Vectors 2

- is this thing on? Oh, right. Pexlini recording, then. Commanding officer, Starfleet vessel Ostankino, stardate yadda yadda, you know the drill.

"Oh, hey," I say, "Goyar, I dropped my stylus on the floor over there, be a good guy and get it for me, willya?"

The handsome young Trill shoots me a funny look, but he steps over to where I'm pointing, and bends down to retrieve the stylus. I study the tight seat of his leather pants, and let a dreamy look come over my face.

"Pex," Umaro Ajbit hisses at me, "behave."

"Huh?" I try to look hurt and innocent. My Bajoran exec obviously isn't having any of it, though. Maybe I should get her to bend down and pick something up. In that skirt of hers, all the guys would appreciate it.

Goyar hands me the stylus. "Here you are, sir."

"Thanks." I take it from him, and put my booted feet up on the command console. "And, like, less of the 'sir' stuff, OK? Informal. That's the key word. Informal."

"Sorry, s- Pex." He grins. He's got a nice grin, too. I'm starting to wonder just how informal I could get with this guy. I'm just glad Ajbit isn't a telepath - if she read my thoughts, now, she would really be telling me to behave.

I pick up a PADD and scrawl my name over it with the stylus. Heck, Ajbit brought it to me, I reckon it must be something I should sign. She deals with the details. Me, I'm all about the big picture -

"Um, guys," I say, "maybe we should sorta clean the main viewscreen a bit, like, sometime. No rush, but... sometime." There are all kinds of reasons why I like the Ostankino's bridge - the whole ship, in fact - to look a little, well, lived-in. Just now, though, it's starting to look not so much lived-in as rioted-in.

"Sir." Vebanillo, the doleful-looking Pakled tac officer, speaks up from the ops console. "There is a thing on the thing that shows things."

Pakleds aren't necessarily stupid - though some are, box-of-rocks dumb, but that's true of any species - but Veb, though she's pretty sharp, tends to use language the way the rest of her people do, which is not the way I might use it, although maybe, given the way I ramble, that's not such a bad thing. "Sensor contact?" I ask.

"Yes. It is far away but getting not far away. Soon it will be close by. I ready the things for making holes in things, yes?"

"Find out what it is, first," I say. "Might be something we don't want any holes in." Though this quadrant isn't short of hostiles... well, if push comes to shove, we can make holes pretty effectively in a pinch.

"Getting a transponder ID now," says Voesyy, the Rigelian science officer who seems to be on comms at the moment. Her mask-like face gives nothing away. "Benthan Protectorate vessel. They're hailing us."

"Benthans? Aw, yibbly squeeps, I thought I felt all the fun draining out of the sector. Better say hi, then. On screen."

The face that appears on the viewer, which really does need a wipe down, is typically Benthan; big, butch and beefy, with a short sensible haircut and glinty suspicious eyes each side of those extraordinary elongated nostrils. "Kazon vessel. You are traversing a region of space under the authority of the Benthan Protectorate. Stand down and prepare to account for yourselves." Then the face he's looking at registers, and he does a classic double-take.

"Hey there, John Law," I say brightly. "Pexlini here, skipper of the good old Ostankino. What's the beef?"

His glinty eyes get even more suspicious. "What's a Talaxian doing aboard a Kazon vessel?" he demands.

"Oh, y'know, this and that," I say. "Ducking and diving, wheeling and dealing... trying to turn an honest credit in a hard universe. Get the picture?"

He looks like he's getting something, anyway. Constipation, from his expression. "Cut your drives and prepare for boarding and inspection."

"'Scuse me?" I say. "Don't you need, like, probable cause, or a warrant, or something like that? You know, one of those little legal technicalities you guys are so big on? Or do the laws only apply to you if you want them to?"

"Cut your drives and prepare for boarding and inspection. I want to be sure you're not a hostile vessel."

"We're a legitimate independent trader with Alpha Quadrant registry, approved by the provisional treaty with your government," I say. "Starfleet picked this ship up after some of the, y'know, recent unpleasantness, it got legally condemned and sold on. To us. Well, me, mainly. It's all legal -"

"I'm going to inspect your paperwork and make sure of that," the Benthan says grimly. "Cut your drives and prepare -"

"OK, OK, I get the picture. Helm, tactical, power us down and let the big butch policeman come look us over, all right?" The Benthan's look gets even less friendly. Sometimes I just ought to watch my big mouth.

---

My ship looks like a toy next to the Benthan cruiser, and when their commander comes aboard, the top of my head barely comes up to his collarbone. He looks down at me, in every sense, when I greet him in the transporter room with a PADD in each of my hands.

"Ship's papers, articles of incorporation, registration, and cargo manifest," I say, handing him one PADD. He takes it and glances at it, before his attention is drawn to the one I'm keeping in my other hand.

"What's that?" he asks.

"That?" I hold it up. "That is where I'm making my records of an unjustified stop and search. Which is my right under Benthan law, am I right?"

"We don't know if this is unjustified, yet," the Benthan grunts. "If you have grounds to make a protest, the proper procedures will be followed."

"Oh, I'm gonna make sure of that, officer...?"

"Patrol Commander Dumat." He says it like he means it. He is looking over my ship's records, now, and his brow is furrowed, and not just with those Benthan nostrils. Either he is really checking hard for discrepancies, or I used too many long words.

"Alpha Quadrant registration?" he asks.

"Told you. This ship's a legitimate prize of war taken by the Federation, condemned in their naval courts and put up for auction. I scored the winning bid. Weren't that many takers, actually, because the Feds are well ahead of most of the Delta Quadrant when it comes to shipbuilding. A Kazon raider ain't no great prize to them."

"And you have full Federation registration for all your ship's equipment? Some of this is military spec."

"Dangerous quadrant, this one. Oh, the bits outside the protection of the Benthan Guard, I mean, mister policeman, sir. Sure, we have mil-spec gear - did a deal with the Feds for it. We report to Starfleet's Exp-engy mob. The Experimental Engineering group. Run by a guy called Semok. Gets data on system performance direct from the end-users, in situations you wouldn't think to mock up in a simulator. Works for them, means I get quality equipment."

"I see. Fully registered with an appropriate authority." His big fleshy face gets all grumpy-looking. "Well. We'll proceed, then, with the search of your ship -"

"Nuh-uh, big fella. Hold on a moment. Who said anything about searching the ship?" I tap the PADD in his hand with my finger. "Cargo manifest is there, and if you want to check it out, be my guest. But as for searching the ship, I wanna see your warrant."

He starts to swell up, probably with indignation. "Technically -" he begins.

"Technically nothin'. I got rights, under Benthan law and Federation. Did you look at those articles of incorporation? And read who was on them, in what legal capacity?" I jam my thumb into my own chest. "I'm not just some little lost Talaxian chick you can push around, John Law. I'm a Federation citizen, under their dual citizenship programme. And that means the Feds will back my rights to privacy and freedom from unwarranted investigation. So, if you wanna push this from 'unjustified traffic stop' all the way to 'interstellar diplomatic incident' -" I lean closer and stare up into his face. "Be. My. Guest."

He stares down at me, evidently undecided.

"It's not like there's even any point," I add. "That manifest is accurate, there's nothing in my cargo bays you're allergic to, literally or metaphorically. Do you really want to start an inter-quadrant row over nothing? Come on, John Law, show some good judgment already."

His lips compress into an ugly tight line. Looks like he's reaching a decision, and it's not one he particularly likes. But, when it comes down to it, the Benthans really do believe in their legalities....

"Very well," he says. "We've satisfied ourselves that you are not a Kazon vessel travelling under Federation merchant cover... I suppose that's all we can do. You are free to proceed." Then his temper bursts out. "But I've made a note of your attitude... and believe me, if I see you again -"

"Yeah, well," I say, "everyone's got an attitude, and you know what I think of yours. See you around, John Law. Now, I got a schedule to keep."

---

"That went well," Ajbit comments as I flop back down in the command chair.

"The Benthan ship is going away now," Vebanillo confirms.

"Good." I slot the PADD back into the armrest of the command chair, and start transferring data back into the computer core. If he'd been really acting up, Dumat might have checked the core... but he wouldn't think to check the PADD I was waving around right under his nose. At least, that trick's always worked in the past.

"You ever think of just telling them?" Ajbit asks.

"That we're a Starfleet Q-ship? Absolutely not. Hassle from the Benthans is the best cover we've got."

"Maybe," says Ajbit, "but it's still hassle. And what's with checking their allergies, anyway? Does it matter if we've got cargo they might react to, just a bit?"

"Oh, hell yes, it matters," I say. "Think about those nostrils for a minute. Do you seriously want to see one of those guys sneeze?"

Vectors 1

Personal log: M'eioi, officer commanding USS Timor, NCC-92941

I stand ramrod-straight at attention before the desk, fighting nerves. Even so, my tail switches, every so often, as the adrenaline rushes into my blood.

Admiral Quinn looks at me, then looks down at his PADD, then raises his eyes to me again. "Understand," he says, "my doubts have nothing to do with you, personally. Your service record is... exemplary."

"Thank you, sir!" I can't restrain myself from saying it.

"And you have Admiral T'Pia's recommendation... and what I've seen of you, myself, makes me sure it's justified. I just wish -" Starfleet's Director of Operations leans back in his chair and sighs.

"It's been bothering me for a long time," he says. "The pace of things.... We bring you on so fast, all of you. I know, you're the best, and the situations we face need people like you, but..." He shakes his head. "I just wish you had more time. For your own sake, not ours."

He straightens up and sits erect in his chair, dominating his office, his burly body framed by the star map behind him on the wall. "We face multiple challenges on many fronts. We need talented, effective people to meet those challenges - and they need the authority, the rank, to command the resources they must use. You will be operating in the Delta Quadrant, a very long way from Starfleet Command. You will be, not just a Starfleet officer, but an emissary of the Federation itself. You will need to rely on your own judgment, to make decisions on the fly that could affect policy at high levels for decades to come." His face turns sombre. "And even the best of us don't always get those decisions right. We're still dealing with some of the consequences of Voyager's journey home...."

"I will do the best I can, sir," I say. "I promise you that."

