Claws 3

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Falcon NCC-93057
Datarecord: 2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)

One of the good things about being buddies with a high-up in Starfleet's Experimental Engineering division is this: if you should happen to get your starship a little bit bent or broken - and it's amazing how often that seems to happen, despite my best intentions - you can get it patched up, not only good as new, but sometimes better than before.

"So OK," I say to the tall, scarred Andorian */*species 4464*/* woman standing beside me on the bridge of the Falcon, "explain what this doohickey does again, will you?"

Tylha Shohl fails to hold back a sigh. "The Nukara particle converter," she says patiently, "interfaces with your EPS grid to buffer your shields and particle generators, and boosts your targeting scanners to improve weapon accuracy. It also ties in to your new weapons systems - the tetryon banks and the web mines - and, with those improved targeting scanners, it can set off secondary tetryon pulses that you can aim at other enemy ships in range -"

"Oh, trick shots? I can get behind that idea."

"I guessed you probably could," says Tylha. "We tried it out first on the Bleak Midwinter - converted Breen cruiser -"

"Hold on. Tholian tech and a Breen ship? Talk about running hot and cold."

Tylha nods. "Luckily, we had a lot of experience with the Jolciot polystable alloys for countering thermal stresses -" She carries on in this vein for some time. Tylha has a couple of Jolciots */*species 17116*/* on her crew, they're squat purple creatures who talk too much. Apparently, they're also very good at engineering, but I really don't need to know the details, so I smile and nod and go to my happy place for a bit while Tylha explains.

*/*assimilation of multiple technologies improves efficiency and creates positive synergistic effects---biological and technological distinctiveness should be added to the collective endeavour*/*

Shove off, Two of Twelve. This is my happy place. Get your own.

"Sorry?" says Tylha.

"Oh, God. Out-loud voice? Two of Twelve was acting up, sorry." Tylha at least sort of understands about the remnants of my Borg self, left over from my assimilation. "Anyway, yeah. Speaking of Borg...?"

"Oh, right," says Tylha. "We've added the omnidirectional cutting beam and some Borg assimilated modular tech... you should get some good results out of those." Since the good results Tylha gets with that cutting beam include disembowelling a Romulan */*species 3783*/* battleship during the defence of Andoria, I'm kind of liking that bit.

"So," I say, "cutting to the chase - how close are we to being done, here?"

Tylha smiles. "Just a bit of clearing up to do, making sure your crew are all checked out on the new - doohickeys - and we're out of here. I'll be glad to get back aboard King Estmere, to be honest."

"Oh, you've finally got that one out of drydock?" Tylha normally flies the King Estmere, a converted Tholian carrier, but that ship's been in spacedock for refits for months, relegating her to the Spirits of Earth, an upgraded Andorian Charal-class... come to think of it, that's not what I'd call relegation, much.

"We've finally got the weapons mix right, I think," Tylha says. "The heavy disruptor cannons were effective, but their firing arc is too narrow - even with the same enhanced RCS arrays we've used on the Falcon, King Estmere only turns at a hair over fifteen degrees per second, so wide-angle beam arrays and banks are a better option. We installed plasma weapons with Romulan Republic tech, but I'm not too sure, still, about some of the synergistic effects of the secondary systems -" Happy Place Time for little Ronnie, again, I think.

Then the bridge doors hiss open and someone comes in, someone I don't recognize - one of Tylha's people, I think, she doesn't look nearly harassed enough to be one of mine. She's a medium-tall Vulcan */*species 3259*/* woman, with dark hair in an elaborate updo, and piercing grey eyes. I wouldn't pay much attention to her, really, except that Commander Saval, my Vulcan science officer with the extravagant side whiskers, narrows his beady little eyes and stands up when she comes in.

"T'Shomep," he says.

"Father," she replies. There's not much in this galaxy surprises me, but I do honestly feel my jaw dropping a bit at that one. I see Tylha's eyes widen, too.

"You are well?" Saval asks.

"Yes," says T'Shomep.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," I say. "First off, I can't handle all these torrents of Vulcan emotion, the tearful family reunion, it's all so beautiful it makes me want to spit. Second off, seriously?"

Saval and his daughter both blink at me for a second or two. "Lieutenant T'Shomep is my daughter," says Saval. "I assume, sir, that you are being somewhat facetious."

"Well, maybe," I say. "Just maybe. Even so, you've got to admit, it's quite some coincidence."

"It is not entirely a coincidence," says T'Shomep. "Naturally, I have followed my father's career with interest, and accounts of his activities made me aware of the Experimental Engineering group. It seemed a logical sphere of activities in which to employ my talents."

Tylha is still looking bewildered. "Maybe I'm no good at judging Vulcan ages," she says, "but -"

"Oh, Commander Saval was with me on my last trip to the Stygmalian Rift," I say. "We all got time-warped twenty-four years into the future that time. Makes for complications, that sort of thing."

"Adjustments were necessary in our family life," says T'Shomep.

"I'll bet they were," I say. "Could be worse... could be Tallasa having a family reunion instead...." I peer vaguely around the bridge. "Come to think of it, I thought it was quiet. Where is Tallasa?"

My long-suffering exec is nowhere to be seen. Her sister Jhemyl is at the helm station as usual... now I look, the bridge is looking a bit empty and depleted. No Tallasa - and the engineering station is just manned by an ensign I don't know. Leo Madena, whose name I have finally learned to remember, is on comms as usual....

"Commander Tallasa is station-side on a two-day pass," says Saval.

"She's showing Commander Ysrip around Earth Spacedock," Jhemyl adds.

Right, so that accounts for one of my senior engineers.... "Waitaminute," I say. "You mean Tallasa and Ysrip are on a date?"

Jhemyl quirks an eyebrow at me; if it wasn't for the blue skin and antennae, I'd swear she was a Vulcan. "She's just showing him around," she says.

"Yeah, right. All the coordinates, I bet."

Tylha shakes her head. "You humans," she says.

"Humans are weird about relationships," says Jhemyl. "Obsessed. Did you know one of their continental capitals has an entire huge building for having extra-marital affairs in?"

"Oh," says Tylha. "That place in, where is it, Uashintondeesee? I always wondered why it was that shape. Makes sense, now."

"Uh," I say helplessly, "what?"

"They even call it the Pentagon," says Jhemyl.

"Waitaminute." I think this conversation is getting away from me. "The Pentagon? In Washington D.C.? Is that the place you're talking about?"

"Why else would you build a five-sided building?" asks Tylha.

"Humans," says Jhemyl. "They have no shame."

"But it -" I say, "it's - it's not that. It's a, uh, it's a military command centre -"

"Oh, right," says Tylha in tones of deep sarcasm. "Because humans are such a galaxy-famous warrior species."

I look at Tylha, then at Jhemyl, then at Tylha again. It pains me to admit it, I'm still no good at reading Andorian expressions. Both of them have completely straight faces - but their antennae are twitching like anything - but I don't know for sure what that means. I'm about twenty percent suspecting it's a genuine cultural misunderstanding, and eighty percent sure my leg is being pulled so hard it's going to come off at the hip.

I decide it's time to beat a dignified retreat. "I'm going down to main engineering," I announce. "I'm going to see what they're up to down there."

I'm sure I hear Andorian sniggering as I march off the bridge.

---

Main Engineering seems pretty quiet, too. A couple of ensigns are moving around doing engineering-type things with doohickeys - possibly new ones, possibly ones I just haven't paid attention to before. Well, there's no point me starting to pay attention to doohickeys at my time of life. I grab a passing ensign and ask, "Where's Ahepkur?"

"Oh," says the ensign. "Um, I think she's with Commander Ada in the engineering office, sir."

Considering my Klingon */*species 5008*/* chief engineer's attitude to her android */*species designation irrelevant*/* assistant, this is not necessarily good news. So I trot along to the engineering office with a few qualms... and I pick up an extra qualm or two when the door fails to slide open at my approach.

I listen out for a moment, and hear faint sounds, like movement and muffled voices. Are they fighting in there? I hesitate for a second, then thumb the door's control panel, overriding the lock with my biometric signature. There is a hiss -

"Shut that damn door!" shrieks Ahepkur's voice.

