II
JUDGMENTS
CHAPTER
SEVEN
USS Aegis
(
The arctic vacuum of space quickly devoured the bright, red-orange flames spouting from the Rakal. Lt. Commander Aquiel Uhnari leaped out of the captain’s chair, eyes riveted to the screen. “What the hell just happened now?” The Haliian was still miffed that Molok had been able to disarm Lt. Weathers, giving her a nasty concussion, and then beamed off of Aegis onto the Cardassian ship, throwing Captain Glover’s plan completely awry. She, along with the rest of the bridge crew had been waiting innumerable anxious minutes, bathed in the garish red light of red alert mode, for the result of the Klingon’s foolhardy action. And now they had it. Wreckage, twisted metal and broken bodies spat onto the pristine canvas of stars, an affront to its glacial, eternal beauty.
“Apparently there was some explosion in the starboard docking area of the Cardassian warship.” Cadet Nsin responded, the translator’s tinny computerized voice barely audible over the loud clacking of the excitable Jarada’s mandibles and pincers. “There was a hull breach.”
“Survivors?” Uhnari glanced at both the Ops and Science stations, knowing their sensors were more sensitive in detecting bio-signatures. Lomar responded first:
“Sensors detecting several Cardassians, an Angosian, and one human life sign. There is too much interference.” He mumbled with a mild strain of annoyance, his placid features wrinkling with distaste. Aquiel’s heart both soared and sank as she realized that only one human-Ivan or the captain-had possibly survived whatever had happened on the Rakal. And she felt like a traitor for praying to the gods that it be her lover, hungry to be in his arms, to touch his mind and share his soul again. She blinked away the evil, terrible, but true thought as she looked at the listing Keldon-class vessel. “What about the bodies in the debris field?”
“Scanning,” Zene responded. Seconds later, he looked up at the expectant commander, shaking his elongated head, his shoulders sagging with disappointment.
“Damn.” She cursed, her skin growing hot with fear as her anxiety took hold. “Are the Rakal’s shields down now?” She snapped, her nerves fraying.
“Aye.” Nsin responded.
“Beam out our people,” she turned to look at the screen, unwilling to give in to the impulse to flee to the dark, almost gothic comforts of Main Engineering. “Now!”
“Beam out successful.” Uhnari rubbed imaginary beads of sweat off of her crested brow.
“Good job Mr. Nsin.” She smiled at the insectoid. It observed with the two large, compound pairs of eyes set on the sides of its head for a couple of seconds before nodding. “Now, scan that ship again for any other human life signs.” Aquiel fought against the urge of running down to Sickbay to see which human had made it off of the Rakal. Not until she had exhausted all of her options for saving the remaining crewmember, and until the Aegis was safely out of harm’s way.
“Rakal is firing!” The cadet said, its multifaceted vision watching both its tactical display panel while also maintaining ‘eye contact’ with the lieutenant commander. Amber beams of energy erupted from the destroyer’s port flank.
“Evasive maneuvers!” Uhnari sat back down in the captain’s chair, grabbing the armrests, flinching in anticipation of the destruction about to rain upon the starship, her prayers already going out to those caught in the wake of the volley. She closed her eyes momentarily, as the bridge rocked and the dim lighting grew even dimmer, winking out for several seconds, before being restored. She opened her eyes, and quickly took in her surroundings. There were no sparking, smoking consoles, leaking plasma conduits or flames. For that she was grateful, but even more so because she was not greeted with the sight of more seared, shattered, and bloodied comrades. She had seen too many over the last few months. “Damage report?” Uhnari glanced at the crew.
“Minimal damage. No casualties. Shields holding at 72%” Nsin reported.
“It’s the Lissepian ship commander.” The oddly quiet Lt. Rojas remarked, lines of worry crawling across her round face. “Look!” Aquiel took the helm officer’s advice.
“Core breach is imminent,” Lt. Mercer at the auxiliary Engineering console, called out.
“More power to forward shields,” Uhnari commanded, gripping both armrests tightly again. “This won’t be pretty.” Though the Aegis could warp away to a safe distance before the Lissepian ship’s parabolic core exploded, ripping across subspace, she decided to gamble that the rest of the crew also shared her desire to retrieve both the missing crewman and the Founder; whatever the risks.
Seconds later the freighter exploded, the viewer’s sensors filtering the blinding intensity of the blast as the ship flared into oblivion. Aquiel wished that the ship’s shields could similarly adjust to the shockwave produced by the explosion. Caught full force in the shock wave, the ship pitched to the starboard side, trying to ride through the gale. Overstressed systems sparked around her, filling the bridge with thick smoke and flames. Uhnari dug into the leather armrests, and she planted her feet. She blinked through the stinging mists of foam that rained down on the bridge courtesy of the fire suppression system spread through the ceiling bulkheads.
She heard Lt. Mercer curse in pain behind her before going silent, but she didn’t want to swivel around, and see what her heart already knew. The blast had thrown Lt. Rojas from her station as well. On unsteady legs, she retook her seat, a sliver of white bone poking out of the shredded arm of her uniform. With her good hand, she began tapping commands into the flight control console to keep the bucking starship on a steady course. “Medical team to the bridge!” Uhnari screamed after flipping a toggle on the command chair. Seconds later, the maelstrom ended as quickly as it had begun. Within minutes, Dr. Pham and two nurses were on the bridge, attending to the casualties.
“Ship’s status?” Aquiel looked at Nsin. The arachnoid, firmly rooted at its post, in no small measure due to having six legs, responded. “Shields are down to 34%. Twelve casualties and two fatalities reported in on Decks 7, 9, and 12, but no permanent damage to warp engines and no hull breaches.”
“May the spirits bless their journeys,” Uhnari prayed, looking at the screen. The viewer filled with the smoldering remnants of the freighter, sliced apart with ease by the Keldon-class destroyer. “What about the Rakal?” She asked. “Did they survive?”
“The Cardassians are attempting to activate their cloaking device.” Lomar informed her. “But they appear to be having difficulty successfully engaging it.”
“What?” She swung her head from Nsin back to the main viewer.
“A distraction.” The Kelvan Science Officer answered. The Rakal flickered like a dying candle as the dark waves of the cloaking field struggled to take hold. “Disable that thing now Mr. Nsin!” She snapped. “I’m not letting those murderers get away!” The plating beneath her feet shuddered as the Jarada released several phaser blasts at the Rakal from the starship’s dorsal phaser bank. They passed cleanly through space as the warship shrouded beyond their ability to detect.
“Full spread, photon and quantum torpedoes; all phaser banks!” Uhnari whirled around, a snarl in her voice. “We’ll light this patch of space up. Cloak or not, their minimal shielding won’t be able to withstand such a volley.” But neither will the last remaining crewmen, the thought knifed through her mind before she dismissed it. “On my mark…” Before she gave the order to fire, Lomar interrupted her.
“I detected a warp signature right before the cloaking device was engaged. They’ve gone to warp sir.”
“How is that possible?” Aquiel looked over at the absent Engineering console, manned only minutes before by the deceased Lt. Mercer. She winced with regret and her own shame at being unable to look death in the face, failing to give the departed junior engineer at least that much respect.
“Ships shouldn’t be able to warp with hull breaches, but apparently the Rakal has,” Lomar picked up the slack.
“Track their ion trail,” groused the Haliian as she turned away from the screen, struggling not to choke on her anger and frustration.
Seeming to understand the meaning behind her action, the Science Officer’s voice was even tighter and devoid of emotion when he replied. “The destruction of the Lissepian freighter and its warp core engines has irradiated this sector of space, erasing their ion trail. The massive discharge of disruptive energy into the already volatile subspace field would surely engulf the Aegis as well as the Rakal. Our weakened shields might not hold.”
“ ‘Shields might not hold?’” Uhnari challenged, though she already knew what she had to do. Her shoulders’ slumping almost as if in imitation of Lt. Zene, Aquiel turned next to the Elloran. “Mr. Zene, send an Alpha-One channel message to Starfleet Command. Tell them we’ve got a situation….”
