Noonday Sun 5

T'Pia

Subcommander Kaol is a typical piece of Romulan misdirection.

People assume that the commanding officer of Alliance Joint Command must be of high rank - they therefore assume that this harassed-looking officer of intermediate rank is only a representative of higher command, and merely passing on decisions arrived at by some superior body. They do not, therefore, argue with or question Subcommander Kaol, since it is not worth their time to deal with a mere representative.

Of course, Kaol is largely responsible for the whole of Joint Command's policy, and he has the shortest chain of command of any subcommander in the Republic Navy - he reports to Admiral Kererek, who reports to D'Tan. It is an enviable arrangement - I could wish that I, too, had so few superiors. Persons who try to assert authority over Kaol - to "pull rank" - are referred up to his immediate superior. This rarely works as well for them as they might wish.

Now, Kaol taps on his desk console, and an image of the sphere forms in his holoprojector. I lean forwards in my chair to study it closely.

A pulsing green dot marks a spot on the interior surface. At this scale, there is no meaningful detail to be seen. The location is some millions of kilometres from the spire appropriated by Joint Command, and well outside the - optimistic - boundaries of the area we have surveyed in detail.

"This is where the anomalous tetryon pulses originate," Kaol says. "So far, they are at relatively low power - but the tetryon frequency is unusual, and there appears to be some attempt to modulate it. Our experts are unable to decipher any meaningful information, but the mere fact of the modulation implies some sort of intelligent direction."

Someone, or something, is deliberately creating a tetryon pulse. I study the hologram. "That point is well outside our own area of operations," I say. "We cannot be absolutely sure about Voth explorations, but it is also outside the known extent of their territorial claims."

"Their defensible territorial claims," says Kaol. The Voth, of course, continue to lay claim to the sphere as a whole.... "The most likely inference is that some third party has gained access to the sphere, and is engaged in some experiments with the Solanae tetryon generators." He frowns. "Naturally, this is cause for concern. The power levels are comparatively low, so we need not immediately fear a repetition of the Solanae, ahh, mishap. But we need to investigate this situation, to find out who is generating this signal, and to, ahh, dissuade them from any incautious experimentation."

The disaster created by the Solanae's failed rift experiment devastated the sphere, significantly dimmed the central star, and contaminated the Solanae themselves with so much tetryon radiation they were unable to exist in normal space any more. As Kaol suggests, a repetition of this disaster would be... unwelcome. "What resources will you devote to the investigation?" I ask.

"We were certainly hoping," Kaol says, "that Starfleet would handle this one. The situation may call for diplomacy, and that is, ahh, Starfleet's forte, I think. Obviously, we also need experts in high-energy particle physics - I understand that is your background?"

"That is correct," I say. "The Tapiola can certainly be made available. It might be preferable, venturing into an unknown area, to have additional support."

"The Dauntless-class USS Timor has recently returned from a survey mission, and is, ahh, at a loose end, as far as my records indicate. Commanded by an Admiral M'eioi, whom I believe you know...?"

"Indeed. She was my junior in Stellar Survey Group 247 up until the Undine incursion, during which she distinguished herself and was promoted and reassigned. She is a competent officer with a suitable scientific background. Her assistance would be welcome, if you can obtain it."

"I will coordinate with your Director of Operations to -" Kaol suddenly looks past me, and stiffens. Something has alarmed him. I turn in my chair and look.

Kaol's "office" is no more than a section of a larger compartment - it is not even walled off, and there are always numbers of people around. At present, their attention seems to be monopolized by status screens displaying information about the local environment within the sphere.

I study those screens myself, and I understand why.

"If I am interpreting the visual data correctly," I say, "the ion stream appears to have shut down."

"That, ahh... would seem to be correct," says Kaol.

I stand up. "I will return at once to the Tapiola. You will require detail scans of the stream's waveguides. Also, this incident is liable to draw interest from other quarters, and it would be as well to be fully prepared."

"Yes," says Kaol in a blank voice. "Quite. Yes."

---

The ion stream is a conduit of exotic high-energy particles flowing through huge circular waveguides, hanging in the interior of the sphere, passing near Joint Command's spire. It has not been fully charted - like so many things - nor has its behaviour been fully explained. The idea that it is, in effect, a part of the sphere's power systems - like an EPS conduit inside a starship - does not bear closer examination; the ion stream generates many unusual energy effects, and we do not know how they could be used.

Usually, it generates many unusual energy effects. Currently, as Tapiola makes a cautious approach to one of the waveguides, it is generating nothing whatsoever.

"No signs of damage or malfunction." The Saurian science officer, Bildua, speaks in abstracted tones, as he tries to assimilate the data flooding into his console. Given that the waveguides are not currently operating, we should attempt to take detailed scans of them - something which is not possible while the energy stream is producing vast quantities of sensor noise. "It's just... shut down, I think, sir. We're getting a data signal which is consistent with Solanae comms chatter - I think it's just repeating 'standby mode', over and over."

"Patch that through to my command console," I say. "I want some warning if that changes. Mr. Psaz. Tactical report."

"Nothing yet," the Tellarite at the weapons station replies. "That'll change, though. Scanning on all Voth frequencies. I've got positions on allied ships in the vicinity - huh. One we know, nearby. Elachi Monbosh-class battleship with KDF privateer transponder. The Goroke."

"Excellent. General Bl'k' is a competent tactical commander, and her ship is a significant combat asset."

Normally, the Voth are deterred from probing too close to Joint Command by the minefield, an automated defence network... which, in fact, works rather better than it should. The minefield is vast, but it is, in the end, a fixed defensive line in a three-dimensional and unbounded strategic environment; such things are usually circumvented. It is, perhaps, a function of Voth rigidity of outlook, that they should respect a notional boundary line....

Most of the time. "Contacts bearing three eight seven," Psaz reports. "Here they come."

"I'm receiving a general hail." This from Pascale, the green-haired android at the operations console. "Putting it through -"

A craggy scaled face glares at us from the viewscreen. "This is Science Commander Katzik aboard the Madractis. This phenomenon is now a subject of study by the Voth Circles of Science. Mammalian vessels are to depart immediately. No further warnings will be given."

"This is Admiral T'Pia aboard the USS Tapiola," I say. "Intelligent cooperation in this matter will undoubtedly yield better results -"

The screen goes blank. To be honest, I did not expect otherwise.

"Mammalian," Bildua mutters. "I should take offence."

"Can't get a read on all the Voth," says Psaz. "They're throwing out some fierce sensor jamming. We've got a Bastion-class for sure, though, coming our way." He glares at me. "I don't think he's got intelligent cooperation in mind."

"I concur. Red alert. Battle stations. Ready all projection systems."

"Goroke is moving in," Psaz says, "but that cruiser will reach us first unless we go max evasive now."

Options flash through my mind. "Better to bring the Voth to action immediately," I decide. "Comms. Signal the Goroke and patch through tactical telemetry." I touch a control. "All hands. We are about to engage a Voth cruiser. Stand ready." My voice booms back at me through the Tapiola's internal speakers.

"Weapons range in two," says Psaz.

"Forward shields to maximum."

I have a visual. Against the blue haze of the sphere's atmosphere, the Bastion cruiser is a small, malevolent black blotch. A blotch that grows, and suddenly flares with red -

Tapiola shudders in the antiproton barrage. "Forward shield down thirty-five per cent!"

"All projectors, fire. Steer two seven two mark three, emergency evasive."

My ship shudders again with the fury of her own barrage. Tetryon fire from the forward blades, yes, but most of my energies are expended on more exotic weapons systems. Lines of light reach out from our hull, spread out, and shimmer into holographic warships, fuelled by energy from our warp core. Ahead of us, the Voth ship suddenly slows and trembles, caught in an induced gravity well - and then is surrounded by an icosahedral cage of golden light, as our Tholian web generators come into play. In the sphere's atmosphere, the web lines sparkle and crackle vividly.

The Bastion has tried a trick of its own, creating an energy-sapping spatial rift at our location - our desperate burst of speed tears us loose from it, just in time. My power levels are depleted, though, and the initial barrage took my shields down lower than I would like. But the Voth ship is temporarily trapped, and I have the opportunity to pummel it with tetryon fire and thermionic torpedoes. I have the opportunity, and I take it.