"I know," Quinn says, almost gently, "I know." He puts his hand to the PADD, types in a code, presses his thumb down for a biometric confirmation. "Very well. Congratulations, Admiral M'eioi."

"Thank you, sir!" Once, there would have been ceremonies, speeches. Now, it's just a matter of a code on Quinn's PADD. But the ceremonies don't matter. What counts is -

I will be out there. In the Delta Quadrant, at the cutting edge of Starfleet. I will have my ship, my crew, and together we will meet those challenges Quinn speaks of. In the old days, a ship's captain had that level of authority, of autonomy. Now, you need flag rank. And I have it. And that's what counts.

"Will you be taking your current ship?" Quinn asks.

"The Timor is one of the newest and best in Starfleet, sir," I say. "She's up to the job."

Quinn nods. His mood is pensive again. "Those Dauntless-class ships - well, Starfleet Corps of Engineers and the Experimental Engineering Division have both given them the all-clear. But they don't have a long service record, yet." His gaze sharpens, lights on me. "But, then, you'll fix that, won't you? Carry on, Admiral."

I salute again. "Yes, sir!"

---

Outside Quinn's office, Rraak is working on a data terminal. He grins at me and waves a friendly paw. "Hey, there, farm girl."

"That's Admiral farm girl now." I grin back at him. A humble ensign probably shouldn't be that familiar with a full Admiral - but Rraak and I were contemporaries at the Academy, both of us Caitian, both from low-class backgrounds, struggling to cope with new cultures, new lives -

Rraak always wanted a quiet life. It's why he's still an ensign. I wanted excitement. Of course, I got what I wanted, and he didn't, because, well, we live in those sorts of times....

"Congratulations." He means it. Rraak is a nice guy. "So, heading out into the big black?"

"Soon as I can." I smile slyly. "Want to come along? I can fix it."

Rraak's tail switches nervously. "Well, you know, I would, but there's, like, energy output figures for the auxiliary powerplants, and those won't process themselves, so -"

"Aww. OK, buddy. I won't take you away from the important work." And we both laugh. "I'd better get going, though. There's a million and one things to do. See you, next time I'm this side of the galaxy?"

"I'll look forward to that. Good luck, Admiral!"

And I head off round the curving corridor at a brisk trot, looking back to give Rraak a last cheery wave -

- and almost colliding with someone heading in the other direction. "Whoops!" I say. "Sorry -"

"'s OK," says a rasping voice. "They reckon it's good luck if a black cat crosses your path, anyway."

The person I've just barely missed is a human woman, very thin, very pale, with dark spiky hair and a patch over her left eye. She is wearing the uniform of a full Admiral in Tactical division, and leaning on a cane. Her one brown eye studies me intently. There are scars on her head, her face, and there are other things - Borg implants, fused with her skull -

"Admiral Grau!" And I snap to attention and salute again.

"Oh, hell, call me Ronnie, everyone does." She continues to study me. "I know you, don't I? Don't remind me... I've got a head like a sieve since they took my implants out." She taps the side of her head. "Not, y'know, literally. They filled in all the holes. With cement, I think. Got it. M'eioi. You were at Andoria, right? Riding shotgun with T'Pia's science flotilla."

"Yes, sir. I -" I stop. I can't think of what to say next. We were both there, at the desperate defence of Andoria against the renegades from the Hegemony of Bresar. And I saw how she fought, there.

"Well," she says, "T'Pia obviously rates you, and after what happened to me, I rate T'Pia, so, hey, welcome to the put-upon flag officers' club, furball." She snaps the skeletal fingers of her free hand. "Actually, come to think of it, I was supposed to look for you anyway. You're heading out to the Delta Quadrant, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Call me Ronnie. Hell, I can make that an order. I got seniority. I've always got seniority." Ronnie Grau's career in Starfleet started nearly two and a half centuries ago, thanks to the temporal anomaly called the Stygmalian Rift. "Anyway, yeah. Let me grab a terminal -" She shuffles over to a wall terminal, leaning heavily on her cane. She has clearly not fully recovered from her injuries during the Siohonin invasion.

"Damn scut work. Sooner the docs clear me, and I get off ESD, the better.... Delta Quadrant," she mutters, as the virtual display engages. "M'eioi... right. It's wild and woolly territory out there, you need all the help you can get. I'm clearing you for some friendly contacts. Like, we've got what they call an irregular asset in place...."

Vectors: Introduction

By the time The Three-Handed Game had ground to a conclusion, the "Delta Rising" expansion for STO had come out; a whole host of new worlds had opened up, a number of latex-forehead-of-the-week aliens from Voyager had become significant features in the game... basically, there were a lot more options on the table.

One of those options, for mugs like me who bought lifetime subs, was to play a Talaxian character... and so, I rolled my very own Neelix.  I had some ideas from the start as to what Pexlini's backstory might be, and what her personality might be like.

Her persona, as a somewhat disreputable interstellar Del Boy Trotter, needed a straight-arrow, upright, Starfleet sort of contrast.  Since the Delta Quadrant was new territory for the stories, I decided to bring in another new character, my Caitian science officer M'eioi, who'd only appeared in a couple of cameos before.

Part of the in-game background is the ages-old conflict between the Caitians and their genetically-modified counterparts, the Ferasans... since I already had a Ferasan character, I brought back Rrueo for this one.  To quote the late Patrick Campbell, I thought she and M'eioi would get on like a house on fire... or a gas main exploding.

This story also contains one of my most thoroughly hissable villains ever.... The Vaadwaur aren't presented with much subtlety in the game's storyline, and Tuarak, who is driven to be even more Vaadwaur than the Vaadwaur, positively revels in his nastiness.  And so did I, to an unhealthy degree.  I wish I could figure out some way of bringing Tuarak back... but that's the thing about villains, they've got to get their come-uppance in the end.

The Three-Handed Game 45

Tylha

Starfleet Academy. Still bright, still hot. A place to meet, to take stock... and count the cost.

T'Pia greets me with a nod, but I almost don't recognize the wasted figure shambling on elbow crutches next to her.

"'m all right," says Ronnie, crossly, as she drops onto a seat by a table, beneath the shadow of Building Four. "Jus' got problems with nerves 'n stuff." Her face works as if she's tasting something foul. Her hair has mostly grown back, but there are fresh scars on her face, and the Borg implant over her left eye is gone, replaced by a simple eye patch.

"Nerves?" I sit down, a little gingerly. I've pretty much recovered from the operations on my chest, the ones that set my ribs and repaired the damage to my lung. But I still get a twinge or two if I move incautiously.

"Cloned tissue replacements," says Ronnie. "For th' burned out implants. Oh, they work, but... takes time t' bed 'em in. Integrate 'em. With my body picture, in my brain. Brain stem doesn' know what t' do with all the inputs."

I can sympathize. It's why I've never had my face fixed. "What about the eye?" I ask.

Ronnie shrugs. "They grew it back. Might actually work, might not. Eyes 're complicated, they say."

"What of other factors?" T'Pia asks. "Two of Twelve, for instance?"

Ronnie shrugs again. "Don' know, really," she says, "how much of Two of Twelve was her, or th' entity. She's lots quieter, now. Might be just 'cause I've less Borg wiring now." She sighs. "All feels weird."

"I can imagine," I say. Then, "No, actually, I'm not so sure I can."

"Isn' easy t' describe," says Ronnie. "But, what th' hell, we won, didn' we? 'S all that matters."

I wonder about that. Yes, the Rift entity is gone - not destroyed, I suppose, simply thrown out of our universe into its original timeless state. You can't destroy something like that. But it's gone, and that is what matters... and, as far as we can tell, it will stay gone. The changes Ronnie made to the Rift, back in 2400, ensured that. Our best guess is that the entity allowed her to do that, maybe even helped her do it, so that no more - competitors - could come through.

So that it would have no rivals, when it became a god. Well. We stopped it becoming a god, and that's the thing that counts.

But not the only thing. There was a price to pay, for all of us. Ronnie paid the most, and we know that.

I'm still thinking that through, when there is a brilliant flash of light.

"Well!" says Q. "Isn't this nice?"

---

I'm on my feet, staring at her. T'Pia has stood, too. Ronnie is struggling with her crutches.

"Oh, please don't get up," says Q. She smiles brightly. This time, she's in Starfleet dress uniform, with an implausible number of rank bars on her collar. "No need to be formal! We're all friends together."

"Friends?" I step back warily. Q beams at me, and takes a seat opposite Ronnie, who glowers at her.

"Sit," says Q, "sit. We're all friends here. I just wanted to congratulate the three of you, in fact. You did very well, for such limited mortal people. Jolly good show."

I sit down, heavily. T'Pia takes her seat with smooth economy of movement. "Please explain," she says.

"Oh, dear, haven't you worked it out yet? Well, I suppose not. You are only mortals, after all."

"I gather you're not drunk, this time," I say.

"That was a teeny-tiny deception on my part, my dear. After all, since I was recruiting you three to deal with the Rift entity, I couldn't come out and say as much, could I? Not where it could hear me." She wags a finger at Ronnie, who stares.

"I took a risk, dropping even a few oblique hints," says Q. "Fortunately, it all worked out all right in the end. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me - I am perfect, after all."

"All worked out all right," says Ronnie, slowly, clearly and very distinctly. There is a dangerous gleam in her eye.

"Absolutely!" says Q. "My little three-handed game. We needed someone to take care of the Rift entities, obviously, we just couldn't have things like that running loose in normal space-time. The one at Tiaza Zephora was, well, a bit dim, to be perfectly frank, but the other - Sebreac Tharr, whatever it chose to call itself - well, it needed careful handling. Fortunately, being perfect, I was entirely up to the task."

She points a finger at Ronnie. "Naturally, we needed you, as the focal point of the infection. And we had someone in mind -" she turns and points to T'Pia "- who had the minimal technical competence to deal with it. But, oh dear, Vulcan minds are so meticulous and literal and plodding, I simply had to have a third person -" and she rounds on me "- to add that one little spark of inspiration that would set her mind working on the right lines."

"Waitaminute, what?" says Ronnie. I just look at Q's pointing finger and gape.

"That funny thing you have about Gustav Holst. Silly little man, if you ask me. But at least he turned out to be useful, didn't he? It took some management, keeping you alive and steering you in the right direction. But it all paid off in the end."

