["There are 47!" Of what?]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS King Estmere NCC-92984
"How many?"
"Fourteen," Amiga repeats. The android's voice, over the com link, sounds blurry and distorted. I take a firmer grip on my phaser pulsewave rifle and pick up my pace, hurrying through the darkness and the ruins.
"Do you have a fix?" I ask.
"Not precise. We are working on the jamming - our first priority, though, is to establish a transporter lock on you."
"Make sure it's good," I mutter, as I come to a halt, crouching behind the vast basalt bulk of a fallen pillar. "I don't want to get scrambled." My antennae twitch, tasting the air, feeling the currents and the presences within it.
Somewhere out there in the dark are fourteen Nausicaans, hunting for me. They must know, by now, that their first trap failed. I'm stupid enough to accept an invitation from an archaeologist to "view a new discovery" at the temple ruins of Dalaria IV... but I'm not stupid enough to go without my standard armament and equipment. And, when I found the Dalarian archaeologist at our meeting site, dead, with unmistakeable disruptor burns on him, I wasn't stupid enough to move the body, so when my tricorder scan set off the explosives beneath it, I didn't die.
But still being alive and armed is my only asset. The jamming field over the temple ruins is blocking transporters and orbital strike targeting - shuttles and fighters from King Estmere are inbound, but fourteen Nausicaans are a lot closer.
Movement up ahead. I freeze.
There are shapes moving in the darkness - moving quickly, with confidence. They must have low-light imaging gear. I grin. Light amplifying equipment is a big help to diurnal species, in the dark - but it's very hard to read a tricorder through it, which means they won't be running precision sensor scans. And, though they can see in the dark and I can't... I am Andorian, so that's not nearly as big an advantage as they think.
Boots scrape over ancient stonework, and my ears, my antennae, triangulate on the sound, fix its position in my head. I move, fast, swinging the phaser around -
For a moment, there is plenty of light, bright orange light, the cone of the pulsewave discharge splitting the darkness.
Three Nausicaans. One of them catches the main force of the blast, falls in a scorched heap; another is knocked back, his head hitting an outcropping of masonry with an ugly sound. The third is dazzled, pummelled, but still standing, and his disruptor rifle spits sick green light back at me. One bolt misses me; a second slams into my torso. It stings, but my Nukara-rated personal shield takes it. His shield doesn't stand up to the phaser beam I snap back at him; he flares and burns and vanishes.
"Now reading eleven Nausicaan life signs," Amiga's voice says in my ear. "The downside is, they will almost certainly have triangulated your position."
I heft the phaser in my hands. "Is that a downside?" I can feel the traditional Andorian bloodlust rising in me. Let them come to me. Let my enemies come to me, and die.
They are coming. I can hear them, feel them, through the night.
I clamber up a fallen stone block, a titanic cube several metres on a side. Disruptor light sizzles through the air, aimed nowhere near me. Firing at shadows. I raise my gun, prepare to fire back -
- and blue light dazzles around me, and the air changes, and suddenly I am in King Estmere's transporter room, and just have presence of mind enough to take my finger off the firing stud before I blow a hole in the wall.
"Thanks," I say to Amiga. "It wasn't quite desperate, though."
"I could see you had them surrounded, sir," the android says dryly. Standing beside her at the controls, my exec, Anthi Vihl, looks worried. She doesn't often look worried. "What's the situation now?" I ask.
"We arranged a swap," Amiga says, smugly. "When we beamed you out, we beamed in Commanders Hyhr and Sirip with their assault squads."
I nod. "Got comms to them?"
"Of course."
"All right. Nozys, Sirip, try to take some of them alive if possible. We need prisoners for interrogation."
Over the comms link, Nozys Hyhr says some choice phrases I first heard from fungus tenders in the wine tunnels. "We'll try, sir," she replies. "It's getting a little busy down here." I can hear phaser and disruptor fire in the background.
"We need to talk about this, sir," Anthi says firmly. "This is the second time Nausicaan assassins have targeted you, specifically -"
"I thought, the first time, they were just working through a list of senior officers," I say. "And the business on Gimel Vessaris probably bumped my name back up that list a few places." I try to give her a reassuring smile. "We'll find out when Nozys and Sirip bring their prisoners back on board."
