Heresy 10

Ronnie
"Sir, we're receiving a distress signal," says the comms ensign.

"Whoo!" I say. "All right! Let's saddle up the white chargers and ride over the hills, then."

"Sir?"

Nobody in this century has any poetry in their souls. "Lay in an intercept course, maximum warp, and signal that we're en route to assist. Is that all right, or should I sign something in triplicate too?"

"Course laid in," says Tallasa.

"Warp drive ready," says Ada, and "Warp drive ready at your command!" says Ahepkur, and glares at the android.

"Play nice, kids," I say. "Let's go. Face-ache. Any details? What brand of duct tape are we going to need?"

"Uh," says the ensign. "Vulcan merchant vessel, SS Lyrane Star, signal says they have hit a subspace rupture and lost warp drive. No casualties."

"Good. That green blood stains like you wouldn't believe."

"Scanning for subspace anomalies in the area," says Saval. I don't think it's possible to offend Saval, and heaven knows, if it was, I would have done it by now. "Recommend we approach with caution."

"He wants caution, I want carrion! - oh, all right, take your point. No good blowing out our own engines on the way to a rescue. Besides, it'd be bloody embarrassing."

I settle back in my command chair and enjoy the feeling of my ship leaping forwards, towards - well, OK, it's not much, but at least it's a chance to be useful. Despite my tendency to enjoy all the pew-pew stuff, the fact is, Starfleet justifies its existence by helping people more than by shooting them. The adrenaline rush of combat is all very well - though I suspect I enjoy it a lot more than most people -

*/*---violence is destructive and inefficient---differences of belief can all be subsumed within the collective---collective function is preferable to individual conflict*/*

Enough with the propaganda, Two of Twelve. Anyway. Grateful Vulcan faces will be a prettier sight than hostile Klingon ones. Maybe today will be a good day.

"Sensor contact," Saval reports. "Consistent with a commercial freighter."

"Recommend we prep engineering to fabricate standard drive components," says Ada.

"That order has already been issued!" Ahepkur snaps. "It is part of standard procedure!"

"That is not normal practice," the android says, in a prim tone of voice that is liable to get her violently disassembled in the next thirty seconds. "Starfleet procedures -"

"We use modified procedures," I say, loudly. "We've been in too many front-line situations where we've had to repair damaged ships quickly. So Ahepkur's made sure that our guys don't wait to be asked. Just like the medics do, in a disaster situation."

"I see," says Ada. "That is reasonable. I withdraw my objections."

"Anyway," I say, before Ahepkur does or says something she will regret, but Ada will regret a whole lot more, "do we have any idea what sort of damage they've taken? Saval, anything interesting on your scans? Swirly things, that sort of stuff?"

"Reading some residual subspace disruption," says Saval. "Within the tolerances of our warp coils, however. I suspect the freighter's course has intersected a subspace inclusion which has dissipated violently. The remaining energy surges are -" He breaks off. His eyes become intent on something. "I have an anomalous contact."

"A what?" I sit up straight. Anomalous. That's a very Starfleet sort of word. Anything we don't immediately recognize, we call it an anomaly. I remember a Starfleet doctor, way back when, who used to get very cross about that sort of thing.

"Consistent with...." Saval's eyes widen. "Sir, it could be a cloaked ship on an approach vector."

"Tactical. Weapons hot, shields up. Oh, yeah, yellow alert and all that good stuff. That's Starfleet procedure, right?"

"Possible contact, confirmed," says Jhemyl. Tallasa's little sister is riding the main weapons console, and like all Andorians, she'd love a chance to play with it. "Whatever it is, it's on an intercept course to the freighter."

"OK. Well, shall we play a nice guessing game where we try to come up with innocent reasons why a cloaked ship should be coming up on a crippled freighter? Tell you what, some of you get on with that, while I go to red alert." Actually, I hate red alert. Too damn noisy.

"Contact decloaking," says Saval. He frowns. "Well outside weapons range of the freighter, though."

"Contact identified," says Jhemyl. "Transponder codes say... IRW Callasthae. Mogai-class heavy warbird."

"Yay. Skeet. Comms, order them to, I dunno, the usual stuff. Stand down, heave to, shake it all about, that sort of thing."

"They're hailing us, sir," says the ensign.

"OK, jaw-jaw is better than war-war. On screen." I affect not to notice Tallasa's mutter of "that's not your usual line, sir."

The Romulan */*species 3783*/* - I never did understand why the Romulans get a separate species number - the Romulan commander is a thin-faced, mournful looking character, tricked out in full Imperial uniform. "I am Subcommander Takalus of the IRW Callasthae," he says, in a voice as doleful as his face. "We are responding to a distress call from the Vulcan vessel SS Lyrane Star. We are here to offer assistance."

Well, that's a new one. I only have one eyebrow, so I raise it as hard as I can. "Vice Admiral Veronika Grau, USS Falcon," I say. "Call me Ronnie, everyone does. Um. If it's not a dumb question, how come you were approaching under cloak?"

"Standard practice for operations outside Romulan territory," Takalus replies, promptly. Oh, those standard practices... I suppose it's good to know Starfleet isn't the only outfit afflicted by them. "You will notice, I hope, that we decloaked well outside weapons range of the freighter - to avoid any misunderstandings. Our engineers are standing ready to offer assistance now. Your scans should confirm that our shields are down and our weapons are not powered."

"Unlike mine," I say. "You're a long way outside Romulan territory."

"I am under orders to patrol this area and render assistance to any of our Vulcan brethren who may require it. We picked up the distress call, and proceeded to this location."

"Sir," the comms ensign speaks up, "I have the captain of the Vulcan ship on a separate channel."

"What the hell. Patch him in. Let's have a three-way chat."

The image on the screen splits, the face of a middle-aged, rather plump Vulcan appearing on the left. "Captain Sinuk of the Lyrane Star," he announces himself. I can see his eyes flicking from one side to the other. No doubt deciding who he's better off with, the Romulan or the crazy cyborg.

"This is your lucky day, Captain," I say. "Not one, but two, knights on white horses riding to your rescue. Oh, all right, they tell me I shouldn't be fanciful. USS Falcon standing ready to assist, and, well, it seems the IRW Callasthae is... also standing ready to assist."

"I am gratified," says the Vulcan, "though, I admit, somewhat perplexed."

"You and me both, brother."

"We are here to offer our help," says Takalus.

"The Romulan imperial state," says Sinuk, "is not, I regret to say, noted for its philanthropy."

"I appreciate that," says Takalus. "My orders are, I suppose, that that should change."

"In respect of Vulcans," I say.

"The Vulcans are our estranged brethren," says Takalus. "My orders are to extend a hand of friendship, where it is possible."

"Well," I say, "I guess it's up to you, Captain Sinuk. We're about a half hour further away from you than the Callasthae, but we're happy to help if you want us. Or we can team up with the Romulans and maybe get your engines sorted out quicker. Or, I guess, you could hang around and wait for some helpful Tholians or Breen to happen by?"

"It is not logical to refuse aid," says Sinuk. "However, in my judgment, your Starfleet vessel will more quickly be able to fabricate and install compatible components than a Romulan ship."

"That is probably correct," says Takalus. "Is there any other way in which we may assist? Do you have casualties requiring treatment, for instance?"

"No," says Sinuk, "we were fortunate in that respect. All that is needed is the replacement of some components in our warp drive, which we are unable to fabricate ourselves. I will transmit the specifications for our requirements over the data channel."

I turn to Ahepkur. "Get a look at it, and tell me if there's anything we'd have trouble with."

"I will assure you now, sir," she growls, "there will be no difficulty."

"Then," Sinuk says, "we accept, with gratitude, the USS Falcon's offer of assistance."

"Noted," says Takalus. "I will remain in the vicinity - decloaked - in case some unforeseen difficulty arises. Unless Vice Admiral Grau decides this is not permissible?"

"Um," I say. "Don't see why not. We're not at war, after all. Oh, yeah, stand down from red alert, turn those phasers off before someone gets hurt."

"Aye, aye, sir," says Tallasa.

"All required components are in the fabrication queue already," says Ahepkur, with deep satisfaction.

"Great. Super. Should be cooked by the time we're in transporter range, Captain Sinuk. We'll have you on your way again in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Maybe one shake, if Ahepkur's feeling frisky. Or two shakes if it's a hyperactive lamb -" I have a feeling that metaphor's getting out of hand. I shut up.

"Very well. We will make preparations for your arrival. Lyrane Star out." Sinuk's face vanishes, leaving me looking at the Romulan.

Romulan faces. When I first ran into them, they were the ultimate faceless enemy... we fought an entire war with them, without once setting eyes on them. Now, I can see one, and he's real. He's not some silent, anonymous killer out in the stars... he's an ordinary flesh and blood being like me, and he's sitting there in a ship not so much unlike mine, and he's offering his help -

In a pig's eye he is. What's his game?

Heresy 9

The scream of the descending shuttlecraft cut through the incessant whispering of the dust-laden wind. T'Nir sighed, wound her protective fabric about her face, and stepped out of the shelter.

About a dozen others had also left their domed huts, standing, shrouded in wrappings, in the light fluffy dust that covered everything like a grim snowfall. T'Nir looked upwards, shielding her eyes from falling dust, and saw the shuttle. Not a standard Starfleet model - well, of course, it could not be, in the circumstances, she thought. It was sleek and black, shaped like a leaf, or the point of a spear. It circled the encampment, once, before spiralling in to land by the largest intact dome. T'Nir went forward to meet it. The black material of the hull seemed to repel the dust, as if it spurned the world around it.

The exit ramp hissed down, and the shuttle's occupants disembarked. T'Nir bristled at the sight of the Starfleet uniforms - a Ferengi and a human in science division markings, the human carrying a case with medical symbols; behind them came a tall, lanky Andorian in operations colours, the insignia of a Vice Admiral at her throat. Shohl, then. All three were wearing breather masks and transparent visors, protection from the dust. Behind them -

T'Nir blinked. The woman in grey and white was clearly Vulcanoid, but did not carry herself like a Vulcan - then, she noted the raptor brooch. Romulan? Here? The woman wore a breather mask of a different design, and she moved -

She moved like the shuttle, T'Nir thought. With a casual disdain for the disordered world around her. She trod in the dust, and it was truly dust for her, beneath her notice.

"Who commands here?" the Romulan demanded.