"Just - just a minute." I find my voice. "You saved me from the Nausicaan hit squad, that time, so I could talk about Holst's time signatures to T'Pia?"

"And it worked. Jolly well done."

"But how could you possibly have known I'd do that? Or that T'Pia would remember it, when she needed to?"

"I'm sure I mentioned that I'm perfect," says Q with a haughty sniff.

Ronnie leans forward, across the table. "'f you're so damn' perfect," she says, with menace, "why didn' you jus' deal with th' damn' entity yourself?"

Q makes a great show of examining her fingernails. "Because," she says eventually, "there is a crystal flower that grows in a secluded cove, on a world in the Sombrero Galaxy, and when the dawn light catches it just so, it sparkles and shines in a really wonderfully pretty way. And I thought it would be a shame if that flower, and everything else in a billion light year radius, got destroyed in a direct clash between the Q Continuum and the Rift entity." She heaves a dramatic sigh. "Honestly, you mortals. You think that, just because I'm omnipotent, it means I can do anything."

"Technically," says T'Pia, "the definition of the word -"

"Oh, spare me," says Q. "Anyway, there it is. You three fitted together, and you did it, and, well, I suppose there was a price, of course, but it was heaps less expensive than the next best option, so, all in all, I think we did very nicely, didn't we? I say we, but it was mostly me, of course."

"Mostly you," says Ronnie in a dead calm voice.

"Oh, dear, I'm getting the sensation that the feeling of the meeting is against me." There is a flash, and Q is wearing a counsellor's informal suit, and has black Betazoid eyes. "I'm... sensing hostility," she says in low, thrilling tones. Another flash, and she is back to normal. She stands up. "Anyway, there we are. Now, must dash, you know how it is -" And she is gone.

Ronnie and I exchange stunned looks. Even T'Pia is gaping.

Then there is yet another flash, and Q is back. "Actually," she says, "you three did do well. And so, I am permitted to give you a gift. Some would say, in fact, that it is the greatest gift in the Continuum's power to bestow."

A feeling of nameless dread rises within me. "What gift?"

Q grins wickedly. "We're done with you. You're on your own from now on."

And she is gone, again.

---

"Well," says T'Pia. She blinks. "So. I suppose... that constitutes an explanation, then."

Ronnie and I exchange looks. "All we're getting, anyway," I mutter.

"More than we might have expected, from Q." T'Pia stands up. "I must go. There is a survey assignment waiting for Tapiola and her support group. Apparently," she adds, with a hint of asperity that would be a towering rage in anyone but a Vulcan, "there is need of my minimal technical competence."

"Don' knock it," says Ronnie. "'S a compliment by Q's standards."

"Quite." T'Pia looks at us. "I am glad to see you are both recovering. I - would look forward to working with you again, in less trying circumstances." Before either of us can answer, she touches her combadge. "T'Pia to Tapiola. One to beam up."

And she sparkles and is gone. Ronnie and I exchange looks again. "Vulcans," says Ronnie.

"Too right," I say.

Ronnie stands up, sits down again in the seat to my left. "You were in m' blind spot," she says. "Never had a blind spot before... don' like it much."

"I don't blame you." I sigh. "At least she's got minimal technical competence. Seems like the only meaningful thing I've ever done in this world... is have a chat about Holst."

"Yeah, well," says Ronnie, "you could be worse off, kiddo. All I was... was th' focal point. Patient zero." Her pale face is taut and drawn. "I made th' firs' stupid mistake. I went into the Rift and let th' damned thing loose. Ev'ry death, ev'ry piece of destruction, ev'ry damn Siohonin atrocity... all comes down t' me, in the end. Stupid old woman made a stupid mistake, and ev'rybody paid. Ev'rybody."

I reach out and squeeze her cold, pale hand. "You didn't know," I say.

"'S not an excuse."

"If it hadn't been you," I say, "the Rift was still there. It would have been someone else. Maybe someone who would have done a lot worse than you."

"Or better."

I know what she means. I've beaten myself up over my own decisions, time and time again... maybe too many times. "You can't know that. We did what we did, and we did all we could. That's what counts. The past is the past."

"Yeah," says Ronnie, "yeah. 'cept maybe for some bits of the past that still hang around in the present." She sighs noisily.

Eventually, I say, "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Don' know. Wait t' be medically cleared, I guess, an' then... don' know." She sighs again. "They're talking 'bout kicking me upstairs. Poor ol' Gref didn' make it out of the Siohonin POW camp... 'nother item on the bill. Poor Gref. Wasn' th' wors' boss I ever had, not by a long way."

"So you'll be taking over Sixth Fleet?"

"Don' know. Maybe. Maybe not. Long way t' go on th' medical front... anyway, don' know if I want it. Or if I'd be good for it."

"You're probably the best tactician I know, if that helps you any," I say. Ronnie just grunts.

I try to think of something else to say, something to encourage her, to bring her back to herself. Then my combadge chirps at me. I slap it irritably. "Shohl here."

"Sir." Cordul's voice. I miss F'hon's cheery "Skipper" already. "We've got a bit of a situation with the repairs to King Estmere."

"What's the problem?" Dyssa got the ship back to ESD under her own power, after ages being towed by the Tapiola - but with the spacedock's facilities, the repairs should be well in hand by now.

"Um, the repairs are on hold, sir. Vice Admiral Collinsworth has put in a formal query -"

"What? And who the hell's Vice Admiral Collinsworth?"

"Starfleet Logistics, Accounting Division, sir. He's querying whether repairs to the King Estmere would be cost-effective."

"Cost-effective? What is this, the dark ages?"

"I'm just repeating Vice Admiral Collinsworth's query, sir. He'd like to speak to you whenever it's convenient -"

"Oh, he would, would he?" I'm on my feet, now. "Give me a location for this Collinsworth, and I'll speak to him all right. Enteskilen Mur couldn't decommission my ship, I'm damned if I'm letting some eunuch from Accounting do it!"

"Vice Admiral Collinsworth is at the Academy now, sir. Taking a postgraduate class in depreciation assessment in Building Two. Um, I don't think he's a eunuch, sir -"

"Not yet, maybe. All right. Present my compliments and tell him I'm on my way. Shohl out." I turn and look at Ronnie. She is huddled on her seat, her head hanging, her crutches lying beside her. She looks very old, and very alone. "Are you going to be all right?" I ask her.

"Sure I am." Ronnie waves one pale hand. "Give 'em hell, kiddo. Sounds like they need a dose."

"All right," I say. "I'll... speak to you soon." And with one more backwards glance, I start off across the Academy courtyard. Ronnie worries me, to be honest... but this Collinsworth needs sorting out, right now.

Then, as I cross towards Building Two, I hear the sound of a disturbance. It's one of Professor Meyer's training days, and he is doing that exercise where he releases simulated particles for tricorder scanning. Some of them - to keep the students on their toes - generate holograms of hostile Klingon warriors when scanned, and it seems as though some luckless cadet has activated one.

And over the sounds of combat, I can hear a querulous voice shouting, "No! Dammit, no! Kid, this is a live combat sim, you don't fight Queensberry Rules with the Klinks! You've got to hit them where it counts! Go for the goolies, kid! Go for the goolies!"

And somehow, I think Ronnie is going to be all right after all.

The Three-Handed Game 44

"They are here." Sivetalin Aun's aide was frantic. "He is here. They are coming now."

Aun sniffed his ceramic globe, and shot a reproving look at the aide. "There is no need for panic," he said. "One must take the long view.... Our social system is perfect, and it is more than adequate to withstand a few... upheavals. We will simply wait out whatever is required of us." He frowned. "Of course, there is the matter of... repopulating... the religious caste. Well, there are younger sons of administrative and military families who may discover within themselves a religious vocation...."

He carefully avoided looking out of one window, where the Pantheon of all the gods had been recently replaced by the Temple of Sebreac Tharr... which had, itself, been still more recently replaced by a smoking crater, courtesy of the Klingons' orbital bombardment.

There was the sound of heavy, booted feet in the corridor outside. Sivetalin Aun put down the ceramic globe. He motioned for the aide to withdraw. He stood, and composed himself, hands folded before him, head bowed - not much, just enough of an inclination to suggest a polite submission.

The door of the office opened.

"Chancellor," said Aun, and bowed - not too deeply. "I bid you welcome. I regret the military adventurism that has estranged my people from the Empire, and I assure you that we are now ready once more to take our rightful place as a loyal tributary state."

J'mpok stared hard at him for a moment. "Very good," he said. "Very good. They told me you were an optimist - I did not realize you were also a comedian." But he showed no signs of laughing.

"If we are not to be your loyal tributary -" began Aun.

"Oh, your status has been decided," said J'mpok. "You have decided it for yourselves, with your rebellion, your assaults on the Empire and its allies, your treatment of captives -" He took a deep breath. "The Empire is, to some extent, at fault. We let your corrupt social system continue, we did not act fast enough to nip your rebellion in the bud. Well, we will take measures now. Your status is that of a conquered province under direct Imperial rule. Your military leadership - tell me, has Gamariden Tal killed himself yet?"

"Our military, ahh, do not observe such a custom in the case of defeat."

J'mpok shook his head. "Then we will attend to that detail. Your military leaders, such as remain, face execution for rebellion. For the moment, for the sake of our convenience, we will retain your administrative structure. Your legislative council will continue, you yourself -" he looked around him with a sneer "- will continue to occupy your office. But you will propose no legislation of your own, and you will oppose no rulings of your governor. Do you understand?"

Aun bowed his head. "I understand, Chancellor."

"Understand this also," said J'mpok. "There will be changes. There will be reforms. We will need to do something about your population problem -" He sniffed. "Intelligent beings restrain themselves."

"It is possible," murmured Aun, "I think - I offer it as a suggestion, nothing more - that a sterilization programme could be implemented among the labouring caste. The drabs have always bred to excess -"

"An interesting suggestion," said J'mpok. "We might start with the members of the former military caste, and those members of the administrative caste who are being immediately - phased out, as it were. At least the religious caste poses no problems." The priesthood of Sebreac Tharr was gone already - most of the priests killed during the reconquest by Starfleet, the KDF and the Republic of the hastily acquired Siohonin territories, the rest destroyed by their own people, when it became apparent how their god had failed. "We are reforming your social system, Aun. We are not the Federation, to bow to their Prime Directive."

