Execrable; the description of him from the original Enterprise logs as an arrogant supremacist was not an exaggeration. However, that does not invalidate the potential benefits of his offer. We are returning to the Zorin Facility, but shall we divert instead to Salem One?”
“Negative; I’m arranging for Captain Arrington and the al-Razi to collect him from you. I have a new mission for you at the facility. No more observing.”
“Commodore?”
The Caitian leaned in closer to the screen. “Commander Bellator is experienced in cryptography and covert communications. Lt Commander Shall has Security and Covert Ops training with both Starfleet and the Caitian military forces. Lt Arrington worked in Starfleet Intelligence for a time, as have you.”
She frowned. “Sir, are you suggesting-”
“I’m not suggesting, T’Varik, I’m ordering. I’m ordering you to return to the facility, and break into its database. I want everything it has: the warp catapult, Zorin’s involvement, the transmissions Bellaltor had detected, what they ate for lunch last week… everything. The slightest hint of something illegal, and I want the operation seized; in that event, the al-Razi will remain to assist, and I’ll have Weynik and the Katana join you as well. You are to accomplish this by any means necessary. Is that clear?”
She breathed in, noting his aggressive demeanour – and was there something physically changed about him as well? – before nodding. “Acknowledged, Sir; we’ll keep you updated. Surefoot out.”
As the screen went black, T’Varik tapped her combadge. “Commander Bellator, Lieutenant Commander Shall, Lieutenant Arrington, report to my Ready Room, with all due haste.”
*
“Respected Commissioner?”
Bele had been lying down, eyes closed, focusing on his true purpose for being on this pathetic ship, when he heard the sibilant voice from outside his cell.
He took another heartbeat to complete his work, before opening his eyes and sitting up on the bunk, swinging his legs out. Beyond the invisible force field, a diminutive reptoid stood formally, resembling some races he had encountered in his travels – Tosk, Gowachin, others – holding a PADD in a webbed hand, regarding him with large black eyes. “If I am disturbing you, Respected Sir, I will depart.”
“No, I have had all the… rest… I require, at least for now. You are Lt Kitirik, the ship’s Chief Science Officer I was told about?”
Kit bowed slightly. “Indeed yes, Respected Commissioner. One of my chief pursuits is Archaeology and Ancient Civilisations. As the last representative of your race, you would offer us a unique opportunity to expand our knowledge.”
Bele folded his hands behind him, regarding him back: some repulsive, green-skinned, web-handed frog-thing, yet another inferior, inconsequential Starfleet do-gooder whose imminent extinction will not prove unwelcome. “It will be a pleasure to assist you, Lieutenant. It will certainly help me pass the time while I’m in your custody. Shall we begin?”
*
“Mr Madison?”
Lt Jim Madison had been walking towards his office, having run the required inspections following the earlier Red Alert and looking forward to his first coffee of the day, having weaned himself over the last few weeks from having one first thing in the morning, when he stopped and turned, suppressing his mild irritation at the interruption. “Delan?”
His assistant, Ensign Zhang Delan was perched over the control table near the warp core, his expression frowning. “Sir, the Level 2 diagnostic cycle I was running on the plasma injectors is… slow. It should have finished by now, but it’s practically crawling.”
Jim frowned as well, drawing up and leaning in, noting how his assistant, like everyone else on his team, all smaller than him, seemed to instinctively draw back, as if afraid of being pulled into his gravitational field. It didn’t help that none of his crew had the experience and confidence of his Assistant Chief Engineer, Ensign Tori Emoto, currently on temporary assignment on Salem One. ”You didn’t accidentally start a Level 5 instead, did you?”
“No, Sir! Look, here, and here! It’s like the Optical Data Network pathways are being… clogged… preventing commands-”
His heart racing, Jim turned and rushed over to the Master Systems Display, calling up a visual of the ODN network interwoven through the Surefoot, the diagnostics showing that there were no problems anywhere, no computer viruses, no Nanites, no chemical or energy anomalies, nothing at all… even as it displayed contradictory data to that, showing an interference in the Plasma Injector controls as a cluster of red cells-
More red cells appeared in other systems, multiplying like a virus-
He began punching in commands as he continued to literally see Red, cursing before shouting out, “All Hands! Invasive Program Protocols! Manually isolate key sectors!” He smacked his combadge so hard it made him wince. “Madison to T’Varik! We’ve-” He stopped. “Captain T’Varik! Commander Bellator! Bridge! Anyone!”