T'Nir stepped forwards. "Director Stiak is in overall command," she said, "but he is unavailable at present, being engaged in necessary work. I am T'Nir. I have been deputized to attend to you."

The Romulan arched her eyebrows. "We have medical supplies in the shuttle," said the Andorian, "and Dr. Beresford here is anxious to get to work on your casualties. Commander Klerupiru is an expert technician, and hopefully she and I can help with your mechanical difficulties. So, point us in the right direction, and we'll get to work." She looked vaguely quizzical, behind the breather. "I must admit, we're all... curious to know what work it is, that's so absorbing you can't take a break from it."

"There is disagreement on that matter," Stileg's voice came from behind T'Nir. The man shouldered past her, heading towards the shuttle. "We have seven dead and six seriously injured from our initial complement of thirty. Supplies are critical - most of our stores were destroyed in the initial incident, and much of what survived has become unusable due to the dust contamination. It is the judgment of many of us that evacuation is needed."

The human, Dr. Beresford, came out to meet Stileg. "Let me have a look at that forehead," she said.

"There are others in far worse need than I, doctor," said Stileg. "Let me show you the way. Is there other equipment that I may carry for you?"

"Let's get it," said the human, and led Stileg to the shuttle. T'Nir felt obscurely angry, sternly repressed the emotion. It was not unreasonable, she thought, that Stileg should consider the medical matters urgent. But he should have respected her authority -

The Andorian suddenly shouted, "Brace yourselves!"

For an instant, T'Nir thought she had gone mad. Then, the ground shuddered beneath them. The Romulan stumbled and nearly fell; the Andorian reached out a steadying hand. Her legs were spread, braced, ready for the shock. The Romulan shook off the helping hand. "How did you -?"

"Can't fool these antennae," said the Andorian. Of course, thought T'Nir, the sensitivity of the Andorians was well-documented -

"Let me take you to the main workshop," she said, "and I will explain the situation, as well as I am able. Director Stiak will give you more complete information, when he returns." If he returns, she thought, and clamped her mind down hard against that thought. But if he was underground - when that shock came -

"That is an excellent idea," said the Romulan. "We will go. Since Vice Admiral Shohl has not seen fit to introduce me, I will inform you that I am High Admiral Valikra of the Romulan Star Empire. We are engaged in a number of humanitarian ventures across the quadrant, and are cooperating with the relief effort here." She smiled, thinly. "I hope we will be able to be of service to you."

Heresy 8

Tylha
The clouds are vast and churning, lit both by the sun from above and the fire below. The initial blast of the supervolcano has subsided into a dull fierce glow, from the pooling magma that covers everything within a hundred kilometres of the eruption site. The falling dust and ashes will, eventually, cover everything on this Continent Beta, to a depth of at least fifteen centimetres - more, here, so close to the blast.

Walt Whitman's sleek black shape knifes through the clouds without so much as a whisper of resistance, and inside her cockpit, everything is eerie calm.

"The devastation is considerable," Valikra says from the seat beside me.

"I've seen worse," I mutter. She turns towards me.

"Really? Where?"

"Bercera IV."

She nods, accepting my answer... somewhat grudgingly, it seems. In person, she is even more forbidding and impressive than she looked on the screen. She is tall, nearly as tall as me, and instead of the gaudy Imperial uniforms with their thick quilted fabrics, she wears a simple grey tunic and trousers, with a white cloak pinned together with a silver brooch at her left shoulder. The brooch takes the form of a Romulan raptor, and its eyes, picked out with tiny rubies, are the only note of colour in her outfit.

"The Vulcan appeared concerned for our safety," she says. "You are sure this vessel is reliable?"

"Absolutely. The Walt Whitman is rated for environments a lot worse than this. Besides, since it was built in the 29th century, it can hardly be destroyed in the 25th, can it?"

Valikra sniffs. "I find your logic specious."

She's going to be fun. "In any case, the Whitman is the best chance we've got - unless you want to ride down ballistic with the supply drop from IDRA." The relief agency ship is a converted freighter with Starfleet surplus science mission pods attached to its aft cargo modules; as an atmosphere craft, it's hopeless. Corodrev has, however, put together the unmanned supply drop, a module simply fired like a shell from the main ship, descending slowly but surely, with a few RCS thrusters to guide it safely to its touchdown point. "Your Tiercel shuttles can't cope with this heavy-element dust any more than my standard type eights, and transporter operations... don't even bear thinking about."

"Possibly we can set up pattern enhancers near the Vulcan's base."

"Possibly. I'd want to test them thoroughly first. Once you've seen one scramble case, you never want to see another one."

"Scramble case?"

"Reintegration failure."

"I see." She looks at me disdainfully. "Your terminology is imprecise. You should rectify that."

I get the feeling this is going to be a long trip. "Pulverized topaline ore," she says, reflectively. "Normally, so valuable, now such an inconvenience. Your Ferengi must be distressed by this."

"Oh," says Klerupiru from behind us, "if I was a true Ferengi, I'd be hanging out of the shuttle with my mouth open, now."

"Quite," says Valkira, in a quelling tone. Any efforts at humour are to be firmly squelched, it seems. Unless that crack about Ferengi was meant as a joke. I turn around to look at Klerupiru and Samantha Beresford, in the rear seats. "You two comfortable back there?"

"Pretty much," says Samantha. She looks austerely at me through her data monocle. "We should be more cramped, in fact - I wanted to bring more medical supplies, remember?"

"Your physician is, I hope, competent to work on Vulcans and Vulcanoids," says Valikra.

"Dr. Beresford's more than competent on a whole range of different species," I say.

"Though of course I'm most used to glueing pig-headed Andorians back together," says Samantha.

"That should not prove necessary," says Valikra. "Assuming, of course, that we traverse the planetary troposphere without incident."

I don't think any of us is going to get a rise out of the High Admiral. It seems a peculiar sort of rank, too, though I don't know what ranks are held in the various shuddering remnants of the Romulan Empire these days. She seems to be utterly humourless and utterly dedicated to... something. Some inner vision. And it's one that she's fanatical about, clearly. I have very bad memories of Romulan fanatics.

The timeship doesn't so much as shiver as she dives deeper into the clouds, the roiling vapours parting at the mere touch of that ultra-sleek matte black hull. "All readings nominal, holding course and speed," I say. Valikra gives a minimal nod. I have a feeling I might have to disabuse her of the notion that I'm her personal chauffeur. That air of absolute authority - that is a front for something, usually an underlying insecurity. But, of course, any Romulan has a lot to feel insecure about.

I need to know more about her - why she is here, what she is fanatical about. Of course, I could always just ask her....

"Why are you here, High Admiral?"

"Your shuttlecraft is the only vehicle capable of reaching the science team quickly. It was necessary for me to... hitch a ride, I believe is the term."

"I didn't mean here in the shuttle. Why are you in this system?"

"Our Vulcan brethren need help."

"And they'd get it without you. I'm here, in fact, because your Vulcan brethren have been turning help away.... You know a Federation relief effort would reach them, you must appreciate that Federation teams can do anything your people can. So why are you here? Why aren't you helping your own people?"

She turns and looks at me, sharply, intently, with those icy eyes. "I am," she says.

"All right, Vulcans and Romulans are basically the same species, fair enough. But why these Vulcans, when there are so many Romulans in need, closer to home?"

"You have no conception," she says, "of where my home is.... In any event, I am helping Romulans everywhere by helping Vulcans. Or at least, I will be, if you will kindly permit it."

"Would you mind explaining how?"

"Your instruments are registering turbulence." She points. The autopilot is handling it well - I suspect the Walt Whitman's systems are several orders cleverer than me, in fact - and there's no real need to make a trivial course correction. I make it anyway. Outside, the dust clouds are wrapped around the shuttle, enveloping us in a roiling orange murk. It's no harder to see through than Valikra's manner, though.

"So you do mind explaining how. Very well, then."

"People will be helped. That is all that the Federation cares about, is it not?"

"No. Not by a long way. For that matter, the Federation doesn't go about indiscriminately helping people - ever heard of the Prime Directive?"

"Yes, of course. What looks like help from one angle may be hindrance, or unwarrantable interference, from another, and so the Federation does not intervene unless the issues are clear-cut - to the Federation's satisfaction."

"We never claim to be perfect."

"Very wise of you." She stares into the murk beyond the viewport. "I seek a rapprochement with the Vulcans. It is necessary to extend a hand of friendship." She turns to glare at me. "Your next remark will include some reference to D'Tan and Mol'Rihan. Please, spare me."

"Very well." So, she wants the Romulan Star Empire - or whatever fragment of it she represents - to make friends with the Vulcans? Interesting. Somehow, though, I doubt whether the High Admiral is going to be good at making friends.

Maybe she's different with Vulcans. Come to think of it... she'd better be.

Heresy 7

The door of the shelter opened, and T'Nir's heart leaped as she looked up. Stiak stood there, unwinding his dust-laden outer wrappings, his broad handsome face looking lined and weary. T'Nir went to him.

"Stiak." She extended her hand, index and middle fingers out. He touched her fingers with his own - but briefly, perfunctorily.

"What is the situation?" Stiak asked. His voice was hoarse. It was the dust, of course, they were all choking on the dust - and he was spending longer outside than any of them -

"Team three is accounted for. Three dead, two seriously injured. Stileg is demanding fresh action. I have repaired the communicator and arranged for a supply drop from the IDRA ship. This will take place at twenty-three hundred hours tonight. A drone canister has been launched from their ship on a descent trajectory - our people are ready to receive it."

"That is satisfactory. Are there further demands that we evacuate the site?"

"The Andorians and the planetary authorities advocate it most strongly. Stiak - most of our people are in agreement with them." She strove to keep her voice from shaking. "They question the logic of your decisions. I am finding it increasingly hard to overrule them."

"You must," said Stiak. "You must. We cannot leave now. I have made - a discovery. I believe it to be significant." He rummaged among his clothes, brought something out from the folds, and handed it to T'Nir.

It was metallic, heavy; a box with a curving top, and odd, fluid-looking script across one surface. T'Nir caught her breath. "A Hegemony data recorder?"

Stiak nodded. "And intact. There are others. I believe the Hegemony ship landed - roughly where we thought - and was dismantled to set up a base. They stored vital materials - including these records - underground. Then, at some point, a tectonic shift closed off the underground chambers -"

"And the current upheavals reopened them again?" T'Nir stared at the object in her hand. "This is a major discovery, indeed. You are correct, these objects must be preserved before another disaster conceals or destroys them. You are acting correctly." She felt a great sense of relief. "I shall direct the others to assist you in the recovery of the items and the recording of the site."