A thunderstorm of energies rumbles around the Bastion cruiser, and I see a brief flash of flame from a minor hull breach. Tapiola comes about once more, to present her substantial forward armament. Still, the Bastion is a larger and more powerful ship than mine, and the odds are not in my favour - or would not be, if I did not have support.

"Goroke is in range," Pascale reports. "Her auxiliary vessels are spoofing the Voth's sensors. General Bl'k' is targeting their engines."

"We will follow suit. Mr. Psaz. I find that cruiser's port nacelle aesthetically displeasing. Kindly remove it."

The Tholian web implodes, the mesh scoring deep grooves in the Bastion's hull - but releasing it, at the same time. Scarlet antiproton fire raves out from its every gun port. Tapiola shivers again, and there is a flash-bang from a secondary console as a transient surge is damped out in our EPS grid. Our combat holograms are firing, but the Voth ship's wide-area barrage has caught them and destabilized their matrices - they flicker and wink out of existence.

There is the grunt and whine of energy banks discharging below me. Cherenkov-blue light sears out from our blades, tearing at the stumpy rounded shape of the Bastion's port nacelle. And, on the other side -

The Goroke's approach should have been obvious, but the battleship is accompanied by her specialist auxiliary craft, and one of those is projecting a jamming beam that blinds the Bastion's sensors. Anyone looking out of a porthole, of course, could see the goat's-skull shape of the battleship - but it seems the Voth were not looking. Now, the first intimation they get of Goroke's arrival is a vicious blast of crescent-wave disruptor fire, virulent green light scything through the armour of their starboard nacelle. A vivid flash marks the impact of a subspace torpedo, at the same time as one of our own thermionics pierces the Bastion's failing shields and strikes home on the port side.

"Yes!" Psaz shouts in triumph. "Cruiser's drive is out! Shields dropping, power failing! We've crippled them!"

"Hail from the Goroke," says Pascale.

"On screen."

The face that appears in my viewer is dark green, thin and feral, with glittering silvery eyes, and a bony crest on the forehead that is remarkably similar in shape to the Goroke herself. R'j Bl'k's voice is a thin rasping whisper; her species has difficulty with vowel sounds. "Reasonably well done," she says. "But there is a problem. S-s-s-s-s. One of your ships has engaged the Voth's command battleship, range two fifty kellicams, bearing nine six. They will need immediate support, and we are closest."

"I see. Commander Pascale. Get me a channel to the Bastion." I look hard at R'j. "We must secure the situation here, quickly."

"I hope you do not plan to be overly sentimental. S-s-s-s-s."

"I have the Voth captain, sir," says Pascale.

R'j's face is replaced on the screen by another harsh reptilian one - perhaps not quite as ferocious as Commander Katzik's, but still not the face of someone easily amenable to reason. "Eject your warp core," I say.

The Voth glares at me. "I do not take orders from mammals!"

"I will rephrase. Please eject your warp core. Our attention is needed elsewhere, but we must ensure that your ship no longer poses a threat. If you eject your warp core, you will no longer pose a threat. If we open fire and destroy you completely, you will also no longer pose a threat. Please choose logically. I have no desire to inflict unnecessary loss of life."

The Voth captain's expression is - hard to describe. He turns and makes a gesture to someone off-screen. Seconds pass, and then something drops out of the Bastion cruiser's hull, to tumble off on a random course in the air of the sphere.

"Warp core ejected," the Voth says in a choked voice. Even if they restore auxiliary power, it will take many hours to retrieve and reinstall the core - by which time prize crews from Joint Command will have taken the ship in charge, in any case.

"I congratulate you on a sound decision," I say to the Voth, and close the comms channel before hearing his response. "Helm. Flank speed to the coordinates supplied by the Goroke. Reinforce shields, and give me status reports on urgent repairs."

The damage to Tapiola is insignificant, and Goroke was never touched. We remain fully functional and combat-ready. As I study the situation ahead of me, I am glad of that.

"One Pathfinder-class science vessel, USS Tempest," Psaz reports. "Voth ships - three Palisades and a Bulwark. Bulwark's got to be their command ship, the Madractis." He scowls. "Stupid names the Voth give their ships."

Palisade-class scout vessels are depressingly capable enemies - though Tapiola and Goroke should not be challenged too severely by three of those. The heavy Bulwark-class battleship, though, is another matter. Looking at the tactical display, I am amazed that the Tempest has survived as long as she has.

"That Pathfinder is luring them," R'j's voice says over the link to Goroke. "Your ship's commander is pulling them in like ll'hhyrst'ni after a gh'dr'st. But luring them where?"

"Hopefully, the Tempest will survive and we can ask them," I say. The Pathfinder-class vessel is showing several damage icons in my display, though. The Palisades are showing little damage, the Bulwark none at all. "Who is the commander of the Tempest?" I ask.

"Records indicate... Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon," Pascale answers. "Unusual. Tempest is a long range science vessel, but Rear Admiral Fallon is a tactical division officer."

Intriguing. However, my primary concern, when it comes to Admiral Fallon's personnel record, must be to make sure it does not end today.

"Signal the Tempest. Inform them that we are on approach to assist." I study the range display. We can see flashes of golden phaser light - and more vivid flashes of Voth antiproton weapons - but we are still a long way from effective weapons range. Especially in atmosphere - atmosphere is a problem anywhere near the interior surface of the sphere.

The Tempest dodges another barrage of beams from the Madractis. Fallon is clearly a skilled ship handler - but he cannot keep this up indefinitely. He is an experienced officer and he must know this. Logically, therefore, he must have a plan. But what is it?

"Five minutes to weapons range," Psaz reports.

The Tempest changes course. Ignoring the attack from the nearest of the Palisades, the Pathfinder loops around and through one of the ion stream's inactive waveguides, then dives out again, turning towards the surface of the sphere. The Voth ships turn in a curve to follow, but they are less nimble -

And I see Fallon's plan. I glance at an indicator on my console - something I had neglected, until now. Fallon must have something like it on his bridge.

The automated message from the waveguide has changed. "Hail the Voth," I order, "tell them to -"

I do not have a chance to finish before the ion stream turns itself back on.

The atmosphere is thin, here, but it still flames and glares with a million cracks of thunder all rolled into one. My displays white out in a burst of sheer noise. When they come back, I can see that Fallon's trap has worked, just as he evidently intended. The energy is flowing through the waveguides of the stream... and the Voth ships are squarely in its path.

The Palisade scout ships stand no chance; they glow and flame and vanish in the white-hot flashes of core breaches, and those explosions themselves are taken by the stream and stretched, endlessly, into the distance. But the Madractis -

The Bulwark's shields are failing, true, but they are still there, for the moment. The armoured hull - I do not know what is happening to it. Energy is bleeding through the shields, and there is still a soft vacuum within the stream - I am not sure if the hull is ionizing, or vaporizing, or oxidizing, or some combination of the three. I can see that it is glowing white, and seems to steam, almost, as the outer layers are ablated away.

Is there any way the crew can possibly survive? Escape pods would disintegrate in an instant. Transporter operations - I can only imagine what those energies would do to a transporter signal, and I would far rather not. Perhaps, if the Bulwark is capable of a subspace jump -

The ship's hull changes. Now, hairlike lines of light are shooting out of it, bristling in all directions. I repress a shudder. Energy is bleeding through the shields in greater quantity, and some of it is being refracted or reflected through the crystal structure of the hull. Random energies, blasting outwards - blasting in all directions, including inwards -

The ablation of the outer layer of the ship might keep its interior cool enough to survive in. Now, however, all the crew has to worry about... is a random barrage of plasma fire, coming out of the walls themselves.

The Madractis changes course, angling more steeply towards the boundary of the ion stream. It must be in response to some automatic mechanism. Nobody could possibly be alive on that ship now.

The shields finally fail, and the question is rendered irrelevant. Unimpeded by the shield, the stream's forces tear what remains of the Madractis down to nothing. There is a white glare as the core goes, and then the Voth ship is gone.

I find my voice. "Contact command. Establish the overall battle situation, find out if we are needed anywhere else." I swallow. "Then contact the Tempest. Offer any necessary assistance with repairs."