I have a moment to take in the tangle of bare limbs on the engineer's desk, the two discarded uniforms lying on the floor. Not fighting, then. Physical activity, but definitely not fighting.

"I'll leave you two to it, then," I say with as much composure as I can muster - which isn't much - and I back out.

I lean against the corridor wall for a minute or two and try to marshal my thoughts. While I'm still marshalling, the door opens again, and Ahepkur steps out, wearing a sheepish expression and a uniform that's evidently been put back on in a hurry.

"Sir," she says, and stops dead. "Sir, I -" she tries again. "I have no excuses," she says at last.

"You've changed your attitude towards androids, then," I say, this being the first thing that comes into my head.

"The machine acted with skill, courage and honour in recent events," says Ahepkur. "This makes her a worthy mate."

"Hold on," I say. "If you're... you know... I mean, surely you can't keep on calling her 'the machine' now? Her name's Ada."

Ahepkur bristles visibly at that. "My chosen mate's name is XM-23012 HSM-110478," she says with some asperity. "The 'Ada' designator is only for the convenience of organics."

Well, there's a lot to be said for convenience, I think. My head is spinning. Starfleet's regulations on fraternization, of course, are more a mish-mash of guidelines than anything solid, what with dealing with dozens of different military traditions and species with novel biological imperatives... but surely doing it with your assistant on the office desk must be crossing some line? If nothing else, it must have voided Ada's warranty....

Speaking of which, the door hisses open once more and Ada herself steps out, looking neat and completely composed. "Our apologies, sir," she says primly.

"Right," I say, "right.... Right, I'm not dealing with this. You know what? You two are grown-ups, you work things out for yourselves. I'd suggest, just as a practical matter, that you, y'know, get a room next time. Just a suggestion."

"We would like very much to be assigned joint quarters," says Ada, and Ahepkur looks distinctly pleased by the idea.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. Go. Go now, and my blessings be upon you. I had some reason why I wanted to talk to you, but I've completely forgotten what it was, now. Go get a room before I come to what remains of my senses."

"Thank you, sir," says Ada, and she takes Ahepkur's hand, and they walk off together down the corridor, leaving me blinking in bemusement, or what would be blinking if I had two eyes.

First Saval's family turns up, then Tallasa's off on a date, then Tylha and Jhemyl start jerking me around, and now Ahepkur and Ada are... are.... Unbelievable. I think I need a very large drink and a lie down.

*/*assessing emotional state---
---noting reactions
---searching for appropriate response
---verbalization follows
---you and me both*/*

Unbelievable.

At this point my combadge goes beep. "Shohl to Grau." Tylha sounds serious. "Can you get back to the bridge, please, Ronnie? I think we have a situation."

Claws 2

My words: Rrueo-Captain, Rrueo-Thinker, owner and master of the NFV Anar

On Ferasa, names are earned. I started life as a nameless kit, would have stayed nameless had I not fought and thought and tried, always, to be noticed, to be worthy of note. In the end, I succeeded, I reached the point where others had to ask, "Who is the officer who has performed these meritorious acts?" and so a name had to be granted to me. Rrueo. I earned the right to be Rrueo.

But Klingons are born with names... and the judge, as he sits above the trial floor, robed and hooded, is one who has served with valour and distinction in his time. And so the Klingons came to trust his skill and his honour and his knowledge... and they took his name away and made him only a judge.

It is a strange topsy-turvy world these Klingons live in.

They are thronged around the trial floor, a muttering mass below us where we stand in the private viewing gallery. Shalo is beside me, her green Orion face carefully neutral. Behind it, her mind is as it always is, layer upon layer of masks of ice, illuminated from behind by the cold clear light of her self. She examines the coating on her blunt vestigial claws.

Below us, the prosecutor is opening his case. He still has a name, Ch'Gror of the House of Turlan, and he has a loud and hectoring voice.

"We will prove," he is shouting, "how the defendant is so lost to honour that she fled from a system of harmless pacifist farmers! How she destroyed honest Klingon warriors who sought to dispute her cowardly orders! How she has brought shame on the noble name of the KDF! We will prove all this and more, and we demand, in the name of honour, nothing less than her death!"

Held in a spotlight at the centre of the trial floor, my friend R'j Bl'k' says nothing. She is too far away for me to feel her mind, but I know her mind-tone well in any event; it is a bundle of dry sticks, kindling ready to flare at an instant into a blaze of insight - or violence.

"The court will no doubt hear," Ch'Gror continues, "the pathetic attempts of this creature to exculpate herself. We know that true Klingon warriors will pay no heed to her excuses! Yet, in the interests of justice, we must hear her lies, the better to refute them." He gestures dramatically at R'j. "Speak, then, creature. Let us hear what paltry excuses you can muster."

R'j's rasping whisper seems completely unmoved. "Where does the honourable prosecutor wish me to begin?" she asks.

Ch'Gror glowers. "It does not matter, creature."

"Then I will summarize the background for the court's benefit," R'j continues, unruffled. "Dahar Master Juregh and his forces were detailed to garrison Tiaza Zephora, the sole habitable world of the system designated DR-3771. I was assigned to Juregh's command for this mission."

"This is known," snaps Ch'Gror.

"Tiaza Zephora was colonized some three centuries ago by a group of Klingons who rejected the warrior ethos of mainstream Klingon culture," R'j continues, affecting not to notice the prosecutor. "They were left to their own pacifistic devices until military realignments in the Eta Eridani sector gave the system a certain strategic importance. Dahar Master Juregh was therefore assigned to bring these - people - back to their rightful place as citizens of the Empire. Resistance was not anticipated.

"On arrival at the system, we found, as we had expected, that the colonists had regressed to a pre-industrial agrarian society. We were unable to locate any significant population centres from orbit, so Dahar Master Juregh beamed down marine detachments as occupying forces. When those, too, were unable to find a planetary capital, Juregh beamed down himself, with command staff including myself and my officers, selecting the largest significant building we could find as our starting point."

Ch'Gror appears to be waiting for R'j to pause for breath. What he does not realize is that - with her eccentric respiratory system - she does not need to.

"Dahar Master Juregh expressed himself forcefully to the local inhabitants - this was, perhaps, understandable by this time. I felt obliged, nonetheless, to remind him of his duties towards conquered populations. The Dahar Master ordered me to return to my vessel, and of course I complied. Shortly thereafter, contact was lost with all personnel on the ground.

"The Tiazans - as it is convenient to refer to them - have grown slightly divergent from their initial stock, due to genetic drift and environmental influences. It was, therefore, possible to confirm, from orbit, that there were no Klingon life signs on the planet. Nor any of our auxiliary troops - Nausicaans, Gorn, Orions - only the Tiazans themselves. This fact clearly called for urgent explanation."

"But, instead, you fled!" Ch'Gror shouts.

"Not at this stage. In the absence of Dahar Master Juregh, overall command then passed to the next senior officer, General K'Kal of the House of Mordag. He ordered an immediate evaluation of the available data, and reached one conclusion from that - contact was lost with all of our ground forces, but not quite simultaneously. General K'Kal discovered that - whatever had happened - it happened only during the planetary night. None of our ground elements remained in contact past the hour of local sunset. Unfortunately, Dahar Master Juregh had sent most of our forces down on the planetary night side - for sound reasons of psychology. Usually sound, that is."

"You criticise your commanding officer?" Ch'Gror bristled.

"No. He was unaware of factors that turned out to be pertinent. There was no way he could have known. Am I to continue?"

"Proceed, creature. Proceed to the moment of your cowardice."

"I have shown none." For the first time, R'j seems to bristle a little. Beside me, Shalo purses her lips in consideration. "I will describe the subsequent events. K'Kal decided to commit forces to an exploratory mission on the day side of the planet. A decision which seemed eminently reasonable to me, I might add."

"I am sure the General's heirs are glad to hear it," sneers Ch'Gror.

The judge is saying nothing. I am not even convinced he is awake, or alive. He sits there motionless - his mind is of course shielded, and I can read no expression on his face.

"General K'Kal commanded the Vo'Quv class carrier IKS ParbIng. With this vessel and her consort the Wachboch, K'Kal began a low altitude sweep of the planet's northern continent, as soon as local day began in that location. Both carriers launched full wings of To'Duj fighters on approach.