He rummaged in one pocket of his leather coat. "That reminds me," he said. He drew out a handful of datapads. "You are an optimist, Aun. I am aware of your back-channel diplomatic efforts. I have the results here." He slapped the first datapad down on Aun's desk. "Your application for Federation membership. The Federation Council is very rarely unanimous, but they were unanimous in this - not one member spoke in favour, or even abstained from the vote. You might possibly have made history, there." He added another datapad. "The Cardassian Union, likewise, denies your petition for an alliance. They have a shorter answer, being less of a talking shop than the Federation. And the Romulan Republic - well, they follow D'Tan, and D'Tan's answer -" another datapad joined the pile "- was one simple word, no. Obisek, I gather, also answered with one word, but it burned out the datapad. The Breen Confederacy -" slap "- also, no."

He held one datapad still in his hand. "The Ferengi Alliance is true to its principles," he said. "The Grand Nagus will admit your planet as a member, if you can pay the entrance fee. It is, mind you, a substantial fee - my scientists tell me that it translates to a sphere of pure latinum some eight light-hours in diameter. The Grand Nagus has asked me to inform you that credit will not be extended."

He slammed the last datapad down onto the pile. It overbalanced, tipping off the edge of the desk.

"You are without friends in the galaxy, Sivetalin Aun," said J'mpok. "Save for me. Save for me - and my friendship has strict limits. Test them at your peril."

Aun said nothing.

"Limits," said J'mpok. "No Siohonin is to have ownership, part-ownership, or functional control of any warp-capable vessel. No Siohonin is to bear arms - energy or projectile weapons. It has been suggested to me that some may need protection against wild animals, or that the police might be allowed stun weapons. But your ecosystem has been abused to the point where there are no large predators, and the police can always use clubs. Your people may not bear arms, under penalty of immediate summary execution."

Again, Aun made no reply.

"I know your thoughts, Sivetalin Aun," said J'mpok. "You take the long view - I know this. You believe the simple inertia of your society, of your overly vast population, will carry the day in the end. That our reforms will fail under the sheer weight of your existing system." He grinned without mirth. "Who knows? You may be right. But we have chosen a Governor for your people, a Governor of zeal and ability - and with one other, most suitable quality." He turned to the door. "Send the Governor in!" he bellowed.

Footsteps sounded, and a new figure stood in the doorway - and, for the first time, Sivetalin Aun knew despair.

"I am Zhura, daughter of Zur, of the House of T'Qagh. By order of the Chancellor and the High Council, I am Governor and absolute sovereign of this star system." Her hot dark eyes raked Aun with contempt from head to foot. "Kneel."

The Three-Handed Game 43

The Siohonin had completed whatever project needed the crystal, and now the prisoners were assigned to straightforward mining tasks - extracting kelbonite ore, one of the Remans had said. It was relentless, punishing, tiring work, but it had one advantage. There was no way the Siohonin could monitor everything that went on at the workface, so the prisoners had opportunity to talk, and to plan....

"I have their patrol pattern logged," Therya whispered to Daniella one day. The tall, fierce Reman had established herself as a natural leader - she had been in the early Reman resistance, they said, had even worked under Obisek himself. She looked down at the human woman from her great height, now, and her eyes burned in her starved face.

Daniella looked down at her hands, calloused and filthy from hauling ore. There had been a time, once, when she had been free, had dreamed of being a dancer.... Dreams. It all seemed like a dream now, an impossible one. The Federation, Farnon's World... her family, her friends... all gone. Reality was the mines, was the never-ending toil, was the arbitrary harshness of the Siohonin guards.

But, underneath the fear and the exhaustion and the semi-starvation, there still burned a deep core of fire within her... a core that said to her that no, she was no Siohonin slave, she was a free woman... and would stay free, or die trying, no matter what they did to her.

She looked at Therya and whispered back, "What do you need?"

"A group passes through Gallery 12 and then doubles back along the upper level every hour," the Reman said. "They have to take the narrow turning in single file. The priest always goes second from last... I think, if we can take the last guard out quickly, one or more of us can jump the priest and get that damned rod off him. We need to stage a distraction on the upper level to draw the three guards who go ahead... Raya, T'Nol and Kahra will do that."

"So who takes the last guard and the priest?"

"I take the guard. You're small enough to hide in that little niche just by the turn. When you hear me jump the guard, you take the priest." She grinned; it was an unsettling sight. "The guard won't take me long, so I'll help with the priest, if you need it."

She was tired, sore, aching... Daniella realised that she was nowhere near too tired to try and hit back at the Siohonin priests. "When?"

"Fourteen minutes." The Reman seemed to have a clock in her head. "You do know we'll probably all get killed?"

Daniella glared up at her. "Then we die on our feet, not on our knees," she snapped.

Therya gave a harsh, whispering laugh. "You're learning, human," she said.

---

Gallery 12 was a long, low-roofed one, which ran at an odd angle to the main mining shafts. The route through the mine was a complicated one, and it took the patrols some time to cover it... and, as Therya had said, there was a narrow chicane to negotiate, before the Siohonin could reach the upper tunnel that ran towards their barracks.

"If it heartens you any," whispered Therya, as Daniella squeezed herself into a crevice in the rocks, "the priests haven't burned anyone in days. There's a rumour going around that their damned rods don't work any more."

Daniella smiled without mirth. "Guess I get to find out." The Reman grinned back at her.

"I hear boots," she said. "Good luck." And she was gone, into the darkness.

Boots. The Siohonin guards wore boots. The prisoners were issued with soft shoes that wore through on the rocks in no time.... Daniella thought about her feet, scarred and calloused. Once she had had a dancer's feet.

The Siohonin were coming. She could hear their voices, harsh and querulous as they talked among themselves. They had been different, of late. The punishments, the vile things they did, those had not changed... but the guards themselves seemed sullen, withdrawn, hostile to each other as well as to the prisoners.

They were coming. Daniella squeezed herself tighter into the crevice, and held her breath. The first Siohonin came into view, she could see him through a small slit in the rock, perhaps he couldn't see her -

Then he sparkled with blue-white light, and faded, and was gone.

There was no more sound of marching feet. Cautiously, Daniella unfolded herself from the crevice. There were soft footsteps, and Therya came into view. She looked dumbfounded.

"Transporters," she said, in a sort of amazed monotone. "Those were transporter beams...."

Daniella nodded. "Federation transporters. Blue lights."

They stood and stared at one another, and then a voice spoke from all around them. The mine's public address system, Daniella realized - but it had never spoken with a voice like this.

"Attention, please, all prisoners. This is Rear Admiral Skolek aboard the USS Allegheny. Your Siohonin captors have been transported to detention facilities. Medical and support staff are beaming down now. Please make yourselves known to them, and we will provide immediate care, take any statements you wish to make concerning your treatment in captivity, and arrange for your repatriation and return to your homeworlds. We are here to help you in every way we can. Please do not hesitate to make your needs known. You are free, and we are here to help."

Daniella's jaw dropped. "It's... over?" she whispered.

"Yes." Therya swallowed audibly. "It's over... they must have beaten them. Beaten the Siohonin... the priests and their damned wands.... It's over. It's over."

The two of them hugged each other fiercely, and burst into long delayed tears.

The Three-Handed Game 42

T'Pia

Tapiola moves slowly out of the region of the former Stygmalian Rift. For once, we are not just moving slowly by comparison with our consorts. We are moving slowly, because we are towing King Estmere and Falcon behind us, while their engineering teams try desperately to restore them to functionality.

Falcon's problem is the extirpation of the stubborn remnants of the Borg computer virus; I have every confidence that Commander Saval and his teams will be successful. I am less sanguine about the King Estmere, which suffered multiple systems failures during the annihilation of the Rift entity. It was already something of a miracle that the carrier had survived the Warhammer's warp cannon, and the further damage incurred makes her situation extremely problematical.

The appearance on sensors of the medical support vessel USS Edward Jenner is a welcome one, if not entirely a surprise. The Jenner is one of a number of support vessels routed near the Rift in case their services might be needed. Given the number of casualties aboard the King Estmere, our medical facilities are taxed to their limits, and further assistance is most welcome.

Besides which, the specialist equipment on the medical ship may be of great use to the two casualties who most significantly concern me.

"The first is an Andorian alpha-female - a shen, I believe is the correct terminology," I say to the Jenner's chief medical officer, as their shuttle is unloaded. "Serious impact injuries, concentrated on the upper body, broken ribs and associated trauma to the lungs."

"Takes a lot to break Andorian ribs." The CMO looks down at Tylha's pallid face, motions to orderlies to take the AG stretcher away. "Prep for thoracic surgery in Theatre Two, cross-match for Andorian blood - all we have available, by the looks of it. And the other one?"

"Human female with extensive Borg implants. I am on less certain ground when it comes to the nature of her injuries. Massive, distributed neurogenic shock, certainly, coupled with malfunctions and damage to those implants... beyond that, there are complicating factors I can only guess at."

"Hmm." The doctor peers at Ronnie Grau's waxen features. She is barely breathing. "We'll take her to specialist assessment, first. But we'll certainly have to pull some of those implants. Make a note to begin cloned-tissue replacements.... All right. Let's make sure the paperwork's in order, anyway. Vice Admiral Tylha Shohl... Vice Admiral Veronika Grau...."

For a moment, Ronnie's one eye opens, and she says, in a small but quite clear voice, "Oh, call me Ronnie, everyone does." Then the eye closes again.

I can only hope it is a good sign.

The Three-Handed Game 41

"Permission to come aboard."

"Permission granted, sir." The burly Andorian saluted crisply. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise."

Admiral Quinn stepped off the transporter pad and strode onto the Federation flagship's bridge. "Thank you, Captain Shon. What's the situation?"

"Fleet's holding station six AUs from Lambda Cygni. The Siohonin forces are massing - and I do mean massing," the Andorian added dryly. "Estimates have them at nearly a quarter of a million frigates. They've been busy."

Two hundred and fifty thousand ships... every one of them with weaponry capable of pounding a cruiser to ruins, any three of them capable of one-shotting a dreadnought... Quinn steeled himself, put the thought from his mind. "What about our allies?"