"Did he do that on purpose?" Psaz asks. I am not sure what emotion is in his voice.

"It seems most likely. An effective stratagem, certainly... not, perhaps, one I would have chosen." Whatever else, Fallon is clearly not concerned with minimizing loss of life. The Voth casualties will be... total. Not even bodies left to bury.

"Receiving strategic data across Joint Command occupied zone," says Pascale. "The Voth forces are withdrawing at high speed. We're reading three more cripples - Joint Command is sending prize crews - and our own losses seem to be minimal so far." She turns her metallic gaze towards me. "Do you think they ran because they lost the command ship, sir? Or just, well, because the ion stream came back?"

"It could be either," I reply. "If the latter, their action is... premature. There is still a mystery here."

The ion stream takes power. Petawatts of power, at least - power enough to blast a battleship into nothingness. For a time, all that energy was being - diverted. Energy does not simply disappear, and the abrupt cessation and equally abrupt reappearance of the stream... suggest, to me, that its generators, wherever they might be, were still running. But the power those generators create was... needed elsewhere.

Needed where?

Noonday Sun 4

The deck plates shuddered under Gavron Stannark's ponderous tread, and junior technicians and specialists scurried out of his way. Stannark looked down at them with a sort of benevolent indulgence. Once, he had been like that himself....

But that was many years ago, and the exercise of authority produced physical changes among the Voth. Dominance hormones flooded the bloodstream, darkening and reddening the skin, lengthening bone and bulking out muscles, until senior commanders like Stannark were immense, carrying with them the literal weight of authority: Voth Doctrine made flesh.

Stannark strode onto the bridge of the Gendratis, and settled himself on the command chair. Reinforced though it was, it creaked beneath him. His yellow-eyed gaze swept across the bridge of the Bulwark-class battleship. All seemed well.

"Status?" he asked.

"Ship is holding station at designated rendezvous point, one seven point five gigametres from central command," a lieutenant reported. Someday, Stannark reflected, they would have to rebuild central command - or move it to an intact spire. The treacherous Undine attack had interfered with Voth organization. "Ship is in readiness at alert level two. No hostiles on local or long-range scan." The lieutenant appeared nervous, though, somehow. "There is, ahh, as yet no sign of the Sartulphus...."

"Hmm." Stannark shifted his vast weight slightly in his seat, and stroked his chin in thought. His fingertips rasped on his scales. "Commander Varrotz is not often unpunctual. Signal command. Make enquiries."

"Yes, sir!" The lieutenant turned to a comms console. Stannark leaned back and thought. His ship was adequate, itself, for the planned investigation - but it would be useful to have the Bastion-class cruiser Sartulphus as a backup. What could be causing the delay?

He busied himself with routine reports and preparations. There was always much to do, and his ship was a model of correct organization and discipline. Stannark took great pride in his attention to detail.

The lieutenant at the comms console was joined by another figure, now: the dark and sinister shape of the Special Ops intelligence analyst, Davrak Karzis. Stannark looked down on the two, quizzically. Karzis bent his black-scaled head over the console, the ocular implants glowing blue-green in his eye sockets. Stannark frowned. If Intelligence was involved, something was amiss....

"We have reports from forward monitoring stations towards the primate incursion area." Karzis spoke in clipped and precise tones. "The Sartulphus detected a primate vessel and engaged it in a routine act of pre-emptive self defence. Unfortunately, primate treachery on this occasion overcame the Sartulphus's natural advantages, and the ship was damaged beyond utility. A repair vessel was activated, but it was intercepted and destroyed by another primate vessel. Any survivors are captives of the primates. I have additional information."

"Speak," growled Stannark. His benevolent mood was punctured. The primates had destroyed the Sartulphus? How dared they?

"Level three security. For the Commander's attention only," Karzis said.

Stannark muttered irritably and stood. "My office, then." He stomped off to the ready room, and the Spec Ops analyst followed silently at his heels.

"Well?" Stannark demanded, as the door hissed shut behind them. Karzis turned, checking the door seals, then stood at attention.

"We have intercepted communications traffic between the Federation ships involved in the action, and Alliance Joint Command. We have something of a picture of the individuals involved." He held out a datapad. "The senior officer, supposedly, is one Admiral M'eioi...."

"What sort of a name is that?" Stannark demanded. He took the datapad, studied the images. "What? This must be a deception... some servitor species, perhaps."

"Conceivably," said Karzis. "There have been incidents before where the primates have claimed to use feline species as officers of rank. I have heard reports concerning an 'Admiral Bobo', but I am unable to confirm any details of that one. This may be another of the same."

"It must be a front," said Stannark. "No furred primitive carnivore could command a starship. This is some mockery, some farce - the animal M'eioi is displayed for show, and there is a primate somewhere taking the real decisions. Do they think we are so easily deceived?"

"In this connection," said Karzis, "we should look at the other officer, the one primarily involved in the destruction of the Sartulphus. A primate, a human. One Commodore Daniel Fallon." He leaned closer to Stannark. "Intel analysis division has a file on this particular primate. He has drawn our attention... and this is another incident in his career. Comms traffic analysis suggests that this Fallon has acted deliberately to maximize loss of life among our people."

"What?"

"He has deliberately set out, not just to thwart our benevolent objectives, but to kill us," said Karzis. "He is consciously determined to destroy Voth lives. He has done so on this occasion, and it is not the first time."

"This is insupportable!" Stannark roared.

"Quite."

Stannark slammed his fist down on the desk. "Something must be done."

"Intelligence agrees," said Karzis. "In this context, I note something which touches on our current mission. The Circle of Particle Physics has an interest in the anomalous tetryon pulses we are to investigate -"

"How does this bear on the matter of the primate Fallon?"

"Our physicists have entertained certain conjectures, relating to the tetryon pulses and the historical catastrophe which overwhelmed the Solanae interlopers within the sphere," said Karzis. "They have, indeed, devised a mechanism which might take those anomalous pulses and use them to re-create that catastrophe - on a smaller and more manageable scale." Karzis's eyes were unreadable behind the ocular implants, but there was quiet satisfaction in his voice as he continued. "Some insolent primate - this Fallon, for example - might make an ideal test subject for this mechanism."

Noonday Sun 3

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

Timor falls gracefully out of the sky.

On the screen, I can see the inner surface of the sphere, its features expanding slowly before my ship's sleek rounded prow. I am spellbound, as ever. The interior of the sphere is larger than I can comprehend; a mind-boggling complexity of buildings, mountains, forests, deserts, oceans - each area resolving, as I study it, into a fractal swarm of smaller features. Each pixel on my viewer, at the moment, represents an area the size of a small continent. Over all, there is a faint whitish haze, the sign of weather systems in the sphere's interior atmosphere. There are storms out there the size of planets... and all I see is a faint haze.

The geography - for want of a better word - of the sphere is incomprehensible. Timor is mapping, as she drifts slowly back towards the surface. We have seen roadways a million kilometres long, we have seen oceans large enough to swallow a planet, and from here they are just threads and dots in the immense tapestry of the landscape below us. We can make maps, but I don't think we will ever understand them - the sphere's interior is just too huge for anyone's mind to take in.

"Starting to get some atmospheric friction," Commander Joaj reports from the engineering console.

My whiskers twitch, and I turn in my seat to face her. Joaj's narrow face, with its skin like tree bark , its antennae bristling from her forehead, is set in concentration. I still don't know what species the little engineer is - I suppose it must be on her personnel file, but I've never looked it up. All I need to know, really, is that she's reliable. Nonetheless, I'm surprised. "This far up?" I say.

"Confirmed," says Joaj. "Not much - less than one kilopascal - but enough to warm up the hull. Compensating now."

Something must have sent a cloud of gas out from the surface.... Inside the sphere, there is essentially no gravity; all the local forces cancel out. There are localized grav generators on the sphere - billions of them - but the main force governing the atmosphere is radiation pressure from the central sun. It's not much of a force, but it's enough, over time, to keep the sphere's air pressed against the interior surface, and to keep the star itself - mostly - in the centre of the sphere. There's some drifting, both of the star and the air... and it seems we've run into a cloud that's come free from its moorings and floated off into the sky. For some reason. Who knows what? The sphere's mechanisms feed off the entire output of the star; it juggles forces we can't even begin to handle.