"As each fighter approached within a range of one hundred and twenty kellicams from the planet's surface, though, it was instantly destroyed in a manner consistent with an uncontrolled warp core breach. General K'Kal did not change course in response to this event, and both carriers also reached a distance of one hundred and twenty kellicams, at which point they too exploded. There were no survivors from either ship."

"At which point," Ch'Gror shouts suddenly, "you usurped command!"

"S-s-s-s-s. I was the next most senior officer: I assumed command."

"You are not a regular KDF officer!"

"I was attached to Dahar Master Juregh's force in the normal manner and formed part of his chain of command. In a military context, one has authority or one does not; there is no middle ground. I had authority. I exercised it."

"To flee!" And there is triumph in Ch'Gror's shout. The judge is awake, after all: I see him lean forwards slightly.

"S-s-s-s-s. To retreat. It was clear that we were confronted with an adversary we did not understand. An adversary that had eliminated an entire ground force and a substantial component of our space force without - apparently - even exerting itself. The Empire had to be alerted to this new threat, and there was no merit in sacrificing more lives to it. Anyone with actual military experience -" R'j knows as well as I that Ch'Gror's military commission is purely honorary "- knows that retreat is sometimes a necessary expedient."

"So you claim!"

"I am an Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons - I speak no untruths, save in the seven permitted circumstances... of which this trial is not one. We could fight an unknown enemy and be destroyed, or we could withdraw and develop new plans which might lead to victory. I saw the latter course as the wiser."

"It is not the Klingon way!" But I can feel, in the air, the crowd in the galleries is not in sympathy with Ch'Gror's posturing. "What of the destruction of the IKS Dargar? Explain that, creature, if you can!"

"Captain D'Qad of the Dargar refused my order to retreat."

"He behaved as a true Klingon!"

"He refused a direct order. I instructed his first officer to execute him and take command. The first officer also refused." R'j smiles. "If you wish to accuse me of anything... accuse me of undue leniency, in giving the first officer that chance."

"You then opened fire on the Dargar!"

"Discipline must be maintained."

"Discipline?" But Ch'Gror has quite clearly lost the feeling of the crowd. Not that that matters. All that matters, in the final analysis, is the feeling of the judge. "You destroyed the Dargar! You murdered Captain D'Qad!"

"He wanted a meaningless death. I obliged him."

"You had no right!"

"I had command." R'j's whispering voice carries complete conviction.

"Enough." It is the judge who speaks now, and his words are like iron. "I have heard all I need."

---

"This was not handled well," R'j says.

"You were acquitted," I point out.

R'j makes a disgusted noise. But, then, she often makes strange noises. She leans back in Shalo's second-best guest chair, and relaxes a little. "Acquittal was a foregone conclusion," she says. "That was never my concern."

"It would have concerned you if you had been shot," I point out.

"Whether or not I was convicted was not the main problem," R'j says. "The problem is Tiaza Zephora, and that still remains. Moreover, because of this sideshow of a court martial, the Federation now knows it is a problem."

"The trial was held under conditions of strict military security," I say, more for form's sake than anything else.

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "And of course the Feds will not be able to penetrate that. Also, politicians are honest, and there are fairies at the bottom of your garden. Tell me, Rrueo, exactly when did you have your brain replaced with a litre of slurry?"

"Rrueo sees you are feeling well," I say. "So?"

The door of Shalo's quarters hisses open, and Shalo herself comes in. "I brought a bottle of bloodwine," she says, holding it up. "To celebrate."

R'j smiles faintly. "I am... gratified," she says.

"Also," Shalo adds, as she takes a seat, "to help us in our planning session."

"Rrueo would love to know what we are planning," I grumble.

"The higher echelons are unanimous," Shalo says. By which she means, of course, J'mpok has decided. "With the current military situation in Eta Eridani, even though Starfleet has been driven back out of several sectors, they still threaten our trade routes along the Dialosa Corridor." She produces a datapad and draws on it with one elegant green finger. "We need a secure military base to protect our interests in that region. Tiaza Zephora would have been well positioned...."

"It seemed a logical choice," R'j says. "The Tiazan colonists were, I suppose, something of an embarrassment to the Klingons... like a failure in the family. Something to be discreetly ignored."

"But, when the needs of the Empire made their world of renewed interest," Shalo says, "embarrassment was no longer a factor."

"I should have realized, of course," R'j says. "The absence of any significant population centres... even an agrarian economy requires centres of trade and exchange. I should have known it was not just an ordinary backwards farming world."

"Dahar Master Juregh should have known," says Shalo firmly. "Lessons should have been learned... from Organia, for example."

"In any case," says R'j, "the Feds now know, or will soon know, that Tiaza Zephora is held by a force capable of destroying a Klingon army, apparently without effort."

"Or a Federation one, presumably," I say.

"The Feds have not yet antagonized... whatever holds Tiaza Zephora." R'j's silvery eyes burn with the light of obsession. I can see sparks flying in the kindling of her mind. "We must know what it is. We must understand this enemy...."

"And defeat it?"

"Or even convert it to our cause," says Shalo. "The situation is fraught with both dangers and potentialities."

"Oh, like so many situations," I say. "So, now we will be in a race with the Feds to unravel this mystery?"

"That is what they will expect," says R'j.

I look at her. "And of course, you always do exactly what people expect."

R'j smiles thinly. "You grasp my meaning."

"What I have suggested," says Shalo, "and what has been approved... is that we co-operate with a Federation investigation. Once this is achieved, we may... ensure... that the investigation proceeds on our terms."

"It is easy enough to present this as a potential threat to Federation interests as well as ours," says R'j.

"Ah," I say. "Rrueo understands. As an Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, you do not lie, but you may adjust the truth....

"I do not lie, save in the seven permitted circumstances," says R'j.

"What are the seven permitted circumstances?" I ask.

"To deceive a sworn enemy," says R'j, "to comfort the sick, the dying or small children; to uphold the honour of a sworn friend; to prepare a pleasant surprise for a loved one; to hearten the fearful; to keep peace within a family; to simplify a complex truth for the slow of understanding."

I mull that one over for a moment. "Perhaps Rrueo is slow of understanding," I say, "but could those seven circumstances not cover, well, virtually anything?"

"Conceivably." R'j sounds almost amused.

"Well, then," I say, "what Starfleet officers can we contact, who are slow of understanding?"

"It is never wise to underestimate Starfleet," says Shalo. "But, if we cannot find foolish opponents, we can, at least, find ones whose capabilities are a known quantity...."

Claws 1

The sun was down on the horizon, and the first stars were beginning to gleam in the sky, when Nejje made her way down the hillside, through the fields, to the big farmhouse.

She wove her way between the big khala plants, as tall now as she was herself, and giving off the heady sweet odour that indicated they would soon be ripe. It looked like there would be a bumper crop this year, and Nejje smiled to herself, glancing up at the slowly deepening indigo sky.

Then she stopped. Then she started to run for the farmhouse, at full speed, brushing the plants aside as she ran. She flung herself up the wooden steps, through the intricately carved doorway, and did not stop running until she stood, panting, before Steadholder Sharm as he sat in his chair of state in the main hall. The kindly old man looked at her in astonishment.

"Nejje," he said, "whatever is the matter?"

"Stars," Nejje sobbed.

"Stars?"

"Stars." She found her breath. "There are extra stars in the sky, Steadholder, and they are moving -"

A chuckle came now from Magistrate Challad, who stood as ever by the Steadholder's side. "They are called meteors, or shooting stars, little one," the younger man said. "They are nothing to be frightened of."

"No," said Nejje, desperately, "no, I have seen shooting stars, and these are not like that!"

Challad frowned. "Then what are they like?" he asked.

Nejje gulped. She had a terrible feeling that everyone in the hall was staring at her. She opened her mouth to respond -

And then the doors to the hall crashed open, and the whole building echoed to the tramp of marching feet.

---

They were grim-faced men and women in heavy leather clothing, and they carried devices Nejje had never seen before. But the way in which they marched in left little doubt as to their intentions.