Anthi takes a deep breath. "I hope so, sir. But, frankly, I'm concerned."
"If you really want to worry," I say, "think about the diplomatic protests we're going to get. Those temple ruins are going to be a lot more ruined once we're through, and the Dalarians are going to be upset."
---
In the interrogation room, the senior surviving Nausicaan officer is strapped into a chair, his gnarled paw resting on the disc of a verifier. His yellow eyes glare contempt at me. He doesn't speak.
"All right," I say, slowly. "You're part of a targeted assassination squad operating in Federation territory. That excludes you from some of the normal legal protections afforded to prisoners of war. And I want some answers."
His fingers drum on the verifier disc. People in the 23rd century had a lot of simple-minded faith in verifiers... unfortunately, processing counter-factuals is pretty much ingrained in every sentient species' linguistic development, so it's easy to develop techniques that will defeat verifier scan. Some cynics even suggest that the only reason children learn language is because they see the social advantages of being able to lie.
"I'm sure you can beat a verifier," I say. "And even in your case, I wouldn't be allowed to use torture - and anyway, I know you could stand any amount of pain. Pity I can't use telepaths, isn't it? My security commander is a Betazoid, but she's constrained by ethical guidelines, like so many telepaths. Her own guilt feelings would confuse her, make her scans of your mind useless."
The Nausicaan's face moves in what might be a smile. It isn't pretty. I smile back. That isn't pretty either. I go to the door. "Come on in."
Zodes is the first one to enter. She turns filmed eyes towards the Nausicaan, and there is a faint smile on her ghost-white face. "Good day," she says. "My name is Zodes Andeteph, and I am an Aenar, if you are unfamiliar with my species. We are strong natural psi talents. Mostly, the talent is fostered in educational institutions which inculcate a due sense of morality." Her smile broadens and becomes less pleasant. "I, however, was born on Sataris III, a planet devastated during the early stages of the war. I grew up scrabbling to survive on a ruined world, until I was lucky enough to find a Federation relief mission. My psi abilities are entirely self-taught."
The Reman scientist, Temerix, is next. He doesn't say anything, just grins with his gargoyle features and licks his lips. He doesn't need to say anything. Everyone knows the only Remans left are the ones who will do anything to stay alive.
There is a faint creaking sound from the chair as the Nausicaan strains against his bonds.
Kluthli is the last one in. The statuesque Orion saunters over to the Nausicaan, stands over him, looking down at him with her sparkling eyes. "My House was ruined by the pro-war factions," she says, "forced into poverty, disgrace, and exile. By people like you. But that doesn't matter now." She is positively purring as she brushes her fingers across his face. "Because you and I are going to be such good friends, aren't we?"
I look the Nausicaan in the eye. "I think I'll be going now," I say. "Unless you've got something to tell me."
---
Firelight flickers, dim reflections sparking on ice-rimed walls, on the upraised ushaan-tor blade, on the many eyes of the monstrous grah'haurrh tunnel-beast. The creature's mandibles clash together as it skitters forward on its many legs, towards the grim figure of the Andorian warrior -
"Holodeck. Pause program."
My uncle grimaces, lowers the ushaan-tor, and turns away from the suddenly motionless monster. "Hope this is important, little Tylha," he says.
"Sorry to spoil your fun, Uncle Kophil," I say. "But, yes, it's important."
Kophil Phohr lets the blade drop to the ground. "Well, let's not have any distractions then. End program." The tunnel walls fade out, become the bland grid-lines of the holodeck. "Your Nausicaan talked, then?"
"Extensively." I let him talk. Then I let Zodes, Temerix and Kluthli make quite sure he was telling the truth. I don't feel guilty about that - he must even have enjoyed some of it, after all.
"So, then," Kophil rumbles, "why don't they like you, little Tylha?"
"That's the surprising thing," I say, "and it's why I need to talk to you. It's something to do with my family - Uncle. There is some ongoing project to take out relatives of Thiran Shohl." My thaan-father. It seems strange, now, to say his name - at least, in this context. It's all a matter of context.