As he turned back to his hastily-assembled crew, now at various emergency stations removing interfaces to slow down the spread of… whatever this was… he caught Ensign Zhang’s attention on his way out. “Break out the Purge Kits and try to regain primary control! I’m going to find the Captain!”
*
“So,” T’Varik continued, sitting behind her desk and regarding her senior officers, “We have our orders. I am aware that this is an unexpected evolution to our mission profile, and you will have short notice to prepare suitable measures-”
“I have already secretly acquired the prefix codes to lock down the Facility,” Bellator announced. “Via our own initial communication scans.”
“And I have a quantum-lock algorithm I picked up from SI,” Giles added. “To extract data from the new phase-parallel memory drives employed by Zorin, the ones everyone claims are ‘impenetrable’.”
“And I’ve already been running holodeck exercises with my Security team,” C’Rash finished, “Using schematics of the Facility layout, to secure it as fast and safe as possible.”
The Vulcan looked to each of them in turn. “It appears I have become superfluous on my own ship.”
“Not at all, Ma’am,” Giles countered, unable or unwilling to hide the mischievous gleam in his eyes. “After all, we’re not allowed to complete our own performance reports.”
“And if you weren’t around,” C’Rash opined, “I’d probably have to take one of the command shifts, and cubsit your nephew on my own. I might end up eating him.”
All eyes turned to Bellator, who sighed and looked at T’Varik. “Forgive me, Captain, but I wasn’t briefed that there would be jocularity, or I would have been better prepared.”
Before T’Varik could respond, however, all reacted to the ship suddenly banking around, all of them glancing out the Ready Room observation windows to see the shifting starscape, as T’Varik rose, tapping her combadge. “Bridge, why-” She stopped at the lack of response, and then all three were on their feet, moving to the doors- which didn’t open.
Immediately Giles dropped to the manual override panel near the floor, opening it and attempting to complete the circuit, reporting, “It’s frozen out, Captain!”
T’Varik stared closely at the door, at the vertical line where both halves of the door met when closed. She placed her hands flat on either half, near the middle, focusing her strength into her arms… focusing…
The doors began to part, increasing as she managed to get a better purchase on her grip, before C’Rash drew up close behind her, reaching around to add her own strength to the effort.
Giles stood up again, watching in fascination the display, until the doors parted enough for them to slip through onto the Bridge – seeing Crewman Malala Jain on the other side, vigorously if futilely trying to help, until T’Varik ordered, “Step aside, Crewman.”
On the other side, the Bridge crew was moving frantically around the various stations, with Ensign Nordheim, left in command, rushing up to them. “Captain, the controls are locked out! Propulsion, navigation, communications, weapons, the turbolifts, the doors-”
T’Varik was forcing herself through the still-opening doors. “Initiate Emergency Restart!”
“We’ve tried, Ma’am, but the Restart systems are non-responsive-”
As Bellator and C’Rash emerged as well, a hatchway close to the floor next to the turbolift suddenly dropped open. The Caitian immediately lunged forward, claws bared as she pounced-
Stopping as Madison froze, yelping. “It’s me! Don’t-”
“Stand down, Lieutenant Commander,” T’Varik ordered. “Mr Arrington, take the Helm, identify where we are heading. Ms Jain, take Auxiliary Ops, see if we still have access to our Emergency Beacon. Mr Madison, report.”
The large-framed man helped himself to his feet. “There’s some anomalous force within the ship’s network, Captain. It’s not a computer virus, Shiprot, Nanites or anything else I can identify, just some type of energy field.”
“When the Vlathi invaded us years ago,” C’Rash suggested, “They employed a duonetic field to disrupt our systems.”
“Duonetic fields dampen all systems,” T’Varik reminded her. “What is happening to us appears more selective. Mr Arrington?”
Giles turned in his seat at the Helm. “Difficult to tell without most of our navigation systems online, Ma’am, but I’d say we’re headed back in the direction of where we intercepted the Sikorsky!”
She nodded at that, examining some of the stations, whose displays appear to have been flooded with a deep red colour, as if some sort of visual representation of the force which has co-opted their systems. “That confirms my suspicions. Commander Bellator, you will remain on the Bridge with Mr Madison and work to regain manual control over our systems, prioritising propulsion and communications. Lt Cmdr Shall and I will confront the most logical cause of this takeover.”
*
Bele remained standing, feeling the effort taken to perform and maintain his task behind the scenes, while still engaging in the conversation with the diminutive alien on the other side of the force field, its pitiful youthful exuberance at learning more about the Master Race almost distracting rather than diverting.