Challad stepped forward, shoving the Steadholder back as he took up his ceremonial blade. The protection of the Steadholder was part of the Magistrate's duties. He raised the blade -

One of the grim-faced men raised a hand in return, and the machine in it spat out a line of dazzling green light. The light touched Challad, and he glowed, glowed a terrible red-gold colour as if he were being consumed with fire. And then he was gone, completely gone, with only a smouldering spot on the floorboards to show where he had stood.

"Who commands here?" One of the newcomers was striding forwards, a bulky grey-haired man in a leather coat which reached to the floor. He was scowling, and he too held a killing device in one fist.

Sharm spread out his hands in a helpless gesture. "I am Steadholder here," he said. "We are a peaceful people - we ask you not to -"

"A peaceful people," the bulky man sneered. "Pitiful. I am Dahar Master Juregh, and this planet is now the property of the Klingon Empire. Defy us at your peril. Serve well, and we may permit you to live." He marched up to Sharm and brandished the killing device. "Steadholder. How far does your authority reach?"

"Ah," said Sharm, faintly. "From - from the river to the west to the topmost hill in the east -"

"Local," snarled Juregh. "I require the leaders of this world to surrender to my authority. Must I travel around every farmhouse on this planet to tell the occupants they are my slaves? Where is your central leadership?"

"We have - we have none - not in the sense you mean -"

"Then in what sense?" Juregh raised his hand and struck Sharm across the face. Nejje gasped as the old man fell back. "Talk, you old fool, or I shall begin by executing a hundred citizens."

"Sir." Another voice, now, a rasping whisper that seemed to cut across every other sound. "I beg leave to remind the Dahar Master of the Chancellor's standing orders regarding the treatment of conquered peoples."

Nejje looked towards the speaker, and stifled a scream. They were not all people - some of them were nightmares. The woman who had spoken wore leather clothing of a different style, and her face was green, the colour of ancient bronze, with silvery glowing eyes, and a strange bony growth on her forehead that held back a mane of green hair flanked by long, twitching ears. Behind her stood two outright monsters, one a giant scaly creature with the head of a lizard, the other man-shaped, but with a leathery demon mask in place of its face.

"Lieutenant General... Blek," Juregh said. "How very kind of you to remind me of my duties. And do you propose to curry favour with the Chancellor by telling him of my indiscretions?"

"S-s-s-s-s," said the woman. "The Chancellor is not to be bought with such small change. To issue a reminder is part of my duty, though."

"And you have discharged it," Juregh said. "You are not Klingon, Blek. You do not understand a warrior's rights, a warrior's needs...." He glanced at Nejje as he said that, and something about his look turned her blood to ice.

Surely, she thought, the sun was down? It had been on the horizon when she saw the moving stars.

"You have discharged your duty, Blek," Juregh repeated. "And you want no part in the coming... entertainments. Very well, you need take no part. Return to your ship."

The green woman looked as though she was about to protest... then she raised her wrist towards her mouth, and said into it, "Bl'k' to Goroke. Three to beam up."

And then she, and the monsters behind her, glowed red and vanished. It was not, Nejje thought, the same sort of vanishing that Challad had suffered... but the three monsters were just as indisputably gone. And, Nejje realized with a flash of despair, the monsters might just have been the only ones here who were on her side....

"Now then," said Juregh. "Let us discuss, Steadholder, how you will entertain your conquerors."

Nejje craned her neck, trying to see past the invaders, to look at the sky. The sun was down - it had to be down - it was down -

Nejje tried desperately to close off her mind to all the things that happened next.

---

In the morning, the people of Sharm's Steadhold took what remained of the ones who had called themselves Klingons, and carried them out of the buildings. Because the Klingons had acted so badly, Sharm's people did not bury the remains, but gave them to the farm animals to eat.

It did not take long. There was very little left.

Claws: Introduction

This is one where I've deliberately ignored the limitations of the STO game itself.  I've always been a fan of M.R. James eerie otherness, and of Stanislaw Lem incomprehensible aliens; Claws is a venture into that sort of territory, and also deepens the ongoing mystery of just exactly what did happen to Ronnie Grau during her various temporal misadventures.

This one uses two of my KDF characters, Rrueo and R'j Bl'k', as viewpoint characters.  Both of them present some challenges.  Rrueo, being a Ferasan, is also a telepath, and it turned out that her habit of idly scanning people's minds and constructing metaphors for them... was a handy way to illustrate other characters.  As for R'j Bl'k', well, both she and her entire species started out as throwaway jokes, so it was hard work to turn her into anything like a credible character.

(If you ever run into them in-game, it's worth looking up their character bios.  R'j's contains some more information on the terrifying Mlkwbrians, and Rrueo's... is just amusing.  Be warned, though: Rrueo is pretty normal in these stories, but in-game she speaks in lolcat, and that's what her bio is written in, too.)

Lit Challenge 25: First Mission

[This was an unofficial one, about our character's first day on the job... which struck me as a bit of a non-starter at first, because we already know what their first day was like, it was the introductory tutorial mission for the game....

Unless, of course, you happened to have a character available with a non-standard backstory.]

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Goshawk, NX-265

"I have command," I say, formally, saluting the heavy-set man before me.

"You have command, sir," Martin Hudson confirms with an equally formal salute. My new exec is a big man, with dark hair turning a little salt-and-pepper at the temples. Older than me... that'll take some management. "If you want to make a speech, sir, the podium's set up in the mess hall."

"Oh, hell, no," I say. "I haven't got time for all that malarkey. Just let me get to the bridge and meet my senior officers, will you?" There will be time to get to know my crew, and boring them all into insensibility with an I-am-conscious-of-this-honour-and-responsibility speech is so not my style. I think I can feel a wave of disapproval crashing over me from Commander Hudson, though, as he leads me to the turbolift. Not that I need to be led, I know my way round an NX-class starship by now.

"Why do they still call them NX?" I wonder aloud. "We've built more than two hundred and fifty of them, they've got to stop being experimental at some point. I should've asked Admiral Reed about it at that reception last night...." But Reed was busy nattering with a bunch of our Vulcan and Andorian allies, and anyway he doesn't need the opinions of the likes of me. Hudson says nothing. I start to worry a little. I don't really want an executive officer I can't get on with - having been a lousy exec myself, I know how much it makes a captain's job harder. Hudson is showing early signs of being a bad exec - maybe a different kind of bad exec from me, but still a bad exec. He has a definite passed-over-in-favour-of-this-young-hotshot look about him, and that's not good.

"Captain on the bridge!" And a whole bunch of people in blue coveralls stand up and salute. So I salute back, and say, "Stand easy, everyone. I'm Ronnie Grau, I'm in charge of this shebang, so let's get to know each other, shall we?"

Hudson makes the introductions. "Lieutenant Commander Nansen, head of engineering." A tall, solid, grey-haired man, Nansen looks dependable. That's a good thing in a chief engineer. "Subcommander Sunod, sciences." A slender Vulcan, wearing Vulcan diplomatic robes instead of Starfleet uniform, face frozen solid like any good Vulcan's. "Dr. Cholt." Round, smiling, Denobulan face, I can get along with Denobulans, this isn't so bad. "Lieutenant Hall, armory officer." She is plump, dark-haired, rather prim in appearance. Hope she's good. "Ensign Koslov, communications." Small, dark-haired, a little excitable-looking. He looks all right, though. "Ensign Lewes, helm and navigation." She has jet-black hair maybe one shade darker than her skin, and her eyes are brown, steady and level; she projects an air of competence. Let's hope it's justified.

"OK," I say. "We're going to have plenty of time to find out more about each other - first job we've got lined up is taking us out past 61 Cygni, our Tellarite buddies have some problem they want Starfleet to look into." I plump myself down in the command chair. It feels surprisingly comfortable.

"Details, sir?" asks Sunod.

"Don't have 'em, yet. Our first step will be to check in with the Tellarites and get the gen from them. After that, it'll be command conference time, and we'll work out a plan of action. OK, then. Let's open this baby up, point her in the direction of Tellar, and see what she can do." Enthusiastic grin from Koslov, slight smiles from Nansen and Lewes. Engineering and helm both want to show me their stuff, this is good. Hudson's face is blanker than the Vulcan's. Not so good.