"Thiran?" Kophil seems as baffled as I am. "He was - well, he was a good guy, I always thought. You know, don't you, he was one of the leading lights of the whole Gimel Vessaris plan...."
I frown. "He never held office on the colony council... as far as I remember."
"No," Kophil says, "but he was one of the core group who got things moving. All that stuff about environmental sensitivity, about using traditional low-impact methods for farming and mineral extraction - all the hippy stuff - that was mostly down to him." He shakes his head. "I never agreed with him, much, but one thing I know, he believed in what he was doing. He was a man of strong views, and he had my respect for that. I think, even, he might have made it work - if the Nausicaans hadn't come in and stamped the whole colony flat."
I'm still frowning. "No," I say. "No, it can't be that. Gimel Vessaris... the planet's position, in space, makes it a logical strategic target in the event of war. That's why we took it back. My father can't have been the primary target...."
"He might have been a fringe benefit, though," Kophil says.
"Even so... it doesn't make sense. I'm not carrying on my father's legacy." I'm a lot of things he would have disapproved of, in fact. My thaan-father never succumbed to the lure of militarism.... "Except genetically, of course."
"News to me you were doing that," Kophil says with a laugh.
"It has to be - something in our family history." I shake my head in bafflement. "I didn't even know we had any family history."
"Well." Kophil is serious. "If it's worth killing over, we'd better find out what it is."
---
Having a Nausicaan prisoner mind-raped doesn't bother me much. What I'm about to do now, though, makes me feel really dirty. I look at the console screen, take a deep breath, and tap in the code.
The screen stays blank for a long time. Then a face appears on it; a human face, with sly eyes and sandy hair, and a very visible, obvious scar.
"Hello, Vice Admiral," says Franklin Drake. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
For an instant, I can't say the words. Then I force them out. "I need your help."
"Of course." The public - or, at least, the only visible - face of Section 31 breaks into a smile at that. "That's what we're here for, after all."
"I'm being targeted by Nausicaan assassins, and for some reason it's linked to my family. I'm transmitting a transcript of an interrogation session -"
Drake remains silent for a while, his eyes flickering as he reads. "That's... interesting," he says, eventually. "I like your methods, by the way.... What do you need from me?"
"Deep background. There must be something - this project, whatever it is, involved my father, who's been dead for decades. Something that's run this long can't have done so without traces. Your - organization - may have come across some of those traces. Almost certainly must have."
Drake nods. "We have a huge wealth of raw data," he says, "but much of it is valueless without a context to interpret it. Knowing that your family is a target - well, that might provide the context we need. Interesting. Yes, I will have my people look into this. Incidentally, you realize the answer has to be something to do with genetics?"
"What?"
Drake tuts at me. "Your career shares no characteristics with your father's - well, except the general one of service to the Federation, which is so general that it's meaningless. And your uncle - your zhen-mother's brother - isn't a target, or the Nausicaans would have been swarming all over you while he's been on your ship. I'm right, aren't I, about Andorian family genetics?" He's right, of course. Biologically, the zhen-mother is just a host for the developing foetus... I suddenly remember that I haven't spoken to either of my mothers since the first rush of triumph over the reconquest of Gimel Vessaris. Now that makes me feel guilty.
"So," Drake muses, "we need to look for a long-term project that involves Nausicaans and Andorian genetics... yes, this is going to be interesting. Thanks, Tylha. For the challenge. And for thinking of us." The screen goes blank before I can think up a comeback.
---
"It doesn't give us much to go on." Samantha Beresford runs her fingers through her long dark hair. Behind her, in the biology lab, Zodes is seated at a console, her hands resting on the flowing surface of a haptic display, assessing the results of yet another genetic scan on Kophil and me. The Aenar is a talented biologist, in addition to her... other abilities.
"So far," my chief medical officer continues, "everything we've got is negative. We've confirmed there are no significant genetic links between you and Kophil, we've screened both of you for potential gene-related conditions - pretty much negative -"
"Good to know, anyway," I mutter.