Stiak shook his head. "That will not be practical. The access into the chambers is too narrow, the working space too limited, for more than one person to work within it. I must accomplish this task single-handedly. You must prepare the others to work on the artifacts I retrieve. Start with that one." He indicated the box. "This will prove an excellent test of our hypotheses regarding Hegemony data storage protocols. If we can retrieve the information, a whole chapter of history will be open to us."

"The others will be convinced of the importance of this. I believe that they will now understand the logic of this situation."

"I am gratified. We must not forget the sacrifices that our teams have made, T'Nir." For the first time since the eruption, there seemed to be a light in his eyes. I am glad to see it, choice of my heart, she said silently to herself.

Then the subspace radio warbled shrilly for attention. T'Nir turned to it in an attitude of exasperation. She snapped on the audio channel. "This is T'Nir at Research Station Chara V One."

"Research station, this is the Starfleet shuttlecraft Walt Whitman." A new voice, one T'Nir didn't recognize: brisk and harsh, with distinctively Andorian tones. "I'm Vice Admiral Tylha Shohl, assisting with the relief effort. We are on a descent path to your location now. I have with me medical supplies and personnel... and, also, High Admiral Valikra of the Romulan Imperial navy, who is here to offer assistance."

"Assistance is welcome," said T'Nir, "but I must emphasize that we do not require transportation at this time. Our work is of paramount importance and must continue. Also, I would suggest that you do not risk your shuttlecraft in the current atmospheric conditions. The turbulence, and the mineral dust, create an unacceptable hazard to aerial operations. I strongly recommend that you abort your descent."

"Don't worry about us," the Andorian's voice replied. "Whitman is a very special shuttle, more than able to handle the dust storms. I'm coming in, to provide aid and assess the situation. I gather the High Admiral has the same sort of idea."

"Hold, please, Walt Whitman." T'Nir muted the channel. "I do not see how we can prevent them from landing."

"It is not necessary to prevent them from landing," said Stiak, "only to prevent them from interfering with the work." He was shrugging his protective wrappings back into place. "Deal with them. And inform the others. I am returning to work in the underground chambers."

"To recover more data recorders?"

"Yes. And perhaps - there may be something more. I have not yet explored fully. And I must." And, with that, he was gone.

Heresy 6

Tylha
Spirits of Earth hurtles between the stars, the subtranswarp drive eating up the light years. I settle down on the bridge - small and cosy, after the King Estmere's echoing Tholian hall with the peculiar artificial gravity - and take a few moments to luxuriate in the cool air.

Dr. Haught shivers. "Cold in here, isn't it?"

Harley Haught is a geologist, added to my crew at the last minute, in case we need his expertise on the surface of Chara V. He's a tall, rather good-looking young man - if you like humans - with dark hair and a rather high forehead. And, judging from his attitude, he fancies himself something of a lady-killer. Which might be amusing, come to think of it.

"It's an Andorian ship," I point out. "And I've just been enduring Earth's temperatures...."

"Yes," says Haught, "but, well, you guys are more adaptable than us poor pinkskins, right?"

Actually, that's true, though you won't often find a human who'll admit to it. I revise my estimate of Haught up a notch. "Conditions on Chara V are warmer," I say. "Normally - I don't know what this volcanic incident will have done to the climate."

"Well," Haught says, "in the medium term, there'll be a drop in temperature, as the volcanic dust increases the planetary albedo. But I guess it's early, yet, for that to take full effect. I just -" He breaks off, as the bridge door hisses open. "Whoah!" he says.

Amiga stands in the doorway, looking faintly taken aback. The android has just returned to her normal look, opening the service panels to the circuitry in her cheeks, removing the cosmetic caps from her eyes so that the naked metal shows. "Are you distressed, Dr. Haught?" she asks.

"Wow. Just, um, surprised, I guess. I saw you in the transporter room earlier...."

"Indeed you did," Amiga says. "Mostly, I do not conceal my artificial origins. I recently had reasons to assume a fully humanoid appearance, though, and I have only just reverted to my normal fashion. I trust you do not disapprove?"

Haught looks blank for a moment, then he laughs. "I'll say one thing for you," he says. "Whatever your origins, you're clearly all woman."

Amiga inclines her head. "I shall take that as a compliment... to my designers."

A low rumbling laugh comes from the tac station. "Don't mess with that one, lad," my uncle, Kophil Phohr, says. "She'll eat you alive."

"Commander Phohr, needless to say, does not speak from personal experience," Amiga says.

"Any time you want to put your money where your mouth is, robo-girl...."

"I hate to break this up." Even Anthi Vihl, my ultra-professional exec, isn't hiding a grin. "But we're about to come out of warp at Chara."

"OK. Amiga, Uncle Kophil... flirt later. F'hon." The Bolian comms officer looks up. "Patch us through to local traffic control, make sure we have all the right clearances. And get me the IDRA ship as soon as you can manage it."

"On it, skipper," says F'hon Tlaxx.

Spirits of Earth shudders as she drops to sublight speeds, and the view on the screen changes to a normal static starscape, a bright yellow star glowing to one side. I check the system display on my console. Chara has seven planets, two hot rockballs in close orbit, one habitable and prosperous class M world, then an oddity, a minor planet about the size of Sol's Mercury, in an orbit that makes it look as though it's a capture from interstellar space. Our destination, Chara V, is next, a much more marginal class M... and then there are two moderate-sized ice giants, further out. A pretty typical system - well, unusual in that there are two class M worlds, but not that unusual. I've seen many stranger.

"Got an automated response from traffic control," says F'hon. "Patching it through to helm now - and there's a Jevon Tolm, planetary governor, Chara V, wants to speak to you."

"On screen."

The face on the screen is a humanoid one, possibly even straight-up human, it's hard to tell just from a headshot sometimes. He's thin and middle-aged and worried looking, whatever species he is. "Vice Admiral Shohl?"

"That's me. We've had a request from IDRA to lend assistance."

He looks marginally less worried. "Anything you can do to help would be welcome. We have the situation in hand in the capital, and in most of the districts on Continent Alpha. But the situation on Beta is confused -"

"That's where the Vulcan science team is, isn't it? And where the disaster happened?"

"Yes. Frankly, Vice Admiral, we're worried about those people. The only inhabitants of Beta have been accounted for - but the Vulcans were a lot closer to the epicentre of the blast, and the reports we have are... confusing. We don't have air craft capable of reaching them at this time, and the IDRA vessels aren't equipped for atmospheric operations in that amount of turbulence."

"Well, if need be, I can take my ship down, we are cleared for a range of environments - but, naturally, I'd like to explore other options first."

"Of course, Vice Admiral." Does he look slightly less worried? "Just - well, please do everything you have to - everything you can - to get those people out."

"I'll put you through to my quartermaster to see if there are any other essential supplies we can get to you. We should be in transporter range in -" I shoot a questioning glance at Anthi.

"Thirty minutes at full impulse, sir."

"Thirty minutes."

He smiles, a twitchy smile but a genuine one. "It'll be a relief to have a Starfleet ship in orbit, Vice Admiral. Ready to talk to your quartermaster now. Godspeed."

The screen goes blank, comes back with the image of the planet. "I'm not sure atmosphere operation are advisable," Haught says.

"Well, very often we have to do stuff that isn't advisable. What's the problem?"

"I'm reading some odd chemical composition from the volcanic dust cloud." Haught's high forehead is furrowed in thought. "There are some heavy elements I didn't expect to see...."

Zazaru speaks up from the main science console; the soft-spoken chief science officer has been very quiet up to now. "The planet was surveyed briefly as a possible source of topaline ore, but the deposits were not considered sufficient for commercial exploitation. However, since topaline is often found near the planetary mantle -"

"Oh, of course," Haught interrupts. "Deposits blown out from deeper levels by the supervolcano. Makes sense."

"Glad to hear it." There is a certain amusement in the Trill scientist's soft brown eyes. "I'm reading something else, though, which is genuinely anomalous. Traces - just traces - of kironide. And an isotope, too, that I'm sure can't be native to the planet."

"Kironide?" Haught's eyebrows go up at that.

"In dangerous quantities?" I ask.

"Hard to tell." Kironide, in some circumstances, acts as a natural psionic amplifier. The problem is, even after two hundred years of study, no one is sure what the circumstances are. On the planet Platonius, it reliably imparts psychokinetic abilities to most humanoids... anywhere else, the results are a whole lot less reliable, and there are still no consistent theories as to why. Kironide dust in the air? That is one reason to be very, very careful.

"I don't understand about that isotope," Haught says.

"Niobium-91," says Zazaru. "In terms of the relative isotopic quantities on this particular planet, it is not something I would expect to find in any quantity... but there is a localized source reading, somewhere in the region of the Vulcan science team. The conclusion is obvious."

"It is?" Haught seems at a loss.

"Obviously," I take pity on him, "it must be what led the science team here in the first place. And, if it's not natural - well, draw your own conclusions."

"But Chara V has no native inhabitants..." says Haught.

"So," says Zazaru, "the likelihood is, it was brought from elsewhere. A spaceship. Possibly a long time ago, if my estimates of the radioactive decay chains are correct."

I frown. There are pieces of a puzzle, here, but it's a puzzle that's obstinately refusing to take shape. I crane around in my seat to look behind me, at where Commander Sirip is sitting, quietly, by a secondary security console. "Sirip, you're the nearest thing I've got to an expert on Vulcans... does any of this suggest anything at all to you?"

"Regrettably, no, sir," the Vulcan tac officer replies. "I can only offer the truism that, whatever reasons the scientists have for remaining in that location, it must be a compelling one. But nothing I have heard so far suggests any reason for the compulsion."

Well, I suppose it's too much to ask that he should know some bit of Vulcan lore that conveniently explains what they're up to. "Does the Chara system mean anything to you?" I look around the bridge. "Or anybody else, come to that."

"It is a system with habitable worlds, comparatively close to Vulcan," says Sirip. "It has been the subject of science missions before, naturally."

"I have a complete historical record," says Amiga.

"Of course you do," says Kophil. She smiles at him. I give it a few more months before she resprays herself in blue, bolts on a pair of antennae, and becomes my aunt by marriage. Perhaps I'm being simplistic, though.