It would not be long before the Vulcan and her female menagerie identify the situation, and seek him out, so he may as well indulge this mongrel. “No, Lieutenant, my people are not immortal, though we are exceedingly long-lived, and have the ability to recover from immense trauma. Yes, I did leave my homeworld 50,000 years ago in pursuit of the terrorist Lokai, but we used Cheronian vessels capable only of near-light speed, where the effects of time dilation meant we could survive such immense journeys.
By the time I tracked Lokai to the Enterprise, however, I had obtained a vessel from a race of hunters I encountered in the Gamma Quadrant, a vessel with warp drive and stealth capabilities.”
Kit nodded with interest, adding to his PADD. “So you both took advantage of the effects of time dilation at near relativistic speeds, so time passed at a substantially slower rate onboard your respective Cheronian vessels!” He blinked. “But still… you were aware of the passage of relative time outside during your pursuit. Once years became centuries, and then millennia, did you not consider the value of continuing your pursuit of Lokai? Did you not fear something happening to your homeworld in your absence?”
“Not for a moment,” Bele declared proudly. “Cheron is Eternal.”
Kit looked up at him.
“Was eternal,” he corrected himself sourly, his mind recalling with excruciating accuracy his eventual return to Cheron with Lokai on the Enterprise, finding his world dead, the people exterminated in conflict with the Half-White scum. Hatred, hatred for the last survivor of the mongrels, drove him onward to the planet.
Bele had spent the following century on three pursuits: pursuit of Lokai, pursuit of any possible survivors, and pursuit of the truth about what had happened to his people, his world, in the five hundred centuries since he had left.
Of all three missions, the first had, bizarrely enough, been the easiest: once planetbound, and using those few still-functioning sensor webs, Lokai was located, and finally, utterly destroyed. Yes, admittedly the weapons Bele found and deployed had been powerful enough to shift the planet’s orbit enough to render it uninhabitable, but still, it had been worth it.
But not as much as after learning that, in the 50,000 years since leaving Cheron, his people had not finally subjugated and exterminated the Half-Whites, had not ventured out in force to claim their rightful place as the dominant force in the Galaxy, had not taken the miracle that God’s Rain had given them and claimed the Universe.
Instead, they had done… nothing. No ambition, no advancements, no achievements. Millennia of stagnation. Just endless conflict between the Half-Blacks and Half-Whites, as if they were obsessed with hatred. As if they wanted nothing more than that. Hatred that ultimately consumed them.
But Bele had refused to accept that. They had been blessed. Blessed by the-
“God’s Rain.”
Bele was snapped out of his thoughts, looking once more back at the alien. “What did you say?”
Kit nodded, indicating his PADD. “Yes, Federation tracking stations near the Coalsack found an ancient Cheronian probe, with a magnetic datadisc detailing your world and its history. Sadly, much of it is unreadable, however there was significant mention of this ‘God’s Rain’ as being the catalyst for the changes to your people’s biology, granting you recuperative powers, energy generation and other abilities. But it doesn’t detail how this was achieved. Archaeologists theorised genetic Augmentation, or mutation following an ancient nuclear war, hence the colourful description.”
“We- We-” This revelation, that this alien knew what happened, even from that long ago, left him at a temporary loss for words, before he quickly recovered, jutting out his chin proudly. “We did not ‘achieve’ it, Lieutenant; it was a Divine Gift. For three days, Cheron passed through what we thought was nothing more than a heavy meteor shower bombarding our atmosphere. But at the end of it, we realised that it was something far, far greater. We called it God’s Rain, and it blessed us, to make it clear that we were truly a Master Race above all.”
Kit nodded sagely, typing further into his PADD as he went along. “It has been recorded that the minority among your people are considered inferior because their pigmentation is a reverse of your own. The scans performed by Doctor Leonard McCoy on the Enterprise, compared with our own, indicate the reversal among the minority goes deeper, exhibiting a genetic condition called situs inversus, where the anatomy of those afflicted is a mirror image of the normative.”
Bele smiled slightly, as thoughts long forgotten returned. “Yes… yes, I remember! Some of those filthy mutants tried to disguise their outer skins to pass as normal, to steal jobs and housing from us, but they couldn’t do anything about their internal arrangement!” He raised a triumphant fist to the memory. “Oh, they tried, they tried to be our equals, but it was an impossible task for them! It is reassuring to see you comprehend the inferiority of the Half-White race as well.”