"- and we've found no signs of genetic modification. Or nothing I can detect, anyway." Samantha sighs. "Maybe a specialist Andorian geneticist might find something I've missed...." I'm inclined to doubt it. Samantha knows Andorians - she's glued me back together often enough - and she's thorough.
Something beeps in the lab. "Next batch is ready," Samantha says, and heads off to her console. I go over to where Zodes is sitting. She continues to study the data, her face composed and intent.
"Are you all right?" I ask, in a low voice.
She turns her blank eyes towards me. "I'm fine, sir," she says.
"I know what I asked you to do was pretty rough -"
"I'm fine, sir. I really don't have too many ethics when it comes to personal survival - and, with respect, you shouldn't, either. Anyway, we did no real harm, we stayed out of any - personal memories, things that should stay private." She sniffs. "He's a professional assassin, sir. We acted a lot more ethically than he ever did."
"Well... I'm glad you feel that way." I probably should. I wish I did. I tell myself, again: I am not guilty about that.
My combadge chirps at me. "Shohl here."
"Sir." The voice is Amiga's, but the android sounds - agitated, if that's possible. "Sir, there has been an unauthorized access - a whole volume of data has just appeared in the main computer. I'm implementing immediate data-warfare countermeasures, level one -"
"Never mind," I say airily. "I know what that is, don't worry about it." And Section 31 probably wrote some of the data-warfare countermeasures protocols, too... for their own benefit, no doubt. "Better take a look at it, though."
"Sir, if our system security is compromised -"
"Relax," I tell her. "It's just a message from a... friend." Saying, among other things, I can reach you even where you think you're safe. "I asked for it - I think. We need to know what it says."
---
"All right." I steeple my hands in front of me, and look around at the faces of my officers as we sit together in the conference room. "Now, we know a little bit more about this."
"The information provided is not complete," Sirip points out, logical and urbane as ever.
"And we don't know if Drake's deliberately left stuff out," Samantha adds. She doesn't trust Franklin Drake. Well, why should she?
"However," I say, "we know which section of the Nausicaan military the assassins belong to... and we know, now, one long-running project they're involved with." I grimace. "And, now, we know where it joins up with... my family."
"The Chavahadaurki Integration Unit," F'hon Tlaxx says thoughtfully. "Have to admit, I've never heard of it, skipper."
"The Chavahadaurki are a minor warp-capable species," Amiga says, "who were distrustful of the Federation and aligned themselves in a military and economic compact with the Nausicaans as a result. This worked about as well as one might have expected. We estimate perhaps half a million Chavahadaurki have survived to serve Nausicaan interests in various menial capacities."
"In the process of their so-called integration," I take up the explanation, "the Nausicaans took over a number of Chavahadaurki military projects... including the one we might be interested in. About a hundred and sixty years ago, an Andorian academic turned from science to politics, and then to - well, outright terrorism, in the name of Andorian separatism and secession from the Federation. His name was Yslen Corodrev... and, it seems, he was my great-great-grandfather."
In imprecise, human-centric terms, at least. "Corodrev's movement never made any significant headway, politically - after it was proscribed, he fled Andoria and became a refugee in Chavahadaurki territory. I don't know how much he contributed to their anti-Federation stance...."
"The Nausicaans took over and - integrated - many Chavahadaurki facilities," Amiga carries on. "One of them - the one principally described in the Section 31 data dump - was a scientific research station close to Federation space. The data suggests that Yslen Corodev was significantly involved in the foundation of this station, and Section 31 is unable to account for its activities." She nods at Sirip. "As you say, the information is not complete. But it appears that this station is very much of interest to us."
"Or at least that's where Drake's pointing us," Samantha mutters.
"We have to be pointed somewhere," I say. "What are our tactical options?"
---
Afterwards, Anthi comes up to me, and asks, "How do you feel about this, sir?"
"About what?"
She purses her lips. "I studied the Corodrev Insurgency at military college. It was - well, it was a bad time."
"Corodrev died well over a century ago. I didn't even know, until today, I was related to him. I'm not going to worry about it." Of course, that's not entirely true. Clan history, clan honour, still matters, even to me. That I'm descended, however remotely, from a traitor and a terrorist... it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But there isn't anything I can do about it... so I won't let it worry me.