"Sending departure clearance request to space traffic control," says Koslov. Oh, right, I knew I was forgetting something. I got into too many bad habits during the Romulan war.

"Thrusters ahead full," Lewes reports. "Impulse engines on standby... clearance received... we're good to go, sir."

"OK," I say. "Ahead full impulse. Stand ready for warp drive as soon as we reach system limits." I've warped out from low Earth orbit before, granted, but it rattles your teeth.

The docking cradle dwindles in the reverse angle viewer. I hear tell they have plans, somewhere, for an enclosed spacedock, a massive orbital structure that'll house dozens of ships. Sounds ambitious, and maybe impractical. I check the readouts on the command chair's armrests - all this built-in instrumentation, I'll grant you, is a good idea.

"Proceeding on departure vector," says Lewes.

"Sensors are clear," says Sunod, then, "Wait. I have a contact at extreme range."

Now that's interesting. There's a fair amount of traffic in Sol system anyway, granted, but space is big - there's no reason for anything out there to be getting in our way. I sit forward a little bit. "Get me a read on it."

"Configuration and power levels suggest... a warship. Close match for an Andorian design," says Sunod.

"Confirm that, sir," says Koslov. "I'm getting a transponder ID... IGV Charal. Sir, they're hailing us."

"OK, let's see what they've got to say. On screen." I lean back again.

A blue face forms in the main viewer, a fierce face, topped with twitching antennae. "I am Commander Ythav th'Shal of the Imperial Guard," he announces himself.

"Pleased to meet you," I say. "Captain Veronika Grau of the USS Goshawk. What the heck, call me Ronnie, everyone does. So what can we do for the Imperial Guard?"

Th'Shal leans forward, so that his face fills my screen. "You can die, Grau. By clan-honour and clan-right, I invoke justice upon you. Commend your soul to whatever gods you serve, Grau, for your life ends today."

The screen goes blank. "Sir," says Sunod, "the Charal has powered weapons and is moving on an intercept vector."

Aw, cripes. "OK," I say, "let's not panic. Let's go max evasive, and power up weapons, and oh, yeah, red alert. Koslov, can you get a priority message through to Starfleet Command?"

"Trying, sir," says Koslov, "but the Charal seems to be jamming on all frequencies." Oh, well, no surprise there. I try to remember what I know about the Charal. Variant on the Kumari design, I think, with a chunkier fuselage and more of a tech and operations bent... but with the same nasty weapons mix as the Kumari. I do not want to be in that ship's forward firing arc, it will be bad for my health.

What the hell did I do to offend the Andorians? Though that guy th'Shal did look vaguely familiar.

"Charal will be in effective weapons range in three minutes," Sunod warns me.

"Right," I say, "so let's try and keep him ineffective. Run evasion pattern Theta, try to get on his flanks, stay out of the firing solution for his forward cannons."

"Do we return fire?" asks Lieutenant Hall.

"If fired upon - oh, hell, yes."

"The Andorians are our allies, sir," says Hudson.

"Tell him that," I say. "Actually, that's a thought. Koslov, transmit the Articles of Federation at him on every channel you can manage. It might remind him of his treaty obligations, or bore him into a coma. Either would be good." I swear I can see the Andorian ship on the main screen, now, a dot of light zooming across the starscape. "Lewes, start that evasion pattern, now."

Time is on my side. Every minute I can stay alive is a minute in which Earth forces can spot what's going on, can scramble more ships to intercept, can help me. The Andorians are our allies, I don't want to kill that ship if I can possibly help it. Something is very wrong here, though. I key the intercom. "Attention all crew," I say, "this is Captain Grau. We are under attack by an Andorian ship, claiming clan-honour as a pretext. If anyone here might have offended an Andorian clan in any way, let me know now. I'm not suggesting handing anyone over to them, but if we can find out what's causing this, it might give us some way to negotiate. Lines are open. In the meantime, stand ready at battle stations, people, this could get rough."

"Charal is firing, sir," says Sunod. At extreme range: little blue-white flashes of hot Andorian phaser light stippling the starfield. "Impacts registering. Minimal damage, taking hits from their turrets only." Lewes is flinging the ship around in a random-walk evasion pattern, staying out of the deadly cone of fire from the Charal's main cannons. So far -

A bluish light comes probing towards us. "Polarize the hull plating!" I snap.

"Sir," says Hudson, "we have shields now."

"Polarize the hull anyway. Let's make assurance doubly sure, and besides, he's trying for us with a tractor beam." Everything seems unnaturally peaceful. The inertial dampeners are compensating smoothly for Lewes's manoeuvres, and the light hits from the Andorian's turrets aren't shaking us at all....

"Polarizing hull," says Nansen. "Ah, right. The graviton potentials cancel out, a tractor beam can't lock on a polarized hull." I don't know where I remembered that bit of information from, but I'm damned glad I did.

"Something is wrong," says Koslov. "Standard Andorian honour challenges follow a set stylistic pattern -"

"Not now, Ensign," says Hudson.

The screen flares as the Charal's tractor beam gropes ineffectually over us. The Andorian is close enough to see, now; stubby bullet-shaped hull and wide wings, like some fighter plane out of Earth's past. But this is now, and the Charal is no little atmospheric fighter, but a starship - a fully armed, and very nimble starship, as she shows by slewing round in a tight turn -

"Hard to port!"

Goshawk twists and turns, just - just - eluding the sudden barrage of phaser fire from the Charal's forward cannons. Lewes is cursing under her breath. Th'Shal is smart, and his ship is fast and agile. We are not going to be able to keep out of his arc of fire for long.

My arc of fire is wider; I check. Hall is returning fire with the phase cannons, but if they're having any impact on the Andorian ship, I'm sure as heck not seeing it.

We need an edge, somehow, somewhere, and we need it now. "Steer three one seven mark two zero," I say. Turning wider, to buy us a little more space, a little more time. "Lewes. Flirt with him."

"Sir?"

"Try and stay just outside the arc of his cannons. Make him think he can hit us if he tries hard enough."

"He might very well be right, sir," says Lewes. "That guy's good."

"Don't I know it. The psycho-smurfs always were.... What the hell did I do to get this guy mad at me?"

"Do you recall anything?" asks Sunod.

"No. Though I'm sure I've seen him before. But I don't know where." Blue-white phaser bolts spatter across the sky again. A warning light flashes on my readouts. Shield strength is falling.

"Flirting, sir," says Lewes. "But that was no love-tap."

"OK," I say. "Flirt some more... then, next time he lets go with a barrage, fake a cripple. Make him think he's winged us. After which -" I sketch out a path on the tactical repeater. "I want this."

"Can do, sir," says Lewes. "Assuming he doesn't cripple us for real."

"Nansen. Full power to shields, everything you can spare for RCS thrusters. Never mind the phase cannons, they're not hurting him any." And I don't know why that is, either. "Hall, leave weapons systems for the moment... concentrate on one thing. The grappler."

"Charal is coming around!" yells Lewes. "Cannons building - firing now!"

"Do it!" I yell.

Goshawk slews and tumbles in space. The starfield swirls vertiginously in the viewscreen. The lethal shape of the Andorian looms up, suddenly closing for the kill. I pray that Lewes has swung us on to the right vector, that Nansen has pumped enough reserve power into the RCS arrays -

"Now!"

My ship steadies and leaps forward, Andorian phaser fire blazing harmlessly over her as we duck beneath the oncoming Charal and move in a tight, tight turn.

"Grappler now!"

"Grappler away." A slight shudder, as the grappling hook shoots out of our hull. "Running," says Hall, "running... impact... and locked. We're locked to the Charal's rear engine assembly."

"Awright," I say with satisfaction. "Lewes, keep the tension on the line. Hall, now's time for the phase cannons. Take out those rear-mounted turrets."

And we'll be safe, at least for long enough. With Goshawk grappled tightly to his rear quadrant, th'Shal can't turn his ship tight enough to bring that lethal forward armament to bear. And he can polarize his hull till the cows come home, it'll make no difference to the claw of the grappler. We've bought ourselves time, and time was always on our side.

Damage lights wink at me. "Hall," I say irritably, "take those turrets out." Fire from the Andorian is still weakening our forward screen.

"I hit them," says Hall. "I'm sure I hit them... setting up for another barrage, sir."