Central
Command Vessel Rakal
(
“Impressive,” a ragged Gul Keshet remarked as he gazed at the scorched, but seamless portside wall of the Rakal’s shuttle bay, unable to tell where the wall ended and the Founder began. Only mere minutes ago, there had been a jagged hole in the wall, the result of an explosion he had caused to prevent Captain Glover from completing his escape. The crafty move had punctured the ship, sucking men, equipment, and material out into the unforgiving stars. The death of any loyal Cardassian was a tragedy, but he promised the sacrifices made today would not be forgotten.
“Indeed,” Glinn Sulle managed between intakes of breath, her lungs still greedily sucking in air. Both a medical team, headed by Gil Rumal and an engineering team, led by Chief Tech Lajal had already arrived, clearing the deck of debris, both metal and organic. “It’s a mystery as to why the Founder has covered the breach. I thought Changelings didn’t need oxygen,” she whispered. “She could’ve easily slipped through the hole and left us all to asphyxiate.”
“Don’t give it any ideas,” Darcis chided, his words slurring as he massaged his bandaged thighs. He lazily swatted away another nattering medic and limped to stand beside Keshet, opposite Sulle. The reek of the medicines coursing through his system, dulling his pain and keeping the behemoth semi-conscious was almost overwhelming. “Despite your intervention, I sufficiently weakened the thing. Her fate is tied to our own, and the shape shifter knows it.”
The gul could feel the hatred radiating off of the intelligence agent, even in his drugged state. If he didn’t act to close the rift between Levara and Darcis soon, he feared that Sulle would soon end up dead. He didn’t want to lose Levara, the closet thing he had to a friend, to family since the death, the noble sacrifice of his wife Nebel. He would never dishonor her memory by taking Sulle into his bed or his house, but he had taken her into his confidence.
A
twinge of frustration pinched Keshet’s heart. As much as he cared for Sulle, he
couldn’t rid himself of Darcis…just yet. In the wake of Danclus’s
assassination, Legate Tarkon had completely capitulated, joining his tripartite
masters in actively shutting down
The
ranks had been severely gutted. Crushed by Nebel’s death, hounded by his
oppressors, with dwindling funds and armaments, Keshet had almost pondered, for
a few seconds at least, turning himself into the authorities, if only for the
well being of the soldiers under his command. He had even considered cobbling
his forces with those gathering under the Crimson Shadow banner in the Crolsa
system. Keshet had decided against it. The Shadow’s leader, a charismatic young
gul named En’Roel was too rash for his taste. His was style too unpredictable,
motivated by romanticism and exhortation rather than careful planning and
ruthless execution. Keshet hadn’t begrudged any of his soldiers who had decided
to cast their lots with the dashing En’Roel. If he had been a younger man he
might’ve joined them too. Alas, not only had many of his fighters flocked to
Crolsa but so had most of the sinecure from the movement’s network of
financiers. The
But Darcis had arrived at his hideout on Celtris III, a dark angel bearing leks and gifts of armor and ordnance. The most important of which had turned out to be the Rakal itself, equipped with a Klingon Class IV cloaking device, that according to Darcis had been plundered from a captured Maquis raider, one of a many tactics the foreheads had used to stifle the ambitions of the Union since losing Raknal V during the long Betreka Nebula standoff several decades past.
The Rakal had used the cloaking device to great effect, raiding allied shipping, restocking their forces, and today to escape the Federation’s clutches despite the occasional glitches caused by the barbarian machinery’s incapability with Cardassian technology.
Gifts such as the cloaking device, their new base Razad Kor, and the flight schedule of the Aegis, supplied by Darcis through some shadowy benefactors, kept him alive for now; Or at least until he could pierce the crafty spy’s veil of secrecy to deal personally with their patron.
If for no other reason to but thank them for the bold stroke that Darcis told him the gifts were for: the capture, trial, and execution of the Founder. Not only would it reaffirm Cardassian strength throughout the quadrant, he could think of no better way to ensure that his wife’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Eliminating Darcis to work directly with his benefactors was merely topping on the larish pie.
The gul should’ve felt exultant. His soldiers had once again performed well despite the obstacles thrown in their path. He had taken on a Prometheus-class starship, the largest and most powerful of Starfleet’s vessels, helmed by one of the Federation’s best captains, and he had won. Not only was the Founder Leader, the butcher of millions of Cardassians in his custody, he also had netted Captain Terrence Glover and the cursed Captain Molok, both notorious war criminals against the Cardassian people. He should’ve been joyous, but he wasn’t. He was tired. Empty. Lonely.
He missed Nebel, wished she were here, and would forgo vengeance against the heinous Founder to have her by his side again. With a sigh he turned away from the buzzing activity in the shuttle hold, and away from the brewing hatreds of his First Officer and Intelligence Observer.
“Good work,” he said aloud, to the various crewmen milling about the bay, in front of and now behind him, injecting a strength he didn’t feel into his voice, “your actions today bring us one step closer to the liberation of our people.” The hold erupted into cheers. A practiced smile crept over his marred face. Pointing at a stack of unscathed wooden crates tucked into the far right corner of the shuttle bay, Keshet crowed, “Today we were as indomitable as our kanar. After your duties, drink your fill. That’s an order!” More lusty cheers rang throughout the room.
Sulle lightly touched his arm. “Do you think that is wise Gul Keshet?” she dared asked. “We are several days away from Razad Kor, and if our cloak doesn’t hold, we need each soldier sober and alert.”
Keshet paused to look at the offending hand on his arm. Levara, realizing her mistake, ripped her hand away from his arm as if it were a serpent coiling to strike. He smiled again, this time it was more intimate, and glacial, for her and the ever observant Darcis.
“Great victories must be celebrated. Today was such a day. Tomorrow may be different, so let them cling to today for a little while longer.”
“Gul Keshet is correct,” Darcis shook his fleshy head. “Tomorrow might be a different story indeed.” He hunched his large shoulders as he rose to tower over Glinn Sulle.
Meeting his dark eyes, her rasp deadly quiet. “Indeed.”
“Glinn Sulle, make sure that once Lajal is certain that hull forcefields are fully operational again, and atmospheric integrity is assured, that you scrape that,” he paused to flick a deceptively casual thumb in the direction of the Founder. The engineer’s technicians were scouring the false wall with scanning devices, “is removed and secured in a holding cell.”
“Yes milord.” Levara stood at full attention, her blue eyes flashing with competent obedience.
Rubbing his own reddened, aching eyes, Keshet dreaded returning to his cramped stateroom, stacks of musty legal books and padds strewn over his desk and floor. But he knew it was necessary, if he was to honor Nebel satisfactorily. He would bear any burden to do so, pay any price.
Reaching the bay doors, he glanced back into the hold at Darcis, a bottle of the sweet brown liquid already at his plump lips. I’ve already ransomed my soul, my love, he gazed up into the bulkheads, past them, into the heavens, I pray that it is worth it.
****************
(Shau
Darcis’ Private Chamber)
The fog of kanar evaporated instantly when Darcis placed the hypospray against the fat of his neck. With a pleasing hiss, the antioxidant coursed through him, chilling the numbing effects of the alcohol.
He didn’t answer the insistent chime of the incoming message on his desktop computer, until he felt he was of sufficient mental capacity. Even if the Obsidian Order was no more, it had drilled into him the importance of maintaining an image of control Straightening his black robe, he ran a large hand over his face, and smoothed his hair.
Darcis then glanced over at the young man, one of Lajal’s technicians, tangled comfortably in his bed sheets. “Pretar,” he cooed. He waited several seconds for a response; the console’s beeping building in his ears. Unwilling to take a chance on being overheard, he quickly rifled through his small desk, producing another hypospray. With a grace belying his girth, he glided over to the bed and quickly poked the lovely Pretar with a sedative. His thin lips parted with a sigh.
Sighing himself, he plopped down before his monitor, now satisfied to activate his encryption protocol. Within seconds, the viewer flared to life. An annoyed Romulan glared at him.
“What kept you?” The Romulan demanded, his avian features pinched with impatience. Darcis had never seen his counterpart so ruffled before. His small, careful smile hid his titanic pleasure at finding a pressure point to be exploited at a future date.