Some - short circuit, perhaps - releases energy, or a weather control machine malfunctions briefly... and a gust of wind the size of Jupiter is hurled a few million kilometres into the interior. This sort of thing must happen all the time, inside the sphere.

"Pressure dropping," Joaj reports. "We're through it... back to normal air density at this altitude. Shouldn't be hitting air again for... three hours, on current course and speed."

"Thank you, Commander," I say formally, and settle back down in the command chair. I don't settle as well as I'd like. The engineers do their best, but there's a solid wall behind the command chair, and there really isn't enough space for my tail. Perhaps we should switch to a different standard design for the bridge - but, the last time the Timor refitted, that really wasn't my biggest priority.

A buzzer sounds. "Cartographic sweep completed," Onguma reports from the science console. The Saurian science officer is calm and composed, like so many of her people. "No significant megastructures or anomalies detected. We're moving out of optimum range for detail scans of unsurveyed territories, now, sir." The sphere is big, but we are approaching the area that's already been mapped by Alliance Joint Command. It's an area that exceeds the surface of Earth by several orders of magnitude. If you made a model of the sphere, the size of a football, the mapped area would be a dot.

"Thank you," I say. "All right, let's not worry any more. Shut down the cartographic scans, and let's just... enjoy the rest of the ride home."

"Yes, sir." Onguma's huge slit-pupilled eyes turn to her console. "Terminating cartographic survey. Reconfiguring sensor arrays for normal mode and -" She blinks. "I have something at extreme range."

"What sort of something?" I ask.

"Trying to resolve now...." Her head snaps up; her calmness has vanished. "Bearing one one seven, range about one triple zero, antiproton and nadion discharges."

"Helm. On that heading. Combat speed. Red alert." The human, Marya Kothe, is already on the helm controls. Alarms sound, and the deck vibrates beneath me as the Timor goes to full speed.

Nadion discharges - phaser fire. And antiproton fire too, which can only mean one thing. A Starfleet vessel in combat with the Voth. I repress a growl. The Voth.... The dinosaurians arrived at the sphere roughly the same time we did, and that has got to be down to the machinations of the now-departed Iconians. They have been fighting us for control of the sphere's mechanisms, for the insanely dangerous Omega particles it generates, since our explorations started. By now, they can't win - the controls for the sphere's subspace jumpers are shut down, the Voth themselves decimated by Undine attacks; they no longer have the resources to gain control of a device that doesn't work anyway. But the Voth have a rigid social structure and a devotion to dogma. Just because they can't win, that doesn't mean they will ever stop fighting.

And individual Voth ships can fight, and fight hard. If there's a Starfleet ship out there, in trouble with the Voth, it's my duty to assist.

"Starting to get transponder reads and tactical info," Marya reports. "Looks like a single Voth ship, mass and radiation profile consistent with a Bastion-class cruiser. Starfleet... one ship. USS Tempest. Pathfinder-class science vessel."

"Signal the Tempest that we're on approach to assist. Charge all plasma banks. Ready the singularity charge. Photonics, stand by." Timor has been substantially overhauled, her systems upgraded, since the mauling she took at the hands of the Vaadwaur. The Dauntless-class experimental science vessel is not, still, a warship... but anyone who takes us on will know they've been in a fight.

The same might be said for the Pathfinder class... a science vessel, yes, but a modern upgrade to the Intrepid-class spaceframe, and ships like Voyager could handle themselves in a fight. I call up the tactical feed on my command console. This one, the USS Tempest, is certainly not acting like a meek little laboratory ship. Even as I watch, she comes about in a tight turn, evading the stabbing scarlet flashes of the Voth's weapons, finding gaps in the enemy's shields and searing its hull with phaser fire.

Who's flying that ship? Whoever it is, they're good.

"No response on comms," Onguma reports. Well, it's not surprising. The Tempest is a little busy at the moment.

"Weapons range in five minutes," Marya says. I lean forwards, and my ears fold flat to the sides of my head.

The Voth ship is firing furiously, but the Tempest is running a fast evasion pattern. Antiproton bolts raise a glare as they glance off the Starfleet ship's shields, but those shields are holding... and, now, a sudden volley of phaser fire opens another gap in the Bastion's shields, and the Tempest takes full advantage. Photon torpedoes scream out of her launchers at point-blank range, and the impacts are too much for the Bastion's already scorched and battered hull. The Voth ship's port nacelle explodes, and the main hull is enveloped in flames and starts to crack open, venting air and electroplasma. It should be all over -

"Ward repair ship on sensors!" Onguma shouts.

Damn. Some of the Voth ships have these things - automated repair drones that lurk in subspace, loaded with nanotechnology and transporter buffers that can restore a wrecked ship to combat capability in seconds. I snarl as the dot comes up on the tactical display. This one won't help the wrecked Bastion - it is outside the Tempest's range, but we can reach it -

"Lock all weapons and open fire!"

Plasma beams reach out in blinding ribbons of green light to savage the Ward. The hull armour burns and vaporizes; white-hot fragments fly out across the sky. The singularity charge is probably overkill... but I fire it anyway. The repair craft is swallowed up in a twisting whorl of green-black light, is spat out again as flaming debris. The battle is over -

The battle should be over. But Onguma is staring at the scans. "Sir, the Tempest is still firing."

"What at?" The Bastion has collapsed into a smouldering wreck; there is nothing on the screens but debris and escape pods -

Phaser light bursts from the Tempest's beam arrays, and I feel the fur stand upright all over my body. "They're shooting down the Voth escape pods! Comms! Get me a link to that ship now!"

"Sending urgent priority signals," says Sumal Jetuz. The tall blond Betazoid is impeccably groomed as ever, and his voice is imperturbable - but the pallor of his face, the rapid movements of his black eyes, betray the emotions he's feeling at what we're seeing on the screen. "The Tempest's commander of record is Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon -"

"This is Commodore Fallon," a voice says from the comms unit. "Thanks for your assistance, Timor, we have everything under control."

The voice is clipped, brisk, matter-of-fact. I doubt mine is. "This is Admiral M'eioi! You're firing on Voth escape pods! Stand down! Now!"

"Ah, right." If Fallon has any reaction to my words, it doesn't show in his voice. "Apologies, sir. Our sensors are reading kemocite demolitions charges ejected from the wreckage. It might be a false reading - the Voth ship hit us with sensor scramblers. Ceasing fire."

On the screen, the Tempest's weapon arrays go dark.

"Helm," I order. "Move us in. Recover any remaining Voth survivors. Commodore Fallon." I strive to keep the anger out of my voice. "Prepare for transport to my vessel. We need to talk."

---

In the flesh, Fallon is... impressive. He is human, very tall - two metres, I think - and solidly built, his body and limbs showing sculpted musculature even in a standard Starfleet uniform. His craggy face is tanned, his brown hair cropped short, and his grey eyes are cold and flinty as they look me up and down. Although he commands a science vessel, the division stripe across his uniform tunic is red, and his combadge too shows tactical insignia.

"Commodore Fallon," I say, as the door of my ready room closes behind us. He prefers the obsolete title to the correct, but cumbersome, Rear Admiral Lower Half. I can understand that. What I can't understand is -

"Admiral." His voice is still completely calm. Authoritative. He looks and sounds like someone born to command. I stalk around to the chair behind my desk, but I don't sit. My tail is switching too much for me to sit. And I think he sees it.

"I don't need to remind you, Commodore," I begin, "about the standing orders regarding survivors from disabled enemy craft."

"No, sir. You don't." Still completely calm. "However, as I told you, sir, our sensors read those escape pods as enemy weapons. We acted accordingly. As soon as you informed us of the actual nature of those pods, sir, we ceased fire immediately. Your own log, sir, will bear that out."

I know he's lying, and he knows I know. How good, and how loyal, are his science officers? Can they fake sensor logs well enough to pass a determined enquiry by the JAG's office? Can I even get the JAG's office out here? "It's a very unusual sensor error," I say.

"Yes, sir. Voth sensor spoofing throws up all sorts of unusual readings. It's often difficult, sir, in the heat of battle, to recalibrate properly. As you will doubtless know, sir, from your own combats with Voth forces. On this occasion, sir, the enemy's own electronic warfare had tragic consequences. It's unfortunate."