"Unfortunately, nothing relevant seems to present itself," Amiga continues. "It is only a typical system, with no indigenous sentient forms, and no significant historical impact. Even the wars in this quadrant have, to date, only involved it peripherally."

"I have a sensor contact," Anthi announces suddenly, and every head turns towards her. "Something big, on an inbound vector to Chara V orbit. Trying to resolve it now...." Her eyes widen. "Sir, it's cloaked!"

"Yellow alert," I order. Can there be any good reason for a cloaked ship to be operating here? "Maintain course. Let's not let on we've spotted them."

"Maintaining course. Sir, I think - yes, they're decloaking."

"Put it on the screen. Maximum magnification - let's see what we've got."

One second, there is the empty starscape; the next, the stars shimmer, and a shape appears - the ugly winged bulk of a Romulan Scimitar, grey-green and massive.

"Weapons hot. Get me a read on that ship!"

"On it," says F'hon tersely. "Sir - incoming communication. They're hailing us."

I lean back in my command chair. "Let's have it."

The face that appears on the viewer is a harsh Romulan one, all sharp planes and angles, surmounted by iron-grey hair in an elaborate coil and braid, and with the coldest, lightest grey eyes I have ever seen. She looks at me with those icy eyes, and I sense a will behind them, a will and a purpose.

"Starfleet vessel. I am High Admiral Valikra, aboard the IRW Raven's Heart. You are no doubt at alert status. You may stand down. My mission is a peaceful one."

Stand down? I'll stand down in my own time. "You're a long way from Romulan territory, High Admiral. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to specify your - mission."

"Naturally." Is there a hint of amusement in those eyes? "We have heard that some of our Vulcan brethren are in distress on the planet Chara V. We have come to offer them our unconditional assistance."

Heresy 5

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Falcon, NCC-93057
Datarecord: 2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)
"Woo hoo!" I dance across the bridge, pirouetting in front of the centre seat, before plumping myself down in it. "This is something, isn't it?"

A new ship. I've been through any number of ships in my slightly patchy career, but taking control of a new one always gives me a lift. After the battle at Aznetkur and the hunt for Klur, the
Virtue needed a fair amount of time in the yards... so, I got myself assigned a shiny new cruiser. The Excelsior design has stood Starfleet in good stead for almost as long as I have, and this is the revised edition, the one with all the bells and whistles and extra trimmings. Including the bulge in the engineering hull that Jim Kirk fell out of... well, I know not to stand there, right.

"It's certainly a fine ship," says Tallasa, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Well, I know I'm a trial for my serious minded Andorian */*species 4464*/* exec, when I'm in a good mood. But I am in a good mood. I have a brand new toy to play with, and the novelty of the situation has put Two of Twelve into a quiet mood, so I've got the inside of my head to myself, mostly. Until you've been assimilated by the Borg, you don't appreciate how good that feels. Not that the inside of my head was an altogether good place even before the Borg, mind.

I can't keep still; I jump up, skip across the bridge to the tactical console. "Phaser arrays! Pew! Pew pew pew!" I take aim at imaginary Klinks on the main screen and bring them down. Tallasa's antennae droop. Next, helm control. "Just look at these transwarp settings! Instant travel to half the quadrant - that we may travel everywhither and see the ends of this world and judge them." Like all my literary references, that one passes so far over Tallasa's head she doesn't even hear it whistle through the air. Anyway, I suppose a shakedown cruise in Alpha Centauri sector doesn't quite qualify as "travelling everywhither". More as staying out of Admiral Gref's hair.

"I shall require time to familiarize myself with the engineering systems," Ahepkur, my Klingon */*species 5008*/* engineer speaks up from her bridge station. "But the ship will be ready at your orders, sir!" Loyalty. Discommendated Klingons like Ahepkur either make a fetish out of loyalty, or discard the idea entirely. I'm lucky it's the first one.

"No rush," I say, "no rush.... Actually, I'm glad you brought that up. We're taking on a couple more engineering staff, what with this being a lot bigger ship than the old Virtue. Starfleet Personnel -" I wince a little, remembering more than a few discussions with Personnel about my service record "- should be sending them along any time now. You. Face-ache." The comms ensign looks up. "Get on to the transporter room, will you, find out if they've beamed aboard yet?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

Ahepkur's face is forbidding - more forbidding than usual, that is. "I am competent to direct the engineering division," she growls. "Sir."

Oops, I think to myself, you might have touched a nerve there, Ronnie. "You're my chief engineer," I reassure her, "absolutely, no doubt about that. Just, well, a couple of extra hands always come in... umm... handy?"

"Transporter room reports two arrivals, sir," the ensign calls out. "On their way to the bridge now, Commander Ysrip and Commander - errr...." He trails off and looks helplessly at his console.

"Oh, yeah, right," I say. "Well, never mind about that. Tallasa, let's rally round and give the new arrivals a good old USS Virtue welcome."

"USS Falcon, sir," says Tallasa.

"USS Virtue style, then. We had a style, right? You wouldn't mistake the Virtue for any other ship."

Tallasa exchanges looks with the others: Ahepkur, my science officer Saval, Tallasa's sister Jhemyl, the others who know me well, and for some reason put up with me. "No," she says, "no, no one would make a mistake like that."

"And the Falcon will carry on in that same old happy tradition," I say firmly. Saval, being Vulcan */*species 3259*/*, doesn't say "oh God" at this point. But he wants to. I know he wants to.

I pick up the movement of the turbolift door before I hear the hiss - the Borg implant covering my left eye has surprisingly good peripheral vision. Well, maybe vision isn't quite the right word. Peripheral sensing? Whatever. I know they're coming, that's the main thing.

"Welcome aboard!" I yell.

"Thank you, sir," the tall, good looking Andorian male replies, throwing me a salute as he does so. "Commander Areb Ysrip reporting as ordered."

His companion moves into the full light of the bridge, the lights reflecting brightly from her metallic eyes. "Reporting as ordered," she says in an even, musical voice. "My serial number is on record, but for social purposes I am Commander Ada." She salutes, too, with appropriately mechanical precision.

"A machine?" Ahepkur demands. Oh dear.

"I am artificial in origin," Ada replies, unruffled. "I am, to be exact, an experimental HSM series android - my model has performed well in a number of Starfleet roles."

"A machine," Ahepkur repeats, and I really don't like the tone of her voice. "I am chief engineer here, I fix machines - I hope, if this one works with me, it knows its place!"

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. "We can all get along," I say, loudly. Ada and Ahepkur are looking at each other, and they don't look like they're getting along any time soon. I just hope Ahepkur doesn't try a staring contest, because she will certainly lose against those ball-bearing eyes. "Let me introduce my senior staff; my executive officer Commander Tallasa, my science officer Dr. Saval, my -"

"Commander Tallasa?" Ysrip asks.

"That is correct." Tallasa squares her shoulders. "Just Tallasa."

Jhemyl stands up, at the security station. "And I am Jhemyl. Just Jhemyl."

Oh, God. Andorian clans, I was forgetting all about Andorian clans - and whatever Tallasa and Jhemyl's parents did to get kicked out of their family. I've never known the details, to be honest... but it's like the discommendated Klingons; Tallasa and Jhemyl have always been loyal to me, because I'll accept their loyalty. This Ysrip, though, looks traditional Andorian right through to his blue core, and traditional Andorians don't get on so well with the clanless ones... traditionally. Ysrip's face is studiously neutral. Tallasa's makes a plank of wood look like Laurence Olivier, and Jhemyl is, if anything, even blanker. But all three of them have their antennae twitching, writhing almost, in a way that would make a Japanese schoolgirl run for the hills.

And Ahepkur and the android */*species designation irrelevant*/* are still glaring at each other -

*/*---interpersonal relationships interfering with efficiency
---assimilation recommended
---absorb positive qualities of each unit, suppress individual conflicts
---suppression of individual personality is the way to optimum efficiency within the collective
*/*

And now Two of Twelve's woken up. And it started off such a good day....

Heresy 4

T'Nir bent over the workbench, her fingers moving expertly among the components of the subspace radio, her ears shut to the incessant hissing, sifting sound of dust falling on the domed roof of the shelter. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration as she isolated the faulty transtator, removed it, slotted a replacement into position. So very few spares left, she thought.

Behind her, the door banged open, admitting a chill draught. She suppressed a sigh of irritation, and turned. The swathed figure before her unwound the outer wrappings from his head.

"Stileg. What is it?"

Stileg's lips were compressed into a hard line. "Is the subspace radio functional yet?"

"I have just now completed the repairs. I have not yet had time to make tests, but I am sure they will be satisfactory."

"Then you must contact the Andorians," Stileg said. There was a green weeping welt across his forehead; his head wound had not been properly cleaned before they had applied the dermal regenerator, and now dust was working out of his skin, tearing it and bringing with it risk of fresh infection - and the dermal regenerator, like so many other things, was broken now. "We have found more of our number, all of team three is now accounted for. Saral, Telik and T'Tal are dead, Vonot and T'Zen are seriously injured, beyond our current ability to meet their medical needs. They will die too unless aid is forthcoming. The Andorians have offered their aid, it is not logical to refuse it!"

He was shouting. "You are displaying emotion," T'Nir said. "Control yourself."

"I apologize. But the situation remains as I have stated it. We need aid. The dust in the air - Vonot and T'Zen need clean air, or their lung injuries will become irreparable. We cannot provide this ourselves, our filtration units and force field barriers are no longer operable."

"Construct a platform so that they may rest on an elevated location. The dust settles quickly, the air in the higher regions of our shelters will not be contaminated."

"It is unsafe to construct a platform! Tectonic activity is continuing. We lack the tools and materials to construct anything that will withstand the aftershocks. T'Nir, we must have help."

"I will... communicate a request for a supply drop to the Andorians," said T'Nir.

"It is not enough. We require specialist medical assistance at the very least. And the geological situation is still far from stable. A precautionary evacuation is clearly indicated."

"That is not possible. Director Stiak's orders are that we continue with the work."

"Stiak's logic is faulty!" Stileg was shouting, now, mental discipline and logic entirely forgotten. "If it were not for your personal involvement with him, you would see that!"

"Control yourself," T'Nir said forcefully. "Director Stiak is in charge of this project. He holds that position because of his knowledge and expertise. Logic dictates that we follow his directives. Logic also dictates that we continue our work, even in the current situation, because if we do not, valuable discoveries may be lost to the tectonic instability. I believe these points are valid, disregarding any personal relationship which I may or may not have with Director Stiak. Do you not agree? Use your logic, Stileg."