"That's something else, sir," Anthi says. "Corodrev must have other living descendants - what about them?"
"There aren't so many of them," I say. "And, according to Drake, none of them are currently serving in Starfleet. I'm inclined to think that's a factor."
"Still," Anthi says, "perhaps they should be warned, to be on their guard."
"I imagine Drake's people have that in hand."
"I hope so, sir." But she looks doubtful.
---
The Romulan ship is a nightmare of gleaming spines and barbs, arranged around a core that pulses with an ominous green light. There is more Borg technology woven through the ship, and I can't help but feel nervous about it. The captured Tal Shiar hybrid craft is... unnerving.
If it bothers Vice Admiral T'Laihhae, though, she doesn't let it show. She appears in full control of both herself and her monstrous ship, her ill-assorted crew going about their duties smoothly and meticulously.
"All ready?" she asks me.
"As I'll ever be, I guess," I tell her. "Thank you, again."
"My pleasure," she says, and her smile switches on and off. "Your King Estmere is impressive... but a little obvious, for a mission such as this." The RRW Messalina isn't exactly discreet, either - except that T'Laihhae and her people are very good with battle cloaks.
"Should you be doing this, though?" she asks, as she leads the way to the transporter room. "I mean you, specifically. If things go wrong, you will have delivered yourself into the hands of the people who want to kill you."
"I know," I say. "You're probably right. But I don't want people risking their lives for me - I can't just sit and watch while they do that -"
"I think I understand," she says. We reach the transporter room; my away team is waiting for me on the pads. "However, we must stand and wait for a while, now, whatever happens. Status?" She's addressing the Reman science officer at the transporter console.
"Stable. Cloak is balanced. No transporter activity from the station. We are at instant readiness." The Reman's small eyes glitter as he glances at me.
"That's my cue, then," I say, and step onto the pad. "Hurry up and wait."
The Messalina has sneaked tracelessly into the Nausicaan-held system, and is holding station five kilometres from the research facility. If all goes well, T'Laihhae's people will insert us, undetected, the next time the facility uses its transporters, using the outgoing traffic to mask our own signature. It should work. After that, it's up to us.
"Signal detected. Parameters as anticipated," the Reman croaks.
T'Laihhae nods. "Energize."
Green light fills my vision, fades out, and a new scene appears before my eyes.
The facility is a place of narrow metal corridors with fluted pillars along the walls, and immensely high ceilings in which harsh spotlights shine. The Chavahadaurki liked a lot of head room, it seems. There is no shrilling of alarms, so it looks like the plan's working. So far.
We make our way down the corridor, single file. Nozys Hyhr is in the lead, I follow; behind me come Sirip, Samantha, and the info-warfare experts, Amiga and Klerupiru. It might not be the best team to take on a horde of Nausicaans, but that's not what we have planned....
We come to an intersection; Amiga looks around, points down one branch. We daren't risk tricorder scans, or any active sensors - and we certainly can't risk weapons fire. So we have to rely on Amiga's perfect memory... and Drake's data dump, however perfect that might be.
We come to another intersection, and I hear breathing and the rustle of leather. Nozys sidles quietly forward, peeks round the corner, holds up one finger. A guard. I ready myself -
Sirip walks past both of us and around the corner. There is the beginning of a startled sound, then silence. I look round the corner. The big Vulcan has his hand on a Nausicaan's neck and is lowering him silently to the floor. The infamous Vulcan nerve pinch - how I wish I could learn it. A little further along the corridor is an open doorway, and beyond it I see the more familiar shapes of Nausicaan control consoles.
"OK, go!"
We move. There are only three technicians in the control room, and Nozys and Sirip overwhelm two of them in seconds. I manage to reach the third before he can sound an alarm. There's something awfully satisfying about kicking Nausicaans in the head....
Four unconscious Nausicaans and no alarms, yet. Klerupiru has reached a console; all her irregular Ferengi fangs are showing as she grins. "We're in luck," she says. "They haven't updated their security software since Gimel Vessaris."