“Colonel Viredis,” he nodded in false deference.
“What kept you?” Viredis repeated.
“That is no concern of yours,” Darcis allowed a hint of venom to pepper his response. “You have my attention now. What do you want?”
“The Founder is secured?”
“Of course. Not only that but we also have Capt. Glover of the Starfleet ship Aegis, and a Klingon captain. They both should be able to provide a wealth of tactical and strategic information.”
“The Founder is our only concern,” the Romulan lied, before adding. “And of course Keshet. He will pay for his crimes against the Romulan people.”
“I believe that his wife was the one who blew your Sub-Admiral to bits,” Darcis replied, seeking to find additional emotional fissures.
Viredis exhaled before smiling. “You never cease in your games Shau Darcis. Not during our time together at Internment Camp 275, or now. In that way you are very Romulan and that is why the Tal Shiar tolerates you.”
“I’m glad someone does,” he quipped.
“Does Keshet suspect anything is amiss?”
“Of course not,” Darcis scoffed. “I am not an amateur in the ways of deception.”
“Of that I am well aware,” Viredis smiled, the gesture more chilling than the medicines that had crystallized the kanar in his system. “When will your ship arrive at Razad Kor?”
“Four days.”
“I look forward to seeing you soon then.” Without waiting for a response, the Romulan severed the communication link. The blackness on the screen mirrored Darcis’s thought.
Why did he have to bring up Camp 275? He thought, stretching his arms around to stroke at the cable-like scars running along his back. Both he and Viredis had served as part of Enabran Tain’s joint Obsidian Order-Tal Shiar strike force, determined to wipe out the changeling threat in a bold preemptive strike.
But the Founders had beaten both organizations at their own game. A shape shifter posing as a Tal Shiar colonel led them into an ambush. Jem’Hadar warships had wiped out most of their combined fleet. The few survivors had been scattered to internment camps across the Dominion.
At Camp 275, Darcis, who had considered himself a master in the arts of torture and interrogation, had discovered that he was merely a novice. But he had remembered each infliction, his eidetic memory storing them all for future reference. Some he even planned to use on his new prisoners.
He sat at the desk for a few more minutes, cursing with regret that Pretar would not be lucid until morning. With nothing to do, and the steady march of the chronometer beginning to hammer his eardrums, Darcis decided to visit his prisoners. Slipping out of his robe, leaving it on the floor, he pulled a charcoal gray tunic and pants from his closet. Fully clothed within minutes, he stretched, wiggling his toes inside his thick boots.
Pulling a knife and a small, oval Klingon agonizer from his desk, Darcis hobbled out of his quarters, favoring his still tender thigh wounds. If I can’t sleep tonight, they won’t either, he thought, smiling as his large frame flushed with anticipatory pleasure.
Sisko’s
Creole Kitchen
(
“Can I count on your endorsement Samson?” Retired Admiral Norah Satie, currently leading incumbent Martin Santiago in the polls in the 2376 contest for the Federation presidency, asked. The burning in her eyes was less than severe than usual.
“Now why would you want to ruin our lunch?” Admiral Sam Glover playfully asked. The lanky man leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I thought this was supposed to be a platonic lunch date.”
“It
is,” Norah smiled, coquettishly batting her eyes. “I didn’t lie when I said I
wanted to see you.” She cooed, revealing a softness he hadn’t witnessed in her
since their days at
Glover finished his Altair water before speaking again. “I’m still wearing the uniform. You know it’s improper for me to endorse any candidate for political office.”
“Henry Thomas did.” Satie said proudly. Sam knew that had to be a coup of sorts for her because Admiral Thomas had shut down her rabid investigation into suspected Romulan sabotage on the Enterprise-D several years ago. Norah, who had been instrumental in uncovering the neural parasite conspiracy that almost engulfed the whole of Starfleet over a decade ago, had un-retired to root out a similar conspiracy. But the customary zeal that he admired in the woman had consumed her, turning the inquiry into a witch hunt. Receding in disgrace back into retirement, Satie had returned to the public stage with a vengeance, challenging President Santiago for the top spot, hitting the beleaguered Cygnian hard on his handling of the Cardassian relief mission as well as his post-war Federation security policy.
With the news detailing new insurgent violence in the Cardassian territories, the haphazard responses to recovery efforts elsewhere throughout the Federation, the refusal of the Romulans to extricate themselves from the Benzar system, and continuing fears of Changeling infiltration had ignited Satie’s steady rise in the polls.
“Admiral Ranar, your predecessor has also endorsed me.” Satie replied. “I could really use your help Samuel. You know you agree with me.”
“To tell you the truth, I do agree with you…not on all the issues, but most. However, I think it would be unseemly for the head of Starfleet Security to openly endorse President Santiago’s opponent, especially so soon after Leyton’s coup attempt.” The rogue admiral’s attempt to inject Starfleet into the Federation’s domestic politics still left a stain that even the gratitude Starfleet had engendered during the Dominion War had yet to absolve.
“I
used to wear that uniform too,” Satie replied, a slightly hurt tone in her
voice. “Even though I’ve left the Fleet, I’ve never abandoned the Federation,
or what it stands for, and right now I fear that a vast majority of our
citizens, with
Not wanting to get entangled into a political discussion, but bowing to its inevitability, Sam, hating himself for doing so, asked. “How so?”
Norah’s eyes brightened at his question. She had always been a bit of a pedant. “Martin is pushing to annul the currently standard blood-screenings for all high ranking Starfleet and Federation officials. He has already presented legislation to the Federation Council on this matter. To propose something, so soon after the war, when the Founder who started it has yet to face justice is preposterous.”
Glover nodded without replying. His department had created the guidelines and procedures for the blood screenings, put in place to block further Changeling infestation into Starfleet Command. Though Changeling’s could mimic humanoid blood, the fake gore would revert to its natural gelatinous state if separated from the shape shifter for a few seconds. Though the war was over, Glover had spoken himself on numerous occasions, facing some stiff opposition in some quarters, to maintaining the blood screenings and several other crucial security measures to make the Federation’s leadership and information centers less vulnerable to parasitic, Changeling, or terrorist assault.
“And
don’t get me started on
“Then don’t,” Glover had said a little more sharply than he intended.
Ignoring the barbed comment, Satie continued. “Ceding the Crolsa system to the Klingons displays weakness and a tolerance of lawlessness that is unacceptable. I can’t fault his prosecution of the war, but he is losing the peace.”
Sam looked around the small, dimly lit bistro, his practiced eye searching for any Federation News Service reporters hidden among the diners. Joseph Sisko was generally pretty good at securing an atmosphere of privacy for some of the more notable personages to grace his Creole restaurant. Norah Satie, surging presidential candidate, surely ranked among one of his most famous. It was a credit to the man’s tenacity that Glover hadn’t spotted any furtive media hounds, slinking around the eatery, recorders at the ready. Glover made a note to commend Joseph the next time he saw him.
Despite the fact that his son Terrence counted Joseph’s son Benjamin as one of his best friends, the admiral had dined at Sisko’ s Creole Kitchen for the first time shortly after his appointment as Security Chief two months ago.
Since then he had been hooked. Dapping absently at his mustache with a napkin, Glover used his other hand to summon one of the wait staff. “I’m sorry Norah, but I’ve got to go. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do,” she smiled back, her eyes blazing like a furnace. “Thank you for your time.”
The admiral quickly keyed in a code into the pad the Tarkelean waiter handed him. “I’ll take care of the bill.”
“Why thank you sir,” Satie’s voice dripped with faux Southern American charm.
“When you’re back on Earth let’s try this again. Absent the politics.”
“As attractive as I find your offer, I don’t think that will be possible,” Norah said with profound sincerity. “Because the next time I return to Earth, I will be coming as the president-elect.”
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that assertion.”
“Me neither.”
******************
Admiral
Glover’s Private Office
“Come,” Admiral Glover said, tugging the wrinkles out of his tunic as the doors to his office slid open to reveal Captain Tryla Scott.