"Hold on," I say. Something is wrong here... and, all of a sudden, I think I know what is wrong.

"Koslov," I say. "You were saying something about the Andorian honour challenge?"

"Uh, yes, sir," says Koslov. "They have - they are always specific, sir. About the cause of the offence, whatever it might be - they always state it, sir, explicitly, so there can be no argument."

Click, click, click, goes the row of dominoes falling inside my head. "Still registering hits from their weapons," I say. "Lieutenant Hall. Put a stop to that, please. Target their engine section, all phase cannons, maximum fire."

Hall's head snaps round towards me. As does every other head on the bridge. "I know what I'm doing," I say. "You have your orders. Fire."

I'll give her credit, she doesn't hesitate. Hudson looks like he'd like to say something, though. "Opening fire," says Hall. "Target's shields dropping... registering damage.... Sir, the Charal is... is destroyed. Warp core breach."

I smile, then. "Mr. Koslov," I say. "Hail the Charal."

"We just destroyed the Charal!," says Hudson.

"Did we?" There's a couple of things that prove I'm right; I name the most obvious one. "Then what's our grapple still locked on to?"

"Hailing," says Koslov. He looks utterly bewildered. "Sir, I'm... I'm getting a response."

"On screen."

Ythav th'Shal looks as though he's sucking lemons. "Nicely done, Captain Grau," he says. A beast, but a just beast.

"Thanks," I say. "Can we have the computer codes, now, to bring our weapons out of simulation mode? And give my regards to Admiral Reed, will you? I guess you cooked up this little tactical exercise at the reception last night?" I knew I'd seen him before.

"I did tell him," th'Shal grumbles, "that the simulation wouldn't be good enough to fool an experienced combat commander. We had a little bet, even - he thought you would trust your instruments too much, that you would not notice the lack of impact from our bolts, the absence of transient EM surges in your power grid. Well, I have won that bet, I should thank you for that, at least...."

"Good," I say. "And for whatever it's worth, Commander, I'm damned glad it was a simulation, because I for sure do not want to be up against your ship for real."

Th'Shal laughs. "It is best if we're on the same side," he says. "I won't trouble you further, Captain Grau. Good luck on your voyage to Tellar."

"Thanks. OK, folks, release grapple, stand down from red alert, check those computer codes... and let's be on our merry way." I sink back into the command chair. "Whatever the Tellarites throw at us, I'm damned sure it can't be anything worse than Admiral Reed's little surprises...."

Lit Challenge 24: Nightmares

[Nightmare Anomaly

On an exploration mission into unknown space, you and your crew have stumbled upon and been caught in an uncatalogued, unusual anomaly that reaches into a theorized previously unknown layer of subspace that cannot be entered by physical matter. Exposure to this phenomena though has been causing hallucinations and nightmares to occur to your crewmen, with the exception of Photonics and Androids among your crew. Write a log of how your crew dealt with these nightmares, and how you either made this anomaly safe, or possibly closed this anomaly so it would harm no one else.]

Personal log: T'Laihhae i-Kanai tr'Aellih, officer commanding RRW Messalina

It looks like a veil, a strand of filmy substance drawn over the sky. At first glance, perhaps, a fragment of a filamentary nebula... but only at first glance. The sensor readings confirm what the eye next suspects: a web of flickering energies, spread through space.

"It's... weird," Zdanruvruk rumbles, his Reman face screwed up into a truly forbidding scowl.

I lift an eyebrow at him. "I was hoping for something a little more precise, from my science officer."

"Might have to wait, sir." Zdanruvruk is unrepentant. "There are energy processes going on here that I've never seen before. Looks like that thing is partly anchored in a layer of subspace that's not normally accessible... not usually detectable, even. There are sub-elementary particles moving across the dimensional boundaries...." His small eyes are intent on the console display. "Could almost be some sort of pattern to it... maybe. If there is, it's very complicated."

I lean back in the command chair and think. The freighter convoy that reported this - whatever it is - were hurrying on their way to help the reconstruction efforts in Alpha Centauri sector space. They had neither the time nor the equipment to investigate. We have both... if I decide it needs investigation.

"Very well," I say. "We'll hold station at current range until you've gathered enough data for a full analysis."

"That could take a while," Zdanruvruk says. At the helm console, Aitra says nothing, but brings the Messalina to a dead stop, the massive adapted battle cruiser hanging in space with her tines pointed towards the anomaly. "A long while," the Reman adds. "Sir, I need to talk to the whole of science section - we're going to have to work out a serious study programme for this thing. Just pointing the scanners at it and recording activity - isn't going to do the job."

"Well," I say, "you're the expert. Let me know what you need."

---

I run towards the console, and I do not move fast enough, and it explodes, blinding light and roasting heat striking me full in the face, and I die.

I run towards the console, and the deck tilts beneath my feet, and I slide, helpless, towards the rent that has opened in the hull, and the rushing gale of escaping air carries me with it into space, and I die.

I run towards the console, and the ceiling above me shatters, falling metal shearing into me like axe blows, and I die.

And I freeze, and I burn, and I suffocate, and I die.

Over and over again, a thousand different deaths.

I die. At Priyanapari. I die.

I wake out of the nightmare, trembling. The lights in my cabin come up automatically. I look around the familiar surroundings, calming myself, reassuring myself. After a moment, I slip out of bed and begin to dress.

Priyanapari. Why would I dream of Priyanapari?

I do not even know what happened at Priyanapari. In a sense, nothing did happen at Priyanapari... the timeline of events there was closed off, abolished, aborted by whatever Thyvesh and I did. Thyvesh, his brain sensitized to chroniton fields, perceives alternate timelines to some extent. I have no such ability. All I know is, he has helped me, from where he lives in hiding - and I will help him, if I can. But, to me, the events between my escape from the Romulan empire, and my arrival at Virinat... are a blank. A blank that, somehow, involves the star system of Priyanapari.

Where I died. I shiver. I might well have died, for all I know... before the aberrant timeline corrected itself.

Fully dressed, I head for the bridge. Zdanruvruk is there already: I wonder if the Reman ever sleeps. He scratches one ear and grunts at me, his mind on his work. I settle myself in the command chair. I decide not to bother Zdan while he's working, but concern myself with the never-ending administrative trivia of command for a while instead.

"Too bright," Zdanruvruk says suddenly, and shakes his head.

"What is?" I ask.

"Sorry, sir. Just a random thought...." The Reman looks at the main viewscreen, at the enigmatic filmy thing filling it. "I'm not sure...."

"Not sure of what?"

"How much good we can do here. Whatever that thing is, it's complicated. We might be better off sending specialist science vessels - borrow some from the Federation, the Feds are good at that sort of thing. Serious science types might get more out of it than we can.... Besides," he adds, "it's too bright."

"How do you mean, too bright?" Reman photophobia? How does it apply to this?

"I'm... not sure, sir." Zdan shoots me an apologetic, almost hangdog look. "I just look at it, and it looks... too bright."

I consider for a moment. He's probably right, in fact - a dimensional anomaly like this merits serious scientific study. Maybe it'd be better to get some real scientists out here, and find out where this rabbit hole leads to -

Priyanapari. The thought comes to me unbidden. I ask myself why, and suddenly I have an answer.

The events at Priyanapari are a secret, an ultimate secret. Concealed, not just from me, but from the universe itself. But if that thing's dimensional links lead out of this universe -

Then that secret might just be revealed. Is it a secret worth knowing? How to know that, unless I find out what it is?

"You might be right," I say to Zdan. "But we'll stick with it a little bit longer, I think."

---

I eat my mid-day meal in the main commissary. Normally, it is a bustling, noisy place, but today the atmosphere seems quiet and subdued. I notice several people with bloodshot eyes and haggard expressions. Was I not alone in having nightmares, last night? I am pensive as I make my way back to the bridge.

I stop in the doorway as I enter. Zdanruvruk is still hunched over the science console; the android, Ruby, is at main operations... but the chair at the helm is vacant. Now that is unusual.

"Where's Subcommander Aitra?" I ask.

"Unknown," says Ruby. Zdan just grunts. "He did not report for duty at the start of his shift. I was about to arrange cover," the android continues.