Stileg was subsiding, now, clearly ashamed of his loss of control. "I bow to your decision. Will you confirm a supply drop from the Andorians?"

"As soon as my repairs are completed, which will be a matter of minutes now. I will make it my first priority. I do not wish Vonot or T'Zen to die, any more than you do."

"Of course."

"If that is all, I will return to my work." She turned back to the workbench. After a moment, she heard Stileg leave the shelter.

It is wrong for Vulcans to show in their faces what should be held in the heart, she told herself. I have not shown emotion, I have remained strong. But, Stiak, choice of my heart, I pray that you are right. I pray that your actions are correct, and that our losses have meaning.

Heresy 3

Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, IGV Spirits of Earth NCC-93884.
Earth is so damned hot.

I stand at the window of my hotel room and look out at the wide green-brown river as it flows beneath a swollen sun. I can almost see it steaming, but I know, intellectually, that's just my imagination. Across the water, on the other bank, I can see the ornate, centuries-old building with its square clock tower. In times gone by, the destiny of a significant chunk of this planet was directed from that complicated, gothic edifice. It seems strange to think of that now. Behind the building, along the skyline, more modern buildings tower up to the skies.

I turn around, and fiddle with the air conditioning. It's already at maximum, but I keep hoping I can crank a little bit more cold out of it.

Three weeks into my leave, and I should be used to Earth's temperature... but I didn't get used to in in four years, at San Francisco, and San Francisco is even hotter than this place... but, still. I'm wearing a loose bathrobe, and my hair is still damp from a lukewarm shower, and I still feel too damned hot. I sigh, sit down on the bed, and feel the air with my antennae. There is a strange taste to the atmosphere in this city: crowded, complicated. I can almost feel the layers of history here. For this is a city with a great deal of history, as much as any place on Andoria, even....

The communicator chimes. I stand up, and make sure the bathrobe is properly secured. Not that many humans would be turned on by the sight of an Andorian shen - "Screen on. Shohl here."

The face on the screen is Andorian, though, and it's one I know. I raise my eyebrows. "Osrin?"

"Hello, Tylha," Osrin Corodrev says. There seems a tension in his artificially handsome face - the product of genetic engineering by his insane father, and I have to remember not to hold that against him. Especially as his insane father was also my insane great-great-grandfather, and he edited the insanity thing out of his son's genome....

Osrin, so far, has not proven any too insane; last time I saw him, he was working for a civilian disaster relief agency. There's an anonymous metal wall behind him on the viewer screen; he's aboard some spaceship or station, at a guess. "Well," I say, "this is a surprise."

He smiles. "Good to see you, anyway," he says. "You're on Earth, I gather? Somewhere hot?"

"Earth doesn't do not-hot," I say with a scowl, "except maybe at its poles, and I'm not so sure about those. They told me this place had a mild temperate climate - was famous for bad weather, even. Well, maybe it's temperate by human standards, but not by mine!"

"Where are you?" Osrin asks.

"City called, um, Lun'dun," I tell him. "On the trail of my musical idol. Gustav Holst. He lived and worked in this city."

Osrin frowns. "Gustav Holst? Sounds almost an Andorian name...."

"Well, he was human," I say. "But his music speaks to this Andorian's soul, regardless. I've never been to this island before - it was a major nation on Earth, once, had some insanely long name... let me see if I can remember it...." I take a deep breath. "Goes something like Yunaitudkiindumuvgreetbritininaerlan. At least it did in Holst's time. They've changed it quite a bit."

"I don't blame them!"

"Mostly, it seems to be contracted to Ingalan. Don't ask me how that works. And then I'm looking out on its principal river, now, and that's called the Temz. Just the Temz. Humans, who can figure them?"

"Not me, certainly." Osrin's face takes on a serious look. "Though it's not humans who are my problem just now... it's Vulcans."

"You have a problem with Vulcans?" I pull a chair over, and sit down at the console. "Better tell me about it."

"I can't think of anyone else I can tell - who might help, that is. You know I'm still working for IDRA, right?"

"Disaster relief, yeah. Don't ask me what the acronym stands for, though."

"You already said half of it. Interstellar Disaster Relief Agency. Well, we've got a disaster on our hands, or what I think is a disaster, only the victims don't agree."

"Well... wouldn't they be the ones to know?"

Osrin shakes his head. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But they're stalling us, insisting we follow their procedures before we can send help and medical aid... it's weird. Vulcans - you expect Vulcans to be reasonable, right?"

"You expect them to be logical. It's not always the same thing."

"Well, I'm not following their logic here, that's for sure. I'd better give you the details. Do you know Chara?"

I think for a moment. "Yes. Yellow main-sequence star in the local neighbourhood, right? About eight or nine parsecs from here?"

"That's the one. Two class M worlds, one colonized and heavily populated, one kind of marginal and neglected. It's that one, Chara V, that the situation's blown up on. Vulcan archaeological survey team landed there about three months ago, on a different continent from the only permanent settlements. I don't know what they're surveying, but it must be pretty absorbing, because last week a supervolcano blew, about two hundred kilometres from them, and they've stayed put."

"Casualties? Injuries?"

"Quite a few, from what I can gather. The permanent settlements are no help - on a different continent, remember, and they have their own troubles, what with subsidiary tectonic activity, and all the ash and dust in the sky. The main agency relief effort is concentrated there, in fact. But Kon and I were sent out with a ship to pull the Vulcans out -"

"And they're refusing to be pulled?"

"You've got it." Osrin frowns. "Of course, they're free to do as they like, I know that. But something about this situation bothers me. I know they've got casualties, they sent a message asking for medical support. But you'd think they'd move, wouldn't you? They'd get out of the area?"

"Vulcans are logical." I'm frowning too, now. "They'd need a compelling reason to stay on...."

"Right. And I can't imagine what it might be. Whatever's there must have been there a thousand years or more, you'd think it could wait another couple of months. But they're... well, like I said. Stalling."

"OK, so they're stalling. What can I do to help?"

"I thought of you... because you're the only real contact I've got in Starfleet," says Osrin. "IDRA is a civilian agency, we're financed by the Federation Council, but we have no official standing. Starfleet is different. A Starfleet ship, say, could issue orders, cut through the - the bureaucracy. And besides, you're bound to be better than me at dealing with Vulcans."

I laugh. "Maybe you should ask Commander Sirip about that. Or my boss, Admiral Semok."

"You're still certain to be better than me. I know it's a lot to ask - I just thought, well, you're high enough up in Starfleet, you can set your own agenda, a bit, right?"

Vice Admirals have fairly wide-ranging discretion - that's why there are so many of us about, in a way; the galaxy is big and full of crises, Starfleet needs lots of people with the resources and the ability to act. In an earlier, more peaceful time, individual ship captains had that sort of role. Now, it has to fall to people who can call in squadrons to support them... maybe it's progress. "I could help out, I guess. I'm supposed to be on leave, but frankly I've had about enough of it - I'm more than ready to get back into harness. I hope your Vulcans can cope with the sight of an Andorian ship, though."

"Your King Estmere isn't Andorian enough to bother them."

"King Estmere's in drydock right now. Refitting."

Osrin raises his eyebrows at that. "I didn't think you took that much damage in the fight at the gateway."

"What - ? Oh, no, nothing like that." Osrin had been involved, briefly, at the start of the Bercera business; he must have heard, like everyone else, of the final battle where we tracked down the Klingon renegade Klur in an illicit transwarp gateway network. "No, this is just part of the routine for the Experimental Engineering group. We're swapping out some of King Estmere's defensive systems, installing new gear from the MACO operations unit. And refitting the hangar bays - we're mothballing the Scorpion fighters and rigging them to hold full-size Tholian frigates. Mesh Weaver class. We can only support four of those, instead of the twelve Scorpions, but they're big and mean enough to make up the difference. When she's ready, King Estmere will pack quite a bit more punch. But she's not ready yet, so I've transferred my flag to the Spirits of Earth. Charal class escort."

"Charal class?" Osrin looks frankly incredulous. "Are they still making those things? They were antiques even in my day."

"It's a design classic," I growl at him. "Anyway, she's got some experimental subtranswarp capacity, so we can be out at Chara a lot sooner than you'd expect." I let my face go serious. "It sounds to me like you could use the help."

"Thanks, Tylha. It's - more than I was hoping for, to be honest. Damn it, you'd be well within your rights to tell me to stop bothering you...."

"It sounds like a job for Starfleet. And you're family - well, sort of."

"It's not much of a relationship to presume on. And when I think about the way I talked to you, the first time we met... well, I wouldn't blame you for not wanting anything more to do with me."

I sigh. "I just guessed you were... confused, and angry, and defensive. I was pretty confused myself, at the time, remember?"

"I remember. You keep doing me favours, though, Tylha - maybe one day I'll be able to do one for you."

"You're getting me off this over-heated planet and back into action. That's enough of a favour for one day!"

Heresy 2

Personal log: T'Laihhae i-Kanai tr'Aellih, Vice Admiral, currently assigned as commanding officer, RRW Messalina
I am a face in the crowd.

I walk along the narrow, busy streets of the Aecoran shanty town, and no one spares a second glance at a small, dark, unassuming Romulan woman in worn civilian clothing... because there are so many like me, so very many. Aecor is a fringe world, a marginal class M planet in Centauri sector space, once merely another agricultural colony world in the border zone between Federation and Star Empire... now, it is a refuge for castaways and survivors, civilians fleeing war zones as the disintegrating Empire split into warring factions, political exiles and common criminals seeking escape and anonymity.... As, I suppose, I did myself, in another time, on another world.

The planet's population has grown tenfold since Hobus. The refugees bring what resources they can with them, and it is never enough. The Federation does what it can - the Federation always means well - but it, too, is never enough. Aecor lives, just, staggering along on replicator rations and overloaded power grid, its few hospitals choked with the sick and crippled from a hundred fronts in a hundred petty wars, its native ecosystem - such as it is - increasingly under threat.

I am, among other things, an engineer. I see practical problems, I can envisage solutions. The supply of fully functional matter/antimatter reactors would solve the immediate power shortages in the cities, and work could then begin on setting up an integrated planet-wide EPS network. This would enable atmospheric regulators and weather control systems to be set up, which in turn would permit the reliable development of the intensive farming this planet needs to keep itself properly fed. There would be room, still, for the well-intentioned but economically marginal agricultural efforts of the original colonists... no one would have to be forcibly dispossessed.