"Not just for them," I say. "We have prisoner exchange and repatriation processes in place - the Voth survivors could, and should, have been traded for some of our own people -"

"There will be other chances for that, sir, I'm sure."

"You should get those sensor systems thoroughly checked out. Ideally, by experts at joint command."

"That's a sound suggestion, sir, and I'll bear it in mind."

"Do so." My eyes narrow slightly.

He is unfazed. "I remind the Admiral, sir, with all proper respect, that she is my superior officer, but not my commanding officer."

"That's why it's a suggestion, Commodore, not an order. But bear it in mind."

He gives a minimal nod. "Duly noted, sir."

"The last thing either of us wants," I say, slowly and deliberately, "is a repetition of today's... tragic mishap."

His lips thin, just a little. If I hadn't spent so long living among humanoids, I wouldn't notice it. "Indeed, sir." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other for a moment. "Though there are, perhaps, matters that might have escaped the Admiral's attention...."

"Such as?" Is he going to give me his reasons? To justify himself?

"You saw that Ward repair ship, sir. The Voth have similar systems in place on the ground. Their medics are well in advance of our own, sir, they can restore soldiers who've suffered injuries our own people would find fatal. I've seen Voth shock troopers, sir, come back after being apparently disintegrated by phaser fire. Our best guess is that the energy discharge triggers a modified transporter buffer which preserves their patterns until a medic can restore them." His eyes, icy to begin with, are hot, now. "Our people don't have these advantages, sir. If they're killed, they stay dead. To the Voth, as often as not, death is... a time-out, nothing more. It's nothing to fear, for them. Sir."

"So?" I say.

"So," he says, "the Voth who perished in today's tragic mishap, sir, won't be coming back. And I can't bring myself to regard that as a wholly bad thing, sir. Because if the Voth start to feel less sure about coming back alive when they go into combat, sir, they might just start to wonder if they're doing the right thing. If they have to pay the same price we do for this war, sir, they might start to ask themselves whether it's worth paying. Just a hypothetical thought, sir."

"I hope it stays hypothetical, Commodore," I say, as softly and levelly as I can. "Starfleet regulations, the Articles of War, and Federation law are all very clear about enemy survivors from destroyed ships. Anyone in an unarmed escape pod is a non-combatant, and we do not deliberately target non-combatants. Not now, not ever."

"Not while those laws are on the books, sir," says Fallon.

"Changing them is above either of our pay grades, Commodore."

"Yes, sir. I assure the Admiral that I will bear all her remarks very carefully in mind. If that's all, sir, I'd like to get back to my ship. I have repairs to put in hand, and casualties who - deserve my attention."

It sounds good to me, because the only way I want him on my ship - is in the brig. And I don't have enough to put him there... even though I know, deep down in my bones, that's where he ought to be.

"All right," I say. "No doubt you'll submit a full incident report to Joint Command at the earliest convenient opportunity."

"Yes, sir."

"So will I. Thank you for your time, Commodore."

His salute is impeccable. He turns on his heel, and marches out.

Noonday Sun 2

Personal log: T'Pia, officer commanding USS Tapiola, NCC-93480

I find it hard to shake the feeling of fundamental wrongness.

We move through the jungle, brushing aside huge elephant's ear ferns, and crushing grasses into the rich loam beneath our booted feet... and then, as often as not, we come to a solid ceramic-metal wall, or a descending ramp, and it becomes blindingly apparent that this wilderness is a made thing, an artifact. The sun shines, brightly, overhead, making our shadows inky pools beneath our feet. It has been shining overhead for hours, and it always will. It never moves.

Whatever our cultural and ethnic backgrounds, all of us are members of species that evolved on planets... planets with regular day-night cycles, with genuine, authentic wilderness. The constant noon inside this gigantic artificial world is... psychologically unsettling.

It is a minor point, perhaps. It does not seem to be affecting my companions, at present. Perhaps, in the longer term, studies should be done on adjustment to these conditions. It is not a priority for the Alliance at the moment; there are too many other calls on our resources.

And the psychological effect is not affecting me, because I will not let it. I am trained in the discipline of Kolinahr, and my mind is mine to command. I have a mission to carry out, and the suspension of the diurnal cycle is not relevant.

The six of us advance cautiously into the jungle, anonymous in silver-white MACO armour and reflective helmets. Actually, that is not strictly accurate. Lieutenant Vasque is identifiable by the specialist equipment strapped to his back. And Commander Chalha, our local guide from Solanae Alliance Command, is easily spotted by her typical Tellarite physique. But the rest of us - myself, Twosani Dezin, and Chalha's two assistants, Lieutenants Curnow and Lerner - are simply mirror-masked white shapes, intimidating in our sameness.

Fortunately, our mission parameters do not include public relations.

Chalha stops, and holds out a hand, palm out, indicating that we are to halt, too. The six of us crouch down. "Got something," the Tellarite's voice says quietly through my earpiece.

"Our target?"

"Something bloody big, anyway. Careful, now."

I engage the motion tracker on my HUD, and the virtual screen of my helmet shimmers in a riot of colours before the computer filters out the random movements of vegetation in the breeze. Chalha is right - there is a large creature, moving slowly, some ninety metres from our current position. I flip open my tricorder and tie in the specialist sensor package. "Confirmed," I say. "Proceed to intercept."

We unsling our phaser rifles and edge cautiously forwards. It would be best to take the creature by surprise, but I doubt that will be possible. Even without their cybernetic augmentations, the Voth dinosaurs are predators, with keen senses and hunting instincts.

"It's a big one," Chalha mutters. "Rex Carcer?" I do not know why people find it necessary to name the large furiadons encountered in the wilderness, but it seems to have become a custom.

The motion tracker shows the beast abruptly coming to a halt. "I think it has scented us," I say.

"Move in, fast!" Chalha orders. We abandon caution and sprint forwards.

We meet the beast in a clearing among the trees. The furiadon is massive, at least four metres tall, and heavy enough that I can feel the ground shake as it lumbers towards us. Slit-pupilled reptilian eyes glare at us, and the cybernetic implants beside them flash with light.

"Fire!" Chalha yells.

Six MACO battle rifles blaze out as one, sizzling ropes of golden light lashing out at the beast's hide. The furiadon bellows, a hoarse blaring sound. We fire again. The high-intensity stun beams would suppress the neural activity of a humanoid target, permanently. The beast seems - no more than stung.

The head turns from side to side, and then its gaze locks on me.

It is assessing the situation correctly. My MACO gear has been the subject of several experimental enhancements which, among other things, increase the energy output of the battle rifle. The furiadon has correctly identified me as the most significant threat facing it. I suppose it is a testimony to the efficiency of the Voth cybernetic systems.

The furiadon roars again, its rank carnivore breath now distinctly perceptible to my sense of smell. It bares teeth as long as my hand, but they are not the threat. I fling myself forward as the skull-mounted cannons try to lock onto me and fire. A scarlet blaze of antiproton energy sears over my head, to turn the vegetation behind me into steam and ash.

It is a clear danger, but also an opportunity. As I land on the grass, I bring the rifle to firing position. I have only a fraction of a second, and the target is not a large one - but I succeed. The beam from my rifle passes between the fearsome teeth and straight into the furiadon's mouth. The dinosaurian skull lights up like a jack o'lantern, and then it topples and slumps sideways. The stun beam must have directly transected the brain stem; there was no way it could fail to render the creature unconscious.

Briefly unconscious - from what we know, very briefly. I rise to my feet. "Mr. Vasque. Suppression systems. Now."

Vasque reacts quickly. He unslings the backpack and places the suppression unit on the furiadon's head, just behind and below the metal skullcap that supports the cranial implants. If we are correct in our analyses of the salvaged Voth technology, this will temporarily override the neural signals from the implants, disabling the creature's built-in weaponry, eliminating the Voth's programmed control over the furiadon's brainwaves, while at the same time paralyzing the creature's voluntary muscles. If we are correct. If we are not, we will shortly be in the presence of a fully aware, fully armed, and extremely irritated furiadon.

It would be preferable to be correct.

"I think we've got it, sir," says Vasque. "Readouts are... nominal."