Why are you here? He thought as he rose in greeting, stretching out a hand that she quickly grasped and pumped as soon as she reached his desk. “Hello Captain Scott, this is quite a surprise. How may I be of assistance?”
The old admiral couldn’t help but admire the poise of the famed captain, the youngest person ever to be promoted to the rank. Her smooth walnut brown skin and the lithe curves of her body only enhanced the impression of grace and vigor. He could see why his son had fallen for her all those years ago. Of course Terrence had never told him about their affair, but he had his sources. He would be damned if he allowed his son to go out into the cosmos without finding a way to keep an eye on him someway.
Releasing the captain’s hand, Sam peered at her for several awkward seconds, scanning her dossier in his mind. Despite her confident appearance, Tryla Scott was still a troubled woman. Her stellar career had taken a damaging blow when she had become possessed by the neural parasites intent on conquering the Federation almost a decade ago that Satie had uncovered. Sam was certain that that event had played a major role in the dissolution of her relationship with his son.
She
had left Starfleet a year after the conspiracy had been thwarted by Capt.
Picard of the
Despite her mishaps, Tryla still had a claque of admirals singing her praises and she was reinstated to the captain’s chair without much investigation. Of course, the captain had done nothing, during or after the war, to warrant a full investigation. However, the thought lay coiled, along with many others, like serpents in the nether reaches of the admiral’s mind. “Please sit down,” he gestured to one of the two black leather chairs facing his ebonite desk.
Scott quickly made her decision to sit in the one closet to the large window that took up an entire wall of his office. The busy night sky blazed with the lights of buzzing hover cars. It almost simulated the streaking stars. Just like Terrence, she seemed more comfortable in space, he noted. Despite being a possible security risk, he found himself liking the woman on a gut level instantly. But he still liked Jasmine more. Sam couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his daughter-in-law, before repeating his offer, “How might I help you Captain?”
“I came to ask you that question sir.” She replied, her voice strong, her eyes clear and focused on him. Taken aback by the captain’s bold manner, Sam did his best to hide his surprise. He retook his seat, and propped his elbows on the hard, polished surface of his desk.
“And how might you help me Captain Scott?”
“It’s about Terrence,” she said with an almost stony detachment. Glover’s stomach clenched. The admiral quickly locked his hands together to keep them from shaking.
He forced himself not to scream. “What about my son?” He asked as calmly as he could, his voice tight with restraint.
“He’s been kidnapped by Cardassian militants.”
“What?” The admiral gasped, a jabbing pain in his chest. “How?” His genetronically replicated heart, courtesy of the Borg attack on his DS5, his old command, always picked the wrong time to act up.
“The Aegis was attacked.” Captain Scott answered, breaking both protocol and decorum when she slid close to the admiral’s desk and placed her hands over his own. Her hands were trembling too. “About 6 hours ago.”
“Six hours ago?” His screech subverted to a harsh whisper. “Why wasn’t I informed?” His eyes narrowed. “And why are you informing me of this?”
“Because both Starfleet Command and Starfleet Intelligence are still scrambling to divine the details and sequence of events as to what happened today and why.”
“So how did you find out?” Scott removed her hands and placed them back on her lap, sliding backwards in her chair to a comfortable, and Jasper noted, safe, distance.
“Other sources informed me.”
“And those sources are?”
“I’m not at liberty to say Admiral.”
“What if I order you to Captain?” He barked.
“You can try, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It won’t get you too far.”
“So, why are you here and what does this have to do with Terrence?”
“My…associates…felt I would be the best person to deliver this news, and our offer, since Terrence and I were close once.” She paused, her large brown eyes softening her hardened face. “You knew that didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Sam rasped, a sudden tightness in his chest briefly squeezed the oxygen from his lungs. “Jasmine?” He managed to wheeze out. A shadow flittered across Scott’s face at the mention of his daughter-in-law.
“She’s alive, but several of the captain’s crew didn’t survive. The Cardassians absconded with Terrence, a Klingon captain accompanying the mission, and the Founder. Aegis, sans Terrence, is currently on its way back to Deep Space Nine.”
“What?” A low burn spread slowly over his torso. He hadn’t been taking his medication like he was supposed to, and it was coming back to bite him in the ass at exactly the wrong moment. Sam clutched his chest. “How?”
“Are you okay Admiral?” Captain Scott started from her seat, her detachment evaporating into the tense concern expected of a Starfleet officer. He nodded, waving away her offer of help. He yanked a desk drawer open, and pulled out a hypo. The admiral, hands quaking, applied the small canister to his neck.
“What…do you want?” He said after a few anxious minutes.
“We believe that the insurgents’ strike on the Aegis was made possible with the help of intelligence and weapons provided by either Klingon or Romulan operatives.”
“Klingons? Romulans? But they’re our allies!” He leaned back in his seat, the fire in his chest abating.
“What they are,” Scott replied, her eyes now becoming as unyielding as her face, “is preparing for the next war. And we must do the same.”
“Go on.”
“One
of our ‘allies’ is working in concert with insurgents to disrupt the
reconstruction effort, to fracture the tripartite alliance by poisoning public
opinion on allied homeworlds. As the attacks grow more fantastic, the casualty
rates sky rocket, the Federation will be forced to abandon the Cardassians
before the situation has been sufficiently stabilized. We believe that one of
our coalition partners is waiting in the wings for our disengagement, so that
they can absorb the
“If what you say is true, surely it must be the Romulans supplying the militants.”
“That would seem the most logical theory,” Scott replied, her fingers now steepled. “Both the Romulans and Cardassians have a history of working together, albeit with disastrous results in the Omarion Nebula. And Klingon-Cardassian relations have never been more strained, even more so than during the Betreka affair and the Klingon invasion of Cardassia Prime. However, we have learned that what is most logical or obvious usually isn’t. The well-documented enmity between the Klingons and the Cardassians would provide a perfect cover dispelling any notion of those two peoples ever working together. Also, the Klingons could be trying to reclaim their sovereignty over Cardassian territory outright, using the insurgents to remove the Federation and Romulans leaving them a free hand in administering the war-ravaged territories.”
“And how did your ‘sources’ come by this information?” Flecks of steel resurfaced in the admiral’s frayed voice.
“Does that really matter?” challenged the captain. “All that does matter is that Terrence’s life, and the lives of billions, hang on what we do next. With your help we can save Terrence, the Founder, and expose the clandestine connection, turning intergalactic opinion against the conspirator government, destroying whatever designs they have for the Cardassian people, or against Federation interests.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sam’s voice filled with skepticism.
“Simple,” Scott awarded him a curt smile. “The Aegis crew took two Cardassian soldiers into custody. We need to glean as much information from these prisoners as quickly as possible. Of course, my associates can’t simply walk onto Deep Space Nine and interrogate the prisoners without the proper clearance. We need you to authorize security clearance for them.”
“I can’t do that. It’s against the law.”
“It’s amazing what you can do when someone you love is at stake.”
“How could you do that? How could you use my son’s life as a bargaining chip? I thought you were his friend?”
“I am his friend, that’s why I’m here now. My associates are the only ones who can help him. They are not bound by red tape or bureaucratic oversight. They will do what ever it takes to defend the Federation. So will I. The question is: Will you?”
“I…can’t.”
Scott looked at the chronometer on his desk. “Time is passing Admiral. What’s more important, your career or your son’s life? Don’t you think he and Jasmine have seen too much tragedy in their lives all ready?”
“Who are your associates? What organization do you represent? Do you think I’m going to just give two strangers, from some shadowy group with opaque motives, security clearance to two important prisoners? With possible war with an ally or even the Dominion in the balance?”
The captain nodded. “Very well.” She leaned closer to the desk, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not supposed to reveal this…but I see your point. There is a bureau, extremely top secret, authorized in the Starfleet Charter predating even the birth of the Federation. The bureau was charged with defending Earth, and now the entire Federation, against all threats to our way of life.”
“You mean Section 31?” Sam lost his breath again. The captain’s eyes widened with shock. “I thought they were a rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor.”
“How did you, a decorated, celebrated Starfleet Officer, get mixed up with such an extralegal outlaw group?”