I can see the solutions. They will not happen. The political situation is too volatile, the will to commit resources is lacking, in a galaxy riven by war, with a hundred worlds like Aecor in every sector, all screaming and pleading for help. If there is any help for these people, on this world, it must come as a result of the actions of higher forces.

I have not come here to help. But I have come to learn something, if I can, of those higher forces.

I turn down a narrow side street, into a still narrower alley, and still no one notices me. That is good; I choose, on the whole, not to be noticed. I had heard, from somewhere, that I was once considered for the command of the Lleiset. Not seriously, I hope. The commander of the Republic's flagship is a very visible, very public figure - and Tiaru Jarok, militarily efficient and strikingly photogenic, fills the role well. But I doubt if she could pass unnoticed in an Aecor slum.

The part I am in now is called Tanktown - the buildings, such as they are, are converted from industrial uses; cast-off freight containers and fuel tanks. It is a dreary place. The municipal power grid does not extend here; there are smells in the air from private generators, of various kinds, in various states of repair. A plume of foul smoke over one metal shell bespeaks a waste-burning unit; I hope that foul smoke is the worst I have to tolerate. I have heard of people using makeshift fission units, with depressingly predictable results.

The building I am looking for is a dull blue hemisphere, adapted from a Garganian cargo vessel's expended deuterium tank. It is near the intersection of two thoroughfares, dirt tracks only, with filthy water pooling in ruts. There is no door, only a curtain over an arched entrance, too low even for me to enter without ducking my head. I move the curtain aside, duck, and enter. No one notices.

Under the domed roof, it is dark. There is woven plastic matting on the floor, and a mattress to one side; as my eyes adapt to the darkness, I can see the figure lying on it. There are a few items scattered around; a battered portable computer, a chair, a lamp... I switch on the lamp, and there is a low moan from the figure on the mattress.

"Thyvesh," I say.

"Aaah," Thyvesh moans. In the scaly green face, his eyes open, blink a few times, focus on me. "T'Laihhae. Were you followed?"

"No."

"No...." He blinks again, several times, seeming to look past me at something only he can see. "No, that's right, you weren't followed. Good. Good."

He falls silent. I wait.

"Did you bring -?"

I have a small carrying case at my side; I toss it to him. "The data chips you requested, yes. And a few other things. Ration bars, mostly."

"Ration bars?" He opens the case quickly, his fingers moving in odd ways, as if his joints are more flexible than they should be. "Starfleet issue. Yes, you are working with Starfleet, now, I remember... You are, which one? T'Laihhae?"

"T'Laihhae i-Kanai tr'Aellih."

"Yes, but which one? Which ship?"

"The RRW Messalina."

"Ah. That one." He closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again, looks at me accusingly. "You went back."

"To Priyanapari? Yes. It was... necessary."

"It was, yes. Also ill-advised. No damage, though, this time. I think." He clutches his triple-ridged brow theatrically. "Sometimes it is hard to think. All times, actually. Food will help. Starfleet rations. I'll eat like a king. Have to hide them -" He peers vaguely around.

"I think anything worth stealing here has gone, long ago. Thyvesh, why do you live like this? You don't have to."

"Yes. Yes, I do. Turn off the lamp, T'Laihhae. It makes it hard to see."

I turn off the lamp, and the darkness becomes oppressive, but Thyvesh is not speaking of seeing with his eyes.

I met him at Priyanapari, between my escape from the wreckage of the Star Empire, and my arrival at Virinat. What happened at Priyanapari - is another story. And not one I can tell, for those events, in many cases, never happened. I do not mean that in the euphemistic sense employed by intelligence agencies when they discuss their darkest covert operations. I mean that those events never happened, not in this time line at least, and I - the I that is T'Laihhae now - have no memory of them.

But Thyvesh knows, dimly and fitfully at least. The last survivor of the Temporal Cold War, the oldest and most ambitious of the Suliban genetic augments - he sees, with senses other than sight. His brain is sensitized to chroniton radiation, so much so that his entire existence is partly desynchronized from normal time. He can see - things no one else can. And I have helped him, or some version of me has; so, from time to time, he helps me.

"There is a force at work," he says. I never know how much these visions hurt him. "Ancient, deadly. There are worlds in danger. I see - Vulcan - "

"Vulcan in peril?" I say. "Like that image you showed me, once, of the planet destroyed?"

"No. Not the past. Not that time line. Now. Danger in the present. Other worlds too, Federation worlds - I see something white, falling, something that should be snow, but is not. I see - blue skin, antennae - I see an Andorian. Dying."

Even Thyvesh normally makes more sense than this. I wait. Perhaps his vision will settle and clarify. Or perhaps it will not; I must be content with whatever I can garner. But he asked for this meeting, so he must consider it important.

Vulcan in danger... and Andoria? A threat to the heartlands of the Federation itself? It is something we must be ready for. If we can.

"Starships will fly, starships will burn," Thyvesh says. "A matter of - routine. All the time lines, all the strands in the weave of the world - always, death and burning. Listen. The power is strong, it is distorting things - I dare not look too closely. Which T'Laihhae are you, again?"

"From the Messalina."

"Yes. That's a good one. Yes. Listen, T'Laihhae i-Kanai tr'Aellih of the RRW Messalina. I have two names for you. One is from the present, it is Valikra i-Taronat tr'Damasau. One is from the past, and it should stay there, and it is Bresar. Turn on the light!"

I switch on the lamp, and Thyvesh's face seems to leap at me out of the shadows. His eyes are wild.

"I included a medical scanner," I say. "With the data chips, and the ration bars. Use it, Thyvesh, please. I - I worry. About your health...."

He flops back down on the mattress. "Yes," he mumbles. "I'll use it. Won't do any good, but I'll use it. Thank you, T'Laihhae. I like you best of all of them. You've got a good heart."

I say nothing. I never know how to answer, when he talks like that.

Then he says something else, something that takes my breath away. "Darus would agree."

I have never told him about Darus. I have never told anyone Darus's name. A few trusted people know some of the story, but only I, and Vorkov, know about Darus. And Thyvesh, it seems.

"Sometimes," I say through lips suddenly tight, "I think you see too much, Thyvesh."

"I know." A cracked laugh. "It's a failing. Go now, T'Laihhae. You need to be unseen. You can be, if you go now."

So, I go.

Heresy 1

Personal statement: High Admiral Valikra i-Taronat tr'Damasau, aboard the IRW Raven's Heart

We have been wounded too long.

For centuries, we have been torn apart, divided, at odds with our own people and our own heritage. The recent events have not worsened this; they have only thrown the problem into sharper relief. The wound remains, as it always has.

We called it the Sundering, and it is a good word, a true word. It is the wound that does not heal, the loss that is always felt. Like the phantom feeling of a missing limb.

We have tried to assuage that pain, to fill the gap, and each stopgap has proved worse than the last. The Klingons were faithless allies and untrustworthy enemies. The Remans - ah, those sad twisted mockeries of ourselves! And, after the treachery that cost us our second home, the attempts at alliances then... shabby dealings with the Hirogen, and now an effort to make us partners with the Elachi under the yoke of the Iconians...

It is not fitting. We are Rihannsu, we do not serve.

As for the rag-tag rabble of Mol'Rihan, their partnership with the vile Remans, their efforts to treat even-handedly with Klingons and Federation alike... they are not worthy even of my contempt.

The wound must be healed, and there is only one way to do that. We are Rihannsu, we do not depend on the charity of others. What we need, we take.

The time has come to heal the wound. On our terms, in our way.

The time has come to take back what is ours.

Heresy: Introduction

The thing about fanfic is, it comes with built-in limits.  You can't push the setting too far, or readers will complain about breaches of canon and the like.  You can't change the setting too much, because the next fic that comes along - fan or canon - will revert any dramatic changes you make.

The next long story, then, pushes at the boundaries of this limitation.  It sets up a situation which could break apart the Federation... and, since I'm not allowed to break the Federation, it means I have to find some way for my guys to fix things, however desperate the situation looks.  (Actually, fixing it was not my biggest problem, when it came to this storyline.  Shuffling the whole of the rest of Starfleet out of the way, so my guys were the only ones on the spot to save the day, now that was a problem.)

The main characters in this story are Tylha, Ronnie and T'Laihhae; it's the first time T'Laihhae appears as a first-person point-of-view character, and so this is the first look we get at her actual thought processes.  Previously, she's been enigmatic and well-informed - very well-informed.  This story offers some explanation of how she got that way - and also resolves her long-standing personal plotline with her former boss.

A few more of my characters get bit parts in this one.  By now, I'd added a Caitian and a Ferasan to my stable of toons, mostly for the fun of watching them bounce around.  As the crisis develops in the Federation, my KDF characters are around to comment on it and take advantage of it.  And there are brief appearances by my Starfleet science officers, T'Pia and M'eioi.  (There's a mention of a "young black-furred Caitian" in one scene where Tylha and Ronnie are in Club 47:  this is M'eioi, although she doesn't get an actual name-check until further into the story.)

This one was written before the end of the Federation-Klingon war, but not before I'd heard that the Earth Spacedock map was going to get a complete overhaul.  So I had no qualms about, well, the things Tylha does to Earth Spacedock at one point.  I mean, if it was going to get broken anyway....

Oh, and a one-off Literary Challenge story fits into the timeline here, about when Ronnie is off running patrol missions by herself.  It's one of my favourite Ronnie stories, that one.

Lit Challenge 22: The Sword

[Wrath of Betazed

During the Dominion occupation of 2374, Jem'Hadar soldiers trampled more than just the soil of this peaceful Federation planet. The emotional scars of that violent invasion have remained all these decades since the war ended, and now it appears that some Betazoid citizens have taken it upon themselves to exact justice for the war crimes committed by the Dominion forces. Free Vorta and Jem'Hadar now seek membership in Starfleet, and serve aboard countless ships across the quadrant, but we have received disturbing reports that some have been the recent victims of an as yet unknown form of psychic assassination. Starfleet has sent you and your crew to investigate these inexcusable attacks, and bring the perpetrators to justice. We cannot forget the events that took place on Betazed, but we cannot risk further provocation in the eyes of the Dominion by allowing these attacks to continue.]

[This is actually out of sequence, in terms of the lit challenge threads in the Star Trek Online forums... but it fits in, chronologically, between the end of "Fallout" and Tylha being on holiday in London at the start of "Heresy", so here's where it's going.]

Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding RXS-43 Bluff King Hal

Anthi Vihl is sitting on a sort of throne, upholstered in leather that shimmers with golden highlights, its flared armrests cushioned with white fur. In front of her, the control console is made of some dark hardwood, polished to an impeccable gloss, studded with sapphires, rubies and diamonds that serve as control buttons. Despite all this, she still looks perfectly composed and professional.

"I still can't believe you wangled one of these things, sir," she says.

I lean back and snuggle against my furry headrest. The command chair of the Risian corvette makes Anthi's seat look like a folding camp stool in comparison. "Fastest thing in Federation space," I say. "While King Estmere's in the yards, this is an ideal opportunity for Experimental Engineering to get some solid performance data on those engines."

"Of course it is, sir," says my exec, dryly. She glances around. "And this looks a real vision of the bridge of the next generation of Starfleet warships."

"Well, we might have slightly fewer pot plants," I say. "Still, it's a good way to travel, isn't it? Let's get to warp. Navigational deflectors to full, bring warp core intermix to criticality... raise footrest... activate back massager." As an afterthought, I add, "And run full subspace sensors, I'd like to get some readouts on our drive fields." The trip back to Earth should be swift and uneventful, but I might as well gather some more data along the way.

"Skipper." F'hon Tlaxx turns to me; the communications position is decorated with all sorts of gilded horns and trumpets, out of which his blue face peers in confusion. "Getting a distress signal - commercial freighter, SS Dharsour - says there are casualties aboard."

"Oh, right." Bang goes the uneventful trip. "Maximum speed to their location; advise them we're en route to assist; alert Dr. Beresford and medical section to accept incoming wounded."

---

The freighter is a giant ugly conglomeration of shipping and passenger modules, nearly a kilometer and a half long. Floating in the void beside it is a much smaller craft: the familiar stubby shape of a Danube-class runabout.

"Registry checks out as SS Dharsour, USS Liffey - decommissioned in 2398, released to the Betazed civil authorities for use as a transport," rumbles Three of Eight. The nightmarish shape of the former Borg looks very out of place in the luxurious setting of the corvette's bridge. "No life signs on the Liffey."

"Skipper," says F'hon, "I've got Captain Dadb of the Dharsour on the line."

"Let's hear it."

The freighter captain is a Tellarite, short and dark, with typical Tellarite directness. "I've got three dead bodies on board," he says, "and no idea how they got dead. At least, I've got no idea - this Betazoid special investigator says he knows, but -"

"Special investigator?" I ask.

Dadb looks sourly at me. "He turned up with a bunch of dire warnings a couple of days ago," he says. "I've got him right here if you want to talk to him. If you think it'll do any good."

"Just a moment." I hit the intercom switch. "Tell Dr. Beresford to go to level one quarantine and decontamination protocol - unexplained deaths. And get Commander Yulan up to the bridge, I'd like her input." I look back to the screen. "Bulpli Yulan is my security commander, and she's a Betazoid. Maybe she can put her head together with your guy."

A new voice speaks from the viewer, a sharp, precise tenor: "No. I have explained this to Captain Dadb, now I will explain it to you. This is a murder by a Betazoid terrorist group, and the perpetrators have undoubtedly fled already - a cloaked ship will have come in to make pickup." A man steps into the screen's field of view; short, stocky, with crew-cut iron-grey hair and black Betazoid eyes.

I turn to Three. "Likely?"

"Not possible," Three says. "No warp signatures except the three vessels currently present."

"There you are, then," I say. "You can't cloak the subspace disturbance of a warp signature, and we have our sensors out at full capacity. There's been no cloaked ship. If there's been a murder done, the murderers must still be here."

---

The Betazoid investigator's name is Lounis Parrion. He stands in the improvised mortuary aboard the Dharsour, and regards us unsympathetically with those dead black eyes. Before him, three sheet-covered forms lie on three tables. The air is very cold, and shimmers with the glow of an anti-microbial field.

"Lanek'idon," he says, indicating one still form. "Akat'itil. And Enel Murcett. Two Jem'Hadar, on their way to Vulcan to participate in trials of a ketracel substitute. And a retired Cardassian military officer. I think he must have been the main target - our intelligence suggests as much. The Jem'Hadar were - a bonus. As it were."

On my left side, Samantha Beresford is scanning the medical records and comparing them with her tricorder scans. On my right, Bulpli Yulan stands very still. The statuesque Betazoid's eyes are just as black, and just as watchful, as her compatriot's.

"No micro-organisms, no toxins," Samantha mutters. "Signs of neurochemical imbalances... I guess it's consistent with some sort of telepathic effect." She shakes her head. "It's a diagnosis of exclusion, of course...."

"Nevertheless," says Parrion, "that is what it is. Believe me. I know."

"The Sword of Betazed," says Bulpli in flat tones. "Or whatever they're calling themselves these days."

Parrion gives a curt nod. "I've devoted my whole career to hunting these people," he says. "Seventeen separate incidents - some like this one, others much worse. And in all that time, I have only brought two of the terrorists to justice. These people are fanatics, skilled, powerful, and dangerous. They strike, and they fade back into the shadows -"

"Well, they can't fade this time," I say. "My ship's detectors are full out - nobody is entering or leaving the vicinity without us knowing about it. So, they've got to be aboard this ship, still. It's a big ship, but it's not so big that we can't search it from top to bottom."

"And what then?" asks Parrion. "These terrorists are psychic assassins, trained in mind manipulation, deception, illusion, psychic assault. What chance does your security stand, against talents like that?"

"We've got our own talents." I glance at Bulpli; her face is stone. "My crew includes Betazoids, Vulcans, Remans, even an Aenar. We can use our own psi-talented people to supplement the security details. Maybe they're not up to the standard of these terrorists... but, if they can block them long enough for an ordinary security trooper to fire an ordinary phaser -"

Parrion shakes his head. "Perhaps," he says doubtfully, "perhaps. But your chances are not good, even so."

---

Back aboard the Bluff King Hal, I ask Bulpli, "So, what can you tell me?"

"About what?" She looks strained, uncomfortable. It's unusual, for her. "The deaths? Parrion is almost certainly right. The situation as a whole?... To tell you the truth, sir, he's probably right about that too."

"The Sword of Betazed," I say. "Who are they?"

Bulpli's expression grows yet more troubled. "Back in the Dominion War, the Jem'Hadar and the Cardassians attacked and conquered Betazed."

I nod, silently. I know this; everyone knows this. It was one of the darkest days of the Dominion War. The Founders' forces struck with terrible precision and overwhelming force, overrunning the planetary defences in a mere ten hours, and exposing the heart of the Federation to the dangers of attack. Bulpli continues, "It was a military occupation, with... all that implies. The Dominion and the Cardassians have a reputation. They - did things to earn it. I was too young to remember, but some people have never forgotten. Never been able to forget."

Her tone hardens. "You know about the Cardassians' intransigence with regard to suspected war criminals. When it became clear that no one would be held to account -"

"Those who couldn't forget... couldn't let it pass," I finish for her.

"Yes. We're not a warrior culture like you Andorians, we don't have much in the way of weapons or military tradition. What we do have... is our psi abilities." Her eyes are haunted, now. "We are trained to respect them, to respect the minds we touch. Our sense of ethics, of propriety, should prevent any abuses of psi power. But, given enough motivation, those ethics can be overriden. The reprisal groups - they've called themselves the Sword of Betazed, they've used other names as well - have managed to overcome their scruples."

"I... see."

"I'm not sure you do, sir. Being a psi-assassin like these people... it's not like learning to use a gun or a knife, or even learning a martial art. It means making your self into a weapon. Your soul, if you will."

I think about that. I'd prefer not to think about it. "What about the people the Betazed government sends after them, then? Special investigators like this Parrion?"

"They... have to understand how these things work. They're trained, in theory, up to the same pitch as the terrorists themselves. Our government has very few investigators like Parrion, and those they have, they support with resources and wide latitude of action. Sir, we don't have the people to match Parrion, or the Sword terrorists. I might be able to block out a Sword attack for a short time... there are very few others aboard who could."

"Who?"

"Zodes Andeteph, probably. Temerix, almost certainly." The Aenar and the Reman - well, I knew something of their abilities. "Anyone else, I'm not sure. Commander Sirip has some training, maybe some of the other Vulcans too, but I wouldn't place much reliance on it."

"All right." I sit back and consider. "Then we'll do as much as possible with mechanical aids. These Sword guys can't fool a sensor scan from a ship a couple of kilometers away from them, can they?"

"I wouldn't think so, sir." Bulpli shakes her head. "It's getting closer that will be the problem."

---

Hours pass. Bluff King Hal's sensors may not be up to a Starfleet science vessel's standards, but they're good enough for this. I have to believe this.

If we can account for all the crew and passengers on the ship, then any anomalous life signs in unexpected places must be our killers. The problem, of course, is that the Dharsour is huge and full of hiding places, and it has four hundred crew and more than a thousand passengers. Searching it could take days, maybe even weeks.

Another possibility, though, is that the terrorists are part of the crew or the passengers... in which case, a detailed study of the ship's security recordings is what we need. Eyewitnesses, I suppose, would have had their senses or their memories blanked out by the Sword terrorists' psi abilities - but security holo-recordings don't lie, don't have minds to manipulate. Given time and attention to detail, it will be possible to reconstruct the movements of everyone aboard that ship - it's a huge task, but it's feasible.

And I'm willing to give this one all the time and effort it needs... because these terrorists need to be caught.

---

The freighter's passenger section includes one compartment that's fitted out for a group of beings from Cyereg XVI. They're a life form which flourishes at temperatures far below most humanoid limits - even a Breen would freeze in their comfort zone. The compartment is shielded, sealed, and surrounded by elaborate refrigeration equipment. As a hiding place, it seems impossible - and the very impossibility of it, perversely, appeals to my way of thinking.

I'm standing in an inspection hatch, waist-deep in piping for the refrigerants, when Parrion finds me. He stands over me, looking down with those black eyes, and says, "This is pointless."

"Well," I say, "it was just an idea. There are all sorts of nooks and crannies in a system this size -"

"Not this specific thing," Parrion says. "Your whole search." His voice is flat, hard and angry.

I clamber out of the inspection hatch. He doesn't offer to help. "Sensor scans and forensic searches should work, surely?" I say. "These people aren't magicians. They might deceive or confuse sentient minds, but they can't fool machines."