The reptoid stopped typing and stared at him blankly. “Respected Guest, please forgive my rudeness, but you are profoundly mistaken. I do not believe that difference equates with inferiority, nor do I equate ‘race’ as you employ the term to be anything more than a societal construct.
Among my own people, I was declared Aberrant for my inability to accept that the gender into which I was born was the one I was always meant to be. I nearly succumbed under the weight of their bigotry, their intolerance, until I fled them and joined Starfleet, where diversity is valued, is treasured, and I could be the person that I was always meant to be.
And the reason I bring it up is to respectfully ask: how can you justify your view regarding the alleged inferiority of the ‘Half-Whites’ when, based on the actions of the activist named Lokai during his stay on the Enterprise, they too had been the recipients of your ‘God’s Rain’? It appears your God disagreed with your dogma-”
Enough of this babble… “Be silent.”
Kitirik paused, his throat wattles fluttering. “Forgive me, Respected Guest, I did not -”
“I said be silent, you miserable, misbegotten salamander! I have grown weary of your ugly monotone face and your incessant, bleating, whining voice, and your liberal, weak-hearted attitude! Your people were right: you are an Aberrant, a Gender Traitor and a degenerate freak, and they should have aborted you from the moment you were proven defective!”
“Hey!” Lt Thykrill, who had stood in the background silently, now strode up, her blue skin darkening and her antennae tilting downward. “That’s enough! It’s been bad enough listening to you spout your racist crap all this time, without you insulting someone as decent as Kit!”
The Science Officer raised a webbed hand to her. “Thank you for your support, Good Friend Atiaro, but it is not necessary.” He looked back at Bele, his expression remaining composed. “You have led a unique and privileged life, Respected Sir, travelled and experienced things no one else ever has, or ever will. You have even survived the extinction of your own people.
You could take your abilities, your knowledge and perspective, and devote them towards the benefit of all… and, hopefully, receive something of benefit in return.
Instead, you choose to embrace hostility: once towards your planet’s minority, then towards its last representative Lokai, and now apparently myself. You have embraced it for tens of millennia, wasting your power and your potential, having disregarded almost everything else. I pity you.”
Bele’s jaw tightened. It is time… “Pity yourselves, Alien.” Focus…
The force field dropped. Bele leapt out.
Thykrill reacted, reaching for the phaser on her holster, almost drawing it out before Bele grasped her, a crimson energy flowing from his arm into her body, sending her backwards to the floor, insensate.
Kit shifted quickly to one side, racing up to the weapons locker on the wall, opening it and drawing out a phaser. Bele stood there, passively watching him, waiting until the reptoid raised up the weapon. “Respected Commissioner, please stop and surrender, or you will be stunned.”
Bele crossed his hands behind his back. “You are proving less intelligent than expected, Lieutenant. You are aware of my abilities, you have already seen some of them in action now. Return the phaser and surrender, and place this blue-skinned brute in the cell, or I will punish her further, and then you. Choose quickly, I have much to do before I am done.”
Kit regarded him, before responding, “Logically, it would be preferable to remain conscious and thus unharmed.” He returned the phaser to the locker, holding up the PADD in his other hand. “May I please continue to take notes while remaining your hostage? This is proving most illuminating.”
Bele smirked; he had insulted the little degenerate, attacked his comrade, was hijacking his ship and taking him to what will almost certainly be an unpleasant fate, and all the alien cared about was continuing his scientific study? “Of course, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
Then he stepped over the unconscious Andorian and began keying instructions into the Security panel, not wishing to divert his mental powers away from maintaining control over the major systems, knowing that the Vulcan would somehow soon arrive, despite the restrictions to internal mobility Bele imposed.
Behind him, Kit knelt beside Thykrill, confirmed she was still alive, lifted her up and carried her into the now-emptied cell once occupied by Bele, before stepping back out, in time for Bele to restore the force field.
The Cheronian ignored him now, staying focused on his task.
Kit stayed silent, staying focused on his PADD.
*
Several light years away, in a flat, shovel-shaped starship, a bald Cossack dressed all in black sat behind a desk in what was once the Captain’s Ready Room, staring round him. Many of the original accoutrements of the former commanding officer of this ship remained, including a striking oil painting of a wooden sailing vessel braving a stormy sea. It could have been something from Turner, de Capelle or Vlieger… except none of them painted ships crewed with felinoid sailors, as far as he could recall.
Arkady Kazan had never met Esek Hrelle, but could imagine what he was like, sitting in here, ready to respond to the latest alert in his territory, when he would emerge onto the adjacent Bridge, the Lion of Salem Sector ready to do battle against the forces of evil.