"Excellent." I kneel down beside the furiadon's head. This close, the smell of meat on its breath is almost overpowering. I take off my helmet, draw off my suit's gloves. "Brainwave activity?"

"Thirty per cent of normal," Vasque says. "Rising."

"Sir." A touch on my shoulder: Twosani Dezin. I turn towards her. My exec's face is concealed beneath the mirrored MACO helmet, but I know there is concern showing in her black Betazoid eyes. "Sir, are you sure -?"

"I am," I say. "This needs to be attempted by a telepath trained in strict mental discipline. Your skills lie in other directions, Commander."

"Stupid idea anyway," I hear Chalha mutter under her breath. It is typical Tellarite behaviour, from a culture which values argument and dissent. It is not a meaningful criticism, and I ignore it. I flex my fingers.

"Brainwave activity now at sixty percent," Vasque reports. "I'm getting some spikes in the limbic system - don't think they're natural - backup system is trying to bring the cybernetics back online -"

It will probably soon succeed. Voth technology is highly advanced, and we do not yet understand it fully. The furiadon's eyelids flicker - an involuntary response, as it nears wakefulness. I reach out and put my hand on the scaly head, between the eyes. The hide of the furiadon is tough, pebbly in texture, surprisingly warm. I focus my mind.

One reptile eye flutters open.

"Your mind to my mind," I murmur, "my thoughts to your thoughts...."

And there is PAIN and RAGE and NO ORDERS THERE ARE NO ORDERS BUT THERE ARE ALWAYS ORDERS BUT NOW THERE ARE NO ORDERS and I am filled with HUNGER and ANGER and the urge to KILL AND EAT -

Something made of meat is holding me and I struggle. I bare my fangs at it and it makes a noise I do not understand. The meat thing is silver and white and it has no face, but in the gleaming surface of its head I see something distorted, pink and red -

Focus.

The pink thing is my face, the red is my hair, reflected in Twosani Dezin's helmet. The noise is speech... most of it is speech, but some is an inarticulate roar, and that is coming from my own throat. Focus. The discipline of the Kolinahr is ingrained within me, I am master of my own mind, my own thoughts.... I push the animal thoughts of the furiadon away, and the fury and hunger subsides within me, and the roaring stops. I can make out Twosani's words.

"- control, sir, get control! T'Pia! Are you all right?"

"I am," I croak. I clear my throat with a cough. "My apologies, Commander. The furiadon's mind is an intense experience. I have regained control."

Again, I cannot see her eyes behind the visor, but I can feel them searching mine. "Sir, are you sure?"

"I am." My voice and gaze are both level. I have control. My thoughts are my own, my mind is my own. I straighten up. Twosani has been holding me; now, a little reluctantly, she lets go.

The furiadon is lying on the ground, twitching slightly. Between the phaser stun, the suppression device, and now the aftereffects of the mind-meld, its nervous system must be in poor shape.

"It is not sentient," I say. "I can confirm that, now. The intelligent stratagems the creatures have employed... these must be ascribed to the expert systems in the onboard cybernetics. The furiadon itself is - not sentient. It is low even on animal scales of consciousness, merely hunger and... anger."

Twosani's helmet tilts; she is studying the creature. "If someone did all that to me," she says, "I'd be angry, too."

"The cybernetic implants must frequently overrule the furiadon's natural instincts," I say. I pick up my gloves and helmet, draw on the gloves. "That must cause intense frustration." I settle the helmet on my head, and become faceless and anonymous like the others.

If there is any strain in my face, any emotion in my eyes, it will not show, now.

"The furiadon is an animal. Its strategic thinking is governed by its onboard computer. The systems synergize, to some extent, with the creature's innate hunting instincts - there would be no point to using an animal, otherwise, instead of a pure mechanism - but they do not depend on any sentient brain function of the animal's own. In fact, the implants must tend to suppress the development of the furiadon's own intelligence and initiative." I look down at the twitching creature. "Those are not qualities which the Voth value in a servitor.... The mechanisms, and the consciousness of the furiadon, are consistent with Admiral Sturak's earlier observations of the smaller dankanasaurs. Clearly, this is the preferred Voth methodology in cyborgizing dinosaurs." I take a deep breath. "This being the case, I will advise Alliance Joint Command not to make any especial effort to administer sapience tests to a Viriosaurus Rex."

"It's just an animal," says Chalha.

"That is a sufficient summary."

Chalha says nothing. She makes an adjustment to her phaser rifle. I know what is coming: I step back.

Chalha brings the rifle to her shoulder and fires. The weapon is set for destructive force. She plays the beam over the length of the furiadon, back and forth, for several seconds, until the animal is reduced to nothing more than a heap of smoking meat.

From the suffering I saw in its rudimentary mind, it might even be grateful. I say nothing.

"We should get back to the forward base, sir," says Twosani. "And then beam back to the ship - and then, sir, I think you should be fully checked out in sickbay. I know about your Kolinahr discipline, but -"

"It is a reasonable precaution," I say. "I concur with your assessment. Mr. Vasque. Please recover any undamaged equipment from the creature, and we will then return to base."

Noonday Sun 1

Siffaith made his way slowly up the long, curving, tubular corridor. As he approached the round door, it separated into segments that twirled aside and into the walls. He flinched as the light of the Eternal Noonday fell upon him. His huge eyes were not well adapted to the light. He shuffled forwards, out onto the upper surface of the Home.

Just outside the doorway, a teacher was hovering. Siffaith reached out with one claw, touching the controls, seeing the information globe form above them. Most of the People thought nothing of the teachers and their globes - they saw only that the globes were insubstantial, and they dismissed them as unreal. Dyegh had taught Siffaith otherwise. The teachers' globes held knowledge, and there was nothing more real than knowledge.

Dyegh.... Siffaith shaded his eyes with his hood, and after a while made out the figure of his mentor, standing on the smooth metal surface, some tens of paces away. Dyegh was standing quite still, his robed and hooded shape erect, black against the white metal of the Home. He looked, Siffaith thought, for all the world like one of the Progenitors themselves.

Siffaith made his way over to where Dyegh stood. His mentor acknowledged him with a wave of his claw, but said nothing, and did not turn his gaze away from... whatever he was looking at. Siffaith peered in that direction. Everywhere, there was the complex surface of the vast Land of Eternal Noonday... conglomerations of buildings, parklands, fields and spires stretching out into the distance until they blurred into mist and blended with the sky. But that was always the same... what was it, that had caught Dyegh's attention?

Then he saw it. Somewhere in the middle distance, brief pinpricks of dazzling whiteness, and threading lines of coloured light - scarlet, and blaze orange.

"The new gods are angry," he said.

"The new gods are always angry," Dyegh replied. "And they are futile. Paltry." His rasping voice carried with it complete conviction as he added, "In the days of the old gods, the whole sky was darkened by their might, and the only illumination came from the lightning of their anger. Compared to that -" He waved a dismissive claw at the lights in the distance. "Paltry."

"Some day, though," said Siffaith, "we must talk to the new gods. There must be much we could learn from them -"

"Perhaps," said Dyegh. He turned to face Siffaith. "It is gratifying to me that you still seek knowledge. So few of the People do. In three hundred thousand hours of Eternal Noonday, you are the only one I have found who still questions, who still thinks -" He gripped Siffaith's upper arm with one claw. "The spirit of the Progenitors is in you, my friend and student. It is in us both. Together, we may accomplish much."

Siffaith looked at him. "You have... found something?"

"Another teacher. So many teachers, standing patiently around the Home, and I swear none of the People has disturbed them in uncounted millions of hours. Not since the Progenitors fell and the sun turned cold."

Siffaith shuddered. Long hours of poring over the teachers' globes had taught him that the fall of the Progenitors, the cooling of the sun... these were not myths. Dyegh was older, had learned more... how much more, Siffaith could only guess.

"The teacher... has told me things," said Dyegh. "Things that the new gods cannot know. How the People survived, here in the Home, when the Progenitors fled to the places that are not places. And the ultimate purpose of the Land itself. Though that purpose may no longer be fulfilled...."

"Why not?" asked Siffaith.