"We have direct contact with J'mpok on the Bortasqu', Commander Jarok on the Lleiset, Obisek on the Zdenia. I have them on your flag chair console now, sir."

Quinn took his seat, nodded to the row of faces on the miniature screens. "Quinn," growled the Klingon Chancellor. "Welcome to the fray."

"Still working on tying in Legate Murcenn aboard the Ninth Order's flagship, sir." Lieutenant Jav, the ops officer, took over smoothly. "And, sir, DaiMon Trok say's he's waiting for a confirmation code -"

"Patch him in," said Quinn. A fourth panel lit up, showing an expectant, fang-toothed, huge-eared face. "DaiMon. My receipt code is Qayliph-Alpha-Shul two seven four."

DaiMon Trok glanced at something outside Quinn's range of vision. "Checks out, Admiral. The forces of the Ferengi Alliance acknowledge receipt of your payment and stand ready to receive your orders."

"Good. Tie into our tactical command net and stay ready," said Quinn. The Ferengi grinned and vanished from the screen.

"How much did it cost?" asked Captain Shon.

"The Grand Nagus took me for everything I had," said Quinn. "At the time. Six strips of gold-pressed latinum."

Shon glanced at the tactical display, at the swarm of squat orange crescentric warships. "Special discount rates?" he asked.

"One-off bargain," said Quinn. "Just so he could say truthfully that the Ferengi never fought without payment -" He stiffened. "What's that?"

"Unknown, sir," said Lieutenant Commander Tem from the science station. "Sensor contacts approaching from two different vectors. Attempting analysis now -" Her face turned suddenly pale, and she uttered a loud Bajoran oath.

"Um, Admiral," said Lieutenant Jav. "I have... incoming hails. From the, umm, the Zlan'tirgri and the, the Naskatk...."

"The who? Put them through," Quinn growled. "Let's see what else we've got to deal with."

Two faces appeared on the main screen - or shapes, at any rate. One was a red-gold glittering crystal in which eyes glowed like fires. The other was a metal mask with a steaming respirator, surmounted by a cycloptic visor.

The crystal spoke first. <Admiral Quinn. I am Admiral Atene, aboard the Tholian Assembly dreadnought Zlan'tirgri. It is the judgment of the Assembly that the Siohonin present a clear and present danger, not only to your Federation and its allies, but to all species within their potential sphere of influence. The Assembly has therefore decided to offer military support towards ending this threat. Please transmit your requirements to coordinate my ships with your tactical computer net.>

"I - thank the Assembly for its cooperation," said Quinn. He turned to Lieutenant Jav. "Make it so." Then he turned to the masked Breen. "And you?"

"Thot Trel," the Breen rumbled.

Quinn frowned. "I thought you were dead?"

"No, no, that was Thot Trel, I'm Thot Trel." The masked figure shifted - in irritation or amusement, Quinn couldn't tell. "Anyway, what the chatty crystal said goes for us as well. These lunatics are a threat to everyone, the Confederacy included. My fleet will coordinate with yours, and if it all works out, the Siohonin are going down."

Quinn blinked in bemusement. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Welcome, Thot Trel." He turned to an increasingly harassed-looking Lieutenant Jav. "Try and keep a couple of command channels open," he said, "just in case the Dominion or the Hirogen show up."

"I'll try, sir. Um, the Cardassian fleet contingent is linked in now -"

"Let me have full tactical display," Quinn ordered.

The main viewer lit up with the fleets marked in. Starfleet, KDF, the Romulans... the Cardassians on one flank, the Ferengi on another... and now, more forces, Tholian and Breen, linking into a network of terrifying firepower. Tholian Tarantulas and Breen Rezreth Destroyers... having ships like that on his side, for once, should make a difference, Quinn thought.

But against the oncoming wall of Siohonin warships, even this fleet looked paltry by comparison. Quinn settled into the flag chair, and studied the screen. The faces of his fellow commanders regarded him from the console.

"Incoming hail from the Siohonin, sir," said Jav.

J'mpok glared and made a contemptuous noise. "Ignore it," he suggested.

"We may as well hear what they have to say." Legate Murcenn was a heavy-jowled elderly Cardassian with an unexpectedly smooth, silky voice. "It may buy us time, at least."

"Put them on," said Quinn, wearily.

He knew the face that appeared now. "Admiral Jorel Quinn," said the Siohonin. "I am Grand Marshal Gamariden Tal. The Federation has seen fit to ignore some reasonable requests made by our lord the Theocrat. My orders, therefore, are to implement the Theocrat's requirements. You and your wretched mob are in my way, Quinn. Get out of it."

Quinn looked at Tal, looked at the arrogant carriage, the glowing triumphant eyes of the man. He thought very hard about what to say.

"No," he said, and cut the channel.

J'mpok laughed. "Admirably direct."

Quinn turned to the Tholian and the Breen. "Have you assimilated our tactical plan?"

"Got it," said Trel.

<Your late Vice Admiral M'Azzur seems to have judged well,> said Atene. <Swamping their defences with auxiliary craft seems the best way to negate their special weapons. Even so, their numbers are colossal - Still. The Assembly is ready to follow your plan.>

Quinn nodded. The Siohonin fleet was closing faster now, there was no more time to delay. "All ships," he said, "launch auxiliaries."

From the launch bays of every carrier in the fleet, from the shuttle bays of every other ship, fighters, frigates, and shuttles shot out. The tactical display flickered on the verge of overload at the huge number of units now involved in the battle. A blizzard of auxiliaries swept out from the allied fleets, to interpenetrate the Siohonin formation, to snipe and harass the enemy from every angle.

M'Azzur's plan had been the best option, they had decided. The harrying fighters would disrupt the Siohonin's already limited tactical coordination - the Siohonin couldn't use their warp mirror defence against attacks from multiple vectors simultaneously - the fighter harassment would prevent groups of three frigates from linking up to use the devastating warp cannon -

In theory.

That theory was about to be put to the test. "Fighters in weapons range," Tem reported. "Engaging."

To the naked eye, it would have seemed as though a multi-coloured haze was spreading across space. Half a dozen different kinds of energy weapons, spitting from thousands of small ships, turned the starfield into a shifting, glimmering glow. Here and there, a bright gleam announced the first deaths, the first breaches of warp cores....

"Confirming... Siohonin casualties," said Tem. "Sir, I don't think... I can't be sure, but I don't think we've lost any allied fighters yet."

Quinn frowned. The Siohonin frigates were individually feeble, outclassed by the Tholians' Mesh Weavers, Cardassian Hidekis, or even Starfleet's Delta Flyers and runabouts... but surely some of the auxiliaries must have run into the path of those deadly kinetic lances, by now?

"I have Captain M'urra from Atrox's fighter wing reporting now," said Lieutenant Jav.

"Put her through."

The Caitian figher commander appeared on screen. "They're not using the lances!" she cried. "No sign of their special weapons! They only have standard disruptors, and they're not even good with those! We're swarming all over them! If we get main fleet support, we can finish them!"

"It could be a trap," said Tiaru Jarok, thoughtfully. "To lure in our heavy units and take them out."

"Our lead escorts are already in range," said J'mpok. "If it is a trap, they must spring it soon, or it will be all over for them."

Quinn thought furiously for a moment. The Siohonin weren't disciplined, weren't experienced - under the fighter assault, he was sure, a Siohonin frigate commander would have used the kinetic lances... if he was able....

He decided. "Quinn to fleet. All ships. Commit to full engagement."

Enterprise surged smoothly forwards in the vanguard of the Starfleet contingent. Quinn tried to block his ears to the sound of Klingons singing behind J'mpok.

"Attack Pattern Eta Nine," Captain Shon ordered. "Wide angle barrage, target as many opponents as you can. Reinforce forward shields." He glanced at Quinn. "If our firepower's divided between multiple targets - it might get reflected back in increments we can survive."

"Targets in weapons range," someone announced.

"Fire!"

The Federation flagship trembled as her phaser arrays sent out beams of golden energy like the questing fingers of a giant - and what those fingers touched, they broke. A half dozen luckless Siohonin frigates died within seconds, shields blasted to nothing, hulls vaporizing under the Enterprise's phasers.

"Torpedo tubes, scatter pattern, fire!" And more Siohonin ships died, torpedoes piercing their shields and smashing through to wreak havoc on their hulls.

"Slaughter them!" J'mpok was shouting. "Send them to Gre'thor! Avenge every insult to Klingon honour!"

"The Siohonin have a small number of genuine starships," said Quinn. "Their command and control battleships."

J'mpok looked at him, and the light of battle faded briefly in his eyes, to be replaced by a calculating look. "Yes," he said, "yes, if we take those, the rabble of frigates will be forced to surrender."

Quinn nodded. "Let's find them."

"I have partial ID for the Siohonin heavy units already," said Lieutenant Commander Tem. "Sir - the closest one to us is the enemy flagship. The Glaive."

Quinn smiled, just a little. "Signal Escort Group Alpha to accompany us and keep Siohonin light elements out of the way," he said. "Let's go deal with Gamariden Tal."

---

"Warp cannon inactive. Warp mirror inactive. Kinetic lances offline," the weapons officer repeated in tones of weary desperation.

Gamariden Tal whirled round to stab an accusing finger at Nyredalit Amm. "Still nothing! Where is the god's aid, Amm? Where is it?"

Sweat had broken out on the priest's brow; he clung to his rod of office like a lifeline. "The god must be testing us - testing our devotion - Our faith must not waver!"

"Faith is not helping my ships!" roared Tal. He made a sweeping gesture to the status board that dominated one side of the bridge - where he could see his forces dwindling, his fleet melting away, like a sandcastle in the rain, under the apocalyptic barrage from the Allied ships. "We need the special weapons, Amm! Intercede with the god, Your Holiness - if not on our behalf, then on your own!"

"Movement among the infidel ships, sir," the Glaive's tactical officer reported. "Some of their heavier elements have changed course - they are -" He swallowed. "They are moving to intercept our capital ships. Sir, the USS Enterprise is coming towards us."

Tal swore loudly. He took rapid stock of his available forces, and strode to the communications console. "Twelfth Assault Armada! Defend the flagship! Engage and destroy the Enterprise!"