“I thought the same thing about them when they approached me,” Scott began, whispering again as her eyes took on a misty, far away look. “Right after the Academy. I had blown them off as pranksters at best, as deluded militarists at worse. But I had been wrong. The neural parasite invasion, followed by the Borg, and then the Dominion had proven that there is a place, a necessary place, for Section 31 in the Federation.” She paused to catch her breath, her eyes now clear and boring into the admiral. “I assist them from time to time, and they assist me. They also granted me the permission to offer assistance to you.”
“I don’t want their assistance,” Admiral Glover huffed. “If anything, I should have you detained for even offering it.” He moved to activate the comchannel on his desk.
Scott quickly reached across the desk and grabbed his hand. “What you want is your son back. Section 31 is the only real option you have. By the time Starfleet Command, and God forbid, the Federation Council review every little particle of information and evidence of the abduction, it will be too late.” The captain released his hand. “The choice is yours.”
The admiral’s hand hovered over the activation switch for several seconds before he removed it. “My God,” he breathed, his head hanging with shame, his body felt every septuagenarian ache and strain, the embers of fire in his chest stirring. “What are you asking me to do?”
“I’m asking you to do everything you can to save not only your son’s life but the fragile peace.”
“Okay,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “You’ve got it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
USS Aegis
(Observation
Lounge)
Even through subspace, Admiral Shanthi’s gaze burned holes through him. Ivan Cherenkov melted in his seat, unable to maintain eye contact with the steely Fleet Admiral. He ran a nervous hand over the fresh scars lacerating his face.
“Let me summarize what you’ve just reported Commander,” the admiral’s voice was sharp, accusing. Her stern, darksome face filled the large, rectangular view screen in the Aegis’s observation lounge. The Executive Officer noticed several of his fellow officers squirming under Shanthi’s frigid scrutiny as well. “The Aegis diverted its course to Nimbus III to respond to a distress call from a Lissepian freighter. Captain Glover ordered two away teams to lend assistance. But it was a trap, sprung by a renegade Cardassian gul named Keshet. Both away teams were captured, and Captain Glover then agreed to trade your lives for that of the Founder Leader?”
Cherenkov briefly looked around the table. Commander Ojana, Lt. Glover, Lt. Donar, Dr. Amoros, Lt. Rojas, and Aquiel, each in various stages of distress nodded their agreement with the sequence of events. Only Ensign Lomar maintained an air of emotional detachment. Cherenkov doubted if the Kelvan even had emotions. Right now, he wished he could’ve been so fortunate.
“Yes sir,” he answered, after completing his silent survey.
“Unacceptable,” Shanthi concluded. “What kind of commanding officer would pull such a reckless, foolhardy stunt, with the stakes being so high? And what kind of senior staff would go along with such a scheme?”
“It wasn’t a scheme,” Aquiel replied, her cheeks blushing dark with anger. “The captain did what he had to do to save lives.”
“And I guess you did too when you ordered a retreat instead of pursuing the enemy?”
“Cloaks are next to impossible to penetrate sir. You know that,” Cherenkov interceded.
“Correct Commander,” Shanthi relented an inch. “But the decision-making evidenced by Captain Glover was of poor quality. I can only assume that his personal,” she paused, brown eyes flashing towards Jasmine Glover, “affected his ability to be impartial.” The captain’s wife’s face slicked with fresh tears. Turning away from the screen, Commander Pell rushed to wrap her arms around the woman’s trembling shoulders. “A concern of Command that in retrospect has proven apt.”
“With all due respect,” Commander Pell begun, arms still around the shattered lieutenant, her gaze on the screen, but the admiral cut her off.
“And Captain Glover’s mistake was compounded by a crucial lapse in critical thinking by his support staff. The fact that no one raised any formal protest gives me great concern. Once Aegis reaches Deep Space Nine you will remain docked until further instructions.” Shanthi swiped at the screen to silence the audible grumbling. “Furthermore, I want the insurgents you captured placed in the custody of Colonel Kira and station Security Chief Daneeka.”
“I see no reason for that!” Cherenkov forced himself not to yell, his face reddening with pent up frustration. “You’re going to let that junta member interrogate prisoners that we captured?”
“You don’t have to see anything. All you have to do is follow orders Commander,” Shanthi fixed her dolorous gaze solely on him; her next words no less chilling despite their carefully measured delivery. “And if that is a problem for you Commander, I can have the prisoners beamed aboard the Defiant immediately.” The reference caused Cherenkov to break eye contact again to look out of the lounge’s window at the compact; weapons studded Defiant streaking gracefully alongside the Aegis. “As a courtesy, your Security Chief can assist in the interrogation of the prisoners. Shanthi out.”
As soon as the screen blinked off, Cherenkov mumbled an archaic Russian curse before he slid the mask of command back over his face. “You heard the Admiral people,” he replied, surprised by how calm his voice sounded. “Thoughts?”
“We’re screwed,” Lt. Rojas replied.
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Cherenkov.
The Past…
The
fire kissed him like a lover, its warm intensity flared quickly into an
unbearable, searing heat that devoured him, running up the pants legs of his
uniform; The smell of burning cloth and flesh overwhelming him. He leaned back
in his seat, ignoring the pain, his eyes focused on the screen. Several escape
pods, mere slivers of silver among the cluttered wreckage of similarly burning
and shattered starships, chugged toward the protective shields of Destroyer
Group Three.
Only a few more
seconds…Punctuating the thought, the Cuffe shuddered again, the entire
aft bank of consoles erupting in sparks. Shards flew past his head, one grazing
his ear. He added the pain to the growing list of injuries. The roar of rending
metal and frightened screams almost muffled the weakened voice of his stalwart
Tactical Officer, Lt. Meldin: “Sir… shields… are… gone. The next good hit….”
The Benzite gasped as his console exploded in his face. He fell with a
muffled thud to the deck.
Glover couldn’t look at him, afraid that
seeing a shaft of metal piercing either the young man’s blackened chest or face
would force him to acknowledge his own pain and impending death. The ship
rattled again.
“Juanita,” his
voice sounded oddly far away, as if it were coming from someone else’s lips. “How
many more seconds?” He refused to leave the bridge until all of the escape
pods from the
“They’ve made it!”
Ensign Rojas cried, looking back at him, her radiant smile breaking through her
soot covered face.
“All of you get out
of here!” He yelled, as he tapped several commands into the inset displays
on his command chair, a ravenous curl of flames running up his thigh. “Transferring
helm and tactical control to the conn now.”
Rojas frowned, stiffening in her seat. “I’m
not leaving you sir.”
“That’s an order!”
He screamed, more from the now undeniable pain than from anger at her
insubordination. Rojas merely turned back around in her seat. She looked back
at him.
“Could I have helm
control back sir?” Glover couldn’t help but smile as he granted her request.
He looked around the rest of his ruined, smoky bridge. The remaining officers
kept at their posts.
“A damn fine crew,”
he croaked. “A damn fine crew. I can’t think of a better group of
people I would rather die with.” A deep voice chuckled in his ear, followed
by a hollow click, and a cool soothing foam spread over his lower body.
“Feeling’s mutual,”
a blood drenched Cherenkov smiled, a small extinguisher in his hand. The
captain smiled back.
“Incoming!” Rojas
screamed. The screen had shifted to its port sensors. A tide of crackling,
deadly energy was ripping through space directly toward the unprotected ship.
He closed his eyes, thinking of his mother, his father, his wife….
******************
And then she was
there, in his arms, the splendid meteor shower over the sweeping Cliffs of Bole
lighting the sky above them. He ran his fingers through her soft, sable hair,
rubbing his nose in it, sucking in its clean, sweet smell. Jasmine playfully
jabbed him in his ribs.
“Hey!” He yelped.
“What was that for?”
“You’re missing the meteor shower Terrence,” she flashed a smile at him, pointing at the ambient falling rocks. “You have a life time to put your hands on me,” she laughed, shyly batting her long eyelashes. “Enjoy the show.”