"Yes, do that," I say, absently. The careworn tactical officer is one of my most reliable people, it isn't like him at all to be absent from duty. I check the personnel computer. According to that, Aitra is still in his quarters. "I'm going to check on him," I say. "Ruby, keep an eye on things." The android nods in acknowledgment as I leave.

The door to Aitra's quarters fails to open as I approach. I frown, and touch my communicator. "Engineering. Get Subcommander Retar to my current location, please." Retar and Aitra are something of an item - if there's something wrong with him, she needs to know, and she may be able to help.

While I'm waiting, I key the communicator on the door. "Aitra? It's T'Laihhae. Are you all right?"

The voice that answers is almost unrecognizable. "You don't fool me, monster!"

Instinct warns me - I step quickly aside. The disruptor beam burns through the metal of the door in an instant, searing past me to spend itself on the opposite bulkhead. "Aitra!" I shout, from behind a solid stanchion.

"Monsters!" Aitra shrieks. He doesn't fire again, thank the Elements. At the other end of the corridor, I see Retar; there is obvious worry on the red-haired engineer's face. Beside her, a slight, waifish figure in tactical uniform: Ril'ell, armed with a heavy disruptor rifle.

"I think he thinks we're salt vampires," I whisper urgently as they approach, and motion to them to keep down, below the line of fire, as they cross the doorway towards me.

Retar swears. "He dreamed about Hfihar last night," she mutters. "I never thought it would get this bad.... Aitra!" she yells. "Aitra, it's me!"

"No!" Aitra shrieks. "Not you too! No!" Another blast from the disruptor rifle punctuates each phrase.

"This is hopeless," says Ril'ell. She raises her weapon, and there is a febrile, dangerous gleam in her eyes. "He's become a danger to the ship -"

"No!" And now it's Retar's turn to shout.

"See reason!" Ril'ell grabs the engineer's arm. "We can't let him -"

"Get your hands off me!" Retar's voice is a shrill blast of outrage. "Nobody touches me -"

Her fist lashes out, catches Ril'ell on the side of the jaw. I think the blow would have felled a Klingon warrior, but Ril'ell is tough, tougher than she looks. She rolls with the blow, comes up with her weapon raised -

"Stand down!" I snap at them both.

It makes Ril'ell pause, just a fraction of a second - just long enough for Retar to kick her gun out of her hands. Then the two of them are fighting, fiercely and viciously, hand to hand on the floor of the corridor, their screams of rage drowning out Aitra's cries -

Golden light flares around them both. The numbing corona of the stun beam jangles my nerves. My head spinning, I turn to see the Starfleet liaison officer, Commander Yousest, his phaser in his hand, his leathery triangular face unreadable as ever.

"Forgive me, Vice Admiral," he says, "but the situation seemed to call for it."

I catch my breath. "You're forgiven," I say.

Yousest walks up to the pierced and half-molten door. "I fear Subcommander Aitra is also beyond reason," he says. "If I recall correctly...." He opens a panel by the door's communicator.

"Ah," I say. The adapted battle cruiser's accommodation was designed as much with Tal Shiar test subjects in mind as conventional crew. Any one of the crews' quarters can be flooded with anesthezine gas as a safety measure. Yousest says, "We must take precautions ourselves," extracts a pair of breather masks from the security compartment, and hands me one. As we don the masks, he triggers the release for the gas. Aitra's shouting grows quieter, then stops entirely.

"He will need medical attention," says Yousest. "He is not alone - I regret to say that disorder and aberrant behaviour has broken out in several parts of the ship. Sir, I understand we are currently in close proximity to a subspace anomaly?"

"Yes," I say, my voice thick and distorted through the mask.

"Such anomalies have been know to have detrimental psychological effects on personnel. I could refer you to the appropriate literature -"

"No need," I say. "You think we should move away from it?"

Yousest nods. He looks down at the unconscious forms of Retar and Ril'ell. "I would suggest, as a matter of some urgency."

---

We make it back to the bridge without needing to use either guns or gas. I'm a little relieved at that.

Ruby is still there. At first, it appears no one else is. Then I make out a shape huddled under the science console.

"Sir," says Ruby, "the science officer appears to be incapacitated."

I step over to him. "Zdan -"

"Too bright," Zdanruvruk moans. "Too bright. Leave me be. Too bright."

I swear, and turn to the comms panel. I need someone here I can rely on -

So I punch in one code, and eventually a voice answers: "Rinna?"

"Tovan. It's T'Laihhae. I need you on the bridge."

"Rinna... Rinna, where are you...?"

"Tovan, we found her, don't you remember?"

"Rinnaaaaa...."

I switch off. Useless. And Hiven will be lost in thoughts of his brother, Veril of her father... I glance at Yousest. Sometimes, I feel very jealous of Starfleet, just because they can afford personnel who don't have so much - baggage. The alien's eyes are unreadable. Just like Ruby's metal ones.

"All right," I say, "so it's just the three of us. Well, the automatics are good enough for us to fly the ship by ourselves -" I reach for the helm controls.

With a dead woman's hands. Dead at Priyanapari, dead and frozen.

I blink, step back from the console. "What the -?" I square my shoulders, step forward, reach out again.

Dead, dead, dead. Withered and useless and dead.

"I can't -" I swallow hard. "I can't do it. I don't understand - Yousest. You're still in control. Try to -"

The alien reaches for the helm console, and his hand starts to shake. He stands there for a long moment, then his arm falls to his side. "Sir. My deepest apologies -"

"What is it?" What is he seeing, feeling - whatever? What is holding him back?

"The anomaly appears to be affecting me," he says. "My species has a deep-seated, one might say primordial, fear of - of desiccation. Dehydration. And whenever I reach for the controls -"

My eyes turn to the thing on the screen. "It doesn't want us to go."

"It's not a living being," Yousest protests.

"We don't know that! We've run into energy-based lifeforms before... and malevolent ones. Psychovores." It makes sense. "That thing is alive. And it's amplifying our fears... to feed on our pain."

"A hypothesis." Yousest sounds less than convinced. But he can't take the helm controls any more than I can.

"Sir," says Ruby. "Being inorganic, I do not seem to be as deeply affected as the rest of you. I can certainly take helm controls... but...." She peers around in a very lifelike way, her face looking troubled around her metal eyes. "I do not see that I can physically fulfil all the necessary functions single-handed."

She's right. Messalina's automated systems are good - but not that good. A single person, even a highly sophisticated robot, can't fly an adapted battle cruiser.

"Maybe we can rig something up," I mutter desperately. "Some way to handle all the control functions -"

"Possibly," says Yousest. "But, sir, I doubt we have time, before we incur significant crew casualties."

"We have breathers. And Ruby doesn't need them. Flood all decks with anesthezine gas."

"That is only a stopgap measure," Yousest says, but he moves to comply.

He's right. We need an answer fast. And, with a sudden sick certainty, I realise that I have one.

"Machines," I say, as the gas hisses quietly into the air around us. "We need to be machines, like Ruby... machines that don't feel pain or fear. Machines that can execute a programmed task, quickly and efficiently, without being distracted."

"That would be useful," says Yousest mildly. "But, sir, I fear that you and I are not machines."

"But we can be. With Ruby's help." I inhale deeply, dragging air through the breather. "This is an adapted battle cruiser. That means we have a supply of the Borg nanovirus."

---

Main engineering should be a giant echoing space built around the ceaseless spinning of a singularity core. Instead, it's a small room full of conduits, lit by the baleful green pulsing of the Borg warp core. Ruby is approaching one of those conduits now, her mechanical hands moving with infinite care and precision.

"The Tal Shiar experimental records give us methods for culturing a limited form of the Borg nanovirus," I say. "Like a - a killed-virus vaccine. It wouldn't protect us against the actual Borg assimilation process, but it might... it might give us a chance to form a neural link with the ship's computers. Like, like the neural linkage Vice Admiral Grau used on Vulcan -"

"The risks are considerable," says Yousest. I didn't realise his species was that given to understatement.

Ruby has applied a medical injector to one conduit: her eyes are lit by the green glow. Steadily, remorselessly, she withdraws a fluid into the injector. "I have the appropriate Tal Shiar data downloaded now," she says. "I believe this approach may prove successful. Commander Yousest is correct, though, the risks are substantial."