He grunted to himself, still nursing the vodka he had poured for himself but was now shunning. He made fun of Hrelle and Weynik and others of their ilk in Starfleet, his former employers. But he also knew that under different circumstances, he would still be wearing the uniform, performing the duties expected of him. Maybe, if he hadn’t faked his death in a futile attempt to make a fortune in criminal circles, he could have been assigned to this sector, acquired a nickname as awe-inspiring as Hrelle’s.
He tried to force down such self-pitying thoughts: useless, worthless, pointless ponderings. He had made his choice years ago, there was no turning back, and unlike some he’d heard about in Starfleet, he had no Trickster God hovering over his shoulder to twist time and space in his favour-
An alert on his desk monitor made him sit up, suppressing his annoyance at the interruption of his moment of reflection, knowing that his First Officer wouldn’t have done so without good reason. “What is it, Vargas? Is it Bele, contacting us again?”
“No, Captain; the Cheronian was confirmed intercepted by the Surefoot, and is on its way to us now. We have a priority signal from Elba II.”
Kazan’s jaw tightened. “Patch it through.”
Seconds later, the black screen on the monitor flared to life, producing the image of the older, gaunt man in a Nehru jacket, appearing taut with anxiety. “Captain Kazan, we have grave news: Surinh Dag and the Green Death has just been captured.”
The Cossack’s brow furrowed; that was unexpected. The old Orion Gamesmaster of the notorious Deathmatches had seemed a formidable figure, tough as neutronium and as deadly as a Siberian winter. “Who is responsible? Was it Captain Weynik, or maybe Hrelle himself? Revenge for being enslaved all those years ago? Either one of them, I could see doing it-”
“It was Hrelle’s daughter.”
Kazan blinked. He knew about Sasha Hrelle, the human daughter of the Caitian Commodore, had heard some tall tales about her, but had dismissed them all as propaganda once he had seen her stolen medical records and learned she was an addict. He had no tolerance for such weakness in others, and expected her reputation was built on a foundation of nepotism. “And what army did the Medhead lead to achieve such a feat?”
“An army of just eight, I am told, so you may wish to revise your opinion of Lt Cmdr Hrelle; I am certain Surinh Dag underestimated her as well. But that’s not important. This unexpected turn of events has forced us to accelerate our operations, before Surinh Dag reveals too much.”
Kazan nodded; it made sense, and his thoughts were jumping ahead… and if it quickened his inevitable re-encounter with Weynik, so much the better. “You wish us to wait until Bele brings the captured Surefoot to us to take over?”
“No. Intercept them first and destroy them.”
The Cossack frowned. “Destroy them? What about our comrade onboard? Should we attempt to rescue him first?”
Dumont shook his head. “If Bele was successful, their systems will be compromised, and leave them more vulnerable to attack from you. We would have had to do something about him soon enough anyway, once he learned the truth.”
Kazan grunted. When he had first found the Cheronian and convinced him to serve the Bel-Zon, the agreement was based on Kazan’s story about actually locating a genetic storehouse for his race. The irony, that this latest mission for the half-black, half-white freak was based on a “lie” about a truth that was ultimately a lie all along anyway, wasn’t lost on Kazan. “Are you certain we’re ready to take on Starfleet?”
“Ready or not, Arkady, it’s happening. We’re sending word to the Kzinti, those Paserak who still believe that Starfleet was responsible for the recent attacks on them hunger for vengeance, our Assassin and her Ferasan bodyguard are already on Cait seeking out the First Minister, and the Highwaymen are sending a vessel in disguise to Salem One to deliver the Nightmare Crew. Destroy the Surefoot, and protect the Zorin Facility until the Kzinti arrive to ‘conquer’ it.”
Kazan nodded. “Udachi Tebe. Furyk out.” As the screen went black again, he rose to his feet, straightening out his jacket. He had no sympathy for the egotistical harlequin Bele – and he had no illusions that Dumont would hesitate to sacrifice Kazan as well if it suited his ends – but he was still hoping that he would get his opportunity to face Weynik once again.
He regarded the painting once more, determined to replace it at the next opportunity, before striding out of the Ready Room and onto the Bridge, taking his place in the centre chair and facing ahead. “Alright, peasants, snap to it! Today we’re sending a Starfleet vessel to Hell!”
TO BE CONTINUED...
Tune to untie the claws and let the fur fly! Weynik feels the love from Kazan. He’ll kick his ass again and T’Varik will defeat Bele. Great work, my friend!
ReplyDelete