“Seen one meteor
shower, seen them all,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her. She pulled
his arms tighter. Her mocha skin was soft, warm, and inviting. But he forced
himself to wait. Jasmine’s Starfleet career had consisted of one stationary
engineering assignment after another. The admittedly breath taking sky showers
over the Cliffs of Bole were one of the few times she got to see dazzling
spatial phenomena.
Born on a space
ship and growing up on space stations, he had spent more time above planets
than on them, and after seeing some of the countless wonders and terrors the
galaxy had to offer, Terrence found that his most treasured discovery had been
when he had met Jasmine in the docking bay of Deep Space Five three years ago.
Once again, his father had known something he didn’t and he had pushed for
Terrence to meet her. After he had, he knew that his father had been right, and
he displayed his own brand of doggedness to forge the bonds between them
despite the demands of duty.
He had taken
every opportunity he could to visit the station, to court the serious, reserved
Jasmine, eventually winning her heart. When she had said yes to his marriage
proposal, he feared he might actually spontaneously combust with joy. It had
been a feeling he had only thought would come over him when admiral pips were
placed on his collar. But he had been wrong.
Though
they hadn’t spent much time with each other since their marriage on Casperia
Prime, they made the most of the scant time they did. Terrence had called in a
lot of chits and he relied on his father’s pull to get some time off to spend
their first wedding anniversary at the celebrated Cliffs of Bole.
Leaving the Cuffe,
his prized first command, in the hands of Comm. Kojo, his hardnosed Kriosian XO
hadn’t even bothered him once since he met his wife at Casperia’s spaceport.
Tall, striking, a flower patterned sundress molding perfectly over her shapely
curves; the sight of her had even wiped away his concerns about the growing
threat of war with the Dominion.
But the desire to
be back on his bridge, to be at the forefront if the tightrope navigated by his
friend Ben Sisko finally snapped, had begun to tug at him. Ambition was his
oldest lover, outlasting the redoubtable Tryla Scott, his first serious
relationship, and now struggling to wrest his heart from Jasmine. But ambition was a cold, empty mistress,
taking much and given little in return. Terrence had already giving away too
much time to it already, taking on assignment after assignment instead of
spending more time with his wife. He resolved that he wouldn’t let ambition
destroy his happiness with Jasmine; the only real and true happiness he had
ever known.
The last week had
been incredible, filled with passion, love, and a lot of catching up. On their
last night together, before duty called them both back to their respective
stations, he figured he could grant her this small thing, without the
interruptions demanded by both his heart and his loins. He was certain that his
patience would be rewarded later on.
“I love you,” he
whispered into her ear, nibbling it afterwards. She sighed in response.
“I love you.”
Jasmine replied, rubbing his arms, and reaching up to place her hands over his.
“You’re going to be a great father someday.” She craned her neck to kiss his
cheek, and then lick the bottom lobe of his ear. “Let’s get started,” she
breathed, pushing his arms away from her, before she grabbed one of his hands
and led him back into their apartment from the balcony.
Not protesting, Terrence followed his wife, his eyes focused on the soft sway of her hips. Not wanting to spoil the mood, but unable to keep his mouth shut, he asked. “But what about the meteor shower?”
Jasmine said
nothing as she quickly unzipped her sheer hunter green dress, carelessly
flinging it into the corner of the room after she had stepped out of it. She
did the same with her undergarments. Standing before him naked, she ran her
bright hazel eyes over her toned form before looking back at her husband. With
a surprisingly impish smile, Jasmine replied, “Seen one meteor shower, seen
them all….”
************
The
Orion’s thick, verdigris blood oozed slowly over his fingers, its sticky warmth
drowning the cold steel of the blade in his hand. Shocked, horrified, a sick
thrill coursed through him as he looked into the dimming eyes of the alien, the
first being he had ever killed.
Oblivious
to the sounds of fighting and dying around him, all he heard was the Orion’s
faltering heartbeat; all he saw were the alien’s indigo eyes fluttering against
the gathering darkness.
It
had all happened so fast. Only minutes ago, he had been standing on the
Before
he had had time to ponder the profound depths of their wretchedness, the
slavers from the Orion Syndicate had fallen upon them like a pack of wolves. An
ensign, a year out of the Academy, he had only fought in battle simulations
under regulated conditions. The zing of real energy weapons, the clanging and
bite of metal, the screaming, the blood, the cursing, the chaos, seized him
with such fear at first that he had frozen, a perfect target for any Orion that
saw him. So overwhelmed, he hadn’t even seen the large Orion prop the arbalest
across one of his broad forearms.
Lt.
Lee had grabbed him, pushing him behind a cage, taking the metal shaft meant
for him. She fell beside him, the argent bow quivering in her pierced, bloodied
chest. He pulled her out of the line of fire, tugging at the bow but stopping
after she grimaced with pain. Already, the pallor of death was upon her. Convulsing
for several seconds, she gasped suddenly before closing her eyes. Crouching
behind the cage, dozens of hands reaching through their bars to tear at him,
some pleading, some spitting, some crying, he had pulled away from them all,
stunned that the lieutenant had given her life for him.
From the moment
he had asked the captain to be switched from flight control to security, she
had been one of his harshest critics, finding him wanting in almost every
category. He had spent countless hours talking to his friends aboard ship about
what a taskmaster she was. He had been convinced that her criticism sprang from
a personal animus, perhaps some deep-seated jealousy perhaps because he was the
son of an admiral. It hadn’t been the first time he had encountered such
misperceived people, and he had known it wouldn’t be the last as he continued
very vocally to climb the ladder to the Admiralty.
Looking at her
still form, he realized that perhaps he had been wrong. Lee had been willing to
sacrifice herself without a moment’s hesitation. It had never been about him,
it had always been about the team. In his quest to make admiral, it had always
been about him, want he wanted and when he wanted it. The epiphany rattled him
to his core, lighting a cleansing fire in him. Determined not to let Lee’s
sacrifice go unanswered, he had bounded from behind the safety of the cage,
into the midst of the battle; his phaser slicing into every green body that he
saw carrying a weapon. Cutting a path through the mob, he had almost made it to
the circle of Marines surrounding the captain, when a large staff smacked his
gun hand, shattering his bones.
Instinctively
clutching his hand, he whipped around to face a massive Orion leering down at
him, a sparking electric prod in one hand, and a long, curved blade in the
other. “This raid has cost the Syndicate a lot of money!” He roared,
spittle flying from his mouth. “You and your crewmates will barely be worth
the amount to start up our operation elsewhere,” he rumbled, before
smiling maliciously, “but it will be a start.”
Biting back the
pain throbbing from his broken hand down the length of his arm, he called on
the rigorous training Lee had imposed upon her Security team, to dodge and
evade the fierce Orion as he sliced the air with the blade before trying to
poke him with the prod.
Looking madly for
his phaser while he continued to avoid being stabbed or shocked, he had decided
on doing the unthinkable, something that he was sure Lt. Lee was already
despairing of from the afterlife. The Orion had grown sloppy with each missed
stroke. His anger fueling his movements, they become longer, looping, throwing
the big man off balance.
He had quickly
realized that the slaver was using the dagger to push him into the direction of
the electric prod. The Orion didn’t want to kill him, only incapacitate him for
processing. The thought of one of their agonizing neurolytic restraints being
attached onto his neck, of his soul being slowly crushed by pain and the loss
of hope, fueled him with the resolve to rush the Orion. Grabbing the bigger
man’s knife hand with his good one, he pulled with all his strength; the
surprised Orion stumbled right into his on rushing head. His head exploding as
it connected with the green alien’s jutting jaw, he struggled to remain
conscious, blinking away his swimming vision.
The Orion had
fallen back, more stunned than hurt. Pressing his advantage, he grabbed the
Orion’s knife hand, and bit hard into the man’s large thumb, nearly ripping it
off, dark green blood spraying into his lips and down his throat, coating his
face. The slaver howled as the knife dropped from his hand. He quickly picked
up the knife, looking up just in time to see the Orion charging at him, the
prod glowing an angry crimson shade, enough power coursing through it to kill
him.