Amiga is at another console, her hands already a blur on the controls. Luck is still with us, so far. I watch the corridor, fretfully, while the data-warfare experts work their witchcraft.
"All secure," Amiga reports. "We are routing control through Messalina now."
I touch my combadge. "T'Laihhae, are you getting this?"
"Confirmed," the Romulan's voice says. "Uplinks secured and root-level control granted. Your team is good, Vice Admiral."
"Thanks." I turn to Amiga. "All right, put me on the public address."
"All yours, sir," the android replies. I take a deep breath.
"Your attention, please," I announce, and my voice booms back at me. "I'm Vice Admiral Tylha Shohl. You know me, you're trying to kill me. You might not know the RRW Messalina, which is just decloaking outside the station, but at the moment it's running your life support systems. You have two options: unconditional surrender, or learn to breathe space. Choose quickly."
---
At the centre of the facility is a big, round room, its ceiling so high I almost can't see it. Ranked around the walls are ... cylinders, about three metres long and a metre wide, metallic, and coated with a thin layer of frost.
Two Nausicaans stand by what looks like a laboratory workbench in the centre of the room. There is a hangdog, defeated air about both of them. One is in military uniform; it's the other, an elderly, stooped figure in civilian robes, who does the talking.
"I am Director Driochk," he says. "This is my security commander, who is responsible for this situation." He glowers at the other Nausicaan, who stares sullenly at the floor. "I hope you can find grounds to execute him. Or at least neuter him before he can breed. I told you -" his attention is on his subordinate, entirely "- I told you, the assassination attempts simply drew attention to the project. If we had not tried to kill her, where would she be now? On the other side of the quadrant, perhaps - certainly not here. But, no, you had to ensure your loose ends were taken care of, that Starfleet could gain no access - Well, they certainly have access now!"
"Access to what?" I ask.
Driochk waves his arm at the cylinders. "Corodrev's children," he says. "The elite of the elite... preserved, until now, first for the Chavahadaurki, then for ourselves. Mostly preserved, anyway. Two of them spoiled, and a third is currently in use. No doubt you'll find him, now."
"Him?" I demand. "What is this?"
"Sir." Samantha Beresford is scanning one of the cylinders, and there is outrage on her face. "There's a living being in here! Reading as... Andorian, I think. In suspended animation."
"Not quite Andorian," Driochk comments. "Andorian with improvements. Corodrev used certain illicit human genetic augmentation techniques to produce his elite. They were trained to infiltrate Andorian society. They were, on occasion, very effective. A pity they will all be dead soon."
"We do not execute prisoners of war out of hand," I say firmly. Andorian augments? I've never heard of such a thing.
"No," says Driochk, "but we dispose of useless assets." He indicates the lab bench. "The sleepers can only be awakened by a preparation derived from Corodrev's own blood. We had samples of his bone marrow, cloned and cultured, to provide it." His hand comes down to rest on a container, discoloured as if by extreme heat. "Of course, when I heard your announcement, I took appropriate measures."
"You mean, they can't be revived? And the cryonic suspension will eventually fail?"
"Quite quickly, actually. Now that certain control protocols have been manually interrupted."
"Wait a minute." My mind is racing. "Why was I a threat to this project?" There's only one reason that makes sense - "Control. Just by existing, I jeopardized your control." I turn to Samantha. "Figure out what was in that preparation of theirs. I must have enough genetic markers of Corodrev's for my blood to work for it too." I start to tear off my uniform jacket. "I don't think we've got much time."
"What?" Samantha yelps. "You're crazy! There are fifty of these damn tubes! Even if three of them are empty, that still leaves forty-seven!"
"Do the scans and get to work!"
Driochk is staring at me. The security commander gives a warning growl - and then folds up as Sirip steps up behind him and pinches his neck. Samantha's tricorder whines and whistles; she studies the cryo-tube, then the equipment on the lab bench, then my outstretched hand. "Great-great-grandfather," she mutters under her breath.
And the people in these tubes... are his children. Which makes them my family. At the end of the day, I am Andorian, after all.