"Interference. The meddling of the new gods. But that does not matter - the Land served the purposes of the old gods, and the old gods have gone. But what does interest me, my friend, is the other possibilities the teacher has shown me. The engines of the Land are many and various, and their powers may be used in many ways. Come. Let me show you." He tugged, insistently, at Siffaith's arm. Siffaith allowed himself to be led away, up the gently curving, domed surface of the Home.

Behind them, many kilometres away now, the Voth scout ship fired a final volley of antiproton fire into the USS Northwood's aft section. The frigate's port nacelle exploded in flames, and the Voth ship turned away, leaving the Northwood hanging crippled in the Dyson Sphere's sky, as it departed on some unguessable business of its own.

Noonday Sun: Intro

This one was me going off on sort of a tangent.... The Solanae Dyson Sphere is a setting in the game, and it is sort of briefly important - it figures strongly in one story arc, and then gets left behind as the players go off to the Delta Quadrant to do other things.

I felt that was kind of a shame.  The Dyson Sphere is big, and there is plenty of room in it for stories.  And there is a fair amount of in-game backstory about it, and there's room to develop that, too.  So I set out to do just that.

The characters I chose were a couple of undeveloped ones, too.  My Starfleet science officers, T'Pia and M'eioi - well, they've appeared before, but not as often as some of the others.  Since they're both sort of serious, straight-arrow, Starfleet types, I though it might be interesting to put them in a situation where those ideals came under a bit of pressure - from enemies such as the Voth, and from another source entirely.  (If you've ever wondered how Ronnie Grau gets, or keeps, anyone in her crew at all - well, there are worse choices than Ronnie to work for.)

So, this story's something of a detour, off into under-explored territory.  I had some fun writing it, though.  If nothing else, it is always interesting to write T'Pia, and try and fix things so that her natural Vulcan flat affect comes across as deadpan cool, instead....

Lit Challenge 29: Battle Scars

[After being severely wounded on an away mission you will never be the same, you lost use of your right arm, a deep gash in your forehead stares at you in the mirror everyday. You are grateful to be alive, through the nightmares and horrors of your memories you contemplate "is it all worth it?" Sometime afterword on a First Contact mission you encounter a race with remarkable healing abilities which could heal your wounds fully. However you thinking back you weigh the pros and cons of asking for help, Do the scars define you or are you above them? Does this solve your trauma or only mask it?]


Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere NCC-92984

The face on the viewscreen is humanoid, hairless, golden-skinned and impossibly beautiful. "Welcome, King Estmere." The voice is a liquid, fluting contralto, as beautiful as the face itself. "Welcome, Ambassador Starel."

"Thank you, Minister Ajaris." Starel steps out in front of the viewer, raises his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute. "Live long, and prosper."

Ajaris raises one perfect hand in response. "Peace and long life. You have, of course, permission to approach the docking port. Our traffic control is sending the requisite information to your data channel now." I glance at Dgy-Coosh, the Rigelian who's at the helm station today. He nods to confirm. "An appropriate reception has been arranged at 1900 hours - we will be gratified to make your acquaintance, Ambassador." Ajaris smiles. "And, please, bring your fascinating military advisor with you. We should like to make you all feel welcome."

"Thank you, Minister," says Starel. "We shall begin our final approach now, and will join you as you request."

"Until that time, then, Ambassador. I shall go, now, to ensure all is in readiness." Ajaris's eyes are brilliant green, like jewels; their gaze rests on me for a second. Then the screen goes blank.

Starel does the Vulcan eyebrow-quirk thing. "Interesting," he says.

"I'm not sure why I'm so fascinating," I say. "The Antosians are pacifists, mostly, aren't they?"

"Indeed. I do not envisage any particular difficulties in the coming negotiations, but it would be appropriate to accede to requests of this nature. Would your duties prohibit you from accepting this invitation?"

"No, sir. My orders are to facilitate your mission as much as I'm able. I'll be happy to help out." I consider for a moment. "Military advisor, she said. I'd better wear dress whites, then."

---

Antos IV. It's one of those worlds on the fringes of the Federation mainstream; a nominal Federation member, these days, but with deliberately restricted contact. Starel's trade and cultural exchange mission represents a chance to open things up, to see more of the Antosians' science and art, maybe to get more Antosians into the galaxy as a whole in exchange. I doubt I'll see Antosians serving in Starfleet any time soon, though.... Well. The Federation is not a conquering empire, cultures get to join it on their own terms. And the Infinite knows, the Antosians have reason enough to be wary.

Though there is no sign of wariness at the diplomatic reception. Starel is in full Ambassadorial uniform; he is tall and saturnine and rather handsome by Vulcan standards. He looks quite dowdy, though, by comparison with the Antosians. They are graceful people, almost ethereal; they are all flawlessly beautiful, but in different ways; their hairless skins gleam with metallic or pearlescent lustres, and their eyes are jewels.

"Admiral Shohl. Welcome."

Minister Ajaris is wearing a floor-length golden gown that seems almost a continuation of her golden skin. She smiles at me; her teeth gleam, perfect as the rest of her. "Minister Ajaris. Thank you. I'm delighted to be here."

"We are delighted to see you," she says. "You are Andorian, yes? We have had little contact with your people. I hope you will forgive any errors of etiquette or protocol I might make in addressing you."

"We're guests in your system, Minister - we should be the ones to watch our steps! Though it's hard to imagine that being a problem. Everyone here seems so friendly... I'm sure no one will let any trivial misunderstandings spoil that."

"That is my hope, certainly. It is the feeling of many that we should have more outreach into the wider Federation. Your people were among the original founders of the Federation, yes? It may surprise you, how exotic you seem to us."

"Well, Andorians are a little outside the normal humanoid biological spectrum, it's fair to say."

"You have four genders, I understand? That must be... complex."

"It makes family life, umm, a matter of negotiation, certainly. But I think that's true of a lot of species!"

She gives a little tinkling laugh. "And the antennae - sense organs, yes?"

"Sensitive to variations in air pressure and electromagnetic fields. It's - well, it's something I've known all my life. It's hard for me to imagine living without that sense."

"Intriguing," says Ajaris. "I could wish to know how to see the world as you do. It has advantages, yes? Your people are famous as artists, as well as warriors. You must live your lives with a great... intensity, yes?"

It's my turn to give a little laugh. "I don't normally think of it that way. But when I think back, over all the things I've done recently - well, I guess it's fair to say I keep myself busy!"

"No doubt. I hesitate to raise the matter...." She seems almost shy, all of a sudden. "But curiosity compels me. Is this intensity... the reason behind your fascinating asymmetry?"

For a moment, I don't understand what she means, and then it hits me. I raise a self-conscious hand to the looping scars on my right cheek. The Antosians... they're all beautiful, with smooth, gleaming skins, unscarred and flawless. Symmetrical. Quite. "This? It's the... relic of an old injury."

"A trophy of some desperate struggle?"

"I wouldn't call it a trophy, exactly." I take a deep breath. "The Nausicaans invaded the colony planet where I was borne. I took a stray disruptor shot to the head, was spacelifted off." I grimace, acutely aware, now, of the stiffness of the right side of my face. "Disruptors make a mess. By the time the medics had rebuilt my head, well, this was the best they could do."

"Surely not?" Minister Ajaris looks genuinely troubled, now. "We know mainstream Federation medical technology is less advanced than our own, but even so, their techniques must be adequate to restore you wholly."

"Eventually, maybe. The whole of my cheekbone was destroyed - it's a ceramic replacement, now, with a titanium core. The nerve damage and the residual scarring from the deep-tissue disruptor burns left - well, this." I brush my fingertips over the scar tissue again. "It'd take a vat-grown cloned-tissue replacement to fix it, and then integrating it into my neural body picture would take months. If it worked at all - a friend of mine had to have a similar procedure done, and she's still having trouble with it."

"So sad," Minister Ajaris breathes. She looks into my eyes.

Then her face, her whole body, blurs.

It happens instantly. One second, I'm looking at a bald, gold-skinned humanoid - then her skin is blue, and she has long white hair, and antennae rising from a ridged forehead. It takes me a moment to realize I'm looking at an exact copy of my own face. Exact - except for the scars.

"Cosmetic only," she says, in my voice. "These -" she flicks one antenna with her finger, and I can't help but wince "- are just decoration, they do not show me the world as you might see it. That would take a somewhat more involved procedure. But even the cosmetic change - well, it is both rapid and complete."