He sidestepped
the Orion’s wild jab, plunging the dagger into the rampaging alien’s throat. A
verdant geyser erupted from the alien’s neck, drowning his face and hands in
even more blood. He ripped the knife from the wound as the large man slumped to
his knees before hitting the floor, the sound lost in the cacophony of the
firefight raging around them.
He stood watch as
the shroud of the next life covered the Orion, figuring he owed the slaver that
much for taking his life. A meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, shattering
the solemn mood. Expecting another attack, he whipped around, the knife
flashing in his hand before he embedded it into the shoulder that the hand
belonged to.
Captain Gorik
howled, his porcine features twisting in agony. “Stabbing the captain
is one sure sign of how not to make Admiral Mr. Glover,” the Tellarite
grumbled….
****************
He
had seen death, and he had inflicted it, but he had never learned how to cope
with it. Sitting alone in the Launching Pad, at the old table that he, Ben, and
Cal had held forth at on so many memorable occasions, Terrence peered out the
window into the darkened street. Just beyond the famous
The
Launching Pad was quiet tonight and he was glad for it. He had heard from one
of his planet bound friends that the raucous bar of his college days had
recently been on a decline, facing stiff competition from the Quantum Café that
had opened up across town. It was the spot that all of the new recruits, the up
and comers were going to, people like he used to be.
“Buy
you another drink?” The voice was rich, filled with sorrow. Calvin.
“Nothing too strong for him though. You remember that time on Pelios Station when that Arcturian fizz put him under the table.” Another voice, deeper, but with a hint of needed mischief. Benjamin.
He
forced himself to turn away from the busyness on the other side of the window
to gaze at his two closest friends. Both of them smiled, though he read the
pain behind the forced expressions. Neither one had been good at hiding their
feelings. Ben ran a nervous hand through his hair after Terrence had remained
silent for almost a minute, staring at his friends, but looking into the past.
“It’s
going to be all right.” Calvin said, sliding into the booth beside him. Ben
sat on the other side. An attractive Andorian waitress materialized at the
table, taking their orders. Within seconds, she had returned with a sweating
mug of Guinness Stout for Calvin and a shot of Saurian brandy for Ben. The
prescient Andorian also placed another cognac in front of Terrence, swooping up
his empty glass with nimble grace.
“
Ignoring
them both, Terrence spoke. First to Calvin: “How’s Gretchen?”
“She’s doing fine. She sends her condolences.”
“So
do Jennifer and Jake.” Ben added again. “And my father. We’re staying in
“I’m
staying with Gretchen’s family in
“I’m not alone!” He said, a bit too loudly. Several patrons looked over at the booth. “My father was at the memorial service.”
“We
know, we were there,” Ben replied.
“Thank
you both for being there,” Terrence smiled wanly. “I know it must’ve taken
a lot for both of you to get time off from the
Both
friends waved away his admission of gratitude. “Captain Leyton practically
shoved us out of an air lock to attend the service,” Ben said.
“And
Captain English wanted me to tell you that she was sorry that she couldn’t
attend the service herself. She had once served with your mother on the
“Wow,
that must’ve been some time ago,” he remarked, his eyes misting over as he
was overcome by memories of his mother. She had kept a scrapbook of sorts,
filled with actual photographs of the various ships she had served on and the
many things she had seen.
Each month, she
would send him something, and he would rush from school to the mail center of
whatever starbase his father was stationed on, to see what his mother would
send him next. He was probably eight or nine when his mother had served as
Tactical Officer aboard the
Only
a week ago, his lover and Commanding Officer Tryla Scott had called him to her
ready room, her face wet with tears. Looking up from the small screen on her
desk, she had told him that the Tombaugh, with all hands, had
been lost in deep space.
Unable
to process his feelings, he had just stood there, saying nothing, refusing to
feel anything. He had declined her offer to attend the service, fearful that it
might draw attention to their clandestine romance, and he also wouldn’t
entertain her entreaty to divert the Renegade from its mission of
mapping gaseous anomalies in the Aries Sector, to return to Earth to attend the
memorial service already being planned to commemorate the sacrifice of Captain
Blackwood and his brave crew.
Instead
he had requested, and eventually whittled down her reservations, to pilot a
shuttle on the long, lonely trip back to Earth. After the ship’s Counselor
cleared him, Captain Scott had agreed.
The
memorial service for the crew of the Tombaugh had been very solemn,
tasteful, officiated over by the Fleet Commander-in-Chief and broadcast across
the Federation. His mother had always striven to be a hero, to have her name
placed before the pantheon of Starfleet legends, such as Archer, Garth, Kirk,
Sulu, and Garrett.
But
as it often is with life, the dream doesn’t match the reality. Her role in the
Ghorusda disaster, in which 46 crewmembers of the Adelphi had perished,
including its captain, as a result of a mishandled first contact, had tarnished
his mother’s reputation, and destroyed decades of careful planning. He
remembered how excited she had been when she had told him that the Adelphi
had been chosen to represent the Federation in first contact proceedings with
the reclusive Ghorusdans.
Deitra
had revealed that the success of the mission might earn her the captain’s pips
she had been yearning for ever since her Academy days.
Ambition
had probably tied his parents together far longer than any feelings of love
that they might’ve one time had shared. There was an almost unspoken rivalry
between the two that only intensified after his father had been promoted to
captain after coordinating a strong Federation response to the Romulan attack
at Khitomer, while serving as commander of Starbase 24 along the Klingon
border. Jasper Glover’s star continued to rise, with choice postings at
Starbase 23 and Starfleet Headquarters, his logistical skills factoring into
Federation success against the Talarians, Cardassians, and Tzenkethi.
His
mother’s career was the opposite. A strong woman, with fierce opinions and
razor ambition, she had not made many friends among her colleagues, resulting
in myriad postings and very little upward mobility.
Captain
Darson of the Adelphi had decided to promote his mother to XO, “twenty
years late”, she had once written to him. But Darson had mistaken her obstinacy
for strength of will. Not the most perceptive or empathetic man himself from
what Terrence had heard, the two of them, along with an unstable Betazoid first
contact specialist, had plowed through sensitive cultural protocols, offending
the Ghorusdans and leading to the captain’s death.
He
didn’t like admitting such truths about his mother, and he figured that no one
would. But as he thought about her and all the times he had spent with her, all
the letters she had written, all the arguments he had overheard, Terrence
realized that his mother was not an immortal, not a saint, but he loved her
anyway, and he would miss her deeply.
Chastened
by the “Ghorusda Disaster”, she had intimated to him that she might leave the
Fleet, but Captain Blackwood had stepped in and given her another chance at
redemption by serving as his Executive Officer on the Tombaugh.
He
had never seen her happier than when she had revealed a tidbit about her last
mission, investigating a transmission from the ghost ship Raven,
similarly lost in deep space a few years earlier. The Tombaugh had
perhaps suffered whatever fate had befallen the doomed crew of the Raven.
Terrence was certain he would never know and perhaps it was best that he
didn’t. At least his mother would be remembered as a hero, as a symbol of
courage and idealism. He could think of no better epitaph for her.
Terrence
wished he could say those things to his friends, wished that he could express
such feelings to his father, but he couldn’t. So, he said nothing. Instead he
put back on the mask that had grown so comfortable for him since childhood. He
knew his friends saw through it, but he also knew his friends cared enough
about him to let him continue with the masquerade. Making a show of looking
around the sparsely populated bar, he remarked. “Solok couldn’t make it
huh? I was looking forward to another debate about logic.” He winked
at Ben, who scowled in response.
“I’ve
learned a few more things than I knew then.” He replied, his defensiveness
only half playful. Once, during the Launching Pad’s heyday, a somewhat toasted
Benjamin Sisko had challenged the anal Vulcan Solok to a debate about, of all things
to choose, logic. Terrence still remembered the smug superiority draping the
Vulcan’s neutral features. He was certain Solok enjoyed tearing Benjamin apart
in front of the entire bar. But of course, a Vulcan would never admit to
enjoying anything.
“Like
what?” Calvin moved in. “Challenging Klingons to head butting contests?”