"It won't work," Samantha says after a while. "The genetic factors are too - too diluted. I'd need too much blood - maybe as much as five or ten cc's for each dose. You don't have that much blood."
"There are drugs which boost blood production -"
"In Vulcans and Rigelians! Which you are not! And T'Laihhae won't have stocks of Andorian blood for transfusion!"
I hold out my bare arm toward her. "Do the best you can."
"You're out of your mind." Samantha bites her lip. "I can - I can try. But I will let them go if your life's in jeopardy. Amiga. You've got steady hands. Help me with the filtration and the processing. And I swear, if you waste one drop, I'll rip your transtators out with my bare hands."
I stand still as she applies hyposprays to my neck. I let her lay me down on the lab bench, though, and I wince as the needle goes into my vein. Blood flows, rich and blue, through the transparent tubing, into Samantha's medical gear.... I should know what these things are, what they do... but I don't.
"Crack one of those cryotubes," Samantha orders. "Starting to run fractionation...." Her voice trails off, muttering technicalities. I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the tube as Nozys and Klerupiru open it. For an instant, I get an impression of waxy blue skin, surrounded by machinery.... "Hold still," Samantha mutters.
"Get Driochk to help you," I tell her. "If he knows what's good for him."
"Your officer seems to have things well in hand," I hear the Nausicaan say. I don't know if he's lying or not. I lie still, waiting, while Samantha and Amiga work around me and behind me, and the blood flows steadily into the tubing.
"Got it," Samantha says, after a while. "God, I hope it's enough.... Listen to me." Her face appears, upside-down, above me, and it seems to be wavering in and out of focus. "Your bone marrow's been stimulated, but I'm not sure how well. If you show any signs of shutting down, I am stopping this, do you understand me?"
"Go on as long as you can." My tongue feels thick.
"Spare me from pig-headed Andorians!" Samantha snarls as she turns away. Ridiculous, I think. It's Tellarites who are pig headed. Can't she even keep her own human idioms straight?... I feel very odd, hot and cold at the same time. I lie there and try to make out the ceiling. Things are happening around me. I lie there and let them happen. The ceiling is a very long way away, and it seems to be getting farther, and darker, all the time....
Eventually, there is nothing but the dark. There is a flash of green light at some point, and then... nothing but dark.
---
When I wake up, the ceiling is different, and much closer. I lie there, feeling faint and dried-out and wretched, until an unfamiliar Romulan face appears above me.
"Vice Admiral Shohl?" the Romulan asks.
"I'm in the Messalina's sick bay," I try to say, but it comes out as a mumble. The Romulan medic seems to understand what I mean, though.
"We're on course back towards Federation space," she tells me. "There are Nausicaans in pursuit - but Messalina has transwarp capacity, we will outrun them with ease. Your cryo-suspension cases are all aboard."
"Samantha Beresford wants to shout at me," I say. It comes out clearly. Probably, because I know it's true.
"Yes, she does," the Romulan assures me, "but this is my sick bay, and no one shouts at patients here but me."
I try to think. It is very hard to think. "Need a comms channel," I tell her.
"Not a chance," she says firmly.
---
By the time I'm back aboard the King Estmere, though, I have my comms channel, and enough time to set things moving.
"The augments' leader wants to see you," Samantha tells me. I'm in my quarters, resting - at her orders. I don't feel much like arguing. If I can do things sitting down, or lying down, that's the way I do them - for the moment.
"Their leader? They're that well organized, then?"
"Their - spokesman, if you like. His name's Corodrev. Osrin Corodrev." Samantha's mouth is a tight line. Of course, humans have a bad history with genetic augmentation.
With an effort, I stand. "I'd better see him."
King Estmere has plenty of space in her medical section; a whole ward has been secured for the augments as they recover from the cryo-suspension and Samantha's rough-and-ready revival procedures. Secured being the operative word... force fields glimmer in the corridors and armed guards are on hand.
Osrin Corodrev is stalking angrily up and down the length of the ward when I arrive. He is a tall, well-built, classically handsome young thaan - no, I remind myself, he just looks young; chronologically, he's old enough to be... my great-grandfather, I guess. His eyes narrow as he sees me.