I find my voice. "I've heard of your cellular metamorphosis technique, obviously. But this is the first time I've actually seen it...."

"A demonstration, only." She blurs again, and resumes her original form. "My point is this. The cellular metamorphosis process includes all the necessary modifications to what you call the neural body picture. Instantly. The process would be of little value if it did not - we could not stumble like infants, taking days or months to adapt to each new form." Her emerald eyes are very sober, now, as they gaze into mine. "Our medical techniques could replace your damaged tissues, heal your wounds, remove your scars... in mere seconds, Admiral Shohl. If you wished it."

---

"So," I say later, "do I wish it?"

We're in my ready room, holding the post-mortem on the reception - me, and Starel, and one other.

"It would be tactful to accept, certainly," Starel says. "The offer is clearly meant in good part, and acceptance might make a contribution towards the general warming of relations between ourselves and the Antosians. I understand, of course, that this may not be the only factor in your decision, and I certainly cannot oblige you to undergo a medical procedure. I merely suggest that your acceptance would not be unwelcome."

"My feelings aren't the only point at issue, though." I turn to the other person in the ready room, a dark-haired human female wearing a data monocle. "Doctor Beresford?"

"We have precisely one previous case of someone being taught the Antosian cellular metamorphosis technique," Samantha Beresford says crisply. "That wasn't an Andorian, of course - but it didn't exactly turn out well. Opinion is still divided on the question of how much the Antosian technique contributed to Garth of Izar's mental breakdown -"

"The cases are surely dissimilar in all important aspects," Starel protests politely.

"Garth might have had a pre-existing brain injury, which Tylha doesn't have," says Samantha. "And the Antosians have made progress with their techniques - I gather they're suggesting just a one-off session, guided by an expert in the metamorphosis technique. Even so, there is a risk."

"It is hard to see how the removal of facial scarring might turn Admiral Shohl into a megalomaniac," Starel says.

"You'd think," I say. "But I met my mirror universe duplicate, once."

Starel does the eyebrow-quirk thing. "Is that a factor?"

"Apart from quantum signatures, she was different from me in two ways. She had no facial scars - and she was a megalomaniac." I can still see that smooth-skinned face looking at me from the viewscreen; proud, arrogant, exultant.

"That is a function, surely, of the cultural influences of the mirror universe, not any innate character flaw," says Starel.

"You'd think that. I'd like to think that. But how can I be sure?"

---

How can I be sure? I pace up and down my living quarters, considering.

Probably, though - thinking realistically - the Antosians will get it right. They probably know better than we do what went wrong with Garth of Izar. And they've had a couple of centuries to improve their techniques. If they say they can do this, they probably can.

In which case, the question comes down to... do I want this?

Why should that be a hard question to answer? Who would want to be scarred, when they could be... whole?

I leave off pacing, and stop to look at my face in the wall mirror. It's not a bad face... I suppose. A bit too stern and severe to be attractive, even without the scars. I cover my right cheek with my hand, then take it away again. Pointless. I know what it would look like, I don't have to imagine.

I sigh, and go to sit down at my desk. I drum my fingers on the desktop, five-four time, the rhythm for "Mars".

"Computer. Music. Holst, 'At the Boar's Head', Interworld Academy of Music recording dated 2275."

The first chords sound from the speakers. It's an interesting production, this one. Something tells me that the role of Falstaff was just made for a Tellarite. At any rate, it should take my mind off things -

There is a discreet chime from the door, so discreet I almost don't hear it through Falstaff's blustering. "Computer, pause recording. Come in."

The door slides open, and Anthi Vihl comes in. "Flag Captain. Good to see you." I like to remind Anthi of her new rank. The Infinite knows she's earned it, ten times over. And it's made surprisingly little difference to our working relationship - she is, still, my right arm, as she has been for... so long, now.

"Sir. Sorry to interrupt you. I just need you to sign off on some passes for the station - Ambassador Starel wants the crew on best behaviour, I thought I'd better run this past you."

"Right, fine. Though I'm not expecting any problems. The Antosians seem like a pretty friendly bunch." I take the proffered PADD, scan the list of names, try to remember if any of them's likely to cause a diplomatic incident. "Thirethequ and Jeroequene? Well, if you reckon the Antosians can cope with Jolciot language...." We both smile. I am acutely aware of how lopsided my smile is. "Anthi, have you heard about my, um, offer? From the Antosians?"

"I have, sir."

"So what do you think?" Anthi, among her many virtues, is a clear thinker. I hate to think how many times over I'd be dead, if I hadn't listened to her advice.

Now, though, it seems she has none to give. Her mouth opens for a moment, then shuts tight, and her antennae writhe, as if she's in the grip of some strong emotion. Finally, "I think it has to be your choice, sir. It's your face, after all," she says, in dead-level, neutral tones.

I stare at her. "Well, I know that. But you don't have a suggestion?"

"It wouldn't - it wouldn't be proper, sir."

Anthi is descended from generations of pure Imperial Guard military. It looks like I've hit on some part of Andorian military etiquette even I didn't know about. "All right," I say mildly. I hand her back the PADD. She salutes formally, and positively marches out. Her antennae are still twitching violently. I stare at the door as it closes behind her. Now what was that about?

---

The Antosian space station is as beautiful as its occupants: a work of art, hanging above the blue-green gem that is Antos IV itself. The planet is half-full, visible through the windows of the arboretum where I find Ambassador Starel and Minister Ajaris.

"I've given a lot of thought to your suggestion, Minister," I say, once the initial pleasantries are over.

She gives me another of those dazzling smiles. "And you have reached a decision, yes?"

"I have. And I hope I won't offend you if I decline your kind offer."

Starel says absolutely nothing, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't change his expression one iota. I have never before seen anyone signal absolute disapproval that way. Ajaris merely inclines her head a little. "May I know your reasoning?"

"I'm not sure it's well-organized enough to qualify as reasoning, Minister. But this -" I raise my hand to my scars "- is too much a part of me, now. We are the sum of everything that happens to us, and everything we do, in this life, Minister. This... is something that happened to me. I find I can't just - erase it."

"I see." Her face and body blur again. Now, she is human, with short dark hair and deep brown skin. "We make something of a virtue of our plasticity, Admiral." Another blur, and she is some reptilian creature, slit-pupilled yellow eyes and shining blue-grey scales. "We can be almost anything we want to be. It is interesting that you think otherwise. That you make a virtue of constancy, of stability." And she blurs back to her golden-skinned Antosian form. Is this her real shape? Does she even have a real shape? She turns to Starel. "Your people, I think, have a philosophy, yes? The IDIC?"

Starel is wearing a small gold IDIC pin on the breast of his tunic; now he raises his hand to touch it. "That is correct," he says.

"So, today, we have a demonstration, yes? My values, and Admiral Shohl's. Neither is better than the other, I think - but, though they are different, they need not be in conflict. There is room in the Federation for Antosian plasticity and Andorian constancy, yes?"

Starel blinks, once. "Indeed. An admirable demonstration of the principles of IDIC, and of the Federation," he says. I have a feeling he'd talk about Andorian obstinacy, rather than constancy. But he is far too much of a diplomat to say so. And so, I find, am I.

---

I run into Anthi at the docking tube to King Estmere. She looks at me, a little apprehensively. "I made my decision," I tell her. She says nothing. "I'm not taking the Antosians' treatment. You'll have to live with me the way I am, I'm afraid."

The stiff line of her shoulders relaxes slightly. "I'm - actually, I'm glad, sir."

I look at her curiously. "Glad?"

"I've... always thought your face looked - distinguished, sir. Like a warrior. In the Guard's tradition... warriors wear their scars proudly. Sir."

"I see. Makes sense, I guess." I frown. "Why couldn't you just say that, though? It wouldn't have... offended me, or anything."

"Not my place, sir," says Anthi firmly. "I had no right to influence your decision. One way or the other."

"I see." Well, I don't see at all, actually. Some things, you can't perceive, even with Andorian antennae. And Anthi's are twitching like anything, again. I decide to give up and leave it. "Well, in any case, the decision's made now. Come on, Flag Captain Vihl. Let's get back to work."