"Your machines," Parrion says, "are read by sentient minds. Your sensors are being watched by operators, Vice Admiral, and those operators will see whatever the terrorists want them to see. If a cloaked ship approaches - or, rather, when - no matter how sensitive your tachyon scans and subspace detectors, your crew simply won't see what's on their screens. The only way to deal with these people is to confront them with a mind as highly trained as their own. A resource you do not have."

"Except for you."

"Yes. I'm the only expert here, Vice Admiral, and I'm telling you this is pointless. The terrorists have either gone already, or will be gone soon. Perhaps an exhaustive analysis of your sensor data will tell you, much later, when they escaped - but you can't prevent them from escaping."

His voice softens slightly. "You should give up, Vice Admiral. You've given it your best shot, no one could fault you for that. But you are simply not equipped to deal with this. Go back to where you can do some real good."

I close the cover of the inspection hatch. He sounds so damned reasonable, that's the worst of it. But I hate to give up - but maybe he's right. After all, he is the expert.

"I'll... go back to my ship," I say, "and - and reassess the situation."

He nods, seemingly satisfied. "Think about it, Vice Admiral." And he turns and goes.

---

He's right, of course. I lean back on the couch in my sumptuous ready room, stare at the ornamental mouldings on the ceiling, and admit to myself: he's right.

But it goes against the grain... I suppose I'm used to finding a technological solution; to using the sophisticated machinery and the raw power of a starship to solve my problems. It galls me that this situation doesn't allow for that. All those sensor arrays, all that computing power... useless, because the minds behind it can so easily be influenced.

There is, of course, my android officer, Amiga - maybe she wouldn't be affected. But there's only one of her, and versatile though she is, she can't be posted at every potential escape route.

I stare at the ceiling and sigh.

Yes, Parrion is right. Probably. But there's still a little nagging worm of doubt, somewhere in my mind....

I stand up, go to the comms unit, and call Bulpli Yulan. "Parrion wants us to quit," I say, without preamble.

Bulpli's voice sounds low and depressed. "Let's face it, sir, he's the one who'd know. Whether we were doing any good, that is."

"Yes... I suppose so.... Bulpli, are these Sword guys really such - psychic supermen, though? There's kilometres of empty space between us and them, not to mention deflector shields, metal hulls - can they really reach the minds of our sensor operators?"

"It's - well, Parrion says they can. And he'd know... he managed to take a couple of them down, after all. He's got first-hand knowledge of their capabilities."

"Seventeen incidents, he says. And only two arrests. It's not an encouraging track record."

"It's better than some other special investigators," Bulpli says. "Though I gather he had a stroke of luck - the two he captured had been on the wrong end of some internal power play among the Sword. We think of these terror groups as - well, as monolithic - but they have their internal dissensions, and Parrion was lucky enough, and good enough, to take advantage of one."

"Hmm." That nagging doubt is still there. "Let's keep going for... another day, let's say. Then we can reassess, and if we're still making no progress, we'll take Parrion's advice." I sigh. "I'll sleep on it. Maybe a night's sleep will put things in perspective."

And I go to bed. And four hours later, I awaken, and that nagging worm of doubt has grown to a colossal dragon.

---

"Sorry, sir," says Klerupiru. The Ferengi data-warfare expert blinks and yawns. "I was asleep," she says, with a touch of reproach. Of course, Ferengi - like so many other humanoids, unlike us Andorians - have regular sleep cycles.

"Sorry," I say, without much sincerity. "But this is important. I think I know what we're looking for, and you three -" I look from Klerupiru to Three of Eight, then to Amiga "- are my best chance to find it."

"A computer problem?" says Amiga, her metal eyes gleaming.

"A computer and a telepathic security problem," I say. "Ferengi minds are opaque to most telepaths, right? Four-lobed brains. Likewise, your positronic matrix, Amiga, and your Borg modifications, Three, have got to make you hard to read, at the least."

"Conceivably," rumbles Three. "Though, if the Sword of Betazed has the capacities ascribed to it -"

"I'm not so sure it does," I say. "But, in any case, I don't want you going over to the Dharsour. If there's anything you can't get by remote access to their computers, tell me, and I will get someone to go and get it. I won't go myself, because I'm damned sure I don't have any telepathic defences worth speaking of." I look around the computer lab. "Ideally, I don't want any of us to leave this room. Not until we're sure."

"Sure of what, sir?" Klerupiru asks.

I tell them.

---

Time passes. The three computer experts work their own particular magic, and I sit and watch, and worry.

I try not to think about what they're doing. I try to concentrate on something else, and then I worry that thinking about something else will look suspicious, but I can't think about what they're doing, as that will look suspicious, and anyway, if I'm right, all this worrying is pointless, because I'm too far away for my thoughts to be detected... unless I'm wrong... unless I'm wrong about one thing, and right about others, which I can't think about, but which I also can't stop thinking about....

Fortunately, they find the answer before I go mad.

"You're right, sir," says Klerupiru. She looks surprised. I would feel insulted, except the conclusion is surprising.

My combadge chirps at me. "Shohl."

"Skipper." F'hon's voice. "Parrion has beamed back aboard his runabout. He's signalled us - preparing to depart."

So, he is that good. Or he's trying to pre-empt my decision. Either way, my course of action is clear. "Go to red alert. Stop him."

"Sir?" F'hon sounds puzzled. But he doesn't let that slow him down; the alert sirens are sounding while I sprint to the bridge.

I charge through the doors to a reception committee of baffled stares. Anthi is there, and F'hon, and Bulpli - "Get the ship moving. Full impulse. We need to stop that runabout before it goes to warp."

"Sir, what's going on?" Anthi asks.

I sink down into the embrace of the command chair. "I finally figured it out. It's like that old saw, about the one common factor in all your failed relationships." I look at Bulpli. "Seventeen terrorist incidents, and who's the only powerful telepath we know was there every time?"

"But -" Bulpli still looks baffled.

"But he caught two of them. Yes. Two that were on the wrong side of a struggle inside the terrorist group. And Parrion was on the right side."

"Liffey is coming about," Anthi reports. "Warp engines charging to criticality."

"Plot an intercept, course four two mark seven. Cut in the impulse capacitance cell, and stand ready the subspace wake generator. Move!"

Bluff King Hal surges forwards. Acceleration presses me deep into the cushioned seat. The corvette's designers left the inertial dampers just a fraction of a point below full - they knew their ships' owners would want to feel that speed. I feel it now, as Bluff King Hal dashes across the space that separates us from the Liffey.

The subspace wake generator cuts in with a deep unsettling rumble, using the corvette's own drives to scramble spacetime in the near vicinity. It'd stress a full-sized starship's engines; the runabout is thrown around like a cork in a storm, discharges sizzling from its warp nacelles as it spins helpless in the storm of forces. My ship slows, turns, comes about.

"Still reading one life sign aboard," Anthi reports. Well, that's a relief.

"Send an arrest team," I order. "Everyone we've got with any sort of psi rating." I turn to look at Bulpli's troubled face. "Your job, I'm afraid."

---

Parrion blinks dazedly at me across the ready room table. The impact of the subspace wake left him disoriented and spacesick. That's good; it gives us all a better chance of handling him. Bulpli stands behind him, her hand on her phaser; she's flanked by Zodes Andeteph and Temerix, equally taut and alert.

"We can prove it," I say. "The Dharsour's security recordings were doctored, altered - once we knew what we were looking for, we knew how and when. My computer officers were even able to reconstruct the original data. The records show you entering Murcett's cabin, and the Jem'Hadars' too. They were alive when you entered, dead when you left. That's good enough for me."

He glares at me with those black eyes. I think, if his psi abilities weren't scrambled by the spacesickness, I'd be dead too, now.

"They deserved it," he said. "Murcett was one of the occupation troops in the war - I know that, I traced him. And as for the Jem'Hadar - living weapons. Expended by their own makers like, like so many rounds of ammunition. Always more of them, but killing a couple is a start, at least." His ragged voice rises. "They deserved it. You sit here in your smug Federation luxury - you don't know what it was like, to see your world invaded, your home burned, your family killed -"

I can't help it. I rise to my feet, and every telepath in the room flinches as I point to the scar on my cheek and shout, "Where do you think I got this?"

Parrion gapes at me. The burst of anger passes as quickly as it came. I sink back into my chair. "Fanatics," I say. "You don't think anyone's pain matters but your own. The Infinite knows, I've fought Nausicaans in battle since then... but killing them, just for what they are? No."

"You don't understand," he mutters, but the heart has clearly gone out of him.

"No. No, I don't. And I don't think I want to. I'll leave that for the authorities on Betazed. I'm sure they'll listen to any defence you have to offer... at your trial."

A gleam comes into his eyes. "You're very sure I'll stand trial, aren't you? I may have... exaggerated... the Sword's abilities, Vice Admiral, but I can assure you, I'm a highly capable telepath. Certainly better than these three behind me. Are you sure you've got a cell that will hold me?"

"We'll give it our best shot," I tell him. I touch the ornate comms console. "Amiga. We're ready."

Parrion's eyes widen as the android enters. Of course, he didn't know she was one of my crew. Nor did he know about the hulking figure in silver armour and faceless reflective helmet beside her.

"This is Commander Amiga," I say. "And this is - well, we call him Mr. M, when we activate him."

"I do not have all the prisoner restraint subroutines available to similar holograms at Facility 4028." The voice from the MACO photonic officer's helmet is surprisingly mild and pleasant. "Still, I believe my programming is adequate for most contingencies. And I concur with my commanding officer's judgment - you might have the ability to cloud a positronic mind, or a holographic one, but you will be very hard pressed to work on both, at the same time."

Amiga takes his arm. To say that she has a grip of steel... would be a gross libel on the alloys of her bones. "Come this way, please." Her voice is polite, but her metal eyes gleam hard and brilliant.

But they are no harder than Bulpli Yulan's black ones.

---

"Where to, sir?" asks Anthi.

I settle down in the command chair. Comfortable though it is, I feel restive, somehow. Maybe the harder seats on King Estmere or Spirits of Earth are better suited to me, really.

"First, rendezvous with that Betazoid cruiser, transfer our prisoner, make our depositions," I say. "After that, we're on our way back to Earth." I lean back. "We turn in our engine data to Admiral Semok, and then I'm taking some of that overdue leave. I could do with a break."