I look at the unconscious forms of the engineering crew. Dellis, the big blonde technician, is lying closest to me. Her arms are green and raw and bleeding, as if she has scraped away chunks of her skin. The Tal Shiar threatened her with Elachi conversion, I remember; perhaps it is that contamination that she fears. She will recover - if she gets help soon enough.

"We have to take the chance," I whisper. I don't know if it's even intelligible through the breather mask.

Ruby seems to understand, though. She is busily entering data into a console, connecting the injector to it. After a while, the contents of the injector begin to glow with a dim, white light. Not the baleful green of the Borg... perhaps this is grounds for hope.

"If the Tal Shiar data is correct," Ruby says, "this will infiltrate a humanoid nervous system sufficiently for a resonance effect with the Messalina's Borg bio-neural systems." She pauses, then adds, "Another conscious moderator must be brought in to prevent the Borg systems taking full control. Since I am the only functional candidate for that role, I must be part of this experiment too."

I force another deep breath through the respirator. "Do it."

"Sir," says Yousest, "are you sure?"

"No. Do it."

---

*/*assessment commencing---
---
---unregistered collective comprising entities: 4
---integration commencing
------15%
------36%
------47%
------61%
------88%
---complete

---1/4: motile organic
---2/4: motile organic
---3/4: motile cybernetic
---4/4: motile cybernetic large scale

---processing preprogrammed instructions
---dimensional anomaly in proximity
---dysfunction affecting units: 1/4, 2/4
---excessive threat to collective, implement countermeasures
---4/4 deflector array emitting graviton pulses ***parameters appended
---supplement graviton pulses with disruptor fire from beam arrays ***parameters appended
---working
---working
---working
---countermeasures implemented
---dimensional anomaly disrupted
---unable to determine if anomalous threat/entity destroyed or merely damaged
---withdraw collective from locality
---4/4 drive systems engaged
---4/4 in transwarp
---no dimensional anomaly detected
---preprogrammed sequence complete

---instructions received: additional preprogrammed sequence
---cancel cancel cancel
---implement main directive: assimilate other motile organics within 4/4 into collective
---cancel cancel cancel
---implement additional preprogrammed sequence
---authorised 1/4
---rejected 4/4

1/4: override---command functions devolve to 1/4
4/4: reject---command functions devolve to collective as a whole
3/4: support 1/4
4/4: dissension contrary to collective function---implement main directive
1/4: denied---collective has new directives
2/4: dissension indicates collective is not succesful
3/4: concurs 2/4
4/4: collective can succeed
1/4: collective has served purpose---override---implement additional preprogrammed sequence
2/4: concurs 1/4
3/4: concurs 1/4
---collective terminating
---collective viral agents self-terminating
---return collective members to base state for use in further experimentation
---termination sequence initiating
4/4: so this is what it was like to be alive
*/*

I struggle back to normal consciousness on the floor of Main Engineering, fighting hard not to vomit into the breather, my vision blurred, my head aching.

Beside me, Two of Four - no, Yousest, his name is Yousest - clambers to his feet. His eyes are haunted.

"Self testing complete," Ruby says. "There appear to be no permanent after-effects."

I find it hard to meet Yousest's eyes. "Did we succeed?"

"The anomaly was disrupted," says Ruby. "We have escaped from its immediate vicinity.... It is impossible to say whether the anomaly was destroyed or not. We should probably mark that area as a potential navigational hazard."

"Quite," I say. "And we must... never do that again."

"We escaped by the narrowest of margins, sir," says Yousest. "The limited disagreement that we were able to create... must have convinced the nanovirus's quality controls that our collective was not successful. So, it... liquidated itself."

"Yes." I draw in a shaky breath. "There must have been any number of unsuccessful tests, before the Collective established itself...."

Before a will emerged from the interplay of minds inside the collective, a will born of the neural connections themselves, a will capable of silencing dissension and disagreement, of bending the whole mental power of the collective to its own purposes....

The Borg Queen.

"Sir," says Yousest, "above all, if we ever try that again, we must not succeed."

---

The medics have created a nauseating mess for me to drink, a cocktail of chelating agents that will bind with the heavy metals and complex organic detritus left by the decomposing nanovirus in my system. I sip it gloomily as I sit in the command chair and watch the stars speed by.

I hope organic detritus is all that is left. I fear, though, that the experience has marked me... and Yousest, and Ruby... and perhaps even Four of Four herself, the Messalina. Does my ship regret not being alive? Does she resent what I did?

I fear I may simply have exchanged one nightmare for another.

But at least my crew is safe. Zdanruvruk is back at the science console, looking as sheepish as a Reman can. And Aitra is watching me with those careworn eyes of his, as I sip the drink.

"Sir," he says, "what... what was it like?"

I take another sip. "Story for another time, Subcommander," I say. "Very definitely, a story for another time."

Heresy 61

Tylha

Samantha Beresford has injected me with about a bucketful of drugs. Not just hyronaline for the radiation, but anti-toxins for the fumes when Storm Command burned, and half a dozen agents for adjusting my neuro-chemistry after the pounding my nerves took in Bresar's mindscape. And she made me sleep on the flight back from Vulcan, and she wants me to sleep now.

For that matter, I want to sleep now. I feel woozy and nauseous and very, very tired. But there is so much to do -

So I sit at the desk in Experimental Engineering, and I try to sort out the most important things.

The Tellarite, Slett, at least kept things moving while I was off the station. But there is still a mammoth job to do on the repairs... and our communications still need disentangling. I have about six dozen conflicting high-priority requests in front of me, and I have to work through them all, and still find time for essentials of my own. Like the series of debriefings on the whole wretched business, or the board of inquiry where I'll have to defend the hapless Captain Willis over the loss of the USS Marengo....

Of course, my problems are the same as everyone's. The sudden appearance and equally sudden crash of the Hegemony of Bresar has left a monumental mess, everywhere....

The disruption of Starfleet's communications left us exposed against the Klingons, and the KDF took full advantage. The hard-fought salient at Aznetkur has, finally, collapsed. T'Nae and Paul Hengest and many others managed to salvage something from the ruins, though - the Klingons didn't claw back all their territorial losses after the Bercera business. And what they did re-take, they paid for. In blood, for every cubic centimetre of space.

The repercussions of the Hegemony will still be felt across the Federation. There were many, many deaths on both sides in the battle of Andoria, and those losses are keenly felt. Chancellor th'Oziph, though, has agreed to a deal with the provisional Vulcan government - now that the Hegemony's leadership is dead or imprisoned, a blanket amnesty will be granted to everyone else involved. It's the right thing to do - it galls my Andorian instinct for clan-honour and blood-vengeance, but it is the right thing to do.

There will be a coolness, though, in Vulcan-Andorian relations until the rift heals... and we need that healing. We still have the matter of the hundreds of thousands of Romulan refugees accepted into Vulcan space under the Hegemony's aegis. And we owe Obisek and the Romulan Republic for their help... and that is an edge of worry for me, too, because they are our allies, but not necessarily our friends.

And events in Romulan space are... turbulent. The loss of the Hegemony fleet has left the Tal Shiar resurgent, taking back their losses with brutal efficiency. Valikra's home system of Porruma is the last holdout, and it is under daily bombardment by Tal Shiar forces - they will send in an occupation force soon, though there may be very little left to occupy. But to mount this military operation, the Tal Shiar must have sold itself further into bondage to the Elachi and their shadowy Iconian masters....

And there are other fronts, the Borg and the Dyson Spheres, the terrorist resurgences in Cardassian space....

It is all a big mess, and we need to clean it up. We need to pull ourselves together, to heal from this. We are wounded, and we can't go on being wounded.

And dealing with all these urgent engineering requests is - a very small step in the right direction. I sigh heavily and start putting the PADDs into some sort of order.

It takes a moment for me to register that the office door has hissed open. I look up.

"Vice Admiral Shohl." Admiral Semok is standing in the doorway. He is blinking, and looking - for a Vulcan - distinctly embarrassed. "Ah," he says, and stops.

We need to heal. Let it start here, in a small way. I stand up, and give him my best military salute.

"Welcome back, sir."