"I hope you're not another underling," he snaps at me. "I do not want to waste time on underlings."
I pull a face. "I'm in charge here," I tell him. "Also, I'm the one who saved your ungrateful backside."
"Oh," he says scornfully, "I'm grateful. Starfleet prisons are so much nicer than Nausicaan ones, aren't they?"
"You're not a prisoner." I'm still light-headed, and my antennae are drooping. "Are you in charge here? Who says?"
"My - father," he says, with a touch of bitterness. "He made us, he trained us, he named me his heir."
"And the rest of them? They go along with that?"
He stares at me. "We don't want internal dissension now," he says. "Whatever you have planned for us, we will stand together." His gaze rakes over me, appraising. "I could take you," he says, "hold you hostage, see what that would gain us. It would be easy - I have twice your physical strength."
"I'm still short a litre and a half of blood," I say, "everyone has twice my physical strength. And taking hostages won't get you anywhere. You must know that, unless your father augmented all the common sense out of your head."
He makes an exasperated gesture. "So, what now? We were my father's weapons, then we were Nausicaan weapons - are we your weapons, now? I'm not sure you have the strength to wield us."
"We don't work that way." There aren't any seats nearby, and my pride won't let me lean against the wall. So I stand - somehow. "Do you want to know what your status is?"
"Prisoners." He spits the word.
"Passengers. I've had a ruling from the Federation council. Every action you've been involved in, it's been under duress, compulsion from the Nausicaans. Or from your father, I guess.... No. As far as we're concerned, you are free Andorian citizens of the Federation, released from a Nausicaan detention facility."
"Free citizens? Free to go where, to do what?" He is agitated, now. "This is just a trick. You want us, you want our enhanced capabilities, our skills and strengths -"
"Listen to me!" My voice is unexpectedly strong. "First thing is, I for one don't rate this whole genetic augmentation thing. It never seems to work properly. The humans tried it, they got themselves a planet-wide war; the Klingons tried it and got a disfiguring genetic plague. I don't see it working any better for Andorians." I shake my head. Turns out that's not a good idea, but I manage to keep talking. "I've seen my medical officer's report on your enhancements. It's the usual thing - some characteristics greatly improved, but at the cost of throwing the rest of your organism off balance. You don't seem too badly affected, but some of your - colleagues - will need extensive medical help for the rest of their lives."
He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, I continue. "And they'll get it. Because that's the way the Federation works, and the way Andorians work. I've spoken to - a lot of people. My relatives, near and distant. Your relatives. Your family."
His mouth stays open, but he doesn't speak.
"Family," I say. "It's something that matters, to us. Mattered enough to me that I opened my veins for it.... We agreed. None of what happened to you is your fault. You were bred and trained by an insane fanatic... and he was one of us, he was our fault. We feel - most of us feel - we owe you. Not much, but we owe you.
"The Federation will support you, with medicine, education, retraining.... Your family has an offer for you. We've renounced, in your favour, any interests we have in the recently reclaimed colony world of Gimel Vessaris. If you want, you can have land, homes, there." I look him in the eye. "Understand, this is no soft option. Gimel Vessaris was a starting colony world when it was smashed and occupied by the Nausicaans. We've only just taken it back, and the war's still going on. And it's a frontier world with very little in the way of amenities. But it's there, if you want it." I manage a twisted smile at him. "You and your enhanced abilities should be up to the challenge."
He finds his voice. "You would just let us go? To this colony world? Without supervision, without restraint?"
"We'd let you go. To there, or anywhere else. That's what freedom means. It's what the Federation's meant to stand for." I meet his gaze and hold it. "Try it. Step out from under your father's shadow, and see where you want to go."
"I -" He doesn't look so arrogant, now. He looks confused, slightly lost, out of his depth. "We'll need to - to discuss this. If this offer is real -"
"It's real enough. King Estmere is on her way to Gimel Vessaris now. If you want to try something else, you might have to arrange your own transport - we're a warship, not a damned taxi service." My head is aching; I need to lie down. I turn to go. Then I turn back, for a second.
"Let me know what you decide - great-grand-uncle."
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