"There is other movement," the tactical officer continued. "The infidel fighters are withdrawing from battlefield sector two eight by three seven -"

Tal looked at the screen. "Their forces are thinly spread in that area! Concentrate the fleet! We will break through and outflank them!" He turned to Amm. "We may win through yet."

"If our faith is strong -" the priest began, and Tal turned away from him with a dismissive oath.

The comms channels were humming with orders and distress signals already - now, new messages were coming in, on the priority channels reserved for the Siohonin capital ships.

"This is the Ranseur, we have a Tholian dreadnought inbound, request urgent support -"

"Demilune engaging the Cardassians, we are outnumbered by their Galors, request support -"

"This is the Corseque! We have the Bortasqu' on scan, contact imminent! Evading now! Assistance needed!"

"Partizan calling. We are under attack from the Nausicaan vessel Anar. We will sweep this mercenary scum out of the sky -"

That voice broke off. Tal called up a visual image from that sector, and winced. The Nausicaan Guramba destroyer was spinning away from the fight, its spines reconfiguring after firing its disruptor javelin - and the Partizan, pierced from stem to stern, was collapsing into a blazing hulk -

But his forces, now, were concentrating in the battlefield sector that had been cleared of enemy fighters. That one was dominated by the Romulans and the Remans, Tal noticed. His lip curled. They were cowards who preferred to strike from hiding, it was no wonder they had no stomach for a real fight.

"Ships at sector two eight by three seven, prepare to advance," he ordered. "Punch through the Romulans and fall on the Federation from the flank. Glorious victory - in the name of Sebreac Tharr!" There. That should please the god, perhaps even enough to awaken him.

The Siohonin ships, obedient to his orders, advanced. And then space shimmered before them -

Scimitars. Romulan and Reman Scimitars, too many for Tal to count at one glance, and all of them decloaking with their weapons spines raised and charged. They fired their thalaron barrages in concert, in one devastating blast, planet-wrecking weaponry aimed squarely at the dense mass of Siohonin ships.

The light frigates simply evaporated as the blast wave swept over them. The capital ships - Bardiche, Voulge, Pilum, Kontos, a half dozen others - resisted only a few seconds longer before they, too, burned. Tal screamed with rage and frustration as he realized that a full twenty per cent of his forces - his remaining forces - had perished at one stroke.

He rounded on Amm. "With the warp mirrors, we could have blasted the Romulan filth with their own weapons! Where is the god?"

If Amm had an answer, it was lost in the sudden screaming of alarms, the flash-bangs from consoles, the shuddering of the ship from impacts. "Enterprise in weapons range!" yelled the tactical officer. "Shields down to forty per cent! Hull breach, deck seventeen!"

"Return fire!" Tal shrieked. He turned to Amm again. "We need the warp mirror, the warp cannon! We need them now! Or your god has failed us!"

"The god does not fail," said Amm, almost plaintively. "We must trust that this is part of his plan -"

The ship shuddered again. "Port weapons offline! Shields failing!"

"This is not part of a plan!" screamed Tal. "Your god has abandoned us! Sebreac Tharr has failed!"

"No! No!" Amm wailed in reply. "You cannot say that! You cannot defame the god!" He waved his flame-tipped rod of office at Tal. "In the name of Sebreac Tharr, I rebuke you!"

The stylized flame pointed straight at Tal's heart. Nothing happened.

Tal swore loudly, drew his laser pistol and fired. Nyredalit Amm toppled backwards, his face a picture of horror and woe, around the smoking crater drilled between his eyes.

Tal had one moment to exult, and then the deck leaped away from under his feet. The lights went out. The noise and glare of exploding consoles filled the bridge. Tal landed heavily on the bucking deck, scrambled to his feet. Red emergency lights came on.

"Dorsal nacelle ruptured," someone was saying in a weak voice. "Hull breaches, all decks. EPS grid fluctuating, main power down. Shields down. Structural integrity at twelve per cent."

Tal looked wildly around him. The comms console, somehow, was still intact. He dropped his pistol, ran towards it, opened all the hailing frequencies with one smash of his hand against the switches.

"Glaive to Enterprise!" he screeched. "Glaive to all ships! This is Grand Marshal Tal! Stand down! We surrender! Tal to fleet, all ships, surrender! Surrender! We surrender! We surrender!"

The Three-Handed Game 40

Tylha

The auxiliary control room seems hot and crowded. The main bridge, of course, is still unusable - King Estmere is only just operational... and several of our hard-won repairs were undone by the turbulence when we breached Mur's subspace conduit. We had to do it - when it formed, close by us, we knew it was the only way back to the Rift in time - but the cost was high.

I'm still wearing the EV suit. I think it's the only thing holding me together. My chest is a solid knot of pain, that worsens with every jolt transmitted by our damaged inertial dampers.

Ahead of us... is Tapiola, and Falcon looking stricken, and Mur's ship, and - the globe. Whatever it is.

"Sir." The comms console is manned by Cordul, a dark-haired male Trill with a body-builder's physique. "Mur has cut communications, but I have a link to Tapiola... I think the Falcon's trying to get through, too -"

"Try and get Ronnie," I say, and each word hurts, "and put T'Pia through."

T'Pia's face appears on the screen. "Vice Admiral Shohl," she says. "I am gratified to see you survived. I will summarize the situation. The Rift entity is linked to Vice Admiral Grau; it is attempting to transfer itself to Enteskilen Mur by means of the large crystalline sphere ahead of you. The Falcon is disabled by a Borg virus released when Vice Admiral Grau was temporarily reassimilated. I have devised a countermeasure against the Rift entity, and I am transmitting the details on your data channel now."

I turn to Amiga at the science console, ignoring the burst of pain the movement causes. "I'm receiving something, sir," the android says dubiously. "It - doesn't immediately make sense."

"It will not," says T'Pia. "It is based on an insight you yourself supplied - do you remember telling me about a rhythm that seemed wrong, but sounded right? The solution proved to be - something similar."

"We don't have time to test this, sir," says Amiga, "and it will put quite a strain on the main deflector -"

"Don't worry," I say. "T'Pia's never let us down yet. And neither has Gustav Holst, come to that. Set it up."

"Thank you," says T'Pia. I could almost imagine there was some emotion in her voice. But I remember the defence of Andoria, where we trusted her with my people's homeworld, and she came through for us... I have a feeling T'Pia is a safe pair of hands.

"First things first," says Anthi Vihl. "We are five minutes from weapons range with Mur's ship, and we will not survive another hit from his warp cannon. The sphere is already in range."

"I will occupy Mur," says T'Pia. "If you eliminate the sphere, that will deal a significant blow to his plans."

Something to shoot at. I would lean back in the command chair, if my back would let me. "Consider it done."

"Sir," says Cordul, "I have a link to the Falcon."

"Split screen, link Ronnie in," I order.

Ronnie's face appears next to T'Pia's. She is holding a phaser to her temple, she is half bald, she looks about a week dead. "Good to see you, kiddo," she rasps at me. "I'm keeping the entity busy, neutralizing this phaser. I press the stud, it blocks the beam, keeps it occupied at least. Now, you kick it where it hurts - I want this beast out of my head and back out of my universe, all right?"

"Sometime soon, you're going to have to explain what's going on," I say. Ronnie laughs wildly.

"Firing solution locked," says Kophil Phohr. My uncle is the best energy beams officer I've got, and that's only one reason I'm glad he's lived through this business - or he has, so far.

"Let's do it," I say. "Open fire."

We have less than a dozen plasma torpedoes left, and we can't launch the Mesh Weaver frigates without shaking the ship apart... but our plasma beams are still fully functional, and they blaze with green-hot fury across space to the dark mass of the globe.

The Warhammer springs to life, turning towards us with sudden frightening speed. Tapiola leaps forward, tetryon beams spitting from her forward blades, a thermionic torpedo shooting out to crash into Warhammer's shields. Green disruptor light flashes back from the Siohonin ship towards T'Pia.

King Estmere's beams rip through the structure surrounding the globe, scattering it in blazing fragments across the sky.

"Something's wrong," Kophil mutters.

"What?" I ask.

"That - whatever it's made of - it's not reacting to the beams. They're just reflecting off it. I don't think I'm even heating it up," Kophil says. He sounds almost indignant.

"Steer two nine mark four," I say. "Keep the globe between us and Mur." The Warhammer is still on a heading towards us, though it is taking a pounding from T'Pia's assault on its flank.

King Estmere seems to groan as she angles away from the Siohonin ship's approach. Kophil is swearing under his breath as the plasma beams lash out again, only to splash uselessly back from the black glassy surface of the globe.

Then, "Wait," says Kophil, "wait...."

"What is it?" I ask.

"There's something... there's just a spot," says Kophil. "One spot where the reflection isn't complete. There's a tiny, tiny flaw in this thing, and if I can hit it just right...."

"Warhammer approaching weapons range," says Anthi. "But we're getting behind the globe now...."

The enormous black shape seems to drift across the screen, eclipsing the oncoming Warhammer. Kophil is not swearing any more. He is hunched over the weapons console, hardly breathing, his fingers moving in the tiniest of increments, trying to wield King Estmere's massive plasma arrays with the precision of a jeweller's tool.

"Yes," says Kophil, almost crooning the word, "yes...."

On the screen, the black shadow of the globe is suddenly broken by a dimly glowing spot of red. Kophil hits the firing controls again. The plasma beams blaze at the red spot... and it brightens, and spreads, from a single dot to a sudden lake of molten gold.

The sphere rolls, molten crystal flying out in great gobbets to freeze solid again in the deeps of space. Fractures start and spread from the ruined section, and suddenly it is no longer a sphere, but a hurtling mass of jagged fragments, breaking apart and colliding again in a dizzying chaotic storm.

But it's just a thing, and Enteskilen Mur can make another one, given time. "Target the Warhammer," I snap. The wreckage of the globe is no longer protecting us, and Mur is going to be angry.

"Please engage the countermeasures for the Rift entity." T'Pia's voice. She sounds completely calm, though Tapiola has taken some shrewd knocks from Mur's disruptors. "I will hold Mur immobile while we proceed."