Rubbing his forehead, Ben replied. “Hey, Dax put me up to it.” He laughed at the memory. “The honor of the Federation was at stake.”
“So
was a week of reconstructive surgery,”
“Who knows,” Ben rolled his eyes. “All he told Captain Leyton was that he’d be back. He did have a big smile on his face though.”
“I
can only imagine,” Terrence smiled, his heart frigid. “Wish it were
me….”
***
The Present…
“Captain?
Captain? Are you alright?” Leathery hands touched his face, followed by a wet
cloth. He winced, his raw skin enflamed by contact. Eyes snapped open. There
was a Cardassian squatting in front of him, a nervous smile inching across her
face. There had been another Cardassian another time, smiling at him.
Insolent. He had placed his phaser against the spoon shaped crest in the middle
of his forehead, pressed the trigger…
“Captain?” The voice seemed far away, the words muffled. “Captain?” The voice was inside his head, tearing through the scrambled dreams, the tortured nightmares. “Captain?” She asked again, her voice fraught with hysterical concern.
“It’s the cortical implant.” Another voice issued from above, slithering into his consciousness. The Cardassian in front of him froze, her dark eyes filling with fear. “Give him a few moments. The side effects are only momentary. A Breen device,” the voice added casually, “but our Cardassian minds are too strong for it. Humans, Klingons, on the other hand…”
“Monster!” She spat. The woman was Keta, from the Security Forces. It was coming back to him now. There had been the melee aboard the Rakal, the near escape, the fireball, and then nothing. Followed by oceans of torment.
More
memories flashed through his mind, recent ones: Soothing balm over his wounds,
kind words from a man called Rumal… Rough, scaly gray and brown hands holding
him, their vise-like grip enflaming his blistered skin, Darcis holding a
gleaming blade that cut through his uniform as if it were paper. Naked,
exposed, vulnerable…Clothed in a poncho-like shift, his burned, blistered arms
and legs bare…Hunger, fear, anger, shame…barren, humid walls of his
prison…licking the salty rock for moisture…Darcis’s chamber, the sting of the
implant being thrust into the back of his head… His muscles palsied
uncontrollably as the hellish rush of memories took hold. . How long
had he been here? Had they seen the shivering?
“Sometimes,” the other voice, haughty, controlling…Darcis…replied. “When I have to be. We in the Obsidian Order wear many masks.”
“You haven’t been in the Order since the Dominion released you after the Order’s ill advised strike in the Omarion Nebula. You were one of its chief proponents and architects I recall.” Another voice. Raspy. Goading. Glinn Sulle.
The captain tried to look around without moving or drawing the Cardassians’ attention. He could only hope that both Cherenkov and Donar had both survived the explosion. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the darkened cell except him, Keta, and their jailers.
Ignoring the dig, Darcis instead said. “You can stop the subterfuge human. I know how long it takes for a Terran to recover from a cortical implant session.”
“Where are we? My crew? The others?” He croaked, his voice dry. Keta immediately raised the wet rag to his mouth, and squeezed a few merciful drops of water over his cracked lips. For the first time, he noticed that one side of the lieutenant’s face was bandaged. Whatever they had done to him, and he had yet to take a self-inventory, it had appeared that Keta had received even worse treatment. Despite his own feelings about Cardassians, his instinctive need to protect the people under his umbrella-even temporarily, flared within him. “What did you do to her?” He demanded, trying to stand up, but regretting it as a thousand blades of agony knifed through his body. Keta eased him back down, propping his head against the warm rock wall behind him.
“The Changeling is currently in our interrogation chamber,” Darcis beamed. “And we are arranging something special for the Klingon. Your First Officer and the Angosian got away, but they were insignificant. A starship captain is a more worthy prize.”
“Razad
Kor, an abandoned listening outpost in the
“And what I did to her,” Darcis interrupted, “is none of your concern.” He smiled, cracking his large knuckles. “The information you both provided will help serve our cause immeasurably.”
“And what cause is that?” Glover asked, his cloudy mind hungry for any information he might be able to use to escape, or at least get out a message to Starfleet.
“Restoring
Cardassian sovereignty of course,” Gul Keshet stepped into the mouth of the
cavern. “We had hoped to net the Founder and try her for her crimes, but fate
has been fortunate. In addition to the changeling, we also can try a human, a
Klingon, and a race traitor. It’s pitiable that we couldn’t also capture a Romulan
or Breen. However, your trial and execution, broadcast across subspace, will
send the message that the
“Execution?” Glover quipped. “I guess the trial’s outcome is already decided huh?”
Keshet looked down, scouring him with his black gaze, his thin lips draw into a hard line. “It appears that you know very little about the Cardassian legal system, by far the most efficient in the quadrant. Only the guilty are tried and punished. Gil Rumal shall serve as your nestor. Glinn Sulle your conservator. You will be executed in five days.”
“Then what’s the point of going through a show trial?” The captain’s anger briefly muzzled his pain.
The
gul pursed his lips; his eyes alight, obviously enjoying giving a primer on
Cardassian jurisprudence. “The trial will only serve to reaffirm what is
already self-evident. We were betrayed by the Dominion and now are occupied by
the Federation Alliance. The
“Perversions?” Terrence scoffed, unable to control himself. “I guess providing food, medicine, and shelter are too subversive for you?”
“It weakens the Cardassian will to do for ourselves.” Sulle chimed in, but her eyes were locked on the gul. “We have survived famines, plagues, wars. We can survive this.”
“No one…is disputing that,” the captain replied, his voice catching as a needle of pain raked across his chest. Calm down, he told himself, don’t get too worked up. “We’re just trying to help you. We want to avert the mistakes of the past. We want to live in peace with the Cardassian people.”
“Mistakes?”
Darcis crowed. “What ‘mistakes’? Everything the
“That’s not true!” Keta’s voice was thick, as if her tongue was swollen. Chris was certain that was probably the case due to her injuries. “We raped Bajor, we joined the Dominion, and we started this gods forsaken war.” Six pair of eyes impaled Keta. Fighting his pain and prejudices, Glover sidled next to her, placing a blistered arm around her quivering shoulders.
“She’s right.” He replied.
“She’s misguided.” Keshet retorted.
“The product of a dissident, disloyal household,” Darcis sniffed. “The Order knew all about Jobal Keta and his Federation ties.”
“You lie!” Keta broke from Glover’s grasp. Too weak to stop her, she stood angrily before the larger, insolent Cardassian. “He was loyal to Cardassia. Cardassia wasn’t loyal to him.”
“And he thought the Federation would be for his children?” Darcis laughed, his dark eyes flashing in the gleam of the dull orange lights ringing the walls of the cell. “He was a fool, a traitor, and you’re presence here,” he poked a thick finger into Keta’s right breast, “proves me right.” Keta’s slap didn’t even turn Darcis’s head. With languorous ease, he pushed the petite Cardassian back against the wall of the cell. Cracking her head against the solid rock, she slid down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her bare knees, struggling not to cry.
“My father was no traitor. My father was no traitor….” She repeated over and over.
Keshet shook his head sadly at the sight, before replying. “Captain Terrence Glover, Sial Keta. Make your peace with whatever gods you believe in. Your trial will begin tomorrow.” He exited the cell, followed by Sulle and lastly by Darcis, who looked back to rain spittle on both Glover and Keta. Before the captain could respond, the hulking Cardassian had crossed the threshold of the cell, a forcefield activating in his wake.
Terrence slid over to Keta again, and wrapped the trembling woman in his arms, after only the barest hesitation. He stayed by her side until her trial began.
CHAPTER NINE
Deep Space Nine
(Bajoran Temple-Promenade)
Jasmine Glover stood in the archway of the Bajoran temple, oblivious of the life passing behind her on Deep Space Nine’s Promenade, enticed by the soothing scent of incense wafting from the darkened, sepulchral environs, but hesitant to step inside.
Though she had always felt that there was a spiritual component to life that made it more than just a series of random events, Jasmine had never sought to define what that spiritual component was. The prospect had often tempted her while she had been convalescing in her biobed at the massive Spacedock orbiting Earth in the wake of the holocaust in the Tyra system.
And after