Golden specks fly across the sky from the Tapiola. The Orb Weaver's web generator is undamaged - and Warhammer is suddenly caged in an icosahedral web of shimmering golden threads. It will hold Mur - maybe for long enough.

"Ready on my bridge," Ronnie says. "Do it."

"Engaging main deflectors," says T'Pia.

"Hit it," I tell Amiga.

A deep pulsing drone sounds from somewhere within King Estmere, a sound with unsettling harmonics, weird notes that set my teeth on edge. Light is flickering from Tapiola's main deflector. On the screen showing the Falcon's bridge, Ronnie Grau stiffens into immobility as light plays around her.

"Frequencies building," says Amiga. "I'm still not clear what frequencies," she adds.

Whatever they are, they're having some effect on my ship, if on nothing else. The vibration seems to seep into me, setting off fresh pains in my back, my chest. There is a sudden sputter of sparks from one console. Transient surge in our much-abused EPS grid.

On the screen, Ronnie Grau is surrounded by a glowing nimbus. Sparks are flying from her Borg implants.

Another burst of sparks, this time from the weapons console, and Kophil curses. "Lost fire control for the plasma arrays," he says. "Trying to reroute it now -"

The next jolt hits me like a kick in the spine. King Estmere is groaning all around me. Ronnie is a blazing figure in the middle of Falcon's bridge, the sparks now branching in torrents from her implants. She screams -

The golden web collapses. Warhammer is scorched and battered - and free -

"Plasma torps!" I yell, and something tears loose in my chest.

King Estmere shudders again as the torpedoes fire - and again, and a third time - and then nothing, as the magazine runs dry at last.

Tapiola fires her tetryon banks, pounding at the Warhammer's shields - and there is a weak spatter of fire incoming from the Falcon, too -

It's enough. Before Warhammer can fire the warp cannon, its shields go down, and our plasma torpedoes punch through. The first salvo turns that massive domed prow into a flaming molten ruin; the next two plough through, into the body of the ship. The cylindrical hull swells and bursts with fire, and then the warp core goes, and Warhammer is nothing more than a shower of blazing dust. Whatever happens, Sebreac Tharr needs another high priest.

The lights go out on the screen. King Estmere steadies. Ronnie Grau is lying very still on the deck of her bridge. The only moving thing about her is a wisp of smoke, curling up from the ruined implant over her left eye.

"T'Pia!" I yell, and something has given way inside me, because blue blood sprays from my mouth as I speak. But only one thing matters now. "Did it work? Did we do it?"

The Three-Handed Game 39

T'Pia

The image of the Falcon's bridge vanishes abruptly from the screen, to be replaced after a moment by a picture of the stricken ship herself, hanging in space. No one on the bridge speaks.

After a few seconds, I say, "Unfortunate."

With more than a little asperity, Twosani Dezin replies, "Yes, sir, you could say that."

"I believe I just did." I think for a second, then I touch the intraship address button on my command console.

"Your attention, please." My voice echoes back through the bridge's speakers. "This is Vice Admiral T'Pia. The USS Falcon is incapacitated by Borg computer viruses. With this, and the destruction of the King Estmere, we are effectively alone against Enteskilen Mur and his ship."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself not just to remain calm, but to project it in my voice. "I will not lie to you; our situation is a desperate one. However, I know I can trust you, all of you. I know that you will follow whatever logic of your mind, or your heart, or your spirit, that made you Starfleet. I know you will do your duty - and that, in the face of our efforts, Mur and his Siohonin cohorts will not prevail." Another pause. "We have more facts, possibly the key facts for this situation. We will redouble our efforts to interpret them and develop countermeasures against the Rift entity. This is not a war we can win with weapons, but with our intellects - and there is no finer crew in Starfleet when it comes to such a struggle. Thank you all. T'Pia out."

I stand up. Twosani looks at me, long and steadily. Then she nods. "Thank you, sir," she says.

"If you need me," I say, "I will be in my ready room, reviewing the available data."

---

Words are easy. Results are hard. Hours pass, and I am no nearer my goal.

I am surrounded by a litter of PADDs; it is inelegant and inefficient, my father would reprove me for it. There are urgent queries outstanding to six separate science departments aboard the ship; their answers may or may not help me. The problem obstinately refuses to take shape, in my head, on my PADDs.

I am sighing over the refutation of another hypothesis when the door opens and Twosani enters. "Haven't you slept, sir?" she asks.

"I do not believe there is time for sleep."

"Maybe, maybe not," says Twosani. "Mur still hasn't moved, but the Warhammer is doing something. Main astrophysics say its engines are generating some sort of subspace harmonic. Best guess is, it's opening some sort of channel in spacetime."

"To bring in reinforcements, perhaps."

"That'd be my guess. It would be nice to think that Mur is planning to beat a quick retreat, but -" She shrugs. "We've had another temporary contact with the Falcon. They're still working on the Borg virus, and they've been through standard Borg liberation protocols with Vice Admiral Grau. Still too early to say how well she's responding."

"They are doing all that is possible, then. As are we."

Twosani steps forward, her dark eyes surveying the chaos on my desk, now spilling over onto the floor. "Are you getting anywhere, sir?"

"Candidly, no. The problem is... an intractable one."

"I wish I could help," she says. "But, well, my training is mainly in tactical division...."

"Yes. Your strengths complement mine effectively. On most occasions."

There is a pause. Twosani looks at the PADDs again, and shakes her head. "It looks a mess, sir."

"It is. And it should not be. There is an elegance in physics, in mathematics, just as there is in music. But I cannot find any note of elegance in this data set."

Then I pause. A fugitive thought has just struck me... a flash of insight, half-glimpsed, then gone.

"Music," I say aloud.

"Sir?"

"A thought occurred to me, relating to music. It is relevant...."

I take a deep breath, hold it, concentrate on the mental disciplines. I am Vulcan. I am not just Vulcan, but a Vulcan trained in the Kolinahr. My mind is mine to command. My thoughts are part of me, they cannot flee me or hide from me.

I concentrate, and I focus, and my mind becomes as a temple of clearest glass, and there is no nook or cranny that is hidden from me. All things that I know are known to me.

The flash of memory, of insight, returns, and comes into clear focus, and I know it and understand it.

I pick up a PADD, and begin work, based on the new hypothesis. Twosani says nothing, but leans forward to watch me, her eyes thoughtful. I sketch in equations, compare the results with our known data. The outcome is as I expect. I punch in more equations, following the logical process deriving from the insight, facts and thoughts and consequences falling into place with remorseless, crystalline clarity -

"That looks - weird, sir," says Twosani, after a while. "I mean, I'm no expert in subspace theory, but -"

"It looks wrong," I say. "Yes. That was the crucial insight. Something Tylha Shohl said to me, about music, by that human musician she admired... something about a rhythm that looked wrong, but proved to be right. This set of equations... I believe we have the frequencies of the spatio-temporal warp through which the Rift entity connects with this world. And if that is so -"

I input more parameters on my console, and order, "Run simulation."

Twosani and I watch as wave-forms appear on the screen, merge, and subside into a dead flat line.

"Like the entity at Tiaza Zephora, which was undone by contact with a molecule made in the mirror image of its own key frequency," I say. "This entity's link is stronger, will require more from us than mere contact...."

"Power requirements... look on the high side, sir."

"We are in a position to attack on two fronts. The entity is irretrievably linked to this area of space - because it has been here, and it is non-temporal in essence, it is always here, to some extent. And it is linked to Vice Admiral Grau - the Falcon's crew can rig local generators to surround her with the negative wave. We will need to devote much of Tapiola's power output to this, but it can be done."

"Thank you, Vice Admiral Shohl," murmurs Twosani. I might say the same myself.

"Communicate with main engineering. Establish the technical parameters for generating this waveform via the main deflector dish. We must also attempt to regain contact with the Falcon."

The ready room door hisses open again. Pascale comes in. "The Warhammer is moving," she says.

"In what direction?"

"Towards us, slowly. And it appears to be towing something."

"Towing what?"

The android shakes her head. "I think you'd better take a look for yourself, sir."

---

All fatigue is forgotten as we race back to the bridge. On the main screen, the ominous dot of Mur's ship has grown, until details become clear at even moderate magnifications. It is pursuing an odd, indirect course, generally in our direction - testing for, and avoiding, the invisible energy fields.

Behind it is a shimmering ring, many kilometres wide, obviously insubstantial, equally obviously real... a vast torus of shaped energy fields, through which the starlight beyond is stretched and blurred.

I study the sensor analysis. "Not a wormhole... not quite. A tunnel through spacetime, though, a subspace conduit that will significantly reduce transit times between here and its terminus."

"Wherever that is," says Twosani.

"The energy expenditure involved in maintaining it must be prodigious," I say. "Likewise, the computational power needed to stabilise it. It is beyond our current technology, certainly well beyond that of the Siohonin. The Rift entity must be directly involved. Please program the modifications to the main deflector along the lines I have indicated. And try to raise the Falcon."

"Falcon here." The voice is hoarse, gravelly, but still recognizable, and it is a relief to hear it.

"Vice Admiral Grau. Are you fully recovered?"

"Nowhere near," Ronnie's voice says, "but I'm enough me to fight this thing. I've got a phaser - if it will let me use it...."

"That is a desperate remedy," I say, "and it may yet prove unnecessary. I have the parameters to generate a wave-form that I believe will dissipate the Rift entity. If you can open a data channel to your bridge, I will transmit it."

"Are you kidding?" says Ronnie. "If you've got a - a cure for this damn thing... I'll open the data channels myself."

"Preferable, I think, to let your communication officer handle it. Transmitting on a repeating loop. With luck, you will be able to receive and reconstruct all the data, even if you suffer intermittent connectivity losses."

"Which we might," says Ronnie. "Ship's still in a worse state than I am... and what the hell is Mur dragging after him?"

Nothing good, I strongly suspect. "We must assume it is for summoning reinforcements."

"Well, y'know," says Ronnie, "normally, I'd be, like, hey, skeet. But this is not the best time for shooting. Have we tried talking to him?" There is a sudden burst of static on the channel. Another problem on the Falcon, most probably.

"Perhaps we should try," I say. "Mur might continue to find me amusing."

"Would that actually help, sir?" asks Twosani.

"Possibly, if it gives us time to implement our countermeasure. In any case, I anticipate Mur will wish to communicate at some point soon. He is of that type. He enjoys the sound of his own voice."

"Programming the main deflector," says Nelson Karas. "Sir, this looks... weird."

"It does. It is, nonetheless, correct." And I hope the Falcon has received the data transmission.

"Sir," says Pascale, "there is something in the... tunnel... behind the Warhammer."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Specify."

"Unable to at this time, sir. I am reading low power output, but considerable mass. Whatever it is, I do not believe it is another ship."

"Signal from the Warhammer, sir," says the comms yeoman.

"You were right," Twosani murmurs.

I nod. "On screen."

The viewer shows the Warhammer's bridge; Mur stands in its centre, his face feral in its excitement. "You will surrender Veronika Grau," he says.

"Inaccurate," I reply. "We will not."

Mur glares. "You are ceasing to be amusing, Vulcan. You will surrender Veronika Grau to me, and your destruction will be brief and comparatively painless. If you continue to obstruct me, you will find that there are worse things than death."

"Damn right." Ronnie's voice. The Falcon's comms are back. "And I have a phaser in my hand now, Mur, and I promise you I will take my own life before letting you do what you want."

"You cannot! The god has told me this. You will be stopped."

"Stopped how? The Rift entity can't control me directly. It can't stop me. And I've been through the liberation protocols, it can't pull that stunt again."

"The true god assures me," says Mur, "that you will be prevented from harming yourself."

I think. "If what you both say is true," I say, "the Rift entity must be exerting its power and control to the utmost in order to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. It is already heavily taxed in supporting your space-time tunnel, and whatever other demands are being made of it by your priesthood. I do not believe it has sufficient capability remaining to neutralize the Tapiola."

"My ship is adequate for that minor task," says Mur.

"Really?" I say. "I suspect you overestimate your capacities. Against a fully operational Federation starship, without your special weaponry to rely on, your chances are, in my estimation, remarkably poor."

"You do not have the power to defy the god!" thunders Mur. "And now, his tabernacle approaches!" He makes a theatrical gesture at the screens behind him.

"Something's coming through the tunnel, sir," says Pascale. "I have a visual. Sir - there's something else in there, too, a little way behind it. There's a lot of interference, but I think this new one is a ship."

The visual display changes. Behind the Warhammer, a gigantic black sphere is emerging from the subspace conduit. It is caged in an icosahedral framework of metal girders, which is studded with impulse engines, clearly to provide motive power for the sphere itself. I check my readings. No life signs, no energy output except for the impulse engines -

"You are no doubt confused, Vulcan." Mur reappears on the viewer. "This is the tabernacle of the god. Within this crystal sphere, accessible only through a special transporter frequency vouchsafed to me by the god, Veronika Grau and I will meet, and the god will move from her unworthy form to mine -"

"Like hell it will!" Ronnie's voice rasps. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to get this filthy parasite out of my head, but I'm not letting it loose on the galaxy inside an unbalanced religious maniac!"

"Your insults mean nothing to me. The god will not be denied."

"I will open fire on your vessel before you reach transporter range of the Falcon," I say. "The Tapiola will destroy you."

"Filthy females and unbelievers!" Mur shouts. "You pit your feeble will against the god?"

Then he turns, and his shaggy eyebrows are raised in surprise. "Then you will die," he says. "Fortuitous. Gamariden Tal has evidently sent a ship to accompany the tabernacle on its voyage. That vessel will eliminate you, while I fulfil my destiny. Open a channel to that ship!" he shouts at some off-screen minion.

Behind him, one of the many screens flashes and fills with static. After a second or two, a vague shape becomes discernible. I can see a humanoid silhouette, with two protrusions on the head.

"Clear that interference!" Mur bellows. "You! Ship captain! Engage and annihilate this Federation upstart!"

The interference clears, and I am not ashamed to say that my jaw drops. The protrusions are not Siohonin horns - they are antennae -

"I don't think so," says Tylha Shohl.

The Three-Handed Game 38

2/12

*/*situation assessment---
control centre of species 5618 starship---
unsupported by other collective elements---
assimilation nanoprobes offline---
---queue assimilation nanoprobes for regeneration [0%]---
precautionary adaptation--- species 5618 typical armament--- nadion radiation---
---adaptation [0%]
------[11%]
------[36%]
------[54%]
------[73%]
------[91%]
------[complete]

interface with starship computer---
release infiltration software---
---[38%]
---[79%]
---[complete]

incoming: nadion radiation
---adaptation successful

neutralize hostile elements for later assimilation

engage hostile element subject 1: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 2561-Beta [76% chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---subject not neutralized--- reassess---
---initiating physical combat protocol 3002-Delta [81% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]

subject not neutralized
---neural capacitance charge at 74%
---engage neural shock
---engaging
---subject neutralized
---rebuild capacitance charge [0%]

engage hostile elements subject 2: species 5618, subject 3: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 1178-Alpha [36% chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---initiating physical combat protocol 2876-Alpha [47% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---assessing damage
------level: minor
------release analgesia for organic components
------realign structural members for increased resistance
---initiating physical combat protocol 205-Zeta [66% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---subject 2 neutralized
---subject 3 not neutralized
---assessing damage
---level: moderate
------continue analgesic and structural resistance process
---initiating physical combat protocol 1654-Alpha [74% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---reevaluate: subject 3
------neural capacitance level: 1% [insufficient]
------armament not installed
------assimilation nanoprobes still queued for regeneration [0%]
---initiating physical combat protocol 1976-Delta [96% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 2343-Alpha [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---submit request for reevaluation to central data storage: species 4464
------resistance to physical combat protocols exceeds expectations
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 1987-Beta [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: im[act amaage
---damage critical
---damagee critical
------switch drone to regeneration mode
------OFFLINE */*

Tallasa staggered over to the helm console and leaned against it, supporting her aching body with both hands. The lights on the bridge were flickering in a rapid, disturbing rhythm. She looked down to the deck, where Jhemyl had been felled by the Borg's neural blast. Her sister was groaning and stirring feebly, starting to recover consciousness. Leo Madena, too, was getting slowly to his hands and knees, blood oozing from a gash over his temple.

"Status," she managed to rasp.

"Borg data warfare packages have been inserted into our command structures," said Saval. He was tapping rapidly on his console. "I am implementing countermeasures, but ship's functions will be disrupted while the threat is neutralized."

Tallasa let go of the console and straightened up with a wince. "How bad is it?"

"Containable," said Saval, "in time. The Vice Admiral's Borg programming is several years out of date, and her own knowledge of our computer systems is... inadequate to affect matters. It is simply a matter of time... though it may yet be several hours before we are able to restore functions."

"If we have several hours," Tallasa muttered. She helped Leo Madena to his feet. "Get in touch with the Tapiola. Let them know what's happened. All of it."

She turned to where Ronnie lay unmoving on the deck. Even in that short time of reassimilation, Borg circuitry had spread like shadowy veins beneath her skin. Much of her hair had already fallen out. Tallasa touched her combadge. "Bridge to medical."

"Sickbay here," Zodiri's voice replied. "What the hell are you playing at, up there?"

"The Admiral was reassimilated. We've managed to take her down, but she released Borg viruses into the computer. I need you up here with a field liberation kit, now. You can't trust the turbolifts, so use the emergency accessways. OK?"

"On it." In a crisis, Zodiri didn't waste words. Tallasa appreciated that.

She turned back to Jhemyl, helped her sister to her feet. The two exchanged a brief, wordless hug. It hurt Tallasa's back. Ronnie had hit her so hard -

No. Not Ronnie. The Borg. Ronnie was gone. Maybe they could get her back... and maybe not.

"We should kill her," said Jhemyl.

In response to the shocked looks of everyone on the bridge, she held up her hands and said, "It's what she wanted. Isn't it?"

"It's what she asked for," said Tallasa slowly. "But... look at her. Could you do it?"

Jhemyl looked at the motionless form. She didn't answer.

"In my opinion," said a new voice from the screen, "it would be inadvisable to make the attempt."

Tallasa turned. T'Pia's face was on the screen, wavering and shot through with interference. "Sir," she said.

"There are two reasons behind my conclusion," said T'Pia. "Firstly, if Mr Madena has correctly informed me about the role of the Rift entity in this matter, that entity would certainly act to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. Althought it may have limited ability to affect her, there is no reason to suppose that it would be similarly limited with regard to you. My second reason is a more selfish, pragmatic and immediate one. Vice Admiral Grau is the only person able to perceive the energy fields that surround us. Without her assistance, we are unable to move safely from our current location."

Tallasa shot a glance at Saval, who looked up briefly from his work, said "That is logical," and turned his attention back to the console.

"Very well," said T'Pia. "Your primary objectives are therefore clear: to restore the Falcon to operational status, and to bring Vice Admiral Grau back to herself. Tapiola will stand ready to offer whatever assistance is practicable in these matters. So far, the Warhammer has not moved in pursuit, and is holding station at extreme sensor range. We believe Mur is -"

Her voice was suddenly lost in static, and her image smeared sideways and dissolved in a haze.

"Sorry, sir," said Leo. "My board is... doing stuff."

"The Borg viruses are outmoded," said Saval, "but they are still adaptive and highly efficient. It will be some time before any ship functions can be relied upon."

"Ship functions including life support?" Tallasa demanded. "Or antimatter containment?"

"I appreciate that the situation presents causes for concern," said Saval. "The logical course of action, therefore, is to allow me to work without distraction towards its alleviation."

"All right," Tallasa snapped. A noise made her turn, and wince with pain. The emergency access door to the bridge slid open, and Zodiri stepped through, medical packs in both hands, another one strapped to her back.

"Let's see the patient," she said.

"Over here," said Tallasa. "Do what you can."

Zodiri knelt beside Ronnie's body, ran a diagnostic scanner over her, swore softly to herself. "This is not going to be easy," she said. "Damn it, she had too much Borg junk in her system already -"

"Do the best you can," said Tallasa.

"I will." Zodiri looked up at Tallasa. "And then I'm going to take a look at you, because from where I'm sitting, you're in bad shape."

The lights on the bridge flickered again. Tallasa regarded them grimly.

"I think we all are," she said.